The Blue Book Magazine/Volume 43/Issue 6/The Trail of Death

by H. Bedford-Jones

The Trail
of Death

This fascinating story “West
of Plymouth” is the first of a
remarkable new mystery ser-
ies by the favorite Blue Book
Magazine writer who wrote
the Detective Clancy stories.

By

H. Bedford-Jones

Illustrated by L. R. Gustavson

“That is very good
of m'sieur,” said a
voice from behind.

DURANT lingered at the rail, in the nook behind the starboard ventilator; apparently staring out at the wide Atlantic, he was in reality watching the couple just beyond him. He could not hear their words, was not trying—he was watching the look of startled anger on the face of the woman. Now, abruptly, they swept into louder speech, in rapid French, and the wind brought a scrap of it to Durant.

“I shall have nothing to do with it, nothing!” she said. “It is too much—”

“But you will!” returned the man. He was large, heavy-jawed, burly, aggressive in his manner. “It is understood. Before we reach Plymouth. I'll let you know when to act.”

He turned away from her with a little bow, and strode up the deck. Durant glanced after him, amused in a contemptuous way by the brutal power he showed in every word and gesture. And the woman caught his look—stared full at him. She was obviously startled by seeing him there, comprehending that he must have overheard some of their talk.

Then, to the astonishment of Durant, she came directly to him, leaned on the rail, looked him in the eye, and plunged into it midway.

“You heard what was said?” she demanded in French. Durant smiled slightly.

“Yes, madame.” He did not say he had heard only a little. He was curious.

“Then—you will warn that M. Lewis?”

Ah! He might have known, thought Durant. This Lewis and his wife were the talk of the ship—loud-voiced tourists, both.

“Why should I bother?” he answered cynically.

“Because I ask you to,” she said.

Durant hesitated, then shook his head. “There is little I would or could refuse to the Baronne Glincka; but I refuse to warn a fool of his folly.”

The eager, sky-blue eyes widened. “That is not my name!” she exclaimed.

“No?” Durant smiled again. “Dear madame, you look very like her. Shall I tell you a little story?”

“Do.” She squared away at the rail, looking sidewise at him, then down at the water.

“I was a poor clerk in Paris,” said Durant. “After the war I stayed there, got a job in an American bank; I had nothing to go back to at home—my health was broken; I was penniless. I did not live—I existed. It was struggle. The American who lives in Paris on French pay has a hard time of it, madame. Well, three times a week the Baronne Glincka came into the bank.”

HE puffed at his pipe, looking at the horizon. She stole another sidelong glance at his profile—thin, clear-carved, harshly strong.

“She was very beautiful,” went on Durant calmly. “I asked who she was, found she was an American girl who had married a Russian and had left him shortly afterward—an unhappy baroness, like most of them! Whenever she came into the bank, it was like the sun breaking through clouds. I never spoke to her, she never saw me—that was all of it. Yet you remind me of her very strongly.”

“Yes?” said the woman softly. “It is a compliment you pay me, monsieur! And if I may ask, why are you not in the bank now? Why are you going back to Paris?”

Durant laughed. “A distant relative died and left me some forgotten land in Florida. I went home, sold it, became moderately rich, and am going to Europe to enjoy myself for a few months in the same places where I worked and starved. That's all.”

“Oh!” She was silent a moment; then she turned and faced him again, gravely. “And you overheard what was said. You are discretion itself, M. Durant!”

He swept her a slow look, astonished. “You know my name?”

“Certainly. Would I not remember a face that I saw three times a week—in a Paris bank—if I encountered it aboard a boat? Certainly.”

Durant met her eyes, found them laughing frankly at him—yet found in them a certain desperate gravity that startled him. What was it she thought he had overheard? Such a woman as this lined up with a gang of steamer crooks? Impossible! And yet she was his baroness, no doubt of that!

“If you don't warn Lewis, what can you do about it?” she asked abruptly.

“Why should you, of all people, want me to warn him?” asked Durant.

“Do you think I'm in it willingly?” she demanded with scorn. “Do you think I'd decoy a man, let him be murdered? Yet—”

“Don't let it worry you,” said Durant quietly, though the word had sent a thrill across him. “I'll have to mix up in it, I suppose, and warn him off.”

“That is very good of m'sieur,” said a voice from behind. “But now, madame, I must tell you that your cabin is ready. May I escort you below?”

Durant turned and saw the burly-jawed man just back of them. The woman went deathly white, then forced a smile, and opened an astounding attack.

“I must present an old friend, Boris,” she said. “M. Durant, an American detective, who tells me that we must drop our plans or he will warn M. Lewis. I think, M. Durant, you know who my cousin Boris Makoff is?”

“Quite well,” said Durant, falling into the game. The sky-blue eyes blessed him for his quick wit.

The two men bowed slightly, regarded each other steadily, Durant with his invariable cynical calm, Boris Makoff with thinly veiled hatred, animosity, fury.

“Very well, m'sieur,” said the Russian in a throaty voice. “We abandon our plans. Will you take my arm, madame?”

{{di|S}O} they went away, leaving Durant to lean on the rail and get the mental kinks straightened out as best he could. Detective, eh? Clever dodge of hers! She had to save the situation somehow, since Makoff had sneaked up on them.

“And now, what the devil sort of game have I butted into?” Durant asked himself.

The Baronne, as he already knew, was listed aboard as Mrs. Robinson, and traveled alone. Here was her cousin—a cousin by her unfortunate marriage, no doubt—and she was obviously afraid of him; and Makoff planned on murdering Lewis. But why? Lewis was an alert Mid-west wholesaler, abroad on vacation, rather vulgarly intent on having a good time—but no fool. And certainly without obvious reason for being murdered.

Durant knocked out his pipe, with a feeling of sharp regret. This American girl, this baroness with her delicate beauty, her air of laughing poise, had typified something in his life; now he felt his ideal cheapened and brought low, and it put him in savage humor. To find her linked with crooks!

The first dinner call had sounded. Durant, who was at the second service, strolled into the smoking-room, ordered a drink, and sat watching the groups around. There in a corner were Lewis and his wife, several others with them—loud-talking, blatant, careless of money—the type of American, thought Durant disgustedly, who made his countrymen a byword abroad. As he looked, Makoff came up and joined the group, being welcomed boisterously. Durant put down his drink and went below to dress.

He knew no one aboard, had sedulously remained aloof, regarding what went on around him with his detached and slightly bitter air. The one-cabin Tyrania, already several days out from New York, had shaken down by this time; the cockney stewards knew just whom they could insult with impunity; the officers knew just which pretty girls would flirt nicely; and the passengers were finding each other out.

His cabin was forward. As he left the curving staircase and started for it up the port passage, he almost collided with a woman—Baroness Glincka.

“Oh! I had to see you,” she exclaimed softly, catching at his arm, her voice thrilling him as it pleaded: “Just a moment—you must be careful, careful! I can't explain now—your life's actually in danger—can you meet me tonight on the boat-deck? About ten?”

