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Title: The seven missionaries
Author: H. C. McNeile
Illustrator: George W. Gage
Release date: July 25, 2024 [eBook #74118]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: McClure Publishing Company, 1923
Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEVEN MISSIONARIES ***
THE SEVEN MISSIONARIES
Jim Maitland Encounters Modern Pirates Aboard the “Andaman”
By Major H. C. McNeile
Illustrations by G. W. Gage
It never really got much beyond the rumor stage--Captain James Kelly of
the S. S. _Andaman_ saw to that. It wouldn’t have done him any good, or
his line, and since England was troubled with railway strikes and war
scares at Agadir, things which happened on the other side of the globe
were apt to be crowded out of the newspapers.
But he couldn’t stop the rumors, and “Our Special Correspondent” in
Colombo made out quite a fair story for his paper at home. It didn’t
appear; seemingly the editor thought the poor devil had taken to drink
and was raving. In fact, all that did appear in the papers were two
short and apparently disconnected notices. The first ran somewhat as
follows, and was found under the Shipping Intelligence:
“The S. S. _Andaman_ arrived yesterday at Colombo. She remained to carry
out repairs to her wireless, and will leave tomorrow for Plymouth.”
And the second appeared some two or three months after:
“No news has yet been heard of the S. Y. _Firefly_, which left Colombo
some months ago for an extensive cruise in the Indian Ocean. It is
feared that she may have foundered with all hands in one of the recent
gales.”
But she didn’t--the sea was as calm as the proverbial duck pond when the
S. Y. _Firefly_ went down in a thousand fathoms of water not far from
the Cocos Islands. And but for the grace of Heaven and Jim Maitland that
fate would have overtaken the good _Andaman_ instead.
And so for your eyes only, Mrs. Jim, I will put down the real facts of
the case. For your eyes only, I say, because I’m not absolutely sure
that legally speaking he was quite justified.
* * * * *
The S. S. _Andaman_ was a vessel of some three thousand tons. She was in
reality a cargo boat carrying passengers, in that passengers were the
secondary consideration. There was only one class, and the accommodation
was sufficient for about thirty people. Twelve knots was her maximum
speed, and she quivered like jelly if you tried to get more out of her.
And last, but not least, Captain James Kelly had been her skipper for
ten years, and loved her with the love only given to men who go down to
the sea in ships.
When Jim and I went on board she was taking in cargo, and Kelly was
busy. He was apparently having words with the harbor master over
something, and the argument had reached the dangerous stage of
politeness. But Jim had sailed in her before, and a minute or two later
a delighted chief steward was shaking hands with him warmly.
“This is great, sir!” he cried. “We got a wireless about the berths, but
we had no idea it was from you.”
“You can fix us up, Bury?” asked Jim.
“Sure thing, Mr. Maitland,” answered the other. “We’ve only got twelve
on board: two Yanks, a colored gentleman, two ladies and a missionary
bunch.” We had followed him below and he was showing us our cabins.
“Seven of ’em, sir,” he went on, “with two crates of Bibles and prayer
books, all complete. Maybe you saw them sitting around on deck as you
came on board.”
“Can’t say I did, Bury,” said Jim indifferently.
* * * * *
They never go ashore, sir,” continued the steward. “We’ve been making
all the usual calls, and you’d have thought they’d have liked to go
ashore and stretch their legs--but they didn’t. There they sit from
morning till night reading and praying, till they fairly give you the
hump.”
“It doesn’t sound like one long scream of excitement,” said Jim. “But if
they’re happy, that’s all that matters. Come on, Dick. Let’s go up and
see if old man Kelly is still being polite.”
We went on deck to find that the argument was finished, and with a shout
of delight the skipper recognized Jim. Jim went forward to meet him, and
for a moment or two I stood where I was, idly watching the scene on the
quay. And then quite distinctly I heard a voice from behind me say, “By
God! It’s Jim Maitland.” Now as a remark it was so ordinary when Jim was
about that I never gave it a thought. In that part of the world one
heard it, or its equivalent, whenever one entered a hotel or even a
railway carriage.
