Swirling Waters | Page 5

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 Berg��res 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 deep in thought, with shoulders drooping.
Beyond the clamorous glitter of the Place Pigalle, with its garish entertainment halls and all-night restaurants, there is a dark, narrow, winding lane ascending steeply to the great white sentinel church on the heights. Up this Matheson strode, still deep in thought, and his shadower followed. But, half-way up, a new factor cut sharply into the situation. Out of a ruelle crept two apaches with the stealthy glide of their class. One followed close behind Clifford Matheson, while the other stopped to watch the lane against the possible arrival of an agent de police.
The young man who had followed from the Rue Laffitte paused irresolute. On the one hand were his orders to shadow Matheson wherever he might go that night; on the other hand was his personal safety. He was keenly alive to the merciless ferocity of the Parisian apache, and he was unarmed. The wicked curved knife doubtless concealed under the belt of the apache turned the scale decisively in the mind of the shadower. He saw no call to risk his own life.
He