I knew Captain Marlowe to be a proverbial fire-eater, but in this case, at least, he was no alarmist. For, on the table, as he spoke, he laid a real bullet.
Marjorie Marlowe shuddered at the mere sight of it and glanced apprehensively at him as if to reassure herself. She was a tall, slender girl, scarcely out of her teens, whose face was one of those quite as striking for its character as its beauty. The death of her mother a few years before had placed on her much of the responsibility of the captain’s household and with it a charm added to youth.
More under the spell of her plea than even Marlowe’s vigorous urging, Kennedy, without a word, picked up the bullet and examined it. It was one of the modern spitzer type, quite short, conical in shape, tapering gradually, with the center of gravity back near the base.
“I suppose you know,” went on the captain, eagerly, “that our company is getting ready tomorrow to launch the Usona, the largest liner that has ever been built on this side of the water—the name is made up of the initials of the United States of North America.
“Just now,” he added, enthusiastically, “is what I call the golden opportunity for American shipping. While England and Germany are crippled, it’s our chance to put the American flag on the sea as it was in the old days, and we’re going to do it. Why, the shipyards of my company are worked beyond their capacity now.”
Somehow the captain’s enthusiasm was contagious. I could see that his daughter felt it, that she was full of fire over the idea. But at the same time something vastly more personal weighed on her mind.
“But, father,” she interrupted, anxiously, “tell them about the BULLET.”
The captain smiled indulgently as though he would say that he was a tough old bird to wing. It was only a mask to hide the fighting spirit underneath.
“We’ve had nothing but trouble ever since we laid the keel of that ship,” he continued, pugnaciously, “strikes, a fire in the yard, delays, about everything that could happen. Lately we’ve noticed a motor-boat hanging about the river-front of the yards. So I’ve had a boat of my own patrolling the river.”
“What sort of craft is this other?” inquired Kennedy, interested at once.
“A very fast one—like those express cruisers that we hear so much about now.”
“Whose is it? Who was in it? Have you any idea?”
Marlowe shook his head doubtfully. “No idea. I don’t know who owns the boat or who runs it. My men tell me they think they’ve seen a woman in it sometimes, though. I’ve been trying to figure it out. Why should it be hanging about? It can’t be spying. There isn’t any secrecy about the Usona. Why is it? It’s a mystery.”
“And the shot?” prompted Craig, tapping the bullet.
“Oh yes, let me tell you. Last night, Marjorie and I arrived from Bar Harbor on my yacht, for the launching. It’s anchored off the yard now. Well, early this morning, while it was still gray and misty, I was up. I’ll confess I’m worried over tomorrow. I hadn’t been able to forget that cruiser. I was out on the deck, peering into the mist, when I’m sure I saw her. I was just giving a signal to the boat we have patrolling, when a shot whistled past me and the bullet buried itself in the woodwork of the main saloon back of me. I dug it out of the wood with my knife—so you see I got it almost unflattened. That’s all I have got, too. The cruiser made a getaway, clean.”
“I’m sure it was aimed at him,” Marjorie exclaimed. “I don’t think it was chance. Don’t you see? They’ve tried everything else. Now if they could get my father, the head of the company, that would be a blow that would cripple the trust.”
Marlowe patted his daughter’s hand reassuringly and smiled again, as though not to magnify the incident.
“Marjorie was so alarmed,” he confessed, “that nothing would satisfy her but that I should come ashore and stay here at the Belleclaire, where we always put up when we are in town.”
The telephone rang and Marjorie answered it. “I hope you’ll pardon me,” she excused, hanging up the receiver. “They want me very much downstairs.” Then appealing, she added: “I’ll have to leave you with father. But, please, you must catch that crank who is threatening him.”
“I shall do my level best,” promised Kennedy. “You may depend on that.”
“You see,” explained the captain as she left us, “I’ve invited quite a large party to attend the launching, for one reason or another. Marjorie must play hostess. They’re mostly here at the hotel. Perhaps you saw some of them as you came in.”
Craig was still scanning the bullet. “It looks almost as if some one had dum-dummed it,” he remarked, finally. “It’s curiously done, too. Just look at those grooves.”
Both the captain and I looked. It had a hard jacket of cupro-nickel, like the army bullet, covering a core of softer metal. Some one had notched or scored the jacket as if with a sharp knife, though not completely through it. Had it been done for the purpose of inflicting a more frightful wound if it struck the captain?
“There’ve been other shots, too,” went on Marlowe. “One of my watchmen was wounded the night before. It didn’t took like a serious wound, in the leg. Yet the poor fellow seems to be in a bad way, they tell me.”
“How is that?” asked Craig, glancing up quickly from studying the bullet.
“The wound seems to be all puffed up, and very painful. It won’t heal, and he seems to be weak and feverish. Why, I’m afraid the man will die.”
“I’d like to see that case,” remarked Kennedy, thoughtfully.
“Very well. I’ll have you driven to the hospital where we have had to take him.”
“I’d like to see the yards, too, and the Usona,” he added.
“All right. After you go to the hospital I’ll meet you at the yards at noon. Now if you’ll come downstairs with me, I’ll get my car and have you taken to the hospital first.”
We followed Marlowe into the elevator and rode down. In the large parlor we saw that Marjorie Marlowe had joined a group of the guests, and the captain turned aside to introduce us.
Among them I noticed a striking-looking woman, somewhat older than Marjorie. She turned as we approached and greeted the captain cordially.
“I’m so glad there was nothing serious this morning,” she remarked, extending her hand to him.
“Oh, nothing at all, nothing at all,” he returned, holding the hand, I thought, just a bit longer than was necessary. Then he turned to us, “Miss Alma Hillman, let me present Professor Kennedy and Mr. Jameson.”
I was not so preoccupied in taking in the group that I did not notice that the captain was more than ordinarily attentive to her. Nor can I say that I blamed him, for, although he might almost have been her father in age, there was a fascination about her that youth does not often possess.
Talking with her had been a young man, slender, good-looking, with almost a military bearing.
“Mr. Ogilvie Fitzhugh,” introduced Marjorie, seeing that her father was neglecting his duties.
Fitzhugh bowed and shook hands, murmured something stereotyped, and turned again to speak to Marjorie.
I watched the young people closely. If Captain Marlowe was interested in Alma, it was more than evident that Fitzhugh was absolutely captivated by Marjorie, and I fancied that Marjorie was not averse to him, for he had a personality and a manner which were very pleasing.
As the conversation ran gaily on to the launching and the gathering party of notables who were expected that night and the next day, I noticed that a dark-eyed, dark-haired, olive-complexioned young man approached and joined us.
“Doctor Gavira,”