THE PHOTOGRAPHS
The S.S. _Aguila_ of Messrs. Yeoward Brothers dropped her anchor on
to the rocky bottom of Funchal Harbour at fifteen minutes after two
A.M. under a perfect moon like the crescent of Islam; a true Moon of
Madness.
They had the ladder down in a trice, and my boat drew alongside. I ran
up to the deck--and there was Edmond O’Shea in a white drill suit,
more like John Barrymore than ever with the moonlight gleaming on his
wavy hair.
We shook hands in silence, whilst his searching gray eyes looked into
mine and mine told him all that I was helpless to conceal. Then:
“It was good of you, Decies,” he said. “My message has put you out?”
“I had booked in the _Arundel_; but it didn’t matter. My time is my
own.”
Indeed, already the spell of The O’Shea was on me. There are many
names honoured in connection with the Grand Parade, but ask one of the
men who knows what happened on the Retreat when Smith Dorrien sent for
O’Shea; a company commander then, and only a major now. We all won the
war, according to our own accounts; the old Irish Guards--what’s left
of them--would convince you that Edmond O’Shea helped us.
“What has happened?” I asked him.
He gave me the facts, whilst we enjoyed the hospitality of the captain
who was delighted to have been instrumental in helping so
distinguished a passenger.
“The original letters are safe in Whitehall, Decies. But I found
pinholes showing where they had been stuck on a board--obviously to be
photographed! We sent a radio to Captain McPhee here, and I doubled
back. The mails will be watched at Southampton; but I don’t fear the
mails. Some trusted agent will carry the photographs. I wired
headquarters for likely birds.”
“Scotland Yard replied,” said I. “One, Julian Macalister, is under
surveillance.”
O’Shea’s cold eyes fixed me.
“Who’s watching him?” he asked.
This brought me to it, and I gulped a quick drink before replying:
“Nanette.”
His expression changed; then:
“So they are still here?” he said.
“_She_ is still here.”
The captain excused himself gracefully, on a plea of duty; and I told
O’Shea.
“You think she overheard you in the consul’s office?”
“I know she did. She admitted it.”
“And so you told her--the rest?”
“Was I wrong?”
O’Shea stood up and paced the room a couple of times; then:
“I don’t know,” said he. “Let’s go ashore.”
Fate has playfully set me in some queer situations, but I can recall
none stranger than that in which I found myself now. O’Shea, occupying
a room in the consul’s house, and engaged in private consultations
with the military governor and others; Nanette, studiously declining
to meet him--although his return to Funchal was the reason of her
being there; Da Cunha, incapacitated, and only able to act through
Macalister; the latter gentleman dancing attendance on Nanette.
“He doesn’t know that I know anything,” she said to me. “And he
doesn’t know that Major O’Shea is here.”
We were taking tea on the terrace of Reid’s; the adorably pretty girl
who had “missed the boat” and my innocent self subjects of much
inaccurate speculation. Two frantic radios had been brought out to
Nanette: one from her mother and one from Jack.
“Please answer them for me,” was all she had said.
“Nanette!” I looked into the childish blue eyes, in which, when O’Shea
was mentioned, I had seen the woman-light shine. “I feel responsible
for you. In playing with a dangerous man like Macalister you take
risks which you don’t understand.”
“I’m going to find out where the photographs are!”
“Because of--O’Shea?”
She looked at me bravely.
“No,” she lied--yet did not know she lied. “Because Major O’Shea
insulted my intelligence. I am going to find out for my own sake.”
I dined with O’Shea in the town that night. He was frantically
worried. That Macalister was the man to whom the task had been
assigned of getting the photographs to Red headquarters he could not
doubt. But where were they? And how did Macalister propose to smuggle
them through?
“Where is Nanette?” he asked suddenly.
“Dining with Macalister at Reid’s.”
“Damn!” said O’Shea; then: “Go back and look after her,” he begged. “I
can’t stand it, Decies. You shouldn’t leave her.”
“She dismissed me!”
“Report yourself for duty. ’Phone me here.”
I arrived at the hotel fifteen minutes later. The hall porter handed
me a note as I ran in. I tore the envelope open in a sort of frenzy.
This was the message:
Photographs are on board a motor cruiser belonging to Gabriel da
Cunha. I can’t find out where it is. But Macalister goes in it
to-morrow morning to Las Palmas and from there by steamer to England.
Have gone with him to the Casino. Will keep him as long as possible.
Can’t do any more.
Nanette.
When I ’phoned to O’Shea, I heard him groan.
“Send someone from the hotel to stand by her,” he said; or, rather, it
was an order. “I can find out where Da Cunha’s boat lies by using the
military wires. It’s hell, Decies, but I daren’t take chances. Join me
here. But make sure she is safe.”