“Annihilation, my dear Baron,” he murmured. “Who but a child would not realise what that would mean to us? Surely there were never six men in this universe who suffered so much for one mistake. We suffer—we shall go on suffering until the end. But your method of annihilation is crude. How can we be sure that we are arriving at it? We are working upon presumption. We believe, but we need certainty. Every inch of that lazy-looking craft might drift to the skies in ashes or to the bottom of the sea in melting metal. We could see the place where she is riding so gracefully an empty blank, but yet we should never know. There would be always moments when the nightmare would return and fear would visit us in the night.”
The Boron wiped his closely cropped brown moustache with his napkin. He considered the problem, and sighed. Something in his companion’s voice had been convincing.
“I agree,” he sighed. “A moment’s doubt would plunge the souls of all of us into agony. We will approach this young American. We are fortunate that it is not too late.”
There came the sound of a gentle ticking, a purring in the air, and then again a ticking. The Baron started.
“Your private wireless, Edouard. I thought you were closed off.”
“I am in touch with only two men in the world,” Mermillon replied. “Gabriel, the editor of the ‘Grand Journal,’ and Paul himself.”
“Paul would never permit himself to speak on any wireless,” de Brett declared anxiously.
“The very fact that he is risking it,” Mermillon observed, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, “convinces one that the matter is urgent. We shall know in a minute at any rate.”
The Baron lit a cigarette. He had fat pudgy hands, on one of the fingers of which he wore a massive signet ring. They trembled so that even his slight task was difficult. His host of the expressionless face watched him. A smile of contempt would have made him seem more human.
“Your man Jules can decode?” de Brett asked.
“He is capable of that,” was the quiet reply. “Our code has been committed to memory by seven people. He is one. It has never been set down in print or ink. It has no existence save in the brains of the two men who compiled it and the five who understand it. Yes, my dear friend,” Mermillon added, lifting his head and listening to the approaching footsteps, “Jules can decode, and in a moment we shall know whether our friend is simply telling us news of the weather in Paris or whether the wild beasts are loose.”
A neatly dressed young man, wearing blue serge trousers, a blue shirt, and yachting cap, presented himself and bowed to Mermillon.
“A brief message and very easily decoded, Monsieur,” he announced. “It is from your private bureau. Monsieur Paul desires to inform you that General Perissol has ordered out his most powerful ‘plane and is leaving his private flying ground this morning.”
“His destination?”
“That will be wirelessed to us as soon as he starts. At any rate, he is coming south.”
The Baron’s eyes were almost like beads as he gazed out at the Bird of Paradise rolling slightly in the swell. Even his imperturbable companion had glanced immediately in the some direction.
“Where was the General when the message was sent?” the latter inquired.
“With the Chief of the Police at his private house in the Bois de Boulogne.”
De Brett moistened his dry lips.
“An early call that,” he muttered. “It is now a quarter to eight. There are signs of life upon the boat yonder.”
Mermillon rose to his feet and gave a brief order to one of the sailors. In a few moments there was the sound of quick explosions from a small motor dinghy which had shot round to the lowered gangway. The two men embarked and crossed the little sheet of shimmering water which separated them from the Bird of Paradise.
“Abandon for my special pleasure, Albert,” his companion begged, “that appearance of a man who mounts the guillotine. We are going to pay a friendly call upon an unknown American and make him a business proposition which cannot fail to be of interest. The matter is simplicity itself. We loitered before in a room where the very whispers spelt death, but I never noticed on that occasion that your complexion assumed such an unbecoming hue. Remember, dear Baron,” his friend concluded, “that fear is the twin sister of danger. The greatest agony can be ended by death, and one can only die once.”
The Baron’s rotund body ceased to shake. His features stiffened. His companion had succeeded in what had obviously been his desire—he had made a man of him.
“Why these sickening platitudes?” he exclaimed. “We must all have our fits of nerves—except you, perhaps. Permit me mine. They will pass when the danger comes. You others have less to fear than I. It is not one knife that will be at my throat if the fates desert me. It will be a thousand—a hundred thousand!”
“All the more reason for courage and self-restraint,” was the smoothly spoken reply. “I say no more. Remember that we are arrived. Our host is already in sight. He seems prepared to receive us. Jean,” he added, turning to the mechanic, “Monsieur seems to indicate that the gangway is down on the other side. With this swell it would naturally be so. We wish to go on board. We are paying a visit to Monsieur.”
Everything was made quite easy for the two callers. The rope from the dinghy was caught by a waiting seaman, and Hamer Wildburn, leaning down himself, extended a steadying hand. Minister of State Edouard Mermillon stepped lightly on to the deck. His companion followed him. The Bird of Paradise, for the second time within a few hours, was to receive visitors of distinction.
“Say, you two are early birds,” Hamer Wildburn observed with a welcoming smile. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“First of all pardon us for the informality of this call,” Mermillon begged. “We should have waited until later in the day, but the matter is pressing.”
“That’s all right,” the other answered. “I watched you come in an hour or so ago. A fine boat, that of yours. A fast one, too, I should think.”
