Ralestone Luck
A >> Andre Norton >> Ralestone LuckRicky was at the stove gingerly shifting a coffee-pot as her brother
stepped into the kitchen. "Well," she snapped as he entered, "it's about
time you were showing up. I've simply cracked my voice trying to call
you, and Rupert's been talking about having the bayou dragged or
something of the kind. Where have you been, anyway?"
"Getting acquainted with our neighbors. Ricky," he called her attention
to the smiling face just outside the door, "this is Sam. He runs the
home farm for us. And his wife is a descendant of the Ralestone house
folks."
"Yassuh, dat's right. We's Ralestone folks, Miss 'Chanda. Mah Lucy done
sen' me ovah to fin' out what yo'all is a-needin' done 'bout de place.
She was in yisteday afo' yo'all come an' seed to de dustin' an' sich--"
"So that's why everything was so clean! That was nice of her--"
"Yo'all is Ralestones, Miss 'Chanda. An' Lucy say dat de Ralestones am
a-goin' to fin' dis place jest ready for dem when dey come." He beamed
upon them proudly. "Lucy, she am a-goin' be heah jest as soon as she
gits de chillens set for de day. I'se come fust so's Ah kin see wat
Mistuh Ralestone done wan' done wi dem rivah fiel's--"
"Where is Rupert?" Val broke in.
"Went out to see about the car. The storm last night wrecked the door of
the carriage house--"
"Zat so?" Sam's eyes went round. "Den Ah bettah be a-gittin' out an' see
'bout it. 'Scuse me, suh. 'Scuse me, Miss 'Chanda." With a jerk of his
head he left them. Val turned to Ricky.
"We seem to have fallen into good hands."
"It's my guess that his Lucy is a manager. He just does what she tells
him to. I wonder how he knew my name?"
"LeFleur probably told them all about us."
"Isn't it odd--" she turned off the gas, "'Ralestone folks.'"
"Loyalty to the Big House," her brother answered slowly. "I never
thought that it really existed out of books."
"It makes me feel positively feudal. Val, I was born about a hundred
years too late. I'd like to have been the mistress here when I could
have ridden out in a victoria behind two matched bays, with a coachman
and a footman up in front and my maid on the little seat facing me."
"And with a Dalmatian coach-hound running behind and at least
three-fourths of the young bloods of the neighborhood as a mounted
escort. I know. But those days are gone forever. Which leads me to
another subject. What are we going to do today?"
"The dishes, for one thing," Ricky began ticking the items off on her
fingers, "and then the beds. This afternoon Rupert wants us--that is,
you and me--to drive to town and do some errands."
"Oh, yes, the list you two made out last night. Well, now that that's
all settled, suppose we have some breakfast. Has Rupert been fed or is
he thinking of going on a diet?"
"He'll be in--"
"Said she with perfect faith. All of which does not satisfy the pangs of
hunger."
"Where's Lovey?"
"If you are using that sickening name to refer to Satan--he's
out--hunting, probably. The last I saw of him he was shooting head first
for a sort of bird apartment house over to the left of the front door.
Here's Rupert. Now maybe we may eat."
"I've got something to tell you," hissed Ricky as the missing member of
the clan banged the screen door behind him. Having so aroused Val's
curiosity, she demurely went around the table to pour the coffee.
"How's the carriage house?" Val asked.
"Sam thinks he can fix it with some of that lumber piled out back of the
old smoke-house." Rupert reached for a piece of toast. "What do you
think of our family retainer?"
"Seems a good chap."
"LeFleur says one of the best. Possesses a spark of ambition and is
really trying to make a go of the farm, which is more than most of them
do around here. His wife, by all accounts, is a wonder. Used to be the
cook-housekeeper here when the Rafaels had the place. LeFleur still
talks about the two meals he ate here then. Sam tells me that she is
planning to take us in hand."
"But we can't afford--" began Ricky.
