Dangerous Cargo (24 page)

“Go ahead.”

While Les was so engaged, she continued to search with the flashlight.
With an exclamation of satisfaction, she pounced on a tiny object at the foot
of the stairs. “Burnt match,” she said. “He had to light a match to find the
switch. It’s a wax match. Are there such matches in the ship’s stores?”

“I doubt it,” said Les. “None have been issued.”

“It’s not likely,” said Mme. Storey. “Such matches are not made in
America. While I am going on with my investigation in the lounge, I want you
to undertake a quiet search for the box from which this match was taken.
Search the crew, and search their effects; search the guests’ state-rooms. If
you can find that box of matches we’ll send the possessor of it to the
chair.”

Les left us at the head of the stairs in order to start his search. Mme.
Storey borrowed a key to Adrian’s room from him, and we made our way aft
through B deck. We found Adrian lying in his bunk in a pitiable state. He was
the sort of man who was bound to go to pieces in solitary confinement. At
sight of my employer he sprang up half in terror, half in hope, but she
ignored him.

What she was after was the exact position of his porthole. By measurement
it proved to be six feet aft of the bulkhead separating holds two and three.
Proceeding up to A deck, we found that there was an unoccupied cabin over
Adrian’s place of confinement. One of its portholes proved to be immediately
over Adrian’s porthole.

“Our plotter would send down his messages from here,” said Mme. Storey.
“Much safer than on deck.”

Under the porthole there was a couch. Upon examining it, Mme. Storey
smiled. “Look,” she said, passing me the glass. “He stood on the couch in
order to get his head and an arm through the porthole so he could manipulate
his string. For some reason unknown to me, he stepped into the butcher’s
stores on his way up from the swimming-pool. Then hastened here to recover
the key from Adrian.”

On the upholstered couch I discovered—a flake or two of sawdust!

We went on up to the lounge. They were all waiting for us, divided into
the usual suspicious little cliques; Sophie, Celia and Emil on one side of
the room; Adele and Dr. Tanner on the other; Martin in front of the
fireplace, alone and inscrutable. All eyes flew to Mme. Storey’s face to see
what they could read there, but she wasn’t giving anything away.

My employer and I sat down behind a table, and I spread open my note-book.
Jim brought Adrian up. Mme. Storey despatched the old sailor to round up the
cooks and waiters. Meanwhile she asked Adrian a few questions.

“When you returned to your room from the swimming-pool, what did you
do?”

Adrian, always dramatic, struck the back of his hand against his brow. “I
was dazed,” he said. “I have no recollection of how I got back. When I came
to myself I was standing there with the key in my hand. I ran to the
porthole, but the string was not hanging down outside. It was just growing
light. I waited for what seemed like an age, wondering what I would do if
Grober didn’t take the key off my hands. I was just making up my mind to
throw it into the sea when the string appeared, with the little bolt on the
end of it. I tied on the key, gave it a twitch, and it disappeared. That’s
all.”

“You say you waited an age. Can’t you give me a better idea?”

“I was too confused to say exactly. Maybe five minutes. Maybe more.”

“Time enough,” said Mme. Storey. “Did you stick your head out of the
porthole to look for the string?”

“The portholes on B deck are too small. I couldn’t get my head out.”

“That’s all now.”

The cooks and stewards were introduced to the lounge one at a time, and
Mme. Storey patiently questioned them without eliciting anything. They all
swore that nobody had passed through the pantry or the galley except the
workers there. Nobody had been seen going up or down the stairway into number
one hold. This didn’t prove anything, because these men had not gone on duty
until six-thirty, and our man had had plenty of time to hide himself
beforehand.

When we came to the butcher he confirmed what we already knew, but added
nothing. The butcher furnished the only moment of amusement during the whole
grim scene. He was a deliberate man who insisted on relating every
detail.

“The chef asked for lamb chops for breakfast, and when I went to my stores
to cut them…”

“What time was this?” asked Mme. Storey.

“It had just gone six bells, Ma’am. Seven o’clock. I come aft through the
crew’s mess, and I seen that the door to my stores was shut. This struck me
as funny, because I keep it hooked back. There’s nothing in there but a block
and a table. The refrigerators is locked. When I put my hand against the door
it resisted me. There was somebody inside. I says: ‘Who’s there?’ and cussed
him out, but there wasn’t no answer.”

