Kerry (19 page)

He was curious of being thankful that the dock had a limited width, and there were no spaces at the side where thieves might disappear. He was also glad that he was tall and could look well over the heads of the crowd.

As he lunged on keeping a sharp lookout to right and left, he wondered whether Kerry had heard him. Would she have understood? Had she realized the loss of her briefcase yet herself ? Would she stand still and look after that baggage as he had told her in his haste, or would she walk on and leave it behind, not realizing that it was there? Well, it could not be helped. The manuscript was the main thing. It must be saved if everything else was lost.

And perhaps the thief would double on his tracks and return to the ship, or hide somewhere! McNair’s heart was pounding hard with the intensity of his excitement, and his breath was coming fast.

Then he sighted Dawson stalking ahead of him, not even running, carrying a brown briefcase under his arm nonchalantly just as if he had carried it all the days of his life.

He was several yards ahead and not looking back, but he was making good time. McNair wondered if he dared just walk up to Dawson and charge him with stealing a briefcase. What was he going to say when he overtook Dawson, provided Dawson did not manage some uncanny getaway before he reached him?

McNair was almost within hailing distance of Dawson when a couple of large trucks drove out to the wharf. The crowd parted to let them pass, and McNair barely got out of their way in time, but Dawson slipped out of sight behind them, and seemed to be nowhere when they were passed. However, McNair strode on. He must cover the distance to the street as fast as possible. Once there he could call a policeman.

But he went on until he reached the station and ticket offices before he got another glimpse of Dawson swinging through the revolving door. McNair was after him instantly, and nearly caught him as he went through the opposite door to the street, but a crowd of incoming travelers got between them again, and Dawson was out in the street hailing a taxicab before McNair had a chance to get through the door himself.

The cab had arrived and Dawson was just about to enter it when turning he caught sight of McNair and wheeling to the right ducked behind a big oil tank truck and was off again, the briefcase still tucked firmly under his arm.

How long McNair continued that race, how far they went, how many corners they turned he was never quite sure, but he was nearly winded and Dawson in spite of his shorter legs was a half a block ahead when at last a fire engine crossed Dawson’s path, with a hook and ladder truck, and an ambulance close behind, and for the instant he was penned in. He turned this way, and ducked that, and almost got killed trying to get between two cars, but just as he thought he had lost him, McNair still running and panting, his arms waving wildly, ran full into the arms of a burly policeman.

“Catch!” he yelled. “Catch that man quick! He’s stolen—that briefcase!”

The policeman waited not to hear more, he was off like a flash, and the next instant, Dawson, PhD, found himself confronted with the law, stalwart and grim.

Dawson stepped back in well-feigned amazement.

“I beg your pardon, sir, what is all this about?” he demanded as the policeman laid a detaining hand on his well-groomed shoulder.

And then McNair arrived.

“He has taken a lady’s briefcase,” stated McNair between gasps as he tried to steady his voice.

Dawson looked up at him amusedly, though he was white as a sheet and his little black eyes had a frightened look.

“Briefcase?” he said, “Oh, briefcase? My briefcase?” and he laughed his hard little cackle. “Why, bless my soul! It’s McNair! Why, hello, old man! Glad to see you!”

Then to the policeman: “I beg your pardon, sir, this gentleman knows me. We have just come off the same ship together. He knows who I am. This is my own briefcase, an old one, that I have carried with me on my travels abroad. I presume he has followed the wrong man, not recognizing me. Somebody lost a briefcase? Can I help in the search?”

But McNair did not smile. His eye was on the briefcase, and a glint of triumph was in it.

“Do you know this gentleman?” asked the policeman, eyeing the two men cannily.

“I know who he says he is,” said McNair, his voice now back almost to its natural tone, “but if that is your briefcase, Dawson, how does it come to have its handle slashed through with a fresh cut of a knife?”

The policeman scanned the leather handle.

“Oh!” laughed Dawson easily, “that happened in Algeria. I was—”

“Just wait a minute, Dawson,” said McNair authoritatively, “if that is your briefcase, how comes it that Miss Kavanaugh’s green silk shawl is inside of it?”

