Love Insurance

by Earl Derr Biggers

  Martin Wall smiled broadly.

  "Not bad for an amateur kidnaper," he said. "Will I turn George over to you? Will a duck swim? A good idea."

  "For God's sake, hurry!" cried Minot. "Look!"

  He pointed to the largest of San Marco's piers. The moon was lost under clouds now, but the electric lights on the water-front revealed a swarming shouting crowd of people. Martin Wall stepped to the door of the main cabin.

  "Lord Harrowby!" he cried. He turned to Minot and Paddock. "I call him that to cheer him in captivity," he explained. The tall weary Englishman strode out upon the deck.

  "Lord Harrowby," said Wall, "these two gentlemen have come to take you for a boat ride. Will you be kind enough to step into that launch?"

  Poor old George pulled himself together.

  "If you'll pardon my language, I'll be damned if I do," he said. "I take it Mr. Trimmer is on his way here. Well, gentlemen, the first to grasp his hand when he boards the boat will be the chap who now addresses you."

  They stood gazing doubtfully at George in revolt . Then Minot turned, and saw a rowboat putting off from the pier.

  "Come on," he cried, and leaped on the shoulders of the aspirant to the title. Paddock and Wall followed. Despite his discouraged appearance, George put up a lively fight. For a time the four men struggled back and forth across the deck, now in moonlight, now in shadow. Once George slipped and fell, his three captors on top of him, and at that moment Mr. Minot felt a terrific tugging at his coat. But the odds were three to one against George Harrowby, and finally he was dragged and pushed into the launch. Again Paddock started the engine, and that odd boat load drew away from the Lileth.

  They had gone about ten feet when poor old George slipped out from under Minot and leaped to his feet.

  "Hi—Trimmer—it's me—it's George—-" he thundered in a startlingly loud tone. Minot put his hand over George's lips, and they locked in conflict. The small launch danced wildly on the waters. And fortunately for Minot's plans the moon still hid behind the clouds.

  With a stretch of Tarragona's rank vegetation between them and the Lileth, Mr. Paddock stopped the engine and they stood still on the dark waters. Paddock lighted a cigarette, utilizing the same match to consult his watch.

  "Ten o'clock," he said. "Can't say this is the jolliest little party I was ever on."

  "Never mind," replied Minot cheerfully. "It won't take Trimmer fifteen minutes to find that his proposition isn't on board. In twenty minutes we'll slip back and look for the signaj."

  The "proposition" in question sat up and straightened his collar.

  "The pater and I split," he said, "over the matter of my going to Oxford. The old boy knew best. I wish now I'd gone. Then I might have words to tell you chaps what I think of this damnable outrage."

  Minot and Paddock sat in silence.

  "I've been in America twenty odd years," the proposition went on. "Seen all sorts of injustice and wrong—but I've lived to experience the climax myself."

  Still silence from his captors, while the black waters swished about the launch.

  "I take it you chaps believe me to be an impostor, just as Allan does. Well, I'm not. And I'm going to give you my little talk on the old days at Rakedale Hall. When I've finished—"

  "No, you're not," said Minot. "I've heard all that once."

  "And you weren't convinced? Why, everybody in San Marco is convinced. The mayor, the chief of police, the—"

  "My dear George," said Minot with feeling. "It doesn't make the slightest difference who you are. You and Trimmer stay separated until after next Tuesday."

  "Yes. And rank injustice it is, too. We'll have the law on you for this. We'll send you all to prison."

  "Pleasant thought," commented Paddock. "Mrs. Bruce would have to develop lockjaw at the height of the social season. Oh, the devil—» I'd better be thinking about that luncheon."

  All thought. All sat there silent. The black waters became a little rougher. On their surface small flecks of white began to appear. Minot looked up at the dark sky.

  "Twenty-two after," said Paddock finally, and turned toward the engine. "Heaven grant that red light is on view. This is getting on my nerves."

  Slyly the little launch poked its nose around the corner of the island and peeped at the majestic Lileth. Paddock snorted.

  "Not a trace of it."

