Moon of madness
their tails and a social custom of leaving red-hot visiting cards. I
turned back, scratching viciously.
A party homeward bound to Reid’s in a car offered me a lift.
I thanked them but preferred to walk.
“… Having no further use for this officer’s services.” Yes, I could
save him from that.
The hall porter said that Major O’Shea was in his room. Therefore,
having a curiosity respecting Macalister, I took up a strategic
position on a shadowed bench in that miniature palm grove which
commands the porch. I told the porter where he could find me.
I had waited but a short time when Macalister arrived, in the pomp and
circumstance of a glorious Farman. A chauffeur, whose pedigree
connected with apes more recently than usual, drove the red torpedo in
at the gate with much skill and even more noise. I stood up to see
Macalister alight.
He entered Reid’s proprietorially. He was in evening kit, wore a straw
hat boasting a band of well-known colours, to which he was not
entitled, and smoked a successful cigar decorated with what looked
like the Order of the Garter. If he was nervous he showed no sign of
the fact.
One has heard many jokes aimed at the courage of the Jew. Sometimes
from members of his own race. In justice to one whom I shall always
dislike, I wish to say that Julian Macalister, bearing a Scottish
name, was fearless as any man who ever wore the tartan.
Caliban drove the Farman out into the road again, and I settled down
with my pipe to await O’Shea’s summons.
It came sooner than I had expected. Mr. Macalister was all of a man of
business.
“Major O’Shea asks you to step up to his room, sir,” said the hall
porter.
Knocking out my pipe, I made my way upstairs. On the side of the
angels though I might be, I found myself not wholly at ease. I rapped
at O’Shea’s door and walked in.
Macalister was seated in an armchair, a stump of fat cigar between his
teeth. The band was absent. I presumed that he had smoked it.
O’Shea stood, facing me, by the open window. “I hope I have not
dragged you from pleasant company. But Mr. Macalister here has
presumed to question a statement of mine.”
“Cut it out,” said Macalister. “This is business.”
“Mr. Macalister,” O’Shea resumed blandly--and now I noted that he wore
his monocle--“is not personally responsible for his defects of
education. Forgive him, Decies. The facts, briefly, are these: You may
recall that I recently placed in your care a certain portfolio, the
contents of which you know?”
“You did,” said I.
“My reason,” O’Shea continued, “was that I feared an attempt by Mr.
Macalister or his friends to recover this portfolio. I mentioned my
fears to you at the time.”
“You did,” I repeated.
“Mr. Macalister,” O’Shea turned to him, “Mr. Decies, here, has the
portfolio and a new key which I have had made. The portfolio is
locked. I don’t know what he has done with it. Therefore your
proposals are useless.”
Macalister rolled the cigar stump. With a thumb and forefinger he
removed fragments from his mouth--of what, I cannot say; possibly the
band. Then:
“I believe you,” he granted. “I never doubted your word. You’re damned
up-stage but you don’t lie.”
“Thank you,” said O’Shea.
The tone in which he spoke puzzled me at the time. It was so oddly
sincere.
“But, you see,” Macalister went on, “I know why you’ve done it!”
O’Shea did not exactly start. But his glance, as Macalister spoke, was
dagger-like in its intensity.
“You’re an officer and a gentleman. The two aren’t always twins, but
you happen to be both. I’ve got to deal with Mr. Decies? If he lets
you down, the disgrace is his. You’re just branded a fool, but you
save your ‘British honour.’ Am I right?”
By heavens! I knew he was right! And, studying the low brow, the
small, Semitic skull, the gross person of the man, I wondered. If a
Julian Macalister could read human nature so clearly, small wonder
that the cream of his race ruled the Rialtos of the world. So I
reflected.
“Very well, Mr. Decies.” He diverted the cigar stump in my direction.
“As it’s turned out, I’m not sorry. You’re sweet on the little lady
who’s disappeared. I don’t blame you. I fancy her, myself. But
business is business.”
Only O’Shea’s frigid stare held me in my place. I plunged my hands in
my trouser pockets and clenched them tightly.
“Do not permit Mr. Macalister’s vulgarity to upset your judgment,”
said O’Shea. “Also, make due allowances for him.”
“I don’t say I know where she is,” Macalister resumed unmoved, “but
I’m prepared to promise that she’ll be home by midnight if you, Mr.
Decies, will double on the major and hand over to me that portfolio!”
“One moment!”
O’Shea broke in so violently that he startled me.
“Well?” said Macalister.
“You fully appreciate the value of what the portfolio contains?”
O’Shea challenged.
“Fully,” I answered.
“You know what is at stake--on both sides?”
“I do.”
“So do I. Therefore I am going to leave you alone with Mr. Macalister.
Make your terms, Decies. I shall never reproach you. Communism is a
powerful movement. To-night it conquers.”
He walked quickly to the door and went out.
“Very pretty,” said Macalister. “When he’s fired from the Guards he
should do well in the movies.”
CHAPTER XVI.
THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF
I have come to the conclusion that British honour is pretty good
stock-in-trade. Macalister accepted my word that no rescue by force
would be attempted. And, if Macalister accepted it, I think my promise
must be a gilt-edged security.
At twenty minutes before midnight--the time I had arranged to set
out--Reid’s was moderately excited. The absence of Nanette could no
longer be concealed in view of the fact that her worthy foster-parents
had created something of a hubbub following her departure from the
Casino. Hotel servants had been talking, too.