“Our engines are exceedingly powerful,” Mermillon admitted. “To tell you the truth, however, for the moment I am more interested in your boat than in my own. You call her, I think, the Bird of Paradise?”
“That’s right.”
“And she was built at Marseilles?”
“Designed by an Englishman. She was built by the firm of Partrout. They are French, of course, but as a matter of fact every man employed upon her was, I believe, English.”
“My name,” the newcomer announced, “is Mermillon.”
“Not Monsieur Edouard Mermillon, the French Minister for Foreign Affairs?” Wildburn exclaimed.
“That is so,” Mermillon acknowledged. “My companion here is Baron Albeit de Brett.”
“Proud to know you both,” was the courteous but somewhat mystified, rejoinder. “My name is Wildburn—Hamer Wildburn—and I come from New York.”
De Brett looked at the young American curiously.
“That is odd,” he observed. “I cannot remember meeting you before, Mr Wildburn, but your name sounds familiar.”
The young man offered his cigarette case.
“I write occasionally for one of the American newspapers, which is published in Paris,” he confided, “and I sometimes sign my name.”
“The reason for this visit,” Mermillon intervened, “is easily disclosed. I have a nephew who comes of age within a few weeks, and whose great passion is for the sea. I should like to buy exactly this type of craft as a present for him. If by any remote chance, Monsieur Wildburn, this boat itself is for sale it would give me the utmost pleasure to pay you what you consider her value.”
“You want to buy my boat?” Wildburn exclaimed incredulously.
“That was rather the idea,” Mermillon admitted. “Why does that fact afford you so much surprise?”
“Because only a few hours ago,” the young man told him, “someone else paid me a visit with the same object.”
“You did not sell her?” the Baron inte
rrupted anxiously.
“Nothing doing,” Wildburn assured them “Nothing doing with the first would-be purchaser and nothing doing with you gentlemen. I am delighted to see you both, but I am sorry you have had the trouble of coming. My boat is not for sale.”
“There is one question I would like to ask,” the Baron ventured eagerly. “Who has been here before us wanting to buy the boat?”
“My dear Albert!” Mermillon remonstrated, “We must not be too inquisitive. I know my friend’s idea of course,” he continued, turning back to Wildburn. “He is wondering whether some other member of my family has had the same idea or perhaps even Claude, my nephew, himself. This,” he added, turning round, “is so exactly what the lad has always wanted.”
“The offer came from—no matter where.” Wildburn said. “I have no reason to believe, however, that it came from anyone of your own people. In any case it makes no difference. The boat is not for sale.”
Mermillon had the air of one suffering from a mild but not insupportable disappointment.
“You would not object, Monsieur Wildburn, I hope,” he asked, “if I ordered from the builders the exact duplicate of this admirable craft?”
“I should not have the faintest objection in the world,” Wildburn assured him, “but it would take them at least ten months to build a boat of this description.”
Mermillon threw up his hands.
“Ten months—but it is unbelievable!” he exclaimed. “The young are not used to such delays. To wait for ten months would be impossible. Under those regrettable circumstances Monsieur Wildburn,” he went on after a momentary pause, “you will not be offended if I ask whether this decision of yours not to sell your boat is absolutely final. I am only a French politician, not a world-famed banker like my friend here, and, as you know, French politicians are not amongst the wealthy ones of the world. Still, in the present instance, I might almost say that money is no object.”
Wildburn appeared a little distressed. His visitor’s tone and manner were alike charming.
“I have been one of your sincere admirers, Monsieur Mermillon,” he said, “and I should hate to seem in any way discourteous to a person of such distinction, but the fact of it is that just now I am not in need of money, and the boat suits me exactly. Instead of finishing my vacation, as I had planned, cruising around in these seas, I should have all the trouble of dealing with specifications and superintending the rebuilding of another boat. Allow me to offer you chairs. Auguste!” he called out “Deck chairs here for these gentlemen.”
The two visitors were soon comfortably ensconced. Their host produced cigarettes and cigars. Mermillon resumed the conversation.
“It is obvious,” he remarked “that the matter would present inconveniences to you. That I should take into account.”
“It would be a beastly nuisance,” Hamer Wildburn assented. “That is why I am afraid I must remain obstinate. I love France, but I hate Marseilles. I have no wish to return there. What I want to do is to spend the rest of the summer idling about here.”
“I do not blame you,” Mermillon declared. “I find it very natural. The situation is delightful, and you have, doubtless, many friends. Still, there is this to be considered—I do not weary you by my persistence, I trust.”
“Not in the least,” Wildburn assured him, “but I am afraid you will find me very ungracious. Believe me, I honestly do not wish to sell the boat. It would interest me a great deal more to congratulate you upon some of your marvellous successes in the world of international politics.”
Mermillon bowed.
“You flatter me,” he acknowledged, smiling. “I must explain this, however before I—throw up the sponge. Is not that how you call it? Apart from my official position I possess, as you may have heard, a considerable fortune. I have such simple tastes in life that money with me has lost its significance. You will excuse the vulgarity of this statement. It comes into our discussion.”
