The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  One of the seamen ran at me blindly and struck with his knife, and I loosed at him. We had it hot and thick for a moment, the man stark mad with fear, until the steel went into him and he sank blubbering away. Out of the shadows reeled two figures—Gunner Basil and the bosun, locked breast to breast and fighting like mad. Aye, and there was the black cook, Philip, swinging an empty musket and yelling as he ran after the frightened men. Looking back to Ned, running to help him, I saw him swing an empty pistol and then come to his feet. I had him by the hand, and cried out at the good grip.

  “Man, man, I thought you dead there ashore—”

  “Zounds, there’s not much life left in me!” he said, and laughed out with so gay a note that I wondered. “Had not Dickon’s knife spoiled Winter’s aim, I’d be gone. But he’s taken care of—see that he’s bound fast, George—”

  He staggered and would have fallen, but that I caught him. There was a bandage about his body, beneath his shirt, and the blood was seeping out afresh from his wound. Polly Langton ran to us, crying and laughing all at once, and as Ned sank down on the deck I turned to her.

  “Polly—take care of him, quickly!” I cried. “I must see to things—”

  I left her kneeling over him and started forward, wild with easiness to clinch this astounding turn that had flung the ship into our hands again. Bosun Pilcher rose up from the dock before me, a dripping knife in his hand, and I looked down to see Gunner Basil writhing out his life on the planks.

  “Quick, bose! Go tie up Winter unless he’s hurt to death. I’ll see to all for’ard—”

  I ran on, and in the bows found the three remaining seamen, partly recovered from their mad panic, roiled in a furious encounter with Philip, who had pursued them there. When I came up and the men knew my voice, they flung down knives and yelled for mercy. I shoved a coil of light line into Philip’s hands and told him to bind them.

  “You shall have what punishment Cap’n Low metes out,” I told them. “Stay bound until morning, ye dogs, and if you’re not hanged, thank your fortune. Philip, make ’em fast! Then haul each to a gun-carriage and lash ’em there. When you’re done, report aft. We must have the ship cleaned up before those islanders come aboard in the morning, else they’ll take us for pirates and not ship.”

  “Aye, sir,” sang out Philip with a laugh. I went back aft and found Bosun Pilcher just mounting to the main yard with a line. He grinned cheerfully and paused long enough to tell how he had been scraped by a bullet over the head but not greatly hurt, and how that evening he had found Ned Low crawling over the sand; and the rest was not hard to guess, though I shrank at thought of their swimming out to the ship through those shark infested waters.

  And so to where Polly Langton knelt weeping beside Ned, who sat up and caught at my hand with the shadow of his old gay laugh.

  “Polly!” I exclaimed. “Why the tears, dear lass? Here Ned is hurt, but not badly, and the ship and the gold are ours, and yonder goes bose to reeve the line that hang Trunnel Toby—why the tears?”

  “That’s why, George,” she said and laughed through her tears.

  THE SECOND LIFE OF MONSIEUR THE DEVIL

  CHAPTER I

  The Hidden Eye

  The pool of sweet water glowed like a round bit of the sky, a round mirror that reflected the clear cerulean blue which the Ch’ien-lung artists hit exactly, and which the K’ang-hsi artists missed with their greenish tinge.

  Fifty feet was the diameter of that circle. About it, on all sides save one, ran a thirty-foot strip of white sand, unstained and beautiful as snow. On the one side was stretched an awning of coral-striped canvas, warding the tropical sear of the burning sunlight. Behind this canvas, leading down to it, was an avenue of trees; a thick, green, shady avenue, carpeted with the same white sand, walled by the pineapple-like trunks and the interlaced pinnate fronds of the palms. Under this hot sun Phoenix canarensis throve mightily, and the avenue formed a corridor walled and roofed in green, through which the sun-rays pierced in a tiny lace-work of golden meshes, but robbed of all their strength and heat.

