The Million Dollar Mystery, Harold MacGrath [best ebook for manga .TXT] 📗

but little during the nights, for his ears were always waiting for sounds. He had cast the chest into the sea, and it would take a dozen expert divers to locate it. And now, atop of all these worries, the child must fall in love with the first comer! It was heart-breaking. Norton, so far as he had learned, was cool and brave, honest and reliable in a pinch; but as the husband of Stanley Hargreave's daughter, that was altogether a different matter. And he must devise some means of putting a stop to it, but—-

But he was saved that trouble.

Mongoose and cobra, that was the game being played; the cunning of the one against the deadly venom of the other. If he forced matters he would only lay himself open to the strike of the snake. He must have patience. Gradually they were breaking the organization, lopping off a branch here and there, but the peace of the future depended upon getting a grip on the spine of the cobra himself.

The trick was simple. The countess had news; trust her for that. She exhibited a cablegram, dated at Gibraltar, in which the British authorities stated definitely that no such a person as William Orts, aviator, had arrived at Gibraltar. And then, as Norton rose, she rose also and gently precipitated herself into his arms, just at the moment when Florence appeared in the doorway.

Very simple, indeed. When a woman falls toward a man there is nothing for him to do but extend his arms to prevent her from falling. Outwardly, however, to the eye which saw only the picture and comprehended not the cause, it had all the hallmarks of an affectionate embrace.

Florence stood perfectly still for a moment, then turned away.

"I beg your pardon," said the countess, "but a sudden fainting spell seized me. My heart is a bit weak."

"Don't mention it," replied the gallant Norton. He was as innocent as a babe as to what had really taken place.

Florence went back home. She wrote a brief note to Norton and inclosed the ring which she had secretly worn attached to a little chain around her neck.

When Norton came the next day she refused to see him. It was all over. She never wished to see him again.

"He says there has been some cruel mistake," said Jones.

"I saw him with the countess in his arms. I do not see any cruel mistake in that. I saw him. Tell him so. And add that I never wish to see him again."

Then she ran swiftly to her room, where she broke down and cried bitterly and would not be comforted by Susan.

"In heaven's name, what has happened?" demanded the frantic lover, "what has happened?"

The comedy of the whole affair lay in the fact that neither of the two suspected the countess, who consoled them both.

CHAPTER IX

So far as Jones was concerned, he was rather pleased with the turn of affairs. This was no time for love-making; no time for silly, innocuous quarrels and bickerings, in which love must indulge or die. Florence no longer rode horseback, and Norton returned to his accustomed haunts, where no one made the slightest attempt upon his life. In his present state of mind he would have welcomed it.

"What's the matter with Jim?" asked the night city editor, raising his eye shade.

"I don't know," answered the copy reader.

"Goes around as if he'd been eating dope; bumped into the boss a while ago and never stopped to apologize."

"Perhaps he's mapping out the front page for that Hargreave stuff," laughed the copy reader. "Between you and me and the gate post, I don't believe there ever was a man by the name of Hargreave."

"Oh, there was a chap by that name, all right. He's dead. A man can't swim three hundred miles in rough water, life-buoy or no. They ought to have funeral services, and let it go at that."

"But what was the reason for that fake cable from Gibraltar saying that Orts was alive? I don't see any sense in that."

"The man who pulled it off did. I think, for my part, that both Orts and Hargreave are dead, and that the man picked up by the tramp steamer Orient was riding some other balloon."

"You're wrong there. The description of it proved that it was Orts' machine. Oh, Jim probably has got a man's-size yarn up his sleeve, but he's a long time in delivering the goods. He's beginning to mope a good deal. Woman back of it somewhere. Haven't held down this copy job for twelve years without being able to make some tolerable guesses. Jim's a star man. When he gets started nothing can stop him. He covered the Chinese Boxer rebellion better than any other correspondent there. I wonder how old he is?"

"Oh, I should say about thirty-one or two. Here he comes now. 'Lo, Jim!"

"Hello! Where's Ford? He gave me a ticket to the theater to-night, and I want to punch his head. What's drama coming to, anyhow? Cigarettes and booze and mismated couples. Can't they find good enough things out of doors? Oh, I know. They cater to a lot of fools who believe that what they see is an expression of high life in New York and London. And it's rot, plain rot. It's merely the scum of the boiling pot. Any old housewife would skim it off and chuck it into the slops. Life? Piffle!"

"What's the grouch?"

"Looking for the dramatic job?"

"No. I've just been wondering how far these theatrical managers can go without slitting the golden goose."

Norton sought his desk and began rummaging the drawers. He was not hunting for anything; he was merely passing away the time. By and by, when the time no longer served, he pulled his chair over to the window and sat down, staring at stars such as Copernicus never dreamed of. Ships going down to sea, ferries swooping diagonally hither and thither, the clockwork signs; but he took no note of these marvels of light.

