The Adventuress Page 7

  ‘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 leaped ahead 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 would she 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 colour 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 he turned 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 someone 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 Harbour 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. So I 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 manœuvring 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 today 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, in his 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. Someone 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 afterwa
rd 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 endeavouring 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 what the 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 goodnight, 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?

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE PULMOTOR

  SHELBY was 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 to leave 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 antagonise 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 which neither 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 fairyland.

  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 someone 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 harbour, 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 recognise. 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.