The Dark Star Part 47

"Oh, yes, sir----"

"Wait a moment. Has he any friends or relatives on board?"

"Not that I know, sir."

"Oh, no friends, eh? No ladies who wear white serge skirts and white shoes and stockings?"

"No, sir, not as I knows of."

"Oh! Suppose you step across to his door, knock, and ask him if he rang. And, if the door is opened, take a quick slant at the room."

"Very good, sir."

Neeland, his door at the crack, watched the steward cross the corridor and knock at the door of Mr. Herbert Hawks.

"Well, what iss it?" came a heavy voice from within.

"Mr. 'Awks, sir, did you ring?"

"No, I did not."

"Oh, beg pardon, sir----"

The steward was starting to return to Neeland, but that young man motioned him violently away from his door and closed it. Then, listening, his ear against the panel, he presently heard a door in the pa.s.sage creak open a little way, then close again, stealthily.

He possessed his soul in patience, believing that Mr. Hawks or his fair friend in the white skirt had merely taken a preliminary survey of the pa.s.sage and perhaps also of his closed door. But the vigil was vain; the door did not reopen; no sound came from the stateroom across the pa.s.sageway.

To make certain that the owner of the white shoes and stockings did not leave that stateroom without his knowledge, he opened his door with many precautions and left it on the crack, stretching a rubber band from k.n.o.b to bolt, so that the wind from the open port in the pa.s.sage should not blow it shut. Then, drawing his curtain, he sat down to wait.

He had a book, one of those s...o...b..ring American novels which serve up falsehood thickly b.u.t.tered with righteousness and are consumed by the morally sterilised.

And, as he smoked he read; and, as he read he listened. One eye always remained on duty; one ear was alert; he meant to see who was the owner of the white shoes if it took the remainder of the voyage to find out.

The book aided him as a commonplace accompaniment aids a soloist--alternately boring and exasperating him.

It was an "uplift" book, where the heroine receives whacks with patient smiles. Fate boots her from pillar to post and she blesses Fate and is much obliged. That most deadly reproach to degenerate human nature--the accidental fact of s.e.x--had been so skilfully extirpated from those pages that, like chaste amoebae, the characters merely multiplied by immaculate subdivision; and millions of lineal descendants of the American Dodo were made gleeful for $1.50 net.

It was hard work waiting, harder work reading, but between the two and a cigarette now and then Neeland managed to do his sentry go until dinner time approached and the corridors resounded with the trample of the hungry.

The stewardess reappeared a little later and returned to him his handkerchief and the following information:

Mr. Hawks, it appeared, travelled with a trained nurse, whose stateroom was on another deck. That nurse was not in her stateroom, but a similar handkerchief was, scented with similar perfume.

"You're a wonder," said Neeland, placing some more sovereigns in her palm and closing her fingers over them. "What is the nurse's name?"

"Miss White."

"Very suitable name. Has she ever before visited Herr--I mean _Mr._--Hawks in his stateroom?"

"Her stewardess says she has been indisposed since we left New York."

"Hasn't been out of her cabin?"

"No."

"I see. Did you inquire what she looked like?"

"Her stewardess couldn't be certain. The stateroom was kept dark and the tray containing her meals was left at the bedside. Miss White smokes."

"Yes," said Neeland reflectively, "she smokes Red Light cigarettes, I believe. Thank you, very much. More sovereigns if you are discreet.

And say to my steward that I'll dine in my stateroom. Soup, fish, meat, any old thing you can think of. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, sir."

When she had withdrawn he kneeled down on his sofa and looked out through the port at the sunset sea.

There was a possibility that Scheherazade and her friends might be on board the _Volhynia_. Who else would be likely to take wax impressions of his keyhole and leave a scented sc.r.a.p of a handkerchief on his stateroom floor?

That they had kept themselves not only out of sight but off the pa.s.senger list merely corroborated suspicion. That's what they'd be likely to do.

And now there was no question in his mind of leaving the box in his cabin. He'd cling to it like a good woman to alimony. Death alone could separate his box from him.

As he knelt there, sniffing the salt perfume of the sea, his ears on duty detected the sound of a tray in the corridor.

"Leave it on the camp-table outside my door!" he said over his shoulder.

"Very good, sir."

He was not hungry; he was thinking too hard.

"Confound it," he thought to himself, "am I to squat here in ambush for the rest of the trip?"

The prospect was not agreeable for a man who loved the sea. All day and most of the starry night the hurricane deck called to him, and his whole anatomy responded. And now to sit hunched up here like a rat in the hold was not to his taste. Suppose he should continue to frequent the deck, carrying with him his box, of course. He might never discover who owned the white serge skirt or who owned the voice which p.r.o.nounced is as "iss."

Meanwhile, it occurred to him that for a quarter of an hour or more his dinner outside his door had been growing colder and colder. So he slid from the sofa, unstrapped the rubber band, opened the door, lifted table and tray into his stateroom with a sharp glance at the opposite door, and, readjusting the rubber band, composed himself to eat.

CHAPTER XVIII

BY RADIO

Perhaps it was because he did not feel particularly hungry that his dinner appeared unappetising; possibly because it had been standing in the corridor outside his door for twenty minutes, which did not add to its desirability.

The sun had set and the air in the room had grown cold. He felt chilly; and, when he uncovered the silver tureen and discovered that the soup was still piping hot, he drank some of it to warm himself.

He had swallowed about half a cupful before he discovered that the seasoning was not agreeable to his palate. In fact, the flavour of the hot broth was so decidedly unpleasant that he pushed aside the cup and sat down on the edge of his bunk without any further desire to eat anything.