“This ship has never been in Alexandria,” was the somewhat suspicious rejoinder. “The Admiral is resting in his cabin, Mademoiselle. He does not see chance visitors. I am afraid I must ask you to leave the ship. If it were possible,” he went on, dropping his voice, “to take an apéritif a little later on—”
“Charming,” she interrupted. “Ask for me at Maxim’s, at seven o’clock, but in the meantime be very kind—let me have one word with your Admiral.”
“Mademoiselle,” the young man assured her, “we are not disciplinarians of the strictest here, but to do as you ask me would be utterly impossible. It is my duty to prevent your arriving on the deck.”
“Seems a pity,” she murmured, leaning her arms upon the white rail and smiling at him.
“Nothing but the thought of that apéritif,” he replied “keeps me from being desolated.”
Suzanne’s fortunes were changing. An exclamation from the officer with whom she was arguing attracted her attention to the figure of a tall, enormously stout man standing in the open door of the adjacent companionway. He was wearing a sort of undress uniform, the long coat of which was unbuttoned, and smoking a cigarette. There was tobacco ash upon his tunic, his brown shoes were hideous. The young officer stood at attention. The Admiral looked at Suzanne. She smiled at him and her heart grew lighter. Here was a man of a different order. Turks were Turks after all.
“Mademoiselle understands that it is not permitted to board the cruiser except on visiting days?” he said in passable French.
“How is Mademoiselle to understand?” she protested. “I simply saw your beautiful ship. I ask what she is and hear that she is Turkish, and I remember that I met a Turkish Admiral a year or two ago—and I thought that I would see if he was on board.”
“What was his name?”
“I have forgotten his name,” she confessed, “but he was very like you—only not so tall, not so fine here,” she said, with a movement towards her chest. “I would like to talk to you, please. Will you tell this obstinate sentry that he is to let me pass?”
To do the Admiral justice he hesitated, but his hesitation did not last very long. He rattled out a brief command in Turkish. The junior officer fell back, the sentry stood on one side. Mademoiselle tripped airily onto the deck.
“I will give myself the pleasure of receiving you in my own quarters,” the Admiral suggested. “Will you kindly descend?”
Suzanne made her way gaily down into the very comfortable but terribly stuffy saloon. One porthole was open but a considerable quantity of cigarette smoke was still hanging about. All the improper French papers that she had ever seen were strewn upon the table and a few that she knew nothing of. There were also paper-backed novels. On the writing table there was a chart. Suzanne felt quite at home.
“Mademoiselle will be seated,” he begged.
“And Mademoiselle will smoke if she is invited,” Suzanne said. “I am so excited to meet someone again of your race,” she added, assuming a comfortable but not too austere position in the corner of a divan. “Tell me all about yourself, please, and why you have come here, and how long you are going to stop, and if you really are as nice as you look.”
He came and established himself by her side. His hand touched her knee—by accident, no doubt—as he seated himself. There was nothing about him which reminded her of the Commander.
“You are inquisitive, little lady,” he remarked. “What may I call you?”
“Just Suzanne,” she answered. “We do not need to waste time, I hope, with the other names, and unless you tell me your prénom I shall call you Hemal. That was the name of someone I once knew.”
“I like Hemal better than my own name,” he declared.
“I will be Hemal to you and you will be Suzanne to me. You shall sit here and smoke my cigarettes and eat my sweetmeats and tell me stories about the naughty places of Nice.”
“And you?” she whispered.
“I shall make love to you,” he answered. “It is not often that I see anyone so charming.”
“First of all let me tell you,” she said, “that I have met your Commander at Maxim’s. Where is he?”
“He has twenty-four hours’ leave and he has gone to return a call on a British man-of-war at San Rafael,” the Admiral confided. “It was a happy chance that he chose to-day.”
“For myself I am content,” Suzanne assured him.
