The Saturday Evening Post/The Dollar Chasers/Chapter 3
III
MIKKLESEN had left the smoking-room some time before, and as Bill Hammond passed the door of the Englishman's cabin he was glad to hear a voice lifted in song inside. But when he reached his own room and tried to enter the bath, he found himself locked out. As he savagely rattled the knob he was happy to recall that George Washington won his war. Confound this Mikklesen—had he no consideration for anybody?
The answer was that he hadn't; one look at him told that.
As Bill turned angrily back into his room, Tatu entered from the passageway.
“Very late, very busy,” said the Jap. “Now I lay you out.” And he lifted a dinner coat from Bill's suitcase.
“Never mind, I'll attend to that,” Bill told him. “You go in and lay that Englishman out. Lay him out cold, and then unlock this bath for me.”
Tatu hastened away, and again there was the sound of voices in the next cabin. Again the lock in the door leading to the bath clicked, and Tatu emerged. Bill dashed by him and turned the key in Mikklesen's door. He was sorry that the gentle click resulting didn't begin to express his feelings.
“You run along, Tatu,” he said. “I'm in too much of a hurry to learn how to be valeted tonight. Some time when we're both free you can give me a lesson.”
“You want me, ring bell,” suggested Tatu, going.
Bill was hastily peeling off his clothes. If he was to have a few moments alone with Sally and the sunset, speed was the watchword. But he had been known to rise in the morning, bathe, shave, dress and reach the office in less than twenty minutes, and he was out now to smash the record.
As he was putting the finishing touches on an elaborate shave, Mikklesen began to rattle the door-knob. He rattled long and earnestly, and it was music to the reporter's ears.
“Oh, I say, old chap, you're not annoyed, are you?” Bill murmured. “Not really? How beastly!”
“Damn!” said a voice, and the clatter ceased.
Bill hurried from the bathroom, leaving the lock in statu quo. By way of preparation, he laid out his diamond shirt studs—rich-looking, if old-fashioned—the property of poor Uncle George, handed to Bill by Aunt Ella the day after the funeral.
Humming happily to himself, he lifted the great fat package of laundry into the open. Good old Honolulu Sam, he had certainly come across as promised. That back-same-day thing was on the level. Must have hurried some. Great little people, the Chinese; you could bank on them. If they said they'd do a thing, they did it. He snapped the string with his fingers and gently laid back the wrapping-paper. A bright pink shirt stared up at him.
It is astonishing sometimes, in the crises of our lives, how slow we can be in comprehending. Bill's first reaction was to wonder how this sartorial atrocity had got in with his things. He tossed it aside and was confronted by the purplest shirt he had ever met. Next in the line of march came a green shirt that would have made excellent adornment on St. Patrick's Day. Then some rather shabby underwear and eloquent socks. A few collars. But no more shirts!
Bill Hammond sat down weakly on the berth.
“Good lord,” he cried. “It's not my laundry!”
And if comprehension had been slow in coming, it came now with a rush. Alone, alone, all, all alone on a restless ocean, and without a dress shirt to his name. Dinner in fifteen minutes. At least two rivals for Sally's favor present, and each an elegant dresser on and off.
And this was the cruise on which he had hoped to make a dashing impression, to win Sally's family, to say nothing of the girl herself, by his charm. How did one do that without a shirt?
Anger overcame him. Nor did he have any trouble locating the object of his wrath. That half-blind old Chinaman with the steaming spectacles—there was the guilty party.
The old idiot! In one careless moment he had destroyed the priceless reputation of his race for accuracy, built up laboriously through many years of giving back the right shirt to the right customer—destroyed it utterly, doomed his race to extinction. For Bill Hammond would attend to that personally, and he would begin in the establishment of Honolulu Sam.
But time was passing; he mustn't waste any more of it planning the massacre of an aged Chinaman. The problem was here and now. What to do? The weather was calm enough, but the Francesca was tossing about a bit. He might retire to his birth and plead seasickness. And leave Sally to the company of Mikklesen and Julian Hill? Not likely! No, he must have a shirt—must have one—robbery—a killing or two, maybe—but he had to have a shirt.
Was there any one aboard who would help him? O'Meara, perhaps; but no, O'Meara's shirt would go round him at least twice. As for the other men, there was not one to whom he would consider revealing his plight. Sally—if he could bring himself to tell her—would be sympathetic, but Sally had no dress shirts to distribute. That left—hold on—that left Tatu. Thank heaven he had given Tatu five dollars.
He rang the bell, and while he waited put on his underclothes. Tatu appeared. Frankness, it seemed to Bill, was the only course.
“Terrible thing's happened, Tatu,” he said. “See”—he indicated the frightful pink shirt—“Chinese laundry returned the wrong wash. I haven't any dress shirt.”
“Chinese not reliable people,” commented Tatu.
“You've said it, my boy. Sometime you and I'll have a long talk about that. But now, Tatu, now—dinner coming on like this. What to do?” An idea flashed into his mind. “You haven't an extra shirt, have you?” he inquired hopefully.
