_John Solomon--Supercargo_
_By ALLAN HAWKWOOD_
(Henry Bedford-Jones)
_Author of
"Solomon's Quest" "The Seal of Solomon," etc._
_London: HURST & BLACKETT, LTD.,
PATERNOSTER HOUSE, E.C._
_1925_
Contents
CHAPTER
I. The Cattle-Wharf at Deptford
II. John Solomon
III. The Road to Melindi
IV. Who Murdered Hans Schlak?
V. The Adventure Begins
VI. The Lady Professor
VII. Hammer Starts Something
VIII. In the Open
IX. Hammer Begins to See
X. At Melindi
XI. Solomon Prepares for Action
XII. Under Suspicion
XIII. Accused and Accuser
XIV. Off At Last
XV. Dr. Krausz Proves Obstinate
XVI. The Place of Skulls
XVII. The Pit of Adders
XVIII. "Thahabu!"
XIX. The "Daphne" Again
John Solomon--Supercargo
CHAPTER I
THE CATTLE-WHARF AT DEPTFORD
Frederick L. C. Harcourt, Viscount Ratcliff, was extremely natty in
his flannels, buckskins, and yachting cap, and consequently he
aroused tremendous excitement, plainly being nothing more or less
than a "toff" of the first water.
As he strode along the cattle-wharf at Deptford, he looked as much
out of place as would a royal highness if suddenly dropped among the
habitués of Sally Tucker's pub.
Nevertheless, because of the Royal Yacht Club insignia on his cap,
and also because his face was very brown and square-chinned and his
shoulders rather broader than most, his "sunfish" prodding the
long-horns down the gangs kept their comments strictly to themselves.
Harcourt, who was strolling along in a rather aimless fashion, nodded
quietly to the astonished S.P.C.A. inspector, replied to the latter's
flurried greeting that it certainly was a fine day, and passed on.
His dark-blue eyes settled on an ancient and dishonorable well-deck
cargo tank of some three thousand tons, from which the last batch of
cattle were being driven into the wharf pens.
As he passed down beneath her counter, on the edge of the wharf, his
sauntering ceased rather abruptly. From somewhere came a
well-directed stream of blue, evil-smelling, pipe smoke, which shot
down with the wind squarely athwart his face.
Harcourt looked up to see a man, obviously a "sunfish" or cattle-boat
hand, leaning lazily upon the rail above him and grinning amiably at
the intruder.
Foul beyond the ordinary foulness of the bullock waiter was the man,
his clothes a mere mass of tattered rags, and dirt; but there was a
twinkle in his grey eyes, and his face and neck were brown and rough
and muscled. His tousle of black hair was crowned by a battered felt
hat, whose brim flapped at weird angles about his ears; but from brow
to chin his face was aquiline, sharp, while, as he addressed the
other, white teeth flashed on his pipe-stem.
"Slumming, pardner?"
Harcourt smiled, his cheeks rosy through their bronze, and something
of the cool insolence that had rested in the grey eyes above him died
away before his look.
"Perhaps. Come down here, my man. I'd like a word with you, don't
you know."
The sunfish did not move, but sent a slow stream of smoke down the
wind, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"I'm not your man," came the calm retort. "Also, I'm quite satisfied
where I am. If you want a word with me you are at liberty to trot up
here; but I'd advise you to take that white coat off first. I'm
liable to muss it up if you get me too excited."
The Englishman stared for a moment, evidently surprised at the voice
and accent of the sunfish, which held quite as much authority as did
his own and which betrayed culture despite the challenging veneer of
insolence.
Meanwhile, the scattered sunfish and cowpunchers took note of their
visitor's stoppage and, as the last of the cattle were shoved into
their pen, a little crowd collected about the gang, scenting trouble
with unmingled joy. Seeing that one of their comrades had taken the
burden upon his own shoulders, they encouraged him distantly.
"Don't youse take any lip off'n him, pal!"
"Tell the bleedin', bloody toff 'is pants is tore, 'Ammer!"
"Ain't his little feet pretty----"
The murmuring died away with startling abruptness, for one of the
cow-punchers shouted over from the pen, with callous indifference to
the feelings of the visitor;
"Shut up, you stiffs! That's his lordship what laid out the Brighton
Blighter last night. I seen him do it!"
