Chapter XXIII: Two Shots

There were but two sailors on the fast-going motorboat, the engineer and steersman, and neither paid much heed to the arrival of the three passengers. They knew Antoine Dubosc too well to ask questions of him. He was their master, in that his superior cunning and ability had been the means of obtaining for them the luxuries and affluence of their present positions. For when not on the boat they lived at the chateau, enjoying what the others enjoyed.

They had their orders now, and directly they were on board the moorings were cast off and the throb of the powerful engines were heard.

"It will be cold on deck," said Dubosc. "I advise not the deck cabin but the one below, Monsieur le Colonel."

"In any case my charge would be placed in a cabin," was the uncompromising reply. "I run no risks, you understand."

"For yourself no, but for us! _Mon Dieu_! what of that _automatique_ which you held during our walk down the cliff? _Ma foi_, monsieur, you ran a great risk there, but it was of stumbling and shooting one of us in the back." And here the Frenchman laughed, as though at a good joke. "It was perhaps to your mind better than that one of us should shoot you in the back, eh?"

"There was no fear of an accident from me," replied Bessington, realizing uncomfortably that the Frenchman had read his thoughts. "I am used to weapons."

"As myself, no doubt, though without the reputation of Monsieur le Colonel as the finest shot in Europe, _Helas_!" said Dubosc. "_Allons_, let us then deposit ourselves on the soft lounges in my cabin. The quarters are cramped, but as you will understand in a racing craft of this kind, space is small, and what space there is must be used for engines and storing contraband."

"For God's sake, don't talk about that," exclaimed Dominic, as his friend steered him down to the small saloon. "It was abominable of you to have used what I told you in such a manner, especially after telling me that you had given all that up."

"My friend, do not abuse me. It is true that I have given up theft long ago as you know. Smuggling is another thing. It is merely a duty that I owe to myself and my friends in your country, and duty is a very elastic term--as Monsieur le Colonel seems also to think."

"Perhaps the less we say about smuggling the better," observed the elder man, dryly. They were moving at a great rate now, and the small boat trembled under the powerful engines.

"I do not see that," retorted Dubosc, his lids narrowed. "Sit down, _mon brave_." He pulled Dominic on to the couch beside him. "Here is a match, you have cigarettes, I know, and I do not think it is necessary to ask monsieur your escort's permission that you smoke." This with a grin at Bessington, who murmured: "Of course not."

Dominic lit his cigarette and lay back against the padded seat, listening idly to the conversation.

"To return to our muttons," proceeded Dubosc, with another glance at Bessington. "Smuggling, as practised by me, is a fine art, it is also a charity. Think of all the pretty girls in England and Scotland who would, were it not for me, have to pay--through the nose, you call it?--for their stockings. But with my help they may buy three pairs where without it they would obtain but one. That alone is a matter for rejoicing."

"I think I suggested that the less you said about that the better," observed Bessington once more. He was anxious to force a quarrel, and this Frenchman was something of a puzzle to him, who had never gone in for the study of character in individuals, preferring to take those he came in contact with at their face value. The fellow was a crook, had owned to it, gloried in it in fact, and yet so far he had played straight, too straight for Madame Leonie's taste, too. And either this could only be in order to save his own skin or else because he had some ulterior motive behind his seemingly easy compliance. But had it been so, surely he would have exhibited more reluctance in allowing his friend to be taken back to punishment, if only for the look of the thing, or was he, too, fairly confident that the British Government would not deal too harshly with a blind man who, whatever wrong he had done had at least tried to do his bit for his country and paid bitterly for it.

If that was the Frenchman's real reason for this show of easy compliance, it was, and had been also Bessington's only fear when he discovered Arden to be blind. From that moment there was only one thing to do, and in order to accomplish that Dubosc had first of all to be got rid of, and there again was only one alternative, and surely not a difficult one of achievement seeing that the fellow who must be dealt with was a Frenchman and would see nothing odd in the otherwise ridiculous matter of a duel. And in a duel with revolvers or automatics, Richard Bessington was bound to be the victor. He would therefore force a quarrel on this man, the issue of which would be practically a certainty. A duel in the eyes of most Frenchmen was the proper and only way to settle a dispute. The two men on board would see nothing wrong or out of the way in this, and for their own sakes they would forbear to suspect anything wrong. This was, of course, the one way out of an otherwise very difficult situation--if Dubosc chose to risk the consequences and make it so.

