The Devil's Admiral Part 4

Perhaps I should have told the policeman about Petrak, when I heard the c.o.c.kney say he had seen a red-headed little man in a white navy-cap running away from the Flags.h.i.+p Bar. But, if I had, I might have been held as a witness and nothing come of it, for it developed that the c.o.c.kney knew nothing about the murder--as he said he had simply seen the little man running away from the scene.

I had other business beside aiding the police to find the murderer of a sailor, and that business was to get to Hong-Kong as quickly as I could in the _Kut Sang_. Even then it was time that I hasten to the dock and board the steamer. I hailed a _cochero_ and, leaving the Manila police to settle their own mysteries, got my baggage from the Oriente and rode through Binondo toward the waterfront.

Now it occurs to me that I must set down in their order the events of that day in their proper sequence, which compels me to tell of my meeting with Mr. Trego in the Hong-Kong-Shanghai Bank.

It was not until the whole affair was ended that the significance of that apparently casual meeting in the bank came upon me with its full force, and I saw the pattern of what was to become a tangled succession of the most queer happenings.

There were papers at the bank which I must take with me, and on the way to the docks I stopped there. As I went in there was a sallow-faced man standing outside a grated window talking with a teller. He was smoking a long Russian cigarette, and pulling with nervous fingers at a tiny black moustache. His malacca cane was leaning against the wall by his side. I recognized him as the man who had driven the Rev. Luther Meeker out of the rear room of the bank, when the latter went in to seek alms, as he said.

He stood aside as I approached the teller's window, and the clerk handed out the papers to me, with a smile and some trifling remark.

"When are you leaving, Mr. Trenholm?" asked the clerk.

"In an hour in the _Kut Sang_," I said, and the man with the cigarette turned round and surveyed me with mild surprise. As I stepped to the door he went up to the window and whispered something to the clerk.

"Mr. Trenholm! Just one minute, please, Mr. Trenholm!"

The clerk called me and I halted, thinking that he had forgotten something about my letter of credit, or wanted my signature again.

"I want you to meet Mr. Trego," said the teller. "He will be with you in the _Kut Sang_."

I bowed, and Mr. Trego bowed, but his eyes were appraising me as he looked at me, although outwardly he had the excessive politeness of a Latin.

"I am very glad to meet you," he said without the trace of an accent, although in that mechanical manner which makes the words sound as if they had been read many times out of a grammar or phrase-book. I took him for a Frenchman.

"I must be going now, but I hope to meet you on board," I said, and we bowed again and I left him.

"He's all right," I heard the teller say as I went out, and understood that the bank-clerk had a.s.sured Trego that my character was good enough for him to be friendly with me on the pa.s.sage to Hong-Kong.

As we swung out of Calle San Fernando I saw the _Kut Sang_ tied up at the embankment of the Pasig River, with the Blue Peter at her foremast and heavy black smoke pouring from her funnel. She had the aspect of a vessel getting ready for sea, and the last of her cargo was being put into her hold.

It was then that I was attracted to a knot of natives and sailors cl.u.s.tered about an organ, in front of the decrepit building which I knew for the Sailors' Home, roaring out the chorus of "Rock of Ages" as though it were a chantey. There could be no mistaking the figure seated at the wheezy little organ--the Rev. Luther Meeker, with his battered helmet on the back of his head and his goggles turned skyward as he wailed in a high-piped tenor the words of the old hymn.

He was too busy to see me and was making hard going of the tune, for the a.s.sorted voices which followed his lead held to various keys. He may have seen me from behind his goggles, but, if he did, he gave no sign, and I urged the driver to whip up the horse and pa.s.s the group at a good clip.

I had no desire to be annoyed by the old impostor, and was afraid that he might have some new pretext to keep me from going in the _Kut Sang_.

We were well clear of the congregation when I was startled to see Petrak emerge from the pack of staring natives about the organ, and run after my carriage.

"Take your luggage aboard for a peseta, sir!" he cried, grasping the side of the vehicle and keeping pace with it.

I confess that I suspected some game, and that Meeker had waylaid me. It looked like a bold move to block me at the last minute, and I was rather amused at the idea of watching their game and seeing what might be the tactics.

The little fellow had changed his appearance a trifle. His red head was covered now with a black cloth cap, making him look more like a stoker than a seaman. His ratlike visage was covered with a coppery stubble, but its colour was not apparent at first glance, for his face was smeared with coal-dust and grease.

"I'm nigh dead for a drink," he whined. "Let me take your luggage aboard, sir--just a peseta, sir. I've had jungle fever and was s.h.i.+pwrecked--in the _H.B. Leeds_ it was that went down in a typhoon. I can't get a s.h.i.+p out of this blasted place. I'm an honest sailor if some hard on the drink--just a peseta, sir, and I'll put your dunnage down in your cabin slick as a whistle."

