Cargo of Coffins (11 page)

“So?” said Renard. “Then he knew we French were always on the
alerte
! A wise man to send particularly for me!”

Lars was waiting beside the wheel when they reached the top of the ladder. He was watching Renard. Renard could not help but recognize Lars Marlin, the man he had sent up with Paco, now that Paco had been called to Renard’s mind. And besides, by this time, all French vessels knew that Lars Marlin, escaped convict, was captaining the
Valiant.
Delal would have traced it by now.

“Captain Renard,” said Terry, “may I present Captain Lowenskold?”

Renard’s smile suddenly froze on his face. His half-extended hand stayed motionless. Lars read recognition in those eyes. Renard knew him. Lars wished fervently that it did not have to come before Terry.

Renard scowled a little and withdrew his hand. “You say, Miss Norton, that this man defended you against Paco Corvino?”

“Of course!”

Renard looked at Lars with a studious eye. “Captain
Lowenskold
?” He saw the wounded shoulder and the cut face.

“Yes,” said Terry. “It was only his quick thinking which spared us. I doubt any of us would have thought to send for you until it was too late.”

“
You
sent for
me
?” said Renard carefully.

Lars neither spoke nor moved.

Terry could feel the tension but she could not understand it.

Renard was trying to think.

A sergeant of marines came to the top of the ladder. “Captain, sir, that jackal Paco Corvino says Lars Marlin is up there and you better bring him down with the others.”

“Lars Marlin,” said Renard, nodding. He looked around at the shambles of the bridge and looked back at Lars’ wounded arm and cut face. Again he looked around him. He could see the dead Tallien’s left foot sticking through one ladder. He could see Jean Patou crumpled up in the companionway, blond hair matted with blood.

“Is anything wrong?” said Terry.

Renard shrugged. “Wrong? Wrong? No, it is I who have been wrong. Before when . . . before I thought there might be a doubt, but now I am sure.”

“I don’t understand,” said Terry.

“Sir,” said the sergeant, “Paco Corvino keeps telling me that Lars Marlin is up there. I remember he was sent up with Paco.”

“Your memory does you credit, Sergeant,” said Renard. “Go back and tell that ugly louse, Paco Corvino, to be still. Miss Norton, I am so sorry I have troubled you about this, so glad to have been of help.”

He suddenly extended his hand to Lars. “I am so glad to have met such a brave man, Captain . . .
Lowenskold.
”

Lars took the hand, too stunned to say a word.

“But what is this about another one being up here?” said Terry as Renard moved off.

Captain Renard smiled and shrugged. “He is talking about another convict named Marlin. And anybody with half an eye”—and here he turned dead Jean Patou over with his foot— “could see that
there
lies Marlin, dead as an anchovy.”

Captain Renard, very pleased with himself and the world, trotted jauntily down the bridge ladder. He stopped and roared commands at his men, and the sergeant, kicking Paco along before him, cursed Paco all the way down into the motorboat.

Lars Lowenskold leaned weakly against the binnacle, listening to the departing engine.

Quickly and solicitously, Terry put her small hand on his arm.

Story Preview

N
OW
that you’ve just ventured through one of the captivating tales in the Stories from the Golden Age collection by L. Ron Hubbard, turn the page and enjoy a preview of
Loot of the Shanung.
Join Jimmy Vance, an ace reporter who’s hired by the beautiful Virginia Rockham to find her missing father, billionaire oil magnate George Harley Rockham, only to become the target himself of several especially vicious thugs.

Loot of the Shanung

T
HE
press releases flowed across the desk in a miniature Yangtze at flood time. The office of the
Oriental Press
throbbed with effort and excitement.

Jimmy Vance, both hands full and a pencil between his teeth, stared up at the copy boy. “Here y’are. Tell them to run this on the first page. I’ll hand the fills over in a few minutes. About his life and all.”

“A lady to see you, Jimmy,” said the copy boy.

“The devil with that. Where’d I put that
Who’s Who
?”

The
Who’s Who
came to light when it was going down for the third time in the tan copy paper. Jimmy flipped it open, swept his very blond hair out of his eyes, and ran his finger down the column.

“George Harley Rockham,” said the
Who’s Who.
“Born 1890 in Chicago, Ill. Appointed to Russian Wheat Commission, 1919. Served as Secretary of Interior, 1924–6. Held oil leases in Regular Oil Company. Developed vast holdings in South America. Created an oil monopoly in China, 1928. Known best through his hobby of travel. Married Virginia Courtney in 1908. His daughter, Miss Virginia Rockham, has long been known to Long Island Society. . . .”

“Huh,” said Jimmy, “that’s plenty. Plenty.” He grabbed at his battered typewriter, inserted half a dozen sheets after the custom of copywriters and began to hammer the keys in an industrious hunt-and-punch system.

The copy boy, bucktoothed and mostly grin, was at his elbow again. “Jimmy. That dame says she won’t wait. You got to see her. Here’s the card.”

“Busy,” said Jimmy, continuing to write.

