Steve Fisher Murder Mysteries
Steve Fisher
FLAMING FREIGHTER
Murder and Barratry Stalk the Decks of the “Roamer” in this Gripping Story of the Sea
A BLOOD red sun dipped even with the horizon, dyeing the sea its ghastly crimson. The peaks from the distant shore line threw long shadows over the water. And the coastwise freighter
Roamer
pushed her way slowly along. Green vermin hung up even with her water-line; the faded white paint on her sides was blackened and scarred with long scraping of cargo nets and docks.
Each time the tiny twin screws that pushed the creaking and groaning hulk along, swished through the water, they seemed to say something. The incessant, throbbing engines seemed repeating the same thing over and over. The aged bow, with its crescent on the sprit, seemed smashing out the same words as it thumped heavily over the coast swells:
“Young Tom Leland has been murdered!” The atmosphere on the bridge was electrified, as tense as a deathly live wire stretched to the breaking point. Nelson, the yellow-haired quartermaster, stood with his lanky legs spread apart, on the port side. His long arms were folded over his chest. His cheeks were half sunken in, his lips grim and tight. His almond-shaped blue eyes stared straight ahead.
A heavy set seaman, unshaven and with black, tangled hair, gripped the helm wheel tighter than before. He watched the gyro and steered the course without so much as moving his head.
Jones, the third mate, with his blue officer's cap straight on his head, was gritting his teeth as his brown eyes scanned over wastelands of water. He was leaning on the starboard bridge wing, occasionally putting the glasses to his eyes as if searching for a point and bearings.
Words would have been dynamite. But there were no words. Captain Leland, gripped between white-hot rage and soul-crushing grief, had come on the bridge and was standing there, looking out of the pane glass and into the sea.
HIS deep-set blue eyes had a marble, glassy stare in them-as death-like as the stare he had reflected from his dead son's eyes just one hour before. His withered white face was drawn as tight as a drum. His colorless thin lips, etched with hard cynical lines, were clamped tightly together. He was hatless and his snow white hair lay flat on his head. His astounding grip of calmness ate into the trio.
Slowly his doubled fists went from his sides and into his pockets of his blue coat. A sea- wearied old man ready to give his creaking old tub to his son, only to have his last blood relation, his one mark in life, murdered on his own ship! And it had happened just one short hour before. That burned, seared.
His apparently unseeing glassy eyes continued drilling through the pane glass. His face was unmoving, his blue eyes unflickering. Then the pale lips parted; cold, impartial words dropped out: “Running lights, Nelson.”
THE long shadows grew longer; darkness was fast ascending over the water. The ship bounced up, flinging the bow's crescent high, then crashed down in the surf. The twin screws swished on, the incessant engines continued their throbbing.
Nelson's lanky body appeared beside the captain: “Running lights-“ his voice half cracked-“aye, aye, checked, on-” He returned to his station on the port side and leaned his elbows on the sill of the glass. His throat was bobbing like a buoy. His face was harder than before.
Presently the thumping of heavy feet on the bridge ladder broke the death-like reverie. A huge hulk of a man pulled himself up. He had wildly gleaming brown eyes, shreds of brown hair around a shiny bald head. His broad face was marked with a wide cheek scar. He had a large, gaping mouth that twitched cruelly.
He eyed the third mate on the bridge wing, stared at the seaman who was spinning the wheel about on another degree and nodded to Nelson, whose eyes hadn't turned away from the pane. Then he stood beside the captain. He grew impatient, rubbed the back of his hand across his smashed flat nose, and spoke:
“You sent for me, Skipper?”
Captain Leland's blue eyes turned slowly to the boatswain. For a moment he searched the broad countenance of the other. His white, drawn face was still and placid. The huge boatswain shifted his brown eyes about, caught the captain's glint, then lost it.
“Yes, Lewis, I sent for you.”
Lewis' lips twitched as he nodded his bald head. He seemed unusually nervous. The Asiatic stare everyone knew him by, seemed dancing in his eyes-dancing as if nothing lay behind the eyes.
