El Diablo Part 52

Mascola made up his mind quickly. He would be the one. He had given Bandrist his chance. The islander had tried twice to-night to give him the double-cross. Would do it again if he got the chance. But Bandrist would have no more chances. Reaching out his hand, Mascola took the gold with muttered words of thanks. Then his fingers sought the switch and the noise of the motor died suddenly into silence.

"Listen."

Mascola turned quickly in his seat and looked over the stern. At the same time his right hand sought his dagger.

Bandrist twisted about, his eyes searching the gray waters astern.

"I don't," he began. But his words ended in a choking gasp.

Mascola's knife had found its mark and the Italian's fingers were tearing at Bandrist's throat.

The islander struggled to reach his gun, but he felt his strength leaving him. The moonlight shimmered before his eyes, mingled with gray splashes of fog. A sharp pain laced his side. His mouth opened and he fought hard for air. Heavy darkness began to settle about him. From the far-off s.p.a.ces he heard the sound of rapid breathing. Or was it the faint pulsing of a motor-launch? Then the murmur grew fainter until it trailed away into silence. Mascola pulled the islander roughly from the seat and dragged him along the floor of the c.o.c.kpit. Then he sprang to the wheel and started the motor. There was no time now to get the money.

The fog was lifting. And there was a boat following.

Clear of the Diablo reefs, Gregory took the wheel and plunged the _Richard_ into the shifting wall of fog. Mile after mile he traversed in silence, stopping at intervals to listen to the faint pulsing of the boat ahead. At length the gray canopy lifted slowly from the water and he caught the outline of the _Richard's_ broad hood rising staunchly above him in the gloom. He smiled grimly at the sight. The motor had not missed a shot since leaving the island. And they were overhauling the _Fuor d'Italia_.

He threw the switch again as his eye caught the gleam of the moonlight ahead. For some moments he listened intently. But only the soft slap of the waves against the hull of the launch disturbed the stillness.

Mascola had escaped him; had noted the clearing and heard the sound of pursuit; had doubled back into the fog bank. Anguish took possession of his heart at the thought as he reached for the switch. But neither Gregory nor d.i.c.kie Lang heard the rasp of the starting mechanism. The sound was swallowed up in a deafening roar which came from the moonlit waters ahead.

"Straight ahead," the girl shouted. "I see him."

Gregory had already thrown in the clutch. In a swirl of white water the _Richard_ raised her head proudly, and snorting angry defiance, raced across the intervening waves which separated her from her primordial enemy. Gregory saw the _Fuor d'Italia_ leap forward in the moonlight, noted that the craft had already changed direction and was heading off at a tangent, a course which would bring Mascola under cover of the fog bank.

Veering as sharply as her speed would permit, the _Richard_ dipped like a gull and sped on to intercept the _Fuor d'Italia_. The shifting bank of blinding mist hung uncertainly above the shimmering waters less than half a mile ahead, dead ahead for Mascola, off Gregory's starboard quarter. For the Italian it meant safety. To his pursuer it spelled defeat.

The _Richard_ was gaining. Gregory measured the distance with a calculating eye. He was going to head the Italian off.

"Swing her to port. Catch him on the beam."

Acting at once upon d.i.c.kie's advice, Gregory saw the wisdom of it at once. His angling course would have put him into the fog before the _Fuor d'Italia_ reached it. Now he would catch Mascola broadside, full on the beam. Or at least at an angle which would drive the heavier hull through the lighter one.

With seaman's instinct, Mascola sensed rather than saw the _Richard's_ change of course. If he tried to make the fog he would be cut in two. If he deviated a hair's breadth at that speed he'd turn turtle. There was only one thing he could do.

He reached his decision in a whirl of the propeller.

d.i.c.kie Lang knew his answer.

"Hard a port. Throw your switch."

The words tumbled from her lips in a piercing shriek. Gregory obeyed on the second, thinking the girl had lost her reason. The _Richard_ dipped with a swerve which threw him violently against the coaming. As he felt the heavy hull sinking down into the water he saw that the _Fuor d'Italia_ had ceased to plane and was settling sluggishly.

A snarl of disappointment burst from Mascola's lips as he saw the _Richard_ did not flash across his bow. A snarl, which changed quickly to a cry of rage as he noted that the two hulls were drifting sullenly toward each other. Robbed of his way, he could not escape. The _Richard_ was already brushing the _Fuor d'Italia's_ rail.

In a frenzy of mingled fear and rage, Mascola whipped out his dagger and leaped to the c.o.c.kpit to battle with the hurtling figure that sprang from the other boat as the two hulls sc.r.a.ped. Gregory caught Mascola's knife arm and twisted it backward, crowding the Italian to the rail. For an instant the two men were locked in a swaying, bone-racking embrace.

