Works of robert w chambe.., p.821
Works of Robert W Chambers, page 821
“Do you think she’s been in my cabin?”
“No, sir.”
“Call her.”
The stewardess, an alert, intelligent little woman with a trace of West Indian blood in her, denied entering his stateroom. Shown the handkerchief and invited to sniff it, she professed utter ignorance concerning it, assured him that no lady in her section used that perfume, and offered to show it to the stewardesses of other sections on the chance of their identifying the perfume or the handkerchief.
“All right,” said Neeland; “take it. But bring it back. And here’s a sovereign. And — one thing more. If anybody pays you to deceive me, come to me and I’ll outbid them. Is that a bargain?”
“Yes, sir,” she said unblushingly.
When she had gone away with the handkerchief, Neeland closed the door again and said to the steward:
“Keep an eye on my door. I am positive that somebody has taken a wax impression of the keyhole. What I said to that stewardess also holds good with you. I’ll outbid anybody who bribes you.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Sure it’s good! It’s devilish good. Here’s a beautiful and newly minted gold sovereign. Isn’t it artistic? It’s yours, steward.”
“Thanky, sir.”
“Not at all. And, by the way, what’s that invalid gentleman’s name?”
“‘Awks, sir.”
“Hawks?”
“Yes, sir; Mr. ‘Erbert ‘Awks.”
“American?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“British?”
“Shall I inquire, sir?” starting to go.
“Not of him! Don’t be a lunatic, steward! Please try to understand that I want nothing said about this matter or about my inquiries.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, then! Find out, if you can, who Mr. Herbert Hawks is. Find out all you can concerning him. It’s easy money, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, sir — —”
“Wait a moment. Has he any friends or relatives on board?”
“Not that I know, sir.”
“Oh, no friends, eh? No ladies who wear white serge skirts and white shoes and stockings?”
“No, sir, not as I knows of.”
“Oh! Suppose you step across to his door, knock, and ask him if he rang. And, if the door is opened, take a quick slant at the room.”
“Very good, sir.”
Neeland, his door at the crack, watched the steward cross the corridor and knock at the door of Mr. Herbert Hawks.
“Well, what iss it?” came a heavy voice from within.
“Mr. ‘Awks, sir, did you ring?”
“No, I did not.”
“Oh, beg pardon, sir — —”
The steward was starting to return to Neeland, but that young man motioned him violently away from his door and closed it. Then, listening, his ear against the panel, he presently heard a door in the passage creak open a little way, then close again, stealthily.
He possessed his soul in patience, believing that Mr. Hawks or his fair friend in the white skirt had merely taken a preliminary survey of the passage and perhaps also of his closed door. But the vigil was vain; the door did not reopen; no sound came from the stateroom across the passageway.
To make certain that the owner of the white shoes and stockings did not leave that stateroom without his knowledge, he opened his door with many precautions and left it on the crack, stretching a rubber band from knob to bolt, so that the wind from the open port in the passage should not blow it shut. Then, drawing his curtain, he sat down to wait.
He had a book, one of those slobbering American novels which serve up falsehood thickly buttered with righteousness and are consumed by the morally sterilised.
And, as he smoked he read; and, as he read he listened. One eye always remained on duty; one ear was alert; he meant to see who was the owner of the white shoes if it took the remainder of the voyage to find out.
The book aided him as a commonplace accompaniment aids a soloist — alternately boring and exasperating him.
It was an “uplift” book, where the heroine receives whacks with patient smiles. Fate boots her from pillar to post and she blesses Fate and is much obliged. That most deadly reproach to degenerate human nature — the accidental fact of sex — had been so skilfully extirpated from those pages that, like chaste amoebæ, the characters merely multiplied by immaculate subdivision; and millions of lineal descendants of the American Dodo were made gleeful for $1.50 net.
It was hard work waiting, harder work reading, but between the two and a cigarette now and then Neeland managed to do his sentry go until dinner time approached and the corridors resounded with the trample of the hungry.
