NIGHT TIDE

Auckland Star, Volume LXV, Issue 245, 16 October 1934, Page 17

NIGHT TIDE

J. R. WILMOT

(Author of "The Mysterious Masquerade," etc.

CHAPTER IV. The Prodigal's Confession. John Macadam's story was somewhat cinematic and it made a considerable impression, not only on Shirley but also on Martin Fare.

"You see," began John, "I never really liked the sea, hut the old man was dead set on my taking it up—sort of following in father's footsteps and all that flapdoodle. For one thing the money wasn't all I had expected. I didn't see the fun of going on for years and years if I could make money easier. Well," he continued, "when the opportunity came my way I took it. It wasn't a question of conscience or even of loyalty to anyone or to anything. It was just a matter of getting off that damned water on to dry land, and believe inc. America was a dry land in those da vs.

"Three years ago I took the opportunity that came to me at Philadelphia. I went ashore and never went back to the ship. I knew wlieii I had done that that I'd never need to come home to father. You see, I knew him too well for that. He's sot a sort of flaming passion for the sea, Mr. Fare, as you'll jolly soon realise once you've met him. He has a one-route mind and that's a sea route. Nothing else matters to him. Ho never asked me whether I wanted to go to sea. He took it as a matter of plain sailing, as it were, and off 1 was bundled.

"Well, I'd made my bed and the next thing to do was to lie on it, and i sine did that. I guess perhaps that if I'd known what I was letting myself in for, I might have thought twice about it. but if you'd have been as fed up with the sea and with ships as I was, you'd have taken any chance to get away from it."

Macadam paused for a moment to take another sip from his glass. He saw that Pare was displaying an inordinate interest in his story and that Shirley was hanging on every word.

"I don't intend to tell you in detail the hell I .went through before I got a job ashore," he went on, significantly. "I just had to serve a sort of apprenticeship in the process of becoming absorbed into the American work stream. Sometimes I went whole days without a bite to eat. I became a hobo jumping the freights and all that sort of tiling. Anyhow,, it was better than walking, and when a fellow's looking for work that's about the slickest way of getting around.

"To cut a long story short, I fell in with three fellow.s—tough guys they were, too—one night in a small downtown bootlegger's saloon at Baltimore. Wo got chatting, and it came out that I was a certificated mate. That seemed to interest them, and they began to talk business—big business. These fellows connected with the rackets don't open up too wide with strangers, but they made a sort of appointment for me to meet someone at the same saloon the following night, and before leaving me one of them shoved a wad of dollar bills into my band. You can guess how I felt about that. Real money and enough to tide me over for a month or two on my frugal way of living.

"The following night the 'big shot' himself came in. Spotted me immediately, probably from the description of the others. 'You're used to the sea.' he said, bluntly. 'Well, buddie, are you on for a job? I like the cut of your jib. What's yer name?' 'Stevens,' I told him. 'Albert Stevens. But what's the job?' 'That's all right, Albert, my lad,' ho retorted. 'In this racket we don't ask no questions. You've heard about the quick and the dead, waal, sonny, how quick can you draw a gun?' I told him I'd never handled a gun in my life, and he laughed at that. 'Gun practice for you in the morning,' he said. 'Here, take this card and call at the address you'll find "on it at one o'clock. They'll lie expecting you,' and without knowing whether I'd take on the job he'd mentioned, off he .goes, but not before he'd paid for a drink.

"Well, that was how I got mixed up in a rum-running racket, first in charge of a clipper running down to the Bahamas and later on in charge of a depot ashore not a hundred miles from New York. 'The Ace,' as the 'big shot' was known, operated from as fine a suite of rooms at The Biltinorc you ever did see. I once went there to see him. Charming, slick sort of chap, reputed to be a millionaire."

Macadam paused again and laughed at the incredulous look on the faces of his hearers.

"I could tell you a whole lot more," he proceeded, "but there's no need just now. The main thing is that when Prohibition was ended the racket wasn't doing any too well. I heard that 'The Ace' had an idea of taking up a dirtier game, and I decided that that was where I left. Of course," laughingly, "I didn't advertise the fact that I was getting out. I guess if I'd done that, I

wouldn't be sitting here now. The gangs have got a nasty little habit of receipting accounts —they do it with lead, but it's not in a pencil. Well, I'd

A ROMANTIC STORY OF A GREAT SEAPORT

put by a tidy little sum—had it in a safe deposit in Baltimore. I cleared out and laid low for nearly six months. I gave it out here that I'd gone to Canada, but I was just waiting my opportunity to get back home. I let my hair and my beard grow and joined a hot gospelling mission." Macadam laughed at the recollection, and allowed Fare to fill up his glass. "That proved to ,be a wise move. Then one day I learned that 'The Ace' had quit. too. I heard said he'd gone to South America, and certainly I never saw him. That decided me. I quit gospelling, and booked my passage over to Liverpool. Well, I'm here, but I'll not say that ends everything. I want a job, and ..it won't be at sea."

