A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.
Late that evening the steward of the “Merry Maid” was sitting in his
berth, writing.
The accommodation at his disposal was of the most meagre kind. It
included neither desk nor table, for which, by-the-bye, the tiny place
would not have had room if they had been available. By way of a
substitute, however, his washstand, which was of the sort commonly
considered quite luxurious enough for a seafarer, was fitted with a deal
top, and upon this he had spread the wherewithal to write a long letter.
He sat upon his campstool and applied himself very diligently to his
work, covering sheet after sheet with minute writing. Actually, he was
writing a very detailed account of all that had transpired after he left
home to enter upon the duties of an amateur detective. Having made his
budget of news as complete and circumstantial as possible, he folded the
papers upon which he had written into a long, thin roll. Then he reached
out of the drawer under his bunk an empty wine bottle. He had evidently
prepared it for the occasion, for it was quite clean and dry. Into this
receptacle he thrust his roll of paper. Then he corked the bottle, and
wired the cork firmly down, tying over all a piece of washleather, in
order to prevent the possibility of the entrance of sea-water into the
bottle. His next proceeding was to open the port, and to lower the
bottle through it into the water, through which the “Merry Maid” was
running at the rate of ten knots an hour--not at all bad for an ordinary
ocean tramp, as the class of vessels to which the “Merry Maid” belonged
is often called.
“There,” he thought, “I feel easier after taking that precaution. One
never knows what may happen, and there is too much at stake to permit it
to depend entirely on my safety. I wonder what makes me feel so uneasy.
I don’t think I have done anything to betray myself. And yet I have a
strange foreboding of coming ill. Shall I ever see old England again?
Just now I have my doubts. Throwing that bottle into the sea was the
first outcome of the new feeling of dread which has come over me, and
even if ill comes to me before we reach Malta, there is the chance of
Harley being rescued after all, for the first person who picks the
bottle up will examine and report upon its contents. I once read of a
castaway bottle floating about two years--sent hither and thither,
caught first by one current, and then by another--before it was finally
washed ashore. God grant that Harley may not have to wait two years for
his deliverance.”
While he was thus musing in a depressed mood that struck him as uncanny
and unaccountable, considering the information that he had gained, the
steward of the “Merry Maid” prepared himself for bed, for he had to rise
early next morning. Had he but cast his tired eyes up to the little
peephole which overlooked the next berth, he would have noticed
something which would have alarmed him. The hole being unprotected, the
light from his oil lamp had betrayed him.
The captain had retired for the night, but found sleep to be in too
fitful and fleetsome a mood to benefit him. The fact that he was richer
by at least a thousand pounds than he was a day or two ago had set his
imagination going, and he was in fancy entering into all sorts of plans
for doubling his capital. Towards one o’clock, he was dozing off, when a
slight noise awoke him. Some people are easily aroused by any unexpected
sound. Captain Cochrane was one of these people. There is hardly any
time so quiet at sea in a merchant ship as one o’clock in the morning.
All hands not on watch are in bed, and those who are on watch content
themselves with doing their duty. Supplementary caperings or
promenadings are deferred until a more seasonable time.
This being the case, we can understand how it was that Captain Cochrane
was on the alert at once when the sound of a splash in the water close
to his port fell on his startled ears. For a moment he lay wondering
whether someone had fallen overboard or not. Then, just as he came to
the conclusion that the splash was hardly loud enough to account for a
cat falling into the water, he noticed something else that surprised
him.
Just opposite his face, as he sat up in his bunk, there was a small
round patch of light. He had no light burning in his berth. Whence came
this illumination of a spot to which no light for which he could account
could penetrate? He must find out. With Captain Cochrane, to resolve was
usually to do. It did not take him long to discover William Trace’s
secret.
A hole had been deliberately cut in the partition. Such an act would not
be done without a purpose. What was that purpose? A very cursory
inspection, conducted in the quietest possible manner, convinced the
captain that he had come upon a means of espionage. He himself had been
the object of supervision. It was time to reverse the situation, and
this was accordingly done. The blood of William Trace would, of a
surety, have run cold if he could have seen the baleful look in the eye
which was now peering down at him as he unconsciously betrayed his dual
identity by divesting himself of the thick wig and beard, which he found
hot and uncomfortable.
Chancing, as he vaulted into his bunk, to glance at his means of
inspecting the next berth, he noticed, to his horror, that the
card-board disc was not in its place. To repair the omission was the
work of a moment. But he could not so soon recover from the shock which
his blunder had caused him. The sense of foreboding which had visited
him in the earlier part of the night attacked him with redoubled force,
but amid all his doubts of his own personal safety, inspired by his
conviction of the villainous character of the two men with whom he had
to deal, there rose a sense of thankfulness that Harley’s rescue no
longer depended entirely upon his brother’s personal safety.
