The Fee’s eyes sparkled with delight as he listened. When Thornley
Colton had finished, queer gurgling noises of joy issued from the boy’s
throat before the words came:
“Jumpin’ Jiminy, Mr. Colton! A motor boat at night an’ a disguise.
That’s _real_ detective work!”
The blind man’s lips framed a whimsical smile as he gazed down at the
red-haired, freckled-faced youth, with the slightly twisted nose, who
had become a member of the Colton household as the result of a
particularly baffling murder case, for which he had been the only fee.
“A whole lot depends on you, Shrimp,” said Thornley Colton seriously.
“Michael will go with you, but your part will have to be done all alone.
I don’t think you will be in any personal danger; if I did I wouldn’t
let you go.”
Some of the joyous light went from the boy’s eyes. “Chee! I wisht there
was goin’ t’ be some real gun play,” he sighed.
“You have a long life before you,” laughed Colton. “Hurry now; here
comes Sydney.”
As his secretary entered he turned to face him. “Your foolish fear of
women is not going to spoil it, Sydney?” he asked amusedly.
“No!” Sydney answered with the gruffness that was always in his voice
when this subject was brought up. Sydney’s fear of woman was really
adoration. All women, to him, were angels; his fear was that he would
fall in love with one--and he was nameless, a bundle of rags, abandoned
on the banks of the Thames in London. This was constantly in Sydney
Thames’s mind.
“Here comes MacLaren,” the blind man said suddenly; a moment later the
big, square-jawed man burst into the room.
“Where are they? Have you got them?” he gasped, the top-coat, flung over
his arm, dragging on the floor.
“Your coat will need the services of a dozen brushers in a short while,”
murmured Colton.
“Damn the coat!” flared MacLaren, flinging it on to the library desk.
“I’ve walked forty miles, in that office of mine, this afternoon. Every
reporter in the world has baited me. I’ve had a very devil of a time
getting here without them on my trail. Our code messages from Europe say
the financiers are grinning up their sleeves at us. They know! And all
the word I get from you is to be here at seven o’clock, and you’d show
me where the papers were.”
“I said I’d get the papers, and show you where the murderers were,”
corrected Colton mildly. “I have an old-fashioned idea of the value of
human life.”
“Yes. Certainly,” choked MacLaren. The hours of inaction had done their
work.
“We have a dinner engagement at eight,” went on Colton smoothly.
“Dinner!” exploded the square-jawed man. “My God, man! You----”
“Exactly.” The voice of the blind man held a new tone now; a steel-like
timbre that Sydney Thames instantly recognized. “I am taking you to that
dinner to get your mind off the terrible events of this afternoon.
Nothing else!”
“Where is the dinner?” The meekness of the big man was almost ludicrous.
“On the yacht of your nephew, Percy Vanderpoole.”
“That fool!” There was acridity in the voice this time.
“He has that reputation.” Sydney Thames thought the tone dry. “He is
giving what he calls a wireless dinner on his yacht, anchored off the
Metropolis Yacht Club. All the arrangements were made, and the
invitations sent out from the _Moravia_, by wireless. You know Percy has
quite a reputation for unique affairs of this kind. I called him up this
afternoon regarding some other matter, and he insisted that I come. I
sought an invitation for you, and I got it. Several men who were friends
on the way over are included.”
“All right,” agreed MacLaren gloweringly.
“We’ll go to the club in your car,” was all Thornley Colton said, as he
led the way from the room.
Vanderpoole’s guests were all awaiting their appearance, and
introductions were hurried through. There was a gushy, black-haired Miss
Clements, who was paired with an anæmic, slightly-built American; a
tall, stout German, who answered the name of Von Wagnen, with pale
cheeks, and chin that contrasted strangely with his ruddy forehead; a
dissipated-looking Englishman named Brookes; several feminine
nonentities, and one or two of Percy’s male society friends. It was a
mixed party, characteristic of the money-flinging Percy Vanderpoole.
The hurry was in honour of the military-looking Count d’Auboi whom Percy
had met in Europe two years before, with his charming wife, the
countess. The count had been aboard the _Moravia_. So had the countess,
though Percy chaffed her for taking her cabin before he even knew she
was aboard, and staying there the whole time. Her cheeks were
colourless, but her eyes shone, despite the fearful ordeal of
seasickness she now laughed over. And there was the great joke of the
count, who confessed that he had never been in America, losing Percy on
the pier, and wandering around the city for several hours, with his
nervous wife, until they succeeded in locating Percy by telephone.
“They finally got to the Waldorf, Lord knows how,” laughed Percy, as he
led the way to the dining-cabin. “And now they’re going on the midnight
train to Frisco, so we’ll have to hustle this little affair through.”
“My seestair, she is married there,” smiled the count, in his broken
English. Then, with entire disregard of connection: “An’ I even mees my
brodair-in-law, Mr. Clauson”--he indicated the anæmic-looking
American--“who come to meet us.”
