The House in Lordship Lane E-Book

A. E. W. Mason

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

The plump, middle-aged and ever-optimistic Inspector Gabriel Hanaud features in A.E.W. Mason’s detective fiction. This was the last outing for inspector Hanaud who was said to be one of the inspirations for Agatha Christie’s creation of Hercule Poirot. Julius Ricardo hitches a lift home across the English Channel to see his friend Inspector Hanaud and en route picks up an escapee from a prison ship, who holds a grudge against Daniel Horbury, M.P. When Horbury is found dead at his home in Lordship Lane, Inspector Hanaud and Ricardo assist Scotland Yard in the investigation, which also involves the owner of a shipping line. This is a classic Hanaud thriller that will not fail to delight crime fans everywhere.

Leseprobe

Contents

Chapter 1. MR. RICARDO IN BRITTANY

Chapter 2. MEERSCHAUM

Chapter 3. MORDAUNT WRITES A LETTER

Chapter 4. “AGAMEMNON’S” BATH

Chapter 5. DANIEL HORBURY

Chapter 6. A WAKEFUL NIGHT

Chapter 7. THE LITTLE AFFAIR THREATENS TO BECOME THE BIG AFFAIR

Chapter 8. WHITE BARN: THE LOCKED DOOR

Chapter 9. THE UNSPOKEN WORD

Chapter 10. OLIVIA

Chapter 11. THE BLIND MAN’S DOG

Chapter 12. BIG BUSINESS AND SWITCHBACK BUSINESS

Chapter 13. FEARS, DOUBTS, CURIOSITY

Chapter 14. A MEETING IS ARRANGED

Chapter 15. SEPTIMUS READS A BOOK

Chapter 16. HANAUD SMOKES A CIGAR—OR DOES HE?

Chapter 17. THE TORN CARD

Chapter 18. THE HOLLY HEDGE

Chapter 19. THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING O. AND NOT D

Chapter 20. MORDAUNT READS A SIGNAL

Chapter 21. THE HOUSE WITH THE TAMARISKS

Chapter 22. MORDAUNT MAKES A BRILLIANT SUGGESTION

Chapter 23. HANAUD RETURNS AND ANOTHER

Chapter 24. AN UNLIKELY MEETING ON THE FAIRMILE

Chapter 25. AT ARKWRIGHT’S FARM

Chapter 26. TWO OF THE LITTLE ACCIDENTS

Chapter 27. SHATTERING QUESTIONS

Chapter 28. HANAUD BORROWS ROLLS-ROYCE NO. 2

Chapter 29. THE LETTER TO SEPTIMUS

Chapter 30. STRAWS IN THE WIND

Chapter 31. THE GRIM WORD

Chapter 32. COUNTERPLOTS

Chapter 33. GEORGE RETURNS

Chapter 34. THE LAST

Chapter 1. MR. RICARDO IN BRITTANY

MR. RICARDO sat on an iron chair at an iron table outside a Bar and drank with his coffee a sweet and heady liqueur. Yet he was exhilarated. “Nobody would believe it,” he said with a little giggle. But it was Brittany and summer time. “Browsing with. Browning in Brittany,” he alliterated wittily, “and so far I have been fortunate enough not to meet James Lee’s wife.” Mr. Ricardo was quite alone. He had sent his luggage home from Aix and with his suit-case, his fine big Rolls-Royce and his chauffeur was making a roundabout tour through Brittany to Cherbourg; whence by a transatlantic liner what was to him a preferable entry to England could be achieved. But the car had lurched and something had broken. For three days he must stay in this little town with the uncommon name. But his liner wasn’t due at Cherbourg for four days–and it was Brittany and summer time.

Moreover, this drowsy little square of Lezardrieux, with the raised terrace at which he sat, the three sides of shops and houses and the empty fourth, where a steep cliff of sand and bushes dropped to the pool of the Lezardrieux river, made a sharp appeal to him. It was operatic. Below the brow of the hill, he could almost hear the conductor tap with his baton for attention. That boy in the bright red shirt strolling across the square might at any moment burst into song. But it would only have made an anti-climax if he had. For the stout, middle-aged woman who had waddled out from the Bar with a big letter in her hand was now at Mr. Ricardo’s elbow.

“You gave my estaminet as your address at Lezardrieux, sir?”

“I telegraphed it,” Mr. Ricardo agreed. “I had not yet found a lodging in the town.”

“Then this letter is for you, perhaps. There is another English gentleman....”

“Captain Mordaunt. Yes. He owns the small yacht in the Pool. Perhaps if you would let me see the letter, I could tell you for which of us it comes.”

For the woman, in her desire that so unusual an occurrence as a letter should not miscarry, was clasping it tightly to her bosom. As she showed the face of it, Mr. Ricardo recognised the hand which had written it.

“It’s for me,” he cried with a little whoop of excitement. He snatched the envelope from her reluctant hand and tore it open. He read:

My dear friend,

I accuse the reception of your invitation..., and sat back, reflecting with toleration, “Yes, he would accuse something–it’s his nature to–and I have no doubt that he has signed his name like a peer of England.” He turned to the back of the letter. There it was. “Hanaud”–just “Hanaud”–the name of terror.

“Really, really,” Mr. Ricardo said to himself and the smile of amusement passed from his lips.

After all, it was a year since he had invited Chief Inspector Hanaud of the Paris Sûreté to spend a holiday in Grosvenor Square. Hanaud could have accused the reception of his letter a year ago. But he had not accused it. He had kept it on the chance that he might want to accuse it at a later time. And the time had come.

