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Ghost Breaker, The

XI WHEN THE SHIP COMES IN Back in his stateroom Warren was poring with renewed interest over the time-tables between Liverpool, London, Paris, and Madrid. Seguro was on the main line from the French capital to the principal one of Spain. As he made various penciled memoranda upon a page of his leather notebook, the telephone bell tinkled. He answered and heard the voice of the Princess. "Can you see me at once,—on the promenade deck, by my door?" "Yes. Good-by." In a few moments he was talking to her in the dark; all the lights of her suite were out. The girl was very nervous. "I have a paper which Nita found upon the floor—it was crumpled and must have fallen from the pocket of my cousin when he fell. I want to give you back that belt, Mr. Jarvis: for I have heard before of some of the wager-debts of Carlos. It is safer with you. Let me know what you think about this paper, and tell me to-morrow morning. We are due in port late in the evening, you know." "I will. There may be something in which I wish your help, as well, your Highness. I have made up my mind to reach Seguro before the Duke—for many reasons." The girl caught his hand impetuously. "You don't fear for your life before you get there, do you?" she asked softly. "I want you to help me in my castle. That is our bargain—but I know you better than I did when we met in New York. I don't want you to run too big a risk for me until the great trial comes. Do be careful, now." A thrill sent the Kentuckian's head reeling for an instant at the unexpected touch of those warm, electric fingers. Then he caught himself. "Your vassal is still ambitious for promotion. But he will not fight the windmills of Spain on an old mule like Don Quixote. He prefers modern methods—such as dynamite, and other pleasant little novelties." He pressed her hand with a returning warmth, slipped the belt about him, and started down the promenade deck again. Something prompted him to step into the black shadow of a companionway as a figure crossed beneath an electric overhead lamp far forward on the deck. He waited. The figure approached noiselessly. It was the Duke! He was wearing slippers, with felt soles apparently, for his steps caused no sound. Jarvis watched him with a strange misgiving—a fear not for himself. Yet he deemed it wiser to wait for developments. Up and down the deck paced the nervous, noiseless figure. At last the Duke returned and disappeared from view, through the door by which he had entered the Kentuckian's view. "I wonder what that meant?" thought Jarvis. "Perhaps he is having a fight with his conscience—just as I have been doing." And he watched the speeding waves, racing past the great vessel as it seemed—for so steady was the swift advance of the ship that it seemed they were on dry land, rather than the boundless expanse of the depths. "Here I am—after all my education, all the work of years, to advance myself, running away from my own country—an escaped gun-man, just like an East Side thug." In the comfortable calm of the shipboard life, with unfamiliar scenes, away from the reminders of his tragedy at Meadow Green, it did not now seem a fine thing that he had done. Man is not normally a destroyer of his own kind—and his fine instincts were asserting themselves. Yet, after all, despite his vow to his father, this had been actual self-defense. The other had fired the first shot: he had planned to trap him with a decoy, and in the end it was survival of the fittest. These thoughts had been frequently in his mind, but he had resolutely driven them from him. Now they were nearing another port, a great commercial cross-ways of the travel world. Here again he was coming within the grasp of the law. He was not too certain that all had been given up, in that questioning pursuit of the Princess and her party. That broken door lock might yet admit the hand of legal vengeance. "And that Duke? He'll try to earn that five thousand dollars surely enough now. Well, I'd better be worrying over my own future instead of the dead past. They've said 'let the dead past bury itself, and don't climb the graveyard fence.' That's good logic. But I'd better be looking toward some of the fences ahead. I wonder what is on the paper?" He returned to his stateroom, where Rusty was dozing in a chair, waiting for the good-night instructions. Jarvis sat down and studied the fragment. He sat bolt upright, at first with rage and then a growing amusement. "Look here, Rusty. This Duke is trying to put one over on me," he declared, waking his servant. "Huh? What's dat, Marse Warren?" and Rusty rubbed his eyes drowsily. "Do you see what this paper is?" "Looks like a telegram letter, boss." "That's a wireless blank, Rusty. It has never been sent. It is the first draft. See—the words are crossed out here, and a sentence changed there. The person who wrote this message tried to save money, by cutting it down, just as we, back home, waste a dollar's worth of time, trying to shorten a telegraph message into ten words. Isn't that reasonable?" "Yassir. But what does it mean? I don't read no sich langwidge." Jarvis smiled. "It's in Spanish. It's addressed to Scotland Yard, in London." "What's dat? Is it some schoolhouse lot?" "It's detective headquarters, Rusty. And it is about me." "About you-all!" Rusty was wide awake by this time, in all truth. He had an instinctive suspicion of anything connected with brass buttons and detectives. "Yes. It warns Scotland Yard that a man named Warren, on this steamship, is wanted by the New York police, and that I should be arrested before the passengers can leave." "Who signed dat mizzable contraption?" "It isn't signed, Rusty. The only person who writes Spanish and who could be so deeply interested in my wickedness is that high and mighty relative of the Princess. He wrote it in Spanish so the wireless operator probably wouldn't notice