Chapter III: "the Thunderbolt Has Fallen"

The next Sunday morning was bright and frosty. Mr. Mountjoy was early abroad; his footsteps rang out, sharp and metallic, as he passed briskly down the artificial stone walk of the Mountjoy residence; ignoring clanging trolley cars, he set his face toward the city, striding along with the firmness and ease of one whose vitality is in entire accord with the crystalline day.

As he walked, he meditated.

What would Mrs. Westbrook and Joyce do, now that they were impoverished? Would this news prove of any value to John? Would Mobley, as head of the family, continue on at the mansion which had for years been the Westbrook home? Mobley himself did not know. It was true that he could afford to maintain the establishment; it had seemed natural for him to step in upon his father's demise; but it would mean a complete readjustment of his mode of life, and he was too old to change readily, to adapt himself to new and unfamiliar conditions.

And what had become of General Westbrook's fortune, anyhow? The circumstance presented a condition so extraordinary, that experience strove in vain for a solution.

And so on until, quite unexpectedly, a familiar name caught his eye: Abram Follett.

Glancing from the faded, dust-encrusted sign, he took in the details of the dingy, square, two-storied building that seemed to be sleeping in the Sunday calm of Ash Lane. It was very quiet, and he advanced doubtfully to the closed double door and rapped loudly upon its begrimed panels.

He was not entirely devoid of curiosity as he awaited the issue; so when the door opened to reveal a negro of gigantic proportions, his countenance reflected something of the surprise which the encounter afforded.

"Mr. Follett?" he queried vaguely.

The huge darkey grinned.

"No, seh," was the reply. "De boss's in de yahd."

Joe regarded Mr. Mountjoy's Sunday attire with uncertainty. "If you'll step to de otheh doah," with tones respectfully lowered, "I'll fetch him; dis yere's de stoah-room."

As he was bidden, Mr. Mountjoy stepped to the other door, a single one at a corner of the structure, and after some minutes of waiting, footsteps within told that it concealed a stairway; then it was opened by the negro, who invited the visitor to ascend.

Mr. Mountjoy had no sooner entered the front apartment than he mentally ejaculated: "Why, of course! An ancient mariner like John would live just so, with some battered and weather-beaten shipmate, comrade of many an adventurous cruise; nothing more natural." He experienced a sudden admiration for the feeling which prompted the big, taciturn detective to keep his vocation from intruding upon his private life. The lawyer's glance was scrutinizing when it rested upon the twisted, limping figure which presently entered. He had deposited his hat and coat upon a locker-like box, noting as he did so that its surface was scrupulously clean, and he now stood expectant, with his back to one of the white-curtained front windows.

The visitor's inspection was only momentary.

"I am Mr. Mountjoy," said he, advancing and holding out his hand, "the District Attorney; no doubt you have heard of me."

A light of recognition and welcome, together with an underlying expression of more than usual interest, instantly broke over the shrewd, kindly countenance.

"Mr. Mountjoy!" repeated Mr. Follett, extending a gnarled and distorted hand, with which he grasped the other's. "Well, lawyer, I am real glad to meet you. Set right down there--that's Captain John's chair--an' make yourself comf'table."

The Morris chair was comfortable, as Mr. Mountjoy instantly discovered.

"A bright, clear, frosty morning," Mr. Follett went on with cheerful garrulity, as he slowly seated himself in his own chair. "Yes, John's spoke o' you often--often. We're old shipmates, him an' me," he concluded, with an explanatory wave about the room.

"So I understand," said Mountjoy, easily; "and bound by many enduring ties, I have no doubt."

Presently he assumed an attitude extremely business-like. Arising and going to the chest where lay his overcoat, he produced from one of the pockets a long, legal-looking envelope.

"Here I have some very important items of news, gleaned, since John's departure, from the columns of the local press. There is also a letter from myself setting forth a good deal of matter concerning a case which now occupies his exclusive attention and endeavors; having the requisite postage attached, all that is now necessary to forward this envelope upon its way, is--the address." He tossed it upon the table. "There, I leave it to your care."

"It shall go to John to-day," quietly remarked Mr. Follett. His face assumed a thoughtful expression as he slowly filled and lighted a pipe.

"Lawyer," he went on after a puff or two, "I'm glad you come just when you did. There's a matter I want to talk to you about; John would want that you know it."

"Very well," the guest acquiesced; and with much difficulty Mr. Follett arose and made his way to the mantel, where he extracted a letter from a mother-of-pearl box standing there.

"Look at that," handing the missive to the lawyer and resuming his seat. "Read that an' tell me what you make of it."

The envelope, very much soiled and crumpled, bore the simple superscription, in pencil, "La Señorita Dolores," and nothing else. One end had been torn open, and there appeared a portion of a sheet of note-paper upon which was written, also in pencil, four words, "El rayo ha cáido."

"Well," said Mr. Mountjoy, presently, "I make very little of it. Spanish, I suppose?"

"That means," was the impressive reply, "that means, 'The thunderbolt has fallen.'"

Mountjoy made no effort to hide his curiosity and wonder.

"Tell me about it," said he, settling himself more comfortably.

