Part 9

“Winifred――let me explain,” he hastened. “You do not understand. She is nothing to me――never has been. I am not like Marshall was. When she came down here the other night she may have thought she could play with me as she had with him. I met her――as I have scores of others. They have always been all the same to me――until that night when I met you. Since then――have I even looked at her――at any one else?”

“Another pretty speech,” cut in Winifred, icily. “But would you have met her now, if you had known that you would be watched?”

“I should have met her in the lobby of the hotel, if that had been the only way,” he returned, boldly. “But it was not. I do not understand the woman. Sometimes I fear that she has fallen in love with me――as much as her kind can fall in love. I sent for her, yes, myself. I wanted to tell her bluntly that there could never be anything between us, that we could not――now――continue even the acquaintance.”

“But you knew her before――in the city, Shelby,” persisted Winifred. “Besides, was it necessary to take her arm, to talk so earnestly with her? I saw you when you started.”

“I had to be courteous to her,” defended Shelby, then stopped, as though realizing too late that it was not defense he should attempt, but rather confession of something that did not exist and a prayer of forgiveness for nothing.

“I did not believe what I heard,” said Winifred, coldly. “I was foolish enough to listen to you, not to others. It is what I see.”

“To others?” he asked, quickly. “Who――what have they told you about me? Tell me.”

“No――it was in confidence. I cannot tell you who or what. No, not another word of that. You have opened my eyes yourself. You have only yourself to thank. Take your little Mexican dancer――let us see what she does to you!”

Winifred Walcott had moved away toward the steps up to the Casino.

“Please!” implored Shelby. “Why, I sent for her only to tell her that she must keep away. Winifred!”

Winifred had turned and was running up the steps. Instead of waiting, as he had done with Paquita, Shelby took the steps two at a time. A moment later he was by her side.

We could not hear what he said as he reached her, but she took no pains to modulate her own voice.

“No――no!” she exclaimed, angrily, choking back a sob. “No――leave me. Don’t speak to me. Take your little dancer, I say!”

A moment later she had come into the circle of light from the Casino. Pursuit meant only a scene.

At the float at the other end of the pier bobbed one of the tenders of the _Sybarite_. Shelby turned deliberately and called, and a moment later his man ran up the dock.

“I’m not going to go out to the yacht to-night,” he ordered. “I shall sleep at the Lodge. Tell Mito, and come ashore with my things.”

Then he turned, avoiding the Casino, and walked slowly up to the Harbor House, as we followed at a distance.

I wondered if he might be planning something.

XIII

THE SERPENT’S TOOTH

We were approaching the hotel when we met Riley’s operative with whom we had been talking shortly before. He was looking about as though in doubt what to do next.

“So you managed to pick them up again on the beach?” greeted Kennedy.

“Yes,” he replied in surprise. “How did you know?”

“We were back of the bath-houses as they came along. You passed within a few feet of us.”

The detective stared blankly as Kennedy laughed.

“What happened?”

“Nothing very much. I missed them at first, because of the delay of that fellow Mito. But I reasoned that they must have strolled down the beach, though I didn’t know how far. I took a chance and made a short cut overland. Fortunately I caught up with them just as they were about to turn back. I was a little careful, I suppose――after what happened.”

He hesitated a bit apologetically, then went on: “I couldn’t hear much of what they said. Queer fellow, that Shelby. First he sends to meet the girl, then they quarrel nearly all the time they are together.”

“What did the quarrel seem to be about?” demanded Kennedy. “Couldn’t you get any of it?”

“Oh yes, I caught enough of it,” returned the operative, confidently. “I can’t repeat exactly what was said, for it came to me only in snatches. They seemed to be arguing about something. Once he accused her of having been the ruin of his brother. She did not answer at first――just laughed sarcastically. But Shelby wasn’t content with that. Finally she turned on him.

“‘You say that I ruined Marshall Maddox,’ she cried. ‘His wife says I ruined him. Oh, Shelby, Shelby, he wasn’t a man who had reached the age of discretion, I suppose――was he? Oh, it’s always I who do things――never anybody else.’”

“Yes,” prompted Kennedy. “What else did she say?”

“She was bitter――angry. She stopped short. ‘Shelby Maddox,’ she cried, ‘you had better be careful. There is as much crime and hate and jealousy in every one of you as there is in Sing Sing. I tell you, be careful. I haven’t told all I know――yet. But I will say that wherever your house of hate goes and whomever it touches, it corrupts. Be careful how you touch me!’ Say, but Paquita was mad! That was when they turned back. I guess Shelby sort of realized that it was no use. They turned so suddenly that they almost caught me listening.”

“Anything else?” inquired Kennedy. “What did Shelby have to say about himself? Do you think he’s tangled up with her in any way?”

