Chapter III

It was not the casual interest of the feature story that now inspired Jimmy Hale, on his way the following morning with his friends to the camp of Isaac Higginbotham. Jimmy's vivid imagination was keyed to its highest pitch. Decidedly this trip to Canada seemed very much worth while, even to a star reporter. What McCall had intimated the day before whetted his appetite. He thrilled at the thought that he was on the scene where a big story might be in the very making. He exulted further at the thought that Professor Herman Brierly was to be with him.

It lacked a few minutes before nine o'clock on the morning of July fourth, when the launch operated by Matthews docked at the small wharf of the Higginbotham camp. Nestled on a small bay of land on the eastern shore of the lake, with the thick foliage forming a dark, somber background, the rambling building comprising the camp formed an ideal place and setting for this type of retreat.

Behind and to one side there loomed a huge rocky outcropping that some volcanic disturbance in the past had cast up. At the edge of this rocky eminence there seemed literally to hang a huge boulder. It appeared from below that only a touch of the hand or a strong wind would send this boulder crashing destructively down on the porch.

The wide porch facing the lake was occupied when the launch tied up at the wharf. It became at once apparent to the visitors that all, or most of the survivors of the strange group were on the wide verandah.

The quiet conversational murmur among the men ceased as the visitors mounted the shallow steps. One rose to greet them. Jimmy could not mistake the venerable head with its white hair surmounting the still erect figure of the famous jurist. Jimmy had seen photographic reproductions of Justice Isaac Higginbotham too often to be in doubt.

The host smiled at McCall. His air was gracious and winning as he held his hand out to Professor Brierly. Before McCall had time to affect the introductions, Justice Higginbotham said:

"Introductions are hardly necessary. I am honored to have Professor Brierly beneath my roof, and this, I am sure," turning toward Matthews, "is Professor Brierly's associate, Mr. Matthews?"

Jack bowed, acknowledging the distinguished jurist's smile. Justice Higginbotham turned toward Jimmy inquiringly, while the murmur of introductions among the other men was going on.

A rich, deep voice interrupted:

"Mr. Hale, isn't it? Of the New York Eagle?"

It was Thomas Marshall, former ambassador to the Court of St. James, who knew and remembered Jimmy. Another voice, with more than a tinge of the brogue of the Emerald Isle, called out, joining the smaller group:

"Jimmy Hale, or I'm a Swede." Jimmy was glad to see the rosy smiling features and portly figure of former Police Commissioner of New York, McGuire. "What can there be in the meeting of a number of prosy old men, Jimmy, that brings a star reporter all the way up here? Or--oh, I see--you're a friend of Professor Brierly, of course, and Brierly's camp is right up the lake here. McCall's shack, isn't it?"

Jimmy nodded. "Yes, I'm spending part of my vacation at Professor Brierly's camp, but frankly, I'm here at the request of my city editor to cover the reunion of your group."

Jimmy intercepted the swift interchange of glances between the three men, with whom he now formed an isolated group, apart from the others.

Justice Higginbotham said: "You say, Mr. Hale, that you are up here to cover this reunion?"

"Yes."

"And that you are a member of the staff of your paper and not a local correspondent?"

"That's right."

Once more Jimmy noticed the interchange of a significant glance between the men. Clearly they were not at ease. There was an air of tension, of expectancy. Jimmy's swift glance that took in the other members of the group noted the same tenseness among the rest. As he had come upon the porch, he had mentally counted the men there. He had been told there were fourteen survivors. There were only eleven men on the porch. August Schurman, whom he knew by sight, was not there. Morris Miller, the eccentric retired art dealer, whom he also knew, was also absent.

