HE GOES BELOW AND GROPES IN THE DARK
There were half a dozen or more staterooms along this passage. At the
end of it was the steep, greasy flight of iron steps leading down into
the engine-rooms. Here, also, was a huge box with a hinged lid, filled
with cotton waste. It was customary for one going down here to take a
handful of this waste to protect his hands from the oily rail, and also
on coming up to wipe his hands with a fresh lot. The very atmosphere of
a ship's engine-room is oily. Here, also, were several fire-buckets in a
rack.
Along the side of the passage opposite the staterooms were electric
bulbs at intervals, but only two of them were burning--just enough to
light one through the narrow passage. Above each closed door was a solid
wooden transom, hinged at its lower side and opened at an angle into the
room.
Tom moved quickly and very quietly, for he feared to be caught loitering
here. He saw at once that only one of these staterooms could possibly
be used for any such criminal purpose as he suspected, and that was the
one with a light directly opposite it in the passage, for the other
light was beyond the staterooms.
For a few seconds he stood listening to the slow, monotonous sound of
the machinery just below him. The vibration was very pronounced here;
the floor thumped with the pulsations of the mighty engines. And Tom's
heart was thumping too.
Within the staterooms all was dark and quiet. He knew the under
engineers turned in early. Not the faintest flicker was to be seen
through any of those transoms. He had been mistaken, he thought; had
jumped at a crazy notion. And he half turned to go up again.
But instead he listened at the companionway, then tiptoed stealthily
along the passage and looked over the oily iron rail, down, down into
the depths of the great, dim, oil-smelling space with its iron galleries
and the mammoth steel arms, moving back and forth, back and forth, far
down there upon the grated floor. A tiny figure in a jumper went down
from one of the lower galleries, paused to look at a big dial, then
crossed the floor and disappeared, making never a sound. No other
living thing was in sight--unless those mighty steel arms, ever meeting
and parting might be said to be living. To come up from down there would
mean the ascent of three iron stairways.
Tom withdrew into the passage and quietly lifting one of the
fire-buckets from the rack, tiptoed with it to the door which was
directly opposite the passageway.
Then he paused again. He could open that door, he knew, for no keys or
bolts were allowed on any stateroom door. He could surprise the
occupant, whom he would find in darkness. If his suspicion was correct
(and he was beginning now to fear that it was not) there would be no
actual proof of anything inside of that dark little room, save only just
what the authorities had already found--an apparently innocent mess
plate. The criminal act would consist of simply holding a shiny plate in
a certain position. The moment a sound was heard outside the plate could
be laid down. And who would be the wiser?
Tom's heart was thumping in his breast, his eyes anxiously scanning one
end of the passage, then the other.
Not a sound--no sign of anyone.
Tom Slade had been a scout and notwithstanding his suspense and almost
panicky apprehension, he was not going to act impulsively or
thoughtlessly. He knew that if he could only present a convincing case
to his superiors, they would forgive him his presumption. If he made a
bungle it might go hard with him. Anyway, he could not, or would not,
turn back now.
In truth, he did not believe that anything at all was going to happen.
The stateroom was so dark and so still that all his fine ideas and
deductions, which had seemed so striking and plausible up on the
lonesome, wind-swept deck, began to fade away.
But there would be no harm in one little test, and no one would be the
wiser. He tried to picture in his mind's eye the interior of that little
stateroom. If it were like his own, then the mirror was on the other
side of the passage wall, that is, on the opposite side of the stateroom
from the port hole. If one looked into the mirror he would see the port
hole. All of the smaller rooms below decks which he had seen were
arranged in the same way.
Therefore, thought Tom, if one should hold a shiny mess plate, for
instance, up near the transom, so as to catch the light from without,
he could throw it down into the mirror, which would reflect not only the
glare but the brilliant image of the bulb as well. From out on the ocean
that reflected light would be very clear.
All of which, thought Tom dubiously, was a very pretty theory, but----
Without making a sound he placed the inverted bucket on the floor and
listened. He put one foot on it and listened again. Then he stood upon
it, his heart pounding like a triphammer.
Not a sound.
Probably the tired occupant of the room was fast asleep--sleeping the
peaceful sleep of the innocent.
Tom knew that if his mind's eye picture of the room's arrangement were
correct, the metal reflector would be of no avail unless tilted at a
slight angle from the horizontal, right inside the transom.
For a moment he stood upon the bucket, not daring to budge. He could
hear his own breathing, and far away the steady, dull thud of the
tireless machinery. Something creaked in the passage, and he turned
cold. He did not stir a muscle.
Only some superficial crevice or crack somewhere--some loose panel or
worn hinge responding to the onslaught of a giant wave without----
Nothing----
He turned his head and looked down the passage, clenching his fists in
momentary fright, as if he feared the bending of his neck might be
heard.
No one. Not a sound.
He tried to look through the transom but his eyes were not high enough.
For another second he paused. Then he reached through the transom and
moved his hand about in the silence and darkness. He heard the cracking
again and waited, trembling, though he knew it was nothing.
Then he groped about with his hand again.