It was almost noon before Ellen made her appearance on deck. Scores of eyes followed her lithe rounded figure as she crossed to her steamer chair. She had scarcely seated herself before Lydia Manville approached.
The society woman was tall and inclined to showiness. Her chin was firm and her blue eyes coldly disdainful. Ellen judged her to be about thirty. Expensively garbed, everything about her bespoke money. Much of it, and a thorough knowledge of its power. A woman, Ellen knew, used to having her own way, and to whom, the acquisition of money was the zest of life. No doubt but what Dunlop Manville’s young wife was a woman who knew how to watch out for herself — and did!
She beamed at Ellen, treating her to a flash of the famous impersonal smile which appeared in all published photographs, and nodded, friendly. Ellen smiled in return; soon they were discussing the loveliness of the day.
It had always been easy for Ellen to ingratiate herself with anyone charming and well-bred; moving in the upper strata always, she knew how to season her remarks with the casual flattery so dear to the hearts of the Lydia Manville type. Within a short time, they were walking the deck together, chatting like old friends. They paused at the rail, gazed down at the churning waves at the ship’s side.
During this not unpleasant interlude, Ellen brought the subject adroitly around to the Fabulous Eyes of Baste. The owner of the precious baubles was almost loquacious in her desire to enlarge upon their beauty and incredible value. Ellen smiled inwardly as she listened to the vain monologue, and idly wondered what the society woman would do, could she but obtain an inkling to the secret thoughts of her listener!
Abruptly, as Lydia chattered on, Ellen became conscious of someone staring at her back. It was a sort of sixth sense, present in us all, but more strongly developed in Ellen because of her dangerous mode of life. It had often stood her in good stead in her adventures. She swung slowly around, her back to the rail, and her heart jelled. The man who stood nearby, leaning against a ventilator and regarding her sarcastically was of medium height with sleek, black hair and piercing black eyes. He was neatly dressed, in a spotless grey suit and wore a grey cap. Instinctively, Ellen thought that she recognized in him a member of the notorious Kilgarlin gang of Los Angeles, one “Fingers” Deshon. Fingers was a noted jewel thief; might he not be awaiting a chance at the Fabulous Eyes of Baste? Ellen wondered.
Ellen turned back to her companion, her heart aching. The man in grey grinned evilly and sauntered off along the deck. Forgetting for a moment the woman at her side, Ellen frowned after him. To her ears, the swash of the waves at the ship’s side sounded mockingly like the rending of the carefully woven fabric of her plans. As from a distance, Lydia Manville’s modulated voice came to her. Ellen smiled a wan, apologetic smile.
“Why, my dear!” exclaimed Lydia solicitously. “I do believe you’re ill.”
“I do feel a trifle shaky,” confessed Ellen, since it was as good a cover as any for her confusion. “It will pass off.” Lydia prescribed a nap, and although she had just risen, Ellen gratefully accepted the suggestion, seeing in it a chance to get away from the talkative woman. She wanted to go to her stateroom to mull over what promised to be a new problem. The sinking of the Malolo could not have upset her schemes more thoroughly than the presence of Fingers Deshon on board — if the man in grey were indeed the Kilgarlin gangster.
“I’ll see you at the mask this evening, of course?” asked Lydia as Ellen turned to go.
“Oh, yes, of course!” responded Ellen, readily, “I’m just dying to see those lovely emeralds! I wouldn’t miss that for anything in the world, my dear!” Inwardly disturbed, she returned to her stateroom.
Chapter 3: Caught in the Act
THERE was much to excite interest that final day out, but Ellen remained in her stateroom, thinking. Passing liners, bearing towards the towering palms of Hawaii, or the cherry blossoms of the Orient held no special appeal for her while she had the Eyes of Baste to consider. Even the thoughts of the mask ball, and a few stolen moments with Bert Raythorne left her coldly indifferent when thoughts of Fingers Deshon plagued her mind. Ellen told herself fiercely that she had nothing to fear from the Kilgarlin jewel thief. She’d gone up against some stiff opposition in the past, none of it fancied, and she’d always come off best. This threat was a thing of her own imagination. Deshon might not even know of the presence of the emeralds aboard the Malolo. In any case, if she played her usual adroit game, what had she to fear? If Deshon attempted to put his slick fingers into the pie, she would have to handle him as she had handled his chieftain weeks before in Santa Anita! The thought brought a little smile to her smooth cheeks, and downed some of her apprehension.
