FATHER WARREN’S COUNSEL
“I’ve got several errands this afternoon, Nel. Mind if I take your car?”
“It’s all yours,” said Nelson, handing the keys to Ted. “Sure you don’t want me along?”
“You’re welcome to come if you want to.”
“Not necessarily, unless you need me. I think Bob and I have about got that old tractor licked.”
“Then stick to your grease. I’ll make out all right.”
“You know,” Nelson offered, “I don’t think it’s so unusual that Cox should take two rolls of pictures of Tony. I’ve occasionally done that myself, when I wanted to enter a picture in a contest, or something like that, and wanted to be sure that I got the best possible picture of my subject.”
“That’s right, but it does show something more than just a casual interest, doesn’t it?”
“Undoubtedly. What do you think, Ted? Could this Henry Cox be a newspaperman?”
“I’d thought of that. He’s certainly got one of the newspaperman’s outstanding traits: curiosity. But I don’t really think so. Usually a newspaperman lets everybody know what he is, and then goes around asking questions of anyone in sight. Cox acts as though he knows more than he’s telling, while a newspaperman usually asks more than he knows.”
Ted settled himself for a long drive. His destination was the city of Monroe, the county seat where the daily paper was published. If he was to help Mr. Fontaine, he felt it important to know just what kind of publicity Tony’s story had received at the time . . . and while he was about it, he intended to fish around for a few other things, too.
Though the road was not heavily traveled, he got stuck behind a slow-moving drilling rig, and was unable to pass it for many miles. Probably intended for local use, Ted thought, or it would be traveling the main highways rather than one of these back roads. But he passed it eventually, and made better time after that.
At the newspaper office, he introduced himself to the editor, who had heard of Mr. Dobson’s reputation.
“Is this a story for you, Ted?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’m here on behalf of friends,” and he went on to describe the incident of Tony’s appearance.
“I’ll turn you over to one of my assistants, and you can look up the back files. But I remember the story quite well. The situation is still the same, then? We run a story, and then if nothing new develops we drop it, and perhaps never hear about it again.”
“Do you remember what sort of response that story received?”
“Oh, we got a few dozen letters, I think, some expressing sympathy, some asking questions or offering tips. Anything that looked at all promising we turned over to the police, but nothing ever came of it.”
“Then I take it the story wasn’t very widely publicized.”
“No, I don’t believe so. It would depend on each individual editor and how crowded his space was for that particular day. And you know enough about newspapers to know it’s usually pretty crowded. We sometimes get complaints from readers, ‘Look at all the space you’re giving to junk,’ but somebody wants to read that ‘junk’ or we wouldn’t be publishing it.”
After sending his regards to Mr. Dobson, he turned Ted over to the assistant who quickly produced the required files. As he studied the story, now two years old, Ted saw that his earlier expectations were right. In cold newspaper type, the story did not appear particularly sensational, nor was the photograph, probably secured under deadline pressure, as sharp as it might have been. Although the assistant did not know for sure, he expressed doubts that either Mr. Fontaine’s name or the picture had gone out over the wire. Then the story became hardly more than a little filler, which a few papers might use but most would overlook.
“It’s a little deflating, isn’t it,” the young man remarked, “to realize that something so important to you has such a little effect on the world?”
Ted also wanted to look up the newspaper story about the Franton fire, and found that it occurred within two weeks of the other story. Other than that, the small community of Hopalong seemed to get little publicity in the Monroe paper, though Ted searched back and forth through several months. It seemed that he had about exhausted the newspaper as a source of clues.
After thanking the editor and his assistant, he left the office. His way back took him in the general direction of Hopalong, but not straight to it. He had decided to stop off at the mission house where apparently José had received most of his help. He was not quite ready yet to dismiss José as the passenger on the plane, nor did he know yet just how much José could do and understand. Those prints found near the back meadow had aroused his interest. Bob and his father thought that José was not the passenger on the plane, but that he was the person standing by the meadow. Yet the general similarity of the prints suggested that they could have been made by the same person. If he could eliminate José as the passenger, he might also be able to eliminate him as the man at the meadow. This could mean . . . that the missing passenger was still hanging around.
Explaining his errand at the mission house, he was introduced to Father Warren, and shown into a quiet study.
