there was no doubt about it: mr. benjamin skeets was a very crafty fellow. by adopting the disguise of a woman, and acting up to the part of a vulgar parvenue, he had completely covered his tracks, and had thrown dust into the eyes of everyone with whom he had come in contact—up to a certain point and then only with one exception.
messrs. skeets and shale were no mere novices in crime, and their daring coup of defrauding the united trusts banking company of the round sum of ￡30,000, and their subsequent disappearance, had both mystified and astonished the british public by its audacity, and had completely baffled the greatest detective experts of scotland yard.
skeets had lived up to his disguise very thoroughly. even the subsequent engagement of miss olive baird had been undertaken solely with the idea of elaborating the smaller but by no means unnecessary details of his disguise. since there was no reliable description of mr. joseph shales, who was the unseen partner in the deal with the banking firm, it was a fairly simple matter for him to get out of the country under the guise of the husband of "mrs. shallop".
it had been the intention of the precious pair to leave the west barbican at cape town; hence mrs. shallop's anxiety to get a wireless message through as soon as the ship came within radio range of table bay. but the absence of a reply from skeets's confederate at cape town had so startled the fugitives that they decided to go on until they found a convenient port, preferably in india, where they could lie low and live on their ill-gotten plunder.
the foundering of the west barbican had upset their calculations. practically the whole of the pair's booty went down with the ship. mr. shallop, otherwise shales, having no further use for his destitute partner, went off in one of the ship's boats which was eventually picked up. arriving at cape town he took the ill-advised step of looking-up a pal. the latter was already languishing in a south african penal establishment, and mr. shales, upon making inquiries, was enlightened by an acquaintance of the convict, who chanced to be an astute detective.
the outcome of this meeting was that mr. shallop, under the mellow influence of strong waters, said more than he would have done had he been in his sober senses. recovering from his maudlin state he found himself in custody.
having no belief in the worn proverb concerning honour amongst thieves, and perhaps fully convinced that his partner in crime had been lost in the disaster to the west barbican, joseph shales confessed to a minor part in the united trusts bank frauds, at the same time laying the blame upon the missing benjamin skeets.
the immediate result was that directly the news was cabled that more survivors from the west barbican, including mrs. shallop, had been landed at pangawani, the kilba protectorate police were instructed to arrest the much-wanted benjamin.
before mostyn left to go on board the quilboma he had an opportunity of saying farewell to olive, and at the same time telling her of the astounding news.
"and to think that she—or, rather, he—bluffed the whole jolly lot of us," he added. "even the old man and doctor selwyn were taken in completely."
"not all of us, peter," rejoined the girl softly. "i knew—but not at first."
"by jove!" ejaculated the astonished mostyn. "you did? when did you?"
"not until the west barbican was sinking," replied olive. "i found it out then: i couldn't help it. of course, i didn't know exactly what to do, and i knew nothing whatever of the crime she—i mean, he—had committed. but i meant to tell you some day, peter."
"we are well rid of him," remarked mostyn.
"yes," agreed the girl thoughtfully. then, after a pause, she added frankly. "but if it had not been for mrs. shallop i might never have met you, peter."
mostyn departed radiantly upon the voyage on which depended the fate of the brocklington ironworks company's contract.
it was not until the day following that davis, in his official capacity, completed the inspection of the dhow. when he came to knock off the lid of the box in which mostyn had nailed up the gold and silver coins, he found that, although the seals were intact, the money had vanished.
davis gave a low whistle.
"that stuff's been lifted before the dhow put into pangawani," he declared to his assistant. "the seals being intact proves that."
his companion laughed.
"after sneaking ￡30,000 friend skeets wouldn't scruple to lift that little lot," he remarked.
"s'pose so," conceded davis. "we'll go and report the loss; but i'm afraid that mrs. shallop has got well away with it this time."
which was exactly what had happened. as far as the authorities at pangawani were concerned benjamin skeets had vanished, seemingly into thin air. although the daily train from pangawani up-country had been rigorously searched at every intermediate station, soon after the flight of the much wanted man was made known, no one unable to give a good account of himself or herself had been discovered. with the exception of the quilboma no vessel had left the port during the previous twenty-four hours. native police and trackers had scoured the bush for miles in the vicinity of pangawani without picking up any traces of the fugitive.
*****
meanwhile peter mostyn was speeding south on board the s.s. quilboma. from the moment the harbour launch had placed him on the deck of the tramp outside pangawani bar, he was entirely cut off from news of the rest of the world. the quilboma was not fitted with wireless, her owners, since the relaxation of board of trade regulations on the termination of the war, having dispensed with what they considered to be an unprofitable, expensive, and unnecessary outfit.
the tramp was only of 1500 tons gross register, and with a speed of nine knots. her engines were of an antiquated, reciprocating type, while her coal consumption was out of all proportion to her carrying capacity. had she been plying in home waters she would never have passed the official re-survey; consequently her owners, one of whom was her skipper, took good care to confine the quilboma's activities to the red sea and indian ocean.
