Chapter VI: Part 6

Starkington raised a hand in a brave salute; his head lifted with a smile in their direction. Instantly he was thrown from the canoe. His body raced alongside the small craft, spread-eagled upon the hard water. Then, before Hall’s eyes, it slid into the center of the vortex and disappeared.

Hall swung about, facing Dragomiloff.

“You are a devil!” he whispered.

Dragomiloff paid no attention. His eyes were fixed pensively upon the maelstrom. Hall turned back, unable to keep his eyes from the gruesome sight before them.

The large canoe had slipped lower along the sides of the whirling death. Lucoville’s mouth was open; he appeared to be shouting some triumphant greeting to the fate that was reaching out with damp fingers to gather them in. Hanover sat calmly.

The boat slid the last few feet; the bow touched the vortex. With a shriek of rending wood the canoe twisted in the air and then disappeared, sucked into the oily maw, crushed by the enormous forces pressing in upon it. Its two occupants were still seated bravely within; they seemed to swirl into the air and then were swallowed by the voracious sea.

The growling of the rushing ocean began to abate, as if sated by this sacrifice of flesh given it. Slowly the huge cone flattened; the vortex rose evenly as the sides assumed horizontal shape. A low wave traveled from the calming waters, rocking their canoe gently, reminding them of their salvation. Hall shuddered.

Behind him there was a stirring.

“We had best return now.” Dragomiloff’s tone was even.

Hall stared at his companion with loathing.

“You killed them! As surely as if you had struck them down with a knife or a gun!”

“Killed them? Yes. You wished them killed, did you not? You wanted the Assassination Bureau wiped out.”

“I wanted them disbanded! I wanted them to cease their activities!”

“One cannot disband ideas. Convictions.” His voice was cold. His eyes roamed the empty sea where the large canoe had been sucked into eternity. Sadness entered his tone. “They were my friends.”

“Friends!”

“Yes.” Dragomiloff picked up his paddle and set it in the water. “We had best return now.”

Hall sighed and dipped his paddle into the sea. The canoe moved sluggishly and then gained speed. They passed over the spot where Starkington and the others had met death. Dragomiloff paused for one brief moment, as if in salute to the lost members of the Bureau.

“We shall have to cable Haas,” he remarked slowly, and resumed the even rhythm of his paddling.

_Chapter XIX_

Haas, in San Francisco, waited impatiently for word from the three who had sailed in pursuit of the ex-Chief of the Assassination Bureau. The days passed swiftly, each day bringing closer the end of the compact. Then, at long last, a letter arrived via the mail packet.

“Dear Haas:

“I can see you pacing your room, muttering to yourself in Greek and
Hebrew, wondering if we have fallen victim to the lazy charm of
this beautiful island. Or if we have fallen victim to D. You can
relax; we have done neither.

“But the task has not been easy. D. laid a very neat trail to the
west; we are convinced his true flight will be to the east. We are
watching his daughter and Hall carefully. The first move they make
in this direction will place us on the scent.

“We realize that time is running out, but do not fear. The Bureau
has never failed and will not fail now. You can expect a coded
cable any day.

“By the way, some incidental intelligence: D. has also used the
name Constantine in his travels. We discovered this when we located
him aboard the _Eastern Clipper_. Yes, he escaped. When we get
together, after this is all over, we will tell you the whole story.

“Starkington.

“P.S. Lucoville has fallen in love with _poi_, an unpalatable
mess made from taro root. We shall have even greater trouble
with him and his diet once we return.”

Haas laid down the letter with a frown. The mail packet had sailed from Honolulu nine days earlier; certainly there should have been a cable from Starkington by this time. The trio had been in Hawaii nearly a month; less than six weeks remained to complete the assignment. He picked up the letter again, studying it carefully.

Constantine, eh? It rang some faint bell. There was a large export and import firm with that name. They had offices in New York, he knew; possibly they also had offices in Honolulu. He sat in the quiet of the room, the letter dangling from his fingers, while his tremendous brain calculated all of the possibilities.

In sudden resolve he arose. If there were no cable within the next two days he would catch the first steamer to the islands. And in the meantime he would prepare himself, for there would be precious little time once he arrived there. Folding the letter, he slipped it into his pocket and left the room.

