The Captain turned around and saw Mac. The seaman went quickly back into the wheelhouse. For a moment Mac and the Captain both observed the iron bars that now separated them. The Captain saluted Mac lazily, as if in distant farewell to a friend. Mac responded with a smile and, with the tips of his fingers, touched the brim of his Homburg.
§
United States marshals, lawyers, armed State Police and
William Pinkerton with several private detectives from his New York Agency crowded forward on the cold foredeck of the lumbering police boat that, belching black smoke into the darkening sky, was churning toward Thuringia, still some mile and a half distant. The faces of these men were impassive, but beneath the tobacco-brown trilby (for the perceptive to discern) there could be made out, in Pinkerton's eyes, a strong glint of triumph.
Had Pinkerton not insisted on so many men he could have used a fast launch, but they were necessary for an immediate and thorough search of the ship, and should George Mac-Donald make a break, they ensured that he'd have no chance. Pinkerton felt he had covered every angle; his quarry was trapped aboard a ship whose starboard side he had in sight. Impatiently he cursed the speed of his large but slow vessel. Bellowing against the sound of throbbing engines, he demanded the estimated time of rendezvous.
The police boat's master pulled three fast hoots on the steam whistle, gauged the time of crossing the Thuringia's bow at inside ten minutes and shouted back his reply.
Approaching fast from the port side of the French liner, Johnny Dobbs opened up his steam pinnace beyond half ahead to run along parallel to Irving's tug. He saw the detective waving. Both vessels were approaching Thuringia on the blind side to the crowd, the docks and, more important, Pinkerton's official police boat. Irving had chosen well; his craft was capable of almost twice the speed of the police boat.
Irving's tug pulled away from Dobbs's sleek mahogany-and-brass pinnace. New York's Chief of Detectives James. Irving waved a final signal; Dobbs understood and flashed his lamp back to the tug before stepping up the throttle once more so that his bow lifted several degrees. What light remained was fast fading. Johnny Dobbs swore and peered ahead trying to make out figures aboard Thuringia; all he could see was her shipboard illuminations. He swore again as he hit the swell of ' the fast tugboat's wash.
"This ain't gonna be easy," he muttered to himself. But words were lost against the noise of a racing piston rising and plunging, driving a shaft that propelled Johnny Dobbs's steam pinnace—Mac's only hope of escape.
The Captain of the Thuringia had correctly anticipated a delay in disembarking on arrival in New York Harbor. Irving's fast tug demanded, by Morse light (once identification was given), that the French liner stop and let down both gangway and loading pontoon for immediate access to her deck. The Captain, not unduly surprised, gave the necessary orders. He then issued instructions that the second police boat, approaching slowly from the starboard side, should be told to come to port, where her party could board—as had also been requested by the flashing Morse light. He was confused by the duplicated messages and the need for so many State Police officials and private investigators on the one side and New York detectives on the other, merely to arrest one man; but in foreign waters he was obliged to comply. Mr. MacDonald was not his problem.
§
As Pinkerton's police boat crossed the Thuringia's bows, all on board (apart from those who, armed, were checking their weapons) saw ahead, floating beside the ship at her water line, the loading pontoon and a gangway leading from it at an incline to the French liner's deck. Another vessel was already hove-to.
Pinkerton leaned over the gunwale of his boat, peering into the gloom of twilight toward suspended oil lamps which Thuringia's sailors were placing at the rails. "Hell!" he exclaimed. At that moment the police boat began to go about, turning from the French liner. Pinkerton spun around. "What the..." he began, then shouted at the skipper, "what are you doing?"
"Orders from the Frenchy, sir!" the captain yelled from his open bridge. "We have to stand off until the other boat, the tug, has cleared the pontoon."
Pinkerton could see the Morse light flashing still from Thuringia. "I'm ordering you, man . .." bellowed Pinkerton hoarsely, "get back on course!"
Now the captain of the police boat was confused. Torn between his own sea sense and a landlubber's directives, he started to turn the wheel.