in fine weather, and aided by the current constantly setting southward through the mozambique channel, the quilboma was actually making between eleven and a half and twelve knots "over the ground". three days after leaving pangawani she arrived at the entrance to bulonga harbour.
six hours elapsed before she was berthed alongside the rotting wharf, to dry-out in a bed of noxious mud as the tide left her.
mostyn got to work promptly, and with his accustomed enthusiasm. he had the good luck to find the portuguese agent on the spot. the preposterous storage charges were discussed, haggled over, and settled; gangs of native workmen were hired, and the task of loading up the quilboma with her bulky but precious cargo began.
it was now that peter met with a sudden and unexpected check, for, on inspecting the metalwork, he found that even in a comparatively short time the moist, tropical atmosphere had attacked the steel in spite of the coating of oxide it had received before leaving england.
to deliver it in this state meant a possible, nay, probable rejection by the consignees; but fortunately the skipper of the quilboma rose to the occasion.
"i've a couple o' kegs of oxide aboard," he announced. "put the niggers on to it, and let 'em give the stuff another coat."
"over the rust?" queried the conscientious peter,
the old man winked solemnly.
"who's to know?" he asked. "paint's like charity: covers a multitude of defects."
"that won't do for me," declared peter. "i'll have every bit of the scale chipped off before the least flick of paint is put on."
the skipper shrugged his shoulders but refrained from audible comment. although in his mind he considered his charterer to be a silly young owl, especially as he was bound to a time limit, he had to confess that mostyn was doing the right thing.
it took the native workmen two days of unremitting toil (peter and the portuguese agent took care that it was unremitting) to clean the steelwork and recoat it with oxide. then the loading commenced.
with the perspiration pouring down his face, mostyn supervised the removal of the ponderous girders from the enclosure, the chief mate being responsible for the storage of the material in the hold.
presently the old man, puffing like a grampus, hurried up to mostyn.
"those four long bits won't stow," he announced. "our main hold ain't long enough, not by five feet."
"will they stow on deck?" asked mostyn.
"and capsize the old hooker in the first bit o' dirty weather we run into?" rejoined the skipper caustically. "you don't catch me doing that, my dear sir. we'll have to leave 'em behind, and the thylied can pick 'em up. she's about due to leave port elizabeth, and ought to be here in a week's time."
"look here, skipper," said peter firmly. "you contracted to bring this consignment from bulonga to pangawani. i gave you the dimensions of the longest girders before we came to terms, and you declared to me that you could stow the whole of the consignment. and you'll have to do it."
"it ain't a matter of life an' death," expostulated the old man. "i'll make a liberal abatement in the freightage charges and—
"you won't," declared mostyn firmly. "you won't, because you've got to ship every bit of that steelwork; so get busy."
the skipper of the quilboma was one of those easy-going, obliging sort of fellows who can rarely make up their minds and act unless dominated by a person of strong, individual character. he was inclined to let things drift, and would assuredly choose the line of least resistance regardless of the consequences. as a navigator he was passable; as a seaman he lacked the alertness and decision necessary to shine at his profession. for years he had been in command of the quilboma, and not once in that time had he found himself in a really tight corner. it was luck—pure luck—which might at a very inopportune moment let him down very badly.
"what do you suggest then?" he growled.
"i suggested deck cargo," replied peter. "you turned it down. i don't question your authority or your wisdom on that point. the rest is up to you."
"a' right," rejoined the old man. "you just hang on here and keep these niggers up to scratch. i'll fix it up somehow."
and "fix it up somehow" he did; for when at sundown mostyn returned to the ship he found that the long, heavy girders were stowed. the old man had had the bulkhead between the main hold and the boiler-room cut through—it did not require much labour, so worn and rusty were the steel plates of that bulkhead—with the result that one end of each of the troublesome girders was within six inches of the for'ard boiler.
at length the loading-up was completed. steam was raised in the wheezy boilers; the portuguese customs officials were "suitably rewarded", and clearance papers obtained; and at four in the afternoon the quilboma crossed the bar of bulonga harbour, starboarded helm, and shaped a course for pangawani.
head winds and an adverse current made a vast difference to the speed of the old tramp. she had taken but three days to run south; five days still found her plugging ahead with pangawani a good fifty miles off.
the quilboma was now making bad weather of it. her foredeck was constantly under water, as she pitched and wallowed against the head seas. the glass was falling rapidly. unless the ship made harbour before the threatened storm broke, it would be impossible to cross the bar until the weather moderated.
the old man began to look anxious.
at midday peter was with the skipper on the bridge when the chief engineer approached the old man.
"coal's running low," he reported without any preliminaries.
"how long can you carry on for, mr. jackson?" inquired the captain.
"for five hours; less maybe," was the reply. "she's simply mopping up coal on this run. goodness knows why, 'cause i haven't been pressing her overmuch."
the old man nodded. he quite understood. to run the antiquated engines at anything approaching full speed ahead might easily result in the patched-up boilers refusing duty altogether.
