Alias The Lone Wolf - Louis Joseph Vance
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He found the day making good Mr. Mussey's forecast. Under a dull, thick
sky the sea ran in heavy swells, greasy and grey. The wind was in the
south, and light and shifty. The horizon was vague. Captain Monk,
encountered on the quarterdeck, had an uneasy eye, and cursed the
weather roundly when Lanyard made civil enquiry as to the outlook. Ca
va bien!
Lanyard killed an hour or two in the chartroom, acquainting himself
with the coast they were approaching and tracing the Sybarite's
probable course toward the spot selected from the smuggling
transaction. His notion of the precise location of the owner's estate
was rather indefinite; he had gathered from gossip that it was on the
Connecticut shore of Long Island Sound, between New London and New
Haven, where a group of small islands--also the property of Mister
Whitaker Monk--provided fair anchorage between Sound and shore as well
as a good screen from offshore observation.
It was not vital to know more: Lanyard had neither hope nor fear of
ever seeing that harbour. It was the approach alone that interested
him; and when he had puzzled out that there were only two practicable
courses for the Sybarite to take--both bearing in a general
north-westerly direction from Nantucket Shoals Light Vessel, one
entering Block Island Sound from the east, between Point Judith and
Block Island, the other entering the same body of water from the south,
between Block Island and Montauk Point--and had satisfied himself that
manifold perils to navigation hedged about both courses, more
especially their prolongation into Long Island Sound by way of The
Race: Lanyard told himself it would be strange indeed if his plans
miscarried ... always providing that Mr. Mussey could be trusted to
hold to his overnight agreement.
But as to that, one entertained few fears. One felt quite sure that Mr.
Mussey would perform duly to the letter of his covenant. It had
required only an hour of weighing and analysing with a clear head his
overtures and utterances as a whole, to persuade Lanyard that he
himself, no less than the chief engineer, in the phrase of the latter's
boast, "knew something."
It seemed unbelievably stupid and childish, what he imagined was behind
the gratuitous intermeddling of Mr. Mussey; but then, he reminded
himself, if there is anything more stupid than to plot a criminal act,
it is to permit oneself to be influenced by that criminal stupidity
whose other name is jealousy.
Well, whether he were right or wrong, the night would declare it; and
in any event there was no excuse whatever for refusing to profit by the
stupidity of men whose minds are bent on vicious mischief....
The weather thickened as the day grew older. Towards noon the wind, as
if weary and discouraged with vain endeavour to make up its mind to
blow from this quarter or that, died away altogether. At the same time
the horizon appeared to close in perceptibly; what little definition it
had had in earlier hours was erased; and the Sybarite, shearing the
oily and lifeless waters of a dead calm, seemed less to make progress
than to struggle sullenly in a pool of quicksilver at the bottom of a
slowly revolving sphere of clouded glass, mutinously aware that all her
labouring wrought no sort of gain.
After an hour of this, Captain Monk, on the bridge with Mr. Swain,
arrived at a decision of exasperation. Through the engine-room
ventilators a long jingle of the telegraph was heard; and directly the
Sybarite's pulses began to beat in quicker tempo, while darker volutes
of smoke rolled in dense volume from her funnel and streamed away
astern, resting low and preserving their individuality as long as
visible, like a streak of oxidization on a field of frosted silver. For
the first time since she had left the harbour of Cherbourg the yacht
was doing herself something like justice in the matter of speed--and
this contrary to all ethics of seamanship, on such a day.
At the luncheon table, Phinuit ventured a light-headed comment on this
dangerous procedure; whereupon Monk turned on him in a cold fury.
"As long as I'm master of this vessel, sir, I'll sail her according to
the counsels of my own discretion--and thank you to keep your
animadversions to yourself!"
"Animadversions!" Phinuit echoed, and made round, shocked eyes. "Oh, I
never! At least, I didn't mean anything naughty, skipper dear."
Monk snorted, and grumbled over his food throughout the remainder of
the meal; but later, coming upon a group composed of Liane Delorme,
Lanyard and Phinuit, in the saloon, he paused, looked this way and that
to make sure none of the stewards was within eavesdropping distance,
and graciously unbent a little.
"I'm making the best time we can while we can see at all," he
volunteered. "No telling when this misbegotten fog will close in and
force us to slow down to half-speed or less--in crowded waters, too!"
"And very sensible, I'm sure," Phinuit agreed heartily. "Whatever
happens, we musn't be late for our date with Friend Boss, must we?"
