“But, you see,” Macalister went on, “I know why you’ve done it!”
O’Shea did not exactly start. But his glance, as Macalister spoke, was dagger-like in its intensity.
“You’re an officer and a gentleman. The two aren’t always twins, but you happen to be both. I’ve got to deal with Mr. Decies? If he lets you down, the disgrace is his. You’re just branded a fool, but you save your ‘British honour.’ Am I right?”
By heavens! I knew he was right! And, studying the low brow, the small, Semitic skull, the gross person of the man, I wondered. If a Julian Macalister could read human nature so clearly, small wonder that the cream of his race ruled the Rialtos of the world. So I reflected.
“Very well, Mr. Decies.” He diverted the cigar stump in my direction. “As it’s turned out, I’m not sorry. You’re sweet on the little lady who’s disappeared. I don’t blame you. I fancy her, myself. But business is business.”
Only O’Shea’s frigid stare held me in my place. I plunged my hands in my trouser pockets and clenched them tightly.
“Do not permit Mr. Macalister’s vulgarity to upset your judgment,” said O’Shea. “Also, make due allowances for him.”
“I don’t say I know where she is,” Macalister resumed unmoved, “but I’m prepared to promise that she’ll be home by midnight if you, Mr. Decies, will double on the major and hand over to me that portfolio!”
“One moment!”
O’Shea broke in so violently that he startled me.
“Well?” said Macalister.
“You fully appreciate the value of what the portfolio contains?” O’Shea challenged.
“Fully,” I answered.
“You know what is at stake—on both sides?”
“I do.”
“So do I. Therefore I am going to leave you alone with Mr. Macalister. Make your terms, Decies. I shall never reproach you. Communism is a powerful movement. To-night it conquers.”
He walked quickly to the door and went out.
“Very pretty,” said Macalister. “When he’s fired from the Guards he should do well in the movies.”
CHAPTER XVI.
THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF
I have come to the conclusion that British honour is pretty good stock-in-trade. Macalister accepted my word that no rescue by force would be attempted. And, if Macalister accepted it, I think my promise must be a gilt-edged security.
At twenty minutes before midnight—the time I had arranged to set out—Reid’s was moderately excited. The absence of Nanette could no longer be concealed in view of the fact that her worthy foster-parents had created something of a hubbub following her departure from the Casino. Hotel servants had been talking, too.
The arrangement had the charm of simplicity.
In a car containing only a chauffeur and myself, I was to follow the Farman. Any support must be not less than five hundred yards in the rear.
“But,” I had objected, “although you trust me, I don’t trust you. I might be held up.”
“You can arm yourself if you like,” Macalister had conceded. “And you will have the driver. Your friends, too, will be close behind you.”
I had hesitated, until:
“Damn it!” he cried. “I want the goods! This deal is square!”
I agreed when he spoke thus. Slowly, I was learning my man.
O’Shea elected to follow alone.
“They will stick to their bargain, Decies,” he said sadly. “We dare not take the risk, I admit; but Nanette is safe enough. They know how far they can go.”
Past a curious group clustering around the hotel entrance, we walked out—Macalister, O’Shea, and myself. I watched a magnificent cigar being lighted in the Farman, wondering how and where Macalister found room to carry more than one at a time.
Then we set forth upon our queer journey.
The Farman led through the outskirts of Funchal, around the flank of the little town and out to that sea road which scales the frowning cliffs.
I am never at my best on roads of this kind. A squat red lozenge in the glare of our headlights, the leading car, from time to time, would disappear over a precipice. Nothing would obstruct my view of starry sky and the still mirror of the ocean far below.
Then, a hairpin turn in the dizzy path being negotiated, there ahead again the Farman would appear.
So it went, up and up, around bend after bend, until the bumping and jolting told me that we had left the road, such as it was, and were digging a road of our own.
We crept over a desolate dome of territory that must have been left behind when Atlantis sank. Upon our topping the crown of this blasted heath, I looked out ahead. I prayed that the brakes had been recently overhauled.
A long, curving, rock-strewn slope swept gracefully down to a sheer edge. And perched close to the precipice like a lonely seafowl was a little, dirty white dwelling—hundreds of eerie feet above the sea, approached by no perceptible path. I exhausted my imagination in endeavouring to invent a reason why any human being should live there.
By means of zigzag manœuvring, the Farman was brought to within fifty yards or so of the place. My chauffeur gingerly imitated the design. Then came the prearranged signal.
Macalister’s arm was protruded. He waved his cigar like a field marshal’s baton.
“Stop!” I said—and the word sounded like a gasp of relief.
I got out, turned, and looked back.
O’Shea’s car had been pulled up on the crest. I could see him standing beside it, a distant silhouette against the sky.
I walked down to where Macalister waited by the house.
There was a low stone wall round the seaward end of the property, enclosing a tiny garden in which bricks were apparently cultivated.
And now I could see over the edge. I gasped. A wooden ladder, connecting with a platform that jutted out just below the house, described a jazz pattern down the cliff-side. In a miniature cove, below, a smart motor cruiser lay, her lighted ports like watching eyes.
“Send your car up to the top,” Macalister directed.
I shouted to the man. And, as I watched him painfully tacking back against the gradient, I reflected that if O’Shea’s psychology should prove to be at fault, mine was a sorry case. I fingered a revolver that nestled in my pocket.
The climb accomplished:
“Now,” said Macalister, “you remember the conditions?”
“Perfectly.”
“Halfway between the house and my car.”
I turned and mounted the slope. Macalister whistled shrilly.
Spinning about, I watched. I saw two things happen.
Macalister’s simian chauffeur leapt from his seat, stripping off his jacket and discarding his cap. From somewhere on the hither side of the building, which appeared to possess no door, three figures came into view. Two were men, thick-set nondescripts; the third was a girl.
And the girl was Nanette!
They held her wrists, but the moment she caught sight of me standing there in the moonlight:
“Mr. Decies!” she cried. “Don’t do it! don’t do it! I’ll never forgive you! They dare not harm me, and you are not to do it!”
I made no answer. I had none to make. And so the men led her on until she stood before me.
She was pale, and so slender, between her burly captors, as to look ethereal. Her widely open eyes were fixed in a stare of reproach. My heart thumped.
“You don’t understand, Nanette,” I said. “There is Major O’Shea—and he wishes it.”
