  Next day it rained. And how it did rain! The lake was a gray mass of spattered suds. The trees wept. Petite Jeanne was quite content. She had started to read a long French novel. There was a box of bonbons by her side, and plenty of wood for the fire. “It does not matter.” She shrugged her shoulders. “To-morrow the sun will shine again.” At that she lost herself in her book. Florence enjoyed reading. Sometimes. But never in the north woods. Each day, every day, the woods and water called to her. She endured inaction until lunch time had come and gone. Then she drew on her red raincoat and announced her intention of going fishing. “In the rain!” Jeanne arched her brows, then shuddered. “Such a cold rain.” “It’s the best time, especially for bass. Rain spatters the water. They can’t see you, so they take your bait.” She drew a pair of men’s hip boots up over her shoes and knickers, donned a black waterproof hat, and, so attired, sallied forth to fish. “The sprinkle box is a good place,” she told herself. John Kingfisher, an Indian, had told her of the sprinkle box. The sprinkle box belonged to a past age for that country; the age of logging. To keep trails smooth, that huge loads of logs might glide easily to the water’s edge, trails in those days had been sprinkled from a large tank, or box, on a sled. The water from the box froze on the trail. This made the sleds move easily. When an anchorage for a very large raft had been needed one spring, a sprinkle box had been filled with rocks and had been sunk in the bay. Since water preserves wood, the box remains to-day, at the bottom of the bay, as it was twenty years ago. “You find it by lining a big poplar tree on shore with a boathouse on the next point,” the Indian had told her. On a quiet day she had found it. She had seen, too, that some big black bass were lurking there. They would not bite; seemed, indeed, to turn up their noses at her offering. “You wait. I’ll get you yet!” She had shaken a fist at them. So now, with the rain beating a tattoo on her raincoat, she rowed away and at last dropped her line close to the submerged sprinkle box. Fish are strange creatures. You may make a date with them, but you never can be sure of finding them at home at the appointed hour. A rainy day is a good day for fishing. Sometimes. The fish of the ancient sprinkle box very evidently were not at home on this rainy day. Florence fished for two solid hours. Never a bite. She tried all the tricks she knew. Never a nibble. She was rolling in her line preparatory to returning home, when, on the little dock on Mystery Island that led to the lady cop’s abode, she spied a solitary figure. This figure was garbed from head to toe in rubber hat and slicker. Like some dark scarecrow, it put out a hand and beckoned. “The lady cop!” Florence caught her breath. “What adventure now?” She welcomed this promised innovation for a rainy day. A few strong pulls at the oars and she was beside the dock. “Come up,” said the lady cop, giving her a hand. “Come in. I must talk.” “Talk!” The girl’s heart leaped. “Talk. The lady cop is about to talk. What will she tell?” She followed gladly enough. When the bar was down at the door and they had found seats before the fire, she glanced about the room. Everything was just as it had been on that other occasion. The furnishings were meager; a sort of bed-couch, a rustic table, some chairs, a fireplace. No stove. And on the walls, still those two objects, the automatic pistols. But these did not seem so strange now. “I live here,” the young lady began, “because this place fits my purpose. I must not be known to many. I have told you a little. No other living soul in this community knows as much about me.” “And even I do not know your name,” Florence suggested quietly. “A name. That means little in the world of crime and police. The criminal takes a new name when it suits his purpose. So does a detective. For the moment I am Miss Weightman.” She smiled. “I am not at liberty for the present to tell you whether or not that is my true name. And it really does not matter.” For a time after that she stared moodily at the fire. Florence respected her very evident desire for silence. When at last the lady cop spoke, it was in a tone deep and full of meaning. “There are days,” she began, “when silence is welcome, when it is a joy to be alone. Sunshine, shadowy paths, gleaming waters, golden sunsets. You know what I mean. “But on a dreary day of rain and fog, of leaden skies, dripping trees and dull gray waters, one needs a friend.” Florence nodded. “If you were to be a detective, a lady detective,” Miss Weightman asked quite abruptly, “what sort would you wish to be, the sort that stays about courts, prisons and parks, looking after women and children, or one who goes out and tracks down really dangerous wrongdoers?” “I’d want to go after the bad ones.” Florence squared her shoulders. “Of course you would,” her hostess approved. “I’m after a dangerous one now, a man who is known from Maine to Florida, from Chicago to San Francisco. And he’s up here right now.” The last declaration burst upon the girl with the force of a bombshell. “In—in a quiet place like this!” She could not believe her ears. “It’s a way crooks have of doing,” the other explained. “When they have committed a particularly dangerous crime, or are in possession of stolen goods difficult to dispose of, when the police are after them, they hide out in some quiet place where you’d least expect to find them. “Besides,” she added, “this location is particularly advantageous. The Canadian border is not far away. In a speed boat, it is but a matter of an hour or two, and you are over the line. He has a speed boat. He has some young men with him. Perhaps they are his sons. Who knows? “But this—” she checked herself. “This is starting at the wrong end of my story. It can do no harm for you to know the facts from the beginning. I need not pledge you to secrecy. Through my work I have learned to judge character fairly accurately.” “Thanks!” said Florence, charmed by this compliment from so strange a hostess. |
|
