II
Coming in from a stroll in the bush in the late afternoon, Hammond was considerably surprised to discover patrols of the Canadian Mounted Police pacing the waterfront. Being hungry, he went direct to the dining-camp, expecting to learn from Sandy Macdougal, the cook, just what new crisis had arisen necessitating the presence of the police.
But he had finished the meal before the head cook came striding in. “Say, Hammond,” he opened, “the Big Boss told me to tell you he wanted to see you at his office as soon as you came in. Must be something all-fired important, for he seemed to be fussy about it, which is odd for him.”
Hammond hurried over. The interview was short. The superintendent handed him an envelope bearing his name in firm spencerian handwriting. “It contains a personal pass on any of the North Star tugs for the season,” he announced. “You are at liberty now to use it at your pleasure.”
The younger man concealed his amazement in a quiet “Thank you.”
“Better take the first tug in the morning,” suggested Acey Smith. “There’s a possibility of the afternoon tugs being off the run.”
“Oh, well, the following day will do as well,” returned the elated Hammond. “My business in the city is not so pressing that a day’s delay will matter.”
The superintendent passed Hammond his cigarette case and lit a cigarette himself. “I’d take the early tug to-morrow if I were you,” he insisted quietly. “There’s no telling what may happen the tug service between here and the city after to-morrow.”
“You’re not thinking of laying up the boats?”
“No—not us.” Smith studied Hammond idly, a curious, not unfriendly frown puckering his brows as he added: “Playing Sir Galahad seems to impair a journalist’s nose for news, doesn’t it, Hammond?”
That shot went home under the skin, but before Hammond could frame a rejoinder Acey Smith spoke up again. “I was going to say,” he remarked, “that should the tugs not be running when you are ready to return from the city that pass will be good on any make-shift service the company inaugurates to take the place of the big boats. Incidentally, I am leaving myself to-morrow on a trip to Montreal, and I’ll not be returning to camp for several days or perhaps a week. For the meantime, I have instructed Mr. Mooney, the assistant superintendent, to take care of your wants while our guest.”
Hammond was somewhat nettled by all this new show of attention and hospitality. He felt like telling the pulp camp superintendent to go to the devil, but he said “Thanks” again instead.
“Oh, just a minute, Hammond!”
Hammond paused at the door as Acey Smith strode over and passed him a newspaper. “The morning edition of the Star,” he indicated. “There is an item on the front page that may interest you—considerably.”
The wispy, mocking light that came over Acey Smith’s face when he uttered that last word was lost on Hammond for the moment. He walked back to his quarters in a fighting mood, all the more poignant because he had had to suppress it. Smith seemed to take such a fiendish enjoyment out of making him feel like a child he was studying for the sheer fun of the thing. Too, Hammond’s professional pride had been stung by the other’s broad insinuation that he, for a newspaper man, was wofully asleep to what was going on around him. It had gone the deeper because it was coupled with that vague hint about his attentions to Josephine Stone—at least that was what Hammond had taken the reference to Sir Galahad to mean.
What was going on at the limits? Why were all these mounted police out here? Why did the workmen, muttering in groups, fall so silent when he came near? Undoubtedly, a crisis of some sort was near at hand and he had missed a big piece of news that was breaking right under his nose. He began to concede to himself that he was deserving of the keenest of Acey Smith’s sarcasm. He had needed something like that to bring him down out of the clouds.
At first he was for going down and striking up a conversation with some of the police. On second thought he didn’t—he knew from experience how absolutely close-mouthed Canadian mounted policemen were about their orders. There was little that Sandy Macdougal would not know; he’d ask Sandy first.
But Sandy hadn’t come over from the cook camp when Hammond entered their shack. He had built up the fire in the little heater and lit his pipe when he bethought him of the Star that Acey Smith had passed him.
Under the wall lamp Hammond spread out the paper, then he jumped to his feet as his eyes were caught by a lower corner scare-line heading:—
POLICE LOOKING FOR YOUNG STRANGER
SEEN WITH N. T. GILDERSLEEVE BEFORE
MILLIONAIRE DISAPPEARED FROM TRAINUnknown Youth Travelling Alone Was in Pulp Magnate’s Stateroom, Coloured Porter Tells Authorities—Suspicion of Foul Play?
Mysterious Note Delivered En Route
In the body of the article Hammond read a badly-garbled description of himself and an equally highly-elaborated story of his interview with Gildersleeve. The coloured porter’s powers of imagination were in excellent working order, for he told of a loud altercation going on inside the stateroom before he entered, and that both men were standing glaring at each other with drawn, white faces when he was admitted.
It was all very ridiculous to one on the inside as to what really had happened, but quite on a par with most of the wild raft of useless clues brought to the surface by the police dragnet in mystery cases. Hammond might have laughed outright but for another thought that occurred to him.
He was under suspicion of having something to do with Gildersleeve’s disappearance!
So this was why Acey Smith had so suddenly become liberal with a pass over on the tug! The minute Hammond touched foot on Kam City docks he was very liable to be arrested and thrown into jail on suspicion of being concerned in a plot to do away with Gildersleeve. He would afterwards have to go through one of those small town police “third degrees,” usually more brutal and stupid than they were effective.
Smith had known that before he made out the pass—then he had given him the paper with this news in it so that he’d see how dangerous it would be for him to attempt to visit Kam City just now.
It was a proof of the superintendent’s fiendish notion of what constituted a good joke—but no, that couldn’t be it. Smith had been too insistent on Hammond’s taking the early tug. Acey Smith was too keen a reader of character to doubt that he, Hammond, would face the music rather than skulk around the pulp camp a fugitive from justice. Smith had some other motive, thought Hammond—there was no doubt about that now. Despite his obvious iniquity, there was a strong element of Canadian sportsmanship in Acey Smith’s make-up, Hammond had seen proofs of that. More likely he took this off-hand method of warning Hammond what he’d be up against when he landed in Kam City. That was more like Acey Smith whom most men feared, others hated and few could find it in their hearts to exactly detest. . . . More, if the superintendent had merely wanted to complicate matters for Hammond he would only have had to send word to Kam City that he, Hammond, was over at the limits, and the authorities would come after him. Piecing it all together, the young man now sensed that for some deeper reason the Big Boss of the timber limits was anxious to see him go over to Kam City.
But, be that as it might be, Hammond’s mind was fully made up. He was now more determined than ever to make the trip to Kam City on the morrow. He quite realised what an ugly position he might be placed in through the erratic evidence of the coloured porter, but he was chafing to have the whole thing over with. He could stand continued inaction no longer. If the police arrested him, well and good: he’d take a chance on the trend of events and his own evidence bringing the truth to the surface. True, his contract with Norman T. Gildersleeve called for his keeping secret the fact that he had been engaged by the millionaire to stay on the Nannabijou limits until he received other instructions, but Gildersleeve must truly have disappeared or he would take steps of some sort or other to prevent Hammond’s arrest on a false charge. He could find no conscientious reason why he should hold out longer.
He glanced at his watch. It was nearly ten o’clock. He decided not to wait up for Sandy Macdougal, for he would have to arise early to catch the morning tug. To-morrow surely would be an eventful day.