AN INFORMAL COURT
One morning, soon after Fuller and his daughter had gone home, Dick stood
at a table in the testing house behind the mixing sheds. The small,
galvanized iron building shook with the throb of engines and rattle of
machinery, and now and then a shower of cinders pattered upon the roof;
for the big mill that ground up the concrete was working across the road.
The lattice shutters were closed, for the sake of privacy, and kept out
the glare, though they could not keep out the heat, which soaked through
the thin, iron walls, and Dick's face was wet with perspiration as he
arranged a number of small concrete blocks. Some of these were broken,
and some partly crushed. Delicate scales and glass measures occupied a
neighboring shelf, and a big steel apparatus that looked rather like a
lever weighing machine stood in the shadow.
Where the draught that came through the lattices flowed across the room,
Bethune lounged in a canvas chair, and another man, with a quiet,
sunburned face, sat behind him. This was Stuyvesant, whose authority was
only second to Fuller's.
"Brandon seems to have taken a good deal of trouble, but this kind of
investigation needs the strictest accuracy, and we haven't the best of
testing apparatus," Bethune remarked. "I expect he'll allow that the
results he has got may be to some extent misleading, and I doubt if it's
worth while to go on with the matter. Are you sure you have made no
mistakes, Dick?"
Dick pondered for a few moments. If he were right, as he thought he was,
the statements he had to make would lead to the discharge of the
sub-contractor. Remembering his own disgrace, he shrank from condemning
another. He knew what he had suffered, and the man might be innocent
although his guilt seemed plain. It was a hateful situation, but his duty
was to protect his master's interests and he could not see him robbed.
"You can check my calculations," he answered quietly.
"That's so," agreed Stuyvesant, who added with a dry smile as he noted
Bethune's disapproving look: "We can decide about going on with the thing
when we have heard Brandon."
"Very well," said Dick, giving him some papers, and then indicated two
different rows of the small concrete blocks. "These marked A were made
from cement in our store; the lot B from some I took from Oliva's stock
on the mole. They were subjected to the same compressive, shearing, and
absorbent tests, and you'll see that there's very little difference in
the results. The quality of standard makes of cement is, no doubt, much
alike, but you wouldn't expect to find that of two different brands
identical. My contention is that the blocks were made from the same
stuff."
Stuyvesant crossed the floor and measured the blocks with a micrometer
gage, after which he filled two of the graduated glass measures and then
weighed the water.
"Well?" he said to Bethune, who had picked up Dick's calculations.
"The figures are right; he's only out in a small decimal."
Stuyvesant took the papers and compared them with a printed form he
produced from his pocket.
"They correspond with the tests the maker claims his stuff will stand,
and we can take it that they're accurate. Still, this doesn't prove that
Oliva stole the cement from us. The particular make is popular on this
coast, and he may have bought a quantity from somebody else. Did you
examine the bags on the mole, Brandon?"
"No," said Dick, "I had to get my samples in the dark. If Oliva bought
the cement, he must have kept it for some time, because the only man in
the town who stocks it sold the last he had three months ago. The next
thing is our storekeeper's tally showing the number of bags delivered to
him. I sat up half the night trying to balance this against what he
handed out and could make nothing of the entries."
"Let me see," said Bethune, and lighted a cigarette when Dick handed him
a book, and a bundle of small, numbered forms. "You can talk, if you
like," he added as he sharpened a pencil.
Dick moved restlessly up and down the floor, examining the testing
apparatus, but he said nothing, and Stuyvesant did not speak. He was a
reserved and thoughtful man. After a time, Bethune threw the papers on
the table.
"François isn't much of a bookkeeper," he remarked. "One or two of the
delivery slips have been entered twice, and at first I suspected he might
have conspired with Oliva. Still, that's against my notion of his
character, and I find he's missed booking stuff that had been given out,
which, of course, wouldn't have suited the other's plans."
"You can generally count on a Frenchman's honesty," Stuyvesant observed.
