BULLOTT MAKES AN ARREST
Bill twisted his head up with an expression of pain.
“Toby Marsh?” he said, not believing his ears.
“That is the gentleman. Very few people are aware of the fact, but it
is nevertheless true, that he is the top man in this ship at this
identical moment.”
“But how--why?” asked Holbrook, his head swimming.
“There are lots of hows, and a considerable number of whys, which I
will explain to you a little later.” He looked at Bill sharply. “I
wonder if it is safe to take you up on the deck?”
He slipped a long-barrelled pistol from his hip.
“Put that in your pocket, and shoot anybody that doesn’t look too
friendly. I guess we’ll risk it!”
“But tell me, Bullott, what you mean by Toby Marsh being in control?
Is he on board? Of course he is! That’s a stupid question to ask, but
I’m all in a maze. Is he with the gang?”
The detective laughed shortly.
“I should say he was!” he said. “Nobody knows as well as I how much
on the inside of that gang Toby Marsh is!”
“Have you seen him?”
“I’ve seen him.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Well, no, I haven’t spoken to him,” said Bullott, “but then, you
see, there are very good reasons why I shouldn’t. I got into a whole
lot of trouble in London through consulting Toby and learnt my
lesson.”
Bill was glad of the arm of his friend, for he was still dizzy and
felt physically sick. The cold Arctic air revived him. They were alone
on the promenade deck--the most daring of the passengers were those
who at that moment were not at their prayers.
“I wouldn’t advise you to go on the boat deck,” said Bullott grimly.
“In fact, you’ll be wise if you stay near the entrance to the social
hall, ready to jump. Somewhere in the bowels of this ship is a fire
emergency control,” he went off at a tangent.
Bill was looking aft. He could see no sign of the pursuing warships,
and, guessing his thoughts, Bullott explained that they were only
visible from the other side.
“And a long way off, I can tell you, my friend,” he said. “You see,
this packet has more stamina than a battleship. They can, by running
under forced draught, keep up with us for a time, but the farther we
go, the bigger the distance between us.”
“What were you talking about--the fire emergency control?”
“All these big ships are fitted with them. There is less danger from
fire in oil-burning ships than in coal-burners, and an easier way of
putting a fire under.”
Bill groaned.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I want to know, is Miss Stone
safe?”
“Perfectly safe, I think,” said the detective.
“How long can we go on like this?”
“For another three days,” was the surprising reply. “We’ve got that
much oil.”
A man came flying along the deck and Bill recognised the acting
engineer whom he had seen on the bridge earlier that day. He saw him
fly up the ladder to the bridge, and even as he disappeared, the
turbines thudded a little more slowly--slower--slower--and finally
ceased.
“We’ve stopped,” said Bill.
Bullott looked back in the sea and behaved insanely, for he chuckled
and slapped his knee.
“Cross to the other deck,” he said, and led the way through the
saloon opening.
Now the warships were visible. They were coming up at top speed, and
every minute brought them nearer. The _Escorial_ was still under way
and would continue under way for a quarter of an hour, such was the
rate at which she had been travelling. But they were overtaking her at
such a speed that, even as Bill watched, there came across the silent
waters the faint clang of their telegraph. In ten minutes the warships
were alongside, and up over the rails swarmed more sailors, British
and American, than Bill had ever seen before. The first to reach the
deck was a bronzed officer, revolver in hand.
“Where’s the skipper of this little ship?” he asked.
“Forrard, sir. I am Inspector Bullott, of Scotland Yard.”
“Good! I had your lamp signal.”
He caught Bill’s arm and hurried him after the officer.
“But why did we stop?” whispered the reporter.
“The juice went,” was the laconic reply. “Remember that safety valve
I told you about? Well, some guy turned it, and out into the ocean
went three days’ supply of excellent heavy oil.”
“Those are your men, sir,” he broke off, as they reached the bridge
deck.
The tatterdemalion crowd that officered the ship made no resistance.
Bill opened the door of the chart-house and went in. The inner door
was locked, but two brawny naval ratings made short work of the
barrier. The room was full of smoke--a bluish vapour curled up from a
small oriental brazier placed on the floor in the middle of the room.…
Bill Holbrook staggered into the cabin to where, tied to a chair, lay
Betty, unconscious. Stone lay, face downward, on a settee, and on the
bed sprawled Clive.
“Get them out into the air quick,” said Bullott “I’m a fool--I ought
to have known something like this would happen.”
The air in the room was unbreathable; the men choked as they carried
the unconscious figures to the bridge. Bullott alone stayed behind to
open the closed portholes and, lifting the brazier that burnt in the
middle of the room carried it, holding his mouth and nose, to the
bathroom and, flinging it into the bath, let the water run upon it.
Only then did he fly to safety.
“A close call,” he said, “but if I am not mistaken in the dope, we
are in time.”
The girl’s eyelids fluttered, slowly they opened and she stared up
into the strange faces of the naval officers who were overlooking her.
Bullott walked to where the two men lay side by side, already showing
signs of returning consciousness.
“I want that man for murder,” he said, pointing.