The Prisoner in the Mask Read online

  When the water had poured from the slits in the mask, he gave a quick look round. Although the sea was fairly smooth, he could not see the gig; but he could see the yacht and the sight of her gave him roughly the gig’s position. Exerting his muscles to the utmost, he struck out in a powerful sidestroke towards her.

  The men in the stern of the gig had seen him dive overboard and were now urging their crew in his direction. The cruiser’s boat, a six-oared whaler, had been lying alongside her starboard beam; so her crew had so far seen neither de Quesnoy nor the gig. In consequence, although the sailors in the whaler had heard the shots, and were looking upward expectantly, they had no idea what had happened until the Lieutenant rushed to the rail above them shouting that the mystery prisoner had escaped and was swimming towards the yacht.

  A Sub-Lieutenant who was in command of the whaler immediately ordered his boat away, but the delay in starting the pursuit gained for the Count several precious minutes. Before the whaler appeared round the stern of the cruiser he had swum a hundred and fifty yards and the gig had covered considerably more than that distance towards him.

  There was still a gap of some two hundred yards between them and, owing to the pace de Quesnoy had been making, he was rapidly tiring; but he could now see the gig. In her stern a big, broad-shouldered, youngish-looking man, wearing a panama hat with a blue spotted silk handkerchief round it, was standing up. With yells and excited gestures he was encouraging his crew to further efforts, and the sight of him put new heart into the Count.

  With each stroke he should have been able to glance to his rear; but the mask prevented that. All the same, the shouts of the Sub-Lieutenant in the whaler told him that it was swiftly coming up behind him. Every wavelet that met him slapped against the helmet, then slopped through the eye and mouth slits, making his breathing difficult. His heart was pounding as though about to burst through his ribs, and every muscle in his body ached from the strain. For the last fifty yards the only thing that kept him going was the knowledge that the gig was racing to his rescue, and that if he could reach her before the whaler overtook him there was a chance that the people from the yacht might refuse to hand him over.

  As he battled his way madly through the water, he was so blinded by spray that he did not catch another glimpse of the gig until it was nearly upon him. Just in time he saw her bows rise above his head, and flung himself on his back. His first grab at the gunwale missed, and as the boat’s weight carried her on he slithered along her side, dodging under the two oars until he came opposite her stern. There, willing hands seized him by the arms and shoulders and dragged him aboard.

  ‘Snakes alive!’ exclaimed the big man staring at the helmet. ‘I was wondering what he’d gotten on his head. Durn me if it isn’t some kind of a mask!’

  One of the yacht’s officers was holding the rudder lines, and on his left sat a long-limbed young man with plump pink cheeks and a small fair moustache. As de Quesnoy collapsed on the bottom boards in the stern of the boat, the latter bent over him and cried:

  ‘Why, look, Mr. Van Ryn, at that thick belt he’s wearing and the chain fixed to it. He’s been chained up some place. D’you think he’s dangerous?’

  ‘Could be, Harry,’ replied the big man, who was still standing, and was now staring dubiously down at the Count. ‘Looks as though that mask was clapped over his head to prevent him savaging people with his teeth.’

  At that moment the whaler came level with the gig. Its crew backed water then rested on their oars. De Quesnoy, still choking up water and gasping for breath, then heard, but only as if at a great distance, a swift exchange of sentences between his pursuer and his rescuer.

  ‘Many thanks, Monsieur, for saving our prisoner,’ called out the Sub-Lieutenant in French. ‘In another few minutes the sharks would have had him.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ called back the big Mr. Van Ryn, using the same language. ‘But what’s wrong with him? Is he a lunatic? Has he gotten rabies or something?’

  ‘No, no; there is nothing wrong with his brain or health. At least, I do not think so. He is a criminal to whom special importance is attached.’

  ‘What crime has he committed?’

  ‘I cannot tell you.’

  ‘D’you mean you can’t, or you won’t?’

  ‘I cannot because I do not know, Monsieur.’

  ‘What’s the reason for the helmet thing he’s wearing on his head?’

  ‘I do not know that either. Until a few moments ago I had never set eyes on him or it.’

