Читать книгу Douchard's Island - Aidan de Brune - Страница 4

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GRACE could not shift Captain Bowman from his determination. He would take time to think over past days; the days when Arthur Dormer frequented his ship when in port, bringing with him men be thought would appeal to the old seaman.

At the ship's gangway lay the Fairy, a speedy, outboard motorboat.

Grace ran down to it and almost before Frank could jump aboard had it speeding for the jetty at the bottom of the big garden under the bluff. Almost in silence she ran the boat beside the jetty and waited while her brother secured it. Then, she linked her arm in his, as they ascended the steep grade to the terrace that ran along the harbour side of the house.

"What do you think, Frank?" She stopped at the foot of the last flight of steps. "Douchard's Island! I like the name. You are older than I. Do you remember Louis Douchard?"

The young man shook his head thoughtfully. "I don't know," he paused. "Now I have heard Captain Bowman I begin to believe I remember him coming to see dad; but it's a long while ago. I've got to think..."

"Like Uncle Matt." the girl laughed. "Oh, you men! Listen—'Tall, thin, loose-shanked, mop of red hair, turning grey!' There you are. Can't you remember? Why, if a woman had seen a man like that she would have remembered him to the end of her life."

"Well, I'm not a woman." Frank grinned.

"No-o-" Then the girl laughed. "Frank, everyone says that we are alike. What sort of a girl do you think you would have made?"

"That would have been a question better asked of my best boy." A mock frown came on the young man's brow. "No girl understands herself until she has had at least two serious flirtations."

"Are flirtations serious?" Grace raised her eyebrows. Then, with a little laugh, "Psychology is out of order and..."

"Tea is in order." Frank nodded to the table spread beneath the overhanging trees at the edge of the lawn. "Why didn't you bring Captain Matt, back with you, Grace?"

"I for—no, I didn't. For the time I wanted him to stay aboard and think. Tea would be a disturbing element with him. Now he is alone he will go into the chart room and mix a stiff glass of grog. That will excite his brain. Years will turn back and in the fumes of the ardent spirit..."

"He will recite poetry—like my sister—in flights of fancy to..."

"Douchard's Island." The girl had reached the tea-table and was busy with the equipage. Frank took his cup and helped himself liberally, to the sugar. For a moment he devoted himself to an obstinate lump which refused to melt. Then:

"Why are you so anxious about Douchard's Island, Grace?"

"I want to find it."

"What for?"

Again the girl hesitated. She frowned and bit her lip. "I hardly know," she said at length. "I was intrigued, at first. Then came the inexplicable happenings of the nights..."

"The lure of gold?"

"It may be that, to other people. To me it is...is just..."

"Feminine curiosity?"

"More than that, Frank. Why are these men so anxious to find Douchard's Island? This house is getting haunted..." She shivered slightly. "...two burglaries and a strange caller—I'm leaving out cookie's visitor—in a week. Sonny boy, there's something up."

"There will be, if you call me that again," Frank threatened, drawing the sugar-bowl towards him.

"You don't want more sugar in that tea, surely."

"No, but blessed be the man who invented lump-sugar—when sisters go to see sob-sister films."

Grace nodded, and laughed. "That doesn't answer my proposition," she countered.

"And, you haven't answered mine." The young man stretched his legs before him. "I want to know why you are so anxious about this island business. Do you propose that we go and settle there—in respect to the late lamented Douchard?"

"Absurd!" Grace laughed again. "No, but I'm intrigued."

"By the thoughts of an enormous treasure?"

"By the thought that the map and letter are of especial interest to one, or several persons."

"Then..."

"If Uncle Matt discovers anything I am going through to the end of this.'

"By going to Douchard Island? I hope you don't count me in on the journey?"

The girl nodded; then rose and went to the house. Frank watched her curiously.

Grace was certainly intrigued with the letter they had discovered in their uncle's desk. But was she more intrigued with the papers than with the circumstances surrounding them?

They had found the map in one of the drawers, pinned to the letter and both of them enclosed in an unmarked foolscap envelope. They had been curious, for the moment—but, their curiosity had soon died. Then it had been revived by the burglary—an abortive one, true—followed by the seafaring man's strange call. The caller had not followed the advice given him—to see the solicitor for the estate—but had disappeared. His call had been followed by another burglary, equally abortive.

