THAT evening I drove over to the county seat to consult lawbooks, because I had been troubled from the beginning by the legal aspects of buried treasure, or treasure-trove, as the legal mind names it. I found that the law-makers in America have given scant attention to the subject. In England all treasure belongs to the King, no matter who finds it, but in America, in general, buried treasure seems to be dealt with as if it were something lost and found. Neither state nor national government takes a share.
The finder may keep the treasure even if he finds it in the house or on the property of another man. But it would seem that obligation rests upon him to try to find the original owner—which would be rather difficult in the case of Captain Gillan. Down in Louisiana, the law says the finder must share with the owner of the land upon which it is found, but here in New York it is finders keepers.
There are a couple of odd features about it. Treasure-trove must have been concealed, buried or put in some secret place. If it be found scattered on the ground and not deliberately hidden, then it isn't treasure-trove. But that seems to make no practical difference. It is hairsplitting.
Also treasure-trove must consist of gold or silver or coins, though the courts have held that paper representing coins belongs in the category. But there is no mention of jewels or other precious objects. So it would appear that a bag of diamonds and rubies, even if hidden in a deep hole, would not technically be treasure-trove. I could not discover what they would be. The law is an odd mass of words.
Therefore I came to the conclusion that if we found Gillan's treasure anywhere in the neighbourhood, on anybody's land or in anybody's house, it would be ours. Though, to make our title certain, we might have to advertise in the paper for the true owners.
The real owners certainly would not be Captain Gillan, but various Indian nabobs or other persons from whom he had stolen it some hundreds of years ago. It seemed nonsense to waste money or advertising space, but there you are. I doubt if some Maharajah of Mysore or some such place, dead for centuries, would notice the advertisement and put in a claim.
The one practical point I discovered was that the United States Treasury Department seems to have ruled that found treasure was income, and subject to income tax. Which probably is so, because that department has done more absurd things than that.
So I went home, satisfied in my mind that if we found the buried loot we could keep it for our own. But as for Henry Hartman's gold, if it was found, that would be something else. Clearly it would belong to Hartman's heirs, or prima facie it would. Which is a legal phrase meaning "at first glance," or something like that. And the legal heirs would have to settle their own mess about hoarding gold when to possess the precious metal at all was against the law.
When I got home I found that John had telephoned me, so I got on the wire to him.
We own the Hartman property," he said. "The court passed on father's offer today."
"Good," I said. "Not that I see how it will help matters a great deal."
"And," he said with a chuckle, "I sort of nosed into the matter of telegrams to and from the Cullovers."
"You'll be getting Miss Manship in trouble," I said. Miss Manship, a maiden of some sixty years, has been in charge of our telegraph office as long as I can remember. She is a testy old lady, but somehow John had found a way to get around her.
"Don't worry about Nellie," John said flippantly. "The telegrams were pretty cryptic, but the last ones indicate that someone left his usual haunts in New York and disappeared, probably for here."
"Mehagian," I said.
"Quite likely."
"And as soon as they heard, they started in to liquidate the count," I said.
"But not Miss Teach," John replied. "Why not her?"
That was an unpleasant thought. If it seemed desirable to the Cullovers to abolish the count, why would it not be equally efficient to liquidate Jane Teach?
"Wouldn't it be a good idea," John asked, "if you and I moved in and took possession tomorrow?"
"Of the Hartman house?"
"To be sure."
"But you haven't possession yet."
"Let's not worry about technicalities," John said. "Nell is all for it."
"But she can't come," I protested.
"Why not, with Ozzie's wife for chaperon?"
There was nothing to say to that. It was two against one again, and the two always for the impulsive course. There was nothing I could say against it. Indeed, it might be the efficient thing to do. We would be on the ground, in possession of the spot where we could keep an eye on things. Doubtless it would hasten events; but then, events seemed to be upon the point of exploding anyhow.
"How's Mehagian?" I asked.
"Jittery," said John. "The nurse says he yelps every time he hears a sound."
