Dangerous Cargo (13 page)

Mme. Storey smoked without saying anything.

Les stood up. He dwarfed our little sitting-room. He looked magnificent
when he was angry.

“Man and boy I’ve been at sea for seventeen years!” he cried. “I’ve had to
put up with all kinds. I can stand a rough brute because there’s some reason
for him. But a polished brute, no! A man who thinks that his foul money gives
him the right to wipe his feet on other men, no!”

He started for the door.

“Don’t go!” murmured Mme. Storey seductively.

He turned back, but his anger was still crackling. “I’m not going to shoot
him,” he said. “If you doubt it you can have your gun back. But if anybody
else wants to take a crack at him I won’t lift a finger!”

“Then I have failed!” murmured Mme. Storey, making her voice sound
poor.

Like all manly men he was absurdly susceptible to a woman’s plea. He
looked at her uneasily.

She stood up and her dark eyes frankly sought his blue ones. “Will you do
it for me?” she said softly.

He stepped back with an almost frightened look.

“Oh!…that’s not fair!” he stammered.

“I know it’s not fair,” she said simply, “but what else can a woman do? I
have taken this job and I have to sink or swim with Horace Laghet. Frankly, I
am afraid of what is before us. I want you on my side. You’re such a man!
Will you do it for me Captain?”

His face softened wonderfully. His eyes dwelt on her in delight. “Sure!”
he murmured in his deep voice. “Reckon I’d grab the red-hot hoof of Old
Hornie if you asked me!”

They laughed together. “Take mine first,” she said offering her hand.

A knock on the door brought us all sharply to attention. “Who is it?”
asked Mme. Storey.

“Jepson, Madam.” (Jepson was a dining-saloon steward.) “Mr. Laghet’s
compliments, and would you and Miss Brickley like to have luncheon sent to
your rooms?”

“No, indeed!” sang Mme. Storey. “We’ll be up immediately.”

To Farman she said: “You stay here until we are out of the way. There is
only one thing to be decided. Where is the handshaking ceremony to take
place? Here?”

Farman was smiling at her a little dizzily. “Too risky to try to make it a
second time,” he said. “Could you get the boss to come down to the swimming
pool after lunch?”

“The very thing,” she said. “No one ever goes there at that hour. We’ll
meet you there at two.”

“Make it in the gymnasium forward of the pool,” he said. “Miss Bella can
watch the door so we can’t be taken by surprise.”

We slipped out of the room and hastened up the companionway. We found a
grim luncheon party in the dining saloon, men only. They looked as if they
hadn’t spoken to each other since sitting down. Adrian was as pale as a
corpse and wretchedly nervous. He always appeared to disadvantage in the
society of men. The five of them rose as we entered. Horace looked at us
suspiciously.

“Sorry to be late,” said Mme. Storey brightly. “The call for lunch took us
by surprise. We were dressing.”

It was a pretty thin excuse, as we were wearing the same dresses we had on
when Horace had last seen us. Horace looked at the dresses but said
nothing.

“Thank God anyhow that you’ve come!” said Martin, blinking behind his
glasses as we took our seats. “It was like a funeral feast!”

I thought his crack was in very bad taste under the circumstances, but
Martin didn’t care. That was his line. Horace paid no attention.

Our coming didn’t help matters much. Martin made his cracks and we smiled
stiffly. Horace was sunk in gloom; Mme. Storey was studying deeply and the
rest of us were jumpy. Naturally, there was no reference to the tragedy of
the night before. Feeling the way we did, the elaborate meal was a mockery.
We refused nearly everything and got out on deck as quickly as possible.

Adrian, Emil and Dr. Tanner slipped away—to attend on the ladies, no
doubt. Martin was disposed to linger and entertain us with his wise-cracks.
He was the only one excepting Mme. Storey who was not afraid of Horace.
Horace was fond of him and would let him say what he pleased. Just the same
Martin had a keen sense of which side his bread was buttered on. He never
said the unforgivable thing in Horace’s presence.

Out on deck Martin cocked an eye at the sun and took note of our course,
which was almost due east. He voiced the question that was in all our minds.
“Are we heading for Port-of-Spain, boss?”

“No,” said Horace curtly.

“Where away?”

