Читать книгу The Adventuress - Arthur B. Reeve, Brander Matthews - Страница 9

HALF an hour later we were on our way by train to Westport with Hastings. As the train whisked us along Craig leaned back in his chair and surveyed the glimpses of water and countryside through the window. Now and then, as we got farther out from the city, through a break in the trees one could catch glimpses of the deep-blue salt water of bay and Sound, and the dazzling whiteness of sand.

Now and then Kennedy would break in with a question to Hastings, showing that his mind was actively at work on the case, but by his manner I could see that he was eager to get on the spot before all that he considered important had been messed up by others.

Hastings hurried us directly from the train to the little undertaking establishment to which the body of Marshall Maddox had been taken.

A crowd of the curious had already gathered, and we pushed our way in through them.

There lay the body. It had a peculiar, bloated appearance and the face was cyanosed and blue. Maddox had been a large man and well set up. In death he was still a striking figure. What was the secret behind those saturnine features?

‘Not a scratch or a bruise on him, except those made in handling the body,’ remarked the coroner, who was also a doctor, as he greeted Kennedy.

Craig nodded, then began his own long and careful investigation. He was so busily engaged, and I knew that it was so important to keep him from being interrupted, that I placed myself between him and those who crowded into the little room back of the shop.

But before I knew it a heavily veiled woman had brushed past me and stood before the body.

‘Irene Maddox!’ I heard Hastings whisper in Kennedy’s ear as Craig straightened up in surprise.

As she stood there there could be no doubt that Irene Maddox had been very bitter toward her husband. The wound to her pride had been deep. But the tragedy had softened her. She stood tearless, however, before the body, and as well as I could do so through her veil I studied her face. What did his death mean to her, aside from the dower rights that came to her in his fortune? It was impossible to say.

She stood there several minutes, then turned and walked deliberately out through the crowd, looking neither to the right nor to the left. I found myself wondering at the action. Yet why should she have shown more emotion? He had been nothing to her but a name—a hateful name—for years.

My speculation was cut short by the peculiar action of a dark-skinned, Latin-American-looking man whose face I had not noticed in the crowd before the arrival of Mrs Maddox. As she left he followed her out.

Curious, I turned and went out also. I reached the street door just in time to see Irene Maddox climb into a car with two other people.

‘Who are they?’ I asked a boy standing by the door.

‘Mr and Mrs Walcott,’ he replied.

Even in death the family feud persisted. The Walcotts had not even entered.

‘Did you know that the Walcotts brought Mrs Maddox here?’ I asked Hastings as I returned to Kennedy.

‘No, but I’m not surprised,’ he returned. ‘You remember I told you Frances took Irene’s part. Walcott must have returned from the city as soon as he heard of the tragedy.’

‘Who was that sallow-faced individual who followed her out?’ I asked. ‘Did you notice him?’

‘Yes, I saw him, but I don’t know who he can be,’ replied Hastings. ‘I don’t think I ever saw him before.’

‘That Latin-American?’ interposed Kennedy, who had completed his first investigation and made arrangements to co-operate with the coroner in carrying on the autopsy in his own laboratory. ‘I was wondering myself whether he could have any connection with Paquita. Where is she now?’

‘At the Harbour House, I suppose,’ answered Hastings—‘that is, if she is in town.

Kennedy hurried out of the establishment ahead of us and we looked down the street in time to see our man headed in the direction the Walcott automobile had taken.

He had too good a start of us, however, and before we could overtake him he had reached the Harbour House and entered. We had gained considerably on him, but not enough to find out where he went in the big hotel.

The Harbour House was a most attractive, fashionable hostelry, a favourite run for motor parties out from the city. On the water-front stood a large, red-roofed, stucco building known as the Casino entirely given over to amusements. Its wide porch of red tiles, contrasting with the innumerable white tables on it, looked out over the sheltered mouth of Westport Bay and on into the Sound, where, faintly outlined on the horizon, one saw the Connecticut shore.

Back of the Casino, and on a hill so that it looked directly over the roof of the lower building, was the hotel itself, commonly known as the Lodge, a new, up-to-date, shingle-sheathed building with every convenience that money and an expensive architect could provide. The place was ideal for summer sports—golf, tennis, motoring, bathing, boating, practically everything one could wish.

As we walked through the Lodge we could almost feel in the air the excited gossip that the death of Maddox had created in the little summer colony at Westport.

Vainly seeking our dark-skinned man, we crossed to the Casino. As we approached the porch Hastings took Kennedy’s arm.

‘There are Shelby Maddox and Winifred Walcott,’ he whispered.

‘I should like to meet them,’ said Kennedy, glancing at the couple whom Hastings had indicated at the far end of the porch.

Following the lawyer, we approached them.

Shelby Maddox was a tall young chap, rather good-looking, inclined to the athletic, and with that deferential, interested manner which women find almost irresistible.

