American Sherlocks by Nick Rennison (reading like a writer .TXT) 📕

‘Golf, you mean?’

‘Yes.’ Masters’s face was drawn and serious. ‘I know that it is possible for me to make mistakes, Bert, but I have given this case the very best I have, and without hurry. I have eliminated all the factors but one. That one must materialize!’ The long fingers of his right hand clenched with unconscious emphasis.

‘Have you baited any trap?’ I asked.

He nodded slowly. ‘Yes. That is what makes success just at this time absolutely necessary. A certain construction secret is going through now that a thousand men in Washington would give their lives to prevent the Germans from receiving. Because I have given my solemn promise of its protection, I have prevailed on the Secretary of War to send it by the usual channels!’ He regarded me quietly. ‘It’s up to us, Bert,’ he said in a strained tone.

Our conversation turned to my personal affairs. Rather I should say that Masters directed it thus. Perceiving that he did not care to discuss the case further at the time, I related the work I had accomplished in his absence. After a time I saw an impersonal stare creeping into his eyes, the old symptom of concentration. Since I knew that he was not listening, I picked up a newspaper.

We did not stop in the town of Weekapang, but took the station bus directly to the country club. ‘I thought you said Jaques Corners,’ I mentioned, as we were jogging along over the macadam road.

‘Yes. There’s no station there for passengers, though. See!’ And Masters pointed to the north, where I discerned a cloud of smoke over the tree-tops. ‘That’s Jaques Corners,’ he said.

****

The Weekapang Country Club proved to be a frame building set in a small grove of oaks. Toward the ocean the land rolled away as clipped fair green, artistically bunkered and pitted.

While Masters introduced himself to the secretary, I captured a pair of caddies and practiced with my driver. The moment Masters appeared, however, he dismissed the boys, flipping them a quarter each. ‘We may play this course too irregularly to suit caddies,’ he said when we were well toward the first hole. ‘The secretary tells me that our friend, Mr Mesnil Phillips, is out alone. He is wearing a white felt hat and white flannel trousers, and has no caddie.’

‘Because this is Thursday we probably won’t have any difficulty locating him.’ I said. ‘Not many matches play during the week.’

Masters scanned the broad expanse of grass. ‘No one in sight just now,’ he commented. Removing a small field-glass from the pocket of his coat he swept the circle. At a point southwest from where we stood the binoculars rested.

‘Think I see him,’ he remarked. ‘He’s up beyond, probably playing the second nine.’

‘What will we do, cut in behind him?’ I asked.

‘No, not yet. We’ll play the second. That doubles parallel to the way he’s shooting. All I want to do is to keep him in sight all of the time. When I am playing, you keep your eyes on him.’ At the moment all I could distinguish was a white speck, far off in the direction Masters indicated, but as we went on, the two courses converged, nearing the ocean. Fifteen minutes later we could follow the man’s actions without glasses.

****

As he played along, I saw him stop two or three times and study the landscape before him, as if in doubt as to which club to play. Always he dubbed his shots, however, for as he approached the fifteenth green, I saw him use his mashie three times, yet the man did not look like a beginner. He was lean and bronzed from the sun, and he possessed an easy, certain swing that spoke of long practice.

He acted sincerely disgusted after his last mashie shot. Throwing down his club he unbuckled the strap of the pocket on his bag and drew out another ball. Dropping this in the approximate position of his last shot he again faced the green.

He was still angry, apparently, for when he addressed the ball he swung on it with entirely unnecessary strength. The gutta-percha sphere mounted in a perfect arch, soaring high above the flag. It floated far over the rough beyond toward a little clump of oaks, beside which an employee was raking up leaves.

‘Fore!’ I heard Phillips call sharply. The man in overalls started as the ball narrowly missed his head, impinging among the tree-trunks beyond. Masters got so excited at this that he holed out a putt he never could have made in a conscious moment. As the two of us picked up our balls and scored, we saw the employee gaze about him, and then recover the ball that had so nearly hit him. He did not throw it back as we expected, but dropped it into his pocket. Phillips paid no attention to this, but calmly sought his first ball, and played up to the green.

Though we watched him feverishly as we teed off on the third hole, he never made any sign that he had seen the theft. He holed out and then teed off on the sixteenth, playing directly away from us.

‘Didn’t care much about eighty-five cents!’ I commented, knowing that the incident had some bearing on the case, but willing to let Masters give me the correct version, when it pleased him.

‘That ball was worth quite a bit more than that,’ said my friend, hurrying on. ‘Yes, I imagine Phillips would have spent a long time looking if he had really lost it.’ His tone was excitedly triumphant, and I eyed him inquiringly.

****

He wasted no time in explanations, however. As soon as we had a bunker between us and the man in overalls, Masters stopped. ‘You stay right here!’ he commanded. ‘Take a good rest and watch that employee. If he does anything