Boats of the Glen Carrig and Other Nautical Adventures

by William Hope Hodgson

  “Go ahead!” I said.

  “What I say, goes no further; that’s understood, I guess?” he asked. “Mr. Abel gave you a good name, Cap’n, an’ he told me a thing or two about you that sounded pretty safe to me.”

  “I’m mum!” I told him. “If you’ve murdered someone, it’s no concern of mine, and I don’t want to hear about it. If it’s anything clean, get it off your chest. You’ll find me a good listener.”

  He nodded.

  “You know about that ‘Mona Lisa’ bit of goods?” he asked me.

  “The picture?” I said.

  He nodded again.

  “Well,” he said, “they got the wrong one. That’s a copy that’s been made from the original. It’s a mighty good copy. It should be; it cost me over twenty thousand dollars before it was finished. It’s so good, you couldn’t make ’em believe it isn’t the original. I got the original, though, safe and sound; and a patron of mine’s mad for it. That’s what I came to see you about. I’ve got to get it taken across and through the U.S.A. customs.”

  “But you don’t tell me that a copy could fool all the art experts who’ve seen the ‘recovered’ ‘Mona Lisa’?” I said. “Why, the old canvas—”

  “Wood, Cap’n,” he interpolated.

  “It’s on wood, is it?” I said. “I’d never realised that. Well, you don’t tell me they don’t know the kind of wood, and the smell, and the general oldness and the ‘seasonedness,’ and all the rest of it, of a panel of wood as old as that must be. The very smell of it would be enough to tell them whether it was the original or not.

  “And that’s not all. Why, the pigments they used, they can’t be matched today, so I understand. And how’d you get the ‘time tone,’ the ‘time surface’? Why, man, any one of these things could never be faked properly—not well enough to deceive an expert who knew his business.

  “Don’t you see, your tale won’t wash. All these things put together make a picture as famous as the ‘Gioconda’ absolutely unforgeable—that is, of course, to an expert.”

  “Now, Cap’n,” he said, “you’ve had your say, and I will have mine.

  “First of all, to get a panel that could not be pronounced anything but genuine, Cap’n, I had the ‘Mona Lisa’ panel split, using a special machine-saw for the purpose. It was an anxious job, I can promise you. The man who cut it was an expert at his job, and the saw was a specially made ribbon saw, with hair-fine teeth.

  “He practised on a dozen model panels before I’d let him split the ‘Mona.’ Then he put the picture flat on the steel saw-table, and he just skinned off the ‘Mona’ with no more than an eighth of an inch of wood under her. He did it as easy and smooth as skimming milk; but I just stood and sweated till it was done. He got a hundred dollars for that ten minutes of work, and I guess I got about a hundred extra grey hairs.

  “Well, Cap’n, then I took the ‘Mona,’ and mounted her on a brand-new panel, for she was on a layer of wood so thin that she bent just with picking her up.

  “That’s how we got the panel for the copy. The copy’s painted on the old ‘Mona Lisa’ panel. Smart, wasn’t it? I guess the experts couldn’t get past that—what? Not much, Sir!

  “Queer, when you come to think of it, Cap’n, that if those French-men only thought to notice it—not that they could, after not seeing the lady for a couple of years—they’d the clue there, in the thinner panel, that the ‘Mona’s’ been doctored!

  “Great, I call it! And she’ll hang there all through the ages; and people’ll come from all parts, and stare and gasp and go away, feeling they’ve seen only the genuine. And all the time she’ll be where all the real stuff’s going—in God’s own country, Sir—U.S.A.

  “And to think a pair of callipers would give the whole show away, if only they’d taken the thickness of the panel before a friend of mine lifted her out of the Louvre!”

  “That was smart, certainly,” I said. “You can spin a good yarn! What about the old pigments, and all the rest of the impossible things, eh?”

  “The pigments, Cap’n, cost me exactly fifteen thousand dollars in cold cash. I bought old canvasses of the same period—some of them were not bad, either—and I scraped ’em, Sir. Yes, I did, for the pigments that were on ’em. Nearly broke my heart! But this is a big business. Then an old painter I know got the job of his life. He’s as clever a man as ever stole a canvas ‘cause he hadn’t money to pay for it.