"But what did you mean when you said something about 'worse than the police'?" asked Shirley. "I wasn't forgetting that, Sis. I was thinking that anyone who quits the gangs as I did doesn't altogether have a free and easy life. You see, the gangs have long memories. They get nasty ideas into their heads, and if 'The Ace' got to thinking that I'd done any double-crossing after I'd quit—well. I think he'd remember it for a long time. That's why even here in Liverpool, where nothing like that ever happens, I've got to wateli my step."

"Do you mean," asked Martin, .seriously, "that you will have to lie low here for some time before you can feel absolutely safe? I never heard of such a thing."

"Maybe you didn't. Mr. Fare, but T don't mean that exactly. I want to get a job as quickly as I can, and I've got to change my identity back again to John Macadam. Fortunately I never became an American citizen', so there won't be any legal hooey over that part of it. But T don't want ever to have been in America, if you get me. . ." "Yes. I think I do," acknowledged Fare, slowly. "But what about Captain Macadam, don't you think he ought to be told?"

"I was coming to that," interposed Shirley. "You see, I know father better than you do, Martin. He's very bitter about John, and it will take-me a little time to break down the barrier of his bitterness. I'll have to start right away, and I'll have to do it in such a way that ho won't suspect that John's in England. It's going to be difficult, but I think T might do it."

"I'd like to get in right with the Old Man," murmured John, with a little catch in his voice.

"And in the meantime we've got to fix you up," said Martin, almost gaily. "Now, how about digging in here with us for a while until we see how things are panning out?" he suggested. "I'm sure Aunt Lottie would be only too pleased."

"And what might it be that would make Aunt Lottie pleased?" came Miss Fillinger's pleasant voice from the opening doorway, a 4 she wheeled in the supper on a three-tiered oak wagon.

"Ob, Miss Fillinger," smiled Shirley, "Martin was just suggesting that perhaps you wouldn't mind taking my

brother as a lodger for a week or two until lie gets something fixed up —that is, until I've had a talk with father."

"And why not?" beamed Miss Fillingor. "We've never had the third bedroom .filled since Martin's Uncle Douglas came down from Tyaesidc eighteen months ago. Besides," she went on, amiably, "he'll be company for Martin, won't you, Mr. Macadam. Such lots and lots to talk about, I'm sure."

"You've sure said it," smiled John Macadam in reply. "Then it's all fixed up," announced Miss Fillinger. "Martin, half the second plate on the bottom rack is salmon, and the remainder beef paste. Miss Macadam, would you mind pouring the coffee, I'm just off to get the bed made up." "Isn't she a perfect dear," said Shirley, joining in the general laughter. John Macadam broke into the merriment. "It's jollv good of y»u people," he remarked, turning to Martin, "but what about my things? I left them in Liverpool pending developments. "You needn't worry about that, Martin told him, handing the sand .riches to Shirley. "I'll fix you up for tonight." . "And to-morrow," announced Shirley, happily, "I'm going to see what 1 can do about getting you a job. I know someone who might help." -And as she made this announcement Martin noticed that she evaded looking at him. * * * * While this conversation was taking place a man in possession of a wcllfurnished flat in the Scfton Park district was busy perusing a number ol documents beneath a low hung light on lAt "one end of the desk a telephone was poised. The man looked up from his task, that apparently of choekmg over some figures on long foolscap sheets, as the telephone bell tinkled. "Yes?" "Is that riTOo.O.K.? "Okay it is. Who's that? Mimber One speaking." . f "This is Phoney—gotta message, chief. Just landed." , , "Righto, big boy. Slip along and snappy." He replaced the receiver and took out a cigar from a broad silver box. Slowly he bit oil' the end. ' "Now who would have expected Phoney to blow into Liverpool tonight?" lie questioned himself. Half an hour later there came a ring at the hell, and the man opened the door to the caller himself. "Sit down, Phoney," he said, curtly. "Anything wrong?" "Maybe there is and maybe there isn't.", responded the caller, a large, broad-shouldered man of the seafaring type. "What about a spot of booze, chief?" Without question the man crossed over to hi» sideboard and returned with a. glass of whisky. "Now?" lie commanded. "Spill it."

"Not this, boss. It's too good to spill," and he drained the tumbler at a gulp. The caller wiped his mouth inelegantly on the back of his hand.

"Your table manners haven't improved, Phoney. And you with a college education."

The caller laughed. "It's just this, bos*. Number .Seven came over this trip. We docked about seven o'clock. The Eagle Star, you remember?"

"I remember. Thanks, Phoney. There won't lie anything more, eh?"

"That's good booze, boss!" This nppreciatingly. "Very good, Phoney. Good-night. Close the door quietly. The folks on the other side are light sleepers and go to bed early."

The man waited for the door to close behind his caller, then he turned to his desk and pulled open a drawer. From the drawer he took out a small moroceobound notebook and turned over the pages slowly. At one puge he halted. It was numbered one to twenty down the left-hand margin. To the uninitiated it would have been a list of firms, for number seven read, "Albert Stanley and Co.—see commission account." The man closed the book slowly and replaced it in the drawer. As be turned away his face waa distinctly unpleasant. (To be continued daily.)