Читать книгу Dangerous Cargo - Footner Hulbert - Страница 7

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Mme. Storey’s first task was to acquaint herself with every part of the yacht and to make friends with everybody on board. We wandered around in the guise of an innocent curiosity.

Captain Grober was an enigma. A fine-looking, sailor-like German of the bristly-haired type, he was most polite. But we could never get him to unbend; his gray-blue eyes held no more expression than those of a fish. One had to admit that his position on board was a difficult one. He had always commanded big liners where his word was law at sea, but now he was under the shadow of the owner.

The under-officers, all young Germans, took their cue from the captain. Polite and wooden, it was impossible to make friends with them. On the other hand, the engine-room staff were mostly Scotch. The chief, McLaren, was a grand old fellow whom I always delighted to talk to when I could catch him on deck.

It was not a happy ship. Horace was brutal and overbearing towards the crew. American sailors will not stand for it. As Horace’s guests we shared in his unpopularity. Once as we sat on deck he passed near by, looked down into the well deck over the rail and passed on. We heard a growling voice from below: “Huh! Thinks he’s the Lord God Almighty! But he ain’t immortal! He ain’t immortal!” Mme. Storey arose and looked over the rail, but the speaker was gone.

Among the friends we made was Jim, a gnarly old fellow with white hair. His principal duty was to wipe down the white-painted walls on deck. Thus he was nearly always somewhere about our quarters and we could talk to him when we pleased.

Another man we liked was Les Farman. We came upon him sitting on a bitt on the forward deck, making a bag out of a piece of sailcloth. He was a magnificent physical specimen with steady blue eyes and firm mouth. Mme. Storey stopped and looked at him in pleasure. He stood up in instinctive politeness, but he was not in the least afraid of her. Indeed, there was a hint of fun in his eyes. He knew his own worth. And that charmed her.

We talked for a while. When she suggested that he seemed somewhat above his station, he answered coolly that he had a master’s papers. Having had trouble with his owners (he did not say of what nature), he had found it impossible to get another ship during such hard times, and had been glad to sign as a seaman on the Buccaneer.

Just because those two men were so square and decent, Mme. Storey would not attempt to use them as spies on the rest of the crew.

I was never able to point out the sailor whose appearance had so terrified Adele. Apparently he was keeping out of our way.

On our third day at sea Mme. Storey and I were pacing the deck after lunch. It was already warm as we steamed south, and all the doors and windows were open.

Every time we passed the door of the music-room we could hear Emil Herbert softly playing Chopin. Little Celia Dare was sitting in a big chair behind him with tears in her eyes, and smiling at us through them. It was about the only moment of the day when the child could escape from her argus-eyed mother.

Presently we met Horace himself, black-browed and scowling, strolling with a cigar. “Rosika,” he said at once (all formality had been dropped by this time) “I want a talk with you.”

His overbearing manner always brought a wicked smile to Mme. Storey’s face. “Well, I can spare you ten minutes,” she said.

“Do we have to have this creature along?” he said, with a hard glance in my direction. It was supposed to be a joke. I didn’t care.

“Oh, why not?” said Mme. Storey.

He gave in sullenly, and led the way up to the sun deck, where he had a sort of den aft of the officers’ quarters. It was a beautiful little room with red leather chairs, sporting prints on the walls, and an honest-to-God fireplace.

Horace mixed himself a whisky and soda. Mme. Storey and I declined. “What do you think of the situation?” he growled.

“I don’t think anything of it,” she said. “I lack information.”

“How about the crew?” he asked. “I’ve seen you going about among them.”

“What is the captain’s history?”

“Surely you don’t suspect him!” said Horace, staring.

“I didn’t say I did. He seems perfectly correct.”

“He used to be captain of the Koenigen Louise.”

“Oh, the big liner that burned in the stream at Bremerhaven.”

“Not his fault,” said Horace. “He wasn’t even aboard at the time.”

“There was an ugly story going around that she was burned for the insurance. She had never paid expenses, you see.”

“Even so,” said Horace. “Certainly it wasn’t the captain who got the insurance ... I bank on him,” he went on. “He’s got twenty-five years of good seamanship behind him. I consider myself lucky to get him for a little vessel like this.”

Mme. Storey said nothing.

“Apart from the yacht, we don’t touch anywhere,” Horace went on. “What possible reason could he have for wanting me out of the way?”

“I don’t know,” she said, mildly. “I’m not accusing him. Only asking for information ... He brought his own officers aboard?”

“Yes, his navigating officers. Everybody else was hired in New York.”

“By him?”

“Yes; but in consultation with my attorney. I may tell you that when I received my first warning two weeks ago, I fired the whole crew on a caprice, and hired another. The record of every man aboard has been investigated.”

“I doubt if it is in the fo’c’s’le that the source of danger is to be looked for,” said Mme. Storey.

