SKIPPY’S WISDOM
Skippy got the most out of his commandeered kicker. He opened it wide
and raced her down the river and the closer he got to the bay the more
apprehensive did he feel about Big Joe’s flight. He tried not to attach
any special significance to his good friend’s shouts, but he could not
help remembering Tully’s earlier veiled threats about Skinner.
His fears grew as he chugged out into the bay and something urged him on
still faster. Then he spied the glistening hull of the beautiful
_Apollyon_, her anchor lights gleaming like stars against the night and
a single light amidships.
Funny, the boy thought, how much it seemed like that night when he and
his father had come for the showdown with the older Flint. Now there was
to be no showdown, but he must warn Skinner against Big Joe’s sudden
maniacal fury. Queer that he should go to such trouble for a man who had
given them no quarter in anything. But he was not thinking of doing
Skinner a good turn beyond that it might prevent Big Joe from killing
the Flint agent and being sent to jail.
He approached the yacht with his old feeling of awe. The deck was almost
dark as he scrambled aboard but up forward he saw the rotund form of the
second mate asleep and snoring in a luxurious swing. The boy could not
help remember a very solemn resolve that night long ago, when the mate
had sworn to be more faithful to his duties during his night watches.
With silent tread, he hurried along the deck and stopped before the
lighted cabin amidships. Once, twice, he knocked softly, and waited.
“Come in!” Marty Skinner’s cold voice commanded.
Skippy stepped in, his heart bounding. He was thinking of the last time
he had been in this room and closed the door, determined he would not be
driven out again until he had had his say.
“Well?” Skinner snapped but this time he did not order Skippy out.
“You seen Big Joe Tully?” Skippy asked bravely. “He been here yet?”
“What d’ye mean—yet? I have no business with Tully and I haven’t any
with you that I know of.”
“You’re wrong both times Mister Skinner. ’Cause if you don’t listen to
me Big Joe’ll be comin’ here an’ he’ll try gettin’ you an’ he’s so mad
he’ll probably kill you.”
Skinner was all interest now. “He’s mad and he may kill me and you come
to warn me. That’s funny.”
“No it ain’t funny. I wouldn’t care much what happened to you Mister
Skinner you been so hard on me’n Pop an’ everybody, but I ain’t gonna
see Big Joe get in a jam an’ maybe go to jail for life on accounta you.
I’m tippin’ you off so’s Big Joe won’t have no chance gettin’ jammed.
Maybe after that blowin’ up of the barges tonight, which they say you
ordered done, an’ what happened to that guy Beasell I oughta let....”
“Blowing up barges? Beasell? What d’ye mean, boy? What happened?”
“Well, Beasell come an’ ordered us outa the Basin by sundown tomorrow,
sayin’ it was your orders, an’ if we can’t get the barges out they’ll be
blowed up. Some time after he left me’n Joe I go for a boat ride. When I
come back I see Beasell in a boat all battered an’ lookin’ as if he’s
dead. So I goes to call Joe an’ while he’s gettin’ his shoes on I comes
out again an’ I just got near the rail when there’s an explosion an’ I’m
tossed in the water. I swim till I find a boat an’ climb in. I see Big
Joe on deck an’ he’s yellin’ that I’m lost an’ acts like he’s gonna get
you when he jumps in his kicker an’ races off without hearin’ me. So I
come right here to beat him to it an’ keep him outa trouble, see?”
Skinner did not seem interested in the explosion. While he appeared
callous as to the suffering and death that came in its wake he wanted to
know more about Beasell. “D’ye think he’s really dead?” he asked
anxiously.
“Looked like that to me,” answered Skippy, “an’ if he wasn’t he probably
was blowed apart or burnt up.” He wondered at the look of satisfaction
that appeared on Skinner’s face. “But you better be beatin’ it Mister
Skinner or Big Joe’ll be here an’ takin’ you apart if he don’t kill
you.”
“Well, if Big Joe comes here looking for trouble he’ll get it—and
plenty.” Skinner reached under his left arm and pulling out a pistol
laid it on the table before him.
Skippy heard footsteps and turned as if to shout a warning.
“Quiet you!” Skinner ordered as he picked up the pistol and leveled it
at the door. Skippy with visions of his beloved Big Joe shot dead in his
tracks as he opened the door wished from the bottom of his heart that he
had not tried to warn Skinner. All he had done was bait the trap for Big
Joe.
He stood there, a bit to the side of the desk, his knees shaking and,
while his brain was active, he was so terror stricken that he could not
open his mouth to warn Big Joe of his impending fate. He closed his eyes
and said a little prayer as he heard the door creak a bit on its hinges.
Why hadn’t he left the door open when he came into Skinner’s cabin,
why....
A few tense seconds that seemed as so many hours to Skippy and then he
heard the voice of Inspector Jones: “Now that’s hardly the nice way to
welcome a police officer, Mr. Skinner. I like your extended hand but not
with a gun in it.”
