Dangerous Cargo

II. Fire

II. FireI stayed that night with Mme. Storey at her place on East Sixty-third Street. This had been arranged so that we could work late in clearing up all the odds and ends of business that demanded attention before she sailed. We had spent the afternoon in doing necessary shopping for the voyage. All our things were packed and ready.

I have had occasion before to describe my employer’s original little establishment. She and her friend Mrs. Lysaght bought an old brownstone house and transformed it into two maisonnettes in the French style. Mme. Storey occupies the two lower floors. The kitchen faces the street, with a barred window that is left open at night for ventilation, and the dining-room opens on a tiny garden in the rear. Upstairs her bedroom is over the kitchen and her delightful living-room looks down on the garden.

As there is only one bedroom, I had to share it with her. Her maid Grace made up a bed on the sofa. Grace and the cook sleep up on the top floor of the house with Mrs. Lysaght’s maids. But the Lysaght establishment was closed at this time.

We had just gone to bed and were lying there talking about this and that. It was very late. The windows were open and the street was wrapped in stillness. Only a distant hum reminded us that we were a part of a great city. The thought of danger to ourselves was farthest from our minds. In fact, for the moment we were occupied with the details of our own business and had forgotten Horace Laghet.

I can remember hearing some clock strike two and Mme. Storey saying, “We must go to sleep.”

Suddenly we heard a hard object fall to the floor of the kitchen underneath us. We both jumped up and instinctively ran to a window. We were in time to see a man running away down the street towards Third Avenue. He ran awkwardly, with hunched shoulders and a sideways movement.

I would have shouted to stop him, but Mme. Storey clapped a hand over my mouth. “Too late to catch him now,” she said.

As she spoke there was an explosion, not very loud, in the room beneath us. And a moment afterwards that most awful sound of all at night, the rushing and snapping of fire. I stood in the middle of the bedroom, half stupefied. Mme. Storey gave me a shake.

“Put on a dressing-gown and slippers and follow me!”

It brought me to myself. “Shall I telephone?” I asked.

“No!” she said, in a tone that surprised me. Standing in the corner of the stair landing was a copper fire-extinguisher. Mme. Storey snatched it up and ran down. On the lower landing was another extinguisher that she mutely pointed out to me. We could hear the flames roaring like devils behind the kitchen door. The difficulty was to get the door open. Fortunately, it opened towards us and Mme. Storey was able to shield herself behind it. Flame leaped out of the kitchen like a red ravening beast, shriveling us with its hot breath.

The whole room was blazing at once and little runnels of fire crept over the sill into the hall. It burned with that special speed and fury that only gasoline can induce. Mme. Storey, backing away out of reach of the flames into the dining-room, turned her extinguisher upon them. The thin hissing stream was swallowed up and lost. The fire only roared louder. Suffocating black smoke billowed into our faces. Mme. Storey was driven back foot by foot.

“We must get out of here!” I cried.

She paid no attention. After a moment she muttered: “Open the window at my back. The wind is on that side.”

I obeyed, and a current of air was created that held the flames and smoke in check. On the other side of that wall of flame I could hear cries from the street. Mme. Storey began to regain the lost ground, driving the flames back with an unerring eye whenever they tried to flank her. I stood with the second extinguisher ready to hand to her when the first was exhausted.

We crossed the hall again. The two maids came running down the stairs. They stood on the bottom step, fascinated with horror but perfectly silent. They had confidence in their mistress’s ability to handle anything. The fire was forced back, snarling, into the kitchen. We heard the fire trucks coming from afar.

Once the chemical mixture got the upper hand, the fire soon gave up. All around the walls Mme. Storey drove it back towards the window. Suddenly it was out and the kitchen was just a black charred hole. Through the window I had a glimpse of the crowd hanging over the railings. The lights had not been burned out and I got them turned on. After all, not much had suffered but paint, varnish, and plaster. But what an escape!

In the middle of the floor lay a tell-tale jagged piece of tin. We found another behind the stove. Meanwhile the trucks had drawn up outside and the firemen were banging on the ornamental iron gate that gave entrance to the house alongside the kitchen. I started to let them in, but my employer laid a hand on my arm.

“We don’t want any investigation, Bella.”

Opening the cellar door, she kicked the two pieces of tin down stairs.

The firemen swarmed in, nosed all around, as they always do, and asked the usual questions. Mme. Storey’s explanation was ingenious.

“I came downstairs to heat some water on the gas stove, and went up again. I suppose the curtain at the window blew across the flame and caught fire. Unfortunately, my maid had left a can of cleaning fluid on the window sill and that exploded.”

“Very careless to leave an explosive so near the stove, madam,” said the fire captain.

“You are absolutely right, Chief,” she replied, with a straight face. “I shall scold the girl severely, and I can promise you it won’t happen again.”

She led them into the dining-room for a little refreshment, and they presently departed with loud praises for her quickness and presence of mind. The trucks roared away and a great quiet descended on the street. Mme. Storey and I went back to bed, but not to sleep.

