The Man from Sing Sing E-Book

E. Phillips Oppenheim

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

Beschreibung

Cruelly betrayed by the testimony of Reuben Argels, his business partner and close friend, Moran Chambers is sentenced to 10 years in Sing Sing Prison. Haunted by the feeling that Chambers will exact revenge, Argels flees on the next boat to London, where he finds their third partner, the dour Scotchman Andrew Pulwitter, and Moran’s mistress, the lovely actress Ambouyna Kotinzi. Argels finds success in London, but is all the while haunted by the thought – when will Chambers wreak his revenge? It presents a fascinating picture of the frenzy which possessed financial markets at the beginning of the Roaring 30’s with the twists and turns of the story.

Leseprobe

Contents

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

BOOK TWO

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 XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER I

The steamship Fernanda was three days out of New York before Reuben Argels left his stateroom. To his steward, who seldom read the newspapers and had a profound contempt for the illustrated press, his passenger was an enigma. He, the latter, took his bath in his private bathroom at seven o’clock, ate a hearty breakfast at eight, and spent the rest of the day, with brief intervals for lunch and dinner, which he also partook of in the seclusion of his stateroom, in the fretful perambulations of a caged tiger. At midday, he invariably rang for the steward and demanded particulars of the wireless news. When he had heard what the man had to report, he asked always the same question.

“Anything about Moran Chambers–the man who was sentenced to fifteen years’ penal servitude last week?”

The steward’s reply was invariably in the negative. On the third occasion of his receiving the report, which was evidently a relief to him, Reuben Argels came to a decision. He completed his toilette with care, glanced at his watch–it was a few minutes after midday–opened the drawer of a small cupboard which stood by the side of his bed, and drew out a flat, vicious-looking automatic, the steel of which shone blue in the sunlight. He examined the breech, placed it at safety, slipped the weapon into his coat pocket, and strode boldly out onto the deck with the air of a man prepared to face anything which might be coming to him.

As he stood there, his feet firmly poised, apparently gazing out to sea, but in reality sweeping the deck with long, keen glances, Reuben Argels was undoubtedly, according to some standards, a good-looking man and certainly a man of presence. His rounded figure was inclined towards embonpoint, but he carried himself well and his features, although small for the size of his face, were shapely and regular. His lips were a little protuberant and full-coloured, but they were partly concealed by a slight black moustache, which had a tendency to droop. His hair, parted in the middle, was also jet black and luxuriant in growth. His eyes were dark and brilliantly clear. There were indications of mental disturbance about the man as he loitered there, uncertain whether to pursue his enterprise or to return to the shelter of his cabin. The shadow of some undefined apprehension lurked in his furtive glances. The fingers playing with his moustache only partially concealed slight twitchings of the lips. A psychologist would have understood that Reuben Argels was a man unused to fear, or rather to being in a position likely to provoke fear, and that he was afraid.

The shipboard life flowed equably about him. Passengers strolled by indifferently. Acquaintances were ripening into friendships, flirtations into transitory love affairs, and the sting of the Atlantic wind and the fire of her sunshine were potent aggressors against the vice of curiosity. Reuben Argels remained unnoticed and unmolested. He began to realise the feeling of shipboard isolation. Nobody cared about him. He was on a tiny ship in the middle of an immense ocean. There was no one there whose eyes could look backwards to that gloomy, thickly populated court, with its weird mixture of dignity and horror, its atmosphere heavy with human sweatings. He wondered dimly whether the nightmare of that scene would ever leave him. He recalled the line after line of white, staring faces, all turned towards him, listening to the poisonous lie which had just left his lips so calmly–worse even than that, the slim figure in the dock, so indifferent, so scornful of the drama which counsel, with the thunder of their rhetoric, had created around him, slowly turning to face a lying witness. Their eyes had met! No power on earth could have aided Reuben Argels in his futile effort to resist the challenge. Then that awful thing had happened. A smile had dawned on Moran Chambers’ lips–a smile which was to haunt the life of the liar, a smile which was to linger like a graven gesture through the avenue of time until the day of reckoning. All in the court must have seen it–the judge, the crowd of lawyers and counsel, the police, the gloating sight-seers. Those who saw it might well have been haunted by its memory for the rest of their lives, but him for whom the smile was meant, whose eyes, like the eyes of a terrified rabbit, were drawn towards the eyes of that still figure in the dock, for him was intended the inner meaning of that strange parting of the lips, the message of horror, more poignant than any spoken word or gesture of hate.

The smile of Mona Lisa has intrigued generations, and not even the greatest of art critics can claim that he has properly interpreted it. The smile of Moran Chambers, which puzzled every person in the teeming courthouse, and supplied headlines on the following morning for the whole of the New York press, paralysed the nerves and seared the heart of the man against whom it was levelled. Three days out upon the Atlantic–and Moran Chambers behind the walls of Sing Sing! Yet fear–cold, grizzly fear–had chilled the whole being of Reuben Argels when he left the courthouse and had remained with him ever since–his woefully undesired travelling companion. . . .

