Chapter LX: The Man in Control

With a roar of rage, Hale sprang at her and tried to wrench her loose, but she clung desperately, and the thunder of the siren drowned all sound until he pried her fingers away.

“You little devil!” he hissed, his face white with fear.

Bill’s hand closed on the butt of his pistol. If that raised fist had half descended, Hale would have been a dead man. Instead, he flung her back against the reporter.

“Go inside,” he said, “and pray to your God that they do not find us! If they do, it will be hell for yours!”

“I did it, I did it!” she gasped, as Bill led her back, trembling with excitement, to the inner cabin. “I made up my mind to do it. As soon as I came on to the bridge I saw the rope, and I guessed that it was the foghorn. Oh, Billy, they must have heard us if they’re anywhere near.”

_Zoo-oom!_

The faint sound of a distant siren came to them, and Bill held his breath.

_Zoo-oom!_

From another direction, and nearer. The warships were also in the fog.

Hale came stamping in, livid with rage, inarticulate. He could only shake his fist at the calm girl and bubble hideous threats which she could not hear, even less understand. The ship was going full speed again. He was careless of bergs or of any other danger. The big man was forcing the liner through the fog-belt. They passed within a stone’s throw of a huge white cliff of ice, so close that Bill could have tossed a ball amidst its fairy-like finials. Faster and faster, hour after hour, whilst the fog held, and the lookout at the bow bellowed warnings: “Ice on the left. Ice on the starboard bow.…” The mighty vessel, like a giant snake, slipped and slid amidst cold death. And then again the fog melted to the thinnest of mists and vanished altogether.

“Out of it!” roared Hale exultantly. “Slipped ’em! Harvey Hale did it!”

To the right of him was fog again. Into that he would penetrate and lie snug. The fog was a horizon away, but easy going for the _Escorial_. He calculated he had left his pursuers ten miles in the rear. They were commanded by naval officers, fearful of injuring their ships and the court-martial that would follow. They would crawl and creep from berg to berg, the quartermasters in the chains swinging their lead continuously. They would not take the risks taken by Harvey Hale, the finest seaman of all the world, who handled a fifty-thousand ton liner with the ease that another man might handle a motor-boat, and had sent her at top speed through ice and fog, with her three thousand passengers and hands quivering in dread below.

“Harvey Hale did it!” He roared the words.

He had done something that future generations of seamen would talk about; his great face went purple at the inward contemplation of his achievement.

And then a voice of terror shouted his name, and he looked back. Three war vessels abreast were coming out of the fog, and steaming at full speed!

“We’ve got to run for it,” said Hale. The hand on the telegraph trembled slightly. “Don’t turn her!” he yelled, as the helmsman brought the ship over to port. “Give them our stern, damn you! You saw what they did to the _Inland_--blew her bridge up! Let ’em blow the ship endways. There’s safety there.” He pointed to the fog ahead, but it was thin. He saw that long before he reached the first outliers of mist, and, deep as he could penetrate, he could, looking back, see the smoke of the pursuing warships. To double now was impossible; he must keep straight on. “How’s her head?”

“Due south, Captain,” said the individual at the wheel.

He nodded. If he could only reach the night! This cursed, never-ending daylight, that showed a ship as plainly at midnight as it did at midday! If he could only reach night! But night lay twenty-four hours sailing south of the line he traversed. In half that time he might find a few hours of darkness, and, steaming without lights, evade his enemy, but half a day was twelve hours.

Bill was right when he said that the man had a supply of fuel on board--not enough to carry out his new plan, which was to sail from pole to pole and seek the seclusion of the eternal night in the Antarctic--a bold scheme, worthy of a Harvey Hale. If that old fool Laffin had only thought of that! It would have been so simple. The trade routes of the South Atlantic are few and sparsely used. Clear of a point west of the Cape of Good Hope and he could strike the southern night that would give him three months’ security. That idea was impossible now; he must make for the coast of Canada, and chance finding a ship that would take him and his party to safety.