“But I don’t know,” said Mr. Ricardo indignantly, as he turned to the lady of the estaminet. “It is Madame Rollard, is it not?”

It certainly was Madame Rollard, as she assured him. But Mr. Ricardo was not thinking of Madame Rollard. He hit the offending letter with his knuckles.

“These are not manners.”

“No?”

“No.”

“I do not keep a lodging house.”

“No?”

“Definitely no.”

Madame Rollard shook her head as though she had fathomed his troubles, and at each shake her body wobbled like a jelly.

“I must consider,” said Mr. Ricardo truculently.

“Yes, yes,” said Madame. “There must be thought, and no doubt Calvados to encourage it;” and she waddled back to her bar.

Over his second Calvados, Mr. Ricardo read the rest of Hanaud’s letter, and one sentence in it dispersed all his irritation: “Besides the holiday, there is a little thing I have to do, a little perplexity I have to make clear, in which I shall ask for your help.” The letter fluttered down upon Mr. Ricardo’s knees, and he drew in a breath and his face lost ten years of its age. Those little perplexities! Didn’t he know them? He would be insulted, ridiculed, outraged, baffled, humiliated, used. Yet there would be thrills, excitements, perils. Life would become once more a topaz instead of a turquoise. He would be helping to track great criminals to their doom. He and Hanaud, or, more probably, Hanaud and he.

Mr. Ricardo turned again to the letter; and in a few moments sprang to his feet. Hanaud would travel by the Channel steamer to Dover to-morrow. He would reach London by five, Grosvenor Square by five-thirty. But here was Ricardo, marooned in Lezardrieux. He rushed to the Post Office and sent off a telegram to his housekeeper. If only he were volatile enough to travel on that same beam! There was a midnight ship from Havre, but he couldn’t reach Havre. He came back into the square. Oh, he couldn’t sit in that iron chair by that iron table for two more days and, frankly, however much enthusiasm for Brittany might have hidden the truth from him at the beginning, he did not like Calvados. In despair he walked to the edge of the square and looked down into the pool. There were fishing boats drawn up on the beach, fishing boats afloat at anchor, and amongst them–yes, undoubtedly–a small ketch yacht. The water in the pool was so deep that the ketch was moored close enough under the hill to escape a careless eye. But to Mr. Ricardo’s envious gaze, the lustrous black paint of its sides, its white deck and burnished brass were as explicit as a dictionary.

“If I only owned it,” cried Mr. Ricardo, noting, to be sure, how calm was the air and the sky how cloudless.

And lo! there was a stir upon the deck. The ketch was slowly beginning to swing her bows towards the sea. Three men clambered from the fo’c’sle, removed the covers from the sails and the wheel and pulled the dinghy in to the starboard side.

Mr. Ricardo looked over his shoulder and saw Captain Mordaunt walking across the square to the path which slanted down the sand cliff to the beach.

“Captain Mordaunt,” he said, stepping to his side. Mr. Ricardo remembered him as a retired Captain of Grenadiers who passed from cocktail party to cocktail party but had no intimates; a man dissatisfied, jealous, with a grudge against the world. But there was no sign of discontent about him now. His face had smoothed out, there was a smile upon his lips, a friendliness in his manner.

“Yes, Mr. Ricardo.”

Ricardo looked down at the river. A hand was sculling the dinghy towards the beach.

“That is your ketch.”

Mordaunt nodded his head.

“Agamemnon,” he said with a laugh. “There was a time when trawler-owners fancied high-sounding names. I didn’t change it when I bought her. But I added a bathroom.”

“Very convenient,” said Mr. Ricardo primly.

“Inevitable,” returned Captain Mordaunt. “Agamemnon without a bathroom? He would be alive now.”

Mr. Ricardo, whose acquaintance with the classics was limited, felt it prudent to titter. He added:

“You are crossing to England?”

Captain Mordaunt became wary. He looked at the sky; he looked at Mr. Ricardo.

“You would like a passage?”

“Yes.”

Captain Mordaunt nodded his head.

“Well,” he argued thoughtfully, “I have a spare cabin and the boat’s sound and the weather looks good. But it’s the fourth week in August and one can’t count on it, and if it should come on to blow, these little ketches bounce about a bit, and we’re very close to the water of course...”

Mr. Ricardo raised a deprecating hand.

“I am something of a yachtsman, too,” he said with a smile; comrade to comrade, as it were.

Indeed, several times Mr. Ricardo had sailed out of and back into Brightlingsea harbour on the Dutch barge of a friend, and once, on a smooth clear day of June, he had made the ocean voyage from Ryde to Weymouth, but when he said that he was a yachtsman, he was undoubtedly exaggerating. Mordaunt rather obviously doubted but accepted it.

“All right,” he said. “I can give you half an hour.” He looked at his watch. “At three the dinghy will be waiting for you.”

“Thank you,” and Mr. Ricardo hurried away to his lodging with a great show of pleasure.

But the pleasure was evaporating. Had he not, after all, been in a needless hurry? Who was Hanaud that he could not be left to investigate by himself for a day? There was no doubt he had been hasty. That was certainly a very small Agamemnon swinging round in the Pool, as Agamemnons go. Mr. Ricardo had a suspicion that Captain Mordaunt might have acquired greater merit if, instead of cramming a bathroom into this very small Agamemnon, he had bought a bigger Agamemnon with a bathroom in it already.

“Half an hour, Mr. Ricardo,” had said Captain Mordaunt.

“Half an hour,” Mr. Ricardo had repeated.

