# The Saturday Evening Post/The Dollar Chasers/Chapter 4

Extracted from The Saturday Evening Post, 16 Feb 1924, pp. 106, 108, 110.

### IV

AUNT DORA found, as the play progressed, that she alone seemed to be giving the matter her best thought. She was a woman of superb endurance, but after a distressing rubber with O'Meara as partner, she called it an evening and rang the gong. The ship's clock had recently struck six bells, and after a careful calculation and a look at his watch, Bill Hammond knew that to mean that it was now just after eleven.
Mikklesen and Julian Hill both seemed determined on a bedtime chat with Sally, but after a meaning look at Bill Hammond the girl dissuaded them.
“Wait till I get a wrap,” she whispered to Bill. “I want to tell you about that sunset.”
He had nothing in particular to do, and maybe he would have waited anyhow. When she returned she led the way to a couple of chairs that stood close together in a secluded spot on the after deck.
“Wonderful night,” Bill murmured. He had sized it up about right too. The Pacific was calm—for the Pacific—the water was liquid silver in the moonlight, the breeze was not too chill. A great night to be young, and they both were.
“Glad you like it,” said Sally. “It's just what I ordered.”
They sat silent for a moment.
“How was the sunset anyhow?” Bill inquired.
“Not bad at all,” said Sally, “for the sun. I think I prefer the moon myself.” A long, long silence. “Bill, say something,” the girl protested at length. “What are you thinking?”
“I'm just wishing. I'm wishing your name was Sally Jones and your father was principal of a high school—and paid accordingly. It's what I've been wishing ever since that day at the charity bazaar.”
She laughed.
“Dad never wasted any time on high schools,” she said. “Still, it does no harm to wish.”
A cooler breeze arrived from the Pacific. Bill rose, took up a rug from a near-by chair and tucked it about her. His hand touched hers, and contrary to his intention, he seized and held it.
“Sally!” he said ecstatically.
“Bill!” she answered.
He gave up the idea and sat down. Another silence.
“How—how do you like my father?” she asked presently.
“Oh, he's all right. But it doesn't matter what I think of him. He'd be just as interested to get the opinion of one of those goldfish in the main saloon.”
“Well, I don't know,” said Sally. “Dad's pretty human. You must remember, he hasn't always traveled on yachts. At one time he was a stonemason, earning a hundred a month.”
“How long ago was that?”
“About the time he was—married.”
The way she said it, somehow; the night, the moon, the bracing effect of ocean air—whatever the cause——
“Sally,” Bill heard himself saying, “I'm in love. With you, I mean. But I guess that isn't news, is it?”
“Not precisely,” she answered slowly. “However, I'm glad you said it. We couldn't have got anywhere if you hadn't.”
“Sally!” The moon was under a cloud. It was just as well.
“It's no use, Sally,” said Bill, coming to. “Your father would never hear of it.”
“He'd be bound to.”
“You know what I mean. He'd have me—boiled in oil.”
“He'd have to boil me too.”
“Sally, you're wonderful! Will you—will you take a chance with me?”
“I don't like the way you put it. I'll marry you, if that's what you mean.”
“On our own—that's what I'm getting at. I've seen so many men marry rich girls and degenerate into lap dogs. I wouldn't take a cent from your father—nor a job either.”
“Don't worry, you wouldn't get either.”
“Sally, I never intended to tell you this. I was just going to eat my heart out in silence, like the great strong man that I am.”
“Well, that would have been romantic. But I think I like it better this way. My role is a bit more active.”
“Darling! Wha—what do you think I'd better do? Should I speak to your father the next time I see him?”
“Of course. Say good night or good morning, as the case may be, and that's all.”
“Well, I suppose he would hit the ceiling.”
“He wouldn't stamp round and forbid it, if that's what you think. It's not his way—he's too subtle. He'd just quietly queer it; nobody would ever be sure how it was done either. He's fathoms down, Dad is.”
“Certainly sounds too deep for a frank, wholesome lad like me.
“I think we'd better—just drift along,” Sally said. “Give him a chance to take a fancy to you.”
“You believe in long engagements, then?”
“Nonsense! I'm fond of you. And Father and I are much alike.” She pondered. “If you could only make a hit with him somehow. I'd never be quite happy about marrying anybody—not even you—if he was opposed. He's really wild about me.”
“Naturally.”
“Poor Dad. He's broken-hearted. That silly little dollar meant so much to him.”
It was Bill's turn to ponder.
“You know, Sally,” he said, “I've done considerable police reporting, and on more than one occasion a hard-boiled detective has complimented me. I've dug up some rather important evidence.”
“Oh, Bill, that's an idea!”
“If I found that dollar for him, do you think he'd give me you as a reward?”
“He wouldn't stop there. He'd throw in Aunt Dora and the yacht.”
“You give me pause. I mean—I couldn't afford the yacht.”
“Bill!” Her eyes were shining. “Let's work on the case together. What's the first move? We talk over the suspects, don't we?”
“That might be a good idea. We'll start with you. You said yourself there were times when you hoped he'd lose it.”
