How could they be so blind to this Spaniard’s deceit? Were his perfect manners the only things they judged him by?
Plowing through the dark seas and thinking his dark thoughts, Lars got through his watch. Brighton, the third, relieved him at midnight.
Lars had worked himself up to a high pitch of nerves. He knew he could not sleep. He wandered down the deck, past the salon. An automatic phonograph was playing dance tunes and the voices which rose above the music were gay and laughing.
Standing beside a bulkhead, Lars looked through the salon window, the yellow light showing up the hard lines of concern on his sturdy face.
Aunt Agatha, thin and sharp, was knitting, looking up from her place against the opposite window and peering at the card players over the top of her gold-rimmed glasses. Ralph was sunk deep into a soft chair, sitting on his spine, watery eyes devouring the open book he held. He was pale, loosely hung together. Lars could see the title of the volume even from this distance, the print was so large. Ralph was reading Tigers I Have Faced, and his shock of yellow hair was standing straight up. He was in Burma while the jungle depths of Brazil flowed silently by on their port.
Kenneth Lewis Michaelson was making witty cracks over his bridge hand. Rosey Laughton laughed, sometimes, before Kenneth had reached the nub. Alice Crichton and Terry joined in occasionally.
To Lars it was a very strange cargo. He dwelt little upon the others. He was watching Terry’s breathtaking profile. It made him shiver strangely.
She was like a princess to him. He could never hope to tell her that he loved her. The limit of his transgression would be to stand here and watch her in the darkness.
He had always thought the daughters of rich men would be spoiled and temperamental and he had not looked to find beauty and kindness and frankness in a woman with such a background. She seemed to understand human things.
A girl of her golden caliber could never suspect anyone around her of treachery because she was so incapable of it herself.
The heavy hand of worry clutched at Lars again. If he only knew what Paco had in mind! But he did not know. The blow might fall tonight, tomorrow, next month. And what would Paco do? Would he try to pirate this yacht? Who were his confederates and where were they?
Lars had not misspent his afternoon. Under the blind of wanting to inspect his ship he had cruised through the holds and quarters, probing into bails and cans and tanks. He had not known what he might discover and he had discovered nothing. He was satisfied that Paco’s present plans did not include contraband. What devilish undertaking could net a man four million francs? Lars felt in his pocket and the keys he carried jingled faintly.
The trap outfits, including shotguns, were in his possession, at least. So were three riot guns and six rifles, standard equipment for a yacht used to cruising in the furthest of the seven seas.
He heard Kenneth say, “Kings will take tricks,” as he snapped one down on the board. It was the last of his book and he grinned all around and began to figure up the score.
“Kings,” said Rosey with a sigh. “Terry, someday you’ll have to fix it so we can meet a king.”
“I met one in Paris,” cried Alice.
They had evidently heard about this before as they did not press her to enlarge upon it.
She seemed hurt about this. “I don’t care. He was a king although he had never been on a throne. Georgia Austin married a prince, didn’t she?”
“They’re hard to find,” said Kenneth.
“But so romantic,” said Rosey.
Terry seemed to be interested in the subject, much to Lars’ surprise.
The conversation took a turn upon the entrance of Paco. The Spaniard, with deep courtesy, entered from another passageway carrying a tray of drinks. Lars looked sharply at Paco. There was something wrong with his face. And then Lars knew. Paco was not smiling.
“Oh, Paco,” said Alice, “have you ever met an earl or a king or something?”
Paco set the tray down. He did not answer but he smiled as though he knew a great deal he was not saying. Then his smile faded away and he went on serving.
“Why, Paco, what’s the matter?” said Rosey. “You look so pale!”
Paco did look pale. His cheeks were sunken and there were weary lines about his eyes.
“Aren’t you feeling well, Paco?” said Terry.
“A little out of sorts,” said Paco mildly with much apology of gesture. “Sometimes a jungle fever I contracted in Indochina returns. It is said that one gets it and never wholly recovers from it. After five attacks . . .” He stopped and went on serving the drinks.
