Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China

by George F. Worts

  CHAPTER V

  The _Vandalia_ was wallowing majestically through long, dead blackswells. Peter poked his way up forward to the solitary lookout in thepeak and glanced overside. Broad, phosphorescent swords broke smoothlywith a rending, rushing gurgle over the steep cut-water. His eyesdarted here and there over the void as his mind struggled to straightenout this latest kink.

  What facts of significance he might have discovered from Blanchard wereovershadowed by the purser's suspicious attitude. Blanchard knew, andBlanchard, for some reason, did not choose to divulge. This madematters more interesting, if slightly more complicated.

  He was now reasonably sure of several things, without really havingdefinite grounds for being sure. The malignant-eyed Chinese woman andwhoever she had successfully concealed behind her in the loft above AhSih King's were now aboard the _Vandalia_. He was quite positive thathe had recognized her in the woman who had come aboard in company withthe gray-cloaked figure at the last minute before sailing-time.

  He recalled the scene on the pierhead, and it occurred to him that theeyes behind the gray veil, before their owner was whisked up to thedeck and from his sight, had fastened upon him for a long breath.

  "Four bells, all well!" bawled the lookout as four clanging strokesrang out from abaft the wheel-house.

  And Blanchard had proved that stateroom forty-four was unoccupied.Peter decided to borrow a master key in the morning, from the chiefengineer, perhaps, and investigate stateroom forty-four. And with thefeeling that he was on the verge of discovering something which did notexist, he prepared to turn in.

  He was not undressed when the lock grated, the door lurched open, andthe pale visage of Dale teetered at his shoulder. An attempt atgrinning ended in a hissing sob of in-taken breath. The limp frameflung itself in the bunk beside Peter, and Dale's white, perspiringface was buried in palsied hands.

  "Feel the motion?" Peter pulled down one of the hands, gentlyuncovering the expressionless eye.

  "I wish I was dead!"

  "Want me to finish your trick?"

  Dale's face disappeared in the pillow. A moment he was stark. Hishead partly revolved, profiling a yellow, pointed nose against thewhite of the linen.

  "Static's much worse, Mr. Moore. Frisco's sent me the same messagethree times now. It's for Honolulu. He says he won't repeat itagain." The pale lips trembled in misery. "And there seems to be afunny sort of static in the receivers. The dynamos in the engine-roommay cause it."

  "That's strange," Peter reflected as he slipped on his blue coat."There's never been any induction on board as far back as I canremember. Does it hum--or what?"

  "No, it grates, like static. Sounds like static, and yet it doesn't.Kind of a hoarse rumble, like a broken-down spark-coil."

  Two even rows of white teeth drew in the trembling lip and clung to it."That awful staticky sound---- And the _Rover's_ been calling us." Hegroaned miserably. "I couldn't answer either of them. I was lying onthe carpet!"

  "Get some sleep," advised Peter. "When you feel better come up andrelieve me. If I were you I wouldn't smoke cigarettes when you thinkit's rough."

  "I won't smoke another cigarette as long as I live!"

  Peter slipped into his uniform, draped an oil-skin coat about hisslender shoulders, and made his way up to the wireless house. Thereceivers were lying on the floor.

  The _Vandalia_ was entering a zone of pale, thin mist, which createdcircular, misty auras about the deck-lights. The tarpaulineddonkey-engine beneath the after-cargo booms rattled as the _Vandalia's_stern sank into a hollow, and the beat of the engines was muffled anddeeper. A speck of white froth glinted on the black surface andvanished astern.

  The wireless-house seemed warm and cozy in the glare of its green andwhite lights. An odor of cheap cigarette-smoke puffed out as he openedthe door.

  Peter slipped the hard-rubber disks over his ears and tapped the sliderof the tuner. Static was bad to-night, trickling, exploding andhissing in the receivers.

  The electric lights became dim under the strain of the heavy motor, ashe slid up the starting handle. The white-hot spark exploded in atrain of brisk dots and dashes. He snapped up the aerial switch andlistened.

  KPH--the San Francisco station--rang clear and loud through the spatterof the electric storm. Peter flashed back his O.K., tuned for theKahuka Head station at Honolulu, and retransmitted the message.

  Sensitizing the detector, he slid up the tuning handle for high waves.Static, far removed, trickled in. Then a faint, musical wailing like aviolin's E-string pierced this. The violin was the government stationat Arlington, Virginia, transmitting a storm warning to ships in theSouth Atlantic. For five minutes the wailing persisted. Sliding thetuning handle downward, Peter listened for commercial wave-lengths.

