One mystery had been solved, but it had given rise to a more sinister
problem. Michael Splendor was the one who pointed this out, as Don
Winslow and his friends sat that evening at the officers’ mess.
How, he asked, could the thief have known Don was making a search of the
enlistment records?
There were various answers offered on the spur of the moment. Mercedes
Colby suggested that Don and the captain had been overheard talking
about it on their way to the cabin; but that point was quickly settled.
Neither man had mentioned it before reaching Riggs’ cabin.
Red’s answer was that the thief had happened to see Don through the open
door, as he sat at the captain’s table. This sounded reasonable, until
Michael Splendor told them he had tried looking through the door. From
outside the cabin, he stated, neither table nor record file could be
seen.
“The conclusion is, me friends,” he said with a troubled frown, “that
the man who struck down Commander Winslow knew in advance what he was
going to do, and why. He had time to plan the job, and wait for his
chance to catch his victim alone. _He knew the_ _very moment we decided
to search those records for a clue!_”
In the shocked silence which followed Splendor’s words, Riggs pushed
back his chair. The captain’s face had the look of a man just charged
with murder.
“In other words, you accuse me, Mr. Splendor!” he said hoarsely, rising
to his feet. “By George, sir! If you were not a cripple, I would....”
“Please, Captain Riggs!” the voice of Michael Splendor rang sharp as a
trumpet call. “I am accusing no one of us—least of all yourself. Now,
look me in the eye and smile, me friend; for in faith I would sooner
accuse meself than anyone in this cabin!”
Slowly the color came back into Captain Riggs’ cheeks. Sinking back into
his chair at the head of the table, he did his best to smile, though it
was a hard attempt.
“I believe you, Mr. Splendor!” he said huskily. “But the way you put the
evidence gave me an ugly start, sir. It seemed to point to me alone as
the attacker, or at least as the one person whose whereabouts were
unaccounted for at the time of the attack on Winslow.”
“Indeed it did, Captain,” admitted the man in the wheel chair,
apologetically, “and sorry I am for not choosing me words more
carefully! I was just tryin’ to show all of ye how closely we are being
spied upon. I meself could have sworn that no one was in earshot of our
party this afternoon. Yet our every speech was heard and noted by the
enemy. Our future plans must be told in whispers behind locked doors, I
fancy.”
Throughout the rest of the meal there was a lively argument about
dictaphones and other means of eavesdropping which the spy might have
used. It all proved highly amusing to the Scorpion spy, who was
listening in on every word, by the aid of a clever electrical “ear.”
Small and easily concealed as a man’s wrist watch, the device was a
powerful amplifier of ordinary sounds. These were transmitted over
threadlike wires to an earphone, palmed in the spy’s hand.
Turned toward a ship’s ventilator or porthole, or toward a party
conversing on deck, the mechanical “ear” could pick up even whispered
speech without the slightest difficulty.
But while this comparatively harmless eavesdropping was in progress, a
far more sinister drama was being enacted below decks. It was the old,
old game of death, which has been played since life began upon the
earth, and the first killer stalked his unsuspecting prey.
Deep in the bowels of the ship, amid the click and whir of oiled
machinery, Chief Petty Officer Ahern began his evening watch. He was a
man of about thirty years, with a well-muscled body, and keen, blue
Irish eyes. In six years he had risen from Fireman Second Class to Chief
Machinist’s Mate.
At the moment, Ahern was the only man in the engine room of the
_Gatoon_. Lieutenant Allen, the Engineer Officer, was in his own
stateroom, cleaning up for the evening meal. The other Machinist’s Mates
were off watch. The nearest members of the “black gang” were sweating in
the boiler room, forward.
Ahern was whistling an old Irish ditty as he moved about, checking the
smoothly running machinery. Thought of danger was the farthest thing
from his mind as he paused to glance up at the stars shining through the
fiddley hatch above his head.
All at once his body stiffened as if in agony. His hands clawed at his
throat. Mouth open and eyes popping from their sockets, he reeled
backward in a grotesque dance of death.
As he fell, struggling, to the iron deck, a man in ordinary seaman’s
uniform dodged past him toward the main steam line. There was a quick
sharp hammering; a hiss of escaping steam. Then the seaman reappeared,
his features covered by a white handkerchief.
Briefly he stooped over Ahern’s limp body, fumbling at the swollen,
purple neck. The next moment, swift as a startled rat, he slipped out of
sight behind a bulkhead.
Five minutes later, Lieutenant Allen came on deck for a breath of air
before going to mess. Glancing toward the fiddley hatch, he noticed a
wisp of steamy vapor rising from it. In alarm he sprang forward to look
below. The heavy reek of hot engine oil met his nostrils as he bent over
the hatch. The hum and clink of smoothly moving metal rose with it to
reassure him. Only the steamy mist between decks, and a slowing of the
engine’s rhythmic beat spelled danger to the officer.
Turning to the engine room ladder, Lieutenant Allen made the lower deck
in record time. Through a mist of steam, he made out the body of the
Chief Machinist’s Mate. Pausing beside it only long enough to read the
signs of death, he pressed on as far as he dared toward the broken steam
line.
Up on the _Gatoon’s_ bridge, Lieutenant Darnley caught the engine room’s
urgent signal. Picking up the speaking tube, he barked a short
acknowledgement.
“Allen speaking,” came the terse reply. “Inform Captain Riggs of attempt
to sabotage the ship’s engines. Chief Machinist’s Mate Ahern is dead at
his post. Must stop engines and pull boiler fires at once.”
The meal was just over in the officers’ mess. With a low exclamation Don
Winslow jumped up and stepped to the nearest porthole.
“If I’m not mistaken, Captain,” he said, turning to face the others,
“this ship is losing way. The engines, ... hear that, sir? The vibration
has stopped completely!”
Captain Riggs sprang to his feet, scowling.
“You’re right, Commander!” he cried. “We’ll be losing steerage way in a
few moments. I’ll ring the bridge and find out....”
A heavy knocking on the cabin door interrupted. Opening it, the captain
faced a breathless yeoman, whose message of disaster fairly tumbled from
his lips.
“Trouble with the main steam line, sir!” the enlisted man reported. “And
the Chief Machinist’s Mate has met with an accident, too. Lieutenant
Allen requests your presence at once in the engine room!”