“After five attacks,” urged Ralph, sitting up with interest on the words, “jungle fever.”
“They say one dies,” said Paco. “It’s just a silly native superstition of course.”
“How many does this make?” gasped Rosey, very interested.
Paco did not answer her immediately. He finished serving and then picked up his tray and came toward the door near Lars. He paused with his hand on the knob and gave them all a very tired smile.
“Five,” said Paco, exiting.
They would have stopped him if his dramatic exit had been less well done. But it was too perfect a thing to spoil. They began to buzz about it.
Paco bumped into Lars and was startled. He saw who it was and gave Lars his customary triumphant grin. “Taking in the scenery, eh?”
“Let’s get a look at you,” said Lars abruptly. He turned Paco’s face around to the light and touched a finger to Paco’s cheek. Lars snorted. “Cigarette ashes and a lead pencil, huh?”
“Well?” said Paco. “Effective, if nothing else.”
“That’s a cheap way to gain sympathy.”
“When I want your opinions,” grinned Paco insolently, “I’ll ask for them.”
He went on down the deck to his stateroom.
Lars looked into the window again and heard Aunt Agatha saying, “Poor boy. He did look tired. Perhaps if I gave him some sulphur and molasses . . .”
Lars went to his own room. He was puzzled as he took off his cap and jacket. He threw them on the bunk and then sat down in a wicker chair beside the open door and stayed there watching the horizon tip up and down. It was a faint horizon, the sea ceasing only where the brilliant stars began.
He sat there pondering for hours, knowing well enough that he should be getting some sleep. But he could not sleep. Death was hovering over this yacht. He could sense the beat of its black wings.
At four-thirty a sailor came to his door and started to knock. Then he saw Lars sitting just inside.
“Sir, Miss Norton says for you to come quick.”
Lars reached for his jacket and cap. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s Paco, sir. They’re in a terrible stew below.”
“What’s wrong with Paco?”
“Looks like he’s going to weigh anchor for the next world, Captain.”
Lars snorted. He went down the ladder to the lower deck and saw that the salon was brilliantly illuminated. Terry, in a silken negligee, was waiting for him at the door.
“Come quickly,” said Terry. “It’s Paco.”
She led him down the deck to Paco’s room. All the others were there, looking sad and standing nervously around. Paco was lying listlessly in his bunk, staring straight up at an I-beam above as though unaware of anything that was happening.
“Do something,” pleaded Terry.
Lars had to carry through. He stepped to Paco’s side and took the Spaniard’s wrist, feeling the pulse. He received a shock. That pulse was very slow, almost stopped. Could it be that Paco was actually dying?
Lars felt cheated as he scowled down at the patient. Dying quietly in bed, was he?
Paco turned his head slightly. His eyes were glazed and his blue lips were clenched tightly as though in agony. But he managed a word. “Lars,” whispered Paco. He tried again. “I’m glad . . . you came, Lars.”
Aunt Agatha began to weep loudly
.
Lars frowned. There was something wrong about all this, slow pulse or not. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Don’t be so harsh,” protested Terry. “He’s dying.”
Paco touched Lars’ hand feebly and tried to smile. “Goodbye, shipmate.”
Aunt Agatha couldn’t stand it. She had to leave. Rosey and Alice were weeping silently. Ralph looked awed, knowing well what these jungle fevers could do to a man.
“Miss Norton,” whispered Paco.
She came to his side. “Yes, Paco.”
“You’re so dim,” whispered Paco. “I . . . I can’t see.”
Rosey and Alice fell into one another’s arms and sobbed. Terry’s eyes were bright with tears.
“Miss Norton,” said Paco, “I am a Catholic and there is no priest. Tonight . . . tonight I knew I was going. I wrote my confession and . . . and several letters. I want you to take care of them for me. All . . . all my papers are under my pillow. Take . . . them.”