“I can’t tell. Most of what they said was spoken so low that it was impossible for me to hear even a word. I think both of them realized that they were being watched and listened to. It was only once in a while when their feelings got the better of them that they raised their voices, and then they pretty soon caught themselves and remembered.”

“Then it was no lovers’ meeting?” I asked.

“Hardly,” returned the detective, with a growl. “And yet she did not seem to be half as angry at Shelby as she did at the others. In fact, I think that a word from him would have smoothed out everything. But he wouldn’t say it. She tried hard to get him, too. That little dancer is playing a game――take it from me. And she’s artful, too. I wouldn’t want to be up against her――no, sir.”

There was something incongruous about the very idea of this bull-necked flatty and the dainty little adventuress――as though the hippopotamus might fear the peacock. I would have laughed had the business itself not been so important. What was her game? In fact, what was Shelby’s game? Each seemed to be playing a part.

“How about Mito?” I asked. “Have you seen him again since you were jiu-jitsued?”

The detective shook his head. “No,” he returned, reminiscently. “He seems to have disappeared altogether. Believe me, I have been keeping an eye peeled for him. That Jap is a suspicious character. And it’s just when you can’t put your fingers on him that he is plotting some deviltry, depend on it.”

We left the Secret Service operative and continued toward the hotel. In the lobby Kennedy and I looked about eagerly in the hope of finding Winifred, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Our search was partly rewarded, however. At the end of the porch, in the shadow, we did find Frances Walcott and Irene Maddox. It was evident that they had seriously disagreed over something, and it did not require much guessing to conclude that it had to do with Winifred. Though Frances Walcott was really a Maddox and Irene Maddox was not, one would have scarcely guessed it. The stamp of the house of hate was on both.

Just a fragment of the conversation floated over to us, but it was enough.

“Very well, then,” exclaimed Mrs. Maddox. “Let them go their own way. You are like all the rest――you seem to think that a Maddox can do no wrong. I was only trying to warn Winifred, as I wish some one had warned me.”

The answer was lost, but Mrs. Walcott’s reply was evidently a sharp one, for the two parted in unconcealed anger and suspicion. Everywhere the case seemed to drag its slimy trail over all.

Look about as we might, there was no sign of Paquita. Nor was our friend Sanchez about, either. We seemed to have lost them, or else, like Mito, they were under cover.

“I think,” decided Kennedy, “that I’ll just drop into our rooms, Walter. I haven’t much hope that we’ll find anything yet, but it will be just as well to be on the watch.”

Accordingly we mounted by a rear staircase to our floor, and for a moment Kennedy busied himself adjusting the apparatus.

“A bit early, I think,” he remarked, finally. “There are too many people about to expect anything yet. We may as well go down-stairs again. Perhaps Burke may return and I’m rather anxious to know what it is he has been after.”

For a moment, as we retraced our steps down-stairs, I attempted, briefly, a résumé of the case so far, beginning with the death of Maddox, and down to the attack on Hastings and then on myself. As I viewed the chief actors and their motives, I found that they fell into two groups. By the death of Maddox, Shelby might profit, as might his sister, Frances. On the other hand were to be considered the motives of jealousy and revenge, such as might actuate Irene Maddox and Paquita. Then, too, there was always the possibility of something deeper lying back of it all, as Burke had hinted――an international complication over the telautomaton, the wonderful war engine which was soon likely to be the most valuable piece of property controlled by the family. Into such calculations even Mito, and perhaps Sanchez, might fit, as indeed might any of the others.

It was indeed a perplexing case, and I knew that Kennedy himself had not yet begun to get at the bottom of it, for the simple reason that when in doubt Kennedy would never talk. His silence was eloquent of the mystery that shrouded the curious sequence of events. At a loss for a means by which to piece together the real underlying story, I could do nothing but follow Kennedy blindly, trusting in his strange ability to arrive at the truth.

“One thing is certain,” remarked Kennedy, evidently sensing that I was trying my utmost to arrive at some reasonable explanation of the events, “and that is that this hotel is a very jungle of gossip――sharper than a serpent’s tooth. In my opinion, none of us will be safe until the fangs of this creature, whoever it may be, are drawn. However, we’ll never arrive anywhere by trying merely to reason it out. This is a case that needs more facts――facts――facts.”

Following out his own line of thought, Craig decided to return down-stairs to the seat of operations, perhaps in the hope of running across Hastings, who might have something to add. Hastings was not about, either. We were entirely thrown upon our own resources. If we were ever to discover the truth, we knew that it would be by our own work, not by the assistance of any of them.

Attempts to locate Hastings quickly demonstrated that we could not depend on him. Having worked secretly, there seemed to be little else to do now but to come out into the open and play the game manfully.

“What was the matter?” inquired Riley, as Kennedy and I sauntered into the lobby of the Harbor House in such a way that we would appear not to be following anybody.

