The Goal of the “L’Escaut”
Inspector French had gone to bed in the tiny but comfortable stateroom
which had been put at his disposal by the officers of the Admiralty
boat while that redoubtable vessel was slipping easily and on an even
keel through the calm waters of the Straits of Dover. He awoke next
morning to find her plunging and rolling and staggering through what,
in comparison with his previous experiences of the sea, appeared to be
a frightful storm. To his surprise, however, he did not feel any bad
effects from the motion, and presently he arose, and having with
extreme care performed the ticklish operation of shaving, dressed and
climbed with the aid of railings and handles to the companionway, and
so to the deck.
The sight which met his eyes on emerging made him hold his breath, as
he clung to the rail at the companion door. It was a wonderful
morning, clear and bright and fresh and invigorating. The sun shone
down from a cloudless sky on to a dark sapphire sea of incredible
purity, flecked over with foaming patches of dazzling white. As far as
the eye could reach in every direction out to the hard sharp line of
the horizon, great waves rolled relentlessly onward, wavelets dancing
and churning and foaming on their slow-moving flanks. The wind caught
French and, as if it were a solid, held him pinned against the
deckhouse. He stood watching the bluff bows of the boat rise in the
air, then crash back into the sea, throwing out a smother of water and
foam some of which would seep over the fo’c’sle, and after swirling
through the forward deck hamper, disappear through the scuppers
amidships.
For some moments he watched, then moving round the deckhouse, he
glanced up and saw Cheyne and Price beckoning to him from the bridge,
where they had joined the officer of the watch.
“Some morning this, Inspector,” Price cried, as he joined them in the
lee of the weather canvas. “This will blow the London cobwebs out of
our minds.”
He was evidently keenly enjoying himself, and even Cheyne’s anxious
face showed appreciation of his surroundings. And soon French himself,
having realized that they were not necessarily going to the bottom in
a hurricane, but merely running down Channel in a fresh southwesterly
breeze, began to feel the thrill of the sea, and to believe that the
end of his quest was going to develop into a novel and delightful
holiday trip.
The same weather held all that day and the next, but on the third the
wind fell, and the sea gradually calmed down to a slow, easy swell.
The sun grew hotter, and basking in it in the lee of the deckhouse
became a delight. Little was said about the object of the expedition.
French and Price were content to enjoy the present, and Cheyne managed
to keep his anxieties to himself. The ship’s officers were a jolly
crowd, immensely excited by their quest, and conducting themselves as
the kindly hosts of welcome guests.
On the fourth day it grew still warmer, indeed out of the breeze made
by the ship’s motion it was unpleasantly hot. French liked to get away
forward, where it was cooler, and leaned by the hour over the bows,
watching the sharp stem cut through the water and roll back in its
frothing wave on either side. Dolphins were now to be seen swimming in
the clear water, and two hung at the bows, one on each side,
apparently motionless for long periods, until suddenly they would dart
ahead, spiral round one another and then return to their places.
That fourth evening the captain joined his passengers as the trio were
smoking on deck.
“If we carry on like this,” he remarked, “we should reach the position
about four A.M. But those beggars may be taking a risk and not showing
a light, so I propose to slow down from now on, in order not to arrive
till daylight. Come on deck about six. If they’re here we should raise
them between then and seven.”
French, waking early next morning, could not control his excitement
and remain in his berth until the allotted time. He rose at five, and
went on deck with the somewhat shamefaced feeling that he was acting
as a small boy, who on Christmas morning must needs get up on waking
to investigate the possibilities of stockings. But he need not have
feared ridicule from his companions. Both Cheyne and Price were
already on the bridge, and the skipper stood with his telescope glued
to his eye as he searched the horizon ahead. All three were evidently
thrilled by the approaching finale, and a slight incoherence was
discernible in their somewhat scrappy conversation.
The morning was calm and very clear. Once again the sky was cloudless,
and the soft southwesterly wind barely ruffled the surface of the long
flat swells. It was a pleasure to be alive, and it seemed impossible
to associate crime and violence with the expedition. But beneath their
smiles all concerned felt it might easily develop into a grim enough
business. And that side of it became more apparent when at the
captain’s order the covers of the six-pounders mounted fore and aft
were removed, and the weapons were prepared for action by their crews.