Nevertheless, although her countenance had cleared and her step was more sprightly when, an hour or so later, she was received once more by Catherine Oronoff, Suzanne wag not altogether herself.
“You have a report to make?” the former asked in her usual precise tone.
“A report—yes. I have learnt something, but oh—”
There was no coherent ending to the sentence. Suzanne had closed her eyes in an orgy of self-pity. Catherine took up the treasure of her life—a little white ivory private-telephone instrument.
“If you have a report to make,” she said, “I am going to send for Mr. Humberstone. It is he who is interested in this business. It is perhaps as well for you that you have something to tell him.”
She spoke for a moment or two and put the receiver back on its pedestal.
“Mr. Humberstone is coming,” she announced. “Excuse me, please.”
She went on with her task of filing reports. Presently Mark appeared.
“So last night, which appeared so promising, came to nothing,” he remarked, as he seated himself at Catherine’s desk.
“It came to nothing,” she admitted. “Never have I come across a man so immovable. I wore myself out to no purpose. His sole reply was that a Turkish officer in the Army or the Navy answers no questions concerning his profession.”
“H’m—a lesson to some of the others,” Mark observed. “And then?”
“I made my report this morning. Mademoiselle here seemed to think that you attached great weight to the affair, so I studied the position to think of other ways. This evening I strolled down upon the Quay.”
“Ah, that showed enterprise.”
“I found the ship. There was a gangway. The sentry stopped me. A junior officer came. He too refused to allow me on deck. Before they could absolutely turn me away, however, the Admiral himself had arrived.”
“And with him you had more success?”
“When I think it over,” Suzanne replied with a shiver,
“I fancy that it was he who had the success. However, my visit was not altogether barren. I made myself sick at the stomach with sweetmeats and sick at the throat with scented cigarettes, and I feel that my lips will never be clean again after that old man’s kisses. He too would tell me nothing, or little, but he was not very careful. I saw stretched upon his table a chart upon which he had been working, with a marine atlas on either side.”
“Well, that sounds better. Continue.”
“It was a map of the Dardanelles.”
There was a brief silence. Catherine Oronoff glanced quickly at Mark as though to see the effect of the disclosures. He gave no sign.
“The Dardanelles,” he repeated thoughtfully. “A chart of the Dardanelles. Any marks upon it?”
“A lot of little black specks. I could not make out what they were for. I was afraid to seem curious. I do not think that he suspected me in any way, but I noticed that when we went up on deck he locked the door of his cabin and took the key with him.”
There was again a somewhat tense silence. Suzanne began to feel more pleased with herself. It was obvious that her information was of some importance. Her reminiscences of the Admiral were a little less fraught with disgust. She took courage and produced her vanity case, dropped a few spots of perfume on her handkerchief, and wiped her lips vigorously.
“You have seen, apparently by accident,” Mark confided, “something that interests me. Now tell me. Did the Admiral give you any idea as to what he was doing in Nice Harbour?”
“Waiting for some sort of supplies.”
“Any i
dea about those supplies?”
She shook her head.
“I do not even know whether they were food or drink or what,” she confessed.
“Are you going to see your friend again?”
“I could if you think there is anything else I should get out of him,” she replied without enthusiasm.
“What sort of dots were they on the chart?” he asked abruptly. “Had they little points attached as though to make a star?”
“Plain dots,” she repeated. “Some seemed to have a faint circle round them and by the side of others there were some figures. I dared not look. I do not think that the Admiral suspected me in the least. I believe he thought that I was just a little ladybird wandering round to see if there was a nice-looking naval officer to be found. All the same, I do not think that if I went again I should find that chart upon his table.”
“You are sometimes an observant young woman, Suzanne,” Mark remarked. “Did anything else about the ship strike you—or the Admiral’s surroundings particularly?”
“It was not very clean,” she said, “and it seemed odd to see all the sailors smoking. Down in the cabin it seemed to me that they were prepared for rough times. There were two heavy old-fashioned revolvers lying on an empty bookcase and a box of cartridges, and I noticed that a very heavy bolt had been fitted to the door.”