And he sat there, eyeing the engaging young criminal, who was so shortly to be food for fishes, and utterly ignorant of the fact that much the same kind of thought was passing through the mind of his potential victim. The thought, in fact, that was the sole reason for his presence on board and for his seemingly easy compliance with the other's demands.

And when two men, however different their motives may be, are determined on the same course of action, it is safe to believe that they will not find much difficulty in achieving it.

And while they both made their plans, the innocent object of all their thoughts and aims sat beside them, oblivious of anything save the fact of his own helpless position, and the nearing of his own end, while all the time the fast motor-boat was surging out to sea and the shores of France were already only a memory.

It occurred, therefore, to both of them that, if the good work was to be accomplished, it must be done while there was sufficient light in which to see to shoot by, and it was already beginning to fail. Antoine Dubosc accordingly seized the opportunity which--unknown to him--had been held out. He, in fact, snapped at it as a dog that is offered an appetizing morsel.

"You suggest, I understand, monsieur," he said, in his most polite manner, "that the less I say about smuggling the better? Perhaps, though, I misunderstood and it was not what you said?"

"On the contrary, you understood me perfectly," was the reply.

"Ah. Then permit me to observe, monsieur, that I dispute your right to dictate to me as to what I shall or shall not converse upon. I am not--I thank the good God--also your prisoner, remember."

"Come, come, Monsieur Dubosc. Kindly remember to whom you are speaking. I am not here of my own wish but because of my duty--"

"Ah bah! Enough of duty, monsieur," said Dubosc, rising suddenly. "I have heard all I want of that subject, it is time that I made my own few remarks on this matter and, since this saloon becomes overheated, it would be more comfortable for my friend to be alone, and I suggest that we therefore go on deck."

There was no suspicion in Bessington's mind that the other was also trying to force a quarrel. He had calculated that it would not be difficult of accomplishment with this hot-blooded French crook but it was easier even than he had thought. It was also uncomfortably close there, and he felt that he would be better able to cope with the situation if he had not to sit opposite that forlorn-looking figure on the other seat. He rose instantly.

"I agree with you," he said. "You will, I suppose, allow me to lock this door?" he added, as they stood in the narrow opening to the companionway. Dubosc shrugged.

"_Mais, comme vous voulez, monsieur_. I do not think he is likely to try and commit suicide, and, saving that, he is safe enough. But by all means turn the key on him; it is, no doubt, as well that he becomes used to the sound at once."

A moment later the two were on deck, the key of the saloon in Bessington's pocket.

The stout boat was speeding ahead, leaving two white foaming trails in her wake. The sea was as smooth as any bad sailor could have wished, and, save for the whirr of the high-powered engines, and the intermittent sound of the man at the wheel, there was nothing to disturb the two would-be combatants.

"Now, Monsieur Dubosc," Bessington turned and faced the Frenchman. "You had some remarks to make on the subject of duty. I shall be interested to hear them."

There was no suspicion either, in Dubosc's mind, that his companion was forcing the issue. He merely considered that he was an easy man to quarrel with, and, incidentally, the most credulous fool he had ever had the fortune to come in contact with. It did not trouble him in the least that he was considered the best revolver shot in Europe. Monsieur Antoine Dubosc had no occasion to feel any particular alarm over that.

"My remarks, Monsieur le Colonel, I'm afraid will not be very palatable to you, for they concern your motive in getting hold of your friend and taking him back to what you call justice."

"My motives are clean, I have nothing to worry about there."

"Indeed? Well, that is--in fact--what I doubt. Listen, Monsieur le Colonel. I, who have lived my life to the full, and have no shame in it, _ma foi non_! I have had occasion to study men--and women, _bien entendu_--and I have found that though there are many incentives to the committing of crime--crime, you understand--yet there is one that is greater than all and which seldom fails. And this; monsieur, is the force of love and that which is connected with love--jealousy and lust."

"What do you mean by that exactly?" demanded Bessington.

