His search began at the steamship offices. He first examined the passenger list of the Latourette, the vessel on which Miss Fitzhugh had claimed to have arrived, and sought for her name, only to find that it was not there. Less hopefully, he examined the lists of the vessels sailing from New York during the week that had elapsed since the murder, only to find no trace of her. Finally something happened that determined him to enlist the aid of Joe Bristow, a newspaper man of his acquaintance.
Bristow was ship-news reporter of the Consolidated Press. His duties required him to remain at Quarantine so long as any steamship was likely to arrive there. Ordinarily he left for the city at five or six o’clock in the afternoon, but if one of the great liners reported itself by wireless as intending to make port that night, he had to remain to see what news and passengers she brought. Few steamships reached New York without being boarded by him, and few important visitors entered port without being interviewed by him. He, if any one, would be likely to know if anybody answering Miss Fitzhugh’s description had arrived recently.
Caruth, who knew him slightly as the occupant of a small apartment high up in the Chimneystack Building, took the first opportunity that afforded to accost him and to invite him into his apartment.
Bristow accepted readily, though a faint smile curved his lips, as if some secret idea were stirring in his mind. He did not know Caruth very well, though he had frequently passed the time of day with him, and he had never before been asked to join the young fellow. Newspaper men are apt to grow cynical, and Bristow had learned to suspect the motives of those who sought him out.
Caruth led his guest to his den, and placed the decanters before him. Then, through the wreaths of tobacco smoke, he put his question, leading up to it with what he believed to be commendable astuteness.
Bristow listened quietly; then he answered one question with another. “The Latourette?” he repeated. “Yes; she arrived at eight o’clock on the night of March 5. Her mails and two of her passengers were brought up to the city on the mail tug. Let’s see—that was the night your valet was murdered, wasn’t it?”
Caruth blenched slightly. The reporter’s inquiry was probably only casual, but it might easily be otherwise. Perhaps he had erred in consulting this keen-faced newspaper man. However, there was nothing to do but to go on.
“Yes,” he answered steadily; “it was the same night.”
Bristow nodded. “I saw the lady,” he stated reflectively. “She was a looker all right. She had deep violet eyes and dark hair with a glint in it. She spoke English perfectly, but there was something foreign about her.” He paused and knocked the ash from his cigar. “I came up on the tug with her,” he added casually.
“Yes? And her name? I—I—have reasons for wanting to know.”