THE GIRL IN THE SMOKE-ROOM
The sun was up; but the air was still delightfully fresh and the
verdure yet glistened with the heavy night dews. Beyond the fringe of
wavy palms which marked the shore the sea glittered and sparkled, its
deep blue melting to a paler shade where on the horizon sea mingled
with sky. Past the tangle of white and yellow houses where the city
stood, a creamy dead-white edging of foam, like ermine laid on an azure
mantle, marked the intricate windings of the coast until once more
ocean, shore and sky imperceptibly blended in the glorious blue.
It was a morning on which one was glad to be alive. The champagne-like
quality of the air sent a zest for action thrilling through my veins.
The world seemed very fair and, as I crossed the market-place, I paused
an instant to gaze with utter satisfaction on that brilliant mass of
colour, the scarlet umbrellas of the stalls, the country-women with
their heads enveloped in kerchiefs of flaming hues, the bold reds and
greens and yellows of the masses of fruit and vegetables set forth in
magnificent profusion for sale.
I felt that I was standing on the threshold of a great adventure. The
strain of romance which Celtic blood bestows leaped to answer its
appeal. In my head ran the mysterious jingle in which, as I was now
convinced, a treasure lay concealed. So engrossed was I with my
thoughts that, on mounting the broad flight of steps which led to the
long, cool verandah of the British Consulate, I collided violently with
a man who was coming out.
He was a short, stocky fellow, enormously strongly built, so massive in
bulk, indeed, that one might almost say of him that he was as broad as
he was long. His clean-shaven face, big and smooth and freckled, was
tanned a deep brick-red and, especially about the good-natured, firm
mouth, was lined with innumerable creases. The hair visible beneath
his rather battered yachting-cap was close-cropped and a flaming red
tint and his tufted eyebrows were of the same shade. A pair of brave
and honest eyes shone very bluely out of his sunburnt face. He was
wearing a clean but somewhat creased suit of white drill and in his
hand he carried a sheaf of papers.
The mere sight of him carried me straight away back to Southsea or
Plymouth or one of those queer steep little towns of the Isle of Wight
where so many masters of our merchant marine have their homes. From
the crown of his head to the sole of his foot he was British, a type
that, I imagine, has scarcely changed through the ages.
"Sorry!" he said, as though realising that in the impact it could only
be my less substantial frame which could suffer, and, taking a step
back, scrutinised me.
"My fault!" said I, rubbing my head, for I felt as if I had butted it
against a stone wall.
"If you're going to see the Consul," said the big man--and in his
speech was a pleasant touch of the Hampshire burr--"you'll not find
him. And the Vice-Consul's not in, either! He don't come to the
office before 9 o'clock; leastwise that's what I figured out the Dago
within was tryin' to tell me! They don't overwork in the Government
offices!"
With the perfect complacency of the Britisher he addressed me in
English, probably assuming, were I a foreigner, that I would understand
him.
He stood on the steps and mopped his brow.
"I wonder whether you could tell me," I said, "where the steam yacht
_Naomi_ is lying?"
The big man smiled and crinkled his face into a thousand fresh creases.
"Aye," he replied. "That I can! She's lying about a hundred yards off
the Customs House jetty--a white craft flying the Thames Yacht Club
burgee. You can't mistake her! Do you know anybody aboard?"
"Not exactly," said I. "But I wanted to call on Sir Alexander Garth,
the owner."
"Then you come right along with me," placidly observed the big man.
"I'm captain of the _Naomi_--I sail her for Sir Alexander. I've got
our mail here and I'm going straight back on board. I left the launch
at the steps! And, by the way, my name is Lawless--Harvey Lawless...."
"I should be delighted to come with you," I replied. "My name is
Okewood!"
We turned our backs on the Consulate and crossing the Cathedral Square,
followed a shabby, grass-grown street which rejoiced in the grandiose
name of the Avenida de la Liberacion. As we strolled along in the
shade Captain Lawless entertained me to some of his ideas on the
shortcomings of the Central American republics and, in particular, of
the State whose hospitality we were then enjoying. But with becoming
reticence he did not question me as to the object of my desire to call
upon his employer nor, on the other hand, did he volunteer any
information about that gentleman or his friends.
Presently we emerged into a great white square on the sea, a place of
blinding glare and whirling dust. Here at the foot of some white stone
steps a trim motor launch was heaving to and fro in the bright green
swell under the silent gaze of a knot of loafers. Two men were in the
launch, one wearing a white jersey with "S.Y. _Naomi_" embroidered in
blue and a round sailor's cap with the yacht's name on the ribbon. The
other was in a blue suit and wore a yachting cap.
"You'll want to bring the launch back in a couple of hours' time,
Parsons," said the captain, addressing the man in the yachting cap.
