The Saturday Evening Post/The Dollar Chasers/Chapter 6
VI
BUT Bill Hammond's optimistic prediction failed to come true. He did not get the facts from Tatu. After fifteen minutes of the third degree, the little Jap still stood as firm as Gibraltar—or maybe firmer. Bill cajoled, pleaded, threatened. Tatu looked at him with all the calm mystery of the Orient in his eyes, and suavely protested that he had forgotten just where he acquired that shirt. The luncheon bugle came as a merciful interruption.
“All right, go along,” said Bill. His efforts had wilted him. “But I'm not through with you, my lad.”
“Yes-s, thank you,” answered Tatu, and had the audacity to smile as he went out.
Near the door of the dining saloon Sally was eagerly waiting.
“Well?” she asked.
“Salute your hero,” said Bill. “He's just been licked by a Jap.”
“Tatu wouldn't tell you?”
“Adamant, that boy. He's never heard the word, but he can act it out.”
“Why not set Father on him?”
“No,” protested Bill, “let's keep Father out of it. I've got to pull this off alone. You know why.”
“But what are you going to do?”
“Just what a regular detective would do,” he told her. “Wait for a lucky break.”
“Is that the way they work?” she asked, unbelieving. She was all for action—her father's daughter.
“It certainly is,” said Bill. “I read an interview once with a great French detective. I didn't pay much attention to it at the time, as I didn't know then that I was going into the business. But I remember one thing—he said that the detective's chief ally was luck.”
“But suppose you're not lucky?”
“Something that happened last night,” smiled Bill, “proved I'm the luckiest man in the world.”
Jim Batchelor came up.
“What's doing?” he whispered hoarsely.
“I'm working.” Bill tried to make it sound businesslike.
“Results—that's what we want,” Batchelor reminded him.
“You bet we do,” said Bill, and they went in to lunch.
At the table there was little of the cheery animation of the night before. The guests ate in preoccupied silence, and Jim Batchelor's intimation that they might wander about the Pacific for several days added nothing to the general gayety.
After lunch, Bill Hammond saw Mikklesen enter the smoking-room, and followed. He sat down opposite the Englishman and offered him a cigar.
Mikklesen took it suspiciously and lighted it in the same spirit. Although it was a perfectly good cigar, his subsequent expression seemed to indicate that his worst fears were realized.
“If you've no objection,” Bill said, “we might as well get that interview over with.”
“As you wish,” Mikklesen agreed. “Where's your notebook?”
“My what? Say, listen, it's only in plays that reporters carry those things.”
“But I shouldn't care to be misquoted,” the Englishman objected.
“Not a chance. I've got a mind like a phonograph record.”
“Ah—er—what shall I talk about?” Mikklesen asked.
“Give me something snappy,” Bill suggested. “Something they can hang a headline on.”
“Oh, but that's hardly my style. Very bad taste, sensationalism. We have practically none of it at home. If you don't mind, I'd like to talk about the Chinese. A really admirable people, old chap.”
“You think so?” asked Bill Hammond, without enthusiasm.
“I know it. I had charge of a copper mine in one of the northern provinces, and I found the Chinaman absolutely reliable. If they promised a thing, they did it.”
“I heard different,” Bill said. “But go on, this is your story.”
Mikklesen told his story. Beyond question he had the gift of speech, and Bill Hammond reflected as he listened that he was getting something. By an adroit question now and then, he led the talker on. Some ten minutes had passed, when suddenly the second officer of the France sea, who had charge of the yacht's wireless, entered.
“Mr. Hammond,” he said, “a message for you.”
“Oh, thanks,” said Bill. The officer handed it over and departed. “Pardon me just a second.”
“Certainly,” agreed Mikklesen.
Bill opened the folded paper and read what the second officer had set down. As he read, he smiled happily to himself. The message was from Simon Porter.
“Never mind interview,” Simon wirelessed. “Have investigated by cable. A little black sheep who's gone astray. Kicked out of the English colony in Yokohama because they didn't like his shirts.”
