Back at his post of observation, he watched, hoping against hope, while the car lunged and tore like a mad thing through the night, snoring up grades, screaming down them, drumming across the levels, clattering wildly through villages and hamlets; while the moon rose and gathered strength and made the road a streaming river of milk and ink; while his heart sank as minute succeeded minute, mile followed mile, and ever the lights of the pursuing car, lost to sight from time to time, reappeared with a brighter, fiercer glow, and conviction forced itself home that they were being gradually but surely overhauled.
He took this intelligence to the ear of Jules. The chauffeur answered only with a worried shake of his head that said too plainly he was doing his best, extracting every ounce of power from the engine.
Ill luck ambushed them in the streets of a sizable town, its name unknown to Lanyard, where another car, driven inexpertly, rolled out of a side street and stalled in their path. The emergency brake saved them a collision; but there were not six inches between the two when the touring car stopped dead; and minutes were lost before the other got under way and they were able to proceed.
Less than three hundred yards separated pursued and pursuer as they raced out through open fields once more. And foot by foot this lead was being inexorably cut down.
In the seat beside the driver of the grey car a man rose and, steadying himself by holding onto the windshield, poured out the contents of an automatic, presumably hoping to puncture the tires of the quarry. A bullet bored a neat hole through the windshield between the heads of Liane Delorme and Jules. The woman slipped down upon the floor and Jules crouched over the wheel. Lanyard fingered his automatic but held its fire against a moment when he could be more sure of his arm.
Instead, he turned to the lunch hamper and opened it. Liane’s provisioning had been ample for a party thrice their number. In the bottom of the basket lay six pint bottles of champagne, four of them unopened. Lanyard took them to the rear seat—and found the grey car had drawn up to within fifty yards of its prey. Making a pace better than seventy miles per hour, it would not dare swerve.
The first empty bottle broke to one side, the second squarely between the front wheels. He grasped the first full bottle by the neck and felt that its weight promised more accuracy, but ducked before attempting to throw it as a volley of shots sought to discourage him. At the first lull he rose and cast the bottle with the overhand action employed in grenade throwing. It crashed fairly beneath the nearer forward wheel of the grey car, but without effect, other than to draw another volley in retaliation. This he risked; the emergency had grown too desperate for more paltering; the lead had been abridged to thirty yards; in two minutes more it would be nothing.
The fourth bottle went wild, but the fifth exploded six inches in front of the offside wheel and its jagged fragments ripped out the heart of the tire. On the instant of the accompanying blow-out the grey car shied like a frightened horse and swerved off the road, hurtling headlong into a clump of trees. The subsequent crash was like the detonation of a great bomb. Deep shadows masked that tragedy beneath the trees. Lanyard saw the beam of the headlights lift and drill perpendicularly into the zenith before it was blacked out.
He turned and yelled in the ear of Jules: “Slow down! Take your time! They’ve quit!”
Liane Delorme rose from her cramped position on the floor, and stared incredulously back along the empty, moonlit road.
“What has become of them?”
Lanyard offered a vague gesture.”…tried to climb a tree,” he replied wearily, and dropping back on the rear seat began to worry the cork out of the last pint bottle of champagne.
He reckoned he had earned a drink if anybody ever had.
CHAPTER XX
THE SYBARITES
Without disclaiming any credit that was rightly his due for making the performance possible, Lanyard felt obliged to concede that Liane’s Delorme’s confidence had been well reposed in the ability of Jules to drive by the clock. For when the touring car made, on a quayside of Cherbourg’s avant port, what was for its passengers its last stop of the night, the hour of eight bells was being sounded aboard the countless vessels that shouldered one another in the twin basins of the commercial harbour or rode at anchor between its granite jetties and the distant bulwark of the Digue.
Nor was Jules disposed to deny himself well-earned applause. Receiving none immediately when he got down from his seat and indulged in one luxurious stretch, “I’ll disseminate the information to the terrestrial universe,” he volunteered, “that was travelling!”
