UNEXPLAINED DISAPPEARANCES
Lang was astonished to find that Eva had already gone to the Mobile
police headquarters and induced the authorities to telegraph to all
the Gulf ports and coastguard stations for news of her father. His
respect for her practicality increased immensely. She had had no
replies as yet, but she looked hopeful, cheerful, and glad to see him
when she came down to the little sitting room on the second floor,
where they had often met in the past fortnight.
“That’s the right spirit,” he encouraged her. “Don’t be disappointed
if we don’t get any news at once. Your father had a life belt on and
would float for hours. And the Gulf is a tropical sea, you know—not
cold like the Atlantic.”
Remembering the night he had spent in it himself, Lang wondered that
this lie did not freeze on his lips. He hurried past it.
“I hope you slept last night—this morning, rather.”
“I’m afraid, not very much; neither did you.” An uncontrollable smile
curved her lips, and then she laughed outright. “I looked out the
window before daylight and saw you.”
Lang felt his cheeks reddening.
“I hated to leave you all alone,” he stammered. “I wasn’t much of a
sentinel, though—went to sleep on my post.”
“It was awfully foolish of you, and—and simply wonderful,” she said,
no longer laughing. “I nearly cried. I went to make hot coffee for
you, and when I came back you were gone.”
“I wish I’d known. I drove to Pass Christian and slept nearly all day.
I’m a dormouse when I get a chance. Enough of that. I’ve got something
to tell you.”
“Some news? Something about father?”
“No news. About your father, in a way. It’s a romantic tale that
Carroll has just told me. It’ll amuse you at least. You’re going out
to dinner with me and I’ll tell you while we eat.”
“Do tell me now,” she pleaded.
“No, it’ll be for a digestive. I’m the doctor. We’ll go out for a
short walk now for an appetizer, please. I know what’s best for you.”
She went to get her coat and hat, obediently. Lang had planned to take
her to the largest hotel restaurant in the city, with the masculine
idea of cheering her, but at the sight of the great dining room,
tricked with palms, crammed with Michigan tourists, deafening with the
shriek and clash of a jazz orchestra, she turned in horror and begged
to go to another place. Discomfited, Lang led her in search of quiet,
and after long wandering, they came into a little, rather shabby,
unfrequented eating place on Royal Street.
Here was quiet at any rate. It was growing late and not another table
was occupied. They had a wholesome, vulgar meal, fairly cooked, badly
served, and Lang saw to it that his companion ate. He also ate, being
again surprisingly hungry, but he refused to tell his story till they
had almost finished.
Then, over a cup of coffee, he lighted a cigarette, and recounted
Carroll’s revelations, which he had come more and more disposed to
consider a work of imagination.
Eva listened with the utmost attention, but without comment. She did
not display quite the surprise that he expected; and at the end she
fixed her eyes upon him and asked:
“What do you think of it?”
“I don’t believe it. The question really is, what’s under it? For it’s
obviously designed to conceal something else, like Carroll’s first
romance of Rockett and the yacht.”
Eva appeared to ponder, looking down at the spotted tablecloth.
“That story is all true,” she said at last.
“What? You think so?”
“I know it. You see—father wrote me from Valparaiso, while he was ill
there. He told me he’d been hurt and was coming north; and he said he
was on the track of a deposit of precious stones that would make us
rich. I was to meet him in Mobile. But he didn’t say anything about
any man named Floyd.”
“Well, that puts a different face on it,” said Lang, greatly taken
aback. “As for Floyd, of course he may merely have learned of the
thing by some chance.”
“I know father wouldn’t have engaged any mining prospector,” Eva went
on. “He wasn’t interested in such things. He was an explorer, an
archæologist. He believes that the old Inca civilization extended away
south into Patagonia, and perhaps originated there, and that is what
he’s trying to establish. He has gone farther toward deciphering the
Inca _quipus_—the knotted-string records—than any other man. He must
have merely chanced on the emeralds.”
“Well, now it seems that Carroll has the only clew to where they are,”
said Lang, reviewing the situation mentally. “It’s my fault; I
shouldn’t have let him pocket them; but just then my mind was full of
nothing but Rockett’s money. I suppose you don’t feel inclined to
accept his proposition of going shares on the enterprise?”
“Shares with that man? I should think not!” she exclaimed. “Why, you
know he’s a thief, almost a murderer. He nearly killed my father.
Fancy what father would say when he found that we’d given a share in
his discovery to the man who robbed him!”
“Carroll’s got a strong position, though. We might buy him off.
Possibly he’d accept five hundred dollars or maybe a thousand dollars
for the maps and photos, if he was made to see that there was no
better to be had.”
“But why should we,” rejoined Eva, “when my father will be back here
soon, and he will know the way exactly to that place in South
America?”
There was no possible answer to this. Lang could not tell her that
Morrison would never come back to guide them, and he began to wonder
if he had not been too lavish with his optimism.
