THE HIGH SEAS MURDER CASE
A Gillian Hazeltine Courtroom Mystery
By
George F. Worts

A Dearstalker Classic – Selected and Introduced by Jean Marie Stine

A Renaissance E Books publication
ISBN 1-58873-130-8
All rights reserved
First published in book form in 1932 by White House Books.  Copyright 1932 by George F. Worts.  No record of copyright renewal.  
Published by arrangement with an agent for the author's estate.
This Edition and Special Contents Copyright 2002 by Jean Marie Stine
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.
For information contact:
Renaissance E Books
P. O. Box 494
Clemmons, NC 27012-0494
USA

Email comments@renebooks.com

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER I.  A LITTLE SPITFIRE
CHAPTER II.  WHITEWASHED SUSPECTS
CHAPTER III: CHALLENGE
CHAPTER IV: STUBBORN WITNESSES
CHAPTER V: CONSPIRACY?
CHAPTER VI: A GRUESOME DISCOVERY
CHAPTER VII: THE MYSTERIOUS TATTOO-MARK
CHAPTER VIII: ABOARD THE MYSTERY SHIP
CHAPTER IX: A BACK BAY SNOB
CHAPTER X: AN AMAZING COURT ROOM
CHAPTER XI: "OUR ONLY CHANCE"
CHAPTER XII: GORY TESTIMONY
CHAPTER XIII: A DANGEROUS WITNESS
CHAPTER XIV: MORE SPECTERS FROM THE PAST
CHAPTER XVI: STARTLING EVIDENCE

GEORGE F. WORTS: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

INTRODUCTION

As a young man, George F. Worts, author of the Gillian Hazeltine courtroom mysteries, shipped as the wireless (radio) operator on South Pacific passenger and cargo steamers during the golden days that preceded World War I.  This background was put to good use in many of his stories, particularly those about Peter the Brazen, a young wireless operator who finds himself embroiled in the political turmoil of 1920s Southeast Asia, and Singapore Sammy, an Irish schooner captain who sails the South Seas on a mission of vengeance.  Wort's extensive seafaring knowledge is also put to good use in his 1932 mystery novel, The High Seas Murder Case.
Here, as counsel for the defense, Hazeltine tries a case, not in his usual venue of Springfield, Illinois, but in Admiralty Court, for only the federal government has jurisdiction over acts of murder committed on the high seas.  In the case of this novel, two unspeakably heinous murders, for the captain and mate of the not-so-good ship, Jula Jungle, have both been beheaded with an ax.  
Playboy and black sheep Roger Pawling is the man accused.  Five eyewitnesses swear they saw him commit the murders – and Pawling had plenty of motive for killing both men.  The U.S. district attorney, the press, the Admiralty Court judges, the people, even Pawling's Boston blueblood family all believe he is guilty of the crime.
Only one person believes in his innocence – the murdered captain's fiery petrel of a daughter.  Intrigued, Gillian Hazeltine, the Silver Fox, agrees to represent Pawling and defend him in court.  But as the evidence against the young man mounts higher and higher, even the Silver Fox begins to doubt his client's innocence and wonders if his fabled courtroom trickery will be enough to save Roger Pawling from the gallows.
Before the case is over, George F. Worts will have showcased his own fabled literary trickery and seafaring expertise.  In The High Seas Murder Case, you'll learn about the great pirates of history, secret buccaneer tattoos, what happens when sailing ships are becalmed, the copra trade, Jazz-era rum and gun running, what old-time seafarers were like, how captains enforced their authority under sail, the location of the key cabins and holds on a schooner, and much, much more.  

Jean Marie Stine
7/23/02

Watch for the next Deerstalker Gillian Hazeltine release, and be sure to visit Mystery Sagas, our free on-line zine of classic detective stories, articles, interviews, movie stills, rare book and magazine covers, plus news of our forthcoming classic mysteries in e-book format.  URL: http://www.hometown.aol.com/pulplady/MYSTERYS.html/

