A Fascinating Traitor

C >> Col. Richard Henry Savage >> A Fascinating Traitor

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28

"Have you been over there?" amazedly cried Blunt.

"Oh! I know every inch of the place of old," laughed Hawke, still
with his hands on his revolvers.

"Well, Major," said Jack, pouring out a cognac, "I'll take, first,
five hundred pounds cash for the information. Another five hundred
for the job, with a quarter of what we get. And this second sum
you can put up with Etienne Garcin. You can pay him now the two
hundred for the men and the boat, out of that, and give me the
rest of the odd change later. We'll never lose sight of each other
after we start. For the Hirondelle will not leave me in the lurch.
I've sworn never to wear the widow's jewelry again." Jack Blunt's
eyes were devilish in their glare.

"So, it's five hundred pounds down now, and I can order the expedition
on, after the payment. You'll give me on the instant all the news
from Mattie Jones of the intended return, for I propose to have
some fun with the Professor."

"Honor bright," said Jack forcibly. "For we will all hang or 'go
to quod' together, if there's a break once that we begin. We had
better start when I get her next letter, for Mattie is to write me
to the Jersey Arms and then telegraph there, too, from Southampton.
I'll have one of the crew pipe them off from the pier home to the
Tolly, and a half dozen of the boys will be in hiding, ready for
work. So you can work your scheme as you will."

"It's a go, then. Come on, now, and get your money," said Hawke,
as he led the way to the nearest fiacre. In ten minutes, Alan Hawke
disappeared into the railway waiting-room, and returned after a
visit to the luggage store-room. Jack Blunt was astonished at his
pal's evident distrust. "Here you are, Jack," the Major cordially
cried, as they sought the rear room of the neat cafe opposite the
gare. "Now, count over your five hundred pounds. I'll give Garcin
the other sum in your presence. Then, I suppose that I am safe," he
coldly smiled. "Tell me now where has old Fraser hidden the stuff."

"In his study on the first floor, in a secret hiding place. The
girl Mattie has watched the old fellow through the keyhole. I know
just where to easily break in on the ground floor. These damned
Hindus are far away in the other wing, so there's only Simpson to
hinder. Now, I'll have a couple of the boys pipe him off at the
Jersey Arms. Old Janet Fairbarn's strait-laced ways make him sneak
out late at night for his toddy. When he is 'well loaded' and tired
with climbing up the cliff, they will follow him and fix him, for
good. One of the boys will come along with me, to my hiding place,
and be 'outside fence' while the two others will watch the road
and the gardener's quarters. The three men are two hundred yards
away, in the porter's lodge. The old Scotch woman sleeps like a
post. Then I make my way when I've done, at once to the Hirondelle,
alone and hide my plant. The men relieved can rally on your party
at the old martello tower, and so we will be ready to sail when
your part of the job is done. Two on board, three with me, nine
with you, will be plenty! My work is a quiet job! I can do the
whole trick in five minutes! Yours, I leave for yourself. I know
just where to lay my hand."

"But, should any trouble occur?" said Alan Ha wke, "any outcry,
any pursuit?"

"Then I will bury the stuff on the shore, saunter back openly to
the Jersey Arms, and just stay there as friend Joseph Smith, till
I can get over to Granville by the steamer. The Hirondelle will
not be seen by any one; there are fifty luggers always hovering
around. She will first land us all in Bouley Bay in the morning, or
drop half the men off at St. Catherine's Bay in the early afternoon.
They all know every inch of the ground." In half an hour the chums
in villainy dined gayly with "Angelique," and a running mate,
rejoicing in the cognomen of "Petite Diable Jaune." The next day,
a secret meeting with a confidential Jewish money-lender, enabled
Major Alan Hawke to safely market the half of the jewels which he
had extorted from Ram Lal Singh. In a waist belt, he wore a thousand
pounds of Banque of France notes neatly concealed. Jack Blunt and
Garcia had earned an extra bonus of a hundred pounds each in the
jewel sale, and Alan Hawke laughed, as he laid away four thousand
pounds in his safely deposited luggage, in the railway office. "I
can trust to the French Republic--one and indivisible," he said,
as he sent a loving letter to Justine Delande, and then mailed her
the receipt for his valuable package, with his last wishes, "in
case of accident." "These fellows might kill me for this, if they
knew of it!" he growled.

