The Third Mystery

by James Holding

  “Some little disappearing act the old burg did this morning,” said the young man, pulling his checked cap down on his head. “Now you see it and now you don’t. This your first trip over?”

  “First offense,” Merrill confessed, “How about you?”

  “My seventy-first crossing; actual count,” responded the stranger with a bored air.

  Merrill gasped. “Business, eh?” he inquired.

  “Business,” assented the other, a queer little look in his eyes. “As we’re to be two weeks together on this hopeless old tub, we ought to get acquainted. My name is Henry Howard Fisher.”

  Two days Merrill had spent in Manhattan, and his heart was hungry for companionship. Quickly he revealed his name, mentioned Texas, the Silver Star, and suggested a drink.

  “Sorry,” said Mr. Fisher. “l don’t touch it.”

  “Come and have a cigar then,” Merrill ordered. It developed that neither did the abstemious Mr. Fisher smoke. Merrill looked him over again, a trifle suspiciously this time. Men were not made thus in the neighborhood of the Silver Star. But Fisher’s face was frank and winning, and he was delighted, he said, to accompany Merrill to the smoking room for a chat.

  Comfortably seated, Mr. Fisher regarded the ranchman thoughtfully while the latter made known his wants to a steward. Then with a some what satisfied air he took up, and showed himself a master of the waning art of conversation. They spoke of the war. Mr. Fisher touched lightly on the matter that was now taking him abroad. It seemed that a rich tract of land in the neighborhood of Naples, which he owned, had been atrociously taxed because of Italy’s recent entry into the great conflict, and he was going over to adjust the matter. A terrible bore, said he, sighing. He inquired as to the route of Bob Merrill, and the ranchman explained how Cook, friend of tourists, had arranged everything in advance.

  “Cook picked me up this morning after breakfast in New York,” he laughed, “and he won’t drop me until after dinner on the night of the 20th of July, when I land back in the North River. Tickets, hotels, everything bought and paid for, and, you might say, in my pocket.”

  Fisher laughed. “You might as well send your trunk,” he said.

  The satire, however, was lost on his friendly audience. Merrill took out a typewritten route sheet and read from it:

  “Land Naples eight o’clock Saturday night, June 10, stop Grand Hotel du Vesuve; June 11, breakfast and lunch at hotel, take train Statione Centrally three o’clock p.m. for Rome, dinner on train, arrive Rome seven o’clock, stop Hotel Quirinal—”

  “You don’t stay long in Naples,” Mr. Fisher commented.

  “Friend,” replied Bob Merrill, “I don’t stay long anywhere until I get to Florence. Expect to do a little sight-seeing on the return trip to Naples, where I get a boat back home. You see, Mrs. Merrill will be with me then.”

  And to this stranger he frankly told what took him abroad.

  “Youth on the prow and pleasure at the helm,” quoted Mr. Fisher delightedly. “It certainly is refreshing to find somebody going abroad on a happy errand in these war times.” He looked Merrill over again. “By the way,” he added, “have you been down to arrange for your seat at table, or did Cook do that for you too?”

  This was something Cook had left to Merrill’s own initiative, and Mr. Fisher accompanied him to the dining saloon on the errand. Thus it came about that the ranchman and the pleasant Fisher were seated side by side at the same table for the crossing.

  The little dining saloon was crowded at that first luncheon, but it was the last time for many days that all its seats were filled. For it developed that the mist which engulfed New York was but the western fringe of a tremendous storm. For five days the liner struggled in the angriest of seas. One by one the passengers disappeared and were seen no more. Each night Bob Merrill’s sleep was disturbed by his bright new steamer trunk rolling as the ship rolled back and forth, back and forth, across the floor of his narrow stateroom. Frequently he heard outside in the companionways the crash of chinaware as stewards carrying trays were hurled against the walls. It was a new experience for the Texan; he was awed by the power of the sea, but unafraid. And with a little group of the faithful he appeared three times daily in the dining saloon.

