BLUFFING IT THROUGH.
Rayne stood looking steadily into the still face of the acting governor
for a few moments, as if studying the features.
“Not a difficult face to make, I think,” he muttered.
He stepped lightly across the room to make sure that the door was
secure. Inspecting the deadlatch sharply, he decided that it would hold
the door against any possible interruption.
“When I get ready to go, I shall have to leave that unfastened,” he
muttered. “But I dare say I can make it secure enough on the outside to
suit my purpose. So long as I make my get-away, I need not care what
they do here afterward.”
He took off his gray wig, and stuffed it into a pocket, in company with
the mustache and beard.
“If I hadn’t had so much experience in making up, I should be a little
nervous over this thing,” he murmured. “As it is, I dare say I can make
myself into a Portersham that will pass muster.”
From one of his pockets he drew a small leather case, which contained
sticks of grease paint in tin foil, with other articles that he might
require in making up his face.
First of all, he had to take the Garnford red out of his cheeks. Then
he carefully imitated the complexion of the acting governor, being
particular to put on two small moles that he observed on the cheek and
chin respectively of the unconscious man.
In the course of ten minutes he had almost completely reproduced the
features of Jabez Portersham on his own countenance.
Line by line he brought out the contour of the young man’s face, with
every light wrinkle, every depression, every rounded part, and every
turn of expression that was part of the original, no matter how elusive
and slight it might be.
The first thing he did was to put on a wig of light hair, so near
the hue of Portersham’s that it might almost have been made from the
original. It had a touch of gray at the temples, which was so exactly
like that on the sides of the acting governor’s head that it might have
deceived his most intimate acquaintance.
“Good!” chuckled Rayne softly. “I’m glad I managed to have a good
squint at him on the street to-day. I reckon I’m getting it about as
close as any one could hope to do it.”
Actors, in making up, always put the wig on first, building up the face
afterward, and Rayne did the work in the approved professional way.
When everything seemed to be done, Rayne took a small mirror from
his pocket and examined himself critically under the strong, shaded
electric light. Then he walked over to a large mirror on the mantel and
took a general view.
He was entirely satisfied with himself in the large mirror, as well as
in the small one.
The nature of the Apache was so strange, and he had so much vanity in
his composition, stern as he was, that just then he thought much more
of the skill he had displayed in the art of make-up than of the fortune
in gems he was fighting so hard to retain, in the very teeth of the
detective who always had overcome him heretofore, Nick Carter.
“I reckon I’m going to show my friend Carter that his luck has changed,
so far as I am concerned,” he muttered. “If those men of his hadn’t
turned up at that café last night, I’d have put him in such a condition
that he would not have troubled me for a while, anyhow. I’m sorry my
knife missed him.”
There was a demoniacal snarl on the scoundrel’s lips. He was truly
sorry that he had not been able to commit a foul murder when he aimed
that stroke at the detective. As for compunction, that was a sentiment
that never troubled him.
“Well, my face is all right! Now for the clothes.”
His tone was businesslike. He might have been engaged in an entirely
legitimate task, so far as that was concerned.
“I’ll have to hurry,” he went on. “There is always the off chance of
somebody trying to get into this room. Even if I didn’t open the
door--which I certainly would not do--that very fact might stir up
suspicion. One never knows.”
He bent over the supine figure of Jabez Portersham, huddled in the
chair, and, deftly as a well-trained valet, took off the acting
governor’s outer garments, leaving him in his underclothing.
Deliberately, but without any waste of time, he put the suit of clothes
on himself, finishing off with the collar and necktie, and wearing the
watch and fob that was part of Portersham’s ordinary costume.
“By Jove!” he chuckled, as he surveyed himself in the large mirror.
“I am Jabez Portersham to the life. I don’t think I’ve overlooked
anything. Oh, yes! Here’s something.”
On the little finger of the unconscious man’s left hand was a large
diamond solitaire ring.
Rayne slipped it off and put it on his own little finger. It was loose
for him, but he decided that it would stay on, and that no one would
notice its being a little large.
“These details are important, sometimes,” he muttered. “Everybody who
knows this chap must have observed the ring. Besides, it is worth about
a thousand dollars, I should think. I should be a fool not to take it
with me.”
Now came the next move, which he had had in mind from the first, and
for which he had come fully prepared.
He took from his pockets a coil of thin wire and a small pad of cloth
like that with which he had administered the chloroform.
The pad he put in Portersham’s mouth, fastening it with a twist of the
wire around his head. Then he secured the arms and legs with the wire,
making sure that the acting governor would not be able to get free,
even if he should come to his senses.
“So far, good!” was his savage comment. “I shall have to put him where
he won’t be seen too quickly if any one comes in.”
It was easy for the athletic Apache to lift the young man from the
chair and stow him under the large library table.
“I’ll pile up these magazines and papers in front of him. Then he will
be masked in. I hope he’ll be comfortable under there, too.”
He grinned at this brutal jest, and heaped a few more papers under the
table, hiding his victim completely.
“With the wires on him, and the dose of dope he has in his system, he
will be safe enough for a while,” he reflected. “Now I come to the real
risk of the job. I’m glad I’m not deficient in nerve.”
He looked around him, felt in all the pockets of the clothing he had
taken off to make sure he had everything out--including the bags of
jewelry--patted his chest to assure himself that the flat bag was in
its place under his shirt, and pushed his discarded garments under the
table with the senseless Portersham.
“Now for it!” he breathed softly.
He opened the door without any noise and stepped into the hallway. His
heart beat a little faster than usual, but he never faltered in what
he had set himself to do. Neither did he show in his demeanor what a
strain there was upon even his steely nerves.