“Although I’m a newspaperman, Father Warren, this isn’t a newspaper story. I’m genuinely interested in helping my friends, the Fontaines, and in a way concerned, as I am sure you are, that José does not get involved in something more serious than he realizes. Yet it is hard for outsiders to judge just how much he does realize. I have heard some talk that he is exaggerating his defects, if not actually shamming.”
“Exaggerating, Ted? I don’t think that is quite the right word. He can hear a little, he can read a little, he can make a few sounds that a patient listener could interpret as words. But because he knows his abilities are limited, he distrusts them, and prefers not to use them. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to play on a baseball team where all the other players were much better players than you, now would you?”
“No, I guess not, Father,” Ted agreed. “But people believe that José will help himself to little things without asking, and I’m hoping that it hasn’t gone beyond that.”
“I’ve known José a great many years,” said the priest warmly, “and I have great faith that he would not do anything he thought was very wrong. Stealing? I’m afraid that’s true, but let’s try to look at it as José sees it. We at the mission would do anything we could to help him, but he doesn’t often ask, and we have found it a wise policy not to try to help a man more than he wants to be helped. He picks up jobs here and there, and I’m sure no one in the community would let him become destitute. It is perhaps that very feeling of charity which leads him to believe this really isn’t stealing. He takes only small things, things which he needs and believes would hardly be missed, and would be given to him freely if he asked.
“But think how difficult it is for him to ask! It’s not merely that it puts him in a begging position, but it also exposes his infirmities to public view. Have we a right to expect that of him?
“But I must agree that José is not wise in the ways of the world, and that he might be led to do something wicked by a stronger-minded person who assured him that there was nothing wrong about it. That is why I am interested to know just what it is that you suspect him of.”
Father Warren sat back and folded his hands. Then Ted told him about the clue of the misshapen shoes, and how they related to the airplane crash and the footprints found at the meadow.
“Do you want my assurance, Ted, that José was not the passenger on that plane?” Ted nodded, and Father Warren went on: “Then I give it to you gladly and whole-heartedly. This is no longer a question of my faith in José, but what I know of his personality. He would never voluntarily ride in an airplane. He doesn’t understand what keeps an airplane up, therefore he would be suspicious of it, and would reject all attempts to take him up. He would not care for the human relationship involved, with the pilot and others, and operating the photographic equipment you speak of would lie completely outside his competence.”
“Thank you, Father,” said Ted, rising to his feet. “I accept your judgment. I’m sure now that José wasn’t on the plane. And either the man at the meadow was not José at all, or if it was, he was engaged in some activity which he considers harmless.”
But José was not the man at the meadow, of that Ted was sure. It was the missing passenger, and whether he was merely in hiding or had some more sinister purpose in mind remained to be seen.
Ted’s way home took him through Hopalong, and he found it was just about time for the train to arrive. There was a certain bustle and friendliness about the train’s arrival that was beginning to tickle his fancy.
“Come along and have some fun,” a man called to him as he parked the car. “Jake Pastor’s going to get his package today.”
The train pulled in, and Jake inquired of the station master about his package as usual while the group of spectators inched closer.
“Why, yes, Jake, there is a package for you. Just wait here and I’ll get it.”
No one could have looked more surprised than Jake did, but he waited expectantly for the package to be produced.
“Come on, fellows,” someone called, “Jake’s got his package. Let’s see what it is.”
The station master returned, and had Jake sign a slip before handing him the small bundle. Jake tucked the package under his arm and made as though he was about to leave.
“Well, fellows, guess I’ll have to be hurrying along. Mighty important package, and I’ve got to get it home before anything happens to it.”
“Oh, come on, Jake,” someone coaxed, “open it and let’s see what it is.”
“Sure, Jake, you’ve got to let us see it. It must be pretty valuable, you’ve been inquiring about it for so long.”
It was obvious that Jake was nearly dying with curiosity himself, so he allowed himself to be persuaded, and began to tear off the wrappings. Finally he lifted out an old-fashioned automobile horn from the heavy layers of tissue paper!
“What are you going to do with that, Jake? You don’t own a car.”
Jake was surprised but ready to carry it off. “Why, sure, it’s just what I’ve needed. I’m going to attach it to my saddle, and make you fellows pull over to the side when I want to pass you up.”
There was a good deal of kidding but gradually the group broke up. Then Jake spotted Ted, and called to him.
