Person after person went over to the cutter to be treated for burns and exposure—out of the red hell to the cool ’tween decks of the gray ship.
Now other vessels were arriving, and the sea was laced with crisscrossing searchlights.
But not until dawn did Bob Clark allow himself to stagger into the cutter’s sick bay for treatment, hot coffee and, better than either, sleep.
Hours later, with the afternoon sun pouring through the wardroom ports of the cutter, Bob Clark was finishing his story of the disaster. Only a few officials were there, and a few of the passengers of the doomed Cubana. Davis, Morecliff and Harrington sat against the far wall under guard. Jean Raymond looked across the green-covered table at Bob Clark.
“Now,” said Clark, “to finish up, I promised to tell you who the firebug is, and why he did it. I know now that none of all this was without reason. The man was driven by fear and greed.”
He spread out the three radiograms he had taken from the radio room, the ace of spades, the gold locket, the bill of lading.
“These will give us the entire story. I thought for a while that all this was caused by Davis. But it was not. Actually, Davis is a dupe. Head of the most powerful drug ring in New York, he ordered a million and a half dollars’ worth of dope from Havana. He paid a million in advance, leaving the other half million to be paid on delivery. I found the notation of these amounts in Davis’ briefcase. This bill of lading was discovered on Davis’ stateroom floor. You will notice that Davis is the consignee.”
Heads nodded. All eyes were fastened on Clark.
“Davis, as director of this company, was able to import dope without inspection. He made good use of the fact that no one would ever suspect him.” Clark glanced at Davis’ contorted face. “He thought that this dope was contained in these boxes, but he had nothing to do with the fire. I thought he had, when he interfered with my sending rockets. I know now that, as an officer of the line, he did not want another ship to salvage on the Cubana before it was absolutely necessary. He did not know how bad the fire actually was.
“As for Morecliff, he was glad about the fire until it threatened his own life. He was sore because the West Indies Lines took business away from him. Therefore, Harrington is the firebug—the murderer!”
Harrington’s fat form lurched out of the chair. An automatic pushed him back.
“Harrington received the dope order from Davis. Harrington handles dope from South America and relays it to the United States. Harrington is greedy, and a coward. He received that million dollars with which he was supposed to purchase heroin and opium. He spent it and could not replace it—and he had no dope. He was afraid of Davis—terribly afraid of what Davis would do to him if the dope was not actually aboard. Unknown to Davis, those boxes were empty, and there was no dope aboard the Cubana.
“Now get this. Harrington had to cover up that fact before Davis discovered it. Therefore the Cubana had to be destroyed. So Harrington arranged to have a launch trail the liner. He thought he would be able to get away on it, but I happened along in time to spike that plan. Harrington wanted the Cubana to sink or burn. Fire was easier to handle. So he set fire to the liner by means of an acetylene torch connected with the bell hammer of the captain’s clock.
“At eight bells, the clock opened the valve of the acetylene tank, and the fire began. Harrington had an alibi. He made certain that Davis and Morecliff were on the fo’c’s’le head with him at eight bells.
“Then, so that no word could be sent out, Harrington murdered the radio operator and smashed the set. So that the ship would go off her course and lose her position, making her hard to locate, he killed the bridge officer and the helmsman. To make certain that no witness against him could escape, he had welded the bottoms of the lifeboat davits so that none of the boats could be launched.
“Harrington knew a Narcotics man was aboard. He had made certain that this fake dope cargo was traced in Havana; he wanted Davis to be sure that dope was aboard and that he, Harrington, had not swindled Davis. Afraid that the Narcotics man would gum his plans, he tortured the captain into revealing my name. Then he tried several times to kill me.
“When Harrington knew that he was slipping up, he started howling about his wife. There was a corpse in his cabin, but it was not his wife’s. This locket from the dead woman’s neck says, ‘To Madame Seville, for past services and future loyalty.’ Madame Seville was an aide of Harrington’s. But he knew she was double-crossing him. This ace of spades was written on by the dying captain, naming Madame Seville as the dope runner.