One long, lingering glance she cast up to where O’Shea stood watching. I saw a flood of colour sweep over her face. Then her obstinate little mouth quivered. She lowered her head, and:
“I hate myself,” she whispered.
“Now,” said Macalister, coming forward, “give me the key.”
I did so. He placed it carefully in his waistcoat pocket. Nanette never looked up.
“Hand the portfolio to Miguel.”
The chauffeur was indicated. I obeyed, and the man handed the portfolio on to Macalister, who narrowly examined the seals.
“Senhor da Cunha,” he said sharply.
Whereupon Miguel ran off, carrying the portfolio, and disappeared over the edge where the ladder was. So Gabriel da Cunha was on board the cruiser!
Again Macalister spoke rapid Portuguese.
Nanette was released, and the two men turned and went back to the house. She stood before me, with lowered head.
Macalister raised his straw hat. The colours of the band looked highly effective in the moonlight.
“Miss Nanette and Mr. Decies,” he said, “I bid you good-night.”
He was not without a certain vulgar dignity. He followed his brace of ruffians to the dwelling.
“Come, Nanette!” I urged. “It isn’t safe to delay.”
But, as we climbed to the waiting cars, she spoke only twice.
“They told me you had sent for me,” she said, “because Major O’Shea—was ill.”
“What happened?”
“Poor Tommy Clayton sat in front, and the man with me, who said he was a doctor, reached over and hit him with something. I screamed.”
“Did he put his hand over your mouth to stop you?”
She nodded.
“Have they been unkind to you?”
She shook her head.
O’Shea waited until we gained the crest, then he got into his car and drove off. I followed, with an unusually dumb Nanette.
She sneaked into Reid’s by the side entrance and went straight to her room. O’Shea was waiting for me in the cocktail bar. I entered very gloomily and he ordered me a double whisky and soda.
“They will have some little difficulty in opening the portfolio, Decies,” he said, watching the bartender preparing our drinks.
I stared at him. He was smiling!
“What do you mean?” I demanded.
“I mean that I took the precaution of filing one of the wards before I gave the key to you.”
But, even then, I didn’t understand, and:
“What for?” I asked.
“Unnecessarily, as it fell out,” he replied. “But my idea was to gain time.”
“To gain time!”
“Yes. To enable us to get a good start before they forced the lock.”
He slid a full glass along the counter in my direction, and:
“Do you play poker?” he asked.
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“I was merely wondering if you did. That portfolio which you have been treasuring, Decies, contains several pages torn from an old copy of the Sporting Times. Yet neither you nor I have told a lie about it from start to finish! Chin-chin!”
CHAPTER XVII.
NANETTE IS CONFIDENTIAL
“Did you ever hear of Adolf Zara?” said O’Shea.
I shook my head blankly.
“That’s the devil of it,” he murmured. “He works in the dark.”
“Who is he?”
He hesitated for a moment, then:
“He is the immediate chief of those Communist gentlemen,” he replied, “whose activities have detained me so long in Madeira. One good thing I owe to him. I shall be returning to England with you in the morning.”
“What!” I exclaimed gladly. “By the Union Castle?”
“Yes.” He turned, staring at me in that coldly penetrating way which was so disconcerting and so misleading. “By a sheer coincidence, Mr. Zara is on board and I am instructed to look out for him.”
“But the ship is full, O’Shea.”
“There is always room for three more passengers in any British liner,” he replied: “a diplomatic agent, a King’s Messenger, and a pretty woman.”
“What are you expected to do?” I asked.
“I am expected to prevent him landing!”
“But”—doubtless my expression became more blank than ever—“surely the authorities at Southampton——”
“The authorities at Southampton don’t know in what name he is travelling. Neither does Capetown, apparently. They merely know that he’s on board—with a false passport. He made South Africa too hot to hold him. Moscow’s idea seems to be that another Boer war would add to the gaiety of nations. The Boers don’t seem to think so.”
He stirred languidly in the cane lounge chair and, raising his monocle, surveyed a number of ants performing mysterious evolutions on his white drill suit. It was very still and peaceful in the little palm grove. A faint breeze carried perfume from the gardens, a sound of distant voices and soft laughter. Outside the cool oasis in which we sat, shaded, Madeira sunlight blazed on a million gay flowers, and the low mossy walls were alive with lizards.
“Have you ever seen this man?” I asked.
“No,” O’Shea turned his head lazily. “I haven’t the slightest idea what he looks like. Unless I get some further news by radio, my chance of identifying this Red sportsman is a bad hundred to one.”
“But you say he has a false passport?”
“So I understand. Probably issued in Paris or Milan or even New York, and in perfect order. Thousands of undesirables travel about the world annually with other people’s passports, Decies. The appended photograph is the only snag, and you might be surprised to learn how easy it is to replace it and duplicate the official stamp.”
Presently I went hunting for Nanette. My guardianship of this dainty, wayward ward was soon to cease; and whilst I lacked the courage to think about saying good-bye at Southampton, I had learned that for a man of my age and temperament the rôle of official uncle to a beautiful girl was no sort of job.
Tea was in full swing on the terrace, but Nanette was not there. I thought she might be on the tennis courts, and I strolled down the steps and along the sloping, flower-gay path sacred to basking lizards.
Halfway down there is a sort of abutment, overhanging the lower gardens and possessing a stone seat. Here, in a lounge chair, her parasol propped against the low wall, I saw Nanette.
Her little feet tucked up on the chair, to protect her bare legs from the ants, she sat manicuring her finger nails.
She neither saw nor heard my approach. And I stood still watching her. Quite mechanically she was polishing away with a chamois burnisher, but her blue eyes were staring, unseeingly, out over the bay.
As I studied the charming, pensive profile, I wondered, as I had wondered too often, what fate had in store for little Nanette. My more immediate wonder was concerned with the problem of how she had contrived to be alone.
Suddenly she turned and saw me.
“Coo-ooh!” she called. “Have you come to take me to tea?”
“Yes,” I replied, walking down to her. “What has become of everybody?”
“I don’t know,” said Nanette. “I wanted to be alone.”
“To think?”
“I suppose so.”
I dropped on to the stone seat beside her.
“Whom did you want to think about, Nanette?”
She lowered her lashes, and polished busily.
“Oh—Pop and Mum—and folks.”
I lighted a cigarette, and presently she looked up. Her clear eyes regarded me wistfully for a moment, and:
“You know,” she said. “Don’t you?”
