Deadly Hall Read online

  Easter Sunday would fall on April 17th. Although a native New Orleanian, Jeff Caldwell had never seen much of the river. The Grand Bayou Line would get him from Cincinnati to New Orleans in five days. On the 16th he took a night train to Cincinnati, spent Easter Sunday in the Queen City and that night at the Netherland Plaza Hotel.

  The following morning was cool without being chilly enough for a topcoat. After making his one-way reservation at the company’s office, Jeff boarded the big stern-wheeler: four decks glistening white against slate-gray water, under white pilot-house and black chimney.

  He made himself comfortable in his room, starting to unpack. Shortly before departure time, amid a straggle of other passengers getting their bearings, he descended to the ornate forward lounge on the cabin deck. And into the lounge marched Serena Hobart.

  Serena’s manner said, ‘Accept me as I am, please, or don’t bother me.’ Determinedly no-nonsense as well as determinedly athletic, nevertheless she had charm hard to resist. Sleek honey-blonde hair framed a pretty face which seemed almost overdelicate, despite the firmness of the jaw. Serena wore fashionable batik, its skirt knee-length, and carried an alligator-skin handbag.

  “Hel-lo, Jeff!” she greeted him, polite without being cordial. But she did not seem at ease. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? Now don’t say you’re surprised to find me making the journey by boat!”

  “I wasn’t going to say that. Good to see you, Serena.”

  “Really, now, why shouldn’t I go home this way? If it comes to that, why shouldn’t either of us?”

  “No reason whatever, of course. Sorry about your father.”

  “We were all sorry. But it’s a fact of nature; it can’t be changed; let’s not get pious and platitudinous. After all, why should I be in such a hurry to get home? There’s no cause for hurry, until—” She stopped.

  “Until when?”

  “Oh, just ‘until’! Until any time you choose, I mean.”

  “Serena, what’s been happening at New Orleans?”

  “Nothing much, as you’ll soon learn.”

  “Well, how’s Dave?”

  “Pretty much as usual. Poor Dave! He’s my brother and I’m fond of him, but he does think too little and talk too much. As for what I’m doing here,” she continued, with a sudden rush, “I was visiting a friend. Jeff, do you remember Helen Farnsworth in the old days? No; I think she was after your time. Anyway, she’s Helen Westerby now; married somebody else you don’t know. Which reminds me …”

  At her side now loomed a large, shambling, sandy-haired young man in a tan suit of plus-fours with diamond-pattern stockings. Serena touched the newcomer’s sleeve with her left hand and raised candid blue eyes.

  “Speaking of people you don’t know, Jeff, I’d better do the necessary.” She wagged her handbag. “Charles Saylor, Jeff Caldwell.”

  “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Caldwell!” said the large young man, shaking hands heartily. “You see, Mr. Caldwell …”

  “All things considered,” Serena appraised both of them, “hadn’t you two better get on a first-name basis? Under the circumstances …”

  “I’d heard about you, Jeff, though I never expected to meet you quite so soon. You see, I’m—” And he stopped.

  “Yes, Mr. Saylor or Charles? Must everybody make cryptic remarks?”

  “Nothing cryptic about it; tell you later. Can’t say I’m very familiar with this part of the world, or with New Orleans either; my bailiwick is Philadelphia. Never mind! We’ll be under way in a minute or two. And then lunch. And then … !”

  Mr. Saylor’s gesture seemed to conjure up unimaginable joys.

  They did get under way soon afterwards, with something of a flourish from the pilot-house, and presently went down to their excellent lunch in a white-and-gilt salon called the Plantation Room. Each table had been set for four. Serena commandeered one such table, graciously acting as hostess.

  “If anybody else tries to sit with us,” she instructed them, “just wave him away and tell him it’s reserved. I knew Jeff was here; I saw him come aboard. There’ll be somebody else joining us, though not today. And it’s all right; I’ve already seen the steward.

  “Now, Jeff,” Serena warned, indicating the white-jacketed Negroes in attendance, “mind you don’t refer to the waiters as stewards. There’s only one steward: an officer; he has charge of waiters, porters, busboys, maids, and so on. We don’t use oceangoing terms on the river, you know.”

