The Slickers (4 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Sailor's Nightmare

C
AUTIOUSLY
, Bob Clark removed the disk from the porthole and stared forward toward the bow. The bridge seemed deserted. He could not see the helm, for that was above him. But he could see the
fo'c's'le
head across the darkness of the
well deck
. Several men were there, indistinguishable in the gloom.

Clark rummaged about the cabin until he found a pair of field glasses on the captain's desk. Through these he studied the men in the bow.

There were five of them, all well dressed, three of them in evening clothes. They were not talking, just staring ahead into the black night, turning occasionally to glance aft, an unmistakable attitude of waiting about them. One of them Clark saw in profile. It was the same face he had seen outside his port during the call from the bridge!

But why were these passengers on the fo'c's'le head? Were they afraid something might happen to the ship?

One of the men, chunky and fat, Clark knew. He was Harrington, head of a sugar central in Cuba. Another Clark thought he identified as Morecliff, manager of an oil company.

Perplexed, the Federal man put down the glasses and gave his attention to the problem of escape. All bells and buttons in the room had been disconnected.

Then a faint hissing sound reached his ears. As Clark listened, the sound increased.

He tried another porthole. But it was too small to permit him to pass through it. Twice he tried shouting through the porthole, but there was no response. The silence was getting on his nerves.

Even the sounds of the ship were faint. Only the plugging of the engines and the moan of the wind through the sparse rigging came to him.

Then a scent reached him. It was acrid, biting. He went to the door and sniffed vigorously. Smoke! The
Cubana
was on fire at sea!

A thin blue coil of smoke eddied through the top of the doorway. No alarm gongs were going. No feet pounded in panic across the decks. There were no sounds of boat falls. And yet the thin column of smoke curled and thickened the air in the cabin.

“What's the matter with them—all asleep?” Clark demanded of the empty cabin.

The trickery of the wind wafted a chord of music to the bridge. The orchestra was still playing. They were still dancing in the salon. Clark hammered on the pane again. Still there was no answer.

The
Cubana
had begun to yaw. The seas which had been breaking against her
bows
were now taking her from the port side. That meant that no hand guided the helm.

The smoke was becoming thicker, but as Clark made his way around the walls for the hundredth time, he found one corner where it was not quite so bad. He searched until he found a grating against the ceiling. This was a ventilator, leading up to the boat deck—a two-foot tube through which a man might conceivably crawl. But between Clark and freedom was the grating—built of solid steel bars.

His lungs burning with pain, Clark staggered back to the port. Thrusting his head out, he drew in a breath of smoke-tainted air.

Fumbling through the haze, Clark found the captain's desk. He drew open the drawers one by one, ran his fingers through the contents, anxiously searching for a screwdriver.

Perhaps the grating over the ventilator was removable. His fingers encountered a nail file. Clutching it tightly, he lunged for the grating.

Up on a chair, Clark found screw heads in the metal frame. He shoved the end of the file into the crevices and twisted frantically. The metal slipped.

Summoning all his willpower, Clark forced himself to relax. Panic would close this exit forever, and that would mean death. The crackle of flames was becoming louder.

Calmly now, he inserted the file into the screw head. He twisted with even pressure. His heart leaped when he felt the screw start to turn. Looking over his shoulder, Clark saw a tongue of fire jab through the charred door. Up here against the ceiling the heat was terrific.

With the first screw removed, he started on the second. There were four. He gritted his teeth against the impulse to hurry.

The second screw came away. The third screw followed. Clark dragged the grating toward him and ripped the fourth bodily from its mooring.

Pulling himself up, Clark drew his shoulders through the opening. It was a tight squeeze. He drew back again while he removed his coat and thrust it into his belt. Then he remembered the overcoat he had stripped from his assailant.

He felt for it in the dark, found it and pulled out several papers which were in the pockets.

Again he leaped up on the chair and squeezed into the opening. The ventilator was hot. It was agony each time his knees touched the metal. The air was like the blast of a furnace.

Ahead through the blackness, he saw a glimmer of light. Doggedly he crept on, until he was able to pull himself out into the chill night air.

Now he had to spread the alarm. He burst into the wing of the bridge—and stopped. The fourth officer lay in a widening pool of blood, his young face cut and beaten out of shape. Across the wheel, held upright by the swinging spokes, was the helmsman. His feet dragged the
hempen
mat as he moved. A steady, relentless seep of blood dripped from his skull and stained the
binnacle
face.

