Little Pete crawled quickly away on hands and knees, instincts for survival surfacing. Where were his bodyguards? Four on duty downstairs around the clock; someone got past them. The attack could come from any direction, at any moment. He would have to defend himself. There had been a time when no one bested him with a knife, but he hadn't been in a fight that mattered for over ten years.
A pistol in the top drawer of that table. Little Pete scampered over, pulled the gun out, hands shaking wildly, gripping onto the table for support. He wiped the drool from his lips with the sleeve of his gun hand, tried to summon enough voice to call out for his guards, but the words died in his throat; heart beating too hard, tongue cottony and sluggish.
Slow, slow down now, Pete. This is a good place. You can see every door and window from here. Steady the gun with both hands. Wait until they come close: Don't waste any bullets____
A tremendous force slammed his head down from behind onto the tabletop. The layer of thick glass covering its hardwood surface cracked, his face locked in place motionless against it; Little Pete felt heat run down his face, saw his own blood flowing freely into the splinters. His arm wrenched backward and the gun was taken from his hand like a rattle from a baby.
"You understand how easily I can kill you," said a quiet voice.
"Yes," croaked Little Pete.
"Your guards are dead. No one is coming to help you. Answer my questions; don't waste time and you will live."
The voice spoke flawless, unaccented Mandarin. He didn't know this man. Little Pete tried to nod in agreement, grinding the shattered glass deeper into his face.
"You sell workers to the railroads," said the voice.
"Yes,"
"Tunnel men. Chinese. Good with explosives."
"Yes, a few ..."
"There can't be many of them."
"No, not good ones."
"You would know who they are, then, the good ones."
What in heaven's name was this about?
"Yes. If they're demolition; they used to be miners mostly. They came here for the gold rush...."
"You sent some out to the desert."
Little Pete's mind raced: There weren't many Chinese demolition men left, the good ones were always in demand—hard to think now....
"Answer or I'll kill you."
They worked in teams; his offices handled sale and shipping of dynamite as well. Couldn't remember; he would have to check his ledgers—that would take time—would this man let him live long enough to do it?
Wait. Something coming back; yes.
"SF, P and P."
"What is that?"
"Santa Fe, Prescott and Phoenix Railroad. One team."
"When?"
"Six months ago."
"Where exactly did you send them?"
"Arizona Territory. Working the line west from Tucson. From Stockton, they come from Stockton, California. I don't remember anything else; I don't know their names but I could find out for you. Four men ..."
The man's hand palmed Little Pete's head and rammed the soft center of his temple against the table edge. Little Pete slumped into a pile on the floor, unconscious.
Kanazuchi walked to the balcony, rapidly scaled a trellis up to the roof, and faded away. No one had seen him enter; no one saw him leave.
By the time Little Pete came to his senses and the uproar over the murders in his town house spread through Tangrenbu like a grass fire—the feet of one of his bodyguards had been severed and served as Little Pete's lunch and he was forced to eat them, according to more extravagant versions—Kanazuchi had already moved well beyond the San Francisco city limits.
Eerie silence belowdecks: The ship's engines had died along with the lights. The Elbe sat dead in the still water. The hold seemed as dark and inhospitable as the belly of a whale.
"Gott im Himmel—"
Doyle shushed him. They stood and strained to listen....
Someone was moving down the passageway toward the bay forty feet below the water line where the five men stood beside the empty coffins.
Doyle took the crowbar from Captain Hoffner, grabbed the lantern from Innes, and closed its shutters, plunging them into darkness.
"Stand against the walls. Away from the door," he whispered to the others. "Not a word from anyone."
They waited and watched. A small flame flickered to life fifty feet down the passage; a match igniting. It bobbed toward them, died out, then another took its place and continued forward. Doyle tracked the progress of the shuffling footsteps, and as the advancing figure reached the hatch to the hold he stepped out and uncovered the lantern right in the face of the man, blinding him. The man cried out, dropped the match, and shielded his eyes.
