Читать книгу Kidnapped in the Jungle - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 4

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It was that kind of an afternoon and evening on shipboard when everyone seems to stick close to his stateroom. The dining room was practically deserted at dinner time, and, before the meal was over, Hal had every reason to believe that he was about the only good sailor among the first class passengers.

He lounged in the saloon for a little while and, after yawning from sheer ennui a few times, bethought himself of the great store of reading matter in his stateroom. He skirted the wet and slippery deck and stopped before his door to inhale a deep, long breath of the heavy salt air. Just as he was about to turn, a young man shuffled out of the shadows and, without looking to right or left, went past him.

After he had gone a few feet, he stopped a moment and exchanged weather opinions with the purser, who had just come out for a turn on the deck. Hal got a glimpse of the fellow’s profile and noticed that he had a rather large and prominently hooked nose and was taken a little by surprise at the sound of his high pitched voice.

Hal hailed the purser after the fellow had gone on. “A swell night for ducks, huh, purser!” he greeted him pleasantly. “I thought I was the only bird on this deck with sea legs tonight, but guess not.”

The purser nodded and buttoned his slicker close about his neck. “You mean Mr. Dorsey that I was just talking to? Yes, he acts as if the sea couldn’t faze him. He’s a second class passenger; that’s the reason you didn’t see him at dinner. His steward tells me he keeps to himself and looks kind of seedy. One of those chaps that’s staking everything to pay for his trip down so’s to get work at the Isthmus. We have lots of them coming and going, Mr. Keen.”

Hal nodded and opened the door of his stateroom. “Going to read the paper now,” he explained with a grin.

“What,” said the purser, “haven’t you looked at it yet?”

Hal chuckled. “Too lazy, I guess. I’ll give it the once over and turn in. This sea air weighs me down.”

He said goodnight, and, a few minutes later, was sitting on his bed with his back against the propped pillows. He yawned lazily and spread out the newspaper that was in his hands, noting at once that the article his mother had marked and instructed him to read, was, as he expected, concerned with the Brody case.

Hal’s interest in the kidnapping of Alan Brody was measured by his uncle’s connection with it and that was all. He hoped that Alan Brody would be found only because of the prestige it would bring to his uncle. And that it would bring added fame to the already famous Denis Keen, Hal hadn’t a doubt, for the government had announced that no stone would be left unturned until the missing boy was returned to the grieving parents.

Consequently, Hal hastily read a short review of the case; then shifted comfortably in the bed as he studied the concluding paragraph. The bed light gleamed brightly on his red, curly hair, and, save for that small area surrounding the bed, the rest of the room was dim and shadowy. The soft swish of the rain and the muffled boom of the sea seemed only to accentuate the silence. Presently he read aloud from the paper.

“Panaman police,” he muttered softly, “find the remains of what is thought to be the missing Alan Brody, son of William Brody of New York City. The tenacious claws of the jungle have yielded only a few bones and the skull, however, and it is thought that the voracious denizens of the deadly swamp underlying this dense section have obliterated every other clue. Doctor examining bones maintains that death occurred from six months to a year ago ... the missing Brody boy has been gone just six months today. Denis Keen, Department of Justice man in charge of the case, has cabled Mr. Brody, and it is believed he will sail on today’s boat for the Isthmus.”

Hal laid his head back on the pillows for a few moments; then went on reading divers columns on news of the day. He yawned, leaned over toward the night table, and secured his pipe and tobacco. After he had taken a puff or two, he gave the sheet an idle flip, then suddenly stared at a small item in the inner section, whose headlines seemed almost to speak to him.

“I’ll be gosh darned!” he exclaimed aloud. Then: “Warrant issued for arrest of Colin Walters in connection with death of Josiah Wainwright.” And below this, he read: “Clear Brook, N. Y.... Warrant was issued this morning for arrest of Colin Walters, who has been kept under surveillance since the death of Josiah Wainwright, grandfather of suspect’s friend, Miss Jean Wainwright. Old Mr. Wainwright was found dead in his study seven months ago, and the contents of a steel box containing an antique ring and a map disclosing the whereabouts of some buried treasure in Panama (both heirlooms willed to the late Mr. Wainwright by his father) were gone. Young Walters, who had been lately calling on the granddaughter, Miss Jean, was the only known person outside of the Wainwright family to have any knowledge of the map and ring. Walters, however, claims to have told the story of the heirlooms to three strange young men, saying that he did not know it was to be kept a secret ... Mother still defends alibi.”

Hal sat straight up in bed and whistled. Coly Walters! That daredevil friend of his prep school days! Could it be possible that he was really guilty of so terrible a crime? Good-hearted, generous Coly! A human monkey he was—could climb in and out of dormitory windows without flinching. Hal drew up his knees and propped his chin on them thoughtfully.

“A year since I’ve seen him,” he mumbled aloud. “That must have happened a few months after we graduated—gosh!”

He sat like a sphinx for a time, thinking hard, yet idly listening to the soft plash of the rain on the deck. The sea seemed to have quieted down, and from afar off came the dismal clang of a bell buoy. As that faded into the distance, he suddenly became aware that his door was opening ever so slowly....