The Steel Dutehman

Auckland Star, Volume LXV, Issue 136, 11 June 1934, Page 15

The Steel Dutehman

By I Vincent Cornier

A GREAT BTORY OF ADVENTURE ON LAND AND SEA

i_ (Author of "Paradise Orchid," "The Green Hat," etc.)

CHAPTER XIV. The First Piracy. Betsy Dunsholme, a coastal steamer of 44!) tons gross, owned by Messrs. I' rover and Brownlo.w of Hartborough, bound from that port to Hull with a miscellaneous cargo consisting of madeiron fitments and provisions, pounded along and met . . a beautiful white yacht called the Fliegende Schaum. It was a meeting of the seas that was fated to pass into history. "Yon's a bonny ship, mister," said old Harry Beadmore to his mate, the even older Jock McKay. "Wonder what she's doing hereabouts, all paint an' spit an' glitter like yon —eh?" Jock balcfu'.ly regarded the skipper. "Mph—and- for why shouldn't she be liereaboots ?" "B'cos," snarled old Harry, whose sole delight it was to 'argy-bargy' with Jock, "anyone but a damn' ilaming thickheaded fool of an awd Scotch rhumgullicker could see she isn't owt but a fancy boat! This sea's no place for the likes o' yon, mister!" Jock McKay put down the powerful binoculars with which ho had been examining the Fliegende Schaum. Something about the gracefully sinister vessel had brought a haggard look into his face. "Ech," he slowly remarked, "she must be van o' tlie.se new fangled tunny fishing ships; all dight up for expensive angler bodies. But then, I always thocht ye fought they tunnies wi' a rod and line, precisely as ye light a salmon." The skipper of the Betsy Dunsholme gaped in sheerest bewilderment at the dirty and bristle ja\vcd countenance of his mate. "Hasta ta'en leave o' y'r senses or what, Jock McKay? What the hengmcnt d'you mean—you an' y'r tunny fishing?" Jock rubbed a bibulous nose 011 a piece of engine room waste. Solemnly he surveyed the whaleback of iron deckplating stretching from the forlorn bridge to the Betsy's stem. "Aye? Noo what can a feller mean, when he uses the twa een th' good Lord gie'd him an' ljos a yacht fitted up wi' a whaler's harpoon gun, or, mebbe," Jock's' ■ voice grew curiously dry, "a quick-firing weapon o' possibeelities ayont th' mere shooting o' lines intac deep watter fusil." For once in a while the skipper of (hat steamer had no apt retort to make. Ho grabbed the binoculars and swept their lens across the Fliegende Schaum. Onco he got them in focus, he gasped. He saw tlio trim clear decks of the yacht alive with men. They were swarthy and thick-set fellows who wore a.'kind of uniform. All were heavily 'booted"; all wore''thick black "gansevs" and every man-jack had long black gloves 011 the hands, and closely fitting black helmets, very much after the stylo of those affected by airmen, on their heads. Gloves and helmets seemed to be of rubber or of vulcanite. Along tlio decks tho glasses ranged. Beardmore observed some of the men pointiAg at himself. In other cases he saw, quite distinctly, grinning and mocking lips and peculiarly gloating expressions. Whatever the mysterious crew found to laugh about, he could not determine. There was nothing excitingly funny about tho slugging little Betsy Dunsholme. Then tho. limited'field of tho binoculars took in the "harpoon-gun" at the prow of the Fliegende Schaum, and Skipper Beardmore almost flopped where 110 stood. During his war service with the R.N.V.R., Beardmore bccame acquainted with the form and mechanism of those sturdily delightful and useful weapons tho Governmental authorities thoughtfully provided for tramp steamers; one single tooth to pit against the ravening fangs of the submarines that menaced • in all waters at all times. . Here he looked again on such a weapon. He had 110 doubt about its exact denomination. It was a lean and nasty looking automatic quickfirer, any one of whose shells could send the Betsy Dunsholme to the bottom in a flurry of steam and disaster . . . and the muzzle of that gun 011 the Fliegende Schaum was trained on his own squat bridge! And the gun crew of that weapon were standing alongside it, handling skinny but singularly efficient looking shells. Beardmore put down the glasses and goggled at tiie sombre-eyed Jock McKay. "Jock," he said quietly, "if we worn't livin' i' this year o' grace, I'd be prepared t' sweer as yon bloke meant us some damage! Lad, as it is—l don't like t' look oil it!" McKay was turning over in mind the black gloves and the helmets and the dark smallness of the Fliegende Schaum's crew. "I'll tell ye what it is, Ilarry," he all as quietly answered, "it's yon Japs— they've bin an' let oot 011 th' worrld . . . declared war, wi'oot botherin' t' go through what a man might call th' conventional precliminarics!" Beardmore rang down for full speed ahead and snapped at McKay to call the rest of the Betsy Dunsholme's crew on deck. Speed he got, with the humiliations of the engineer—the crew of five clattered up without waiting on Jock's orders. . . Immediately the Fliegende Schaum came to magnificent life. Like a racing white wolf rounding to snap up _a shambling bear cub, she curved in a o-reat wake of foam and spanned the distance separating them in three short minutes. The crew of the shabby little Betsy could not speak. They were aghast at that awful and menacing turn of speed. Xever in all their sea-going experience had they known a vessel to move like this. Ravening and thundering destroyers they had seen; battle cruisers at fullest steam —greyhound yachts making speed at a thousand guineas a week of cost, but never an effortless and superb and sighing arc of motion like this; a motor racing 011 a track like that of Brooklands could have formed such a vast curve at such a rate; -an aeroplane could .have-bent such a track through the air—but never a sliip on sea water! Yet here in front of their staring eyes the thing had been done . . . and done, a shell came howling across them, while a flag ran up and broke at the vessel's masthead. "B' th' Lord," gasped the skipper of the Betsy Dunsholme, "that's t' hoist o' th' skull an' crosabones! ;A—a pirate!" < He spoke the truth.

