THE SQUARE SUITCASE
Tom Dennis, in the meantime, was making some discoveries.
In the course of the afternoon he dropped in at his old newspaper
office with the object of seeing the boys and trying to get some
special assignments on the Pacific Coast. In this latter endeavour
he was more successful than he had dared hope, for the editor
declared at once in favour of a series of articles on the Canadian
training-camps in the vicinity of Vancouver, and even spoke of
syndicating them.
Thus, when Dennis returned to the city-room, he was in hopeful vein.
Most of his old friends were still on the staff, with some new men;
he said nothing about his marriage, or about his failure in
Marshville, but stated that he had been called to the Pacific Coast
on unexpected business, and let it go at that.
Then Margate entered, and gripped his hand with a shout. Margate was
the "big man", who covered political conventions and topics of
country-wide interest. It appeared that Margate had himself just
returned from the Coast where he had been doing some big things with
the moving-picture stars. Dennis retired into a corner with him, and
in the course of their chat casually inquired:
"I suppose you never heard of a sea-captain out there by the name of
Pontifex, did you? It's an odd sort of moniker----"
Margate grinned.
"Heard of him? I should say yes! He's the only chap I ever heard of
who put it all over the motion-picture people. Why, they're yelling
about it yet!"
"How's that?" asked Dennis in unaffected surprise.
"It seems this chap Pontifex owned an old whaling brig. She was laid
up at San Pedro, in pretty bad shape, and the Greatorex people wanted
to use her in a couple of scenarios. So Pontifex leased her to
them--savvy? About six months ago they got through with her--and
then they discovered something. In his lease, Pontifex had slipped
over a couple of jokers; they had to refit the old hooker from top to
bottom and make her ready for sea. I forget how many thousands it
cost them. I remember she was sent up to him at Vancouver, just
before I came East, and everyone was slipping the laugh to the
Greatorex folks at the way a whaling skipper had put it over them.
And believe me, the job was done right! It takes a genius to manage
a stunt like that nowadays."
"Then you don't know Pontifex personally?"
"Lord, no! What are you running down, anyhow? Is he a pirate?"
Dennis laughed. "I hope not. I've heard some things about him,
though--good human-interest stuff for a magazine feature, if they're
true. I'll look him up at Vancouver. What's the name of his ship?"
"The _Pelican_. Say, if you're there any time, look up my brother;
he's doing shipping stuff on _The Vancouver Mail_. He'll be glad to
do the honours, and you might pick up some good dope from him."
When he left the office, Dennis sought the railroad office and bought
tickets for himself and Florence to Vancouver, obtaining a
compartment; the money which Ericksen had given him, with what he had
left of his own, proved quite sufficient. Then, encountering Margate
and a couple more men from the office, he went to dinner with them.
At seven o'clock he was on the way home to pack.
It had not been a highly romantic wedding-day, he reflected, either
for himself or for Florence; but they would have a trip of four days
in which to make up for that. The commissions for work at Vancouver
were a tremendous aid to Dennis, keeping him from feeling that he was
loafing on the job. The money, too, would help. And he anticipated
no particular difficulty in getting work. He was one of the
well-known men in his profession, and a place would be made for him;
he was not a newspaper "tramp". He was not one of the shiftless or
incompetent men-of-all-trades who seek the Coast as a haven of
refuge. Already, in view of his unexpected marriage and the
all-impelling faith of Florence, he had risen above the despondency
induced by his Marshville venture.
He had obtained no information from Florence which could serve to
throw any light upon Ericksen or Captain Pontifex; she had been
entirely ignorant of what knowledge they wished to extract from her
or from her paralysed father. Captain Hathaway's last ship, a
freighter named the _John Simpson_, had been lost while _en route_
from San Francisco to Vladivostok. She had gone down with all hands
somewhere off the Aleuts, and with Captain Hathaway totally paralysed
since his rescue it was unlikely that her story would ever be known.
As Tom Dennis packed together his few belongings, with purchases
which he had made that day, he blessed the girl who had that morning
married him, and he swore savagely to himself that it would not be
for worse, but for better. Not easily had he assented to her
proposal; not easily had he grasped her reasons for making it; but
now he realized the sheer truth which she had seen from the first.