  Fisher, hero of seventy crossings, was, of course, one of that group, and he complimented the ranchman on his digestion. In those five days, when the rain was on the sea and the liner almost helpless in the wash of the waves, their isolation brought them very close together. They began to know each other by their first names. To the man from Texas his new-found friend was more or less a mystery. Sometimes Fisher seemed very young to him; he looked again, and there were many marks of age on Fisher’s face. Sometimes he thought the stranger the frankest of men; at others he discovered a sly look that worried him.

  But Fisher’s polished manner, his interesting fund of talk—which was but rarely of that tax on the acres of Italy which was his immediate worry—fascinated him as well as all the others aboard with whom the man came in contact. Fisher had a charming way with women; three children who were immune from the sickness worshiped him at sight. There was but one person on the boat—a little old lady who looked the sewing-circle but was a famous traveler—who seemed to find his courtly manners displeasing.

  Often the ranchman tried to discover some business connection of his friend, but in vain. “You’ll find a volume of my poems on sale at Brentano’s in New York,” said Fisher one day, and thereby became an even greater mystery to the Texan. Indeed, save for those acres in Italy, no earthly business seemed to hold him.

  The fifth day the rain ceased, and the waves began to calm. A few of the suffering passengers crept cautiously on deck. “They remind me,” said Bob Merrill to Fisher, “of old Jeb Peters, our town atheist back home, the first time he went into the Methodist church. Peters was willing to give the place a trial, but everything had to be just so.”

  That night the moon they had all forgot crept through the clouds and poured its silver on the sea. After dinner Bob Merrill sat in a deck chair, looking out over the tossing waters. He was alone with his thoughts, which were of the vast dimensions of the world in which he lived. For five days they had plowed on, seeing nothing save one small fishing boat. For nine more days, over three thousand miles of water, they were still to plow. In awe and reverence he considered these things: how the world was so much greater than he had ever dreamed, how the Silver Star back there in Texas was but an unimportant atom in God’s huge scheme of earth and water!

  Suddenly, through a port hole behind him, came the voices of two men in the lounge: “Well, well, well! Why, I got a brother in the paint business in Dubuque.” And the answer: “Say, ain’t it a small world after all.” At this ridiculous interruption to his thoughts Bob Merrill threw back his head and laughed. And the little gray lady who looked so sewing-circle, striding by on her evening constitutional about the deck, paused before him, then dropped into the chair at his side. “It surely does me good to hear a laugh like yours,” she said. “Would you mind telling me the joke?”

  He told her, and she joined him in his mirth.

  “A small world,” she remarked scornfully. “I guess not. I guess I know. I’ve been traveling in it more than thirty years: just going on and on. The uneasy woman, boy, you see her in the flesh.”

  “Seems to me it’s dangerous for you to travel in Europe now,” said Merrill.

  “I hope so,” she answered. “Danger’s great fun. My sister and I were stoned in Spain during the Spanish-American War. How Nellie did enjoy the thrill! She used to travel with me, Nellie did. Died last year in Australia, poor dear. I brought the body home, and then I started out again. It’s lonely without her, but I can’t stop. Got to go on. Russia, Turkey, China, the Philippines—all the countries you can name—I’ve been there. Can’t stop. The uneasy woman. I’ll die on the road.”

  With wonder in his eyes, Bob Merrill, the timid traveler, gazed at the frail little woman beside him. She leaned clos
er.

  “Something I’ve been wanting to say to you,” she went on. “Don’t think me an old busybody, boy. You told me it was your first crossing. I only want to be of service to you. I’ve been on the road a long time. This—what does he call himself—this Henry Howard Fisher? You and he are pretty thick.”

  “I reckon we are,” Merrill admitted.

  “He’s been on the road a long time too,” the little woman said. “Lots of names he’s called himself. I forget them now. But I’ve met up with him many times. What a splendid, what an inventive mind he has. What a magnificent crook he is!”

  “Crook!” said Merrill, sitting up.

