At the Westport station, when our train pulled in, there was the usual
gathering of cars to meet the late afternoon express from the city.
As we four were searching for a jitney ’bus to take us down to the
Harbor House I caught sight in the press of cars of the Walcott car.
Sitting in the back were Winifred and her sister-in-law, Mrs. Walcott,
sister of the murdered man. They had come up to meet her husband,
Johnson Walcott, who now came down the platform from the club car,
which had been well forward.
The train was pulling out, clearing the road across the track, and as
it did so there flashed past a speedster with a cream-colored body, a
shining aluminium hood, and dainty upholstery. No one could have failed
to notice it. As if the mere appearance of the car was not loud enough,
the muffler cut-out was allowing the motor to growl a further demand
for attention.
In the speedster sat Paquita, and as we looked across from our jitney I
caught sight of Winifred eying her critically, turning at the same time
to say something to Mrs. Walcott.
Paquita saw it, too, and shot a glance of defiance as she stepped
her dainty toe on the gas and leaped ahead of all the cars that were
pulling out with passengers whom they had met.
“Did you get that?” whispered Kennedy to me. “Not only have we
a mystery on our hands, but we have something much harder to
follow――conflict between those two women. Shelby may think he is a
principal in the game, but one or the other of them is going to show
him that he is a mere miserable pawn.”
“I wonder where she could have been?” I speculated. “That road up past
the station leads to the turnpike to the city. Could she have been
there, or just out for a spin?”
Kennedy shook his head. “If we are going to follow that color-scheme
about the country we’ll need to get a car that can travel up to the
limit.”
“Well,” snorted Burke, “it does beat all how these dancers can sport
cars with special bodies and engines that would drown out the hammers
of hell; but――I suppose it would cut down the work of us detectives by
half if it weren’t so.”
Hastings said nothing. Perhaps he was calculating the cost of the
outfit that had just passed, and wondering whether the bill had been
paid by his client――or some one else.
The Walcott car had got away and we were now jolting along in our more
modest flivver, eager to get back to the scene of our labors and learn
what had taken place in our absence.
Back at the Harbor House Burke’s man, Riley, was waiting, sure enough,
with a full budget of news as we entered quietly by another than the
main entrance and drew him off in a corner.
“What’s happened?” demanded Burke.
“Plenty,” returned Riley, his reticence before us now overcome. “You
remember that dark-skinned fellow?” he asked, excitedly.
“An unnecessary question,” returned Burke. “He has not been out of
my thoughts since I left. I hope you’ve watched him closely. We saw
Paquita. She must have slipped through your fingers. You’ll have to get
a car that can keep up with her, Riley, if we are going to handle this
affair successfully.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Riley, evidently relieved that his chief had not
administered a severer rebuke. “I was about to tell you of how she
slips away from us in that car, sir. Well,” he graced on, as though
eager to change the subject, “we have not only found out who that
spiggoty chap is, but that he has reported to Mrs. Maddox finally,
to-day. It seems as though she has paid him for his work of watching
her husband, and now that Mr. Maddox is dead has no further use for
him.”
“And he has gone away?” asked Craig.
“No,” replied Riley, quickly, “that’s just the point. Even though she
has discharged him――at least that is what it looks like――he is sticking
around. At first I thought he was watching Paquita――and he is. But
twice I have caught him talking to her. It may be that it’s all right.
I don’t get it at all. I can’t make out yet whether he is with her or
against her.”
“That’s strange,” agreed Burke, turning to Kennedy. “I don’t understand
that. Do you? Do you suppose the fellow has been double crossing Irene
Maddox all the time? These divorce sleuths are an unprincipled lot,
usually.”
Kennedy shook his head non-commitally. “I think it will be worth
looking into,” he considered. “Has anything else happened?”
“Plenty,” replied Riley cheerfully. “Since you went away Shelby Maddox
has given up living out on the _Sybarite_, I understand. He is to live
at the Harbor House all the time, and has brought his stuff ashore,
although he hasn’t been about much. He is another one who has a
speedster that can do some traveling.”
“What do you make of that move?” encouraged Hastings.
