BY RADIO
Perhaps it was because he did not feel particularly hungry that his
dinner appeared unappetising; possibly because it had been standing in
the corridor outside his door for twenty minutes, which did not add to
its desirability.
The sun had set and the air in the room had grown cold. He felt
chilly; and, when he uncovered the silver tureen and discovered that
the soup was still piping hot, he drank some of it to warm himself.
He had swallowed about half a cupful before he discovered that the
seasoning was not agreeable to his palate. In fact, the flavour of the
hot broth was so decidedly unpleasant that he pushed aside the cup and
sat down on the edge of his bunk without any further desire to eat
anything.
A glass of water from the carafe did not seem to rid him of the
subtle, disagreeable taste lingering in his mouth--in fact, the water
itself seemed to be tainted with it.
He sat for a few moments fumbling for his cigarette case, feeling
curiously uncomfortable, as though the slight motion of the ship were
affecting his head.
As he sat there looking at the unlighted cigarette in his hand, it
fell to the carpet at his feet. He started to stoop for it, caught
himself in time, pulled himself erect with an effort.
Something was wrong with him--very wrong. Every uneven breath he drew
seemed to fill his lungs with the odour of that strange and volatile
flavour he had noticed. It was beginning to make him giddy; it seemed
to affect his vision, too.
Suddenly a terrible comprehension flashed through his confused mind,
clearing it for a moment.
He tried to stand up and reach the electric bell; his knees seem
incapable of sustaining him. Sliding to the floor, he attempted to
crawl toward the olive-wood box; managed to get one arm around it,
grip the handle. Then, with a last desperate effort, he groped in his
breast pocket for the automatic pistol, freed it, tried to fire it.
But the weapon and the unnerved hand that held it fell on the carpet.
A muscular paralysis set in like the terrible rigidity of death; he
could still see and hear as in a thickening dream.
A moment later, from the corridor, a slim hand was inserted between
the door and jamb; the supple fingers became busy with the rubber band
for a moment, released it. The door opened very slowly.
For a few seconds two dark eyes were visible between door and curtain,
regarding intently the figure lying prone upon the floor. Then the
curtain was twitched noiselessly aside; a young woman in the garb of a
trained nurse stepped swiftly into the stateroom on tip-toe, followed
by a big, good-looking, blue-eyed man wearing a square golden beard.
The man, who carried with him a pair of crutches, but who did not
appear to require their aid, hastily set the dinner-tray and
camp-table outside in the corridor, then closed and bolted the door.
Already the nurse was down on her knees beside the fallen man, trying
to loosen his grasp on the box. Then her face blanched.
"It's like the rigor of death itself," she whispered fearfully over
her shoulder. "Could I have given him enough to kill him?"
"He took only half a cup and a swallow of water. No."
"I can't get his hand free----"
"Wait! I try!" He pulled a big, horn-handled clasp-knife from his
pocket and deliberately opened the eight-inch blade.
"What are you doing?" she whispered, seizing his wrist. "Don't do
that!"
The man with the golden beard hesitated, then shrugged, pocketed his
knife, and seized Neeland's rigidly clenched hand.
"You are right. It makes too much muss!" tugging savagely at the
clenched and unconscious hand. "Sacreminton! What for a death-grip is
this _Kerls_? If I cut his hand off so iss there blood and gossip
right away already. No--too much muss. Wait! I try another way----"
Neeland groaned.
"Oh, don't! Don't!" faltered the girl. "You're breaking his
wrist----"
"Ugh!" grunted her companion; "I try; I can it not accomplish. See
once if the box opens!"
"It is locked."
"Search this pig-dog for the key!"
She began a hurried search of Neeland's clothing; presently discovered
her own handkerchief; thrust it into her apron pocket, and continued
rummaging while the bearded man turned his attention to the automatic
pistol. This he finally succeeded in disengaging, and he laid it on
the wash basin.
"Here are his keys," whispered the nurse feverishly, holding them up
against the dim circle of evening sky framed by the open port. "You
had better light the stateroom; I can't see. Hurry! I think he is
beginning to recover."
When the bearded man had switched on the electric light he returned to
kneel once more beside the inert body on the floor, and began to pull
and haul and tug at the box and attempt to insert the key in the lock.
But the stiffened clutch of the drugged man made it impossible either
to release the box or get at the keyhole.
"_Ach, was! Verflüchtete' schwein-hund----!_" He seized the rigid hand
and, exerting all the strength of a brutally inflamed fury, fairly
ripped loose the fingers.
"_Also!_" he panted, seizing the stiffened body from the floor and
lifting it. "Hold you him by the long and Yankee legs once, _und_ I
push him out----"
"Out of the port?"