"I mean, Monsieur le Colonel, that I do not believe in your cry of duty, when you speak of your reason in dealing with my poor friend, nor yet in the honesty of that dealing when you offer him the choice of a return to his wife. For you knew he would refuse and so it was no choice at all. You wish to hang him. Why? Not for love of the friend he killed, time has itself killed all that long ago. And for your duty--that is nothing unless it goes with your inclination. Then there is some other reason and I, being a Frenchman, for which I most devoutly thank God--" and here he raised his soft felt hat--"and therefore quick of wit and understanding in the matters of the heart, I point my finger on the real motive, and I say, _naturellement, cherchez la femme_."

"What the devil do you mean?" demanded Bessington, real anger now in his tone at last. The other laughed unpleasantly.

"I mean, monsieur, that if there is a woman, it is not difficult to imagine the name of that woman. I have seen the photograph of my friend's wife which he wears--God help him--next his heart. For when he was ill, it was I, my faith! who saw to him. And it is easy to suppose--I also being a man, monsieur, that you--being what God made you--are as eager to possess her as any other man might be. Oh yes, my Colonel, you may fool others into believing that it was your duty to your country or your friendship for the murdered man which made you come here to take my friend back to his death, but, believe me, I, Antoine Dubosc, who have made a study of the motives of frail humanity, am not so easily deceived. I say to myself, you want this woman! _Bien_. The rest is easy to understand."

Bessington's eyes suddenly glittered.

"And that, Monsieur Dubosc," he said quietly, "is a lie."

Instantly the Frenchman turned on him.

"'_Cre nom!_" he cried. "You say that to me! To my face? That I lie? I--Antoine Dubosc!"

"Yes. I repeat that you lie, Monsieur Dubosc."

"_Bien_. It is enough. Monsieur le Colonel will, no doubt, give me the satisfaction that I demand for so gross an insult. Nothing else would avail, and I take it that he is no coward. Or perhaps, for example, I am mistaken in that."

"You have made no mistake," was the cold reply, "and I am ready to meet you, Monsieur Dubosc, and I think there could be no better place than on this deck, and no more fitting time than the present." Dubosc bowed.

"There, we are in agreement," he said dryly. "We have an hour of daylight yet, perhaps you will have no objection to any arrangements I may make which will be of benefit to us?"

"I have no objection so long as they are open and aboveboard," was the reply.

"Again an insult, Monsieur le Colonel. _Ma foi!_ but it is time we settled this matter between us, I think."

He turned abruptly, gave the signal to the engineer to shut off power and to come on deck at once.

"We will, at least, have two witnesses to these proceedings," he said. "And for weapons, I being the one who is insulted, have the choice. But since there are no rapiers on board--a matter for regret--we must perforce use our revolvers. I suggest only that we both examine each other's weapon--if, monsieur, you are agreeable to this?"

"Certainly. I for one should desire it." The words and suggestion in themselves were sufficiently insulting, without the added note of distrust that less sensitive ears than Dubosc's would have heard without difficulty.

He glanced for a moment at his antagonist out of narrowed eyelids, and then turned sharply as the engineer came striding along the deck.

In a few words, and with Bessington listening keenly, he explained the position, while the other, a short wiry man, with a hawk-like face and shifty eyes, listened in complete silence. At the end, he nodded.

"_Bien_," he said at last. "Both gentlemen may rely on me and Jean there to keep a silence on the matter, for our own sakes also. You would wish for us to be witnesses to this, _mon capitaine_?"

"Certainly. And as this gentleman is without a friend of his own on deck and as he knows--or thinks he knows--with what kind of men he has to deal, I should wish him to search you both that he may feel confident he has only one automatic against him. You are agreeable to this, Monsieur le Colonel?"

"It is certainly fair," he conceded. "Though it may not be necessary."

"And you two, you agree?" By this the other man had come up and his friend explained matters in a few words. They both laughed good-humouredly.

"_Ma foi_, yes!" said Marcel. "The English monsieur is very welcome to search us both. It is, after all, but natural."

The search was thereupon made and Bessington turned to his adversary.

"I am satisfied," he said. "It will be one shot only, I suppose, Monsieur Dubosc?"

"If that is your desire, yes."

"It is," was the reply. "I also suggest that instead of the usual twelve paces, we stand--you at one end, I at the other. It will, I imagine, be more difficult to commit murder--if either of us is so minded--at that distance."