It was the careless laugh of a passing woman which dispelled his nightmare. With furtive glances here and there, Reuben Argels commenced his promenade–the first time he had ventured outside the shelter of four walls since the trial, except twice to cross a strip of pavement to a waiting limousine. He walked the full length of the deck and returned. He recommenced his enterprise, and then, halfway between the exit from his own deck cabin and the door of the smoking room, he came to a sudden halt. His fingers stole into his coat pocket. In the face of danger, or what might have been danger, his instinct of self-preservation made him almost a brave man. He waited. Slowly along the deck there came towards him a familiar figure–a man of later middle age, tall, with a melancholy visage, lank and thin, almost hatchet-faced. He saw Reuben Argels rooted in the middle of the deck with his hand straying towards that hidden pocket and he recognised the situation. On board a crowded steamer he did nothing so melodramatic as to throw up his hands. He stretched them out wide on each side and came lumbering along like a gaunt sign-post. Arrived within speaking distance, he addressed the perturbed but motionless figure.

“That’s all right, Reuben,” he assured him smoothly, speaking with a pronounced Scotch accent. “I’m not taking it that way. You ought to know me better. I’ve never in my life even handled firearms for a serious purpose.”

Reuben Argels, although his lips were fresh from the task of telling the poisoned lies which had sworn away a man’s liberty, nevertheless knew the truth when he heard it. His features relaxed. His right hand came out.

“Glad to see you, Andrew,” he exclaimed, with a nervous effort at enthusiasm. “I thought somehow you might be on the boat.”

Andrew Pulwitter looked at the outstretched hand, but made no movement towards taking it. He shook his head.

“Reuben Argels,” he confided, “I’d have you understand that I’m a Scotchman and a man of peace. I’m not for risking my life or liberty by punishing you as you deserve, but to shake hands with you is not in my mind for the moment.”

“What I did saved your bacon, anyhow,” Argels pointed out.

“Verra possibly,” the Scotchman assented. “I didn’t ask you to do it, though. I’d rather have gone to prison than have done it myself.”

“You hadn’t the nerve,” Argels rejoined.

“Granted,” the other acquiesced calmly. “I shouldn’t have had the nerve. I’m not so good at lying at any time. A scheme like yours would have been outside my comprehension. What I didn’t realise until afterwards was that you had made a deal with the prosecution. I didn’t realise that, nor, I think, did any one in court until it became evident that there was to be no cross-examination.”

Reuben Argels shrugged his shoulders.

“This world–especially the moneyed world of New York,” he said cynically–“wasn’t made for philanthropists. I was offered a chance of saving my liberty and my money. We couldn’t all get out of that unholy mess. Some one had to suffer. It was Moran’s own scheme. He led us into it. Why shouldn’t he pay?”

Andrew Pulwitter stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“You’ve put a problem up against me, Reuben,” he admitted.

“Problem be damned!” was the irritated rejoinder. “We have made a great deal of money together, the three of us, and mostly honestly, even for Wall Street. This time we went, perhaps, a trifle too far, but if we did, it was Moran’s fault more than ours. We brought off a big coup and we’ve got our money. But, listen here, Andrew. We’d never have touched a cent, if I hadn’t taken the line I did. We should all three of us have been in Sing Sing at the present moment. Moran Chambers had enemies of his own who had no grudge against us. I was offered a deal and I took it. You benefited by what I did just as much as I have. Come and have a drink and let’s forget it.”

“It’s not my wish to quarrel with any one,” Andrew Pulwitter observed. “You know my opinion of your behaviour, Reuben, but you’ll get what’s coming to you without my denying myself a free drink. The dry Martinis in the double glasses here beat Mother Hitchcock’s down on Forty-first Street to smithereens.”

They strolled towards the smoking room.

“Mother Hitchcock’s!” Argels scoffed. “Thank God we have done with those beastly speak-easies. I am going to spend the rest of my life in civilised countries, Andrew. I am going to touch the London suckers for what I want. And afterwards–”

“Well, afterwards?” his companion asked curiously.

Reuben Argels shrugged his shoulders. They were comfortably ensconced in the bar, with two large, clouded glasses in front of them. Already the world was a brighter place.

“France for me!” Argels exclaimed. “A permanent appartement in Paris, summer at Deauville or Le Touquet, winter at Cannes or Monte Carlo. That’s the life for you, Andrew. I’ve dreamed of it all my days.”

“Kind of making plans ahead, aren’t you?” the Scotchman murmured.

“And why shouldn’t I?” his companion demanded, setting down his half-empty glass. “I believe in knowing what you’re out for in life.”