"_Gewiss!_ Otherwise he recovers to raise some hell!"
"It is not necessary. How shall this man know?"
"You left your handkerchief. He iss no fool. He makes a noise. No, it
iss safer we push him overboard."
"I'll take the papers to Karl, and then I can remain in my
stateroom----"
"_No!_ Lift his legs, I tell you! You want I hold him in my arms all
day while you talk, talk, talk! You take his legs right away
quick----!"
He staggered a few paces forward with his unwieldy burden and, setting
one knee on the sofa, attempted to force Neeland's head and shoulders
through the open port. At the same moment a rapid knocking sounded
outside the stateroom door.
"Quick!" breathed the nurse. "Throw him on his bed!"
The blue-eyed, golden-bearded man hesitated, then as the knocking
sounded again, imperative, persistent, he staggered to the bed with
his burden, laid it on the pillows, seized his crutches, rested on
them, breathing heavily, and listening to the loud and rapid knocking
outside the door.
"We've got to open," she whispered. "Don't forget that we found him
unconscious in the corridor!" And she slid the bolt noiselessly,
opened the stateroom door, and stepped outside the curtain into the
corridor.
The cockney steward stood there with a messenger.
"Wireless for Mr. Neeland----" he began; but his speech failed and his
jaw fell at sight of the nurse in her cap and uniform. And when, on
his crutches, the bearded man emerged from behind the curtain, the
steward's eyes fairly protruded.
"The young gentleman is ill," explained the nurse coolly. "Mr. Hawks
heard him fall in the corridor and came out on his crutches to see
what had happened. I chanced to be passing through the main corridor,
fortunately. I am doing what I can for the young gentleman."
"Ow," said the steward, staring over her shoulder at the bearded man
on crutches.
"There iss no need of calling the ship's doctor," said the man on
crutches. "This young woman iss a hospital nurse _und_ she iss so
polite and obliging to volunteer her service for the poor young
gentleman."
"Yes," she said carelessly, "I can remain here for an hour or two with
him. He requires only a few simple remedies--I've already given him a
sedative, and he is sleeping very nicely."
"Yess, yess; it iss not grave. Pooh! It is notting. He slip and knock
his head. Maybe too much tchampagne. He sleep, and by and by he feel
better. It iss not advisable to make a fuss. So! We are not longer
needed, steward. I return to my room."
And, nodding pleasantly, the bearded man hobbled out on his crutches
and entered his own stateroom across the passage.
"Steward," said the nurse pleasantly, "you may leave the wireless
telegram with me. When Mr. Neeland wakes I'll read it to him----"
"Give that telegram to _me_!" burst out a ghostly voice from the
curtained room behind her.
Every atom of colour left her face, and she stood there as though
stiffened into marble. The steward stared at her. Still staring, he
passed gingerly in front of her and entered the curtained room.
Neeland was lying on his bed as white as death; but his eyes fluttered
open in a dazed way:
"Steward," he whispered.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Neeland."
"My--box." His eyes closed.
"Box, sir?"
"Where--is--it?"
"Which box, sir? Is it this one here on the floor?"--lifting the
olive-wood box in its case. The key was in the lock; the other keys
hung from it, dangling on a steel ring.
The nurse stepped calmly into the room.
"Steward," she said in her low, pleasant voice, "the sedative I gave
him has probably confused his mind a little----"
"Put that box--under--my head," interrupted Neeland's voice like a
groan.
"I tell you," whispered the nurse, "he doesn't know what he is
saying."
"I got to obey him, ma'am----"
"I forbid you----"
"Steward!" gasped Neeland.
"Sir?"
"My box. I--want it."
"Certainly, sir----"
"Here, beside my--pillow."
"Yes, sir." He laid the box beside the sick man.
"Is it locked, steward?"
"Key sticking in it, sir. Yes, it's locked, sir."
"Open."
The nurse, calm, pale, tight-lipped, stood by the curtain looking at
the bed over which the steward leaned, opening the box.
"'Ere you are, sir," he said, lifting the cover. "I say, nurse, give
'im a lift, won't you?"
The nurse coolly stepped to the bedside, stooped, raised the head and
shoulders of the prostrate man. After a moment his eyes unclosed; he
looked at the contents of the box with a perceptible effort.
"Lock it, steward. Place it beside me.... Next the wall.... So....
Place the keys in my pocket.... Thank you.... I had a--pistol."
"Sir?"
"A pistol. Where is it?"