CHAPTER I
A LITTLE SPITFIRE

GILLIAN HAZELTINE was standing in the window of his private office, looking down over rooftops at the Sangamo River, when the Jula Jungle hove into view.
It was a lazy sunny morning in spring – the kind of morning that makes a man think of packing a suitcase and starting forth for some distant and adventurous land.  And the Jula Jungle came sailing into his vision as if in answer to the vagabond thoughts in his mind.
She was a big black schooner.  Her sails were dirty and patched.  There were patches upon patches.  Her rigging looked slack.  Her air was frowzy and disreputable and not a little sinister.  There was something of an old weatherworn vulture about her.  She might well have been the last of the privateers.
There was a fresh breeze from off the sea, or the black schooner could never have negotiated the harbor.
The famous criminal lawyer knew nothing of the sea but any landman's eye could tell that this schooner was a cargo boat, not a yacht, and that she was making port after a long voyage.  If he could have known then that she had beat her way in with a cargo of mystery and terror and amazing surprises and a blood-chilling tale of horrible murders, he would have looked at the schooner with keener interest.
Gillian watched her dreamily until she passed from sight behind a wall of office buildings.  Then his brisk, pretty secretary came in with a sheaf of correspondence and an open notebook.  For the next hour he was busy dictating, and the slatternly old schooner passed from his mind.
Some minutes after his secretary had finished taking dictation and gone out, Gillian heard a commotion in the outer offices.  He heard a shrill voice raised in anger, and lower voices which protested and argued.  The voices rose and fell.  Then the shrill voice rose to a fine shriek; the lawyer's door burst open and a thin figure in a torn and shabby sailor's suit came flying in.
The intruder stood panting in the middle of Gillian's luxurious Bokhara rug, reminding him absurdly of a doe at bay.  Large brown eyes stared at him, half in fear, half in defiance.  Tangled brown hair full of red glints came down to the girl's shoulders.  Her color was mahogany.  She might have been a South Sea Islander.
Gillian sank back in his desk chair and looked her over with the greatest interest and an almost uncontrollable impulse to burst into laughter.  Portions of his startling visitor's bare skin were visible through rents and worn spots in the once white sailor's suit.  These portions were white.  Remnants of white tennis shoes were tied with pieces of string to her feet.  One toe of each foot was visible.
Before Gillian could complete his inspection, the door, which his amazing visitor had slammed on the way in, burst open again and Donald Carter, one of his clerks, came shouldering in, red of face and stammering with angry confusion.  A scratch on Mr. Carter's nose was bleeding.
With twinkling eyes Gillian looked from the girl to his big, broad-shouldered clerk.
"This – this creature," panted young Mr. Carter, "forced her way in here, Mr. Hazeltine, before we could s-stop her.  I tried to detain her, and–"
"If you lay those paws on me again," the girl announced in a low, husky, venomous voice, "I'll scratch your damned eyes out!  Pipe down!  I've come to see Gillian Hazeltine, and no white-collared office rat is going to stop me."  She whirled like a cat.
"Are you Gillian Hazeltine?"
"Yes."
"The one they call the Silver Fox?"
"My enemies sometimes call me that."
"You're the great criminal lawyer who buys judges and bribes juries and–"  
 "Mr. Hazeltine," interrupted his angry clerk, "shall I call a policeman?"
The telephone bell on Gillian's desk now added its silvery voice to the uproar.  The girl in the tattered sailor's suit edged over and made a short dash which brought her behind Gillian's chair.  From this refuge she glared at Mr. Carter.  The young man later swore that she then stuck out her tongue at him, but it is possible that he was exaggerating.
Gillian picked up the receiver and said hello.
An excited voice crackled in his ear:
"Gill?  This is Josh Hammersley.  Who's the wild woman who just hotfooted it up to your office?"
Josh Hammersley was a reporter on the Greenboro Times and one of Gillian's closest friends.
"We've only just begun to introduce ourselves," Gillian replied.  "You'll have to give me time to catch my breath,"
"I'll call you in a few minutes," said Josh.  "Unless I'm crazy, this is the hottest story that has broken in these parts in years.  That girl just came off a schooner that has put into port with a wild yarn of murder on the high seas.  The entire crew is under arrest.  Will you hold that girl until I get up there?"
