CHAPTER III
Outside the bar where the Whangpoo empties into the Yang-tse lay thethousand-ton yacht _Wanderer II_, out of New York. She was a sea whippet,and prior to the war her bowsprit had nosed into all the famed harbours ofthe seven seas. For nearly three years she had been in the auxiliary fleetof the United States Navy. She was still in war paint, owner's choice, butall naval markings had been obliterated. Her deck was flush. The house,pierced by the main companionway, was divided into three sections--a smalllounging room, a wireless room, and the captain's cabin, over which stoodthe bridge and chart house. The single funnel rose between the captain'scabin and the wireless room, and had the rakish tilt of the racer._Wanderer II_ could upon occasion hit it up round twenty-one knots, forall her fifteen years. There was plenty of deck room fore and aft.
The crew's quarters were up in the forepeak. A passage-way divided thecook's galley and the dry stores, then came the dining salon. The mainsalon, with a fine library, came next. The port side of this salon wascut off into the owner's cabin. The main companionway dropped into thesalon, a passage each side giving into the guest cabins. But rarely thesedays were there any guests on _Wanderer II_.
The rain slashed her deck, drummed on the boat canvas, and blurred theports. The deck house shed webby sheets of water, now to port, now tostarboard. The ladder was down, and a reflector over the platformadvertised the fact that either the owner had gone into Shanghai or wasexpecting a visitor.
All about were rocking lights, yellow and green and red, from warships,tramps, passenger ships, freighters, barges, junks. The water was streakedwith shaking lances of colour.
In the salon, under a reading lamp, sat a man whose iron-gray hair waspatched with cowlicks. Combs and brushes produced no results, so the ownerhad had it clipped to a short pompadour. It was the skull of a fightingman, for all that frontally it was marked by a high intellectuality. Thissort of head generally gives the possessor yachts like _Wanderer II_,tremendous bank accounts; the type that will always possess these things,despite the howl of the proletariat.
The face was sunburned. There was some loose flesh under the jaws. Thenose was thick and pudgy, wide in the nostrils, like a lion's. Thepredatory are not invariably hawk-nosed. The eyes were blue--in repose, awarm blue--and there were feathery wrinkles at the corners which suggestedthat the toll-taker could laugh occasionally. The lips were straight andthin, the chin square--stubborn rather than relentless. A lonely man whowas rarely lonesome.
His body was big. One has to be keen physically as well as mentally tomake a real success of anything. His score might have tallied sixty. Hewas at the peak of life, but hanging there, you might say. To-morrowAnthony Cleigh might begin the quick downward journey.
He had made his money in mines, rails, ships; and now he was spending itprodigally. Prodigally, yes, but with caution and foresight. There wasalways a ready market for what he bought. If he paid a hundred thousandfor a Rembrandt, rest assured he knew where he could dispose of it for thesame amount. Cleigh was a collector by instinct. With him it was no fad;it was a passion, sometimes absurd. This artistic love of rare andbeautiful creations was innate, not acquired. Dealers had long sincelearned their lesson, and no more sought to impose upon him.
He was not always scrupulous. In the dollar war he had been sternlyhonest, harshly just. In pursuit of objects of art he argued with hisconscience that he was not injuring the future of widows and orphans whenhe bought some purloined masterpiece. Without being in the least aware ofit, he was now the victim, not the master, of the passion. He would havepurchased Raphael's Adoration of the Magi had some rogue been able tosteal it from the Vatican.
Hanging from the ceiling and almost touching the floor, forward betweenthe entrance to the dining salon and the owner's cabin, was a rug eightand a half by six. It was the first object that struck your eye as youcame down the companionway. It was an animal rug, a museum piece; rubiesand sapphires and emeralds and topaz melted into wool. It was under glassto fend off the sea damp. Fit to hang beside the Ardebil Carpet.
You never saw the rug except in this salon. Cleigh dared not hang it inhis gallery at home in New York for the particular reason that the BritishGovernment, urged by the Viceroy of India, had been hunting high and lowfor the rug since 1911, when it had been the rightful property of acertain influential maharaja whose _Ai, ai!_ had reverberated from Hind toAlbion over the loss. Thus it will not be difficult to understand whyCleigh was lonely rather than lonesome.
