VANDERDECKEN

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 521, 26 November 1928, Page 5

VANDERDECKEN

By

H. DE VERB STACPOOLE.

CHAPTER H.—(Continued) "Good Lord,” said George, horrorstricken, yet amazed at the coolness of the other and the way he had managed to keep his disaster concealed from all and sundry, for at the Club, Hank was considered a man of substance, almost too much substance for a Bohemian. "It’s true,” said Hank. “How many men were in it?” "N'o men; it was a woman.” "You were in partnership with a woman?” “Yep.” •

"Well,” she might have done worse,” said George, “she might have married you.” Hank, by way of reply, took a photograph from a drawer in the table sod handed it to George, who gazed »t it for half a minute and handed it back. "I see,” said he, “but what made >ou have anything to do with her.” The Town Lot Speculator tilted in bis chair and lit a cigarette. „ Driscoll was her name,” said he, she didn’t care about her looks. s he used to boast she could put a whole potato in her mouth. She was my landlady when I lived in Polk hfreet and she ran a laundry and had * bhnd in Ward politics and the hole of the Lush contingent at her os' S^9 a better business head ° a “ er than any man in ’Frisco, and hen l made some money over that tap of mine, she started me on the ‘Own Lot business. We were good iartners and made big money—and n °w she’s bolted.” h er S, ave you set the police after "Gosh, no,” said Hank. “What do you take me for? She’s a woman.” ..fjht she’s boned your money.” , .a” of it was hers and, anyhow, inf 3 a Woln an. I’m not used to kickiear '•* olae n, aud I don’t propose to V 9 eor ? e remembered what Carolus ■in i 841 ‘i “bout the Female Sanctity .eti neSS and ‘lid not pursue the subhL?h n ' £ i Sm °k et i’ bis chair tilted back, to s on the desk. Ruiu seemed lator' 0n ttle Town Lot specujuil ' Hi 3 mind seemed a thousand norry away fr °m San Francisco and

•w\ George broke into his reverie. the Btrit r i’’h h i® Said ’ “* told you ln aft 1 . dan I(3 ea. Are you gohot?” 6r c bap Vauderdecken or

1 am? ” aSked thS - ti join you, if you’ll let me.” t* 0 j,? n u Baid Hank, “I told those to unrte Ul . e club 1 wasn’t. They’ve lor anotfc Standing t° r one thing, and ihg *h« « 1 1 don ’t want them spread■—L p swß. But I am. For one thing

d . OWn now they are cheap. E SS Preservative. All

I want a holiday and for anothar I want than 25,000 dollars. Twenty, I mean, for it will take me all 5,000 dollars to catch him.” “How much have you?” "One thousand about and then I’ve got my royalties for the trap coming in.” “That rat trap thing. “Yep." . ' “How much does it bring you a year, if it’s not rude to ask?" “Well, I reckon to net in royalties about one thousand five hundred a quarter and the returns are rising, the Britishers are taking to it and Selig-

manna had an order for 5,000 traps only last week for London delivery. I can borrow from them in advance of royalties.” J George sat down on a chair and nursed his knee and contemplated the toe of his boot through his eyeglass. George, despite his easy way of life, was no fool in money matters. “You are going to spend five thousand in trying to catch this josser,” said he, “and if you fail, where will you be?’* “Ask me another,” said Hank. George took his cigarette case from his pocket, chose a cigarette and lit it; the two sat for a moment m bll “Besides,” said George, suddenly, “you’ll most likely get a bullet through your head.” “Most like,” said Hank. “To say nothing of weather, you know what Pacific weather is on the coast here, and you’ll have to lay up maybe months waiting for the chap in a cramped boat with beastly grub.” “Sure,” said Hank. “Well, there it is, the whole thing’s mad rotten mad, it hasn’t a sound plank in it. What did you mean dragging me here with that proposition for bait?” “Me drag you!” cried the outraged Hank. “Yes vou doped me and dragged me here with your talk at the club, ♦urned my head till I’m sure not sane, for I m in this business with you up to the neck. I’m as mad as yourself. I want to be off, I wouldn’t be out of it for 10,000 dollars, though I’m hanged if I know what the draw is. “Man hunting,” said Hank. CHAPTER 111. The town lot speculator, took his feet down from the desk, and George, flinging his cigarette away, got up, took a few paces, and altered his position by straddling his chair, leaning his arms on the back. It was a favourite trick of old Harley du Cane When big things were on. and if there was a crisis and he was seated and talking to you. ten to one he d get up take a few paces, and then sit down again, straddling his chair as if he were riding a horse. “Well that’s settled,” said George. “I’m with vou. What’s your plans? You said you knew where this guy