"We'll keep it," Monk promised grimly, "if we have to feel every inch
of our way in with the lead. I don't mind telling you, this fog may
save our skins at that. Wireless has been picking up chatter all
morning between a regular school of revenue cutters patrolling this
coast on the lookout for just such idiots as we are. So we'll carry on
and trust to luck till we make Monk Harbour or break our fool necks."
Liane Delorme gave a start of dismay.
"There is danger, then?"
"Only if we run afoul of a cutter, Liane." Monk tried to speak
reassuringly. "And that's not likely in this weather. As for the fog,
it's a dirty nuisance to any navigator but, as I said, may quite
possibly prove our salvation. I know these waters like a book, I've
sailed them ever since I was old enough to tell a tiller from a
mainsheet. I can smell my way in, if it comes to that, through the
blindest fog the Atlantic ever brewed."
"Then you do things with your nostrils, too?" Phinuit enquired
innocently. "I've often wondered if all the intellect was located in
the eyebrows."
Monk glared, growled, and hastily sought the air of the deck. Liane
Delorme eyed Phinuit with amused reproach.
"Really, my young friend!"
"I can't help it, mademoiselle," Phinuit asserted sulkily. "Too much is
enough. I've watched him making faces with the top of his head so long
I dream of geometrical diagrams laid out in eyebrows--and wake up
screaming. And they call this a pleasure craft!"
With an aggrieved air he sucked at his pipe for a few minutes.
"Besides," he added suddenly, "somebody's got to be comic relief, and I
don't notice anybody else in a sweat to be the Life and Soul of the
ship."
He favoured Lanyard with a morose stare. "Why don't you ever put your
shoulder to the wheel, Lanyard? Why leave it all to me? Come on; be a
sport, cut a caper, crack a wheeze, do something to get a giggle!"
"But I am by no means sure you do not laugh at me too much, as it is."
"Rot!... Tell you what." Phinuit sat up with a gleaming eye of
inspiration. "You can entertain mademoiselle and me no end, if you
like. Spill the glad tidings."
"Glad tidings?"
"Now don't monkey with the eyebrows--_please!_ It gives me the
willies... I merely mean to point out, to-day's the day you promised to
come through with the awful decision. And there's no use waiting for
Monk to join us; he's too much worried about his nice little ship. Tell
mademoiselle and me now."
Lanyard shook his head, smiling. "But the time I set was when we made
our landfall."
"Well, what's the matter with Martha's Vineyard over there? You could
see if it was a clear day."
"But it is not a clear day."
"Suppose it gets thicker, a sure-enough fog? We may not see land before
midnight."
"Then till midnight we must wait. No, Monsieur Phinuit, I will not be
hurried. I have been thinking, I am still thinking, and there is still
much to be said before I can come to any decision that will be fair to
you, mademoiselle, the captain on the one hand, myself on the other."
"But at midnight, if the skipper's promise holds good, we'll be going
ashore."
"The objection is well taken. My answer will be communicated when we
see land or at eleven o'clock to-night, whichever is the earlier
event."
Some further effort at either persuasion or impudence--nobody but
Phinuit ever knew which--was drowned out by the first heart-broken
bellow of the whistle sounding the fog signal.
Liane Delorme bounded out of her chair, clapping hands to ears, and
uttered an unheard cry of protest; and when, the noise suspending
temporarily, she learned that it was to be repeated at intervals of two
minutes as long as the fog lasted and the yacht was under way, she flung
up piteous hands to an uncompassionate heaven and fled to her stateroom,
slamming the door as if she thought thereby to shut out the offending din.
One fancied something inhumanly derisive in the prolonged hoot which
replied.
Rather than languish under the burden of Mr. Phinuit's spirited
conversation for the rest of the afternoon, Lanyard imitated Liane's
example, and wasted the next hour and a half flat on his bed, with eyes
closed but mind very much alive. Now and again he consulted his watch,
as one might with an important appointment to keep. At two minutes to
four he left his stateroom, and as the first stroke of eight bells rang
out--in one of the measured intervals between blasts of the
whistle--ending the afternoon watch, he stepped out on deck, and paused
for a survey of the weather conditions.
There was no perceptible motion in the air, witnessing that the wind
had come in from astern, that is to say approximately from the
southeast, and was blowing at about the speed made by the yacht itself.
