will believe you."
"But don't you think I'm telling the truth?"
"No. I know you are not. Morton told me that you were obsessed by the
belief that you've been the victim of some very cunning plot, and that
you were drugged," said the captain. "Now, just forget all about it,
and enjoy your trip!" he added good-humouredly.
"Ah! This person, Morton, has told you, has he? He told you so as to
discredit me when I explained to you the truth," cried Durrant. "But
what I have told you are the true facts."
"Oh, of course they are!" laughed the captain.
"But don't let us discuss it any more."
"Where did I come on board?"
"Why, at Hull, of course. Four days ago."
"At Hull!" gasped Gerald. "I have no recollections of ever having been
in Hull."
"Neither have you any recollections of ever having been born, eh?"
remarked Bowden, with biting sarcasm.
"Did Morton bring me on board?"
"Certainly."
"And he paid you to take me on this trip?"
"No, excuse me. We pay you. You've signed on as steward at a bob a day
wages. We're not licensed to carry passengers. The Board o' Trade
don't like such old tubs as the _Pentyrch_. Yet she's a good old boat,
I'll say that much for her. You'll see England again all right, never
fear--unless the bloomin' boilers burst. They're none too strong, I'm
afraid."
"You're not over cheerful, Captain Bowden," the young man remarked, more
puzzled than ever at the extraordinary situation.
"Oh, I'm cheerful enough. It's you who seems to be a-worryin' over
things."
"Well, and wouldn't you worry if you were drugged, waking first to find
yourself locked in a strange room, and then again wakening a second time
to discover yourself at sea?"
"You want rest, my dear young fellow--rest! And you'll get it here on
the old tub. The weather will be better when we get along the West
Coast."
"How can I send a message to London?"
"We ain't got wireless. Too expensive for such a hooker as this. It
means an operator with lightnin' round his cap. So you'll have to wait
till we get to Singapore, and then you can cable."
Wait for five or six weeks till the vessel arrived at Singapore! What
would Marigold think? What was she thinking now?
He was, of course, in ignorance of those cleverly worded and reassuring
telegrams.
"Can't I get a message ashore anyhow--by signal to one of Lloyd's
stations?" he begged.
"No, you can't, for we're going straight out. Usually we go up the
Mediterranean and through the Canal, but this trip we're going round the
Cape."
"But surely you will allow me to communicate with my friends, captain!"
he urged in distress.
"You certainly could if we had orders to put in anywhere. But we
haven't. I can't send a letter to my missus, for instance. She'll know
of our arrival at Singapore because the owners will send her a line, as
they always do."
"All this is maddening!" declared Durrant, angrily stamping his foot.
"Yes, Morton said you were a bit eccentric, and it seems that you are!"
remarked Bowden, taking down his shiny black oilskin which had borne the
brunt of many a storm.
"I must go on the bridge--or Hutton will be cursing," he added. "Get
your oilskin--you've got one in your cabin--and go and have a blow on
deck. It will do you good--blow out the cobwebs, and freshen up your
memory a bit."
Gerald returned to his cabin and found a black oilskin hanging behind
the door. He put it on and, taking an old golf cap, ascended the
hatchway to the deck, which was, ever and anon, being drenched with salt
spray.
A glance around showed the _Pentyrch_ to be a dirty old tramp, which was
loping along in the teeth of a northerly gale.
"See yonder!" exclaimed the captain, pointing to a little line of land.
"That's the last bit of Europe we'll see! To-morrow the weather will be
a lot better. Have a look round the ship before dinner. And don't you
trouble about that marvellous plot against you. There's nothing at all
in it--take it from me! Your friends are all aware of your
hallucinations, and they are much pained by them. So just keep
quiet--and rest all you can."
While Bowden ascended to the bridge to relieve the first mate, Gerald
explored the ship. He came across one or two rough sailors, who either
wished him a sullen "Good-day," or stared at him as though he were some
new species.
As a matter of fact, Bowden had given it out to the crew that their
passenger was an eccentric, but harmless young man, who was labouring
under the delusion that an attempt had been made to kill him. Hence the
men's curiosity.
Gerald Durrant was unused to the sea, and in his present unstrung
condition, he was indeed scarcely responsible for his actions.
But what the captain had told him had astounded him. The description of
his mysterious "friend" Morton--a man who was evidently his
enemy--certainly did not tally with that of Bernard Boyne.
