Dangerous Cargo (15 page)

As if by magic the big fellow appeared out of the dark. There was another
behind him. “Picked up Jim,” he muttered. Grober was forced to put his hands
behind him and Jim tied him up, afterwards frisked him, taking his guns and
his keys.

“You shall pay for this!” Grober threatened. “At sea I am the master. It
is the law!”

“You’ll have a chance to tell the judge,” said Mme. Storey.

Horace joined us. “Outrage! Outrage!” Grober was muttering.

“Ahh! shut up!” said Horace harshly. “Fahrig is caught, and we’ve got the
goods on you!”

Grober’s head sunk between his shoulders. He said no more.

In order to reach his quarters we had to lead him almost to the bridge. It
was a ticklish situation, because at this hour the majority of the crew would
be loafing on the fo’c’sle head immediately below. If the crew was roused
before we got their officers under lock and key, God only knew what would
happen.

Horace was sent on ahead to engage the attention of the officer on watch.
The bridge was on the same level as the boat deck, and we could see the
solitary shadow outlined against the sky. When Horace reached him we started
forward, Jim was told to keep out of sight until he could count a hundred and
then follow us. I picked up the rug and hung it over my gun again.

As we drew near the bridge the officer turned around and looked at us. Of
course, all he could see was a group of dim figures in the dark. Les
whispered to Grober: “If you let a sound out of you I’ll crack you over the
head with my gun!” Grober was dumb. We all breathed more freely when we got
him inside the door leading to the officers’ quarters.

This was a short passage with two rooms on either side. At the forward end
there was a door leading into the chartroom. Beyond the chartroom was the
wheelhouse. Les opened the door of the captain’s room, thrust Grober down on
his bunk, gagged him and tied his ankles together.

We were as quiet as we could be, but there were bound to be some
suspicious sounds. As we came out of the captain’s room, the door opposite
opened and there stood Niederhoff with an astonished face. When he saw Les he
knew he was in for trouble. He turned back. There was a gun lying on his
desk.

Pushing me violently aside, Les sprang upon Niederhoff’s back as he
reached for the gun and bore him down on the bed. Mme. Storey secured the
gun. A choked cry escaped from Niederhoff, and Les clapped a big hand over
his mouth. It was obvious that Les couldn’t tie him up like this, and I saw
what I had to do. I sat on Neiderhoff’s head pressing his face into the
pillows until Les had made his wrists and ankles fast. Les then gagged him
and we let him breathe again. His face was growing blue.

There were no keys in the doors and we couldn’t stop to search for
them.

We proceeded forward into the chartroom. By this time old Jim had joined
us. The chartroom was empty. The chart was pinned to a big drawing-board
under a light, and on the other side of the room was the arms-locker. The
door into the wheelhouse was always kept closed at night, as any light would
interfere with the vision of the helmsman. Les signed to us to go into the
wheelhouse and keep the watch occupied while he and Jim got out the irons we
wanted.

An air of mystery hangs over the wheelhouse at night. It is dark and
still; orders are given in quiet voices. However the passengers may strut
below, this is the real soul of the ship. There was a young sailor at the
wheel, his face faintly illuminated by reflected light from the binnacle, and
beyond him Bostock, the third officer, was standing.

“Mme. Storey!” he exclaimed in surprise.

Naturally we had no business to be prowling around that part of the ship
after nightfall.

“Just exploring!” said Mme. Storey in the silly manner she adopts when she
wants to cover her tracks. “You have such cunning little rooms up here on the
roof of the ship. Much nicer than ours!”

Bostock said nothing. We could hear his heels click together as he bowed.
He was a mere lad, but just as wooden as the others. Perhaps with his own
people he was a kind and likeable lad, but he felt himself a stranger amongst
us and he hated us.

“What a darling little wheel!” she cried. “Do you mean to say that little
wheel can steer this big ship?”

“The wheel merely transmits the impulse to the steering machinery,”
answered Bostock in his formal German fashion.

“Fancy that!”

There were doors right and left leading out on the bridge. Through the
right-hand door we could see Horace and the other officer talking together.
The door from the chartroom opened and Les entered followed by Jim. “Farman!”
said Bostock sharply. “What are you doing in there?”