There was no danger whatever that he would be unable to provide the
necessities of life. True, heart-trouble, of which he had never
before been aware, had barred him from wearing a uniform; but this
disease was a remote danger. His ability lay in his head, and he had
no doubt about his ability to win a fair living wage. The paralytic
Captain Hathaway would be in some ways a burden, but one which Tom
Dennis cheerfully assumed.
"With faith in the future and in each other, we would have been fools
not to marry!" he confided to his suitcase. "We'll pull through; and
we'll make a tenfold better fight for having each other! I'm almost
glad that the old _Clarion_ went under----"
He did not hear his door open; nor did he hear the approach of a
swift catlike form from the doorway. He did, however, feel the
draught from the open door. He half-turned; but he turned only to
feel a crashing blow on the head.
Dumont stood over the prostrate figure, softly chuckling, and stowed
away the blackjack which had dealt the blow. The figure of Dennis
lay motionless, arms outflung; his profile was visible against the
rug, and the eyes were closed. His assailant eyed him for a moment,
then stepped to the window and drew down the blind. A single
electric bulb lighted the room.
Dumont returned to his victim. From his pocket he produced a
handkerchief folded and padded with cotton. From another pocket he
took a thin flat vial of chloroform which he poured heavily over the
handkerchief; the fumes sickened the air. Then he knelt, and put a
hand half under Dennis, feeling the heart.
"Good!" he muttered with an air of pride. He spoke in French, his
voice low. "It was a good job. The bump on his head will not be
observed. They will think it suicide."
And then sudden wild surprise and consternation convulsed his
features. His left hand, beneath Dennis, was suddenly seized and
twisted by iron fingers. Dumont, a startled oath on his lips, was
pulled forward off his balance and fell headlong over his victim.
Both bodies heaved madly.
Across the would-be assassin the big figure of Tom Dennis sprawled
heavily. Dumont had been entirely taken by surprise. Dennis seized
the handkerchief and clapped it over the face of his opponent.
The Frenchman fought. He struggled viciously, silently, desperately;
he struck with fists and nails and knees, biting at the hand which
held the bandage across his mouth and nose.
"No use, my friend," said Dennis, speaking half-forgotten French.
"You didn't hit quite hard enough."
The convulsive struggles of Dumont, held helpless by sheer weight,
quieted into jerky movements. Tom Dennis knocked away the saturated
handkerchief and turned the limp figure on its face. He shook out
the handkerchief and knotted the wet linen about the wrists of
Dumont. Then, weakly, he caught at a chair and pulled himself erect.
Dennis felt deathly sick. That clip over the ear had been a shrewd
one, and in the closed room the fumes of the narcotic reeked from the
bottle which had spilled its entire contents on the floor. Dizzy and
staggering, he groped his way to the window and flung it open. He
knelt there, his head on the window-sill, bathing himself in the
fresh air.
"A near thing!" he muttered. "A near thing!"
How long he lay there he did not know. The sickness, the nausea,
passed from him by slow degrees. He gingerly felt his head, finding
that the skin was unbroken; a lump had already risen. His senses
were still aswim when at length he rose to his feet.
The Frenchman was senseless, but was probably in no danger.
Inspecting the man, Dennis remembered to have seen him entering the
adjoining room that same evening. But what could have been the
motive of this amazing assault by an utter stranger, a fellow lodger
with whom he had never exchanged a word? It did not appear to be
robbery, for Dumont was well-dressed. The rugged features of Tom
Dennis grew hard and harsh as he gazed down, remembering the man's
words. The chloroform had not been intended merely to knock him out;
it had been intended to kill him! Why?
Stooping, he ran swiftly through the contents of Dumont's pockets.
