Читать книгу The Bronze Hand - Carolyn Wells - Страница 10

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Max Trent sat long in his cabin, that night, wondering why Maisie Forman had tried to jump overboard. Save as a conventional human responsibility, it was none of his business. And, naturally, he had done his duty. He had seen her danger, rescued her from it, and then, though he had accompanied her to the short corridor which led to her own stateroom, neither had spoken a word.

She had hurried down the corridor, opened her door and vanished, and he had sought his own room at once.

He was shocked, horrified, moved to pity, suspicious—lots of things—but most of all, curious.

Why? Why should that lovely girl wish to throw away a young life, just commencing, with beauty, charm, power, riches—all at her command?

He knew almost no details of her circumstances, for their talk, when together, had been almost entirely of impersonal matters. Indeed, he realized now that he had told her much more of himself than she had confided to him of her own life.

Not yet had she told him why she was travelling alone.

There was ever an air of reserve about her—reserve so great as to amount to mystery. Yet, hers was no morbid temperament or disposition.

Why, then, why—of all things—want to drown herself?

A momentary thought came, that it was a staged scene. That she knew he was there, and wanted to create a sensation.

But it did not ring true. She did not—could not know he was there. And too, she never glanced toward him. She had walked slowly, but steadily, straight to the rail, and stepped up on it.

God! He could feel the thrill of it yet! The split second that enabled him to get a grip on those already tensed muscles!

She was not out of her mind. She was not walking in her sleep.

Of those two things he was positive.

Then why? Why?

But, strangely, he also felt certain she would not repeat her attempt, probably never would. He could feel her shudder of scared relief as she found herself saved, almost as by a miracle.

Trent was not in love with Maisie Forman. He admired her charm, her well-informed mind and her ready flashes of humor.

He was lazily getting acquainted, and enjoying the process. And now, this? What did it portend? What would she say or do the next morning? Why did she do it?

But it was not his business, and he thriftily reached for a notebook, to set down, in the way authors love to do, a few jottings of the affair; so illegible, usually, or so abbreviated, as to be of small use if any.

Trent was a good-looking chap, but wholly without personal vanity.

His dark hair was longish and curlyish on top, but severely cut into place. His chin and muscles were strong—so was his will, and—he chose to think—his personality. His nose formed a perfect angle of forty-five degrees, with base, altitude and hypotenuse, all complete.

His greatest charm lay in his eyes. Not only that they were good eyes, of a deep-colored, deep-set blue, but he had a trick of looking up under his long lashes that was very fetching. He had acquired this habit, a schoolboy affection, purposely. But it had now become natural and he often found it useful in the matter of invitation or persuasion.

At thirty, Trent was experienced enough to be a bit cynical. Eight or ten years ago, the event he had just lived through would have roused different feelings within him.

Just now, his one thought was a wish that the morning would come so he could read the next chapter of Maisie Forman’s story.

And when the morning came and the time was ripe, he went on deck, with the same anticipation he would have felt on entering a theater.

Miss Forman was already there, snugly wrapped in her rug, for though it would be hot later, the morning of Independence Day was fresh and cool.

Their chairs had chanced to be adjoining ones, and as they had become acquainted, both felt glad that chance had favored them.

Trent slipped into his place, after a mere smiling “Good morning” and settling back, with an opened book, left the handling of the situation to the girl.

But Maisie said no word. She looked out to sea, her own calm apparently equalling that of the expanse of glassy water before them. She sat motionless, no nervousness showing in her quiet hands or expressionless face.

After a few furtive glances, Trent felt he might risk a bit of speech.

“What you need is a Life Insurance Policy,” he said, in a light voice.

To his surprise Maisie smiled, almost laughed. Perhaps the tension had been pleasantly if suddenly broken.

“I had something just as good,” she returned, and flashed him a glance that contained a world of unspoken thanks.

“I’m glad you’re duly grateful,” Trent said, answering her look as well as her words. “But it was a narrow squeak.”

“Yes. How did you happen to be there?”

“I’d been there a long time. It’s a favorite corner of mine. And Fate ordained it, of course.”

“Oh, of course—in the sense that Fate ordains everything.”

“Yes, and we can’t circumvent her. Although you tried your prettiest. Why did you do it?”

“Nice of you to call it a pretty attempt. Did I look picturesque, or like a Movie heroine?”