His first stop was at the public library. A willing librarian furnished him with a large map of the Hawaiian Islands, and he spread it out upon a table and hunched over it, studying the details of Oahu with care. The trail had been to the west; his finger traced a spidery line that ran along the coast from Honolulu through Nanakuli and Waianae to a small finger of land marked Kaena Point. He nodded. That had been the false trail; Starkington would make no mistake on that score.

The roads to the east were more complex. Some ran over Nuuanu Pali pass and ended in the bush, or meandered down to unnamed beaches. Another thin line marked a road running up and back of Diamond Head, and then coming to the coast at a curved spit marked Mokapu Point. He pushed aside the map and leaned back, thinking.

He tried to put himself in Dragomiloff’s place. Why remain on Oahu? Why not leave for one of the many islands like Niihau or Kauai that spread out to the west; some deserted, some so sparsely inhabited as to make discovery virtually impossible in the little time left to the Bureau? Why remain on the one island that offered the greatest possibility for discovery?

Only, of course, if discovery were desired. He sat up, his brain racing. And why would discovery be desired? Only for a trap! His eye flashed once again to the map before him, but it told him nothing. He knew too little of the terrain. He leaned back once more, employing his giant intelligence.

A trap to catch three people with certainty was difficult. An accident? Too uncertain; one might always remain alive. An ambush? Almost impossible against three trained men such as Starkington, Hanover, and Lucoville. If he were Dragomiloff, faced with the problem, in what manner would he attempt to resolve it?

Not on land. There was always cover available; the conditions were never certain. For one man, yes; but never three. If he were Dragomiloff he would set his trap on the sea, where escape and cover were unavailable. He bent over the large map once again, his heart beating faster.

The eastern coast wound about tenuously, marked by little coves and scattered offshore islands. An island? Possibly. But again there would be the problem of possible cover, although escape would be more difficult. No; it would be the sea. But how do you trap three men on the barren sea? Three men of extraordinary intelligence, each highly trained in assassination, and also in self-protection?

He sighed and folded the map. Further investigation was necessary. He returned the chart to the librarian, thanking her, and left the cool building. One additional possibility occurred to him and he turned his steps in the direction of the Court House.

The clerk of land records nodded pleasantly.

“Yes,” he said. “We do have copies of land transactions in Hawaii. That is, if they are more than six months old. It takes that long to have them registered and filed here.” He peered at the thin, intense man facing him. “What would the purchaser’s name be, please?”

“Constantine,” Haas replied. “S. Constantine & Co.”

“The importers? If you will wait one moment....”

Haas stared through the dusty window facing the Bay and the constant passage of small and large ships in the distance, but he saw none of this. In his mind’s eye he saw a beach, and a boat--no, two boats--bobbing on the ocean off the shore. In one boat Dragomiloff sat quietly, while the other contained Starkington and the others. They remained there, fixed upon his mind, while he searched the scene for some indication of the trap, some means to explain why Dragomiloff was luring them there.

The clerk returned.

“Here we are, sir. S. Constantine & Co. purchased an office block on King Street in 1906. Five years ago. The details are all here, if you would care to examine them.”

Haas shook his head.

“No. I am speaking about another land purchase. More recent. On the eastern coast....” He hesitated, and suddenly the picture became clear. Suddenly he was sure. Dragomiloff had been planning this coup since the very first day. He straightened, speaking more positively. “The land was bought between ten and eleven months ago.”

The clerk disappeared into his files once again. This time when he returned Haas could not repress a small smile of triumph, for again the clerk was carrying a folder.

“I think this is what you are looking for, sir. But the purchase was not effected by the company. It was made in the name of Sergius Constantine, and comprises a small island off the eastern coast of Oahu.”

Haas read the details swiftly. His magnificent memory, recalling the chart of the coastline with perfect clarity, instantly located the small island. Thanking the clerk, he left, his footsteps faster, his mind flying as he reviewed the many possibilities.

There could be no doubt that it was a trap, planned for months, and now in the process of execution. The victims had not been known; fate had selected them. He must send a cable at once; Starkington would need to be warned.

