Читать книгу Dangerous Cargo - Footner Hulbert - Страница 10

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On the following day, after lunch, the Buccaneer cast anchor off the port of Willemstad in the island of Curaçao. There is a dangerous current off the mouth of the harbor, and as Horace Laghet intended to remain only long enough to pick up Martin Coade, his secretary, they didn’t want to take the big yacht inside.

After six days at sea the sight of land was grateful to the eye, though it was but a brown and treeless island. However, the beach was of the whitest, the sky of the bluest, and the town picturesque enough with its steep-roofed Dutch houses bordering the quays. In designing those roofs, the prudent Dutch were not taking any chances of a heavy snowfall.

It put Horace in a temper to learn that the liner Orizaba, which was bringing Martin Coade from Europe, had not yet arrived. “Nothing to see in this damned hole but oil-refineries,” he growled.

Nevertheless, the indefatigable Adrian insisted on getting up a shore party. Horace refused to accompany them, and Mme. Storey begged off on the pretext of having letters to write. All the others went ashore in the launch. Adele’s pretty face was drawn and haggard under the careful makeup. She had put herself into Mme. Storey’s hands the night before, and during the morning had smuggled a small bag containing some clothes into our cabin.

About the same time another launch set off from the yacht, carrying a party of sailors who had been granted four hours’ shore leave. Harry Holder was among them. Adele had communicated with him.

About an hour later the Orizaba hove in sight and Mme. Storey sent word on deck, asking to be carried ashore. She carried Adele’s little bag.

Horace was on deck, and his eyes narrowed at the sight of the bag. “Are you leaving us?” he asked, laughing. It had an ugly ring.

“Not yet,” she answered, smiling. “I have a lot of stuff to send in the mail, and this is the easiest way to carry it.”

He only half believed her, and for a moment I thought she would be obliged to open her bag like a departing servant. However, she smiled him down.

“Do you want company?” he asked, with a hangdog air.

This was awkward. “Just as you like,” she said, calmly. “I shall be pretty busy at the post and the cable office.”

He turned away sorely. “We sail at nine,” he said.

I breathed again.

The entrance to the great inner harbor of Willemstad is by way of a mile-long passage like a big canal. The town spreads along both sides of it. The oddest feature of the place is a pontoon bridge over the canal. The middle pontoon is equipped with an engine and paddle wheels, and when a vessel wishes to pass through, the bridge gives a shrill toot and paddles itself out of the way. I am sure there is not another bridge like it in the world.

Mme. Storey and I landed on the quay and struck into the narrow streets of the town, gazing around us like idle sight-seers. When we had satisfied ourselves we were not being watched, we made our way to the principal hotel and engaged a front room. A notice-board in the lobby informed us that the Orizaba would sail for Panama at 7 p.m.

According to prearrangement we were presently joined in our room by Adele, followed a moment or two later by Harry Holder. The latter had procured a suit of shore clothes from an outfitter. Apparently a reconciliation had taken place between the pair. It was almost piteous to see how hungrily the man’s eyes dwelt on his wife’s beautiful face. Adele was tense and jumpy.

“Has Horace come ashore?” she asked.

My employer shook her head.

“Oh, what will he say?” murmured Adele.

“It would have been better to have it out with him,” said Mme. Storey, dryly. “Then you could have taken all your clothes.”

“I couldn’t face him!” murmured the girl.

Mme. Storey shrugged. “Where are the others of the party?” she asked.

“They hired an automobile to tour the island. I refused to go because of the dust. They didn’t suspect I was going to give them the slip. They are dining at a Chinese restaurant.”

There was little more to say. We sat down, watching through the windows. Holder took Adele’s hand between his, but she jerked it away pettishly. She was ashamed of him in his common, ill-fitting clothes. Mme. Storey smoked impassively.

Our windows commanded a view of the sea. We saw the Orizaba drop anchor and immediately become surrounded by a fleet of small boats.

Among them we distinguished a launch from the Buccaneer. After a while it returned to the yacht, bearing Martin Coade. All we could distinguish at the distance was that he was accompanied by a small mountain of baggage.

