Don Winslow of the Navy

by Frank V. Martinek

  XIV

  THE MYSTERIOUS CAPTIVE

  It was the medical officer who actually spilled the story of Red'sheroic act, in dragging Don from the sinking seaplane. The stockylieutenant himself would never have let the real facts be known. Hehated to be made a hero. As it was, he could only shake his head andscowl while the ship's doctor heaped praises upon him.

  The doctor didn't leave anything out. He had been in the boat which putoff to the seaplane from the _Gatoon_, and he'd seen about all there wasto see.

  He described how Red had thrown off his life belt and dived under thesinking plane. He told how helpless the boat's crew felt, when they gotthere and found neither Red nor Don.

  Two of the sailors had kicked off their shoes, ready to dive in afterthe missing officers, when suddenly the lieutenant's red head brokesurface. He was gasping for breath, and the commander was completely outwhen they were pulled aboard.

  In the excitement, said the medical officer, the Scorpion pilot,floating unconscious in his life belt, was almost forgotten. Now,everybody aboard ship was saying that Lieutenant Pennington rated a goldmedal, and....

  "Red, you old porpoise!" broke in Don Winslow, sitting bolt upright."Give me your flipper, and stop making faces like a seasick 'boot'! I'llget square with you some day by saying _your_ life--don't worry!"

  Red met his commander's handclasp with a crushing grip, hisembarrassment suddenly gone. He knew that Don would never try to thankhim outright, or praise him in words for an act of simple loyalty. Theirfriendship went too deep for that sort of thing.

  "And now, Doc," said Don, "I'm going to jump into a uniform and go outon deck. I see we're under way again; and I want to talk with CaptainRiggs about safeguarding the ship between here and Port-au-Prince.Probably there'll be no second attack, but it's better to be prepared."

  The medical officer protested. He said Don had suffered a slightconcussion, along with a scalp wound. He warned that moving about couldbring on a fever. But he might as well have talked to the ship'smainmast.

  Don was hurrying into his clothes even before the doctor had finishedspeaking. He was feeling better every minute, he declared, and he wasn'tgoing to stay below for a mere bump on the head!

  As he spoke there came a knock on the door. It was Lieutenant Darnleywith a queer piece of news. The prisoner Corba had been asking urgentlyfor Commander Winslow and he refused to say why. Lieutenant Darnleythought that if the commander were well enough....

  "I'll be with you in two shakes, Lieutenant," Don assured the _Gatoon's_executive officer. "That lad Corba knows a lot more than he has told usyet. If he's ready to spill something interesting, I'll be glad tolisten."

  There were only two roomy cells in the _Gatoon's_ brig. With the rescuedcrews of the Scorpion airplanes, they were crowded to capacity. Corbaand Mink shared their cell with the pilot of the seaplane who hadrecovered consciousness.

  Don, standing before the cell door with Red and the other two officers,noted the pilot's makeshift head bandage.

  "You'll have to tend that man's wound right away, Doctor!" the youngcommander said sharply. "He's an enemy, in the service of a criminalchief, but he's a human being all the same.... Master-at-arms! Bringthat prisoner along with Corba, now!"

  A moment later, both prisoners were led out, handcuffed. The doctor tookthe wounded man under guard to the sick bay while Don moved off out ofearshot with the shifty-eyed Corba.

  Red, glancing down the forecastle, caught the look of amazed interest onDon Winslow's face.

  "That guy Corba must be giving him some potent dope!" he remarked in anundertone. "I'd give a lot to know what he's saying!"

  "You're right, Pennington," Lieutenant Darnley agreed. "CommanderWinslow isn't excited easily, I've noticed, but he's sure getting thatway now. Looks as if Corba was shooting the works!"

  Don Winslow's air of mystery, as he returned with Corba, did nothing toallay Red's curiosity. Even when the Scorpion agent had been returned tohis cell, and Lieutenant Darnley had answered a call to the _Gatoon's_bridge, the young commander refused to answer questions.

  "Come along to the sick bay," he told the red-haired lieutenant. "We'llsee how sawbones is progressing with his latest patient."

  When the two officers entered that portion of the _Gatoon's_ sick baywhich served as an operating room, the handcuffed pilot was sitting in achair under a strong electric light. A portion of his scalp had beenshaved, and the medical officer was sterilizing the raw furrow left by aglancing bullet. One of the slugs which had pierced the seaplane's cabinhad nearly snuffed out the Scorpion flyer's life.

