Moon of madness
“Very well, Nanette,” I replied, and lingered, looking down.
“Are you going to swim this morning--for the last time?”
“No. I have to go into the town.”
“I don’t think I shall swim, then,” said Nanette. “May I come with
you? Or is it a stag party?”
Before I could reply:
“Please remember your packing!” came a voice from below.
Nanette’s mother stepped out onto the balcony and looked up at me in
mock severity. Seeing her, beside her daughter, I reflected that the
lucky man who won Nanette would acquire a bride who would always be
beautiful. “Consider well the mother of thy beloved,” says an Arab
poet. “In her behold thy beloved-to-be.”
“Pop is doing his to-night,” Nanette protested.
I visualized “Pop,” sole occupant of the family table in the dining
room, dealing with a solid English breakfast, regardless of flies,
temperature, and the indifferent quality of the bacon.
“He has none to do, dear,” was the reply. “I do it for him.”
“But, darling,” Nanette wheedled, bobbed head pressed against her
mother’s shoulder, “there are hours and hours. Please let me off.”
In the end she had her way, and we set out together along the dusty
road. There would be disappointment this morning down at the bathing
pool, I mused, peering aside at the piquant face shaded by a Japanese
parasol. Nanette wore no hat, and I said to myself that if all the
women who were bobbed had such shapely heads as Nanette’s, the world
would be very beautiful.
“Did you tell Jack you were going?” I asked.
“No.” Nanette aroused herself from a reverie. “I forgot.”
Poor Jack! And he would have sold his Blue for a smile from Nanette.
The road to the town is very picturesque; and I might have counted
George Decies a happy man had I not known that my charming companion
loved to be with me only because I formed a link with her memories of
someone else. Down the steep slope we walked, talking but little. An
old roadmaker doffed his hat, smiled, and bade us good-morning. I
sensed his kindly, appreciative glance following us. Funchal is famous
for honeymoons.
Past the gardens of the Casino and the flower-cloaked balconies of
villas we went. I forced myself to think of my real mission. Common
sense whispered that I should have driven down in a fast car. Sense of
duty demanded that I should conceal the nature of my business from
Nanette.
“Shall you be long with the consul?” she asked.
“I don’t expect to be,” I replied.
“Then I will go along and have a simply perfect shawl I saw sent up to
Mum,” said Nanette. “She won’t like it. But _I_ love it.”
We were just about to turn into that steep and narrow street that
leads to the square, when:
“Hi! hi! Hullo there!” we were hailed.
We turned. Bumping along in a sledge behind two sweating patient oxen,
was Jack.
“Hullo, Jack,” said Nanette. “Mr. Decies has to see the consul and I’m
going shopping. Want to come along?”
“Rather!” cried Jack. “Jump in.”
We proceeded to the consulate in the bullock cart, escorted by a
battalion of flies with fixed bayonets.
“Meet you at the Golden Gate,” called Jack.
He was absurdly happy when I left him with Nanette and climbed the
narrow stairs to the consul’s office.
The British consul was a quiet little official automaton who had
buried his heart in somebody’s grave and had nothing left to hope for.
“Good-morning, Mr. Decies,” he said, and smiled rather sadly as I
plumped an ornamental object down on the table.
“Good Lord!” said I.
It was Nanette’s handbag, a frivolous trifle from Paris, which she had
asked me to take care of as we got into the bullock cart. I had been
carrying it unconsciously.
“You are early,” the consul went on, “and I have not quite finished
decoding a dispatch which I am instructed to deliver to you. The main
point, however, is this: Major O’Shea arrives in Madeira to-morrow
night, and----”
“Oh!” A faint cry interrupted him. “I’m so sorry----”
We both turned and looked up.
Nanette stood in the doorway, her blue eyes so widely opened as to
convey an impression of fear.
“I came for my bag,” she said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
CHAPTER IX.
MOON OF MADNESS
Fifteen minutes later I was in possession of the facts--and faced
with a problem.
“This chap Da Cunha,” said the consul, “isn’t Portuguese, in spite of
his name. He’s some kind of what-not. He has the biggest radio outfit
in the island up at his summer bungalow.”
“He’s a Communist agent.”
“I know,” the other returned quietly, “but it wasn’t my business to
mention it first. He crashed in his car the other day and he’s
dry-docked for repairs in a house he owns down here in the town. I
know the surgeon who’s attending.”
I did not contradict him, for I was reading once again the body of the
decoded message:
Arrive Funchal Harbour 2 A.M. Friday morning. Please meet me. Arrange
for accommodation privately. No one must know. Letters have all been
photographed. See Da Cunha does not slip away. Watch Arundel Castle.
Try to learn if any associate of Da C. sails. Prevent if possible. I
count on you.
O’Shea.
“Not a ship has cleared for European ports since Major O’Shea left,”
said the consul. “So there’s a good chance.”
“He’s returning in the destroyer?”
“I don’t think so.” He glanced at a list of shipping. “Although this
dispatch came from her. My idea is that they intercepted the Yeoward
boat and put him on board. She’s due here at the time stated.”
“Devilish awkward,” I murmured. “It’s late to cancel my sailing. I’m
booked in the _Arundel Castle_.”
“I’ll step across to Blandy’s with you,” said the consul, standing up
and reaching for his hat. “We can get you transferred to a later boat.
Leave the finding of private accommodation to me, too.”
“Do you know of any one associated with Da Cunha?”
