Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 57/Number 5/Hatching a Volcano/Chapter 7

NSTANTLY, aware that he could not conceal himself for any length of time, Brant flattened himself against the wall, thankful that the lights in the patio were dim. One, thing was surprisingly clear to him, however. It quickened his pulse and set his thoughts galloping. The newcomer who, unannounced, had entered the patio, was a woman. He caught a fleeting glimpse of her slender, skirted form as she was framed in the doorway.

After an interval of silence in which Brant waited expectantly, his eyes peering into the distant shadows that screened the intruder, the woman called:

“Mr. Dixon! where are you?”

The familiar voice stirred Brant and brought him forward. “Don't be alarmed, Miss Newberry!” he said reassuringly, stepping into the light that came from the door of the living room beyond. “Remember me, don't you?”

The girl advanced slowly. She came up to where Brant stood, her wide eyes fixed upon his countenance. Doubtless she recognized him at once as her bench companion and willing accomplice of a few hours before. At any rate his presence in the house was accounted for, and whatever fears she may have entertained at his abrupt appearance vanished instantly.

“What brought you here at this hour?” Brant asked, as the girl continued to survey him narrowly. “Was it another message that had to be delivered in person?”

“Where is Mr. Dixon?” the girl countered quickly. “I must see him at once.”

“Wait! Please!” he, exclaimed and placed a detaining hand upon her arm as she started toward the living room. “There has been a—a tragedy. Dixon was murdered half an hour ago.”

Brant would have prepared her for the shock had it been possible, would have led up to it less abruptly; but, in the emergency, circumstances thwarted him. He was given no opportunity to soften what must have been a blow.

The girl recoiled, her face blanching; but she seemed to regain possession of herself almost at once. Brant admired that quality in her, and, as quickly as he could find words, revealed the meager details that were in his possession.

Miss Newberry listened attentively and without interrupting. There were tears in her eyes when he had finished. Presently he led her to the living-room door, and together they looked across at the silent form on the couch.

“My name's Brant,” he said at length, introducing himself. “Dixon told me yours. I delivered the message to him. I was just ready to leave here when you appeared. I had not considered it advisable to inform the authorities of this crime—at least not until I had seen and talked with you.”

He found it difficult to explain matters clearly, when so much of the night's adventure was shrouded in mystery.

The girl's questioning, tear-dimmed eyes searched Brant's countenance. “Then—then Mr. Dixon told you” she began.

“Nothing except your name,” Brant was quick to assure her. “I made a few deductions of my own during our conversation, and Dixon did not offer to contradict them. Please do not think me presumptuous, Miss Newberry,” he went on. “I'm not trying to pry into your affairs. If I seem at all inquisitive it is because I want to protect and help you.”

She favored him with the same unwavering scrutiny, but reserved comment. She seemed to be weighing certain matters in the balance; debating whether to accept his statements.

He was given the opportunity of studying the girl closely, and in doing so his admiration and respect mounted steadily. There was that in her sincere countenance and clear, level eyes—apparently fixed upon him in silent judgment—that bespoke balance and self-reliance. She possessed a winsome attractiveness. The combination appealed to him.

“You were a friend of Mr. Dixon, of course,” he went on presently. “Have you any idea who may be guilty of this crime?”

“Mr. Dixon had more enemies than friends in this city,” she returned, evading a direct reply.

“I've no doubt. A man in his position would have,” he agreed in a tone that purposely suggested much. Brant felt that the girl was withholding information; still he did not feel justified in demanding that which she seemed unwilling to divulge.

“What is to be done?” he asked at length. “There isn't much time to lose. It is for you to decide, Miss Newberry.”

“What would happen if we called the police?”

“Well, I'd probably be taken into custody as a suspect; perhaps you as well. To clear ourselves we should be forced to explain the circumstances that brought us here to-night.”

“I'm afraid that would complicate matters—just at present. It would defeat an end” The girl broke off, her eyes troubled. “There is but one thing to do, Mr. Brant,” she asserted in a surprisingly different tone, as if she had arrived at a decision after mature thought. “The right thing. I believe I can depend upon you. Are you willing to help? To take what may be a hundred-to-one chance?”

“In a minute!” Brant replied unhesitantly.

“I know who murdered Mr. Dixon,” the girl went on. “At least I am certain who was back of the cowardly deed. It was Captain Korry, the most notorious chink runner in Havana.”

“Korry?” Brant echoed, instantly recalling the name. “Why, Dixon and I were discussing him not half an hour ago. His photo is over there in the cabinet,” he added, and related in a few words the circumstances that had brought about the discussion.

