The Phantom Launch E-Book

Aidan de Brune

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

There is always a special thrill of excitement about a mystery story, especially when the main characters cover their tracks successfully. „The Phantom Launch” is an Australian story through and through, its main setting being Sydney and Melbourne, and the swiftness and sureness with which both the launch people and amateur sleuths act will keep the reader breathless. Wireless plays an important part in this story. We defy any reader to guess the perpetrators of the crimes and the secret of the launch until the colorful and prolific Australian writer Aidan de Brune? reveals them.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

CHAPTER XXXV

CHAPTER XXXVI

CHAPTER I

“WHAT the devil! Say, Phelps, were you trying to put one over on me, or have you taken to writing fiction?”

“What’s the trouble, Sergeant?” The young officer looked up at the burly officer who had just entered the room.

“What’s the trouble?” Sergeant Miller made a gesture of mock despair. “Here’s one of the most promising members of the Force puts in a report that reads like a shilling shocker, and asks, ‘What’s the trouble?’ If you’re really serious in the pursuit of knowledge, me lad, I’ll tell you. I’ve got to sub-edit this fairy story of yours before it goes to Headquarters, and you haven’t given it a title. Any objection to. ‘A Constable’s Dream While On Duty’?”

“Better call it ‘The Phantom Launch,’ Sergeant.” Constable Phelps looked up at his superior officer, a broad grin on his face.

“Then it’s a leg-puller! You young devil! If I’d sent it to Headquarters–”

“Go easy, Sergeant.” There was a note of seriousness in the constable’s voice. “There’s precious little fiction about that report. It’s the first bit of adventure I’ve had since I started walking the lonely rounds out of Balmoral, and I made the best of it. But it’s true, every word of it.”

Sergeant Miller slumped into a chair and gazed at his subordinate officer in amazement.

“You mean to tell me you saw this–this–Yes, I’ll give it your name–this Phantom Launch. A boat without masts or sails, that goes up the harbour at top speed without crew–”

“Who’s the novelist, now?” Phelps rose slowly to his feet and stretched himself. “I said nothing about no crew. In fact, I saw three men on the launch, and I saw its wake when it went out of Myella Cove. It’s a goer, sure enough.”

Miller referred to the report in his hand. He was beginning to believe that it contained some truth. Constable Phelps was a promising youngster. A bare twelve months in the Force, he was already recognised for his coolness and bravery. The report was absurd; so absurd that it was impossible to send it to Headquarters. But there might be something in it; something that it was His duty to inquire into, and test.

“Let’s get this straight, boy.” Miller placed the report on the table and leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “Sit down. I can’t talk all the way up there. Now, I detailed you to go over to Obelisk Bay on the sly-grog report. Nothin’ doing, you state.”

“That’s right.” Phelps sat down again, and leaned his elbows on the table, “Old Manners was about in that puffin’-billy he sweeps the harbour with, but he hadn’t a bottle in sight. ‘Sides, most of the camps were deserted. Those that were occupied had mostly women and children in them. All asleep when I got there. More like a Sunday school picnic than the drinkin’ den you spoke of.”

“We’ll pass that.” The Sergeant again referred to the report. “The camp being quiet, you went on to Middle Head, taking the path over the cliffs. Rounding the head, you came to Myella Cove. There you sat down. Had a doze, I suppose, and dreamed the rest?”

“Look here–” Phelps got to his feet angrily.

“Aw! Sit down!” Miller thumped the table with a fist like a knuckle of ham. “We’ll leave it that you sat down and thought about girls, past, present, and future. That do? Now, let’s get on with the facts. You sat down and looked out over the harbour. S’pose South Head Lighthouse was working?”

“I’d have telephoned through if it hadn’t been.”

“Humph! Glad to see your brains are not all wool.” Miller laughed, drily. “Now comes the fairy story. Author’s title, ‘The Phantom Launch.’ Out from under the silvery sheen of the moon, glistening on the silent waters of the famous harbour beside the well-known city of Syd–”

“I never wrote that tosh!”

