Читать книгу The Man From Sing Sing - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 8

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Ambouyna, according to her usual custom, paced the deck for half an hour before dinner, her maid in attendance to discourage any attempts at companionship. Ned Belmore, the international polo player, and one of Moran Chambers’ oldest friends, who was always a privileged person, joined them. He knew better than to take anything for granted with Ambouyna.

“May I walk with you for ten minutes?” he asked.

She gave gracious but not enthusiastic consent and dismissed her maid. He plunged at once into the middle of things.

“Look here,” he said, “Charlie and I—the whole gang of us, in fact—are feeling just a little bit hurt seeing you so much with Reuben Argels.”

“Really!” she exclaimed. “And what business do you think it is of yours, or Charlie’s, or any one’s?”

“Don’t take it like that,” he remonstrated. “We are all friends of Moran Chambers. We know how he felt about you. Of course, one can’t expect you to remain a grass widow for ever, but, on the other hand—it is a bit thick, isn’t it, for you to be so friendly with the man who let him down? You understood the effect of his evidence at the trial? Lying evidence it was too!”

“Of course I did. I was in court.”

“Then, for God’s sake, choose one of us to play around with you,” Belmore suggested a little irritably. “You can take your choice amongst us and we’re not a bad crowd. As for Reuben Argels, it’s easy enough to see what he’s after. He hates Moran like poison and nothing would give him more pleasure than to have another dig at him through you.”

“Insinuating, I suppose,” she remarked sweetly, “that my attractions count for nothing, and that Reuben Argels’ attentions to me are purely a matter of revenge.”

“Don’t be awkward, please,” he begged. “Any man in the world on whom you smiled would think he was in luck, but Reuben Argels isn’t in your class to begin with, and he knows, and you must know, that it would make poor Moran furious if he could see you two drinking cocktails together.”

Ambouyna considered the matter.

“I did not invite Mr. Argels upon the boat,” she pointed out.

“You knew that he was coming,” Belmore put in quickly.

“Yes, I knew that he was coming,” she admitted. “So did Andrew Pulwitter; so did Julian Franks—he is down in the second class.”

“Julian Franks?” Belmore repeated.

“You might not know him,” she reflected. “He was a cinema gymnast, but he has been one of Moran’s men for the last five years. All three of us knew that Reuben Argels was on this boat. That is why we came.”

“I see,” Ned Belmore commented doubtfully. “You have something on, eh?”

“We have something on.”

“In that case, there’s no more to be said about it,” he conceded, as they paused to look over the rails for a moment. “Except perhaps this,” he added. “Don’t be cross with me, will you? Argels has the name of being a great fellow with the ladies. Good-looking chap, in a way, too, and I suppose he can be quite attractive when he chooses.”

“He is Moran’s enemy,” she said, looking steadily out seaward. “That disposes of him, and, if it is any satisfaction to you and Charlie, and the rest of them,” she added, “you can tell them that we have met with some success. Andrew Pulwitter, that dear, cautious old Scotchman, has turned amateur burglar, and he thinks that he has discovered enough amongst Argels’ papers to secure a new trial.”

“Gee, that’s good news,” Belmore declared enthusiastically. “We’d all give a good deal to see Moran out again, and more still to see Argels in his place.”

“I do not suppose,” she observed, “that there is any chance of that.”

“I should like to have a few words with Pulwitter,” he meditated. “I’m not on Wall Street myself, of course, and I’m pretty well outside the whole of the money-making lot, but I know something about Argels. He’s clever. I’m telling you, Ambouyna, he’s just as clever as a man can be. He plays for safety too. He doesn’t take risks. Pulwitter wants to move carefully in anything he does.”

“Here he is,” she pointed out. “You can talk to him for yourself.”

Andrew Pulwitter, very long and spare in his not too well fitting dinner clothes, had issued hesitatingly from the companionway and was looking around. Ambouyna summoned him.

“You know Mr. Belmore?” she asked.

“We have met,” Andrew acknowledged. “Our ways in life are rather far apart, but we come across each other now and then at the Lake View Country Club.”

“I remember meeting you on several occasions,” Belmore agreed courteously. “We have a great friend in common, Mr. Pulwitter—a great friend who is in bad trouble. This dear lady tells me that you haven’t given up hope of helping him yet.”

“Not yet,” Andrew assented. “There’s not much to be talked about at present,” he went on, glancing cautiously around, “but we’ve made a move. We’ve made a move within the last twenty-four hours. I’ve been in communication with the lawyers most of to-day. It’s on the cards that an application will be made before long for a re-trial.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” Belmore said heartily. “Is it too much to ask upon what grounds?”

