THE CONTROL
The curious mixture of pomp and argot would in any other
circumstances have aroused Bill to merriment; but now, as something
cold gripped his heart, he knew that the hour of crisis had arrived,
and followed the operator to the dark deck.
There were other cloaked forms there; Bill counted ten; there were
probably more.
“Get into that cabin,” ordered the spokesman of the Proud Sons, and
his companion obeyed. “Take off all messages that come, shoot anybody
who attempts to open the door, and, if the worst comes to the worst,
destroy the instruments and smash those valves.”
“All right,” growled the other.
“Where is your cabin?” demanded the chief spokesman.
“Aft. What is the game?” began the radio man.
“Don’t ask questions. Take this man to his cabin and lock him in. What
are you?” He was speaking to Bill, and Holbrook was happy in the
thought that he had not been recognised.
“I’m a passenger,” he said.
“Keep him here. Go forrard, you men.”
The mask who was evidently in command towered above his fellows, a
veritable giant. Bill saw them moving forward towards the bridge, and
presently they were lost to view. He heard nothing, till there was a
cry and the muffled sound of a shot. One of the men who were guarding
him said something in a low voice; what it was Bill could not hear.
He guessed what had happened before two of the robed men came along
the deck, supporting a limp figure, that in the growing light Bill
recognised as the officer of the watch.
“Put him in that second cabin.”
What had happened to the captain? His stateroom was immediately behind
the bridge. Bill was to learn.
“When the skipper comes to his senses, handcuff him and keep him
locked in his cabin. Seventy-nine and eighty, go forrard and search
his cabin for arms. The armoury is behind; I’ve got the key of that.
Don’t interfere with the stewards unless they get fresh--the
passengers are to be kept quiet.”
A figure came running up the ladder and saluted.
“Control established in the engine-room, sir,” he reported.
“Muster the deck hands aft,” said the tall commander. “Go back to
them, Sam, and say a few short words about what’s going to happen if
they give us any trouble. You know the line of talk that’ll scare that
trash.”
When they brought the injured officer along, they had pushed Bill back
against the rail, and now that their attention was directed to some
happening elsewhere, he seized his opportunity. In a second he had
slipped over the rail, and went down the stanchion hand over hand, and
apparently his departure was not noticed.
The watch had disappeared from the deck; evidently they had been
shepherded aft. As he darted into the companionway, he caught sight of
the night steward, and whistled to him softly. In a few words he told
that startled man what had happened.
“You people are safe,” he said; “they may skin the passengers, but
the stewards will carry on as usual. I want a steward’s suit from you;
can you fix me?”
“Does the captain know?”
“I guess he does know,” said Bill, without troubling to explain.
“This is a fact, and there’s no sense in asking questions. Can you get
me a suit--if so, get it quick!”
The steward led him down to an unused cabin, in which, as Bill
suspected, he slept, contrary to ship’s regulations. From a locker he
produced a suit of white ducks, and Holbrook changed instanter. His
scheme was a simple one. He guessed rightly that the pirates would
take little notice of the ship’s staff, so long as they carried out
instructions. In this capacity he might have an opportunity of
protecting the girl.
He was no sooner dressed than he borrowed the steward’s razor and
lather-brush, and although he was clean-shaven, he made a marvellous
transformation of his face, for he removed the rather heavy eyebrows
that were a feature of his face. The change was so marked that the
steward at first hardly recognised him.
“I know a crook who used to walk past the man who was looking for him
on the strength of shaved eyebrows,” said Bill. “It is a little
wheeze that I remembered in time. Now go forrard and see the purser,
if they haven’t already got him. Tell the chief steward--he knows
me--what I’m doing, and ask the rest of the men to keep their mouths
shut. This means money for them when we reach New York.”
“What are they going to do to us, sir?”
The steward was less concerned with the fortune that might await him
in New York City than with his personal safety. He was a man with
three children, as he explained several times, and had a mother
dependent on him.
As soon as Bill got rid of him, he hastened to his own cabin, knocked
at the door and Bullott opened to him, and stepped back in amazement
at the appearance of this stranger. It took a few seconds for Bill to
explain what had happened.
