The Come Back Page 14

  CHAPTER XIV

  A Prophecy Fulfilled

  Among the passengers disembarking from a steamer at a Brooklyn pier wasa tall, gaunt man, who walked with a slight limp.

  He was alone, and though he nodded pleasantly to one or two of hisfellow passengers, he walked by himself, and all details of landingbeing over, he took a taxicab to a hotel restaurant, glad to eat aluncheon more to his taste than the ship's fare had been.

  He bought several New York papers, and soon became so absorbed in theircontents that his carefully selected food might have been dust and ashesfor all he knew.

  Staring at an advertisement, he called a waiter.

  "Send out and get me that book," he said, "as quick as you can."

  "Yes, sir," returned the man, "it's right here, sir, on the news-stand.Get it in a minute, sir."

  And in about a minute Peter Boots sat, almost unable to believe his owneyes, as he scanned the chapter headings of his father's book, detailingthe death and the subsequent experiences of him who sat and stared atthe pages.

  He looked at the frontispiece, a portrait of himself, but bearing littleresemblance to his present appearance. For, where the pictured faceshowed a firm, well-molded chin, the living man wore a brown beard,trimmed Vandyke fashion, and where the expression on the portrait showeda merry, carefree smile, the real face was graven with deep lines thattold of severe experiences of some sort.

  But the real face grinned a little at the picture, and broke into awider smile at some sentences read at random as the pages were hastilyturned, and then as further developments appeared, the blue eyes showeda look of puzzled wonder, quickly followed by horror and despair.

  Peter closed the book and laid it aside, and finished his luncheon in adaze.

  One thing stood forth in his mind. He must take time to think--thinkdeeply, carefully, before he did anything. He must get away by himselfand meet this strange, new emergency that had come to him.

  What to do, how to conduct himself, these were questions of gravestimport, and not to be lightly settled.

  He thought quickly, and concluded that for a secure hiding-place a mancould do no better than choose a big city hotel.

  Finishing his meal he went to the desk and asked for a room, registeringas John Harrison, which was the name by which he had been known on theship that had brought him to port.

  Once behind the locked door of his room he threw himself into anarmchair and devoured the book he had bought.

  Rapidly he flew through it; then went over it again, more slowly, untilPeter Boots was familiar with every chapter of the book that his fatherhad written in his memory.

  Memory! And he wasn't dead!

  The book, he saw, had gone through a large number of editions,wherefore, many people had read the tale of his tragic fate in theLabrador wild, and of his recrudescence and communications with hisparents, and now, here he was reading it himself.

  It is not easy to realize how strange it must seem to read not onlyone's own death notices but the accounts of one's return to earth inspirit form, and to be informed of the astonishing things one said anddid through the kind offices of a professional medium!

  A medium! Madame Parlato! And she "got in touch" with him! She succeededin getting messages from him--and materializations!

  Peter's chicory blue eyes nearly popped out of his head when he read ofthe "materialization" of his tobacco pouch.

  "Jolly glad I know where it is," he thought; "I've missed the thing, buthow did it waft itself to a professional medium! Bah! the stuff makesme sick!

  "But Dad wrote it! Dad--my father! And mother's in the game! Got to readthe book all over again."

  And again he delved into the volume, seeming unable to take in theappalling fact of what had been done.

  "They believe it!" he said at last, reaching the final page for thethird time; "they believe it from the bottom of their blessed souls!

  "Who is that medium person? Where'd she get the dope to fool the oldfolks? Let me at her! I'll give her what for! Messages to mother fromher departed son! 'Do not grieve for me,' 'I am happy over here,' Oh,for the love o' Mike! what _am_ I going to do first?"

  Followed a long time of thought. At first, chaotic, wondering,uncertain, then focussing and crystallizing into two definite ideas.

  One, the astonishing but undeniable fact of his father's belief andsincerity, the other, what would happen if that belief and sinceritywere suddenly stultified.

  "Good Lord!" he summed up, "when I appear on the scene that medium willget the jolt of her sweet young life-- I assume she's young still, andDad----

  "H'm, where will he get off?"