Jimmy shook himself, mentally. This was absurd. He was permitting the things that McCall had told him to get on his nerves. He brought his mind back to the three men with whom he was standing at the edge of the porch. Justice Higginbotham was saying:

"But come, Mr. Hale, this is not very gracious of me. Let me introduce you to those whom you do not know. Since you are acquainted with Marshall and McGuire you may know some of the others. And Mr. Hale, I recall you young men were being facetious at the entrance of this country in the World War over the names of men recruited into the average company or regiment; you regarded them as distinctly un-American names. That was rather amusing to us old veterans, amusing for reasons that perhaps most young persons would not understand. Just what is an American name?

"Now I am going to run over the names of the men who are on the porch beside us three. Stand by, Mr. Hale!"

With a faint twinkle, he rattled off the following:

"Vasiliewski, Rochambeau, LaRoque, Goldberg, Tonti, Ross, Thomas, Fletcher. And"--There was a pause, a break. The twinkle in the fine eyes was gone. The features of the three turned grave. He concluded his sentence haltingly:

"--Three are not here. They are--Schurman, Miller and Wrigley. But come along, I will introduce you."

Jimmy was puzzled over the fact that, in varying form, the other members of the group expressed astonishment at a member of the staff of a New York paper being there. The venerable insurgent, former speaker of the House, present United States Senator Frank Ross, after a swift glance at Justice Higginbotham, blurted out:

"From the staff of the Eagle you say, Mr. Hale. How could you know in time--"

He cast a startled look in the direction of Justice Higginbotham. Senator Ross subsided, uneasily.

Mr. Marshall ended the painful scene. He addressed the entire group:

"Gentlemen, we all know, of course, that the modern newspaper man is not a peeping Tom, an impertinent individual, who pries into the affairs of others. Mr. Hale honorably represents an honorable profession. I have known him personally for a number of years and I'll vouch for him. He was sent here by his city editor to cover our reunion. That he comes here at such an unfortunate time is a coincidence. We may speak to him frankly. We are perhaps exaggerating and magnifying what is at worst only a normal thing in the lives of old men. We have all lived our lives and death is--" He paused and at several nods from members of the group he turned to Jimmy.

"You come at an unfortunate time, Mr. Hale. Fourteen men were to have gathered here for our reunion. At all our reunions all our members are either present or in some way accounted for. When, for some reason any one of us is unable to come, there is an adequate explanation." He paused, his words were now coming more slowly. Jimmy was now acutely conscious of an air of painful expectancy.

"There are only eleven of us here this morning, Mr. Hale. Two of the eleven arrived this morning, early this morning. Until an hour ago we had not heard from the three missing men. At eight o'clock, about an hour ago, we received a telephone message to the effect that August Schurman, of New York, was found dead in his room. He committed suicide."

The pause that now ensued was painful. The scene before Jimmy was unreal. Eleven old men, not one of them less than eighty-two years of age, men who had seen, lived and suffered much, were looking at him, each in his own way showing his reaction to the scene. Justice Higginbotham turned an apologetic, whimsical smile to Professor Brierly:

"You and I, Professor, and I am sure, the rest of us, can and do look at death calmly. I am sorry to inflict this sort of thing on you, but there are circumstances about this that make it rather painful. The fact that we have not heard from the other two men, Miller and Wrigley, takes on rather ghastly importance."

Once more there was a painful pause. Jimmy's mind was phrasing words to describe the scene. The eleven old men, waiting to hear from the other three. The dead stillness of the group, hardly breathing; the mask-like features of Lorenzo Tonti, the suffused features and protuberant eyes of Fletcher, the high cheek bones of Stanislav Vasiliewski, the somber look of former Police Commissioner McGuire, upon whose normally smiling countenance gloom sat so ill.

Jimmy's mind also found words and phrases to describe the sparkling waters of Lake Memphremagog, the wooded western shore in the distance. The few boats floating on the surface of the water looked unreal. The faint soft beat of a distant motor equally false. Jimmy hardly breathed; he had a vague unformed desire to hold this scene, to prolong it. There was a silence that was almost painful. Eleven men waiting, waiting for--what?

