THE GOLF COURSE MYSTERY(高尔夫教程)

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THE GOLF COURSE MYSTERY

THE GOLF COURSE

MYSTERY

by Chester K. Steele

THE GOLF COURSE MYSTERY

CHAPTER I

PUTTING OUT

There was nothing in that clear, calm day, with its blue sky and its

flooding sunshine, to suggest in the slightest degree the awful tragedy so

close at hand - that tragedy which so puzzled the authorities and which

came so close to wrecking the happiness of several innocent people.

The waters of the inlet sparkled like silver, and over those waters

poised the osprey, his rapidly moving wings and fan-spread tail

suspending him almost stationary in one spot, while, with eager and far-

seeing eyes, he peered into the depths below. The bird was a dark blotch

against the perfect blue sky for several seconds, and then, suddenly

folding his pinions and closing his tail, he darted downward like

a bomb dropped from an aeroplane.

There was a splash in the water, a shower of sparkling drops as the

osprey arose, a fish vainly struggling in its talons, and from a dusty gray

roadster, which had halted along the highway while the occupant watched

the hawk, there came an exclamation of satisfaction.

"Did you see that, Harry?" called the occupant of the gray car to a

slightly built, bronzed companion in a machine of vivid yellow, christened

by some who had ridden in it the "Spanish Omelet." "Did you see that

kill? As clean as a hound's tooth, and not a lost motion of a feather.

Some sport-that fish-hawk! Gad!"

"Yes, it was a neat bit of work, Gerry. But rather out of keeping with

the day."

"Out of keeping? What do you mean?"

"Well, out of tune, if you like that better. It's altogether too perfect a

day for a killing of any sort, seems to me."

"Oh, you're getting sentimental all at once, aren't you, Harry?" asked

Captain Gerry Poland, with just the trace of a covert sneer in his voice.

"I suppose you wouldn't have even a fish-hawk get a much needed meal

on a bright, sunshiny day, when, if ever, he must have a whale of an

appetite. You'd have him wait until it was dark and gloomy and rainy,

THE GOLF COURSE MYSTERY

with a north-east wind blowing, and all that sort of thing. Now for me, a

kill is a kill, no matter what the weather."

"The better the day the worse the deed, I suppose," and Harry Bartlett

smiled as he leaned forward preparatory to throwing the switch of his

machine's self-starter, for both automobiles had come to a stop to watch

the osprey.

"Oh, well, I don't know that the day has anything to do with it," said

the captain - a courtesy title, bestowed because he was president of the

Maraposa Yacht Club. "I was just interested in the clean way the beggar

dived after that fish. Flounder, wasn't it?"

"Yes, though usually the birds are glad enough to get a moss-bunker.

Well, the fish will soon be a dead one, I suppose."

"Yes, food for the little ospreys, I imagine. Well, it's a good death to

die - serving some useful purpose, even if it's only to be eaten. Gad! I

didn't expect to get on such a gruesome subject when we started out. By

the way, speaking of killings, I expect to make a neat one to-day on this

cup-winners' match."

"How? I didn't know there was much betting."

"Oh, but there is; and I've picked up some tidy odds against our friend

Carwell. I'm taking his end, and I think he's going to win."

"Better be careful, Gerry. Golf is an uncertain game, especially when

there's a match on among the old boys like Horace Carwell and the crowd

of past-performers and cup-winners he trails along with. He's just as

likely to pull or slice as the veriest novice, and once he starts to slide he's a

goner. No reserve comeback, you know."

"Oh, I've not so sure about that. He'll be all right if he'll let the

champagne alone before he starts to play. I'm banking on him. At the

same time I haven't bet all my money. I've a ten spot left that says I can

beat you to the clubhouse, even if one of my cylinders has been missing

the last two miles. How about it?"

"You're on !" said Harry Bartlett shortly.

There was a throb from each machine as the electric motors started the

engines, and then they shot down the wide road in clouds of dust - the

sinister gray car and the more showy yellow - while above them, driving

THE GOLF COURSE MYSTERY

its talons deeper into the sides of the fish it had caught, the osprey circled

off toward its nest of rough sticks in a dead pine tree on the edge of the

forest.

And on the white of the flounder appeared bright red spots of blood,

some of which dripped to the ground as the cruel talons closed until they

met inside.

