by John Blaine
How did you copyright it so quickly, Duke?”
“Sent a copy air mail to the copyright office and enclosed a dollar. The letter will go out tonight. It’s standard procedure. Go on, read. I edited Jerry’s story so fast I didn’t have a chance to enjoy it.”
Rick read on. “ ‘A Seaford trawler captain, four members of his crew, and two New Yorkers were arrested tonight on gunrunning charges after a surprise raid by State Police officers culminated a series of events that included the wrecking of the trawler Sea Belle, the use of a new invention by the two youngest members of the Spindrift Island Foundation to photograph the transfer of arms under cover of darkness on the high seas, the kidnaping and maltreatment of a Morning Record reporter, and a fight in the attic of the Creek House hotel that was ended by the timely intervention of a retired sea captain.’”
Rick got the last words out with his last bit of breath.
Scotty looked at Jerry with admiration. “He’s not only a distance runner, he’s a distance writer. That was a hundred-yard sentence.”
“I cannot tell a lie,” Jerry said modestly. “I did it with my little dictionary.Written by an ancestor who was also famous. Noah Webster.”
“ ‘One of the most surprising disclosures,’” Rick read on, “ ‘was the reason for the stubborn silence of Captain Thomas Tyler, master of the trawler Sea Belle, which was wrecked on Smugglers’ Reef a week ago. As reported in previous editions, Captain Tyler maintained an obstinate silence as to the real reason for the wreck of the trawler in the face of pleas from friends and officials. He had maintained that he was solely responsible and that his error in judgment had been caused by liquor. After the arrest of the Page 105
smugglers, Captain Tyler willingly told this reporter that he had discovered the smuggling activities of Captain Bradford Marbek and Roger and James Kelso two weeks before.’”
“That was a good guess we made,” Cap’n Mike said soberly.“Poor Tom. He was in some spot. He knew about the smuggling, but he was like we were.Couldn’t prove a thing. He could have told the police and asked for protection, but they wouldn’t have had grounds for holding Brad and the Kelsos.
They would have been free to carry out their threats against his family inside of twenty-four hours.”
“That’s right,” Scotty said. “But he didn’t know any more than we did what they were smuggling.”
The axes of police officers had disclosed rifles, submachine guns, and ammunition in the cases innocently labeled as sewing machines, and no one had been more surprised than the boys.
‘^Thousands of guns and ammunition must have gone out before we caught on,” Rick said. “What happens to the people that received them?”
“That’s not our affair,” Captain Douglas told him. “Since they went to ships and nationals of a foreign country, it’s up to the Department of State to take action, if there’s going to be any.”
“We filed the story with Universal Press Service,” Jerry explained. “It’s all over the country by this time.
Copyright by the Whiteside Morning Record.” He grinned. “We’re modest, Duke and I.”
“You are, anyway,” Rick scoffed.“ ‘Kidnaping and maltreatment of a Morning Record reporter.’ Why didn’t you give the reporter’s name?”
Jerry turned a little red, but he said loftily, “We heroes prefer to remain anonymous.”
“Heroesis right,” Duke said dryly. “You came within an inch of having a bronze plaque erected to your memory as one who fell in line of duty.”
“What?Only bronze?” Jerry looked hurt.
Rick gave him a comradely wink. Jerry’s act had brought him close to the ranks of heroes at that, if quick thinking and nerve combined with bad luck were any qualification. He glanced through the story quickly, and found what the young reporter had said about his own part.
“ *While attempting to gather evidence, the Morning Record reporter who figured in the case was caught by the truckmen who delivered the arms to Creek House.After being beaten, bound, and gagged, he was taken to the hotel. His questioning was interrupted by the arrival of Brant and Scott.’”
And that really was modesty. Jerry had been returning from the boat landing when he passed a big trailer truck that carried the name of a large manufacturer of industrial castings. He thought quickly, surprised at seeing such a vehicle in Whiteside. Such trucks always used the shorter main route. To his positive knowledge, there was not a single manufacturing plant on the entire shore road on which Whiteside andSeaford were located. There was a definite chance, he decided, that the truck might be carrying a load for Creek House. He knew the smugglers had made fast changes in their plans, as witness the moving up of the ship sailing. There was a strong possibility they had been forced to ask for immediate shipment of contraband, too.