“I am afraid I do, Nanette,” I confessed.
“Isn’t it strange,” she went on, staring away over the sea, “that I should be so crazy about someone who avoids me?”
“Very strange,” I answered dully.
When a girl thus makes a confidant of a man she has never kissed, if he knows the rules of the game he retires hurt. Then:
“I suppose I shall get over it,” she said, and smilingly packed up the manicure implements. “We have to be on board at a fiendishly early hour to-morrow. I don’t know whether to go to bed at nine o’clock or sit up all night. Let’s have tea.”
As I helped her out of the cushioned chair:
“I have some news for you, Nanette,” I said. “Major O’Shea is coming with us.”
Her eyes opened very widely; and she stared at me in a frightened way that I always associated with any sudden reference to O’Shea. Then she turned swiftly, taking up her parasol.
“Really,” she said. “How often he changes his mind.”
But as we walked up the long path to the terrace she talked animatedly. And glancing aside at her flushed face, I realized with almost a shock of surprise how very young she was—and how sweetly incapable of hiding the excitement that my news had created.
CHAPTER XVIII.
SUSPECTS
That run home to Southampton did not begin auspiciously for Nanette. Her happiness at being on the same ship with O’Shea was distinctly blunted by the presence of an official chaperone.
Her father had some sort of pull with the line, and by dint of industrious cabling, he had contrived to get in touch with a lady he knew who was returning from South Africa: One Mrs. Porter, a really formidable matron, deep-chested, heavy-jowled, and contemplating a sinful world through spectacles of an unnecessarily unpleasant pattern.
“Pop is mad!” said Nanette. “This woman must die.”
Excluding O’Shea and myself, Nanette had come on board with a male escort of three devoted dancing partners. Lacking the society of Nanette, these were three very lonely young men, divided by a mutual distrust but united in their dislike of O’Shea.
Unreciprocated passion renders its victims clairvoyant; and each one of these three knew what the rest of the crowd at Reid’s Hotel had never suspected: that Nanette only emerged from a land of dreams when O’Shea was with her. Now, to crown a troublous situation, Mrs. Porter presented a protégé—Captain Slattery. She made it pointedly clear that no other follower would be tolerated.
I resigned my staff of office with a sigh, and settled down to be sorry for Nanette—and Slattery.
O’Shea and I stood at the door of the smoke-room watching the coast of Madeira melt into a blue distance. Nanette, in a short, sleeveless frock, came along the deck, linked between two men, one of whom was Slattery. She pretended not to see us. But right in front of the door she pulled up insistently, leaning on the rail and pointing out something to her companions. Nanette knew she had very beautiful arms. But she wanted O’Shea to know.
He smiled at me, sadly, and turning, went into the smoke-room. The girl’s dainty naïveté was hopelessly disarming. We sat down facing one another across a table, and:
“There is something I want you to do for me,” said O’Shea.
“About—Nanette?”
“No.” He shook his head, and that tragically hungry look came into his eyes that I had seen there before. “Don’t let us talk about her, Decies. I have a valuable portfolio in my stateroom.”
“Surely you will hand it over to the purser?”
“Impossible. Contrary to the rules of the game. The ship might sink. But a certain Adolf Zara is on board. Therefore——”
He paused, staring at me significantly.
“You want me to take charge of it?”
“Yes. Lock it in your trunk. I don’t expect any move on this gentleman’s part. He is stalking bigger game and therefore anxious to avoid publicity. But he might take it into his head to pay me an unofficial visit. I have a room to myself. You are sharing a cabin with a representative of the Cape Times whom, luckily, you chance to have met before.”
“Very well,” said I. “Of course, this man, Zara, will know you are on board?”
“Naturally,” O’Shea returned. “His associates in Madeira will have advised him—although absolutely nothing to afford a clue to his assumed identity happened at Funchal. He is a dangerously clever man.”
“Have you taken a look around?”
“Yes. Have you?”
“I have. But no likely candidate for the honour of being Adolf Zara has presented himself.”
“I agree,” said O’Shea quietly. “But I have an appointment with the purser in an hour’s time. I am going carefully through the declaration sheets.”
When O’Shea left me, I was joined by the journalist, my stable-companion; a substantial Scot whom I had met in London two years before. He proposed a promenade. And just as we started the faithful three came into the smoke-room, together, and ordered drinks. Their aspects were mournful.
Then, in a shady corner outside, we discovered the explanation. Nanette was coiled up in a deck chair, her charming head turned in the direction of her neighbour on the right—Slattery. In a chair on her left, enveloped in an unnecessary rug, Mrs. Porter slumbered soundly—and almost noiselessly.
Nanette beckoned to me. As I paused, she threw a venom-laden glance at the unconscious chaperone, and:
“I do not like you, Mrs. P.,” she murmured. “The reason why is plain to see—and hear.”
Slattery, his gaze fixed upon her, smiled admiringly. He had very even white teeth. Then he looked up at me.
“I hear that your friend is the famous O’Shea,” he said. “I thought he was a movie actor.”
The words told me plainly that this was another victim of the distracting Nanette. Therefore I forgave him.
“His appearance is certainly deceptive,” I admitted.
“We were on their right at the time he was recommended for the V.C.,” Slattery went on. “I was only a pup, but we saw some dirty work, too. The crack regiments always get the limelight, though.”
Nanette glanced at him under suddenly lowered lashes, and:
“Please, Mr. Decies, lead me to a cool drink with lemon in it,” she said.
She was on her feet in one graceful movement. Her ability to disentangle herself from complicated poses resembled that of an antelope. Grasping my right arm and the left of my startled Scottish companion, she moved away.
“Captain Slattery is so good-looking that he bores me,” she whispered in my ear.
O’Shea found me some little time later.
“I have ventured to have you put at a table among strangers,” he said. “Your immediate neighbour is a certain Dr. Zimmermann.”
He stared at me.
“I’ll do my best, O’Shea,” said I. “Where are you?”
“At the purser’s table,” he replied, “facing one John Edward Wainwright, of Halifax, Nova Scotia. These two birds may prove to be black swans, but there isn’t another query in the passenger list.”
I experienced Dr. Zimmermann at lunch and later at dinner. Apart from his audible enjoyment of the soup, I found his table manners genial. He had been studying the neolithic fauna of South Africa on behalf of some learned Munich institution blessed with a name that only Dr. Zimmermann could pronounce and that I shall never attempt to spell.