He turned into his hotel, forming the words for the telegram in his mind, picturing his code-book lying in his suitcase hidden beneath his shirts. With his key he was handed a small envelope. He slit it open as he walked towards the stairway, and then stopped short. The message was brief and conclusive:

“Haas: Regret to inform you that Starkington, Hanover, and
Lucoville died as the result of an unfortunate boating accident.
Knew you would want to know. Hall.”

For a moment he remained, his fingers grasping the cable tightly as his mind encompassed the disaster. Too late! No time now for warnings; little time for anything. He must take the first boat. The first boat was--the _Amberly_, sailing at dusk. He would need to go to their offices to arrange passage; they were just a few blocks away.

He rushed to the door and into the street, jostling people as he forced his way through the noon-day crowd. Poor Starkington, he had always liked him so much! Hanover, gentle and scholarly, always so excited at the thought of wrong-doing in this naughty world! And Lucoville; he would never again grouse over his food!

The shipping offices were there across the street. Without looking he sprang into the pavement, never noting the huge brewery wagon bearing down upon him. There was a scream from someone along the sidewalk; a startled curse from the driver pulling madly and vainly on the reins. The twin span of grays, frightened by the apparition of the small figure before them, and frenzied by the violent tug of the bit, lashed out wildly. Haas fell beneath the flailing hooves, his last thoughts a recognition of unbearable pain, and the wonder that he should die so far from the palm-fringed beach and the end of his quest.

* * * * *

By mutual consent it was agreed to pass the final days of the fateful year upon the island. Here Dragomiloff, Grunya, and Hall lived in simple fashion, doing their own cooking, drawing their own water, finding their food in the sea as the natives before them had done for years. Surprisingly, they found it pleasant, a relaxing change from the flurry of their lives upon the mainland. But each knew it to be an escape from their problems, and one which could last but a short time.

To his own amazement, Hall found his liking for Dragomiloff returning daily, despite the frightful recollection of Starkington’s death. The memory was fading; it slid further into the recesses of his mind until it appeared as a remembered scene from a book long since read, or a panel of a mural viewed in some obscure gallery long forgotten.

Dragomiloff never shirked his share of the chores, nor did he attempt by reason of his position or his age to direct or command. He was always ready with a helping hand at the fishing and the cooking, and the evenness of his temper often led Hall to wonder if the dreadful scene of the whirlpool had actually existed. Yet daily, as the calendar flew, the small man kept more and more to himself. He sat at meals silent and increasingly thoughtful; the tasks he selected were now those suitable to one person. And daily he spent more and more time along the beach, staring across the empty expanse of the sea towards the mainland, as if waiting.

It was in the late afternoon of the penultimate day that he approached Hall, who was crouching in the surf sifting the shallows for the succulent crabs that hid there. His face was taut, although his voice remained even.

“Hall, you are certain that you cabled to Haas?”

Hall looked up, surprised.

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“I cannot imagine why he has not come.”

“Possibly some circumstance beyond his control.” Hall stared at his companion. “You know, he is the last of the Assassination Bureau.”

Dragomiloff’s face was expressionless as he contemplated the brown face of the crouching man.

“Except for me, of course,” he stated quietly, and turned in the direction of the hut.

Hall’s eyes followed Dragomiloff’s figure for a moment and then, with a shrug, he returned to his crabbing. When the small wicker basket was sufficiently full to insure a good evening meal he straightened up, rubbing the cramped muscles of his back. We are all on edge, but there is but one last day, he thought with satisfaction, and then frowned. There was no doubt but that he would miss the island.

The sun was sinking into the green hills of the mainland as he came back to the hut. He placed the basket of squirming crabs in the small kitchen and padded through into the living room. Grunya was bent in deep conversation with her father; they both stopped short as soon as he entered. It was evident they did not wish to be disturbed. Feeling a bit hurt, Hall left the scene abruptly and walked down to the beach. Secrets? he thought a bit bitterly as he tramped the damp sand. Secrets at this late stage?

It was dark when he returned. Dragomiloff was in his room, bent over his writing table, his lamp casting the shadow of his profile sharply against the thatched wall. Grunya was sitting by a small lamp weaving a small mat from palm-fronds. Hall dropped into a chair opposite her and watched the play of her strong hands silently for a few moments. Her usual smile at sight of him was missing.

