Ralestone Luck by Andre Norton
He took it from her and straightened out a handkerchief.
“Not guilty this time. Ask little brother here.” He passed over the dirty linen square. It was plain white—or it had been white before three large black splotches had colored it—without an initial or colored edge.
“I think he’s prevaricating, Ricky,” Val protested. “This isn’t mine. I’m down to one thin dozen and those are the ones you gave me last Christmas. They have my initials on.”
Ricky took back the disputed square. “That’s funny. It certainly isn’t mine. I’m sure one of you must be mistaken.”
“Why?” asked Rupert.
“Because I found it on the hearth-stone in the hall this morning. It wasn’t there last night or one of us would have seen it and picked it up, ’cause it was right there in plain sight.”
“Sure it isn’t yours, Val?”
He shook his head. “Positive.”
“Queer,” murmured Rupert and reached for it again. “It’s a good quality of linen and it’s almost new.” He held it to his nose. “That’s oil on it. But how—?”
“I wonder—” Val mused.
“What do you know?” asked Ricky.
“Well—Oh, it isn’t possible. He wouldn’t carry a handkerchief,” her brother said half to himself.
“Who wouldn’t?” asked Rupert. Then Val told them of his meeting with the boy Jeems and what Sam had had to say of him.
“Don’t know whether I exactly like this.” Rupert folded the mysterious square of stained linen. “As you say, Val, a boy like that would hardly carry a handkerchief. Also, you met him in the garden, while—”
“The person who left that was in this house last night!” finished Ricky. “And I don’t like that!”
“The door was locked and bolted when I came down this morning,” Val observed.
Rupert nodded. “Yes, I distinctly remember doing that before I went up to bed last night. But when I was going around the house this morning I discovered that there are French doors opening from the old ball-room to the terrace, and I didn’t inspect their fastening last night.”
“But who would want to come in here? There are no valuables left except furniture. And it would take three or four men and a truck to collect that. I don’t see what he was after,” puzzled Ricky.
Rupert arose from the table. “We have, it seems, a mystery on our hands. If you want to amuse yourselves, my children, here’s the first clue. I’ve got to get back to the carriage house and my labors there.”
He dropped the handkerchief on the table and left. Ricky reached for the “clue.” “Awfully casual about it, isn’t he?” she said. “Just the same, I believe that this is a clue and I know what our visitor was after, too,” she finished triumphantly.
“What?”
“The treasure Richard Ralestone hid when the Yankee raiders came.”
“Well, if our unknown visitor has as little in the way of clues as we have, he’ll be a long time finding it.”
“And we’re going to beat him to it! It’s somewhere in the Hall, and the secret—”
“See here,” Val interrupted her, “what were you about to tell me when Rupert came in?”
She put the handkerchief in the breast pocket of her sport dress, buttoning the flap over it.
“Rupert’s got a secret.”
“What kind?”
“It has to do with those two brief-cases of his. You know, the ones he was so particular about all the way down here?”
Val nodded. Those bulging brief-cases had apparently contained the dearest of his roving brother’s possessions, judging from the way Rupert had fussed if they were a second out of his sight.
“This morning when I came downstairs,” Ricky continued, “he was sneaking them into that little side room off the dining-room corridor, the one which used to be the old plantation office. And when he came out and saw me standing there, he deliberately turned around and locked the door!”
“Whew!” Val commented.
“Yes, I felt that way too. So I simply asked him what he was doing and he made some silly remark about Bluebeard’s chamber. He means to keep his old secret, too, ’cause he put the key on his key-ring when he didn’t know I was watching him.”
“This is not the place for a rest cure,” her brother observed as he started to scrape and stack the dishes. “First someone unknown leaves his handkerchief for a calling card and then Rupert goes Fu Manchu on us. To say nothing of the rugged and unfriendly son of the soil whom I found bumping around the garden where he had no business to be.”
“What was he like anyway?” asked his sister as she dipped soap flakes into the dish-water with a liberal hand.
“Oh, thin, and awfully brown. But not bad looking if it weren’t for his mouth and that scowl of his. And he very distinctly doesn’t like us. About my build, but quicker on his feet, tough looking. I wouldn’t care to try to stop him doing anything he wanted to do.”
