L. Paul

“ The captain of the Cora reached for the little pile of notes.
“A man must live,” he growled, as if apologizing for his delinquencies. “A man must live, and there’s no money in tramp shipping. You’ll find a small cabin on the port side—the empty one. It’s yours. We sail with the tide. If you come on deck before that and are nabbed—” he patted his pocket where he had stowed those notes—“that’s your lookout, Drake.” ”

“ Despite the reason for his captivity, there was a certain desperate gallantry about Cray, as Drake led him off, handcuffed, to the captain’s cabin. He even managed to whisper, as they climbed the steep iron stairway to the boat deck:
“A pretty job, Drake; if your feet didn’t look it, nobody’d take you for a dick. Only thing is you got the wrong man.”
“Have I?” Drake asked. “Have I? Maybe it’s Quayle should be wearing these.” ”

“ Drake was composed now. “Imagination’s a grand thing, Cray. Sometimes it leads men into trouble, though. You’ve been reading dime novels.”
Drake walked away. Cray watched him go aft along the boat deck and down the steep stairs.
“You’ll worry, my man,” growled Cray. “Now, what’s next. Liverpool swine is ruled out. That fool of a skipper—a child could see through him. He’s ripped that dub’s cabin to pieces. At this rate he’ll have the whole ship torn apart, every manjack on edge. Not one’ll get by him without him poking and prying. And he’s fool enough to make a bad break. ”

“ One moment, and the ship end of the gangway, creaking as the current swayed the little tramp, was empty. The next moment he was there. Nor did these others think it strange. They looked as if this sudden yet stealthy approach was usual, an accustomed thing, an item, strange perhaps to some, yet of little moment in their full lives.
The man in dungarees stood there till the first cheerful man he had seen aboard rolled up, the stout chief engineer. ”

“ Cray, leaning closer, muttered:
“Never mind. Hang on to that. It’s evidence, ain’t it? Quayle—he’ll tell more, when them detectives get after him. He’ll talk. Man can shorten his stretch that way. Unless—” he thrust his face close to the captain’s —“unless we find them diamonds, ourselves. Then, this’d do for Quayle; they’d take him on the strength of this. And we’d—”
“To hell with the diamonds!” In the old skipper’s voice was relief. “This’ll do for me. You keep your gab shut, mister. The least you know the best, I’ve got Quayle locked in my cabin. He’ll stay there. ”

“ Man don’t tie his own hang-man’s knot, mister, not even to get back diamonds.”
“There was no murder.” Drake laughed, again. “That was just his artistic touch. No fool, Cray. He knew you’d rise to it. But you worried him. He wanted to search every last cabin, but he also wanted to make the job hang out till the last moment, in case you might show a rush of brain to the head and get to suspecting him. Well, you did it as he planned, between you. Until, well, there were two of us left, Quayle and myself. Cray was getting scared by now. ”

“ What talking’s been done—” Drake paused, as if uncertain. “Forget it. A man don’t like to be told he’s like to swing. I’m hot headed. I figured mebbe you’d told him what was in that cablegram—the one about Varnavosk bein’ dead—mebbe more, too. But—”
“Forget it is right.”
Cray was acting strangely. Yesterday he had told the captain that the murderer, supposedly on their ship, must be either Quayle or Drake. Now he seemed to have shifted his views, unless he wished to lull Drake into a state of false security. ”

“ Most men’d get hot if you come ravin’ at ’em; but me, I’m different. You set there. Forget it!”
“I’ll try,” Drake scowled. “If the Old Man says anything about that row with Quayle, you tell him it’s an old score we were settling.”
“Right!”
Cray crossed the threshold and slammed the door shut. Drake listened as he walked down the deck; he heard other footsteps. Out of the window he caught a glimpse of the captain’s gray head, then the boatswain, supporting a limp Quayle toward the stair.
“I wonder—” Drake frowned at the wireless set—“what’s their next move. And old M’Ginley—what’s he doing?” ”

“ Scotland Yard ain’t manned by fools. Like as not there’ll be other messages. Liverpool runt’s been cleared. He don’t pack no valuables. There’s seven new faces aboard beside him, leavin’ Cray out. If things gets hot and they start to search the lot—well—him that has them jewels is like to swing.”
“Unless—” Drake seemed to be master of himself now—“unless!”
“Unless the lad slipped ’em to a good natur’d old fool of an engineer. There’s places below.” Old M’Ginley winked. “Well, if you meet the man aboard here, you tell him.”
“Thanks, I will. Cray’s blind’s gone up.” Drake rose. ”

“ He almost believed them, believed that they might have some accidental truth in them. And, of course, he wanted his loot back. Safety and loot; two ends to gain. If you had it, it was as good as his, for he’s smooth and you—well, the thing’s plain, isn’t it? ”

“ Proceed with caution.
—Scotland Yard
“And that,” said Cray to himself, as he took the message to the captain of the Cora, “that’ll hold him for a while. This ship is jammed full of strong men.”
“So you can’t find him, the thief,” Cray jeered.
There was no deference in his tone, no respect. Here he sat in the Old Man’s cabin and yarned away as if such a thing as discipline had ceased to exist.
“The thief? He’s been a murderer for two days.” Old Bain scowled at him. “You have me nigh crazy. First we rip up that little rat’s cabin—”
“That was you; I just hinted—” Cray began. ”

“ Varnavosk dying. Look for strong man capable killing bare-handed.
No signature this time.
“Where’d you get this?”
Drake stiffened. He glanced forward uneasily; but Cray’s blind was drawn on the little window of his cabin. Cray’s door was shut.
“Where’d you think? Notice the Old Man yesterday and today?” the old chief asked. “Well, he’s fair wild. He come down this mornin’ an’ asks me to trot along, confidential. We goes to that wife beatin’ runt’s cabin. The runt is out on deck. Old Man and me, we rip up the floorboards, we pry apart the bunk.” ”

“ Unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Unless the man’s ready for them. Then, it’s a pat on the back and a clean bill of health for you; and, ‘Thanks, my noble radio man; your message was music to our honest ears,’ for me.” Cray stopped.
“And so—”
Cray leaned closer.
“Get this. There’s two men we ain’t searched yet—Drake and Quayle. Either one, mebbe—”
The old captain rose.
“We’ll start with Quayle, eh?” He made for the door, but he stopped, turned. “You put that into my head, damn ye!”
“What if I did?” Cray cried. “What if I did? Since you have no detective aboard, what price Cray, hey?” ”

“ That last remark of the skipper’s had hit him.
“A detective,” said Cray softly. “Maybe we have, at that, my brave old sea-dog. Maybe we have, at that.”
He followed the captain on deck and twitched his sleeve. He drew him into a corner.
“I’ll do this next job myself,” said Cray.
“You mean Quayle?”
“Him. You better stick to your knitting. Talk like a human being at lunch, keep that solemn-faced, secretive Quayle there, until— You ever figure there’ll maybe be a reward for them diamonds?”
“Reward?” The old captain of the Cora snorted. “Reward? ”