He found an automatic, the bluejack which had struck him and a thin
keen knife. He found a wad of yellow-backed bills, which he stuck
into his own pocket with a chuckle. He found no letters, nothing
else at all--except an envelope such as is issued at railroad ticket
offices. In this envelope were two tickets--one the return half of a
Vancouver-to-Chicago ticket, the other a one-way ticket from Chicago
to Vancouver; and with them was the Pullman ticket calling for a
compartment. The date was of this very day, the train that upon
which Dennis himself was leaving! In the envelope, also, were two
small brass keys.
Dropping into a chair, Tom Dennis frowned over these clues. Could
the man have some connection with Ericksen--coming as he had from
Vancouver, and being about to return there? Perhaps. Dennis
suspected Ericksen, had suspected him from the first. But there was
no obvious connection; there was no link of direct accusation. Had
Ericksen been behind this assault?
Manifestly this assassin had two tickets so that he could occupy a
compartment alone. Why? For what purpose? At this thought Dennis
went to his door, passed into the hall and went directly to the next
door--that of Dumont's room. He found the room quite empty. Upon
the bed was a small valise, but it contained nothing except linen and
articles of travel.
"Blamed if I can account for it!" muttered Dennis, returning to his
own room. "This fellow meant to bury me; that's certain. I'll keep
his money as fair loot. About his two tickets and--hm! I'd better
keep them too, and occupy that compartment occasionally. There may
be something in it which will give me a clue. I'll do it."
He glanced at his watch, suddenly conscious that time had been
passing. He was aghast to find that it was eight o'clock--and the
train left at eight-thirty!
With a hasty ejaculation he caught up his suitcase, crammed it shut
and after a last glance at the recumbent assassin turned out the
light and ran downstairs to the hall telephone. He was too late to
call for Florence now; she must catch a taxi to the station!
His first thought was to order a taxicab for himself; then he called
up the school where Florence had been teaching. There ensued five
minutes--a frantic five minutes--of delay before a cool woman's voice
informed him that Miss Hathaway had departed some time before; a
gentleman had called for her.
Dennis demanded a description of the man, and recognized Ericksen.
When the taxi appeared, Dennis flung himself into the cab and thrust
a bill at the driver with orders to make the station regardless of
traffic officers. He saw quite clearly, now, that Ericksen had
planned this attempted murder; there was no proof of it, but he
needed none. What was the reason behind it? This question maddened
Dennis. Was Florence being abducted? Such a thing seemed impossible
and incredible, outside a movie scenario.
When Dennis reached the station he had about three minutes left. He
took the gate at a rush, showing his tickets hurriedly, and swung
aboard the nearest open vestibule of the train just as the porters
were picking up their stools.
He found that the compartment-car was up ahead. Since he had his own
tickets, with that of Florence, she would certainly not be in their
compartment, but probably in one of the Pullmans. So he started
through the train, scrutinising each seat as he came to it.
Two cars ahead, he came suddenly upon Florence, who was alone. She
sprang up with a glad cry, and Dennis saw that she had been weeping.
"Oh--I knew you'd make it, after all, Tom!" she broke out, her hands
going to his.
Dennis stooped and touched her lips with his.
"All right now, old girl," he said, not bothering for an explanation
of her words. "Where's Ericksen?"
"He just went forward to arrange about our tickets, he said."
Dennis beckoned to the porter who was approaching. He gave the darky
the number of his own compartment and ordered Florence's grips taken
there; then he turned to his wife.
"Now, Mrs. Dennis," he said, chuckling as she flushed at the name,
"you go to that compartment and wait until I show up, will you
please? I have a little business with Mr. Ericksen--and it won't
wait a minute!"
"Is anything wrong? Your note--it said that you might make the
train----"
Dennis took from her hand a folded note and glanced at it. Then he
thrust it into his pocket and patted her shoulder.
"I'll be along presently, dear. No, nothing wrong! I have some good
news for you, too--got some assignments out West. I'll meet you in a
few minutes."
Leaving his grip and a coin with the porter, Tom Dennis rushed
forward. When he gained the compartment-car, he consulted Dumont's
tickets and found that the latter had engaged Compartment Six.
Dennis went directly to this compartment and knocked. The voice of
Ericksen bade him enter. He threw open the door and stepped inside
the little room.
"Well!" Dennis closed the door behind him and stood, smiling.
