For a few moments she sat silent, observing in his changing expression the effects of what she had said to him. Then, with a smile:
“Ask me whatever questions you desire to ask, Mr. Neeland. I shall do my best to answer them.”
“Very well,” he said bluntly; “how do you happen to know so much about me?”
“I know something about the friends of the Princess Mistchenka. I have to.”
“Did you know who I was there in the house at Brookhollow?”
“No.”
“When, then?”
“When you yourself told me your name, I recognised it.”
“I surprised you by interrupting you in Brookhollow?”
“Yes.”
“You expected no interruption?”
“None.”
“How did you happen to go there? Where did you ever hear of the olive-wood box?”
“I had advices by cable from abroad — directions to go to Brookhollow and secure the box.”
“Then somebody must be watching the Princess Mistchenka.”
“Of course,” she said simply.
“Why ‘of course’?”
“Mr. Neeland, the Princess Mistchenka and her youthful protégée, Miss Carew — —”
“What!!!”
The girl smiled wearily:
“Really,” she said, “you are such a boy to be mixed in with matters of this colour. I think that’s the reason you have defeated us — the trained fencer dreads a left-handed novice more than any classic master of the foils.
“And that is what you have done to us — blundered — if you’ll forgive me — into momentary victory.
“But such victories are only momentary, Mr. Neeland. Please believe it. Please try to understand, too, that this is no battle with masks and plastrons and nicely padded buttons. No; it is no comedy, but a grave and serious affair that must inevitably end in tragedy — for somebody.”
“For me?” he asked without smiling.
She turned on him abruptly and laid one hand lightly on his arm with a pretty gesture, at once warning, appealing, and protective.
“I asked you to come here,” she said, “because — because I want you to escape the tragedy.”
“You want me to escape?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I — am sorry for you.”
He said nothing.
“And — I like you, Mr. Neeland.”
The avowal in the soft, prettily modulated voice, lost none of its charm and surprise because the voice was a trifle tremulous, and the girl’s face was tinted with a delicate colour.
“I like to believe what you say, Scheherazade,” he said pleasantly. “Somehow or other I never did think you hated me personally — except once — —”
She flushed, and he was silent, remembering her humiliation in the Brookhollow house.
“I don’t know,” she said in a colder tone, “why I should feel at all friendly toward you, Mr. Neeland, except that you are personally courageous, and you have shown yourself generous under a severe temptation to be otherwise.
“As for — any personal humiliation — inflicted upon me — —” She looked down thoughtfully and pretended to sort out a bonbon to her taste, while the hot colour cooled in her cheeks.
“I know,” he said, “I’ve also jeered at you, jested, nagged you, taunted you, kiss — —” He checked himself and he smiled and ostentatiously lighted a cigarette.
“Well,” he said, blowing a cloud of aromatic smoke toward the ceiling, “I believe that this is as strange a week as any man ever lived. It’s like a story book — like one of your wonderful stories, Scheherazade. It doesn’t seem real, now that it is ended — —”
“It is not ended,” she interrupted in a low voice.
He smiled.
“You know,” he said, “there’s no use trying to frighten such an idiot as I am.”
She lifted her troubled eyes:
“That is what frightens me,” she said. “I am afraid you don’t know enough to be afraid.”
He laughed.
“But I want you to be afraid. A really brave man knows what fear is. I want you to know.”
“What do you wish me to do, Scheherazade?”
“Keep away from that box.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. You can leave it in charge of the captain of this ship and let him see that an attempt is made to deliver it to the Princess Mistchenka.”
She was in deadly earnest; he saw that. And, in spite of himself, a slight thrill that was almost a chill passed over him, checked instantly by the hot wave of sheer exhilaration at the hint of actual danger.
“Oho!” he said gaily. “Then you and your friends are not yet finished with me?”
“Yes, if you will consider your mission accomplished.”
“And leave the rest to the captain of the Volhynia?”
“Yes.”
“Scheherazade,” he said, “did you suppose me to be a coward?”
“No. You have done all that you can. A reserve officer of the British Navy has the box in his charge. Let him, protected by his Government, send it toward its destination.”
In her even voice the implied menace was the more sinister for her calmness.
He looked at her, perplexed, and shook his head.
“I ask you,” she went on, “to keep out of this affair — to disassociate yourself from it. I ask it because you have been considerate and brave, and because I do not wish you harm.”
He turned toward her, leaning a little forward on the lounge:
“No use,” he said, smiling. “I’m in it until it ends — —”
“Let it end then!” said a soft, thick voice directly behind him. And Neeland turned and found the man he had seen on deck standing beside him. One of his fat white hands held an automatic pistol, covering him; the other was carefully closing the door which he had noiselessly opened to admit him.
“Karl!” exclaimed Ilse Dumont.
“It is safaire that you do not stir, either, to interfere,” he said, squinting for a second at her out of his eyes set too near together.
“Karl!” she cried. “I asked him to come in order to persuade him! I gave him my word of honour!”
“Did you do so? Then all the bettaire. I think we shall persuade him. Do not venture to move, young man; I shoot veree willingly.”
