BULLOTT EXPLAINS
“Shut the door,” said Bullott faintly, “and lock it. They got me
last night. It was my own fault. He told me to be careful, and, like a
fool, I came on to the deck and Laffin recognised me, and one of his
men got a knife in before I could pull a gun.”
“Laffin? Is it he you are speaking about?”
Bullott smiled faintly.
“I’ll tell you later,” he said. “Is that door locked?”
Bill assured him it was.
“Who lives opposite to you?”
“Sir John and Lady Wilford,” said Bill. “I was asking the purser
about them. They came on board at Southampton. Sir John is an invalid
and his wife nurses him.”
“Ever come down for meals?”
“No,” said Bill in surprise. “What do you suggest? Who are they?”
“I’ll tell you that later, too,” grunted Bullott.
There was no need to ask where the hand print had come from; both his
hands were the colour of soot and greasy withal.
“You’ve been working in the engine-room,” accused Bill.
Bullott’s face twitched.
“Yes, I’ve been greasing,” he said laconically. “It is not so nice a
job as you’d think, but I’ve got the constitution. Anything
happened?”
“Nothing, except that they’ve taken all our guns away on a fake
message from New York. The purser has them.”
The man moved uneasily on the bed and winced with the pain of it. Bill
would have sent for the doctor, but he refused that help.
“It is only a cut--snicked one of the ribs.”
He showed the wound, which was more serious than he had imagined. Bill
dressed it as well as he could, and when he had made the man
comfortable:
“Now, tell me what in thunder this is all about. To where did you
disappear?”
“I disappeared the night Sir John and his lady went overboard and
their places were taken by Harvey Hale and Dr. Laffin. I saw the ketch
in the fog--we nearly collided with it. It came alongside, and I was
one of the few who were looking overboard at that hour, certainly the
only man who saw two people slide down a rope and two others take
their place, helped by I don’t know how many steerage passengers!
Quick! You’ve no idea how quick they were. They were in my cabin
before I could return.”
“Incidentally they doped the glass of water that had been put for you
there.”
Bullott nodded.
“I heard about that,” he said. “I went down to the engine-room. I
thought I had better clear. And I hoped that my disappearance would
lead to a thorough search of the ship and the discovery that Laffin
was on board. I suppose you wonder why I didn’t tackle him
single-handed? Well, I’ll tell you. He isn’t single-handed, not by
eighty! You haven’t looked at the steerage, have you? The toughest
crowd that has ever sailed out of Southampton. There isn’t one of them
that would be admitted to the United States.”
“Then why on earth--” began Bill.
“Because they’re not going to be admitted to the United States,” said
Bullott with a mirthless smile. “No, I’d already arranged through the
Yard where I should go to, and the captain knew all about it.”
“Are you sure?” said Bill incredulously.
“Absolutely sure. He’s a pretty good actor, that captain. Most of
these Yankee seamen have faces that won’t tell on ’em! I’ve been
greasing down in the engine-room and it is hell! The only time I saw
you near to was when I looked over the rails. I’ve seen you in the
distance a dozen times.”
“Does the captain know?”
“The captain knows all that I know,” said Bullott, “but he doesn’t
take the same view that I take. You see, we didn’t know enough, before
the ship sailed, for Scotland Yard to issue any more than the usual
official warning. They knew that an attempt would be made on the
strong-room, but then, they know that every voyage, and take the
necessary precautions. Where are you going now?”
Bill had remembered that he had promised to join the girl on deck.
“Wait.” Bullott raised a warning finger. “You’re not to tell anybody
I’m here. The right people will find out soon enough.”
With this observation, Bill went back to Betty Carew, and it only
needed one glance at his face to tell her that something unusual had
happened.
“I don’t want to lie to you,” he said, “but it is true that there has
been an extraordinary development, but I cannot tell you what it is.”
“What do you want me to do--anything?” she asked.
“Nothing at all.”
The swell was more pronounced now, but Clive Lowbridge had managed to
drag himself on to the deck, and fell gracefully into a chair by her
side.
“There’s nothing romantic about seasickness, is there?” he groaned.
“I feel that even Benson despises me.”
Benson, who stood rigidly by, with a rug over his arm, showed neither
contempt nor approval.
