“You know more’n you let on,” Cray laughed. “Thought I’d catch you. You know who Varnavosk was, owner of the Varnavosk necklace? You know why he’s dead—”
Drake rolled a cigaret with his usual clumsiness.
“What mobsman doesn’t know?” he asked. “Come, come, Cray. You know what sort we passengers are on this dirty little ship. Know Varnavosk and his necklace? Who does not, in my walk of life? What gang but has had their eyes on him and his jewels? And now, that a cleverer man than myself has pulled the trick—”
“So you’re a crook,” Cray jeered. “So—”
Drake smiled pleasantly.
“Did you think me a lily?” Drake was composed now. “Imagination’s a grand thing, Cray. Sometimes it leads men into trouble, though. You’ve been reading dime novels.”
Drake walked away. Cray watched him go aft along the boat deck and down the steep stairs.
“You’ll worry, my man,” growled Cray. “Now, what’s next. Liverpool swine is ruled out. That fool of a skipper—a child could see through him. He’s ripped that dub’s cabin to pieces. At this rate he’ll have the whole ship torn apart, every manjack on edge. Not one’ll get by him without him poking and prying. And he’s fool enough to make a bad break. So, we’re five days from port, and—”
He stared at that last message, which he had left incomplete. With a swift pencil he ended it.
All ships, westbound. Communicate with us if you have news. Proceed with caution.
—Scotland Yard