Hurricane (9 page)

Shouts came in a medley from above. Spar was certain that Peg would be caught before he could get back to her. But an instant later he felt a cool hand groping for his own and they started down, recklessly, sliding over loose stone, scrambling along a steep trail they could not see.

Men were coming down from above. Debris slithered over the edge and dropped about the two. Torches lined the top like a string of electric lights at a carnival.

Spar and Peg came to the landing stage. Spar dropped the girl into the boat and slid behind the wheel. He started the engine and slipped the gears into reverse. They went rocketing out into the swell, pitching. He turned and sent the launch bucking toward the lights of the
Venture
.

Rifle shots pounded behind them, sending long streamers of phosphorescence through the depths of the harbor. Spar was grinning. “Presently, presently,” he said. “They have no other boat.”

They curved in alongside the gangway and, tossing the
painter
to a dark figure on the deck, Spar helped the girl up the ladder ahead of him.

Puffing, feeling very satisfied with himself, he reached the deck. “Well, we’re safe,” he said.

But Peg did not seem to hear him. She stopped at the top, rigid with surprise.

Spar walked straight into an unwavering rifle muzzle, and saw other rifles ready and waiting, beyond.

Chacktar’s smiling mask was thrust toward them. Chacktar stepped out of his crowd of men and bowed, mockingly, borrowing his manner from the Saint.

“Welcome aboard, Captain,” said Chacktar. “Welcome aboard, Miss Mannering. Would you like to go to your cabins immediately, or shall I have tea served upon the sun deck?”

Spar drooped, his bloodied face sagging into weariness.

“Pierre!” said Chacktar. “Take the launch back to the Saint. Tell him I have received a return radio from Perry stating that the deed is made out, only waiting for Count Folston’s signature. He will doubtless wish to sail instantly.”

Peg Mannering, unsteadily stepping to one side, clutched at Spar’s sleeve. Very quietly, she fainted.

Spar took her up and carried her to the bridge, conscious of Chacktar’s knowing leer, conscious of a dozen unwavering muzzles, conscious of extreme defeat.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Branded with Murder

I
T
was night. The sullen black bulk of Martinique rose up on the port bow of the anchored
Venture
. A few lights glittered in the fishing village just north of Fort-de-France, and sent their long streamers like silver swords into the gentle surf.

The group on the darkened bridge were silent. They stood apart from one another, waiting patiently, oppressed by the presence of armed men. Felice Bereau whimpered softly to herself. Peg Mannering kept her eyes on Spar’s back. Tom Perry muttered obscene phrases helplessly, knowing that he was fated for ill, in spite of the fact that he was drunk.

The Saint came up to them and pointed at the launches in the water. “The ladies had better stay here. Never fear that I will be back. Spar and Perry are coming with me.”

Spar’s voice was metallic, toneless. “I would suggest that you take the ladies with you. You cannot trust these men.”

Folston shrugged. “Perhaps that is true. That is very well. Come along, good people. I have a party planned.”

They went down into the boats in a silent file and were presently ashore, standing on the deserted sand. Armed men stood silently about, watchful, waiting for orders.

Spar nervously glanced back at the
Venture
from time to time and licked his dry lips.

They went by jungle trail up through the steep hills, making their way to the Perry plantation without entering Fort-de-France. Spar, as minute followed minute, hoped that customs men would see them and stop them. Even though that meant his own recapture, it was preferable to the role he knew he would be forced to play.

They came in the darkness to the house, and the men scouted the place with great caution. The Saint was seeking to locate Perry and murder him before the servants could scatter out and warn the police. In fact, he hoped that the killing would be so silent that the servants would not at all be aware of it.

Presently his scouts came back with doleful tidings. This was Saturday night. The one night the Saint should not have picked. And all his plans seemed doomed to fall because of that unwitting choice.

“Saturday night,” rasped the Saint. “They’re at the Bal Ludu! And Perry? Where is Perry?”

“That I do not know,” said Chacktar.

The Saint thought for several minutes and then, with a brightening manner, said, “Very well, it is better that way. Chacktar, your staying here would excite no suspicion. Very well, we enter the place.”