"I gathered that money does not come into the question. The lady is
rather strong-willed. So, Ricky," he laughed, "we'll leave you two to
fight it out. But Lucy may be able to find us a laundress."
"Which reminds me," Ricky took a crumpled piece of white cloth from her
pocket, "if this is yours, Rupert, you deserve to do your own washing. I
don't know what you've got on it; looks like oil."
He took it from her and straightened out a handkerchief.
"Not guilty this time. Ask little brother here." He passed over the
dirty linen square. It was plain white--or it had been white before
three large black splotches had colored it--without an initial or
colored edge.
"I think he's prevaricating, Ricky," Val protested. "This isn't mine.
I'm down to one thin dozen and those are the ones you gave me last
Christmas. They have my initials on."
Ricky took back the disputed square. "That's funny. It certainly isn't
mine. I'm sure one of you must be mistaken."
"Why?" asked Rupert.
"Because I found it on the hearth-stone in the hall this morning. It
wasn't there last night or one of us would have seen it and picked it
up, 'cause it was right there in plain sight."
"Sure it isn't yours, Val?"
He shook his head. "Positive."
"Queer," murmured Rupert and reached for it again. "It's a good quality
of linen and it's almost new." He held it to his nose. "That's oil on
it. But how--?"
"I wonder--" Val mused.
"What do you know?" asked Ricky.
"Well--Oh, it isn't possible. He wouldn't carry a handkerchief," her
brother said half to himself.
"Who wouldn't?" asked Rupert. Then Val told them of his meeting with the
boy Jeems and what Sam had had to say of him.
"Don't know whether I exactly like this." Rupert folded the mysterious
square of stained linen. "As you say, Val, a boy like that would hardly
carry a handkerchief. Also, you met him in the garden, while--"
"The person who left that was in this house last night!" finished Ricky.
"And I don't like that!"
"The door was locked and bolted when I came down this morning," Val
observed.
Rupert nodded. "Yes, I distinctly remember doing that before I went up
to bed last night. But when I was going around the house this morning I
discovered that there are French doors opening from the old ball-room to
the terrace, and I didn't inspect their fastening last night."
"But who would want to come in here? There are no valuables left except
furniture. And it would take three or four men and a truck to collect
that. I don't see what he was after," puzzled Ricky.
Rupert arose from the table. "We have, it seems, a mystery on our hands.
If you want to amuse yourselves, my children, here's the first clue.
I've got to get back to the carriage house and my labors there."
He dropped the handkerchief on the table and left. Ricky reached for the
"clue." "Awfully casual about it, isn't he?" she said. "Just the same, I
believe that this is a clue and I know what our visitor was after, too,"
she finished triumphantly.
"What?"
"The treasure Richard Ralestone hid when the Yankee raiders came."
"Well, if our unknown visitor has as little in the way of clues as we
have, he'll be a long time finding it."
"And we're going to beat him to it! It's somewhere in the Hall, and the
secret--"
"See here," Val interrupted her, "what were you about to tell me when
Rupert came in?"
She put the handkerchief in the breast pocket of her sport dress,
buttoning the flap over it.
"Rupert's got a secret."
"What kind?"
"It has to do with those two brief-cases of his. You know, the ones he
was so particular about all the way down here?"
Val nodded. Those bulging brief-cases had apparently contained the
dearest of his roving brother's possessions, judging from the way Rupert
had fussed if they were a second out of his sight.
"This morning when I came downstairs," Ricky continued, "he was sneaking
them into that little side room off the dining-room corridor, the one
which used to be the old plantation office. And when he came out and saw
me standing there, he deliberately turned around and locked the door!"
"Whew!" Val commented.
"Yes, I felt that way too. So I simply asked him what he was doing and
he made some silly remark about Bluebeard's chamber. He means to keep
his old secret, too, 'cause he put the key on his key-ring when he
didn't know I was watching him."