Three days later, the stanch Hirondelle was beating up and down
Granville Bay, while Alan Hawke awaited the letter of the faithful
Mattie Jones. He had furnished the twenty-pound note which made
that natty damsel doubly anxious to meet her faithful lover "Joseph
Smith," to whom she now dispatched the news of the immediate
return of the anxious Professor. Fraser was burning to take up the
gathering of Thibetan pearls of hidden knowledge, while the artful
and restless Professor Alaric Hobbs was stealthily waiting Prince
Djiddin's departure, but kept busied with some personal tidal and
magnetic observations on Rozel Head. In the deserted second floor
of an old martello tower, he had made a lair for his evening star
and planetory researches, and the ingenious Yankee concealed a
rope ladder in the clinging ivy which enabled him to cut off all
intrusion on his eyrie.

CHAPTER XV.

THE FRENCH FISHER BOAT, "HIRONDELLE."

It was four o'clock of a wild November afternoon when Major Alan
Hawke, cowering in a hooded Irish frieze ulster, crawled deeper
into a cave-like recess in the little path leading from the Jersey
Arms up to Rozel Head. The blinding rain was thrown in wild gusts
by the howling winds, now lashing the green channel to a roughened
foam. A sudden and terrific storm was coming on.

Half an hour before the disguised adventurer could see the ominous
double storm signals flying in warning on the scattered coast guard
stations, a signal of danger sent on from the Corbieres Lighthouse.
But now not a single sail was to be seen, and huge banks of heavy
blackening mists were rolling over the stormy channel. Not a stray
sail was in sight!

"Where in hell is Jack?" raged the excited conspirator, swallowing
half the contents of his brandy flask. As he returned it, the butts
of his two revolvers and the handle of a huge couteau de chasse
were plainly visible. "The fiends seem to be let loose to-day," he
growled. "It would be the night of all nights! Ha!" The discharged
officer noted two men in sou'westers and oilskins now toiling up
the path. And his heart leaped up in a wild joy.

In another moment, he half dragged his drenched companions into the
weather-worn cave. "What news?" he hoarsely demanded of Blunt, as
he extended his flask.

"The best of all news," cheerily replied the mobs-man. "Here is
Antoine. He raced down from St. Heliers, in a covered fly, and has
brought the very latest news from Fort Regent. The Stella has lost
the tide, cannot enter, and has, therefore, turned south, running
down the channel. She can not dare to enter St. Heliers now till
between ten and eleven to-night. Of course, she will not put back
to Southampton, in the teeth of this southwest gale, the very
heaviest known for twenty years. She has signaled the 'Corbieres,'
and they have telegraphed over to the office at the pier. There's
Mattie Jones's telegram. The three we want are on board, sure enough.
And, thank God! the Hirondelle is riding safe and easy around the
point. It's the one night of a million for my job and for yours."

"What's your final plan? We must get out of here soon," growled
Hawke, shaking off the pouring rain like a burly water dog. "I
have my two men already watching the little gardener's hut in the
Tropical Gardens, where I hid my cracksman's outfit. Old Simpson
is boozing away down at the Jersey Arms. I heard him tell pretty
Ann, the barmaid, that he would have to be home by midnight, for
the 'old man' would surely arrive in the morning. Now, will you
stay here with this man, and 'do up' old Simpson? Mind you, there
must be no stab or bullet wound. The 'life preserver,' and, then
over with him! They will only think that rum and the fall did the
business.