As we approached he was talking earnestly, oblivious to everything else. I could not blame him. Winifred was a slender, vivacious girl, whose grey-blue eyes caught and held yours even while you admired her well-rounded cheeks, innocent of make-up. Her high forehead denoted an intellect which the feminine masses of puffy light-brown hair made all the more charming. One felt her personality in every action. She was not afraid of sun and air. A pile of the more serious magazines near her indicated that she was quite as much alive to the great movements that are stirring the world today as she was to the outdoor life that glowed in her face. It was easy to see that Shelby Maddox was having a new experience.

‘Good morning,’ greeted Hastings.

Winifred smiled, but Shelby was plainly annoyed at the intrusion of the lawyer. I could not make out whether there was an aversion to Hastings behind the annoyance or not.

The introductions over, we sat down for a moment. Hastings had been careful not to say that Kennedy was a detective, but to hint that he was a friend and, by implication, a lawyer.

‘It must have been a severe shock when you heard what had happened,’ he began, speaking to Winifred.

‘It was, indeed,’ she replied gravely. ‘You see, I stayed here at the Harbour House while my brother and sister-in-law were on the yacht. Johnson came off early because he had to go to the city, and telephoned up to the room that they were going to be late and Frances would stay out on the yacht. Then when I came down this morning they were just bringing the body ashore.’

She shuddered at the recollection and Shelby flashed a look at Kennedy as though he could knife him for bringing up the distasteful subject. It seemed as though Shelby Maddox was pretty unconcerned about his brother’s death.

‘Strange that you heard nothing on the yacht,’ switched Kennedy, looking full at Shelby.

‘We didn’t,’ returned the young man, but in a tone that showed his attention was somewhere else.

I followed the direction of his eyes.

A petite, frilly, voluptuous figure stood in the doorway. She had an almost orchid beauty that more than suggested the parasite. Of a type quite the opposite of Winifred, she had nevertheless something interesting about her. For the born adventuress is always a baffling study.

Even before Hastings whispered I knew it must be Paquita.

She passed across the porch toward a flight of steps that led down to the shore, and as she did so nodded to Shelby with a smile, at the same time casting a look at Winifred such as only one woman can when she is taking in another at a glance. Winifred was first of all a woman. Her face flushed almost imperceptibly, but her own glance of estimation never faltered. I felt that there was a silent clash. Winifred was the antithesis of Paquita.

Shelby failed even with his cigarette to cover up his confusion. But as I searched his face I thought I saw one thing at least. Whatever might or might not have been the truth in Hastings’s story of Shelby’s acquaintance with Paquita once, it was evident now that Winifred Walcott quite filled his eye.

As she paused before going down the steps Paquita darted back one more look at Shelby. Had he once felt the lure? At least now he made no move. And Paquita was insanely jealous.

‘I should like to have Mr Kennedy look over the Sybarite, especially the room which I sealed,’ suggested Hastings in a tone which was not peremptory, but nevertheless was final.

Shelby looked from Hastings to Winifred. The passing of Paquita seemed to have thrown a cloud over the sunshine which had brightened the moments before. He was torn between two emotions. There was no denying the request of Hastings. Yet this was no time to leave Winifred suspicious.

‘I think you had better go,’ she said finally, as Shelby hesitated.

‘Would you not be one of the party?’ he asked eagerly.

‘I don’t think I could stand it,’ she replied hastily.

It was perfectly natural. Yet I could see that it left Shelby uncertain of her real reason.

Reluctantly he said goodbye and we four made our way down the dock to the float where was moored a fast tender of the yacht. We climbed aboard, and the man in charge started the humming, many-cylindered engine. We darted off in a cloud of spray.

Once I saw Kennedy looking back, and I looked back also. In the far corner of the Casino stood the sallow-faced man, watching us intently. Who and what could he be?

Westport Bay is one of those fjords, as they almost might be called, which run in among the beautifully wooded hills of the north shore of Long Island.

The Sybarite was lying at anchor a mile or so off-shore. As we approached her we saw that she was a 150-foot, long, low-lying craft of the new type, fitted with gas engines, and built quite as much for comfort as for speed. She was an elaborately built craft, with all the latest conveniences, having a main saloon, dining-room, library, and many state-rooms, all artistically decorated. In fact, it must have cost a small fortune merely to run the yacht.

As we boarded it Shelby led the way to the sheltered deck aft, and we sat down for a moment to become acquainted,

‘Mito,’ he called to a Japanese servant, ‘take the gentlemen’s hats. And bring us cigars.’

The servant obeyed silently. Evidently Shelby spared nothing that made for comfort.

‘First of all,’ began Craig, ‘I want to see the state-room where Marshall Maddox slept.’

Shelby arose, apparently willingly enough, and led the way to the lower berth deck. Hastings carefully examined the seal which he had left on the door and, finding it intact, broke it and unlocked the door for us.

It was a bedroom rather than a state-room. The walls were panelled in wood and the port-hole was finished inside to look like a window. It was toward this port-hole that Kennedy first directed his attention, opening it and peering out at the water below.

‘Quite large enough for a man to get through—or throw a body through,’ he commented, turning to me.

I looked out also. ‘It’s a long way to the water,’ I remarked, thinking perhaps he meant that a boat might have nosed up alongside and someone have entered that way.