"This is not the place for a rest cure," her brother observed as he
started to scrape and stack the dishes. "First someone unknown leaves
his handkerchief for a calling card and then Rupert goes Fu Manchu on
us. To say nothing of the rugged and unfriendly son of the soil whom I
found bumping around the garden where he had no business to be."
"What was he like anyway?" asked his sister as she dipped soap flakes
into the dish-water with a liberal hand.
"Oh, thin, and awfully brown. But not bad looking if it weren't for his
mouth and that scowl of his. And he very distinctly doesn't like us.
About my build, but quicker on his feet, tough looking. I wouldn't care
to try to stop him doing anything he wanted to do."
"My dear, are you describing Clark Gable or someone you met in our
garden this morning?" she demanded sweetly.
"Very well," Val retorted huffily into the depths of the oatmeal pan he
was wiping, "you catch him next time."
"I will," was her serene answer as she wrung out the dish-cloth.
They went on to the upstairs work and Val received his first lesson in
the art of bed-making under his sister's extremely critical tuition. It
seemed that corners must be square and that dreadful things were likely
to happen when wrinkles were not smoothed out. This exercise led them
naturally to unpacking the remainder of the hand baggage and putting
things away. It was after ten before Val came downstairs crab-fashion,
wiping off each step behind him as he came with one of Ricky's three
dust-cloths.
He paused on the landing to pull back the tapestry curtain and open the
windows above the alcove seat, letting in the freshness of the morning
to rout some of the dank chill of the hall. Kneeling there, he watched
Rupert come around the house. Rupert had shed his coat and his sleeves
were rolled up almost to his shoulders. There was a streak of black
across his cheek and a large rip almost separated the collar from his
shirt. Although he looked hot, cross, and tired, more like a day-laborer
than a gentleman plantation owner whose ancestors had always "planted
from the saddle," his stride had a certain buoyancy which it had lacked
the day before.
With an idea of escaping Ricky by joining his brother, Val hurried
downstairs and headed kitchenward. But his sister was there before him
looking over a collection of knives of various lengths.
"Preparing for a little murder or two?" Val asked casually.
She jumped and dropped a paring knife.
"Val, don't do that! I wish you'd whistle or something while you're
walking around in those tennis shoes. I can't hear you move. I'm looking
for something to cut flowers with. There don't seem to be any scissors
except mine and I'm not going to use those."
"Take dat, Miss 'Chanda." A fat black hand motioned toward the paring
knife.
Just within the kitchen door stood a wide, a very wide, Negro woman. Her
neat print dress was stiff with starch from a recent washing, and round
gold hoops swung proudly from her ears. Her black hair, straightened by
main force of arm, had been set again in stiff, corrugated waves of
extreme fashion, but her broad placid face was both kind and serene.
"I'se Lucy," she stated, thoroughly at her ease. "An' dis," she reached
an arm behind her, pulling forth a girl at least ten shades lighter and
thirty-five shades thinner, "is mah sistah's onliest gal-chil',
Letty-Lou. Mak' yo' mannahs, Letty. Does yo' wan' Miss 'Chanda to think
yo' is a know-nothin' outa de swamp?"
[Illustration: "_I'se Lucy," she stated, thoroughly at her ease. "An'
dis is Letty-Lou._"]
Thus sternly admonished, Letty-Lou ducked her head shyly and murmured
something in a die-away voice.
"Letty-Lou," announced her aunt, "is com' to do fo' yo'all, Miss
'Chanda. I'se larn'd her good how to do fo' ladies. She is good at
scrubbin' an' cleanin' an sich. Ah done train'd her mahse'f."
Letty-Lou looked at the floor and twisted her thin hands behind her
back.
"But," protested Ricky, "we're not planning to have anyone do for us,
Lucy."
"Dat's all right, Miss 'Chanda. Yo'all's not gittin' a know-nothin'.
Letty-Lou, she knows her work. She kin cook right good."