Andrew Pulwitter, who had been leaning back in his chair, with his hands in his trousers pockets and his eyes fixed speculatively upon the ceiling, straightened himself. His hard blue eyes gleamed underneath their bushy white eyebrows as he turned towards his neighbour.

“Reuben,” he asked, “might you have noticed that smile on Moran Chambers’ face when he looked at you in the witness box?”

Reuben Argels finished his cocktail and signalled to the barman. He spoke with a certain amount of gusto, but, nevertheless, his voice shook and he was conscious of that uncomfortable sinking of the heart.

“Of course I did; so, apparently, did every journalist in New York. What about it?”

Andrew Pulwitter stroked his chin.

“If Moran Chambers had smiled at me like that,” he confided, “I shouldn’t have been troubling about making plans too far ahead.”

Argels lost his temper, as men sometimes do when in deadly fear.

“What the hell do you mean, Andrew?” he demanded. “We’ve fixed Moran up all right.”

“You have.”

“Very well then, I have. He got fifteen years. They led him down those stairs to fifteen years’ penal servitude. New York prisons aren’t cardboard houses. What harm is Moran Chambers going to do to me, or any one of us, from inside that steel-walled cell of his? Think, man. Use your common sense.”

Andrew Pulwitter stared at his glass for a moment, as though wondering what it contained. Then he raised it to his lips and drained its contents thoughtfully.

“Reuben,” he said, “I’m a man of intelligence, I hope, but common sense doesn’t get very far with me when I think of Moran Chambers. He is the one man I know who, I should say, was capable of performing impossibilities. If he had smiled at me as he smiled at you when they led him away, I should make my will, even if the walls of his cell were eight feet thick.”

There were two or three little beads of perspiration upon Argels’ forehead. He thrust his trembling hand into the breast pocket of his coat and produced a handful of Marconigrams.

“You are talking claptrap, Andrew Pulwitter,” he declared angrily. “Look at these! The warden of the prison is as close to me as any other man could be. We are like brothers. I have had a wireless every night since I have been on board. I’ll get another to-night. Read them.”

The Scotchman carefully adjusted his steel-rimmed spectacles and spelt out the typewritten characters of the first of the sheets he handled:

“ ‘Prisoner 1790 perfectly normal. Absolutely safe.

  Guarantee escape impossible. Walker, Warden.’ ”

“There you are, Andrew,” his companion almost shouted. “They are all the same. Straight to me from the warden of the prison. What have I to fear? What can there be to fear? He is there for fifteen years, with at the most five years’ remission–ten years. That’s good enough for me. I could make myself safe in ten years from any one.”

The words were confidently spoken, but there was anxiety in Argels’ eyes as they searched his companion’s. The latter nodded dubiously.

“ ’Tis a reassuring message,” he admitted, “and from any ordinary point of view the man would seem to be safe enough.”

“What do you mean ‘from any ordinary point of view’?”

The Scotchman took off his spectacles and polished them carefully before replacing them in their case.

“Reuben Argels,” he confided, “I am not what they call a superstitious man or given to fancying the impossible, but I tell you as man to man, lad–I didna like that smile.”

CHAPTER II

Reuben Argels, fortified by several visits to the smoking room, went down to dinner that night, and, with a bold front, faced for the first time the two hundred and thirty-eight passengers who filled the saloon. Things, however, went ill with him from the start. The second steward regretted that the place he had asked for at Mr. Pulwitter’s table was already taken. It was, as it happened, unoccupied, but that was because the passenger was ill and he might appear at any moment. He affected not to see the note which fluttered tentatively in Argels’ fingers and led him towards a solitary table at the far end of the room. Argels was taking his place–the steward, indeed, had bowed himself away–when he received the second and more poignant shock of this momentous day. The floor heaved up beneath his feet. The knuckles of the hand which gripped the side of his chair were tensely white. Seated only three tables away, looking at him, as it seemed at first, with indifferent eyes, was the woman whom he had last seen struggling to reach Moran Chambers’ hand as he was led from the court–Ambouyna Kotinzi, the world-famed cinema actress, whom New York had pronounced the most beautiful woman in the universe. . . .

An utterly commonplace incident forced Reuben Argels back into touch with his surroundings. A waiter stood by his side, an extended menu in his hand.

“What can I get for you, sir?”

Reuben Argels subsided into his chair. The man leaned sympathetically towards him.

“Not feeling very well, sir?” he enquired. “Shall I get you some brandy? She has started to roll a bit the last half-hour.”

Argels recovered himself.

“I’m all right,” he declared. “A glass of champagne would do me more good than brandy, I think.”