“If I had my way we’d never make port,” said Horace bitterly. “Willemstad
was enough!”

And that’s all we got.

On the after deck Martin turned his back to us for a moment to draw up a
more comfortable chair. Mme. Storey murmured to Horace:

“I have a little job for you. Get rid of Martin.”

For once Horace was willing to obey her. He didn’t want even Martin to be
a witness of his humiliation. He sent his secretary up on the wireless office
with elaborate instructions as to the sending of a message dealing with some
financial operations.

When he was out of sight the three of us descended the companionway, past
A deck which contained all the state cabins, B deck where the business of the
ship was carried on, and where the servants slept, down to C deck, which was
almost on the bottom of the yacht. The Stairway came to an end at the edge of
the beautiful black marble pool. “How is Farman going to get down here?”
growled Horace.

“I don’t know,” said Mme. Storey. “That’s up to him.”

We made our way forward to the gymnasium.

Alongside us the water of the pool swayed lazily from side to side in its
black basin under the slight roll of the vessel. The gym. was a smallish room
with electric camel, horse, rowing machine and other apparatus. It was
panelled with oak and there was a door in the forward side. We left the door
into the pool open, and I stood there to watch that nobody came down the
stairway. While they waited in the gymnasium, Horace affecting to sneer, the
little door opened and Les Farman appeared ducking his head under the lintel.
I don’t think Horace had noticed the door, and his eyes bulged at the
unexpected apparition.

“What’s behind that door?” he asked sharply.

“Steel bulkhead, sir, and water-tight door,” answered Les. “Number one
hold is forward of this. They call it the lazaret. The food is stored
there.”

“Hm!” said Horace. His expression said: “What the hell are you doing in
the food stores?”

Mme. Storey saw that this scene must be rushed through or there would
certainly be an explosion.

“Well, here we are!” she said in a matter-of-fact way to make it easy for
them. “Shake hands, you two!”

They advanced towards each other like strange dogs. They were a
fine-looking pair of men, Horace as dark as Les was fair. The difference
between them was that Les could control himself and Horace could not. Horace
felt inferior, and it was almost more than his self-love could bear. His eyes
glittered. The man was in a hell of his own firing.

He took Les’ extended hand and dropped it quickly. “Sorry for what
happened this morning,” he muttered.

“That’s all right,” said Les.

“Come on,” said Mme. Storey.

She let Horace go first through the door into the pool. Turning, she said
quietly to Les: “You will keep that appointment outside the steward’s stores
at six-thirty.”

“If you want it.” said Les.

“Surely! After you have heard all he has to say, give the man, whoever he
may be, a few minutes to make his getaway, and then come to my sitting-room
and report. It doesn’t make any difference if you are seen coming, because
then we must be ready to strike.”

“Okay,” said Les, smiling at her.

AT six-thirty that evening, Mme. Storey, Horace and I were
waiting in the sitting-room of our suite in a state of strained suspense.
Horace had been told of the trap we had set. In the interim the wind had
risen and the yacht was pitching somewhat heavily. What with the excitement
and the motion of the vessel I felt wretched.

Horace was glancing at his watch every few seconds. “If we set the door
open we could see anybody who went down the corridor,” he said.

“Surely,” said Mme. Storey. “And he could see us. In that case we would
hear no details of the plot.”

She was moving restlessly about the room. Suddenly she bent her head to
listen by the door.

“Somebody is passing now,” she said with a grim smile. “On tiptoe.”

Horace instantly sprang up, but she motioned him back.

We allowed the plotter—whoever it might be, time enough to get
inside the steward’s storeroom, then Mme. Storey gave the word to go. “Maybe
he has only a brief story to tell,” she said. “We must be ready to nab him
when he comes out.”

We stole softly forward to the end of the corridor. The steel door leading
out on deck was closed. We stood with our backs against it. While we were in
this position, if the person in the storeroom opened the door a crack to peep
out he couldn’t see us because we were behind the door. The door to Dr.
Tanner’s quarters was on our right, the storeroom door on our left.

Some minutes passed. Horace was breathing stertorously in my ear. The
suspense was becoming unbearable. The door behind me had a porthole let into
it, and I turned around to look out. I found when I put my head sideways I
could see the edge of Les Farman’s blond head where he stood on deck
alongside the next porthole. The sun had gone down, but it was not dark. From
the still poise of Les’ head I judged that he was listening intently. He
couldn’t see me.

