The Bird of Paradise E-Book

E. Phillips Oppenheim

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Mr. Hamer Wildburn, a young American, graduate of Harvard is wintering on the Mediterranean coast of France in his newly purchased yacht „The Bird of Paradise”, and is puzzled by the desire he finds in visitors coming aboard at different times to buy the vessel from him. One night he is awoken at 3 am by the cries of a beautiful, and wearing priceless emeralds, woman swimming alongside. She comes aboard and offers to buy the yacht for twice what he paid. The next day, the foreign minister of France also makes an offer to buy the yacht at an outrageous price. Soon a known terrorist develops a bomb to utterly destroy the boat and all it’s inhabitants. And so on, and with the material of conspiracies, French politics, love and adventure the story is woven around the yacht.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER I

Hamer Wildburn sat suddenly up in his wide and luxurious cabin bed, with the start of the sound sleeper unexpectedly awakened. His hands clasped his pyjama clad knees. He listened intently. Through the wide open porthole opposite came the thirty seconds flash from Antibes lighthouse. From the shore road, which skirted the bay, there was the faint hoot of a belated motor car. Closer at hand the lazy murmur of the sea against the sides of his anchored yacht. Then more distinctly, he heard again the sound which had at first awakened him. This time there was no doubt about it. A human voice from the open space. A woman’s cry of appeal. The soft but purposeful splashing of a swimmer keeping herself afloat…The young man hastened out of bed, ran up the companionway, and leaned over the side. What he saw almost immediately below was enough to startle anyone. A woman was floating upon her back, a woman, not in the day-by-day scanty but sufficient bathing dress of the moment, but a woman in evening dress, with the glint even of Jewels around her neck.

“What on earth’s the matter?” he called out “Have you fallen in from anywhere?”

“Please do not ask foolish questions,” was the composed reply. “Let down your steps. I have upset my canoe, and I must come on board for a moment.”

Wildburn’s hesitation was only momentary. He unscrewed the hooks, lowered the chain, and let down the steps into the sea. The woman, with a few tired strokes, swam towards him. She showed no particular signs of weakness or panic, but she clutched almost feverishly at his hand, and the moment she reached the deck she calmly but completely collapsed. With a thrill of horror, Wildburn realised that a portion of her black chiffon gown which clung so tightly to her body bore traces of a darker stain than the discolouration of the sea. His natural stream of questions died away upon his lips, as she became a dead weight upon his arm.

There was a quivering narrow shaft of light piercing the skies eastwards when the woman opened her eyes. Wildburn gave a sigh of relief. He held a glass of brandy once more to her lips. Her fingers guided it and she sipped some feebly.

“I will give you some coffee presently,” he promised. “By an unfortunate chance, I am alone on the boat. I gave my matelot and his boy the night off.”

She fingered the blanket by which she was covered. A look of mild horror shone out of her eyes. Hanging from the ropes which supported the forward awning was a black shapeless object.

“My gown!” she gasped.

“I had to take it off,” he explained coolly. “I was not sure whether you were seriously hurt. I am glad to find that you are not. I have bound up your shoulder. You may find it stiff and a little painful at first, from the salt water, but it is not serious.”

She lay quite still. Her hands were underneath the rug. From a very damp satin bag she produced a handkerchief, and wiped her forehead.

“I suppose it was necessary for you to play lady’s maid?” she asked weakly.

“Absolutely,” he assured her. “You were still bleeding, and I could not tell how serious your wound might be I–er–exercised every precaution.”

She looked up at him earnestly. Apparently her scrutiny of his features satisfied her. Wildburn was not good looking in the ordinary sense of the word, but he had pleasant features, a freckled, sunburnt complexion, and the humourous gleam of understanding in his eyes.

“I am sure you did what you thought was best,” she said. “I ran my canoe into one of those stationary fishing boats.”

If it occurred to him to make any comment upon her journeying amongst them at an early hour in the morning, alone and in evening dress, he refrained.

“I always said that they ought to show a light,” he remarked. “I have seen your canoe. It is drifting in shorewards.”

“Give me some more brandy,” she begged. “I wish to speak to you before we are disturbed.”

“I can hear the kettle boiling now,” he told her. Wouldn’t you like coffee?”

“Coffee would be better,” she admitted. “You are being very kind to me. I thank you.”

Still somewhat dazed, Wildburn descended the steps, made the coffee, and remounted.

“I’m sorry,” he apologised, “that there will be no milk. They bring it to me from the shore at seven o’clock.”

“It smells too delicious as it is,” she declared.

