Part 3 (1/2)
”Chinamen!”
Blanchard tilted the rusted spectacles to his forehead, and the motionless gray orbs seemed to glint with a half-dead light.
”Chinamen? What Chinamen?” The spectacles slid back into place.
”One, a woman, came aboard as we were pulling out this afternoon. Who is she? Where is she? Where's she from? Where's she going? Who's with her? That's what I want to clear up.”
”Is that all?” squeaked Blanchard. His wrinkled, dried lips were struggling as if with indecision. A veiled, a thinly veiled conflict of emotions apparently was taking place behind that ancient gray mask.
”What--what for?” was the final outcome in a hesitant half-whisper.
”My private information,” smiled Peter. ”Just curious, that's all.
Didn't mean to pry open any dark secrets.” He made as if to go.
”Sparks! Don't be in a hurry. I'm not so busy.”
”Well?”
”What's botherin' you? Maybe I could straighten you out.”
”Who are the occupants of stateroom forty-four?” Peter replied.
Again the expression s.h.i.+fted like water smitten by an evil wind.
”Forty-four!” The words were mild explosions.
A long cardboard sheet with blue and red lines was produced from a noiselessly opened drawer.
”The pa.s.senger list. We shall see.” Blanchard's red, s.h.i.+ny forefinger clawed down the column of names, halting at the numeral forty-four.
The s.p.a.ce was blank. ”You see?”
”Empty?”
”Empty.” A restrained note of triumph was unquestionably evident in the purser's cracked voice.
”I'll bother you with just one more question. What is Len Yang?”
A look of doubt, of incredulity bordering upon feeble indignation, settled upon the serrated countenance. But Blanchard only shook his head as if he did not comprehend.
Peter slipped down from the bunk. ”Guess I'll take a turn on deck, if the fog's lifted, and roll in. G'night, purser.”
Blanchard started to say something, evidently thought better of it, and retrieved his pen. As he dipped the fine point into the red ink by mistake he flung another frown over his shoulder. The wireless man lingered on the threshold, swinging the door tentatively.
”G'night, Sparks.”
CHAPTER V
The _Vandalia_ was wallowing majestically through long, dead black swells. Peter poked his way up forward to the solitary lookout in the peak and glanced overside. Broad, phosph.o.r.escent swords broke smoothly with a rending, rus.h.i.+ng gurgle over the steep cut-water. His eyes darted here and there over the void as his mind struggled to straighten out this latest kink.
What facts of significance he might have discovered from Blanchard were overshadowed by the purser's suspicious att.i.tude. Blanchard knew, and Blanchard, for some reason, did not choose to divulge. This made matters more interesting, if slightly more complicated.