The Adventu E-Book

Alex Forest

• Herausgeber: Alex Forest
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

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Leseprobe

Alex Forest

The Adventures of Joseph Martin

Copyright © 2019 by Alex Forest

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

First edition

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy Find out more at reedsy.com

Contents

The Arrest of Joseph Martin

Joseph Martin in Prison

The Escape

Joseph Martin and Joseph Martin

The Ruby Necklace

The Seven of Hearts

The Vera Safe

The Black Pearl

Leo LaSalle, American Detective

1

The Arrest of Joseph Martin

It was a strange ending to a voyage that began positively. The transatlantic cruise ship ‘Vista’ was a swift and comfortable vessel, under the command of brilliant men, the Capitan, and the director. The passengers consisted of an outstanding and delightful crowd. The charm of new friends and improvised amusements served to make the time pass pleasantly. We enjoyed the feeling of being separated from the world and living, as it were, on an unknown island, and consequently forced to be sociable with each other.

Have you ever stopped to consider how much honesty comes from these individuals who, on the night before, did not even know each other, and who are now, for several days, condemned to a life of intimacy? The movement of the ocean, the waves, the violence of the storms and the distressing monotony of the calm and sleepy water. Such a life becomes a sort of sad existence, and that is why, maybe, we board a short trip with mixed feelings of pleasure and fear.

But, during the past few years, a new feeling had been added to the life of the traveler. The little floating island is now attached to the world from which it was once free. A bond united them, even in the very heart of the watery wastes of the Atlantic. That connection is Wi-Fi, by which can we receive news in a sort of quick (edit: extremely slow) manner even though we are in the middle of nowhere. We know that the messages are not received with the same quickness of land life. No, the cell reception is even more frustrating, more dramatic. During the first day of the voyage, we felt that we were being followed, escorted, preceded even, by that distant voice, which, from time to time, whispered to one of us a few words from the receding world. Two friends spoke to me. Ten, twenty others sent dull or envious messages.

On the second day, at five hundred miles from the French coast, in the middle of a violent storm, the security team received the following message:

“Joseph Martin is on your vessel, first cabin, brown hair, wound right forearm, traveling alone under the name of R…”

At that moment, a terrible flash of lightning lit the stormy skies. The electric waves were interrupted. The rest of the message never reached us. The name under which Joseph Martin was concealing himself, was safe.

If the news had been about some other character, I have no doubt that the secret would have been carefully protected by the security guards, to not worry any of the guests. The next day, no one knew how the news became gossip, but every passenger was aware that the famous Joseph Martin was hiding on board.

Joseph Martin on our ship; he was an eccentric and smart man who works only in mansions and among socialites, and who, one night, entered Barbara Streisand’s home, but left empty-handed, leaving, his card on which he scribbled: “Joseph Martin, will return when furniture is genuine.” Joseph Martin, the man of a thousand disguises: an uber driver, detective, actor, Russian physician, Spanish bullfighter, commercial traveler, robust youth, or decrepit old man.

Consider this unexpected situation: Joseph Martin was wandering around within the limited bounds of a transatlantic ship; in that tiny corner of the world, in that dining room, in that smoking room, in that casino! Joseph Martin was, perhaps, this man…. or that one…. my neighbor at the table…. the sharer of my stateroom…

“And this trip will last for five days!” exclaimed Katherine Underwood. “It is awful! I hope he’ll be arrested.”

Then, addressing me, she added:

“And you, Mr. Steinberg, you are on friendly terms with the captain; surely you know something?”

I should have been delighted, but I didn’t have any information that would interest Kat. She was one of those people who attracted attention in every possible way. Wealth and beauty form an irresistible combination, and Kat possessed both.

Educated in Paris under the care of a French mother, she was returning after a visit with her father, the millionaire Underwood of Chicago. She was accompanied by one of her friends, Rebecca.

At first, I decided to flirt with her; but, in the rapidly growing intimacy of the voyage, I was soon impressed by her charm, and my feelings became too deep and respectful to be flirtatious. Moreover, she accepted my attention with kindness. She laughed at my jokes and showed an interest in me. Yet I had a rival in the young man with quiet and refined tastes, and it struck me that she preferred his reserved humor to my New York-ish frivolity.

We were all comfortably seated in our deck chairs. The storm of the previous evening had cleared the sky, and the weather was amazing.