or understand the message." "Well, Marse Warren, dis is a ship—dey alluz has ropes. Can't you climb overboard when she is hitched to de wharfboat?" Jarvis was thinking rapidly. He looked at his watch. "The detectives will come on with the pilot boat, Rusty, which I understand meets the Mauretania about eight or ten miles offshore. There won't be any chance on the wharfboat. But that gives me a good idea—however, it doesn't seem right to make the Duke of Alva waste his hard-earned coin on wireless messages. There's no free list with Marconi, you know." Jarvis was walking up and down the stateroom nervously by this time. "Rusty, in my suitcase is an old suit of clothes which I put in to use, if I had to jump the town on account of Marcum. I thought I might go to the mountains when I went over to the Belmont Hotel. Now, get it out, and those old tennis shoes, and that cap." "Whaffor, Marse Warren?" The big whites of his eyes were rolling—an indication that Rusty Snow's mind was not as much at ease as usual. "You ain't gonta do nothin' dangerous, is you, Marse Warren? Remember you-all is de oney one left in de fam'ly an' you's got to look after yohself." Warren placed a kindly hand on the negro's shoulder. "Rusty, I remember that once when Meadow Green got too small for you, years ago, you started out with a minstrel show—'The Darktown Merrymakers,' they called it." This leap over the chasm of years was too much for Rusty. "Yassir," he agreed, after recovering from his surprise. "But, I had to walk back home." "The thing I want to know, Rusty, is whether you learned how to act when you were with that troupe. Did you?" "Did I? Marse Warren, dere wasn't no amotion dat wasn't developed in me on dat trip—I started off laughin' and came back like a weepin' angel." "Ha, ha!" laughed Jarvis. "That's splendid. Now, Rusty, I want to have you do some more play-acting—only turn it around. This time I want you to go away weeping, and we'll come back laughing!" Rusty was actually offended. "Ah, Marse Warren. You's pickin' on de ole nigger. Dat was w'en I was a young an' sassy coon. No moh actin' fer mine." "That's just what you've got to do, Rusty. Obey orders or walk back to New York!" Rusty blinked and grumbled to himself. Then, as usual, he acquiesced with that famous grin. "Oh, Marse Warren, I'm game fer anything dat you is. What is de play?" "I think we can call this one 'Why Dukes Leave Home,' Rusty. Now, you get busy with those clothes, and pack up the suitcases again, so they won't be missed. I'm going on the boat deck, over us, for a little walk and some thinking." Jarvis was gone for about fifteen minutes. Rusty was beginning to get nervous by the time he had returned. His hands and face were sooty. "Where you-all been, Marse Warren? Climbin' up on de smokestack?" "No, just investigating things. Now, after I write this note I will tell you about your acting and give you a rehearsal. I haven't any time to lose, Rusty." Warren wrote very carefully, tearing the paper up several times and throwing the fragments through the open porthole, for this was an outside stateroom. At last he had finished it. He smiled over it more than once, finally sealed it, and laid it carefully in the center of the little folding writing-desk, where it was in plain view from the door. Then he began to disrobe, changing to the rough old suit and the tennis shoes. He dispensed with undergarments and hose. "Now, Rusty, I want you to go down to the steward of the second cabin and tell him you are very hungry. Get some good sliced meat, some biscuits, and some fruit. Wrap it up in paper—I know it's late, but there's always someone on watch in the pantry. A little American money will go a long way with these British stewards. Hurry back." As soon as Rusty was out of the room, Jarvis wrapped the money-belt firmly about his body, under the flannel shirt. He placed some gold coins in a handkerchief, which he tied into a knot. Then he slipped out to the promenade deck, walking along its deserted length to the room of the Princess. He tapped on the window of the parlor of the suite until the door opened slightly. Nita's frightened voice came to him. He answered reassuringly. "It is Warren. I want to speak to the Princess." The maid hurried back, and brought her mistress. Warren spoke to her in a whisper. "I understand the treachery," he said. "Have no fear. I will meet you at Seguro when you arrive. Be surprised at nothing—and take care of Rusty, if he needs it. I intend winning that five thousand dollars even if the Duke's note goes to protest! Good-by!" She felt his warm, strong hand clasping hers. A great dread came over her—an unusual sensation it was. Yet she said nothing, for some strange reason inexplicable to herself. She passed a sleepless night. Next morning the news spread over the ship like wildfire that a first cabin passenger was missing! All his belongings were in order; his clothes hung up carefully in the wardrobe, just as he had undressed, assisted by his faithful valet. And that poor unfortunate—how he sobbed and beat his portly bosom over the grief which was racking the loyal African heart. The Duke of Alva went to the captain to inquire about the terrible affair. "Yes, sir. He is gone. A pleasant, courteous fellow, too. Always minded his own business, never complained. It's too bad. Too bad. And that letter he left—it nearly broke my heart—and I'm a gruff old sea-dog, and have seen many a tragedy in my years as a master!" The captain wiped his eye with the back of his hand. The Duke fingered his cane nervously. "But the note, sir. What did that say? As the cousin of her exalted Highness, Princess Maria Theresa of Aragon, I insist on knowing about this strange person. He was in my cousin's employ. She is entitled to know what sort of a person he was." The captain glared angrily at the Duke. "I am the commander of this vessel, sir. On the high sea, I am in supreme control, and know