Amid the ensuing silence Harcourt flushed darkly and walked to the
gangway, the men drawing back suddenly from his mild look.
Up above watched the sunfish, his grey eyes wide, for all the docks
had heard the story--how the famous Brighton Blighter had encountered
some toff or other in Oxford Street the previous night, and how,
after some passing reference to lords and ladies, the heavy-weight
champion had been knocked out cold within a minute.
So this mild-eyed, wide-shouldered yachtsman was the man, then! The
sunfish quietly laid aside his pipe and stood waiting; if his
invitation had been accepted in the spirit in which it had been
issued, he was like to have his work cut out for him. Harcourt,
however, displayed no bellicose intention, but halted a few feet away.
"Well, now that I am here, I presume you'll grant me a few moments?"
The sunfish grinned as the blue eyes twinkled into his.
"I can spare you five minutes, my lord. I thought that perhaps you
desired a sparring partner!"
"Oh, I say now!" Harcourt flushed again and was plainly ill at ease.
"Just forget all that bally rot, can't you? It's too beastly----"
"Listen!"
The sunfish held up a hand, and from the wharf below a confused
murmur drifted up from the gathering crowd.
"That's 'im, a talkin' to 'Ammer!"
"Aw, what youse givin' us? He didn't knock out your blamed white
hope!"
"Stow that, ye flatfoot! Billy here seen it, an' that's the guy, all
right!"
The sunfish grinned again at the uneasy yachtsman. "Don't be
bashful, your lordship--true greatness cannot be hidden under
flannels, even at Deptford, you see. Sorry to receive you in these
duds, but my valet hasn't come down to the dock as yet."
A flicker of something that was not amusement flared out in the blue
eyes, but it passed quickly with a chuckle.
"All right, my friend--you're the man I'm looking for! But, upon my
word, I hardly expected such good luck."
"It's all yours so far," came the dry retort. "Only, if you're
looking for a thug, you'll find plenty down there in the crowd." His
grey eyes rested shrewdly, but laughingly, on the other.
"No, thanks very much." An appraising glance and a nod accompanied
the words. "You'll do. Your name is Hammer I take it. American?"
"Stars and stripes, you bet. As to Hammer, that's not my name, but
it's handle enough for this craft. 'Ammer, 'ammer, 'ammer on the
'ard 'ighway, you know--only my cognomen is a title of distinction
gained by the honest use of fists. Yours, if you have one, was
probably gained through the chance of birth. I will say, though,
that you're very decent-looking, for a Britisher."
"Oh, thanks very much!" The visitor seemed anything but angry, to
the visible disappointment of the watching gangway; still, he very
plainly was bewildered by the cultured tones of the sunfish. "Are
you--er--looking for work?"
"Well, that depends on the work," returned Hammer easily, paying no
heed to the outraged ship's officers, who were looking on aghast.
"No yachting, thanks. Too hard to look pleasant all the time.
Besides, I can't keep straight."
The other's eyes met his, unsurprised, questioning, and beneath that
level gaze Hammer only kept up his truculent air with an effort.
This Englishman was very likeable.
"How so, Mr. Hammer?"
"Oh, general cussedness and particular booze. Better browse along
and hunt up another victim, your lordship! I like your looks, but I
don't like my own--in comparison."
This rather impulsive admission had no effect on Harcourt beyond
sending a stubborn glint into his blue eyes. Deliberately pausing to
light a cigarette, he extended his case to the other; Hammer refused,
replacing his pipe in his mouth, but this time he carefully sent the
smoke downward.
"No, I'm rather keen on you, Hammer. I've been--er--browsing along,
as you say, all of the morning without any success, and it's getting
tiresome. As matter of fact, I came out to look for a man with a
second officer's ticket, a man who could use his fists and who was
willing to take a chance with me.
"Now, however, I've changed my mind. I'm not quite sure yet as to
what offer I'll make you, but come up to my address in the city when
you're through here--to-night, if you can. Here's my card and a
tenner to act as retainer."
The astonished Hammer mechanically shoved the Bank of England note
into some recess of his ragged shirt, then perused the card. He
looked up with hesitation in his eyes.
