Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 18, No. 3, September 18, 1926
- Автор: Bailey H. C., Bechdolt Jack
- Год: 1926
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 18, No. 3, September 18, 1926». Краткое содержание книги:
It seemed hours before the blind man stirred. It was really ten minutes before he stood up and resumed his journey, muttering a self-satisfied “Aye.” He was a hundred yards off before either of them ventured to speak.
“That was a close shave,” said Van Duyven as he wiped the perspiration from his brow. “You don’t mean to say you’re crying, Pierre?”
“I thought he was dead,” said the boy, brokenly, his eyes still glued on the retreating figure of Jacques Lanneau. “He knew that we were here.”
“He did not,” said the American. “He thought there was some one here, and our silence merely puzzled him. He must have swam ashore that night we thought he was drowned.”
“I do not think we ought to stay in this locality,” said Pierre solemnly. “There is something uncanny about that creature, and I have a presentiment that he will kill us.”
“Pierre,” said Van Duyven, “I am surprised at you. It was an easy thing for that old rascal to string you up as he did when he took you unawares, but it is a different proposition now when we know the Satanic personage we are dealing with. Where is he going now?” he added, his eyes on the distant figure.
“He is climbing the Devil’s Hoof,” he continued. “Come along, Pierre. If Leon Gaveau and his friend turn up here now, there will be a delightful tussle. I would not miss it for millions.”
As if they thought the blind man could really see, they crouched as they crossed the road and climbed the fence at the other side. Sheltering behind the bowlders on the broken ground, they reached the crest of the rise and lay prone, hidden in the bennet, at a spot from which they had a view of the strand as well as of the Devil’s Hoof. Outlined against the sky, they saw the figure of the old blind man on the crest of the Hoof, placidly smoking.
After some time, two men appeared on the beach, one of whom they immediately recognized as Marcel Fayard. The other was a young man, slim, graceful, and debonair, with handsome dark features.
“That is Leon Gaveau, I expect,” said the millionaire.
“It must be,” said Pierre. “There is going to be some excitement now.”
The pair stopped when they saw the blind man, and at the same moment, the latter stood up and proceeded to make his way down the broken path toward the strand. Tapping the ground, he approached a small, flat-bottomed fishing boat lying upturned on the strand.
He turned it over, and having placed in it a pair of oars and some tackle which were lying underneath, he dragged the little craft to the water’s edge. The tackle included a heavy, ungainly affair that looked like the jaws of an enormous rat trap.
He was about to push the boat into the water when he stopped, listening to the footsteps of Gaveau and his companion as they drew near. He began at once to address them as possible benefactors.
“God light your way,” he said, “have pity on the blind. Will you give the poor old man one sou for the love of Heaven, and God bless you?”
“But you are not a poor man,” said Leon Gaveau.
“Indeed I am. I’ve nothing but this little boat and the fishing tackle and all I am able to catch.”
“You don’t mean to say you go out to fish by yourself?”
“I do, indeed, sir,” said the blind man as he approached the speaker, “I do, indeed, though I am entirely blind. You will ask how it is I manage to get back to land and not row out to sea. But the lowing of the kine, and the tolling of the angelus bell are my guide ropes and they bring me safely home.”
Van Duyven chuckled as he watched the astonished face of the highwayman.
“What sort of fish do you catch?” asked the latter.
“Any sort I can.”
“Isn’t it strange you have no one to help you, or that you would not find something to do ashore that was not so dangerous?”
“You do not understand, sir. I love the sea, for I sailed the ocean for many a year when I had my eyesight. The accident that deprived me of my eyes might have ended my life, but the Creator was kind in giving me time to repent my evil life.”
Leon Gaveau gave the old man some money and the latter pushed off the boat and commenced rowing strongly seaward. Gaveau and his companion strolled along the strand for some little distance and then, returning, squatted down on a knoll within a few yards of the spot where our friends were hidden.
Their eyes were on the movements of the old man in the boat. The latter, having rowed a couple of hundred yards, threw overboard a short net fitted with cork floats.
III
“Well?” Pierre and Van Duyven concluded that the voice was that of Leon Gaveau.
“I can’t make it out,” said Fayard. “He is not fishing, whatever he is doing. That’s not a net.”
“He is fishing,” said Gaveau, “but not for fish. There’s a little black buoy on his starboard hand. It marks the place where he last finished his search and he won’t begin to drag for his oysters until he finds that buoy.”
As he spoke, the net fouled the buoy, and the blind man shipped his oars and hauled in on the rope. Catching the buoy, he lifted it into the boat. Then he threw out his oyster drag, and proceeded to row in such a manner that he described a large circle.
Ever shortening his stroke on the inner oar, he maneuvered in such a way that his circles became smaller and smaller, until he had swept all the area within his first circle. Then he pulled on the mooring rope and recovered the anchor to which it was fast. He rowed straight out to sea for about thirty yards, where he dropped the anchor again, and began to drag the new ground thus gained.
“He doesn’t seem to be catching many oysters,” said Fayard.
“He doesn’t want to,” replied Leon Gaveau. “He is looking for the treasure which was buried under the sign of the Crooked Star. I told you the treasure had been dug up. I did not tell you that Jacques Lanneau, the blind man, was nearly drowned when he tried to follow the men who took it.
“I feared at first that the treasure was gone, but now, I know where it is. It’s out there, under the sea, and that old blind man, with a wealth of patience and industry worthy of a better cause, is hunting for it. I must say, I am glad I brought the Marguerite along. She will come in handy to-night.”
“Do you mean to say,” asked Fayard, “that you are going to fish for the treasure too?”
“Yes, and that to-night, when that venerable old gentleman, who, if he’s not a saint must be Satan himself, thinks well of coming ashore. Hello, what’s up now?”
The highwayman’s exclamation was called forth by the movements of the blind man. The latter had suddenly ceased rowing and began to haul slowly and steadily on the oyster drag. His catch was heavy and his little boat tilted, with her prow high in the air.
As the drag came to the surface, they saw that it held fast in its jaws something black and heavy. Lanneau almost capsized the boat, but he managed after a desperate effort to get the booty safely aboard. He bent over it eagerly, and then, in the failing evening light, they saw him rise to his full height.
He stretched his arms above his head and seemed to be executing a weird dance that threatened to swamp his little craft. Across the water, they could hear the chanting of an old sea song. Suddenly he sat down again, and, taking the oars, he listened for a moment with his head raised in the air and then began rowing fast and strong for the open sea.
“Diable!” cried Leon Gaveau, rising to his feet. “He has got the treasure.”
“And he’s going off with it,” said Fayard.
“He won’t go far,” said Gaveau calmly, lighting a cigarette. “Before he covers half a mile I shall catch him if the light holds. Come along.”