We could only stare from Burke to Hastings, startled at the magnitude
of the affair as it developed so rapidly.
For a moment Hastings was at a loss, then darted quickly into a
telephone-booth to call up his office on long distance for confirmation
of the news.
As we waited I happened to glance out into the lobby. At the far end,
in an angle, to my surprise I saw Shelby and Paquita. Evidently she had
hovered about, waiting for a chance to find him alone, and had at last
succeeded.
Already Kennedy and Burke had seen them.
Paquita was talking earnestly. Of course, we could not overhear what
was said, and they were so placed that even if we moved closer to them
they would be likely to see us. Still, from our corner we could observe
without being observed.
It seemed as if Paquita were making a desperate effort to attract
Shelby, while, on his part, it was quite evident that he was
endeavoring to get away.
Paquita was indeed a fascinating figure. From what I had already
observed, a score of the young fellows about the Harbor House would
have given their eyes to have been in Shelby’s place. Why was he
seeking so to avoid her? Was it that he did not dare to trust himself
with the little dancer? Or was there some hold that she had over him
which he feared?
The interview had not proceeded long when Shelby deliberately seemed to
excuse himself and walked away. Paquita looked after him as he hurried
off, and I would have given much to have been close enough to observe
her expression. Was it one of fury, of a woman scorned? At any rate, I
would have wagered that it boded no good for Shelby.
I turned to say something to Kennedy and found that he was looking
in another direction. We were not the only observers. From a window
outside on the porch the sallow-faced man was also watching. As
Shelby walked away the man seemed to be very angry. Was it the anger
of jealousy because Paquita was with Shelby or was it anger because
Shelby had repulsed her advances? Who was the fellow and why was he so
interested in the little dancer and the young millionaire?
Hastings rejoined us from the telephone-booth, his face almost pale.
“It’s a fact,” he groaned. “They have been trying to reach me all day,
but could not. The secret of the telautomaton stolen――the secret that
is too terrible to be in the hands of any one except the Government.
How did you hear of it?” he asked Burke.
Burke answered slowly, watching the expression on Hastings’s face.
“When the cashier of the company arrived at the office this morning he
found the safe had been rifled. It seems an almost incomprehensible
thing――as you will understand when you see it for yourself. The cashier
telephoned at once to the Secret Service in the Custom-House, and
I jumped out on the case. You did not go to your own office. I did
a little hasty deduction――guessed that you might have gone to see
Kennedy. At any rate, I wanted to see him myself.”
Kennedy interrupted long enough to tell about the revolver-shot and the
attack on Hastings at our very door.
“Whew!” exclaimed Burke, “just missed you. Well,” he added, with a dry
sort of humor, “I missed you, too, and decided to come out here on
the train. Kennedy, you must go back to town with me and look at that
safe. How anybody could get into it is a mystery beyond me. But the
telautomaton is gone. My orders are simple――get it back!”
For a moment neither Kennedy nor Hastings spoke. It was most
peculiar――the plans gone in Westport, the model gone in New York.
“Who could have stolen the model?” I asked, finally. “Have you any
theory, Burke?”
“A theory, yes,” he replied, slowly, “but no facts to back it. I
suppose you know that the war has driven out some of the most clever
and astute crooks that Paris, Vienna, London, and other capitals
ever produced. The fact is that we are at present in the hands of
the largest collection of high-grade foreign criminals that has ever
visited this country. I think it is safe to say that at present there
are more foreign criminals of high degree in New York and at the
fashionable summer resorts than could be found in all the capitals of
Europe combined. They have evaded military service because at heart
they are cowards and hate work. War is hard work. Then, there is little
chance of plying their trade, for their life is the gay life of the
cafés and boulevards. Besides, America is the only part of the world
where prosperity is reigning. So they are here, preying on American
wealth. Suppose some one――some foreign agent――wanted the telautomaton.
There are plenty of tools he could use for his purpose in obtaining it.”
The countenance of the sallow-faced man recurred to me. It was an
alarming possibility that Burke’s speculation raised. Were we really
not involved in a pure murder case, but in the intricacies of the
machinations of some unknown power?
Burke looked at his watch, then again at Kennedy. “Really, I think you
ought to go back to town,” he reiterated, “and take the case up there.”