  It was the first chance either Don or Red had had to examine theircaptive's features. Strangely enough, they were not those of a criminal.If it had not been for the man's wildly staring eyes and look of painedbewilderment, they would have been almost handsome.

  There was something hauntingly familiar, too, about the man's face andbuild. Studying them, Red decided he had seen the fellow--or hisdouble--somewhere, and not so long ago!

  If Don Winslow had the same notion, he didn't mention it. He waiteduntil the doctor had finished work. Only when the armed boatswain's matestepped forward to take the prisoner back, Don stopped him.

  "Leave the patient here, and give me the key to his handcuffs!" he toldthe surprised guard. "I'll be responsible for him. You may return toyour post outside the brig."

  With a puzzled "Aye-aye, sir!" the guard departed. Don closed the doorand turned to the prisoner.

  "Who are you?" he asked bluntly, looking the man square in the eye.

  "Andre, Count Borg," the fellow replied mechanically. "I am a licensedpilot and a native of Listonia...."

  "Snap out of it, man!" barked Don Winslow, stepping closer. "Do you knowwhat you've got on your wrists? Take a good look!"

  Dazedly Borg's eyes dropped to the steel handcuffs, as if seeing themfor the first time. With a harsh cry he leaped to his feet, his lipsdrawn back in a snarl of fury.

  "What does this mean?" he shouted, wrenching at the clanking chain. "Youdare to handcuff me like a common criminal? What right have you toconfine me?"

  "Sit down!" thundered Don Winslow, forcing the man back into his chair."You are under arrest, Count Borg, in connection with a plot to destroythe United States Navy gunboat _Gatoon_. Following the orders of yourcriminal chief, the Scorpion, you picked up two men in life belts--"

  "But, Don!" burst in Red Pennington. "The guy knows all that. Why notget down to brass tacks and make him tell something worth while--forinstance, where the Scorpion has his headquarters?"

  A wild laugh from the prisoner interrupted at this point. Pounding hismanacled hands against his knees, the man who called himself Count Borgrocked back and forth in hysterical mirth.

  "Mad! Mad!" he choked. "We are all mad and locked up in the crazyhouse!One talks about scorpions and life belts; another raves about brasstacks! But nobody tells me how I got here, and I--I cannot remember...."

  With a groan the fellow raised his hands to his temples. Shifting fromclear, unaccented English, he began muttering to himself in some harsh,foreign tongue.

  The medical officer reached for a hypodermic needle, but Don Winslowseized his arm.

  "Get him a glass of cold water, Doc," the young commander advised. "Thisman isn't crazy. He just thinks he's nuts, because...."

  Pulling the doctor over to the sink, Don whispered rapidly in theother's ear. Their conference lasted two or three minutes, long enoughto get the goat of Lieutenant Red Pennington, who was about fed up onbeing a mystified onlooker.

  When the doctor returned with the water, his manner was brisklyprofessional.

  "Tell me, Count Borg," he said, "just what is the last thing youremember doing, before you woke up in the brig half an hour ago? Ifthere has been some mistake in your identity your answer will clear thematter up."

  The wild look on the prisoner's face was now gone. In its place was apuzzled frown, and his whole manner
had quieted.

  "There certainly _has_ been a mistake, gentlemen," he replied. "But toanswer your question--the last thing I recall is walking up CherryStreet toward Brooklyn Bridge, about half past one last night. Iremember hearing stealthy footsteps behind me, coming closer. Afterthat, everything is a blank!"

  There was a queer silence following Borg's words. Finally, the medicalofficer broke it after meeting Don's glance.

  "And what," he asked in a strained voice, "would you say the date wasyesterday? I mean, the day of the month and the year?"

  "Why--er," responded the prisoner slowly, "April fourteenth, nineteenthirty-three. Am I right?"

  "Wrong, by seven years, my friend!" Don returned, stooping to unlock thehandcuffs. "Your memory has done another blackout, Count Borg! The firstone was when a thug knocked you out on Cherry Street, New York, innineteen thirty-three. The last one happened this morning when you werewounded in the head by a machine gun bullet. Since you've evidentlyforgotten your whole life between those dates, there's no reason fortreating you now as a dangerous criminal."