VIITHE DIVORCE DETECTIVE
Atthe Westport station, when our train pulled in, there was the usual gathering of cars to meet the late afternoon express from the city.
As we four were searching for a jitney ’bus to take us down to the Harbor House I caught sight in the press of cars of the Walcott car. Sitting in the back were Winifred and her sister-in-law, Mrs. Walcott, sister of the murdered man. They had come up to meet her husband, Johnson Walcott, who now came down the platform from the club car, which had been well forward.
The train was pulling out, clearing the road across the track, and as it did so there flashed past a speedster with a cream-colored body, a shining aluminium hood, and dainty upholstery. No one could have failed to notice it. As if the mere appearance of the car was not loud enough, the muffler cut-out was allowing the motor to growl a further demand for attention.
In the speedster sat Paquita, and as we looked across from our jitney I caught sight of Winifred eying her critically, turning at the same time to say something to Mrs. Walcott.
Paquita saw it, too, and shot a glance of defiance as she stepped her dainty toe on the gas and leaped ahead of all the cars that were pulling out with passengers whom they had met.
“Did you get that?” whispered Kennedy to me. “Not only have we a mystery on our hands, but we have something much harder to follow—conflict between those two women. Shelby may think he is a principal in the game, but one or the other of them is going to show him that he is a mere miserable pawn.”
“I wonder where she could have been?” I speculated. “That road up past the station leads to the turnpike to the city. Could she have been there, or just out for a spin?”
Kennedy shook his head. “If we are going to follow that color-scheme about the country we’ll need to get a car that can travel up to the limit.”
“Well,” snorted Burke, “it does beat all how these dancers can sport cars with special bodies and engines that would drown out the hammers of hell; but—I suppose it would cut down the work of us detectives by half if it weren’t so.”
Hastings said nothing. Perhaps he was calculating the cost of the outfit that had just passed, and wondering whether the bill had been paid by his client—or some one else.
The Walcott car had got away and we were now jolting along in our more modest flivver, eager to get back to the scene of our labors and learn what had taken place in our absence.
Back at the Harbor House Burke’s man, Riley, was waiting, sure enough, with a full budget of news as we entered quietly by another than the main entrance and drew him off in a corner.
“What’s happened?” demanded Burke.
“Plenty,” returned Riley, his reticence before us now overcome. “You remember that dark-skinned fellow?” he asked, excitedly.
“An unnecessary question,” returned Burke. “He has not been out of my thoughts since I left. I hope you’ve watched him closely. We saw Paquita. She must have slipped through your fingers. You’ll have to get a car that can keep up with her, Riley, if we are going to handle this affair successfully.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Riley, evidently relieved that his chief had not administered a severer rebuke. “I was about to tell you of how she slips away from us in that car, sir. Well,” he graced on, as though eager to change the subject,“we have not only found out who that spiggoty chap is, but that he has reported to Mrs. Maddox finally, to-day. It seems as though she has paid him for his work of watching her husband, and now that Mr. Maddox is dead has no further use for him.”
“And he has gone away?” asked Craig.
“No,” replied Riley, quickly, “that’s just the point. Even though she has discharged him—at least that is what it looks like—he is sticking around. At first I thought he was watching Paquita—and he is. But twice I have caught him talking to her. It may be that it’s all right. I don’t get it at all. I can’t make out yet whether he is with her or against her.”
“That’s strange,” agreed Burke, turning to Kennedy. “I don’t understand that. Do you? Do you suppose the fellow has been double crossing Irene Maddox all the time? These divorce sleuths are an unprincipled lot, usually.”
Kennedy shook his head non-commitally. “I think it will be worth looking into,” he considered. “Has anything else happened?”
“Plenty,” replied Riley cheerfully. “Since you went away Shelby Maddox has given up living out on theSybarite, I understand. He is to live at the Harbor House all the time, and has brought his stuff ashore, although he hasn’t been aboutmuch. He is another one who has a speedster that can do some traveling.”
“What do you make of that move?” encouraged Hastings.
