The throbbing of the engines went on at an unvarying tempo. There was
the slight, almost infinitesimal tremor of their vibration. The
electric light in the cabin wavered rhythmically with its dynamo. From
the open porthole came the sound of washing water. Now and then a
disconnected sound of laughter or of speech came down from the main
saloon.
Ortiz lay upon the bed, exhausted.
"It is perhaps humorous, Senor Bell," he said presently, in the same
steady voice he had used upon the deck. "It is undoubtedly humorous
that I should call upon you. I believe that you are allied with the
Secret Service of your government."
Bell started to shake his head, but was still. He said nothing.
"I am poisoned," said Ortiz. He tried to smile, but it was ghastly.
"It is a poison which makes a man mad in a very horrible fashion. If I
could use my hands--and could trust them--I would undoubtedly shoot
myself. It would be entirely preferable. Instead, I hope--"
He broke off short and listened intently. His forehead beaded.
"Is that an airplane motor?"
Bell went to the port and listened. The washing of waves. The
throbbing of the ship's engines. The dismal, long-drawn-out moaning
of the fog-horn. Nothing else.... Yes! A dim and distant muttering. It
drew nearer and died away again.
"That is a plane," said Bell. "Yes, It's out of hearing now."
Ortiz clamped his jaws together.
"I was about to speak," he said steadily, "to tell you--many things.
Which your government should know. Instead, I ask you to go to the
wireless room and have the wireless operator try to get in touch with
that plane. It is a two-motored seaplane and it has a wireless outfit.
It will answer the call M.S.T.R. Ask him to use his directional
wireless and try to guide it to the ship. It brings the antidote to
the poison which affects me."
Bell made for the door. Ortiz raised his head with a ghastly smile.
"Close the door tightly," he said quietly. "I--I feel as if I shall be
unpleasant."
* * * * *
Closing the door behind him, Bell felt rather like a man in a
nightmare. He made for the stairway, bolted for the deck, and fairly
darted up the ladder to the wireless room.
"Ortiz sent me," he said to the operator. "You heard that plane just
now. See if you can get it."
The operator looked up at him beneath a green eyeshade and grinned
crookedly.
"Talking to 'em now," he said.
The key flicked up and down, and a tiny dancing spark leaped into
being and vanished beneath its contact-point. The wireless room was
dark save for the bright, shaded light above the sending table. A file
of sent messages by an elbow. A pad for messages received was by a
hand. Stray wreaths of tobacco smoke floated about the room, leaping
into view as they drifted beneath the lamp.
"Is he bad?" asked the operator fascinatedly, his eyes fixed on his
key.
Bell felt his eyelids flicker.
"Very bad," he said shortly.
"They tell me," said the operator and shuddered, "your hands get
working and you can't stop 'em.... I'm playing, I am! I'm playing The
Master's game!"
* * * * *
The key stopped. He listened.
"They're going to try to swoop over the ship and drop it," he said a
moment later. "I don't think they can. But tell Ortiz they're going to
try."
Bell's eyes were narrow. It is not customary for a radio operator on a
passenger ship to speak of an ex-Cabinet Minister of the Argentine
Republic by his surname only. It bespeaks either impertinence or a
certain very peculiar association. Bell frowned imperceptibly for an
instant, thinking.
"You've--had it?" he asked sharply.
"God, no! I never took the chance! I saw the red spots once, and I
went to Rib--Say! You got a password?"
He was staring up at Bell. Bell shrugged.
"I'm trying to help Senor Ortiz now."
The operator continued to stare, his eyes full of suspicion. Then he
grimaced.
"All right. Go tell him they're going to drop it."
* * * * *
Bell went out. Gray fog, and washing seas, and the big ship ploughing
steadily on toward the south.... The horn blared, startlingly loud and
unspeakably doleful. Bell listened for other sounds. There were none.
Down the steep ladder to the promenade deck. Paula Canalejas nodded to
him.
"I saw you speak to Senor Ortiz," she said quietly. "You see?"
