El Diablo Part 44

Gregory took the check with shaking fingers, at a loss for words to express fittingly his appreciation of the favor.

A moment later the door opened and Silva.n.u.s Rock entered with two strangers. The financier was on time. In another few seconds the hands of the watch would be pointing to four o'clock. Rock's beady eyes opened wider as he took in the occupants of the room.

"I regret that circ.u.mstances have forced upon me a very unpleasant duty," he began, but Gregory cut him short.

"They haven't," he said. "You guessed wrong this time, Mr. Rock. You've come for your money. Here it is."

Endorsing the check, he pa.s.sed it over.

Silva.n.u.s Rock's fat fingers closed about the check and his small eyes glinted. For a moment his heavy jaw sagged and the flabby flesh gathered in rolls and pressed tightly against his white collar. At length he found his voice. "This check is not certified," he exclaimed hotly. "I refuse to take it."

Dalton smiled.

"I guess that check isn't worrying you much, Mr. Rock," he said easily.

"We're both pretty well acquainted with Winfield & Camby's reputation and between you and me, I hardly think they would relish any inference like that coming from a man in your position here."

Rock gulped, as he recognized the representative of the big jobbers.

Still he hesitated, rolling the check nervously in his fingers.

Then Hawkins pressed forward.

"Don't urge him to take that check, Cap, if he doesn't want to," he drawled. "In fact I think it would make a much better story if he turned it down in the presence of all these witnesses."

Rock confronted Hawkins angrily. "Who are you?" he demanded.

Hawkins introduced himself with a happy smile. "I've been wanting to meet you for some time, Mr. Rock," he said. "I'm with the Port Angeles _Daily Times_. Since coming to Legonia I have become much interested in the local fishing situation. As yet there are several things I'm not quite clear on. I believe you could enlighten me. What about an interview?"

Rock's face purpled, then grew white. His beady eyes shifted nervously from one person to another, and focused at last on Kenneth Gregory.

"I'll take the check," he said thickly in a voice that shook with emotion.

It was some time later when the business of the day came to a satisfactory close. Winfield & Camby's representative had departed with his signed contract which McCoy had designated as a "gilt-edge proposition." The fish were all unloaded and the night-shift had already started to work on them. The events of the past two days were beginning to bear fruit.

Mascola had been beaten. Rock had been beaten. The sea itself had been beaten by d.i.c.kie Lang and the _Richard_. All of these things had been gone over again and again. Weak from the reaction of the continued strain under which they had labored, the quartette of princ.i.p.als in the cannery drama slouched deep in their chairs and conversation began to lag.

Then d.i.c.kie Lang broke the silence.

"We've all forgotten to eat," she exclaimed. "If you'll all come up to the house I know Aunt Mary will do her best for you."

Gregory, Hawkins and McCoy accepted the invitation in unison. As they followed the girl out, Gregory observed to McCoy:

"I can't understand why Winfield & Camby faced about so suddenly. Why, they saved our lives. Who would have thought it?"

"I would," Hawkins cut in. "Anybody would who stopped to think." He slapped Gregory affectionately on the shoulder. "Didn't I tell you, Cap, that I'd have old Dupont eating out of your hand in less than a week?"

he challenged. "Old leather-face has an ear to the ground. He's heard the rumble of my thunder and he wants to get to cover."

His face lighted with enthusiasm as he went on: "Just wait until the lightning begins to play around some of these birds. Then you'll see them scamper. I'm going to the city to-morrow to have a talk with the C.E. and I've just got a sneaking hunch that I'm going to start something."

CHAPTER XXVII

TO SOLVE THE MYSTERY

The days that followed the return of the victorious cannery fleet from El Diablo were filled with sunshine for Kenneth Gregory. The effect of Mascola's defeat was far-reaching, and, magnified by Hawkins' publicity, gave to the Legonia Fish Cannery a place of prominence in the public eye.

Taking immediate advantage of the growing popular interest, Winfield & Camby entered into an extensive advertising campaign on behalf of Gregory's product. The brands of the local firm were flaunted on the bill-boards of a dozen western agencies. Whole states were placarded.

Newspapers featured the cooperative enterprise of the service men and commented upon it in glowing terms. A current-news company took several hundred feet of film ill.u.s.trative of the industry and the signal victory achieved by the Americans over the alien fishermen.

Basking in the reflected lime-light, the Service Market caught on like "wild-fire" and taxed the fishermen to their utmost to supply the ever-increasing demand for the fresh product.

Gregory's bank balance began to mount. The financial sky was unclouded.

