Dick Kent on Special Duty 24

Dick Kent on Special Duty 24

“The minute I laid my eyes on that key-ring with its two keys, I knew

it. I’d seen it many times before.”

 

As he spoke, Meade exhibited the ring and selected the larger of the two

keys.

 

“This,” he informed them, “is the key to the front door of Dewberry’s

cottage.”

 

“And the second?” Rand interrupted, unable to check his curiosity.

 

“This key, gentlemen,” Meade held it up and announced dramatically, “is,

I think, the key to your mystery, the cause of all your trouble. It was

the thing that MacGregor wanted when he murdered its owner, that

Frischette died for, that Creel, Emery, Burnnel and the squaw fought

over. In other words, unless I am very badly mistaken—and I don’t think

I am—this key unlocks a large iron chest that stands in the front room

of Dewberry’s cottage.”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXII

DEWBERRY’S TREASURE

 

 

Peace River Crossing is a growing, bustling town that nestles in the

broad, deep valley of one of the North Country’s largest rivers. Until a

few years ago, it was a trading post merely, the stamping ground and

meeting place of trappers, prospectors and adventurers, who, from

various points along the river, and from the wilderness to the east and

west, came here to transact their business or find companionship and

entertainment.

 

At the time of this story, the Edmonton, Dunvegan & British Columbia

Railway only recently had been built. Just a few months before his

death, Dewberry had seen the miracle of two lines of steel, supported by

a marvelous system of trestlework, creep slowly into the village.

 

Soon after that Dewberry decided that he would go north. Turning his

back upon his cherished books, he went out, locking the door after him

for the last time. The cabin looked very lonely in his absence. Perched

on a hill, overlooking the Hart River, it stood day after day, a sort of

bleak landmark among the other houses in the village. When the sun was

bright, and happened to be shining from the right direction, the two

front windows blinked and glistened like two large human eyes. Indian

and half-breed children, playing in the level fields below, would look

up at them in fear. They were afraid of the house. They were afraid of

the man who lived there. Nothing whatsoever could have induced them to

climb the rocky path and enter the yard, which just now was overgrown

with tall weeds and grass.

 

This fear on the children’s part was shared to some extent by their

parents. They shunned the cabin. In all the time Dewberry was away on

this last trip, probably not more than three persons passed by the

house, and then only because it was necessary to do so. Not until late

in midsummer, did anyone actually cross the yard and deliberately walk

up to the door with the intention of entering.

 

That person was Constable Wyatt, of the Peace River Detachment of the

Royal North West Mounted Police. He was not alone. Another policeman and

three boys accompanied him. The constable strode forward, erect and

graceful, jingling a keyring. He selected one key and fitted it into the

lock. Then he turned, before proceeding further, and smiled at his

companions.

 

“The right one. It will work, I think.”

 

“Open the door,” instructed the other policeman, who stood close behind

him, and appeared to be either eager or impatient.

 

The key grated in the lock and the door creaked, as Wyatt turned the

knob and pressed his weight against it. Five pairs of eyes stared into

the room. One of the boys—the youngest of the three—drew in his breath

sharply.

 

“Great Scott! Books! Look at ’em—just look at ’em, Dick! A thousand or

more!”

 

“A piano too,” said Dick. “But where’s the chest?”

 

The small party crowded into the room. A heavy odor assailed their

nostrils. The place was stuffy and close. The blinds, which hung over

the closed windows, shut out most of the light. Not until these blinds

were raised and a window or two flung up, did any of the party do more

than to give the room a curious inspection.

 

“According to Meade,” Rand spoke calmly, “the chest ought to be

somewhere in this room.”

 

No chest was visible. Eyes darted here and there, questioningly. Wyatt,

Sandy and Dick hurried into the adjoining room to continue the search

there. Corporal Rand sat down, while Toma still remained in almost the

identical position he had taken up when he had first entered the house.

 

At one side of the room a heavy fur overcoat lay in a wrinkled heap upon

the floor. Four feet above it, a long wooden peg projected from the

scored surface of a log. The inference was that the coat had slipped off

the peg at some time or other and that Dewberry, either through

oversight or neglect, had failed to hang it back in its accustomed

place.

 

For a short space the young Indian gazed at the garment and then at the

peg. His eyes lit perceptibly. Something told him that the overcoat had

not fallen to the floor from that sturdy peg, and, besides, there was a

suspicious bulge—something underneath. With an amused chuckle, he darted

forward and lifted up the coat. The chuckle died in his throat. He

stepped back.

 

The chest was there!

