TO SOLVE THE MYSTERY
The days that followed the return of the victorious cannery fleet from
El Diablo were filled with sunshine for Kenneth Gregory. The effect of
Mascola's defeat was far-reaching, and, magnified by Hawkins' publicity,
gave to the Legonia Fish Cannery a place of prominence in the public
eye.
Taking immediate advantage of the growing popular interest, Winfield &
Camby entered into an extensive advertising campaign on behalf of
Gregory's product. The brands of the local firm were flaunted on the
bill-boards of a dozen western agencies. Whole states were placarded.
Newspapers featured the cooperative enterprise of the service men and
commented upon it in glowing terms. A current-news company took several
hundred feet of film illustrative of the industry and the signal victory
achieved by the Americans over the alien fishermen.
Basking in the reflected lime-light, the Service Market caught on like
"wild-fire" and taxed the fishermen to their utmost to supply the
ever-increasing demand for the fresh product.
Gregory's bank balance began to mount. The financial sky was unclouded.
Success loomed bright upon the horizon.
In the hey-day of prosperity, no one noticed the faint clouds which
crept upward from the sky-line. Storm-signals fluttered feebly and were
passed by unheeded. Then Mr. Dupont, of Winfield & Camby, sounded the
warning.
"You're not getting enough fish," he exclaimed on one of his periodical
visits to Legonia. "I'm building up a demand for your product which is
fast becoming national. The way things are going now, you will not be
able to supply it. Then I'll be out of pocket for my advertising. I'm
cutting into your surplus every day. In two weeks you'll be down to
bed-rock. What are you going to do about it?"
As Gregory considered the question, Mr. Dupont answered for him: "You've
got to have more boats. If you haven't the money to tie up in them right
now, I'll back you and take a mortgage on your plant. I'm willing to
stick by you and back you to the limit. But you've got to furnish the
goods."
Gregory made up his mind quickly. Dupont was right. Things were coming
his way with a rush. What was the use of losing all he had gained by
pursuing a policy of playing safe and "shooting nickels"? Men who made
fortunes on the sea had to take chances. It grayed their hair and seamed
their faces with premature lines. But that was part of the game,--the
toll which the sea demanded.
"All right," he said. "Let's get down to business. I'll go back to the
city with you and we'll fix things up. I know of some boats I can lease
while Barrows is building the others. Let's go."
From the arrival of the new craft which went to make up the greater
cannery fleet, misfortune stalked grimly in its wake. Fishing was
universally poor. The boats were forced to cruise wide areas in order to
supply fish enough for the cannery and Service Market. Areas which
placed them beyond reach of the radio and gave Mascola his chance. The
Italian struck without warning. Angered by the loss of his prestige,
strengthened by his augmented fleet, he began to hector the extreme
outposts beyond reach of the wireless.
Then ensued a long period of stormy weather. Owing to new and
inexperienced crews and the increasing interference of Mascola's men, a
number of Gregory's vessels were wrecked on the island shores and
salvaged with great difficulty and expense. With the extended radius of
his operations, overhead expenses mounted perceptibly, cutting down
profits and adding to the multiplying worries of the young cannery-owner
in countless ways.
At the close of one particularly trying day he sat alone in the cannery
office and stared moodily at a wireless despatch which lay on the desk
before him. It came from Diablo and reported the arrival of a portion of
his fleet off the Hell-Hole.
The message was phrased in the most optimistic terms. Fish appeared to
be plentiful. The weather was fine, the sea smooth. There was no sign
of interference from any quarter.
Yet the worried lines which creased Gregory's forehead deepened. It had
been that way often of late at devil island. No matter how clear the sky
appeared, the shadow of El Diablo bulked dark and sinister across the
sunlit horizon. Something would happen out there to-night. He felt sure
of it. He should have gone with the fleet. But how could he? He was far
down the coast with the new boats when they left.
Diablo, he realized sharply, was getting on his nerves. Were the
obstacles which he had encountered about the island due to something
more than a mere defense of good fishing grounds? It was not the first
time he had asked himself the question. There was something wrong at El
Diablo. He could not shake off the feeling. As he sat down to wait for
the evil tidings he felt sure would come, he took up an unopened letter
from Hawkins which had been on his desk two days. A part of the letter
caused him to read it the second time.
"So I got to nosing around and incidentally tumbled on
to something which I think may be of interest to you.
Would it surprise you to know that Mascola does not own
a single fishing-boat? It did me, though I might have
known it if I had remembered the federal statute which
prohibits any but American-owned fishing vessels from
operating in American waters.
"Rock and Bandrist own the alien fleet. Mascola, you
see, is an alien. Bandrist apparently is not. I wish by
the way you'd tell me all you can of that bird. I'm
looking up Silvanus myself. I'm on the trail of a pretty
good story, Cap, if it works out all right. Shouldn't be
surprised if I might not drop in on you any time. If I
do, I'll want a boat to go over to Diablo. Keep this all
under your hat. It isn't censored."
