A POINT FOR THE ARCHCROOK.
For the merest part of a second Paul Clayton neither moved nor spoke. Then his hand shot down to a side pocket and came up with a heavy revolver.
The officer had been looking for some such move. He seized the young man’s wrist and gave it a wrench that caused the weapon to fall clattering to the floor.
“That won’t help you,” was the quiet warning. “Don’t resist, because you will be the person to suffer if you do.”
“What am I arrested for?” asked Clayton, composing himself with a tremendous effort.
“Stealing jewels estimated at about eighty thousand dollars from Mr. Stephen Reed, of New York City. He is said to be your uncle. We think we have the goods on you, too.”
Paul Clayton dropped his head despairingly. To think that, just when he had been so sure that he could return to his uncle the jewels he knew now he never had meant to keep, and begin life anew, with no stain on his name, he had to be arrested by this strange detective, who had followed him all this way, and seemed to have got to San Juan before him!
“Very well!” he sighed. “I’ll go with you quietly. There is nothing else I can do. I only want to say that Mr. Reed would have had all his property back as soon as it could reach him by express, and that there would have been no need for this arrest.”
“I guess so!” remarked the detective, with an incredulous shrug. “But I caution you that anything you say may be used against you at your trial. My advice to you is not to talk.”
“I have been a fool, I know,” went on Clayton, seemingly unable to keep his tongue quiet. “But I meant to make good.”
“Be careful.”
“I am careful. I have nothing to hide. The suit case holding the property is over on that chair, in my cabin. On the table is a letter I have written to Mr. Reed, and which would have been mailed as soon as I could get ashore. You can read it, and it will convince you that I have been telling the truth.”
“You’d better tell that to the judge,” interrupted the officer.
“I want to tell it to you. I wish you’d look at that letter.”
“It isn’t necessary. Hold out your hands.”
In another second the handcuffs were clapped on the wrists of Paul Clayton.
For the first time in his life he was a manacled prisoner. A dry sob broke from his throat.
It was then, as the officer stepped behind him and placed a hand on the precious suit case, that a curious change came over the face of the man from headquarters.
He bent over the suit case and a grin widened his mouth in so extraordinary a way that, if anybody who knew him had seen him at that instant, he would have declared that this detective lieutenant from New York was none other than John Garrison Rayne, the Apache!
“This is dead easy!” he muttered. “And it’s good that Nick Carter has gone off the ship. I’ll take these few things from my innocent young friend here, and he can get the handcuffs off when Carter comes back.”
How the scoundrel had contrived to get hold of the semiofficial uniform he wore in so short a time was his own secret.
It need only be said that when a man has six hundred dollars in cash in his pocket, he can get most things he wants, up to the value of his pile, in San Juan, just as he can in any other busy center.
At all events, here was John Garrison Rayne on the Cherokee, in the guise of a detective, seemingly carrying everything before him.
He had completely fooled Captain Bill Lawton, and Paul Clayton had not the least suspicion that he was anything but what he pretended to be.
“You will remain in this cabin a prisoner for the present,” he said shortly, turning to Clayton. “I shall have to go ashore and telegraph to New York for instructions. Ah, here’s Captain Lawton!”
The skipper was coming down the companionway. He raised his eyebrows as he saw that Paul Clayton was standing at the stateroom door, with handcuffs on his wrists.
“Nabbed him, eh?” he growled.
“I have him under arrest,” replied Rayne, with dignity. “If you will bring a couple of your men to guard the prisoner, I will stay till you come back.”
“All right! I’ll get my bos’n, Clegg, and another man,” replied the captain. “Clegg is the sort of fellow who won’t take any funny business from anybody. With him and another, your prisoner will be as safe as if he was in jail ashore.”
The captain hurried away to get Clegg—who, in the absence of Joe Sykes, was acting as bos’n. He was glad to do anything he could to help the officer from New York.
John Garrison Rayne watched the captain till he disappeared up the stairway. Then he stooped and picked up the revolver Clayton had dropped, putting it into his pocket.
The young man had fallen into a chair at the big table in the middle of the saloon, and was sitting there, his head resting upon his arms, the picture of despair.
The Apache strode deliberately into the stateroom—for he was afraid to hurry or show any eagerness, lest he should be suspected—and picked up the suit case.
As he brought it to the table, he was surprised to find that it was not locked.
He opened it and turned out its contents upon the table as if they had been a heap of pebbles. It was his way of showing that he regarded the booty from a purely official point of view.
Paul Clayton did not look up. He seemed to have lost interest in everything in the world just then.
Rayne had seen the jewels before. But he could not keep the glint out of his eyes as they fell upon the glittering stones and gold settings which would mean a fortune to him.