His shirts! Oh, lady luck!
“Anything important?” inquired Mikklesen.
“Not at all,” said Bill. “Go on, please. You were saying”
Mikklesen went on, but Bill no longer listened. The interview was cold, but the quest of the dollar was warming up. His shirts! They didn't like his shirts. Well, that might mean much or little; but Mikklesen's shirts certainly must be looked into.
“I fancy that's about all I can give you,” said the Englishman finally.
“That's plenty,” Bill answered heartily. He stood up. “You know, considering how fond you are of the Orient, I'm surprised you came away.”
Mikklesen regarded him with a sudden interest.
“Pater's getting old,” he explained. “Cabled me to come home. Couldn't very well refuse—family ties and all that. But sooner or later I shall return to the East.”
“I'm sure you will,” said Bill. “Thanks ever so much.”
Eagerly he hurried below. Things were certainly looking brighter. Midway down the passageway he encountered Tatu.
“I want you,” he cried, and seizing the Jap by the arm escorted him energetically into the cabin.
“What now, please?” inquired Tatu.
Bill pointed an accusing finger.
“That was Mikklesen's shirt,” he announced.
“Somebody tell,” said Tatu, with obvious relief.
“Yes, somebody's told. That lets you out. Now come across with the whole story.”
“Nothing to say,” Tatu replied. “I see he have two shirt. You have no shirt. I hear him talk unkind remarks about Japanese people. I take a shirt. Why not?”
“It was a noble impulse. But why the dickens wouldn't you tell me this before?”
“Last night, maybe twelve o'clock, Mr. Mikklesen ring,” Tatu explained. “Tell me I take shirt, give to you. I say no, indeed. He say very well, but will give me fifty dollar I not tell to you whose shirt you have. I accept with pleasure.” His face clouded. “Japanese boy lose fifty dollar,” he added.
“Has he given it to you?”
“Give one dollar for a beginning. Very small beginning.”
Bill's eyes narrowed.
“Let me see the dollar,” he demanded. Tatu handed over a crisp new greenback. “You're sure this is the one?”
“Yes-s. Only dollar in pocket,” said the Jap.
Bill took out a silver dollar, glanced at it and handed it to Tatu.
“I'll trade with you, if you don't mind. Now listen, my lad! From now on you and I are friends.”
“Yes-s. Very nice,” agreed Tatu.
“You stick to me. I'm helping Mr. Batchelor—he's asked me to. No more secrets with Mikklesen. Otherwise trouble for you—much trouble.”
“I know.”
“The first thing in order is an examination of Mikklesen's one remaining shirt.”
“Can't do,” Tatu said. “Shirt locked up.”
“I suppose so,” Bill replied. “However, I'm going to take a look. Go and see if there's any one in Mikklesen's cabin.”
Tatu departed through the bath. In a second he was back.
“Empty,” he announced.
“Fine,” said Bill. He stationed Tatu in the corridor with orders to signal if the Englishman appeared. Then, with the bath offering a way of escape, he examined the room with care. But Mikklesen had left no dress shirt where eager hands could find it. Undoubtedly it was in the one piece of luggage that was securely locked—a huge, battered bag that had a London lock.
“Nothing doing,” said Bill finally. He returned to his own cabin, followed by Tatu.
“You want bag open?” inquired Tatu.
“It would be a good idea,” Bill admitted.
“Maybe dollar inside,” suggested the boy.
“I don't know. It might be.”
“Pretty strong lock,” mused Tatu.
“Oh, so you noticed that?” Bill stared at the impassive face. “Well,” he continued, thinking aloud, “my chance will come. It's bound to. Mikklesen's got to wear that shirt tonight, and perhaps Oh, good lord!”
“Yes-s,” said Tatu.
“Look here, my boy, what do I wear tonight? I'm worse off than I was last night. I haven't even got any studs.”