Andrew Pulwitter considered the matter carefully.

“There were certain documents,” he confided, after a somewhat prolonged pause, “which had a very direct bearing upon the case, but which could not be found at the time of the trial. There was an agreement, too, which could not be produced, and some letters which were missing. It is just possible that these may be traced.”

“Have they actually been discovered?” Belmore asked bluntly. “It’s barely a fortnight since the conclusion of the case.”

Andrew stroked his long chin.

“You’ll excuse me, Mr. Belmore, but the less said about this matter the better, until the right moment comes. I’ll go so far as to let you know, however, that this is no pleasure cruise I’m taking to Marseilles. I came because I knew that Reuben Argels was on the boat. I believe I may say that it was the same with Madame Kotinzi.”

Belmore reflected for a moment. Then he nodded pleasantly.

“Well, it’s good to hear that all Moran’s friends haven’t deserted him,” he remarked. “If you need any help that I can give at any time, dollars or adventure, remember that I’m on your side. See you later.”

He drew Ambouyna away and they walked almost the entire length of the deck in silence.

“Shrewd fellow, Andrew Pulwitter, I should imagine,” Belmore observed at last.

“I have not much of his acquaintance,” Ambouyna replied. “They tell me that all Scotchmen are shrewd. I know that Moran trusts him absolutely. You heard what he said. You think that things are moving? You think that Moran will be free soon, yes?”

Belmore’s expression was a little troubled.

“My dear, I don’t know,” he admitted. “Moran got in wrong with some very high authorities. There were powerful influences working against him at the trial. As I daresay you heard, they were willing at any time to drop the case against the others if they could get Moran. Every one in the inner circles knows that Reuben Argels’ evidence was given on a pledge that the prosecution would not cross-examine and that the remainder of the case in which Pulwitter and he figured should not be opened up.”

She sighed.

“It does not seem fair,” she complained. “I do not see how any one could dislike Moran. He was fair to every one and he is very, very lovable.”

Belmore paused in their promenade and led her once more to the side of the ship.

“Tell me,” he asked, “do you love him?”

“Of course I do,” she answered.

She was suddenly excited, as though she resented his question. There were tears glistening in her eyes, an angry little quiver of the lips.

“Why am I here?” she demanded. “Tell me that. Is it not for his sake? Is it not because I hope to help him? It is an insult that you doubt my love for him.”

“I have not doubted it,” Belmore told her gently. “I think that it is splendid that you are working for him. I have just had a sort of feeling, though, if you want the truth, that a man of Moran’s type was scarcely likely to hold you for ever.”

“What do you mean?” she cried, with indignation trembling in her tone. “Do you want me yourself? Are you proposing yourself as my lover, now that your friend is safe in prison?”

“Never dreamed of it,” he assured her hastily. “I know, my dear Ambouyna, that I wouldn’t have a dog’s chance. Never had any luck with women since I was born. I was thinking more that Reuben Argels might make himself unpleasant.”

“I thank you,” she said proudly. “I can protect myself. Mr. Argels is the ordinary type of boulevardier, from whom I have suffered all my life and with whom I know how to deal. There are a few things Mr. Pulwitter wants me to discover if I can. Otherwise I will see little of him.”

“Don’t take him too lightly,” Belmore begged, as they stood in front of the companionway. “Argels will let you find out just as much as he wants you to find out.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I am not vain,” she rejoined, “but I am possessed of some intelligence. For the rest, cannot you believe that the man has no attraction for me?”

In the very beautiful dining saloon, with its satinwood panelling and gaily designed walls, dinner was already in full progress when Ambouyna entered. Many people watched her passing through the room and regretted the obstinacy which led her to insist upon a table to herself. A good many, too, envied Reuben Argels, as she paused at the table where he, also, for other reasons, sat alone.

“You would like it that I move my place—that I take my dinner at your table to-night?” she asked. “After this evening, I have ordered my meals to be served in my salon. Even a cinema star becomes tired of curious people.”

“It would give me great pleasure,” he acknowledged, keeping his tone as even as possible.

He called a steward and the matter was quickly arranged. She ate strangely chosen food, consisting chiefly of fruit and vegetables, but she shared his champagne.

“To-night,” she told him, “I have been warned against you. That is why I changed my table. That is why I chose to dine here. I object to interference from anybody.”

“Belmore?” Argels surmised. “He never liked me. I don’t see why he should. We were born differently and we live differently.”

“He is afraid,” she continued, “that you may wean my affections away from Moran.”

