Dangerous Cargo (2 page)

He appeared to like her frankness. “Agreed,” he said, grinning.

“Lastly, anybody can see that you have a dominating personality and do not
take kindly to direction. But you must understand that in such situations as
may arise out of this investigation, if you do not act as I advise you I will
be useless to you.”

“That’s the hardest one,” he said ruefully. “It will be a novelty to take
orders from a woman. However, I agree.”

They shook hands on it.

“Have you any idea who it is that may want to murder you?” asked Mme.
Storey.

He shrugged. “It might be one of twenty men.”

“And is probably none of them,” she put in. “It is always the unexpected
enemy who has murder in his heart.”

“Will you be ready to go aboard at noon tomorrow?” he asked eagerly.

“It would be wiser to put off the sailing until I can make a preliminary
investigation.”

“Not an hour!” he said, with a darkening face.

“Very well,” she said, “in my business one has to be prepared for
anything.”

“You’re a wonderful woman!” he cried. “I’m glad I came to you! I’ll make
out a cheque to bind the bargain.” He did so then and there. When he got up
to go, he said: “Perhaps it’s all a stall, anyhow. In that case we’ll have a
swell time on the seven seas and forget the depression!”

Mme. Storey had half turned in her chair and was looking out of the window
behind her. “It is not a stall,” she said quietly.

Laghet’s face sharpened. He showed his teeth. “What makes you so sure of
that?” he demanded.

“Look out of the window,” she said. “Do not come close enough to show
yourself. That man standing against the park railings opposite. The one with
a greenish Fedora pulled over his eyes. Is he in your employ?”

“I never saw him before,” said Laghet.

“Then he’s a spy. He followed you here, and he will follow you when you
leave.”

“But I came in my car!”

“No doubt he has a car waiting too.”

Laghet caught up his stick. “By God! I’ll soon settle his business!” he
cried.

“What good will that do you?” said Mme. Storey. “He’s only a paid spy. If
you assault him you’ll be arrested. You won’t be able to prove anything. It
will only delay your sailing.”

“Damn it, I suppose you’re right!” he said, groaning with baulked rage. He
jammed on his hat and strode out.

I STAYED that night with Mme. Storey at her place on East
Sixty-Third Street. This had been arranged so that we could work late in
clearing up all the odds and ends of business that demanded attention before
she sailed. We had spent the afternoon in doing necessary shopping for the
voyage. All our things were packed and ready.

I have had occasion before to describe my employer’s original little
establishment. She and her friend, Mrs. Lysaght, bought an old brownstone
house and transformed it into two maisonnettes in the French style. Mme.
Storey occupies the two lower floors. The kitchen faces the street with a
barred window that is left open at night for ventilation, and the dining-room
opens on a tiny garden in the rear. Upstairs her bedroom is over the kitchen
and her delightful living-room looks down on the garden.

As there is only one bedroom, I had to share it with her. Her maid, Grace,
made up a bed on the sofa. Grace and the cook sleep up on the top floor of
the house with Mrs. Lysaght’s maids. But the Lysaght establishment was closed
at this time.

We had just gone to bed and were lying there talking about this and that.
It was very late. The windows were open and the street was wrapped in
stillness. Only a distant hum reminded us that we were part of a great city.
The thought of danger to ourselves was farthest from our minds. In fact, for
the moment we were occupied with the details of our own business, and had
forgotten Horace Laghet.

I can remember hearing some clock strike two and Mme. Storey saying: “We
must
go to sleep!”

Suddenly we heard a hard object fall to the floor of the kitchen
underneath us. We both jumped up and instinctively ran to the window. We were
in time to see a man running away down the street towards Third Avenue. He
ran awkwardly, with hunched shoulders and a sideways movement.

I would have shouted to stop him, but Mme. Storey clapped a hand over my
mouth. “Too late to catch him now,” she said.

As she spoke there was an explosion, not very loud, in the room beneath
us. And a moment afterwards that most awful sound of all at night; the
rushing and snapping of fire. I stood in the middle of the bedroom, half
stupefied. Mme. Storey gave me a shake.

