VII
THE DIVORCE DETECTIVE
At the Westport station, when our train pulled in, there was the usual gathering of cars to meet the late afternoon express from the city.
As we four were searching for a jitney ’bus to take us down to the Harbor House I caught sight in the press of cars of the Walcott car. Sitting in the back were Winifred and her sister-in-law, Mrs. Walcott, sister of the murdered man. They had come up to meet her husband, Johnson Walcott, who now came down the platform from the club car, which had been well forward.
The train was pulling out, clearing the road across the track, and as it did so there flashed past a speedster with a cream-colored body, a shining aluminium hood, and dainty upholstery. No one could have failed to notice it. As if the mere appearance of the car was not loud enough, the muffler cut-out was allowing the motor to growl a further demand for attention.
In the speedster sat Paquita, and as we looked across from our jitney I caught sight of Winifred eying her critically, turning at the same time to say something to Mrs. Walcott.
Paquita saw it, too, and shot a glance of defiance as she stepped her dainty toe on the gas and leaped ahead of all the cars that were pulling out with passengers whom they had met.
“Did you get that?” whispered Kennedy to me. “Not only have we a mystery on our hands, but we have something much harder to follow—conflict between those two women. Shelby may think he is a principal in the game, but one or the other of them is going to show him that he is a mere miserable pawn.”
“I wonder where she could have been?” I speculated. “That road up past the station leads to the turnpike to the city. Could she have been there, or just out for a spin?”
Kennedy shook his head. “If we are going to follow that color-scheme about the country we’ll need to get a car that can travel up to the limit.”