Still, she was upset and wished earnestly that the steamer had already reached San Francisco and she was safely ashore. She had never felt like this before; a sixth sense seemed to warn her of ambient peril ahead!
Hours later, Ellen awakened from a dreamless sleep to hear the sound of music in the distance. Laughter reached her ears; the whole ship was gay. She glanced at her baguette: ten o’clock! She’d overslept! She jumped from bed, glorious body quivering, and hurried across to the ship telephone. She called Lydia Manville’s stateroom.
Ellen had napped in the raw as was her frequent habit when alone. Now, from where she stood she could see her slender, white body in the full-length mirror. There was no doubt about it: her pink and white body was a fitting compliment to her golden beauty. Bert Raythorne wasn’t blind.
Lydia Manville answered the ring herself.
“Mrs. Carter’s stateroom?” questioned Ellen, the soft cadence of the other’s voice telling her in advance what she wanted to know. The society woman snapped an impolite “no,” and banged the telephone upon its cradle. Ellen laughed softly as she turned to dress.
What to wear was no problem. Ellen knew there were several black and white costumes and ensembles in the possession of the other feminine passengers and that she would be quite safe to affecting something similar to the Domino Lady outfit. No one would recognize it for what it was, she felt certain, and, as for Lydia Manville, Ellen didn’t intend that she should see her face to face!
The gown of “sheeny” white satin was form-fitting to a fault. It was daringly cut, backless, and the halter-neck effect of the negligible bodice revealed gleaming expanses of faultless white bosom and creamy shoulders. It moulded to her shapely figure like a silken bathing suit after a plunge.
Swiftly, Ellen patted her butter-hued hair into place. It was a coronet of silken glory about the pale oval of her face when she had finished with it. A dash of unnecessary lip rouge for her red mouth, another of shadow for her eyes, a cloud of powder for her rounded shoulders. A lovely vision smiled pertly back at Ellen from the tall mirror a moment later.
Ellen tested the little automatic without which she would have been lost. If she was to trust that elusive sixth sense, the gun might become a very real necessity before the night was ended! She spun it expertly, decided that it was ready for instant use. Next, she drew a cape of black silk about her kissable shoulders, slipped the automatic into a pocket of the garment. A shining black domino served to mask the upper part of her lovely face. Another hurried glance in the mirror, and The Domino Lady left the stateroom on another perilous adventure!
The Domino Lady glanced up and down the corridor, which was paneled with polished mahogany. Domed lights glowed overhead, shining softly on closed doors. A heavy carpet covered the aisle and deadened the sound of footfalls. All was quiet in her immediate vicinity, the only sounds coming from the salon where the passengers were assembling for the festivities of the last evening aboard ship. From below, came the steady beat of the ship’s engines as they drove the Malolo through the night.
There were fifteen staterooms along the passageway, which was on the port side of the vessel. They were all in a row along one side of the passage. The space across the aisle was utilized for several bathrooms, otherwise the wall was closed by paneled woodwork.
Lydia Manville, memorably beautiful in a charming state of almost semi-nudity, was seated before a dressing table, her flawless back to the intruder. The maid, a young French girl, was busily engaged in arranging her mistress’ coiffure in gleaming black waves. Her back was likewise turned toward the door.
Ellen glanced swiftly about, smiled as she saw for the first time The Fabulous Eyes of Baste. They gleamed brilliantly from a brocaded jewel case on one corner of the dressing table! Then, Ellen’s casual demeanor vanished. Instantly, her face and attitude became advance agents of a determined individual with grim desires.
“Don’t turn about! Sit just as you are!”
In the cold tones that cut the air of the stateroom like a knife, no one could possibly have recognized the limpid voice of Ellen Patrick. “What — what —!” began Lydia Manville; then, as she broke off abruptly, terror in her great blue eyes, as Ellen, the door closed behind her, shoved the automatic forward to where it might be seen in the mirror, herself staying out of the range of vision.
