The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  Smith was absolutely taken aback. Before he could find words to respond, Berangère had turned to the doorway and was gone. He stared after her, and swore under his breath.

  An evil chuckle startled him.

  He turned, to see Le Morpion in the library doorway, standing there and grinning at him.

  “So! I begin to comprehend a few things,” said Le Morpion ominously.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Le Morpion Comprehends Everything

  “I begin to comprehend why L’Etoile died,” said Le Morpion, his baleful grin still fastened upon the American. His head was thrust forward, his small eyes glittering.

  The two men stood, thus, at gaze. Le Morpion produced no weapon.

  It was clear that he considered Smith unarmed; he himself, doubtless, had appropriated Smith’s automatic.

  “Don’t make a mistake,” said Smith calmly.

  “Not I. You stated, I believe, that you were some sort of engineer, at work on the new railroad construction? Very good. Yet this girl recognizes you as the man of whom we all heard, yet whom no one knew—the man whom the governor-general trusted.”

  “You forget,” drawled Smith, “the slight matter of my being at present wanted by the authorities.”

  Le Morpion shook his head.

  “I forget nothing, me! I don’t forget, for instance, that you are the unknown foreigner who has played the devil with all honest thieves—the mysterious foreigner! Well, there is no more mystery.”

  “There is no more mystery,” murmured Smith, with a slight nod of assent. “That is all very true, Le Morpion. But now I am your comrade.”

  Le Morpion laughed harshly.

  “My comrade? Bah! I don’t forget that L’Etoile was my comrade. As for you, assassin, you are no comrade of mine! I want no policeman at my side.”

  “But, the reward—”

  Le Morpion brushed aside this suggestion with a shake of his bulging jaws.

  “No, no! Never mind all that.” He leered at Smith, brought up his hands, and began to crack his warped knuckles rapidly. “Hey! Do you know that I am going to kill you?”

  Smith gazed at him with imperturbable calm. Only his right thumb moved, very slightly. With this movement, he unfastened the catch which would lay bare the steel of the sword-cane in his hand. “Kill me?” he repeated. “But, in the name of everything, why?”

  Le Morpion laughed. From him emanated a faint but distinct reek; obviously, he had been at the brandy bottle again. He was not responsible.

  Smith perceived that there could be but one issue from this encounter. He could read this issue in the eyes of the other man. Le Morpion knew him to be wounded, weakened, and unarmed. There was no pity in the eyes of the killer.

  Almost instantly Smith dismissed the notion of shooting Le Morpion. He could do it with ease; but a shot at this juncture would spoil everything. A shot would bring everyone, and there must be no shooting until the time was ripe. Le Morpion was merely an obstacle; the true focus of danger was Monsieur the Devil. And for all Smith knew, Lebrun might be in the adjoining room.

  “Kill me?” he said again. “Why?”

  “In the first place, because you killed poor L’Etoile,” grated Le Morpion, coming a step or two closer. A new gleam lightened his evil eyes. “And, in the second place, because I have decided that this girl shall be mine instead of yours. In the third place, because you are the mysterious foreigner. I don’t like foreigners, me, nor mystery either!”

  “But,” argued Smith pleasantly, “all this is no basis for killing, my friend! Besides, M. le Diable wishes to make use of me.”

  Le Morpion leered. “Yes, but when he learns who you are, he may change his mind!”

  “At least, you will allow me to die quickly?”

  “As quickly as my hands will do it.” Le Morpion bared his teeth. “Ah! You damned gentlemen—I want to feel your throats under my thumbs! Curel is another, with his accursed lazy elegance. Well, his turn will come! Now I shall kill you.”

  “In effect, you understand everything?” said Smith.

  “Everything!” repeated the other, drawing closer, his hands outstretched and tense. In his eyes was the blood-lust.

  “But there is one mystery which you do not yet comprehend,” said Smith very calmly.

  The other paused, blinking at him.

  “Eh? And what is that, you white-throat?”

  “The mystery of life and death. I shall endeavor to elucidate it.”

  As he spoke, Smith moved.