“Both. But, as I said, why did you do it?”

“Just to make a scene,” she said, lightly. “I knew you would catch me—.”

“Don’t tell fibs. You had no idea I was there. You were fully determined to jump. I barely caught you in time. In fact, I was so nearly paralyzed at the sight, I could scarcely command my muscles to move at all.”

“I suppose I ought to be grateful to you—.”

“You are. And you’re going to prove that gratitude by promising not to attempt it again. For next time I might not be there.”

“No, I’d see to that!”

Trent was shocked at the bitterness in her tone.

But he did not take it upon himself to admonish her further. “I suppose you feel,” he said, “that you have the right—.”

“Of course I have. Everyone has a right to end a life that is unbearable. And, ‘over the fence is out!’”

“What, what?” came a low but audible voice, as Oscar Cox paused in front of them. “Miss Forman going to drown herself?”

Both Trent and Maisie were astounded that this man could have heard their conversation or part of it. For they had been speaking almost in whispers. Truly he had phenomenal hearing. Or a chance puff of wind had blown the sound to him.

“Not much,” Trent declared. “We’re playing a Fourth of July parlor game. We guess what is the most unlikely thing another could do. That was my guess for her.”

“And a poor guess,” Maisie declared. “If I want to jump overboard, I have a right to, haven’t I, Mr. Cox?”

“Most assuredly,” he returned, heartily. “And I believe you will. Why, if I thought you wouldn’t, I’d put you over myself. That is, if you really want to go over. Do you?”

“Yes,” said Maisie, and she flashed a mutinous look at Cox, for neither she nor Trent liked his style of kidding.

But the subject was dropped as some young people came along, with flags and streamers of red, white and blue, and with various noise-making and ear-splitting instruments of torture.

“We’re the gems of the ocean,” announced Sally Barnes, “and that dear darling duck of a Captain has given us a table to ourselves for luncheon, and we’re going to make noise enough to be heard in New York, Chicago and points West! Let’s bedeck Mr. Cox—” and from all hands darted streamers of red, white and blue paper ribbon, that enveloped him as in a great meshed net.

With a few flings of his big arms he extricated himself and producing some paper ribbons from his own pockets, so tied and bound Sally that she could scarcely move.

“No,” he said, to their insistent pleas, “no, I won’t sit at your silly table with you! I always lunch on deck, and I propose to do so today. But after luncheon, I’ll help you with your—what do you call it? Treasure Hunt?”

Trent and Miss Forman also declined a somewhat perfunctory invitation to sit at the table of the noisy celebrants of their country’s independence, and the laughing crowd ran away, dragging the not unwilling Cox with them.

“Queer man,” Trent said, looking after him. “How dared he banter you like that?”

“I think he’s impulsive,” she returned, uninterestedly, “and says whatever pops into his head. Let’s cut out people, including ourselves, and talk about books or something.”

Obediently and gracefully, Trent turned the subject to a discussion of a recent novel, and they chatted in desultory fashion until the first bugle for luncheon sounded.

“I’m going inside now,” Trent said, gathering his books together. “Can I help you?”

“No thanks. I shall stay here until I go down to the dining room. I suppose everybody will go down today.”

“Yes, all good Americans, anyway. There are special decorations and dishes and—.”

“And speeches?”

“Probably. I don’t know. Are you patriotic enough to stand those?”

“Patriotic enough for anything,” Maisie returned, smiling, as Trent swung off up the deck.

But her smile faded at once, and she sat motionless, staring out over the sparkling, glittering acres.

Occupants of the chairs near her rose and went inside. Strains of national airs came from the orchestra. Shouts and screams of Young America were heard from all directions, concentrating finally, as the crowd fell into line on the stairs in a sort of impromptu parade.

Very few remained on deck. Maisie could see one or two quite distant from her either way. Also she could glimpse Oscar Cox, in his chair, back against the side of the ship, and just beneath a good sized window that opened into the library lounge.

She saw the queer-looking servant of Cox come to him, presumably to get his order for food, and she thought what a strange specimen of humanity the valet was.

The noise inside grew louder. The Orchestra struck the first notes of “The Star Spangled Banner,” and the wave of song spread over the ship from stem to stern.

In tune or out, patriot or foreigner, everybody seemed to sing.

The mass of people swayed and swung down the stairs and entered the dining rooms to find an exhibition of hearty good will and friendliness to the American nation.

