She sighed.
“So you realised that?”
“No more evasions, please,” he insisted sternly. “Facts.”
“I came,” she confided, “to pay you a visit.”
“Very kind of you,” he acknowledged. “You have robbed me of two or three hours’ sleep, you have given me a great deal of anxiety, and even now I have not the faintest idea as to who you are or what you could want from me. Please be more explicit.”
“You can give me another cigarette first,” she demanded.
He handed her his case and briquet. “And now?”
“First of all, let me be sure that I am not making a mistake,” she continued. “Your name is Hamer Wildburn? This is the yacht Bird of Paradise?”
“Correct.”
“A very delightful boat.”
“You flatter me. And then?”
“Is it for sale?”
“Certainly not.” She sighed.
“That makes it more difficult. Will you sell it?”
He considered the matter for a moment.
“Why should I? It exactly suits me, and I am not in urgent need of money. I should only have to go and buy another one. No, I will not sell it.”
For the second or third time she looked anxiously out seawards. She was watching the point around which incoming vessels must enter the bay.
“Will you charter it?” she persisted. “For a month if you like, even for a shorter time?”
“I shouldn’t dream of such a thing,” he assured her. “I have owned half a dozen small boats in my lifetime. I have never chartered one of them. I have just filled up with stores, and all my belongings are on board. I have settled down until the late autumn. There was never anyone less anxious to part with one of his possessions than I am to part with this little boat.”
She rose to her feet with a staccato cry which thrilled him. Above the low land on the other side of the point a thin wireless mast was suddenly visible. The powerful engines of a large motor yacht broke the stillness. The woman’s expression became haggard. That far-off monotonous sound was like the tocsin of fate.
“Hamer Wildburn,” she said, “I have risked my life in this enterprise, which I suppose you look upon only as an act of folly.”
“I simply do not understand it,” he protested.
“I was at my villa in Mougins last night. I received a telephone message—something very important. Directly I received it I drove myself down here. My car is still there under the trees. There was no one to bring me to your boat—the little restaurant was locked up. There was not a soul on the beach, nothing but a darkness which seemed impenetrable. I took a canoe—you know what happened to me. I ran into one of those fishing boats and swam the rest of the way. Do you think it was a trifle which made me so desperate?”
“Perhaps not,” he admitted, thoroughly dazed. “But what is it all about? What do you want my boat in particular for? There are hundreds just like it.”
“I cannot tell you why I want it,” she declared hopelessly. “That is the hateful part of the whole business. It is a matter of dire secrecy. But I will tell you this—before many days are past you will sell or part with it to someone. It may be taken from you by force. If you are obstinate it may cost you your life. Why not deal with me? I am the first to come to you. I am told that you bought it in Marseilles harbour for something under two thousand pounds. Let me put some men on board and take it away this morning and I will give you a cheque for four thousand pounds on the Credit Lyonnais. You will see my name then and you will know that it will be met. Make up your mind please, quickly. Listen! What is it that approaches?”
He answered without turning round. His eyes were fixed upon the paler beam from the lighthouse. The twilight of dawn had settled upon the grey sea.
“That is only a fishing boat going out,” he said, listening for a moment to the soft swish of the oars. “There is a mist falling. Come below into the cabin and we will discuss this matter.”
Auguste, matelot and assistant navigator of the Bird of Paradise, brought the dinghy round to the side of the yacht. He looked with surprise at the steps.
“Monsieur has perhaps taken an early swim,” Jean, his subordinate suggested.
Auguste was a man of apprehensions. He glanced around and the longer he looked the less he liked the appearance of things.
“Monsieur would not use the steps,” he pointed out. “Besides, he is nowhere in sight. There is one of the canoes from the beach, too, floating there which has been capsized.”
With a few swift strokes he reached the steps, backed water deftly and swung round. He pulled himself on to the deck and left Jean to attach the boat. There were signs of disturbance everywhere—rugs thrown about the place where someone had sat in damp clothes, empty glasses, empty coffee cups. Auguste scratched his head in perplexity. The situation might have seemed obvious enough but Monsieur Wildburn was not like that. He descended the companionway with hasty footsteps. There was silence below but the door of the little salon was closed. He opened it and peered inside. There were evidences of recent occupation there—wine glasses and a bottle of brandy—but no sign of any human being. He knocked at the door of the cabin opposite. There was no reply. He turned the handle and looked cautiously in. At the first glance he scented tragedy. His feet seemed frozen to the mat. He tried to call out, and he was noted amongst the seamen of the port as being a lusty shouter, but this time his effort was in vain. The cabin itself was in the wildest disorder and doubled up across its floor, his arms outstretched, faint groans dribbling from his lips, the owner of the Bird of Paradise was facing the last act in the drama of that strange morning.
An hour later, settled on deck in a chaise longue piled up with cushions, with his face turned windwards and a cup of tea by his side, Hamer Wildburn felt life once more stirring in his pulses. The colour was slowly returning to his healthy sunburnt face. His breathing was more natural. Auguste watched him with satisfaction.
“Monsieur is better?” he demanded interrogatively.
