FOG IN THE CHANNEL
Toward dusk on the following day--our last evening afloat--things
began to move to that strange revelation which solved the Zara
mystery.
O’Shea had been missing quite often. Several times I saw him coming
out of the radio cabin, and he had had two long interviews with the
commander, at the second of which the purser had attended. Then,
having got into dinner kit, I was making for the smoke-room when I met
him.
“Hello!” I called. “Any news?”
He took me aside, and:
“No reply yet,” he answered.
“Perhaps the authorities in Munich don’t realize the urgency of your
message.”
“Perhaps not,” he said absently. “Let’s explore a cocktail.”
In the smoke-room we found Slattery and my Scottish piper; so we
formed a quartette.
Slattery’s attitude toward O’Shea was not friendly. I excused much of
it, feeling the real cause to be, not professional jealousy, but
Nanette. However, O’Shea was senior and Slattery never allowed himself
to be openly rude.
I was seated with my back to the door, when suddenly I saw a change of
expression on three faces. I turned.
Nanette was peeping in at us. She looked adorable in a dainty lace
frock and I saw Slattery glance aside at O’Shea in a way that was twin
brother to murderous.
For it was to O’Shea that Nanette was appealing.
“Would it be perfectly horrible of me to come in?” she asked.
“It would be perfectly delightful, Nanette,” said I.
She came in, to the marked perturbation of the smoke-room. She sat
between O’Shea and myself. The three musketeers, who had been talking
loudly in a neighbouring corner, grew suddenly silent.
“If you see Mrs. P.,” said Nanette, taking a sip from my glass,
“please hide me until I get under the table.”
Dinner that night was something of an ordeal for me. Dr. Zimmermann
talked continuously about fossils, took two servings of every course,
and generally seemed to be in high good humour. I think my own share
in the conversation was not marked by any unusual brilliancy.
O’Shea’s mood rather defeated me. He was by habit a lonely man, with a
way of sinking into himself. To-night, this phase of his temperament,
which had expressed itself in his evasive talk, for some reason I
found irritating.
On the morrow we should dock. The identity of Zara remained a mystery.
The result of O’Shea’s radio message was unknown to me. And O’Shea had
become a sphinx.
A group having for its nucleus the faithful trio had got up an
extempore dance on deck. A victrola belonging to Slattery provided the
music. Mrs. Porter presided over the instrument, and Slattery and
Nanette did most of the dancing. A few others joined for a time and
then retired, presumably to cope with the important job of packing.
I discovered myself to be the victim of a rising excitement. Something
was afoot. I determined to find O’Shea.
It was a longish quest, but I found him at last, He was pacing up and
down the deserted boat-deck. As I came up the ladder he stopped and
stared at me, then:
“Hullo, Decies,” he said. “Forgive my odd behaviour. But it’s a race
against time, and time looks like winning.”
“What do you mean?” I asked blankly. “Have you had no reply?”
“That’s it,” said he, “and I can’t afford to make a mistake. They
expect fog, though. It may save the situation.”
I was not at all clear on this point, but O’Shea immediately resumed
his promenade and I perforce fell into step beside him.
“Zimmermann is in his cabin,” I said.
“Good,” O’Shea murmured. “Where is Nanette?”
The question surprised me. Very rarely indeed did O’Shea speak of
Nanette.
“I left her with Mrs. Porter and Slattery,” I replied.
He nodded, but made no comment. Presently:
“If this dangerously clever devil slips through my fingers,” he
declared, “Whitehall will disown me!”
And suddenly, as he spoke, an explanation of his recent behaviour
presented itself. To the world he remained the aloof O’Shea; something
of a poseur; a man unmoved by the trivial accidents of life. With me
he felt that he could be real. He had treated the matter lightly
enough, hitherto. But now, England all but in sight, and the enigma of
Zara unsolved, he showed himself a desperately worried man.
“If I get him,” he began abruptly, after long and taciturn
promenading, “do you know to whom the credit will belong?”
“No,” I returned, puzzled.
“To Nanette,” said O’Shea.
This silenced me effectually. For what Nanette had to do with the
matter was about as clear as pea soup.