My report to O’Shea was unsatisfactory.
“He seems fairly true to type,” I said. “If he is not what he professes to be, he carries it well. How about your man?”
O’Shea shrugged in his curious way.
“He obviously knows Halifax,” was the reply. “His line appears to be steam trawlers. Having unaccountably neglected the subject of steam trawlers, I am rather at a disadvantage here.”
“I am equally rusty,” I confessed, “upon the neolithic fauna of South Africa.”
There was dancing on deck that night. Nanette danced with the faithful three in turn and with Slattery. Slattery secured more than his fair share because of the powerful backing of “Mrs. P.”
Nanette was dancing with me, in a curiously abstracted way, when suddenly she grew animated. Her eyes sparkled. She floated in my arms lightly as a feather.
Following her glance, I saw O’Shea watching us.
When I had deposited Nanette with the guardian Mrs. Porter, I returned to find O’Shea; for he had signalled to me. He was standing just inside the smoke-room door.
“Adolf Zara is active,” he said in a cautious voice.
“What do you mean?”
He glanced around the smoke-room warningly. I took the cue and looked about me. Dr. Zimmermann sat in a corner, fast asleep. Wainwright, the other suspect, formed one of a bridge party.
“Two dispatch-cases have been forced open,” O’Shea went on, “by someone who entered my cabin to-night!”
CHAPTER XIX.
DR. ZIMMERMANN CALLS
“You have my authority to take any steps you may think fit, Major O’Shea,” said the Captain. “I have received the usual instructions and of course I shall do nothing without consulting you.”
We came down to the nearly deserted promenade deck. Three young men were doing a midnight route march there—and Nanette, coiled up, squirrel-like, in a furry cloak, occupied one of two chairs. The other accommodated Slattery. “Mrs. P.,” leaving her charge in selected company, had presumably retired.
Slattery was obviously elated. The chairs were set very near to the foot of the ladder communicating with the bridge and the commander’s quarters. Slattery didn’t know that Nanette had seen O’Shea go up and that she was patiently waiting to see him come down.
We crossed to the rail, and leaned there, watching the clear water and the strange phosphorescent shapes glittering in its depths. And presently a slim bare arm was slipped under mine. I turned, startled—to find Nanette beside me.
“Please may I stay for five minutes?” she said. “Or do you want to go to the smoke-room?”
She stayed, and for longer than five minutes. Slattery had disappeared; and the threesome had terminated around a table decorated with tall glasses. We began to pace up and down, Nanette clinging to my arm.
Presently, as we turned, very timidly she slipped her other arm under O’Shea’s.
“Is it true,” she asked, “that there was nearly a mutiny at a reinforcement camp where you were toward the end of the war? And that a company sergeant-major called Meakin was courtmartialled?”
O’Shea looked down at her in his gravely gentle way.
“It is not true, Nanette,” he answered. “Where did you hear the story?”
“I didn’t believe it,” she answered indignantly, “but someone told me.”
O’Shea caught my side glance and smiled—the happy, revealing smile that had grown so rare. But after Nanette had retired, over a final pipe in O’Shea’s room:
“Queer thing,” he murmured. “That that story should have leaked out.”
“What story?” said I.
“The trouble with a group of N.C.O’s at that camp, which rumour would seem to have expanded to a mutiny.” He stared at me coldly. “It was the long arm of hidden Moscow,” he added. “We had agents of theirs in our ranks. Did you ever hear of it?”
“Vaguely, now that you remind me.”
“The ringleaders managed to slip away. But it’s odd Nanette should have got hold of the thing. Well!” He lay back on the sofa berth and regarded me with raised brows. “There is nothing more to be done to-night.”
“Are you satisfied about Zimmermann and Wainwright?”
“About Wainwright, yes. He had been playing since dinner time. Zimmermann nobody seems to have noticed. How long he had been in the smoke-room I can’t discover. We may safely count steam trawlers out, Decies. Focus on the neolithic fauna of South Africa.”
“Shall you turn in now?”
“No,” said O’Shea, reaching up to the rack above his head for a pipe and tobacco pouch that lay there. “I am going to spend an hour with the young gentleman from the Marconi Company. Radio operators are sometimes inspiring.”
To reach my cabin I had to pass the smoke-room door, and, just as I came to it:
“Either of them is old enough to be her father!” I heard.
I stepped in. The faithful three alone kept a resentful steward from his bed.
“Whose father?” said I.
“Hullo, Decies!” the speaker hailed me. “Sit down and let’s have a doch-an’-dorris. We were talking about Nanette.”
“Oh!” I remarked, dropping into a chair. “What seems to be the difficulty?”
“Well,” another explained, “she has fallen flat for that chap Slattery; and we were saying that he’s old enough to be her father.”
“He is about thirty-five,” I hazarded—“a dangerous age for a girl of eighteen.”
“Piffle!” was the retort. “Why, when she was only thirty he would be nearly fifty!”
“Have you pointed this out to her?”
“Rather not! Suppose you have a shot. You are well in with her ladyship.”
“I should prefer to be excused,” said I.
The profound slumbers of my Scottish friend proclaimed themselves to the ear as I walked along the alleyway leading to our stateroom. A sleeping partner who snores is difficult. When he snores in Gaelic he is nearly insupportable.
I undressed to a ceaseless accompaniment that I found the reverse of soothing. Slipping on a dressing gown, I lighted my pipe, determined to go out on the deserted deck; for the night was hot as Sahara; the sea a burnished mirror.
Off I went, and met not a soul. For half an hour or so I wandered aimlessly. When, at last, my pipe burned out, feeling sleepy enough to face the snore barrage, I retraced my steps.
Rounding the corner of the alleyway, I pulled up short.
Dr. Zimmermann had just come out of my room and was quietly closing the door behind him!
I stepped back swiftly. But I was too late. He turned and saw me.
He wore an appalling red gown and a really incredible nightcap. Through the thick pebbles of his spectacles he beamed apologetically, and:
“Mr. Decies—my dear sir!” he said, coming forward. “I can never forgive myselves—never!” He held up a huge pipe. “I did not know that you had a companion. I knock. I think I hear you sleeping. And I venture to come in. I am restless. The smoke-room steward is retired. I know you are a pipe lover, and”—he indicated the yawning bowl—“I have not tobacco, so, I venture.”
I stared him fully in the eyes for a moment, then:
“Don’t apologize,” I said. “You are welcome to a pipe.”
