When he finally stumbled into his own house again, Beckwith was exhausted both mentally and physically. He made his way, dripping, into the room where he had left his newspapers. His wife rose and fled from the room when he appeared, leaving behind her the picture section at which she had been looking.
She read no English, and but little Spanish, but the brown-tinted pictures gave her childish pleasure. Beckwith paid no attention to her hasty flight, but slumped down in his chair and stared gloomily at the floor. Then, suddenly, a picture on the illustrated sheet grew clear and distinct It was a picture of Hugh Conway, at the top of his stroke, about to strike a golfball. The legend beneath the picture read: “Hugh Conway, well-known multimillionaire, taking a vacation from business cares at Newport. He is shown driving off from the first tee in front of the clubhouse.”
Beckwith, staring at the picture of the man whose life he had choked out a month before, caught his breath and began to swear at the printed sheet, hysterically, as he might have sworn at a ghost.
When the fruit steamer stopped on its northern trip, Beckwith took possession of a cabin. He did not quite understand why he was going to New York, but he was feverishly impatient for the ship to leave Bahia del Toro. He had a letter of credit in his pocket, and was determined to find out once and for all what had happened. If Conway had escaped him before, he would not escape again.
In his stateroom Beckwith carried the last batch of papers he had received, and spent much time reading and rereading the items concerning Conway. He weighed again and again each phrase in the accounts of Conway’s munificent gift to charity, hoping to find therein some hint of Conway’s death. He knew Conway was dead. He had choked Conway’s life from him with his two hands. But why, why, why did not the papers announce the murder?
The ship steamed up the coast with incredible slowness. It put into Havana with nerve-racking deliberation. There were fresh papers to be secured there, but none of than told of the murder. Beckwith read them minutely, and as the steamer neared New York he came out on deck and paced back and forth, smoking incessantly, torturing his brain for an explanation of the silence of the newspapers.
His nerves were in shreds when they finally reached New York. He watched the forts swing by to his left, and the tall buildings of lower Manhattan rise from the water. The fixed expressionlessness of the Statue of Liberty irritated him. He was all impatience to be ashore and free to make his final investigations. What had happened that had prevented the press from learning of Conway’s death? And why had they printed no word of murderer? The leisurely manner of the customs inspectors drove him nearly frantic. When he was at last free to go ashore he was trembling from sheer nervous tension.
He went down the gangplank, an olive-skinned steward carrying his bags. He pushed roughly through the crowd of people come to meet the voyagers, and closed his ears to the soft Spanish greetings. He failed altogether to see a motion-picture photographer cranking busily. He pressed free of the assembly of people, and turned impatiently to the steward behind him.
“Trouble you to come with me, sir,” said a quiet voice at his elbow.
Two unimpressive figures in civilian clothes stood, one on either side. The hand of each was in his coat-pocket, where a suggestive bulge warned against resistance.