VIIITHE PULMOTOR
Shelbywas plainly angry and disconcerted. For the moment he seemed to hesitate between hurrying after Winifred and striding down the steps toward Paquita, as though to demand an explanation of her haunting appearances and disappearances.
In the moment that elapsed during his indecision he seemed to think a second time and to check both impulses. Better, he evidently considered, to affect to ignore the matter altogether.
Still, he could not conceal his chagrin. Nor was it lost on the others. The Maddox family were watching one another like hawks. Each knew that the other knew something—though not how much.
Winifred’s desertion seemed to throw a damper on the entire group. As for Shelby, life had lost its attraction for him with Winifred Walcott gone. He was about to make some excuse toleave the party, then decided that perhaps he might better stay. If anything was going to be said or to happen, at least he would learn it. Meanwhile I noticed that Johnson Walcott was covertly observing Shelby, who seemed to be aware of the scrutiny of the brother of the girl with whom he was in love. I felt that Shelby would not antagonize Walcott at least.
“Then you are getting closer to the truth of the death of my brother?” inquired Shelby.
“Step by step,” replied Kennedy. “I am trying now to reconstruct what might have been hidden in his private life.”
Irene Maddox gave a quick glance at Kennedy. The others were silent. It was a queer family. There was no word of grief for Marshall Maddox. Each seemed merely to consider what bearing the tragedy might have on his own fortune.
A moment later Walcott excused himself, pleading that he had some letters to write, and passed slowly down the porch in the direction of the office and writing-room. His wife, however, and Irene Maddox showed no disposition to move. None of us said anything about the incident, but I know that I did a lot of wondering why the mere appearance of Paquita seemed to break up the party each time as though a shell had burst. Was there something lying back whichneither Kennedy nor myself knew anything about? Was it more than revenge or jealousy?
As for myself, somehow I had become mightily interested in the drama of the little Mexican dancer and Shelby, whatever it might be. How did Sanchez complicate it? Could it be that Burke was right and that he was an international crook? Besides, Mito was on my mind now more than any of the Maddoxes in the group, anyhow.
Accordingly, I leaned over and whispered to Kennedy. “I’d like to follow that girl Paquita and watch her a bit.”
“Very good, Walter,” he whispered back. “See if you can find her. I want to stay here with Hastings and talk to them. Molasses will catch more flies than vinegar. I will stick along until there is an open break.”
Glad of the release he had given me, I made some excuse to the party, and without seeming to do so wandered off from the Lodge toward the Casino in the direction taken by Paquita. As I approached the Casino, which was now ablaze with lights and gaiety, I paused outside in the shadow to survey the long line of snowy white tables on a balcony whose outlook was directly on the dark-blue waters of the bay and out between the two necks of land into the Sound. It seemed a veritable fairy-land.
One after another, I scanned the faces of the parties at the tables in the hope of catching a glimpse of Paquita, but she was at none of them.
As I stood in the shadow of a clump of shrubbery I was suddenly aware that some one had crossed the thick grassy carpet and was standing almost directly behind me. I turned to find Burke.
“I don’t suppose you have seen that Jap, Mito, about?” he asked, modulating his voice.
“No,” I replied. “I just came down here. Kennedy and Hastings are on the porch with the Maddoxes and I thought I might do some investigating on my own account. Why? What has Mito been doing?”
Burke shrugged. “Perhaps nothing—perhaps much. Riley and I have been strolling about the outside, on a chance. Once we found Mito sitting apart, apparently looking out over the harbor, although I am sure that that was not all he was doing. For when he saw Paquita coming down the path, almost before we knew it he had given us the slip in the darkness. I think he had been waiting for her to appear.”
“Where is she?” I asked. “It was really to follow her that I came down here.”
Burke nodded toward the dancing-floor of the Casino. “I suppose she is in there,” he replied.“At least she was a moment ago. I would feel a great deal safer in putting my finger on her than on that Jap. He is eely. Every time I think I have caught him he gets through my grasp. It may be that he is only a faithful servant to his master, although I would like to be convinced of it. All the time that you and Kennedy were up there on the veranda he was watching. I don’t know what Paquita did, but when she walked down he spotted her in a moment—and was gone.”
“That’s just the point,” I hastened. “She didn’t do a thing except pass near us and bestow a sweet smile on Shelby. It’s the second time since we got back from the city. I can’t make out what she is up to, unless it is to separate the lovers.”
“I think I shall try to see Kennedy,” concluded Burke.
“All right,” I agreed as he turned away. “You’ll find him at the Lodge on the porch. I am going to stay here awhile and see what Paquita does. How about Sanchez?” I recollected.
“Nothing at all,” imparted Burke as he left me. “Since dinner he seems to have dropped out of sight entirely.”
Burke having left me, I sauntered into the light, and, being alone, chose a table from which I could see both the dancers and the gay parties at the other little round tables.
Intently my gaze wandered in toward the dancing. The lively strains of a fox-trot were sending the crowded couples ricocheting over the polished floor. It was a brilliant sight—the myriad lights, the swaying couples, the musical rhythm pervading all.
Sure enough, there was Paquita. I could pick her out from among them all, for there was none, even among these seasoned dancers, who could equal the pretty professional.
Dancing with her was a young man whom I did not recognize. Nor did it seem to matter, for even in the encore I found that she had another partner. Without a doubt they were of the group of the younger set to whom Paquita was a fascinating creature. What, if anything, her partners might have to do with the Maddox mystery I was unable to determine, though I inclined to the belief that it was nothing. Sophisticated though they may have thought themselves, they were mere children in the hands of Paquita. She was quite apparently using her very popularity as a mask.