“Jean Raymond and Madame Seville worked together. Jean Raymond was not certain that Harrington was the head of the Havana ring, but she had her ideas. Madame Seville was going to make the revelation last night, but she died before she got a chance.
“Harrington was ironbound in his alibis. He couldn’t have started the fire, but he did. He wouldn’t destroy a million and a half in dope, and so he knew that that would never be suspected by those who knew of his dope activities. And he wouldn’t kill his wife. But Harrington’s wife was in Havana. He sent her this radiogram on the night before the fire. I found it. That tripped up Harrington.
“As for other angles of the case, I gave Davis into the hands of the steward, who immediately released him because Davis was a company director. Davis was stabbed by Harrington just before we were rescued, because Harrington was afraid Davis would get wise. But he failed that time.
“And finally, I want to get an invitation to Harrington’s execution. I’m not bloodthirsty, but he ought to be burned a thousand times for that flaming hell he kindled for innocent people!”
Then Clark pulled a piece of paper toward him and scribbled out his report to his chief in Washington:
There was no dope on the Cubana.
(Signed) Robert W. Clark
Killer Ape
Killer Ape
BILL LACY was the kind of newspaperman who would go to a nice murder and come back with a lead story about a run-over dog.
But human interest and animals were the things which brought Bill Lacy low the night the corpse was found on Forest Road.
All unsuspecting, he swung down the dingy corridor of the precinct station, whistling to himself and at peace with the world.
He bumped squarely into Captain O’Connor who scowled like an evil genie. O’Connor had not much use for tall, brown-haired men of handsome visage, as O’Connor was quite the reverse.
“Watch where you’re goin’,” snapped O’Connor.
“Oh, beg pardon,” said Bill with a wicked grin. “You startled me for a moment. I thought it was King Kong.”
“Blah!” snarled O’Connor. “You still harpin’ on apes!”
Sergeant Morris had come along, waddling sourly. “Apes? Is this sap still talkin’ about apes? Still protectin’ your relatives, Lacy?”
“Look,” said Bill, “you guys lay off me about that ape stuff. All I did was sock that guy Hartman for …”
“For being crooel to a pore little monkey,” said O’Connor.
“Orangutan,” corrected Bill. “And I still think it’s a damned shame the way Para Rubber Company and Hartman, just for the sake of outselling Greyson, put poor Joe …”
“In a cage,” said Sergeant Morris. “Poor Joe, the orangutan! He ought to be wearin’ a silk hat and swingin’ a cane. Aw, we read the papers, Bill. We read what you wrote about poor old Joe, hardly able to stand up in his cage.…”
“And we locked you up when you socked Hartman,” said O’Connor. “And if you don’t stop pannin’ the police every time something happens, you’re going to be locked up again—plenty of times. Get that?”
“Keep your badge on,” said Bill. “If I want to write a sob story about an abused ape …”
A radio operator came out of his stall like Punch. “Hey, Cap, I heard you. That ape was let out about an hour
ago. Hartman just phoned and I’m sending Car Eighteen up to escort him out of the building. He’s scared. Yah,” he added to Bill and vanished.
O’Connor looked at Bill. “Say, Mr. Lacy, it wouldn’t be that you let yourself go on this idea, would you? Where you been?”
“Me?” gaped Bill. “Why, walkin’ around in the snow …”
“Huh,” said O’Connor. “Pretty thin! What’s the idea stealin’ an ape? It didn’t belong to you! Even if Hartman was abusin’ it, it was his ape! Now you come along and …”
“Cap!” said the operator, popping out again. “Woman out on Forest Road reports that she seen an ape running down in the woods.”