  “Exactly,” answered the woman. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Even after her ten thousand was gone, it was hard for my friend, Mrs. Markham, to believe. She’d read his poems. I have too: they’re beautiful. It was hard for Joe Deming to believe. Joe was consul at Rio—gave this Fisher all his savings—five hundred. Why? Fisher asked for them: so pretty.” She laughed. “I’ve seen many of them at work,” she said. “Fisher is the best. Go on mixing with him if you like: to know him is a liberal education. But sew your money up tight, boy, and laugh at him if he talks business. If you do that, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t mingle with a very charming man of the world at little cost to yourself. I’ll be going on.”

  “Wait,” cried Merrill. “I appreciate what you’ve done. I—”

  “Don?t thank me—think,” said the little old lady, and was gone.

  Merrill thought. Had a man cast this slur on the honor of his new friend, he would have been quick and hot to defend him. But he saw in the eyes of this eccentric old lady nothing but sincerity and truth. She was no doubt quite right. She had been about a bit. She knew. His delightful companion of the decks and the saloon was nothing but a con man de luxe.

  Later that evening, during a pleasant chat with Fisher in the smoking room, came his opportunity to make use of his knowledge. Fisher had been watching while the ranchman sipped a highball—liquorless and smokeless himself, as always. Suddenly he leaned across the table, and his face was as old and worried as Merrill had ever seen it, though he sought to keep his tone light.

  “Bob,” he said, “I don’t mind telling you: I’m in a deuce of a hole owing to that land of mine near Naples. They’ve put a heavy tax on it—several thousand our money—and I can’t pay. The land’s worth much more than that, but I’ll lose it if I don’t come across. I’ve been wondering—a first mortgage on it for the amount of the tax—could I interest you? We could run out and look the land over that morning you’re to spend in Naples—”

  He paused, for a most disconcerting smile had come upon the simple face of the ranchman. It was hardly what Fisher had expected.

  “Just a minute, Henry,” said Merrill. “You and me’ve been pretty good friends. Don’t you go and spoil it all. Don’t you go and try to sell me no option on Vesuvius. Nor any first mortgage on the dead city of Pompeii.”

  “What do you mean?” faltered Fisher, laughing, though his face grew a bit pale.

  “Just what I say, Henry,” replied Merrill cordially. “Friends, yes. But if it’s business you want to talk, the bars are up, Henry, the bars are up.”

  “You question my honor—” began Fisher hotly.

  “Sure I do,” answered Merrill. “Don’t get riled. Have a drink—if you’ve been off the stuff to impress me. Have a drink and let’s talk about art, or cattle, or poetry. But real estate—say, Henry, whose land was you thinking of giving me a mortgage on?”

  Fisher sat staring at him a long moment and then, making his decision, broke into a laugh.

  “By Gad,” he said, “I like you, Bob. I’m glad you’re on: it relieves me of the stern necessity of lifting your roll. I thought I had to do it—and, gosh, how I dreaded it.”

  “Now you’re talking,” smiled Merrill. “I’ve got a letter of credit in my pocket for two thousand dollars, real money, along with my tickets and such. You’ve been trying for days to find out the amount: that’s it. Now, Henry, you keep off. Let’s be friends.”

  Fisher looked at him admiringly.

  “You’re a wise one,” he said. “I didn’t give you credit. I was fooled because you hadn’t been about much. Nobody could do you. I ought to have known it. You’re a wise one.”

  “You flatter me,” Merrill answered, “but it would be foolish to deny it’s music to my ears. Now that our cards are all on the table, we can go on being friends as before. Why not, Henry?”

  “No reason,” agreed Fisher heartily.

  “I will have a drink if you insist. Yes, Bob, you’ve called me. You’re a good judge of men, Bob. You’re safe anywhere—” He paused a moment thoughtfully. “Most men are as easy as children, but you—”

  Late into the night his flattery continued. Expanding, he told of some of those he had swindled; random examples of the many from Rio to Dawson City, from Hong Kong to Gibraltar. Bob Merrill listened. He felt that, as the old lady of the travels had predicted, he was gaining a liberal education.