"I will make straight for the Hirondelle when I am done, and send
a man to report to you at the old martello tower, where your gang
are to meet you. This man can get over to the boat now and warn
them to show up, carefully, one by one, and hide around there till
dark. Not in the tower itself, for some of the coast-guard roundsmen
might take shelter there and pitch into them for smugglers. I'll
stay here till he comes back. If old Simpson should come along
too early, why, you and I could hide him away here till it is dark
enough to throw him over. And you'll surely catch old Fraser and
the two women on the road between eleven and two. It will take over
an hour to drive from the pier in this weather.

"All right!" sternly said Hawke. "Send your man right away. I will
tell them what to do later, when I meet them. Let him send the
boatswain and two men to meet us here, and wait and hide with the
others around the tower. I will hunt in the bushes till I run on
them. Stay! He can come back here to me with the three!"

It was already dark when the four men returned to where Alan Hawke
lay perdu with his murderous mate. Not a light was now to be seen
but the one glimmer below in the "Public," on the Rozel pier. And
the very last words had been spoken between "Gentleman Jack Blunt"
and his crafty employer. "Now, remember," said Jack, "Antoine here
goes down with orders to come up the cliff ahead of old Simpson.
You'll surely be warned of his approach. You can give the boatswain
his orders; there'll be three to one. Your man leads you to your men
at the tower. And I am to crack that crib and make for the Hirondelle!

"If chased, the boat runs out to sea, and you are both only honest,
French fishermen storm-driven ashore in search of supplies!"

"That's it, Jack! You are to wait for me, if the house is not
alarmed. I'll bring some 'passengers,' perhaps, on board. If I fail,
you are just to run for Granville. We will all meet at Etienne's.
I've got money to take care of all my men. You are to make no
miss. I can wait and try again if I am disappointed. I'll take no
chances. With your success, I can hold the old miser down, and
your two thousand pounds is safe; besides, the swag is your security.
You see, he will never dare to make any public outcry, for he
secretly fears the Government! We take only the safest chances. He
may stay down there all night at St. Heliers, and your lucky chance
will never come again. Go ahead, and do not fail!"

The two men grasped hands in an excited clinch. "Do up Simpson for
a dead man, and no mistake!" hoarsely whispered Jack Blunt.

"I'll fix the old blanc-bec," growled the boatswain, as the spy
slid down the hill toward Rozel Pier.

"Take my flask, Jack!" said Alan Hawke.

"I don't drink on duty!" simply replied Blunt. "I shall get at work
by eleven, and you'll hear from me by midnight! Then, look out only
for yourself! The boat is mine, if there's any alarm. I'll send
her back soon to Rozel Pier, if I have to run out to sea, and you
are to be only honest fishermen. How long shall I wait in the cove
for you?"

"Sail at three o'clock, if I'm not on board! Remember the hail,
'Saint Malo, Ahoy!'"

"This is dead square, for life and death!" cried Blunt.

"Dead square," echoed the renegade officer. Darkness now doubled
its black folds, and the roar of the surf boomed sullenly upon the
rocky Rozel beach. Crouching in their cave, the two French thugs
eagerly watched the winding path below, and gathered a resentful
vulpine ferocity in their hearts. With knife in one hand, and the
heavy lead-weighted blackjacks in readiness, they cowered upon the
path, waiting for the old soldier, whose thickened eyes were still
sullenly gazing at the dingy clock in the Jersey Arms. He hated to
leave the pretty, white-armed Ann.

Ten o'clock! The red-coated soldiery of Fort Regent and Elizabeth
Castle, the guardians of Mont Orgueil, were all wrapped in slumber,
save the poor, shivering sentinels. Ten o'clock! The drenched tide
waiters at St. Heliers pier anathematized the still distant Stella,
whose lights now blinked feebly, laboring far out at sea. "An hour
yet to wait!" growled the bedraggled customs officers. Ten o'clock!
The good burghers of St. Heliers had given up their whist, and
taken their last drop of "hot and hot." In St. Aubin's Bay, from
Corbin's Light, from mansion in town, and cot among the Druidical
rocks, anxious eyes now gazed out on the wild sea, where Andrew
Fraser tried to calm the terrified Nadine Johnstone.

