The Adventuress

by Arthur B. Reeve

  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. Walcott caught 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 tonight. 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 to detach 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 weekends, 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 realised 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 his honest 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. Someone 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.

  ‘Someone 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?

  CHAPTER IX

  THE TRAILING OF PAQUITA

  RAPIDLY recovering now from the effects of the asphyxiating gun, thanks to the prompt aid of Kennedy, I was soon able to sit up in my improvised bed on the garage floor. As well can be imagined, however, I did not feel like engaging in very strenuous activity. Even the simple investigation of Burke, as he explored the garage, seemed like a wonderful exhibition of energy to me.

  ‘Well, there certainly is no car here now,’ he remarked as he surveyed the obvious emptiness of the place.

  ‘Which is not to say that there has not been one here recently,’ added Kennedy, who was now dividing his attention between me and the building. ‘Someone has been here with a car,’ he added, pointing to some fresh oil spots on the floor, and bending down beside them. ‘Jameson’s inhospitable host has evidently taken the pains to remove all traces that might be of any value. See—he has obliterated even the tyre tracks by which the car might have been identified.’

  ‘Must have had great respect for your ability,’ remarked Burke, also examining the marks that showed how carefully the floor had been gone over to guard against leaving a
clue. ‘Whoever it was was clever enough to keep just a jump ahead of us. Not a single trace was left. I wonder who it could be?’

  ‘I’ve narrowed it down to two theories,’ interposed Burke’s Secret Service man, Riley, always fertile with conjectures, ‘but I can’t say which I prefer. To my way of thinking, either the presence of Mito in the town last night would explain everything, or else this all has something to do with the telegram that we saw the sallow-faced Sanchez receive.’

  Either conjecture was plausible enough, on the face of it. Kennedy listened, but said nothing. There seemed to be no reason for remaining longer in the garage.

  ‘How do you feel now, Walter?’ asked Craig. ‘Do you think you could stand being moved to the hotel?’

  An oppressive dizziness still affected me, but I knew that I could not continue to lie on the damp floor. With Kennedy’s aid, I struggled to my feet.

  Barely able to walk, and leaning heavily on his arm, I managed to make my way from the garage and across the bit of lawn to the side veranda of the Harbour House. Still weak, I was forced to drop into a wicker chair to recover my strength.

  ‘Why, Mr Jameson, what is the matter?’ asked a woman’s voice beside us.

  I looked up to see Winifred Walcott. Evidently when she left us she had not gone to her room.

  As Craig told her briefly what had happened, she was instantly sympathetic.

  ‘That’s strange,’ she murmured. ‘I felt restless and I was strolling about the paths back of the Lodge. I heard the shot—thought it was an automobile tyre or a back-fire. Why, not ten minutes before, I am sure I saw Paquita with Shelby’s valet, Mito.’

  Burke whispered to Riley, who nodded and disappeared with alacrity.

  I thought of the cordiality I had often observed between Mexicans and Japanese. Was that the case in this instance? Could it be that Paquita knew something about the attack on me? Was Mito the mysterious attacker?

  It was scarcely a moment later that Johnson Walcott appeared round the corner, evidently seeking his sister.

  Just then Riley returned, dragging the reluctant Mito.

  ‘Where have you been?’ bellowed Burke.

  The little Jap’s face was impassive.

  ‘I was sitting just outside the servants’ quarters, sir, most of the evening,’ he returned, in bland surprise.

  ‘Think a moment,’ shouted Burke, advancing close to him and peering into his face. ‘Who have you been talking to? Tell me, and mind you tell the truth—or it will go hard with you.’

  ‘With no one, sir,’ asserted Mito, positively.

  Burke was by this time red in the face with rage as all that he had ever learned in his third-degree days came to the surface.

  ‘You lie!’ he exclaimed. ‘I saw you with—’

  ‘Well,’ demanded a voice, interrupting, ‘what’s all this? What has Mito been doing?’

  It was Shelby Maddox, who had been attracted from the lobby by the loud voices.

  ‘Doing enough,’ returned Burke. ‘Someone’s taken a shot at Mr Jameson in the garage. Now, look here, you little brown brother. Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t been with anyone all the evening? Think—think hard?

  Mito protested, but Burke was not satisfied.

  ‘Don’t try to hide it,’ he urged. ‘This lady saw you.’

  Shelby gave a quick glance at Winifred. Then he turned to Mito. ‘Tell him,’ he commanded.

  ‘Only Miss Paquita passed me once,’ replied the Jap. ‘She did not say anything. I saw Mr Jameson, too, before, on the shore by the Casino.’

  It was clever, whatever else it might be. No matter what either Paquita or I might say later, Mito had protected himself. He had admitted everything and confessed nothing.

  Burke was far from satisfied. He was about to turn to Winifred when her brother interposed.

  ‘Winifred,’ interrupted Johnson Walcott in a tone approaching authority, ‘I think you had better not get mixed up in this affair.’

  ‘Quite right,’ agreed Shelby. ‘I see no reason why Miss Walcott should be annoyed by this cross-examination.’

  Winifred looked open defiance at her brother’s interference.

  ‘I can promise you that if I find that Mito has been doing anything he should not, I shall be responsible for him,’ smoothed Shelby.

