The Dollar Chasers/Chapter 5

ILL HAMMOND was awakened next morning by the noise of Mikklesen singing in his bath. The Englishman had a pretty fair voice, through which at the moment rang a note of triumph natural to one who was securely locked in and had the plumbing all to himself.

The splash of water served as a merry accompaniment.

“The same old story,” Bill muttered, “Britannia rules the waves.” He looked at his watch—8:30—high time to be up and doing.



If he knew Mikklesen, however, it would do him no good to hurry. He lay where he was, watching the fresh salt breeze flutter the curtain at his porthole. Outside was a clean blue world, an empty world. Restful, this cruising on one's yacht.

Something pleasant had happened—ah, yes, Sally. She loved him. Other things had happened, not so pleasant. That silly little dollar he had sworn to find. Might be more of a job than it had looked last night in the moonlight with Sally by his side. Somebody had it; somebody who knew only too well its value and was guarding it close against the time when it could be traded in for a goodly supply of its little playmates. Somebody—but who?

He thought of Henry Frost, with his foolish story of a collar shortage. He thought of O'Meara, falsifying with the ease that comes from long practice, on the quiet deck at half-past one in the morning. He thought of the man who had invaded his stateroom, fleeing with that dress shirt in his arms. But that was too absurd—he must have dreamed it.

He rose hastily and searched his cabin. No dress shirt there—only the violent pink, purple and green. He had not dreamed it then. Uncle George's studs were floating far, journeying to some romantic port. A South Sea Islander, no doubt, would wear them next—in his ears, or maybe through his nose. What would Aunt Ella say?

Aunt Ella's reactions, however, were unimportant just now. He had agreed to assume the role of detective and his course was clear. He must discover the owner of that disappearing shirt.

He rang for Tatu and, while he waited, rattled at the door leading to the bath. Not that he expected to gain anything by it, but it relieved his feelings.

Tatu entered, minus his accustomed smile. The boy was worried; there could be no mistake about that.

“Very much trouble today,” he announced. “Dollar gone. All Japanese boys catch hell. You want something, please?”

“How about taking back that shirt?” asked Bill, looking at him keenly.

“Yes-s,” said Tatu. All expression left his face.

“Are you ready to take it back?”

“Yes-s,” said Tatu.

“Well, you can't. It was stolen from me in the night.”

“Yes-s,” said Tatu.

No surprise; no interest even. Did Tatu know all about the shirt, or was this just his Oriental stoicism going full tilt? Bill stared at him, and Tatu stared back. And the white man felt suddenly hopeless, as though he had just sighted a stone wall dead ahead.

“Look here, Tatu,” he said, “this is very important. I want to know where you got that shirt.”

Tatu looked at the berth, at the bathroom door, through the port-hole, at the ceiling, then back to Bill.

“Forget,” he said.

“What? Say, don't try that on me!” Bill was annoyed. “Now we'll start all over again. Where did you get the shirt?”

“Forget,” said Tatu.

A wonderful little people, the Japanese. Bill Hammond managed to control himself.

“You told me a minute ago you were ready to return it. How could you return it if you don't know where you got it?”

“Forget,” said Tatu.

East is East, and West is West. They stood facing each other, the white man glaring, the Jap merely staring. Bill Hammond turned away. Never get anywhere by losing his temper. Patience, amiability might do the trick. Try them in a minute.

“Morning very nice,” said Tatu. “Bathroom door lock? Too bad.”

“All right, Tatu,” said Bill. “You and I won't quarrel. You helped me out of a tight place last night and I appreciate it.”

“Most welcome,” Tatu assured him, busily brushing Bill's dinner coat.

An idea flashed into Bill's mind.

“I tell you, that fix I was in was no joke. And I understand I wasn't the only one in trouble. I hear that Mr. Frost came aboard with no extra collars.” He paused. Tatu brushed industriously. “Yes, sir, I hear that when he came to dress he didn't have any more collars than a bathing suit.”

Tatu laid down the coat.

“Mr. Frost have plenty collar,” he said.

“Oh, he did?” Bill sought to appear casual. “I guess I didn't get it straight then. Well supplied with collars, was he?”

“Very big box. Maybe ten. Maybe twelve. Plenty.”

“You don't tell me!”

“I lay him out. I know.”

Bill turned away lest his face betray him. Here was news! Henry Frost's story disproved already. It certainly began to look as though this Hammond boy was a born detective.

The ownership of the shirt was of no importance now.

“The morning is O.K., Tatu,” he remarked, staring out the port-hole. “I'll back up all you said about it. When do we get to Monterey?”