And so, as I say, I didn’t give it a thought for a moment or two, until
Jim’s voice hailed me, and I turned around to be introduced to the
skipper. It was then that I noticed two benevolent-looking clergymen
seated close to me in two deck chairs. Their eyes were fixed on the
skipper and on Jim, while two open Bibles adorned their knees. Not
another soul was in sight; there was not the slightest doubt in my mind
that it was one of them who had spoken. And as I stood talking with the
skipper and Jim my mind was subconsciously working.
There was no reason, of course, why a missionary should not recognize
Jim, but somehow or other one does not expect a devout man with a Bible
lying open on his knee to invoke the name of the Almighty quite so
glibly. If he had said “Dear me!” or “Good gracious!” it would have been
different. But the other came as almost a shock. However, the matter was
a small one, and probably I should have dismissed it from my mind, but
for the sequel a minute or two later. The skipper was called away on
some matter, and Jim and I strolled back past the two parsons. They both
looked up at us with mild interest as we passed, but neither of them
gave the faintest sign of recognition.
* * * * *
Now that did strike me as strange. A Clergyman may swear if he likes,
but why in the name of fortune he should utterly ignore a man whom he
evidently knew was beyond me.
“Come and lean over the side, Jim,” I said, when we were out of earshot.
“I want to tell you something funny. Only don’t look around.”
He listened in silence, and when I ended he said:
“More people know Tom Fool, old boy, than Tom Fool knows. I certainly
don’t know either of those two sportsmen, but it’s more than likely they
know me, at any rate by sight. And wouldn’t you swear if you had to wear
a dog collar in this heat?”
Evidently Jim was inclined to dismiss the episode as trifling, and after
a time I came around to the same view. Even at lunch that day, when the
skipper was formally introducing us and the clergyman still gave no sign
of claiming any previous acquaintance with Jim, I thought no more about
it. Possibly to substantiate that claim he might have had to admit his
presence in some place which would take a bit of explaining away to his
little flock. For the man whose voice I had heard was evidently the
shining light of the bunch.
He turned out to be the Reverend Samuel Longfellow, and his destination,
as that of all the others, was Colombo. They were going to open a
missionary house somewhere in the interior of Ceylon, and run it on
novel lines of their own. But at that point Jim and I got out of our
depths and the conversation languished. However, they seemed very decent
fellows, even if they did fail somewhat signally to add to the general
gaiety.
The voyage pursued its quiet, normal course for the first four or five
days. The two Americans and the skipper made up the necessary numbers
for a game of poker; the two ladies--mother and daughter they were by
the name of Armstrong--knitted; the seven parsons prayed, and the
colored gentleman effaced himself. The weather was perfect; the sea like
a mill pond with every prospect of continuing so for some time. And so
we lazed along at our twelve knots, making a couple of final calls
before starting on the two-thousand-mile run to Colombo.
* * * * *
It was the first night out on the last stage that Jim and I were sitting
talking with the skipper on the bridge. Occasionally the sharp, hissing
crackle of the wireless installation broke the silence, and through the
open door of the cabin we could see the operator working away in his
shirt sleeves.
“I guess it’s hard to begin to estimate what we sailors owe to Marconi
for that invention,” said Kelly thoughtfully. “Now that we’ve got it, it
seems almost incredible to think how we got along without it. And what
can I do for you, sir?”
An abrupt change in his tone made me look around to see the Reverend
Samuel Longfellow standing diffidently behind us. He evidently felt that
he was trespassing, for his voice was almost apologetic.
“Is it possible, captain, to send a message from your wireless?” he
asked.
“Of course it is,” answered Kelly. “You can hand in any message you like
to the operator, and he’ll send it for you.”
“You see, I’ve never sent a message by wireless before,” said the parson
mildly, “and I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Can you get an answer
quickly?”
“Depends on whom you are sending it to and where he is.”
“He’s on a yacht somewhere in this neighborhood,” answered the
clergyman. “He is a missionary, like myself, whose health has broken
down, and a kind philanthropist is taking him for a cruise to help him
recover. I felt it would be so nice if I could speak to him, so to
say--and hear from him, perhaps, how he is getting on.”