And Neeland, looking at him along the blunt barrel of the automatic pistol, was inclined to believe him.
His sensations were not agreeable; he managed to maintain a calm exterior; choke back the hot chagrin that reddened his face to the temples; and cast a half humorous, half contemptuous glance at Ilse Dumont.
“You prove true, don’t you?” he said coolly. “ — True to your trade of story-telling, Scheherazade!”
“I knew — nothing — of this!” she stammered.
But Neeland only laughed disagreeably.
Then the door opened again softly, and Golden Beard came in without his crutches.
CHAPTER XXI
METHOD AND FORESIGHT
Without a word — with merely a careless glance at Neeland, who remained seated under the level threat of Ali Baba’s pistol, the big, handsome German removed his overcoat. Under it was another coat. He threw this off in a brisk, businesslike manner, unbuckled a brace of pistols, laid them aside, unwound from his body a long silk rope ladder which dropped to the floor at Ilse Dumont’s feet.
The girl had turned very pale. She stooped, picked up the silk ladder, and, holding it in both hands, looked hard at Golden Beard.
“Johann,” she said, “I gave my word of honour to this young man that if he came here no harm would happen to him.”
“I read the note you have shoved under his door,” said Golden Beard. “That iss why we are here, Karl and I.”
Neeland remembered the wax in the keyhole then. He turned his eyes on Ilse Dumont, curiously, less certain of her treachery now.
<
br /> Meanwhile, Golden Beard continued busily unwinding things from his apparently too stout person, and presently disengaged three life-belts.
One of these he adjusted to his own person, then, putting on his voluminous overcoat, took the pistol from Ali Baba, who, in turn, adjusted one of the remaining life-belts to his body.
Neeland, deeply perplexed and uncomfortable, watched these operations in silence, trying to divine some reason for them.
“Now, then!” said Golden Beard to the girl; and his voice sounded cold and incisive in the silence.
“This is not the way to do it,” she said in a low tone. “I gave him my word of honour.”
“You will be good enough to buckle on that belt,” returned Golden Beard, staring at her.
Slowly she bent over, picked up the life-belt, and, looping the silk rope over her arm, began to put on the belt. Golden Beard, impatient, presently came to her assistance; then he unhooked from the wall a cloak and threw it over her shoulders.
“Now, Karl!” he said. “Shoot him dead if he stirs!” And he snatched a sheet from the bed, tore it into strips, walked over to Neeland, and deftly tied him hand and foot and gagged him.
Then Golden Beard and Ali Baba, between them, lifted the young man and seated him on the iron bed and tied him fast to it.
“Go out on deck!” said Golden Beard to Ilse Dumont.
“Let me stay — —”
“No! You have acted like a fool. Go to the lower deck where is our accustomed rendezvous.”
“I wish to remain, Johann. I shall not interfere — —”
“Go to the lower deck, I tell you, and be ready to tie that rope ladder!”
Ali Baba, down on his knees, had pulled out a steamer trunk from under the bed, opened it, and was lifting out three big steel cylinders.
These he laid on the bed in a row beside the tied man; and Golden Beard, still facing Ilse Dumont, turned his head to look.
The instant his head was turned the girl snatched a pistol from the brace of weapons on the washstand and thrust it under her cloak. Neither Golden Beard nor Ali Baba noticed the incident; the latter was busy connecting the three cylinders with coils of wire; the former, deeply interested, followed the operation for a moment or two, then walking over to the trunk, he lifted from it a curious little clock with two dials and set it on the railed shelf of glass above the washstand.
“Karl, haf you ship’s time?”
Ali Baba paused to fish out his watch, and the two compared timepieces. Then Golden Beard wound the clock, set the hands of one dial at the time indicated by their watches; set the hands of the other dial at 2:13; and Ali Baba, carrying a reel of copper wire from the bed to the washstand, fastened one end of it to the mechanism of the clock.
Golden Beard turned sharply on Ilse Dumont:
“I said go on deck! Did you not understand?”
The girl replied steadily:
“I understood that we had abandoned this idea for a better one.”
“There iss no better one!”
“There is! Of what advantage would it be to blow up the captain’s cabin and the bridge when it is not certain that the papers will be destroyed?”
“Listen once!” returned Golden Beard, wagging his finger in her face:
“Cabin and bridge are directly above us and there remains not a splinter large like a pin! I know. I know my bombs! I know — —”
The soft voice of Ali Baba interrupted, and his shallow, lightish eyes peered around at them:
“Eet ees veree excellent plan, Johann. We do not require these papers; eet ees to destroy them we are mooch anxious” — he bent a deathly stare on Neeland— “and this yoong gentleman who may again annoy us.” He nodded confidently to himself and continued to connect the wires. “Yes, yes,” he murmured absently, “eet ees veree good plan — veree good plan to blow him into leetle pieces so beeg as a pin.”
“It is a clumsy plan!” said the girl, desperately. “There is no need for wanton killing like this, when we can — —”
“Killing?” repeated Golden Beard. “That makes nothing. This English captain he iss of the naval reserve. Und this young man” — nodding coolly toward Neeland— “knows too much already. That iss not wanton killing. Also! You talk too much. Do you hear? We are due to drop anchor about 2:30. God knows there will be enough rushing to and fro at 2:13.
