by Jack London
“You have always made me happy, Uncle—I mean, Father,” she pouted, but her eyes were twinkling.
Dragomiloff laughed.
“There comes a time, my dear, when a father is limited in the happiness he can impart. And now, if you do not mind, I shall sleep. It has been a tiring day.”
Grunya kissed him tenderly and was opening the door when memory struck.
“Father,” she exclaimed. “The Assassination Bureau! They intend to investigate every ship sailing on the morning’s tide.”
“But of course,” he said gently. “It is the first thing they would do.” He kissed her again and closed the door behind her.
She mounted to the upper deck and found Hall. Hand in hand they stood at the rail, peering at the lights of the sleeping city. His hand tightened on hers.
“Must it really be a year?” he asked sadly.
“There are only three months remaining,” she laughed. “Do not be impatient.” Her laughter faded. “In truth, this is advice more suitable to myself.”
“Grunya!”
“It is true,” she admitted. “Oh, Winter, I want to be married to you so much!”
“Darling! The captain of the ship can marry us tomorrow!”
“No. I am as mad as all of you. I have given my word and I will not change it.” She faced him soberly. “Until the year is up I will not marry you. And should anything happen to my father before then . . .”
“Nothing will happen to him,” Hall assured her.
She looked at him steadily.
“Yet you will not promise me to prevent anything from happening.”
“My darling, I cannot.” Hall stared over the rail at the darkened waters below. “These madmen—and I must include your father in that category—will not allow anyone to interfere in their dangerous game. And that’s what it is to them, you know. A game.”
“Which no one can win,” she agreed sadly, and then glanced at her time-piece. “It is very late. I really must go to sleep. Shall I see you in the morning?”
“You can scarcely avoid me on a small steamer,” he laughed, and bending his head he kissed her fingers passionately.
Dragomiloff, finding his cabin warm, unbolted the porthole and swung it wide. His stateroom fronted upon the dockside and a solid row of inscrutable warehouses lit only by a row of small electric bulbs, swinging faintly in the night breeze. The maneuver resulted in little improvement; the night without was sultry and quiet.
He stood in the dark of his room, leaning against the brass rim of the porthole, breathing deeply. His thoughts ranged over the past nine months and the narrow escapes he had managed. He felt tired, mentally and physically tired. Age, he thought. The one variable in life’s equation beyond the power of the brain to control or to evaluate. At least there were ten days ahead of freedom from stress; ten pleasant days of sea-voyage in which to recuperate. Suddenly, as he stood there, he heard a familiar voice rising from the shadows below.
“You are certain? Dragomiloff. It is very possible that he is a passenger aboard.”
“Quite sure,” the purser replied. “There is no one of that name on the ship. You may be certain that we would do everything in our power to aid the Federal government.”
In the safety of his darkened stateroom, Dragomiloff grinned. His weariness fled as, all senses alert, he listened intently. Gray was clever to adopt the guise of a Federal man, but then Gray had always been extremely worthy of his position in the Bureau.
“There is a chance this man is not using his real name,” Gray pursued. “He is a smallish person, deceptively frail-looking—although, believe me, he is not—and he is traveling with his daughter, a quite beautiful young lady whose name is Grunya.”
“There is a gentleman traveling with his daughter . . .”
Dragomiloff’s smile deepened. In the blackness of his room his small, strong fingers flexed and unflexed themselves preparatorily.
There was a moment’s silence on the dock below; then Gray spoke thoughtfully.
“I should like to check further if you don’t mind. Could you give me his cabin number?”
“Of course. One second, sir. Here it is—31—on the lower deck.” There was a hesitant pause. “But if you should be wrong . . .”
“I shall apologize.” There was coldness in Gray’s voice. “The Federal government has no interest in embarrassing innocent people. But still, I have my duty to perform.”
The shadowy figures at the foot of the gangplank separated, the taller one mounting the inclined stairway easily, brushing past the other.
“I can find it, thank you. There is no need for you to leave your post.”
“Certainly, sir. I hope . . .”
But Gray was beyond earshot. Stepping lightly to the deck of the ship he strode quickly to a door leading to an inner passageway. Once inside he immediately checked the numbers on the cabins facing him. The door before him was marked 108; without hesitation he swung to the stairway and descended. Here the numbers were of two digits. He smiled to himself and crept along the silent corridor, marking each door.
Number 31 lay beyond a turn in the passage, set in a small alcove. Flattening himself against the wall of the alcove, Gray considered his next step. He did not underestimate Dragomiloff, who had taught him not only the beauty of logic, ethics, and morality, but who had also taught him to break a man’s neck with one swift blow. There was a sudden shudder to the ship, and he stiffened, but it was only the great engines below beginning to revolve, warming up preparatory to sailing.
In the silence of the deserted corridor Gray considered and rejected the thought of using his revolver. In the confined space the sound would be deafening, escape made that much more difficult. Instead he withdrew a thin, sharp knife from a holster on his forearm, and tested the edge briefly against his thumb. Satisfied, he gripped it firmly, edge uppermost, while his other hand crept to the lock, master-key in hand.