“Quite,” agreed the skipper gravely. “Well, Mr. Longfellow, there is
nothing to prevent your speaking to him as much as you like. You just
hand in your message to the operator whenever you want to, and he’ll
send down the answer to you as soon as he receives it.”
“Oh, thank you, Captain Kelly,” said the parson gratefully. “I suppose
there’s no way of saying where I am,” he continued hesitatingly. “I mean
on shore when one sends a wire the person who gets it can look up where
you are on a map, and it makes it so much more interesting for him.”
* * * * *
The skipper knocked the ashes out of his pipe.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Longfellow,” he remarked at length, in a stifled voice,
“that you can’t quite do that at sea. Of course, the position of the
ship will be given on the message in terms of latitude and longitude. So
if your friend goes to the navigating officer of this yacht, he’ll be
able to show him with a pin exactly where you were in the Indian Ocean
when the message was sent.”
“I see,” said the clergyman. “How interesting! And then, if I tell him
that we are moving straight toward Colombo at twelve knots an hour, my
dear friend will be able to follow me in spirit all the way on the map.”
The skipper choked slightly.
“Precisely, Mr. Longfellow. But I wouldn’t call it twelve knots an hour
if I were you. Just say--twelve knots.”
The Reverend Samuel looked a little bewildered.
“Twelve knots. I see. Thank you so much. I’m afraid I don’t know much
about the sea. May I--may I go now to the gentleman who sends the
messages?”
“By all manner of means,” said Kelly, and Jim’s shoulders shook. “Give
the operator your message, and you shall have the answer as soon as it
arrives.”
Again murmuring his thanks, the missionary departed, and shortly
afterward we saw him in earnest converse with the wireless operator. And
that worthy, having read the message and scratched his head, stared a
little dazedly at the Reverend Samuel Longfellow, obviously feeling some
doubts as to his sanity. To be asked to dispatch to the world at large a
message beginning “Dear Brother,” and finishing “Yours in the church”
struck him as being something which a self-respecting wireless operator
should not be asked to do.
“Poor little bird,” said the skipper thoughtfully, as the missionary
went aft to join his companions, “I’m glad for his sake that he doesn’t
know what the bulk of our cargo is this trip. He wouldn’t be able to
sleep at night for fear of being made to walk the plank by pirates.”
Jim looked up lazily.
“Why, what have you got on board, old man?”
The skipper lowered his voice.
“I haven’t shouted about it, Jim, and as a matter of fact I don’t think
the crew know. Don’t pass it on, but we’ve got over half a million in
gold below, to say nothing of a consignment of pearls worth certainly
another quarter.”
* * * * *
Jim whistled. “By Jove! It would be a nice haul for some one. Bit out of
your line, isn’t it, James--carrying specie?”
“Yes, it is,” agreed the other. “It generally goes on the bigger boats,
but there was some hitch this time. And it’s just as safe with me as it
is with them. That has made it safe.” He pointed to the wireless
operator busily sending out the parson’s message. “That has made piracy
a thing of the past. And incidentally, as you can imagine, Jim, it’s a
big feather in my cap, getting away with this consignment. It’s going to
make the trip worth six ordinary ones to the firm, and--er--to me. And,
with any luck, if things go all right, as I’m sure they will, I have
hopes that in the future it will no longer be out of our line. We might
get a share of that traffic, and I’ll be able to buy that chicken farm
in Dorsetshire earlier than I thought.”
Jim laughed. “You old humbug, James! You’ll never give up the sea.”
The skipper sighed and stretched himself.
“Maybe not, lad; maybe not. Not till she gives me up, anyway. But
chickens are nice companionable beasts they tell me, and Dorset is
England.”
* * * * *
We continued talking for a few minutes longer, when a sudden and
frenzied explosion of mirth came from the wireless operator. I had
noticed him taking down a message, which he was now reading over to
himself, and after a moment or two of unrestrained joy he came out on
deck.
“What is it, Jenkins?” said the skipper.
“Message for the parson, sir,” answered the operator.
“There is a duplicate on the table.”
He saluted, and went aft to find the Reverend Samuel.
“I think,” murmured the skipper, with a twinkle in his eye, “that I will
now inspect the wireless installation. Would you care to come with me?”