‘Still, if one had a good-sized cruiser, one might reach it by standing on the roof of the cabin,’ he observed. ‘At any rate, there’d be difficulty in disposing of a body that way.’

He turned. The wind had swung the yacht around so that the sun streamed in through the open port. Kennedy bent down and picked up some little bright slivers of thin metal that lay scattered here and there on the carpet.

He looked about at the furniture, then bent down and examined the side of the bedstead. It seemed to be pitted with little marks. He rose, and as he did so his gaze fell on one of the brass fittings of the cabin. It seemed to have turned green, almost to be corroded. With his penknife he scraped off some of the corrosion and placed it on a piece of paper, which he folded up.

The examination of the state-room completed, Shelby took us about the boat. First of all, he showed us the handsomely furnished main saloon opening into a little library, almost as if it were an apartment.

‘It was here,’ he volunteered, ‘that we held the conference last night.’

For the first time I became aware, although Kennedy had noticed it before, that when we boarded the Sybarite Mito had been about. He had passed twice down the hall while we were in the state-room occupied by Marshall Maddox. He was now busy in the library, but on our entrance had withdrawn deferentially, as though not wishing to intrude.

Henceforth I watched the Japanese keenly as he padded about the boat. Everywhere we went I fancied that he turned up. He seemed ubiquitous. Was it that he was solicitous of the wants of his master? Had he received instructions from him? Did the slant-eyed Oriental have something hidden behind that inscrutable face of his?

There did not seem to be anything else that we could discover aboard the yacht. Though we interviewed the officer and those of the crew who had been on watch, we were unable to find out from them that anything unusual had been observed, either as far as any other boat was concerned or on the Sybarite itself. In spite of them, the affair was as completely shrouded in mystery as ever.

Having looked the yacht over, Kennedy seemed now to be eager to get ashore again.

‘I hope you are satisfied, gentlemen?’ asked Shelby at last as our tour brought us to the mahogany steps that led from the outside of the white hull to the tender which had brought us out.

‘Very well—so far,’ returned Kennedy.

Maddox looked up quickly, but did not ask what he meant. ‘If there is any way in which I can be of service to you,’ he continued, ‘you have only to command me. I have as much reason as anyone to clear up the mystery in this unfortunate affair. I believe I will go ashore with you.’

He did not need to say that he was eager to get back to see Winifred Walcott, any more than Kennedy needed to tell me that he would like to see our sallow-faced friend again.

The tender skimmed over the waves, throwing the spray gaily as we sped back to the Harbour House dock.

We landed and Maddox excused himself, repeating his desire to aid us. Down the beach toward the bathhouses I could make out the frilly Paquita, surrounded now by several of the bathers, all men. Maddox saw her, but paid no attention. He was headed for the veranda of the Lodge.

The day was growing older and the Casino was beginning to liven up. In the exquisitely appointed ballroom, which was used also for morning and afternoon dances, strains of the one-step attracted some dozen couples. Kennedy sauntered along, searching the faces we passed in the hope of seeing someone who might be of value to know on the case, now and then reminding Hastings not to neglect to point out anyone who might lend aid. Hastings saw no one, however, and as we mounted the steps to the Lodge excused himself for a minute to send some telegrams to those of the family whom he had forgotten.

We had promised to meet him in the lobby by the desk, and thither Kennedy bent his steps.

‘I think I’ll look over the register,’ he remarked, as we approached the busiest part of the hotel. ‘Perhaps, too, some of the clerks may know something.’

There was nothing on the register, apparently, for after turning it around and running through it he merely laid his finger on the name ‘Señorita Paquita Gonzales, Maid and Chauffeur, New York,’ written under the date of the day before the arrival of the Maddoxes for the conference, and among the last of the day, showing that she had arrived late.

As we were looking over the names we were startled by a voice softly speaking behind us.

‘Well, I should have known you fellows would be out here before long. It’s a big case. Don’t notice me here. I’ll see you in the writing-room. It’s empty now.’

We turned in surprise. It was our old friend Burke, of the Secret Service.

He had already lounged off, and we followed without seeming to do so, stopping only for a moment at the news-stand.

‘Why are you here?’ demanded Craig, pointedly, as we three settled ourselves in an angle of the deserted writing-room.

‘For the same reason that you are,’ Burke returned, with a smile; then added gravely, ‘I can trust you, Kennedy.’

Craig was evidently much impressed by the low tone and the manner of the detective, but said nothing.

‘They tell me Hastings was in town this morning, at your laboratory,’ went on Burke. ‘Too bad he didn’t take the time to call up his office. But he knows something now—that is, if he has that note I left for him.’

‘Why, what is that?’ chorused both Craig and I.

Just then Hastings himself almost ran into the room as if his life depended on finding us.

As he saw us he darted over to our corner.

‘You are Mr Burke, of the Secret Service?’ he queried as Burke nodded. ‘Kennedy, the safe in the office of Maddox Munitions in New York was robbed late last night or early this morning and the model of the telautomaton is stolen!’