I whispered the news to Mme. Storey. “So far so good,” she said
smiling.

I watched Les until he moved away across the deck. “Les has gone,” I
whispered, and our three pairs of eyes fastened on the door in front of us
like cats at a mousehole.

I saw the handle slowly turn and my heart began to pound. The door opened
a crack and was held so—to give the inmate a chance to peep down the
corridor, I suppose. It was empty. A hand then appeared around the door, and
feeling for the keyhole, inserted a key. The door opened wider and a man
slipped around it.

It was a steward in his white drill suit, wearing a cap with a visor. At
first I could not see his face. Still watching down the corridor, he softly
closed the door behind him, turned the key and pulled it out without looking
at it. Horace said quietly:

“What the hell are you doing?”

The steward almost jumped out of his skin. I heard his breath hiss through
his teeth. He flung a terrified glance over his shoulder. It was Fahrig, the
captain’s servant. He gathered himself to run, but Horace caught him in two
steps, twisted his hand in the man’s collar and shook him like a rat.

“Let me go! Let me go!” he cried thinly.

Horace ran him down the corridor, and thrust him into Mme. Storey’s
sitting-room. We followed as quick as we could, and got the door closed.
Apparently no one had heard the slight commotion. Horace thrust the man from
him with a violence that threw him to the floor. He lay there shaking and
crying, wrapping his arms around his head as if he expected kicks to
follow.

“Give an account of yourself!” said Horace.

Fahrig partly raised himself and scrambled to Horace’s feet. There he
knelt clasping his hands and mourning. It was a little too dramatic. I saw by
the look of cunning that came into his mean face that he was getting his grip
again.

“Mr. Laghet, I’m innocent!” he whined. “As God sees me kneeling here I am
innocent! I swear it!”

“Innocent of what, for God’s sake?” cried Horace.

“I happened to get hold of a key that fitted the lock of the steward’s
stores,” Fahrig gabbled. “And I was tempted, thinking of all the goods stored
in there. My mother in Germany is so poor! I went in there to steal, Mr.
Laghet, but when I got inside I thought better of it. I remembered what my
mother taught me. I never took a thing, Mr. Laghet! Search me! Search
me!”

A grim note of laughter escaped from Mme. Storey, “That’s a good one!” she
said.

“You lie!” said Horace to Fahrig. “You were after bigger game than soap
and towels!”

“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Laghet,” whined Fahrig, making his eyes
big. “I never touched a thing. Search me! Search me!”

Horace, with a grunt of disgust, raised his foot, but Fahrig scrambled out
of the way with remarkable quickness. “Let me go this time, Mr. Laghet,” he
pleaded. “Let me go for my mother’s sake. You will never regret it!”

There was a knock at the door and Les Farman came in. At the sight of him
Fahrig became very quiet. A greenish tinge came into his sallow skin. Like a
rat at bay, his eyes darted this way and that. I saw them marking the door
into my bedroom, and I quietly put myself in front of it. “Is this the man
who talked to you just now from the storeroom?” asked Mme. Storey.

Les looked him over. “He’s dressed the same,” he said, “but I couldn’t
swear to it because he kept in the shadow. His cap was pulled over his eyes
and he had a handkerchief tied around the lower part of his face.”

“Well, we caught him coming out of that room,” put in Horace. “That’s
enough for me.”

“Wait a minute,” said Les. “There was a little three-cornered tear in the
corner of the handkerchief where it hung over his chin. Maybe he still has it
on him.”

Like a flash Fahrig had the handkerchief out, balled it and tossed it
towards the open port. But I caught it and handed it to Les. He held it up
and showed us the little tear.

“That is the man,” he said.

There was no make-believe about Fahrig’s terror then. His face was
greenish and damp.

“What did he say to you?” asked Mme. Storey.

“One moment,” said Les. “This rat is dangerous. Better tie him up.”

At the first move he made towards him, Fahrig whipped out a knife. That
didn’t bother Les any. Moving quicker than my eye could follow, the big man
seized his wrist and twisted it so that the knife fell to the floor. He flung
Fahrig down on his face, knelt on his back and pulled his arms behind
him.