I
The ticket office in the railroad station at Port Royal wasn’t meant for privacy.
Its low windows commanded a full view of the train platform. Jake Burbank pretended to study his newspaper until train time, but his eyes were on the girl who paced up and down outside the waiting room.
She was agitated about something, but that alone wouldn’t have aroused Burbank’s interest.
He was young, single and susceptible.
The girl was definitely attractive and neatly dressed, although Burbank imagined she must be cold because of the lightweight tailored suit she was wearing.
Another pair of eyes also watched her —those of a portly, bald-headed man with a ruddy complexion and little eyes.
Burbank and the portly man both had purchased tickets, but so far the girl had not.
The train to Rumford rolled in, twenty minutes late, but Burbank didn’t care much about that.
He had plenty of time and the Maine air was pleasant.
Burbank picked up his bag, followed the portly man aboard the train and seated himself.
The girl just stood there, apparently trying to make up her mind whether or not to get aboard.
As he waited for the train to pull out, Burbank thought of his mission.
When old man Dan Lockhart yowled for his attorneys, they jumped. As junior member of the firm, Burbank jumped highest.
Lockhart specifically had asked for him, probably because Burbank had a mild reputation for ferreting out problems not altogether concerned with law work.
In fact, he was considered something of a detective and trouble spotter.
Then the girl swung aboard at the last minute.
The train was traveling fairly fast when she lurched down the aisle. The swaying of the coach made walking difficult.
As she came abreast of the portly man, she lost her balance and practically fell into his lap.
She smiled and apologized, walked to a seat across the aisle from Burbank and sat down.
Burbank knew the portly passenger had stuck his ticket into the slot of the seat ahead of him.
Now that ticket was gone. Burbank saw the girl glance around covertly and then slide a ticket into the slot of her seat.
“Well, I’ll be—” Burbank muttered.
“She swiped that ticket and is using it herself. Just shows you never can tell about appearances.”
Just then, the conductor entered the coach and started collecting tickets.
The portly man was unaware of the theft until the conductor spoke to him.
“Ticket?”
The portly man bent forward to examine the slot.
“I put it right there a couple of minutes ago. It couldn’t have fallen out. I— Wait a minute. That girl back there, she stumbled against me. I saw her at the railroad station and she didn’t buy a ticket. I’ll bet she took mine!”
Burbank saw the girl flush, and her hands tightened into fists. Burbank bent down and sent his own ticket skittering along the floor of the car.
Finally he arose and ambled forward.
“You need glasses, friend. I was at the railroad station, too. I’ll bet you’d say you saw me buy a ticket also.”
“You did. I watched you. You’re just sticking up for that girl. She stole my ticket!”
“Look,” drawled Burbank. “I’m an attorney. Your accusations can get you into trouble. She did buy a ticket, and I didn’t. I forgot all about it. And before you go leaping at conclusions, why the blazes don’t you look on the floor? You might have dropped it.”
The conductor reversed a couple of seats, stooped down and came up with the ticket.
“Looks like you made a mistake, pal,” he said. “I’d apologize to that girl if I were you.”
“And I’d sue you,” Burbank said.
He glanced at her just as he settled back into his own seat.
She’d lost that strained expression and was attempting to smile. Burbank paid his fare in cash, took a receipt and then pretended to look out of the window.
When a waiter announced dinner, the girl remained seated. Burbank could tell that she was hungry.
He arose, walked over beside her and bowed.
“I’m sorry about all that nonsense,” he said.
“My name is Jake Burbank, from New York. Under the circumstances, our fat friend should have asked your pardon and taken you to dinner. Because he didn’t, and due to the fact that I respect my own sex, I’d like to make up for his deficiency. Will you have dinner with me?” She looked up at him.
“Thank you. I’m from New York, too. Also, I’m broke and I did steal that man’s ticket. I know what you did for me and I’m grateful.”
“That’s better,” he smiled. “Confession is good for the soul. We’ll forget all about that. The dining car is forward.”
An hour later, Burbank escorted her back to her seat.
He had been unable to learn her identity, why she was broke, and why her trip was so important that she’d resort to theft to accomplish it.
When darkness descended Burbank closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, they were at Rumford.
The portly man was alighting.
The girl was not in her Burbank glanced through the window at the deserted wooden station, and hoped to thunder old man Lockhart hadn’t forgotten to send a car.
As he swung onto the platform he saw a flash of trim ankle, heard the slamming of a car door as the girl was driven away.
Burbank sighed and headed for the other side of the depot.
