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The Adventuress Page 17


  ‘You’re not contemplating being a matchmaker?’ I hazarded.

  ‘On the contrary,’ he smiled, ‘I think we shall gain more by letting events take their natural course. No, chance must bring them together again.’

  Miss Walcott had seen us by this time, and seemed to realise that we were talking about her, for she quickened her pace and, instead of coming up to the summer-house, left the beach by another flight of steps, though not so far away that we could not see a faint flush on her cheeks as she purposely avoided us.

  We, too, went toward the Lodge, but did not overtake her.

  On the veranda of the Lodge, waiting for us, was Riley, just returned from the city.

  ‘Where is Paquita?’ inquired Kennedy. ‘Tell me what has happened?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ returned Riley, chagrined. ‘I stuck to her pretty closely. She’s back, you know.’

  ‘I think I have an idea of what it was all about,’ ventured Kennedy.

  Riley nodded. ‘Mr Burke has told me something of the cipher message to her, sir. I think you are right. She must have tried to divert our attention.

  ‘How does she seem?’ inquired Kennedy.

  Riley chuckled. ‘I think she’s terribly miffed,’ he replied. ‘She acts to me as though she was disappointed in us—in you particularly. You don’t follow her about New York. I don’t think she quite understands what happened. You don’t play according to Hoyle.’

  ‘What did she do after that last telephone call?’

  ‘Nothing—absolutely nothing. Oh, it was a plant, all right. She came back in the car, after awhile. We passed the church while the funeral was going on. She never even looked. Say, what has become of Sanchez?’

  Kennedy retailed what Winifred had said about the sallow-faced man and his solicitude.

  ‘I’ll wager he’ll be along soon, now,’ asserted Riley, with professional assurance. ‘I just saw Irene Maddox, after she came back from the funeral. She seems to be rather out of it, doesn’t she? Since her own folks arrived the Maddoxes and the Walcotts seem to feel that they have no further responsibility.’

  Kennedy smiled at the garrulity of the detective. ‘What made you connect Sanchez and Irene Maddox?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you think she is really through with him?’

  ‘I guess she is,’ returned Riley. ‘But I can’t say the same of him. If I could only get at the true relation of that fellow with Paquita I’d be a good deal happier. Mrs Maddox may have hired him to shadow her, but, if you want to know what I think, it is that that Mex, or whatever he is, has actually fallen in love with the girl.’

  ‘Another love affair?’ I queried sarcastically. ‘Then all I’ve got to say is that they’re well matched.’

  ‘All right,’ defended Riley, rather hotly. ‘But we know that he double-crossed Mrs Maddox, don’t we? Well, then, if he’s working for anybody else now, what reason have you to suppose that he won’t double cross them too? Mr Burke thinks there may be a gang of them. All right. What’s to prevent this Sanchez from being stuck on her in that case? There are all sorts in the underworld, and there’s no telling what a woman or a man may do.’

  ‘But look at the way she acts toward Shelby Maddox,’ I urged. ‘If ever there was a woman who threw herself at a man, that’s a case of it.’

  ‘Part of the game, part of the game,’ returned Riley.

  ‘What game?’ interrupted Kennedy, who had been listening to us in amused silence.

  Riley was not ready with an answer on the spur of the moment, and, as it was not my contention, I did not attempt it.

  ‘Well,’ finished the Secret Service man as he left us, ‘I’m going to look about, just the same, and you can take it from me that this thing will never be cleared up until we explain that fellow Sanchez.’

  Kennedy said nothing as Riley walked away, but I fancied that underneath he concurred largely with the operative.

  We were about to leave the veranda when Burke rejoined us, his face indicating that some new problem had come up.

  ‘I wonder what Shelby Maddox can be up to,’ he began, as though appealing for aid. ‘I was using the telephone, and while I waited for my number I got to talking with the little girl at the switchboard. She tells me that in the last day or two, while Shelby has been out here, he has been talking a great deal over the wire with New York and has placed some large orders through different brokers for Maddox Munitions stock.’

