Frank Lombardo was securely in the custody of the local authorities. But the search party that climbed Ramsey Head found another kind of justice had been meted out to Willie Cabot. He was found lying next to a hastily dug hole with a bullet through his heart.
Ross Sprague it seemed had escaped justice altogether. A search for Ross Sprague was mounted, but to no avail. No one had thought to look north toward the sea until it was too late—although the rising storm would have discouraged even the most tenacious pursuer.
Sprague, meanwhile, had hired a thirty-foot fishing vessel, one sentimentally styled Bonnie Flora MacD after the prince’s daring lady, under the name Albert Smith. Even that did not arouse suspicions until a day or two after the escape. Port Strathy’s law-abiding community was simply not equipped to deal with crime at this level—a fact that worked to Sprague’s benefit.
Sprague was no seaman, but he thought his cursory knowledge would suffice him for the short distance which would be required of him. When the rain began to fall and the wind rise, his confidence began to wane somewhat. But he knew he couldn’t turn back. The once sleepy little burg of Port Strathy was wise to him by now, no doubt. So he steered the crusty old boat due north against the gale, cursing the cagy yokel who had rented him the craft. The five-pound rental fee had been highway robbery, for the vessel was barely seaworthy. But the fellow owned several boats, and this one had been equipped with a radio—its chief selling feature, as far as Sprague was concerned. Anyway, Sprague could not complain too heartily about the fee since he had no intention of returning the crazy old tub.
The minute Cabot had decided to tag along, Sprague knew there would be trouble. Not only was the Englishman surly and disagreeable, he was also greedy. The moment he had laid eyes on the cache of wealth buried underneath the rock on Ramsey Head, he had gone wild. No court would ever acquit Sprague on the grounds of self-defense, but he knew instinctively that had he not taken care of Cabot, he would never have made it to the mainland alive.
But he had made it, and nothing would stop him now. His boss had better be there to meet him! He didn’t relish the idea of a submarine, but it was the safest means of undetected escape. His boss’s connections in Berlin had paid off; this was, after all, the surest getaway. They’d be looking for him all up and down the coast, probably watching all the roads, and he’d be safe and sound where none of those yokels would ever think to even consider—under the sea. He didn’t like Germans, and never had. But he could put up with them for a few days if that was the price for becoming a rich man.
A fifteen-foot wave crashed against the side of the boat, sending a column of spray over the deck and lifting it dangerously starboard. Sprague grabbed the wheel and forced the vessel around a few degrees in order to break away from the rough water. The compass told him he was off course. It was almost midnight. He better get her going right if he planned to make his rendezvous.
He would never have considered himself greedy, but then he had never had much to be greedy about. So why was he risking his neck on this stupid little boat in the middle of the night? Couldn’t he just as well have paid off some farmer for a wagon and a couple of horses and hightailed it away on some back road to Aberdeen or Inverness, and then by way of some freighter to a nice safe South American country where he could spend the rest of his days a wealthy man?
Why, then, was he out in this storm?
Sprague answered his own question, although this time it was not the safety of the sub which convinced him, but rather the memory of his boss’s face. He was not the kind of man who would let a man like Sprague get away with a double-cross. His boss had the kind of resources that could ferret out a traitor in the most remote lands. He was not the kind of man you betrayed, if you wanted to stay alive. It probably would have been next to impossible to fence the loot he had unearthed, anyway. He was being well paid for his services, and now he had also arranged some insurance for a bit of a raise from his boss. So in the end he reached the same conclusion as before—he may not like it, but this was no doubt the best way.
Sprague glanced at his watch. It was the time to make contact. He flipped the switch on the radio, turned the necessary dials, and began tapping out the appropriate Morse Code. After a few minutes he received a response, though faint. At least someone was out there. Sprague knew his boss wouldn’t back out if he smelled money. He tapped out another message: “difficult to read . . . repeat message.” If only he knew German, he thought, and could talk to them.
A minute later came the reply, still choppy, but he got the vitals. The rendezvous sub was three miles offshore, north by northeast.
Sprague looked again at the compass. He was still way off course. Cursing, he struck his fist angrily against the panel. Then he gaped with disbelief. The instrument needles were spinning wildly.
It was broken!
The no good piece of junk was broken! How long had he been steering blindly? Where was the sub?
Perspiration beaded on Sprague’s forehead as the cold dread of panic seized him. His hands shook as he grabbed the wheel. But he had no idea where to steer. He didn’t even know in which direction the land lay! He could have been heading anywhere—
Suddenly he heard a sickening crack.
The craft lurched and shivered. Sprague was tossed off his feet, struck his head against the bulkhead, and knew no more. Perhaps he was better off that way, for the old fishing trawler was taking water fast.