Chapter V: A Joy Ride

I had time enough at Boston the next morning to get a good breakfast before the Portland Express left; and this I partook of in the station dining room. I knew within reasonable bounds when the steamers reached their dock at Portland, and figured that I should have ample time for my plan, which was simplicity itself. I would just be on hand when the boat docked.

And I was. Furthermore, I had stationed myself in a most advantageous position for seeing all who quitted the boat. A pile of boxes, not five feet from the passenger gangway, further favored me by allowing partial concealment of myself. I would simply spot my man when he quitted the vessel; the rest would be regulation shadowing.

A fog had delayed the boat about an hour in entering the harbor, as I learned from a longshoreman; but she finally loomed up directly before us, and the fog entirely cleared as the lines were cast and she was warped to the pier.

Herded into the usual impatient mass, the passengers pressed against the ropes until the final sliding of the gangplank.

Then, at a signal from the officer in charge, they swarmed from her. I didn’t miss a face; and I am pretty good at this work. Besides, I counted on seeing a face that was with me constantly now.

But I didn’t.

Little by little the crowd thinned. One or two belated ones trotted shoreward; then no more.

I could have been sure that the man and girl hadn’t passed me; and I found myself in a predicament.

I waited a few more minutes, but without another individual setting foot upon the plank. Plainly any search I might further make must be done aboard the vessel itself.

But if I did that I would have to quit the gangway, and that, naturally, I was not pleased to do. It was the strategic point.

It was not an overbrilliant plan, or an extremely reliable one, that I finally hit upon; but it was the best I could do under the circumstances.

I caught sight of a shaggy-browed deck hand who had stepped from the freight hold and stood, lounging idly, waiting for the rest of the crew to begin unloading.

I had replenished my cigar supply at Boston; so I approached the man diplomatically.

“My friend,” said I, “I’m almost positive that some people I am very anxious to see took this steamer; but I haven’t been able to find them. Would you mind watching out for them while I step aboard? I certainly don’t want to miss them.”

He accepted the proffered smoke greedily enough; but scowled at me from under his cap visor as he grunted:

“How’n tarnation’ll I be able to know ’em? What d’ they look like?”

“A man with a sort of stoop to his shoulders, and a mighty pretty girl,” I replied. “Anyway, you can’t fail, for if anybody shows up, it must be that----”

I stopped, for he was scratching his pate in thick-headed brain-working.

“Hold on thar!” he finally growled. “Why, dang me, man, they ain’t aboard no longer!”

“Ain’t aboard?” I cried. “Why, I could swear they haven’t yet crossed that gangplank!”

“Right you are there, my lad,” he agreed; “for them there and that same pair o’ individools must be the folks as got into a launch out yonder in the harbor when we were stopped by the fog.”

“Into a launch!” I echoed frenziedly as a sharp memory shot through me. Surely the couple did have a uniform method of boarding and quitting vessels.

“Better see the purser about it,” added the fellow; “there’s his window in there. He knows more about it as I do.”

He pointed aboard the boat where the brass grill of that officer’s office showed up plainly enough. And immediately I strode across the plank and up to the purser, who was figuring at his desk.

He acknowledged my nod genially, and asked what he could do for me.

“If you don’t mind,” said I hurriedly, “will you tell me all you know about that couple that quitted the steamer for a launch back there in the harbor?”

“Quitted the steamer for a launch?” he cried, in the utmost bewilderment, while he looked at me as though he thought I was demented. “Why, nobody did.”

“That deck hand there----” I started to explain as I turned, and indicated where I had come from.

But I got no further; for, at that very moment, I saw the very same deck hand steadying a girl across the freight gangway.

I lost an important minute in my consternation at having been thus so easily outwitted; and I reached the wharf again just in time to see him help her quickly into a taxicab at the pier end. But, before he sprang in himself, he grinned back over his shoulder at me delightedly.

No, I had not exactly recognized that peculiar stoop to the shoulders of the owner of the launch back there at Port Washington, as I had assured myself I would be able to do.

But, if I ever hoped to retrieve myself, I hadn’t a moment to lose. I, in turn, hot-footed it to the shore end of the pier, and fortune seemed to favor me here a bit; for there stood another taxi, and its “vacant” flag was flying.

“Follow that cab, my man,” I said hurriedly and out of breath from my sprint. “Don’t let ’em lose you, and there’s money in it.”

The little chauffeur grinned delightedly from under his goggles.

“Right-o!” he chortled happily, as he cranked; and next second we jumped into the high speed.

