LA NONCHALANTE. BEAUNE
They had to cross the space between the barge and the wharf and to step over a number of ropes and empty barrels covering the flat portions of the deck. A companion-way brought them to a sort of cabin, which did duty as a stateroom and a kitchen in one. Here they found a powerful-looking man, with broad shoulders, curly black hair and a clean-shaven face. His only clothes were a blouse and a pair of dirty, patched canvas trousers.
Don Luis offered him a twenty-franc note. The man took it eagerly.
“Just tell me something, mate. Have you seen a barge lately, lying at Berthou’s Wharf?”
“Yes, a motor-barge. She left two days ago.”
“What was her name?”
“The Belle Hélène. The people on board, two men and a woman, were foreigners talking I don’t know what lingo. . . . We didn’t speak to one another.”
“But Berthou’s Wharf has stopped work, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, the owner’s joined the army . . . and the foremen as well. We’ve all got to, haven’t we? I’m expecting to be called up myself . . . though I’ve got a weak heart.”
“But, if the yard’s stopped work, what was the boat doing here?”