THE GRASS ORPHAN
“Public men should never indulge in private correspondence,” said
O’Shea. “Such indiscretions sometimes lead to war. I understand that
all Napoleon’s social engagements were made by proxy.”
He turned toward me, his arm resting on the rail of the balcony. There
were times when O’Shea looked extraordinarily handsome. To-day, I
thought he appeared almost haggard. In his spruce white suit with
Madeiran sunlight making play in the waves of his hair, he had all
that curious atmosphere of romance that made him attractive to women
and unpopular with men who knew no better. But his eyes were
tragically tired.
I saw him glance at a square portfolio that lay upon the table in the
shadows of my room.
“Six photographic negatives,” he went on musingly, “and twelve
prints--as all the letters photographed ran to more than one page.
It’s odd to reflect, Decies, that these scraps of film and paper might
light a bonfire big enough to burn up a whole Empire.”
Odd indeed; yet I knew it to be true. For that relentless loom which
the Arabs call Kismet had drawn me into the pattern of this human
carpet woven of anarchy, love, sacrifice, and God knows what other
threads. I knew; therefore:
“Why not destroy them?” said I.
O’Shea shook his head.
“My instructions are to deliver them intact to headquarters,” he
replied.
“Are you returning in the Royal Mail boat?”
“No. They are sending for me.”
“Lodge them in the bank, then.”
“Contrary to instructions, Decies. They must remain in my charge.”
I met the fixed stare of his cold gray eyes.
“In which respect,” said I, “your instructions resemble mine.”
“And do honour to both of us,” he added.
I lighted a cigarette, smiling perhaps a trifle wryly. When a wayward
beauty of eighteen deliberately misses the boat home and her parents
radio an eligible bachelor that they hold him responsible for her
safety, one sits up and takes notice. Traditional English phlegm is
called upon to do its best.
On the terrace above the bathing pool, a band was playing jazz. Below
my windows a multi-coloured cascade of flowers poured down, wave upon
wave, to meet the deep blue ocean. Sounds of laughter came floating
up. Little yellow birds darting gaily from palm to palm appeared to
find life a thing of song. I wondered. Was it Abraham Lincoln who
confessed that he could mould men but not circumstance?
“It seems absurd,” said O’Shea, breaking a long silence. “But do you
know what I was thinking?”
“No.”
“That, after all, Madeira is a very lonely island.”
He stared at me fixedly, until:
“What do you mean exactly?” I asked.
“Decies,” he said, “the Reds have had a nasty set-back in England. But
there’s propaganda there”--he pointed to the portfolio--“for which
Moscow would pay a substantial fortune. They have forty-eight hours to
act.”
“But only two agents in the island--one out of the ring.”
“Gabriel da Cunha has a mysterious radio set in his bungalow. He will
be in touch with his chief--and his chief is a dangerously clever
man.”
The official records of the Irish Guards afford sufficient credentials
for the courage of Major Edmond O’Shea. He was watching me with that
close regard which seemed to concern itself with one’s subconscious
self, so pointedly did it penetrate; and, rather fatuously:
“You are surely not nervous about your charge?” I queried.
He continued to watch me for a moment, then:
“No,” he replied, and his expression grew abstracted. “Oddly enough, I
was thinking of yours.”
He turned aside, toying with the black-rimmed monocle that he rarely
wore unless he were annoyed. At the Guards’ depot in Essex it used to
be said that the appearance on parade of O’Shea wearing his monocle
made bayonets rattle.
Precisely what he had in mind I found myself at a loss to imagine, and
before I had time to ask:
“Please, are you at home?” cried a voice from below.
I crossed to my balcony and looked down.
Nanette stood on the terrace. The sunshine made a glory of her tousled
head as she laughed up at me. A stout German seated near by in a cane
lounge-chair found his attention engrossed by the unashamed beauty of
a pair of slim legs that had suddenly interfered with his view of the
bay. They were delicately sunburned to the knees, which--the brevity
of modern frocks and a habit of going stockingless had forced me to
learn--were dimpled. One suspects that Cleopatra had dimpled knees.
“Yes, Nanette,” said I. “Where have you been?”
“Bathing. You should know that, Mr. Decies. You are sadly neglecting
your grass orphan!”
