CHAPTER VII
Because of the fatigue which possessed his every muscle, fatiguespringing from the arduous, the trying hours now past, Peter the Brazenwas sleeping the slumber of the worthy, when, at a somewhat later hourin the night, some time before dawn crept out of the China Sea, afigure, lean and gray, flitted past his stateroom on the narrow orlopdeck, peered in the darkened port-hole, and passed on.
Awakened by an instinct developed to a remarkable degree by histraining of the past few months, Peter established himself upon oneelbow and looked and listened, wondering what sounds might be abroadother than the peaceful churn of the engine.
Quite as intuitively he slipped his hand under the pillow andencountered the reassuring chill of the blued steel. Half withdrawingthis excellent weapon, he shifted his eyes, alternately from the doorto the port-hole, conscious of an imminent danger, a little stupefiedby his recent plunge into the depths of sleep, but growing more widelyawake, more alert and watchful, with the passage of each instant.
The port-hole loomed gray and empty, one edge of it licked by theyellow light of some not far distant deck-lamp. With his eye fastenedupon this scimitar of golden light, Peter was soon to witness anunusual eclipse, a phenomenon which sent a shiver, an icy shiver, ofgenuine consternation up and down his backbone.
As he watched, a square of the yellow reflected light was blotted out,as though a bar of some nature had cast its shadow athwart thatmetallic gleam. This shadow then proceeded to slide first up and thendown the brass setting of the port-hole, and the shadow dwindled.
As Peter sat up on the edge of his cot, gripping the square butt of theautomatic in his hand and tentatively fingering the trigger, the originof the shadow moved slowly, ever so slowly, into the range of hisperplexed and anxious vision.
What appeared at first glance to be a cat-o'-nine-tails on a ratherthick stem, Peter made out to be, as he built some hasty comparisons,the Maxim silencer attached either at the end of a revolver or of arifle; for the black cylinder on the muzzle was circumscribed atregular intervals with small, sharp depressions, the clinch-marks ofthe silencing chambers.
As this specter crept up and over the edge of the port, Peter, with adeliberate and cold smile, raised the automatic revolver, slipped outof the berth with the stealth and litheness of a cat, crept into thecorner where the stateroom door was hinged, and leveled the weaponuntil his eye ran along the dark obstruction of the barrel.
Slowly and more slowly the silencer moved inward until the blunt end ofit was registered precisely upon a point where Peter's head would lieif he were sleeping in a normal attitude.
This amused him and perplexed him. All Peter wanted to see was thehead or even the eye of this early morning assassin, whereupon he wouldtake immediate steps to receive him with a warm cordiality that mightforestall future visitations of a kindred sort.
In the space between heart-beats Peter stopped to inquire of himselfwho his visitor might be. And even as he stopped to inquire, a bright,angry, red flame spurted straight out from the mouth of the silencer,and Peter would have willingly gambled his bottom dollar that thebullet found its way into his pillow, a wager, as he later verified,upon which he would have collected all of the money he was eager tostake.
The lance of yellow-red flame had occasioned no disturbance other thana slight smack, comparable with the sharp clapping of a man's hands.
In the second leaping flame Peter was far more interested. Havingdelivered himself of one shot, the assassin could be depended upon tomake casual inquiries, and to drop at least one more bullet into thedarkness between the upper and lower berths, to make a clean job of it.
And it was on the appearance of the inquiring head that Peter relied torepay the intruder in his own metal, that metal taking the form of awingless messenger of nickel-sheathed lead.
But the visitor was cautious, waiting, no doubt, for sounds of thedeath struggle, provided the shot had not gone directly home, its homebeing, as Peter shuddered to think, his own exceedingly useful brain.
He waited a little longer before his guest apparently decided that thetime was come for his investigation; and thereupon a small, square headwith the black-tasseled hat of a Chinese coolie set upon it at a rakishangle was framed by the port-hole.
Smirking nervously, Peter released the safety catch and broughtpressure to bear slowly and firmly upon the trigger.
_Click_! That was all. But it told a terrible story. The weapon wasout of commission, either unloaded or tampered with. And Peter'spanic-stricken thoughts leaped, even as the square head leaped awayfrom the window, to the Borria woman, to the cause of his desperatehelplessness.
Romola Borria, then, had tampered with this revolver. Romola Borriahad plotted, that was sure, with the coolie outside the port-hole forhis assassination. That explained the visit to his room. Thatexplained her perturbation over his discovery of her visit, of her slyand cool evasions and dissimulations.
It was with these thoughts hammering in his brain that Peter droppedout of range of the deadly porthole and squirmed, inching his way intothe doubtful shelter provided by the closet. At any instant heexpected another red tongue to burn the now still darkness above hishead, to experience the hot plunge of a bullet in some part of hisslightly clad anatomy. And then--death? An end of the gloriousadventures whose trail he had followed now for well upon ten years?