It was only a little tragedy, such as went on every day in the inlet and

adjacent ocean, and yet, somehow, Harry Bartlett, as he drove on with

ever-increasing speed in an endeavor to gain a length on his opponent,

could not help thinking of it in contrast to the perfect blue of the sky, in

which there was not a cloud. Was it prophetic?

Ruddy-faced men, bronze-faced men, pale-faced men; young women,

girls, matrons and "flappers"; caddies burdened with bags of golf clubs

and pockets bulging with cunningly found balls; skillful waiters hurrying

here and there with trays on which glasses of various shapes, sizes, and of

diversified contents tinkled musically-such was the scene at the Maraposa

Club on this June morning when Captain Gerry Poland and Harry Bartlett

were racing their cars toward it.

It was the chief day of the year for the Maraposa Golf Club, for on it

were to be played several matches, not the least in importance being that

of the cup-winners, open only to such members as had won prizes in hotly

contested contests on the home links.

In spite of the fact that on this day there were to be played several

matches, in which visiting and local champions were to try their skill

against one another, to the delight of a large gallery, interest centered in

the cup-winners' battle. For it was rumored, and not without semblance

of truth, that large sums of money would change hands on the result.

Not that it was gambling-oh, my no! In fact any laying of wagers

was strictly prohibited by the club's constitution. But there are ways and

means of getting cattle through a fence without taking down the bars, and

there was talk that Horace Carwell had made a pretty stiff bet with Major

Turpin Wardell as to the outcome of the match, the major and Mr. Carwell

being rivals of long standing in the matter of drives and putts.

"Beastly fine day, eh, what?" exclaimed Bruce Garrigan, as he set

THE GOLF COURSE MYSTERY

down on a tray a waiter held out to him a glass he had just emptied with

every indication of delight in its contents. "If it had been made to order

couldn't be improved on," and he flicked from the lapel of Tom Sharwell's

coat some ashes which had blown there from the cigarette which Garrigan

had lighted.

"You're right for once, Bruce, old man," was the laughing response.

"Never mind the ashes now, you'll make a spot if you rub any harder."

"Right for once? 'm always right!" cried Garrigan "And it may

interest you to know that the total precipitation, including rain and melted

snow in Yuma, Arizona, for the calendar year 1917, was three and one

tenth inches, being the smallest in the United States."

"It doesn't interest me a bit, Bruce !" laughed Sharwell. "And to

prevent you getting any more of those statistics out of your system,

come on over and we'll do a little precipitating on our own account. I can

stand another Bronx cocktail."

"I'm with you! But, speaking of statistics, did you know that from the

national forests of the United States in the last year there was cut

840,612,030 board feet of lumber? What the thirty feet were for I don't

know, but - "

"And I don't care to know," interrupted Tom. "If you spring any more

of those beastly dry figures - Say, there comes something that does interest

me, though!" he broke in with. "Look at those cars take that turn !"

"Some speed," murmured Garrigan. "It's Bartlett and Poland," he

went on, as a shift of wind blew the dust to one side and revealed the gray

roadster and the Spanish Omelet. "The rivals are at it again."

Bruce Garrigan, who had a name among the golf club members as a

human encyclopaedia, and who, at times, would inform his companions on

almost any subject that chanced to come uppermost, tossed away his

cigarette and, with Tom Sharwell, watched the oncoming automobile

racers.

"They're rivals in more ways than one," remarked Sharwell. "And it

looks, now, as though the captain rather had the edge on Harry, in spite of

the fast color of Harry's car."

"That's right," admitted Garrigan. "Is it true what I've heard about

THE GOLF COURSE MYSTERY

both of them-that each hopes to place the diamond hoop of proprietorship

on the fair Viola?"

"I guess if you've heard that they're both trying for her, it's true

enough," answered Sharwell. "And it also happens, if that old lady, Mrs.

G. 0. 5. Sipp, is to be believed, that there, also, the captain has the

advantage."

"How's that? I thought Harry had made a tidy sum on that ship-

building project he put through."

"He did, but it seems that he and his family have a penchant for doing

that sort of thing, and, some years ago, in one of the big mergers in which

his family took a prominent part, they, or some one connected with them,

pinched the Honorable Horace Carwell so that he squealed for mercy like

a lamb led to the Wall street slaughter house."