One quick glance assured him that he was alone in the passageway; the passengers were all asleep. As silently as possible he inserted the key, turning it slowly.
To his surprise the door was suddenly jerked inwards. Before he could recover his balance he was being pulled into the room and strong fingers were being clamped upon the hand holding the knife. But Gray’s reactions had always been swift. Rather than pulling back, he went forward with his assailant, pushing fiercely, adding his weight to the impetus of the other’s force. The two men fell in a sprawl against the bunk beneath the porthole. With a sudden heave, Gray was on his feet, twisting to one side, the knife once more firmly in position in his fingers. Dragomiloff was also on his feet, hands outstretched, his taut fingers searching for an opening to give a death-touch to his opponent.
For a moment they stood panting a few feet from one another. The small electric lights from the dock gave the cabin eerie shadows. Then, swift as lightning, Gray’s arm flashed forwards, the knife whistling in the darkness. But it encountered only empty air; Dragomiloff had dropped to the floor, and as the other’s arm swept above him he reached up and clutched it, twisting. With a smothered cry Gray dropped the knife and fell upon the smaller man, straining with his free hand for a grip on the other’s throat.
They fought in fury and in silence, two trained assassins each aware of the other’s ability and each convinced of the rightness, as well as the necessity, for the other’s death. Each hold and counter-hold was automatic; their proficiency in the death-science of the Japanese equal and devastating. Beneath them the rumble of the huge pistons slowly turning over increased. Within the stateroom the battle waged relentlessly, grip matching grip, their panting breath now lost in the larger sound of the ship’s engines.
Their thrashing legs encountered the open door; it slammed shut. Gray attempted to roll free and suddenly felt his lost knife pressing against his shoulder blades. With a thrust of his arched back he rolled further, fending off Dragomiloff’s attack with one hand while he searched for the weapon with his other. And then his fi
ngers found it. Twisting violently, he pulled free, swinging the blade for a frontal blow, and thrust it forward viciously. He felt it bite into something soft and for one second he relaxed. And in that moment Dragomiloff’s eager fingers found the spot they had been seeking. Gray fell back, his fingers dragging the knife from the mattress of the bunk with their last dying effort.
Dragomiloff staggered to his feet, staring sombrely down at the shadowy figure of his old friend lying at the foot of the narrow bunk. He leaned against the closed porthole, fighting to regain his breath, aware of how much the years had taken from his fighting ability. He rubbed his face wearily. Still, he thought, he had not succumbed to Gray’s attack, and Gray was as deadly as any member.
A sudden rap at the door brought immediate awareness to him. He bent swiftly, rolling the dead body out of sight beneath the bunk, and came quietly to stand beside the door.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Constantine? Could I see you a moment, sir?”
“One second.”
Dragomiloff switched on the stateroom light; a swift glance about the room revealed nothing too incriminating. He straightened a chair, threw the blanket back to conceal the torn mattress, and slipped into a dressing-gown. He glanced about once more. Satisfied that all was presentable, he opened the door a crack and yawned widely into the face of the purser.
“Yes? What is it?”
The purser looked embarrassed.
“A Mr. Gray, sir. Did he stop down to see you?”
“Oh, that. Yes, he did. But it was really too bad his bothering me, you know. He was looking for a Mr. Dragomovitch, or something. He apologized and left. Why?”
“The ship is sailing, sir. Do you suppose he might have gone ashore in the last few moments? While I was coming down here?”
Dragomiloff yawned again and stared at the purser coldly.
“I’m sure I have no idea. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I really would like to get some rest.”
“Certainly, sir. I’m sorry. Thank you.”
Dragomiloff locked the door and once again switched off the lights. He sat on the small chair furnished with the stateroom and stared at the locked porthole thoughtfully. Tomorrow would be too late; there would be stewards cleaning the cabins. Even morning would be too late; early strollers about the decks were not uncommon. It would have to be now, with all the attendant dangers. With patience he settled back to await the ship’s departure.
Voices came from the deck above as lines were cast off and the ship prepared to leave the dock. The rumble of the engines increased; a slight motion was imparted to the cabin. Above his head the faint pounding of feet could be heard as seamen ran back and forth, winching in the lines, obeying the exigencies of the steel monster which was to take them across the ocean.
The cries on deck abated. Dragomiloff carefully unbolted the porthole and thrust his head out. The watery gap between the pier and the ship was slowly widening; the lights strung along the warehouses were fading in the distance. He listened carefully for footsteps from above; there were none. Returning to his task he rolled the body free from its hiding place and, bending, lifted it with ease to prop it on the bunk. One last searching glance indicated that the coast was clear. He thrust the flaccid arms through the porthole and fed the body into the open air. It fell with a faint splash; Dragomiloff waited quietly for any outbreak of sound from above. There was none. With graven face he latched the porthole, pulled the drapes tightly over them, and re-lit the light.
One final check was necessary before retiring, for Dragomiloff was a thorough man. The knife was stowed in a suitcase, and the bag locked. The slit in the mattress was covered with the sheet, reversed and tucked in tightly. The rug was straightened. Only when the room had regained its former appearance did Dragomiloff relax and slowly begin undressing.