"Perfectly," replied Dubosc, without a sign of fear or doubt in his tone. And yet, knowing the other's reputation as a crack shot, he was fully aware of the fact that Colonel Bessington did indeed contemplate murder, for at such a distance between them, none but an expert could hope to achieve success. "And, monsieur, supposing that we both miss, which at such a distance is not difficult of accomplishment, what then?"

"Then I propose one more shot apiece. There is no other course."

"I am content," replied the Frenchman, with a bow, and once more he turned to his men. "You, Marcel, will stand in the centre of the boat and give the signal. Jean, you shall keep a watch, for of course we are in the direct line of passing vessels, and this kind of thing--" he shrugged, "well, you know as well as I that unpleasant things might happen if it were seen."

"I understand, _mon capitaine_."

"You, Marcel, will hold this stick in your hand, and will count six, and at the sixth count you will drop this stick sharply on deck. On which we, who have our backs turned to each other, will turn and fire. Is that not so, Monsieur le Colonel?"

"Agreed," was the reply.

"If I fall, _mon ami_," continued Dubosc, "you will understand that it is in fair fight, and you will continue on your journey with this gentleman as though nothing had occurred."

"Yes, _mon capitaine_."

"If, on the other hand, I am so lucky as to kill this gentleman, I will give you my orders as to what you must do. If--for we must consider every possibility--we are both wounded, you will return to my chateau as quickly as possible. But if this gentleman is as good a shot as I hear he is, then one of us or even both may die, in which case I should recommend that you have a quick burial service at sea and return home, advise Madame to sell all immediately, and then to disappear, in case questions should be asked and suspicions aroused. You understand?"

"I understand, _mon capitaine_."

"Good. Then, monsieur, here is my weapon, do me the honour of examining it and allow me to do the same with yours."

As he spoke, Dubosc handed his automatic to Bessington. The Englishman did the same. Each examined the other's weapon carefully and minutely and at once returned them, Dubosc with a low bow.

"We are ready, Marcel," he said, and walked to the stern of the boat while Bessington retired to the bows.

Absolute stillness on board save for the gentle lap of waves against the scarcely-moving craft. Jean, looking out across the sea, was also silent, for even the ceaseless song had died on his lips. While Marcel, the engineer, stick in hand, stood amidships on the port side, the two duellists at either end, both with their backs facing each other.

And down below, locked fast in the saloon, Dominic Arden, ignorant of what was taking place on deck, sat on the couch leaning forward, his face buried in his hands and in his sightless eyes the vision of a woman's face, the one thing only in all the world that he could visualize clearly, and picture so vividly that it was to him as if he were actually looking into her face.

And so he sat immovable, until suddenly, and without warning, the throbbing of the engines ceased, he heard voices overhead, the sound of footsteps, a silence, and then the gruff tones of Marcel's voice counting slowly. What did it mean? Why had they stopped?

And then two shots rang out in quick succession--the sound of a heavy fall, and he sprang to his feet and listened breathlessly. Once more there came the sound of hurrying steps above--shouts--but he could not distinguish what was said. What had happened? Had they been pursued by a Government Customs boat? Or--and here a sudden wild hope leapt within him--had those two, who had seemed before they left him, none too friendly, been quarrelling? Had Antoine, that queer, fiery, and yet altogether lovable creature, forced a duel on the other? Was that his reason for bidding him have courage before they started on this hateful journey? He had said, "Trust me, all will be well." Was that prophecy to be made good at the end of an automatic? Not murder? No, that was unthinkable, and, besides, there had been two shots. It was a duel, therefore, and Bessington--good God! Bessington was the finest revolver shot in Europe, and not knowing of his intent he had not warned Antoine of this in time. And yet he had heard his friend refer to it, so perhaps he knew, but if he really knew how good a shot the other was, would he have risked a duel? No sane man would unless he was wishful to commit suicide and lacked the courage to draw the trigger himself. And Antoine had no wish to die.

What then was the meaning of those two shots and that heavy fall? Who lay dead up there on deck? Antoine or Bessington? Was it difficult to guess, after all? And if Antoine--

"My God!" groaned the wretched man, and flung himself on to the seat once more, waiting in helpless agony for what should come. Would the waiting never end?

Footsteps at last. Whose? Antoine's or Bessington's? Oh, for one little moment of sight to enable him to see when the door opened, who should come in. His bitter enemy, or his only friend?