Success loomed bright upon the horizon.

In the hey-day of prosperity, no one noticed the faint clouds which crept upward from the sky-line. Storm-signals fluttered feebly and were pa.s.sed by unheeded. Then Mr. Dupont, of Winfield & Camby, sounded the warning.

"You're not getting enough fish," he exclaimed on one of his periodical visits to Legonia. "I'm building up a demand for your product which is fast becoming national. The way things are going now, you will not be able to supply it. Then I'll be out of pocket for my advertising. I'm cutting into your surplus every day. In two weeks you'll be down to bed-rock. What are you going to do about it?"

As Gregory considered the question, Mr. Dupont answered for him: "You've got to have more boats. If you haven't the money to tie up in them right now, I'll back you and take a mortgage on your plant. I'm willing to stick by you and back you to the limit. But you've got to furnish the goods."

Gregory made up his mind quickly. Dupont was right. Things were coming his way with a rush. What was the use of losing all he had gained by pursuing a policy of playing safe and "shooting nickels"? Men who made fortunes on the sea had to take chances. It grayed their hair and seamed their faces with premature lines. But that was part of the game,--the toll which the sea demanded.

"All right," he said. "Let's get down to business. I'll go back to the city with you and we'll fix things up. I know of some boats I can lease while Barrows is building the others. Let's go."

From the arrival of the new craft which went to make up the greater cannery fleet, misfortune stalked grimly in its wake. Fishing was universally poor. The boats were forced to cruise wide areas in order to supply fish enough for the cannery and Service Market. Areas which placed them beyond reach of the radio and gave Mascola his chance. The Italian struck without warning. Angered by the loss of his prestige, strengthened by his augmented fleet, he began to hector the extreme outposts beyond reach of the wireless.

Then ensued a long period of stormy weather. Owing to new and inexperienced crews and the increasing interference of Mascola's men, a number of Gregory's vessels were wrecked on the island sh.o.r.es and salvaged with great difficulty and expense. With the extended radius of his operations, overhead expenses mounted perceptibly, cutting down profits and adding to the multiplying worries of the young cannery-owner in countless ways.

At the close of one particularly trying day he sat alone in the cannery office and stared moodily at a wireless despatch which lay on the desk before him. It came from Diablo and reported the arrival of a portion of his fleet off the h.e.l.l-Hole.

The message was phrased in the most optimistic terms. Fish appeared to be plentiful. The weather was fine, the sea smooth. There was no sign of interference from any quarter.

Yet the worried lines which creased Gregory's forehead deepened. It had been that way often of late at devil island. No matter how clear the sky appeared, the shadow of El Diablo bulked dark and sinister across the sunlit horizon. Something would happen out there to-night. He felt sure of it. He should have gone with the fleet. But how could he? He was far down the coast with the new boats when they left.

Diablo, he realized sharply, was getting on his nerves. Were the obstacles which he had encountered about the island due to something more than a mere defense of good fishing grounds? It was not the first time he had asked himself the question. There was something wrong at El Diablo. He could not shake off the feeling. As he sat down to wait for the evil tidings he felt sure would come, he took up an unopened letter from Hawkins which had been on his desk two days. A part of the letter caused him to read it the second time.

"So I got to nosing around and incidentally tumbled on to something which I think may be of interest to you.

Would it surprise you to know that Mascola does not own a single fishing-boat? It did me, though I might have known it if I had remembered the federal statute which prohibits any but American-owned fishing vessels from operating in American waters.

"Rock and Bandrist own the alien fleet. Mascola, you see, is an alien. Bandrist apparently is not. I wish by the way you'd tell me all you can of that bird. I'm looking up Silva.n.u.s myself. I'm on the trail of a pretty good story, Cap, if it works out all right. Shouldn't be surprised if I might not drop in on you any time. If I do, I'll want a boat to go over to Diablo. Keep this all under your hat. It isn't censored."

For some time Gregory stared at Hawkins' letter. The information gleaned from its contents shed a new light upon El Diablo. Bandrist and Rock were in cahoots. Both were interested in keeping him away from Diablo.

Something was wrong on the island. It was Mascola's job to keep strange craft from going there to find out. With the words strange craft, his mind flashed to a new tangent. To his half-closed eyes came a vision of a long gray hull, running dark, gliding through the water toward them like a destructive shadow. Bronson had said it looked like the _Gray Ghost_. What was the _Gray Ghost_? Where did she clear from? And what was her purpose in putting in in the dark to h.e.l.l-Hole?