Bell was beginning to have a peculiar, horrible suspicion. It was
incredible, but it was inevitable.
"I think I see," he said harshly. "But I don't dare believe it. Keep
quiet and don't speak to me unless I give you some sign it's safe!
It's--hellish!"
He went inside and swiftly down the stairs. He found a steward
hesitating outside the door of Ortiz's cabin. He touched Bell's arm
anxiously as he was about to go in.
"Beg pardon, sir," he said, and stammered. "I--I heard Mr. Ortiz
making some--very strange noises, sir. I--I thought he was sick...."
"He is," said Bell grimly. "He told me he does not want a doctor,
though. I'm looking after him."
He closed the door behind him, and Ortiz grinned at him. It was a
horrible, a terrible grin, and Ortiz fought it from his face with a
terrific effort of will. There was foam about his lips.
* * * * *
"_Dios!_ It was--it was devilish!" he gasped. "Senor Bell, _amigo
mio_, for the love of the good God get my revolver from my trunk. Give
it to me...."
Bell said shortly: "The airplane just radioed that it's going to try
to swoop overhead and drop a package on board the steamer. It doesn't
dare alight in this fog."
"I think," gasped Ortiz, "I think it would be well to tie my feet. Tie
them fast! If--if the package comes, if I--if I am unpleasant, knock
me unconscious and pour it into my mouth. I fear it is too late now.
But try it...."
Through the port came the muttering of a seaplane's engines. The noise
died away. Almost instantly the siren boomed hoarsely.
"Ah, _Dios!_" said Ortiz unsteadily. "There it is! Senor Bell, I think
it is too late. Would you--would you assist me to go out on deck,
where I might fling myself overboard? I--think I can control my legs
so long."
"Steady!" said Bell, wrenched by the sight of the man before him
fighting against unnameable horror. "Tell me--"
"It is poison," said Ortiz, his features fixed in a terrible effort of
will. "A ghastly, a horrible poison of the _Indios_ of Matto Grosso,
in Brazil. It drives a man mad, murder mad. It is as if he were
possessed by a devil. His hands first refuse to obey him. His feet
next. And then his body. It is as if a devil had seized hold of his
body and carried it about doing murder with it. A part of the brain is
driven insane, and a man goes about shrieking with the horror of what
crimes his body commits until the poison reaches that portion of his
brain as well. Then he is mad forever. That is what I face, _amigo
mio_. That is why I beg you, I implore you, to kill me or assist me to
the side of the ship so that I may fling myself overboard! The Master
had it administered to me secretly, and demanded treason as the price
of the antidote. He deman--"
* * * * *
Steady and strong, rising from a muttering to a steady roar, the sound
of airplane motors came through the port. Bell started up.
"Hold fast," he snapped savagely. "I'll go get that package when it
lands. Hold fast, I tell you! Fight it!"
He flung out of the cabin and raced up the stairs. The door to the
deck was open. He crowded through a group of passengers who had
discounted the dampness for the sake of a novelty--an airplane far out
at sea--and raced up to the upper deck. The roaring noise was
receding. The siren roared hoarsely. Then the noise came back.
For minutes, then, the ship seemed to play hide-and-seek with the
invisible fliers. The roaring noise overhead circled about, now near,
now seeming very far away. And the siren sent its dismal blasts out
into the grayness all about. Then, for an instant, a swiftly scudding
shadow was visible overhead. It banked steeply and vanished, and
seemed to have turned and come lower when it reappeared a moment
later. It was not distinct, at first. It was merely a silhouette of
darker gray against the all-enveloping mist. But its edges sharpened
and became clear. One could make out struts, an aileron's trailing
edge.
"Got nerve, anyhow," said Bell grimly.
It swept across the ship and disappeared, but the noise of its engines
did not dwindle more than a little. The blast of the siren seemed to
summon it back again. Once more it came in sight, and this time it
dived steeply, flashed across the forecastle deck amid a hideous
uproar, desperately, horribly close to the dangling derrick-cables,
and was gone.
