CHAPTER XVIII

ONE OF YOU

Perutkin made the sign of the cross, and lifted his voice in the chant of the Russian church. The melancholy litany seemed endless. I watched him in fascinated horror. The rest could not believe their eyes. Breese stumbled out through the door, calling incoherently for aid. But no answer came through the darkness. Someone shouted: “Lifebelts!” To me then the word meant nothing, nor to the rest of us, for we stood helplessly watching the top-hatted figure upon bended knee in the prayer we could not understand.

Then the Russian stopped, and he drew himself up to his full height. “In my own tongue, and in the prayer of my mother, I have confessed my sins,” he said. “Now my heart is light. I can meet the Unknown without fear.” Once more he made the sign of the cross.

“Stop it!” shrieked the actor. “Can’t you do something--somebody? I don’t want to die!” His voice died out in a wail.

“You are white, Mr. Thomas,” said the Russian. “You shiver. You are afraid.”

“Where’s the Captain?” Breese demanded. “Bring him here at once!”

The yacht rolled maliciously and the old man seized a chair to steady himself.

“There is only one Captain now,” responded the Russian gravely, “and Him I cannot bring. But He will come!”

Rice stepped forward. “Things cannot be as bad as you say. I know this boat. She’s weathered worse storms than this!”

“Perhaps,” said the Russian. “But this is her last storm. The sea is pouring into her. While we stand here, she is sinking. It is only a matter of minutes.”

“I won’t believe it until the Captain says so!” snapped Rice.

“Ask him!” challenged the Russian. “If you can find him in the dark.” Then he raised his voice. “It is the wrath of God. One of you killed cunningly and now all of us must die. So it is written, my friends.”

“You’ve gone mad!” cried Breese. “I’ll get the Captain myself.”

“I’ll go with you,” his son volunteered.

“There is no need!” The Russian raised his hand. “Look!”

He pointed to the window. The red and white glare of rockets flashed before our eyes.

“I shall read for you!” said the Russian. “S.O.S. S.O.S. We have no wireless. We have no lifeboats. We are summoning aid.”

Breese stood still, staring at the window. He tottered to a chair.

“Well,” said Smith slowly, “I guess you’re right. I guess we’re in for it!”

“Yes,” muttered Rice. “I guess we are.”

We were startled by a jangling discordant laugh, and then we saw the Count rise from his shadowed corner.

“Stop that!” barked Rice. “Be a man! Have some consideration for this lady!”

“I can’t help it,” cried the Count. “It is such delicious humor. That I should come on this yacht and--and----” Once more he gave way to hysterical laughter.

“Yes,” chimed in Smith, “it’s a great joke on me, too. I came on board to get the man that killed Mrs. Breese. It won’t do me much good now if I get him.” He seated himself in a chair and pulled his hat down over his eyes. “I only hope it comes fast. It’s the waiting I mind.”

“Maybe they’ll see our signals,” the wireless operator, who had been sitting unnoticed, suddenly burst forth.

“They’d signal back, wouldn’t they?” demanded Smith.

“And there is no answer!” boomed the Russian. “Our eyes will close before we see the answer. We can do nothing, I tell you. We are in the hands of the Almighty.”

He took from his pocket a thick black book. “When I went to see the Captain he could give me nothing but this--his Bible. It is not my Bible, but I shall pray for you all, miserable sinners. I shall pray for you all.”

“Then pray to yourself!” cried Breese. “This isn’t a revival meeting. Do you want to start a panic?”

“The burden of Tyre!” boomed the Russian. “Howl, ye ships of Tarshish; for it is laid waste, so that there is no house, no entering it: from the land of Chittim it is revealed to them.”

Now Smith turned on the Russian. “Shut up!” he growled. “Get over there and pray if you want to--nobody else does.”

“Confess your sins,” the Russian intoned.

“Now, let’s be sensible,” said Smith. “We’re in a bad way, and we all know it. It’s not going to help matters if we lose our heads. Everybody keep quiet and wait.”

“I don’t want to die,” wailed the actor.

“No, I guess you don’t,” said Smith drily, as the Russian droned on. “Too bad about the little girl waiting for you. I guess there’ll be no trip to Paris.” The actor groaned. “You were a bad actor and a bad egg, but I guess you’re going to get all that’s coming to any of us. And after you went to all that trouble--forging that check!”

“I didn’t forge any check!” protested the actor.

Smith shrugged his shoulders. “What difference can it possibly make now?” he demanded. “I don’t care if you did or not. I can’t do anything about it. This case is out of my hands.”

“But you’ve got to believe me,” cried the actor.

“Yes, you can believe that, anyway.” I started, as the younger Breese rose from his chair. “I--I forged that check, Mr. Smith.”

“You?”

His father cried aghast: “What’s come over you, son?”

“Oh, I’m not sorry about it,” young Breese said bitterly. “But as long as things are the way they are, I might as well tell you the truth. I forged that check because I wanted to stop Mother from marrying him. I thought that would stop her.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” his father cried. “I--I can’t believe it.”

