THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF
I have come to the conclusion that British honour is pretty good
stock-in-trade. Macalister accepted my word that no rescue by force
would be attempted. And, if Macalister accepted it, I think my promise
must be a gilt-edged security.
At twenty minutes before midnight--the time I had arranged to set
out--Reid’s was moderately excited. The absence of Nanette could no
longer be concealed in view of the fact that her worthy foster-parents
had created something of a hubbub following her departure from the
Casino. Hotel servants had been talking, too.
The arrangement had the charm of simplicity.
In a car containing only a chauffeur and myself, I was to follow the
Farman. Any support must be not less than five hundred yards in the
rear.
“But,” I had objected, “although you trust _me_, I don’t trust _you_.
I might be held up.”
“You can arm yourself if you like,” Macalister had conceded. “And you
will have the driver. Your friends, too, will be close behind you.”
I had hesitated, until:
“Damn it!” he cried. “I want the goods! This deal is square!”
I agreed when he spoke thus. Slowly, I was learning my man.
O’Shea elected to follow alone.
“They will stick to their bargain, Decies,” he said sadly. “We dare
not take the risk, I admit; but Nanette is safe enough. They know how
far they can go.”
Past a curious group clustering around the hotel entrance, we walked
out--Macalister, O’Shea, and myself. I watched a magnificent cigar
being lighted in the Farman, wondering how and where Macalister found
room to carry more than one at a time.
Then we set forth upon our queer journey.
The Farman led through the outskirts of Funchal, around the flank of
the little town and out to that sea road which scales the frowning
cliffs.
I am never at my best on roads of this kind. A squat red lozenge in
the glare of our headlights, the leading car, from time to time, would
disappear over a precipice. Nothing would obstruct my view of starry
sky and the still mirror of the ocean far below.
Then, a hairpin turn in the dizzy path being negotiated, there ahead
again the Farman would appear.
So it went, up and up, around bend after bend, until the bumping and
jolting told me that we had left the road, such as it was, and were
digging a road of our own.
We crept over a desolate dome of territory that must have been left
behind when Atlantis sank. Upon our topping the crown of this blasted
heath, I looked out ahead. I prayed that the brakes had been recently
overhauled.
A long, curving, rock-strewn slope swept gracefully down to a sheer
edge. And perched close to the precipice like a lonely seafowl was a
little, dirty white dwelling--hundreds of eerie feet above the sea,
approached by no perceptible path. I exhausted my imagination in
endeavouring to invent a reason why any human being should live there.
By means of zigzag manœuvring, the Farman was brought to within fifty
yards or so of the place. My chauffeur gingerly imitated the design.
Then came the prearranged signal.
Macalister’s arm was protruded. He waved his cigar like a field
marshal’s baton.
“Stop!” I said--and the word sounded like a gasp of relief.
I got out, turned, and looked back.
O’Shea’s car had been pulled up on the crest. I could see him standing
beside it, a distant silhouette against the sky.
I walked down to where Macalister waited by the house.
There was a low stone wall round the seaward end of the property,
enclosing a tiny garden in which bricks were apparently cultivated.
And now I could see over the edge. I gasped. A wooden ladder,
connecting with a platform that jutted out just below the house,
described a jazz pattern down the cliff-side. In a miniature cove,
below, a smart motor cruiser lay, her lighted ports like watching
eyes.
“Send your car up to the top,” Macalister directed.
I shouted to the man. And, as I watched him painfully tacking back
against the gradient, I reflected that if O’Shea’s psychology should
prove to be at fault, mine was a sorry case. I fingered a revolver
that nestled in my pocket.
The climb accomplished:
“Now,” said Macalister, “you remember the conditions?”
“Perfectly.”
“Halfway between the house and my car.”
I turned and mounted the slope. Macalister whistled shrilly.
Spinning about, I watched. I saw two things happen.
Macalister’s simian chauffeur leapt from his seat, stripping off his
jacket and discarding his cap. From somewhere on the hither side of
the building, which appeared to possess no door, three figures came
into view. Two were men, thick-set nondescripts; the third was a girl.
And the girl was Nanette!
They held her wrists, but the moment she caught sight of me standing
there in the moonlight:
“Mr. Decies!” she cried. “Don’t do it! don’t do it! I’ll never forgive
you! They _dare_ not harm me, and you are not to do it!”
I made no answer. I had none to make. And so the men led her on until
she stood before me.
She was pale, and so slender, between her burly captors, as to look
ethereal. Her widely open eyes were fixed in a stare of reproach. My
heart thumped.
“You don’t understand, Nanette,” I said. “There is Major O’Shea--and
he wishes it.”
One long, lingering glance she cast up to where O’Shea stood watching.
I saw a flood of colour sweep over her face. Then her obstinate little
mouth quivered. She lowered her head, and:
“I hate myself,” she whispered.
“Now,” said Macalister, coming forward, “give me the key.”
I did so. He placed it carefully in his waistcoat pocket. Nanette
never looked up.
“Hand the portfolio to Miguel.”
The chauffeur was indicated. I obeyed, and the man handed the
portfolio on to Macalister, who narrowly examined the seals.
“Senhor da Cunha,” he said sharply.
Whereupon Miguel ran off, carrying the portfolio, and disappeared over
the edge where the ladder was. So Gabriel da Cunha was on board the
cruiser!
Again Macalister spoke rapid Portuguese.
Nanette was released, and the two men turned and went back to the
house. She stood before me, with lowered head.
Macalister raised his straw hat. The colours of the band looked highly
effective in the moonlight.
“Miss Nanette and Mr. Decies,” he said, “I bid you good-night.”
He was not without a certain vulgar dignity. He followed his brace of
ruffians to the dwelling.
“Come, Nanette!” I urged. “It isn’t safe to delay.”
But, as we climbed to the waiting cars, she spoke only twice.
“They told me you had sent for me,” she said, “because Major
O’Shea--was ill.”
“What happened?”
“Poor Tommy Clayton sat in front, and the man with me, who said he was
a doctor, reached over and hit him with something. I screamed.”
“Did he put his hand over your mouth to stop you?”
She nodded.
“Have they been unkind to you?”
She shook her head.
O’Shea waited until we gained the crest, then he got into his car and
drove off. I followed, with an unusually dumb Nanette.
She sneaked into Reid’s by the side entrance and went straight to her
room. O’Shea was waiting for me in the cocktail bar. I entered very
gloomily and he ordered me a double whisky and soda.
“They will have some little difficulty in opening the portfolio,
Decies,” he said, watching the bartender preparing our drinks.
I stared at him. He was smiling!
“What do you mean?” I demanded.
“I mean that I took the precaution of filing one of the wards before I
gave the key to you.”
But, even then, I didn’t understand, and:
“What for?” I asked.
“Unnecessarily, as it fell out,” he replied. “But my idea was to gain
time.”
“To gain time!”
“Yes. To enable us to get a good start before they forced the lock.”
He slid a full glass along the counter in my direction, and:
“Do you play poker?” he asked.
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“I was merely wondering if you did. That portfolio which you have been
treasuring, Decies, contains several pages torn from an old copy of
the _Sporting Times_. Yet neither you nor I have told a lie about it
from start to finish! Chin-chin!”