Читать книгу Floating Peril - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 4

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The flash from the Antibes lighthouse, which had been growing paler and paler in the opalescent light, suddenly ceased. There was a faint pink colouring now in the clouds eastwards. A sort of hush seemed to have fallen upon the sea. Morning had arrived. Upon the deck of the shapely, yet—with its black hull—somewhat sinister-looking yacht, which had crept slowly into the bay during the hours of velvety twilight, a man in silk pyjamas and dressing gown was strolling slowly up and down. The captain, who had been superintending the final lowering of the anchors, approached and saluted him respectfully.

“This, Monsieur le Baron,” he announced, “is the Bay of Garoupe.”

The man in the pyjamas nodded. He was somewhat thickly built and inclined towards corpulence, but he carried himself with confidence and a certain distinction. He spoke French too, but with scarcely a Parisian accent.

“The place has a pleasant aspect,” he remarked. “One wonders to find it so deserted. An American boat, I see,” he went on, pointing to the Bird of Paradise.

The captain was full of information—crisp and eloquent.

“The Bird of Paradise, Monsieur le Baron. A schooner yacht built in Marseilles by Englishmen—thirty tons or so. The property of Mr. Hamer Wildburn—an American. He is apparently on board at the present moment.”

“And how did you gather all this information?” the other enquired.

“I looked him up in the Yacht Chronicle, Monsieur,” the captain confided. “In a small harbour such as this I like to know who my neighbours are.”

“How do you know that the owner is on board himself?”

“They hoisted the club burgee at sunrise with the Stars and Stripes.”

The man in pyjamas threw away the stump of his cigarette and lit another thoughtfully.

“Her lines seem to me to be good,” he remarked. “She has no appearance to you, Captain, of having been built for any specific purpose?”

“None that I can discover, Monsieur,” was the somewhat puzzled reply. “She has all the ordinary points of a schooner yacht of her tonnage and type.”

The Baron stared across at the small vessel riding so peacefully at anchor, and if his close survey did not indicate any intimate nautical knowledge, it nevertheless betrayed intense interest.

“Does Monsieur Mermillon know that we have arrived?” he enquired.

“He was called as we entered the bay,” the captain replied. “Those were his orders. Behold, Monsieur arrives.”

A slim man of early middle age, tall and of distinguished appearance, with a broad forehead and masses of iron-grey hair, emerged from the companionway. The Baron, whom he greeted with a courteous nod and a wave of the hand, advanced to meet him.

“Our information, it appears, was correct so far, Edouard,” he confided. “That small boat there is the Bird of Paradise. It gives one rather a thrill to look at 20 her, eh, and to realise that there may be truth in Badoit’s statement?”

Monsieur Edouard Mermillon, at that moment perhaps the most talked-about man in Europe, strolled with his friend towards the rail and gazed thoughtfully across the hundred yards or so which separated them from the Bird of Paradise.

“Dying men are supposed to have a penchant for speaking the truth,” he observed. “I myself believe in his story. It is perhaps unfortunate, under the circumstances, that the boat should be owned by an American.”

The Baron, whose full name was the Baron Albert de Brett, shrugged his shoulders.

“What does it matter?” he remarked. “The Americans have their fancy for a bargain, like the men of every other race. I was wondering when you proposed to visit him.”

“I see no great cause for haste,” Mermillon replied. “It is obvious that the owner of the boat has no idea of the truth or he would not be lying here without any pretence at concealment.”

His friend evidently held different views. He shook his head disapprovingly.

“In my opinion,” he declared, “not a minute should be wasted. Imagine if there should be a leak in our information—if others should suspect.”

“Seven o’clock in the morning is an early calling hour,” Mermillon observed.

“On an occasion like this,” was the swift retort, “one does not stand upon ceremony.”

“The petit déjeuner,” Mermillon suggested. “After that I consent.”

The Baron ceded the point.

“We will proceed to that as soon as possible, then,” he said. “I shall not have an easy moment until we are in touch with this American.”

Over coffee and rolls, which were served on deck, the Baron became meditative. He seemed scarcely able to remove his eyes from the Bird of Paradise.

“In my opinion,” he declared finally, crumbling a roll between his fingers, “our plans as they stand at present are indifferently made. They involve possible delay, and delay might well mean unutterable catastrophe. I am inclined to think that Chicotin’s method would be the best solution.”