"So that's the game, is it?"

"Yes. And ever since then, though Viola Carwell has been just as

nice to Harry as she has to Gerry - as far as any one can tell-there has been

talk that Harry is persona non grata as far as her father goes. He never

forgives any business beat, I understand."

"Was it anything serious?" asked Garrigan, as they watched the racing

automobiles swing around the turn of the road that led to the clubhouse.

"I don't know the particulars. It was before my time - I mean before I

paid much attention to business."

"Rot! You don't now. You only think you do. But I'm interested.

I expect to have some business dealing with Carwell myself, and if I could

get a line - "

"Sorry, but I can't help you out, old man. Better see Harry. He

knows the whole story, and he insists that it was all straight on his

relatives' part. But it's like shaking a mince pie at a Thanksgiving turkey

to mention the matter to Carwell. He hasn't gone so far as to forbid

Harry the house, but there's a bit of coldness just the same."

"I see. And that's why the captain has the inside edge on the love

game. Well, Miss Carwell has a mind of her own, I fancy."

"Indeed she has! She's more like her mother used to be. I

remember Mrs. Carwell when I was a boy. She was a dear, somewhat

THE GOLF COURSE MYSTERY

conventional lady. How she ever came to take up with the sporty Horace,

or he with her, was a seven-days' wonder. But they lived happily, I

believe."

"Then Mrs. Carwell is dead?"

"Oh, yes-some years. Mr. Carwell's sister, Miss Mary, keeps The

Haven up to date for him. You've been there?"

"Once, at a reception. I'm not on the regular calling list, though Miss

Viola is pretty enough to - "

"Look out !" suddenly cried Sharwell, as though appealing to the two

automobilists, far off as they were. For the yellow car made a sudden

swerve and seemed about to turn turtle.

But Bartlett skillfully brought the Spanish Omelet back on the road

again, and swung up alongside his rival for the home stretch-the broad

highway that ran in front of the clubhouse.

The players who were soon to start out on the links; the guests, the

gallery, and the servants gathered to see the finish of the impromptu race,

murmurs arising as it was seen how close it was likely to be. And close it

was, for when the two machines, with doleful whinings of brakes, came to

a stop in front of the house, the front wheels were in such perfect

alignment that there was scarcely an inch of difference.

"A dead heat !" exclaimed Bartlett, as he leaped out and motioned for

one of the servants to take the car around to the garage.

"Yes, you win !" agreed Captain Poland, as he pushed his goggles back

on his cap. He held out a bill.

"What's it for?" asked Bartlett, drawing back.

"Why, I put up a ten spot that I'd beat you. I didn't, and you win."

"Buy drinks with your money!" laughed Bartlett. "The race was to be

for a finish, not a dead heat. We'll try it again, sometime."

"All right-any time you like!" said the captain crisply, as he sat down

at a table after greeting some friends. "But you won't refuse to split a

quart with me?"

"No. My throat is as dusty as a vacuum cleaner. Have any of the

matches started yet, Bruce?" he asked, turning to the Human

Encyclopedia.

THE GOLF COURSE MYSTERY

"Only some of the novices. And, speaking of novices, do you know

that in Scotland there are fourteen thousand, seven hundred - "

"Cut it, Bruce! Cut it !" begged the captain. "Sit in - you and Tom -

and we'll make it two bottles. Anything to choke off your flow of useless

statistics!" and he laughed good-naturedly.

"When does the cup-winners' match start?" asked Bartlett, as the four

young men sat about the table under the veranda. "That's the one I'm

interested in."

"In about an hour," announced Sharwell, as he consulted a card.

"Hardly any of the veterans are here yet."

"Has Mr. Carwell arrived?" asked Captain Poland, as he raised his

glass and seemed to be studying the bubbles that spiraled upward from the

hollow stem.

"You'll know when he gets here," answered Bruce Garrigan.

"How so?" asked the captain. "Does he have an official announcer?"

"No, but you'll hear his car before you see it."

"New horn?"

"No, new car-new color-new everything!" said Garrigan. "He's just

bought a new ten thousand dollar French car, and it's painted red, white

and blue, and-"

"Red, white and blue?" chorused the other three men.

"Yes. Very patriotic. His friends don't know whether he's honoring

Uncle Sam or the French Republic. However, it's all the same. His car

is a wonder."