She looked very lovely. The German tourist raised envious eyes to my
balcony, their envy magnified by heavily rimmed goggles.
“Please come down and join the party.”
“Very well, Nanette,” I answered.
But when I turned back and reëntered my room, O’Shea and the
portfolio were gone. And I knew that little Nanette would be
disappointed.
Presently, side by side, we walked down a shady path strewn with
fallen hibiscus blossom. Nanette was very silent. An American training
ship manned by naval cadets lay in the bay, and, at a bend in the
path, Nanette paused. She stared out at the little vessel--“a painted
ship upon a painted sea.”
“One of the boys from the cadet ship is with our party,” she said.
“He’s nice. I have promised to dance with him to-night. He’s from
Boston,” she added.
“Has he got late shore leave then?” I asked.
“No,” Nanette answered in a dreamy voice, moving on. “I don’t think
so. He just wants to stop. They are going to the Azores from here.
Where is--or are--the Azores?”
“Quite a long way,” I answered vaguely; for Nanette really didn’t want
to know.
There was small envy in my heart regarding the cadet from Boston. He
was being used as a diversion by a distractingly pretty girl whose
heart was not in the game. However, it is the mission of youth to
learn, and the poor fellow would “learn about women from her.”
I met him in due course. He was being lionized by a group seated
around a table beneath a gay umbrella that cast pleasing shadows.
Nanette unblushingly monopolized him, and his joy was ghastly to
behold. He would cheerfully have deserted his ship for her.
The sister of the British consul, who was acting as a sort of official
chaperone to our grass orphan, kept throwing appealing looks in my
direction. But I was helpless, and I knew it. A hundred times
Nanette’s glance sought the steps. And if only O’Shea had joined us,
the eyes of the infatuated young man from Boston might have been
opened before he doomed himself to cells for a siren’s smile.
But O’Shea did not join us.
When I drifted down to dinner that evening, I missed him. I waited in
the cocktail bar in vain. Nanette peeped in, too. At last, there was
nothing for it but to dine alone. And constantly the blue eyes of
Nanette, who had been “adopted” by a charming couple from the North
Country, were turned in my direction. Always she smiled--but only to
hide her disappointment.
The cadet blew along in due course, flushed with excitement, and was
greeted by a very composed Nanette. Accompanied by her temporary
“parents,” she bore the young man away to the Casino.
I made up my mind to walk down later. But I was largely concerned with
the absence of O’Shea. I hung about until after nine o’clock and was
prepared to go out, when I saw him crossing the lounge. He beckoned to
me, and:
“They are not idle, Decies,” he said. “Da Cunha’s radio has been
busy.”
“Have you picked anything up?”
“No. Conditions in the town are bad. But there’s something afoot.”
“Short of burglary, what can they do?”
He stared at me vacantly; then:
“I don’t know,” he confessed.
But we were to learn--and very soon.
A disturbance in the lobby proclaimed itself.
“What’s the trouble?” said I.
Even as I spoke, the worthy man from Lancashire, whose wife had taken
Nanette under her wing, came hurrying in. He was pale.
“My God! Decies,” he exclaimed. “Did you send a car to the Casino for
Nanette?”
“No!” I replied blankly.
“Damn it! I suspected there was something wrong!”
“Quick!” said O’Shea. “What has happened?”
The other spoke very breathlessly.
“Someone brought her a message--from _you_, Mr. Decies. She ran out
without a word. Young Clayton, the cadet, ran after her.”
“Well?” O’Shea urged.
“When I got to the door, they told me that both had driven off in a
car that was waiting by the gate.”
“Did anyone actually see this car?” O’Shea demanded.
“No. It stood out in the roadway.”
“Then who brought the message?”
“A boy idling at the gate.”
“You questioned him?”
“Closely,” replied the man from Lancashire. “He did not know the
chauffeur and only had a glimpse of the car.”
“But I don’t understand,” said I dazedly.
“I followed,” the hoarse voice went on, “but just this side of the
bridge, where it’s so lonely and dark at night, I nearly ran over
Clayton! He was insensible. He’s out in the hallway now! Nanette--has
disappeared!”
Very deliberately, O’Shea adjusted his monocle.
“Decies,” he said coldly, “why, in God’s name, didn’t you stick to
your post?”