“In the snow?” said Bill. “Nuts. Joe wouldn’t go out in the snow. He’s from Sumatra.…”
“Call Car Twenty and tell them to watch for him,” said Captain O’Connor. “Say, how could he get from Para Rubber to Forest Road in an hour? That’s miles! And through the downtown traffic and somebody would have spotted him. Say, Lacy, what is this? You tryin’ to …”
“Cap!” yelped the operator, popping out again. “He’s done it! He’s gone and murdered somebody. A motorist just phoned in to say that he seen a corpse alongside Forest Road in the ditch. Get Homicide Squad here and which medical examiner …”
O’Connor grabbed too late. Bill was already vanishing in wild flight down the front steps. But before the door banged shut, O’Connor bawled, “Come back here, damn you! You’re an accessory to murder!”
Bill wasn’t waiting to be an accessory to anything except his car.
He raced down the steps, skidding on the icy walks now covered with sleet. He leaped into his coupe and thanked God the engine was still warm. He crashed gears and rocketed out into the street, headed for Forest Road.
The ride was long and he had plenty of time to think. Maybe Joe had gotten out and had gone mad or something. Maybe Hartman had done something to make him mad. Maybe Joe would attack anybody on sight!
He passed the last of the city filling stations and clattered over a bridge toward a strip of woods. Gradually he slowed down so that he could divide his attention between driving and watching, and was then forced to decrease his speed even further. At this slower pace, the snow did not pile so heavily against his windshield and the wiper started to work with a will.
A half a mile went slowly by and then Bill saw what he had been looking for. He had turned a corner in the white road and his headlights struck squarely on something which lay sacklike and still on the edge of a drift. Bill pulled cautiously over to the side and stopped.
When his motor died he sat for some seconds looking at the dark shape. There was no mistaking its identity. It was a corpse. The face lay buried, but there was something about the arms which made Bill’s heart drum against his ribs in rising tempo. Though long a reporter, Bill had always shivered at the sight of a dead man.
At last he opened the door and got out. The snow covered the low-cut oxfords and found holes in his coat through which to drive. It was cold, and out here where the wind had no other resistance than trees, Bill Lacy had to lean against it to proceed. The leafless branches overhead moaned out a dirge. Stepping carefully without marring the tracks, Bill went to the side of the dead man. He didn’t touch it, for that was a job for the police. He merely stood there and looked down and tried to bring himself to realize that old Joe had had a hand in it.
The head, though partially covered by the drifting sleet, was bent at an angle which told the story of a broken neck. The hands—hands which would never feel anything again—clutched stiffly at the white ground. The skin was an ugly blue, visible even in this poor light.
Bill Lacy’s lips were tight when he struggled back to the car. For a moment he was half-minded to jump in and leave the scene before some unforeseen nemesis cut him down. But instead he reached into a side pocket and pulled out a flashlight.
Back again across the road, Bill didn’t turn his beam on the corpse. He was shivery enough already without looking at that thing again. He picked out marks which looked like barefoot tracks and went ahead into the denseness of the thickets.
At first he had been certain of one thing—that he and Joe were friends. But now that feeling began to inch away with the warmth of his body. He had had the idea that if he didn’t get out here and save Joe from the cops, he’d curse himself for the rest of his life. He knew they’d shoot Joe on sight, for Joe’s appearance was against him. Long arms, an ugly face. Sure, some rookie would spot him and drill him through the skull in a minute.
Bill Lacy’s hands lost their warmth to the cold barrel of the flashlight and the snow crept down into his shoes until he could feel the water squish each time he stepped. He wore light, unlined gloves and as the sleet melted upon them, they became wet. The makers of his overcoat had cut the collar too low and he could feel his ears grow chilly pink.
But the barefoot tracks drifted out ahead of him, deeper and deeper, into the wood. Because he was cold himself, Bill was sympathizing with Joe. It must be tough, walking barefoot through these drifts, and Joe had been born down there near the equator where the sun was hot.
The tracks went around in a curve and came back. Bill found where the orangutan had stood for some little time behind a tree as though waiting. The snow was tramped down on the spot and melted. Bill stood for several seconds looking at the marks. He was suddenly gripped by shivers which were not traceable to the coldness of the night. Joe had stood there with his feet apart waiting and crouching, ready to spring. Only the toe marks were plainly visible. Yes, Joe had been waiting to spring.