I left him, toward one o’clock, promising to return. I had abandoned
the idea of sleeping; and I wanted to change. No message for O’Shea
had come up to the time of my departure from the boat-deck. The
wireless operator on duty was unable to conceal his intense
excitement. Just before I came down, leaning over the half-door of his
room:
“Fog in the Channel, sir!” he announced gleefully.
“Good!” said O’Shea. “Go and change, Decies.”
I managed to effect a change of costume without arousing my Scottish
friend. He snored harmoniously and uninterruptedly. When I returned to
the deck, no trace of mist was visible. The sea looked like oil and
the heat was oppressive. I lingered at the rail for a moment, staring
forward to where the Cornish coast lay veiled in distance.
Right ahead, I discerned a faintly moving white speck. Then I became
aware of someone beside me.
I turned. The Captain stood at my elbow.
“No rest for me to-night, Mr. Decies,” he said. “The Channel is a mass
of soup.”
“So I have heard,” I replied. “What’s that ahead?”
“I have been wondering,” he murmured. “It looks like a motor boat--and
right on our course. Excuse me. I might as well go up.”
A few minutes later, as I rejoined O’Shea, the ship bellowed her
warning to the small craft ahead.
O’Shea was in the operator’s room.
“What’s that?” he asked. “Not fog already?”
“No,” said I. “There’s some kind of boat in our way.”
“Oh,” said he. “Fisherman?”
“No. It looks like a pleasure cruiser.”
He stared for a moment. I had never seen him look so ill groomed. His
wavy hair, since he had gone hatless all night, was wildly disordered.
Then the instrument began its mysterious coughing.
O’Shea placed his monocle carefully in position and lighted a
cigarette. The operator adjusted the headpiece.
“Here it is, sir!” he said. “At last!”
“Excellent,” said O’Shea calmly.
And, whilst this long-awaited message came through, the horn began its
disturbing solo--and mist crept, damply, into the cabin. We had struck
the outer fringe of the Channel fog.
At this moment I saw Nanette. She stood at the door, wide-eyed,
wrapped in a furry coat. I ran out to her.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, and clutched me--“where is--Major O’Shea?”
She was trembling.
“Nanette!” I said. “What is it? He is there--in the operator’s room.”
“Thank God!” I heard her whisper. Then: “I have been so frightened!”
she went on, clinging to me. “Mrs. Porter sleeps like a log--and
Captain Slattery came to our room a few minutes ago and knocked. I
opened the door, not realizing who it was.”
“Yes?” I said, clenching my hands tightly.
“He was--insane. He said--he was going to kill Major O’Shea----”
“What’s that?” came in a cool voice.
O’Shea stepped out on the deck. He held a slip of paper in his hand.
The mist had closed down, now, like a blanket. Even the deep note of
the fog-horn was muted.
“I’ve got him, Decies!” said O’Shea.
“What!”
“He sent off two code messages before my eyes were opened; and he
received one reply. I don’t know the code.”
Dimly, through the fog, a queer, high siren note reached us.
“Major O’Shea!” Nanette released her grip and grasped O’Shea’s arm.
“Are you talking about Captain Slattery?”
The Marconi operator joined our party as:
“Yes,” O’Shea replied, “thanks to you, Nanette! Only the Bolsheviks
knew so much about our trouble in that camp as Slattery confided to
you!” He turned to me. “I acted on that slender clue, Decies. The name
of a company sergeant-major--and I was right! The _real_ Captain
Slattery is in hospital at Ladysmith!”
“Good God!” said I. “Then this man----”
“Is Adolf Zara! I told you he was dangerously clever!”
Then, muffled, ghostly, it reached our ears on the boat-deck--that
most thrilling of all sea cries:
“Man overboard!”
Already the ship’s engines were running dead slow. Now they were rung
off.
Helter-skelter we went hounding after O’Shea--to Slattery’s stateroom.
It was empty. One of the lifebelts was missing. Out in the fog, that
queer high siren note persisted. I thought of the white motor
boat--and of Slattery’s radio message.
O’Shea fixed his monocle in place. The sleeping ship was awakening to
a growing pandemonium.
“Have you a cigarette, Decies?” he said. “I have smoked all mine. It
needs a brave man to do what Adolf Zara has done to-night. If ever I
have the pleasure of meeting Captain Slattery again, I shall tell him
so.”