CHAPTER VII
HAMMER STARTS SOMETHING
The American was at a loss to make out what had happened to Potbelly. The mission-boy had arrived grinningly, almost insolently, and after a look at the ring he had seemed to be transfixed by terror. What was there about that ring to create such an impression? Certainly it looked harmless enough, and Herr Krausz would have observed anything unduly curious about it.
From inside the tent of Professor Helmuth he could hear, as he waited, Potbelly's voice rising shrilly, though the words were lost. Then came a softer, deeper voice, which he recognized as that of the lady in question. He grinned to himself as he remembered her cool determination of that morning.
"I guess Potbelly's having his troubles about now," he thought. "By Godfrey, I'll have to get to the bottom of this mystery some way! And the only way to do it, I guess, is to have a frank explanation with Professor Sara L. Helmuth—bless her brown eyes! I wonder why I never liked that name Sara before now!"
Hammer was still cogitating this all-important point when he saw Potbelly's black visage appear from the tent-flap, and the boy beckoned hastily. The American, holding the ring in his hand, stepped to the tent door.
Sara L. Helmuth, professor and mistress of Semitic languages, was sitting at the table inside, a revolver ready to her hand.
Simply and coolly dressed in white, with her rippling brown hair coiled loosely on her head, she offered an extremely attractive picture to Cyrus Hammer, is spite of the circles of weariness and trouble about her eyes.
He had always felt a weakness for women who were self-reliant without becoming, as he had phrased it, "short-haired", and that she was such a woman had been evident from the first. Moreover, the doctor had said that she was just twenty-three.
She did not rise, but stood looking at him for a moment, and Hammer felt that to her the situation was, for some reason, very grave. Instinctively he sympathized with her, and under the thought his face lost its harder outlines, though it retained to the full all its rugged, healthy strength. Then she waved her hand toward a camp-stool just inside the door.
"Sit down, Mr. Hammer. Make sure the boys are watching, Potbelly."
The mission-boy disappeared. Hammer felt unaccountably at a loss, as though all his assurance were ebbing away beneath her steady gaze, and waited for her to speak.
"Potbelly tells me, Mr. Hammer, that you have come from Mr. Solomon. If that was true, why did you not speak of it this morning?"
"Eh?" he stammered, utterly bewildered. "Mr. Solomon? You mean John Solomon?"
"Who else would I mean?"
"Why—Miss Helmuth, I—you can search me! I haven't come from John Solomon, not that I know of. What's got into that fellow of yours, anyway? Now please don't look like that"—for she had suddenly stiffened in her chair, her eyes cold—"but I can't make head or tale of this thing, professor. That's straight!
"I didn't tell Potbelly that I wanted to see you, and I didn't send him to you with that message. I wanted him to ask you if you could read the seal engraving on this ring, for it looks like Arabic. He jumped off on his own hook and told me to come along."
There was unbelief in the brown eyes that gazed searchingly into his, but the American's whole attitude betrayed the sincerity behind his words. Slowly the girl relaxed in her chair, and held out her hand.
"Let me see the ring."
He gave it to her in silence. She bent over it a moment, then rose with lithe grace and took an enlarging glass from an open suitcase near by.
She stood by the light of the open flap, scrutinising it closely, while Hammer's eyes wandered over her slender figure and jerked back quickly to her face, almost guiltily: for Cyrus Hammer was like most highly-strung, clean, hard-living men in that he idealized women in general, and his own women friends in particular.
That, indeed, had contributed largely to his utter demoralization after the disillusion that had come upon him three years before.
"Where did you get this ring, Mr. Hammer?"
He started, for his thoughts had been far away. She returned to her seat, having seemingly lost her fear for a moment, and he told her how the ring had been brought to him an hour before, and how the messenger had straightway departed without a word of explanation. While he spoke her eyes searched his face keenly, and at the end she nodded.
"I suppose your story is true, Mr. Hammer; though it sounds rather odd, I must admit that there is truth in your face. That is exactly what I cannot understand."