Queer lot. To be a true collector is to be as the opium eater: you keepgetting in deeper and deeper, careless that the way back closes. After awhile you cannot feel any kick in the stuff you find in the open marts, soyou step outside the pale, where they sell the unadulterated. That's thetrue, dyed-in-the-wool collector. He no longer acquires a Vandyke merelyto show to his friends; that he possesses it for his own delectation isenough. He becomes brother to Gaspard, miser; and like Gaspard he cannotbe fooled by spurious gold.
Over the top of the rug was a curtain of waxed sailcloth that could bedropped by the pull of a cord, and it was generally dropped wheneverCleigh made port.
It was vaguely known that Cleigh possessed the maharaja's treasure.Millionaire collectors, agents, and famous salesroom auctioneers had heardindirectly; but they kept the information to themselves--not from anykindly spirit, however. Never a one of them but hoped some day he mightlay hands upon the rug and dispose of it to some other madman. A rugvalued at seventy thousand dollars was worth a high adventure. Cleigh,however, with cynical humour courted the danger.
There is a race of hardy dare-devils--super-thieves--of which the worldhears little and knows little. These adventurers have actually robbed theLouvre, the Vatican, the Pitti Gallery, the palaces of kings and sultans.It was not so long ago that La Gioconda--Mona Lisa--was stolen from theLouvre. Cleigh had come from New York, thousands of miles, for the expresspurpose of meeting one of these amazing rogues--a rogue who, had he founda rich wallet on the pavements, would have moved heaven and earth to findthe owner, but who would have stolen the Pope's throne had it been leftabout carelessly.
It is rather difficult to analyze the moral status of such a man, or thatof the man ready to deal with him.
Cleigh lowered his book and assumed a listening attitude. Above the patterof the rain he heard the putt-putt of a motor launch. He laid the book onthe table and reached for a black cigar, which he lit and began to puffquickly. Louder grew the panting of the motor. It stopped abruptly. Cleighheard a call or two, then the creaking of the ladder. Two minutes later aman limped into the salon. He tossed his sou'wester to the floor andfollowed it with the smelly oilskin.
"Hello, Cleigh! Devil of a night!"
"Have a peg?" asked Cleigh.
"Never touch the stuff."
"That's so; I had forgotten."
Cleigh never looked upon this man's face without recalling del Sarto'sJohn the Baptist--supposing John had reached forty by the way of recklesspassions. The extraordinary beauty was still there, but as though behind ablurred pane of glass.
"Well?" said Cleigh, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice.
"There's the devil to pay--all in a half hour."
"You haven't got it?" Cleigh blazed out.
"Morrissy--one of the squarest chaps in the world--ran amuck the lastminute. Tried to double-cross me, and in the rough-and-tumble thatfollowed he was more or less banged up. We hurried him to a hospital,where he lies unconscious."
"But the beads!"
"Either he dropped them in the gutter, or they repose on the floor of aChinese shop in Woosung Road. I'll be there bright and early--never youfear. Don't know what got into Morrissy. Of course I'll look him up in themorning."
"Thousands of miles--to hear a yarn like this!"
"Cleigh, we've done business for nearly twenty years. You can't point outan instance where I ever broke my word."
"I know," grumbled Cleigh. "But I've gone to all this trouble, getting acrew and all that. And no
w you tell me you've let the beads slip throughyour fingers!"
"Pshaw! You'd have put the yacht into commission if you'd never heard fromme. You were crazy to get to sea again. Any trouble picking up the crew?"
"No. But only four of the old crew--Captain Newton, of course, and ChiefEngineer Svenson, Donaldson, and Morley. Still, it's the best crew I everhad: young fellows off warships and transports, looking for comfortableberths and a little adventure that won't entail hunting periscopes."
"Plenty of coal?"
"Trust me for that. Four hundred tons in Manila, and I shan't need morethan a bucketful."
"Who drew the plans for this yacht?" asked Cunningham, with a rovingglance.
"I did."