Eighteen thousand tons of steel and wood fashioned into a greyhound of the ocean were plunging unguided through the night with tongues of flame licking through the passageways.

Bob Clark slipped into his coat and swung down a ladder to a lower deck. Somewhere he would have to find an officer. Then he would hunt for the man who had done this.

Somewhere in this flaming hull lay a million and a half dollars' worth of dope. There was a connection between it and this fire, Clark felt sure. Yet why should anyone want to destroy his own cargo?

Clark jogged into a long passage. A steward was ahead of him. The Federal man reached out and grabbed at the white jacket.

“Listen,” he said. “The entire bridge is in flames. The captain is dead. Get the chief officer—tell him to get to work. There's no time to lose.”

“I beg pardon, sir, but have you been drinking?” the steward asked doubtfully.

Clark smashed him flat against the steel bulkhead.

“Follow my orders!” he snapped. Something glittered in his hand—a small gold disk, the badge of the Secret Service. “Quick. We're burning at sea, understand?”

At that moment three men approached. The first was the man with the sharp face and midnight eyes. The second was fat, chunky Harrington, the sugar man. The third was Morecliff, head of an oil company.

“Anything wrong?” murmured the sharp-faced one, at the sight of Clark.

“Nothing,” replied Clark as he shot a warning glance at the steward.

The man with the sharp face smiled.

“See here, fellow. My name is George Davis. I'm a stockholder in the West Indies Lines, which owns this ship. I rate the same as the captain here. If anything is actually amiss, I want to know it.”

“Nothing is wrong, gentlemen,” Clark answered disarmingly. “I was just down in the fire room; the chief engineer was showing us the ship and—well—I wanted to show off in front of a young lady and I had a bit of an accident.”

As Clark turned and went forward, he saw over his shoulder that the steward was walking swiftly down the passage toward the salon.

A companionway was at hand and Clark swung up toward the boat deck. The radio shack was far aft from the bridge. First of all, he would have to tell the radioman to send an
SOS
.

The faces of Morecliff and Harrington and Davis flashed through his mind. All three had been out there on the fo'c's'le head. One of them knew what was going on, that Clark was certain. But the guilty man was an accomplished actor.

George Davis' face was sharp and cruel. The man was the type that would stop at nothing to gain financial ends.

Of Morecliff, Clark knew little. Of Harrington, he had heard more. The man threw extravagant parties in Havana, was a spendthrift and a lady's man.

At the top of the companionway, Clark stopped and looked forward. Smoke was rolling out from the bridge, dark blotches against the black sky.

The door of the radio room was open, splashing a panel of light out on the dark deck. Clark wondered why the radio operator hadn't spotted the smoke. Great swirls of it were sweeping down upon the place, filling the interior.

Clark coughed and pushed in the screen. Then he stopped. Sprawled across his set, fingers still clutching the key, lay the radioman. One arm hung down toward the floor, blood dripping from the lax fingers. The back of his skull was smashed flat.

Tearing his eyes from the grisly corpse, Clark dived toward another door. Beyond it must be the auxiliary set. The floor was covered with the glass of broken tubes and the main outfit was useless. Throwing back the door, Clark found that the gas engine of the auxiliary set had been smashed. The set itself was hammered to bits. No SOS would go out this night.

A great mass of radiograms was spilled on the floor beside the dead operator. Clark scooped them up, ran through them with trembling fingers. Three he selected. One from Morecliff to New York. One from Davis to Jersey City. One from Harrington to Havana.

His mouth tight and grim, Clark started back toward the salon. In a passageway he came to an abrupt halt. On the floor, beaten to death, lay the steward he had sent to the first officer.

CHAPTER THREE

Groping in the Dark

T
HE
discovery of the white-jacketed body confirmed Clark's suspicions. He was certain now that Davis, Morecliff or Harrington had known his message, or had guessed it.

As he strode down the carpeted passage, the odor of smoke became more noticeable. Clark spotted the first officer in the salon, waving a cocktail glass at a portly gentleman—Harrington.

Oblivious of the eyes which were immediately focused upon him, Clark went straight through the center of the salon to the first mate's table. The officer seemed to sense the nature of the message he was bringing. He set down his glass.

Harrington's eyes seemed to pop out of his fat face. Then another face loomed behind Harrington—the sharp features and black eyes of George Davis. The black eyes were hostile, alive, watchful.

Clark beckoned to the first officer and drew him aside.