His host regarded him tolerantly.

“Chicotin should be our last resource, my dear Albert,” he insisted. “Such methods carry no certainty, no conviction. They involve also risk.”

“The risk I cannot appreciate,” de Brett argued. “On the contrary, I look upon destruction—absolute annihilation—as the safest, the only logical course open to us.”

The steel-grey eyes of his companion flashed for a moment with eager longing. His indifference was momentarily abandoned. There was an underlying note of passion in his tone.

“Annihilation, my dear Baron,” he murmured. “Who but a child would not realise what that would mean to us? Surely there were never six men in this universe who suffered so much for one mistake. We suffer—we shall go on suffering until the end. But your method of annihilation is crude. How can we be sure that we are arriving at it? We are working upon presumption. We believe, but we need certainty. Every inch of that lazy-looking 22 craft might drift to the skies in ashes or to the bottom of the sea in melting metal. We could see the place where she is riding so gracefully an empty blank, but yet we should never know. There would be always moments when the nightmare would return and fear would visit us in the night.”

The Baron wiped his closely cropped brown moustache with his napkin. He considered the problem and sighed. Something in his companion’s voice had been convincing.

“I agree,” he sighed. “A moment’s doubt would plunge the souls of all of us into agony. We will approach this young American. We are fortunate that it is not too late.”

There came the sound of a gentle ticking, a purring in the air and then again a ticking. The Baron started.

“Your private wireless, Edouard. I thought you were closed off.”

“I am in touch with only two men in the world,” Mermillon replied. “Gabriel, the editor of the Grand Journal, and Paul himself.”

“Paul would never permit himself to speak on any wireless,” de Brett declared anxiously.

“The very fact that he is risking it,” Mermillon observed, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, “convinces one that the matter is urgent. We shall know in a minute, at any rate.”

The Baron lit a cigarette. He had fat pudgy hands, on one of the fingers of which he wore a massive signet ring. They trembled so that even his slight task was difficult. His host of the expressionless face watched him. A smile of contempt would have made him seem more human.

“Your man Jules can decode?” de Brett asked.

“He is capable of that,” was the quiet reply. “Our code has been committed to memory by seven people. He is one. It has never been set down in print or ink. It has no existence save in the brains of the two men who compiled it and the five who understand it. Yes, my dear friend,” Mermillon added, lifting his head and listening to the approaching footsteps, “Jules can decode and in a moment we shall know whether our friend is simply telling us news of the weather in Paris or whether the wild beasts are loose.”

A neatly dressed young man wearing blue serge trousers, a blue shirt and yachting cap, presented himself and bowed to Mermillon.

“A brief message and very easily decoded, Monsieur,” he announced. “It is from your private bureau. Monsieur Paul desires to inform you that General Perissol has ordered out his most powerful plane and is leaving his private flying ground this morning.”

“His destination?”

“That will be wirelessed to us as soon as he starts. At any rate, he is coming south.”

The Baron’s eyes were almost like beads as he gazed out at the Bird of Paradise rolling slightly in the swell. Even his imperturbable companion had glanced immediately in the same direction.

“Where was the General when the message was sent?” the latter enquired.

“With the Chief of the Police at his private house in the Bois de Boulogne.”

De Brett moistened his dry lips.

“An early call that,” he muttered. “It is now a quarter to eight. There are signs of life upon the boat yonder.”

Mermillon rose to his feet and gave a brief order to one 24 of the sailors. In a few moments there was the sound of quick explosions from a small motor dinghy which had shot round to the lowered gangway. The two men embarked and crossed the little sheet of shimmering water which separated them from the Bird of Paradise.

“Abandon for my special pleasure, Albert,” his companion begged, “that appearance of a man who mounts the guillotine. We are going to pay a friendly call upon an unknown American and make him a business proposition which cannot fail to be of interest. The matter is simplicity itself. We loitered before in a room where the very whispers spelt death, but I never noticed on that occasion that your complexion assumed such an unbecoming hue. Remember, dear Baron,” his friend concluded, “that fear is the twin sister of danger. The greatest agony can be ended by death and one can only die once.”

The Baron’s rotund body ceased to shake. His features stiffened. His companion had succeeded in what had obviously been his desire—he had made a man of him.