“Hi, there, what’s-your-name, did that friend of yours find out what he wanted?”
“Which friend of mine?” asked Ted.
“That new man you’ve got out at the farm. I had a long talk with him this noon. He asked me all sorts of questions about early settlers and names of places and things like that. I figured he was either a nut or a writing fellow, and they’re almost the same thing. Don’t know what he was after, but I’ve been wondering ever since if he got it.”
If Henry Cox wanted any local gossip, Jake Pastor was the right man to go to, Ted thought. Cox seemed to have an insatiable curiosity, though just what line it was taking Ted was at a loss to guess. But just then he was less interested in Cox’s conversation with Jake than he was in the whereabouts of the man himself.
“Do you know where Cox went afterward?”
“Tried to get a ride, I guess, but I didn’t see him after that.”
Ted proceeded on toward home. He was about a mile from the farm when he noticed a figure up ahead, motioning with a thumb. As he came closer, he saw that the tired and dust-covered traveler was Henry Cox. He drew up beside him.
“Where do you want to go?”
“Back to the farm. I work there . . . I guess.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about it. Mr. Fontaine seemed pretty put out with you when I left.”
“Can’t say that I blame him,” said Cox cheerfully, getting into the car, “but he can’t do anything more than kick me out.”
“Well, be prepared. He knows about your taking all those pictures of Tony, and your pumping her for information about the hermit, and he’s wondering about a few other things besides. But mostly I don’t think he has much patience with a man who accepts his pay but neglects his work.”
“You mean I’ve got to have a story ready that will answer all those things?”
“Why a story? Why don’t you try the truth and see how it sounds?”
“Oh, I’m a firm believer in truth, Ted,” said Cox with a laugh. “But the truth is such a big thing that everybody has to choose which parts of it he wants to tell.”
They drove into the farmyard, and Mr. Fontaine happened to see Cox getting out of the car. He came over toward them. He was not a hasty man, nor did he believe in condemning a man unheard.
“I’m reporting back for work,” Cox announced, “if I still have a job.”
“That all depends. Where were you today?”
“In Hopalong. I had some pressing personal business, thought I could take care of it quickly, but it took me a great deal longer than I planned. Then I expected I could rent a car to bring me back, but nobody in Hopalong ever heard of such a thing, and when I tried to pick up a ride I found that nobody was leaving until that blinkin’ train came in. So I decided to walk, until Ted picked me up about a mile down the road.”
“I understand you had quite a conversation with Jake Pastor,” said Ted.
“That was between telephone calls. I had to wait for an answer, and that was what took me so long.”
“What did you do with those pictures you took of my daughter?” asked Mr. Fontaine.
“I mailed them away to be developed, as long as I was in town.”
“Did you intend them for publication?”
“It might come to that eventually, but I would never do such a thing without your permission.” He looked down at his fashionable, dust-covered shoes, then up directly into Mr. Fontaine’s eyes. “Am I still working for you?”
Mr. Fontaine studied the man carefully.
“A few more questions first. Did you secretly milk one of my cows the other morning?”
“No, I did not.” Cox’s gaze was direct and unwavering.
“Do you know who did?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know who made those footprints up by the wrecked airplane?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know who that hermit in the woods is?”
“No, sir, nor am I much interested. As far as I know these woods could be filled with queer prospectors.”
“Did you lose a paper with some queer lettering on it?”
“Yes, I did.” Cox’s face lit up. “I’d like to have it back, if I may. It’s of little value to me, but I would prefer not to have it floating around.”
“Can you tell us what the paper was for?” Ted questioned.
Cox looked at him, then returned to Mr. Fontaine. “Must I answer that question?”
“No, I guess not. Give him his paper, Ted.”
Ted drew the paper from his pocket with great reluctance. “Would you mind describing it first, so I can be sure it’s yours?”
“It has an alphabet along the top and down the side. If you find the letter V in each place, and trace down the lines to the point where they cross, you will find letter Z. Will that satisfy you?”
Ted checked and found that it was so, and restored the paper to its owner. Then Cox once more looked questioningly at Mr. Fontaine.
“All right, then, Cox, you’re still working for me, but remember to tell me before you leave the farm again. I can only use men I can depend on.”
“I’ll remember. Thank you, sir,” and Cox walked off, too jauntily to seem truly repentant.