The hands of French’s watch had just reached the quarter hour after
six, when Captain Amery, who had once again been sweeping the horizon
with his telescope, said quietly: “There she is.” He handed the glass
to French. “See there, about three points on the starboard bow.”
French, with some difficulty steadying the tube, saw very faint and
far off what looked like the upper part of a steamer’s deck, with a
funnel, and two masts like threads of the finest gossamer. “She’s
still hull down,” the captain explained. “You’ll see her better in a
few minutes. We should be up with her in three-quarters of an hour.”
In order to leave them free later on, it was decided to have breakfast
at once, and by the time the hasty meal had been disposed of the
stranger was clearly visible to the naked eye. She lay heading
westward, as though anchored in the swing of the tide, and her fires
appeared to be either out or banked, as no smoke was visible at her
funnel. The glass revealed a flag at her forepeak, but she was still
too far off to make out its coloring.
Now that the dramatic climax was approaching, the minds of the actors
in the play became charged with a very real anxiety. Captain Amery,
under almost any circumstances, would have to deal with a very
ticklish situation. He had to get the gold, if it was salvable, and
the fact that they were not in British waters would be a complication
if the Belgian had already recovered it. French had to ascertain if
his quarry were on board, and if so, see that they did not escape
him—also a difficult job outside the three-mile limit. For Price a
fortune hung in the balance—not of course all the gold that might be
found, but the proportion allowed him by law; while for Cheyne there
remained something a thousand times more important than the capture of
a criminal or the acquisition of a fortune—for Cheyne the question of
Joan Merrill’s life was at stake. Their several anxieties were
reflected on the faces of the men, as they stood in silence, watching
the rapidly growing vessel.
Presently an exclamation came from Captain Amery.
“By Jove!” he said, “this is a rum business. I can see that flag now,
and it’s our red ensign. What’s a Belgian boat doing with a British
flag? And what’s more, it’s jack down—a flag of distress. What do you
think of that?” He looked at the others with a puzzled expression,
then went on: “I suppose they’re not armed? You don’t know, Inspector,
do you? If they were armed it would be a likely enough ruse to get us
close by, so as to make sure of hitting us in a vital place.”
French shook his head. He had heard nothing about arms, though for all
he knew to the contrary the _L’Escaut_ might carry a gun.
“I don’t see one,” the captain continued, “but then if they have one
they’d keep it hidden. But I don’t like there being no signs of life
aboard her. There’s no smoke anywhere, either from her boilers or her
galley. There’s no one on the bridge, and I’ve not seen a movement on
deck. It doesn’t look well: in fact it looks as if they were lying low
and waiting for us.”
They were now within a mile of the stranger, and her details were
clear even to the naked eye.
“It’s the _L’Escaut_ anyway,” Captain Amery went on. “I can see the
name on her bows. But I confess I don’t like that flag and that
silence. I think I’ll see if I can wake her up.”
He put his hand on the foghorn halliard and blew a number of
resounding blasts. For a few seconds nothing happened, then suddenly
two figures appeared at the deckhouse door, and after a moment’s
pause, rushed up on the bridge and began waving furiously. As they
passed up the bridge ladder they came from behind the shelter of a
boat and their silhouettes became visible against the sky. They were
both women!
A strangled cry burst from Cheyne as he snatched the captain’s
telescope and gazed at them, then with a shout of “It’s she! It’s
she!” he leaped to the end of the bridge and began waving his hat
frantically.
At this moment two other figures appeared on the fo’c’sle and,
apparently moving to the vessel’s side, stood watching the newcomers.
Amery rang his engines down to half speed and, slightly porting his
helm, headed for some distance astern of the other. Then starboarding,
he swung round, and bringing up parallel to her and some couple of
hundred yards away, he dropped anchor.
