Dangerous Cargo

RGL e-Book Cover 2015
^©

“Dangerous Cargo,” Harper & Brothers, New York,
1934

“Dangerous Cargo,” The Crime Club, Collins, London,
1934

WHEN hard times were at their hardest, it was customary for
the newspapers to say that Horace Laghet had all the money in the country.
His name was on every lip; the least of his doings and sayings constituted
front page stuff.

He first came into prominence during the panic of 1929 when it transpired
that he had sold short. Of course he made millions. And after that, when
everybody else was desperately trying to revive confidence, Laghet continued
to sell America short, and America, unfortunately, justified his disbelief.
He raked in more and more millions.

He spent lavishly. At a time when the building trades were almost at a
standstill he commenced the construction of a huge marble palace on upper
Fifth Avenue and another at Newport. He ordered a yacht that was to exceed
any yacht ever built. When these extravagances were criticised he retorted:
“Well, I’m keeping the money in circulation, am I not?” And there was no
come-back.

To do him justice, I must say that he subscribed great sums to the
unemployment funds, and to every form of relief. It did not do him any good.
People felt that he ought have given more. In the gay old days millionaires
used to be respected—or at least admired, but not now. People felt in a
dim way that Laghet had profited out of the country’s misfortunes, and he was
hated.

Lord! how he was hated. His name was never mentioned without a covert
sneer. It was said that his life had been attempted several times, and that
he never ventured out without an armed guard.

This being the situation, my excitement can be understood when one morning
a crisp voice said over the ‘phone: “This is Horace Laghet speaking.” Just
like that. No hireling or secretary, but the great man himself. At first I
thought it was a hoax.

“Is Madame Storey in her office?” he asked.

“I’ll see,” I said cautiously.

“Oh, don’t give me that bunk!” he said. “I’m Horace Laghet. Connect me
with her.”

“If I were sure that it was Mr. Laghet speaking…” I began.

“Connect me! Connect me!” he shouted. “She can hang up if she’s not
satisfied, can’t she?”

I thought it best to switch the call to my employer’s desk. She was cool
and off-hand. He asked if he could see her. “I can give you half an hour at
noon,” she said. She politely declined an invitation to lunch. He said, “Very
well, I’ll be there at twelve.”

When she had hung up I went in. She was helping herself to a cigarette
with an amused smile. “Well, Bella, business is picking up,” she said.

“Fancy! Horace Laghet coming here!” I said, all agog.

“Well, there’s no occasion to strew roses in his path,” she said.

When he entered my office I got a shock. I suppose I had read that he was
only thirty-five years old, but it was hard to believe that the man everybody
was talking about could be so young. A tall stalwart figure at the top-notch
of a man’s vigour, with a deeply tanned skin, though the month was February.
He had a dark, passionate face that could be brutal, I suspected, but at
present was masked by a courteous smile. He had the air of assurance that
great riches give to a man, but I discovered that he was easily upset.

I opened the door of Mme. Storey’s office, and followed him in. He stopped
short at the sight of her. “I didn’t think that you would be like this,” he
said. His black eyes fired up with admiration. He was a disturbing man to
women.

Mme. Storey is used to this sort of thing. “That can be taken in two
ways,” she murmured.

“You know what I mean,” he said. “Of course, I have often seen your
photograph and admired it. But the published photographs of prominent women
are so touched up that you never believe in them.”

She smiled ironically.

“Sit down,” she said. “Have a cigarette?”

He glanced at me deprecatingly. “I wished to see you alone.”

“Miss Brickley is present at all interviews,” said Mme. Storey. “It is a
rule I have made.”

He stood up, and his face flushed darkly. “I am not just an ordinary
caller!” he said angrily. “This is important.”

It was the wrong line to take with my employer. “It is my rule,” she
repeated, with deceitful mildness. I thought he was going to walk right out
of the door again, and my heart sank. The richest man in town walking out of
the door! However, he thought better of it. He sat down again, and after a
moment succeeded in smoothing his ruffed plumage. I went to my desk in the
corner.

“I suppose you know who I am,” he began.

“I read the newspapers,” said Mme. Storey, smiling.

A spasm of anger crossed his face. “Yes, damn it!” he muttered, “and a
nice sort of scoundrel they make me out to be!…Have you noticed that I have
had a yacht built, and am starting on a cruise with a party of guests
to-morrow?”