"I can't promise anything," said the Silver Fox.
"Don't let any other reporters get at her, will you," Josh pleaded.
"I'll do my best," Gillian agreed, "but unless I'm mistaken, this situation is going to be difficult to control."
He hung up the receiver and gravely said, "Don, I think you can safely leave me with – where in the devil did she go?"
"She's behind your chair, making faces at me!"
"I am not!" the girl cried.  She stepped out from behind his chair.
"You can go, Don."
"Yes, sir."
"Stand outside the door and keep everybody out.  Tell the switchboard girl I'm not to be disturbed."
"Yes, sir."
When his clerk had gone, Gillian opened a golden humidor and extracted therefrom a plump blond cigar.  He carefully bit off one end of this and lighted the other.  Through rising clouds of fragrant blue smoke he gazed at the girl.  She had walked over to the middle of the Bokhara rug again, and now stood facing him with small brown fists planted on hips, small feet planted wide apart.  She reminded him of a musical comedy version of a pirate.
In the low, throaty voice which would soon be thrilling hundreds of spellbound people, the beautiful sea Arab was saying:
"My name is Carolina Dawn.  You knew my dad."
Gillian was wondering how old she was.  His first guess had been twelve his next, sixteen.  He revised his guess upward to twenty.
"Caleb Dawn," she said, "once saved your life off Martha's Vineyard when you were out sailing in a dory and got caught in a storm.  He ran up beside you and threw you a rope.  He towed you into port and saved your life.  You told him when you stepped ashore that you would be indebted to him as long as you lived – that any time he needed your help, he should call on you."
"I remember," Gillian nodded.  "And later I did my best to pay the debt.  Caleb Dawn was one of my first clients.  He killed an Italian fisherman and I defended him.  I got him off."
Carolina Dawn stood on his Bokhara rug with feet planted apart as if she were on a deck, bracing herself against the rolling and pitching.
He asked her to sit down.
"I'd rather do my talking standing up," she said.  "Let's settle this old murder case.  My dad killed that knife slinger in self-defense.  It was proved at the trial.  You got paid for defending him, didn't you?"
Gillian nodded.
"Then aren't you," she said triumphantly, "still under obligations to him for saving your life that time off Martha's Vineyard?"
The lawyer chuckled.  This girl was a fighter.
"Very well, Miss Dawn.  We'll grant that I am still under obligations to Caleb Dawn.  What can I do for him?"
"Nobody can do anything for him.  He's at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.  He was murdered Sunday night.  Someone with an ax sneaked down into the after cabin while we were all asleep and chopped off his head.  Then the murderer sneaked into the first mate's cabin and chopped off his head."
Gillian, in his astonishment, almost swallowed his cigar.
"Who," he managed to ask, "is the murderer "
"I don't know."
Gillian looked incredulous.  "You don't mean to say that on a boat as small as that, a man could kill two of his shipmates and not be discovered?"
"I mean just that.  I do not know who committed the murders."
"How many are there now in the crew?"
"Five."
Gillian shook his head.  "It simply isn't credible, Miss Dawn.  Was there any one else aboard?"
"A passenger."
"Man or woman?"
The girl drew a deep breath and said, "A man."
"That makes six and yourself from whom the murderer is to be selected?"
"Yes, sir."
"It's the most amazing story I ever heard.  Weren't any of the crew on watch when it happened?"
"Yes, sir; a man was at the wheel – the second mate, Hans Larssen."
"What did Larssen see?"
"He says–"  The girl stopped.  Her fists were clenched at her sides.  Her eyes had suddenly become narrow.  Larssen is a liar!"
"What does Larssen say?"
"That Roger Pawling did the killings!  But he's a liar!  Roger didn't!"
"Who is Roger Pawling?"
"The passenger.  He is interested in oceanography.  He wanted to make the trip on the Jula Jungle to experiment with deep-sea nets and grapples, to find out if a boat her size would be suitable for that kind of work.  His father is Chester Pawling, the Boston millionaire."
"Chester Pawling," Gillian informed her, "died three or four days ago.  The papers were full of it.  I remember distinctly the mention of a son who had run away to sea.  The son was the black sheep of the family.  In his will, his father cut off Roger Pawling with exactly one dollar."

