CHAPTER VI
THUMBSCREWS
The salon of conversation, as the mirrored, gilded, and highly varnishedapartment was grandiloquently termed, had been the very spot chosen forour presumably not very terrible ordeal. Things were well under way.At the desk in the corner one officer was jotting down notes as to theclearance papers and the cargo; while at a table in the foreground sathis comrade, in a lieutenant's uniform, with the captain of the _Red'Italia_ at his right, swart-faced and silent, and the list of thepassengers lying before the pair.
As I entered a few moments behind Van Blarcom, I perceived that theinterrogation had already run a partial course. Pietro Ricci, thereservist, had, no doubt, emerged with flying colors and now stoodagainst the wall beside the doughty agent of the Phillipson Rifles, whohad apparently satisfied his inquisitor, too. Near the door a group ofstewards had clustered to watch with interest; and as I stood waiting,the girl in furs came in.
I put myself a hypothetical query.
"If a girl," I thought, "materializes from the void, asks anincriminating favor, and vanishes, does that put one on bowing termswith her when one meets her again?" Evidently it did, for she smiledbrightly and graciously and bent her ruddy head. But she was pale, Inoticed critically; there was apprehension in her eyes. Wasn't it oddthat the prospect of a few simple questions from an officer shoulddisconcert her when she had possessed the courage, or the foolhardiness,to sail on this line at this time?
Really I could not deny that all I had seen of her was most suspicious.For aught I knew, the secret-service man might be absolutely right. Ihad treated him outrageously. I owed him an apology, doubtless. ButI still felt furious with him, and when she looked anxiously at thoseofficers, I felt furious with them too.
Van Blarcom, his brief questioning ended, was turning from the table. Ashe passed, I made a point of smiling companionably at the girl.
"Now for the rack, the cord, and the thumbscrews," I murmured to her,making way.
The lieutenant was a tall, lean, muscular young man with a shrewd tannedface in which his eyes showed oddly blue, and he half rose, civillyenough, as the girl advanced.
"Please sit down," he said with a strong English accent. "I'll have tosee your passport if you will be so good." She took it from the bag shecarried, and he glanced at it perfunctorily.
"Your name is Esme Falconer?"
"Yes," she replied.
It was the name of the little Stuart princess, the daughter of Charlesthe First, whose quaint, coiffed, blue-gowned portrait hangs in a dark,gloomy gallery at Rome. I was subconsciously aware that I liked itdespite its strangeness, the while I wondered more actively if thatPaul Pry of a Van Blarcom had imparted to the ship's authorities thesuspicions he had shared with me.
"You are an American, Miss Falconer? You were born in the States?You are going to Italy--and then home again?" The questions came in areassuringly mechanical fashion; the man was doing his duty, nothingmore.
"I may go also to France." Her voice was steady, but I saw that she hadclenched her hands beneath the table.
I glanced at Van Blarcom, to find him listening intently, his neckthrust forward, his eyes almost protruding in his eagerness not to missa word. But there was to be nothing more.
"That is satisfactory, Miss Falconer," announced the Englishman; with alittle sigh of relief, she stood back against the wall.
"If you please," said the officer to me in another tone.
As I came forward, his eyes ran over me from head to foot. Sodid Captain Cecchi's; but I hardly noticed; these uniforms, theseformalities, these war precautions, were like a dash of comic opera. Iwas not taking them seriously in the least. The Britisher gestured metoward a seat, but it seemed superfluous for so brief an interview, andI remained standing with my hands resting on a chair.
"I'll have your passport!" There was something curt in his manner. "Ah!And your name is--?"
"My name is Devereux Bayne."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty."
"Where do you live?"
"In New York and Washington." If he could be laconic, so could I.
"You were born in America?"
"No. I was born in Paris." By this time questions and answers were likethe pop of rifle-shots.
"That was a long way from home. Lucky you chose the country of one ofour Allies." Was this sarcasm or would-be humor? It had an unpleasantring.
"Glad you like it," I responded, with a cold stare, "but I didn't pickit."
"Well, if you weren't born in the States, are you an American citizen?"he imperturbably pursued.
"If you'll consult my passport, you'll see that I am."
"Did either your father or your mother have any German blood?"
I could hear a slight rustle back of me among the passengers, none ofwhom, it was plain, had been subjected to such cross-questioning. I wasgrowing restive, but I couldn't tell him it was not his business; ofcourse it was.
"No; they didn't," I briefly replied.
"About your destination now." He was making notes of all my answers."You are going to Italy, and then--"
"To France."