Riley shrugged. “Sometimes,” he remarked, slowly, “I think he is
watching the others. I don’t know yet whether he does it because he
suspects something of them, or because he thinks they suspect something
of him. Anyhow, he has brought that Jap, Mito, ashore, too. Is he
afraid of him? Has Mito something that gives him a leverage on Shelby
Maddox? I don’t know. Only, it’s mighty strange.”
“Has Mito done anything suspicious?” asked Kennedy.
“His whole conduct is suspicious,” asserted Riley, positively. “Why
was he in town so late last night? Besides, the fellow is well
educated――too well educated to be a servant. No, sir, you can’t make me
believe that he is here for any good. He’s clever, too. They tell me
he can run a motor-boat or a car as well as the best. And he’s quiet.
There’s something deep about him. Why, you can see that he knows that
he is being watched.”
“But what has he done?” emphasized Kennedy.
“N-nothing. Only, he acts as though he was covering up something. I
know the symptoms.”
I tried to analyze our feelings toward Mito. Was it merely that Riley
and the rest of us did not understand the subtle Oriental, and that
hence we suspected everything we did not understand? There was no
denying that Mito’s actions out on the _Sybarite_, for instance, had
been open to question. Yet, as far as I knew, there was nothing on
which one could place his finger and accuse the little man, except his
alleged presence in town so late the night before.
From the corner in which we were sitting we could see through an open
window the porte-cochère beside the hotel at which guests were arriving
and departing.
“Look!” pointed out Riley. “There’s Shelby Maddox now.”
His motor had purred up silently around the corner of the road
that led about the shore, and as he pulled up before the door the
omnipresent Mito appeared from nowhere. Shelby crawled out from under
the steering-wheel and turned the car over to Mito to run around to the
hotel garage. For a moment he stood talking to the Jap, giving him some
parting instructions, when another car tooted its horn and came up to
the steps. It was the Walcott car. Evidently they had not come directly
from the station, but had taken a little ride along the shore to get
the stuffy air of the railroad train out of Johnson Walcott’s lungs.
It was just the opportunity Shelby wanted. He quickly waved to Mito to
pull away and turned to the new arrival, opening the rear door before
the officious starter could get to it, and handing out Winifred Walcott
most attentively――so much so that he forgot all about his own sister
and Johnson Walcott.
He and Winifred stood talking, evidently about Shelby’s own departing
roadster, for they were looking after Mito as he shot up the road to
the garage.
“Do you guess what they are talking about?” queried Kennedy to me. “I
would be willing to wager that I can reproduce at least a part of the
conversation. As they watched the speedster get away she spoke first,
and he nodded his head in the negative as he replied. She spoke again,
and he nodded in the affirmative――and smiled.”
“What was it?” I asked.
“Remember Paquita? So does Winifred. First she asked Shelby if his
roadster was hard to drive――or something of the sort. He said it was
not. Then she asked whether he would show her some of the fine points
of driving it――I am sure that Winifred Walcott can drive, for she looks
like that sort of a girl. Shelby fairly leaped ahead like his motor
does when he feeds it gas. That was easy long-distance eavesdropping.”
“What are they talking about now?” I demanded, rather spoofing him than
serious, for Shelby was standing on the steps yet, quite oblivious to
everything about him except Winifred.
“I don’t know,” he confessed, “but I can predict that something will
happen in thirty seconds. Look up the road.”
I glanced away. Paquita in her speedster was shooting down as though
she had a fourth speed. A second, and she had pulled up, leaping
lightly to the ground. She nodded gaily to the starter to take her
car for her to the garage, and bounded up the steps, not neglecting
to display a generous vision of a trim ankle that almost caused the
starter to turn the car up the steps instead of wide from the Walcott
car.
Deliberately she passed close to Shelby, as though to show him the
contrast between the fluffy little girl of the morning and the motor
girl of the afternoon. She smiled sweetly at Shelby, not neglecting
a quick glance of superciliousness at Winifred, such as only a true
actress can give.
At that moment Irene Maddox appeared in the door, to greet Johnson
and Mrs. Walcott. Paquita had not seen her, nor if she had would she
probably have avoided the dramatic meeting.
For an instant the two women were face to face. Men would have been
at each other’s throats in a brutal grip. Paquita was no less brutal.
Without turning an eyelash she looked steadily into the face of the
woman who had been so grievously wronged, and for all the surprise or
emotion she displayed she might have been gazing at a bisque ornament.