The stewardess reappeared a little later and returned to him his handkerchief and the following information:
Mr. Hawks, it appeared, travelled with a trained nurse, whose stateroom was on another deck. That nurse was not in her stateroom, but a similar handkerchief was, scented with similar perfume.
“You’re a wonder,” said Neeland, placing some more sovereigns in her palm and closing her fingers over them. “What is the nurse’s name?”
“Miss White.”
“Very suitable name. Has she ever before visited Herr — I mean Mr. — Hawks in his stateroom?”
“Her stewardess says she has been indisposed since we left New York.”
“Hasn’t been out of her cabin?”
“No.”
“I see. Did you inquire what she looked like?”
“Her stewardess couldn’t be certain. The stateroom was kept dark and the tray containing her meals was left at the bedside. Miss White smokes.”
“Yes,” said Neeland reflectively, “she smokes Red Light cigarettes, I believe. Thank you, very much. More sovereigns if you are discreet. And say to my steward that I’ll dine in my stateroom. Soup, fish, meat, any old thing you can think of. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
When she had withdrawn he kneeled down on his sofa and looked out through the port at the sunset sea.
There was a possibility that Scheherazade and her friends might be on board the Volhynia. Who else would be likely to take wax impressions of his keyhole and leave a scented scrap of a handkerchief on his stateroom floor?
That they had kept themselves not only out of sight but off the passenger list merely corroborated suspicion. That’s what they’d be likely to do.
And now there was no question in his mind of leaving the box in his cabin. He’d cling to it like a good woman to alimony. Death alone could separate his box from him.
As he knelt there, sniffing the salt perfume of the sea, his ears on duty detected the sound of a tray in the corridor.
“Leave it on the camp-table outside my door!” he said over his shoulder.
“Very good, sir.”
He was not hungry; he was thinking too hard.
“Confound it,” he thought to himself, “am I to squat here in ambush for the rest of the trip?”
The prospect was not agreeable for a man who loved the sea. All day and most of the starry night the hurricane deck called to him, and his whole anatomy responded. And now to sit hunched up here like a rat in the hold was not to his taste. Suppose he should continue to frequent the deck, carrying with him his box, of course. He might never discover who owned the white serge skirt or who owned the voice which pronounced is as “iss.”
Meanwhile, it occurred to him that for a quarter of an hour or more his dinner outside his door had been growing colder and colder. So he slid from the sofa, unstrapped the rubber band, opened the door, lifted table and tray into his stateroom with a sharp glance at the opposite door, and, readjusting the rubber band, composed himself to eat.
CHAPTER XVIII
BY RADIO
Perhaps it was because he did not feel particularly hungry that his dinner appeared unappetising; possibly because it had been standing in the corridor outside his door for twenty minutes, which did not add to its desirability.
The sun had set and the air in the room had grown cold. He felt chilly; and, when he uncovered the silver tureen and discovered that the soup was still piping hot, he drank some of it to warm himself.
He had swallowed about half a cupful before he discovered that the seasoning was not agreeable to his palate. In fact, the flavour of the hot broth was so decidedly unpleasant that he pushed aside the cup and sat down on the edge of his bunk without any further desire to eat anything.
A glass of water from the carafe did not seem to rid him of the subtle, disagreeable taste lingering in his mouth — in fact, the water itself seemed to be tainted with it.
He sat for a few moments fumbling for his cigarette case, feeling curiously uncomfortable, as though the slight motion of the ship were affecting his head.
As he sat there looking at the unlighted cigarette in his hand, it fell to the carpet at his feet. He started to stoop for it, caught himself in time, pulled himself erect with an effort.
Something was wrong with him — very wrong. Every uneven breath he drew seemed to fill his lungs with the odour of that strange and volatile flavour he had noticed. It was beginning to make him giddy; it seemed to affect his vision, too.
Suddenly a terrible comprehension flashed through his confused mind, clearing it for a moment.
