Andre Norton Super Pack. Andre Norton
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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.
“But which of the twin brothers was the elder? You will say at once, Richard. But your rival will say Roderick. And there is no proof. For in the spring, two months after the birth of the boys, most of the family papers were destroyed in the great fire which almost wiped out the city and burned the Ralestone town house. There is no birth record in existence. I appealed to your brother to return to me these papers which Miles Ralestone took north with him after the war. You returned them today but there was nothing in them of any value to this case.
“However, if you can find such proof, that Richard Ralestone was the elder and thus the legal heir under the laws of Spain, then we shall have a solid fact upon which to base our fight.”
“There is such a proof,” began Ricky slowly.
“What? Where?” demanded Mr. LeFleur.
“Don’t you remember, Val,” she turned to him, “what Rupert said about the Luck last night—that the names of the heirs were engraved upon its blade? We’ll have to find the Luck! We’ll just have to!”
“But Roderick took the Luck with him. And if it’s still in existence, this rival will have it now,” her brother reminded her.
“Yes, of course, I was forgetting—” her voice trailed off into silence and Val stared at her with a dropped jaw. Such a quick change of manner was totally unlike Ricky. “Yes,” she repeated slowly and distinctly, “I guess we’re the losers—”
“For Pete’s sake—” he began hotly and then he saw her hand making furious motions in his direction from behind the screen of her large purse. “Well, I suppose we are in a hole.” He managed to mend his tone a fraction. “Rupert will probably be in to see you tomorrow, Mr. LeFleur.”
“It would be well for him to become acquainted with the whole matter as quickly as possible,” agreed the unhappy Creole. “You may tell Mr. Ralestone that I am, of course, having this claimant thoroughly investigated. We shall have to wait and see. Time is a big factor,” he murmured as if to himself.
Ricky smiled brightly. There was a sort of eagerness about her, as if she were wild to be off. “Then we’ll say good-bye for the present, Mr. LeFleur. And may I mention again how much we have appreciated your thoughtfulness?”
René LeFleur aroused himself. “But it