S. S. _CAMBODIA_
A glance at the luminous dial of his wrist-watch showed Captain
Barthélemy that it was after two o'clock when the French packet
_Cambodia_ dropped down-stream toward the gulf.
He stood alone by the taffrail smoking; smoking, not because he
derived enjoyment from it, but because the tobacco fumes banished
from his nostrils the smells of copra and crude oil that drifted up
from the hold. When he had come aboard, an hour or so earlier, he had
gone directly to his cabin, but the cramped space, with its one port
and curtained bunk, proved unendurable. So, clad in singlet and silk
sarong, he had sought the deck, only to find slight relief. Heat rose
in waves from the planks, and the wheeze of the engine, audible above
the muffled clamor from stoke-hole ventilators and hatchways, was like
the panting of an exhausted creature.
"The devil!" he muttered, his scalp burning; then, more emphatically,
"Thousand devils!"
A hot vacuum, it seemed, sucked up his breath. Gasping, he flung his
unfinished cheroot into the frothy network over the propeller and
turned away.
The deck-passengers were so numerous that he had to step over them.
They sprawled or sat in every available space, and deck-lamps cast
their light upon bare legs and arms, upon the contours of breasts and
shoulders, and dark faces. He climbed to the bridge. There a sultry
wind was fanned from forward. The binnacle-light revealed a brown
figure at the wheel, and, behind the helmsman, two whites, presumably
captain and pilot.
Barthélemy moved to a point midway of the bridge-deck where the funnel
reared above the wireless-house and shrouded life-boats were swung on
either side. A folding chair lay by the rail, and he opened it and sank
into it.
Below, a bar of light was stamped on the deck, extending from an
alleyway. Beyond it were the huddled forms of deck-passengers. The
intense heat seemed to shut his brain in a cylinder and shrivel it. He
felt a smoldering animosity toward the world at large, particularly
toward those creatures below who made the very air crawl. He
contemplated them resentfully. Coolies, products of a low order of
life. Each had, like himself, a heart, a brain, and other human organs.
But there the similarity ended. Animals, he summed them up, being
shipped to obscure ports along the gulf; towns consisting of a few huts
on poles, a rotten wharf, and a warehouse, facing the inevitable lonely
sea-line.... The picture gave him a shudder, and he lay back in the
chair, surrendering to a pleasant drowsiness.
Overhead, smoke traced a hieroglyph on the sky; the stars were like
pin-pricks in a great black lantern. He thought of Lhassa Camber, but
she seemed to melt. His brain was too hot to hold her image.... In a
detached manner he heard some one talking, some one who droned and
droned maddeningly.
He closed his eyes. The monotonous voice went on. Cow, he thought;
how could one talk so much in this heat? If he, Remy Barthélemy, ever
reached Paris again ... winter in the Alps ... A frosty flash crossed
his vision: was it the Jungfrau or Lhassa Camber? A great stillness
poured over him.
He dreamed; dreamed of a macaw, a bird of magnificent plumage. It was
beating its wings and balancing itself in a large brass ring. He heard
it shrieking; saw the chain on its leg. How it screamed----
Then he awakened, startled, lost in a great volume of sound. It
required a moment to adjust himself and realize that the prolonged
blast came from the boat's whistle. By that time it had ceased. In the
sudden quiet, he heard voices; heard them distinctly.
"Well?" in flawless French.
"Five, _korab_," in French not so flawless.
Where were they? he wondered. Threads of sleep still tangled his
thoughts, but after a few seconds he understood: two men were talking
on the deck below, one obviously a native. _Korab_, he knew, was a term
of deference used by Siamese of low caste.
"Including myself?"
"Yes, _korab_. One is an officer; I saw his uniform."
"They all go to Saigon?"
"All but one, _korab_, who leaves the boat at Chantabon."
Barthélemy became curious. He sat up and looked over the rail. In the
bar of light were two shadows, one queerly distorted. Evidently the men
stood just within the alleyway.