And this is what we, most reprehensibly, read:
Dear Brother how lovely the gentleman who guides our
ship tells me we pass quite close about midday the day
after tomorrow will lean over railings and wave pocket
handkerchief.
Ferdinand.
“My sainted aunt!” spluttered the skipper. “‘Lean over railings and wave
pocket handkerchief!’”
“I think I prefer ‘the gentleman who guides our ship,’ said Jim gravely.
“Anyway, James, I shall borrow your telescope as we come abreast of
Ferdinand. I’d just hate to miss him. Good night, old man. You’d better
have that message framed.”
It was about half an hour later that the door of my cabin opened and Jim
entered abruptly. I was lying in my bunk smoking a final cigarette, and
I looked at him in mild surprise. He was fully dressed, though I had
seen him start to take off his clothes twenty minutes before, and he was
looking grave.
“You pay attention, Dick,” he said quietly, sitting down on the other
bunk. “I had just taken off my coat when I remembered I’d left my cigar
case in a niche up on deck. I went up to get it, and just as I was
putting it in my pocket I heard my own name mentioned. Somewhat
naturally I stopped to listen. And I distinctly heard this
sentence--‘Don’t forget--you are absolutely responsible for Maitland.’ I
listened for about five minutes, but I couldn’t catch anything else
except a few disconnected words here and there, such as ‘wireless’ and
‘midday.’ Then there was a general pushing back of deck chairs, and
those seven black-coated blighters trooped off to bed. They didn’t see
me; they were on the other side of the funnel--but it made me think. You
remember that remark you heard as we came on board? Well, why the deuce
is this bunch of parsons so infernally interested in me? I don’t like
it, Dick.” He looked at me hard through his eyeglass. “Do you think they
are parsons?”
* * * * *
I sat up in bed with a jerk.
“What do you mean--do I think they’re parsons? Of course they’re
parsons. Why shouldn’t they be parsons?” But I suddenly felt very wide
awake.
Jim thoughtfully lit a cigar.
“Quite so--why shouldn’t they be? At the same time”--he paused and blew
out a cloud of smoke--“Dick, I suppose I’m a suspicious bird, but this
interest--this peculiar interest--in me is strange, to say the least of
it. Of course it may be that they regard me as a particularly black soul
to be plucked from the burning, in which case I ought to feel duly
flattered. On the other hand, let us suppose for a second that they are
not parsons. Well, I don’t think I am being unduly conceited if I say
that I have a fairly well-known reputation as a tough customer, if
trouble occurs.”
By this time all thoughts of sleep had left me.
“What do you mean, Jim?” I demanded.
He answered my question by another.
“Don’t you think, Dick, that that radiograph was just a little _too_
foolish to be quite genuine?”
“Well, it was genuine right enough. Jenkins took it down in front of our
eyes.”
“Oh, it was _sent_; I’m not denying that. And it was sent as he received
it, and as we read it. But was it sent by a genuine parson, cruising in
a genuine yacht for his health? If so, my opinion of the brains of the
church drops below par. But if”--he drew deeply at his cigar--“if, Dick,
it was not sent by a genuine parson, but by someone who wished to pose
as the driveling idiot curate of fiction, why, my opinion of the brains
of the church remains at par.”
“Look here,” I said, lighting a cigarette, “I may be stupid, but I can’t
get you. Granting your latter supposition, why should any one not only
want to pose as a parson when he isn’t one, but also take the trouble to
send fool messages around the universe?”
* * * * *
“Has it occurred to you,” said Jim quietly, “that two very useful pieces
of information have been included in those two fool messages? First, our
exact position at a given time, and our course and our speed. Secondly,
the approximate time when the convalescing curate, in the yacht
belonging to the kind friend, will impinge on that course. And the third
fact--not contained in either message, but which may possibly have a
bearing on things, is that on board this yacht there is half a million
in gold, and quarter of a million in pearls.
“Good heavens!” I muttered, staring at him foolishly.
“Mark you, Dick, I may have stumbled into a real first-class mare’s
nest. The Reverend Samuel and his pals may be all that they say and
more, but I don’t like this tender solicitude for my salvation.”