Yet he could not erase from his mind the suspicion that Boyne had had a
hand in that plot by which he had been carried away from London--just at
a moment when his presence there was so much needed.
Again, as he stood against the hatchway gazing wistfully at the distant
French coast that was fast disappearing, the thought suddenly occurred
to him that if his disappearance was actually due to Boyne, then the
latter must have, somehow or other, discovered the fact that he was
keeping him under observation.
If Boyne had really found it out, then he would also know that Marigold
had been assisting him. This would, no doubt, lead him to suspect the
real motive of her two stays at Bridge Place.
Bernard Boyne would entrap her--just as he had been entrapped!
In his despair he saw himself powerless, either to warn or to assist the
girl he so fondly loved!
*CHAPTER XXII*
*FROM OUT THE PAST*
After Boyne, his wife, and Ena Pollen--the trio of
death-dealers--received the news of the death of Augusta Morrison, the
go-to-meeting insurance agent of Hammersmith had left the flat and gone
forth into Upper Brook Street. He had to meet a man in the smoke-room
of the Carlton.
Suddenly, as he passed beneath a street lamp on his way towards Park
Lane, a well-dressed girl accosted him, exclaiming with a strong French
accent:
"Ah! M'sieur Bennett! At last! I have wanted to see you for--oh! for
so long--long time!"
Boyne started. The maid, Celine, for it was she, was the very last
person in the world that he desired to meet at that moment. All had
been successfully conducted concerning Augusta Morrison, but here arose
the aftermath of a very ugly affair--the death of old Mr. Martin in
Chiswick.
At first he pretended not to recognise the girl who had been paid off by
Ena, for he hoped to wriggle out of the precarious situation by bluff.
"No, no, m'sieur," cried the girl. "Surely you recollect me! I am
Celine--who was maid to madame--your friend! You remember poor Mr.
Martin--who died so suddenly--eh?" she asked.
He tried to extricate himself, but instantly it occurred to him that she
was resuming her blackmail, and that if they were to save themselves,
she must be paid more money. She knew something concerning old Martin's
sudden end. That was plain. Therefore, she would have to be silenced.
In every walk of life to-day the blackmailer of both sexes is to be
found in one guise or another.
"And are you really Celine?" he laughed, halting beneath the next lamp,
for she had joined him and had walked beside him.
"I am. Madame lives in the house you have just left. I saw her in
Melun a little time ago. She so kindly called upon me."
As the girl uttered these words a man joined them, a tall, rather
cadaverous-looking stranger in black, evidently a Frenchman.
"This is Monsieur Galtier--Henri Galtier," she explained, introducing
them.
"Ah! I recollect. Madame told me that you are to be married--eh,
Celine? I congratulate you," said Boyne in an affable manner. "Pardon
my foolishness, but at first I did not recognise you as my friend."
The latter word was intentionally diplomatic.
"Yes, I thought you would recollect!" said the girl. "Is Madame
upstairs? I want so much to see her."
"No," replied Boyne. "She isn't. I've just called, but she's out."
"There are lights in her windows," remarked the man Galtier in very good
English.
"Servants, I suppose," said Boyne carelessly. "I myself went to see her
upon some business--about some shares upon which she has asked my
advice. She's gone away for the week-end, it seems."
"H'm!" grunted the Anglo-Frenchman. "How are we to know that?"
"Well, I tell you so," was Boyne's blunt response.
"Do you know, M'sieur Bennett, that Madame told me that you were dead?
That you died of influenza, and here now you are coming from her house!"
said the good-looking French girl.
"Yes; she believed that I was dead. I was away on business in Italy,
and some fool spread the report that I had died in a hotel in Naples,"
laughed Boyne, yet inwardly full of concern. "But it was a shock to her
when one afternoon I called."
Celine Tenot was not convinced. She had already received thirty
thousand francs to keep a still tongue, but as a matter of fact her
lover, Galtier, saw that it would be interesting, in more ways than one,
to probe the mystery of the death of old Mr. Martin.
The ill-assorted trio walked together as far as Park Lane. At the
corner the man Galtier halted, and addressing the girl in French, said:
"We'll go back, Celine, and see if Madame is really absent, as M'sieur
Bennett alleges."
"She is away!" exclaimed Boyne angrily. "Haven't I told you so? Don't I
want to see her myself?"
The Frenchman laughed in his face.
"No, no, my dear m'sieur! Do not tell any more lies. We saw you go in
a long time ago. You dined there, and Madame is there. We both want to
see her--on--on some important business!"