By way of answer, Les presented a gun at his head. “Turn your back to me,”
he said crisply. “Put your hands behind you. If you make a sound I’ll
shoot!”

The lad hesitated. He looked around. By that time Mme. Storey and I were
covering the helmsman Bostock submitted. He turned around and his chin
dropped on his chest. At a nod from Les, Jim came forward and clicked the
irons on his wrists.

“Take the wheel, Jim,” ordered Les. “The course is sou’ by east.”

“I’m on your side,” said the other sailor tremulously.

“Good!” said Les dryly. “Stick your hands behind you!” Click! went the
irons. “If you’re on the square with me I’ll soon release you,” added
Les.

He forced his two captives to lie down on the floor, and put the irons on
their ankles. The irons were like wide bracelets, much heavier than police
handcuffs. There had been no sound in the wheelhouse except the clinking of
the chains that fastened them together. It was impossible to avoid this.

The unusual sound, slight though it was, suddenly brought the remaining
officer, Fulda, in from the bridge on the run. He had a flashlight, and one
glance inside the wheelhouse was enough for him. He turned back through the
door shouting:

“Mutiny! Mutiny! Help, men!”

That was as much as he could get out before Horace leaped on him, bearing
him to the floor with a crash inside the door. From the well-deck arose an
ugly mutter that quickly swelled to a bellow of rage. Above all the others we
heard a voice shouting:

“Come on, fellows!”

Les flung two pairs of irons on the floor, and crying “Secure that man!”
ran out through the door.

Swinging himself over the rail of the bridge, he slid out: down a
stanchion to the promenade-deck, and gained the top of the ladder before the
men could swarm up from the well.

Meanwhile, Horace, shouting to us to take care of Fulda, followed Les. He
ran down the stairs, and it took him longer. Mme. Storey and I flung
ourselves on the second officer. He was a powerful brute, and we could not
hold him down and handcuff him too. Jim had to come to our aid. The yacht
swung off and began to roll in the trough of the sea.

We secured Fulda and ran out, leaving our prisoners writhing on the floor.
The Germans did not curse as our men would. Les’ voice shouted from below:
“Mind your helm!” and Jim grabbed the wheel again. Mme. Storey and I hustled
down the stairs to the promenade. The yelling from below had died down for a
moment, then broke out again, hideously.

What had happened during those few moments was this: Les, blocking the
head of the ladder, and letting his voice roar out, cried:

“It’s all over but the shouting, boys! The Captain and the three officers
are prisoners, and I’m the master of this ship!”

They heard it and fell silent. It was the silence of stupefaction. Quickly
following up his advantage, Les said:

“I can’t take this ship into port without a crew. You know me, boys. Will
you stand by me? I promise you that as soon as we touch port there shall be a
full investigation of all the troubles on board!”

“Where’s the owner?” demanded a voice.

At this moment Horace reached Les’ side. Whatever his faults, Horace did
not lack physical courage.

“Well, what do you want of me?” he asked defiantly. He had his gun in his
hand.

“For God’s sake put up your gun or you’ll have us all thrown to the
sharks!” muttered Les.

Horace concealed the gun just a moment too late. There was a flood-light
on the well-deck used when heavy supplies or baggage was brought aboard at
night.

Somebody turned it on and cast it on the group at the head of the ladder.
It caught the gun and a hellish chorus of cries broke out:

“Yah! Murderer! Murderer!…What you put the Captain in irons for? Because
he wouldn’t let you flog a man?…Yah! Les! you turncoat! Want to kiss the
hand that flogs you!…What you getting out of this?…Put the owner in irons
and we’ll work the ship!…Put the murderer in irons!”

This was going on when Mme. Storey and I struck the promenade-deck. Before
showing herself at the forward rail she called Horace back to her. He came
with a hard, white face.

“For God’s sake leave the deck!” he said. “This is no place for
women!”

“Be quiet!” she said peremptorily. “Go inside! It is the sight of you
which infuriates them. I am in no danger!”

“I’m not afraid of them!” he growled.

“Well, I am!” she said, with bright eyes. “Go away from here or you will
be the death of all of us!”

He sullenly gave in. “Take my gun,” he muttered. Her hands were empty at
the moment.

She shook her head. “Worse than useless to me!” She went forward and
Horace faded out of the picture; I don’t know where he went.