He ordered his dinner, selected some wine, and unfolded his napkin. Fate had dealt ill with him in his choice of a steamer. Andrew Pulwitter–Moran Chambers’ greatest friend–he had been prepared to meet, but this woman, the object of his own infatuation, whom all New York declared to be madly in love with Chambers, her presence seemed to him far more menacing. He summoned up his courage and ventured to look at her. She was so beautiful that, afraid though he was, he could scarcely glance at her without a twinge of emotion. Her skin, almost destitute of colour, had an exquisite smoothness. Her deep blue eyes were fringed with silky black eyelashes. The dark rims underneath seemed to detract nothing from her loveliness. He hated himself as he remembered the beginning of his infatuation for her. There had been letters, flowers, a jewel case, all returned unopened. Then at last he had met her in Moran Chambers’ apartment, her arm around his neck, her devotion blatant. He knew very well, although he had seldom acknowledged it to himself, that from that moment he had hated Moran Chambers. He had had his revenge, but much good it was likely to do him, so far as this woman was concerned. He had caught her eye for a moment, as he had descended from the witness box. He had passed close to her and she had drawn her skirts aside, as though from some loathsome animal. . . . It was a cruel stroke of fortune to place him within a few yards of her here. Perhaps–but there was no chance of that. All the world spoke of her fidelity. He was the last man upon whom she was likely to cast even a glance. He tried to persuade himself that revenge was worth having. To-night Moran Chambers was wearing prison garb and eating prison food. He poured some champagne into his glass and drank a silent toast. It was scarcely a pleasant one, but it was at least fervent. As he set down his empty goblet, some impulse, partly perhaps of defiance, impelled him to look across that space of empty tables. Ambouyna was watching him. Her eyes met his without a quiver. There was no recognition in them, but, on the other hand there was no flash of passionate anger, neither was there even a frown upon her beautiful face. Perhaps she was wondering what that toast had been. He had an insane longing to tell her. . . .

Afterwards, he drank his coffee and smoked his cigar in the verandah café. He was a lonely man, but that was almost to be expected. The cause célèbre in which he had just featured was none too savoury a one, and out of his own mouth, in the witness box, he had been forced into admitting himself responsible for many minor acts, dishonourable, if not dishonest. He had never hoped to be able to resume his position in New York. London, however, for which city he was bound, was different, less discriminating, if not more charitable. It was entirely a new world, this, to which he was going, a new form of enterprise to which he was committed. He thought of it without misgiving, even, when he could rid his mind of other matters, with enthusiasm. He had no lack of confidence in his own powers. A man who had started as an errand boy, who had made a quarter of a million on Wall Street before he had ever come into contact with Moran Chambers and his friends, could scarcely be at a disadvantage in the city of London. Besides, the basis of money making was the same all the world over. He drew a pencil from his pocket, and a piece of paper, and began to make calculations. Suddenly his fingers became numb. He was conscious of a queer sense of excitement. There was a perfume around him, a presence which the sensuous nature of the man swiftly interpreted. Some one was standing by his side. He looked up. It was Ambouyna, in a flaming red dress, the top part of which only, chiffon to her throat, he had seen in the dining room. She was looking down at him with contemplative eyes. Whatever bitter feeling she may have felt was at that moment concealed.

“You are Mr. Reuben Argels, are you not?” she enquired.

“That is my name,” he admitted, rising unsteadily to his feet. “The whole world knows yours.”

She nodded.

“You came to a party at Moran Chambers’ flat one night,” she reflected. “We met there, didn’t we?”

“For the first time,” he assented. “I–I must confess that I made an effort to become acquainted with you before. I fear that I gave you offence.”

There was a faint note of scorn in her little laugh.

“My dear man,” she told him, “half New York has offended me in the same way. We have spoken of our first meeting. Do you remember our last?”

“I do,” he confessed.

“It was at the courthouse,” she went on. “I think that you are a very brave man. I think that you are one of the bravest men I ever met. I felt a sudden impulse to stop and tell you so.”

“Won’t you sit down?” he invited, as she still lingered.

To his amazement, she consented. This act of possible friendliness gave him courage. His subtlety of brain was returning, and, with it, his self-confidence.

“I don’t know why you should consider me brave,” he protested. “It was a painful ordeal, to give evidence against a friend, but I had to do it. If I had kept silent, Andrew Pulwitter would have been dragged in, not to speak of myself, and Chambers would have been no better off.”

He saw the disbelief lurking in her eyes and felt the sting of her bitter laugh.

“I know a great deal about Moran’s affairs,” she confided. “I know that you lied to keep yourself from going to prison and to make it quite certain that he went there. It was very dramatic and I say again that it appears to me to need courage when the man who has been sent to prison was Moran Chambers.”

“I was sorry for the result of my evidence,” he persisted doggedly. “Nothing could have saved Moran from conviction, though. He had broken the law a dozen times over.”