"The Vice-Consul won't be there till then. You'll have to get a move
on him about those fittings. Mr. Mackay will not be very pleased, I'm
thinking! He expected me to bring 'em back with me."
I stood a little to one side during the brief dialogue which ensued and
feasted my eyes on the picturesque scene. Viewed from the water the
city presented a beautiful spectacle. The houses rose in tiers amid
masses of greenery which rested the eye from the pitiless glare of the
sea. In the distance I noted the pleasant green hill where the long
low line of John Bard's bungalow was just discernible among the trees.
The square in which we stood was in itself a wonderful picture with its
great white warehouses, public buildings and the like built over deep
high arcades where with shrill cries newspaper boys and boot-blacks
plied their trade and lemonade sellers and beggars drowsed in the cool
shadows.
The little knot of spectators fringing the quayside were as picturesque
a bunch of picaroons as I have ever set eyes on. Their complexions ran
through the whole series of shades from light coffee to Brunswick
black. Their attire was as varied as their colour; but for the most
part it consisted in a ragged panama hat, a dirty vest and a pair of
thin striped cotton trousers.
I noticed one unusually striking figure, a stunted negro with a
pock-marked face who wore a gaudy yellow handkerchief bound about his
head and heavy gold rings in his ears. I observed this sportsman
looking hard at me, and was a little nonplussed to see him ostensibly
draw the attention of the man at his side to my appearance. The
negro's companion was a swarthy lissom young fellow with handsome
features and a pair of bold black eyes. The negro nudged him and broke
into a torrent of words. I was not near enough to make out what was
said (and, if I had been, I doubt if I should have understood their
rapidly-spoken lingo). But I felt tolerably certain that the black man
was speaking about me; for twice he nodded his head in my direction.
The upshot of it was that the swarthy young man turned and--a
remarkable thing in this indolent population--sprinted hard away in the
direction of the city.
I must say I felt disquietened. Since I had left John Bard's house
that morning, I had kept a careful watch to see if I were followed.
But no one had appeared to take any notice of me whatsoever and I felt
reasonably sure that I was not shadowed. But now it distinctly looked
as though I had been recognised. And in that moment, I believe, there
hardened into determination in my mind the great resolve which had come
into my head as I was taking leave of John Bard.
But the captain was summoning me to step into the launch. I dropped
in, he followed, and in a moment we were "teuf-teufing" through the
rolling green swell of the harbour towards the long and graceful shape
of the _Naomi_ as she tugged at her moorings over against the battered
white bulk of the Customs House. It was with feelings of profound
satisfaction that I saw the square with its fringe of loafers, the
white houses and the tufted palms recede as the natty little boat
cleaved a foaming path through the green water. I had got clear away.
It was up to me to secure for myself an invitation to join the party on
Sir Alexander Garth's yacht.
She was a beautiful craft, with a good turn of speed, to judge by her
design. As we drew nearer, I could see, by the many evidences of
comfort displayed, that her owner must be a man of wealth. The snowy
decks, the burnished brass and copper fittings, the clean, well
turned-out sailors who were busy on the deck beneath the striped
sun-awnings, the neat gangway let down over the side with its clean
white hand-rope--the whole impression given was one of luxury
regardless of cost. As we turned to run alongside, I found myself
wondering what manner of man this Sir Alexander Garth was. Was he a
wealthy industrialist of pre-war England or merely one of the new rich?
If the latter he would be less easy to handle than the former, I
reflected; besides, I reckoned, a war profiteer would not wear well on
a long cruise to the South Seas! The next moment I stood on the deck
of the _Naomi_ in the modulated light which penetrated through the
green-and-white awning.
The captain bade the man he had addressed as Parsons, whom I found to
be the head steward, take me to the smoke-room while he asked "Sir
Alexander" if he would receive me. Treading almost noiselessly on his
rubber soles the steward led me along the deck to the back of the
bridge where a door hooked back revealed a glimpse of a long
low-ceilinged saloon set about with comfortable settees and club chairs
in soft green Morocco leather, the portholes screened against the
blinding light from without.
Even below the awning the light outside was so much stronger than the
comparative obscurity within the smoke-room that at first I could not
distinguish much. Parsons left me at the door and I was about to sit
down when I discovered to my surprise that I was not alone. At a desk
set in one of the two recesses which flanked the doorway a girl was
sitting. She was dressed in a plain white silk tennis shirt and white
piqué skirt and her panama hat lay on a chair by her side. She was
writing letters. In the stillness of the room I could hear her pen
scratching across the paper. So engrossed was she in her writing that
she did not turn round.
I felt a little embarrassed. I felt it would be too farcical to cough
mildly, in the manner of a stage comedian, in order to announce my
presence; while, on the other hand, to make some violent noise like
dropping on the floor one of the books which were lying around might, I
conceived, unduly frighten the young lady. So I sat where I was,
enjoying the pleasant half-light of the room after the heat and glitter
outside, and amused myself by guessing at the appearance of the
stranger from her back.