He looked back again; the ships were now at his heels, and were spreading, this time the _Kent_ to his right and the American to his left. They would call his bluff and close him. He sent for the drunken mate who had sailed with him before and who was now his chief assistant.

“Stand by to flood ship,” he said.

“Eh?” The mate frowned. “What do you mean, Harvey, ‘flood ship’? You’re not going to sink us, are you?”

“Do as I tell you!” snarled Hale. “Is that aerial repaired?”

“Yes.”

“Send a message to the skipper of the Yankee. ‘If you come any nearer I will flood ship.’”

“You can send any message you like,” said the mate gruffly, “but you’re not going to flood this damned ship! I’m not a ringleader in this hold-up, the most I’ll get is five years, and you can bet----”

So far he got when Hale struck him down, and, lifting the dazed figure from the deck, dashed him against the chart-house.

“You swine!” he hissed. “Will you do as I tell you?” He raised a fist threateningly.

“All right,” muttered the bruised and bleeding man.

Hale looked back at the _Kent_. From her mainmast floated a small Union Jack, an ominous sign. It was her battle-flag, flown only by a British cruiser when she is entering action. She was creeping up to him on his port. He roared down to the radio house.

“Tell him we’ve got that girl Stone in the chart-house!” he shouted.

_Bang!_

He did not see the splash of the shot, but felt the vessel quiver and yaw involuntarily.

_Bang!_

The second gun was from the American, who was nearer, and this time the _Escorial_ staggered.

“Turn a few points starboard,” cried Hale hoarsely.

The quartermaster spun the wheel, but the ship did not answer.

“Rudder’s gone, sir,” he said.

The _Escorial_ was yawing from left to right, and now, taking a definite course, circled to port, as though it were involuntarily trying to emulate the earlier manœuvre of its captain. The rudder gone! Hale’s jaw dropped. He flung open the door of the chart-house and strode in.

“You people are within three minutes of hell,” he said briefly. “Get down below, all of you boys.”

He bundled them out one by one, and Bill waited.

“You’ll stay here,” said Hale, pointing his grimy finger at the girl. “Here you’ll stay, my beauty. And you too,” he looked down at Clive. “There’s plenty of time yet. We’re going round in a circle and we’ll continue going round in a circle. They’ve shot away our rudder, but they can’t get any nearer. If they think I’m going to ring the engines astern, they’re going to have another guess coming! Get!”

“I’m staying here,” said Bill calmly.

With a scream of anger the man’s fury broke forth. As he leapt, Bill fired once, but the fury of the attack was such that he was thrown off his balance before he could pull the trigger for the second time. In another instant he was on the floor, with the man’s knee on his chest and the huge hands about his throat. He struggled desperately, and might have been killed, had not the girl come to his assistance.

“Clive, Clive!” she screamed.

Clive rose to his feet and pulled at his bonds. As he reached the pistol that had fallen from Bill’s hands, Hale turned and saw him, and, with a squeal of fear, flew out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Bill, manacled as he was, was the first to follow. A man on the bridge tried to intercept him, but, dodging, he dashed down the ladder to the boat deck as Hale disappeared from view in the opening of the companionway. He caught sight of him leaping into the main entrance of the saloon. A shivering steward saw him and stared aghast.

“Where did he go--the captain?” asked Bill breathlessly.

“Down to D. deck,” said the man.

Before he could frame a question, Bill had jumped to the next landing. He saw Hale dart into the Stones’ suite and followed. The private sitting-room was empty. He tried the door of Stone’s room. It opened and he rushed in. There was nobody there. Betty’s room was locked. He rattled at the door.

“Open, Hale! The game’s up--open!”

There was no reply. Putting his shoulder to the door, he tried to burst it in… then suddenly everything went black.…

When he recovered he was lying on the floor. He guessed he was in Betty’s room, because he smelt the perfume that she used, but the portholes were heavily covered with curtains, and the room was in complete darkness. There was another scent, a pungent, familiar odour that he recognised without being able to define. He put his hand to his head; it was wet and sticky, the hair matted. When he tried to move, the pain was excruciating. Somebody had roughly bound his ankles together and the manacles were still on his wrists.