He tried to stand up and reach the electric bell; his knees seem incapable of sustaining him. Sliding to the floor, he attempted to crawl toward the olive-wood box; managed to get one arm around it, grip the handle. Then, with a last desperate effort, he groped in his breast pocket for the automatic pistol, freed it, tried to fire it. But the weapon and the unnerved hand that held it fell on the carpet. A muscular paralysis set in like the terrible rigidity of death; he could still see and hear as in a thickening dream.
A moment later, from the corridor, a slim hand was inserted between the door and jamb; the supple fingers became busy with the rubber band for a moment, released it. The door opened very slowly.
For a few seconds two dark eyes were visible between door and curtain, regarding intently the figure lying prone upon the floor. Then the curtain was twitched noiselessly aside; a young woman in the garb of a trained nurse stepped swiftly into the stateroom on tip-toe, followed by a big, good-looking, blue-eyed man wearing a square golden beard.
The man, who carried with him a pair of crutches, but who did not appear to require their aid, hastily set the dinner-tray and camp-table outside in the corridor, then closed and bolted the door.
Already the nurse was down on her knees beside the fallen man, trying to loosen his grasp on the box. Then her face blanched.
“It’s like the rigor of death itself,” she whispered fearfully over her shoulder. “Could I have given him enough to kill him?”
“He took only half a cup and a swallow of water. No.”
“I can’t get his hand free — —”
“Wait! I try!” He pulled a big, horn-handled clasp-knife from his pocket and deliberately opened the eight-inch blade.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, seizing his wrist. “Don’t do that!”
The man with the golden beard hesitated, then shrugged, pocketed his knife, and seized Neeland’s rigidly clenched hand.
“You are right. It makes too much muss!” tugging savagely at the clenched and unconscious hand. “Sacreminton! What for a death-grip is this Kerls? If I cut his hand off so iss there blood and gossip right away already. No — too much muss. Wait! I try another way — —”
Neeland groaned.
“Oh, don’t! Don’t!” faltered the girl. “You’re breaking his wrist — —”
“Ugh!” grunted her companion; “I try; I can it not accomplish. See once if the box opens!”
“It is locked.”
“Search this pig-dog for the key!”
She began a hurried search of Neeland’s clothing; presently discovered her own handkerchief; thrust it into her apron pocket, and continued rummaging while the bearded man turned his attention to the automatic pistol. This he finally succeeded in disengaging, and he laid it on the wash basin.
“Here are his keys,” whispered the nurse feverishly, holding them up against the dim circle of evening sky framed by the open port. “You had better light the stateroom; I can’t see. Hurry! I think he is beginning to recover.”
When the bearded man had switched on the electric light he returned to kneel once more beside the inert body on the floor, and began to pull and haul and tug at the box and attempt to insert the key in the lock. But the stiffened clutch of the drugged man made it impossible either to release the box or get at the keyhole.
“Ach, was! Verflüchtete’ schwein-hund —— !” He seized the rigid hand and, exerting all the strength of a brutally inflamed fury, fairly ripped loose the fingers.
“Also!” he panted, seizing the stiffened body from the floor and lifting it. “Hold you him by the long and Yankee legs once, und I push him out — —”
“Out of the port?”
“Gewiss! Otherwise he recovers to raise some hell!”
“It is not necessary. How shall this man know?”
“You left your handkerchief. He iss no fool. He makes a noise. No, it iss safer we push him overboard.”
“I’ll take the papers to Karl, and then I can remain in my stateroom — —”
“No! Lift his legs, I tell you! You want I hold him in my arms all day while you talk, talk, talk! You take his legs right away quick —— !”
He staggered a few paces forward with his unwieldy burden and, setting one knee on the sofa, attempted to force Neeland’s head and shoulders through the open port. At the same moment a rapid knocking sounded outside the stateroom door.
“Quick!” breathed the nurse. “Throw him on his bed!”
