The liner’s engines were thrumming. The Doranic was again moving forward. Leaning outward from the rail, Barthue saw Delka’s figure float away into darkness. Chuckling, the crook strolled in from the deck.
WHEN Cull knocked later at the door of 646, he was astonished to hear a growled command to enter.
Cull had recognized the voice of Jed Barthue. The steward entered, to find the man who had taken Eric Delka’s place.
“The job is done,” announced Barthue. “Send the radiogram. It was the Zouave, Cull; but they were late with their flare. Delka’s flare was set for fifteen minutes. They’ve seen it by this time.
“Tomorrow morning I meet Third Officer Donaghy when he comes here. I shall be Eric Delka — or, rather, Jarvis Knight. Always Jarvis Knight, except to those who know that Knight is Delka. But I shall not go about it badly.
“Suite 3612, at the Goliath. The luggage will be there. As Jarvis Knight, I shall prove that all the competent investigators are not in the employ of Scotland Yard.”
Cull, leaving the cabin, pulled out a written radiogram. It was addressed to Stephen Lorry, Altano Building, New York. It contained a home-coming greeting signed “Wallace”; but Cull knew that it was word to someone higher up. Word to a hidden master crook, telling that Jed Barthue had succeeded in his scheme.
Crime had struck the Steamship Doranic; cunning crime that none aboard would suspect. A smooth crook had gained an opportunity to pose as a man from Scotland Yard. The Shadow, wherever he might be, as yet lacked any inkling of the full events aboard the liner that lay beyond the fog banks.
CHAPTER VI. HOPE IN THE NIGHT
CLICK — CLICK—
The half-muffled sound came dully to the ears of Eric Delka. Amid darkness that seemed abysmal, the Scotland Yard man listened. Delka’s eyes had opened but they could see nothing. His ears, however, had managed to hear the repeated sound.
Click — Click— Again the noise ended. All remained black to Delka; but by this time he had sensed something of his surroundings. Stretching out a hand, he could feel the blankets of a bunk. From somewhere, came the throb of ship’s engines.
Hazily, Delka remembered that scene on the Doranic. Jed Barthue, muffled in darkness, backed against the rail. Delka had covered the man he was after; he had felt the joy of triumph on that lower deck of the big liner.
Then had come a sweeping surge. Oblivion; after that, a brief respite of semiconsciousness. Delka could recall floating in the water. He remembered hands pulling him aboard a small boat.
Also, he recollected a struggle. A fight against men who seemed to be new enemies. He had tried to ward off a swinging oar blade. He had failed. Again, in that small boat, he had been treated to a knock-out blow.
Throbbing of engines meant that he was again aboard a ship. It was not the Doranic; the liner’s engines were smooth, almost vibrationless. Delka knew that this dank cabin wherein he was bunked must be aboard an older, smaller ship. Some freighter, perhaps, from which the small boat had come to pick him up.
His clothes were dry; but they were not his own clothing. Rubbing fingers along a sleeve, Delka found that he was wearing a rough sweater. His trousers were of khaki. His shoes, when he felt them, proved to be canvas sneakers, three sizes too large.
Click — Click—
Again the Scotland Yard man heard the sound. This time, he located it on the opposite side of the cabin.
Rising from his bunk, Delka felt his way through darkness. Reaching the wall, he discovered a closed porthole.
The rounded window was covered with cloth. Captors had made a blackened cell out of the cabin.
Delka’s first thought was to snatch away the covering; then he changed his mind. He found the catch of the porthole and began to undo the screwed fastening.
Click — Click—
The sound was from the other side of the porthole. Something tapping twice against the glass. The fastening was loose! Delka yanked open the port.
It was black outside; but the air of the sea came surging into the cabin. Then, as Delka thrust a hand out through the porthole, he encountered a smooth object in the space.
A small bottle. Hanging from a string.
THE bottle slipped momentarily from the prisoner’s hand but it swung back again, in pendulum fashion.
Delka drew it into the cabin. He shook the bottle. Something clattered softly inside it.
Light objects slipped into Delka’s hand as he inverted the bottle. The prisoner recognized them by their touch. Loose matches, wisely provided by whoever had lowered the bottle. Delka struck match against the wall beside the porthole. The glimmer showed him that the bottle contained another item — a twisted roll of paper.
This proved to be a message, when Delka opened it. By the tiny flare of a match, the Scotland Yard man read a note inscribed in pencil. Hastily written, crudely spelled, it offered opportunity:
Dear Sir: We are loyal crew members who want to give you help.
You hav enemys on bord. May be we can sav you from them. It will meen risk for us so we want 1000 dollers you must promis.
Friends.
The match light showed the stub of a pencil in the bottom of the bottle. The men on the deck above required a reply. Delka did not doubt that they were actually friends. The note asked for money only; to promise it would mean no greater risk than that which already existed.
Extinguishing a match. Delka felt in the pockets of his trousers; then realized suddenly that his own clothes were gone. He had been carrying a considerable amount of cash at the time of his capture. The money now belonged to his enemies.
But Delka had another possibility. He stretched his right hand to his left wrist and gripped a bulky wrist watch that was strapped there. His captors had not removed the timepiece. Probably they had considered it worthless after being in the water.
Delka removed the watch from his wrist. He pried open the back. Dry paper crinkled; its presence indicated the reason for the bulkiness of the wrist watch. Only a portion of the interior contained watchworks. The rest was a half-inch cavity wherein Delka kept reserve funds.
The prisoner struck another match. This glow showed British bank notes, all of high denomination. Delka knew that his would-be rescuers would accept pounds as readily as dollars.
He stuffed a few large notes into the bottle; then returned the others to his wrist watch. He tugged at the cord as signal; then let the bottle swing from the porthole. He heard the bottle click upward.
Crumpling the note, Delka tossed it through the port and chucked the matches after it. He closed the porthole; the wisdom of his prompt action became apparent just as he was fixing the fastening. Behind him, Delka heard the sound of a key grating in a lock. Someone had come to the cabin.
DELKA slid across to the bunk and slumped there. An instant later, dull light flooded the cabin from an outer passage. Two ruffians entered the cabin; one flashed a light in Delka’s face. The Scotland Yard man opened his eyes and blinked.
“Come along,” growled one of the arrivals, grasping Delka’s shoulder. “Get movin’, you! We’ve been waitin’ for you to wake up.”
Delka started to rise: then made a pretence of weakness. He sagged back with a groan and lay motionless upon the bunk. The man started to shake him; then the fellow’s companion offered an objection.
“Leave him lay, Steve,” said the second rowdy. “Wait’ll I yank open that porthole an’ give him some air.”