From my table on the terrace over the bay I caught sight of a face, all alone, which amazed me. Johnson Walcott was quite as much interested in Paquita as any of the younger set.
It was too late for me to move. Walcottcaught sight of me and soon had planted himself in the chair opposite.
“What do you make of that girl?” he asked, finally, as though frankly confessing the object of his visit to the Casino.
I was on guard. I did not want to admit to any of the family that neither Kennedy nor myself had fathomed her. “I don’t know,” I replied, carefully avoiding the appearance of having come down solely to watch her. “She seems to be quite interested in the Maddox family.”
Walcott laughed as though to indicate to me that he understood that I knew the scandal. Just then Paquita caught sight of us together. I thought she seemed distrait. She rose and a moment later disappeared through the French window.
Inwardly I cursed Walcott for his intrusion at that moment, for under the circumstances I could not abruptly jump up and leave him to follow her. Yet it was just that second in which she was gone.
The dancing seemed to have no attraction for her to-night. Evidently there was something lying back in her strange actions. More than likely she had come down to the Casino for the sole purpose of passing Shelby again when Winifred was present.
As soon as I conveniently could I managed todetach myself from Walcott, but, as I had expected, by the time I got around to the French window through which Paquita had gone she was nowhere about.
What of Sanchez? Where was he? I loitered about for a moment, then slowly mounted the steps that led back to the Lodge, intending to rejoin Kennedy and Hastings.
When I reached the porch again all were gone. Shelby had got away, and the others had either gone to their rooms or to the more lively corridor of the hotel. I looked about, but could see neither Kennedy nor Hastings. They, too, seemed to have disappeared on some mission.
What I would do next I did not know. Suddenly there flashed through my mind the thought of the high-powered car that the policeman had told Burke of seeing near the Maddox Building the night before.
I wondered whether there might not be some clue that I might obtain from the garage back of the Lodge. There must be at least two speedsters there, Paquita’s and Shelby’s. Perhaps there were others. At least I might find out whether either of them had been out the night of the murder. Having nothing better to do, I determined to make a little tour of investigation in that direction myself.
As I made my way to the rear of the hotel I saw that there were indeed two garages, one large one that was most generally used and a smaller one that looked as though it might have been built as an afterthought to accommodate an overflow of cars. The smaller one was near and I determined to examine it first. It was dark, too, as though not being used except over week-ends, when the hotel was crowded.
Almost before I was aware of it it seemed as if I saw a figure flit past a window. Perhaps it was my imagination. At any rate I would not have conscientiously sworn to it, for my attention at the time was directed at the other, lighted, garage.
The impression was enough, however. I quickened my pace until I came to the dark building. Mechanically I tried the door, fully expecting that it would be locked. To my surprise, it was open, and before I realized it I had swung the door and my foot was on the threshold.
“Who’s—”
The words were scarcely out of my lips when a spit of fire in the blackness of the interior replied. For a moment my head seemed in a whirl. Sight and hearing left me.
That is all I remember.
An hour later, vaguely, indistinctly, as though far away, I heard a familiar voice calling me.
It seemed to be far off, and I struggled after it, blindly groping. There seemed to be something over my face, something that covered my eyes. I felt that if I could only get it off I would be all right. But try as I would, I had not the strength.
Still, I was encouraged. The voice seemed nearer, more distinct. Was it Kennedy’s? It sounded strangely like it.
I clawed again at the thing that seemed to keep me from him. To my surprise it came off itself, leaving me blinking in a flood of light.
“Walter—are you all right?” I now heard the voice distinctly.
“Wh-where am I? What happened?” I gasped, feeling still a suffocating sensation in the throat and chest, my mouth parched, dry and irritated, and my nose tingling as though afire.
“Here in the garage,” replied Craig, holding a peculiar rubber face mask in one hand, while Burke stood beside a sort of box about the size of a suit-case from which rubber tubes ran to the mask. “I thought the pulmotor would do the trick.”
“It’s lucky you are that there was a gas company in town that’s up-to-date and has one of the things,” returned Burke, breaking back into a vernacular more natural than that veneered on hishonest tongue. “Praise be that he’s all right. A night’s sleep will do him good, don’t you say, Mr. Kennedy?”
“But—but what is it all about?” I choked, striving to get my feet, but finding myself still a bit weak. My eye caught the motors and pumps and tubes in the pulmotor, but that conveyed no idea to me. “Tell me—Craig—who was it?”
“I wish I could, old fellow,” replied Craig, smoothing back my hair. “We were just a bit late for that—heard the shot—dashed in, and found you, of all people. How did you come here?”
Propped up gently by Craig, I told what I could of the story, though there was next to nothing to tell.
“Whoever it was,” I concluded, pressing my aching temples ruefully, “he had just time to get away. You heard a shot? Am I wounded? What’s that pulmotor for?”
“Not wounded,” Craig returned. “But you can be thankful we had that thing and that the gas in this asphyxiating pistol was not chlorine. I don’t know what it was—possibly sabadilla veratrine, some of those things they’re using abroad in asphyxiating bombs.”
“Whoever it was, he was prepared for us here,” called Burke, who, now that I was out of danger,had turned his attention to the garage itself. “He’s removed whatever might be incriminating. It’s all as clean as a whistle here. Some one expected us.”
“I knew that all along,” returned Craig, quietly. “Walter blundered into a trap that was set for me.”
I felt the pressure of his hand on mine. It was worth it all to know that I had at least saved Kennedy something, even if I had accomplished nothing.
“But who could have known that we were going to the garage?” I asked.
Kennedy was silent a moment.
“Some one is spying on us—knows our movements, must know even what we talk about,” he said, slowly.
We looked at one another blankly. It was uncanny. What could we do? Were we in the hands of a power greater than any of us had imagined?