They went into the glittering living room and from there into Perry’s office. The Saint, drawing on a pair of rubber gloves in case the police should look for fingerprints, began to rip files from their racks, papers from the drawers, until he had made a fine clutter on the floor. Then he knelt before the safe and proceeded to open it, referring from time to time to a paper he held, using the numbers he had often watched Perry use.

In the safe he found the made-out partnership deed. He found another paper giving details which were unpleasant to him. This he destroyed. He pocketed the deed to half the moneymaking plantation and then rose up with a smile.

“Chacktar, place young Perry and Captain Spar in a good, solid room. It is close to midnight now. Perry will soon be home. Chacktar, when Frederick Perry enters the house, slit his throat, toss down the knife and fade away. We will go back to the
Venture
.”

At that last remark, a faint smile twitched Spar’s lips. But he was hurried away with Tom to a bedroom. The shutters were barred, the door was locked upon them, and they were left alone.

“Remember, I shall be watching for you,” said Chacktar from the garden.

They heard the Saint say, “Come, ladies, we go a-sailing once more.”

An instant later they heard the sound of an engine coming up the hill. Perry was returning!

The Saint’s clear tones were heard again, as though he spoke into a telephone. “Police?” he said in
patois
. “
M’sieu
Perry is dead! Yes, yes! Dead! Come instantly!” The phone clicked.

Footsteps sounded and then, except for the roar of the approaching engine, all was silence.

Perry sank down upon the bed, moaning, “They’ll get me now! They’ll get me! They’ll think I killed my father. They’ll put me in jail for killing those men. They’ll hang me! And nobody will believe a word I say.”

Spar was suffering the same thoughts, but he did not voice them. Added to his misery was the fact that Peg Mannering would be lost to him forever. Folston was faultless in his plotting. The police would come, recognize two men they already knew to be criminals, and refuse to believe a word told them.

A corpse, two men, an opened safe, and the conclusions would be perfectly drawn. And Folston would present his deed in due course, claim the other half by partnership laws, and reign supreme.

It was all so neat, so flawless. The car was stopping. The police were already on their way. But nothing could be worse, thought Spar. Even his own death.

He aimed a solid kick at the shutter. It shivered and remained intact.

“Why do that?” moaned Tom Perry. “Folston will be gone in the
Venture
before anyone could stop him. Even if . . .”

Yellow so-and-so, thought Spar. Not even worried about his own father’s imminent death.

The shutter caved suddenly. Spar leaped through and hit the ground on his hands and knees. He scrambled up.

He saw Chacktar standing in the headlights, automatic raised, aiming at the occupant of the machine. Spar sprinted forward, yelling as he went.

Chacktar twisted about, undecided, two tasks suddenly confronting him. Spar raced in under the gun just as it fired. The flaming powder scorched his cheek. He struck solidly and sent Chacktar reeling back.

Spar aimed a second blow and missed. Chacktar hammered down with the automatic barrel, kicking and squirming to get away. His eyes flashed white.

Then Spar’s hands went in through the guard. Spar’s fingers closed on Chacktar’s windpipe. Chacktar threshed helplessly in the grip.

Little by little, his life ebbed out. Spar dropped him with a feeling of disgust.

Other cars were coming. It was all up, thought Spar. But perhaps it had been worth it, even though he went back to the prison camps. The penal colony could hold no terrors now.

Frederick Perry ran forward, crying, “What’s this? What’s this?”

Spar faced him. “Your son is in that house. You’d better get him out. The police are coming.”

“My son? But I thought—”

“Don’t think, act!” rapped Spar impatiently.

But it was already too late. Cars drew up and belched forth men. The
gendarmes
clustered about the two, throwing out a barrage of questions.

“There is no corpse,” said Spar.

“No corpse?” cried the chief. “Name of a cat! Is all this some joke,
hein
?

Gendarmes had gone into the house and were now calling for the chief. Taking the two with him, the chief entered. Young Perry was standing in the center of the living room, shaking with terror.

The gendarmes recognized him instantly with glad shouts, but Spar’s voice broke through the babble.