At eleven o’clock next morning we were seated in the living-room with Latham Rowe, Mme. Storey’s attorney. A horrible stale smell of wet burnt stuff filled the house. Our baggage had been sent on ahead to the yacht landing, and we were all set to go in hats and gloves.

Latham is a nice man, the chubby, sweet-tempered type that is predestined to be the friend of every woman and the husband of none. Mme. Storey was saying:

“I’ll have to leave it to you to see that the insurance is collected and the repairs properly done.”

“Sure,” he said. “But tell me, Rosika, on the level, what caused this fire. You can’t expect me to believe that bunk about Grace’s carelessness.”

Mme. Storey smiled. “It cost me a new dress to square Grace for that lie,” she said. “The truth is, somebody shoved an open can of gasoline between the bars of the kitchen window last night, and threw a lighted match or something of that sort after it.”

Latham’s rosy face paled. “Good God! What a fiendish thing to do!” he cried. “And you’re not going to say anything about it?”

“If there was an investigation it would prevent me from going on this voyage. And nothing would come of it. I prefer to deal with my enemies myself.”

“Have you an idea who did it?” he asked.

“It was obviously somebody who didn’t want me aboard the yacht.”

“And you’re still determined to go!”

She smiled at his simple earnestness. “I cannot refuse a dare, my dear. It is a weakness of my character. Yesterday I wasn’t at all keen, but today I’m mad to go!”

He was terribly distressed. “But seriously, Rosika, I can’t stand by and see you risk your life for . . . for . . .”

“Five thousand a week,” she put in, slyly.

“Be serious! This fellow Horace Laghet is a scoundrel! You should hear the stories they tell about him downtown. If somebody wants to shoot him up, let him go to it and welcome, I say. What have you got to do with it?”

“I can see that Laghet is going to give me trouble,” she admitted. “But a job is a job, and this is a rather fascinating one.”

“What can you do?” he pleaded. “On land you know where you are, but on a ship anything may happen. The sea is always there to swallow a body and yield no trace. If there is a man aboard that yacht who is determined to get Laghet, how can you stop him? If you get in his way, you’ll go overboard, too.”

She merely smiled.

“How can you save the man from being murdered when he makes an enemy of every man he meets?” he went on. “There’s a feeling of hatred rolling up against Horace Laghet like a tidal wave. If you take his part it will overwhelm you along with him.”

She patted his cheek affectionately. “You’re a great dear, Latham, but you’re on the wrong line. If you could persuade me that this was going to be a quiet cruise with nothing to do but loll in a deck chair and put on pounds and pounds, I’d drop it this minute. But when you talk of danger! Ha! . . .” She flung her arms up. “It’s useless, my dear. Ask Bella.”

He spread out his hands helplessly.

III. The Buccaneer

When we descended from the taxicab at the yacht-landing, foot of East Twenty-sixth Street, the Buccaneer lying out in midstream burst on us in full glory. It was a cold bright day and the sparkling river made a fit setting for her. A great white ship with an insolent squat funnel and long strings of fluttering flags.

As the latest sensation of the marine world, a crowd had gathered on the pier to have a look at her. Ultra modern design, the yachtsmen were saying, with her high sides and oblique cutwater; ugly but very smart. As for myself, the thought that all those millions had been spent to carry six people to sea for an idle cruise, filled me with a vague fear of retribution.

Only second in interest for the crowd was the launch which was waiting for us, a dazzling affair of mahogany and brass. It was such a launch as might have been used to carry kings and queens. When we stepped aboard everybody gaped at us in awe and envy. Some of the rougher types muttered insolently.

In five minutes we were at the ship’s ladder, which was not a ladder at all but a teakwood stairway carpeted with rope to keep your feet from slipping. A handsome young sailor handed us off, and a smart officer saluted on deck. There was a steward in a white coat to show us to our cabins.

All very grand, but it did not make us feel we were being welcomed on board. Sailor, officer and steward all had cagy, expressionless faces. Not one of them looked us in the eye.

It appeared that we were the last arrivals. The launch was immediately hooked to the davits and drawn up. A bosun’s whistle blew, and I heard the clank of the anchor chain up forward. Fancy keeping all that waiting!

Below, our suite was more like that of a luxury hotel than anything afloat. A sitting-room twenty feet long, with a bedroom almost as big at either side; a marble bathroom for each of us, with gold-plated fittings. The whole was lighted with a row of big round portholes rimmed with brass, and it was all so beautifully furnished and decorated that nothing obtruded itself; it just received you.

The steward told us that cocktails were being served in the winter garden. When we had taken off our coats he led us up to the sun deck, where there was a green-and-white room with a glass roof and big windows all around. It was filled with tropical plants and orchids. Here the party was gathered.

When you are introduced to a lot of new people at the same time you only get your bearings by degrees. I found myself beside a lovely young girl with a modest, timid air that was almost unbelievable in this day and generation. She told me that she had lately graduated from a convent in France. This was Celia Dare, Horace Laghet’s fiancée. It seemed rather a shame.

