Fatal Venture (12 page)

The ruin, when he did find it, was disappointing in the extreme. Only a few rough stones remained of what presumably had been an outer wall. With a bad grace, he photographed it from various angles, made a rough sketch with dimensions, took the orientation with a pocket compass, and finally sat down to eat his sandwiches.

He had further trouble on the return journey. In trying to avoid the bogs, he went too much towards the east, missed his way, and had a long, wearying tramp over difficult ground before regaining the road. There he found that a boat had just gone and he had to wait over an hour for the next. This, as he remembered all the work waiting to be done, still further exasperated him. Altogether it was in an unusually disgruntled frame of mind that eventually he reached the ship.

Stott was not in his cabin, and he left the roll of films with a note on his desk. The one alleviation in these photographic excursions was that Stott liked to do his own developing. Then Morrison went to his quarters, had a bath and some dinner, and settled down to his day’s work.

He found what had to be done tedious, but not difficult, and he tackled it with system and efficiency. He was congratulating himself that he would be finished by eleven when his telephone rang. Stott wanted to see him about the photographs.

Mentally consigning Stott and all his works to an uncongenial sphere, he went at once to his suite.

Stott was seated at his desk holding a strip of wet film. “Look here,” he greeted him in an indignant and complaining tone. “These photographs are no good. They only show the top of the blessed thing. There’s sure to be a lot below the ground. Why didn’t you dig away all this grass and stuff?”

For a moment Morrison saw red. Then with an effort he controlled himself. “I thought I hadn’t done too badly, sir,” he returned, “getting there at all. It’s a terrible way over very rough ground with a river to be crossed and stretches of bogland. There’s no road or path, you understand. It took me three hours to make it.”

“Not much good your making it, as you call it, if in the end you don’t get what you went out for,” Stott returned unpleasantly. “Couldn’t you have got a man with a spade for half an hour, if you weren’t up to the job yourself?”

“No, sir, I couldn’t,” Morrison answered firmly. “The place is a wilderness. I saw no one about and there were no houses anywhere near. If you want excavation done, it’ll require proper arrangements to be made beforehand.”

Stott looked at him, then shrugged contemptuously. “Oh, well, if you couldn’t, you couldn’t. But my experience in these matters is that where there’s a will, there’s a way. That’ll do. I’ll have to do with them.”

He turned away discontentedly. Morrison was fuming, but something either in his character or training prevented him from the reply which came to his lips. Without a word, he turned and left the office.

As it happened, in the alleyway he met Bristow. The latter stared at him.

“Hullo!” he exclaimed. “What’s happened? Had a spot of trouble?”

Morrison glanced round. He could see no one. “It’s that dirty skunk, Stott,” he declared savagely, and he went on to describe the owner’s reception of his day’s efforts.

His previous repression made him more outspoken than he might otherwise have been. He left no doubt in Bristow’s mind as to his feelings towards Stott. And yet he didn’t really convey the truth. He had no actual hatred towards the man. His ill feeling was only momentary, and with the relief of his outburst it passed away. Presently he was smilingly apologising for his grouse. Bristow, however, was sympathetic, as he also had suffered in the same way. He agreed that Stott was the “dirtiest and the meanest bloke unhung”.

The whole thing was a trifle and Morrison would quickly have forgotten it, had it not been that, looking round again, he saw a figure shuffling away. It was Pointer, a steward whom he believed he had made an enemy of when he had reprimanded him for not properly cleaning his office. The man’s lips were curved into an ugly smile and his whole expression indicated mischief. Instantly Morrison realised that his outburst had been overheard.

“There’s that blighter Pointer,” he said in a lower tone. “He’s a bad egg and I bet he’s heard all I said.”

Bristow shrugged. “What matter if he did?” he returned. “You said nothing to harm anyone.”

All the same, as Morrison thought over the encounter, he realised that he had spoken unwisely. The look in Pointer’s face made him feel sorry he had let himself go. He was not exactly uneasy, but he wished he had been more careful.