  “I told him there were five thousand big fat dollars for him the day he’d finished a copy of her on the wooden panel; that’s if the copy were so good I couldn’t tell one from the other.

  “Well, Cap’n, he did it. Three months he took; and when it was finished, I couldn’t have told one painting from the other, except that the new one wanted ‘sunning’—that’s a little secret of my own. I do part of it with the sun and coloured glass. I gave her a solid year of that treatment, while she was drying and hardening. Then I’d have defied L. da V. himself to tell one from t’other!”

  “But what was the idea of getting this copy made for twenty thousand dollars when you had the real thing?”

  “It was for the French government to sneak,” he told me.

  “What?” I said.

  “It was for a plant!” he explained. “It was going to be ‘planted’ and then an agent of mine was going to approach a picture-dealer and offer to sell it to him—as the real thing, you know.

  “And, of course, I knew no dealer on the east side of the duck-pond would look at it. No use to anyone there, except to get ’em into bad trouble. I knew the next thing they’d do would be to lay information, for the sake of the reward and the press notices.”

  “Well,” I asked, “what had you to gain by all that, and what did you gain by getting your agent into the hands of the police?”

  “He bungled things!” he told me. “It wasn’t my fault he got nabbed.”

  “But the reason you wanted the authorities to cop the copy you’d spent twenty thousand dollars on?” I asked again. “If you were so anxious for them to have a copy, why didn’t you offer to sell it back? They’d have paid a decent sum—quite decent, I should imagine—that’s if they couldn’t get their hands on you first!”

  “That’s just the point,” he explained. “If I offered to sell back the picture, they’d have approached it in a more suspicious spirit; and I want no blessed suspicions at all, Cap’n. If they thought I was trying to get rid of the original secretly to a dealer, and that they had dropped on me unexpectedly, then their whole frame of mind would be the way I want it to be—see?

  “You see, Cap’n, I paid twenty thousand dollars odd to get that copy made, simply for a blind. I’m taking the original out to U.S.A., where I’ve got a patron for it at five hundred thousand dollars, as I’ve told you.

  “But he won’t even look at it, if there’s going to be any bother attached. I’ve to clean up behind me. I’m to let the French government have back what they think is their picture; and then my patron can hang the original in his private gallery, without fear of trouble.

  “He’s a real collector, and it’s sufficient for him to know he’s got the original, under his own roof-shades, without wanting to shout the song half across the world, like a society hostess.

  “If there are any comments, he’ll acknowledge it to be what it isn’t—and that’s a copy. This is bound to go down, as people are con-vinced the original is clamped up good and solid, back in its old place in the Louvre. Thank God for that sort of collector, I say! They make living possible for people in my business. Now, have you got all the points, Cap’n?”

  He grinned so cheerfully, that I had to do the same thing.

  “But all the same,” I told him, “I’m not available for handling stolen goods, Mr. Black. You’ll have to try further up.”

  “Come now, Cap’n Gault,” he said, “and you a good American, too! I guess we’ve got to have this bit of goods in little old U.S.A. It’s too fine for any other nation on earth. You mustn’t think it
’s only the dollars I’m thinking of. It it were just the dollars only I’m after, I’d sell it right here, within twenty-four hours, and be shut of all trouble and risk; but it’s got to go over to our country, Cap’n, and stay right there till it’s acclimatised.”

  I couldn’t help liking the man for that. But I had to stare at him a bit, to size up how much he was honest and how much I was dreaming; but he was honest, right enough; and I felt I’d got to look good and hard, so that I’d not forget what an honest picture-dealer looked like.

  “It’s a pity you can’t put it through, openly, as the original,” I said. “You’d have no duty at all to pay then, seeing that it’s more than a hundred years old. Anyway, why don’t you put the thing through yourself, as a copy? If your customer’s going to manage to palm it off to his friends (and there’s likely to be some experts among ’em) as a copy, why don’t you put it through the Customs frankly, as a copy? There’ll be nothing much to bother about in the duty-line on a mere copy by an unknown artist. Shove a fairly good price on it, so they won’t think you’re trying to ‘jew’ them, and there you are. Anyway, mister, that’ll come a heap cheaper than paying me what I should need, before I’d even look at a job of this sort.”