“You didn’t.” Miller spoke, emphatically. “If you had, I’d have placed you in a cell until the doctor came. Still, it’s near enough, so we’ll go on. You noticed a high-powered launch coming into the cove. You couldn’t hear any engine, although the boat travelling at a good speed. Correct?”

“Yep. She was absolutely silent.”

“Engine shut off, of course,” commented Miller. “Real truth of the matter is, you wore moon-struck, and didn’t see anything of her until she cut out her engines before charging the sands.”

“I saw her before she began to turn towards the Cove.” interposed Phelps, impatient. “Say, Sergeant, what are you getting at? I put the thing straight in my report, you’re just hashing it up.”

“Well,” the Sergeant’s broad face broke into a wide grin; “just tryin’ to put in a few fancy strokes. Would you like it to go to the Star or the Evening Moon? I’d advise the latter. They like it a bit tall. Sure you can’t add a fair captive, strapped to the mast?”

“There wasn’t a ma–. Funny, I don’t think.” Phelps turned away disgustedly.

Sergeant Miller rose from his seat, and walked towards his private office, carrying the report with him. He was puzzled. When he first read it, he thought the constable had dreamed the details, around some simple happenings to a motor-boat returning up harbour late at night. The indignation, the certainty, displayed by the constable altered his views. There must be something worth examining. At his desk, Miller went over the report again, scanning each word thoughtfully.

Constable Phelps had reported for duty at seven o’clock the previous evening. He had been detailed to proceed to Obelisk Bay, and inquire into a report of sly grog-selling at the summer camps in the vicinity.

The constable had remained among the camps until late at night. He had seen the suspected bootlegger, and had searched his boat without results. Satisfied that nothing illegal was going on that night, Phelps left the sleeping camps, and walked over the paths to Middle Head. Almost immediately around the Head, he came to Myella Cove, a small bay, containing a patch of fine sands. The cove was almost inaccessible from the land side, by reason of the steep cliffs, and on the water side was guarded by partly submerged reefs, jutting out from the headlands, leaving only a narrow and dangerous passage to the cove.

Phelps had had a long spell of duty, and a fair walk. He stated in his report that he was tired, and sat down for a few minutes rest. Just as he was about to resume his journey, he noticed a high-powered launch, speeding towards the Heads, turn sharply and make for the cove. The constable was curious. There were no houses on the shores thereabouts, and the cliffs were so steep that they were difficult to climb. The only reason for the visit of the speed-boat could be that something had happened, making it necessary to beach her immediately.

The boat did not appear to be in difficulties. Completing the quarter-turn, the engines were shut off, and she came to rest on the edge of the sands. Two men got out. One held the boat afloat while the other waded ashore, disappearing from the constable’s view for some minutes.

Phelps acknowledged to some curiosity. The boat did not appear to be in distress. Had he seen signs of distress, he would have climbed down the cliffs, and offered what help he could give. The actions of the men were mysterious. The constable dropped to his hands and knees, and crawled to the edge of the cliff. The man was kneeling on the sands, at the foot of the cliff. The moon shadows covered him, and Phelps could only see that he was working earnestly–at something.

A quarter of an hour, and the man got to his feet, and went to the water’s edge. Another man came from the launch to the sands. The two men walked to the foot of the cliff and knelt down. Five minutes later they returned to the launch, and the little vessel backed out into the Cove. Very silently, the boat turned, and swept out into the harbour, travelling at incredible speed.

The boat swept out into the harbour, travelling at incredible speed.

For some minutes, Constable Phelps lay on the edge of the cliff, watching the disappearing boat. At length, satisfied that it was not likely to return, Phelps scrambled down the cliffs to the sands. He had a pocket torch with him, and by its light he was able to trace the footsteps of the men from the waters’ edge to the face of the cliff.

The sands had been disturbed and roughly swept into place again. A few minutes burrowing, and Phelps found his fingers grating on the rough surface of a wooden box. He bad some trouble in uncovering it, for the sand filtered into the hole almost as quickly as he pulled it out, but he persisted. At length, he uncovered the box. It was about four feet long, by two feet-wide, made of very thick, common wood. There was a rope handle at each end.