“Nothing left but a thumping headache and that passes,”’ the young man acknowledged. “Why is Jean bringing the dinghy round?”
“One goes to acquaint the gendarmerie, Monsieur,” Auguste replied.
“One does nothing of the sort,” was the sharp rejoinder.
Auguste’s eyes grew round with surprise.
“But Monsieur has been drugged!” he exclaimed. “That Monsieur himself admitted. He has also been robbed without a doubt. Every drawer in the cabin is open. The one with the false front has been smashed. Thieves have been at work here without a doubt.”
“I do not believe that I have been robbed Auguste,” his master replied. “There is nothing worth stealing upon the boat. In any case I do not want any gendarme or the Commissaire of Police or anyone of that sort down here. I forbid either you or Jean to say a word about this happening.”
Auguste was disappointed. He had seen himself the hero of a small sensation.
“It must be as Monsieur wishes, of course,” he grumbled.
“It must if you want to keep your posts, you two,” the young man told them. “Now, listen to me. Did you seen an overturned canoe when you came in?”
“But certainly,” Auguste replied. “It was one of those left for hire at the plage. Jean took it back some time ago.”
“Where is the small dinghy?”
“Jean found it upon the plage and brought it back, Monsieur,” Auguste explained. “It would seem that the thief of last night first of all took the canoe from the plage, ran into something, for the bows are badly damaged, perhaps swim to the boat and took the small dinghy for the return journey.”
“Excellent Auguste,” his master said approvingly. “You are probably right. Now go to the shore and have a look at the end of the road under the trees Tell me if there are any fresh signs of a motor car having stood there during the night. Let me know at once if you discover anything.”
“And Monsieur does no
t wish me to approach the gendarmes?” the man asked as he turned away.
“I forbid it,” was the firm injunction. “You will go straight to the spot I have told you of and return here.”
Auguste executed his commission and returned within a quarter of an hour.
“A heavy car has been standing there recently, Monsieur,” he reported. “Louget—he is one of the boatmen down at the plage—told me that he had seen a coupe turn out of the road just as he arrived about an hour ago.”
“Did he notice the occupant?”
“But that he was too slim and small,” Auguste recounted, “Louget would have believed him to have been Monsieur.”
“Why?” Wildburn asked. “No one would call me either slim or small.”
“It was because of the clothes, Monsieur,” Auguste explained. “The driver was apparently wearing a fawn-coloured pullover such as Monsieur sometimes has on, and a yachting casquette.”
“Go and see if anything is missing from my cabin,” Wildburn directed. “Don’t stop to clear up. I shall probably do that myself later on.”
This time Auguste’s absence was a brief one.
“The pullover such as Louget described is missing,” he announced. “Also the casquette.”
The young man sighed.
“We progress, Auguste,” he said, finishing his tea and sitting up in his chair. “Without the help of the police we have discovered in what garb the thief made his escape and the manner of his doing so. I am also minus a lamb’s-wool pullover, to which I was greatly attached.”
Auguste had apparently lost interest in the affair. He tied up the dinghy and looked over his shoulder.
“Has Monsieur any commands for the morning?”
“None at present.”
“Monsieur does not wish for the services of a doctor?”
“Don’t be a fool,” Wildburn replied irritably. “There’s nothing whatever the matter with me. I may have had one drink too many.”
“It is always possible,” Auguste admitted. “In the meantime, what does Monsieur propose to do with this?”
He produced from under his coat and shook out that very exquisite but fantastic fragment of lace and crepe georgette from which Wildburn had torn off one sleeve In the small hours of the morning. He hold it out fluttering in the morning breeze. Wildburn studied it meditatively.
“It resembles a lady’s gown, Auguste,” he observed.
Auguste was not discussing the matter. As a matter of fact, he was a disappointed man. He was no lover of women himself, and he fancied that in his master he had met with a kindred spirit.
“Put it downstairs in the salon, Auguste. Another piece of evidence we have collected, you see. Very soon we shall probably be able to lay our hands upon the culprit without calling in the police at all.”
“Monsieur’s cabin is in a state of great disorder,” Auguste reported. “It would be as well to go through his effects and see if anything has been stolen. The box which Monsieur calls his caisse noire does not appear to be in its place.”
Wildburn rose to his feet and made his way below. He looked around his cabin critically. Nearly every drawer had been pulled out, and in some cases the contents had been emptied onto the floor. Every possible hiding-place seemed to have been ransacked, and a collection of letters, ties, shirts, and wearing apparel of every sort littered up the place. Two panels had been smashed with some heavy instrument. The cabin, in fact, bore every trace of a feverish search. Wildburn sat on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette. He was a harmless young man of twenty-six, who had graduated from Harvard some four years ago, and he was picking up a little experience in journalism on the staff of one of his father’s papers. There were no complications in his life. He had never sought adventure in its more romantic forms, nor had adventure sought him. There was certainly nothing amongst his possessions worthy of the attention of so elegant a woman as his visitor of a few hours before, a woman, too, who was prepared to write a cheque for four thousand pounds. And yet, however long he considered the matter, certain facts remained indisputable. A woman who was a perfect stranger to him had boarded his ship alone at 3 o’clock in the morning, had ransacked his belongings, and, in order to do so undisturbed, had resorted to the old-fashioned method of doctoring his coffee! Once again he asked himself the question—what was there amongst his very ordinary possessions which should plunge him, without any warning, into the middle of so curious an adventure?
