There seemed to be no use in staying longer in our room observing the
behavior of the wireless detector, when the very neighborhood still
bristled with mystery and perhaps danger.
Accordingly, we went down-stairs again with Burke, just in time to meet
Hastings, who had come down on the late afternoon train from the city.
“Has anything happened since we left?” inquired Kennedy of the lawyer,
before he could begin to quiz us.
“Very little,” he replied. “The man was still watching that little
office where the detectaphone wire led, when I left. Not a soul has
been near it. I think you can assume that it has been left abandoned.”
“I thought as much,” agreed Craig. “Have you heard anything more about
the activity of Shelby? He was here at the funeral this afternoon.
He’s out on the _Sybarite_ now, and has been very quiet, at least down
here.”
“I’ve been making some inquiries,” replied Hastings, slowly. “As nearly
as any of the brokers I know can tell, I should say that Shelby must
be doing something. There have been several large blocks of stock
unloaded and they have all been taken up. In spite of it the price has
been maintained. But it’s all underground. I haven’t decided which side
Shelby is on, bear or bull. He never was on either side before, so I
don’t know what he is up to. You can reason it out either way――and,
after all, it is a matter of fact, not reason.”
“It won’t take long to find that out to-morrow, if we want to,”
remarked Kennedy. “The trouble to-day was that there were more pressing
things that had to be done.”
We had scarcely finished outlining to Hastings what we had discovered
at Westport when Riley edged up to report to Burke.
“Miss Walcott’s acting very strangely, sir,” he ventured. “You’d think
she hadn’t a friend in the world.”
“How’s that?” cut in Kennedy.
“I saw her coming up from the beach awhile ago alone,” replied Riley.
“First she passed Mrs. Maddox and they scarcely spoke, then later I saw
her do the same thing with Mrs. Walcott. They’ve been that way, now,
for some time.”
“Where is she――in her room?” asked Burke.
Riley nodded. “Yes.”
“I can’t see any reason why she should stay here, if she feels this way
about it,” put in Hastings testily. “She doesn’t belong to the family.”
Kennedy glanced covertly at me. I fancied I understood what was in
his mind. Winifred Walcott probably would not have admitted, even to
herself, why she stayed.
“That little dancer and Miss Walcott are as friendly as Kilkenny cats,
too,” added Riley, with a left-handed attempt at humor.
“You have an X-ray eye,” commented Craig, with veiled sarcasm, which
quite amused me, for the detective actually took it literally and
thanked him. “Paquita is still about, then?”
“Yes, sir. Right after you went up-stairs she had her car brought
around and started out for a spin――down the shore road. But she must
have seen that one of our men was following, for she turned up-country
and was back again in half an hour. If she intended to do anything, she
must have been scared off. She’s up-stairs now, dressing for dinner,
I suppose. I’ve got her checkmated. She can’t move without my knowing
it――and she knows it.”
“Down the shore road,” repeated Kennedy, reflectively. “I wonder what
she could have wanted down there. The wireless impulses came from the
water side. Walter would you mind going down on the dock and telling
that young man of mine he had better get a bite to eat right away and
that then he can begin getting the stuff unpacked and set up!”
While Watkins took a hasty dinner at the Lodge, I relieved him of
watching the packages he had brought. It was a tiresome wait, for I
longed to be with Kennedy.
One thing, however, broke the monotony. Once when I looked up I caught
sight of a launch putting out from the _Sybarite_ and feathering over
the choppy waves in the direction of the dock. As it came closer I saw
that it contained Shelby Maddox, still alone. He came ashore and, as
he walked up the dock, saw me and nodded absently. Evidently he was
thinking of something else.
I was glad to rejoin Kennedy a few minutes later when Watkins returned
and began to unwrap the packages, as Craig had ordered. Fortunately
for the sake of my curiosity, nothing had occurred during my absence,
except that Craig and Burke had seen Shelby enter, although he had done
nothing.
It was the dinner hour and the guests were beginning to enter the
dining-room. Shelby had already done so, selecting a table where he
was in sight of that usually occupied by the Walcotts. Their table
seemed deserted to-night. Johnson Walcott was not yet back, and Irene
Maddox now sat at another table, with those of her family who had come
to be with her at the funeral. Winifred did not come down to dinner
at all, which seemed to vex Shelby, for it looked as though she were
avoiding him. The only person at the table was Frances Walcott.
Convinced that no one else was coming in, Shelby glumly hurried through
his meal, and finally, unable to stand it any longer, rose, and on the
way out stopped to talk with his sister.
What was said we could not guess. But it was more like a parley during
an armistice than a talk between brother and sister, and it did not
seem to do Shelby much good.
