Dangerous Cargo (19 page)

When I reached the scene Horace was shouting:

“You’re fired, do you hear? Get out!”

“You brute! I wouldn’t work for you for all your money!” cried Frank.

“You don’t have to tell me that! Get out before I throw you out!”

“Where will you throw me?” snarled Frank. “Overboard? That’s your
speciality, isn’t it? You murderer!”

Horace struck the smaller man a blow that sent him staggering back. He
fell at Adele’s feet and lay there panting and venomous. “Murderer!
Murderer!” he muttered. If he had had a gun that would have been Horace’s
last moment. He was afraid to get up, for Horace with his head thrust forward
and teeth bared was waiting to hit him again. Adele was perfectly quiet, but
there was murder in her face, too.

Mme. Storey slipped her arm through Horace’s, and said quietly: “Horace.
It isn’t worth it.”

He passed a hand over his face and looked at her stupidly. The spell of
his rage was broken. He allowed her to lead him towards the door. As they
turned away together Adele laughed.

Unfortunately they had to pass Emil to gain the door. The young man’s blue
eyes were blazing.

Horace stopped. “What’s biting you?” he growled.

“Why don’t you hit a man your size?” said Emil.

“By God…!” Horace began, doubling his fist. But Sophie and Celia
screamed, and getting in front of Emil thrust him back violently into a
chair. Horace with a harsh laugh went out on deck.

Martin, Mme. Storey and I accompanied him down to his own suite. Martin
didn’t say anything, but waited on him kindly and thoughtfully. In his own
sitting-room Horace dropped in a chair and pressed his head between his
hands. As usual after his rage had passed he felt sick.

“God!” he groaned, “a little bit more of this and I’ll go stark staring
crazy. There’s a conspiracy aboard this ship to drive me mad! I spend my
money on these people; I entertain them like princes, and they turn on me and
show their teeth like rats!”

Martin fetched him a drink. Mme. Storey stood looking down at him
inscrutably. I could guess what her thoughts were. She said:

“You’ve had a lot to bear. But there’s only one day more. Why don’t you
keep out of the way of these people to-morrow. Stay in your own quarters. As
soon as we reach port we’ll get a fresh deal all around. I believe that’s
good advice,” he muttered. “I’ll do it…” He raised dog’s eyes to her face.
“…If you’ll come and spend part of the day with me, Rosy.”

“Surely,” she said. “I’d be glad to.”

We left him.

* * *

When I awoke next morning the sea was calm and bright. The cold air that
blew in through the open port was perfectly delicious. The tropics might be
all very well in their way, but I realised that I was a child of the North. A
wonderful lightness of heart filled me! The hag-ridden voyage was almost
over. To-night I’d sleep at home!

I drew on my bathing suit and threw a dressing-gown around me. It was a
few minutes before eight. No sound from Mme. Storey’s room yet. I ran down
the corridor. Only a few steps to the forward companionway, and down two
flights to the pool.

My morning swim was the one thing that I completely enjoyed aboard the
Buccaneer
. I was always alone at that hour, and could make believe
that the marvellous pool was truly mine. The black basin with its greenish
water lazily following the movement of the ship; the rows of slender pillars
all around, and the lighted dome—so beautiful.

I dipped my toe in the water to test the temperature. It had been warmed;
just right. I ran around to the forward end where the springboard was. There
was a splash of water on the marble pavement indicating that Horace, as
usual, had had his swim before me. I walked out on the springboard, steadied
myself, sprang, and went in.

My hands, cleaving the water in front of me, collided with something. I
got the sickening feel of cold flesh and my senses reeled. I came to the top
gasping and fought my way out of the water. Rolling out on the marble, I
stared in horror at the spot where I had gone in. A black head slowly rose to
the surface, the hair stirring in the water. A face appeared with open,
staring eyes; a limp naked arm.

Snatching up my dressing-gown I ran. I flew up the two flights of stairs
without the least consciousness of any exertion. I made no sound, but it
wasn’t because I had self-control. I wanted to scream; my throat ached with
the desire to scream; but no sound would come. I banged open the door of our
sitting-room and fell sprawling on the floor.

Mme. Storey ran out of her room. “Bella! Bella!”

