They came silently through the tall grass to the edge of the palm fringe that bordered the white sand. The water beyond was smooth as silk, the tiny wavelets breaking on the shore in little ripples. In the clear air of morning the tiny island stood sharp and white against the green background of the sea. The sun, now well above the horizon, hung like an orange ball in the east.
Hall was panting from the exertion of their descent; Dragomiloff showed no signs of effort. He swung about to his companion, his eyes bright with anticipation.
“The time!” he demanded.
Hall stared at him, breathing deeply.
“Why this constant attention to the hour?”
“The time!” There was urgency in the smaller man’s tone. Hall shrugged.
“Seven-thirty-two.”
Dragomiloff nodded in satisfaction and peered down the beach. The row of thatched huts was spread out below them. On the sand a line of hollowed-cut canoes was drawn up. The tide was rising, tugging at the canoes. Even as they watched, a native emerged from one of the huts, dragged the outermost canoes higher onto the sand, and disappeared once again into the shadowed doorway.
The car used by their pursuers was stationed before the largest of the huts, its wheels half-buried in the sand. There was no one in sight. Dragomiloff studied the scene with narrowed eyes, a calculating frown upon his face.
“The time!”
“Seven-thirty-four.”
The smaller man nodded.
“We must leave in exactly three minutes. When I start to run across the sand, you will follow. We shall launch that small canoe lying closest to us. I will enter and you will push us off. We will paddle for the island.” He paused in thought. “I had planned on their being in sight, but no matter. We shall have to make some sort of outcry . . .”
“Outcry?” Hall stared at his companion. “You wish to be caught?”
“I wish to be followed. Wait—all is well.”
Starkington had appeared from the large hut, followed by Hanover and Lucoville. They stood scuffing their feet in the sand, speaking with a native who stood tall and majestic in the open doorway of the hut.
“Excellent!” Dragomiloff’s eyes were glued upon the trio.
“The time?”
“Exactly seven-thirty-seven.”
“The hour! Now!”
He dashed from their refuge, his feet light on the brilliant sand. Hall, running hastily behind, almost tripped but recovered himself in time. Dragomiloff had the small canoe in the water; without hesitation he sprang inside. With a heave Hall set them free and swung aboard, his trouser legs dripping from their immersion. Dragomiloff had already grasped a paddle and was sending them shooting across the calm water. Hall lifted a paddle from the bottom of the boat and joined the smaller man in propelling their slight craft across the smooth sea.
There was a loud shout from the trio on shore. They came hurrying to the edge of the water. A moment later they had clambered aboard a larger canoe and were bent to the paddles. The native ran after them, calling something in a loud voice, waving his hands frantically and pointing seawards, but they paid him no heed. Dragomiloff and Hall increased their efforts; their light canoe momentarily widened the gap.
“This is insane!” Hall gasped, the sweat pouring down his face. “They are three! They will be on us long before we reach the island! And even then that barren rock is no refuge!”
Dragomiloff offered no refutation. His strong back bent and straightened as he lifted and lowered his paddle steadily. Behind them the larger canoe was beginning to gain ground; the distance between the two shallow boats was lessening.
Then, suddenly, Dragomiloff ceased paddling and smiled grimly.
“The hour,” he asked quietly. “What is the hour?”
Hall paid no attention. His paddle was digging fiercely into the smooth sea.
“The hour,” Dragomiloff insisted calmly.
With a muffled curse Hall threw down his paddle.
“Then let them have you!” he cried in exasperation. He dug into his pocket. “You and your ‘what is the hour’! It is seven-forty-one!”
And at that moment there was a slight tremor that ran through their canoe. It was as if some giant hand had nudged it gently. Hall looked up in surprise; the tremor was repeated. Dragomiloff was leaning forwards intently, his hands loose in his lap, staring in the direction of the mainland. Hall swung about and viewed with amazement the sight behind him.
The canoe in pursuit had ceased to make headway. Despite the power of the paddle-strokes of its occupants it remained fixed, as if painted upon the broad ocean. Then, slowly, it began to swing away in a wide circle, a light wake behind it. The trio in the canoe dug more desperately with their paddles, but to no avail. Hall stared. Dragomiloff sat relaxed, viewing the sight with graven face.
