The After House - Page 72/108

"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.