The blue-eyed, golden-bearded man hesitated, then as the knocking sounded again, imperative, persistent, he staggered to the bed with his burden, laid it on the pillows, seized his crutches, rested on them, breathing heavily, and listening to the loud and rapid knocking outside the door.
“We’ve got to open,” she whispered. “Don’t forget that we found him unconscious in the corridor!” And she slid the bolt noiselessly, opened the stateroom door, and stepped outside the curtain into the corridor.
The cockney steward stood there with a messenger.
“Wireless for Mr. Neeland — —” he began; but his speech failed and his jaw fell at sight of the nurse in her cap and uniform. And when, on his crutches, the bearded man emerged from behind the curtain, the steward’s eyes fairly protruded.
“The young gentleman is ill,” explained the nurse coolly. “Mr. Hawks heard him fall in the corridor and came out on his crutches to see what had happened. I chanced to be passing through the main corridor, fortunately. I am doing what I can for the young gentleman.”
“Ow,” said the steward, staring over her shoulder at the bearded man on crutches.
“There iss no need of calling the ship’s doctor,” said the man on crutches. “This young woman iss a hospital nurse und she iss so polite and obliging to volunteer her service for the poor young gentleman.”
“Yes,” she said carelessly, “I can remain here for an hour or two with him. He requires only a few simple remedies — I’ve already given him a sedative, and he is sleeping very nicely.”
“Yess, yess; it iss not grave. Pooh! It is notting. He slip and knock his head. Maybe too much tchampagne. He sleep, and by and by he feel better. It iss not advisable to make a fuss. So! We are not longer needed, steward. I return to my room.”
And, nodding pleasantly, the bearded man hobbled out on his crutches and entered his own stateroom across the passage.
“Steward,” said the nurse pleasantly, “you may leave the wireless telegram with me. When Mr. Neeland wakes I’ll read it to him — —”
“Give that telegram to me!” burst out a ghostly voice from the curtained room behind her.
Every atom of colour left her face, and she stood there as though stiffened into marble. The steward stared at her. Still staring, he passed gingerly in front of her and entered the curtained room.
Neeland was lying on his bed as white as death; but his eyes fluttered open in a dazed way:
“Steward,” he whispered.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Neeland.”
“My — box.” His eyes closed.
“Box, sir?”
“Where — is — it?”
“Which box, sir? Is it this one here on the floor?” — lifting the olive-wood box in its case. The key was in the lock; the other keys hung from it, dangling on a steel ring.
The nurse stepped calmly into the room.
“Steward,” she said in her low, pleasant voice, “the sedative I gave him has probably confused his mind a little — —”
“Put that box — under — my head,” interrupted Neeland’s voice like a groan.
“I tell you,” whispered the nurse, “he doesn’t know what he is saying.”
“I got to obey him, ma’am — —”
“I forbid you — —”
“Steward!” gasped Neeland.
“Sir?”
“My box. I — want it.”
“Certainly, sir — —”
“Here, beside my — pillow.”
“Yes, sir.” He laid the box beside the sick man.
“Is it locked, steward?”
“Key sticking in it, sir. Yes, it’s locked, sir.”
“Open.”
The nurse, calm, pale, tight-lipped, stood by the curtain looking at the bed over which the steward leaned, opening the box.
“‘Ere you are, sir,” he said, lifting the cover. “I say, nurse, give ‘im a lift, won’t you?”
The nurse coolly stepped to the bedside, stooped, raised the head and shoulders of the prostrate man. After a moment his eyes unclosed; he looked at the contents of the box with a perceptible effort.
“Lock it, steward. Place it beside me.... Next the wall.... So.... Place the keys in my pocket.... Thank you.... I had a — pistol.”
“Sir?”
“A pistol. Where is it?”
The steward’s roving glance fell finally upon the washbasin. He walked over, picked up the automatic, and, with an indescribable glance at the nurse, laid it across Neeland’s up-turned palm.
