Читать книгу White Wings and Blue Water - George E. Rochester - Страница 8

Table of Contents

Buck and Beth swiftly turned their heads. As they did so, they tensed in their seats. For the well-dressed, swarthy-faced Stubbs and his three companions, Fenton, Cooper and Shaw, were standing in the middle of the saloon, each with a pair of pistols which were covering the petrified passengers and stewards.

“We mean it!” gritted Stubbs, his narrowed eyes watchful and aglitter. “One move and we’ll shoot—and shoot to kill!”

The hold-up could not have been better timed, for the stewards and air hostess were in the saloon, clearing the luncheon tables, which meant that there was no one aft in the crew’s quarters and kitchen except the chef.

What was more, Barnes, the engineer officer, and Atkins, the second pilot, were also in the saloon finishing lunch, which meant that there were only three men in the control cabin—Raynor, senior pilot, Pembroke, the navigator, and Tupworth, the radio operator.

That the hold-up had been carefully planned and that each man knew exactly what he was to do also became quickly apparent. For the man, Shaw, stepped swiftly to the open, sliding door which connected with the crew’s quarters and kitchen, slid it shut, then turned and stood with his back against it so that he was facing along the saloon, his pistols raised.

When Shaw had taken up his position, Stubbs, Fenton and Cooper moved swiftly for’ard along the saloon to the closed sliding door which gave access to the control room. Here they turned so that the passengers and stewards were menaced by three pairs of pistols covering them from for’ard and Shaw’s pistols covering them from aft.

“Okay, Fenton, hold them!” ordered Stubbs harshly. “Shoot the first man or woman who moves!” He looked at Shaw at the other end of the saloon and called: “Okay, Shaw?”

“Okay!” assented the other.

Stubbs turned on his heel, pulled open the sliding door which connected with the control room and stepped swiftly through. Cooper, following at his heels, slid the door shut behind them.

In the control room Raynor was standing gazing out through the for’ard look-out windows, for the controls were locked. With him was Pembroke, the navigator. Tupworth, the radio operator, was seated at his transmitter and receiver.

All three had their backs to the door. Nor did they turn round as they heard the door slide open and shut, for they assumed that it would be their colleagues, Barnes and Atkins, returning from lunch.

“Up with your hands—the three of you!” grated Stubbs.

Raynor and Pembroke spun round. Tupworth swung swiftly round on his chair. All three stared in blank astonishment at the blue-black muzzles covering them unwaveringly and at the two gunmen. It was Raynor who spoke.

“What’s the idea?” he rapped.

“Hoist your hands—that’s the idea!” retorted Stubbs harshly. “This is a hold-up!”

“You’re crazy!”

“Hoist your hands or I’ll drill you!” gritted the gunman, his eyes venomous.

Raynor tensed. Next instant he whipped into action, hurling himself forward at Stubbs. But, quick though he was, Stubbs was quicker. One of his two pistols cracked viciously and, as he stepped swiftly aside, Raynor pitched forward, to crash heavily to the floor where he lay a limp and huddled heap.

“You hound!” choked Pembroke, white to the lips.

“You’re next unless you hoist your hands!” rapped Stubbs. “I’ll give you just two seconds!”

Already his finger was tightening on the trigger. Pembroke slowly raised his hands. It would have been suicide to have done otherwise. Cooper had stepped swiftly to the seated Tupworth. He had pocketed one of his pistols, but the remaining one was pointing straight at the wireless man’s head.

“Stand up and get away from that radio!” he ordered.

Tupworth felt sick inside. This was Death and he knew it, for, true to his calling, he had no intention of deserting his post.

Swinging swiftly round on his chair, he switched on the transmitter. But before he could voice even the first word of a desperate call for help, the butt of Cooper’s swiftly clubbed pistol crashed down with sickening force on his head, sending him slithering from his chair to thud heavily and unconscious to the floor.

Next instant, using the butt of his pistol as a hammer, Cooper was smashing the valves of the radio gear and tearing out the leads with his other hand. The wrecking was devastating and complete and, when he had finished, he said with grim satisfaction:

“There won’t be no more radio signals go out from this kite!”

“Fine!” said Stubbs.

His eyes flickered from Pembroke to the huddled, motionless forms of Raynor and Tupworth, then back to Pembroke again.

“You can help carry these two guys out of here into the saloon,” he said.

“You’ll hang for this!” said Pembroke unsteadily through dry lips.

“Oh, no!” said Stubbs. “Your pal’s not dead, if that’s what you’re thinking. I didn’t shoot to kill. I’m a crack shot and the bullet took him on the side of the head, like I meant it to. It nicked a bit of bone, I guess, and knocked him flat out. But don’t get any wrong ideas,” he warned harshly. “Next time we’ll shoot to kill! That shot was a warning to the whole bunch of you aboard this craft. There’s none of you will get a second chance from now on. Now, come on. Help carry ’em out!”