And at that same instant the policeman’s wary eye caught the gleam of a long green silk strand of fringe hanging out through the tongue of the briefcase.

Dawson’s eyes went fearfully down to the condemning thread.

“Why, the idea!” he stuttered, “that’s only a bit of a thread—off of somebody’s clothes,” —and he tried to brush it away. But the thread did not yield. Instead a second thread came greenly out to testify against him.

“Why, my dear fellow!” said Dawson, PhD. “I really don’t understand this. How could I possibly have picked up another briefcase instead of mine? I was sure I had my own. Now, what do you think of that! I must have left my own on the ship. I’ll have to hurry right back—” And he turned and made as if to slip away in the opposite direction. But the heavy hand of the law was upon him, and upon the briefcase which he carried.

“No, you don’t!” said the policeman. “I’ll just take a little hand in this myself. Suppose this other gent here tells what he knows about it all. He was the guy that was follerin’ you!”

“But my dear sir—” began Dawson.

“That’ll be about all from you at present!” said the representative of the law. “How come it, mister?” to McNair.

“I was walking with the owner of the briefcase when it happened. She had the case under her arm. We were coming off the ship that just docked, pier 12. A hand came out of the crowd and cut that handle, which was round her wrist, and another hand jerked the case from under her arm, and the thief ducked behind the crowd and disappeared. I dropped my baggage and followed, and that man has crossed and recrossed streets, and ducked under trucks and cabs and cars and turned corners and double-crossed himself all the way up here. He knew perfectly well I was after him. He’s been trying to get hold of the contents of that briefcase all the way across the Atlantic. If you don’t believe me come back to the dock with me and ask the steward of the ship, and ask the lady that owns the briefcase. She’s waiting for me down there now, right where it happened.”

“Come on with me!” said the man of the law, grasping the sleeve of the would-be scientist.

“Why, certainly!” said Dawson, PhD, affably. “Of course I’ll go with you. I certainly am sorry to have caused Miss Kavanaugh all this trouble. You see I must have picked up that briefcase on deck when it was laid down, instead of my own and Miss Kavanaugh probably has mine. I shall be glad indeed if it was mine that was stolen instead of hers, for mine had very unimportant matters in it, a few photographs and some notes of articles I meant to write, nothing but what I could easily duplicate.”

The policeman said nothing but hailed a cab, and put Dawson in it, motioned McNair to follow, and gave an order to the driver. On the way down he hailed a fellow officer and added him to the party.

Dawson, after the first block, managed a superior smile, and attempted a feeble conversation with McNair, but the police interrupted.

“Got a knife in yer clothes?”

“Knife?” said Dawson innocently.

“Never mind, don’t bother. I’ll find it.” And a burly hand went investigating in Dawson’s pockets.

“Oh, yes, knife. Why of course, I always carry a knife.”

The knife came to light. A wicked blade, delicately sharp. The policeman snapped it open and played a tough finger over its edge. He lifted a knowing eye and winked toward McNair, who was watching him. Then he snapped the blade shut and stowed it away in his judicial pockets.

Dawson settled back with a pleased smile as though he were enjoying the ride.

“Where did you leave Miss Kavanaugh, McNair?” he asked after another two blocks.

McNair affected not to hear him. He was wondering whether Kerry would be where he had left her, or whether after all this time she might not have somehow managed to park the baggage and start after him herself. Women did strange things sometimes, when they were frantic, and Kerry had reason to be frantic. It must be a full hour since he had left her. And would the steward still be on the boat, or gone out into the city on leave?

Five minutes later the taxi had threaded its way though the congested traffic and left its party at the wharf.

McNair hastened ahead, and so it happened that as Kerry searched the wharf where now the crowds were beginning to thin out she caught sight at last of McNair, with Dawson coming on behind escorted by two burly policemen, walking with measured tread one on each side of him.

As soon as he caught sight of her McNair lifted the briefcase like a banner and waved it above his head, and she got the effect of his smile even while he was some paces off.

Kerry was standing where he had left her in a little oasis from which the crowd was cleared, her bags at her feet, and when she saw McNair she waved her hand. Oh, it was good to see him again after the long wait, to know that he had not been run down in the New York traffic, to know he was coming back again. Whatever came, whether the lost were found or not, it was good to see him.