"For crying out loud, what'd you have to go and do that for?"
"What are you doing here, Pinkus?" said Doyle.
Ira Pinkus bent over, trying to rub the dancing spots away from his field of vision, too disoriented to organize a lie.
"I was following you," said Pinkus.
"You've picked a very inopportune time—stand away from the door, Pinkus; someone might shoot you," said Doyle, maneuvering the little man against a bulkhead and closing the hatch behind him.
"I was halfway down a flight of stairs when everything went black...."
"And keep your voice down."
"Okay," whispered Pinkus. "Jesus, I can't see a thing: Everybody looks like a light bulb—so anyway, what gives with the skull and crossbones stuff, Mr. Conan Doyle—oh, hello, Innes, nice to see you again."
"Hello."
"What's your name, friend?"
"Lionel Stern."
"How are ya? Ira Pinkus. And this must be Captain Hoffner; very pleased to meet you, sir, been looking forward to it; very fine ship you have here—Ira Pinkus, New York Herald...."
"Why is this man following you?" asked Hoffner of Doyle.
"I'm writing a series of articles about transatlantic steamship travel, Captain, and I would greatly appreciate an opportunity to interview you...."
"Pinkus," said Doyle ominously.
"Yeah?"
"Be quiet or I'll be compelled to throttle you."
"Oh. Sure, okay."
The silence that followed was broken by a series of kicks and shuddering metallic groans from somewhere aft and above them in the ship.
"Emergency generator," said the engineer.
"Trying to restart the screws," said Doyle.
Hoffner nodded. They listened.
"But it's not working," said Innes.
"That generator was inspected and fully operational before we left Southampton," said Captain Hoffner.
"But then, I assume, so were the engines," said Doyle.
Hoffner stared at him. "You are not suggesting ..."
"Sabotage?" piped in Pinkus, somewhat gleefully.
The word hung in the air. Pinkus looked back and forth from Doyle to Hoffner like a man watching table tennis.
"What is your standard procedure in such a situation?"
"The crew will distribute lamps and escort all passengers who are abovedecks back to quarters."
"How long will that take?"
"Twenty minutes, maybe half an hour."
"And all passengers are then expected to remain in their cabins."
"Yes, until power is restored."
"Captain ... does anyone else know we're down here?" asked Doyle.
"My first officer," said Hoffner. "Whoever else is on the bridge."
"Are they after me?" asked Lionel Stern glumly.
On the verge of answering, from the corner of his eye Doyle caught Pinkus's puppy-dog eager expression. "Mr. Pinkus, would you please be good enough to go over there and stand in the corner for a while?"
"Really? What for?"
"This is a private conversation," said Doyle, lighting the way for him with the torch.
Pinkus shrugged congenially and followed Doyle's beam to the far corner, with an uneasy glance at the vacant coffins.
"You want me to fa
ce the wall?"
"If you would be so kind."
"Hey, no problem at all," said Pinkus. He gave a friendly, overfamiliar wave and turned away.
Doyle gestured for the others to form a tight ring around him; he held the torch under his jacket and the five faces pushed into the faint glow.
"These men have every intention of killing you, Mr. Stern," said Doyle, his voice a barely audible whisper. "If doing so will bring the Book of Zohar into their possession."
"Why don't we just give it to them?" said Hoffner.
"But we have no idea where it is...."
"It is in my cabin," said Doyle.
Astonished exclamations.
"Gentlemen, please," pleaded Doyle, shining the light over to Pinkus just as he whipped his head back around to face the wall. "There will be time for explanations when we are in different company, unless you'd prefer to read about them on the front page of a newspaper."
"I could not agree more," said Hoffner.
"Since they seem perfectly aware that the Book of Zohar was not in its crate in the hold, our stowaways presumed it was still in your cabin, Mr. Stern, where they originally tried to take it from Mr. Selig. Your cabin is where they plan to strike again now under this cover of darkness."
"But why now? Out here, in the middle of the ocean?" asked Stern.