Phelps lugged the box to the surface. It was fastened by a heavy lock, covered by a close-fitting slide-plate. He tried to force the lock, but it was too strong. It was impossible to carry the box up the face of the cliff. Phelps decided to re-bury the box, and report his find at the police station.

Sergeant Miller pondered, deeply. There might be something in this matter. Almost he reproached himself for allowing the box to remain hidden during the time Constable Phelps had been off duty. He should have sent at once to Myella Cove, and found the box. He rose to his feet, and strode to the door.

“Constable Phelps.”

“Sergeant.”

“You can find that box again? Yes. Take Fellowes, and go over the cliffs tonight, and get that box.”

“Might do better from the sea,” suggested Phelps thoughtfully.

“Very well. Tell–”

The insistent ring of the telephone bell cut short the Sergeant’s words. He crossed to the instrument, and lifted the receiver.

“Headquarters, Criminal investigation Branch, speaking, Superintendent Hanson’s compliments to sergeant Miller. Will he be so good as to release a man to watch the Harbour from Middle Head this night, starting at midnight. Very important. Report immediately any sign of a long, narrow, high powered speed-launch, low in the water, half-decked, painted silver-grey, no mast, no funnel, driven electrically, or has a very competent silencer; said to be absolutely noiseless. Please repeat message.”

Mechanically, Miller repeated the words he had scribbled on the pad lying on the telephone desk. As he turned from the instrument, he faced Constable Phelps, his face ablaze with excitement.

“Sergeant. That boat–”

“Well?”

“That’s the description of the boat I saw in Myella Cove last night, or, rather, early this morning.”

“Certain?”

“Absolutely–I’d swear to her anywhere.”

“Which way was she heading when she left the Cove?”

“Up-river.”

“You’re certain you’d recognise her again?”

“Not a doubt of it.” Phelps spoke confidently.

“Then you’re for Middle Head.” A broad grin came to the Sergeant’s face. “We’ll defer the question of a title for your fairy story, Phelps. Seems like you’ve elected your own punishment. A night on Middle Head, looking for the ‘Phantom Launch,’ may make a complete cure. You heard what was said?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Then get to it–and if you don’t bring in that Phantom Launch I’ll send that damn fool report you wished on me to the Commissioner.”

CHAPTER II

CONSTABLE PHELPS climbed the long, rough path from Balmoral to Middle Head about half-past eleven that night. The long, silent watch over the waters of the harbour did not appeal to him, although, from what he had overheard of the message from Headquarters, there appeared to be a prospect of again seeing the mysterious speed-boat.

A walk along the rough track around the head, and Phelps looked about him for a place where he could make his long watch with some comfort. He found a narrow slab of rock forming a comfortable seat and which would prove a good couch, if he dared to trust himself to lie down. Here, he determined to establish his headquarters for the night. Directly before him rose the towering heights of the twin North and South Heads, guarding the entrance to the triple harbours.

Almost due south from where sat, outlined the inner South Head that, with middle head, forms the entrance to Port Jackson. Between those heads streamed the commerce of the State, almost continuously during the 24 hours of the day. Away north was shining the light of Grotto Point. Beyond that lay the queerly hand-shaped Middle Harbour, across the bottom of which stretched the long point of land known as The Spit.

Far to the north-east twinkled the lights of the pleasure town of Manly. About half-way, and almost hiding the town from Middle Head, jutted Dobroyd Point forming, with the North Head, the entrance to North Harbour. Due east, on the long slope of North Head, the buildings of the Quarantine Station showed indistinctly beneath the waning light of the three-quarter moon.

Phelps lighted a cigarette and sat down on the ledge of rock. A late ferry-boat was hurrying across the waters in the direction of Manly, its brightly-lit decks throwing quaint shadows over the silent waters. A few minutes later, another ferry slid into view, close in shore, its decks almost deserted. It was the last boat from Balmoral to Circular Quay. So close did it skirt the Head that the constable could have thrown a stone on its decks.

