Rim of the Pit : A RH Mystery Read online

  ©1944 by Hake Talbot

  Published: 2005 by Ramble House

  Cover Art: Gavin L. O’Keefe

  Preparation: Fender Tucker

  Rim of the PIT And THE OTHER SIDE

  By

  Hake Talbot

  RAMBLE HOUSE

  TO

  Melville Davisson Post

  Rim of the PIT

  I

  Dead of Winter

  There are dead people whom we mistake for living beings.—ELIPHAS LÉVI, Dogme de la Haute Magie

  “I CAME UP here to make a dead man change his mind.”

  There was earnestness behind the quiet statement.

  It was growing dark. The blaze in the huge fireplace flickered on the face of the speaker and made its expression difficult to read. The fingers of his left hand moved restlessly over the smooth coat of the great dog that lay on the sofa beside him. Round-faced, roundbodied, in worn hunting clothes that gave no hint of his wealth, Luke Latham stared belligerently up at his tall house guest.

  “Well, go on. Why don’t you laugh?”

  “Not until I’m sure it’s funny.”

  Latham hunched his shoulders. “It isn’t. It’s plain Hell.”

  The black Dane pricked his ears, then sprang to the floor and stood with head erect, growling softly. His master looked at him in surprise. A moment later his own ears caught the crunch of feet on snow. Latham moved around the corner of the fireplace into the hall wing of the low L-shaped room, and opened the door.

  The girl outside wore ski togs that took advantage of slim hips and brought out the long lines of her figure. The wind had tinted her cheeks, but her face looked pale against her blue-black hair, and her gray eyes were troubled.

  Before Latham could speak, the man with him said, “Hello, Sherry Ogden,” and fresh color leaped in the girl’s face.

  “Rogan Kincaid!” She held out both hands. “Jeff told me he drove you up this morning, but I couldn’t imagine anything dragging you this far from civilization.”

  “I wasn’t dragged. I was attracted.”

  Sherry tilted her head to one side and looked at him. “By a chance to take Luke’s hide at poker?”

  “Lots of men have had cracks at my hide,” Latham chuckled, “but I’m still wearing it. Truth is, Rogan was in Quebec, headed south. Jeff met him and offered him a ride this far. But where did you see that nephew of mine, Sherry? He was in such a rush to go hunting, he grabbed his gun and left while the pie we had for lunch was still sticking out the corners of his mouth.”

  “Jeff didn’t need a gun,” Sherry confided. “The game he’s after has baby-blue eyes and answers to the name of ‘Barbara.’ As a matter of fact, there’s some doubt about who’s doing the hunting. Either way, the betting is you’re going to acquire a niece. They’re over at my place now, swapping coos.”

  Latham took the girl’s parka and they strolled to the fire, where the Dane greeted her by thrusting a cold muzzle into her gloved hand. She curled on one end of the sofa and sat looking up at Rogan. Tall, lean, enigmatic, with strong unsymmetrical features, he was in such striking contrast to his host’s dumpy rotundity that for a moment a smile touched the corners of her lips. Then she caught the older man’s shrewd eyes and her glance dropped. The color had gone from her cheeks, and the hand that pushed back her black curls trembled.

  “This isn’t just a social visit, Sherry.” Latham’s voice was kindly. “What’s bothering you?”

  Her fingers locked together in her lap. She twisted them apart, and drew a long breath before she spoke.

  “Luke, are you certain my father is dead?”

  Rogan read surprise in his friend’s face, but there was none in the voice that answered.

  “I saw his body.”

  “Are you absolutely sure it was Father?” the girl insisted. “I mean, they said he was . . . Besides, it was all so impossible.”

  A puzzled expression puckered the corners of Latham’s eyes. “Lots of men get lost in the snow, my dear.”

  “I know, but not Father. He’d spent half his life outdoors. And that other man . . . Everyone told me he was a regular old woman about marking a trail. They said he never took any chances. A person like that couldn’t wander away.”

