“Up with the sail, once we are in the tide,” he ordered softly. “Watch for police boats!”
The craft floated silently out into the current of the river. It merged into the mists that writhed slowly about the surface of the muddy water, and then it was gone into the night, absorbed. Curel gazed after it for a little, then turned and walked away, tearing at the package of opium with fumbling fingers. A queer smile was set upon his dissipated face, the smile of one who sees in prospect some very singular events.
The four men in the whaleboat went down the river without hindrance. Lebrun conned the lights and steered their course; once they passed within thirty feet of a gay Fluviales steamer, whose bright lights flooded them with brilliancy. Lebrun waved ironically at those who lined the rail, as the searchlight touched him.
It seemed to occur to none of the four that they were doing a remarkable thing in thus setting out to sea in a whaleboat, bound on an errand which could hardly be philanthropic in nature. Perhaps Curel, who so hated facts, regretted that he was not with them in this mad fantasy.
When dawn heaved up out of the ocean, the whaleboat was skimming along beneath a brisk wind. The river and its narrow, widening entrance had fallen behind. To the east was a faint blur upon the horizon—Cap St. Jacques.
Lebrun headed the boat into the south, steering by a compass which lay beside him. This remarkable man was not questioned by his companions as to his navigating ability; one takes for granted that M. le Diable can do anything.
A little afterward, the four breakfasted. Then Lebrun gave over the tiller to Le Morpion, who crouched above it like a bulging-jawed dog, and lay down to sleep upon some canvas. As he stretched out, he glanced at Smith and put one hand into his pocket.
“Here is something that may interest you,” he said, and handed Smith the folded paper which he had received from Félice, and which Félice Bonnard had taken from the table in the room of Berangère des Gachons. Then he closed his eyes and slept.
Smith, sitting beside L’Etoile, glanced at the paper and smiled sardonically. He took out his pipe and lighted it. Certainly, he reflected, this picture of J. Hudson Smith, shaven and trimmed and collared, looked very unlike the Smith who he was now—the dirty-jawed ruffian bound for he knew not where!
The paper fell from his hand as he puffed. L’Etoile bent over, caught it as it fluttered. He saw the picture, and his one blazing eye opened wide in astonishment as he read at a glance the heavy lines of type below.
“Name of a dog!” he ejaculated softly, lifting his eye to Smith. “This—why, this ventre-bleu looks like you!”
Smith laughed. “Thank you, my friend. Looks are not deceiving.”
L’Etoile started. “You—why, it’s not possible! I know who this man Smith is—at least, I heard in Hanoi that he—”
Here, all in an instant, Smith perceived disaster leaping at him. His face hardened.
“You don’t know everything!” he said in a low voice. “Be careful!”
L’Etoile was so utterly taken aback by astonishment, that for an instant he could only stare, incredulous.
“But—why, I never connected you with him! This dog of hell is the one who—”
Smith’s fingers gripped his arm.
“Be careful!” said Smith quietly. He realized that Le Morpion, who could hear nothing of what they said, was gazing at them curiously. “Be careful, I warn you!”
From L’Etoile broke a sudden bursting snarl of fury.
“You—hell be kind to you!” he gasped. “So this is your game, is it—”
The hand of Smith tightened on his arm. But the other arm moved, flashed, drove in and out like the head of a striking snake.
The other hand of Smith was in his jacket pocket. That pocket vomited a splash of red flame, gave vent to a single smashing report. From Le Morpion came a hoarse, inarticulate bellow. The figure of Lebrun leaped straight upright, pistol in hand. But there was no need. L’Etoile had fallen back against the corner of thwart and gunnel. His two hands were clasped about his throat, and through the fingers seeped a dreadful tide of bubbling crimson. A knife had fallen from his fingers into his lap. His one blazing eye stared for a moment at Lebrun, his lips were open and vainly trying to utter a word. Then his lips closed, his one eye fluttered shut, and he fell back in limp death.
Smith sat motionless, his left hand bringing a pistol into sight. Over his face was creeping a deathly pallor. His eyes went to Lebrun.
“What’s this?” crackled the latter’s voice.