Tatu opened his coat and revealed a fine white bosom—but no shirt went with it.
“Have extra bosom,” he said. “Maybe you would like”
Bill recoiled in horror.
“No, no, I couldn't take a chance. Must have an entire shirt. There's five more dollars waiting for you if you can dig one up.”
Tatu considered.
“Maybe,” he said. “I find out.”
He went on his momentous errand. Bill, left alone, put on stockings and a pair of pumps. Slowly but surely the structure was approaching completion. But the shirt! Would that necessary, that vital bit of façade come to hand? Or must he sit shirtless in his cabin while the gay diners made merry round the festal board?
Something in Tatu's eye had made Bill feel that this was a moment for caution. He turned off his light and opened the door leading into the dim passageway. No one in sight. Where was that Jap anyhow? The door of the cabin at the end of the corridor began to open slowly, and a man emerged. He looked warily about him, and then, walking on tiptoe, started down the passageway. Tatu? No, it wasn't Tatu. Bill Hammond, peering from the darkness as the man passed his stateroom, saw clearly who it was. He watched him open the door of a stateroom farther down and disappear.
Nervously Bill sat down on his berth. Would Tatu never come? Why, he'd had time enough to scare up a whole outfit—Tatu appeared in the doorway. Bill leaped up, closed the door behind him and snapped on the light.
Rapture! There was a gleaming dress shirt in the Jap's hand. Like a drowning man going after the well-known straw, Bill pounced upon it.
Tatu hung on to it.
“Maybe too big,” he said. “I put in studs.”
He took up one of Uncle George's diamonds and began to struggle with the shirt. “Very stiff bosom,” he announced. “Oh, very stiff.”
“What size is it?” demanded Bill, feverishly investigating the collars bequeathed him by the owner of the pink shirt. He had a vision of sending the Jap out again for a collar.
“Doesn't tell size,” whispered Tatu. “No name of maker, also. That very good.”
Bill experienced a momentary qualm.
“Where'd you get this shirt, Tatu?” he demanded sternly.
“I get him,” replied Tatu. “Here, try on.”
“A little large,” said Bill. “But it's a shirt. And say, look—this collar fits. Luck, Tatu, luck. Wow, the bosom is stiff! Got to be proud and unbending tonight.” He was silent, working on his tie.
“Everything fine,” Tatu hinted.
“Oh, yes, the five dollars. Here you are. Say, listen, Tatu, I'm not sure that we ought to have—er—borrowed this. We'll have to return it.”
“I return it,” Tatu agreed.
“That's right; of course we'll give it back, along with a dollar to cover depreciation and washing. Honesty, Tatu—the best policy. Ask anybody.”
“Yes-s, thank you.”
“Always be honest and you'll fear no man.” The Jap was at the door. “Say, Tatu, I really ought to know where you got it.”
“I got him,” smiled the Jap, and went out.
Well, a desperate situation required a desperate remedy. Bill leaped into his trousers and was slipping on his waistcoat and coat when the first notes of The Roast Beef of Old England, played falteringly on a bugle by a pantry boy with ambitions, floated down to him. Mikklesen was once more rattling at the bathroom door, and first extinguishing all lights, Bill noiselessly unlocked it, then hurried up-stairs to the after deck to find Sally. Her eyes reproached him.
“The sun went down,” she said, “and you never came up.”
“I know,” he answered; “forgive me.” He straightened his collar nervously. “I was detained.”
“That's not much of an explanation,” she told him.
“Thank you,” he said absently. He was thinking that the owner of the pink shirt certainly needed some new collars. This one had a razor edge and seemed to have been recently honed.
“You're perfectly welcome,” smiled Sally, “whatever it is you're thanking me for. Pardon me for mentioning it, but are you in your right mind?”
“Of course not,” he said. “I knew you were lovely, but somehow tonight—well, as the fellow said, my senses reel.”
Sally rose. “We'd better have the next reel in the dining saloon,” she suggested. “Dad hates people to be late.”
Bill found he was to sit on Sally's right, and the discovery cheered him, particularly as Henry Frost was on the other side of her—an arrangement that couldn't be improved upon. His spirits rose rapidly. A moment before plunged in the depths of despair, he had emerged triumphant and all was right with the world. What a lot of difference somebody's shirt had made!
During the first course Jim Batchelor suggested that Mikklesen tell something of his experiences in the Orient, and from that point on the dinner was a monologue. But like most Englishmen of his class, Mikklesen was a charming talker and well worth attention. He spoke of his adventures as subeditor of an English newspaper in Shanghai, of the time he had typhoid in the General Hospital in Yokohama, of the fight he got into one gory night at the old Danish hotel where the beach-combers hold forth in that lovely port. He took his hearers into the interior of China on a scientific expedition, thrilled them with a hold-up by bandits, and brought them back in time for an audience with an ambassador or two in Peking. Life as he had known it had been glamorous.