  "I must have underestimated the time," said Minot. "Wha—what's that?"

  "That? That's only thunder. Oh, this is going to be a pretty party!"

  Suddenly the heavens blazed with lightning. The swell of the waters increased. Hastily Paddock backed the boat from the range of the LUcth's vision.

  "Trimmer must go soon," cried Minot.

  Fifteen minutes passed in eloquent silence. The lightning and the thunder continued.

  "Try it again," Minot suggested. Again they peeped. And still no red light on the Lileth.

  And even as they looked, out of the black heavens swept a sheet of stinging rain. It lashed down on that frail tossing boat with cruel force; it obscured the Lileth, the island, everything but the fact of its own damp existence. In two seconds the men unprotected in that tiny launch were pitiful dripping figures, and the glory of Mr. Paddock's evening clothes departed never to return.

  "A fortune-teller in Albuquerque," said poor old George, "told me I was to die of pneumonia. It'll be murder, gentlemen—plain murder."

  "It's suicide, too, isn't it?" snarled Paddock. "That ought to satisfy you."

  "I'm sorry," said Minot through chattering teeth.

  No answer. The downfall continued.

  "The rain is raining everywhere," quoted Paddock gloomily. "It falls on the umbrellas here, and on the ships at sea. Damn the ships at sea."

  "Here, here," said poor old George.

  A damp doleful pause.

  "Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for a friend," continued Paddock presently.

  "A thousand apologies," Minot said. "But I'm running the same chances, Jack."

  "Yes—but it's your party—your happy little party," replied Paddock. "Not mine."

  Minot did not answer. He was as miserable as the others, and he could scarcely blame his friend for losing temporarily his good nature.

  "It's after eleven," said Paddock, after another long pause.

  "Put in closer to the Lileth," suggested Minot.

  Mr. Paddock fumbled about beneath the canvas cover of the engine, and they put in. But still no red light aboard the yacht.

  "I'd give a thousand dollars," said Paddock, "to know what's going on aboard that boat."

  The knowledge would hardly have been worth the price he offered. Aboard the Lileth, on the forward deck under a protecting awning, Mr. Trimmer sat firmly planted in a chair. Beside him, in other chairs, sat three prominent citizens of San Marco—one of them the chief of police. Mr. Martin Wall was madly walking the deck near by.

  "Going to stay here all night?" he demanded at last.

  "All night, and all day to-morrow," replied Mr. Trimmer, "if necessary. We're going to stay here until that boat that's carrying Lord Harrowby comes back. You can't fool Henry Trimmer."

  "There isn't any such boat!" flared Martin Wall.

  "Tell it to the marines," remarked Trimmer, lighting a fresh cigar.

  Just as well that the three shivering figures huddled in the launch on the heaving bosom of the waters could not see this picture. Mr. Wall looked out at the rain, and shivered himself.

  Eleven-thirty came. And twelve. Two matches from Mr. Paddock's store went to the discovery of these sad facts. Soaked to the skin, glum, silent, the three on the waters sat staring at the unresponsive Lileth. The rain was falling now in a fine drizzle.

  "I suppose," Paddock remarked, "we stay here until morning?"

  "We might try landing on Tarragona," said Minot.

  "We might try jumping into the ocean, too," responded Paddock, through chattering teeth.

  "Murder," droned poor old G
eorge. "That's what it'll be."

  At one o'clock the three wet watchers beheld unusual things. Smoke began to belch from the Lileth's funnels. Her siren sounded.

  "She's steaming out!" cried Minot. "She's Jteaming out to sea!"

  And sure enough, the graceful yacht began to move—out past Tarragona Island—out toward the open sea.

  Once more Paddock started his faithful engine, and, hallooing madly, the three set out in pursuit. Not yet had the Lileth struck its gait, and in fifteen minutes they were alongside. Martin Wall, beholding them from the deck, had a rather unexpected attack of pity, and stopped his engines. The three limp watchers were taken aboard.

  "Wha—what does this mean?" chattered Minot.