Ahead along the wandering trail stood other trees. Trees which were larger and could more securely hide an ape from view. Bill looked at them, his eyes questioning. He did not trust his logic then. He knew that Joe expected pursuit and that Joe was waiting for it. He knew that Joe—yes, there was no evading it now—would kill to get away.
Bill shivered again and looked behind him. Not until now had he realized how alone he was and how little protection he had against a pair of great hairy hands which could in an instant snuff out his life. Even if he and Joe were still friends—well, maybe Joe wouldn’t know who it was until it was too late.
Overhead the wind moaned on, sighing an accompaniment to the silent, relentless sleet.
“Joe!” shouted the newspaperman, and immediately wished he hadn’t spoken. His voice sounded too hollow and fantastic in all this loneliness. Besides, Joe wasn’t a dog. He wouldn’t come like a dog if you called him. Joe was a great, hunched brute who stood up and placed his knuckles on the ground.
As he shot it about, the beam of his flashlight was hampered by the falling flakes. He was half-hoping now that he wouldn’t find the orangutan. He didn’t feel up to seeing Joe dart out from the ambush of a white-mantled tree.
Bill Lacy squared his shoulders and went on. The barefoot tracks were going straight ahead now, and he thought that there was less snow drifted into each successive print. No use giving up. Some rookie would blow Joe’s head off his shoulders before Joe could move. The orangutan’s appearance was against him.
And then Bill stopped as though held by a wall. He shot the beam of his light up toward the place where he had caught a glint of green fire. He stood with his feet spread apart, looking up the trail, trying to overcome the sudden inertia of his body.
Joe stood there beside a tree, blinking in the harsh white light. And Joe’s lips were frothed with reddish foam. His arms went down to the ground and he held himself into the sleet by pressing his knuckles against the snow. His hair was matted with the melting flakes and his teeth gleamed whitely against the brownish black of his lips. His teeth were long, too long. The wind was carrying the man scent to him.
Bill Lacy overcame the shock of his discovery. He told himself that this was just Joe, the orangutan—and the lonesome orangutan at that—who had been his friend. He started to call out to the
brute, but the words stuck in his chilled throat. Foam was dripping from Joe’s teeth. It was plain that the ape was mad.
And then Joe began to hunch himself forward. His flat face was without expression, but his eyes, gazing into that blinding beam, were slitted and somehow terrifying. The arms, twice the length and three times the strength of a man’s, were taut as though expectant of a fight.
Bill Lacy turned away. His legs were staggering underneath him and his eyes were suddenly shot with the hideous knowledge of his situation. Joe had gone mad and had broken loose. He’d broken one man’s neck and now—well, now Bill Lacy was here with a killer ape, alone with him in a lonely forest.
And Bill Lacy ran. He couldn’t stop himself once he had started. All the terror of the night which had accumulated within him burst its bounds and made a red haze in front of his eyes. He was sprinting and it seemed to him that his racing feet did not touch the snow. He was running toward the road, darting in and out between the trees.
Once he looked back and risked a fall by shooting his beam along his trail. The five-foot orangutan was hunching along on all fours, jaws still foaming. As he looked, Bill heard the brute grunt loudly. Almost two hundred pounds of death was matching speed with the pursued.
And again Bill ran, even faster. He didn’t know that he had lost his soft felt hat. He didn’t know that his shoes were crammed with snow. He only knew that if he stopped, he would be crushed and broken in the powerful arms of a brute gone mad.
When his first terror had paled through his growing weariness, Bill turned at right angles to his trail and raced along for a hundred yards. He snapped out the light and dodged in between the dim, moaning shapes of giant trees. He went on for some distance before he stopped.
His breath was coming with harsh gasps, but he stilled the sound. He could run no longer without a rest, and he hoped against hope that he would be able to get away before the orangutan spotted him again.
The Slickers Page 6