Mattie Jones was lying senseless, a helpless mass of cowering
humanity, while the anxious captain and pilot vigorously swore,
as became hardy British seamen. The "Chief" had piped up "that the
engines would be out of her," if they shipped another sea like the
last. Prayer in the cabin, curses on the deck, fear in the hold,
and misery everywhere; the stout Stella struggled shoreward, toward
her dangerous landing at the pier, whose sheer sixty feet of masonry
wall was now lashed by the wild waves. Black waters rose and fell
in great surges. The shivering coastguards in the line of garrisoned
martello towers, vowed that no such night had ever been seen since
the "Great Storm."

Prince Djiddin had also given up all hope of the return of the
faithful Moonshee whose plea of "business," had led him away to the
society of his brave and beautiful bride. There was but one more
day of "home life" before resuming the hoodwinking of the mentally
excited historian of Thibet. "It's a fearful night on the Channel,"
thought Major Hardwicke as he waited in vain for Simpson's return
to act as valet de chambre.

"God help all at sea! It's a fearful night," Prince Djiddin murmured
as he closed his eyes, little reckoning that the beautiful girl
whom he loved more than life was tempest-tossed off the Corbieres,
while poor Mattie Jones literally "sickened on the heaving wave."

The great house was lone and still, and for the first time Prince
Djiddin reflected upon the exposed situation of the old miser's
home. "Poor old chap," he muttered, as he closed his eyes. "Somebody
might come in and throttle him some night! No one would be here to
stop it. I must speak to Simpson, yes, speak to Simpson--that is,
if he is ever sober enough to listen. Poor old soldier! He will
have his drink!"

There was a singular improvised bivouac going on in the ruined martello
tower where Professor Alaric Hobbs had set up his instruments to
take some interesting observations upon an occultation of Venus.

A coast-guard station at Bouley Bay and St. Catherine's Head
rendered the further occupancy of the old martello tower at Rozel
Head unnecessary, and only a few rats and bats now resented Alaric
Hobbs' sequestration of the second story. He meditated a comparative
memoir upon the "Tides of Fundy Bay, and the Channel Islands," with
a treatise upon "Contracted Ocean Surface Currents." Astronomer,
hydrog-rapher, geologist, and all-round savant, his lank form was
already familiar to the Channel Islanders. And, like the wind, he
veered around "where he listed."

"Great Jupiter aid us!" cried the son of Minerva, "Venus is
unpropitious to-night. All my trouble is vain." For when the black
storm broke upon the little channel islet, Alaric Hobbs saw no way
of a comfortable return to the Royal Victoria at St. Heliers. "I
might leave all here and claim old Fraser's hospitality for a night.
No one can get up to the second story," mused Hobbes, who now
regretted having ordered the fly to come for him only at day-break.
"Here is a wild night of inky darkness. The star occults only at
three A.M. This hurricane ruins all. And old man Fraser may not
have returned from London." So with a basket of luncheon, a roll
of blankets, and a bottle of cocktails, the volunteer astronomer
reluctantly sought the dryest corner of the second floor of the
old tower for a night's camp. A square trapdoor hole whence the
moldering ladder had fallen away, was in the middle of the old
barrack room floor over the four embrasured gun room below. "I'll
just draw up my ladder, have a pipe, and take a nap. It may clear
off. If so the observation goes, and then the highest tide of the
year, I can get the register in the morning."

He had brought down his light instrument from the battlemented
parapet for safety, and now, pulling up his rope ladder, he coiled
it on the floor. "I can drop down below if I wish to if the rain
should drive me out of here," he cried as he curled up like a
sleeping coyote.