Even after all were seated at their tables, rattles, popguns and shrill whistles made terrible discords, but it was laughingly forgiven by the good-natured crowd.

Captain Van Winkle, who was not only the devoted friend and slave of the young people, but a good-natured man in all respects, beamed round on his cargo of human beings with the benignant smile of the father of his ship if not of his country.

And it was just as he was about to take his first spoonful of potage a l’Americaine, brewed by a French chef on an English Liner, that the Deck Steward came to him and whispered a word in his ear.

Quietly laying down his spoon, the Captain quickly but unhurriedly left the table. Once outside the dining room, however, he went upstairs two at a time, scorning the elevators in his haste.

“Get Bowers,” he flung over his shoulder to Garson, and strode on.

The Captain reached the deck where Oscar Cox was wont to sit, and where he usually ate his luncheon.

Already a few curious ones had gathered, but unnoting them, the Captain went to Cox’s chair and paused, horror-stricken at the scene.

On the floor, with its dishes more or less overturned, was the lunch tray, where the waiter had let it half slide, half drop from his nerveless fingers.

On the chair was the body of Cox, indubitably dead, indubitably murdered, and murdered in such horrible fashion as to defy description.

What arm of power, or anger or passion, had dealt such blows on the head and face of the victim that the sight was enough to make a strong man turn away? Who could have crept up on Oscar Cox and killed him as a caveman might kill? What did it mean—this fearful thing, happening in an atmosphere of holiday pleasure, on a broad, peaceful deck, in the bright sunlight of a summer day?

A smothered exclamation at his side, brought Captain Van Winkle out of his momentary daze, and he turned to see Bowers, the Ship’s doctor.

The doctor, too, was shocked almost to helplessness, but his professional instinct and experience pulled him together and stimulated him to action.

“Murder,” he said, speaking almost casually now, “Oscar Cox—of all men! Where’s the weapon? Good God! there it is!”

He pointed to the floor, under the next chair, and there, crimsoned with the blood of the victim, lay a bronze hand—a horrible, sinister hand, whose clutching fingers, still dripping red, bore mute witness to their own deed.

Though strong-hearted and staunch-souled, Captain Van Winkle was of sensitive nerves, and this further sight of atrocity made him cover his eyes for an instant.

Then, in another second, his orders came, fast and sure.

“Take charge here, Bowers. Cover the body. Let no one see it. Garson, rope off the deck to here—no, to here. You, waiter, pick up the tray and things and take them to the kitchen. And, hark—not a word of this to anyone until you’ve leave. Understand?”

The waiter understood, for the Captain’s eye and glance were even more imperative than his words, and menace is a universal language.

At that moment Hudder appeared. He was carrying a small tray with a bottle and glass.

His small dark eyes took in the scene.

Captain Van Winkle watched him closely, but all he saw was the meticulous behaviour of the perfect servant.

Hudder set his tray down carefully on a nearby chair, without disarranging its contents. His face was white, but its vacant, wooden expression showed no change. He had not been able to see Cox, for the body was being covered, and the doctor and steward with their helpers were grouped about it.

“My master is hurt?” Hudder said, gravely, and Captain Van Winkle could read nothing from his look or speech.

“Yes—very badly hurt. Hopelessly hurt.”

“He is dead,” Hudder said, not with an interrogative inflection, but as one stating a fact.

“Yes, he is dead.”

“By the Hand?”

“Yes by the Hand! Look here my man, what do you know of the Hand? Of your master, generally? But, of course, you know more of him than anyone else on board. Come to my office with me, and answer a few questions. Now. Stand by, Bowers. This is serious trouble.”

Captain Van Winkle, though not a young man, was far from old, and though well versed in the lore of his calling, and familiar with many if not most of its exigencies and contingencies, he was only academically aware of the procedure expected of him in the case of murder on the high sea.

To be sure, it was not yet proved to be murder, but neither doctor nor captain could imagine any theory of accident that would account for the conditions found.

And so, the Captain’s thoughts were racing in a dozen directions at once as he conducted the imperturbable Hudder to his own private room and interviewed him.

But rankling underneath in the Captain’s mind was a sense of the injustice of Fate. Here he was, past master in the ways and means of his chosen career, one of the best known and best liked Captains on the Line, a man who had always been able to meet any situation, to deal with any emergency that had arisen.

