CHAPTER XVI

THE FUNERAL AT MIDNIGHT

The funeral party assembled upon the ill-lit dock at eleven o’clock that night. Although the moon was shrouded, there were no signs of the prophesied storm. The black and green waters of the Bay rippled gently, and only the mildest of tropical breezes swept past us. Far off we could see the _Mary Rose_ riding gracefully at anchor, her lights twinkling invitingly to the desolate dock. Occasionally a tug shrieked its warning and plowed off to its berth.

Funerals are never pleasant affairs for me, and this one, with all its attendant circumstances, brought an involuntary shiver as I waited impatiently for the yacht’s launches. Faces of the mourners were hardly distinguishable. Vaguely I knew that the group of four nearby, whispering softly among themselves, were the Breese family and Gordon Rice. At some considerable distance the shadow of the actor paced up and down.

Neither Smith nor the Russian had arrived yet. I could expect anything of Perutkin, but I knew that Smith was a model of punctuality and I wondered what had detained him. His instructions to me that evening were somewhat enigmatical. I could not help feeling that for the first time since the case started he was withholding something of import.

Black figures glided past us--sailors and watchmen and all the dark crew of the dock, leaving or arriving at their posts. From far off we heard the melancholy crooning of a native love-song, punctuated by the harsh monotonous twanging of a guitar.

I heard Rice say aloud: “What’s the matter with that launch? It’s late.” These were the first words above a whisper that I had heard from any of the four since my arrival.

But Rice fell silent once more. I lit a match and consulted my watch. Then I looked toward the yacht once more and it seemed to me that the wind had risen. The waters below us began to swirl. I saw the _Mary Rose_ rock spasmodically. Rice looked up at the dark sky. He muttered something under his breath.

Then we heard a taxi, and I could descry the figure of Smith rushing toward us. He apologized hurriedly for his tardiness, and was relieved to find that the launch had not yet started out.

“Where’s the Russian?” I asked.

“He’ll be around,” Smith said vaguely. Then he took a police whistle from his pocket and gave three shrill blasts. An answering siren from the yacht responded, as if the signal had been prearranged. Then we heard the faint chugging of the launch, growing steadily louder in our ears, and we could make out its shadowy outline as it chopped the angry waters.

Without a word, the funeral party permitted itself to be helped aboard the launch by the crew of two. Smith and I were the last ones to leave the dock. The motor roared anew. I saw Rice looking up at the sky.

“We’d better hurry,” he said. “This looks like a real storm coming.”

“Oh, no,” said Smith reassuringly. “Just a bit of rain. I’ve lived around here for five years and I know a real storm when I see one.”

I saw one of the sailors at his motor wink sardonically to the other at this.

“Well, if there is a storm,” said Rice, “we’re going to turn back. Have to postpone it.”

“No,” said Breese. “Don’t want to do that. I’ve got to go home tomorrow.”

Rice looked doubtfully at him. But by this time the launch had drawn up alongside the _Mary Rose_, and we clambered out as best we could. The group of four proceeded immediately to the music-room, followed, at some distance, by the actor. Smith and I paced the deck.

After a moment’s silence, Smith said, looking about carefully to make sure that he was not overheard: “I’m expecting things to happen tonight.”

I felt a curious tingling of excitement. I begged for some inkling of his plans. But Smith shook his head.

“Only thing for you to do is to wait and watch. No matter what happens, don’t worry.”

I heard footsteps behind us, and I swung around quickly. I gaped at Perutkin--in the half light--a new Perutkin, resplendent in morning coat and top-hat and white gloves that almost gleamed silver in the night. In one hand he held a gold-tipped stick, which he swung with a swagger.

“All is ready,” he announced.

As if the yacht were awaiting his command, I heard the heavy rattle of chains as the anchor was drawn up. Then the engines throbbed and the dock receded.

We heard the deafening peal of thunder that makes a tropical storm so frightful. Lightning raced across the black sky. The yacht rose upon the waves, and we felt a sudden drenching rain upon our faces. We beat a hasty retreat to the cabin corridor for protection.

I heard the Russian chuckling, and as he came into the corridor, he pointed to the pouring sky.

“My partner!” he cried. I could only stare at him, puzzled. A member of the crew darted past us. We heard him slamming the deck doors and battering them shut.

“Time to see the Captain,” Smith said. He was as puzzling to me as was the Russian.

“Yes,” chuckled the Russian. “You’ll find him an excellent fellow. I’ve been dining very well with him. He’ll coöperate, I assure you.”

Smith nodded and left us. The Russian paced up and down, rubbing his hands delightedly, looking at me with a playful grin and chuckling in high good humor. His smile did not leave him when he saw Rice emerge from the music-room, a frown upon his ordinarily placid face.

“We’ll have to turn back,” Rice said to me. “It’s a bad enough business for the family without this storm.”

“But, surely,” said the Russian, “you will not disobey the strict injunctions of Mrs. Breese. It was, so to speak, her dying wish. Three days after her death she specified.”

