Читать книгу The Phantom Launch - Aidan de Brune - Страница 6

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FOR about half an hour Lister tried every device he could think of to attract the attention of the person who had called "Silver Swan," but without success. At length he gave up the fruitless task, and went to bed. He was irritated, mainly with himself. This mysterious speed-boat, that Constable Phelps had named the Phantom Launch, and which had been called "Silver Swan" over the air, threatened to involve him in a maze of indefinite speculation. What business was it of his? It was for the Customs and health authorities, with their widespread organisations and the help of the police, to hunt down and capture the fugitive boat. It might be that, if the authorities came to him and asked his help—But that was fruitless theory. What help could he give them?

So far as he knew, he possessed one item of information the authorities had not yet obtained. He believed he had a definite link between the Phantom Launch and the Silver Swan. If that was so, then it should be possible to trace "Silver Swan." More than probable the boat was registered with one of the numerous yacht or motor-boat clubs around Sydney waters. Possibly, during the hours of light, the Silver Swan posed as an innocent and moderately-speeded pleasure cruiser. Only after nightfall were the controls set to their limit, and the Silver Swan became the Phantom Launch, openly laughing at and defying authority.

As a responsible citizen of the State it might be his duty to inform the police of the voice on the air and the probable connection of the hunted Phantom Launch with the lawful Silver Swan. Lister felt he had that duty to perform. But, if he went to the police, would he be compelled to confess that some impulse had urged him to warn the crew of the speed-boat that the authorities were taking steps to bottle them up in Middle Harbour? Awkward questions would be asked; the register of wireless licenses would be combed; many quite innocent experimenters would be occasioned a deal of trouble; and only because some person had wanted to leave the mail boat before the ship's arrival against the wharf.

Lister decided to keep his own counsel. He had only one clue of the many that undoubtedly littered the harbour. There was the wooden box in Myella Cove; certainly the boat itself, bottled up and certain of discovery. Yet the wireless puzzle persisted. He was casting back along the allotted wave lengths of Australian experimenters when he [?] own counsel.*

[* It seems that there are words missing in this paragraph. Unfortunately, the newspaper from which the text was taken is the only newspaper known to have published this serial. The story was not published in book form.]

HE awoke to find the sun high in the heavens, and the questions he had striven to put from him the previous night awaiting his consciousness. After breakfast he went to the wireless room and examined the instruments. They were as he had left them the previous night. He switched the power on to the transmitter, to find the air dead. The eight-valve was set for 56 metres and, without altering the length, Lister amplified to the limit. There were no sounds coming over the air.

On the wall hung a directory of allotted wave lengths. Lister ran his eyes down the list. Neither 56 metres nor 68 metres, the previous night's set of his transmitter, were registered oh the list; his own personal allocation was the nearest. Lister made a record of the set of his instruments, and then turned his dials off the lengths. That night he would try again to get in touch with the mysterious voice over the air, or with the "Silver Swan." Until he had succeeded or definitely failed, he would keep his own counsel.

Lister had an appointment in the city that morning. After lingering in the wireless room for some time, he took his hat and wandered down to the ferry wharf. At the bookstall he purchased the morning papers, and searched for some mention of the Phantom launch. One or two of the papers had made passing references to the passenger on the mail boat who had been taken off by the launch, but it was evident the police were concealing Constable Phelps' watch on Middle Head and the entry of the Phantom Launch into Middle Harbour.

"Why the Daily Pictorial, my friend?" Lister swung round to face Tony Weston, the star reporter of the paper mentioned. "Surely our wireless expert has not deserted the many technical journals in favour of a general newspaper?"

"Hullo, Tony." Lister shifted up the seat. Then be noticed that Weston was accompanied by a lady, and rose to his feet. "I beg your pardon."

"My sister." Weston spoke carelessly. "Ysobel. Let me introduce Mr. Sydney Lister, a lucky man with nothing to do but explore the vibrations of the air."

Lister bowed to the tall, dark-eyed girl, and met her glance surveying him with some interest. He had seen Ysobel Weston about the small town, but had not connected her with his late journalistic comrade, Tony Weston.

He bowed with some confusion; there seemed to be more than the happening of a new acquaintance in her regard. Weston, unconsciously, covered him.

"What's this about a Phantom Launch? Heard anything, Lister? There was a good scoop in the Moon last night. The Pictorial has a par., but not even mentioning the name of the passenger who got away from the liner."

"What do you make of it, Tony?" Lister was interested. Weston was a recognised newspaper authority on mysteries.

"Some crook with a bit of cash who had no desire to run the gauntlet of the police on the wharves."

"And the boat?"

"What do you mean?"

"High-powered, with incredible speed, yet absolutely noiseless engines?" Lister spoke as if quoting from some report.

