Читать книгу The Three Blue Anchors - Ottwell Binns - Страница 3

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It was the inn sign with the name and the device which first caught Mr. Jack Donne’s fancy, and begat in him a desire for closer acquaintance. Blue Anchors as the names of taverns were common enough in the West Country. Without effort and in a mental flash he recalled three—one near Minehead, another at Indian Queens and a third in the steep street at Helston but a few miles away, where he had sampled the tap whilst watching the Furry Dancers. But the signs of each of those taverns had but a single anchor, whilst this had three, strung together by a piece of cable chain, their shanks like the radii of a circle, the flukes giving the device a dim resemblance to a Catherine wheel.

“The Three Blue Anchors,” he read, and underneath the name of the landlord, “Ben Bonito,” who it appeared was licensed to sell all the various ales and cordials dear to the hearts of thirsty seafaring men. The name of the tavern-keeper intrigued him almost as much as the name of the inn itself. Whilst he stared at the sign with its anchors whirling like the triple legs of the Manx coat of arms, he rolled the name over on his tongue—“Ben Bonito!”

Despite the Christian name, it had an un-English savour.

“Spanish or Italian?” he conjectured, and reflected that one found that kind of thing along the southern and western seaboards. There in old days wrecked mariners surviving the terrors of the sea, and the ruthless hands of wreckers ashore, had sometimes settled in the land, mingling their blood with that of the native stock, and passing on a heritage of black hair, eyes flashingly dark, and complexion of deeper hue than that of unmingled blood. But the name, despite its strangeness, had a familiar ring. He tried it aloud to make sure.

“Ben Bonito.”

Then he nodded to himself, and his bronzed forehead became corrugated in an effort of remembrance. There was, he recalled, a Bonito in Brazil not very far from Pernambuco, also the Bonito river. Then there was that fish of the tunny family which chased the flying fish, making them take to the air. But these were plain Bonito without the Ben, and it was the latter which gave the ring of familiarity to this un-English name.

“Ben,” he murmured to himself. “Ben Bonito. Ben—Ben——”

Someone cannoned into him from behind—heavily. Perched as he was on the edge of the cobbled pavement, staring up at the sign, he was in no position to survive so heavy an impact, and he shot into the dusty street. He rolled over a surprised dog, which fled, yelping, and picked himself up, a wrathful man, swearing angrily, and intent on reprisals. But as he turned and beheld the one person who could possibly be held responsible for his discomfiture, the oath died on his lips, and an expression of utter astonishment came on his sunburnt face. The individual whose heavy encounter had toppled him from the edge of the pavement was a woman—a negress. Big-bosomed, broad-shouldered, and generally massive of figure, fashionably but flamboyantly attired, her big eyes took a rollicking gaiety as she showed double rows of white teeth in a laugh.

“Sorry, boss,” she said with a transatlantic intonation. “Ah was eyeing duh picture there; an’ Ah never see you. You ain’t gonna make a song about it, hey?”

There was something infectious in the woman’s laughter. The gaiety in her big eyes was almost childlike and very disarming to his anger. In spite of his wrathful impulse he laughed back, for the spectacle of this laughing negro woman on the quay of a little Cornish fishing port had an element of unusualness that was interesting.

“No, my coal-black mammy,” he answered, with another laugh. “We’ll leave the solo out. But I must say you shift things when you bring your tonnage into action.”

“Sure, boss!” grinned the negress cheerfully. “Two hundred an’ sixty pounds avoirdupoz ain’t easy to stop when it’s moving.”

Her laughing eyes glanced down at her too ample form, then looked up, and as they did so, the laughter died out suddenly, giving place to a look of inquiry. Donne saw that their glance went beyond him, and wondering what had caused the swift change, looked round to learn the cause. Then he saw. A little man, incredibly wizened, had appeared at the door of the Three Blue Anchors. He was coatless, his shirt-sleeves were rolled up, he wore a small green baize apron; and his general air of proprietorship indicated that in all likelihood he was the innkeeper. The negress stared at him for a moment, a look of calculation crept in her eyes, then again she addressed herself to Jack Donne.

“Say, boss, aire you acquainted with dis Ben Bonito who puts his monniker so boldly on dat swing-board?”

