“But then he’d have to let ’em go,” said Tom. “And that would blow the gaff. He’s shippin’ them up to the workin’s this afternoon with the rest of the bunch.”
“I bet there’ll be a holler raised, when old man Bolton doesn’t show up at home,” observed a voice far down the table. “That gang’s got influence and friends. Yer can’t cop a millionaire without runnin’ into trouble.”
“That’s where yer all wet, Zeppi,” called down Tom. “Bolton’s influence won’t count him nothin’ with the Martinengo boys; and his friends will think he’s dead. Went down with his son in the blow last night. There won’t be no comeback. The two of ’em will be dead soon. The workin’s ain’t no health resort.”
“I’ll say they’re not,” returned Zeppi. “Martinengo wouldn’t get me to stick ‘round that dump—double pay or no double pay.”
“Oh, yes, he would—and on the jump,” Tom contradicted. “You’re a new man, Zeppi. Y’ got a lot to learn, and the first thing is that the boss don’t ask—he orders—and so do I. Them what tries to make trouble is put on the spot. Get me?”
Tom turned to Bill. “Some o’ these boobs don’t know when they’s well off,” he remarked genially. “What do they call yer, young feller?”
“Bill,” said Bill. He finished the last bit of his food and poured himself another glass of lemonade.
“Well, Bill, if you hike back to the Pelican, that bo’sun will put you to swabbin’ decks or somethin’. I need you later and I’ll fix it up with him. You go into the bunk room and turn in with the rest of this crew. Gotta take yer rest now—the bunch o’ you’ll be up all night.”
Bill saw that he had no option but to obey, so when the men left the table he went with them. His plan had been to go to the jail, overpower Tony and release his father. They would then make for the harbor, take his amphibian or one of the others moored in the little bay and fly away. Now he realized that he must conform to circumstances as he found them. Nobody knew that he was not what Tom took him for, a deck hand on the yacht Pelican. If only Diego were not discovered, he would make another sortie in an hour or so, when the men were deep in their siesta.
No sound came from behind the closed door to the room where he had left the gunman, lying gagged and bound, as he trooped down the hall with the rest. The rear of the long corridor opened into a huge, airy apartment which ran the full width of the building. Screened windows opened on to verandas on three sides. The room looked like a hospital ward, with its long rows of cots. At the head of each bed was a wooden chest with a padlock for the owner’s belongings. A single sheet and a blanket were folded at the foot of the bed, under the pillow. Everything was neat, and evidently kept in the orderly arrangement of a military barracks. Framed signs on the four walls read, “Silence—No Talking.” Tom, though seemingly a genial soul, ruled with an iron hand.