“We disagreed,” said Smith. “You’ve lost L’Etoile. Don’t ask questions, you fool! You’ll lose me if you don’t give me—a hand—quick!”
His right hand, pressed against his side, came away red. L’Etoile’s knife had bitten him. Then, quietly, he laid down the pistol and doubled forward, unconscious.
“He shot L’Etoile!” cried out Le Morpion, his voice terrible. One would have said that this scoundrel, this unspeakable ruffian, was pierced by grief for his dead comrade in sin. “He shot L’Etoile—”
Lebrun gestured for silence.
“Don’t be a fool, you! What caused the quarrel?”
“I couldn’t hear. They were talking. L’Etoile snapped with his knife—”
“And paid for it,” said Lebrun. “I am sorry. But this fellow Smith—did you note how he used his brains? Said I’d lose him if I didn’t act! Clever, I call it. He knew that I couldn’t afford to lose two at once. Keep your hands off him, understand? This man is worth a hundred. He has more brains than L’Etoile.”
“How about me?” grunted Le Morpion.
“You’re a friend. He’s a mercenary. Besides, he is to be blamed for our future sins.”
Le Morpion saw sense in this, and said no more, although his eyes were very dark and evil.
* * * *
Meantime, Lebrun was bending over the figure of Smith. Removing jacket and shirt, he laid bare the side—white, firm skin marred by an ugly gash that welled slow blood. Then, and coolly enough, Lebrun searched the unconscious man from hair to sox; searched him thoroughly, carefully, unhurriedly. Whatever the object of his search, it was unattained. He replaced everything.
After this, he gave his attention to the wound, which was not serious. He bound it very deftly, replaced shirt and jacket, and left Smith to recover of his own volition. He picked up the body of L’Etoile, poised it a moment at the boat’s edge, and sent it overboard.
“A good friend, a faithful friend, an honest friend!” he said, gazing out after the bobbing speck. Yet, perhaps, the words were sardonic; there was a queer gleam in his black eyes as he gazed.
“What brought it on?” demanded Le Morpion sulkily. “What caused it?”
Monsieur the Devil shook his head.
“Who knows? Waken me when this man opens his eyes. Touch him not. Speak not. Only—waken me.”
With this, he took his former place on the canvas, and appeared to fall asleep at once.
The morning wore past in magnificence of solitude, the sun blazing in the sky, the ocean all blue-green and desolate, empty of ships. The whaleboat skimmed on and on, pushed steadily by the crisp breeze, Le Morpion steering her skillfully and cunningly. Once or twice, when his eyes wandered to the inert figure of Smith, the sail wavered, for he was steering by the wind rather than by compass. The seas swung past endlessly, the foam hissing and swirling under the lee rail to bubble out behind in a thin wake. On the canvas, Lebrun slept, an arm over his face; above the tiller crouched Le Morpion, watching, always watching.
Then, suddenly, the eyes of Smith opened.
Le Morpion was gazing upward at the moment. Like the Indian who does not see the waving grass yet perceives something amiss with Nature’s ordering, this man perceived the movement. An inarticulate word came from his lips. Instantly, Lebrun sat up and gazed at Smith; he was wide awake, speaking, even as he sat up. One would have thought that he had slept with the words breaking on his lips, so swiftly did he speak.
�
��Ah! Smith, what did you and L’Etoile quarrel over?”
Smith, equally alert, was conscious that much time had passed since the affray. He saw danger in the question. He read danger in the intent gaze which Le Morpion bent upon him.
“Quarrel?” he responded. “I remember now—why, there was no quarrel! He drew a knife and struck; I shot him.”
“Ah!” said Lebrun calmly, regarding him. “Well, let it pass. You are thirsty? There is water beside you.”
* * * *
No more was said. None the less, Smith was subtly aware that he had not given the right answer. He felt intuitively that he had bungled somehow; yet he was too thirsty to care. He got the water and drank. Lebrun went to sleep again.
After some time, Lebrun awakened and took the tiller while Le Morpion crawled up forward, munched some biscuit and curled up in slumber. Smith stared up at the calm gaze of Monsieur the Devil, and voiced the question that was bothering him.