It was not until the coffee that he appeared to run down and the conversation became general. Suddenly there was one of those inexplicable lulls in the gentle buzz of talk, and the voice of Jim Batchelor rang out in converse with Mrs. Keith at his right.
“And I have kept it—all these years. In the big moments of my life I've felt it in my pocket, and it has given me courage to go on. A little silver dollar coined in the year”
“Oh, dear,” Sally laughed, “he's telling her about his lucky piece.”
“Thrilling!” Mrs. Keith said. She smiled encouragingly on the millionaire. “You've got it with you still?”
“I certainly have.” He removed something from his pocket. “My little lucky piece.” He stared at it, his face paled slightly. “This—is not—my dollar,” he said slowly.
A tense silence fell. Sally finally spoke:
“Not your dollar, dad? What do you mean?”
“Just what I say. This is a dollar coined in 1903.” He threw it down on the table and began a search of his pockets. Again the silence. His search was evidently fruitless. “I—I'm very-sorry this has happened,” said Batchelor. “It may seem rather trivial to you, but to me it's almighty important. If—if it's a joke of some sort, I—I don't appreciate it. However, I'll overlook it if the joker will speak at once. In heaven's name”—his voice trembled—“is it a joke?”
He looked eagerly into each face about the table. No one spoke. Batchelor's eyes hardened.
“Then there's some more sinister motive back of it,” he said.
“Nonsense, Jim!” said Aunt Dora. “You're making a mountain out of nothing.”
“I'm the judge of that,” the millionaire told her, and his voice was like chilled steel. “However”—with an effort he managed to smile—“you're right, in a way. I mustn't spoil the party.”
The tension lessened somewhat, and Mrs. Keith took that moment to show sympathy.
“What a pity!” she said. “Perhaps one of your crew”
“No, Mrs. Keith,” Jim Batchelor said; “my crew has been with me for years. The servants—I'm not so sure. They will all be examined before leaving the yacht. And before we drop the subject, has any one else missed anything?”
Bill Hammond's heart stood still. The shirt! Somebody would speak up regarding the mysterious disappearance of a shirt, and where would that lead? Little beads of perspiration stood on his forehead. But no one said anything. Evidently the owner of the shirt was still ignorant of his loss. Bill breathed again.
“Well, that's that,” said Batchelor. “We'll let the matter drop.”
“One minute!” O'Meara was on his feet. “Before we do that I've got a suggestion to make. Mr. Batchelor here has lost something of value, and until it's found we're all under a cloud. I for one want to be searched, and I guess every honest man here feels the same way.”
“Nonsense!” Batchelor cried. “I won't hear of it!”
“But Mr. O'Meara is right,” said Mikklesen. “I recall a dinner at the British Embassy in Peking two years ago, when the hostess lost a diamond necklace. It was a most distinguished party, but we were taken one by one into an anteroom and gone over with amazing thoroughness.” He, too, stood up. “I also insist,” he said.
“Rot! I wouldn't insult my guests,” Batchelor was still protesting.
“You'll have nothing to do with it, governor,” Julian Hill told him. “We're going through with this for our own satisfaction. If the ladies will wait for us in the saloon”
Reluctantly Aunt Dora, Mrs. Keith and Sally left the room. O'Meara promptly removed his coat and waistcoat.
“Now one of you go over me,” he said, “and I'll do the job for the rest of you.”
Julian Hill stepped forward to oblige. With a none too easy conscience, Bill Hammond also removed coat and waistcoat. That shirt was a none too successful fit—suppose someone recognized it. O'Meara, having been pronounced innocent, went at his work with enthusiasm. Evidently he had been in similar situations before. But the search had no results. Through it Jim Batchelor sat staring at the table as though the matter held no interest for him. O'Meara finished, red-faced and empty-handed.
“Well, if you boys have done with your nonsense,” remarked Batchelor, “we'll join the ladies. And as a favor to me, we won't speak of this again—tonight.”
Aunt Dora was superintending the placing of two tables for bridge in the main saloon. It appeared there was just the right number—with one left over. After she had disposed of the usual impassioned pleas from those desiring to be the one left out, Julian Hill was elected to that position, and shortly disappeared from the room. They cut for partners, and to his horror Bill found himself seated opposite Aunt Dora. She had the air of being the person who invented bridge, and so she had, practically.
Bill dealt. Majestically Aunt Dora took up her hand and glanced through it.
“Count your cards,” she ordered. “That's the first rule. What rules do you play by, Mr. Hammond?”
“Rules?” repeated Bill wanly. “I don't know. I just play.”
“We'll pivot,” said Aunt Dora promptly.
“I'm afraid I don't understand,” said Bill meekly.
“I mean to say, we'll change partners frequently.”
“Oh,” said Bill heartily, “I'm for it.”
The glare she turned on him moved him to look the other way, and his eyes met those of the man he had seen creeping along the corridor just before dinner. He became suddenly thoughtful, so that Aunt Dora's voice suggesting that he bid seemed miles away. However, it came rapidly nearer.