The Old Man's hand gripped his shoulder. He and the boatswain had sailed every sea there was together. If Lewis was a little balmy, what of it? Lewis had made his master's papers and the captain had promised to “see about getting him a ship.” And now Lewis was nervous. Lewis had liked his son, Tom. Such an ungodly, horrible murder would make any man nervous.
The captain spoke: “You-you were working near the hold?”
Lewis' brown eyes took on the old sailor- bluff of unbreakable hardness. Lines played about his huge mouth. The back of his hand rubbed across his flat nose again.
“Yeah, Skipper,” he lipped, “and I saw Jim Garrett come out just a few minutes before-” He stopped suddenly as the captain's hand gripped his shoulder tighter.
THE Old Man's hand slipped to his side. “I have the hatchet locked up,” he said. “The murderer's fingerprints will be on it. If Garrett came out of the hold-” He stopped and smacked his lips grimly together.
A wild light had crept into the Asiatic sailor's eyes. His mouth fell agape again. He was nodding his bald head.
“Lewis-” “Yeah, Skipper-” he stammered, shaking his head more, his lips breaking into an insane grin. “I was thinking, that hatchet-that bloodstained hatchet-” his voice grew louder, shrill and unpleasant, “that will hang any man!” The grin grew until it was ghastly.
“Don't take it hard, Lewis,” the captain soothed. “Go to your cabin, lay down, rest your mind.”
The huge boatswain was still nodding, his mouth still hanging. “Yeah, Skipper. I got to rest up.” His eyes traveled over the trio on watch. “Got to rest up,” he repeated dumbly.
THE heavy-set helmsman's eye caught Nelson's. Lewis had been almost this bad before and the captain had labeled: “It's the way of a sailor of the old days-” But the newer men at sea wondered. Shook their heads and wondered.
The bulky man eased himself down the ladder. He was still shaking his head. His brown eyes still roved. He kept muttering: “Fingerprints on hatchet-hang any man!”
Captain Leland stood only a moment longer in his statue-like position.” Just long enough for the ship to nose heavily up, like a misbehaved horse, and then crash down in the spraying water. With the crash the
Roamer
moaned as if in agony. And the captain left the bridge.
He walked casually down the boat deck sniffing the fresh night air, tasting the tang of salt in the atmosphere. His iron nerves seemed jumping within him, but his whitened face was still calm and without visible emotion. Presently he reached the second mate's cabin. A dim light showed from its port.
The Old Man had never knocked anywhere on the ship. He braced himself a moment, holding the knob of the door as the ship repeated its scenic-railway dipping. Then he walked in.
Jim Garrett was sitting at a writing desk, his blue cap beside him. As the captain closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, he got to his feet, surveying the Old Man critically. Then his sea-beaten bronzed face turned to sympathetic understanding.
In the dim light over his desk, he made a picture as he stood there-tall; wavy black hair; small, piercing black eyes; high cheek bones and full lips over an even, squared jaw. The crew knew his ability to navigate, respected his ability to fight.
The white face of the captain was as smooth as top sail. His blue eyes glared into Garrett's black ones.
“Garrett-
you
were in the hold?”
The second mate's face grew tight. His eyes narrowed a bit as he realized the captain's question led up to accusation of the murder.
“Captain, I didn't kill-”
“Were
you in the hold?”
Garrett braced his hands on the writing desk and leaned back a little. His head cocked to one side. Now his black eyes were defiant in their gleam. His square jaw was protruded a little.
“Yes, Captain, I went to the hold about an hour before they found Tom's body there. I went to get a flashlight for the mid watch tonight.”
THE Old Man's white poker-face was unmoving. His deeply set blue eyes were like magnets drawing steel as he scanned the second mate. He fought to hold his emotions within him.
“Garrett,” he said, leaning up from the doorway. “Was that your way of getting even with me?”
The color mounted in the second mate's face. A blood vein streaked diagonally across his forehead, bulging out. He opened his mouth once to speak and stopped. He smashed his fist on the desk, leaned away from the support. His black eyes were kettles of boiling ink as he shook his head.