Les was standing in a strong light at the head of the ladder, looking down
at the yelling mob with a composed face. His empty hands were in plain view.
To a certain extent his quiet eye intimidated them, but they were gradually
edging towards the foot of the ladder; sailors, stewards and oilers, all
mixed together. Mme. Storey showed herself beside him, and the crowd fell
quiet. They didn’t know how to take her. She was on Horace’s side, but they
couldn’t forget that it was she who had stopped the flogging. She said:

“Will you let me talk to you, sailors?”

There were confused cries of “Yes!…No!…” and a bull-like voice
roaring: “What have you got to say?”

She smiled. It was neither forced nor contemptuous. Danger made her eyes
bright. “Only want to tell you why we tied up the Captain. Before you run
wild you had better find out what’s stinging you!”

There was some laughter. Also a voice shouting “She’s only stalling,
sailors!”

“Most of you are American boys,” she went on quickly, “You can’t scare me
because you’re my own kind. And I’m going to say my say!”

She suddenly started down the ladder. I gasped. Les made to follow her,
but she turned, murmuring: “Go back! I am safer alone!” He obeyed, but I
heard him groan with anxiety.

When she reached the lower deck the men backed away in front of her. “What
are you afraid of?” she asked, smiling. She stood with her back against the
foremast. “Come on up!” Nobody moved. “Any of you boys got a Lucky?”

Several men started forward extending their packets of cigarettes. Mme.
Storey accepted a smoke from one and a light from another. “I can talk better
when I’ve got something in my hand,” she said, blowing a cloud of smoke.

They began to move up. One came forward with a stool for her to sit on.
“Thanks,” she said, “I’ll stand on it. I want to see you all.”

Somebody slyly turned the flood-light so that it shone in her face. Mme.
Storey made a bow in the direction of the light. “Thanks, electrician!” There
was a general laugh, and I released my pent-up breath. She was getting
them!

“I don’t know if you know it,” she said, “but I’m a sort of criminologist
or investigator—if anybody calls me detective I’ll fight! Two weeks
before we started from New York, Horace Laghet was warned over the telephone
that if he took this voyage he would never come back alive. He laughed at the
first warning. The day before we sailed he was warned again, and then he sent
for me and asked me to come along and find out if there was a plot aboard his
yacht to get him.”

They listened to her in complete silence now. While she was speaking the
guests gathered along the forward rail of the promenade. There was Emil and
Celia pressed close together and looking down with the serene fearlessness of
youth; there was Adele listening with a pinched and hateful face,
half-supported by Dr. Tanner, whose face was a blank; there was Sophie in one
Of her girlish evening-dresses, running back and forth, torn between
curiosity and terror, wasting her breath in vain whispered appeals to Celia
to come away.

The last to arrive were Adrian and Martin in sleek evening-dress; Adrian
seemed to be half out of his wits with terror; his mouth worked and his eyes
rolled like an idiot’s; he listened as if in pain. Martin, on the other hand,
looked down at the scene, merely blinking. A little behind the group, Horace
came into view, listening with bent head. I didn’t envy him his thoughts.

“You all know about the attack that Johnson made on the owner last night.
Somebody said the poor devil was doped, and I don’t doubt it. Who doped him?
What you do not know is, that I had previously taken a gun from Johnson and
had shipped him back to New York on the
Orizaba
. But he escaped and
came back aboard the yacht. That’s the reason he had to be hidden from the
boss and from me.

“Well, poor Johnson is gone. After the events of last night and this
morning the plotters believed that they had another tool ripe for their
purpose in Les Farman. And Les found a gun tucked in his bunk to-day. An hour
ago, somebody hidden in stewards’ stores yonder and speaking to Les through
the porthole, offered him a grand to shoot Horace Laghet in his bed to-night.
The whole approach and the getaway had been carefully planned out.

“We caught Fahrig, the Captain’s steward, coming out of stewards’ stores.
We had other evidence too. The three guns, that is to say, the two I took
from Johnson, and the one handed to me by Farman, all came out of the arms
locker aboard this yacht. And the only two keys to the locker are in the
possession of the Captain and the first officer. When we discovered that we
decided to put the officers under lock and key and make for port. Do you
blame us?”