It had been a busy night, but one step further along his inexorable path.
15
Lucoville rapped sharply upon Starkington’s hotel-room door and when the door swung back, entered and quietly laid a newspaper upon the table. Starkington’s eye immediately caught the black headlines, and he read through the lurid account rapidly.
TWO DIE IN MYSTERIOUS EXPLOSION
Aug. 15: A mysterious explosion in the early hours of today on Worth Street near the Bay region caused the tragic death of two unidentified men. Police could discover no clue as to the cause of the violent detonation, which broke windows in the immediate vicinity, as well as costing the lives of the two men who were believed to be walking in the area at the time of the explosion.
The violence of the detonation made identification of the two victims impossible. The shattered fragments of a small metal box were the only unusual item found in the area, but police claim it could not possibly have played a part in the tragedy because of its size. At present the authorities admit themselves baffled.
“Harkins and Alsworthy!” he exclaimed through clenched teeth. “We must get the others here as quickly as possible!”
“I have telephoned to Haas and Hanover,” Lucoville replied. “They should be here at any moment.”
“And Gray?”
“His hotel room did not answer. I am rather surprised, since it was agreed that a report be made this morning on the ships that were investigated last night.”
“You found nothing at the Argosy?”
“Nothing. Nor did Haas at the Takku Maru.”
The two men stared at each other in silent common thought.
“Do you suppose . . . ?” Starkington began, but at that moment there was an imperious rap at the door, and before either occupant could answer, the door swung wide, revealing Hanover and Haas.
Haas rushed in, laying a later edition of the newspaper upon the table.
“Did you see this?” he cried. “Gray is dead!”
“Dead?”
“Found floating alongside Jansen’s Wharf, where the Eastern Clipper was docked! Dragomiloff is on that ship, and it has sailed!”
There was a moment’s shocked silence. Starkington walked over and slowly seated himself. His eyes roved the stern faces of his companions before he spoke.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said softly, “we are being decimated. The total remaining members of the Assassination Bureau are within this room at this moment. Three of our number died within the past twelve hours. Where is the success that crowned our every effort for all these years? Can it all have departed at the same moment?”
“There are limits to one’s infallibility,” Haas objected. “Harkins and Alsworthy died as the result of an accident.”
“Accident? You do not honestly believe that, Haas. You cannot. There is no such thing as an accident. We control our own lives, or we control nothing.”
“Or at least we believe that, or we believe nothing,” Lucoville amended dryly.
“But the wall-clock must have been wrong!” Haas insisted.
“Obviously,” Starkington admitted. “But is it an accident to fail through dependence upon a mechanical contrivance? Inventions, my dear Haas, are the work of doers, and not thinkers.”
“A ridiculous statement,” Haas sneered.
“Not at all. It is the inability mentally to rationalize problems that leads men to seek mechanical solutions. Take that wall-clock, for example. Does the knowledge of the exact hour solve the problems of that hour? What is gained, in beauty or morality, to know that at this moment it is eight minutes past the hour of ten?”
“You oversimplify,” Haas retorted. “Someday the clock may take its revenge.”
Hanover leaned forwards.
“As for your sneering at doers,” he remarked, “do you consider us, then, as only thinkers and not doers?”
Starkington smiled.
“Of late, to be truthful, we have been neither. Now we must be both.”
Lucoville, who had been standing at a window staring into the street, swung about.
“Look here,” he said flatly. “Dragomiloff has sailed. He has left the country.
It is doubtful that he will return. Why do we not give up this senseless chase? We can rebuild the Bureau ourselves. Dragomiloff began it with one—himself—and we are four.”
“Give up the chase?” Haas was shocked. “Senseless? How could we rebuild the Bureau if the first thing we give up is not the chase, but our principles?”
Lucoville bowed his head.
“You are right, of course. I was not thinking. Well, then, what is our next step?”
Haas answered him. The thin flame of a man arose and bent over the table, his huge forehead puckered.
“There is a ship sailing at four this afternoon—the Oriental Star—from Dearborn Slip. It is the fastest ship on the Pacific run. It should easily dock in Hawaii a day in advance of the Eastern Clipper’s arrival. I suggest that we be waiting for Dragomiloff when he arrives in Honolulu. And that we be more careful than our predecessors when we meet him.”
“It is an excellent idea,” Hanover agreed enthusiastically. “He will feel himself safe.”
“The Chief never feels himself safe,” Starkington commented. “It is only that he does not allow his feeling of un-safety to disturb him. Well, gentlemen; does Haas’s suggestion sit well with you?”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Lucoville shook his head.
“I do not believe it necessary that we all travel. Haas has still not recovered fully from his wound. Also, I do not believe it well to put all our eggs in one basket. I suggest that Haas remain. There may well be need for some action from the mainland.”
This suggestion was carefully considered by the other three. Starkington nodded.
“I agree. Haas?”
The small intense man smiled ruefully.
“I should, of course, enjoy being in at the kill. But I must bow to the logic of Lucoville’s argument. I also agree.”
Hanover nodded his acceptance.
