Dangerous Cargo E-Book

Hulbert Footner

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

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.

Leseprobe

DANGEROUS

CARGO

By

HULBERT FOOTNER

1934

© 2023 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383839750

DANGEROUS CARGO

I. The Worst Hated Man in America

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.

II. Fire

I stayed that night with Mme. Storey at her place on East Sixty-third Street. This had been arranged so that we could work late in clearing up all the odds and ends of business that demanded attention before she sailed. We had spent the afternoon in doing necessary shopping for the voyage. All our things were packed and ready.

I have had occasion before to describe my employer’s original little establishment. She and her friend Mrs. Lysaght bought an old brownstone house and transformed it into two maisonnettes in the French style. Mme. Storey occupies the two lower floors. The kitchen faces the street, with a barred window that is left open at night for ventilation, and the dining-room opens on a tiny garden in the rear. Upstairs her bedroom is over the kitchen and her delightful living-room looks down on the garden.

As there is only one bedroom, I had to share it with her. Her maid Grace made up a bed on the sofa. Grace and the cook sleep up on the top floor of the house with Mrs. Lysaght’s maids. But the Lysaght establishment was closed at this time.

We had just gone to bed and were lying there talking about this and that. It was very late. The windows were open and the street was wrapped in stillness. Only a distant hum reminded us that we were a part of a great city. The thought of danger to ourselves was farthest from our minds. In fact, for the moment we were occupied with the details of our own business and had forgotten Horace Laghet.

I can remember hearing some clock strike two and Mme. Storey saying, “We must go to sleep.”

Suddenly we heard a hard object fall to the floor of the kitchen underneath us. We both jumped up and instinctively ran to a window. We were in time to see a man running away down the street towards Third Avenue. He ran awkwardly, with hunched shoulders and a sideways movement.

I would have shouted to stop him, but Mme. Storey clapped a hand over my mouth. “Too late to catch him now,” she said.

As she spoke there was an explosion, not very loud, in the room beneath us. And a moment afterwards that most awful sound of all at night, the rushing and snapping of fire. I stood in the middle of the bedroom, half stupefied. Mme. Storey gave me a shake.

“Put on a dressing-gown and slippers and follow me!”

It brought me to myself. “Shall I telephone?” I asked.

“No!” she said, in a tone that surprised me. Standing in the corner of the stair landing was a copper fire-extinguisher. Mme. Storey snatched it up and ran down. On the lower landing was another extinguisher that she mutely pointed out to me. We could hear the flames roaring like devils behind the kitchen door. The difficulty was to get the door open. Fortunately, it opened towards us and Mme. Storey was able to shield herself behind it. Flame leaped out of the kitchen like a red ravening beast, shriveling us with its hot breath.

The whole room was blazing at once and little runnels of fire crept over the sill into the hall. It burned with that special speed and fury that only gasoline can induce. Mme. Storey, backing away out of reach of the flames into the dining-room, turned her extinguisher upon them. The thin hissing stream was swallowed up and lost. The fire only roared louder. Suffocating black smoke billowed into our faces. Mme. Storey was driven back foot by foot.

“We must get out of here!” I cried.

She paid no attention. After a moment she muttered: “Open the window at my back. The wind is on that side.”

I obeyed, and a current of air was created that held the flames and smoke in check. On the other side of that wall of flame I could hear cries from the street. Mme. Storey began to regain the lost ground, driving the flames back with an unerring eye whenever they tried to flank her. I stood with the second extinguisher ready to hand to her when the first was exhausted.

We crossed the hall again. The two maids came running down the stairs. They stood on the bottom step, fascinated with horror but perfectly silent. They had confidence in their mistress’s ability to handle anything. The fire was forced back, snarling, into the kitchen. We heard the fire trucks coming from afar.

Once the chemical mixture got the upper hand, the fire soon gave up. All around the walls Mme. Storey drove it back towards the window. Suddenly it was out and the kitchen was just a black charred hole. Through the window I had a glimpse of the crowd hanging over the railings. The lights had not been burned out and I got them turned on. After all, not much had suffered but paint, varnish, and plaster. But what an escape!

In the middle of the floor lay a tell-tale jagged piece of tin. We found another behind the stove. Meanwhile the trucks had drawn up outside and the firemen were banging on the ornamental iron gate that gave entrance to the house alongside the kitchen. I started to let them in, but my employer laid a hand on my arm.

“We don’t want any investigation, Bella.”

Opening the cellar door, she kicked the two pieces of tin down stairs.

The firemen swarmed in, nosed all around, as they always do, and asked the usual questions. Mme. Storey’s explanation was ingenious.

“I came downstairs to heat some water on the gas stove, and went up again. I suppose the curtain at the window blew across the flame and caught fire. Unfortunately, my maid had left a can of cleaning fluid on the window sill and that exploded.”

“Very careless to leave an explosive so near the stove, madam,” said the fire captain.

“You are absolutely right, Chief,” she replied, with a straight face. “I shall scold the girl severely, and I can promise you it won’t happen again.”