“Yes, I know. I'm sorry I said it now. Do be serious, Bill. Aunt Dora—she wouldn't take it.”
“But you can't eliminate anybody that way.”
“Yes, you can. A woman's intuition. Mr. Mikklesen—no motive. Mr. O'Meara—how about him?”
“He's a politician. Their ways are deep and dark.”
“I feel that; and he was so insistent on being searched. That's always suspicious.”
“I thought it was rather fine of your father”—said Bill—“his courtesy to his guests. He was against the search.”
Sally laughed.
“Don't be fooled by Dad's courtesy,” she warned. “He knew darn well nobody would be fool enough to steal his dollar and then walk in to dinner with the thing in his pocket. Dad's the soul of hospitality and all that, but he wants that dollar back, and before he gives up he'll put all his guests through the third degree, if necessary. Let's see, there's Julian Hill. He seems awfully keen to keep Dad out of that China job.”
“Yes, Hill's a possibility. And how about Mrs. Keith? Know anything about her?”
“Not a thing.”
“Well, she's poor,” said Bill. “She told me so. But then, so am I. By the way, don't let's overlook me.”
“Nonsense! You wouldn't take anything that didn't belong to you.”
“You think not?” Certainly a stiff bosom on that shirt.
“Oh, Bill, it's all so hopeless,” she sighed. “If we only had a shred of evidence to go on!”
“Maybe we have.”
“Bill—not really?”
“You've forgotten one guest. What motive would Henry Frost have in stealing that dollar?”
“None whatever, so far as I know.”
“That's the way I feel,” Bill went on. “Yet as I understand it, your father's cabin is the one at the end of the corridor off which our rooms open.” She nodded. “And just before dinner I certainly saw Henry Frost come out of that room, acting very queerly. He tiptoed along the corridor and slipped into his own room very unostentatiously.”
“Bill! It seems ridiculous!”
“I know it does. My saintly employer! He'll be awfully pleased with me if I can fasten this thing on him.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don't know. It's a delicate situation. If I go to your father with my story, Frost will probably have some simple explanation that will make me look like a fool. It seems to me it wouldn't be a bad scheme if I put the matter up to Frost and let him explain to me—if he can.”
“Good-by job.”
“Probably; but in the interests of justice—and there are other newspapers.”
“Well, if you really think it's the best plan——”
“Maybe not, but I'm going to try it. I can't treat old Frost as a criminal, and shadow him. I don't really think he took the dollar anyhow. But I should like to know what he was doing in that room. I'd better see if I can find him.”
They rose.
“How thrilling!” Sally said. “We're in this together, remember. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. Do you think I'll do for Watson?”
“No, you're altogether too intelligent,” Bill told her.
“Oh, Bill, do you think I've got brains? I love brains.”
“And I love you. You—you really meant all that—about marrying me? It doesn't seem possible.”
“It's more than that; it's probable. Good night—and good luck.”
“This is my lucky night,” he told her. And it was, for she was in his arms.
His luck held even after he left her, for he found Henry Frost sitting alone over a highball in the smoking-room. His employer evinced no joy at seeing him, but Bill casually lighted a cigar and seated himself.
“Unusually smooth passage,” he remarked.
“Smooth enough,” said Mr. Frost.
“Awfully jolly cruise, it seems to me. Nothing to mar it—except, of course, the disappearance of that dollar. Too bad about that.”
“A great pity.”
The old man drained his glass and seemed about to rise.
“Just a moment, Mr. Frost,” Bill said. “You're an older man than I am, and I'd like to ask your advice.”
“Yes?”
“If any one of us has any evidence that might prove useful in tracing the—er—thief, it should be passed on to our host. Don't you agree?”
“No question about it.”
“I'm in a rather difficult position, sir. I happened to be standing at my door just before dinner—the light was off at my back—and I saw a man come out of Mr. Batchelor's cabin and go down the corridor to his own. His actions were rather—peculiar.”
“Really?”
“Now what would you do in my position, sir?”
“I'd certainly tell Jim Batchelor all about it.”
“But, Mr. Frost—you were the man.”
Business rivals sometimes referred to Mr. Frost's countenance as a great stone face. Not without reason, thought Bill as his employer sat grimly regarding him.
“How much,” said Frost, “do they pay you at the office?”
Bill drew himself up.
“This is not a case of blackmail, sir,” he said.
The old man's eyes flashed dangerously.
“Who said anything about blackmail? I was just going to add that whatever you get you're overpaid, for you're the stupidest whippersnapper I've ever met. Why should I take Jim Batchelor's dollar?”
“I don't know, sir.”
“No, nor does anybody else. I did go to his room, and I filched something from him; but it was nothing of importance. I'll explain it to you, though I don't know that I'm under any necessity to do so. For years Jim and I have had an argument about valets. He claims I need one, and I claim I'm still competent to dress myself. When I opened my bag tonight I discovered that I had foolishly come aboard without any collars.”
“No collars?” repeated Bill. Then millionaires had their troubles too.
“Precisely. I wasn't going to tell him—I never would have heard the last of it. I knew we wore the same size shirts, so when he was in his bath I slipped in and annexed one of his collars. That explains what you saw, and you're at liberty to go to him with your story any time you like.”