He gave instructions and money to his chauffeur, packed his suit-case, and was waiting on the beach when the nose of the dinghy grounded upon it.

Chapter 2. MEERSCHAUM

THE ketch, with her propeller turning, slipped down the ten miles of the Lezardrieux river between the buoys and the lighthouses, turned eastwards at the mouth to avoid the sunken slabs, and wriggled out into the open sea. A steady wind was blowing on her beam. The engine was switched off, the sails hoisted, the log run out, and the course laid for the Start. The land sank out of sight.

Captain Mordaunt followed Mr. Ricardo down to the spare cabin in the stern of the ketch.

“We will dine early, if you don’t mind. There are only four of us all told, the skipper, the mate, the steward and myself, and at night we want two on deck when we are crossing the Channel, even if the night’s fine. I can, by the way, lend you a thick coat and a yachting cap.”

The first sign of any change came, indeed, when they were eating their dinner, side by side on the cushioned lounge in the little saloon. The ketch rose and dipped suddenly with a thud, as if it had met some unexpected swell of the sea and, a few moments later, the sheets of the mainsail rattled on the deck as the great wing of canvas was drawn in. Mordaunt looked up at the telltale compass fixed above his head.

“The wind has shifted to the north,” he said.

The yachtsman of the quiet waters looked anxiously at his host. “Is that”–he searched for a word–“awkward?” he asked, hoping that the tremor was unnoticeable in his voice. After all, they were a very long way from the land.

Mordaunt shrugged his shoulders.

“Prolongs our passage. A cigar?” He reached for a box behind on the shelf. “Try those dates in brandy! We’ll have some coffee,” and he rang the hand-bell.

But whilst they drank their coffee, the movement of the ketch increased. To Mr. Ricardo she seemed now to hop forward and come down with a noisy crunch. Mordaunt smiled.

“There’s some wind somewhere ahead of us,” he said. “Let’s go up and see. You had better put that thick coat on.”

When they stepped from the tiny deckhouse on to the deck, Mr. Ricardo was disturbed.

“Glary,” said Hamlin the skipper at the wheel; glary it certainly was. The sun was sinking in the west, a plate without effulgence, a plate as yellow as an old spade guinea. The kindness had all died out of the sky and, when the sun had gone, there were left a livid glare, a cold sea and this little ship alone in the midst of it.

Mordaunt looked up at the topsail.

“We might carry on until we get the weather news,” he said. For these were the days before the Second War, when Broadcasting House flung out her warnings and good tidings to all the ships on the near seas.

By nine o’clock night was closing in. Mr. Ricardo was seated in a corner of the deckhouse. Mordaunt leaned over a small receiver mounted on a revolving pedestal. Hamlin’s big figure blocked the doorway as he bent to listen; and suddenly, startlingly, a new voice spoke clearly out of the darkness at their elbows, giving them the weather report:

“A deep depression over Ireland is moving rapidly to the south-east. There will be a gale in the Channel to-night.”

“As a rule, that gives us half an hour,” said Hamlin.

He and Mordaunt were out of the deck-cabin in an instant, leaving Ricardo almost sick with indignation against the radiant cheerful voice which had announced the direful news.

“Doesn’t he know we’re out here in a cockleshell?” he exclaimed. “He’s going home to have supper–a nice hot supper in a nice hot room–on land! And we’re here, drowned men practically.”

But there was activity enough upon the deck. A storm jib was set, the topsail taken down and folded away with the big jib in the locker, the main and mizzen sails were reefed, and the sidelights burning brightly lifted on their shelves. The ship was snug and her crew clothed in oilskins and high boots.

Mr. Ricardo stood in the doorway of the cabin looking forward over its roof. The ketch still rose and dipped upon the unbroken swell, but ahead in the darkness lines of white ran out to right and left on the crests of waves with extraordinary speed.

“Here it comes,” said Mordaunt. He raised his hand to the mizzen rigging on the port side. Hamlin, the skipper, was at the wheel, lifting the boat gently up to the wind. Mordaunt grinned at Ricardo.

“I should go down and get into your bunk whilst you can,” he cried.

Mr. Ricardo shook his head. That was quite unthinkable.

“I’ll stay in the deckhouse for a little,” he said, and then more bravely, “This is a new experience for me.”

He crouched on the divan in the deckhouse with a foot against the rail-guard of the companion, and a few moments afterwards the gale broke upon them like an army. A wave smote the ketch so that it shuddered. Its crest leaped gaily over the port bow and ran in streams along the deck, whilst the bulk of it roared away to leeward from under the keel in an angry tumble of white fire.

“Disappointed, that’s what it was,” Mr. Ricardo began, but he could not go on.

For all about them was noise, noise unbelievable and yet combined into an awful harmony. The waves hammered and roared; the wind shrilled through the rigging like a Sabbath of lost souls; the planks groaned and clamoured that not for one moment longer could they cling together; and, above all other sounds, the topping-lift thrashed the belly of the mainsail with the crack of a hundred pistols.

Ricardo was terrified into a hopeless acquiescence.

“It can’t go on,” he said to himself as he clutched at anything which was clutchable in the deck-cabin. “That’s all. It can’t go on.”

But it did go on, hour after hour, until Mr. Ricardo actually dozed and then woke to an incident very pleasant but quite incredible. Mordaunt was at the helm, the skipper by the port rigging, when Mordaunt held the ship up to meet a more passionately venomous wave than any which had gone before. The two men bent their heads as the brine cut their faces like a whiplash.

“That was a nasty one,” cried the skipper.