Bernard Boyne held his breath. He was cornered. He had successfully put
Gerald Durrant out upon the high seas, but here was Celine, with her
lover, watching them enter Ena's flat in order to await the news of the
death of their latest victim!
"It's surely late to do business with a lady," remarked Boyne, for want
of something else to say. In his excitement over the successful
conclusion of the Morrison affair, he was now met with a very unexpected
and serious contretemps.
Ena believed that she had successfully settled with the girl, but it was
evident that Galtier was a blackmailer who intended to bleed them to the
utmost.
Indeed, he had not been long in revealing his hand.
"I think, Mr. Bennett--or whatever your real name may be--you had better
drop this mask," the Frenchman said, with a sardonic grin. "Let us come
down to the same plane. The fact is you're a crook--and so am I,
perhaps. Now then! What about it?"
"Let's walk along," the girl suggested in French.
The trio walked together, Bernard Boyne between the pair. They strolled
down Park Lane to Hyde Park Corner, but their conversation was mostly in
monosyllables.
Boyne was wondering how he could extricate himself from the highly
perilous situation. It was evident that this shrewd Frenchman, who had
so suddenly risen in the placid firmament of their future, knew
something concerning the death of old Martin.
How much did he know? That was the question.
At first Boyne tried to fence with the pair, but soon he saw that it was
of no avail. They both laughed at him openly, and it was clear that
they had been watching him for several days.
"Now," slid Galtier, as they halted upon the pavement opposite the Hyde
Park tube station "what are you going to do? Will you take us back to
Madame, or are you going to lie to us further? Now then!"
Boyne saw himself at a dead end.
He had never dreamed that the smart French girl of Melun, who had been
paid so handsomely by Ena, would again resume her claims. But, of
course, the man Galtier was behind her and had, no doubt, prompted her.
Fortunately, they could know nothing of the Morrison affair--or, indeed,
of the clever plots which they were conducting against other perfectly
innocent victims. Life assurance is always a gamble, but when one can
guarantee death within dates then one holds a winning hand every time.
"Madame isn't at home," repeated Boyne sulkily. "Call there on Monday.
She'll be back then."
"No, my dear M'sieur Bennett," replied the clerk from the Mairie of
Chantilly. "If we call then she will have gone, and so will your wife."
And he laughed lightly. "You see, I haven't been in London all these
weeks without discovering something about all three of you!"
"But I don't see why you should come over from France to pry into our
affairs. What can it benefit you?" asked Boyne, who, though excited,
kept cool with difficulty.
"Oh! never fear, it will benefit us. We know how and why old Mr. Martin
died so unexpectedly in Chiswick. We shall also know, ere long, how
other insured persons have died, _mon cher ami_. So we had better turn
back and have a little business chat with Celine's late mistress, and
with your wife. That, perhaps, will clear the atmosphere."
"Ah! I see you want money! Both of you--eh?" snapped Boyne.
"Possibly," was the hesitating reply. "But perhaps it would be to our
better advantage to tell the police what we know."
"That's a threat!" cried Boyne indignantly. "I allow no man to threaten
me!" he declared boldly. "Go back to Madame's house. You are welcome. I
am not her keeper."
"I would prefer to deal with you first, M'sieur Bennett."
"I don't want to have any dealings with a person who holds out threats,"
was his answer. "Madame paid Celine because she dismissed her without
notice," he went on carelessly. "Just act as you wish. And I wish you
joy. But please don't bother me further."
He was turning away when the Frenchman rushed after him, and stood on
the pavement before him.
"Is this your final decision?" he asked fiercely, as he barred Boyne's
way.
"Yes. You've come here to blackmail me," replied Boyne; "but you'll not
get a sou out of me. Why should I pay you anything? I don't know you!
I've never seen you before in my life!"
"But you will be very pleased to settle," snarled the fellow in English.
"I shan't, and if you are not very careful I'll give you in charge of
the police for attempted blackmail."
"You swine!" cried Galtier between his teeth.
"The same to you, my dear friend--and a size larger; a bigger breed!"
laughed Boyne defiantly.
Both the man and the girl were silent for a few moments, when the latter
suddenly broke out into a torrent of abuse and vituperation.