“My dear, are you describing Clark Gable or someone you met in our garden this morning?” she demanded sweetly.
“Very well,” Val retorted huffily into the depths of the oatmeal pan he was wiping, “you catch him next time.”
“I will,” was her serene answer as she wrung out the dish-cloth.
They went on to the upstairs work and Val received his first lesson in the art of bed-making under his sister’s extremely critical tuition. It seemed that corners must be square and that dreadful things were likely to happen when wrinkles were not smoothed out. This exercise led them naturally to unpacking the remainder of the hand baggage and putting things away. It was after ten before Val came downstairs crab-fashion, wiping off each step behind him as he came with one of Ricky’s three dust-cloths.
He paused on the landing to pull back the tapestry curtain and open the windows above the alcove seat, letting in the freshness of the morning to rout some of the dank chill of the hall. Kneeling there, he watched Rupert come around the house. Rupert had shed his coat and his sleeves were rolled up almost to his shoulders. There was a streak of black across his cheek and a large rip almost separated the collar from his shirt. Although he looked hot, cross, and tired, more like a day-laborer than a gentleman plantation owner whose ancestors had always “planted from the saddle,” his stride had a certain buoyancy which it had lacked the day before.
With an idea of escaping Ricky by joining his brother, Val hurried downstairs and headed kitchenward. But his sister was there before him looking over a collection of knives of various lengths.
“Preparing for a little murder or two?” Val asked casually.
She jumped and dropped a paring knife.
“Val, don’t do that! I wish you’d whistle or something while you’re walking around in those tennis shoes. I can’t hear you move. I’m looking for something to cut flowers with. There don’t seem to be any scissors except mine and I’m not going to use those.”
“Take dat, Miss ’Chanda.” A fat black hand motioned toward the paring knife.
Just within the kitchen door stood a wide, a very wide, Negro woman. Her neat print dress was stiff with starch from a recent washing, and round gold hoops swung proudly from her ears. Her black hair, straightened by main force of arm, had been set again in stiff, corrugated waves of extreme fashion, but her broad placid face was both kind and serene.
“I’se Lucy,” she stated, thoroughly at her ease. “An’ dis,” she reached an arm behind her, pulling forth a girl at least ten shades lighter and thirty-five shades thinner, “is mah sistah’s onliest gal-chil’, Letty-Lou. Mak’ yo’ mannahs, Letty. Does yo’ wan’ Miss ’Chanda to think yo’ is a know-nothin’ outa de swamp?”
Thus sternly admonished, Letty-Lou ducked her head shyly and murmured something in a die-away voice.
“Letty-Lou,” announced her aunt, “is com’ to do fo’ yo’all, Miss ’
Letty-Lou looked at the floor and twisted her thin hands behind her back.
“But,” protested Ricky, “we’re not planning to have anyone do for us, Lucy.”
“Dat’s all right, Miss ’Chanda. Yo’all’s not gittin’ a know-nothin’. Letty-Lou, she knows her work. She kin cook right good.”
“We can’t take her,” Val backed up Ricky. “You must understand, Lucy, that we don’t have much money and we can’t pay for—”
“Pay fo’!” Lucy’s indignant sniff reduced him to his extremely unimportant place. “We’s not talkin’ ’bout pay workin’, Mistuh Ralestone. Letty-Lou don’ git no pay but her eatments. ’Co’se, effen Miss ’Chanda wanna give her some ole clo’s now an’ den, she kin tak’ dem. Letty-Lou, she don’ hav’ to git her a pay-work job, her pappy mak’s him a good livin’. But Miss ’Chanda ain’ a-goin’ to tak’ keer dis big hous’ all by herself wit’ her lil’ han’s dere. We’s Ralestone folks. Letty-Lou, yo’ gits on youah ap’on an’ gits to work.”
“But we can’t let her,” Ricky raised her last protest.
