THE SALVAGE SYNDICATE
"WHAT'S your little game, Cumberleigh?" demanded the major. "Hanged
if I can see what you are driving at."
Lunch was over at Auldhaig Air Station. Most of the officers had
drifted in twos and threes into the ante-room to seize the
opportunity of enjoying a smoke before falling in on parade. The
second-in-command and Captain Cumberleigh found themselves alone.
"I may be mistaken, sir," replied Cumberleigh, "but I'm not at all
sure about that fellow Fennelburt."
"What d'ye mean, old thing? asked the major.
"It's a rotten business to explain," replied the captain. "I hope I
don't do the fellow an injustice, but I believe he's a spy."
Major Sparrowhawk raised his eyebrows in a manner that indicated
incredulous objection.
"Goodness gracious, Cumberleigh!" he exclaimed. "What are you driving
at? The idea's preposterous. There are limits to the imagination, and
I think you're exceeding them."
"I have reasons, sir,"
"Well, what are they?"
"You remember I asked him about Smithers and Tomlinson? I know for a
fact that they were both at Sheerness a week ago."
"Yes, and Captain Fennelburt said he knew them."
"He did--but I deliberately gave him a totally wrong description of
them. Smithers is fat, but he's short--about five six, I should
think--and he certainly hasn't a mole under his eye. Tomlinson is
fair, not dark, and I've never known him to touch a card either in
the mess or out of it."
"There are some very queer cusses in the Service, I'll admit,"
remarked Major Sparrowhawk thoughtfully. "Getting a commission in war
time isn't the same as in normal times. The chap may be pulling your
leg, Cumberleigh. But why did you pal up to him and promise to take
him to the theatre and all that?"
"Just to gain time, sir," answered Captain Cumberleigh. "I thought
I'd ask your permission to telegraph to Sheerness Air Station. The
inquiry could be worded discreetly, and if the reply's satisfactory
there's no harm done. If it isn't, then we can take action."
"But what aroused your suspicions in the first instance?" asked the
second-in-command.
Cumberleigh shrugged his shoulders.
"Just a little mannerism of his, sir," he replied. "I've never
before tumbled across it on this side of the Rhine. Spent part of my
far distant youth at Heidelburg, and one notices certain things. So
I've practically put the fellow under arrest, only he doesn't know
it. Young Jefferson'll take him fishing this afternoon, and in the
meanwhile the wires can be getting busy."
"Bet you a double whisky you're wrong, Cumberleigh," offered Major
Sparrowhawk.
"Done, sir," was the prompt reply.
Meanwhile Lieutenant Jefferson, assisted by a couple of
air-mechanics, was getting his boat ready for the fishing expedition.
One of the advantages of being in the Service in war time is that the
uniformed owner of a private boat has a "pull" over his civilian
confrère. The one can make use of his craft almost without restraint
the other is hedged in by a formidable and galling array of
restrictions that are none the less necessary for the well-being of
the State.
The _Pip-squeak_, Jefferson's boat, was about fifteen feet in length
and provided with a standing lug-sail and centre-board. Formerly she
belonged to an Auldhaig waterman, who on being mobilised for the
R.N.R. sold her for 3 pounds. Her new owner, who contrived to escape the
irregular meshes of the Recruiting Officer's net, had palmed the
_Pip-squeak_ off on Jefferson for six times the amount he had paid,
or, roughly, the same sum that the boat had cost to build twenty
years ago.
The _Pip-squeak_ was no chicken, nor did she lay claim to beauty.
Bluff-bowed, and with an almost entire lack of sheer, she had one
compensating quality: she was as stiff as a house.
At the edge of the jetty gathered most of the crew--Cumberleigh,
Jefferson, a "second loot" named Pyecroft, and von Preussen.
"An' what are we waitin' for?" demanded Pyecroft, clapping his hands
and stamping his feet. "When I go sailing I like to get on with it.
What are we waitin' for?"
"Bait," replied Jefferson laconically.
"A _sine quâ non_ for a fishing expedition," added the major, who,
though not one of the party, had strolled down to the jetty
ostensibly to see the start but in reality to observe "Captain
Fennelburt" more closely. The seeds of suspicion are apt to shoot
rapidly.
"Here's Blenkinson with the bait," announced Cumberleigh, as another
khaki-clad individual, a first lieutenant, appeared carrying a rusty
tin in one hand and a mud-covered spade in the other.
"Here are your precious rag-worms, Jeff," he remarked bitterly. "Next
time you get me on that job I'll borrow your rubber boots. The mud's
stiff with broken glass, and I've cut mine through--look."
To prove his words, Blenkinson adroitly balanced himself on one foot
and kicked off a rubber boot. As the foot-gear fell upon the wooden
staging of the jetty a quart of black sea-water poured out.
Jefferson sniffed judiciously at the tin.
"Fresh enough," he observed, "but, old son, pity you didn't devote
your energies to the worms instead of wasting your time pulling bits
of glass out of your boots. These won't last any time."
"No more will my boots, you slave-driving blighter," rejoined the
worm-digger. "I'll swear I shifted a ton of mud without finding a
single worm."
"Don't stop there arguing all the blessed afternoon!" exclaimed
Cumberleigh. "If we can't fish we can sail. 'Once aboard the lugger,'
my hearties."
The party embarked awkwardly after the fashion of men wearing
breeches, puttees or leggings, and heavy boots. With the exception of
Jefferson and von Preussen, they were raw amateurs in the art of
sailing save on board a coastal airship. On those occasions they
shone. In the present instance they did not.