And could it be that he had really found it, the precious book, or was it only the empty briefcase from which the contents had been taken?

Then she saw Dawson and began to hope. If they had Dawson, he hadn’t been able to get away with the papers yet. Still, he was cunning. There was no telling but he had thrown it away somewhere. And perhaps McNair didn’t know she had the manuscript there. He might have thought she had packed it in her trunk.

As soon as Dawson saw her he made a show of haste, donned an apologetic air, and came smiling up.

“I have a great apology to make,” he smirked, rubbing his hands in a way that reminded Kerry of Uriah Heep. “I must—have—somehow—in the confusion on deck at the last minute picked up your briefcase instead of my own. It was most careless of me, but they are exactly alike, and I don’t wonder at my mistake.”

Kerry looked at him levelly. Was it possible this man expected her to believe that?

“That couldn’t have been possible, Mr. Dawson,” said Kerry, going straight to the point. “I haven’t had my briefcase out of my hands since I left my stateroom this morning until it was snatched from me a little over an hour ago right here in this spot.”

“Well then, my dear lady,” began Dawson eagerly, “they must have got exchanged last night somehow. It must have been my briefcase that you had and they snatched it from you. But it’s of no importance, I’m glad to tell you, only photographs and notes of my trip. I’d be glad to have them back of course, but nothing that really mattered.”

“Mr. Dawson, that is not possible,” said Kerry again, looking him straight in his frightened eyes. “I arranged my things in my briefcase this very morning before I left my stateroom. I know exactly what is in there. A package of manuscript wrapped in white paper and fastened with rubber bands, two manila envelopes containing other papers, a map of New York that I got on shipboard, and my green silk shawl.”

Dawson’s shifty eyes looked furtively toward the policeman, but his smile grew even more fixed.

“Well, there’s some mistake somewhere of course,” he said, rubbing his hands anxiously, “perhaps my own case is still on shipboard. I’ll just run back and see, if you’ll excuse me.”

He turned and would have left them, but a big hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“Just a minute, sir, till the lady sees if all her property is in the case. Then if youse wants to go back on the boat we’ll go with you. Will you open the case, miss?”

Kerry, with hands that trembled from sudden new anxiety unstrapped her briefcase and examined it, pulling out the green silk shawl and slinging it over her shoulder, where it blew around her gallantly and showed in contrast the delicate features, and the red-gold hair.

“You’re looking awfully well this morning, Miss Kavanaugh,” observed Dawson in a wild attempt to keep up his role of intimacy. The rest of the party stood like stone images watching Kerry as she took out one by one the things she had named and began to count the pages of the manuscript.

“I don’t imagine he had any time to disturb the pages yet,” said McNair quietly. “He had all he could do to get away with it.”

When she was sure it was all there, Kerry looked up and smiled brightly at McNair.

“Oh, I can’t be thankful enough to you,” she said, ignoring the rest, and speaking just to him. “It—was—so terrible, when I thought it was gone!”

The policemen stood stolidly, pretending to look away, but they did not miss a glint of the sun on her bright gold hair, nor a turn of an eyelash. They could have pictured to a fraction the light in McNair’s eyes as he smiled back at her.

“Well, then I’ll just run back to the ship and see if my briefcase is still where I know I had it this morning,” agreed Dawson cheerfully. “It isn’t of much consequence of course, but I might as well get it while I’m down here. Good morning. I’ll look you up again!” And he tipped his hat as airily as if he had just rescued her from trouble and was glad to be able to do it.

“Can you beat it?” said McNair, looking after the dapper little scientist. “If you could see the chase he led me, scuttling around corners exactly like a rat, you would scarcely believe he was the same person!”

“Oh, but to think you caught him! How did you know it was he? Did you see him take it?”

“Well, not exactly, but I knew about what to look for, and when I caught up with him your shawl did the rest of the trick hanging out some fringe for identification. But come. Let’s get out of here before the poor little rat comes back and tries to track us elsewhere. What luck! Here comes a porter. I thought they were all dead! Now, may I have the honor of carrying that briefcase the rest of the way, or have you reached the point that you can’t trust any human being except yourself ?”