“Martin’s out of the way,” said Mme. Storey. “You’d better go aboard now. Stay in your cabin until she sails.”

We shook their hands and wished them a pleasant voyage. Mme. Storey had already given them sufficient money to carry them to New York. They had shipped on the Orizaba as Mr. and Mrs. John Matthews. The man was wild to get aboard the vessel, but Adele, shaking with terror, held back. Through the window she searched the quay anxiously before she would venture out.

Finally they went. Watching from the window, we saw them board a launch at the quayside, and followed it with our eyes until it deposited them at the ladder of the Orizaba. We could distinguish Adele’s pink dress climbing the ladder. The two of them were swallowed up on deck. The launch started back.

“Thank God, that’s accomplished!” I cried.

Mme. Storey smiled dryly. “Unstable as water!” she said. “Such people won’t stay put. We’d better stick around a while to make sure they don’t come ashore again.”

“Let’s stay on in this hotel,” I urged. “You’ve done your job. You’ve saved Horace Laghet. Don’t go back to that horrible yacht!”

“Harry Holder’s only a tool,” she said. “There may be a dozen such willing tools aboard the yacht. We haven’t yet found the intelligence that directs them.”

“Don’t go back!” I persisted. “The dice are loaded. You cannot win!”

“Maybe not,” she said, soberly. “But I can’t throw up a job half finished.... However, I don’t want to force you to anything against your judgment. You can sail on the Orizaba, too.”

“You know I’m not going to leave you,” I muttered.

And so the subject was dropped.

The sun went down about six o’clock, and the tropical night descended swiftly. We left the hotel and walked along the quay, watching the animated scene. Never in my life have I seen such a mixture of races. They speak an uncouth dialect called papiemento, which appears to be a mixture of half the languages on earth.

Presently we discovered that we were being followed by a sailor from the Buccaneer. He was making no effort to conceal himself, and it seemed as if he wanted to speak to us. So we sat down at a sidewalk café to give him the chance.

He came sidling up to our table with a sheepish look like a schoolboy. It was a good-looking young fellow whom we had seen about the decks of the Buccaneer, but had never had any speech with. His name was Wanzer.

“I’ve deserted,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “Can’t stick that hell hole!”

“Well,” said Mme. Storey running up her eyebrows, “why confide in me?”

“Thought maybe you’d stake me to a suit of clothes,” he muttered. He looked down at his smart white ducks. “How can I make a getaway in a fancy rig like this?”

“What do you mean, hell hole?” she asked.

“I’d tell you,” he said, “if I was only sure of getting clear. They’d kill me if they found out I’d told anything. There’s dirty work on board. I don’t want to have nothing to do with it.... I’ll tell you everything if you’ll protect me.”

“That’s a fair offer,” she said. “I’ll take you up.”

“Not here,” he said, glancing nervously around. “The bunch has gone off to the ship. When they find that I’m missing they’ll send ashore to look for me. I got to get under cover.”

“Well, let me see ...” she began.

She got no further. “O God! here comes the old man now!” said Wanzer, in a terror-stricken voice. And like a shadow he had slipped inside the café.

In a moment or two Captain Grober, very stiff and seaman-like, came sauntering by. At sight of us he clicked his heels together in the German fashion and bowed from the waist. His handsome face was as expressionless as a plaster wall.

“At your service, ladies,” he said. “I look for two missing seamen, name of Johnson, name of Wanzer. Have you seen any of our white-suit sailors during the past half hour?”

“Why, no!” said Mme. Storey, innocently. “Do you suppose they have run off?”

The captain shrugged. “Who can tell?”

“But after only six days at sea, with good food and good pay, why should they become dissatisfied?”

“They are American seamen,” he said. “They expect to be treated like royalty. It is not so with Germans.”

“How can you expect to find them single-handed?” she asked.

“My boat’s crew is searching through the town,” he said. “If they have been hidden by others, of course we shall not find them. There is no time to make a house-to-house search. Fortunately, the yacht is fully manned. They will be no great loss.”

