The Saturday Evening Post/The Dollar Chasers/Chapter 7
VII
A TENSE air hung about the dinner table that evening, as though all present knew that some important development in the dollar chase was close at hand. Only one guest was entirely at ease—Mikklesen. He resumed his tale of far corners and strange adventures, and once more Bill Hammond had to admit that the boy was good.
When the women had left the saloon a pointed silence fell. Jim Batchelor sat for a moment staring at the end of his cigar.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I know you'll pardon my mentioning again the matter of the missing dollar, for I'm sure you're all as interested as I am to see the property recovered. Mr. Hammond has been making an investigation, at my request, and I understand he has something to report.”
They turned with interest to Mr. Hammond. Bill smiled cheerily about the circle.
“We've made several discoveries,” he began. “For instance, we know that the dollar was taken from Mr. Batchelor in the first place as a rather ill-advised joke.” Frost squirmed in his chair, but Bill mentioned no names. He told how the unfortunate jokester, on seeking to return the dollar to its owner, had found in the hiding place a greenback of equal value. He took the bank note from his pocket.
“This is a brand-new note,” he said, “and its serial number is 2B7654328B. Some of you may have noticed that when you are paid money by a bank, and receive new bills, the serial numbers follow in perfect sequence.” He removed another bill from his pocket. “I have here,” he added, “another new dollar note, and the serial number is 2B7654329B. Is it too much to suppose that the two notes came from the same pocket?”
“Good work!” remarked Batchelor, beaming. “Where'd you get that other one?”
“The second note,” Bill explained, “was given to Tatu, the valet, in return for some trifling service. It was given to him by one of you gentlemen here present.” He paused. No one spoke. “It was given him by Mr. Mikklesen,” Bill added.
They all turned and looked at the Englishman. His nonchalance was admirable.
“That may be true,” he smiled. “I may have given the Jap that note—I don't recall. What of it?”
“Pretty flimsy, if you ask me,” said O'Meara. “I'm a lawyer and I want to tell you, young man”
“Just a moment, Mr. O'Meara,” Bill smiled. “We don't need a lawyer just yet. I recognize that this evidence is rather inconclusive. I mentioned it merely because it makes a good prelude to what will follow. The close relationship of these notes points to Mikklesen. Other things point to Mikklesen. I point to Mikklesen. I ask him to stand up and be searched—that is, of course, if Mr. Batchelor has no objection.”
Batchelor nodded.
“Go to it,” he said heartily.
“Fine!” Bill said. “Now, Mr. Mikklesen, if you'll be so good”
Mikklesen flushed.
“This is an insult,” he protested. “Mr. Batchelor, I appeal to you. The simplest laws of hospitality”
“You've abused my hospitality, sir,” said Batchelor. “I know all about you. Stand up!”
Slowly the Englishman got to his feet.
“The coat and waistcoat, please,” Bill Hammond ordered. “Thanks. Now the collar and the tie. I'll help you, if you don't mind.” He rapidly unfastened the studs in Mikklesen's gleaming bosom. “Our friend here,” he explained, “has made a close study of his profession. He has perfected the Mikklesen shirt, for which he was famous in the Orient. The bosom is unusually stiff; it holds its shape well. And at the bottom, on the left side, an extra strip of linen makes a convenient pocket. You wouldn't notice it if the shirt were freshly laundered—I didn't”—he smiled at Mikklesen—“but after prying it open you have a handy receptacle for carrying slender booty—bank-notes, or even a silver dollar. And the loot doesn't show, particularly if you are built concavely, as is young Raffles here.” Bill removed from the bosom of the shirt a silver dollar and tossed it down before Jim Batchelor. His heart was thumping; this was his big hour. “Your lucky piece, I believe, sir,” he said.
Batchelor's eyes shone.
“My boy, how can I ever thank you” he began. With trembling hand he picked up the dollar. A hoarse cry of rage escaped him. He threw the dollar back on to the table and got to his feet. “Damn it,” he cried, “how long is this thing going to keep up?”