The astonishing fact that Carroll’s tale was substantially true had
hardly yet established itself in his mind, but now it began to grow
and develop its glittering possibility. An almost incalculable
treasure in emeralds, emeralds as big as small potatoes—it was
romantically incredible. Yet it might be so. Indeed, lives had been
lost, crime committed, a ship sunk for its sake already, and without
knowing it he had himself been circling on the vortex of its
fascination.
But Eva did not seem much interested in it. To her, everything in the
world was postponed until Morrison’s return. Now she was growing
restless, afraid that telegrams might have come to the hotel for her,
and presently Lang took her back to the Iberville.
Replies had, indeed, come in from the police at Pensacola, Fairhope,
Bayou la Batre and Pascagoula, but nothing had been heard of any
castaway coming ashore. Eva, however, was disappointed but not
discouraged, and Lang wondered apprehensively what the final reaction
would be when hope had to be given up.
He stayed with her for an hour in the second-floor sitting room,
talking casually and cheerfully, and then left her. He would see her
again in the morning, but for once he was impatient to leave her. He
wanted to be alone, to think.
Eva evidently had no comprehension of the case. Her whole mind was
fixed on her drowned father; everything else was excluded. She would
delay, let the moment slip. And Morrison’s find was not a thing to
trifle with.
Magnificent plans had risen in the back of his mind even while he
talked to her. He might buy off Carroll himself. He would have no
scruple in utilizing a portion of Eva’s twelve thousand dollars thus
for her own good. He might even gamble a part of his own slender
capital on it. Once in possession of the guiding charts he would go
south himself, hire a schooner, find the treasure, return and hand it
over to Eva—quarts of emeralds as large as potatoes. What he would get
out of it himself did not trouble him.
It was boyish and impracticable. He laughed at himself, though still
fascinated by the idea. At any rate he felt that Carroll must be dealt
with at once, and he went to the St. Andrew Hotel on his way home, but
the young adventurer was out.
He found him next morning, at a late breakfast in the hotel dining
room. Carroll greeted him with his never-failing smoothness, did not
seem surprised, and offered coffee, which Lang declined.
“I’ve come to have an understanding with you, as you said.”
“Good. Well?” said Carroll, alert.
“I’ve talked to Miss Morrison. She’ll give you five hundred dollars
for her father’s papers and photos.”
“Nothing doing!” Carroll returned.
“You’ll have to give them up anyway, you know. Miss Morrison can
identify them. So can I. You don’t want to be arrested, I take it?”
“And how will Doctor Lang like having his part brought to light?”
Carroll inquired ironically. “Burglary. Gambling with Morrison’s
stock.”
“What I did was under Morrison’s orders. His daughter will testify to
that. She’ll back up everything I say. I told her you’d probably
refuse her offer, and she agreed to go the length of one thousand
dollars, but that’s the limit. I advised calling the police at once.”
“Never in my life did I see a shark like you, Lang,” said Carroll
earnestly. “I show you how to make ten thousand dollars and you hog it
all. I tell you where you can make maybe a million, and now you try to
hog that, too. I thought doctors were supposed to be an unselfish
class! Now I tell you, you can’t hog this. I’ve told you my
terms—one-third shares. Otherwise I’ll take it all. You can’t do
anything without what I’ve got. But if you insist on cutting your own
throat, why, go to it.”
“Well, you can consider whether your record will stand police
investigation,” said Lang. “I’ve given you our terms, too. Will you
make an offer, if they don’t suit?”
“I’ve told you—a third of the haul. You won’t consider that? Then do
go away; you’re spoiling my breakfast.”
As he went, Lang was doubtful whether he had been diplomatic enough.
He was unaccustomed to negotiations with criminals, and to big bluffs.
It was really a bluff; the police could hardly recover what Carroll
chose to hide; but he still expected the adventurer to come to terms.
And then a consideration flashed upon him which he had overlooked
entirely.
Carroll undoubtedly would have all the photos and other matter copied
before he sold them. Thus he could sell them and still keep them.
Even so, however, Carroll would be badly handicapped by lack of
capital. If it came to a race Lang felt confident that he could win.
But this new consideration made him sure that, within twenty-four
hours, Carroll would come to sell.
Going to the bank, he took out ten thousand dollars from the vault and
deposited it in Eva Morrison’s name, reserving two thousand dollars
for possible emergencies. He called at the public library, secured a
large atlas and studied with some apprehension the tangle of islands
and channels belting the south Chilean coast, and later he asked for
Miss Morrison at the Iberville.
He found her looking worried, and she admitted that she had slept
little. She had dark lines under her eyes, and her beauty was in
eclipse. He made her go out with him. They went first to the bank,
where she completed the formalities of taking over the account; and
then on a motor run for ten miles down the bay road. She had received
several more replies from the Gulf ports—negative, all of them; but
she persisted in an appearance of optimism.