“So had you all. That could have been proved if the case had gone on. Moran Chambers had other enemies, though. The law wanted him and it made use of you. I suppose you are very happy in your escape, yes?”

“I went through a great deal,” he told her, with an attempt at dignity. “For me it is finished. I would rather not speak of it any more.”

“You are very wise,” she agreed, with quiet sarcasm. “That is what you told the journalists, is it not?”

“May I offer you coffee perhaps?” he invited.

She shook her head and rose to her feet.

“Just now,” she confessed, “I am not in the humour to drink coffee with you. I wished to see what you looked like, close at hand. I still think that you are a very brave man.”

“I wish that you were not so prejudiced against me,” he pleaded.

“Prejudice is not quite the word,” she rejoined. “You see, Moran Chambers is my dear friend.”

“Was, you mean,” he corrected spitefully. “Moran doesn’t exist any more, so far as this world is concerned. Fifteen years, and even ten, if he gets off with that, will break him.”

Her eyes swept his eager face with immeasurable contempt.

“Moran Chambers will remain in Sing Sing Prison,” she declared, “just as long as he likes and no longer. It may be you who will take his place.” . . .

She drifted away and was pounced upon at once by one of the many cavaliers who were waiting their opportunity. He passed her a few minutes later on his way to the smoking room, the centre of a little group of men, young and old. She raised her eyes. There was no recognition in her fleet glance, nor any friendship; something, perhaps, of menace, a little of mockery. He passed impatiently on to the smoking room. After all, the woman was an artist, and no artist possesses common sense. He patted his evening Marconigram, which remained in his coat pocket. Chambers was a man of great gifts and great personality–he was ready to admit that–he had always admitted it, but there were limits to a man’s power, and the walls of the most fiercely guarded prison in the world were never likely to crumble and fall down at his trumpet call. In the smoking room he found Pulwitter alone and he at once took the vacant seat by his side.

“Andrew,” he announced, “I want to talk to you.”

The Scotchman eyed him keenly from underneath his shaggy eyebrows.

“I couldn’t believe m’ eyes when I saw Moran’s little lady talking to you just now,” he observed. “What might she have been saying?”

“Just a few words of nonsense,” was the irritable reply. “According to her, Chambers can walk out of prison when he chooses. A woman who gets that way about a man is simply crazy. I came here to talk to you about something else.”

He ordered whiskies and sodas from the bar, lit a cigarette, and waited whilst his companion filled a peculiarly disreputable-looking pipe.

“What are your plans when you arrive in London?” he asked presently.

“My mind is undecided for the moment,” Pulwitter acknowledged. “We brought plenty away with us and there’s the Bamford Trust in the near future. I’ll probably buy a small house up near Edinburgh and take things easy.”

Argels laughed scornfully.

“A man with a brain like yours is not going to be content with a million dollars. We both know that. I am going to make mine into ten.”

“You’re a younger man than I am and you need occupation,” Pulwitter remarked.

“So do you,” Argels insisted. “As soon as you smell the money-making in the air, you’ll want to be getting at it. Now, Andrew, let’s have this out. You’ve always been Chambers’ friend and you disapproved of the bargain I made, although you owe your liberty to it. Never mind that. You can’t alter what’s happened. Every man for himself in this world. That’s the only motto a business man can afford to have. Therefore I say wipe out the past and its prejudices. Moran Chambers is off the map, but you and I are still on it. I have ideas of my own about a financial business in London. What about coming in with me? Equal capital, equal profits, and I’ll guarantee that I’ll do most of the work.”

Andrew Pulwitter withdrew his pipe from his mouth and laid it by his side.

“That’s a plain question,” he said, “and I’ll give you a plain answer. I will not come in with you, Reuben Argels. I would not be your partner in any serious enterprise for any money you could offer me.”

There was a moment’s pause. Argels was not a sensitive man, but his companion’s uncompromising speech had struck beneath the surface. There was a flush in his cheeks, a half-angry, half-hurt look in his eyes.

“Why not?” he protested. “Is it my judgment you doubt? Moran had the social backing, of course, and your judgment was always good, but I made most of the money that was made by our little syndicate.”

“You did well enough,” Pulwitter admitted. “You have a money-making brain, and I’m not doubting but that if you live long enough you’ll make more, but I’ll not be your partner for two reasons. The first is that I wouldn’t form an association with a perjurer, and the second is that I don’t want my affairs mixed up with yours when Moran Chambers strikes back.”

Reuben Argels lost his temper. There were a dozen heads in the smoking room turned at the sound of his fist striking the table in front of him.

“Are you all crazy?” he demanded. “Chambers has been sentenced to fifteen years’ penal servitude. He is in Sing Sing Prison at the present moment, and even though he says his prayers at night and goes to church every Sunday, he hasn’t an earthly chance of getting out before ten years. What do you mean by ‘when he strikes back?’ Are you like Ambouyna Kotinzi? Do you think he can walk out of prison when he chooses?”