"Mind, Harcourt, I've warned you that I'm no good----"
"Nonsense! If I was after a sober, respectable seaman, do you think
I'd have come here looking for one? When can I expect to see you?"
"Oh, have it your own way, then!" Hammer shrugged his shoulders,
resignedly. "I'll meet you say, at Prince's for dinner. Centre
table, far end."
"Eh?" Harcourt's eyes opened. "You--er--but Prince's, don't you
know----"
"----Doesn't go with these duds, you mean?" Hammer chuckled as he
finished the other's hesitating sentence. "Never mind--you should
worry, Harcourt! Much obliged for the tenner, just the same; all you
have to do is to show up and see what you find. Seven-thirty suit
you?"
"Very well, thanks," murmured Harcourt, and so the colloquy ended--in
amused and rather interested toleration on the part of the sunfish,
and in bewildered doubt on that of the Englishman.
At seven-thirty that evening Harcourt received another shock, and
this time a greater one. For after he stepped into the big
dining-room at Prince's and beckoned the stately head-waiter, that
individual arrived with the calm information that Mr. Hammer was
waiting.
"Er--you know Mr. Hammer, Bucks?"
"Quite well, sir," responded Bucks, and Harcourt followed in subdued
amazement.
He was led to a table, from which a man in evening dress sprang to
meet him, hand extended. For a moment the sorely-doubting Englishman
did not recognize the sunfish, until he took in the hard grey eyes,
the tanned features, the keen incisive lines of the face.
Then he recovered himself and went through the form of greeting
stiffly; but Hammer had no intention of letting him off so easily.
"It was rather a low-down trick, wasn't it?" grinned the American
cheerfully. "However, we'll have an explanation all around. Poor
chap, your face was a picture this morning when I announced that we'd
dine here!"
"I must apologize, of course, my dear chap," returned Harcourt
ruefully; then, unable to resist the infectious humour of the other,
he broke into a laugh and the incident was closed.
In truth, Cyrus Hammer was well calculated to draw a second glance,
for not only did his evening clothes fit him impeccably, but he wore
them with ease and grace which made him to the full as _distingué_ as
his aristocratic companion.
His mouth was hard, and there were lines in his face which has no
place in the face of a man of twenty-eight who had lived his life
well; but these were in great part redeemed by an abundance of
unfailing good humour, which hid, mask-like, the hard-fisted quality
of the man underneath.
Harcourt wasted no time, and no sooner was the dinner fairly begun
than he plunged headlong into the subject under discussion.
"Hammer, I have a little surprise for you myself, perhaps. I told
you this morning that I had changed my plans pending your acceptance
of my offer to you, so there is no use in beating about the bush.
"Until a month ago I had considered myself fairly well fixed for
life; then came that flurry in Wall Street which wrecked two of your
big institutions.
"I woke up one morning to find myself almost a beggar, as all my
funds were invested in American securities and they had slipped down
and out with a crash. My word, it was a blow! I had a few hundreds
left; no more."
Hammer displayed none of the surprise he felt at this astounding
revelation, but merely nodded; and after a moment, the other
continued:
"Practically all that I saved out of the crash was my yacht, the
_Daphne_. All my family have been sailors, don't you know, and if I
hadn't been, sent down from the 'Mill'--Woolwich--years ago, I'd have
been in the navy to-day. In fact, one of my proudest possessions is
a Board of Trade certificate as Master.
"Well, I'd about made up my mind to sell the craft and try my luck in
your bally country, when along comes an offer to charter the yacht.
That gave me the idea. I say, Hammer, why couldn't I take this party
out to East Africa, where they wish to go, then--er--browse around
the ocean, acting as my own captain? Couldn't a chap make a decent
living at that, eh?"
"Ought to," chuckled Hammer, making no secret of his interest by this
time. "If you're willing to take a bit of risk once in a while, I
fancy you could pick up some easy coin, and have a good time as well.
But why should this party want to charter a yacht to reach East
Africa with?"
"Oh, it's that big Dresden archaeological chap, Dr. Sigurd
Krausz--he's sending out an expedition to dig up some beastly thing
or other, and wants the _Daphne_ for his own use, the field force
going separately. I've not the slightest idea what he's after, but
he's willing to pay well, and seems to be doing the thing on his own
hook instead of working for any museum.
