Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 57/Number 5/Hatching a Volcano/Chapter 9

O far as Brant was able to discover during his casual observations, there were three men in the Flamingo crew beside Captain Korry. The engineer, whom he had heard addressed as Meech; the cook, a diminutive Cuban, apparently understanding little English; and a third individual who seemed to have nothing at all to do.

The last two men did not look aggressive to Brant; but the engineer, to whom he took an instant dislike, and Korry himself, gave Brant food for thought. He did not underestimate the odds against him, and he realized that Meech and the captain would prove formidable antagonists in a hand-to-hand encounter. Only by a ruse, by pitting his wits against them, could he hope to come off victorious.

Sitting beside Miss Newberry, in an easy-chair under the gay awning astern, he communicated the result of his observations to the girl. Assured that they were beyond possible eavesdropping, the conspirators planned their approaching campaign.

“We mustn't bungle things at the start,” he said guardedly. “In case the revenue cutter shows up”

“It will,” she broke in significantly.

“You mean you warned 'em?”

The girl nodded. “Early this morning. I sent a wireless.”

That surprising bit of information failed to meet with Brant's approval. “It may complicate matters,” he told her. “Don't you understand? If the cutter shows up and trails us, Korry will instantly suspect what has been done. He can get away easily enough. You told me the Flamingo could outrun”

“But we won't give it a chance,” she broke in quickly. “You can surprise and hold Korry—compel him to slow down or stop, I'll keep the other men below deck.”

Brant stared at the girl. “Holy mackerel! Is that what you've in mind? why, it's foolhardy and”

“I told you it was a hundred-to-one chance,” she interrupted to remind him.

“It isn't even that—not the chance you've proposed. So long as the cutter is in sight, Korry won't venture within the three-mile limit; and the government officials have no jurisdiction beyond it. Don't you see?” Brant explained patiently. “Why, even if the revenue agents came aboard and found us loaded with Chinamen, they'd be helpless. A Chinaman isn't contraband on the open sea.

“I'm not an experienced sea lawyer, Miss Newberry,” he added; “but I've heard a powerful lot about the three-mile limit in respect to rum running, and I imagine the same restrictions apply to this brand of smuggling.”

The girl looked her disappointment. “I hadn't thought of that,” she admitted.

“Besides,” Brant went on, “how would I be expected to take Korry prisoner? I've nothing more deadly on my person than a pocketknife and a fountain pen.”

“I've a revolver in the pocket of my skirt,” she told him. “I'm not afraid to use it. Here is the key to a locker under the bunk in your stateroom. You will find an automatic and some cartridges there.”

“That's more encouraging,” Brant returned. “If you'll excuse me a moment I'll investigate.”

He went below and came back presently, giving his companion a cheerful nod. “Found it,” he said.

Brant felt more confident with a loaded automatic in his coat pocket; but his mind was still uneasy. The prospect of the Federal boat looming up and giving Chase to the Flamingo seemed far from inviting. When Korry had evidence that his ruse had been discovered, his passengers would find themselves in a cheerless predicament.

The long, brilliant afternoon passed with unclouded skies, smooth water, and the slow, not unpleasing, roll of the boat. An occasional ship loomed up to be viewed expectantly; but each one sailed on. Once an airplane soared far overhead, Havana-bound. Brant watched until it had become a speck against the distant clouds.

At length a slim lighthouse, that marked the shoals beyond Key west, grew distinct against the horizon; gradually the coral keys became visible. The Flamingo had covered seventy miles in less than five hours. The skipper held unerringly to his course.

Countless palm-fringed islands, with their shining strips of white beach, began to spring up magically, like dark-blue clouds floating between turquoise sky and water. Flocks of sea gulls and pelicans, on the trail of fish schools, swarmed into view at intervals, filling the air with discordant cries. An occasional porpoise, its body glistening in the sun, disported playfully off the bows of the yacht.

It was a picture distinctly foreign to Brant's world, and he watched with interest the changing panorama over the rail. His thoughts drifted from the speeding stage on which he was assigned to play a part. The fascination of the mystery-hung keys, the antics of the birds, the sparkling green-blue water, and all the alluring charm of tropic splendor held him entranced.

The spell was broken suddenly when Meech appeared, emerging from the engine room to squat on the hatch amidship and roll himself his inevitable cigarette. Brant shifted his glance and watched the newcomer from under the down-tilted brim of his cap.

For a time Meech sat like an image with the cigarette hanging between his lips, either ignorant of, or indifferent to the scrutiny of the passenger. Presently he snapped away the cigarette and lifted his head. Brant, instantly on the alert to account for the action, followed the man's gaze.

A beat had appeared unexpectedly off the Flamingo's port bow. It had not been visible a few minutes before. Brant judged that the craft must have shot out from behind one of the nearest keys.

Intuitively, Brant stiffened. The boat was still too far away to be recognized, but he was convinced of its identity and purpose. Spurred into activity and alive to the situation confronting ham, he was filled with apprehension.

Miss Newberry, turning guardedly in her chair, voiced that which already was uppermost in his thoughts. “It must be the Federal cutter,” she whispered.

Brant nodded. “Remember!” he warned. “We're at least five miles off shore. There's nothing to do but sit tight and wait. Any action on our part now will be fatal. Let Korry make the first move.”

Expectantly they watched the approaching vessel, aware that upon its action rested their future. It came obliquely toward them and at a lively clip. If both boats held their present courses, the newcomer would pass astern of the Flamingo.