Cooper had pocketed his pistol and, between them, he and Pembroke carried first Raynor and then Tupworth into the saloon, Stubbs accompanying them, his pistols in his hands.

The passengers and stewards, still being guarded by Fenton and Shaw, stared in fear and horror at the limp forms of the senior pilot and the radio operator, for they had heard the shot in the control room and were quite certain that one, or both, of the officers were dead.

“Anybody giving trouble?” demanded Stubbs of Fenton and Shaw.

“Not one,” grinned Fenton. “Shaw and me’s got everything under control.”

“Okay!” said Stubbs. “You can let the air hostess get the first-aid kit and she can attend to these two guys. She’ll be trained in first-aid, I guess. Most air hostesses are. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He returned to the control room with Cooper and stood watching as the latter sat himself down in the pilot’s seat and studied the gleaming array of dials and gauges on the instrument panels in front of him.

“Can you manage her?” he asked.

“Sure, I can,” replied Cooper. “They’re perfectly straightforward controls with nothing fancy about ’em. I could fly this kite blindfold, I reckon.”

“Yes, you’re a first-class pilot, I’ll hand you that,” said Stubbs. “And you can raise the island okay?”

“Yes, easy,” said Cooper, unlocking the controls. “I’ll swing her off course now, then I’ll lock the controls again and have a look at the chart. It’s spread out there on the navigator’s table.”

His foot moved on the geared rudder bar and he turned the wheel of the control column with strong and confident hands. As he did so, the great white-winged and white-hulled Falcon swung smoothly southwards off her course.

“Gosh, she takes it like a bird!” he ejaculated admiringly, his eyes on the swinging compass. “They can certainly build aircraft, those Britishers.”

He levelled up, holding the thundering Falcon on a course a few degrees east of southerly.

“If you’re certain everything’s okay I’ll get back to the saloon,” said Stubbs.

“You get back,” said Cooper. “Don’t let me keep you!”

Leaving him at the controls, Stubbs returned to the saloon where the air hostess, assisted by Pembroke, was tending the hurts of Raynor and Tupworth, who were beginning to show signs of returning consciousness.

Apart from that, the scene in the saloon had not changed. The passengers were still seated, the stewards were standing where they had been at the moment of the hold-up, and the pistols of Fenton and Shaw continued to dominate the scene.

“Everybody behaving themselves?” asked Stubbs of Fenton.

“Yeah, just like a Sunday School,” said the other, grinning.

Stubbs’ hard, dark eyes travelled slowly over the motionless and apprehensive prisoners, all of whom were watching him.

“Well, folks, you didn’t expect this,” he said almost pleasantly. “But let me tell you, right away, that so long as you don’t start anything you’ll come to no harm. At least, not much. My friend here”—he indicated Fenton—“is now going to search you for weapons. With the possible exception of Mister Jake Bowker, I don’t suppose any of you are carrying a gun. But we’ve got to make sure.”

His eyes rested on the burly Mr. Bowker, who was sitting watching him, apparently unmoved.

“You got a gun, Bowker?” he demanded.

“You know blamed well I’ve got a gun, seeing I’m the kid’s bodyguard,” retorted Bowker. “Don’t ask fool questions!”

“Well, I’m glad you had the sense not to pull your gun,” sneered Stubbs.

“I’d have pulled it quick enough if I’d bin alone with the four of you,” growled Bowker. “But a gun battle in here would mean innercent folks gettin’ hurt, incloodin’ the ladies. But don’t kid yourself none. I ain’t skeered of you. I’ve met your sort before when I was in the police——”

“Okay. Spare us your life story; we don’t want to hear it!” snapped Stubbs, his swarthy face flushing with rage. “We want your gun. Are you going to hand it over?”

Bowker made no reply, but his hand went slowly to his hip pocket. As it did so, Stubbs, Fenton and Shaw tensed, their pistols covering him unwaveringly.

“There she is,” said Bowker and flung his pistol with a clatter on to the table in front of him.

There was nothing of cowardice in the surrender, for that was something of which Mr. Bowker had never been guilty during the whole course of his tough career. It was merely as he had said. To have started a gun battle in the saloon would certainly have resulted in some innocent person, or persons, being wounded or killed, for some of the shots were almost certain to fly wide. So Bowker took what was, for him, the harder course and surrendered his pistol.

“Get that gun!” Stubbs ordered Fenton. “Then you can start searching the rest of ’em!”

Pocketing one of his pistols, Fenton stepped quickly forward, picked up Bowker’s gun and slipped it into his pocket. As he did so, Miss Angela L. Butterworth, glaring at Stubbs, cried furiously:

“Perhaps you will have the goodness to explain the object of this criminal and murderous outrage!”