He was not alone. Though he could hear and see nothing in the darkness, instinctively he knew that there was somebody in the room with him. He stretched out his hand and touched a coat. Somebody was lying in a similar plight--worse perhaps, for when he pressed against the shoulder of the man with his hands, he did not move.

The ship was still under way, still, he guessed, moving in circles. And yet, from time to time he could have sworn he heard the boom of distant guns. Perhaps it was only his imagination.

He must have swooned with weakness and pain, but when he again recovered consciousness, his first thought was of the ship. The thud of the turbines came to his ears.

“Still moving,” he said drowsily, and then he heard the door open and looked up.

The intruder had taken the precaution of masking all the portlights of the cabin and Holbrook saw nothing, but he knew, by the current of air that came to his face, that the door had opened.

“Who is it?” he called. “I am Holbrook.”

There was no answer. He heard quiet breathing, and presently a hand touched his arm, travelled up till it came to his shoulder, and then to his face. A thrill of horror turned him cold, and he struggled to throw himself clear, but the hand gripped him. Then he heard a faint click, the sound of a clasp-knife being opened, and shouted, striking at the arm of his unknown assailant with a handcuff. But in the position he was held, his blows had no force and were guarded by the forearm and the elbow of the assassin. He heard the quick intake of breath, and guessing that the knife was raised to strike, utilised all his strength to twist out of the grip.

“Anybody there?”

It was a voice outside.

“Help!” yelled Holbrook.

He heard a queer sound, and the hand dropped away from his throat.

“Be careful, he’s got a knife!” shouted Bill.

“I want you!” It was Bullott’s voice, stern with authority. Bill heard the sound of a scuffle, a thump of a body against the panelling of the cabin and the slam of a door.

“Bullott, Bullott,” he called.

“It’s all right, son, where are you?”

“Here.”

The detective came into the cabin, and, stooping, pulled the half-conscious reporter to his feet.

“There’s somebody else here.”

“I know,” said Bullott’s voice. “At least, I guessed. Here’s a settee--sit down.”

He pulled aside the heavy curtains, letting in the grey light to the cabin, and entered Betty’s state-room. Bill heard the curtain rings drawn aside, and presently Bullott came out, shutting the door carefully behind him.

“We’re still moving?”

“Yes, we’re steering by the propellers. The warships are standing by, they think we’ve nearly reached the end of our oil, but they’re wrong. Did you send them a radio that we were running short?”

“Yes--where is Miss Stone?”

“She’s all right.” There was something in the tone that sent a shiver down Bill’s spine.

“Where is she?” he asked. “Is she in any harm?”

“She’s in some danger, not very serious.”

“And Stone?”

“They’re together,” was the reassuring reply. “My young friend, you’ve had a narrow escape.”

Bullott was guiding him along the alleyway to his own cabin. Bill’s knees were curiously weak and as he walked he reeled from side to side as though the ship were in a heavy sea. When Bullott got him into the cabin:

“I think I can take those handcuffs off for you. They’re English pattern and I have a key somewhere.”

He was as good as his word, and they were not in the cabin a minute before Bill was free and rubbing his chafed wrists, whilst the detective bathed the wound.

“Hale, then, is still in control of the ship?”

“No, sir,” was the quiet reply. “Harvey Hale controls nothing just now. In fact, he’s dead, just now, and if I had to mention----”

“Dead!” said Bill in amazement.

“He was the man lying dead in the cabin with you; didn’t you know that? I thought you’d have guessed.”

“Then who is in control?”

Inspector Bullott did not reply until he had carefully pinned the bandage he was putting about the reporter’s head.

“Tolerably thick nut, this of yours, my friend,” he said. “You ought to have been dead. If I remember rightly, that is the second wound you have had.”

“Who is in control?” asked Bill again.

“The man in control of this ship at the moment,” said the detective cheerfully, “is an old friend of yours, one Toby Marsh!”