CHAPTER VII
Success and failure
WHEN I left the office at noon next day, I took a cross-town car which eventually landed me at the foot of West Tenth Street, where the red and black steamers of the Quebec line load and unload their West Indian cargoes. There were other lines plying to Martinique, but none with arrivals which approximated the date given me by Cecily, as I had found by reference to a file of the Maritime Gazette. Of the Quebec fleet, the Parima had arrived on February 23d, and had sailed again on the 5th of March. A reference to the paper of the day before showed me that she had just arrived in port again. There, sure enough, she was, drawn up beside the dock, while two noisy donkey engines were puffing away at the task of lifting great barrels of sugar from her hold. I hunted up the purser without delay.
“May I see your passenger list for your last trip north?” I asked; “the trip before this one.”
“Certainly,” he responded, and produced it.
It was not a long one, and in a moment I had found what I was looking for. Victor Tremaine and wife were fifth on the list. But no “H. Thompson” appeared there. However, I had a last resource—I had scarcely expected to find him entered among the passengers.
“Is the captain aboard?” I inquired.
“Captain Hake has gone over to his home on Long Island for a day or two,” answered the purser. “The first officer, Mr. Grice, is forward, superintending the unloading.”
“Thank you,” I said, and hurried up to the deck. I found Mr. Grice without difficulty, a tall, blond young man, with eyes of a cerulean blue. “Can you spare me a moment?” I asked, after I had introduced myself.
“Why, I guess so. What is it?”
“Did you ever see this man before?” and I produced the photograph Godfrey had given me.
“Well, I should say so!” he cried, at the first glance. “And I hope I’ll never see him ag’in. Thompson his name is, and we shipped him at Barbadoes, in place of one of our men who deserted there. He didn’t have a decent rag to his back, so we fitted him up with some old things out of the slop-chest.”
I nodded; that explained the different initials marked on his clothing.
“He only shipped as far as St. Pierre,” continued the mate; “but after we’d got there, he changed his mind and come on to New York. What’s he been doin’? Gettin’ into more trouble? He’s not been out of jail more’n three or four weeks.”
“Out of jail?”
“Yes—he was a regular fiend for booze, though we didn’t find it out until after we left St. Pierre. Where he got it I don’t know—he didn’t have any money t’ buy it, that’s sure. I’ve kind o’ thought one of the passengers must ’a’ give it to him, though I can’t imagine why. But anyway, he was half-drunk three-fourths of the time and dead drunk the other fourth. We’d find him layin’ in his berth and we’d yank him out and drop him into a tub of water. He’d sober up quicker ’n any man I ever see, but he was never satisfied unless he had a pint or two inside him. When we tied up at the wharf here, he got awful bad—wanted t’ go ashore right away—fought the captain when he wouldn’t let him. The captain handed him over to a policeman, and he got twenty days on the island.”
I nodded again; so that was why he was so long after Tremaine in putting in an appearance at the Marathon.
“Let’s see the picture,” he added, and looked at it more closely. “That’s the very son-of-a-gun. What’s the matter with him, anyway? Asleep? Drunk more likely.”
“No,” I said, “he’s dead.”
“Dead? Drank hisself to death, hey?”
“No; somebody murdered him.”
“Oh, shucks! What’d anybody want to murder him for? Most likely he was tryin’ to kill somebody else and got a dose of his own medicine.”
“That may be,” I assented; and indeed the suggestion was not without its merits. “We’ve been trying to find out something about him. Can you tell us anything?”
“Not a thing more’n I’ve told you. He was on the bum down there in Barbadoes for sure.”
“Do you think the captain would know anything more?”
“No, I don’t. Plant him in Potter’s Field and good riddance. I’ll bet he didn’t get any more’n was comin’ to him.”
With which sage reflection, he turned back to his work, while I sought the shore. On the way back to the office, I turned the mate’s story over in my mind. It had, at least, served to establish one thing—a connection, however slender, between Thompson and Tremaine. It was evident that Thompson had intended joining Tremaine at St. Pierre, but when he found him embarking on the Parima, stayed with the vessel so that they might reach New York together. That it was Tremaine who had supplied the other with spirits on the voyage north I did not doubt; Thompson, then, had some claim upon Tremaine—a claim, perhaps, of friendship, of association in crime; a claim, doubtless, to which those missing clippings gave the clew. If I could only find them! But Tremaine had searched for them with a thoroughness which had excited even Godfrey’s admiration. No doubt Miss Croydon had them at this moment in the pocket of her gown; or perhaps she had destroyed them without realising their importance. But she must have realised it, or she would never have dared take them from that repulsive body; she must have known exactly what they contained, if they were the papers she had gone to suite fourteen to get…
I felt that I was getting tangled in a snarl of my own making, and I gave it up.
Godfrey came into the office that evening, just as I was closing my desk.
“I want you to go to dinner with me,” he said. “I have to run down to Washington tonight, and it may be three or four days before I get back. I want to talk things over.”
We took a cab uptown and stopped at Riley’s—the Studio, alas! had closed its doors—and we were presently ensconced in a snug corner, where we could talk without danger of being overheard.
“I’ve found out a few things about Tremaine,” began Godfrey, as the waiter hurried away with our order.