Pulwitter seemed determined not to be led into making a hasty reply. He knocked the ashes from his pipe and refilled it. Then he glanced out of the dripping porthole. They had run into a squall, and the Fernanda, great ship though she was, was pitching heavily.

“Maybe I’m a trifle superstitious, Argels,” he acknowledged. “That’s neither here nor there. You have asked me a plain question and I have given you a plain answer.”

Reuben Argels was a very disturbed man. The quietness of his tone was only attained by a mighty effort at repression.

“I saved you from prison, Andrew Pulwitter,” he declared, “as well as myself, by making a bargain, if you choose to call it so, with the prosecution, and giving the evidence against Moran which they couldn’t collect. They wanted Moran and they didn’t want us. We’re both free and we’re both rich men. Do you owe me nothing for that?”

“What you did, you did to save your own skin,” was Andrew Pulwitter’s stern rejoinder. “I’m better off as it is, I grant you, but I haven’t a word of thanks or a sentence of gratitude to offer you. Furthermore, if I had known what you were going to be up to, I’d have been in court myself and fought my way into the box. It was a foul thing you did, Argels. I don’t believe for a moment that you’ll get away with it. You think I’m crazy, but I tell you this. Moran Chambers held his tongue, for one reason, because he’s a great sportsman, and for another–and I’m pretty sure of what I’m telling you–because he’d made his plans if things went as they have done. I don’t blame you for keeping to your cabin when you heard I was on board and bringing a weapon with you when you did come out. It just happens, though, that I’m not a killing man. There are plenty who are and you’ll need to tread gingerly, my lad. Perjury is a pretty serious affair under any conditions.”

Reuben Argels finished his drink, brushed the cigar ash from his waistcoat, and stood up.

“Pulwitter,” he said, “I am very glad you decided as you did. I haven’t any time in this life to waste with fools.”

The Scotchman grinned. He had not the slightest objection to being called a fool. A good many people in the past, who had thought him simple-minded, had found their bank accounts suffered for the idea.

“Good night, Argels,” he responded. “Keep looking out. Life’s a dangerous business.”

Reuben Argels had meant to make a complete promenade of the ship, but just before he finished the first circuit, he became conscious that his knees were shaking. He paused and looked over the side. He had always prided himself upon his nerve and his self-restraint. Both had failed him since that long afternoon in the Law Court. He took himself earnestly to task. The memory of Moran Chambers’ sinister smile, the mysterious warnings of an hysterical woman, crazy with confidence in her lover, the abuse of a dour Scotchman, full of superstitions and narrow prejudices! What were these for him to take serious notice of, to interfere for one moment with the career which he had planned for himself? He watched the bows of the ship dip into the trough of the sea, and mount again to the tops of the great waves, driven everlastingly forward by the huge power of the throbbing engines. Once the spray fell around him, stinging his cheeks, leaving behind a keen, salty flavour. He had plenty of imagination of a sort, and, for a time, he was fascinated. Here was power indeed–this turbulent element met and conquered by the brain of man. He leaned farther over, and gazed, spellbound, into the black gulf below. Suddenly he felt what seemed to be a prick upon his shoulder. It was scarcely a pain. It was as though a needle, lost in his clothing, had been driven against his arm by his straining over the side. He stood upright, and shook himself, just in time to see a dark form disappear down the strip of deck between the chartroom and the bows. He followed, but, by the time he reached it, the passage was empty. He looked along its imperfectly lit and narrow stretch and turned away. He felt his shoulder nervously and fear seized him. Down in his stateroom, he tore off his coat and examined it. There was a small round hole through the top of the sleeve, through his shirt, and a tiny scratch upon the shoulder blade itself from which oozed one drop of blood. It was less than the prick of a child’s finger, yet he dabbed it with his sponge and dried it with meticulous care. Then he locked his door and commenced slowly to undress. Curiously enough, he had no idea of lodging any form of complaint. His whole attention was engrossed by amazed speculation as to the ineffectuality of the attack. He asked himself repeatedly what could be the meaning of so eccentric a gesture. The times when, within his knowledge, Moran Chambers had struck in self-defence, or at an enemy, it had been no such child’s play as this. There was an element of disturbing mystery about so daring, yet so ineffective an assault, he thought, as he went shivering to bed.

CHAPTER III

It was some hours before Argels was able to sleep, after his adventure upon the deck, and it seemed to him that he had scarcely closed his eyes when he was awakened by a disagreeable sense of stuffiness in the atmosphere. He soon understood the cause. His porthole had been closed and the encircling blue curtains drawn together over it. His light–the one remote from his bedside–was shining, his automatic pistol had been removed, and, exactly opposite to him, Andrew Pulwitter was seated upon a stool, staring at a metal-encased despatch box, which he had dragged out from underneath the bed. A second later, with a clumsiness which certainly suggested some lack of familiarity with firearms, Pulwitter had snatched the pistol from the carpet by his side and was brandishing it in his direction. Argels took particular care to make no further movement.