“You were fired. Getting off in Frisco because you and Tom had a fight. Because you hated Tom, Garrett. Your sense of justice-”
Garrett's words were short, clipped: “Do you think I'd commit murder because I was fired from a lousy tub like this?”
The Old Man's white fists doubled. He moved forward a little, his blue eyes oozing hatred. His thin lips moved in and out as gritted words fell: “I believe it was you, Garrett!”
GARRETT stepped face to face with the Old Man. His hands went to his sides and his fists doubled. His square jaw was pulled down in disgust. His facial muscles working down from his high cheek bones were taut. His black eyes were flaming-staring unflickering into the captain's countenance.
“Captain Leland-you're crazy!”
The captain's body was swinging back and forth. His clenched fists were trembling. But his face was still unmoving. His words came slow, distinct: “You're a dirty sneaking murderer!”
Garrett's lips twitched. If the skipper wasn't so old-No man could call him that. His finger nails dug into the palms of his hand in fever- pitched anguish. The streaking blood vein on his forehead seemed bulging more. It was scarlet.
The ship tossed up and thumped down heavily in the sea. The twin screws chugged on, pushing water, more water behind them. The engines throbbed with their ever-going
pump, pump.
“The final testimonial of my proof,” said the captain, “is on the hatchet you used. Your fingerprints will show up nicely.”
Garrett didn't move.
The Old Man turned to the door, put his hand on the shiny knob. Then he faced Garrett: “But perhaps we won't need fingerprints.” His face showed the first signs of changed expression. “We're having a court tonight,” he went on. “Ever hear of a Kangaroo Court, Garrett? We're having one of those on this ship.” He nodded grimly, opening the door of the cabin. “And if we should decide to hang you-”
Garrett knew the rest. The report to land officials would be: “Washed overboard.”
The door slammed and the Old Man was gone.
Garrett stood for a moment alone, recalling the events of the afternoon. Tom Leland had been lying up by the anchor chain when he came out of the hold. The boatswain had been mixing paint nearby. He had had the funny Asiatic stare in his eyes.
Thoughts marched like a rapidly moving army. He had to move and move fast. Captain Leland was good for his word: they'd have a Kangaroo Court and hang him. The Old Man would stop at nothing to avenge his son's murderer.
Suddenly Garrett picked up his blue officer's cap and slammed it on his head, cocking it to one side. That boatswain-that crazy boatswain who thought he'd get the ship when the Old Man retired if young Tom wasn't alive. That was the solution! Garrett had to prove it!
HE opened the door of his cabin and stepped out on deck. The ship was nosing up and crashing down harder on the night swells, which were getting larger. The old wooden sides groaned louder. A dull yellow moon reflected eerie shadows across the deck. Somewhere on the shore line the dim light of Point Montecito was flickering.
He walked briskly to the ladder that led down to the main deck. Casually his eyes went to the mast, up to the seaman who was in the crow's nest, and then to the taut steel stay that stretched from the mast top, far over the bridge. A million flickering stars blanketed across the skies made the stay a dim black line.
Then, looking forward, his eyes fell on the little light on the bowsprit. But other jumping lights were obstructing it. He looked down. From the hold the craziest jumping reflections he had ever seen were emanating.
Immediately boatswain Lewis came to his mind. He broke into a run.
AS he leaned over the hatch top and peered down in the hold, he could hear heavy breathing and an occasional short laugh. He heard a shrill voice half whisper: “Clues . . . clues.” Then a laugh. “No more clues.” The crazy laugh again grew louder and more shrill.
Garrett threw a long leg over the hatch top and started down. The jumping shadows were growing stronger. A quick rustling sound met his ears-a crackling. He leaped to one landing, threw his long leg over the next downward ladder and jumped to the next deck. He had one more deck to descend. He leaped, landing squarely on his feet. A horrible sight met his eyes.
Flames were bursting from one entire side of the small hold. In another corner, lit by flames and shadowed by darkness, crouched the huge, bulky form of Lewis. His bald head glowed ghastly. His brown eyes sparkled insanely. His hands were open, his fingers spread.
