IN THE WIRELESS HOUSE
He returned to the bridge with the information that he had fulfilled
his errand, and that the list could be placed in Hale’s hands before
the evening. It seemed an opportunity, he thought, when he reached the
boat deck, to make a reconnaissance of the wireless house. The guard
was still at the door as he walked past; he saw the glow of the valve
lamp through the cabin window.
The wireless cabin was steel built and was sited on a raised platform.
On three sides and near the roof were long, narrow windows of
toughened glass, that nearest and facing the bridge commanding an
uninterrupted view of the bridge companionway. All this he noted and
memorised.
Bill was curious to see how the gang had disposed of their prisoners,
the ship’s officers. He guessed that the big gymnasium was their
prison-house, and his view was confirmed when he saw the two sentries
standing before the door.
“Where are you going?” one called sharply.
“To the aft gangway, sir,” said Bill.
The man jerked his thumb towards the bridge.
“Go forrard,” he ordered.
Bill was about to turn, when the door of one of the aft cabins opened
and a man came out. For a second Holbrook gaped at him, paralysed with
amazement. It was the figure of a naval officer in full dress; a
gold-laced cocked hat was on his head, and the tightly-fitting
tail-coat blazed with decorations and orders. A broad strip of gold
ran the length of his trouser seams, and a naval sword dangled at his
waist.
For a moment he thought that he was suffering from some extraordinary
illusion, and then the strangely attired form moved towards him, and
Bill’s senses were so strained that he could hear the creak of the
enamelled boots.
Under the man’s arm was a telescope--but for that he might have been
walking across the yard of St. James’s Palace after a levee.
Laffin! But a transfigured Laffin. His breast was swollen, his chin
held high.
“What do you want, my man?” he asked.
Bill recovered his shattered wits and touched his hat obsequiously.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, in his falsetto, “but I was going
to the aft gangway; they tell me it’s closed.”
“Go forrard, my man, go forrard,” said the doctor, almost pleasantly,
and then, as he was moving away: “What do those folks think
downstairs?”
Now, “downstairs” is a term that is never used on board ship except
by the veriest amateur, certainly never by the admiral whose uniform
Laffin was wearing, and Bill had some difficulty in keeping a straight
face.
“They don’t know very much, sir. They’re wondering why it has turned
so cold.”
Dr. Laffin smiled.
“I suppose they are, I suppose they are,” he mused. “Whom do you look
after, my friend--you are a steward, are you not?”
“Mr. Stone, sir.”
The doctor’s eyebrows went up.
“Indeed? Mr. Lambert Stone and his beautiful niece? That is very
interesting. And how do Mr. Lambert Stone and his beautiful niece
accommodate themselves to the change? An experience for that young
lady, one thinks, a remarkable experience!”
With a lordly wave of his hand he dismissed the steward, and Bill
breathed more freely when he had reached the deserted promenade deck.
The passengers were now thoroughly alarmed. There had been something
of a mutiny in the second-class saloon, suppressed ruthlessly by three
of the gangsters who had been hastily summoned at the first sign of
disorder.
With evening a cold wind sprang up that made the deck a most
undesirable spot. Those who had to run the gauntlet to the crowded
smoke-room came shivering to the big fires which burnt at either end,
and told stories of icy alleyways and cabins where bed was the only
warm place.
At nine o’clock, when the passengers went to dinner that night, they
discovered that the menu had been cut in half.
There was yet another development, favourable to Holbrook’s plan. He
was tidying the Stones’ cabin when he felt the speed of the _Escorial_
slacken, and, going up on deck, found the ship enveloped in a clinging
white mist. Now was his opportunity, and, as luck would have it, he
saw the deck steward carrying a tray toward the boat deck.
“I’ll take that,” he said. “Who is it for?”
“It is for the bridge,” said the man, apparently relieved that Bill
had volunteered for the duty. “The officers are to have hot food every
hour.”