Next day the ship lay off the Gairloch, a party going ashore for a drive through the fine scenery of the surrounding mountains. Morrison stayed aboard with the idea of clearing off arrears of work, though actually thoughts of Margot Stott filled his mind to such an extent that the arrears grew greater instead of less.

That she was unhappy in her home life he was now convinced, and while all his sympathy went out to her, he found in the belief the dawn of a wonderful hope. If it were true, she would naturally look more favourably on matrimony: the wrench of leaving home would be less. But if she wished to marry, was there any reason why he might not be the lucky man? His present social position was admittedly beneath hers, but he was not going to remain a transport officer forever. He had been brought up in circumstances like her own and had been properly educated. Though he had not actually taken his degree, he had at least been to a good school and to Cambridge, and he could hold his own with people of her world. Of course, he hadn’t a millionaire for a great-uncle, but Wyndham Stott didn’t seem more than comfortably off, and when his own 10 percent of the cruise net profits materialised, he would be fairly well-to-do himself.

He wished desperately that he could see more of her. She was invariably friendly, and they were on intimate enough terms considering the number of times they had met, but she was so much taken up with her father and the other passengers that only at odd moments could he get a glimpse of her.

Then that very afternoon something happened which completely altered the terms on which they had previously been, and left them with a new sympathy and regard.

As he was dreaming over his desk at about the time at which thoughts of a cup of tea begin to enter the mind, his telephone bell rang. His surprise and pleasure were great when he heard Margot’s voice, though not as great as when he received her message.

“Are you very busy, Mr Morrison?” she asked.

He explained with fervour that he was only working on routine matters and was quite free for anything she might desire.

“Then I’d be greatly obliged if you could meet me in the library in ten minutes.”

His heart was beating a good deal more rapidly as he replaced the receiver. The rendezvous was suggestive. The library was in a corner of what had been the tourist smoking room and at this hour it was closed. On such a lovely day the place would be deserted.

When a few moments later he set off to keep the appointment, he felt as nervous as if he were about to be interviewed for a new job. Fervently he hoped he would not fail her in carrying out whatever she wanted him to do.

The saloon was empty when he entered, as he expected it would be. It was an unattractive place, low and small and with drab decorations and plain fittings. In a few seconds she joined him, and he instantly realised that she was in some serious trouble.

“Miss Stott,” he greeted her. “I see there’s something wrong. Can I do anything?”

She smiled deprecatingly. “I feel dreadfully ashamed, Mr Morrison, for troubling you like this. But I’m rather worried and I don’t know anyone else on board that I would care to ask for help.”

Morrison’s heart leaped, but he controlled himself. “It would be an honour to help you,” he said quietly. “What has happened?”

She made a little gesture of distress. “I hate to say it,” she answered, “but it’s my father. It seems like criticising him, and he’s the best father in the world. But just occasionally he – he takes a little too much whisky. And when that happens, his gambling becomes reckless. Then when the – when it has passed, he’s so sorry and upset.”

She hesitated, as if finding her confession too painful to continue. Morrison thought he should fill the gap, and he tried to speak sincerely and yet without emotion.

“I can appreciate all that,” he declared. “I’ve known cases where the best and most lovable people have become temporarily changed just by taking a little more than they intended to. And, of course, there’s nothing it affects so quickly as the judgment.”

She glanced at him gratefully. “I thought you’d understand. Now, the trouble is that he’s taken – a little – too much this afternoon. I don’t mean for a moment that he’s at all – well, drunk. But as you put it, his judgment has been affected and he’s gambling wildly. He’s losing more than we can afford. And when he – recovers, he’ll be so sorry and wish so much he hadn’t.”

If Morrison had any doubt of it before, he had none now. He loved this girl, loved her to distraction. He would do anything for her and be thankful for the chance. But, he told himself grimly, this was not the moment to think of it. Crushing down his feelings, he asked: “What do you usually do under such circumstances?”

“He’ll often do what I ask him. But this afternoon I’ve been down to the rooms twice and he just won’t attend to me. I can’t do anything with him. Besides, my running after him worries him.”

