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.

From horizon to ominous horizon, no cloud stood alone, but the blue had become discolored until it was no color at all. And millimeter by millimeter, the glass continued its inexorable course down past the false markings of “Storm.”

There was no storm here. Only a vast, crouching space of quiet sea and unmarked sky. But there would be a storm. Lars Marlin could feel it as certainly as he could feel the slow roll of the deck beneath his solidly planted feet.

Johnson, corpulent and common, came at eight bells in the afternoon to relieve Lars. He looked at the chart which lay with stubbornly curled edges upon the charting table and placed a pudgy finger near the cross which Lars had just made.

“South latitude thirteen,” said Johnson, as near as he ever came to a joke. “We won’t find any luck around here. God, I can’t even breathe it’s so hot.”

“When the first blast hits, I’ll be on the bridge. If I’m not, call me.”

There was something in Lars’ granitelike expression and something in his voice which caused Johnson to salute and say no more.

Lars stepped out of the chart room and into the bridge wing. He stared out over the immense sameness of wind and water which blended into a sullen murk. His undershirt, beneath his stiffly starched exterior, was pasted hotly to his lean ribs.

He was waiting for something, he seemed to know that the something was coming. Inactivity had worn his nerves paper-thin and even his great stolid calm was on the verge of cracking.

He would welcome the coming violence of this blow. But now the sea was dead and the air was too thick to breathe.

He heard footsteps coming up to the bridge, careless, confident steps. He turned and saw Paco rise in sections to the level of the bridge deck.

Paco was grinning. He had changed subtly. There was less of furtiveness about him, more of command. He was dressed to his part as Prince of Spain. He wore Kenneth’s clothes and looked better in them than Kenneth’s spinelessness ever could. Rakish yachting cap, silk shirt, muffler of silk with small figured anchors of blue in it, correct trousers and spotless shoes. The whiteness of his attire set off the swarthiness of his features.

Lars stood solidly and watched Paco approach, face impassive but thoughts all focused on Paco’s heart. The blue patch pocket made an excellent target.

“Well, am I good or am I good?” said Paco. He came to a halt, lit a monogrammed cigarette and flipped the match down into the dead sea. He faced Lars, grin widening. “For two days I’ve raised hell about them opening those letters before they were sure I’d passed to the Great Beyond and now I got them eating out of my hand. Did I tell you I was a genius?”

Lars looked his contempt.

“Don’t you believe it even yet?” said Paco in mock surprise. “Why, Lars, that’s ungrateful of you. After all I’ve done! And you know, of course, that I’ll see you get entirely free of French officers. Oh, yes, of course, Lars. And haven’t I built you up to Terry?”

“It’s Terry now, is it?” said Lars.

“Sure,” said Paco. “She fell for this prince gag like a ton of bricks. I’m on easy street. As soon as she carries out my orders—”

“Your orders? Are you ordering this ship now, too?”

“Certainly I am!”

“And where are we going?”

Paco grinned. “You’ll know soon enough. Terry and the rest are ‘thrilled to death’ about it. Quite an adventure for them.”

“You’ve still got me on the bridge, Paco.”

“Is that a threat?” smiled Paco. “I think you’ll go along with me—unless you want to land back in the swamps. It’ll be Madame Guillotine next time. And by the way, Lars, it’s not Paco now. After this, address me as ‘Your Highness.’ I think I shall have to require that of you.”

Lars clenched his fist and Paco saw it without any change of countenance.

“I wouldn’t,” said Paco.

“You’re taking this yacht to do your dirty business for you?” said Lars.

“Of course. I might add, Lars, that you would be wise to follow orders. Everything and everybody is on my side now. Even you!” He laughed amusedly at this and turned and went down the ladder and out of sight.

Lars looked back at the sea again. The keys to the gun racks were hard and sharp against his thigh. But he knew too well that any move he made would result in his sacrificing his own life.

He stood there for an hour, though he knew he was off watch and would need a short sleep to take his night trick. And at the end of that hour his reverie was cut short by a white swirl of skirt to his right. He had not heard Terry Norton approach.

He whirled about, startled for an instant. Then he saluted gravely. And then he saw something in her expression which alarmed him a little. She was very cold and formal—and could that be distrust in her beautiful face?

“Yes, ma’am?” said Lars.

“I have orders for you, Captain Lowenskold. Since discovering the real identity of Prince Enríque, we have made a change of plans. As we are a yacht we can enter ports at random.”

Lars hesitated. He knew this was far from the right time to tell her anything but he thought that if he could give her some slight warning . . .

“Miss Norton, are you sure about Paco?”

Her tones were ice. “You mean His Highness?”

“I mean Paco Corvino. Miss Norton, I’ve got a hunch—”

“Are you, by any chance, trying to discredit him after seeing those certificates? Really, Captain Lowenskold, His Highness was right.”

“About what?” demanded Lars.

“About you. I think it only right to tell you that he has discovered some things about you which are not very flattering to your character, and if he had known them he never would have recommended you as captain after poor Simpson’s death. If you are trying to undermine my faith in His Highness, save yourself the breath. I came to give you orders.”

The way she said that cut Lars deeply, gave him clearly to understand the fact that he was presuming when he considered himself higher than a butler aboard the Valiant.

“As you can navigate and as you are the only man with a master’s license here, and as Johnson long ago refused command because he neither wants it nor has a ticket, you shall remain in your present status. However, any false step will bring your downfall with great quickness.”

Stiffly, shivering with rage, his face white, Lars said, “You came with orders.”

“Yes. You are to proceed to Cayenne.”

“Where?”

“Cayenne, French Guiana.”

“But, Miss Norton—”

“Are you going to obey my orders?”

Lars saw the futility of trying to interfere and the question blazed like lightning through his brain. What devilish scheme had Paco thought up? Why did Paco, ex-convict, want to place himself in the jaws of the Penal Colony once more?

“Are you going to obey?” said Miss Norton commandingly.

Lars turned on his heel, jaw set, eyes stubborn.

He entered the chart room.

“Mr. Johnson. We are changing our course for Cayenne. What is our position?”

“Latitude thirteen, sir. You saw it yourself an hour ago.”

“Yes,” said Lars in a voice as dead as the calm. “I saw it myself.”

He picked up the dividers and stood looking at the widely spread chart and then, with a vicious snap of his hand, he speared the dot which was Cayenne. The dividers stuck there, quivering.