For a time Mr. Follett smoked in silence; then, ignoring his pipe further, he confronted his caller with the suddenness of one who sees his way clear before him, and began:

"There's a machinist, Hunter by name, who works nights at the compress. Him an' his wife an' a half-dozen or so o' children live in one o' them little cottages near by, just off Ash Lane. Well, last night Hunter an' a dago friend o' his 'n stopped one o' the night men on this beat, sayin' they had a matter that was a-puzzlin' them mightily, an' they wanted to have a talk about it--not that the dago could make himself understood to any great extent, but Hunter had him along to kind o' back 'im up. Hunter said what he had to say, an' the policeman, knowin' that John lived near by, brought the two o' them here. O' course he didn't know about John bein' away; but enough was said for me to ask a question or two, an' I finally got the hull story.

"Hunter has a boy nine years old, who sells papers mornin's an' evenin's, an' when he sells out he never has more 'n thirty or forty cents, or thereabouts, to show for it. Every night the boy brings this money home an' turns it over to his mother. A good lad, you see.

"Well, two or three days ago the mother found a silver dollar tucked away under a little vase that stands on a shelf in one o' their rooms. She knew that none o' the family had lost a dollar; she knew she hadn't put it there herself--they're not so plentiful in the Hunter home--so it worried her a hull lot. She took all the children to task, one by one, an' to make a long story short, she finally got it out o' the nine-year-old that he'd put the dollar under the vase. He was so back'ard in ownin' up an' in talkin' about it, that she just natcher'lly kep' at him until she drew out a bit at a time the boy's story o' the dollar."

The speaker paused and seemed to be much interested in the nodding head of his auditor. Mountjoy sat with the tips of his fingers pressed lightly together and his thin lips tightly closed.

"I follow you," he now said; "pray continue."

"Not very excitin' so far, but necessary," said Mr. Follett. "Now, hear the rest. This here's the way the boy's yarn went.

"One evenin', a week or so before the findin' o' the money, he saw a man step from the Palace Drug Store--"

Mountjoy's eyebrows suddenly shot upwards, and he sat up straighter in his chair.

"--which, as you know," the other went on at once, "is catty-cornered across from the Nettleton Buildin' on Court Street. He ran up to this man to sell him a paper an' the man stepped up in the shadow of a doorway an' asked the boy would he deliver a letter if he--the man--bought all the papers. The boy hung back; then the man pulled out a dollar, sayin' he'd give that too if the boy'd only hurry. The little lad then agreed to take the letter which the man handed him, together with the dollar, an' twenty cents for the four _Expresses_ he still had. The man then told the boy to listen sharp while he learned where the letter was to be delivered. After bein' satisfied that the boy understood, the man hurried away.

"It seems that the more the boy thought about it, the less he liked the job. The address told him was in a part o' town the boy didn't know much of, an' it begun to loom pretty prominent in his mind that he was scairt to go there after night. So it ended in him a-goin' home an' hidin' the letter an' money, gettin' rid o' the hull thing easy, like a boy can, you know.

"But when Hunter himself heard about it, he went into the matter further an' found out a bit more.

"What did the man look like? The boy couldn't tell, as he had not only been in the shadow, but his coat collar was turned up an' a soft hat was pulled down over his eyes; but he had been mighty polite an' soft spoken, an' the lad knew that his clothes were extra fine--a 'swell dresser,' as Hunter put it.

"Next, what night was it? This soundin' by an' by struck deep water an' a clear way ahead: the night o' the murder in the Nettleton Building.

"What time that night? The boy couldn't say exactly, but it was about half an hour before he got home. A little figgerin' fixed this time at somewheres 'round five o'clock. Do you see?"

Mountjoy, very grave now, merely nodded.

"Hunter thought right off he'd found a clue. He opened the letter, an' o' course couldn't make head nor tail of it. He puzzled over it days when he'd ought to been asleep, an' nights when he'd ought to been attendin' to his work; an' at last he calls in his dago friend for a conference. Funny, warn't it?

"The friend thought it looked like dago writin' all right, but he couldn't read this particular kind. Queer how them furriners can talk an' read some outlandish lingo an' not know good plain English, ain't it?

"Well, the dago thinks the thing to do is to take it to the policeman on this beat, though how he ever made Hunter understand is beyond me. They does it, as I have told you."

The interest with which Mr. Mountjoy followed this recital mounted rapidly to absorption. After the speaker had quite finished, he sat for a time still regarding him, evidently considering the possibilities of the incident.

"Well!" he exclaimed, finally. "This is a remarkable development. Undoubtedly it is of importance. It is a pity that John was not cognisant of it before leaving the city. He must have this brief note and the story of it as soon as possible. I should like to question that boy myself. Do you think you could get him and Hunter here this afternoon--say, at three o'clock? If so, I will be on hand with a stenographer, and the matter may go forward to-night."

"I will try," rejoined Mr. Follett. "Yes, I think I can. I will go after 'em right away."

Mr. Follett did succeed in securing the attendance of Hunter and the boy at No. 18 Ash Lane; and while the statement prepared by the lawyer, added to the newspaper clippings and sent that night to the captain of detectives, differed considerably in form from Mr. Follett's narrative, it contained but one particular which the latter himself had not related: the cryptic note had been destined for the hotel of one Ramon Velasquez.