The arrangement had the charm of simplicity.
In a car containing only a chauffeur and myself, I was to follow the
Farman. Any support must be not less than five hundred yards in the
rear.
“But,” I had objected, “although you trust _me_, I don’t trust _you_.
I might be held up.”
“You can arm yourself if you like,” Macalister had conceded. “And you
will have the driver. Your friends, too, will be close behind you.”
I had hesitated, until:
“Damn it!” he cried. “I want the goods! This deal is square!”
I agreed when he spoke thus. Slowly, I was learning my man.
O’Shea elected to follow alone.
“They will stick to their bargain, Decies,” he said sadly. “We dare
not take the risk, I admit; but Nanette is safe enough. They know how
far they can go.”
Past a curious group clustering around the hotel entrance, we walked
out--Macalister, O’Shea, and myself. I watched a magnificent cigar
being lighted in the Farman, wondering how and where Macalister found
room to carry more than one at a time.
Then we set forth upon our queer journey.
The Farman led through the outskirts of Funchal, around the flank of
the little town and out to that sea road which scales the frowning
cliffs.
I am never at my best on roads of this kind. A squat red lozenge in
the glare of our headlights, the leading car, from time to time, would
disappear over a precipice. Nothing would obstruct my view of starry
sky and the still mirror of the ocean far below.
Then, a hairpin turn in the dizzy path being negotiated, there ahead
again the Farman would appear.
So it went, up and up, around bend after bend, until the bumping and
jolting told me that we had left the road, such as it was, and were
digging a road of our own.
We crept over a desolate dome of territory that must have been left
behind when Atlantis sank. Upon our topping the crown of this blasted
heath, I looked out ahead. I prayed that the brakes had been recently
overhauled.
A long, curving, rock-strewn slope swept gracefully down to a sheer
edge. And perched close to the precipice like a lonely seafowl was a
little, dirty white dwelling--hundreds of eerie feet above the sea,
approached by no perceptible path. I exhausted my imagination in
endeavouring to invent a reason why any human being should live there.
By means of zigzag manœuvring, the Farman was brought to within fifty
yards or so of the place. My chauffeur gingerly imitated the design.
Then came the prearranged signal.
Macalister’s arm was protruded. He waved his cigar like a field
marshal’s baton.
“Stop!” I said--and the word sounded like a gasp of relief.
I got out, turned, and looked back.
O’Shea’s car had been pulled up on the crest. I could see him standing
beside it, a distant silhouette against the sky.
I walked down to where Macalister waited by the house.
There was a low stone wall round the seaward end of the property,
enclosing a tiny garden in which bricks were apparently cultivated.
And now I could see over the edge. I gasped. A wooden ladder,
connecting with a platform that jutted out just below the house,
described a jazz pattern down the cliff-side. In a miniature cove,
below, a smart motor cruiser lay, her lighted ports like watching
eyes.
“Send your car up to the top,” Macalister directed.
I shouted to the man. And, as I watched him painfully tacking back
against the gradient, I reflected that if O’Shea’s psychology should
prove to be at fault, mine was a sorry case. I fingered a revolver
that nestled in my pocket.
The climb accomplished:
“Now,” said Macalister, “you remember the conditions?”
“Perfectly.”
“Halfway between the house and my car.”
I turned and mounted the slope. Macalister whistled shrilly.
Spinning about, I watched. I saw two things happen.
Macalister’s simian chauffeur leapt from his seat, stripping off his
jacket and discarding his cap. From somewhere on the hither side of
the building, which appeared to possess no door, three figures came
into view. Two were men, thick-set nondescripts; the third was a girl.
And the girl was Nanette!
They held her wrists, but the moment she caught sight of me standing
there in the moonlight:
“Mr. Decies!” she cried. “Don’t do it! don’t do it! I’ll never forgive
you! They _dare_ not harm me, and you are not to do it!”
I made no answer. I had none to make. And so the men led her on until
she stood before me.
She was pale, and so slender, between her burly captors, as to look
ethereal. Her widely open eyes were fixed in a stare of reproach. My
heart thumped.
“You don’t understand, Nanette,” I said. “There is Major O’Shea--and
he wishes it.”
One long, lingering glance she cast up to where O’Shea stood watching.
I saw a flood of colour sweep over her face. Then her obstinate little
mouth quivered. She lowered her head, and:
“I hate myself,” she whispered.
“Now,” said Macalister, coming forward, “give me the key.”
I did so. He placed it carefully in his waistcoat pocket. Nanette
never looked up.
“Hand the portfolio to Miguel.”
The chauffeur was indicated. I obeyed, and the man handed the
portfolio on to Macalister, who narrowly examined the seals.
“Senhor da Cunha,” he said sharply.
Whereupon Miguel ran off, carrying the portfolio, and disappeared over
the edge where the ladder was. So Gabriel da Cunha was on board the
cruiser!
Again Macalister spoke rapid Portuguese.
Nanette was released, and the two men turned and went back to the
house. She stood before me, with lowered head.
Macalister raised his straw hat. The colours of the band looked highly
effective in the moonlight.
“Miss Nanette and Mr. Decies,” he said, “I bid you good-night.”
He was not without a certain vulgar dignity. He followed his brace of
ruffians to the dwelling.
“Come, Nanette!” I urged. “It isn’t safe to delay.”
But, as we climbed to the waiting cars, she spoke only twice.