"An officer, eh?"
"Yes, _korab_."
A long silence: throb of engine, swish of tide. Then: "That is enough."
The shadows dwindled, were wiped out of the bar of light.
Barthélemy, vaguely puzzled, resumed his reclining position. Queer.
Why was he of the flawless French so inquisitive? Five. Evidently he
referred to the number of cabin-passengers. Perhaps he was one of the
ship's officers. But, he reflected, that could not be, for something
the man had said--he could not remember the exact words--identified him
as a passenger. If----But conjectures were too strenuous. Furthermore,
he asked himself drowsily, what did it matter? Nothing mattered. He was
in purgatory; he was quite positive that he was in purgatory. Viscid,
steaming pitch was about him, sulphurous vapors; he pictured cloven
hoofs stamping over his eyes....
The next he remembered was early in the morning, before first dawn,
when he was aroused by the lascars who had come up to flush the bridge.
2
A blue sea, glazed and brilliant, surrounded the _Cambodia_, losing
itself imperceptibly in a flaming blue sky. The utter calm was broken
only by a vanishing ripple that marked the packet's passage through the
blue immensity.
At breakfast Barthélemy met his fellow-voyagers: a missionary bound for
Chantabon and two foresters from Tongking. A vacant place across the
table accounted for one more. He remembered vividly the conversation
he had overheard, and remarked upon the absence of the fifth man. The
captain smiled.
"His boy took his breakfast to his cabin," was his dry comment.
After the meal the Frenchman circled the deck. This brief exertion left
him drenched and gasping, and he retreated to the main cabin to remain
for the rest of the day.
Nightfall lifted the torrid curse. Barthélemy, established comfortably
on deck, heard the dinner-gong without immediately obeying its summons.
When he finally went below he almost collided with a hunched figure
in the companionway. The latter murmured an apology and hurried past,
leaving a glimpse of a familiar bearded face printed upon the officer's
brain.
"Sacred name!" he exclaimed. "He follows like Fate!"
So he was the fifth passenger! And, _mon Dieu_! Lhassa Camber was
not mistaken! He was a hunchback. Strange that he had not noticed
that in Singapore. He took a tentative step; paused. Could it be
that----Impossible. But those hands! And he might have grown a beard.
Ah, but would _he_ return? Not he! He was not such a fool. No. It was
merely a resemblance; his distorted back testified to that.
He resumed his way to the captain's mess.
After dinner, again on deck, the bearded face haunted, smiled, from
the darkness. He walked from bow to taffrail, hoping to catch another
glimpse of the hunchback. Failing, he leaned on the rail and smoked and
wondered--until a voice brought him out of his absorption.
"_Juste ciel!_ You must have two bodies! One minute you are in your
cabin, then on deck!"
He turned; saw the wireless operator passing.
"Yes?"--puzzled.
The other laughed. "How do you move so quickly in this heat!"
With that he climbed the ladder and vanished between the funnel and a
life-boat.
Barthélemy opened his mouth to call; shut it. The devil! Now what did
he mean? He would go up and find out.
Half-way up the ladder he halted, struck by a sudden realization, a
realization that fell like a whip. Idiot! Imbecile! Why hadn't he
understood immediately? In his cabin!
He hurried below, pausing at his door. The keyhole was dark. Without
hesitancy he thrust in the key. Unlocked! He turned the knob and
stepped in. Instantly the door slammed behind him; came the snap of the
light-switch. In the sudden glare he blinked--and stared into a bearded
face.
"I have been waiting for you, captain."
The speaker stood with his gibbous back to the door, a grim smile
on his mouth. A lock of rippling reddish hair touched a scar on his
temple, a livid crescent. Barthélemy noticed the scar; noticed also
that one hand was in his pocket. He smiled coolly.