  It was an important piece of news. I recalled Hastings’s wonder at Shelby’s trips into the city and our own discovery that he had been visiting a broker, coupled with the presence of Paquita down-town in the same building.

  ‘Maddox Munitions isn’t so low that it’s a good buy,’ considered Burke, ‘unless there’s some scheme to manipulate it up. It had a little slump when Marshall Maddox died, but recovered. What its future will be without him no one can say. There’s no reason why it shouldn’t decline—but it hasn’t done so.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s the game,’ I suggested. ‘Maybe Shelby is holding the market up. Someone must be supporting it. Why, if it weren’t for some support, I’ll wager the stock would have broken worse than it did, and it wouldn’t have recovered.’

  Kennedy nodded, not so much in approval of the explanation as at the line of thought that the idea suggested.

  ‘Do you suppose,’ speculated Burke, ‘that there can be some manipulation of Maddox Munitions going on undercover? What can be Shelby’s purpose in all this? Perhaps we’re mistaken in that young man, and he’s a great deal deeper than any of us give him credit for being. Would it be impossible that he might be planning to get the control from the others?’

  It was an explanation that could not be easily put aside. Only death had wrested the control from the elder brother. Who was there to take his place? Had Shelby undergone a transformation almost overnight? Or—more horrible thought—had the whole affair been preconceived from the conference on the yacht and the murder to the manipulation of the market?

  What with both Riley and Burke theorising on the case, I could see that Kennedy was growing a bit impatient. Though he formed many of them, theories never appealed to Kennedy as long as one little fact might knock out the prettiest deduction.

  ‘We’ve been away from our room a long time,’ he interjected, as though remembering what we had originally started to do. ‘Something must have happened by this time or we’ll never get anything. Let’s go up there and see whether our wireless wire-tapper has caught anything yet.’

  Scarcely past the door Kennedy nudged me, a signal to be on guard. I looked cautiously about. Sitting in the lobby where she could see everybody who came and went was Paquita. She saw us approaching, but made no effort to avoid us. In fact, I felt sure that it was we for whom she was looking. If it was, Kennedy did not give her any satisfaction by letting her know that we even noticed it. We passed by, still chatting, though careful to say nothing that could not safely be overheard, and entered the elevator. As the door clanged shut Paquita flashed a chagrined glance at us. It said as plainly as words that she wanted to focus our attention on herself instead of something else.

  Up in the room Kennedy fairly ripped the wax cylinder from his wireless machine and jammed it into what looked like a miniature phonograph.

  ‘A recording device invented by Marconi,’ he explained, as a succession of strange sounds issued from the reproducer.

  I could make nothing out of it, but Kennedy seemed quite excited and elated.

  ‘It’s not a wireless message at all,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Then what is it?’ I inquired.

  He listened a moment more, then burst out, ‘No, not a message. That’s just wireless power itself. And it seems to come from the water side, too.’

  He relapsed into silence, leaving us only to speculate.

  What possible object could there be in the use of wireless power solely? Why did it come from the water? Was there a boat hanging about, perhaps flying the burgee of some well-known club, yet in reality
to be used for some criminal purpose?

  CHAPTER XX

  THE SPEED DEMON

  THERE seemed to be no use in staying longer in our room observing the behaviour of the wireless detector, when the very neighbourhood still bristled with mystery and perhaps danger.

  Accordingly, we went downstairs again with Burke, just in time to meet Hastings, who had come down on the late afternoon train from the city.

  ‘Has anything happened since we left?’ inquired Kennedy of the lawyer, before he could begin to quiz us.

  ‘Very little,’ he replied. ‘The man was still watching that little office where the detectaphone wire led, when I left. Not a soul has been near it. I think you can assume that it has been left abandoned.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ agreed Craig. ‘Have you heard anything more about the activity of Shelby? He was here at the funeral this afternoon. He’s out on the Sybarite now, and has been very quiet, at least down here.’

