The steward opened a door and illuminated a commodious cabin, similar to that occupied- by Brownlow Wilton.
“In here, sir.”
“Always . . . poor sailor, I fear,” Smith muttered thickly. “Lie down awhile . . .”
I assisted him on to one of the two beds, while Lopez removed the coverlet. He lay there with closed eyes, seeming to be trying to speak. An armchair stood near by, and distrusting my acting I slumped suddenly into it. I had ceased trying to think, but trusted Nayland Smith, for he could see where I was blind.
As the steward solicitously removed the coverlet from the neighboring bed and spread it over me:
“Sorry . . . whacked!” I muttered and closed my eyes.
The steward went out and shut the cabin door.
“Don’t speak—don’t move!” It was a mere murmur. “Roll over so that you face me, and wait.”
I rolled over on my side and lay still. Now I could see Smith clearly. His eyes, though half closed, were questing about the cabin, particularly watching the door and the two ports which gave upon the deck. Over the creaking and groaning of the ship I heard those distant drums. Something told me to lie still—that we were being watched.
“Speak softly” said Nayland Smith; “the man Lopez has gone to report. Do you realize what has happened?”
“Not in the least.”
“We have fallen into a trap!”
“What!”
“Lie still. Someone else is probably watching us . . . I foresaw the danger but still walked into it. I suppose I had no right to bring you with me.”
“I don’t even know what you mean.”
The maneuver of turning the ship about had been clumsily accomplished, and I realized that we were now headed back for Venice. There was less creaking and groaning and the sound of thunder drums grew fainter.
“I suspect Fu Manchu’s plan to be that we shall never return.”
“Good heavens!”
“Ssh! Quiet! Someone at the porthole.”
I lay perfectly still; so did Nayland Smith. Only by the prompting of that extra sense which comes to us in hours of danger did I realize that someone was indeed peering into the cabin. My brain, tired by a whirl of grotesque experiences, obstinately refused to deal with this new problem. Why should we both be overcome? And what were we waiting for?”
“All clear again,” Smith reported in a low voice. “Even if the door is locked, which I doubt, those deck ports are wide enough to enable us to get out.”
“But Smith, what do you suspect?”
“It isn’t a suspicion, Kerrigan; it’s a fact. This yacht is in the hands of servants of Doctor Fu Manchu from the commander downwards.”
“Good God! Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“But Wilton . . .”
“In Europe our concern is concentrated upon kings and dictators, but Wilton in the United States wields almost as much power as, shall we say, Goebbels in Germany. His political sympathies are well known, his interests widespread.”
“But Wilton is a dying man.”
“I think you would be nearer the mark, Kerrigan, if you said ‘Wilton is a dead man’!”
* * *
Only the sound of the propellers broke the silence now. I knew instinctively that Nayland Smith was thinking hard, and presently:
“Can you hear me, Kerrigan?” he asked in a low voice. “I dare not speak louder.”
“Yes.”
Those words “Wilton is a dead man” haunted me. I wondered what he meant.
“We should probably be well-advised to make a dash for it; grab those life belts and jump over the side. But there’s a fairly heavy swell and I don’t entirely fancy the prospect.”
“I don’t fancy it at all!”
“Perhaps we can afford to wait until we are rather nearer land. Our great risk at the moment is that they discover we are not insensible.”
“Insensible! But why should we be insensible?”
Of all the strange and horrible memories which I have of this battle to prevent Dr Fu Manchu from readjusting the balance of world power, there is none more strange, I think than this muttered interlude, lying there in the cabin of Silver Heels.
“For the simple reason,” the quiet, low voice continued, “that the drinks we shared with Wilton were drugged. Bourbon whisky was insisted upon for that reason: its marked flavor evidently conceals whatever drug was in it.”
“But, Smith—”
“I switched them, Kerrigan, having created a brief distraction! My own, if you remember, I apparently drained at a draught. It went into the washbowl at my elbow.”
“But mine?”
“There was no alternative in the time at my disposal. Wilton had yours—you had Wilton’s.”
“Good God! Do you mean you think he is lying dead there in his cabin?”
“Ssh! Remember we are through if they once suspect us. I mean that he is dead, yes—but not lying in his cabin . . .”
He lay silent for a while, and I divined the fact that he was listening. I listened also, puzzling my brain at the same time for a clue to the meaning of his words. Then:
“I am wondering why the two police have not—”
My sentence was cut short. I heard a sudden scuffling of feet, a wild cry—and then came silence again, except that very far away I detected a dull rumbling of thunder.
“Smith! Good God, can we do nothing!”
“The murderous swine! It’s too late! I was playing for time—trying to make a plan”—there was an agony of remorse in his low-pitched voice. “Hello!”
The lights went out!
“Now we can move,” snapped Smith, and as he spoke the engines ceased to move. Silver Heels lay rolling idly on the swell.
“This is where we jump to it! Quick, Kerrigan! Have your gun handy!”
I rolled off the bed and made for the door. I was nearer to it than Smith.
“Damnation!” I exclaimed.
The door was locked!
“I didn’t note them do it.”
Dimly I could see Smith trying one of the big rectangular ports which opened onto the starboard deck.
“Hullo! This is more serious than I thought! These are locked, too!”
We stood there for a moment listening to increasing sounds about us.
“They’re getting the launch away,” I muttered, for I had noted that the yacht carried a motor launch. “What does that mean?”
“It means they’re going to sink Silver Heels—with ourselves on board!”
Silver Heels (Concluded)
“Listen, Kerrigan, listen!”
To the sound of voices, running feet, creaking of davits and wheezy turning of chocks, a suggestive silence had succeeded, broken only by the cracking and groaning of the ship’s fabric. If Nayland Smith’s conclusions were true, and he was rarely wrong, we were trapped like rats, and like rats must drown.
I listened intently.
“You hear it, Kerrigan?”
“Yes. It’s in some adjoining cabin.”
It was a moaning sound; but unlike that which had horrified me in the cellars of Palazzo Brioni, this certainly was human. Even as I listened and wondered what I heard, Nayland Smith had a wardrobe door open. The wardrobe was empty, but in the dim light I saw that he had his ear pressed to the woodwork.
“It’s behind here!” he said. “We daren’t use a torch yet. Noise we must risk. The ship’s noises may drown it, but this boarding has to be stripped. Hello!”
As I joined him I saw that there was a ventilator at the back of the wardrobe.
“No time and no means to unscrew it,” he muttered, and I saw that he had succeeded in wedging his fingers between two of the bars. “Let’s hope it doesn’t make too much row!”
He wrenched it bodily from the light wood in which it was set. Speaking very close to the gap thus created: