Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 57/Number 5/Hatching a Volcano/Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI.
A QUESTION OF TIME.
FOR a moment Brant stood back, flushed with his efforts, but in no way discomforted. He felt primed to overcome all further obstacles, although what to do next was still a problem. However, the odds against him had been reduced by one, and that in itself gave him greater confidence.
He became aware now that the yacht's engines were barely turning, and looking through the port, he made out a near-by shore line. Grotesque palms, touched by the magic of the stars, lifted their feathery beads against the sky. The narrow strip of beach was dazzling white, Yet no one was in sight; no sounds came from the drifting yacht or the beach beyond.
Presently, as Brant continued to survey the peaceful scene, a point of yellow light gleamed; then it advanced, flickering on and off among the trees like a will-o'-the-wisp. He decided that it was a man with a lantern who was coming toward the beach.
Evidently the Flamingo had arrived at its landing place. Brant realized he had not begun his work any too soon.
With his automatic out and ready for whatever emergency threatened him, Brant cautiously opened and peered from his door. The narrow corridor was deserted. Now that the engines had ceased to turn, the yacht was wrapped in silence.
Foot by foot, eyes and ears alert, he crept along the corridor to Miss Newberry's stateroom. Reaching it, he gave the prearranged signal. To his relief, the door opened instantly. He saw at a glance that the girl was alert and ready, doubtless warned of the impending crisis by the stopping of the boat. With a few whispered words he explained what had taken place in his own territory.
“Some one tried to get in here a moment ago,” the girl told him. “I heard them fumbling at the doorknob.”
“Probably Meech,” he replied.
Abruptly, cutting short their whispered conversation, a stealthy footstep sounded in the corridor. Brant guessed that some one had come below to account for the engineer's prolonged absence.
“It's either the cook or that other chap,” he asserted, his lips close to the girl's ear. “We'll have to settle with him. It's not likely to be Korry. He'll be superintending matters on deck.”
The footsteps came nearer and seemed to hesitate outside the stateroom door. Brant and his companion waited expectantly, pressing themselves against the wall, when, from the new sound, it was apparent that the newcomer was guardedly turning the doorknob.
The latch clicked audibly, and after a moment of silence the door began to open inch by inch. A man's head appeared in the opening—a head that even in the dim light Brant recognized as belonging to the Cuban cook.
Without hesitation or compunction, aware that more than his own safety depended upon quickness and dispatch in dealing with the chink runner's accomplices, Brant lifted the heavy automatic and brought it down upon the unprotected and unsuspecting head.
The cook uttered a grunt and pitched forward, his fall checked by Brant, who shot out an arm and caught the limp, sagging form. The new victim was dragged into the stateroom and the door closed. Precautions similar to those taken before, when Meech had played the leading rôle, were observed. Securely trussed and gagged, the Cuban was rolled unceremoniously into the bunk and left to undisturbed slumber.
Brant chuckled. “This is easy. One crook strangled and the other crowned. Reminds me of some of the comedy films I've seen,” he added lightly. “If we can get the other two villains to come down one at a time our little melodrama will be finished.”
For perhaps five minutes the so-far successful conspirators waited in the stateroom, before the hope that a third member of the crew would venture below in quest of his companions was dispelled. Thereupon Brant, somewhat impatient at the delay, could wait no longer.
“You remain here,” he said. “Keep your door locked, and don't venture out until you hear me call.”
“I intend to go with you,” the girl declared.
“Not much!”
“But I didn't ask you to join me and assume all the risk,” she insisted spiritedly.
“I haven't assumed any, so far,” he replied. “Why, it's been like knocking over ninepins with a bail. No; you remain right here. I can't let you go,” he added sternly.
“Very well,” she answered in apparent resignation. “I'll remain here—for exactly five minutes. No longer! And whether you summon me or not, I'm coming on deck.”
