OUT on the promenade deck, David Tholbin was standing with three men. Two bore uniforms of stewards. The other was a passenger aboard the ship.
Close by the door of Stateroom 7-D, Tholbin held up a warning hand. His sallow face paled as he heard a fusillade of muffled shots from the other side of the barrier.
For a moment, the young man seemed incapable of action. Then sharp words came from the men who crouched beside him. Nodding, Tholbin pressed a key into the lock and turned it. The door opened inward into a darkened room.
Tholbin’s companions surged eagerly forward. They shoved the young man ahead of them into the cabin.
They pounced upon a large trunk that stood in the nearest corner of the room.
Struggling, they jammed the big object through the doorway, scraping the edges of the woodwork. On deck, their burden seemed to lighten. With one accord, they staggered to the rail and pitched the trunk over the side!
The falling container splashed into the waters below. One man, standing by the rail, saw it shimmer as it bobbed upon the surface.
The strange action had been witnessed by only one person other than those who had accomplished it. A crouching man, coming from a passage door, was there to see. One of the false stewards spied him and uttered a sharp cry.
The others turned. With one accord, they bounded toward this unexpected witness, determined to stop him before he could escape.
Their attack was short-lived. Their adversary opened fire. Two of the attackers fell. The other dropped to the deck and returned the fire. The spurt of his revolver showed his position. Ruthlessly, the man at the passage door shot him dead.