There were no signs of the Phantom Launch in the silent waters. If the boat came at all it would probably be at later hour of the night. Phelps did not feel at all certain that the boat would return to Myella Cove. The men on the launch had appeared to be satisfied with their work on the mysterious box. Had it not been for the message from Detective Headquarters, he would have raced round to the cove and dug up the box. It might possibly contain some clue to the Phantom Launch. Perhaps the next night, after–

Why had Superintendent Hanson requested Sergeant Miller to place a watch on Middle Harbour for the Phantom Launch? What did Headquarters know of the boat? He had made his report of the queer happenings at Myella Cove the previous night, but that report had remained in the hands of Sergeant Miller.

Detective Headquarters were interested in the Phantom Launch. For what reason? Were they interested in the box the men from the mystery boat had buried in the sands at Myella Cove? Phelps almost wished the Sergeant had forwarded his report to Phillip Street, instead of retaining it under the plea that it was exaggerated or untrue. The constable had some slight satisfaction that Sergeant Miller must now be feeling uncomfortable. The story of the entry of the Phantom Launch–the same boat Superintendent Hanson was seeking–into Myella Cove would certainly attract attention, and Miller would be asked to account for the delay.

“Duty or pleasure. Constable Phelps?” A quiet, grave voice spoke from behind the seated constable.

“Jove! Mr. Lister. You gave me quite a start.”

“Humph!” The newcomer, a tall, thin man, about 32 to 33 years of age, walked from the track to the ledge of rock and sat down beside the constable. “If I didn’t know better, I might believe you were suffering from a common complaint that requires solitude and moonlight as a palliative.”

“You know better, Mr. Lister.” Phelps laughed quietly.

“I’m guessing.” Sydney Lister drew from his pocket an evening paper. “I find Constable Phelps perched on a ledge of rock, gazing earnestly out towards the Heads. A few hours ago I read an intriguing paragraph in the Evening Moon. I may be mistaken, but I scent a connection.”

“A queer paragraph in the paper?” The constable swung round eagerly towards his companion. “What was it, Mr. Lister? I didn’t get a paper this evening.”

Lister managed, by the little light of the moon, to find two paragraphs on the front page and pointed them out to Phelps.

The constable produced his electric torch and threw a beam of light at the printing. He read the paragraphs twice; the second time slowly and thoughtfully.

MAN TAKEN FROM OVERSEAS BOAT

Captain Anstey, of the British mail-boat, which arrived at Sydney this morning, reports an uncommon incident on the voyage between Melbourne and Sydney. Three miles outside the heads, a fast motor-launch came alongside the mail boat, and hailed a passenger standing on the lower deck. A few sentences were exchanged and the passenger threw a suitcase down an the launch, following himself. The launch immediately darted away at an incredible speed.

The police are seeking information as to a long, narrow, high-powered speed-launch, no funnel nor mast, painted silver-grey, with absolutely silent engine.

“Not much of a description,” commented Phelps guardedly, returning the newspaper to Lister. “You’d have thought seamen could have provided a better one. If the launch was alongside the mail boat for any length of time, the officer on watch would surely read the name on the bows or stern.”

Lister did not reply. He was gazing out over the Harbour, towards the Heads. The constable waited, watching his companion curiously.

“Looking for the Phantom Launch, Mr. Lister?” Phelps asked the question with a slight laugh.

“So that is the name you have given it at the police station?” Lister turned towards the constable. “I guessed you were up here on watch for the strange launch, directly I saw you. Well, you’ll have your search for nothing, I’m afraid, constable. The launch is not likely to try that game on two succeeding nights, even if a mail boat was due tomorrow morning.”

“What do you know, Mr. Lister?” Phelps turned quickly.

“Know?” Lister’s lean face broke into a swift smile. “I know just what the newspaper states–and that Constable Phelps is watching at midnight on Middle Head. The two facts lie together, but I can’t make more than two of them. They’re independent units.”

“Walt a moment.” The constable sat thoughtful for a minute. “You’re a yachtsman Mr. Lister; do you know a boat in the Harbour, or the river, answering to that description?”

“Can’t say I do.” Lister stood beside the shelf of rock on which Phelps was seated. “Personally, I have no time for speed boats. They make too much commotion on the Harbour, They should be banished outside the Heads.”