“Did you put your full weight against the door?”

The butcher was a man of well over two hundred pounds. “Not my full
weight,” he answered cautiously. “I was scared.”

We smiled.

“I went into the galley, and called the cook’s helper,” the butcher
continued. “He picked up a knife and come back with me. But the door was open
then, and he was gone. Went up the ladder like a shadow.”

“Did you follow him?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Me and the cook’s helper run up on deck, but we couldn’t see
anybody. He must have gone through the door into the corridor on A deck.
There’s funny things happens aboard this ship.”

“Quite!” said Mme. Storey. “That’s all, thank you.”

The questioning went on. We were now in northern latitudes, where the
winter days were short. The lights were turned on in the lounge without
anybody noticing it. But some time later Celia happened to look out of the
window and cried out:

“Oh! lights outside! Lights on shore! We’re getting in!”

They all ran out on deck. I looked out through the door. Sure enough,
there were the lights of Coney Island like a cluster of pin-point stars far
away to starboard. A great feeling of thankfulness welled up in my breast.
Anything to get off that murder ship! I think every face showed gladness
except Adrian’s. Reaching port spelled fresh terrors for him.

In a little while we dropped anchor off quarantine. Soon afterwards Mr.
McLaren came down to report that he had been in communication with the health
officers, and that no doctor was available until morning. That meant we must
lie where we were. Faces fell. Mme. Storey went up to the wireless office to
send a message to her attorney announcing our arrival and giving him certain
instructions.

Afterwards the questioning was resumed. During this time it was impossible
for me to keep track of the members of our party. Sometimes they were in the
lounge, sometimes out on deck. However, they were all present when Les Farman
came in.

“Did you have any luck?” Mme. Storey asked him casually.

“No, Madam. I carried out your instructions, but I did not find what I was
looking for.”

“Too bad!”

There was a silence. How strange it was to feel the ship lying so still
under one after the incessant throbbing of the engine! Everybody was looking
from Les’ face to Mme. Storey’s and back again, tormented with curiosity.
Finally my employer said:

“I shall have to ask everybody to submit to a search. Close the doors,
please.”

“What are you looking for?” demanded Sophie suspiciously.

“I’ll tell you when I find it, darling.”

Meanwhile she had stuck a cigarette in her mouth, and was making believe
to fumble with her lighter. After several tries she threw it pettishly on the
table. “Confound these things! Always out of order! Has anybody got an honest
to goodness match?”

My notes end at that point. The question was never answered. We heard a
hollow, muffed boom inside the vessel, and the whole fabric was violently
shaken like a bird-cage on the end of a spring. We were all thrown to the
floor. There was a horrible series of crashes from pantry and galley; shouts
and cries; then a strange silence. We were too frightened to move. I shall
never forget that picture; chairs, tables, people sprawling fantastically. We
could hear the inrush of water, most terrifying sound of all.

Les Farman leaped to his feet. His ear told him the location of the sound.
“Number two hold; the swimming-pool!” He started for the door. Throughout the
ship we heard the clang of the watertight doors on B deck. These could be
closed from the bridge. McLaren was on the job. Les paused in the doorway and
addressed us with an extraordinary smile. His voice was not even hurried.

“No immediate danger, folks. She’ll float for a good while yet. There’s a
ship anchored not quarter of a mile from us, and, anyway, the shore’s in
sight. Go to your cabins and get warm clothes. All you can wear. All guests
must be on the promenade-deck, starboard side, in five minutes.”

His voice broke the spell that held us. “What has happened?” somebody
screamed at him.

“How can I tell until I go see?” he answered with his good-natured grin.
It was like a tonic. “An explosion of some sort; bomb; floating mine,
perhaps.” He disappeared.

We scrambled to our feet and ran this way and that, Sophie and Adele
screeching continuously. Why do women have to act so! One longed to hit them
over the head! Sophie refused to leave the deck and Celia ran down below to
fetch wraps for both.

THERE was a shrill whistle outside, and the command was
given: “All hands on deck! Boat stations!” One heard running feet all over
the ship. Presently, in order to avert the danger of an explosion, the valves
were opened, and the roar of escaping steam added to the confusion. Through
other sounds I could hear the whine of the wireless. Charlie was sending
fast.

