Cargo of Coffins (8 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Coffins for the
Valiant

A
T
Cayenne, Lars Marlin refused to cross the entrance to the harbor, dropping hook in the deep-water
anchorage
, six miles from the quays. The shallow entrance would only take fourteen feet but the
Valiant,
with the tide, could have managed that.

Swinging at her chain, bathed in the steaming sunlight of morning then, the
Valiant
awaited the return of the shore party which had left with the coming of the sun in a swift speedboat.

Lars nervously paced his cabin. He could not bring himself to spend too long a time upon the bridge. Every scraggly tree in the water seemed to possess eyes and every wave which slapped the
Valiant
’s white hull cried out that the shore knew he was there.

He stopped from time to time at the wide port of his big cabin to stare out through the harbor mouth, over the blue surface of the quiet bay and at the white and red town. Sight of
Mt. Cépéron
filled him with nausea. On it perched Ft. St. Michel. They could see the
Valiant
from up there.

He could place the governor’s house even at this distance and could see the black rectangle which was the Place d’Armes.

Every landmark of the port shouted death to Lars Marlin. Even his great strength was small beside the inexorable might of the French. His body cringed as it remembered the raw weight of irons and the oozing slime of the swamps. Past his eyes slouched a line of men in chains. One of them fell, to be dragged along by the rest—until the guards found that he was dead and cut him loose to throw the body into the sluggish,
cayman
-infested river.

A boat, still far off, was coming toward the
Valiant,
flying the
tricolor
. It was an official boat. Lars gripped the sill, watching.

A sound made him whirl. It was Ralph, and Lars had a difficult time trying to mask his terror.

“I guess they aren’t ever coming back,” complained Ralph, scratching his shock of upstanding hair. “They’ve been gone for hours!”

“You didn’t go with them?” said Lars, knowing it was a foolish question even before he said it.

“No. They said I was one too many for the speedboat. They just didn’t want me, that’s all. All my life I’ve wanted to see the Penal Colony and they wouldn’t let me go.”

“Maybe you can make it tomorrow.”

“Naw, we won’t be here tomorrow. I wish they hadn’t been so doggone mysterious about it. His Highness was going around like he was wearing
gumshoes
and a false mustache. He’s up to something pretty smart, the prince.”

From the first, Lars had not been able to believe that Paco would dare set foot again upon this shore. Certainly, it had been years since he had escaped. There had been no chase, even then. They had found a corpse and had named it Paco Corvino and the incident was closed. They would not be expecting a guest of Miss Terry Norton’s to be Paco Corvino. He looked different, too, now that he was well dressed and well fed. Still . . .

“What were they going to do?” said Lars.

“That’s what makes me mad. The only chance for some excitement and they won’t let me in on it. They’ve got a good plan. Pac . . . I mean His Highness is getting Terry to tell the authorities that she has come to request the removal of the bodies of four Americans who have been buried down here. A national gesture, y’understand. They’ll make it pretty touching. And then somehow, His Highness says he is going to put his jewels and money into those coffins and bring them aboard that way. Ain’t it a
pip
of an idea?”

“They can’t get away with it!”

“Sure they can. These four Americans were flyers on an expedition and they died down here. His Highness knows all about it. They weren’t convicts. So Terry is going to remove the bodies and take them home in state. It’s pretty nifty, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” said Lars faintly. “Pretty nifty.”

He turned back to watch the approach of the government launch. If only some official would recognize Paco. But then, that was too much to hope for. And if Paco was recognized, would he squeal on Lars? Sure he would. Hadn’t he told Miss Norton a pack of lies to discredit the captain already?

“Why did she listen to the idea in the first place?” said Lars.

“Why not? It’s lots of fun and, besides, isn’t he an honest-to-God prince? Say, what’d you say about His Highness to Terry last Thursday that made her so mad?”

“Was she angry?”

“And how!”

“She’s foolish to try to go through with this.”

Ralph had not missed Lars’ tenseness. “Say, what are you so jumpy about?”

“I didn’t get much sleep during that blow.”

“Oh. About time they were coming back. There’s a boat. What is it?”

“You’d better go below, Ralph,” said Lars, “and tell the gentleman in it that I’m on the bridge. Would you?”

“Sure,” said Ralph. “But what is he?”

“Port captain, that’s all. Captain Delal.”

“You know him?”

Lars quickly shook his head and Ralph went out, puzzled. He turned. “How do you know his name?”

“It’s in the
Coast Pilot
,
” said Lars evasively.

Ralph closed the door, and soon after, Lars heard the small motorboat putting at the
gangway
. He went to his mirror and looked at himself. He put on his cap and straightened up his blouse. Nervously he wiped the sweat from the palms of his hands.

Captain Delal came in without knocking. He was a short little Frenchman, proud of his small mustache and his debonair manner. “Captain Lowenskold? I’ve got a few clearance papers for you to sign. If you weren’t a yacht, there’d be plenty of red tape, but Norton’s a power down here.” He spoke in slangy Colonial French, speaking no English. He had his black interpreter with him, but before he could put the words into Barbados English, Lars, unwittingly, had almost answered in
prison French
!

“Merci, Capitaine Delal, je . . .”
Lars stopped himself. Swiftly, he added, “I speak a little French. Served on French boats once. You said some clearance papers?”

