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

‘What are you going to do?’ I asked.

‘Going in to interrogate the secretary again,’ he answered shortly, and swung away into his long, graceless stride.

I watched him depart with mixed feelings. I was going to miss luncheon and anticipated a dull, hot time out in the sand-pit, watching our quarry; still, if Masters really was only going to see the club secretary, I was nearer to the action than he would be. I poked my head out beside the bunker, and looked for the man in overalls.

I was just in time. He was making his way down toward the beach, having deserted his rake. In a moment the bank would have shut him off from my view. I seized the ball I had been playing with and hurled it with all my strength toward the clump of trees. It bounced into the rough, and I hurried after it, seizing the first club that came to hand.

Using this as an excuse, I approached the edge of the bank. The man in overalls was looking straight out over the bay, seemingly interested in the white stone lighthouse two miles out to sea. As bad luck would have it I tiptoed that instant upon a dry stick. At the snap which resulted the man in overalls whirled about. I did my best to register absorption in the business of finding my ball, but out of the tail of my eye I saw him glowering at me. A second later he strode up the hill.

‘Are you a member of this club?’ he demanded, approaching me.

‘No, a guest,’ I replied, assuming as innocent an expression as I could summon.

‘Who introduced you?’ His tone was curt and aggressive, and his words left me at a total loss. Jigger had not mentioned the member through whom we had obtained the right to play.

‘Mr – er – Smith,’ I rejoined hesitatingly. ‘Did you see a ball come over here?’ I stamped about in the long grass, hoping to divert his attention.

His expression grew blacker, and I saw him glance hastily over his shoulder. ‘Mr Smith died last month!’ he growled, and a shiver danced down my spine. Could there be only one Smith in the club?

‘Harry Smith is the one I mean,’ I explained.

‘There ain’t any Harry Smith!’ he retorted. ‘Now you get out, and get out quick!’ He extended a muscled arm in the direction of the gateway, and came toward me.

‘Now see here, my man,’ I began in an attempt to be dictatorial. It did not work, however. He dived for a hold on my collar and made me duck to avoid him. Seeing there was to be no other way out of it I brought my mashie niblick down upon the crown of his head. It was not a hard blow, as I had no intention whatever of killing him, but he sank to the ground without a word. I examined him hastily, but could not tell for certain whether or not I had fractured his skull.

****

The far-away throbbing of a marine engine caused me to look up. Midway between the distant lighthouse and the shore a white chip of a motorboat was dancing on the rollers. It was headed in my direction, and as I gazed, the idea flashed through my mind that a connection might exist between my victim and the little craft. I thought immediately of the golf ball, and feverishly explored the pockets of his overalls for this.

The moment I had it in hand, however, I knew that there was something peculiar about it. The sphere was less than one third the normal weight of a ball! I turned it over, examining the surface. Sure enough, a curved line was distinguishable where a flap had been fastened down with rubber adhesive. My penknife soon sliced through this, exposing the hollow core. The interior of the ball was literally stuffed with paper!

I pulled this out and put it in my pocket, and then glanced again at the motorboat. It was approaching steadily, and I knew that in a very few minutes the occupants would be looking for the man in overalls. On impulse I turned again to him. Stripping him of the blue suit I pulled it over my golfing attire, and pulled his battered felt hat over my eyes. Then I went down to the protection of the last clump of bushes near the water’s edge, and waited. I had some hope of being shielded sufficiently from the observation of those who would land to allow me to get the drop on them with my revolvers.

As they drew near, however, it became apparent that they did not intend to land at all. Keeping just outside the line of breakers they hummed along parallel to the shore. I got the idea. The golf ball would float! The next second the sphere was flying outward in a long parabola, to fall a few yards in front of the bow of the motorboat. The lone occupant dipped it out of the water deftly, waved his hand and passed on.

****

Just as the ball left my hand, I heard a gasp behind me. ‘My heavens, Bert!’ protested the voice of Masters. ‘You didn’t give them that ball after all, did you?’ He was looking up at me in genuine consternation, and I noticed that the course employee lay beside him in a crumpled position different from that in which I had left him.

Masters said nothing more for an instant; I saw that he was truly disgusted. ‘Here,’ I answered at last, unable to keep the secret longer, ‘are the papers that were inside the ball!’ I held out the crumpled roll.

Masters pounced upon this and examined it hastily. ‘Bravo, Bert!’ he exclaimed. ‘I had thought you stupid for the moment.’ A peculiar expression crept into his blue eyes. ‘Guess I won’t have to explain much of this