Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 106 by Maxwel l Grant

Author:Maxwel,l Grant
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf

CHAPTER XII. DOOM DECREED

HOURS had passed when Curt Sturley awoke.

His first impression was that of engulfing blackness; of motion that tossed him relentlessly; of a roaring beat that surged and subsided, only to repeat its fury.

Curt realized suddenly that he was aboard the Nepenthe.

Night had not ended. The storm had increased. The yacht was in the grip of a fierce gale. Yet Curt realized that something—something apart from all this tumult, had awakened him.

It came again, a scratching sound. Curt recalled it, as if from a dream. The noise was at the door of the cabin.

Edging from the berth Curt found his coat. He pulled his automatic from the pocket. Creeping to the door he drew the bolt. He opened the door, ready to jab the pistol through the crack.

A man was crouched in the corridor. It was Trenge. The steward's face was pitiful. Curt opened the door wider.

“I must see you, sir!” whispered Trenge, hoarsely. “It's life or death, sir—”

“What's the trouble?” asked Curt, quickly.

“Come upstairs, sir,” returned the steward, “like you were going to the lounge. You'll find me there, sir—”

Curt nodded. Whatever Trenge's purpose, his fear was genuine. Curt motioned Trenge away and closed the door.

Donning his shoes and coat, Curt left the cabin. Trenge was gone from the corridor. Timing his passage to the roll of the yacht, Curt went toward the front stairway. He ascended and gained the cross passage.

He noted that the clock showed five minutes of four. The lounge was lighted but deserted.

Trenge popped into view from the stairway to the galley. Motioning, he pointed toward the deck.

“Outside, sir,” he whispered. “In front of the salon windows, Mr. Sturley. It's important.”

CURT followed the man. The roar of wind swept them as they reached the deck. Combers lashed across the rail and left the two men dripping. Clutching every available hold, Curt and Trenge arrived at a quieter spot, the space in front of the large salon, where the bridge above them, broke the sweep of the gale.

Trenge's face showed pale in the glow from the lighted lounge room. The steward clutched Curt's arm.

“It's much I 'ave to tell you, sir,” insisted Trenge. His cockney accent was coming through its gloss.

“You've got to 'elp me. It's life or death.”

“Let's have it.”

“There's trouble aboard this ship,” proceeded Trenge, “on account of the fiend that's with us. A murderer, the same that 'as done murder afore.”

“Levautour?”

Trenge's eyes popped at Curt's mention of the name. Gasping, the steward clutched Curt tight and nodded.

“You can 'elp me!” exclaimed Trenge. “I'd 'oped you knowed the trouble, sir!”

“Which man is Levautour?”

Trenge shook his head. He steadied.

“I can't say, sir. If I knew, I'd speak. Levautour may 'ave been aboard before; that, I can't say. There was a man lost overboard—Kit Dyson—but that means nothin'. Eddie Moroy was on this yacht once.

He was murdered after he'd shipped to New York.”

Curt nodded. Trenge continued.

“I'll make a clean breast, sir.” The steward's manner had changed. “I'm one of Levautour's men, like others that 'ave been long aboard this yacht.

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