Riley shrugged. “Sometimes,” he remarked, slowly, “I think he is watching the others. I don’t know yet whether he does it because he suspects something of them, or because he thinks they suspect something of him. Anyhow, he has brought that Jap, Mito, ashore, too. Is he afraid of him? Has Mito something that gives him a leverage on Shelby Maddox? I don’t know. Only, it’s mighty strange.”
“Has Mito done anything suspicious?” asked Kennedy.
“His whole conduct is suspicious,” asserted Riley, positively. “Why was he in town so late last night? Besides, the fellow is well educated—too well educated to be a servant. No, sir, you can’t make me believe that he is here for any good. He’s clever, too. They tell me he can run a motor-boat or a car as well as the best. And he’s quiet. There’s something deep about him. Why, you can see that he knows that he is being watched.”
“But what has he done?” emphasized Kennedy.
“N-nothing. Only, he acts as though he was covering up something. I know the symptoms.”
I tried to analyze our feelings toward Mito. Was it merely that Riley and the rest of us did not understand the subtle Oriental, and that hence we suspected everything we did not understand? There was no denying that Mito’s actions out on theSybarite, for instance, had been open to question. Yet, as far as I knew, there was nothing on which one could place his finger and accuse the little man, except his alleged presence in town so late the night before.
From the corner in which we were sitting we could see through an open window the porte-cochère beside the hotel at which guests were arriving and departing.
“Look!” pointed out Riley. “There’s Shelby Maddox now.”
His motor had purred up silently around the corner of the road that led about the shore, and as he pulled up before the door the omnipresent Mito appeared from nowhere. Shelby crawled out from under the steering-wheel and turned the car over to Mito to run around to the hotel garage. For a moment he stood talking to the Jap, giving him some parting instructions, when another car tooted its horn and came up to the steps. It was the Walcott car. Evidently they had not come directly from the station, but had taken a little ride along the shore to get thestuffy air of the railroad train out of Johnson Walcott’s lungs.
It was just the opportunity Shelby wanted. He quickly waved to Mito to pull away and turned to the new arrival, opening the rear door before the officious starter could get to it, and handing out Winifred Walcott most attentively—so much so that he forgot all about his own sister and Johnson Walcott.
He and Winifred stood talking, evidently about Shelby’s own departing roadster, for they were looking after Mito as he shot up the road to the garage.
“Do you guess what they are talking about?” queried Kennedy to me. “I would be willing to wager that I can reproduce at least a part of the conversation. As they watched the speedster get away she spoke first, and he nodded his head in the negative as he replied. She spoke again, and he nodded in the affirmative—and smiled.”
“What was it?” I asked.
“Remember Paquita? So does Winifred. First she asked Shelby if his roadster was hard to drive—or something of the sort. He said it was not. Then she asked whether he would show her some of the fine points of driving it—I am sure that Winifred Walcott can drive, for she looks like that sort of a girl. Shelby fairly leapedahead like his motor does when he feeds it gas. That was easy long-distance eavesdropping.”
“What are they talking about now?” I demanded, rather spoofing him than serious, for Shelby was standing on the steps yet, quite oblivious to everything about him except Winifred.
“I don’t know,” he confessed, “but I can predict that something will happen in thirty seconds. Look up the road.”
I glanced away. Paquita in her speedster was shooting down as though she had a fourth speed. A second, and she had pulled up, leaping lightly to the ground. She nodded gaily to the starter to take her car for her to the garage, and bounded up the steps, not neglecting to display a generous vision of a trim ankle that almost caused the starter to turn the car up the steps instead of wide from the Walcott car.
Deliberately she passed close to Shelby, as though to show him the contrast between the fluffy little girl of the morning and the motor girl of the afternoon. She smiled sweetly at Shelby, not neglecting a quick glance of superciliousness at Winifred, such as only a true actress can give.
At that moment Irene Maddox appeared in the door, to greet Johnson and Mrs. Walcott. Paquita had not seen her, nor if she had wouldshe probably have avoided the dramatic meeting.