They had wondered what the intruder had sought. In the library, the scene of the midnight raid, had been plenty of plunder for the ordinary burglar. But, he had disdained old silver and a wonderful collection of old coins. He had attacked the safe and thrown out the contents. A strong-box containing jewellery worth many thousands of pounds had been forced. The jewels had been left, scattered over the library desk.

It had been Grace who had first thought of the letter and map. The burglar had missed the map by a fluke. During the afternoon Grace had chanced on it again and had taken it to her room to study. She had insisted that her unconscious act had foiled the burglar. She had insisted that the two pieces of paper be safely hidden.

Frank was lost in speculation regarding Douchard's Island when a low, penetrating whistle brought him alert.

He looked up, to see Grace standing on the terrace of the house, waving to him. "Quick, boy!" The girl called to him, excitedly. "Someone wants to see you."

She took his arm and guided him to the library. Close by the desk stood a small man, clad in correct morning attire, somewhat faded. In his hand he held a soft straw hat, gloves and a thin cane. At their entrance he turned to face them, showing a long, thin face, decorated with a rather large moustache and a neat beard cut to an imperial. He bowed from the hips, in a rather theatrical manner.

"This is my brother, M. Latour." Grace spoke coldly. She crossed the room and seated herself in a lounge chair with her back to the window. Something in her attitude showed that she intended to be present through the interview. The man showed embarrassment.

"If ma'amselle will excuse us," he hinted.

"Ma'amselle is interested." Grace spoke quickly. "My brother and I have no secrets and if this is a matter of our father's, or uncle's estates, I am as much interested as he."

The man bowed again, yet seemed still disturbed. "It is a matter of the estate. May I say that I am a solicitor of this city..."

"Then you represent a client in this matter?" the girl interjected.

"Certainly, ma'amselle. I have a client."

"And a claim against one or the estates?"

"One could hardly call it a claim. Shall I say, a withdrawal of a trust?"

"Against my father or my uncle?" Frank asked.

"I believe your uncle, the lamented Major Robert Dormer, was executor and trustee for the estate of your esteemed father, Mr. Arthur Dormer. He was guardian, under the will of your respected father for you—" Grace had a suspicion that the man had intended to finish his sentence with the word "children." She flushed slightly, and, as the man paused, suggested, "Heirs."

"Thank you ma'amselle." The man bowed again. "He, your greatly respected uncle, was guardian for your lamented father's heir and heiress."

"What has that to do with the matter?" Frank had taken a dislike to the man and wished to bring the interview to a head.

"A small matter." Latour turned to the young man, as if seeking to ignore the girl. "My client has a claim-"

"Has your client a name?" Grace asked with suspicious sweetness.

"Again I ask pardon." The man flushed. "I should have introduced him—Mr. Samuel Partridge—a gentleman who for many years has followed the calling of the sea..."

"A sailor?"

"Ma'amselle is correct." Latour paused, as if to collect his thoughts. "The matter is difficult to explain. I ask your pardons."

"Perhaps I can assist you." Frank's voice was dangerously cool. "A—er—gentleman of the sea called here a couple of days ago and claimed certain papers from my uncle's estate. I advised him to seek an interview with Mr. John Kempton, of Messrs. Kempton, Kempton and Wallis, assuring him that if there were any documents belonging to him among either my father's or my uncle's estates they would be returned to him. It is evident he misunderstood my advice. I mentioned Mr. John Kempton, not Mr.—" He glanced down at the card in his hand. "Not Mr. Charles Latour."

"A thousand pardons!" Latour nearly bent double, to achieve a bow of due humility. "Mr.—er—Samuel Partridge in not a man of business. You—he believed you instructed him to apply through a solicitor. He came to me and...Viola!"

"And your call then, is due to a misapprehension?" Frank looked towards the door, suggestively.

"A delightful misapprehension!" Latour spread his hands. "For has it not gained for me the privilege..."

"Of asking for the documents personally; of dealing with two young people of little business experience, rather than with their man of affairs," Grace interjected.

"It is unfortunate..."

"And the documents you claim, M. Latour?" suggested Frank.

"Of a mere nothing." The solicitor waved the question aside as of little consequence. "Two ordinary pieces of paper; dirty, ragged, and torn."

"That is hardly sufficient description," Grace laughed. "One may suggest that there are many such among the papers of the estate?"