"Humph! Why didn't you leave the job to someone who knew how? It's aseries of labyrinths on this deck."
"I wanted a big main salon, even if I had to sacrifice some of the rest ofthe space. Besides, it keeps the crew out of sight."
"And I should say out of touch, too."
"I'm quite satisfied," replied Cleigh, grumpily.
"Cleigh, I'm through." Cunningham spread his hands.
"What are you through with?"
"Through with this game. I'm going in for a little sport. This string ofbeads was the wind-up. But don't worry. They'll be on board hereto-morrow. You brought the gold?"
"Yes."
The visitor paused in front of the rug. He sighed audibly.
"Scheherazade's twinkling little feet! Lord, but that rug is a wonder!Cleigh, I've been offered eighty thousand for it."
"What's that?" Cleigh barked, half out of his chair.
"Eighty thousand by Eisenfeldt. I don't know what crazy fool he's dealingfor, but he offers me eighty thousand."
Cleigh got up and pressed a wall button. Presently a man stepped into thesalon from the starboard passage. He was lank, with a lean, wind-bittenface and a hard blue eye.
"Dodge," announced Cleigh, smiling, "this is Mr. Cunningham. I want you toremember him."
Dodge agreed with a curt nod.
"If ever you see him in this cabin when I'm absent, you know what to do."
"Yes, sir," replied Dodge, with a wintry smile.
Cunningham laughed.
"So you carry a Texas gunman round with you now? After all, why not? Younever can tell. But don't worry, Cleigh. If ever I make up my mind toaccept Eisenfeldt's offer, I'll lift the yacht first."
Cleigh laughed amusedly.
"How would you go about to steal a yacht like this?"
"That's telling. Now I've got to get back to town. My advice for you is tocome in to-morrow and put up at the Astor, where I can get in touch withyou easily."
"Agreed. That's all, Dodge."
The Texan departed, and Cunningham burst into laughter again.
"You're an interesting man, Cleigh. On my word, you do need aguardian--gallivanting round the world with all these treasures. Queerwhat things we do when we try to forget. Is there any desperate plunge wewouldn't take if we thought we could leave the Old Man of the Sea behind?You think you're forgetting when you fly across half the world for astring of glass beads. I think I'm forgetting when I risk my neck gettinghold of some half-forgotten Rembrandt. But there it is, always at ourshoulder when we turn. One of the richest men in the world! Doesn't thattingle you when you hear people whisper it as you pass? Just as I tinglewhen some woman gasps, 'What a beautiful face!' We both have our witheredleg--only yours is invisible."
The mockery on the face and the irony on the tongue of the man disturbedCleigh. Supposing the rogue had his eye on that rug? To what lengths mighthe not go to possess it? And he had the infernal ingenuity of his master,Beelzebub. Or was he just trying Anthony Cleigh's nerves to see whetherthey were sound or raw?
"But the beads!" he said.
"I'm sorry. Simply Morrissy ran amuck."
"I am willing to pay half as much again."
"You leave that to me--at the original price. No hold-up. Prices fixed, asthe French say. Those beads will be on board here to-morrow. But why thedevil do you carry that rug abroad?"
"To look at."
"Mad as a hatter!" Cunningham picked up his oilskin and sou'wester. "Hangit, Cleigh, I've a notion to have a try at that rug just for the sport ofit!"
"If you want to bump into Dodge," replied the millionaire, dryly, "tryit."
"Oh, it will be the whole thing--the yacht--when I start action! Deviltake the weather!"
"How the deuce did the beads happen to turn up here in Shanghai?"
"Morrissy brought them east from Naples. That's why his work to-nightpuzzles me. All those weeks to play the crook in, and then to make a playfor it when he knew he could not put it over! Brain storm--and when hecomes to he'll probably be sorry. Well, keep your eye on the yacht."Cunningham shouldered into his oilskin. "To-morrow at the Astor, betweenthree and five. By George, what a ripping idea--to steal the yacht! I'mmad as a hatter, too. Good-night, Cleigh." And laughing, Cunningham wenttwisting up the companionway, into the rain and the dark.
Cleigh stood perfectly still until the laughter became an echo and theecho a memory.