“I don’t know a lot about Joseph Martin,” I replied, “but why can’t we investigate the mystery just like detective Vernon, the enemy of Joseph Martin? Did you forget what key information we know?”

“What key?”

“Well, Martin calls himself Mr. R—.”

“Rather vague, don’t you think?” she replied.

“Not at all. We also know he’s traveling alone.”

“Does that you?” she asked.

“Yeah, he has brown hair.”

“And?”

“All we need to do now is search the passenger list and start the process of elimination.”

I had that list in my pocket, which I stole from the captain’s log. I took it out and glanced through it. Then I said:

“There are only thirteen men on the list whose names begin with the letter R.”

“Only thirteen, but how do you know that his first name begins with R?”

“Good question, well, we can start with last names that begin with the letter R, and if we don’t have any luck with that, then we’ll move on to the first names.”

“In the first cabin, out of the thirteen, I found that nine of them are accompanied by women, children or servants. That leaves only four who are traveling alone. First, Michael Raverdan.”

“Secretary to the American Ambassador,” interrupted Kat. “I know him.”

“Major Rawson,” I continued.

“He is my uncle,” someone said.

“Here!” exclaimed a man, whose face was concealed beneath a heavy black beard.

Kat burst into laughter and exclaimed: “That man can barely be considered to have hair, but ok.”

“Well, then,” I said, “we are forced to the conclusion that the guilty party is the last one on this list.”

“What is the name?”

“Louis Romaine. Does anyone know him?”

No one answered. But Kat turned to the silent young man, whose attention to her had annoyed me, and said:

“Well, Mr. Romaine, how come you didn’t answer?”

All eyes were now turned to him. He had brown. I have to admit that I was surprised, and the silence that followed her question indicated that the others wondered the same. However, the idea was irrational, because the man in question was innocent.

“How come I didn’t answer?” he said. “Because, considering my name, my position as a solo traveler and the color of my hair, I now think that I might be Joseph Martin.”

He had a strange look on his face as he uttered these words. His thin lips were drawn closer than usual, and his face was pale, while his eyes were tinged red. Of course, he was joking, yet his appearance and attitude were almost serious.

“But you don’t have the wound?” said Kat, naively.

“That’s true,” he replied, “I don’t.”

Then he pulled up his sleeve, removing his cuff, and showed us his arm. But that didn’t fool me. He’d shown us his left arm, and I was about to bring his attention to the fact when another incident sidetracked our attention. Rebecca, Kat’s friend, came running towards us distraught, screaming:

“My jewels, my pearls! Someone has stolen them all!”

No, they were not all gone, as we soon found out. The thief had taken only part of them; a very curious thing. Of the diamonds, jeweled pendants, bracelets, and necklaces, the thief had stolen, not the largest but the finest and most valuable stones. The items were lying on the table, scattered like flowers from which the beautiful petals had been ruthlessly plucked. And this theft must have been committed, when Rebecca was on the dining floor, in broad daylight, in a stateroom that was in a busy hallway. Moreover, the thief had been allowed to open the door of the stateroom, search for the jewelry case, which was hidden at the bottom of a suitcase, open it, choose his goods and remove it from the mountings. Of course, all the passengers instantly reached the same conclusion; it was Joseph Martin.

That day, at the dining table, the seats to the right and left of Romaine remained vacant; and, during the evening, it was rumored that the captain had placed him under arrest, which produced a feeling of safety and relief. We breathed once more. That evening, we resumed our games and dances. Kat was carefree and happy which convinced me that even though Romaine’s attention had been pleasant to her in the beginning, she had already forgotten them. Her charm and good humor enticed me. At midnight, under a bright moon, I decided to let my feelings be known over a shared slice of chocolate cake.

But, the next day, to our amazement, Romaine was released. We learned that the evidence against him was not enough. He produced evidence that proved all day he attended different activities, and various guests vouched for him. And he provided proof that showed he was the son of a wealthy winemaker in Bordeaux, not a thief. Besides, his arm didn’t have the wound.

“Documents! Birth certificates!” exclaimed the enemies of Romaine, “of course, Joseph Martin will supply you with as many as you desire. And as to the wound, he never had it, or he removed it.”

“You can’t remove wounds,” yelled someone from the back.