  That gave him pause. For Benjamin Crane to have written such a book asthis, for it to have achieved such a phenomenal success and popularity,for it to have been the means, as it doubtless was, of convertingthousands to a belief in Spiritism, then, for the whole thing to beoverturned by the reappearance in the flesh of the man supposed dead,would mean a cataclysm unparalleled in literary history.

  And his father? The dear old man, happy in his communications from hisdead son, how would he be pleased to learn that they were not from hisdead son at all, but the faked drivel of a fraudulent medium?

  It was a moil, indeed.

  Peter Crane had come home incognito, because he doubted the wisdom of asudden shock to his parents. Unable to send or get news, and making hisvoyage home at the first possible opportunity, he had intended to learnhow matters stood before making his appearance.

  He had intended telephoning Blair and Shelby, and if they said all waswell at home he would go there at once. But if there had been illness ordeath he would use care and tact in making his presence known.

  For Peter Boots had had no word of, or from his people for half ayear--all the long Labrador winter he had lived in ignorance of theirwelfare and had suffered to the limit, both mentally and physically.

  And he had thought they would probably assume his death--as, by reasonof this astonishing book he now knew they had done--and, what was he todo about it?

  Impulse would have sent him flying home--home to his mother, Dad andJulie, and--and dear little Carly.

  But--when he thought of the possibility of his reappearance being themeans of making his father's name a by-word of ridicule, of heaping onthe old man's fame obloquy and derision, of shocking his mother, perhapsfatally, or at least into a nervous prostration, he was unable to shapea course.

  Could he tell Carly first? He glanced at a telephone book at his elbow.

  No, that would never do. To hear his voice on the telephone would throwher into a convulsion. He didn't believe she stood for that spiritfoolishness, but if, by any chance, she had been won over, his voicewould surely give her some sort of a shock.

  The boys, then. Yes, that was the only thing. He must see them, but hemust telephone first and learn their whereabouts.

  He could, he concluded, call in a disguised voice, and get a line onthings anyhow.

  So, still in a haze of doubt and uncertainty, he looked up the numberand called Shelby.

  As he rather expected, Shelby was not at his home, but the person whoanswered could give no directions save to say that Mr. Shelby wouldprobably be home by six o'clock, and would he leave a message?

  "No," returned Peter shortly, and hung up.

  Getting next the number of the Leonardo Studios, he asked for GilbertBlair.

  "W-what--who?" came a stammering response.

  "Mr. Blair--Mr. Gilbert Blair," repeated Peter.

  "Why--why, he's dead--Mr. Blair's dead."

  "No! When did he die?"

  "Coupla months ago. Murdered."

  "What!"

  "Yep, murdered."

  Peter hung up the receiver from sheer inability to do anything else.

  Of course it couldn't be true. Blair couldn't have been murdered, and hemust have misunderstood that last word. But his arm seemed paralyzedwhen he tried again to take hold of the telephone.

  He sank back in his c
hair and tried to think.

  His subconscious mind told him that he had not misunderstood--thatGilbert was murdered. He knew he had heard the word correctly, andpeople do not make such statements unless they are true.

  His thoughts gradually untangled themselves and he began to grapple withthe most important problems.

  It was clear that he must learn what had happened in his absence. Hewanted to get hold of Shelby and ask about Blair. He wanted to go rightover to Blair's place--but if--if _it_ had occurred two months ago therewas small use going there now.

  Also, he must preserve his incognito for the present, at least. Hisreturn would be blazoned in the papers as soon as it was known, and theeffect on his father's reputation would be most disastrous.

  He must learn more facts--the facts he had already discovered were soamazing, what else might not be in store for him?

  Concentrating on the subject of Blair's death he concluded his bestcourse would be to get a file of newspapers covering the past two monthsand read about it.

  In a big newspaper office he accomplished this, and spent the rest ofthe afternoon reading up the case.

  Of late the subject was not a principal one in the papers.

  McClellan Thorpe was in prison, awaiting his trial, and the police,while still on the job, were not over aggressive.

  Pennington Wise was not mentioned, so Peter had no means of knowing thatthat astute person was connected with the matter.