Her mother was a beautiful woman still on the sunny side of forty. Everybody called her Sophie. In contradistinction to her daughter she was very much in the know. Her bright touched-up eyes darted this way and that, full of calculation. I suppose she thought she had done very well by the girl.

The third woman was Mrs. Holder, or Adele. She was a beauty of what used to be called the Dresden-china type, with that exquisite fragility that appeals so strongly to men, particularly of Horace Laghet’s sort. It often goes with a hearty appetite.

Among the men I should have recognized Adrian Laghet anywhere as Horace’s brother. He was tall and had the same cast of features, though an entirely different character was suggested. Adrian was soft. Already at thirty-two his waist measure was approaching that of his chest. He was the social light of the family.

Emil Herbert, the pianist, was an attractive young fellow, blond, quiet in manner, but with the fine resolute eye that bespeaks a master of his trade, which Emil was. Apart from music, however, he was nothing but a shy boy. I caught him glancing sideways at the girl beside me.

Under the influence of the masterly cocktails there was a lot of talk and laughter. Superficially it had the look of a good party, but it was not so, really. I had not been among them two minutes before I could feel the strain. The eyes in those smiling faces were guarded and uneasy. All those smart people seemed to be incased in glass armor.

Tall, slender, and casual, Mme. Storey among the other women looked like a cardinal bird in a cage of tame canaries. Her smile was perfectly good-humored and inscrutable. I felt enmity in the room, but among those glassy smiles I could not locate it.

Horace Laghet seemed to get his pleasure out of insulting everybody. That was his idea of humor. When he brought his brother up to introduce him to Mme. Storey he said: “This is little Adrian who will kiss your hand and do a little song and dance or paint a little picture or what you will!”

A loud laugh greeted this. Horace’s cracks naturally were sure of a big hand. I could see by Adrian’s eyes that it flicked him on the raw, but he swallowed it.

Horace, indifferent to what anybody might think, bore himself in a loverly fashion towards the beautiful Adele—a contemptuous lover. This made me feel more than ever sorry for the girl he was supposed to be engaged to. Celia didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps she was too inexperienced to realize what it meant. I wondered what her mother was about. Willing, I suppose, to overlook anything if she could only take the rich Horace into camp.

The yacht was under way and I went to one of the windows to watch the panorama of the city moving by. It was hard to believe that we had already cut loose from all we knew. The East Side waterfront is far from beautiful, but I felt a sudden love for the old town and heartily wished myself ashore. Moment by moment I liked our situation less.

Adele joined me at the window. She said, lightly, “I wonder if it will show any change when we come back.”

“Who can tell?” I said. And to myself I added: “Will we show any change when we come back? And will we all come back?”

“Just the same I’m glad to get away for a while,” Adele went on, with her meaningless professional-beauty smile. “Life in New York is so wearing!”

She was very beautiful. I wondered if there were any real feelings under that perfect mask. I presently found out.

A sailor came walking along the deck outside. I saw him before Adele did. I was struck by his appearance because he didn’t look like a common sailor, but like a member of the younger country-club set who had been hitting it up; a clean-cut young man who was getting a little blurry. He didn’t know anyone was watching him. There was a possessed look in his eyes, such as you see in one who goes along the street muttering to himself.

When he saw me, he dropped his head and assumed the slouch of a common fellow. He went by us with his head down. I heard Adele gasp, and her slender fingers closed around my wrist like a vise.

“Please! please,” she stammered, “come downstairs with me.”

I followed her wonderingly through the door into the stair hall. She was careful to keep her back turned to the others in the room. Her knees were giving under her. Yet when Horace called out, “Where are you going, Adele?” she sang out, gaily, “Back in half a moment.”

She went stumbling down the stairs. I heard her murmuring to herself: “O my God! What am I going to do?” She clung to the post at the bottom, white-faced and shaking. In a moment she opened her eyes and said, with a ghastly attempt to laugh it off:

“What must you think of me?”

“You are not well,” I said.

“Yes . . . yes,” she said, eagerly. “It was so hot upstairs I thought I was going to faint.”

I said nothing. Feeling, perhaps, that her excuse was rather lame, she went on: “I have a bad heart, you see, and naturally one doesn’t want a man to know it. If you had not come with me Horace would have followed and . . . and his eyes are so sharp!” A terrible shudder went through her thin body.

“Come to my cabin and get a spot of brandy,” I said.

When she had swallowed the brandy she began to chatter. “I feel all right now. It was nothing at all. Nothing. So silly of me! Dear me! I hope I’m not going to be a bad sailor!” And so on. But her eyes were still sick with fear.

She went to the mirror and rubbed a little rouge into her cheeks, then turned her head this way and that, gazing into her face with the most penetrating anxiety. I suppose that face meant everything in the world to her. It was all she had.

She entered the winter garden with a gay rattle of talk. “Horace, when are you going to show us over the vessel? I can’t wait until I see the swimming pool. It’s all perfectly marvelous! Like Aladdin’s cave afloat!”

In my mind I could still hear that desperate voice murmuring: “O my God! What am I going to do?”