CHAPTER VI
It came to Peter as he climbed up the iron-fretted steps to the lonelypromenade-deck that life had begun to take on its old golden glow, theluster of the uncertain, the charm of women who found in him somethingnot undesirable.
At this he smiled a little bit. He had never known, as far back as thespan of his adventures extended, a woman who deemed his companionshipas quite so valuable a thing as the mysterious and alluring RomolaBorria, the husband-beaten, incredible, and altogether dangerous youngwoman who passionately besought him to accompany her on a pilgrimage offorgetfulness into the flowery heart of dear old Japan.
Ascending the ladder to the unoccupied deck, he was conscious of thesweet drone of the monsoon, which blew off the shores of Annam over therestless bosom of the China Sea, setting up a tuneful chant in the_Persian Gulf's_ sober rigging, and kissing his cheeks with the ardorof a despairing maiden.
Peter the Brazen decided to take a turn or two round deck before goingto his bunk, to drink in a potion of this intoxicating, winelike night.The wheel of fortune might whirl many times before he was again sailingthis most seductive of oceans.
And he was a little intoxicated, too, with the wine of his youth. Hislips, immersed in the fountain, found very little bitterness there.Life was earnest and grave, as the wiseacres said; but life was, on thewhole, sublime and poignantly sweet. A little bitterness, a littledreary sadness, a pang at the heart now and again, served only tointerrupt the smooth regularity, the monotony, to add zest to thenectar.
When he had finished the cigarette, he flung the butt over the railinto the gushing water, which swam south in its phosphorescent welter,descended between decks to the stateroom that had been assigned to him,and fitted the key to the lock.
He felt decidedly young and foolishly exalted as he closed the doorafter him and heard the lock click, for to few men is it given to havetwo lovely young women in distress seek aid, all in the span of a fewhours. Perhaps these rosy events had served merely to feed oil to thefires of his conceit; but Peter's was not a conceit that rankledanybody. And there were always volunteers, hardened by the buffets ofthis life, to cast water upon that same fire.
So, humming a gay little tune, Peter snapped on the light, bathing themilk-white room in a liquid mellowness, opened the port-hole, wound hiswatch, hung it on the curtain-bar which ran lengthwise with his berth,pushed the flowered curtains at either end as far back as they wouldgo, in order to have all the fresh air possible, and----
Peter gasped. He declared it was absolutely impossible. Such thingsdid not happen, even in this world of strange happenings and ofstranger stirrings below the surface of actual happenings. Hisself-complacencies came shattering down about his ears like mountainsof senseless glitter, and he stooped to recover the object which waslying upon, almost ready to tumble from, the rounded, neat edge of thewhite berth.
A rose of cameo! The hot breath from his lips, which drooped inastonishment and chagrin, seemed to stir the delicate petals of theexquisitely carved red rose which reposed in its mountain of soft goldin the palm of his trembling hand. The fine gold chain, like a rope ofgold sand, trickled between his fingers and dangled, swinging from sideto side.
The impossible thought pounded at the door of his brain and demandedrecognition. Romola Borria had been a visitor to his room. But why?He had no secrets to conceal from the prying ears of any one, not now,at all events, for he had destroyed all evidences depending upon theexcursion he had made from Shanghai to Len Yang, and from Len Yang toMandalay, to Rangoon, to Penang, Singapore, and Batavia.
Naturally, his first impulsive thought was that Romola Borria wassomehow entangled with those who ruled the destinies of the hideousmountain city, which crouched amidst the frosty emerald peaks on thefringe of Tibet. He had felt the weight of that ominous hand on otheroccasions, and its movements were ever the same. Night stealth,warnings chalked on doors, the deliberate and cunning penetration ofhis secrets; all of these were typical machinations of the Gray Dragon,and of those who reported back to the Gray Dragon.
No one would break into his stateroom who was not the tool of LenYang's unknown king. Thus the finger of accusation was brought to beartentatively upon Romola Borria.
Yes, it was incredible that this girl, with those scarlet stripesacross her breast, could in any way be complicated with the wantondesigns of the beast in Len Yang. Yet here was evidence, damning her,if not as a wilful tool of the cinnabar king, then at least as aroom-breaker. Why had she come into his room? And how?
He searched the room, then dragged his suit-case from under the bunk tothe middle of the blue carpet, and spilled its contents angrily uponthe floor. It took him less than ten seconds to discover what wasmissing; not his money, nor the few jewels he had collected in hisperegrinations, for they were untouched in the small leather bag.