"But do you make the deliveries ex-store tally with what went in?"
"I don't," said Bethune dryly. "Here's the balance I struck. It shows the
storekeeper is a good many bags short."
He passed the paper across, and Dick examined it with surprise.
"You have worked this out already from the muddled and blotted entries!
Do you think you've got it right?"
"I'm sure," said Bethune, smiling. "I'll prove it if you like. We know
how much cement went into stock. How many molded blocks of the top course
have we put down at the dam?"
Dick told him, and after a few minutes' calculation Bethune looked up.
"Then here you are! Our concrete's a standard density; we know the weight
of water and sand and what to allow for evaporation. You see my figures
agree very closely with the total delivery ex-store."
They did so, and Dick no longer wondered how Bethune, who ostentatiously
declined to let his work interfere with his comfort, held his post. The
man thought in numbers, using the figures, as one used words, to express
his knowledge rather than as a means of obtaining it by calculation. Dick
imagined this was genius.
"Well," said Stuyvesant, "I guess we had better send for the storekeeper
next."
"Get it over," agreed Bethune. "It's an unpleasant job."
Dick sent a half-naked peon to look for the man, and was sensible of some
nervous strain as he waited for his return. He hated the task he had
undertaken, but it must be carried out. Bethune, who had at first tried
to discourage him, now looked interested, and Dick saw that Stuyvesant
was resolute. In the meanwhile, the shed had grown suffocatingly hot, his
face and hands were wet with perspiration, and the rumble of machinery
made his head ache. He lighted a cigarette, but the tobacco tasted bitter
and he threw it away. Then there were footsteps outside and Stuyvesant
turned to him.
"We leave you to put the thing through. You're prosecutor."
Dick braced himself as a man came in and stood by the table, looking at
the others suspiciously. He was an American, but his face was heavy and
rather sullen, and his white clothes were smeared with dust.
"We have been examining your stock-book," said Dick. "It's badly kept."
The fellow gave him a quick glance. "Mr. Fuller knows I'm not smart at
figuring, and if you want the books neat, you'll have to get me a better
clerk. Anyhow, I've my own tally and allow I can tell you what stuff I
get and where it goes."
"That is satisfactory. Look at this list and tell me where the cement
you're short of has gone."
"Into the mixing shed, I guess," said the other with a half-defiant
frown.
"Then it didn't come out. We haven't got the concrete at the dam. Are
there any full bags not accounted for in the shed?"
"No, sir. You ought to know the bags are skipped right into the tank as
the mill grinds up the mush."
"Very well. Perhaps you'd better consult your private tally and see if it
throws any light upon the matter."
The man took out a note-book and while he studied it Bethune asked, "Will
you let me have the book?"
"I guess not," said the other, who shut the book with a snap, and then
turned and confronted Dick.
"I want to know why you're getting after me!"
"It's fairly plain. You're responsible for the stores and can't tell us
what has become of a quantity of the goods."
"Suppose I own up that my tally's got mixed?"
"Then you'd show yourself unfit for your job; but that is not the worst.
If you had made a mistake the bags wouldn't vanish. You had the cement,
it isn't in the store and hasn't reached us in the form of concrete. It
must have gone somewhere."
"Where do you reckon it went, if it wasn't into the mixing shed?"
"To the Santa Brigida mole," Dick answered quietly, and noting the man's
abrupt movement, went on: "What were you talking to Ramon Oliva about at
the Hotel Magellan?"
The storekeeper did not reply, but the anger and confusion in his face
were plain, and Dick turned to the others.
"I think we'll send for Oliva," said Stuyvesant. "Keep this fellow here
until he comes."
Oliva entered tranquilly, though his black eyes got very keen when he
glanced at his sullen accomplice. He was picturesquely dressed, with a
black silk sash round his waist and a big Mexican sombrero. Taking out a
cigarette, he remarked that it was unusually hot.