For an instant the two women were face to face. Men would have been at each other’s throats in a brutal grip. Paquita was no less brutal. Without turning an eyelash she looked steadily into the face of the woman who had been so grievously wronged, and for all the surprise or emotion she displayed she might have been gazing at a bisque ornament. Irene Maddox, stately in her black suit of mourning, drew herself to her full height and the color in her cheeks deepened as her eyes flashed at the other woman.
Paquita swept on gaily. She was supremely happy. She had gone up-stage and had thrown two bombs.
From our coign of vantage I saw that another was watching. It was our sallow-faced friend, who smiled darkly to himself as he watched, then, a moment later, was gone, observed by none of them.
Paquita had passed. One might have easily paraphrased “Pippa Passes,” and it was not God who was in his heaven, either, nor was all right with the world.
The group at the porte-cochère glanced at one another, and for the moment each was reminded of his own particular hate and rivalry.Shelby was plainly chagrined. He had been getting along famously with Winifred, when a cold shower had been plunged over him. Irene Maddox had received a sharp reminder of her trying position. Frances Walcott was again a Maddox, unsoftened by the tragedy. Winifred listened while Shelby tried to finish what he had been saying, but nothing was the same as before. Only Johnson Walcott seemed able to remain the unconcerned outsider.
All turned into the hotel now, and as they separated and disappeared I wondered whether Paquita had been trailing about and had deliberately framed the little incident. What was the meaning of the continued observation by the man of the sallow face?
Just then one of the boys came through the lobby, where we were sitting in the angle, calling “Mr. Sanchez! Mr. Sanchez!”
From around the angle, where he could not have seen us, appeared the sallow-faced individual who had so disturbed our thoughts. He took the telegram which the boy carried, tore it open, and read it. As he did so his face, lined with anger, happened to turn in our direction and he saw us. Without appearing to notice us, he slowly tore the telegram as well as the envelope and stuffed the pieces into his pocket. Then heturned and coolly sat down again as though nothing had occurred.
“At least we know that one of his names is Sanchez,” commented Kennedy. “I’d like to see that message.”
“You’re not likely to see it now, unless we can pick his pocket,” returned Burke. “Don’t look around. There comes Mito.”
The Japanese padded silently past, unconcerned, casting no look at either our party or Sanchez. But I knew that his beady eyes had already taken us in. I felt that he was watching us. But was it for his own or some one else’s benefit?
I determined that, given an opportunity, I would try to find out two things—what the telegram contained and why Mito had been in town the night before.
It was the dinner hour, and the guests of the Harbor House, either singly or in groups, were stringing into the brilliantly lighted dining-room, where the orchestra had already tuned up. We moved over, nearer the door, as Shelby Maddox, all alone, placed his hat on the rack and entered, allowing the head waiter to seat him.
“Let us go in and observe them,” decided Kennedy. “Hastings, you brought us out here. It will look queer if we all go in together. SoI think that you, Burke, and Riley had better sit at another table in another part of the room; then we won’t appear to be all together and we may get more, too.”
Accordingly, Hastings, Kennedy, and I entered, and by a little manœuvering managed to get ourselves placed by a window where we could see pretty much everything that went on.
Winifred Walcott was already there, at a table with her brother, her sister-in-law, and Irene Maddox. They did not seem to be talking much. I wondered what could be the matter. Perhaps it was fancy, but it seemed as if the two older women were not quite so friendly as they had been when I saw them in the automobile in the morning. Johnson Walcott also said little, but appeared to be engrossed in reading the despatches from Westport in the papers. None of them ate as though they enjoyed it, and all seemed preoccupied, especially Winifred, who let dish after dish go untasted. What had she on her mind? Was it solely Paquita?
I looked over at a table on the other side of the room where there was a lone diner, Shelby Maddox. He, too, was preoccupied. He had placed himself so that he could catch the eye of Winifred whenever she chose to cast it his way. But though he was never off guard, she did not choose.Something, too, was seriously affecting his appetite. As far as food was concerned, his presence was a mere formality.
“There’s something strange going on in that family,” I commented at length.
Hastings smiled dryly. “They can’t agree, even on a tragedy,” he returned. “What you have seen so far to-day was merely a lull in the storm. And now, if that is complicated by outsiders—well, we shall need all Mr. Kennedy’s acumen if we are to untangle the snarl.”