“Miss ’Chanda, we’s Ralestone folks. Mah gran’ pappy Bob was own man to Massa Miles Ralestone. He fit in de wah longside o’ Massa Miles. An’ wen de wah was done finish’d, dem two com’ home to-gethah. Den Massa Miles, he call mah gran’pappy in an’ say, ‘Bob, yo’all is free an’ I’se a ruinated man. Heah is fiv’ dollahs gol’ money an’ yo’ kin hav’ youah hoss.’ An’ Bob, he say, ‘Cap’n Miles, dese heah Yankees done said I’se free but dey ain’t done said dat I ain’t a Ralestone man. W’at time does yo’all wan’ breakfas’ in de mornin’?’ An’ wen Massa Miles wen’ no’th to mak’ his fo’tune, he told Bob, ‘Bob, I’se leavin’ dis heah hous’ in youah keer.’ An’, Miss ’Chanda, we done look aftah Pirate’s Haven evah since, mah gran’pappy, mah pappy, Sam an’ me.”
Ricky held out her hand. “I’m sorry, Lucy. You see, we don’t understand very well, we’ve been away so long.”
Lucy touched Ricky’s hand and then, for all her weight, bobbed a curtsy. “Dat’s all right, Miss ’Chanda, yo’ is ouah folks.”
Letty-Lou stayed.
CHAPTER IV
PISTOLS FOR TWO—COFFEE FOR ONE
Val braced himself against the back of the roadster’s seat and struggled to hold the car to a road which was hardly more than a cart track. Twice since Ricky and he had left Pirate’s Haven they had narrowly escaped being bogged in the mud which had worked up through the thin crust of gravel on the surface.
To the south lay the old cypress swamps, dark glens of rotting wood and sprawling vines. A spur of this unsavory no-man’s land ran close along the road, and looking into it one could almost believe, fancied Val, in the legends told by the early French explorers concerning the giant monsters who were supposed to haunt the swamps and wild lands at the mouth of the Mississippi. He would not have been surprised to see a brontosaurus peeking coyly down at him from twenty feet or so of neck. It was just the sort of place any self-respecting brontosaurus would have wallowed in.
But at last they won free from that place of cold and dank odors. Passing through Chalmette, they struck the main highway. From then on it was simple enough. St. Bernard Highway led into St. Claude Avenue and that melted into North Rampart street, one of the boundaries of the old French city.
“Can’t we go slower?” complained Ricky. “I’d like to see some of the city without getting a crick in my neck from looking over my shoulder. Watch out for St. Anne Street. That’s one corner of Beauregarde Square, the old Congo Square—”
“Where the slaves used to dance on Sundays before the war. I know; I’ve read just as many guide-books as you have. But there is such a thing as obstructing traffic. Also we have about a million and one things to do this afternoon. We can explore later. Here we are; Bienville Avenue. No, I will not stop so that you can see that antique store. Six blocks to the right,” Val reminded himself.
“Val, that was the Absinthe House we just passed!”
“Yes? Well, it would have been better for a certain ancestor of ours if he had passed it, too. That was Jean Lafitte’s headquarters at one time. Exchange Street—the next is ours.”
They turned into Chartres Street and pulled up in the next block at the corner of Iberville. A four-story house coated with grayish plaster, its windows framed with faded green shutters and its door painted the same misty color, confronted them. There was a tiny shop on the first floor.
A weathered sign over the door announced that Bonfils et Cie. did business within, behind the streaked and bluish glass of the small curved window-panes. But what business Bonfils and Company conducted was left entirely to the imagination of the passer-by. Val locked the roadster and took from Ricky the long legal-looking envelope which Rupert had given them to deliver to Mr. LeFleur.
Ricky was staring in a puzzled manner at the shop when her brother took her by the arm. “Are you sure that you have the right place? This doesn’t look like an office to me.”
“We have to go around to the courtyard entrance. LeFleur occupies the second floor.”
A small wooden door, reinforced with hinges of hand-wrought iron, opened before them, making them free of a courtyard paved with flagstones. In the center a tall tree shaded the flower bed at its foot and threw shadows upon the first of the steps leading to the upper floors. The Ralestones frankly stared about them. This was the first house of the French Quarter they had seen, although their name might have admitted them to several closely guarded Creole strongholds. LeFleur’s house followed a pattern common to the old city. The lower floor fronting on the street was in use only as a shop or store-room. In the early days each shopkeeper lived above his place of business and rented the third and fourth floors to aristocrats in from their plantations for the fashionable season.