“Why?” asked Kennedy.

“First it was Paquita,” continued Riley. “She bounced into the hotel, her face flushed and her eyes flashing. She was as mad as a hornet at something. Sanchez met her. Why, I thought she’d bite his head off! And he, poor shrimp, took it as meekly as if he were the rug under her feet. I don’t know what she said, but she went directly to her room. He has been about, somewhere. I don’t see him now. I guess he thought she was too worked up to stay up there. But I haven’t seen her come down.”

“Shelby must have been telling her some plain truth,” said Craig, laconically.

“Shelby?” echoed Riley. “Why, it wasn’t five minutes afterward that Winifred Walcott came through, as pale as a ghost. She passed Irene Maddox, but they scarcely spoke. Looked as if she had been crying. What’s the matter with them? Are they a bunch of nuts?”

Kennedy smiled. Evidently Riley was unacquainted with the softer side of life.

“Where’s Shelby?” inquired Craig. “Have you seen him――or Mito?”

“Down in the café, the last I saw him,” replied Riley. “Shelby’s another nut. You know how much he loves the rest. Well, he came in all excited, too. And what does he do? Sees Johnson Walcott reading a paper, grabs him by the arm as though he was a long lost friend, and drags him down to the café. Say, I’ll be dippy, too, if this keeps on. They can’t even remember their own feuds!”

Kennedy glanced at me with an amused significance. I gathered that he meant to hint that Shelby was stopping at nothing to secure the aid of Johnson Walcott in smoothing affairs over with his sister, Winifred. Just how Walcott himself would look on such a match I had no idea and was rather glad when Kennedy suggested that we adjourn to the café ourselves to look them over.

In a leather-cushioned booth were Shelby and Walcott, Shelby doing most of the talking, while Walcott listened keenly. We could not very well deliberately take the next booth, but we did manage to find a corner where they were not likely to notice us.

We had not been there long before Mito came in, carrying a grip in which were the clothes and linen his master had ordered ashore. Shelby directed him where to take the things, and as the Jap stood there I saw that Walcott was watching him closely. Not once did Mito look at him, yet one could not help feeling that the Oriental knew that he was watched and that Walcott was absorbing something from Shelby.

Mito bowed as he received his orders. No sooner had he turned than I saw Walcott shoot a glance at Shelby. If I had been a lip-reader I might have been more certain of the words framed by his lips. As it was, I was ready to swear that Walcott asked, “Do you trust that fellow?” Shelby’s answer I could not guess, but his face showed no anxiety, and it seemed as though he passed off the remark lightly.

Though the others had not seen us, Mito spied us with his beady eyes, though he did not turn his head to do so. At the door he almost ran into Sanchez, who was engrossed in watching Shelby. Neither said a word, but the quick scowl of Sanchez spoke a volume. He hated Shelby and everything pertaining to him.

Whatever it was that Shelby and Walcott were discussing, it was apparent that Walcott was not at all enthusiastic. He did not betray any feeling in the matter other than coldness.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if they were discussing Winifred,” concluded Kennedy. “If that is what it’s about, it doesn’t look as though Johnson Walcott had any overburdening desire to have Shelby as a brother-in-law.”

In spite of Walcott’s coldness Shelby continued talking earnestly, but it seemed to have no effect. Walcott’s reticence seemed to exasperate Shelby, who with difficulty restrained his own feelings. I fancied that, had it not been for Winifred, Shelby’s temper would have got the better of him.

When finally Walcott rose and with a polite excuse started to move away, it was apparent that Shelby was intensely resentful. However, he said nothing, nor did he even attempt to follow Walcott out of the café.

“Evidently he has made little progress in patching up the tiff with Winifred,” concluded Craig, as we, too, rose and sauntered out into the main part of the hotel.

XIV

THE GEOPHONE

We had no more than reached the lobby of the hotel again when we found Hastings seeking us. Evidently he had sensed that Kennedy was vexed at him for letting Winifred pass without finding out what was her mission.

“This time, at least, I think I have something to tell you,” he hastened, drawing us aside.

“What is it about?” encouraged Kennedy, eagerly.

“Paquita,” he replied, scanning our faces. “She has returned to the hotel.”

Kennedy’s countenance betrayed some disappointment, for we already knew that.

“I saw Frances and Irene together, too,” went on Hastings.

Again Kennedy could not conceal his disappointment, for it was all an old story to us. Hastings was not to be gainsaid, however.

“Well, after Frances left Irene Maddox,” he continued, “I saw that she was wrought up and nervous. So I watched her. She sought out Paquita.”

He drew back, gratified at the flash of interest that Craig instantly betrayed.

“Indeed?” asked Craig. “What took place?”

