The Dollar Chasers/Chapter 8
VIII
THERE is a subconscious self that never sleeps, but applies itself to any problem in hand. Which probably explains why Bill awoke the next morning with the hunch of his life. It was very late; and struck by an unaccustomed quiet, he looked out the porthole. The little town of Monterey and the green forest of Del Monte met his gaze, and he knew the Francesca had reached port.
The bathroom door was unlocked, and the door leading into Mikklesen's cabin stood open. There was no trace of the Englishman, nor of his many pieces of luggage. Alarmed, Bill rang for Tatu; but from the Jap he learned that no one had yet gone ashore.
“Hurry,” Bill ordered, “and tell Mr. Batchelor not to land any one until he hears from me.” And he prepared himself for a busy morning.
Jim Batchelor arrived just as Bill was tying his necktie.
“Any news?” inquired the young man.
“Not a glimmer,” answered Batchelor. He sat down on the berth, his gloomy face in striking contrast to the sunny morning. “The second officer was in Mikklesen's cabin while he dressed, and examined everything he put on. We've been through his luggage again too. But there was nothing doing. Either he hasn't got that dollar or he's too smart for us.”
“Where is he now?” Bill asked.
“He's on deck, waiting to go ashore. The launch is ready. O'Meara and Mrs. Keith are there too.”
“Did you search them?”
“Well, no. There are limits. Besides, I'm sure they're just as much in the dark as I am. Both of them came to me this morning and said both wanted to leave the cruise here, so I simply told them to go. There seemed no occasion for a row.”
“You were quite right, sir,” Bill agreed.
“You—you sent me word not to let anybody land until you came up,” said Batchelor.
“I did,” Bill smiled.
“Are you—are you on a new trail?”
“I think so.”
“My boy! No, no, I mustn't let you get my hopes up again.”
“You're very wise, sir,” Bill admitted. “This isn't much—a fighting chance, that's all.”
“Well, let's fight it,” said Batchelor as they left the cabin. “I tell you again, you get that dollar back and there'll be nothing too good for you.”
“Careful!” said Bill under his breath, and they went on deck.
Sally joined them, as lovely as the California morning, but with a worried look in her eyes. Bill smiled his reassurance. They moved along the deck and came upon Mikklesen, O'Meara and Mrs. Keith sitting amid their luggage.
“We're losing some of our guests,” said Batchelor.
“So I see,” Bill answered. “I'd steeled myself to part with Mikklesen, but these others—I'm awfully sorry”
O'Meara glared at him. Henry Frost, alert for news, came up.
“Mr. Batchelor,” Bill went on, “before Mikklesen goes out of our lives for ever, I'd like to ask him one question.”
“Certainly. Go to it.”
“Mr. Mikklesen”—the Englishman stood up, and he and Bill faced each other—“Mr. Mikklesen,” Bill repeated, “what time is it?”
The Englishman's eyes narrowed.
“I don't understand.”
“The time—by that watch of yours. I've seen you consult it before. Why not now?”
“My dear fellow”—Mikklesen was quite at ease—“it's a frightfully old thing, really. Belonged to my grandfather. Something has happened to it. It's not running.”
“Not running? That's too bad.” Bill held out his hand. “Let me have a look at it. I might be able to fix it.”
Mikklesen's eyes turned quickly to right and left. He appeared to be measuring the distance between the Francesca and the shore.
“Come on,” said Bill. “There's no way out. Hand it over.”
“Why not?” said Mikklesen. He took from his pocket a large ancient timepiece and unfastened it from the chain. He was smiling. Bill's heart sank—was he wrong, after all?
His strong fingers closed eagerly on Mikklesen's watch. Anxiously he opened the back. The thing was packed with tissue-paper. He lifted out the paper—and smiled, for underneath lay a silver dollar.
“I hope it's the right one this time,” he said, and handed it to Batchelor.
“By the Lord Harry!” cried Batchelor. “My lucky piece! The first dollar I ever earned. Little secret mark and all. My boy—my boy, I take back all I said.”
Bill glanced at Sally; her eyes were shining. He handed the watch case back to Mikklesen.
“When you took out the works,” he said, “you shouldn't have let the mainspring get away from you. Lively little things, mainsprings. Elusive, what?”
“I fancy so.” Mikklesen, still smiling, still nonchalant, restored the watch to his pocket. “Mr. Batchelor, I'll toddle along. There's been no actual theft.”
“Who says there hasn't?”
O'Meara, purple with rage, was on his feet. “Batchelor, you turn this crook over to me. I'll put him behind the bars, where he belongs.”
Jim Batchelor shook his head.
“Your passion for justice is splendid, O'Meara,” he said, “but I prefer it otherwise. Publicity never did appeal to me. Mr. Mikklesen, I congratulate you. You must have been a wonder at hide and seek when you were a kid. You may as well—go along.”
“Thanks, awfully,” said Mikklesen. “It's been a frightfully jolly cruise, and all that.” He glanced at O'Meara, and his smile faded. “I'm going to ask one last favor, if I may.”