CHAPTER II
Table of Contents
The flash from the Antibes lighthouse, which had been growing paler and paler in the opalescent light, suddenly ceased. There was a faint pink colouring now in the clouds eastward. A sort of hush seemed to have fallen upon the sea. Morning had arrived. Upon the deck of the shapely yet—with its black hull—somewhat sinister-looking yacht, which had crept slowly into the bay during the hours of velvety twilight, a man in silk pyjamas and dressing gown was strolling slowly up and down. The captain, who had been superintending the final lowering of the anchors, approached and saluted him respectfully.
“This, Monsieur le Baron,” he announced, “is the Bay of Caroupe.”
The man in the pyjamas nodded. He was somewhat thickly built and inclined towards corpulence, but he carried himself with confidence and a certain distinction. He spoke French, too, but with scarcely a Parisian accent.
“The place has a pleasant aspect,” he remarked. “One wonders to find it so deserted. An American boat, I see,” he went on, pointing to the Bird of Paradise.
The captain was full of information—crisp and eloquent.
“The Bird of Paradise, Monsieur le Baron. A schooner yacht built in Marseilles by English men—thirty tons or so. The property of Mr. Hamer Wildburn—an American. He is apparently on board at the present moment.”
“And how did you gather all this information?” the other inquired.
“I looked him up in the ‘Yacht Chronicle,’ Monsieur,” the captain confided. “In a small harbour such as this I like to know who my neighbours are.”
“How do you know that the owner is on board himself?”
“They hoisted the house burgee at sunrise with the Stars and Stripes.”
The man in pyjamas threw away the stump of his cigarette and lit another thoughtfully.
“Her lines seem to me to be good,” he remarked. “She has no appearance to you, Captain, of having been built for any specific purpose?”
“None that I can discover, Monsieur,” was the somewhat puzzled reply. “She has all the ordinary points of a schooner yacht of her tonnage and description.”
The Baron stared across at the small vessel riding so peacefully at anchor, and if his close survey did not indicate any intimate nautical knowledge it nevertheless betrayed intense interest.
“Does Monsieur Mermillon know that we have arrived?” he inquired.
“He was called as we entered the bay,” the captain replied. “Those were his orders. Behold, Monsieur arrives.”
A slim man of early middle-age, tall, and of distinguished appearance, with a broad forehead and masses of iron-grey hair, emerged from the companionway. The Baron, whom he greeted with a courteous nod and a wave of the hand, advanced to meet him.
“Our information, it appears, was correct so far, Edouard,” he confided. “That small boat there is the Bird of Paradise. It gives one rather a thrill to look at her, eh, and to realise that there may be truth in Badoit’s statement?”
Monsieur Edouard Mermillon, at that moment perhaps the most talked-about man in Europe, strolled with his friend towards the rail and gazed thoughtfully across the hundred yards or so which separated them from the Bird of Paradise.
“Dying men are supposed to have a penchant for speaking the truth,” he observed. “I myself believe in his story. It is perhaps unfortunate under the circumstances that the boat should be owned by an American.”
The Baron, whose full name was the Baron Albert de Brett, shrugged his shoulders.
�
��What docs it matter?” he remarked. “The Americans have their fancy for a bargain like the men of every other race. I was wondering when you proposed to visit him.”
“I see no great cause for haste,” Mermillon replied. “It is obvious that the owner of the boat has no idea of the truth or he would not be lying here without any pretence at concealment.”
His friend evidently held different views. He shook his head disapprovingly.
“In my opinion,” he declared, “not a minute should be wasted. Imagine if there should be a leak in our information—if others should suspect.”
“Seven o’clock in the morning is an early calling hour,” Mermillon observed.
“On an occasion like this,” was the swift retort, “one does not stand upon ceremony.”
“The petit dejeuner,” Mermillon suggested.
“After that I consent.”
The Baron ceded the point.
“We will proceed to that as soon as possible then,” he said. “I shall not have an easy moment until we are in touch with this American.”
Over coffee and rolls, which were served on deck, the Baron became meditative. He seemed scarcely able to remove his eyes from the Bird of Paradise.
“In my opinion,” he declared finally, crumbling a roll between his fingers, “our plans as they stand at present are indifferently made. They involve possible delay, and delay might well mean unutterable catastrophe. I am inclined to think that Chicotin’s method would be the best solution.”
His host regarded him tolerantly.
“Chicotin should be our last resource, my dear Albert,” he insisted. “Such methods carry no certainty, no conviction. They involve also risk.”
“The risk I cannot appreciate,” de Brett argued. “On the contrary, I look upon destruction—absolute annihilation—as the safest, the only logical course open to us.”
The steel grey eyes of his companion flashed for a moment with eager longing. His indifference was momentarily abandoned. There was an underlying note of passion in his tone.
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