“Not bad,” Mark approved. “I think another visit would be in Order, Suzanne. That could be arranged, I suppose?”
“Yes, I know how to communicate with him,” she admitted.
“You received your special grant for the papers from the Costoli brothers?” he asked.
She nodded.
“What have you done with it?”
“Invested half of it in rentes,” she confided, “and the other half in jewellery.”
He smiled slightly.
“A typical. Frenchwoman,” he murmured. “Now listen, Suzanne. The grant for that chart would be a great deal higher.”
“It would be a great deal more difficult,” she sighed. “Tell me why?”
“Because these Turks,” she explained, “the old man and his Commander too, they do not drink. The Italians and the French, if you are out with them, they drink from pure excitement and the love of pleasure and the joy of the whole thing, and before they know where they are they are easy. Oh, the wine helps. These Turks—why, the old man drank five coffees this afternoon, ready-made coffee from a sort of Samovar thing. When I wanted a drink he had hard work to find me a little cognac. As for champagne—not a sign of it. The Commander was the same. He understood, of course, how things should be done and he ordered champagne for me at Maxim’s, but he never touched it himself. He drank water.”
“Any chance of getting at the coffee?” Catherine intervened. “Dr. Luckstein could give you something quite harmless—just a pinch of it is all that is required.”
“Too risky,” the girl replied. “That old man he is fat and lazy and he moves about like an elephant, but he has a queer way of watching. His mouth too—he has the coarse thick lips of the man who has loved women all his life, and yet once I saw his teeth come together and the lips fold up, and his mouth was like a wild animal’s. I do not think I should like to be caught doing anything funny on that boat.”
“The grants for the Costoli papers,” Mark enquired, “came to how much?”
“Forty mille altogether,” she admitted. “It was good pay. It made me very happy. But you must remember that for that I had to see a man shoot himself and I had to risk the police.”
“For that chart, Suzanne, you would receive one hundred thousand francs.”
She sat stupefied. One hundred thousand francs! The vision before her eyes—fifty thousand in safe rentes! With the other fifty thousand, how one could amuse oneself at the jewellers’ shops—a visit here, a visit there. A bid, another bid at another establishment. Soon they would be all excited. Something would come off. Then something else. She could make her own price—the cash in her hand. And the joy of buying, too! She tried to frighten herself with the thoughts of what might happen on the cruiser, but she found it difficult.
“They would kill me,” she reflected.
Mark shrugged his shoulders. The possibility seemed to leave him indifferent.
“In our lives, petite,” he said, “risks are the salt of life. Without risks nothing is accomplished. The bold man or woman takes every precaution but he looks only at one side of the picture—the result of success. One hundred thousand francs, Suzanne. And if you wish it we would move you into the suite de luxe which you wanted, the one we were keeping for La Belle Elise when she arrives from Paris.”
The girl’s eyes were full of greed. With a knife in a certain secret place she knew of, and that fat old Turk half crazy with her caresses—oh, it might be done! She drew a long breath.
“I will try,” she promised. “I shall need another frock.”
“Paquin will supply you. I will sign the order any time you bring it to me.”
“I would rather not hurry.”
“I give you a week,” he agreed. “Only, if the cargo for which the Turkish ship is waiting arrives before, you may have to hurry. I have a man on the dock. At the first sign of loading we shall know.”
“If I keep away for two or three days,” she said, “that old man will send for me. It will be better…”
CHAPTER XIII
Table of Contents
Suzanne was spending a very stuffy, highly unpleasant but somewhat exciting evening. From half-past five until seven she had drunk sweet coffee and sticky liqueurs without having achieved the slightest success. There was no sign anywhere in the saloon of that intriguing chart, and every time she tried to allude to the past or present activities of the ship her infatuated host had merely blinked and muttered unintelligible things down his beard. Notwithstanding the fact that it meant failure, she was relieved when seven o’clock came, and with apparent unwillingness she rose to her feet. For some reason or other her ardent companion made little effort to detain her. He himself, on the other hand, had been continually glancing at the clock for the last half-hour.