“That would seem to verify my suspicions,” Miss Newberry said. “The man you took the letter from, and who was afterward struck by a taxicab, doubtless was employed by Korry to watch me.”

“And from him Korry got Dixon's name and address,” Brant added, beginning to understand. “Then Korry, or one of his hirelings, came here, called Dixon to the door and murdered him.”

The- girl nodded. “I am certain of it. Unfortunately we have no evidence to back the charge.”

“Is that where the hundred-to-one chance comes in?” Brant asked quickly. “You propose to gather the necessary evidence against this murderer without the help of the police?”

Once more the girl nodded. “The Flamingo is to sail from Havana before noon to-morrow, with Captain Korry in command.”

Brant received that announcement with amazement. “Korry in command of your yacht?” he repeated. “How in the world”

“My skipper who brought the boat into port to pick me up was taken ill,” the girl explained briefly, wasting no time in useless preliminaries. “At least I thought so at first. He recommended Korry as a substitute, and I accepted him without suspicion. That same night, when Korry brought me back to the hotel, Mr. Dixon was in the lobby and recognized the smuggler. Then we compare notes. Korry intends to run through a cargo of Chinamen to Florida in my boat.”

“A frame-up between your skipper and Korry, was it?”

“Yes. Mr. Dixon learned what was brewing. Of course it would have been a simple matter for me to confront the conspirators and frustrate their plans; but Mr. Dixon advised against it.”

“I see,” Brant put in. “Dixon proposed to trap Korry—catch him red-handed.”

“Mr. Dixon, whose position in Havana you already have surmised, was an old friend of my father's, and has been most active in his work here,” Miss Newberry resumed. “Through him any number of smugglers have been caught. But Korry, who seems to be the most daring and cunning of the lot, always has managed to elude the traps laid for him. It would mean a great deal to Mr. Dixon, and the immigration authorities as well, if this troublesome character were apprehended. So when the facts were known to us, Mr. Dixon saw an opportunity to profit by them. The Flamingo was to sail at whatever time I set, with Korry in command and his human contraband hidden below deck. Mr. Dixon was to be my guest on board.”

“Then Dixon wasn't known to Korry?”

“No. The smugglers knew that they were being watched in Havana and their sailings reported by wireless to the Florida officials;, but until to-night they were unable to find the man responsible.”

“The man who got away with your letter read Dixon's name and address on the envelope,” said Brant. “He revealed it to Korry, and Korry, or one of his accomplices, put Dixon out of the way. The whole thing is clear enough now.”

“I don't know yet how Korry came to suspect me,” the girl said; “but he must have figured I would bear watching. That is why I did not want to lead him, or his agents, to Mr. Dixon—why I asked you to deliver the message to-night.”

Brant nodded. “What object had Dixon in sailing on the Flamingo?” he asked. “Was it to protect you?”

“Partly that; partly to be sure Korry would not escape. The yacht is fast and of shallow draft. Although he expected to warn the officials of the sailing, he knew Korry to be an able skipper and a shrewd one. The revenue cutter could not overtake the Flamingo, nor could it follow the yacht in among the islands. I do not know exactly what Mr. Dixon's plans were; but he did not propose to let the smuggler get away.”

Now that he was in possession of the details, Brant saw exactly what the venturesome girl had in mind. It seemed reasonably certain that Korry had been responsible for Dixon's death; but without evidence he could not be made to pay the penalty. If the authorities were informed of the tragedy and the sailing of the Flamingo canceled, the whole affair would go on the rocks. Korry could be arrested on Miss Newberry's testimony; but the evidence was, so far, purely circumstantial. Nothing could come of it, and in the end he would be released.

The girl was shrewd enough to see that. Evidence, there had to be; therefore the Flamingo would sail, with Korry in command. Moreover, she was to rely upon him—Brant—to accomplish what Dixon had planned to do. Dangerous as it seemed, Brant never for an instant hesitated to accept the part offered him.

“We'll get Korry one way or another,” he declared emphatically. “You may not find me as resourceful and capable as Dixon, but I'll do my best.”

“I am sure you will,” the girl responded, a quick color rising in her cheeks. “It is for Mr. Dixon—to finish what he set out to do—that we must succeed. It is, perhaps, to avenge a despicable crime. Trap this smuggler, even though we do not wring the truth from him. Then we need not feel that the man who sacrificed his life in the pursuit of his duty has died in vain.”