“With pleasure,” said Durant. “At ten on the boat-deck, forward?”

“Yes—and be careful!”

She turned and was gone past him. He went on to his cabin, thoughtfully. Certainly she was no person to lose poise very easily—yet this warning had been excited, desperate! When he had dressed, Durant stopped in at the purser's office, just now deserted, and inquired if anything were known of Boris Makoff. The purser gave him a keen look, then shook his head.

“Little enough, sir. Russian, I suppose; rather decent chap, I believe.”

“He's traveling alone?”

“He has a cabin with another chap of the same stripe. Why? Any trouble?”

“Not yet.” Durant met the purser's eye and smiled.

“Oh!” The other leaned forward confidingly. “None of my business, of course—but if I were doing the spotting, I'd say cards. What?”

“Great is the Anglo-Saxon understanding!” said Durant solemnly. “I expect you're right. But I shall call on you later, if I may.”

“Anything from drinks to dueling pistols,” said the purser cheerfully, and Durant went on down to dinner, the bugle having just trilled out its message.

FROM his table at the side, with other single misfits, he saw Baroness Glincka come down, as he had seen her come each night, to the Captain's table facing the stairs. A little stir arose, always, when she came thus: women followed her with their eyes; men looked once and then stole glances afterward, for she was gowned to accord with her rare beauty, and her slender grace seemed perfection. But tonight, watching that slim figure of deeply rich blue and silver, with its crown of pale golden hair, Durant's cold gray eyes narrowed. One of a gang of crooked Russians—that was all!

Dinner over, Durant went to the smoking-room and put his pipe to work, over his coffee. He was watching several American girls exchange sprightly repartee with the steward, and thinking it was no wonder that the latter was a much spoiled cockney, when Boris Makoff appeared and silently glided into the seat opposite him.

“Well, Mr. Durant?” said the Russian in English. “Is it possible for us to arrive at an understanding?”

“Quite,” said Durant. “What is incomprehensible to you?”

“Your occupation and presence. Is it connected with me?”

“Not in the least,” said Durant, feeling amused by the game and falling into it with good will. He met those smoldering, dangerous, aggressive dark eyes with whimsical gaze. “Is my presence disturbing to you?”

“Then you're guarding Lewis. That's it, eh?”

“That's it,” said Durant calmly. “Without his knowledge, you comprehend.”

Makoff laughed suddenly and leaned back. “So that's it! I was afraid they'd send some one. Well, you're content if we give up the idea, are you?”

“Entirely,” said Durant.

“And no word to the British people at Plymouth?”

“Not a word.”

“If you've not already spoken to the officers here—”

“I haven't had reason,” said Durant, with an appearance of frankness. “I only happened to overhear your talk today, remember. If you're willing to make the trade, all right. Leave Lewis alone, and I'll leave you alone.”

“Done with you,” said Makoff, and rose. Then he paused, looking down. “Tell me one thing! You're booked for Plymouth. Are you going on to Paris with him?”

“Why?”

“Perhaps for your own good.”

“Then—no.”

“Very well.”” Makoff smiled. “That's all right. I only wanted to warn you against Paris; I am not alone, you see. I find you reasonable, but my companions are prejudiced against the police, and Paris might be very unhealthy for you. Then it's understood?”

“Quite,” said Durant.

The Russian nodded and departed.

Durant smiled to himself at the whole business. A detective, indeed! Evidently he had filled the bill in a satisfactory manner. He wondered why Lewis should be guarded, why anyone should seek to murder the man.

Leaving the smoking-room for a turn on deck, he sought his favorite spot—the well-deck forward, dark, deserted, quiet. He pushed open the swinging door from the cabin passage, stepped outside. Just to his right a match blazed, under the dark overhang of the bridge-deck. Then something struck him.

IN that first sharp moment of darkness, Durant's life was saved only by the fact that he was filling his pipe, holding in one hand a flat tobacco tin.

He went down under the impact of a dark figure; the tobacco-tin was crushed against his white dress-shirt. Just what was happening, he could not tell, except that he was being very neatly and efficiently assaulted—he was already hard at work as he struck the deck, the other man on top. He got his knee into the side of his assailant, rolled clear, caught a low and bitter oath; then was up and plunging at the other man.

Durant got him in the darkness by sheer luck, back-heeled him, took him over his hip, threw him headlong. The man came down with a crash, and lay motionless.

Startled, angered, puzzled, Durant stood looking around for a moment, then pushed open the swing-door into the cabin passage, and let some light on the scene. At his feet was the tobacco-tin; driven through one side of it and impaled there, was a heavy sheath-knife. Durant picked it up, extricated the knife with some difficulty, and went to the sprawled figure.

The man was a stranger, small and dark, senseless but apparently unhurt otherwise. No diagrams were necessary, however. Durant perceived that this must be Makoff's traveling companion, and he had certainly been intent on swift murder. Only the opportune tin of tobacco had foiled him.

“You're a fine crook!” reflected Durant, thumbing the knife and finding it razor-edged. “I expect you've worked this little trick before, eh? Well, you're not going to get off cheap this time—”

He glanced around, then knelt above the upturned face of the assassin. He touched the knife-point to the man's brow, and the skin slit apart to the touch; another cross-mark, and Durant rose, grimly satisfied. The watches had just changed, and undoubtedly the man would come to himself before being found.

“And if you want to talk, then talk!” said Durant, and chuckled. “Meantime—”

He turned and left the forward deck, heading for the deck above, then aft. He knew just where to find Boris Makoff.

WHEN he came into the smoking-room, Makoff was just entering from another door, with Lewis and his wife and an American girl. Durant caught the eye of Makoff and made a slight gesture. While the others found a table, Makoff excused himself and came over to Durant.

“Yes? You want to speak with me?”

“Not particularly—I merely want to give you this little souvenir. You might recognize it.”

Durant held out the knife. They were standing alone before the wide stone fireplace with its crimson electric display. Makoff took the blade and compressed his lips as he looked at it. Then his gaze leaped up.

“Well?”

“Nothing.” And Durant smiled thinly.

“Nothing? But—what's happened?”

“Nothing so far as I'm concerned. Perhaps your friend will differ. Good night.”

Leaving the knife with the puzzled Makoff, who quite evidently knew nothing of the attempt at murder, Durant nodded and turned away. He felt certain the Russian was not playing a part. He read the man for a brutal enemy in every sense of the term, but by no means a cowardly one. Makoff had not instigated the attack.

Who, then?

“Something fishy in the air,” reflected Durant, taking an empty corner seat. He found his clothes quite uninjured, as he believed, and fell to conjecturing what could be behind the whole matter. The key to the mystery might be Lewis—or it might not. Well, he would know at ten tonight what it was all about. Or would he?

