Читать книгу Floating Peril - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 3

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Hamer Wildburn sat up suddenly in his wide and luxurious cabin bed with the start of the sound sleeper unexpectedly awakened. His hands clasped his pyjama-clad knees. He listened intently. Through the wide-open porthole opposite came the thirty-seconds’ flash from Antibes lighthouse. From the shore road which skirted the bay there was the faint hoot of a belated motor car. Closer at hand the lazy murmur of the sea against the sides of his anchored yacht. Then, more distinctly, he heard again the sound which had at first awakened him. This time there was no doubt about it. A human voice from the open space. A woman’s cry of appeal. The soft but purposeful splashing of a swimmer keeping herself afloat. . . . The young man jumped out of bed, ran up the companionway and leaned over the side. What he saw almost immediately below was enough to startle anyone. A woman was floating upon her back, a woman not in the day-by-day scanty but sufficient bathing dress of the moment, but a woman in evening dress, with the glint even of jewels around her neck.

“What on earth’s the matter?” he called out. “Have you fallen in from anywhere?”

“Please do not ask foolish questions,” was the composed reply. “Let down your steps. I have upset my canoe and I must come on board for a moment.”

Wildburn’s hesitation was only momentary. He unscrewed 4 the hooks, lowered the chain and let down the steps into the sea. The woman, with a few tired strokes, swam towards him. She showed no particular signs of weakness or panic, but she clutched almost feverishly at his hand, and the moment she reached the deck she calmly but completely collapsed. With a thrill of horror Wildburn realised that a portion of her black chiffon gown which clung so tightly to her body bore traces of a darker stain than the discoloration of the sea. His natural stream of questions died away upon his lips as she became a dead weight upon his arm.

There was a quivering narrow shaft of light piercing the skies eastwards when the woman opened her eyes. Wildburn gave a sigh of relief. He held a glass of brandy once more to her lips. Her fingers guided it and she sipped some feebly.

“I will give you some coffee presently,” he promised. “By an unfortunate chance, I am alone on the boat. I gave my matelot and his boy the night off.”

She fingered the blanket by which she was covered. A look of mild horror shone out of her eyes. Hanging from the ropes which supported the forward awning was a black shapeless object.

“My gown!” she gasped.

“I had to take it off,” he explained coolly. “I was not sure whether you were seriously hurt. I am glad to find that you are not. I have bound up your shoulder. You may find it stiff and a little painful at first from the salt water, but the wound is not serious.”

She lay quite still. Her hands were underneath the rug. From a very damp satin bag she produced a handkerchief and wiped her forehead.

“I suppose it was necessary for you to play lady’s maid?” she asked weakly.

“Absolutely,” he assured her. “You were still bleeding and I could not tell how serious your wound might be. I—er—exercised every precaution.”

She looked up at him earnestly. Apparently her scrutiny of his features satisfied her. Wildburn was not good-looking in the ordinary sense of the word but he had pleasant features, a freckled, sunburnt complexion and the humorous gleam of understanding in his eyes.

“I am sure you did what you thought was best,” she said. “I ran my canoe into one of those stationary fishing boats.”

If it occurred to him to make any comment upon her journeying amongst them at an early hour in the morning, alone and in evening dress, he refrained.

“I always said that they ought to show a light,” he remarked. “I have seen your canoe. It is drifting in shorewards.”

“Give me some more brandy,” she begged. “I wish to speak to you before we are disturbed.”

“I can hear the kettle boiling now,” he told her. “Wouldn’t you like coffee?”

“Coffee would be better,” she admitted. “You are being very kind to me. I thank you.”

Still somewhat dazed, Wildburn descended the steps, made the coffee and remounted.

“I’m sorry,” he apologised, “that there will be no milk. They bring it to me from the shore at seven o’clock.”

“It smells too delicious as it is,” she declared.

“If you will swing round a little,” he advised her, “with another cushion or two behind your back, you will be more comfortable. You can sit up now and, you see, I will put 6 this rug round your knees. Directly you have had your coffee, you had better go down to my cabin and take off the remainder of your wet things.”

“You have perhaps a stock of ladies’ clothing on board?” she asked curiously.

“If I had known of your projected visit,” he replied, “I should have provided some. As it is, you will have to content yourself with a set of my pyjamas. You will find them in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe by the side of the bed.”

She looked at him meditatively. Wildburn was a trifle over six feet and she herself, slim and elegant as she seemed, could scarcely have been more than five feet five. Furthermore, Wildburn was broad-shouldered, with a man’s full chest. She sighed.

“I am going to look ridiculous,” she complained.

“I should forget that for the moment,” he ventured, as he set down her empty coffee cup. “You seem to be quite warm. I wonder whether you are feeling strong enough to satisfy my curiosity before you go down below.”

“What do you want to know?” she asked.