"You can't? Why not, please? You must have a pretty bad opinion of people!"
"Well, perhaps I have some reason for it, Mr. Hammer. But—well, no matter. Where is Mr. Solomon? Have you seen him?"
"Not since he left the yacht," and Hammer told what he knew of John Solomon. It occurred to him that this was a chance to heal the breach, and accordingly he dilated upon Dr. Sigurd Krausz as a side-issue, putting in as good a word for the scientist as he could. He did not see that suspicion was darkening in the girl's brown eyes as he proceeded, nor did he note that her hand had closed once more upon the revolver, until she held out the ring and interrupted bluntly.
"That is enough, thank you. This ring, as you probably know, bears the Arabic name of Suleiman, or Solomon. There is no use saying any more in favour of Dr. Krausz, Mr. Hammer. Your story is rather improbable, to say the least."
"Why, what do you mean?" He was once more startled by her sudden change of front, comprehending that she had resumed her hostile attitude. "I wish you would tell me if I can be of any help to you, Miss Helmuth! I put it up to the doctor flat, and he told me to keep out of a family row, but——"
"Now, listen, please," she broke in again, her voice cold—almost desperate, he thought vaguely.
"Your story is not convincing, Mr. Hammer, and I am frankly afraid that you think me a good deal of a simpleton. That ring may have come from John Solomon and it may not, but under the circumstances I prefer to take no chances.
"I never met Mr. Solomon, and I never met you; I am practically helpless here, except for my four mission boys, and while you and the doctor may pull the wool over their eyes, I intend to take care of myself.
"When you can produce Mr. Solomon to vouch for you, then things will be different. Until then, I must decline to have any further communication with you."
Poor Hammer stared at her, wondering which of them was crazy. A moment before she had seemed perfectly amenable to reason, but his references to Krausz seemed to have flicked her on the raw and turned her against him again.
"But, Miss Helmuth, can't you see that I am trying to help you? Good Heavens, girl, I'm not any great friend of the doctor! Things here look pretty badly for me, and I'm only anxious to help you if I can. Why are you helpless here? I can't very well go after Krausz with a shotgun without knowing why!"
"I think you know why, Mr. Hammer, and I don't believe there is any use in discussing the matter further. There is only one man I can trust, and if you have been telling the truth I will be glad to apologize.
"But you are either a great fool or you are very ignorant of conditions, and if you came from Mr. Solomon I do not think you would be in either category.
"I can only conclude that you are, as you yourself admitted, in the pay of Dr. Krausz. If Mr. Solomon comes, as I have prayed he will come then he may be able to vouch for you. If not—well, I shall not give up without a fight, that's all."
She rose in dismissal, but Hammer refused to budge.
"Give up what, Miss Helmuth? I'm sorry you don't believe me, but I don't know what the row is about."
The brown eyes gazed at him steadily, almost contemptuously.
"How did Dr. Krausz know that I had appealed to Mr. Solomon for aid?"
"He didn't, that I know of," retorted the American, losing patience. "What on earth is all this talk about that little fat man, anyway? You say you've never met him, then you say that he's the only man you can trust and to bring him along to vouch for me. If I do, who's going to vouch for him, I'd like to know?"
Her eyes dilated slowly, and Hammer was under the impression that his words had had some effect. He was soon undeceived, however.
"Oh, is he a little fat man with big blue eyes?" and there was amazement in her voice.
"He is," returned Hammer ungraciously. "Also, he's in the employ of Dr. Krausz as supercargo—same as me, if you please. Also, I think he's the biggest liar unhung. I can't quite see the connection between you and him, professor."
"Then—he was the man who came on the Mombasa——" she began as if speaking to herself, stopping abruptly and gazing at Hammer as if he had surprised her into revealing some secret. He paid slight attention to her words, for he was trying to find the clue which so persistently eluded his efforts.