Another twenty minutes; then Durant rose and sauntered out. He thought that one or two people glanced at him curiously as he went out, but not being overly self-conscious, paid no attention.

HE sought the after companion and mounted. On the Tyrania, the boat-deck deserved its name, holding only the wireless cubby and some officers' quarters forward, and being devoted largely to deck sports. It was now dark and empty. As Durant sauntered along, a shadow detached itself from a ventilator, and he caught a briefly subtle snatch of perfume.

“Well met, even before the time, monsieur!” came the voice of the baroness. She swung in beside him and took his arm. A sigh escaped her. “I was afraid—I do not know what to say to you. It is very difficult.”

“I imagine so,” said Durant dryly. “I've had a couple of very pleasant interviews with your charming cousin.” He felt the sharp clutch of her fingers at his arm, and her voice came with an edge.

“Boris! What did he say?”

“He leaped at conclusions.” Durant laughed with unaffected amusement. “He thinks I'm actually a detective watching Lewis. We made a bargain. He's to leave Lewis alone if I leave him alone. That is, this side of Plymouth.”

“Ah! I'm sorry you were drawn into it,” she said softly. “It was the first thing that came into my head to say—for your sake. You'll warn Lewis?”

“There seems a good deal to warn him against,” said Durant rather bitterly. “He acts like a fool.”

It was her turn to laugh. “Lewis? Yes, that's his play—it's the best thing he does! He can play the loud-mouthed tourist to perfection! But tell me something. Just where is your real interest in all this?”

Durant's life was saved only by the fact that he was holding a tobacco-tin.

“I'm not sure.” Durant was startled and amazed by her words. Obviously, she thought he had dropped on to a good deal more than he had really heard. He must keep his wits about him now—he shifted to personalities. “Perhaps because of you.”

“Don't be disappointing,” she said a trifle coldly. “It was a pretty story you told me about the bank-clerk and the beautiful lady—but such things don't happen.”

“So I've found,” said Durant brutally. “When the beautiful lady turns out to be one of a gang of crooks, it's apt to wreck illusions.”

The shot went home, as he knew by her silence. They paced up the deck together and then turned, before she spoke.

“Because the bank-clerk did have illusions—and because they may be wrecked—would he care to hear the truth?”

DURANT'S nerves quivered warning. The truth! How much of the truth could he expect to hear?

“It would be a very great compliment, Madame la Baronne,” he said.

“Irony? That is a little unworthy of you. But the poor Baronne—you should feel sorry for her, instead of hating her! Imagine her married to a worthless rascal by title-hunting parents, a girl too silly to refuse; imagine her husband later dead of sheer excesses, leaving her a fortune, position in the world, everything one can buy—nothing one can want! And then—”

She caught her breath, paused a moment. Then she lifted her head, and in the starlight he saw the glint of tears on her cheek.

“Imagine Boris coming,” she said, and her voice held a low, tense note of anger. “Imagine his having proof that her husband was not really her husband—that he had been married in Russia—that her money and position were false, her whole life wrecked and ruined—if Boris Makoff spoke the word! What would you have done?”

Durant forced himself to speak slowly.

“I see. In her place—I suppose—I should have paid.”

“I paid.” She paused, then broke out fiercely, swiftly. “Paid in money, every month, almost every week! Paid in giving introductions, paid in a dozen ways! It was a terrible choice. I had no escape. I was surrounded by his friends and spies. Then I had to come to America, introduce him there, let him drain my bank account. Well, my bank clerk, there is your beautiful lady—who seemed so happy!”

Again there was silence. Durant found his armor shattered; it was characteristic that he said nothing direct, but went about his business in his own manner.

“Why would Boris so readily make terms with me?” he asked.

“He is afraid of American detectives,” she said promptly. “He has built up elaborate plans for the summer's work in Paris; he fears lest a breath of suspicion ruin them all. Despite his way of making a living, he is a gentleman in our Russian sense—”

“If you said 'our American sense' I'd like you better,” he intervened bluntly.

“Yes,” she returned, accepting the rebuke. “Well, he knows little of real detectives—he knows the Continental kind, who are different; he is afraid of the brusque, businesslike, brutal American detective of whom he has heard. If he made a bargain with you, he'll keep it.”

“I rather think he will,” and Durant chuckled. “What sort of evidence does he hold against you? Documents?”

“Yes. I have seen copies of them. I have sent money, much money, to my husband's real wife—what else could I do? She is in Vienna, quite content with things as they are. She was a singer; now she is in the Opéra in Vienna. Her marriage to my husband was a secret one, so. she has never taken his name. She, too, bleeds the beautiful lady—”

“Through Boris?” asked Durant quickly.

“Of course. You think I'm a fool for yielding to blackmail? You think—”

“Be quiet,” said Durant absently. “Let me get this straight in my mind, now.”

IN reality he was sparring for time, fighting to a decision, and was careless how brutal or rough his words might seem. Perhaps she sensed something of this behind his air, for she remained silent. Presently Durant spoke.

“What's the name of this other woman?”

“Elsa Swinger. Her stage name is Elsa Moscova. Some of my money has gone to bring her to Paris in the course of the summer—you know they'll let anybody sing there that can hand over the cash. The government runs the Opéra and the Opéra Comique—”

“I know, I know,” said Durant, tucking away the names in his memory. “Hm! Young lady, you're in a bad hole, and if some one doesn't throw you a rope, you'll be in a worse one.”

“Oh, I'm not asking for any rope!” she cried, with a tang of anger in her voice. “I'm ripping away the veil of the beautiful lady, so that the bank clerk may see her as she is—”

“Nonsense,” intervened Durant calmly. “What'll the end be?”

“That I'll grow desperate enough to defy Boris—let him blacken my name, disgrace me. And he'll do it. He's that kind.”

“He looks it. Hm! Well, you'll do no such thing. The bank-clerk is in the game now—”

She halted, and her fingers gripped into his arm.

“No!” she exclaimed vibrantly. “You're not! That's what I had to make clear to you. You don't know the sort of men these Russians are. And they've others associated with them. You are not in the game, understand? I don't want your help, I wont have it! It's absolutely useless. You would be a fool to mingle in such things. You would only ruin me and—”

“You calm down, now, and be sensible,” said Durant, imperturbably. “I'm not such a fool as you think me, and I've been so long in France that I'm pretty well on to the hang of things. What you want or don't want, has absolutely nothing to do with it. The thing is—what I want!”

She laughed, unexpectedly. “You're queer! You have such confidence—”

“With reason,” said Durant, and his voice was grim. “I've been the under dog, I've been knocked about; I can sit on top, now, and see the hidden wheels go around. Well, I'm footloose and free, and have a little money to spend. My health's back. I had a romance, too, but that was long ago—she died.”

“Are you so old, then?”

“Twenty-nine—and seven of those years in France.”

“And I'm four years younger than you,” she said, reflectively. “No, no—we must forget all this! It's just for tonight, my friend.”