“A beast!” answered Mordaunt; and then, to Ricardo’s stupefaction, they laughed, not with the wry laughter of the defeated, but heartily, enjoyably.

“Well, perhaps, after all...” thought Ricardo. He was glad that he had not taken Mordaunt’s advice and retired to his bunk. He would have been ice-cold with terror. He couldn’t say that it was warm up here in the deckhouse, but it was friendly, and near to people who could laugh at the right moment. Again Mr. Ricardo dozed and woke; and now the mate was at the wheel whilst Mordaunt stood on one side unclenching his frozen fingers and Hamlin upon the other. Suddenly they all looked up and, as they looked, a ghostly twilight was diffused about the world. Mr. Ricardo was in the mood to believe that here at last was the Day of Judgement, so unillumined was the light, so pallid the faces lifted to it. But the mate broke the solemnity of the moment by asserting “ ’Tis the dawning,” and after both men had stared at him in admiration of his optimism, the laughter and the raillery were renewed. The mate was the incorrigible consoler. Somewhere, high up, beyond apprehension, and almost beyond faith, a full moon was riding in a blue sky and some sliver of its radiance slipped through. Mr. Ricardo clambered through the doorway and looked forward over its roof, clinging with both hands. As far as the eyes could reach, great black seas, like mountains, raced after each other in a riot of foam, whilst above his head the swaying topmast seemed on the point of scraping and snapping against a roof of grey cement, so solid and so low was the canopy of cloud. But whilst he watched the chink closed up again and once more there was no light but the white fire of the waves and the more friendly gleam of the binnacle lamp.

Mr. Ricardo scrambled back to his corner in the deckhouse. He pulled up the cushion behind him so that his head rested more comfortably upon it.

“After all, we’re still afloat,” he reflected. “I have not been seasick”–this he put down less to his panic than to his quality as a yachtsman–“and those three men, though they are unalarmed, are watchful.”

They were more than ever watchful now, it seemed. For more and more often he heard the man in the bows sing out:

“Light ahead, sir.”

And more and more often the answer from the man at the wheel:

“Right!”

For they were crossing now the crown of the great trunk road which flows from Ushant to the Port of London.

To the sound of those cries Mr. Ricardo fell asleep, and was only awakened by someone shaking him by the shoulder. Mordaunt was leaning over him.

“We can see the light at Start Point,” he said.

The motion of the ship had diminished, the noise had lost its terror, they were feeling the protection of the land, the gale was dying. Again Mr. Ricardo stood at the cabin door and looked forward. All was darkness, but in a few seconds he saw, as at the end of a long black iron tube, a faint glimmer which broadened out to the likeness of a beautiful incandescent moth and shrivelled again into nothing. Mordaunt, at his side, began to count:

“One, two, three...”

He counted up to twenty, and the light shone again.

“Yes, Start Point,” said Mordaunt. “But, of course, we’re a long way from it yet.”

Mr. Ricardo stayed thereafter at the deckhouse door, and so was a witness of the incident which made that night more than ever memorable to him and perplexed the forgotten Hanaud for so long.

A big ancient rusty iron steamer came lumbering up from the west across the bows of Agamemnon, but yawing as she came, as if she had not made up her mind whether to run ashore on the long ledge of Start Point or strike away for the French coast.

“Look out, sir!” cried Hamlin, the skipper, sharply to Mordaunt at the wheel. “She’s a dago with the cabin-boy in command and all the rest of ’em asleep.”

It was that spectral hour between night and dawn when all is magnified and yards are miles. Mordaunt held his ketch up until he had shaken what wind there was out of her sails; and it was lucky that he did, for his bowsprit hardly scraped clear of the iron monster’s side.

“There! I told you, didn’t I?” cried Hamlin, and he pointed to where a light shone on the name upon a buoy. “A dago!”

All could read the name. El Rey. But they had hardly time to read it. For a cry, like a wail, was borne to them urgently upon the breeze.

Men who sail in little boats are accustomed to see in the dark of the night and bad weather light on land, where there is no land, and to hear voices from the sea, where no men are drowning–so accustomed that they do not speak of them lest they should be thought to talk foolishly. So now Mordaunt and his crew looked each to the other, hesitating whether they should seem to have heard. But the cry reached them again, weaker, yet nearer, and just over the port bow.

The mate shouted “Hold on!” and cutting a life-buoy loose from the main rigging, hurled it out. The ketch was lying now, head in to the wind, with its sails flapping. Hamlin pulled up out of its slots the panel of bulwark which opened the port gangway and, flinging himself on his face, leaned over the side. The mate and the steward joined him, one upon his knees, the other with a boathook in his hands. From his position at the wheel Mordaunt could see nothing of what was happening, but something or someone was being lifted on board.

It was someone, a slim young man with hair as black as ebony, and a face of a pallor so thick that it could hardly ever before have met the daylight. So Mordaunt thought, until the rescued man was stretched on deck. He was alive but snatching at the air in his exhaustion. He was dressed in a grey cotton shirt, a jacket and a pair of trousers of canvas, and he wore sandshoes on his naked feet.

“Brandy,” said Mordaunt, and the steward dived down the companion. He came back with a full glass and, lifting the man’s shoulders against his knee, put the glass to his lips. The young man’s face was long, his body where it showed at the neck and breast just bones in an envelope of skin. He took a drink of the brandy, threw back his head on the steward’s knee and coughed.

“A martyr by El Greco, without a martyr’s saintliness,” said Mordaunt, thinking the stranger beyond hearing.

“A dago,” said Hamlin the skipper.

