The Dark Ships E-Book

Hulbert Footner

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Neill didn’t hold with his girl Janet running around with Prescott Fanning. He reckoned Fanning wasn’t straight and said so, but you know what girls are. . . . So Neill had to prove his words, and in doing so found trouble soon enough. Janet went off with Fanning, and the next time Neill saw her he found her in a faint with blood on her cheek, a revolver by her side, and Fanning dead at her feet. After that it was a question of the fox hunting with the hounds, and there’s suspense and excitement at every turn.

Leseprobe

BOOKS BY

HULBERT FOOTNER

•

THE DARK SHIPS

THE ISLAND OF FEAR

THE MURDER OF A BAD MAN

SCARRED JUNGLE

THE MYSTERY OF THE FOLDED PAPER

EASY TO KILL

DEAD MAN’S HAT

THE RING OF EYES

MURDER RUNS IN THE FAMILY

DANGEROUS CARGO

THE WHIP-POOR-WILL MYSTERY

•

The

DARK SHIPS

By

HULBERT FOOTNER

THE DARK SHIPS

Copyright, 1937, by Hulbert Footner

Printed in the United States of America

All rights in this book are reserved. It may not be used for dramatic, motion- or talking-picture purposes without written authorization from the holder of these rights. Nor may the book or part thereof be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission in writing. For information address:

Harper & Brothers, 49 East 33rd Street,

New York, N.Y.

FIRST EDITION

A-M

THE DARK SHIPS

★ I ★

The two were walking fast up Charles Street in Baltimore, not looking where they were going. It was the hour when the better shops closed and everybody was bound homeward. Many people turned their heads to glance after the good-looking pair; the young man, tall, broad-shouldered, with curly black hair and a notable look of resolution in his dark eyes; the girl, tall also for her sex, brown-haired, peach-skinned, with that special quality of beauty that makes a man feel helpless. They were quarreling.

“He’s old enough to be your father,” said Neill.

“He’s not!” retorted Janet. “He’s only thirty-nine!”

“That’s what he says!”

“You’re just being hateful.”

“You know nothing about this man.”

“What does a girl know about any of the men she goes around with? He’s an amusing companion. That’s all that concerns me.”

“You mean he spends his money on you.”

“That’s a nasty thing to say!”

“I believe he’s a crook.”

“You have no reason to say such a thing. You’re only jealous!”

“Jealous! Of that! If that’s what you want . . .”

“I don’t ‘want’ him!”

“I say he’s a crook! I can trust my hunches in such matters. That’s my business.”

“You have never seen him!”

“I’m judging just by what you have told me about him.”

“You’re jealous!” she said again.

“I’m not jealous; I’m sore!”

Janet laughed angrily. “What’s the difference?”

“Plenty of difference. I’m not the jealous type. You and I can’t be together much. Well, I don’t expect you to sit home nights when I’m not here. I’ve always encouraged you to have a good time, and you know it!”

“Then what are you fussing about?”

“This guy, Prescott Fanning, sticks in my crop. He’s not one of us. He’s too old for you; he spends too much money; he’s too slick!”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, people are always warning me against poor Prescott as if I were a schoolgirl! I can take care of myself.”

“Somebody else has warned you?” he asked, quickly.

“He had no more to go on than you have.”

“Who was it?”

“A lawyer here named Horace Kettering. A friend of my father’s.”

“What did he say?”

“Very much the same that you have said. When I pinned him down he hadn’t anything definite against Prescott.”

“Anyhow, I should think you would listen to a friend of your father’s.”

Janet did not answer.

Presently Neill said, gloomily, “Why do we have to quarrel?”

She looked away. She was softened, but she wouldn’t let him see it. “You started it.”

“I’m sorry for some of the things I said. . . . But you must admit that I’ve got reason to feel sore. Try to put yourself in my place. . . . Yesterday I made the biggest capture of the year in our department. I put Luciano Rosazza behind the bars. You know who he is, the head of the narcotic ring in New York. He’s the guy who poisons the young lads with his filthy snow; even high-school children.