Mr. Donne shook his head. “Don’t know the fellow from Adam.”

“Can’t say den if dat five-foot of skin-an-bone is Benito?”

The name the woman used might have been a slip, or a deliberate hiatus of the first syllable of the innkeeper’s surname, but whichever it was, it brought to Donne’s remembrance that for which he had been searching when the negress had jerked him from the pavement.

“Benito Bonito.”

That was the name for which the more familiar Ben attached to the surname had set his mind groping—the pirate whose exploits had earned him the sobriquet of “Bonito of the Bloody Sword.” As the remembrance came to him he looked at the innkeeper again, and grinned at the thought of the ghost he had conjured up. But nevertheless it was odd that the negress should have given this meek-looking little tavern-keeper the fierce old pirate’s name; and it was none the less odd that the man should have a name so like that of the scoundrel who in old days had been the scourge of the Pacific Coast. All that passed through his mind in a flash, then the black giantess waved a fat hand in farewell, and rolled forward to the inn door.

Mr. Jack Donne, who meant to slake his thirst in the tavern, watched her progress, and wondered what her interest in the landlord could possibly be. One thing was immediately apparent to him—and that was that the innkeeper returned the interest. As he saw the black woman bearing down upon him a look of astonishment came on the man’s wizened face; and a keen light shone in his puckered eyes. That was perhaps no more than was to be expected in view of the fact that a negress must have been a rare bird in the little fishing port; but somehow Donne had a notion that the whole explanation did not lie there. Something there was beyond that, and he watched alertly, hoping to find out what it might be.

His curiosity was not immediately satisfied; but his interest was quickened sevenfold. The negress moved straight to the inn door. The small man stiffened like a terrier and looked as if he were about to deny the woman an entrance. Mr. Jack Donne, recalling his own little mishap, chuckled with delight and waited for the encounter. He had not long to wait. The negress reached the inn door. The aproned man stood with his legs straddled wide, his attitude unyielding and almost truculent. The woman could not but be aware of his unwelcoming demeanour, but she gave no sign of consciousness, and forged on like a line-of-battle ship. The innkeeper was brushed aside as if he had been a fly, and the woman passed through the doorway into the dark passage beyond, leaving the little man staring, and gulping down his wrath. Mr. Donne laughed, and wondered why the man should have regarded the woman with such disfavour. Then as the innkeeper turned and followed the woman he himself made a bee-line for the door.

Passing the threshold, he found himself in a dark passage panelled with oak. At the far end was a door which, standing wide, revealed that it led to the more domestic quarters of the inn. Right and left were other doors with indications in faded paint—“Tap Room,” “Bar Parlour.” Pausing to listen, he caught the sound of the negress’s voice giving an order:

“Noggin of Jamaica—an’ no watering, little man.”

The tone was patronising in the extreme and the words themselves were not void of offence to any landlord with a spark of manhood. Remembering the innkeeper’s terrier-like demeanour as he had stood in the doorway, Donne anticipated an explosion and waited for the retort. To his surprise there was no manifestation of anger on the part of the little man. His answer was a mere business-like echo, and as mild as milk.

“Noggin o’ rum. Yes, ma’am!”

Hearing steps approaching the door of the parlour and having no desire to be caught eavesdropping, Mr. Jack Donne moved quickly forward, and met the innkeeper in the doorway. The little man halted and stared at him a little questioningly. Donne marked the stare and interpreted it, as was natural.

“Beer!” he said. “In a quart jug.”

“Yessir!” answered the innkeeper, and as he moved out of the doorway, Donne passed through it to the parlour and glanced quickly round.

It was a room to take the eyes of a lover of old-fashioned things. Like the passage, it was panelled in oak dark with age. Heavy beams crossed the ceiling. The hearth was an open one, the windowseat was deep, the single table was gate-legged, of oak that shone with much polishing, and two very broad chairs of farmhouse Chippendale with three small ones to match, were entirely in keeping with the room. On one of the broad-bottomed armchairs the negress was seated, filling it to capacity, whilst her big eyes rolled round the room, apparently noting the details. She grinned as she recognised Donne, and since it was at once the handiest and most comfortable, he took the second armchair, almost facing the woman. She, it appeared, was disposed to be affable.

