Captain Shannon

It was some half-mile or so to the west of Southend pier that the little brown cutter referred to in my last chapter was lying, and, as I had seen no other boat up or down the river which in any way corresponded with the description of the boat I was looking for, I at once decided that before extending my researches in other directions round the coast I must satisfy myself that the craft in question was not the “Odd Trick.” In order to do so, and in order also that the person on board, whoever he might be, should not give me the slip, I told my man to anchor the steam launch off the pier-head, where steam launches are often to be seen lying. It did not take long to discover, by the aid of field-glasses, that there were two people on board the cutter, one of whom was evidently a paid hand and the other presumably his employer. That the latter in any way resembled the man for whom I was looking I could not—much as I should have liked to lay that flattering unction to my soul—find justification for thinking—at all events on the evidence of the field-glasses. And as I observed that he invariably went below if any other boat passed close to the cutter, it did not seem worth while to attract his attention, and perhaps arouse his suspicions, by attempting to come to close quarters in order to make a nearer inspection. The fact that he seemed anxious to keep out of sight was in itself curious, although no one who was not watching his movements very narrowly would have noticed it. Somewhat curious too was another circumstance which happened soon after our arrival. A small yacht, with three or four young men on board, dropped anchor about a hundred yards from the brown cutter. She had not been there long before I saw that the cutter was getting under way for a cruise; but that the cruise in question was taken chiefly as an excuse to change her quarters I had reason to suspect, for after sailing a little way out and circling once round a buoy, as if for the look of the thing, she sailed in again and brought up a quarter of a mile further west, at a spot where no other boat was lying.

To any one who had watched this manœuvre as closely as I did it must have seemed a little strange too that the boat was sailed entirely by the man who was evidently the paid skipper, his employer neither taking the tiller nor lending a hand with the sheets. As a rule a yachtsman who yachts for the love of the thing prefers to handle his boat himself, and would not give a “thank you” for a sail in which he plays the part of passenger. Probably I should not have noticed this trifling circumstance had I not learned from Gunnell that “Mr. Cross” was no sailor. I had from the first believed that Cross’s story about his picking up a friend at Sheerness who was to help him with the boat was a fabrication, and that he had in all probability run in to shore as soon as he was out of sight of Gunnell and had secured the services of one of the many watermen who are on the look-out for a job.

Anyhow the circumstances in connection with the brown cutter were sufficiently suspicious to warrant me in making sure that she was not the boat I was in search of, and I decided that a watch must be kept upon her not only by day but also by night. If Mullen were really on board, and had any intention of changing his quarters, the probability was that the flitting would be effected by night. I was ready to go bail for the cutter’s good conduct by day, but if an eye was to be kept upon her by night it was very necessary that I should have some one to share my watch. The two men who constituted my crew I knew nothing of personally, and was not inclined to take into my confidence, so I sent a letter to Grant, who was still on guard over the “Cuban Queen” at Canvey, asking him to come to Southend by the first train next morning and to meet me at the pier-head, whither I would row out to join him in the dinghy.

He turned up true to time, and, as we had the pier-head to ourselves, we sat down where we could not be seen by any one on board the cutter, while Grant related his experiences and I mine. His were soon told, for no “Mrs. Hughes” had come back to break the monotony of existence on the “Cuban Queen,” nor had anything occurred at Canvey which concerned the enterprise in which we were engaged. Then I told my story, after hearing which and my suspicions in regard to the cutter, Grant agreed with me that it was highly desirable an eye should be kept upon her at night as well as by day.

“I’ll tell you what I think will be a good plan,” he said. “I know a man who has a little boat down here which he isn’t using, and I’m sure I can arrange to get the loan of her for a week or two. Suppose I anchor her about as far away on the other side of the brown cutter as your steam launch is on this side. Then I can keep an eye upon the cutter at night, and if by any chance she tried to give us the slip, and made, as I expect she would, for the open sea, she’d have to run almost into your arms to do it. I should of course follow and hail you to give chase as I went by, when you could soon overtake her. If, on the other hand, she goes up the river, it’ll be as easy as driving a cow into a pen, for once in she’ll have us behind her like a cork in the neck of a bottle; and even if she gets a bit of a start at first, a sailing-boat would stand no chance in a race against steam. What do you think of it?”

I replied that I thought it capital, and after we had arranged a means of communication I got into the dinghy to row back to the steam launch, and Grant set off again for Southend to put his plan into effect.

The very next morning, as I was cooking a haddock for breakfast, one of my men put his head into the little cabin.

“Are you expecting any one from Southend, sir?” he said. “There’s a man coming out in the skiff, and I think he’s making for us. Seems in a hurry too.”

I stepped outside and looked in the direction indicated, and there, sure enough, was a rowing-boat coming along at a great pace, and apparently heading directly for the steam launch. As soon as the skiff was within hailing distance its occupant looked over his shoulder, relinquished a scull, and, arching his hand to windward over his mouth, hailed us lustily.

“Ahoy there! Are you the ‘Maybelle’?”

“‘Maybelle’ it is,” I bellowed, and, once more bending to his task, the fellow was alongside of us in half a minute.

“Mr. Max Rissler?” he inquired.

“Yes, my man, I’m Mr. Rissler. What is it?” I replied.

“A letter, sir. I was to be as quick as I could about it,” he said, handing me with his right hand a note which he had taken from the lining of his cap, and smearing his forehead with the back of his left hand, as if to hint that if he were damp outside he was dry within.