CHAPTER II
WHITEWASHED SUSPECTS

CAROLINA DAWN'S fine dark eyes were blazing.  "I don't care a damn what the papers said.  Roger is not a black sheep.  His father didn't understand him.  He wanted Roger to be a bond salesman.  I know all about it.  Roger is the finest man I ever knew.  We're engaged to be married!"
"Where was Roger when these murders were committed?"
"Asleep in his cabin."
"Where was it located?"
"Across the dining saloon from mine, which is at the forward end of the cabin.  Roger's was between my dad's and First Mate Dirk Morton's, in a row along the aft end of the cabin."
"When did the murders take place – what time of day?"
"A little after two o'clock in the morning."
"That was Sunday night, you say."
"Monday morning, to be exact – two o'clock Monday morning."
"Four days ago," Gillian said, Where was the schooner bound?"
"For Halifax.  We were light – in ballast.  We were eight days out from New York when it happened.  We ran into head winds and calms."
"Let me see," Gillian suggested, "if I have this straight: At about two o'clock on Monday morning, Larssen was at the wheel.  You, your father, the first mate, and Roger Pawling were asleep in your respective cabins.  Presumably, the rest of the crew was in the fo'c's'le.  Some one with an ax crept into the after house and chopped off the heads of your father and the first mate.  Is that right?"
Miss Dawn looked down at her ragged shoes, then tossed her head.
"The crew say they weren't "in the fo'c's'le.  They say they saw Roger commit the murders.
Gillian spread open his hands with a gesture of hopelessness and finality.
"My dear girl, if these men saw Roger Pawling commit the murders, how can there be any doubt about it?  What can I possibly do?  What do you want me to do?"
"Prove that they are liars and that Roger is innocent!  It's a deliberate frame-up."
"It's always," Gillian said impatiently, "a frame-up.  I've met few murderers in my career who didn't swear they'd been framed."
"I haven't finished," Miss Dawn said grimly.  When those murders were committed, Roger was in his room.  After the killer was through with my dad and Dirk Morton, he tried to batter in my door, then he tried to smash down Roger's door.  He smeared blood all over both doors.  That's enough proof, Isn't it, that Roger is innocent?"
"Was your door locked?"
"And bolted.  You'll realize why when you've seen those jailbirds."
"How about Roger's door?"
"It was locked so that it wouldn't rattle."
The lawyer's cigar had gone out.  He lighted it.  His hand holding the match was shaking.  The more he heard of this case, the more astounding it became.
"Who do you think committed the murders?"
"I don't know.  Any man in the crew."
"Do all five claim that Roger committed the murder?"
She nodded.  "Whoever is guilty – one man or more – is being shielded by the rest.  They simply banded together against Roger to save the guilty one's neck – or necks.  They've had time to work up a convincing, airtight story, and they will convict Roger with their testimony if something drastic isn't done.
"That's why Roger and I brought the Jula Jungle in here.  I knew that if anyone could sift the truth out of all this, you could."
"It's beginning to look to me as if no man alive could sift the truth out of it," Gillian replied.  "Were you awake when the murders were committed?  Did you hear voices?"
"No, I didn't wake up until that ax came smashing against my door.  I thought that some one in the crew was trying to break into my room.  That's the kind they all are.  I was scared stiff.  I heard the ax smash against Roger's door, and I think I began to scream."
"Then you opened your door?"
"No, not then.  I was still scared and bewildered.  I didn't open my door until everything was quiet.  Then I peeked out.  The dining saloon – it's a huge room – was completely dark.  Just as I struck a match, some one else did.  It was Roger."
"Wait a minute.  Was there any blood on him?"
"No, sir.  He had a blue flannel bathrobe over his pajamas.  I saw his hands.  There was no blood on him anywhere.  I held up a match and saw a stream of blood flowing out from Dirk Morton's room.  That was my first intimation that there had been any killing.  I suppose I screamed again.  Then I saw a big splash of blood on the wall in my father's room."
"His door and the mate's were open?"
"Yes, both of them."
"What happened then?"
"I fainted.  When I came to, all the crew were in the dining saloon."
"Blood on any of them?"
"No.  Roger and I are sure of that.  And I'm sure that not more than three minutes elapsed from the time the ax smashed on my door until all of us were in that room.  The murderer would not have had time to clean up.  He might have worn gloves and a slicker.  Oh, we've thought of just about everything – and got nowhere."
"Did the crew immediately accuse Roger of the murders?"
"Yes.  They put him in irons and took him to the chain locker.  They had it all arranged beforehand – I'm sure of that.  But their only reason for doing it was that Roger had been having some trouble with my father and with Dirk Morton."
"What kind of trouble?"
"Quarrels.  Dad didn't like Roger at first because he was a landlubber, and he was always picking on Roger.  Roger took it as a joke at first until, one night when he was asleep, dad threw some of his deep sea nets overboard."
"What did Roger do about that?"
"He was awfully mad."
"Did he accuse your father?"
"No, but he suspected dad did it.  And father – well, when dad found out that Roger and I were in love, he just hit the ceiling."
"What about Dirk?"