There was a car parked there, but no one was in it.
He waited five minutes and watched the portly man trudge down the road in the opposite direction.
Then he saw a tag tied to the wheel of the automobile.
It read: Burbank: Sorry can’t supply driver. You know where my place is. Come up.
It was signed in Old Man Lockhart’s crabbed handwriting.
Burbank got his bag, started the motor and pulled away from the station.
The left headlamp was dark.
Burbank knew the roads fairly well and as he continued to drive, recognition of landmarks became even clearer.
The car started to climb now, negotiating the high mountain at the top of which Dan Lockhart’s estate sprawled.
There was even a private lake there, with some of the best fishing in the world.
Burbank looked forward to that.
On his left was a flimsy highway fence and beyond it a drop of about two hundred feet into a valley.
On the right hand side a cliff rose, stark and jagged.
If Burbank had not rolled down the window he might not have heard the start of that avalanche.
First there was a loud cracking sound, like a tree being mowed down by a heavy tank.
Then bits of loose stone and earth rained on the roof of the car.
Burbank squirmed over to the right and peered up.
He saw a gigantic boulder roll off the edge of the cliff.
There was not time to manipulate the car.
Burbank threw the door wide and crouched in the comparative safety of the cliff.
The huge rock hit the rear end of the car, dragged it through the fence and both plunged over the precipice.
Burbank shivered, then frowned.
Had it really been an accident?
A killer, planted high up on those cliffs, could have dislodged the boulder at a given moment.
He’d have known too that Burbank was in that car—by the darkened headlamp.
Burbank risked his life to go down the almost sheer wall and reach the smashed car.
His bag was intact.
He opened it, reached to the bottom and brought out a flashlight and a thirty-eight caliber automatic.
The gun felt comfortable and reassuring in his grasp.
He heard a car come to a stop on the road above.
“Don’t leave,” Burbank yelled.
“I’m coming up and I need help!”
He looped the grip around his neck, using his necktie to do so.
This left both hands free to scale that wall.
A slender young man with an ashen face and wide, staring eyes met him.
He was about twenty and there was terror in his eyes.
“There was an accident,” Burbank explained.
“A boulder took my car over the cliff. I have to reach Lockhart’s place as quickly as possible. I’ll pay you five bucks for a ride.”
“Don’t have to pay me,” the young man said sullenly.
“That’s where I'm going. Get in.”
Burbank watched the lad narrowly during the ride and kept his left hand buried deep in the side pocket of his coat, where he could caress the gun.
It seemed to him that this boy had come along almost too coincidentally.
“Were you in town?” he asked.
“Yup!”
“Funny that I didn’t see you,” Burbank went on. "In fact, I didn’t see another car, and everything in town was closed up tight.”
“I was seeing a friend.”
Burbank was far from satisfied.
It was possible that the young man had hidden his car, climbed to where that boulder had been previously prepared for an easy push that would send it down, and then hurried back to his car and stopped to see what actual damage his murderous act had accomplished.
The winding road passed between tall rows of birches and cedars.
The smell of them had long since gotten into Burbank’s soul.
He was glad to be back, despite the grim welcome he’d received.
His driver brought him directly up to the front door.
The car immediately pulled away toward a servant’s cabin about half a mile to the rear.
A light flashed on the porch.
The door opened and a woman admitted him.
She was tall, straight as one of the birches on the estate, and there was no sign of welcome on her face.
"You must be the lawyer. We expected you long ago. I kept something warm for you. Come in.”
Burbank walked down the long, wide reception hall.
This was a two-story log building containing sixteen rooms.
Ted Essex, Lockhart’s confidential secretary, came out of the study. Essex greeted him with outstretched hand and a broad smile. Burbank immediately told him about the accident.
"Rock? Car left for you?” Essex looked puzzled. "I don’t get it. I assigned the housekeeper’s son to go after you. He’s a skinny, pale kid.”
"Well,” Burbank grunted, “he did bring me here, but I didn’t meet him until after the accident. I could have sworn the note had been written by Lockhart. There must be a mistake. How is the old man?”
"Not good,” Essex said. "He and I were out driving yesterday morning, when he crashed against a tree while making a sharp turn. The car caught fire. I dragged him out, but he’s badly burned. There’s a doctor from the village with him now. Lockhart looks like a mummy. He’s swathed in oil and bandages. Lucky, though. If he’d been alone, he’d have roasted to death. Look at my hands and my arms. That is just a small sample of what Lockhart got.”
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