“Give him some beer,” I said to my skipper, as I opened the note.

It was in Grant’s writing, and was as follows:—

As luck would have it, I was already dressed, and in a blue-serge suit, which, if somewhat shabby, would be inconspicuous anywhere. I did at first think of changing my yachting shoes—which had tan uppers with gutta-percha soles—for black boots, but it occurred to me that the shoes would be extremely convenient for shadowing, and as the tan uppers made them look like the now common brown shoe, I decided to go as I was.

“Can you wait here while one of my men and I row ashore?” I said to the messenger, tossing my yachting cap into an open locker and putting on the customary hard felt. “He’ll be fresher than you are, and I don’t want to lose a minute.”

“Yes, sir; I’m in no hurry,” the man replied.

“All right. Here’s something for yourself. Jump in, Brown. You take one oar and I’ll take the other. Make for the beach, just below the Royal Hotel. The tide is running in fast, and I shall get there quicker by boat than if you landed me at the pier and I walked. Put your back into it, and I ought to be ashore well inside a quarter of an hour.”

Brown bent to with such will that, by means of our united efforts, I was at Going’s Oyster Bar within twenty minutes from receiving the message. Grant was sitting where he had a full view of the hotel opposite, but could not himself be seen from outside. He had his eyes upon the hotel when I entered, and, except for one quick glance at me, never took them off again, but motioned me with his hand to the chair beside him. No one was in the shop, so, without further ado, he began his story.

“I came ashore last evening to post a letter,” he said, “but kept an eye on the cutter all the same, and, as it was a fine evening, strolled up and down the Esplanade before going back to turn in for the night. By-and-bye I saw a boat coming off from cutter, two men in it, and making for shore. Waited to see where they were going to land, and then hid behind bathing machine to shadow ’em. A man got out—looked as if he had reddish hair and beard—and the other one took dinghy back to cutter. Man with red beard went to station. It was past eleven, and there’d be no up train, so I supposed he’d be going on to Shoebury by the last down train just about due, and decided to go with him. Down train came in, but he turned as if he’d just come by it, and went to Royal Hotel. He couldn’t know me, so I followed, bold as brass. Heard him ask for bed, and I did same. His room was opposite mine, and I saw him go in. I didn’t go to bed all night lest I should oversleep. Peeped out at six and saw his boots outside, so he was still there evidently. Dressed and came down—boots still outside. Wouldn’t wait for breakfast—came out—slipped in here—sent note to you—had breakfast—paid bill, but said would wait, as friend was to join me, and here I am. He hasn’t come out yet. Wonder if there’s any way out from hotel at back? Great Scott! there he is! Is that your man?”

I looked and saw a man, with reddish hair and beard, and a brown bag in his hand, leave the hotel and turn to the left in the direction of the station.

“Don’t know,” I said. “I can’t say I recognise him; but there is something—I don’t know what—about him that seems familiar. Anyhow, we’ll shadow him. He is going to the station, I expect, to catch the 10.12 up. I’ll hail that closed carriage passing by. You jump in and drive to station. You must get there before him. Book to town, and get in fore part of train. I’ll follow on behind him and get in back part. Wait in the train till he has passed your carriage at Fenchurch, and join me as I go by.”

Grant’s reply was to jump into the cab with the words “London and Tilbury railway. Fast as you can,” and I soon had the satisfaction of seeing him whirled past the man with the red beard, and disappear round the corner which led to the station.

“The man may go by the other line—the Great Eastern,” I said to myself as I followed at a respectful distance, “in which case I must do the same, and shan’t see Grant at the other end, which is awkward, as we haven’t arranged a meeting-place. But I hadn’t time to think of everything, and as the 10.12 will be starting directly it does look as if he was going by that. Ah! he has turned the Tilbury line corner, so it’s all right after all.”

I waited at the door a moment while the red-bearded man was taking his ticket. “Fenchurch—third single,” he said briskly. “Fenchurch—third single,” I repeated as soon as he had passed the barrier, and, hurrying after, was just in time to see him enter a third smoker in the centre of the train. I slipped quietly into a carriage in the rear, and in another couple of minutes we were puffing out of Southend.

Although the man I was shadowing had booked to Fenchurch Street, I thought it wise at every stoppage to keep an eye upon the passengers who left the train; and so we journeyed on, making calls at Westcliff, Leigh, Benfleet, Pitsea Laindon, East Horndon, Upminster and Hornchurch. At the last-named stopping-place a burly farmer, with a body like a bullock, leant half out of the window of my carriage to carry on a conversation with a friend upon the platform, and in doing so blocked my view completely.

“Will you allow me to get a paper, please?” I said, fuming with impatience at not being able to obtain a peep outside, although the train was already moving.

“So I tould ’im I’d give ’im five pun’ ten,” continued the yokel leisurely, but interpolating a surly “Yer can’t get one ’ere,” which he threw at me over his shoulder without turning his head or attempting to withdraw from the window; “I tould ’im I’d give ’im five pun’ ten”—this to the friend who was running along the platform beside the now quickly-moving train—“and he sez, sez he, ‘I’d rather give ’im to yer.’ Ha, ha, ha!”

In despair I thrust my head under his arm just in time to see the man with the red beard disappearing, brown bag and all, through the place where tickets were collected. To get out and follow him was impossible, for the yokel drew in his great shoulders almost at the same moment that I put my head out, and in so doing wedged me into the window like a plug in a cask, and by the time I could extricate myself the train had cleared the station and was spanking along toward London.