“Dot dash dot dash,” said the wireless man. “See that smoke yonder? The Paladin. She’s asking the Caradoc if they’ve met ice. Bergs drifting now, you know.”
Drake glanced at the wall clock, then drifted toward the door.
It was eleven o’clock. It was Wednesday—five days since they had left port. This old ruin of a ship was traveling with speed.
The voice of the wireless man followed him.
“I’m Cray; come again,” he called. “This packet doesn’t run to rules.”
Drake turned. He seemed uneasy.
“If—” he began.
“If what?” Cray waited.
“If you hear something with that gadget about a man named Drake, the fewer know—the better. Get me?”
“Don’t slip me money.” Cray’s hand met his, thrust it back. “You’ll need all you got. A rum lot, on a rum ship.”