CHAPTER XV. Homer's Coup. Sir Gerald Homer stood at the inhospitable bar of the Broken Falcon for twenty-five minutes. From the time lie sent Merlincote away to talk with Clone Bainbridge—expressly stipulating that, in some period of the conversation, he should mention that he carried the documents Van Klaus had attempted to steal—the Secret Service chief had not moved outside the ambit of one square yard. Yet lie had managed to do a lot of intricate and most important work. Looking at him, no one could have suspected that he was in communication .with the police officers whom Merlincote considered as his "bodyguard." But he was. The plans of Sir Gerald Homer were far too deep and well-laid for any gangin' agley. Those officers remained outside the inn, apparently talking genially one with the other, but all the while concentrating attention on the fat man at the bar-window who drank his whisky so meditatively and so slowly. A movement of a finger here; the curious lift of the glass there —sometimes to his lips, more often than not only half-way—each had significance. So it came about that Merlincote and Cleone were rescued from that sinister "snug-parlour" in which the pair of them might well have lost their lives. When unconsciousness descended on Merlincote,' his last impression was of the lire's dying. Oddly enough, the failure of his senses coincided with the deadening of that mighty blaze. Its incandescence went like a shut-off light. And the three men, who entered the "snug" to rob the barrister of the documents he carried, laughingly talked about that strange extinction. "Better pull 'em up an' lay 'em on t' table," ono muttered. "Asar's shoved t' much gas in t' place. Don't want it t' be a hanging job if we can help it." The other two helped the speaker to pull Mcrlincoto and Cleone out of the deep and invisible tide of inert gas which, forced into the room from outside, had extinguished the blaze and rendered them helpless. The men were standing erect and were very wary about bending into that heavy layer of suffocating vapour wherein the man and woman lay. They did not wear respirators. "Queer stuff," one of tliein muttered, awed. "I'm hanged if I should like to be "Aw, stow it," snapped the last of the trio. "It's not the time for a damned conversazione! Let's get them plans an' be out on it. Sharp's the word!" Merlincote's jacket was opened ar.d tlio big envelope removed. Two of the thieves immediately went back through the secret panel into the heavily carpeted corridor in which they had lurked previous to their raid—that cunningly concealed and ancient passage-way, from which they had listened to every word spoken by tlio barrister and Cleone Baiiibridge. But i lie third man was, at once, seemingly more avaricious and certainly more humane. Thereby he came to encompass the disaster of them all. i "Just a minute, mates," he grunted. "Y'cant leave 'enr like this!" Treading, gently ho went over to a window and, all as gently, opened it at the bottom an inch or two. '"Sides, this chap Merlincote," he was back at the barrister's side, grinning evilly, "alius packs a tidy bit o' brass in that wallet of his. I've seen it often." Very definitely, he felt again through Merlincote's clothing. llis companions watched him abstract the wallet and their eyes glistened as they saw the thick wad of notes it held. As ono man they stepped back into the room. "Thou can have t' cuff-links," said the man with tlio wallet. 1-Ie was moving to the window again. Oneo again he slightly raised it —making the tiniest of screeching noises as ho did so; "I'll sliig out the brass after wo get away," lie went on, muttering. "And don't forgit that wrist-watcli and this cigarette case; they're both on 'em good 'uns:" Now to take cuff-links out. of their places and to remove a strapped wristwatch from another man, are trifling incidents, requiring some little time, for all that. While the two were busy at their roguery, the third slipped the wallet into his pocket and took something else from another. With this "something else" neatly balanced in his right hand, lie fumbled in his top jacket pocket with his left. Strangely enough he brought out a whistle—a police whistle of all tilings—and very decidedly' began to blow on it. The others, absolutely paralysed by stupefying bewilderment, literally jumped away from their victim. They gazed up, gaping, and saw their erstwhile colleague barring off all escape, either by door or panel aperture, a police automatic pistol deliberately covering them. "Checkmate!" It was the" only word the third man uttered, but it held a decidedly different timbre from those he had coarsely used up to that minute in speaking, it was a curt, cultivated and nastily official note. "What the hell's gone wrong wi'—" OffV- :a appeared through that secret a" y ay. 'More came in by the door One pushed the window wide and stepped through the frame, and. in the midst of it all, imperturbable, still holding his glass of whisky, came Sir Gerald Homer. "A nice haul," was what he said. "A most efficient piece of work, DetectiveInspector Tliwaitcs! I'll see that it isn't ignored." The man with the pistol stood rigidly to attention. He coloured and smiled in embarrassment. "Thank you, Sir Gerald! Glad you're satisfied." One of the captured men found his tongue: " 'Detective-Inspector'—garn, niver in y'life, y'ain't—" "Perhaps," mused the meticulous Sir Gerald, "a presentation of your warrant card wouldn't be amiss, Thwaites'. Naturally these gentry, among whom you've lived and had your being these seven weeks past, are not going to take —er —one's bare word for the—er— metamorphosis." '■ And Detective-Inspect.iir Thwaites presented his card, as ordered. Never could scoundrels have been so J completely dismayed and disconcerted. For upwards of two months —all the while Hector Bainbridge had finished off the details of his invention on Hartness Slem—a policy spy had iurked in the very centre of Van Klaus' secret village of Sloughstowe! One of the meji groaned'—and lie liad cause. All that ,

