Читать книгу Hidden Country - Henry Oyen - Страница 6

Table of Contents

I followed the direction of Pierce’s outstretched arm and on the deck of the Wanderer made out the stiff, precise figure of Chanler’s man, Simmons, waiting in exactly the same pose with which he admitted one to his master’s bachelor apartments in Central Park West. It was Simmons who welcomed me on board, and he did it ill, for it irked his serving-man’s soul to countenance his master’s friendship with persons of no wealth.

“Mr. Chanler is in his room, sir. You are to come there at once. This way, if you please, sir.”

He led the way in his stiffest manner to a stateroom in the forward part of the yacht and knocked diffidently on the door.

“Go away! Please go away!” came the petulant response.

“Mr. Pitt, sir,” said Simmons.

“Oh!” There was the sound of a desk being closed. “Show him in. Hello, Gardy! Glad to see you! I’m fairly dying for somebody to talk to!”

Chanler was sprawled gracefully over a chair before a writing-desk built into the forward wall of the stateroom. He was wearing a mauve dressing-gown of padded silk and smoking one of his phenomenally long cigarets in a phenomenally long amber holder. It had been long since I had seen him and he had changed deplorably; but so rapid and eager was his greeting that I had no time to note just where the change had come.

“You’re a good fellow to come, Gardy,” said he with a genuine note of gratitude in his tones. “I knew you’d help me, though. Simmons—bring a couple of green ones, please.”

“Not for me,” I hastened to interpose. “You know I never touch anything before dinner.”

“That’s so; I forgot. You’ve got yourself disciplined. Well, bring one green one, Simmons. I don’t usually do this sort of thing so early, either,” he continued as Simmons vanished, “but I sat up late with Captain Brack last night, and I’m a little off. Wonderful chap, the captain; head on him like a piece of steel. Well, Gardy, what do you think of the trip?”

“When you have told me something about it I may have an opinion,” I replied. “You know all the knowledge of it that I have was what came in your message.”

“That’s so. Well, what did you think when you got the wire? You must have thought something; you think about everything. What did you think when you heard that I was planning a stunt like this—something useful, you know? Eh?”

“Well, it was something of a shock,” I admitted.

Chanler smiled. But it was not the likable, indolent, boyish smile of old which admitted:

“Quite so. Came as a shock to hear that I was planning to be something besides a loafer spending the money my governor made. I knew it would. You never expected anything like this of me, Gardy?”

“No, I can’t say that I did.”

“Neither did I. Never dreamed of it until three months ago, and then—then I discovered that I had to do—come in, Simmons,” he interrupted himself as the valet knocked.

While he was swallowing his little drink of absinth I studied him more closely.

There had always been something of the young Greek god about George Chanler, an indolent, likable, self-satisfied young god with a long, elegant body and a small curl-wrapped head. Now I saw how he had changed. The fine body and head had grown flabby from too much self-indulgence and too little use. There was a new look about the lazy eyes which hinted at a worry, the sort of worry which troubles a man awake or sleeping. Something had happened to George Chanler, something that had shaken him out of the armor of indolent self-sufficiency which Chanler money had grown around him. The boyish lines about his mouth were gone. It was not a likable face now; it was cynical, almost brutal.

“That’s all, Simmons,” he said, allowing Simmons to take the empty glass from his hand. “What was I saying, Gardy, when I stopped?”

“That you discovered that you had to do——”

“Oh, yes.” He paused a while. “Didn’t you wonder why I was doing this sort of thing when you got my wire, Gardy?”

“Naturally, I did.”

“And you haven’t got any idea, or that sort of thing, about why I’m doing it?”

“You say that your purpose is to explore——”

“I mean, what started me on the trip?”

I shook my head.

“Haven’t you even got a good guess?”

“Well, it might be a bet, doctor’s orders, or just an ordinary whim.”

He shook his head, looking pensively out of the window, or at least, as near pensively as he could.

“No,” he said. “Nothing so easy as that. I’m doing it because of a——”

He caught himself sharply and looked at me.

“What did you think I was going to finish with, Gardy?”

“I had three guesses,” I replied. “I wouldn’t guess again.”

“I’m doing it,” he resumed slowly, “I’m doing it because—I had to do something useful, and this is the sort of thing I like to do.”

I smiled a little.

“What’s that for, Gardy?” he asked.

“I didn’t know you ever recognized the words ‘had to’ as applicable to yourself.”

“By jove! And I didn’t, Gardy; I never did in the world—until three months ago. But then something happened.”

He looked out of the window for a long time.

“No, I’m not going to tell you, Gardy. It’s none of your business. No offense, you know.”

“Of course not. I didn’t ask.”

“You’ll know without asking, in time. Well, I’ve told you I found I had to do something—something useful. That was quite a jolt, you know. Never fancied I’d ever have to do anything, and as for doing anything useful—rot, my boy, for me, you know. But I found I had to, and so when I met Brack—By the way, Brack’s the chap who’s responsible for my ‘doing something’ in this way. Wonderful fellow. Met him in San Francisco. Don’t mind admitting to you, old man, that I was traveling pretty fast.

