The devils mountain, p.25
The Devil's Mountain, page 25
He had gone to his work that day chiefly to dispel any suspicion that he realised he was in danger. Yet, inwardly, he was fearfully apprehensive. True, he had been in tight places before and had made good his escape. They had discovered nothing against him in the States; merely to have been arrested was quite a different thing from having a conviction recorded against one; yet he knew in his heart of hearts that his former arrest on suspicion, in connection with a jewel robbery, would count against him now with the local police should they know of it, and he was possessed of the conviction that at last they knew.
He had sent away the pearls long since; they had arrived safely in New York; they could not be brought in evidence against him. No one had seen him entering or leaving Marian’s room on the night he took the necklace; no one—and yet Marian said Mr. Phipps knew all about the theft. But Phipps would be silent for Marian’s sake Phipps would be silent: what then had he to fear? Let him keep calm, let him go about his work as usual, and, no matter what they might wish to suspect, they could not touch him: there was no evidence against him.
Again and again he went over the ground, reaching this conclusion, but not deriving from it that feeling of certainty without which the most hopeful of conclusions is vain. The dread and terror which, three years before, had driven him out of America and to Peru, assailed him now; he was plagued by doubts. Had anything been discovered about the robbery of Mrs. Stone’s jewels? Had anything been brought to light in connection with some of his former acts? That question would obtrude itself into his mind. And—would Marian remain silent? She had assured him that she would say nothing, would give no hint, but suppose her nerves gave way? The American detective might question her, press her hardly, might return again and again to the charge: what would she do? She had no reason to wish to deal gently with him, she might think she had a very good reason to do otherwise. She might want to be rid of him: he believed that she did. Fear and jealously and wounded vanity lit a flame of wrath in his heart. What if she should say a word now that should send him to prison and leave her alone with Lawrence Beaman?
He did not believe in the loyalty of women. And then, did not Marian and Lawrence Beaman love one another?
He slipped his hands mechanically into the back pocket of his trousers; he would not go to prison, and Lawrence Beaman should not have her. She should die first: the next shot would be for himself. Beamean would have the awful satisfaction of being a mourner at her funeral. His wife, the wife of a Quesada of Peru, should be no Englishman’s leman.
That was one reason why he was at the hotel this afternoon. He booked a room there on coming back to the city. He would remain there for as long as he could. Tomorrow he would insist upon Marian going out to work with him: and if she could not go, he also would find some excuse for not going out with the company: he would keep her under his eyes always, until the end came. If arrested while away from her, he would ask leave to speak with her for a few minutes; he knew the Jamaica police would never refuse such a request, or think of putting handcuffs on him, or of treating him in anyway harshly. If arrested, with this American detective in the island, there would be a small chance of escape. He would act then, swiftly, decisively, but not before. He would not abandon hope until the police took a definite step; not until the last moment would he utterly despair. He drew his hand away from his pocket, and, with the feeling that someone was eyeing him intently, he turned his head in the direction from which this subtle, intangible indication came. He discovered Mr. Phipps looking curiously at him.
And something in Mr. Phipps’s face told Stephen that Phipps had guessed his intention from that involuntary movement of his towards his pistol pocket. Mr. Phipps had had no time to disguise the startled expression that had swept over his face: looking full at one another, both men discerned clearly the dominant thought in the mind of each. Mr. Phipps’s countenance assumed a hard expression: the light of a fighter shone in his eyes, his jaw thrust forward as his gaze riveted itself on the face of the other man. Stephen smiled mockingly, and stared defiance at Mr. Phipps. Then, as though moved by a sudden impulse, he walked over to where Mr. Phipps was standing.
The latter met him calmly. “To carry a gun without a license is a punishable offence in this country, friend,” said Mr. Phipps softly.
“Indeed,” said Stephen; “but how would it be known?”
“Ah, that is the question. This part of the British Empire goes in a lot for all the formalities of law; they make sure of their ground before they lay a charge against anyone. That is why I too think I am safe in carrying a gun.” And Mr. Phipps lightly touched his own pistol pocket with a meaning smile.
