Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 57/Number 5/Hatching a Volcano/Chapter 8
CHAPTER VIII.
READY FOR EMERGENCIES.
AFTER a satisfying breakfast, Brant strolled leisurely from his boarding-house table, with a friendly word to the la patrona, who looked after him with growing suspicion. A guest, however gracious, whose bill has been long overdue, is viewed after the same fashion in La Isla Cuba, as in any city of the United States, particularly when the lodger belongs to the “profession,” and the contents of his baggage are of doubtful value.
Brant, however, had no misgivings, although he walked toward the Pasaje with a knowledge that the prospect of his return was highly uncertain. To explain matters to the landlady might have been embarrassing and inconvenient, so he passed up those formalities. Some time in the future, if the stars continued friendly, he proposed to square his debt and claim his meager belongings.
Scenes of a similar nature had been assigned to him frequently in the past, and stage fright did not mar his present, finished performance. His “walk-out” was above criticism, theatrically speaking.
At the hotel, Miss Newberry did not keep him waiting long. When she appeared, followed by a train of burden bearers, Brant helped her into the taxi, trusting that the fare to the dock would not exceed the solitary, crumpled bank note representing one dollar in the coin of his native Estados Unidos.
On the way to where the Flamingo awaited its passengers, the girl chatted lightly, in a manner that suggested she was bound for a pleasure trip, instead of a voyage fraught with danger.
Although Brant was not apprehensive, he was rather dubious about his prospective reception on board the yacht and the manner in which the new skipper would receive a guest. When he mentioned it, however, Miss Newberry quieted his fears.
“I phoned Captain Korry this morning,” she explained. “Told him you were an acquaintance of mine who would sail with us to Tampa.”
“Didn't ask any questions?”
“Certainly not! why should he? A skipper is not presumed to interest himself in such matters.”
“No; not as a usual thing,” agreed Brant; but mentally he decided that Korry would not be overjoyed at the prospect of carrying an extra passenger.
“Have you seen a paper this morning?” the girl asked suddenly.
“Forgot to buy one,” he replied, which was not exactly the truth. He had thought of it, but hesitated to break his last remaining dollar.
“Here's the Post,” she said, thrusting the English-printed edition into his hand and pointing to a short item.
Dixon's body had been found by the servant, who had called the police. A search of the promises had brought to light the knife with which the victim had been murdered and finger prints on the patio door that might establish the identity of the slayer. Little information could be had regarding the occupant of the house in Calle Huerfanos. Although death had been instantaneous, according to the physician, evidence showed that the body had been carried from the patio, where the crime was committed, to the living room, where the servant claimed to have found it. The servant was being held.
Brant looked up from the Post's brief account of the tragedy to meet the girl's searching glance.
“Strange there isn't a word about Dixon's business,” he remarked.
“That will come out later,” she said, “unless the government decides otherwise. It is possible that the secret-service officials will keep dark the nature of his profession.”
“I suppose our own government will take a hand in the affair,” Brant ventured. “Just at present the police are mystified. I never gave the thing much thought until the newspaper item mentioned it. Of course there must have been bloodstains on the patio floor; and as it is known that Dixon died instantly, the question naturally arises—who carried the body into the living room? And why?”
“We'll be prepared to clear up the mystery before long,” the girl replied confidently. “Meanwhile the police will have to make their own deductions.”
Contrary to his expectations, when the taxi arrived at the dock Brant was welcomed aboard the Flamingo by Captain Korry himself, with surprising courtesy and cordiality. Trim and clean in his white suit, gracious in word and action, the skipper exceeded himself in making Miss Newberry and her passenger-guest comfortable. Never by a look or unguarded gesture did he betray a sign of suspicion.
It was difficult for Brant to imagine that the amicable, quiet-spoken Korry was the infamous and crafty chink runner and the probable murderer of Dixon. The substitute skipper looked mild and inoffensive.
During the preparations for sailing, which began at once. Miss Newberry showed Brant over the trim yacht. The Flamingo was a sixty-footer, with two cabins aft and two amidship, a comfortable lounge and dining room combined, and crew's quarters and galley forward. It boasted of powerful, high-speed engines and wireless, and was electrically equipped throughout, including the galley range.
Built for Florida waters, of mahogany, cedar, and teak, shining with brass and copper and white enamel from bowsprit to taffrail, it was essentially a rich man's plaything—the pride of a gentleman sailor who could afford so expensive a hobby. Nominally, Brant learned, her crew consisted of eight; but at the present, owing to the late season and short trip, her complement was reduced by half.
Neither of the passengers sought to penetrate beyond the galley; but Brant had been quick to observe that the hatch and ports in the forecastle were screwed down, although the morning was unusually warm, and that the doors leading into the crew's quarters, well up in the bow, were closed.
