The Holladay Case (Detective Story Magazine)/Chapter 13
CHAPTER XIII.
I Prove a Bad Sentinel.
I came back to earth to find that Royce and Mrs. Kemball had drifted away together, and that my companion was regarding me from under half-closed lids with an amused smile.
“So you're awake again, Mr. Lester?” she asked. “Do you often suffer attacks of that sort?”
“Pardon me,” I stammered. “The fact is, I—I”
“You looked quite dismayed,” she continued relentlessly. “You seemed positively horror-stricken. I saw nothing formidable about him.”
“No; you don't know him!” I retorted.
“I think we'd better sit down,” she said. “Your knees seem to be still somewhat shaky. Mother and Mr. Royce have deserted us.”
“Miss Kemball,” I began desperately, “let me confess that I'm in an exceedingly vexatious situation. The fact that I can't ask advice makes it worse.”
I glanced at her again—at the open, candid eyes, the forceful mouth and chin—and I took a sudden resolution.
“Miss Kemball,” I said, “I'm going to ask your help—that is, if I may.”
“Of course you may.”
“Well, then, that man who came on board last is the inveterate enemy of both Mr. Royce and myself. We're trying to unearth a particularly atrocious piece of villainy in which he's concerned. I have reason to believe him capable of anything. I don't know what he may plot against us, but I'm certain he'll plot something. Mr. Royce doesn't even know him by sight, and shouldn't be worried; but, unless he's forewarned, he may walk right into danger. I want you to help me keep an eye on him—to help me keep him out of danger. If we look after him closely enough, I shan't need to warn him. Will you help me?”
Her eyes were dancing as she looked up at me.
“Why, certainly!” she cried. “So we're to have a mystery—just we two!”
“Just we two!” I assented with a quickened pulse.
She looked at me doubtfully for a moment.
“I must remember Mr. Graham's warning,” she said. “You haven't invented this astonishing story just to entertain me, Mr. Lester?”
“On my word, no,” I responded, a little bitterly. “I only wish I had!”
“There,” she said contritely; “I shouldn't have doubted! Forgive me, Mr. Lester. Only it seemed so fantastic—so improbable”
“It is fantastic,” I assented, “but unfortunately it is true. We must keep an eye on Monsieur Martigny or Bethune.”
“Which is his real name?”
“Those are the only ones I know, but I doubt if either is the true one.”
Royce and Mrs. Kemball joined us a moment later, and we sat watching the low, distant Long Island shore until the gong summoned us to lunch.
On deck the next morning I stopped the doctor.
“It wasn't about myself I wanted to talk,” I said. “How's your other patient—the one who came aboard last?”
His face sobered in an instant.
“Martigny? He's in very bad shape. He must have been desperately anxious to get back to France. He might have dropped over dead there on the gangplank.”
“It's a disease of the heart?”
“Yes—far advanced. He can't get well, of course, but he may live on indefinitely if he's careful.”
I turned the talk to other things, and in a few moments he went on along his rounds. But I was not long alone, for I saw Miss Kemball coming toward me, looking a very Diana, wind-blown and rosy-cheeked.
“So mal-de-mer has laid its hand on you, too, Mr. Lester!” she cried.
“Only a finger,” I said. “But a finger is enough. Won't you take pity on a poor landsman and talk to him?”
“But that's reversing our positions!” she protested. “It was you who were to be the entertainer! Is our Mephisto abroad yet?” she asked, in a lower tone. “I, too, am feeling his fascination—I long for another glimpse of him.”
“Mephisto is still wrestling with his heart, which it seems is scarcely able to furnish the blood necessary to keep him going. The doctor tells me that he'll probably spend the voyage abed.”
“So there'll be nothing for us to do after all! Do you know, Mr. Lester, I was longing to become a female Lecoq!”
“Perhaps you may still have the chance,” I said gloomily. “I doubt very much whether Mephisto will consent to remain inactive. He doesn't look to be that sort.”
She clapped her hands, and nodded a laughing recognition to one of the passing promenaders.
“You're going to Paris, aren't you, Miss Kemball?” I asked.
“To Paris—yes. You, too? You must be, since you're going to France.”
“We go first to Etretat,” I said, and stopped, as she leaned back in her chair, laughing. “Why, what's wrong with that?” I demanded in some astonishment.
“Wrong? Oh, nothing. Etretat is rather a bohemian resort. Alphonse Karr discovered it somewhere back in the dark ages, and advertised it—the Etretatians were immensely grateful, and named the main street of the town after him—and since then a lot of artists and theaterical people have built villas there. It has a little beach of gravel where people bathe all day long. When one's tired of bathing, there are the cliffs and the downs, and in the evening there's the casino. You know French, Mr. Lester?”
“Why,” I explained, “I was supposed to study it at college.”
“You'll remember more when you get to Etretat,” she laughed. “You'll have to, or starve.”
“I think Mr. Royce can help. He's been to France before.”
“Of course—and here he comes to claim his chair.”
“I won't permit him to claim it if you'll use it a little longer,' I protested.
“Oh, but I must be going,” and she arose, laughing.
Saturday, Sunday, and Monday passed, with only such incidents to enliven them as are common to all voyages. But I saw that quiet and sea air were doing their work well with my companion, and that he was steadily regaining his normal health. So I felt more and more at liberty to devote myself to Miss Kemball. Martigny was still abed, and the ship's doctor told me he was improving very slowly.
It was Tuesday evening that Mrs. Kemball and her daughter joined us on the promenade, and weary, at last, of Strauss waltzes and Sousa marches, we sauntered away toward the bow of the boat, where the noise from the orchestra could reach us only in faraway snatches. We found a seat in the shadow of the wheelhouse, and sat for a long time talking of many things, watching the moonlight across the water. At last Royce and Mrs. Kemball started on ahead.
“Two more days, and we'll be at Havre,” I said. “I'll be very sorry, Miss Kemball.”
“Sorry? I'd never have suspected you of such a fondness for the ocean!”
“Oh, it's not the ocean!” I protested, and—what with the moonlight and the soft night and the opportunity—would have uttered I know not what folly, had she not sprung suddenly forward with a sharp cry of alarm.
“Mr. Royce!” she exclaimed. “Mother!”
They stopped and turned toward her, just as a heavy spar crashed to the deck before them.