“You’re wonderfully good to me,” she said gratefully, as they returned
to the city. “You mustn’t take up all your time with my affairs.
You’ve your own concerns—your own plans to make.”
“My concerns, my plans are all for you,” he almost answered, but he
restrained himself wisely.
“I haven’t any,” he said. “I’m not a physician any more. I’m an
adventurer, a chevalier of industry, a burglar, a stock gambler, a
treasure hunter—all my boyish dreams come to life.”
She smiled. “How about your medical practice up in the woods?”
He had almost forgotten it. That scheme now seemed utterly remote and
impracticable, tame and unalluring besides. But her words reminded him
sharply that life was life, after all, and that he would have to think
of unalluring and practical matters. Much depended on Carroll, and
again he regretted having been so crudely unconciliatory with that
young man.
He fully expected to hear from Carroll that night, but no word came.
He did not want to make advances again. He waited till the next
morning. Again he took Eva out, once for a long walk, then across to
Fairhope on the afternoon boat. She looked more depressed than ever,
did not respond to his cheerfulness, and he foresaw the moment when
hope would die.
That evening he took the step of telephoning to the Hotel St. Andrew,
and was told that Carroll had departed the day before, leaving no
address.
Violently Lang cursed his own clumsiness. Carroll was frightened off,
with his indispensable documents. For a moment Lang pictured him
starting immediately for South America; but this could hardly be,
unless, with Louie’s assistance, he had managed to commit some
lucrative crime. But he had passed out of sight, probably forever, and
Lang felt deeply thankful that he had told Eva nothing of his
high-flown projects, now made impossible.
Lang put in a bad night himself, but the morning mail brought a
letter. It was a brief note from Carroll, posted in New Orleans, and
with no address but the general delivery. Lang breathed more easily as
he glanced over it.
Meet me at the St. Charles here Friday afternoon. We can
make a deal, if you bring fifteen hundred dollars cash—no
checks. If I am not there, wait a day. Am going out of
town and may be delayed. This is your last chance.
It was then Thursday. Lang spent part of that day with Eva as usual,
mentioning casually that he was going out of town for half a day or
so, and left for New Orleans late that night.
He established himself at the Hotel St. Charles, and was not
disappointed to find Carroll not known there. All the next afternoon
he spent within sight of the desk, or in his room, with instructions
to have any caller sent up to him immediately; but he waited in vain.
The evening was equally blank. Carroll had said he might be delayed,
and Lang repressed impatience and growing doubt until the whole of the
next day had passed. He spent that night with a feeling of being
somehow taken in, but next morning he was given a note.
It had been brought in very early by a negro boy, was scribbled in
pencil and bore no date nor address. It said:
Sorry to keep you waiting, have been delayed. Will meet
you to-day sure. Hope you have brought the money.
C.
Reviving in hope, Lang waited all that Sunday, again in vain, and the
morning brought neither message nor caller. Fuming with wrath, he left
a curt and angry note for Carroll at the desk, and took the train back
to Mobile, certain now that he had been maliciously played with.
At his hotel among his letters, he found one with the stamp of the
Iberville, which had been personally left. He knew at once who had
left it, and he tore it open with a sense of dream.
Dear Doctor Lang: Father is alive. I have just had a
message from him at Colon. He was picked up by the ship
that ran you down, and has been very ill. I am to join him
at Panama. There is a ship from New Orleans to-morrow
which I can catch if I hurry. I am so sorry not to have
seen you. I tried everywhere to find you. I am too excited
and overjoyed to write, but I will send you word from
Panama. I took all the money out of the bank.
Yours most gratefully and joyfully,
Eva Morrison.
Emotion and haste were in every line of the shaky script. She had
passed through New Orleans while he waited there. Lang put the letter
in his pocket, glad, indeed, but with a crushing sense of finality.
She was gone, Carroll was gone; so far as he was concerned, the
emerald treasure was gone. Life returned to its normal, blank and
uninteresting outlines.
Doubtless she would write to him from Panama. She would go to Chile
with her father; doubtless she would return. But Lang had a feeling
that, even if he met her in the future, this episode was ended, closed
like a magic ring that could never be reopened.
He must leave Mobile. He was a poor man now and must make his living.
The prospect looked dreary. He had not realized how the green glow of
the Chilean stones had dazzled him. He had been thinking of late like
a millionaire, and dimes and dollars were now his standard. He was no
longer an adventurer.
He left his hotel and moved to an inexpensive boarding house. He
called on some of the local physicians, made inquiries about
professional prospects. The idea of work in the piney woods did not
attract him now. He was restless; he thought of going West. Though he
quailed at the idea of handling a scalpel, he could practice medicine
well enough in one of the new towns in Texas, he thought.
No word came from Eva. He still lingered in Mobile, unable to come to
a decision. More than a week had passed when he received a cablegram
from Panama.
Will you come to Panama first possible steamer, at my
expense? Important.
Edward Morrison.