  But the news of Thorpe's arrest struck Peter a new blow. While not aschummy with Thorpe as with Shelby and Blair, Peter had always liked himand found it difficult to believe him guilty of Blair's death.

  Back to his hotel went the man registered as John Harrison, and, goingto the restaurant for dinner, he ate and enjoyed a hearty meal.

  After all, strange and weird as was the news he had heard, his parentswere alive and well--and, strangest of all, they were not grieving athis death.

  He was relieved at this, and yet, he was, in an inexplicable way,disappointed. It _is_ a blow in the face to learn that your loved onesare quite reconciled to your death because, forsooth, they get foolmessages from you through the services of a fool medium!

  Peter's ire rose, and he was all for going to his father's house atonce, and then, back came the thought, how could he put that dear oldman to the blush for having written that preposterous book?

  From the papers, too, Peter had learned of the furor the book had made,of the great notoriety and popularity that had come to Benjamin Cranefrom its publication, of the enormous sales it had had, and was stillhaving, and of the satisfaction and happiness the whole thing hadbrought to both Mr. and Mrs. Crane.

  So, stifling his longing to go home and to see his people, Peter decidedto sleep over it before taking any definite steps.

  He had small fear of recognition. Nobody in New York believed him alive,or had any thought of looking for him. His present appearance was sodifferent from the portrait in the book that, after he had changed hislooks still further by a different brushing of his hair, he felt therewas no trace of likeness left save perhaps his blue eyes. And only onewho knew him well would notice his eyes, and he had no expectation ofrunning up against one who knew him well.

  So, after dinner, he sat for a time in the hotel lobby, not wishing tomingle with his fellow men, yet not wishing to seem peculiar by reasonof his evading notice.

  Worn with the succession of shocks that had come to him, and weary ofmeeting the big problems and situations, he thought of diversion.

  "Any good plays on?" he asked the news-stand girl, and his winning smilebrought a chatty response.

  "Plays--yes. Nothing corking, though. But say, have you seen the bigmovie?"

  "No; what is it?"

  "'Labrador Luck,' oh, say, it's a peach! Go to it!"

  "Where?" and Peter stopped himself just in time from exclaiming,"Labrador anything would interest me!"

  "Over in N'York. Hop into the sub and you're there."

  Peter hopped into the sub and shortly he was there.

  "Labrador Luck," he read from the big posters. "Monster production ofthe Tophole Producing Company. Thrilling scenes, thrilling plot,thrilling drama."

  There was more detail as to the names of the Film Queen who was starred,and the Film King who supported her, but without stopping to read themPeter bought a ticket and went in.

  The picture was under way, and as he sank into his seat he saw on thescreen the familiar scenes of the Labrador wild.

  Not quite true to nature were they, this Peter recognized at once, buthe knew they were taken in a studio, not in Labrador itself, and he hadonly admiration for the cleverness with which they were done.

  With a little sigh of pleasure he gave himself up to a positiveenjoyment of the landscape, and, as the story went on, he was consciousof a vaguely familiar strain running through it.

  Suddenly a scene was flashed on, and an episode occurred which was oneof his own invention.

  "Why," he smiled, "that's my very idea! Now how'd they get that? Oh, Iknow, of course, such things often occur to various minds withoutcollusion, but it's sort of queer. If he follows up that lead, it willbe awful queer!"

  The lead was followed up, and, a bit bewildered, Peter sat gazing whilethe whole story was unrolled.

  Greatly changed it was, greatly elaborated; the main plot side-trackedby a counter-plot; the number of characters multiplied by a score; yet,the mystery interest, the suspense element, the very backbone of thepiece was the plot he and Blair had worked out while up in the Labradorwild.

  "Labrador Luck!" he mused. "Fine name for it, too. The 'Luck' being thatold heirloom--just as I planned it. Wonder how it all came about?"

  Then he realized how long he'd been away from Blair. How Blair,doubtless, supposed him dead, and, most naturally, the boy had gone onwith the story, and here was the splendid result.

  He sat through the thing enthralled, and when the finale came, soexactly as he had planned that smashing great scene, he could haveyelled his applause. But he didn't, he simply sat still in gladanticipation of seeing it all over again.