“Went to San Francisco with an idea of going to China, or around the world, or something like that, to forget. Met him in the Palace barroom. Saved me. He’d just come back from the North, where he’d lost his sealing vessel. He said: ‘Why don’t you buy the Wanderer and do some exploring?’ ‘What’s the Wanderer,’ says I. ‘Strongest gasoline yacht in the world,’ he says. I began to pick up; life held interest, you know. Went to see the Wanderer. Belonged to old Harrison, the steel man, who’d done a world tour in her and wanted to sell. ‘Where’s a good place to explore if I do buy her?’ says I, and Brack told me about Petroff Sound. Ever hear of it before this, Gardy?”

“I’ve seen the name some place, nothing more.”

“I wired old Doc Harper about it after Brack had talked to me about the place. Asked if it would be a good stunt to go up there; credit to the old school to have a ‘grad’ get the bones, you know.”

“Bones?” I exclaimed.

“Bones,” said Chanler. “Read that,” and he handed me a long letter signed by the venerable president of our school.

The Petroff Sound territory unquestionably is a district which science demands be explored. Mikal Petroff, the Russian who in 1889 brought out the tibea of a mammoth, (elephas primigenius) and several bone fragments which certainly had belonged to an animal of characteristics similar to the extinct elephant species, was an illiterate fur-trader and therefore his report of a field of similar bones frozen in the never-thawing ice of the Sound must not be accepted as positive information.

In 1892, however, Sturlasson, the Norwegian captain, who reached the Sound after the wreck of his sealing vessel, made entries in his diary before dying which substantiate Petroff’s story. As the location of the Sound, as recorded by Sturlasson, is three minutes west of the location as given by your informant, it is certain that the latter knows of Petroff Sound. No nobler use could be found for your activity and wealth than the expedition you are considering. Before expressing myself further, I will give such data as is obtainable from sources at my command.

Dr. Harper’s data on Petroff Sound was deadly dry scientific matter which explained that while the possible discovery of frozen mammoth bones would be of great interest to the scientific world, the study of the terrain and of conditions surrounding these bones would be of infinitely greater value.

“Then it’s purely a scientific affair,” I said. “To be of any value it must be scientific.”

“Positively, dear boy, positively. I’ll give you a lot of stuff to read up on after luncheon. Old Harper took trouble to wire me to be sure to have an authentic, coherent report made of the expedition’s findings. Well, that’s where you came in. I haven’t got brains, but you have, Gardy, and you’re going to help me out. We sail tonight, by the way, and we won’t be back until cold weather, so ye who have tears prepare to shed them between now and midnight.”

“But who is the scientist of the expedition?”

“Brack. He’s a geologist, mineralogist, oceanographer, and general shark on all that sort of stuff. Expert explorer. Quit exploring and went sealing. Lost his schooner, and had come down and was living at the Palace, waiting for capital to start again. Wonderful mind. He’s ashore at present framing up a little sport to help us pass the afternoon. We’ll get ready for luncheon now, Gardy. He’ll be here then and you’ll meet him. Sure you won’t have a tot of grog before eating, Gardy?”

“No, thanks.”

“Well, I will, just a little. Simmons will show you to your stateroom. Hope you’re witty and full of scandal, Gardy, ’cause I’m awf’ly, awf’ly bored these days and I’ve got to be amused.”

Simmons, summoned by the bell, ushered me into the stateroom next to Chanler’s. The two rooms were nearly identical in size and furnishings, and I wondered idly why Chanler, as owner, did not occupy the owner’s suite forward. Later I had a glimpse into the owner’s suite through a half-open door, and was more puzzled: the suite was obviously furnished for feminine occupation.

Captain Brack had not arrived when we entered the dining-saloon of the Wanderer for luncheon. There were present Mr. Riordan, Chief Engineer, Dr. Olson, physician to the expedition, and the second officer, Mr. Wilson. Riordan was a pale, sour-looking Irishman, tall, loosely built, heavy-jawed, and with a bitter down-curve to the corners of his large, loose mouth. Once I saw him shoot a sly glance at George Chanler’s long, thin hands, and the look was not what a dutiful employee should have bestowed upon so generous an employer.

Opposite Riordan, and beside me, sat Mr. Wilson, second in command, who had come with the Wanderer from her former owner. He was a strongly built, silent, brown-faced man, of about thirty-five who always appeared as if he had just been shaven, as if his clothes had just been brushed, and whose shoes always seemed to be polished to the same degree. His face was square and lean, and against the weather-beaten neck his immaculate collar gleamed with startling whiteness. He spoke seldom except when spoken to and then modestly and to the point. “Yes sir” and, “No sir,” were the words most frequently on his lips.

Dr. Olson was a small, unobtrusive man with a light Vandyke beard, to whom no one paid any attention and who spoke even less than Mr. Wilson.

The introductions were barely over when a quick light step fell on the deck outside and Chanler, languidly waving his hand at the door behind me, said—

“Mr. Pitt, meet Captain Brack.”

I rose and turned with interest. My interest suddenly gave way to consternation. A chill went flashing along my spine. I stood like a dumb man. Captain Brack was the large man whom I had heard called “Laughing Devil” in Billy Taylor’s saloon a short time before.