The fog clung about the vessel, Lanyard thought, like dull grey cotton
wool. Yet, if the shuddering of her fabric were fair criterion, the
pace of the Sybarite was unabated, she was ploughing headlong through
that dense obscurity using the utmost power of her engines. From time
to time, when the whistle was still, the calls of seamen operating the
sounding machine could be heard; but their reports were monotonously
uniform, the waters were not yet shoal enough for the lead to find
bottom at that pace.
The watch was being changed as Lanyard started forward, with the tail
of an eye on the bridge. Mr. Collison relieved Mr. Swain, and the
latter came down the companion-ladder just in time to save Lanyard a
nasty spill as his feet slipped on planking greasy with globules of
fog. There's no telling how bad a fall he might not have suffered had
not Mr. Swain been there for him to catch at; and for a moment or two
Lanyard was, as Mr. Swain put it with great good-nature, all over him,
clinging to the first officer in a most demonstrative manner; and it
was with some difficulty that he at length recovered his equilibrium.
Then, however, he laid hold of the rail for insurance against further
mishaps, thanked Mr. Swain heartily, added his apologies, and the two
parted with expressions of mutual esteem.
The incident seemed to have dampened Lanyard's ardour for exercise. He
made a rather gingerly way back to the quarterdeck, loafed restlessly
in a deck-chair for a little while, then went below once more.
Some time after, supine again upon his bed, he heard Mr. Swain in the
saloon querulously interrogating one of the stewards. It appeared that
Mr. Swain had unaccountably mislaid his keys, and he wanted to know if
the steward had seen anything of them. The steward hadn't, he said; and
Lanyard for one knew that he spake sooth, since at that moment the
missing keys were resting on the bottom of the sea several miles
astern--all but one.
There was no dressing for dinner that night. Liane Delorme, her nerves
rasped almost beyond endurance by the relentless fog signal, preferred
the seclusion of her stateroom. Lanyard wasn't really sorry; the bosom
of a white shirt is calculated to make some impression upon the human
retina even on the darkest night; whereas his plain lounge suit of blue
serge was sure to prove entirely inconspicuous. So, if he missed the
feminine influence at table, he bore up with good fortitude.
And after dinner he segregated himself as usual in his favourite chair
near the taffrail. The fog, if anything denser than before,
manufactured an early dusk of a peculiarly depressing violet shade.
Nevertheless, evenings are long in that season of the year, and to
Lanyard it seemed that the twilight would never quite fade out
completely, true night would never come.
Long before it did, speed was slackened: the yacht was at last in
soundings; the calls of the leadsmen were as monotonous as the whistle
blasts, and almost as frequent. Lanyard could have done without both,
if the ship could not. He remarked a steadily intensified exacerbation
of nerves, and told himself he was growing old and no mistake. He could
remember the time when he could have endured a strain of waiting
comparable to that which he must suffer now, and have turned never a
hair.
How long ago it seemed!...
Another sign that the Sybarite had entered what are technically
classified as inland waters, where special rules of the road apply, was
to be remarked in the fact that the fog signal was now roaring once
each minute, whereas Lanyard had grown accustomed to timing the
intervals between the sounding of the ship's bell, upon which all his
interest hung, at the rate of fifteen blasts to the half hour.
If you asked him, once a minute seemed rather too much of a good thing,
even in busy lanes of sea traffic. Still, it was better perhaps than
unpremeditated disaster; one was not keen about having the Sybarite
ground on a sandbank, pile up on a rock, or dash her brains out against
the bulk of another vessel--before eleven o'clock at earliest.
In retrospect he counted those two hours between dinner and ten-thirty
longer than the fortnight which had prefaced them. So is the heart of
man ever impatient when the journey's-end draws near, though that end
be but the beginning, as well, of that longer journey which men call
Death.
Lest he betray his impatience by keeping the tips of his cigarette too
bright (one never knows when one is not watched) he smoked sparingly.
But on the twenty-eighth blare of the whistle after the ringing of four
bells, he drew out his cigarette case and, as the thirtieth raved out,
synchronous with two double strokes and a single on brazen metal, he
placed a cigarette between his lips.
At the same time he saw Captain Monk, who had been on the bridge with
the officer of the watch for several hours, come aft with weary
shoulders sagging, and go below by the saloon companionway. And Lanyard
smiled knowingly and assured himself that went well--ca va bien!--his
star held still in the ascendant.
There remained on the bridge only Mr. Collison and the man at the
wheel.
At the fourth blast after five bells Lanyard put a match to his
cigarette. But he did not puff more than to get the tobacco well
alight. He even held his breath, and felt his body shaken by the
pulsations of his anxious heart precisely as the body of the Sybarite
was shaken by the pulsations of her engines.