Skippy looked up to see Inspector Jones advancing into the room and this
time a policeman’s uniform was a most welcome sight to him. He breathed
thanks that the visitor was not Big Joe.
“I’ll just tuck the hardware away, Inspector, and give you the hand.”
Skinner smiled and did so. “I thought you were Big Joe Tully coming in
to get me. The boy here warned me Joe was on the warpath so I was all
set to welcome him and beat him to the draw.”
“So I could see,” the Inspector commented. “Heard about the burning of
the barges in the Basin and what happened to poor Beasell?”
“This boy told me there was an explosion and that some one slugged
Beasell. Tell me is he—is he—dead?” The question sounded to Skippy as if
Skinner was hoping the answer would be yes.
Inspector Jones looked sharply at Skinner. “Yes. He is,” he answered
simply and again looked up sharply as Skinner sighed as if in relief.
“Beasell was in my confidence. He knew my business and I trusted him,”
Skinner spoke as if to himself.
“Sure, I know you did,” the Inspector agreed and there was that in his
words which made Skippy feel as if there was something behind them.
“And how did you know that, may I ask, Inspector?” Skinner seemed a bit
ill at ease.
“I talked to him before he died. We picked him up in a boat when we went
to the fire. He had been badly beaten but before he died he regained
consciousness. He talked plenty, too.”
“What did he say? Tell who beat him up?” Skinner was plainly anxious.
“No, strange to say he didn’t.”
“Well then...?”
“Just this.” Inspector Jones whipped out his gun. “Put ’em up Skinner
and keep ’em up. I’m arresting you and I’m going to charge you with the
murder of Josiah Flint.”
“Why—why—that’s—that’s ridiculous, Inspector. You can’t make a charge
like that stand up on the ravings of a dying man.”
“I didn’t tell you that Beasell made any such charges. But I’m tellin’
you now that he made a dying statement that he was in the kicker off the
yacht when Skippy and his father came along, that he had been there some
time, and hearing you and Flint quarreling, he watched through the
porthole, saw you two struggling after Flint charged you with cheating
him—saw you shoot the old man in the back when you twisted him around as
he tried to snatch the gun you drew in your anger. He also saw you sit
old Flint up again, scatter papers all over the place and take what
money there was in his desk. Beasell’s blackmailed you plenty since,
threatening to turn you in.”
“But—but——”
“And that isn’t all,” the Inspector went on relentlessly. “Buck Flint
has been giving you a free hand and staying away, but he’s had
accountants working on your books and he’s got plenty of evidence as to
how you’ve ben cheating him and how you cheated the old man.”
“No jury will ever convict me on evidence like that.” Skinner seemed to
have regained his composure. “Beasell was only a cheap crook anyway and
he’s dead, too. Stealing money isn’t murder.”
“Guess you’re right on those points,” the Inspector mused and Skinner
started to lower his hands.
“Not so fast, not so fast there! Keep ’em up! There’s one bet you
overlooked, Skinner, and I’m going to call it right now.” Still keeping
Skinner covered the Inspector moved closer and pulled the gun out of the
man’s shoulder holster. “I’ve got a hunch that our ballistic expert will
find a groove in the barrel of your gun which will prove the bullet
which killed old Flint was fired by you. The gun never was found, you
remember, but the bullet with a peculiar mark was and it’s still right
down at headquarters.”
Skinner slumped into a chair at that, but Skippy looked quickly from his
dejected figure as he heard a familiar bark. He turned to the door and
there in the arms of a policeman was his beloved Mugs.
“Mugs! Mugs!” he cried out overjoyed. And then, as if in afterthought,
“See anythin’ of Big Joe, officer? Gee, if he’d only come along now,
’cause I know my Pop’s gonna be free soon, everythin’d be just grand.
Gee, but I’m happy. I’m....”
He stopped suddenly frightened at something he saw in the policeman’s
face. “What—what—what’s wrong? Tell me,” he demanded.
“I’m in a tough spot, kid, but I know you got plenty guts, so here goes
point blank. Big Joe went back to your barge figgering you might have
found your way back there. We see him and tell him you’re safe. Then he
hears the dog barkin’, goes into the flames after him and saves him.” He
paused, gulped, then went on: “He was burned bad, Big Joe was. Fulla
smoke, too. Well, anyways ... he kicked off.”
There was a silence, which was finally broken by Skippy’s sobs. At a
motion from Inspector Jones the policeman, who had brought Mugs and the
sad news about Big Joe, handcuffed Skinner and took him out of the
cabin, softly closing the door.
It was far in the night before Inspector Jones had Skippy sufficiently
comforted so that the boy fell asleep. Then the Inspector bundled him
up, carried him to the police launch and that night Skippy and Mugs
slept at the Inspector’s home.