With a trembling hand she sought out the packet and held it. Paco collapsed. His eyes, wide open, staring at the ceiling. Something rattled in his throat.
Ralph, who knew what to do in such cases, pulled the sheet up over Paco’s face.
They turned out the light and silently filed from the room.
Lars followed the others into the salon. He looked long at them, marveling at the way they carried on in memory of the little blackguard.
Finally he stumbled up to his cabin.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Resurrection
AT eight bells that morning, Lars was again on duty, by choice. He wanted to be busy. He felt angry with the world at large after what he had witnessed in the dawn.
But his woes were not yet complete. He had not been on watch a bell before Terry and Aunt Agatha came up on the bridge to see him.
“Captain,” said Terry, almost reprovingly but very sad, “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Tell you what, ma’am?” said Lars.
“About Paco. You were his friend. You must have known who he was. Or did he swear you to secrecy?”
“I don’t know what it’s all about,” said Lars.
“Young man,” sniffed Aunt Agatha, “you certainly must have known. Such a dear, sensitive boy as Paco . . . ” She wept.
“We will have to put in to the nearest port,” said Terry.
“What’s happened?” demanded Lars. “Can’t we bury him at sea?”
“At sea!” said Aunt Agatha in amazement. “Bury a prince at sea?”
Lars scowled. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t understand.”
“It was not right of us, of course,” said Terry. “But Ralph and Alice kept insisting and we finally looked at his papers to find out whom he wished to notify. And this is what we found.”
She handed Lars a packet and he opened up the first sheet. It was an ornate birth certificate which proclaimed to the world that Enríque Mendoza José Jesús Jorge Christofo de Mayal, of the House of Habsburg-Bourbon, had been born to the world.
Lars blinked at it. He took another and found that it was not yet opened, but was sealed with the arms of Aragon. Another was addressed to Alphonse XIII. Other sealed packets, with directions for dispatch followed. They were most imposing.
But the payoff, to Lars, was the note to Miss Norton which read, in part, “I regret this necessary deception after your great kindness and wish you to have some part of the monies I have hidden in French Guiana. (Signed) Enríque Mendoza José Jesús Jorge Christofo de Mayal, Prince of Aragon.”
“You see,” said Terry, “we must take him to the nearest port so that he can be buried with fitting honors. The poor fellow was driven out of his own country and had to take refuge among us and it is enough that he die unknown without burying him in that fashion. I . . .”
“Have you looked this up in a peerage?” demanded Lars. “There’s some mistake! He’s Paco Corvino, a—”
He stopped himself in time. To confess Paco’s complete identity would be to ruin himself.
Terry was very cold to him. “It is not good taste to doubt the dead.”
Aunt Agatha was wholly hostile on the instant. “The idea!” she sniffed, and tottered down the ladder to the main deck.
Lars was left to his amazement. What was this all about? And with Paco dead . . . What good could it do anyone now?
He moodily saw his watch through and at noon he finished his notes and went down to see if there were any further orders. He had already changed the course and speeded up for Pernambuco.
In his commodious cabin, at one, he sat down to eat his luncheon in solitary gloom. His appetite was small, completely taken away by the knowledge that Paco, ex-convict, dope-smuggler and multi-murderer, would be buried as he had lived, in complete deceit.
He could not dispel the lowering cloud of apprehension which closed gradually in upon him. Something was wrong with all this. The danger had not ceased. He felt it had just begun. A nameless premonition of disaster hung around him. Paco, certainly, was not through with this ship and Miss Norton. But there was no arguing the slowness of the wavering pulse and the death rattle he had heard in Paco’s throat.
Bleakly, he hunched over his laden board and stared unseeing at the shining riot guns and rifles in locked racks on his walnut wall.
Had Paco made some rendezvous with criminals at sea?
Lars reproached himself for not acting in Rio. But how could he have done anything without bringing about his own return to the Penal Colony? Certainly a man owed himself some protection.