“Grunya.”

She looked up inquiringly, her face set.

“Yes, Winter?”

“Grunya.” He kept his voice low. “We are at the end of our days here. Soon we shall return to civilization.” He hesitated, somewhat frightened by the solemnity of her face. “Will you--still wish to marry me?”

“Of course.” Her eyes dropped once again to the work in her lap; her fingers picked up their chore. “I want nothing more than to marry you.”

“And your father?”

She looked up, no muscle of her face moving. Not for the first time Hall noted the sharp resemblance to the blond man in the strong, fine lines of her face.

“What about my father?”

“What will he do? The Assassination Bureau will be no more. It was a large part of his life.”

“It was all of his life.” Then her eyes came up, unfathomable. They slid over Hall’s shoulder and stopped. Hall swung about. Dragomiloff had come into the room and was standing quietly. Grunya’s eyes came back to Hall. She attempted a smile.

“Winter, we ... we need water. Would you...?”

“Of course.”

He rose, took the bucket, and walked in the direction of the small spring at the northern end of the island. The moon had risen, large and white, and lit his path with dancing shadows from the stirring flowers along the way. His heart was heavy; Grunya’s strange sternness--almost coldness--weighed upon him. But then a lighter thought came. Each of us, he thought, has been subject to strain these past few days. Lord knows how I must have appeared to her! Just a few more days and they would find themselves aboard ship, and the captain could marry them. Man and wife! He filled the bucket and started back, whistling softly to himself.

The water butt was in the kitchen. He up-ended the bucket and poured; water overflowed, washing against his bare feet. The butt had been full. In sudden fear he threw the bucket down and dashed for the living room. Grunya was still working silently, but her cheeks were wet with tears. A sheaf of papers lay upon the table before her, curled and heavy under the lamp.

“Grunya, my dear! What....”

She attempted to continue her work but the tears streamed faster and faster until she flung the weaving from her and fell into his waiting arms.

“Oh, Winter...!”

“What is it? What is it, my darling?” Sudden suspicion came to him and he turned in the direction of Dragomiloff’s room. The room was dark, but the moonlight, streaming in at the open window, fell across the empty bed. He sprang for the door, but Grunya clutched his arm.

“No! You must not! Read this!”

He paused irresolutely, but the pressure of her hand upon his arm was demanding. Her eyes, raised to his, were filled with tears, but they were filled, also, with determination. Slowly he relaxed and reached for the sheaf of papers. Grunya watched his face as he read, her eyes roving from the broad forehead to the stern jaw, noting the marks of the man who would be her only refuge forever.

“Dear Children:

“I can wait no longer. Haas has not come and my hours are running
out.

“You must try and understand me and--as Hall would call it--my
madness. I speak now of the action I must take. As head of the
Assassination Bureau I accepted a commission; this commission will
be fulfilled. The Bureau has never failed and it will not fail now.
To do so would negate everything it has ever stood for. I am sure
that only death could have prevented Haas from accomplishing his
mission, but in our organization the duty always passes to another.
As the last member, I must accept it.

“But I do not accept it with sadness. The Bureau was my life, and
as it vanishes, so must Ivan Dragomiloff vanish. Nor am I accepting
it with shame; pride marks the step I shall take this night.
Possibly we were wrong--at one time you, Hall, convinced me that we
were. But we were never wrong for the wrong reasons--even in our
wrongness there was a rightness.

“That we killed, and that many times, we do not deny. But the
terrible thing in killing is not the quantity of victims, but the
quality. The death of one Socrates is a far greater crime against
humanity than the slaughter of endless hordes of the savages that
Genghis Khan led on the brutal rape of Asia; but who truly believes
it? The public--were they to know--would scream imprecation down at
our Bureau, even as, with the same breath, they glorified to the
heavens all forms of thoughtless and needless slaying.

“You doubt me? Walk through the parks of our great cities, and our
squares, and our plazas. What monuments do you find to Aristotle?
Or to Paine? Or Spinoza? No; these spaces are reserved for the
demigods, sword in hand, who led us in all our slaughtering
crusades since we raised ourselves from the apes. The late war
with Spain will doubtless fill the few remaining spots, both here
and in Spain, with horsed heroes, arms raised in bloody salute,
commemorating in deathless bronze the victory of violence in the
battle for men’s minds.

