Shelby was plainly angry and disconcerted. For the moment he seemed to
hesitate between hurrying after Winifred and striding down the steps
toward Paquita, as though to demand an explanation of her haunting
appearances and disappearances.
In the moment that elapsed during his indecision he seemed to think
a second time and to check both impulses. Better, he evidently
considered, to affect to ignore the matter altogether.
Still, he could not conceal his chagrin. Nor was it lost on the others.
The Maddox family were watching one another like hawks. Each knew that
the other knew something――though not how much.
Winifred’s desertion seemed to throw a damper on the entire group. As
for Shelby, life had lost its attraction for him with Winifred Walcott
gone. He was about to make some excuse to leave the party, then
decided that perhaps he might better stay. If anything was going to be
said or to happen, at least he would learn it. Meanwhile I noticed that
Johnson Walcott was covertly observing Shelby, who seemed to be aware
of the scrutiny of the brother of the girl with whom he was in love. I
felt that Shelby would not antagonize Walcott at least.
“Then you are getting closer to the truth of the death of my brother?”
inquired Shelby.
“Step by step,” replied Kennedy. “I am trying now to reconstruct what
might have been hidden in his private life.”
Irene Maddox gave a quick glance at Kennedy. The others were silent.
It was a queer family. There was no word of grief for Marshall Maddox.
Each seemed merely to consider what bearing the tragedy might have on
his own fortune.
A moment later Walcott excused himself, pleading that he had some
letters to write, and passed slowly down the porch in the direction of
the office and writing-room. His wife, however, and Irene Maddox showed
no disposition to move. None of us said anything about the incident,
but I know that I did a lot of wondering why the mere appearance of
Paquita seemed to break up the party each time as though a shell had
burst. Was there something lying back which neither Kennedy nor myself
knew anything about? Was it more than revenge or jealousy?
As for myself, somehow I had become mightily interested in the drama
of the little Mexican dancer and Shelby, whatever it might be. How did
Sanchez complicate it? Could it be that Burke was right and that he was
an international crook? Besides, Mito was on my mind now more than any
of the Maddoxes in the group, anyhow.
Accordingly, I leaned over and whispered to Kennedy. “I’d like to
follow that girl Paquita and watch her a bit.”
“Very good, Walter,” he whispered back. “See if you can find her. I
want to stay here with Hastings and talk to them. Molasses will catch
more flies than vinegar. I will stick along until there is an open
break.”
Glad of the release he had given me, I made some excuse to the party,
and without seeming to do so wandered off from the Lodge toward the
Casino in the direction taken by Paquita. As I approached the Casino,
which was now ablaze with lights and gaiety, I paused outside in the
shadow to survey the long line of snowy white tables on a balcony whose
outlook was directly on the dark-blue waters of the bay and out between
the two necks of land into the Sound. It seemed a veritable fairy-land.
One after another, I scanned the faces of the parties at the tables in
the hope of catching a glimpse of Paquita, but she was at none of them.
As I stood in the shadow of a clump of shrubbery I was suddenly aware
that some one had crossed the thick grassy carpet and was standing
almost directly behind me. I turned to find Burke.
“I don’t suppose you have seen that Jap, Mito, about?” he asked,
modulating his voice.
“No,” I replied. “I just came down here. Kennedy and Hastings are on
the porch with the Maddoxes and I thought I might do some investigating
on my own account. Why? What has Mito been doing?”
Burke shrugged. “Perhaps nothing――perhaps much. Riley and I have been
strolling about the outside, on a chance. Once we found Mito sitting
apart, apparently looking out over the harbor, although I am sure that
that was not all he was doing. For when he saw Paquita coming down
the path, almost before we knew it he had given us the slip in the
darkness. I think he had been waiting for her to appear.”
“Where is she?” I asked. “It was really to follow her that I came down
here.”