And presently someone was fumbling with the lock. The key turned at last--the door was flung open, and the next instant he felt himself folded in a warm embrace, and a kiss--a man's kiss--upon his cheek. It was only a Frenchman who would do that, and only one Frenchman who would do it to him.

So that it needed no words, nor yet the sound of his voice to tell him that Antoine Dubosc stood there, holding both his hands as though he would never let them go.

"Ah, _mon brave_! _Mon ami_! _Mon bien cher ami_, all is well, all is over, and you are free once more. He--that sacred pig of an Englishman--is no more, and it is I, Antoine, who has shot him. We had words--he insult me. I allow no man to insult me, and I challenge him therefore. We fight and--he lies there on deck, and in a short time we return home. _V'la_! What have you to say to that, old son?"

Dominic staggered to his feet.

"He is dead, you say?" he repeated in a dazed voice.

"Quite. Most completely dead, my friend, and it is I--Antoine Dubosc--who killed him."

"But, good God! Antoine, old man, he was counted the finest revolver shot in Europe."

"_Bien_, I believe you. Then I, your friend, must be the finest in the world!" He laughed. "But, to be serious, it was no doubt the reason why he suggest for the far distance between us, in order to kill me, you understand, in fact, to murder! Ah, but it did not come off this time, for as it happen he missed, and I--I who very often miss, I did not do so now. No doubt it is the good God who direct the bullet. That is all. I go up now to bury him."

"Bury him?" repeated Dominic, hoarsely.

"_Mais, pour sur_. We do not want to carry a dead man back with us I think. We bury him decently here, and who is the wiser? Until the sea give up her dead, Monsieur le Colonel Bessington will not be seen again, and neither--I believe most truly--will he be missed. If a search is made, it will be made, but one cannot be accused of killing a man if that man's dead body is not found. _Enfin_, when all is said and done he is best dead, so now--to business. Stay you quiet, _mon ami_, we shall soon be home, and perhaps, though you are not a Catholic--more the pity--it would not hurt you to say a prayer for his soul. For, truly, _mon gars_, he was a brave man--if for nothing else than to have ventured alone on this boat. But, of course, it is as you please. I go now."

And on the deck above, while a body wrapped in canvas and weighted at the feet was being gently lowered into the sea by two sailors, Antoine Dubosc, leaning over the rail, was also preparing an act of interment. First, he took from his pocket his own weapon, for which now he would have no further use, and which might tell a tale that he would prefer kept a secret for ever, and dropped it in the sea. And from the other pocket he took the weapon that had once belonged to Richard Bessington, and that also found its watery grave.

It was better so, he considered, with a shrug, for things have an odd way of coming to light, and he did not want anyone, far less Dominic Arden, to know that from the first weapon there were two shots missing, and that the second was fully loaded.

Only Marcel and Jean (who had politely offered to commit the crime themselves) could know that two shots had been fired before ever the stick was dropped, and that one of those shots had entered Colonel Bessington's heart through the back.

Murder, if you will--once more he shrugged--but the man Bessington had contemplated murder, and his own--Dubosc's--first shot had missed. Also was it not the dead man's own favourite maxim that to do evil that good might result was, after all, merely common sense? _Enfin_, he was dead and could therefore create no more trouble. And so, after all, what did it matter? So long as his poor friend did not know the truth, all was well.

"That is," he added aloud and with another eloquent shrug, "unless the body of M'sieur le Boss should take upon itself to become disengaged from its sacking and lead weight and float inconveniently to land. A possibility which you should do well to contemplate, Antoine, my friend, and make preparations for--otherwise--" Here he passed his lean fingers suggestively round his neck--and started as a hand was laid on his arm.

"Ah! Devil take you, Marcel! I did not hear you," he cried, as he swung round to find the man standing beside him. "What is it?"

"I heard you speaking, Master. I thought it was to me," was the reply.

"Ah no. It was but to myself. I was considering that this, after all, may not be the end of the story, and that there may be another, and one of much excitement and interest for us and our friends, to follow."

The man, not understanding, smiled and shook his head. "In an hour we shall be home, Master," he said, and Dubosc grinned.

"Exactly, my friend. In an hour we shall be home once more. That, for the moment, is all that matters."