  His foot struck the thigh of Le Morpion—struck that wounded thigh which had been sewed by Lebrun. It was a shrewd kick, carrying very little force, but with enough to serve its purpose quite well.

  From Le Morpion was wrenched a cry of agony. He doubled up, catching with both hands at his wounded thigh. Before he could move again, Smith had whipped the thin triangular blade from its malacca sheath and lunged forward with it. The thrust went home just as Le Morpion was straightening up.

  The blade entered at the collar-bone, and Le Morpion, rising as though to meet that deadly thrust, impaled himself. The blade protruded a foot behind his shoulder. He caught at the hilt with both hands, and his mouth opened. Like an orang-outang shot through the chest, who claws at the wound and foams great screams of fury, Le Morpion tore at the thin blade and tried to vent his rage—but no sound came from him. His mouth gasped frightfully. He tried to rush forward upon Smith, but death was loosening his knees.

  “I believe,” said Smith coolly, “that at last you comprehend everything, my friend?”

  The eyes of Le Morpion widened. He clutched at the air, and rocked upon his feet for an instant; then his knees doubled, and he fell backward through the doorway of the library, whence he had emerged. Smith stepped forward and closed the door, and turned back to the rack of sticks.

  “Thank you for the sword-cane, M. des Gachons!” he said. “Your gardener is avenged.”

  Selecting another stick, this one of green ebony, he left the house.

  * * * *

  His first intent was to follow Berangère, who had evidently gone to the swimming pool. Then he paused, and turned.

  Whither had Lebrun gone? Where else than to the little harbor in which lay the boats?

  Smith decided quickly, and started for the cove. Before he had taken two steps, he put a hand to his side and sank down. That quick, swift lunge had hurt his wound.

  He sat on a step of the portico, there in the sunlight, and cursed softly. Admission was forced upon him that the odds were heavy—heavier than he had reckoned. After all, there was something in the sardonic suggestion of Curel that by the time he came to deal with Lebrun he would be very nearly dead!

  This thought drew a twisted smile to his lips.

  After a moment he writhed out of his jacket, and opened his shirt. It was not so bad as he had feared; the wound had not been reopened after all. Still, the skin had received a shrewd pull.

  “Another such jolt will finish me,” he reflected.

  He got into his jacket again and leaned back, feeling a bit sick. Presently he took out his pipe and tobacco, and smoked. At a sudden thought, he produced the automatic which Curel had brought him, and examined it.

  To his utter dismay, he found that it contained but a single cartridge, that in the firing chamber. There was no clip underneath. He put it back into his pocket and stared at the green trees, his eyes hard and cold.

  “The cards, it seems, run worse every minute,” he said to himself. “Lebrun, you are well called! You have the luck of the very devil himself!”

  He might find a weapon on the body of Le Morpion, but he dared not risk the effort of going to get it. Every ounce of strength left to him, must be stored and saved. Every iota of energy was precious in the extreme.

  Two courses were open to him. In one direction, at the end of that avenue of palms, was Berangère; he might go to her. In the other direction was the harbor, where he might join Curel and Lebrun. Why not go thither, and att
end to M. le Diable at once? He would have Curel to help.

  This was the better course, decidedly.

  He knocked out his pipe and rose. After a moment he stood leaning on the stick, and turned toward the cove. It occurred to him with passing curiosity that he had seen nothing of Félice Bonnard, but he dismissed the thought as inconsequential. She was probably about the house somewhere.

  * * * *

  Holding himself stiffly, Smith slowly proceeded toward the harbor. He could walk well enough, although his strength was slender. What worried him most was the single cartridge in his automatic. It gave him a terribly slim margin.

  Pausing occasionally to rest, he followed the winding path and came, at last, to the little house perched at the verge of the cliff overlooking the cove. He had already heard from the others of the counterbalanced weights and the moving escalier, and knew how it was worked. There was only a lever to pull.

  He sank down upon the seat overlooking the cove. For a moment he felt dizzy and weak; everything was a blur. Then a voice and a step, and the creak of the escalier; he looked up to see Lebrun standing before him.