  He put his finger to the side of this nose, in French fashion.

  “Don’t you worry, Cap’n,” he replied. “That picture’s worth five hundred thousand dollars; and I guess I’m taking no chances at all. You must reckon there’s others that guess things about this besides me, and it ain’t only the Customs I’m bothering about, but it’s a little bunch of crooks that have got to suspecting more than’s good for them. And I guess if they can’t get a finger in the pie, they’re capable of dropping a hint to the New York Customs, just for spite.

  “If the Customs put their eyes on the picture, after a hint like that, they’d hold it and communicate with the French authorities, and it’d be all U.P. then, once the two pictures were put together and compared.

  “And, anyhow, Cap’n, I reckon there may be a bit of trouble going across, for the gang’ll never drop trying until it’s ‘no go’ for them. They’ll sail with the picture and me, on the chance of nipping in before we get to the other side. I’d not be surprised if they came across with a proposal to go shares or split, if they can’t do me in any other way. Now, what’s it to be, Cap’n Gault—are you on, or is it ‘no go’?”

  I thought for a few seconds, then I answered him.

  “I’ll do it,” I said. “I guess I’d like it to go across to God’s country.”

  “That’s good. It’s going to belong to the little old U.S.A. What’ll your figure be, Cap’n?”

  “Five percent,” I told him. “That’ll be twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  “Very good, Cap’n,” he agreed. “It’s a good tough price; but I’ll come across all right. I reckon the more you stand to make out of it, the more like you are to do your best. And just what that is I guess every Customs official each side of the pond knows. If you do up to your usual, the New York Customs’ll never even smell it. That’s why I’ve come to you; and that’s why I don’t kick at your figure.”

  “Where’s the picture?” I asked him.

  “Here!” he said, almost in a whisper, and patted the wrapped-up drawing-board affair that he held under his arm.

  “Bring it along into my cabin, and let’s have a look at it,” I told him. “I want to see this smile that won’t come off, that I’ve heard so much about. Is it anything wonderful?”

  “Cap’n,” he said, with extraordinary earnestness, “it is wonderful! It’s as if one of the old gods had got in some mighty fine work on the panel.”

  We went along to my cabin, and I shut and locked both doors. Then he unwrapped the thing on the table. I looked at it for a good bit. It was certainly fine and strange.

  “It’s got something about it that looks as if a clever devil had painted it,” I told him. “She’s got no eyebrows. That makes her look a bit peculiar and, somehow, slightly abnormal. But it doesn’t explain what I mean. It’s as if the elemental female smiled out in her face—not what we mean nowadays by the word woman, but all that is the essential of the female. The smile is conscienceless; not consciously so, but naturally. It’s as if the unrestrained female—the ‘faun’ in the woman—the subtle licence in her—the subtle, yet unbridled, goat-spirit in her was spreading out over her face, like a slow stain. It’s the truth about that side of a woman that the best part of a man insists on turning his blind eye to. The painting ought to be called: ‘The Uncomfortable Truth!’”

  “Cap’n,” he said, “for a man that pretends not to understand pic-tures, you’re doing mighty well! I guess you’ve just put into words a bit that I’ve felt, but couldn’t get unmuddled into plain talk. Anyway, the chief thing that counts just now, is there’s five hundred thousand dollars on the table there; and twenty-five thousand of them are yours the day you hand me the painted lady, safe and sound, in Room 86 of the Madison Square Hotel, New York.

  “I guess you’ve got that all plain, Cap’n? Meanwhile, I’ll book my passage across with you. I reckon I shall feel easier sleeping in the same ship with her.”

  “That’s all right, Mr. Black,” I told him. “If you’ve got an hour or two to put in, you’ll find that chair’s comfortable, and that’s my brand of whisky in the rack.”

  “Right you are, Cap’n,” he said; and while he was making himself comfortable I began to get out my colours, palette, and brushes.

  “You paint, Cap’n?” he asked, over the top of his glass. He seemed surprised.