Certainly his own statements were a good deal more lucid than hers, and were not so conflicting by half. Yet she seemed to think that he and Krausz were leagued against her in some way and that the ring was some kind of a trick.
She claimed never to have met Solomon, yet described him and seemed to trust him implicitly! Small wonder that the American groaned to himself in despair.
Sara Helmuth was still standing, however, and now she looked down at him with angry eyes; but Hammer thought that seldom had he seen so magnificent a girl even though her mind might be a trifle unbalanced.
"You seem to be insensible to my invitation to depart, Mr. Hammer," and there was cold rage in her voice; "and since you have been clever enough to worm most of the secret out of me, I'll tell you the rest in order to get rid of you.
"Mr. Solomon came aboard the Mombasa at London, stating that he was a messenger from John Solomon and proving it quite efficiently. Naturally I did not recognize him, but I turned over to him the papers, and received them in duplicate when I reached Mombasa from the hands of Potbelly.
"They must have been cabled out, but in any case Potbelly has shown himself worthy of trust, except in this one instance of your fraudulent ring. That is all I know, and you can take it back to your master and share the knowledge with him. Now will you go?"
Hammer began to see light for the first time since the conversation began. John Solomon's hurried trip aboard the Mombasa was explained, it seemed; also the conflicting statements of Miss Helmuth began to straighten themselves out.
And yet the thing sounded so incredible! John Solomon, a fat little cockney supercargo, in league with this girl he had only seen once——
"I'll go," he said helplessly, "but I'm going to have this thing out with Krausz and see what screw is loose, Miss Helmuth. I still can't understand your connection with that little rat Solomon—but I'll go."
So he went, without a word more from her, back to the other tent, where he filled his pipe and tried to get the affair into more lucid shape within his own mind. The effort was vain, however.
The one thing that stood out above all others was that Potbelly's recognition of the ring had been in vain, that Sara Helmuth had absolutely no confidence in it, and had a very lively suspicion that he and Krausz were attempting to trick her.
But what about? It was no longer a question of this woman being a prig—Hammer saw deeper than that, at least. There was something underlying it all that vitally affected her.
This much he knew: Krausz had sent her certain papers in a black wallet from the hotel in London, and she had given those papers to Solomon five minutes later, doubtless without reading them. Then Solomon had lied to him about the black wallet, and he had done it artistically, too. The American began to consider Solomon seriously.
"I'll bet a dollar I was right about Schlak's murder," he thought suddenly. "John Solomon put that Arab up to testifying as he did, and whether Jenson worked the same game with Baumgardner—say, I'll run a bluff on that big Dutchman!"
As the idea occurred to him he looked up and saw Baumgardner himself approaching the tent, evidently having been sent for something by the scientist.
Hammer laid down his pipe and waited until the other came up to the entrance, when he quickly brought out his revolver and covered the surprised German.
"Sit down, Baumgardner," and he made his voice as cold and menacing as possible. "I've a word to say to you, my man."
Anger flitted over the other's heavy countenance, but Hammer was in no mood to be trifled with and showed it plainly. The boatswain sat down.
"Now bear in mind that you're under my authority, bos'n, and not under that of the doctor. No, shut your head! I've got you to rights, Baumgardner. Thought you were pretty smooth, didn't you, when you pulled off that play aboard the yacht? But I'm on to you, and you go back before the German Consul, you and Jenson, and before the British authorities.
"I'm going to open up the case of Schlak's death with a vengeance, and you'll get about two years breaking stone on the Mombasa roads for perjury, you and Jenson. How does that strike you, my man?"
It struck, plain enough, and struck heavily. Baumgardner, who was a big, black-haired type like the doctor, stared at first in blank amazement, but when Hammer finished, his jaw had dropped and dismay sat in his eyes. The American, at heart terribly doubtful as to the outcome of his bluff, pressed the advantage instantly.