  “I do know, Serena. I’m from New Orleans too.”

  But he learned nothing, either then or at dinner that evening. Whenever he so much as hinted at questions on his mind, Serena changed the subject or turned it off with some remark designed to show he must be an ill-mannered Paul Pry. Charles Saylor, whom he was further instructed to call Chuck, seemed to have adopted very similar tactics.

  Following dinner, they played desultory three-handed bridge in the after cabin lounge. Once a burly, red-faced, genial-looking man, with four gold stripes round the sleeve of his uniform, strode through the lounge and greeted Serena in passing, but did not stop. At length Chuck Saylor, as though now taking charge, portentously said: “Follow me!”

  He led them to a double stateroom on the same deck (all the rooms were double), which he shared with some passenger not at present in evidence. Here he produced a quart of colorless liquid calling itself Gordon’s Dry Gin, together with a bottle of ginger ale more conventional than any sold under the Hoffman label in New York. He rang for glasses and ice, which were promptly brought.

  The room grew thick with cigarette smoke. Serena and their host each had two drinks. Jeff, after valiantly finishing his first glass of what could only have been the Philadelphia variety of a familiar beverage, declined a second. Serena had already declined a third.

  And still Jeff learned nothing. Once Serena, abstracted, had muttered a name that sounded like ‘old Merriman.’ Since Dave in the letter had called him Sabatini, presumably Rafael Sabatini, he wondered if Serena with equally heavy facetiousness meant the pen name of the author who had written historical romances as Henry Seton Merriman.

  But he did not pursue this. Whatever they said or refrained from saying, a feeling of tension persisted and increased. At half-past eleven he took his leave.

  He ascended to his own room, donned night-gear, and sat down to read. A friend in England had sent him bound page-proofs of a book, eagerly awaited by Jeff but not yet published, which had arrived at his New York hotel on Saturday. He had also the most recent number of the American Mercury. But tonight even his favorite detective fiction failed to hold him. The Mercury he could not face.

  At just before midnight he turned in. An hour later, still scratchily awake, he gave it up and went out on deck.

  So here he stood, in breezy night over the broad Ohio, on what Serena would have protested to hear him call the starboard side of the sun deck. There was no sound from the engines, hardly even a vibration: only churning, splashing water under the great stern wheel. If for some reason Serena must be secretive or cryptic, what did he already know?

  Comparatively little. Everything seemed to turn on the death of Harald Hobart towards the end of February. The late Harald was always reputed to have been somewhat erratic, though not so romantically erratic as old Commodore Fitzhugh, who, paying heavily to get brick replaced on brick, had imported his mansion from across the sea. Commodore Hobart … that legend of a secret hoard …

  Jeff flung his cigarette over the side and whipped round, staring into shadows towards the stern. There was nobody there, of course; there could be nobody there. Yet the sensation of someone standing there and watching, eyes fixed on the back of Jeff Caldwell’s neck …

  You could imagine anything at this drugged, drowsy hour of the morning. He returned to his cabin and closed the door. Sleep still seemed impossible. As again he took up the bound page-proofs, it was not imagination that footsteps approached along the deck outside, and someone knocked lightly but insistently at th
e door.

  “Yes?” Jeff almost shouted. “Come in!”

  The door was opened by David Hobart.

  Dave, the ‘artistic’ member of the family, wore pajamas, slippers, and a lightweight black dressing-gown patterned with silver dragons. Of middle height, thin but muscular and virile, he had the brooding look we customarily associate with dark-complexioned persons rather than fair. A lock of fair hair had tumbled across his forehead, and he fiddled at his chin.

  “Well—” he began.

  “A while ago,” Jeff said, “I thought I heard somebody prowling around outside. Were you prowling around outside?”

  “What do you mean, prowling around outside? I’ve just come up from the texas, that’s all. Got a few things to tell you.”

  “‘For this relief much thanks.’ I’m going to get some solid facts,” Jeff vowed, “if I have to use the torture of the rack. What’s the matter, Dave? What’s wrong?”

