We had no more than reached the lobby of the hotel again when we found
Hastings seeking us. Evidently he had sensed that Kennedy was vexed at
him for letting Winifred pass without finding out what was her mission.
“This time, at least, I think I have something to tell you,” he
hastened, drawing us aside.
“What is it about?” encouraged Kennedy, eagerly.
“Paquita,” he replied, scanning our faces. “She has returned to the
hotel.”
Kennedy’s countenance betrayed some disappointment, for we already knew
that.
“I saw Frances and Irene together, too,” went on Hastings.
Again Kennedy could not conceal his disappointment, for it was all an
old story to us. Hastings was not to be gainsaid, however.
“Well, after Frances left Irene Maddox,” he continued, “I saw that she
was wrought up and nervous. So I watched her. She sought out Paquita.”
He drew back, gratified at the flash of interest that Craig instantly
betrayed.
“Indeed?” asked Craig. “What took place?”
“I could not hear it all,” continued the lawyer. “But it seemed as
though Frances was pleading with Paquita for something. I heard the
names of both Shelby and Winifred mentioned. Paquita seemed quite
haughty. Whatever it was that Frances was after, I am quite sure that
she was not successful.”
I could see that Kennedy was actively trying to piece together the
fragmentary information that we had gained during the evening.
What it all meant I could not fathom. But we knew enough to be quite
sure that something important was afoot. First, Shelby had sent for
Paquita and his supposedly secret interview, of which we had learned
enough to know that he had sought to influence the little dancer to let
him alone. The meeting of Winifred and Irene we knew, as well as the
meeting of Irene and Frances. It seemed that Frances Walcott had an
interest in the events much more than we had expected, for, failing to
obtain any satisfaction from Irene, she had even swallowed her pride
and sought out Paquita.
What did it mean? Was Frances really trying to play the match-maker?
Was it for her brother, Shelby, that she showed the concern, or was it
for her sister-in-law, Winifred? There was a positive motive in the
fact that a marriage between the two might more closely protect her own
interests.
“They were talking,” pursued Hastings, “when I saw her husband,
Johnson, coming from the café. I think Paquita must have seen him
first, for she cut the interview short very curtly and left her, though
not before Johnson saw them together. He came over to his wife and I
think he was a trifle angry at what he had seen. At any rate, it seemed
that she was endeavoring to explain something to him and that he did
not in the least approve.”
“Could you hear anything?” queried Kennedy.
“Not a thing, except that there seems to be something about which the
Walcotts do not quite agree.”
I wondered whether Johnson Walcott’s dissatisfaction had been more
at finding his wife talking with Paquita than at the romance between
Shelby and his own sister. In the café he had seemed to be far from
delighted over the affair. Frances, on the other hand, bore every
evidence of wishing to promote the match. It was a strange romance that
we were watching.
“Was there anything else?” asked Kennedy.
“No,” replied Hastings. “They walked away, still talking earnestly, and
I think they have gone to their rooms.”
“Winifred was not about?”
“No. I saw Shelby, finally, though. But he seemed to be preoccupied and
didn’t give me a chance to speak to him.”
“Where is he?”
“In the café, I suppose.”
Riley’s approach at that moment served to introduce a new element into
the situation.
“You saw Mito again?” asked Kennedy.
The Secret Service man nodded. “Saw him take his master’s things into
the café, then to his room. After that he managed to slip away again.
He seems to have something on his mind. I don’t know what it is. We had
a glimpse of Sanchez. He is about, but is keeping very low.”
“What has he been doing?”
“Nothing in the open, as far as I know,” returned Riley. “He may be
planning something. I don’t like him any more than my man likes Mito.
These Japs and wops are deep ones.”
Kennedy smiled, but said nothing. To Riley any foreigner was a
suspicious character, if for no other reason than that he could not
understand him.
“Any word from Mr. Burke?” I reiterated.
Riley nodded. “Yes, he will be here soon, now, I think.”
“Nothing else on Mito or Sanchez?” resumed Kennedy.
Riley negatived. “Trouble with them is they know I’m watching them,” he
explained. “And when a man knows he is being watched it’s easy for him.
There’s only one way to get him and that is to stick so close that it
means a fight. We’ve had one and I hate to take the responsibility of
another without orders from Mr. Burke. Another fight with Mito might
not turn out so luckily, either. Besides, I don’t know that we want
it to come to a fight――yet. Sanchez looks as though he might give an
account of himself. These dark fellows are all knife-men, you know.
I decided that it was best to pick up what we could without making a
scene.”
Kennedy shrugged. There seemed to be nothing to criticize, though it
was a shame that circumstances were such that we were compelled to
be content with fragments at a time when we needed every scrap of
information.
“It’s getting late,” he observed, glancing at his watch. “I think we
might leave the field to Riley to cover, Walter, while we retire to our
rooms. Good night, Mr. Hastings. You’ll tell Mr. Burke to wake us, no
matter what time he comes in?” he added, turning to Riley.
The Secret Service man agreed, and together Kennedy and I went back to
our suite a second time. I was glad enough to go, too, for I wanted to
see what the instrument was which he had installed in the garage.
As we entered, I could not help thinking of Winifred’s action and why
she had cut Shelby off so shortly. Was it a case of intuition, or was
it merely what often passes for intuition――the capacity for making
hasty and incorrect judgments on slender grounds?
What, too, was Mito? Was it he who had committed the murder of Marshall
Maddox? Had he stolen the telautomaton plans? I wondered whether, after
all, he might not be in the service of some foreign government, perhaps
even be a spy.
With scarcely a word, Kennedy had taken his position at the table on
which he had placed the peculiar miniature transmitter, holding it to
his ear and listening intently.