“Nothing to alarm you if you’re sensible!” snapped The Domino Lady, briskly, “but I would advise you both to be very quiet! I have come for the emeralds!”
As Lydia Manville wept softly, the maid, terrified, carried out Ellen’s cold orders. She bound her distressed mistress hand and foot. Moving with a noiseless speed bred of long experience, Ellen gagged the society woman herself. She performed the task with as much gentleness as possible under the circumstances. She was less careful with the maid since time pressed. Presently, she, too, was silent and helpless. Both victims were lying with their backs toward Ellen, a very necessary precaution for the success of Ellen’s plans.
Lydia Manville had taken it better than Ellen thought she would. She didn’t moan or struggle as she was being tied and gagged; neither did she fight her gyves as Ellen moved to possess herself of the costly gems.
“Just goes to prove,” Ellen told herself with a grim smile, “that you can’t always judge a woman from her outward manifestations!”
The little intruder knew a sublime thrill of exultation as she fingered The Fabulous Eyes of Baste; the beauty of the twin, green baubles surpassed her wildest imagery. And here at last, was success very sweet, and far easier of accomplishment than she had ever anticipated in the beginning. She gripped the prizes firmly, dropped them into the inside pocket of the cape. She looked about swiftly, moved toward the door.
A moment later, Ellen peeped out into the corridor. It was deserted. She shot a glance at her watch as she hurried along the passageway. It was exactly ten-forty-five. Her dressing procedure and the entire job had taken but three quarters of an hour! She smiled as she let herself into her stateroom. Something of a record, she mused, gleefully.
Without removing her costume, Ellen hurried to the nearest of two large steamer trunks aligned against the wall. Her brown eyes sought and found the two large holes previously drilled into the trunk frame near the bottom. She kneeled, dug the precious gems from the pocket of her cape. She admired their brilliant facets for a brief moment, then pushed each of them deeply into a yawning crevice.
Ellen straightened, glided to her dressing table. From a drawer, she secured a small tin box. Hurrying again to the trunk she began to fill the holes in the trunk with a black wax which was contained in the box. Presently the wax was flush with the surface of the trunk. The loot was perfectly concealed, the holes being entirely unnoticeable at close range! With a sigh of vast relief, Ellen glided to the window which served as a porthole. A moment later the tin box was dropping into the peaceful Pacific!
She left the cabin. As she moved along the passageway, six bells sounded, almost lost in the laughter and music now issuing from the salon. Eleven o’clock. She was thinking rapidly. Bert Raythorne would be free from his duties at this hour. He would most certainly be looking for her. Ellen didn’t want to encounter the tall first officer just yet. She wanted time to think over the events of the evening.
Ellen settled herself comfortably in the big steamer chair, drew a sheltering rug over her seductive figure. She frowned. Something, that elusive sixth sense, was busy again! Danger ahead, it seemed to whisper, and Ellen was unable to down her apprehension, try as she might!
Fiercely, she told herself that she was being a silly little fool. She had nothing to fear. She’d left absolutely no trace of her daring foray in her own stateroom, and there could be no suspicion in the minds of Lydia Manville or her maid concerning the identity of the intruder who had robbed the society woman. True, a woman of Lydia’s rank would soon be missed. If they started looking for her, they’d surely find her. But how could the victims describe a robber whom they had failed to see, save state that she was a female?
Ellen looked about her. The deck was deserted; passengers were attending the masked ball in the salon. It was the big social affair of the voyage. One lone figure, a man in Pagliacci costume, was leaning against the rail. Incongruously with his merry attire, the man seemed most unhappily absorbed in watching the swirling water alongside the ship. Ellen smiled as she thought she recognized a Mr. Purdue of San Pedro; he’d been ill almost constantly since the ship had left Honolulu, and, in consequence, had become a subject for good-natured jest among his fellow passengers.
