A POINT FOR THE ARCHCROOK.
For the merest part of a second Paul Clayton neither moved nor spoke.
Then his hand shot down to a side pocket and came up with a heavy
revolver.
The officer had been looking for some such move. He seized the young
man’s wrist and gave it a wrench that caused the weapon to fall
clattering to the floor.
“That won’t help you,” was the quiet warning. “Don’t resist, because
you will be the person to suffer if you do.”
“What am I arrested for?” asked Clayton, composing himself with a
tremendous effort.
“Stealing jewels estimated at about eighty thousand dollars from Mr.
Stephen Reed, of New York City. He is said to be your uncle. We think
we have the goods on you, too.”
Paul Clayton dropped his head despairingly. To think that, just when
he had been so sure that he could return to his uncle the jewels he
knew now he never had meant to keep, and begin life anew, with no stain
on his name, he had to be arrested by this strange detective, who had
followed him all this way, and seemed to have got to San Juan before
him!
“Very well!” he sighed. “I’ll go with you quietly. There is nothing
else I can do. I only want to say that Mr. Reed would have had all his
property back as soon as it could reach him by express, and that there
would have been no need for this arrest.”
“I guess so!” remarked the detective, with an incredulous shrug. “But
I caution you that anything you say may be used against you at your
trial. My advice to you is not to talk.”
“I have been a fool, I know,” went on Clayton, seemingly unable to keep
his tongue quiet. “But I meant to make good.”
“Be careful.”
“I am careful. I have nothing to hide. The suit case holding the
property is over on that chair, in my cabin. On the table is a letter I
have written to Mr. Reed, and which would have been mailed as soon as I
could get ashore. You can read it, and it will convince you that I have
been telling the truth.”
“You’d better tell that to the judge,” interrupted the officer.
“I want to tell it to you. I wish you’d look at that letter.”
“It isn’t necessary. Hold out your hands.”
In another second the handcuffs were clapped on the wrists of Paul
Clayton.
For the first time in his life he was a manacled prisoner. A dry sob
broke from his throat.
It was then, as the officer stepped behind him and placed a hand on the
precious suit case, that a curious change came over the face of the man
from headquarters.
He bent over the suit case and a grin widened his mouth in so
extraordinary a way that, if anybody who knew him had seen him at that
instant, he would have declared that this detective lieutenant from
New York was none other than John Garrison Rayne, the Apache!
“This is dead easy!” he muttered. “And it’s good that Nick Carter has
gone off the ship. I’ll take these few things from my innocent young
friend here, and he can get the handcuffs off when Carter comes back.”
How the scoundrel had contrived to get hold of the semiofficial uniform
he wore in so short a time was his own secret.
It need only be said that when a man has six hundred dollars in cash
in his pocket, he can get most things he wants, up to the value of his
pile, in San Juan, just as he can in any other busy center.
At all events, here was John Garrison Rayne on the _Cherokee_, in the
guise of a detective, seemingly carrying everything before him.
He had completely fooled Captain Bill Lawton, and Paul Clayton had not
the least suspicion that he was anything but what he pretended to be.
“You will remain in this cabin a prisoner for the present,” he said
shortly, turning to Clayton. “I shall have to go ashore and telegraph
to New York for instructions. Ah, here’s Captain Lawton!”
The skipper was coming down the companionway. He raised his eyebrows
as he saw that Paul Clayton was standing at the stateroom door, with
handcuffs on his wrists.
“Nabbed him, eh?” he growled.
“I have him under arrest,” replied Rayne, with dignity. “If you will
bring a couple of your men to guard the prisoner, I will stay till you
come back.”
“All right! I’ll get my bos’n, Clegg, and another man,” replied the
captain. “Clegg is the sort of fellow who won’t take any funny business
from anybody. With him and another, your prisoner will be as safe as if
he was in jail ashore.”
The captain hurried away to get Clegg--who, in the absence of Joe
Sykes, was acting as bos’n. He was glad to do anything he could to help
the officer from New York.
John Garrison Rayne watched the captain till he disappeared up the
stairway. Then he stooped and picked up the revolver Clayton had
dropped, putting it into his pocket.
The young man had fallen into a chair at the big table in the middle of
the saloon, and was sitting there, his head resting upon his arms, the
picture of despair.
The Apache strode deliberately into the stateroom--for he was afraid to
hurry or show any eagerness, lest he should be suspected--and picked up
the suit case.
As he brought it to the table, he was surprised to find that it was not
locked.
He opened it and turned out its contents upon the table as if they had
been a heap of pebbles. It was his way of showing that he regarded the
booty from a purely official point of view.
Paul Clayton did not look up. He seemed to have lost interest in
everything in the world just then.
Rayne had seen the jewels before. But he could not keep the glint out
of his eyes as they fell upon the glittering stones and gold settings
which would mean a fortune to him.
