“Yes, I do,” said Neeland quietly.
“And — about these spies. Do you happen to entertain any particular suspicions concerning any of the passengers on my ship?” urged the captain.
“Indeed, I entertain lively suspicions, and even a few certainties,” replied the young fellow, laughing.
“You appear to enjoy the affair?”
“I do. I’ve never had such a good time. I’m not going to spoil it by suggesting that you lock up anybody, either.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” said the captain seriously.
“But I do. They’re friends of mine. They’ve given me the time of my life. A dirty trick I’d be serving myself as well as them if I came to you and preferred charges against them!”
The captain inspected him curiously for a few moments, then, in a soft voice:
“By any chance, Mr. Neeland, have you any Irish blood in your veins?”
“Yes, thank God!” returned the young fellow, unable to control his laughter. “And I’ll bet there isn’t a drop in you, Captain West.”
“Not a drop, thank G — I’m sorry! — I ask your pardon, Mr. Neeland!” added the captain, very red in the face.
But Neeland laughed so hard that, after a moment, the red died out in the captain’s face and a faint grin came into it.
So they shook hands and said good night; and Neeland went away, leaving his box on the floor of the captain’s cabin as certain of its inviolability as he was of the Bank of England.
CHAPTER XX
THE DROP OF IRISH
The usual signs of land greeted Neeland when he rose early next morning and went out on deck for the first time without his olive-wood box — first a few gulls, then puffins, terns, and other sea fowl in increasing numbers, weed floating, fishing smacks, trawlers tossing on the rougher coast waters.
After breakfast he noticed two British torpedo boat destroyers, one to starboard, the other on the port bow, apparently keeping pace with the Volhynia. They were still there at noon, subjects of speculation among the passengers; and at tea-time their number was increased to five, the three new destroyers appearing suddenly out of nowhere, dead ahead, dashing forward through a lively sea under a swirling vortex of gulls.
The curiosity of the passengers, always easily aroused, became more thoroughly stirred up by the bulletins posted late that afternoon, indicating that the tension between the several European chancelleries was becoming acute, and that emperors and kings were exchanging personal telegrams.
There was all sorts of talk on deck and at the dinner table, wild talk, speculative talk, imaginative discussions, logical and illogical. But, boiled down to its basic ingredients, the wildest imagination on board the Volhynia admitted war to be an impossibility of modern times, and that, ultimately, diplomacy would settle what certainly appeared to be the ugliest international situation in a hundred years.
At the bottom of his heart Neeland believed this, too; wished for it when his higher and more educated spiritual self was flatly interrogated; and yet, in the everyday, impulsive ego of James Neeland, the drop of Irish had begun to sing and seethe with the atavistic instinct for a row.
War? He didn’t know what it meant, of course. It made good poetry and interesting fiction; it rendered history amusing; made dry facts succulent.
Preparations for war in Europe, which had been going on for fifty years, were most valuable, too, in contributing the brilliant hues of uniforms to an otherwise sombre civilian world, and investing commonplace and sober cities with the omnipresent looming mystery of fortifications.
To a painter, war seemed to be a dramatic and gorgeous affair; to a young man it appealed as all excitement appeals. The sportsman in him desired to witness a scrap; his artist’s imagination was aroused; the gambler in him speculated as to the outcome of such a war. And the seething, surging drop of Irish fizzed and purred and coaxed for a chance to edge sideways into any fight which God in His mercy might provide for a decent gossoon who had never yet had the pleasure of a broken head.
“Not,” thought Neeland to himself, “that I’ll go trailing my coat tails. I’ll go about my own business, of course — but somebody may hit me a crack at that!”
He thought of Ilse Dumont and of the man with the golden beard, realising that he had had a wonderful time, after all; sorry in his heart that it was all over and that the Volhynia was due to let go her mudhooks in the Mersey about three o’clock the next morning.