"I should have recognized you before this; yes, in spite of the beard,
the scar, and ..." A chuckle. "A marvelous metamorphosis, Monsieur----"
"Monsieur Garon."
Barthélemy shrugged; he had recovered from his surprise. "Are you mad
to come back here?"
"Perhaps. But we are all madmen. Be seated"--his hand still in his
pocket--"and let us discuss--no, not the past; indeed, no, my dear
Barthélemy--but the future!"
Despite his deformity, he gave an impression of height and insolence.
An impudent rogue, thought Barthélemy; Guiana had not broken his
spirit. As his gaze swept him from head to foot, he had the feeling
that something, some familiar article, was lacking in his attire. It
puzzled and irritated him.
"Be seated," repeated Garon.
Barthélemy smiled. "You were always the devil for giving orders," he
returned, dropping carelessly upon the bunk.
He drew out cigarettes; passed them. His hand was steady. Garon took
one, and remained standing, back to the door. Each lighted his own
smoke, their movements deliberate. The cabin was still but for the
pulsing of the engines and a soft _cr-rr-assh_ outside the port.
"Well ... how did you do it?" thus the officer.
Garon's shoulders rose and fell. He was the personification of
unconcern as he stood there, smiling faintly, one hand in his pocket
and the other holding the cigarette. He had changed, Barthélemy
decided: there were crinkles at the corners of his eyes; his lips were
tighter. The scar and the misshapen back altered his appearance, of
course, but they had no effect upon his personality, for he bore them
with an air that completely robbed them of the power to disfigure.
Garon shrugged again.
"Some day I shall write it into a novel," he retorted, with a vague,
meaningless gesture. "It is wild, wild beyond belief."
Barthélemy could not shake off the impression that something was
lacking in the other's dress, nor could he understand why Garon's
humped back did not give him a grotesque look. He spoke.
"Futile, quite futile. I am sorry for you, profoundly, my
dear--er--Garon. Such effort wasted! Good God! And Cayenne is the
threshold of hell, is it not? Ile Diable! Ile St. Joseph! A pity!"
"Futile?"
"Yes. We are not at the Théâtre Municipal--you remember it, eh?--we
are not there, playing in a melodrama. You will not shoot me and make
a spectacular escape. No! This is reality. I, your friend, shall take
you in charge, yes, to Saigon, and"--smiling--"you shall tell what you
know of that illusive creature, Monsieur le Perroquet Noir.... Were it
not for that--indeed, how do I know you are not the Parrot himself?--I
should be tempted to forget that you are--well, what you are. Ile
Diable! Good God! I shudder!"
Garon smiled through a film of smoke--that illusive, shadowy smile of
his.
"I appreciate your delicacy of feeling, my friend," he took up. "Ile
Diable! I shudder with you! Place of plague and corruption! Le Martinet
and the Black Cell! ... True, we are not playing at the Théâtre
Municipal, yet--who can tell?--perhaps this is melodrama! Conceive
that I have here a revolver"--his hand, still in his pocket, moved
suggestively. "And conceive that I might--er ... You comprehend, my
friend?"
Barthélemy shook his head; a glimmer of humor animated his eyes.
"No, my dear Garon. You are far too clever to spoil a melodrama with a
tragic end. It would not be artistic; it is not done. The criminal is
inevitably delivered to justice!"
"But this is an age of revolutions, captain," reminded the other.
"I protest, my dear Garon. It would set a--a violent precedent."
Their eyes met through the gauzy smoke. Garon had cast off his
indifferent, callous air, and his face had settled into a grim mold.
Barthélemy no longer smiled. Presently the latter broke the tension.
"You know my duty. You cannot expect me to release you." Garon did not
speak, and he went on. "I am not hard, though the good God knows you
would be were you in my place now! You were ever hard, Monsieur--Garon.