She had beautiful hair of a glossy golden brown, "bobbed" after the
modern fashion, but so exquisitely brushed and tended that I decided
she must have a good maid. Her figure was admirable, her neck very
white and slender and matchless in the grace of its poise as she
inclined her head to the paper. Her clothes, simple as they were, were
faultless both in their cut and the way she wore them. I suppose there
are fashions in a tennis blouse and skirt the same as there are in
other kinds of women's clothes. At any rate, there was a flawless
_chic_ about this girl's appearance which told me that she was
Paris-clad.
Presently the scratching of the pen stopped. A white hand stole up and
patted the golden brown hair.
Then some intuitive sense told me that the girl knew there was someone
in the room. It was as though our two minds communed in that still,
cool place. At the same moment she swung round on her chair and,
seeing me, rose abruptly to her feet.
As she confronted me I realised that I must have divined her beauty;
for it came as no surprise to me to find her extremely good-looking. I
have met many women in my time and, as is not uncommon in my
profession, many were of the "charmer" order.
But the girl who stood facing me, a little perturbed, somewhat
nonplussed by the unexpected apparition, had an indefinite quality of
beauty which would have made her remarkable in any society. A
beautifully shaped head, an oval face, delicately pencilled eyebrows
throwing into relief the large grey eyes, a fine white skin and
unusually good teeth--all these attributes of beauty she possessed.
But with them went a curiously strong attraction, some quality of
magnetism, which, to speak quite personally, made me want to see her
radiantly happy, to conjure up a smile which I felt must be unusually
sweet.
"Oh," she exclaimed and blushed very prettily, "I didn't hear you come
in. How do you do? I am Marjorie Garth. Does Daddy know you're here?"
With the _empressement_ of the exiled Briton, to whom the vision of a
fresh young English girl is as the first violets of spring or the
fragrance of the forest after summer rain, I took the slim, cool hand
she offered me.
"The steward," I said, "has gone to tell him!"
"I'm afraid," she went on, scrutinising me dispassionately after the
manner of the modern young girl, "that you're in for a very slow time.
There's nobody but just Daddy and me. Of course, that was the idea of
this cruise. Daddy overworked terribly in the war and the doctors told
him he'd never get his nerves right unless he dropped business
absolutely for a whole year."
I wondered how she had divined the nature of my mission to her father.
Perhaps the captain had jumped to conclusions and had imparted them to
her. But her next remark puzzled me horribly.
"Of course, I'm perfectly fit," she observed, and smiled with a glint
of white teeth. "But Daddy is very difficult to handle. He has cables
sent to him at every port, and when we're in harbour his cabin looks
like his office at the Manchester Cotton Exchange. You'll have to be
very severe with him about it...."
"I don't know really," I replied, very puzzled, "whether I should feel
justified...."
"Oh," laughed the girl, "that's no way to handle Daddy. He's from the
North, remember! He made his money by knowing when to say 'No'; at
least, that's what he says. And _you'll_ have to say 'No' to him. And
to me, as well. I'm like Daddy. I adore having my own way. And I
usually get it...."
"That I'm fully prepared to believe!" I answered, and we both laughed.
It was as though we were old friends. Then, growing serious on a
sudden, the girl very deliberately started rolling up the left sleeve
of her blouse. I gazed at her in bewilderment. What was coming now?
I asked myself. With the utmost composure she unbared to the shoulder
a firm, round and very white arm.
"Don't give me away to Daddy," she observed confidentially. "But my
idiotic French maid burnt my arm the day before yesterday with the
electric tongs and it's rather sore. I wish you would just have a look
at it. I haven't said a word to Daddy, for, if he knew, he would
insist on dismissing Yvonne. Would you mind....?"
She extended her left arm to me whilst I, like an idiot, blushed
furiously in my embarrassment and vainly cudgelled my brains to
discover who this charming girl thought I was. And why the devil
should I look at the burn on her arm?
A calm voice at the doorway delivered me from my dilemma.
"Sir Alexander will see you, sir!"
The steward, Parsons, was there. Marjorie Garth pulled her sleeve down.
"Don't keep Daddy waiting!" she warned, and added: "You shall dress my
arm afterwards!"
I said "Oh, _rather_!" or something equally idiotic and followed the
steward out. As I passed the girl, she leant forward and whispered;
"Mind you stand up to him!"
As we crossed the blinding sunshine of the deck and went down a
companion-way Parsons confided to me that the owner was at breakfast.
My heart sank rather. It is poor tactics to ask a man for favours
before noon.
The saloon, which was panelled in some light-coloured wood, maple or
birch, resembled, with its little domed sky-light, the restaurant of a
liner in miniature. It was a small, snug little place with
rose-coloured silk curtains and carpet and a profusion of silver and
flowers. At the far end was a door which, I imagined, led to the
cabins.