Without loss of a moment a boat was lowered, and French, Cheyne,
Price, the first officer, and a half dozen men, all armed with service
revolvers, tumbled in. Giving way lustily, they pulled for the
Belgian.
It was by this time possible to distinguish the features of the women,
and French was not surprised to learn they were Joan Merrill and Susan
Dangle. Evidently they recognized Cheyne, who kept waving furiously as
if he found the movement necessary to relieve his overwrought
feelings. The two figures forward were those of men, and these stood
watching the boat, though without exhibiting any of the transports of
delight of their fellow shipmates on the bridge.
As they drew closer Joan made signs to them to go round to the other
side of the ship, and dropping round her stern they saw a ladder
rigged. In a few seconds they were alongside, and Cheyne, leaping out
before the others, rushed up the steps and reached the deck.
If there had been any doubts as to the real relations between himself
and Joan, these were set at rest at that moment. Instinctively he
opened his arms, and Joan, swept off her feet by her emotion, threw
herself into them and clung to him, while tears of joy and relief ran
down her cheeks. As far as Cheyne was concerned, Susan Dangle, the
figures on the fo’c’sle, French, and the men behind him might as well
not have existed. He crushed Joan violently to him, covering her face
and hair with burning kisses, as he murmured brokenly of his love and
of his thankfulness for her safety.
French, anxious to learn the state of affairs and seeing nothing was
to be got from Joan, turned expectantly to Susan Dangle. What could
these unexpected developments mean? Was Susan, the enemy, now a
friend? Where were the others? Were the ship’s company friends or
foes? Could he ask her questions which might incriminate her without
giving her a formal warning?
But his curiosity would brook no delay.
“I am Inspector French of Scotland Yard,” he announced, while Price
and the first officer stood round expectantly. “You are Miss Susan
Dangle. Where are the other members of this expedition?”
The girl wrung her hands, and he noticed how terribly pale and drawn
was her face and what horror shone in her eyes.
“Oh!” she cried, with a gesture as if to shut out the sight of some
hideous dream. “Oh, it’s been awful! I can’t speak of it. They’re
dead! My brother James, Charles Sime, Mr. Merkel, most of the crew,
dead—all dead! Mr. Blessington wounded—probably dying! They got
fighting over the gold!” She began suddenly to laugh, a terrible high
cackling laugh, that made her hearers shiver, and attracted the
attention even of Joan and Cheyne.
French stepped quickly forward and seized her arm.
“There now, Miss Dangle,” he said kindly but firmly. “Stop that and
pull yourself together. Your terrible experiences are over now and
you’re in the hands of friends. But you mustn’t give way like this.
Make an effort, and you’ll be better directly.” He led her to a
hatchway and made her sit down, while he continued soothing her as one
would a fractious child.
But so great was the agitation of both girls that it was quite a
considerable time before the tragic tale of the _L’Escaut’s_
expedition became fully unfolded. And when at last it was told it
proved still but one more illustration of the old truth that the
qualities of greed and envy and selfishness have that seed of decay
within themselves which leads their unhappy victims to overreach
themselves, and instead of gaining what they seek, to lose their all.
Shorn of incoherent phrases and irrelevant details the story was this.
On the 24th of May the _L’Escaut_ had left Antwerp with twenty-eight
souls aboard. Aft there were Joan, Susan, Blessington, Sime, Dangle,
and Merkel, with the captain, first officer, and engineer—nine
persons, while forward were three divers, six assistants, a cook, a
steward, four seamen, and four engine-room staff, or nineteen
altogether. Once clear of the Scheldt Joan’s treatment had changed.
Her food was no longer drugged, and when in a few days she got over
the effects of the doses she had received, she found her jailers
polite and friendly and anxious to minimize the inconvenience and
anxiety she was suffering. They told her they did not wish her evil,
and were taking her with them simply to prevent information as to
themselves or their affairs leaking out through her. This, of course,
she did not believe, since she did not possess sufficient information
about them to enable her to interfere with their plans. But later
their real motive dawned on her. Gradually she realized that
Blessington had fallen in love with her, and though he was circumspect
enough, her distrust of him was such that she felt sick with horror
and dread when she thought of him. Nothing, however, had occurred to
which she could take exception, and had it not been for her fears as
to her own fate and her anxieties as to Cheyne’s, the voyage would
have been pleasant enough.