  The liner plodded on, into a world of sunny days and moonlit nights. To those who lived in that world the thought of Europe bleeding to death began to seem a nightmare and a delusion. The decks, the lounge, the smoking room, were crowded now with many men traveling on many errands. Still daily in each other?s company, the big clean ranchman and the hero of many shady deals spent much of their time. Fisher spoke no more of those mythical acres in Italy. His tongue was often oily in praise of Merrill as a judge of men; but mostly he confided, as in a friend he could trust, the thrilling tale of his exploits by land and sea. And Merrill, who ashore would have thought often of the police, listened and learned.

  They touched one evening at Gibraltar, taking aboard several men, one or two of whom seemed not unknown to Fisher. At night, when the moon was high above the Rock, they sailed again, and there followed four days of the Mediterranean, with its waters now blue, now green, now purple; always lovely. Happy as was Merrill’s errand in Italy, he grew to dread the day when he must step ashore. The little liner, with its endless odor of rubber companionway coverings, had grown to seem like home.

  On the morning of the fourteenth day of their journey Fisher asked to see the type-written page that held Cook’s directions for Merrill, and he studied it for several minutes.

  “Our paths may cross again,” he explained, handing it back. “It surely has been great to know you, Bob. A real friend—one of the few I’ve known. If I’d had somebody like you at the start, I might never have gone into this rotten game.”

  Merrill put the list back into his pocket. He said nothing about meeting Fisher ashore. Though already dazed at thought of the strange country he was about to enter, it seemed best to him that he and Fisher should part forever at the pier. He was sure Celia would not approve of his new friend. He was not so sure that he himself would approve of him—on shore.

  * * * *

  Late that afternoon some clouds he had been admiring in a brilliant sky developed into mountain tops, and the bay which is said to be the end of human endeavor lay dead ahead. Breathless, for his life in the open had made him sensitive to the beauty of hill and sky and water, Bob Merrill stood at the rail. All the thrill that Columbus had got from the sight of our rock-bound coast, Italy was paying back to the American at that moment.

  Into his vision crept the hill of Posilipo, the low island of Capri. Then Vesuvius, crowned with its wreath of smoke, looking as the steel engravings had promised it should look. And finally the city of Naples, its white villas climbing from the water’s edge up toward the gorgeous sky. Below Merrill the steerage, with true Latin abandon, cheered and wept. They had come home again. The little Italian doctor came and stood at Merrill’s side. His eyes glowed, and he pointed.

  “See,” he cried. “See, signor. That little patch of the white at the foot of Vesuve. That is my town: the town where I was born. Not in two years have I seen it. I go there to-night.”

  Merrill stood,
trying to realize that in this glittering, unreal landscape men could point out a spot as home.

  The liner slowed down and took aboard passengers from a small launch that flew the Italian flag. The ranchman hurried below; it was time for dinner, but, like the others he could eat little. However, Cook had commanded, so he made the effort. Then he went to his stateroom for the last time, to gather his hand baggage and tip his wistful steward. He was on the point of returning to the deck when the door of his stateroom opened suddenly and Fisher rushed in. His face was white; he trembled. He closed the door and leaned against it. “Bob,” he cried, “I’m scared stiff. I’m sorry to have you see me this way. But I can’t help it. I had to see you again.”

  “What’s up?” Merrill asked.

  “On the doctor’s launch,” gasped Fisher. “A woman—wife of the first secretary at the consulate—she was in Kyoto three years ago. I got next to the consul there for some real money. She’s come aboard to meet friends. I think she saw me.”

  He paused, very shaky.

  “I get this way,” he apologized, “at the thought of arrest. They’ve never got me yet. But it’s with me all the time, the fear: it makes my life hell. And when there’s danger—like now—I feel all gone inside. You see, Bob, I’m a pretty poor thing after all. Not a man like you. I pretend, but, God, I’m afraid.” He shuddered. “You won’t see me again,” he went on. “I’m going back in the second class, and go ashore with them. Maybe she didn’t notice me; maybe I just imagine. But before I go, Bob, I want to say good-by and give you a little present. Something to remember old Fisher by.”

  He held out a walking stick, handsome, of ebony, with a very large gold handle, made in the image of an elephant.

  “Take it,” he went on quickly. “Keep it to remember Fisher by. I’ve carried it for years. I want you to have it.”