Chapter 2

But now, now Cray had his door open and was talking to the enraged Drake.
And Drake, calming himself by an effort, was being drawn inside. The
captain wished that this strange man Cray would leave that door open. He
hoped, at least, that afterward he would tell him frankly what now was
going on.

Inside, Cray was talking swiftly:

“What’d he say? Did he tell you I was blabbing?”

“Blabbing. 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.

“Forget it is right,” he grinned, reaching for the spare headset, already
adjusted to fit Drake. “Want to listen in a spell? I’m goin’ out for a
breather. If you hear anything funny call me.”

Drake hesitated.

“What you planning to do?”

“Nothing,” Cray answered. “Be a sport. 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?”

Old M’Ginley, cutting loose cord after cord, breaking through wax seals,
was opening that brown paper parcel.

What he found turned him into a covetous old man, who thought furiously.
Finally, one hand fondling his pocket, he climbed heavily down ladders to
his own peculiar domain.

* * * * *

Once more Cray faced the old skipper in his cabin.

“You saw that?” Bain was eager. He sensed, at last, the end of this
mystery. “You saw that Drake and heard him howl about blabbing!”

“Yes,” Cray scoffed. “Heard a heap; but I’m not taking that for gospel.”

“It must be him. You found nothing in Quayle’s cabin?”

“Not yet,” Cray answered. “I’m figuring on looking again. Know what I
think? They’re both in the theft, if not the murder. Take those names.
Both birds’ names--Quayle and Drake--ain’t they? Sort of funny, them both
choosing the same sort of monikers for this trip. Like one had thought of
one, and the other had followed suit. Crooks are like that.”

The captain gazed at him speculatively.

“Cray--crayfish--another zoölogical name. Well, go on. You don’t pass as
an honest man, Cray. Lay to that. You’re no better, if no worse, than the
rest aboard this packet. What were you going to say?”

“I got an idea they been passing that necklace from one to t’other,” Cray
explained. “They had hard words. What if Quayle had it last, after I
searched his dump? What if he wouldn’t hand over, an’ Drake--I been
working on him, scaring him--if Drake, I say, figured Quayle was goin’ to
gyp him? How about that? Mebbe Quayle ain’t scared of getting caught. I
searched his dump careful. He may figure he ain’t suspected no more. He
may think, if he is suspected, that we don’t know how to search right. And
Drake, figurin’ he’s losin’ out, gets mad.”

The captain shook his head. Father Point was getting closer. Morning and
the pilot would come, and with them--well, iron bars, perhaps; certainly a
lost ticket and a lot of trouble. A man couldn’t account for three extra
men on his ship--and such men.

“I don’t know. If we miss this time--” He paused.

“We’ll search both cabins,” Gray broke in, “and both at once. You take
Quayle’s; I’ll go for Drake’s. We’ll win this time.”

The captain stared at him.

“We’ll do it; but how?”

“Easy,” Cray smiled. “That worthless old chief engineer--let him tag on to
Drake. They are thick, anyway. As for Quayle--he’s battered up, ain’t he?
Or if he ain’t exactly battered, he’s shook. Take a couple of men, drag
him out, say you’re givin’ him your room, more light an’ air. Sure, he’ll
suspect, but what can he do? Take them two big sailormen.”

“It might be; but when? Drake sticks below of afternoons.”

“Tomorrow morning we got a couple of hours,” Cray went on. “When we find
that necklace--”

“We give it up, and get clear of--”

“Like hell! We keep it!” Cray corrected him. “Or I keep it. Never mind
how. I’ll pin the job on one of them. Don’t you worry.”

The captain stared at him, aghast.

“But they’ll search the ship.”

“Let ’em. They won’t find it.” Cray got up. “I left Drake in my monkey-
house. Best get him out of there. Tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow.”

The captain looked out the door, as Cray opened it. The hills of the south
shore of the Gulf stood out grim and gray, somber, all shadow. Tomorrow.
Well, sooner it comes, sooner over.

* * * * *

The two big sailors dragged Quayle, protesting, out of his cabin. A
strangely ungrateful man he seemed. Up on the boat deck Drake heard the
row.