"We can't take her," Val backed up Ricky. "You must understand, Lucy,
that we don't have much money and we can't pay for--"
"Pay fo'!" Lucy's indignant sniff reduced him to his extremely
unimportant place. "We's not talkin' 'bout pay workin', Mistuh
Ralestone. Letty-Lou don' git no pay but her eatments. 'Co'se, effen
Miss 'Chanda wanna give her some ole clo's now an' den, she kin tak'
dem. Letty-Lou, she don' hav' to git her a pay-work job, her pappy mak's
him a good livin'. But Miss 'Chanda ain' a-goin' to tak' keer dis big
hous' all by herself wit' her lil' han's dere. We's Ralestone folks.
Letty-Lou, yo' gits on youah ap'on an' gits to work."
"But we can't let her," Ricky raised her last protest.
"Miss 'Chanda, we's Ralestone folks. Mah gran' pappy Bob was own man to
Massa Miles Ralestone. He fit in de wah longside o' Massa Miles. An' wen
de wah was done finish'd, dem two com' home to-gethah. Den Massa Miles,
he call mah gran'pappy in an' say, 'Bob, yo'all is free an' I'se a
ruinated man. Heah is fiv' dollahs gol' money an' yo' kin hav' youah
hoss.' An' Bob, he say, 'Cap'n Miles, dese heah Yankees done said I'se
free but dey ain't done said dat I ain't a Ralestone man. W'at time does
yo'all wan' breakfas' in de mornin'?' An' wen Massa Miles wen' no'th to
mak' his fo'tune, he told Bob, 'Bob, I'se leavin' dis heah hous' in
youah keer.' An', Miss 'Chanda, we done look aftah Pirate's Haven evah
since, mah gran'pappy, mah pappy, Sam an' me."
Ricky held out her hand. "I'm sorry, Lucy. You see, we don't understand
very well, we've been away so long."
Lucy touched Ricky's hand and then, for all her weight, bobbed a curtsy.
"Dat's all right, Miss 'Chanda, yo' is ouah folks."
Letty-Lou stayed.
CHAPTER IV
PISTOLS FOR TWO--COFFEE FOR ONE
Val braced himself against the back of the roadster's seat and struggled
to hold the car to a road which was hardly more than a cart track. Twice
since Ricky and he had left Pirate's Haven they had narrowly escaped
being bogged in the mud which had worked up through the thin crust of
gravel on the surface.
To the south lay the old cypress swamps, dark glens of rotting wood and
sprawling vines. A spur of this unsavory no-man's land ran close along
the road, and looking into it one could almost believe, fancied Val, in
the legends told by the early French explorers concerning the giant
monsters who were supposed to haunt the swamps and wild lands at the
mouth of the Mississippi. He would not have been surprised to see a
brontosaurus peeking coyly down at him from twenty feet or so of neck.
It was just the sort of place any self-respecting brontosaurus would
have wallowed in.
But at last they won free from that place of cold and dank odors.
Passing through Chalmette, they struck the main highway. From then on it
was simple enough. St. Bernard Highway led into St. Claude Avenue and
that melted into North Rampart street, one of the boundaries of the old
French city.
"Can't we go slower?" complained Ricky. "I'd like to see some of the
city without getting a crick in my neck from looking over my shoulder.
Watch out for St. Anne Street. That's one corner of Beauregarde Square,
the old Congo Square--"
"Where the slaves used to dance on Sundays before the war. I know; I've
read just as many guide-books as you have. But there is such a thing as
obstructing traffic. Also we have about a million and one things to do
this afternoon. We can explore later. Here we are; Bienville Avenue. No,
I will _not_ stop so that you can see that antique store. Six blocks to
the right," Val reminded himself.
"Val, that was the Absinthe House we just passed!"
"Yes? Well, it would have been better for a certain ancestor of ours if
he had passed it, too. That was Jean Lafitte's headquarters at one time.
Exchange Street--the next is ours."