“The ship is manned by the Sons of Ragousa--the Twenty-Third Degree is
operating powerfully! I think I can keep myself hidden, but what of
you, Bullott?”
“They’ll not hurt me,” said Bullott. “They were chiefly anxious that
their game should not be exposed before they came into action. I doubt
if they will hurt anybody.”
He looked at Bill strangely.
“Unless it is you,” he said quietly.
“But why me?” asked Holbrook, genuinely surprised that he should be
singled out of all the others for punishment.
“I have an idea,” said the other, and then: “Your only chance is to
keep out of sight and watch points. I don’t think I should stay here
if I were you.”
When Bill rejoined his steward friend, he found him talking with an
agitated purser, and it said much for the efficacy of his disguise
that he was not immediately recognised.
“They have taken charge of my office,” said the officer, when
Holbrook made himself known. “So far there has been no bloodshed,
although I’ve an idea that something happened on the bridge. I’ve had
orders to keep the passengers in the dark, but to carry on the duties
as though nothing had happened. There’s going to be a panic amongst
them if this gets known.”
“Where did the men come from?” asked Bill.
“They were all in the steerage,” said the purser. “I had my
suspicions when we left Southampton that the crowd we carried forrard
were a tough lot. What are you going to do, Mr. Holbrook?”
“I’ve signed on as a steward for the rest of the trip.”
“They will recognise you,” he said, “that is, if they know you at
all. You might pass muster here in artificial light, but the moment
they see you by daylight--go along and see the barber: he may fix you
up.”
The barber! Bill remembered the urgent importunity of that universal
provider on the previous afternoon, and without another word went down
to the deck where the barber’s shop was situated, and found the worthy
man in a condition of excitement, for the news had run like wildfire
amongst the stewards that the ship was in the hands of a hold-up gang.
“Yes, yes, but I can’t be bothered now, Mr. Holbrook,” he said
irritably. “My God, what’s going to happen to us if they scuttle the
ship? And they’ll think no more of scuttling the ship----”
Bill pushed him into his spacious cabin and shut the door.
“If they scuttle the ship they’ll drown themselves, and they’ve no
intention of doing anything so stupid,” he said. “Now listen to me!
The only chance we have of beating this crowd is for one of the people
on board who knows the gang to be free to move about. Produce your
moustache, man, and make good your boast, that my own maiden aunt
would not know me!”
The barber was in no mood to assist the masquerade, but after a little
persuasion, and the skinning of yet another note from the reporter’s
wad, he seated him in his chair, and for a quarter of an hour, with
many fearful backward glances lest an apparition in black appeared
suddenly in the doorway, worked on his subject. When he had finished,
Bill gazed into the mirror, a truly astonished man.
During the period he was in the chair, he had developed a pair of
shaggy red eyebrows, and a short-clipped, red moustache; his hair was
almost the colour of Betty Carew’s, and was parted and curled in a
manner repugnant to his finest feelings.
“Gosh!” he said in wonder.
The barber so far forgot his trepidation as to purr complacently.
“You wouldn’t get that done better in London, sir,” he said. “All
you’ve got to do now is to come and see me every morning, and I’ll
keep your hair right.”
Bill eventually found the purser: he was deep in conversation with a
masked figure that stood before his sometime office. Looking round, he
saw the waiting steward and waved him away impatiently.
“What do you want?” he snapped, when at last the parley was at an
end. “I don’t want to be bothered. Get your orders from the chief
steward.”
“Come along with me to the chief steward, and tell him to do as I
ask,” said Bill, and the purser’s jaw dropped.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Bill grinned. It was then that he made himself known.
“I want you to tell the chief steward to put me in charge of Suite H,
Mr. Stone’s cabin. Nobody is to know who I am, not even Mr. Stone or
his niece, unless they find out for themselves.”
“Wait a minute,” said the purser; “I want to think this out! If you
go down to the steward’s quarters they’ll spot you, and there’s bound
to be one of them in with this crowd and you’ll be betrayed. You’d
better use an empty cabin to sleep in at night, and keep as far away
from the stewards’ quarters as you can. Who is your own steward?”
Bill told him.