The shrill ringing of the telephone in a distant part of the house came with the effect of a sudden blow. Schooled as were most of these men to suppress their emotions, some of them started at the first burst of metallic sound. Jimmy caught the looks that some of them cast at one another. In those looks there was hesitance, and quickly suppressed fear.

A grizzled, white-headed negro came to the door. He addressed Justice Higginbotham.

"For you, suh. Lentone callin'."

As Judge Higginbotham followed the darky through the door one of the men sprang to his feet; Jimmy later identified him as Jules Goldberg, a retired clothing manufacturer. Goldberg snapped:

"What in the world are we afraid of? Are we children? We went through Antietam, Bull Run, Gettysburg. Those of us who were rebels suffered in the hell of Douglas prison. I and other Union soldiers went through the terrible agonies of Libby Prison, where men died like rats on Bell Island. And now we act like frightened women at the sound of a telephone bell that may tell us of the death of one of our comrades. Of course we will die! We will all die; we have lived longer--"

His tirade was cut short. Judge Higginbotham was coming through the door. The speaker wheeled about to face him. Some of the others leaned forward tensely. Justice Higginbotham unconsciously came to a dramatic halt in the doorway. His features were etched into grave lines. It did not bear the kind, mild look that was its wont. He glanced over the faces of his comrades and their visitors. Jimmy was to carry this scene with him for a long time.

The man in the doorway nodded simply. He took a few steps onto the porch. He said:

"Morris Miller was found dead in his bed a short time ago. The report says suicide."

As if impelled by one muscular impulse, every man on the porch stood up, the one exception being Professor Brierly. They formed a strange group, men of all sizes, all of about the same age, all of them either bald or silvery white. One of them, Hiram Fletcher, towered above the rest, even towered above John Matthews' six feet of lanky muscular height.

Slowly, wordlessly they subsided to their seats. But James McGuire, former Police Commissioner of New York, sprang to his feet. He growled:

"Goldberg is right; we are acting like children. In the name of God let us face this thing the way men ought to face it and lay dead the bugaboo, if it is a bugaboo, or face squarely the facts, if there's really something in it to fear. Let us once and for all do away with this damnable thing. If it's a shadow let's exorcise it. If it's something else, let's find out what it is. None of us believe in ghosts. Well--"

He turned swiftly to Professor Brierly.

"Professor, it's a great break for us that you're here. Won't you help us, won't you--"

Judge Higginbotham chimed in.

"Yes, Professor, your presence here is fortunate, almost providential. You can help us. Your interest in such things and your success in the solution of many apparently insoluble affairs is known to all of us. While we are between us able to cope with most of the things that arise, you, an outsider, without having your emotions involved may see more clearly than we, aside from your undoubted talents in this direction."

"Tell him the story, Isaac, tell him the story," broke in William Flynn, who, up to this time, had not spoken. "Let us have the benefit of Professor Brierly's opinion anyway."

"I have taken the liberty," said McCall, "of indicating to Professor Brierly the history of your group. He knows at least the outlines of the story that gave birth to your organization. I've also told him about the abortive jail break and your communications from '14.'"

"Just what do you gentlemen fear?" asked Professor Brierly. "What Mr. McCall told me is after all fairly vague, certainly nothing to cause practical men to react as--as you seem to. You receive notice that one of your friends has died; he committed suicide. An hour later you receive word that another also committed suicide. Certainly death in men of your age is not uncommon. Suicide, of late, according to the records, is also common, fairly common. You seem to fear some personal malign influence at work. The fact that up to yesterday there were fourteen out of an original two hundred and thirty-seven seems to disprove such a theory. I have not available actuarial figures, but it seems to me that fourteen out of two hundred and thirty-seven, about six per cent, is a fairly high record of longevity. Are you certain that you have not permitted yourselves to brood on this '14' until it has become an obsession?"

Senator Ross spoke up.