  “I’m sorry, Sherry.” Rogan spoke softly. “I didn’t realize. . . . Jeff said nothing about Mr. Ogden’s—”

  “Frank Ogden isn’t my father,” she interrupted. “He isn’t even my stepfather.”

  “When Sherry was born her mother died,” explained Latham. “Her father married again.”

  “I was about twelve when Father . . . was lost.” She began pulling off her gloves with little nervous gestures. “Then my stepmother married Frank. They adopted me, and I’ve called myself ‘Ogden’ ever since. Father was French—from Provence. My real name is Seré Désanat.”

  Mr. Kincaid was puzzled. “But if your father died ten years ago . . .?”

  The girl flashed him a smile. “It was fourteen, but thanks. I know I’m being a fool . . . only . . . only . . .” Her lips began to tremble and she huddled back on the sofa. “I’m scared.”

  “Don’t see what’s troubling you,” said Latham. “Never was any doubt about his death. Made the funeral arrangements myself. That’s how I happened to see the body. Some fool may have told you he was pretty badly . . . changed by exposure. He was. Recognized him, though . . . No question at all.”

  “I know,” Sherry admitted doubtfully, “and you couldn’t have made a mistake about his left hand. But”—she gave a little gesture of helplessness—“he couldn’t have gotten lost, either—not Father. He could find his way anywhere, like an animal . . . places he’d never been before. The lumberjacks used to make bets on him.”

  “That part of the Hudson Bay country is Hell’s icebox, they tell me. Your father and that other man—Querns, wasn’t that his name?— had never hunted it before. Top of that a storm came up—bad one. Fellow wrote me that even the guide got lost hunting your father. Said the poor devil wouldn’t have come out alive himself if he hadn’t run into some explorers.” Latham moved closer to the fire. “Country like that does things to a man sometimes. Gets inside his mind— changes it around. Saw a trapper once who’d been lost for three days. He walked right across a railroad track without seeing it. Started to run away from us when we shouted at him.”

  “I know I’m being a fool . . . but . . .” Sherry broke off as the black dog moved over and put his head in her lap. She stared down at him. “Thanks, Thor. You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?”

  “We don’t either,” Latham grunted. “Can’t help, though, unless you tell us what’s wrong.”

  “It’s . . . oh, so many things.” Again the little helpless gesture. “Luke, why did Frank bring Mr. Vok here? Is it because of the séance?”

  “What séance?” asked Kincaid. “And who is Mr. Vok?”

  “Svetozar Vok,” Latham informed him. “Frank Ogden picked him up in Quebec. Refugee from Czechoslovakia.”

  “He’s more like a refugee from a horror movie.” Sherry shuddered. “Wait till you see him, Rogan. He’s a mile high and looks like the oldest inhabitant of a graveyard.”

  Her host chuckled. “Vok’s not that bad, Sherry. Queer bird, but I like him. Struck me as rather witty.”

  “He gives me the creeps. He’s like a mummy that’s still smiling over one of the embalmer’s jokes.” She glanced up at Latham. “Besides, why is he at Cabrioun? It’s not like Frank to pick up a refugee. Particularly a penniless one. Frank isn’t the kind to help lame dogs over stiles.”

  “That’s not fair, Sherry. I don’t get along with Frank too well myself, but he can be generous when he likes. Practically pensioned Madore Tro
udeau by making him caretaker at Cabrioun. Frank didn’t get any good out of that. None of the family’s been up here for years.”

  The girl was not satisfied. “There are other things too, Luke. We haven’t been here since Father died. Why did we come now? And why didn’t we bring any of the servants? Why has Frank been so jumpy lately? And what has the séance got to do with it? And . . . and . . . lots of things.”

  Latham hesitated. “I know you’re not a believer, Sherry. Though how you can help it after what you’ve seen your stepmother do time and time again . . . ”

  “I think it’s mostly Irene who’s kept me from believing. I admit queer things occur at her séances . . . things nobody’s ever been able to explain. But she’s such a fraud, I can’t put faith in a thing she does. Everything about her is phony. That’s why this . . .”

  The words trailed off. Latham sat on the sofa and took Sherry’s hand.