“This boat is absolutely noiseless,” urged Phelps.

“Then what drives her?” Lister flashed the question back immediately. “There’s no silencer that can make an internal combustion engine nearly noiseless. Electricity might be the motive power, but I do not think there are accumulators that would give an electrically-driven boat any great radius.”

“I saw her last night,” Phelps answered. “I know you’ll say nothing, Mr. Lister. I saw her last night and I know she’s noiseless. There was not a sound.”

Very briefly, Phelps recounted his adventure with the Phantom Launch at Myella cove the previous evening. Lister sat thoughtful. When the constable described the wooden box he had dug from the sands, the man became alert.

“What did you do with the box, Phelps?”

“Buried it again. I was instructed to dig it up, and take it to the station, when orders for this watch on the Heads came through. Suppose I’ll go for it tomorrow.”

“Take my advice and leave it there.” Lister spoke carefully. “With that box under the sands at Myella Cove you have a lure for the Phantom Launch. Keep the box there, and keep someone watching it. Before long you will be able to catch the launch, and then the mystery of the box will be automatically solved. If you dig up that box, and the men on the launch go to Myella Cove, and do not find it, they will clear away, and you will have all your work to do over again.”

“There’s something in that.” Phelps mused for a moment. “I’ll have a talk to the Serg–”

“Let him forget it,” Lister interrupted. “Your report will be in the hands of the C.I.B. tomorrow morning, anyway, you will have to be approached before they can find the box. Perhaps you’ll have a chance to object to the removal of the box before further information regarding the Phantom Launch is obtained.”

“You think–”

“Which way did the Phantom Launch go after leaving Myella Cove?” interrupted Lister.

“Up-river.”

“You’re certain.”

“Yep. Absolutely certain. Why?”

“You saw the Phantom Launch after midnight–say between one and two o’clock. She ran into Myella Cove and then turned up river. That means she went through the city and up the Parramatta or Lane Cove River. Yet, a few hours later, she was outside the Heads, taking a passenger from the mail boat.”

“Looks strange,” muttered the constable, scratching his head.

“There’s something more than strange in it. Who was the passenger removed from the mail boat? Was he removed voluntarily or involuntarily? Where did the Phantom Launch land him, or is he still on board the boat? Did the boat come into the Harbour again, or did it seek shelter in some place along the coast?” Lister asked the questions half to himself.

“The Harbour’s rather unsafe for it, now,” commented Phelps, with a grin, “They’ve put up a defiance of the Customs, and, although the newspapers don’t say much, I’ll bet the Water Police are searching the waters of the Harbour at full pressure. No, Mr. Lister. She’s outside the Harbour and won’t come in again until the matter’s blown over.”

“No!” Lister was watching out towards the Heads, intently. “What do you make of that, Constable Phelps?”

On the moon-silvered waters between the high heads appeared a slight wave of foam, approaching at a terrific rate. The two men watched as it came rolling towards them. All they could distinguish was the cresting wave, breaking back in a shower of foam, yet ever rolling swiftly towards them. For some minutes it held directly towards Middle Head, then, suddenly, it swerved to the north and entered Middle Harbour.

The boat was travelling at a terrific pace, yet not a sound broke the silence of the night. It was as if it was a shadow–the ghostly vehicle of some uneasy spirit doomed to haunt the Harbour during the silent hours of night. Quickly it came, and passed.

“Gone up Middle Harbour.” There was a note of exultation in Phelps’ voice. “They’ve made their mistake there. Coming, Mr. Lister? I’m going back to Balmoral. In an hour the Spit Bridge will be closed, and the Phantom Launch bottled up.”

CHAPTER III

CONVINCED that the Phantom Launch had sought shelter in Middle Harbour, Constable Phelps hurried back to Balmoral to organise means to close the waters at the Spit. A little more than a mile up from the Harbour entrance a long finger of sand stretches from the west shore out into the waters, almost to the opposite shore. This finger of land is known as “The Spit,” and the continuing bridge passes the tram-lines from North Sydney to Manly.

