At One-Thirty by Isabel Ostrander (best book series to read .txt) 📖

THE SULTANlC sailed at noon on the ninth, for Plymouth, Cherbourg, and Southampton; the Prinzessin Clotildey at three In the afternoon for the Mediterranean; the Saxonia for Panama, the West Indies, and South America, at four,” Miss Barnes announced, in precise tones, the next morning.

“Humph!” Gaunt remarked. “They know Europe best; but they’d scarcely dare England or France, just yet. The Mediterranean—Algiers— Miss Barnes, please call up the South German Lloyd Line, and get the ticket-agent on the wire. There’s a chance, of course, that they bought their tickets through an agency; but their names would be on the private record, if not on the published passenger-Hst, even if they purchased their tickets at the very last moment, which doesn’t seem likely, from Mrs. Smith’s remarks on the way to the station. If I cannot get a positive description of them, I must wait until the Prinzessin Cloiilde docks here again.”

He was in the habit of thinking aloud to Miss BarneSy who went composedly about her business, and evidenced not the slightest inclination of having heard, or paid arty attention. Now, she put the receiver down upon the desk at his hand.

“There you are, Mr. Gaunt. The ticket-agent is on the wire.”

“I should like to know, please, if a man and his wife sailed on the Prinzessin Clotildey two weeks ago last Wednesday, whose initials were J. A. S.”

“Just a moment, please.”

A pause; and then the same voice came over the wire:

“No, sir.”

“You are sure?”

“Perfectly sure. The sailing-list was small. It’s early yet for the rush to the southern part of Europe, and not a ticket was sold too late to get the name on the published list.”

“Thank you…. Good-by.”

Gaunt proceeded to call up the Blue Star Line, and got the ticket-agent, to whom he put the same question.

This time the answer was a diflFerent one:

“Yes, sir. Judson A. Smiley and wife sailed on the Saxonia^ on the ninth, for Cayenne, French Guiana, first class.”

“Thank you. There are the people I was looking, for I think; but I should like to be sure. Did you, by any chance, sell them their tickets? But, of course, you would scarcely remember. “

“Oh, I remember them all right. Mr. Smiley wrote from New Brunswick, New Jersey, inclosing the money for the tickets in bills, not a check, or money-order. I remember particularly, because he told me to send no reply, that they would call for the tickets the morning of the day the steamer sailed. And they did, too, about noon. An oldish couple, and the man limped. Think they’re your friends?”

“I’m sure of it. Thank you…. Good-by.”

French Guiana! Somewhere, in one of the few remaining non-extradition states of Central America, the couple were hiding themselves with part of the money Smith had managed, somehow, to get his hands on at the time of the failure. Even though Mrs. Smith connived at her husband’s guilt, even though she was a sharer in the profits accruing from his treachery, the detective pitied her.

She had been discontented in her quiet, modest home in America. What was in store for her in her future life among the outcasts of civilization? Their previous intention was plain to him. They had fancied themselves safe for seven years, while the partner, who had been the scapegoat, was in prison. They knew he would not speak, that he expected to share the plunder on his release. Their intention had been to live quietly, in ostentatious poverty, within easy reach of the law, until all suspicion that they had received any share of the lost seventeen hundred thousand dollars was past and the whole aflFair forgotten. Then they had meant to go quietly to Europe, and live out the remainder t)f their lives in peace and plenty.

But the unexpected and premature pardon of Hitchcock had upset their well-planned scheme, and they had beert forced to flee the country. Hitchcock himself had served his time. He had nothing more to fear from the world, and, when he found that he had been swindled out of his share of the proceeds of the fraudulent transaction, he would inevitably have revenged himself upon his partner, who had been equally guilty, by betraying him.

The detective was beginning to see to the end of this branch of his investigation. That the Smiths had in their possession only a part of the money never accounted for, he felt convinced, and he felt equally sure that he knew who it was that had held the greater portion within his grasp.