while, pretending to be a fugitive from justice, this rough and hard-east fellow had been worming in and out of the half-Spanish community—garnering a thousand important pieces of "police information." They could have killed him. Maybe, despite his pistol, they would have tried. But Superintendent Onneston, among others, never let them have the chance. While yet they stood, woolly handed and absolutely flabbergasted, handcuffs were snapped on them and they were surrounded. Still economising in words, Sir Gerald made his little flickering gestures to this officer and that—with the result that Cleone and Guy Merlincote were already struggling back to consciousness under the first aid cf artificial respiration. Their faces had a peculiarly orange hue. Sir Gerald Homer looked a-t this colouring and growled. Then he picked out a match from his box, lit it, and let it fall. Until it was at a level some 10 inches from the snug parlour floor, the flaming stick persisted. On reaching that level it went out—even as the huge fire of driftwood and sea coal had gone out instantly. Three or four times the Secret Service man repeated the experiment. And on each occasion the lighted match was extinguished by the layer cf heavy and inert and non-inflammable gas that still lingered about their feet. "Carbon monoxide," said Sir Gerald. Then he turned a furious face to the two wretched men. "Who told you to release that in here, eh? Asar Lattiman'{" One of them croaked in echo; "Aye. Asar Lattiman." "D'you know where he got it from?" "Van Klaus, the Dutcliy," was the sullen reply. A constable came into the room through the secret aperture that had opened to the withdrawal of the panel, lie carried two tiny steel cylinders to the united nozzles of which a long rubber tube was attached. "Found these in that corridor, Sir Gerald," he stated. "Shall 1 retain 'em, sir ?" "Yes, keep them carefully. We'll want them to pin this ungodly gang on to a foundation that's essentially theirs." Sir Gerald, at last, put down his half-emptied glass. "And also keep that," he chuckled. "It's either contraband or made without benefit of excise. Really, when it comes to a final settlement with the curious inhabitants of Sloughstowe, there'll bo something to interest the public at large." "A—a nest o' wrong uns, if ever I've known one," said Superintendent Ormeston, of the Hartborough river police. "1 think you're quite right there, superintendent," Homer laughed. "And now, if everybody buckles to, the—er— exodus can begin." Within another half-hour the captured gentlemen of perfidious Slo-stowe, including Asar Lattimau, the landlord of the Broken Falcon, were on their way to gaol. A long lino of police cars followed, I and in one of them went Cleone Bain-1 bridge and Guy Merlincote, barrister at J law. Tlicy were both ill from the stupor induced by the gas; their complete recovery would bo a matter of ten or twelve hours. (To be continued daily.)