Rapidly recovering now from the effects of the asphyxiating gun,
thanks to the prompt aid of Kennedy, I was soon able to sit up in my
improvised bed on the garage floor. As well can be imagined, however,
I did not feel like engaging in very strenuous activity. Even the
simple investigation of Burke, as he explored the garage, seemed like a
wonderful exhibition of energy to me.
“Well, there certainly is no car here now,” he remarked as he surveyed
the obvious emptiness of the place.
“Which is not to say that there has not been one here recently,”
added Kennedy, who was now dividing his attention between me and the
building. “Some one has been here with a car,” he added, pointing
to some fresh oil spots on the floor, and bending down beside them.
“Jameson’s inhospitable host has evidently taken the pains to remove
all traces that might be of any value. See――he has obliterated even
the tire tracks by which the car might have been identified.”
“Must have had great respect for your ability,” remarked Burke, also
examining the marks that showed how carefully the floor had been gone
over to guard against leaving a clue. “Whoever it was was clever enough
to keep just a jump ahead of us. Not a single trace was left. I wonder
who it could be?”
“I’ve narrowed it down to two theories,” interposed Burke’s Secret
Service man, Riley, always fertile with conjectures, “but I can’t say
which I prefer. To my way of thinking, either the presence of Mito in
the town last night would explain everything, or else this all has
something to do with the telegram that we saw the sallow-faced Sanchez
receive.”
Either conjecture was plausible enough, on the face of it. Kennedy
listened, but said nothing. There seemed to be no reason for remaining
longer in the garage.
“How do you feel now, Walter?” asked Craig. “Do you think you could
stand being moved to the hotel?”
An oppressive dizziness still affected me, but I knew that I could not
continue to lie on the damp floor. With Kennedy’s aid, I struggled to
my feet.
Barely able to walk, and leaning heavily on his arm, I managed to make
my way from the garage and across the bit of lawn to the side veranda
of the Harbor House. Still weak, I was forced to drop into a wicker
chair to recover my strength.
“Why, Mr. Jameson, what is the matter?” asked a woman’s voice beside us.
I looked up to see Winifred Walcott. Evidently when she left us she had
not gone to her room.
As Craig told her briefly what had happened, she was instantly
sympathetic.
“That’s strange,” she murmured. “I felt restless and I was strolling
about the paths back of the Lodge. I heard the shot――thought it was an
automobile tire or a back-fire. Why, not ten minutes before, I am sure
I saw Paquita with Shelby’s valet, Mito.”
Burke whispered to Riley, who nodded and disappeared with alacrity.
I thought of the cordiality I had often observed between Mexicans and
Japanese. Was that the case in this instance? Could it be that Paquita
knew something about the attack on me? Was Mito the mysterious attacker?
It was scarcely a moment later that Johnson Walcott appeared around the
corner, evidently seeking his sister.
Just then Riley returned, dragging the reluctant Mito.
“Where have you been?” bellowed Burke.
The little Jap’s face was impassive.
“I was sitting just outside the servants’ quarters, sir, most of the
evening,” he returned, in bland surprise.
“Think a moment,” shouted Burke, advancing close to him and peering
into his face. “Who have you been talking to? Tell me, and mind you
tell the truth――or it’ll go hard with you.”
“With no one, sir,” asserted Mito, positively.
Burke was by this time red in the face with rage as all that he had
ever learned in his third-degree days came to the surface.
“You lie!” he exclaimed. “I saw you with――”
“Well,” demanded a voice, interrupting, “what’s all this? What has Mito
been doing?”
It was Shelby Maddox, who had been attracted from the lobby by the loud
voices.
“Doing enough,” returned Burke. “Some one’s taken a shot at Mr. Jameson
in the garage. Now, look here, you little brown brother. Do you
mean to tell me that you haven’t been with any one all the evening?
Think――think hard.”
Mito protested, but Burke was not satisfied.
“Don’t try to hide it,” he urged. “This lady saw you.”
Shelby gave a quick glance at Winifred. Then he turned to Mito. “Tell
him,” he commanded.
“Only Miss Paquita passed me once,” replied the Jap. “She did not say
anything. I saw Mr. Jameson, too, before, on the shore by the Casino.”
It was clever, whatever else it might be. No matter what either Paquita
or I might say later, Mito had protected himself. He had admitted
everything and confessed nothing.
Burke was far from satisfied. He was about to turn to Winifred when her
brother interposed.
“Winifred,” interrupted Johnson Walcott in a tone approaching
authority, “I think you had better not get mixed up in this affair.”
“Quite right,” agreed Shelby. “I see no reason why Miss Walcott should
be annoyed by this cross-examination.”
Winifred looked open defiance at her brother’s interference.
“I can promise you that if I find that Mito has been doing anything he
should not, I shall be responsible for him,” smoothed Shelby.
A moment later both Winifred and her brother left. She still resented
his brotherly interference.
Burke had not got anywhere with his questioning and Kennedy apparently
believed that the time for such a course was not yet ripe.
