The Tattooed Man [Howard Pease] (fb2) читать постранично, страница - 2

a window through which the bow of the S. S. Araby was just visible. Mr. Swickard's face, he noted, was in the shadow.

"So you are Neil Moran's brother," began the manager, as if he meant to be friendly, even though he had a sad and unpleasant duty to perform. "Where do you live?"

Tod gulped. "At Stockton, on the San Joaquin. I've been going to high school there—and working."

"Your brother, I suppose, helped you—financially?"

"Yes, sir. I never earned quite enough to keep me going, so every month Neil sent me something. He wanted me to get an education. He was going to help me through the university, too."

Mr. Swickard regarded him with apparent unconcern. "Well, that's too bad. You probably won't be able to go on with your schooling—now."

"You mean— Neil? Something's happened to Neil?" Tod's hands trembled; as he leaned forward his face grew pallid. "What is it, Mr. Swickard? Tell me—where is Neil?"

A smile, cold, indifferent, settled upon the man's thin lips. "I'm sure I don't know, my boy, or I'd tell you. In fact, I'd like to get these hands on him—the curl"

In his quick sense of relief, Tod scarcely noted the man's last word. "He's safe, then?" he cried.

Mr. Swickard did not answer. He met the boy's anxious, questioning glance with a gaze as sharp as steel. In those relentless eyes, Tod saw bitter animosity reflected. Bewildered, he rose and stepped back against the thin boards of the wall.

"What—what do you mean, Mr. Swickard?" he stammered, with dry lips.

"Neil Moran has absconded," the manager announced coolly. "That's what I mean—run off with the ship's money! Now I understand why he wanted more—to send his young brother to college."

Tod choked with astonishment and anger. "It's a lie!" he cried hotly. "It's a lie, I tell you! Neil would never do that. I know it!"

"Now, don't get excited, Moran," Mr. Swickard smoothly went on as he raised his hand to stroke his sleek black hair. "Sit down and let's talk it over. Of course, I realize that this must be a blow to you—so sudden, you know, and—unexpected."

Tod did not sit down. He stood outlined against a shipping guide upon the wall, his head held high, his eyes blazing scorn at his tormentor. "All right, Mr. Swickard. Go on!" he challenged. "Tell me about it. I'm listening."

The manager coughed slightly. "It hurts me deeply," he began in a suave voice, "to inform so youthful a person as yourself, Moran, of the guilt of a brother. Truth to tell, it was also a surprise to me. Neil Moran, as you know, was purser on our cargo carrier, the Panama, a much larger steamer than the one moored outside. The Panama sailed by way of the Canal for New York and Liverpool. I began to suspect your brother of crooked entries soon after. I cabled to England, but the ship had already departed. My agent there sent a wireless to the captain, explaining matters. Unfortunately, he failed to act and unwittingly allowed your brother to escape at the next port of call." Mr. Swickard paused and, taking a long cigar from his pocket, lighted it.

Tod, with fast-beating heart, watched the man puff slowly. "At what port, Mr. Swickard?" he asked in as calm a tone as he could muster.

"Bordeaux. His ship was bound for Mediterranean ports."

"Neil is in France, then?"

"I suppose so. We did not put the police upon his trail, though I believe now that we should have done so. He's only twenty-three or four, isn't he? Well, we thought perhaps he'd learned a lesson. You realize, of course, that he is finished as far as his future is concerned with ships out of San Francisco. Too bad—he was a bright young fellow, too."

Tod let the words sink in. Neil guilty of embezzlement? Never! Not if he knew him—and who knows a fellow better than a brother does! No, in spite of the unruffled voice and the glib story, Tod was not convinced. He decided, however, to say nothing of this just then.

"It's queer that Neil hasn't dropped me a line from France," Tod rejoined. "He always did at every port—a post card, at least."

A smile twisted the man's lips and eyebrows. "Don't you see?—he is ashamed. You may never hear from him—for a long time."