Burke nodded toward the dancing-floor of the Casino. “I suppose she is
in there,” he replied. “At least she was a moment ago. I would feel a
great deal safer in putting my finger on her than on that Jap. He is
eely. Every time I think I have caught him he gets through my grasp.
It may be that he is only a faithful servant to his master, although
I would like to be convinced of it. All the time that you and Kennedy
were up there on the veranda he was watching. I don’t know what Paquita
did, but when she walked down he spotted her in a moment――and was gone.”
“That’s just the point,” I hastened. “She didn’t do a thing except pass
near us and bestow a sweet smile on Shelby. It’s the second time since
we got back from the city. I can’t make out what she is up to, unless
it is to separate the lovers.”
“I think I shall try to see Kennedy,” concluded Burke.
“All right,” I agreed as he turned away. “You’ll find him at the Lodge
on the porch. I am going to stay here awhile and see what Paquita does.
How about Sanchez?” I recollected.
“Nothing at all,” imparted Burke as he left me. “Since dinner he seems
to have dropped out of sight entirely.”
Burke having left me, I sauntered into the light, and, being alone,
chose a table from which I could see both the dancers and the gay
parties at the other little round tables.
Intently my gaze wandered in toward the dancing. The lively strains
of a fox-trot were sending the crowded couples ricocheting over the
polished floor. It was a brilliant sight――the myriad lights, the
swaying couples, the musical rhythm pervading all.
Sure enough, there was Paquita. I could pick her out from among them
all, for there was none, even among these seasoned dancers, who could
equal the pretty professional.
Dancing with her was a young man whom I did not recognize. Nor did it
seem to matter, for even in the encore I found that she had another
partner. Without a doubt they were of the group of the younger set
to whom Paquita was a fascinating creature. What, if anything, her
partners might have to do with the Maddox mystery I was unable to
determine, though I inclined to the belief that it was nothing.
Sophisticated though they may have thought themselves, they were mere
children in the hands of Paquita. She was quite apparently using her
very popularity as a mask.
From my table on the terrace over the bay I caught sight of a face, all
alone, which amazed me. Johnson Walcott was quite as much interested in
Paquita as any of the younger set.
It was too late for me to move. Walcott caught sight of me and soon
had planted himself in the chair opposite.
“What do you make of that girl?” he asked, finally, as though frankly
confessing the object of his visit to the Casino.
I was on guard. I did not want to admit to any of the family that
neither Kennedy nor myself had fathomed her. “I don’t know,” I replied,
carefully avoiding the appearance of having come down solely to watch
her. “She seems to be quite interested in the Maddox family.”
Walcott laughed as though to indicate to me that he understood that
I knew the scandal. Just then Paquita caught sight of us together. I
thought she seemed distrait. She rose and a moment later disappeared
through the French window.
Inwardly I cursed Walcott for his intrusion at that moment, for under
the circumstances I could not abruptly jump up and leave him to follow
her. Yet it was just that second in which she was gone.
The dancing seemed to have no attraction for her to-night. Evidently
there was something lying back in her strange actions. More than likely
she had come down to the Casino for the sole purpose of passing Shelby
again when Winifred was present.
As soon as I conveniently could I managed to detach myself from
Walcott, but, as I had expected, by the time I got around to the French
window through which Paquita had gone she was nowhere about.
What of Sanchez? Where was he? I loitered about for a moment, then
slowly mounted the steps that led back to the Lodge, intending to
rejoin Kennedy and Hastings.
When I reached the porch again all were gone. Shelby had got away,
and the others had either gone to their rooms or to the more lively
corridor of the hotel. I looked about, but could see neither Kennedy
nor Hastings. They, too, seemed to have disappeared on some mission.
What I would do next I did not know. Suddenly there flashed through my
mind the thought of the high-powered car that the policeman had told
Burke of seeing near the Maddox Building the night before.
I wondered whether there might not be some clue that I might obtain
from the garage back of the Lodge. There must be at least two
speedsters there, Paquita’s and Shelby’s. Perhaps there were others. At
least I might find out whether either of them had been out the night of
the murder. Having nothing better to do, I determined to make a little
tour of investigation in that direction myself.