The bridge, from the end of the Spit to the north-east shore forms almost a gate across Middle Harbour. The bridge is low, and only the smallest boats can pass beneath; the larger vessels requiring the spans of the bridge to be lifted. The Phantom Launch, however, could pass under the bridge without difficulty, for it had neither masts nor structure above the deck.

The Harbour contains numerous inlets, islets, coves, and creek mouths, providing a multitude of hiding-places for any small boat wishing to avoid attention. There is little settlement around the coast-line of the Harbour, and most of the waterways and islets are in a wild state.

Sydney Lister slowly followed the constable along the cliff paths, towards Balmoral. At the time he had pointed out the Phantom Launch to Phelps he had been possessed by the spirit of the chase. Now that had seen the mystery boat enter the natural trap of Middle Harbour, and the door closed upon her, he to look at the matter from a more sentimental angle.

So far as he was aware the crew of the Phantom Launch was only guilty of moving a passenger from a mail boat before pratique had been granted by the Customs and Health authorities. True, they had made a bad precedent; one to be discouraged by fine, and even imprisonment, but certainly not criminal. To the average person it was the ordinary game of wits played by many law-abiding citizens when they return to their native land after a foreign tour. Customs charges and regulations are fair game. There is an element of sport in defeating the well-trained officers–the “sin” element of the contest being in discovery.

When the facts of the abduction of thee passenger from the Arathusa became public property there would be a general laugh at the “slick” manner in which the Customs had been evaded. Almost certainly there would be imitators; the matter ending, probably, in Customs officers accompanying overseas ships while they were in Australian waters. The Customs would press for the discovery and capture of the Phantom Launch and her crew. The eyes of the continent would be turned towards Middle Harbour, while the Water Police searched the many miles of waterways. Public sympathy would be on the side of the hunted. and when the search ended in the inevitable discovery of the Phantom Launch, her crew would be elevated to the heroic.

Lister passed through the little town of Balmoral, and on the outskirts of the town, came to a small cottage, within a hundred yards of the northern end of the bay. It was nearly two years since he had first rented the place for the summer. The house had suited him, and with a few alterations he found the winter months comfortable in it. He had purchased the place, and was making it his home.

A well-known newspaper proprietor had described Sydney Lister as “a good newspaperman spoilt.” Asked to define his statement, he added:–“The fellow’s got too much money. A journalist in this country is only good when he’s dead broke and up against it.”

Lister passed into the cottage. A lamp was burning on the table in the front room, and beside it a tray holding glasses and a soda syphon. The spirit-cabinet had been moved from the miniature sideboard, and stood beside the tray. Over the back of a dilapidated lounge-chair hung his working coat. Lister dropped his hat on the table and slipped into the comfortable old coat. He mixed a drink, and carried it to the rear of the cottage.

The back door opened on to a sandy yard. From the back step a bricked path had been laid to a well-built shed, standing along the rear fence. Lister went to the shed and opened it with a key, hung on his watch-chain. The interior of the shed was fitted up somewhat similar to the wireless room of an ocean liner. A door on the right led to another room, in which stood a small, powerful oil engine and dynamo, carefully shielded to prevent interference.

Lister spent much of his time in this wireless room, sometimes remaining there the better part of the night. A great deal of the apparatus in the room was unique, built by himself, many of the instruments his own invention. Against the left wall stood an eight-valve receiving set, one of the most powerful In Australia. It had become a habit to spend the early hours of the morning by this set, idly travelling from length to length, and from power to power.

During the past three nights he had been puzzled by certain sounds that come over the air, to be caught on his delicate instruments. At first they had seemed to come from afar but now he believed they originated within a few miles from his room. They were not spoken words: merely a regular “tick tick,” like the workings of a watch, suspended close against a microphone. Another thing, they never came on the same wave-length. Since he had first heard them they had covered quite an appreciable number of lengths, often three or four the same night.