They turned into Chartres Street and pulled up in the next block at the
corner of Iberville. A four-story house coated with grayish plaster, its
windows framed with faded green shutters and its door painted the same
misty color, confronted them. There was a tiny shop on the first floor.
A weathered sign over the door announced that Bonfils et Cie. did
business within, behind the streaked and bluish glass of the small
curved window-panes. But what business Bonfils and Company conducted was
left entirely to the imagination of the passer-by. Val locked the
roadster and took from Ricky the long legal-looking envelope which
Rupert had given them to deliver to Mr. LeFleur.
Ricky was staring in a puzzled manner at the shop when her brother took
her by the arm. "Are you sure that you have the right place? This
doesn't look like an office to me."
"We have to go around to the courtyard entrance. LeFleur occupies the
second floor."
A small wooden door, reinforced with hinges of hand-wrought iron, opened
before them, making them free of a courtyard paved with flagstones. In
the center a tall tree shaded the flower bed at its foot and threw
shadows upon the first of the steps leading to the upper floors. The
Ralestones frankly stared about them. This was the first house of the
French Quarter they had seen, although their name might have admitted
them to several closely guarded Creole strongholds. LeFleur's house
followed a pattern common to the old city. The lower floor fronting on
the street was in use only as a shop or store-room. In the early days
each shopkeeper lived above his place of business and rented the third
and fourth floors to aristocrats in from their plantations for the
fashionable season.
A long, narrow ell ran back from the main part of the house to form one
side of the courtyard. The ground floor of this contained the old slave
quarters and kitchens, while the second was cut into bedrooms which had
housed the young men of the family so that they could come and go at
will without disturbing the more sedate members of the household. These
small rooms were now in use as the offices of Mr. LeFleur. From the
balcony, running along the ell, onto which each room opened, one could
look down into the courtyard. It was on this balcony that the lawyer met
them with outstretched hands after they had given their names to his
dark, languid young clerk.
"But this is good of you!" Rene LeFleur beamed on them impartially. He
was a small, plumpish, round-faced man in his early forties, who spoke
in perpetual italics. His eyebrows, arched over-generously by Nature,
gave him a look of never-ending astonishment at the world and all its
works. But his genial smile was kindness itself. Unaccustomed as Val was
to sudden enthusiasms, he found himself liking Rene LeFleur almost
before his hand gripped Val's.
"Miss Ralestone, it is a pleasure, a very great pleasure, to see you
here! And this," he turned to Val, "this must be that brother Valerius
both you and Mr. Ralestone spoke so much of during our meeting in New
York. You have safely recovered from that most unfortunate accident, Mr.
Ralestone? But of course, your presence here is my answer. And how do
you like Louisiana, Miss Ralestone?" His eyes behind his gold-rimmed
eyeglasses sparkled as he tilted his head a fraction toward Ricky as if
to hear the clearer.
"Well enough. Though we've seen very little of it yet, Mr. LeFleur."
"When you have seen Pirate's Haven," he replied, "you have seen much of
Louisiana."
"But we're forgetting our manners!" exclaimed the girl. "We want to
thank you for everything you've done for us. Rupert said to tell you
that while he doesn't care for beans as a rule, the beans we found in
our cupboard were very superior beans."
Mr. LeFleur hooted with laughter like a small boy. "He is droll, is that
brother of yours. And has Sam been to see you?"
"Sam and--Lucy," answered Ricky with emphasis. "Lucy has decided to take
us in hand. She has installed Letty-Lou over our protests."
The little lawyer nodded complacently. "Yes, Lucy will take care of you.
She is a master housekeeper and cook--ah!" His eyes rolled upward. "And
Mr. Ralestone, how is he?"
"All right. He's going over the farm with Sam this afternoon. We were
sent in his place to give you the papers he spoke to you about."
At Ricky's answer, Val held out the envelope he had carried. To their
joint surprise, LeFleur pounced upon it and withdrew to the window of
the room into which he had conducted them. There he spread out the four
sheets of yellowed paper which the envelope had contained.