Below him the heavy door of the tower swung on its massive hinges,
banging and creaking mournfully when a swirling gust set it swinging.
The man who had slept out on the Lolo trail and bivouacked alone
in the canyon of the Colorado, laughed the howling storm to scorn.
"Better than being out in a blizzard in the Bad Lands!" he gayly
cried, as he dozed away, having finished a good meal and lowered
the level of the "Lone Wolf" cocktails. From sheer frontier habit,
he laid his heavy revolver near at hand, and his old-time hunting
knife. "You see, you don't know what emergencies may arise," often
sagely observed Alaric Hobbes. "Thrice is he armed that hath two
six shooters and a knife!"

When half-past ten rang out from the old French hall clock at the
Banker's Folly, Janet Fairbarn, a gray ghastly figure, made her
last timid rounds of the lower part of the mansion. Her maids were
all snugly nested for the night. Simpson, the erring one, she
believed to be in close attendance upon that foreign heathen, Prince
Djiddin, in their second-story wing. Miss Nadine and her maid had
locked their apartments on departure, the Professor's study was
the only room open and vacant, and so with a last timid glance at
the darkened halls and great salons of the main floor, the Scotch
spinster retired to her rooms adjoining the Master's study and
bedrooms on the ground floor.

Minded to "read a chapter" and to "compose herself for the night,"
the housekeeper sat late rocking alone in her rooms, while the
hollow tick of the hall clock sounded doubly lonely in the cheerless
night. The modern castle's walls were proof against the wildest
rain and even the blows of a catapult, and so the dashing storm
never even stirred the heavy leaded diamonded panes. "Thanks be to
God, auld Andrew never ventured to cross on this raging sea! He'll
no be here the morrow, neither. I must send down for telegrams in
the morning," she mused when she had finally laid her spectacles
across her Bible.

It was nearing eleven o'clock when the two half-drowned thugs hiding
on Rozel Head were roused by their returning mate stumbling wildly
into the muddy cavern in the cliff. They sprang up as he muttered,
"On vient, tout pres d'ici! Soyous tous prets!" A bottle extended
was half drained by the two ruffians, who then eagerly loosened
their black jaws with a mad desire to revenge their cheerless vigil.

"Lei has," whispered the spy, pointing to a black object creeping
unsteadily up the steep path--Simpson, dreaming still of pretty
Ann's rounded white arms! It was indeed Simpson, with unsteady
steps, breasting the hill. A fear of Andrew Fraser's arrival led
the half-fuddled old veteran to hasten homeward now. "I can say the
telegram was late," he chuckled. "They never will know." And then
feeling for his pocket-flask, filled by handsome Ann, "as a last
night-cap," he turned into the little cavern, where the school-boys,
on a Saturday outing, often played "pirates," for his breath was
gone and his eyes were drenched with salt scud.

Then, a half smothered cry arose, as the three waiting thugs leaped
upon their prey. Simpson was taken off his guard! His muscles
were all relaxed by drink. He fell prone as the heavy black jacks
descended upon his head, muffled in the hood of his "dreadnaught."

"Ah! V'la un affaire bien fini! Allons! Jettez-le!" growled the
grim boatswain, dropping his loaded club, as all three spurned the
prostrate body, and then, with a heavy lurch, it bounded off the
sodden bank plunging downward, over the cliff.

For a moment, there was no sound! Then skirting the furze bushes
of the headland, the three assassins dragged their stiffened limbs
along in the darkness, hastening to where the stout Hirondelle
rocked easily in the dead water of the one protected cove to the
north of Rozel Point.

They were all safely stowed away in the forecastle before half an
hour, and, with grunts of satisfaction, examined the largess of
their mysterious employer, "C'est ungaillard--un vrai coq d'Anglais!"
growled the boatswain, as his chums produced another bottle, and
the three doffed their drenched clothing. Then cognac drowned their
scruples against murder--for the price was in their pockets.