Pinkerton looked back at Thuringia and caught a glimpse of four figures making their way gingerly up the gangway, aided by several of the French liner's sailors. He thought he recognized one of the four men as he reached the deck and was caught in the glow of several lamps: the Chief of Detectives in New York City—Jimmy Irving. Pinkerton's anger exploded. "Damn and blast!"
§
Mac saw the stout detective, red-faced from cold and effort, pushing his way across the crowded deck as all heads turned after him, Detectives Stanley and White and Jake the policeman following close behind. The four men burst out of the passenger throng which now backed away from Irving's imposing bulk. Mac, seeing him in the gloom under a flickering glow of oil lamps, was undecided which he read in Irving's set expression—friend or foe; he hoped the former, and gave New York's Finest a wide and open smile.
The detective remained impassive. His hand reached out to Mac's shoulder, and a gasp went up from the crowd.
"George MacDonald?" Irving asked loudly.
"Yes," replied Mac.
"You have a cabin aboard this ship? " Irving boomed.
"I have," responded Mac, equally loud.
"Then I must ask you to take us to it." Irving paused. There was absolute silence on deck. "By the authority vested in me by the City of New York ..." He looked menacingly into Mac's face, as all the crowd could see. ". .. you are under arrest," he finished.
Mac's heart sank. So he'd been betrayed. There was no choice but to go belowdecks.
§
In Cuba, at Don Andrez' mansion on the Isle of Pines, the hurricane warning, given almost a week before Austin Bid-well's dinner party, had been accompanied by winds of unusual strength for the time of year. They blew hard for several days, abated, then petered out altogether, to leave each subsequent day so perfect that mild concern was expressed by Don Andrez' group on the second day of calm (after an inebriated lunch) at the single white-and-gold puffball cloud that slowly passed on the distant horizon above a glittering sea. It dissolved, finally, away to the east—as, in their separate rooms, did the mood of the gay party, who, by late afternoon, had all become aware of an increased heaviness in the air, creating an eerie stillness.
The birds stopped singing; insects were strangely muted; no sounds came from the slaves' village and although the sun shone and waves rippled on the white sand, the suffocating oppression of the atmosphere was affecting even Don Andrez.
That evening, he placed his glass on the large table in the center of the patio and stood up from his wicker chair, taking a last look out to the western sky, afire with a sunset that now played on fast-building pillars of cloud, creating shapes to stir even the most apathetic imagination.
Interrupting a joke being drawn out by the American, Gray, Don Andrez clapped his hands twice, loudly, and achieved silence from the assembled group.
"We will leave," he said seriously.
Not one man demurred against the decision. By eight o'clock, under a three-quarter moon and full sail, the group, clustered on the deck of their ship, were (Jutting a fast course to the mainland. The wind that blew them was by no means light and increased in strength with every hour that passed and each nautical mile that brought them nearer to Cajio, San Marcos, the railway at Felipe and home—Havana.
On the night of the third day since their departure from the Isle of Pines, they were asleep in their own beds, with only a whispering wind again mocking their temerity. Hearing that his friends had returned to the capital, Austin at once sent them invitations to his (as yet undisclosed as a final) dinner party. Thus Don Andrez, Alvarez, Gray and e
ven Mondago not only swelled the numbers but added warmth to the assemblage.
§
All the guests came in from the patio overlooking the Gulf
of Mexico, assembled in the dining room at Austin's superb table and sat down. The melodies of an old culture, played on Cuban instruments, enhanced the delicacies of a gourmet cuisine and the already established convivial atmosphere.
Only the wind rising outside caused an occasional anxious glance to wander to a window or seek the draft that seemed with increasing frequency to catch each of the splendid candelabra in turn and waft the candle flames until they resembled palm trees bent over in a storm of great force.