"Would all of us brood on this, Professor? Are we the kind of men to permit--"

"Each of you individually might not, Senator," stated Professor Brierly. "All of you together, talking of it, thinking of it, might, much more easily than each of you singly. There is a mass hysteria that is just as potent in a small group as in a large gathering." He spoke more gently. "I am sorry. This is not the question. You are all disturbed. Let us first learn if the thing that disturbs you has substance or is a mere shadow. That is the thing you all desire, is it not?"

Several nods and a murmur of assent indicated their agreement with this.

"Very well, then, about this number '14.' Is that real or is it mythical?"

Justice Higginbotham answered slowly.

"At one time, Professor, it was real enough, but," turning to Marshall, "When did we last hear of--"

Marshall answered promptly:

"We have not heard of Amos Brown--alive, since 1902."

"But," spoke up Stanislav Vasiliewski, quietly, "have we proof of his death?"

"That's it," growled McGuire, "We have not. We have not heard of him alive, nor do we know that he is dead. We know in police circles that men can disappear for a great many years. We have received those damnable notes with the number '14.' That's no proof that he's alive, but--"

Professor Brierly, always impatient at speculation, interrupted.

"Let us start this inquiry at the nearest point. Let us begin with the known, if possible, and work forward or backward to the unknown. About which phase of this entire matter are you gentlemen principally disturbed?"

The eleven old men exchanged glances. Senator Ross spoke.

"Between our reunion last year, which broke up about July tenth, until fifteen minutes ago, nine of our group died, seven of them are _said_ to have committed suicide. We have not yet heard from '14' about the two deaths of which we heard this morning, but judging from past experiences we will, sooner or later.

"Call this number '14' mythical if you will, Professor, until we have evidence to the contrary. Nevertheless, seven suicides out of such a small group is disturbing--to say the least."

"Unusual, at any rate," commented Professor Brierly. "Just what, if anything, do you suspect?"

"Well, Professor," said Justice Higginbotham, "I, for one, should like to have indubitable proof that these men really committed suicide."

Professor Brierly's deeply sunken, penetrating blue eyes swept around the circle of faces. He nodded:

"Oh, I see. That should be easily determined, certainly with respect to the last two."

"But," objected Lorenzo Tonti, leaning forward, his swarthy features etched in lines of earnest thought, "we have it on competent medical authority that these men committed suicide. What right have we to question that?"

"We have it on medical authority," tartly interposed Professor Brierly, "but I am not certain it is competent medical authority. I have seen too many careless autopsies made and read too many loosely written reports to have abiding faith in such things."

McCall nodded emphatically.

"Professor Brierly is right there, of course. I have seen, in my official capacity, the things he mentions."

"So have I," chimed in Higginbotham, Fletcher and McGuire.

"Very well, then," said Professor Brierly. "We will not indulge in guesses, conjectures or surmises. Such things are likely to induce an unhappy state of mind. Schurman, you say lives in New York. We shall go to New York if we have to. Is there not something nearer, something--"

"Morris," interrupted several members of the group, "lives in Lentone." Judge Fletcher corrected, "right outside of Lentone."

"Then," stated Professor Brierly, "that is the place to begin, as soon as we know what we are looking for. One of you gentlemen, I am certain, can obtain the necessary permission to have me verify the official verdict of suicide. When we have done that, we shall have cleared away much doubt and uncertainty." His speech was now crisp, clear, incisive. "Is there any reason why we cannot do this at once?"

"No," said Justice Higginbotham slowly, "there is not. But we are waiting to hear from the only one of our members unaccounted for,--Wrigley." Jimmy noticed that while their mood had lightened during the past few minutes in the interchange with Professor Brierly, the mention of the name of the missing member brought back the atmosphere of gloom and doubt.

"Tell me all you care to tell me, Judge, of the inception of your group. Sometimes talking about a thing to an outsider helps. You gentlemen have brooded on this too long. Let us see if we can help clear it up."