“She’s a swell looker,” informed the copy boy. “Real class.”

“Beat it,” said Jimmy, scowling at the
Who’s Who.

His story grew out of the roller:

Shanghai, China, May 14,
Oriental Press
. As the fate of George Harley Rockham, the great oil magnate, tonight remained shrouded with mystery, his many friends over the world watched anxiously for the first news.

Jimmy scratched his head, scowled at the sheet and then wrote:

It is debated that he still lives. The coastal steamer
Shanung
has not appeared in Hong Kong, and while there are no storms recorded north of that city, it is thought that the
Shanung
might have foundered, run aground or met any other perils of the sea.

Rumor is current that the
Shanung
was captured by the notorious pirates who range along
Bias Bay
, a few miles north of Hong Kong. This is only one of many conjectures that . . .

The copy boy was there again, still grinning. “That dame gave me a
five-spot
to see you, Jimmy. Y’can’t let me down now. I need five
Mex
and if you don’t see her I’ll have to give it back.”

“Scram,” said Jimmy, pondering anew. He was about to consult the
Who’s Who
for further rumors, conjectures and so on when he became aware of a pair of hands on the railing before his desk.

He stopped, looking absently at the fingers. They were nice hands. White and graceful, with long, naturally polished nails. A diamond ring glittered, but it wasn’t on the engagement finger.

Jimmy was suddenly interested. He looked up the arms and discovered a
Cossack jacket
with silver cartridge cases. He looked at the high Russian collar and then saw the face.

The face, decided Jimmy, was very pleasing. The girl’s eyes were dark, rather wistful and sad. Her cheekbones were high, giving an air of severity to the features. But the fullness of the good-natured mouth belied that.

“You’re Jimmy Vance?” said the girl, very quietly.

“Yes,” said Jimmy and then instantly recovered himself. “If you’re looking for the society editor, he’s first corridor to your right.” He turned back to his work, not meaning to be rude, but aware of the necessity of stopping the study of the girl.

He was about to write another paragraph on the story when he saw the card the boy had laid beside his typewriter. The card was simply engraved. It said, “Virginia Rockham.”

Jimmy’s eyes flashed up. It was one of the few times in Jimmy’s headlong career that he registered surprise. He jumped to his feet and swung the gate back.

“Good golly, Miss Rockham. I’m sorry as the devil. I thought you must be one of these Ruskies, the way you’re dressed. I didn’t have any idea . . . Here, have a chair. Now listen, Miss Rockham, I’ve got to have some dope here before I can go on.”

She was mildly surprised at his manner. Jimmy usually gave the impression of a meteor in full flight. He was not so very tall and he seemed utterly without color. His eyes were big and swift and frank. He had the air of hurrying even when sitting still. Restlessly, he offered her a cigarette and then lit one for himself when she refused.

“Dope, Miss Rockham. The presses are grinding, the boys are waiting on the streets. The international cables are holding down their keys, waiting for this stuff. I’ve heard opinions, I’ve heard theories, and now, by golly, I want to hear some facts.”

“I . . . I don’t know any more than you do, Mr. Vance.”

“The hell you don’t!” Jimmy was plainly aghast. “Well . . . well . . . think of something, anything. I’ve written columns on it already and I’ve had to make up each and every word. Good God, Miss Rockham, a billionaire doesn’t disappear like that. Even out here in China. He has to be
someplace.
Even a Chinese pirate would know how much he was worth in ransom. Think, girl!”

She was studying Jimmy, listening to his voice rather than his words. Her dark eyes were suddenly alight. She sat forward.

“You’re
the
Jimmy Vance, aren’t you?” she said.

He was thrown into no little confusion, but he recovered quickly. “What do you mean by that?”

“You’re the man who makes news news, aren’t you? The star reporter of the
Oriental Press,
the
bearder
of warlords and the formulator of international opinions.”

Jimmy gaped at her. “Gee whiz, Miss Rockham . . . I . . . Somebody has been feeding you a line. Look here, Miss Rockham, I got to have something for the presses, the cables. I got to have
fact,
not fancy. What happened to your father?”

“He was on the SS
Shanung.
The
Shanung
isn’t reported. That’s all I know.”

“But look here. I mean what’s the well-known lowdown? What’s he tied up with? Who’s trying to get him? What’s hanging over his head?”

“I thought . . . thought you’d know something about it,” she replied.

“Me? Why should I know anything? I’m just a dumb reporter, Miss Rockham. I admit I’ve had a few breaks, but does that make a clairvoyant out of me? Hell, no. I mean to say, I don’t know anything and I’m writing guesses.”

“This is big news, isn’t it?”

“Big news? Gee whiz, Miss Rockham, I’ll say it is. Might as well have the president of the United States disappear as George Harley Rockham. He’s got China oil in his palm. He owns more men and more companies than a nation. What made him disappear?”

“He went down to Hong Kong to look over some interests there. That’s all I know.”

Jimmy leaned tensely over his typewriter. “Where was he before that?”