The steward's roving glance fell finally upon the washbasin. He walked
over, picked up the automatic, and, with an indescribable glance at
the nurse, laid it across Neeland's up-turned palm.
The young man's fingers fumbled it, closed over the handle; and a
ghost of a smile touched his ashen face.
"Do you feel better, sir?"
"I'm tired.... Yes, I feel--better."
"Can I do anything for you, Mr. Neeland?"
"Stay outside--my door."
"Do you wish the doctor, sir?"
"No.... No!... Don't call him; do you hear?"
"I won't call him, sir."
"No, don't call him."
"No, sir.... Mr. Neeland, there is a--a trained nurse here. You will
not want her, will you, sir?"
Again the shadow of a smile crept over Neeland's face.
"Did she come for--her handkerchief?"
There was a silence; the steward looked steadily at the nurse; the
nurse's dark eyes were fixed on the man lying there before her.
"You shan't be wanting her any more, shall you, sir?" repeated the
steward, not shifting his gaze.
"Yes; I think I shall want her--for a little while."... Neeland slowly
opened his eyes, smiled up at the motionless nurse: "How are you,
Scheherazade?" he said weakly. And, to the steward, with an effort:
"Miss White and I are--old friends.... However--kindly remain
outside--my door.... And throw what remains of my dinner--out of--the
port.... And be ready--at all times--to look after the--gentleman on
crutches.... I'm--fond of him.... Thank you, steward."
* * * * *
Long after the steward had closed the stateroom door, Ilse Dumont
stood beside Neeland's bed without stirring. Once or twice he opened
his eyes and looked at her humorously. After a while he said:
"Please be seated, Scheherazade."
She calmly seated herself on the edge of his couch.
"Horrid soup," he murmured. "You should attend a cooking school, my
dear."
She regarded him absently, as though other matters absorbed her.
"Yes," he repeated, "as a cook you're a failure, Scheherazade. That
broth which you seasoned for me has done funny things to my eyes, too.
But they're recovering. I see much better already. My vision is
becoming sufficiently clear to observe how pretty you are in your
nurse's cap and apron."
A slow colour came into her face and he saw her eyebrows bend inward
as though she were annoyed.
"You _are_ pretty, Scheherazade," he repeated. "You know you are,
don't you? But you're a poor cook and a rotten shot. You can't be
perfection, you know. Cheer up!"
She ignored the suggestion, her dark eyes brooding and remote again;
and he lay watching her with placid interest in which no rancour
remained. He was feeling decidedly better every minute now. He lifted
the automatic pistol and shoved it under his pillow, then cautiously
flexed his fingers, his arms, and finally his knees, with increasing
pleasure and content.
"Such dreadful soup," he said. "But I'm a lot better, thank you. Was
it to have been murder this time, too, Scheherazade? Would the entire
cupful have made a pretty angel of me? Oh, fie! Naughty
Scheherazade!"
She remained mute.
"Didn't you mean manslaughter with intent to exterminate?" he
insisted, watching her.
Perhaps she was thinking of her blond and bearded companion, and the
open port, for she made no reply.
"Why didn't you let him heave me out?" inquired Neeland. "Why did you
object?"
At that she reddened to the roots of her hair, understanding that what
she feared had been true--that Neeland, while physically helpless, had
retained sufficient consciousness to be aware of what was happening to
him and to understand at least a part of the conversation.
"What was the stuff with which you flavoured that soup,
Scheherazade?"
He was merely baiting her; he did not expect any reply; but, to his
surprise, she answered him:
"Threlanium--Speyer's solution is what I used," she said with a sort
of listless effrontery.
"Don't know it. Don't like it, either. Prefer other condiments."
He lifted himself on one elbow, remained propped so, tore open his
wireless telegram, and, after a while, contrived to read it:
* * * * *
"James Neeland,
"S. S. Volhynia.
"Spies aboard. Be careful. If trouble threatens captain has
instructions British Government to protect you and order arrests on
your complaint.
"Naïa."
* * * * *
With a smile that was almost a grin, Neeland handed the telegram to
Ilse Dumont.
"Scheherazade," he said, "you'll be a good little girl, now, won't
you? Because it would be a shocking thing for you and your friend
across the way to land in England wearing funny bangles on your wrists
and keeping step with each other, wouldn't it?"
She continued to hold the slip of paper and stare at it long after she
had finished reading it and the words became a series of parallel
blurs.
"Scheherazade," he said lightly, "what on earth am I going to do with
you?"
"I suppose you will lodge a charge with the captain against me," she
replied in even tones.
"Why not? You deserve it, don't you? You and your humorous friend with
the yellow beard?"
She looked at him with a vague smile.