The stranger turned his eyes on Hamlin and said:

“Damn your eyes!” in English unmistakable, and fainted away.

Mordaunt gave his orders.

“You had better get him below, rub him down with a hot towel, give him a spare suit of pyjamas, and put him to bed in Mr. Ricardo’s berth with a hot-water bottle. You don’t mind?”

Mr. Ricardo didn’t mind. He was, indeed, fluttering around, trying to help and getting in everybody’s way. Meanwhile a question was troubling his mind as much as he, in his efforts to help, was troubling Craston, the mate, and the steward. Why did the name of the ship, El Rey–“The King”–awaken some vague familiar resonance in his brain? El Rey... El Rey.... No, there was no answer.

When he climbed the companion again on to the deck, the light on Start Point had been extinguished, the day had come, and the ketch had borne away upon its course.

“Mind the Skerries’ buoy, sir,” said Hamlin. “The tide’s setting us to the east.”

“I know,” Mordaunt answered; and after a moment or two, Hamlin continued:

“A queer thing. That young-fellow-my-lad must have tumbled off the stern of that ship just as she began to cross our bows. The tide brought him straight down on us. A bit of good luck, I should say.”

Mordaunt grinned and shook his head.

“A bit of good timing, I should.”

And with that Mr. Ricardo’s memory began to work. El Rey! He had read about it. Certain States of South America had chartered El Rey–Venezuela, Colombia, Bolivia–to carry back to their respective countries some undesirable aliens. She was to call at Spanish and French ports and in England. Then she was to go on with the rest of her passengers to the Baltic and Germany. There lay the explanation of something which had puzzled them all, but of which no one had spoken. The stranger had a broad black band about his right leg above the ankle, as though a heavy iron fetter had for years bitten into his flesh.

Chapter 3. MORDAUNT WRITES A LETTER

MORDAUNT dropped his anchor in the Dart river above the ferry which crosses from Dartmouth town and the railway station at Kingswear. The morning was clear, but neither town was yet alert to it. Mordaunt felt in one of the pigeon-holes at the back of the deckhouse and drew out of it a plain yellow flag.

“Here you are!” he said and Hamlin took it from his hand. It was the flag flown by every vessel hailing straight from a foreign port, and no one, whether passenger or crew, must leave her until the harbour authorities had given her clearance. Hamlin, the skipper, balanced the folded flag on the palm of his hand. He was thinking that Captain Mordaunt and his Agamemnon had sailed in and out of Dartmouth so often that no one on shore would trouble about his port of departure unless the yellow flag invited him.

“I am to hoist this?” he asked, thrusting out his underlip.

Mordaunt nodded his head and added slowly, “Yes.”

“You’ve a good deal to do, Captain Mordaunt, haven’t you? You have to lay up the boat, travel to London, settle your affairs for a long absence....”

“Still,” Mordaunt interrupted, “there are rules.”

They were both thinking of the stranger with the black band above his ankle who in the misty dawn had come aboard.

“He’ll have to report, of course, when the Customs men come on board,” said Mordaunt. “I don’t see why I should be delayed.”

Hamlin was still patting doubtfully the piece of bunting in his hand. It was clearly important that Mordaunt should not be held up in the Dart river by regulations at this time. Mordaunt spoke quickly.

“I’ll wake him up, whilst you hoist that;” and Mordaunt had only reached the bottom of the companion when the yellow flag flickered up the mast like a flame.

The stranger, however, wanted no awakening. He was sitting, shaved and dressed, down to his shoes, in clothes which belonged to Mordaunt.

“Your steward lent me these,” he said.

“And he was quite right,” Mordaunt returned with a smile.

A box full of cigarettes and an ashtray were lying on the table and Mordaunt pushed the box over to the stranger. “Don’t you smoke?”

“Indeed, I do.”

“Then try one, please!”

There was something vulpine in the speed of the stranger’s thin long fingers as they darted towards the box; but it was not so startling as the control which stopped them at the rim of the box and set them tapping out a bar of a tune before they dropped languidly on one of the paper tubes. Yet he was starving for a cigarette! So, at all events, Mr. Ricardo decided, as he sat unnoticeable reading, or pretending to read, an official report taken from the bookcase above his head; and so, too, Mordaunt had decided. He said pleasantly:

“You should have helped yourself.”

The man from the sea shook his head and laughed.

“That would have put me at too heavy a disadvantage.”

He struck a match and lit his cigarette and, as he drew the smoke into his lungs, he uttered a little moan of delight.

“Oh... oh!”

He looked at the brand on the tube.

“Turkish.”

“Yes.”

The stranger inhaled with his eyes closed. How many years had passed since this enjoyment had been allowed to him? Mr. Ricardo wondered. But, indeed, it was more than an enjoyment, however sensuous. It seemed to take from him the suspicion, the fear, the expectation of an enemy in everyone, which Mr. Ricardo had observed. He sat there smoking, a man repaired. Mordaunt, with a glance of amusement at him, opened a drawer in the table.

“I have got something to say to you–by the way, my name’s Mordaunt, Philip Mordaunt–”

He paused for a moment, and for more than a moment afterwards there followed a disconcerting silence. Then the stranger replied:

“And mine is Devisher–Bryan Devisher.”

“Right!”

Mordaunt took from the drawer which he had opened a letter-case and counted out fifteen pounds in notes.

“Before we talk,” he said, “I should be happier if we were on still more equal terms. Will you borrow these from me?”

Upon Devisher’s white face a flush slowly spread.

“Philip Mordaunt, you said?”