“I am afraid you’re not very happy aboard the Buccaneer, Captain,” she said, just to see what kind of an answer she’d get.

He looked at her sharply, as if he was about to make a confidence; but he thought better of it and ended with a shrug. “It is a fine ship,” he said, “the pay is very good. What more can a seaman ask?”

“Won’t you sit down and have a drink?” she asked.

He bowed again. “I thank you. I must get on with my search.... The last boat will leave at eight-thirty, madame.”

“We’ll be there,” said Mme. Storey. “We are dining ashore.”

He backed away, still bowing, and went on down the quay. When he had passed out of sight we went inside the café. It was a humble place, and the rough customers gaped at the brilliant apparition of Mme. Storey. She addressed herself to the proprietor, a burly Dutchman.

“The sailor in the white suit who came in just now, where is he?”

He pointed impassively to an open door leading to a yard in the rear. “I not know, my lady. He run through.”

While we stood there, wondering what to do, a small, ragged boy with a café au lait complexion pulled timidly at Mme. Storey’s skirt. He was offering her a scrap of paper on which was scribbled in pencil:

I’ll wait for you at Feng Lee’s restaurant. He gives sailors a hideout.

W.

“Where is Feng Lee’s restaurant?” Mme. Storey asked the stolid Dutchman.

He pointed through the door and across the big canal. “Scharlo.”

“Is it a respectable place?”

“Very nice. Very nice.”

Outside we picked up a dilapidated car that was waiting for hire. The driver knew all about Feng Lee’s. “Very nice. Very nice,” he said in his turn. We rattled over the pontoon bridge, turned to the left along the quay on the other side, crossed a shorter bridge over an inlet, turned to the right, and stopped. It was not far.

Mme. Storey made a sharp survey of the place before getting out of the car. While it was not Pierre’s or Marguery’s, it had the look of a popular restaurant. In the West Indies the Chinese restaurants are generally the best. It was wide open to the street, and brilliantly lighted inside. It was too early for dinner, but there were already several people at the tables. Plenty of people passing to and fro outside. In short, nothing to arouse suspicion.

My employer paid off the chauffeur and we went in and sat down. Each small table had a red-shaded lamp on it and a few limp paper flowers in a holder. Around the walls hung red banners engrossed with Chinese characters. In one corner an immense phonograph was braying forth: “Lazy-bones.” Just like home.

A smiling Chinese boy came to take our order. They are an engaging race, but inscrutable. Mme. Storey asked for Feng Lee, and the boy went back and fetched the proprietor from the kitchen. This was a tall, portly Chinaman in native costume; very dignified and wearing the beaming Oriental smile that may mean anything or nothing. He bowed and awaited our commands.

“The sailor in the white suit said I should find him here,” said Mme. Storey.

“He is waiting in the kitchen,” said Feng Lee in perfect English. He glanced at the other diners and lowered his voice. “Would you mind stepping out there? The sailor does not want to show himself.”

There seemed to be no reason why we should refuse. We went through a perfectly ordinary swing door into an ordinary kitchen—range, carving table, sink, racks of dishes. Dinner was in full course of preparation. There were a number of Chinese standing about—cooks, waiters, dish-washers, all of whom turned smiling faces at our entrance. I didn’t see Wanzer.

While I was looking at the smiling Chinamen their smiles changed horribly. They were all looking at something beyond me. My blood froze. Before I could act, something thick, soft, and all-enveloping was thrown over my head and drawn tight. A hand thrust the stuff into my mouth and I could make no sound. Nor did I hear a sound from Mme. Storey beside me.

A rope was hastily thrown around my body, pinning my arms fast. Several hands picked me up and ran me through a door, across a dirt-paved court, through another door which rolled heavily to behind me, and through a third door which was unlocked with a creaking key.

Inside I was dropped on a board floor. I heard the fall of another body near me. An immensely heavy wooden door thudded to with a dull sound and the key creaked in the lock. Then silence except for the soft lapping of water somewhere beneath me.