As Mme. Storey and I went down the companionway we met stewards and other
servants running up. Each was carrying a bundle of some sort. They looked at
us coolly. We were all on a plane of equality now. On A deck Mme. Storey
turned aft instead of forward towards our rooms.

“Come on!” she said.

“But our things!” I protested.

“They can wait,” she answered grimly. “It would be too bad to let a
million and a half of diamonds go to the bottom!”

I had completely forgotten the diamonds.

At the after end of the corridor the door was open, and Beaton, Horace
Laghet’s valet, was standing there with a quiet face. “What has happened?” he
asked.

“An explosion of some sort,” said Mme. Storey. “All hands are ordered on
deck.”

“I didn’t like to leave my master,” said Beaton simply.

Through the open door into the bedroom we could see Horace lying on his
bed. Beaton had performed the last offices for the dead. Horace was as
carefully groomed as in life, even to the white flower in the buttonhole of
his morning-coat. All the tumult and the shouting signified nothing to that
quiet figure. Mme. Storey said:

“Find the Captain and ask him to detail men to help you carry your
master’s body to the boats.”

Beaton hastened away.

Mme. Storey pulled open a door in the panelling of the room, revealing a
safe let into the wall behind. She tried the handle. It was locked. “A man in
a hurry instinctively locks a safe by giving the knob a twist to the right,”
she murmured. “Perhaps I can open it.”

Kneeling on the floor and holding her ear close to the lock to listen to
the fall of the tumblers, she slowly turned the knob back. After a couple of
false tries, she gave an exclamation of satisfaction, and smartly grasped the
handle. It turned: the door swung open. But the safe was empty.

“Ah!” said Mme. Storey.

“Somebody has been before us!”

We met Beaton in the corridor followed by Les Farman and three sailors
carrying a folded stretcher. The stretcher was opened on the floor and
Horace’s body laid upon it. “Wait!” said Beaton, as they were about to pick
it up. He fetched a heavy overcoat and flung it over the body. The sailors
grinned at each other; one said: “He don’t need that, mate.” But one
understood the impulse that prompted Beaton’s act. He and the sailors carried
the body out.

Les said: “An explosion in the swimming-pool. Apparently the bottom of the
vessel was blown out. I can’t understand it.”

“I can,” said Mme. Storey; “a time bomb put there after we had left the
place.

“How could a bomb be manufactured aboard the ship without somebody’s
getting on to it?”

“It couldn’t be. Must have been brought aboard. All part of the plot.”

“My God!” said Les.

“How long have we got?” she asked.

“There are five compartments,” he said. “We only have water in one. She
will float indefinitely—if the bulkheads hold. As to that, you can’t
tell until they’re tried.”

Les went back on deck, and we hastened to our rooms. The
Buccaneer
was down by the head now, and as we went forward we were running downhill.
She felt different underfoot. She had lost buoyancy. As we passed the forward
companionway we could hear the lap of water below—a sickening
sound!

We snatched up furs and what money and jewels we had; my employer’s
strong-box and brief-case, and ran up the two flights of stairs, to the
boat-deck. The interior of the ship was strangely deserted. As the steam
failed the lights were beginning to dim.

It was bright enough on deck. There was an auxiliary plant run by a noisy
gas engine, and a pair of searchlights on either side lit up the scene in
lurid fashion. Perfect discipline was displayed. The boats were swung out and
lowered flush with the edge of the deck; two launches and two rowing boats.
The entire ship’s company stood waiting for the word to get in.

We met Les Farman.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Mme. Storey.

“If she’s going to float we may save her,” he answered. “I’ve wirelessed
for tugs. The prisoners, relieved of their irons, were to go in the port
launch in charge of Mr. McLaren. The owner’s launch hung on the other side.
Horace, on his stretcher, had already been carried aboard and laid in the
cabin. I saw Sophie wrapped in several fur coats sitting in a chair that
somebody had brought her, weeping like a child. Emil and Celia stood close
together wrapped in a single big cape. As I passed I heard Emil say: ‘As long
as we are together, darling!’ My heart warmed towards them. It must be rather
nice to be shipwrecked with your lover.”