"But let's get down to business, Hammer. I've been thinking this
over, and since I am frankly down and out, as you Americans would
say, I've no notion of depending on myself alone. I'm a pretty good
character-reader, Hammer, and I liked you at first sight or I
wouldn't make this offer. Other things being equal, how would you
like to take a junior partnership in the _Daphne_?"
Hammer looked at him silently, wondering if the man meant what he
said. But the other was plainly in earnest, and, moreover, Hammer
thought that he had seldom met a man to whom he was so attracted.
That the liking was mutual there seemed to be no doubt; but would it
last?
"I don't know," he returned slowly. "I'm no sailor, for one
thing--I'm a cattle-boat hand, and nothing else. I can't see where
I'd be any good."
"No matter," declared Harcourt impatiently. "You could soon pick up
navigation; for that matter, there are plenty of men in command of
craft without proper license. However, I'm not figuring on you as a
sailor. I can do that, but I don't know a bally thing about
business. You could handle the business end of everything and
gradually work into handling the ship; she'd be my property, of
course, but we'd share even on what we made."
"Go slow now," and Hammer laughed quietly while the waiter hovered
about them. Then, when they were once more alone, he went on:
"Better let me spin you my yarn first, then see how far you'd be
willing to trust me."
Hammer's real name was Cyrus Murray, and until three years before
this time he had been engaged in a profitable brokerage business in
New York City. Alone in the world, he had made his own way, and in
the course of its making he had contracted a hasty and ill-advised
marriage with a girl who was in no way fitted to be his wife.
It was a sordid little tragedy, by no means uncommon in American life
of to-day; but, unfortunately for Murray, his wife had been the first
to discover that it was a tragedy.
He glossed over this portion of the tale in its telling, merely
stating that he had allowed her to obtain a divorce, and had turned
over to her the greater part of his worldly goods; but he had been
hard hit by the entire affair.
Impulsively, he had thrown his business overboard, and one night, in
reckless desperation, he sought shelter from his thoughts by shipping
aboard a cattle-boat. Curiously enough, before he reached Liverpool
he had found that in spite of the terribly rough life, in spite of
the almost daily battles for existence into which his very appearance
and manner flung him, the hard physical labour and the tortured
weariness of his body was a relief to his mind. Then the liquor.
So for three years he had been traversing the Atlantic, working hard,
fighting hard, drinking hard; his ambition was destroying; he took
savage zest in bullying the thugs and degenerates who were his
companions in misfortune, and he had thought himself fairly content
at the level to which he had sunk.
Upon each arrival in England he made a practise of going to London
and living like a gentleman for a week or two--for he had still some
money left--until the life became unbearable to him, and back he
would go to his cattle-boats and human cattle.
"There's the whole thing," he concluded with a bitter smile. "A fool
paying for his folly, that's all. Still want me?"
"Yes," came the quiet answer. "I think we're well mated, Hammer;
but, to make sure, suppose we make this a trial cruise together.
You'll never find any ambition aboard a bally cattle-boat, that's
sure, and you might better go to hell decently, if you're bound to go.
"However, you're a real man, and I like you. My offer stands; only,
don't you know, I want your word that you won't drink while you're
with me. I mean--er--well, drinking in a beastly fashion----"
"I get you, old man," chuckled Hammer quickly. "Suppose we put it
that I can drink as much as you do, but no more, eh? All right,
then--but I've really no great inclination for drink in itself. You
have my word of honour, such as it is--and here's a toast in coffee
to the _Daphne_ and the daffy Dutchman!"
"Done!" cried Harcourt in undisguised delight, but as he raised his
cup Bucks approached with a whispered word and a card. Harcourt
frowned, glancing at the latter.
"'John Solomon'--who the devil is John Solomon? Who is he, Bucks?"
"A rather queer _person_, sir," replied the head-waiter sagely. "I
might let him wait in a private room, sir!"
"All right, do so. We'll be out in a moment--confounded nuisance!
How did the fellow come to look me up here? By Jove, Hammer, the
unmitigated insolence of some----"
"Cool off," laughed the American. "Here, have another cigarette
before we go, and we can investigate your friend after we finish.
Funny name, John Solomon!"