Jerry passed the truck and stopped at the newspaper long enough to scrawl a note to Duke, explaining Page 106
what had happened, then he passed the truck again and drove furiously towardSeaford . He went bySaltCreekBridge and parked his car in a pasture, then ran back to the bridge, made his way into the marsh and waited.
The trailer truck arrived, stopped, and put out flares, and three men got out. They jacked up the rear wheels of the trailer, then started to unload. By so doing, they had a perfect reason for being there. If a police car came along, they had only to explain that they had broken an axle and were replacing it, and that they had taken out part of their cargo to lighten the load until repairs were completed.
The stage was no sooner set than up the rivercame the flatboat from Creek House. It pushed its way into the marsh, toward Jerry. Not until the actual loading started did he discover his bad luck. He had taken a fairly well-defined path into the marsh. The path was artificial, made by the Kelsos. They had carried rocks to make both the path and the stone jetty to which the flatboat had come. The deception had worked, because the path and jetty surfaces, strong enough to carry the weight of men with heavy cases, were under an inch of mud and water!
Jerry had described the end simply. “They fell over me. I tried to get away, but there were too many of them.”
But he had gotten in one good blow. His hand closed over one of the rocks of the path and he swung it effectively. The State Police, hearing his story, made a routine check of doctors and hospitals along the route the truck probably had taken; they assumed it would not turn around on the narrow shore road.
The trucker Jerry had felled was in a small clinic two towns belowSeaford , and an interstate alarm had gone out for the others, giving license numbers and descriptions supplied by the reporter. They wouldn’t get far.
Jerry’s luck had been bad, but Captain Douglas’ luck had been good. The accumulated evidence probably would have been enough, but one of Brad’s seamen had talked, hoping for a lighter sentence.
Back was most pleased to find that his theory about Smugglers’ Light had been close to the truth. The marks on the old tower had been made by a powerful light supplied by Brad Marbek. The light, once used for night purse seine fishing, was powered by a carbon arc. A cable, connected into the same junction box that supplied Smugglers’ Reef Light, had furnished the power. The police officers had found signs of tampering in the junction box, but they had called the authorities responsible for the light to make a definite check. The light itself had been stowed in Brad Marbek’s home. One quarter of the cylinder had been blacked out with paint. Red cellophane was pasted on to another quarter.
There were still no answers to who had phoned the warning to Rick, or why Carrots had trailed them into Whiteside, but those things weren’t important, anyway. Probably their original guesses had been right.
The others had fallen silent, engrossed in reading Jerry’s story. Rick went through it again, more carefully. The young reporter had done well. It was an exciting yarn. Then he looked at the “side pieces,”
other stories dealing with the case, written by both Duke and Jerry in the feverish rush to make the morning paper. Th
ere was a simple statement by Captain Killian, who long since was asleep in his own bed atSeaford . There was a photo of Rick and Scotty with the infrared camera and a story by Duke of its use in the collecting of evidence. The staff photographer had taken that one after they all returned to Whiteside, accompanying the police and the prisoners to jail. The entire back page was devoted to pictures, some reproductions from Rick’s movie and some taken at the jail by the staff photographer.
There was one of Cap’n Mike holding Carrots’ rifle, and the caption explained how he had rescued the boys.
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“How much per column inch did you say?” Rick asked Duke slyly.
“Too much.This will bankrupt me.”
Scotty folded his paper. “We’d better get back to Spindrift, Rick.”
“That’s right.” Rick knew his folks would be waiting to see the paper, too. He had phoned them as soon as they reached the jail.
“I’ll take you to the landing,” Jerry offered, “then I’ll run Cap’n Mike down toSeaford .”
“Never mind,” Captain Douglas said. “I have a patrol car going down that way in fifteen minutes. It can drop him off.”
Cap’n Mike shook hands with both of the boys. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I reckon.”
