MOON OF MADNESS
Fifteen minutes later I was in possession of the facts--and faced
with a problem.
“This chap Da Cunha,” said the consul, “isn’t Portuguese, in spite of
his name. He’s some kind of what-not. He has the biggest radio outfit
in the island up at his summer bungalow.”
“He’s a Communist agent.”
“I know,” the other returned quietly, “but it wasn’t my business to
mention it first. He crashed in his car the other day and he’s
dry-docked for repairs in a house he owns down here in the town. I
know the surgeon who’s attending.”
I did not contradict him, for I was reading once again the body of the
decoded message:
Arrive Funchal Harbour 2 A.M. Friday morning. Please meet me. Arrange
for accommodation privately. No one must know. Letters have all been
photographed. See Da Cunha does not slip away. Watch Arundel Castle.
Try to learn if any associate of Da C. sails. Prevent if possible. I
count on you.
O’Shea.
“Not a ship has cleared for European ports since Major O’Shea left,”
said the consul. “So there’s a good chance.”
“He’s returning in the destroyer?”
“I don’t think so.” He glanced at a list of shipping. “Although this
dispatch came from her. My idea is that they intercepted the Yeoward
boat and put him on board. She’s due here at the time stated.”
“Devilish awkward,” I murmured. “It’s late to cancel my sailing. I’m
booked in the _Arundel Castle_.”
“I’ll step across to Blandy’s with you,” said the consul, standing up
and reaching for his hat. “We can get you transferred to a later boat.
Leave the finding of private accommodation to me, too.”
“Do you know of any one associated with Da Cunha?”
“No. Da Cunha has property in Madeira, but he’s rarely here. Nearly
all I know about him I have learned officially.”
We settled our business at the Union Castle agent’s, thanks to
consular aid, and, the morning growing insufferably hot, my friend
agreed that something icy through a straw was indicated. When we
arrived at the Golden Gate this theory proved to be popular. A party
from Reid’s that included Nanette’s mother had arrived, and Jack was
sharing Nanette with a stranger whose ancestors had known more about
how the Pyramid was built than you or I can ever hope to learn.
He reminded me of my London stockbroker until he was introduced as
Macalister. He had a real-estate smile that was not unattractive, and
my first, natural impression was that he had recently purchased the
island from the Portuguese and was running his eye over the property.
Presently, however:
“And how is our friend, Gabriel?” Nanette asked. Then, turning to me:
“I met Mr. Macalister with Gabriel da Cunha,” she explained.
I forget how Macalister replied, for I was exchanging significant
glances with the consul. A few moments later that competent official
took the floor.
“So you are leaving Madeira, Mr. Macalister?” he asked.
“No,” the other replied, sharing an appreciative look between the
cigar that he had just lighted and Nanette. “I had hoped to sail in
the _Arundel Castle_, but I have been delayed.”
The consul put several more leading questions to Macalister, in a
chatty way, but I rather lost track of the conversation. Nanette was
in a mood of feverish animation, which I knew, from experience, meant
mischief. The party had been over to Blandy’s apparently, and had
learned that accommodation in the _Arundel Castle_ was limited.
Nanette and Jack talked happy nonsense about camping out in boats and
what not. Then I made an announcement.
“Somebody is lucky,” I said. “My berth will be vacant.”
This statement was received with gratifying consternation.
“You surely can’t mean that you are not coming with us?” Nanette’s
mother exclaimed.
Two pairs of eyes I particularly noted at this moment--the
heavy-lidded brown eyes of Mr. Macalister and the wide-open blue eyes
of Nanette.
“Unhappily, yes,” I replied. “Unfortunate, very; but I must wait for
the Royal Mail boat.”
There was a sort of farewell dance at Reid’s that night. Quite a
number of people were leaving in the _Arundel_. Nanette persistently
avoided me; and I doubled-up with Jack in a scowling competition
having for target Mr. Julian Macalister, who had dropped in after
dinner and monopolized Nanette.
Once, pausing near me:
“Do you know what they call the crescent moon here?” she asked.
“No.”
“Moon of Madness.”
She laughed and danced on. Jack scowled. I wondered.
At the cocktail bar, during an interval, things bordered on the
hectic. I have been honoured in the friendship of some of Mr.
Macalister’s race who were very courtly gentlemen. Mr. Macalister was
not as one of these.
“Don’t look so gloomy, my lad,” he said to Jack. “It takes a man of
experience to please a young girl.”
Jack had boxed for his college and was no mean craftsman. I rapidly
took in the powerful but fleshy form of Macalister and prepared to
mourn his passing. He smiled confidently; but one could have got
roughly about the same odds on a peanut in a monkey-house, when:
“Mr. Decies!” said someone at my elbow.
Jack was just descending in a leisurely way from his tall stool. He
paused as I turned. The British consul stood behind us.
“A word in private,” said he.
I grabbed Jack’s arm.
“Come along, too,” I urged.
He hesitated, then:
“Perhaps you’re right,” came with manifest reluctance.
We walked out into the lounge; and the consul handed me a scribbled
note.
“Received in code to-night,” he explained.
Detain Julian Macalister at any cost.
Jack had left us, going to look for Nanette, and:
“From O’Shea?” I asked.
“No. From Scotland Yard!”
“But he’s not sailing!”
The consul met my gaze of inquiry.
“That radio set of Da Cunha’s is very well informed,” he said.
“Macalister knew of this move before _I_ did. He only cancelled
to-day.”