"Isn't it possible," she said, "that, knowing where the key was,
some one wished to get it, and so--" She indicated the tent and
Burns.
I knew then. How dull I had been, and stupid! The men caught her
meaning, too, and we tramped heavily forward, the girl and I leading.
The door into the captain's room was open, and the axe was gone from
the bunk. The key, with the cord that Burns had worn around his neck,
was in the door, the string torn and pulled as if it had been jerked
away from the unconscious man. Later on we verified this by finding,
on the back of Bums's neck an abraded line two inches or so in length.
It was a strong cord--the kind a sailor pins his faith to, and uses
indiscriminately to hold his trousers or his knife.
I ordered a rigid search of the deck, but the axe was gone. Nor was
it ever found. It had taken its bloody story many fathoms deep into
the old Atlantic, and hidden it, where many crimes have been hidden,
in the ooze and slime of the sea-bottom.
That day was memorable for more than the attack on Burns. It marked
a complete revolution in my idea of the earlier crimes, and of the
criminal.
Two things influenced my change of mental attitude. The attack on
Burns was one. I did not believe that Turner had strength enough to
fell so vigorous a man, even with the capstan bar which we found
lying near by. Nor could he have jerked and broken the amberline.
Mrs. Johns I eliminated for the same reason, of course. I could
imagine her getting the key by subtlety, wheedling the impressionable
young sailor into compliance. But force!
The second reason was the stronger.
Singleton, the mate, had become a tractable and almost amiable
prisoner. Like Turner, he was ugly only when he was drinking, and
there was not even enough liquor on the Ella to revive poor Burns.
He spent his days devising, with bits of wire, a ring puzzle that he
intended should make his fortune. And I believe he contrived,
finally, a clever enough bit of foolery. He was anxious to talk,
and complained bitterly of loneliness, using every excuse to hold
Tom, the cook, when he carried him his meals. He had asked for a
Bible, too, and read it now and then.
The morning of Bums's injury, I visited Singleton.
The new outrage, coming at a time when they were slowly recovering
confidence, had turned the men surly. The loss of the axe, the
handle of which I had told them would, under skillful eyes, reveal
the murderer as accurately as a photograph, was a serious blow.
Again arose the specter of the innocent suffering for the guilty.
They went doggedly about their work, and wherever they gathered
there was muttered talk of the white figure. There was grumbling,
too, over their lack of weapons for defense.