“Well, I felt pretty pleased with myself. I’ve been after him for nine months. And today when I came down to Washington to report, my chief slapped me on the back and promised to give me a district on January first. ‘Son, you’ve earned a vacation,’ he said. ‘Take a week off and enjoy yourself. Go some place where you’re not known, and lie low, because this Rosazza guy has powerful friends who will be looking for you.’

“So I came over to Baltimore to be with you. Riding the crest of the wave! Why, I haven’t had a whole week at a time with you in two years. Gosh! was I happy? And what did I find? That you had gone and got your head turned by this old guy, Fanning! Is it any wonder I’m sore?”

“Don’t be absurd!” said Janet, with fresh anger. “He isn’t old, and I haven’t got my head turned!”

“Don’t you like me any more?” he asked, diffidently.

“Oh, I suppose I do. But when you make me angry how can I feel it? What kind of a life would we have together if we got married and you flew off the handle every time I spoke to another man?”

“I don’t fly off the handle every time. It’s only Fanning. He’s a crook!”

“He isn’t a crook! And I’m not going to let anybody talk to me like that! I left a good home and went to work and supported myself on my earnings so that I could be free and independent. If my people wish me to be on my own, I’m not going to let you dictate to me.”

Neill looked at her longingly. “We mustn’t quarrel,” he said, low-voiced. “Our time together is so short.”

“I don’t want to quarrel,” she said, lowering her head; “but you won’t let me call my soul my own.”

“I love you,” he said.

“That’s not the right way to show it.”

“Look,” he said, “let’s be quiet and sensible. Tell me more about Fanning. Who are his friends?”

“He knows everybody. One of his most intimate friends is Gerald Bromley, the manager of the Cecil-Calvert.”

“Anybody can be friends with a hotel manager.”

“Now you’re being hateful again.”

“Sorry,” said Neill. “What’s in that box under your arm?”

“A new evening dress.”

“Another?”

“It was returned by a customer and Madame Annette let me have it for next to nothing.”

“I suppose you’re going to wear it tonight.”

“Certainly.”

Neill got sore all over again. “Damn!”

They walked a block in silence.

“Look, Jen,” he said, persuasively. “Break this date with Fanning and wear the new dress for me tonight. Lord! you don’t know how much it means to me! My first night with you. I rushed over from Washington all primed for it. And I only have a week.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s impossible. I didn’t know you were coming. This little party was got up for me and all the arrangements have been made. I can’t get out of it now.”

Neill was filled with an intolerable sense of injury. “Well, the hell with it, then,” he muttered. “I’d better leave you before I say something that I’ll be sorry for.”

“I’m not keeping you.”

They parted abruptly. Before he had taken twenty steps, Neill looked longingly over his shoulder. But Janet was still marching ahead, eyes front, and he scowled and kept on. A second after he had looked, Janet looked over her shoulder, all ready to run to meet him, but Neill was looking ahead then and she kept on. Neither would look again. That’s the way these things go.

Neill strode back down Charles Street with a burning coal at the pit of his stomach. The one thing clear to him was that he must immediately make good his words that Prescott Fanning was a crook. Where could he find out something about him? Neill was not well acquainted in Baltimore.

Janet had let fall two names. The first was Horace Kettering. Neill turned into the first drug store he came to and looked up the telephone number of Kettering’s office. He was too late: They told him that Mr. Kettering had left for the day. Neill then called up his house in the suburb of Guildford, but with no better luck. Mr. Kettering was not expected home to dinner.

The other man Janet had mentioned was the manager of a well-known hotel. Not difficult to get hold of him. Neill entered the marble-lined lobby of the Cecil-Calvert and asked at the desk for Mr. Bromley.

“He’s in the bar, if you don’t mind stepping in there,” said the clerk.

Neill didn’t mind. It was easy to pick out Mr. Bromley where he stood in the bar with a group of friends, because with his immaculate grooming and his air of good-fellowship he looked like nothing in the world but a hotel manager. It occurred to Neill that he had better conceal his hand in this matter, so he ordered a drink and watched his opportunity.