She led them into the dining-room for a little refreshment, and they presently departed with loud praises for her quickness and presence of mind. The trucks roared away and a great quiet descended on the street. Mme. Storey and I went back to bed, but not to sleep.

At eleven o’clock next morning we were seated in the living-room with Latham Rowe, Mme. Storey’s attorney. A horrible stale smell of wet burnt stuff filled the house. Our baggage had been sent on ahead to the yacht landing, and we were all set to go in hats and gloves.

Latham is a nice man, the chubby, sweet-tempered type that is predestined to be the friend of every woman and the husband of none. Mme. Storey was saying:

“I’ll have to leave it to you to see that the insurance is collected and the repairs properly done.”

“Sure,” he said. “But tell me, Rosika, on the level, what caused this fire. You can’t expect me to believe that bunk about Grace’s carelessness.”

Mme. Storey smiled. “It cost me a new dress to square Grace for that lie,” she said. “The truth is, somebody shoved an open can of gasoline between the bars of the kitchen window last night, and threw a lighted match or something of that sort after it.”

Latham’s rosy face paled. “Good God! What a fiendish thing to do!” he cried. “And you’re not going to say anything about it?”

“If there was an investigation it would prevent me from going on this voyage. And nothing would come of it. I prefer to deal with my enemies myself.”

“Have you an idea who did it?” he asked.

“It was obviously somebody who didn’t want me aboard the yacht.”

“And you’re still determined to go!”

She smiled at his simple earnestness. “I cannot refuse a dare, my dear. It is a weakness of my character. Yesterday I wasn’t at all keen, but today I’m mad to go!”

He was terribly distressed. “But seriously, Rosika, I can’t stand by and see you risk your life for . . . for . . .”

“Five thousand a week,” she put in, slyly.

“Be serious! This fellow Horace Laghet is a scoundrel! You should hear the stories they tell about him downtown. If somebody wants to shoot him up, let him go to it and welcome, I say. What have you got to do with it?”

“I can see that Laghet is going to give me trouble,” she admitted. “But a job is a job, and this is a rather fascinating one.”

“What can you do?” he pleaded. “On land you know where you are, but on a ship anything may happen. The sea is always there to swallow a body and yield no trace. If there is a man aboard that yacht who is determined to get Laghet, how can you stop him? If you get in his way, you’ll go overboard, too.”

She merely smiled.

“How can you save the man from being murdered when he makes an enemy of every man he meets?” he went on. “There’s a feeling of hatred rolling up against Horace Laghet like a tidal wave. If you take his part it will overwhelm you along with him.”

She patted his cheek affectionately. “You’re a great dear, Latham, but you’re on the wrong line. If you could persuade me that this was going to be a quiet cruise with nothing to do but loll in a deck chair and put on pounds and pounds, I’d drop it this minute. But when you talk of danger! Ha! . . .” She flung her arms up. “It’s useless, my dear. Ask Bella.”

He spread out his hands helplessly.

III. The Buccaneer

When we descended from the taxicab at the yacht-landing, foot of East Twenty-sixth Street, the Buccaneer lying out in midstream burst on us in full glory. It was a cold bright day and the sparkling river made a fit setting for her. A great white ship with an insolent squat funnel and long strings of fluttering flags.

As the latest sensation of the marine world, a crowd had gathered on the pier to have a look at her. Ultra modern design, the yachtsmen were saying, with her high sides and oblique cutwater; ugly but very smart. As for myself, the thought that all those millions had been spent to carry six people to sea for an idle cruise, filled me with a vague fear of retribution.

Only second in interest for the crowd was the launch which was waiting for us, a dazzling affair of mahogany and brass. It was such a launch as might have been used to carry kings and queens. When we stepped aboard everybody gaped at us in awe and envy. Some of the rougher types muttered insolently.

In five minutes we were at the ship’s ladder, which was not a ladder at all but a teakwood stairway carpeted with rope to keep your feet from slipping. A handsome young sailor handed us off, and a smart officer saluted on deck. There was a steward in a white coat to show us to our cabins.

All very grand, but it did not make us feel we were being welcomed on board. Sailor, officer and steward all had cagy, expressionless faces. Not one of them looked us in the eye.

It appeared that we were the last arrivals. The launch was immediately hooked to the davits and drawn up. A bosun’s whistle blew, and I heard the clank of the anchor chain up forward. Fancy keeping all that waiting!

Below, our suite was more like that of a luxury hotel than anything afloat. A sitting-room twenty feet long, with a bedroom almost as big at either side; a marble bathroom for each of us, with gold-plated fittings. The whole was lighted with a row of big round portholes rimmed with brass, and it was all so beautifully furnished and decorated that nothing obtruded itself; it just received you.

The steward told us that cocktails were being served in the winter garden. When we had taken off our coats he led us up to the sun deck, where there was a green-and-white room with a glass roof and big windows all around. It was filled with tropical plants and orchids. Here the party was gathered.

When you are introduced to a lot of new people at the same time you only get your bearings by degrees. I found myself beside a lovely young girl with a modest, timid air that was almost unbelievable in this day and generation. She told me that she had lately graduated from a convent in France. This was Celia Dare, Horace Laghet’s fiancée. It seemed rather a shame.