He drank the whole of the contents of a glass of champagne, with the stem of which his fingers had been playing. He knew that he would require all his self-control, and all his nerve, to hold his own in a conversation like this. Ambouyna was radiantly beautiful, and the glamour of her eyes, their changing lights, her sensitive lips, and the unfamiliar but very sweet perfume which floated over to him, enthralled his senses.

“Well,” he observed, “fifteen—even ten years—is too long a time in this world for any woman to wait for her lover.”

The flush in her cheeks slowly faded.

“You speak very plainly,” she murmured.

“It prevents misunderstanding,” he pointed out. “If—”

He paused to control his unsteady breathing.

“If by any evil chance I were to lose my heart to you, I should look upon you as free.”

“And I not,” she rejoined haughtily. “Long before that time Moran will be back with me.”

He bowed courteously. His self-restraint was such that the matter did not appear to greatly interest him. Nevertheless, if she had known him better, she would have been suspicious of that queer sparkle at the back of his eyes.

“I have been warned this evening,” she went on, “that your attentions to me are simply paid in the hope that Moran Chambers will hear of them and that the hearing will add to his unhappiness.”

“You have strange acquaintances who tell you such things,” Argels remarked.... “You find this asparagus good, I hope? They have very little of it upon the ship. It comes from an island near Toulon.”

“It is not an affair of the asparagus,” she said angrily. “I wish to know whether my acquaintance spoke the truth.”

“Well, considering all things,” he reflected, “I should scarcely say that I had paid you any remarkable attentions. I do not think that there is a man upon this ship who could have resisted as completely as I have the temptation to say foolish things to you.”

“But have you been tempted?” she asked swiftly.

He looked at her with quizzical eyes. She was, after all, very much of a child.

“Every one puts on their armour when they come near you, Ambouyna Kotinzi,” he assured her. “Mine, I seldom have to use. Women have never been much in my world, but if it gives you any gratification to hear me say so, I realise my danger all the time.”

“That is something,” she admitted, with a satisfied little sigh. “You should, indeed, be in danger. I have been very nice to you.”

The inward, the magnetic power of the man seemed suddenly intensified. The placidity had gone from his sometimes almost smug features. Again the lips seemed fuller. Lines crept into his face. His eyes held hers in eager questioning.

“Yes, but why?” he demanded. “Now that you have told me of Ned Belmore’s warning, I will tell you the warning I gave myself. I said—I reminded myself—that Moran Chambers had been your lover, that I was his enemy, whose evidence was mainly responsible for sending him to prison. It is quite conceivable, is it not, in these days of strange happenings that you, and Andrew Pulwitter, and the gentleman who scratched my shoulder, might all three be on this boat each in your different ways meaning harm to me. That, at least, is possible, is it not?”

“I suppose it is,” she confessed.

“You have broken many men’s lives, they say,” he went on. “Why should you not be here to break mine? Pulwitter is a very crafty old fox and Chambers’ dear friend. He has convinced me already of his evil intentions towards me. The third man, whose personality I confess I have not divined, might well be here to administer the coup de grâce if everything else fails. It might bring a measure of relief to that poor man within his steel walls to hear that I had gone crazy for love of you, only to be flouted and mocked at, that Andrew had stolen all my secrets, thrown my bonds overboard, and rendered me penniless, or that this mysterious third person had left me lying upon the deck with a dagger in my heart, instead of with a scratch upon my shoulder. What do you think of my surmises?”

“I think,” she announced deliberately, and it seemed to him that he had never seen anything so attractive as the geranium-coloured flush of anger which came and went upon her dusky cheeks, “I think that you are the hardest, the most brutal, the man most to be detested of any I have ever known in my life.”

There was a moment’s silence. He drank more wine. Victory was leaning towards him.

“That seems a pity,” he said at last, “for, notwithstanding all my efforts, I was beginning to succumb. I was even wondering,” he went on, “whether I should summon up courage enough to ask you to allow me to take my coffee on your verandah and talk of less unpleasant things.”

She collected her trifles and rose to her feet. She was dressed in dark blue, a model dedicated to her by Doucet. At her throat she wore a huge dark sapphire.

“I thank you for inviting me to your table,” she said coldly. “As for my verandah, for the present I do not consider myself at liberty to entertain acquaintances there.”

She left him with the slightest possible recognition of his farewell bow. He watched her thoughtfully until she had disappeared. Then he stirred his coffee, and drank it slowly, and with apparent appreciation. He played with his cigar case, although smoking was not allowed in the saloon. Suddenly he realised that he was lingering on because the perfume from her clothes and hair still clung to the table. The angle of the pushed-back chair opposite was acutely reminiscent. He uttered an impatient little exclamation, rose to his feet, and made his way into the smoking room.