“Yet I allowed myself to be convinced that we were wrong. Why?
Because in essence we _were_ wrong. The world must come to
recognize the joint responsibility for justice; it can no longer
remain the aim of a select--and self-selected--few. Even now, the
rumblings that come from Europe foreshadow a greater catastrophe
than mankind has yet endured, but the salvation must come from a
larger morality than even we could offer. It must come from the
growing moral fibre of the world itself.

“Yet, one doubt; one question. If that moral fibre be not
forthcoming? Then, in some distant age, the Assassination Bureau
may well be re-born. For of the deaths that can be laid at our
doors, the following may be said: No man died who did not deserve
it. No man died whose death did not benefit mankind. It is doubtful
if the same will be said of those whose statues rise from the
squares after the next ‘final’ war is fought.

“But time runs out. I ask you, Hall, to guard Grunya. She is the
life I bequeath to this earth, the proof that no man, right or
wrong, can pass without leaving his mark.

“One last kiss to my Grunya. One final handclasp to you, my friend.

“D.”

Hall lifted his eyes from the papers between his fingers; they sought the beautiful face of his loved one.

“You did not attempt to stop him?”

“No.” Her gaze was steady and brave. “All my life he has done everything for me. My slightest wish was granted.” Her eyes misted; her mouth quivered with an effort for control. “I love him so much! I had no other means of repaying him.”

Hall gathered her in his arms, wonder at her great strength flooding him. Suddenly the strain was too much; she burst into violent tears, clutching his arms with all her force.

“Oh, Winter, was I wrong? Was I wrong? Should I have begged him for his life?”

He held her tightly, soothingly. Through the open doorway his eyes sought the smooth sea reflected brightly in the brilliant moonlight. A shadow crossed his vision, a slight figure in the distance, bent easily over a paddle, moving quietly to the center of the channel to await the _Huhu Kai_. He did not know whether he saw it or imagined it, but suddenly one arm seemed to rise from the dwindling canoe in a happy salute.

“No,” he said fiercely, holding her tighter. “No, my darling. You were not wrong.”

THE END

[_Jack London stops and Mr. Fish begins on page 122_]

JACK LONDON’S NOTES FOR THE COMPLETION OF THE BOOK

You “sped the blow” before the truce up. Drago finds this out.

Alarm of Breen when he sees the point. “But I can’t stop it. Any attempt to stop it will immediately explode it.”

Drago: “I’ll help you out,” Breen grateful.

They prove to Breen that he set it in the truce.

“You’re right. I almost was guilty of wrong. Disconnect it--I can’t. That was the device I mentioned. The beauty of this machine is that it is like a decree of the Bureau. Once set, as it is set, no power on earth can stop it. Automatic locking device. A blacksmith could not now remove the clockwork.”

Take it down and throw it in the Bay.

“Friends, lunatics--will you permit this?”

“They can’t stop it,” Hanover chuckled. “The irrefragable logic of the elements! The irrefragable logic of the elements!”

“Are you going to stay here and be blown up?” Hall demanded angrily.

“Certainly not. But, as Breen says, there is plenty of time. Ten minutes will remove the slowest of us outside the area of destruction. In the meantime consider the marvel of it!”

Hall considers other people.

Breen: “I broke down in my reasoning. That shows fallibility of human reason. But, Hanover, you see no breakdown in the reasoning of the elements. Can’t break.”

So absorbed, all forgot the flight of time, Drago stood up, and put an affectionate hand on Lucoville’s shoulder--near to the neck.

Speaks pleasantly.--swift--spasmodic--hand.

Death-touch of Japanese. Caught hat and coat. Slips out--Haas springing like a tiger, collided with servant--crash of dishes.

“Dear friend Lucoville,” says Hanover, peering through spectacles. “You will never reply.”

The Chief truly had the last word.

* * * * *

Next day’s papers--_San Francisco Examiner_--mysterious explosion in Bay--dead fish. No clue.

Drago’s message: “Going to Los Angeles. Shall remain some time. Come and get me.”

At dinner when Drago had exalted adventure path--they accused him of being a sentimentalist, an Epicurean (sneered).