“Well, he can come on and help you. What do you think they’re going to
do with us, Mr. Holbrook?”
“They’ll clear the ship of valuables, and of course the fifty million
dollars in your safe will be practically in their hands.”
“It is in their hands already,” interrupted the purser bitterly.
“They’ve got the boxes piled up in my office. But what can they do?
They’ll be caught.”
“Why should they be caught?” asked Bill. “You’re arguing on unknown
factors. This crime was inevitable. Sooner or later, it was certain
that a ship would be held up in mid-ocean--it’s the easiest thing in
the world, easier than holding up a citizen on the East Side. A big
ship, crowded with passengers, carrying millions and millions of
dollars’ worth of property, is as easy a prey as a hornless cow! Why,
you do not even carry a policeman!”
“They’re working on the registered mail now.” In spite of his
stoicism the voice of the purser grew tremulous. “What a thing to
happen!”
“Do the passengers know?”
“No, none of them, and they’re not to know. Anyway, the passengers are
only brought into contact with the stewards, the purser and the chief
steward. You’re an ocean traveller--what do the passengers know,
anyway? They never meet the captain or the ship’s officers; they’ll go
on and on, unconscious of anything wrong, until--” he stopped.
“Were you going to say until the vessel reaches New York?”
“That was what I was going to say,” said the purser. “But shall we
reach New York?”
“I doubt it. They’ll know when the gang go after their jewels.”
“Why should they? The valuable jewels are kept in my safe; they’re
taken out every night. And the passengers’ money is there, too,” the
purser groaned. “I’ve got orders to pay out any cash that the owners
require, so that they shall not be suspicious, and the only change
they’ve made is to prohibit the use of the boat deck. They’ve put a
quartermaster at each gangway to stop people going up, and the
elevator isn’t allowed to work above B. deck.” He wrung his hands in
despair. “My God, what a horrible position!” he said. “Do you know
what has happened to the captain?”
“I can guess,” said Bill curtly.
“They’ve got four men in the engine-room. I don’t know how many on the
bridge. There are machine-guns covering the deck hands’ quarters,
guards on the provision store--everywhere, except where there’s
passengers to see them. The man who planned this was a genius.”
It happened providentially that the Stones’ steward had been taken ill
the night before, and the appearance of a new man excited no unusual
interest. Stone, who was still far from recovered from the attack upon
him, had his breakfast served in his own stateroom, and this morning
Betty joined him. She asked sympathetically about the missing steward,
and Bill replied in monosyllables. He was desperately anxious that the
girl should not recognise him, and when Betty looked at his face and
asked him to carry a message to himself, he blessed the ingenious
barber who had so completely changed his appearance.
The need for disguise was made apparent when he reached his own cabin
and found two men making a very thorough search of the apartment. The
bed had been thrown off, the wardrobe was open. One of the searchers
turned to him as he came in--
“Where’s Holbrook?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
Neither of them wore the conventional livery of the Proud Sons, and
Bill guessed that those of the gang who it was absolutely necessary
should be brought into contact with the passengers went undisguised so
that the travellers should not be alarmed. Afterwards he discovered
that the raiders had entirely dispensed with their robes after the
first attack. Bill, watching the searchers, wondered whether they
expected to find the missing Holbrook concealed underneath the
mattress, but wisely decided that it was not a moment for
facetiousness.
“I don’t know, sir; he hasn’t been in his cabin all night.”
“Don’t you go telling him we’re looking for him,” said the other
threateningly. “You’ve had your orders, steward?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bill humbly, and went back to Betty, with a note
that he had scribbled between the cabins, and which she read with a
puzzled expression.
“Mr. Holbrook says we mustn’t expect to see him for the next three
days,” she said, as she tossed the letter across to her uncle.
Mr. Stone read the note.
“Humph!” he said. “What is he doing with himself? I’ll go along to
his cabin.”
“I don’t think you’d better, sir,” said Bill. He had cultivated a
high falsetto voice that set Betty Carew’s teeth on edge. “He said he
didn’t want to see anybody. I think he has had a radio from his
office.”
The girl and her uncle looked at one another.
“Perhaps he has some work to do,” she said uneasily.