He had been at his last gasp financially when he had come on board the old tramp steamer. He had had enough to pay his fare and provide himself with cigars, and that was about all. He felt that he must make a killing now, no matter at what risk.
It was just as Rayne had the jewels spread out on the table that Captain Bill Lawton came down again. His eyes fell upon the display, and he could not get his breath.
The genial skipper did not know much about the value of gems and richly chased gold ornaments. But he felt sure this heap must be worth a great deal of money. He found himself regretting that he had not known what this young man had in his cabin.
How easy it would have been for the captain to get hold of the suit case, empty it into a bag of his own, and go ashore, saying good-by to the sea forever!
Captain Lawton might not have been guilty of this bit of villainy, even if he had had the opportunity. But certainly he allowed his thoughts to roam in this way, while a ruminative smile moved his hard lips.
John Garrison Rayne, familiar with the look of cupidity that steals over the faces of some men, divined pretty well what was passing in Captain Lawton’s mind. He brought the commander to himself sharply, by remarking, in a matter-of-fact tone:
“This stuff seems to be all right. I don’t see that anything is missing. But I’ll have to compare them with my list before I can be sure.”
He shoveled the jewelry back into the suit case as if he had no personal interest in the valuables, and shut the case with a snap.
“You will have two men to guard my prisoner, Captain Lawton,” he said shortly. “I shall have to hold you responsible for his safe-keeping. But I am not afraid that he will get away. I don’t see how he can, so long as he is kept down here. He couldn’t get out of any of the portholes.”
“He won’t get away!” grunted Captain Lawton. “I’ll answer for that.”
“All right! You’ll be paid for any trouble you have to take, of course. I’ll take this stuff ashore to my hotel, and keep it until I get instructions from New York.”
“I’ll be glad to see it off my ship,” declared Captain Lawton. “If you like, I’ll send a couple of men ashore with you, to help you guard the stuff till you put it away. I suppose you’ll stow it in the hotel safe.”
“Yes,” answered Rayne carelessly. “That will be the best place for it. Meantime, I can look after it myself. You will hear from me some time during the day.”
He took the suit case in his hand, and, with a grim smile under his heavy mustache, walked to the companionway and up to the deck.
His impulse was to make a rush for his boat. But the Apache had too much control of himself to yield to such an inclination. Instead, he sauntered over to the head of the sea ladder and shouted to his two oarsmen.
“Aye, aye, sir!” responded one of them, as they brought the craft up to the small platform at the foot of the ladder. “All right, sir!”
With a slow and dignified step, John Garrison Rayne went down the ladder. At the foot of it he stopped to wave a farewell to Captain Lawton, who, with his first mate, Van Cross, was at the top. Then he stepped into his boat and sat down in the stern, the valuable suit case between his knees.
No sooner had the men got the boat clear of the steamer than Rayne leaned forward and told them to hurry with all their might.
“It will be half a dollar extra for each of you if you put me ashore inside of fifteen minutes,” he told them. “I have to meet a gentleman who is going away on the train. Hurry!”
“Aye, aye, sir!” came in chorus from both of the oarsmen.
The promise of a tip has just as potent an effect in Porto Rico as it has in any other part of the world. They rowed with savage eagerness, and promised to get to shore in twelve minutes.
As the yawl cut its way through the heaving waters, John Garrison Rayne mused over his good luck. He hugged the suit case between his knees, and tried to decide on his next move.
“It was dead easy!” he muttered. “All I had to do was to get rid of that gray wig, put on the mustache, and buy the clothes I wanted out of the captain’s six hundred. Then I stepped into this boat, went up to the Cherokee, clapped handcuffs on Paul Clayton, picked up the suit case—after making sure it had the things in it—and quietly rowed away. Why, it was like taking candy from a baby.”
He chuckled so loudly that both of his oarsmen looked quickly at him in astonishment. He recovered himself immediately, and frowning severely at them, told them to pull harder.
It was just as he administered this rebuke to his men that he glanced over to the left, where a motor boat was chugging its way across the harbor.
There were three men in it.
At first they were too far away for him to make out who they were. Then, as the morning sun fell full upon their faces, he recognized them.
They were Nick Carter, Chick, and Patsy Garvan!
The motor boat swept past, causing the yawl to rock violently in its back wash.
Rayne bent over and appeared to be tying the lace of his shoe. His face was thus entirely concealed from the occupants of the motor boat.
When the danger of recognition was past, he hissed to his two perspiring oarsmen:
“Make it in eight minutes, and I’ll give you a dollar apiece!”
The little yawl fairly leaped through the water, as the men put in all the strength and activity they could muster.
“They’re going to the ship,” muttered Rayne. “I’ve got to be out of the way quickly. There may be a way of signaling shore. If there is anything like that to be done, that infernal Nick Carter will know how to do it.”