Unmoved by persuasion, and assuring Brant that she intended to play more than a super's rôle in the forthcoming drama. Miss Newberry won her argument. Brant bad to admire her attitude, even though he feared the consequences.
He let himself out into the corridor, but did not venture on his way until he heard the door locked behind him. With the knowledge that the girl would be reasonably safe inside the stateroom, and comforted by the expectation that before the expiration of the allotted five minutes he would be in command of the boat, Brant mounted the companionway and crouched warily in the shelter of the hatch.
From where he huddled, under cover of the friendly darkness, he could make out the shore, scarcely a hundred yards beyond, and the dim outlines of a broken wharf whose piles extended for some distance in the star-reflecting waters. The man with the lantern had vanished.
Lifting his head cautiously above the top of the hatch, Brant scanned the starboard deck. Two figures were visible, leaning over the rail forward of the pilot house. One of them he at once identified as Korry; the other was put down as the fourth member of the crew.
The inactivity aboard and beyond the yacht surprised him, and for an instant he wondered if the cargo had been landed. After a moment of reflection, however, he quieted his fears. The landing of the yellow men would have been attended with more or less noise; and he had heard nothing. In fact the boat had been stopped less than ten minutes. He reached the conclusion that some unforeseen hitch had interfered with the smuggler's program.
The delay, however occasioned, was fortunate for Brant. It had permitted him to reduce the odds against him, to plan his final bit of activity.
The two men forward had to be taken care of. That accomplished, the Flamingo drama would be well past its crucial act, and as the stage manager he would be ready to ring down the curtain.
After a deliberate survey of the scene and the forming of some vague plans, Brant crept from the shelter of the hatch, ducked around to the port deck, and edged his way toward the bow. Having previously removed his shoes, his stockinged feet made no sound.
As he drew near to the pilot house, his side of the deck wrapped in shadow, fragments of a low-pitched conversation between Korry and his satellite reached Brant's ears.
“You can wade 'em ashore from here all right,” Korry's companion was saying. “No use waitin' any longer.”
“Don't like to make so much noise,” the skipper protested. “Them monkeys hate water, and in spite of all we can do they'll raise a devil of a clatter when they go splashing across. No; soon's Meech comes back well lower the dinghy.”
“Seems to me Meech is takin' a long time below deck,” the other growled.
“Just thinking that myself,” Korry agreed.
Brant, crouched in the shadows, heard the men move away, and the conversation that followed became inaudible. He dropped to the deck and wormed himself along between the bridge and the lounge amidships.
Looking up guardedly, he found himself within six feet of where Korry's companion, astraddle the deck rail, was fumbling at the tarpaulin that covered the high-swung dinghy. Korry himself was some distance below, his back to the operations, obviously interested in matters astern.
Brant resolved upon a swift and daring coup. If either of the men ventured below deck and found their hapless companions, the situation would be perilous. It was a contingency to be forestalled.
Cautiously he brought himself erect. When the man beyond, balanced precariously on the rail, had raked in the tarpaulin and was on the point of lowering himself to the deck, Brant stepped forward and delivered a swift blow. His doubled fist caught the unsuspecting man below the ear. With a grunt of surprise he lost his balance, waved his arms helplessly in mid-air, and went overboard with a colossal splash.
Instantly ignoring him as one more adversary eliminated, Brant whirled. Korry, apparently startled by the noise, turned about at the same moment; but it was to find himself covered by a leveled automatic in the hand of his passenger.
“Keep your hands up, please!” Brant ordered crisply. “I haven't had a rehearsal with this firearm, and it may go off without warning.”
Amazed at the unforeseen appearance of his presumably drugged passenger, but at the same time entertaining a wholesome respect for the weapon that was leveled at a vital section of his anatomy, the skipper obeyed instructions.
In the water alongside the yacht, which must have been of unexpected depth at the point in which he toppled, the capsized individual was floundering about like a hooked tarpon, indifferent to the hubbub he created, and apparently more intent upon keeping afloat than in reasoning out the cause of his predicament.
