It was the medical officer who actually spilled the story of Red’s
heroic act, in dragging Don from the sinking seaplane. The stocky
lieutenant himself would never have let the real facts be known. He
hated to be made a hero. As it was, he could only shake his head and
scowl while the ship’s doctor heaped praises upon him.
The doctor didn’t leave anything out. He had been in the boat which put
off to the seaplane from the _Gatoon_, and he’d seen about all there was
to see.
He described how Red had thrown off his life belt and dived under the
sinking plane. He told how helpless the boat’s crew felt, when they got
there and found neither Red nor Don.
Two of the sailors had kicked off their shoes, ready to dive in after
the missing officers, when suddenly the lieutenant’s red head broke
surface. He was gasping for breath, and the commander was completely out
when they were pulled aboard.
In the excitement, said the medical officer, the Scorpion pilot,
floating unconscious in his life belt, was almost forgotten. Now,
everybody aboard ship was saying that Lieutenant Pennington rated a gold
medal, and....
“Red, you old porpoise!” broke in Don Winslow, sitting bolt upright.
“Give me your flipper, and stop making faces like a seasick 'boot’! I’ll
get square with you some day by saying _your_ life—don’t worry!”
Red met his commander’s handclasp with a crushing grip, his
embarrassment suddenly gone. He knew that Don would never try to thank
him outright, or praise him in words for an act of simple loyalty. Their
friendship went too deep for that sort of thing.
“And now, Doc,” said Don, “I’m going to jump into a uniform and go out
on deck. I see we’re under way again; and I want to talk with Captain
Riggs about safeguarding the ship between here and Port-au-Prince.
Probably there’ll be no second attack, but it’s better to be prepared.”
The medical officer protested. He said Don had suffered a slight
concussion, along with a scalp wound. He warned that moving about could
bring on a fever. But he might as well have talked to the ship’s
mainmast.
Don was hurrying into his clothes even before the doctor had finished
speaking. He was feeling better every minute, he declared, and he wasn’t
going to stay below for a mere bump on the head!
As he spoke there came a knock on the door. It was Lieutenant Darnley
with a queer piece of news. The prisoner Corba had been asking urgently
for Commander Winslow and he refused to say why. Lieutenant Darnley
thought that if the commander were well enough....
“I’ll be with you in two shakes, Lieutenant,” Don assured the _Gatoon’s_
executive officer. “That lad Corba knows a lot more than he has told us
yet. If he’s ready to spill something interesting, I’ll be glad to
listen.”
There were only two roomy cells in the _Gatoon’s_ brig. With the rescued
crews of the Scorpion airplanes, they were crowded to capacity. Corba
and Mink shared their cell with the pilot of the seaplane who had
recovered consciousness.
Don, standing before the cell door with Red and the other two officers,
noted the pilot’s makeshift head bandage.
“You’ll have to tend that man’s wound right away, Doctor!” the young
commander said sharply. “He’s an enemy, in the service of a criminal
chief, but he’s a human being all the same.... Master-at-arms! Bring
that prisoner along with Corba, now!”
A moment later, both prisoners were led out, handcuffed. The doctor took
the wounded man under guard to the sick bay while Don moved off out of
earshot with the shifty-eyed Corba.
Red, glancing down the forecastle, caught the look of amazed interest on
Don Winslow’s face.
“That guy Corba must be giving him some potent dope!” he remarked in an
undertone. “I’d give a lot to know what he’s saying!”
“You’re right, Pennington,” Lieutenant Darnley agreed. “Commander
Winslow isn’t excited easily, I’ve noticed, but he’s sure getting that
way now. Looks as if Corba was shooting the works!”
Don Winslow’s air of mystery, as he returned with Corba, did nothing to
allay Red’s curiosity. Even when the Scorpion agent had been returned to
his cell, and Lieutenant Darnley had answered a call to the _Gatoon’s_
bridge, the young commander refused to answer questions.
“Come along to the sick bay,” he told the red-haired lieutenant. “We’ll
see how sawbones is progressing with his latest patient.”
When the two officers entered that portion of the _Gatoon’s_ sick bay
which served as an operating room, the handcuffed pilot was sitting in a
chair under a strong electric light. A portion of his scalp had been
shaved, and the medical officer was sterilizing the raw furrow left by a
glancing bullet. One of the slugs which had pierced the seaplane’s cabin
had nearly snuffed out the Scorpion flyer’s life.