But that first spurt was short-lived, for we came to sharply applied brakes by the time we had but crossed the avenue.

I heard a sharp command as a man dashed from the swing door of a shore-front saloon. Then the door beside me was yanked open, and as quickly closed.

“After ’em now, for all that’s in you!” yelled the man who had flopped beside me, and the car lurched forward again.

I whirled on the intruder in a rage.

“Came near losing ’em, didn’t you?” said he quietly.

“_Pawlinson!_” I managed to whisper in my amazement.

“I was a trifle dramatic,” he explained easily; “but, from my vantage point of the saloon window yonder, I calculated that maybe two of us might work together better in this case.

“And, besides,” he added meaningly, as the cab swayed us to its mad pace, “I want to talk over some things with you.”

As I think was natural enough, I had the greatest difficulty in recovering from complete bewilderment. But I did manage finally to blurt out:

“And I, too--I’m in the dark about a good many things.”

“Just as I thought, of course,” he replied. Then his tone changed to a sharpness, a grittiness of command that didn’t set well with me for a whit.

“Now, I want to know,” said he, “just who you are and where you stand.”

Though I resented the manner of his query, I couldn’t but realize that he really was entitled to the knowledge.

“My name is Tom Grey,” said I, “and I am one of Chief Garth’s men. Last night he detailed me to----”

“Yes, yes. I know about that,” he broke in impatiently. “I saw you go in and leave his house. But what I want explained is: How did you happen to mix in on this thing at Port Washington?”

“The merest coincidence,” said I, rather lamely.

Then I gave him all I knew about it and the way it had come about that I happened to be swinging my feet from the stringpiece of the dock at that particular moment.

“Well,” he said, with a tinge of sarcasm, “it was a very unfortunate coincidence, as you call it; for I can tell you it wasn’t any cinch to throw off suspicion in landing that job as engineer of the launch. But I had landed it; and if it hadn’t been for you I could have delayed the start until four of my men arrived. They were coming on the next train from New York.”

“And so that’s why you faked that the engine was broken down?” I blurted, somewhat idiotically.

“Rather!” was the reply; and the sarcasm was no longer veiled. “And you can imagine my surprise when I recognized you entering Chief Garth’s place just as I myself was leaving.”

“Now, you know well enough, Mr. Pawlinson,” said I sheepishly, “that my interference at the launch was natural enough when you grant that I knew nothing of the circumstances, and----”

“Enough of that!” he said. “I’m not harboring any resentment any more, though I still have a bit of a game leg as a souvenir of the incident. But what I do want to know--and what has made me follow you closely from Garth’s to this very moment--is: Just where do you stand in this matter? Are you entirely--now that you understand the thing--are you my man?”

“Why, of course,” I replied, in as convincing a tone as I could command. But somehow it didn’t ring overtrue; for, in spite of myself, I simply couldn’t cotton to this man.

“But now, in turn”--I changed my tone--“I should like to know----”

Here the cab swung a corner violently; then we took to the evener going of a well-macadamized road, which seemed to lead almost indefinitely in a dead straight line.

“We’re dogging ’em close,” said I, pointing to the rear of the cab we were pursuing. “He’s a good man,” I added, indicating our driver.

“Good enough,” replied Pawlinson shortly. “But what do you intend to do next? Just what is the lay, anyway?”

He certainly could make me feel like a fool; and, as a matter of cold fact, I certainly had acted, so far, with every trait of the tyro. Indeed, I had simply counted upon locating the man and wiring the chief of his whereabouts. But now what was I really counting upon doing?

“It’s plain enough we’ve got to dog ’em as close as we can,” said I finally. “I don’t see any better way now, do you?”

“No, not now,” he replied. “But I have heard of better preparedness in my time. But come, come, Grey”--and his tone lightened perceptibly--“we’re in this thing together, and there’s no use of us rasping against each other any more. I really stand in need of a man, and I hope you’ll prove to be he. This case really means a lot to----”

“That’s just it!” I broke in. “If you’ll stop to think, you’ll see that I really don’t know a solitary thing about the affairs except that the man ahead of us yonder is wanted. The offense is all in the dark. Don’t you think yourself that I’d be likely to enter into the thing with more spirit if I were shown a little more light?”

He eyed me narrowly for a moment, as though he were deciding with himself just how far he would go in explanation. Finally he reached his decision with a grunt.

“You know about the robberies of country places along Long Island Sound?” said he shortly.

He really needn’t have said another word to quicken me to the most intense interest.

“I should say I did!” I ejaculated. “Why, it was just from overzeal in one of those cases that the chief gave me the can.”