“If you will swing a little round,” he advised her, “with another cushion or two behind your back you will be more comfortable. You can sit up now and, you see, I will put this rug round your knees. Directly you have had your coffee you had better go down to my cabin and take off the remainder of your wet things.”

“You have perhaps a stock of ladies clothing on board?” she asked curiously.

“If I had known of your projected visit,” he replied, “I should have provided some. As it is you will have to content yourself with a set or my pyjamas. You will find them in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe by the side of the bed.”

She looked at him meditatively. Wildburn was a trifle over six feet, and she herself, slim and elegant as she seemed, could scarcely have been more than five feet five. Furthermore, Wildburn was broad shouldered with a man’s full chest. She sighed.

“I am going to look ridiculous,” she complained.

“I should forget that for the moment,” he ventured, as he set down her empty coffee cup. “You seem to be quite warm. I wonder whether you are feeling strong enough to satisfy my curiosity before you go down below.”

“What do you want to know?” she asked.

He looked around the harbour. There were no unusual lights, no indications of any other yacht having come in during the night.

“Well, where you come from first of all. Then why you choose to paddle about the bay in the small hours of the morning in your ordinary evening clothes, and lastly, why you should choose my boat for your objective.”

She was watching that broadening shaft of light uneasily.

“What is the time?” she inquired.

“Five o’clock,” he told her. “Do you mind if I smoke a cigarette whilst you explain your adventure?”

“I will smoke one too.” she said, holding out her hand. “As to explaining my adventure, I find it difficult. You smoke good tobacco, I am glad to see. Thank you,” she added as she leaned towards his briquet.

There was a silence. As yet there were no signs of life either on the small plage or anywhere upon the sea. They were surrounded by the brooding background of the woods which fringed the inlet. The lights in the few villas had long been extinguished. The tops of a row of tall cypresses stood out like dark smudges against the coming dawn.

“Well?” he asked after a brief pause.

“After all, I find it difficult,” she admitted. “Where I came from it does not matter. I started, as you perceive, in a hurry, I am rather impulsive. There was something which had to be done.”

“Something which had to be done between three and four o’clock in the morning by a young lady still wearing valuable jewellery and dressed for the evening sounds,” he pointed out, “mysterious.”

“Life,” she told him evasively, “is mysterious.”

“You will have to be a little more definite,” he insisted, with some impatience. “I have done my best to help you under these singular circumstances, but I want to know where you came from and what you want.”

“Indeed,” she murmured, drawing the blanket more securely around her.

“Think it over for a few minutes,” he proposed. “Go down below–the hatch is open–five steps, first door to the right, and you will come to a very untidy cabin. There are plenty of clean towels on the settee. I have rubbed you as best I could. You had better try and get yourself quite dry. Put on some pyjamas and my dressing gown–which you will find there–then come up and explain yourself.”

“You will trust me in your cabin then,” she observed, struggling to her feet.

“Why shouldn’t I? You do not appear to be in distressed circumstances and I have nothing in the world worth stealing.”

She looked at him for a moment with an expression which baffled him.

“Are you as honest as you seem?” she asked abruptly.

“I think so,” he answered, mystified.

Without further comment she rose to her feet and, holding the blanket about her as though it were an ermine cape, disappeared down the stairs. Wildburn waited for what seemed to him to be an unconscionable time, then he poured out another cup of coffee, lit a fresh cigarette, and strolled round the deck. Once more in the misty twilight of dawn he satisfied himself that no strange craft had entered the bay during the night. The tiny restaurant on the plage was still closed. The beautiful château which, with its thickly growing woods, occupied the whole of the western side of the bay offered no signs of life. The windows of the few villas on the other side were still lifeless blanks…He paused before the sodden black frock flapping in the faint breeze, took it down and shook it. A fragment of the sash disclosed within the name of a world famous dressmaker. Then he turned round to find his unaccountable visitor standing by the side of him.

“Of course I know that I look ridiculous,” she admitted querulously. “I hope that your manners will stand the strain and that you will not laugh at me.”

The tell-tale lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth deepened, but if he felt any inclination towards mirth he restrained it.

“I never realised that I had such good taste in night apparel,” he assured her. “The prospect of your immediate future however, causes me–I must confess–some disquietude. Perhaps you are staying near here–at some place where I can send for clothes?”

“We will see about that presently,” she replied. “It is a matter of no great importance.”

She seemed to find the twinkle in his eyes, as he stole another look at her, unduly irritating.

“These things are all trifles,” she declared with a frown. “Where I live or who I am does not matter. What do you want to know about me?”

“Let’s get to something definite,” he begged. “What were you doing swimming round my boat at three o’clock in the morning in an evening frock from the Rue de la Paix?”

She sighed.

