CHAPTER X
THE SALVAGE SYNDICATE
"What's your little game, Cumberleigh?" demanded the major. "Hanged if I can see what you are driving at."
Lunch was over at Auldhaig Air Station. Most of the officers had drifted in twos and threes into the ante-room to seize the opportunity of enjoying a smoke before falling in on parade. The second-in-command and Captain Cumberleigh found themselves alone.
"I may be mistaken, sir," replied Cumberleigh, "but I'm not at all sure about that fellow Fennelburt."
"What d'ye mean, old thing? asked the major.
"It's a rotten business to explain," replied the captain. "I hope I don't do the fellow an injustice, but I believe he's a spy."
Major Sparrowhawk raised his eyebrows in a manner that indicated incredulous objection.
"Goodness gracious, Cumberleigh!" he exclaimed. "What are you driving at? The idea's preposterous. There are limits to the imagination, and I think you're exceeding them."
"I have reasons, sir,"
"Well, what are they?"
"You remember I asked him about Smithers and Tomlinson? I know for a fact that they were both at Sheerness a week ago."
"Yes, and Captain Fennelburt said he knew them."
"He did—but I deliberately gave him a totally wrong description of them. Smithers is fat, but he's short—about five six, I should think—and he certainly hasn't a mole under his eye. Tomlinson is fair, not dark, and I've never known him to touch a card either in the mess or out of it."
"There are some very queer cusses in the Service, I'll admit," remarked Major Sparrowhawk thoughtfully. "Getting a commission in war time isn't the same as in normal times. The chap may be pulling your leg, Cumberleigh. But why did you pal up to him and promise to take him to the theatre and all that?"
"Just to gain time, sir," answered Captain Cumberleigh. "I thought I'd ask your permission to telegraph to Sheerness Air Station. The inquiry could be worded discreetly, and if the reply's satisfactory there's no harm done. If it isn't, then we can take action."
"But what aroused your suspicions in the first instance?" asked the second-in-command.
Cumberleigh shrugged his shoulders.
"Just a little mannerism of his, sir," he replied. "I've never before tumbled across it on this side of the Rhine. Spent part of my far distant youth at Heidelburg, and one notices certain things. So I've practically put the fellow under arrest, only he doesn't know it. Young Jefferson'll take him fishing this afternoon, and in the meanwhile the wires can be getting busy."
"Bet you a double whisky you're wrong, Cumberleigh," offered Major Sparrowhawk.
"Done, sir," was the prompt reply.
Meanwhile Lieutenant Jefferson, assisted by a couple of air-mechanics, was getting his boat ready for the fishing expedition. One of the advantages of being in the Service in war time is that the uniformed owner of a private boat has a "pull" over his civilian confrère. The one can make use of his craft almost without restraint the other is hedged in by a formidable and galling array of restrictions that are none the less necessary for the well-being of the State.
The Pip-squeak, Jefferson's boat, was about fifteen feet in length and provided with a standing lug-sail and centre-board. Formerly she belonged to an Auldhaig waterman, who on being mobilised for the R.N.R. sold her for £3. Her new owner, who contrived to escape the irregular meshes of the Recruiting Officer's net, had palmed the Pip-squeak off on Jefferson for six times the amount he had paid, or, roughly, the same sum that the boat had cost to build twenty years ago.
The Pip-squeak was no chicken, nor did she lay claim to beauty. Bluff-bowed, and with an almost entire lack of sheer, she had one compensating quality: she was as stiff as a house.
At the edge of the jetty gathered most of the crew—Cumberleigh, Jefferson, a "second loot" named Pyecroft, and von Preussen.
"An' what are we waitin' for?" demanded Pyecroft, clapping his hands and stamping his feet. "When I go sailing I like to get on with it. What are we waitin' for?"
"Bait," replied Jefferson laconically.
"A sine quâ non for a fishing expedition," added the major, who, though not one of the party, had strolled down to the jetty ostensibly to see the start but in reality to observe "Captain Fennelburt" more closely. The seeds of suspicion are apt to shoot rapidly.
"Here's Blenkinson with the bait," announced Cumberleigh, as another khaki-clad individual, a first lieutenant, appeared carrying a rusty tin in one hand and a mud-covered spade in the other.
"Here are your precious rag-worms, Jeff," he remarked bitterly. "Next time you get me on that job I'll borrow your rubber boots. The mud's stiff with broken glass, and I've cut mine through—look."
To prove his words, Blenkinson adroitly balanced himself on one foot and kicked off a rubber boot. As the foot-gear fell upon the wooden staging of the jetty a quart of black sea-water poured out.
Jefferson sniffed judiciously at the tin.
"Fresh enough," he observed, "but, old son, pity you didn't devote your energies to the worms instead of wasting your time pulling bits of glass out of your boots. These won't last any time."
"No more will my boots, you slave-driving blighter," rejoined the worm-digger. "I'll swear I shifted a ton of mud without finding a single worm."
"Don't stop there arguing all the blessed afternoon!" exclaimed Cumberleigh. "If we can't fish we can sail. 'Once aboard the lugger,' my hearties."
The party embarked awkwardly after the fashion of men wearing breeches, puttees or leggings, and heavy boots. With the exception of Jefferson and von Preussen, they were raw amateurs in the art of sailing save on board a coastal airship. On those occasions they shone. In the present instance they did not.