“Maybe not go to Monterey,” said Tatu. “Anything else, please?”

“Not go to Monterey? What are you talking about?”

“Things very bad this nice morning,” answered Tatu. “Hear bell ringing. Yes-s. Thank you.” And he bowed out.

Bill turned again to the bathroom, silent now. He rattled the knob, called, but there was no answer. Donning dressing-gown and slippers he stepped out into the corridor, warm with honest anger. He knocked at Mikklesen's door.

The Englishman opened it, smiling sweetly.

“Ah, good morning,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

Bill was proud of himself. A grand thing, self-control.

“I believe,” he said, “that you and I are supposed to share that bathroom fifty-fifty.”

“Certainly, old chap,” agreed Mikklesen. “Any time you feel inclined.”

The struggle this time was a bit more difficult, but again Bill won.

“Then will you please unlock the door?” he said through his teeth.

“Oh, I'm so sorry. Frightfully careless of me. Just a moment.” And Mikklesen closed his door in Bill's face.

The reporter reëntered his cabin and managed to spring into the bath before Mikklesen had regained his own quarters.

“I'd like to see you today sometime,” he said to the Englishman.

“Really? I fancy we'll run into each other. Bound to on a yacht. I mean to say, rather close quarters.”

“You never spoke a truer word. You know, I'm supposed to get an interview from you—for my paper.”

“Fancy! You're a pressman then?”

“I work on a newspaper, if that's what you mean.”

“Not really? It wouldn't be done in England, you know.”

“What wouldn't be done?”

“I mean to say, inviting a pressman as a guest. How extraordinarily—confusing!”

“Well, I'll give you time to get a grip on yourself before we start the interview,” Bill answered. “And now, if you don't mind, even a pressman prefers to bathe in private.”

“Oh, I'm going,” said Mikklesen haughtily.

“It's a great idea,” said Bill, and turned the lock on him.

“Lovely lad,” he muttered; “so frank and open.”

But his resentment was short-lived, and by the time he had finished shaving he had decided that maybe he wouldn't exterminate Mikklesen, after all. Perhaps the fellow served some useful purpose. Who could say? He whistled cheerfully as he dressed, though yesterday's shirt was nothing to whistle about. However, he had it on good authority that clothes don't make the man, and he sincerely trusted that all aboard had heard that one.

In the dining saloon he found Mrs. Keith and O'Meara breakfasting together. They appeared to be on excellent terms, and not particularly pleased at sight of Mr. Hammond's shining morning face.

“Good morning,” said the reporter. “We seem to be rather late.”

“Frightfully,” admitted Mrs. Keith.

“Natural result of staying up half the night,” went on Bill. “Late hours make late breakfasts, eh, O'Meara?”

“Was Mr. O'Meara up late?” asked the woman.

“I ran into him on deck at one-thirty this morning,” smiled Bill.

“Yes, and it's lucky you did,” growled the lawyer. He turned to Mrs. Keith. “This kid had a funny dream about seeing somebody in his stateroom,” he explained. “I had a terrible time quieting him and getting him back to bed.”

Mrs. Keith smiled sweetly on Bill.

“So you have queer dreams,” she cooed. “How thrilling! You must tell me all about them. By the way, I hope you play golf. I'm looking for some one to take me round the Del Monte links this morning.”

“Look no further,” Bill said. He was face to face with the Californian's big ordeal—the eating of a California grapefruit.

“Oh, that's awfully good of you,” Mrs. Keith smiled.

“I mean,” Bill added hastily, “you're not going to Monterey.”

“What's that?” O'Meara cried. “Where are we going?”

“Don't ask me,” Bill answered. “All I know is, we'd have been at Monterey long ago if that had been our destination.”

“But—I thought it was all settled,” O'Meara objected.

Julian Hill came in. He was fresh as the morning in linen so spotless Bill Hammond began to wonder where his stateroom was. O'Meara at once applied to him for information.

“It's quite true,” said Hill. “We're not bound for Monterey—or any other port. We're just cruising.”

“Just cruising?” O'Meara repeated.

“Just wandering about the ocean,” Hill went on, “playing for time.”

“I don't get you,” the politician said.

Hill smiled.

“You know Jim Batchelor as well as I do. He's lost something—something of great importance—to him. And he's not the sort of man to land his servants and crew—and his guests—until he's been over each and every one with a vacuum cleaner. Yes,” added Mr. Hill, looking hard at O'Meara, “I'd advise the man who has that dollar to hand it over. Otherwise we may not get back to town this year.”

