The Black Bag by Louis Joseph Vance (snow like ashes txt) 📕

the boat-train

from Flushing did not arrive at Antwerp till after ten at night; and there

was no later train thence for Amsterdam. Were the latter truly their

purposed destination, they would have stayed overnight and be leaving that

very evening on the 6:32. On the other hand, why should they wait for the

latest train, rather than proceed by the first available in the morning?

Why but because Calendar and Mulready were to wait for Stryker to join them

on the Alethea?

 

Very well, then; if the wind held and Stryker knew his business, there

would be another passenger on that train, in addition to the Calendar

party.

 

Making mental note of the fact that the boat-train for Flushing and London

was scheduled to leave Antwerp daily at 8:21 p. m., Kirkwood rustled the

leaves to find out whether or not other tours had been planned, found

evidences of none, and carefully restored the guide to the locker, lest

inadvertently the captain should pick it up and see what Kirkwood had seen.

 

An hour later he went on deck. The skies had blown clear and the brigantine

was well in land-bound waters and still footing a rattling pace. The

river-banks had narrowed until, beyond the dikes to right and left, the

countryside stretched wide and flat, a plain of living green embroidered

with winding roads and quaint Old-World hamlets whose red roofs shone like

dull fire between the dark green foliage of dwarfed firs.

 

Down with the Scheldt’s gray shimmering flood were drifting little

companies of barges, sturdy and snug both fore and aft, tough tanned sails

burning in the afternoon sunlight. A long string of canal-boats, potted

plants flowering saucily in their neatly curtained windows, proprietors

expansively smoking on deck, in the bosoms of their very large families,

was being mothered up-stream by two funny, clucking tugs. Behind the

brigantine a travel-worn Atlantic liner was scolding itself hoarse about

the right of way. Outward bound, empty cattle boats, rough and rusty,

were swaggering down to the sea, with the careless, independent

thumbs-in-armholes air of so many navvies off the job.

 

And then lifting suddenly above the level far-off sky-line, there appeared

a very miracle of beauty; the delicate tracery of the great Cathedral’s

spire of frozen lace, glowing like a thing of spun gold, set against the

sapphire velvet of the horizon.

 

Antwerp was in sight.

 

A troublesome care stirring in his mind, Kirkwood looked round the deck;

but Stryker was very busy, entirely too preoccupied with the handling of

his ship to be interrupted with impunity. Besides, there was plenty of

time.

 

More slowly now, the wind falling, the brigantine crept up the river, her

crew alert with sheets and halyards as the devious windings of the stream

rendered it necessary to trim the canvas at varying angles to catch the

wind.

 

Slowly, too, in the shadow of that Mechlin spire, the horizon grew rough

and elevated, taking shape in the serrated profile of a thousand gables and

a hundred towers and cross-crowned steeples.

 

Once or twice, more and more annoyed as the time of their association

seemed to grow more brief, Kirkwood approached the captain; but Stryker

continued to be exhaustively absorbed in the performance of his duties.

 

Up past the dockyards, where spidery masts stood in dense groves about

painted funnels, and men swarmed over huge wharves like ants over a crust

of bread; up and round the final, great sweeping bend of the river, the

Alethea made her sober way, ever with greater slowness; until at length,

in the rose glow of a flawless evening, her windlass began to clank like a

mad thing and her anchor bit the riverbed, near the left bank, between old

Forts Isabelle and T�te de Flandre, frowned upon from the right by the grim

pile of the age-old Steen castle.

 

And again Kirkwood sought Stryker, his carking query ready on his lips. But

the captain impatiently waved him aside.

 

“Don’t you bother me now, me lud juke! Wyte until I gets done with the

custom hofficer.”

 

Kirkwood acceded, perforce; and bided his time with what tolerance he could

muster.

 

A pluttering customs launch bustled up to the Alethea’s side, discharged

a fussy inspector on the brigantine’s deck, and panted impatiently until

he, the examination concluded without delay, was again aboard.

 

Stryker, smirking benignly and massaging his lips with the back of his

hand, followed the official on deck, nodded to Kirkwood an intimation that

he was prepared to accord him an audience, and strolled forward to the

waist. The American, mastering his resentment, meekly followed; one can not

well afford to be haughty when one is asking favors.

 

Advancing to the rail, the captain whistled in one of the river-boats;

then, while the waterman waited, faced his passenger.

 

“Now, yer r’yal ‘ighness, wot can I do for you afore you goes ashore?”

 

“I think you must have forgotten,” said Kirkwood quietly. “I hate to

trouble you, but—there’s that matter of four pounds.”

 

Stryker’s face was expressive only of mystified vacuity. “Four quid? I

dunno as I know just wot you means.”

 

“You agreed to advance me four pounds on those things of mine….”

 

“Ow-w!” Illumination overspread the hollow-jowled countenance. Stryker

smiled cheerfully. “Garn with you!” he chuckled. “You will ‘ave yer little

joke, won’t you now? I declare I never see a loony with such affecsh’nit,

pl’yful wyes!”

 

Kirkwood’s eyes narrowed. “Stryker,” he said steadily, “give me the four

pounds and let’s have no more nonsense; or else hand over my things at

once.”

 

“Daffy,” Stryker told vacancy, with conviction. “Lor’ luv me if I sees

‘ow he ever ‘ad sense enough to escype. W’y, yer majesty!” and he bowed,

ironic. “I ‘ave given you yer quid.”

 

“Just about as much as I gave you that pearl pin,” retorted Kirkwood hotly.