Gaunt reached his rooms in New York, late in the afternoon, and proceeded at once to call up the district attorney, who was, fortunately, an old friend and confrere of his.

“I say, I want to know something. My secretary read an article in the newspaper the other day, which rather interested me. I am on a private case, which goes back indirectly to that Smith, Hitchcock V. Gregory crash, in Wall Street, four years ago. I hear that Hitchcock was pardoned, last week, and is now at liberty.”

“Not pardoned, Gaunt, paroled.”

“Oh, then of course, you know where he is?”

“Oh, it’s no secret. Only, I suppose the poor devil wouldn’t want the papers to find out his whereabouts just yet, and send a horde of reporters to worry him. In anticipation of his release, his son brought a small place down near Hempstead, Long Island, and took his father there at once.!’

“And he is there now?” Gaunt asked, and smiled rather grimly at the district attorney’s reply.

“Of course. He hasn’t left there since he was released, a week ago. I guess he is only too glad of a chance to hide for awhile, and rest until he can get his nerve back.”

“All right. Thanks, old man…. Good-by.”

He turned to Miss Bums.

“Will you please call up information, and ask if Rupert Hitchcock, Junior, has a telephone, and, if so, put me on the wire.”

There was a few minutes’ pause, and then Miss Barnes announced:

“Central says they have a telephone; but they don’t answer.”

“Ask her to keep ringing them, please.”

A long twenty minutes ensued, and still there was no reply. At last, Miss Barnes said:

“Central says they don’t want to answer—that they have taken the receiver ofF the hook and left the ‘phone open.”

Gaunt sighed. He had had enough of motoring for that day, and his sightless eyes pained from the sting of the wind, mild as it had been; but there was no help for it.

“Please telephone for Saunders; I’ll have to use him again.”

Once more they proceeded down-town, at a fast clip, got another ferry—this time to Long Island—and were soon speeding out on the turnpike. The early autumn darkness had long since fallen, and it was with some difficulty, and after several inquiries, that they found the house which they sought—a modest dwelling, set well back from the street, behind a clump of screening elms.

Saunders guided the detective up the steps, and, after repeated and insistent ringing at the bell, the door was at length opened an inch or two, and a man’s voice—a young voice—asked cautiously:

“What is it you wish?”

“I am Mr. Gaunt—Damon Gaunt. If I am right in thinking that I am speaking to the son of Rupert Hitchcock, please tell him that I should like to see him, for a moment.”

“I am sorry—that will be impossible—”

And the door began to close. Gaunt heard it creaky and put his hand against the casing.

“I am absolutely not connected with the newspapers, or police department. I have news for your father, which I am sure will be of great interest to him, and I may be able to save him much notoriety and some trouble.”

There was a pause, and then the voice said:

“Wait just a moment, please.”

This time Gaunt allowed the other to close the door very gently, and, after a few minutes, returning steps were heard, and the door opened a little farther.

“Who is that with you, please, Mr. Gaunt?”

“My chauffeur…. Saunders, go back and wait in the car.”

Saunders retreated, and the young man opened the door wide.

“Come in,” he said. “You see, we accept your word that you are not connected with the press. From the police, my father has nothing to fear.”

Gaunt hesitated and smiled a little, as he said, simply:

“You will have to guide me, Mr. Hitchcock. I am blind.”

“Ah! I did not know, of course. You will pardon me. Come this way.—He led him across a narrow hall, and into a room in which an open wood fire was burning. Gaunt could hear its cheery crackle, and feel the welcome warmth; for, with nightfall, the weather had sharpened, and the drive out had been an uncomfortably cold one.

Young Mr. Hitchcock pulled a soft leather chair within the detective’s reach, saying:

“My father will be with you in a moment.” He left the room, and Gaunt seated himself, and held out his hands to the blaze before him. The coming interview might prove to be an extremely diflGicult one, should the ex-financier prove reticent; but the detective thought