Sitting down at the eight valve receiver, Lister tuned-in to 37 metres, the wave length on which he had detected the “tick-tick” the previous night. There was no response, and he slowly tuned to a higher wave. At 56 metres, he caught the first “tick,” and commenced to amplify, until he had the sound filling the little room. They had no meaning; entirely regular, they went on for over halt an hour, with a monotonous regularity that bored.

Someone must be playing a joke. The tick of a watch on the air could only be a signal, unless the sender was altogether inconsequent. It might be possible to discover what the signals meant. Going into the machine-room, Lister started the engine. Hanging his watch before a very delicate microphone, Lister transmitted the sound a few metres higher than the strange ticking. He lowered the wave length gradually until the sound of his watch mingled with the strange “tick” on his receiver. All of a sudden the strange watch ceased to tick. Lister held the signal. For a space of twenty the strange “tick” came again.

The “tick” was certainly a signal. Lister waited a few minutes, and then placed the tick of his watch on the air at 70 meters. Still the “tick-tick” continued. Very slowly he tuned down to a lower wave-length. At 65 metres, the tick suddenly stopped. Lister held the length. For a space of twenty seconds nothing happened. He could hear the gentle “tap-tap” of his watch, swinging before the microphone. The strange “tick” had ceased. With a quiet motion, Lister switched off the transmitter. He rose from his seat, and crossed to the eight-valve set. His fingers were on the switch, when a low whisper crept through the room.

“Silver Swan! Silver Swan!” it was difficult to discover whether the speaker was a man or a woman, the whisper was so delicate.

There was an interval of silence. Again came the small, faint voice:–“Silver Swan! Silver Swan!”

The interval of silence recurred. Lister stood beside the receiver, undecided. Someone was calling, and he did not know how to answer.

Silver Swan! What meaning had the words? It might be a recognition code–the identification words of some experimenter. Around Sydney were scattered quite a number of experimental stations. At one time or another, Lister had been in communication with most of them. Sometimes one of them would put on the air a code word for identification, but mainly the owner of the station used his name.

“Silver Swan!” Lister’s mind leaped to the scene on the cliffs of Middle Harbour. Again he saw the wall of water driving through the outer Heads towards where Phelps and he stood. Again he saw the swirling waters swing to the left, and behind them the long, low shadow of the Phantom Launch. Surely, it might be said to resemble in some faint way a Silver Swan, homing in the late hours of the night.

Automatically he stepped to the transmitter, and switched on power. Again he threw on the air the slow “tick-tick” of his watch. Allowing an interval of exactly 20 seconds to pass, he switched off and listened. A long pause, and the words came again to him.

“Silver Swan! Silver Swan!”

Lister had recovered his watch from the microphone, and had placed it in his pocket. Again he threw in the power, first switching the microphone out of circuit. With hasty fingers he reduced amplification to normal, and switched in again.

“Silver Swan! Silver Swan!”

“Police guarding the Spit bridge. Silver Swan caught.”

What impulse caused him to couple “Silver Swan” with the Phantom Launch? Lister spoke without thought. He had deliberately conveyed to the unknown listener the fact that the police were aware of the identity of the Silver Swan with the boat they had seen rushing to its refuge in Middle Harbour.

For a long space there was silence. Lister thought he had frightened the speaker away. Again he switched on power and bent towards the microphone. He was about to call when the loud speaker came to life. It was the ticking of a watch. Lister sat back in his chair and counted the ticks. At the 56th tick the sounds stopped. An interval of silence.

“Thanks, stranger.” The voice was still the strange, low, sweet sound. It was followed by light, girlish laughter.

CHAPTER IV

FOR about half an hour Lister tried every device he could think of to attract the attention of the person who had called “Silver Swan,” but without success. At length he gave up the fruitless task, and went to bed. He was irritated, mainly with himself. This mysterious speed-boat, that Constable Phelps had named the Phantom Launch, and which had been called “Silver Swan” over the air, threatened to involve him in a maze of indefinite speculation. What business was it of his? It was for the Customs and health authorities, with their widespread organisations and the help of the police, to hunt down and capture the fugitive boat. It might be that, if the authorities came to him and asked his help–But that was fruitless theory. What help could he give them?