“You'll learn differently,” he replied. “I'm going to play your game for you.”

SHE halted again, whirled, faced him. “You must not!” she exclaimed sharply.

“I mean it—mean it!”

“And I mean it,” said Durant deliberately.

“You don't dare! I—I'll never speak to you, never recognize you, again!”

“That's nothing to me,” said Durant, though he lied when he said it. Against his inflexible wall, she broke suddenly, seized his hands, implored him.

“No, no, please! For my sake, you must not! Because I like you a little, because I was proud of your silent admiration, because I always knew you were looking at me when I came in the bank—ah, you must not! Will you not listen to me?”

“No,” said Durant calmly. “I am listening only to myself. Today has been a day of surprises, of astounding revelations—why, I do not even know your name! No matter. I have found something to do, and I mean to do it. That's all. Shall we go on walking?”

A couple had appeared, coming along the deck, low-voiced. She took Durant's arm and they walked on. He felt a shiver run through her.

“Cold?”

“Afraid! You have spoken your death-warrant.”

“Bah! The thing's settled, so now let's forget it.” Durant lighted a cigarette. “About Lewis—”

“It's not settled!” she exclaimed. “I forbid it! Remember—”

“It's settled. Let's not have any hysterics or dramatics; I did think you were above all that.”

“I am, usually. That's why Boris finds me of such use.”

“And why I shall find you of use, perhaps. Let's get back to the business in hand, for I need some information. This man Lewis—”

They were passing the wireless house. The door opened, and flooded them with light, as the wireless officer came out and headed for the ladder. The woman halted suddenly, drew away, and Durant found her looking down at his dinner jacket.

“What's happened? You've torn the whole side of your coat—no, it's cut—”

Her voice died on a note of sharp interrogation. Durant felt for the rip, and found it was a large one. He laughed a little.

“I'm wondering! I put my mark on a fellow tonight—he'll remember me. He had a knife, and didn't use it well enough. Inefficiency never pays—I'm afraid that's my motto in this world. I'm usually efficient. Sometimes I fall down hard, being human—”

“This man—not Boris?” she exclaimed, shaking his arm to silence him.

“No.”

She freed herself abruptly. “There! I told you so. Now—obey me, and keep out of it! It's your only chance. I'll try to save you—keep out of it! Good night.”

And she was gone before he could stop her, before he could speak, leaving him standing there alone; gone like a frightened wild thing into the darkness.

DURANT had made his decision, had determined on his course; it remained only to put his scheme into execution. Also—the affair of Lewis. This puzzled him hugely.

On deck next morning he encountered Mrs. Robinson, as she was known aboard, walking with two attentive tourists. The sky-blue eyes dwelt upon him reflectively, without emotion; she nodded in a cool, distant manner as though she barely saw him. Durant smiled and went his way. He knew now she had told him the truth the preceding night—moved by sea-madness, perhaps, or by heaven only knew what!

“Whether she wants me in the game or not,” he thought, “she's given me something to do—and I'll do it!”

Later in the morning, he saw Lewis heading for the smoking-room, alone, and promptly collared him.

“Lewis! My name's Durant. Can you spare me ten minutes?”

“Time's free,” said Lewis cheerfully. “Want to get in on the Rotary luncheon tomorrow, do you?”

“No, thanks. Come along and order a drink.”

“Best thing I do.”

Lewis was a small man, with an expansive manner, snappy gray eyes behind black-rimmed spectacles, and a bottomless well of frothy conversation. Durant was wary of him, however, after that one remark the baroness had made, and he began to see the little Rotarian in a new light.

“In business?” demanded Lewis, when they were seated and had ordered. Durant met his gaze, unsmiling.

“In other people's business, mostly,” he said, and did not miss the alert change of expression. “Meet me halfway, Lewis, and I can do you a large-sized favor.”

“Are you making a proposition?”

“No. I expect you to make one.”

“Oh! That's the best thing I do. Financial?”

“I leave the details to you,” said Durant, and decided to end the sparring. “You play your part well, but there's been a leak. I play my part equally well—but I'm selling out. I know the whole thing. What's more, I know the whole thing on the other side as well; I can even name the exact day and hour when you'll be quietly put out of the way. Now, if you think I'm worth having as an ally, speak up.”

Lewis took off his spectacles and laid them on the table. It was as though he took off his assumed personality with them. His gaze leaped out at Durant, and his voice became charged with a new and dangerous softness.

“Is this a threat, Mr. Durant?”

“Yes. The threat of standing by, of doing nothing, or.saying nothing. It is the most deadly possible threat, under the circumstances.”

Lewis nodded slightly, as though he could well comprehend this. He made no pretense at evasion. Durant's words had been calculated to show that evasion would be wasted time.

“I should like a little more definite—er—information to go on, before making any proposition,” he said reflectively. “You intimate there is another side?”

“One at least—one very certainly,” said Durant. “As to a third side—”

“Ah! That's where I need information,” snapped Lewis with sudden energy, and a blaze came into his eyes. “They've double-crossed me?”

Durant smiled. “Want everything for nothing, do you?”

Lewis leaned back and chuckled, as the steward set down their drinks and took Durant's coin. “No flies on you, eh?” he observed. “Here's how!”

“How!” echoed Durant. Then: “Well, think I'm worth a bid?”

“Yes—if I could depend on you. References?”

Durant drew out his wallet. He was playing a game in the dark, but the stake of all crooks was measured by the dollar sign.

“My bank-book,” he said, handing it across the table. “You can judge by that whether I'd find it worth while to sell you out—and by your estimate of me personally whether I would do it if I could.”

Lewis glanced at the little book, whistled, handed it back. His eyes dwelt curiously upon Durant for a moment.

“Do you want money?”

“Not if you can offer something better. I've a rather large-sized game of my own to play in Paris.”

“Hm! Not against the syndicate?” said Lewis shrewdly.

“Against your friend Makoff.”

“Oh!” Lewis sat back and stared. “Hell's bells! I begin to see a few things.”

“So you think,” said Durant dryly.

“What can you guarantee?”

“To save your life.”

Lewis put his hand across the table, and Durant met a quick, energetic grip.

“Done! I'll make you two propositions. First, a ten-per-cent split, if you want cash. It should run around ten thousand. Second, I'll be in Paris two months, and as you may know, I have friends there; if your business doesn't touch the syndicate, I'll throw my personal help and my influence into your side of the scales.”

“Agreed—Number Two suits me,” said Durant. He leaned forward and spoke rapidly. “I'm in Makoff's confidence; he thinks I'm a detective after you. His game is to get you before we reach Plymouth. Others are with him. Suppose you leave that end of it entirely to me, Lewis.”

“Very well. I thought this Makoff was a society bird—he played me for a sucker, all right enough! Who's the third party? Somebody split on me, that's sure.”

“I'll probably know later,” said Durant easily. He saw that Lewis was inwardly hot with excitement. “How do you know I'm not a dick?”