Stephen understood. He was to be under the surveillance of Mr. Phipps. He shrugged his shoulders carelessly and threw back his head. He was prepared for risks and struggles; he would not be frightened by a threat.
“Let us walk,” suggested Mr. Phipps. “One of those men over there is watching us rather keenly. If we walk up and down he can scarcely follow us. I want to talk to you.”
Deliberately turning their backs on the detective Mr. Phipps and Stephen strolled eastward until they were out of the man’s sight; then they turned and retraced their steps. They noticed that the detective had already begun to follow them, but that he stopped casually when he saw that they were coming back. Again they turned to repeat their walk.
“What are you going to do?” asked Mr. Phipps quietly. “Your wife told you what I said to her, I know.”
“I think you already know what I am going to do,” said Stephen. “I am a Quesada, and she bears my name. I will not leave her to Lawrence Beaman.”
“You are not generous, certainly,” retorted Mr. Phipps. “You have treated her shamefully, but you think only of yourself to the very last. If you wish to put an end to your life, do so: I for one would not prevent you. It might be the best thing, all things considered, that you could do: for a man like you there is no future worth having if you are once convicted and sent to prison. But why pursue the poor little girl with your unreasoning hate and jealousy? Be decent to her for once, Quesada!”
“And leave her for your friend, señor?” laughed Stephen bitterly. “That is not how a gentleman of Peru acts; but you, of course,—you would not understand! And let me tell you this: you must not again speak to me as you did just now. If you do—”
“I carry a gun as well as you, friend,” broke in Mr. Phipps warningly, “and you are not likely to take me unawares. Please remember, too, that any insane act on your part will only lead to your immediate arrest. You need not anticipate that by some hours.”
To and fro, west and east, in front of the main building of the hotel they walked, and the detective, noting that they were talking and promenading without giving him a glance, made no effort to keep them always in sight. But he kept the four gates of the hotel continually under his eyes, and he took the precaution to send his colleague to the southern part of the grounds which ended at the seawall. He knew that Stephen could slip round the eastern end of the building and get down to the seafront if he wished, and there a boat could easily be hailed.
“We came here together, and if I cannot escape she will go the way I go,” said Stephen in a bitter voice. “I don’t know that I would care to escape without her even if I had the chance of doing so—which I have not.”
“Yet—pardon me for saying so Señor Quesada,” said Mr. Phipps with elaborate politeness—“yet it is scarcely love that dictates your decision.”
“It is pride,” answered Stephen, drawing himself up with a flash of the eye. Mr. Phipps say the motion, noted the impetuous, arrogant look, and a memory of a scene by the shore of St. Ann, a scene in which were mingled the sea and some rocking boats, and a far-off horizon, and a little group of people, flashed into his mind.
“Let us stop here for a few minutes,” he commanded briskly: they were again out of the detective’s sigh. “Listen to me. Beaman knows that Marian is your wife; Lady Rosedale knows it too; Lady Rosedale is very fond of her and will take care of her. I don’t think you need to have any fear about your ‘honour’—it is that you are thinking of, isn’t it?”
“You know, señor.”
“So that if you could get away and leave the poor girl in peace—don’t try and bluff me, friend,” exclaimed Mr. Phipps testily, seeing that Stephen was about to resent his plain speaking: “it can’t be done, and you are not the man to do it, anyhow—if, I say, you could get away, she would be all right. She is among friends, and you ought to know, in spite of all your foolish jealousy, that she is not a light character, but a good woman at heart.”
“I would not have married her if I had thought she was not what she ought to be,” returned Stephen coldly.
“Then there is less excuse for the way you have treated her,” said Mr. Phipps firmly. “Now if you could get away—let us walk back: we have been standing here quite long enough.”
They retraced their steps again, and the detective, vigilantly waiting, and already beginning to wonder if they had gone round to the opposite side of the building, relaxed his tension.