“Why these sickening platitudes?” he exclaimed. “We must all have our fits of nerves—except you, perhaps. Permit me mine. They will pass when the danger comes. You others have less to fear than I. It is not one knife that will be at my throat if the fates desert us. It will be a thousand—a hundred thousand!”

“All the more reason for courage and self-restraint,” was the smoothly spoken reply. “I say no more. Remember that we are arrived. Our host is already in sight. He seems prepared to receive us. Jean,” he added, turning to the mechanic, “Monsieur seems to indicate that the gangway is down on the other side. With this swell, it would naturally be so. We wish to go on board. We are paying a visit to Monsieur.”

Everything was made quite easy for the two callers. The rope from the dinghy was caught by a waiting seaman and Hamer Wildburn, leaning down himself, extended a steadying hand. Minister of State Edouard Mermillon stepped lightly on to the deck. His companion followed him. The Bird of Paradise, for the second time within a few hours, was to receive visitors of distinction.

“Well, you two are early birds,” Hamer Wildburn observed, with a welcoming smile. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

“First of all, pardon us for the informality of this call,” Mermillon begged. “We should have waited until later in the day but the matter is pressing.”

“That’s all right,” the other answered. “I watched you come in an hour or so ago. A fine boat, that of yours. A fast one too, I should think.”

“Our engines are exceedingly powerful,” Mermillon admitted. “To tell you the truth, however, for the moment I am more interested in your boat than in my own. You call her, I think, the Bird of Paradise?”

“That’s right.”

“And she was built at Marseilles?”

“Designed by an Englishman. She was built by the firm of Partrout. They are French, of course, but as a matter of fact every man employed upon her was, I believe, English.”

“My name,” the newcomer announced, “is Mermillon.”

“Not Monsieur Edouard Mermillon, the French Minister for Foreign Affairs?” Wildburn exclaimed.

“That is so,” Mermillon acknowledged. “My companion here is Baron Albert de Brett.”

“Glad to know you both,” was the courteous but somewhat 26 mystified rejoinder. “My name is Wildburn—Hamer Wildburn—and I come from New York.”

De Brett looked at the young American curiously.

“That is odd,” he observed. “I cannot remember meeting you before, Mr. Wildburn, but your name sounds familiar.”

The young man offered his cigarette case.

“I write occasionally for one of the American newspapers which is published in Paris,” he confided, “and I sometimes sign my name.”

“The reason for this visit,” Mermillon intervened, “is easily disclosed. I have a nephew who comes of age within a few weeks and whose great passion is for the sea. I should like to buy exactly this type of craft as a present for him. If by any remote chance, Monsieur Wildburn, this boat itself was for sale, it would give me the utmost pleasure to pay you what you consider her value.”

“You want to buy my boat?” Wildburn exclaimed incredulously.

“That was rather the idea,” Mermillon admitted. “Why does that fact afford you so much surprise?”

“Because only a few hours ago,” the young man told him, “someone else paid me a visit with the same object.”

“You did not sell her?” the Baron interrupted anxiously.

“Nothing doing,” Wildburn assured them. “Nothing doing with the first would-be purchaser and nothing doing with you gentlemen. I am delighted to see you both, but I am sorry you have had the trouble of coming. My boat is not for sale.”

“There is one question I would like to ask,” the Baron ventured eagerly. “Who has been here before us, wanting to buy the boat?”

“My dear Albert!” Mermillon remonstrated. “We must not be too inquisitive. I know my friend’s idea, of course,” he continued, turning back to Wildburn. “He is wondering whether some other member of my family has had the same idea, or perhaps even Claude, my nephew, himself. This,” he added, turning round, “is so exactly what the lad has always wanted.”

“The offer came from—no matter where,” Wildburn said. “I have no reason to believe, however, that it came from any one of your own people. In any case, it makes no difference. The boat is not for sale.”

Mermillon had the air of one suffering from a mild but not insupportable disappointment.

“You would not object, Monsieur Wildburn, I hope,” he asked, “if I ordered from the builders the exact duplicate of this admirable craft?”

“I should not have the faintest objection in the world,” Wildburn assured him, “but it would take them at least ten months to build a boat of this description.”

Mermillon threw up his hands.