“Put on your dressing-gown and slippers and follow me!”

It brought me to myself.

“Shall I telephone?” I asked.

“No!” she said, in a tone that surprised me.

Standing in the corner of the stair landing was a copper fire
extinguisher. Mme. Storey snatched it up and ran down. On the lower landing
was another extinguisher that she mutely pointed out to me. We could hear the
flames roaring like devils behind the kitchen door. The difficulty was to get
the door open. Fortunately it opened towards us, and Mme. Storey was able to
shield herself behind it. Flame leaped out of the kitchen like a red ravening
beast, shrivelling us with its hot breath.

The whole room was blazing at once and little runnels of fire crept over
the sill into the hall. It burned with that special speed and fury that only
gasoline can induce. Mme. Storey, backing away out of reach of the flames
into the dining-room, turned her extinguisher upon them. The thin hissing
stream was swallowed up and lost. The fire only roared louder. Suffocating
black smoke billowed into our faces. Mme. Storey was driven back foot by
foot.

“We must get out of here!” I cried.

She paid no attention. After a moment, she muttered: “Open the window at
my back. The wind is on that side.”

I obeyed, and a current of air was created that held the flames and smoke
in check. On the other side of that wall of flame I could hear cries from the
street. Mme. Storey began to regain the lost ground, driving the flames back
with an unerring eye whenever they tried to flank her. I stood with the
second extinguisher ready to hand to her when the first was exhausted.

We crossed the hall again. The two maids came running down the stairs.
They stood on the bottom step, fascinated with horror but perfectly silent.
They had confidence in their mistress’ ability to handle any thing. The fire
was forced back, snarling, into the kitchen. We heard the fire trucks coming
from afar.

Once the chemical mixture got the upper hand, the fire soon gave up. All
around the walls Mme. Storey drove it back towards the window. Suddenly it
was out and the kitchen was just a black charred hole. Through the window I
had a glimpse of the crowd hanging over the railings. The lights had not been
burned out, and I got them turned on. After all, not much had suffered but
paint, varnish and plaster. But what an escape!

In the middle of the floor lay a tell-tale jagged piece of tin. We found
another behind the stove. Meanwhile, the trucks had drawn up outside and the
firemen were banging on the ornamental iron gate that gives entrance to the
house alongside the kitchen. I started to let them in, but my employer laid a
hand on my arm.

“We don’t want any investigation, Bella.”

Opening the cellar door, she kicked the two pieces of tin downstairs.

The firemen swarmed in, nosed all around as they always do, and asked the
usual questions. Mme. Storey’s explanation was ingenious.

“I came downstairs to heat some water on the gas stove, and went up again.
I suppose the curtain at the window blew across the flame and caught fire.
Unfortunately, my maid had left a can of cleaning fluid on the window sill
and that exploded.”

“Very careless to leave an explosive so near the stove, Madam,” said the
fire captain.

“You are absolutely right, Chief,” she replied with a perfectly straight
face. “I shall scold the girl severely, and I can promise you it won’t happen
again.”

She led them into the dining-room for a little refreshment, and they
presently departed with loud praises for her presence of mind. The trucks
roared away down the street, and a great quiet descended on the street. Mme.
Storey and I went back to bed, but not, to sleep.

At eleven o’clock next morning we were seated in the living-room with
Latham Rowe, Mme. Storey’s attorney. A horrible stale smell of wet burnt
stuff filled the house. Our baggage had been sent on ahead to the yacht
landing, and we were all set to go in hats and gloves.

Latham is a nice man, the chubby, sweet-tempered type that is predestined
to be the friend of every woman and the husband of none. Mme. Storey was
saying:

“I’ll have to leave it to you to see that the insurance is collected and
the repairs properly done.”

“Sure!” he said, “but tell me, Rosika, on the level, what caused this
fire. You can’t expect me to believe that bunk about Grace’s
carelessness.”

Mme. Storey smiled. “It cost me a new dress to square Grace for that lie,”
she said. “The truth is, somebody shoved an open can of gasoline between the
bars of the kitchen window last night, and threw a lighted match or something
of that sort after it.”