I said good night and hung up the receiver. I did not feel comfortable about things, but could put my finger on nothing specific to cause me uneasiness. So I got into bed and slept.
I could not have been long asleep when a sound awakened me. I raised on my elbow and listened. The sound repeated itself—a sort of rattle against the screen of my window—and then it came again. As if someone were throwing a handful of pebbles against the wire mesh.
I kicked off the sheet and went to the window. The night was bright, almost as light as day, and I could see the tall, flower-topped stalks of my mother's hollyhocks, and the bank of phlox over by the picket fence, and, oddly, the thought passed through my mind that flowers are lovelier by moonlight than in the glare of day. But there was something more in our back yard than posies.
Under the cherry tree whose branches brushed the house was a slender human figure, and starlight fell upon a shock of silvery hair. It was Jane Teach.
"What," I asked, "is this caper?"
"Come down," she said.
It did not occur to me to refuse. In fact, I found myself queerly eager to join the young woman, and not altogether because of curiosity. I pulled on my pants and a shirt and shoes, and tiptoed down the stairs and out of the kitchen door.
"When you sleep," she said, "you sleep."
"I give my attention to one thing at a time," I told her. "Is this just to create a disturbance or is there reason for it?"
"The Cullovers," she said, "and the Chinese and Larsen are rowing ashore. Heading for the Sandys' place."
"Don't you ever sleep?" I asked.
"Only in the winter," she answered. "It's quite a row to the point. You could get there first if you stirred your stumps. It could, you know, be a cutting-out expedition."
"The Armenian?"
"Didn't the Cullovers pine to borrow him this afternoon?" she asked.
I swung open the garage door and backed out my little car.
"Obliged," I said. "I'll see what's going on."
"We will see what's going on," she said, with emphasis on the first word, and got into the seat beside me.
I manoeuvred into the street and headed along the shore road with all the speed I could get out of the antiquated car.
"Any plans?" she asked dryly, "or are you just plunging in? After all, there are four of them, and they won't be empty-handed. You're quite thick, but a bullet could penetrate."
"Why," I asked, "are they so eager to lay hands on the Armenian? You seem to know all the answers."
"Mehagian," she said, "did Hartman's prowling. It is said he was Hartman's brains. He probably assays high in information."
Of course there could be no other reason. Mehagian knew something about Hartman's gold, if any, and the Cullovers wanted to ask questions. All this waiting around had been, quite likely, for Mehagian to turn up.
"He was a fool to come here," I said.
"Without smelling around first."
"The Cullovers have had him watched in New York," I told her.
"Apparently you know a couple of things yourself," she said. "I rather hope we get there first. Not that I'm fond of that Near-Eastern blob of suet, but I don't like to see even a hyena get its tail twisted."
I did not turn my head. I wanted to look at her, but the winding road demanded all my attention, and I was scurrying. But even in the excitement and haste I found it stirring to be sitting so close to her and feeling her elbow in my ribs when we skidded around corners.
"Sometime," I said, "you might break down and tell me where you fit into this jamboree, and how you muscled into it."
"Just a bright girl on the make," she said, and was almost in my lap as we swerved around a sharp bend. "I've sat on softer cushions," she said critically.
"I don't run to fat," I said.
"From Michigan to Manchuria. From Boston to Bali," she said, apparently to herself.
"What is?" I asked.
"Me," she said. "And never found a bargain."
"Did you," I asked, "ever think of sitting tight and waiting for the bargain to come after you?"
"A rolling stone," she said, "gathers no moss, but it does get polished. Also I'd rather select than be selected. What does a girl get who sits on the front porch and waits? She gets married and plays bad bridge and learns to change diapers."
"And," said I, "is contented."
"I couldn't use some," she said. "Cows are contented."
"Personally," I told her, "I ask for nothing better."
"That," she said, "is what you think! Someday you ought to meet yourself and get acquainted. Even if I decided to bog down and be a neighbour in a subdivision, I want mad money."
"For what?"