“Yes–Captain,” and seeing that Devisher’s eyes were wandering about the cabin, Mordaunt lifted a blotting pad with some paper upon it, placed them in front of him, and added a pencil from the table drawer. He gave the name of a club.

Devisher wrote down the address, tucked the paper away in a pocket, and did the same with the money.

“Thank you!” he said; and as there had been no patronage in the offer, so there was no servility in the acceptance.

“Now!” said Mordaunt. He was sitting on the couch against the saloon wall with its lockers and its high ledge, whilst Devisher was on a chair at the head of the table at his right hand. “Now, the position is this. No one must leave this ship until the Customs officers come on board. They won’t be here probably for another hour. It’s hardly eight yet. But when they do come, you ought to make a full statement to them.”

“I see, yes,” Devisher observed, staring down at the mahogany table. He could not keep the bitterness out of his voice, which already had a natural rasp, but he could, according to Mr. Ricardo, hide thus the savage fury of his eyes.

“That I fell overboard, for instance.”

“Yes.”

“Without a passport.”

“Yes.”

“From the ship, El Rey.”

“Yes.”

It was as evident to Devisher as to Ricardo on the opposite side of the saloon, that “the ship El Rey” meant no more to Mordaunt than information of a merely formal kind.

“With the black mark of a fetter so wide and deep around my ankle, that I am likely to wear it to the day of my death.”

Mr. Ricardo sat up. No, no, he said to himself. Every word up till now had been inspired by the right spirit and used in the right place. But this reference to the chain by the man who had worn it–no, no! A lack of susceptibility to the higher tastes, an indelicacy. Fie, fie, Mr. Devisher!

Apparently, however, Captain Mordaunt was unconscious of any want of tact in his guest. He laughed as frankly as Devisher had spoken.

“That’s your affair. I don’t see how the Customs could make any charge, whether you declared it or not.”

The words were lightly said but not lightly taken. Devisher had so far kept to the same unemotional key, but now he clapped his hands to his face and he shivered like a man stricken with a mortal chill. Mordaunt drew back in discomfort.

“I must tell you,” cried Devisher violently, plucking his hands away from his face; and Mordaunt’s discomfort increased. A scene–he had a horror of it, he had been at every shift he knew to avoid it.

“My name is Devisher, Bryan Devisher, yes. But it’s not the name on my passport in the purser’s cabin on El Rey.”

“Then you give your real name here,” Mordaunt interrupted, but the interruption went almost unheard and certainly not considered.

“I took part in a revolution over there in Venezuela,” the young man rushed on, the words almost tumbling in a froth like a breaker from his mouth. “And it was high time, I can tell you. A revolution was wanted, but it failed. Vicente Gomez, the dictator won, as he always did. I lay quiet up in Caracas, but I was betrayed–and I think I know, too, who betrayed me. I spent six years dragging an iron cannon-ball in the Castillo del Libertador, an island prison in the bay with its cells below the water-line. Six mortal years until Vicente Gomez died. Then we were released. I forget how many tons of iron fetters and handcuffs were thrown into the sea. But after a time, when this ship El Rey was chartered, I was deported.”

To both his auditors the story was true. The white mask of Devisher’s face, which had felt neither sun nor wind for years, bore out his words, apart from the black ring about his ankle. And the horrors which they suggested were stark before their eyes.

“But we have a Minister there, a Consul,” cried Mr. Ricardo.

“You could have appealed to them,” added Mordaunt.

Devisher shrugged his shoulders.

“Not a chance! I hadn’t made myself known to any of them whilst I could. Besides...” and his eyes fell sullenly and, after a moment or two, a displeasing sly smile twisted his face.

But Mordaunt had had enough. The sly smile had put a full-stop at the end of all this palaver. Confessions were for the priest in the curtained darkness of his confessional box, not for the tiny saloon of a ketch in the river Dart on an August morning. He rose to his feet.

“No, no!” he exclaimed, and he rang a hand-bell vigorously.

The steward appeared from the pantry forward before Devisher could add another word.

“I want a hot bath, Perry, and then we’ll all want breakfast.”

Breakfast, that was what they wanted. They would be different men with some good hot bacon and eggs and coffee inside of them. He heard the water begin to run from the taps in the bathroom beyond his tiny cabin on his right. He stood for a moment, seized by a fresh idea. He sat down, took a block of notepaper, envelopes, and a fountain pen out of the drawer.

“Yes, whilst I am waiting, I’ll write a letter;” and, pulling the blotting-pad towards him, he began to write, slowly, selecting his words, a very still figure, so that no one interrupted him; Devisher perhaps because his outburst had been silenced, Ricardo certainly because he was trying to reconcile this Captain Mordaunt with the Mordaunt against whom he had brushed at so many six o’clock sherry parties. Then he had been a flibbertigibbet of a man, querulous, caustic, defeated, the sort of man who sees others of his age leaving him behind, making their names, and complains, “If only I could find my vocation, they’d soon be surprised.” But now he had authority, he was solidly sure, and it was not because he was captain of his boat and knew how to sail it. Even at Lezardrieux, Mr. Ricardo had discovered a serenity and consequently a good humour in him which were new.

“Well, I shall get to the bottom of that,” he thought cheerfully. For Mr. Ricardo counted himself a very acute observer of character.

Mordaunt had finished his letter by the time when the steward told him his bath was ready. He folded it, put it into an envelope and addressed the envelope. Then he got to his feet.

“You’ll please begin breakfast as soon as it’s brought in. I’m not going to hurry”; and he suddenly turned to Devisher.