“Mrs. Breese,” retorted Rice, “wouldn’t want to make her family and friends miserable. She didn’t know about this storm.”

“It would look very bad in the newspapers,” the Russian shook his head doubtfully. He turned to me, “Don’t you think so?” And before I could reply, “But why do I ask? We have just been discussing that,” he lied glibly, “and you yourself made that point.”

“I can’t help it,” snapped Rice. “We’re turning back.”

He strode past us. When he had gone, the Russian laughed.

“And I would be willing to wager that we are not,” he said.

But whatever the private joke of the Russian (which Smith evidently shared) I could not quite appreciate its humor. The yacht rolled unmercifully, and although I am a fairly good sailor, I do not enjoy being pitched about. Outside, the wind assumed the proportions, it seemed to me, of a cyclone, although the Russian laughed at the comparison.

“Why, this is excellent weather!” he exclaimed cheerfully, sitting down upon the leather bench beside me, and holding his top-hat carefully against his breast. “A little blow like this means nothing--nothing at all.”

The ship’s lights blinked in my eyes as the fury of the storm increased. I saw Smith carefully making his way down the stairs toward us.

“Well?” said the Russian.

Smith nodded, with an air of self-satisfaction.

“Mr. Rice wants to turn back,” said the Russian.

“I know,” said Smith. “He’s still with the Captain. But it seems there are reasons why the Captain can’t follow orders. Rice thinks the skipper’s crazy.” Smith grinned exasperatingly.

Another peal of thunder rolled in the sky, and through the windows I was startled by the accompanying flash of lighting.

“This may be a joke on us, at that,” said Smith, blinking.

“Nonsense!” retorted the Russian. “Rest easy, my friend. Everything is working famously.”

Rice stumbled down the stairs, clutching the banister. When he reached our landing, I could see his face was purple.

“Go up there and argue with that madman!” he shouted at Smith. “He won’t turn back!”

“I’ve already done that,” Smith shrugged his shoulders. “But I wouldn’t worry, Mr. Rice. This boat can stand a heavier storm than this.” He drew out his cheap watch. “It’s ten minutes to twelve. Don’t you think you’d better summon the family to the deck for the ceremony?”

Rice didn’t reply, but staggered to the first door, opened it, and then banged it behind him.

“Excellent!” exclaimed the Russian. “We need very little now.”

He stopped short, as the dapper figure of the Captain came down the stairs toward us. He was in his forties, with the sharp eye of the adventurer not uncommon in yacht skippers, and with none of the ponderous dignity that goes with commanders burdened with the responsibility of larger craft. His blue eyes twinkled merrily as he greeted Smith.

“All’s well,” he chuckled. Apparently he was part of the conspiracy, too. I felt somewhat chagrined that a mere stranger had intervened in a case in which I felt a proprietary interest.

“You won’t regret it, Captain,” Smith replied.

The door opened, and Rice emerged. In his arms he clutched a blue urn. Here were the ashes of Mrs. Breese. The strange funeral party stumbled after him--the elder Breese, his daughter, very white and seemingly dazed, young Breese and the actor.

The Captain bared his head. Smith tugged at the door to the deck. The wind howled in our ears. The mourners stumbled forward. Rice clutched his burden spasmodically.

A driving rain beat our faces. The night was pitch black now. I heard the door slam behind us. I heard Perutkin’s voice boom out:

“He, who has the ashes of Dora Breese, murdered by a fiend, unknown, will now cast them into the sea, as she desired!”

I shivered involuntarily. I thought I heard a moan in the wind. Then there was a splash. The Countess cried out. She was near me. Smith opened the door hurriedly and as hurriedly the mourners stumbled to shelter. The strange funeral was over.

Wringing wet, we chattered, as if in relief. Rice conducted the elder Breese and the children back to the warmth of the music-room, where an open fire blazed. The actor, impervious to the chill in Rice’s eyes, stumbled after them.

“Now,” said the Russian, “come with me, gentlemen.” He included me in his gesture of invitation.

We followed him down the long corridor to the cabins. I fell against the wall intermittently, for the rocking of the boat grew more violent, and the wind howled so that the very timbers rattled.

We paused before the first cabin. The Russian knocked loudly at the door. A voice bade us enter. The Russian flung the door open.

A very pale young man greeted us.

“Now,” said the Russian, “we are complete.”

The Count Giering-Trelovitch advanced toward us.

“Into the music-room with you, my friend,” the Russian said harshly to the man who had confessed. “Join the others! Come!”

Without a word, the young man followed. I could see by Smith’s expression that the advent of the Count was as much of a surprise to him as it was to me.

“You see,” said Perutkin to the detective, “I have kept my word. I have produced him for you. It is only fair.”

Whatever else he said was lost in a convulsive shiver of the boat. The lights dimmed and flashed crazily. Then suddenly we were plunged in darkness. I heard a woman’s scream.