Laughter and explanations came from Mondago and Gray of their reasons for leaving the southern shore of the island—only, as they said, looking along the table, bowing with smiles and raised glasses, to be in the presence of such beauty as Elizabeth represented and to partake of the best offerings on the island. The conversation was rich, trivial, political, inventive and never dull. Whether thanks to alcohol or because the meeting of schooled intellects provided wit and humor as tools with which to utilize knowledge, the guests were making—as was the exception rather than rule—of (as it was remembered) "Austin's supper" a magical night, rewarding the efforts even of the servants, who caught the atmosphere and whose smiles told equally of enjoyment and of quantities of cooking wine illicitly consumed in corners of the large kitchen along the wide corridor outside the glowing dining room.
"Let's not think of Mexico, Austin," said Elizabeth softly. She put a hand on his arm, smiled a moment across at Don Andrez and looked down the length of the table to the far end, where, to one side, Gray—the pleasant Savannah-born American—was being taught correct Spanish by one of the ladies amidst peals of laughter. Elizabeth looked back at her "Senor Bidwell."
"These are your friends," she continued to Austin intimately—then, with a smile, "our friends," she emphasized —"who are privileged and influential." She paused a moment, trying to read in Austin's impassive face some reaction to her obvious wish not to leave. "Wherever you go in Cuba you will always be welcome, and I feel sure if it were necessary ..." Again she paused, now to place the word carefully. "... protected," she finished.
Austin understood quite well what Elizabeth meant. He was about to speak when she put a finger to his lips and with moist eyes and that soft mouth Austin knew so well, moving delicately over white teeth of indescribable perfection, she said the words he would never forget—words that sustained him in what was to come: "And I will always be with you wherever."
As Austin leaned toward this woman of his love, heart full and eyes concealing nothing, he could hear only the wind, blowing now in strong gusts, as if isolating the two lovers from the world outside. His lips touched those of his loved one. Austin's guests, seeing the gesture, began to applaud loudly, some standing as they did so, the women smiling—instantly tearful at the exhibition of emotion. For a moment Austin was oblivious to everything but the sensation of a lover's kiss. Then his ears alerted his mind to a sound they detected in a short lull between the strengthening gusts of wind outside: running feet.
Suddenly, ten or fifteen armed men burst in from the six tall windows behind Austin's guests. The long lace curtains billowed around them. Both large oak doors to the room were thrust.open. The dinner party was stunned into a shocked silence. From the outside corridor, in rushed armed civilians, police and soldiers, surrounding the table. The flurry of movement subsided.
A young American stepped into the room, not much older than Austin himself. He surveyed the seated group, and his firm gaze came to rest at the head of the table. The candlelight flickered across the host's face, creating expression where in fact there was none.
"Austin Bidwell?" asked the young American.
Austin stood up slowly and nodded his head. A blast of wind came around the house, howling from the darkness outside as if in protest, before plunging into the surrounding vegetation to tear at the leaves and roots.
"My name," stated the young man in a clear voice, "is John Curtain, of the Pinkerton Force. I am sorry to disturb your dinner party but am forced to tell you that I have in my pocket a warrant for your arrest, on a charge of forgery upon the Bank of England."
A murmur of protest began at the table, but was silenced by the unspoken command in Curtain's eyes as he glanced at the soldiers on either side of the table. The loading of a first round into almost twenty rifles is a sound that communicates even to the most imperious.
All eyes were on the host. For some reason he could never afterward explain, Austin, outwardly calm (although he had become pale), hearing only the tempest outside, looked directly at his cigar box on the Spanish oak sideboard behind Curtain and thought of the beautiful craftsmanship represented by the intricate silverwork inlaid to such perfection. It was an astonishing reaction to adversity. But Austin's voice, when he spoke, was clear. "Mr. Curtain, will you come into the other room?"
Austin's arm made a gesture indicating an adjoining room behind double doors: the "smoking room," as Elizabeth called it, which Austin used occasionally for a study and for his gentlemen guests, who always enjoyed retiring to it for port and brandy.
"Certainly," replied John Curtain.
"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen," said Austin to the expectant faces, all awaiting Austin's instant dismissal of this ludicrous accusation.