O'Meara stood up.

“It's an outrage!” he cried. “Oh, of course I know how Batchelor feels. But this isn't fair to those of us who happen not to be—thieves.” And he in turn looked hard at Julian Hill. “I've got to be back in town by Monday morning,” he added, and turned away.

“It's all very exciting, at any rate,” purred Mrs. Keith. She, too, rose, and they went out together.

“It begins to look as though there might be an opening here for a first-class detective,” Bill Hammond ventured.

“Not at all,” Hill answered coldly. “Mr. Batchelor is quite competent to manage his own affairs.” The rest was silence.

His breakfast over, Bill went in search of Sally. He found her in the dazzling sunlight on the after deck, and not minding it, hers being that sort of complexion.

“Hello,” he said. “This is a surprise!”

“What are you talking about?” she wanted to know.

“When I'm away from you, I keep thinking how lovely you are. Then I see you, and you're even lovelier than I thought. That's why I say”

“Yes, but Bill, where in the world have you been?”

“Eating breakfast. Did you miss me?”

“I certainly did.”

“Fine!”

“Are we in this detective business together, or are we not? I'm dying to know what you've found out.”

“Oh! Well, I'm here to save your life.”

He told her of his interview with Henry Frost and of his more recent discovery regarding the collars. A puzzled little frown wrinkled her otherwise perfect brow.

“I can't understand it,” she protested. “Henry Frost is father's dearest friend.”

“Always dangerous—dearest friends,” Bill told her. “How is your father, by the way?”

“Worried to death. He claims he didn't sleep a wink, and I believe him. The first night without his lucky piece in thirty-seven years. I told him you were on the job, and all about the wonderful evidence you've run down in the course of newspaper work. I was quite eloquent, really.”

“Good! I hope you'll always be eloquent when discussing me.”

“I always shall, I'm sure.”

“You darling! Go on, expand that idea, please.”

She seemed about to obey, but at that moment Jim Batchelor joined them. He appeared nervous and upset.

“Good morning, Hammond,” he said. “Sally's told me that you're willing to help in this unfortunate affair.”

“Well, if it's not presumptuous of me”

“Nonsense! You've had more experience in this sort of thing than I have, and I'll be glad of your assistance. Besides”—he glanced about him—“it's rather a hard thing to say about one's guests; but—well, I trust you, my boy.” The emphasis on the “you” was marked.

“That's very kind of you, sir. May I ask what steps you have taken in the matter?”



“The servants and the crew have all been questioned. They've been carefully searched, and their quarters too. I may say that I don't suspect any of them. Some time during the day the guests' cabins and luggage will be—er—examined. I'm hospitality itself, but this is a vital business for me and I'll stop at nothing. I've also given orders to the captain not to put in anywhere. There are supplies and coal enough aboard to carry us for five days, and I'll stay out that long if I have to.”

“It's a good idea, sir,” Bill agreed.

“I've also just posted a notice on the board offering a reward of three thousand dollars for the immediate return of my lucky piece, and no questions asked. 'Immediate' is the important word there. The money's yours if you run down the thief.”

“Oh, but I wouldn't take your—money, sir,” Bill said. The emphasis on the “money” was not so marked as he had intended.

“Rot! Why not? I'd be getting off cheaply at that. Three thousand is a small price to pay for the peace of mind the return of that dollar would bring me. My boy, I'll never know a happy moment until I get it back.”

“Bill, why don't you tell him?” Sally suggested.

“Tell me what?” Jim Batchelor asked quickly.

“Bill's unearthed the most amazing things, Dad. You'll never believe”

“Good lord, why keep me in the dark?” He was all excitement. “What's up?”

“If you don't mind, sir,” Bill said, “I'd like just a moment more before I let you in on it. You see”

“A moment? Well, well—if you say so. But only a moment. My boy, don't keep me waiting.”

“I'll make it snappy, sir,” said Bill, and hurried off.

Tatu, making up the berth in Henry Frost's cabin, informed him that the millionaire had slept late and was now at breakfast.

Bill looked round inquiringly.

“How about the collars, Tatu?” he said.

“Him lock collars in suitcase,” Tatu explained. “Put key in pocket.”

Smiling to himself, Bill went to the dining saloon, where his employer sat alone at his breakfast.

“Good morning, sir,” said Bill.

“Good morning. You breakfast late.” Frost's tone implied that it was a bad sign.

“I've had my breakfast, Mr. Frost. I want to speak to you, if you don't mind.”

“And if I do mind?”

