Again, Harry nodded. He smiled slightly as he reflected upon Mann’s words. The investment broker was telling him — by well-chosen suggestions — that he was to study the inhabitants of East Point at close range. In continuing, Mann made the situation more clear, and indirectly referred to the theme of the gold robbery.
“East Point,” added Mann, “had numerous visitors recently in the persons of government agents. They were searching for a possible spot where a certain boat might have landed. They found East Point quite barren. The promontory and the few neighboring islands are scrubby, sanded tracts of land. Hence, the investigation, while thorough, was short-lived.
“You are simply a visitor to East Point. You are going there because you like little-settled spots that are free from outside disturbance.
“Inasmuch as the present summer residents on the Point must possess similar likes — for otherwise they would hardly be living there — it should not be difficult for you to form acquaintances.”
Thus concluding his discourse, Rutledge Mann settled back in his chair and rested his chin upon his hand. Harry Vincent arose and prepared to leave.
“A good suggestion, Mann,” he said. “I’ll take it. I’m leaving for East Point this afternoon.”
IT was after four o’clock that afternoon when Harry Vincent alighted from the branch local at East Point. He found the vicinity very much as Mann had pictured it. A dilapidated, unpainted depot was the chief building; near by was a small frame structure that answered for a post office. A few small houses clustered near a decadent general store.
This had once been planned as the nucleus for a summer resort; but the distance from New York and other centers of population had worked against it. Harry realized that he would have little opportunity of finding accommodations here, should he fail to find a suitable residence on the Point itself.
The driver of a rickety sedan spied Harry, and hailed him. This man was evidently engaged in the taxi business.
“Going out on the Point, mister?”
Harry nodded and beckoned. The man clambered from his rattletrap and came over to get Harry’s suitcase.
“Thought you might be going to the Point,” he said. “Reckoned there couldn’t be any other place. Who are you going to see out there?”
“No one,” replied Harry, in a laconic tone. “I suppose I can find a place to stay out there.”
“That ain’t so likely,” the man declared. “All private houses on the Point. I can drive you out, though.”
“Maybe that is not necessary,” said Harry, in a disappointed tone. “I did not expect to encounter such a difficulty. Perhaps there is no use in my visiting the Point.”
The words had a prompt effect upon the driver of the improvised cab. He was anxious to gain this customer. He put Harry’s suitcase in the cab, and volunteered new information.
“You come along, mister,” he insisted. “Maybe you can make out when we get there. You’ll like the Point. I got an idea you can get located there.”
Harry entered the rattletrap, and as they headed along a narrow, bumpy road, the driver commenced an explanation of conditions at East Point.
“There ain’t many folks out on the Point,” he said. “People used to come here, but they don’t come no more. Cottages with nobody living in them. People that own them live in New York and places like that. So it’s kind of hard to make a deal with them. Don’t seem to bother whether they rent or not.”
“Then it will be no use for me to go, since none of the places out there are available.”
“We’ll go along,” the driver persisted. “I ain’t figuring on the empty places. Maybe there’s a chance that we can make a deal with a fellow out there.
“You see, there’s only three people living on the point. One is old Professor Sheldon, who comes down here off and on from New York. Then there’s Elbert Cordes — a mean egg, he is. Lives here all the year around. No use talking with either of them. The professor is a nice old duck, but fussy. Cordes is a grouch.”
“Rather a discouraging situation,” commented Harry dryly.
“No,” returned the driver. “There’s another man lives out there. Fellow named Woodruff — an artist. Kind of a goofy bird, he is. Malbray Woodruff — that’s his name. He’s the one we want to see.”
“Why?”
“Because he has a cottage all to himself, and he’s always been talking about friends coming down to see him. But they never do. I reckon likely he might welcome a fellow like you who would be willing to pay something for a place to stay.”
“That’s an idea.”
THEY were reaching the end of the Point. Coming through a scrubby plot of trees, the car swung past a sand dune, and a row of well-separated cottages came into view. Here, ocean and bay were scarcely more than two hundred yards apart.
Beyond the cottages, the Point maintained its narrowness, and formed a curving hook that protected the islet-studded bay.
A mild ocean breeze was blowing puffs of sand, and Harry began to appreciate the desolation of this spot, where the isolated cottages were the only signs of human habitation. They rode past two deserted buildings; then passed a cottage that was in excellent condition. The driver pointed it out to Harry.
“That’s Professor Sheldon’s house,” he explained. “He lives there off and on, and has two men keeping the place. A good cottage — best on the Point. I’ve been in there, and it’s fixed up nice. Now let’s see—”
The driver slowed the car as they approached the next cottage. There was very little choice between it and the one beyond. Both buildings were in fair condition.
“Funny,” observed the driver, “I disremember whether this belongs to Cordes or to Woodruff. Been some time since I’ve been out past the professor’s house. We’ll try this one.”
He honked the horn, and Harry watched the cottage. He saw a sour, harsh face peer sullenly through the window. It was the face of a gray-haired man who seemed to resent this intrusion. Harry spoke to the driver, who looked in the same direction.
“Wrong house,” he said quickly. “That’s Cordes. No use staying around here. I don’t want to talk to that grouch. The next place is Woodruff’s.”
The car shot forward, and pulled up before the last cottage. The driver alighted and went to the door. He knocked and beckoned to Harry, who followed him. There was no answer to the knock. The driver scratched his head.
“Guess Woodruff’s wandering around somewhere—”
His sentence ended abruptly as he spied a man coming across the dunes from the bay. A long-legged, stoop-shouldered individual, the approaching man was hurrying with swift stride.
He was carrying an easel and other items of equipment, and when he neared the waiting pair, he peered inquisitively through large, tortoise-shell spectacles.
“Hello, Mr. Woodruff,” greeted the taxi man. “Just looking for you. Here’s a fellow wants to meet you.”
Harry Vincent stepped forward, and shook hands with the artist after Woodruff had laid down the articles that he was carrying.
“My name is Vincent,” explained Harry. “I’m up from New York, looking for a place to stay at East Point. A friend of mine gave me to understand that it would be easy for me to find lodging; but I learned differently when I arrived.
“This man” — he indicated the taxi driver — “suggested that I talk with you. Now that I am here, I should like to stay — if it can possibly be arranged without inconvenience.”
WOODRUFF nodded thoughtfully, and stared speculatively at Harry. The brief inspection seemed to please him. He shrugged his shoulders, walked forward, and opened the door of the cottage. He invited Harry inside.