The replacing of the card-board disc prevented Captain Cochrane from
seeing into the steward’s berth. But this fact did not trouble him. The
hole had served his purpose, and he had seen enough to convince him that
he had brought to sea as ship’s steward a man who was neither more nor
less than a spy. A spy, moreover, who had found it necessary to cloak
his identity by an elaborate disguise.
What could be his special motive, and who was the object of his
attentions? The captain felt quite easy as regarded himself, for he had
always been very careful to avoid adding to his perquisites in so clumsy
a manner as to lead to unpleasant inquiries. His transaction with Mr.
Torrens was the first for which he felt the law might have a legitimate
grip upon him. But as the steward had evidently been officiating as spy,
or detective, whichever he might like to call himself, before the
occurrence of the little scene just alluded to, it was clear that this
was not the cause of the stranger’s presence on board. His motive must
be anterior to the division of the spoil. Yet that it had something to
do with the flight of Mr. Torrens, and the abduction of the said spoil,
Captain Cochrane felt morally convinced.
Now, had the pursuit and discovery of a diamond thief involved no loss
or danger to himself, the skipper of the “Merry Maid” would not have
felt very much concern. But the events of the last few days had
materially altered his notions on the subject. For, whereas he would
formerly have felt it incumbent upon him to lend his aid in the cause of
right and justice, he now felt his own safety involved in the
maintenance of Mr. Torrens’s desire to do what he liked with what was
left of the proceeds of his venture.
For was he not an accessory after the fact? And had he not in his own
possession a very handsome share of the plunder? Detection and exposure
of Torrens meant loss, disgrace, and imprisonment for Captain Cochrane.
“Having gone so far,” he said, clenching his teeth, and looking very
grim about the eyes, “I will go on to the bitter end. I won’t allow any
man to foil me, if I can help it. This William Trace, as he calls
himself, came here at his own risk, and on his head be it if he does not
find his way home again.”
The next morning, or, rather, at eight o’clock the same morning, there
was considerable speculation in the minds of two of the individuals in
the cabin of the “Merry Maid.” One of them was the steward, who was, to
the best of his ability, attending to the wants of those at the
breakfast table. But though he was keenly observant of the captain’s
manner, there was nothing in it that could lead him to suppose his
secret to have been betrayed. Nay, the captain was even more forbearing
than usual, and had nothing to say anent the sloppy nature of the dry
hash, or the extraordinary mixture dignified by the name of curried
lobster.
Altogether, breakfast passed over pretty quietly, and Hilton Riddell,
alias William Trace, began to feel more comfortable in his mind. Further
espionage he did not think necessary to go in for, as he had already
learned enough to prove his case. If only the ship could be made to
accelerate her speed, and arrive quicker at Malta. He could then
disburthen himself of the immense responsibility which weighed upon him.
Meanwhile, the best thing he could do was to endeavour to give
satisfaction as steward, in order to lead as peaceful a life as possible
while on board.
After breakfast, the captain requested Mr. Torrens to accompany him to
the chart-room, as he had something he wanted to show him there.
“Certainly; any blessed thing for a change,” said the passenger. “I
should feel inclined to blow my brains out if I had to put up with this
stagnation long. How on earth you fellows stand the monotony, I don’t
know.”
“Well, you see,” was the captain’s reply, as the two were crossing the
poop deck together, “we are used to the life, and, what’s more, we like
it. But that is not what I want to talk to you about just now. I have
something to tell you that will astonish you. Ah! there he goes. Do you
know that fellow? I mean the one who has just gone along to the galley.”
“Of course I know him. He is the steward.”
“So I thought, until last night, when I witnessed a performance not
intended for my eyes. That fellow, who has shipped with us as steward,
and calls himself William Trace, is a detective, and he is after you.”
“Good God! how do you know that?”
“He has got a very good outfit in the way of disguise. That bushy beard
of his is false. So is his wig. And I happen to know that he saw you
bring the diamonds out of your berth into mine. And that reminds me. I
want to have a look into that same berth of yours.”
“For God’s sake, don’t trifle with me. Is what you say about the steward
true?”
“Yes, it’s true enough, curse him.”
“Then I’m lost.”
“I don’t know about that. Anyhow, I don’t mean to give in, and lose what
I got last night, without a struggle.”
“But what can we do if the thing is found out already?”
“There are a good many things which desperate men can do. But, before we
decide anything further, we’ll go below again, while our enemy is in the
galley.”
Suiting the action to the word, the confederates proceeded to Mr.
Torrens’s berth.
“I thought so,” observed the captain; “look here.”
“At what? At that little hole into which you have thrust your finger?”
“That little hole is one of the traps that has betrayed you. There is
one just like it overlooking my berth.”
“But nobody can see through it.”
“At present, no. Because it is covered on the other side. Remove the
cover, and put an enemy’s eye to the hole, and where are your secrets?