He looked around the harbour. There were no unusual lights, no indications of any other yacht having come in during the night.

“Well, where you come from, first of all. Then, why you choose to paddle about the bay in the small hours of the morning in your evening clothes; and lastly, why you should choose my boat for your objective.”

She was watching that broadening shaft of light uneasily.

“What is the time?” she enquired.

“Five o’clock,” he told her. “Do you mind if I smoke a cigarette whilst you explain your adventure?”

“I will smoke one too,” she said, holding out her hand. “As to explaining my adventure, I find it difficult. You smoke good tobacco, I am glad to see. Thank you,” she added, as she leaned towards his match.

There was a silence. As yet, there were no signs of life either on the small plage or anywhere upon the sea. They were surrounded by the brooding background of the woods which fringed the inlet. The lights in the few villas had long been extinguished. The tops of a row of tall cypresses stood out like dark smudges against the coming dawn.

“Well?” he asked, after a brief pause.

“After all, I find it difficult,” she admitted. “Where I came from, it does not matter. I started, as you perceive, in a hurry. I am rather impulsive. There was something which had to be done.”

“Something which had to be done between three and four o’clock in the morning, by a young lady still wearing valuable jewellery and dressed for the evening, sounds,” he pointed out, “mysterious!”

“Life,” she told him evasively, “is mysterious.”

“You will have to be a little more definite,” he insisted, with some impatience. “I have done my best to help you under these singular circumstances, but I want to know where you came from and what you want.”

“Indeed,” she murmured, drawing the blanket more securely around her.

“Think it over for a few minutes,” he proposed. “Go down below—the hatch is open—five steps, first door to the right, and you will come to a very untidy cabin. There are plenty of clean towels on the settee. I have rubbed you as best I could. You had better try and get yourself quite dry. Put on some pyjamas and my dressing 8 gown—which you will find there—then come up and explain yourself.”

“You will trust me in your cabin then,” she observed, struggling to her feet.

“Why shouldn’t I? You do not appear to be in distressed circumstances and I have nothing in the world worth stealing.”

She looked at him for a moment with an expression which baffled him.

“Are you as honest as you seem?” she asked abruptly.

“I think so,” he answered, mystified.

Without further comment she rose to her feet and, holding the blanket about her as though it were an ermine cape, disappeared down the stairs. Wildburn waited for what seemed to him to be an unconscionable time; then he poured out another cup of coffee, lit a fresh cigarette and strolled round the deck. Once more, in the misty twilight of dawn, he satisfied himself that no strange craft had entered the bay during the night. The tiny restaurant on the plage was still closed. The beautiful château which, with its thickly growing woods, occupied the whole of the western side of the bay, offered no signs of life. The windows of the few villas on the other side were still lifeless blanks. . . . He paused before the sodden black frock flapping in the faint breeze, took it down and shook it. A fragment of a ribbon inside disclosed the name of a world-famous dressmaker. Then he turned round to find his unaccountable visitor standing by his side.

“Of course, I know that I look ridiculous,” she admitted querulously. “I hope that your manners will stand the strain and that you will not laugh at me.”

The telltale lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth deepened, but if he felt any inclination towards mirth, he restrained it.

“I never realised that I had such good taste in night apparel,” he assured her. “The prospect of your immediate future, however, causes me—I must confess—some disquietude. Perhaps you are staying near here—at some place where I can send for clothes?”

“We will see about that presently,” she replied. “It is a matter of no great importance.”

She seemed to find the twinkle in his eyes, as he stole another look at her, unduly irritating.

“These things are all trifles,” she declared, with a frown. “Where I live or who I am does not matter. What do you want to know about me?”

“Let’s get to something definite,” he begged. “What were you doing swimming round my boat at three o’clock in the morning in an evening frock from the Rue de la Paix?”

She sighed.

“So you realised that?”

“No more evasions, please,” he insisted sternly. “Facts.”

“I came,” she confided, “to pay you a visit.”

“Very kind of you,” he acknowledged. “You have robbed me of two or three hours’ sleep, you have given me a great deal of anxiety, and even now I have not the faintest idea as to who you are or what you could want from me. Please be more explicit.”

“You can give me another cigarette first,” she demanded.

He handed her his case and matchbox.

“And now?”

“First of all, let me be sure that I am not making a mistake,” she continued. “Your name is Hamer Wildburn? This is the yacht Bird of Paradise?”

“Correct.”

“A very delightful boat.”

“You flatter me. And then?”

“Is it for sale?”

“Certainly not.”

She sighed.

“That makes it more difficult. Will you sell it?”

He considered the matter for a moment.

“Why should I? It exactly suits me and I am not in urgent need of money. I should only have to go and buy another one. No, I will not sell it.”

