Earl Biggers - Seven Keys to Baldpate

“I ain’t one to blame you,” sneered Cargan, “for wanting it noticed when you do side-step a lie. Yes, I certainly—”

“See here, Cargan,” blazed Hayden.

“Yes, you did speak the truth,” put in Miss Thornhill hastily. “You mentioned one word in your definition — it was a desecration to drag it in — hope. For me romance means only — hope. And I’m afraid there are a pitiful number in the world to whom it means the same.”

“We ain’t heard from the young woman who started all this fuss over a little word,” Mr. Cargan reminded them.

“That’s right, dearie,” said Mrs. Norton. “You got to contribute.”

“Yes,” agreed the girl with the “locks crisped like golden wire,” “I will. But it’s hard. One’s ideas change so rapidly. A moment ago if you had said romance to me, I might have babbled of shady corners, of whisperings on the stair, of walks down the mountain in the moonlight — or even on the hotel balcony.” She smiled gaily at Magee. “Perhaps to-morrow, too, the word might mean such rapturous things to me. But to-night — life is too real and earnest to-night. Service — Professor Bolton was right — service is often romance. It may mean the discovery of a serum — it may mean so cruel a thing as the blighting of another’s life romance.” She gazed steadily at the stolid Cargan. “It may mean putting an end forever to those picturesque parades past the window of the little room on Main Street — the room where the boys can always find the mayor of Reuton.”

Still she gazed steadily into Cargan’s eyes. And with an amused smile the mayor gazed back.

“You wouldn’t be so cruel as that,” he assured her easily; “a nice attractive girl like you.”

The dinner was at an end; without a word the sly little professor rose from the table and hurriedly ascended the stairs. Mr. Magee watched him disappear, and resolved to follow quickly on his heels. But first he paused to give his own version of the word under discussion.

“Strange,” he remarked, “that none of you gets the picture I do. Romance — it is here — at your feet in Baldpate Inn. A man climbs the mountain to be alone with his thoughts, to forget the melodrama of life, to get away from the swift action of the world, and meditate. He is alone — for very near an hour. Then a telephone bell tinkles, and a youth rises out of the dark to prate of a lost Arabella, and haberdashery. A shot rings out, as the immemorial custom with shots, and in comes a professor of Comparative Literature, with a perforation in his derby hat. A professional hermit arrives to teach the amateur the fine points of the game. A charming maid comes in — too late for breakfast — but in plenty of time for walks on the balcony in the moonlight. The mayor of a municipality condescends to stay for dinner. A battle in the snow ensues. There is a weird talk of — a sum of money. More guests arrive. Dark hints of a seventh key. Why, bless you, you needn’t stir from Baldpate Inn in search of your romance.”

He crossed the floor hastily, and put one foot on the lower step of Baldpate’s grand stairway. He kept it there. For from the shadows of the landing Professor Bolton emerged, his blasted derby once more on his head, his overcoat buttoned tight, his ear-muffs in place, his traveling-bag and green umbrella in tow.

“What, Professor,” cried Magee, “you’re leaving?”

Now, truly, the end of the drama had come. Mr. Magee felt his heart beat wildly. What was the end to be? What did this calm departure mean? Surely the little man descending the stair was not, Daniel-like, thrusting himself into this lion’s den with the precious package in his possession?

“Yes,” the old man was saying slowly. “I am about to leave. The decision came suddenly. I am sorry to go. Certainly I have enjoyed these chance meetings.”

“See here, Doc,” said Mr. Bland, uneasily feeling of his purple tie, “you’re not going back and let them reporters have another fling at you?”

“I fear I must,” replied the old man. “My duty calls. Yes, they will hound me. I shall hear much of peroxide blondes. I shall be asked again to name the ten greatest in history, — a difficult, not to say dangerous task. But I must face the — er — music, as the vulgar expression goes. I bid you good-by, Mr. Bland. We part friends, I am sure. Again be comforted by the thought that I do not hold the ruined derby against you. Even though, as I have remarked with unpleasant truth, the honorarium of a professor at our university is not large.”

He turned to Magee.

“I regret more than I can say,” he continued, “parting from you. My eyes fell upon you first on entering this place — we have had exciting times together. My dear Miss Norton — knowing you has refreshed an old man’s heart. I might compare you to another with yellow locks — but I leave that to my younger — er — colleagues. Mr. Cargan — good-by. My acquaintance with you I shall always look back on—”

But the mayor of Reuton, Max and Bland closed in on the old man.

“Now look here, Doc,” interrupted Cargan. “You’re bluffing. Do you get me? You’re trying to put something over. I don’t want to be rough — I like you — but I got to get a glimpse at the inside of that satchel. And I got to examine your personal make-up a bit.”

“Dear, dear,” smiled Professor Bolton, “you don’t think I would steal? A man in my position? Absurd. Look through my poor luggage if you desire. You will find nothing but the usual appurtenances of travel.”

He stood docilely in the middle of the floor, and blinked at the group around him.

Mr. Magee waited to hear no more. It was quite apparent that this wise little man carried no package wildly sought by Baldpate’s winter guests. Quietly and quickly Magee disappeared up the broad stair, and tried the professor’s door. It was locked. Inside he could hear a window banging back and forth in the storm. He ran through number seven and out upon the snow-covered balcony.

There he bumped full into a shadowy figure hurrying in the opposite direction.

For fully five seconds Mr. Magee and the man with whom he had collided stood facing each other on the balcony. The identical moon of the summer romances now hung in the sky, and in its white glare Baldpate Mountain glittered like a Christmas-card. Suddenly the wind broke a small branch from one of the near-by trees and tossed it lightly on the snow beside the two men — as though it were a signal for battle.

“A lucky chance,” said Mr. Magee. “You’re a man I’ve been longing to meet. Especially since the professor left his window open this afternoon.”

“Indeed,” replied the other calmly. “May I ask what you want of me?”

“Certainly.” Mr. Magee laughed. “A little package. I think it’s in your pocket at this minute. A package no bigger than a man’s hand.”

The stranger made no reply, but looked quickly about, over his shoulder at the path along which he had come, and then past Mr. Magee at the road that led to freedom.

“I think it’s in your pocket,” repeated Mr. Magee, “and I’m going to find out.”

“I haven’t time to argue with you,” said the holder of the seventh key. His voice was cold, calculating, harsh. “Get out of my way and let me pass. Or—”

“Or what?” asked Billy Magee.

He watched the man lunge toward him in the moonlight. He saw the fist that had the night before been the Waterloo of Mr. Max and the mayor start on a swift true course for his head. Quickly he dodged to one side and closed with his opponent.

Back and forth through the snow they ploughed, panting, grappling, straining. Mr. Magee soon realized that his adversary was no weakling. He was forced to call into play muscles he had not used in what seemed ages — not since he sported of an afternoon in a rather odorous college gymnasium. In moonlight and shadow, up and down, they reeled, staggered, stumbled, the sole jarring notes in that picture of Baldpate on a quiet winter’s night.