For some time Gregory stared at Hawkins' letter. The information gleaned
from its contents shed a new light upon El Diablo. Bandrist and Rock
were in cahoots. Both were interested in keeping him away from Diablo.
Something was wrong on the island. It was Mascola's job to keep strange
craft from going there to find out. With the words strange craft, his
mind flashed to a new tangent. To his half-closed eyes came a vision of
a long gray hull, running dark, gliding through the water toward them
like a destructive shadow. Bronson had said it looked like the _Gray
Ghost_. What was the _Gray Ghost_? Where did she clear from? And what
was her purpose in putting in in the dark to Hell-Hole?
The questions multiplied with the smoke-wreaths and in the blue haze
which enveloped him, Kenneth Gregory beheld his vague and intangible
suspicions gradually crystallizing into three fundamental hypotheses:
Something crooked was being pulled off at Diablo. Rock and Bandrist were
back of it. The isolation of the island was threatened by the increasing
activities of the American fleet in that vicinity. Mascola's opportunity
was only a means to an end.
Gregory's frown deepened. What Rock and Bandrist were doing at Diablo
concerned him in itself, not at all. In so far as it related to
Mascola's interference, however, it was all-important. Mascola was the
one man who stood between him and his cherished dreams. If Rock and
Bandrist were behind Mascola, as he imagined, would it not be pursuing a
"cart before horse" policy to continue his expensive militant opposition
to the Italian? Why not fathom the motive which lay behind Mascola's
action? If Diablo held a secret, the guarding of which threatened his
business existence, why should he not as an American citizen take the
initiative and----
His meditations were disturbed by a soft tap on the office door. Dickie
Lang entered.
"I knew I'd find you here," she said. "Smoking yourself to death and
worrying gray. I've come to take you outside for a while. You'll be sick
if you go on like this. Forget for a while and come with me. The boys
are having a mussel-bake on the beach and they've sent for you. If you
have ever eaten kelp-baked mussels you'll not wait to be urged. The
grunion should run to-night too, and I want you to see them."
Gregory drew his fingers through his tousled hair and shook his head.
"I'm sorry," he said. "But I can't go. I'm waiting for a radio from
Diablo."
"Bosh!" the girl interrupted. "It won't take one of the boys five
minutes to bring you the message if it comes while you're gone." She
came closer and placed a hand on his arm. "Please come," she said.
"Just to please me."
Gregory had no alternative. Leaving word with one of the night men to
send him any radio despatch at once, he followed Dickie to the beach,
where the service men sat cross-legged about a blazing fire of
drift-wood. Gregory sank to the sand beside the dark mound of dampened
kelp and watched the operations of the chef as he busied himself in
removing the heavy pieces of canvas which covered the sea-grass.
"It's nature's fireless-cooker," explained the girl as she took her
place beside him. "You can cook most anything in an oven like that if
you know how. It's simple enough too. All you have to do is to scoop out
a hole in the sand and line it with rocks to hold in the heat. Then
build your fire and let it burn for a couple of hours to get a good bed
of coals. Cover them with a thin layer of damp kelp and put in the
potatoes. Another layer of sea-weed, then the roasting-ears. After that
come the fish, wrapped in paper. Then the mussels, clams or anything
else you want. When you get them all in, cover the whole thing with a
lot of heavy kelp and batten it down with a big piece of canvas. The
whole trick is knowing just when to open the oven. Nothing can burn so
it's better to leave it too long than to try to hurry things."
Gregory took the tin-plate, piled high with its smoking delicacies, and
leisurely freed a succulent mussel from its shell. As he placed it in
his mouth his eyes lit up with genuine pleasure and the anxious lines
slowly disappeared from his face.
"What do you think of them?"
He could only gasp his appreciation. Dickie smiled at the rapidly
disappearing contents of his plate. He looked like a new man already.
Nothing like a mussel-bake in the open air to make people forget their
troubles.
About the dying drift-wood fire, the service men drew closer together
and began to sing.
"There's a long, long trail a-winding
Into the land of my dreams."
As their voices rose above the dull boom of the surf, Gregory's thoughts
turned to the words of the song. The trail had been long. How long and
how devious, he had never quite before realized. Perhaps it was because
he was tired and the firelight made him think. The "land of his dreams"
was still far ahead. Blocked from his vision for the time being by an
intangible something which lay like a dark shadow across the path.
"_Over there. Over there._"
He started and looked involuntarily toward the phosphorescent line of
breakers. Over there? Once it had meant France. Now it came to him with
a new meaning. Beyond the gleaming waves he fancied he could see the
jagged shore-line of El Diablo.
"And we won't come back,
Till it's over, over there."
Gregory's eyes narrowed. When "it was over, over there," perhaps it
would be over everywhere. Then, and only then, would he reach "the land
of his dreams." He looked guiltily at Dickie Lang and was glad that she
could not read his thoughts concerning the end of the long trail.
