Читать книгу The Phantom Launch - Aidan de Brune - Страница 4

Table of Contents

CONSTABLE PHELPS climbed the long, rough path from Balmoral to Middle Head about half-past eleven that night. The long, silent watch over the waters of the harbour did not appeal to him, although, from what he had overheard of the message from Headquarters, there appeared to be a prospect of again seeing the mysterious speed-boat.

A walk along the rough track around the head, and Phelps looked about him for a place where he could make his long watch with some comfort. He found a narrow slab of rock forming a comfortable seat and which would prove a good couch, if he dared to trust himself to lie down. Here, he determined to establish his headquarters for the night. Directly before him rose the towering heights of the twin North and South Heads, guarding the entrance to the triple harbours.

Almost due south from where sat, outlined the inner South Head that, with middle head, forms the entrance to Port Jackson. Between those heads streamed the commerce of the State, almost continuously during the 24 hours of the day. Away north was shining the light of Grotto Point. Beyond that lay the queerly hand-shaped Middle Harbour, across the bottom of which stretched the long point of land known as The Spit.

Far to the north-east twinkled the lights of the pleasure town of Manly. About half-way, and almost hiding the town from Middle Head, jutted Dobroyd Point forming, with the North Head, the entrance to North Harbour. Due east, on the long slope of North Head, the buildings of the Quarantine Station showed indistinctly beneath the waning light of the three-quarter moon.

Phelps lighted a cigarette and sat down on the ledge of rock. A late ferry-boat was hurrying across the waters in the direction of Manly, its brightly-lit decks throwing quaint shadows over the silent waters. A few minutes later, another ferry slid into view, close in shore, its decks almost deserted. It was the last boat from Balmoral to Circular Quay. So close did it skirt the Head that the constable could have thrown a stone on its decks.

There were no signs of the Phantom Launch in the silent waters. If the boat came at all it would probably be at later hour of the night. Phelps did not feel at all certain that the boat would return to Myella Cove. The men on the launch had appeared to be satisfied with their work on the mysterious box. Had it not been for the message from Detective Headquarters, he would have raced round to the cove and dug up the box. It might possibly contain some clue to the Phantom Launch. Perhaps the next night, after—

Why had Superintendent Hanson requested Sergeant Miller to place a watch on Middle Harbour for the Phantom Launch? What did Headquarters know of the boat? He had made his report of the queer happenings at Myella Cove the previous night, but that report had remained in the hands of Sergeant Miller.

Detective Headquarters were interested in the Phantom Launch. For what reason? Were they interested in the box the men from the mystery boat had buried in the sands at Myella Cove? Phelps almost wished the Sergeant had forwarded his report to Phillip Street, instead of retaining it under the plea that it was exaggerated or untrue. The constable had some slight satisfaction that Sergeant Miller must now be feeling uncomfortable. The story of the entry of the Phantom Launch—the same boat Superintendent Hanson was seeking—into Myella Cove would certainly attract attention, and Miller would be asked to account for the delay.

"Duty or pleasure. Constable Phelps?" A quiet, grave voice spoke from behind the seated constable.

"Jove! Mr. Lister. You gave me quite a start."

"Humph!" The newcomer, a tall, thin man, about 32 to 33 years of age, walked from the track to the ledge of rock and sat down beside the constable. "If I didn't know better, I might believe you were suffering from a common complaint that requires solitude and moonlight as a palliative."

"You know better, Mr. Lister." Phelps laughed quietly.

"I'm guessing." Sydney Lister drew from his pocket an evening paper. "I find Constable Phelps perched on a ledge of rock, gazing earnestly out towards the Heads. A few hours ago I read an intriguing paragraph in the Evening Moon. I may be mistaken, but I scent a connection."

"A queer paragraph in the paper?" The constable swung round eagerly towards his companion. "What was it, Mr. Lister? I didn't get a paper this evening."

Lister managed, by the little light of the moon, to find two paragraphs on the front page and pointed them out to Phelps.

The constable produced his electric torch and threw a beam of light at the printing. He read the paragraphs twice; the second time slowly and thoughtfully.

MAN TAKEN FROM OVERSEAS BOAT

Captain Anstey, of the British mail-boat, which arrived at Sydney this morning, reports an uncommon incident on the voyage between Melbourne and Sydney. Three miles outside the heads, a fast motor-launch came alongside the mail boat, and hailed a passenger standing on the lower deck. A few sentences were exchanged and the passenger threw a suitcase down an the launch, following himself. The launch immediately darted away at an incredible speed.

The police are seeking information as to a long, narrow, high-powered speed-launch, no funnel nor mast, painted silver-grey, with absolutely silent engine.