"That is true," Frank answered gravely. "I am afraid that you will have to be a little more explicit, M. Latour."

"Shall I suggest a map." Grace dared, smiling across the room at her brother. "A map and a letter."

"Ma'amselle is psychic." Latour turned and bowed.

"Hardly psychic when two burglaries and a claim for such documents have been made within the past few days." Frank caught the hint his sister had thrown him.

"Burglaries?" Latour greeted the word with raised brows.

"Yes." The young man spoke gravely. "Burglars who disdain a few thousand pounds in jewels; a rare collection of old silver, and a numismatic collection that is said to be unique. But you said that, your client was a seafaring man. Perhaps he has little knowledge of those subjects."

"Are you suggesting, m'sieu—"

"Suggesting?" Frank raised his brows. "I have been suggesting that this interview is quite a waste of time."

"You mean..."

"Mr. Latour." The young man was impassively grave. "When you favoured me with this call I was engaged in a matter of deep speculation..." he hesitated.

"Yes." The solicitor leaned slightly forward.

"On the relationship of lump sugar to sob-sister films—and its use as a deterrent."

Grace choked. She rose hurriedly and went to the window. Almost at once she returned to her brother. "Frank!" she exclaimed. "Here is..."

"Pardon me, ma'amselle." The solicitor stepped quickly forward. "I instructed him to keep to the front of the house. It is awkward—incredible—I tender my sincere apologies on his and my behalf. But—as it is so, then may I be permitted to introduce to our interview my client?" With a deep bow to the girl and the man, and a dramatic flourish, Latour flung open the French windows and stepped to one side.

"Tony!" Frank stared at the young man, who entered immediately.

"What the devil...?"

"What's the matter?" Tony Westhorp stared about him, amazed. He limped to where Grace leaned against the window, convulsed with laughter. "Say Grace, what's the joke?"

"Our friend, the enemy!" The girl gasped. "Oh Tony. Tony, you will be the death of me!"

"Look here, old man..." The newcomer turned to Frank, to find his arm gripped by the little solicitor.

"What have you done with him?"

"What have you to do with this scoundrel?" Frank strode forward and seized Tony's other arm. "Look here, Tony, if this is one of your practical jokes, I'm going to tell you..."

"Jokes?" Tony gasped. "Here, someone! Tell me if I've wandered into an asylum..."

"I never knew you to be a seafaring man, Tony." Grace spoke in mock reproach. "And the day I took you outside the heads in the Fairy you were really too ill to pay the proper attention."

"But...What have you done with him?"

Latour forced himself before Tony, clutching at the lapels of the young man's coat. "If you've..."

"Done what? To whom?"

"To Mr. Samuel Partridge." Grace spoke between spasms of laughter. "Mr. Samuel Partridge, a gentleman of seafaring aspect ."

"Oh! him!" Tony spoke as if a sudden light had dawned on his bewildered brain. "Oh, yes, just so! Y'see when I came in at the gates I found a queer sort of customer hanging about the front of the house. Remembering what you had told me about the burglaries and that strange fellow who called on you, I advised our friend to skedaddle, vamoose, trip it, and all that, y'know."

"And then?" Grace questioned with forced calmness.

"Oh, he tried to argue a bit—and then he got cheeky. So I helped him to the gates—gently, y'know."

"Head-foremost, I hope," pleaded Frank; his eyes resting thoughtfully on the little solicitor.

"Well, hardly, old bean. I think he sat down in the middle of the road."

Then Tony added more hopefully, "But a passing motorist nearly flattened him out, y'know."

"So that's the answer." Frank stepped back a pace, to lounge, against the desk. He looked at the little solicitor. "What do you propose to do, Mr Latour?"

"There are damages..." The man commenced aggressively. "My client is assaulted and—"

"Damages! Good word that," Tony grinned at the girl. "Now, if that car had..."

"Mr. Latour," Grace spoke quickly. She thought the situation was getting out of hand. "You claim that your client is the owner of a map and a letter to be found among my father's, or my uncle's, possessions. Are you prepared to prove ownership?"

"Ma'amselle sees clearly." The little lawyer bowed from the hips. "We have proof...convincing proof..."

"Of what nature?" The girl spoke evenly.

"A letter, ma'amselle. A letter from M. Douchard to my client, instructing him to apply to your deeply respected father for the papers left in his charge."