"Roundabout trip, rather. The Bordeaux route is safer just now andquicker, too. Why not have gone that way? And how long are you planningto stop over on this side?"
"It depends upon circumstances." What on earth ailed the fellow? He wasas annoying as a mosquito or a gnat.
"I beg your pardon, but your plans seem rather at loose ends, don'tthey? What are you crossing for?"
"To drive an ambulance!" I answered as curtly as the words could besaid.
I saw his face soften and humanize at the information. For once I hadmade a satisfactory response, it seemed. But on the heels of my answerthere rose the voice of Mr. McGuntrie, sensational, accusing, pitchedalmost at a shriek.
"Look here, lieutenant," he was crying, "don't you let that fellow foolyou. I asked him the first night out if he was an ambulance boy, andhe denied it to me, up and down. I thought all along he was too smart,hooting like he did at submarines. Guess he knew one would pick him upall right if the rest of us did sink."
"How about that, Mr. Bayne?" asked the Englishman, his uncordial selfonce more.
It was maddening. One would have thought them all in league to prove mean atrocious criminal.
"Simply this," I replied with the iciness of restrained fury, "that thisgentleman has been the steamer's pest ever since the night we sailed. IfI had answered his questions, every one, down to the ship's cat, wouldhave shared his knowledge within the hour. I did not deny anything; Isimply did not assent. You are an officer in authority; I am answeringyou, though I protest strongly at your manner; but I don't tell myaffairs to prying strangers because we are cooped up on the same boat."
"H'm. If I were you I would keep my temper." He regarded methoughtfully, and then with rapier-like rapidity shot two questionsat my head. "I say, Mr. Bayne, you're positive about your parents nothaving German blood, are you? And you are quite sure you were born inParis, not in--well, Prussia, suppose we say?"
"What the--" I opportunely remembered the presence of Miss EsmeFalconer. "What do you mean?" I substituted less sulphurously, but witha glare.
He bent forward, tapping his forefinger against the desk, and his eyeswere like gimlets boring into mine.
"I mean," he enlightened me, his voice very hard of a sudden, "that aGerman agent is due to sail on this line, about this time, with certainpapers, and that from one or two indications I'm not at all sure you arenot the man."
With sudden perspicacity, I realized that he took me for an emissary ofthe great Blenheim. Exasperation overwhelmed me; would these farcicalcomplications never cease?
"Good heavens, man," I exclaimed with conviction, "you are crazy! Lookat me! Use your common-sense! What on earth is there about me to suggesta spy?"
"In a good spy there never is anything suggestive."
By Jove, that was the very thing the secret-service man had said!
"You admit you were born abroad. You claim to be bound for France, butyou sail for Italy. And you are rather a soldier's type, tall, wellset-up, good military carriage. You'd make quite a showing in a fielduniform, I should say."
"In a fiddlestick!" I snapped, weary of the situation. "So would you--sowould our friend the Italian reservist there. I'm an average American,free, white, and twenty-one, with strong pro-Ally sympathies and apassport in perfect shape. This is all nonsense, but of course thereis something back of it. What has been your real reason for deviling meever since I entered this room?"
The lieutenant was studying my face.
"Mr. Bayne," he said slowly, "do you care to tell me the nature of thepackage you threw across the rail the first night out?"
I heard a gasp from the group behind me, a squeal of joy fromMcGuntrie, a quick, low-drawn breath that surely came from the girl.Preternaturally cool, I thought rapidly.
"What's that you say? Package?" I repeated, trying to gain time.
"Yes, package!" said the Englishman, sharply. "And we'll dispense withpretense, please. These are war-times, and from common prudence theAllies keep an eye on all passengers who choose to sail instead ofstaying at home as we prefer they should. Captain Cecchi here reportsto me that one of his stewards saw you drop a small weighted objectoverboard. He has asked me to interrogate you, instead of doing ithimself, so that you may have the chance to defend yourself in English,which he doesn't speak."
"_E vero_. It ees the truth," confirmed the captain of the _Red'Italia_--the one remark, by the way, that he ever addressed to me.
"Well?" It was the Englishman's cold voice. "We are waiting, Mr. Bayne!What was this object you were so anxious to dispose of? A message fromsome confederate, too compromising to keep?"
Heretofore I had carefully avoided looking at Miss Falconer, but at thispoint, turning my head a trifle, I gave her a casual glance. Her eyeshad blackened as they had done that night on the deck; her face hadpaled, and her breath was coming fast. But as I looked, her gaze fell,and her lashes wavered; and I knew that whatever came she did not meanto speak.
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