“Excuse, please. Hear bell ringing,” lied Tatu, and departed in great haste.
Bill Hammond sat down on his berth to consider developments. So it was Mikklesen's shirt he had worn so jauntily the evening before. Then it must have been Mikklesen who came in the night to reclaim his property. Knowing himself closely pursued, he had not dared turn into his own cabin, once he reached the corridor, and for the same reason he had thrown the shirt overboard. But why all this fuss about a dress shirt? And how, Bill asked himself, was it connected with Jim Batchelor's dollar, as he was sure now it must be. Well, detectives certainly earned their pay.
Bill left the cabin and returned to the upper deck. The Francesca appeared to be deserted.
He dropped into a chair that stood invitingly in a shady spot and began to consider his problem. Must get into that bag of Mikklesen's. But how?
Heavy footsteps sounded on the deck and O'Meara passed by. He did not speak or turn his head. He appeared worried. Bill Hammond began to worry too. Was he wasting time on a false trail? O'Meara, Julian Hill, Mrs. Keith—all possibilities. Ought to be looking them up a bit too.
But no. For the present he would follow that shirt—see where it led. He'd get into Mikklesen's bag. How would a regular detective go about it? Break open the lock perhaps? No, too crude. Find out where Mikklesen kept his keys? Much better. Find out—how?
It was a rather drowsy afternoon, and a full twenty minutes passed before Bill had an idea. He rose at once to try it out. When he reached the door of the smoking-room Mikklesen was just leaving.
“Hello,” Bill said. “I've been thinking about that story of ours. We really need a few photographs to dress it up.”
“Oh, no, old chap,” said Mikklesen hastily. “I shouldn't care for that at all.”
“I don't mean pictures of you,” Bill explained. “Just some snapshots taken in the Orient. You surely have some of those.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I have,” admitted Mikklesen. “I'll give them to you later.”
“But if you don't mind”—Bill summoned his most winning smile—“I'm at work on the story now.”
For a moment Mikklesen stood regarding him.
“Oh, very well,” he said, “come along.”
He led the way below and Bill followed close, determined to miss nothing now. When they reached the Englishman's cabin Mikklesen took a bunch of keys from his pocket. Bill Hammond tried not to look too interested.
“I keep my bag locked,” Mikklesen explained. “Things disappearing right and left, you know.”
“It's the only safe thing to do,” Bill agreed.
The Englishman bent over his bag.
“Look there!” he cried.
Bill looked. The lock on Mikklesen's bag had been smashed to bits.
“How beastly annoying!” The Englishman's face was crimson with anger. “This is too much, really it is. I understood I was to go on a cruise with gentlefolk, not with a band of thieves.” He was hurriedly investigating the contents of the bag.
“Anything missing?” Bill asked.
“There doesn't appear to be,” said Mikklesen, cooling off a bit. “But whether there is or not, I shall certainly complain to our host.” He took out an envelope and glanced into it. “The photos, old chap. Pick out what you want and return me the rest, if you will.”
“Surely,” Bill agreed. He waited hopefully. “If you'd like me to stay here and keep an eye on things while you look up Mr. Batchelor”
Mikklesen stared at him. Did he imagine it, or was that the ghost of a smile about the Englishman's lips?
“Thank you so much,” he said. “But I shall ask Mr. Batchelor to come to me here. I shan't leave my cabin again this afternoon—if you're interested.”
If you're interested! Now what did he mean by that? Did he know that Bill was on to him, or was it a shot in the dark?
“Oh—er—of course ” said Bill lamely, and departed.
Back in his own room, Bill tried to think things out. What did “if you're interested” mean? And who had broken the lock on that bag? Evidently Mikklesen wasn't the only shady character aboard.
He took out a book and settled down in his berth to read, his ear attuned to eventualities in the next cabin. Would Mikklesen keep his word and remain on guard by his mysterious shirt? An hour passed, and it began to appear that such was the Englishman's intention.