Presently Mr. Bromley strolled away from his friends. As he came by, Neill nodded to him in a friendly fashion.

“Hello,” said Bromley. “Do I know you?”

“Walter Patton is the name. I have stopped here before a couple of times, but I suppose you see so many faces you can’t remember them all.”

“It’s a fact,” said Bromley.

“Will you have one with me?” asked Neill.

Mr. Bromley having had a couple, was not averse to increasing the load a little. They drank.

Having thus broken the ice, Neill was able to ask: “Do you know a man called Prescott Fanning?”

“Sure. Everybody knows Fanning.”

“What sort of fellow is he?”

“Oh, an all-round sport, swell-looking guy; built like an athlete; elegant dresser; free with his money; a general favorite.”

Neill swallowed this with a wry face. “Where’s he from?”

“New York banker. Investment house.”

“Have you ever investigated him?”

“Wasn’t any need to. He hasn’t tried to sell me anything.”

“But I was told he was an intimate friend of yours.”

“Good God, man! a mere acquaintance like ten thousand others.”

“How long has he been around?”

“I couldn’t tell you exactly. Some weeks.”

“What brought him here?”

“He likes the town. Looking for a little place in the Green Spring Valley. I’ve got a place out there, and that’s how I got acquainted with him. But it didn’t suit him.”

“Who introduced him in Baltimore? Who vouches for him?”

“ ’Deed, I don’t remember. Fanning is the sort of man you just see around. . . . Do you know anything queer about him?”

“No indeed,” said Neill. “I was just trying to find out something about his standing.”

“Well, don’t ask me.”

“Is he a man you would trust?”

“I don’t trust any man,” said Mr. Bromley, grinning.

Neill saw that there was nothing to be had here. “Where does Fanning hang out?” he asked.

“Lord Baltimore Hotel.”

This hotel was farther downtown and Neill took a taxi. He sat down in the lobby and looked around. It came to him that the bell boys of a hotel generally have the low-down on the guests, and he beckoned to a lad in a bob-tailed jacket who was passing.

“Fetch me a couple of Eden Perfectos from the cigar-stand, will you?”

The cigar-stand was not above fifty feet away, but Neill knew that bell boys never resent a guest who refuses to wait on himself. He’s a source of profit.

The cigars were brought and the boy generously tipped. He held a lighted match and Neill detained him in talk.

“Do you know a guest here called Prescott Fanning?”

“Mr. Fanning? Sure do, Boss. He’s in 1410, one of the best suites in the house. Mr. Fanning’s a real gentleman, he is.”

“What’s his business?”

“Don’t seem to have any. Just enjoys hisself.”

“Does he get much mail?”

“Not at the hotel.”

“Come on,” said Neill, persuasively: “Loosen up.”

“What’s your graft?” asked the boy, with a sharp look.

“Oh, put me down as a nosey individual with a big heart,” said Neill, grinning.

“Well, Mr. Fanning’s been a good friend to me and I ain’t a-going to . . .”

“I could be a better friend if you gave me any real information about him.”

The boy grinned at him as much as to say, Prove it! “Always happy to oblige,” he said. “But I can’t tell you what I don’t know. Mr. Fanning carries a wad of new money in his wallet an inch thick. He plays the races, and his bar bill’s pretty near a hundred a week. He appears to know everybody in town. He talks a lot, but he never tells nothing, if you know what I mean. Just joshes.”

“A bell boy’s hero!” said Neill.

“You said it, mister! I wish they was more like him. . . . Sorry, I got to beat it. I’m not allowed to stand and talk.”

Neill let him go. If he did know anything about Fanning, it was clear that the latter had paid him to keep his mouth shut.

An odd-looking man sidled up to Neill from behind him. A skinny little fellow, gray as a badger; gray hair, gray skin, gray lips. He wore a wrinkled gray suit, too, as if for protective coloring. It was impossible to guess his age. He would have been completely insignificant had it not been for his eyes. They were the most tragic eyes Neill had ever seen, and they had a wild, burning quality that made a normal man sheer off a little. He looked like a lost soul; yet his colorless lips were twisted in a grin.

