CHAPTER XIX

THE MURDER ON THE YACHT

Before any of us could move, before we could realize what had happened, the stilled engines of the yacht were throbbing once more, and we were ploughing ahead. The storm still raged, but now our craft cut the waters with disdain.

But no one moved for a moment. We were all staring in grim fascination at the absurd figure of the humdrum little operator upon the floor. He seemed so unreal there.

Breese was the first to cry out to the rest of us the inexplicable fact that our craft had suddenly taken on life. Then, as I recall the hectic moments, Rice ran to the window, as if he did not believe his senses. Others followed him--that is, the elder Breese did, and the actor. The Countess still stood as if in a dream. The Count maintained his solitary position in the corner. All our movements, now that I try to reconstruct them, had the unearthly quality of a dream.

Then I heard the actor call: “We’re saved! Hang it all, we’re saved!” He slobbered in his relief. Tears streaked his cheeks.

The Countess cried out, as if she were waking. Then I realized the Count was at her side. She was in his arms, and laughing and crying in turn in her hysteria.

“Take her to her cabin,” Perutkin ordered. “The rest of you stay here.”

“But what’s happened?” demanded Breese. He seemed utterly bewildered.

“Perhaps you’ve already guessed,” countered the Russian strangely. “A man has been murdered.”

“Never mind that!” Breese’s contempt for the figure before us chilled me. “What’s happened with the ship? We’re moving.”

The Russian did not reply. The Countess was now sobbing as her former husband led her from the room.

“You will be good enough to return immediately,” Perutkin called after his protégé, who nodded. Then to the rest of us: “None of you will leave this room.”

“Are we still in danger or not? That’s what I want to know!” Breese cried, straining to look out of the window.

“One of us is out of danger,” the Russian said slowly, pointing to the figure.

The Captain emerged from the corridor. He stopped short at the sight of the body of his operator.

“How did this happen?” he demanded sharply. The Russian shrugged his shoulders. The Captain’s thin lips set in one hard line. “You’re responsible for this,” he said sternly.

“But it was not in my plan!” protested the Russian. “How could I know such a disaster was possible?”

“What plan?” demanded Breese, listening open-mouthed, as we all did, to the puzzling dialogue.

“You must know, Mr. Breese!” replied the Russian. “Surely you must have guessed by now.”

“You’re talking in riddles,” snapped Breese. “What is it?”

The Captain addressed his employer. “Sir, you have every right to discharge me,” he began. “At no time during this trip were we in any danger. This man--” pointing to Perutkin--“asked me to convince you that the ship was going down. He said I would help trap the murderer of Mrs. Breese.”

“Certainly,” added the Russian. “It was a feasible plan. I argued that the murderer of Mrs. Breese must be on this yacht. I argued that if we could convince him that he faced death, he might be trapped into a confession. He would feel he had nothing to lose. Unfortunately--” the Russian gestured helplessly and it was not necessary for him to conclude.

“You mean--you deliberately--staged this--this hoax!” Breese sputtered.

“Yes,” replied the Captain, “every bit of it. We did damage the wireless set, but there was nothing else wrong. And it cost one poor fellow his life.”

“Because,” explained the Russian, “the murderer was clever enough, Mr. Breese, to guess our plan. I am amazed that a man like you was fooled.” Once more his sharp little eyes stared at Breese. Then he continued smoothly: “It was all in very bad taste, I’ll grant you. I could not resist the temptation of the storm. It seemed a sign from the heavens.”

“We’re wasting time,” intervened Smith. “I want to ask you, Captain, what you know of this poor chap?”

“His name is Louis Trenholm,” replied the Captain methodically. “I think he was thirty-one. If I remember rightly I signed him on myself--he came from Olean, New York. I don’t remember that he had any living relatives.”

Smith noted these sparse details in his note-book.

“How long had he been with you?” asked Smith.

“Just about a week,” replied the Captain. “Our regular man--Wilkins--resigned when we got to Havana to go with the Dollar Line. Wilkins recommended this man and I signed him on. That’s all I know about him.”

“Very good, Captain,” approved Perutkin. “You tell us much. For if this man was signed on after the yacht arrived in Havana he never met Mrs. Breese to your knowledge, did he?”

“I don’t follow,” said the Captain, puzzled.

“Why, it’s simple enough,” said the Russian. “You told us that you signed him on _after_ Mrs. Breese left the yacht. So that as far as you know they had never met.”

“Yes, that’s true,” said the Captain.

“And yet,” continued the Russian, “this man knew who killed Mrs. Breese!”

“I won’t hear any more of it,” the elder Breese suddenly shouted. “You can’t stand around here and talk of things that mean so much to my family and me!” He trembled violently. He seemed on the verge of collapse. “Get this ship into port just as fast as you can. Don’t stand there!” This at the Captain, who turned on his heel abruptly and left without a word.

“But one moment!” interposed the Russian. “I am astounded, Mr. Breese. I sympathize with your feelings, but you still don’t seem to realize that a murderer may be standing not more than four feet away from you at this very moment. Don’t you want that murderer punished?”

“Certainly! But you’re punishing my family, not the murderer, with all this--this--tomfoolery!” cried Breese. “I’m going down to my cabin, and I don’t want to hear anything about it. It’s up to you to arrest the man who is responsible, and when you’ve done that I’ll be very glad to hear it.” Leaning on the arm of his son, he made for the door.

“Let him go,” advised Rice. “The strain has been too much for him. He doesn’t realize what’s happened.”

“Exactly,” said the Russian. “I trust he may later. Now to you gentlemen who remain I must explain that our situation here is rather unique. Let me put it as clearly as I can. Mr. Smith and I believed that we could fool all of you into a state where you would fancy yourselves facing death. We had reason to suppose that the murderer of Mrs. Breese was on this yacht.

“We expected the murderer to crack, to confess. But the only man who broke down was this poor fellow here. Obviously he was not the murderer of Mrs. Breese. As far as we can learn, he did not even know her. Therefore, we are led to assume the conclusion that the real murderer was not convinced by our hoax.

“And--he was so sufficiently sure of himself that he took this opportunity of getting rid of the one man who knew something of the murder. What that something is no one can even guess.” He paused for breath. Then he smiled quizzically, as he looked about him. “One of us here, on this yacht, killed this man. Either you, my friend,” to the Count who had returned just then and was standing in the doorway, “either you, Mr. Thomas, either you, Mr. Rice, or the three members of the Breese family who have left us.”

“Well, I had nothing to do with it,” cried the actor. “Hang it all, you’re not going to begin all over again with me.”

“No,” said the Russian. “You see, we are in a much better position than we were before. In a crime committed in a house, people may go and come unseen. But we know all those who are on this boat. Our search narrows down considerably. For example, our first step is to locate the revolver with which this murder was committed. Have any of you gentlemen a revolver?”

“Not me!” cried the actor. “Why should I have a revolver?”

“I did not address you alone,” said the Russian. “I assume that none of you gentlemen will produce a revolver for me. It is too much to expect.” He smiled. “Shall we search them, Mr. Smith?”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” said Smith. He put his hand in his pocket and produced a pearl-handled weapon. He clicked open the barrel. “There’s been one shot fired--this is undoubtedly the gun that was used.”

“Where did you find it?” demanded the Russian.

“In my pocket,” said Smith. “It also happens to be my gun.”