Austin walked around his chair to the double doors, opened them, ushered Curtain in, entered himself and closed the doors behind them both. The dining room remained as if a box photographer were silently counting out seconds to the assembled mass in the hope that an unmoving tableau would produce a sharp and distinct photograph, recording the event.
Every person gazed fixedly at the smoking-room doors, the only movement and sound coming from uncontrolled currents of air which now swept unhindered through the tall windows, informing the majority who had survived hurricanes before that there was no longer any doubt of what was to come.
§
"Is our Edinburgh air makin' ye feel any better, Mr. Coutant?" asked the Scottish voice of George Bidwell's landlady.
"Non," muttered George. ". . . malheureusement, Mme. Laverock," he said with a forced smile.
Looking the man up and down, she decided her lodger was right. In the fading light of late afternoon she could make out what looked like two days' growth of beard.
"Well, if you're after yer evenin' paper, you'll find one at the station—Dundas Street is early closed today." She had correctly guessed why George was venturing out.
"Merci," said George. "Sank you."
She watched George walk toward the corner of Cumberland and Dundas.
§
A gentleman who had been in the habit of visiting Mr. Anderson's dismal little news agency had been, for several years, in the employ of Messrs. Gibson, Craig, Dalziel and Brodies, and unlike George, he enjoyed the occasional conversation with his fellow "canny Scot." They talked mainly of the trivialities men exchange in such situations, but as the Great Bank Fraud continued to be a focus of national speculation, it was not unusual that the regular conversations of the past month had dwelt upon this topic—especially since the gentleman in question, who worked for "Messrs. Etcetera," as Anderson was wont to call them, was in fact himself (once removed, of course, he modestly admitted) an employee of the Bank of England.
Mr. Anderson needed his half glasses only for reading. His distant vision was better than good; it was, in fact, exceptional; and, unfortunately for George Bidwell, people were Mr. Anderson's life: his hobby, as he often said to whosoever asked, was the observation of character and habit. Eyes fascinated him! And the photogravure on the front page of paper after paper that he sold, day in and out, morning and night (as he later rambled on to Pinkerton and Spittle) had shown him a likeness, said to be good, of the wanted man in the Great Fraud case. It had presented him, Mr. Anderson, with an indelible image of George Warren, alias Wilson, alias Bidwell.
In his mind there had been no doubt whatsoever that the owner of those eyes in Ellen's once-cherished photograph was the man who had come into his shop for a paper and passed himself off as foreign. Gossip provided the fact that he was staying at young Mrs. Laverock's. This information—"for what it's worth," he'd added with a glint in his eye—Mr. Anderson had imparted to the gentleman from "Messrs. Etcetera," who in turn informed the partners of his firm, representatives of the Bank of England in Scotland. They cabled Threadneedle Street and received instructions to await The arrival of the police and Mr. Pinkerton.
Thus, when Pinkerton and Spittle arrived in Glasgow and cabled their whereabouts, they received a copy of the telegraphed instructions to Messrs. Gibson, Craig, Dalziel and Brodies in Edinburgh, to be examined for what it was worth to them. To Pinkerton, R.A., a hunch was as good as a clue; as his father always said, "When you ain't got nothin', you only got this," and he'd always tap his head. This time Robert A. Pinkerton threw away a lifetime oath and bet Spittle any price that they had their man.
§
George, at the end of Cumberland Street, saw in a backward glance that his landlady was still watching him. He waved quickly, as she did in response; then he was around the corner and gone. Mrs. Laverock walked up the small front garden path, climbed the five steps to her front door and only then, as she had been instructed, turned around, pointed to the end of Cumberland where it intersected Dundas Street and nodded her head vigorously.
The house across the street was suddenly full of movement. The front door burst open, and six, then a seventh man ran out into the middle of the street. Mrs. Laverock's neighbor opposite and her two children now rushed out themselves—having been physically constrained to silence whilst they had watched (along with the police) "Annie" talking to the "Frenchy."
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