“Are you going to say anything to the skipper?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered. “I think I shall tell James. But he’s a pig-headed
fellow, and he’ll probably be darned rude about it. I should, if I were
he. They aren’t worrying over _his_ salvation.”
And with that he went to bed, leaving me thinking fairly acutely. Could
there be anything in it? Could it be possible that any one would attempt
piracy in the twentieth century, especially when the ship, as the
skipper had pointed out, was equipped with wireless? The idea was
ridiculous, and the next morning I went around to Jim’s cabin to tell
him so. It was empty, and there was a note lying on the bed addressed to
me. It was brief and to the point:
I am ill in bed with a sharp dose of fever. Pass the
good news on to our friend--the parson. Jim
I did so, at breakfast, and I thought I detected a shade of relief pass
over the face of the Reverend Samuel though he inquired most
solicitously about the sufferer and even went so far as to wish to give
him some patent remedy of his own. But I assured him that quinine and
quiet were all that were required, and with that the matter dropped.
And then there began for me a time of irritating suspense. Not a sign of
Jim did I see for the whole of that day and the following night. His
cabin door had been locked since I went in before breakfast, and I
didn’t even know whether he was inside or not. All I did know was that
something was doing, and there are few things more annoying than being
out of a game that you know is being played. Afterward I realized that
it was unavoidable; but at the time I cursed inwardly and often.
* * * * *
And the strange thing is that when the thing did occur it came with
almost as much of a shock to me as if I had had no previous suspicions.
It was the suddenness of it, I think--the suddenness and the absolute
absence of any fuss or shouting. Naturally I didn’t see the thing in its
entirety; my outlook was limited to what happened to me and in my own
vicinity.
I suppose it was about half-past eleven, and I was strolling up and down
the deck. Midday had been the time mentioned, and I was feeling excited
and restless. Mrs. Armstrong and her daughter were seated in their usual
place, and I stopped and spoke a few words to them. Usually Mrs.
Armstrong was the talker of the two--a big, gaunt woman with yellow
spectacles, but pleasant and homely. This morning, however, the daughter
answered--and her mother, who had put on a veil in addition to the
spectacles, sat silently beside her.
“Poor mother has such a headache from the glare that she has had to put
on a veil,” she said. “I hope Mr. Maitland is better.”
I murmured that he was about the same, just as two of the parsons
strolled past and I wondered why the girl gave a little laugh. Then
suddenly she sat up, with a cry of admiration.
“Oh, look at that lovely yacht!”
I swung around quickly, and there, sure enough, about a hundred yards
from us and just coming into sight around the awning, was a small steam
yacht, presumably the one from which Ferdinand was to wave. And at that
moment the shorter of the two parsons put a revolver within an inch of
my face, while the other one ran his hands over my pockets. It was so
unexpected that I gaped at him foolishly, and even when I saw my Colt
flung overboard I hardly realized that the big holdup had begun.
* * * * *
Then there came a heavy thud from just above us, and I saw Jenkins, the
wireless man, pitch forward on his face half in and half out of his
cabin door. He lay there sprawling, while another of the parsons
proceeded to wreck his instruments with the iron bar which he had used
to stun the operator. Just then, with a squawk of terror like an
anguished hen, Mrs. Armstrong rose to her feet, and with her pink
parasol in one hand and her rug in the other fled toward the bow of the
ship. She looked so irresistibly funny--this large, hysterical
woman--that I couldn’t help it, I laughed. And even the two
determined-looking parsons smiled, though not for long.
“Go below,” said one of them to Miss Armstrong. “Remain in your cabin.
And you”--he turned to me--“go aft where the others are.”
“You infernal scoundrel!” I shouted. “What are you playing at?”
“Don’t argue, or I’ll blow out your brains,” he said quietly. “And get a
move on.”
I found the two Americans and the colored gentleman standing in a bunch
with a few of the deck hands, and every one seemed equally dazed. One of
the so-called parsons stood near with a revolver in each hand, but it
was really an unnecessary precaution; we were none of us in a position
to do anything. And suddenly one of the Americans gripped my arm.