* * * * *

“Gentlemen!” Hall cried desperately, “I appeal to you as mathematicians. Ethics can be reduced to science. Why give all your lives for his?

“Gentlemen, fellow madmen--reflect. Cast this situation in terms of an equation. It is unscientific, irrational. More, it is unmoral. As high ethicists it would be a wanton act, etc.”

They debate. They give in.

Drago: “Wisely done. And now, a truce. I believe we are the only group in the United States or the world who so trust.” Pulls out watch. “It is 9:30. Let us go and have dinner. 2 hours truce. After that, if nothing is determined or deranged, let the status quo continue.”

* * * * *

Hall loses Grunya, who saves Drago, and escapes with him. Then Hall, telegrams, traces them through Mexico, West Indies, Panama, Ecuador--cables big (5 times) sum to Drago, and starts in pursuit.

Arrives; finds them gone. Encounters Haas, and follows him. Sail on same windjammer for Australia. There loses Haas.

Himself, cabling, locates them as headed for Tahiti.

Meets them in Tahiti. Marries Grunya. Appearance of Haas.

The three, Drago, Grunya and Hall (married) live in Tahiti until assassins arrive. Then Drago sneaks in cutter for Taiohae.

Drago assures others of his sanity; they’re not even insane. They’re stupid. They cannot understand the transvaluation of values he has achieved.

On a sandy islet, Dragomiloff manages to blow up the whole group except Haas who is too avidly clever. House mined.

Drago, in Nuka Island, village Taiohae, Marquesas. There is a wrecked cutter and assassin (Haas) is thrown up on beach where Melville escaped nearly a century earlier. While Drago is off exploring Typee Valley on this island, Hall and Grunya play off the assassin Haas, and think are rid of him.

Drago dies triumphantly: Weak, helpless, on Marquesas island, by accident of wreck is discovered by appointed slayer--Haas. Only by accident, however. “In truth I have outwitted organization.” Slayer and he discuss way he is to die. Drago has a slow, painless poison. Agrees to take. Takes. Will be an hour in dying.

Drago: “Now, let us discuss the wrongness of the organization which must be disbanded.”

Grunya and Hall arrive. Schooner lying on and off. They come ashore in whaleboat, in time for his end.

After all dead but Haas, Hall cleaned up the affairs of the Bureau. $117,000 was turned over to him. Stored books and furniture of Drago. Sent mute to be caretaker of the bungalow at Edge Moor.

ENDING AS OUTLINED BY CHARMIAN LONDON

The small yacht sailing, spinnaker winged out, day and night, for many days and nights. The saturnalia of destruction--splendid description of the bonita--by the hundreds of thousands. The great hunting. The miles wide swatch of destruction. The gunies, bosuns, frigate birds, etc., increasing--tens of thousands. All after flying fish. When flying fish come aboard, they, too, rush to catch them. Saturnalia of killing gets on their nerves. Birds break wings against rigging, fall overboard, torn to pieces by bonita and attacked from above by their fluttering kind--frigate birds, bosuns, etc. Native sailors catch bonita to eat raw--as haul in, caught-bonita are attacked by their fellows. Sailors catch a shark--cut it clean open, none of its parts left. Beating heart in a man’s hand--shark heaved overboard, swims and swims, snapping with jaws as the bonita hosts flit by in the sun-flooded brine--beating heart shock to Grunya. Finally the madness of the tropic sun, etc. Here begin to shoot birds, fish, etc., with small automatic rifle, and she looks up and applauds. All killed or injured are immediately eaten by others. Once the Irish terrier goes overboard and is torn to pieces by bonita. Once, her scarf, red, struck and dragged down, etc., etc. Nothing can escape.

And so the end, tragic foredoomed, as they go ashore, sharks snap at their oar blades. And on the beach, a school of small fish, discovered, rush upon the beach. They wade ashore through this silvery surf of perished life, and find--Dragomiloff dying.

Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left unbalanced.

According to the note at the end of the story (page 179), the transition of authors from Jack London to Robert Fish occurs on page 122. The first full paragraph on that page reads: “Do something!” Grunya entreated Hall. “You must do something.”

Page 33: “you ever fail” was printed as “you every fail”. Changed here.