At the sound of my entrance Sir Alexander Garth looked up from his egg.
As he stood up to greet me, I saw he was a tall, heavily-built man in
the fifties with a heavy iron-grey moustache. He had about him an air
I have noticed in other prosperous business people--a sort of "moneyed
manner" which reveals itself in a great deal of self-confidence with
just a touch of parade. The hard grey eyes and the firm chin denoted
the man of action; but the physiognomist in me (which my work has
considerably developed) took mental stock of the arched nostril and the
downward dip to the corners of the mouth which are the unmistakable
signals of a violent temper.
These and other little details I noticed about him as we shook hands
and he asked me if I had breakfasted. And because I was really pretty
peckish and because I believe one can always do business best over a
meal, I accepted his invitation and started in on a luscious
grape-fruit. When he had poured out my coffee, pushed the toast-rack
at me and generally put me at my ease, Sir Alexander Garth, who had
been scrutinising me rather closely, remarked:
"I should never have taken you for a doctor!"
"I'm not a doctor, sir!" I answered.
"I see--not taken your degree, eh? Well, well, I told our New York
office in my cable to do the best they could; indeed, I wasn't at all
sure that our manager could manage it in the time. But Lowry's a spry
chap--he don't come from Bolton for nothing--and he knows that when
th'oud man gives an order he expects it to be carried out. Did you
meet Lowry, doctor?"
Now I understood Miss Garth's inexplicable and embarrassing desire to
show me her burnt arm.
"I'm afraid you've made a mistake, Sir Alexander," I said. "I'm not a
doctor...."
"Eh?" ejaculated the baronet, sitting back in his chair and looking at
me. "Then who the devil are you?"
"My name is Okewood, Major Desmond Okewood," I replied as boldly as
might be, though my host's countenance was hoisting all manner of storm
signals in the shape of a reddening of the cheeks and a twitching of
the nostrils, "and I have rather a strange request to make...."
But I got no farther for Garth exploded.
"Damn it!" he exclaimed, pounding the table with his big, sun-burnt
hand, "I knew it. You're from Allan's. My Manchester office turned
their proposition down without reference to me, and as soon as I heard
about it, I wrote and confirmed the decision. And they've done nothing
but badger me about it ever since. At every port there's been a cable.
And now you have the brass to come interfering with my holiday, asking
yourself to breakfast under false pretences.... Parsons!"
He yelled for the steward, at the same time putting forth his hand to
pound a bell that stood on the table at his side.
"Stop!" I said.
"Will you stop me from ringing for my own servants?" he demanded
truculently.
"I'll stop you from making yourself look a fool before your own
steward," I retorted, "if you'll quit shouting and listen to me for a
minute. I have nothing to do with Allan's or any other business
concern...."
At the first glimpse of this resolute-looking cotton-spinner I knew
that, to achieve my end, I should have to take him more fully into my
confidence than either my inclination allowed or my instructions
warranted. I took my letter-case from my pocket and extracting a
folded blue paper, laid it before Sir Alexander on the white damask
table-cloth. These were my credentials which we are only supposed to
show in moments of direst necessity.
"Will you read that?" I said.
The baronet looked questioningly at me, then slowly put on a pair of
horn-rimmed spectacles which he took from a case in his pocket. He
carefully perused my blue paper and then handed it back to me.
"Eh," he remarked without a trace of apology in his manner, "and we all
thought you were the doctor I ordered our New York office to send to
join the yacht at Rodriguez. Well, young man, and what can I do for
you?"
With the utmost candour I told him. Thereafter, for ten minutes or
more, our heads were close together. Then he rang the bell.
"My compliments to Captain Lawless," he said to the steward, "and I
should be obliged if he could spare me a few minutes! We will come to
him in the chart-house!"
He gave the steward the start of us by lingering to offer me a cigar
and to light one for himself. Then we made our way up on deck and
presently entered the chart-house, a room abaft the bridge and above
the smoke-room. Here the captain, looking very red and shaggy without
his cap, awaited us.
"Ah, captain!" said our host, "let me make you acquainted with Major
Okewood, who is coming on a cruise with us. I want you to show me on
the chart Cock Island in the Eastern Pacific. And let's hear, too,
what the 'Sailing Directions' have to say about it!"
Thus I learnt that my pleading had prevailed with him and that, behind
a hard and business-like exterior, there flickered a little spark of
romance that had burst into flame at the magic tale of treasure trove I
had poured into his ears. As the skipper spread out upon the mahogany
top of the chart-locker the section in which, amid weird whorls and
lines signifying tides and depths, Cock Island figured, I felt once
more the strong tug at my heart from that secluded islet whence at the
foot of volcanic peaks an enigmatic grave seemed to beckon....