“So you realised that?”

“No more evasions, please,” he insisted sternly. “Facts.”

“I came,” she confided, “to pay you a visit.”

“Very kind of you,” he acknowledged. “You have robbed me of two or three hours’ sleep, you have given me a great deal of anxiety, and even now I have not the faintest idea as to who you are or what you could want from me. Please be more explicit.”

“You can give me another cigarette first,” she demanded.

He handed her his case and briquet. “And now?”

“First of all, let me be sure that I am not making a mistake,” she continued. “Your name is Hamer Wildburn? This is the yacht Bird of Paradise?”

“Correct.”

“A very delightful boat.”

“You flatter me. And then?”

“Is it for sale?”

“Certainly not.” She sighed.

“That makes it more difficult. Will you sell it?”

He considered the matter for a moment.

“Why should I? It exactly suits me, and I am not in urgent need of money. I should only have to go and buy another one. No, I will not sell it.”

For the second or third time she looked anxiously out seawards. She was watching the point around which incoming vessels must enter the bay.

“Will you charter it?” she persisted. “For a month if you like, even for a shorter time?”

“I shouldn’t dream of such a thing,” he assured her. “I have owned half a dozen small boats in my lifetime. I have never chartered one of them. I have just filled up with stores, and all my belongings are on board. I have settled down until the late autumn. There was never anyone less anxious to part with one of his possessions than I am to part with this little boat.”

She rose to her feet with a staccato cry which thrilled him. Above the low land on the other side of the point a thin wireless mast was suddenly visible. The powerful engines of a large motor yacht broke the stillness. The woman’s expression became haggard. That far-off monotonous sound was like the tocsin of fate.

“Hamer Wildburn,” she said, “I have risked my life in this enterprise, which I suppose you look upon only as an act of folly.”

“I simply do not understand it,” he protested.

“I was at my villa in Mougins last night. I received a telephone message–something very important. Directly I received it I drove myself down here. My car is still there under the trees. There was no one to bring me to your boat–the little restaurant was locked up. There was not a soul on the beach, nothing but a darkness which seemed impenetrable. I took a canoe–you know what happened to me. I ran into one of those fishing boats and swam the rest of the way. Do you think it was a trifle which made me so desperate?”

“Perhaps not,” he admitted, thoroughly dazed. “But what is it all about? What do you want my boat in particular for? There are hundreds just like it.”

“I cannot tell you why I want it,” she declared hopelessly. “That is the hateful part of the whole business. It is a matter of dire secrecy. But I will tell you this–before many days are past you will sell or part with it to someone. It may be taken from you by force. If you are obstinate it may cost you your life. Why not deal with me? I am the first to come to you. I am told that you bought it in Marseilles harbour for something under two thousand pounds. Let me put some men on board and take it away this morning and I will give you a cheque for four thousand pounds on the Credit Lyonnais. You will see my name then and you will know that it will be met. Make up your mind please, quickly. Listen! What is it that approaches?”

He answered without turning round. His eyes were fixed upon the paler beam from the lighthouse. The twilight of dawn had settled upon the grey sea.

“That is only a fishing boat going out,” he said, listening for a moment to the soft swish of the oars. “There is a mist falling. Come below into the cabin and we will discuss this matter.”  

Auguste, matelot and assistant navigator of the Bird of Paradise, brought the dinghy round to the side of the yacht. He looked with surprise at the steps.

“Monsieur has perhaps taken an early swim,” Jean, his subordinate suggested.

Auguste was a man of apprehensions. He glanced around and the longer he looked the less he liked the appearance of things.

“Monsieur would not use the steps,” he pointed out. “Besides, he is nowhere in sight. There is one of the canoes from the beach, too, floating there which has been capsized.”

With a few swift strokes he reached the steps, backed water deftly and swung round. He pulled himself on to the deck and left Jean to attach the boat. There were signs of disturbance everywhere–rugs thrown about the place where someone had sat in damp clothes, empty glasses, empty coffee cups. Auguste scratched his head in perplexity. The situation might have seemed obvious enough but Monsieur Wildburn was not like that. He descended the companionway with hasty footsteps. There was silence below but the door of the little salon was closed. He opened it and peered inside. There were evidences of recent occupation there–wine glasses and a bottle of brandy–but no sign of any human being. He knocked at the door of the cabin opposite. There was no reply. He turned the handle and looked cautiously in. At the first glance he scented tragedy. His feet seemed frozen to the mat. He tried to call out, and he was noted amongst the seamen of the port as being a lusty shouter, but this time his effort was in vain. The cabin itself was in the wildest disorder and doubled up across its floor, his arms outstretched, faint groans dribbling from his lips, the owner of the Bird of Paradise was facing the last act in the drama of that strange morning.