Opening the door, I stood aside for him to enter. My pouch lay, conspicuous, on the bed cover, but:
“I see it there,” Zimmermann whispered, stuffing about an ounce of expensive mixture into his incinerator. “But you are not here.”
Thanking me profusely in a thick undertone, he presently took his departure. I listened to his receding footsteps, then I stooped, pulled out my trunk, and examined the lock.
It was fast. Nor could I find a scrap of evidence to show that anything else in the cabin had been tampered with.
What was I to believe? Could Dr. Zimmermann really be the formidable agent, Adolf Zara? If it were so, he had cool courage enough to justify the faith of his employers. In any event, I determined that O’Shea must be informed without delay of this suspicious occurrence. Sleep was not for me.
CHAPTER XX.
FOG IN THE CHANNEL
Toward dusk on the following day—our last evening afloat—things began to move to that strange revelation which solved the Zara mystery.
O’Shea had been missing quite often. Several times I saw him coming out of the radio cabin, and he had had two long interviews with the commander, at the second of which the purser had attended. Then, having got into dinner kit, I was making for the smoke-room when I met him.
“Hello!” I called. “Any news?”
He took me aside, and:
“No reply yet,” he answered.
“Perhaps the authorities in Munich don’t realize the urgency of your message.”
“Perhaps not,” he said absently. “Let’s explore a cocktail.”
In the smoke-room we found Slattery and my Scottish piper; so we formed a quartette.
Slattery’s attitude toward O’Shea was not friendly. I excused much of it, feeling the real cause to be, not professional jealousy, but Nanette. However, O’Shea was senior and Slattery never allowed himself to be openly rude.
I was seated with my back to the door, when suddenly I saw a change of expression on three faces. I turned.
Nanette was peeping in at us. She looked adorable in a dainty lace frock and I saw Slattery glance aside at O’Shea in a way that was twin brother to murderous.
For it was to O’Shea that Nanette was appealing.
“Would it be perfectly horrible of me to come in?” she asked.
“It would be perfectly delightful, Nanette,” said I.
She came in, to the marked perturbation of the smoke-room. She sat between O’Shea and myself. The three musketeers, who had been talking loudly in a neighbouring corner, grew suddenly silent.
“If you see Mrs. P.,” said Nanette, taking a sip from my glass, “please hide me until I get under the table.”
Dinner that night was something of an ordeal for me. Dr. Zimmermann talked continuously about fossils, took two servings of every course, and generally seemed to be in high good humour. I think my own share in the conversation was not marked by any unusual brilliancy.
O’Shea’s mood rather defeated me. He was by habit a lonely man, with a way of sinking into himself. To-night, this phase of his temperament, which had expressed itself in his evasive talk, for some reason I found irritating.
On the morrow we should dock. The identity of Zara remained a mystery. The result of O’Shea’s radio message was unknown to me. And O’Shea had become a sphinx.
A group having for its nucleus the faithful trio had got up an extempore dance on deck. A victrola belonging to Slattery provided the music. Mrs. Porter presided over the instrument, and Slattery and Nanette did most of the dancing. A few others joined for a time and then retired, presumably to cope with the important job of packing.
I discovered myself to be the victim of a rising excitement. Something was afoot. I determined to find O’Shea.
It was a longish quest, but I found him at last, He was pacing up and down the deserted boat-deck. As I came up the ladder he stopped and stared at me, then:
“Hullo, Decies,” he said. “Forgive my odd behaviour. But it’s a race against time, and time looks like winning.”
“What do you mean?” I asked blankly. “Have you had no reply?”
“That’s it,” said he, “and I can’t afford to make a mistake. They expect fog, though. It may save the situation.”
I was not at all clear on this point, but O’Shea immediately resumed his promenade and I perforce fell into step beside him.
“Zimmermann is in his cabin,” I said.
“Good,” O’Shea murmured. “Where is Nanette?”
The question surprised me. Very rarely indeed did O’Shea speak of Nanette.
“I left her with Mrs. Porter and Slattery,” I replied.
He nodded, but made no comment. Presently:
“If this dangerously clever devil slips through my fingers,” he declared, “Whitehall will disown me!”
And suddenly, as he spoke, an explanation of his recent behaviour presented itself. To the world he remained the aloof O’Shea; something of a poseur; a man unmoved by the trivial accidents of life. With me he felt that he could be real. He had treated the matter lightly enough, hitherto. But now, England all but in sight, and the enigma of Zara unsolved, he showed himself a desperately worried man.
“If I get him,” he began abruptly, after long and taciturn promenading, “do you know to whom the credit will belong?”
“No,” I returned, puzzled.
“To Nanette,” said O’Shea.
This silenced me effectually. For what Nanette had to do with the matter was about as clear as pea soup.
I left him, toward one o’clock, promising to return. I had abandoned the idea of sleeping; and I wanted to change. No message for O’Shea had come up to the time of my departure from the boat-deck. The wireless operator on duty was unable to conceal his intense excitement. Just before I came down, leaning over the half-door of his room:
“Fog in the Channel, sir!” he announced gleefully.
“Good!” said O’Shea. “Go and change, Decies.”
I managed to effect a change of costume without arousing my Scottish friend. He snored harmoniously and uninterruptedly. When I returned to the deck, no trace of mist was visible. The sea looked like oil and the heat was oppressive. I lingered at the rail for a moment, staring forward to where the Cornish coast lay veiled in distance.
Right ahead, I discerned a faintly moving white speck. Then I became aware of someone beside me.
I turned. The Captain stood at my elbow.
“No rest for me to-night, Mr. Decies,” he said. “The Channel is a mass of soup.”
“So I have heard,” I replied. “What’s that ahead?”
“I have been wondering,” he murmured. “It looks like a motor boat—and right on our course. Excuse me. I might as well go up.”
A few minutes later, as I rejoined O’Shea, the ship bellowed her warning to the small craft ahead.
O’Shea was in the operator’s room.
“What’s that?” he asked. “Not fog already?”
“No,” said I. “There’s some kind of boat in our way.”
“Oh,” said he. “Fisherman?”
“No. It looks like a pleasure cruiser.”
He stared for a moment. I had never seen him look so ill groomed. His wavy hair, since he had gone hatless all night, was wildly disordered. Then the instrument began its mysterious coughing.
O’Shea placed his monocle carefully in position and lighted a cigarette. The operator adjusted the headpiece.
