That Ignace Teck should go down south to hunt for the missing money was logical, Val pondered. That, of course, would probably be its hiding place. But that Miss Jessica Pomeroy should go down at the same time—he could hardly reconcile that.
Unless, of course, she had not gone of her own volition. Which was very probable, he considered. Teck, he was sure, would not feel quite easy in his mind if he, Val, had a clear field with Jessica while Teck was away. Val knew that Teck was very well aware that, given a little time, he could easily win Jessica away from him. It would have been a strategical error that Ignace Teck would hardly be guilty of. That being the case, Val could hardly be amazed at Teck’s anger to find that Val was coming down to Virginia, too. He must have seemed to Teck—he grinned at the remembrance—like a Little Old Man of the Sea.
Nevertheless, Val spent a restful night in his lower berth—and Eddie in his upper managed to get sufficient sleep, too. They were awakened the next morning before the train pulled into Cape Charles, the end of that branch line and the point of embarkation for Old Point Comfort, across Chesapeake Bay.
In the bustle of baggage and travelers, they caught only one glimpse of Teck—on the boat just before it steamed in to Old Point Comfort, in the lee of the great, rambling Hotel Chamberlin.
It was a bright sunny morning, and Val, leaning against the rail of the steamer, with Eddie standing just behind him, enjoyed the sail thoroughly. Chesapeake Bay had never been so sparkling, so calm; and to the right, in the distance, the grim, sullen guns of Fortress Monroe brooded over the Bay and Hampton Roads, powerful, menacing and silent; here and there an impertinent three-inch gun showed its black shield and saucy muzzle. Far over towards Lynhaven Straits is Fort Wool, and towards Norfolk is the narrow strip of land dignified by the name of Willoughby Spit, a four mile splinter of Virginia sand that at no place is so broad that one could not stand in its center and throw a half brick into the waters on either side.
It awoke memories in Val. During the early days of the war he had been stationed at the Officers’ Training School at Fortress Monroe—the school of the big guns. But Fortress Monroe, and Old Point Comfort on a sunny day, approached from the sea—these are not things to forget quickly. Val’s blood quickened as, far inland, he caught a sudden glimpse of the parade ground, bordered by the old brown and red brick barracks; to the right of that Battery Parrott reared its menacing bastion, and further inland he knew exactly where the mortar batteries were stationed, great black steel bulldogs that yawned at the sky and threatened the stars.
In the foreground was the Hotel Chamberlin, which Val decided to make his headquarters.
It was only a few minutes’ ride from Hampton, near where the Pomeroy estate was, he knew; it should be central enough for all his activities. He looked toward the fort, and from where he stood he could just catch a glimpse of Jeff Davis’s tree on the parade ground, a great, shady bulk, dignified in its size and its age. He caught himself humming a snatch of the training camp song:
“Send along another batch a’ Coast Artiller-ee⸺”
•••••••
Roarious! Roarious!
We’ll make the Coast Artill’ry glorious;
Fill ’er up with shell
An’ we’ll give the beggars hell
As we drive the ⸺ ⸺ out of France!
His blood quickened as he stepped on the familiar dock.
“To the Chamberlin, Eddie,” he directed, as Eddie grasped their two suitcases. “Squads right! Column left! March!”
Eddie grinned and executed the movements, pretending that Val was an officer. It pleased him to remember, however, that Val was no more an officer than he himself was—before finishing his course Val had been ordered to France as part of a replacement battalion in the trench mortar corps. It was there he met Eddie—one night in a shell hole, where they had cemented their friendship in cold, soggy “canned willie” and rather muddy water—water that was suitable for drinking, perhaps, but certainly not for bathing.
There was a crowd registering at the desk, and Val and Eddie held back until it thinned out a bit. When Val registered he looked the page of the register over carefully. Four names above his was the name of Ignace Teck—room three hundred and thirty. Val and Eddie were assigned rooms three fifty-five and six, on the same floor, which suited Val well.
Both rooms, he found, opened on a porch which ran the whole of the seaward length of the house. French windows, opening outwards, gave access to this sunporch. After a brief inspection, Val left Eddie to open the suitcases and distribute their clothes in the closets while he went downstairs to reconnoiter.
In front of the hotel he found a decrepit, ancient touring car, labeled “For Hire.” The driver lounged in the seat, but he snapped to attention as Val approached.
“How much?” asked Val.
“Four dollars an hour.”
“I mean for a week—I want to drive it myself,” replied Val.
The owner considered for a moment. “Cost you a hundred an’ seventy-five bucks,” he announced at length. “How do I know you won’t damage the car?”
“You don’t know, young feller,” smiled Val. “But I’m paying twice as much as it’s worth, so you’re taking no chance. Get me?”
“Where ya stoppin’?” asked the driver.
“Chamberlin.”
The preliminaries were arranged at the desk of the hotel, and in a few moments Val found himself in temporary possession of a touring car. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, regarding the car intently. Now that he had a car, there was, of course, but one use to put it to. That is, to drive out to where Jessica was stopping. Of what other use is a car, anyway? There was no answer to this, so he hopped in and drove off, perkily, in the direction of Hampton, where he expected he would receive correct information as to the location of the Pomeroy house.