"I must have a brush with him !" murmured Captain Poland.

"Don't. You'll lose out," advised Garrigan. "It can do eighty on

fourth speed, and Carwell is sporty enough to slip it into that gear if he

needed to."

"Um! Guess I'll wait until I get my new machine, then," decided the

captain.

There was more talk, but Bartlett gradually dropped out of the

conversation and went to walk about the club grounds.

Maraposa was a social, as well as a golfing, club, and the scene of

many dances and other affairs. It lay a few miles back from the shore

THE GOLF COURSE MYSTERY

near Lakeside, in New Jersey. The clubhouse was large and elaborate,

and the grounds around it were spacious and well laid out.

Not far away was Loch Harbor, where the yachts of the club of which

Captain Gerry Poland was president anchored, and a mile or so in the

opposite direction was Lake Tacoma, on the shore of which was Lakeside.

A rather exclusive colony summered there, the hotel numbering many

wealthy persons among its patrons.

Harry Bartlett, rather wishing he had gone in for golf more devotedly,

was wandering about, casually greeting friends and acquaintances, when

he heard his name called from the cool and shady depths of a summer-

house on the edge of the golf links.

"Oh, Minnie! How are you ?" he cordially greeted a rather tall and

dark girl who extended her slim hand to him. "I didn't expect to see you

today."

"Oh, I take in all the big matches, though I don't play much myself,"

answered Minnie Webb. "I'm surprised to find you without a caddy,

though, Harry."

"Too lazy, I'm afraid. I'm going to join the gallery to-day.

Meanwhile, if you don't mind, I'll sit in here and help you keep cool."

"It isn't very hard to do that to-day," and she moved over to make room

for him. "Isn't it just perfect weather!"

At one time Minnie Webb and Harry Bartlett had been very close

friends - engaged some rumors had it. But now they were jolly good

companions, that was all.

"Seen the Carwells' new machine?" asked Bartlett.

"No, but I've heard about it. I presume they'll drive up in it to-day."

"Does Viola run it?"

"I haven't heard. It's a powerful machine, some one said-more of a

racer than a touring car, Mr. Blossom was remarking."

"Well, he ought to know. I understand he's soon to be taken into

partnership with Mr. Carwell."

"I don't know," murmured Minnie, and she seemed suddenly very

much interested in the vein structure of a leaf she pulled from a vine that

covered the summer-house.

THE GOLF COURSE MYSTERY

Bartlett smiled. Gossip had it that Minnie Webb and Le Grand

Blossom, Mr. Carwell's private secretary, were engaged. But there had

been no formal announcement, though the two had been seen together

more frequently of late than mere friendship would warrant.

There was a stir in front of the clubhouse, followed by a murmur of

voices, and Minnie, peering through a space in the vines, announced:

"There's the big car now. Oh, I don't like that color at all! I'm as

patriotic as any one, but to daub a perfectly good car up like that - well, it's

- "

"Sporty, I suppose Carwell thinks," finished Bartlett. He had risen as

though to leave the summerhouse, but as he saw Captain Poland step up

and offer his hand to Viola Carwell, he drew back and again sat down

beside Minnie.

A group gathered about the big French car, obviously to the delight of

Mr. Carwell, who was proud of the furor created by his latest purchase.

Though he kept up his talk with Minnie in the summer-house, Harry

Bartlett's attention was very plainly not on his present companion nor the

conversation. At any other time Minnie Webb would have noticed it and

taxed him with it, but now, she, too, had her attention centered elsewhere.

She watched eagerly the group about the big machine, and her eyes

followed the figure of a man who descended from the rear seat and made

his way out along a path that led to a quiet spot.

"I think I'll go in now," murmured Minnie Webb. "I have to see - "

Bartlett was not listening. In fact he was glad of the diversion, for he

saw Viola Carwell turn with what he thought was impatience aside from

Captain Poland, and that was the very chance the other young man had

been waiting for.

He followed Minnie Webb from the little pavilion, paying no attention

to where she drifted. But he made his way through the press of persons

to where Viola stood, and he saw her eyes light up as he approached. His,

too, seemed brighter.

"I was wondering if you would come to see dad win," she murmured

to him, as he took her hand, and Captain Poland, with a little bow, stepped

back.

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