Then Mascola felt the oak coaming pressing hard against his knees. He was being shoved over the rail by the fury of the heavier man.

Struggling in desperation, there came a gleam of hope. In the water Gregory's superior weight would not count. Strength would not count so much, without the weight. But a knife would count. Jerking his body backward, he lunged downward into the sea, dragging his antagonist with him.

As Gregory and Mascola fell to the water, d.i.c.kie Lang drew her automatic and covering the c.o.c.kpit of the _Fuor d'Italia_ with her flash-light, peered cautiously over the rail. Upon the floor of the launch sprawled the figure of a man. His face was turned away from her. The gray linoleum was dyed red with his blood. As she watched him, his extended fingers twitched convulsively. He was still breathing. But that was all. Seizing the rail of the _Fuor d'Italia_ she began to work the _Richard_ around the hull of the other craft. She dared not start the motor. The propeller might cut the men in the water to shreds. Reaching the stern of Mascola's launch she directed the rays of her light into the rippling waves.

Gregory tightened his hold on Mascola's wrist as the waters closed over his head. The Italian struggled fiercely to free his right arm as he felt his body sinking deeper into the water. Then he noticed that his antagonist had freed his legs and was moving them slowly upward to his stomach.

Locking his knees about Mascola's waist-line in a scissors-grip, Gregory began to squeeze. Lashing the water with his feet the Italian jerked his head backward and forced it against Gregory's chin. Then he freed his left arm and the fingers slid upward to his enemy's throat.

Under the steady pressure of the st.u.r.dy legs about his waist Mascola felt his strength going from him. With bursting lungs he tore at the corded muscles of Gregory's throat. But his fingers had but little power. Sharp pains seared his eyeb.a.l.l.s. A deadly numbness was creeping over his entire body. Then he felt the hand which held his knife arm twist the wrist and forced it inward to his body.

Mascola writhed in terror. By a powerful effort he squirmed sidewise and checked the onward course of the knife as it came nearer to his side.

The exertion sent the blood pounding to his temples, left him weak with nausea. For an instant his hold on Gregory's throat relaxed. Then his fingers dug viciously into the flesh as he felt his wrist being crowded closer to his body.

The point of the dagger was scratching at his shirt. In another second it would be piercing his side. Mascola knew that the blade was sharp.

The Italian released his grip on Gregory's throat. With a convulsive shudder he dropped his knife. He was beaten. At the mercy of his enemy.

Better take chances with the courts than sure death at the hand of Kenneth Gregory.

Gregory felt the muscles of the Italian relax in a token of submission.

For an instant his heart rebelled at the turn of the battle in his favor. Why not strangle Mascola beneath the surface? Who would ever know? The Italian had shown his father no mercy.

Why didn't Mascola fight like a man?

Gregory's fingers reached the Italian's throat. The law of the sea knew no mercy.

A feeling of utter helplessness seized d.i.c.kie Lang as she stared into the moonlit waters. The man she loved was battling for his life beneath the surface of the shimmering waves. And she could do nothing.

"G.o.d bring him up safe." She repeated the words again and again. Then a new fear a.s.sailed her.

Kenneth Gregory would never give up. If he came up at all there would be blood upon his hands. Justifiable blood. An eye for an eye. And yet, as the seconds trailed endlessly by, the girl was surprised to find herself amending her prayer.

"Bring him up safe--and clean."

She uttered a choking cry as the bright rays of her light fell upon Kenneth Gregory's head. He was swimming slowly toward the launch, dragging Mascola after him.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The bright rays of her light fell upon Kenneth Gregory's head]

"Hold his wrists."

She noted the lifeless tone of Gregory's voice as she made haste to comply with the order. Saw the fingers of the two men clutch the rail while they waited for strength to pull their bodies from the water.

Kenneth Gregory pulled himself weakly over the coaming. In silence he a.s.sisted the girl in dragging Mascola from the water. Huddling on the driver's seat of the _Richard_, the Italian leaned against the dash, fighting for breath. Gregory stumbled backward and sank to the floor of the c.o.c.kpit, covering his face with his hands.

"I--failed," he gasped. "I had a chance.--But I pa.s.sed it up.--I couldn't do it."

d.i.c.kie fell to her knees beside him and threw her arms about his neck.

"You're a man," she whispered, "One in a million." Then her lips found his.

Mascola watched the two shadows blend into one. Silhouetted in the bright moonlight, he leaned against the coaming, his lips curved in a sneering smile.