Bill went up the companion and put the tray on the deck. The fog was
so thick that from where he stood he could not see the bridge or the
wireless house. There was no time to be lost. His numbed fingers
detached two cups from the dozen with which the tray was laden, he
splashed in the hot coffee, sugared and milked the decoction, and
then, taking the bottle from his pocket, he dropped a liberal dose
into each cup. Taking one in each hand, he groped his way to the
wireless house. The men on duty saw him coming and challenged him.
“The captain sent you a drink,” said Bill.
“It’s about time he did!” growled the man. “What’s the other cup
for--the operator?”
He opened the door of the room.
“Here’s a drink for you, Arthur,” he said, and the muffled figure of
the operator appeared in the doorway and took the cup from Bill’s
hand.
Not waiting to see the effect of the drug, Holbrook hurried back to
where he had left the tray and carried it on to the bridge and into
the chart-house. The bridge was now alive with men; he heard Harvey
Hale cursing loudly the change in the weather, and then:
“… it is only a belt, and anyway, we’re more than fifty miles from
where we arranged to pick up the _Inland_.…”
They were making for a rendezvous. This possibility had not occurred
to Bill. Even as he thought, he heard another of the men speak.
“We’ll have to wait for her, won’t we, captain? She couldn’t keep up
with us; none of these tankers do more than ten knots.”
“She does twenty-five,” said Hale. “The _Thomas Inland_ is one of the
new fast.…” The voice rumbled down unintelligibly, until: “… told
them to rig up a dummy funnel and paint her white.…”
The _Thomas Inland_!
Where had he heard that name? And then in a flash he remembered the
wireless news bulletin that had been posted. The _Escorial_ was to be
met by the stolen tanker! So that was why the gang were so inactive.
The tanker would not carry enough oil to supply the needs of the
_Escorial_ unless.…
Bill almost stopped as the horrible possibility occurred to him. She
would have enough oil to carry the gang and their loot to safety! The
_Escorial_ was to be abandoned--driven into the ice-fields, and the
three thousand souls she carried left to starvation and death, whilst
the _Thomas Inland_ made her innocent way to a port with her booty.
He flew down the ladder, stumbled through the fog towards the wireless
house, and had only to come in sight of the guard to know that the
dope had worked. The man lay, an inert figure, outside the open door
of the caboose.
Bill did not hesitate; lifting him, he dragged him to the side of the
ship, and, balancing the man on the rail, flung him into the dark
waters. This was not the moment to consider the value of human life.
Three thousand people were heading straight for a hideous death. It
mattered little whether one or the other of the gang were drowned or
hanged.
The second man lay sprawled across his desk, and, hoisting him on to
his shoulders, Bill staggered to the rail, and, without one tremor of
regret, flung him into the unseen sea. The cups and saucers followed.
In another second he was in the caboose, his frozen fingers working at
the keys, a headphone clamped to his ears.
As he called his eyes wandered over the papers with which the table
was littered. There were messages from the English Admiralty and from
the American Naval Secretary, calling on all ships to report the
movements of the _Escorial_. Tappity-tap went the key restlessly, and
presently he heard a faint answer, in the code of Cape Cod. He tapped
off the message:
“_Escorial_ in the hands of gangsters. Position roughly 64 north, 45
west, heading north. Notify _Sussex_ and _Kent_. S.O.S.”
There was a pause, and then the reply came through:
“_Sussex_, _Kent_ and three fast American cruisers looking for you.
Their position 60 north, 46 west. Notifying them.”
Almost as soon as the message finished he picked up another signal. It
was from the _Kent_, obviously addressed to the distant _Sussex_:
“Have taken message from _Escorial_. She bears north-east by north
from me. Give me her direction.”
He did not hear the _Sussex_ reply, but after four or five minutes
came the _Kent_ again:
“Proceeding with all speed. Notify nearest American cruiser.”
Bill took off his headphones with a sense of elation, and at that
moment somebody tried the door of the caboose, and a rough voice
demanded:
“What are you doing in there?”