  “Smith! What’s the matter, man?” exclaimed the other quickly. “You’re livid—”

  Smith’s fingers trembled. One cartridge! He dared not do it now. He could not trust himself to shoot.

  “Overdone,” he said, faintly. “Hurt my side.”

  “Rest,” said Lebrun with decision. “Take it easy, man! I’ve been working here this morning. Make yourself at home—the place is yours.”

  With a chuckle, he passed on.

  Smith looked after him, and even reached for his pocket. Then he paused. He dared not risk that one cartridge—he could not put faith in his hand at this moment. Then the moment was passed; Lebrun had disappeared.

  With a long breath, Smith regained control of himself. The weakness passed. It was very good to sit here and rest. His eyes wandered to the cove beneath—ah! What was wrong down there?

  He leaned forward, alert once more. He saw now what it was that Lebrun had been working over, doubtless aided by Curel. All those boats down there had vanished. Only one remained: the large motor cruiser, which had been drawn in to the boathouse, where the water was deep close to the float.

  “He took them out and sank them—beyond the reef!” murmured Smith. “But where is Curel?”

  A vague but terrible uneasiness laid hold upon him. He rose, peering downward. A moving shape caught his eye; he saw Félice Bonnard appear for an instant at the after hatchway of the motor cruiser. Her head came into sight, then vanished again.

  But what of Curel? He was not in sight.

  The lips of Smith drew into a thin line. He rose, leaned for a moment on his stick, then stepped to the escalier. A touch of the lever, and he was being taken swiftly downward.

  CHAPTER IX

  One Cannot Escape the Devil

  Standing on the shore, Smith looked about. Curel was not in sight anywhere, but the door of the boathouse stood wide open; one passed through this to the float beyond, where was moored the motor cruiser. After a minute Smith approached the boathouse. Félice Bonnard appeared to be very busy aboard the cruiser. Upon the float Smith saw a pile of cases and miscellaneous stuff, doubtless the cargo removed from the smaller cruiser before she had been sunk.

  Lebrun’s object in sinking the other craft was clear enough. There would be the big cruiser remaining, in which everything could be carried away that was worth while. In the meantime, neither Berangère nor anyone else would be able to leave. Doubtless Lebrun meant to guard that big cruiser night and day.

  “And when I had served his purpose, had accomplished his final revenge for him upon the Des Gachons family,” thought Smith, “he would calmly depart, leave me here, and send the authorities after me! And I would be taken as the criminal responsible for the whole business. Not a bad scheme, except that—”

  He broke off, smiling thinly.

  Now the motor cruiser and float were out of his sight, as he came near the boat-house. It did not occur to him that anything might have happened, down here. His uneasiness was purely subconscious. Yet he remembered the terrible sang-froid of Lebrun, which was most apparent at times of stress, and he hastened his lagging steps.

  Félice, he reflected, was no doubt at work on something in the hold of the cruiser, and Curel was with her. Monsieur the Devil had probably gone in search of Le Morpion, for at this juncture all hands counted. Well, let him search! The one cartridge still remained.

  So thinking, Smith entered the open doorway of the boathouse. Opposite him, the door giving on the float was also open. The interior of the building was well lighted. Smith came to a sudden halt and stared at Curel, who sat on a pile of rope just inside the door. Curel was wiping his lips with the back of his hand, as though he had just been drinking; but the back of his hand came away red.

  “So, you have come!” said Curel in a faint voice.

  “Obviously,” returned Smith. “See here! What’s the matter with you—”

  Curel looked up, with a shadow of his melancholy smile.

  “Nothing,” he said quietly, “except that I am dying. I had a chance to get Lebrun—but before I could do it, that she-devil had stabbed me through the back. I’m done, Smith. There’s one thing you can do—quickly! Go out and clap on the hatch—prison her in the hold—do it quickly! I’ll be dead in half an hour—let me still do what I can—”

  * * * *

  Smith stood motionless for an instant, shocked into immobility. It came to him in a flash that Curel still had some scheme, some plan—the man was dying, yet his brain was at work! Without response, the American stepped forward and came out on the float, to which the big cruiser was moored.