was, and could put your finger on him.” “I reckon I was talking through my hat,” said Hank. “It’s a way I have times.” “Then how the devil are you going to find him?” “It's a way I have, times,” said Hank, not seeming to hear the other, “but I’m never far wrong when I’m talking that way. 1 don’t know where the chap is no more than r know where Solomon’s aunt’s buried, but I’ve a feeling that his haunt’s round about the islands down Santa Catalina way. I know all the coast running from Monterey right to Cape St. Lucas. I had a tenth share in a shark boat once, and I’ve nosed into all the

cricks and corners right to the end of Lower California, and I’ve got a feeling that the Dutchman’s using the Channel Islands, and that we’ll fetch him somewhere about there if we’re clever.” “You’re sure it’s Amsterdam Joe we’re after?” “No, I’m not.” "But, great Scott! you said you were sure.” “I was talking,” said Hank. “The words were hit out of me by something outside my head, but I’m never far wrong when i’m taken like that. I’d bet a thousand to a nickel it’s he, but that’s not being sure. You see, it’s not Dutch Peter, for I saw him shot with my own eyes, hut the affair

was hushed up, and they gave his name different in the papers. He was hand and fist with Joe. and that’s what’s put the wrong idea about. Joe went south more than nine months ago, superintending a fishery or something down there, and he hasn’t come back, and he's just the chap to fill this bill—and there you are’” “Well, it doesn’t much matter,” said, George, “as long as a chap’s there and will put up a fight and we have the fun of catching him. Now, then, Hank F., what’s your plans? Spit them oijt.” “Well,” said Hank, “my plans are simple enough. I’m going to drop down to the Islands and do some fishing and water-lily around picking

up information where I can. There’s all sorts ot boats down south of the Islands doing shark fishing and after the sulphur-bottom whales, and at Avalon and San Clemente and places, there’s lot of chaps I can pick up information from. A police boat or a destroyer would find nothing but shut heads, but a chap that knows how to go about it can tap the wires. Why, you wouldn’t believe how news goes about along the coast, and the longshore chaps are pirates by instinct and there’s not one of them isn’t backing old man Vanderdecken, pirates by instinct, only they haven’t the pluck of their opinions. “Well, when I’ve got the chap’s fish-

ing waters I’m going to lay in them and cruise round in them and whistle ‘Chase me, Charlie’ till he pounces, or maybe I’ll be able to put my finger on the creek or wherever it is he makes his port of call, and pounce myself—no knowing.” “I see,” said George. “I’m blessed if I do,” said Hank, “it’s mighty problematical, but I’ve got the feeling in my toes that I’m going to collar him.” “Well,’’ said George, “we’ve got so far. Now about the boat.” “What boat?” “Well, you don’t propose to swim after the chap, do you?” “Well,” said Hank, “if one cog goes wrong in this business we may both be swimming after him, begging to he took aboard, and him using us for target practice—but I’m not going in a boat.” “Then what the devil are you going in?” “A yacht. Y.A.C.H.T., sixty-ton schooner, auxiliary engine, whitepainted boat turning a bit cream with wear, cabin upholstered in red plush, bird’s eye maple panels let in with pictures of flowers—everything up-to-date seemingly. She jumped into my head at the Club as I was talking about old Vanderdecken, that’s how things come to me. No sooner had I left the ’phone and began talking to you chaps than the hull of this expedition and how to do it hit on the head like an orange.” “Well, let’s get back to business. You have your eye on a yacht, but. from your specifications, fifty thousand dollars is more like what y’u’ll want than five. What’s the name of this yacht?” “She’s not exactly a yacht,” said Hank. “Then what is she?” “She’s more in the nature of an optical illusion.” George had patience, he had also plenty of time and could afford Lo let Hank play about. It was the first time he had come really in touch with the Town Lot Speculator’s mentality, and it interested him. His own position began to interest him. too. He bad pledged himself to this expedition, and he would no more draw out than old Harley du Cane would have drawn out of one of his frontal attacks on Jay Gould, however dangerous. “Well, you are going to chase after this chap in an optical delusion,” said he. “I’m listening—go on, spit out your meaning.” Hank rose to his feet and took his hat. “Come on,” said he, “and I’ll show you it.” They left the bulding and struck down Market Street. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and a blaz-