“What’s that?” he asked.

The old chief, M’Ginley, leaned closer.

“Them--them diamonds,” he whispered.

“How’d you know. You’ve broke the seals,” Drake accused.

M’Ginley shrank back.

“Me? What you think? Ain’t I acted straight with you?”

“You’d better.”

Drake thrust one hand inside his dungaree suit. Something bulged under his
arm. M’Ginley wasn’t looking at a paper packet this time.

“You go heeled; don’t blame ye,” he blustered. “Why pull a gun on me?
They’re searchin’ your cabin.”

He told this with the air of one revealing a previous secret.

“They won’t find nothin’.”

“Not in mine,” Drake grated, “but elsewhere, perhaps. You sit still. We’ve
been playing blind man’s buff overlong. You sit still. This is loaded, you
old fraud. You figure on holding out, hey? Look me in the eye, in ten
minutes, and maybe you’ll change your mind.”

M’Ginley quivered. He was gross mountain of a man, and shaking like jelly.

“Ten minutes. What you mean? Why--”

Drake rose.

“If you value your health, sit tight. If you don’t, I play a hard game.
I’ve an ace in the hole. A neat little ace, isn’t it, in its shoulder
holster. Sit where you are.”

The old man watched him as he walked, cat footed, to the stair, and as he
slowly disappeared down it.

“Some one is goin’ to catch plain hell,” said he, “but it won’t be me,
M’Ginley. Mebbe, when they finish their rough stuff there’ll be a nice
corpse for Scotland Yard and--what’s hid below for M’Ginley.”

But M’Ginley was not down in the alleyway; and it was there that things
were due to happen.

First the old captain’s voice, as he cried through the thin partition
between Drake’s cabin and Quayle’s:

“Come here, for God’s sake, Cray! I found somethin’...”

Cray, running in from Drake’s cabin, saw a velvet covered case, long,
narrow, bound with precious metal.

The captain laughed in relief.

“Got our man.”

“Where--where’d you find that?”

“There!” The captain kicked a disreputable handbag. “In the lining, sewn
in. I felt it, first shot. Now--”

“Open it, open it,” Cray urged. “Let’s see.”

“It’s locked some way; but--”

Old Bain’s strong fingers wrapped themselves about the slim thing of metal
and velvet. The cords of his wrists stood out for a moment. Then the case
was open, cracked like a walnut shell. It was empty. The captain glared at
the fragments in his hands. 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. If trouble
comes aboard, it comes for him, personal. Not me, nor you, if you’re wise.
You stop snooping round for them diamonds. I won’t have it, I tell you.
First thing there’ll be a murder--another murder.”

Cray, his voice edged, face pale, sneered:

“Changed your tune, hey? Now you found this useless junk, you figure
you’ll let them diamonds go, hey? But you figure without Cray. I’ll have
this ship apart, if need be, but I’ll lay hands on them stones. I’ll--”

“You’ll go easy!” Captain Bain thundered. He was becoming himself rapidly
now. “You’ll keep quiet. There’s others besides Quayle can be locked in
their cabins, and nothing said of it. And I’m master of this ship, by
God!”

“And if--” Cray smiled, though he was still under tension, although that
smile was not a pleasant one. “If I told you the truth, would you sing
small, I wonder?”

“Truth? My God! Truth?” the badgered skipper rasped. “You tell the truth?
What in hell are you, to tell the truth?”

“A detective,” said Cray softly, “a detective.”

The captain stared, at first unbelieving; then he wilted. Too many little
things on Cray’s side. The chances were that he might be. Certainly he’d
acted like one at times. And if he were, what of the _ Cora_, of her
secret sins?

“A detective?” he gasped.

From behind Cray came another voice; the cabin door swung open.

“A detective? That’s fine; for there are two of us, then, my dear Cray.”

It was Drake. He had his gun. In that tiny cabin a gun in the hand meant
mastery. Drake closed the door after him. His gun covered Cray. He
disregarded the old captain. Indeed, old Bain hadn’t an ounce of trouble
making left in him. He was a crushed man. Not one detective, but two! Not
one man, who might conceivably be bribed, but two, each knowing his little
immigrant game, and, what was worse, each knowing that the other knew. He
slumped down on the single bunk. He stared from Cray to Drake, from Drake
to Cray. He shook his gray head sadly.