“You may have many troubles and few friends in front of you, for all I know. I should like to help you because you came to me out of the sea.”

“Meerschaum,” Devisher interposed, “but not half as valuable.”

Mordaunt was not to be diverted.

“But I shan’t be in England. So I can’t. But this man can, if anyone can,” and he handed the letter he had written to Devisher. “He’s old, crotchety, very much eighteen-seventy, but he’s wise, and if you tell him everything, he may throw you another life-buoy.”

He waited for no answer. Devisher heard the door of the cabin close whilst he was still reading the address upon the envelope. He repeated the name aloud on a note of perplexity.

“Septimus Crottle, Esq.”

Mr. Ricardo, who had been rent between curiosity and the obligation of gentlemanly reticence, gave a little jump. Devisher seemed to become aware of Mr. Ricardo.

“Do you know him?”

“Septimus Crottle?”

“Who else?”

“No, I do not.”

“Yet you jumped when I read the name.”

“Did I?”

Mr. Ricardo beamed. He liked people to find significance in his reactions.

“You did, but it doesn’t matter.”

Mr. Ricardo was nettled.

“It might matter,” said he stiffly.

“Indeed?”

Devisher smiled as he spoke, but with a polite indifference.

“Septimus Crottle is the owner of the Dagger Line of Steamships,” said Mr. Ricardo.

The indifference passed from Devisher’s face.

Chapter 4. “AGAMEMNON’S” BATH

MORDAUNT stripped himself of his suède jerkin, his high sea-boots, and the rest of his defences against a gale, and slipped into the bath. After the buffeting of sea and wind, the velvet caress of hot fresh water was a delight for a Roman emperor. He shaved in it, soaped his limbs, and emptied his sponge again and again over his head, wondering whether there could be anything as good as living hard and bathing soft.

But it was Agamemnon’s bath. It is true that no lady with a meat axe was secretly opening the bathroom door, no lads of the village listening timidly in the road were wailing “Ai, ai! That was a nasty one!” as the axe was heftily administered. But it was still, in its way, fateful. Mordaunt lay and relaxed his sinews and steeped his limbs and closed his eyes–and opened them and closed them again. From far away there was a splash of sculls, the grating of a rowing boat against a ship’s side, and then a voice, thin and small, as though it spoke through a hundred folds of grey silk, but cheerful:

“So here you are, back again, Aggy boy.”

Mordaunt assured himself solemnly that Aggy Boy was not a name.

“I propose to see about that,” and he was apparently still proposing to see about it, when a hammering upon the door aroused him. The steward’s voice spoke urgently:

“Your breakfast’s getting cold, Captain Mordaunt.”

And Mordaunt realised that what was happening to his breakfast had happened to his bath. He climbed out of it with a shiver, and in a quarter of an hour, and in a shore-going blue suit, he was sitting down in the saloon to a breakfast fresh from the stove.

Mr. Ricardo at the other side of the cabin was smoking a cigarette.

“Do you mind this whilst you’re eating?” he asked, waving it.

“Not a bit,” answered Mordaunt. Suddenly he cried out: “Where is Devisher?”

“He has gone, I think.”

Mordaunt rose and called up the companion for Hamlin, and Hamlin came down, contentedly smiling.

“Mr. Devisher?” Mordaunt asked abruptly.

“It’s just like this, sir. The Customs didn’t come on board, knowing of us well, but just passed the time of day. The two gentlemen were down in the saloon, but soon afterwards the–I can’t fit my tongue to his name–the passenger from the foreign ship comes up. I was hauling down the yellow flag, and he asks what he should do now. I showed him the harbour-master’s office by the slipway, and he said he would go and report if he could be put ashore. There was a boatman sculling about for a job. So I called him up to the gangway and off the gentleman went.”

Mordaunt looked not too pleased.

“Just like that?” he said. “Without a word?”

“Oh, yes, sir. He said you were in your bath and not to be disturbed. He said he’d write to you.”

Mordaunt laughed.

“All right,” he said, and went on with his breakfast. “After all, he has saved us some trouble.”

“And some delay,” Hamlin added quickly. “We should have been kept here all day, telling the same story over and over.”

It was clear both to Mordaunt and Ricardo that the skipper had edged Devisher over the yacht’s side as soon as he got the chance, guessing that the last place Devisher would visit would be the harbour-master’s office, or the office of any other functionary of the port. Mordaunt, however, was really troubled–and once more to Mr. Ricardo’s surprise; Mr. Ricardo could see him at a cocktail party a year ago, overshouting some other gossip to tell his story with a sardonic amusement–lest he had let loose an equivocal person, if not a bandit, on the world.

“Well, he has gone,” said Mordaunt at last.

“With your letter to Mr. Septimus Crottle,” Mr. Ricardo added; and now Mordaunt laughed without any reservation.

“Old Septimus can take it,” he cried. “Besides, I shall see Septimus on Sunday night, and that’s before he will.”

Mordaunt took a cigar from a mahogany box and split the end of it by the squeeze of his finger and thumb. He lit it and sat back smiling, as if the picture of Septimus had banished the picture of a bandit.

“Do you know Crottle? The queerest old bird. Owns the Dagger Line, and was once a commander–a tyrant in a reefer jacket then, and a tyrant in a broadcloth frock-coat now. Choked off any young men who came after one of his daughters, not because they were gold-diggers, but because it was the business of maidens to wait upon their fathers.”

“Amiable patriarch,” said Mr. Ricardo.