Lewis laughed. “I know every one of 'em by sight, man! Do you think I take any chances in this sized game?”

“Then tell me something, for my own curiosity. Just how do you expect to get away with it on the other side? By help of the syndicate?”

“Partly, not altogether.” The sharp eyes of Lewis flitted about the almost deserted smoking-room. “My own standing as a wholesale druggist, for one thing, helps a lot. I've got three suitcases of quinine preparations, samples—and you can't tell the stuff from quinine except by testing it. I come over several times a year, and make it a point to know the Customs men at Plymouth. They're easy; getting through there is no trick at all. Then to London, and straight on to Paris by air. You probably know the arrangement between the air-lines and the Customs at each end? No examination—no passengers bothered, unless they're positively suspected. And of course, I'm not suspected, or I'd have to quit work at once. Two of my suitcases, in case of anything going wrong, have some dutiable stuff. The third carries all the real dust. The others may get examined—it wont. Risk, you see, is reduced to a minimum.”

“Yes.” Durant nodded, giving no hint of his inward exultation, his startled realization. “You're safe enough so long as no word gets out. I learned of it through Makoff. Well, I'll have more information for you tonight or tomorrow. Meantime—”

“Makoff's coming now,” shot out Lewis swiftly.

“All right. Let him see us part on very friendly terms. If he asks, say that I'm a business man you happened to meet—”

“I savvy.” Lewis fell into his boisterous manner instantly. He clapped Durant on the shoulder, wrung his hand, spoke loudly. “And don't forget about that Rotary dinner tomorrow! If you don't check in, you're up against it! See you later, old chap.” And Durant departed, apparently without seeing Makoff.

THANKS to his general knowledge of things, he had the whole enterprise now at his fingertips. The astounding audacity of it made him marvel.

“And I'm a partner in the deal!” he reflected, staring out at the ocean from the forward rail. “If anyone had predicted this, I'd have called him a liar—or smashed his face. And now I've got to put it through. I've got to! Lewis is the one man whose help in Paris will be invaluable. I've got to put it through—”

Yet he rebelled; his whole nature rebelled against it. Against Makoff, he must fight fire with fire, and the flame-thrower was here in his very hands.

He knew well enough what exceedingly active steps had been taken in France of late, against drug-using. There it was not as in America. There, the organization of justice from detective to supreme court was a solid unit; bribes, pull, legal technicalities—nothing worked. The criminal had no chance, and got none—and knew it. Consequently, there was a famine in drugs, and prices were far above even the American level.

As a legitimate wholesaler, Lewis would not risk putting out any supplies of cocaine or morphia at home. To get out of the country with the stuff, however, was comparatively simple, and his scheme of getting it into France was simplicity itself. The “syndicate” located in Paris could well afford to pay huge prices for such a supply—and a very little of the drug would be worth a very great sum.

Durant went to the sprawled figure. “You're a fine crook!” he reflected.

Durant paced the deck until noon, grappling with the problem. This alliance with Lewis was vitally necessary to the future; yet, like every decent man, he regarded those engaged in the drug traffic as worse than reptiles, and to find himself pledged to it was repugnant beyond words—it was an impossibility!

He had no need to ask where Mrs. Lewis stood. That good lady was undoubtedly in entire ignorance of her husband's game; she was too obviously rattle-brained to share his secret, too intent upon the quest of shipboard pleasure to have any hidden worries. With her as his companion, Lewis had an excellent foil.

The first luncheon call shrilled out—and as it sounded, Durant found the solution to his question. He stood staring out over the sea, startled; could he manage it? At first flash, it was impossible. Then the means presented itself—he saw broadly how the thing might be arranged. Details would depend on events. A laugh broke from him.

“You seem quite cheerful about it,” said a voice at his elbow. He turned to see Makoff standing there, narrow-eyed, hostile, sneering. Instantly Durant caught the man's arm.

“Just the person I wanted to see! Come along into the corner, over here. I want to have a talk with you.”

“And I with you,” growled Makoff. “What do you mean by carving crosses in people's foreheads, eh?”

Durant chuckled, as they sought the forward corner of the deck, by the ladder going to the well-deck below. Here they were alone, out of the crowd.

“Is he a friend of yours? Then he's learned not to try and put a knife into me. Look here, Makoff, I've something more interesting to talk about. I suppose you know who hired me—the syndicate at the head of things in Paris?”

Makoff stared at him, black eyes suspicious, heavy features gloomy.

“Yes. What about it?”

“Well,”—Durant lighted a cigarette and looked the man in the eye,—“it's occurred to me that I might be making a fool of myself for the amount involved. In the first place, I'm getting little enough for the job. In the second, I want to go to Paris, and couldn't very well do that if I antagonized you and your crowd. In the third, I know all the arrangements that are to be made regarding the stuff, between Plymouth and Paris—I even know how it's packed. Does all this suggest anything to you?”

It did—no doubt of that!

Into the eyes of Makoff leaped that same sharp, startled gleam that had shone in those of Lewis—a light of calculation, of pleased surprise, of swift appraisal.

“You're in earnest?” he returned, scrutinizing Durant closely.

“I'd hardly suggest it unless I were,” said the latter dryly.

Suddenly Makoff broke into a laugh, and comprehension filled his gaze.

“So that's it, eh?” he exclaimed, with swift amusement. “What did she say to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Bah! You've been smitten by those baby-blue eyes of Helena's—they all are! Well, so much the worse for you. What do you want?”

“What am I worth?” said Durant calmly. He was not ill-content that Makoff should jump at conclusions—though they were rather close to the truth, they were not so close as they might have been, fortunately. Makoff now could not see the wood for the trees.

“That depends,” said the Russian slowly.

“Not entirely,” returned Durant. “The stuff is worth close to a hundred thousand dollars. You don't know half as much about it as I do—in fact, you'll fall into the very trap that's been laid, without my help! And after Plymouth, you'll have no chance whatever of getting the stuff.”

“Why not?” snapped Makoff.

“Because a man from Paris will be there to meet Lewis. Now, do you want to bargain?”

Makoff, impressed by the fact that he was facing decision, did not hesitate longer.

“Yes,” he said. “Meet me at two o'clock in the smoking-room. But I warn you—I can't be answerable for Paul, after what you've done to him! My promises won't bind him.”

Durant shrugged. “Then let him take the consequences, if he's not satisfied. Two, then!”

BORIS MAKOFF had evidently thought things over and reached a definite decision. With him, despite his bluff brutality, decisions were not always definite—there was an oily streak in the man.

“I'll make you a fair proposition,” he said flatly, seated across a table from Durant. “Ten per cent if we land the stuff, and a definite place in Paris as long as you want to stay there. I can use you this summer.”

“What about protection?” asked Durant. “They'll know I've double-crossed them, and they aren't any gang of angels.”

