Hamilton Craigie - The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 2, No. 2 — November 1920)

After a long silence England Charlie, third mate, a big, gaunt cockney, with a red face and red hands, spoke up: “You said one o’ us wus th’ murderer, sir, but ’ow d’ we know you didn’t croak ’im?”

At this there was a murmur from the men. Encouraged, the cockney continued. “You’d be th’ one to benefit by ’is snuffin’ it—an Hi arsks, ’ow d’ we know you didn’t send ’im orf?”

Cardigan met his gaze coolly and smiled.

“You’re justified in saying that,” he admitted. “But I was at the wheel from six bells to four bells—and if any man aboard understands post mortem conditions he can examine the body and see that the skipper has been dead just about an hour—”

“But you could ’ave lashed th’ wheel,” persisted English Charlie.

Cardigan’s jaw shot forward at an ugly angle. “Are you trying to accuse me, Charlie?” he demanded. There came no reply and he went on, “More than ever I’m determined to leave nothing undone to find the man who killed the captain—and as a first step every one shall submit to a search for evidence—now. I’m in command here and I intend to assert my authority. Sykes, you and Stearns help me. Meanwhile, no one will leave the deck.”

As Cardigan started to descend the ladder he heard a savage oath, and, pausing, fastened his eyes upon the men.

“Did someone speak?” he rapped.

Ladd, a seaman, answered — “Jim Hickey here said he’d be damned if he was searched—”

“That’s a lie, sir!” broke in the bullet-headed mulatto, the great muscles in his arms standing out like whipcords.

Cardigan moved down and confronted the mulatto. “Did you say that?”

The boatswain, a Creole, stepped forward. “Eet ees so, m’sieur; I, ’Poleon Moncrief, hear’ heem. W’at ees more” — he cast a malicious glance at the mulatto, who stood with clinched fists, glaring at him — “I know w’y zat nigger he not want to be search’. I was een my bunk trying to go to sleep w’en ze cabanne boy he come below an’ drink a dam’ lot of rum. An’ w’en ze boy he fall asleep zat nigger he sink I not ’wake an’ get up an’ go to ze bunk of ze cabanne boy an’—”

A blasphemous oath left the mulatto’s thick lips. He made a move to spring at the Creole, but Cardigan placed himself between them.

“—He steal ze cabanne boy’s pay. I saw heem take eet from under ze mattress. An’ zat w’y he not want to be search’, m’sieur—because he know you fin’ too much money on heem.”

Cardigan turned upon the huge, brown-skinned figure.

“Is that the truth, Hickey? Aren’t you willing to be searched?”

The mulatto glared at ’Poleon Moncrief, spitting out a stream of vile oaths. “It’s a lie, sir; a damned, stinkin’ lie — made up by that—!”

With a quick, stealthy movement the Creole leaped around Cardigan and flung himself at the mulatto’s throat. Together they went to the deck, rolling upon the moist timbers.

As Cardigan stooped to separate them the mulatto freed himself by a sudden wrench and gained his feet, dashing along the deck toward the forward companion.

The first mate started in pursuit, but halted as his eyes fell upon a belaying pin that lay upon the deck not many feet away. Hastily arming himself with this formidable missile, he sent it spinning through the air after the fleeing figure. It caught the negro in the back of the skull; knocked him flat upon the deck planks.

Cardigan, followed by several of the crew, reached his side.

“He’s out for some time,” reported the first mate, bending over him. “Two of you lads carry him below and lock him up— But wait!”

He ran one hand into the rear pocket of the mulatto’s trousers, producing a black leather wallet. Opening it he withdrew a wad of bills, which he swiftly counted and returned to the wallet.

He smiled grimly. “All right, men; below with him.”

In the very midst of a dream The Boy was shot into consciousness. For a moment he could not remember where he was. He seemed to be caught in the teeth of a monster that shook him horribly, mercilessly. Half-remembered objects separated themselves from the chaos and he heard a distant voice pronouncing his name. Yet for some inexplicable reason he was unable to reply.

Gradually he extracted himself from the teeth of the monster; gradually objects settled into their regular places. Above him was a familiar face. As he recognized it sleep dropped from him as though severed by a blade.

“Get up,” he heard Cardigan say, while he shook him vigorously.

The Boy lurched to-his feet. As he brushed one hand across his lips he inhaled his breath, an odor that sickened him. Invisible hands seemed to jerk aside a drowsy fabric, revealing in their biting sharpness the incidents before his drunken sleep.

His soul shrank, dwindled with fear. Black Michael’s body had been found and the mate had come to accuse him— But how did he find out? The only incriminating evidence, the knife, had been thrown into the sea...

“I thought you promised me never to do this again,” reproved Cardigan. “But we’ll discuss that later. Come with me.”

The Boy was dreadfully afraid. The blood pounded in his temples, beat so loudly that it seemed to boom out his guilt. God! How could he meet Cardigan’s honest gaze—knowing in his heart that he had wielded the knife that finished Black Michael?

In some manner—he knew not how - he forced himself to follow the mate along the passage amidships and when they reached the cabin his fear increased to a panic as he perceived that Cardigan was making directly for Black Michael’s quarters.

He stood with a rapidly pounding heart behind the mate while he inserted a key in the lock and turned it.

Within, the slush-lamp, turned low, threw quivering shadows upon the walls. The air was warm and unpleasantly heavy with the smell of stale rum.

And there in the bunk it lay, covered with a sheet—The Thing.

Cardigan closed the door and turned the lamp higher. Mercy of God, thought The Boy, was he going to draw aside that sheet and...

“Boy,” commenced the man, halting beside the bunk. “I brought you here to show you this.” And he turned back the sheet.

Something worse than horror reached up and clutched at The Boy’s throat. He half closed his eyes; dared not shut them entirely, for The Thing fascinated him.

“The captain has been murdered,” Cardigan continued. “A few minutes ago I happened on the fore-poop. I dropped a wallet and it fell overside — but fortunately caught in the projecting space under the bowsprit. And when I picked it up I found this with it—”

He withdrew an object from the pocket of his pea-jacket. A cry leaped to The Boy’s lips—died.

There before him, sharp and ugly in the flickering glow of the slush-lamp, was the knife with which he killed Black Michael!

“Now come here,” commanded the mate.

He obeyed, the cabin reeling dizzily about him. What use was there of trying to hide the truth now? Cardigan knew and—

“Look,” was the sharp injunction.

And he looked... at The Thing on the bunk. As he saw the exposed chest a shriek of sheer terror was wrung from his throat.

“No, no!” he cried. “I didn’t stab him twice—I didn’t! Only once, in the dark... and then I ran—” He shuddered. “O, God, what have I said?”

With a broken sob he sank to his knees, burying his face in his hands. An instant later fingers closed over his shoulders and lifted him to his feet — fingers that were not rough but firm and determined.

“You said what I wanted to hear,” announced Cardigan. “Look at me, boy... There... Now, I’m going to question you and I want the truth, the truth — before the God that you just called on... When did you stab Black Michael?”