Читать книгу The Secret of the Desert - Coutts Brisbane - Страница 7

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CAPTAIN NED GIRVAN turned over the soiled envelope addressed to him in pencil, in a shaky, sprawling, uncultivated hand.

"How come? Who's it from?" he shouted to the rapidly retreating boatman who had passed it up to him.

The man didn't reply, except with a grin, and Girvan opened the envelope, muttering:

"Some blamed beachcomber, I s'pose."

Then he frowned. The Rockabelle had come in to Thursday Island on the previous evening. He had at once gone aboard the old gunboat Beagle, that ancient though still serviceable vessel which represented the law in that quarter of the world, and made his report. And as the Beagle had been on the point of sailing on one of her regular tours of inspection, her captain had said that he would look into Lambourne Inlet and investigate the strange attack upon the Rockabelle and the murder of Lancing, though he had little hope of discovering anything.

"Illicit pearling gang. They'll be gone right away by the time we get there," said the skipper of the Beagle. "And you don't expect me to believe that bit about the disappearing schooner, do you, Ned? She must have given you the slip somehow. Miracles like that don't happen, that's all there is to it."

"That's exactly the point—they don't. So there we are," agreed Girvan. "But the fact remains the man was murdered, and we had a darned narrow shave."

"Well, take my tip and don't talk about it ashore till I come back. There are some very queer characters knocking around Thursday. If any of them are in on this monkey work it's just as well not to give 'em warning. Tell nobody. I'll let you know within a week. Wait till then, and we'll see what can be done."

So Girvan had returned to his own ship and given orders that no one should talk. The better to ensure silence, he had picked the men who took him ashore and specially warned Ah Sin against talking when he went to buy fresh provisions. He had been certain that all the men could be trusted—and now, here in his hands was proof that some one had been talking!

The letter began:

"Dere Captain Girvan,—You knows me, ole Johnny Rudge."

Girvan smiled in spite of himself. He knew Johnny—everybody knew Gulf Johnny. He was one of the old-timers. Away back in the bad old days of black-birding, Johnny had been the skipper of Helen K., one of the most notorious schooners in the labour trade.

Johnny had "recruited" labour for the Queensland sugar plantations in the fearless old fashion. He would drop anchor in the lagoon of some island, invite a select party of natives aboard, load them up with trade gin, and when they were all helplessly drunk, clap them under hatches and get away. The recruits went ashore in handcuffs, and the plantation owners had their own methods of keeping discipline after they got them.

It was a paying game while it lasted, though naturally it couldn't be played very long, since he couldn't visit the same island twice. When it was played out, Johnny had gone pearling. There were various incidents, culminating in the barefaced robbery of a private lagoon. After that Johnny and the Helen K. found it convenient to get away to South America.

There he played a part in a revolution, running a cargo of arms for one of the parties. Later he was back again in Australasia minus schooner and crew, and very close-mouthed even when he was painting the Melbourne bars a brilliant vermilion.

He next turned up in New Guinea, where he made a lucky gold strike. By turns trader and prospector, explorer and dealer in pearls, sometimes rich, sometimes stony broke, Johnny had finally settled down in Thursday, apparently well-to-do, living in a little shack some distance from the township on the spit east of the anchorage.

"Know you, you old pirate! I should rather think so!" murmured Girvan, and again read the words that had caused him to frown:

"So I rite to tell you theres funny bizness up the Lambourne Inlet, so Ive heerd tell you been up there ought to know about, and I can tell you some more, but I won't rite it, but you can have it word of mouth if you come to see me to-nite. Don't let no one see you come in a bote when it's quiet. It is verry serous. I have know it only a little while, but you know me, and I tell no lies.

"Your true friend,

"JOHNNY RUDGE."

"My aunt!" breathed Girvan. "Eh?" He turned sharply. Ah Sin stood at his elbow, holding a tray on which was a long glass full of amber liquid in which ice tinkled enticingly.

"What d'you want?" he snapped. "What d'you mean by creeping about like that?"

"Shloe nevlah makee nloise," replied the Chinaman patiently. "Me makee whhlistle nex' time? Blingee cool dlink'long got ice. Tea and olange juice. Velly cool."