Peter looked again, carefully shaking each garment, hoping, andrefusing to hope, that the revolver would make its appearance. It wasan American revolver, an automatic, a gift from Bobbie MacLaurin. Andnow this excellent weapon was missing.
He felt that eyes were upon him, that ears were listening slyly to hisbreathing, that lips were rustling in bated whispered comments upon thefury with which he took this important loss.
Snapping off the light, he plunged down the murky corridor, with theguilty rose cameo clutched in his sweating hand, and came at length tothe purser's office. This dignitary was absent, at midnight lunchprobably; so Peter rifled the upper drawer in the desk, and brought outthe passenger-register, finding the name and room number he soughtafter an instant of search.
Carefully he replaced the ledger in its original position, closed thedrawer, and darted back up the corridor.
In front of a room not far from his own he paused and rapped. Hisknock, sharp and insistent, was one of practice, a summons which wouldnot be mistaken by the occupants of adjoining staterooms, nor was itlikely to disturb them.
After a moment, light showed at the opened transom. Some one rustledabout within, and in another instant the door opened far enough toadmit a head from which dark masses of hair floated, framing a facethat was white and inquisitive.
At sight of her midnight visitor Romola Borria opened her door wide andsmiled a little sleepily. She had paused long enough in arising toslip into a negligee, a kimono of blackest satin, revealing at thebaglike sleeves and the fold which fell back from her throat a liningof blood-red silk.
One hand was caught up to her throat in a gesture of surprise, and theother was concealed behind her, catching, as Peter surmised, nothing ifnot his own automatic revolver, which had been loaded, ready forinstant use, immediately the safety-catch was released.
She stared at him softly, with eyes still mirroring the depths of thesleep from which he had so rudely aroused her, her delicate red lipsforming a curious smile. And she continued to smile more gently, moretenderly, as she became quite conscious of his presence.
"You have come to tell me that you will go to Japan with me," shestated.
Peter shook his head slowly, and with equal deliberateness lifted upthe small object in his hand until the light from the ceiling-lamp felldirectly upon it.
"My cameo!" she exclaimed with a start of surprise. "Where did youfind it?" She reached impulsively for the ornament, but Peter closedhis fingers upon it firmly.
"You have something to give me in return, I think," he said sternly.
She was staring at the closed hand with something of despair andfright, as if reluctant to believe this truth, while her fingers gropedat her throat to verify a loss apparently not before detected.
She stepped back into the room and said:
"Close the door. Come inside."
He thought: If she had wanted to shoot me, she had plenty of chancebefore. A shot in this room, a murder would fasten evidence upon her,and besides, it would instantly arouse the occupants of the adjoiningstaterooms, if not one of the deck crew on watch.
So he entered and closed the do
or, presenting a full view of his broad,white-uniformed back, and the gaudy-blue sarong about his waist. Hetook more time than was necessary in closing the door and sliding thebolt, to give her every opportunity to arrange this scene she desired.
But the girl was only drawing the curtains over the port-hole, to keepout prying eyes, when he turned about.
She sat down on the edge of her berth, with her small white feet almosttouching the floor, and the huge blue automatic resting upon her knees.It was unlikely that she did not appreciate fully the seductive charmof the red and black gown which adapted itself in whatever pose to theyouthful curves of her body; and she permitted Peter to sit down on thenarrow couch opposite and to examine her and perhaps to speculate for anumber of seconds before she seemed to find her speech.
Meekly her dark eyes encountered his.
"I was afraid," she explained in a voice, low but free in herremarkable self-possession. "I knew you would not care, and I hopedthat you would have a revolver in your room. So I went there. How didI get in? I borrowed a pass-key from the purser on the plea that I hadleft mine in my room. I hoped you would not miss it until we reachedHong Kong, and I intended to return it then and explain to you.
"My life," she added deprecatingly, "is in some slight danger, and,like the small fool that I am--even though I am fully aware that no onein the whole world cares whether I am living or dead--well, Mr. Moore,for some reason I still persist in clinging to the small hope."
She smiled wanly and earnestly, so Peter thought. A dozen impulsesmilitated against his believing a word of this glib explanation; hiscommon sense told him that he should seek further, that the explanationwas only half made; and yet it cannot be denied that she had goneunerringly to his greatest weakness, perhaps his worst fault, hisbelief in the sincerity of a woman in trouble.
"Why didn't you ask me?" he demanded in his most apologetic voice, asthough he had wronged her beyond repair. "Why didn't you tell me youwere in danger? I'd have loaned you the revolver willingly--willingly!"
"I did try to find you," she replied; "but the wireless room was dark.You were nowhere on deck."
