LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER XII

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      On his way down to the quay the next morning Fawley read again the note which had been brought to him with his morning coffee. It was written on the Hôtel de France note paper but there was no formal commencement or ending.

      I am very anxious to talk to you privately but not in the hotel, where you seem to have become surrounded by an entourage which I mistrust. One of my friends has a small yacht here—the Sea Hawk—lying on the western side of the harbour. Will you come down and see me there at half-past eleven this morning? It is very, very important, so do not fail me. E.

      The horse’s hoofs clattered noisily on the cobbled road fringing the dock. Fawley slowly returned the letter to his pocket. It seemed reasonable enough. The Sea Hawk was there, all right—a fine-looking schooner yacht flying the pennant of an international club and the German national flag. Fawley paid the cocher and dismissed him, walked down the handsome gangway and received the salute of a heavily built but smartly turned-out officer.

      “It is the gentleman whom Madame la Princesse is expecting?” the man enquired, with a strong German accent. “If the gnädiger Herr will come this way.”

      Fawley followed the man along the deck to the companionway, descended a short flight of stairs and was ushered into a large and comfortable cabin fitted up as a sitting room.

      “I will fetch the Princess,” his guide announced. “The gentleman will be so kind as to repose himself and wait.”

      Fawley subsided into an easy-chair and took up a magazine. In the act of turning over the pages, however, he paused suddenly. For a moment he listened. Then he rose to his feet and, crossing the room swiftly, tried the handle of the door. His hearing, which was always remarkably good, had not deceived him. The door was locked! Fawley stood back and whistled softly under his breath. The affair presented itself to him as a magnificent joke. It was rather like Elida, he decided, with her queer dramatic gestures. He pressed the bell. There was no response. Suddenly a familiar sound startled him—the anchors being drawn up. The Diesel engines were already beating rhythmically. A moment or two later they were moving. The grimmer lines in his face relaxed. A smile flickered at the corners of his lips.

      “Abducted,” he murmured.

      He looked out of the porthole and gazed at the idlers on the quay from which they were gliding away. There was a pause, a churning of the sea and a swing around. The Sea Hawk was evidently for a cruise. She passed out of the harbour and her course was set seawards. Fawley lit a cigarette and took up a magazine. It appeared to him that this was a time for inaction. He decided to let events develop. In due course, what he had expected happened—there was a knock at the door of the very luxurious and beautifully decorated green-and-gold cabin in which he was confined. Fawley laid down his magazine and listened. The knock was

      repeated—a pompous, peremptory sound, the summons of the conqueror in some mimic battle determined to abide by the grim courtesies of warfare.

      “Come in!” Fawley invited.

      There was the sound of a key being turned. The door was opened. A tall, broad-shouldered man with sunburnt cheeks and a small, closely cropped yellow moustache presented himself. He was apparently of youthful middle age, he wore the inevitable mufti of the sea—blue serge, double-breasted jacket, grey flannel trousers and white shoes. He had the bearing of an aristocrat discounted by a certain military arrogance.

      “Major Fawley, I believe?” he enquired.

      “You have the advantage of me, sir,” was the cool reply.

      “My name is Prince Maurice von Thal,” the newcomer announced. “I have come for a friendly talk.”

      “Up till now,” Fawley observed, “the element of friendliness seems to have been lacking in your reception of me. Nevertheless,” he added, “I should be glad to hear what you have to say.”

      “Monte Carlo just now is a little overcrowded. You understand me, I dare say.”

      “I can guess,” Fawley replied. “But who are you? I came to visit the Princess Elida di Vasena.”

      “The Princess is on board. She is associated with me in our present enterprise.”

      Fawley nodded.

      “Of course,” he murmured. “I knew that I had seen you somewhere before. You were in the party who were entertaining the local royalties last night at the Hôtel de France.”

      “That is so.”

      Fawley glanced out of the porthole. They were heading for the open seas now and travelling at a great speed. On the right was the Rock, with its strangely designed medley of buildings. The flag was flying from the palace and the cathedral bell was ringing.

      “Many things have happened to me in life,” he reflected, with a smile, “but I have never before been kidnapped.”

      “It sounds a little like musical comedy, doesn’t it?” the Prince remarked. “The fact is—it was my cousin’s idea. She was anxious to talk to you, but the hotel is full of spies and she could think of no safe place in the neighbourhood.”

      “I thought there was something fishy about that note,” Fawley sighed. “Is Princess Elida really on board?”

      “She certainly is,” was the prompt reply. “Wait one moment. I will summon her. I can assure you that she is impatient to meet you again.”

      He stepped back to the doorway and called out her name. There came the sound of light footsteps descending from the deck. Elida, in severe but very delightful yachting attire, entered the room. She nodded pleasantly to Fawley.

      “I hope Maurice has apologised and all that sort of thing,” she said. “We had no intention of really keeping you here by force, of course, but it did occur to us that you might not want to be seen in discussion with us by your other friends here.”

      “It might have been awkward,” Fawley admitted pleasantly. “It is humiliating, though, to be whisked off like this. Your designs might have been far more sinister and then I should have felt very much like the booby who walked into the trap. There is nothing I enjoy so much as a cruise. Wouldn’t it be pleasanter on deck, though?”

      “As you please,” the Prince assented. “There is a little movement but that is not likely to hurt any of us. As a matter of form, Major, may I beg for your word of honour that you will not seek to call the attention of any passing craft to your presence here?”

      “I give it with pleasure,” was the prompt acquiescence.

      They found a sheltered divan on the port side of the boat. A white-coated steward arranged a small table and

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