As Ellen watched the man in the clown costume, another figure glided toward her from the opposite direction. He was masked; was attired in the natty uniform of a petty officer. He paused before Ellen, bowed slightly.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, softly, “but have you seen Mrs. Manville tonight?” Ellen didn’t like the oily calibre of his smooth voice. She was instantly on the alert, cautious.
She eyed him, coldly, her heart racing.
“No,” she returned with a trace of irony in her tones, “I know nothing of her. I suppose you’ll find her inside.” The man in uniform cast a hurried glance about the promenade, laughed, harshly. He leaned forward toward Ellen, reached a hand upward to tear the mask from his face. As his leering features were revealed to her gaze, she gasped, audibly.
“Fingers Deshon!” she breathed, momentary panic jolting her brain. So the sixth sense hadn’t been false, after all! “You!”
“Pipe down!” The oily voice was full of grit now. Piercing eyes were black slits of threatening menace. A revolver had appeared as if by magic in the gangster’s hand, leveled directly at The Domino Lady! “I’ve had my eye on you all evening, and I didn’t fail to see the little job in Stateroom 15! I’ve taken my mask off so’s you wouldn’t fail to know whom you’re dealing with, and try a funny move! I’m a valuable man right now, ten grand on my head for a murder rap, and I don’t stand to lose a thing if I plug you, baby! So you might as well be sensible.” Ruthlessly, he jerked the concealing rug from about Ellen’s shapely figure.
Ellen frowned, her brain clicking fast. For a moment, she considered going for her own weapon, but decided against it. Deshon would shoot her as quickly as he would anyone who stood between him and his desires, and his revolver was aimed straight at her racing heart! So resistance under the circumstances was out.
Somehow, all along, she had known that Fingers Deshon’s presence on the Malolo could not be explained by coincidence, but she had hardly expected such a bold move on his part. As a rule, Kilgarlin’s men moved under cover. She found voice.
“What are you after?” she demanded, precisely. Fingers laughed, harshly. “The pretty Eyes of Baste,” he snapped, evilly, “and make it sudden! You see, baby,” he added, meaningly, “I recognize the costume! You’re the dame who calls herself The Domino Lady ain’t you? Well, do I get the
green ice, or do I...” He gestured with the pistol, menacingly.
Ellen shrugged her soft shoulders, resignedly. Despair was an icy band that squeezed at her temples, jelled her racing blood. The game was up! This man knew everything! The Domino Lady was uncovered, at last!
Chapter 4: A Clever Ruse
ELLEN sat up in the steamer chair. Sheer hatred blazed from her great brown eyes through the holes in the domino, and contorted her smooth, lovely cheeks. Her brain spun in a hopeless quest for a way out of the dilemma. She sparred for time. Something just had to happen! “But would I be likely,” she queried, slowly, “to keep the emeralds on my person?”
Deshon shrugged, hesitated, slitted eyes studying her closely.
“Stallin’ won’t get you a thing but grief, baby!” he rasped, his voice cold as the ripple of a stream beneath Winter’s ice, “so don’t try it on me! I get what I want, and I want the rocks! Where’s they stashed?”
Ellen rejoiced, inwardly. The question told her that she had won a brief respite. She leaned toward the crouching gunman. “In my stateroom!” she whispered, teasingly, “If you want them, you’ll have to go there with me. They’re hidden safely enough to foil any search.”
The gunman smirked, stepped back a pace. “Okay, baby!” he gritted, “You go first and I’ll tail you. But I’m warnin’ you! One funny move out of you, and you get it in the back! And Fingers Deshon never misses!”
The gun returned to his pocket, but it remained trained upon Ellen’s figure as they made their way swiftly to her stateroom. Once inside, the lights flashed into brilliance, and she swung around to face the intruder.
The jewel thief wasn’t bad looking when he smiled and showed perfect, white teeth, she decided. Of the George Raft type, he had something of a reputation with women, if Ellen remembered correctly. And in that remembrance, the little adventuress thought she recognized her sole chance of redemption. She smiled brilliantly at Deshon who was leaning against the wall just inside the door. His eyes were frankly admiring as they scampered about her attractive figure; but his principal interest was in the theft of the emeralds.
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