"Humph!" The journalist was about to continue when the ferry-boat drew alongside the wharf. The three found seats on the upper deck, some little distance from the bulk of the passengers.

"Mr. Lister knows more than he has told us, Tony." Ysobel returned to the subject of the Phantom Launch, quietly, but firmly.

"Possibly Anthony knows as much as I, Miss Weston." Lister was afraid he had spoken carelessly. He had decided he did not want his special knowledge of the voice on the air to be made public for a time. "He referred to the Phantom Launch and that phrase has a police flavour about it."

"Good guess," Weston grinned. "Reaching through space sharpens the wits. I did have a talk with Sergeant Miller, and he used the expression. I thought it good, and remembered it."

"He told you of the adventure at Myella Cove?"

"Yes, and the watch on the Head last night. I met him down on the beach, going in for a dip before work. From what he says, they seem to have the Phantom Launch bottled up in Middle Harbour."

"Suppose you've arranged for the story to be kept from the afternoon papers?" Lister laughed. Weston appeared to have great influence in the police force.

"No hope. They'll get the inside of the story. The Water Police are at Middle Head now, with possibly all the disengaged journalists in Sydney in close attendance, sweeping the waters for the hidden launch. There won't be much news before night, anyway, and then only if the boat makes a dash for liberty."

"They can lie hid for a month in Middle Harbour," objected the wireless expert. "The place is a maze of waterways and islands."'

"Killarney." Ysobel spoke softly. "I love a ramble among the islands; a real bit of wilderness, and yet but a few miles from the centre of the big city. Last time we were up there we saw a number of black swans."

"Silver Swan!" Lister spoke the words involuntarily, and under his breath.

"What's that?" The newspaper man asked quickly. "Silver Swan?"

"Miss Weston spoke of black swans. I thought of the silver-grey launch as a silver swan."

Lister felt his explanation to be terribly weak. Weston said nothing, but the expert sensed that he was suspicious.

"Black swans, silver swans, and possibly one or more of Tony's geese," laughed Ysobel, quietly.

Lister looked round at the girl with a startled glance. Had she uttered the two words, "Thanks, stranger," he would have been certain Ysobel Weston was the girl whose voice came over the air in the early hours of the morning.

The idea was absurd. What could Anthony Weston's sister have to do with the fugitive launch now hidden in Middle Harbour? He had been thinking of the "voice" and that, in conjunction with the slip he had made in mentioning "Silver Swan," had led his imagination to run away with his reason.

The ferry-boat drew alongside the wharf at Circular Quay. Ysobel went across the road to board a Pitt Street tram. The two men walked up towards the Daily Pictorial offices.

"What are you doing this morning?" asked the newspaper man, suddenly, as he halted at the door.

"Two or three calls, then to lunch at the club." Lister was slightly astonished. Once Weston entered the doors of the newspaper office, meals and ordinary happenings did not exist, except as news.

"Right. May drop in to lunch at the club. One o'clock do? All serene." Then, as Lister nodded and moved off: "Say, old man, don't let that 'Silver Swan' stunt out to anyone. There may be a lot behind it."

Before the expert could ask questions, the journalist pushed through the revolving doors and disappeared. Lister had an impulse to follow him, but after reflection shrugged his shoulders and walked down quickly to Phillip Street. He had an appointment with his solicitors within a few minutes, and the questions on his lips could well wait until lunch time. Yet the expert puzzled. What did Weston know? He had looked quite startled when he let slip the word, "Silver Swan." Ysobel had laughed, and her laughter was vaguely reminiscent of the voice that had come to him over the air.

The journalist did not turn up at the club to lunch. Lister waited for some time, and then went into the dining-room alone. He had half-completed his meal when a pageboy called him to the telephone.

"That you, Sydney?" It was Weston's voice on the wire. "Good. I was afraid you might have gone home."

"Where are you? I waited lunch, but—"

"Lunches have to wait." There was strain in the newspaper man's voice. "Doing anything this afternoon?"

"Nothing important. Thought of a tailor and a few similar things of that nature."

"They can wait. Look here, old man. There's a bit of a mess down Como way. Can you spare time to run down with me? I've a car here and will pick you up."

"Anything special?"

"Maybe. I'm not talking over the wire. It's only an hour's run and we may be gone three or four, all told. Come, if only for the drive, old fellow."

Lister hesitated. Some impulse urged him to accept the journalist's invitation. Weston was plainly agitated, and when that astute individual was unbalanced over his daily work, events were in the making. In past days the expert had worked with the Pictorial star reporter, and always with interest and appreciation.

"Right." He made up his mind, suddenly. "Anything you want me to bring?"

"Nothing but a good pair of eyes," Weston hesitated. "It's a queer matter. Murdered man, and not a sign of how the affair happened."