“And now that you have done so,” Liane Delorme suggested, “perhaps you will be good enough to let the stewards know we are waiting.”
If the grin was impudent, the salute she got in acknowledgment was perfection; Jules faced about like a military automaton, strode off briskly, stopped at some distance to light a cigarette, and in effect faded out with the flame of the match.
Lanyard didn’t try to keep track of his going. Committed as he stood to follow the lead of Liane Delorme to the end of this chapter of intrigue (and with his mind at ease as to Monsieur Dupont, for the time being at least) he was largely indifferent to intervening developments.
He had asked no questions of Liane, and his knowledge of Cherbourg was limited to a memory of passing through the place as a boy, with a case-hardened criminal as guide and police at their heels. But assuming that Liane had booked passages for New York by a Cunarder, a White Star or American Line Boat—all three touched regularly at Cherbourg, west bound from Southampton—he expected presently to go aboard a tender and be ferried out to one of the steamers whose riding lights were to be seen in the roadstead. Meanwhile he was lazily content.…
Mellow voices of bell metal swelled and died on the midnight air while, lounging against the motor car—with Liane at his side registering more impatience than he thought the occasion called for—Lanyard listened, stared, wondered, the breath of the sea sweet in his nostrils, its flavour in his throat, his vision lost in the tangled web of masts and cordage and funnels that stencilled the moon-pale sky: the witching glamour of salt water binding all his senses with its time-old spell.
It was quiet there upon the quay. Somewhere a winch rattled drowsily and weary tackle whined; more near at hand, funnels were snoring and pumps chugging with a constant, monotonous noise of splashing. On the landward side, from wine shops across the way, came blurred gusts of laughter and the wailing of an accordeon. The footfalls of a watchman, or perhaps a sergent de ville, had lonely echoes. The high electric arcs were motionless, and the shadows cast by their steel-blue glare lay on the pave as if painted in lampblack.
Dupont, the road to Paris, seemed figments of some dream dreamed long ago…
The tip of a pretty slipper, tapping restlessly, continued to betray Liane’s temper. But she said nothing. Privately Lanyard yawned. Then Jules, tagged by three men with the fair white jackets and shuffling gait of stewards, sauntered into view from behind two mountains of freight, and announced: “All ready, madame.” Liane nodded curtly, lingered to watch the stewards attack the jumble of luggage, saw her jewel case shouldered, and followed the bearer, Lanyard at her elbow, Jules remaining with the car.
The steward trotted through winding aisles of bales and crates, turned a corner, darted up a gangplank to the main-deck of a small steam vessel, so excessively neat and smart with shining brightwork that Lanyard thought it one uncommon tender indeed, and surmised a martinet in command. It seemed curious that there were not more passengers on the tender’s deck; but perhaps he and Liane were among the first to come aboard; after all, they were not to sail before morning, according to the women. He apprehended a tedious time of waiting before he gained his berth. He noticed, too, a life ring lettered SYBARITE, and thought this an odd name for a vessel of commercial utility. Then he found himself descending a wide companionway to
one of the handsomest saloons he had ever entered, a living room that, aside from its concessions to marine architecture, might have graced a residence on Park Lane or on Fifth avenue in the Sixties.
Lanyard stopped short with his hand on the mahogany handrail.
“I say, Liane! haven’t we stumbled into the wrong pew?”
“Wrong pew?” The woman subsided gracefully into a cushioned arm-chair, crossed her knees, and smiled at his perplexity. “But I do not know what is that ‘wrong pew.’”
“I mean to say…this is no tender, and it unquestionably isn’t an Atlantic liner.”
“I should hope not. Did I promise you a—what do you say?—tender or Atlantic liner? But no: I do not think I told you what sort of vessel we would sail upon for that America. You did not ask.”
“True, little sister. But you might have prepared me. This is a private yacht.”
“Are you disappointed?”
“I won’t say that…”
“It is the little ship of a dear friend, monsieur, who generously permits… But patience! very soon you shall know.”
