Half an hour later we were on our way by train to Westport with
Hastings. As the train whisked us along Craig leaned back in his chair
and surveyed the glimpses of water and countryside through the window.
Now and then, as we got farther out from the city, through a break in
the trees one could catch glimpses of the deep-blue salt water of bay
and Sound, and the dazzling whiteness of sand.
Now and then Kennedy would break in with a question to Hastings,
showing that his mind was actively at work on the case, but by his
manner I could see that he was eager to get on the spot before all that
he considered important had been messed up by others.
Hastings hurried us directly from the train to the little undertaking
establishment to which the body of Marshall Maddox had been taken.
A crowd of the curious had already gathered, and we pushed our way in
through them.
There lay the body. It had a peculiar, bloated appearance and the face
was cyanosed and blue. Maddox had been a large man and well set up. In
death he was still a striking figure. What was the secret behind those
saturnine features?
“Not a scratch or a bruise on him, except those made in handling the
body,” remarked the coroner, who was also a doctor, as he greeted
Kennedy.
Craig nodded, then began his own long and careful investigation. He
was so busily engaged, and I knew that it was so important to keep him
from being interrupted, that I placed myself between him and those who
crowded into the little room back of the shop.
But before I knew it a heavily veiled woman had brushed past me and
stood before the body.
“Irene Maddox!” I heard Hastings whisper in Kennedy’s ear as Craig
straightened up in surprise.
As she stood there there could be no doubt that Irene Maddox had been
very bitter toward her husband. The wound to her pride had been deep.
But the tragedy had softened her. She stood tearless, however, before
the body, and as well as I could do so through her veil I studied her
face. What did his death mean to her, aside from the dower rights that
came to her in his fortune? It was impossible to say.
She stood there several minutes, then turned and walked deliberately
out through the crowd, looking neither to the right nor to the left.
I found myself wondering at the action. Yet why should she have
shown more emotion? He had been nothing to her but a name――a hateful
name――for years.
My speculation was cut short by the peculiar action of a dark-skinned,
Latin-American-looking man whose face I had not noticed in the crowd
before the arrival of Mrs. Maddox. As she left he followed her out.
Curious, I turned and went out also. I reached the street door just in
time to see Irene Maddox climb into a car with two other people.
“Who are they?” I asked a boy standing by the door.
“Mr. and Mrs. Walcott,” he replied.
Even in death the family feud persisted. The Walcotts had not even
entered.
“Did you know that the Walcotts brought Mrs. Maddox here?” I asked
Hastings as I returned to Kennedy.
“No, but I’m not surprised,” he returned. “You remember I told you
Frances took Irene’s part. Walcott must have returned from the city as
soon as he heard of the tragedy.”
“Who was that sallow-faced individual who followed her out?” I asked.
“Did you notice him?”
“Yes, I saw him, but I don’t know who he can be,” replied Hastings. “I
don’t think I ever saw him before.”
“That Latin-American?” interposed Kennedy, who had completed his first
investigation and made arrangements to co-operate with the coroner in
carrying on the autopsy in his own laboratory. “I was wondering myself
whether he could have any connection with Paquita. Where is she now?”
“At the Harbor House, I suppose,” answered Hastings――“that is, if she
is in town.”
Kennedy hurried out of the establishment ahead of us and we looked down
the street in time to see our man headed in the direction the Walcott
automobile had taken.
He had too good a start of us, however, and before we could overtake
him he had reached the Harbor House and entered. We had gained
considerably on him, but not enough to find out where he went in the
big hotel.
The Harbor House was a most attractive, fashionable hostelry, a
favorite run for motor parties out from the city. On the water-front
stood a large, red-roofed, stucco building known as the Casino,
entirely given over to amusements. Its wide porch of red tiles,
contrasting with the innumerable white tables on it, looked out over
the sheltered mouth of Westport Bay and on into the Sound, where,
faintly outlined on the horizon, one saw the Connecticut shore.
Back of the Casino, and on a hill so that it looked directly over the
roof of the lower building, was the hotel itself, commonly known as
the Lodge, a new, up-to-date, shingle-sheathed building with every
convenience that money and an expensive architect could provide. The
place was ideal for summer sports――golf, tennis, motoring, bathing,
boating, practically everything one could wish.
As we walked through the Lodge we could almost feel in the air the
excited gossip that the death of Maddox had created in the little
summer colony at Westport.
Vainly seeking our dark-skinned man, we crossed to the Casino. As we
approached the porch Hastings took Kennedy’s arm.
“There are Shelby Maddox and Winifred Walcott,” he whispered.
“I should like to meet them,” said Kennedy, glancing at the couple whom
Hastings had indicated at the far end of the porch.
Following the lawyer, we approached them.
Shelby Maddox was a tall young chap, rather good-looking, inclined to
the athletic, and with that deferential, interested manner which women
find almost irresistible.
As we approached he was talking earnestly, oblivious to everything
else. I could not blame him. Winifred was a slender, vivacious girl,
whose gray-blue eyes caught and held yours even while you admired her
well-rounded cheeks, innocent of make-up. Her high forehead denoted an
intellect which the feminine masses of puffy light-brown hair made all
the more charming. One felt her personality in every action. She was
not afraid of sun and air. A pile of the more serious magazines near
her indicated that she was quite as much alive to the great movements
that are stirring the world to-day as she was to the outdoor life that
glowed in her face. It was easy to see that Shelby Maddox was having a
new experience.
“Good morning,” greeted Hastings.
Winifred smiled, but Shelby was plainly annoyed at the intrusion of the
lawyer. I could not make out whether there was an aversion to Hastings
behind the annoyance or not.
The introductions over, we sat down for a moment. Hastings had been
careful not to say that Kennedy was a detective, but to hint that he
was a friend and, by implication, a lawyer.
“It must have been a severe shock when you heard what had happened,” he
began, speaking to Winifred.
“It was indeed,” she replied, gravely. “You see, I stayed here at the
Harbor House while my brother and sister-in-law were on the yacht.
Johnson came off early because he had to go to the city, and telephoned
up to the room that they were going to be late and Frances would stay
out on the yacht. Then when I came down this morning they were just
bringing the body ashore.”
She shuddered at the recollection and Shelby flashed a look at Kennedy
as though he could knife him for bringing up the distasteful subject.
It seemed as though Shelby Maddox was pretty unconcerned about his
brother’s death.
“Strange that you heard nothing on the yacht,” switched Kennedy,
looking full at Shelby.
“We didn’t,” returned the young man, but in a tone that showed his
attention was somewhere else.