“Patriarch, yes; amiable, no,” Mordaunt returned, and laughed again. “You should see him on his Sunday nights. In his glory! But he’s shrewd, too. And he’d do you a good turn–” Mordaunt paused, “that is, if you acted on his advice, of course. You see, he’s never in doubt.”

Mordaunt was no longer deriding the comic aspect of Septimus Crottle. Mr. Ricardo suspected, indeed, that he was to hear the explanation of that change in Mordaunt which had so perplexed him. There was a confusion, a hesitation, in Mordaunt’s manner.

“I never told you how I came across old Septimus, did I? But, of course, I didn’t. I was on this ketch in the Helford river. A great sailor of small boats had built his home there, and a few of us used to anchor about his house for his birthday. There were four or five yachts anchored in the pool above and below and opposite to Helford village. Septimus came in a schooner with more draught than any of our boats, and anchored down the river at Passage. Well, that evening–I don’t know what made me do it–I had seen him in the garden that afternoon, an old boy, straight as a flagstaff, without any inhibitions; and there he was, once the commander of a ship, now the owner of the Dagger Line. So that night I sent an excuse from a party on one of the yachts, dined alone, and afterwards sculled in my dinghy down to the schooner at Passage.”

He had found Septimus seated in the shelter of his deck-cabin, with a rug about his waist and a trifle suspicious that an upstanding young fellow should row away from a golden company to pass an hour with a solitary old crab-apple. Septimus Crottle did not ask his new companion why, but he gave him a large Havana cigar and, as Mordaunt drew a lighter from his pocket, he objected.

“Will you use the box of wooden matches at your elbow, please.”

Mordaunt turned round. A small table had been placed noiselessly beside his chair with an ashtray upon it and a box of Bryant and May’s matches. So much reverence for a cigar seemed to Mordaunt to call for a response, and as he smoked, it certainly did.

“This really is a wonderful cigar, Mr. Crottle,” said Mordaunt, pitching his praise high.

“It is the best,” returned Mr. Crottle, simply and sufficiently. “It’s mine.”

Philip did not feel that his impulse had been fruitful. On the other hand, the old man, with his sharp nose and his lean chin, seemed quite content that the younger man should sit by his side and say nothing. The tide sang against the planks of the schooner. Up in the pool by Helford village the lights of the yachts threw out from their skylights a glow of jewels cased in black velvet. From one, a woman’s voice, fresh and clear as a blackbird’s in the dew of the morning, soared in a delight which knocked against the stars; and Mordaunt found himself pouring out in a low voice the story of his distress, the twistings and turnings in a world where he had lost his way.

He had resigned his commission when one of the youngest captains, after the 1914-18 war, meaning to think over his life and plan what he should do. He might go into Parliament. He had a house and land in Dorset where there was an opportunity. Or he might go into business–big business–in the City. Or he might write–a comedy which would endure with “The Way of the World”; an epic, perhaps, which would stand on the same shelf with “The Ring and the Book” a novel which would make people cry Fielding Redivivus. Meanwhile, he did nothing. Some day he would begin, when he was quite sure of the road which led to greatness. But meanwhile he ran about from party to party, talking with other young men and women of the fine thing he was going to do. But one after another the young men passed him into a different and busier country. One was elected to the House of Commons, and made a first speech which was the talk of the town. A second wrote a play which stirred the critics and filled the theatre for a year. A third wrote a book which was bought as well as read. They would all come back, of course, as their squibs flickered out. But they didn’t come back, and there was he, still wandering from party to party, jealous, dissatisfied, hollow as an empty tin. Septimus Crottle listened whilst the stars slid down the sky and the lights went out in the yachts in the pool. Then he said quietly:

“Great authors! To me they are the loud-speakers of God.” He turned to Mordaunt. “Are you of their company?”

“How should I know?” Mordaunt asked after a pause.

“They have their labels.”

“For instance?”

“They think less of the name they make than of the work they do.”

Mordaunt laughed curtly. Admit that, and he was ruled out! But how could he not admit that?

“Well, I asked for it,” he told himself, and thought that he might just as well, like Oliver, ask for more. So he said, rather arrogantly:

“Perhaps there are other labels.”

Old Crottle was quite unimpressed by his young friend’s curling lip.

“Of course.” And after a glance at Mordaunt, Septimus looked out over the dark water, selecting the one which would be most suitable.

“They don’t nurse long grievances,” he said. “They are too busy creating. They curse and damn for five minutes and then they get on with their job.”

For the second time that night Philip Mordaunt took it on the point of his chin. He took a whisky and soda afterwards and hoped that he had not obtruded too long between Mr. Crottle and his repose.

Mr. Crottle, however, confessed to having been flattered by Philip Mordaunt’s visit.

“Besides,” he said, standing at the gangway, “everybody enjoys giving advice, as long as he’s quite certain that the advice isn’t what the advised had come to hear.”

Mordaunt halted on the first rung of the ladder and stepped on board again.

“Yes,” he said in some surprise, “the curious thing is that I’m not discouraged. On the contrary, I am relieved.”

The sense of relief stayed with Mordaunt as he sculled back to his yacht, and was no less strong the next morning. Old Septimus had banged the door on a good many dreams which of late were darkening into torments. He had left Mordaunt to find another door for himself, and it was evident to Mr. Ricardo that somehow Mordaunt had succeeded.

Philip looked up at the clock on the wall behind the stove as he ended his story.

“You’ll want to catch the Torbay Limited,” he continued. “There it is, in Kingswear station. Hamlin will land you at the steps and put your bag in your carriage. I am sorry that I couldn’t give you a better passage from France.”