Sydney took his seat, almost tremulously between the Countess d’Auboi
and the vivacious Miss Clements, at the table in the mahogany-finished
cabin. But in a few minutes he was surprised and delighted to find that
his foolish fear of the sex was being driven away like mist before the
sunshine of the charming countess’s conversation. Miss Clements, at his
left, chattered away at a mad rate to Clauson, and did not bother him.
But the countess, her wonderful voice surcharged with sympathy and the
intuitive understanding of women, drew him from his shell immediately.
Across the table the blind man chatted with Count d’Auboi, who was even
more charming, if possible, than his wife. At the head of the table
Percy laughed uproariously at the dissipated-looking Englishman’s
account of his first pigsticking in India. At the foot, MacLaren
glowered in silence, utterly ignoring the sullen-looking German and the
yellow-haired woman who was his partner. The dissipated Englishman and
the German were cabin friends Percy had met on the _Moravia_. They had
both been interesting, and that was all Percy ever asked.
During a lull in the conversation Percy happened to glance at the face
of the German, who had relapsed into sullen silence after repeated
attempts to get a word from MacLaren.
“Any one would think you’d committed a crime, Von Wagnen,” he laughed.
The blind man was the only one who did not see the blood mount to the
strangely pale cheeks of the Teuton; but MacLaren was the only one who
caught the lighting eye signal from the Englishman. His own eyes
narrowed cunningly. This was no mere dinner engagement!
“But what a horrible crime the murder of Mr. Villers was!” gushed Miss
Clements, with a shiver.
“By Jove!” The ejaculation came from Percy Vanderpoole. “You used to be
quite clever at solving mysteries, Mr. Colton. Why don’t you get on this
one?”
MacLaren cursed under his breath. Sydney Thames could not keep the
startled look from his eyes.
“You are a detective, Mr. Colton?” The countess asked it almost
accusingly, the charming touch of accent in her voice giving it a subtle
undercurrent of laughter.
Thornley Colton’s thin lips smiled back at her. “I do a little in that
line,” he admitted.
“Tell us about eet.” It was the count at his side, eyes eager with
interest.
“My cases are only simple little affairs, naturally,” deprecated the
blind man. He thrust two fingers into his waistcoat pocket. “Here is
something that I expect to solve a mystery for me.” He held a small,
glittering diamond on his outstretched palm. MacLaren’s keen ears caught
the sharp intake of breath of the German at his side. “Yes,” continued
the problemist. “That came from the thumb ring of a pickpocket, torn
from the prongs by the lining of his victim’s coat.”
“An’ he deed not know eet--what a joke!” laughed the count, picking up
the diamond from the extended palm, more closely to examine the stone.
The light from the shaded incandescents above reflected in the four
small rubies that formed the eyes of the twisted snake ring he wore on
his thumb.
The sullen-looking German had apparently recovered his nerve. MacLaren
looked puzzled.
“Let’s see it; I know a bit about the bally things.” The Englishman took
the stone from the count. “There’s a flaw in it as big as a shilling!”
he announced, with the disgust of an expert. Again MacLaren caught the
signal of eyes to the German beside him.
“Dere iss few goot stones,” announced the Teuton ponderously.
“Ple-ese tell us about it?” pleaded the countess.
“Oh, do, please do,” pouted Miss Clements, as if to forestall a refusal.
The request was chorused by the others.
“It really isn’t worth it,” protested Colton; then he seemed to know,
for the first time, that the Englishman held the stone for him to take
back. “Thank you,” he smiled, as he replaced it carefully in his pocket.
“I was afraid some one would switch off the lights and steal it in the
darkness and confusion. By the way, Percy, is that deck-light switch
still where it used to be when your father was alive?”
“The same place,” nodded Vanderpoole. “Right beside the cabin-door, on
the after-deck.”
“See!” Colton’s laugh was loud, but somehow it did not seem to ring
true. “Any one could steal the stone in the darkness, and get away with
it.”
MacLaren scowled. His quick mind understood that Colton wanted the
location of that switch for some purpose of his own. And, without eyes,
he must take this method of learning its location. But he knew that the
other guests, too, had recognized some sinister motive under the
palpable affectation of banter the blind man had assumed. There came a
tenseness there had not been before. And every one knew the location of
the switch that could plunge the decks into instant darkness.
“Let’s have the coffee and cigarettes under the awnings on the
after-deck,” suggested Percy, to cover the break.
“Let’s,” acquiesced Colton eagerly, then he paused impressively for an
instant. “If you’ll hurry I’ll tell you something about the Villers
murder. I _am_ working on that case!”
Instantly chairs were pushed back as the guests crowded to the door.