Pawlinson smiled.

“I told Garth I didn’t want the game flushed quite then,” he explained.

“Then you were back of that, too?” I cried, trying to get through the fog.

“Yes. And the man we are after is Stroth, Carl Stroth.”

“Stroth?” I queried dubiously, for the name carried no memory. “I never heard of him.”

“I’m prepared to believe that you never did,” agreed Pawlinson; “for the man has proven himself wise enough, and big enough, never to appear personally connected with the jobs.”

“But how could he----”

“Here,” put in Pawlinson. “I’ll state it in a nutshell. About the robberies along the Sound, you know. And you know, too, as do the rest of the police, that the tricks were invariably pulled off by water--that is, the lads worked by boat. But what they don’t know is that this man Carl Stroth is the head, center, and chief of a gang--a thoroughly organized and completely equipped gang of crooks.

“And just to show you how complete is the equipment--well--quickly stated again--there’s a hundred-foot auxiliary schooner, speedy, with a machine gun under a tarpaulin, manned by a crew, a real crew.”

He had a sharp, decisive way of narration.

“Sounds fishy, don’t it? Fishy, but a fact,” he went on. “Now, the way a crib was cracked was this--_is_ cracked, I suppose I had better say, for they haven’t been once checked yet: The schooner lies well off shore--’most any distance, in fact. Then the launch--the very launch, by the way, that you figured in yourself yesterday--is manned by experts at this very game. They land, clean out the place selected, back to the launch, back to the schooner. So it’s really very simple, as you see. And in its simplicity lies its great effectiveness. The schooner carries regular yacht papers, and everything is quite proper. Get it?”

“I understand,” said I slowly; “but I can scarcely believe such a thing possible in this day and generation.”

“Why not?” he snapped. “For the life of me I can’t see why the field for absolute and out-and-out piracy isn’t greater now than ever. Pretty nearly every invention, though it gives pursuit improvement, likewise equips the pursued. The world’s very much the same---- But, heavens and earth, man, this is scarcely the time to get too wordy; and I’ll let it out now that the only reason I had in all this explanation was to watch your face closely while I was telling it.”

“Why, what do you mean by that?” I cried.

“Well,” he explained haltingly, “Carl Stroth’s hand reaches far.”

“How?” I hadn’t yet caught the point.

“You see, as I said before,” he continued, “I wanted to be dead certain as to just what part you were playing.”

“I was playing?” I exclaimed, my temper beginning to rise. “Do you mean to say you thought that I, in any way, was connected with----”

“I mean no offense, my man,” said he imperturbably; “and you must remember that I never so much as set eyes on you till yesterday; and what happened then didn’t predispose me in your favor, naturally. I mean simply that I have had just about dealings enough with this man Stroth to know that he plays a sure game. And it wouldn’t have been the first time for him to plant one of his own men right inside the enemy’s camp.”

Now, on mature thought, there really was nothing that I should have taken umbrage at in this suspicion; and I certainly ought to have had better control of myself.

But I felt myself fairly rise to boiling point. Words bubbled to me at this implication as to my being a turncoat.

Those words never came out, though, for we skidded briskly around a corner, and were thrown sharply back to the moment and to action.

In the intense concentration of the conversation, both of us had been more engrossed with each other than with our chase; though I did notice, out of the tail of my eye, that the driver of our car had shot back a quick glance over his shoulder at us inside.

Then next second, as I say, we turned a corner--a sharp, right-angle whirl from the straight avenue both cars had been following.

Pawlinson and I both leaned forward in interest, craning our necks for a view through the front glasses of the vehicle.

“What in time does this mean?” cried he, as another vehicle shot by us, coming from the opposite direction.

He started pounding on the glass.

But our driver, for a moment, paid no attention. Instead, he swung the car toward the curb and brought up short before the door of a large house.

We both sprang out to the sidewalk, and as we stood there our little chauffeur hastened to explain.

“Them folks stopped their car and went in that there house,” said he, in a funny, staccato voice. “And the car’s gone back.”

Instinctively Pawlinson and I started to mount the first step of the stoop, though reason might well have prompted another course.

Then the little chauffeur enlightened us further.

“And now I guess that’ll be about all to-day, gentlemen,” he chortled gleefully, as he slid up his goggles to his forehead.

That kind of eye shield certainly is effective on occasion. For, just as the taxi jumped into speed, it left us there on the sidewalk in our first but most convincing recognition.

“_Stevens!_” we fairly yelled, in unison.

Then we looked at each other.