An hour later, settled on deck in a chaise longue piled up with cushions, with his face turned windwards and a cup of tea by his side, Hamer Wildburn felt life once more stirring in his pulses. The colour was slowly returning to his healthy sunburnt face. His breathing was more natural. Auguste watched him with satisfaction.

“Monsieur is better?” he demanded interrogatively.

“Nothing left but a thumping headache and that passes,”’ the young man acknowledged. “Why is Jean bringing the dinghy round?”

“One goes to acquaint the gendarmerie, Monsieur,” Auguste replied.

“One does nothing of the sort,” was the sharp rejoinder.

Auguste’s eyes grew round with surprise.

“But Monsieur has been drugged!” he exclaimed. “That Monsieur himself admitted. He has also been robbed without a doubt. Every drawer in the cabin is open. The one with the false front has been smashed. Thieves have been at work here without a doubt.”

“I do not believe that I have been robbed Auguste,” his master replied. “There is nothing worth stealing upon the boat. In any case I do not want any gendarme or the Commissaire of Police or anyone of that sort down here. I forbid either you or Jean to say a word about this happening.”

Auguste was disappointed. He had seen himself the hero of a small sensation.

“It must be as Monsieur wishes, of course,” he grumbled.

“It must if you want to keep your posts, you two,” the young man told them. “Now, listen to me. Did you seen an overturned canoe when you came in?”

“But certainly,” Auguste replied. “It was one of those left for hire at the plage. Jean took it back some time ago.”

“Where is the small dinghy?”

“Jean found it upon the plage and brought it back, Monsieur,” Auguste explained. “It would seem that the thief of last night first of all took the canoe from the plage, ran into something, for the bows are badly damaged, perhaps swim to the boat and took the small dinghy for the return journey.”

“Excellent Auguste,” his master said approvingly. “You are probably right. Now go to the shore and have a look at the end of the road under the trees Tell me if there are any fresh signs of a motor car having stood there during the night. Let me know at once if you discover anything.”

“And Monsieur does not wish me to approach the gendarmes?” the man asked as he turned away.

“I forbid it,” was the firm injunction. “You will go straight to the spot I have told you of and return here.”

Auguste executed his commission and returned within a quarter of an hour.

“A heavy car has been standing there recently, Monsieur,” he reported. “Louget–he is one of the boatmen down at the plage–told me that he had seen a coupe turn out of the road just as he arrived about an hour ago.”

“Did he notice the occupant?”

“But that he was too slim and small,” Auguste recounted, “Louget would have believed him to have been Monsieur.”

“Why?” Wildburn asked. “No one would call me either slim or small.”

“It was because of the clothes, Monsieur,” Auguste explained. “The driver was apparently wearing a fawn-coloured pullover such as Monsieur sometimes has on, and a yachting casquette.”

“Go and see if anything is missing from my cabin,” Wildburn directed. “Don’t stop to clear up. I shall probably do that myself later on.”

This time Auguste’s absence was a brief one.

“The pullover such as Louget described is missing,” he announced. “Also the casquette.”

The young man sighed.

“We progress, Auguste,” he said, finishing his tea and sitting up in his chair. “Without the help of the police we have discovered in what garb the thief made his escape and the manner of his doing so. I am also minus a lamb’s-wool pullover, to which I was greatly attached.”

Auguste had apparently lost interest in the affair. He tied up the dinghy and looked over his shoulder.

“Has Monsieur any commands for the morning?”

“None at present.”

“Monsieur does not wish for the services of a doctor?”

“Don’t be a fool,” Wildburn replied irritably. “There’s nothing whatever the matter with me. I may have had one drink too many.”

“It is always possible,” Auguste admitted. “In the meantime, what does Monsieur propose to do with this?”

He produced from under his coat and shook out that very exquisite but fantastic fragment of lace and crepe georgette from which Wildburn had torn off one sleeve In the small hours of the morning. He hold it out fluttering in the morning breeze. Wildburn studied it meditatively.

“It resembles a lady’s gown, Auguste,” he observed.

Auguste was not discussing the matter. As a matter of fact, he was a disappointed man. He was no lover of women himself, and he fancied that in his master he had met with a kindred spirit.

“Put it downstairs in the salon, Auguste. Another piece of evidence we have collected, you see. Very soon we shall probably be able to lay our hands upon the culprit without calling in the police at all.”

“Monsieur’s cabin is in a state of great disorder,” Auguste reported. “It would be as well to go through his effects and see if anything has been stolen. The box which Monsieur calls his caisse noire does not appear to be in its place.”