“I'd have to speak anyhow,” said Bill firmly. Henry Frost looked up sourly from his grapefruit.

“I'll say this for you: You're the most offensive man on my pay-roll.”

“I'm sorry, sir. I'm only trying to do the right thing.”

“People who are only trying to do the right thing generally make fools of themselves. What is it now?”

“Last night I told you I didn't intend to go to Mr. Batchelor with certain information I had picked up. I've been forced to change my mind.”

“Really? What forced you?”

“That story of yours about the collars. I've found out it wasn't true.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, sir. You say you went to Jim Batchelor's room for a collar. I say that's a typographical error. You went there for a dollar.”

Henry Frost rose and tossed down his napkin.

“Will you come with me?” he said.

“Certainly, sir.” Bill followed his employer on deck. “This is all very painful for me, Mr. Frost.”

“Yes, more so than you think. Do you happen to know where Jim Batchelor is?”

“He's on the after deck.”

Henry Frost turned in that direction.

“Regarding that interview with Mikklesen, you needn't trouble. You're not on the paper any more.”

“Just as you say, sir,” Bill replied smilingly.

But his heart sank. In love and out of work—a great combination.

Jim Batchelor was waiting with Sally on the spot where Bill had left them. He looked up eagerly as the two men approached.

“Jim, I've got something to say to you,” began Frost.

“All right. What is it?”

“This young idiot thinks I took your dollar.”

“Oh, nonsense!” said Batchelor, disappointed in Bill. “I know you wouldn't take it.”

“Well,” continued Mr. Frost, “I—I” His face turned scarlet. “As a matter of fact, Jim—I did.”

Jim Batchelor leaped from his chair.

“What's that? Say that again!”

“Now, Jim, don't get excited. I give you my word, it was all a joke.”

“A joke! You old simpleton! Getting funny at your age! Well, hand it over!”

“I want you to understand how it was,” Frost continued. “I was determined to take you out and trim you at golf today. Last night somebody happened to say something about your losing that dollar, and it came over me all at once that if you did you'd be so upset you'd be easy picking on the links. So just for fun, Jim—that was all—I slipped into your room and substituted that other dollar.”

“You're a criminal at heart, Henry. I always knew it. But where in Sam Hill”

“Of course I never dreamed you'd take it so seriously. And I want to talk to you about that. Really, Jim, that dollar's become an obsession with you. No man ought to build his whole life on a thing like that. It's wrong—all wrong. Let this be a lesson to you.”

“Will you cut out the sermon and produce my dollar?”

“I'll get it. It's in my room. There's no hard feelings, Jim”

“There will be if you don't shut up and get that dollar.”

Frost departed. Jim Batchelor stalked the deck. He was mad and he showed it, for no one had told him repression was the fashion.

“The old idiot!” he stormed. “What's got into him? Second childhood, I call it. A joke! You heard him—he said it was a joke!”

“Never mind, Dad, it's all right now,” said Sally soothingly. “And you must remember, it was Bill here solved the mystery.”

“Mighty clever of him too. I'll write him a check in a minute.”

“Oh, I couldn't allow that, sir,” Bill protested. “Not under the circumstances.”

“Rot! Just as serious as a real theft. And for that matter—who knows? The old fox! I never did trust him.”

“Dad! Your best friend!” Sally was shocked.

“Well, how do I know what he's up to?”

At that moment Mr. Frost reappeared. For once his famous poker face failed him. It registered emotion.

“Jim,” he said, “I feel like a fool.”

“You're certainly acting like one. Where's my dollar?”

Frost slowly extended his bony hand. Eagerly Jim Batchelor reached out a hand to receive. Into it Henry Frost dropped a bit of paper, a greenback, the promise of the United States Government to pay one dollar on demand.

“What the devil's this?” roared Batchelor.

“I found it in the place where I'd hidden your dollar, Jim,” said Henry Frost humbly.

Jim Batchelor did not speak. He cast the paper dollar to the deck. His face purpled, so that Bill Hammond wondered what one did first in case of apoplexy.

“What can I say, Jim?” Frost pleaded. “I wouldn't have had this happen for a cool million.”

“Apologies!” gurgled Batchelor. “Regrets! What do I care for them? I want my dollar!”

“It was all a joke,” said Frost—an unfortunate remark.

“Yeah, a joke! Ha-ha! Fine joke! Somebody else thought so too. Somebody decided to steal your stuff. And now where are we? Just where we started!”

“With this difference,” said Frost. “I'm in on this now. You and I will run the thief down together. I've something at stake, too, and my first move will be to add another couple of thousand to that reward you offered.”