Briggs was sitting inside a small room off the hall that was his
particular domain. The door was open, so that the butler could see
everybody who might pass up and down.
His orders were to make sure no one loafed about the palace unless he
had business there.
As a public building, many strangers were in the palace during the
day. But in the late afternoon and evening, when official business was
suspended for the day, only those living in the house, or authorized
visitors, could be permitted to remain.
Briggs jumped to his feet and stood in the hall, waiting for orders, as
he saw the supposed acting governor coming along from his room.
Rayne was obliged to grip himself as he came face to face with Briggs.
This butler was more than a mere servant. He was expected to take on
himself the duties of a detective, and, naturally, he was disposed to
be suspicious.
The Apache took the bull by the horns.
“Is my secretary in?” he asked sharply--and his imitation of the tones
of Jabez Portersham was marvelous.
“Yes, sir,” answered Briggs. “Mr. Morlein is in his office. Shall I
send him to you?”
Rayne smiled inwardly. He had not known the name of the private
secretary, but he had learned it now, and without difficulty. The game
was playing into his hands.
The butler walked a little way down the hallway--it was on the second
floor of the building--and was about to knock on a door.
“Never mind!” interrupted Rayne. “I’ll go in and see him. You need not
knock.”
The Apache had found out where Morlein’s room was. This, also, was a
piece of information that had not been in his possession before. He did
not know the way of the palace. In fact, this was the first time he
ever had been within its walls.
Again getting a firm grip on his nerves, Rayne opened the door of the
secretary’s room and walked in with the authoritative manner of a chief
visiting a subordinate.
Henry Morlein was a tail, athletic young fellow, whose greeting
indicated that he was on very friendly terms with his chief.
His feet were on the edge of his desk, and though he took them down
when the supposed acting governor entered, he did it languidly, as if
it were not an unusual thing for him to be caught in this careless
attitude.
“Hello, chief!” he drawled, as he removed a cigar from his mouth. “I
thought you’d gone to the theater. They’re doing opera, I’m told--and
rather well, at that.”
“I was going, but I changed my mind.”
Rayne said this carelessly, but he trembled lest his imitation of Jabez
Portersham’s tones should fail to deceive this wide-awake young man.
He reflected that Henry Morlein was accustomed to the sound of the
acting governor’s voice every day, and should be able to detect an
imitation where many others might fail.
But Morlein did not appear to observe anything unusual in the accent
and inflection, and Rayne went on calmly:
“It’s just as well that I didn’t go. Did you know that Senator Micah
Garnford was in to see me a little while ago?”
“Senator Garnford?” ejaculated Morlein, in surprise. “Why, I thought
he was in Washington. Seems to me I was reading in the paper that he
made a great speech on the tariff the day before yesterday.”
“That was last week,” declared Rayne. “He’s in San Juan now. Do you
know the senator personally, Morlein?”
“Never saw him in my life,” was the prompt reply. “I never even saw his
picture. Rather a fine man, I’ve been told.”
“I think so. But that isn’t the point. I’ve got to go to Washington
right away--on official business.”
Henry Morlein threw the end of his cigar into a cuspidor and looked up
in astonishment.
“Geewhillikins! That’s sudden, isn’t it?”
“Government business is often sudden, Morlein,” replied Rayne gravely.
“I wish you would telephone the wharf where the steamer _Spangled Star_
lies, and tell the agent to hold a deck stateroom for Mr. Portersham,
will you?”
“She is to sail at ten o’clock,” remarked Morlein. “It’s half past nine
now. There won’t be much time.”
“Of course not. That’s why I want you to phone without delay. Tell them
I will try to be there at ten o’clock. If I am a little late, they are
to hold the ship for me.”
“All right, sir,” replied Morlein, as he turned to the telephone on his
desk.
Rayne took a seat and lighted one of the cigars that he took from
Portersham’s cigar case, which he had found in his pocket.
The Apache wanted a smoke. Even if he had not, most likely he would
have taken out the case. It would be one of the little proofs of his
identity which might impress Henry Morlein in case he were suspicious.
The venturesome scoundrel listened to one end of the telephonic
conversation between his private secretary and the steamship agent at
the wharf.
He gathered, from Morlein’s replies, that the agent was objecting to
holding the _Spangled Star_ for any one, even the acting governor of
Porto Rico. But Morlein shut him off sharply on that, telling him that
those were Mr. Portersham’s orders, and they had to be obeyed.
John Garrison Rayne grinned slightly behind his cigar. He was thinking
how different everything would be if either Morlein or the steamship
agent were to find out who this supposed Jabez Portersham really was.
“All right, sir,” observed Morlein, at last, as he hung up the
receiver. “They are reserving stateroom B for you on the upper deck.
There is a suite of two rooms and bath. I hope you will have a pleasant
trip. The steamer goes right through to New York. That will be your
quickest route to Washington.”
“I know that,” answered Rayne. “It will suit me, all right. I may have
to stay over in New York for an hour or two.”
“What about your baggage? Do you want me to give orders about it?”
“No,” was Rayne’s reply. “I’ve no time to bother about that. I can
borrow anything I need from some of the officers on the ship. Pajamas
are about all I should want till I get to New York. It is easy to buy
things there. Is my automobile ready?”
“I’ll have it at the front door by the time we get there,” answered
Morlein, as he took up the telephone receiver again.
“Very well. You might come down to the ship with me, Morlein.”
“All right!”
* * * * *
An hour later, John Garrison Rayne was sitting in his comfortable suite
on board the modern and well-equipped steamer, _Spangled Star_, as it
skimmed out of San Juan harbor on its way to the Atlantic.
“Well, it is rather a relief to get away from San Juan,” he muttered,
with a grim smile. “There are people there I don’t much like.”