Newspaper Page Text
PAGE TWO
I
Synopsis:
Sgt. Michael O’Hara, of the
Mounted, one of the keenest
manhunters who ever took the
trail, is struck with the beau
ty of a young woman at a
dance hall. Her expression be*
trays grave trouble. While
studying her features, O’Hara
receives a summons to appear
before his chief, Inspector
Macdonald. “Got a case for
you, O’Hara,” says the chief.
“Looks like double murder but
unfortunately the trail is al
ready five days old.” Macdon
ald outlines to O'Hara the
known details of the crime.
CHAPTER II
Macdonald swung back in his
chair, eyeing the sergeant odd
ly; but he could make nothing
oi O’Hara’s keen attention. The
sergeant’s face was in the shade
above the ring ot light from the
desk-lamp, but the inspector was
aware of some subtle change in
him as he spoke.
“You have that letter, sir?”
For answer, his chief handed
him a soiled, blood-stained sheet
of paper and Johnson’s notes on
the tragedy.
“There’s rumor that Ninon
Creuse had a suitor when she
was in the hospital in Quebec,
but I can find no trace of him
out here, and no one has ever
heard of his appearing here
abouts. That’s about the sum of
all we know, O’Hara. You can
study the details and see John
son; he’s better and able to talk
business. Get your points clear,
and then take the next train
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make good while he’s laid up.
Get him to talk if you can.”
“I’d like to ask one more ques
tion, sir.”
North. You know where Ghar
ian’s place is?”
Macdonald rose to trace the
trail on a wall map. “You’ll have
to take that route. One of the
Hudson Bay lines runs nearest;
after that, a dog team. Quarter
the ground thoroughly. If Nicky
Creuse seems to be the ony sus
pect, bring him in. It was notice
able that he didn't show up when
we buried his sister. She and
Gharian are over there.” The in
spector waved his hand toward
an unseen, white covered hill
where the tops of tall black
crosses just showed above the
snow. “And it was enough to
bring a loving brother, that bur
ial. The girl was young, pretty, J
simply infatuated with that I
brute’s good looks—for he WAS
a brute—-and she had been do- ■
ing her duty as a nurse, too
Here are your written instruc- ;
tions and the order. I had ’em
made out to save time. Start as I
soon as you’ve seen Johnson.”
“Anything else, sir?”
“Yes!’ ’The inspector reached
down into a drawer of his desk
and held out two small, dark ob
jects. “The dead girl had these
gripped tight, must have pulled
them off the slayer’s coat.”
O'Hara’s keen face sharpened
as Macdonald handed him two
mink tails.
■ Pretty fair clue if you could
spot the coat,” his chief said
grimly, “but probably you’ll nev
er lay eyes on it—till it’s mend
ed!”
O’Hara studied the tails. They
had been torn out by the force
of the dying girl’s grip; the ends
were ragged.
■You can’t tell.” he remarked
thoughtfully. "Murderers do
mighty queer things. This is all,
inspector?”
Macdonald meditated for an
instant, his big brows down,
then he looked around at O’Hara
sharply. “Just one more thing.
I’ve got a notion Johnson’s hold- •
ing something back. He’s a first
rate officer and I hate to think
he’s keeping anything up his [
sleeve so the other fellow can’t|
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“Go ahead.”
“Do you happen to know where
Gharian’s wife is now?”
Macdonald shook his head.
“She’s been in Nova Scotia some
where, taking care of a sick
brother; that’s Gharian’s story.
I The truth was he ill-treated her.
There’s a story he was the cause
of her baby’s death; while drunk
and irresponsible he dropped the
child or struck it. God knows
which! She made no charge
against him.
“The Crees out there and the
trappers adored her, said she
was a saint. The child was bur-■
ied back of the cabin; and then
I she left him. That’s long ago. |
I'm trying to locate her now |
with the news of his death; it’ll j
be a relief, I’m thinking, poor i
woman! She’s had nothing to do
i with him for at least two years;
that I know for a fact. That’s
as far as we’ve got. You go and
see Johnson. There’s little time
to get the train tonight. Take.
i the first in the morning.”
Then followed a few curt final i
\ instructions, and O’Hara found !
himself shutting the door, out
i again in the bitter January
night. As he stepped out into
the open he heard the whistle of
a train at the crossing and knew
it was the last one going north
that evening; the first one in
the morning left at six-fifteen.
His way did not take him past
French Pete’s, yet his feet turn
ed automatically in that direc
tion. He opened the door and
held it in the driving gale. The
fiddles still scraped out gay
tunes, the feet of the dancers i
continued to stamp the old warn
floor but the little table at which
he looked was empty, and the
chair pushed aside. On the floor
beneath lay a small dark object.
O’Hara stepped softly into the
room, picked it up, and went
out, unnoticed. There was a deli-:
cate fragrance about it, a soft- [
ness that yet held the shape of
a woman’s hand. It was a doe-1
skin gauntlet.