With the next succeeding fog signal darkness absolute descended upon
the vessel, shrouding it from stem to stern like a vast blanket of
blackness.
Mr. Mussey had not failed to keep his pact of treachery.
Lanyard was out of his chair before the first call of excited
remonstrance rang out on deck--to be echoed in clamour. His cigarette
stopped behind, on the taffrail, carefully placed at precisely the
height of his head, its little glowing tip the only spot of light on
the decks. No matter whether or not it were noted; no precaution is too
insignificant to be important when life and death are at issue.
There was nothing of that afternoon's unsureness of foot in the way
Lanyard moved forward. Passing the engine-room ventilators he heard the
telegraph give a single stroke; Mr. Collison had only then recovered
from, his astonishment sufficiently to signal to slow down. A squeal of
the speaking-tube whistle followed instantly; and Lanyard set foot upon
the bridge in time to hear Mr. Collison demanding to know what the
sanguinary hades had happened down there. Whatever reply he got seemed
to exasperate him into incoherence. He stuttered with rage, gasped, and
addressed the man at the wheel.
"I've got a flash-lamp in my cabin. That'll show us the compass card at
least. Stand by while I run down and get it."
The man mumbled an "Aye, aye, sir." Retreating footsteps were just
audible.
Neither speaker had been visible to Lanyard. By putting out a hand he
could have touched the helmsman, but his body made not even the shadow
of a silhouette against the sky. The fog was rendering the night the
simple and unqualified negation of light.
And in that time of Stygian gloom violence was done swiftly, surely,
and without mercy; with pity, yes, and with regret. Lanyard was sorry
for the man at the wheel. But what was to be done could not be done in
any other way.
The surprise aided him, for the fellow offered barely a show of
opposition. His astounded faculties had no more than recognised the
call for resistance when he was powerless in Lanyard's hands. Swung
bodily away from the wheel, he went over the rail to the forward deck
like a bag of sugar. Immediately Lanyard turned to the binnacle.
Sensitive fingers located the key-hole in the pedestal, the one key
saved from the ring which Mr. Swain had so unfortunately and
unaccountably lost opened the door--the key, of course, that Mr. Swain
had used under Lanyard's eyes when demonstrating the functions of the
binnacle to Liane Delorme.
Thrusting a hand into the opening, Lanyard groped for the adjustable
magnets in their racks, and one by one removed and dropped them to the
grating at the foot of the binnacle.
He worked with hands amazingly nimble and sure, and was closing and
relocking the door when Mr. Collison tumbled up the ladder with his
flash-light. So when the second mate arrived upon the bridge, Lanyard
was waiting for him; and in consequence of a second act of deplorable
violence, Mr. Collison returned to the deck backwards and lay quite
still while Lanyard returned to the wheel.
Collecting the abstracted magnets he carried them to the rail, cast
them into the sea and threw in the key to the little door to keep them
company. Then, back at the binnacle, he unscrewed the brass caps of the
cylindrical brass tube which housed the Flinders bar, removed that
also, replaced the caps, and consigned the bar to the sea in its turn.
By choice he would have made a good job of it and abolished the
quadrantal correctors as well; but he judged he had done mischief
enough to secure his ends, as it was. The compass ought now to be just
as constant to the magnetic pole as a humming-bird to one especial
rose.
Guiding himself by a hand that lightly touched the rail, Lanyard
regained his chair, carefully composing himself in the position in
which he had been resting when the lights went out. His cigarette was
still aglow; good Turkish has this virtue among many others, that left
to itself it will burn on to the end of its roll.
The next instant, however, he was on his feet again. A beam of light
had swept across the saloon skylight, coming from below, the beam of a
portable electric torch. It might have been the signal for the first
piercing scream of Liane Delorme. A pistol shot with a vicious accent
cut short the scream. After a brief pause several more shots rippled in
the saloon. A man shouted angrily. Then the torch-light found and
steadied upon the mouth of the companionway. Against that glare, a
burly figure was instantaneously relieved, running up to the deck. As
it gained the topmost step a final report sounded in the saloon, and
the figure checked, revolved slowly on a heel, tottered, and plunged
headforemost down the steps again.
A moment later (incredible that the stipulated ten minutes should have
passed so swiftly!) the lights came on, and with a still-fuming stump
of cigarette between his fingers Lanyard went below.