As I made my way to the rear of the hotel I saw that there were indeed
two garages, one large one that was most generally used and a smaller
one that looked as though it might have been built as an afterthought
to accommodate an overflow of cars. The smaller one was near and I
determined to examine it first. It was dark, too, as though not being
used except over week-ends, when the hotel was crowded.
Almost before I was aware of it it seemed as if I saw a figure flit
past a window. Perhaps it was my imagination. At any rate I would not
have conscientiously sworn to it, for my attention at the time was
directed at the other, lighted, garage.
The impression was enough, however. I quickened my pace until I came to
the dark building. Mechanically I tried the door, fully expecting that
it would be locked. To my surprise, it was open, and before I realized
it I had swung the door and my foot was on the threshold.
“Who’s――”
The words were scarcely out of my lips when a spit of fire in the
blackness of the interior replied. For a moment my head seemed in a
whirl. Sight and hearing left me.
That is all I remember.
An hour later, vaguely, indistinctly, as though far away, I heard a
familiar voice calling me.
It seemed to be far off, and I struggled after it, blindly groping.
There seemed to be something over my face, something that covered my
eyes. I felt that if I could only get it off I would be all right. But
try as I would, I had not the strength.
Still, I was encouraged. The voice seemed nearer, more distinct. Was it
Kennedy’s? It sounded strangely like it.
I clawed again at the thing that seemed to keep me from him. To my
surprise it came off itself, leaving me blinking in a flood of light.
“Walter――are you all right?” I now heard the voice distinctly.
“Wh-where am I? What happened?” I gasped, feeling still a suffocating
sensation in the throat and chest, my mouth parched, dry and irritated,
and my nose tingling as though afire.
“Here in the garage,” replied Craig, holding a peculiar rubber face
mask in one hand, while Burke stood beside a sort of box about the size
of a suit-case from which rubber tubes ran to the mask. “I thought the
pulmotor would do the trick.”
“It’s lucky you are that there was a gas company in town that’s
up-to-date and has one of the things,” returned Burke, breaking back
into a vernacular more natural than that veneered on his honest
tongue. “Praise be that he’s all right. A night’s sleep will do him
good, don’t you say, Mr. Kennedy?”
“But――but what is it all about?” I choked, striving to get my feet, but
finding myself still a bit weak. My eye caught the motors and pumps
and tubes in the pulmotor, but that conveyed no idea to me. “Tell
me――Craig――who was it?”
“I wish I could, old fellow,” replied Craig, smoothing back my hair.
“We were just a bit late for that――heard the shot――dashed in, and found
you, of all people. How did you come here?”
Propped up gently by Craig, I told what I could of the story, though
there was next to nothing to tell.
“Whoever it was,” I concluded, pressing my aching temples ruefully, “he
had just time to get away. You heard a shot? Am I wounded? What’s that
pulmotor for?”
“Not wounded,” Craig returned. “But you can be thankful we had that
thing and that the gas in this asphyxiating pistol was not chlorine.
I don’t know what it was――possibly sabadilla veratrine, some of those
things they’re using abroad in asphyxiating bombs.”
“Whoever it was, he was prepared for us here,” called Burke, who, now
that I was out of danger, had turned his attention to the garage
itself. “He’s removed whatever might be incriminating. It’s all as
clean as a whistle here. Some one expected us.”
“I knew that all along,” returned Craig, quietly. “Walter blundered
into a trap that was set for me.”
I felt the pressure of his hand on mine. It was worth it all to know
that I had at least saved Kennedy something, even if I had accomplished
nothing.
“But who could have known that we were going to the garage?” I asked.
Kennedy was silent a moment.
“Some one is spying on us――knows our movements, must know even what we
talk about,” he said, slowly.
We looked at one another blankly. It was uncanny. What could we do?
Were we in the hands of a power greater than any of us had imagined?