Kumpel nr 5 (243) MAJ 2019. Praca zbiorowa

for deportation as an undesirable alien anyway.

      Only two men in America knew that Quintana had come to the United States for the purpose of recovering the famous "Flaming Jewel," stolen by him from the Grand Duchess Theodorica of Esthonia; and stolen from Quintana, in turn, by a private soldier in an American Forestry Regiment, on leave in Paris. This soldier's name, probably, was Michael Clinch.

      One of the men who knew why Quintana might come to America was James Darragh, recently of the Military Intelligence, but now passing as a hold-up man under the name of Hal Smith, and actually in the employment of Clinch at his disreputable "hotel" at Star Pond in the North Woods.

      The other man who knew why Quintana had come to America was Emanuel

       Sard, a Levantine diamond broker of New York, Quintana's agent in

       America.

      * * * * *

      Now, as the October days passed without any report of Quintana's detention, Darragh, known as Hal Smith at Clinch's dump, began to suspect that Quintana had already slid into America through the meshes of the police.

      If so, this desperate international criminal could be expected at

       Clinch's under some guise or other, piloted thither by Emanuel Sard.

      So Hal Smith, whose duty was to wash dishes, do chores, and also to supply Clinch's with "mountain beef"—or deer taken illegally—made it convenient to prowl every day in the vicinity of the Ghost Lake road.

      He was perfectly familiar with Emanuel Sard's squat features and parrot nose, having robbed Mr. Sard of Quintana's cipher and of $4,000 at pistol point. And one morning, while roving around the guide's quarters at Ghost Lake Inn, Smith beheld Sard himself on the hotel veranda, in company with five strangers of foreign aspect.

      During the midday dinner Smith, on pretense of enquiring for a guide's license, got a look at the Inn ledger. Sard's signature was on it, followed by the names of Henri Picquet, Nicolas Salzar, Victor Georgiades, Harry Beck, and Jose Sanchez. And Smith went back through the wilderness to Star Pond, convinced that one of these gentlemen was Quintana, and the remainder, Quintana's gang; and that they were here to do murder if necessary in their remorseless quest of "The Flaming Jewel." Two million dollars once had been offered for the Flaming Jewel; and had been refused.

      Clinch probably possessed it. Smith was now convinced of that. But he was there to rob Clinch of it himself. For he had promised the little Grand Duchess to help recover her Erosite jewel; and now that he had finally traced its probably possession to Clinch, he was wondering how this recovery was to be accomplished.

      To arrest Clinch meant ruin to Eve Strayer. Besides he knew now that

       Clinch would die in prison before revealing the hiding place of the

       Flaming Jewel.

      Also, how could it be proven that Clinch had the Erosite gem? The cipher from Quintana was not sufficient evidence.

      No; the only way was to watch Clinch, prevent any robbery by Quintana's gang, somehow discover where the Flaming Jewel had been concealed, take it, and restore it to the beggared young girl whose only financial resource now lay in the possible recovery of this almost priceless gem.

      * * * * *

      Toward evening Hal Smith shot two dear near Owl Marsh. To poach on his own property appealed to his sense of humour. And Clinch, never dreaming that Hal Smith was the James Darragh who had inherited Harrod's vast preserve, damned all millionaires for every buck brought in, and became friendlier to Smith.

      * * * * *

      II

      Clinch's dump was the disposal plant in which collected the human sewage of the wilderness.

      It being Saturday, the scum of the North Woods was gathering at the Star Pond resort. A venison and chicken supper was promised—and a dance if any women appeared.

      Jake Kloon had run in some Canadian hooch; Darragh, alias Hal Smith, contributed two fat deer and Clinch cooked them. By ten o'clock that morning many of the men were growing noise; some were already drunk by noon. Shortly after midday dinner the first fight started—extinguished only after Clinch had beaten several of the backwoods aristocracy insensible.

      Towering amid the wreck of the battle, his light grey eyes a-glitter,

       Clinch dominated, swinging his iron fists.

      When the combat ended and the fallen lay starkly where they fell, Clinch sad in his pleasant, level voice:

      "Take them out and stick their heads in the pond. And don't go for to get me mad, boys, or I'm liable to act up rough."

      They bore forth the sleepers for immersion in Star Pond. Clinch relighted his cigar and repeated the rulings which had caused the fracas:

      "You gotta play square cards here or you don' play none in my house. No

       living thumb-nail can nick no cards in my place and get away with it.

       Three kings and two trays is better than three chickens and two eggs.

       If you don't like it, g'wan home."

      He went out in his shirt sleeves to see how the knock-outs were reviving, and met Hal Smith returning from the pond, who reported progress toward consciousness. They walked back to the "hotel" together.

      "Say, young fella," said Clinch in his soft, agreeable way, "you want to keep your eye peeled to-night."

      "Why?" inquired Smith.

      "Well, there'll be a lot o' folks here. There'll be strangers, too. …

       Don't forget the State Troopers are looking for you."

      "Do the State Troopers ever play detective?" asked Smith, smiling.

      "Sure. They've been in here rigged out like peddlers and lumber-jacks and timber lookers."

      "Did they ever get anything on you?"

      "Not a thing."

      "Can you always spot them, Mike?"

      "No. But when a stranger shows up here who don't know nobody, he never sees nothing and he don't never learn nothing. He gets no hootch outa me. No, nor no craps and no cards. He gets his supper; that's what he gets … and a dance, if there's ladies—and if any girl favours him. That's all the change any stranger gets out of Mike Clinch."

      They had paused on the rough veranda in the hot October sunshine.

      "Mike," suggested Smith carelessly, "wouldn't it pay you better to go straight?"

      Clinch's small grey eyes, which had been roaming over the prospect of lake and forest, focussed on Smith's smiling features.

      "What's that to you?" he asked.

      "I'll be out of a job," remarked Smith, laughing, "if they ever land you."

      Clinch's level gaze measured him; his mind was busy measuring him too. "Who the hell are you, anyway?" he asked. "I don't know. You stick up a man on the Ghost Lake Road and hide out here when the State Troopers come after you. And now you ask me if it pays better to go straight. Why didn't you go straight if you think it pays?"

      "I haven't got a daughter to worry about," explained Smith. "If they get me it won't hurt anybody else."

      A dull red tinge came out under Clinch's tan:

      "Who asked you to worry about Eve?"

      "She's a fine girl: that's all."

      Clinch's steely glare measured the young man:

      "You trying to make up to her?" he enquired gently.

      "No. She has no use for me."

      Clinch reflected, his cold tiger-gaze still fastened on Smith.

      "You're right," he said