Justice Higginbotham told in elaborate detail what McCall had sketched briefly. His deep voice, the remarkable voice that had handed down so many important decisions from the highest tribunal in the land, rolled on, with the gentle lapping of the waters of the lake against the small wharf, a faint obligate Jimmy was to remember this scene for a long time; it was etched on his memory very clearly.

He sensed that the old jurist was talking against time. While he seemed absorbed in his tale as were the others, this absorption was only superficial. With their inner senses they all seemed to be waiting, waiting for the dread news of their missing comrade.

These old men, everyone of whom showed his uneasiness in his own way, had each lived more than three-quarters of a century. Some of them showed their age very distinctly, mentally and physically. Jimmy could see their attention wander from the absorbing tale as Justice Higginbotham unfolded it, one of the most glamorous that Jimmy had ever heard.

Suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, Justice Higginbotham stopped talking. From the room facing on the porch there had come the faint whirring that was a prelude to the striking of the old-fashioned clock. Then came the deep tones of the hour.

Jimmy remembered now that when the clock had struck an hour before there had come the telephone message appraising the group of the death of Morris Miller.

The last stroke was still reverberating when the staccato jangling of the telephone bell drew a number of the old men to their feet. As if by a common impulse, as if they expected to get the answer to their spoken question through their eyes, every person on the deep porch, turned in the direction of the telephone. They looked as if they expected to see the dread message or messenger through the walls between them and the instrument.

The white-headed, grizzled negro came to the door. He spoke to Justice Higginbotham:

"Fo' you, suh. Je'sey City callin'."

As Justice Higginbotham arose to answer the call, Antoine Rochambeau spoke, his voice breaking to a faint croak:

"Jersey City is the home of Wrigley." The speaker was looking at Professor Brierly with burning eyes, a hectic flush flaming in his drawn cheeks. Professor Brierly looked at him sharply. He swiftly stepped to his side, laying his hand soothingly on his shoulder. The flush subsided, the man's tense body relaxed. He shook his head mumbling.

Fourteen pairs of eyes were looking toward the doorway as Justice Higginbotham once more returned, and came to an unconscious dramatic pause. He nodded, as if in confirmation of a statement.

"Wrigley was drowned yesterday noon at Bradley Beach, a seaside resort on the New Jersey coast about one mile south of Asbury Park."

While he was talking, Jimmy heard the squealing of brakes on the other side of the house. A motor car had come to a stop in front of the camp.

The eyes of the entire group turned in that direction. At Justice Higginbotham's announcement several of the men had stood up. They now dropped back into their seats. There was a long pause. To Jimmy it seemed that they all held their breath. The negro came to the door, in his hand a sheaf of telegrams. His eyes swept over the entire group.

He held them out to Justice Higginbotham who had stepped aside from the doorway to make way for him.

"Telegrams for you all. They didn't phone, suh, 'cause you done tole 'em not to phone no telegrams. De man am waitin' foh an ansuh."

Justice Higginbotham selected one of the telegrams and ripped open the flap. There was no change in his fine mobile features, but his eyes were fixed on the message for a long time. He was brought to himself by the negro.

"Am they any reply, Jedge?"

Justice Higginbotham, without raising his eyes from his message said, gently:

"No, Charley, no reply." Turing to the rest of the group he said, still gently: "My message is just the word 'fourteen,' that's all, just 'fourteen.' The other messages are probably--but you'd better look yourselves." He walked about the group and gave each of his ten associates one of the envelopes. He then held out his message to Professor Brierly. Jimmy saw the message. It bore the word, 'fourteen'; it had no signature.

Jimmy gripped the arms of his chair as he looked about the other men on the porch. There was a rustling and tearing of paper as flaps were ripped open. Some of them did it quickly, some of them held their envelopes for a short time before opening them.

When the rustling ceased, Thomas Marshall stood up. He said grimly to Professor Brierly:

"Here is your case, Professor, all complete. You've got it now with all the trimmings."