"Not much of a description," commented Phelps guardedly, returning the newspaper to Lister. "You'd have thought seamen could have provided a better one. If the launch was alongside the mail boat for any length of time, the officer on watch would surely read the name on the bows or stern."

Lister did not reply. He was gazing out over the Harbour, towards the Heads. The constable waited, watching his companion curiously.

"Looking for the Phantom Launch, Mr. Lister?" Phelps asked the question with a slight laugh.

"So that is the name you have given it at the police station?" Lister turned towards the constable. "I guessed you were up here on watch for the strange launch, directly I saw you. Well, you'll have your search for nothing, I'm afraid, constable. The launch is not likely to try that game on two succeeding nights, even if a mail boat was due tomorrow morning."

"What do you know, Mr. Lister?" Phelps turned quickly.

"Know?" Lister's lean face broke into a swift smile. "I know just what the newspaper states—and that Constable Phelps is watching at midnight on Middle Head. The two facts lie together, but I can't make more than two of them. They're independent units."

"Walt a moment." The constable sat thoughtful for a minute. "You're a yachtsman Mr. Lister; do you know a boat in the Harbour, or the river, answering to that description?"

"Can't say I do." Lister stood beside the shelf of rock on which Phelps was seated. "Personally, I have no time for speed boats. They make too much commotion on the Harbour, They should be banished outside the Heads."

"This boat is absolutely noiseless," urged Phelps.

"Then what drives her?" Lister flashed the question back immediately. "There's no silencer that can make an internal combustion engine nearly noiseless. Electricity might be the motive power, but I do not think there are accumulators that would give an electrically-driven boat any great radius."

"I saw her last night," Phelps answered. "I know you'll say nothing, Mr. Lister. I saw her last night and I know she's noiseless. There was not a sound."

Very briefly, Phelps recounted his adventure with the Phantom Launch at Myella cove the previous evening. Lister sat thoughtful. When the constable described the wooden box he had dug from the sands, the man became alert.

"What did you do with the box, Phelps?"

"Buried it again. I was instructed to dig it up, and take it to the station, when orders for this watch on the Heads came through. Suppose I'll go for it tomorrow."

"Take my advice and leave it there." Lister spoke carefully. "With that box under the sands at Myella Cove you have a lure for the Phantom Launch. Keep the box there, and keep someone watching it. Before long you will be able to catch the launch, and then the mystery of the box will be automatically solved. If you dig up that box, and the men on the launch go to Myella Cove, and do not find it, they will clear away, and you will have all your work to do over again."

"There's something in that." Phelps mused for a moment. "I'll have a talk to the Serg—"

"Let him forget it," Lister interrupted. "Your report will be in the hands of the C.I.B. tomorrow morning, anyway, you will have to be approached before they can find the box. Perhaps you'll have a chance to object to the removal of the box before further information regarding the Phantom Launch is obtained."

"You think—"

"Which way did the Phantom Launch go after leaving Myella Cove?" interrupted Lister.

"Up-river."

"You're certain."

"Yep. Absolutely certain. Why?"

"You saw the Phantom Launch after midnight—say between one and two o'clock. She ran into Myella Cove and then turned up river. That means she went through the city and up the Parramatta or Lane Cove River. Yet, a few hours later, she was outside the Heads, taking a passenger from the mail boat."

"Looks strange," muttered the constable, scratching his head.

"There's something more than strange in it. Who was the passenger removed from the mail boat? Was he removed voluntarily or involuntarily? Where did the Phantom Launch land him, or is he still on board the boat? Did the boat come into the Harbour again, or did it seek shelter in some place along the coast?" Lister asked the questions half to himself.

"The Harbour's rather unsafe for it, now," commented Phelps, with a grin, "They've put up a defiance of the Customs, and, although the newspapers don't say much, I'll bet the Water Police are searching the waters of the Harbour at full pressure. No, Mr. Lister. She's outside the Harbour and won't come in again until the matter's blown over."

"No!" Lister was watching out towards the Heads, intently. "What do you make of that, Constable Phelps?"

On the moon-silvered waters between the high heads appeared a slight wave of foam, approaching at a terrific rate. The two men watched as it came rolling towards them. All they could distinguish was the cresting wave, breaking back in a shower of foam, yet ever rolling swiftly towards them. For some minutes it held directly towards Middle Head, then, suddenly, it swerved to the north and entered Middle Harbour.

The boat was travelling at a terrific pace, yet not a sound broke the silence of the night. It was as if it was a shadow—the ghostly vehicle of some uneasy spirit doomed to haunt the Harbour during the silent hours of night. Quickly it came, and passed.

"Gone up Middle Harbour." There was a note of exultation in Phelps' voice. "They've made their mistake there. Coming, Mr. Lister? I'm going back to Balmoral. In an hour the Spit Bridge will be closed, and the Phantom Launch bottled up."