Part 6 (1/2)
A pale, malignant face was framed momentarily in one of the starboard windows.
Peter blinked, then bounded after. The salesman impeded his progress and grudgingly gave way.
The deck was empty, slippery with the wet of the mist. He was suddenly aware that one of the ports, in the neighborhood of the stateroom he had entered, was ajar. Nervously he halted, gasping as a long, trembling hand, at the extremity of a spectral wrist, plucked at his sleeve. Blanched as an arm of the adolescent moon, it fumbled weakly at his clutching fingers--and was swiftly withdrawn!
The staring eyes of a white, gibbous face sank back from the hole.
Below the nose the face seemed not to exist.
Its horror wrapped an icy cord about his heart. He plunged his arm to the shoulder through the round opening, struck a yielding, warm body; descending claws steeled about his wrist and deliberately forced him back.
The bra.s.s-bound gla.s.s squeezed on his fingers. He wrenched them free, crushed, throbbing, and warmly wet. The anguish seemed to extend to his elbow. Then, suddenly, the gruff, seasoned voice of Captain Jones descended from s.p.a.ce behind him. ”Sparks, come to my cabin.”
Peter followed the brutish shoulders to the forward companionway, endeavoring to clarify his thoughts. Mild confusion prevailed when Captain Jones closed and locked the door of his s.p.a.cious stateroom behind them and dropped heavily into one of the c.u.mbersome teak chairs.
He was a hardened, brawny chunk of a man, choleric in aspect and temperament, brutal in method, bluntly decisive in opinion. Iron was his metal. ”Starboard Jones” was one of the few living men who had successfully run the j.a.p blockade into Vladivostok during that b.l.o.o.d.y tiff between the black bear and the island panther.
Reddened sockets displayed keen, blue eyes in a background of perpetual fire. His large, swollen nose had a vinous tint, acquiring purplishness in cold weather. Tiny red veins, as numerous as the cracks in Satsuma-ware, spread across both cheeks in a carmine filigree.
His cabin was ornamented chiefly by hand-tinted photographs from the yos.h.i.+waras of Nagasaki, of simpering, coy geishas. Souvenirs of their trade, glittering fans, nicked teacups, flimsy sandals, adorned the available shelf room. Cigars as brawny and black as if their maker had striven to emulate the captain's own bulk were scattered among papers on his narrow desk.
He reached clumsily for one of these brown cylinders now, neglecting to remove his glance of gloating austerity from the operator's tense face.
”Haven't seen much of you lately, Sparks,” he observed, applying a steady match flame to the oval b.u.t.t. He spoke in his usual tones, with a gruffness that balanced on a razor edge between rough jocularity and official harshness. ”What's new? Have one of my ropes?”
Peter studied the glowing end narrowly. ”Had a little trouble first night out. No, thanks. Not smoking to-night.” His bruised finger-tips were curved up tenderly in his coat pocket.
”What's 'at?” The steel eyes were motionless beneath half-lowered lids.
”Some one used an electric machine. Jammed my signals.”
The choleric face dipped knowingly. What Captain Jones did not comprehend he invariably pretended to comprehend. ”Noticed anything else?” His ruddy face was now weighty with significance.
Peter sat up abruptly. ”What!”
A thick, red forefinger threatened, ”Lis'n to me, Sparks, you're a overgrown, blundering bull in a china-shop. You're----”
”Well?” There was a trace of anger in Peter's suave inquiry. His face became stony white. A spot of color appeared at either cheek.
”I mean: Keep your d.a.m.n nose out of what don't concern you. Savvy?”
The heated words spilled thickly from the captain's red lips. ”I mean: b.u.t.t out of what concerns Chinese women and--and--other words, mind your own particular d.a.m.n business! Duty on this s.h.i.+p's to mind the radio. What goes on outside your shanty's none of your d.a.m.n concern!”
Captain Jones' mouth remained open, and the b.u.t.t of the black cigar slid into it.
Peter raised a restraining hand. His lips trembled. His eyes seemed to snap in a rapid fire between the eyes and mouth of the big man slouched down in the chair in front of him. ”Wait a minute,” he spat out. ”Since you do know that somebody is being kidnapped on this s.h.i.+p----”
”What in h.e.l.l do you mean?”
”Exactly what I say. A Chinese woman, no matter who she is--is hiding some one, a woman, somewhere on this s.h.i.+p. That woman--that woman who's being held--grabbed my hand not five minutes ago. It's your duty----”
”Keep your hands where they belong. You're talking like a fool.