Читать книгу The Phantom Launch - Aidan de Brune - Страница 10

Table of Contents

FOR some minutes Lister sat and looked at the girl in silence. He was almost certain that Ysobel Weston was the girl who had called "Silver Swan," and who had uttered the words, "Thanks, stranger," on the air.

"It was you, then?" Lister leaned forward, staring at the girl. "You ask me what I know of the Phantom Launch, Miss Weston: I will ask you what you know of 'Silver Swan?'"

A slight look of amusement came into the girl's clear, dark eyes. She lowered her lashes quickly, as if to save herself from some involuntary betrayal of knowledge, but Lister caught the look, and it increased his perplexity.

"Silver Swan." Ysobel spoke the words softly. "Is that the true name of the Phantom Launch, Mr. Lister? Now I am certain you are hiding information from me. Have you told the police that the Phantom Launch is registered under the name of Silver Swan?"

"Probably the police know that, and more." Lister tried to laugh the matter off, but Ysobel would not be denied.

"I think a mystery is most fascinating. Tony will tell me the history of what happened this afternoon, for I am sure there are many details you have not spoken of." The girl spoke coaxingly. "Will you not tell me where the Phantom Launch is, and who owns her?"

"The answer to your first question is easy, Miss Weston. The Phantom Launch is lying hid in Middle Harbour, and the Water Police are searching for her. As regards who owns her—" Lister hesitated a moment, and then continued. "Perhaps the words 'Silver Swan' may bring back to your memory incidents occurring during the early hours of this morning."

"I?" The girl simulated surprise. "I do not know who the owners of the Phantom Launch are."

"Nor the man taken off the mail boat but a few hours before the Silver Swan was called on the air?"

"Yes, I know that." Ysobel spoke carefully, drawing on her gloves. "The name of the man who was taken from the mail boat by the crew of the Phantom Launch is Francis Delaney Hawson."

"Hawson?"

"That is the name on the shipping list. Mr. Hawson is said to be one of the big squatters in the west country."

"What has he to do with the Phantom Launch?" Lister asked the question under his breath. The name was familiar to him, although he had never met the owner. "Why should he wish to evade the Customs authorities?"

"I said it was the name registered on the shipping list." Ysobel rose from her chair and led the way to the door. "I did not say Mr. Hawson was on board the Arathusa."

"But—" Lister took his hat from the waiter and followed the girl into the street. He tried to question the girl again, but Ysobel adroitly parried him, forcing the conversation to general topics.

On the ferry, going to Balmoral, the export tried to bring the conversation back to the Phantom Launch, but without success. The girl appeared to be afraid she had said too much. On the Balmoral wharf she joined some mutual acquaintances, taking from the expert the last hope of answers to the many questions hovering on his lips.

As their small party left the wharf Lister noticed Constable Phelps standing to one side. The officer made a slight sign and, after a while, Lister found an opportunity to fall back a few paces. Phelps immediately caught him up.

"I've been waiting for you, Mr. Lister," he said in a low tone. "There are orders to fetch in that box."

"No chance of delay?" Lister spoke quickly. He was glad he had asked Weston to conceal knowledge of the box at Yaney's Inlet from the police.

"Orders from headquarters." The constable smiled wryly. "I can't argue with them. All I've managed to do is to delay the job until after dark."

"Any objection to my being of the party?"

"None whatever." There was relief in the officer's tone. "In fact, I'd like to have you there, Mr. Lister. From what you said last night I don't feel like handling the thing unless there's someone about with some knowledge."

"Knowledge?" Lister looked surprised. Had the constable chanced on any of the clues that centred round his wireless room?

"Scientific knowledge, I mean." Phelps locked apologetic. "You know you warned me to be careful of that box."

"What time do you propose to go for the box?"

"As soon as you're ready, Mr. Lister." Phelps lowered his voice, although they were some distance behind Ysobel's party. "I spoke to Sergeant Miller about you being there, and he said it was a good idea. There'll be Fellowes and myself to get the box. We don't want a big party, in case there's anyone about."

"Good. Half an hour suit you, Phelps? I'll just go home and change. Where shall I meet you?"

"Go down to the beach before your house, Mr. Lister. Dress like you were going for some night fishing. Bring your rods and lines with you. We'll pick you up there."

The constable halted at the corner of an intersection and turned back towards the wharf. Lister caught up with the party, hoping they had not noticed his absence. He did not want Ysobel to connect him with the police inquiries, especially after the questions she had asked him in the restaurant. He was to be disappointed; as he came up to the group she turned and flashed at him a glance of understanding.

Lister had no time to speculate over the events of the crowded day. He changed into some rough clothes, and sought out his fishing tackle. In a basket he packed a small collection of instruments and tools he brought from the wireless room. Phelps would bring the tools required to dig the box from the sands, but the expert believed the hidden box to contain some secret danger that only he could baffle.

A few minutes after he reached the beach he saw the boat pulling parallel along the shore, with Phelps standing in the stern. The boat turned and backed to the shore. Listed waded out, and immediately he stepped into the boat Phelps took one of the oars, and the two constables pulled vigorously down to Myella Cove.

"What of the Phantom Launch, Phelps?" asked Lister, as he sat down in the stern.

"Bottled up in Middle Harbour." Phelps grinned in triumph. "I had the Water Police launches under the Spit Bridge within an hour of leaving you, Mr. Lister. They're there until the Phantom Launch is caught, even if the barnacles grow from their hulls to the bottom of the harbour."

"Are the Water Police searching Middle Harbour?"

"There are men on the shores, but no boats on the harbour yet. Expect the W.P. will have a little regatta to-morrow. They're keen on catching the launch."

They were now almost abreast of the little entrance to Myella Cove. Reefs ran from the headlands, almost closing the waters of the cove, and it was necessary for them to proceed cautiously. At length they reached the channel, and pulled for the shore.

"Now for the box," Phelps almost crowed. "Will you open it here, or at the station, Mr. Lister?"

"That's for you to say," Lister laughed, slightly. "You're in command of this expedition. I'm only a passenger."

"Then we'll take it to the station," decided the constable. "The Sergeant wanted to come, badly, but he recognised that the fewer we were the better chance of escaping observation. He'll be on pins and needles until he sees the box."

The keel of the boat grated on the sands. The three men disembarked and drew her well up and beyond the influence of the tide. Lister jointed his rods and threw out lines, fixing the rods to the thwarts of the boat. Phelps watched him for a few minutes, and then took a rod from beneath one of the thwarts and fixed it.

"We're on a fishing excursion," he grinned. "Thanks for the tip, Mr. Lister. With those lines out we have a grand alibi if we're seen. There's nothing suspicious in a party of fishermen landing to indulge in a little beach fishing. Just eccentricity."

Leaving the rods securely fastened, the three men walked to the foot of the cliffs. Phelps took the lead, and slowly passed along the face of rock until he came to a certain spot.

"Here we are," he said confidently. "The box is about a foot down, just here. Now, if you'll keep watch Mr. Lister, Fellowes and I will have her up in a few minutes."

Lister sat down and watched the constables delve into the sands. For a time they worked fast, and in silence. Then Phelps stood and gazed into the hole they had made, a puzzled expression on his good-humoured face.

"The blithering thing's not here," he exclaimed. "It was only about eighteen inches down when I found it, and a lot of sand fell in while I was replacing it. Guess it should have been about a foot under the surface this time—not more."

He turned and walked to the cliff face, examining some mark carefully.

"Here it is," he said, at length. "I marked the spot on this jutting piece of rock. There's no error. The blanky thing's gone."