“Gee! Look at the two guns on that yacht.”
* * * * *
Sure enough, mounted fore and aft, and trained directly on us were two
guns that looked to me to be of about three-inch calibre, and behind
each of them stood two men.
“What’s the game anyway?” he went on excitedly, as two boats shot away
from the yacht. For the first time I noticed that the engines had
stopped and that we were lying motionless on the calm, oily sea. But my
principal thoughts were centered on Jim. Where was he? What was he
doing? Had these blackguards done away with him, or was he lying up
somewhere--hidden away? And even if he was, what could he do? Those two
guns had an unpleasant appearance.
A bunch of armed men came pouring over the side of the ship, and then
disappeared below, only to come up again in a few minutes carrying a
number of wooden boxes, which they lowered into the boats alongside.
They worked with the efficiency of well-trained sailors, and I found
myself cursing aloud. For I knew what was inside those boxes, and was so
utterly helpless to do anything. And yet I couldn’t help feeling a sort
of unwilling admiration; the thing was so perfectly organized. It might
have been a well-rehearsed drill, instead of a unique and gigantic piece
of piracy.
I stepped back a few paces and looked up at the bridge. The skipper and
his three officers were there--covered by another of the parsons. And
the fifth member of the party was the Reverend Samuel Longfellow. He was
smiling gently to himself, and as the last of the boxes was lowered over
the side, he came to the edge of the bridge and addressed us.
“We are now going to leave you,” he remarked suavely. “You are all
unarmed, and I wish to give you a word of advice. Should either of the
gunners on my yacht see any one move, however innocent the reason,
before we are on board, he or both of them will open fire. So do not be
tempted to have a shot at me, Captain Kelly, because it will be the last
shot you ever have. You will now join your crew, if you please.”
* * * * *
In silence the skipper and his officers came down from the bridge, and
the speaker followed them. For a moment or two he stood facing us with
an ironical smile on his face.
“Your brother in the church thanks you for your little gift to his
offertory box,” he remarked. Then he turned to one of the other parsons
beside him. “Is it set?” he asked briefly.
“Yea,” said the other. “We’d better hurry. What about that woman up
there?”
“Confound the woman!” answered the Reverend Samuel. “A pleasant journey,
Captain Kelly.”
He stepped down the gangway into the second boat, and was pulled away
toward the yacht. And, feeling almost sick with rage, I glanced at the
skipper beside me. Poor devil! What he must be feeling, I hardly dared
to think. To be held up on the High Seas and robbed of specie and pearls
the first time he was carrying them was cruel luck. And I was prepared
to see anything on his face, save what I did see. For he was staring at
the bow of the ship, with a fierce blaring excitement in his eyes, and
instinctively I looked too, though every one else was staring at the
yacht.
And then for the first time I remembered Mrs. Armstrong. She was
cowering down with her hands over her ears--the picture of abject
terror. But now curiosity overcame her fright, and she knelt there,
staring at the yacht. Her pink parasol was clutched in her hands; and
tragic though the situation was, I could not help smiling involuntarily.
Anyway, she would have something to talk about when she got home.
A mocking shout from the yacht made me look away again. The scoundrel
who called himself the Reverend Samuel Longfellow was standing beside
the boxes of gold and pearls which had been stacked on the deck. He was
waving his hand and bowing ironically, with the six other blackguards
beside him, when the last amazing development took place.
Literally before our eyes they vanished in a great sheet of flame. I had
a momentary glimpse of the yacht apparently splitting in two, and then
the roar of a gigantic explosion nearly deafened me.
“Get under cover!” yelled the skipper, and there was a general stampede,
as bits of metal and wood began falling into the sea all around us. Then
there came another smaller explosion as the sea rushed into the yacht’s
engine room, a great column of water shot up, and when it subsided the
yacht had disappeared.
“What in heaven’s name happened?” said one of the Americans dazedly.
“What made her blow up like that?”
I said nothing; I felt too dazed myself. And unconsciously I looked
toward the bow: Mrs. Armstrong had disappeared.
* * * * *
The skipper sent away a boat, but it was useless.