“A lot of good that will do,” shrugged Batchelor. “If three thousand wouldn't bring it, five won't either. I tell you, we're up against it.” He turned suddenly to Bill. “You—you haven't any other clew, have you?” he asked. The trustful note in his voice was pathetic. It made two young people very happy.

“Well, I have one,” Bill admitted.

“You have?” Batchelor brightened at once.

“Yes; it may not be very important. But I'll work on it. I'd like your permission to do whatever I think necessary—to invade other people's staterooms if I think best.”

“You go as far as you like.” Batchelor turned to Frost. “This boy's promised to help me.”

“Oh, he's a wonder!” sneered Frost.

“You bet he is,” Batchelor answered. “He ran you down in record time, and I'll back him to get the other thief.”

“Dad!” Sally reproved.

“All right, Jim,” said Frost. “I've got it coming to me.”

“I'll say you have!”

Bill bent over and picked up the greenback from the deck.

“I'll take charge of this, if you don't mind. And by the way, Mr. Frost, did anybody else aboard know you took that dollar?”

“Yes—come to think of it,” said Frost. “It seemed best, in case my motives should be misunderstood, to let a second party in on the—er—the joke. So I told Julian Hill.”

“When did you tell him?”

“Last evening—before I took it. And afterward I mentioned to him that I had it in my stateroom.”

In the silence that followed, Bill had a vision of the night before—two tables of bridge, with Julian Hill wandering alone somewhere outside.

“By the way,” said Batchelor, “this may not mean anything; but I heard this morning that Mrs. Keith lunched last Wednesday at the Palace with Norman Blake. The Blakes are old rivals of mine,” he explained to Bill, “and they've never made any secret of their interest in that dollar.”

“And who told you about Mrs. Keith, sir?”

“Julian Hill.”

“Ah, yes,” Bill smiled. “Well, I'll do my best.”

“I'm sure you will, my boy,” said Batchelor. “Don't forget, there's five thousand in it for you now.”

“I hope there's more than that,” thought Bill. “Yes, sir,” was what he said. He smiled at Sally and moved away. Frost called after him.

“By the way, Hammond,” he said, “if you get the time you'd better do that Mikklesen story. Simon Porter will be expecting it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bill answered. Sally joined him and they went forward along the rail.

“What did he mean, Bill?” she asked.

“Oh, he was just handing me back my job. You see, he fired me a little while ago. Now he loves me again. And speaking of that, where do you stand this morning?”

“Just where I stood last night,” she told him.

“The day of miracles arrived last night,” he said. “You can sit down now, my dear—if you'll tell me all about it.”

“All about what?” They found a couple of deck chairs.

“All about how you—like me pretty well.”

“Never mind that. You tell me. You love me, don't you, Bill?”

“Sally, words can't put it over! I gave 'em a chance last night, and they fell down on the job.”

“When did you start, Bill—being fond, I mean?”

“That day when you were helping the orphans. The moment I saw you—honest, Sally, I loved you on the spot. And for ten minutes I madly worshiped you. Then somebody told me your name. So I went away and never loved you again.”

“Bill!”

“Well, that was the idea. Only it didn't work out very well.”

“I'm glad it didn't. But business before pleasure, Bill. What's your other clew?”

His bright look faded.

“It isn't any good,” he said. “I thought for a minute there might be something in it. I see now I was wrong.”

“But what is it, Bill?”

“It's a shirt.”

“A shirt?”

“Yes, we've run the collars to earth, and now we'll get busy on the shirt. I tell you, Sally, this is beginning to look to me like the annual outing of the Laundrymen's Benevolent Society.”

“You interest me strangely. What's it all about?”

He told her. The misadventure in the steamy laundry of Honolulu Sam, his agony when he found himself shirtless, Tatu's prompt rescue, the theft in the night, the Jap's reticence on the morning after—all these he detailed at length.

“The trouble with the detective game,” said Sally, when he had finished, “is that it's so full of mystery. Whose shirt do you imagine that was?”

“Well, there's Julian Hill. He appears to have an extensive wardrobe.”

“Bill, you don't think that Julian”

“I don't know—just a guess. My job now is to get hold of Tatu and pry the information out of him.”

“Japs are difficult,” said Sally.

“You bet they are, and this boy is Gibraltar's little brother. But I'll make him come across.”

“I'm sure you will.”

“I'll get the facts out of him if I have to strangle him,” Bill told her, “just to prove to you how tenderly I love you.”