“Well, you've got your nerve,” Batchelor said. “What is it?”
“Will you be so good as to send me ashore alone, and let the launch return for—these others?”
The owner of the Francesca was in high good humor. He laughed.
“Of course I will,” he replied. “I can't say I blame you either. It isn't always safe for birds of a feather to flock together. Get into the launch. And you, O'Meara”—he put himself in the angry politician's path—“you stay where you are.”
Mikklesen indicated his luggage to a sailor and hastily descended the ladder. The launch putt-putted away. O'Meara moved to the rail and shook a heavy fist.
“I'll get you,” he cried, “you low-down crook!”
Mikklesen stood in the stern of the launch and waved a jaunty farewell. He was off in search of new fields and better luck.
“Oh, Mr. Batchelor,” purred Mrs. Keith, “it's a woman's privilege to change her mind, you know. If you have no objection I'll stay with the party.”
“Oh, no, you won't!” said Batchelor. “I've got my dollar back and I intend to hang on to it.”
“Why, what do you mean?” she said, staring at him with wide, innocent eyes.
“I'm on to you—and O'Meara too. I'm sorry you've forced me to say it. Go back to your friends the Blakes, Mrs. Keith, and tell them they've got me to lick on that China contract—if they can. As for you, O'Meara, my name will be entered in the primaries next week. And I'm glad to know where you stand.”
“What's it all about?” O'Meara inquired blandly.
“You know very well what it's about. The second officer has some errands in the town, but he'll be back with the launch in an hour or so. When he comes I'll ask you both to leave the Francesca.” Batchelor turned and his eyes lighted on Bill Hammond. Smiling, he put his arm about Bill's shoulder. “Some detective, if you ask me. Come into the saloon, son. There's a little matter of business between us. Henry, you're in on this. Got your check book?”
“I've got it,” said Frost, and he and Sally followed the pair into the main saloon.
“Two thousand from you, Henry,” Batchelor reminded him.
“I know it.” Mr. Frost reluctantly sat down at a desk and prepared to write.
“Wait a minute,” Bill interposed. “I don't want any money, Mr. Frost.”
“What do you want?” asked Frost.
“A better job.”
“And he deserves it too,” said Batchelor.
“Well,” began Frost, whose first instinct was always to hedge, “I don't like to interfere at the office” Still, his expression seemed to say two thousand is two thousand.
“The Sunday editor quit last week,” Bill went on. “A word from you and the job's mine. It pays a hundred, I believe.”
Frost stood up.
“All right,” he agreed. “We'll consider the matter settled.” He patted his check book lovingly and departed.
“Now that was sensible,” beamed Jim Batchelor. “A job—a chance to make good. Better than money.”
“It looks better to me,” smiled Bill. “You see, I'm thinking of getting married.”
Batchelor got up and seized his hand.
“Fine! Fine!” he cried. “My boy, I wish you all the luck in the world.”
“Then you approve of it?”
“The best thing that could happen to any young man. A balance wheel—an incentive.”
“That's the way I feel, sir,” said Bill heartily.
“And it does you credit.” Batchelor sat at the desk. “My little check will come in the way of a wedding present.” He stopped. “I hope you're getting the right sort of girl?”
“I'm sure of that, sir.”
“Of course you feel that way. But these modern girls—not the kind I used to know. Flighty, extravagant—they don't know the value of a dollar.”
“This one,” said Bill, “knows the value of one dollar. At least, she ought to.”
“What's that?” cried Batchelor.
“Put away your check book, sir,” said Bill. “It isn't your money I want.”
Batchelor threw down his pen. “I—I didn't dream—Sally, what about this?”
She came and sat on his knee.
“Dad, you've never refused me anything yet. You're not going to haggle over a little thing like Bill.”
“But—but I don't—this young man—why, he hasn't anything!”
“What did you have when you were married?” she asked.
“I had my brains and a strong right arm.”
“So has Bill,” she told him.
He turned slowly and looked at Bill.
“I'm thinking of you too,” he said. “I like you, my boy—I won't deny it. But this—this—could you get away with it? A girl like Sally—it isn't so much the initial expense—it's the upkeep. Could you manage it?”
“With your permission,” said Bill, “I'd like to try.”
Batchelor kissed his daughter and stood up.
“You'll have to give me time on this,” he said. “All so sudden. I'll think it over.”
“Yes, sir,” Bill answered. “And in the meantime”
“In the meantime” Batchelor stopped at the door. He looked at Bill Hammond long and wistfully. “You know,” he said, “I'd give a million dollars to be where you are now.” And he went out.
“Poor Dad,” said Sally. “Isn't he a darling?”
“It runs in your family,” Bill told her. “I've noticed that.”
“Bill, you'll always love me, won't you?”
“Love you—and keep you close,” said Bill. “In the big moments of my life you'll give me courage to go on. The first wife I ever earned.”
“Bill, be careful!” she said. “Somebody might come in.”
(THE END)