Cray, snarling, turned on him.

“A hell of a captain! Don’t you see his game? His turn to hang on to them
diamonds. He figures we’ll search his room next; likely found out I’d been
searching it. He’s desperate.”

“And a strong man, Cray, which you are not.”

Drake reached out suddenly with his left hand, caught both Cray’s thin
wrists, brought his hands together. Then with his right hand he laid his
revolver on the bunk.

“Which you are not, Cray, my man,” said Drake.

The captain heard steel jingle, then saw it flash. He heard a faint click.
Drake turned to him.

“We’ll adjourn to your cabin, Captain. This is a bit crowded.”

Glumly the old skipper obeyed. Cray stood there, handcuffed, silent now,
as if with the snapping of the steel handcuffs had gone from him his last
chance.

They stumbled out into the alleyway, Drake’s steady hand on Cray’s elbow.
As Cray walked along, men eyed him. He scowled at the first; his face was
blank as he passed a second. But when the third man stared, he smiled
cockily. He was on parade and would be on parade until Drake and his kind
had done their best, or worst. He must act out his part, confidence in
every look, every gesture. That was his code; he would follow it.

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.”

Cray kept silent at that, as if reluctant to tell; as if, now the enemy
had appeared in his true form, he were changing his whole tune; as if
those under the law’s suspicion must close up their ranks and stick
together.

“Quayle--there he is in the cabin,” Drake went on. “I’ll be bound, he’ll
be glad to see us. You see, Quayle’s my partner, Cray.”

* * * * *

Drake and the old captain were alone. Quayle had taken Cray away, had
locked him up, was keeping an eye on him. Drake had remained with Bain. He
was talking jerkily, as if thinking back over this business, partly
because he rather plumed himself on the way it had been managed and partly
because he feared, should he stop, what would follow. Old Captain Bain,
there, lips moving, eyes downcast was probably going over the sins of a
long and pettily wicked life. Probably, as soon as he got the chance, he’d
pour out a flood of confessions and would incriminate himself hopelessly
in a dozen dark matters.

Drake, a one idea man, busy with that one idea, didn’t have time, or, to
do him justice, inclination for the rôle of father confessor to the
captain of the _Cora_. So he talked, like a man talking against time,
elliptically, as things came into his head. And the captain half
listening, heard:

“Began at Dip’s American Bar. Bless you, we at the Yard have known your
little game for years, Captain. Began at Dip’s, when this robbery thing
broke, we traced a motor car within a mile of his place. From then on,
well, it was chance and luck and, if I may say it, psychology. We came
aboard, Quayle and I, separately. We looked about, used our eyes, wormed
in where we could. We had no idea what the man was like, what he had done
before. We just played a hunch that he was aboard. Began with you--

“Remember that little note I brought you, ostensibly from Dip? Well, that
told me a lot. Bless you, Bain, you aren’t the murdering, thieving sort. I
ruled you out, right then. But, to go on. You remember when the thing
broke aboard? That first message?”

“Yes,” the old man nodded glumly, “I won’t forget. ’Twas as if some big,
horrible eye was lookin’ all over, slow but steady. An’ I knew that sooner
or later it’d stop on us; and then, o’ course--”

“That,” Drake laughed, hastily breaking in, “that was the intention. I
arranged for that wireless. Scotland Yard? Well, we at the Yard don’t
broadcast what we know, unless we want it known for a damned good reason.
I had that wireless sent. Fixed it up in the hour I had between trailing
the car to Dip’s and coming aboard here. That was my bombshell.”

“But--” the captain stared at him, puzzled--“how’d you--you didn’t know it
was Cray you wanted?”

“What I wanted was a disturbance. If he wasn’t in the business he’d
perhaps talk. If he hadn’t talked, I could fulfill that omission and blame
it on him. I wanted every manjack aboard here to know that diamonds had
been stolen, that Scotland Yard--they don’t sign themselves that way, I
might confess--were on the trail. The rest--well, ever throw a rock into a
pool? The ripples follow each other to shore. The rest was plain Cray. I’d
struck it lucky. Those other messages--he made ’em up, every one.”