Peter was aware that for some reason Romola Borria did not prefer toshare the secret of her real or fancied danger with him. He felt alittle dissatisfied, cheated, as though the straightforward answer forwhich he had come had been turned into the counterfeit of evasion.
The situation as it now had shaped itself demanded some sort ofdecision. Without the whole truth he was reluctant to leave, and itwas imprudent to remain any longer.
Romola, in this constrained pause in their conversation, feelingperhaps the reason for his silence, lowered her dark lashes and drew upher feet until they were concealed by the red folds of the kimono, andshe drew the satin more closely about her soft, white throat.
"You have decided nothing, then?" she parried.
"What decision I might have formed," he said, a trifle coolly, "hasbeen put off by--this. You see, I must admit it, this--this rathercomplicates things for me. I'm in the dark altogether now, you see. Iwanted to help you, however I could. And then--then I find this cameo."
She nodded absently, fingering the groove in the automatic's handle.
"I'm afraid I took too much for granted," she said in a low voice."Don't you suppose my curiosity was aroused when you threw the coolieoverboard? I said nothing; rather, I asked you no questions; and Ithought that a man who was self-poised enough to meet his enemies inthat way would be--what shall I say?--charitable enough to overlooksuch a----" She paused. "When I confessed that you and I are facing acommon enemy, that the same hands are eager to do away with both of us,I thought that bond was sufficient, was strong enough, to justify whatmight shock an ordinary man. I mean----"
"I think I understand," Peter took her up in contrite tones. "I'll asknothing more. In the morning we will talk the other matter over. Imust have a little time. For the present, I want you to keep therevolver, and--here is the cameo. Forgive me for being sounreasonable, so--so selfish."
He leaned over. She seemed uncertain a moment, then caught the goldchain lightly from his hand.
"And--your revolver," she said. "Those are the terms of the agreement,I believe."
"No, no," he protested. "I have no use for it; none whatever. Youkeep it."
But quite as resolutely Romola Borria shook her head and extended theautomatic, butt foremost, to him. "I insist," she said.
"But you say you're in danger," he argued.
"No. Not now. I have something else that will do quite as well. Ifit is written that I am to die, why give Death cause to be angry? I ama fatalist, you see. And I want you to take back your revolver, withmy apologies, and quite without any more explanation than I have givenyou, please."
"But----" began Peter.
"Look," she said.
In the small space of the stateroom he could not avoid bending so lowas to sense the warmth of her skin, in order to study the object towardwhich she was directing his gaze. A sense of hot confusion permeatedhim as her fingers lightly caressed his hand; her physical nearnessobsessed him.
She had drawn back the fluffy pillow, and on the white sheet heglimpsed a long, bright, and exceedingly dangerous-looking dagger, witha jewel-incrusted hilt.
The singular thing about this knife was the shape of the blade, whichwas thin and with three sides, like a machinist's file. It would be agood dagger to throw away after a killing because of the triangularhole it would leave as a wound, a bit of evidence decidedlyincriminating.
Peter straightened up, round-eyed, accepted the automatic, and slippedit into his pocket, smoothing his coat and the sarong over the lump,and approached the door.
For a moment his heart beat in a wild desire, a desire to take her inhis arms as she stood so close and so quiet beside him, smilingwistfully and a little sadly; and unaccountably she seemed to droop andbecome small and limp and pitifully helpless in the face of him and ofall mankind.
"Good night, Mr. Moore, and thank you so--much," she murmured. "And Ido hope you will forgive me for being a--a thief."
He thought that she was on the point of kissing him, and his eyes swamand became of a slightly deeper and more silky blue than a momentbefore. But she faltered back, while the faintest suggestion of a sighcame from her lips.
In the next instant, as the door closed quietly behind him, Peter wasmighty glad that neither he nor she had yielded to impulse. He wasnot, in the light of the literal version, the owner of a whollyuntarnished record, for he had given in to weakness, as most men dogive into weakness.
But he was above temptation now, not because temptation was put behindhim, but because he had had the strength to resist; and it was hisfull, deep desire to hold himself until that girl, far across thePacific, who inspired the finest and best in him, should bear the namehe bore.
It was a splendid thing, that feeling. It gave him courage andconfidence, and took him quite light-heartedly, with head erect andshoulders back, out of the dreariest of his moments.
So, quick in a new and buoyant mood, Peter joggled the key in the lockof his stateroom door, slipped in, and was before long dreaming of acottage built for two, of springtime in California, albeit snoringalmost loud enough to drown out the throb of the _Persian Gulf's_ oldbut still useful engines.
Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China Page 24