"Now, look here, Baumgardner. You're a good seaman, and I'd sooner put Jenson over the road than you. Besides, Mr. Solomon and his Arab friend are going the same way, so there'll be company, and to spare. Now tell me exactly what Jenson said to you outside the chart-house that night."
Baumgardner, whose heavy wits failed to come up to the scratch, blinked.
"Why, Mr. Hammer," he responded humbly, "he just fixed up the story with me, that was all, and said he'd stand by me. How did you know about it, sir?"
"None of your business," snapped Hammer, unutterably relieved. "So it was a frame-up, eh? And Solomon never had the knife to your knowledge?"
"No, sir. It belonged to Mr. Schlak."
"Good Lord! Is that so?"
"Yes, sir. The sheath was hanging on his wall, but Mr. Jenson said to say nothing about it. The hands didn't know because they'd never been in his cabin and he generally carried another."
"Then we'll land Solomon—but why did he admit having had it?"
The other only stared dully at him, his face pale. The American had almost forgotten about Sara Helmuth in the light of this amazing revelation which his bluff had forced out of a clear sky.
He thought swiftly. Solomon must have admitted having had the knife in order to give better colour to the Arab's testimony, and the cleverness of it appalled Hammer, who had scarcely expected such astuteness from the fat supercargo.
Now, however, he determined to carry out the affair to the limit. He would take Baumgardner and Jenson back to Mombasa, get hold of Solomon and the Arab, which could easily be done, and set the whole group breaking stone with the possible exception of the boatswain, who had been a mere tool in Jenson's hands.
Moreover, the pallid-faced secretary was turning out to be a dangerous character. The American's dislike of him was being well verified, and he would have to keep a good watch on the viperish little black-clad man on the trip to Melindi, where the district commissioner could take him in charge.
But while he was turning the matter over in his mind, Baumgardner, perhaps suspecting that the American had bluffed the truth out of him, was regaining his lost self-control, and now spoke out with startling boldness.
"You'll have to see Dr. Krausz, Mr. Hammer, before taking us back. I'm working for him——"
"You shut your head!" Hammer shoved the revolver back into his pocket, for he much preferred to use his fists, and his face, dangerously alight, shot forward almost into the German's.
"Don't give me any of your lip or I'll show you who you're working for, you pie-faced Dutchman! Now stay where you are while I fetch Jenson, and we'll be off for Melindi in ten minutes. You leave this affair to me and I'll pull you out of it; but start any monkey-work and I'll make it hot for you. Don't forget that."
Baumgardner was thoroughly subdued and showed no sign of giving further trouble. So Hammer, determining to get off in the launch before the afternoon grew old, called one of the boys who was in sight.
"You talk English? Good. Break out two chop-boxes and put them aboard the launch—where is she, Baumgardner?"
"Anchored a quarter-mile off shore, sir. The boat's on the beach. It's too shallow to run her in closer, sir.”
"Very good. Boy, what's your name?"
"Mohammed Bari, sar."
"Then get a couple of boys down to the boat with the boxes and stay here. Be ready to lead me down there. That's all. How far is the shore from here, bos'n?"
"Straight down, sir, about three hundred yards. But we come by a path, sir, which goes down to the boat. It's a matter of a half-mile."
"All right. You stay where you are."
So, having no more fears that the boatswain would prove insubordinate, Hammer rummaged around in the effects of Dr. Krausz until he found a length of very serviceable wire-twisted cord which would make a good substitute for handcuffs. He was going to take no chances with Adolf Jenson. A moment later he started for the hill. With one of the sailors to accompany them and fetch back the launch from Melindi, he could take care of Jenson. He found Krausz and the secretary at their table beneath the sun-shelter, and perhaps something in his eye warned the latter, for Jenson started to his feet as Hammer came up.
"You're coming back to Mombasa with me, Jenson," said the American, reaching forward and dragging the fellow out bodily by the collar. "Stick out your hands, you little beast!"
"Was ist?" The doctor's voice was very gentle, but Hammer felt a little rim of steel touching his neck. "Let that man go please, yess?”