Finally he drifted out aimlessly into the lobby again. As he stood
undecided, we caught a glimpse of the petite figure of Paquita flitting
from an alcove in his direction. Before he could avoid her she spoke to
him.
However unwelcome the meeting might have been to Shelby――and his face
showed plainly that it was so――there could be no doubt of Paquita’s
eagerness to see him. As I looked at her I could only wonder at the
strangeness of life. She whom men had pursued and had found elusive,
even when they thought they had her captured, was now herself in the
anomalous rôle of pursuer. And the man whom she pursued cared no more
for her than she for those who pursued her. Nay more, he was openly,
hopelessly in love with another woman, in every respect the antithesis
of herself. Much as I disliked Paquita’s type, though realizing her
fascination as a study, I could not help seeing the potential tragedy
and pathos of the situation.
She did not accuse or upbraid. On the contrary, she was using every
art of which she was a past mistress to fascinate and attract. I did
not need prompting from Kennedy to see the strange romance of the
situation. The little dancer was subtly matching all the charm and all
the knowledge of men and the world which she possessed against the
appeal that Winifred had made to a hitherto latent side of Shelby’s
nature. The struggle between the two women was no less enthralling than
the unraveling of the mystery of Marshall Maddox’s death.
“By Heaven!” I heard Kennedy mutter under his breath, as we watched
Paquita and Shelby, “I wonder whether it is right to let events take
their course. Yes――it must be. If he cannot go through it now, he’ll
never be able to. Yes, Shelby Maddox must fight that out for himself.
He shall not ruin the life of Winifred Walcott.”
His remark set me thinking of the responsibility Craig had had thrust
on him. It was far more than merely running down the murderer of
Marshall Maddox, now.
Shelby himself evidently appreciated what faced him. I could see that
he was talking very bluntly and pointedly to her, almost rudely. Now
and then she flashed a glance at him which, with her flushed face and
the emotion expressed in her very being, could not have failed only
three days ago. Shelby seemed to feel it, and took refuge in what
looked to be an almost harshness of manner with her.
Kennedy jogged my arm and I followed his eyes. In the alcove from which
she had come I was not surprised to see Sanchez, standing and looking
at them. His dark eyes seemed riveted on the man as though he hated him
with a supernal hate. What would he himself not have given to be where
Shelby was? I wondered whether his blinded eyes saw the truth about
Shelby’s position. I doubted it, for it was with difficulty that he
restrained himself. Black and ominous were the looks that he darted at
the younger man. Indeed, I did not envy him.
As I turned to say something to Kennedy I saw that Sanchez and
ourselves were not the only ones interested. Frances Maddox had just
come out of the dining room, had seen her brother and Paquita, and had
drawn back into the shadow of a doorway leading to the porch, where
she could see them better without being seen by them. Yet she betrayed
nothing of her feelings toward either.
Meanwhile Shelby had been getting more and more vehement as he talked.
I could not hear, but it was quite evident now that he was repeating
and enforcing the remarks he had made to Paquita the night before
during their secret stroll down the beach. And she, instead of getting
angry, as he no doubt hoped she would, was keeping her temper and her
control of herself in a most dangerous manner.
There was so much to think about that it was not until now that I
noticed that the face we had seen in the alcove was gone. Sanchez had
disappeared. Had the thing been too much for him? Was it that he could
not trust himself to stay? At any rate, he was gone.
Just then Shelby turned on his heel, almost brutally, and deliberately
walked away. It was as though he felt it his only escape from
temptation.
Paquita took an involuntary step after him, then stopped short. I
followed her quick glance to see what it might be that had deterred
her. She had caught sight of Frances Walcott, whose interest had
betrayed her into letting the light stream through the doorway on her
face. Instantly Paquita covered the vexation that was on her face.
Least of all would she let this man’s sister see it. Consummate actress
that she was, she turned and walked across the lobby, and a moment
later was in gay conversation with another of her numerous admirers.
But it did not take an eye more trained than mine to see the gaiety was
forced, the animation of quite a different character from that she had
showed to Shelby.
“Of one thing we can be sure,” remarked Craig. “Miss Walcott will hear
all about this. I hope she hears the truth. I’m almost tempted to tell
her myself.” He paused, debating. “No,” he decided, finally, “the time
hasn’t come yet.”
Shelby had retreated to the porch, where now he was pacing up and down,
alone. As he came past the door his abstracted glance fell with a start
on his sister. He drew himself together and spoke to her. Evidently
he was debating whether she had seen anything, and, if so, how much
and how she had interpreted it. At any rate, he was at pains to speak
now, hoping that she might carry a message which he dared not send.