“And I about Thompson,” I said.
“You have?” and he looked at me in surprise. “How in the world did you do it?”
His astonishment was distinctly complimentary, and I related with considerable gratification my conversation with the mate of the Parima.
“Well,” observed Godfrey, when I had finished, “that was a bright idea of yours—that establishes the link between the two men. Our St. Pierre correspondent wires us that Tremaine arrived there some three years ago, presumably from South America. He bought a little plantation just outside the town and settled there. He seemed to have plenty of money when he arrived, but he probably spent it all—on that girl Cecily, perhaps—for before he sailed, he borrowed thirty-five hundred francs with his plantation as security.”
“Seven hundred dollars—that wouldn’t go far,” I commented.
“No—let’s see just how far,” and Godfrey drew the menu card toward him and made the following computation in one corner:
| Passage, | $130 |
| Incidentals on voyage | 20 |
| Clothing for himself, | 200 |
| Clothing for Cecily, | 200 |
| One month’s rent, | 45 |
| {{{1}}}„ {{{1}}}„ board, | 120 |
| {{{1}}}„ {{{1}}}„ incidentals, | 150 |
| Total, | $865 |
“You see, he hadn’t enough to run him a month—and he’s been here nearly twice that long. Besides, that estimate is much too low—for it’s evident that he’s an extravagant liver. He’s been moving in expensive company and has, of course, been keeping up his end. Then, too, I don’t doubt that he provided for Thompson—gave him enough money, anyway, to keep drunk on—that’s the only way to explain Thompson’s taking an apartment like that. I should say that fifteen hundred dollars would be a low estimate for the two months. Of course, he had to get all his clothing new—Martinique clothing wouldn’t do for March New York.”
“All of which indicates,” I said, “either that he had other resources or that he’s received some money—a thousand dollars, at least—since he’s been here.”
“Precisely—and I incline to the latter theory. He’s working some sort of tremendous bunco game. He’s playing for big stakes. He’s not the man to play for little ones.”
“No,” I assented, “he’s not,” and we fell silent while the waiter removed the dishes.
Over the cigars, afterwards, neither of us said much; we were both, I think, trying to find some ray of light in the darkness. At last, Godfrey took out his watch and glanced at it.
“I must be going,” he said, as he tore into little bits the menu card upon which he had made his computation. “My train leaves at nine.”
We put on our coats and went out together. On the steps we paused.
“There’s one thing, Lester,” he said; “we’re making progress, and he doesn’t suspect us. That’s our great advantage. Perhaps we may catch him off his guard. During the next week, keep your eyes open and find out how much Cecily knows. Another thing—keep a clear head—don’t let that siren”
“No danger,” I interrupted, and half unconsciously I touched a ring on my finger.
He smiled as he saw the gesture.
“Oh, yes; I’d forgotten about that. Where is she now?”
“In Florida—she and her mother. They’re coming north next month.”
“Well,” he said, “I’m glad you’ve got the ring—you’ll need it this next week. I wish the chance was mine—Cecily, I’m sure, knows a good many interesting things about Tremaine. Besides, I haven’t got your high moral scruples—I believe in fighting fire with fire. However, do your best. I’ll look you up as soon as I get back. Good-bye.”
I watched him until the crowd hid him; then I turned toward my rooms a little miserably. Without Godfrey to back me, I felt singularly weak and helpless. If Tremaine were really the finished scoundrel we supposed him, what chance had I against him? But perhaps he was not; perhaps we were wide of the mark—looking for truth at the bottom of a well instead of on the mountain-top.
The next day was Saturday. Tremaine was to leave in the afternoon for his week’s absence, and he came in before I left in the morning to say goodbye. He seemed strangely elated and triumphant; his eyes were even brighter than usual, the colour came and went in his cheeks—he presented, altogether, a most fascinating appearance. He lingered only a moment to shake hands and thank me again.
“Cecily is jealous of these last moments,” he said, with a laugh. “She’s a spoilt child—and like a child, her moods are only of the moment—she’ll be gay as a lark tomorrow. Well, au revoir, my friend,” and he waved his hand to me and closed the door behind him.
With the vision of him yet in my eyes, I saw clearly for the first time how weak and puny and ineffective was the chain of evidence which we were endeavouring to forge about him. He rose superior to it, shattered it, cast it aside, trampled on it contemptuously—emerged unstained. I had permitted myself to be blinded by Godfrey’s prejudices—no unbiassed person would ever believe Tremaine guilty. Then I remembered that sudden, infernal smile he had cast at me two nights before, and some of the glory fell from him.
At the office, I found awaiting me a note from Godfrey, scribbled hastily in the station of the Pennsylvania road.
Dear Lester [it ran]: By the merest good luck, I met Jack Drysdale just after I left you. Drysdale is betrothed to Miss Croydon, and is to be one of a little house party which Mrs. Delroy has arranged at her country house near Babylon, Long Island. Tremaine is to be a guest also! That is where he will spend the week, and it’s evident he’s going there with a purpose. I would give worlds to be there, but Drysdale has promised to keep a journal of events — he’s willing to do a good deal for me — and to wire me if anything unusual happens. So I hope for the best. Remember to keep your eyes open.