Kennedy appeared oblivious to the compliment, which was something for Hastings to pay, for very little in this mundane sphere met the approval of his legal mind. Craig was studying a large mirror at the end of the dining-hall thoughtfully. I turned and placed myself as nearly as possible in the same angle of vision.
“Please, Walter,” he cautioned, “your head is opaque—I mean to the human eye, old man.”
My one glance had been sufficient to whet my curiosity. By means of the mirror he could see around an “L” in the dining-room, and there, at a little table, alone, was seated Paquita. She had chosen the coign of vantage quite apparently because it put her in range of Shelby, without its being apparent to the other guests. But Shelby was busy. He had not even noticed Paquita, inhis eagerness to catch the crumb of a glance from Winifred’s table.
Not being able to watch Paquita without interfering with Kennedy, and finding the strained relations of the others rather tiresome, I glanced out on the veranda by the window where our table stood. Some one was pacing quietly up and down. Almost with a feeling of certainty I strained my eyes in the darkness.
“That Sanchez is outside, watching everything,” I called Craig’s attention.
He nodded.
At the other end of the dining-room Burke and Riley were quite as busy as we were, observing how those whom we were watching acted when they were all together.
The Walcott party finished dinner first and soon afterward rose and left the room. Down in the Casino there was dancing every night, but, of course, they did not go there. Instead, they chose a secluded corner of the porch at the Lodge. Though there was no lost cordiality, apparently they did not want to separate. At least they had their conflicting interests in common.
Shelby needed nothing but a finger-bowl in order to finish his dinner, and left hurriedly, much to the astonishment of the waiter.
Burke and Riley had already gone out and had disappeared when we followed shortly.
Prompted by Kennedy, Hastings sauntered around to the end of the porch which the Walcotts and Mrs. Maddox had occupied. Shelby Maddox had already joined them, unable to keep away from Winifred longer.
One could feel the constraint of the party, although to an outsider it might readily have been accounted for by the tragedy. However, we knew by this time that there was something deeper.
Shelby was apparently endeavoring to overcome the impression which the appearance and smile of Paquita had produced, but I could see that Winifred was not yet entirely mollified.
The Maddox party welcomed us—not cordially, but at least not coldly, for it was no part of their character ever to betray their real feelings before one another.
As we drew up chairs I could feel the close scrutiny to which we were being subjected.
“Well?” queried Shelby at length, after we had talked about several inconsequential things, “what have you found out, Hastings?”
He said it in a tone that was meant to imply that he knew that some kind of investigation was on. Was it bravado?
“Oh, several things,” returned Hastings, turning to Kennedy as if to leave the answer to him.
“For one thing,” shot out Kennedy, taking advantage of the opportunity, “we have determined that your brother died from the effects of a poisonous gas—I won’t say yet what it was or how administered.”
The light from a window was shining full on Shelby’s face as Craig said it, and he knew that we were all watching intently the effect it would have.
“Is that so?” he replied, with an interest this time unfeigned. “I suppose you know who did it?”
“I have an idea,” replied Kennedy, “a theory on which I am proceeding. But it is too early to talk about it yet.”
If Shelby had been trying to “pump” us he was getting something to think about, at least. I felt sure that Craig was telling the family this much in the hope that it would spur them to some action, or at least reach ears that would be affected.
It was while Kennedy was talking that I noticed that Winifred showed her first real interest in what was going on about her. She was about to ask a question when the sound of footsteps on the veranda interrupted. If I had wondered whatthe cause of the coolness between Shelby and Winifred was I had here a partial answer at least.
Again, as though to foment trouble, Paquita crossed the veranda and walked slowly down the steps to the Casino, whence floated the rhythmic strains of the orchestra. Though she did not know it, she produced the result she sought. A few minutes later Winifred excused herself to retire to her room, her question still unasked and unanswered.
Shelby bowed a reluctant good-night, but I could see that inwardly he was furious. And I felt impelled to ask myself, also, why Paquita was so apparently dogging Shelby’s every step. Could it be that the notorious little heart-breaker was actually in love with him—or had she some darker motive?