Mr. Phipps was thinking rapidly. He could inform the detectives that Stephen was armed, and that might lead them to take some immediate action. But that might also lead to Stephen saying or doing something that might render Marian’s departure impossible. Such a risk could not be faced.
“You were saying, if I could get away,” said Stephen. “But I cannot. I am like a rat trapped: I am hunted, and the hunters are always in sight. I have been thinking, thinking, thinking, and I can see no way. There is only one way,” he added gloomily, “but I am not afraid of that. My people have never been afraid of it when it was a choice between disgrace and that only way.”
“There was only one way left to Don Arnaldo de Sassi,” murmured Mr. Phipps reminiscently. They had again left the detective out of sight, and their pace was slow. “There are boats along the northern shore that even now sail to Cuba with labourers who cannot get a passport here, or with folk who for reasons of their own do not want to apply for one. I wonder.”
Stephen stopped dead. “Señor?” he cried.
“My car, which can go fifty miles an hour at full speed, is just over there,” and Mr. Phipps pointing east to an open space where waiting cars were parked. “To my chauffeur I have given the evening off; I thought I might want to drive myself. Now if I were leaving this place and did not wish to be seen by anyone on the grounds, I would not make the mistake of going west, for that would take me past the hotel and I should probably be seen. I should go direct east for a block or so, turn north, and then go west—or whichever way I wanted to go. I guess some folk would spend sometime looking and asking for me before they would think of my having driven my car in a direction that hardly anyone ever takes on leaving the hotel. Let us walk back.”
“For the last time,” said Stephen.
“I suppose you carry plenty of money with you?” asked Mr. Phipps casually.
“I have enough now on my person for any purpose.”
“Some food purchased at a wayside shop, a handsome sum to a few boatmen, and I should soon be landed somewhere along the coast of Cuba safely,” continued Mr. Phipps, as though he were pursuing a train of personal reflections. “I speak Spanish fluently, you know, and so long as I do not trouble the Cuban officials, and am generous to those of them I come in contact with, I should hardly be molested in Cuba until I could slip out of it. Perhaps I might easily pass for a Cuban—will you excuse me if I leave you here?”
Without waiting for an answer Mr. Phipps walked rapidly away towards the hotel’s annex, and did not glance once behind him. Stephen stood still for a moment or two. Already it was darkling; the shadows of evening were dimming the sky; a little while and night would descend upon the earth, night and obscurity. He seemed to make up his mind to a final decision. Hurrying to the park wherein a few cars were waiting, he entered the one which he knew belonged to Mr. Phipps, started it and turned its head eastward. A block or two away from the hotel and he turned the car north; presently he was running dead west towards the only road he knew by which he could reach that little bay on the northern shore from which the last of the conquering Spaniards had, for the last time, embarked from Jamaica. Swiftly he sped towards this road; he remembered it well. In a very little while he must cross the mountain to which it led, the mountain which lay between him and safety. He was leaving Marian. But the imperative need of the moment was to think of himself. To Nora, to be with whom he had lingered longer in this country than prudence dictated, he gave no a thought. His mind was obsessed by what lay before him, by what lay behind—all the selfishness of the man was uppermost and dominant now: with an opportunity of escape had vanished all thought of protecting his “honour” even at the cost of a woman’s life.
Once over the mountain that lay ahead, and he had no doubt that he could land safely in Cuba, where he could easily pass for a Cuban, and thence steal away to someother Latin American country where he would need fear no agent of the English or the American police. That was his plan. So, swiftly and ever more swiftly, as the boundaries of the city were left behind, the car rushed forward towards la Montagña del Diablo, as the old Spaniards had named it—towards the Devil’s Mountain, as it still is called.
XXVII
MR. HAMMOND’S STORY
A polite request from Major Fellspar, about an hour after Stephen’s hurried departure from the Myrtle Bank Hotel, brought Mr. Phipps down from his room (in the seclusion of which he had determined to remain as long as it was possible to do so). He found Major Fellspar in the manager’s private office, with Inspector Harmsworth and Detective Sampson: Sampson looking just then the picture of dejection and dismay. And with them was the American detective, Baker, whom Mr. Phipps immediately greeted with well-simulated surprise and cordiality.