“Pardon me, sir,” he said, with a fawning air. “But I couldn’t help overhearing part of your conversation just now.”

“So what?” said Neill. He felt that he ought to be sorry for the man, but as a matter of fact he only felt repulsion.

“I heard you asking the boy about Prescott Fanning.”

Neill pricked up his ears. “Do you know him?”

The gray man moistened his lips like a cat. “Yes,” he said, slowly. “I may say . . . that I know him.”

“Sit down,” said Neill. “Have a smoke?”

“That looks too big and strong for me,” said the gray man, with a sidelong look at the cigar. “If you will excuse me, I prefer my pipe.”

“Smoke up,” said Neill.

While the little man was busy filling his pipe Neill studied him. A new type. Not criminal, yet somehow repulsive. Neill wondered uncomfortably if every man who has been through hell becomes repulsive to his luckier fellows.

“You may call me Eyster,” he said. “David Eyster.”

“I’m Walter Patton,” said Neill. He was glad that Eyster did not offer to shake hands. His gray paws looked like a dead man’s.

“Do you know Fanning?” asked Eyster.

“No.”

“Are you anxious to meet him?”

“No. But I want to find out about him. . . . What are your relations with him?”

“I have no relations with him,” replied Eyster, grinning. “He doesn’t know me, but I know him.”

“Well, tell me,” said Neill, “what sort of fellow is he?”

“What is your purpose in asking?” said Eyster, cautiously.

“I’ll tell you,” said Neill. “A young fellow that I know has been going around with him lately, and I suspect that Fanning is a bad influence.”

Eyster laughed noiselessly. “A bad influence?” he said. “That’s putting it mildly. . . . I assume that it is really a young woman you are talking about. Fanning has no use for young men.”

Neill let it go at that.

A spasm of hatred convulsed Eyster’s gray face. “He’s a devil to women,” he exclaimed, with an odd breathlessness. “A devil! A devil!”

Neill turned hard inside, thinking of the danger to Janet. At the same time he exulted a little because he had been proved right. No harm had come to Janet yet, and now he could show her!

“Give me chapter and verse,” he said, eagerly. “Give me some concrete evidence to show, and it will save a woman.”

But Eyster only grinned and shook his head. “These are things I can’t tell a stranger.”

“Then why did you approach me?” asked Neill.

Eyster was silent.

Neill felt that he must use caution in dealing with this half-cracked soul. “Where is your home, Mr. Eyster?” he asked, in order to get on safer ground.

“I have no home.”

“No home?”

“I just go from hotel to hotel.”

“Don’t you find that rather expensive?”

“I have enough money for my needs.”

“What’s your business?”

“I have no business.”

“What brought you to Baltimore?”

“Fanning.”

“What’s Fanning’s business here?”

“I haven’t been able to find out,” said Eyster. “After all, I’m only one man and I can’t let him get on to me. But he’s up to no good, you can be sure of that.”

“What’s his record?”

Eyster shook his head. “I won’t tell you . . . yet.”

“Why can’t we work together on this?” asked Neill. “We both distrust the man and want to prevent him doing any further harm . . .”

“I don’t care how much harm he does,” Eyster interrupted.

Neill looked at him in exasperation. He seemed part madman, part child, and scarcely human.

Eyster moistened his lips. “The rottener he acts the more fun it is to watch him,” he said, softly. “And the more satisfactory his finish will be.”

“What do you mean, his finish?”

Eyster declined to explain. “I like you, young man,” he said, with a grin. “You won’t let anything on, but I can see that you hate him. . . . I’ll tell you something,” he suddenly went on, with a spurt of venom. “My hatred of Fanning is all I live for. And my business, that you asked me about just now, is to follow him around and watch him and feed it.”

“Good God!” muttered Neill. “Why?”

Eyster turned cautious again. “I’m not going to tell you anything more until I’ve tested you out,” he said. “I don’t want my plans interfered with.”

“What’s going to be the end of this?” asked Neill.

“The end may be slow in coming,” said Eyster, grinning, “but it’s certain!”