For the second or third time she looked anxiously seawards. She was watching the point around which incoming vessels must enter the bay.

“Will you charter it?” she persisted. “For a month if you like, even for a shorter time?”

“I shouldn’t dream of such a thing,” he assured her. “I have owned half a dozen small boats in my lifetime. I have never chartered one of them. I have just filled up with stores and all my belongings are on board. I have settled down until the late autumn. There was never anyone less anxious to part with one of his possessions than I am to part with this little boat.”

She rose to her feet with a staccato cry which thrilled him. Above the low land on the other side of the point a thin wireless mast was suddenly visible. The powerful engines of a large motor yacht broke the stillness. The woman’s expression became haggard. That far-off monotonous sound was like the tocsin of fate.

“Hamer Wildburn,” she said, “I have risked my life in this enterprise, which I suppose you look upon only as an act of folly.”

“I simply do not understand it,” he protested.

“I was at my villa in Mougins last night. I received a 11 telephone message—something very important. Directly I received it, I drove myself down here. My car is still there under the trees. There was no one to bring me to your boat—the little restaurant was locked up. There was not a soul on the beach, nothing but a darkness which seemed impenetrable. I took a canoe—you know what happened to me. I ran into one of those fishing boats and swam the rest of the way. Do you think it was a trifle which made me so desperate?”

“Perhaps not,” he admitted, thoroughly dazed. “But what is it all about? What do you want my boat in particular for? There are hundreds just like it.”

“I cannot tell you why I want it,” she declared hopelessly. “That is the hateful part of the whole business. It is a matter of dire secrecy. But I will tell you this—before many days are past, you will sell or part with it to someone. It may even be taken from you by force. If you are obstinate, it may cost you your life. Why not deal with me? I am the first to come to you. I am told that you bought it in Marseilles harbour for something under two thousand pounds. Let me put some men on board and take it away this morning, and I will give you a cheque for four thousand pounds on the Crédit Lyonnais. You will see my name then and you will know that it will be met. Make up your mind, please, quickly. Listen! What is it that approaches?”

He answered without turning round. His eyes were fixed upon the paler beam from the lighthouse. The twilight of dawn had settled upon the grey sea.

“That is only a fishing boat going out,” he said, listening for a moment to the soft swish of the oars. “There is a mist falling. Come below into the cabin and we will discuss this matter.”

Auguste, matelot and assistant navigator of the Bird of Paradise, brought the dinghy round to the side of the yacht. He looked with surprise at the steps.

“Monsieur has perhaps taken an early swim,” Jean, his subordinate, suggested.

Auguste was a man of apprehensions. He glanced around, and the longer he looked, the less he liked the appearance of things.

“Monsieur would not use the steps,” he pointed out. “Besides, he is nowhere in sight. One of the canoes from the beach too, has been capsized and is floating there.”

With a few swift strokes he reached the steps, backed water deftly and swung round. He pulled himself on to the deck and left Jean to attach the boat. There were signs of disturbance everywhere—rugs thrown about the place where someone had sat in damp clothes, empty glasses, empty coffee cups. Auguste scratched his head in perplexity. The situation might have seemed obvious enough but Monsieur Wildburn was not like that. He descended the companionway with hasty footsteps. There was silence below but the door of the little salon was closed. He opened it and peered inside. There were evidences of recent occupation there—wineglasses and a bottle of brandy—but no sign of any human being. He knocked at the door of the cabin opposite. There was no reply. He turned the handle and looked cautiously in. At the first glance, he scented tragedy. His feet seemed frozen to the mat. He tried to call out, and he was noted amongst the seamen of the port as being a lusty shouter, but this time his effort was in vain. The cabin itself was in the wildest disorder and, doubled up across its floor, his arms outstretched, faint groans dribbling from his lips, lay the owner of the Bird of Paradise.

An hour later, settled on deck in a chaise longue piled with cushions, with his face turned windwards and a cup of tea by his side, Hamer Wildburn felt life once more stirring in his pulses. The colour was slowly returning to his healthy, sunburnt face. His breathing was more natural. Auguste watched him with satisfaction.

“Monsieur is better?” he demanded interrogatively.

“Nothing left but a thumping headache and that passes,” the young man acknowledged. “Why is Jean bringing the dinghy round?”

“One goes to acquaint the gendarmerie, Monsieur,” Auguste replied.

“One does nothing of the sort,” was the sharp rejoinder.

Auguste’s eyes grew round with surprise.

“But Monsieur has been drugged!” he exclaimed. “That Monsieur himself admitted. He has also been robbed, without a doubt. Every drawer in the cabin is open. The one with the false front has been smashed. Thieves have been at work here without a doubt.”

“I do not believe that I have been robbed, Auguste,” his master replied. “There is nothing worth stealing upon the boat. In any case, I do not want any gendarme or the Commissaire of Police or anyone of that sort down here. I forbid either you or Jean to say a word about this happening.”

