CHAPTER FOUR

Paco’s Strange Illness

AT eight bells in the evening, Lars was again on duty, relieving First Officer Johnson. Johnson and the other two mates were efficient enough, very average mariners, but it was indicative of their lack of ambition that there was not another master’s ticket aboard the Valiant. They all had little enough to say to Lars. He was a stranger to them and though they could easily see that his seamanship was good, they reserved judgment.

Lars Marlin’s state of mind was not a calm one and his natural silence, added to this, gave him a reserved air which they mistook for austerity.

Comfortably plump Johnson gave over the bridge with a salute and the single statement of the course and left. The quartermaster was relieved by the same man who had been steering on Lars’ first trick.

Lars looked into the binnacle, contacted his lookouts and then went into the wing to lean against the rail and look forward into the velvet warmth of the night.

Lars had wanted this trick because the Valiant was still close in, crossing the steamer lanes which led to Rio from the north.

He felt the strangeness of his responsibility. He had, in this command, the lives of these people to protect. But more than that, he could not be certain just how or where Paco would strike.

He felt very uncertain about Paco in several ways. The amazingly debonair cutthroat had worked himself into the confidence of this entire party. They suspected nothing of his past operations and had no inkling of his present plans, whatever they were.

Paco’s luck was wonderful. With the utmost carelessness he had committed a “perfect” crime. He would never be brought to book by the Rio authorities for that murder. The audacity of the crime was quite in keeping with Paco’s past operations.

Simpson had been found in an alley with three inches of steel though his heart. No knife, no clues, no visible reason why Simpson had been killed.

Facing the police, Paco had been wide-eyed and innocent. Miss Norton’s solid recommendation about Paco had completely blocked any effort on the part of the police to investigate Paco’s past. It was the furthest thing from anyone’s mind that Paco had done the murder. He had grieved realistically, had told Miss Norton gallantly that he would help her.

Lars writhed when he remembered how he had been introduced to Miss Norton for the first time. Paco had made him buy clothes suitable for the occasion. Paco had presented him with quite an air, saying he had good reason to know that Lars “Lowenskold” was an excellent officer. And Miss Norton, shaking his hand, had looked kindly upon Lars and had said, “Anyone Paco recommends is acceptable to me.”

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.