“Wha-what thing, sir?” asked Bill, his triumph fading.
“That,” roared Batchelor, “is not my dollar! It was coined in the year 1899.”
“Good lord!” cried Bill; and glancing at Mikklesen, he saw on that gentleman's face a look of undisguised surprise.
The saloon was in an uproar, everybody talking at once. But above the clamor Batchelor's voice rang out. He was facing Bill, and he was talking to Bill.
“You a detective! You're a defective, that's what ails you! You get my hopes way up, and then you—you—you”
“Well, I'm sorry, sir,” said poor Bill. He was a bit dazed.
“Sorry! What kind of talk is that? Sorry! I could—I'd like to—I tell you this, you unearth any more dollars for me, and I'll skin you alive!” He turned to Mikklesen, who was tying his necktie as best he could without a mirror. “And you, sir! What have you to say? What explanation have you to offer? Honest men don't go about with trick shirts. I know your reputation in the Orient. How came that dollar where it was?”
“I'm afraid I've been done, sir,” said Mikklesen suavely, putting on his coat.
“Done? How so?”
“Under the circumstances, I can't do better than tell you the truth. If you will pause to consider, there has been no real theft. In each case, nothing but substitution—one dollar for another. The value of your lucky piece is purely sentimental. Remember that, if you will.”
“Go on,” said Batchelor.
“I went to your cabin last night to get that dollar. I'm a bit of a jokester myself. I heard Mr. Frost at the door and had just time to reach the closet. From there I watched him make the substitution. I followed him, and when he left his cabin to go to dinner, I slipped in. After locating your dollar, I made a little substitution of my own. I had your dollar last night, I had it this morning—right where our young friend here found this other one. I put the shirt with the dollar in it in my bag and securely fastened the lock. Mr. Hammond here will bear me out when I say that some time in the early afternoon the lock of my bag was broken. That must have been when the dollars were exchanged.”
“Nonsense!” answered Batchelor. “You mean to say you haven't made sure of that dollar since?”
“I saw that there was still a dollar in the bosom of the shirt and naturally supposed it was the—er—lucky piece.”
Jim Batchelor slowly shook his head.
“I don't get you,” he said. “You're too deep for me. However, I know one thing—you're not the sort of guest I care to have around. Something has happened to the engines and we're turning back to Monterey. In the morning you will greatly oblige me by taking your luggage and going ashore.”
“Oh, naturally,” calmly agreed Mikklesen.
“After you've been searched,” Batchelor added. “Shall we join the ladies?”
As they left the dining saloon, Bill Hammond saw O'Meara seize Mikklesen's arm and hold him back. The politician's ruddy face was a study in various emotions, none pleasant.
Entering the main saloon last, Bill encountered Sally just inside the door. Her eyes were shining with excitement as she maneuvered him outside.
“Oh, Bill, I felt dreadfully,” she said. “I mean, to miss your big scene of triumph.”
“Ha-ha,” he remarked mirthlessly.
“Why, what's the matter?”
“Some triumph, Sally! A dud! A raspberry! As a detective I'm a great reporter.” And he told her what had happened.
“What did Father say?” she inquired when he had finished.
“Ah,” he answered, “you go right to the heart of the matter. Father said plenty, and if a look ever meant poison in the coffee, his look meant that to me. I tell you, Sally, it's all over now. As far as Father goes, I'm out.”
“Don't give up,” she urged. “Haven't you any more clews?”
“Well,” he replied slowly, “a little one.”
“I knew it!” she cried. “What is it, Bill?”
“Oh, nothing much. But I happened to pick up that dollar we found on Mikklesen, and”
Jim Batchelor and Henry Frost emerged from the main saloon and came up.
“Ah,” said Frost sarcastically, “the young detective.”
“Don't kid him, Henry,” said Batchelor. “The boy's got a future. He can dig up more dollars than John D. Rockefeller.”
“Mr. Batchelor, I certainly regret” Bill began.
“Never mind that. Where are we now? Things are more confused than ever.”