Wildburn rose to his feet and made his way below. He looked around his cabin critically. Nearly every drawer had been pulled out, and in some cases the contents had been emptied onto the floor. Every possible hiding-place seemed to have been ransacked, and a collection of letters, ties, shirts, and wearing apparel of every sort littered up the place. Two panels had been smashed with some heavy instrument. The cabin, in fact, bore every trace of a feverish search. Wildburn sat on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette. He was a harmless young man of twenty-six, who had graduated from Harvard some four years ago, and he was picking up a little experience in journalism on the staff of one of his father’s papers. There were no complications in his life. He had never sought adventure in its more romantic forms, nor had adventure sought him. There was certainly nothing amongst his possessions worthy of the attention of so elegant a woman as his visitor of a few hours before, a woman, too, who was prepared to write a cheque for four thousand pounds. And yet, however long he considered the matter, certain facts remained indisputable. A woman who was a perfect stranger to him had boarded his ship alone at 3 o’clock in the morning, had ransacked his belongings, and, in order to do so undisturbed, had resorted to the old-fashioned method of doctoring his coffee! Once again he asked himself the question–what was there amongst his very ordinary possessions which should plunge him, without any warning, into the middle of so curious an adventure?

CHAPTER II

The flash from the Antibes lighthouse, which had been growing paler and paler in the opalescent light, suddenly ceased. There was a faint pink colouring now in the clouds eastward. A sort of hush seemed to have fallen upon the sea. Morning had arrived. Upon the deck of the shapely yet–with its black hull–somewhat sinister-looking yacht, which had crept slowly into the bay during the hours of velvety twilight, a man in silk pyjamas and dressing gown was strolling slowly up and down. The captain, who had been superintending the final lowering of the anchors, approached and saluted him respectfully.

“This, Monsieur le Baron,” he announced, “is the Bay of Caroupe.”

The man in the pyjamas nodded. He was somewhat thickly built and inclined towards corpulence, but he carried himself with confidence and a certain distinction. He spoke French, too, but with scarcely a Parisian accent.

“The place has a pleasant aspect,” he remarked. “One wonders to find it so deserted. An American boat, I see,” he went on, pointing to the Bird of Paradise.

The captain was full of information–crisp and eloquent.

“The Bird of Paradise, Monsieur le Baron. A schooner yacht built in Marseilles by English men–thirty tons or so. The property of Mr. Hamer Wildburn–an American. He is apparently on board at the present moment.”

“And how did you gather all this information?” the other inquired.

“I looked him up in the ‘Yacht Chronicle,’ Monsieur,” the captain confided. “In a small harbour such as this I like to know who my neighbours are.”

“How do you know that the owner is on board himself?”

“They hoisted the house burgee at sunrise with the Stars and Stripes.”

The man in pyjamas threw away the stump of his cigarette and lit another thoughtfully.

“Her lines seem to me to be good,” he remarked. “She has no appearance to you, Captain, of having been built for any specific purpose?”

“None that I can discover, Monsieur,” was the somewhat puzzled reply. “She has all the ordinary points of a schooner yacht of her tonnage and description.”

The Baron stared across at the small vessel riding so peacefully at anchor, and if his close survey did not indicate any intimate nautical knowledge it nevertheless betrayed intense interest.

“Does Monsieur Mermillon know that we have arrived?” he inquired.

“He was called as we entered the bay,” the captain replied. “Those were his orders. Behold, Monsieur arrives.”

A slim man of early middle-age, tall, and of distinguished appearance, with a broad forehead and masses of iron-grey hair, emerged from the companionway. The Baron, whom he greeted with a courteous nod and a wave of the hand, advanced to meet him.

“Our information, it appears, was correct so far, Edouard,” he confided. “That small boat there is the Bird of Paradise. It gives one rather a thrill to look at her, eh, and to realise that there may be truth in Badoit’s statement?”

Monsieur Edouard Mermillon, at that moment perhaps the most talked-about man in Europe, strolled with his friend towards the rail and gazed thoughtfully across the hundred yards or so which separated them from the Bird of Paradise.

“Dying men are supposed to have a penchant for speaking the truth,” he observed. “I myself believe in his story. It is perhaps unfortunate under the circumstances that the boat should be owned by an American.”

The Baron, whose full name was the Baron Albert de Brett, shrugged his shoulders.

“What docs it matter?” he remarked. “The Americans have their fancy for a bargain like the men of every other race. I was wondering when you proposed to visit him.”

“I see no great cause for haste,” Mermillon replied. “It is obvious that the owner of the boat has no idea of the truth or he would not be lying here without any pretence at concealment.”

