THE GALLERY GODS
The white-painted fruit steamer steamed out between the forts and turnedtoward the south. She only touched at Bahia del Toro to drop the mail onher downward trip, though on her return toward the north she paused totake on a portion of her cargo. The Stars and Stripes at her mastheadfluttered brightly in the golden sunshine of midday, and the samesunshine made the sea seem bluer, and the palms greener and vividlyalive. Half a dozen small launches that had clustered about the whiteship scattered and made for different points along the waterfront of thecity.
El Señor Beckwith was seated in a great cane chair on the veranda ofthe white house that sprawled over the hillside. He looked at the shipand heaved a sigh. It was not a wistful sigh, nor was there pathosconcealed anywhere about it. The sigh was a sign of the satisfactionthat filled him. He sat at ease, puffing a long black cigar. At hiselbow a glass tinkled musically when he moved. His huge frame, now cladin spotless white duck, was eloquent of content. Only his left thumb,bandaged and in splints, gave the slightest sign of discomfort, and hesmiled when he felt the incumbrance of the wrappings. It was a souvenirof the incident that caused his sensation of complete satisfaction.Conway had broken that thumb in his last struggle, two weeks before, inNew York. Conway was dead.
There was a clattering of tiny hoofs. One of the house-boys had beendown to the wharf to get the New York papers Beckwith had arrangedshould be sent him. They would contain the details of Conway’s death,and Beckwith drew in a pleasurable breath at the thought of readingthem.
The little donkey had brought the boy hastily up with his light burden,and now the brown-skinned boy came in to Beckwith. The papers were allthere, with all their “magazine sections,” their “rotogravure”illustrations, and all the other minor features on which they pridedthemselves. As the newspapers were handed to him, Beckwith even noticeda gaudily-colored comic section. He flicked it carelessly aside.
These flimsy bundles of print had been brought four thousand miles forhim to enjoy this moment. He would read of the death of Hugh Conway,multimillionaire philanthropist, patron of the arts, and other worthythings to the extent of a reportorial vocabulary, killed in the mostopen and daring fashion by William Beckwith, now at large. He would readof the letter left pinned to the multimillionaire’s breast in which thatsame William Beckwith announced his reasons for killing the millionaire,and the precise fashion in which he intended to escape punishment.
Beckwith smiled cheerfully to himself as he visualized in advance theexcited indignation with which the editorial comment would point out theloophole of which he had taken advantage. For weeks to come there wouldbe indignation and anger at his calm defiance of the law and the powerof the United States, while here in Bahia del Toro he would live openlyand happily, frankly glorifying in the crime he had committed, respectedand feared by the people.
There were the newspapers. The murder of Hugh Conway would be good for ascarehead on the front page.
Beckwith spread out the paper with his uninjured hand and ran his eyeover the head lines. Hugh Conway—Hugh Conway. Where was it? Not on thefirst page. Beckwith glanced at the date with a frown. The date was thatof the day after the murder, and surely it should have been a newsfeature. He looked on the second page. Not