Irene Maddox, stately in her black suit of mourning, drew herself
to her full height and the color in her cheeks deepened as her eyes
flashed at the other woman.
Paquita swept on gaily. She was supremely happy. She had gone up-stage
and had thrown two bombs.
From our coign of vantage I saw that another was watching. It was our
sallow-faced friend, who smiled darkly to himself as he watched, then,
a moment later, was gone, observed by none of them.
Paquita had passed. One might have easily paraphrased “Pippa Passes,”
and it was not God who was in his heaven, either, nor was all right
with the world.
The group at the porte-cochère glanced at one another, and for the
moment each was reminded of his own particular hate and rivalry.
Shelby was plainly chagrined. He had been getting along famously with
Winifred, when a cold shower had been plunged over him. Irene Maddox
had received a sharp reminder of her trying position. Frances Walcott
was again a Maddox, unsoftened by the tragedy. Winifred listened
while Shelby tried to finish what he had been saying, but nothing was
the same as before. Only Johnson Walcott seemed able to remain the
unconcerned outsider.
All turned into the hotel now, and as they separated and disappeared I
wondered whether Paquita had been trailing about and had deliberately
framed the little incident. What was the meaning of the continued
observation by the man of the sallow face?
Just then one of the boys came through the lobby, where we were sitting
in the angle, calling “Mr. Sanchez! Mr. Sanchez!”
From around the angle, where he could not have seen us, appeared the
sallow-faced individual who had so disturbed our thoughts. He took the
telegram which the boy carried, tore it open, and read it. As he did so
his face, lined with anger, happened to turn in our direction and he
saw us. Without appearing to notice us, he slowly tore the telegram as
well as the envelope and stuffed the pieces into his pocket. Then he
turned and coolly sat down again as though nothing had occurred.
“At least we know that one of his names is Sanchez,” commented Kennedy.
“I’d like to see that message.”
“You’re not likely to see it now, unless we can pick his pocket,”
returned Burke. “Don’t look around. There comes Mito.”
The Japanese padded silently past, unconcerned, casting no look at
either our party or Sanchez. But I knew that his beady eyes had already
taken us in. I felt that he was watching us. But was it for his own or
some one else’s benefit?
I determined that, given an opportunity, I would try to find out two
things――what the telegram contained and why Mito had been in town the
night before.
It was the dinner hour, and the guests of the Harbor House, either
singly or in groups, were stringing into the brilliantly lighted
dining-room, where the orchestra had already tuned up. We moved over,
nearer the door, as Shelby Maddox, all alone, placed his hat on the
rack and entered, allowing the head waiter to seat him.
“Let us go in and observe them,” decided Kennedy. “Hastings, you
brought us out here. It will look queer if we all go in together. So
I think that you, Burke, and Riley had better sit at another table in
another part of the room; then we won’t appear to be all together and
we may get more, too.”
Accordingly, Hastings, Kennedy, and I entered, and by a little
manœuvering managed to get ourselves placed by a window where we could
see pretty much everything that went on.
Winifred Walcott was already there, at a table with her brother, her
sister-in-law, and Irene Maddox. They did not seem to be talking much.
I wondered what could be the matter. Perhaps it was fancy, but it
seemed as if the two older women were not quite so friendly as they
had been when I saw them in the automobile in the morning. Johnson
Walcott also said little, but appeared to be engrossed in reading the
despatches from Westport in the papers. None of them ate as though they
enjoyed it, and all seemed preoccupied, especially Winifred, who let
dish after dish go untasted. What had she on her mind? Was it solely
Paquita?
I looked over at a table on the other side of the room where there was
a lone diner, Shelby Maddox. He, too, was preoccupied. He had placed
himself so that he could catch the eye of Winifred whenever she chose
to cast it his way. But though he was never off guard, she did not
choose. Something, too, was seriously affecting his appetite. As far
as food was concerned, his presence was a mere formality.
“There’s something strange going on in that family,” I commented at
length.
Hastings smiled dryly. “They can’t agree, even on a tragedy,” he
returned. “What you have seen so far to-day was merely a lull in the
storm. And now, if that is complicated by outsiders――well, we shall
need all Mr. Kennedy’s acumen if we are to untangle the snarl.”