“Oh!” said the actor. “It’s coming out now, is it? I knew there was a conspiracy against me!”

“There’s no conspiracy against you,” retorted the boy contemptuously. “You killed Mother, and I know it. I know it just as sure as I’m standing here.”

“No use of that, son,” Smith calmed him. “We’re all in for it together, and it won’t do much good now to go into that.”

“God forgive us, poor miserable sinners!” murmured the Russian.

“You wrong that man,” the Count came forward. “He did not kill your mother.”

“Of course not,” said Smith. “You did. You confessed.”

“That confession was a lie,” replied the Count calmly.

“Then why did you make it?”

“I had my reasons,” he addressed himself to the girl. “I may never have another chance to talk to you, Mary, and I want you to know that in all my life I have never done anything that would make you ashamed of me. Certainly, I could not do so fiendish a thing, so horrible a thing!”

“Then who did kill Mrs. Breese?” demanded Smith. “Not that I care particularly,” he amended hastily. “I’m just curious.”

“One of us here,” replied the Count quietly, “killed Mrs. Breese.”

“Name him!” challenged Smith.

“It is not for me to name him,” said the Count. “I leave that to his conscience. But I shall tell you what I know. I went to Mrs. Breese’s house that night to see you, Mary. Your mother had given strict orders that I was not to be admitted. I made my way in unobserved through the servants’ quarters. Then I stole out into the corridor, in the front of the house.

“I saw the front door open and someone come in. That someone opened the door with a key. He went into the drawing-room. I heard voices. Then I saw someone run out, racing into the street. I was puzzled.

“Then Mr. Thomas came down the stairs and went to the drawing-room. He came out quickly and hurried upstairs. Then a moment later the butler came and I heard him cry out that Mrs. Breese had been murdered!”

“The man who preceded Thomas into the drawing-room was the murderer?” said Smith.

“Undoubtedly,” replied the Count.

Smith looked about the waiting circle. His eyes rested upon the financier.

“Well, Mr. Breese,” he said, smiling grimly, “aren’t you ready to tell us yet? After all, what have you got to lose? I can’t do a thing to you.”

“I?” Breese stammered.

“Yes,” said Smith. “You’re the man the Count saw walk into that drawing-room. You’re the man he’s been protecting with his confession.”

“You don’t think that I killed my wife?” bellowed Breese. “You’d better be careful, young man!”

“What were you doing in your wife’s house the night of the murder?” Smith demanded.

“I wasn’t there,” said Breese. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then the Count is lying when he says he saw you there?”

“I told you I wasn’t there,” snapped the old man.

“You knew your wife was murdered when you talked to me at your hotel,” Smith persisted.

“I did not!”

“Strange the vagaries of the human mind!” the Russian suddenly intervened. “Here we are facing death and yet, Mr. Breese, you are as cautious and as canny as if you had something to gain.”

“Let me alone!” cried Breese.

“As God is your witness,” persisted the Russian, “do you deny that you killed Mrs. Breese?”

“Will you let me alone?” shouted the old man.

“God forgive you,” murmured the Russian.

Smith turned to the actor. “How about you, Thomas? The Count says you discovered the body. Is that true? You never told us that!”

“It’s true,” the actor’s voice trembled. “I was afraid to tell you.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” said Smith wearily. “Nothing I can do about it.”

“I don’t want to keep anything back,” cried Thomas. “I’ve gone through hell. I--I lied to you about other things.”

“Don’t bother,” advised Smith. “Let it ride.”

“The--the night she was killed,” the actor disregarded him, “I didn’t tell you--I couldn’t--but we quarrelled that night. About--about my wanting to go back. She didn’t want me to marry anyone else.”

“That’s all right,” said Smith. “I suppose now that you’ve gotten that off your mind you’ll tell me you short-changed her when she took you out to restaurants.”

“No, I didn’t,” cried the actor. “She always paid herself.”

“Quite,” said Smith. “Now just to make this a really pleasant party, tell us about the time you played with Mrs. Fiske.”

“I--I never played with Mrs. Fiske,” protested the actor. “I feel sick. I feel I’m going to faint.”

“Not on me,” barked Smith, moving away. “Sit down.” The actor closed his eyes and sank into a chair. Through the windows a thin jagged line of lightning came to blind us for an instant, and reveal a terrifyingly mountainous sea.

Smith shivered audibly. “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” he said. “I guess it’s habit. I’d like to know one thing from all you--I’d like to know who killed Mrs. Breese. Just my curiosity. There’s nothing I can do about it. But I’d like to wind up this case. It’s the last one I’ll ever handle.”

“Why do you assume,” demanded Rice angrily, “that any one of us knows who did it?”

“Because,” said Smith, “the man who killed Mrs. Breese is sitting right in this room now, looking at me, hoping, waiting, praying, he can keep his secret.”

“How do you know he is here?” persisted Rice. “Would he come to the funeral of his victim with us? I think the strain is telling on you, sir.”

“I know he’s here,” replied Smith. “I know it!”