  A harsh grinding, unmusical as emery upon hollow bronze, raspedstutteringly in the head phones. Laboriously, falteringly, the gratingwas cleaved into clumsy dots and dashes of the Continental Code, underthe quaking fingers of some obviously frightened and inexperiencedoperator. Were these the sounds which had unnerved Dale? For a timethe raspings spelled nothing intelligible. The unknown senderevidently was repeating the same word again and again. It held fourletters. Once they formed, H-I-J-X. Another time, S-E-L-J. Andanother, L-P-H-E.

  The painstaking intent, as the operator's acute ears recognized, wasidentical in each instance. Frequently the word was incoherentaltogether, the signals meaning nothing.

  Suddenly Peter jerked up his head. Out of the jumble stood the word,as an unseen ship will often stand out nakedly in a fog rift. Over andover, badly spaced, the infernal rasp was spelling, _H-E-L-P_.

  He waited for the signature of this frantic operator. But noneoccurred. Following a final letter "p" the signals ceased.

  For a minute or two, while Peter nervously pondered, the air wassilent. Then another station called him. A loud droning purr filledthe receivers. Peter gave the "k" signal. The brisk voice of thetransport _Rover_ droned:

  "I can't raise KPH. Will you handle an M-S-G for me?"

  "Sure!" roared the _Vandalia's_ spark. "But wait a minute. Have youheard a broken down auxiliary asking for help? He's been jamming mefor fifteen minutes. Seems to be very close, K."

  "Nix," replied the _Rover_ breezily. "Can't be at all close or I wouldhear him, too. I can see your lights from my window. You're off ourport quarter. Here's the M-S-G."

  Peter accepted the message, retransmitting it to the KPH operator, thencalled the wheelhouse on the telephone. Quine, first officer, answeredsleepily.

  "Has the lookout reported any ship in the past hour excepting the_Rover_?"

  "Is that the _Rover_ on our port quarter?" Quine's voice was grufflyamazed. Like most mariners of the old school, he considered thewireless machine a nuisance. Yet its intelligence occasionally caughthim off guard.

  "Only thing in sight, Sparks."

  Peter made an entry in the log-book, folded his hands and shut hiseyes. The Leyden jars rattled in their mahogany sockets as the_Vandalia_ climbed a wave, faltered, and sped into the hollow. Farremoved from her pivot of gravity, the wireless house behaved after themanner of an express elevator. But the wireless house chair was boltedto the floor.

  Wrinkles of perplexity creased his forehead. Had this stutteringstatic anything in kind with those other formless events? If not, whatterrified creature was invoking his aid in this blundering fashion?

  A simple test would prove if the signals were of local origin--from aminiature apparatus aboard the ship. He hoped anxiously for theopportunity. And in less than a half hour the opportunity was givenhim.

  A tarred line scraped the white belly of the life-boat which swelled upfrom the deck outside the door, giving forth a dull, crunching soundwith each convulsion of the engines. The square area above it dancedwith reeling stars, moiled by a purple-black heaven.

  Peter, who had been studying the tarred rope, swung about in the chairand dropped an agit
ated finger to the silvered wire which restedagainst the glittering detector crystal. A tiny, blue-red flamesnapped from his finger to the crystal chip! The frantic operator wasaboard the _Vandalia_!

  The broken stridulations took on the coherence of intelligible dots anddashes. The former blundering was absent, as if the tremulous hand ofthe sender was steadied by the grip of a dominant necessity; thesignals clarified by the pressure of terror.

  "_Do not try to find me_," it stammered and halted.

  Some maddened pulse seemed to leap to life in Peter's throat. Hisfingers, working at the base of the tiny instrument, were cold and damp.

  "_You must wait_," rasped the unknown sender, faltering. "_You musthelp me_! _You are watched._"

  For a breath there was no sound in the receivers other than the beatingof his heart.

  _Click_! _Snap_! _Sputter_! Then: "_Wait for the lights of China_!"

  The receivers rattled to the red blotter, and Peter rushed out on deck.Slamming the door, he stared at the spurting streams of white in theracing water. Indescribably feminine was the fumbling touch of thatunknown sender!

  A grating--hollow, metallic--occurred in the lee of the wireless cabin.A footfall sounded, coincident with the heavy collision into his sideof an unwieldy figure whose hands, greasy and hot, groped over his.Both grunted.

  "'Sthat you, Sparks?" They were the German gutturals of Luffberg, oneof the oilers on the twelve-to-six watch. "Been fixin' the ventilator.Chief wondered if you were up. Wants to know why you ain't been downto say hello."

  Peter decided to lay a portion of his difficulties before Minion.