“Holt,” he said softly, “you're captain of this ship.”

Holt blinked and passed a gold-braided sleeve across his eyes.

“What … what do you mean? Has anything—”

“The captain is dead, murdered. No one is on the bridge. Your radio is out of working order.”

“My God!” jabbered Holt, unnerved.

“And,” continued Clark, “you're on fire at sea. Get your crew on the job immediately.”

“But who—” began Chief Officer Holt.

“I'll find that out,” Clark snapped. “Your job is to get us out of this mess as quickly as possible. I sent a steward to you twenty minutes ago, but he was murdered before he reached you.”

Clark spun on his heel and went out. Holt might be unnerved for the moment, but he would know what to do.

Suddenly a small card in the brass holder on a cabin door caught Clark's attention—a card which read “George Davis.” Clark glanced back to make certain the corridor was empty. He tried the door. It was unlocked, and he stepped into the cabin.

Grips were stacked against the wall, and beside them lay a briefcase, its contents spilling out on the rug. Clark knelt beside the case and ran quick fingers through the papers. He found several radiograms but they all dealt with market matters.

Then he discovered a series of penciled notations. He was about to pass them by when he saw one figure of a million and a half. Another figure had been subtracted from it, leaving something less than half a million. A million and a half was the value of the dope which had been traced to the dock from which the
Cubana
had sailed.

Clark thrust the paper into his breast pocket and glanced about for other clues.

The knob of the door rattled. Clark jerked to his feet and sprang behind the door, palming his gun.

The door swung back. From behind it, Clark could not see the intruder. There was no other sound. Evidently the person who had entered was standing on the threshold studying the room. Abruptly the door slammed shut, and Clark was again alone.

Quickly he jerked the knob toward him and jumped out into the passageway. A back was retreating around a bend of the corridor. Clark plunged after it. The man ahead was Harrington.

Clark snapped out and caught at the fat man's shoulder, spinning him around. Harrington's face was lined, his eyes wide and fearful.

“What … what … what's the matter?” he blurted.

“What were you doing in Davis' room?” snapped Clark.

“My wife!” wailed Harrington. “I can't find her. I thought she might … might … I left her in the cabin twenty minutes ago, and now she's gone.”

Clark studied the fat features and then released the shoulder.

“I haven't seen your wife, and I wouldn't know her if I did see her,” he informed Harrington. “What were you doing on the fo'c's'le head a half-hour ago?”

“Who, me? Why, I went up there with Davis. He said I'd been drinking too much, needed air. Wanted me to— What are you looking at me that way for, man?”

“Did Davis take you there?” said Clark. “Was he the one that suggested it?”

“Certainly. What's … what's wrong with going up there for a minute to get some air? Listen, I've got to find my wife.”

“Go ahead,” Clark snapped.

Then he walked back toward the salon. Deep in thought, Clark did not at first notice the girl who darted out of a cabin ahead of him. She was tall and blond, well poised, dressed in a flowing evening gown. She glanced back—and her eyes mirrored terror. With two quick strides he caught up with her.

“Pardon me,” he offered, “but perhaps I can be of help?”

“Help? Perhaps a moment ago, but not now. We're burning!” Her face was blank, as though she talked in a nightmare. “I saw the smoke, and he's done it!”

“Who's done it?” Clark pursued.

Then she seemed to snap back to reality. She turned as though she wanted to get away, but Clark's gaze held her.

“I don't know who he is,” she whispered. “He warned me not to take this boat. He said … he said …”

“Who are you?” Clark's tone was even, soft. “You are referring to the man who shipped a million and a half dollars' worth of dope on this boat. You are afraid of him for some reason.”

She gasped, and looked at him wide-eyed.

“I know nothing about that,” came her hasty denial. “I don't want—”

“Don't want him arrested, that it?”

“No, no! I mean—I don't know what I mean! You're a detective. You're ready to pin anything on anybody at the slightest excuse. You won't get her, but I don't care what happens to him. He's rotten all the way through.”

“Who is?” demanded Clark.

“I don't know his name. He's a fiend, a devil. He's made her life a living hell. I only saw him once, and then he wore a mask. His eyes were black and cruel. They bore straight through you. He's aboard this ship. She told me that he was.”

“And who is she?”

“Madame Seville, of course.”

Clark suppressed his astonishment. Now the ends were beginning to tie together.

“Then Madame Seville is aboard,” he pressed. “I have been trying to find her.”