  He paused. A step or two on the deck, and Félice would have warning. Quietly as possible, he followed the rail of the cruiser aft, then gathered himself and gained the deck. Two swift steps took him to the after hatchway, which was open. The hatch lay beside the opening.

  Stooping, Smith seized the cover and dragged it into place. As it fell, a muffled exclamation came from below. A coil of rope lay neatly flaked to one side. Smith caught hold of this, drew it to the hatch, and dumped it on top. The hatch lifted a little to pressure from below; Smith stepped on it and waited, resting, panting a little as he leaned on his cane. He smiled, and listened to a storm of furious imprecations from the imprisoned woman.

  After a moment, satisfied that the coil of rope would be more than Félice could move, the American turned and retraced his steps. Entering the boathouse, he found Curel up on his feet, wavering and clinging to the wall for support. He caught the man’s arm. Curel shook off his hand with petulant impatience.

  “Be quiet!” Curel’s eyes were feverish and terrible. “Do what I tell you—”

  “Have you a weapon?” demanded Smith. “There was only one cartridge in the pistol you brought me.”

  Curel gazed at him and uttered a hollow laugh.

  “None. Lebrun took mine. They—they brushed me aside as one brushes a maimed insect! But that was a mistake. I can still—here! Help me outside—”

  Smith aided him to walk. Slowly and painfully, Curel gained the rail of the boat, and with a terrible effort came to the deck. He stumbled and fell, gasping blood. Smith helped him up again.

  “I attended to Le Morpion,” he said quietly.

  “Good! There will remain—only M. le Diable. He will kill you, but what matter? It is for the girl, the sweet girl!” Curel caught his breath. “Well, at least I shall die like a poet! Into the pilot house—”

  Smith guided his feeble steps. Presently the two men came into the wheel-house, and at a gasped order, Smith drew a wicker chair before the helm. Curel sank into this.

  “We were running the boat—towing the others out—sinking them. Go and start the engine. The switches are set. The—the white button will start—”

  * * * *

  The American went aft to the engine-room. From below was coming a frantic po
unding; he could hear Félice crying out, her voice muffled and desperate. Some inkling of Curel’s scheme came to him as he touched the buttons and heard the engines throb into sudden life. He came back to Curel, who was testing the controls, and who greeted him with another smile.

  “Now, my friend,” gasped Curel, who was white as death, “cast off the lines! We shall go out to sea, this Félice and I; and perhaps a week hence, they will find Des Gachons’ boat with a dead man still guiding it westward—after all, it is the best way! One cannot shoot a woman. And it is for the sake of the sweet girl—Holy Virgin, will you hurry? I am dying fast!”

  Smith stumbled away, unable to speak. Once on the float, he made shift to cast off the lines. He caught the voice of Curel lifting to him, so faintly that the words were lost; then the engines hummed, and the motor cruiser darted from the float.

  The American stood gazing after it. He was still numbed by that final outburst of authority from Curel—the frenzied pleading of the dying man! Now, as he watched the boat draw out, he marveled at it all. There was no craft left here in which he might escape with Berangère; yet what need? Curel was gone, dying, and with him he was taking Félice. The boat would be surely picked up sooner or later, and recognized.

  As for Félice, Smith gave her not a thought. She was gone, that was all.

  His eyes following the lessening boat, Smith wondered how long Curel would live to hold her. Straight as an arrow, she was leaping out from the island toward the horizon. Suddenly he saw her veer, waver drunkenly, then pick up a new course. He turned away, his lips set hard. He knew what had happened then.

  * * * *

  His lips curved in a grim smile as he walked along. What a desperate game in which destiny seemed to deal the cards!

  He had one cartridge, and very little strength. Even had it been otherwise—even had he been well armed, in possession of all his old strength and skill and cool confidence, he would have found Monsieur the Devil a terrible antagonist. But now—

  Smith lifted his head and smiled to himself. Well, with all the cards stacked, the game remained to be played! Win or lose, the game remained! Could he gain the help of Berangère, there might be a chance. And, instead of depending upon cartridges which were not, there were other things just as dependable—inward things, things of the soul and brain and cool eyes! After all, he was in this affair for the thrill of the game itself!