The spy was on his best behaviour. Although he kept his eyes and ears open, he purposely avoided asking any questions relating to naval or military affairs at Auldhaig. Once, when Cumberleigh tried to "draw" him by pointing out the scene of the disaster to the Pompey, von Preussen adroitly changed the subject by a reference to the forthcoming performance of "The Maid of the Mountains."
For an hour or more the Pip-squeak made steady progress under a stiffish breeze. She was by no means a flyer, but on the other hand she sailed well with the wind broad on the beam. Beyond a few slaps of spray she proved herself a dry boat, so that the crew, with the exception of Jefferson, who was at the helm, were able to sit on the bottom boards and smoke to their heart's content.
"Get a move on, you lazy hogs!" exclaimed Jefferson. "We're close on the right spot. Down with the canvas! Blenkinson, stand by to let go the anchor."
With a splash the anchor was lowered to obtain a grip in ten fathoms of water. Riding head to wind and tide, the boat brought up, pitching sharply in the short crested waves.
As long as the supply of bait lasted, sport was good. So engrossed were the sportsmen that they failed to notice that the wind was rising, and with the turn of the tide the waves were growing decidedly vicious.
"Hadn't we better be getting a move on?" suddenly inquired Cumberleigh, as he realised that the motion was causing an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach. "Remember, some of us are going to the theatre to-night."
"What's the hurry, old bean?" inquired the enthusiastic boat-sailer, Jefferson. "If it comes to that, you can see the 'Mountains' from here, although there's no 'Maid'—not even a mermaid. But, I say, what's that?"
He pointed seawards. At about a mile distant was a long, low-lying black hull, apparently drifting broadside on to the waves.
"Boche submarine, perhaps," ventured the facetious Pyecroft. "She's coming to give us a tow back to Auldhaig. Did anyone remember to bring a Lewis gun in his trouser pocket?"
With the others, von Preussen looked in the direction of the mysterious craft. He had no pressing desire to renew acquaintance with one of His Imperial Majesty's unterseebooten, although the consequences would be far less awkward for him than it would be for his present companions. But a brief glance assured him on that point. The craft, whatever it might be, was certainly not a U-boat. No amount of camouflage could alter that.
"She's a derelict," exclaimed Jefferson. "Get up the anchor, you fellows. We'll run alongside and have a look at her."
Quickly the anchor was broken out and the sail hoisted. Cumberleigh, who had been silently keeping the derelict under observation, suddenly turned and thumped von Preussen on the shoulder.
"Fennelburt," he vociferated, "Providence has played into your hands! You came here to inspect X-barges. Lo and behold, one of them obligingly drifts down to greet you!"
"You're right, Cumberleigh," said Pyecroft. "It's one of those that left Auldhaig this morning. I saw them go out. That red-haired Scot chap—McIntosh, you know him—was in charge."
"Hanged if he is now, at any rate," added Jefferson. "An' the old thing is well down by the stern. I believe she's sinking."
It took ten minutes for the Pip-squeak to close with X-lighter No. 5. Running up into the wind on the lee side, Jefferson got way off the boat.
"How about it, you fellows?" he inquired. "Think it's safe to run alongside?"
"Might have a shot at it, old thing," replied Cumberleigh. "She hasn't altered her trim during the last five or ten minutes. I say, do we get salvage on a job like this, or is there some rotten regulation debarring underpaid officers from making a bit? What do you make of her, Fennelburt? You are a marine expert."
Von Preussen, who had been maintaining a discreet silence, ventured an opinion that it might be safe to board her provided the sailing-boat were kept alongside.
"Good enough," replied Cumberleigh. "You, Blenkinson and I will comprise the boarding-party; the others stand by in the boat. En avant, mes braves! Over the top you go, and the best of luck."
Fending off the Pip-squeak lest her planks should be stove in against the massive rubbing-strake of the lighter, the three men contrived to effect a safe transhipment. A brief examination revealed the fact that the derelict had been in collision and that she had been badly holed right aft. The engine-room was flooded, and only the iron bulkhead between it and the hold had kept the craft from foundering.
"Now what's to be done?" inquired Blenkinson. "We can't tow her in. That's a moral cert."
"No, but we can send for a tug," said Cumberleigh. "Jefferson can sail back to Auldhaig in about an hour even if he doesn't fall in with a tug or even an M.L. on the way."
"What about 'The Maid of the Mountains'?" asked Blenkinson.
"We'll cut the appointment," replied the captain, with a laugh. "Excuse—the exigencies of the Service."
"But," protested von Preussen, "the lighter might founder. We should be in an awkward predicament if she did, the boat having left us. I would suggest that we all go back in the Pip-squeak and report the matter."
"I agree," added Blenkinson. "After all's said and done, we don't stand a chance of getting anything out of the deal. And what matters if the old tub does sink? Her value is but a mere fleabite out of six millions a day."
But Captain Cumberleigh was made of sterner stuff. Once having set his hand to this maritime plough, he was loth to turn back.
"We'll stick it," he decided resolutely. "Jefferson will cruise around in case of an accident. If we find we are drifting on shore we can let go that anchor. I don't see there's much to get the wind up about."
"Cheers for the R.A.F. Salvage Syndicate," exclaimed Blenkinson, fired by his companion's enthusiasm, but von Preussen merely shrugged his shoulders. He hadn't risked the perils of the North Sea in order to protect the property of His Majesty the King of England.