Makoff smiled thinly. “Don't worry—they wont start anything with me! You can count on full protection. But there are two ifs. One—if we don't land the stuff, you get no cash. The other, as you know, is Paul.”

“Accepted,” said Durant. “Now, about getting the stuff: I've a scheme, provided it looks good to you.”

Makoff nodded inquiringly. Durant went on: “You planned to murder Lewis; quite needless, I assure you! He has three sample suitcases, probably in the hold. He would not encumber his cabin with them, and has enough nerve to risk their remaining in the hold—the labels would help him with the Customs, too. One of those suitcases holds the stuff.”

“Good!” said Makoff, an avid gleam in his eyes. “That is easily arranged—I can go to the hold in his name, examine the three—”

“And,” cut in Durant, “bring the one which contains all the same preparation! Two have mixed goods, for Customs examination; the third contains what we want, and nothing else. Bring it to my cabin. I'll have everything ready to effect a substitution; in half an hour you can return the suitcase to the hold. How will you get it through the Customs?”

“Bah! Ill take it on to Cherbourg. With American tourists, no examination is made.”

“Very well. Let me know in advance; and arrange to keep Lewis occupied—”

“Leave it all to me,” said Makoff, with a smile. “I have a little genius along these lines, my friend! It is understood, then. Meantime—ah! Let us seize the opportune moment, for here is Helena—”

In fact, the Baronne had just entered. Makoff rose and beckoned. She came toward them, and the Russian, kissing her hand, presented Durant as though introducing a warm friend.

“Charming madame, allow me to present my associate and companion, M. Durant! You did not know they had idealists in America? But it is true, I assure you. M. Durant has an ideal, and for its sake he has sacrificed certain scruples and is to be associated with me in business, in Paris. I trust that we shall see much of him there. Will you permit me to leave you in his company for the moment? A bientot, dear cousin—”

And Makoff swung off, with a wink and a smile at Durant, who knew that he was being thus rewarded, in the Russian's opinion. He met the inquiring gaze of the baroness, and laughed.

“Poor Boris! He leaped to the notion that I was infatuated with you and therefore wished to join his little group of friends. Come, Helen, sit down! Isn't it refreshing to hear yourself called Helen once more, after some years of Helena?”

AS though against her will, she smiled a little, but shook her head.

“Are you so blind?” she said, regarding him gravely. “I've told you it was impossible—”

“And I've proved that it wasn't,” he said cheerfully. “Young lady, brace up! I've secured a powerful alliance for our work in Paris. I've become a partner of Lewis. I've become a member of your pleasant cousin's gang. And all since our little talk! That, I believe, is fast work.”

“It's dangerous work,” she said, her blue eyes widening. “But—do you mean that you will help Lewis?”

“And become a dope-handler? Not much. Leave it to me. Now, aren't you going to be a little agreeable—”

“I am not!” she exclaimed. “I warned you—I told you not to be so mad! You'll only make things worse for me, and destroy yourself. Stop now, before it's too late!”

Turning, she departed abruptly. Durant gazed after her, then shrugged.

“With a little care, the game's won,” he reflected. “But it takes care! Now, here's my chance to destroy Makoff, wipe him out at one crack—but it would gain me nothing. What I'm after is to save Helen, get her out of his clutches; and I can't do that by putting him away. No! All I can do now is to play out this little comedy, and look forward to Paris; and that's going to be quite enough of a job. I have to keep in with Makoff, keep in with Lewis, play both ends against the middle—and not make myself a drug-handler. Hm!”

That evening he ran into Lewis, who promptly dragged him off to the stern, on the lower deck, which was quite deserted. Lewis eagerly demanded to know who had given away his game to Makoff.

“I didn't dare try to find out,” said Durant. “It was somebody at the Paris end. Makoff wants to pinch the stuff himself and take it. He may manage it—I can't answer for that. All I guarantee, remember, is to save your life. By the way, I'm now a member of Makoff's organization. It's very handy.”

Lewis swore softly. “I have half a notion that you're double-crossing me, Durant!”

“Suit yourself. You'd think again if you saw the chap with Makoff—I think Paul is his name. Probably a Russian. He nearly did for me with a knife, and I marked him for life. He'll try again before we reach Plymouth, I imagine.”

Lewis whistled. “And they're after me?”

“Were. I've pointed out they'd be fools to face a murder charge—it'd mean English courts, you know. Wouldn't matter much if this were an American ship, but none of these birds take any chances with British justice.”

“True enough.” And Lewis chuckled.

“Well, watch yourself! See you later.”

FOR the next day or two, Durant rather kept to himself. He encountered the Baronne several times, but her air was distant, and he made no endeavor to win her over, realizing that she was thinking more of him than of herself in the whole matter. Then, on Saturday, came abrupt action.

That night was being held the fancy-dress ball of the voyage. The whole ship was in commotion; costumes were being prepared, wind-curtains being stretched along the deck, and all hands busy. When the steward brought a note, Durant sensed instantly that Makoff was seizing the opportunity. The note read:

Three sharp your cabin. Be there. B. M.

Durant thoughtfully tore up the missive. He had a two-berth cabin to himself, had secured a large amount of baking soda from the dining steward, and was ready enough for what might happen—yet anything might happen! There was the danger. One detail amiss would bring the whole structure crashing down, unless handled right. And at three this afternoon—well, Makoff was sharp enough to seize the right time, and should put the deal through in good shape.

If Durant was entirely calm, others were not. He was leaving the dining-room after luncheon when, on the stairs, the voice of the Baronne reached him. He halted, saw her there at his side, and offered his arm. She accepted, smiling, but when they were up a few steps, her hand gripped his arm hard.

“You must get out of it!” she said rapidly in French. “Do you understand? Anything may happen—anything! Paul is not to be trusted. He has been using heroin—he is a madman! He attacked you before, because Boris had been cursing you—”

“My dear girl,” said Durant composedly, “do you always get so excited?”

“Oh!” She drew away a little. “Don't you realize—it's for your sake—”

“Thank you. Of course I do, Helen.” He laughed, urged her up the stairs. “But sit back and look on at the game, now! Give me a chance. You'll see I'm not a bad player. Do your part, and leave the rest to me. One of these days we'll be working together in Paris, on the biggest game of all for you—the game of freedom! Meantime, calm down and trust to me. Au revoir!”

So, at the top of the stairs, he left her swiftly, lest she go into further protest. But he did not neglect her warning, Paul was a dope-fiend, then! That explained a good deal.

AT two-thirty, Durant was esconced in a corner of the smoking-room. In another corner, Lewis and his wife, another man, and Baroness Glincka were enjoying an enthusiastic and heated bridge game. Makoff was not in evidence. Another twenty minutes, and Durant departed to his own cabin.

He was passing the purser's cubby when that officer hailed him.

“I say, Mr. Durant! Any trouble with those chaps we were speaking of the other day? I hear one of them's been keeping to his cabin with a bandaged face—eh?”