“Queer name this yere tavern have got, foh shuah,” she remarked. “Wonder where dey picked her up?”

Mr. Jack Donne laughed and shook his head. “Don’t know. Never set eyes on the sign before.”

“Yuh aire jes’ a stranger in dese parts, den, boss?” asked the woman with a curiosity that was patent.

“Never hit the port before,” agreed Donne, “and I guess it isn’t your native heath, either?”

The woman flashed her teeth in an expansive grin.

“No, boss. Ah wasn’t reared in no one-hoss place like dis. Ah guess dat if ah had been ah’d hav’ git out in no time at all foh duh big wide spaces, an’——”

She broke off at the sound of footsteps in the passage—quick tripping steps, proclaiming youth and lightness, very different from the innkeeper’s shuffle. The footsteps approached the doorway, which the woman’s big eyes watched with curious interest, and Donne also turned his gaze that way. A moment later a girl entered the room, bearing a tray on which reposed a jug of ale, a glass, a smaller jug with water, and the rum which the negress had ordered.

Mr. Jack Donne caught his breath as he saw her. The girl was a wonder. Olive-skinned, with hair dark as the negress’s crinkled locks, her sleepy eyes were like pools of night. Her features were of aquiline caste, with fine, tense nostrils, and a vivid mouth with shapely lips that owed nothing to lipstick. The ears were small and set flat, whilst from the lobes dangled a pair of jade ear-rings, which were matched by a pendant slung from a chain round her neck, and resting between the upper swell of bosoms, whose hidden beauty was hinted by what was modestly revealed.

“Un-English!” he thought to himself. “A sullen beauty, with fire somewhere under the sullenness!”

Then as the girl set the ale on the table close to his hand he met her eyes staring at him curiously. There was a flicker of flame in them, something that he found disturbing—a half-challenging look as if she were hostile to him, which, since he had never before seen her, was no more than an absurd fancy of his own.

“Shillin’, please!” said the girl in a voice that had a lilt pleasing to the ear.

Without comment he set a shilling on the salver, forbearing a tip, since the girl was plainly no mere servant, and then watched her as she crossed to the negress. To Donne there was something odd in the conjunction of these two, and something not quite fitting in this white beauty waiting on that black giantess with liquor, and he wondered if the girl was conscious of the fact. It seemed so. Her bearing was almost resentful, and now there was no question of the hostility in the dark eyes. But the negress did not notice it, or if she did, was indifferent. Her big, rolling eyes considered the girl in a rude stare which brought the blood flaming to the olive cheeks, then she commented frankly:

“Golly, you shuah aire a beauty, honey!”

The girl’s flush deepened. Her eyes flashed again resentfully, and Donne half-expected an explosion. But, plainly making an effort, the girl held her resentment in leash and spoke stiffly.

“One and twopence.”

The negress laughed and opened the bag she carried.

“Stand-offish!” she chuckled. “But there’s no need to be stuck-up.... There’s the cash an’ sixpence foh yo’self, gal.”

The girl’s face fairly flamed. Here was the insult from which Donne himself had steered clear; and he had a notion that it was more or less deliberate on the black woman’s part. But still the girl kept her temper leashed, at least she did not give it expression in words. In silence she picked up the price of the liquor, leaving the sixpence, then suddenly she jerked the tray, shooting the silver coin into the woman’s tap. A second later she had withdrawn. The negress laughed, retrieved the sixpence from her lap, then looked at Donne.

“A spitting kitten, boss, hey? ... An’ mortal touchy! ... Don’t know yet dat money’s money. ... But she’ll shuah come to ut!”

Donne forbore comment. His sympathy was with the girl; but it was possible that the negress had been innocent of offence, though he did not think so. Anyway, it was not his affair, and he looked out of the window as if he had not heard. As he did so he saw a man stalking along the quay, who provided for him the third surprise in the course of half an hour. The big negress had been one; that sullen beauty of a girl had been another, and the man on the quay was an equal starter.