“No more clues,” the boatswain laughed shrilly. “They'll blame this on you now-no fingerprints on the hatchet-”
Garrett knew in an instant what it meant. The half balmy boatswain had cracked under the strain. He had murdered Tom Leland, thinking the captain would give him the ship then when he retired. But in his blunt stupidity he hadn't accounted for hatchets or fingerprints. It was quite evident also that he did not know of Captain Leland's plans for a Kangaroo Court.
Murdering his best friend's son for a mercenary gain-then the fear of being caught, drove his already demented mind entirely mad!
This was the solution which Garrett had been seeking. To eke a confession out of Lewis would clear Garrett of all charges of guilt, Warily he stepped for the corner in which the crazed, clutching boatswain was crouched. He faced a man who would have super-strength in his madness.
Suddenly Garrett leaped. His hands groped for the huge bull-like neck of the scarred and broad-faced boatswain. Like a blast of dynamite the boatswain's two fists shot forward into Garrett's face, his elbows and shoulders swinging back and forth wildly. For a fraction of a second Garrett was a half a foot back. He was coming forward again when the huge bulky man lifted his boot and slammed it into Garrett's stomach. Huge legs scrambled over him and up the ladder.
WITH intense pain in his mid-regions, Garrett struggled to his feet and grasped hold the iron ladder. His foot planked on the first rung. Then there was a large crackle behind him. The small hold was getting hotter. Garrett's head shot around and he saw the flames leaping higher and higher as if frenzied in a delight to destroy.
A cry breaking from his lips with the sudden realization of what the fire could do if it got any higher, Garrett leaped back in the hold. Here was a foe a man could not beat with fists. He looked about him wildly. A canvas tarpaulin lay rolled in one corner. Garrett grabbed it up and straightened it out.
He commenced beating it on the huge licking flames. But now they were reaching the overhead, crawling, leaping, jumping wildly about the hold.
Garrett's long arms worked in and out quickly, but his canvas extinguisher fell vainly on the fire. He wanted to give the alarm, yet he dared not leave this hold for an instant. Crazily he beat. The flames were getting closer to him. Soon they would have the whole lower hold-and if they ever got up to two decks above, where the paint locker was-He hated to think.
SUDDENLY he heard a loud howl from the top of the hold. Shooting his head upward he saw Captain Leland peering down, his deep blue eyes wild, his face twisted into the worst emotion of hate and anger.
“My ship, my ship,” he heard the Old Man shout down hysterically. The calmness, the pokerface were shattered, nerves wrecked at this. A skipper's worst dread-fire.
Garrett knew the Old Man would never believe that he hadn't started the fire. With the accusation of the murder, this only heaped evidence higher.
Captain Leland half climbed and half fell to the bottom of the hold. His white face was drawn and agonized as he scanned the leaping flames. Then his withered and now gruesome countenance turned to Garrett. His old lips curled back in a snarl. His huge white fist smashed across Garrett's face.
The second mate grabbed the Old Man's shoulders.
“Sir, I tell you-”
“You rotten, yellow murderer,” the Old Man sobbed. “You dirty, lousy scum. Murder my son and try to burn my ship!” He leaped wildly at Garrett, his arms outstretched in uncontrollable fury.
Garrett slammed him back against the iron ladder. “Sir, you've got to listen-”
The Old Man pushed him away. “Listen?” he roared with an insane, hysterical laugh. Licks of the fire were dancing about him now. His head turned back and forth like a small boy seeing his only possession destroyed.
His fists doubled tighter and he seemed to try and take hold of himself. He didn't notice Garrett again, but picked up the canvas Garrett had used.
Again Garrett pushed the Old Man to the ladder. “Don't-” screamed the skipper, his hand groping for a dog wrench. Garrett slammed his fist across the Old Man's jaw. It stunned him long enough to drag him out of the flaming hold.
Once on deck the captain regained himself and scrambled to his feet. Garrett ran across to the bell beneath the mast and rang it wildly. Several long, screaming gongs burst on the night air, then a short gong. He repeated this twice.