Durant nodded. “Rather a bad sort, to tell you the truth. Drug-fiend. Nothing to make any trouble about, though—I took care of him, thanks.”

He laughed and passed on, but the incident was destined to bear fruit.

Indeed, as he waited in his cabin, it suddenly bulked large, yet he could not fit it quite into the puzzle. Then, abruptly, came a knock at his door, which was pushed open, and a man entered.

It was the man Paul. He was a smallish, slender man with dead-white features and black mustache and eyes; the still unhealed scar on his forehead stood out vividly. He set down a strapped suitcase, and glared at Durant with vicious eyes.

“I'll come back for it in fifteen minutes,” he said; then a snarl burst from him, and he volleyed out a string of oaths in French. “You species of animal! When this is over I'll attend to you, me!”

He slid out and slammed the door viciously.

Durant glanced at his watch, slipped the door-bolt} jerked the suitcase to his bunk, and fell to work. In the lock was a key, which Makoff must have left there—the Russian was clearly provided against all contingencies. When one plays for a hundred-thousand-dollar stake, details are looked after.

Opening up the suitcase, Durant found it carefully packed with small boxes wrapped in oiled silk. Each little wooden box was marked with similar labels:

G. C. Lewis Wholesale Drug Co.

Quinalid Cold Preventative

Keep Dry.

Durant moved with expedition. In ten minutes he had emptied the cocaine into the baking-soda boxes, substituting the soda for the forbidden drug. Then, leaving the suitcase ready to close, he slipped from his cabin and hurried to the purser's cubby. That gentleman was just closing up for the day, but greeted Durant with a smile.

“What'll you have?”

“Help,” said Durant. “The chap you spoke of just now will be in my cabin in about three minutes, and I want to give him the scare of his life. Come around and knock at the door, and say you're making a search for drugs—understand? I believe he's loaded down with cocaine.”

“Man, that's not my business!” the purser objected.

“Mine either, except that we'll have some fun with the rascal. Will you do it?”

“Right-ho. Three minutes!”

Durant returned to the cabin, and saw Paul approaching down the corridor as he did so. He darted in and began to close the suitcase. A moment later, the Russian entered and then bolted the door.

“Ready?”

“All but,” said Durant, awkwardly buckling the straps of the suitcase.

“What were you doing at the purser's office?” demanded Paul in a low voice, his scowling gaze fastened on Durant. The latter glanced up.

“What's it to you?”

“Sacred name of a dog! One of us, are you? Not likely! Well, try any tricks and you'll get it a bit sooner, that's all. I'll attend to you in good time—”

“Don't be a fool,” snapped Durant. “Here's the suitcase. Here,” and he pointed to the pile of baking-soda boxes, “is the other stuff. What's to be done with it?”

“He's coming for it,” snarled Paul. “Should have been here now—I'm to get the suitcase back. All right.”

The purser hurtled into them and grappled for Paul.

He came forward, then whirled around. A loud, authoritative rap hammered the door. “Who's there?” demanded Durant.

“Open!” said the purser's voice. “I hear you've got some dope in there and you'll have to submit to search—open up, now!”

The bolted door shook under heavy pressure. Paul stared, open-mouthed—and Durant's fist knocked him sprawling in a limp heap against the door.

Swiftly, Durant swung open his port, already unscrewed. As the purser shook the door, he flung out the packets of cocaine in a swift stream. The last gone, he stepped to the door, unbolted it—

Paul had him then, rising suddenly, viciously, pistol darting out, spouting flame, gripping for Durant's throat as he fired. Just a fraction of a second—Durant thrust the arm aside with his own, deflecting the bullet; then he was flung backward. The purser, hurling himself against the now unbolted door, sent both men staggering, hurtled into them, grappled for Paul.

The pistol spoke again, a muffled report this time, as the three crashed down in one tangled heap. Durant, cursing his ill luck in failing to knock Paul clear out with that one blow, wrenched clear, leaped up. He saw the purser struggling under the limp, sagging body of Paul, saw Makoff standing in the open doorway, saw the passage outside filling with excited passengers and stewards. Like a flash, he was at the door.

“Quick!” he said to Makoff. “Write Paul's criminal record and name—get it to me!”

Then he slammed and bolted the door, just as the purser gained his feet.

“A damned ruddy cockeyed joke, that's what it is now!” said the purser, when he had turned over the body on the floor. “Shot himself, eh? Now we're in for it, old son! Jolly well in for it, blast the luck! Explaining no end, and the Old Man to do it to—blasted cockeyed joke, I call it!”

Durant stooped. Paul had shot himself, certainly by accident in falling, from throat to brain—had died instantly. Exploring the man's waistcoat, Durant half produced a morocco-cased hypodermic outfit, then pushed it back and rose.

“I'm sorry,” he said coolly.

“Damme if you look it,” said the purser, listening to the growing uproar outside.

“Well, I didn't expect this,” observed Durant. “As it's turned out, however, it's not so bad—”

“You'll change your mind quick enough,” snapped the purser. “There's the Old Man now—blast it! He'll raise hell.”

The confusion outside quieted. A sharp, firm rap at the door. Durant opened, and the Captain stepped into the cabin. His gaze swept from the body on the floor to the purser. “Well?” he said. “What's it mean, Tommy?”

“It's entirely up to me to explain, Captain,” said Durant. The skipper turned, looked at him, met his gaze for a moment.

“We haven't room to turn around here—can we go to a quiet place? I'll give you a statement covering the case. If you'll be good enough to have the ship's doctor verify the cause of death, and examine this man with particular attention to the fact that he's a dope-fiend, I think you'll be quickly satisfied.”

“Right. We'll go to your office, Tommy,” said the Captain. “Here's the doctor now.”

ANOTHER rap. The doctor entered, was instructed, and the skipper led the way from the room. Outside, the crowd was being cleared from the passage by stewards. Durant's gaze swept around anxiously—if Makoff failed him, all was lost.

An instant later, they passed the Russian in the passage. Brushing by, Durant felt a paper thrust into his hand. He halted.

“Captain! Will you ask this gentleman to accompany us?”

Makoff assented to the request at once, and Durant breathed more freely. The one great danger now was that suitcase in his lower bunk—it must be got rid of without a moment's delay. The four men came to the purser's office, entered by the side door, and found a stenographer at work. The Captain curtly ordered him to remain and prepare to take down statements.

Durant, as he took a chair, calmly inspected the paper in his hand, then glanced at Makoff.

“May I ask, sir,” he said, “whether you occupied Cabin 82 A, with a man named Dobreff?”

“I believe that is his name,” said Makoff. “He is a stranger to me.”

Durant smiled. The Russian was taking no chances, evidently.

“You know nothing of him, then?”

“Nothing.”

“That's all, then. Thank you very much indeed! By the way, I got a suitcase from the hold—it's in my bunk. Will you be good enough to have it taken back for me? I'll keep that bridge engagement this evening during the dance. Sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Makoff.”

