A Round of Surprises
During the rest of the day the picking up of dropped threads was a
continual source of astonishment to Peter Mostyn, although it was not
the first time that he had been cut off from the outside world.
The dhow was berthed alongside the newly constructed wharf, fronting
the modest building which housed the customs and port officials of
Pangawani. The two lascars were sent to a native merchant seamen's
compound, until they could be shipped back to Bombay in accordance with
the terms of their engagement. Mahmed, greatly against his wish, was
transferred to a native hospital, on the promise given by Mostyn Sahib
that he would be allowed to accompany his master as soon as he was able
to do so. Mrs. Shallop, declining offers of hospitality from the wife
of a Customs officer, betook herself to a small hotel close to the
railway station from which the line, broken only at the as yet
unspanned Kilembonga Gorge, starts on its eight-hundred-mile run to the
provisional capital of the Kilba Protectorate.
Olive Baird, on the other hand, gratefully accepted Davis's offer to
stay with his wife until an opportunity occurred for her to take
passage home--the opportunity being determined by Peter's ability to
accompany her, and thus carry out his promise.
Dick Preston sturdily declined to go into hospital. Already he had
arranged to share rooms with Peter at the Pangawani branch of the
Imperial Mercantile Marine Club of which both officers were members.
Before Peter relinquished his command, certain formalities had to be
gone through, amongst which was the examination of the vessel by the
port officials.
The dhow's cargo was small and comparatively worthless. There were no
papers to prove her identity or of where she came.
"What's in that chest, Mr. Mostyn?" inquired the official, pointing to
the box containing the money, the lid of which Peter had nailed up.
"Coin, eh? All right, we won't open it yet. I'll wait till we get it
ashore, but I'll put a seal on it for our mutual safeguard.'"
In fact he affixed three seals bearing the impression of the arms of
the Protectorate of Kilba.
"One more thing," continued the port official. "You'll have to make a
declaration before the Head Commissioner. I'll come along with you.
We may catch him before dinner."
"Not in these trousers," objected Mostyn, indicating his disreputable
garments. "And I must go to the post office."
"Right-o," agreed the official cheerfully. "Nothing like killing three
birds with one stone. You and I are about the same build. Let me fit
you up. Comyn is my tally."
In a very short time obvious deficiencies in Peter's wardrobe were made
good. Then, accompanied by his newly found friend and benefactor, he
called in at the post office and dispatched a cablegram to his parents.
The message was characteristic of Mostyn. He did not believe in paying
for two words when one would do, especially at the rates charged by the
cable company. It was simply: "O.K. Peter".
Having discharged this act of filial duty, Mostyn suffered himself to
be led into the presence of the Head Commissioner of the Kilba
Protectorate, who happened to be on official duty at Pangawani.
With the Commissioner was the Director of Contracts. Both were under
thirty-five years of age--Britons of the forceful and energetic type to
which colonial development owes so much.
They were sitting at a large teak table littered with papers and
documents. The Director of Contracts was reading a typed cablegram.
"Infernal cheek, Carr," he exclaimed to his colleague. "We've no use
for cheap German stuff in the Protectorate. We'll turn it down."
The subject of his righteous wrath was a tender from the Pfieldorf
Company offering to supply steelwork "exactly according to the plans
and specifications of a contract that has unfortunately failed to be
executed", delivering the material at Pangawani within thirty-six days
of receipt of telegraphic order, for the sum of L55,000.
"Good!" ejaculated the Commissioner. "Tick the blighters off while you
are about it. I'd rather see the Kilembonga Gorge unbridged till the
crack of doom than have the place disfigured--yes, dishonoured, if you
like--by a Hun-made structure. It was a bad stroke of luck when the
Brocklington people's stuff went to the bottom of the sea."
The walls and doors of the official buildings were far from soundproof.
Peter, standing with Comyn outside the door, heard the words
distinctly. To him they conveyed only one explanation: that in
transport from Bulonga to Pangawani the vessel chartered for the
conveyance of the steelwork had met with disaster.
Comyn tapped at the door and was bidden to enter.
"I've brought Mr. Mostyn to report to you, sir," he explained. "Mr.
Mostyn was in charge of the dhow that landed seven survivors of the
_West Barbican_ this morning."
"We've just been talking of the _West Barbican_, Mr. Mostyn," said the
Commissioner. "We were saying how unfortunate it was that an important
consignment for us was lost in the ship. By the by, are you any
relation of Captain Mostyn, one of the managing directors of the
Brocklington Ironworks Company?"