“Where are we going?”
Lebrun’s black eyes glittered on him reflectively.
“To an island. To a place of vengeance. There is a man whom I hate, whom I shall kill; then we take his possessions. His name, Des Gachons.”
The eyes of Smith widened a trifle.
“Des Gachons!” he repeated in a low voice.
Lebrun regarded him attentively. “What? You know him?”
Smith feebly shook his head. “No. But he may know me.”
“No. He has been out of official affairs for quite a long time. He will not know that you are wanted, that there is any reward for you. Nor will he know me, since he never saw me; although he might have seen my picture. We must chance that.”
“I’m not worried about you,” said Smith. “But when he knew me, I was employed by the government.”
“Ah!” said Monsieur the Devil calmly. “This is news. In what capacity?”
Smith allowed his head to droop for an instant. He was lying now, and lying artistically; he was not so weak as he seemed. Still, there was not great strength left in him.
“If I told you, then you would consider it a lie.”
“None the less,” said Lebrun, regarding him, “I would advise you to tell me.”
There was something deadly in these words.
“I was an engineer—of construction. With the new railroad. Not long ago, I needed money—I made a mess of things, but got away.”
Lebrun nodded. “Then you got the money?”
“I have five thousand dollars in my belt.”
Lebrun had discovered this money in his search. He nodded his head.
“Very well. Now go to sleep—there will be no difficulty about Des Gachons.”
The matter was closed. None the less, Smith retained an uncomfortable conviction that he had somehow bungled. Not in words, perhaps, but in some detail—a glance, a gesture!
However, there was nothing to be done about it now, and he dropped off to sleep.
CHAPTER V
It Is Dangerous to Invoke the Devil
J. Hudson Smith, lying in the boat or sitting propped against his rolled jacket, spent several uncomfortable, painful and reflective days. His wound was developing badly; had taken on a touch of fever which made Lebrun frown over the dressings. Lebrun was a good surgeon, deft and cunning in the fingers. This man seemed a good everything.
A good navigator, certainly. He guided the whaleboat over the waste of waters without help from Le Morpion, and with unerring certitude. There were charts and instruments in the boat. During these days, Smith learned for the first time, from conversation and scattered hints, how Lebrun had come to find the island owned by Des Gachons.
The American could guess at much of the story which remained untold—much at which even M. le Diable himself seemed now to reluct in thought and word. It was an odyssey fit for the devil himself! Bad enough was the escape from that infernal paradise, Noumea; the escape, tinctured with blood and desperation, imbued with images of savage, naked brown men, of weary-eyed guards, of the night swim past the ships and that little island which sits in the jaws of the harbor and vomits the shrieks of tortured humanity. Worse yet was the sequel, the tossing for days and nights upon a crazy raft of brush, the finding of a life-buoy lost from some ship or some corpse, the savage persistency of spirit which held the failing body ever to its work. After this, the island; the last flickering effort of the iron will, and safety. Following upon these things, the flame of vengeance toward the man who had finally succeeded in sending him to the penal colony.
Smith realized that he was going to be in a bad way unless his wound quickly received antiseptic treatment; but he fought down the fever and held his peace. He had little to do but study his companions. Le Morpion possessed a good deal at bottom; a sullen brute, yet capable withal, and extremely cunning. But the other, this Monsieur the Devil—here was a man not to be fathomed or understood! Mentally abnormal beyond doubt. Somehow warped into a career of undiluted deviltry. In brief, an enemy of society.
Then, at last, the unceasing monotony of sky and sea was broken; in that long sword-like line of the horizon appeared a slight nick. This came at sunset. With dawn, the nick had grown into a green smudge, and by noon the whaleboat was off the entrance to the island harbor.
Here Lebrun delayed purposely. There was evident commotion ashore; the small cruiser taken to Saigon by Berangère had not yet returned. The whaleboat came slowly in toward the curving crescent of beach, where, in obvious agitation, Jean Marie Auguste des Gachons was marshalling his forces to receive the unexpected visitors.
The escalier was working fast; the two secretaries, the gardener, the chef, and several native servants appeared on the beach, and Des Gachons stood at their head. Lebrun, smiling thinly, directed the boat to the sand at his very feet.