To himself Lanyard commented: “I believe it well!” A door had opened in the after partition, two men had entered. Above a lank, well-poised body clothed in the white tunic and trousers of a ship’s officer, he recognised the tragicomic mask of the soi-disant Mr. Whitaker Monk. At his shoulder shone the bland, intelligent countenance of Mr. Phinuit, who seemed much at home in the blue serge and white flannels of the average amateur yachtsman.
From this last Lanyard received a good-natured nod, while Monk, with a great deal of empressement, proceeded directly to Liane Delorme and bowed low over the hand which she languidly lifted to be saluted.
“My dear friend!” he said in his sonorous voice. “In another hour I should have begun to grow anxious about you.”
“You would have had good reason, monsieur. It is not two hours since one has escaped death—and that for the second time in a single day—by the slenderest margin, and thanks solely to this gentleman here.”
Monk consented to see Lanyard, and immediately offered him a profound salute, which was punctiliously returned. His eyebrows mounted to the roots of his hair.
“Ah! that good Monsieur Duchemin.”
“But no!” Liane laughed. “It is true, the resemblance is striking; I do not say that, if Paul would consent to grow a beard, it would not be extraordinary. But—permit me, Captain Monk, to present my brother, Paul Delorme.”
“Your brother, mademoiselle?” The educated eyebrows expressed any number of emotions. Monk’s hand was cordially extended. “But I am enchanted, Monsieur Delorme, to welcome on board the Sybarite the brother of your charming sister.”
Lanyard resigned limp fingers to his clasp.
“And most public-spirited of you, I’m sure, Captain Monk… I believe I understood Liane to say Captain Monk?” The captain bowed. “Captain Whitaker Monk?” Another bow. Lanyard looked to Liane: “Forgive me if I seem confused, but I thought you told me Mister Whitaker Monk had sailed for America a week ago.”
“And so he did,” the captain agreed blandly, while Liane confirmed his statement with many rapid and emphatic nods. “Mr. Monk, the owner, is my first cousin. Fortune has been less kind to me in a worldly way; consequently you see in me merely the skipper of my wealthy kinsman’s yacht.”
“And your two names are the same—yours and your cousin’s? You’re both Whitaker Monks?”
“It is a favourite name in our family, monsieur.”
Lanyard wagged his head in solemn admiration.
Phinuit had come to his side, and was offering his hand in turn.
“It’s all gospel, Mr. Lanyard,” he declared, with a cheerful informality which Lanyard found more engaging than Monk’s sometimes laboured mannerisms. “He’s sure-enough Captain Whitaker Monk, skipper of the good ship Sybarite, Mister Whitaker Monk, owner. And my name is really Phinuit, and I’m honest-to-goodness secretary to Mr. Monk. You see, the owner got a hurry call from New York, last week, and sailed from Southampton, leaving us to bring his pretty ship safely home.”
“That makes it all so clear!”
“Well, anyway, I’m glad to meet you to your bare face. I’ve heard a lot about you, and—if it matters to you—thought a lot more.”
“If it comes to that, Mr. Phinuit, I have devoted some thought to you.”
“Oh, daresay. And now—if mademoiselle is agreeable—suppose we adjourn to the skipper’s quarters, where we can improve one another’s acquaintance without some snooping steward getting an unwelcome earful. We need to know many things you alone can tell us—and I’ll wager you could do with a drink. What?”
“But I assure you, monsieur, I find your reception sufficiently refreshing.”
“Well,” said Phinuit, momentarily but very slightly discountenanced—“you’ve been uncommon’ damn’ useful, you know… I mean, according to mademoiselle.”
“Useful?” Lanyard enquired politely.
“He calls it that,” Liane Delorme exclaimed, “when I tell him you have saved my life!” She swept indignantly through the door by which Monk and Phinuit had come to greet them. Two ceremonious bows induced Lanyard to follow her. Monk and Phinuit brought up the rear. “Yes,” the woman pursued—“twice he has saved it!”
“In the same place?” Phinuit enquired innocently, shutting the door.
“But no! Once in my home in Paris, this morning, and again tonight on the road to Cherbourg. The last time he saved his life, too, and Jules’s.”
