El Diablo Part 36

"Tell him to stop the motor for a moment," whispered d.i.c.kie Lang.

When Bronson complied, the silence for the s.p.a.ce of a few minutes was unbroken. Then from the little cove came the m.u.f.fled cough of a high-speed motor.

"All right. Head out."

The _Richard_ sped on her way at Gregory's command. Then he asked: "What did that sound like to you, Bronson?"

The boatman answered promptly: "That was the bird you're looking for.

I've heard the _Fuor d'Italia's_ exhaust too many times to guess wrong."

d.i.c.kie Lang nodded sagely in the darkness, while Bronson volunteered:

"I think I know the one that nearly run us down too. Running dark's her long suit." For a moment he hesitated, then he added: "She looked a whole lot like the _Gray Ghost_."

"Interesting, if true," muttered Hawkins, sliding nearer to the operator. Then he asked aloud: "Who's the _Gray Ghost_?"

Bronson noted the suppressed eagerness of the man's tone. Then he remembered that Hawkins was a newspaperman. Reporters were a nosey cla.s.s as a rule. Perhaps it would be as well to keep still. After all, what did he, Bronson, know about the _Gray Ghost_? What did anybody really know about her, for that matter?

"The _Gray Ghost_ is a fishing-boat," he said quietly, "that was built by Al Stevenson. She's bigger and quieter than the average. She's supposed to be about as fast for her size as any of them. I heard the other day she was owned by a fellow by the name of----" He stopped abruptly. "I can't remember the man's name," he concluded.

Hawkins knew Bronson was lying. Straightway he decided to find out what he could about the ownership of the _Gray Ghost_. Of the vessel herself, he had some knowledge though he gave no intimation that he had ever heard the name before.

"Mascola must own the _Gray Ghost_ himself, the way he's sticking around her," observed d.i.c.kie Lang. "He must have been waiting in there for her or he'd have been scouting around before this."

Gregory agreed.

"Tom said they were pretty well fished out down below," he contributed, "and Mascola hadn't given them a new location. He's evidently got something on his mind that's more important to him than fishing."

Bronson said nothing but smiled grimly in the darkness. Perhaps that wasn't such a wild guess, at that. But it was none of his business. His firm was building boats for the Italian, so why should he say anything?

The sky was dark overhead and a freshening breeze sprang up when they reached the tip of the island and headed sh.o.r.eward. Rounding Devil's Point they came in full view of the glimmering lights of the fishing fleet.

"Looks like home," commented d.i.c.kie. "Wonder how long the boys have been there." She checked up the lights rapidly, then announced: "They're all there but one. Probably the supply-boat. She isn't due yet. That's pretty quick work I'd say."

Hailing the first of his fishing-boats, they learned that the voyage from the mainland had been without incident. The albacore were thick about the island. They were keeping the fish around with live bait. All of the fishermen predicted a record haul.

Proceeding to the _Curlew_, Bronson tied the _Richard_ alongside and the party from the speed-launch climbed aboard. Then the girl conferred with Gregory and plans for the night were formulated. The fleet would lay at anchor with every motor in instant readiness to get the respective vessels under way at a given signal. The men would alternate on an anchor watch and keep the fish "chummed" up during the night. Those who were off duty would get their needed rest and make no unnecessary noise.

No vessel was to move from her anchorage without permission from the _Curlew_. Fishing would begin at daybreak.

With preparations completed for the night, Gregory's party made themselves comfortable aboard the _Curlew_. A message was despatched to the _Pelican_ instructing Howard to join the fleet shortly after midnight. And the cannery was notified of the safe arrival of the boats at the island.

After supper Hawkins clung tenaciously to Bronson and the two men retired to the bow and conversed in low tones. Gregory sat with d.i.c.kie Lang in the stern and for some time puffed at his pipe in silence. The yellow rays which issued from the fresneled gla.s.s light on the mast-head fell full upon the girl's figure and Gregory saw that her eyes were fixed on the dark outlines of the coast.

"What do you make of Mascola?"

d.i.c.kie shook her head. "I don't know," she answered. "He has me guessing right now. I can't understand why he's been hanging round h.e.l.l-Hole all day and hasn't tumbled on to the _Curlew_. He seems to have forgotten his boats entirely."

"I have an idea he has," Gregory answered. "Sometimes I think that perhaps fishing is only a small part of Mascola's business. We both know he hasn't made much with his boats in the last few months, yet Bronson says he's having twenty new launches built at Port Angeles. That will run into a big bunch of money at present prices."

"You're not the only one who has ideas to-night," d.i.c.kie said softly.

"Being around Diablo always makes me think--and wonder."

"What?" Gregory encouraged.

The girl moved closer to his side.

"I'm wondering about the same things our fathers wondered about," she said. As Gregory said nothing, she went on hurriedly: "Did you ever stop to think that if Mascola and that gray boat lay in at h.e.l.l-Hole that they are doing it with Bandrist's permission? That means that whatever they are doing there, Bandrist is in on it." She paused abruptly and her eyes rested full on Gregory's face. "I have an idea that old Rock is in on it, too," she said. "He and Bandrist are pretty thick evidently, and Rock always did stick up for Mascola. And all three of them are doing all they can against us."

"And you think it is something else than fishing?" Gregory prompted.

"Yes, I'm sure of it. I think our fathers had the same idea. I believe they came over here alone that night to find out."

"Do you think----" Gregory began.

But the girl answered his unfinished question.

"Yes," she said slowly, "I think they found out. That is why they never got out alive."

"But they were wrecked and drowned."

d.i.c.kie shook her head slowly. "I have never thought so," she answered in a half-whisper. "Listen," she went on, "boats like the _Sea Gull_ don't wreck themselves and a better man with a launch than my dad never lived.

Men like him don't drown easily. He was a regular fish in the water and had got out of many a smash-up before."

"But they were drowned. The coroner himself told me----"

"You're right," she interrupted. "Any man can be drowned. How long do you suppose you and Tom Howard would have lasted on the island if you had insisted on staying the night we were over here?"

Gregory considered her words carefully. In the light of past events, they held some truth. But if Bill Lang and his father had met with foul play, why were the bodies ever recovered? Why would it not have been simpler to have made way with them entirely? He put the question and d.i.c.kie answered promptly:

"That would have caused a search of the island. Just what they do not want, if they are up to anything crooked over here. With the bodies recovered and the boat smashed, it had all the appearance of a natural wreck."

"Why have you never said anything like this before?"

d.i.c.kie hesitated. Then she answered simply. "Because I never felt as if I knew you well enough. I have no proof. It's only a girl's idea, and one I'm afraid you would have taken but little stock in."

"You're mistaken," Gregory replied. "I would have. And perhaps by now we could have had the proof."

"No. We've done just right. If we had pretended we suspected anything they would have gone to cover. There's only one way to get to the bottom of this thing and that is to beat Mascola at his own game. Make him think that fish are the only thing in the world we care for around Diablo. And while we're fishing over here, keep our eyes open and learn what we can."

Before Gregory could reply the silence of the night was broken by the sharp exhaust of a high-speed motor. Looking in the direction of the sound, he saw a flash of red pierce the darkness and heard the girl's voice close to his ear.

"I guess we're due to find out something now. Here comes Mascola."

Together they watched the red light brighten. Then came a flash of green as the oncoming launch swerved and sped toward them. In a few moments Mascola had located the flag-ship and the _Fuor d'Italia_ lay snorting angrily by the _Richard's_ side.

"I want to see the boss," demanded the Italian.

Gregory leaned over the rail and focused his flash-light on Mascola.