Stubbs’ thin lips twitched in a fleeting grin.

“You’ll learn that later,” he said. “For now just you sit quiet and keep quiet.”

“But I demand to know——”

“You’re not going to get to know!” shouted Stubbs. “Not yet. Now shut up, or I’ll have you gagged!”

That he was quite capable of carrying out this threat was only too apparent, so, her eyes blazing, Miss Butterworth relapsed into impotent silence.

“Okay, Fenton, get cracking!” ordered Stubbs. “Shaw and I have got ’em covered!”

Fenton’s search of the prisoners for weapons was swift and methodical. He made the men stand up one by one, then ran his hand expertly over them and took the precaution of feeling for concealed shoulder-holsters. He also made them open any small travelling cases they had in the saloon with them and rummaged thoroughly through the contents.

When he came to deal with the ladies, he confined himself to examining the contents of their handbags and cases. For, as he remarked pleasantly to Miss Angela L. Butterworth when turning out her handbag:

“Ladies don’t as a rule carry guns like some of the men-folk do. ’Leastways, not real nice, high-toned ladies like what we have aboard here.”

“You’ll go to prison for this, you scoundrel!” blazed the indomitable lady.

“Sure, sure!” agreed Fenton sardonically. “But don’t let it upset you none.”

He moved on and would have ignored Ogden had not Stubbs called:

“You’d better see if that kid has any more smoke-bombs on him. We don’t want him setting one off and making a smokescreen.”

Ogden had no more bombs on him. A quick search of his pockets satisfied Fenton as to that and he moved on, coming eventually to Buck and Beth.

“I don’t suppose you kids are armed?” he enquired pleasantly.

“No, of course we’re not,” snapped Buck. “What’s the idea of this hold-up, anyway?”

“I’ll write and tell you,” grinned Fenton.

“You’ll not get away with it, of course!”

“Won’t we?” mocked Fenton. “Now, ain’t that just something to know?”

He gave the pair of them a quick search and moved on. A few minutes later, the search over, he reported to Stubbs that, apart from Bowker, no one had been in possession of a gun.

“A nice, peaceful, respectable bunch, eh?” laughed Stubbs. “Well, that’s how I figured it would be, but we had to make certain.”

Raising his voice, he addressed the prisoners again.

“As I’ve already told you,” he said, “so long as you keep quiet and behave yourselves you won’t come to no harm. But I’m taking no chances with you, so I’m going to have all the gents’ hands tied behind their backs. They’ll then sit on the starboard side of the saloon and the ladies will sit on the port side. Has anyone any objections?”

The majority of the gentlemen had the very strongest objections and they said so in voices which ranged from the nervous to the indignant. Mr. Bowker was one of the few who remained silent. But when the chorus had died down, he growled disgustedly:

“You’re only wasting your breath, you crazy mutts! He don’t give a hoot whether you object or not. He’s just laffin’ at you.”

Which was quite correct, of course; for, backed by the menacing guns of Stubbs and Shaw, Fenton proceeded to lash the wrists of the male prisoners behind their backs with lengths of adhesive tape which the gangsters had brought with them obviously for this very purpose.

The chef, fetched by Shaw from the kitchen in which he had been lurking, was included in the pinioning. So were Ogden and Buck, Stubbs remarking:

“One of these kids, meaning Ogden, is as cunning as a low-bred monkey and the other doesn’t look any sort of a fool to me, so they’re safer tied.”

The pinioning completed, the furious but helpless party were forced unceremoniously into the starboard seats, the ladies taking the port ones.

“Needless to say,” warned Stubbs, “if any of you ladies do start anything you’ll be tied up same as the men. I’m telling you that because we’re now going to relieve you of your jewellery, cash and valuables.”

“So that is the meaning of this hold-up, is it?” cried Miss Angela L. Butterworth. “Just plain, armed robbery!”

Stubbs grinned. “It’ll do to be going on with,” he said.

Mr. Bowker, who was now seated next to Buck, muttered:

“So I was right. I knowed all along I’d got it figgered out right.”

“What do you mean?” asked Buck with interest.

Mr. Bowker, his eyes on Stubbs, muttered from the corner of his mouth:

“Didn’t you hear what that skunk just said? Grabbing all the cash an’ jewellery will do to be goin’ on with, he said. Sure, it’ll do to be goin’ on with. It’ll do mighty fine to be goin’ on with till they’re ready to clear off somewheres with the main article of loot what they’re after.”

“And what’s that?” demanded Buck.

“Ogden Pugg, of course!” muttered Mr. Bowker. “I reckoned it was Ogden they was after from the very first minit of the stick-up, and now I’m certain of it!”