"What were we carrying?" whispered Ricky. "Part of Rupert's deep, dark
secret?"
"No," her brother hissed back, "those are the plans of the Patagonian
fort which were stolen from the Russian Embassy last Thursday by the
beautiful woman spy disguised with a long green beard. You know, the
proper first chapter of an international espionage thriller. You are the
dumb but beautiful newspaper reporter on the scent, and I--"
"The even dumber G-man who spends most of his time running three steps
ahead of Fu Chew Chow and his gang of oriental demons. In the second
chapter--"
But a glance at Mr. LeFleur's face as he turned away from the window put
an end to their nonsense. Gone was his smile, his beaming good-will
toward the world. He seemed a little tired, a trifle stooped. "Not here
then," he said slowly to himself as he slipped the papers back into the
envelope.
"Mr. Valerius," he looked up at the boy very seriously, "the LeFleurs
have served the Ralestones, acting as their men of business, for over a
hundred years. We owe your family a great debt. When young Denys LeFleur
was shipped over here to New Orleans under false accusation of his
enemies, the first Richard Ralestone became his patron. He helped the
boy salvage something from the wreck of the LeFleur fortunes in France
to start anew in a decent profession under tolerable surroundings, when
others of his kind died miserably as beggars on the mud flats. Twice
before have we been forced to be the bearers of ill news, but--" he
shrugged, "that was in the past. This lies in the future."
"What does?" asked Ricky.
"It is such a tangle," he said, running his hand through his short,
gray-streaked hair. "A tangle such as lawyers are supposed to delight
in. But they don't, I assure you that they don't, Miss Ralestone. Not if
they have their client's interest at heart. You know, of course, of the
missing Ralestone--Roderick?"
Ricky and Val both nodded. Mr. LeFleur spread out his plump hands in a
queer little gesture as if he were pushing something away. "This whole
unfortunate business begins with him. As far as we know today, he and
his brother were co-owners of Pirate's Haven. When young Roderick
disappeared, he was still part owner. Although he was presumed dead, he
was never lawfully declared so. Pirate's Haven was simply assumed to be
the property of your branch of the family."
"Our branch of the family?" Val echoed him. "Do you mean that some
descendant of Roderick has appeared to put in a claim?"
"That is the problem. Three days ago a man came to my office. He said
that he is the direct descendant of Roderick Ralestone and that he can
produce proof of that fact."
"And he wants his share of the estate?" asked Ricky shrewdly.
"Yes."
"He can keep on wanting," Val said shortly. "We've nothing to give."
"There's Pirate's Haven," pointed out Mr. LeFleur.
"But he can't--" Ricky's hand closed about her brother's wrist.
"Naturally he can't take it," Val assured her hotly. "Pirate's Haven is
ours. This looks to me like blackmail. He'll threaten to stir up a lot
of trouble unless we buy him off."
Mr. LeFleur nodded. "That is perhaps the motive behind it all."
"Well," Val forced a laugh, "then he loses. We haven't the money to buy
him off."
"Neither have you the money to fight a case through the courts, Mr.
Valerius," answered the lawyer soberly.
"But there is some chance, there must be!" urged Ricky.
"I submitted the full case to Mr. John Stanton yesterday--Mr. Stanton is
our local authority on cases of this type. He has informed me that there
is a single ray of hope. Frankly, I find this claimant a dubious person,
but a shrewd one. He knows that he has the advantage now, but should we
gain the upper hand, we could, I believe, rid ourselves of him. Our
chance lies in the past. This was first a French and then a Spanish
colony. Under both rules the law of primogeniture sometimes held force.
That is, an estate passed to the eldest son of a family. Your estate was
such a one. In fact, we possess in this very office old charters and
papers which state that the property was entailed after the European
custom. If that were so, the courts might declare that the elder of the
twins born in 1788 was the sole owner of Pirate's Haven.