  ‘Oh, come, you can’t expect me to believe that!’

  ‘It is the truth, Monsieur. During the voyage none of the ship’s officers were permitted to see this prisoner; not even our Captain.’

  ‘What is the prisoner’s name?’

  ‘I have no idea. That he has been forced to wear a mask suggests that he is someone quite well known, and that the Government wish to keep his identity secret.’

  ‘If so, your Government is composed of inhuman monsters!’ cried the American in a sudden burst of anger. ‘To have forced him to wear a mask like that is torture, nothing less. And he’s been chained; chained like a mad dog, to a wall.’

  ‘Personally, Monsieur, I deplore these things,’ replied the Sub-Lieutenant. ‘But it is not for me to question the decision of my Government.’

  ‘It is for every decent person to challenge such barbarous treatment of a helpless man, no matter what crime he has committed.’

  ‘Monsieur, I have no wish to enter into an argument with you. I have a duty to perform, and the sooner I can get it over the better I shall be pleased. Be good enough to order your men to ship their oars, so that I can come alongside you. Then we will relieve you of the prisoner and take him back to the ship.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said the American firmly. ‘What’s the hurry? I’d like to know a bit more about this mystery man first.’

  ‘There is nothing more I can tell you,’ declared the Sub-Lieutenant.

  ‘Then I’ll get it first hand from him,’ came the swift retort.

  ‘You have no right to question our prisoner.’

  ‘I’ve a right to find out how he comes to be wearing that hideous mask.’

  ‘Monsieur, that is no concern of yours.’

  ‘It certainly is. I oughtn’t to have to tell you that such treatment of a prisoner is against every Christian principle. I mean to find out who is responsible.’

  ‘Then I suggest that you should return with us to the ship, and put your questions to the Colonel who has been acting as the prisoner’s escort.’

  De Quesnoy had now got back his breath and grasped the substance of the argument that was going on about him. Struggling up into a sitting position, he gave a quick tug to the edge of Mr. Van Ryn’s coat and surprised him by saying huskily in English:

  ‘Sir! I beg you not to do so. It would be more merciful of you to throw me out of this boat and let me drown. If you take me back to the cruiser I must suffer the lingering death that they have planned for me.’

  ‘Come, Monsieur,’ called the Sub-Lieutenant. ‘Be pleased to order your men to row you to the ship.’

  Van Ryn looked down at the Count, and asked sharply, ‘What crime have you committed that they should be treating you like this?’

  ‘None! None! I swear it. I am the victim of a hideous plot. Take me to your yacht and I will tell you the whole awful story.’

  ‘I see my Captain signalling to us,’ cut in the Sub-Lieutenant. ‘He is becoming impatient. Kindly delay no longer. Either put your boat about or hand the prisoner over.’

  ‘What if I refuse?’ asked Van Ryn truculently.

  ‘Then I must order you to do so.’

  ‘Who the hell are you to order me about?’

  ‘I am a French naval officer,’ cried the Sub-Lieutenant with sudden anger, ‘and you are in French territorial waters.’

  ‘And I’m a citizen of the United States of America,’ shot back the big man. ‘That means that wherever I am
in the world it’s a matter of principle with me to uphold the rights of man and the maintenance of human dignity. As I see it, in the case of this poor devil you people have outraged both; so I’m determined to hear his own story before I hand him back to you. What is more, while he tells it I’ll not have him brow-beaten by this Colonel you speak of or anyone else; so I’m not accepting your invitation.’

  ‘That is all very well, Monsieur; but I must warn you that you are making yourself liable to arrest.’

  ‘The United States consul in Cayenne is going to make you look pretty foolish if you arrest me simply for pulling a man out of the sea and insisting on having ten minutes’ talk with him afterwards.’

  ‘It will be for my Captain to decide whether any action is to be taken against you. But you may be certain that strong measures will follow should you attempt to put to sea when you reach your yacht, or refuse to hand the prisoner over when his escort is sent to fetch him.’

  With a shrug of his great shoulders, Van Ryn sat down and, turning to the officer who was coxing the gig, said abruptly, ‘Mr. Sarson, we’ll not be going to have a look at Devil’s Island after all. Have your boys pull for the yacht.’