Then it was proven that, at the time of the theft, Romaine was walking on the deck from the trivial pursuit game to the karaoke hour behind the piano bar. To which, his enemies replied that a man like Joseph Martin could commit a crime without being present. And then, apart from all other circumstances, there remained one point which even the most skeptical could not answer: Who except Romaine, was traveling alone, had brown hair, and bore a name beginning with R? Who does the message point to, if not Romaine?

And when Romaine, a few minutes before breakfast, came walking toward our group, Kat and Rebecca got up and walked away.

An hour later, a flyer was passed from hand to hand among the stewards and the passengers. It announced that Mr. Louis Romaine offered a reward of ten thousand euros for the discovery of Joseph Martin or another person in possession of the stolen jewels.

“And if no one assists me, I will hunt down the thief myself,” declared Romaine.

Romaine against Joseph Martin, or according to current opinion, Joseph Martin against Joseph Martin; the contest promised to be interesting.

Nothing developed over the next two days. We saw Romaine wandering about, day and night, searching, questioning, and investigating. The captain, also deeply curious, caused the vessel to be searched from stern to stern; ransacked every stateroom under the theory that the jewels might be concealed anywhere, except in the thief’s own room.

“I suppose they will find out something soon,” remarked Kat to me. “He may be a wizard, but he cannot make diamonds and pearls invisible.”

“Certainly not,” I replied, “but he should be examining everything we carry with us, not our rooms.”

Then, scrolling through my photos where I had hundreds of pictures of her in various poses, I added: “I wonder where Martin hid your friend’s jewels. Some people are so creative these days, they could be hidden in a large phone case, like the ones that charge your phone on the go. He could pretend to take pictures, and no one would suspect.”

“But I have heard it said that every thief leaves some clue behind him.”

“That may be true,” I replied, “but there is one exception: Joseph Martin.”

“What about him?”

“He concentrates his thoughts not only on the theft but on all the circumstances connected with it that could serve as a clue to his identity.”

“A few days ago, you were more confident.”

“Yes, but since then I have seen him at work.”

“And what do you think about it now?” she asked.

“In my opinion, we’re wasting our time.”

And, as a matter of fact, the investigation had produced no result. But, in the meantime, the captain’s watch had been stolen. He was furious. He quickened his efforts and watched Romaine more closely than before. But, on the following day, the watch was found in the second officer’s collar box.

This incident caused considerable surprise and displayed the humorous side of Joseph Martin, thief though he was, he was a comedian as well. He combined business with pleasure. Certainly, he was an artist in his line of work, and whenever I saw Romaine, gloomy and reserved, and thought of the double role that he was playing; I looked at him a measure of admiration.

On the following night, the officer on deck duty heard groans coming from the darkest corner of the ship. He approached and found a man lying there, his head wrapped in a thick gray scarf and his hands bound together with zip ties. It was Romaine. He had been assaulted, thrown down and robbed. A card, pinned to his coat, bore these words: “Joseph Martin accepts the ten thousand dollars offered by Mr. Romaine.” In addition to the robbery, Joseph Martin took his watch and cruise card. Some accused the man of having faked this attack on himself. But, apart from the fact that he could not have bound himself that way, it was established that the writing on the card was different from Romaine’s, but, resembled the handwriting of Joseph Martin as it was identified by a cruise goer’s google search.

It appeared that Romaine was not Joseph Martin but was the son of a Bordeaux winemaker. And the presence of Joseph Martin was once more confirmed, and in an alarming method.

It was such a state of terror among the passengers that no one would remain alone in a stateroom or wander in unfrequented parts of the vessel. We stuck together to stay safe. And yet the most intimate acquaintances were divided by a mutual feeling of distrust. Joseph Martin was, now, anybody and everybody. Our imaginations credited him miraculous and unlimited power. We knew he was capable of assuming the most unexpected disguises; of being the highly respectable Major Rawson or the noble Michael Raverdan, or even—we no longer stopped at the letter of R—a well known person to all of us with a wife and children could be Joseph Martin. It didn’t matter anymore, we were all suspects.

The first communications from America brought no news; at least, the captain did not communicate any to us, and the silence wasn’t reassuring. Our last day on the ship seemed endless. We lived in constant fear of disaster. This time, would it be a simple theft or a harmless assault? It could be a serious crime, like a murder! No, no! We didn’t think that Joseph Martin would could cross that line, but we were scared. He was the absolute master of the ship, the authorities were powerless, he could do whatever he pleased; our property and lives were at his mercy.

