Maxwell Grant
The Triple Trail
CHAPTER I
A MESSAGE OF MOMENT
IT was a dull, sullen morning. Brooding clouds hung low over the New Jersey countryside, threatening to add new deluge to downpours that had fallen in the night. The hillside town of Droverton was blanketed beneath a gloomy pall of mist.
The morning letter carrier shouldered his nearly emptied sack and glowered up at the threatening sky. His route had taken him completely through Droverton. One more call; then he could head back for the post office. He was wondering if he would make the return trip before new rain commenced.
Pacing along a gravel sidewalk, the mail carrier thrust his hand into the bag and produced a half dozen letters. He checked them to make sure; all were addressed to Stanton Treblaw. The last stop on the route.
Funny old duck, Stanton Treblaw. That was the carrier’s opinion, despite the fact that he had seldom met Treblaw in person. Musing as he strode along, the mailman recalled Stanton Treblaw as a white-haired individual with a reddish, rounded face.
“Foxy Grandpa!” That was the nickname the town boys had given Treblaw. The postman chuckled as he thought of it. The name suited; for if anyone looked foxy, Stanton Treblaw was the man. Worth plenty of money, Treblaw was, even if he did seem goofy, living in an old mansion that looked like a haunted house.
The carrier had reached Treblaw’s. He stopped at the long walk that led up to the old house. His fists tightened a bit as he entered the grounds. The place was spooky all right, even in daylight. Funny, the carrier thought, how it always seemed like eyes were watching from that house.
The postman shuddered as he reached the front of the gloomy building, with its cracked stone walls. Then, with an air of bravado, he tapped with the big brass knocker that hung on the front door. Whistling to keep up his spirits, he began to count over the letters in his hands.
Two pieces of mail puzzled the postman. One was a long envelope that bore an English stamp, with the postmark “London.” It wasn’t the first letter that Treblaw had received from England.
And here was another envelope that resembled ones which the postman had seen before. It was from New York; but on the back it carried a large dab of sealing wax, impressed with a crown-shaped seal.
Intent on his study of the mysterious letter, the postman was not looking up when the big door opened. It was the sound of an advancing footstep that made him swing about to face a tall, dry-faced serving man who had responded to the knock.
The postman started as though he had seen a corpse. With nervous motion, he thrust the letters into the servant’s hand; then, as the tall man blinked suspiciously, the postman muttered something about the rain, turned about and strode quickly away from the house.
Glancing back as he reached the gate, the postman saw that the door had closed. Yet he still felt that sensation of watching eyes. He stared toward a window where dull red curtains formed a somber mass. They looked suspicious, those curtains, as though they had been the hiding place of a lurking watcher.
Raindrops began to patter. The postman shifted away from the gate; then, as the shower increased, he started off on a jog, using the downpour as an excuse for fleeing from a neighborhood that he did not relish.
RED curtains had concealed a watcher. Within the old house, a man was standing behind those very drapes that the jittery letter carrier had observed. This watcher had been looking for the postman’s arrival. He had seen the letters in the carrier’s hand.
This spying man was young, but crafty-faced. He looked like a private secretary; pale in countenance, almost self-effacing in manner. The room in which he stood was half study, half office. Filing cabinets and a battered safe vied with antiquated chairs and tables to produce a composite appearance.
Footsteps in the hall announced the servant’s approach. The young man stepped away from the window and glanced mildly toward the door as the servant entered.
“Mail, Baxter?” he questioned.
“Yes, Mr. Wickroft,” replied the servant, extending the letters. “All for Mr. Treblaw.”
“I shall take charge of them, Baxter.”
“Very well, Mr. Wickroft.”
The secretary waited until the servant had left. Then, with gleaming eyes, he began to sort through the letters. He stopped when he saw the envelope with the London postmark. He studied it as the postman had. Then he came to the letter with the crown-impressed seal.
Wickroft’s lips pursed. His hands dropped the other letters on a table. Holding the sealed envelope beneath the light, the secretary betrayed unmistakable eagerness. He looked anxiously toward the door of the room.
Suddenly he dropped the red-sealed letters with the others. He stepped away from the table, trying to appear nonchalant, just as another person entered the room.
The arrival was Stanton Treblaw. The old man fitted the postman’s mental description. His shocky white hair formed a tousled mass above a rotund face. But Treblaw’s expression was not a benign one. The old man was glaring as he entered.
“Where is the mail, Wickroft?” he demanded, in a wheezy voice.
“Right here, sir,” returned the secretary. “I placed it on the table—”
“And failed to inform me that it had arrived?”
“I was just about to do so, Mr. Treblaw. I was coming into the dining room to tell you—”
“Baxter saved you the trouble.” Treblaw’s tone was testy. “Well — is there anything of importance in the mail?”
“A letter, sir” — Wickroft paused hesitatingly — “one from Signet—”
He broke off. Treblaw had seen the letter. With crab-like gait, the old man was making for the table. Pouncing upon the sealed envelope, he ripped it open and yanked out the message from within. His quick eyes scanned typewritten lines. Tossing back his shaggy head, Treblaw delivered a cackly laugh.
“I’ve won!” he cried. “I’ve won, Wickroft! Signet has come through with the proper offer!”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars, sir?”
“Thirty thousand! Better than I wanted. Here, Wickroft, read it for yourself.”
THRUSTING the letter to his secretary, Treblaw seated himself behind the table. His sharp eyes glistened as they watched Wickroft read. The secretary smiled wanly and passed the letter back to Treblaw.
“Properly signed,” remarked Wickroft, pointing to a dab of sealing wax at the bottom of the letter.
Treblaw nodded. That circle of wax, imprinted with a crown, was the letter’s only signature. It matched the impression that was on the envelope.
“Sit down, Wickroft,” ordered Treblaw, his tone quiet. “I want to talk with you.”
“Very well, sir.”
As the secretary seated himself, Treblaw studied the crown-signed letter. At last the old man laid it aside; then spoke in a quiet, steady wheeze.
“Wickroft,” he declared, “I have shown you the other letters that came from Signet. I have mentioned their importance to you. I expect you to keep this matter to yourself.”
“Certainly, sir,” responded the secretary.
“The first communication came some weeks ago,” proceeded Treblaw. “In it, this man who calls himself Signet offered me five thousand dollars for certain old manuscripts that are in my possession.”
“I recall that, sir.”
“I ignored Signet’s letter. He wrote again, offering me ten thousand dollars. I let the matter pass. He went to fifteen thousand; now he has suddenly doubled his offer to thirty thousand.”
“You intend to sell him the manuscripts, sir?”
“Certainly. And yet they must be worth far more than Signet offers. Because those manuscripts, Wickroft, bear testimony to the authenticity of certain art treasures. Masterpieces, Wickroft, that should bring a full million dollars if proven genuine!”