"As opposed to a day away from shore, when their chances of escaping undetected would be that much greater?" said Doyle, about to elaborate.
"Because they've realized we know they're on board and they can't afford to wait any longer. Obviously," said Innes.
Jolly good, Innes, thought Doyle.
"How could they know this?" asked Hoffner.
"A breach in security," said Doyle. "On the bridge."
"Impossible."
"Not one of your men, Captain. One of theirs."
"In uniform?"
"You may regrettably discover that one of your officers has gone missing."
"Mein Gott, then we will scour the ship top to bottom, we will find these men...."
"We shall do even better than that, Captain, but we need to act without delay, we have less than thirty minutes." Doyle turned to the engineer. "Do you have any red phosphorus on board?"
The engineer turned to Hoffner, who translated the question.
"Yes, sir," answered the engineer.
"Good. Bring as much as you've got to us here at once."
The stout little engineer, whose incomplete command of English had left him utterly perplexed by these developments, felt enormous relief at having such a straightforward task to discharge. He saluted smartly and marched out of the cargo bay.
"Captain, can you secure us some firearms?"
"Of course; they are kept under lock and key on the bridge—"
"Without alerting any of your officers?"
Hoffner tugged down on the edge of his tunic and screwed up his Teutonic pride to its fullest measure.
"I believe I can manage this much."
"What are we going to do, Arthur?" asked Innes.
"Set a trap," said Doyle:
"Really? Tremendous! Can I help?" asked Ira Pinkus.
Doyle turned the light on him; Pinkus had crept within five feet of them, and had been huddling there for God knows how long.
"As a matter of fact, you can," said Doyle.
Twenty minutes later. Velvety moonlight through the porthole and unearthly quiet inside Stern's cabin.
The first sound: a pick sliding smoothly into the keyhole. Scratching as it worked its way through the pins, each one freezing until with a barely audible click the lock yielded, the handle turned. The door opened slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, until it met resistance from the reattached chain. Wire cutters moved through the gap and gripped the chain; a steady increase of pressure until the pincers sliced through the last link. A gloved hand caught the strands of the chain before they could fall back to scrape against the metal door and laid them to rest.
Now the door swung open just wide enough to admit the first blackclad figure; black from head to toe, crepe-soled shoes, a mask taut over its head. The figure took stock of the room, looked at the stationary form lying in the lower bunk, then held the door for a second identically dressed figure to enter. It moved slowly and purposefully to the edge of the bunk; a thin sliver of steel in its hand gleamed in the moonlight pouring through the porthole.
Now, thought Doyle.
As the figure in black reached for the blanket, a ghastly cry came from the corridor outside; a miserable moan of torment, rising in pitch and volume.
Easy, don't overdo it.
Both men turned to the door; a third identically dressed figure stuck its head in, beckoning them over. They glided outside and looked down the passageway at the strangest spectacle.
The incandescent outline of a ship's officer illuminated the far end of the dark corridor. A glowing, ethereal outline of a man, chains draping its tattered uniform, its eyes black holes recessed in the green-gray plane of its lamentable face. The disturbing specter moaned again, rattled its chains, raised its arms menacingly, and took a step toward the three men in black.
The figures balked, momentarily distracted.
Doyle threw off the blanket, sat up in the bunk, and leveled a shotgun at the three men in the doorway.
"Don't move," ordered Doyle.
At the sound of his voice, the door directly across the hallway flew open: Innes holding a pistol....
One of the figures dove and rolled at Innes's knees, chopping him to the ground; his pistol discharged, the bullet pinged off the metal ceiling and died into the carpeted floor. By the time Doyle pulled the trigger, the other two figures in black had with incredible speed bolted down the passage in opposite directions; the shot ricocheted harmlessly off the bulkheads. Doyle raced to the doorway. One of the fleeing assassins ran into and leveled the "ghost" of the Elbe—Doyle saw its luminescent form go tumbling ass-over-teakettle—and disappeared around a corner. The second intruder was sprinting directly toward the hatchway where Captain Hoffner, Stern, and the engineer were laying in wait.