“No vulgarity at all,” Wildburn assured his visitor “You should hear some of our westerners at home talk about their dollars. I am frankly delighted to meet a man over on this side who admits that he has any money left. It seems to be the fashion everywhere to plead poverty. I am rather tired of meeting poor men. This means, I suppose,” he added, “that I can write my own cheque if I consider giving up the boat?”
Mermlllon smiled.
“Not quite,” he said “It might come very nearly to that if you are the man of common sense I think you are.”
“May I make a suggestion?” de Brett intervened. “My friend Mermillon here has shown me a side of his character which I must confess that I never knew before. He is as impetuous as a boy about this present he wishes to make his nephew. I am afraid I am of a more cautions temperament. May I suggest that before discussing the matter further we just take a look below and a glance at the engines? For what else am I here?”
“With the greatest pleasure,” Wildburn replied, rising promptly to his feet. “Follow me, gentlemen. After your yacht, Monsieur Mermillon, you will find it a little cramped, but there is plenty of room for one person—or even two.”
The three men descended the companionway. They inspected the owner’s cabin, which certainly had its charm. They glanced at thee galley, and appreciated the power and condition of the Diesel engines. They ended in the salon, which was as handsome as a liberal expenditure and good taste could make it.
“I came prepared to criticise,” de Brett confessed. “I am lost in admiration.”
Mermillon seemed for the moment to have lost interest in the details which he had been admiring so generously. He was gazing at a particular spot on the carpet of the small salon. Wildburn perceived his diverted attention and frowned.
“My matelot had a day off yesterday,” he explained. “I am afraid that you find the place a little untidy.”
“It is scarcely that, Monsieur Wildburn,” the visitor replied courteously. “There is some derangement of the apartment, it is true, but it was something else which attracted me. You are alone here, I think you said?”
“I certainly am.”
Mermillon stooped lightly down and picked up from the carpet the object which had attracted his attention. He held it out to Wildburn. It was a very beautiful emerald of large size and finely cut!
“No wonder there are others besides myself,” he remarked, “who would be willing to pay you a large price for your yacht if there is much jewellery of this description to be picked up.”
The young American’s face was suddenly dark. His voice lost its smoothness. His attempted indifference was badly assumed.
“I have visitors occasionally,” he admitted. “Thank you for the emerald. I have no doubt that my latest visitor will be here to claim it very soon.”
“She should not be blamed,” Mermillon murmured. “I am a judge of gems, and I must confess that I envy her the possession of that one. However, we did not come here to discuss precious stones. I am satisfied with all that you have shown me, Monsieur Wildburn. I want your boat. My cheque book is at your disposal.”
“I don’t want to seem obstinate,” Hamer Wildburn said smiling. “I will sell her to you on one condition.”
“Well?”
“That I deliver her in two months’ time after I have finished my cruise.”
The eyebrows of Edouard Mermillon were slightly upraised, and the Baron frankly scowled. It was obvious that both men were disappointed.
“In two months’ time,” the former pointed out, “my nephew’s birthday will be forgotten. The cruising season will be over. My gift would have no significance. If you are willing to sell at all I should prefer to pay for immediate delivery. Let us bring this matter to a point. I will offer you five thousand pounds cash for her as she stands or,” he added with a smile, “I will make it twenty five thousand if the emerald is included!”
Wildburn shook his head.
“The emerald, although I cannot believe it is worth that much,” he said “is not mine
to dispose of. It will be returned to its owner as soon as I can assure myself of her identity and her whereabouts. As regards your offer am I permitted to ask you a question, Monsieur Mermillon? Even rich men do not throw money away heedlessly. Why do you offer me so much more than my boat is worth?”
“Why indeed,” the Baron echoed with a little gesture of disapproval. “I think that my friend has lost his senses.”
“In buying and selling,” Mermillon said suavely, “one does not disclose even to one’s friends one’s reasons for wishing to operate. I want this boat very badly my dear new friend.”
The American shrugged his shoulders. For some reason or other his attitude had become a shade less courteous towards his distinguished visitors.
“Then let me say at once Monsieur Mermillon, that no cheque which you could write would buy my boat.” he announced. “I deeply appreciate the honour of your visit and I should have been proud and happy if I had been able to serve you. In this matter I cannot. After that I think you will agree with me that further conversation would be waste of time.”
There was a brief silence. Mermillon appeared to be deep in reflection. In the end he rose to his feet.
“If you should change your mind within the next few days, Monsieur Wildburn,” he said disconsolately, “I should be glad to hear from you. Since you have refused my offer of five thousand pounds, however, I am quite content to believe that you do not wish to sell the boat at all. For the present, therefore, we will consider the matter closed.”
The Baron also rose to his feet with apparent alacrity.
“I congratulate you, my friend, Edouard,” he exclaimed, patting his shoulder. “That was a foolish offer which you made. Monsieur Wildburn sets, I think, too high a value upon his possession.”
The two men made their way to the gangway, the American strolling behind. The affair of embarkation was only a matter of seconds.
“I trust,” Mermillon said courteously, as he took the wheel of the motor boat, “that you will pay us a visit on the Aigle Noir before you leave the harbour. We are generally at home at the time of the aperitif.”
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