And still the death bullet was withheld. Groping about in the darknesswith one hand as he loosened the magazine clip on the butt, and findingthat the clip of cartridges had been removed, he finally discovered thewhereabouts of the suit-case, and dragged it slowly toward him, withhis eyes pinned upon the vacant port.
Fumbling among the numerous objects contained in the suit-case, hisfingers encountered at length a cartridge clip. He slipped this intothe magazine, and indulged in a silent grunt of relief as the clipmoved up into place. He drew back the rejecting mechanism, and heardthe soft, reassuring _snick_ of the cartridge as it slid from themagazine into the chamber.
Then sounds without demanded his attention, the sounds of a tussle, ofoaths spoken in a high, feminine tongue, in a language not his own.
Peter would have shouted, but he had long ago learned theinadvisability of shouting when such grim business as to-night's wasbeing negotiated.
Slipping on his bath-robe, he opened the door and tentatively peeredout into the half-light of the orlop deck from the cross corridorvestibule-way, for indications of a shambles.
They were gone. The deck was deserted. But he caught his breathsharply as he made out a long, dark shape which lay, with the inertnessof death, under his port-hole, blending with the shadows. He rolledthe man over upon his back, and dragged him by the heels under thedeck-light, and, dragging him, a dark trail spread out upon the boards,and even as Peter examined the cold face, the spot broadened and atrickle broke from it and crept down toward the gutter.
Stabbed? More than likely. Pausing only long enough to reassurehimself that this one was the assassin whose square head had beenframed by the port, Peter looked for a wound, and shortly he found thewound, and Peter was not greatly astounded at the proportions thereof.
It was a small wound, running entirely through the neck from a pointbelow the left ear to one slightly below and to the right of the lockedjaw. Upon close scrutiny the death wound proved to be small andthorough and of a triangular pattern.
Just why he had expected to find that triangular wound Peter was unableto explain even to himself, but he was quite as sure that RomolaBorria's hand was in this latest development as he had been sure amoment before that her steady, small hand had deliberately removed theclip of cartridges from the butt of the automatic, to render himhelpless in the face of his enemies.
Silently contemplating the stiffening victim of Romola Borria'striangular dagger, Peter heard the rustle of silk garments, and lookedup in time to observe the slender person of Romola Borria herself,attired exactly as he had left her a few hours previous, detach itselffrom the c
orridor vestibule-way which led to his stateroom. Sheapproached him.
A thousand questions and accusations swam to his lips, but she wasspeaking in low, impassioned tones.
"I knocked at your door. God! I thought he had killed you! I wasafraid. For a moment I thought you were dead."
"You stabbed him," said Peter in an expressionless voice.
She nodded, and drew a long, sobbing breath.
"Yes. He tried to shoot you. I saw him pass my window. I waswaiting. I watched. I knew he would try. Oh, I'm so glad----"
"You knew? You knew that?"
"Yes, yes. He was the--the mate of the coolie you threw overboard inBatavia. You know, they always travel in pairs. You didn't know that?"
"No; I did not know. But I could have defended myself easily enough ifit had not been for----"
"Your clip of cartridges? Can you forgive me? Can you ever forgive mefor taking them out? I took them out. Oh, Mr. Moore, believe me, I amconcealing nothing! I did remove the clip, and in my carelessness Iforgot to give them back to you when you left my room."
"I see. Have you them?"
"Yes."
"Please give them to me. You have not by any chance, in another ofthose careless moods of yours, happened to tamper with the bullets,have you?"
"Mr. Moore----" she gasped, clutching her white hands to her breast inindignation.
"You _are_ clever," said Peter sarcastically. "You're altogether toodamn clever. What your game is, I'm not going to take the trouble toask. You--you----"
"Oh, Mr. Moore!" She caught his arm.
He cast it away.
"Didn't tamper with the bullets, eh?" he went on in a deep, sullenvoice. "Well, Miss Borria, here is what I think of your word. Here ishow much I trust you."
And with a single motion Peter whipped all seven cartridges from theclip and tossed them into the sea. He snarled again:
"You _are_ clever, damn clever. Poor, poor little thing! Still wantto go to Japan with me, my dear?"
"I do," stated the girl, whose eyes were dry and burning.
"Sure! That's the stuff," railed Peter bitingly; "whatever you do,stick to your story."
He grabbed her wrist, and her glance should have softened granite.
"For example," he sniffed; "that neat little cock-and-bull story youmade up about your cruel, brutal husband. Expect me to believe that,too, eh?"
"Not if you don't care to," said the girl faintly.
