In a moment he was swarming towards the light above.
The three men were standing in the narrow limits of the ship’s cabin. It was small and unpretentious enough, but not without some refinement of decoration. The deck of the ship’s poop roofed the room, and, as is usual in such cases, the ceiling it made to the cabin was picked out in panels which were outlined in somewhat striking but sufficiently harmonious colours. It was the same with the walls, and the doors which opened out of the apartment. The fixed chairs against the centre table were of the usual ship’s mahogany, and the upholstery was well-worn leather. There was no other furnishing to the place except strips of somewhat decayed carpeting pinned securely to the deck.
But there was that set out on the table which held both the white men deeply preoccupied with its significance. It was a meal obviously arranged for only one man. And it was only half consumed. There was no confusion, no litter, no sign of hasty abandonment, except that the meal appeared to have been broken off in the middle of it.
The table was partly covered with a white cloth that had seen better and cleaner days. There was a dish containing some sort of hash that had become dried up. In front of what was obviously the captain’s seat at the head of the table, and which faced the alleyway entrance to the apartment, was a plate containing the remains of a portion of the hash. This, too, was dried up and shrivelled, and beside it lay a knife and fork which were both smeared as with use in consuming the food. Besides these, again, were the gnawed remains of some broken bread, and a drink that was clearly whisky and water.
Further along the table stood a dingy cruet. And beyond this again was an uncut fruit pie. The crust of this was almost gone, and that which remained was sour-looking and mildewed. This, too, had been obviously consumed by rats. And it was the same with the contents of a bread basket which stood beside it. Even the table-cloth itself had failed to escape the insatiable depredations of the rodents. But the signs were unmistakable. The meal had been interrupted. The man who had been devouring it had clearly been suddenly inspired to abandon it, and for some unguessed reason he had clearly failed to return.
McLagan raised a hand and pushed his cap back from his forehead. It was a gesture of perplexity.
“It looks tough,” he said slowly. “It looks like that feller didn’t take time to eat right for the darn hurry he was in. He was a plain liver, too, I’d say. But he surely was in an almighty hurry.”
Peter Loby nodded. Imagination in him was working hard, but the result was negative. He glanced up from the table and his eyes surveyed the walls with the doors which opened out into what were clearly the officer’s sleeping quarters. There were only three doors besides the entrance from the alleyway.
“It’s the kind of thing to leave you guessing,” he admitted. “We’ve looked right into it all from the fo’castle head to this cabin. But ther’s still those state-rooms yet. Maybe one of ’em’ll hand us the ship’s papers and the log. That ought to tell us the story of it. It’s most certainly queer.”