It was, as has been noted, a drowsy afternoon. Bill dropped his book and lay back on the pillow. Ah, this was the life! No harsh call from his city editor or from Simon Porter sending him forth for a bit of leg work on the hard pavements. No feverish hurry to make the last edition. Nothing but the soft swish of water, the thump of the engines—sounds that suggested slumber. Bill accepted the suggestion.
He was awakened some time later by a sharp knock on his door. Leaping up, he opened it. A servant stood outside.
“Mr. Hammond, you're wanted above, sir.”
Wanted! What now? Some new development in the matter of the dollar, no doubt. He hastily brushed his hair and went to the upper deck. At the top of the companionway he encountered Aunt Dora, looking extremely competent.
“Ah, Mr. Hammond,” she said, “I hope I haven't disturbed you. We've a table for bridge and we lack a fourth.”
Trapped! Bill looked wildly to the right and left.
“I—I thought it was something important,” he stammered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean—you don't want me. I'm a terrible player. You have reason to know.”
“Practice makes perfect. I'll give you a few pointers.”
“It's awfully good of you, but—I'm very busy and—my eyes aren't in very good shape.”
“I noticed your failing eyesight,” she answered, “last night when you trumped my ace of spades. However, we'll put the table in a strong light. Come along.”
“I—I'll be very happy to,” said Bill, surrendering.
Aunt Dora didn't care whether he was happy or not. She had him. He wasn't her ideal bridge player, but he was all she could get. And as Bill followed her into the main saloon he prayed to see Sally there.
But he didn't. Julian Hill and Henry Frost sat glumly at a table, their manner that of captive slaves on Cæsar's chariot wheels. Aunt Dora sat down and the big game was on. It proved a long and painful session. At the close of each hand Aunt Dora halted the proceedings while she delved into the immediate past, pointing out to one and all the error of their ways. Bill got a lot of undesirable publicity out of these little talks.
The dinner hour was not far away when Sally came in and released him. When they left the saloon Aunt Dora was going strong. Mr. William Hammond, it seemed, had done something for which he should have been drawn and quartered.
“She'll never forgive me,” said Bill. “I got her signals mixed.”
“I'm afraid she's rather tiresome at times,” Sally smiled.
“Well, she will insist on crossing her bridge after she's got well over it. There are people like that.”
“You were good to play, Bill,” Sally said.
“Yes, but I didn't play so good, and I wasted a lot of time when I should have been sleuthing.”
“Has anything happened?” she inquired.
“I should say it has. It was a big afternoon up to the moment I met your aunt.” He told her of Simon's message and the accident to Mikklesen's bag. “Things are moving,” he added.
“They seem to be,” she admitted. “What are you going to do now?”
“Ah—er—something very bright, you may be sure. I'm keen eyed and alert. My brain is hitting on all twelve.”
“Yes, but what are you going to do?”
“My dear, don't be so literal. Can it be you don't trust me?”
“Oh, I know you're simply wonderful. Only”
“Never mind the only. We're on the verge of big things. Watch and wait!”
His manner was confident, but by the time he had reached his cabin his confidence had begun to wane. He stood for a moment wondering just what his preparations for dinner were to be. No evening clothes tonight, that was certain. He would have to make some sort of apology to Jim Batchelor and let it go at that. At any rate, he had appeared properly clad the night before, and the other guests could draw their own conclusions regarding his appearance tonight.
He tried the door into the bath—locked of course. He rattled and called—there was no sound within. Have to go and open the door again. As he paused outside Mikklesen's cabin something told him not to knock. He entered very quietly.
The cabin was empty and in semi-darkness. He moved farther into the room—and his heart stood still. A white blur in the dusk—Mikklesen's dress shirt! It was lying on the settee under the porthole, within easy reach. He put his hand down and touched it, and as he did so a faint sound in the bath startled him. He drew his hand back from the shirt, but in that brief second he had made an interesting discovery. Mikklesen appeared in the bathroom door.
