The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  Wrinkling up his nose at a heavy, oppressive odor, the fiddler set to work exploring the cabins. Nothing rewarded his search until he came to the stern cabin, and the door of this was locked; the key was in the lock, so he turned it and stepped inside.

  He realized that this entire after end of the cabin space had been converted into an apartment for the owner’s use. The first cabin had no doubt been that of Señor Salcedo; it was heavy with a sickening sweet and oppressive scent, the meaning of which had been made plain to O’Sullivan by the conversation between Arevalo and Balderson. Although the furnishings of this cabin were luxurious, the fiddler hastened on to the interior chamber, a large and beautiful cabin plump in the schooner’s stern. That this had been the original captain’s cabin was evidenced by the trapdoor in the floor, leading down into the run where the ship’s cabin stores were kept. A curtained bed was in the corner, screwed to the floor.

  The fiddler had outfitted himself with warm clothes from the skipper’s cabin, and also with a sea cap. Now, as he advanced toward the bed, he removed his cap, and was, despite the lack of observers, quite obviously embarrassed. He drew aside the curtains of the bed and blushed deeply, but his lips tightened with determination.

  “Que quiere?” demanded a faint voice; then, in English and with feminine alarm. “Who are you? What are you doing here—”

  One must admit candidly that few men, thus placed at the bedside of a lady reared in the most severe Castellan tradition, and finding themselves confronted by the alarm and indignant anger of that lady, could have justified their intrusion without a single word. Michael Terence O’Sullivan, it is true, was too overcome to speak; but he could smile, and he did smile. And in the little pinched face of him, in the manner of his smile, in the wild tangle of hair and the piercing, shrewd black eyes, there was a transfigurement. It is like that when some men smile. All the outward, world-disfigured body of them is forgotten, and the soul shows. The fiddler had none of the cheerful deviltry of Desmond’s laughter, but in his smiling face was something greater and more powerful—a wistful coercion, a bashful, appealing tenderness.

  “How did you get in here?” demanded Doña Juliana more quietly.

  “Sure, lady, I walked,” said O’Sullivan. “Now don’t be troubling the sweet heart of you by fearin’ me; but if ye’ll listen a bit I’ll have somethin’ to tell ye. Mhuire as truagh, but it’s sorry I am to be harm’ such a story to tell yourself! It’s a sorry man I am, to be bringin’ the tears to the sweet face of you, lady—”

  “Are you a madman or a fool?” exclaimed the lady, but her voice, despite her words, was frightened by the ominous tone of O’Sullivan.

  “Oh,” cried the fiddler, “it’s a lady of the fairy folk ye are! Well, my heart is broke for ye, but if ye must have the truth—”

  And he told her of all that Arevalo had done.

  Desmond wakened, meantime, to find darkness come down on the cabin, and the door swinging ajar. He crawled out of the bunk and stretched himself, then observed that he was alone. Also he was ravenously hungry, and the sickness had left him.

  There was a scraping at the door, and O’Sullivan entered.

  “Oh, it’s up you are, sir!” The fiddler closed the door behind him.

  “Let’s have a light and some grab,” exclaimed Desmond. “If—”

  “Whist, now! Let me be tellin’ you everything first,” broke in the other hurriedly. “The lady is dressing herself, bless the sweet face of her, as well as she can for the tears, and she bows all about us and about her poor father bein’ kilt in his sleep by that murderous Arevalo, bad luck to him! And about the poor cap’n bein’ kilt, and—”

  “Thunder o’ Finn!” exclaimed Desmond, rubbing his eyes. “What’s all this?”

  “It’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you, sir, it ye’ll give me half a chance. Then we’ll go into the big cabin yonder and maybe find a bit o’ grub, and whilst ye entertain the lady I’ll maybe have a try for me poor old fiddle—”

  “Stop it!” ordered Desmond desperately. “Ye wild divil, will ye begin at the start and tell me what’s happened? How long have I slept?”

  “A bit over two hours, maybe more,” returned O’Sullivan. “Now here ’tis, sir. I had a notion to find me fiddle again, but at the companion I saw Arevalo—”

  He recounted all that he had overheard, and followed it up by his conversation with Doña Juliana.