* * * * *
Bell had seen it more clearly than anyone else on the ship, perhaps.
He saw a man in the pilot's cockpit between wings and tail reach high
and fling something downward, something with a long streamer attached
to it. Bell had an instant's glimpse of the goggled face. Then he was
darting forward, watching the thing that fell.
It took only a second. Two at most. But the thing seemed to fall with
infinite deliberation, the streamer shivering out behind it. It fell
at a steep slant, the forward momentum of the plane's speed added to
its own drop. It swooped down, slanting toward the rail....
Bell groaned. It struck the rail itself, and bounced. A sailor flung
himself toward it. The streamer slipped from his fingers and slithered
over the side.
Bell was at the railing just in time to see it drop into the water. He
opened his mouth to shout, and saw it sink. The last of the streamer
followed the dropped object down into the green water when it was
directly below him.
His hands clenched. Bell stared sickly at the spot where it had
vanished. An instant later he had whirled and was thrusting wide the
wireless room door. The operator was returning to his key, grinning
crookedly. He looked up sidewise.
"Tell them it went overside," snapped Bell. "Tell them to try it
again. Ortiz is in hell! To try again! He's dying!"
* * * * *
The operator looked up fascinatedly, his fingers working his key.
"Is he--bad?" he asked with a shuddering interest.
"He's dying!" snarled Bell, in a rage because of his helplessness. He
had forgotten everything but the fact that a man below decks was
facing the most horrible fate that can overtake a man, and facing it
with a steadfast gameness that made Bell's heart go out to him.
"They don't die," said the operator. He shuddered. "They don't die of
it."
His key stopped. He listened. His key clicked again.
"They only had two packages," he said a moment later. "They don't dare
risk the other one. They say the fog ends twenty miles farther on.
They're going to land up there and taxi back on the surface of the
water. It shouldn't be more than half an hour."
He pushed himself back from the table with an air of finality.
"That's all. They've signed off."
Bell felt rage sweeping over him. The operator grinned crookedly.
"Better go down and tie him up," he said, and licked his lips with the
fascinated air of one thinking of a known and terrifying thing.
"Better tie him up tight. It'll be half an hour more."
* * * * *
Bell went down the companion-ladder. The promenade was crowded with
passengers now, asking questions of each other. Some, frowning
portentously, thought the plane an unscheduled ocean flier who had
lost his way in the fog.
Paula Canalejas was close to Bell as he shouldered his way through the
crowd.
"That was for him?" she asked, without moving her lips.
Bell nodded.
"Tell him," she said quietly, "I--pray for him."
Bell nodded abruptly and went into the saloon. It was nearly empty. He
wiped the sweat off his face. It was horrible to have to go down to
Ortiz and tell him that at best it would be half an hour more....
Then there was a sudden scream below him, and then a shot. Bell jumped
for the stairs, his heart in his throat, and saw Ortiz coming out of
his stateroom door. His eyes were wide and agonized. His body....
Even in the incredibly short time before he reached the bottom of the
steps, Bell had time to receive the ghastly impression that Ortiz was
sane, but that his body had gone mad. Ortiz's face was white and
horrified. His hands and arms were writhing savagely, working at the
handcuffs on his wrists. His legs were carrying him at a curious,
padding trot down the hallway. One of the hands held a glittering
revolver. A steward was crouched behind a couch, his face white and
filled with stark terror. And Ortiz held his head back, as if
struggling to hold back and control his body, which was under the
control of a malignant demon.
"Out of the way!" cried Ortiz in a voice of terrible despair. "Get
someone to shoot me! Kill me! I cannot--ah, _Dios!_"
* * * * *
The hands leveled the revolver in spite of him, while he flung his
head from side to side in a frantic attempt to disturb their aim.
"Close your eyes!" panted Bell, and hurled himself upon--whom? It was
not Ortiz. It was Ortiz's body, gone mad and raging. The manacled arms
flailed about frenziedly. The gun went off. Again. Again....