“What the devil do you mean—”

 

“W’y, yer ludship, four pounds jus pyes yer passyge; I thought you

understood.”

 

“My passage! But I can come across by steamer for thirty shillings,

first-class—”

 

“Aw, but them steamers! Tricky, they is, and unsyfe … No, yer gryce, the

W. Stryker Packet Line Lim’ted, London to Antwerp, charges four pounds per

passyge and no reduction for return fare.”

 

Stunned by his effrontery, Kirkwood stared in silence.

 

“Any complynts,” continued the captain, looking over Kirkwood’s head, “must

be lyde afore the Board of Directors in writin’ not more’n thirty dyes

arfter—”

 

“You damned scoundrel!” interpolated Kirkwood thoughtfully.

 

Stryker’s mouth closed with a snap; his features froze in a cast of wrath;

cold rage glinted in his small blue eyes. “W’y,” he bellowed, “you bloomin’

loonatic, d’ye think you can sye that to Bill Stryker on ‘is own wessel!”

 

He hesitated a moment, then launched a heavy fist at Kirkwood’s face.

Unsurprised, the young man side-stepped, caught the hard, bony wrist as the

captain lurched by, following his wasted blow, and with a dexterous twist

laid him flat on his back, with a sounding thump upon the deck. And as the

infuriated scamp rose—which he did with a bound that placed him on

his feet and in defensive posture; as though the deck had been a

spring-board—Kirkwood leaped back, seized a capstan-bar, and faced him

with a challenge.

 

“Stand clear, Stryker!” he warned the man tensely, himself livid with rage.

“If you move a step closer I swear I’ll knock the head off your shoulders!

Not another inch, you contemptible whelp, or I’ll brain you!… That’s

better,” he continued as the captain, caving, dropped his fists and moved

uneasily back. “Now give that boatman money for taking me ashore. Yes, I’m

going—and if we ever meet again, take the other side of the way, Stryker!”

 

Without response, a grim smile wreathing his thin, hard lips, Stryker

thrust one hand into his pocket, and withdrawing a coin, tossed it to the

waiting waterman. Whereupon Kirkwood backed warily to the rail, abandoned

the capstan-bar and dropped over the side.

 

Nodding to the boatman, “The Steen landing—quickly,” he said in French.

 

Stryker, recovering, advanced to the rail and waved him a derisive _bon

voyage_.

 

“By-by, yer hexcellency. I ‘opes it may soon be my pleasure to meet you

again. You’ve been a real privilege to know; I’ve henjoyed yer comp’ny

somethin’ immense. Don’t know as I ever met such a rippin’, Ay Number One,

all-round, entertynin’ ass, afore!”

 

He fumbled nervously about his clothing, brought to light a rag of cotton,

much the worse for service, and ostentatiously wiped from the corner of

each eye tears of grief at parting. Then, as the boat swung toward the

farther shore, Kirkwood’s back was to the brigantine, and he was little

tempted to turn and invite fresh shafts of ridicule.

 

Rapidly, as he was ferried across the busy Scheldt, the white blaze of his

passion cooled; but the biting irony of his estate ate, corrosive, into his

soul. Hollow-eyed he glared vacantly into space, pale lips unmoving, his

features wasted with despair.

 

They came to the landing-stage and swung broadside on. Mechanically the

American got up and disembarked. As heedless of time and place he moved

up the Quai to the gangway and so gained the esplanade; where pausing he

thrust a trembling hand into his trouser pocket.

 

The hand reappeared, displaying in its outspread palm three big, round,

brown, British pennies. Staring down at them, Kirkwood’s lips moved.

 

“Bed rock!” he whispered huskily.

XIII A PRIMER OF PROGRESSIVE CRIME

Without warning or presage the still evening air was smitten and made

softly musical by the pealing of a distant chime, calling vespers to its

brothers in Antwerp’s hundred belfries; and one by one, far and near, the

responses broke out, until it seemed as if the world must be vibrant

with silver and brazen melody; until at the last the great bells in the

Cathedral spire stirred and grumbled drowsily, then woke to such ringing

resonance as dwarfed all the rest and made it seem as nothing.

 

Like the beating of a mighty heart heard through the rushing clamor of the

pulses, a single deep-throated bell boomed solemnly six heavy, rumbling

strokes.

 

Six o’clock! Kirkwood roused out of his dour brooding. The Amsterdam

express would leave at 6:32, and he knew not from what station.

 

Striding swiftly across the promenade, he entered a small tobacco shop and

made inquiry of the proprietress. His command of French was tolerable; he

experienced no difficulty in comprehending the good woman’s instructions.

 

Trains for Amsterdam, she said, left from the Gare Centrale, a mile or so

across the city. M’sieur had plenty of time, and to spare. There was the

tram line, if m’sieur did not care to take a fiacre. If he would go by way

of the Vielle Bourse he would discover the tram cars of the Rue Kipdorp.

M’sieur was most welcome….

 

Monsieur departed with the more haste since he was unable to repay this

courtesy with the most trifling purchase; such slight matters annoyed

Kirkwood intensely. Perhaps it was well for him that he had the long walk

to help him work off the fit of nervous exasperation into which he was

plunged every time his thoughts harked back to that jovial blackguard,

Stryker…. He was quite calm when, after a brisk walk of some fifteen

minutes, he reached the station.

 

A public clock reassured him with the information that he had the quarter

of an hour’s leeway; it was only seventeen minutes past eighteen o’clock

(Belgian railway time, always confusing). Inquiring his way to the

Amsterdam train, which was already waiting at the platform, he paced its

length, peering brazenly in at the coach windows, now warm with hope, now