  ‘I’ve been making some inquiries,’ replied Hastings slowly. ‘As nearly as any of the brokers I know can tell, I should say that Shelby must be doing something. There have been several large blocks of stock unloaded and they have all been taken up. In spite of it the price has been maintained. But it’s all underground. I haven’t decided which side Shelby is on, bear or bull. He never was on either side before, so I don’t know what he is up to. You can reason it out either way—and, after all, it is a matter of fact, not reason.’

  ‘It won’t take long to find that out tomorrow, if we want to,’ remarked Kennedy. ‘The trouble today was that there were more pressing things that had to be done.’

  We had scarcely finished outlining to Hastings what we had discovered at Westport when Riley edged up to report to Burke.

  ‘Miss Walcott’s acting very strangely, sir,’ he ventured. ‘You’d think she hadn’t a friend in the world.’

  ‘How’s that?’ cut in Kennedy.

  ‘I saw her coming up from the beach a while ago alone,’ replied Riley. ‘First she passed Mrs Maddox and they scarcely spoke, then later I saw her do the same thing with Mrs Walcott. They’ve been that way, now, for some time.’

  ‘Where is she—in her room?’ asked Burke.

  Riley nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can’t see any reason why she should stay here, if she feels this way about it,’ put in Hastings testily. ‘She doesn’t belong to the family.’

  Kennedy glanced covertly at me. I fancied I understood what was in his mind. Winifred Walcott probably would not have admitted, even to herself, why she stayed.

  ‘That little dancer and Miss Walcott are as friendly as Kilkenny cats, too,’ added Riley, with a left-handed attempt at humour.

  ‘You have an X-ray eye,’ commented Craig, with veiled sarcasm, which quite amused me, for the detective actually took it literally and thanked him. ‘Paquita is still about, then?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Right after you went upstairs she had her car brought around and started out for a spin—down the shore road. But she must have seen that one of our men was following, for she turned up country and was back again in half an hour. If she intended to do anything, she must have been scared off. She’s upstairs now, dressing for dinner, I suppose. I’ve got her checkmated. She can’t move without my knowing it—and she knows it.’

  ‘Down the shore road,’ repeated Kennedy, reflectively. ‘I wonder what she could have wanted down there. The wireless impulses came from the water side. Walter, would you mind going down on the dock and telling that young man of mine he had better get a bite to eat right away and that then he can begin getting the stuff unpacked and set up!’

  While Watkins took a hasty dinner at the Lodge, I relieved him of watching the packages he had brought. It was a tiresome wait, for I longed to be with Kennedy.

  One thing, however, broke the monotony. Once when I looked up I caught sight of a launch putting out from the Sybarite and feathering over the choppy waves in the direction of the dock. As it came closer I saw that it contained Shelby Maddox, still alone. He came ashore and, as he walked up the dock, saw me and nodded absently. Evidently he was thinking of something else.

  I was glad to rejoin Kennedy a few minutes later when Watkins returned and began to unwrap the packages, as Craig had ordered. Fortunately for the sake of my curiosity, nothing had occurred during my absence, except that Craig and Burke had seen Shelby enter, although he had done nothing.

  It was the dinner hour and the guests were beginning to enter the dining-room. Shelby had already done so, selecting a table where he was in sight of that usually occupied by the Walcotts. Their table seemed deserted tonight. Johnson Walcott was not yet back, and Irene Maddox now sat at another table, with those of her family who had come to be with her at the funeral. Winifred did not come down to dinner at all, which seemed to vex Shelby, for it looked as though she were avoiding him. The only person at the table was Frances Walcott.

  Convinced that no one else was coming in, Shelby glumly hurried through his meal, and finally, unable to stand it any longer, rose, and on the way out stopped to talk with his sister.

  What was said we could not guess. But it was more like a parley during an armistice than a talk between brother and sister, and it did not seem to do Shelby much good.

  Finally he drifted out aimlessly into the lobby again. As he stood undecided, we caught a glimpse of the petite figure of Paquita flitting from an alcove in his direction. Before he could avoid her she spoke to him.