Shock-haired Ralph knocked on the door and Lars bade him enter. Ralph Norton would have been handsome had he thought more about his personal appearance and less about his dreams. He was younger than Terry—Lars judged about eighteen.
“This is a pretty awful thing,” said Ralph, lying back in the captain’s easy chair and shoving his long legs out before him. “I’ll bet you feel pretty bad about losing your pal, huh?”
Lars thought it better not to answer that.
“The whole ship is in an uproar,” said Ralph. “Nobody had the least idea Paco was a real prince. Aunt Agatha will never get over making him wait upon her. Think of it! A real prince all the time. The girls feel pretty silly and pretty sad over the way they talked about wanting to meet princes when they had one right there.”
“Ever think that might be a fake?” said Lars.
“A fake!” cried Ralph. “Why should it be a fake? Good God, the man wouldn’t own up to it until he was dying, would he? And a man on his deathbed wouldn’t tell a lie. There’d be no point in it.”
“That is what is worrying me,” said Lars.
“What?”
“Nothing. I suppose Terry will radio the news this afternoon.”
“She can’t,” said Ralph. “Those documents are a sacred trust. She isn’t supposed to let anybody know about it until those letters he wrote have been placed in the right hands. Terry keeps her word. You don’t seem very excited about it.”
Lars speared a potato with his fork and ate it.
“Wasn’t he your best friend?” persisted Ralph. “He said he was.”
“Sure,” said Lars. “My very best friend.”
Ralph missed the irony. “I get it. You’re taking it big. Sure you would. A fellow like you who’s been all around wouldn’t break down or get excited. Say, this ship is sure getting its share of dead men. First Simpson and then Paco. Wonder who’ll be next? These things run in threes, you know.”
“Do they?” said Lars.
“Sure. Everything I read says they do. Railroad wrecks and drownings and things. Of course there’ll be three.”
Ralph found it very unsatisfactory to try to talk to this big blond fellow who had come into the Norton employ. For the space of a minute he scrutinized Lars. Here was a man, thought Ralph, who had seen things and been places. He was toughened and could be expected to put up a mean fight against anything from a lion to a pirate crew. He ended up by respecting
Lars’ reticence. Ralph got up.
“Gee, I sure wish you’d told us Paco was a prince, Skipper. You’d have saved the ladies a lot of worry about the things they didn’t do. Well, see you later.”
He did not get out of the door. Kenneth charged through the opening and collided with him. Kenneth was too excited to launch into any preliminaries. He threw his news into the room as though it were a hand grenade.
“He’s alive! A couple sailors just went in to dress him up before we made port and they found his heart was still beating! Now what the hell do you know about that!”
Lars put down his fork and looked at the racked riot guns. The keys were sharp against his thigh.
“Paco’s alive?” cried Ralph excitedly, as he came up recovering from the collision. “Gee whiz, lemme see him!”
Kenneth was already on his way out. He was babbling to Ralph, “His pulse was clear stopped last night. I felt it myself! And now he’s breathing and he’s got some color in his cheeks. Good God, Ralph, do you realize we’ve got a real, live prince aboard the Valiant?”
Lars went over to his desk and sat down. He opened a series of drawers until he found the cartridges which fitted the guns. He checked them and then locked them up. He examined his .38 and found it in good order. He slid it into his waistband and smoothed his crisp white jacket over the bulge it made.
He went to the racks and made certain that he had the right keys. He locked them securely and then placed his keys in the pocket nearest his .38.
He went back to his desk and sat down facing the door, cap pulled down hard, mouth tight with anger.
“Damn him,” said Lars venomously. “I might have known. Arabian benj! He dared take the risk of dying from it just to slow down his black heart. God knows what he’ll do with this new power.”
CHAPTER SIX
Unlucky Latitude
ALL day the glass had been falling. The sea calmed until it was a stiffly bending sheet of gray iron. The only wind which stirred was that made by the Valiant, and this wind was a sluggish thing as though the ship struggled through a vast area of invisible glue.