  I nodded towards the oils and water-colours round the bulkheads. He got up with his glass of whisky, and began to go the round, sipping and muttering some astonishment as he journeyed.

  “My word, Cap’n!” he said at last, facing round at me, “you sure can paint some! And I guess I’m slinging no cheap flattery. What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m going to do an oil sketch of the ‘Mona’ as a keepsake, right now, and before I hide her for the voyage,” I told him. I hauled out a sheet of prepared millboard from my portfolio. “I guess I’d like to remember I once handled the original,” I went on; “and I’d like to have a shot at that smile. The trick of it catches me.”

  “Good for you, Cap’n,” he said, quite interested, and set down his whisky, while he propped up the ‘Gioconda’ in a good light from the glazed skylight above. Then he came round behind me to watch.

  I finished the thing—a rough sketch, of course—in about an hour and a half, and Mr. Black seemed to be genuinely impressed.

  “Cap’n,” he said, “that’s good work, you know. You’re a mighty queer sort of sea Captain!”

  “Mr. Black,” I said, as I fetched out my pipe, “you’re a mighty queer sort of picture-dealer!”

  But he couldn’t see it.

  April 8th. At sea.

  Mr. Black’s an interesting man to talk to, but he’s got the itch to know where I’ve hidden his blessed picture. I’ve explained to him, though, that when a secret has to be kept, it’s better kept by one head than by any other number you could think of in a month.

  Meanwhile, I’ve found that he’s a good taste for other things be-side pictures. As he put it:

  “Cap’n, I’m no one-horse show in the manner of liking good things. A pretty woman I like, and if she’s good, so much the better.”

  “They’re rare,” I told him.

  “I grant you that, Cap’n,” he said. “As rare as a high-pressure man with a sound temper. That’s why they’re worth finding. Well, I like a pretty woman, a good violin solo, a good whisky, a good picture, and a good patron of art. And I reckon the five mean life!”

  I smiled, and I said nothing, but when he came up to my chart-room today I introduced him to a pretty young American of the name of Lanny, who has made a point of palling on with me, and has come up to look at my pictures.

  When he came in she was criticising my copy of the ‘Gioconda,’ and after I had intro
duced him she hauled him into the discussion, willy-nilly.

  “I think that’s a fine piece of work of the Captain’s,” she said. “But you sure ought to see the original in the Louvre, Mr. Black. Captain Gault’s done fine, but the original just gives you shivers all done your spine.”

  “I’ve seen it, Miss Lanny,” he assured her, “and I agree with you. It’s a mighty wonderful thing. But Cap’n Gault don’t reckon it’s good art.”

  “What!” cried Miss Lanny. “Captain Gault, you don’t tell me that?”

  “It’s not good art, Miss Lanny,” I said. “It’s true, but it shows the ugly side of a woman’s character.”

  “That’s downright insulting, Captain,” she said warmly. “I reckon it shows what the great artist meant it to show. It shows the delicate subtlety and refined spirituality of woman. There’s more in ‘La Gionconda’s’ smile than in the laughter of a hundred men.”

  “I hope you’re right, Miss Lanny,” I said— “for the sake of the hundred men.”

  This talk occurred this morning, and I put the stopper on them, for it was getting a bit too serious. And, anyway, when there’s a pretty girl in one’s chart-room, who looks as if she’s good as gold and chock-full of hell-fire all in one and the same moment, one is apt to get fidgety.

  April 10th. Night. Late.

  Great excitement; at least, Mr. Black’s in a state.

  He’s spent most of the last two days spooning Miss Lanny in my chart-house, while I’ve made shots at doing sky effects in water-colours.

  I call that cool, to try and cut me out with the young lady—though I can’t say that she’s seemed backward.

  However, this sort of thing has to be paid for.

  About an hour ago Mr. Black sent word by a steward, would I come along to his cabin? Lord! The mess! Someone, or several, I should think, had been through his place, and left it like a wooden township after a cyclone.

  His box lids had all been ripped off; his bed had been pulled to pieces, and his mattress had been cut open; his wardrobe (he’s got a suite de luxe, off the saloons) was ripped away from the bulkhead, and was lying on its side, and the mirror had been broken clean out, and lay on the carpet.