If Miss Newberry's suspicions were well-founded, and Korry had schemed to make use of his temporary skipper berth, then the cargo of yellow men lay beyond those doors. So far as Brant was able to judge, no other space was available. The Chinese must have been smuggled aboard during the night, packed into the hot, airless cabin, and sealed against prying eyes.
Brant's heart bounded swiftly. He met and understood the warning glance his companion shot him. What a radiant and courageous specimen of womanhood she was! Although aware of her present circumstances, Brant decided she must have brushed against the rougher corners of life in the past. It seemed unlikely that a girl, always surrounded by luxury and extravagance, would have turned out so capable and efficient, so ready to face discomfort and peril.
When they were on deck again, and Brant had thrust a hand into his coat pocket, his fingers touched the letter placed there the night before. It recalled to mind an unsolved problem. He meant to return the letter and perhaps question the girl; but because they might be under surveillance while on deck he decided to await a more favorable opportunity. After all, the mystery was of little consequence. It had played its part; it had been the means of bringing together two adventuresome spirits. More vital matters were at issue now.
At twelve o'clock exactly the engine-room bell sounded, and with slowly churning screws, the Flamingo moved gracefully into the open water. Miss Newberry and Brant stood near the inclosed bridge, where Korry operated the wheel, and watched the receding shore line with its tinted houses, its picturesque harbor and busy docks bathed in the vivid glare of noon sunlight.
Once Morro Castle had been left behind and the sparkling Caribbean lay attractively ahead, the yacht increased its speed. Without crowding the engines, Korry believed that the first of the Florida Keys would be off their bows long before sundown.
The sight of Havana fading in the distance and the knowledge of what lay ahead of him, the thought of the yellow men below deck and of the captain and his crew who were intent upon the landing of their contraband, filled Brant with queer emotions.
Plans they had none. There had been little time to discuss ways and means of trapping the smuggler. Yet between now and darkness—or that hour when Korry expected to put his unseen passengers ashore—some definite scheme must be thought out and perfected.
For himself, Brant was unconcerned. His thoughts were centered on the welfare of his companion. Miss Newberry must not be exposed to any unnecessary danger, even if the success of the undertaking should demand it.
It was a perplexing situation to face, where conspirator was pitted against conspirator, with the odds overwhelmingly in favor of a reputed black-hearted and remorseless smuggler.
When the engines had been tuned to their regular speed and the trim Flamingo plowed gracefully through the long swells, Meech came up on deck for a breath of air. After he had rolled himself a cigarette and lighted it expertly against the wind, he squinted forward to where Miss Newberry and Brant were standing. He was given his first close view of the passengers, and he regarded them with dubious and calculating eyes.
He touched his cap respectfully and smiled when, a few minutes later, the girl and her companion passed him on their way to answer the luncheon summons; but when they had disappeared, Meech's smile vanished, and his eyes darkened speculatively.
Korry's engineer had not been informed until the taxi rolled up to the dock and discharged its fares that an extra passenger was to sail. It looked ominous to him, coupled with certain other matters that had aroused his apprehension, although he had not had an opportunity to reveal them to the skipper. The latter doubtless would have told him to mind his own affairs and confine his croaking to the engine room.
Korry's admirable scheme had been hailed with delight in the beginning, and the prospects of a most successful trip were alluring, particularly so after the three misadvenures in the past. Even the fact that Miss Newberry was to accompany them did not blight his hopes, although it was his opinion that a woman and sub-rosa affairs did not mix.
However, the unannounced appearance of Miss Newberry's guest filled the engineer with misgivings. More than that, after a sharp scrutiny he convinced himself that the young man's face was familiar. Their paths had crossed before—and recently.
During a picturesque career afloat and ashore, Meech had developed certain essential qualities that often worked to his advantage in times of danger. However lacking he may have been in some respects, he boasted of a retentive memory. Just where he had seen Brant before, and in what circumstances, Meech was, momentarily, in doubt; but that he had seen the man was a certainty. It was merely a question of time before the problem solved itself.
Strangely enough, Captain Korry had entertained the same suspicion, although the fact did not disturb him. He was still pondering over the matter when Miss Newberry and Brant again appeared. By that time Meech had gone below.
The girl asked to take the wheel, and Korry readily obliged her. Miss Newberry was an able sailor, for the Flamingo had been her home during many cruises through the placid, as well as tempestuous, Florida waters. That she was experienced in nautical matters did not long escape the skipper's critical eyes.
“You could stand your trick at the wheel with the best of 'em, Miss Newberry,” Korry declared. “Dare say you could follow a chart as well, eh? who schooled you? Pruett?”
“Pruett and my father,” the girl answered.
The skipper turned presently to Brant, who was watching the new helmsman with undisguised admiration. “Are you a water dog, too, young man?” he inquired.
“I'm afraid not,” Brant responded. “I'm familiar with water tanks, though,” he added. “Many a time I've hopped a freight in the shadow of one—provided the crew weren't too watchful.”