"He's my father, sir," replied Peter. "I'm afraid, though, that I fail
to understand your reference to the loss of the steelwork."
"Hang it, man," interposed the Director of Contracts, "surely you ought
to know. You were on the ship when she went down."
"And I know it," agreed Peter grimly. "That she went down, I mean. As
for the steelwork, that was landed at Bulonga a day or so before the
disaster occurred."
"What?" demanded the Commissioner and Director of Contracts in one
breath.
Peter repeated his assertion.
"Glorious news!" exclaimed the Commissioner. "Bless my soul, what
possessed them to dump the stuff in a miserable backwater in Portuguese
territory?"
"That's for you to say, sir," replied Mostyn. "I took in the wireless
message when we were a few hours out from Durban. It came from the
Company's agent, and obviously must have emanated from here."
"Obviously fiddlesticks!" interrupted the Director of Contracts. "If
it had I would have been responsible for it. Fire away, let's have the
whole yarn."
For the best part of an hour Mostyn kept his listeners deeply
engrossed. The Commissioner completely forgot that there was a meal
waiting for him. Here was an enthralling narrative with an unsolved
mystery attached.
"Have you any available funds, Mr. Mostyn," he demanded bluntly, when
Peter had brought his story to a close.
"Precious little, sir."
"Then let me make an offer. If you accept you will be rendering a
public service and doing your father's firm a thundering good turn.
You are in no immediate hurry, I take it, to be sent home?"
Peter thought not.
"Good," continued the Commissioner. "In that case you can act as
representative to the Brocklington Ironworks Company, and deliver the
goods before the contract date. You've a good sixteen days clear.
I'll give you a credit note for a thousand pounds, and you can make
your arrangements for chartering a vessel to bring the consignment
round from Bulonga. As a matter of fact there's the _Quilboma_ lying
in harbour at the present time, waiting for cargo. She'd do admirably,
and you can get quite reasonable terms. Once the jolly old stuff is
planked down on the wharf here your father's firm has carried out its
obligation, you know."
It did not take long for Peter to accept the offer. He metaphorically
jumped at it.
"Right-o," said the Commissioner, as he dismissed his newly accredited
agent of the Brocklington Ironworks Company. "Get a move on. Over you
go and the best of luck."
Still feeling considerably mystified, Mostyn left the building.
Outside he parted with Comyn, the latter impressing on him that he
would be only too pleased to be of assistance to him in any matter and
at any time during his stay at Pangawani.
Peter went to the post office a second time. Again he cabled to his
father, but with a reckless disregard of the money he was putting into
the cable company's exchequer. He did not even wait to put the message
into code, but stated that the consignment of steel-work had not been
lost in the _West Barbican_, but had been landed at Bulonga. He
proposed chartering a tramp and bringing the consignment to Pangawani.
"That'll buck the governor up, I reckon," he soliloquized, as he handed
in the cablegram.
His next move was to interview the master of the S.S. _Quilboma_, who,
as luck would have it, was also part owner, and being badly in want of
a cargo agreed to undertake the run to Bulonga and back at a very
reasonable figure.
"When can you get under way?" inquired Peter.
"Tide time to-morrow night," was the reply. "Say about six o'clock."
Peter's peregrinations that day were by no means finished. After being
held up and interviewed by the local representative of the _Kilba
Protectorate Gazette_, who was also a correspondent to one of the
principal London dailies, he found out Olive and told her of his latest
plans.
"It won't take much more than a week--perhaps less," he explained. "I
don't think that in any case you will be able to find a homeward-bound
vessel by that time."
"I won't trouble to do so," declared the girl. "Mr. Davis and his wife
are no end of good sorts."
Preston received the news of Peter's venture with considerable envy.
"Wish I were fit enough," he remarked; "I'd come along and help you
through with it. Keep your eyes open, old man, and see if you can find
out anything about the _West Barbican_. It seems to me that somebody
in Bulonga might be able to throw out a good hint as to the cause of
the explosion. I may be wrong, but those are my sentiments. When do
you sail?"
Peter told him.
"That's unfortunate, my lad," rejoined the Acting Chief. "These people
here are giving us a lush-up to-morrow evening. Couldn't wait, I
suppose?"
Mostyn shook his head.
"Tide time," he replied briefly.