Brant's eyes kindled. “It's worth fighting for,” he told her. “I wouldn't want a bigger, better mission.”

“Perhaps I shouldn't have come here to-night,” Miss Newberry said presently; “but I wanted to warn Mr. Dixon to be ready to leave in the morning. I was afraid you would be prevented from delivering the message.”

Brant's thoughts went back a few hours in the past and he wondered if the last of the mystery was to be cleared. “About that message,” he began. “You see, the man I chased from behind the bench, ripped open the envelope and”

“Where is the message now?” the girl broke in.

“Dixon tossed it aside after reading it.”

“We had better take it with us. It might prove to be a clew, for the authorities.”

“A clew?” echoed Brant. How a blank sheet of paper could furnish a lead for the police was beyond him.

Nevertheless he walked across the floor and picked both envelope and inclosure from the table where Dixon had flung them. As he did so, turning over the sheet of note paper, he voiced an amazed exclamation. The message, clearly written in a feminine hand, stared him in the face.

“What the deuce!” he gasped; but as he turned to the girl, puzzled, intent upon solving the riddle that baffled him, a new and alarming sound reached his ears.

“Some one is at the door!” the girl broke out.

“Quick!” Brant commanded, at once alert, thrusting the letter into his pocket. “This way!”

Without question or hesitation, the girl obeyed. Grasping her arm, Brant led her through a small doorway. There, in the darkness of an adjoining room, they halted.

“It was a key rattling in the lock,” Miss Newberry whispered.

“A key! Yes; sounded like it. Did Dixon employ a servant?” Brant queried, seeking to account for the newcomer.

“I believe so. A native boy.”

“That must have been him. Don't think he saw us, but he'll raise an alarm soon enough. It's up to us to find a way out of here. Must be a rear exit somewhere.”

“Through the kitchen,” the girl directed, remarkably cool and collected in the crisis. “Father and I visited here last winter. I remember now. It's just beyond.”

They moved cautiously, guiding themselves by the wall. Brant dared not strike a light, and they took pains not to crash into the furniture. The kitchen was reached. A low window admitted a faint light from the stars, sufficient to identify the place.

Brant shot back the bolt of the kitchen door, opened it cautiously, and, as the alleyway seemed deserted, the two conspirators, thrown together by a queer prank of fate and united in a common cause, sped down the narrow thoroughfare. Reaching the street they halted to reconnoiter; presently they continued more leisurely.

The street was empty save for themselves, and most of the house lights were extinguished. Brant had no knowledge of the district through which they traveled, and no idea where the street itself led; but after walking several blocks they came upon a parked cab.

The sleepy cochero, aroused, was ordered to carry his fares to Parque Central—pronto.

Arrived at their destination, which was ablaze with lights and gay with Havana's night life, Brant parted with cuarenta centavos. The cab moved off, its driver sputtering indignantly at the absence of a tip. The man flung something over his shoulder, which might have been Cubanese for “cheap sport.”

Brant ignored the remarks and turned to his companion, who had stepped back among the shadows of the park trees. “So far, so good,” he observed. “What's our next move?”

Instead of answering at once, the girl led him through the park, now given over to derelicts on the benches and the whining vendors of lottery tickets. “The Flamingo will sail at noon to-morrow,” she said quietly. “You still are willing to come?”

“Never more so,” he responded, in a tone that left little doubt of his sincerity.

To their right, the ornate Theater Nationale loomed up. Taxicabs whirled up and down with screeching horns and brakes. Brilliant sidewalk cafés were filled with gay and noisy patrons. Newsboys bellowed; trolley cars clanged; the multlcolored signs flashed their wares and shamed the crescent moon overhead. La Belle Habana envied not the garish splendor that was Gotham's.

In the lobby of the Pasaje, with its cool floors of tile, its ponderous arcade, its white-clad attendants, and its café resplendent with midnight diners, Brant bid buenas noches to his companion.

“You will call for me here at eleven to-morrow,” she requested.

“At eleven, manana,” he repeated, and pressed her fingers that for a moment rested in his own.

Brant retraced his steps along the glittering Prado, unmindful of the flashing lights, the throngs that jostled him, the sounds of merriment. His thoughts were too full of to-morrow and the danger trail ahead to consider that which surrounded him.

It was not until the gay crowds and the lights had been put behind him, and he was turning into a quiet side street that led toward his own quarters, that he lifted his eyes to the stars. They were intensely big and bright and comforting. He smiled up at them, happily, for their prediction had come true.

Adventure! The stars had ordained it so.