"You are doing some work on the town mole," Dick said to him. "Where did
you get the cement?"
"I bought it," Oliva answered, with a surprised look.
"From whom?"
"A merchant at Anagas, down the coast. But, señores, my contract on the
mole is a matter for the port officials. I do not see the object of these
questions."
"You had better answer them," Stuyvesant remarked, and signed Dick to go
on.
Dick paused for a moment or two, remembering how he had confronted his
judges in a tent in an English valley. The scene came back with poignant
distinctness.
He could hear the river brawling among the stones, and feel his Colonel's
stern, condemning gaze fixed upon his face. For all that, his tone was
resolute as he asked: "What was the brand of the cement you bought?"
"The _Tenax_, señor," Oliva answered with a defiant smile.
Then Dick turned to the others with a gesture which implied that there
was no more to be said, and quietly sat down. _Tenax_ was not the brand
that Fuller used, and its different properties would have appeared in the
tests. The sub-contractor had betrayed himself by the lie, and his
accomplice looked at him with disgust.
"You've given the thing away," he growled. "Think they don't know what
cement is? Now they have you fixed!"
There was silence for the next minute while Stuyvesant studied some
figures in his pocket-book. Then he wrote upon a leaf, which he tore out
and told Dick to give it to Oliva.
"Here's a rough statement of your account up to the end of last month,
Don Ramon," he said. "You can check it and afterwards hand the pay-clerk
a formal bill, brought up to date, but you'll notice I have charged you
with a quantity of cement that's missing from our store. Your engagement
with Mr. Fuller ends to-day."
Oliva spread out his hands with a dramatic gesture. "Señores, this is a
scandal, a grand injustice! You understand it will ruin me? It is
impossible that I submit."
"Very well. We'll put the matter into the hands of the _Justicia_."
"It is equal," Oliva declared with passion. "You have me marked as a
thief. The port officials give me no more work and my friends talk. At
the _Justicia_ all the world hears my defense."
"As you like," said Stuyvesant, but the storekeeper turned to Oliva with
a contemptuous grin.
"I allow you're not such a blamed fool," he remarked. "Take the chance
they've given you and get from under before the roof falls in."
Oliva pondered for a few moments, his eyes fixed on Stuyvesant's unmoved
face, and then shrugged with an air of injured resignation.
"It is a grand scandal, but I make my bill."
He moved slowly to the door, but paused as he reached it, and gave Dick a
quick, malignant glance. Then he went out and the storekeeper asked
Stuyvesant: "What are you going to do with me?"
"Fire you right now. Go along to the pay-clerk and give him your time. I
don't know if that's all we ought to do; but we'll be satisfied if you
and your partner get off this camp."
"I'll quit," said the storekeeper, who turned to Dick. "You're a smart
kid, but we'd have bluffed you all right if the fool had allowed he used
the same cement."
Then he followed Oliva, and Stuyvesant got up.
"That was Oliva's mistake," he remarked. "I saw where you were leading
him and you put the questions well. Now, however, you'll have to take on
his duties until we get another man."
They left the testing-house, and as Bethune and Dick walked up the valley
the former said: "It's my opinion that you were imprudent in one respect.
You showed the fellows that it was you who found them out. It might have
been better if you had, so to speak, divided the responsibility."
"They've gone, and that's the most important thing," Dick rejoined.
"From the works. It doesn't follow that they'll quit Santa Brigida.
Payne, the storekeeper, is of course an American tough, but I don't think
he'll make trouble. He'd have robbed us cheerfully, but I expect he'll
take his being found out as a risk of the game; besides, Stuyvesant will
have to ship him home if he asks for his passage. But I didn't like the
look Oliva gave you. These dago half-breeds are a revengeful lot."
"I'm not in the town often and I'll be careful if I go there after dark.
To tell the truth, I didn't want to interfere, but I couldn't let the
rogues go on with their stealing."
"I suppose not," Bethune agreed. "The trouble about doing your duty is
that it often costs you something."