Then Red must have grown restless, for someone stamped up to the platform and rattled the chain on the cabin door aggressively. Val flattened back against the wall. What if the fellow took it into his head to walk around?
“Gonna wait here all day?” demanded Red.
“As it is necessary for me to have a word with him, we will. This waste of time is the product of Pitts’ stupidity. I shall remember that. It is entirely needless to use force except as a last resource. Now that this swamper’s suspicions are aroused, we may have trouble.”
“Yeah? Well, we can handle that. But how do yuh know that this guy has the stuff?”
“I can at least believe the evidence of my own eyes,” the other replied with bored contempt. “I came down river alone the night of the storm and saw him on the levee. He has a way of getting into the house all right. I saw him in there. And he doesn’t go through any of the doors, either. I must know how he does it.”
“All right, Boss. And what if you do get in? What are we supposed to be lookin’ for?”
“What those bright boys up there found a few days ago. That clerk told us that they’d discovered whatever the girl was talking about in the office that day. And we’ve got to get that before Simpson comes into court with his suit. I’m not going to lose fifty grand.” The last sentence ended abruptly as if the speaker had snapped his teeth shut upon a word like a dog upon its quarry.
“What does this guy Jeems go to the house for?” asked Red.
“Who knows? He seems to be hunting something too. But that’s not our worry. If it’s necessary, we can play ghost also. I’ve got to get into that house. If I can do it the way this Jeems does, without having to break in—so much the better. We don’t want the police ambling around here just now.”
Val stiffened. It didn’t require a Sherlock Holmes to get the kernel of truth out of the conversation he had overheard. “Night of the storm,” “play ghost,” were enough. So Jeems had been the ghost. And the swamper knew a secret way into the house!
“Wait,” Ricky’s lips formed the words by his ear as Val stirred restlessly. “Someone else is coming.”
“I don’t like the setup in town,” Red was saying peevishly. “That smooth mouthpiece is asking too darn many questions. He’s always asking Simpson about things in the past. If you hadn’t got Sim that family history to study, he’d been behind bars a dozen times by now.”
“And he had better study it,” commented the other dryly, “because he is going to be word perfect before the case comes to court, if it ever does. There are not going to be any slip-ups in this deal.”
“ ’Nother thing I don’t like,” broke in the other, “is this Waverly guy. I don’t like his face.”
“No? Well, doubtless he would change it if you asked him to. And I do not think it is wise of you to be too critical of plans which were made by deeper thinkers than yourself. Sometimes, Red, you weary me.”
There was no reply to that harsh judgment. And now Val could hear what Ricky had heard earlier—a faint swish as of a paddle through water. Again Ricky’s lips shaped words he could barely hear.
“Spur of bayou runs along here in back. Someone coming up from there.”
“Jeems?”
“Maybe.”
“We’d better—” Val motioned toward the front of the cabin. Ricky shook her head. Jeems was to be allowed to meet the intruders unwarned.
“This swamper may be tough,” ventured Red.
“We’ve met hard cases before,” answered the other significantly.
Red moved again, as if flexing his muscles.
“One boy, and a small one at that, shouldn’t force you to undergo all that preparation,” goaded the Boss.
Ricky must get away at once, her brother decided. Stubbornness or no stubbornness, she must go this time. Why he didn’t think of going himself Val never afterwards knew. Perhaps he possessed a spark of the family love of danger, after all, but mostly he clung to his perch because of that last threat. Whoever Jeems was or whatever he had done, he was one and alone. And he might relish another player on his side. But Ricky must go.
He said as much in a fierce whisper, only to have her grin recklessly back at him. In pantomime she gestured that he might try to make her. Val decided that he should have known the result of his efforts. Ricky was a Ralestone, too. And short of throwing her off the platform and so unmasking themselves completely, he could not move her against her will.
“No,” she whispered. “They’re planning trouble for Jeems. He’ll probably need us.”
“Well,” Val cautioned her, “if it gets too rough, you’ve got to promise to cut downstream for help. We’ll be able to use it.”
She nodded. “It’s a promise. But we’ve got to stand by Jeems if he needs us.”
“If he does—” Val was still suspicious. “He may fall in with their suggestions.”
Ricky shook her head. “He isn’t that kind. I don’t care if he has been playing ghost.”
Someone was walking along the path among the bushes bordering the back of the clearing. Although they could hear no sound, they could mark the passing of a body by the swish of the foliage. Val lay, face down, on the platform and reached for a stick of wood lying on the ground below. Somehow he did not like to think of being caught empty-handed when the excitement began.
“Hello.” It was Red, suddenly genial. The Ralestones could almost feel the radiance of the smile which must have split his face.
“Whatta yo’ doin’ heah?” That was Jeems, and his demand was sharply hostile.
“Now, bub, don’t
