THE NEW CHALLENGE
Stripped to trousers, shoes, and shirt, Captain North lay upon his bunk and stared out of the moon-silvered circle of his porthole. Again and again the star designs changed as a Chinese pilot on the bridge altered his course to guide the Kiangsu along the Yangtze’s tortuous channel.
General Steel’s inexplicable and menacing attitude, North realized, had left him both puzzled and uneasy. In his hunt for Trenchard’s murderer an understanding of motives was an essential element. Why had this hard-faced adventurer seemed so sure that objects of interest had been discovered upon the Englishman’s body?
Like a carefully adjusted motor, North’s mind began to work. How could Steel and Trenchard’s paths have crossed? Why was Steel going to Shanghai? Was Wu Feng-pei, despite Steel’s vigorous denial, actively interested in the fate of that city?
Trenchard, he knew, had boarded the Kiangsu at Nanking while Steel had made his dramatic appearance at Tingchow. Ergo, Steel must have learned ashore that Trenchard was in possession of that valuable something.
“Most likely Steel got aboard hunting for a man called Trenchard, but not knowing him by sight,” North decided. “That look on his face when he heard Trenchard’s name supports the theory. The next thing is to fit little Ruby into the picture. Question: Is Steel working for or against her?” He heaved a slow sigh and clasped his hands beneath his head. It must be “with” if Steel had murdered Kilgour’s man. If it wasn’t Steel, who could it have been?
It was very still on the Kiangsu now, he realized. The steady rush of water beneath his porthole sounded like the sighing of wind through a pine forest. It was restful, and God knew he wanted rest for a while.
Presently there arose in his mind a vision of Ruby asking for her shawl, of her kissing the Englishman on the moonlit deck, of her fingers nervously drumming on the rail. Had that been a Judas kiss?
Perhaps someone had gone below to lie in wait for Ruby, and Trenchard, appearing in her place, had been murdered by mistake. How about it? No. The ransacking of Trenchard’s room rather let that theory out, but it was too early to tell. A lot more should come out during the inquest at the Settlement Court.
His mind ran back over various events until he saw himself once more peering in the door of Cabin 18 and hearing those two muffled words, “Carol’s doll.”
“Carol’s doll”? What part could this hypothetical doll have in the puzzle? What did it look like, and where was it?
“Yes, there’s plenty of evidence,” he decided, “too damned much. But no doll.” In the morning he would study such fingerprints as might be found on the pistol planted beside Trenchard’s body.
He yawned and forced his brain to relax. It wasn’t easy. That dagger flung at his back, and Steel’s half-attempted hold-up, puzzled him more than they worried him. Why had these hostile gestures been directed at him so soon after Trenchard was dead? “It’s hell not knowing just what’s been stolen—if it has been stolen—and there’s a point to consider.” Sleep was nearer now. Perhaps “Carol’s doll” was stolen too—“Carol’s doll.” Did it look like Ruby?—Ruby—
A recollection of that square luscious mouth of hers reappeared in his mind’s eye. Ruby—had jilted Sam Steel—sent Trenchard to—death—kisses warm on—lips—Ruby—Did she know about—about—
He approached the threshold of sleep and paused there, his breathing becoming slower and more regular, but, as suddenly as if an electric light had snapped on, consciousness returned. Had his ear detected the faintest imaginable click at his cabin’s keyhole?
Hesitation delayed him not an instant, and he slipped noiselessly off the bed. Sweeping a Burberry trench coat from the wall he bundled it skillfully enough into a faintly human outline and after arranging the bedclothes over it, jerked a dark scarf from the next hook. This he balled on the pillow and then drew up the covers. In less than half a minute it seemed that a dark-haired man lay asleep in the gloom of the cabin.
Why was this relentless persecution continuing? Someone must be terribly afraid. Who? That light in the passageway should reveal the prowler if he got the door open.
Noiseless and deft as a cat walking amid chinaware, North ensconced himself behind the curtain of the coat closet and, throwing off the safety catch of his automatic, prepared to wait, conscious that his pulses were throbbing like a savage’s tom-tom.
His nerves became taut as a towboat’s cables while the interminable seconds clicked into eternity; then his cheek began to itch unbearably. But he promptly forgot the exasperating tickle when those subtle sounds at the door were resumed. Breathless, he fixed his eyes on a faint glow cast beneath the door by the passageway lights.
Now that the door had begun to open, a sudden doubt struck him whether the dummy would prove convincing. He realized, too, that for a short space the curtain would obscure the mysterious visitor’s advance. What if the invader should choose that moment to divert his attack on the coat closet?
The door opened a little farther, and North trained his eyes ahead, for his closet was located approximately behind the door. That dummy was looking very, very crude when, to his mingled joy and uneasiness, the light in the hall was extinguished and the door swung noiselessly inward. With the silent speed of a swooping owl a shadowy figure darted across the cabin. Barely suppressing a cry of amazement North recognized the would-be assassin and, for a split second, deliberated whether he should remain silent or call out a demand for surrender.
“Ugh!” The hidden man’s ears caught a grunt which betrayed the viciousness of the would-be assassin’s stab. A startled exclamation was bitten short as, with incredible speed, the attacker whirled and darted out through the door. Shaken at the deadly savagery of the attempt, North remained quite silent and motionless for a long ten minutes; perhaps the invader would return. But apparently the attacker had perceived his error even as the knife sank into North’s dummy. No slow-brained fellow this!
Now badly worried, the Intelligence Captain presently reached out, closed the door, and shot a bolt which, in addition to the key, secured his door. Then he turned on the light and, gaunt of face, approached that huddled outline on the bunk.
“The swine’s spoiled my Burberry. Clean through to the underside, by God!” It was not pleasant to reflect that the attacker’s dagger had been expertly driven to the hilt into the dummy at the point where his shoulder blades would have joined. “Nothing amateurish about this lad,” North decided. “Too bad he had sense enough to take his dagger with him.”
Wiping a gathering of chilly perspiration from his forehead, North presently turned his chair to face the door and settled down step by step and deduction by deduction, a plan of campaign which might on the morrow reveal and bring to book Richard Trenchard’s murderer.
There were many things he hadn’t considered yet—for instance, that bronze cash in Trenchard’s breast pocket.