Latham’s rosy face paled. “Good God! what a fiendish thing to do!” he
cried. “And you’re not going to say anything about it!”

“If there was an investigation it would prevent me from going on this
voyage. And nothing would come of it. I prefer to deal with my enemies
myself.”

“Have you any idea who did it?” he asked.

“It was obviously somebody who didn’t want me aboard the yacht.”

“And you’re still determined to go!”

She smiled at his simple earnestness.

“I cannot take a dare, my dear. It is a weakness of my character.
Yesterday I wasn’t at all keen, but to-day I’m mad to.”

He was terribly distressed.

“But seriously, Rosika, I can’t stand by and see you risk your life
for…for…”

“Five thousand a week,” she put in slyly.

“Be serious! This fellow Horace Laghet is a scoundrel! You should hear the
stories they tell about him down town. If somebody wants to shoot him up, let
them go to it and welcome, I say. What have you got to do with it?”

“I can see that Laghet is going to give me trouble,” she admitted. “But a
job is a job, and this is rather a fascinating one.”

“What can you do?” he pleaded. “On land you know where you are, but on a
ship anything may happen. The sea is always there to swallow a body and yield
no trace. If there is a man aboard that yacht who is determined to get Laghet
how can you stop him? If you get in his way you’ll go overboard too.”

She merely smiled.

“How can you save the man from being murdered when he makes an enemy of
every man he meets?” he went on. “There’s a feeling of hatred rolling up
against Horace Laghet like a tidal wave. If you take his part it will
overwhelm you along with him.”

She patted his cheek affectionately. “You’re a great dear, Latham, but
you’re on the wrong line. If you could persuade me that this was going to be
a quiet cruise with nothing to do but loll in a deck-chair and put on pounds
and pounds, I’d drop it this minute. But when you talk of
danger!
Ha!…” She flung her arms up. “It’s useless, my dear. Ask Bella.”

He spread out his arms helplessly.

WHEN we descended from the taxicab at the yacht landing,
foot of East Twenty-Sixth Street, the
Buccaneer
, lying out in
mid-stream, burst on us in full glory. It was a cold, bright day and the
sparkling river made a fit setting for her. A great white ship with an
insolent, squat funnel and long strings of fluttering flags.

As the latest sensation of the marine world, a crowd had gathered on the
pier to have a look at her. Ultramodern design, the yachtsmen were saying,
with her high sides and oblique cut-water; ugly but very smart. As for
myself, the thought that all those millions had been spent to carry six
people to sea for an idle cruise, filled me with a vague fear of
retribution.

Only second in interest for the crowd was the launch which was waiting for
us, a dazzling affair of mahogany and brass. It was such a launch as might
have been used to carry kings and queens. When we stepped aboard everybody
gaped at us in awe and envy. Some of the rougher types muttered
insolently.

In five minutes we were at the ship’s ladder, which was not a ladder at
all but a teak-wood stairway carpeted with rope to keep your feet from
slipping. A handsome young sailor handed us off, and a smart officer saluted
on deck. There was a steward in a white coat to show us to our cabins.

All very grand, but it did not make us feel we were being welcomed on
board. Sailor, officer, and steward all had cagey, expressionless faces. Not
one of them looked us in the eye.

It appeared that we were the last arrivals. The launch was immediately
hooked to the davits and drawn up. A bosun’s whistle blew, and I heard the
clank of the anchor chain up forward. Fancy keeping all that waiting!

Below, our suite was more like that of a luxury hotel than anything
afloat. A sitting-room twenty feet long, with a bedroom almost as big at
either side; a marble bathroom for each of us, with gold-plated fittings.

The whole was lighted with a row of big round portholes rimmed with brass,
and it was all so beautifully furnished and decorated that nothing obtruded
itself; it just received you.

The steward told us that cocktails were being served in the winter-garden.
When we had taken off our coats, he led us up to the sun-deck, where there
was a green and white room with a glass roof and big windows all around. It
was filled with tropical plants and orchids. Here the party was gathered.