As he leaned on the deck rail in the soft July darkness, he could see the lights of the destroyers to port and starboard, see strings of jewel-like signals flash, twinkle, fade, and flash again.
All around him along the deck passengers were promenading, girls in evening gowns or in summer white; men in evening dress or reefed in blue as nautically as possible; old ladies toddling, swathed in veils, old gentlemen in dinner coats and sporting headgear — every weird or conventional combination infested the decks of the Volhynia.
Now, for the first time during the voyage, Neeland felt free to lounge about where he listed, saunter wherever the whim of the moment directed his casual steps. The safety of the olive-wood box was no longer on his mind, the handle no longer in his physical clutch. He was at liberty to stroll as carelessly as any boulevard flâneur; and he did so, scanning the passing throng for a glimpse of Ilse Dumont or of the golden-bearded one, but not seeing either of them.
In fact, he had not laid eyes on them since he had supped not wisely but too well on the soup that Scheherazade had flavoured for him.
The stateroom door of the golden-bearded man had remained closed. His own little cockney steward, who also looked out for Golden Beard, reported that gentleman as requiring five meals a day, with beer in proportion, and the porcelain pipe steaming like Ætna all day long.
His little West Indian stewardess also reported the gossip from her friend on another corridor, which was, in effect, that Miss White, the trained nurse, took all meals in her room and had not been observed to leave that somewhat monotonous sanctuary.
How many more of the band there might be Neeland did not know. He remembered vaguely, while lying rigid under the grip of the drug, that he had heard Ilse Dumont’s voice mention somebody called Karl. And he had an idea that this Karl might easily be the big, ham-fisted German who had tried so earnestly to stifle him and throw him from the vestibule of the midnight express.
However, it did not matter now. The box was safe in the captain’s care; the Volhynia would be lying at anchor off Liverpool before daylight; the whole exciting and romantic business was ended.
With an unconscious sigh, not entirely of relief, Neeland opened his cigarette case, found it empty, turned and went slowly below with the idea of refilling it.
They were dancing somewhere on deck; the music of the ship’s orchestra came to his ears. He paused a moment on the next deck to lean on the rail in the darkness and listen.
Far beneath him, through a sea as black as onyx, swept the reflections of the lighted ports; and he could hear the faint hiss of foam from the curling flow below.
As he turned to resume his quest for cigarettes, he was startled to see directly in front of him the heavy figure of a man — so close to him, in fact, that Neeland instinctively threw up his arm, elbow out, to avoid contact.
But the man, halting, merely lifted his hat, saying that in the dim light he had mistaken Neeland for a friend; and they passed each other on the almost deserted deck, saluting formally in the European fashion, with lifted hats.
His spirits a trifle subdued, but still tingling with the shock of discovering a stranger so close behind him where he had stood leaning over the ship’s rail, Neeland continued on his way below.
Probably the big man had made a mistake in good faith; but the man certainly had approached very silently; was almost at his very elbow when discovered. And Neeland remembered the light-shot depths over which, at that moment, he had been leaning; and he realised that it would have been very easy for a man as
big as that to have flung him overboard before he had wit to realise what had been done to him.
Neither could he forget the curious gleam in the stranger’s eyes when a ray from a deck light fell across his shadowy face — unusually small eyes set a little too close together to inspire confidence. Nor had the man’s slight accent escaped him — not a Teutonic accent, he thought, but something fuller and softer — something that originated east of Scutari, suggesting the Eurasian, perhaps.
But Neeland’s soberness was of volatile quality; before he arrived at his stateroom he had recovered his gaiety of spirit. He glanced ironically at the closed door of Golden Beard as he fitted his key into his own door.
“A lively lot,” he thought to himself, “what with Scheherazade, Golden Beard, and now Ali Baba — by jinx! — he certainly did have an Oriental voice! — and he looked the part, too, with a beak for a nose and a black moustache à la Enver Pasha!”