“Ten months—but it is unbelievable!” he exclaimed. “The young are not used to such delays. To wait for ten months would be impossible. Under those regrettable circumstances, Monsieur Wildburn,” he went on, after a momentary pause, “you will not be offended if I ask whether this decision of yours not to sell your boat is absolutely final. I am only a French politician, not a world-famed banker, like my friend here and, as you know, French politicians are not amongst the wealthy ones of the world. Still, in the present instance, I might almost say that money is no object.”

Wildburn appeared a little distressed. His visitor’s tone and manner were alike charming.

“I have been one of your sincere admirers, Monsieur Mermillon,” he said, “and I should hate to seem in any way discourteous to a person of such distinction, but the fact of it is that just now I am not in need of money and the boat suits me exactly. Instead of finishing my vacation, as I had planned, cruising around in these seas, I should have all the trouble of dealing with specifications and superintending the rebuilding of another boat. . . . Allow me to offer you chairs. Auguste!” he called out. “Deck chairs here for these gentlemen.”

The two visitors were soon comfortably ensconced. Their host produced cigarettes and cigars. Mermillon resumed the conversation.

“It is obvious,” he remarked, “that the matter would present inconveniences to you. That I should take into account.”

“It would be a beastly nuisance,” Hamer Wildburn assented. “That is why I am afraid I must remain obstinate. I love France but I hate Marseilles. I have no wish to return there. What I want to do is to spend the rest of the summer idling about here.”

“I do not blame you,” Mermillon declared. “I find it very natural. The situation is delightful and you have, doubtless, many friends. Still, there is this to be considered—I do not weary you by my persistence, I trust?”

“Not in the least,” Wildburn assured him, “but I am afraid you will find me very ungracious. Believe me, I honestly do not wish to sell the boat. It would interest me a great deal more to congratulate you upon some of your marvellous successes in the world of international politics.”

Mermillon bowed.

“You flatter me,” he acknowledged, smiling. “I must 29 explain this, however, before I—throw up the sponge. Is not that how you call it? Apart from my official position, I possess, as you may have heard, a considerable fortune. I have such simple tastes in life that money with me has lost its significance. You will excuse the vulgarity of this statement. It comes into our discussion.”

“No vulgarity at all,” Wildburn assured his visitor. “You should hear some of our westerners at home talk about their dollars. I am frankly delighted to meet a man over on this side who admits that he has any money left. It seems to be the fashion everywhere to plead poverty. I am rather tired of meeting poor men. This means, I suppose,” he added, “that I can write my own cheque if I consider giving up the boat?”

Mermillon smiled.

“Not quite,” he said. “It might come very nearly to that, however, if you are the man of common sense I think you are.”

“May I make a suggestion?” de Brett intervened. “My friend Mermillon here has shown me a side of his character which I must confess that I never knew before. He is as impetuous as a boy about this present he wishes to make his nephew. I am afraid I am of a more cautious temperament. May I suggest that before discussing the matter further, we just take a look below and a glance at the engines? For what else am I here?”

“With the greatest pleasure,” Wildburn replied, rising promptly to his feet. “Follow me, gentlemen. After your yacht, Monsieur Mermillon, you will find it a little cramped, but there is plenty of room for one person—or even two.”

The three men descended the companionway. They inspected the owner’s cabin, which certainly had its charm. 30 They glanced at the galley and appreciated the power and condition of the Diesel engines. They ended in the salon, which was as handsome as a liberal expenditure and good taste could make it.

“I came prepared to criticise,” de Brett confessed. “I am lost in admiration.”

Mermillon seemed for the moment to have lost interest in the details which he had been admiring so generously. He was gazing at a particular spot on the carpet of the small salon. Wildburn perceived his diverted attention and frowned.

“My matelot had a day off yesterday,” he explained. “I am afraid that you find the place a little untidy.”

“It is scarcely that, Monsieur Wildburn,” the visitor replied courteously. “There is some derangement of the apartment, it is true, but it was something else which attracted me. You are alone here, I think you said?”

“I certainly am.”

Mermillon stooped lightly down and picked up from the carpet the object which had attracted his attention. He held it out to Wildburn. It was a very beautiful emerald of large size and finely cut!

“No wonder there are others besides myself,” he remarked, “who would be willing to pay you a large price for your yacht, if there is much jewellery of this description to be picked up.”

