Читать книгу Dangerous Cargo - Footner Hulbert - Страница 4

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When hard times were at their hardest it was customary for the newspapers to say that Horace Laghet had all the money in the country. His name was on every lip; the least of his doings and sayings constituted front-page stuff.

He first came into prominence during the panic of 1929, when it transpired that he had sold short. Of course he made millions. And after that, when everybody else was desperately trying to revive confidence, Laghet continued to sell America short, and America, unfortunately, justified his disbelief. He raked in more and more millions.

He spent lavishly. At a time when the building trades were almost at a standstill he commenced the construction of a huge marble palace on upper Fifth Avenue, and another at Newport. He ordered a yacht that was to exceed any yacht ever built. When these extravagances were criticized he retorted: “Well, I’m keeping the money in circulation, am I not?” And there was no come-back.

To do him justice, I must say that he subscribed great sums to the unemployment funds and to every form of relief. It did him no good. People felt that he ought to have given more. In the gay old days millionaires used to be respected—or at least admired, but not now. People felt in a dim way that Laghet had profited out of the country’s misfortunes and he was hated.

Lord! how he was hated! His name was never mentioned without a covert sneer. It was said that his life had been attempted several times, and that he never ventured out without an armed guard.

This being the situation, my excitement can be understood when one morning a crisp voice said over the phone: “This is Horace Laghet speaking.” Just like that. No hireling or secretary, but the great man himself. At first I thought it was a hoax.

“Is Madame Storey in her office?” he asked.

“I’ll see,” I said, cautiously.

“Oh, don’t give me that bunk!” he said. “I’m Horace Laghet. Connect me with her.”

“If I were sure that it was Mr. Laghet speaking ...” I began.

“Connect me! Connect me!” he shouted. “She can hang up if she’s not satisfied, can’t she?”

I thought it best to switch the call to my employer’s desk. She was cool and offhand. He asked if he could see her. “I can give you half an hour at noon,” she said. She politely declined an invitation to lunch. He said, “Very well, I’ll be there at twelve.”

When she had hung up I went in. She was helping herself to a cigarette with an amused smile. “Well, Bella, business is picking up,” she said.

“Fancy! Horace Laghet coming here!” I said, all agog.

“Well, there’s no occasion to strew roses in his path,” she said.

When he entered my office I got a shock. I suppose I had read that he was only thirty-five years old, but it was hard to believe that the man everybody was talking about could be so young. A tall, stalwart figure at the top notch of a man’s vigor, with a deeply tanned skin, though the month was February. He had a dark, passionate face that could be brutal, I suspected, but at present was masked by a courteous smile. He had the air of assurance that great riches give to a man, but I discovered that he was easily upset.

I opened the door of Mme. Storey’s office, and followed him in. He stopped short at the sight of her. “I didn’t think that you would be like this,” he said. His black eyes fired up with admiration. He was a disturbing man to women.

Mme. Storey is used to this sort of thing. “That can be taken in two ways,” she murmured.

“You know what I mean,” he said. “Of course I have often seen your photograph and admired it. But the published photographs of prominent women are so touched up that you never believe in them.”

She smiled ironically. “Sit down,” she said. “Have a cigarette?”

He glanced at me deprecatingly. “I wished to see you alone.”

“Miss Brickley is present at all interviews,” said Mme. Storey. “It is a rule I have made.”

He stood up and his face flushed darkly. “I am not just an ordinary caller!” he said, angrily. “This is important.”

It was the wrong line to take with my employer. “It is my rule,” she repeated, with deceitful mildness.

I thought he was going to walk right out of the door again, and my heart sank. The richest man in town walking out of the door! However, he thought better of it. He sat down again, and after a moment succeeded in smoothing his ruffled plumage. I went to my desk in the corner.

“I suppose you know who I am,” he began.

“I read the newspapers,” said Mme. Storey, smiling.

A spasm of anger crossed his face. “Yes, damn it!” he muttered, “and a nice sort of scoundrel they make me out to be! ... Have you noticed that I have had a yacht built and am starting on a cruise with a party of guests tomorrow?”

“I had seen a later date mentioned.”

“I know. But the President-elect sent for me yesterday, and from what I learned from him I can see that there is a bad time ahead of us. Worse than anything we have been through. Well, I mean to be out of the way of it. They blame me for everything that happens. I’m going for a six months’ cruise to the West Indies and to South America.”

“How pleasant!” said Mme. Storey. “What can I do for you?”

“Two weeks ago,” he went on, “I was called up at my office by a woman’s voice. A superior sort of voice, soft-spoken, educated. She warned me not to go on this voyage. When I pressed her for particulars she hung up. Well, I am frequently called up or addressed through the mail by all sorts of triflers. So I thought no more about it.

“But today she called up again. There was a ring of earnestness in her voice. You can’t mistake that sort of thing. She was crying; she seemed scarcely able to speak for terror. All she said was that if I went on this voyage I should never come back alive. That they were laying for me. When I tried to get more out of her she hung up.”

“How did she reach your private ear on both occasions?” asked Mme. Storey.

“I have a private phone on my desk that is connected directly with the Exchange. She called up on that.”