Meech slipped down from the hatch and sauntered aft, hands thrust in his pockets. Apparently he wished to take up a strategic position in the stern and command a full sweep of the deck.

Brant realized the significance of the move, but neither he nor his companion dared betray unusual interest or arouse any suspicion in the minds of Kerry or his furtive-eyed engineer.

Minute by minute the boat approached. That it was the cutter was now unmistakable, for a businesslike gun was mounted forward of her pilot house, and a group of duck-clad sailors lounged along the rail.

The Flamingo did not change its course. Korry stood at the wheel, silent and, so far as Brant could judge, wholly unperturbed. He did not seem interested in the approach of the government boat.

The cutter bore down to within a few hundred yards of the yacht, then swerved slightly. A friendly whistle sounded, and was answered courteously by the Flamingo. The sailors waved a greeting.

Brant and his companion sprang to their feet and waved in return, unable to account for the performance, yet quick to realize that the vigilant Federal craft intended to pass them unchallenged.

Apparently satisfied at identifying the Flamingo, the cutter bore on south, her powerful screws leaving a turbulent wash astern, her flags snapping in the breeze.

Turning at length, Brant met the girl's dumfounded and questioning glance. But more relieved than he cared to admit, he smiled.

“Luck's with us,” he murmured.

“What do you make of it?” she asked, puzzled, when the cutter had gene a considerable distance.

“Your wireless probably miscarried,” Brant answered. “Either that or the cutter captain's a shrewd man,” he added thoughtfully.

“Shrewd?” the girl repeated.

“Yes. He's probably been playing at this game as long as Korry; ought to be just as clever, too.”

“I don't understand,” she persisted.

“Neither do I; but we may learn something of the plot long before the Flamingo reaches Tampa.”

They moved forward along the deck to where Korry stood back of the wheel. The skipper glanced up at the approach of his passengers and favored them with a smile. On this occasion, the smile was far more genuine than the girl and her companion imagined.

“Wasn't that a government boat that just passed us?” Brant queried innocently.

“Revenue cutter,” replied Korry.

“What's it doing out here?” Brant decided to maintain his naïve attitude. “Looking for booze runners?”

“Undoubtedly!” the skipper returned in a matter-of-fact tone. “That and other things.”

“I thought at first, from the way it approached, it intended to overhaul us.”

Korry's smile broadened. “Probably would have,” he admitted, “if the Flamingo wasn't known in these waters.”

“So that's it, eh? Because the yacht bears a good reputation the officials pass it up. Well, if I had known that,” Brant went on, matching the skipper's smile, “we might have brought up a choice cargo of imported goods and run them through without risk.”

Korry's face remained as changeless and unreadable as a mask. Whatever disquieting thoughts may have crossed his mind or appealed to his grim sense of humor were not revealed. Although he traded in choice cargoes of imported goods, direct from the Orient, the merchandise did not come in bottles wrapped in burlap.

“It's being done right along,” he gravely asserted.

“Risky business at that, isn't it?”

“Very!” Korry answered, speaking from experience.

When Brant had strolled off, amused lover the play-acting indulged in between the skipper and himself, Meech ambled up to the open window of the pilot house.

The engineer wore a contented grin, doubtless brought about by the unexpected and harmless encounter with the chink runner's Nemesis—the Federal cutter.

“All jake now, isn't it?” he ventured cautiously.

“Looks that way,” Korry answered, squinting over his shoulder to where the government boat was far astern. “Your croaking didn't bring much rain.”

“Well, I'm not sorry. How much longer before we reach our landin' and put the monkeys ashore?”

“Midnight. Maybe sooner if it stays clear and the agent's right on the job. Everything all right below?”

“Haven't heard a squeak out of 'em,” answered Meech.

“Good! Now listen to me!” Korry proceeded to lay down definite and concise instructions that were to govern the future movements of the engineer, the Cuban cook, and the third member of the crew who was referred to as Rambo.

Having listened to and absorbed the wisdom that fell from his skipper's lips, Meech started away, only to stop short and retrace his steps.

“Say, I forgot this,” he began, thrusting a newspaper into Korry's free hand. “Found it on a chair a while back. One of our passengers must have brought it aboard. Something interestin' on the front page,” he added suggestively.

The skipper found what Meech referred to and scanned the brief account of the tragedy in Café Huerfanos. He looked up swiftly when he had finished. “How'd Dixon get from the patio to where the servant found him?” he flung out.

“That's what I don't savvy myself,” Meech answered. “Somebody must have packed him there. For all we know somebody might have been in the house besides”

“Suppose they could have seen?” Korry broke in, his eyes ablaze with a sudden, ugly light.

“If they did, why are they keepin' quiet?” the other countered. “Huh, them spiggoty cops want to make something big out of it just to get more credit in the end. They sprung this stuff on the paper. Sure! They're holdin' the servant; and if nothin' likely turns up in the next few days they'll frame him. I know cops!”

Korry shrugged, but ventured no comment on his engineer's theory. He seemed unusually quiet and preoccupied during the remainder of the late afternoon. Meech did not intrude again; nor did the passengers.

The sun went down in the Gulf, sinister and blood-red, drenching the lilac waters in crimson, staining the high-banked clouds that floated across the western skies. The Flamingo seemed to be drifting through silent, scarlet depths.

It looked alarmingly prophetic to Brant and the girl who watched from the rail, to Korry, who brooded at the wheel, and to Meech, who shivered as if in a chill wind when he crept on deck to light a cigarette.