His bewildered gaze discovered first Liane Delorme, drawn up
rigidly--she seemed for some reason to be standing tiptoe--against the
starboard partition, near her stateroom door. Her fingers were clawing
her cheeks, her eyes widely dilate with horror and fright, her mouth
was agape, and from it issued, as by some mechanical impulse, shriek
upon hollow shriek--cries wholly flat and meaningless, having no
character of any sort, mere automatic reflexes of hysteria.
On the opposite side of the saloon, not far from the door to his own
quarters, Monk lay semi-prone with a purple face and protruding
eyeballs, far gone toward death through strangulation. Phinuit, on his
knees, was removing a silk handkerchief that had been twisted about
that scrawney throat.
At the foot of the companionway steps, Popinot, no phantom but the
veritable Apache himself, was writhing and heaving convulsively; and
even as Lanyard looked, the huge body of the creature lifted from the
floor in one last, heroic spasm, then collapsed, and moved no more.
Viewing this hideous tableau, appreciating what it meant--that
Popinot, forearmed with advice from a trusted quarter, had stationed
himself outside the door to Monk's stateroom, to waylay and garotte the
man whom he expected to emerge therefrom laden with the plunder of
Monk's safe--Lanyard appreciated further that he had done Mr. Mussey a
great wrong.
For he had all the time believed that the chief engineer was laying a
trap for him on behalf of his ancient shipmate, that unhappy victim of
groundless jealousy, Captain Whitaker Monk.
XXVII
CA VA BIEN!
Fearful lest, left to herself, Liane Delorme would do an injury to his
eardrums as well as to her own vocal chords, Lanyard stepped across the
dead bulk of the Apache and planted himself squarely in front of the
woman. Seizing her forearms with his two hands, he used force to drag
them down to the level of her waist, and purposely made his grasp so
strong that his fingers sank deep into the soft flesh. At the same
time, staring fixedly into her vacant eyes, he smiled his most winning
smile, but with the muscles of his mouth alone, and said quietly:
"Shut up, Liane! Stop making a fool of yourself! Shut up--do you hear?"
The incongruity of his brutal grasp with his smile, added to the
incongruity of an ordinary conversational tone with his peremptory and
savage phrases had the expected effect.
Sanity began to inform the violet eyes, a shrill, empty scream was cut
sharply in two, the woman stared for an instant with a look of
confusion; then her lashes drooped, her body relaxed, she fell limply
against the partition and was quiet save for fits of trembling that
shook her body from head to foot; still, each successive seizure was
sensibly less severe. Lanyard let go her wrists.
"There!" he said--"that's over, Liane. The beast is done for--no more
to fear from him. Now forget him--brace up, and realise the debt you
owe good Monsieur Phinuit."
With a grin, that gentleman looked up from his efforts to revive
Captain Monk.
"I'm a shy, retiring violet," he stated somewhat superfluously, "but if
the world will kindly lend its ears, I'll inform it coyly that was
_some_ shootin'. Have a look, will you, Lanyard, like a good fellow,
and make sure our little friend over there isn't playing 'possum on us.
Seems to me I've heard of his doing something like that before--maybe
you remember. And, mademoiselle, if you'll be kind enough to fetch me
that carafe of ice water, I'll see if we can't bring the skipper to his
senses, such as they are."
His tone was sufficiently urgent to rouse Liane out of the lassitude
into which reaction from terror had let her slip. She passed a hand
over still dazed eyes, looked uncertainly about, then with perceptible
exertion of will power collected herself, stood away from the partition
and picked up the carafe.
Lanyard adopted the sensible suggestion of Phinuit, dropping on a knee
to rest his hand above the heart of Popinot. To his complete
satisfaction, if not at all to his surprise, no least flutter of life
was to be detected in that barrel-like chest.
A moment longer he lingered, looking the corpse over with inquisitive
eyes. No sign that he could see suggested that Popinot had suffered
hardship during his two weeks of close sequestration; he seemed to have
fared well as to food and drink, and his clothing, if nothing to boast
of in respect of cut or cloth, and though wrinkled and stretched with
constant wear, was tolerably clean--unstained by bilge, grease, or coal
smuts, as it must have been had the man been hiding in the hold or
bunkers, those traditional refuges of your simon-pure stowaway.
No: Monsieur Popinot had been well taken care of--and Lanyard could
name an officer of prestige ponderable enough to secure his quarters,
wherein presumably Popinot had lain perdu, against search when the
yacht has been "turned inside out," according to its commander.