Bill went on deck to carry up the girl’s cushion and book, and the
deck steward, whom he met, glanced at him suspiciously.
“Hullo, where have you come from?” he asked.
“Ask no questions,” snapped Bill, “and attend to your own business.”
It was the only tone to adopt, and the steward fell into the natural
error that the new man was one of the gang which he knew was in
control of the _Escorial_. In the circumstances Bill could only marvel
at the extraordinary discipline which such men as he displayed. By no
secret confidence did they betray the danger in which these gaily clad
men and women stood. It was no strange phenomenon, however. He had
travelled in ships where suicides and murders had been committed under
his nose, which he had known nothing about until he had read the
report of the inquest.
An idea occurred to him and he sought out the deck steward.
“I shall be helping you up here,” he said, trying to impart a world
of meaning into his tone.
The steward touched his cap.
“All right, sir,” he said. “Excuse me if I was a little short with
you, but I didn’t tumble to you.”
“None of the passengers knows?”
“No, sir; we’ve had strict orders to keep every bit of news from them.
I must say,” he said, with the reluctant admiration which the
law-abiding have for the lawless, “you’ve managed the job very well!”
Bill growled an acknowledgment of this unsubtle flattery, and busied
himself with the requirements of the loungers.
At eleven o’clock bouillon was served, and he helped the deck steward
in its distribution. Clive Lowbridge refused the cup with a little
grimace, and Bill smiled to himself when he saw, out of the tail of
his eye, the ubiquitous Benson bearing a glass of seltzer water and a
large biscuit to his master. The weather was not so warm as it had
been. He saw the girl shiver and went down to her cabin and brought
her furs.
“How very nice of you, steward!” said the girl in surprise as he put
the cloak about her shoulders. “Have you seen Mr. Holbrook again?”
“Yes, Miss, I just met him in the alleyway. I think he has been
writing.”
She laughed softly.
“You haven’t to be a detective to discover that, have you?” she said.
“Poor Mr. Holbrook carries the marks of his profession.”
“How?” asked Stone.
“Have you never seen the ink on his fingers?” she asked, and Bill
went a fiery red. Fortunately she did not observe his perturbation,
and he hurried away, to examine in private his tell-tale fingers.
“Anyway, there’s no ink on them now,” he said, as he scrubbed away
the last blue stains viciously.
When he returned, the deck steward called him aside and asked him to
take up a tray to the bridge.
“Your governor wants another bottle of whisky,” he said
confidentially, “and I’ll be glad if you would take it. I’m not a
nervous man, but----”
Herein was to be the supreme test. If Laffin was in charge, the shrewd
wits, no less than the keen vision, of that warped genius might reveal
his identity. Apparently, stewards had no difficulty in reaching the
boat deck, and he was not challenged when he carried the tray to the
foot of the bridge ladder. A man whom he knew looked down at him.
“Bring it up,” he said curtly, and Bill obeyed.
None of the three nondescripts who occupied the bridge wore either the
robe of the Order or the uniform of officers. He in charge sported a
brown Derby hat, and to add to the incongruity of his appearance he
wore a pair of old golf breeches, thick woollen stockings and bright
red slippers, which Bill remembered having seen in the captain’s
cabin. Any of the three might have walked out of a saloon on any sea
front in the world. Sailormen undoubtedly; ex-officers probably,
thought Bill, and toughs most certainly!
He bore the tray into what had been the captain’s cabin, which was now
occupied by a big man, who turned his head as Bill entered. Harvey
Hale!
“Put it down, son,” said the man gruffly. “All right below? None of
the passengers squeaking, eh? What’s your name?”
“Smithers,” said Bill immediately.
“Well see here, Smithers, you can go tell your pals they’re all right
unless they start any monkey business. You know me--you know my name,
don’t you? Never sailed with me, eh? Harvey Hale--that’s me. You’ll
remember my name?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bill, saying what was required of him.
“That’s good. You can tell the world you’ve met Harvey Hale--one of
these days. The big man with the big ideas. Get that right, son--the
big man with the big ideas! When you’re boasting about how you’ve met
me, don’t forget that! Harvey Hale, the Big Man with the Big Ideas!”