The spy was on his best behaviour. Although he kept his eyes and ears
open, he purposely avoided asking any questions relating to naval or
military affairs at Auldhaig. Once, when Cumberleigh tried to "draw"
him by pointing out the scene of the disaster to the _Pompey_, von
Preussen adroitly changed the subject by a reference to the
forthcoming performance of "The Maid of the Mountains."
For an hour or more the _Pip-squeak_ made steady progress under a
stiffish breeze. She was by no means a flyer, but on the other hand
she sailed well with the wind broad on the beam. Beyond a few slaps
of spray she proved herself a dry boat, so that the crew, with the
exception of Jefferson, who was at the helm, were able to sit on the
bottom boards and smoke to their heart's content.
"Get a move on, you lazy hogs!" exclaimed Jefferson. "We're close on
the right spot. Down with the canvas! Blenkinson, stand by to let go
the anchor."
With a splash the anchor was lowered to obtain a grip in ten fathoms
of water. Riding head to wind and tide, the boat brought up, pitching
sharply in the short crested waves.
As long as the supply of bait lasted, sport was good. So engrossed
were the sportsmen that they failed to notice that the wind was
rising, and with the turn of the tide the waves were growing
decidedly vicious.
"Hadn't we better be getting a move on?" suddenly inquired
Cumberleigh, as he realised that the motion was causing an
uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach. "Remember, some of
us are going to the theatre to-night."
"What's the hurry, old bean?" inquired the enthusiastic boat-sailer,
Jefferson. "If it comes to that, you can see the 'Mountains' from
here, although there's no 'Maid'--not even a mermaid. But, I say,
what's that?"
He pointed seawards. At about a mile distant was a long, low-lying
black hull, apparently drifting broadside on to the waves.
"Boche submarine, perhaps," ventured the facetious Pyecroft. "She's
coming to give us a tow back to Auldhaig. Did anyone remember to
bring a Lewis gun in his trouser pocket?"
With the others, von Preussen looked in the direction of the
mysterious craft. He had no pressing desire to renew acquaintance
with one of His Imperial Majesty's _unterseebooten_, although the
consequences would be far less awkward for him than it would be for
his present companions. But a brief glance assured him on that point.
The craft, whatever it might be, was certainly not a U-boat. No
amount of camouflage could alter that.
"She's a derelict," exclaimed Jefferson. "Get up the anchor, you
fellows. We'll run alongside and have a look at her."
Quickly the anchor was broken out and the sail hoisted. Cumberleigh,
who had been silently keeping the derelict under observation,
suddenly turned and thumped von Preussen on the shoulder.
"Fennelburt," he vociferated, "Providence has played into your hands!
You came here to inspect X-barges. Lo and behold, one of them
obligingly drifts down to greet you!"
"You're right, Cumberleigh," said Pyecroft. "It's one of those that
left Auldhaig this morning. I saw them go out. That red-haired Scot
chap--McIntosh, you know him--was in charge."
"Hanged if he is now, at any rate," added Jefferson. "An' the old
thing is well down by the stern. I believe she's sinking."
It took ten minutes for the _Pip-squeak_ to close with X-lighter No.
5. Running up into the wind on the lee side, Jefferson got way off
the boat.
"How about it, you fellows?" he inquired. "Think it's safe to run
alongside?"
"Might have a shot at it, old thing," replied Cumberleigh. "She
hasn't altered her trim during the last five or ten minutes. I say,
do we get salvage on a job like this, or is there some rotten
regulation debarring underpaid officers from making a bit? What do
you make of her, Fennelburt? You are a marine expert."
Von Preussen, who had been maintaining a discreet silence, ventured
an opinion that it might be safe to board her provided the
sailing-boat were kept alongside.
"Good enough," replied Cumberleigh. "You, Blenkinson and I will
comprise the boarding-party; the others stand by in the boat. _En
avant, mes braves!_ Over the top you go, and the best of luck."
Fending off the _Pip-squeak_ lest her planks should be stove in
against the massive rubbing-strake of the lighter, the three men
contrived to effect a safe transhipment. A brief examination revealed
the fact that the derelict had been in collision and that she had
been badly holed right aft. The engine-room was flooded, and only the
iron bulkhead between it and the hold had kept the craft from
foundering.
"Now what's to be done?" inquired Blenkinson. "We can't tow her in.
That's a moral cert."
"No, but we can send for a tug," said Cumberleigh. "Jefferson can
sail back to Auldhaig in about an hour even if he doesn't fall in
with a tug or even an M.L. on the way."
"What about 'The Maid of the Mountains'?" asked Blenkinson.
"We'll cut the appointment," replied the captain, with a laugh.
"Excuse--the exigencies of the Service."
"But," protested von Preussen, "the lighter might founder. We should
be in an awkward predicament if she did, the boat having left us. I
would suggest that we all go back in the _Pip-squeak_ and report the
matter."
"I agree," added Blenkinson. "After all's said and done, we don't
stand a chance of getting anything out of the deal. And what matters
if the old tub does sink? Her value is but a mere fleabite out of six
millions a day."
But Captain Cumberleigh was made of sterner stuff. Once having set
his hand to this maritime plough, he was loth to turn back.
"We'll stick it," he decided resolutely. "Jefferson will cruise
around in case of an accident. If we find we are drifting on shore we
can let go that anchor. I don't see there's much to get the wind up
about."
"Cheers for the R.A.F. Salvage Syndicate," exclaimed Blenkinson,
fired by his companion's enthusiasm, but von Preussen merely shrugged
his shoulders. He hadn't risked the perils of the North Sea in order
to protect the property of His Majesty the King of England.