He was a big man, with a tang of the sea about him, and carried himself with the assurance of one who feared neither man nor devil. His face had the deep tan of hot suns and sea winds; the eyes that looked forth challengingly were light blue and seemed lighter by contrast with the brown skin; whilst against his jawbone gleamed a pair of gold ear-rings of the sort less common now than among mariners of an older day. His dress also was a little unusual, at least for that quayside; for though he wore the high sea-boots affected by some fishermen, the trousers tucked in them were of white duck, whilst under the blue pilot-coat, he boasted a red shirt, and on his head was a broad-brimmed and rather battered panama hat.

He moved up the quay with a swing, but that he was a stranger was evident from the curious glances he darted hither and thither, and presently, when he halted to speak to a man, Mr. Donne made a bet with himself that the stranger was asking his way. He won. The fisherman to whom the man had addressed himself half-turned and pointed to the inn. The man nodded and stalked on, whilst Donne watched him with idle curiosity.

“Coming here! Finds the Cornish Riviera thirsty: and wants a drink.... Wonder where he hails from?”

The stranger drew nearer. Almost in the shadow of the inn he halted again and, as the two clients already within had done, he considered the sign. There was an odd look on the lean brown face, and a keenness in the ice-blue eyes as he stood there; then his rather repelling mouth twisted in a smile, and he moved on to the door of the inn.

Donne heard his footsteps come down the passage, pause for a second whilst the choice of rooms was made, then the parlour door was thrown open, and the man stepped into its cool shade. For a second, passing from the strong sunlight outside, he apparently saw nothing of the two already there; but in that second an odd thing befell. The big negress let her glass crash to the floor, and rolled ponderously out of her chair, whilst a startled word broke from her:

“Satan!”

The newcomer stared at her and as his pale blue eyes grew accustomed to the shadows, a gleam of recognition came in them. He laughed in a way that chilled Mr. Donne more than he would have owned, then he raised his battered panama.

“Afternoon, Mammy Venus. This is a real pleasant surprise for a man on his birthday.”

The big negress gulped and gaped like an afflicted chicken, but no words came. After five or six seconds had passed the newcomer laughed again.

“Takes you between wind and water, hey?” he asked with an ironical geniality which seemed to worry the negress, for she lifted a hand and held it as if fending off some evil thing. “You weren’t expecting to see me after that little adventure in the cove, maybe?” His ice-blue eyes looked at her quizzingly, and then his face took a solemn look and he quoted lugubriously:

“ ‘And some are drowned in deep water

And some are drowned in shore——’

“I met my fate in shore, where the little crabs come out of the weed to play, and the sand-jiggers skip like grasshoppers when the tide is out. A melancholy end for a man like me——” He laughed again with that chilling geniality. “But water will not drown a man who is born for the rope and so REVOICI!—Here we are again! And very pleased to see each other, as your friend here will observe.”

Then the woman found her voice. “Don’t know duh man from Abr’ham, so you’d better keep duh trap shut, Michael.”

At that warning the man swung about and staringly appraised Mr. Donne. The latter returned stare for stare, and calmly let his eyes rake the newcomer from crown to toes, resting their gaze for a moment on the belt the man wore, at which they noted a sheath-knife was hung. Then gaze met gaze again, and Mr. Donne laughed.

“You’ll know me next time we meet!”

The big man shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t expect there will be any next time.”

“Wouldn’t be so sure of that!” countered Mr. Donne. “The world’s a small place and——”

“Perdition!” ejaculated the other almost violently. “What the blazes do you mean by that?”

Mr. Jack Donne was amused at the violence. He searched his mind for a provocative answer, but before he found it there came an interruption. The girl who had served the negress and himself entered the room and stood looking at the man Michael as if waiting for his order. The big man turned to her, and as he did so a look of admiration came on his hard face, and the blue eyes flashed with sudden ardent flame. Under his gaze, the girl shuffled her feet uncomfortably, and the quick blood dyed her cheeks. Then she spoke in a matter-of-fact voice:

“What can I get you, mister?”

The man laughed with real mirth as he answered.

“Lots of things, I assure you. But first you’ll get me a double tot of rum—Seraphina!”

There was a little pause before the name he gave her sufficient to call attention to it; and the girl looked at him in a startled way, as if wondering how he had come by the name. Donne also wondered, then smiled a little as the girl replied stiffly:

“I don’t allow strangers to use my name offhand.”

