Trapped
WITHOUT having the least idea why he was there or where he was, Hawk examined the steel-plated cabin for a clue. A man had just brought him a shot of brandy and then gone out without answering any of the questions shot at him.
Hawk knew that he was somewhere in the Caribbean, probably in the vicinity of the wreck, but he could see nothing but blue sea outside the tiny porthole. For some reason he was being kept intact and a prisoner, but for the life of him he could not figure why. His last recollection had been the sure knowledge that he was drowning, and the next had to do with a pulmotor. After that came a blank, followed by this cabin.
But he had not long to wait, for footsteps came just outside his door. The brass knob wobbled and a key grated in the lock. A short, dark man came in, preceded by a pistol. Hawk sat up on the bunk and glared. It was the man who had been kicked down the gangway in New York, the same man he fought in the darkness of his cabin.
“Hello,” Hawk purred. “I suppose you had some good reason for keeping me alive and kicking.”
The man smirked and said in a shrill voice, “The old man had his reasons. Of course, we should have let you soak. You almost drowned Pizer.”
“I suppose Pizer is one of your divers, eh? Well, all I can say is that it’s a pretty lowdown trick to slit the suit of a man who hasn’t any lines.” Hawk leaned back and clasped his hands around his right knee. “The way you got me up is a trade secret, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes—trade secret.” The short one shifted uneasily under Hawk’s unwinking eyes. “But I’m not here to gab with you, Ridley. I want to know where you stowed the chest you brought up to the Stingaree.”
Hawk started, then relaxed before the other had noticed. “Well, Mercer—that’s the name, isn’t it?—I’ll tell you. You’re bound and determined to kill me as soon as I give you the information, and—”
Mercer broke in quickly, “Oh, no, nothing of the sort! If you tell us where the chest was stowed, we’ll let you off. We might even give you something. The old man said so.”
With an easy smile, Hawk drawled, “Yeah? Well, I’ve different ideas about your brother’s code of ethics. Suppose we make a little bargain?”
The beady, dark eyes narrowed. “You ask for bargains? You! Why, you fool, if we hadn’t picked you up off the bottom—”
“If you hadn’t sent Pizer down to finish me, I’d be alive and ashore in Haiti by this time.” Hawk’s voice was sharp, his whole body taut as he fought an impulse to hand his captor a taste of battle. “We’ll make plenty of bargains. That chest”—Hawk grinned inwardly at his own intrigue—“is in a good safe place. You’d never find the strongroom of the Stingaree without my help. Call your brother.”
Indecision stamped the squat face of Al Mercer, then he slipped out of the door and locked it behind him.
Furious thoughts seethed in Hawk’s mind as he saw the door shut and not the least of them dealt with Vick Stanton’s whereabouts. It was clear that Ocean Salvage was after a chest which had not been found, and even though Hawk knew less than nothing about the disposition of the box, he determined to play his cards through to the limit.
Heavy footsteps sounded again and two men entered the cabin, carefully closing and locking the door. One was Al Mercer. The other was unmistakably his brother, Chuck, the head of Ocean Salvage Company.
“Hello, Chuck,” said Hawk. “It’s a long time since I’ve had the doubtful pleasure.”
“It’s no pleasure for me,” rasped Mercer. “I thought I’d got rid of you a long time ago. Too damned bad your ship’s boats got away from us. I was all for leaving you undersea and to hell with the plate, but little Al here got greedy.”
“Good thing I did, too,” snapped Al. “I told you that chest had all the set emeralds in it!”
His brother glared at him, then turned to Hawk. “Now listen, Ridley. It’s no pleasure to talk to you, I’ll tell you that, so make this business short and sweet. Where did you stow the emeralds in the Stingaree?”
“What’s the matter?” Hawk purred. “Is your friend Pizer afraid to putter around a dead ship? Your outfit’s too wise to keep a chicken-livered diver. Did you have a good time with your charts? What did you steal the things for, anyway?”
Chuck’s lips curled in a snarl. “To look up the chest position, of course.”
“Why,” exclaimed Hawk with a grin, “I didn’t know you could read, Chuck!”
“Cut the comedy, Ridley, and loosen up about that box!”
“Tell you what I’ll do, Chuck. I’ll write out the directions the minute you put me on the beach over in Haiti.”
“To hell with that!” Chuck said roughly. “You’re going to tell me here and now. If you’re right, I’ll set you loose. If you’re wrong—well, it’ll be just too bad for Hawk Ridley.”
Hawk’s voice was weary as he leaned back. “Oh, hell, you might just as well have left me by the Ciudad de Oro! You’ve never kept your word in all your life.”
Chuck’s face grew livid, and he took a threatening step toward Hawk. Al laid a hand on his arm. “You won’t get nothing out of him that way.”
“No?” Chuck considered a moment. Then his face lit up; he flung the door open. “Come on in here, you devils,” he shouted down the passage.
A patter of bare feet greeted the command, and three huge men came in, their faces expressionless.
“Take him out on deck,” Chuck ordered. “Take him out and string him up by the thumbs!” He turned to Hawk. “Perhaps now you’ll babble. You will—or else!”
The three picked Hawk up as though he were a chip of wood and carried him out to the deck. He offered no resistance, for he was too occupied with plans to waste energy in useless fighting.
Chuck and Al followed the procession.
“String him up!” Chuck ordered a second time, and then found the necessary halyards himself.
Hawk watched the thin line draw tight about his thumbs, and then followed the arc of the rope as it was thrown over a yard. Two of Chuck’s men were already pulling. Hawk looked at them calmly, though he knew the terrific pain that would be his in an instant.