"What were you thinking of, just then? I never saw you look like that
before."
It was the eternal feminine speaking.
Gregory shook his head. "I never did look like that before," he said.
"Because I never thought quite that far. Some day perhaps I'll tell you
what I was thinking."
The moon, which had shyly appeared over the low brown hills, grew bolder
and mingled its rays with those of the fire in crowding back the
shadows. Then a shout came from the water.
"Grunion."
The singing ceased abruptly and the service men scrambled to their feet
and raced down the beach.
Dickie made haste to follow.
"Come on," she cried to Gregory. "And I'll show you the sight of your
life."
Following the girl to the wet sands, Gregory was amazed at the
spectacle. The silver waves were alive with glistening fish. Borne high
on the crest of the tumbling breakers, they surged to the beach by
thousands and lay quivering like quick-silver, stranded in the sand by
the back-wash. With a deafening shout men scrambled to the water's edge
and scooped them up in their hands. Dickie rushed to the water and
returned with a small fish, somewhat resembling a sardine.
"Grunion," she announced. "They come up at certain seasons of the year
to spawn. There are only three places on the coast south of the Golden
Gate where they run. For three or four nights now while the tide is high
and the moon full they'll be swept up on this beach and left to lay
their eggs in the wet sand. If you get closer you can see them standing
on their tails. You'll never believe it unless you do see it. You've got
to work fast to get them for they hop along the beach only for a second.
Then the next breaker takes them out."
Handing him one of the little fish, she continued: "Take him up to the
fire and look at him. Against a good light you can see clear though
them. If you had a skillet hot on the coals and threw in a handful of
grunion you could never have a finer dish. But they won't hardly keep
over night. For that reason they are good for nothing, commercially."
She paused abruptly and listened. "I thought I heard some one calling,"
she said.
Turning about they saw three men standing by the fire.
"Maybe it's some word from the boys," Gregory exclaimed. "Let's go and
see."
At the fireside they came upon Hawkins with two strangers, whom he
introduced as brothers of his craft. Drawing Gregory aside while Dickie
conversed with Slade and Billings, he said:
"Listen, Cap. I want a boat and a man to run it who knows Diablo from
the water-line up. I'm on the trail of the biggest kind of a scoop. I
can't give you all the dope but I can tell you a few things that will
open your eyes."
The two men drew farther into the shadows and conferred in low-pitched
voices, broken now and then by Gregory's muttered exclamations. While
they talked one of the night men from the cannery hurried on to the
scene.
"Message for Mr. Gregory," he called.
Gregory took the message and drew nearer the coals. In the red glow of
the fire, he read:
From: Launch _Snipe_
At Sea. Five miles off Hell-Hole.
Got into fight with Mascola about an hour ago. His boats
drove ours from island. His men drunk and armed with
shotguns. Some of boys pretty well filled up. _Curlew_
lagged with engine trouble and was cut in two off
Hell-Hole Isthmus. Sunk in five minutes by some big
boat, running dark. _Albatross_ picked up crew. All
saved. Wire what to do. Twelve boats here. Others at
Cavalan for repairs.
Jones.
Dickie's eyes shone angrily at the message. "Damn them!" she cried.
"They got my _Curlew_." Grasping Gregory's arm, she exclaimed: "There's
a bunch of the fleet off San Anselmo on the mainland side. There's some
more a few miles down the coast from Cavalan. They can all make Diablo
in two hours if you wire them right away. We can go over in the
_Richard_ and round them up and smash Mascola's whole fleet. What if
they have shotguns? We have rifles. Come on. What are you waiting for?"
Dickie Lang was breathless. Her cheeks glowed. Her eyes were shining.
Gregory shook his head slowly and looked at Hawkins.
"The _Gray Ghost_ ran the _Curlew_ down about an hour ago off the
Hell-Hole Isthmus," he said.
The two strangers drew closer and listened intently to the news while
Dickie chafed at Gregory's failure to get under way.
"That means we've got to be off," exclaimed one of the men. "How about
going over in that speed-boat of yours?"
Gregory nodded. "That's what I was figuring on," he said. "I'm going to
send a radio to all my boats within a thirty-mile radius of the island
to reinforce the fleet and mix it with Mascola off the Hell-Hole Isthmus
on the north side. While they're busy on that side, it will leave us a
clear field on the other."
Dickie's eyes opened wide at his words. As they moved away together in
the direction of the cannery, she cried: "I don't understand at all.
Aren't you going to help the boys out?"
Gregory shook his head and the grim lines tightened about his mouth.
"No," he answered. "Not this time. That is what Rock, Bandrist and
Mascola think I am going to do. But I'm going to fool them. There's
something back of all this that we can only guess at now. Diablo has a
secret our fathers died to learn. I'm sure of it now. To-night I'm going
to find out what it is."