The _L’Escaut_ was a fast boat, and four days had brought them to the
spot referred to in the cipher. After three days’ search they found
the wreck, and all three divers had at once gone down. A week was
spent in making an examination of the vessel, at the end of which time
they had located the gold. It was in her stern, low down and not far
from her port side. The divers recommended blowing her plates off at
this spot, and ten days more sufficed for this. Through the hole thus
made the divers were able to draw in tackle lowered from the
_L’Escaut_, and the ingots of gold were slung to cradles and drawn up
with really wonderful ease and speed. They had, moreover, been favored
with a peculiarly fine stretch of weather, work having to be suspended
on only eight days of the thirty-seven they were there.
On reaching the wreck in the first instance the captain had mustered
his crew aft and had informed them—what he could no longer keep
secret—that they were out for gold, and that if they found it in the
quantities they hoped, every man on board would receive at the end of
the trip a gift of £1,000 in addition to his pay. The men at first
seemed more than satisfied, but as ingot after ingot was recovered the
generosity of the offer shrank in their estimation. Four days before
the appearance of French’s party the divers had reported that another
day would complete the work, and then appeared the first hint that all
was not well. On that last evening before the completion of the diving
the men came forward in a body and asked to see the captain. They
explained that they had been reckoning up the value of the gold, and
they weren’t having £1,000 apiece: they wanted an even divide all
round. The captain argued with them civilly enough at first—told them
that they couldn’t get the metal ashore and turned into money in
secret, that the port officers or coastguards wherever it was unloaded
would be bound to learn what they were doing and that then the
government would claim an enormous percentage of the whole, so that
the £1,000 per man was an extremely liberal gift. The men declared
that they would look after the unloading, and that they were going to
have what they wanted. Hot words passed, and then the captain drew a
revolver and said that he was captain there, and that what he said
would go. Susan was watching the scene from the quarter-deck behind,
but she could not be quite sure of what followed. One of the crew
pressed forward and the captain raised his revolver. She did not think
he meant to fire, but another of the men either genuinely or purposely
misunderstood his action. He raised his hand, a shot rang out, and the
captain fell dead. The mutineers were evidently terribly upset by a
murder which they had apparently never intended, and had Blessington
and Sime acted intelligently, the trouble might have gone no further.
But at that moment these two worthies, who must have been in the
chart-house all the time, began firing through the windows at the men.
A regular pitched battle ensued, in which Sime and five of the crew
were hit, three of the latter being killed. It was then war to the
knife between those who berthed forward and those who berthed aft. All
that night sporadic shots rang out at intervals, but at daybreak on
the following day matters came to a head. The crew with considerable
generalship made a feint on the fo’c’sle with some of their number
while the remainder swarmed aft below decks. The defenders, taken in
the rear, were shot down, and the mutineers were masters of the ship.
All that next day Joan and Susan, terror-stricken, clung to each other
in the latter’s cabin. The men were reasonably civil: told them they
might get themselves food, and let them alone. But that night a
further terrible quarrel burst out between, as they learned
afterwards, those who wished to murder the girls and go off with the
treasure and those who feared murder more than the loss of the gold.
Once again there were the reports of shots and the groans of wounded
men. The fusillade went on at intervals all night, until next morning
one of the divers—a superior man with whom the girls had often
talked—had come in with his head covered with blood, and asked the
girls to bandage it. Susan had some slight surgical knowledge, and did
what she could for him. Then the man told them that of the entire
ship’s company only themselves and seven others were alive, and that
of these seven four were so badly wounded that they would probably not
recover. Among these was Blessington. Sime and James Dangle were dead.