Yet those were delightful hours for me since they revealed to me the secrets of Miss Katherine Underwood. Deeply moved by those unexpected events and being highly sensitive in nature, she thought of me as protection and security, and I was pleased to give that to her. Secretly, I blessed Joseph Martin, he had been the source of what brought Kat and I closer to each other. Thanks to him, I could now indulge in delicious dreams of love and happiness—dreams that, I felt, were not unwelcome to Kat. Her smiling eyes authorized me to make them; the softness of her voice gave me hope. As we approached the French shore, the active search for the thief was apparently abandoned, and we were anxiously awaiting the moment in which the difficult mystery would be explained. Who was Joseph Martin? Under what name, under what disguise was the famous Joseph Martin concealing himself? And, at last, that moment arrived. If I live for one hundred years, I will never forget the details of it.

“You are so pale, Kat,” I said to her, as she leaned on my arm.

“Just think! This is an exciting moment, and I’m happy to spend it with you, Kat. I hope that your memory will someday—”

But she wasn’t listening. She was too nervous and excited. The gangway was placed in position, but, before we could use it, the uniformed customs officers came on board. Kat murmured:

“We shouldn’t be surprised to hear that Joseph Martin escaped from the vessel during the voyage.”

“Perhaps he preferred death to dishonor and plunged into the Atlantic rather than be arrested.”

“Don’t make jokes,” she said.

Suddenly I started, and, in answer to her question, I said:

“Do you see that little old man standing at the bottom of the gangway?”

“With an umbrella and an olive green coat?”

“Yeah, It is Vernon.”

“Vernon?”

“Yes, the detective who has sworn to capture Joseph Martin. I understand now why we didn’t receive any news from this side of the Atlantic. Vernon was here! He always keeps his business private.”

“Do you think he will arrest Joseph Martin?”

“Who can tell? The unexpected always happens when Joseph Martin is concerned.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, with a peculiar snap “I’d like to see him arrested for what he did to my friend.”

“You will have to be patient. No doubt, Joseph Martin has already seen his enemy and will not be in a hurry to leave the ship.”

The passengers were now leaving the ship. Leaning on his umbrella, carelessly indifferent, Vernon appeared to be paying no attention to the crowd that was hurrying down the gangway. The Ambassador Raverdan, Major Rawson, the bearded man, and many others had already left the vessel before Romaine appeared. Poor Romaine!

“Perhaps it was him after all,” Kat said to me. “What do you think?”

“I think it would be exciting to have Vernon and Romaine in the same picture. You take the picture, my hands are full.”

I gave her the phone, but too late for her to use it. Romaine was already passing the detective. An American officer, standing behind Vernon, leaned forward and whispered in his ear. The French detective shrugged his shoulders, and Romaine passed on. Then who was Joseph Martin?

“Yes,” said Kat, aloud, “who can it be?”

Not more than twenty people now remained on board. She scrutinized them one by one, fearful that Joseph Martin was not among them.

“We can’t wait much longer,” I said to her.

She started toward the gangway. I followed. But we had not taken ten steps when Vernon barred our passage.

“Well, what is it?” I exclaimed.

“One moment, sir. What’s your hurry?”

“I am escorting this woman to her—”

“One moment,” he repeated, in a tone of authority. Then, gazing into my eyes, he said:

“Joseph Martin, no?”

I laughed, and replied: “No, Bernard Steinberg.”

“Bernard Steinberg died in Macedonia three years ago.”

“If Bernard Steinberg were dead, I wouldn’t be here, would I? Here.”

The man showed the detective his wallet.

“How would my I.d. say, Bernard Steinberg, if I weren’t him?”

“They are his, and I know exactly how they came into your possession.”

“You have the wrong man!” I exclaimed. “Joseph Martin sailed under the name of R—.”

“Yes, another of your tricks; a false scent, one of your tricks. You play a good game, but this time luck is against you.”

I hesitated a moment. Then he hit me a sharp blow on the right arm, which caused me to yell in pain. He had struck the wound, the one that was unhealed and referred to in the message.

I was forced to surrender. There was no alternative. I turned to Kat, who had heard everything. Our eyes met; then she glanced at the phone I had placed in her hands and made a gesture that conveyed to me that she understood everything. Yes, there, between the narrow folds of black leather, in the hollow center of the small object that I had taken the precaution to place in her hands before Vernon arrested me, it was there I had deposited Romaine’s cruise card watch and Rebecca’s pearls and diamonds.

