The Man from Scotland Yard

CHAPTER VI. HOPE IN THE NIGHT

CLICK — CLICK—

The half-muffled sound came dully to the ears of Eric Delka. Amid darkness that seemed abysmal, the Scotland Yard man listened. Delka’s eyes had opened but they could see nothing. His ears, however, had managed to hear the repeated sound.

Click — Click— Again the noise ended. All remained black to Delka; but by this time he had sensed something of his surroundings. Stretching out a hand, he could feel the blankets of a bunk. From somewhere, came the throb of ship’s engines.

Hazily, Delka remembered that scene on the Doranic. Jed Barthue, muffled in darkness, backed against the rail. Delka had covered the man he was after; he had felt the joy of triumph on that lower deck of the big liner.

Then had come a sweeping surge. Oblivion; after that, a brief respite of semiconsciousness. Delka could recall floating in the water. He remembered hands pulling him aboard a small boat.

Also, he recollected a struggle. A fight against men who seemed to be new enemies. He had tried to ward off a swinging oar blade. He had failed. Again, in that small boat, he had been treated to a knock-out blow.

Throbbing of engines meant that he was again aboard a ship. It was not the Doranic; the liner’s engines were smooth, almost vibrationless. Delka knew that this dank cabin wherein he was bunked must be aboard an older, smaller ship. Some freighter, perhaps, from which the small boat had come to pick him up.

His clothes were dry; but they were not his own clothing. Rubbing fingers along a sleeve, Delka found that he was wearing a rough sweater. His trousers were of khaki. His shoes, when he felt them, proved to be canvas sneakers, three sizes too large.

Click — Click—

Again the Scotland Yard man heard the sound. This time, he located it on the opposite side of the cabin.

Rising from his bunk, Delka felt his way through darkness. Reaching the wall, he discovered a closed porthole.

The rounded window was covered with cloth. Captors had made a blackened cell out of the cabin.

Delka’s first thought was to snatch away the covering; then he changed his mind. He found the catch of the porthole and began to undo the screwed fastening.

Click — Click—

The sound was from the other side of the porthole. Something tapping twice against the glass. The fastening was loose! Delka yanked open the port.

It was black outside; but the air of the sea came surging into the cabin. Then, as Delka thrust a hand out through the porthole, he encountered a smooth object in the space.

A small bottle. Hanging from a string.

THE bottle slipped momentarily from the prisoner’s hand but it swung back again, in pendulum fashion.

Delka drew it into the cabin. He shook the bottle. Something clattered softly inside it.

Light objects slipped into Delka’s hand as he inverted the bottle. The prisoner recognized them by their touch. Loose matches, wisely provided by whoever had lowered the bottle. Delka struck match against the wall beside the porthole. The glimmer showed him that the bottle contained another item — a twisted roll of paper.

This proved to be a message, when Delka opened it. By the tiny flare of a match, the Scotland Yard man read a note inscribed in pencil. Hastily written, crudely spelled, it offered opportunity:

The match light showed the stub of a pencil in the bottom of the bottle. The men on the deck above required a reply. Delka did not doubt that they were actually friends. The note asked for money only; to promise it would mean no greater risk than that which already existed.

Extinguishing a match. Delka felt in the pockets of his trousers; then realized suddenly that his own clothes were gone. He had been carrying a considerable amount of cash at the time of his capture. The money now belonged to his enemies.

But Delka had another possibility. He stretched his right hand to his left wrist and gripped a bulky wrist watch that was strapped there. His captors had not removed the timepiece. Probably they had considered it worthless after being in the water.

Delka removed the watch from his wrist. He pried open the back. Dry paper crinkled; its presence indicated the reason for the bulkiness of the wrist watch. Only a portion of the interior contained watchworks. The rest was a half-inch cavity wherein Delka kept reserve funds.

The prisoner struck another match. This glow showed British bank notes, all of high denomination. Delka knew that his would-be rescuers would accept pounds as readily as dollars.

He stuffed a few large notes into the bottle; then returned the others to his wrist watch. He tugged at the cord as signal; then let the bottle swing from the porthole. He heard the bottle click upward.

Crumpling the note, Delka tossed it through the port and chucked the matches after it. He closed the porthole; the wisdom of his prompt action became apparent just as he was fixing the fastening. Behind him, Delka heard the sound of a key grating in a lock. Someone had come to the cabin.

DELKA slid across to the bunk and slumped there. An instant later, dull light flooded the cabin from an outer passage. Two ruffians entered the cabin; one flashed a light in Delka’s face. The Scotland Yard man opened his eyes and blinked.

“Come along,” growled one of the arrivals, grasping Delka’s shoulder. “Get movin’, you! We’ve been waitin’ for you to wake up.”

Delka started to rise: then made a pretence of weakness. He sagged back with a groan and lay motionless upon the bunk. The man started to shake him; then the fellow’s companion offered an objection.

“Leave him lay, Steve,” said the second rowdy. “Wait’ll I yank open that porthole an’ give him some air.”

“Oh yeah?” growled Steve. “Well, what’s Rigger goin’ to say about it? He said bring the mug up to the bridge.”

“He said bring him up if we can move him.”

“Well, ain’t that what I’m doin’, Bert? Wakin’ him up?”

Bert had opened the porthole. He turned around to argue with Steve, while Delka continued his role of possum with two purposes. His first was to give opportunity for the men who had sent down the bottle; they might need the time to plan his rescue. His second idea was to learn all he could by listening to Steve and Bert.

“Rigger ain’t in no hurry, Steve,” Bert stated. “He’s got to talk with the old man, up on the bridge. Get him primed to lay down the terms when we show up with this bird Delka.”