Morrison at last saw what was coming. “And you wish me to try if I can do anything?” he asked, his heart slowly sinking. If this indeed were what she wanted, almost inevitably he would fail her.

She nodded, looking anxiously into his face. “I thought perhaps your uniform would help you: give you some sort of authority, you know. He might listen to you when he won’t to me.”

Morrison hated it, but only one answer was possible. “I’ll do my level best,” he declared. “Shall I try and bring him to you here, or just ask him to go on deck?”

“If you could get him away from the rooms, I think I could manage him. Perhaps you’d better bring him here.”

Morrison, however, remembered that very shortly the library steward would be opening up the shelves and people would be coming in and out.

“I don’t think this place would do after all,” he said. “The library will be opening soon. But I’ll tell you: come along to my office. No one will want me at this time and I’ll close it for half an hour. Then I’ll try and get Major Stott to go there.”

“That is good of you,” she said gratefully. “Of course, you’ll explain to him that I’ve asked you to do this. He may be annoyed at the moment, but he’ll thank you for it later.”

Morrison turned aside. “You may trust me to do everything I can,” he assured her earnestly.

“I do trust you, and I’m more grateful than I can say.”

Though it gave him a thrill of sheer delight to be attempting something unpleasant for Margot, Morrison shrank from what he knew would be a horrible ordeal. In the first place, no officer in uniform was allowed in the gaming rooms on pain of instant dismissal. He thought his excuse for breaking the rule would be accepted by the Captain, but old Stott would have the final decision, and he might resent the interference with his nephew. Then, it would be impossible to speak to the Major in private, and a public discussion of the matter would be out of the question. His quest, indeed, seemed hopeless; then, just as he reached the rooms, he saw what he might do.

The door attendant made as if to stop him, but he whispered: “Message from the Captain for Major Stott,” and passed in before the other could recall his wits.

Except from the door, he had never before seen gaming in progress. He now found himself in one of the large rooms devoted to roulette, and every chair round the big table was occupied. Behind the chairs stood a ring of observers. Both sexes and all ages were represented. The armchairs and settees round the walls were deserted, but a few people stood vaguely about, as if too unsettled to sit down.

He had read many descriptions of the play at Monte Carlo, and he heard with an odd little thrill, delivered in a colourless monotone the words he had so often seen in print: “
Messieurs et mesdames, faites les jeux.”
Fascinated, he watched the coloured counters being placed on the various spaces, some deliberately as if weighty consideration and judgment had gone to the selection, some hesitatingly as if fear and doubt were uppermost in the player’s mind, and others in the hurry of last moment decision. Then, like the knell of fate came the croupier’s,
“Le jeu est fait: rien ne va plus!”
followed by the whirl of the wheel with its dancing ball, the equally fateful number with
“Impair, manque, rouge”
following, and the quick skilful movements of the rake pushing out and drawing in – but mostly drawing in – counters.

Morrison, waiting for the turn to end, glanced from the table to the faces of those playing. Here he saw something else of which he had read, though till now he had never quite believed it. No one showed the feverish excitement naturally to be expected. Practically everyone looked bored. Only three – two terrible old women and a small, sallow man – watched with real eagerness. One of the women was successful, and he thought he had never seen cupidity stamped so plainly on human features as when she stretched out her wrinkled, claw-like hand to draw in her chips.

He had no trouble in finding Stott. He was in this room seated almost directly facing the croupier, and with his back to the door and Morrison. When the turn was over Morrison advanced, and taking his courage in both hands, spoke to Stott.

“I beg your pardon. Major Stott,” he said as officially as he could, “but Captain Hardwick sends his compliments and would be grateful if you could see him in his cabin. Some telegram he wishes to discuss with you.”

Stott leant back. He had obviously had drink and was red-eyed and quarrelsome-looking, though by no means incapable. He stared truculently.

“He does, does he?” he returned in a loud voice. “Well, I’ll go when I’m ready.”

Morrison took a fresh hold on himself. “Sorry, sir,” he declared, “but I daren’t take back such a message. He’s waiting to see you now.”