“Horace…!” I gasped. “Horace…! Drowned in the pool!”

HALF an hour later seven of us were gathered at the side of
the pool: Mme. Storey, Les Farman, Martin, Sophie, Celia, Emil and I. It took
a powerful effort of the will on my part to force me back to that dreadful
place, but I knew my employer would need me. I had got a grip on myself by
this time. It was only the ghastly shock of colliding with the dead body
under the water that knocked me off my balance.

Mme. Storey had spent the intervening time in examining the place alone. I
did not know what she might have discovered. Les, aided by a sailor, had
drawn the body out of the water and laid it on the marble floor to the left.
It was covered with a sheet. Little runnels of water trickled from under the
sheet and found their way to the pool. Martin appeared to be a little dazed
with shock. Of all those aboard the yacht he seemed to be Horace’s only
sincere mourner.

We huddled around the foot of the stairway as if afraid to venture farther
into the place. Adele was not present, which was natural enough, but the
absence of Frank Tanner, the ship’s doctor, was peculiar. My employer had
just sent a steward for the second time to ask him to come.

She and Les were examining the dressing boxes at the far end of the pool.
In one of them Horace’s dressing-gown and slippers had been found. This in
itself was noteworthy, because none of us ever troubled to use the boxes, but
dropped our things on the nearest bench.

Frank Tanner finally came down the stairs. I don’t think the others were
aware of it, but Adele was with him. I caught a glimpse of her standing on
the stairs above the landing, where she could hear all that went on without
showing herself. Tanner was an unpleasant-looking young man. He took no
trouble to conceal his feelings, but glanced at the sheeted form with a dull
malignancy in his protruberant eyes. One almost expected him to kick it.

Mme. Storey came to meet him. “Doctor,” she said, “we must have an
autopsy.”

“Can’t see the necessity,” he answered. “The man is obviously drowned.
Very likely he was insane. It’s the kindest thing you can say about him
now.”

“A strong swimmer can’t drown himself unless he ties his own arms and
legs,” she answered mildly. “However he might want to die, his limbs would
strike out involuntarily.”

“Perhaps Horace had a stroke while he was in the water,” ventured Celia
timidly.

Everybody welcomed this suggestion. We had had enough of murder. “It is
possible,” said Mme. Storey. “We must have an autopsy to find out.”

“I never conducted an autopsy,” said Tanner sullenly.

“You must have assisted at many during your student days.”

“No,” he said sullenly. “Wouldn’t know how to begin.”

She was patient with him. “I have been present at autopsies, and I can
direct you. We must find out if there is water in the lungs.”

“I don’t recognise your right to give me orders,” said Tanner insolently.
“You say you had a certain agreement with Horace Laghet. Well, he’s dead and
that cancels it. I won’t touch the body without the authorisation of the
nearest relative.”

Mme. Storey turned to Les. “Has Adrian been notified of what has
happened?” she asked.

“Yes, Madam.”

“He should be brought here.”

Les ran up the stairs. Mme. Storey lit a cigarette. The rest of us waited
with fast-beating hearts for the next scene. The room where Adrian was
confined was only a few steps from the top of the first flight of stairs, and
he presently came running down with a wild expression. Les followed more
soberly.

Adrian thrust us violently out of his way and ran to the body. Dropping to
his knees beside it he tenderly drew down the sheet a little way. “Oh,
Horace! Horace!” he mourned. “Oh, my brother!” Kneeling there, he covered his
face with his hands. It looked rather theatrical to me. His eyes were
dry.

Mme. Storey gave him full time to recover himself.

“Adrian,” she said, “it is obvious that there must be an autopsy to
determine the cause of death. The doctor requires your authorisation before
performing it.”

He sprang to his feet, “Autopsy!” he gasped in real or simulated horror.
“You mean cut him up! Oh God, no! My brother! No! No!”

“As soon as we reach port there will have to be an autopsy,” she said
patiently, “the law will require it.”

“Well, if they make me consent I can’t help myself!” cried Adrian. “But I
will never consent voluntarily. No! No! No!”

“But if there has to be an autopsy anyway, it should be held now,” she
persisted. “Within the next few hours there will be all sorts of chemical
changes within the body. If the truth is to be revealed it must be done
now!”