"Oh, all right!" said Girvan ungraciously. "Look here, did you say anything about that shooting business when you went ashore yesterday evening?"

"No talkee. You tellee no talkee. Why me talkee when you tellee no?" quoth Ah Sin.

"Well, some one has," growled Girvan, and dismissed the Chinaman with a nod.

He read the letter again. It was very perplexing. Gulf Johnny probably knew more about the very queer people who occasionally turned up at Thursday than any one else. No doubt he had plenty of dark secrets. And he owed Girvan a good turn, for the skipper of the Rockabelle had, years before, come to his rescue when he was in dire trouble, and Johnny was the sort of man who never forgot friend or foe.

When Tommy Paston and Jim came aboard after a run around ashore, they found Girvan still staring absently at the letter. He handed it to them silently.

"Is there anything in it, d'you think?" asked Paston.

"Gulf Johnny would regard homicide as merely a passing incident in the day's work, if he were sure he wouldn't get into trouble over it. When a man like that speaks of something being very serious, you can bet it's something jolly close to a catastrophe," said Girvan.

"So you'll go along—alone?"

"You two can come with me. Johnny is worth knowing. He's like one of those old buccaneers, born out of his time. But is there any talk about this business ashore?"

"Never a word," answered Jim. "We looked in at a hotel and met Billy Fiddler, the airman we saw in Townsville last year. There were a lot of chaps in the place seeing Billy off, but no one said anything to us about Lambourne Inlet. I think some one would if the yarn had leaked out."

"Johnny knows, anyway, so some one must have told him. Has Billy gone? I've got a notion he'd be the very man to scout round and spot anything queer behind the inlet."

"He went off half an hour ago. But I asked him to come and stay with us when he comes up the coast again. I guessed you would think of this scouting notion when you heard of him," answered Jim with a grin. "I think he'd be keen on it."

"Good egg! But I'm afraid the circus, whatever it is, will be over long before we could get him there. It's probably over now—unless..."

He tapped Johnny's letter meaningly, but said no more, and the subject wasn't referred to again till the evening, when dinner was over and darkness had fallen.

"Shall we start now?" asked Jim in a low voice as Ah Sin cleared away the coffee cups and retreated to his den.

"Yes, I'll tell Kettle!"

Girvan strode forward, and returned with the second mate. The three dropped into the boat, the skipper took the tiller. Ah Sin appeared at the rail.

"You wantee sluppah?" he asked.

"No!" rasped Girvan. "You can turn in. That fellow gets on my nerves, somehow," he said. "He's always at one's elbow of late."

"Near the end of the voyage. He's showing zeal, hoping you'll keep him on," suggested Tommy Paston. "He's a very good servant, and I suppose he likes the billet. But where are you going? I thought Gulf Johnny's shack was on the spit over there—and you're steering t'other way."

"We'll swing round presently. Johnny doesn't want any one to know I'm visiting him. Mind your oar! There's a bit of breeze coming!" said Girvan shortly.

He felt anxious. The mystery of Lambourne Inlet had worried him a great deal. The more he thought of it the less likely seemed the easy explanation that the shooting had been done by some gang of shell poachers. Why on earth, he asked himself, should such fellows call attention to themselves by shooting at the Rockabelle's crew, when they had only to lie low to escape notice altogether? And how did Johnny come to know anything about the affair?

"Anyhow, we'll soon know," he concluded, and presently put the boat about and headed for the spit.

It was dark, for the breeze had brought up clouds which obscured the stars, but he knew the spot well enough, having visited Johnny on previous trading trips. In a little the boat ran in and grounded in a tiny cove.

"Wait here a minute. The old boy seems to be waiting for me." Girvan pointed to a faint gleam of light coming from the dark silhouette of the shack. "If we all go up together he might get nervous and start shooting. A lot of men have had reason to dislike him. I'll be back in a minute."

He walked up the beach and across the loose, drifted sand to the door of Johnny's abode. It was merely a two-roomed bungalow, built of unpainted planks, roofed with the usual corrugated iron. The whole structure leaned crazily to leeward.

"One of these days the whole contraption will be blown down," thought Girvan, and rapped smartly on the door.