That was why many hated you. I never did; I pitied you in your
isolation. That was why when they found a chink in your armor they
stabbed. It pleased them to think of you in exile. They would have
enjoyed it had you been locked in the Black Cell and your skin stripped
away by Le Martinet. Cruel devils, eh? You say? Perhaps. But envy is
poison."
He paused, and Garon, smiling ironically, said:
"Words! Compassion! They fell without effect upon my calloused soul!"
And he added, "I surrender."
Barthélemy held out his hand. "As visible proof I shall require
the--er--conception in your pocket"--grimly.
"There are certain conditions first."
"Conditions?"
"Yes. Speak of what you know to no one on the boat."
"Ah? That would be giving you a weapon."
"It would be----" Garon paused; drew a deep breath. "Barthélemy," he
declared, his voice charged with passionate earnestness, "I must have
time to think, to think well, before I--before I do anything. For me
this is an affair--no, not of life or death--but an affair of the
greatest importance. I will not explain. But I give my word of honor
that I will go with you to Saigon and there do as you command, if you
will allow me these few days of freedom."
Barthélemy almost laughed; checked himself. "Your word?"
A spark flashed in Garon's eyes. "Yes, my word. Fool! I could kill you
now if I wished! I could kill you with my bare hands; you know I could!
You remember there was a time when I was known as Gevrol, the garroter;
eh? You remember that, don't you? I am certain you do, for I recall
that I told you one night at the little café on the Rue Catinat. Hah!
The little café! You remember that, at least! ... So, you perceive, my
friend, that I am capable ... You hesitate? Have you ever known me to
break my word?"
"You broke a trust."
"Ah, God! You must have an Anglo-Saxon strain!"
Barthélemy shrugged. "What am I to think? Explain why you are here, why
you are returning to Saigon."
"I am--no, I was sailing from there for--ah, China, perhaps, or Japan;
somewhere."
The officer snapped his fingers. "You could have sailed from
Singapore----" He paused, frowning. "I saw you there, in the hotel. The
queer part is that I do not remember noticing your--I am brutal--your
broken back. In fact...." Another pause; his eyes narrowed. "In
fact.... The devil! I am stupid, a moron, not to have seen before!" He
broke into a laugh. "Monsieur Garon, the clever one! Name of a purple
cow! A chameleon! You change, not color but shape, and creep about
unobserved! Now you are a garroter, now a hunchback! Oh, _mon Dieu_!
Monsieur Garon--or is it Gevrol? Or what? King of chameleons!" Then he
curbed his burst of humor. "Yes, you could have sailed from Singapore,
and without danger of discovery. But you did not. Why?"
Garon, with a faintly amused expression, lifted one hand resignedly;
the other he kept in his pocket.
"If you must know, there was a matter that--well, that I desired to
close; an old debt."
"Hah! A debt! What do you mean?"
"Do you expect me to confide?" with a return of insolence.
"No--no, I do not."
"But you will grant me parole; yes?"
Barthélemy, suddenly remembering what he had overheard the previous
night, asked:
"You have a boy; what of him?"
"I picked him up in Singapore. He knows nothing."
"Perhaps. But we shall have to question him."
"As you wish."
Barthélemy furrowed his black-lacquer hair; unbuttoned his coat. After
a moment he rose and paced athwart, then halted by the port, looking
out perplexedly.
"What were you doing in here?" he demanded, swinging about suddenly.
"Waiting for you. I knew you recognized me in the companionway. I had
planned to remain out of sight as my boy told me there was a French
officer aboard, but I was indiscreet enough to go on deck in search of
a breeze at a time when I presumed all were at dinner."
Barthélemy searched the other's face: not a muscle moved. Satisfied, he
again glanced out of the port, as though seeking there a solution for
his problem.
"If I trust you and ..." he murmured. Then, turning, "There is no
trick in this? You swear?"
"I will go with you to Saigon--I and my boy--and there submit to formal
arrest. That is what you wish; yes?"
"You swear it?"
"On my honor."