“No!” cried Adrian. “I couldn’t bear it! As his nearest relative and his
heir, I refuse!”

One little word sent the investigation flying off at a new tangent.
“You’re not his heir,” said Sophie sharply.

“What do you mean?” demanded Adrian.

“A week ago Horace made a will leaving his residual estate to Celia
unconditionally.”

There was an astonished cry from the girl: “What! Mother! To
me!
No! No!”

“I can’t believe it!” said Adrian. He was surprised, but less surprised
than you might have expected, considering that his whole future depended on
Horace’s will.

“In other words, I’m a liar!” snarled Sophie. “Well, I’ll show you!”

She ran up the stairs, and there was another ghastly pause in the
proceedings. Nobody wanted to look at anybody else. Celia was crying in
dismay:

“I didn’t know anything about this! I don’t want his money! I won’t take
it!…We won’t take it, will we, Emil?”

“No!” said Emil stoutly.

Mme. Storey smiled at them dryly. Experience had taught her that this
violent antipathy to taking money would be modified later. “Don’t worry about
it now,” she said. “That can all be arranged.”

Presently Sophie came running and stumbling down the stairs with a face of
horror. She caught her heel on a step and pitched forward into Les’ arms.
“I’ve been robbed!” she gasped. “…The will…it’s gone!…Robbed!”

Adrian smiled disagreeably. We were all aware of something new in him. All
his life he had lived in fear f Horace. Now that Horace was gone a confidence
in himself was beginning to appear—but this did not necessarily prove
that he had brought about Horace’s death.

“Where was it?” asked Mme. Storey

“In a drawer of the desk, the safest place I had. The key in my
handbag…” Sophie caught sight of Adrian’s smile. “You needn’t smile like
that!” she cried. “You know I’m speaking the truth! You stole the will!”

“How could I steal what I didn’t even know existed?” demanded Adrian
indignantly.

“I don’t know how you knew, but you knew!”

“Funny that the beneficiary didn’t know,” sneered Adrian.

“You pretended to be my friend!” cried Sophie. “You were continually in my
room. You had the opportunity! You stole it!”

Mme. Storey looked at me, and held out a little key. I knew what she
wanted, and ran upstairs. I heard her saying: “As it happens, I know what
Horace’s wishes were, and I can show you all.”

I got the copy of the will out of her despatch-case and carried it back to
her. When he saw the typewritten paper, Adrian turned a sickly clay colour. I
judged that he was familiar with the contents, because he scarcely listened
to the reading. Scowling and biting his fingers, he was planning how to meet
this set-back. The others listened tensely.

“To my brother Adrian Barnes Laghet,” read Mme. Storey, “I give and
bequeath the sum of five hundred thousand dollars. If he has any sense he
will create a living trust with this sum in order to prevent himself from
squandering his principal.”

One could hear Horace’s own surly voice in this paragraph. I glanced at
the sheeted form in a kind of terror.

“To my friend Adele Holder the sum of fifty thousand dollars.” The names
of several other ladies followed with varying amounts to each; then: “After
deducting the above bequests, I hereby devise and bequeath any and all
property that I may die possessed of to my fiancée, Celia Dare, provided that
the engagement is still in effect at the time of my death. Should the
engagement have been broken, the residue of my estate is to go to my said
brother Adrian Laghet.”

In the final paragraph Horace directed that Martin Coade and a certain New
York trust company were to serve jointly and severally as executors and
administrators.

The reading was followed by a moment’s silence, broken only by the
distressed murmuring of Celia: “No! No! No!” Finally Adrian asked if he might
be permitted to see the paper. Mme. Storey turned it around for him to
read.

“What’s this line that has been crossed out?” he demanded.

“Horace was good enough to include me amongst his beneficiaries,” said
Mme. Storey dryly, “but I declined.”

“Humph!” said Adrian. “That thing’s no good. It’s not signed. It’s not
written in Horace’s hand but on the typewriter. You couldn’t prove that
Horace ever saw that paper.”

“Well, it would depend on how much credence the court was inclined to put
in my testimony. I can swear that Horace handed me that paper, expressly
stating at the same time what his wishes were in regard to his estate. My
secretary was present and can corroborate what Horace said. Perhaps Martin
can add further corrobortion.”