much impressed by the low tone and the manner of the detective, but said nothing.
‘They tell me Hastings was in town this morning, at your laboratory,’ went on Burke. ‘Too bad he didn’t take the time to call up his office. But he knows something now—that is, if he has that note I left for him.’
‘Why, what is that?’ chorused both Craig and I.
Just then Hastings himself almost ran into the room as if his life depended on finding us.
As he saw us he darted over to our corner.
‘You are Mr Burke, of the Secret Service?’ he queried as Burke nodded. ‘Kennedy, the safe in the office of Maddox Munitions in New York was robbed late last night or early this morning and the model of the telautomaton is stolen!’
WE could only stare from Burke to Hastings, startled at the magnitude of the affair as it developed so rapidly.
For a moment Hastings was at a loss, then darted quickly into a telephone-booth to call up his office on long distance for confirmation of the news.
As we waited I happened to glance out into the lobby. At the far end, in an angle, to my surprise I saw Shelby and Paquita. Evidently she had hovered about, waiting for a chance to find him alone, and had at last succeeded.
Already Kennedy and Burke had seen them.
Paquita was talking earnestly. Of course, we could not overhear what was said, and they were so placed that even if we moved closer to them they would be likely to see us. Still, from our corner we could observe without being observed.
It seemed as if Paquita were making a desperate effort to attract Shelby, while, on his part, it was quite evident that he was endeavouring to get away.
Paquita was indeed a fascinating figure. From what I had already observed, a score of the young fellows about the Harbour House would have given their eyes to have been in Shelby’s place. Why was he seeking so to avoid her? Was it that he did not dare to trust himself with the little dancer? Or was there some hold that she had over him which he feared?
The interview had not proceeded long when Shelby deliberately seemed to excuse himself and walked away. Paquita looked after him as he hurried off, and I would have given much to have been close enough to observe her expression. Was it one of fury, of a woman scorned? At any rate, I would have wagered that it boded no good for Shelby.
I turned to say something to Kennedy and found that he was looking in another direction. We were not the only observers. From a window outside on the porch the sallow-faced man was also watching. As Shelby walked away the man seemed to be very angry. Was it the anger of jealousy because Paquita was with Shelby or was it anger because Shelby had repulsed her advances? Who was the fellow and why was he so interested in the little dancer and the young millionaire?
Hastings rejoined us from the telephone-booth, his face almost pale.
‘It’s a fact,’ he groaned. ‘They have been trying to reach me all day, but could not. The secret of the telautomaton stolen—the secret that is too terrible to be in the hands of anyone except the Government. How did you hear of it?’ he asked Burke.
Burke answered slowly, watching the expression on Hastings’s face. ‘When the cashier of the company arrived at the office this morning he found the safe had been rifled. It seems an almost incomprehensible thing—as you will understand when you see it for yourself. The cashier telephoned at once to the Secret Service in the Custom-House, and I jumped out on the case. You did not go to your own office. I did a little hasty deduction—guessed that you might have gone to see Kennedy. At any rate I wanted to see him myself.’
Kennedy interrupted long enough to tell about the revolver-shot and the attack on Hastings at our very door.
‘Whew!’ exclaimed Burke, ‘just missed you. Well,’ he added, with a dry sort of humour, ‘I missed you, too, and decided to come out here on the train. Kennedy, you must go back to town with me and look at that safe. How anybody could get into it is a mystery beyond me. But the telautomaton is gone. My orders are simple—get it back!’
For a moment neither Kennedy nor Hastings spoke. It was most peculiar—the plans gone in Westport, the model gone in New York.
‘Who could have stolen the model?’ I asked finally. ‘Have you any theory, Burke?’
‘A theory, yes,’ he replied slowly, ‘but no facts to back it. I suppose you know that the war has driven out some of the most clever and astute crooks that Paris, Vienna, London, and other capitals ever produced. The fact is that we are at present in the hands of the largest collection of high-grade foreign criminals that has ever visited this country. I think it is safe to say that at present there are more foreign criminals of high degree in New York and at the fashionable summer resorts than could be found in all the capitals of Europe combined. They have evaded military service because at heart they are cowards and hate work. War is hard work. Then, there is little chance of plying their trade, for their life is the gay life of the cafés and boulevards. Besides, America is the only part of the world where prosperity is reigning. So they are here, preying on American wealth. Suppose someone—some foreign agent—wanted the telautomaton. There are plenty of tools he could use for his purpose in obtaining it.’
The countenance of the sallow-faced man recurred to me. It was an alarming possibility that Burke’s speculation raised. Were we really not involved in a pure murder case, but in the intricacies of the machinations of some unknown power?
Burke looked at his watch, then again at Kennedy. ‘Really, I think you ought to go back to town,’ he reiterated, ‘and take the case up there.’
‘And leave these people all here to do as they please, cover up what they will?’ objected Hastings, who had tried to prevent just that sort of thing by bringing Kennedy out post-haste.
‘My men are perfectly competent to watch anything that goes on at Westport,’ returned Burke. ‘I have them posted all about and I’m digging up some good stuff. Already I know just what happened the night before the conference. That cabaret dancer, Paquita, motored out here and arrived about the time the Sybarite cast anchor. She met Shelby Maddox at the Casino and they had a gay supper party. But it ended early. She knew that Marshall Maddox was coming the next day. I know he had known her in the city. As to Shelby we don’t know yet. The meeting may have been chance or it may have been prearranged.’
I recalled not only the little incident we had just seen, but the glance of jealousy Paquita had given Shelby when she saw him with Winifred. What did it mean? Had Shelby Maddox been using Paquita against his brother, and now was he trying to cast her off? Or was Burke’s theory correct? Was she a member of a clever band of super-criminals, playing one brother against the other for some ulterior end? Was the jealousy feigned or was it real, after all?
‘What I am endeavouring to do now,’ went on Burke, ‘is to trace the doings of Paquita the night of the murder. I cannot find out whether she came out at the invitation of Marshall Maddox or not. Perhaps it was Shelby. I don’t know. If it was Marshall, what about his former wife? Did he suppose that she would not be here? Or didn’t he care?’