Miss Newberry laughed at Korry's puzzled countenance. “Mr. Brant's an actor,” she explained.
“Actor?” the captain repeated, still perplexed. His knowledge of “show folks” and their vicissitudes were limited. They belonged to a world far removed from his own.
“Havana wasn't overcordial to my brand of artistic endeavor,” Brant continued. “My company gave up the ghost, mainly because the ghost failed to walk. I met with a slight misfortune, and the company sailed off without me. I was on the point of consigning myself as a stowaway when Miss Newberry came to my rescue.”
Korry brightened at once as if the knowledge he had received had stirred a laggard memory. “I'm not much on visiting shows,” he remarked, “but it seems to me I've seen you in Havana lately.”
“Possibly you did,” Brant remarked. “I filled an unpromising engagement at the Café Paris and”
“That's it!” the captain exclaimed. “The Paris! I remember you now, Mr. Brant.”
Korry smiled. Apparently the fact that he had succeeded in identifying his passenger pleased him. Brant smiled in turn. The fact that he had been identified had its advantages. As a cabaret performer, his appearance on board the Flamingo would not be viewed with suspicion. Doubtless, personally, the smuggler had nothing but profound contempt for one who followed Brant's activities.
Some time later, when the girl and Brant ware leaning over the rail astern, Meech made his way forward to exchange a few pertinent remarks with his skipper.
“Say,” he began in a cautiously lowered tone, “do you know who that chap is? The pretty he-passenger?”
Korry nodded. “Yes. He's a show actor. I found that out half an hour ago. Remember seeing him at the Paris.”
“Show actor?” Meech repeated disgustedly. “Maybe he is; but that don't mean much. I remember seein' him myself. Couldn't place him till just now. He's the bird I rapped on the head and dumped into the warehouse the first night I went out with you.”
The skipper frowned and regarded his engineer with a dubious glance. “Sure of it?” he inquired.
“Sure's I'm standin' here!” Meech declared emphatically. “I don't forget faces; not for long, anyhow. Funny he'd be sailin' with us, ain't it?”
“You figured he was a hijacker, did you? Took him to be shadowing you that night?”
“Nothin' else!”
Korry pondered gravely over the nature of Meech's revelations. “Brant don't look like a hijacker to me,” he ventured at length, speaking from firsthand observation and past unpleasant encounters. “You're taking too much for granted.”
“Think I'm lyin', do you?” the other came back resentfully.
“Not exactly. I'm not saying Brant wasn't the chap you hit, or that he didn't follow you, but outside of that”
“Hijacker or revenue officer! what's the difference?” Meech broke in. “One's as bad as the other, ain't it?”
“Might be—on shore,” the skipper agreed. “But on this boat, in the open, I guess we can handle things. Keep your senses about you, Meech! Don't go off half cocked.”
“All right. Use your own judgment. I'm just tellin' you; that's all. Something's been cooked up for us we won't find appetizin'. Why, you had the same hunch yourself a while back.”
“Changed my mind since.”
“That girl's got a trick up her sleeve,” persisted Meech. “I've felt so since last night.”
“If she had one,” the captain returned, “we've trumped it.”
Meech cast a glance aft as if to make certain of where the passengers lounged and that they were beyond earshot. “You mean because—of Dixon?” he inquired softly.
Korry nodded. “If there was anything in the wind, he was behind it,” the captain replied.
“And you don't think she knows?”
“If she did she wouldn't have sailed to-day. That's certain as sunrise.”
Meech appeared to find logic in the other's theory. Dixon was now known—through information volunteered by Pruett—to have been a close friend of both the Flamingo's owner and his daughter. It seemed unlikely to think that the girl would be unaffected by the tragedy; that she would have left port without learning some of the circumstances surrounding the affair.
The girl seemed to be in high spirits. The report of the murder in Calle Huerfanos could not have reached her, although Meech recalled that the morning newspapers had contained a brief account of it. Evidently Miss Newberry had not read them.
“What're you afraid of?” Korry asked at length. “Seems to me, in an emergency, you could take Brant's measure.”
“Sure! I did it once,” the other responded. “I was just wonderin',” he added, “if maybe the cutter's already been tipped off to watch for m? Maybe the tip went out yesterday.”
“Not likely! And if it'll relieve your mind any,” Korry went on, “we'll make sure.”
“How?”
“Wait for the cutter to show up; that's how. We'll be sighting her somewhere out of Key west.”
Meech gasped. “Goin' to run the risk?”
“No risk,” the skipper answered calmly. “We'll be standing well outside the three-mile limit. That Federal bunch can't touch us even if they knew we were running monkeys. If the cutter passes us by with just a friendly signal, we'll have nothing more to fret about.”
“And if she trails us?” the engineer suggested. -
“Why, then we'll show her a clean pair of heels and turn our passengers into prisoners. Simple enough, isn't it?”
“Well, it listens that way,” Meech agreed in a tone devoid of any great enthusiasm.