  "You poor devils," said Martin Wall. "Come and have a drink. Mean?" He poured. "It means that the only way I could get rid of our friend Trimmer was to set out for New York."

  "For New York?" cried Minot, standing glass in hand.

  "Yes. Came on board, Trimmer did, searched the boat, and then declared I'd shipped George away until his visit should be over. So he and his friends—one of them the chief of police, by the way—sat down to wait for your return. Gad —I thought of you out in that rain. Sat and sat and sat. What could I do?"

  "To Trimmer, the brute," said Paddock, raising his glass.

  "Finally I had an idea. I had the boys pull up anchor and start the engines. Trimmer wanted to know the answer. 'Leaving for New York tonight,' I said. 'Want to come along?' He wasn't sure whether he would go or not, but his friends were sure they wouldn't. Put up an awful howl, and just before we got under way Mr. Trimmer and party crawled into their rowboat and splashed back to San Marco."

  "Well—what now?" asked Minot.

  "I've made up my mind," said Wall. "Been intending to go back north for some time, and now that I've started, I guess I'll keep on going."

  "Splendid," cried Minot. "And you'll take Mr. George Harrowby with you?"

  Mr. Wall seemed in excellent spirits. He slapped Minot on the back.

  "If you say so, of course. Don't know exactly what they can do to us—but I think George needs the sea air. How about it, your lordship?"

  Poor old George, drooping as he had never drooped before, looked wearily into Wall's eyes.

  "What's the use?" he said. "Fight's all gone out of me. Losing interest in what's next. Three hours on that blooming ocean with the rain soaking in—I'm going to bed. I don't care what becomes of me."

  And he sloshed away to his cabin.

  "Well, boys, I'm afraid we'll have to put you off," said Martin Wall. "Glad to have met both of you. Sometime in New York we may run into each other again."

  He shook hands genially, and the two young men dropped once more into that unhappy launch. As they sped toward the shore the Lileth, behind them, was heading for the open sea.

  "Sorry if I've seemed to have a grouch tonight," said Paddock, as they walked up the deserted avenue toward the hotel. "But these Florida rain-storms aren't the pleasantest things to wear next to one's skin. I apologize, Dick."

  "Nonsense," Minot answered. "Old Job himself would have frowned a bit if he'd been through what you have to-night. It was my fault for getting you into it—"

  "Forget it," Paddock said. "Well, it looks like a wedding, old man. The letters home again, and George Harrowby headed for New York—a three days' trip. Nothing to hinder now. Have you thought of that?"

  "I don't want to think," said Minot gloomily. "Good night, old man."

  Paddock sped up the stairs to his room, which was on the second floor, and Minot turned toward the elevator. At that moment he saw approaching him through the deserted lobby Mr. Jim O'Malley, the house detective of the De la Pax.

  "Can we see you a minute in the office, Mr. Minot?" he asked.

  "Certainly," Minot answered. "But—I'm soaked through—was out in all that rain—"

  "Too bad," said O'Malley, with a sympathetic glance. "We won't keep you but a minute—"

  He led the way, and wondering, Minot followed. In the tiny office of the hotel manager a bullet-headed man stood waiting.

  "My friend, Mr. Huntley, of the Secret Service," O'Malley explained. "Awful sorry that this should happen, Mr. Minot, but—we got to search you."

  "Search me—for what?" Minot cried.

  And in a flash, he knew. Through that wild night he had not once thought of it. But it was still in his inside coat pocket, of course. Chain Lightning's Collar!

  "What docs this mean?" he asked.

  "That's what they all say," grunted Huntley. "Come here, my boy. Say, you're pretty wet. And shivering! Better have a warm bath and a drink. Turn around, please. Ah—"

  With practised fingers the detective explored rapidly Mr. Minot's person and pockets. The victim of the search stood limp, helpless. What could he do? There was no escape. It was all up now—for whatever reason they desired Chain Lightning's Collar, they could not fail to have it in another minute.

  Side pockets—trousers pockets—now! The inner coat pocket! Its contents were in the detective's hand. Minot stared down. A little gasp escaped him.

  The envelope that held Chain Lightning's Collar was not among them!

