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- Herausgeber: James
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
The Trail Of Death By H. Bedford-Jones
TitleThe Trail of Death
Original PublicationUnited States :The Consolidated Magazines Corporation (The Blue Book Magazine),1926.
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H. Bedford-Jones
Table of contents
The Trail of Death
The Trail of Death
“Over Abbeville,” the second in this remarkable series, includes one of the most unusual and exciting scenes ever described—a fight to the death waged in the narrow cabin of a London-to-Paris passenger plane.
Durant stood at the rail, watching the gleam of the Land’s End light twinkle across the night. The Tyrania was on the last leg of her voyage; at dawn she would be just off Plymouth, and all those who could change at the last moment would go into the lighter instead of on to Cherbourg, for dirty weather lay ahead of her. Durant had changed, but for other reasons.
A light step, and Durant turned to find the slender figure of Baroness Glincka at his side. Known aboard ship as Mrs. Robinson, her unhappy story was hidden with her name; only Durant knew how her dead husband’s cousin, Boris Makoff, held her gripped in tentacles of blackmail, forcing her to aid his little schemes, making her an unwilling but helpless member of his Paris coterie of genteel crooks. It was for her sake that Durant had wormed his way into this organization, getting the confidence of Makoff—waiting!
“You got the message?” she asked in the darkness.
“Yes, and changed. You’ll get off at Plymouth too?”
“Yes. Boris is planning something at London, before going on. I’m not sure what; but the victim is that white-haired man who keeps to himself. Larson, the name is. Boris introduced him to me tonight, using my real name. He’s a nice old man.”
“And a game’s on, eh?” Durant knew Larson by sight—a stiff, bronzed man with white hair and mustache, and shrewd, kindly old eyes, traveling alone.
“Something. Boris wants you to come into the smoking-room, and meet Larson. I think he’s a Dane who’s made a fortune in America and is taking a trip to Denmark—that’s my guess. I suppose Boris means to wring his neck in London by your help and mine.”
“Pleasant prospect,” said Durant.
“What will Lewis say when he learns the truth?”
“He won’t learn it. I’ve arranged—at a little expense. You’ll see in the morning.”
“Then you’re a magician!”
“Borrowed magic—from your beauty.”
She laughed a little and was gone into the darkness. Durant stared out at the gleaming light on the horizon, and thought over the past, back to those Paris days when he, a clerk in an American branch bank, poor, half-starved, struggling for life and health, had seen the beautiful Baroness Glincka come in three times a week to the next window.
And now he knew her, was fighting for her—was a crook for her sake! An odd turn of destiny. An almost forgotten relative dead, a legacy of almost forgotten land in Florida, a trip home—wealth! Then he headed back for Paris, to take his ease where he had starved and fought and sweated. So he had thought—but work had come to him.
“That you, Durant?” It was the voice of Lewis, who came quietly out of the darkness, a cigar-tip glowing redly. “First sight of England, eh? I’m leaving you in the morning.”
“But I’m going up to London too, instead of on to Cherbourg.”
“Good! Shall I see you in London?”
“No. Wiser not—wait for Paris.”
“Right. I’ll give you my address there. I’m going right on—taking the afternoon plane over tomorrow.”
Lewis fumbled for a card-case. He was a smallish man, very alert—a wholesale druggist from the Middle West, now engaged in smuggling a suitcase filled with cocaine into France—a task in which Durant presumably was aiding. True, Durant had saved him from Boris Makoff, had dumped the cocaine into the Atlantic and substituted baking soda for it—and for these services, known and unknown, Lewis was an ally. Once in Paris, he promised to be a most important ally.
“Thanks.” Durant took the card thrust at him. “You’ll hear from me as soon as I get settled—if not before! I’ve a rather big game to pull off, and there’ll be pickings in it. They’ll go to your friends who help me. I’m not in it for money.”
He did not say that he was not in it for crooks’ money—he had no intention of injuring the feelings of Lewis just yet. The two men separated, and Durant headed for the smoking-room, filled to bursting with the usual last-night crowd.
Makoff had a table and lounge in one corner; with him was the silent, rather offish Larson—impeccably dressed, as usual, and only a little less lonely. Helen—or Baroness Helena Glincka—had rejoined them and was drawing Larson into almost lively conversation. Cards lay waiting on the table.
Durant approached, saw Makoff make a remark, saw the eyes of Larson sweep to him with almost eager interest. He could not understand it, but came up to the table. Makoff rose.
“Ah, Durant! Let me introduce you to Mr. Larson of Toledo—Mr. Durant. What about a rubber, if your packing’s done?”
“Glad.” Durant bowed to the Baronne, and shook hands with Larson, in whose mild blue eyes rested that same curious, scrutinizing expression. Then and later his manner toward Durant was almost deferential, though as a rule his air was brusque enough. That he was quite captivated by the Baronne, too, was soon evident.
There was no opportunity for private conversation until, a few rubbers ended, Helen departed under pretense of having to pack. Larson also rose, and shook hands with Durant.
“If you’re alone,” he said, “we might go to London together in the morning.”
“I’ll be glad,” said Durant, finding himself liking the old man. “See you at the pier, eh?”
So they parted. Left alone, Durant met the gaze of Makoff with inquiring eyes.
“Well? What’s the game?”
The bold, aggressive regard of the Russian dwelt upon him for an instant, and in those dark depths Durant read startling, baffling things.
“Tell you later,” said Makoff calmly, with a gesture at the room. “Get up to London with him, ask him to visit you for a day or so—until Monday, say. The week-end. Tell him your car will meet the train.”
“My car? But I haven’t any!”
“Your mistake,” said Makoff, and smiled. “Your chauffeur, Giles, will meet the train.” And this was all he would say.
In the drizzling rain of a dark gray dawn, the Tyrania disembarked her passengers into the lighter, while the rattling, banging winches sent aboard the nets of hold luggage. Durant stood in the rain on the upper deck of the lighter, watching.
“I’ve been looking for you.” The Baronne emerged from the cabin, joined him. Her face was pale, anxious, her sky-blue eyes wide and filled with alarm. “I’ve learned what’s up—”
Durant, touching his hat, turned suddenly to the rail. “Look!” he broke in. There was a swift commotion forward—angry cries, orders, a medley of voices. One of the nets had just come down.
“What is it?” she demanded, frowning at the rain-wet scene. Durant laughed.
“That,” he said, “is the pet suitcase of our friend Lewis going over the side. It’s gone! Here’s the sequel.” And he opened his hand to show a twenty-pound note. “But you were going to say—”
She came close to him. “I’ve found out about it,” she said rapidly in French. “I think Larson’s to be murdered—I’m not sure. He’s carrying a large sum—got it from the purser—in cash.”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Durant, and took her hand. He smiled into her eyes. “Out of the rain, now! All’s well that ends well. Au revoir!”
The last Durant saw of Lewis, the little rascal was involved in heated argument at the Customs shed with sundry porters. Durant laughed and passed on. His own trail was covered; the cocaine and substitute alike were gone; and the past was closed. The future remained.