The third assailant jumped up out of the opposing doorway to follow the others; Innes reached out and grabbed hold of his ankle. The man turned and cracked his free foot down on Innes's left wrist; Innes cried out, releasing his grip just as Doyle raised the butt end of the rifle and clubbed the figure across the back of the head, slamming him face first hard into the far wall, but instead of collapsing the man spun out of the collision and mule-kicked Doyle in the midsection, propelling him back through the open doorway where he collided rudely with the unforgiving frame of the bunks.
As the man in black kicked, Innes swept a leg under him; the man went airborne and met the floor with a thud. Innes scrambled to his knees and landed a crushing punch to the man's head. Doyle rushed back into the hall, pinned the barrel of the rifle against the prostrate man's chest, and jacketed a live round into the chamber.
"Move and I'll shoot," said Doyle, wheezing to recapture his wind.
The figure lay still. Doyle gasped for air: thank God Innes was so handy with his fists. Cool under pressure, too. The Fusiliers had taught him well.
"Did we get him?" asked the ghost of the Elbe, standing cautiously ten feet away in the hall.
Startled, neither of the brothers could react quickly enough as in one move the figure in black produced a derringer from a sleeve, drew it directly to the side of his own head, and fired.
"Oh, my God. Oh, my God, is he dead?" said the ghost.
"Of course he's dead, Ira," said Innes, thoroughly annoyed. "He shot himself in the head."
"Well what in bejesus would a fella go and do a crazy thing like that for?" said Pinkus, leaning back against the wall, absentmindedly wiping the compound of phosphorus off his gloves.
"You're the reporter," said Doyle, equally irritated. "Why don't you ask him? Stay here, Innes. I'll be back."
Doyle moved quickly away down the corridor to their left.
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"Jesus, Mary, and Joe-seppie, I was spooked something fierce, Innes, and I don't mind saying it. I think I even scared myself," said Pinkus, fanning himself with his luminescent hat. "Say, how'd I do? I do okay?"
"If all else fails, you could always find work haunting a house."
"Gee, that's terrific, thanks."
"Give me a hand. We should stow him out of the way before the tourists get wind of this."
"Sure, pal, whatever you say."
Pinkus reached down and Innes got a closer look; the clotted rivulets of phosphorescent sweat running off him made it look as if his face were melting. "Probably a good idea if we stow you out of sight as well."
Doyle found Lionel Stern and the engineer kneeling in the dark outside the hatch at the end of the corridor, attending to Captain Hoffner, who clutched a wounded arm.
"We heard the shots," said Hoffner. "Mein Gott, he was on us so quick I have had no time—"
"Like a shadow," said the engineer.
"He ran right through us," said Stern. "Everything happened so fast I couldn't even tell you which way he went."
"That's all right'"said Doyle, bending down to examine the deck. "He'll show us himself."
He pointed to the walkway and the thin layer of phosphorus he'd laid down when they finished coating Pinkus. Doyle instructed Stern to stay with Hoffner, and along with the plucky little engineer, who clutched a huge monkey wrench in both hands, they followed the path of glowing footprints leading away from the phosphorus out into the void of the open deck.
The moon drifted behind an advancing cloud bank, and the darkness rendered the glow of the man's tracks even easier to read. Rolling heavily amidships with no power to steer into the heavy swells of the approaching storm, spray dousing her deserted decks, taut lines twanging like harp strings in the whistling wind, the Elbe felt less like a luxury liner and more like a steamship version of the doomed Flying Dutchman.
"Dis man," whispered the engineer, as they paused before cautiously rounding a corner. "He is like der Teufel."
"The Devil," said Doyle. "Yes. But he is also just a man."
As Doyle bent to examine another footprint, he heard a faint, steady metallic tapping, then noticed the wrench, shaking in the engineer's hands and knocking against the rail.
"What's your name?"