  Two minutes longer Huntley pursued, then with an oath of disappointment he turned to O'Malley.

  "Hasn't got it!" he announced.

  Minot swept aside the profuse apologies of the hotel detective, and somehow got out of the room. In a daze, he sought 389. He didn't have it! Didn't have Chain Lightning's Collar! Who did?

  It was while he sat steaming in a hot bath that an idea came to him. The struggle on the deck of the Lileth, with Martin Wall panting at his side! The tug on his coat as they all went down together. The genial spirits of Wall thereafter. The sudden start for New York.

  No question about it—Chain Lightning's Collar was well out at sea now.

  And yet—why had Wall stopped to take the occupants of the launch aboard?

  After his bath, Minot donned pajamas and a dressing-gown and ventured out to find Lord Harrowby's suite. With difficulty he succeeded in arousing the sleeping peer. Harrowby let him in, and then sat down on his bed and stared at him.

  "What is it?" he inquired sleepily.

  Briefly Minot told him of the circumstances preceding the start of the Lileth for New York, of his return to the hotel, and the search party he encountered there. Harrowby was very wide awake by this time.

  "That finishes us," he groaned. "Wait a minute," Minot said. "They didn't find the necklace. I didn't have it. I'd lost it." "Lost it?"

  "Yes. And if you want my opinion, I think Martin Wall stole it from me on the Lileth and is now on his way—"

  Harrowhy leaped from bed, and seized Minot gleefully by the hand.

  "Dear old chap. What the deuce do I care who took it. It's gone. Thank God—it's gone."

  "But—I don't understand—"

  "No. But you can understand this much. Everthing's all right. Nothing in the way of the wedding now. It's splendid! Splendid!"

  "But—the necklace was stolen—"

  "Yes. Good! Very good! My dear Minot, the luckiest thing that can happen to us will be— never, never to see Chain Lightning's Collar again!"

  As completely at sea as he had been that night —which was more or less at sea—Minot returned to his room. It was after three o'clock. He turned out his lights and sought his bed. Many wild conjectures kept him awake at first, but this had been the busiest day of his life. Soon he slept, and dreamed thrilling dreams.

  The sun was bright outside his windows when he was aroused by a knock.

  "What is it?" he cried.

  "A package for you, sir," said a bell-boy voice.

  He slipped one arm outside his door to receive it—a neat little bundle, securely tied, with his name written on the wrappings. Sleepily he undid the cord, and took out—an envelope.

  He was no longer sleepy. He held the envelope open over his bed. Chain Lightning's Collar tumbled, gleaming, upon the white sheet!


  Also in the package was a note, which Minot read breathlessly.

  "dear Mr. M1not:

  "I have decided not to go north after all, and am back in the harbor with the Lileth. As I expect Trimmer at any moment I have sent George over to Tarragona Island in charge of two sailormen for the day.

  "Cordially,

  "mart1n Wall.

  "P. S. You dropped the enclosed in the scuffle on the boat last night."

  Chapter 14

  JERSEY CITY INTERFERES

  AT ten o'clock that Saturday morning Lord Harrowby was engrossed in the ceremony of breakfast in his rooms. For the occasion he wore an orange and purple dressing-gown with a floral design no botanist could have sanctioned —the sort of dressing-gown that Arnold Bennett, had he seen it, would have made a leading character in a novel. He was cheerful, was Harrowby, and as he glanced through an old copy of the London Times he made strange noises in his throat, under the impression that he was humming a musical comedy chorus.

  There was a knock, and Harrowby cried: "Come in." Mr. Minot, fresh as the morning and nowhere near so hot, entered.

  "Feeling pretty satisfied with life, I'll wager," Minot suggested.

  "My dear chap, gay as—as—a robin," Harrowby replied.

  "Snatch your last giggle," said Minot. "Have one final laugh, and make it a good one. Then wake up."

  "Wake up? Why, I am awake—"

  "Oh, no—you're dreaming on a bed of roses. Listen! Martin Wall didn't go north with the impostor after all. Changed his mind. Look!"