“Listen,” said Spar, “the yacht
Venture,
if I am not mistaken, has just sunk three miles north of Fort-de-France. A great criminal and many armed men are there on the beach. I would advise that you telephone the colonial barracks and have the people rounded up. It is of the utmost importance.”

“What’s this?” cried the chief. “What’s this? How do you know?”

“Because, on my last trip into the engine room, I opened two
seacocks
. The
Venture
has been filling up for hours and she must have gone down by this time. The men left aboard have not intelligence enough to shut them off.”

“Wait!” said the chief, pulling his black mustache, “I know you. I have lately received your description from French Guiana. You are Captain Spar. Aha, my fine jailbird, so you think to so escape us.”

“Yes,” cried Spar. “I’m an escaped convict, but down there on the beach you will find two score escaped convicts. Get them, phone the barracks, or you’ll lose your precious badge!”

The man blinked at Spar, recognized the sincerity of tone, and reached for the instrument. He barked his information, and ten minutes later, a battalion of French colonials were racing down from the hills to the beach.

Twenty minutes later, the wondering inhabitants of the fishing village were startled by the sound of rifle fire.

An hour later, a major and many soldiers marched up the road to the Perry plantation, escorting what prisoners they had left.

The Saint, flanked by the mustard uniforms of the colonials, was very disheveled. His debonair manner had given place to a definitely terrified mien. His eyes were very large when he saw Spar and Frederick Perry on such excellent terms.

Then some of the bravado came back and he shook loose confining hands. “So the convict thinks himself smarter than the Saint, eh? Turns state’s evidence and gets the reprieve. Someday, Captain Spar, you and I may be able to settle this matter by ourselves.”

“Why not now?” said Spar, getting up slowly.

“No, no,” cried the chief. “You are my prisoner. Do not damage yourself!”

But the colonial major was of a more warlike mind. “Let them go ahead. Perhaps we shall learn something.”

But he might have saved his words. Unmindful of the men all about them, Folston and Spar hurled themselves from the two sides of the room and met in the center of the polished floor like two charging cavalry brigades.

The Saint was lighter than Spar, but the Saint had the advantage of tricks which Spar would never have used. They rained blows on one another in a matter of seconds. Too surprised to interfere, the soldiers and police stood still.

Spar was striking for one spot, the heart. His blows were steady. The wolf, taking his one hold. The shark rapped every place at once, using fair means and foul.

Suddenly, Spar sank his fist to the knuckles in the Saint’s coat. Folston, unnerved by the blow, slipped back to the floor. Spar threw himself on top of the man, hands seeking out the throat. And the shark screamed for mercy.

Men darted forward to pry them apart, but Spar was shouting, “Stay back! Stay back and listen! Now, Saint Folston, tell them you framed me. Tell them I didn’t know about that cargo in Paramaribo!”

In choked words, feeling his death near at hand, the Saint talked. He talked for fifteen minutes and each time he tried to stop, Spar’s thumbs went deeper into his throat. And then when the police and the soldiers had the story, and not until then did Spar stand up.

Peg Mannering was instantly at his side. Spar, in terse phrases, told his own side of the events, ending up with, “I know you are neither judges nor juries, but what you have heard tonight is true, and after hearing it I am confident that men of your intelligence and understanding will certainly see to it that France does not unjustly condemn me, that France will free me of my sentence.”

The major shouted, “France will not desert you!” in a fervor of patriotism which he so seldom found a chance to indulge.

“Nor will the police!” cried the chief. “I take the responsibility of setting you free this minute. You and this so young Tom Perry.”

“Thank you,” said Spar, with a smile.

But Peg Mannering was not smiling. Peg Mannering knew that everything rested as it had before for her. This had changed nothing.

“But where is Tom?” said Frederick Perry.

“Probably in the office,” said the chief of police. “I saw him there but a moment ago.”

Frederick Perry disappeared and returned carrying an empty cash box, eyes wide with questioning.

The guard at the door came in and said, “Was it all right to let those people through?”

“What people?” demanded the police chief.

“The young man and the dark-haired girl. They said they had to make a boat and I saw that they were not being held.”

“A boat!” cried Frederick Perry. “The liner which sails at dawn. That Bereau woman has . . . has . . . kidnaped him.”