“Go on deck, I say, and fasten that rope ladder! Weishelm’s fishing smack will be watching; und if we do not swim for it we are caught on board! Und that iss the end of it all for us!”
“Johann,” she began tremulously, “listen to me — —”
“Nein! Nein! What for a Frauenzimmer haff we here!” retorted Golden Beard, losing his patience and catching her by the arm. “Go out und fix for us our ladder und keep it coiled on the rail und lean ofer it like you was looking at those stars once!”
He forced her toward the door; she turned, struggling, to confront him:
“Then for God’s sake, give this man a chance! Don’t leave him tied here to be blown to atoms! Give him a chance — anything except this! Throw him out of the port, there!” She pointed at the closed port, evaded Golden Beard, sprang upon the sofa, unscrewed the glass cover, and swung it open.
The port was too small even to admit the passage of her own body; she realised it; Golden Beard laughed and turned to examine the result of Ali Baba’s wiring.
For a second the girl gazed wildly around her, as though seeking some help in her terrible dilemma, then she snatched up a bit of the torn sheeting, tied it to the screw of the porthole cover, and flung the end out where it fluttered in the darkness.
As she sprang to the floor Golden Beard swung round in renewed anger at her for still loitering.
“Sacreminton!” he exclaimed. “It is time you do your part! Go to your post then! We remain here until five minutes is left us. Then we join you.”
The girl nodded, turned to the door.
“Wait! You understand the plan?”
“Yes.”
“You understand that you do not go overboard until we arrive, no matter what happens?”
“Yes.”
He stood looking at her for a moment, then with a shrug he went over and patted her shoulder.
“That’s my brave girl! I also do not desire to kill anybody. But when the Fatherland is in danger, then killing signifies nothing — is of no consequence — pouf! — no lives are of importance then — not even our own!” He laughed in a fashion almost kindly and clapped her lightly once more on her shoulder: “Go, my child. The Fatherland is in danger!”
She went, not looking back. He closed and locked the door behind her and calmly turned to aid Ali Baba who was still fussing with the wires. Presently, however, he mounted the bed where Neeland sat tied and gagged; pulled from his pockets an auger with its bit, a screw-eye, and block and tackle; and, standing on the bed, began to bore a hole in the ceiling.
In a few moments he had fastened the screw-eye, rigged his block, made a sling for his bombs out of a blanket, and had hoisted the three cylinders up flat against the ceiling from whence the connecting wires sagged over the foot of the bedstead to the alarm clock on the washstand.
To give the clock more room on the glass shelf, Ali Baba removed the toilet accessories and set them on the washstand; but he had no room for a large jug of water, and, casting about for a place to set it, noticed a railed bracket over the head of the bed, and placed it there.
Then, apparently satisfied with his labours, he sat down Turk fashion on the sofa, lighted a cigarette, selected a bonbon from the box beside him, and calmly regaled himself.
Presently Golden Beard tied the cord which held up the sling in which the bombs were slung against the ceiling. He fastened it tightly to the iron frame of the bed, stepped back to view the effect, then leisurely pulled out and filled his porcelain pipe, and seated himself on the sofa beside Ali Baba.
Neither spoke; twice Golden Beard drew his watch from his waistcoat pocke
t and compared it carefully with the dial of the alarm clock on the washstand shelf. The third time he did this he tapped Ali Baba on the shoulder, rose, knocked out his pipe and flung it out of the open port.
Together they walked over to Neeland, examined the gag and ligatures as impersonally as though the prisoner were not there, nodded their satisfaction, turned off the electric light, and, letting themselves out, locked the door on the outside.
It lacked five minutes of the time indicated on the alarm dial.
CHAPTER XXII
TWO THIRTEEN
To Neeland, the entire affair had seemed as though it were some rather obvious screen-picture at which he was looking — some photo-play too crudely staged, and in which he himself was no more concerned than any casual spectator.
Until now, Neeland had not been scared; Ali Baba and his automatic pistol were only part of this unreality; his appearance on the scene had been fantastically classical; he entered when his cue was given by Scheherazade — this oily, hawk-nosed Eurasian with his pale eyes set too closely and his moustache hiding under his nose à la Enver Pasha — a faultless make-up, an entry properly timed and prepared. And then, always well-timed for dramatic effect, Golden Beard had appeared. Everything was en règle, every unity nicely preserved. Scheherazade had protested; and her protest sounded genuine. Also entirely convincing was the binding and gagging of himself at the point of an automatic pistol; and, as for the rest of the business, it was practically all action and little dialogue — an achievement really in these days of dissertation.
All, as he looked on at it over the bandage which closed his mouth, had seemed unreal, impersonal, even when his forced attitude had caused him inconvenience and finally pain.
But now, with the light extinguished and the closing of the door behind Golden Beard and Ali Baba, he experienced a shock which began to awaken him to the almost incredible and instant reality of things.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 824