As Sydney rose, the countess found time to whisper in his ear:
“He speaks strangely, your Mr. Colton.” There was feminine nervousness
in her voice. Sydney nodded dumbly, sick at heart. The blind man he
loved had made a mistake.
MacLaren kept close to the sullen German, utterly ignoring his
yellow-haired dinner partner. The money machine’s hands were clenched in
his pockets, his shoulders braced for some attack. “A big, stout man,
with a full beard,” was the description he remembered. The Teuton
answered that description perfectly; the pale cheeks showed where the
beard had been recently shaven. He passed out to the awninged,
dimly-lighted deck, brushing the coat of the blind man, who stood beside
the door, almost over the small wicker table where the countess and
Sydney had taken their seats with the brother-in-law of the count and
the chatty Miss Clements.
For several seconds the blind man stood there, apparently calmly eyeing
them. The light of the switch incandescent shone on his wavy, white
hair, his broad shoulders, his deep chest. The German moved uneasily.
The dissipated-looking Englishman, who had manœuvred to a seat beside
him, gripped his arm. Every muscle in MacLaren’s body was tense. The
yellow-haired woman and the three other feminine nonentities bit their
lips nervously.
Sydney Thames could not repress his own nervousness. Was the blind man
going to accuse desperate men who had murdered a man and robbed him of
papers worth a hundred millions? No help was near. The sky was cloudy,
the anchorage was deserted, except for an empty speed boat that rode at
anchor in the silent darkness two hundred yards away.
Then Thornley Colton spoke quietly, smoothly. “The story of the diamond
is the story of the Villers murder.” One hand drew out the crystalless
watch. “It is now ten-thirty; at ten-forty-five the police will search
this boat for the papers stolen from the unconscious man in front of his
office!” Men and women jumped to their feet. “Sit still!” His hand went
above his head. The switch snapped out. They were in darkness.
A chair toppled over. They heard him fumble with the switch lever. Then,
shrill, frightened, came the voice of a boy:
“Let go! Let go! I’m workin’ fer Mister Colton!”
The lights came. Startled men and women saw a small boy squirming in the
grasp of a brawny man. Sydney Thames knocked over the empty chair at his
right as he leaped to his feet. It was The Fee, caught, and in his hand
was a black bag.
“It’s the papers!” yelled The Fee.
Thames knew instantly the reason for that sudden darkness. It was
Colton’s plan--and an ignorant deck hand had ruined it!
But almost in a bound Thornley Colton was at the boy’s side. He tore the
man’s hands from his arm, with fingers like steel.
“It’s all right, Mike; start ’er!” screamed the freckle-faced boy.
Under their very feet, seemingly, came the bark of a gasoline engine.
“Stand back!” ordered Colton.
Dumbly, as if dazed, they obeyed. The boy stood alone at the rail. Below
him the motor boat coughed.
Dreyfus MacLaren jumped forward to take the bag. A clenched fist sent
him sprawling. A hand tore the bag from the boy’s hand. A black
automatic swept before the circle of white faces. Behind it was Count
d’Auboi, lips drawn back in a snarl.
“I take it!” The snarling smoothness went out of the voice; it rose to a
yell: “_Jean!_”
At the signal the darkness again shut down on them. They stood huddled
together before the menacing automatic they could not see.
“A move, I shoot into ze crowd, a woman, maybe,” came the flint-like
voice of the count before them. Somewhere behind them came the sounds of
a short scuffle, a snarled oath. A man leaped to the rail. A splash
sounded below; then a hoarse order in French.
“’Nette!” snapped the count. There was no response. Again came that
hoarse voice from the water. A scrambling shadow over the rail. The
motor boat leaped away from the side.
Out of the darkness came the piercing call of a police whistle. Across
the black waters a broad beam of dazzling white shot out--picked up the
boat--held it. Men were running on the decks of the speed craft two
hundred yards away. It fairly leaped in pursuit of the smaller boat.
The white searchlight brought out the escaping boat with startling
vividness. The two men crouched over the wheel. The black bag was on the
seat beside them. A line of fire shot from the pursuing boat. Another.
The small engine went dead. The space was closing now--fifty
yards--twenty--the searchlight still held like a calcium.
The stupefied watchers on the yacht saw the count stand up in the boat;
saw him look wildly around. He stooped, picked up the black satchel, and
flung it far out into the water. In the bright glare they could see his
very teeth bared in a snarling smile as he waited. The ripples gleamed
in an ever-widening circle where the satchel had sunk.
“Nervy devil, isn’t he?” It was the cool voice of Thornley Colton. For
the first time the watchers realized that the lights were on again; that
they had been actors in reality, not wraiths in a dream.
Dreyfus MacLaren was first to recover, and as he raised his voice it had
in it the strong man’s sob:
“My God! The data!”
“The charming Countess Annette is sitting on them,” smiled Thornley
Colton. “I couldn’t bear exposing her to police shots. She is handcuffed
to her chair.”