“A good rule,” laughed the man unabashed. “Maids and married women can’t be too careful.... Give a man an inch and as like as not he’ll take the whole yard-stick.... But I’m not a stranger, leastways I don’t feel one, having talked about you by the hour with a man you should know very well, one who called you ‘Pheeny’ oftener than he called you Seraphina——”

“Oh, sir——” broke in the girl, an imploring note in her voice, but was immediately checked by the man.

“Not now!” he said. “We’ll straighten that out later, my dear. Just skip along for the rum—a double tot, mind you—and don’t worry your pretty head at a friend’s little slip.... You and me’ll have a little chat later, out on the quay, under the stars, which haven’t any ears that I ever heard tell of.”

The girl flashed a look that might have been one of understanding, then hurried from the room. Scarcely had she crossed the threshold when the negress shot a question.

“Michael—who is dat gal?”

The man laughed tantalisingly. “Curious, Mammy Venus?” he asked. “That’s the bane of all your sex—black or white.... You’ll get nought from me, but there’s all the quayside you can ask, not to name this gentleman, who maybe can tell you a thing or two about the maid.”

“A mistake,” answered Mr. Donne, finding himself dragged into the conversation. “I am a stranger in the port.”

“The devil you are!”

The man spoke rudely, and his light blue eyes raked the other fore and aft with unconcealed suspicion. Mr. Donne could not fail to be aware of it, and was intrigued as he speculated on the possible cause for it. He nodded carelessly, and remembering how the fellow had halted in the street to survey the inn sign, he drew a bow at a venture with a deliberate intention to be provocative.

“A stranger with an interest in old tavern signs!”

His words certainly found a mark, though what the mark was he had not the remotest idea. The fellow leaped from the chair he had taken and cried out explosively:

“The deuce you are!”

“Particularly in Blue Anchors,” agreed Donne smilingly, and reached for the jug to replenish his glass. “Know of three,” he added nonchalantly as he poured out the beer.

“There’s one that’s given its name to a little watering place——” He broke off and lifting the tumbler drained it before finishing his remarks: “Minehead way that is. Others are in Cornwall here; but this one where we sit takes the medal.”

“Why?” demanded the other.

Mr. Donne looked almost as mysterious as he was mystified.

“Ah!” he said in tones that suggested infinitely more than his words. “That would be telling!”

“The devil! ... It would?” ejaculated the other harshly.

“I assure you it would,” answered Mr. Donne gravely, then very conscious that he had whipped the other’s suspicions—whatever they might be—to a gallop, he helped himself to more ale, drank it, and rose. “I am loath to play gooseberry, sir. You and Mammy Venus must have quite a lot to say to each other.... You shall have the deck to yourselves.”

He moved swiftly to the door, which had been left slightly ajar, and opening it wide with a jerk, surprised the shrivelled Ben Bonito and the girl standing outside, plainly engaged in the reprehensible occupation of listening-in. They fell hurriedly aside on his appearance; but setting a finger to his lips, he grinned and carefully pulled-to the door behind him, leaving a chink that would serve the listeners. Then he leaned towards Mr. Bonito.

“I want a bedroom to-night,” he said. “And a cold supper. I can have them?”

The little man looked doubtful, and Mr. Donne hastily whispered in his ear.

“I’ve nothing to do with that pair in there.... The motor-craft out in the harbour is mine.... You’ve seen it?” He grinned. “I’m as respectable as the craft. We’ll call it settled, hey? ... Good! I’ll be back at eight-thirty for the supper.... Give me a front room. I like to look out on a harbour. ... So-long!”

He went down the passage whistling. When he crossed the threshold, he turned to the right, and as he passed the bar-parlour window was aware of the gleam of gold above the wire blind as the sun struck on it.

“Ear-rings! Watching!” he chuckled to himself. “Mammy Venus, too, I expect——What a peach of a name!” And chuckling still, he walked along the quayside, nonchalantly, like a man with time to waste. But for all that he was very alert, his eyes observant for obvious strangers, and busy with the shipping in the small harbour which might afford a clue to the odd pair whom he had left in the inn, and who, it seemed, were much concerned about himself.