“You surprise me, Pulwitter,” he said reproachfully. “You told me that you left the rough stuff to others.”

“I am not pretending I’m fond of it,” the Scotchman replied, glancing fearfully down at the weapon in his hand. “Such an intrusion as this, for instance, to a man of my dignity and years, is painful. As for the gun, I was telling you the truth when I said that I didn’t own one. This is yours and a neat little weapon it seems to be, though it’s hard to believe that it would put away a man’s life. If you’d be passing me the keys of this box of yours, Argels, I could be getting on with the job.”

“I regret extremely that I find it impossible to humour you,” was the curt reply.

“And why not?”

“Because I don’t happen to have the keys in my possession.”

There was a little twitch of the Scotchman’s lips. His face seemed set in unusually hard lines.

“Reuben Argels,” he said, “you know very well that I am Moran Chambers’ friend. You knew it when you came on board and skulked for three days in your cabin. You were afraid of what I might do to you. You were afraid with good cause, too. Luckily for you, I’m a Scotchman, and Scotchmen are careful folk. I’d like to keep my own life, or I’d think nothing of putting a bullet into your heart as you sit there. Anything in the nature of a struggle might give me courage to take the risk, but so long as you stay quiet, I’ve not the opportunity to despatch you where you belong. Give me the keys or I’ll perhaps bring the struggle along myself.”

Reuben Argels sat patiently up in the bed. He was wearing mauve silk pyjamas of a fashionable cut, which his visitor had already eyed with disgust.

“My friend Pulwitter,” he remonstrated, “I was sound asleep when you arrived and I am still a little dazed, but when I tell you that I have not the keys of that box you are examining and that they are not to be found in this stateroom, I am telling you the truth.”

“It’s not credible,” the other demurred. “No man carries around with him a chest like this with four locks to it and no keys.”

“Upon the table to your left,” Argels pointed out, “you will notice a box of cigarettes and a briquet. If, without disturbing that dangerously poised revolver of yours, you could throw them to me with your left hand, I should, I believe, be able to take a more intelligent share in this conversation.”

The Scotchman stretched out his hand and threw the articles, one by one, on to the bed. Argels lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke down his nostrils with great satisfaction.

“You see, Andrew,” he explained, “the position was difficult. I boarded this steamer with a lot of documents which I knew you people needed badly and which might possibly get me into trouble. I had also with me a very large number of bonds which, for certain reasons, I preferred to cash on the other side. Now, as you have already appreciated, it takes a strong man to even lift that case, so it isn’t easily stolen. The only trouble, therefore, about its complete security, is the keys. Do you know what I did with them, Andrew?”

“You are going to tell me that they are in the purser’s office, I suppose,” the other grunted. “We will see about that.”

“I am going to tell you nothing of the sort,” Argels assured him. “I sent the keys across on the Levonia, which left twenty-four hours before us, and my agent will meet me at the customs shed at Marseilles with them, and two plain-clothes policemen promised me by the Chef de Sûreté.”

The Scotchman reflected for a few minutes.

“It was a bright scheme,” he admitted.

“Don’t pain me by doubting my word,” Argels begged. “You can put me on my parole, if you like, and search my belongings. They are exactly where I told you they were.”

“As a matter of fact,” Pulwitter decided, “I’ll turn out your things, but I have an idea that you’re telling me the truth.”

He made a laborious search. At the end of it he returned to his stool. Argels was toying with the bell pull.

“Yes,” his visitor observed, “there’s a night watchman all right. Some one would come if you rang. My story’s ready and I reckon my word’s as good as yours.”

“I should hate to do anything,” Argels said, “to disturb our present happy relations. Are you satisfied that I have not the keys with me?”

“If you have,” Andrew Pulwitter conceded, “they’re too cleverly hidden for me. On the subject of keys, I’ll give you best for the moment, Reuben Argels.”

“Capital! And now, will you tell me this? Am I to look upon your visitation as a serious effort at burglary, or as a jest?”

The Scotchman was obviously puzzled. He shook his lean head.

“There’s no jest about the matter, my lad,” he declared. “I came here to rob you in a good cause. I’m perhaps a trifle deficient in my sense of humour, but I see no jest in not being able to find your keys.”

Argels held his head for a moment. Then he drew himself a little farther up in the bed.

“Listen, my friend,” he recounted, “this is my second adventure of the sort within the last few hours. I was leaning over the side of the ship just before midnight and I felt a prick on my shoulder. Some one had stolen up behind me and, with a small poniard, stabbed me just enough to break the skin. I tried to catch the fellow, but he must have gone over the rails and down into the second class, for when I got to the cross deck, he had disappeared.”