The slightly injured men threw the dead overboard and cleaned up the
traces of the fighting, while the girls ministered to the seriously
wounded. Of course, in the three days up till the arrival of the
avengers—who had by a strange trick of fate become the rescuers—one
man had died. Of the eight-and-twenty who sailed from Antwerp there
were therefore left only nine: the two girls and four slightly and
three seriously wounded men. None of those able to move understood
either engineering or seamanship, so that they had luckily decided to
remain at anchor in the hope of some ship picking up their flag of
distress.
“There is just one thing I should like to understand,” said Cheyne to
Joan, when later on that day a prize crew had been put aboard the
_L’Escaut_ and steam was being raised for the return to England, “and
that is what happened to you on the night that we burgled Earlswood.
You got back to your rooms, then left again with Sime and
Blessington?”
“There’s not much to tell about that,” Joan answered, smiling happily
up into her lover’s eyes. “I was, as you know, standing like a
watchman before the door of Earlswood, when I saw Susan and her
brother coming up. I rang and knocked and kept them talking as long as
possible. Then when they opened the door I slipped away, but I heard
your footsteps and realized that you had got out by the back way. I
heard you run off down the lane with Dangle after you, then
remembering your arrangement about throwing away the tracing, I
climbed over the wall, picked it up and went back to my rooms. The
first thing I did was to photograph it, then I hid it in my color box.
I had scarcely done so when Sime called. He said you had met with an
accident—been caught between two motorcars and knocked down by one of
them—and that you were seriously injured. He said you were conscious
and had given him my address and were calling for me. I went down to
find Blessington driving a car, though I didn’t know then it was
Blessington. As soon as we started Sime held a chloroformed cloth over
my mouth, and I don’t remember much more till we were on the
_L’Escaut_.”
“But how did Sime find your rooms?”
“Through Susan. Susan told me all about it afterwards. She went out
after James and saw me climbing over the wall with the tracing. She
followed me to my rooms and immediately telephoned to Sime. When Sime
called she was with him, and while I changed my coat Sime let her into
the studio and she hid behind an easel until we were gone. She
searched till she found the tracing and then simply walked out. The
gang had intended to go to Antwerp the following week in any case, but
this business upset their plans and they decided to start immediately.
Dangle went on and arranged for the _L’Escaut_ to leave some days
earlier. The rest of us put up at Ghent till she was ready to sail.”
But little further remains to be told. The few bars of gold still left
on the _Silurian_ were soon raised and the two ships set sail,
reaching Chatham some five days later. All the bullion theoretically
belonged to the Crown, but under the special circumstances a generous
division was made whereby twenty-five per cent was returned to the
finders. As Price refused to accept the whole amount an amicable
agreement was come to, whereby Cheyne, Joan, and Price each received
almost one-third, or £200,000 apiece. Of the balance of over £20,000,
£10,000 was given to Susan Dangle by Joan’s imperative directions. She
said that Susan was not a bad girl and had turned up trumps during the
trouble on the _L’Escaut_. £1,000 went to Inspector French—also Joan’s
gift, and the remainder was divided among the officers and men of the
Admiralty salvage boat.
A few days after landing Maxwell Cheyne and Joan Merrill had occasion
to pay a short visit to the church of St. Margaret’s in the Fields,
after which Cheyne whirled his wife away to Devonshire, so that she
might make the acquaintance of his family and see the country where
began that strange series of events which in the beginning of the
story I alluded to as THE CHEYNE MYSTERY.
Transcriber’s Note
This transcription follows the text of the Penguin Books edition
published in 1978. The following alterations have been made to correct
what are believed to be unambiguous printer’s errors.
* Five erroneous quotation marks have been repaired.
* “desparate” has been changed to “desperate” (Ch. II).
* “wondered it he” has been changed to “wondered if he” (Ch. II).
* “Chayne” has been changed to “Cheyne” (Chs. IX and X).
* “Walting Street” has been changed to “Watling Street” (Ch. X).
* “noncommital” has been changed to “noncommittal” (Ch. XIV).
* “pessmist” has been changed to “pessimist” (Ch. XV).
* “Sargeant” has been changed to “Sergeant” (Ch. XVI).
* “similiar” has been changed to “similar” (Ch. XVII).