“If you'll take a suggestion from me,” Frost began, “how about your captain? He opened Mikklesen's bag. Was he alone at the time?”
“Nonsense!” Batchelor answered. “You're wrong as usual, Henry.”
“Well, I don't know. What's all this about the engines, and turning back?”
“Rot, I say! The captain's been with me for more than ten years.” Batchelor shook his head. “I tell you, I'm up a tree. A lot of things I don't understand. Very strange, for example, that Mikklesen should have made that confession. He could have denied everything and let it go at that.”
“Dad,” said Sally, “Bill's got another clew.”
“I suppose so,” her father replied. “He certainly is a marvel for clews. I shouldn't be surprised if he conjured a dollar out of somebody's ear next. But it won't be my dollar, I'm sure of that.”
“If you'll give me a chance, sir,” suggested Bill.
“Well, you're a broken reed, but you're all I've got to lean on. What is it now?”
“Mikklesen's luggage was broken into about 2:30. He didn't discover it until after three. The captain couldn't have been in there more than ten or fifteen minutes. What happened in the interval between the time the captain went out and Mikklesen came in?”
“Tell me that and I'll say you're good.”
“I can only surmise, sir. But that 1899 dollar we found on Mikklesen—I know who had it last.”
“What? You do?”
“Yes. That's the dollar I gave Tatu this morning in exchange for the greenback he got from Mikklesen.”
“Tatu! That's an idea! Come into the smoking-room and we'll have Tatu on the carpet.”
The owner of the Francesca led the way, and Frost, Hammond and Sally followed. Tatu, summoned, appeared a bit lacking in his accustomed calm. He feared his employer, and showed it.
“You've seen this dollar before, Tatu,” said Bill, holding it out. “I gave it to you this morning. What did you do with it after that?”
Tatu stared at the silver dollar.
“Give him back,” he said.
“Back to whom?”
“Mr. Mikklesen.”
“The truth, Tatu,” Batchelor demanded.
“So help,” answered the Jap. “Mr. Mikklesen say I do not keep promise. That not true. Make me give dollar back, anyhow.”
That was Tatu's story, and he stuck to it. After a few moments of further questioning, Batchelor let him go.
“Well, where does that get us?” the millionaire wanted to know.
“The Jap's lying,” declared Frost.
“I don't think so,” Bill objected. “No, something tells me he speaks true. Mr. Batchelor, that big confession scene of Mikklesen's was staged with a purpose.”
“What purpose?”
“I can't say. But I've a hunch he's still got your dollar.”
“Where?”
“That's for me to find out, sir.” Bill was again the man of action. “Sally, I wish you'd go in and lure Mikklesen into a bridge game, if you will, please. After that's under way, I'll act.”
“You sound good,” admitted Batchelor. “But then you always do. I wish I could be sure you'd get the right dollar this time.”
“I'll get it,” said Bill. His heart sank. He'd said that before—with what result? But this time he must make good—he must! However, he wasn't so sure.
When he saw the Englishman uncomfortably settled as Aunt Dora's partner in a game, he hurried below. Without hesitation he turned on the light in Mikklesen's cabin and began to search. He did a thorough job—under the carpet, in the closet, everywhere. But he found no dollar. Nothing at all of interest, in fact, save a little coil of flat wire which lay on the floor almost under the berth. It seemed of no importance, but he put it in his pocketbook. His heart was heavy as he turned out the light and started to leave via the bath. He had one foot in the bathroom and the other in Mikklesen's cabin when the door into the corridor opened.
“Hello,” said a voice—O'Meara's—very softly.
Bill fled. He silently took the key out of the door leading from the bath into his room, and, safe in his cabin, fastened the lock from that side. He laid his hand gently on the knob of the door and waited. Footsteps sounded faintly in the bath, and then the knob began to turn slowly in his hand. He let it turn. A gentle shake of the knob, and then the footsteps receded. As soon as he dared, Bill unlocked the door and opened it an inch or two. He made out the occasional glimmer of a flashlight in Mikklesen's cabin.