  Round about this white sand circle rose a twenty-foot wall of weathered pink stucco. This circular wall was broken by many odd projections and ledges, over which had been trained climbing roses. Just now, the wall was a mass of rich pink foliage that shut out all the world—or seemed to. The only break in this wall was where the avenue of palms lay like a streak of greenish-black shadows pointing away from the pool. On the side opposite this break, was a gate in the wall, a gate as solid as the wall itself. Thus, within this wall was a little world, and the wall shut out all the horizon, and the sea, and those who might intrude upon the little world within.

  Yet, in the back of Sigurd was a tiny space the size of a leaf where the magic blood of Fafnir had not touched; and by this tiny space came the hero to his death. Likewise in this wall was a gate, and in this gate, which was seldom opened, was a tiny keyhole.

  A single swimmer was disporting herself in the pool, making evident its depth by her long dives. She was no marvelous swimmer; still, she enjoyed this pool with the whole-hearted abandon of one who relaxes absolutely to the pleasure of the moment.

  Against the rippling blue of the water, her body glowed golden. A cap of yellow rubber bound her hair. Tired of swimming, she turned upon her back and floated idly, her figure half revealed, half hidden by the lapping wavelets, her eyes rapt upon the blue sky above. Staring thus into the depths of the sky-bowl, she lay motionless, and presently lost her poise in the water, as one will. Quietly her staring eyes went down under the fluid.

  A splutter and cough, and her body flashed. She laughed at her own mischance, and struck out for the shore and the canvas awning. Behind the keyhole, in the gate, came a slight and insignificant flash; as it were, the flash of the sun upon a black and glittering eye which moved to follow her.

  * * * *

  The girl came to the shore, and stood up. For a moment the sunlight bathed her figure, painting it a pure golden hue, vibrant and delicate of outline. Then one saw that she was clad in a skin-tight vesture of golden wool—a suit that clothed her slender shape like a glove, revealing every swelling outline, every exquisite curve and shape. Her bare feet splashed in the shallows, and she flung herself forward into the shade of the awning, gathering the warm white sand in about her hips.

  For a space she sat there motionless, hands clasped about her knees, gazing at the sky and the pink wall and the blue pool. Suddenly she glanced at the empty avenue of shade, as though moved by some inward impulse. Her hand crept to the shoulder-strap that bound her vesture, and she unbuttoned it. One could easily comprehend the impulse, in this spot so shut away from all the world, to be free of all clinging garments and to plunge gloriously into that blue pool of the sky!

  Her one shoulder bared, the girl suddenly paused. There had been no faintest sound, no stir of the warm and listless sunlight; yet she paused, her eyes roving about. One would have declared that she was startled by no physical thing, but by some spiritual intuition. Her gaze dwelt for an instant upon the gate opposite her. It was impossible that she should detect the minute glitter at the keyhole, yet slowly she buttoned the shoulder-strap again. A shrug of her shoulders and she stood up, plunged into the pool, and swam straight across it to the farther side. There she landed and walked up to the gate. She did not attempt to open this, but set her bare feet in the rough stucco and ascended the wall like a golden flame. Her head rose above the ornamented top of the wall; she clung there a moment, watching, a slight frown clouding her clear features.

  No one was in sight.

  Beyond the wall was ground, solidly sown with tight clusters of lipia-grass, like a greenish gray carpet. Here and there were set trees, in round places cleared of grass; mangoes, clad in massy pink blossom, their leaves like wine-hued ribbons; limes and oranges, scenting the air. A queer medley of trees, here! One or two flame-trees, blood-red in the sunlight, were mingled with the fat deep greenery of figs. And amid the mangoes wa
s that tree with the most rare and wonderful of all tree perfumes, the Chinese magnolia, ivory petals ready to fall.

  Around these trees one glimpsed a thick pomegranate hedge, while water ran in rivulets from some hidden source, following channels which seemed haphazard yet which were deeply grooved—the rains were long since over, and a little irrigation hurt nothing. A hundred feet distant, the land dropped sharply away in a thin, sword-like line, and beyond it appeared the sea-horizon. That drop was very abrupt and startling. There was no shore; nothing, in fact, but fifty feet of cliff, with the ocean at the bottom. A strange place, this, beneath the tropic sun!