"Expecting your friend, are you? He's not coming, Boatswain Joe."
There was no doubt about it; Ericksen was hard hit. He stared at
Dennis, his mouth agape, his light-blue eyes wide-set.
"Strike me blind," he affirmed, huskily, "if it ain't you!"
"You win. What are you doing in this compartment?"
"Who--me? Why, matey, I was lookin' for the skipper of this here
train, and I pops in here for a bit of a smoke, out of the way and
quiet! And where might you have come from, matey? I thought you
weren't coming along, this cruise."
"What made you think that?" demanded Dennis.
"Why, strike me blind!" stated Ericksen with energy. "Didn't that
there swab give me your note sayin' you wouldn't show up?"
Tom Dennis was staggered by this defence.
"What note are you talking about? The one you gave Mrs. Dennis?"
"Aye, that and t'other one! Give 'em to me, he did, and said you
wouldn't show up. The note said the same thing, and asked me to call
for Mrs. Dennis, see? Well, I done it--and this here is the thanks I
get!"
"What kind of a man gave you the notes?"
Ericksen was sweating profusely. At this question he screwed up his
eyes and bit on his pipe-stem in thought.
"Well," he answered at length, "a sort o' rakish craft, he was, with
little what-d'ye-call-'ems of moustaches, and looked like a dago."
That answered to the description of the assassin, and Dennis
hesitated under the impact of a sudden thought.
What if that Frenchman had not been an accomplice of Ericksen at
all--but an enemy, with some ulterior purpose at work behind his
actions? There was as much in favour of this theory as of the other.
"See here, Ericksen!" Dennis met the light-blue gaze with a frowning
level scrutiny. "If your story's true, that same man who gave you
the fake message--for it was a fake--tried to murder me about an hour
ago. He had a ticket to this compartment, and a return-trip ticket
from here to Vancouver in his pocket. Do you know him?"
"Know him? Not me!" asserted Boatswain Joe virtuously. "Did you
give him to the police?"
Dennis laughed grimly. "Worse than that. Well, do you know of
anyone who might have followed you from Vancouver here? Have you any
enemies?"
From Ericksen broke a sudden exclamation. "Strike me blind! If you
ain't hit it right on the head, you have! Somebody has smoked out
the Skipper's game; that's what!"
"And what's the game?" snapped Dennis. At this the sailor wagged his
head.
"Can't tell that. 'Mind your jaw-tackle, Boatswain,' says the
Skipper. It's got to do with Miss Hathaway--I mean Mrs. Dennis--and
her father. It ain't for me to say. But there's money in it, and
somebody's smoked it out--strike me blind if they ain't!"
"Then why should that fellow have tackled me, instead of you?"
Again Ericksen wagged his head. "Can't tell you that! Didn't you
make the blighter talk?"
"He was in no condition to talk when I got through with him,"
returned Dennis, and the sailor sighed--perhaps with relief.
Glancing about, Dennis saw only one article of luggage in the
compartment--a small square suitcase, obviously new, and very well
made. It lacked any mark of identification. Beyond doubt it
belonged to the assassin.
"That was here when you dropped in for a smoke?" demanded Dennis,
pointing at it.
Ericksen surveyed the square suitcase with surprise. "Must ha' been!"
From his pocket Tom Dennis produced the two small keys which the
assassin had carried. He fitted one of them to the lock of the
square suitcase; it worked. Meantime, Ericksen was watching him with
ill-concealed anxiety.
Throwing back the lid of the square suitcase Dennis saw that it
contained nothing except a small phonograph and half a dozen very
large records. The labels on the records proclaimed them to be
grand-opera selections. Frowning thoughtfully, Dennis closed and
locked the suitcase.
"I'll take this along. You might as well keep this compartment,
Ericksen--I took that scoundrel's tickets; here they are. You'll
find this place more comfortable than a berth. And you needn't
mention to Mrs. Dennis what's happened. It might only worry her. I
fancy we've given your friends the slip entirely, eh? Sorry I
suspected you at first."
"Oh, don't mention it," said Ericksen, wriggling a little.