how to run the Mauretania without advice from a bloody Spanish popinjay! I will turn that letter over to the authorities when we land." The captain spluttered indignantly. "They will meet the boat as the pilot comes on board. I sent them a wireless!" cried the Duke. "How dare you go over my head, in any matter of discipline on this vessel?" cried the raging commander. "What do you mean by such a thing? I am the one to warn." The Duke was embarrassed, for he felt the helplessness of his position before this legalized tyrant of the deep. "I've a mind to think all was not well with this unfortunate young man, from the tone of his letter before he jumped overboard. Not a thing was missing from his wardrobe, but the pajamas he wore—when he ran out on the deck. At least, we find no clothes missing! I'll have something to say to Scotland Yard myself!" "But the man threatened to shoot me if I spoke to you or any of the officers about him. Now that he is dead I don't fear him." "Huh!" snorted the captain. "You look about the type of man who wouldn't fear the dead. But what about ghosts, young man! What about ghosts? Did you stop to think of ghosts after people are dead?" This perfectly innocent question of the seafaring, superstitious mind had a curious effect upon the nobleman. "Carramba!" he muttered between his teeth, and turned away with a white face. "I wonder what could have been in that letter?" And the captain glowered at him as he walked nervously down the companionway to his lonely stateroom, to brood in a state of miserable apprehension. Toward dinner-time the pilot boat was sighted. Several men clambered on board, as well as that official. They sought the captain, and then visited the Princess. Carlos took good care to be in her suite when they came. Rusty, weeping as though his heart were broken, detailed the sad conversation which he had held the preceding night with his unfortunate employer. "Poh Marse Warren! Ah'll nebber see 'im again—until de time for de ghost!" At this speech Maria Theresa observed a nervous twitching about the mouth of her noble kinsman. Then Rusty became so incoherent in his sorrow that they could get no satisfaction out of him. They studied the circumstances of the case and made their notes, with frequent whispered conferences. Next to Rusty, the Duke was the most unhappy person present, although the Princess showed the strain of her uneasiness. After the men completed the first quizzing, they repaired once more to Warren's stateroom to seek for other papers. When they had been gone a minute or so, Carlos waved Nita out of the room. That young person could look otherwise than melting with her black eyes when occasion demanded. This glance was of the sparkling kind which would kill! "Tell me, my dear Maria Theresa," began Carlos, after some stammering, "did you inform the detectives about the money-belt which he gave to you?" "Naturally not. That was his affair, and the property passed out of his possession when I became stakeholder, according to the laws of wagers, did it not?" "Ah, yes. You are a brilliant girl. And a logical one, too. Well, give it to me, then, as the affair is settled. I have several debts which I would like to pay as we pass through London." The Princess' eyes blazed but her voice was smooth. "So, my cousin, you claim your wager thus promptly. Are you aware that it would look bad for you if the detectives knew you had bet this enormous sum—and now were the gainer because of his disappearance? Tell me, Carlos, do you know any more than the rest of us about the Ghost Breaker?" The man rose to his feet, his knees wavering, and then with a supreme effort he steadied himself against the back of the chair. His eyes were distended and the handsome mouth sagging. "Madre de Dios!" he cried appealingly—all nonchalance and scorn now missing from his mien, "You don't mean to say that you—my blood relative—the woman I adore, could believe such a thing?" The girl looked away. He could not see the ironical smile on the scarlet lips. "Carlos, I have said no such thing. But wouldn't it be better to wait until we reach Seguro—as a matter of sportsmanship? Our family has had the reputation of being honorable, even in games and wagers. I am nervous, Carlos. This has upset me more than you can believe. I will never mention the wager again, until you bring up the subject." And she retired to her stateroom, where Nita dressed the soft dark hair with her accustomed skill—and a smile concealed with difficulty. The search was ended. The Scotland Yard men scoured all the cabins, from steerage up; they even quizzed the engineers, the stokers, the cooks, the multitude of men and passengers. No clew could alter the sad deduction which they had drawn. "Well, Captain," said the detective in charge of the case, "it's a sad affair. But he's better off. We'll take this letter to headquarters, sir, with your written report of the circumstances. What will be done about the negro servant?" The captain shook his head. "Poor fellow, he is heartbroken. The Princess has very kindly offered to take him into her service. The letter asked that all the baggage, clothes, and personal property in the stateroom be given as a farewell gift to the faithful fellow. If you have no objection I will let him take the luggage along, when he leaves the ship with the party of her Highness." And that is how it was, that evening, that out through the dismal drizzle of an interminably long day Rusty Snow marched down the dock, carrying Warren Jarvis' luggage and two satchels of the Princess of Aragon—another loyal retainer in her service. It was a curious ending to an unusual voyage. And Carlos, Duke of Alva, breathed a sigh of relief as he passed the last dock policeman, to assist his cousin into a waiting taxicab. They were to take the night train for London. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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