  The girl beheld no living thing in sight, although many men might have lain concealed there before her; and one, in fact, did so lie. She dropped back from the wall into the white sand, swam across the pool again, and came to land. Beneath the awning, she picked up a robe of gossamer silk, wrapped it about her shoulders, and walked up the shady avenue of palms. The frown had vanished from her face, and she sang light-heartedly as she walked.

  * * * *

  In the garden orchard over which she had just gazed, the brown figure of a man arose from the thick hedge. This man had some excuse for hiding himself, since he was stark naked. The sun had burned him much. Over his head was a thatch of dark red hair, white with brine from the sea-water. His face was flat, broad, powerful without being refined; the black eyes glittering beneath dark reddish brows were alight with an incredible intelligence and energy. His body was bony from hunger and suffering, drawn by long immersion in water, yet very muscular.

  This man crept to the gate in the wall and peered through the keyhole. He rose again, a grin upon his lips, and hastened to the nearest rivulet of water. He flung himself down and drank thirstily. Rising, he drew his hand over his lips and glanced at the sun.

  “Nine o’clock!” he muttered. “All morning climbing that cliff!”

  He cast a malevolent glance toward the cliff and the horizon. Something in his words, in his look, in his appearance, conveyed the idea that he had come out of the sea below and was now exulting over it in a fiercely triumphant hatred. Yet, to have come from the sea, he must have come from some other land—and there was no other land in sight.

  When he turned about, one saw that over his naked back, like grids, ran the faint meshes of scars that could have come only from many whippings under the lash. When he walked, it was seen that to a very slight degree “il claudiquait,” as the French say—he showed that he had trailed ball and chain behind him.

  On one side of him was that cliff. On two sides were pomegranate hedges, behind which appeared rank tropic shrubbery, with no semblance of order. The irrigating water was a constant seep from the swimming pool, which was therefore fed by underground springs.

  On the fourth side was the wall, and to this the man turned. He tried to open the locked gate, but its massive strength resisted him. He tried to climb the wall, but fell back and lay in the sand, exhausted by the slight effort.

  “Done up!” he muttered. Suddenly his eyes shone. “There must be a house, eh? Then there must be boats. Done up? Not yet!”

  He came to his feet and laughed. That laugh was an effort of the will. He went to the wall, covered on the outside with roses, and searched among these vines. Presently an exclamation of satisfaction broke from him. He stood erect, holding a bit of wire which had been used to fasten the original vines in place.

  With this wire he went again to the gate, and stooped to the keyhole. In two minutes he touched the gate and it swung open.

  He stepped through, closed the gate carefully, and flung himself toward the pool of fresh water, and the avenue of shading palms beyond.

  * * * *

  Meantime, at the other end of this avenue of palms, was being enacted a quaint idyl in the frailty of human nature and one’s affectionate regard for the muse of science. Who was this muse of ethnologic philosophy, by the way? I, for one, do not know. Yet it is high time that she were tracked down, discovered, named; in these latter days she has many devotees. It is to be doubted if she had any more faithful devotee, however, than Jean Marie Auguste des Gachons.

  Once upon a time, and not so very long since, Des Gachons had been a high official in that great colonial realm of France which began with an expedition into Indo-China, reached out grasping fingers until Cambodia on the south and Tonkin on the north were enclosed, stretched forth a thumb into Siam and a little finger into Yunnan, and gripped at an empire.

  A high official in this empire has many chances at wealth, and Des Gachons thoughtfully neglected none of them. He was a gentle soul, hating the army and colonial politics. When his wife died, and his brother was killed in Tonkin, Des Gachons took his pile and withdrew to devote his life to science and his daughter. And, one must admit, he had chosen a very pretty place for his devotions.

  Here was an island, where he reigned as absolute monarch and owner. Crowning this little island, he had built a great rambling house in French Colonial style, where he dwelt with his daughter and his two secretaries, his French gardener, his French chef and boatman, his native servants. Here he was a little emperor, and here he could grow fat and wise in perfect bliss.

  Berangère, having dressed after her swim, sought this father of hers. She turned from the wide, shaded colonnade before the house, and passed into the sunken gardens. Here, now that the rains had subsided, Des Gachons had transferred his library and his atelier, into the open air.