“In the afternoon,” Rick said. “We’ll sleep in the morning.” After the fight at Creek House, Cap’n Mike had rowed them to the Spindrift speedboat in his dory. They had gotten their clothes, but left the boat at the hotel. It would be safe; police officers would keep an eye on it while guarding the load of arms.
Captain Douglas shook hands, too. “I should make a speech,” he told them with a smile. “You know, about your both being good citizens, aiding the police at risk of life and limb and so on . . .”
Rick grinned sheepishly. “I’m afraid we weren’t thinking about the citizen part of it, Captain. We Just…”
“I was about to add that.” Captain Douglas laughed. “But thanks, anyway.”
Duke Barrows said, “I don’t suppose you would accept the coffee we served you as part payment?”
Scotty snorted. “Aren’t you the one said it wasn’t coffee?”
“All right.”Duke’s shoulders slumped. “Drive me into debt paying you off. Go ahead.”
“We will,” Rick retorted, “and don’t take the price of these papers you gave us off the amount, either.”
The editor laughed. “Okay. Take them home, Jerry. They’ll have to wait until the first of the month for their money, just like the rest of our creditors. So long, kids, and thanks a million for a swell story.”
As they drove to the landing, Rick glanced quizzically at Jerry. “Well, you asked for it. Remember?”
Jerry was puzzled.
“The night we went to get a story on the wreck,” Scotty explained. “Didn’t you say you wished you would get in on an adventure with us?”
“I certainly did. I didn’t know what I was asking for, believe me.” Jerry’s grin widened. He touched his head tenderly, patting the bruises he had collected. Then he laughed. “I was scared silly, but you know, I kind of enjoyed it!”
Rick and Scotty broke into laughter, too.
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Rick was figuring out some changes in the infrared camera attachment on the following Monday when Scotty came into the room.
“Just got back from Whiteside with the paper and the mail,” he announced. “And look at this!” He indicated an item on the front page.
It was a Universal News Service dispatch. Authorities of a republic in theCaribbean had arrested the country’s former dictator on a charge of planning a revolution, pointing to a large cache of arms and ammunition found on his estate as evidence. Arrested for complicity was the president of the Compania Maritima Caribe y Atlantica . Warrants were being issued for a number of others.
“That settles that,” Rick said.“Looks like we stopped a revolution!”
“We’re the kids what did it,” Scotty boasted. He dropped a letter in front of Rick.“Got this, too. Look who it’s from.”
The postmark wasBombay . It was from Chahda, the first letter since the Hindu boy had left them inNew Caledonia to return toIndia .
“He’s fine,” Scotty said. “I read it at the post office. His brothers and sisters didn’t believe some of his stories, but he’s convincing them. Also, he’s going to work. He can’t tell us yet what his job will be, because it’s a sort of secret.”
“Then he won’t come back toAmerica for a while,” Rick said, disappointed. “We won’t see him.” He grinned, remembering the first time they had met Chahda. “He’s probably at Crawford Market right now, bargaining at the top of his lungs for something.” He picked up the letter and started to read, picturing Chahda, in his native dress once more, at home inBombay .
Rick’s mental image was far from the truth. As he read the letter, Chahda was writing to Rick and Scotty again, but this time he was composing an urgent cable, laboriously working over the cipher that would conceal its content from his strange enemy.
The Hindu boy was in the hiding place he had chosen deep in the Indian quarter ofSingapore , but he knew it was only a temporary refuge. Once he emerged, the shadow would find him again. But if he could succeed in getting to the cable office first, Rick and Scotty would get his message, and they would come. Once the three of them were united again, let the shadow do as it would!
Chahda finished his composition, folded it and tucked it securely into his turban, then he slipped through a door into the darkness of theSingapore night.
In his ciphered message was the key to an adventure that would plunge his American friends into both darkness and danger in the fabled, terrifying Caves of Korse Lenken , a story to be related in the next volume, THE CAVERNS OF FEAR. [Actually, the next book is titled THE CAVES OF FEAR.]
THE END
SMUGGLERS’ REEF
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A RICK BRANT SCIENCE-ADVENTURE STORY, No. 7
BY JOHN BLAINE
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