While Harry listened, his mind kept reverting to a single thought: the indifference that Joyce had expressed regarding the Laidlow murder. This was not consistent with the man’s regular method of conversation. Joyce would talk of any subject that came along - would talk actively until he changed it. Yet he had sidestepped this matter entirely.
Furthermore, Joyce’s apparent ignorance of the story of the murder must surely be a pose. Joyce did not confine his newspaper reading to the puzzle columns. And being interested in such problems, it seemed strange that he would pay no attention to a murder mystery - especially one which had occurred so close at hand.
Perhaps Joyce was connected with the crime! He might even have been the burglar! Harry rejected the latter thought.
Then he began to form a different suspicion. Joyce, he knew, was a clever man. If he had been an active participant in the Laidlow murder, he would have found some opportunity to slide away before this. Also, Harry recalled, Joyce was a newcomer at Holmwood Arms. He had arrived later than Harry.
No. It was impossible that Joyce was the murderer, or that he knew much about the crime other than what he might have read of it. Joyce - Harry decided as they rode along - was a crook of a different sort. He was playing another game. He avoided all discussions of criminal activities of any sort simply as a matter of precaution.
Joyce was probably safe at Holmwood. But why was he there?
They were swinging back to town. They pulled up at the inn just before dinner, and went into the dining-room together.
Joyce was beginning to note Harry’s silence. But there were others at their table; the talk was lively and vivacious.
Harry and Joyce lighted their cigars as they left the dining-room and wandered into the lounge. Here both picked up newspapers. Joyce turned immediately to find a cross-word puzzle. He pulled a pencil from his pocket and blocked in a few letters.
He looked up to catch a glance from Harry. He threw down the paper in disgust.
“Darn these puzzles,” Joyce said. “They’re a lot of foolishness. They annoy me most of the time.”
He went to a card table close by, and called to the attendant for a pack of cards. He began a game of solitaire.
Harry went on reading. His mind was at work. Joyce, he realized, had overstepped himself and knew it. He had shown too much interest in puzzles during the afternoon: now he was trying to disclaim his enthusiasm.
Harry strolled out on the porch. It was a moderately warm Indian Summer evening. He enjoyed the air and talked for a while with several of the other guests.
Then he went back to the lounge. Three other men had joined Joyce, and the four were playing poker. They invited Harry to sit in with them, but he declined. Instead, he took the easy-chair and finished reading the paper. He puffed his cigar contentedly as he lolled back in the chair.
“I’ll take two cards,” he heard Joyce say.
Harry opened his eyes. Joyce was dealing. His hand was turned toward Harry. And that young man’s eyes opened even more widely. For Joyce was discarding the ace of spades and the ace of clubs, to hold three small diamonds in his hand!
His curiosity aroused, Vincent watched for the outcome. He did not see the cards that Joyce dealt to himself, for each man at the table was playing his hand tight. But after the bets were made and the pile of chips had accumulated, Joyce spread his hand on the table and exhibited five diamonds - a flush, which won the pot.
Harry left the room unnoticed while Joyce was raking in the chips.
“So that’s your game, Mr. Joyce,” Harry observed to himself. “A smooth crook - a gentleman gambler. A man who lives to unravel problems, but hesitates to talk of crime!”
Harry was thoughtful as he stood on the porch.
The game had not been one for large stakes. No one gambled high at Holmwood Arms. Why then was Joyce operating here?
Harry smiled as he deduced the answer.
Joyce was in Holmwood on a mission. His services were required by some one - for something. He had been at the inn less than a week. Probably he was still awaiting a call.
In the meantime, the opportunity for picking up expense money by his artifice at the card table was too good to resist. Hence the shifty work that Harry had observed. It was a clew to Joyce’s main purpose, in that it proved the man to be a crook of some caliber.
Here was something to report to Fellows. Harry had not yet heard from the insurance broker, nor had he visited New York.
He’d wait one day more, Harry decided. He would watch Joyce during the afternoon and evening, and perhaps gain some added information.
The day after tomorrow he would report to the office in the Grandville Building.
CHAPTER XV
TWO MEN MEET
AT breakfast the next morning, Harry Vincent ate his bacon and eggs with real zest. The day was pleasant and he was satisfied. As the agent of The Shadow, he was showing progress. He wondered just what significance would be attached to the information he had gained concerning Elbert Joyce.
More than that, he had a positive feeling that something else would follow. From the moment that he had come upon Joyce working out a puzzle in the paper, Harry had started on a steady trail. A night had intervened; but he believed the day held more in store.
Joyce was certainly awaiting a definite time. The man had been at Holmwood Arms for several days now. Perhaps he might wait longer. Harry hoped not. He disliked leaving Holmwood before Joyce had taken action. It would be best to wait before reporting to Fellows.
Joyce was not at breakfast, but he appeared on the porch a short time after. Harry greeted him cordially, then left for his room and killed an hour by punching the typewriter.
After that, Harry strolled down to the porch. Joyce was still there.
The morning and afternoon passed slowly. Harry walked downtown after lunch, but did not stay long. He knew that his place was at the inn, keeping tabs on Joyce’s actions. But nothing happened before dinner, and he found himself seated at the same table with Joyce in the dining-room.
“How was everything to-day?” inquired the affable Joyce.
“So-so,” answered Harry. “I did a little writing, off and on. The weather’s too mild and pleasant to bother much about work.”
“Perhaps you find it that way. I’m anxious to get moving, though,” replied Joyce. “I’m looking forward to my traveling job.”
“That’s the proper spirit.”
“But I still have a wait ahead of me. Two weeks at least.”
“It’s a long while if you’re bored.”
“Too long. But it’s all in the game.”
The conversation pleased Harry. He knew that Joyce would try to lay a false trail as to the length of time he intended to stay at the inn. “Two weeks” would more likely prove to be two days.
Harry sensed that action was approaching.
Joyce found a note in his mail-box after dinner. He read it by the desk in the lobby and carried it with him as he strolled out to the porch. Harry, watching from the doorway, observed him tear the paper to small pieces which he scattered in the wind.
There was a card game in the lounge. Joyce came in and watched. He was invited to participate, but declined. Harry, idling by the window-seat, regarded this as important. If Joyce could resist the temptation of taking some more easy money from the card players at Holmwood Arms, it meant that he had important work afoot that night.
Harry pulled a few written sheets of paper from his pocket, and pretended to read them as he walked from the lounge into the lobby. He timed his progress so that his path converged with that of Joyce. They almost bumped together, due to Harry’s feigned preoccupation.
Joyce laughed.
“Don’t try that stunt crossing a street,” he warned.
Harry grinned sheepishly.
“I’ve got a lot on my mind,” he said. “Guess I’ll wander upstairs and type these notes while they’re still fresh. I scrawl away so fast that sometimes I can’t read my own writing.”