Horace stared angrily, but said nothing.

“Murders, roughly, divide themselves into five classes,” she remarked. “Firstly, there is the killing committed in a sudden passion. That is out, because this plot has been cooking for two weeks or more. Secondly, there is the murder induced by jealousy ... Have you wronged any man by taking his girl from him, Horace?”

He suspected that she was making fun of him. “No,” he said, shortly.

“Then that’s out. Next there is the motive of fear. Has any man got cause to fear you?”

“No,” he said, with a hard grin. “I’ve already done my worst to them. I’m out of the market now.”

“Fourthly, there is revenge,” she went on. “But revenge is the motive of primitive natures only. Except among gangsters, murders for revenge are rare. That brings us to the last and most prolific cause of murders.”

“What’s that?”

“Murder for profit.”

“Who on earth is there who would profit by my murder?” he said, scornfully.

She did not answer directly. “When are you going to be married?” she asked.

“What’s that got to do with it?” he said. “There’s no hurry. I’ll marry when I get around to it.”

“Hm!” said Mme. Storey.

“Isn’t she a little darling!” he said, with a cynical smile. “So modest and gentle! The perfect wife! Almost unheard of nowadays.”

“If you’re not ready for marriage, why get engaged?”

“I want to make sure of her. She’s unique. Sophie is taking care of her for me. Sophie won’t let the bloom get rubbed off my peach.”

“Sounds Turkish to me,” murmured Mme. Storey.

“Hey?” he demanded.

“Nothing ... Have you made a will?”

“Sure.”

“Is Adele Holder mentioned in it?”

“Well, upon my word!” he said, darkening with anger.

“I told you I should have to ask all sorts of questions,” said Mme. Storey, calmly.

“Yes, she is,” he said, sullenly. “For fifty thousand only.”

“Have you told her?”

“Yes. She has a lot more than that to gain from me living.”

“Surely ... Who is your heir?”

“My brother Adrian. Until such a time as I marry, of course.”

“He knows you will marry,” said Mme. Storey, quietly. “There’s a possible motive.”

“What, Adrian!” he cried. He laughed harshly. “That poor fish! He has no reason for existence apart from me! He is nothing but what I have made him!”

“He could stand alone if he had your money,” she said.

“Adrian! That’s comic!” He laughed again.

“Weak men are the most dangerous,” remarked Mme. Storey. “They strike in the dark ... You treat him badly.”

“He’s a fool!” said Horace. “He asks for it.”

“How much do you allow him?”

“Fifteen thousand a year.”

“Not very much, considering what your income is.”

“More than he’s worth,” said Horace. “He does nothing.”

“Suppose this weak man is nursing a sense of resentment in his breast,” said Mme. Storey. “A sort of poisonous mushroom growth that spreads and spreads until it crowds out everything but itself.”

“I know every thought in his foolish noddle,” said Horace.

“No man knows the secret thoughts of another.”

“I’ve been with Adrian since infancy. He’s always done what I’ve told him.”

“He could hire tools stronger than himself. With such a tremendous stake in view he could afford to offer a big price....”

“You will never convince me that Adrian is plotting against me,” cried Horace. “He hasn’t the initiative of a tadpole!”

“Well, anyhow, there’s more than one man concerned in it,” said Mme. Storey. “I advise you not to go on deck alone at night.”

“Let them try it, that’s all,” growled Horace, clenching his fist. “On my own ship I’ll be the master!”

Mme. Storey suddenly sat erect in her chair. “Lower your voice!” she said, quietly. “There is somebody out on deck.”

With a single movement Horace was out of his chair and through the door. We heard him cursing and ran out. He was struggling with a sailor. Horace had the man by the throat and was shaking him like a rat. It was the same man whose appearance had so frightened Adele two days before.

“Let the man speak!” said Mme. Storey, sharply.

Horace let go, and the sailor backed off feeling of his throat and scowling from under his brows with venomous hatred.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Horace.

“Just on my way aft to report to the quartermaster,” muttered the sailor.

“Say ‘sir’ when you speak to me!”

“Sir!” repeated the man, with an ugly sneer.

“You’re a liar!” said Horace. “You were listening just beyond the window.”

“I wasn’t listening. I could hear that you were talking privately and I was afraid to show myself in front of the windows. I couldn’t hear anything.”

“What’s your name?”

“Johnson, sir.”

“Get on about your work!” barked Horace. “If I catch you listening at my windows again I’ll know what to do.”

The man picked up his hat, saluted, and slouched aft. His glance was murderous.

“He couldn’t have heard anything,” Horace muttered, rubbing his lip and glancing sideways at Mme. Storey.

“You won’t get much out of a spy by strangling him,” she said, dryly. “Leave him to me and I’ll try other measures.”