“And leave these people all here to do as they please, cover up what
they will?” objected Hastings, who had tried to prevent just that sort
of thing by bringing Kennedy out post-haste.
“My men are perfectly competent to watch anything that goes on at
Westport,” returned Burke. “I have them posted all about and I’m
digging up some good stuff. Already I know just what happened the
night before the conference. That cabaret dancer, Paquita, motored out
here and arrived about the time the _Sybarite_ cast anchor. She met
Shelby Maddox at the Casino and they had a gay supper party. But it
ended early. She knew that Marshall Maddox was coming the next day. I
know he had known her in the city. As to Shelby we don’t know yet. The
meeting may have been chance or it may have been prearranged.”
I recalled not only the little incident we had just seen, but the
glance of jealousy Paquita had given Shelby when she saw him with
Winifred. What did it mean? Had Shelby Maddox been using Paquita
against his brother, and now was he trying to cast her off? Or
was Burke’s theory correct? Was she a member of a clever band of
super-criminals, playing one brother against the other for some
ulterior end? Was the jealousy feigned or was it real, after all?
“What I am endeavoring to do now,” went on Burke, “is to trace the
doings of Paquita the night of the murder. I cannot find out whether
she came out at the invitation of Marshall Maddox or not. Perhaps it
was Shelby. I don’t know. If it was Marshall, what about his former
wife? Did he suppose that she would not be here? Or didn’t he care?”
“Perhaps――blackmail,” suggested Hastings, who, as a lawyer, had had
more or less to do with such attempts.
Burke shook his head. “It might have been, of course, but in that case
don’t you think you, as Maddox’s lawyer, would have heard something of
it? You have not――have you? You don’t know anything about her?”
Burke regarded the lawyer keenly, as though he might be concealing
something. But Hastings merely shook his head.
“Mr. Maddox did not confide his weaknesses to me,” Hastings remarked,
coldly.
“If we are going back to the city,” returned Burke, cheerfully changing
the subject, to the evident surprise of Hastings, “I must find my
operative, Riley, and let him know what to do while we are gone.”
“Look,” muttered Kennedy under his breath to us and nodding down the
lobby.
Shelby Maddox had sought and found Winifred, and was chatting as
animatedly as if there had been no Paquita in the world less than five
minutes before.
As we watched, Hastings remarked: “It was only the day before the
murder that Shelby first met Winifred Walcott. I believe he had never
seen his brother-in-law’s sister before. She had been away in the West
ever since Frances Maddox married Walcott. Winifred seems to have made
a quick conquest.”
Remembering what had happened before, I took a quick look about to see
whether any one else was as interested as ourselves. Seeing no one,
Kennedy and I strolled down the corridor quietly.
We had not gone far before we stopped simultaneously. Nestled in the
protecting wings of a big wicker chair was Paquita, and as we watched
her she never took her eyes from the couple ahead.
What did this constant espionage of Shelby mean? For one thing, we must
place this little adventuress in the drama of the Maddox house of hate.
We moved back a bit where we could see them all.
A light footfall beside us caused us to turn suddenly. It was Mito,
padding along on some errand to his master. As he passed I saw that his
beady eyes had noted that we were watching Shelby. There was no use
to retreat now. We had been observed. Mito passed, bestowing a quick
sidewise glance on Paquita as he did so. A moment later he approached
Shelby deferentially and stood waiting a few feet away.
Shelby looked up and saw his valet, bowed an excuse to Winifred, and
strode over to where Mito was standing. The conversation was brief.
What it was about we had no means of determining, but of one thing we
were certain. Mito had not neglected a hasty word to his master that
he was watched. For, an instant later when Mito had been dismissed,
Shelby returned to Winifred and they walked deliberately out of the
hotel across a wide stretch of open lawn in the direction of the
tennis-courts. To follow him was a confession that we were watching.
Evidently, too, that had been Shelby’s purpose, for as he chatted he
turned half-way, now and then, to see if they were observed. Again Mito
padded by and I fancied I caught a subtle smile on his saturnine face.
If we were watching, we were ourselves no less watched.
There was nothing to be gained in this blind game of hide-and-seek,
and Kennedy was evidently not yet prepared to come out into the open.
Paquita, too, seemed to relinquish the espionage for the moment, for
she rose and walked slowly toward the Casino, where she was quickly
joined by some of her more ardent admirers.