Barthélemy twisted his mustache thoughtfully. "My judgment warns me,"
he said, "and yet--yet you are irresistible, my dear--the devil take
that name! Garon? Yes, Garon! I repeat, you are irresistible. You reach
for a thing, and, zut! you have it! ... Yes, undoubtedly I am a fool,
but--but I accept your word. Good night, monsieur!"
As Garon opened the door the other detained him with a gesture.
"You forgot the--er--conception?"
For answer Garon turned his pockets out. Barthélemy frowned, then a
flash of humor illuminated his face.
"Act one, my dear Garon," he remarked dryly, "falls miserably into
anticlimax."
Garon made no comment, only smiled obscurely, and went out, quietly
closing the door.
Barthélemy lighted another cigarette and seated himself on the bunk. A
frown creased his forehead. He was still possessed of the feeling that
the picture Garon presented, standing with his back to the door, was
incomplete. It did not match the mental snap-shots he had received in
Singapore and in Bangkok.... Not until after he had retired did memory
supply the missing part: suddenly, as he lay in stuffy darkness, he
remembered the blue slendong.
3
During the next two days Barthélemy saw little of Garon. A few
times they met on deck and engaged in impersonal conversation; such
encounters were inevitable. Once they played double solitaire. Garon
did not eat in the captain's mess, but had his meals served in his
cabin.
The third night the packet was due at Kep, a small town on the
Cambodian coast. At dinner the captain announced that they would not
make port until after midnight. Barthélemy amused himself at solitaire
until nine thirty, then smoked a cigar and went to bed, confident the
usual clamor would arouse him when the boat dropped anchor. He did not
believe Garon would break parole, but he intended to run no risks.
It seemed that he had scarcely succumbed to sleep before he awoke;
awoke to find himself lying in darkness that pressed down like a black
cushion. Perspiration dampened his singlet, and the garment felt cool
against his skin. He sat up, listening for the familiar wash and throb,
and hearing only faint gurgles from the open port. It required but
a second for him to understand the stillness, and, glancing at his
wrist-watch, he jumped out of the bunk. Kneeling upon the built-in
settee under the port, he thrust out his head: the opening was large
enough to include even his shoulders.
The packet made a somber shadow upon the gleam of the water. There was
no wind, not even a shore breeze, and the sea stretched away, glassy
black, to a wall of solid gloom. Great, brilliant stars jetted the sky,
multiplying their number in the still mirror beneath. In the massed
shadows shoreward hung a solitary light.
Kep. Strange, he thought, that the plunge of the anchor, with the
attendant noises, had not awakened him. He stared at the land-shadows
and made out the frail etching of a wharf. The light, he perceived,
was on the dock.
He drew in his head; slipped on straw sandals and sarong; went on deck.
The waist was dim. Fore and aft, in the pale zones created by the
globe-lamps, were what seemed detached arms and legs. A white form
loitered on the bridge; the anchor-watch, he surmised. The silence was
only emphasized by mysterious creaks and groans.
He paused at the bulwark. A flash of phosphorus, evidently created by a
large fish, made an evanescent streak of green sternward. The sound of
footsteps on the bridge drew his gaze.
"When do we get under way?" he called, his voice sounding loud in the
hush.
"As soon after daylight as possible, monsieur," came the answer. "There
is freight to be brought aboard at dawn."
Barthélemy recognized the wireless operator. The latter descended from
the bridge. He was barefooted and in pajamas.
"_Juste ciel!_" he muttered. "This heat! This place! Deadly! This
is not a country for Frenchmen, no, monsieur, not even Saigon, with
all its cafés and clubs! Heat and bad liquor and brown women! Bah!
What a life!" For a moment he discoursed upon the curse of the
tropics; then announced: "Yet I presume it can be endured if one's
work is interesting. Now mine! Routine! _Mon Dieu!_... But yours--ah,
adventure!"
"Not always," was Barthélemy's opinion.