 

Corporal Rand’s sharp exclamation drew the others quickly. They were

crowded around him and Toma, looking down with bated breath at an iron

box, covered with fantastic scrolls and figures, embellished and

ornamented with metal rosettes and a fret-work of bronze. Neither Dick

nor Sandy had ever seen anything quite like it. It was not an ordinary

chest. It looked old—hundreds of years old—yet it was neither battered

nor broken, nor in any way scarred or defaced. Beautiful though it was,

its beauty produced a strange effect upon them. A malevolent influence

seemed to emanate there.

 

Two feet high, three feet in length, approximately twenty in breadth—the

iron box stood there and seemed to defy them. Its workmanship was

superb. Dick guessed that it was of foreign origin, probably Oriental.

He shivered a little as Wyatt gave the key-ring to Corporal Rand and

motioned to him to stoop down and open the chest.

 

Rand’s fingers fumbled with the ring. A hollow scraping sound followed

the insertion of the key, and, having turned it, the cover—fitted with a

hidden, powerful spring—sprang open so quickly that its outer edge

caught the policeman on the point of the chin and threw him back amongst

his astonished companions.

 

Dazed, the corporal scrambled back to a position on his knees and stared

in bewilderment at the chest. There was not a great deal to see. Within,

the chest was fitted with a thin metal lid, which completely hid

everything below. On the inside of the cover, however, was pasted a

heavy label, upon which was the following writing:

 

“TREASURE CHEST.—Exhumed in September 1843 from the ruins of an ancient

temple discovered by Sir George Pettibone, English explorer, near

Kaifeng, in the province of Honan, China. Believed to date back to the

Mongol or Ming Dynasty, (A. D. 1260-1368), (A. D. 1368-1644).”

 

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Dick, when Corporal Rand had finished reading.

 

“It is wonderful,” breathed Wyatt. “It would be interesting to know how

it came into Dewberry’s possession.”

 

Sandy was impatient. He had pushed closer to Corporal Rand and was

looking down at the chest over the policeman’s shoulder.

 

“I can hardly wait until you remove that lid,” he broke forth. “Why

don’t you lift it up, corporal?”

 

Gingerly, Rand placed a thumb and finger in two round holes in the lid

and tugged gently. Slowly, an inch or two at a time, it came up,

revealing an interior space taken up by six square trays of

sandalwood—any one of which contained a fortune.

 

Gold! Treasure! The boys caught their breath. There came a concerted

rush around the box. Exclamations of amazement. Not only gold here—but

precious stones. Diamonds! Sapphires! Blood-red rubies! Platinum in

rings and bars. Gold dust! Curios! Priceless antiques! Nuggets!

 

Sandy and Dick were shouting and exclaiming like maniacs. Wyatt and

Corporal Rand were talking in excited tones. Toma, less interested than

any of them, after a curious, puzzled glance into the interior of the

chest, backed away, grunting out something under his breath.

 

It was Sandy, who presently discovered that the trays were removable,

that underneath them was a shallow compartment, three or four inches in

depth, completely filled with letters and papers and documents of

various kinds.

 

“Here!” he shouted, holding it up. “A book! Must be very valuable or

Dewberry wouldn’t keep it in here.”

 

He passed it on to Corporal Rand, then turned again and, with Dick’s

assistance, began replacing the trays. The contents of these were, to

the boys, of far more importance and interest than anything else

confined within that ancient, mysterious receptacle. Again they fell to

examining the treasure.

 

They were so absorbed in this delightful pastime, that they were wholly

unaware of what was taking place in the room behind them. The two

policemen had drawn up chairs and were sitting opposite each other,

their faces alight. Wyatt, who leaned forward eagerly, was listening to

Rand. Rand flipped the pages and read out of the book:

 

“November 20, 1908.—This is my second trip out to Edmonton this year.

Today I met Professor B—, of the University of Alberta, who promised to

secure for me a first edition of Thackeray’s _Vanity Fair_. Will send to

Vincent’s at Montreal. Ought to have it here next time I come down.

Professor B— is generous and kindly. Knowing of my interest in antiques,

he sent me, with a letter of introduction to a Mr. Lipton, a private

collector, who occupies a suite of rooms at the King Edward. I enjoyed

this visit and induced Mr. Lipton to part with a very valuable cameo.”

 

“Interesting,” remarked Wyatt. “Go on!”

 

Corporal Rand flipped several pages and resumed:

 

“May 6, 1909.—Spent the better part of this week around the head-waters

of the Finley. Gruelling work, but I love it. The mosquitos are savage,

persistent little brutes, and only the fine mesh of my new net, with the

addition of a pair of gloves, saves me from being sucked dry. I’ll need

what blood and energy I have to complete my work here. Have been looking

for the famous Crystal Lode, which old Dave Crystal found somewhere near

here in 1890 and subsequently sold, ‘unsight, unseen,’ to Ben and Gordan Wilson, who have never been heard from since.”