On all sides of the restricted arena upon which this drama was being played, the sea remained calm. But in the center, less than four hundred yards from where they lay rocking gently on the bosom of the ocean, the great forces of nature were at work. Slowly the shining waters increased their colossal sweep; the ripples on the surface took on a circular shape. The large canoe rode the current evenly, hugging the rim of the circle tightly; the Lilliputian efforts of the paddlers were lost against that vast array of strength.
The motion of the sea increased. It circled with ever-increasing velocity. Before Hall’s horrified eyes the smooth surface began slowly to dip towards the center, to begin the formation of a gigantic flat cone with smooth, shining sides. The canoe coasted free along the green walls, tilted but locked in place by the giant centrifugal force. The occupants had ceased paddling; their hands were fastened to the sides of the vessel while they watched their certain death approach. One paddle suddenly slipped from the canoe; it accompanied their dizzying path, lying flat and rigid upon the firm waters at their side.
Hall turned to Dragomiloff in wrath.
“You are a devil!” he cried.
But the other merely continued to watch the frightful scene with no expression at all upon his face.
“The tide,” he murmured, as if to himself. “It is the tide. What force can compare with the power of nature!”
Hall swung back to the dreadful sight, his jaws clenched.
Deeper and deeper the cone pitched, faster and faster the glassy walls rushed around, the canoe held fixedly against the glistening slope. Hall’s eyes raised momentarily to the cliff above the village. The sun, reflected from some heliographic point, located some part of their automobile. For one brief instant he wondered if Grunya were watching; then his eyes were drawn back to the sight before him.
The faces of the three were clearly visible. No fear appeared, nor did they cry out. They seemed to be discussing something in an animated fashion; probably, Hall thought with wonder, the mysteries of the death they would so soon encounter, or the beauty of the trap into which they had fallen.
The vortex deepened. A sound seemed to come from the depths of the racing cone, a tortured sound, the sound of rushing water. The canoe was spinning at an incredible rate. Then it suddenly seemed to slip lower on the burnished slope, to be seeking the oblivion of the depths of its own will. Hall cried out unconsciously. But the slim vessel held, lower in the pit of speeding water, whirling madly. Swifter and swifter it fled along the green shining walls. Hall felt his sight sucked into the abyss before him; his hands were white on the sides of their rocking canoe.
Starkington raised a hand in a brave salute; his head lifted with a smile in their direction. Instantly he was thrown from the canoe. His body raced alongside the small craft, spread-eagled upon the hard water. Then, before Hall’s eyes, it slid into the center of the vortex and disappeared.
Hall swung about, facing Dragomiloff.
“You are a devil!” he whispered.
Dragomiloff paid no attention. His eyes were fixed pensively upon the maelstrom. Hall turned back, unable to keep his eyes from the gruesome sight before them.
The large canoe had slipped lower along the sides of the whirling death. Lucoville’s mouth was open; he appeared to be shouting some triumphant greeting to the fate that was reaching out with damp fingers to gather them in. Hanover sat calmly.
The boat slid the last few feet; the bow touched the vortex. With a shriek of rending wood the canoe twisted in the air and then disappeared, sucked into the oily maw, crushed by the enormous forces pressing in upon it. Its two occupants were still seated bravely within; they seemed to swirl into the air and then were swallowed by the voracious sea.
The growling of the rushing ocean began to abate, as if sated by this sacrifice of flesh given it. Slowly the huge cone flattened; the vortex rose evenly as the sides assumed horizontal shape. A low wave traveled from the calming waters, rocking their canoe gently, reminding them of their salvation. Hall shuddered.
Behind him there was a stirring.
“We had best return now.” Dragomiloff’s tone was even.
Hall stared at his companion with loathing.
“You killed them! As surely as if you had struck them down with a knife or a gun!”
“Killed them? Yes. You wished them killed, did you not? You wanted the Assassination Bureau wiped out.”
“I wanted them disbanded! I wanted them to cease their activities!”
“One cannot disband ideas. Convictions.” His voice was cold. His eyes roamed the empty sea where the large canoe had been sucked into eternity. Sadness entered his tone. “They were my friends.”
“Friends!”
“Yes.” Dragomiloff picked up his paddle and set it in the water. “We had best return now.”
Hall sighed and dipped his paddle into the sea. The canoe moved sluggishly and then gained speed. They passed over the spot where Starkington and the others had met death. Dragomiloff paused for one brief moment, as if in salute to the lost members of the Bureau.
“We shall have to cable Haas,” he remarked slowly, and resumed the even rhythm of his paddling.