Auguste was disappointed. He had seen himself the hero of a small sensation.

“It must be as Monsieur wishes, of course,” he grumbled.

“It must, if you want to keep your posts, you two,” the young man told them. “Now, listen to me. Did you see an overturned canoe when you came in?”

“But certainly,” Auguste replied. “It was one of those 14 left for hire at the plage. Jean took it back some time ago.”

“Where is the small dinghy?”

“Jean found it upon the plage and brought it back, Monsieur,” Auguste explained. “It would seem that the thief of last night first of all took the canoe from the plage, ran into something, for the bows are badly damaged, perhaps swam to the boat and took the small dinghy for the return journey.”

“Excellent, Auguste,” his master said approvingly. “You are probably right. Now go to the shore and have a look at the end of the road under the trees. Tell me if there are any fresh signs of a motor car having stood there during the night. Let me know at once if you discover anything.”

“And Monsieur does not wish me to approach the gendarmes?” the man asked, as he turned away.

“I forbid it,” was the firm injunction. “You will go straight to the spot I have told you of and return here.”

Auguste executed his commission and returned within a quarter of an hour.

“A heavy car has been standing there recently, Monsieur,” he reported. “Louget—he is one of the boatmen down at the plage—told me that he had seen an Hispano-Suiza coupé turn out of the road just as he arrived about an hour ago.”

“Did he notice the occupant?”

“But that he was too slim and small,” Auguste recounted, “Louget would have believed him to have been Monsieur.”

“Why?” Wildburn asked. “No one would call me either slim or small.”

“It was because of the clothes, Monsieur,” Auguste explained. 15 “The driver was apparently wearing a fawn-coloured pull-over such as Monsieur sometimes has on, and a yachting casquette.”

“Go and see if anything is missing from my cabin,” Wildburn directed. “Don’t stop to clear up. I shall probably do that myself later on.”

This time Auguste’s absence was a brief one.

“The pull-over such as Louget described is missing,” he announced. “Also the casquette.”

The young man sighed.

“We progress, Auguste,” he said, finishing his tea and sitting up in his chair. “Without the help of the police, we have discovered in what garb the thief made his escape and the manner of his doing so. I am also minus a lamb’s-wool pull-over to which I was greatly attached.”

Auguste had apparently lost interest in the affair. He tied up the dinghy and looked over his shoulder.

“Has Monsieur any commands for the morning?”

“None at present.”

“Monsieur does not wish for the services of a doctor?”

“Don’t be a fool,” Wildburn replied irritably. “There’s nothing whatever the matter with me. I may have had one drink too many.”

“It is always possible,” Auguste admitted. “In the meantime, what does Monsieur propose to do with this?”

He produced from under his coat and shook out that very exquisite but fantastic fragment of lace and crêpe georgette from which Wildburn had torn off one sleeve in the small hours of the morning. He held it out fluttering in the morning breeze. Wildburn studied it meditatively.

“It resembles a lady’s gown, Auguste,” he observed.

Auguste was not discussing the matter. As a matter of 16 fact, he was a disappointed man. He was no lover of women himself and he fancied that in his master he had met with a kindred spirit.

“Put it downstairs in the salon, Auguste. Another piece of evidence we have collected, you see. Very soon we shall probably be able to lay our hands upon the culprit without calling in the police at all.”

“Monsieur’s cabin is in a state of great disorder,” Auguste reported. “It would be as well to go through his effects and see if anything has been stolen. The box which Monsieur calls his caisse noire does not appear to be in its place.”

Wildburn rose to his feet and made his way below. He looked around his cabin critically. Nearly every drawer had been pulled out and in some cases the contents had been emptied on to the floor. Every possible hiding place seemed to have been ransacked and a collection of letters, ties, shirts and wearing apparel of every sort littered up the place. Two panels had been smashed with some heavy instrument. The cabin, in fact, bore every trace of a feverish search. Wildburn sat on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette. He was a harmless young man of twenty-six, who had graduated from Harvard some four years ago, and he was picking up a little experience in journalism on the staff of one of his father’s papers. There were no complications in his life. He had never sought adventure in its more romantic forms nor had adventure sought him. There was certainly nothing amongst his possessions worthy of the attention of so elegant a woman as his visitor of a few hours before, a woman, too, who was prepared to write a cheque for four thousand pounds. And yet, however long he considered the matter, certain facts remained indisputable. A woman who was a perfect 17 stranger to him had boarded his ship alone at three o’clock in the morning, had ransacked his belongings and in order to do so undisturbed had resorted to the old-fashioned method of doctoring his coffee! Once again he asked himself the question—what was there amongst his very ordinary possessions which should plunge him, without any warning, into the middle of so curious an adventure?