“The skipper’s welchin’, eh?” questioned Steve, glancing at Delka and flicking his light to make sure the prisoner was motionless. “I thought maybe he was gettin’ cold feet. What’s Rigger doin’ about it?”

“He don’t have to do nothin’. We own the boat, don’t we? Hilder may he captain of the Zouave, but Rigger Luxley gives the orders.”

“Then why is he lettin’ Hilder stall?”

“Just soft-soapin’ the old man, that’s all. Makin’ him think we ain’t goin’ to be too tough. Hilder’s got to cruise aroun’ in this tub after we’re through with it. An’ what’s more, he’s got to navigate it while we’re still on board. Savvy?”

“Sure! I get it, Bert. Well, leave it to Rigger. He’ll keep the old man in line.”

Steve began to shake Delka. He waited after one attempt; then became more rough. This time, the prisoner decided to respond. He came up to a sitting position and stared stupidly at the men who had come for him.

“O.K., Steve,” decided Bert. “Hoist him up.”

BETWEEN them, the two thugs supported the Scotland Yard man and moved him from the cabin.

Stumbling between them, Delka kept up the pretence that he was groggy. They reached a companionway. Delka became a heavy burden going up the steps. At last they reached the deck. Here the pair halted to regain their breath.

Eyes half opened, Delka looked cautiously about. He was on the forward deck of the tramp steamer.

Dim lights showed battened hatches and small, antiquated loading cranes. The bridge was just above; another flight of steps would be the next course.

There were men about the deck. Delka could make out their scattered figures. They looked like seamen but probably they were ruffians, like Steve and Bert. All except two; perhaps a few more. For Delka was positive that the note in the bottle had come from real friends on board.

Crew members had promised to aid him, if they could. But would their task be possible? From the conversation between Steve and Bert, Delka had learned that crooks must certainly outnumber real seamen aboard the Zouave. Hope dwindled within the prisoner as Steve and Bert began to move him toward the steps to the bridge.

It was then that Delka sensed a peculiar thrumming that sounded above the pounding of the Zouave’s engine. The purr was from high above, like the roar of an airplane motor. Steve and Bert heard it also; they stopped short and looked upward.

Dark night persisted above the feeble glow of the freighter’s top lights. No sign of an airplane’s riding lights. Nothing but a dreary half haze that formed a remnant of the broken fog.

Then the thrumming ceased. Silence reigned and the higher blackness. Steve and Bert stood puzzled.

They exchanged remarks.

“Sounds like some airplane,” growled Steve. “But what’s it doin’ offshore without no lights?”

“Maybe some guy got lost in the fog,” returned Bert. “Comin’ up from Florida or somewhere, maybe. Guess he’s spotted our lights, an’ is takin’ a chance on landin’ in the water.”

“So’s we’ll pick him up, huh? That’s a laugh, ain’t it? Fat chance Rigger will worry about that guy.”

“Well, it’s a cinch he won’t try to land on the deck. So what’s we got to do with it?”

The two thugs turned to drag their prisoner toward the steps to the bridge. At that moment, a man appeared at the doorway from the steps.

Delka was the first to see the newcomer, he needed no introduction to know that this was Rigger Luxley. Hard-faced, big-fisted, the man from the bridge glared at Steve and Bert.”

WHAT’S holding you mugs?” demanded Rigger. “I told you to bring Delka up to the bridge.”

“We’re bringin’ him, Rigger,” replied Steve.

“And mooning on the way,” snorted Rigger.

“On account of the airplane,” stated Bert. “We was listenin’ to it, Rigger. Up over the ship.”

“What airplane?” quizzed Rigger. “I didn’t hear any. I don’t hear one now.”

“Maybe it’s hit the water,” returned Steve. “We was just wonderin’. Anyway, Rigger, we had to get Delka awake before we could move him.”

“An’ we knew you was talkin’ to the skipper,” put in Bert. “Primin’ him for—”

“You mugs know too much!” rasped Rigger. “Come on! Load this dope up the steps so’s the old man can talk to him. I’m following.”

Rigger glared as his henchmen shoved Delka toward the steps. With a snort, the mobleader prepared to follow. Then, suddenly, Rigger wheeled. A downward swishing sound had caught his attention; following it came startled cries from along the deck.

Staring, Rigger saw a monstrous object as it swooped straight downward like a bird of prey. An autogiro, descending straight from the night, squarely upon the deck of the Zouave.

The huge, windmill blades above the ship were spinning as the pilot made his precarious landing. Then the autogiro reached the end of its descent. One wheel struck a hatch and jounced; the other wheel tilted to hit the deck.

For an instant, it looked as though the landing would prove disastrous. The lower wing keeled heavily, starting toward a sidewise overturn. Then the autogiro righted, swung half about. The lower wing crashed against a derrick. Struts crackled momentarily then the craft wavered to a standstill.

RIGGER LUXLEY bounded forward upon the deck, hand thrust to pocket, ready to draw a revolver.

He wanted to meet these intruders from the air; to challenge them and learn their identity. Rigger wanted no uninvited guests aboard the Zouave.

Half way to the autogiro, Rigger stopped short. He saw someone dropping from beside the plane. Rigger stared into the gloom, to make out the figure that he could barely discern.

Then from Rigger’s startled hips came a wild cry — one that was echoed by his minions as they rose from beside the rails of the Zouave. Leader and henchmen — all of New York’s underworld — had recognized the being from the autogiro.

In mocking challenge to the shouts of crooks came the burst of a strident laugh. Weird merriment broke from hidden lips beneath the lowered brim of a slouch hat. Automatics showed in the gloved fists of the cloaked figure that swept toward the center of the deck.

In one amazing second, men of crime had recognized their unexpected foe; and had heard his answer to their frantic outcry. The Shadow had come aboard the Zouave!