“Here it is, sir!” he said. “At last!”
“Excellent,” said O’Shea calmly.
And, whilst this long-awaited message came through, the horn began its disturbing solo—and mist crept, damply, into the cabin. We had struck the outer fringe of the Channel fog.
At this moment I saw Nanette. She stood at the door, wide-eyed, wrapped in a furry coat. I ran out to her.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, and clutched me—“where is—Major O’Shea?”
She was trembling.
“Nanette!” I said. “What is it? He is there—in the operator’s room.”
“Thank God!” I heard her whisper. Then: “I have been so frightened!” she went on, clinging to me. “Mrs. Porter sleeps like a log—and Captain Slattery came to our room a few minutes ago and knocked. I opened the door, not realizing who it was.”
“Yes?” I said, clenching my hands tightly.
“He was—insane. He said—he was going to kill Major O’Shea——”
“What’s that?” came in a cool voice.
O’Shea stepped out on the deck. He held a slip of paper in his hand. The mist had closed down, now, like a blanket. Even the deep note of the fog-horn was muted.
“I’ve got him, Decies!” said O’Shea.
“What!”
“He sent off two code messages before my eyes were opened; and he received one reply. I don’t know the code.”
Dimly, through the fog, a queer, high siren note reached us.
“Major O’Shea!” Nanette released her grip and grasped O’Shea’s arm. “Are you talking about Captain Slattery?”
The Marconi operator joined our party as:
“Yes,” O’Shea replied, “thanks to you, Nanette! Only the Bolsheviks knew so much about our trouble in that camp as Slattery confided to you!” He turned to me. “I acted on that slender clue, Decies. The name of a company sergeant-major—and I was right! The real Captain Slattery is in hospital at Ladysmith!”
“Good God!” said I. “Then this man——”
“Is Adolf Zara! I told you he was dangerously clever!”
Then, muffled, ghostly, it reached our ears on the boat-deck—that most thrilling of all sea cries:
“Man overboard!”
Already the ship’s engines were running dead slow. Now they were rung off.
Helter-skelter we went hounding after O’Shea—to Slattery’s stateroom. It was empty. One of the lifebelts was missing. Out in the fog, that queer high siren note persisted. I thought of the white motor boat—and of Slattery’s radio message.
O’Shea fixed his monocle in place. The sleeping ship was awakening to a growing pandemonium.
“Have you a cigarette, Decies?” he said. “I have smoked all mine. It needs a brave man to do what Adolf Zara has done to-night. If ever I have the pleasure of meeting Captain Slattery again, I shall tell him so.”
CHAPTER XXI.
A MISSING PICTURE
“Oh, I say!” cried Jack. “This is topping!”
His admiring gaze was set upon a photograph in my portfolio of Madeira snapshots. It represented a slender girl, arms raised, poised in the act of diving from a rock into the clear water below. In justice to the beauty of the model and not out of any desire to fan my artistic vanity, I agreed with Jack.
The original of the study, seated on the edge of a table, slim legs swinging restlessly, surveyed the work with less enthusiasm.
“I look painfully bare,” said Nanette severely.
“Can I have a copy, Decies?” Jack asked.
“Please say no,” came promptly from Nanette. “If you want a photograph, Jack, I had several good ones taken in Switzerland.”
We examined other items of my collection.
“Hallo!” said Jack. “Who is the sportsman with the toothy smile?”
He was frowning at a snapshot of Nanette coiled up in a deck chair. Seated very near to her, in smiling tête-à-tête, was a man whose white sun helmet cast a dark shadow upon his features.
“Captain Slattery,” Nanette replied. “You don’t know him, Jack.”
She turned over the print, giving me a swift glance. Its full significance rather missed me at the time. I merely supposed that this picture of the man we had known as “Captain Slattery” conjured up memories of O’Shea. And memories of O’Shea almost invariably brought about sudden changes of mood in little Nanette.
Later, however, having induced Jack to telephone to somebody about something or another, she drew me aside.
“Captain Slattery is in London!” she said, speaking with suppressed excitement. “This was what I really came to tell you.”
“What!” I exclaimed.
In the days that had lapsed since the disappearance of the notorious Adolf Zara, alias Captain Slattery, I had begun to share O’Shea’s view that this greatly daring man had perished at sea.
“I received this note from him last night,” Nanette went on. “And I don’t know what to do.”
Opening the envelope which she handed to me, I drew out a single sheet of unheaded, undated paper having a cutting pinned to it. The note read as follows:
I learn from the appended picture that you are in London. If you can forgive me for my behaviour and will consent to see me for a moment before I leave England, put a message in the Personal Column of the Daily Planet and I will arrange the rest. I can never forget you—so try to be kind.
J. Slattery.
The picture referred to was cut from the Daily Planet, and showed Nanette as one of a group at a dance party—I forget where.
“How did he learn your address?” I asked.
“He didn’t,” said Nanette. “Look at the envelope. It was forwarded from the office of the Planet.”
She watched me almost pathetically, and I divined the nature of the problem that was disturbing Nanette’s mind.
“I simply couldn’t do it!” she burst out. “It isn’t as though he were really a criminal. He is a criminal, I suppose, in a way. But political crimes leave me rather cold. And, you see—he trusts me.”
“Do you mean, Nanette,” I asked, “that you don’t want me to tell Major O’Shea?”
Nanette shook her head.
“Of course I don’t,” she replied. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it if I had meant that. What I mean is—that I am not going to do what he asks.”
“Yet he begs you to be kind,” said I, feasting my eyes on Nanette’s charming face which, now, wore an adorably wistful expression.
“I am being kind,” she retorted; then: “Oh!” she exclaimed, and, suddenly silent, watched the open door.
Jack’s voice might be heard. He was returning from the telephone downstairs and had evidently admitted visitors. A moment later they came in—O’Shea and an inspector of the Special Branch whom I had met before. He was a burly man with a rat-trap jaw, and I thought it probable that he could trace an unbroken descent from the first Bow Street runner in criminal history.
Nanette greeted O’Shea with disarming nonchalance. But the only person in the room who believed that she had not expected to meet him there was Jack. The detective, a peculiarly efficient man-hunter, as events were to show, smiled grimly and stared out of the window.
O’Shea held Nanette’s hand for a moment, and then turned aside, twirling his monocle string around an extended forefinger.
