Earl Biggers - Seven Keys to Baldpate

“You read the future glibly,” she replied. “Are your prophecies true, I wonder?”

“Absolutely. Some time ago — on my soul, it was only yesterday — I asked if you had read a certain novel called The Lost Limousine , and you said you had, and that — it wasn’t sincere. Well, I wrote it—”

“Oh!” cried the girl.

“Yes,” said Magee, “and I’ve done others like it. Oh, yes, my muse has been a nouveau riche lady in a Worth gown, my ambition a big red motor-car. I’ve been a ‘scramble a cent, mister’ troubadour beckoning from the book-stalls. It was good fun writing those things, and it brought me more money than was good for me. I’m not ashamed of them; they were all right as a beginning in the game. But the other day — I thought an advertisement did the trick — I turned tired of that sort, and I decided to try the other kind — the real kind. I thought it was an advertisement that did it — but I see now it was because you were just a few days away.”

“Don’t tell me,” whispered the girl, “that you came up here to — to—”

“Yes,” smiled Magee, “I came up here to forget forever the world’s giddy melodrama, the wild chase for money through deserted rooms, shots in the night, cupid in the middle distance. I came here to do — literature — if it’s in me to do it.”

The girl leaned limply against the side of Baldpate Inn.

“Oh, the irony of it!” she cried.

“I know,” he said, “it’s ridiculous. I think all this is meant just for — temptation. I shall be firm. I’ll remember your parable of the blind girl — and the lamp that was not lighted. I’ll do the real stuff. So that when you say — as you certainly must some day — ‘I’m Billy Magee’s girl’ you can say it proudly.”

“I’m sure,” she said softly, “that if I ever do say it — oh, no, I didn’t say I would” — for he had seized her hands quickly — “if I ever do say it — it will certainly be proudly. But now — you don’t even know my name — my right one. You don’t know what I do, nor where I come from, nor what I want with this disgusting bundle of money. I sort of feel, you know — that this is in the air at Baldpate, even in the winter time. No sooner have the men come than they begin to talk of — love — to whatever girls they find here — on this very balcony — down there under the trees. And the girls listen, for — it’s in the air, that’s all. Then autumn comes, and everybody laughs, and forgets. May not our autumn come — when I go away?”

“Never,” cried Magee. “This is no summer hotel affair to me. It’s a real in winter and summer love, my dear — in spring and fall — and when you go away, I’m going too, about ten feet behind.”

“Yes,” she laughed, “they talk that way at Baldpate — the last weeks of summer. It’s part of the game.” They had come to the side of the hotel on which was the annex, and the girl stopped and pointed. “Look!” she whispered breathlessly.

In a window of the annex had appeared for a moment a flickering yellow light. But only for a moment.

“I know,” said Mr. Magee. “There’s somebody in there. But that isn’t important in comparison. This is no summer affair, dear. Look to the thermometer for proof. I love you. And when you go away, I shall follow.”

“And the book—”

“I have found better inspiration than Baldpate Inn.”

They walked along for a time in silence.

“You forget,” said the girl, “you only know who has the money.”

“I will get it,” he answered confidently. “Something tells me I will. Until I do, I am content to say no more.”

“Good-by,” said the girl. She stood in the window of her room, while a harsh voice called “That you, dearie?” from inside. “And I may add,” she smiled, “that in my profession — a following is considered quite — desirable.”

She disappeared, and Mr. Magee, after a few minutes in his room, descended again to the office. In the center of the room, Elijah Quimby and Hayden stood face to face.

“What is it, Quimby?” asked Magee.

“I just ran up to see how things were going,” Quimby replied, “and I find him here.”

“Our latest guest,” smiled Magee.

“I was just reminding Mr. Hayden,” Quimby said, his teeth set, an angry light in his eyes, “that the last time we met he ordered me from his office. I told you, Mr. Magee, that the Suburban Railway once promised to make use of my invention. Then Mr. Kendrick went away — and this man took charge. When I came around to the offices again — he laughed at me. When I came the second time, he called me a loafer and ordered me out.”

He paused, and faced Hayden again.

“I’ve grown bitter, here on the mountain,” he said, “as I’ve thought over what you and men like you said to me — as I’ve thought of what might have been — and what was — yes, I’ve grown pretty bitter. Time after time I’ve gone over in my mind that scene in your office. As I’ve sat here thinking you’ve come to mean to me all the crowd that made a fool of me. You’ve come to mean to me all the crowd that said ‘The public be damned’ in my ear. I haven’t ever forgot — how you ordered me out of your office.”

“Well?” asked Hayden.

“And now,” Quimby went on, “I find you trespassing in a hotel left in my care — the tables are turned. I ought to show you the door. I ought to put you out.”

“Try it,” sneered Hayden.

“No,” answered Quimby, “I ain’t going to do it. Maybe it’s because I’ve grown timid, brooding over my failure. And maybe it’s because I know who’s got the seventh key.”

Hayden made no reply. No one stirred for a minute, and then Quimby moved away, and went out through the dining-room door.

The seventh key! Mr. Magee thrilled at the mention of it. So Elijah Quimby knew the identity and the mission of the man who hid in the annex. Did any one else? Magee looked at the broad acreage of the mayor’s face, at the ancient lemon of Max’s, at Bland’s, frightened and thoughtful, at Hayden’s, concerned but smiling. Did any one else know? Ah, yes, of course. Down the stairs the professor of Comparative Literature felt his way to food.

“Is dinner ready?” he asked, peering about.

The candles flickered weakly as they fought the stronger shadows; winter roared at the windows; somewhere above a door crashed shut. Close to its final scene drew the drama at Baldpate Inn. Mr. Magee knew it, he could not have told why. The others seemed to know it, too. In silence they waited while the hermit scurried along his dim way preparing the meal. In silence they sat while Miss Norton and her mother descended. Once there was a little flurry of interest when Miss Thornhill and Hayden met at the foot of the stairs.

“Myra!” Hayden cried. “In heaven’s name — what does this mean?”

“Unfortunately,” said the girl, “I know — all it means.”

And Hayden fell back into the shadows.

Finally the attitude of the hermit suggested that the dinner was ready.

“I guess you might as well sit down,” he remarked. “It’s all fixed, what there is to fix. This place don’t need a cook, it needs a commissary department.”

“Peters,” reproved Magee. “That’s hardly courteous to our guests.”

“Living alone on the mountain,” replied the hermit from the dining-room door, “you get to have such a high regard for the truth you can’t put courtesy first. You want to, but you haven’t the heart.”

The winter guests took their places at the table, and the second December dinner at Baldpate Inn got under way. But not so genially as on the previous night did it progress. On the faces of those about him Mr. Magee noted worry and suspicion; now and again menacing cold eyes were turned upon him; evidently first in the thoughts of those at table was a little package rich in treasure; and evidently first in the thoughts of most of them, as the probable holder of that package, was Mr. Magee himself. Several times he looked up to find Max’s cat-like eyes upon him, sinister and cruel behind the incongruous gold-rimmed glasses; several times he saw Hayden’s eyes, hostile and angry, seek his face. They were desperate; they would stop at nothing; Mr. Magee felt that as the drama drew to its close they saw him and him alone between them and their golden desires.