For a time O'Meara searched industriously. Suddenly the flash went dark. Some one else had entered Mikklesen's cabin. Who? In a moment the politician enlightened him.
“Mrs. Keith!” he said in a low voice.
“Mr. O'Meara!” came the woman's answer.
“What can I do for you?” O'Meara inquired sarcastically.
“Is this your cabin, Mr. O'Meara?” she asked, equally sarcastic.
“It is not.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Just what you're doing. Looking for that dollar.”
“Why, Mr. O'Meara”
“Come across. I made you early in the game. See here, our interests are the same. Let's work together.”
“I don't know what you mean.”
“Oh, yes, you do. You're here to get that lucky piece for the Blakes; and I—well, I represent other interests; interests that want to keep Jim Batchelor out of the primaries. Let me have that dollar until next Wednesday at six p.m. and you can have it after that.”
“But I haven't got it, Mr. O'Meara.”
“I know you haven't. I mean, in case we can get hold of it.”
“You think it's in this room?”
“I think Mikklesen's got it somewhere. You know, I had my deal all fixed with him. I caught him last night throwing a shirt overboard, and after a little talk he admitted he had the lucky piece and agreed to deliver it to me in Monterey for twelve hundred cash.”
“I thought of making him an offer myself,” said the woman. “I knew his talents of old, and I was sure he had it.”
“It's just as well you didn't. This morning, when Batchelor offered that whale of a reward, the dirty crook began to hedge. He'd have double-crossed me then and there, only I threatened to have him framed before he could get out of the state. He knew I could do it, so he held off.”
“Then that performance tonight was all staged?”
“It sure was,” O'Meara said. “I could see it in his eye. It was all for my benefit. I wouldn't be surprised if he led that young fool of a Hammond right into it. He wanted me to think he'd lost the dollar. Probably he's figuring on getting ashore with it, and then sending it to Batchelor by a messenger. But only over my dead body. Let's get busy.”
“Where does this door lead?” asked Mrs. Keith.
“Into a bath. There's a door into another cabin, but it's locked.”
And it was, for Bill Hammond took the hint just in time. He went to the upper deck and left them to their search, confident that it would have no results.
The bridge game was just breaking up, with the enthusiastic coöperation of everyone save Aunt Dora. Bill took Sally aside in a corner of the saloon, but before he could say anything her father joined them.
“Anything doing?” he inquired.
Bill told them of the conversation in Mikklesen's cabin. Jim Batchelor was indignant.
“Fine business!” he said. “O'Meara, and the woman too! I knew blamed well I couldn't trust anybody on this boat. Well, they'll go ashore, bag and baggage, with Mikklesen in the morning. But not until I've been over all three of them personally.”
“Father!”
“Yes, I mean it. Well, Hammond, where are we now? Mikklesen's still got the dollar, you think? But where's he got it?”
“Well” began Bill.
“You've got a clew, of course,” said Batchelor.
“Not one,” Bill answered sadly.
“What?” Batchelor stood up. “Well, if you've run out of clews, then the skies are dark indeed. Something tells me I'll never see my dollar again. You may be a good newspaper man, my boy, but as a detective—well—oh, what's the use? I'm going to bed. Good night.”
Sally and Bill followed him outside. In a shadowy spot on the deck they paused.
“Oh, Bill, what are we going to do now?” the girl sighed.
“Well, I have one—one little clew. But it's so silly I didn't have the nerve to tell him about it. Just a little coil of wire I found in Mikklesen's cabin.”
“What would that mean, Bill?”
“I don't know. But I'm going to think tonight as I never thought before. I can't lose you, Sally. I won't—that's all.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it, Bill, you won't,” she answered, and the wisdom of stopping in a shadow became at once apparent.
In his berth Bill settled down to do the promised thinking. He began to go over in his mind, carefully, every point in the equipment of a man like Mikklesen. But somewhere in the neighborhood of the military brushes he fell asleep.