CHAPTER TWO

“Simpson Is Murdered!”

LARS MARLIN dozed but it was an uneasy twilight into which he entered. The white room was uncomfortably like a prison cell, though far better than those of French Guiana. The plaster walls were cracked jaggedly, suggesting nonexistent rivers of a nonexistent world peopled with moths, roaches and wandering, hungry lizards.

At each approach of footsteps, Lars would start up, realize where he was and then lie back. There was high danger in his being in Rio, but that danger was as nothing compared to the recent perils of flight. Even so, recognition would send him back to the mire of swamps and the living, feverish death of oblivion.

Lars was too tall for the bed—built for smaller Spaniards—to accommodate him. He was lying cornerwise, bare heels on the one chair. In repose his face was handsome in its way, more because of the strength it indicated than because of the regularity of features. His mane of yellow hair had grown long and tangled, and his jaw was unshaven. Had it not been for the clear intelligence of his eyes and the hardness of his body, he might have passed for a beachcomber.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside and he started up. But the sound died away and he lay back, wondering where Paco was. He doubted that Paco had gone to the Café of the Captains. He suspected Paco’s errand.

He considered his position without any great concern. He was in a strange place, living under strange circumstances. Six years before, as master on the bridge of the Moroccan Queen, he would have mocked any soothsayer who had tried to tell them that at the end of these six years he would be lying in a sailor’s flophouse in Rio, considering ways and means of killing a man and dreaming intermittently, when he dozed, of a girl with a free swing to her walk and a pleasant if slightly imperious smile.

But now that he was here, he was taking it quietly, as he had taken everything else Fate had doled out to him. His life had been a checkerboard of odd occurrence.

His father had died in the Grand Banks fleet, leaving a nine-year-old boy to look out for his mother and two sisters. Lars had looked out for them as handsomely as a New England fishing town and the pay of a sailor before the mast would allow.

At the age of fifteen, he had begun to pound out a reputation for himself with his sledgehammer fists. He had risen to a mate of a coasting steamer. He had sent three quarters of his pay home and had invested the remaining pittance in extension courses. He rose from mere trig to theory of equations. He slugged a course in maritime law until it flattened out into a diploma. He read until his arctic-blue eyes ached, burning the daylight with labor and the darkness with study.

At eighteen, Lars Marlin had his master’s papers. At twenty-one he had his first command—a wallowing old tub running on a thin profit margin with sighing boilers and weary screw. With insight and left hooks he had made that hooker pay and men began to know that Lars Marlin was carving a place for himself in the watery world.

One determined characteristic carried him through, gave him a name. Once he made a decision he never changed it. Vacillation to Lars was the worst crime on earth. He drove straight ahead making his own destiny, afraid of nothing. He had a retaining mind, an observing eye and knowledge which came from the entire ladder of knowledge—from the wharves to the universities.

At twenty-four he had been given a Mediterranean command, and from the bridge of the Moroccan Queen, men hoped he would graduate to a swift transatlantic liner.

At twenty-five he had taken on one Paco Corvino as chief steward because the man was recommended so handsomely. And three months later the officials of Casablanca had discovered contraband on the Queen. Lars had pointed the finger at Paco and Paco, in retaliation, had pointed back to the bridge.

And now at thirty-one, with six years of hell behind him, he found himself lying in a third-rate hotel wondering about the best and quickest way to commit a murder.

It was dusk when Paco came back. He slid through the half-opened door and closed it as silently as he had opened it. He stood listening for an instant, breathing hard. Then he turned and sat down on the other bed.

He grinned at Lars. “Anybody call when I was gone?”

“No.”

Paco’s smile widened and his white teeth flashed. He was very relieved at this news. He got up and walked to the wash stand and began to wipe the grime from his hands. The water turned a faint pink color.

“You’re sure nobody, not even a chamber boy, called?” he asked without turning.

“I’m sure. What have you been doing?”

“Fixing things up. Simpson was turning yellow. I can read men, Lars. You won’t deny that. I had pushed him as far as I could make him go. He was about to go mewling to Miss Norton. You saw it.”

“What kind of contraband?” said Lars, lying on his side. He could feel the hard ridges of the .38 under him and his eyes were examining the possible target.

“Heroin,” said Paco promptly. “They’re death on it in the States. Can’t even get it through a doctor. Never take it myself but I hear it’s good for the nerves—or bad for them. Prices are rocketing up north. But heroin is small stuff. Listen, Lars, would it surprise you to know that I have a way of making four million francs all in a lump? Within a month and with hardly any risk.”

“I’m not interested in your plans,” said Lars.

Paco laughed aloud.

“What’s so funny?” demanded Lars.

