Page:The Magic Carpet Magazine Volume 03 Number 03 (1933-07).djvu/19

 Nothing in her to loot. It's a wonder," he added bitterly, "you ain't suspected me of some crooked work!"

"I have," said Cleghorn frankly. "But I can't see any particular point to suspecting you of anything. As to the murder of Adams—well, I know who did that."

"Spit it out, then," snapped Darby. "All shipshape, I says, and cards on the table! Who?"

"Aranha." And Cleghorn told of the button. Darby swore disgustedly, turned around to the light, pointed to his own coat.

"Hell's bells! Might's well say I did it myself. Same sort o' slop-chest buttons, and one's torn off here. That's no damned good, at least to prove anything. But it does beat all how you can lose not only them pistols, but a perfectly good engineer, aboard a lousy little old well-decked coasting tramp like this!"

Cleghorn caught his arm suddenly.

"What's that? Hear it"

"On the bridge!" snapped the other. "Come on."

Darby dashed away. Cleghorn followed him forward, hearing again that thin, wailing cry, and then it was cut short. Some one had called him. It was his own name that had shrilled down the moonlight.

Upon reaching the bridge, the two stood staring at each other. Horton stood there, calm, inquiring; he had heard nothing. Cleghorn withdrew, and at the foot of the ladder waited for Darby, and growled an oath.

"Somebody called me, I could swear to it!"

"Aye," assented Darby. "Some one called 'Joe Cleghorn'! Heard it myself. All quiet on the bridge. I'll pop below and take a look. Want to get a couple cheroots anyhow."

He departed. Cleghorn went to the rail, glanced at the forward well deck, glanced aft. He made out nothing amiss, nothing suspicious. The deck lights were all burning. He strolled on aft by the engine-room hatch, and then turned at the quick step of Darby thudding along the deck. Darby extended a cheroot.

"Here. All quiet below, cap'n. Dashed if I can savvy it!"

Cleghorn struck a match; they lit the cheroots. Darby turned to the rail, leaned on it—and then sprang suddenly back with a startled oath.

"What's this? Look here, would you"

Cleghorn saw him staring at his hand. He touched the rail, found something wet and sticky. Next instant a match showed them the truth. On the rail, dribbling down to the scuppers, was wet, fresh blood. A lot of it.

"That card game still going on?" demanded Cleghorn grimly.

"Yes. My Lord! Where'd this come from?"

A frightful premonition seized upon Cleghorn. He turned, then paused.

"Watch out!" he said sharply. "Run up and tell Horton, like a good chap. I'll be along in a moment."

Then he was gone, through the open door, down to the engine-room gratings. Half-way down, he paused and shouted at the men below.

"Where's Mr. Macintyre?"

"Ain't here, sir," came back the response. "Went topside for a breath of air a while back. Ain't come down yet."

Cleghorn was stunned for an instant. He retraced his steps, his brain in turmoil, passion boiling within him; by a tremendous effort he kept his head, forced himself to be cool, quiet. That was poor Mac's blood on the rail. He had been stabbed and flung over, and had cried