  “The sweet face of her ’u’d bring tears to your throat,” he concluded earnestly. “And if we could be occupyin’ them cabins our two selves we’d have more room, besides all bein’ together. And when Arevalo comes, as he said he’d be comin’ toward night—”

  “We’ll be there, eh?” struck in Desmond.

  “You will be,” countered the other, “but I’ll be waitin’ to pop out on deck and maybe get that fiddle o’ mine. I’m tellin’ you the truth, sir, it’s mortal hard to think o’ that sweet fiddle lyin’ for’ard and maybe broke or hurt—”

  “Go on with you!” and Desmond laughed as he pushed the fiddler toward the door. “You have the right idea, Michael Terence! Let’s get on in there, and light a lamp or two. We’ll take care of Doña Juliana, and don’t worry your head about Arevalo saddling any of his dirty work on us. Come on!”

  Crossing to the rear cabin, Desmond lighted the big lamp slung in gimbals, and sniffed the heavy-sweet air as he glanced around. To one side were two bunks against the wall. A desk, a small bookcase, a framed painting of a buxom and half-veiled lady, doubtless Señora Salcedo; a cupboard for clothes, a washstand; nothing else. A port had been hooked open, and flying spray had wet the wall.

  Desmond went to the desk and opened it. By the confusion he guessed that Arevalo had been before him; however, a small box of cheroots remained, and into this he dug. As he lighted one he was conscious that the door to the inner cabin had opened. He turned, to meet Juliana Salcedo y Monies. And amazement grew within him.

  CHAPTER IV

  CANAUGHAN BARGAINS

  Gerald Desmond had as much knowledge of women as the next man, and was always willing to learn more. As he looked at Juliana Salcedo he realized that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen; exotically beautiful, yet marked with the golden hair and gray eye of the purest Spanish blood. Her gown of palest green island silk accentuated her high coloring, the rich curves of cheek and arm and figure. And, withal, she seemed to be entirely poised.

  “This,” stammered Michael Terence, “this is the Desmond, ma’am, of whom I was speakin’.”

  Desmond set his cap on the desk and bowed.

  “If I were you, madam,” he said a gay smile deepening the humorous wrinkles about his level eyes, “I’d sit down. Every once in so often we get thumped—and while I’d love to be helpin’ you out of the corner I’d hate to see you thrown there. You’re Doña Juliana?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly, with only the dark circles about her eyes to tell of grief and illness. She took the chair which O’Sullivan shoved forward. Under the quiet scrutiny of her gray eyes, Desmond felt startled; their self-possession, after all she had just learned, was amazing.

  Desmond knew nothing of the pure Spanish breed, cloistered apart from the world in a narrow cell of straight-laced prudery, with fires deeply repressed yet capable of volcanic eruptions. At the moment, indeed, it seemed to him that this girl, for all her amazing beauty, was like an icicle. Out of pity and warm impulse he resolved to thaw the icicle.

  “Thunder o’ Finn!” he swore to himself. “What a lovely job for ye, Gerald!”

  Juliana, when she had finished her scrutiny of his features, nodded slightly as though reassured by the man.

  “This,” she said evenly, “is a very unfortunate situation, sir. You can readily see that it is difficult for me. Mr. O’Sullivan has explained everything, and it seems that he and you must occupy this cabin.”

  “To be sure,” returned Desmond unconcernedly. “Michael Terence, me lad! Go into the lady’s cabin and lift the trap in the
floor. Ye’ll find the cabin stores stowed below, I’m thinking. Get up something for dinner, and Miss Juliana will fix up a bit to eat for us.”

  O’Sullivan obeyed. The gray eyes of Doña Juliana flashed, as though in swift resentment. Desmond had entirely ignored the compromising features of the situation, and yet his gay smile was very infectious.

  “I am not accustomed to cooking for—” she began, but Desmond waved his hand and broke in with a disconcerting air of careless ease.

  “Oh, ye’ll get used to it, believe me, and meantime we’ll make the best of it,” he said, puffing his cheroot alight. “D’ye—see, Miss Juliana, there’s just the three of us; and we have to stick together, each one of us doing our bit. I happen to have a natural longing to save my own neck, so I’m in command. Now, then, what about this man Arevalo? Have ye any idea why he should have murdered your poor father? Why is he workin’ hand in glove with the mate o’ this ship, after killin’ Cap’n Canaughan? What game is he up to, can ye tell me?”