  Dave hesitated.

  “There’s all hell to pay, I’m afraid,” he answered. “Delys Hall may not really be Deadly Hall. But a whole volcano is going to blow up in a few days. That’s what I’m here to tell you.”

  2

  “JUST A MINUTE, Dave!”

  “Yes?”

  “At our table in the dining-room, there’s a seat reserved for somebody who’s supposed to be joining the boat later. Does that mean you?”

  “Good God, no! Besides, I’m already aboard.”

  “So I see. But Serena said—”

  “Serena?” Dave stared. “Don’t tell me she’s here too?”

  “I do tell you.”

  “What’s she doing up north?”

  “Visiting a New Orleans friend whose name used to be Helen Farnsworth. Her married name is …”

  “Westerby? Helen Westerby?”

  “That’s it. Serena said—”

  “Then it’s funny, it’s damn funny. Mind, I don’t say the gal lies in her teeth; I don’t say that at all; but it’s funny. Still, Serena likes to be mysterious just for the sake of being mysterious. Travelling alone, as I am?”

  “Not exactly alone. She’s travelling with, or at least in the company of, a character called Charles or Chuck Saylor, S-a-y-l-o-r. From Philadelphia.”

  “Never heard of him. Who is he? What does he do?”

  “That’s what I can’t find out, though Serena says there’s some reason why Saylor and I ought to be en rapport. Between ’em they’ve got a trick of turning every straight question crooked; it’s like lunging at a fencer. Are you going to do the same thing?”

  “No, not on your life! I’m here to impart information.”

  “Then you might begin imparting it. If you didn’t know Serena’s a passenger, does she know you’re a passenger?”

  “I don’t think so; I’ve taken pretty good care she can’t. Listen, Jeff. I trust you; I’ve always trusted you. When I saw you walk on board this morning …”

  “There seems to be some lack of mutual confidence between the Hobarts. You say you trust me. Does that mean you don’t trust your own sister?”

  Dave raised his hand as though to take an oath.

  “Old son, of course I trust her! Serena’s in this too, however it eventually turns out. You see, I’ve been on a little mission for the good of the family. At the moment you might call me a kind of stowaway, a paying stowaway.”

  “Paying stowaway?”

  “Like this,” Dave said with great intensity. “I’m in 240 below on the texas, directly under this one; booked the whole room, as you seem to have done too. I sneaked on board early this morning, before passengers are usually allowed; I’ve been sort of hiding there. But I’ve squared everything with Captain Josh.”

  “With whom?”

  “Captain Joshua Galway, always called Captain Josh. The Grand Bayou Line is owned by the Galways, who’ve been on the river for generations.”

  “Is Captain Josh a thick-set, red-faced man with a broad grin?”

  “Yes. I made him swear he’d keep my presence a complete secret.”

  “And he agreed?”

  “Well, he read me quite a lecture; said I’d have to do my own bribing of the help if I wanted food delivered in private. But he’s a hell of a good fellow, and an old family friend, so …”

  Jeff looked at his companion.

  “Did you use an alias too? Dave, for God’s sake! Sneaked aboard? Hiding there? Complete secret? Food in private? Why are you being so damn secretive?”

  “Now I think of it,” Dave drew a deep breath, “no real reason at all. We’ll reveal the light of my countenance tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, let me repeat that I’ve got things to tell you. And this deserves a drink in honor of your return. It’s a little late, but that doesn’t matter. Come down to my quarters with me, and I’ll break out a bottle.”

  “If this is more bathtub gin—”

  “It’s not gin at all. It’s Scotch, imported stuff. It may have been cut, but at least it’s drinkable. And I’ve already got the makings. Don’t argue, now; just come on!”

  They went out on deck, dressing-gowns flapping in the breeze, and down the outside stairs on the two-whistle side.

  Stateroom 240, somewhat smaller than the one above, was equally comfortable. All the lamps had been left burning here; in full light Dave Hobart looked haggard, even a trifle ill. Two tumblers stood on the bedside table, together with a bowl of melting ice cubes.