* * * *
Smith watched and listened sardonically. Was it possible that the judge would not recognize the criminal? True, Lebrun was changed now; the reddish mustache altered his entire appearance, nor was there anything of the criminal in his bearing. Quite the contrary.
“Who are you?” boomed out Des Gachons, theatrically. His pose was majestic.
Lebrun leaped out to the sand, drew in the prow of the boat, turned, and rendered an elaborate bow.
“Monsieur,” he said gravely, “you see before you three shipwrecked unfortunates. I am a humble devotee of ethnology, mineralogy, and the scientific arts; Paul Lebrun by name, an unsuccessful aspirant for the Prix Goncourt in times past, and for some years a student of the sciences of China.”
Before he could proceed further, Des Gachons advanced with open arms and tendered him a warm Gallic embrace. “Colleague, I welcome you!” he exclaimed sonorously. “You have come to a good house of hospitality. I, too, am something of a savant in my unworthy way; Des Gachons by name—”
“What!” exclaimed Lebrun, drawing back in astonishment. “Not the author of that admirable and learned treatise upon the ethnologic significance of the lamaic rosaries?”
“The same,” admitted Des Gachons modestly.
“Then it is a kindly fate which has drawn us to your shore!” cried Lebrun. “To think that I have touched the hand of this master! I am overcome! But I forget our friends. Allow me to present to you an American gentleman, a fellow passenger on our hapless coasting steamer—Monsieur Smith. He was hurt during a wild scramble for the boats, you comprehend. And this is one called Le Morpion, an excellent seaman, to whose care and skill we all owe our lives.”
“Ah!” said Des Gachons briskly. “A wounded man? Monsieur, have no fear! We shall care for you excellently! We have guests; that is admirable! I welcome you!”
It was at this point that Smith gave way suddenly; the overtensed nerves, the overstrained muscles, collapsed. He realized that he was burning with fever, and fell asleep. The words that had formed upon his lips remained unuttered.…
When he wakened, it was to find himself lying in a bed. The room about him was, to his disordered senses, a room of some east
ern palace. Real furniture, real paintings on the walls, real flowers at the window! He was in a guest room, of course. What made it more terribly real, was Le Morpion sitting beside him, watching.
And Le Morpion stayed there, as though he had orders to this effect.
A day had passed, thought Smith; it was another morning, and the fever was gone out of him. He did not try to speak. He lay silent and unmoving; as he lay, there came voices from outside the open window, which in fact overlooked the sunken garden. They were the voices of Des Gachons and Lebrun.
Their host, gathered the American, was about to show Lebrun over his island estate. To this M. de Diable objected for a moment.
“One thing, dear colleague!” he protested. “I wish your opinion upon a vexed point. For some time I have been studying the question of turquoise in China—a most interesting problem!”
“Most interesting, indeed,” agreed the voice of Des Gachons. “Well?”
“You are aware that the stone is unknown in many provinces of China,” pursued Lebrun, proving himself master of some astonishing knowledge. “Indeed, it is regarded as pertaining to barbarians; it did not enter imperial circles until the K’ien-lung period of the Chings. It was regarded as a form of petrified or transformed fir, as is indicated by its present name of lu sung shi or ‘green fir-tree stone.’ Yet we know that Marco Polo—”
“Exactly!” exclaimed Des Gachons eagerly. “He spoke of the monopoly—”
“I am coming to that. My theory is that the stone was introduced under the Mongol emperors, and that its mining and use was broken up during Ming times, not to be revived until the recent K’ien-lung period. I base this theory on the fact that the earliest word for the stone is tien-tse, occurring in the Cho-keng-lu, published in 1366. Therefore—”
The voices drifted off and became indistinct. Smith saw Le Morpion glance at the window, a dark smile hovering about his ugly lips.
Smith saw nothing of his host. As the hours passed, native servants appeared, but Le Morpion never left the room. One would have fancied this man utterly devoted to the wounded American; but in this devotion, Smith read a sinister significance. Very possibly Le Morpion was here to guard against any delirious babbling.
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 55