Makoff departed. The Captain locked the door, then looked at Durant.

“What's all this, sir?”

“Ready?” Durant glanced at the stenographer, who nodded. “My name is Ralph Durant, Cabin 8A; American. I have no occupation, except that of private detective, largely for my own amusement; what you would call in England a criminal investigator. In Cabin 82A on this ship was a man named Paul Dobreff. Purser, look up his nationality, will you? I might say that Dobreff is known to the police in Paris as Paul Mirkovitch and has twice served sentences—once for assault, once as a drug-peddler. He is also a drug-fiend.”

The purser, who had been going through his sheets, looked up.

“Paul Dobreff, age 38. Born a Russian, traveling under French papers,” he said curtly.

“Some days ago Dobreff, whom I suspected of annoying a lady aboard, took my advice badly,” pursued Durant. “When he learned that I knew his real character, he went for me with a knife and cut my dinner-jacket. I had it repaired by the ship's tailor, who can probably substantiate this item. I knocked Dobreff about a bit, and he's kept his cabin since—in fact, I cut his face rather badly. I spoke to the purser about it, I think.”

“Correct,” said the purser, staring hard. “No details, though.”

Durant shrugged. “What need? Well, Dobreff said today he wanted to see me at three o'clock, and acted rather ugly. I had threatened to turn him over to the police at Plymouth. So I asked the purser to knock at my door and pretend he was searching for drugs—meaning to give the man a thorough fright. When the purser did so, Dobreff hauled out a pistol and went for me—he shot once, then the purser broke in, all three of us grappled, and in falling Dobreff shot himself. That's the case, Captain.”

“Hm!” The Captain lit a cigarette and looked at the purser. “What about it?”

“Correct, sir,” said the purser. “Only, I didn't know Mr. Durant was a 'tec—he put it up to me as a joke.”

“To avoid trouble if possible,” put in Durant.

“Otherwise, he's right enough, sir. There was a shot before I entered. When I came in, Mr. Durant was locked with Dobreff, who held a pistol. The second shot was fired as all three of us struck the floor.”

A rap at the door. The ship's doctor came in, with a parcel. He opened it silently and displayed the hypodermic outfit, a small morocco case containing a white powder, a large sheath-knife, and a pistol.

“Cocaine,” he said, touching the case. “Hypodermic. Pistol fired twice. The man was under the influence of the drug—a confirmed addict. From the condition of the wound and direction of the bullet, he doubtless shot himself; the pistol was firmly gripped in his hand.”

“Very good.” The Captain stood up. “Mr. Durant, will you be good enough to come to my cabin in an hour's time? We'll want your signature; may need other statements later.”

“I'm entirely at your disposal, Captain,” said Durant, and departed. Upon reaching his cabin, he found the suitcase gone.

“WHAT the devil happened?” asked Lewis. 'All sorts of stories flying around—suicide, attempted robbery, murder, whatnot! Give me the low-down, Durant.”

Durant had just dropped into a seat opposite the other. The first dinner call had sounded, and the smoking-room was nearly deserted.

“Well,”—and Durant smiled,—“the man was a crook of the first water—a bad 'un! The play was to be made for your shipment today or tonight; I was to take part in it. When I realized there was no other way out of it—well, I carried out my contract with you.”

“What!” Lewis stared. “You—croaked him?”

Durant shrugged. 'The evidence shows that he committed suicide. They'll keep an eye on his roommate, Makoff—who wont dare attempt a thing. I've scraped through very well. Your life is in no more danger. My guarantee is made good. Satisfied?”

Lewis set down his glass and rose. “Durant, you're a wonder! Yes, I'm satisfied. Here's Makoff now, with that woman he's always hanging around. Are you safe with him?”

Durant glanced at Makoff and Helena, coming toward them across the table-scattered room.

“For the moment, yes,” he responded, and rose to meet the others. “You'll join us in a drink? Sit down, Lewis, don't rush—”

“Must find my wife and dress,” demurred Lewis. “Hello, folks! Sorry to miss the chance at liquor, but we'll make up for it tonight. See you later, eh? Right!”

He breezed away. The Baronne took the chair Durant held for her. Makoff gave the steward an order, then sat down and fastened his dark gaze on Durant.

“Well? Speak plainly. What happened?”

“We lost,” said Durant, conscious that the woman was staring hard at him, her blue eyes very anxious. “Lucky to scrape through at all, Makoff. You made a terrible mistake in not bringing that suitcase yourself. It was fatal to send Paul with it.”

“Did you kill him?” snapped Makoff, an ugly note in his voice.

“No. He went off his head—wild! He pulled a gun on me, and shot. The purser was going by, came in, helped grapple with him. We went down in a pile, and Paul shot himself. Now,” and Durant met the dark, suspicious eyes with steady gaze, “get the idea out of your head that I'm double-crossing you, Makoff! I can take you straight to the Captain if you like, or the ship's doctor, and he'll substantiate that the death was accidental suicide.”

“I've already asked the doctor,” said Makoff, and relaxed in his chair. “You're clear. But where's the stuff?”

“In the sea.”

“What?” The Russian sat bolt upright. “You're joking?”

“Not a bit of it. With those boxes of stuff lying there, and an investigation—why, it would be folly! I dumped them out the port—my own money with yours.”

Makoff sat back, speechless, suspicious, struck by consternation. The steward set down the ordered drinks, and Durant paid. Then, when the man had gone, he pushed a key across the table to Makoff.

“My cabin key. Go down now, if you like, and look. That amount of stuff couldn't be hidden. I've only cabin luggage. Satisfy yourself, if you doubt me.”

With an effort, Boris Makoff pulled himself together, reached out for his drink, downed it at a gulp.

“Name of a name of a blue!” he ejaculated. “No need; you're not lying. A hundred thousand dollars dumped into the ocean! This makes me sick. What are you laughing about, you!”

Durant chuckled. “Why, I was wondering what Lewis would say when he turns over the stuff to his syndicate—and finds it's all baking soda! I can see the humorous side of things.”

“I can't. Not when it's cost me a hundred thousand dollars!” growled Makoff, and rose. “Sacred name of a dog—dumped into the ocean! And Paul dead!”

“I'm here to take his place,” said Durant, and smiled. “You're the bungler, for sending him to me when you knew he was so uncertain! I flatter myself that I've done pretty well.”

“Yes,” said Makoff, with a nod. “Well enough—I grant you it was good work to handle those ship's officers. Me, I'm off to dress. Excuse me, madame. I have no heart for dancing tonight—sacred name of a dog! Dumped into the ocean!”

He departed, muttering to himself. Durant looked after him, then turned and met the sky-blue eyes of the Baronne fastened upon him, half in wonder, half in fear. He lifted his glass.

“You're satisfied, Helen? Then—here's to Paris!”

A smile broke in her eyes, and the glasses touched.