Ugh! I swear at that moment, when I was in the grasp of Vernon and his two assistants, I was indifferent to everything, to my arrest, the hostility of the people, everything except this one question: what will Kat do with the things I had told her?

In the absence of material and conclusive proof, I had nothing to fear; but Kat. Would she decide to surrender that proof? Would she betray me? Would she act the part of an enemy who cannot forgive or that of a woman whose disdain is softened by feelings of sympathy?

She continued walking in front of me. Mingled with the other passengers, she advanced to the gangway with my phone in her hand. It occurred to me that she wouldn’t expose me publicly, but she might do so when we were in a more private place. However, when she had passed only a few feet down the gangway, awkwardly, she let the phone fall into the water between the vessel and the pier. Then she continued walking and was quickly lost in the crowd. She had passed out of my life forever.

For a moment, I stood motionless. Then, to Vernon’s great astonishment, I muttered:

“What a pity!”

The various incidents have established between us…. shall I say a friendship? Yes, I like to believe that Joseph Martin rewards me with his friendship, and that it is evident when he occasionally calls on me, and brings, into the wisdom of my mind, his youthful spirits, the infection of his enthusiasm, and the laughter of a man who destiny has nothing but favors and smiles.

His portrait? How can I describe him? I have seen him twenty times, and each time he was a different person; even he said to me on one occasion: “I no longer know who I am. I can’t recognize myself in the mirror.” Undeniably, he was a great actor and possessed a remarkable ability for disguising himself. Without effort, he could adopt the voice, gestures, and mannerisms of another person.

“Why,” he said, “why should I retain a definite form and feature? Why not avoid the danger of personality which is always the same? My actions will serve to identify me.”

Then he added, with a touch of pride:

“It’s far better if no one can ever say with absolute certainty: There’s Joseph Martin! The essential point is that the public may be able to refer to my work and say, without a mistake: Joseph Martin did that!”

2

Joseph Martin in Prison

No tourist completely knows the banks of the Seine. Many have visited and failed to notice the little old-fashioned castle of the built upon a rock in the center of the river. An arched bridge connects it with the shore. All around it, the calm waters of the river flow peacefully.

The history of the castle de coucy is tempestuous like its name, harsh like its outlines. It has survived through a long series of combats, sieges, assaults, and massacres. A recital of the crimes that have been committed there would cause the bravest heart to tremble. There are many mysterious legends connected with the castle, and they tell us of a famous subterranean tunnel that led to the abbey of Saint Michel and to the manor of Jillian, mistress of Charlemagne VII.

The lords of Coucy, destitute, had been forced to sell the ancient castle at a great sacrifice. It contained an massive collection of furniture, pictures, and wood carvings. An old man, Baron Stan, lived there alone, attended by three old servants. No one ever enters the place. No one had ever seen the three Rubens that he possessed, his two Manets, his Jacques Soubise sculpture, and the many other treasures that he had acquired by a vast expenditure of money at public sales.

Baron Stan lived in constant fear, not for himself, but for the treasures that he accumulated with such an earnest devotion that even the shrewdest merchant could not say that the Baron had ever made a mistake in his taste or judgment. He loved them. He loved them intensely, like a scrooge; jealously, like a lover. Every day, at sunset, the iron gates at either end of the bridge and at the entrance to the estate are closed and barred. At the slightest touch of these gates, electric bells will ring throughout the castle.

One Thursday in September, a letter carrier presented himself at the gate at the head of the bridge, and, as usual, it was the Baron himself who opened the gate. He scrutinized the man thoroughly as if he were a stranger, although the honest face and twinkling eyes of the postman had been familiar to the Baron for many years. The man laughed, as he said:

“It’s me Monsieur le Baron. It’s not another man wearing my cap and blouse.”

“One can never tell,” muttered the Baron.

The man handed him several newspapers, and then said:

“And now, Monsieur le Baron here’s something new.”

“Something new?”

“Yes, a letter. A registered letter.”

Living as a recluse, without friends or business relations, the baron never received any letters, and the one presented to him immediately aroused a feeling of suspicion and distrust. It was like an omen. Who was this mysterious pen pal that dared to disturb his tranquility?

“You must sign for it, Monsieur le Baron.”