“You won't!” declared the girl. “She'll be dead, if she isn't already. I've been searching for an hour, but she has vanished. She was supposed to meet me tonight—to tell me about him—but she didn't come. But if anything happens to me, there are two men that you must watch. One is Morecliff. The other is Davis.”

“All right,” Clark agreed. “But who are you?”

“I am Harrington's secretary, Jean Raymond.”

Leaving the girl in her room, Bob Clark started up the companionway to the boat deck. The smoke which hit him there was blinding, suffocating.

Stepping in close to a funnel, he pulled himself up on a
stay
and peered forward. Men were up there, scurrying back and forth in the light of the flames, carrying hoses and chemical extinguishers.

By this time, news of the catastrophe was seeping through the cabins. Men and women stood about in huddled little groups, their eyes round with fear, watching the flames.

Morecliff was standing beside a
davit
looking forward, a faint smile on his face. His dark eyes swept restlessly, triumphantly, over the scene.

Before Clark could approach him, an elderly lady snatched at the detective's arm.

“Hadn't we better take to the boats?” she cried.

“No,” said Clark. “It will be all right in a few minutes, I'm sure. They'll have it all under control.”

“But my son says that it's below deck, too!”

Clark left her abruptly. If this were true, it was quite possible that the entire hold would go up in flames. Clark hurried down a companionway and went forward to the deck just under the bridge. He found the shaft. One glance was enough. Far below he could see fire licking.

He jumped to the forward promenade and stared at the first cargo hatch. Small coils of smoke were coming up from the cracks. The hold was on fire. Clark knew in that instant the ship was doomed.

There would be no saving it now. The best they could hope to do would be to send up rocket signals and take to the boats before the deck was consumed.

With that in mind he started in the direction of a companionway, but a small glass case caught his eye. Rockets! With one kick he broke the glass and jerked down an armload.

Stumbling through the haze which now spread from the elevator shaft, Clark made the promenade of B deck. It was completely deserted. He lunged to the rail and threw down his burden. Taking a box of matches from his pocket, he propped a rocket against the rail.

He struck a match, shielded it momentarily from the whipping wind. Suddenly a hand lashed out and knocked the blaze from his grasp.

The detective whirled, his eye raging. Davis stood there, unperturbed, shaking his head in the negative, a gun in his hand.

“Don't you think that that is the duty of an officer?” he said softly, his hawk face twitching.

“Then get an officer down here!” snapped Clark. His muscles tightened. He measured the distance between them. “Why don't you want me to send out a warning?”

“There are reasons,” purred Davis. “I am afraid that I will find it necessary to lock you in your room.”

“You tried that once,” Clark snapped.

“What do you mean?”

Clark started to shrug, but the movement was deceptive. Suddenly his hands jabbed at the gun. It went off, far to the right. Then his fist smashed into Davis' mouth.

Davis screamed, his black eyes wild with hate. Dropping the gun, he closed in like a madman. Clark stepped aside and snapped another blow to the jaw. Davis wavered—then seemed to go mad.

Shouting wildly, he clawed at Clark's face with talonlike fingers. Viciously he jabbed his knee up toward Clark's groin, but the detective stepped aside.

Clark circled his opponent until the other's back was toward the rail. Avoiding the wild blows with deft sidesteps, the detective's heavy fists beat a relentless tattoo against Davis' face. A left shot home to the point of the jaw—was followed by a stunning right.

Davis tottered, and then slumped inert to the planking. Clark sprang back to the rockets. He lit another match and held the wavering flame to a fuse.

With a sizzling rush, the rocket stabbed up into the night, trailing an arc of fire behind it. A second followed, reached halfway to the zenith before the first exploded with a loud report. The third was the end of the series. At two-minute intervals, Clark sent off the others.

Then Clark dragged the still-unconscious Davis into the salon. Many passengers were there, talking excitedly, their voices husky with fear. Clark found a steward and ordered him to guard Davis. Clark hurried up the companionway to the boat deck. The heat there was terrific. Through the choking smoke, Clark made his way to a lifeboat. To make certain that the boat was in good working order, he pulled himself up on the davit and glanced down into the uncovered hull. Everything seemed all right.

But as he dropped back to the deck, something still troubled him. He turned and grasped the davit, the cranelike arm which was supposed to swing the
cutter
out over the side so that it could be launched. The davit did not move.

Clark kneeled beside its base. His mouth became hard and set. The joint had been welded tight. The davit could not be moved!