“Come along, Jack!” cried Nanette gaily. “Mumsy will be tearing the Berkeley down!”
Jack was only too ready to depart. His admiration of O’Shea was something he could not hide, and, whilst he was no psychologist, this very hero worship inspired distrust—where Nanette was concerned. In other words, he was not clever enough to know that Nanette loved O’Shea, but he was modest enough to wonder how any girl could spare him an odd glance whilst O’Shea was present.
Nanette’s vivacity became feverish. She literally danced down the stairs, calling farewells to everybody. But, finally, from a long way down:
“Good-bye, Major O’Shea!” she cried.
“Good-bye, Nanette,” he said, and shook Jack’s cordially extended hand. “Look after her, Kelton. She is well worth it.”
“You’re right, sir!” Jack replied with enthusiasm—and was gone.
“Now,” said O’Shea, and fixed one of his coldest stares upon me—“are the snapshots developed?”
“Yes,” I replied, almost startled by his abrupt change of manner. “The prints came in this morning.”
“And are there any of Adolf Zara, sir?” asked the inspector.
“There is one. Unfortunately, his features are in shadow.”
“Let me see,” said O’Shea.
Once more my portfolio of snapshots was produced.
“This could be enlarged,” said the inspector eagerly. “It is quite sharp.”
“Does the face seem familiar?” O’Shea asked.
“Vaguely. I think I have seen him somewhere. But it’s very much a case of a needle in a haystack. Of course, he’s far too clever to go to any of the known centres—always supposing he’s alive, and, being alive, that he’s in London.”
“He is alive, and he is in London,” said I.
“What!” O’Shea rapped out the word in a parade-ground voice. “How the devil do you know that, Decies?”
In a very few sentences I told him.
“That settles it,” said the inspector. “The rest is routine. Find the woman and your case is won.”
O’Shea adjusted his monocle. It was a danger signal, but the Scotland Yard man was ignorant of this fact.
“Explain yourself, inspector,” he directed, with ominous calm.
“Well—it’s clear enough,” was the reply. “I shall insert a paragraph in the Planet, and when Mr. Zara turns up, he will be met by someone he’s not expecting.”
“You will do nothing of the kind,” said O’Shea coldly. “The assistance of the Special Branch has been asked for because of the facilities that you possess in cases of this kind. But on no account must the name of any friend of mine be dragged into the matter.”
The atmosphere grew oppressively electrical for a moment; then:
“As you wish, sir,” returned the inspector. “But you are going to lose him.”
“I trust not. But even so, I decline to use this lady’s name as a bait to trap Zara.”
No doubt the man from Scotland Yard thought the speaker mad. No doubt he wondered why cases of this sort were placed in charge of distinguished soldiers handicapped by such preposterous scruples. But he did not know how Fate had intertwined Nanette in this affair so that at every turn success or failure seemed to lie cupped in her little hands. He took it like a good sportsman, however.
“Might I look over the other photographs?” he asked.
“Certainly,” said I, and spread them before him. “The negatives are in the wallet. You will want the one of Zara.”
But when, later, I found myself alone, and began to arrange my photographic gallery, I missed not one negative, but two. Search availed me nothing. The negative of Zara was gone, but so also was that of Nanette in the act of diving from a rock.
“Jack!” I exclaimed. “Jack must have taken it!”
But I was wrong.
CHAPTER XXII.
PORTRAIT OF A GIRL DIVING
On the following morning Nanette’s mother called. One great disadvantage of this era of freedom is that it has taken all the kick out of life. Without prohibitions there can be no thrills. If a pretty married woman had called upon my father in his bachelor days he would have immediately consulted his solicitor.
She looked more like Nanette than ever. Her shapely arms were sunburned, and (I thought) were very beautiful so. But, as Nanette had done, she declared that she was ashamed of her gipsy appearance. But she had come with some more definite purpose than merely to chat, and presently the truth popped out.
“Really, you know, Mr. Decies,” she said, “I don’t think it was quite playing the game.”
I suppose I stared like an idiot.
“You know quite well what I mean,” she added, and smiled in that way which was so like Nanette’s.
“On the contrary,” I assured her earnestly. “I really haven’t the faintest idea to what you refer.”
She stared at me very unblinkingly, then nodded.
“I can see you haven’t,” she confessed. “Perhaps you didn’t think there was any harm in it—and, of course, I admit the excellence of the charity. But I’m afraid it will get her talked about. At least, you might have consulted me.”
“Please—please!” I entreated. “Take pity upon me. You are clearly referring to something of which I have no knowledge whatever——”
“Mr. Decies,” she interrupted—and held out a newspaper which she carried—“I am referring to the picture in the Daily Planet.”
“But what have I to do with the pictures in the Daily Planet?” I asked blankly.
“Since you took the picture in question, the connection in this case is obvious.”
Dazedly, I opened the copy of the Planet which she handed to me—and there, prominently featured, was a large reproduction of my snapshot of Nanette diving! The caption read:
A charming study of a charming diver. No wonder Madeira grows more popular every season. The original photograph is on view in the Modern Gallery, Bond Street, amongst a collection offered for sale in aid of St. Dunstan’s Institute for Blinded Soldiers.
To say that I was staggered is to convey but a feeble idea of my frame of mind. I stared at the picture until I seemed to see it dimly through a haze. When, at last, I looked up and met the reproachful gaze of Nanette’s mother, I was temporarily past comment.
My innocence must have proclaimed itself, for:
“Mr. Decies,” she said, and I saw her expression change, “I must apologize. You evidently are as surprised as I was. But this only deepens the mystery. Did you develop this film yourself?”
“No,” I answered. “It was on one of several spools which I brought back. The Kodak people developed it. But——”
I stopped short. The truth had presented itself to me. One of four people had taken this unaccountable liberty with the photograph. Jack, the inspector, O’Shea, or Nanette herself. For I had no evidence to show which of these four had removed the negative from the wallet.
“Yes?” Nanette’s mother prompted.
“The firm in question certainly knows nothing of the matter,” I went on. “You see, I missed this negative yesterday.”
“You mean that someone stole it?”
“Stole it or borrowed it.”
“But with what object?”
“Presumably a philanthropic one,” said I, very blankly. “Nobody profits—except the charity.”
“It resembles the work of an enemy—if one can imagine Nan having an enemy. Unfortunately, it is a perfect likeness. In fact, it was brought to my notice by someone. Personally, I don’t read the Planet.”