It was the first chance either Don or Red had had to examine their
captive’s features. Strangely enough, they were not those of a criminal.
If it had not been for the man’s wildly staring eyes and look of pained
bewilderment, they would have been almost handsome.
There was something hauntingly familiar, too, about the man’s face and
build. Studying them, Red decided he had seen the fellow—or his
double—somewhere, and not so long ago!
If Don Winslow had the same notion, he didn’t mention it. He waited
until the doctor had finished work. Only when the armed boatswain’s mate
stepped forward to take the prisoner back, Don stopped him.
“Leave the patient here, and give me the key to his handcuffs!” he told
the surprised guard. “I’ll be responsible for him. You may return to
your post outside the brig.”
With a puzzled “Aye-aye, sir!” the guard departed. Don closed the door
and turned to the prisoner.
“Who are you?” he asked bluntly, looking the man square in the eye.
“André, Count Borg,” the fellow replied mechanically. “I am a licensed
pilot and a native of Listonia....”
“Snap out of it, man!” barked Don Winslow, stepping closer. “Do you know
what you’ve got on your wrists? Take a good look!”
Dazedly Borg’s eyes dropped to the steel handcuffs, as if seeing them
for the first time. With a harsh cry he leaped to his feet, his lips
drawn back in a snarl of fury.
“What does this mean?” he shouted, wrenching at the clanking chain. “You
dare to handcuff me like a common criminal? What right have you to
confine me?”
“Sit down!” thundered Don Winslow, forcing the man back into his chair.
“You are under arrest, Count Borg, in connection with a plot to destroy
the United States Navy gunboat _Gatoon_. Following the orders of your
criminal chief, the Scorpion, you picked up two men in life belts—”
“But, Don!” burst in Red Pennington. “The guy knows all that. Why not
get down to brass tacks and make him tell something worth while—for
instance, where the Scorpion has his headquarters?”
A wild laugh from the prisoner interrupted at this point. Pounding his
manacled hands against his knees, the man who called himself Count Borg
rocked back and forth in hysterical mirth.
“Mad! Mad!” he choked. “We are all mad and locked up in the crazyhouse!
One talks about scorpions and life belts; another raves about brass
tacks! But nobody tells me how I got here, and I—I cannot remember....”
With a groan the fellow raised his hands to his temples. Shifting from
clear, unaccented English, he began muttering to himself in some harsh,
foreign tongue.
The medical officer reached for a hypodermic needle, but Don Winslow
seized his arm.
“Get him a glass of cold water, Doc,” the young commander advised. “This
man isn’t crazy. He just thinks he’s nuts, because....”
Pulling the doctor over to the sink, Don whispered rapidly in the
other’s ear. Their conference lasted two or three minutes, long enough
to get the goat of Lieutenant Red Pennington, who was about fed up on
being a mystified onlooker.
When the doctor returned with the water, his manner was briskly
professional.
“Tell me, Count Borg,” he said, “just what is the last thing you
remember doing, before you woke up in the brig half an hour ago? If
there has been some mistake in your identity your answer will clear the
matter up.”
The wild look on the prisoner’s face was now gone. In its place was a
puzzled frown, and his whole manner had quieted.
“There certainly _has_ been a mistake, gentlemen,” he replied. “But to
answer your question—the last thing I recall is walking up Cherry
Street toward Brooklyn Bridge, about half past one last night. I
remember hearing stealthy footsteps behind me, coming closer. After
that, everything is a blank!”
There was a queer silence following Borg’s words. Finally, the medical
officer broke it after meeting Don’s glance.
“And what,” he asked in a strained voice, “would you say the date was
yesterday? I mean, the day of the month and the year?”
“Why—er,” responded the prisoner slowly, “April fourteenth, nineteen
thirty-three. Am I right?”
“Wrong, by seven years, my friend!” Don returned, stooping to unlock the
handcuffs. “Your memory has done another blackout, Count Borg! The first
one was when a thug knocked you out on Cherry Street, New York, in
nineteen thirty-three. The last one happened this morning when you were
wounded in the head by a machine gun bullet. Since you’ve evidently
forgotten your whole life between those dates, there’s no reason for
treating you now as a dangerous criminal.”