“But why--why?” The Old Man was incredulous.

“His game.” Drake laughed. “First half of the voyage, well, Cray was lying
low. He knew his job, you see. He figured on passing as the regular
wireless man; but he didn’t know his ship, or its company, and he didn’t
like that company, when he looked ’em over. So he carried the necklace in
his pocket, like a pipe or a handkerchief. Well, the day after that first
bombshell of a message came, he felt for the diamonds--and they were
gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes, never mind how.”

Drake got up, walked across to the old skipper of the _Cora_, flipped one
agile hand across his vest and dangled his watch, chain and seals before
his eyes.

“Like that,” Drake laughed. “Well, to get on, there he was, this Cray,
with those jewels gone and nothing for his pains. So he began to get
mysterious messages. Bit by bit suspicion formed, centered, first on this
one, then on that one. You played right into his hands, Captain. You had
me worried. I was afraid you two would run out of suspects before we made
our landfall.”

“You mean he deliberately had me on?” The captain shook his head. “No--if
’twas just theft--but murder--You mean this man let me think we had a
murderer aboard, let me know it, when he could have kept it dark--and him
the guilty one? 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. So, when he searched Quayle’s cabin yesterday, he
planted the box that those diamonds had been in when he lifted them. Then
he worked things so that you would find it, not him.”

“But why?”

Drake stared at him. What use going on like this? How could this man, who
but half listened, understand, when even he saw some things but vaguely?
You threw a straw into the water, then a dozen more. If one of them taught
you anything of drift or eddy, you were content. When he spoke again his
voice was crisp and incisive.

“That fight. A fake of Quayle and me, in case Cray suspected us of working
together, as he did, eh? Just a precaution. It bothered him, as other
things did, too. His problem was twofold. Those stories, you see; the
wireless messages he was making up--they worked on him in the end, as well
as on you. 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? Notice how he gave in
at the end? No gunplay. Clever men don’t go in for that. Amateurish, that
sort of thing. Watch the papers later on and you’ll see how Cray fights
through his mouthpiece. Good criminal lawyers are rich men.”

“But why all this?” the captain growled. “You knew in mid-Atlantic that he
was your man. You had the stuff and could have nabbed him easily then and
there.”

“In my game a man never stops learning,” Drake told him. “You may believe
me, or not. Your ship said, ‘Hush.’ I wanted to make her talk, and Cray
did it for me, eh? I wanted to see what he’d do and how he’d do it. A
clever rogue he proved, but too imaginative.”

“So you raised hell with us, with me. Let me run round like a fool.”

The captain of the _Cora_ bit his lip, for who was he, standing in a
slippery place, to antagonize this detective. Drake looked at him
pityingly for a moment.

“You’re worried. You’re saying, ‘Now Drake’ll begin on me.’ The answer is,
of course, Drake won’t. I’ve known and the Yard’s known, for years. If
we’d wanted to, we could fill a gaol with you and your like; but what’s it
to us if now and then some petty thief gets away? Men like that Liverpool
rat. It’s the big, fat, long whiskered, clever rats we’re after. When they
come drifting along, flying the country, we know where to look.”

He turned toward the door.

“You run our rat trap, Captain. Why in the world should we spring it?”

The door opened as he put his hand on the knob. The fat engineer,
M’Ginley, crowded in. He laid something that gleamed and glittered on the
little table. Beside this he methodically piled brown paper, broken wax
seals, bits of cut and knotted string.

“Ye’ll bear witness,” said M’Ginley to the captain, “ye’ll bear witness,
I’m an honest man. There it all is, Mr. Drake, everything ye gave me. I’m
an honest man; and besides, there’s a ship comin’ up astern flyin’ the
blue ensign, with the Canadian coat-of-arms in the fly of it. I’m an
honest man. When they board us, ye’ll tell ’em so, doubtless?”

But Drake was not listening. Bending over the table, he was brushing coal
dust from the Varnavosk necklace.

THE END