“No, I had another long session with him, but he swears he knows nothing about it and for once I am inclined to think he is telling the truth,” replied Mr. Pauling. “He insists that he never visited the place—never saw the chief and does not even know who he is—except that all spoke of him as of a supreme being or a king. His story is that only a few men—just enough to man the submarine—including the fellow who died, went to headquarters. That the others, including himself, were always put ashore at a small island in the West Indies where they had a camp and that they walked to the island from the submarine and from the shore to their under-sea craft in diving suits.”
“That’s a probable yarn,” assented Rawlins. “Did he tell you the name of the island?”
“He says he doesn’t know it himself, that there were a few natives there when he first arrived, but that under orders from their superiors they
murdered the blacks in cold blood.”
“Dirty swine, I’ll say!” exclaimed Rawlins. “Well, I know the West Indies a lot better than I know New York and if we can squeeze some sort of a description from old pig-eye I’ll wager I can locate that hangout. But now about that other business—those messages—have you got the notes you made of them, boys?”
“Sure,” replied Tom, “At least, Mr. Henderson has. We gave them all to him.”
“Well, we’ll need ’em if Mr. Pauling thinks my proposition all right,” said Rawlins. “I hadn’t got it quite settled as to details when I came in, but the capture of that sub—if she is the one—has cleared it all up.”
“I can tell you better what I think of any proposal you may have after I have heard it,” said Mr. Pauling.
“All right, here goes,” laughed Rawlins. “You see from what you told us about that dead fellow’s confession, I am pretty sure the big ‘I am’ of the bunch is hanging out somewhere in the West Indies. You said he was giving you the place and had mentioned three figures of latitude and
longitude when he kicked off. Now I don’t know what those figures are, but there are not such an everlasting lot of combinations of figures in the islands—that is, where a man could have a secret hangout—and I know ’em like a book—better than any book in fact—and if I had those figures I’ll bet I can locate the old Buckaroo. Not only that, but with my suits and the boys’ radio and my submarine chamber—the same as I use for taking under-sea pictures—we could get the loot and everything else if he’s got any of it under water.