The young American’s face was suddenly dark. His voice lost its smoothness. His attempted indifference was badly assumed.

“I have visitors occasionally,” he admitted. “Thank you for the emerald. I have no doubt that my latest visitor will be here to claim it very soon.”

“She should not be blamed,” Mermillon murmured. “I 31 am a judge of gems and I must confess that I envy her the possession of that one. However, we did not come here to discuss precious stones. I am satisfied with all that you have shown me, Monsieur Wildburn. I want your boat. My cheque book is at your disposal.”

“I don’t want to seem obstinate,” Hamer Wildburn said, smiling. “I will sell her to you on one condition.”

“Well?”

“That I deliver her in two months’ time, after I have finished my cruise.”

The eyebrows of Edouard Mermillon were slightly upraised and the Baron frankly scowled. It was obvious that both men were disappointed.

“In two months’ time,” the former pointed out, “my nephew’s birthday will be forgotten. The cruising season will be over. My gift would have no significance. If you are willing to sell at all, I should prefer to pay for immediate delivery. Let us bring this matter to a point. I will offer you five thousand pounds cash for her as she stands or,” he added with a smile, “I will make it ten thousand, if the emerald is included!”

Wildburn shook his head.

“The emerald, although I cannot believe it is worth that much,” he said, “is not mine to dispose of. It will be returned to its owner as soon as I can assure myself of her identity and her whereabouts. As regards your offer, am I permitted to ask you a question, Monsieur Mermillon? Even rich men do not throw money away heedlessly. Why do you offer me so much more than my boat is worth?”

“Why, indeed?” the Baron echoed, with a little gesture of disapproval. “I think that my friend has lost his senses.”

“In buying and selling,” Mermillon said suavely, “one does not disclose even to one’s friends one’s reasons for wishing to operate. I want this boat very badly, my dear new friend.”

The American shrugged his shoulders. For some reason or other, his attitude had become a shade less courteous towards his distinguished visitors.

“Then let me say at once, Monsieur Mermillon, that no cheque which you could write would buy my boat,” he announced. “I deeply appreciate the honour of your visit and I should have been proud and happy if I had been able to serve you. In this matter I cannot. After that, I think you will agree with me that further conversation would be a waste of time.”

There was a brief silence. Mermillon appeared to be deep in reflection. In the end he rose to his feet.

“If you should change your mind within the next few days, Monsieur Wildburn,” he said disconsolately, “I should be glad to hear from you. Since you have refused my offer of five thousand pounds, however, I am quite content to believe that you do not wish to sell the boat at all. For the present, therefore, we will consider the matter closed.”

The Baron also rose to his feet with apparent alacrity.

“I congratulate you, my friend Edouard,” he exclaimed, patting his shoulder. “That was a foolish offer which you made. Monsieur Wildburn sets, I think, too high a value upon his possession.”

The two men made their way to the gangway, the American strolling behind. The affair of embarkation was only a matter of seconds.

“I trust,” Mermillon said courteously, as he took the wheel of the motor boat, “that you will pay us a visit on 33 the Aigle Noir before you leave the harbour. We are generally at home at the time of the apéritif.”

“I shall be delighted,” the young man promised, as he waved his hand in farewell.

The motor boat shot away, made a circle and headed for the Aigle Noir. Both men remained speechless until they were half-way across. Then the Baron spoke. His voice was thick and dubious.

“I do not understand,” he muttered.

“What is it that you do not understand, my friend?” Mermillon asked him.

“I do not understand that young man refusing an offer of five thousand pounds for a boat which is obviously worth less than two.”

“Then you show less than your usual astuteness,” was the caustic reply. “Although it seemed to me to be bad policy to allude to the fact, he told us himself that he had received another offer for the boat. The emerald which I picked up in his little salon is the property of Louise de Fantany.”

The Baron’s face showed signs of fear. His complexion was a most unwholesome colour. He dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief.

“Louise de Fantany,” he repeated. “And barely an hour ago we heard that Perissol had ordered a plane for the south!”

Mermillon brought the boat with skilful precision to the gangway steps of the yacht. He sprang lightly up on deck and led the way to their favourite corner.

“Deeply as I regret such methods in these civilised days,” he sighed, “I fear that there is now no alternative. Chicotin must take a hand.”