by Rufus King
The chief officer had finished, temporarily, with the telephone and Valcour, putting in a call to New York, was connected through headquarters directly with the commissioner. He briefly summarized his report of the case. He then joined Mr. Dumarque, who’s cigarette tip was a pinpoint of fire in the fog-shrouded darkness, in strolling on the sand.
“I suppose you realize,” he said, “that representatives from the immigrations and the customs will be sent here sometime before morning?”
The tip of Mr. Dumarque’s cigarette was checked in midair.
“And this is the prelude to what, my dear Valcour?”
“To a cake of soap,” Valcour said shortly.
Mr. Dumarque’s sigh was one of resignation. “You think I had better declare the jewels?”
“Well, it’s cheaper than having them confiscated and paying a fine, isn’t it?”
“I believe you are omniscient.”
“Not at all. You were on that voyage for a purpose. It wasn’t the type ship you would choose in a thousand years for pleasure.”
“Million, my dear Valcour—not in a million.”
“Well?”
Mr. Dumarque sent his cigarette circling in a red streak toward the sea. “I am seriously afraid that if we see much more of each other, you will make both a good and an honest man out of me yet.”
The night passed restlessly. During it, Valcour checked over the various points in the case. One thing alone remained obscure: the small canvas sack. Young Force could never explain it, because he was dead. And then it seemed to Valcour that its purpose must have been to keep young Force’s papers, money, and what you will, dry from the waters during his contemplated escape, by swimming, to the shore. And this decided, Valcour went to sleep.
With morning came, not only the dawn, but several port authorities, a raft of reporters, coffee, clogged heads, and Mrs. Poole’s black Rolls-Royce.
“Can I give you a lift?” she said to Valcour, after the various formalities, interviews, pictures, and examinations had been concluded.
“Thank you, Mrs. Poole, but I believe that arrangements have been made.”
She was incredibly smart, in the early morning light, against white sands.
“Then perhaps we will meet again, Lieutenant?”
“Possibly, Mrs. Poole.”
“I am taking that young coast guard with me.”
He could not resist an “As a souvenir?”
Her laugher made her look uncannily young again. “To show me the way to go home,” she said.
“I suppose you realize he’ll lose his job?”
“He hasn’t it any longer, to lose.”
Valcour’s voice was almost inaudible. “Harpooned,” he said.
It was an echo whipping from brief yesterdays like a scourge. Her eyes were blue ice. She did not speak as he walked with her to the car.
He heard her say to Anna Wickstod: “You will ride in front with Charles.”
“Yes, miss.”
He heard the young coast guard, swelling in blue serge, say, just before he stepped after Mrs. Poole into the tonneau, “I guess it won’t be long before you stop calling her ‘miss.’”
And he heard Anna Wickstod say, with the unshakable placidity of a river who knows that its bed will never change, “I always call her ‘miss.’”
ABOUT RUFUS KING
Rufus King (1893–1966) was an American author of Whodunit crime novels. He created four series of detective stories: the first one with Reginald De Puyster, a sophisticated detective similar to Philo Vance; the second one with his more famous character, Lieutenant Valcour; Colin Starr, who appeared in four stories in the Strand Magazine during 1940/41; and Detective Bill Duggan, who appeared in three stories in 1956/57. The Bill Duggan stories include his most famous short work, “Malice in Wonderland” (which loaned its title to his 1958 hardcover short story collection).
Modern critics are rediscovering Rufus King’s work. Mike Grost, on Golden Age Detective, features a long writeup of King, stating: “King had a vivid writing style, with colorful characters, events, and images. He was clearly a born writer.”