Confident that the man was for the present beyond rendering assistance to his leader, Brant confined his attention to the bigger game he had trapped.
“Sorry to interfere with your plans, Korry,” he said, “but Miss Newberry and I decided that running contraband in the Flamingo was a highly objectionable pursuit. So in spite of the dream-producing powder you thoughtfully administered at dinner, I managed to get up before sunrise and declare myself.”
Korry, rapidly regaining his scattered senses, and being not inexperienced in facing what seemed to be disastrous circumstances, eyed his captor with insolent belligerency. Doubtless it was galling to one of his particular activities to find himself thwarted by an insignificant, smiling youth.
“Put up that gun!” he commanded. “What's the meaning of this—this tomfoolery? Do you think”
“Quite often,” Brant cut in. “In fact I've done considerable thinking before and since leaving Havana. It's too late to bluff now. We've dug up the whole plot, Korry, that began with your conniving with Captain Pruett and wound up with the episode in Callle Huerjanos.”
Whatever unpleasant thoughts played tag through his mind, Korry's face remained inscrutible. “Drop that gun and talk sense!” he snapped impatiently. “You're not acting in a play. If you don't behave you'll find yourself in trouble. My men”
“Your men have troubles of their own, captain,” Brant interrupted. “Meech and the Cuban cook are taking a nap below deck, and I imagine the chap that went overboard a moment ago isn't in condition to obey orders. So you see what you're up against.”
Before Korry could find words suitable to express an unflattering opinion of what his captor had revealed, Miss Newberry emerged from the hatch. She stood, a slender figure in the misty starlight, and gazed wonderingly at the scene before her.
Brant greeted her with a smile. “Are the five minutes up?” he inquired. “Good! You're just in time to take a hand in the finish. Suppose you investigate Korry's pockets! It'll be safer all around when he's disarmed.”
Unafraid, and without hesitation, the girl obeyed, the result of her search being a large and formidable revolver, which she tossed to Brant. Then, while she covered the prisoner, Brant proceeded to make use of a convenient coil of rope.
A few minutes later the chink runner, except for a gag, which was not at all necessary, was rendered as helpless as his confederates below deck.
“There!” Brant exclaimed, stepping back to survey his handiwork. “It's all over but the shouting. We'll let Korry do that, if he's in the mood.”
Miss Newberry, her eyes alight, came close beside Brant, her hands resting upon his arm. “You're splendid!” she breathed softly. “I never realized all the dangers involved when I asked you to join me.”
“Why, it's been a lark,” he assured her. “I've come off as scatheless as the proverbial movie hero.”
“What became of the fourth man?”
“He conveniently fell overboard.” Brant stepped to the rail and scanned the placid water between the yacht and the shore. “Out of sight now,” he added.
“Look!” The girl pointed shoreward. “I thought I saw some one running off through the trees.”
“Probably you did,” returned Brant. “Our friend must have an inkling of what's happened and decided to vanish. Can't blame him. Wonder if there are others ashore?” he went on meditatively.
“If Korry was to land his cargo here,” the girl said, “some provision must have been made to run them inland. I don't know exactly where we are; but a road follows the shore as far south as Caxambus. We must be close to it here.”"
“That would mean wagons or flivvers and several accomplices,” hazarded Brant. “They may be strolling this way, too. No sense of us mixing with them or being used for targets. It might be a wise plan if we weighed anchor and started off. Know how?” he inquired.
“It wouldn't be the first time,” she replied.
“Well, you'll find me pretty much of a greenhorn when it comes to starting an engine or handling a boat; but I'll be right on the job to follow your instructions.”
Having made a decision, the anchor was lifted, the engines started, and Miss Newberry took the wheel. Fortunately the lagoon was wide and deep and the tide high. In half an hour the Flamingo with its new crew in charge was out in the broad Gulf, her prow, breasting the gentle swells, headed southward.
They hugged the shore. It was merely a question of time before they picked up the cutter.