  A moment later both Winifred and her brother left. She still resented his brotherly interference.

  Burke had not got anywhere with his questioning and Kennedy apparently believed that the time for such a course was not yet ripe.

  ‘I think the best thing we can do is to get Jameson to his room,’ he suggested, by way of cutting off an unprofitable examination before any damage was done.

  Burke accepted the broad hint. While Shelby and Mito withdrew, Hastings and Craig between them managed to get me up to our room and to bed.

  As I lay there, glad enough to be quiet, we held a hasty conference to consider the strange attack that had been made.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ I repeated, ‘is how anyone should know that we ever thought of visiting either that garage or the other.’

  Kennedy had been saying very little. As Hastings and I talked he seemed to be thinking over something deeply. Suddenly his face registered the dawn of an idea.

  ‘Tomorrow, Hastings,’ he exclaimed, ‘we must go into town. I want to go to your office. As for tonight, there doesn’t seem to be anything more that we can do. Burke and Riley are on guard downstairs. I think Walter needs a good rest. So do we all. Goodnight, Mr Hastings. I will see you tomorrow early.’

  A night’s rest fixed me up all right and I was anxiously down in the lobby early next morning.

  Fortunately nothing further of any great importance had happened during the night and I felt a sense of satisfaction at not having missed anything. Among us all we had been able to keep a pretty close surveillance on those in Westport whom we suspected might have any information. The day before had brought with it a grist of new mystery instead of clearing up the old, but Kennedy was happy. He was in his element, and the harder it was to crack the nut the more zest he put into the cracking of it.

  To my surprise, the morning express found the entire Maddox family, except Irene Maddox, gathered on the platform of the quaint little station.

  ‘What do you suppose has given them this sudden impulse to go in to town?’ whispered Kennedy to Hastings.

  The lawyer shrugged. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if they were getting back into their normal state after the first shock,’ he replied dryly. ‘I think they are all going to consult their various attorneys—Shelby probably will see Harvey, and Mrs Walcott and her husband will see Duncan Bruce.’

  As we waited for the train I realised why it was that Westport was popular. The little town was not only within fair access to the city, but it was far enough away to be beyond the city’s blight. Going back and forth was so easy that each of the contending parties was able to take it as a matter of course that he should go to New York.

  The crowning surprise came, however, just a moment before the express swung around the curve. The cream-coloured speedster swung up to the platform, turned, and backed in with the other cars. No one could miss it. The beautiful Paquita jumped airily out, more baffling than ever in her artificiality.

  As I watched her my former impression was confirmed that the notoriety which she courted was paradoxically her ‘cover.’ She seemed to seek the limelight. In so doing did she hope to divert attention from what was really going on back-stage? It would have been a bold stroke. I expressed my idea to Kennedy. He smiled, but not with his usual indulgence. Was it his own idea, too?

  Nothing occurred during the ride in to town in the chair-car, except that each was still furtively watching the other and all were watching Paquita. Paquita was trying desperately to attract the notice of Shelby. The young man seemed greatly embarrassed. As he sat beside his sister I saw that Frances Walcott was keenly appreciative of the efforts of the little dancer.

>   Once I excused myself on the pretext that I wanted another morning paper, and walked forward into the smoking-car. It was as I had suspected. Sanchez was there.

  ‘I think we had better split our forces,’ planned Kennedy, when I reported to him what I had seen. ‘Sanchez, I suppose, will trail along after Paquita. In that case, Walter, I shall leave them to you. I want to handle Shelby myself. Meet me at the laboratory and then we can go down to your office, Mr Hastings. And, by the way, if you will take a hint from me, sir, you will be careful what you do and what you say at your office. I think you’ll understand when I see you there again.’

  The astonished look on Hastings’s face was quite worth study. It was as though someone had told him to guard his thoughts. The very possibility that there could be a ‘leak,’ which was evidently the way in which he interpreted Kennedy’s cryptic remark, had never seemed to occur to him, so sure was he about those whom he employed.

  Nothing more was said about the matter, however, and as our train rolled through the under-river tube into the station the various groups began to break up as we had expected.

  With a parting word from Kennedy I wormed my way through the crowd in the direction of the cab-stand and was already in a cab and halfway up the ramp to the street when, looking back through the little glass window, I saw, as I had expected, Paquita trip gaily up to the same starter and enter another. On the avenue a stop gave me ample time to tip my driver and instruct him to follow the cab that was coming up back of us. Then by settling back from the windows I was able to let Paquita’s cab pass and pick her up again without her knowing that she was being trailed. Without looking back, I knew that Sanchez had tried to follow, but it was not until we had gone several blocks and made a sudden turn into Broadway that I realised, on looking cautiously around, that somehow he had missed out. Perhaps there had not been another cab on the instant. Anyhow, I was not myself followed.

  On up-town Paquita’s cab proceeded, until finally it stopped before a building which I knew to be full of theatrical agencies and offices. I could not, of course, follow her into the office into which she went, but I managed to find out that she had gone to the office that had recently been opened by a company that proposed to put on a new feature in the fall known as La Danza Mexicana. It seemed like a perfectly legitimate business trip, yet according to my idea Paquita was merely using her notoriety to attract those whom she might use for her own purposes. What interested me was whether it was purely money or a deeper motive that actuated her.