Paco shrugged. He had evidently forgotten that he had already washed his hands, as he again approached the stand and repeated the process.

“This Miss Norton owns the Valiant?” said Lars.

“No. Her father does. He’s Tom Norton, president of the Equatorial Trading Company. He can sign his name to a ten-million-dollar check and still stay on easy street. The Valiant is a good little ship. Eighteen hundred tons, Diesel-engined. Pretty swank.”

“Is Norton aboard?”

“No. He turned it over to his daughter and her friends and told them to go have a good time. He probably wanted to get rid of Miss Norton—Terry, everybody calls her. She’s hotheaded and boy, can she get mad.”

“So you’re operating against a girl. That’s worthy of you, Paco.”

“Of course it is,” cried Paco. “What use have I got for these people with money and position? I hate them! And what a fine time I have laughing at them. They think I’m something pretty special because I’ve got better manners than they have, because I can wear my clothes better than their men can. They wonder about it just as though they were God’s chosen children, the only graceful people on earth. They order me around now but one of these days . . .”

Paco was not smiling. He was bitter and the black jungle cat in him was plainly visible in his displayed fangs and hot black eyes. But he passed it over with a shrug and began to smile again. He was rubbing his hands very thoroughly with a towel as though to rid them of something.

Finally he nervously perched himself on the edge of the bunk and began to manicure his nails with a little silver set he carried. He was very particular about his hands, more particular than ever on this day. They were the hands of an artist, and Paco, in his way, was an artist.

“I suppose the police will be here soon enough,” said Lars quietly.

Paco jumped and again the smile was gone. “How did you know?”

“I suppose you thought I’d miss the case of nerves you brought back. I hope they swing you for it.”

“For what?” demanded Paco.

“For the murder of Captain Simpson.”

Paco was up, shaking with fear and anger, glaring down at Lars who remained casually sprawled on the bed.

“I’m not pleased,” said Lars. “Watching you hang would have its points, but I would find it unsatisfactory. You plan very carefully, Paco, but this time you missed a trick.”

Paco did not move.

“You went out of here and down the hall to the rear of the building,” said Lars. “Nobody saw you leave this hotel. You came back and nobody saw you enter.”

“You spied on me!”

“No. I’m guessing. But I know that you intend to use me for a perfect alibi. Perhaps you even wanted to hang this extra millstone on my neck. I don’t know about that. You have committed a crime which is perfect from the angle of the police. But you forget that I am badly wanted in French Guiana. If they send me back, I’m taking you with me. You felt too secure to remember that you are also badly wanted.”

“You’re a fool,” said Paco, sitting down again. “As big a fool as always. We understand each other, Lars. You can’t kill me. I would be foolish to kill you—at the moment. You came opportunely. I was tired of masking facts to Simpson. But you . . . You won’t ever talk out of turn. Soon as you do, blowie, you’re on your way back to French Guiana. Simpson is dead. Captains—American captains—are scarce in Rio. You are about to become the captain of the yacht Valiant.”

Lars smiled slightly. “What will I do for papers?”

Paco was not in the least perturbed. Looking his contempt for Lars, he reached into his spotless coat and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

“You think I would forget a detail like that? You can buy all the forged papers you want in Rio. I could get records making you anything from a French private to a Balkan king. In this case I got papers and records which show you are Lars Lowenskold. You were wrecked on the Tatoosh, a lumber schooner, which went down off Cape Frio ten days ago.”

“Was there such a wreck?”

“There was. Give me credit, Lars. I’m smart. The Tatoosh went down with all hands including three unknown passengers. You are one of those passengers, on your way to take over the command of another vessel. Here are your papers.”

“You think Miss Norton would swallow that?”

“She’ll swallow anything I tell her,” grinned Paco.

“And when the police come charging in here . . .”

“Unless you want to go back to French Guiana, you’ll tell them I’ve been here all afternoon, sleeping.”

Lars raised himself on his elbow. “Get me straight on this, Paco. I only want one thing. A chance to kill you and get away. It’s fair to warn you. I’ll take this job because I think I can queer your rotten scheme, whatever it is, and do the thing I’ve waited to do for so long. I don’t want to see you swing. Your life is mine.”

Paco grinned broadly. He got up and lit a cigarette and stood looking down at the muddy patio. At last he turned to Lars. “That’s fair enough. If I thought for one minute you had the brains to best me, I’d die of shame. You won’t talk. You don’t want to rot in the Colony. And you won’t kill me as long as you know that my death will cause those papers to be opened. I need you to captain the Valiant. You’ll captain it and follow my orders.”

Lars lay back and looked up at the lizards on the ceiling. “We’ll know more about it later on, Paco.”