"five hours'll about do," he declared. "keep her at it, mr. jackson."
the chief engineer departed. he was not so sure that he could "keep her at it". under normal conditions the coal taken on board at pangawani ought to have been more than enough for the round trip. unaccountably the consumption was much above the average, with the awkward result that the bunkers were nearly empty.
"pangawani ain't barry roads," remarked the old man to his charterer. "there isn't a tug at pangawani; but i'd bet my bottom dollar that, if we were this distance from cardiff, there'd be a round dozen o' tugs buzzing round an' clamouring to give us a pluck in. no, laddie, we'll have to do it on our own, and we'll jolly well do it, too!"
"evidently the old man's got a 'do or die' spasm," thought peter, bearing in mind his previous experience with the weak-willed master of the s.s. quilboma. "let's hope it will last."
by four in the afternoon the old man sang to a different tune. the quilboma was now within ten miles of pangawani; but so low was the pressure in her steam-gauges that she was making a bare five knots.
"i'll signal the first old hooker we fall in with and get her to give us a tow," he decided.
"not much chance of sighting a vessel off pangawani, is there?" asked mostyn.
"you never know your luck," quoted the old man sententiously, as he stared apprehensively at the storm clouds banking up to wind'ard.
a few minutes later the skipper of the s.s. quilboma underwent another change of character.
he blew the whistle of the engine-room voice-tube.
"how goes it, jackson? last shovelful out of the bunker? how are you off for oil? yes, any sort. fair amount—good. well, stand by: i'll fix you up."
the threatening storm had completely roused the old man to definite, practical action. he surpassed himself, and, incidentally, surprised himself and others into the bargain.
shouting to some of the hands he ordered them to bring axes and to smash up one of the quarter-boats.
"don't stand there lookin' into the air," he bawled angrily. "lay aft and do what you're told. i know what i'm doin'. carve up that blank boat and pass the dunnage down to the stokehold, and be mighty slick about it."
the men, realizing the object of what had previously seemed to be a wanton act of destruction, set to work with a will. in a very few minutes the quarter-davits on the port side were looking very gaunt and forlorn, while a good five hundredweights of wood soaked in crude oil helped to feed the ravenous furnaces.
half an hour later another boat shared the fate of the first, while, in addition, the crew collected various inflammable gear and passed it below, where sweating firemen threw the impromptu fuel into the furnaces. bales of cotton waste soaked in oil were added to leaven the whole lump, until the quilboma's stumpy, salt-rimed funnel threw out volumes of smoke that spread for miles astern like a grimy, evil-smelling pall.
the quilboma was now within sight of her goal. broad on the port bow could be discerned the long, low beach fringed with a quavering line of milk-white foam and backed by the waving coco-palms and the picturesque bungalows of kilba's principal port.
"how long will that little lot last you, mr. jackson?" inquired the old man per voice-tube. "forty minutes? ay, i'll see to that."
he pointed to one of the lifeboats. the deck-hands, grasping the significance of this display of dumb-show, threw themselves upon the boat. axes gleamed and fell with a succession of mingled thuds and crashes. planks, timbers, knees, breast-hooks, thwarts, masts, and oars—all went below to the still insatiable maw of the devouring element.
the skipper of the quilboma made no attempt to signal for a pilot. for one reason, he knew the dangerous entrance intimately; for another, it was doubtful whether the pilot could come out and board the vessel. yet another: the ship could not afford to wait, with her steam pressure falling and the storm perilously close.
"starboard—meet her—at that—steady!"
the skipper, standing beside the two quartermasters at the helm, was about to take his sorely tried craft over the dangerous bar. it required pluck, but there was no option if she were to make port at all. it had to be now or never, for, if the quilboma failed to make the bar, she would either be dashed to pieces on the reef or drift helplessly at the mercy of the gale.
with the wind now broad on the starboard beam the old tramp rolled horribly. peter, hanging on to the bridge-rail, fancied that every piece of steelwork in the hold had broken adrift. groaning, thudding, quivering, swept by sheets of blinding spray, the quilboma staggered towards the danger-zone. at one moment her propeller was almost clear of the water; at the next the labouring engines seemed to be pulled up, as the madly racing blades sank deep beneath the surface of the broiling sea.
now she was in the thick of it. tossed about like a cork, wallowing like a barrel, the old tramp was almost unmanageable. one of the quartermasters was juggling with the wheel of the steam steering-gear like a man possessed, as he strove to keep the old hooker on her course. to port and starboard the ugly reef was showing its teeth, as the remorseless breakers crashed and receded with a continual roar of thunder.
suddenly a thud, different from the rest of the hideous noises, shook the ship from stem to stern. for a moment—to peter the pause seemed interminable—she seemed to hang up. then, with a sickening, sideways lurch she dragged over the hard sand into the comparatively deep and sheltered waters beyond.
"done it, by jove!" exclaimed the old man, as he rang down for half-speed ahead. "we're in."
but he was trembling like a person in a fit.
twenty minutes later the s.s. quilboma berthed alongside the quay. the order to draw fires was a superfluous one. the furnaces had burned themselves out.