“I think the best thing we can do is to get Jameson to his room,” he
suggested, by way of cutting off an unprofitable examination before any
damage was done.
Burke accepted the broad hint. While Shelby and Mito withdrew, Hastings
and Craig between them managed to get me up to our room and to bed.
As I lay there, glad enough to be quiet, we held a hasty conference to
consider the strange attack that had been made.
“What I don’t understand,” I repeated, “is how any one should know that
we ever thought of visiting either that garage or the other.”
Kennedy had been saying very little. As Hastings and I talked he seemed
to be thinking over something deeply. Suddenly his face registered the
dawn of an idea.
“To-morrow, Hastings,” he exclaimed, “we must go into town. I want to
go to your office. As for to-night, there doesn’t seem to be anything
more that we can do. Burke and Riley are on guard down-stairs. I think
Walter needs a good rest. So do we all. Good night, Mr. Hastings. I
will see you to-morrow early.”
A night’s rest fixed me up all right and I was anxiously down in the
lobby early next morning.
Fortunately nothing further of any great importance had happened
during the night and I felt a sense of satisfaction at not having
missed anything. Among us all we had been able to keep a pretty close
surveillance on those in Westport whom we suspected might have any
information. The day before had brought with it a grist of new mystery
instead of clearing up the old, but Kennedy was happy. He was in his
element, and the harder it was to crack the nut the more zest he put
into the cracking of it.
To my surprise, the morning express found the entire Maddox family,
except Irene Maddox, gathered on the platform of the quaint little
station.
“What do you suppose has given them this sudden impulse to go in to
town?” whispered Kennedy to Hastings.
The lawyer shrugged. “I shouldn’t be surprised if they were getting
back into their normal state after the first shock,” he replied, dryly.
“I think they are all going to consult their various attorneys――Shelby
probably will see Harvey, and Mrs. Walcott and her husband will see
Duncan Bruce.”
As we waited for the train I realized why it was that Westport was
popular. The little town was not only within fair access to the city,
but it was far enough away to be beyond the city’s blight. Going back
and forth was so easy that each of the contending parties was able to
take it as a matter of course that he should go to New York.
The crowning surprise came, however, just a moment before the express
swung around the curve. The cream-colored speedster swung up to the
platform, turned, and backed in with the other cars. No one could miss
it. The beautiful Paquita jumped airily out, more baffling than ever in
her artificiality.
As I watched her my former impression was confirmed that the notoriety
which she courted was paradoxically her “cover.” She seemed to seek
the limelight. In so doing did she hope to divert attention from what
was really going on back-stage? It would have been a bold stroke.
I expressed my idea to Kennedy. He smiled, but not with his usual
indulgence. Was it his own idea, too?
Nothing occurred during the ride in to town in the chair-car, except
that each was still furtively watching the other and all were watching
Paquita. Paquita was trying desperately to attract the notice of
Shelby. The young man seemed greatly embarrassed. As he sat beside
his sister I saw that Frances Walcott was keenly appreciative of the
efforts of the little dancer.
Once I excused myself on the pretext that I wanted another morning
paper, and walked forward into the smoking-car. It was as I had
suspected. Sanchez was there.
“I think we had better split our forces,” planned Kennedy, when I
reported to him what I had seen. “Sanchez, I suppose, will trail along
after Paquita. In that case, Walter, I shall leave them to you. I want
to handle Shelby myself. Meet me at the laboratory and then we can go
down to your office, Mr. Hastings. And, by the way, if you will take a
hint from me, sir, you will be careful what you do and what you say at
your office. I think you’ll understand when I see you there again.”
The astonished look on Hastings’s face was quite worth study. It
was as though some one had told him to guard his thoughts. The very
possibility that there could be a “leak,” which was evidently the way
in which he interpreted Kennedy’s cryptic remark, had never seemed to
occur to him, so sure was he about those whom he employed.
Nothing more was said about the matter, however, and as our train
rolled through the under-river tube into the station the various groups
began to break up as we had expected.
With a parting word from Kennedy I wormed my way through the crowd in
the direction of the cab-stand and was already in a cab and half-way
up the ramp to the street when, looking back through the little glass
window, I saw, as I had expected, Paquita trip gaily up to the same
starter and enter another. On the avenue a stop gave me ample time to
tip my driver and instruct him to follow the cab that was coming up
back of us. Then by settling back from the windows I was able to let
Paquita’s cab pass and pick her up again without her knowing that she
was being trailed. Without looking back, I knew that Sanchez had tried
to follow, but it was not until we had gone several blocks and made
a sudden turn into Broadway that I realized, on looking cautiously
around, that somehow he had missed out. Perhaps there had not been
another cab on the instant. Anyhow, I was not myself followed.
On up-town Paquita’s cab proceeded, until finally it stopped before a
building which I knew to be full of theatrical agencies and offices. I
could not, of course, follow her into the office into which she went,
but I managed to find out that she had gone to the office that had
recently been opened by a company that proposed to put on a new feature
in the fall known as La Danza Mexicana. It seemed like a perfectly
legitimate business trip, yet according to my idea Paquita was merely
using her notoriety to attract those whom she might use for her own
purposes. What interested me was whether it was purely money or a
deeper motive that actuated her.