There was a mass of floating wreckage, but no trace of any survivor, and
after a while the search was given up. Just one of those unexplained
mysteries which in this case could only be accounted for as Divine
retribution.
So, at any rate, Mrs. Armstrong said to me when I met her on deck half
an hour afterward.
“Dreadful! Terrible!” she cried. “How more than thankful I am that I
didn’t see it.”
“You didn’t see it?” I said, staring at her. “But surely----”
And then I heard Jim’s voice behind me.
“Mrs. Armstrong, I have a dreadful confession to make. Mrs. Armstrong,
Dick, was good enough to lend me some clothes this morning, so that we
could have a rag when crossing the line--and I’ve gone and dropped her
parasol overboard.”
I admit it; I wasn’t bright.
“We’re nowhere near the line,” I remarked, but fortunately the good lady
paid no attention.
“What does it matter, Mr. Maitland?” she cried. “To think of anything of
that sort in face of this awful tragedy! Though I must confess I think
it served the villains right.”
She walked away like an agitated hen, and Jim smiled grimly.
“Poor old soul,” he said, “let’s hope she never finds out what I really
wanted her clothes for.”
“So it was you up in the bow,” I remarked.
He nodded. “Didn’t you guess? Dick, I feel I’ve treated you rather
scurvily. Let’s go and have a drink and I’ll put you wise. I saw Kelly
that night,” he began, when we were comfortably settled, “and at first
he laughed as I thought he would. Then after a while he didn’t laugh
quite so much, and later still he stopped laughing altogether. Finally I
made a suggestion. If these men were what they said they were, the two
big chests below, which common report had it were filled with Bibles,
would prove their case. I suggested, therefore, that we examine these
two chests. They would never know, and it would settle the matter. He
took a bit of persuading, but finally we went below to where the
passengers’ luggage is stored. There were the two cases, and there and
then we opened one. It was packed--not with Bibles--but with
nitroglycerin.”
Jim paused and took a drink, then lit a cigarette thoughtfully.
“I don’t think that I have ever seen a man in quite such a dreadful rage
as Kelly was,” he went on gravely. “There was a clockwork mechanism
which could be started by turning a screw on the outside of each box,
and the whole diabolical plan was as clear as daylight. There was enough
stuff there to sink a fleet of battleships, and when they had cleared
off in the yacht with the gold we should suddenly have split in two and
gone down with every soul on board. There would have been no one left to
tell the tale, and these cold-blooded murderers would have got clean
away. That was the little plot.”
He smiled grimly.
“I had no small difficulty in preventing James from putting the whole
bunch in irons on the spot, but finally I got him to agree to a plan of
mine. We changed the cargo around--he and I. Their chests containing
nitroglycerin we filled with gold; and the specie boxes we filled with
nitroglycerin and some lead and iron as a make-weight. And then we let
the plan proceed. We banked on a holdup and the wrecking of the
wireless. We thought they’d send over a boatload of armed men, and
transfer the stuff to the yacht--and in fact they did. Further, we
banked on the fact that they wouldn’t fool around with a fat, hysterical
old woman, or a man in the throes of fever. Good girl--that Miss
Armstrong; she kept her mother below all the morning in great style. And
that, I think, is all,” he ended, with a quizzical glance at me.
“But it isn’t!” I cried. “What made that stuff blow up, if it had been
taken out of the boxes with the clockwork mechanism?”
“Well, old Dick,” said Jim, “it may be that the Reverend Samuel kicked
one of the boxes a trifle hard in his jubilation. Or perhaps he dropped
his Corona inadvertently. Or maybe something hit one of those boxes very
hard like a bullet from a gun. Come down to my cabin,” he added,
suddenly.
I followed him and he shut the door. On the bed was lying Mrs.
Armstrong’s pink parasol. The muzzle of an Express rifle stuck out
through a hole that had been split in the silk near the ferrule; the
stock was hidden by the material. Jim took it out and cleaned it
carefully. Then he looked at the parasol and smiled.
“Beyond repair, old man. And since I told the old dear I had dropped her
gamp overboard--well--”
He rolled it up slowly and threw it far out through the porthole, then
stood for a moment watching it drift.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the October 1923 issue of
McClure’s Magazine.]
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