His friend evidently held different views. He shook his head disapprovingly.

“In my opinion,” he declared, “not a minute should be wasted. Imagine if there should be a leak in our information–if others should suspect.”

“Seven o’clock in the morning is an early calling hour,” Mermillon observed.

“On an occasion like this,” was the swift retort, “one does not stand upon ceremony.”

“The petit dejeuner,” Mermillon suggested.

“After that I consent.”

The Baron ceded the point.

“We will proceed to that as soon as possible then,” he said. “I shall not have an easy moment until we are in touch with this American.”

Over coffee and rolls, which were served on deck, the Baron became meditative. He seemed scarcely able to remove his eyes from the Bird of Paradise.

“In my opinion,” he declared finally, crumbling a roll between his fingers, “our plans as they stand at present are indifferently made. They involve possible delay, and delay might well mean unutterable catastrophe. I am inclined to think that Chicotin’s method would be the best solution.”

His host regarded him tolerantly.

“Chicotin should be our last resource, my dear Albert,” he insisted. “Such methods carry no certainty, no conviction. They involve also risk.”

“The risk I cannot appreciate,” de Brett argued. “On the contrary, I look upon destruction–absolute annihilation–as the safest, the only logical course open to us.”

The steel grey eyes of his companion flashed for a moment with eager longing. His indifference was momentarily abandoned. There was an underlying note of passion in his tone.

“Annihilation, my dear Baron,” he murmured. “Who but a child would not realise what that would mean to us? Surely there were never six men in this universe who suffered so much for one mistake. We suffer–we shall go on suffering until the end. But your method of annihilation is crude. How can we be sure that we are arriving at it? We are working upon presumption. We believe, but we need certainty. Every inch of that lazy-looking craft might drift to the skies in ashes or to the bottom of the sea in melting metal. We could see the place where she is riding so gracefully an empty blank, but yet we should never know. There would be always moments when the nightmare would return and fear would visit us in the night.”

The Boron wiped his closely cropped brown moustache with his napkin. He considered the problem, and sighed. Something in his companion’s voice had been convincing.

“I agree,” he sighed. “A moment’s doubt would plunge the souls of all of us into agony. We will approach this young American. We are fortunate that it is not too late.”

There came the sound of a gentle ticking, a purring in the air, and then again a ticking. The Baron started.

“Your private wireless, Edouard. I thought you were closed off.”

“I am in touch with only two men in the world,” Mermillon replied. “Gabriel, the editor of the ‘Grand Journal,’ and Paul himself.”

“Paul would never permit himself to speak on any wireless,” de Brett declared anxiously.

“The very fact that he is risking it,” Mermillon observed, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, “convinces one that the matter is urgent. We shall know in a minute at any rate.”

The Baron lit a cigarette. He had fat pudgy hands, on one of the fingers of which he wore a massive signet ring. They trembled so that even his slight task was difficult. His host of the expressionless face watched him. A smile of contempt would have made him seem more human.

“Your man Jules can decode?” de Brett asked.

“He is capable of that,” was the quiet reply. “Our code has been committed to memory by seven people. He is one. It has never been set down in print or ink. It has no existence save in the brains of the two men who compiled it and the five who understand it. Yes, my dear friend,” Mermillon added, lifting his head and listening to the approaching footsteps, “Jules can decode, and in a moment we shall know whether our friend is simply telling us news of the weather in Paris or whether the wild beasts are loose.”

A neatly dressed young man, wearing blue serge trousers, a blue shirt, and yachting cap, presented himself and bowed to Mermillon.

“A brief message and very easily decoded, Monsieur,” he announced. “It is from your private bureau. Monsieur Paul desires to inform you that General Perissol has ordered out his most powerful ‘plane and is leaving his private flying ground this morning.”

“His destination?”

“That will be wirelessed to us as soon as he starts. At any rate, he is coming south.”

The Baron’s eyes were almost like beads as he gazed out at the Bird of Paradise rolling slightly in the swell. Even his imperturbable companion had glanced immediately in the some direction.

“Where was the General when the message was sent?” the latter inquired.

“With the Chief of the Police at his private house in the Bois de Boulogne.”

De Brett moistened his dry lips.

“An early call that,” he muttered. “It is now a quarter to eight. There are signs of life upon the boat yonder.”

Mermillon rose to his feet and gave a brief order to one of the sailors. In a few moments there was the sound of quick explosions from a small motor dinghy which had shot round to the lowered gangway. The two men embarked and crossed the little sheet of shimmering water which separated them from the Bird of Paradise.