It was half past eleven o'clock when gaunt old Andrew Fraser led
his half-fainting ward ashore from the Stella, at St. Heliers pier.
But one covered carriage had remained on the storm-beaten pier,
braving the rigors of this terrible night. "Never mind the luggage,
man," shouted the Professor to the driver. "Here's ten pounds to
drive us over to Rozel, to my home! And, I'll bait yere horses,
put ye up, and give ye a tip to open yere eyes." The hardy islander
whipped up his horses, and soon cautiously climbed the hill of St.
Saviours, crawling along carefully over the wind-swept mows toward
St. Martin's Church. The exhausted maid was fast asleep. Nadine
Johnstone herself lay in a semi-trance, while the fretful old
scholar consulted his watch by the blinking carriage lights, and
then wildly urged the driver on. It was long after midnight when
they reached St. Martin's Church, with three miles yet to go. A
dreary and a dismal ride!

And all was silent, in the Banker's Folly where the old hall clock
loudly rang out twelve, rousing Mistress Janet Fairbarn from her
first beauty sleep. She started in terror as an unfamiliar sound
broke upon the haunting stillness of the night. The hollow sound of
a smothered cough in the Master's study, a man's deep-toned cough,
unmistakably masculine, aroused the spinster whose whole life had
been haunted by phantom burglars.

For the first time since her coming to the Folly, her loneliness
appalled her. "My God! There is the plate! The master away, and
no one near." Her nerves were thrilling with nature's indefinable
protest against the dangers of the creeping enemy of the night. A
sudden ray of hope lit up her heart. "Had the Professor returned?"
He had the keys. It would be his way. Yes, there was the sign of
his presence. And, so, timorously moving on tip-toe, she crept down
the hall in her white robes, and barefooted. Yes, he had returned,
for she had left the study door open. It was closed now. There was
a pencil of light shining through the keyhole, and, yet, silently
she stood at the door, and listened. There was the sound of muffled
blows within. A panic seized upon her. "Thieves, thieves--at last!"

Scarcely daring to breathe, she fled, ghostlike, up the stair, and
in a wild paroxysm of fear dashed into the room at the angle of
the hall, where "Prince Djiddin" lay extended upon his couch of
Oriental shawls and cushions. He was restless, and still dreaming,
open-eyed, of his absent love.

The young man leaped to his feet as the frantic woman, with affrighted
gestures, besought his aid and protection, pointing down to the
stairway. Hardwicke's ready nerve failed him not.

Grasping a heavy revolver from under the pillow, a mechanical
arrangement, a memory of his Indian life in the midst of untrusted
subordinates, the officer seized in his left hand the Sikh tulwar,
which was his own "property saber" of Thibetan royalty. Its naked,
wedge-shaped blade was as keen as that of a razor.

Pointing to the key, he mutely signed to the woman to lock herself
in. Then down the stair he crept, ready to face any unseen enemy.
The light streamed out from Janet Fairbarn's open door. "Perhaps
it was only old Simpson, drunk, or trying to gain a surreptitious
entrance," he mused. But the woman had pointed to the light and
the keyhole of the door. "Some one is in the old man's study!" Yes!
There was the little tell-tale pencil of light flickering on the
darkened wall opposite. And Hardwicke scented danger. "Was it Alan
Hawke?"

Light-footed as the panther, the young soldier crept to the heavy
oaken door. A moment in his crouching position showed to him a
man, with his back toward him, raising one of the great red tiles
of the study floor. Yes! There was only a moment of suspense, for
the tile was slid aside, and a package was then eagerly clutched.
With one mighty leap, the Major bounded to the man's side as the
door swung open. The cold steel muzzle pressed the ruffian's temple
as Hardwicke's hand closed upon the burglar's throat. There lay
the sealed canvas package, covered with official Indian seals. In
an instant, the Major's knee was on the scoundrel's breast.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28