“No. Da Cunha has property in Madeira, but he’s rarely here. Nearly
all I know about him I have learned officially.”
We settled our business at the Union Castle agent’s, thanks to
consular aid, and, the morning growing insufferably hot, my friend
agreed that something icy through a straw was indicated. When we
arrived at the Golden Gate this theory proved to be popular. A party
from Reid’s that included Nanette’s mother had arrived, and Jack was
sharing Nanette with a stranger whose ancestors had known more about
how the Pyramid was built than you or I can ever hope to learn.
He reminded me of my London stockbroker until he was introduced as
Macalister. He had a real-estate smile that was not unattractive, and
my first, natural impression was that he had recently purchased the
island from the Portuguese and was running his eye over the property.
Presently, however:
“And how is our friend, Gabriel?” Nanette asked. Then, turning to me:
“I met Mr. Macalister with Gabriel da Cunha,” she explained.
I forget how Macalister replied, for I was exchanging significant
glances with the consul. A few moments later that competent official
took the floor.
“So you are leaving Madeira, Mr. Macalister?” he asked.
“No,” the other replied, sharing an appreciative look between the
cigar that he had just lighted and Nanette. “I had hoped to sail in
the _Arundel Castle_, but I have been delayed.”
The consul put several more leading questions to Macalister, in a
chatty way, but I rather lost track of the conversation. Nanette was
in a mood of feverish animation, which I knew, from experience, meant
mischief. The party had been over to Blandy’s apparently, and had
learned that accommodation in the _Arundel Castle_ was limited.
Nanette and Jack talked happy nonsense about camping out in boats and
what not. Then I made an announcement.
“Somebody is lucky,” I said. “My berth will be vacant.”
This statement was received with gratifying consternation.
“You surely can’t mean that you are not coming with us?” Nanette’s
mother exclaimed.
Two pairs of eyes I particularly noted at this moment--the
heavy-lidded brown eyes of Mr. Macalister and the wide-open blue eyes
of Nanette.
“Unhappily, yes,” I replied. “Unfortunate, very; but I must wait for
the Royal Mail boat.”
There was a sort of farewell dance at Reid’s that night. Quite a
number of people were leaving in the _Arundel_. Nanette persistently
avoided me; and I doubled-up with Jack in a scowling competition
having for target Mr. Julian Macalister, who had dropped in after
dinner and monopolized Nanette.
Once, pausing near me:
“Do you know what they call the crescent moon here?” she asked.
“No.”
“Moon of Madness.”
She laughed and danced on. Jack scowled. I wondered.
At the cocktail bar, during an interval, things bordered on the
hectic. I have been honoured in the friendship of some of Mr.
Macalister’s race who were very courtly gentlemen. Mr. Macalister was
not as one of these.
“Don’t look so gloomy, my lad,” he said to Jack. “It takes a man of
experience to please a young girl.”
Jack had boxed for his college and was no mean craftsman. I rapidly
took in the powerful but fleshy form of Macalister and prepared to
mourn his passing. He smiled confidently; but one could have got
roughly about the same odds on a peanut in a monkey-house, when:
“Mr. Decies!” said someone at my elbow.
Jack was just descending in a leisurely way from his tall stool. He
paused as I turned. The British consul stood behind us.
“A word in private,” said he.
I grabbed Jack’s arm.
“Come along, too,” I urged.
He hesitated, then:
“Perhaps you’re right,” came with manifest reluctance.
We walked out into the lounge; and the consul handed me a scribbled
note.
“Received in code to-night,” he explained.
Detain Julian Macalister at any cost.
Jack had left us, going to look for Nanette, and:
“From O’Shea?” I asked.
“No. From Scotland Yard!”
“But he’s not sailing!”
The consul met my gaze of inquiry.
“That radio set of Da Cunha’s is very well informed,” he said.
“Macalister knew of this move before _I_ did. He only cancelled
to-day.”
CHAPTER X.
THE _ARUNDEL CASTLE_ SAILS
I cannot pretend that I was a happy man as I climbed the ladder of
the _Arundel Castle_ on the following morning. All my friends were
leaving, and the affection and admiration that I had for Edmond O’Shea
could not recompense me for their loss. My only consolation lay in the
knowledge that, unhonoured and unsung though I should be, yet, in a
modest way, I was doing my job of work toward saving Great Britain
from the Reds.
An inward-bound liner, by the time she makes Madeira, offers a ripe
crop of studies to the psychologist. The gay Conrads, who have learned
the truth of Leonard Merrick’s unmoral dictum, “a man is young as
often as he falls in love.” The anxious-eyed women who have lost what
their men have found. A score of flirtations and two or three
intrigues, followed with interest by the midnight watch and reported
in routine to the purser. The odd men out, too, are always rather
pathetic. It was wonderful how many lonely eyes lighted up when
Nanette stepped on to the deck. Even some of the Conrads prepared to
change their minds.
Baggage was missing, of course. Nanette’s mother had lost a wardrobe
trunk, nothing less.
“Don’t worry,” said Nanette’s father, in his imperturbable way. “It
will turn up.”
“It will be Nan’s turn to worry,” was the reply. “All her things are
in it!”
Nanette, the irresponsible, had disappeared with Jack in quest of her
new quarters. She professed to be the victim of a dreadful theory that
her stable companion was an elderly Boer lady with gout.
Coffee-coloured boys were diving off the boat-deck; vendors of lace
shouted themselves hoarse from a flotilla of small craft that clung to