  The girl shook her head, sudden tears in her eyes. Mention of her dead father had conquered her pride.

  “I—I don’t know,” she answered, faltering. “Some time ago he asked for my hand, but my father laughed at him; he is only a Filipino, you know. My father had business dealings with him, but I’m sure did not expect him aboard here. He was not invited.”

  Desmond chuckled. Evidently Don Gregorio had considered Filipinos from the old standpoint.

  Inside of five minutes, Doña Juliana was appreciably thawing beneath the sun of Desmond’s cheerful insouciance. With every other word he brought the flame of resentment to her gray eyes, shattering her traditions and ignoring her prejudices; yet so subtly commanding was his humor, so completely did he take things for granted, that she could say nothing. To check this impulsive person was quite beyond her. Indeed, when O’Sullivan returned, Desmond was gently patting Doña Juliana’s hand, and he leaped up to help the fiddler with such an entire lack of confusion that before the girl could find the proper rebuke the occasion was gone.

  “It’s a jewel of a larder down there,” observed O’Sullivan, as tins and packages were opened and the desk cleaned off to serve as table. “If it wasn’t for me fiddle, now—”

  “Leave me,” commanded Desmond. “I’ll get the fiddle presently. Here, Miss Juliana,” and he pressed a package of biscuit into the girl’s hands, “open these while I get the top out o’ this meat tin, and we’ll be ready.”

  Because he evidently expected her to do it, Juliana repressed her indignation and obeyed. Then, sweeping aside her protests, Desmond forced her to eat something.

  However, Desmond was thinking less of Juliana than of Arevalo, whom he rightly estimated as a hard nut to crack. He found that the man’s presence and activities were as much of a mystery to Juliana as to himself.

  “It appears that he’s done for the skipper,” observed Desmond, feeling quite himself after the hurried meal, “and it’s certain that he murdered your father, Miss Juliana, with his heathenish fumes. There must be some purpose in what he’s doing—but what’s the purpose? A man of his position and abilities would not try such a wild game without reason. Of course, Miss Juliana, he might be intendin’ to run away with you—”

  “With me?” she broke forth angrily. “Oh, if I had a weapon—”

  “Well, it’s no insult that he’d be wantin’ to put the comether on you; there’s many a man would want the same. But it’s hardly reason enough for all the wild divil has done,” said Desmond coolly. “There’s something big back of it. What it is I can’t guess, but well find out soon enough. By the way the old girl is easin’ into the seas the storm is blowing itself out. Michael Terence, me lad! Run and stick your black head out o’ the stern windows and tell me if there’s much overhang from the quarterdeck, like a good boy!”

  “The stern windows?” echoed Doña Juliana in surprise. “Why, they’re shuttered with iron from outside! I remember my father closed the shutters early this morning.”

  “Good enough,” and Desmond nodded to the hesitating fiddler. “Run along with ye, me lad, and open the shutters before ye stick that head outside.”

  With a grin the fiddler vanished into the adjoining cabin. Doña Juliana gazed at Desmond, puzzled alarm evident in her eyes.

  “Please tell me what you mean, Mr. Desmond?”

  “I’ve got to go for’ard to get the lad’s fiddle,” returned Desmond confidently. “Ye see, he forgot and left it in the forecastle. Since I can’t go by way o’ the hatches, I’ll have to crawl up over the stern and—”

  “Dios!” ejaculated the girl, staring at him. “But that is madness! For a fiddle—”

  “Oh, this is a particular fiddle,” rejoined Desmond with his gay laugh. “It’d break the poor lad’s heart, yonder, to lose the instrument o’ torture. But the seas are going down fast; and since we’re headed into the wind, the stern will be sheltered.”

  “Yes, but Arevalo and the men are corning down here!”

  “Sure; and while they’re here I’ll be gettin’ the fiddle. Isn’t that the height of logic, now?”

  “But—but what will I do if they come and break in?” cried the girl desperately.

  “Do nothing, Miss Juliana, and let Michael Terence do the doing. Thunder o’ Finn! If ye’d seen the beautiful way he shot the mate it would’ve done your sweet heart good! The pity is we didn’t know all the ins and outs of this business when we knocked Arevalo on the head; that was a mortal bad error. Ah, there’s the minstrel boy now! How goes it?”