“The story is most interesting,” Pulwitter admitted. “I am bound to acknowledge that I had no share in it, though. My legs may be long, but I have passed that time of life when one can get about the decks like a cat.”

“I suppose it’s damned funny,” Argels answered lugubriously. “An attempt at assassination which ends in a pinprick and a comic burglary by a respectable Scotchman who can’t find the keys.”

Pulwitter placed the automatic well out of reach.

“There’s no call now for this little plaything, I’m thinking,” he remarked. “We’re talking like two sensible men. My opinion about your adventure of this evening is that your assassin was just obeying orders when he let you off with a pinprick. Moran Chambers was never a man for hasty vengeance. He may be trying to break your nerve.”

“Let him try,” Argels muttered defiantly. “I’m not such a weakling as all that.”

“Nevertheless,” the Scotchman meditated, “there’s many a time I’ve heard Moran say that to kill a man outright was no sort of punishment at all. He may have another scheme in his head.”

“It will take more than bodkins, and burglars of your type, to frighten me,” Argels scoffed.

Pulwitter nodded sympathetically.

“I’m not doubting but that you’re full of courage, Reuben Argels,” he acknowledged, “yet, as I warned you when you spoke to me of a partnership, you may yet be in a dangerous position at times. You’re like a man with a price set on his head, and, though I think I have the courage of an ordinary man, I’ve a trifle of discretion as well, and I’d not willingly be in your shoes.”

Argels thrust a pillow behind his back and sat a little higher up in bed.

“For all your long-winded talk, Andrew,” he said, “and your respectable appearance, I’m inclined to place you in the same category as the rascal who pricked my shoulder.”

“Comic performers, both of us,” the Scotchman chuckled.

“What about Ambouyna Kotinzi?” Argels asked.

“You’d best be having a care,” Pulwitter warned him. “I was a startled man, I can tell you, when I saw her having speech with you on the verandah.”

Argels’ fingers played with his moustache for a moment.

“These ladies from the stage and the film world are all pretty much the same,” he declared. “When one man’s away, another has to do. If you would push that automatic of mine a little farther out of reach,” he went on persuasively, “there’s a bottle of whisky and a syphon, and a few glasses behind you.”

The Scotchman hesitated. Then he extracted the cartridges from the automatic and pocketed it.

“We’ve nothing to gain by plugging holes in one another,” he reflected. “Stay where you are and I’ll deal with the refreshments.”

He served two whiskies and sodas with admirable care and gravity. Argels accepted his and the conference began to assume an entirely friendly attitude.

“I’m a disappointed man, Reuben,” his visitor admitted.

“You mean that you don’t like the whisky?”

“The whisky is fine,” was the prompt reassurance. “It’s the brand I always ask for myself when I’m out of the country where God meant the stuff to be drunk in. I came here to look through that box, though. It’s not your bonds I’m after. I want the letter referring to the Wells Estate business and the agreement with Hooper, the Detroit man who died last month. There are documents in there which might almost get our friend out of Sing Sing.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Argels chuckled, “but they’re as far out of your reach as though they were in the vaults of the Federal Bank.”

Pulwitter scratched his head.

“I’m thinking that it’s a burglar-proof box, that,” he observed.

Argels, now quite at his ease, lit a cigarette and leaned forward. The blue wisp of smoke curled around his over-manicured finger nails.

“Andrew,” he proposed, “chuck in your hand. Join up with me. Chambers played for a big stake and lost. I won. Join the winning side. You’ll make all the money you want. I’ll promise you that, and we’d work together wonderfully. In London we don’t need to run any risks.”

The Scotchman shook his head.

“When I take a partner,” he confided, “I like to feel that there are a few years of life still before him. If you see six months out, you’ll be lucky.”

“You and Ambouyna, and the amiable gentleman who pricked my shoulder blade, are going to make sure of that, I suppose,” Reuben Argels sneered.

“There are more than three of us who’d go through fire and water for Moran Chambers,” the Scotchman assured him. “The killing isn’t due yet, though.”

“You are so damned melodramatic,” Argels complained. “Your threats remind me of one of the old Drury Lane plays. You break in here at half-past two in the morning and settle down in front of my treasure chest as though you would open it by staring at it. I would have invited you in any time to have looked it over in peaceful fashion.”

“I wasna sure that I wouldn’t find the keys,” Pulwitter explained.

“More fool you!” Argels scoffed. “What do you take me for–one of the babes in the wood?”

The Scotchman sighed.

“I was a wee bit of an optimist, perhaps,” he admitted. “It’s a fine chest,” he went on, looking at it thoughtfully. “He’d be a master of his profession who broke into that without the proper keys.”