"Curtis, who managed the company's plant at Barcelona, died of
yellow-fever," I said, "and was buried the same day."
For some time Schnitzel glowered uncertainly at the bulkhead.
"Did you know him?" he asked.
"When I was in the legation I knew him well," I said.
"So did I," said Schnitzel. "He wasn't murdered. He murdered himself. He
was wrong ten thousand dollars in his accounts. He got worrying about it
and we found him outside the clearing with a hole in his head. He left a
note saying he couldn't bear the disgrace. As if the company would hold
a little grafting against as good a man as Curtis!"
Schnitzel coughed and pretended it was his cigarette.
"You see you don't put in nothing against him," he added savagely.
It was the first time I had seen Schnitzel show emotion, and I was moved
to preach.
"Why don't you quit?" I said. "You had an A1 job as a stenographer. Why
don't you go back to it?"
"Maybe, some day. But it's great being your own boss. If I was a
stenographer, I wouldn't be helping you send in a report to the State
Department, would I? No, this job is all right. They send you after
something big, and you have the devil of a time getting it, but when you
get it, you feel like you had picked a hundred-to-one shot."
The talk or the drink had elated him. His fish-like eyes bulged and
shone. He cast a quick look about him. Except for ourselves, the
smoking-room was empty. From below came the steady throb of the engines,
and from outside the whisper of the waves and of the wind through the
cordage. A barefooted sailor pattered by to the bridge. Schnitzel bent
toward me, and with his hand pointed to his throat.
"I've got papers on me that's worth a million to a certain party," he
whispered. "You understand, my notes in cipher."
He scowled with intense mystery.
"I keep 'em in an oiled-silk bag, tied around my neck with a string. And
here," he added hastily, patting his hip, as though to forestall any
attack I might make upon his person, "I carry my automatic. It shoots
nine bullets in five seconds. They got to be quick to catch me."
"Well, if you have either of those things on you," I said testily, "I
don't want to know it. How often have I told you not to talk and drink
at the same time?"
"Ah, go on," laughed Schnitzel. "That's an old gag, warning a fellow not
to talk so as to _make_ him talk. I do that myself."
That Schnitzel had important papers tied to his neck I no more believe
than that he wore a shirt of chain armor, but to please him I pretended
to be greatly concerned.
"Now that we're getting into New York," I said, "you must be very
careful. A man who carries such important documents on his person might
be murdered for them. I think you ought to disguise yourself."
A picture of my bag being carried ashore by Schnitzel in the uniform of
a ship's steward rather pleased me.
"Go on, you're kidding!" said Schnitzel. He was drawn between believing
I was deeply impressed and with fear that I was mocking him.
"On the contrary," I protested, "I don't feel quite safe myself. Seeing
me with you they may think I have papers around _my_ neck."
"They wouldn't look at you," Schnitzel reassured me. "They know you're
just an amateur. But, as you say, with me, it's different. I _got_ to be
careful. Now, you mightn't believe it, but I never go near my uncle nor
none of my friends that live where I used to hang out. If I did, the
other spies would get on my track. I suppose," he went on grandly, "I
never go out in New York but that at least two spies are trailing me.
But I know how to throw them off. I live 'way down town in a little
hotel you never heard of. You never catch me dining at Sherry's nor the
Waldorf. And you never met me out socially, did you, now?"