Neill looked at him, wondering how to deal with such a crack-pot.

“Do you know about his yacht?” asked Eyster.

Here was a bit of real information. “No. What yacht?”

“He has just bought a yacht called the Nadji. I can’t figure what he wants a yacht for.”

“Won’t it be difficult for you to follow him if he goes off on a yacht?” suggested Neill, fishing.

“I have made my arrangements,” said Eyster, grinning.

“Where’s the yacht lying?”

“At the City Pier, foot of Broadway.” Eyster got up abruptly. “Have you ever seen Fanning?” he asked.

“No.”

“Well, here he comes. . . . I’ll leave you.”

★ II ★

Following the direction of Eyster’s glance, Neill saw a tall, dark, handsome man coming in from the street. At first glance he scarcely looked the thirty-nine years he confessed to, but as he came closer Neill judged him about five years more than that. He was in the pink of condition, with a skin as fresh as a baby’s. His black eyes were set close together, giving him a foxy look; they were the kind of eyes that turn continually and overlook nothing. A hard face, but rendered superficially attractive by a good-natured smile. A crook, and a slick one, thought Neill.

Fanning, nodding pleasantly to his acquaintances in the lobby, strolled on into the bar. After giving him a moment or two, Neill followed.

He found Fanning leaning negligently on the mahogany, watching the bartender stir him up an old-fashioned cocktail. Neill lined up near by and looked him over in the mirror without appearing to. Fanning was wearing a perfectly-cut gray flannel suit and an expensive Panama hat. His shirt and tie were just a little different from anybody else’s. Evidently a man who gave a good deal of thought to his dress. Neill, who bought good clothes without thinking about them, resented it. Just the sort of thing that would catch a woman’s eye!

Since it was the hour before dinner when nobody is in a rush and each of them was alone at the bar, it was natural to fall into talk. When Neill also ordered an old-fashioned, Fanning said, with his ready smile:

“Great minds think alike!”

“Great ones and small ones, too,” said Neill.

Fanning laughed. “Are you registered here?”

“No. At the Stafford.”

“My name is Prescott Fanning.”

“I’m Walter Patton.”

“Where from?”

“New York.”

“That’s my town, too. But I’m thinking of retiring and settling in Baltimore.”

“You’re a young man to be talking about retiring.”

“Oh, well, I’m not ambitious,” said Fanning. “Forty or fifty thousand a year is ample for my needs. I’m looking for a place in the Green Spring Valley. Nothing opulent or showy, you understand, a small place, but perfect in every appointment. That’s my ideal. Two or three blooded horses in the stable, a flat field where I can land and take off in my own plane.”

Blow-hard! thought Neill. “Are you married?” he asked, pleasantly.

“No indeed!” said Fanning, laughing. “I’m too fond of the sex to tie myself down to one. Women are like wines; you want a different type with every course. I wouldn’t give up champagne just because I like Johannisberger.”

Neill fingered his glass longingly. He had a terrible yen to fling the contents in the man’s face. “Tell me, how did you make enough to retire so early?” he asked, laughing. “That’s something every man is interested in.”

“In the Street,” said Fanning, carelessly. “Things are coming back.”

“As an operator or a broker?”

“Both. . . . You hear a lot about the cleverness of Wall Street men, but believe me it’s all a myth. They’re so dumb that a fellow of just ordinary intelligence like me can go in and clean up in short order.” He laughed. “What’s your line?” he asked.

“Contact man for a firm of contractors. What’s your firm?”

“I’m out of the Street now.” . . . “Have you heard this one?”

He told a funny story about Wall Street. While his mouth was full of humorous friendly talk the foxy black eyes never relaxed their vigilance. Neill had the sense that he was being keenly sized up in his turn.

He matched Fanning’s story with another. Fanning laughed and clapped him on the back. “I like you, Patton! You and I speak the same lingo.” He beckoned to the bartender. “Set ’em up, Jim. This round is on me.”