Her companion tried to calm her, but in French she cried loudly:
"These people are assassins! I know what I overheard on the night when
poor Monsieur Martin died. They killed him! And he was always very
good to me--poor M'sieur! Madame is a fiend!" she went on. "I do not
want her dirty money. I want to see her pay the penalty which all those
who murder should pay!"
Boyne saw that his bluff had not succeeded. He had to deal with a very
perilous situation. A false step might lead them all to the Old Bailey.
The pair had evidently been watching them, and were aware that his wife
and Ena were both in the flat.
"Well," he laughed harshly, "you both appear to be on the wrong track.
Celine has, it seems, suspicions about something which she once
overheard. What it was, I do not know, because I wasn't there; but I
tell you, both of you, that as far as I care you can go to the devil!
I've nothing to ask of you--nothing to fear!
"You really mean that--eh?" cried the lank, bony Frenchman.
"Certainly I do. Clear out--and now at once, otherwise I'll call the
first constable and give you in charge for attempted blackmail!" said
Boyne, standing erect before him. "We've had foreign blackmailers here
before--lots of them--but we've no use for them in London."
"But Madame paid me to say nothing," urged Celine.
"What Madame did does not concern me in the least," he snapped. "She
generously gave you something, I believe, because she considered that
she had treated you shabbily. That's all!"
An awkward pause ensued.
"Very well," exclaimed Galtier. "We are enemies. Let it be so!
"Of course we are enemies!" Boyne cried in a defiant tone that rather
nonplussed the Frenchman.
"Tres bien!" he exclaimed.
"Excellent," said the wily Boyne. "Let it be so, as you say. We are
enemies. So go back to Upper Brook Street and find madame. Go and try
to blackmail her. Meanwhile I shall call the next constable I meet and
give you both in charge as undesirable foreigners."
The Frenchman, however, only laughed in his face, saying:
"Yes, do so, _mon cher ami_! I fancy you would regret such an action.
But we are enemies, and at any rate, I intend to see madame, your
friend."
"You want money, eh?" growled Boyne, as they stood together on the kerb.
"Perhaps we do--and perhaps we do not. It all depends upon your
attitude--and madame's!" he replied, with mock politeness. "The mystery
of the death of Monsieur Martin requires elucidating, and Celine can do
that--when it becomes necessary."
"I don't understand you," Boyne said. "What about the old man's death?"
"Now, that's quite enough!" cried Galtier, in impatient anger. "It's no
use you, of all men, pleading ignorance, Mr. Bennett. Celine has
already had a little present from madame to keep a still tongue,
and----"
"And you want a bit more, eh?" asked Boyne bluntly.
"No. That's just where you are mistaken, my friend!" was the
Frenchman's reply. "Monsieur Martin died in mysterious circumstances,
of which both madame and yourself are well aware, and it is but right
that the police should know the truth, _otherwise we may have other
people dying in a similar manner_!"
Those last words of his caused Boyne to wince. For what reason, if not
with the object of blackmail, had Henri Galtier and Celine Tenot come to
London and tracked them down?
He knew that Ena had been indiscreet in her conversation after old
Martin's death, but he had believed that her visit to Melun and the
payment to the girl had put matters quite right. It seemed to him,
however, that Celine was entirely under the influence of that municipal
employe from Chantilly, whose attitude was decidedly hostile.
"Well," Boyne asked of the man, "if you don't want money, what in the
devil's name do you want?"
"I want to prevent you from playing any more of your hellish tricks upon
innocent people. That's what I want!" was the Frenchman's hard reply,
in a tone which left no doubt as to his firm intentions.
*CHAPTER XXIII*
*THE CRY IN THE NIGHT*
Marigold, hoping against hope, went each day from Wimbledon to the bank,
where she sat adding and subtracting figures--always wondering. Each
morning, after a hurried breakfast, she dashed to the station and hung
upon a swaying strap till she got to the City. Each evening she
repeated the same experience home.
Gerald was missing. No further word had come nom him. She waited as
each day passed--waited eagerly, but he gave no sign. Each day she went
to eat her frugal meal at the same little place, but his familiar figure
never appeared in the doorway, as she knew it so well. His sister had
heard nothing, and at Mincing Lane they were beginning to think that he
had simply left his post without notice, perhaps in order to better
himself.
For Marigold the days passed wearily enough. Where was he? True, he had
sent her reassuring telegrams, but even they had ceased! He had given
no address, therefore she was unable to reply.
She was, of course, in utter ignorance that her lover was on the high
seas bound for the Far East, and that the reassuring telegrams she had
received were forgeries.