Much diverted by his own waxing imagination, he turned on the light in his stateroom, filled the cigarette case, turned to go out, and saw on the carpet just inside his door a bit of white paper folded cocked-hat fashion and addressed to him.
Picking it up and unfolding it, he read:
* * * * *
May I see you this evening at eleven? My stateroom is 623. If there is anybody in the corridor, knock; if not, come in without knocking.
I mean no harm to you. I give my word of honour. Please accept it for as much as your personal courage makes it worth to you — its face value, or nothing.
Knowing you, I may say without flattery that I expect you. If I am disappointed, I still must bear witness to your courage and to a generosity not characteristic of your sex.
You have had both power and provocation to make my voyage on this ship embarrassing. You have not done so. And self-restraint in a man is a very deadly weapon to use on a woman.
I hope you will come. I desire to be generous on my part. Ask yourself whether you are able to believe this. You don’t know women, Mr. Neeland. Your conclusion probably will be a wrong one.
But I think you’ll come, all the same. And you will be right in coming, whatever you believe.
Ilse Dumont.
* * * * *
It was a foregone conclusion that he would go. He knew it before he had read half the note. And when he finished it he was certain.
Amused, his curiosity excited, grateful that the adventure had not yet entirely ended, he lighted a cigarette and looked impatiently at his watch.
It lacked half an hour of the appointed time and his exhilaration was steadily increasing.
He stuck the note into the frame of his mirror over the washstand with a vague idea that if anything happened to him this would furnish a clue to his whereabouts.
Then he thought of the steward, but, although he had no reason to believe the girl who had written him, something within him made him ashamed to notify the steward as to where he was going. He ought to have done it; common prudence born of experience with Ilse Dumont suggested it. And yet he could not bring himself to do it; and exactly why, he did not understand.
One thing, however, he could do; and he did. He wrote a note to Captain West giving the Paris address of the Princess Mistchenka, and asked that the olive-wood box be delivered to her in case any accident befell him. This note he dropped into the mailbox at the end of the main corridor as he went out. A few minutes later he stood in an empty passageway outside a door numbered 623. He had a loaded automatic in his breast pocket, a cigarette between his fingers, and, on his agreeable features, a smile of anticipation — a smile in which amusement, incredulity, reckless humour, and a spice of malice were blended — the smile born of the drop of Irish sparkling like champagne in his singing veins.
And he turned the knob of door No. 623 and went in.
She was reading, curled up on her sofa under the electric bulb, a cigarette in one hand, a box of bonbons beside her.
She looked up leisurely as he entered, gave him a friendly nod, and, when he held out his hand, placed her own in it. With delighted gravity he bent and saluted her finger tips with lips that twitched to control a smile.
“Will you be seated, please?” she said gently.
The softness of her agreeable voice struck him as he looked around for a seat, then directly at her; and saw that she meant him to find a seat on the lounge beside her.
“Now, indeed you are Scheherazade of the Thousand and One Nights,” he said gaily, “with your cigarette and your bonbons, and cross-legged on your divan — —”
“Did Scheherazade smoke cigarettes, Mr. Neeland?”
“No,” he admitted; “that is an anachronism, I suppose. Tell me, how are you, dear lady?”
“Thank you, quite well.”
“And — busy?” His lips struggled again to maintain their gravity.
“Yes, I have been busy.”
“Cooking something up? — I mean soup, of course,” he added.
She forced a smile, but reddened as though it were difficult for her to accustom herself to his half jesting sarcasms.
“So you’ve been busy,” he resumed tormentingly, “but not with cooking lessons! Perhaps you’ve been practising with your pretty little pistol. You know you really need a bit of small arms practice, Scheherazade.”
“Because I once missed you?” she inquired serenely.
“Why so you did, didn’t you?” he exclaimed, delighted to goad her into replying.
“Yes,” she said, “I missed you. I needn’t have. I am really a dead shot, Mr. Neeland.”
“Oh, Scheherazade!” he protested.