"What can you prove?" said she.
"Perfectly true, dear child. Nothing. I don't want to prove anything,
either."
She smiled incredulously.
"It's quite true, Scheherazade. Otherwise, I shouldn't have ordered my
steward to throw the remains of my dinner out of the corridor
porthole. No, dear child. I should have had it analysed, had your
stateroom searched for more of that elusive seasoning you used to
flavour my dinner; had a further search made for a certain sort of
handkerchief and perfume. Also, just imagine the delightful evidence
which a thorough search of your papers might reveal!" He laughed. "No,
Scheherazade; I did not care to prove you anything resembling a menace
to society. Because, in the first place, I am absurdly grateful to
you."
Her face became expressionless under the slow flush mounting.
"I'm not teasing you," he insisted. "What I say is true. I'm grateful
to you for violently injecting romance into my perfectly commonplace
existence. You have taken the book of my life and not only extra
illustrated it with vivid and chromatic pictures, but you have unbound
it, sewed into its prosaic pages several chapters ripped bodily from a
penny-dreadful, and you have then rebound the whole thing and pasted
your own pretty picture on the cover! Come, now! Ought not a man to
be grateful to any philanthropic girl who so gratuitously obliges
him?"
Her face burned under his ridicule; her clasped hands in her lap were
twisted tight as though to maintain her self-control.
"What do you want of me?" she asked between lips that scarcely moved.
He laughed, sat up, stretched out both arms with a sigh of
satisfaction. The colour came back to his face; he dropped one leg
over the bed's edge; and she stood erect and stepped aside for him to
rise.
No dizziness remained; he tried both feet on the floor, straightened
himself, cast a gaily malicious glance at her, and slowly rose to his
feet.
"Scheherazade," he said, "_isn't_ it funny? I ask you, did you ever
hear of a would-be murderess and her escaped victim being on such
cordial terms? Did you?"
He was going through a few calisthenics, gingerly but with increasing
abandon, while he spoke.
"I feel fine, thank you. I am enjoying the situation extremely, too.
It's a delightful paradox, this situation. It's absurd, it's
enchanting, it's incredible! There is only one more thing that could
make it perfectly impossible. And I'm going to do it!" And he
deliberately encircled her waist and kissed her.
She turned white at that, and, as he released her, laughing, took a
step or two blindly, toward the door; stood there with one hand
against it as though supporting herself.
After a few moments, and very slowly, she turned and looked at him;
and that young man was scared for the first time since their encounter
in the locked house in Brookhollow.
Yet in her face there was no anger, no menace, nothing he had ever
before seen in any woman's face, nothing that he now comprehended.
Only, for the moment, it seemed to him that something terrible was
gazing at him out of this girl's fixed eyes--something that he did not
recognise as part of her--another being hidden within her, staring out
through her eyes at him.
"For heaven's sake, Scheherazade----" he faltered.
She opened the door, still watching him over her shoulder, shrank
through it, and was gone.
He stood for a full five minutes as though stupefied, then walked to
the door and flung it open. And met a ship's officer face to face,
already lifting his hand to knock for admittance.
"Mr. Neeland?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Captain West's compliments, and he would be glad to see you in his
cabin."
"Thank you. My compliments and thanks to Captain West, and I shall
call on him immediately."
They exchanged bows; the officer turned, hesitated, glanced at the
steward who stood by the port.
"Did you bring a radio message to Mr. Neeland?"
"Yes, sir."
"Yes, I received the message," said Neeland.
"The captain requests you to bring the message with you."
"With pleasure," said Neeland.
So the officer went away down the corridor, and Neeland sat down on
his bed, opened the box, went over carefully every item of its
contents, relocked it with a grin of satisfaction, and, taking it with
him, went off to pay a visit to the captain of the _Volhynia_.
The bearded gentleman in the stateroom across the passage had been
listening intently to the conversation, with his ear flat against his
keyhole.
And now, without hesitating, he went to a satchel which stood on the
sofa in his stateroom, opened it, took from it a large bundle of
papers and a ten-pound iron scale-weight.
Attaching the weight to the papers by means of a heavy strand of
copper wire, he mounted the sofa and hurled the weighted package into
the Atlantic Ocean.
"Pig-dogs of British," he muttered in his golden beard, "you may go
and dive for them when The Day dawns."
Then he filled and lighted a handsome porcelain pipe, and puffed it
with stolid satisfaction, leaving the pepper-box silver cover open.
"_Der Tag_," he muttered in his golden beard; and his clear eyes swept
the starlit ocean with the pensive and terrifying scrutiny of a
waiting eagle.