  “Something’s happened to you. You came here to tell us about it. Maybe we can help.”

  The girl stared into the fire. Then without looking at either of the men she said:

  “Today I heard my father’s voice.”

  There was a long silence after that. Thor stirred uneasily. Sherry put her hand on his head and crumpled his ears.

  “I didn’t have much to do this morning,” she went on. “Frank was out hunting with Madore and that Professor Ambler who’s staying with you. Irene locked herself in her room, like she’s been doing since we came. Barbara was fixing her hair in case Jeff got here. At last I decided that even Mr. Vok’s company was better than being left alone, so I screwed up my courage and took him skiing. He turned out to be pretty good at it. We went across the lake to slide down The Snake’s Back. It was when we were coming home I heard Father. We were in the middle of the lake. There wasn’t a soul within a quarter of a mile. There couldn’t have been.”

  She stood and began walking back and forth before the fire. “It was the song I heard first, an old Provençal thing. There’s a high note in it Father could never reach. He used to make a funny little trill instead. The words were perfectly beastly. ‘Pierre! Death comes for you; the toad digs your grave; the crows sound your knell . . .’ I hated it,” Sherry grimaced at the recollection. “It’s been a long time since then. I’d even forgotten the tune until I heard it today.”

  “Sound travels pretty far over ice,” Latham reminded her. “Wind plays tricks with it, too.”

  “Do you think I haven’t told myself all that?” The girl turned and threw out her hands. “It wasn’t only the song. Afterward a man’s voice spoke. It was Father.”

  “Make out what he said?”

  “There was a little echo, and I missed all but a few words. The only thing I could be positive of was . . . my own name.”

  “Sure you remembered your father’s voice after all these years?”

  Sherry bit her lip. “You don’t forget things like that. Besides, who else could it have been? There’s no one within miles of the lake this time of year. Jeff and Rogan hadn’t come. Mr. Vok was with me. You wouldn’t do a thing like that, and the other three men were all together hunting.”

  She broke off and resumed her pacing. Rogan watched her for a long minute.

  “There’s more yet,” he declared. “You’d better let us have it all.”

  Sherry spun on her heel and flung back her head.

  “All right, and it’s this that’s driving me frantic. The voice was loud enough even if it did sound far away, and I know Mr. Vok has good ears. But he didn’t hear it!”

  II

  She Shall Have Music . . .

  Pierre!

  La mort te ven querre;

  Le grapaut

  Te fa le traue;

  Les courbasses

  Te sounoun lous classes;

  L’escourpioun

  Te reboun.

  —Chant populaire

  “FRANK OGDEN shouldn’t have let you come up here.” Latham’s kindly face was troubled. “I wouldn’t have had you worried for anything.”

  Sherry stared at him. “Luke! You mean you expected this?”

  “Not exactly. Not surprised, either.”

  “That’s it, then.” Her eyes widened in comprehension. “That’s why you came. That’s why Irene’s holding this séance. You’re trying to bring Father back!”

  “We aren’t doing it for fun,” Latham protested glumly. “This was the place for it—his country. He was a sort of king in these woods. That’s why we brought him here to be buried”—he gestured with both hands—“right in the middle of his timber.”

  “It’s the anniversary of his death, too.”

  “Reason we picked this time to come.”

  “But why are you doing this, Luke? Why is Irene doing it? She’s been married to Frank over twelve years now. I don’t think he cares much about her, but she’s all wrapped up in him. Besides, why in the name of all that’s reasonable is Frank so keen on it?”

  “You ought to have been told before,” Latham admitted. “You know the business arrangements between the Ogdens and my firm, don’t you?”

  “Vaguely.” Sherry moved back to the sofa. “Frank’s always looked after such things and I’ve never paid much attention. You buy most of the logs that come from our timber holdings. Your mill is really a special wood-processing plant. Frank owns a patent on the process, and you pay him a royalty. Isn’t that right?”