There is no doubt about it. This fellow has followed you here, and he
has now discovered all he came for. It’s lucky for you that we went
shares last night, for you would have small chance of getting out of the
mess by yourself.”
“Who will this be? Have you any idea?”
“A detective from Scotland Yard, most likely. Employed by the friends of
the man who is in gaol.”
“Riddell has a brother who, in my hearing, swore not to let the matter
drop. My God, what a fool I am! This is the very man. I wondered what
his voice and figure reminded me of. Now I know. This is Harley
Riddell’s brother himself. He will tell everything when we get to
Malta.”
“We mustn’t let him.”
“How are we to prevent him?”
“He must never reach Malta. I tell you, I won’t be baulked of my share
of the diamonds, and you have far more at stake than I have. It often
happens that a man falls overboard.”
For a moment the two villains looked into each other’s eyes. Then they
understood each other, and Hilton Riddell’s fate was mapped out before
that interview ended.
Somehow, the steward’s duties seemed interminable that day, for the
captain had taken it into his head that the chart-room required a
thorough cleaning and overhauling.
“Steward,” he said, “I want you to try what sort of a job you can make
of this place. Our last steward didn’t half look after things. You can
get the engineer’s steward to help you for an hour. It won’t take you
longer than that.”
The work might be uncongenial to a man of Hilton Riddell’s tastes and
temperament. But it had to be done, and he was not one to shirk his
responsibilities because they happened to be distasteful. So he occupied
himself up in the chart-room, unconscious of the fact that his berth was
being searched all over. The searchers found enough to convince them of
his real identity. They also made the discovery that it must have been
he who wished to sail as passenger in the “Merry Maid,” but whom Captain
Cochrane, in obedience to Mr. Stavanger’s request that he would carry no
passenger but Hugh, had declined to take. There was the long red
moustache, and there was the checked tweed suit worn by the would-be
passenger, whose career was to be so soon ended.
It was singular that the lock of the steward’s door should have gone
wrong, and that when he went to bed that night he could not turn the
key, as was his wont on retiring. “I must put that right to-morrow,” he
thought. Then, believing himself to be unsuspected, and therefore in no
danger, he went to bed, and, being very tired, soon dropped into a sound
slumber.
At 12 p.m. the chief mate was waiting impatiently for the second mate to
come and relieve him, for he felt as if he could keep his eyes open no
longer. The longest spell off watch that the mates of a merchant cargo
steamer ever have is four hours. From this four hours must be deducted
half an hour for a wash and a meal, leaving three and a half hours as
the utmost length of time they have for sleep. As a rule, they no sooner
lay their heads upon their pillows than they fall asleep, and the two
men who were scheming against the steward’s safety meant to take
advantage of this fact. To all appearance they had gone to bed. In
reality, they were never more keenly on the alert, and, in the absence
of both mates, they were tolerably safe, as they knew how to choose
their moment for action. They waited until they heard the second mate
ascend the companion to relieve his superior. Then they swiftly and
noiselessly entered the steward’s berth, closing the door after them.
But, careful as their movements had been, they startled the sleeper, who
attempted to spring up in his bunk. There was a sudden blow, a stifled
cry, and a short but sharp struggle, at the end of which Hilton Riddell
lay passive and lifeless in the hands of his assassins, who had deemed
strangulation the safest way to silence their victim.
When, about two minutes later, the mate came off watch, all was quiet
in the steward’s berth. But the two men stood gazing at each other with
horror-stricken eyes, and instinctively turned their backs upon the
awful object which but a few moments ago had been full of life and
strength.
For fully an hour they hardly dared to breathe. Then, feeling sure that
the mate must be sound asleep now, they set about removing the evidence
of their crime. The captain, who, like his companion, was shoeless for
the occasion, slipped up the companion, to reconnoitre.
“All is safe,” he presently whispered to his fellow-murderer, who had
not dared to remain alone with the body, but had come out into the
cabin. “There is not a soul about. The folk on the bridge will be
looking in any direction except behind them, where we are. And even if
they tried to look this way, the night is too dark for them to see
anything.”
Soon after this there was lowered, over the side furthest from the
mate’s berth, the remains of what had been the steward of the “Merry
Maid.” The body was lowered so carefully, too, that not the slightest
splash was caused that could have attracted the attention of an
unsuspicious person.
A while later the “Merry Maid” arrived in Malta. Here the captain duly
reported the sudden and unaccountable disappearance, of his steward.
“The poor fellow was eccentric,” he said soberly, and with a great show
of sympathy. “He did not drink, but told me that he had once been in a
lunatic asylum. The weather was quite clear and calm. He must have had
an attack of insanity and jumped overboard. Enemies? Certainly not; he
was a general favourite on board.”
And so it came to pass that a verdict of suicide while temporarily
insane was made to account for the disappearance of William Trace, and
his murderers, poor fools, imagined themselves safe from detection.