  As the gig swung about, de Quesnoy grasped his rescuer by the arm and exclaimed, ‘I thank you, Sir, a thousand times for this. When you have heard my story I am certain you will not have the heart to give me up to my enemies.’

  The American grunted: ‘Get that idea out of your head, friend. I’ll have to. You heard what that officer said. If I attempted to hide you they’d send an armed party to search the yacht; and if we weighed anchor they’d put a shot across our bows. No; the best I can do for you is to hear what you’ve got to say, and give the story of your inhuman treatment to the world in the hope of forcing your Government to give you a better deal.’

  ‘I appreciate your goodwill, Sir; but what you propose would take months. Long before any relief could be secured for me by such means I should be dead.’

  ‘Seeing the number of sharks there are in these tropical waters, I wonder you’re not dead already.’

  ‘Yes, I was lucky to escape them; but I won’t be if you give me up. It would be better to have been dragged under and dead within a few minutes than to die by inches or be driven mad by heat and insects in that stone hut on Devil’s Island.’

  ‘That certainly is a terrible prospect. But I’m told that Dreyfus survived there for four and a half years. In that number of months I reckon I could stir up enough trouble to have your case reviewed.’

  ‘Dreyfus was not condemned to wear a mask like this. I cannot describe the suffering it inflicts. Wearing it for only eighteen days and nights has nearly driven me insane. Besides, the fiends who devised it have already decreed my death. I have every reason to believe that within two months at the most orders will come from France which will result in my being executed by a firing squad.’

  ‘Then you’re in one helluva fix,’ declared the big man glumly. ‘One thing I can do is to have that durned helmet cut off your head as soon as we get aboard, and in a place like this it’ll be a tidy while before they can fit you with another. But I’ll have to give you up. About that I’ll have no option. The yacht’s not equipped to give battle to the French Navy.’

  As they talked de Quesnoy had been studying his new acquaintance. He judged Van Ryn to be some five years older than himself. His face was large and chunky, with a broad forehead, a nose that was almost snub, a generous mouth and a bulldog chin. His eyes were brown, not very large, but full of vitality and intelligence. He gave the impression of a man who had plenty of courage but would be difficult to move once he had made up his mind.

  Inwardly the Count groaned. It seemed incredibly hard that, having overcome Roux and the two warders, having escaped the sharks, having reached the gig before he could be caught and having found in it a man who had the desire to protect him, all this should go for nothing, and that within an hour or so he would again be a prisoner.

  Yet that was the end to his desperate bid for freedom that he had himself foreseen during those hectic moments before he had decided to make it. That was no consolation, but there was no argument he could use to counter the American’s reluctant logic; so, once more a prey to bitter frustration, he fell silent until they reached the yacht.

  Directly they were aboard Van Ryn set some of his sailors to force the clasps of the Count’s belt and to hack through the leather on either side of the lock to his mask. It proved so tough that their jack knives were blunted in the process, but after five minutes’ hard work they managed to free him from both the belt and helmet.

  As the latter came off, Van Ryn gave an exclamation of indignation. De Quesnoy’s normally handsome face was now a horrid sight. A half-inch-long beard had sprouted untidily round his jowls; his eyes were red-rimmed; there were angry sores on his aquiline nose and the tips of his ears where the mask had rubbed them; his cheeks were yellow-stained from nightly contact with its leather, and his dark, wavy hair was so matted with sweat that it looked as if it had been glued down to his head. Taking him by the arm his temporary host said:

  ‘First thing you need is a good wash. Come along to my cabin. You can talk while you’re cleaning yourself up.’

  The Count followed him aft and soon, stripped to the waist, he was enjoying the almost forgotten luxury of plenty of warm water and scented soap. Between his splashings, knowing that there was all too little time, and hoping against hope that Van Ryn might yet be persuaded to give him a further chance by hiding him, he gabbled out the unhappy story of de Vendôme’s abruptly terminated career as a pretender to the Throne of France.