Her mother was a beautiful woman still on the sunny side of forty. Everybody called her Sophie. In contradistinction to her daughter she was very much in the know. Her bright touched-up eyes darted this way and that, full of calculation. I suppose she thought she had done very well by the girl.

The third woman was Mrs. Holder, or Adele. She was a beauty of what used to be called the Dresden-china type, with that exquisite fragility that appeals so strongly to men, particularly of Horace Laghet’s sort. It often goes with a hearty appetite.

Among the men I should have recognized Adrian Laghet anywhere as Horace’s brother. He was tall and had the same cast of features, though an entirely different character was suggested. Adrian was soft. Already at thirty-two his waist measure was approaching that of his chest. He was the social light of the family.

Emil Herbert, the pianist, was an attractive young fellow, blond, quiet in manner, but with the fine resolute eye that bespeaks a master of his trade, which Emil was. Apart from music, however, he was nothing but a shy boy. I caught him glancing sideways at the girl beside me.

Under the influence of the masterly cocktails there was a lot of talk and laughter. Superficially it had the look of a good party, but it was not so, really. I had not been among them two minutes before I could feel the strain. The eyes in those smiling faces were guarded and uneasy. All those smart people seemed to be incased in glass armor.

Tall, slender, and casual, Mme. Storey among the other women looked like a cardinal bird in a cage of tame canaries. Her smile was perfectly good-humored and inscrutable. I felt enmity in the room, but among those glassy smiles I could not locate it.

Horace Laghet seemed to get his pleasure out of insulting everybody. That was his idea of humor. When he brought his brother up to introduce him to Mme. Storey he said: “This is little Adrian who will kiss your hand and do a little song and dance or paint a little picture or what you will!”

A loud laugh greeted this. Horace’s cracks naturally were sure of a big hand. I could see by Adrian’s eyes that it flicked him on the raw, but he swallowed it.

Horace, indifferent to what anybody might think, bore himself in a loverly fashion towards the beautiful Adele—a contemptuous lover. This made me feel more than ever sorry for the girl he was supposed to be engaged to. Celia didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps she was too inexperienced to realize what it meant. I wondered what her mother was about. Willing, I suppose, to overlook anything if she could only take the rich Horace into camp.

The yacht was under way and I went to one of the windows to watch the panorama of the city moving by. It was hard to believe that we had already cut loose from all we knew. The East Side waterfront is far from beautiful, but I felt a sudden love for the old town and heartily wished myself ashore. Moment by moment I liked our situation less.

Adele joined me at the window. She said, lightly, “I wonder if it will show any change when we come back.”

“Who can tell?” I said. And to myself I added: “Will we show any change when we come back? And will we all come back?”

“Just the same I’m glad to get away for a while,” Adele went on, with her meaningless professional-beauty smile. “Life in New York is so wearing!”

She was very beautiful. I wondered if there were any real feelings under that perfect mask. I presently found out.

A sailor came walking along the deck outside. I saw him before Adele did. I was struck by his appearance because he didn’t look like a common sailor, but like a member of the younger country-club set who had been hitting it up; a clean-cut young man who was getting a little blurry. He didn’t know anyone was watching him. There was a possessed look in his eyes, such as you see in one who goes along the street muttering to himself.

When he saw me, he dropped his head and assumed the slouch of a common fellow. He went by us with his head down. I heard Adele gasp, and her slender fingers closed around my wrist like a vise.

“Please! please,” she stammered, “come downstairs with me.”

I followed her wonderingly through the door into the stair hall. She was careful to keep her back turned to the others in the room. Her knees were giving under her. Yet when Horace called out, “Where are you going, Adele?” she sang out, gaily, “Back in half a moment.”

She went stumbling down the stairs. I heard her murmuring to herself: “O my God! What am I going to do?” She clung to the post at the bottom, white-faced and shaking. In a moment she opened her eyes and said, with a ghastly attempt to laugh it off:

“What must you think of me?”

“You are not well,” I said.

“Yes . . . yes,” she said, eagerly. “It was so hot upstairs I thought I was going to faint.”

I said nothing. Feeling, perhaps, that her excuse was rather lame, she went on: “I have a bad heart, you see, and naturally one doesn’t want a man to know it. If you had not come with me Horace would have followed and . . . and his eyes are so sharp!” A terrible shudder went through her thin body.

“Come to my cabin and get a spot of brandy,” I said.

When she had swallowed the brandy she began to chatter. “I feel all right now. It was nothing at all. Nothing. So silly of me! Dear me! I hope I’m not going to be a bad sailor!” And so on. But her eyes were still sick with fear.

She went to the mirror and rubbed a little rouge into her cheeks, then turned her head this way and that, gazing into her face with the most penetrating anxiety. I suppose that face meant everything in the world to her. It was all she had.

She entered the winter garden with a gay rattle of talk. “Horace, when are you going to show us over the vessel? I can’t wait until I see the swimming pool. It’s all perfectly marvelous! Like Aladdin’s cave afloat!”

In my mind I could still hear that desperate voice murmuring: “O my God! What am I going to do?”

IV. The Eavesdropper

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.