Something in the tone, something keen and cruel as a sword thrust, made Tod inwardly tremble. Was this a threat? A conviction? Whatever it was, it made the boy certain of one thing—Jasper Swickard knew more about Neil than he told.

"Well, my boy," continued the manager, "what are you going to do now?" He leaned forward, a questioning expression upon his dark, thin face.

"Oh, I don't know—really. Go back to Stockton, I guess."

"Yes, that's the best thing for you. Go back to your job and stick there. That's the only way to be successful. Only don't follow in your brother's footsteps—or you'll get into trouble."

Tod's face flamed. "I'll never believe that of him —never I... Good-day, Mr. Swickard. But I'm not going home. I'm going to find my brother —I'm going to find Neil."

CHAPTER II GRINNING DRAGONS

IN THE outer office, the girl looked up from her typewriter. "I want to talk with you," she whispered quickly. "Go straight across the wharf to the bunkers. Wait there!" Almost at once, she turned to her shorthand notes; the keys of her typewriter clicked in cadence.

Without a word, Tod passed out to the gray wharf where the fog pressed about him like the gloom about—his heart. Mr. Swickard's story, Neil's guilt—what did it mean? What was the mystery behind his brother's disappearance?

Safely screened behind the coal bunkers, he watched the little office, and presently he saw Jasper Swickard come out and drive off in an automobile. A few minutes later, the girl came hurrying toward him. Her eyes were starry with eagerness; her voice was breathless.

"I listened—I heard it all," she said defiantly. "Well, do you believe it?"

"No—no!"

"You're right, Tod. It's a lie—a lie!"

Tod looked keenly at her. With a sudden flood of thankfulness, he realized that here was a friend and an ally.

"Neil's alive, thank God," she went on; "of that I'm certain. But where he is, or how—"

"What's it all about?" the youth queried, bewildered.

"Listen, Tod, it's this company that's crooked—not Neil. I have no proof, but I know it! Ever since I came here to work, a year ago, I felt something was wrong."

Tod stared. "You mean the European-Pacific Steamship Company?"

"Yes. The name sounds big, doesn't it? It really is a flimsy little firm, though—and only a few years old. It had its birth during wartime. It has only two freighters: the Panama and the Araby. These men are crooks, I tell you; and what they've done to Neil " She paused and pressed her hands together till the knuckles showed white.

"If I could only find him!" Tod began. "I'll do anything, Miss—Miss—"

"Murray," she helped. "Sheila Murray."

"Anything, Miss Murray. What can I do?" He gazed about him helplessly. His last words to Mr. Swickard now seemed boyish indeed.

"There's Captain Ramsey," broke in the girl. "He's going into the office. I must run. Wait for me here."

Tod watched her till she entered the office, then he seated himself on an iron bollard near by to think things over. Strange! What did it all mean? Neil had sailed as purser on the Panama six months before. It was his second trip on that boat. He had visited Tod in Stockton and had seemed as gay, as care-free as always. Then this silence.

Tod raised his eyes. The Panama had berthed at this very dock. He rose and strolled forward, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his book beneath one arm. Another freighter lay at her moorings there now, with a dozen longshoremen at work loading her. A donkey engine screeched; a winch whirred; a great wooden arm came from the steamer and, picking up several boxes in a rope net, swung the cargo across the water and deposited it down the forward hatch.

Entranced for a moment, Tod watched the scene. Here was a steamer making ready for sea, her single funnel sending forth a thin spiral of black smoke to mingle with the leaden mist about her. She was filling her holds with mysterious cargo to be taken to some far port of the world—Hong Kong, perhaps, or Sydney—London or Constantinople. It was such a picture, as Neil had told him of, but never before had he been fortunate enough to see. He breathed with delight; a sense of rapture, surging through him, mounted to his brain.

On the ship's bow he made out the word: Araby. The freighter Araby of San Francisco! The name brought to his nostrils a breath of