"A girl is a sap to go out on a date without money enough to get her home. She's a bigger sap to get married without enough personal and independent means to get her deluxe to Reno."
"What," I asked, "were you doing in Bali?"
"Investigating the possibilities of Dutch oil millionaires, and learning to dance the legong. I went for the legong in a lavish way, but Dutch millionaires would be phlegmatic at the sack of a harem. A Dutchman in a frenzy makes you think of a bump on a log."
I slowed the car at the Sandys' gates and turned into the driveway. As a precaution, I stopped some distance from the guest house behind a clump of shrubbery. She was on the ground before me.
We listened. There was only night silence. No lights were visible anywhere in the big house or the little one. We walked softly across the grass and stood beside the guest house with ears cocked. But all was still. I stepped upon the little porch and opened the door.
The living room was very quiet. I could not even hear the sound of breathing or restless twisting in bed. Even the nurse must have been asleep.
Jane Teach followed me, clinging with strong fingers to the back of my shirt. I looked into the bedroom, which was pretty dark, but not dark enough to obscure completely a white heap on the floor. I felt my way to it and stooped over it. It was the nurse, and she was down for the count.
"What is it?" asked Jane.
"The nurse," said I. "Somebody's attended to her."
I felt of the bed. The covers were thrown back, and it was empty.
"He's gone," I said. "We're too late."
She was clutching my arm, and I liked it.
"We can't be. We could drive here twice while they rowed. What are you going to do?"
"Turn on a light," I said impatiently.
"No," she said.
"Why not?"
"I tell you the Cullovers can't have got here yet."
"But the nurse has been bopped and Mehagian is missing."
She was kneeling beside the nurse.
"Just out," she said. "Somebody whacked her. There's a dandy lump. But it couldn't have been the Cullovers. She'll take no harm if we let her lie. Outside, yokel."
I followed her out and crouched with her in the shelter of the rhododendrons. She pressed against me and I found myself interested. I went so far as to consider putting my arm around her to steady her, but decided against it as tending to commit me to something.
"If not the Cullovers," I asked, "who?"
"Kidnapped by gypsies," she said testily. "Or carried away by a hen hawk. But more likely Count Van Breslau. If Mehagian didn't do the tunking himself and elope. Could be that. But I'm making book on the count."
I could feel her shiver. "It's a tough choice," she said, "but I'd rather the Cullovers got him."
"Why?" I asked.
"The count," she said, "would have fun plucking off his arms just to hear him scream."
"Oh, now!" I said.
The count might look like a troglodyte and undoubtedly he was on the wicked side, but I couldn't see him being bestial. His voice and his manners were too charming. As for the Cullovers, I would put no nastiness beyond them.
"Hush your fuss!" Jane commanded, tightening her grip on my arm.
She was right. Someone was coming—across the lawn and up from the shore. We could see four of them—two short broad figures marching with precision, shoulder to shoulder, and two other men slouching along. They approached with due caution and paused before the door of the guest house. It was the soft-footed Chinese who entered first. There was a brief waiting, and then he came back hissing and whistling and bristling. We held our breath.
"What's wrong?" asked Quelch.
"Why do you come back?" asked Gillan.
"Gone," said Chow Chek-ken. "Woman on floor."
The Cullovers marched into the guest house, with Larsen and the Chinese at their heels, and an electric torch sent out its ray. Voices murmured. Then Chow Chek-ken and Larsen emerged. The Cullovers followed more slowly, so that there was a distance of ten or twelve yards between them. They walked abreast, as always, and I was tempted.
I was tempted so strongly that I succumbed. It needed but two steps on the quiet grass. Before they were aware, I grabbed each of them by the scruff of his neck and brought their heads together with a satisfying whack, and let them drop. The Chinese and Larsen heard nothing, but kept on their way.
"That," said Jane in a sardonic whisper, "was cute. Neat and cute."
"I liked it," I said.
"Just a boyish impulse," she said tartly. "We'd better skedaddle."