The Russian had risen from his knees. “Mr. Breese!” he cried. “Why don’t you tell the truth? Your children are with you. Tell them the truth--if you dare!”

“I’ve told the truth,” muttered Breese.

“You were in that house the night of the murder!” thundered the Russian.

“And supposing I was?” flared Breese.

“Ah!” said the Russian. “You admit you were there!”

“I admit nothing,” said Breese. “I’m sick of being badgered. I won’t stand for it! Do you hear me? Let me alone!”

The Russian shrugged his shoulders eloquently. He swung on Rice.

“And you, Mr. Rice?”

“What about me?” asked Rice.

“Have you nothing to say?”

“I’ve been in a lot of tight corners before this,” said Rice, “and I’ve gotten out of them. I see no occasion to entertain you with excerpts from my life.”

“Do you know who killed Mrs. Breese?” insisted the Russian.

“If I did,” said Rice, “I would take great pleasure in finishing that gentleman off before this boat got me. Now suppose you go back to your prayers and leave us alone.”

“You’re a poor miserable sinner,” cried the Russian. “Sulphur and brimstone await you in hell! You blasphemer!”

“Listen,” said Rice, “whatever awaits me, I’ll take as my due. I don’t need any religion from you. I guess I’ve done plenty in my life that I’d rather not talk about, but I’ll stand the gaff, thank you. Just leave me alone. And if we’re passing out, let’s pass out like gentlemen, not a bunch of wild hysterical hyenas like you.”

“I agree with you,” said Smith.

We heard footsteps at the door. Then I saw the Captain walk slowly toward us. He was dripping wet and his eyes were red-rimmed.

Breese jumped up from his chair.

“Well,” he cried, “about time you came! What’s happened?”

“We’ve had nasty going,” said the Captain. His voice was hoarse. He spoke hardly above a whisper.

“Never mind that,” shouted Breese impatiently. “Can you get us out of it?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” he reported, “But we’ve stepped into the path of a cyclone. And I’m afraid we can’t weather this storm much longer in our present shape!”

“But you’ve got to do something!” cried Breese.

“There’s nothing to do, sir,” replied the Captain quietly. “We’re in a rather bad way!”

“Do you mean to tell me,” cried Breese, “that you’re standing by with folded hands and letting us go to our deaths? Man, are you mad?”

The Captain turned on his heel wearily and left Breese expostulating to thin air. The Russian had fallen to his knees.

“God forgive them, miserable sinners,” he shouted above the howling of the wind. “Forgive the miserable sinner, Thomas, who lied and cheated from his cradle. He did not know what he was doing. Forgive the arrogant Breese. Forgive the unbeliever, Rice. Forgive the children. Forgive us all, as we come to you from the bottom of the sea!”

Strange cries mingled with the prayer. We ran to the door, trying to peer into the black darkness. The yacht tossed, and hurled us violently at each other, and against the walls.

The Russian prayed on.

Then I saw our radio man moving toward Perutkin. I had paid no attention to him heretofore. He seemed oddly out of place among these people--a colorless, humdrum, frightened little fellow.

He sank to his knees beside the Russian and he tapped the giant’s shoulder.

“What is it, my son?” Perutkin halted his prayer and looked gently at the mechanic.

“Will you--pray for me?” he begged.

“Certainly, my son,” replied the Russian. “I shall pray for you.”

“I’ve--I’ve got something on my mind,” the operator groaned inarticulately. “I’ve--I’ve got something to tell you.”

Even then, when I was concerned with my own fate, I wondered what the little man could be keeping from the world in his narrow bosom. Something trivial, I knew, that would appear ludicrous in the light of the impending tragedy.

But Breese had come over to us. He looked down upon the two kneeling figures with contemptuous wrath.

“Praying!” he shouted. “Why don’t you go to work--get that wireless going? Damn cowards!”

“Yes, you two! Great revival meeting you’re putting on,” Rice chimed in. “It makes me sick to look at you!”

“Don’t listen to them,” counselled the Russian. “Pray, my son.”

“Get up!” shouted Breese hysterically. “Stop it, I tell you!”

“I won’t,” cried the mechanic. “I won’t. I got something to tell. I got something on my mind. I’m going to tell. You can’t stop me. I’ve been listening to all of you. I didn’t know--” he gasped for breath. “I thought--about Mrs. Breese--I----”

“What about Mrs. Breese?” Smith asked quietly.

“I--I--don’t look at me like that--I--” He moaned as if in pain.

Suddenly the flash-light upon the table was hurled to the floor. We were plunged in darkness.

“Go on,” cried the Russian. “Quick--what about Mrs. Breese? Who killed her?”

“Wait, can’t you?” the mechanic cried. “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you----”

A revolver shot boomed in my ear. I heard the man groan. I heard his body fall to the floor.

Suddenly, miraculously, the lights flared up in the room and through the ship!

The Russian was kneeling over the prone figure. He raised his head, and his sharp little eyes travelled over the room.

“He’s dead,” said the Russian slowly.