“Abandon for my special pleasure, Albert,” his companion begged, “that appearance of a man who mounts the guillotine. We are going to pay a friendly call upon an unknown American and make him a business proposition which cannot fail to be of interest. The matter is simplicity itself. We loitered before in a room where the very whispers spelt death, but I never noticed on that occasion that your complexion assumed such an unbecoming hue. Remember, dear Baron,” his friend concluded, “that fear is the twin sister of danger. The greatest agony can be ended by death, and one can only die once.”

The Baron’s rotund body ceased to shake. His features stiffened. His companion had succeeded in what had obviously been his desire–he had made a man of him.

“Why these sickening platitudes?” he exclaimed. “We must all have our fits of nerves–except you, perhaps. Permit me mine. They will pass when the danger comes. You others have less to fear than I. It is not one knife that will be at my throat if the fates desert me. It will be a thousand–a hundred thousand!”

“All the more reason for courage and self-restraint,” was the smoothly spoken reply. “I say no more. Remember that we are arrived. Our host is already in sight. He seems prepared to receive us. Jean,” he added, turning to the mechanic, “Monsieur seems to indicate that the gangway is down on the other side. With this swell it would naturally be so. We wish to go on board. We are paying a visit to Monsieur.”

Everything was made quite easy for the two callers. The rope from the dinghy was caught by a waiting seaman, and Hamer Wildburn, leaning down himself, extended a steadying hand. Minister of State Edouard Mermillon stepped lightly on to the deck. His companion followed him. The Bird of Paradise, for the second time within a few hours, was to receive visitors of distinction.

“Say, you two are early birds,” Hamer Wildburn observed with a welcoming smile. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“First of all pardon us for the informality of this call,” Mermillon begged. “We should have waited until later in the day, but the matter is pressing.”

“That’s all right,” the other answered. “I watched you come in an hour or so ago. A fine boat, that of yours. A fast one, too, I should think.”

“Our engines are exceedingly powerful,” Mermillon admitted. “To tell you the truth, however, for the moment I am more interested in your boat than in my own. You call her, I think, the Bird of Paradise?”

“That’s right.”

“And she was built at Marseilles?”

“Designed by an Englishman. She was built by the firm of Partrout. They are French, of course, but as a matter of fact every man employed upon her was, I believe, English.”

“My name,” the newcomer announced, “is Mermillon.”

“Not Monsieur Edouard Mermillon, the French Minister for Foreign Affairs?” Wildburn exclaimed.

“That is so,” Mermillon acknowledged. “My companion here is Baron Albeit de Brett.”

“Proud to know you both,” was the courteous but somewhat mystified, rejoinder. “My name is Wildburn–Hamer Wildburn–and I come from New York.”

De Brett looked at the young American curiously.

“That is odd,” he observed. “I cannot remember meeting you before, Mr Wildburn, but your name sounds familiar.”

The young man offered his cigarette case.

“I write occasionally for one of the American newspapers, which is published in Paris,” he confided, “and I sometimes sign my name.”

“The reason for this visit,” Mermillon intervened, “is easily disclosed. I have a nephew who comes of age within a few weeks, and whose great passion is for the sea. I should like to buy exactly this type of craft as a present for him. If by any remote chance, Monsieur Wildburn, this boat itself is for sale it would give me the utmost pleasure to pay you what you consider her value.”

“You want to buy my boat?” Wildburn exclaimed incredulously.

“That was rather the idea,” Mermillon admitted. “Why does that fact afford you so much surprise?”

“Because only a few hours ago,” the young man told him, “someone else paid me a visit with the same object.”

“You did not sell her?” the Baron interrupted anxiously.

“Nothing doing,” Wildburn assured them “Nothing doing with the first would-be purchaser and nothing doing with you gentlemen. I am delighted to see you both, but I am sorry you have had the trouble of coming. My boat is not for sale.”

“There is one question I would like to ask,” the Baron ventured eagerly. “Who has been here before us wanting to buy the boat?”

“My dear Albert!” Mermillon remonstrated, “We must not be too inquisitive. I know my friend’s idea of course,” he continued, turning back to Wildburn. “He is wondering whether some other member of my family has had the same idea or perhaps even Claude, my nephew, himself. This,” he added, turning round, “is so exactly what the lad has always wanted.”

“The offer came from–no matter where.” Wildburn said. “I have no reason to believe, however, that it came from anyone of your own people. In any case it makes no difference. The boat is not for sale.”

Mermillon had the air of one suffering from a mild but not insupportable disappointment.

“You would not object, Monsieur Wildburn, I hope,” he asked, “if I ordered from the builders the exact duplicate of this admirable craft?”