“What does Nanette think about it?”
“She doesn’t know. That is, she had already gone out when the paper was shown to me. She may know by now. I am afraid it will earn her a rather unenviable notoriety.”
I promised that I would thresh the matter out, but as I had a luncheon appointment all I could hope to do immediately was to ring up the Planet and speak to the department responsible.
This led to nowhere.
The art editor was out, and apparently no other member of the staff knew anything whatever about the photograph—or about anything else.
I lunched that day at the Savoy Grill. So did nearly everybody who had been in Funchal whilst Nanette was there. The room appeared to be decorated with copies of the Planet, and my reception would have gratified Gene Tunney and overwhelmed Douglas Fairbanks. I grew stickily embarrassed.
Finally, I made my escape—and in the lobby ran into Jack.
“I say, Decies,” he exclaimed, “it’s hardly good enough. Nanette kicked at the picture from the first. Now you go and publish it!”
“Stop!” I said sharply. “This is the last time I shall explain the fact to anyone. But I did not send Nanette’s photograph to the Planet. Except that someone stole the negative from the portfolio at my rooms yesterday, I know nothing whatever about the matter.”
“Stole it!”
“Exactly.”
“But when?”
“I missed it just after you had gone. In fact, Jack, I thought at the time you had borrowed it to have a copy made.”
“Good heavens, no! She didn’t want me to have it.”
“Then the mystery remains a mystery.”
“It’s so objectless!” cried Jack. “A photograph like that is just good fun amongst friends, but one doesn’t want the million readers of the Planet to see it. This defeats me! Have you rung up the office?”
“Yes. I could get no satisfaction. I am going along to the Modern Gallery now.”
“I’ll come with you!” said Jack.
CHAPTER XXIII.
FIASCO
A curious episode marked our arrival at the gallery. On the opposite side of Bond Street, you may recall that there is a block of offices and showrooms, occupied by beauty specialists, modistes, and others. Well, at the entrance to the gallery, where an announcement stated that an exhibition of modern drawings and art photographs was being held in aid of, etc., we bumped into one of Nanette’s Madeira conquests.
“Hallo, Milton!” said I.
The young man, who had been leaning against the doorway and staring abstractedly across the street, became galvanized into sudden action. He gave a swift look at me, a second look at Jack, and then:
“Hallo, Decies,” he returned in an oddly guilty way.
Immediately he stared across the street again. At which moment came a cry from Jack.
“Gad! There’s Nanette!”
“Where?” I asked.
“In that window, on the first floor there. She has seen us, I think.”
I followed the direction of his gaze. The window indicated belonged to an expert organizer of female hair. An attractive wax bust was visible but no Nanette. I turned to Milton.
“Is Nanette there?” I asked.
“I couldn’t say,” he replied evasively.
Jack gave him a venomous glance and started across the street.
“We can see for ourselves,” he snapped.
I looked inquiringly at the young man in the doorway, but he returned my regard with so high a challenge that I wondered, checked the words on my tongue, and followed Jack.
We mounted the stairway to the first landing, and Jack threw open a door bearing the simple legend “Pierre” with quite unnecessary violence. We found ourselves in a discreet waiting room delicately perfumed. A stout French gentleman, whose wavy gleaming locks were a credit to his professional acquirements, greeted us. He bowed.
“I have called for a lady who is here,” said Jack. “Please tell her Mr. Decies and Mr. Kelton.”
“But there is some mistake,” Pierre replied—assuming that this was none other than the maestro in person. “No one is here at the moment—unless you mean Mlle. Justine, my assistant.” He raised his voice. “Justine!”
A trim figure in white appeared at the door of an inner sanctuary sacred to hair.
“M’sieur?” said Justine, and bestowed upon us a swift glance of roguish dark eyes.
“You are alone?”
“Yes, m’sieur. I am waiting for Lady Rickaby whose appointment is at three.”
She bit her lip, suppressing a smile, and disappeared.
“You see?” M. Pierre extended apologetic palms. “There is no one.”
“What’s afoot?” Jack asked as we regained Bond Street. “That fat bird was lying. The girl gave it away. Nanette is hiding from us.”
We stared at each other, badly puzzled. Then we looked across to where Milton lounged in the entrance to the Modern Gallery, seemingly oblivious of our existence.
“Come on!” said Jack savagely.
We joined the waiting Milton.
“Have you seen the famous picture?” I asked.
“No,” he replied, “I haven’t.”
Jack made a snorting noise, then, paying a shilling each, we went into the exhibition. We found it to be far from crowded, and, indeed, the artistic donations were not of outstanding merit. Quite the most interesting exhibit was the lady in charge of the sales department. And, at the end of a ten minutes’ quest, we sought her aid.
“Perhaps you could tell me,” said I, “where the picture is that was reproduced in to-day’s Planet—a portrait of a girl diving.”
Whereupon the lady addressed began to laugh!
Jack’s expression was worthy of study. In the eyes of poor Jack, anything touching Nanette was sacred, and this was the second time in one afternoon that inquiries concerning her had provoked merriment.
“I wish I could!” was the reply. “Really, it’s most absurd. But all the same the publicity has done the exhibition a lot of good. Forgive my laughter, but, you see, we know nothing whatever about this picture!”
“What!”
Jack’s exclamation was not merely rude; it was explosive.
“It has never been here,” she went on. “Dozens of people have asked about it. But we have never seen it. The secretary ’phoned the Planet this morning and was told that they had used the photograph in good faith.”
“But who sent it to them?” I asked.
“I am afraid I can’t tell you,” was the answer. “All we could learn was that it had been sent in by a responsible agency. Personally, of course, we are rather grateful.”
In silence Jack and I departed. Milton was standing in Bond Street just outside the doorway.
“Good-bye, Milton,” I said. “Let’s hope it keeps fine.”
“Good-bye, Decies,” said he, jauntily imperturbable.
Jack glanced sharply up at M. Pierre’s windows; but only the wax bust rewarded his scrutiny.
“I am beginning to hate your friend Milton,” he confided.
“He is not so popular with me,” I confessed.
“Come round to the club,” Jack suggested. “This thing calls for cool reflection.”
I left him at four o’clock. We had telephoned Nanette’s mother, only to learn that Nanette had not returned. The whole thing was provokingly mysterious. It had entirely diverted my thoughts from the more serious problem of the capture of Adolf Zara. In fact, I could not shake my mind free of it.