At once the ship was alive with men. Half dressed seamen, coatless officers, running up and down ladders. Calls, shouts. Lockers being opened and pouring forth fire equipment. Extinguishers breaking forth. Fire blankets coming to top side. The deck hose being rigged quickly. Men running up and down deck, each to his station. Presently water spurted. Extinguishers drilled into the flames.
THE shrill horn from the bridge tooted eternally. But no ship was near these waters. It was a useless blast into the night air.
The flames had leaped three decks and were blasting from the top of the hold, coming clear out on deck. The paint locker was already soaring. Small explosions dynamited holes that led to huger flames. Thuds, crashes and the eternal leaping, jumping flames, spreading.
The fire hose seemed like a toy as the paint locker's kerosene and other imflammable liquids churned the blaze to a frenzied height.
Trying desperately to blanket part of the flames, Garrett noticed that Boatswain Lewis, who should have been in charge of the fire party, was not present. The licking giants of fire crept higher and higher. The Old Man ran to the rail, connected pumps, slammed the hold shut. But the flames continued.
THE ship was bouncing up and down now wildly. The flames made huge streaks in the black night air. The engine room pumps suddenly stopped their throbbing, backed, stopped entirely.
The radio room was beating with the click, click, click of the S-O-S.
But the
Roamer
was old, some of the wood half rotted. Now given a chance, it soared in the fire.
Captain Leland suddenly realized the impossibility of it all. The tiny toys they had for fire prevention and extinguishing were nothing compared to these flames. He knew the rotted decks of the ship-he knew what they'd do in a fire. He had prayed long that such would never come. He realized now, and now only, that there was nothing they could do but get ashore. Then his eyes fell wildly on the tall, desperately working Garrett.
“Men,” Leland screamed, and everything was suddenly still.
“Men! Garrett, Second Mate Jim Garrett, started this fire. Second Mate Jim Garrett murdered Tom Leland. Before you take to the lifeboats-
get him!”
Taken utterly by surprise, Garrett backed quickly to the mast. He kicked out and threw his fists into a dozen men's faces. Then his fingers grasped the mast ladder.
The huge stick was swaying back and forth as he climbed. Men climbed after him.
In his mind was one goal. Lewis, the boatswain. He
had
to find him. Had to get him. He knew there was no chance against the fire-crazed crew. He had to find Lewis and somehow get a confession. Prove to them-
He was getting near the top. The flames below were spreading fast, delighted in their newer, easier territory. The mast creaked back and forth. The wind howled around him. The ship bounced up and down, rocked crazily. The men were still coming and Garrett climbed faster.
Now he was coming to the crow's nest. A last chance, he thought grimly. If Lewis was hiding
there-
But as he scrambled into the cup- like enclosure, he found it empty. Cursing and yelling above the flames' roar were the men, close after him. Garrett looked despairingly to the taut stay that spread from the crow's nest, attached to the yard arm and stretching over to the bridge. He shook his head-no chance here.
THE men were at his feet. Clawing hands grabbed at him. How easy it would be to kick them down now! But he couldn't do that. They were not his enemies.
He didn't want to kill any of them. Yet it was his life against theirs.
One man leaped up into the cup. Garrett slammed him with his fist. Then without knowing what impulse drove him to it, he found himself perched on the edge of the nest and reaching for the yard arm's taut guy line. Presently he was swinging on it, moving across the hard steel of the stay, hand over hand.
The screams and cries of the men grew louder. Curses followed him. The hard steel of the stay burned his hands. He felt his fingers slipping each time he grasped for a new hold. The wind howled louder, blowing his body back and forth.
Presently he felt a new weight on the line. Another man was following him across! Then his head turned to his goal, the bridge. His eyes blinked as he saw the short third mate Jones standing there waiting.
Then he heard a horrible, agonizing scream. His head jerked about. He had looked in time to see the seaman who had tackled the stay hurtling, smashing, to that hard deck below. Then a dull thud and silence.
GARRETT shuddered as his hands worked more swiftly across the line. The wind was playing havoc, as it swished and whirled about him. Presently he was within yards of the bridge. Would Jones shove him off now and send him hurtling, after the unfortunate seaman, to the deck below? Jones knew he couldn't stand up to Garrett in a hand-to-hand fight.