"Not at home!" he muttered.

He had called, written, telephoned. No use. The door remained shut, Jones answered the telephone, and the letters came back. He began to think very deeply concerning the Perigoff woman. Had she played a trick? Had that fainting spell been buncombe for his benefit as well as Florence's? But he had not a shadow of a proof. The thing that puzzled him equally with this was that all attempts against his life had miraculously ceased; no safes thundered down in front of him, and no autos tried to carve him in two. The only thing that kept him active was the daily call of Jones by wire. Miss Florence was well; that was all Jones was permitted to say.

Restlessly Norton spurned his chair and walked over to the telephone booth. It was midnight. He might or might not be able to get Jones. But almost instantly a voice said, "What is it?"

"Jones?"

"Yes. Who is it?"

"Norton."

"Why, you called me up not ten minutes ago."

"Not I!"

"It was your voice, as plain as day."

"What did I want?" keen all at once.

The reply did not come immediately. "You are certain it was not you?"

"Wait a moment and I'll call the editor. He will prove to you that I've been here for an hour, and that this is the first call I've made. Some one has been imposing on you. What did they ask you to do?"

"You asked me to come down to the office at once, and I requested you to come to the house, and you said you could not. I declined to stir."

"What did you think?"

"Exactly what you're thinking—that they have come to life again."

"Jones, is Miss Florence awake?"

"No."

"Do you think there is any hope of having her understand what really happened?"

"I am only here to guard her. I can not undertake to read her thoughts."

"You're not quite in favor of a reconciliation?"

"Oh, yes, if it went no further. Young people are young people the world over."

"What does that mean?"

"That they would not create imaginary heartaches if they were not young. Better let things remain exactly as they are. When all these troubles are settled finally, the lesser trouble may be talked over sensibly. But this is not the time. There is no news. Good night."

Norton returned to his chair, gloomier than ever. With his feet upon the window sill he stared and stared and dreamed and dreamed till a hand fell upon his shoulder. It belonged to one of the office boys.

"Note f'r you, sir."

Norton read it and tore it into little pieces. Then he rose and distributed the pieces in the several yawning waste baskets which strewed the aisle leading to the city desk.

"I'm not wanted for anything?" he asked.

"No. Clear out!" laughed the night city editor. "The sight of you is putting everybody in the gloom ward."

Norton went down to the street. At the left of the entrance he was quietly joined by a man whose arm was carried in a sling. He motioned Norton to get into the taxicab. They were dropped in a deserted spot in Riverdale. On foot they went forward to their destination, which proved to be the deserted hangar of the aviator, William Orts.

"I want you to tell Jones that a tub and several divers are at work on the spot where he threw the chest. That's all. Now, doctor, rewind this arm of mine."

The amateur surgeon made a very good job of it; not for nothing had he followed fighting armies to the front.

"Did they find anything?"

"Not up to date. But we might if we cared to. They have left a buoy over the spot they're exploring. But just now it floats a quarter of a mile to the east of the spot."

"Who were the men in the motor boat that chased Jones?"

"Only Jones can tell you. Queer old codger, eh?"

"A bit stubborn. He wants to handle it without police assistance."

"And he's right. We are not aiming to arrest any one," sinisterly. "There can't be any draw to this game. Here, no smoking. Too much gas afloat."

Norton put the cigarettes back into his pocket. "What's the real news?" he demanded. "You would not bring me out here just to rebandage that arm. It really did not need it. Come, out with it."

"You're sharp."

"I'm paid to be sharp."

"I've found where the Black Hundred hold their sessions."

"By George, that's news!"

"The room above is vacant. A little hole in the ceiling, and who knows what might happen?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"Tell Jones. When the next meeting comes around I'll advise you. I've stumbled upon a dissatisfied member. So, buck up, as they say. We've got two ends of the net down, and with a little care we'll have them all. Now let me have a hundred."

Norton drew out a packet of bills and counted off five twenties.

"Why don't you draw the cash yourself?"

"It happens to be in your name, son."

"I forgot," said Norton. "But what a chance for me! Nearly five thousand, all mine for a ticket to Algiers!"

A grunt was the only reply.

"I want you to tell me about the Perigoff woman."

"I know only one thing—that Braine is there every night."

"No!"

"The orders are for you to play the game just as you are playing it. When we strike, it must be the last blow. All this hide-and-seek business may look foolish to you. It's like that Japanese game called 'jo.' It looks simple, but chess is a tyro's game beside it. Can you find your way back all right?"

"I can."

"Well, you'd better be going. That's all the light I have, in this torch here. Got a lot to do to-morrow and need sleep."

Norton stole away with great caution. His first intention was to proceed straight to the city, but despite his resolution he found himself within a quarter of an hour gazing up at the windows of the Hargreave house. "Not at home!"

Quite unconscious of the fact, he was as close to death as any mortal