  But he was disappointed. It was not a continuous performance--the longplay was a whole evening's entertainment, and opening and closing hourswere like those of a regular theater.

  So Peter determined to come the next night to see it again, and to seethe first part that he had missed.

  "Great old play," he thought, delightedly. "Wonder if Blair put it onbefore he died, or if it's posthumous."

  He picked up a stray program as he left the place--he had had nonebefore--and put it in his pocket to look over at home.

  "At least, I'm not suffering from lack of interests or diversion," hesaid, "but, by Jingo, I've just thought of it! What about money!

  "I've enough to hang out at that hotel about a week and that's all. I'llhave to tell Dad I'm here, or get a job or rob a bank. And what can I doto turn an honest penny? And I can't go to work under an assumed name!Oh, hang it all, I've got to come to life! Much as I love Dad and muchas I want to save him from all ridicule and disaster about thatabominable book, I've simply got to live my own life!

  "But I won't decide till my cash gets lower than it is now. I'll go abit further in my investigations and then we'll see about it."

  Comfortably seated in his room he drew out the program to look over.

  To his unbounded amazement he learned from the title page that theauthor of the play and also the producer, or, at least, the president ofthe producing company was--Christopher Shelby!

  "Kit! Good old top!" he cried aloud.

  "Oh, I must see him," he thought, "I just must see him! So Kit wrote thething--well, I suppose he and Blair did it together-- I recognize Kit'shand more especially in the producing element--and then, old Gilbert,bless him, was killed, and Kit went ahead alone-- I can't think MacThorpe did for Gil--oh, I must see _somebody_ or I'll go crazy!"

  And because he was afraid to trust himself to keep away from thetelephone any longer, Peter Boots went
to bed.

  The night brought counsel.

  Clarifying his thoughts, Peter tried first to see where his duty lay.

  To his parents, first of all, he decided, for he was a devoted son, andall his life he had loved and revered both father and mother more thanmost boys do. Julie, too, but, so far he had no reason to think she hadany special claim on him.

  Well, then, what did his duty to his parents dictate?

  Common sense said that they would far rather have their son with themalive than to rest secure in the success of the book his father hadwritten.

  But the book itself was, to his mind, quite outside the pale of commonsense, and could not be judged by any such standards.

  Certain pages, special paragraphs in that book, stood out in his mind,and he knew that never had there been such a fiasco as would ensue ifthe long lost and deeply mourned hero of it should return! His return inthe spirit was so gloatingly related, so triumphantly averred, that hisreturn in the flesh would be a terrific anti-climax.

  He remembered the gypsy's prophecy--how it had come true!

  But the return, foretold by the second gypsy, was now verified in theflesh and put to naught all the fake returns narrated in the book.

  Much stress was laid, in his father's story, on the spiritual returnbeing what the gypsy meant. Now, Peter had proved that that prophecymeant, if it meant anything at all, his return in the flesh.

  Anyway, here he was, very much alive, and very uncertain what to do withhis live self.

  Should he go away, out West, or to some distant place and start lifeanew, under an assumed name, and leave his father to his delusion? Wasthat his duty?

  He was not necessary to his parents, either as a help to their supportor as a comfort to their hearts.

  He did not do them the injustice to think that they had never mournedfor him, or that they had not missed him in the home. All this was fullyand beautifully set forth in the book.

  But they had been compensated by the comfort and enjoyment afforded themby their _seances_, and by the messages they continually received fromhim!

  And he could see no way, try as he would, that he could inform them ofhis return without causing them dismay and distress.

  For if they knew him to be alive he must take again his old place in thehome--and then what would his father be?

  A laughing-stock, a crushed and crestfallen victim of the mostdespicable sort of fraud!

  It would never do. He couldn't bring positive trouble into his father'slife on the off chance of removing a sorrow, which, though real, wassoftened and solaced by the very fraud that he would expose.

  No; the more he thought the more he saw his duty was to eliminatehimself for all time from his home and friends.

  And Carly?

  He tried not to think about her, for his duty must be his paramountconsideration. He would wait a day or so, and then disappear again, andforever.