“You’re a good sailor, Benson?”
“Yes, Madam, a perfect sailor. I have served at sea.”
“As a steward?”
“Yes, Madam. I have travelled many thousands of miles. Is there
anything more you require, my lord?”
“Nothing, thank you, Benson.”
Benson made as though he were going away, but stopped and looked
hesitatingly at the girl.
“Would Mr. Stone consider it an impertinence if I offered to help him
a little? I understand that he is ill?”
“He had a bad fall,” said the girl, that being the fiction that they
had agreed upon. “I’m sure he would be awfully pleased of any help you
could give him, Benson.”
With a little nod, the tall man disappeared through the companion
opening.
“Funny devil, that. I never know quite what to make of him,” said
Lowbridge languidly. “He’s the most perfect servant I’ve ever had; he
gives me no trouble; never asks for his wages at inconvenient moments,
though they’re low enough, heaven knows, and never so much as hints at
his dissatisfaction with my humble estate. There are times,” he
mused, “when I think that Benson is too good to be true.”
She laughed.
“Well, what does our young journalistic friend think of things? Does
he believe we shall be murdered before we reach New York? Billy--is it
Billy?” he laughed softly. “Forgive me,” as he saw the colour rise
in her face. “He’s rather a nice boy, that--I speak from the eminence
of thirty-one years, which is a very lofty plane indeed. He’s a nice
boy, and if--if it was hopeless for me, I’d be glad if--there’s
another if!”
“Don’t say any more, Clive.” She laid her hand on his arm. “The ‘if’
is a very big one just at present, isn’t it?”
“Which?”
“The Laffin ‘if’.”
“I don’t believe he’s on board, and if he is, why, it ought to be an
easy matter to arrest him, the brute! How long do we stay in New
York?” he asked.
“In New York? I--I have the queerest feeling at this moment that we’ll
never reach New York.”
Clive Lowbridge raised his languid eyebrows.
“For heaven’s sake, Betty, don’t get such horrible ideas,” he said
petulantly. “You’re an awfully depressing influence these days. It
must be your association with our crime expert!”
“I don’t know why I said that, and I know less why I felt as I did,
but the idea of going to New York at all seemed, in that second, such
an impossible one; and yet we are not more than three or four days
from that city, are we?”
“Ninety-six hours, to be exact,” said Clive. “And there are sixty
minutes in every hour. And when you are feeling as I am feeling at
this moment, considerably more than sixty seconds in every
minute--it’s a horrible prospect!”
Billy had gone back to his wounded friend and found him half-dozing.
He had locked him in the cabin and carried the key in his pocket. The
sound of the turning lock woke the detective, and when Bill opened the
door he saw his hand was underneath his pillow.
“Bullott, I’m going to bring the captain down to see you.”
“Don’t,” said the other laconically; “I’ve already sent him a note.
And I can tell you, the captain is absolutely fed up with me. He
regards me as a sensationalist who is trying to work up a scare.
People say that the sea makes a man imaginative--rubbish! There is
nothing so unimaginative as a seaman--otherwise, he’d never go to sea!
He may believe in ghosts, and he may be superstitious about unlucky
ships, but he refuses to see more than the barometer can show him.
He’s a man who deals with hard facts, with the relative position of
the sun and the horizon, with the pull of currents and the habits of
icebergs, the unintelligence of pilots and the extortions of harbour
customs.”
“You seem to know a lot about it,” laughed Bill.
“I guess I do. I’ve been classifying criminal minds for years, and
I’ve come across a few seamen--they’re all alike. Holbrook,” he went
on more seriously, “if what I think is going to happen does, then
there’s going to be hell on board this packet. You’ve got to get the
purser to hand over those guns to the people who own ’em.”
Bill shook his head.
“I’ve tried and failed. And I don’t think it really matters. Not a
half per cent. of the people who carry a gun can use one. Haven’t you
read the story of the terrified passengers on the train that was held
up--more guns than money, and three men skinned nine cars and got away
without a scratch?”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said the detective. “In the meantime, go
along and pinch a gun for yourself.”
Bill smiled and touched his laden hip pocket. He had not been in the
purser’s cabin for nothing.