  When he had done, Van Ryn observed shrewdly, ‘The French Government’s having announced your death, Prince, provides a logical explanation for their trying to hide your face for good under a mask. I calculate your story is too circumstantial not to be true; and I’m glad to feel that, because up to a few minutes ago I had just a suspicion that I might be harbouring some particularly desperate criminal. My hat, though; what double-dyed swine old Prime Minister Combes and that General André must be!’

  De Quesnoy was not listening. He was staring at his hardly recognisable face in the mirror. Suddenly he exclaimed, ‘Holy Virgin be thanked! I believe I have it!’ Then he swung round and asked: ‘Would you be willing to tell a few lies, if by doing so there was a good chance that you could save me?’

  Van Ryn shrugged. ‘I’d lie like a trooper to save any man from more of what you’ve been through. But, oh boy, the lies have got to be good if they’re to prevent your compatriots from the cruiser taking you off this yacht.’

  ‘When they come for me I want you to tell them that on my failing to persuade you to hide me I threw myself overboard in despair, and that before the gig could be got round to this side of the ship I was taken by the sharks.’

  ‘No, friend. What’s the use? They wouldn’t believe me unless they’d searched the ship and failed to find you. And the yacht’s not all that big. They’d ferret you out wherever you were hid. You’d be no better off, and I’d have made myself liable to see the inside of a French prison. I’d risk that if we could get away with it; but we couldn’t. Not a hope.’

  ‘But I do not mean to hide. Owing to the mask none of them have seen my face. All I ask is that you get me a pair of ducks and a singlet. They will expect my hair to be long; so I must shave my head and trim my beard. I shall then be able to pass as one of your crew.’

  The American stared at him round eyed. ‘Snakes alive! I believe you’ve got something there. But we’ll have to be mighty quick about it. My Jap valet will see to your hair, and I’ll tell my Captain to pass the word to the boys to play along. They’ll just love making suckers out of those Frenchies. Sorry, Prince, but your English is so good I’d forgotten you were one yourself.’

  Dashing to the door of the cabin, he bellowed, ‘Harry! Harry! Come here! Quick!’

  As the tall, pink-cheeked young man appeared at the run, Van Ryn said hurriedly,
‘This is my secretary, Harry Plimsol. Harry, this is Prince Vendôme. We’re going to save his bacon if we can. Find Mitso for me; then go along to the First Engineer. Get him to lend you a pair of soiled dungarees and a singlet. Later we’ll smear the Prince’s hands and face with coal dust, then he’ll look like a stoker. But hurry! hurry! We’ve not a moment to lose.’

  De Quesnoy had already snatched up the shaving brush from the fitted washstand and began to lather his beard. With Van Ryn’s razor he shaved the hair from the sides of his face, leaving only his moustache and a round patch on his chin. The Japanese valet arrived on the scene just as he was washing off the last soap suds.

  ‘Come on, Mitso,’ cried his master. ‘I want you to shave this gentleman’s head. Look alive, now!’

  ‘No,’ amended the Count. ‘It will look more natural if it is close cropped all over with a short brush left on front, like many Baltic sailors wear theirs.’

  As he spoke he sat down in front of the basin. The Japanese took a pair of scissors from a drawer beneath it and Van Ryn ran from the cabin to tell his Captain what was on foot.

  Within five minutes de Quesnoy’s matted wavy hair had been shorn away, and his scalp showed unattractively through the short bristles that remained. Harry Plimsol then came running in with the borrowed garments. As he handed them to the Count he cried:

  ‘Just throw your own clothes down any place. I’ll lock them up with the helmet and the belt in the boss’s safe, so there’s no chance of anyone coming across them. But hurry, man, hurry! The cruiser’s boat’s no more than a dozen lengths away from our gangway.’

  Two minutes later, as de Quesnoy emerged on deck, he was met by the First Engineer, who said to him in a low voice with a strong Scottish accent, ‘Meester Van Ryn’s compliments, an’ wee’re noo about tae raise a head o’ steam preparatory tae sail-in’. Your best chance if they come below lookin’ fer ye is t’be seen doing a stint at a boiler. S’come wi’ me, mon, an’ take heed lest ye slip on the footin’s.’