“I could not hear it all,” continued the lawyer. “But it seemed as though Frances was pleading with Paquita for something. I heard the names of both Shelby and Winifred mentioned. Paquita seemed quite haughty. Whatever it was that Frances was after, I am quite sure that she was not successful.”

I could see that Kennedy was actively trying to piece together the fragmentary information that we had gained during the evening.

What it all meant I could not fathom. But we knew enough to be quite sure that something important was afoot. First, Shelby had sent for Paquita and his supposedly secret interview, of which we had learned enough to know that he had sought to influence the little dancer to let him alone. The meeting of Winifred and Irene we knew, as well as the meeting of Irene and Frances. It seemed that Frances Walcott had an interest in the events much more than we had expected, for, failing to obtain any satisfaction from Irene, she had even swallowed her pride and sought out Paquita.

What did it mean? Was Frances really trying to play the match-maker? Was it for her brother, Shelby, that she showed the concern, or was it for her sister-in-law, Winifred? There was a positive motive in the fact that a marriage between the two might more closely protect her own interests.

“They were talking,” pursued Hastings, “when I saw her husband, Johnson, coming from the café. I think Paquita must have seen him first, for she cut the interview short very curtly and left her, though not before Johnson saw them together. He came over to his wife and I think he was a trifle angry at what he had seen. At any rate, it seemed that she was endeavoring to explain something to him and that he did not in the least approve.”

“Could you hear anything?” queried Kennedy.

“Not a thing, except that there seems to be something about which the Walcotts do not quite agree.”

I wondered whether Johnson Walcott’s dissatisfaction had been more at finding his wife talking with Paquita than at the romance between Shelby and his own sister. In the café he had seemed to be far from delighted over the affair. Frances, on the other hand, bore every evidence of wishing to promote the match. It was a strange romance that we were watching.

“Was there anything else?” asked Kennedy.

“No,” replied Hastings. “They walked away, still talking earnestly, and I think they have gone to their rooms.”

“Winifred was not about?”

“No. I saw Shelby, finally, though. But he seemed to be preoccupied and didn’t give me a chance to speak to him.”

“Where is he?”

“In the café, I suppose.”

Riley’s approach at that moment served to introduce a new element into the situation.

“You saw Mito again?” asked Kennedy.

The Secret Service man nodded. “Saw him take his master’s things into the café, then to his room. After that he managed to slip away again. He seems to have something on his mind. I don’t know what it is. We had a glimpse of Sanchez. He is about, but is keeping very low.”

“What has he been doing?”

“Nothing in the open, as far as I know,” returned Riley. “He may be planning something. I don’t like him any more than my man likes Mito. These Japs and wops are deep ones.”

Kennedy smiled, but said nothing. To Riley any foreigner was a suspicious character, if for no other reason than that he could not understand him.

“Any word from Mr. Burke?” I reiterated.

Riley nodded. “Yes, he will be here soon, now, I think.”

“Nothing else on Mito or Sanchez?” resumed Kennedy.

Riley negatived. “Trouble with them is they know I’m watching them,” he explained. “And when a man knows he is being watched it’s easy for him. There’s only one way to get him and that is to stick so close that it means a fight. We’ve had one and I hate to take the responsibility of another without orders from Mr. Burke. Another fight with Mito might not turn out so luckily, either. Besides, I don’t know that we want it to come to a fight――yet. Sanchez looks as though he might give an account of himself. These dark fellows are all knife-men, you know. I decided that it was best to pick up what we could without making a scene.”

Kennedy shrugged. There seemed to be nothing to criticize, though it was a shame that circumstances were such that we were compelled to be content with fragments at a time when we needed every scrap of information.

“It’s getting late,” he observed, glancing at his watch. “I think we might leave the field to Riley to cover, Walter, while we retire to our rooms. Good night, Mr. Hastings. You’ll tell Mr. Burke to wake us, no matter what time he comes in?” he added, turning to Riley.

The Secret Service man agreed, and together Kennedy and I went back to our suite a second time. I was glad enough to go, too, for I wanted to see what the instrument was which he had installed in the garage.

As we entered, I could not help thinking of Winifred’s action and why she had cut Shelby off so shortly. Was it a case of intuition, or was it merely what often passes for intuition――the capacity for making hasty and incorrect judgments on slender grounds?

What, too, was Mito? Was it he who had committed the murder of Marshall Maddox? Had he stolen the telautomaton plans? I wondered whether, after all, he might not be in the service of some foreign government, perhaps even be a spy.

With scarcely a word, Kennedy had taken his position at the table on which he had placed the peculiar miniature transmitter, holding it to his ear and listening intently.

“Is any one talking there?” I asked, supposing that it was some special form of the detectaphone which he was using.

“I don’t expect that there’ll be any talking,” he replied. “In fact, there may be only one person, for all I know, and he certainly won’t talk to himself.”