  The girl paused at sight of the scene which greeted her, a light smile touching her lips.

  A small amphitheater had been planted with limes and Chinese magnolias. These trees had been trimmed very high, so that they formed a shady roof over the place—a roof from which was wafted the rarest of perfumes. Below were tables, typewriters, Singapore chairs, a huge round gong to summon servants.

  Here sat Des Gachons. He was a great fat man, dreamy of eye, tender of heart, his beard trimmed into two long prongs. He was very vain of this beard, which, in conjunction with his elaborately curled mustaches, gave him the deceptive appearance of a very Porthos. The desk beside him was littered with papers and note-books. At a portable bookcase one young man was diligently searching for some item. Another young man was seated, taking in shorthand the stream of wisdom which flowed from the master’s lips. These two secretaries, naturally, were desperately in love with Berangère, and might as well have been in love with the moon for all the good it did them.

  * * * *

  At sight of his daughter, Des Gachons struggled to his feet and bowed. He kissed her cheeks, and the two young men trembled. She dutifully kissed his cheeks, and the two secretaries turned pale. They bowed profoundly as she directed smiling greetings toward them.

  “Mon père,” she said, allowing Des Gachons to reseat himself and draw her upon his knee, “I must go to Saigon again, at once!”

  The big man’s brows uplifted in Gallic astonishment.

  “So soon, Bergeronnette? So soon, when we have just returned to our charming home after spending the entire season of the rains in that little Paris—”

  “Exactly,” said the girl. “You see, all six of those frocks I had made, are absolutely impossible! I ordered the sleeves very short, to conform with the newest modes—after cabling to Paris in the matter, too!—and that assassin of a modiste has made them too long! So I must go and attend to it.”

  Des Gachons grimaced uncomfortably. “But, my tender little shepherd-girl,” he said, lingering on the diminutive of her name, “but Bergeronnette, you perceive that I must finish this paper—”

  Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Tiens, donc! I am not going to interfere, mon père. I shall take old Paul, who keeps your fleet in order, and we may have the small cruiser, is it not? Three days, and we shall be in Saigon. A week there, and we return.”

  “Oh, if you insist! I shall have to go—”

  “I refuse to permit it! Am I a child, then? Am I a silly little thing?”

  “The good God knows you a
re not!” Des Gachons stifled a sigh. “But—”

  “Never mind the rest.” The girl stooped and planted a swift kiss upon his cheek. “Then we shall leave tonight—”

  “If you will wait but two days,” said Des Gachons, with the air of one who is resigned to the inevitable, “I shall have this paper completed, ready for you to mail from Saigon. It must reach the Révue Archéologique at the earliest date, for it completely refutes certain theories of the great Pelliot in the Bulletin de—”

  “Very well,” cut in the girl. “Very well. In three days, to give you an extra day of grace! Now I shall not interfere further with your work.”

  She withdrew. Des Gachons gazed after her with another of his heavy sighs. The two secretaries echoed the sigh.

  “Should she go thus, unaccompanied?” ventured one of them, a mournful hope in his voice. Des Gachons darted a look at the speaker, then smiled dryly.

  “Mon brave, when you can take care of yourself as well as this girl—nom d’un nom! I would like to see the man who can handle her! Heaven knows I cannot. Now, where did we leave off with those quotations—”

  He resumed his work.

  Berangère, meantime, followed a cement walk that led from the house amid its bowers of green; she descended this walk to its precipitous end. She came out upon a small terrace. Directly below her, at some thirty feet, was a small, perfectly enclosed harbor. At the edge of this harbor were boat houses. Anchored in the little port were a large motor cruiser, a smaller and faster model exactly like it, a schooner, tiny in size but perfect in detail. On the sand were a number of whale-boats.

  The girl touched a lever at the edge of the cliff, and brought into view an escalier which was moved by an ingenious arrangement of counterbalanced weights. She stepped on to this and set it in motion. It deposited her upon the shore beneath, and from the boat houses appeared an old man wearing a Breton cap, who saluted her respectfully. Berangère danced up to him and kissed his brown cheek.