"Any time between six and nine," added Preston. "Ask the Old Man--he's
not your boss, you're employing him--to put it off say till a quarter
to nine. Then you'll be able to have most of the fun; Miss Baird and
Mrs. Shallop will be there, of course, although I guess neither of us
is particularly keen on the old woman's presence."
"She turned up trumps when she tackled the Arab," Peter reminded him.
"All right, get on with it," interposed Preston good-humouredly. "It
will be an ordeal for me, watching you fellows enjoying yourselves, an'
the doctor's shoved me on to a light diet. He didn't want to let me
go, but I'll be there, even if it snows ink."
So back to the harbour Mostyn went to interview the skipper of the
_Quilboma_ once more.
"'Tain't for me to raise objections," declared the captain, "but it's
cutting it mighty fine. Fallin' tide's at nine, d'ye see?"
He tilted back his topee and scratched his head.
"Tell you what," he continued. "I'll take her over the bar at seven
o'clock and drop killick outside, if 'tis as calm as it is to-day. Mr.
Davis's launch can put you off, and then we'll get under way directly
you come aboard. Make it four bells, if you like. There won't be much
time lost, seeing as I haven't to smell my way out on a falling tide."
The Old Man's assertion that there would be but little time lost
finally dispelled Peter's misgivings. He would have foregone the
doubtful pleasure of the lush-up ashore rather than have risked the
chance of still further delaying the delivery of the Brocklington
Ironworks Company's contract; but now, with these reassurances, Mostyn
felt that he could accept the hospitality of the new-found friends
without any pinpricks of conscience.
Punctually at the time stated Peter presented himself at the club.
Already the Head Commissioner and the port officials were there to
welcome their guests.
A little later a rickshaw trundled up to the entrance, and Preston put
in an appearance, assisted by a couple of the club servants.
Then, in Peter's eyes at least, a radiant vision arrived, as Olive
Baird, simply yet daintily dressed in one of Mrs. Davis's evening
frocks, and escorted by her host and hostess, was ushered into the
ante-room.
Her introduction to the Head Commissioner took a very considerable
time--at least Peter thought so--while others of the Pangawani
community flocked up to the girl like flies round a honey-pot.
At length the Head Commissioner suggested that it was time to adjourn
to the dining-room.
"We're all here, I take it?" he inquired.
"Mrs. Shallop hasn't arrived yet," replied one of his colleagues, who,
although deputed beforehand to take the lady into dinner, was in total
ignorance of what she was like or of her rather outstanding mannerisms.
"We sent a rickshaw to her hotel an hour ago, sir."
Before the Commissioner could make any remark upon the lady's absence a
native servant approached, salaamed, and offered a silver plate upon
which was a pencilled note.
"Excuse me a moment," said the Commissioner to his guests.
He pulled aside the bamboo chik that separated the ante-room from the
foyer. As he strode out Peter noticed that there was a tall man in a
drill uniform standing in front of a couple of native policemen.
Mostyn was not in the least curious. He was aware that the leisure
time of a highly-placed official is hardly ever free from interruptions
upon matters of state. But he was considerably surprised when a couple
of minutes later the Head Commissioner pulled aside the curtain and
said:
"Mr. Mostyn, may I speak to you for a few moments?"
Peter went out. The uniformed officer and the two policemen were
standing stiffly at attention.
The Commissioner without any preamble plunged into facts.
"This is Inspector Williams of the Kilba Protectorate Police Force," he
announced. "He holds a warrant for the arrest of Mrs. Shallop, or, to
give her--or, rather, him--his correct name, Benjamin Skeets. He is
very badly wanted at home for extensive frauds on the United Trusts
Banking Company. His partner in crime, Joseph Shales, whom probably
you know under the name of Mr. Shallop, is already in the hands of the
Union of South Africa Police. I suppose this is news to you?"
"It is, sir," replied the astonished Mostyn.
"You had no suspicion of the true sex of Mrs. Shallop?"
"None whatever."
"Had he any money when he came ashore?"
"Not to my knowledge, sir."
"Well, the fact remains," rejoined the Head Commissioner drily, "that
Mr. Benjamin Skeets has given us the slip; although, we hope, we may
possibly lay hands on him before long. He can't get very far away.
All right, Williams, carry on. Keep me informed directly you hear
anything of a definite nature. Come along, Mostyn; we'll rejoin the
others. Not a word about this till after dinner."