“It was nothing,” said the modest hero.
“It was nothing!” Liane echoed tragically. “You save my life twice, and he calls it ‘useful,’ and you call it ‘nothing!’ My God! I tell you, I find this English a funny language!”
“But if you will tell us about it…” Monk suggested, placing a chair for her at one end of a small table on which was spread an appetising cold supper.
Lanyard remarked that there were places laid for four. He had been expected, then. Or had the fourth place been meant for Jules? One inclined to credit the first theory. It seemed highly probable that Liane should have telegraphed her intentions before leaving Paris. Indeed, there was every evidence that she had. Neither Monk nor Phinuit had betrayed the least surprise on seeing Lanyard; and Phinuit had not even troubled to recognise the fiction which Liane had uttered in accounting for him. It was very much as if he had said: That long-lost brother stuff is all very well for the authorities, for entry in the ship’s papers if necessary; but it’s wasted between ourselves, we understand one another; so let’s get down to brass tacks… An encouraging symptom; though one had already used the better word, refreshing.…
Spacious, furnished in a way of rich sobriety, tasteful in every appointment, the captain’s quarters were quite as sybaritic as the saloon of the Sybarite. A bedroom and private bath adjoined, and the open door enabled one to perceive that this rude old sea dog slept in a real bed of massive brass. His sitting-room, or private office, had a studious atmosphere. Its built-in-bookcases were stocked with handsome bindings. The panels were, like those in the saloon, sea-scapes from the hands of modern masters: Lanyard knew good painting when he saw it. The captain’s desk was a substantial affair in mahogany. Most of the chairs were of the overstuffed lounge sort. The rug was a Persian of rare lustre.
Monk was following with a twinkle the journeys of Lanyard’s observant eye.
“Do myself pretty well, don’t you think?” he observed quietly, in a break in Liane’s dramatic narrative; perforce the lady must now and again pause for breath.
Lanyard smiled in return. “I can’t see you’ve much to complain of.”
The captain nodded, but permitted a shade of gravity to become visible in his expression. He sighed a philosophic sigh:
“But man is
never satisfied…”
Liane had got her second wind and was playing variations on the theme of the famous six bottles of champagne. Lanyard lounged in his easy chair and let his bored thoughts wander. He was weary of being talked about, wanted one thing only, fulfillment of the promise that had been implicit in Phinuit’s manner. He was aware of Phinuit’s sympathetic eye.
The woman sent the grey car crashing again into the tree, repeated Lanyard’s quaint report of the business, and launched into a vein of panegyric.
“Regard him, then, sitting there, making nothing of it all—!”
“Sheer swank,” Phinuit commented. “He’s just letting on; privately he thinks he’s a heluva fellow. Don’t you, Lanyard?”
“But naturally,” Lanyard gave Phinuit a grateful look. “That is understood. But what really interests me, at present, is the question: Who is Dupont, and why?”
“If you’re asking me,” Monk replied, “I’ll say—going on mademoiselle’s story—Monsieur Dupont is by now a ghost.”
“One would be glad to be sure of that,” Lanyard murmured.
“By all accounts,” said Phinuit, “he takes a deal of killing.”
“But all this begs my question,” Lanyard objected. “Who is Dupont, and why?”
“I think I can answer that question, monsieur.” This was Liane Delorme. “But first, I would ask Captain Monk to set guards to see that nobody comes aboard this ship before she sails.”
“Pity you didn’t think of that sooner,” Phinuit observed in friendly sarcasm. “Better late than never, of course, but still—!”
The woman appealed to Monk directly, since he did not move. “But I assure you, monsieur, I am afraid, I am terrified of that one! I shall not sleep until I am sure he has not succeeded in smuggling himself on board—”
“Be tranquil, mademoiselle,” Monk begged. “What you ask is already done. I gave the orders you ask as soon as I received your telegram, this morning. You need not fear that even a rat has found his way aboard since then, or can before we sail, without my knowledge.”
The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ™: 28 Classic Tales Page 132