Peter knocked away her hand, the hand which seemed always to fumble ather throat in moments of strain. He pulled down the black kimono anddragged her under the light, forcing her back against the white cabin.He looked.
The white, soft curve of her chest was devoid of all marks. It was aswhite as that portion of a woman's body is said to be, by the singingpoets, as white as alabaster, and devoid of angry stripes.
Peter seized both limp wrists in one of his hands.
"By God, you _are_ clever!" he scoffed. "Now, Miss Enigma, you spurtout your story, and the true story, or, by Heaven, I'll call theskipper! I'll have you put in irons--for murder!"
She hung her head, then flung it back and eyed him with the sullen fireof a cornered animal.
"You forget I saved your life," she said.
As if they were red hot, Peter dropped her hands, and they fell at hersides like limp rags.
"I--I----" he stammered, and backed away a step. "Good God!" heexploded. "Then explain this; explain why you took the clip from myautomatic. Explain why you put up that story of a brutal husband, andshowed me scars on your breast to prove it--then washed them off. Andwhy--why you killed this man who would have murdered me."
"I will explain what I am able to," she said in a small, tired voice."I took the clips from the revolver because--because I didn't want youto shoot me. I know _their_ methods far better than you seem to; and Iknew I could handle this coolie myself far better than you could; and Iwanted to run no risk of being shot myself in attending to him.
"As for the 'brutal-husband story,' every word of that is the truth.If you must know, I used rouge for the scars. Since you are sooutspoken, I will pay you back in the same cloth. There are scars onmy body, on my back and my legs."
Her face was as red as a poppy.
"And I killed this man because--well," she snapped, "perhaps because Ihate you."
Had she cut him with a whip, Peter could not have felt more hurt, morehumiliated, more ashamed, for gratitude was far from being a strangerto him.
He half extended his arms in mute apology, and, surprised, he found herlips caressing his, her warm arms about his neck. He kissedher--once--and put her away from him; and that guiding star of his inCalifornia could be thankful that Romola Borria's embrace was rathermore forgiving than insinuating.
"We must get rid of this coolie," she said, brushing the clusters ofdark hair from her face. "I will help you, if you like. But over hegoes!"
"But the blood."
"Call a deck-boy. Tell him as little as you need. You are one of theship's officers. He will not question you."
He hesitated.
"Can you forgive me for this--way I have acted, my--my ingratitude?"
"Forgiveness seems to be a woman's principal role in life," she saidwith a tired smile. "Yes. I am sorry, too, that we misunderstood.Good-night, my dear."
And Peter was all alone, although his aloneness was modified to acertain extent by the corpse at his feet. The dead weight he liftedwith some difficulty to the railing, pushed hard, and heard the muffledsplash. Quickly he got into his uniform, slipped his naked feet intolooped sandals, and sought the forecastle.
The occupants of this odorous place were sawing wood in anunsynchronous chorus. No one seemed to be about, so he seized a pailhalf filled with sujee, a block of holystone, and a stiff broom.
With these implements he occupied himself for fully a half-hour, untilthe spots on the deck had faded to a satisfactory whiteness. Therevolver with Maxim silencer attached he discovered, after a longsearch, some distance away in the deck-gutter.
He meditated at length upon the advisability of consigning this grimtrophy to the China Sea. Yet it is a sad commentary upon his nativeshrewdness that Peter had not yet recovered from his boyish enthusiasmfor collecting souvenirs.
At last he decided to retain it, and he dropped it through theport-hole upon the couch, thereupon forgetting all about it until theweapon was called to his attention on the ensuing morning.
With all evidences of the crime removed, he replaced the pail, thestone, and the broom in the forecastle locker, and sneaked back to hisstateroom. He locked the door, barricaded the port-hole with thepink-flowered curtains--those symbols which had reminded him earlier ofspringtime in California--and examined his pillow.
It had been an exceedingly neat shot. The bullet had bored cleanthrough, had struck the metal L-beam of the bunk, and rebounded into apile of bedclothes. Dented and scorched, Peter examined this littlepellet of lead, balancing it in the palm of his hand.
"Every bullet has its billet," he quoted, and he was glad indeed thatthe billet in this case had not been his vulnerable cerebrum.
Snapping off the light, he drew the sheet up to his neck and lay therepondering, listening to the whine of the ventilator-fan.
The haggard, distressed face of Romola Borria swam upon the screen ofhis imagination. This woman commanded his admiration and respect.Despite all dissemblings, all evasions, all actual and evident signs ofthe double-cross, he confided to his other self that he was glad he hadkissed her. What can be so deliciously harmless as a kiss? he askedhimself.
And wiser men than Peter have answered: What can be so harmful?
Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China Page 25