"I have a mind to turn you over to the police," I told him, expecting him to take alarm and run away, for I was not so sure he had not had a hand in the murder of the sailor in the Flags.h.i.+p Bar.

The _cochero_ had pulled up his horse on the mole in the thick of the scattered cargo, and Petrak still clung to the stanchion supporting the canvas-top of the carriage.

"And for why?" he demanded with a touch of arrogance, giving me a shrewd look. "What have I been doin' of, sir?"

"That little cutting in the Flags.h.i.+p Bar."

"The squarehead? Not me, sir. The bobbies got that chap right enough--one of his mates out of this wessel right alongside what you're goin' aboard of. Just a peseta, sir, and I'll handle your luggage."

"They have got the fellow who stabbed the man in the Flags.h.i.+p Bar?"

"Slick as a whistle, some two hours back. One of his mates, he was, that did the cuttin'--lampman out of this wessel. Take your luggage."

"Take it along, then, and see that you don't drop it," I told him, convinced that the little villain could have had no hand in the murder, even if he had been on the scene.

He shouldered my bag and went up the gangway and I followed him closely.

I looked in at the door of the saloon where I saw the old captain seated at the table, with a litter of papers about him, arguing with a tall rawboned New Englander, whom I knew to be the mate. He was complaining about something.

"I say we ain't goin' to git out to-night, Cap'n Riggs," he said. "The bo'sun has went and got hisself stabbed and four of the white hands are missin', and we ain't got n.o.body to work s.h.i.+p but the c.h.i.n.ks."

"We've got to have a crew, Mr. Harris, and that's all there is to it,"

said Captain Riggs. "You say the Greek got cut?"

"Dead as a door-nail, cap'n. Went out for lamp-wicks and got hisself slit open in a gin-mill, the fool! We're turrible short-handed, cap'n."

"Who cut him?"

"Hanged if I know. The police say the lampman, but the lampman didn't leave the s.h.i.+p until after the bo'sun was done for, near as I can make it out. But the police have the lampman locked up for it, and I'm too busy to bother my head. First we know they'll want all the crew for witnesses.

There's some monkey-business goin' on, too."

"Now, what do you mean?" demanded the captain, losing patience.

"Just what I'm sayin' of--thar's a furriner sittin' on the dock watchin'

everything that goes over the side. Looks like a Rooshan Finn to me. What sort of a charter we got, cap'n? This ain't no blockade-runnin' game, is it? You got orders for Port Arthur? If you have, I'm out--I don't want no j.a.ps blowin' me up unless I'm paid for it."

"Mr. Harris, you are talking nonsense. We are chartered for Hong-Kong. My orders are to get to sea to-night, no matter how I do it, and you ought to be able to sc.r.a.pe up a crew at the Sailors' Home for the asking. We'll manage all right with the c.h.i.n.ks on deck, if we can get some good helmsmen. You can't expect to get out with a battles.h.i.+p crew this trip.

Get the cargo in her and send the Dutchman ash.o.r.e for men who can take the wheel."

The mate went out, and I stepped into the saloon and presented my ticket to the captain. I was rather surprised to find such an old man in command, for he was gray and stooped, but he surveyed me over his gla.s.ses with kindly eyes, although I knew he was being hara.s.sed with difficulties in getting routine established on board the _Kut Sang_, for she had been in dry-dock and everything seemed topsyturvy.

"Glad to meet ye, Mr. Trenholm," he said. "I'm up to my scuppers with business. Maybe we'll sail to-night and maybe we won't, but your room is No. 22, starboard side, well aft, all to yourself. Two more pa.s.sengers to come yet, according to the list. Didn't know I was to have pa.s.sengers this trip, so I can't tell what the accommodation will be, but we'll try and make things homelike if they ain't like a liner. You got a valley?"

He pointed to Petrak, who stood behind me with my baggage on his shoulder.

"Hardly that," I laughed. "He says he's a sailor with a Manila thirst in his throat and no job."

Petrak swung his burden to the deck and squared his shoulders, making a gesture, which he intended as a salute to the captain.

"Petrak's my name, sir," he said, addressing Captain Riggs. "I've been bo'sun, sir, discharged out of the _Southern Cross_ when she was sold in Singapore, and s.h.i.+pped out in the _H.B. Leeds_ that went down in a typhoon. Junk picked us up, sir, what was left of us, and I lost all my discharges and can't get a s.h.i.+p out of here. I'm smart, sir, and strong, if I do look small. It's because I ain't had no wictuals to speak of, sir."

"Ever handle steam-wheel?"