"Eh? Well, naturally you would not think so. But me, I prefer that
branch to any other."
He unbuttoned his jacket and fanned himself with the loose ends.
"Your comrade was telling me of some of your experiences," he resumed
presently.
Barthélemy gave him an inquisitive glance. "My comrade?"
"Yes. Monsieur the Hunchback--he who sent the answer to your message."
"Answer? Message?" A trickling suspicion percolated into his
consciousness.
The wireless operator, still fanning himself, chuckled. "Oh, never
fear, Monsieur le Capitaine! I can keep as silent as--as Kep! Ha, ha!"
Barthélemy bridled the questions that came to his tongue and forced
himself to say:
"You mean, Monsieur Garon told you that he and I were agents of----"
"Yes. But I gathered as much from the message."
Barthélemy smiled grimly. A message, eh? In a flash of comprehension
he saw it all. What was it the wireless operator had said two nights
before "... one minute in your cabin ... then on deck...." Garon, the
clever! Garon, the chameleon! In his cabin! And he had even answered
the message! Barthélemy quickly pieced together the fragments; a
glaring patchwork that showed him his own stupidity. He wanted to rush
below, to confront Garon, but discretion restrained him. It would not
be wise to let the operator see he was affected by the news.
"Incidentally," he remarked, "I lost that message. Can you give me
another copy?"
"Certainly. Now?"
"Oh, no, in the morning ... yet ... shall I go up with you now?"...
They ascended to the wireless-house. There, in the glare of a
green-shaded lamp, the operator went through his files while the
_légionnaire_ stood impatiently at his side.
"Strange," muttered the former, looking up reflectively and slapping
his bare chest. "I know I filed a copy--but----" His eyes swept his
desk; then, once more, he searched the files.
"Not here"--when he had finished--"but it must be in this room. I could
swear----"
"In the morning will do," interrupted Barthélemy.
"Good. I will have found it by then, monsieur."
"Thank you. Good night--or is it morning?"
The operator laughed, and Barthélemy, eager to get below, departed.
Duped. That ran through his mind as he descended to the cabins. He
halted before Garon's door. His better judgment warned him to arm
himself first, but anger consumed reason, and, without knocking, he
tried the door. It swung inward.
The cabin was not too dark for him to see the bunk, and cold fear bit
into him. He groped for the light-switch; pressed; swore aloud. Empty.
Not even an article of clothing hanging on the wall!
For a space of seconds he stood motionless, swept by mingled rage and
chagrin. Imbecile that he was, to have trusted a thief! Worse than
imbecile! He swore again, swore savagely; then returned to the deck.
He found the wireless operator still searching.
"Have you been long on watch?" he inquired, trying not to appear
excited.
"Since we anchored."
Barthélemy plunged. "Did you see Monsieur--did you see my comrade when
he went ashore?"
"Yes"--promptly--"he was the only cabin-passenger whose berth was to
Kep. He asked to be sent ashore immediately as he wished to start at
daybreak for Pnom-penh. He has been ashore ... well, over an hour now.
You did not know he was leaving so soon, eh?"
Barthélemy took the cue. "Certainly, but--er--he forgot something,
something important."
"Shall I call the captain? He will send you----"
"Yes. I will go and dress."
He hurried down the ladder and half ran to the companionway. So he was
going overland to Pnom-penh! Or was that a false clue? Bah! His word of
honor! He should have known better.
As he groped in the dark corridor leading to his cabin he had the
peculiar sensation that the blackness absorbed him, that in leaving the
deck he had left life itself. The luminous dial of his wrist-watch
wavered before him like a fleeing soul.
At his door he halted, electrified by the touch of the knob. It
was wet. In a remote way he associated the feel of moisture with a
phosphorescent flash that he had glimpsed close to the hull.... And
suddenly he knew.
He kicked open the door, stepping back.
Within, made visible by a ghostly diffusion of light from the port,
stood a waiting figure.