He had been at his last gasp financially when he had come on board
the old tramp steamer. He had had enough to pay his fare and provide
himself with cigars, and that was about all. He felt that he must make
a killing now, no matter at what risk.
It was just as Rayne had the jewels spread out on the table that
Captain Bill Lawton came down again. His eyes fell upon the display,
and he could not get his breath.
The genial skipper did not know much about the value of gems and richly
chased gold ornaments. But he felt sure this heap must be worth a great
deal of money. He found himself regretting that he had not known what
this young man had in his cabin.
How easy it would have been for the captain to get hold of the suit
case, empty it into a bag of his own, and go ashore, saying good-by to
the sea forever!
Captain Lawton might not have been guilty of this bit of villainy, even
if he had had the opportunity. But certainly he allowed his thoughts to
roam in this way, while a ruminative smile moved his hard lips.
John Garrison Rayne, familiar with the look of cupidity that steals
over the faces of some men, divined pretty well what was passing in
Captain Lawton’s mind. He brought the commander to himself sharply, by
remarking, in a matter-of-fact tone:
“This stuff seems to be all right. I don’t see that anything is
missing. But I’ll have to compare them with my list before I can be
sure.”
He shoveled the jewelry back into the suit case as if he had no
personal interest in the valuables, and shut the case with a snap.
“You will have two men to guard my prisoner, Captain Lawton,” he said
shortly. “I shall have to hold you responsible for his safe-keeping.
But I am not afraid that he will get away. I don’t see how he can,
so long as he is kept down here. He couldn’t get out of any of the
portholes.”
“He won’t get away!” grunted Captain Lawton. “I’ll answer for that.”
“All right! You’ll be paid for any trouble you have to take, of course.
I’ll take this stuff ashore to my hotel, and keep it until I get
instructions from New York.”
“I’ll be glad to see it off my ship,” declared Captain Lawton. “If you
like, I’ll send a couple of men ashore with you, to help you guard the
stuff till you put it away. I suppose you’ll stow it in the hotel safe.”
“Yes,” answered Rayne carelessly. “That will be the best place for it.
Meantime, I can look after it myself. You will hear from me some time
during the day.”
He took the suit case in his hand, and, with a grim smile under his
heavy mustache, walked to the companionway and up to the deck.
His impulse was to make a rush for his boat. But the Apache had too
much control of himself to yield to such an inclination. Instead, he
sauntered over to the head of the sea ladder and shouted to his two
oarsmen.
“Aye, aye, sir!” responded one of them, as they brought the craft up to
the small platform at the foot of the ladder. “All right, sir!”
With a slow and dignified step, John Garrison Rayne went down the
ladder. At the foot of it he stopped to wave a farewell to Captain
Lawton, who, with his first mate, Van Cross, was at the top. Then he
stepped into his boat and sat down in the stern, the valuable suit case
between his knees.
No sooner had the men got the boat clear of the steamer than Rayne
leaned forward and told them to hurry with all their might.
“It will be half a dollar extra for each of you if you put me ashore
inside of fifteen minutes,” he told them. “I have to meet a gentleman
who is going away on the train. Hurry!”
“Aye, aye, sir!” came in chorus from both of the oarsmen.
The promise of a tip has just as potent an effect in Porto Rico as it
has in any other part of the world. They rowed with savage eagerness,
and promised to get to shore in twelve minutes.
As the yawl cut its way through the heaving waters, John Garrison Rayne
mused over his good luck. He hugged the suit case between his knees,
and tried to decide on his next move.
“It was dead easy!” he muttered. “All I had to do was to get rid of
that gray wig, put on the mustache, and buy the clothes I wanted out
of the captain’s six hundred. Then I stepped into this boat, went up
to the _Cherokee_, clapped handcuffs on Paul Clayton, picked up the
suit case--after making sure it had the things in it--and quietly rowed
away. Why, it was like taking candy from a baby.”
He chuckled so loudly that both of his oarsmen looked quickly at him in
astonishment. He recovered himself immediately, and frowning severely
at them, told them to pull harder.
It was just as he administered this rebuke to his men that he glanced
over to the left, where a motor boat was chugging its way across the
harbor.
There were three men in it.
At first they were too far away for him to make out who they were.
Then, as the morning sun fell full upon their faces, he recognized them.
They were Nick Carter, Chick, and Patsy Garvan!
The motor boat swept past, causing the yawl to rock violently in its
back wash.
Rayne bent over and appeared to be tying the lace of his shoe. His face
was thus entirely concealed from the occupants of the motor boat.
When the danger of recognition was past, he hissed to his two
perspiring oarsmen:
“Make it in eight minutes, and I’ll give you a dollar apiece!”
The little yawl fairly leaped through the water, as the men put in all
the strength and activity they could muster.
“They’re going to the ship,” muttered Rayne. “I’ve got to be out of
the way quickly. There may be a way of signaling shore. If there is
anything like that to be done, that infernal Nick Carter will know how
to do it.”