So far as he knew, he possessed one item of information the authorities had not yet obtained. He believed he had a definite link between the Phantom Launch and the Silver Swan. If that was so, then it should be possible to trace “Silver Swan.” More than probable the boat was registered with one of the numerous yacht or motor-boat clubs around Sydney waters. Possibly, during the hours of light, the Silver Swan posed as an innocent and moderately-speeded pleasure cruiser. Only after nightfall were the controls set to their limit, and the Silver Swan became the Phantom Launch, openly laughing at and defying authority.

As a responsible citizen of the State it might be his duty to inform the police of the voice on the air and the probable connection of the hunted Phantom Launch with the lawful Silver Swan. Lister felt he had that duty to perform. But, if he went to the police, would he be compelled to confess that some impulse had urged him to warn the crew of the speed-boat that the authorities were taking steps to bottle them up in Middle Harbour? Awkward questions would be asked; the register of wireless licenses would be combed; many quite innocent experimenters would be occasioned a deal of trouble; and only because some person had wanted to leave the mail boat before the ship’s arrival against the wharf.

Lister decided to keep his own counsel. He had only one clue of the many that undoubtedly littered the harbour. There was the wooden box in Myella Cove; certainly the boat itself, bottled up and certain of discovery. Yet the wireless puzzle persisted. He was casting back along the allotted wave lengths of Australian experimenters when he [?] own counsel.*

[* It seems that there are words missing in this paragraph. Unfortunately, the newspaper from which the text was taken is the only newspaper known to have published this serial. The story was not published in book form.]

HE awoke to find the sun high in the heavens, and the questions he had striven to put from him the previous night awaiting his consciousness. After breakfast he went to the wireless room and examined the instruments. They were as he had left them the previous night. He switched the power on to the transmitter, to find the air dead. The eight-valve was set for 56 metres and, without altering the length, Lister amplified to the limit. There were no sounds coming over the air.

On the wall hung a directory of allotted wave lengths. Lister ran his eyes down the list. Neither 56 metres nor 68 metres, the previous night’s set of his transmitter, were registered oh the list; his own personal allocation was the nearest. Lister made a record of the set of his instruments, and then turned his dials off the lengths. That night he would try again to get in touch with the mysterious voice over the air, or with the “Silver Swan.” Until he had succeeded or definitely failed, he would keep his own counsel.

Lister had an appointment in the city that morning. After lingering in the wireless room for some time, he took his hat and wandered down to the ferry wharf. At the bookstall he purchased the morning papers, and searched for some mention of the Phantom launch. One or two of the papers had made passing references to the passenger on the mail boat who had been taken off by the launch, but it was evident the police were concealing Constable Phelps’ watch on Middle Head and the entry of the Phantom Launch into Middle Harbour.

“Why the Daily Pictorial, my friend?” Lister swung round to face Tony Weston, the star reporter of the paper mentioned. “Surely our wireless expert has not deserted the many technical journals in favour of a general newspaper?”

“Hullo, Tony.” Lister shifted up the seat. Then be noticed that Weston was accompanied by a lady, and rose to his feet. “I beg your pardon.”

“My sister.” Weston spoke carelessly. “Ysobel. Let me introduce Mr. Sydney Lister, a lucky man with nothing to do but explore the vibrations of the air.”

Lister bowed to the tall, dark-eyed girl, and met her glance surveying him with some interest. He had seen Ysobel Weston about the small town, but had not connected her with his late journalistic comrade, Tony Weston.

He bowed with some confusion; there seemed to be more than the happening of a new acquaintance in her regard. Weston, unconsciously, covered him.

“What’s this about a Phantom Launch? Heard anything, Lister? There was a good scoop in the Moon last night. The Pictorial has a par., but not even mentioning the name of the passenger who got away from the liner.”

“What do you make of it, Tony?” Lister was interested. Weston was a recognised newspaper authority on mysteries.

“Some crook with a bit of cash who had no desire to run the gauntlet of the police on the wharves.”

“And the boat?”

“What do you mean?”

“High-powered, with incredible speed, yet absolutely noiseless engines?” Lister spoke as if quoting from some report.