ON TO FAIR CUBA.
“There are only two bits of evidence needed to complete my moral
conviction that I am the only person connected with the Raymond tragedy
who is not in Cuba or on his way thither,” remarks Ashley, loquitur, as
he boards a cross-town car. “One is the assurance that Cyrus Felton and
Miss Hathaway have left the St. James Hotel with no intention of an
immediate return; the other, the knowledge that Phillip Van Zandt has
closed his quarters in the Wyoming flats for an indefinite period. I
believe I will try the St. James first.”
He does. The clerk smiles benignly upon him when he inquires for the
Vermonters. “Gone, Jack; but you were not forgotten,” he says. “The day
clerk turned this over to me,” extracting a note from the letter rack.
“Thank you, Ed,” acknowledges Ashley. He tears open the note and reads:
“Dear Mr. Ashley: I regret very much that circumstances have
made it necessary to postpone indefinitely the luncheon for this
afternoon at 1, to which I had looked forward with much
pleasure. We have just learned that in order to reach Cuba we
must sail on the City of Havana, which leaves New York at 11
o’clock to-day. With many thanks for your kindnesses, believe
me, sincerely yours,
Louise Hathaway.”
“Far from enlightening me, this note only plunges me deeper in the fog,”
thinks Ashley, sniffing the faint odor of violet that clings to the
dainty stationery. “She asserts here that she is going to Cuba on the
City of Havana, yet I discover her aboard the Semiramis. At any rate
they have gone to Cuba, and there is no particular reason for my
visiting Van Zandt’s apartments. It is getting late, anyway, and I
believe I will return to the office. If Ricker is in a good-humored mood
I will attempt to convince him that the only feature which the paper at
present lacks is a live man at Havana who can tell the difference
between an overwhelming Spanish or Cuban victory and a fifth-rate
scrimmage that a dozen New York policemen could quell in ten minutes.”
Ashley swings himself upon a Broadway car and lapses into a meditation.
“How the deuce do Miss Hathaway and Cyrus Felton come to be aboard the
Semiramis? And if Ernest Stanley is Phillip Van Zandt, where did he get
the money to own such a yacht? Forty or fifty thousand dollars of
Raymond National Bank funds wouldn’t pay for one side of the Semiramis.
But it may not be his yacht. I have simply assumed so because he looked
as if he owned the ocean as well. Good gracious, I should be inclined to
regard Miss Hathaway’s disappearance as a clear case of abduction but
for the fact that the fair Louise appeared entirely satisfied with her
surroundings when I focused the America’s glasses upon her graceful
self. I am beginning to believe that I am clear off my reckoning on Van
Zandt. The Semiramis may be owned by the Cubans and he may simply be one
of the leaders of the expedition. And he may not be Ernest Stanley at
all, although I think—hang it! I don’t know what I think. I shall quit
thinking from now on. It is too hard work.”
Much relieved by this determination, Ashley sits at his desk, lights his
briar and dashes off a short sketch of the detained filibustering
vessel. This he tosses over to the night-desk men, and strolls into the
city editor’s den.
“When you are at leisure, Mr. Ricker, I should like to bore you for five
or ten minutes,” he announces.
“I am at leisure now, Jack. Sit down. It has been a rather light night
and there is an unusual lull just at present. What is on your mind?”
“It is something like half a dozen years since I began work on the
paper, is it not?”
“Just about, my son.”
“And during that time I have never kicked on an assignment or asked for
any particular job.”
“Yes; if I recollect rightly, that is about the size of it,” remarks
Ricker dryly. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“I should like the assignment of war correspondent at Havana.”
The city editor is silent for a moment.
“I am sorry you did not speak of this Havana business before,” he says,
encircling the pastepot with a ring of smoke. “Unfortunately I have
mapped out two or three months’ work for you at a place a good many
miles from the capital of Cuba.”
Ashley’s face does not reveal the disappointment he feels.
“All right, Mr. Ricker, I have no kick coming. I will break another one
of my rules and ask what the assignment is before I have been notified
of it.”
“It is an important mission, my son, and the selection of the man to
fill the place does not come within my department. But as a good man was
needed I urged the desirability of putting you on the job.”
“You are very kind,” murmurs Ashley.
“I intended to communicate to you his wishes to-night,” resumes Ricker.
“In fact, I received the assignment for you an hour ago and you would
have found it in your box in the morning.” The city editor tosses over a
yellow envelope and Ashley finds therein the brief notification:
“Beginning March 18, Mr. Ashley will enter upon the duties as war
correspondent at Santiago de Cuba.”
Ashley looks up and catches the indulgent smile of his chief.
“Ricker, you’re a jewel,” he says, warmly, extending his hand. The
friendship between the two men has long since leveled the wall of
official dignity.
“I had no idea you wanted the job,” smiles the city editor.
“Until to-day I had no desire to visit Cuba,” replies Ashley. “But at
present I want to go the worst way—or the best way. And my wish to reach
Cuban soil is not greatly influenced by personal reasons, either. I
expect some day to turn over to you a story that will cover a good share
of the first page and just now the trail is winding under the flags of
three nations—Spain, Cuba and the United States. But why Santiago,
instead of Havana?”
“For the reason that, as you may see by a look over to-night’s
telegrams, the eastern province of Cuba is likely to be the principal
theater of the struggle for independence. You know the sort of stuff we
want. Statements of fact, above all. You may have some difficulty in
getting us the facts by wire, as the government controls the cables; but
there are the mails, and in addition to the usual grind you might send a
two or three column chatty letter every fortnight or so that would be
interesting reading. Spend all the money that is necessary. Get right
out into the fighting; there isn’t one chance in a million of your being
hurt. Above all, send us facts. We cannot pay too much for facts.”
“Have you considered how I am to reach Santiago? You know there are no
steamer lines running to the island.”
“That has been arranged. The bulletin was received early this evening
that the new cruiser America had been ordered to Santiago. The managing
editor used his influence, and permission to send a representative on
the vessel has kindly been granted. There is some value in being on the
right side of an administration. The cruiser sails the day after
to-morrow, the 18th.”
Ashley and Ricker soon complete their talk and Jack starts for home in a
complacent condition of mind. Arriving at his rooms he slips into a
dressing-gown and stretches himself in an easy-chair for a smoke-lined
night-cap, and as the rings curl upward he sees in fancy the various
actors in the Raymond drama passing in review before a tropical
background of hazy blue hills and palm-shaded groves.
Suddenly he utters an exclamation: “Jupiter! How is Barker to get to
Cuba? He must have shot off to Key West without reading the morning
paper, and he probably was not aware that there are no steamers running
from Key West any more than from New York or other ports. When he does
learn that fact his remarks will not be fit for publication. Well, I
suppose, he will get there somehow, even if he has to swim. But in all
probability I shall reach the island before him.
“The trail is plain. It leads to Cuba, and somewhere in the gem of the
Antilles the threads of the Raymond murder mystery will touch and cross
and interweave.”
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