Neill reciprocated. By the time they had had three a perfect barroom friendship had developed. But while the drink appeared to loosen Fanning’s tongue, he made no disclosures about himself. When Neill asked a question he told a funny story. From time to time he slipped in a shrewd question of his own. Neill answered with seeming frankness, but Fanning’s sharp eyes hardened.

He is suspicious of me, Neill thought, and he doesn’t mean to let me go until he’s found out what I’m after. Well, two can play at that game.

After they had fenced in this manner for some time, Fanning asked: “What you doing tonight?”

“Eating alone, worse luck,” said Neill.

“Look, I’m having a little party, and I need another man. I’d be darn glad to have you join us. I like the cut of your jib, Patton. We must see more of each other.”

Neill grinned inwardly at the thought of Janet’s face when Fanning brought him to the party. It would be a pretty little revenge. “Certainly is nice of you to ask me,” he said. “I haven’t my evening clothes with me.”

“It doesn’t matter, my boy! The girls will dress up, bless their hearts! but we don’t have to. You’re a good-looking young guy, Patton, damned if you’re not, and you’ll be a credit to my party just as you are.”

“Well, thanks a lot,” said Neill.

“Let’s go up to my suite and wash up, and we can start out from here.”

“Okay.”

They paid for their drinks and went up in an elevator, Fanning talking and laughing. At the same time there was a glitter in his black eyes that spelled danger. Neill’s job had accustomed him to that. He was armed.

Fanning’s suite was one of the most expensive in the hotel. High above the street, it looked over the lower part of town and across the harbor to Federal Hill. Neill noted that, though Fanning presumably had occupied it for several weeks, there were no photographs or knick-knacks, no personal belongings of any kind on display; nothing to give him a line on the man’s past.

They made themselves ready for the party, Fanning keeping up a running fire of humorous stories. As they were slipping into their coats again there was a knock at the door of the parlor. Fanning went to answer it, but held the door in such a manner that Neill could not see who was outside. A whispered conversation took place. The caller was a man.

Presently Fanning opened the door farther, but still Neill could not see who was on the other side of it. As the crack between door and frame widened he had a sense that an eye was applied to it on the other side. Somebody was giving him the once over.

The conversation continued. Though the voices were low, Neill suspected that they were disputing. Finally he heard Fanning say, “Well, you’ll have to lump it then! . . .”

“Aah! I never thought to get this from you,” rumbled the other voice, sorely.

“Shh!” said Fanning.

He went out, pulling the door almost to behind him, and Neill heard the two of them walking away. Tiptoeing to the door, he put an eye to the crack and saw the two figures moving in close converse toward the elevators. They were gesticulating angrily. Fanning’s visitor was a rough-looking man of enormous physical strength. His shoulders were so heavy they were bowed forward, and his big hands hung almost to his knees.

Neill retired from the door, leaving it exactly as he had found it. The telephone rang, and he picked it up. A man’s voice said cautiously over the wire:

“That you, Pres?”

Neill subdued his voice to a husky whisper. “Right.”

“What’s the matter?” asked the voice, sharply.

“Nothing. There are others in the room here.”

“Oh! I just wanted to tell you that everything is all right. The old girl hasn’t squawked.”

“Who did you say?”

The unknown speaker evaded the trap. “I say the old girl hasn’t squawked.”

“Good!”

“Shall I see you tomorrow as agreed?”

“Right. Where are you speaking from?”

Again he drew a blank. “Read’s drug store. So long.”

“So long.”

Neill hung up. Eyster might be mad, but even the few words he had heard were enough to confirm the fact that Fanning was a crook! As yet, however, he had secured no concrete evidence to lay before Janet. He looked around the room sharply. There was no time to make a search. Anyhow, he supposed that Fanning would never have left him alone had there been anything incriminating in the place.

Fanning returned with his made-to-order laugh, saying: “These darn realtors call on you at all hours. It’s almost impossible to get rid of them.”

“That’s right,” agreed Neill. He was thinking, that was no realtor, old man!

Fanning fetched a sealed bottle of Scotch from a cabinet. “We must have one last spot before we go,” he said.

“Just a short one for me,” said Neill.