  “Close enough—or was until recently. Now we’re in a queer kind of a jam. Part of it’s complicated as a government questionnaire. It’s all mixed up with the location of our mill, water rights, power plants —that sort of thing.” Latham hunched back on the sofa. “What it amounts to is this. All our logs come from your forests. We’re the only people who can handle your pulpwood at a profit. The combination of your kind of timber and our mill setup is what makes Frank Ogden’s patent valuable.”

  “You mean each of us depends on the others. So that if one of us wouldn’t play ball, the rest would be in the soup.”

  “Except that you and your stepmother own a lot of hardwood on the other side of the state. The pulp business doesn’t mean as much to you as it does to Frank and me. We’d always figured on there being enough pulp-timber to last another twenty-five or thirty years. Two, three months ago we found we were almost finished logging Swamp River. That meant we’d have to go into Onawa. Your father left Onawa to your stepmother, so we weren’t expecting trouble. We got it, though—plenty. Irene told us Grimaud willed her that property for a special reason. Said he didn’t want it logged for twenty years. Made her promise not to let it be cut sooner.”

  “Sort of left you out on a limb, didn’t it? But wasn’t that a strange thing for Father to ask?”

  “No. Sound sense then. All second-growth. Needed time to develop. Ogden’s patent changed that. Small logs are worth as much per board foot as big ones. Your father’s reasoning doesn’t hold any more.”

  “I don’t blame Irene for not daring to break a promise she made Father,” said Sherry. “I wouldn’t have risked it myself, even if he is dead. What are you trying to do now—get in touch with Father in the other world and ask him to let you log the timber?”

  “It’s a funny way of doing business,” Latham confessed. “But we were in a funny fix. Had to find some way out. Frank thought of using Irene’s powers as a medium. We tried in town. No luck. Then I suggested coming up here. Your hearing your father’s voice makes me think I had a good idea.”

  “Maybe. Anyhow, it convinces me that Irene had a right to be scared to death.”

  In the past, Rogan had found the aberrations of his spiritualist friends mildly amusing. This was different. Calling back the dead to clear up a commonplace business arrangement was like trading in a second-hand magic carpet on the price of a new Ford. Nevertheless, if the spiritualistic premise were granted, the idea was as logical as a demonstration in geometry. The thought was unwelcome. In Mr. Kincaid’s experience, logic applied to fantasy meant danger for s
omeone.

  “I don’t know that what you’ve told me is any more comforting than the idea I came with,” Sherry said. “But at least it isn’t bottled up inside me.” She took a compact from her pocket and started to powder her nose. “Good heavens, my hair’s like the inside of a mattress. Why didn’t one of you tell me?”

  Rogan grinned. “I like ’em tousled.”

  “Quiet, you.” Sherry stuck out her tongue at him. “Can I borrow a comb, Luke?”

  Latham patted his bald head. “What would I do with a comb?”

  “I have one,” Rogan offered. “Shall I get it, or would you rather use it before a mirror?”

  “The mirror, please. I can only see one eye in this thing.”

  “Second door on the right. The comb’s on the bureau.”

  When she had disappeared at the head of the stairs, he turned to Latham.

  “That was quite a testimonial to the father.”

  The older man nodded somberly. “Grimaud Désanat was a queer fish. French. Son of a shoemaker. Emigrated to Canada when he was eighteen. Picked up an education from his parish priest. Drifted across the border. Like Sherry said, he was a natural woodsman. Couldn’t have learned that in France. It wasn’t only finding his way. I’ve seen him take a million feet out of country no other logger would touch. Sherry’s mother was Irish—Ellen O’Hara. When Grimaud married her, she looked just like Sherry does today.”

  Latham stared into the fire and his round eyes grew reminiscent.

  “Ellen was the sort of woman you only meet once in a lifetime, and Grimaud knew it. Built Cabrioun for her—place we’re having the séance tonight. Sherry was born there, first winter they were married. Ellen only had an Irish woman and a couple of habitant servants to look after her. It had started to snow. Grimaud left in plenty of time to fetch the doctor from Lynxhead. That’s six miles. People around here still talk of that storm. Took Grimaud and old Doc Nesbit four days to get back. When they did, Ellen was dead.”