But Captain Delal was looking strangely at Lars. “Pardon me,
m’sieu,
but haven’t you called at this port before? Your face is familiar somehow.”

Lars knew his face had been before Captain Delal in the past. He had been detailed to a harbor survey once.

“You must be mistaken,” said Lars.

“But one is not likely to forget a fellow with shoulders so big and hair so very light. Yes, I have seen you somewhere.” He puckered his brows, trying to recall.

“I am sure the captain must be mistaken unless he once lived in Marseille.”

“No, never saw the place. Let me see. I swear, Captain Lowenskold, I even remember your voice. But that’s silly, isn’t it? My memory is playing me tricks. Here, the papers.”

Lars sat down at his desk, after offering the captain a chair. A steward came in with glasses and bottles and set them down, carefully withdrawing. Delal poured himself a drink and sipped it with compliments on its quality.

“Quite in keeping with Norton’s reputation,” said Delal. “It isn’t every day— Say, are you certain you’ve never been here before?”

Lars had been speaking in as correct French as he could muster, even injecting an American accent into it. “No. At times the memory is very odd, isn’t it. But perhaps some other man looks something like me.”

“Yes, that’s possible. Yes . . .” He watched Lars for several minutes until Lars had finished with the papers. And then Lars handed the sheets across and got up to show that the interview was over. Delal did not rise.

“I think I know,” said Delal with a relieved smile, pleased that he had recalled. “You look something like . . . pardon me, no offense, you know . . . a fellow named . . . let me see . . . Oh, yes. Of course! Marlin. Lars Marlin. And that’s a coincidence. He had the first name of Lars, too.”

Lars could not trust his voice. He saw Delal’s gaze wander until it discovered the framed master mariner’s license on the wall. He thought he saw the glance narrow.

“Well,” smiled Captain Delal, rising, “I shan’t clutter up your cabin longer. I have lots of ships to inspect.”

He put the papers in his valise and handed it to the interpreter. They stepped out to the deck and the black raised an umbrella over the captain’s head.

Delal’s handshake was flabby and his smile insincere. “Hope to see you again, sometime, Captain.”

“Of course,” said Lars. “Glad you came.”

The pair went down the ladder and soon Lars heard the motorboat putting as it put off. He watched it cross a space of water to a nearby freighter which was unloading to
lighters
in the stream.

Exhausted by the nervous strain, Lars sat down in his chair. He knew too well that when Delal got ashore he would mention this strange coincidence. The officials would think it best to check this master mariner’s license on the wall just as a matter of form. Delal had made a mental note of those numbers and signatures, all false.

And shortly the whole French world would know that no such license had ever been issued. They would know that the captain of the
Valiant
was Lars Marlin, escaped convict!

In a short space of time he had hold of himself again. He took a drink from the tray and followed it with another. He could only hope that the checkup would be made weeks hence, though he knew that radios speeded such things.

At dusk he heard a tug bumping the side of the
Valiant.
He went into a wing and looked down.

The speedboat streaked in a wide white curve to the gangway and the party came aboard, Paco smiling and confident in their midst. It was in keeping with his insolence to get away with a call like that.

Lars transferred his attention to the lighter. Johnson was already taking orders for the loading. Four American flags were draped over four coffins.

Paco paused on the main deck and saw Lars above. Paco grinned and passed on.

Shortly, as the first coffin came swinging up over the rail and down into the hold, Miss Norton came to the bridge.

“Captain,” she said coldly, “you will please proceed immediately for Lisbon.”

“We did not clear for Lisbon but New York.”

“I will fix that. You will please pay attention to your duties only. Lisbon.”

Lars saluted stiffly and went into the chart room. He whistled down the tube to his engineer and gave him his orders.

The last coffin was swinging high into the air, inboard and down. The tug was putting off, black smoke rising in a cloud about the
Valiant.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Paco’s Contraband

T
HE
Canary Islands
lay low on the horizon, far to starboard. The bows of the
Valiant
rose regularly to knife back into the easy swell. The throbbing Diesels drove tirelessly. All was well, to all appearances, aboard the yacht.

And yet, day by day, Lars Marlin’s tension had grown. He had no slightest inkling of the contents of those mysterious coffins and Paco had volunteered no information to anyone about them. The contents were gold and jewels. The ship believed that. But just because Paco said so, Lars did not.

Lars stayed with his bridge. He was plainly
persona non grata
on the lower deck. Silence fell whenever he went down—and he had soon stopped going.

Only young Ralph, with his dreams of adventure, came to pass any time. A deep, dark past added to Lars Marlin’s attractions as far as Ralph was concerned.

Lars was standing a watch, looking toward the Canary group to check his bearings, when Ralph came up that afternoon.

“Captain,” said Ralph complainingly, “there’s a sneak thief on board this ship. How do I go about catching him?”

Lars turned slowly. “A sneak thief? What’s gone?”

“Well, I’ve had an idea for a long time I was going to go to Africa and shoot me a couple lions and I’ve been collecting guns.”

“Guns?” And from Lars the word sounded like an exploding cartridge.

“Sure. I had three good rifles. A
twenty-five-twenty
. A Scho, a 9-mm
Mannlicher
and a couple automatics and some shells. Sis didn’t know I’d been buying them here and there, so I don’t dare tell her about it. You know how women are. Aunt Agatha wouldn’t like it either. But I had them hidden away and now they’ve disappeared.”