  However unwelcome the meeting might have been to Shelby—and his face showed plainly that it was so—there could be no doubt of Paquita’s eagerness to see him. As I looked at her I could only wonder at the strangeness of life. She whom men had pursued and had found elusive, even when they thought they had her captured, was now herself in the anomalous role of pursuer. And the man whom she pursued cared no more for her than she for those who pursued her. Nay more, he was openly, hopelessly in love with another woman, in every respect the antithesis of herself. Much as I disliked Paquita’s type, though realising her fascination as a study, I could not help seeing the potential tragedy and pathos of the situation.

  She did not accuse or upbraid. On the contrary, she was using every art of which she was a past mistress to fascinate and attract. I did not need prompting from Kennedy to see the strange romance of the situation. The little dancer was subtly matching all the charm and all the knowledge of men and the world which she possessed against the appeal that Winifred had made to a hitherto latent side of Shelby’s nature. The struggle between the two women was no less enthralling than the unravelling of the mystery of Marshall Maddox’s death.

  ‘By Heaven!’ I heard Kennedy mutter under his breath, as we watched Paquita and Shelby, ‘I wonder whether it is right to let events take their course. Yes—it must be. If he cannot go through it now, he’ll never be able to. Yes, Shelby Maddox must fight that out for himself. He shall not ruin the life of Winifred Walcott.’

  His remark set me thinking of the responsibility Craig had thrust on him. It was far more than merely running down the murderer of Marshall Maddox, now.

  Shelby himself evidently appreciated what faced him. I could see that he was talking very bluntly and pointedly to her, almost rudely. Now and then she flashed a glance at him which, with her flushed face and the emotion expressed in her very being, could not have failed only three days ago. Shelby seemed to feel it, and took refuge in what looked to be an almost harshness of manner with her.

  Kennedy jogged my arm and I followed his eyes. In the alcove from which she had come I was not surprised to see Sanchez, standing and looking at them. His dark eyes seemed riveted on the man as though he hated him with a supernal hate. What would he himself not have given to be where Shelby was? I wondered whether his blinded eyes saw the truth about Shelby’s position. I doubted it, for it was with difficulty that he restrained himself. Black and ominous were the looks that he darted at the younger man. Indeed, I did not envy him.

  As I turned to say
something to Kennedy I saw that Sanchez and ourselves were not the only ones interested. Frances Maddox had just come out of the dining-room, had seen her brother and Paquita, and had drawn back into the shadow of a doorway leading to the porch, where she could see them better without being seen by them. Yet she betrayed nothing of her feelings toward either.

  Meanwhile Shelby had been getting more and more vehement as he talked. I could not hear, but it was quite evident now that he was repeating and enforcing the remarks he had made to Paquita the night before during their secret stroll down the beach. And she, instead of getting angry, as he no doubt hoped she would, was keeping her temper and her control of herself in a most dangerous manner.

  There was so much to think about that it was not until now that I noticed that the face we had seen in the alcove was gone. Sanchez had disappeared. Had the thing been too much for him? Was it that he could not trust himself to stay? At any rate, he was gone.

  Just then Shelby turned on his heel, almost brutally, and deliberately walked away. It was as though he felt it his only escape from temptation.

  Paquita took an involuntary step after him, then stopped short. I followed her quick glance to see what it might be that had deterred her. She had caught sight of Frances Walcott, whose interest had betrayed her into letting the light stream through the doorway on her face. Instantly Paquita covered the vexation that was on her face. Least of all would she let this man’s sister see it. Consummate actress that she was, she turned and walked across the lobby, and a moment later was in gay conversation with another of her numerous admirers. But it did not take an eye more trained than mine to see the gaiety was forced, the animation of quite a different character from that she had showed to Shelby.

  ‘Of one thing we can be sure,’ remarked Craig. ‘Miss Walcott will hear all about this. I hope she hears the truth. I’m almost tempted to tell her myself.’ He paused, debating. ‘No,’ he decided finally, ‘the time hasn’t come yet.’