“I should not have the faintest objection in the world,” Wildburn assured him, “but it would take them at least ten months to build a boat of this description.”

Mermillon threw up his hands.

“Ten months–but it is unbelievable!” he exclaimed. “The young are not used to such delays. To wait for ten months would be impossible. Under those regrettable circumstances Monsieur Wildburn,” he went on after a momentary pause, “you will not be offended if I ask whether this decision of yours not to sell your boat is absolutely final. I am only a French politician, not a world-famed banker like my friend here, and, as you know, French politicians are not amongst the wealthy ones of the world. Still, in the present instance, I might almost say that money is no object.”

Wildburn appeared a little distressed. His visitor’s tone and manner were alike charming.

“I have been one of your sincere admirers, Monsieur Mermillon,” he said, “and I should hate to seem in any way discourteous to a person of such distinction, but the fact of it is that just now I am not in need of money, and the boat suits me exactly. Instead of finishing my vacation, as I had planned, cruising around in these seas, I should have all the trouble of dealing with specifications and superintending the rebuilding of another boat. Allow me to offer you chairs. Auguste!” he called out “Deck chairs here for these gentlemen.”

The two visitors were soon comfortably ensconced. Their host produced cigarettes and cigars. Mermillon resumed the conversation.

“It is obvious,” he remarked “that the matter would present inconveniences to you. That I should take into account.”

“It would be a beastly nuisance,” Hamer Wildburn assented. “That is why I am afraid I must remain obstinate. I love France, but I hate Marseilles. I have no wish to return there. What I want to do is to spend the rest of the summer idling about here.”

“I do not blame you,” Mermillon declared. “I find it very natural. The situation is delightful, and you have, doubtless, many friends. Still, there is this to be considered–I do not weary you by my persistence, I trust.”

“Not in the least,” Wildburn assured him, “but I am afraid you will find me very ungracious. Believe me, I honestly do not wish to sell the boat. It would interest me a great deal more to congratulate you upon some of your marvellous successes in the world of international politics.”

Mermillon bowed.

“You flatter me,” he acknowledged, smiling. “I must explain this, however before I–throw up the sponge. Is not that how you call it? Apart from my official position I possess, as you may have heard, a considerable fortune. I have such simple tastes in life that money with me has lost its significance. You will excuse the vulgarity of this statement. It comes into our discussion.”

“No vulgarity at all,” Wildburn assured his visitor “You should hear some of our westerners at home talk about their dollars. I am frankly delighted to meet a man over on this side who admits that he has any money left. It seems to be the fashion everywhere to plead poverty. I am rather tired of meeting poor men. This means, I suppose,” he added, “that I can write my own cheque if I consider giving up the boat?”

Mermlllon smiled.

“Not quite,” he said “It might come very nearly to that if you are the man of common sense I think you are.”

“May I make a suggestion?” de Brett intervened. “My friend Mermillon here has shown me a side of his character which I must confess that I never knew before. He is as impetuous as a boy about this present he wishes to make his nephew. I am afraid I am of a more cautions temperament. May I suggest that before discussing the matter further we just take a look below and a glance at the engines? For what else am I here?”

“With the greatest pleasure,” Wildburn replied, rising promptly to his feet. “Follow me, gentlemen. After your yacht, Monsieur Mermillon, you will find it a little cramped, but there is plenty of room for one person–or even two.”

The three men descended the companionway. They inspected the owner’s cabin, which certainly had its charm. They glanced at thee galley, and appreciated the power and condition of the Diesel engines. They ended in the salon, which was as handsome as a liberal expenditure and good taste could make it.

“I came prepared to criticise,” de Brett confessed. “I am lost in admiration.”

Mermillon seemed for the moment to have lost interest in the details which he had been admiring so generously. He was gazing at a particular spot on the carpet of the small salon. Wildburn perceived his diverted attention and frowned.

“My matelot had a day off yesterday,” he explained. “I am afraid that you find the place a little untidy.”

“It is scarcely that, Monsieur Wildburn,” the visitor replied courteously. “There is some derangement of the apartment, it is true, but it was something else which attracted me. You are alone here, I think you said?”

“I certainly am.”

Mermillon stooped lightly down and picked up from the carpet the object which had attracted his attention. He held it out to Wildburn. It was a very beautiful emerald of large size and finely cut!

“No wonder there are others besides myself,” he remarked, “who would be willing to pay you a large price for your yacht if there is much jewellery of this description to be picked up.”

The young American’s face was suddenly dark. His voice lost its smoothness. His attempted indifference was badly assumed.

“I have visitors occasionally,” he admitted. “Thank you for the emerald. I have no doubt that my latest visitor will be here to claim it very soon.”