“I was a mystery man on that trip, too,” chuckled Delka. “I went to India to team with the C.I.D. on a matter that concerned counterfeiting. Incognito, as usual. Unfortunately, captain, there are certain criminals who would recognize me on sight, as well as by name. That is why I remain in my cabin, and cultivate the rather pleasureless habit of smoking in the dark.”
Captain Murgin spoke in troubled tone.
“Do you believe,” he inquired, “that dangerous criminals are aboard my ship, at present?”
“One may be,” replied Delka, calmly. “Do not he alarmed, however. This fellow will not pillage passengers. He is an international spy, a most capable chap named Jed Barthue. It is possible that he may already be in the States, but I am taking no chances. Barthue has me topped in one respect.”
“What is that?”
“He might recognize me; but I do not know him by sight. So I took this cabin, with a bulkhead for one wall, an empty cabin on the other side. I reserved 644, but never occupied it. Well, captain, our business is ended. I shall accept any word that comes from Third Officer Donaghy.”
CAPTAIN MURGIN departed, leaving Eric Delka — otherwise Jarvis Knight — to the solitary darkness of Cabin 646. The Scotland Yard man continued to smoke beside the faint light of an opened porthole.
Minutes lapsed, yet his ears were not keen enough to hear the slight noise within the adjoining cabin.
The door of Cabin 644 opened. An overcoated form appeared. Stooped and muffled, the eavesdropper closed the door softly behind him; then sneaked along a passage and found an opening to a deck.
Five minutes later, this same muffled man appeared upon a lower deck near the steerage. He had lighted a cigar; its glow produced a bright spot near the rail. As he stared across the water, the man moved the cigar end up and down.
A watcher saw the lighted speck from a bulkhead door. This fellow was a crew member; he sneaked away as soon as he caught the flash. Soon a white-coated room steward appeared at the bulkhead door.
He approached the man by the rail and gave a whispered signal.
“Psst!”
The man at the rail turned about. The steward caught a glimpse of his face; then it was muffled again by the collar of the overcoat. The steward made whispered inquiry
“What’s up, Jed? Kerry found me near the purser’s office. He said: ‘listen, Cull — Jed Barthue’s ready.’ So I told Kerry to slide back; then I—”
“Cut the details, Cull.” Barthue’s tone was gruff. “Can Kerry get those other blokes in a hurry?”
“Sure. They’re on call, Jed. What’s to be done?”
“First off” — Barthue’s growl was brisk — “you’re to go to 646 and rap until Delka answers.”
“Blimmie, Jed! That will mean trouble—”
“Do as I say! Ask Delka if he is Mr. Jarvis Knight. Then tell him that Third Officer Donaghy wants to see him down here.”
“Cull” nodded. He did not grasp the scheme; but he knew that Barthue was working to some definite purpose.
“After that,” resumed Barthue, “wait for half an hour. Then come back to 646 and ask for Mr. Knight again.”
“You mean that Delka will be back there, Jed?”
“Don’t ask questions. Do as I order. On your way to Delka’s cabin, right now; post Kerry and his pals by the bulkhead.”
CULL departed, still half wondering. Jed Barthue, by the rail, raised one arm and drew back his sleeve to consult the luminous dual of a wrist watch. The time was ten minutes of two. Barthue chuckled, as he pitched his cigar stump overboard. He drew a fresh perfecto from his pocket and lighted it as he stood gazing toward the swishing waters.
Jed Barthue had planned well for this night. He had boarded the Doranic as a stowaway, thanks to Cull, the crooked room steward. He had guessed Eric Delka’s real identity; figuring that the Scotland Yard man would not worry about the unoccupied cabin, 644, Jed had boldly taken it for his own quarters during passage.
Tonight, Barthue had been ready for a mass attack on Delka; for he was backed by bribed crew members, brought aboard by Cull. Luck had given Barthue a break. Overhearing Delka’s chat with Murgin, Jed had found a way to lure Delka into a perfect trap.
Ten minutes passed. Jed Barthue glanced impatiently at his watch, then looked across the water. Wisps of fog made white apparitions in the darkness. The Doranic was gliding through a district where mists had but recently lifted. Barthue delivered an ugly growl; then shrugged his shoulders. Obviously, some portion of his plan was still to be established. Looking about, the muffled man saw someone coming from a passage. Despite the darkness, Barthue knew that it must he Delka.
“Mr. Knight?” he inquired, his gruff tone cautious.
“Yes.” Delka’s tone was quiet. “You are Third Officer Donaghy?”
“The same. Captain Murgin told me to get in touch with you. I put on civvies, to look like a passenger. I thought it best to see you tonight—”
“I understand,” interposed Delka, his voice hardening. “I’ve caught on, Barthue. It looked like a spoof, that steward coming to my cabin. I doubted that I would find Donaghy here.
“Keep your hands as they are! Hold the cigar just as it is, in your right. Your left is nicely placed along the rail. I hold you covered, Barthue!”
Delka’s right hand was in the pocket of a light overcoat. Barthue knew by Delka’s tone that this was no bluff. Nevertheless, the crook managed a harsh chuckle.
“Clever of you, Delka,” he sneered. “Jarvis Knight, eh? Well, it didn’t work with me, old top. That’s why I sent for you — so we could talk things over, on neutral ground, so to speak.”
Barthue’s tone had gained a persuasive smoothness, despite the slight persistence of the gruff voice which seemed part of his personality.
Delka started to reply; his voice was drowned by a deep-throated blare that sounded high above. The mighty whistle of the Doranic was delivering a blast. An answering whistle sounded, from off the liner’s starboard bow.
“Seven minutes after two—”
Barthue made the comment, staring at his wrist watch without moving his left arm. Casually, he let his right hand move slowly up and down.
Delka noted the motion; but never guessed that watchers were spying it from the bulkhead, spotting the motion of a glowing cigar tip.
The Doranic whistled another basso signal. Amid that drowning sound, three men surged from the opening in the bulkhead. Kerry and two others formed the trio; they drove upon Delka in a body, burying the Scotland Yard man beneath them.
Delka’s head cracked against the planking of the deck. Kerry yanked Delka’s hand limp from its pocket.
The blow had knocked the victim senseless.
A SHIP’S whistle was again answering the Doranic’s signal. Tiny lights showed from the ocean’s half haze. A boat lay off to starboard, engines stopped, awaiting the passage of the liner. The vessel looked like a small freighter, its lights far apart.
“The Zouave,” chuckled Barthue. Then, surveying Delka: “Well, it’s lucky for this blighter. He may have information that might prove valuable. My instructions were to take him alive, if possible. Come on, Kerry! Don’t start to tie him up. Strap him with the life belts. Give me the flare. Hurry!”
While Kerry dashed back to the bulkhead, the other two men tossed aside a rope and produced two life belts from a rack. They strapped the preservers under Delka’s shoulders. Kerry came back with a flare.
Barthue pointed it upward and attached it to the belt on Delka’s back.
“Set for fifteen minutes?” he inquired. “Waterproof, as I ordered?”
Kerry nodded.
“Overboard,” ordered Barthue.
The three underlings hoisted Delka’s unconscious form. Over the rail plopped the inspector’s helpless form, scraping the side as it fell. The life belts brought Delka’s head upward. Barthue chuckled; then motioned his aids back to the bulkhead. He saw a distant spurt of flame from the deck of the freighter.