And now, flung at him, was this horrible affair, a thing which, as he was just beginning to realize, would stamp him and his boat with a stigma, a memory, that would always cling to and sully her fair fame.

For a thing like this to happen on the Pinnacle! It was inconceivable, incredible! None of his brother Captains had ever been called to meet such a crisis as this!

Good-natured always, this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The worm had turned. Unreasonably and unreasoningly, he vented his anger on the waiting Hudder.

Nor could he have found a better for the purpose.

The valet of Oscar Cox was, it seemed to Van Winkle, a foreigner, of some Latin country.

But Hudder declared himself of English birth though having lived most of his life in America.

This the Captain thought to himself, mattered little. It was information of Cox he was after.

But questions were hard to frame. Of good education, not unread, and possessed of quick and wise powers of judgment, Peter Van Winkle was all afloat when it came to what suddenly loomed up up before him as Detective Work!

Though not addicted to them, he occasionally read Detective Stories, and mildly interested, marvelled at the strange gift known as detective instinct.

That, he had long ago concluded, he did not possess, and he had never for a moment supposed a time would ever come for him to exercise it.

Yet here was the time. It had come upon him like a thief in the night.

Captain he could be. Judge and jury he could be. Executioner he could be, if he felt the need. But detective he could not be—at least, not to the extent of his own conception of what it meant.

Yet surely—he brought his troubled thoughts back to Hudder, surely, he could ask this man a few straightforward questions about his dead master.

So the following dialogue ensued.

“Where did Mr. Cox live?”

“In New York City, sir.”

“Had he a family?”

“No sir. Mr. Cox was a widower for fifteen years or thereabouts.”

“His business?”

“That I can’t rightly tell you, sir. Mr. Cox had many interests, and big ones. But such matters are above my head.”

Hudder, though he showed a face of wood, had sharp, bright, restless eyes that seemed to dart suddenly from beneath their lids and then as quickly run back to cover. He was not a man that inspired confidence. Van Winkle, who considered himself, and rightly, a fair judge of men, quickly decided that Hudder was one who would rather lie than tell the truth. The little man had a bullet-shaped head, covered with stiff, intractable black hair. When speaking earnestly, which he seldom did, he thrust his head forward, with an insistent air. But for the most part, he sat back in his chair, held his head farther back still, and spoke in monotones.

“At least you know whether he was a butcher or a baker or candlestick-maker.”

Van Winkle’s irritation had its root in his own inability to carry on the interview properly, rather than Hudder’s.

“Oh, he was in finance—high finance, I think they call it. Mr. Cox was a promoter and a director and an advisor and an investor—and all things like that.”

“Connected with any especial company?”

The Captain’s familiarity with high finance was also limited.

“Well, sir, there is the Apollonia Mining Company—that’s the only one I can call by name.”

“Never heard of it. Mr. Cox lived alone, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where?”

“Big bachelor apartment, sir, in one of those new Fifth Avenue buildings.”

“Servants?”

“Six, sir, counting me and his chauffeur.”

“No relatives—in other houses?”

“I think not. I never heard of any.”

“Born in New York?”

“I’m not sure, but I think not.”

“Well, who were his friends? Surely he had some of those.”

“Oh, yes, sir. Lots of them. His parties were noted, sir. Small, but noted, and—.”

“Noted? What for?”

“For their beauty and luxury. Yes, sir, everything of the best and in the best taste. That was Mr. Cox’s motto.”

“Was he a good man?”

“Was he what, sir?”

“You heard me. A good man. Was Oscar Cox a good man?”

“I’m sure I don’t know that,” and Hudder sighed.

“You don’t know! Of course you know! Tell me.”

“Well then, I’ll say he was. He gave quite a bit in charities. He gave all his help fine presents at Christmas and Fourth of July. He never went to Church—that I know of. But, yes, sir—I call that a good man, don’t you?”

“Not necessarily. Now, see here. As his valet, you know a lot about his life. You must! Had he enemies?”

“None that I know of.” Hudder sat well back in his chair.

“Women friends?”

“He had ladies at his parties.”

“Not at his house at other times?”

“Not that I know of.” Still farther back Hudder sat.

“Are you remembered in his will?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

“Bah, get out!” and the exasperated Captain flung wide his door.

“Yes, sir,” said Hudder and went.