The Slickers by L. Ron Hubbard

Author:L. Ron Hubbard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Galaxy Press, L.L.C.
Published: 2014-06-18T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIVE

The Firebug

IT was two o’clock in the morning before the first rescue ship loomed up out of the haze beside the Cubana. Clark went to the rail and stared at the newcomer with seared eyes.

“What’s at the bottom of all this?” the second mate beside him asked wearily. “I don’t know who you are, but you seem to be in the know.”

“Not yet, I’m not,” said Clark. “Do you know Morecliff when you see him?”

“Sure, but I haven’t seen him for an hour. He’s a big shot in the oil game up north. Runs a line out of Venezuela—tankers. He lost one of his contracts, and he had to lay off a lot of his boats. He was pretty sore about it. I wonder why he took this ship.”

“And how about George Davis?” Clark pursued.

“Haven’t seen him for a while either. He’s kind of nutty. He’s on the board of this line. This loss will cost them plenty.”

“What about insurance?” asked Clark.

“Oh, there may be plenty of that.” The officer peered intently at the detective. “Say—you don’t think they tried to burn us for the insurance, do you? The line has been running in a hole for three years now. I’ll—”

He gripped the rail to steady himself. Clark caught him and kept him from falling. He dragged him up into the extreme bow and propped him up against a winch.

The wall of heat was like a savage advancing army. All the cabins were going now. The sea glowed as red as blood all about the blazing pyre.

Morecliff staggered up, stumbling, his face drawn with fear and exhaustion. Clark eased him to the deck and kneeled beside him. Then, certain that Morecliff would live, the Federal man crawled aft closer to the flames. His red-rimmed eyes peered everywhere for Davis.

Lying in the protection of a bitt, Clark found him. Gasping for breath, his bladelike face swollen and blistered, Davis looked up with dull eyes. There was something unnatural about the man’s attitude. His back looked stiff, as though braced against pain.

“A knife,” croaked Davis. “He got … me … with a knife. He …”

The man had fainted. Clark rolled him over. The hilt of a weapon protruded from between his shoulder blades. Clark pulled it out. Thrusting a handful of kapok taken from a torn lifebelt over the wound, he bound it as well as he could.

Then, suddenly, he felt his head swimming—and the deck was hot against his cheek. He could no longer find the strength to hold up his head. He realized that he had been running on sheer nerve for hours, and now that nerve was gone.

Twice he tried to stagger to the rail, where the rescue liner’s boats were dragging people from the water. But it was no use. He was too tired to go on—too tired to fight.…

“Cubana, ahoy!” a loud, bellowing voice rolled out across the water. “Coast Guard cutter 337! Stand by with lines! We’ll take you off!”

Robert W. Clark, of the US Secret Service, sat up.

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