“Is any one talking there?” I asked, supposing that it was some special
form of the detectaphone which he was using.
“I don’t expect that there’ll be any talking,” he replied. “In fact,
there may be only one person, for all I know, and he certainly won’t
talk to himself.”
A knock at our door cut short further inquiry. I opened it cautiously
and was greeted by the cheery voice of Burke, who had come in on the
last train.
“I think I’ve earned a rest to-night,” he remarked, dropping down into
the easiest chair he could find. “I’m tired, but at least I have some
satisfaction for the day’s work.”
“What have you found?” asked Kennedy, eagerly, remembering that Burke
had devoted himself first of all to tracing what had become of the
deadly wireless destroyer itself.
“For one thing,” replied Burke, slowly, “I’m convinced, as far as I can
be regarding something I don’t actually know, that the telautomaton
model is out here at Westport――at least not far away.”
“What makes you think so?” I asked, quickly.
“That clue of the car waiting near the office interests me,” went on
Burke, slowly. “I wasn’t able to get anything out of the rookie on
the beat. But I went on the supposition that somewhere between here
and New York I might find a clue. And I have found several clues from
constables and special officers in towns between Westport and the city.
A car answering the description was seen at several points, and the
time matches up. So I think it is safe to conclude that we are on the
right track. The model is out here――somewhere――I am sure.”
“Have you made any progress in running down your band of foreign
criminals?” asked Kennedy.
“No trace so far,” returned Burke, still cheerfully, “except that it
is entirely likely that Mito, or Paquita, or that fellow Sanchez may
be the outside workers. Of course they would cover up their connection
pretty closely. We can’t expect to beat the most clever minds of the
Continent as easy as we would a gang of sneak-thieves. Riley tells me
you have been in the city most of the day. Have you uncovered anything?”
Briefly Kennedy outlined what had happened, coming down to the events
of the evening down on the beach.
Another knock on the door, and Riley entered.
“You didn’t come down, so I knew that Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Jameson were
awake. You don’t mind my coming in?”
“Not a bit,” returned Kennedy. “We were just going over what I had
gathered to-day. I was telling about that meeting between Frances and
Irene Maddox.”
Riley’s face assumed the same look of perplexity as it had when we
left him, nonplussed by the queer actions of the Maddox family.
“You saw it,” demanded Burke. “What do you make of it?”
“I don’t know,” confessed Riley. “Maybe it means something, maybe not.
I think it does. There’s some kind of difference between those two
women. I can’t make it out. They seemed to be so friendly at first.
Why, they even tell me Mrs. Walcott backed Mrs. Maddox in her fight
with Mr. Maddox over that Paquita. But now it’s different, and it’s
growing worse.”
“Natural enough,” commented Burke. “If Marshall Maddox was separated
from his wife, don’t you see he would have destroyed his will in her
favor. If he was intestate, as it is most likely, then the other
heirs――his brother and sister――stand to gain. There were no children.
Mrs. Maddox has her interest in a third. They can’t take that away
from her. But no doubt it makes her feel as if she had been done out
of something, to see the others get what might have been hers under
different circumstances.”
“That’s it, I guess,” considered Riley. “I’ve heard her say that she
thought now that Paquita was put up to winning Marshall Maddox away
from her, so that the others would benefit.”
“Pretty deep,” pondered Burke, “but not impossible.”
“If she thinks that way,” I interposed, “it might account for her
attitude toward Winifred. She might be just jealous enough not to want
her to come into not only Shelby’s share, but part of the remainder.
“On the other hand,” I reconsidered, remembering my first theory, “Mrs.
Maddox with her third interest is much better off than she was on what
had been allowed her during the life of Marshall Maddox.”
“Shelby Maddox profits by it, any way you look at it,” observed Burke,
following out our general review of possible motives. “Where is he now?”
“Gone up to his room, I suppose,” replied Riley.
“And Mito?”
“In the servants’ quarters――unless he manages to slip out and get into
some more deviltry.”
“Confound it, Riley,” broke in Burke, “you’ve got to trail these people
better! What’s the matter? Haven’t you enough men to――”
“‘Sh!” cautioned Craig from his place at the instrument on the table,
his face showing intense attention to something.
“What’s that?” asked Burke.
Kennedy was busy for the moment and did not answer. But a minute or so
later he replied.
“A geophone, designed originally to record earth tremors, microseisms,
small-amplitude earth shakings. It is really a microphone, the
simplest form of telephone, applied to the earth――hence its name. Any
high-school student in physics could make one. All that is necessary is
to place that simple apparatus, which Mr. Jameson saw, on the ground
anywhere and attach it to a microphone receiver at the other end of the
wire. You can hear an earthquake, or a big gun, or some one walking
about. Hello!――here’s our friend again.”
Craig was again listening intently. What the most sensitive mechanical
eavesdropper could not overhear this little geophone was now
transmitting to him.
“Some one is in that garage,” he reported to us. “Those are footsteps.
Our frame-up is working. He never would have gone there unless he
thought we were not only going to go there to-morrow ourselves, but
were out of sight now, too. By George!――there’s another――there are two
of them!”
I listened a moment myself, with Kennedy. The diaphragm vibrated
terrifically. Then, suddenly, all was still.
What was going on?
Kennedy dropped the receiver on the table regardless of what might
happen to its delicate adjustment, jumped up, and dashed out into the
hall. Down-stairs he went, not waiting for an elevator, for it was only
three flights.
We followed madly, past the amazed night clerk, and out the back door
of the hotel.
As we entered the garage, in the fitful light we could see a dark mass
on the floor. Craig flashed his electric bull’s-eye. In the circle of
light we saw that it was a man. Craig turned the form over.
It was Mito――dead!