“I believe you were the last person seen with Stephen Braeme this evening, Mr. Phipps,” said Major Fellspar immediately, after somewhat coldly returning Mr. Phipps’s bow: “did you notice where he went when he left you?”
“I can’t say I did, Major,” replied Mr. Phipps. “As a matter of fact, he didn’t leave me; I left him. I had something to do in my room before dinner, so I asked him to excuse me—we had been walking together. What’s up, if I may ask?”
“It is very important that we should know where he has gone to,” returned the Inspector General gravely; “we believe that he did not come back into this building. He may have slipped behind the annex, of course, and gone out into the lane; it seems that that way of escape was not watched this afternoon”—Major Fellspar glanced angrily at Inspector Harmsworth, who reddened—“but you say, Mr. Phipps, that you did not notice the direction that he took?”
“I did not, Major; and for all you know he may still be somewhere in the hotel. But won’t you tell me what you are so anxious to find him you? You have awakened my curiosity. I take it, myself, that Stephen has gone out somewhere in the legitimate exercise of his right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, as is guaranteed to all men by our American Constitution. But you sort of suggest that you want him badly and that he has slipped out of your hands. I’d like to be wise on that.”
Mr. Phipps was aware that Baker was eyeing him keenly, but he took no notice of a scrutiny that was too searching to be polite. Baker distrusted him; that he felt certain of. But Baker could not know how much he knew about Stephen, and there he had Mr. Baker at a disadvantage.
“Braeme cannot possibly escape from Jamaica,” said Major Fellspar decisively; “so much at least is certain.” (Mr. Phipps took these words to mean: “No friends of Braeme’s need try to aid him, for they cannot succeed.”) “Yes, I will take you into our confidence, Mr. Phipps. Stephen Braeme, or Quesada, as his real name is, is wanted by the American Government for robbery. All the necessary formalities for his arrest and extradition will be completed tomorrow forenoon; in the meantime we have thought it advisable to keep an eye on him. You were seen with him an hour ago. When he had not appeared for a few minutes—that is the time Detective Sampson mentions, but it must have been longer—a search was made for him, and he was nowhere to be found. Sampson then telephoned to Detective Headquarters, and I thought I would come down myself to see what should be done. I tell you all this, because you will suspect that there is something serious about our enquiries after Braeme, and because I should not like you to aid and abet—in ignorance no doubt—a criminal who is wanted for a number of serious offences. That would be a most unfortunate position for you.”
Mr. Phipps whistled loud and long. “So this explains Mr. Baker’s presence here!” he exclaimed. “Stephen a crook! Say, Major, that will be hard on his little sister when she comes to know of it. I haven’t much use for the young man, but I tell you right now that I have a tender spot for his sister. Guess she doesn’t know anything about this, does she, Baker?”
“Could you show us where you left Braeme?” drawled Mr. Baker, without troubling to answer Mr. Phipps. The American detective was plainly, thought not rudely, hostile.
“Sure!” said Mr. Phipps getting briskly up from his chair; “come right along.” He led them, talking the while, to where he had parted from Stephen not long before. They looked about them: the spot told them nothing. Mr. Phipps still talked.
“Stephen was depressed,” he admitted; “talked pessimistically like a man crossed in love; suicide and that sort of thing you know; a desire to be away and at rest. But it isn’t easy for anyone to get away from this country, is it, Major? I should find considerable difficulty myself.”
“He can escape from no port of this island, not the smallest,” said the Inspector General. “There is not a ship, not a vessel leaving, that is not being watched by some officer of the Government. So, if he happens to have become suspicious and is trying to get away, he will fail. I suppose that when he is caught he will blab about any confederates he may have had. I wouldn’t trust a rogue to keep his mouth shut out of gratitude or any fine feeling.”
