ANOTHER MURDEROUS ATTACK.
“I must admit that I have noticed it,” Nick returned, “and it struck me
as being rather curious, under the circumstances.”
“It beats me,” Crawford declared, glancing down at the bar, where the
broad-shouldered figure of his old comrade was standing. “Jimmy and I
have been chums for years. We’ve worked together and starved together,
and five years ago he saved my life at the risk of his own. He dived
into a flooded river, and it was touch and go whether he brought me out
or not.”
The deep voice shook for a moment. “It’s beyond me,” he continued. “For
the last few months he’s been a changed man. I can hardly get a word
out of him, and many times I’ve caught him looking at me as though I
were his bitterest enemy.”
There was no doubting the sincerity of Crawford’s emotions. His tanned
face twitched, and his hard, work-worn hands were clasped in a tight
grip as they rested on his knees.
“Something has gone wrong,” he concluded, “but what it is Heaven only
knows. Would you believe me if I told you that he——”
The detective waited curiously, but Crawford did not complete the
sentence, and a little silence fell between the two.
As Stone had tossed off his drink, he passed them once more. When he
reached the door, however, he halted for a moment, then, swinging
around on his heel, beckoned to Crawford. It was almost a gasp of
relief that broke from the latter’s lips as he rose.
“Hello!” he murmured. “He wants to speak to me, does he? Excuse me, Mr.
Carter.”
The eager way in which he hurried toward his partner revealed to the
detective how anxious he was to make friends again.
The two figures passed out through the doorway, and Nick mechanically
picked up a magazine from a neighboring table. Half an hour passed;
then, leaving the smoking room, the detective went off in search of
Chick. His young assistant was not to be seen, and presently Carter
returned to the boat deck, found a quiet gap between two suspended
boats, and, leaning on the rail, watched the distant lights along the
coast.
Perhaps fifteen minutes later the detective heard a quick, muffled cry,
followed by the creak of a boat as some heavy object swung against it.
He straightened up and listened. A moment later a half-choked voice
came to him:
“Jim! Jim! Good heavens! Are you trying to murder me?”
Nick recognized the voice as that of Crawford’s, and, with a swift
bound, he leaped out of the dark gap between the boats in which he had
stood concealed.
Sprinting forward along the deserted deck, he followed the direction
of the sound, and in another gap he saw standing out against the
background of the sea two struggling figures. They were locked in
each other’s arms, and one of them was swaying out over the rail at a
perilous angle. The detective saw that the figure of the man bending
over the rail was that of Crawford, and above him, with his fingers
clutched tightly around his throat, was James Stone. The former was
clutching at the murderous wrists of his companion, trying to release
the fierce grip, but even as Nick sighted them Stone made another
vicious lunge, and Crawford’s body was all but thrust out over the rail
into the sea.
A swift, horrified spring carried Nick into the gap between the boats,
and realizing that there was not a moment to spare, he flung himself
at Stone. It was a straight-arm blow that the detective gave, with
the swift, trained precision of an experienced athlete. The great
detective’s bunched fist landed full on the hard, dogged face of James
Stone with resistless force. A strangled oath broke from the miner’s
lips, and he staggered back against the bow of the swinging boat,
releasing Crawford as he did so.
Nick saw the unfortunate man’s body sway over the rail, and with a
headlong leap the detective hurled himself forward, gripping at the
toppling man. He was only just in the nick of time. His fingers caught
the ends of Crawford’s evening coat, and for a long tense moment he
hung over the rail, clutching in that way the otherwise unsupported
body of the miner. It was well for Crawford that the muscles of those
two arms were of a man much beyond the average strength. Carter felt as
though his arms were being pulled out of their sockets, but presently
he gathered himself for an extra effort, and slowly and carefully
pulled the swaying man upward until Crawford was able to grasp the rail
in his hands. A moment later, Nick had shifted his grasp until his
palms were under the man’s shoulders, and then with a tug Crawford was
lifted over the rail and deposited safely on the deck.
The perspiration was pouring from the detective’s face, and his breath
was coming and going in great, choking pants, for Crawford was a heavy
man and the bodily effort had been a tremendous one. The miner clung to
the rail for a few moments, steadying himself there. Through the gloom
Nick could see the bearded face and the blue eyes fixed on his own.
At that instant, a quick, shuffling footfall came to the detective’s
ears, and he turned quickly around in time to see the figure of Stone
gliding like a black shadow along the pale, canvas-covered side of the
suspended boat.
“Oh, no, you don’t, you confounded rascal!” Nick broke out, as he
started to follow the man.
But before he could do so, Crawford reeled, stepped toward him, and
clutched him by the arm.
“It’s—it’s you, Carter?” the miner breathed.
“Yes. Let me go, though. I don’t want that scoundrel to get away.”
Crawford’s fingers tightened their hold on his sleeve.
“Don’t follow him! Let him go—for my sake!” he pleaded.
Nick paused and peered with surprise into the man’s face.
“I suppose you know what you’re saying?” the detective asked, in a
strange voice.
“Perfectly.”
“But that fellow tried to murder you.”
“I know that only too well.”
“And you mean to say you’re not going to lodge a complaint against him
or do anything in the matter?”
The bearded face shone in the dusk.
“That man will never be accused by me,” Crawford said positively.
“Don’t you recognize him?”
The detective shrugged his shoulders.
“Yes, I recognize him, all right,” he said. “It was Stone, your
partner, and also—if I had not come on the scene just when I did—your
murderer.”
Crawford came closer to Carter and thrust his arm through that of the
detective.
“That may be,” he said, “but I can’t forget that he’s also the man who
once saved my life, who has shared his last crust with me again and
again.”
Then, as an exclamation of impatience broke from Nick’s lips, the miner
went on:
“Oh, yes, I know that you think me a fool. You will think me even a
greater when I tell you that this is not the first time. He has tried
to do the same thing on this very voyage—to say nothing of an attempt
before we left South America.”