Part 11 (1/2)

d.i.c.k pondered for a few moments. If he were right, as he thought he was, the statements he had to make would lead to the discharge of the sub-contractor. Remembering his own disgrace, he shrank from condemning another. He knew what he had suffered, and the man might be innocent although his guilt seemed plain. It was a hateful situation, but his duty was to protect his master's interests and he could not see him robbed.

”You can check my calculations,” he answered quietly.

”That's so,” agreed Stuyvesant, who added with a dry smile as he noted Bethune's disapproving look: ”We can decide about going on with the thing when we have heard Brandon.”

”Very well,” said d.i.c.k, giving him some papers, and then indicated two different rows of the small concrete blocks. ”These marked A were made from cement in our store; the lot B from some I took from Oliva's stock on the mole. They were subjected to the same compressive, shearing, and absorbent tests, and you'll see that there's very little difference in the results. The quality of standard makes of cement is, no doubt, much alike, but you wouldn't expect to find that of two different brands identical. My contention is that the blocks were made from the same stuff.”

Stuyvesant crossed the floor and measured the blocks with a micrometer gage, after which he filled two of the graduated gla.s.s measures and then weighed the water.

”Well?” he said to Bethune, who had picked up d.i.c.k's calculations.

”The figures are right; he's only out in a small decimal.”

Stuyvesant took the papers and compared them with a printed form he produced from his pocket.

”They correspond with the tests the maker claims his stuff will stand, and we can take it that they're accurate. Still, this doesn't prove that Oliva stole the cement from us. The particular make is popular on this coast, and he may have bought a quant.i.ty from somebody else. Did you examine the bags on the mole, Brandon?”

”No,” said d.i.c.k, ”I had to get my samples in the dark. If Oliva bought the cement, he must have kept it for some time, because the only man in the town who stocks it sold the last he had three months ago. The next thing is our storekeeper's tally showing the number of bags delivered to him. I sat up half the night trying to balance this against what he handed out and could make nothing of the entries.”

”Let me see,” said Bethune, and lighted a cigarette when d.i.c.k handed him a book, and a bundle of small, numbered forms. ”You can talk, if you like,” he added as he sharpened a pencil.

d.i.c.k moved restlessly up and down the floor, examining the testing apparatus, but he said nothing, and Stuyvesant did not speak. He was a reserved and thoughtful man. After a time, Bethune threw the papers on the table.

”Francois isn't much of a bookkeeper,” he remarked. ”One or two of the delivery slips have been entered twice, and at first I suspected he might have conspired with Oliva. Still, that's against my notion of his character, and I find he's missed booking stuff that had been given out, which, of course, wouldn't have suited the other's plans.”

”You can generally count on a Frenchman's honesty,” Stuyvesant observed.

”But do you make the deliveries ex-store tally with what went in?”

”I don't,” said Bethune dryly. ”Here's the balance I struck. It shows the storekeeper is a good many bags short.”

He pa.s.sed the paper across, and d.i.c.k examined it with surprise.

”You have worked this out already from the muddled and blotted entries!

Do you think you've got it right?”

”I'm sure,” said Bethune, smiling. ”I'll prove it if you like. We know how much cement went into stock. How many molded blocks of the top course have we put down at the dam?”

d.i.c.k told him, and after a few minutes' calculation Bethune looked up.

”Then here you are! Our concrete's a standard density; we know the weight of water and sand and what to allow for evaporation. You see my figures agree very closely with the total delivery ex-store.”

They did so, and d.i.c.k no longer wondered how Bethune, who ostentatiously declined to let his work interfere with his comfort, held his post. The man thought in numbers, using the figures, as one used words, to express his knowledge rather than as a means of obtaining it by calculation. d.i.c.k imagined this was genius.

”Well,” said Stuyvesant, ”I guess we had better send for the storekeeper next.”

”Get it over,” agreed Bethune. ”It's an unpleasant job.”

d.i.c.k sent a half-naked peon to look for the man, and was sensible of some nervous strain as he waited for his return. He hated the task he had undertaken, but it must be carried out. Bethune, who had at first tried to discourage him, now looked interested, and d.i.c.k saw that Stuyvesant was resolute. In the meanwhile, the shed had grown suffocatingly hot, his face and hands were wet with perspiration, and the rumble of machinery made his head ache. He lighted a cigarette, but the tobacco tasted bitter and he threw it away. Then there were footsteps outside and Stuyvesant turned to him.

”We leave you to put the thing through. You're prosecutor.”