Then, quite suddenly, he saw the tall figure of Nelson, the quartermaster, join Jones.
His hands reached the bridge wing. Jones and Nelson were better men than he had supposed. They stood back until Garrett had swung his long body into the wing. Then iron hands clapped about him.
Garrett whirled, slamming a hard fist into Nelson's face. Nelson took it grinning and tried to lock Garrett's arms. Garrett's shoulder slammed into Nelson's face with a pile-driver force. Nelson groaned and for a second released his grip.
With a terrific smash Garrett plowed down Jones and, leaping across his body, ran into the bridge.
He
had
to find Lewis! He had to get the boatswain! Already he could hear the howls of the men climbing from the main deck up the bridge ladders. There was an enclosure on the back of the bridge that was very frequently visited by the men. Lewis often slept there.
He jerked around the side of the bridge. He got a fleeting glimpse of Lewis, climbing to the rail-enclosed top of the bridge!
In a leap he too was in this rail-enclosed bridge-top, where the flames were more plain and the wind howled like a thing gone mad. Lewis was waiting. He screamed an insane, woman-like scream and plunged forward, a huge marlin spike in his hands.
Garrett jerked his head only in time. He felt the spike graze his cheek, then it slammed against his shoulder. That hurt, like a ton truck hitting him! But his other arm worked up into a terrific smash against the other man's jaw.
Lewis, dropping the spike, plunged forward into Garrett with his huge arms swinging back and forth like a mechanical robot's. Garrett's fist squared back even with his shoulders, and he shot it into the bald-headed boatswain's face like a smash of iron.
Then the boatswain leaped, attempting to wrap his legs about Garrett. With a terrific shove Garret got him away, pushed him against the low rail and slammed him harder. Left to his old trick of defense, the huge man lifted his leg once more.
GARRETT grabbed it and with a quick jerk of his perfectly trained body he pulled the entire frame of the boatswain heavily up and then slammed him over the rail of the bridge top. He buckled one leg over the rail, using it as a leverage of weight.
Lewis' head and arms dangled over the sides. His horrible woman-like screams grew louder.
Then men arrived, in wild disorder. Garrett half turned. His black eyes were gleaming a wild defiance. His square jaw was set.
“If you come a step nearer, I'll drop him!” he snarled.
They hesitated.
Garrett saw Captain Leland scrambling to the bridge top. “Here's your murderer, Skipper,” Garrett roared. “And also here's the fire bug.”
The captain stared wild-eyed.
Garrett pulled the bulky form back up. Lewis' bald pate was scarlet with blood that had rushed to it, completely wiping out the last traces of sanity. The scar-faced man trembled in his grasp.
GARRETT released him. The man stood apart, his legs spread. His huge fists were at his sides as his brown eyes leaped from face to face. His mouth was twitching crazily.
Suddenly he laughed, the wild, shrill and insane laugh. He pointed a long finger to the captain: “You promised to get me a ship,” he shrieked. “You old fool, you couldn't never get a ship. I wanted this one-that's why I killed Tom Leland!” He laughed again.
The captain's white face was blank. His eyes were hard and glassy.
The insane man went on: “Then I wanted to burn the clues.” Again laughter. “That bloody hatchet!”
One of the crew suddenly made for him, but the boatswain lifted his foot and slammed it into the unfortunate seaman's stomach. He turned to Garrett. He started for him, his eyes gleaming wildly. Then he turned back to the men who were closing in on him from all sides.
Then without warning he leaped high over the rail and down on the taut stay that Garrett had climbed. He worked his way across it with the ease of an old time boatswain and the strength of a maniac.
The flames roared below him. The ship rocked and dipped, nosing deeper and deeper. The boatswain kept swinging across the wire. “You'll never get me!” he howled.
And they didn't. They had to take to the boats.
They left a crazy, screaming figure crouched in the crow's nest, waving, yelling, laughing- even as the ship exploded, split in two and disappeared into the hungry water.
THE END
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