Swirling Waters | Page 5

a mere matter of policy. To a man with the average sense of
honour, such an attitude of mind is scarcely realisable, but Lars Larssen
was no normal man. In him the Napoleonic madness--or
genius--burned fiercely. He had ambitions colossal in scale--he
regarded his present wealth and power as a mere stepping-stone to the
realisation of his Great Idea.
That great ultimate purpose of his life he had never revealed to man or
woman--save only to his dead wife. He aimed to be controlling owner
of the world's carrying trade; to hold decision on peace and war
between nation and nation because of that control of the vital food
supply. To be Emperor of the Seven Seas.
He had one child only--his boy Olaf, now aged twelve, at school in the
States. Olaf was to hold the seat of power after him and perpetuate his
dynasty.
That was Larssen's life-dream.
Any man or woman who stood between him and his great goal was to
be thrust aside or used as a stepping-stone. Matheson, for instance--he
was to be used. There must be something underlying Matheson's
sudden access of scruples--what was it? A case of cherchez la femme?
Or political ambitions, perhaps? If he could arrive at the motive, it
might open up a new avenue for persuasion.
He searched the silhouette of the man at the window for an answer to
the riddle. But Matheson's face was set, and the answer to the riddle
was such as Lars Larssen could never have guessed. It lay outside the
shipowner's pale of thought--beyond the limitations of his mind.
For Matheson also had his big life-scheme, and it now filled his mind
with a blaze of light as he stood by the window, silent.
Larssen resolved to play for time while he set to work to ferret out his

antagonist's motive for the sudden change of plan. He did not dream for
a moment of relinquishing control on the Hudson Bay scheme. As he
had stated openly, control was creed to him.
He broke the long silence with a conciliatory remark. "Let's think
matters over for a day or two. My scheme might be modified on the
financial side. I'm prepared to make concessions to what you think is
fair to the shareholders. We shall find some common ground of
agreement."
The smooth words did not deceive Matheson. So his answer came with
deliberate finality: "I've said my last word."
"Well, I'll consider it carefully. Meanwhile, doing anything to-night? I
hear that Polaire is on at the Folies Bergères with her opium-den scene.
A thriller, I'm told."
Theatres and music-halls were nothing to the shipowner; his idea was
to keep Matheson under observation if possible, and try to solve the
riddle.
"Thanks, but I've got to get away from Paris," answered Matheson with
his tired droop of the shoulders. "I have to join my wife and
father-in-law at Monte Carlo."
"Very well, then, I'll say good-bye for the present."
When Larssen had left the office, he hurried into a taxi and was whirled
to the Grand Hotel near at hand. Here he found his secretary turning
over the illustrated papers in the hall lounge, and gave a few curt
directions. "Drive round to the Rue Laffitte--a hurry case. On the
second floor of No. 8 is the office of Clifford Matheson. He may be
still there--you'll know by the light in the window. Wait till he comes
out, and follow him. Find out where he goes. If it's to a woman's
house--good. In any case shadow him to-night wherever he goes."
CHAPTER III

SHADOWED
Matheson, alone in his office, thought deeply for a long while, pacing
to and fro, grappling with a life-decision. To and fro, from door to
windows, from windows to door, he paced, until the narrow confines of
the office thrust at him subconsciously and drove him to the open
streets.
At his desk he made out a cheque in favour of Lars Larssen to the
amount of twenty thousand pounds, enclosed it with a brief note in an
addressed envelope, and put it away in a drawer. It was shortly after
eleven when he took up his hat, fur-lined coat and heavy gold-mounted
stick, clicked out the lights, and made his way down to the Rue Laffitte.
At the corner of the Rue Laffitte he passed a young man lounging in the
shadows, who presently turned and followed him at a sober distance.
Matheson made up towards the heights of Montmartre, crowned by the
white Basilique of the Sacred Heart. The great church stood out in cold
white beauty--serene and pure--above the feverish glitter of Paris. Up
there a man might attune himself to the message of the stars--might
weigh duty against duty in the balance of the infinite.
He walked