He thrust it into his pocket j
: and went on, walking fast, his
head bowed against the wind. He
■ must see Johnson tonight. As he
went he heard the train again, a
(long way off, crossing a bridge—
, sounds carry far on a frozen
I night. That terrible intuition,
■ which was a part of him, flashed
[on the lens of his subconscious I
mind. “She went on that. She’s
head of you, going north!” And |
again that face seemed to
emerge like a wraith out of the
darkness, possibly conjured by
the subtle fragrance of her glove.
Twice O’Hara thrust his hand
into his pocket to cast the thing
behind him, and twice his hand
fell at his side. Something—was
it premonition or just a type of
callow folly foreign to him—
made him keep the article.
Then, standing under the
lamp in the hall, outside of
Johnson’s sickroom, he read the
crumpled, blood-stained letter
Gharian had written to the girl
before she came to nurse his
wounds. It was a broken plea for
forgiveness that established her
ignorance of his marriage.
“Nicky was right to shoot me,
Ninon! I’m married. I never
told you because she left me
long ago and hates me. I treat- i
ed her bad, dear girl, I confess )
it; but I could never treat you |
bad! You’re the only girl I I
ever really loved, but I’ll cut I
out my tongue before I offend I
you again! I’m wounded, hot ■
with fever, and with no one
' but a drunken Cree to nurse |
me. Maybe it’s all I deserve, I
but, Ninon, you’re an angel of I
mercy—pity me! If you’d only !
come, your cool little hands,
your sweet face—l’d live then! |
But maybe I’d better die. Nicky I
will kill me if I don’t give you
up, and the thought of losing
you is madness! The fever’s
getting me—Laure—that’s her
name—Laure haunts me. Her
■ eyes how they follow me!
j Forgive, forgive—”
It broke off as it began,
i abruptly, the raving of a fever
| ed man, the remorse of one who
■ had forgotten for a while this
| woman who stil haunted him,
this Laure, who must have had
a hold upon him deeper in some
respects even than his wild love
for the girl.
The very remorse of it stirred !
again the subtle instinct in
O’Hara’s mind. This Laure,
where was she? If she could keep I
a haunting hold on a fevered
man, even while he avowed his '
love for another woman, there ■
was something about her—beau- !
ty or sweetness or strength of
soul —that even a fickle, worth- I
less man like Gharian could not [
forget. Laure? O’Hara was try- j
ing to imagine her, to summon
up some picture of Gharian’s i
wife, when the nurse let him in j
to question Johnson.
Constable Johnson was a tri
fle feverish from his wound, and
not a little sullen. He added ab
solutely nothing to his report,
and O’Hara began to understand
the inspector’s doubts. The
wounded man gave an impres
sion that he was withholding
something, but what? "He’s got
something up his sleeve!” the
sergeant thought grimly. “He’s
a,, good fellow and he’s got no
cause to be jealous because I ve
got this particular job; it’s no
peach! What the deuce is be
hind it all?”
Johnson told him where he
lost the third party’s tracks.
“The stream’s frozen, there’s a
clump of Arctic willows by the
edge of it; the tracks went down
there, deep in the snow. Fellow
must have slipped, then he got
on the ice and kept there. I nev
er found where he got off it.”
“Large tracks?”
“Some. And some small; I mea
! sured ’em. It’s all down in the
I report.”
“I see! Two persons, then? The
I small ones might have been a
woman’s, eh?” O’Hgra was
watching the sick man keenly.
Johnson’s fever flush deepen
ed. “Might be,” he admitted,
“but women don’t take that
trail alone, pard, not common
ly!”
O’Hara admitted this, rising
and going to the lamp to look
over the notes he held in his
hand. He felt the sick man’s eyes
following, and remembered
Johnson’s known reluctance to
handle a case where a woman
was involved; he had suffered
bad luck once and believed him
self unduly prejudiced!
Decidedly O’Hara was of the
chief’s opinion. Johnson knew or
had guessed something that he
was holding back, but what was
it? O’Hara took his time, sorted
his notes and slipped an elastic
band over them. “I think that’s
all.” he said cheerfully, return
ing to the bed to clasp the con
stable’s uninjured hand. “I hope
you come through soon, old man.
and get back to help me on this
job. I don’t believe Nicky Creuse
is guilty. S’long!”
Johnson murmured something
unintelligible about “good luck,”
and sank back on his pillows
with obvious relief. But, at the
door, his visitor turned abrupt
ly. “I’ve been thinking of Ghar
ian’s wife. Find any trace of her
about the cabin, letter or picture
—or anything?”
Johnson met his eyes, steadily,
challengingly. “No,” he replied
after a moment. “I found no
trace of her about the cabin.”
(To Be Continued)
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Thursday, December 12, 1946