  “Grand an’ fine, sir,” responded O’Sullivan, who had doused the light of the after cabin before opening the shuttered stern windows. “Sure, there’s no overhang at all to speak of, except maybe a bit that will give ye a twist or two gettin’ over at the top—”

  Desmond rose and pressed out the glowing end of the cheroot he had lighted.

  “Then I leave the lady in your hands, Michael Terence. If anyone comes to the door, shoot first and talk afterward—and Heaven bless ye if the bullet hits Arevalo!”

  “Supposin’ they break down the door?” suggested the fiddler.

  “Then use your own judgment.” Desmond seized the hand of Juliana and pressed it warmly, then started for the after cabin. “Mind now!” he flung over his shoulder. “Use the automatic ye took from Arevalo; it’ll put a bullet through these narra-wood doors like paper!”

  He was gone into the darkness, the gaze of Juliana following him in troubled uncertainty.

  * * * *

  Beside her curtained bed, Desmond found the window which O’Sullivan had opened, large catches keeping the iron shutters from banging. The ocean was a smother of blackness, but by the white lines of foam Desmond could see that there was no danger of the water flooding into the cabin, unless the cable binding the sea anchor should part. Toward the horizon, a faint rift of moonlight was piercing the heavens, and Desmond rightly imagined that the storm was blowing itself out.

  After some time he was able to make out the line of quarterdeck rail above. He gave a grunt of satisfaction, and thrust himself out upon the window ledge, perching precariously as he clutched upward. His fingers gripped one of the struts supporting the rail, and with a heave he pulled himself upward. A minute afterward he crouched near the loosely lashed wheel.

  He saw immediately that the deck was deserted hereabouts, and he started forward, only to come to a pause as a thin pencil of light stabbed the darkness ahead. It was the galley door, opening a few inches to the roll of the ship. Again it opened, more widely, and Desmond had a glimpse of Arevalo standing inside, talking with the Manchu cook. Then Arevalo came out, and sent a shout forward, which was answered by the bellow of Balderson.

  Barely in time, Desmond flung himself prostrate beside the deckhouse as the men came aft. It was evident that he had chosen his time well for the attempt, since Arevalo and the six men halted at the battened hatch of the after companionway, and began to strip off the battens. The yellow cook had joined the o
thers.

  “Not a drop o’ water over the bow this half hour,” said the ponderous voice of Balderson. “When we get this done, we can drop the port watch below, huh? I’ll keep the deck until midnight, Mr. Arevalo—” and the wind blew the rest away in a sudden gust.

  Desmond did not wait to hear more, but edged forward until confident that he would not be seen, then leaped to his feet and ran for the forecastle hatchway. In another moment he was bending over the tarpaulin, his unaccustomed hands working at the cleats, battens, and wedges. It was a small hatch, and when he had the tarp removed he had no difficulty in lifting and throwing over the cover.

  Pausing only to make sure that he had not been observed and followed, Desmond started down into the black hole; a lurch of the ship threw him from the ladder, and he fell cursing upon a soft heap that squirmed beneath him but made no sound as he struck.

  Startled beyond words by this unexpected encounter, knowing that a man lay there beside him, Desmond reached out with throttling grip—only to realize that the man was bound and gagged. He fumbled in his pocket and found a match.

  “Thunder o’ Finn!” he muttered, twirling out the flame as he recognized the figure. “Canaughan, upon me word! And I thought that murdering divil had killed ye. Here, let me ease your fat mouth o’ that gag, skipper, and mind ye don’t bite my fingers.”

  After an instant, a torrent of sustained but husky blasphemy apprised him that the skipper had been rid of the gag.

  “Listen, now!” exclaimed Desmond quickly. “No noise, or we’re both of us trapped here! Juliana is safe, although Arevalo murdered the don in some stinkin’ fashion, and we thought he’d done for you, too.”

  “Let loose my hands an’ feet!” rasped the hoarse skipper strainingly.

  “Not yet, me bucko,” and Desmond grinned in the darkness. “I’ve a few things to say—”

  “Ye confounded ass!” came the retort. “Do you know we’ve been drifting out into the China Sea, that the engines are bruk, that—”