Inside the house, the nurse started to yowl bloody murder, so we knew she was all right. We skedaddled, leaving the Cullovers where they slept. Around the cottage we went, and to the car, which I started briskly and drove out through the gates.
"They'll be very, very irritated," said Jane.
"I've itched to do exactly what I did," I said. "Socially, they had it coming."
I could feel her peering at me.
"Because," she asked, "they talked scandal about me?"
"Nonsense," I said promptly, though there was no denying she had hit upon it.
She had nothing to say as we drove back to my father's house, nor did I.
I admit to a sense of well-being. Whacking two heads together—heads you have a distaste for—is a heart-warming thing. And, I must be honest enough to admit, Jane had seen it.
I had turned a somersault before her and impressed her. I never objected to people showing off in moderation. What's the use in having some dexterity if you can't exhibit it?
"Personally," I said, "I could abolish a cup of coffee."
"I gave you eggs too," she said.
"There'll be eggs," I said.
I put the car in the garage and we went into the kitchen. There were eggs in the icebox and I put on coffee. Not in a new-fangled percolator, but in a good old-fashioned coffee-pot. And I put in an egg too. You can't make real coffee without an egg. Jane sat in a kitchen chair and watched.
"Big," she said, "but deft. Handy around the house."
I sat down at the kitchen table to wait for the coffee to boil before putting on the eggs, and idly picked up my mother's marketing pencil. The pad was there that mother used to write her grocery order, and I doodled, giving it half my attention, and Jane the rest.
She looked nippy. She didn't look out of place in mother's kitchen, which was surprising. As I looked at her I doubted if she would seem out of place anywhere. Or if she wouldn't be pretty surprising anywhere. There was something about her. She looked sort of wicked and immoral as she sat there exhibiting the lower ends of two dandy legs, but at the same time she looked cosy and at home. Which I couldn't reconcile.
She leaned forward a little to watch my pencil, and that was nice too.
"Whoa!" she exclaimed.
"What for?" I asked.
"How do you know that one?" she asked.
"What one?"
"That squiggle. How do you know it?"
I really looked at what I was scribbling, and was surprised. Over and over I had reproduced the squiggle old John Sandys' pen had made on the last page of his diary. It must have printed itself on some surface of my memory.
"Why?" I asked. "What about it?"
"Such erudition!" she said derisively. "Even unconsciously he doodles the esoteric."
"The what?"
"The sacred word," she said. "The symbol for the word of words. Om! Pronounced ong in Bali. That squiggle is the ongkara. Designating, me lad, the trinity of Brahma, Vishnu, Siva."
"Shucks," I said, but I was startled. Then old John Sandys had not been merely doodling. He had scrawled something that had meaning.
"Where," she asked curiously, "did you learn the ongkara?"
"I didn't," said I.
"Do you pretend to sit there and assert that you just drew it unconsciously, not knowing what it is? Out of the nowhere into the here?"
"To be sure," I said, staying on the safe side and not telling all I knew, for once.
"Then," she said, "as soon as I drink my coffee and eat my eggs, I'm scramming out of here. You're possessed. You're a psychic thingumbob. You'd better get an amulet or the yogis'll git you if you don't watch out."
"Rats!" I said. "What bothers me is: Did Van Breslau get Mehagian or did he just do a bunk by himself?"
"Go into a trance and I'll ask you," she said, still staring at the squiggle.
"And don't tell me that a Long Island yokel writes the most mysterious and secret and dangerous of magic symbols just by chance. Nix, brother. Nix. You'd better go to a sky pilot and get exorcised."
"Eat your eggs and don't talk hogwash," I said testily, but she continued to eye me oddly.
She disposed of the food and brushed her hands and wiped her mouth.
"I don't need you to see me home," she said, and walked to the door. "Good night, pedanda," she said crisply. "Good night, pedanda bodda."
She smiled gravely. "Wouldn't it be funny if your coffeepot turned out to be an amandiyanga?"
"A what?" I asked.
"A vessel containing the magic holy water that purifies all," she said, and disappeared into the back yard.