“I go,” she announced. “It has been very pleasant. I like your little room, Monsieur l’Amiral. I like to be here with you, but alas—”
She sighed. The Admiral squeezed her hand. Just then the telephone bell rang.
“Wait,” he begged. “I speak.”
The Admiral drew the instrument towards him and held the receiver to his ear. Somehow he gave Suzanne the impression of a man who was receiving excellent news but who was struggling to conceal his satisfaction. He spoke rapidly and with many gestures. In the end he wound up with what was evidently a gracious speech. He hung up the receiver and turned towards his guest.
“I love mon Amiral,” she said, patting his hand, “but even if you took me away with you to live in your distant country I could never learn that language.”
“It is not so difficult,” he assured her. “Listen—that was my navigating Commander who spoke.”
She nodded.
“A man whom I do not like. He has no way with women. He does not please.”
“He is very good-looking.”
“Looks are not everything,” Suzanne cooed. “I like a man—a man—a man who has lived—a strong man who understands and seeks to please. Your Commander is not like that.”
“Listen, little one,” the Admiral confided. “He went this afternoon to San Rafael to visit once more the battleship that is there. That is why I sent for you. He has just rung me up to beg leave for the night. There is a party at St. Tropez.”
“He does not interest me, that man,” Suzanne declared, edging gently towards the door.
Her host caught her by the wrist. She had been playing with him that afternoon, aching for a glimpse of that chart, wondering how she dared allude to it. His fingers were moist, his eyes were clouded.
“He will be away until nine o’clock to-morrow morning. It is an opportunity. I have a cabin here f
urnished for the occasion. Look here, and I will show you.”
He drew her outside and opened the door of a gaudy little stateroom with faded pink sheets, a good many frills upon the pillow case, furniture of the cheap rococo style. He pointed out these atrocities with pride.
“I have kept this little chamber for you,” he announced. “We dine together to-night, yes?”
“Oh, la la!” Suzanne laughed. “Are you going to put me in your harem?”
“Harems no longer exist,” her host assured her. “At present I have no wife. As to that—we might see. It is against the rules to have a woman on board with us whilst we cruise, but after all, why am I an Admiral? And there is to be no fighting. We have a little dinner together—yes? My chef will show you how he prepares chicken with rice and livers. There shall be any dish you fancy—and champagne. What do you say?”
She patted him on the cheek.
“Méchant!” she exclaimed. “You wish?”
“Sit down with me and I will tell you how much I wish it,” he answered.
“No, no,” she insisted. “Behave yourself. I am afraid it is true what I have heard of you Turkish officers—you are not to be trusted.”
He smiled. It was unfortunately a smile that ended in a leer. Suzanne looked away.
“After all,” he remarked, “you and I—we are not ingénues.”
“Why did you not ask me to dine with you before?” she enquired. “Was it that you were afraid of your handsome Commander?”
The Admiral frowned.
“He is a good fellow, that,” he said, “but he looks too seriously at life. He thinks because we are on duty we should live severely. That is all very well for him. He has still steps to climb. I am an Admiral. I do what I choose. We are on duty, it is true, but we are not going into battle. It is a task of great importance to be accomplished, without a doubt, but an hour or two of love-making will only give one zest for the work.”
“I will stay,” Suzanne acceded, “if you do not ask me to drink any more of that sweet coffee or eat sticky stuff; and if you send your steward out for a bottle of French Vermouth, a bottle of the best English Gin, and some ice, I will make you a Martini cocktail and we shall pass the time pleasantly until your dinner. If I drink more of your sweet things I shall be sick and there will be no dinner, et point d’amour.”
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