What was going on in their minds I could not guess, but to outward
appearance they were more like brother and sister than I had seen them
ever before.
They parted finally and Shelby continued his measured tread about the
porch, as though trying to make up his mind on a course of action. For
about a quarter of an hour he walked, then, his face set in determined
lines, entered the Lodge and went deliberately over to a florist’s
stand. There, oblivious to anything else, he selected the handsomest
bunch of violets on the stand. He was about to drop his card into their
fragrant and reconciling depths when he paused, replaced the card in
his case, and directed the man to deliver them anonymously. There was
no need for us to inquire where they were sent.
Still oblivious to the gay life of the Lodge and Casino, he strode out
into the night and down to the dock, paying no attention to Craig’s
student as he passed. He stepped into the tender which was still
waiting and we saw him head straight for the _Sybarite_. Ten minutes
later the lights in the main saloon flashed up. Shelby was evidently at
work over some problem, wrestling it out himself. Was it his relations
with Winifred or his stock-market schemes――or both?
“Well, I’ve been looking all over for you. Where have you been?”
sounded Burke’s voice back of us, as Kennedy and I were silently
looking out over the dark waters at the yacht.
Without waiting for us to reply Burke hurried on. “You remember that
operator, Steel, that was here from Seaville?”
“Yes,” encouraged Kennedy. “What of him?”
“He went back to the station and has done his trick. He has just
crossed over again with a message to me. That wireless power, whatever
it is, is jamming the air again. I thought you’d like to know of it.”
For just a second Kennedy looked at Burke in silence, then without
further inquiry turned and almost ran down the length of the dock to
the float at the end.
There Watkins had already set up on the float a large affair which
looked for all the world like a mortar. We watched as Craig fussed with
it to make sure that everything was all right. Meanwhile the student
continued adjusting something else that had been let down over the edge
of the float into the water. It seemed to be a peculiar disk, heavy and
suspended by a stout wire which allowed it to be submerged eight or ten
feet.
“What’s this thing?” inquired Burke, looking at the mortar over which
Craig was bending. “Fireworks, or are you going to bombard somebody?”
“It’s a light-weight rocket mortar,” explained Kennedy, ramming
something into it. “You’ll see in a moment. Stand back, all of you――off
the float――on the dock.”
Suddenly there came a deep detonation from the mortar and a rocket shot
out and up in a long, low parabola. Kennedy rushed forward, and another
detonation sent a second far out in a different angle.
“What is it?” gasped Burke, in amazement.
“Look!” called Kennedy, elated.
Another instant, and from every quarter of the harbor there seemed
to rise, as if from the waves, huge balls of fire, a brilliant and
luminous series of flames literally from the water itself. It was
a moonless night but these fires seemed literally to roll back the
Cimmerian darkness.
“A recent invention,” explained Craig, “light-bombs, for use at night
against torpedo-boat and aeroplane attacks.”
“Light-bombs!” Burke repeated.
“Yes, made of phosphide of calcium. The mortar hurls them out, and they
are so constructed that they float after a short plunge in the water.
You see, the action of the salt water automatically ignites them merely
by contact and the chemical action of the phosphide and the salt water
keeps them phosphorescing for several minutes.”
As he talked he shot off some more.
“Kennedy, you’re a genius,” gasped Burke. “You’re always ready for
anything.”
The sight before us was indeed a beautiful pyrotechnic display. The
bombs lighted up the shores and the low-lying hills, making everything
stand forth and cast long spectral shadows. Cottages hidden among trees
or in coves along the wide sweep of the shore line stood out as if in
an unearthly flare.
What people on the shore thought we had no time even to wonder. They
crowded out on the porches, in consternation. The music at the Casino
stopped. No one had ever seen anything like it before. It was fire on
water!
As yet none of us had even an inkling of what it was that Kennedy
expected to discover. But every craft in the harbor now stood out
distinct――in the glare of a miniature sun. We could see that,
naturally, excitement on the boats was greater than it was on shore,
for they were closer to the flares and therefore it seemed more amazing.
Craig was scanning the water carefully, seeking any sign of something
suspicious.
“There it is!” he exclaimed, bending forward and pointing.
We strained our eyes. A mile or two out I could distinguish a
power-boat of good size, moving swiftly away, as though trying to round
the shelter of a point of land, out of the light. With a glass some one
made out a stubby wireless mast on her.
Kennedy’s surmise when we had first studied the wireless interference
had proved correct.
Sure enough, in the blackness of the night, there was a fast express
cruiser, of the new scout type, not large, almost possible for one man
to control, the latest thing in small power-boats and a perfect demon
for speed!
Was that the source of the strange wireless impulses? Whose was it, and
why was it there?