She shrugged:
“I am not bragging; I could have killed you. I supposed it was necessary only to frighten you. It was my mistake and a bad one.”
“My dear child,” he expostulated, “you meant murder and you know it. Do you suppose I believe that you know how to shoot?”
“But I do, Mr. Neeland,” she returned with good-humoured indifference. “My father was head jäger to Count Geier von Sturmspitz, and I was already a dead shot with a rifle when we emigrated to Canada. And when he became an Athabasca trader, and I was only twelve years old, I could set a moose-hide shoe-lace swinging and cut it in two with a revolver at thirty yards. And I can drive a shingle nail at that distance and drive the bullet that drove it, and the next and the next, until my revolver is empty. You don’t believe me, do you?”
“You know that the beautiful Scheherazade — —”
“Was famous for her fantastic stories? Yes, I know that, Mr. Neeland. I’m sorry you don’t believe I fired only to frighten you.”
“I’m sorry I don’t,” he admitted, laughing, “but I’ll practise trying, and maybe I shall attain perfect credulity some day. Tell me,” he added, “what have you been doing to amuse yourself?”
“I’ve been amusing myself by wondering whether you would come here to see me tonight.”
“But your note said you were sure I’d come.”
“You have come, haven’t you?”
“Yes, Scheherazade, I’m here at your bidding, spirit and flesh. But I forgot to bring one thing.”
“What?”
“The box which — you have promised yourself.”
“Yes, the captain has it, I believe,” she returned serenely.
“Oh, Lord! Have you even found out that? I don’t know whether I’m much flattered by this surveillance you and your friends maintain over me. I suppose you even know what I had for dinner. Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Come, I’ll call that bluff, dear lady! What did I have?”
When she told him, carelessly, and without humour, mentioning accurately every detail of his dinner, he lost his gaiety of countenance a little.
“Oh, I say, you know,” he protested, “that’s going it a trifle too strong. Now, why the devil should your people keep tabs on me to that extent?”
She looked up directly into his eyes:
“Mr. Neeland, I want to tell you
why. I asked you here so that I may tell you. The people associated with me are absolutely pledged that neither the French nor the British Government shall have access to the contents of your box. That is why nothing that you do escapes our scrutiny. We are determined to have the papers in that box, and we shall have them.”
“You have come to that determination too late,” he began; but she stopped him with a slight gesture of protest:
“Please don’t interrupt me, Mr. Neeland.”
“I won’t; go on, dear lady!”
“Then, I’m trying to tell you all I may. I am trying to tell you enough of the truth to make you reflect very seriously.
“This is no ordinary private matter, no vulgar attempt at robbery and crime as you think — or pretend to think — for you are very intelligent, Mr. Neeland, and you know that the contrary is true.
“This affair concerns the secret police, the embassies, the chancelleries, the rulers themselves of nations long since grouped into two formidable alliances radically hostile to one another.
“I don’t think you have understood — perhaps even yet you do not understand why the papers you carry are so important to certain governments — why it is impossible that you be permitted to deliver them to the Princess Mistchenka — —”
“Where did you ever hear of her!” he demanded in astonishment.
The girl smiled:
“Dear Mr. Neeland, I know the Princess Mistchenka better, perhaps, than you do.”
“Do you?”
“Indeed I do. What do you know about her? Nothing at all except that she is handsome, attractive, cultivated, amusing, and apparently wealthy.
“You know her as a traveller, a patroness of music and the fine arts — as a devotee of literature, as a graceful hostess, and an amiable friend who gives promising young artists letters of introduction to publishers who are in a position to offer them employment.”
That this girl should know so much about the Princess Mistchenka and about his own relations with her amazed Neeland. He did not pretend to account for it; he did not try; he sat silent, serious, and surprised, looking into the pretty and almost smiling face of a girl who apparently had been responsible for three separate attempts to kill him — perhaps even a fourth attempt; and who now sat beside him talking in a soft and agreeable voice about matters concerning which he had never dreamed she had heard.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 823