"For the papers left in his charge." The girl mused. "Does that letter state the nature of the papers?"

"Unfortunately, no, ma'amselle."

"Yet you claim a letter and a map. How did your client come by that knowledge?"

"Because of information he previously possessed. M. Douchard, before he set out on his last journey—the journey that ended so lamentably—informed my client of the purposes of that journey..." The solicitor hesitated.

"And that purpose, M. Latour?"

"The discovery of certain pearl fisheries. I may say no more."

"Then, in fact, M. Douchard constituted your client his heir?"

Latour nodded. His face had brightened, for he felt that he was well retrieving a difficult situation.

"Your client is...was a seaman?" asked Frank, after a short pause.

"He followed the calling of the sea—yes."

"And, Louis Douchard?"

"He was a friend—what you call a...a..."

"Shipmate?" suggested the girl.

"That is it—a shipmate." Latour nodded, briskly. "For many years they were together, like brothers, like cousins ..."

"Like lovers?" Tony spoke innocently.

"But yes...no, that is not the word. True, they loved each other like brothers and..."

"I think we have heard enough," Grace interrupted. "Mr. Latour had better see Mr. Kempton."

Frank nodded; the conversation was leading nowhere. The little solicitor was lying, he knew that. Whatever authority this unknown client held, it certainly was not for the handing over of the map of Douchard's Island.

"Then you refuse our just request?" The little man sprang to his feet, excitedly.

"We haven't refused—and we don't comply," Frank grinned. "We are giving you an address for your next performance."

"So, come along, little man." Tony, six feet two in his sox and proportionately broad, urged the solicitor to the door. "Your client is waiting for you y'know, out on the road."

Muttering vague threats under his breath, Latour allowed himself to he conducted to the door and to the gates of the grounds. A few minutes later Tony re-entered the room, throwing himself in a chair, in an apparently breathless state.

"Getting fat, old dear?" Grace inquired, affectionately.

"The inevitable fate of bachelorhood." There was a reminiscent flicker in the humourous grey eyes, searching the girl's face. "A man wants a wife to keep him thin—worrying about the other men hanging about her skirts."

"And a wife retains her figure through the infidelities of her lord, and master," the girl evaded, neatly. "I told you once, Tony, that I would never marry a man who could not make love to me in the Fairy, outside the heads."

"Oh, if you two are going to spoon..." grumbled Frank, going to the door.

"Spoon!" Tony groaned. "Spooning with Grace must be next of kin to toying with a...a..."

"Hedgehog in a prickly temper?" suggested Frank.

"I prefer toying with a man-size drink in a prohibition country." Tony grinned. "But, none of this applies to the little love scene I was so fortunate as to interrupt. Who's our friend wearing the furze-bush?"

Explanations were inevitable. Grace and Frank started to give the young man an account of the day, together. With deliberate ostentation, Tony turned his back on his chum, giving ail his attention to the girl. A brief ten minutes and the band of two adventurers had gained a new and enthusiastic adherent.

"Great!" Tony cheered. "I'm in this, y'know—right up to the eyebrows. That is, if Grace will have me."

"As a fellow-adventurer," the girl warned.

The young man flushed. "Any terms, old dear." He spoke somewhat uncertainly.

"That's four of us."

"Four?" Tony questioned.

"You, Captain Matt, Frank and I," she explained. "Now to settle our plans."

She went to a bookshelf and from between the leaves of a ponderous tome brought out the map and letter relating to Douchard's Island, placing them on the desk. For some time the three heads were close together, studying the papers.

"Looks pretty desperate," Tony remarked, after a long pause.

"Right up the little old fig-tree," Frank assented.

"Oh, I don't know." Grace spoke meditatively. "Everything depends on uncle Matt. If he can give us but a single clue..."

"From the charts of the world? Rather hopeless, old dear."

"But he knew Louis Douchard," Grace urged.

"Who was a sailor and yet not a sailor." Her brother laughed.

"A sailor to the lawyer and a landsman to uncle Matt." The girl frowned. "I think I'll back uncle Matt."

"So will I, dear." Frank was emphatic. "He knew dad—and dad took Douchard to him."

"Then we have to wait for Captain Bowman's opinion—made after due cogitation?"

Grace nodded. For some moments she sat back in her chair, thinking deeply. She chanced to look up. Something drew her eyes to the windows. Pressed against the glass was the face of the lawyer!