Bell struck. He knocked the Thing that possessed Ortiz's body off its
feet. The hands groped for him. They clubbed at him with the revolver.
The feet kicked....
"Keep your eyes closed," gasped Bell, struggling to get the gun away
from those horrible hands. "It--it can't see when you keep your eyes
closed!"
Fighting insanely as the Thing was fighting, he could not identify it
with Ortiz himself. One of the hands unclosed from about the revolver
and clawed at his throat. It seemed to abandon that effort and
attacked Ortiz's face in a frenzy of rage, struggling to claw his eyes
open. The other held the weapon fast with maniacal strength.
At the horror of feeling one of his own manacled hands attacking his
face savagely as if it were itself a sensate thing, Ortiz opened his
eyes. They were wide with despair.
The hand with the revolver made a sudden movement, and Bell flung his
weight upon it as the clutching hand pulled the trigger. There was a
deafening report....
* * * * *
The body seemed to weaken suddenly in Bell's grip. It fought less and
less terribly, though with no lessening of its savagery. He managed to
get the revolver away from the hands that shook with unspeakable rage.
He flung it away and stood panting.
There was a crowd of people suddenly all about the place. Staring,
stunned, incredulous people who regarded Bell with a dawning, damning
suspicion.
Ortiz spoke suddenly. His voice was weak, but it was steady, and it
was full of a desperate relief.
"I wish to make a statement," he said sharply. "I--I wished to commit
suicide for personal reasons. Senor Bell tried to dissuade me. The
handcuffs upon my wrists were placed there with my consent. Senor Bell
is my friend and has done me no wrong. I shot myself, with intention."
Bell beckoned to the ship's doctor.
"Get him bandaged up," he ordered harshly. "There's no need for him to
die."
The body was writhing only feebly, now. Ortiz looked up at him, and
managed a smile. Again there was that incredible impression of the
body not belonging to Ortiz, or Ortiz as a sane and whole and
honorable, admirable man, and the feebly writhing body with its
clutching hands as some evil thing that had properly been defeated and
killed.
* * * * *
The doctor bent down. It was useless, of course. He made futile
movements.
"I wish to speak to my friend, Senor Bell," said Ortiz weakly. "I--I
have not long."
Bell knelt beside him.
"The Master's--deputy in Rio," panted Ortiz weakly, almost in a
whisper, "is--is Ribiera. In Buenos Aires I--I do not know. There was
a man--the one who poisoned me--but I killed him. Secretly. I do not
think--the Master knows. I pray that--"
He stopped. He could not speak again. But he smiled, and a few seconds
later Bell clenched his hands. Ortiz was gone.
Someone touched his arm. Paula Canalejas. He stared down at her and
managed to smile. It was not a very successful smile. He drew a deep
breath.
"I would like," said Bell wryly, "to think that, when I die, I will
die as well as this man did. But I'm afraid I shan't."
But Paula said:
"The airplane can be heard outside. It seems to be moving on the
surface."
* * * * *
And ten minutes later the plane loomed up out of the mist, queerly
ungainly on the surface of the water. Its motors roared impatiently as
if held in leash. It swung clumsily about, heading off out of sight in
the fog to turn. It came back, sliding along the top of the water with
its wing-tip floats leaving alternate streaks of white foam behind
them. A man stood up in its after cockpit.
Bell crowded to the rail. The man--goggled and masked--held up a
package as if to fling it on board. Bell watched grimly. But he saw
that the pilot checked himself and looked up at the upper deck. Bell
craned his neck. The wireless operator was waving wildly to the
seaplane. He writhed his hands, and held his hand to his head is if
blowing out his brains, and waved the plane away, frantically.
The pilot of the plane sat down. A moment later its motors roared more
thunderously. It is not safe to alight on either land or water when
fog hangs low, but there is little danger in taking off.
The seaplane shot away into the mist, its motors bellowing. The sound
of its going changed subtly. It seemed to rise, and grow more
distant.... It died away.
Bell halted at the top of the companion-ladder and saw the wireless
operator, with a crooked, nervous grin upon his face.