Edgar Wallace - The Yellow Snake

“I’m her only relation, Cliff,” said Joe Bray’s voice. “It’s natural an’ proper for a young gel–-“

“Shut up!” hissed Lynne, and the humour of this exchange between one who was anxious to take Clifford’s place as comforter was almost too much for the girl.

There came the sound of tapping on the portlight.

“Why have you put the light out?” demanded Fing-Su’s voice.

“The young woman is undressing,” said Cliff, speaking in the dialect and giving a fair imitation of the stout woman from Honan.

He heard the man’s grumbling voice:

“Why didn’t she undress in the bedroom?” But evidently Fing-Su was satisfied, and he moved off.

Through the window Clifford could see that the ship was in the middle of the river heading downstream and going at half speed. He was puzzled as to why Fing-Su had left the girl here, in so exposed a part of the vessel, which was certain to be boarded at Gravesend not only by representatives of the Port of London, but by the pilot who was to take her out to sea. Moreover, it would be growing light in an hour, and that would make the danger of discovery all the more pressing. He heard men working outside, and after a while one of the portlights was obscured, and he guessed that they were piling deck cargo round the door.

Their position was a precarious one, as the superintendent pointed out.

“We should have held up Fing-Su when he opened the door,” he said, but Clifford shook his head.

“That sounds simple, but somehow I don’t think that he will come into the cabin until the ship is well out to sea,” he said seriously. “We’re going to have trouble. Is there any chance of forcing the door?”

Willing tried the door and shook his head.

“It would be easy to smash the portlights,” he suggested.

Clifford smiled in spite of himself.

“But even you couldn’t get through the portlights, superintendent!” he said dryly.

“We could draw attention–-“

“Two unarmed officials would be of very little use to us. Before they could bring help, even supposing Fing-Su let them off, we should be dead. No, the only thing to do is to wait. Sooner or later they must open the door, and the moment we get Fing-Su in this cabin there will be no more trouble—except for Fing-Su!”

Dawn was breaking, but they saw little of the blessed light of day, for bale after bale had been piled up before the deckhouse until its portholes were completely darkened. It so interfered with the ventilation that the air grew foul and breathing was difficult, a possibility which Fing-Su had probably overlooked, and they were compelled to retreat to the inner room, where the air was fresh, and here they sat as hour followed hour, listening. They heard the ship’s engines stop, and the Umveli remained stationary for the greater part of an hour; then, with a sinking of heart, they heard again the throb throb of engines, and presently the ship began to roll slightly as it came to sea.

Evidently the bales had been placed before the portholes and door for the purpose which Clifford had guessed, for hardly had they struck the open sea when daylight appeared, and through the ventilators placed on a level with the floor came a current of sweet air.

Food must be brought in soon, and they waited for the door to open. The old Amah had given up weeping and bemoaning her fate, and squatted now, a sullen, fatalistic figure, in one corner of the tiny cabin. The passage of time did not reconcile her to captivity. Her teeth continued to chatter, and it was she who brought about the undoing of their plan. Clifford Lynne learnt afterwards that the cook whose duty it was to bring the breakfast was her son, and it was fear for his life that made her utter a piercing scream when the key came into the lock. Before they could restrain her she had rushed out of the cabin, uttering yell after yell. Old Joe Bray darted after her, caught her round her ample waist, and covered her face with his hands. But it was too late: someone was glaring round the porthole. It was Fing-Su, and Cliff saw that he in turn had been recognized. He pulled his gun and fired twice. The glass of the porthole was shattered to splinters.

“That’s done it!” said the detective with a growl.

They heard a shrill whistle blow, and, glancing sideways through one of the portholes, Clifford saw armed coolies swarming out of the forecastle, buckling their revolver belts as they came. As he looked, he leapt back in time. A shot went through the second of the portholes, and a splinter of glass cut his cheek. The third port went the same way, and almost immediately three rifle barrels were thrust through. They dropped to cover under the protecting steel wall of the deckhouse, and as the guns exploded Cliff gripped the barrel nearest to him and jerked it inside. With his free hand he grabbed the girl and drew her to him.

“Lie very quiet,” he said. “You’ll be perfectly safe–-“

At this moment the door was flung wide, and with a scream the old Amah fled through, to everybody’s relief. A second later a black object appeared at the edge of the doorway, and even as Clifford Lynne pulled the trigger he realized that it was only a mophead.

“Steady your arm, Cliff,” warned Joe Bray. He had a gun in each hand, but as yet he had not wasted a shot. “They’re drawing our fire. We’ve got no other ammunition than what’s in the gun, have we?”

Clifford shook his head. Outside they could hear Fing-Su jabbering orders, and a lower but more authoritative voice which, Clifford guessed, was that of the captain of the ship—another Negro, Clifford was to learn, and the only other member of the ship’s company beside the purser who was not Chinese.

The rifles were suddenly withdrawn from the broken portholes and they heard something being dragged along the deck, and the alleyway door was slammed tight.

“Get in the inner room,” shouted Willing, and pushing the girl before him, Clifford reached sanctuary as the brass nozzle of a great hose was thrust through one of the broken portholes.

Instantly the room hissed with the furious rush of water, and Clifford made a hasty reconnaissance. There was no outlet to the water; the ventilators would hardly drain off a gallon a minute. A second nozzle had appeared and the water was already ankle-deep. Soon it swelled over the ledge of the inner door; and by this time two more hoses were at work.

Clifford made a rough calculation and grinned. Long before the water reached the level of the portholes something would happen. He remembered enough of his school mathematics to know that the factor of metacentric height would come into operation.

Higher and higher the water came. Some little escaped through the ventilators and the crevices between door and doorway, but the inrush was so heavy and continuous that it was only a question of time now before Fing-Su had the fright of his life.

“Lynne!” It was Fing-Su who was shouting. “Throw out your arms and you’ll be treated fairly. I’ll put you all ashore.”

Clifford Lynne did not answer. He wanted one glimpse of that face, only for the fraction of a second. Suddenly, caught in the trough of a sea, the Umveli gave a great lurch to starboard and the water splashed and gurgled up to the neck of Joe Bray, who was standing by the starboard bulkhead. For a long time the vessel lay over on her side and only very slowly righted herself. The moving weight of sixty tons of water was making itself felt.

They heard excited voices outside, and one by one the hoses were pulled back and the flow of water ceased. There came a hammering at the door; under the weight of the water it burst open with a report like a gun, and the water poured out in a solid stream.

“Too much weight on deck has made her unwieldy,” said Lynne under his breath. “The skipper’s scared of it—I thought this would happen!”