From the office of her agent she hurried over to Fifth Avenue, and
there she made several lengthy stops at fashionable costumers,
milliners, and other dealers and designers of chic wearing apparel. In
all this there seemed to be nothing to take exception to and I became
weary of the pursuit. It was not her legitimate theatrical career that
interested me.
However, so it went until the lunch hour arrived. Quite demurely and
properly she stopped at a well-known tea-room where tired shoppers
refreshed themselves. I swore softly under my breath. I could not well
follow her in, for a man is a marked card in a tea-room. To go in was
like shouting in her ear that I was watching her.
Therefore, I stayed outside and, instead of lunching, watched the
passing crowd of smart shoppers while the clock on the taximeter
mounted steadily.
I had fidgeted in my cab for perhaps half an hour when I became aware
that mine was not the only cab that was waiting in the neighborhood. In
these shadowing jobs one has to keep his eyes glued on the door through
which the “subject” must exit, for it is unbelievable how easily a
person, even when not aware of being watched, may slip out into a
crowd and disappear. Consequently I had not paid much attention to my
surroundings.
But once when I leaned forward to speak to my driver, who by this time
was fully convinced that I was crazy, I happened to glance across the
street. At the window of another cab I saw a familiar face. Sanchez had
lost Paquita at the station, but by some process of reason had picked
her up again at the tea-room. I was determined more than ever now to
hang on to both of them.
Luncheon over, Paquita finally emerged, still alone. What business she
may have transacted over the telephone during her various stops I do
not know. What I wanted was for her to feel perfectly free, in the hope
that she might do something. Yet she had not given me the satisfaction
of meeting a single person whom she should not have met.
Again her cab started on its round, but this time it rolled back into
the theater district.
My driver almost jolted me from the seat as he stopped once. I looked
ahead. Paquita’s cab had pulled up before the office of a well-known
music publisher and she was getting out.
To my surprise, however, instead of entering she deliberately turned
and walked back in the direction of my cab. I sank farther back into
its shallow recesses, trusting that she would not glance my way.
A dainty creation of headgear intruded itself through the open window
of my cab.
“You have been following me all day, Mr. Jameson,” purred Paquita in
her sweetest tone, as her baffling brown eyes searched my face and
enjoyed the discomfiture I could not hide. “I know it――have known it
all the time. There’s another cab, too, back of you. I’ve been going
about my own business――haven’t I?――making arrangements for my new show
this fall. You haven’t anything――except a bill, have you? Neither has
the man in the other cab. Now I’m going to go right on. You are welcome
to follow.”
Before I could reply she had swept disdainfully back and had entered
the building. Chagrined though I was at the way she had led the chase,
I determined to stick to her, nevertheless.
In the publishing house she remained an uncommonly long time, but when
at last she came out I saw that she gave a little petulant glance first
to see whether I was still there.
Her cab shot away, but my man was alert and we trailed along down the
avenue. Twice, now, I saw her looking back at me. That, at least, was
some encouragement. Perhaps vexation might impel her to do something.
As we came to a tangle of cars crossing Longacre Square, Paquita leaned
forward through the front window of her taxicab and deliberately turned
the wheel that the driver was steering. The unexpected interference
caused him to stop suddenly.
As my driver pulled up, there came a crash and a smashing of glass
behind me. His pulling up had fortunately thrown me forward. The car
in which Sanchez was riding had crashed into mine, and only my being
thrown forward prevented me from receiving the shattered glass.
Instantly the traffic policeman was beside us and a crowd began to
collect. Before I knew it Paquita in her taxi was off and there was no
possibility of following.
Where she was going I could not now find out. Perhaps there was, as
Burke suspected, a gang, and she had all day been seeking to get to
their rendezvous. As I watched the officer and the crowd blankly, I had
but one satisfaction. At least Sanchez could not follow, either.
Quickly I gave the policeman my name as a witness, glanced at the
“clock,” and paid my taxicab bill. Sanchez saw what I did and that
it was no use for him to try to get away. He paid his own bill and
deliberately turned away, on foot, and walked down Seventh Avenue.
A few feet behind I followed.
He paid no attention to me, but kept on down-town, until at last I
realized that we had come to the neighborhood of the railroad terminal.
At the station he turned, and I knew that he had decided to take the
early train back to Westport. Still following, I went through all the
motions of having also decided to take the train myself. I let Sanchez
go through the gate, then at the last moment retreated and walked over
to the telegraph office as the gate banged shut.
I would not have missed the appointment with Kennedy and Hastings
for anything, and the train, except for one stop, was an express to
Westport. A wire to Riley out there would prevent Sanchez from getting
away from sight, even if he should decide to get off at the only other
stop.
What the little dancer was up to was just as mysterious as ever.
X