Array Sapper - The Complete Works of H. C. McNeile Sapper

We stopped on talking for a few minutes longer, when a sudden and frenzied explosion of mirth came from the wireless operator. I had noticed him taking down a message, which he was now reading over to himself, and after a moment or two of unrestrained joy, he came out on deck.

"What is it, Jenkins?" said the skipper.

"Message for the parson, sir," answered the operator. "There is a duplicate on the table."

He saluted, and went aft to find the Reverend Samuel.

"I think," murmured the skipper, with a twinkling in his eye, "that I will now inspect the wireless installation. Would you care to come with me?"

And this is what we, most reprehensibly, read:

"DEAR BROTHER how lovely the gentleman who guides our ship tells me we pass quite close about midday the day after tomorrow will lean over railings and wave pocket-handkerchief.—FERDINAND."

"My sainted aunt!" spluttered the skipper. "Lean over railings and wave pocket-handkerchief!"

"I think I prefer the gentleman who guides our ship," said Jim gravely. "Anyway, James, I shall borrow your telescope as we come abreast of Ferdinand. I'd just hate to miss him.' Good night,' old man. I don't think anyone could blame you if you had that message framed."

* * * * *

It was about half an hour later that the door of my cabin opened and Jim entered abruptly. I was lying in my bunk smoking a final cigarette, and I looked at him in mild surprise. He was fully dressed, though I had seen him start to take off his clothes twenty minutes before, and he was looking grave.

"You pay attention, Dick," he said quietly, sitting down on the other bunk. "I'd just got my coat off when I remembered I'd left my cigar-case in a niche up on deck. I went up to get it, and as I was putting it in my pocket I heard my own name mentioned. Somewhat naturally I stopped and listened. And I distinctly heard this sentence: 'Don't forget—you are absolutely responsible for Maitland.' I listened, but I couldn't catch anything else except a few disconnected words here and there, such as 'wireless', 'midday', though I must have stood there for five minutes. Then there was a general pushing-back of deck-chairs, and those seven black-coated blighters trooped off to bed. They didn't see me; they were on the other side of the funnel—but it made me think. You remember that remark you heard as we came on board? Well, why the deuce is this bunch of parsons so infernally interested in me? I don't like it, Dick." He looked at me hard through his eyeglass. "Do you think they are parsons?"

I sat up in bed with a jerk.

"What do you mean—do I think they're parsons? Of course they're parsons. Why shouldn't they be parsons?" But I suddenly felt very wide awake.

Jim thoughtfully lit a cigar.

"Quite—why shouldn't they be?" At the same time he paused, and blew out a cloud of smoke. "Dick, I suppose I'm a suspicious bird, but this interest—this peculiar interest—in me is strange, to say the least of it. Of course, it may be that they regard me as a particularly black soul to be plucked from the burning, in which case I ought to feel duly flattered. On the other hand, let us suppose for a second that they are not parsons. Well, I don't think I am being unduly conceited if I say that I have a fairly well-known reputation as a tough customer if trouble occurs."

And now all thoughts of sleep had left me.

"Just exactly what do you mean, Jim?" I demanded. He answered my question by another.

"Don't you think, Dick, that that radiograph was just a little too damn foolish to be quite genuine?"

"Well, it was genuine right enough. Jenkins took it down in front of our eyes."

"Oh, it was sent—I'm not denying that. And it was sent as he received it and as we read it. But was it sent by a genuine parson, cruising in a genuine yacht for his health? If so, my opinion of the brains of the Church drops below par. But if "—he drew deeply at his cigar—"if, Dick, it was not sent by a genuine parson, but by someone who wished to pose as the drivelling idiot curate of fiction—why, my opinion of the brains of the Church remains at par."

"Look here," I said, lighting a cigarette. "I may be several sorts of ass, but I can't get you. Granting your latter supposition, why should anyone not only want to pose as a parson when he wasn't one, but also take the trouble to send fool messages round the universe?

"Has it occurred to you," said Jim quietly, "that two very useful pieces of information have been included in those two fool messages? First, our exact position at a given moment, and our course, and our speed. Secondly, the approximate time when the convalescing curate in the yacht belonging to the kind friend will impinge on that course. And the third fact—not contained in either message, but which may possibly have a bearing on things, is that on board this boat there is half a million in gold specie and a quarter of a million in pearls."

"Good heavens!" I muttered, staring at him foolishly.

"Mark you, Dick, I may have stumbled into a real first-class mare's nest. The Reverend Samuel and his pals may be all that they say and more, but I don't like this tender solicitude for my salvation."

"Are you going to say anything to the skipper?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered. "I think I shall tell James. But he's a pig-headed fellow, and he'll probably be darned rude about it. I should if I were him. They aren't worrying over his salvation."

And with that he went to bed, leaving me thinking fairly acutely. Could there be anything in it? Could it be possible that anyone would attempt piracy in the twentieth century, especially when the ship, as the skipper had pointed out, was equipped with wireless? It was ridiculous, and the next morning I went round to Jim's cabin to tell him so. It was empty, and there was a note lying on the bed addressed to me. It was brief and to the point.

"I am ill in bed with a sharp dose of fever. Pass the good news on.—JIM."

I did so, at breakfast, and I thought I detected a shade of relief pass over the face of the Reverend Samuel, though he inquired most solicitously about the sufferer, and even went so far as to wish to give him some patent remedy of his own. But I assured him that quinine and quiet were all that were required, coupled with a starvation diet, and with that the matter dropped.

And then there began a time for me of irritating suspense. Not a sign of Jim did I see for the whole of that day and the following night. His door had been locked since I went in before breakfast, and I didn't even know if he was inside or not. All I did know was that something was doing, and there are few things more annoying than being out of a game you know is being played. Afterwards I realised that it was unavoidable: at the time I cursed inwardly and often.

And the strange thing is that when the thing did occur it came with almost as much of a shock to me as if I had had no previous suspicions. It was the suddenness of it, I think—the suddenness and the absolute absence of any fuss or shouting. Naturally, I didn't see the whole thing in its entirety; my outlook was limited to what happened to me and in my own vicinity.

I suppose it was about half-past eleven, and I was strolling up and down the deck. Midday had been the time mentioned, and I was feeling excited and restless. Mrs. Armstrong and her daughter were seated in their usual place, and I stopped and spoke a few words to them. Usually Mrs. Armstrong was the talker of the two—a big, gaunt woman with yellow spectacles, but pleasant and homely. This morning, however, the daughter answered, and her mother, who had put on a veil in addition to her spectacles, sat silently beside her.

"Poor mother has got such a headache from the glare that she has had to put on a veil," she said. "I hope Mr. Maitland is better."