A long, narrow ell ran back from the main part of the house to form one side of the courtyard. The ground floor of this contained the old slave quarters and kitchens, while the second was cut into bedrooms which had housed the young men of the family so that they could come and go at will without disturbing the more sedate members of the household. These small rooms were now in use as the offices of Mr. LeFleur. From the balcony, running along the ell, onto which each room opened, one could look down into the courtyard. It was on this balcony that the lawyer met them with outstretched hands after they had given their names to his dark, languid young clerk.
“But this is good of you!” René LeFleur beamed on them impartially. He was a small, plumpish, round-faced man in his early forties, who spoke in perpetual italics. His eyebrows, arched over-generously by Nature, gave him a look of never-ending astonishment at the world and all its works. But his genial smile was kindness itself. Unaccustomed as Val was to sudden enthusiasms, he found himself liking René LeFleur almost before his hand gripped Val’s.
“Miss Ralestone, it is a pleasure, a very great pleasure, to see you here! And this,” he turned to Val, “this must be that brother Valerius both you and Mr. Ralestone spoke so much of during our meeting in New York. You have safely recovered from that most unfortunate accident, Mr. Ralestone? But of course, your presence here is my answer. And how do you like Louisiana, Miss Ralestone?” His eyes behind his gold-rimmed eyeglasses sparkled as he tilted his head a fraction toward Ricky as if to hear the clearer.
“Well enough. Though we’ve seen very little of it yet, Mr. LeFleur.”
“When you have seen Pirate’s Haven,” he replied, “you have seen much of Louisiana.”
“But we’re forgetting our manners!” exclaimed the girl. “We want to thank you for everything you’ve done for us. Rupert said to tell you that while he doesn’t care for beans as a rule, the beans we found in our cupboard were very superior beans.”
Mr. LeFleur hoot
“Sam and—Lucy,” answered Ricky with emphasis. “Lucy has decided to take us in hand. She has installed Letty-Lou over our protests.”
The little lawyer nodded complacently. “Yes, Lucy will take care of you. She is a master housekeeper and cook—ah!” His eyes rolled upward. “And Mr. Ralestone, how is he?”
“All right. He’s going over the farm with Sam this afternoon. We were sent in his place to give you the papers he spoke to you about.”
At Ricky’s answer, Val held out the envelope he had carried. To their joint surprise, LeFleur pounced upon it and withdrew to the window of the room into which he had conducted them. There he spread out the four sheets of yellowed paper which the envelope had contained.
“What were we carrying?” whispered Ricky. “Part of Rupert’s deep, dark secret?”
“No,” her brother hissed back, “those are the plans of the Patagonian fort which were stolen from the Russian Embassy last Thursday by the beautiful woman spy disguised with a long green beard. You know, the proper first chapter of an international espionage thriller. You are the dumb but beautiful newspaper reporter on the scent, and I—”
“The even dumber G-man who spends most of his time running three steps ahead of Fu Chew Chow and his gang of oriental demons. In the second chapter—”
But a glance at Mr. LeFleur’s face as he turned away from the window put an end to their nonsense. Gone was his smile, his beaming good-will toward the world. He seemed a little tired, a trifle stooped. “Not here then,” he said slowly to himself as he slipped the papers back into the envelope.
“Mr. Valerius,” he looked up at the boy very seriously, “the LeFleurs have served the Ralestones, acting as their men of business, for over a hundred years. We owe your family a great debt. When young Denys LeFleur was shipped over here to New Orleans under false accusation of his enemies, the first Richard Ralestone became his patron. He helped the boy salvage something from the wreck of the LeFleur fortunes in France to start anew in a decent profession under tolerable surroundings, when others of his kind died miserably as beggars on the mud flats. Twice before have we been forced to be the bearers of ill news, but—” he shrugged, “that was in the past. This lies in the future.”