  Dave set out a pint bottle, poured generous potations over ice, and added tap-water. If it did not quite live up to the label, it proved a fair approximation. They both lighted cigarettes, each taking one of the armchairs.

  “Jeff,” Dave began with the same intensity as before, “how familiar are you with my family history?”

  “Not very familiar. I’ve heard the general outline, but very few details.”

  “That’s what I thought. Some people might imagine that you, the history fiend, would have investigated a wild story so close to home.”

  “I haven’t investigated, I suppose, because it’s so close to home.”

  “Fair enough. But it’s very important you should hear the details, or such details as are now known. I’ve got to take you back a long way, almost three quarters of a century, to the year 1860. That’s the year my father was born, and my grandmother died in childbirth. My grandfather, generally called Commodore Hobart, Confederate States Navy, as he afterwards was …”

  “He had not become C.S.N., you mean, because that particular navy didn’t yet exist?”

  “Right!” Dave sipped, set down his glass, and pointed with the cigarette. “Fitzhugh Hobart was born October 31st, 1827, and died late in 1903, at just past seventy-six; I can only faintly remember him.

  “Most people think of him as the dashing captain of the Confederate raider Louisiana or as the bearded patriarch his portrait shows. In the summer of 1860 he was thirty-two years old, ten months married to Ingrid De Meza of Denmark, and, though mad-keen on all things nautical, had become commodore only of the Delta Yacht Club. But that summer, not learning either of his son’s birth or his wife’s death, one of the world’s great romantics had set forth on a romantic dream. With his own schooner he went after sunken treasure in the Bahamas.”

  “That’s just the point, Dave. Did he find any treasure?”

  “He did; there’s no doubt of it.”

  Here Dave sprang to his feet.

  “You know me, Jeff: I’m a fairly useless sort of fellow. In my extreme youth I thought I wanted to write, as you did. You meant what you said; for me I knew it would never be. But in this family matter I really have assembled the facts, as carefully and conscientiously as though I could make sense of ’em, which I can’t.

  “As far back as the seventeenth century,” he continued, “fifteen Spanish treasure-galleons, homeward bound for Cadiz from South America, foundered and sank in a gale off the Ambrogian Reefs at the tip of the Bahamas: British territory. Their cargo consisted mainly of gold bullion in the form of ingots, wi
th additions of specie and jewels. A British adventurer had recovered some of the loot, though very little in proportion to its over-all worth; my grandfather hauled up some more. But the great bulk of that treasure, estimated at a value of some nineteen million dollars, has never been found and is there to this day. Are you following me?”

  “Closely.”

  “Old Fitzhugh was an ingenious devil; his whole career proved it. Maybe we think of nineteenth-century diving expeditions as being crude, half-baked attempts. That’s a mistake. Jules Verne could write Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea in 1870. If you study the subject, you’ll find that sixty-odd years ago their diving equipment—canvas-and-rubber suit, metal helmet, with air pumped down through a tube from above—was only a less sophisticated version of what we’ve got today.

  “And adventurers had quite a piratical style at that time. If my esteemed grandparent had reported his discovery to the British authorities, he’d have been lucky to keep any considerable part of what he recovered. But he never told ’em; he never meant to. He slipped in and out so nimbly, so secretly, that they never even knew he’d been searching for treasure, let alone had found it. So he and his crew sailed home in triumph with the loot.

  “We know what he did. The specie … minted coins, that’s to say …”

  “I understand what specie is. Well?”

  Dave assumed an air of profundity.

  “Specie and jewels he sold on the q.t. for what they’d fetch. The gold he hid, and hid with such craft that nobody’s ever been able to lay hands on the stuff. Where he hid so much gold, how he could have hidden it beyond detection, has baffled shrewder wits than mine. This much, ancient friend, we actually know.”

  “All right, but how do we know it?”

  “From notes left by the commodore,” said Dave, beginning to pace the room, “and from what he told my father. There are clues to the problem, which I needn’t explain now, for those who want to have a try at it. And the story has two parts, as you’ll see. At this point they momentarily divide before uniting again.