“She knew the private number?”

“Oh, well, many do. There’s no clue in that.”

“It is impossible to trace phone calls in these days of dial phones,” said Mme. Storey.

“I don’t want you to trace the call,” he said; “I want you to come with me on the voyage ... And your secretary, if you want her. Ostensibly you will be my guests, but in reality you will be working for me.”

I was so astonished my jaw dropped as if the spring had broken. I expect I gaped at the man like a clown.

Mme. Storey was not at all put about. “If you think there is anything in this warning,” she said, “my honest advice to you is to give up the voyage.”

“Never!” he said, setting his jaw. “This yacht has cost me three millions. I’m going to sea in her.”

“You don’t want anybody like me,” she said. “You need men who can guard you all the time.”

“I’ll have them if I need them. I want you to lay bare the plot, if there is a plot. Nobody can do that so well as you. What’s more, you will be a delightful addition to the party. I wouldn’t like to impose an ordinary detective on my guests.”

“Thanks,” said Mme. Storey, dryly. “Frankly, it doesn’t appeal to me.”

“Why not?”

“Have you ever taken a long voyage in a yacht?”

“No.”

“Well, I have. In such close quarters the guests get rather badly on one another’s nerves.” She looked at him in a dry way that suggested he himself was a bit too passionate and domineering to make the ideal fellow voyager.

He laughed it off. “You won’t find the quarters on the Buccaneer too close.”

“Buccaneer?” said Mme. Storey. “Well named!”

He was ready to get sore at that, but decided to laugh again. “Just a small party,” he said. “The ladies include my fiancée, Celia Dare, and her mother and Mrs. Holder.”

“Who is Mrs. Holder?”

“Just a dear friend,” he said, carelessly.

“A widow?”

“No. She’s got a perfectly good husband somewhere. He’s in business and can’t get away. ... The men will be my brother Adrian, young Emil Herbert the celebrated pianist, and my secretary, Martin Coade. Martin is a host in himself. He’s in Holland just now, but will join the ship when we touch at Curaçao.”

“Such a ship must carry a big crew,” suggested Mme. Storey.

“Yes. Nearly a hundred men.”

“Easy to plant an assassin among them,” she murmured.

Laghet showed his teeth unpleasantly. “I assure you they have been hand picked,” he said, grimly.

Mme. Storey debated with herself.

“Five thousand dollars a week,” said Laghet, seductively.

“Good pay,” she said.

“Will you take it?”

“Yes.” But as his hand shot out she held hers up. “Under certain conditions.”

“Name them, lady!”

“I cannot undertake any responsibility for your safety.”

“That’s understood.”

“Secondly, I must be free to terminate the agreement and to leave the ship at any time.”

“Right! We’ll make it so pleasant for you you won’t want to leave.”

“Thirdly, you must tell me the whole truth.”

He stared. “Why on earth shouldn’t I tell you the truth?”

“My dear man,” she said, “you haven’t reached your present position without—how can I put it inoffensively?—without being mixed up in things you don’t want to talk about. When I come to you for necessary information you must tell me the whole truth or I can do nothing.”

He appeared to like her frankness. “Agreed,” he said, grinning.

“Lastly, anybody can see that you have a dominating personality and do not take kindly to direction. But you must understand that in such situations as may arise out of this investigation if you do not act as I advise I will be useless to you.”

“That’s the hardest one,” he said, ruefully. “It will be a novelty to take orders from a woman. However, I agree.”

They shook hands on it.

“Have you any idea who it is that may want to murder you?” asked Mme. Storey.

He shrugged. “It might be one of twenty men.”

“And is probably none of them,” she put in. “It is always the unexpected enemy who has murder in his heart.”

“Will you be ready to go aboard at noon tomorrow?” he asked, eagerly.

“It would be wiser to put off the sailing until I can make a preliminary investigation.”

“Not an hour!” he said, with a darkening face.

“Very well,” she said. “In my business one has to be prepared for anything.”

“You’re a wonderful woman!” he cried. “I’m glad I came to you! I’ll make out a check to bind the bargain.” He did so then and there. When he got up to go he said: “Perhaps it’s all a stall, anyhow. In that case we’ll have a swell time on the seven seas and forget the depression!”

Mme. Storey had half turned in her chair and was looking out of the window behind her. “It is not a stall,” she said, quietly.

Laghet’s face sharpened. He showed his teeth. “What makes you so sure of that?” he demanded.

“Look out of the window,” she said. “Do not come close enough to show yourself. That man standing against the park railings opposite. The one with a greenish Fedora pulled over his eyes. Is he in your employ?”

“I never saw him before,” said Laghet.

“Then he’s a spy. He followed you here, and he will follow you when you leave.”

“But I came in my car!”

“No doubt he has a car waiting, too.”

Laghet caught up his stick. “By God! I’ll soon settle his business!” he cried.

“What good will that do you?” said Mme. Storey. “He’s only a paid spy. If you assault him you’ll be arrested. You won’t be able to prove anything. It will only delay your sailing.”

“Damn it, I suppose you’re right!” he said, groaning with balked rage. He jammed on his hat and strode out.