“I had seen a later date mentioned.”

“I know. But the President-elect sent for me yesterday, and from what I
learned from him I can see that there is a bad time ahead of us. Worse than
anything we have been through. Well, I mean to be out of the way of it. They
blame me for everything that happens. I’m going for a six months’ cruise to
the West Indies and to South America.”

“How pleasant,” said Mme. Storey. “What can I do for you?”

“Two weeks ago,” he went on, “I was called up at my office by a woman’s
voice. A superior sort of voice, soft-spoken, educated. She warned me not to
go on this voyage. When I pressed her for particulars she hung up. Well, I am
frequently called up or addressed through the mail by triflers, so I thought
no more about it.

“But to-day she called up again. There was a ring of earnestness in her
voice. You can’t mistake that sort of thing. She was crying; she seemed
scarcely able to speak for terror. All she said was that if I went on this
voyage I should never come back alive. That they were laying for me. When I
tried to get more out of her she hung up.”

“How did she reach your ear on both occasions?” asked Mme. Storey.

“I have a private ‘phone on my desk that is connected directly with the
exchange. She called up on that.”

“She knew the private number?”

“Oh, well, many do. There’s no clue in that.”

“It is impossible to trace ‘phone calls in these days of dial ‘phones,”
said Mme. Storey.

“I don’t want you to trace the call,” he said. “I want you to come with me
on the voyage…And your secretary, if you want her. Ostensibly you will be
my guests, but in reality you will be working for me.”

I was so astonished my jaw dropped as if the spring had broken. I expect I
gaped at the man like a clown.

Mme. Storey was not at all put about. “If you think there is anything in
this warning,” she said, “my honest advice to you is to give up the
voyage.”

“Never!” he said, setting his jaw. “This yacht has cost me three millions.
I’m going to sea in her.

“You don’t want anybody like me,” she said. “You need men who can guard
you all the time.”

“I’ll have them if I need them. I want you to lay bare the plot, if there
is a plot. Nobody can do that so well as you. What’s more, you will be a
delightful addition to the party. I wouldn’t like to impose an ordinary
detective on my guests.”

“Thanks,” said Mme. Storey dryly. “Frankly, it doesn’t appeal to me.”

“Why not?”

“Have you ever taken a long voyage in a yacht?”

“No.”

“Well, I have. In such close quarters the guests get rather badly on each
other’s nerves.” She looked at him in a dry way that suggested he himself was
a bit too passionate and domineering to make the ideal fellow voyager.

He laughed it off. “You won’t find the quarters on the
Buccaneer
too close.”

“
Buccaneer
?” said Mme. Storey. “Well named!”

He was ready to get sore at that, but decided to laugh again. “Just a
small party,” he said. “The ladies include my fiancée, Celia Dare, and her
mother, and Mrs. Holder.”

“Who is Mrs. Holder?”

“Just a dear friend,” he said carelessly.

“A widow?”

“No. She’s got a perfectly good husband somewhere. He’s in business and
can’t get away…The men will be my brother Adrian, young Emil Herbert, the
celebrated pianist, and my secretary, Martin Coade. Martin is a host in
himself. He’s in Holland just now, but will join the ship when we touch at
Curaçao.”

“Such a ship must carry a big crew,” suggested Mme. Storey.

“Yes. Nearly a hundred men.”

“Easy to plant an assassin amongst them,” she murmured.

Laghet showed his teeth unpleasantly. “I assure you they have been
hand-picked,” he said grimly.

Mme. Storey debated with herself.

“Five thousand dollars a week,” said Laghet seductively.

“Good pay,” she said.

“Will you take it?”

“Yes.” But as his hand shot out she held hers up. “…Under certain
conditions.”

“Name them, Lady!”

“I cannot undertake any responsibility for your safety.”

“That’s understood.”

“Secondly, I must be free to terminate the agreement and leave the ship at
any time.”

“Right! We’ll make it so pleasant for you, you won’t want to leave.”

“Thirdly, you must tell me the whole truth.”

He stared. “Why on earth shouldn’t I tell you the truth?”

“My dear man,” she said, “you haven’t reached your present position
without—how can I put it inoffensively?—without being mixed up in
things you don’t want to talk about. When I come to you for necessary
information you must tell me the whole truth or I can do nothing.”