The abnormal brain of Bernard Boyne worked quickly, and ever with
criminal intent. He was possessed of the criminal "kink," and was also
possessed of a super-mind for the evasion of any attempt at detection.
Such men, "Jack the Ripper" of London, "Romer" of Madrid, "Lightning
Lasky" of New York, and the "Ermito" of Rome--all of them famous
criminals who have never been discovered by the police of Europe, though
traps were set for them by the dozen--were exactly on a par with the
humble insurance agent of Hammersmith, the highly popular "Busy Boyne."
One evening, three days after the news had been forthcoming concerning
the death of Mrs. Morrison, Marigold went over to see her aunt at
Hammersmith, arriving there about seven o'clock.
"Hulloa, my dear!" shouted old Mrs. Felmore, when she entered the
downstairs kitchen. "Well, and how have you been, eh? Heard anything
of Mr. Durrant yet?"
"Not a word, auntie," replied the girl wearily.
"And funny enough Mr. Boyne's gone away. I haven't seen him these last
three days. I can't think where he can be. I have a kind of feeling
that something must have happened to him," said the deaf old woman.
"Why, auntie?" asked the girl, placing her hand-bag upon the table and
sinking into a chair.
"Well, he's never gone away like this before. He always tells me when
he intends being away."
"When was he at home last?"
"Three days ago. He went out in the evening, and he's not returned.
I've had to feed poor little Nibby, or he'd be starving," replied the
woman.
"Yes, auntie, it is curious that Mr. Boyne isn't back."
"It's so lonely here. I get such creepy feelings at night, dear," said
the woman. "It's bad enough to be here all day alone, but--well, I
don't know, but I have a feeling that something is going to happen."
That feeling would have been greatly increased had she but known that,
not ten minutes before, Boyne had stood at the corner of the street and
watched the girl enter his house. Indeed, he had waited outside the
bank, and had seen Marigold come out. Then he had followed her, and
with satisfaction, when she had taken the underground to Hammersmith.
As he followed her in the crowd along the street, he muttered some
sinister words beneath his breath:
"I have dealt with your lover, young lady," he growled to himself. "Now
I must lose no time in dealing with you. You have only yourselves to
blame for trying to poke your noses into my private affairs!"
Then he watched her disappear down the area steps, and afterwards
crossed the bridge, and made a call upon a man he knew who lived in
Castelnau Mansions.
Old Mrs. Felmore got her niece some cold meat and tea, for the girl had
taken off her coat and hat, having decided to spend the evening with her
aunt.
Much of their conversation concerned Gerald Durrant. The abrupt manner
of his departure was, of course, a complete mystery, but the old woman
inwardly had her doubts. What more likely than that Durrant, like so
many other young men, had grown suddenly tired of Marigold and had
"faded out," sending those reassuring telegrams in order to lighten the
blow which he knew the poor girl would receive? This, indeed, was her
fixed opinion, though naturally she said nothing of it to her niece.
"Auntie," said the girl presently, "I can't help feeling that something
serious has happened to Gerald. I seem to become more apprehensive day
by day, until I can't work--I can only sit and think--and think!"
"No, no, dearie," exclaimed the old woman cheerfully. "You mustn't let
it get on your nerves. Those telegrams he sent told you not to worry.
And I wouldn't--if I were you! It will all come right in the end."
"Ah!" sighed the girl. "Will it?--that is the question. Time is going
by, and we hear nothing."
"He's probably in Paris--or somewhere--on some confidential business for
his firm."
"But his firm know nothing of his whereabouts."
"Well, if he had gone on some secret business they would naturally
profess ignorance," the woman pointed out.
"Do you know, I'm half inclined to go to the police and consult them,"
Marigold said.
"Ah! That's not a bad idea!" her aunt replied. "Go to the head
police-station just outside the Broadway, and ask their opinion. They
would take his description and advise you what to do, no doubt. I'd go
to-morrow."
"I shan't have time to-morrow," the girl said. "I'll go round now. It's
only nine o'clock." And, putting on her hat and coat, she went along to
the headquarters of the T Division of Metropolitan Police.
But as she passed along the streets a dark figure went noiselessly
behind her--the sinister figure of Bernard Boyne. She was going in the
direction of the Underground Railway station, hence he concluded that
she was on her way home.
He, however, received a rude and sudden shock when he saw her halt
beneath the blue lamp, and ascend the steps of the police-station.