Moriaty bit savagely at his cigar. “There’s a Massachusetts state dick that sent me an impudent message,” he declared. “If I don’t dig up this murderer, he’ll blame it on the bootleggers. His name is O’Hara. Know him?”
“I had a chat with him the other night.”
“I’d do something about him,” Tim observed, “except that nobody can kill a friend of mine and get away with it, and it’s bad for business to have Nantucket in all the newspapers. I was using this island to land the best champagnes. I’ve passed the word along in New York to listen in everywhere and I may get some dope that way.”
“I apologize to you for my suspicions,” said Billings. “By the way, who made the arrangements in New York to hire the house down here and who engaged the servants?”
“The feller who told about ’Sconset as a hide-away,” said Tim. “This broker, R. J. Conlin. He had a dame make all the arrangements so that they couldn’t be traced to me, see.”
“Conlin?” exclaimed Billings. “You know he has disappeared, don’t you?”
“No. When?”
“He left Nantucket the night of the murder and his wife hasn’t heard from him since. The newspapers traced him to New York and lost him.”
“I ain’t seen a paper for a few days. What name are you using on the island?”
“John Smith,” replied Billings.
Moriaty emitted a snort.
“You damn fool!” he exclaimed. “That’s the name Haywood was supposed to have; we rented the house under that name.”
“It’s the commonest name in the world,” replied Billings. Now the fact was that Billings had entered the Sippiconsett House with quite another alias in his mind, and the sight of the lovely face of Cynthia Simpson had driven it and everything else away. And when Cynthia opened the register and handed him the pen, the only name that occurred to him was the name she had mentioned to him on the beach the previous night which he had scribbled before he recovered his equanimity. But he couldn’t tell that to Tim Moriaty.
“I s’pose so,” said Tim. “Supposing this dame who met you on the beach in front of this Sears house did get a squint at you. That plants you in Nantucket about the time the crime was committed. And, being as you was tried for murder once before, you’ll be in a hell of a hole, Mr. Smith.”
“But she didn’t,” insisted Jack Billings untruthfully.
“Well, you better stick round and see what you can find out. That’s all. I’ll be in the harbor for a day or two. This is as good a place to loaf as any.”
“Mr. Moriaty,” said Billings firmly. “I want to quit the game. I’ve saved some money. I’m not cut out for this sort of thing.”
Moriaty nodded. “O.K.,” he said. “You dig up this killer and you and me will shake hands and say good-by.”
“I’ll find him,” said Jack grimly.
A beautiful young woman in a vivid sport costume which consisted of an orange sweater and a green pleated skirt and a coquettish little green cap came out of the cabin and bore down upon the two-business men.
“If it isn’t Jack Billings!” she exclaimed in great surprise.
Moriaty laughed good naturedly. “She seen you coming and ran below to doll up,” he declared. “Jack’s on his way, Vera.”
“Oh, make him stay to lunch,” she pleaded. “Come on, Jack. I invite you.”
“Sorry, Vera,” replied the young man. “I’ve just got my orders.”
“Hardly worth while to put on the glad rags, eh, Vera?” jeered Tim Moriaty.
“You’re just hateful,” she said resentfully. Her accent was strongly southern. According to her own statement Miss Vera Lee had come from a grand old Virginia home to dance in New York night clubs. As a result of strict attention to business she now owned several diamond bracelets and she was hostess upon one of the finest yachts which flew the flag of the N.Y. Yacht Club. Billings had met her in one of Tim’s gay resorts, danced with her and forgotten her.
He shook her hand heartily, nodded to Moriaty and went over the side into his launch.
Chapter XVI
The Man on the Bluff
For the first time since the murders Cynthia Simpson walked up the bluff path after she had turned over the desk at the Sippiconsett House to the night clerk at five o’clock. It was a gorgeous ’Sconset evening, peaceful and serene.
Being a New Englander with a long line of New England ancestors, Cynthia had a New England conscience and she had suffered for several days from a sense of duty undone. By great ingenuity she had avoided tête-à-têtes with John Smith since the morning that Mrs. Conlin had arrived at the Sippiconsett House. Smith, who had sublime impudence, had taken advantage of every opportunity to exchange a few words with her while she was on duty, and the burden of his remarks was his need for a walk and a private talk with her.
While Cynthia resented his impudence she was a woman, so she liked it. It was obvious that Smith was interested in her, despite his intimacy with the very beautiful Mrs. Conlin.
And the horrid thought that Smith and Mrs. Conlin might have made away with R. J. Conlin, which had been inspired by jealous fury the day of the woman’s arrival, had been driven away by the news that Mr. Conlin had been traced to New York.
Mrs. Conlin had assured her that the only reason she was remaining in ’Sconset instead of hastening to New York to help in the hunt for her husband was a police summons for fast driving, which was an outrage, as she had never driven fast and had never been arrested. That didn’t fool Cynthia. She was certain that the woman was at the hotel to be near John Smith but she wasn’t so sure, now, that Smith wanted to be near Mrs. Conlin.
Smith was such a likeable person that Cynthia could not possibly believe that he was a criminal, yet the fact remained that he was close to the scene of the murder somewhere near the time that the murder had occurred, and that he claimed not to have reached Nantucket until the day after. As the police were hunting high and low for persons who were in that vicinity, was she doing her duty in withholding this information? While, actually, wild horses would not have dragged the information from her, Cynthia’s conscience was raising hob about it.
She walked swiftly along the bluff path and noted absently how many of the recently tenanted cottages were vacant. She neared the lighthouse as shadows gathered, waved her hand to the light keeper, who was an old acquaintance of hers, and turned to retrace her steps. She had walked about an eighth of a mile and was approaching a hedge which marked the boundary of the house occupied by the Folsoms of Boston, who had left in a hurry two days after the murder, when a man, who was lying on the grass close to the hedge and whom she had not observed up to that second, sat up and said:
“Good evening, miss.”
Cynthia glanced at him nervously. He was a big man, dark complected and his countenance was rather unpleasant.
“Good evening,” she replied, and quickened her steps.
“I say,” he called after her with a pronounced English accent, “what’s your hurry, miss?”
Cynthia did not answer. In a second she heard footfalls behind her. She glanced nervously along the path and to the right. Nobody was in sight. Cynthia’s heart began to thump. Never in her life had she been accosted on the bluff path before. The man was alongside her and made to take her arm. She pulled it away.
“How dare you!” she exclaimed in a voice that was loud but shaky.
“Can’t you pass the time of day with a chap?” he demanded. “There ayn’t no ’arm in me.”
“No, I can’t,” she replied desperately. “Let me go. Let me go, I tell you!”
He had her fast by the right arm. He was grinning and there was a terrifying expression in his pale blue eyes.