Kennedy appeared oblivious to the compliment, which was something
for Hastings to pay, for very little in this mundane sphere met the
approval of his legal mind. Craig was studying a large mirror at the
end of the dining-hall thoughtfully. I turned and placed myself as
nearly as possible in the same angle of vision.
“Please, Walter,” he cautioned, “your head is opaque――I mean to the
human eye, old man.”
My one glance had been sufficient to whet my curiosity. By means of the
mirror he could see around an “L” in the dining-room, and there, at a
little table, alone, was seated Paquita. She had chosen the coign of
vantage quite apparently because it put her in range of Shelby, without
its being apparent to the other guests. But Shelby was busy. He had not
even noticed Paquita, in his eagerness to catch the crumb of a glance
from Winifred’s table.
Not being able to watch Paquita without interfering with Kennedy,
and finding the strained relations of the others rather tiresome, I
glanced out on the veranda by the window where our table stood. Some
one was pacing quietly up and down. Almost with a feeling of certainty
I strained my eyes in the darkness.
“That Sanchez is outside, watching everything,” I called Craig’s
attention.
He nodded.
At the other end of the dining-room Burke and Riley were quite as busy
as we were, observing how those whom we were watching acted when they
were all together.
The Walcott party finished dinner first and soon afterward rose and
left the room. Down in the Casino there was dancing every night, but,
of course, they did not go there. Instead, they chose a secluded
corner of the porch at the Lodge. Though there was no lost cordiality,
apparently they did not want to separate. At least they had their
conflicting interests in common.
Shelby needed nothing but a finger-bowl in order to finish his dinner,
and left hurriedly, much to the astonishment of the waiter.
Burke and Riley had already gone out and had disappeared when we
followed shortly.
Prompted by Kennedy, Hastings sauntered around to the end of the porch
which the Walcotts and Mrs. Maddox had occupied. Shelby Maddox had
already joined them, unable to keep away from Winifred longer.
One could feel the constraint of the party, although to an outsider it
might readily have been accounted for by the tragedy. However, we knew
by this time that there was something deeper.
Shelby was apparently endeavoring to overcome the impression which the
appearance and smile of Paquita had produced, but I could see that
Winifred was not yet entirely mollified.
The Maddox party welcomed us――not cordially, but at least not coldly,
for it was no part of their character ever to betray their real
feelings before one another.
As we drew up chairs I could feel the close scrutiny to which we were
being subjected.
“Well?” queried Shelby at length, after we had talked about several
inconsequential things, “what have you found out, Hastings?”
He said it in a tone that was meant to imply that he knew that some
kind of investigation was on. Was it bravado?
“Oh, several things,” returned Hastings, turning to Kennedy as if to
leave the answer to him.
“For one thing,” shot out Kennedy, taking advantage of the opportunity,
“we have determined that your brother died from the effects of a
poisonous gas――I won’t say yet what it was or how administered.”
The light from a window was shining full on Shelby’s face as Craig said
it, and he knew that we were all watching intently the effect it would
have.
“Is that so?” he replied, with an interest this time unfeigned. “I
suppose you know who did it?”
“I have an idea,” replied Kennedy, “a theory on which I am proceeding.
But it is too early to talk about it yet.”
If Shelby had been trying to “pump” us he was getting something to
think about, at least. I felt sure that Craig was telling the family
this much in the hope that it would spur them to some action, or at
least reach ears that would be affected.
It was while Kennedy was talking that I noticed that Winifred showed
her first real interest in what was going on about her. She was
about to ask a question when the sound of footsteps on the veranda
interrupted. If I had wondered what the cause of the coolness between
Shelby and Winifred was I had here a partial answer at least.
Again, as though to foment trouble, Paquita crossed the veranda and
walked slowly down the steps to the Casino, whence floated the rhythmic
strains of the orchestra. Though she did not know it, she produced the
result she sought. A few minutes later Winifred excused herself to
retire to her room, her question still unasked and unanswered.
Shelby bowed a reluctant good-night, but I could see that inwardly
he was furious. And I felt impelled to ask myself, also, why Paquita
was so apparently dogging Shelby’s every step. Could it be that the
notorious little heart-breaker was actually in love with him――or had
she some darker motive?