ing day. Market Street looked the same as ever—with a difference. It seemed to George that the whole world had somehow a different tinge, as though he were looking at it from the windows of a lunatic asylum. CHAPTER IV.—TYREBUCK The people in the street all seemed to be bent on business, serious and sane beyond ordinary, even the loafers and pleasure-seekers were bathed in this atmosphere. Said Hank, as they crossed the street toward a block of buildings topped by a huge sky sign advising people to smoke Duke Orlando cigarettes: “Did you ever read about the one horse shay?” “Which?” asked George. “The one that went a hundred years and then bust up.” "No." “Well, it was made of such good stuff that it couldn’t break down, not one part before another, so when the time came it bust up all together. “What’s that got to do with our business?’’ “Oh, I was just thinking,” said Hank. They were in the building now, and Hank, giving a name to the elevator

man, they were whisked up to the fourth floor. Here, entering an office filled with the clatter of typewriters. Hank asked for Mr. Tyrebuck, and in a minute or two they were shown into a room where a man sat facing them at a desk table, a heavy-jowled, bulg-ing-eyed, fresh-coloured man with an unlit cigar between his lips. He had just finished with a stenographer, but she Was still standing with a sheaf of notes in her hand, while Tyrebuck, as it engaged with some after-thought, sat, the cigar pushed out on his under lip and his prominent eyes staring straight at the newcomers without see ing them. He seemed looking at something a thousand miles away. He was. He was looking at Chicago and the dial of the Wheat Pit. Then he came to. “That will do," said he to the stenographer. “Well, Hank, how’s the world using you?” George was introduced, cigars were handed round and they talked. George did the listening. Tyrebuck owned steamers and mines and was engaged just then on a wheat deal, he was one of the busiest men on the Pacific Coast and one of the wealthiest, but he found time to talk to Hank. An English business man would have got rid of him politely after the first few minutes. Tyrebuck talked as if he had absolutely nothing to do. They talked of the weather and President Wilson and Europe, Hank, who had been in England during the war, outlining a plan of his for taking over the British Empire, electrifying it, steam heating it, fitting it with elevators, speaking tubes and American business methods. Then he rose. “Well, I must be going,’ said Hank. “But, say, what I came about was the

‘Wear Jack.’ I saw her only day before yesterday down at Sullivans Wharf." “Oh, did you?” said Tyrebuck, "blessed if I hadn’t clean forgot her —is she hanging together?” “Well, she was, the day before yesterday. I’m open to hire her.” “What’s your idea —put her on wheels ?” “Nope. I’ve got an expedition on down South. You’ve heard of this chap Vanderdecken?" “Surp." “Well. I'm going down to catch him.” “Well,” said Tyrebuck, “you’ll go down right enough in the ‘Wear Jack’ if the putty gives.” “That’s what I was telling Mr. du Cane,” said Hank. **She’s not so much a yacht as an optical illusion. She looks Al. but isn’t, but we’re going to take a whale boat.” (To be continued.)