“Good lord!” he cried. “You gave me a shock! What are you doing here? Confound it all, is there no privacy aboard this yacht?”
“I'm sorry,” said Bill. “I didn't know you were in the bath, and I was coming through to unlock it. I thought you'd gone off and left it that way—it wouldn't be the first time, you know.”
“Well, I happen to be using it,” said Mikklesen testily, and the fact that half his face was lathered and he carried a razor seemed to bear him out. “In the future, I'll thank you to knock before entering my cabin.”
Bill considered. He had Mikklesen where he wanted him, but his sense of the dramatic told him to bide his time. Better an unmasking in Jim Batchelor's presence than a scene with only two people in a half-dark cabin.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Sorry I disturbed you.”
“It's rather upsetting,” complained Mikklesen. “First my bag broken into, and then you popping up like a ghost.” He followed Bill to the door and shut it after him in a manner suggesting extreme annoyance.
Out in the corridor, Bill gave himself up to a moment of unalloyed joy. It was almost too good to be true. Too easy. A bright lad, this Mikklesen; but not too bright for young Mr. Hammond, the peerless detective. For Bill knew where the dollar was now!
He must have a word with Jim Batchelor before he staged his big scene. He tiptoed down the passage and knocked at the millionaire's door. Batchelor called an invitation to enter, and when he did so he was glad to find that Sally also was in the room. She was tying Batchelor's dress tie, for she was a faithful daughter and didn't like Tatu's work as a valet. Her father broke from her ministrations at sight of Bill.
“Something doing?” he inquired, with pathetic eagerness.
“I'll say there is,” replied Mr. Hammond cheerily.
“You've got it?”
“I've got it located—same thing.”
“Not quite.” Batchelor's happy look faded. “However, where is it?”
“That'll be revealed at the proper moment,” Bill told him. “I just dropped in to lay my wires for a little scene after dinner tonight. Sally, I'm glad you're here. After the coffee you're to take your aunt and Mrs. Keith from the dining saloon and leave us men alone.”
“What—and miss the excitement? Not much!”
“Sally, you heard what Mr. Hammond said,” reproved her father. “Obey.”
“But, Dad”
“Sally!”
“Oh, well, if you think Mr. Hammond knows best,” smiled Sally.
“I'm sure he does.”
“I'm sorry, Sally,” Bill said. “But the subsequent events will be such that I don't think it the place for the so-called weaker sex. Mr. Batchelor, I want you to back me up from that point on. Anything I say—and anything I propose to do.”
“Of course. But you might give me a little hint”
“I will, sir.” He handed over Simon Porter's wireless message. “Read that, please.”
Batchelor read.
“Who's he talking about? Not—Mikklesen!”
“Yes, sir, Mikklesen.”
“Good lord! I never thought of him. What about his shirts?”
“You wouldn't believe if I told you, sir. I'll show you after dinner.”
“Fine!” Batchelor's spirits rose. “I'll be mighty glad to get this thing solved tonight. The captain's just told me there's something wrong with the engines, and we're circling back to Monterey.” He submitted while Sally put the finishing touch on his tie. “By the way, Mikklesen called me into his stateroom this afternoon and put up a terrible howl because his bag had been broken into. I was very sympathetic, I didn't tell him the captain was the guilty party.”
“Oh, the captain broke that lock.”
“Yes; pretty crude work. He swore he could pick it open with a jack-knife, but his hand slipped and he ended by smashing it. I didn't approve of his going quite that far.”
“Did he find anything?” asked Bill.
“Nothing. He went over the thing carefully—so he claims.”
“He didn't have the combination,” smiled Bill. “By the way, sir, I shan't be able to dress for dinner tonight. I'll come as a plain-clothes man, if you don't mind.”
“Come in your pajamas if you want to,” said Batchelor. “Only get me that dollar.”
“I'll get it,” Bill assured him. As he left the cabin he smiled triumphantly at Sally and Sally smiled back.
The conquering hero—that was how he felt.