“You sound fishy, old boy,” Bill thought. But then, so would his tale about the shirt. “I'm not going to say anything to Mr. Batchelor,” he announced. “Not for the present, at least.”
“Just as you please.” Frost stood up. “I'll bid you good night.”
“One moment, sir. Should I go on with that interview with Mikklesen? I mean—am I still working for you?”
For a long moment they stared into each other's eyes. It was the employer who first looked away.
“Ah, yes, the Mikklesen story. Go on with it by all means.”
Bill smiled knowingly as he watched Henry Frost leave the room.
“Who said anything about blackmail?” he murmured to himself.
The decks of the Francesca were deserted as Bill hurried to his stateroom. The little old berth looked good. Hastily he removed his coat, his collar, and then the ill-fitting shirt. Glad to get that off. Still, it had been better than none. He laid it down on the narrow settee that would have been requisitioned as a berth had the Francesca been sleeping her maximum fifteen. Uncle George's studs seemed to flash up at him reprovingly. A Hammond in a borrowed shirt!
“Get Tatu to return it in the morning,” he thought. “I can buy another in Monterey.”
Once in the berth, he lay for a time reflecting on the great event of the evening. Sally loved him. It had seemed a dream too remote to consider, yet here it was, coming true. Life was certainly kind to him—all this happiness—obstacles in the way, of course——
Ho-hum. Must find that dollar. Who had it? Funny about old Frost. Explanation didn't sound right somehow. Yet it might be true. He himself had, at a vital moment, been minus a shirt. Old boy might be absolutely on the level. How about the others—Hill, O'Meara, Mrs. Keith? So many possibilities. Confusing—sure was confusing—possibilities—— He slept.
He awoke with a start. It was still dark; he could see nothing; but he knew instinctively there was some one in the room.
“Whoosh there?” he muttered, still half asleep.
A noise—the opening of a door. Bill leaped from the berth, snapped on the light and looked out into the corridor. At the far end of that dim passage he saw a dark figure mounting, two at a time, the stairs to the upper deck. He grabbed his dressing gown, shuffled into his slippers and followed.
His pause to add a finishing touch to his attire was fatal to the pursuit, for when he reached the saloon deck he appeared to be alone in the world. He was fully awake now, but completely at a loss as to his course. He walked along the rail, uncertainly, toward the stern of the boat. Suddenly he stopped.
The sight that arrested him was not on the yacht, but on the calm surface of the moonlit waters. There, floating rapidly away from the Francesca on the wet Pacific, was a white shirt—a dress shirt. The thing was unbelievable, yet there it was; and—did he imagine it?—were not those Uncle George's precious diamond studs sparkling in the bosom that lay on the broader bosom of a very large ocean?
Farther and farther away drifted the shirt with Uncle George's legacy aboard, and, fascinated, Bill moved along the rail, his eyes glued upon it in fond farewell. A voice spoke suddenly and his heart stood still.
“Hello! Out for a stroll?”
He turned. A dark figure was sitting in the lee of the dining saloon, and the red light of a cigar burned steadily.
“That you, O'Meara?” Bill asked.
“Sure is. Lovely night, ain't it?”
“Have you been here long?”
“About an hour and a half. Seemed a pity to turn in a night like——”
“Never mind the night. Who was it ran up here just before I did?”
“Who was what?”
“Somebody was in my cabin—I followed him up here.”
“Say, Kid, you'd better take something for your nerves. You're the first human being I've seen for an hour and a half.”
“Been here all that time, eh?” said Bill. “Yet that cigar's just been lighted.”
“It happens to be my third,” said O'Meara. “And if I was you, I wouldn't try the detective business. It ain't for kids. There's something doing on this boat—we all know that. But I'm not in on it. I'm just on a little cruise for my health—see? Just out to get a little peace and quiet after a busy week in the city. And that's what I was gettin' until you dashed up like a wild man and made a nasty crack about my cigar.”
“Oh, no offense,” said Bill. “Only——”
“Only what?”
“I suppose you were so taken with the peace and quiet you missed that other fellow completely.”
“You go back to bed and rest them nerves.”
“That's what I'm going to do,” Bill answered, and left him.
He was, indeed, in a great hurry to return. He dashed into his stateroom and looked anxiously about. It was as he feared—the shirt was gone! And Uncle George's studs! What would Aunt Ella say?
He sat down on the edge of his berth, trying to grasp this weird turn of events. Somebody had taken a violent dislike to his having that shirt. Who? The owner probably. That was it, the owner had recognized his property at the time of the search, and now—— But who was the owner? Well, he could find that out in the morning from Tatu.
He yawned. It was all very confusing. Why should this mysterious stranger come to claim his property in the silent night? Why, having regained it, should he toss it on the chill Pacific's bosom? Had all this any connection with Jim Batchelor's dollar? Questions—questions. All very confusing. One thing was certain—O'Meara had been lying. Bill yawned again; his berth looked warm and inviting. He rose, turned out the light, left dressing gown and slippers in the middle of the floor, and was soon deep in slumber.
(TO BE CONCLUDED)