"Dirk Morton was nothing but a big bully.  I was afraid of him and I hated him.  He was always pawing me and trying to kiss me.  Ever since I was a kid, he talked about marrying me.  And dad was all for it.  He thought Dirk was grand.  He thought I was joking when I said I loathed Dirk.  He didn't see how anybody could loathe a man as wonderful as Dirk.  Ugh!  He didn't know some of the things I knew about Dirk.
"Last winter, while the Jula Jungle was in dry dock in Brooklyn, Dirk met an old friend named Jake Harper, who used to sail with him.  Jake Harper had recently married – a big-eyed baby blonde.  Dirk and she flirted.  She must have fallen terribly hard for Dirk.  Anyway, she and Dirk ran off to Atlantic City for a weekend.  Jake Harper said he'd get Dirk some day; but Jake Harper was only one of a small army that had threatened to get Dirk 'some day,' and for good reason.
"I was beginning to think that all men were like Dirk when Roger came on board.  I hadn't had any experience with men who weren't sailors.  I was born at sea and I'd been at sea all my life.  Men were all right until I was about fifteen, then they began making love to me.  But Dirk was the worst.  It gave me the creeps to hear him tell me how much he loved me.  He wanted to marry me, quit sailing, go to Shanghai and start a saloon.
"Things were pretty awful when Roger came.  And the minute I laid eyes, on him I knew that all men weren't the same.  You may not believe in love at first sight, but I do.  I fell in love with Roger the minute I saw him!"
Gillian smiled.  What did Dirk Morton do about it?"
"The minute he found out that Roger and I loved each other, he began to insult Roger.  It got worse and worse, and they finally had a fistfight.  Dirk knocked Roger unconscious with a belaying pin.  When Roger came to, Dirk told him that he would beat him up worse if he hung around me."
"How did Roger take that?"
"He tried to beat Dirk up, but Dirk knocked him down again with the belaying pin.  Then Roger said he was going to kill him.  That's what the crew pounced on, after the murders, when they put Roger in irons and took him to the chain locker."
"A few minutes ago you said that you and Roger brought the Jula Jungle in here.  Now you've just said that Roger was in irons in the chain locker."
"Yes, Mr. Hazeltine.  When they took Roger away, I locked myself in my room and sat up the rest of the night with a, loaded automatic pistol that dad had given me.  I didn't come out until next noon.  They had buried my father and Morton – I mean in the ocean.  It was a very calm day, so calm that no one had to be at the wheel during lunch hour.  They were all in the dining saloon, discussing their plans.  As soon as a wind came, they were going to change the course.  They were going to Mexico and turn Roger over to the authorities there.  Heaven knows what was to become of me.
"When I went out, with the pistol in my hand, Wallaby, the steward – he's a nasty little cockney – was saying that they would get busy down in Mexico."
"What did he mean?"
"I don't know, Mr. Hazeltine.  My dad did not own the Jula Jungle; he only owned a three-eighths interest.  You see, a sailing ship hardly pays her way any more.  Dad owned a comfortable fortune in stocks and bonds, which are in a Brooklyn bank, but he didn't want to touch any of this, because it was for me.  So when ready cash was scarce, he often persuaded some of the crew to take their pay in small interests in the boat – a sixty-fourth at a time.
In this way, in time, Wallaby came to own a fourth and Larssen another fourth.  Dirk Morton owned the remaining eighth.  Together, Wallaby and Larssen owned a half interest.  With dad and Dirk both dead, Wallaby and Larssen really had a right to say what should be done with the boat.
"And Larssen, as acting captain, had right to order her anywhere he pleased.  That was how things stood when I went into the dining saloon with the pistol and told them all to throw up their hands."
Gillian grinned, but Carolina went grimly on: "They were five terribly surprised men.  I told them I would shoot any man who moved – and I would have, and they knew it.  It was my only chance to save Roger and myself and bring those jailbirds to justice.
"I made Larssen give me the keys to Roger's handcuffs.  Then I ran up the after stairs, locked the door, crawled over the cabin roof to the forward door, and locked that.  Before they could break out, I ran forward to the chain locker, and freed Roger.  We nailed heavy planks over the portholes and door of the cabin.  And from that time until we got into port this morning, one of us has slept outside the forward door with a gun ready while the other took the wheel.
"As soon as we made port, Roger gave himself up to the harbor police, and they broke in and arrested the crew.  And the crew is prepared to swear on a stack of Bibles a mile high that Roger is the murderer."
The lawyer sat back and gazed at the ragged, beautiful little sea Arab with frank admiration.  He was sure she was telling the truth as far as she knew it.
He asked: "Whom does Roger suspect?"
To his surprise, Carolina suddenly dropped into a chair, buried her brown little face in her hands, and began to cry.  She looked up presently with blurred eyes and said in a fierce small voice:
"Don't you suppose I realize that everything points to Roger?  That's why I came to you, isn't it?  Roger had plenty of provocation for killing my dad and Dirk.  That's what the crew says.  But they're wrong.  You've got to find who committed those murders!"
Gillian stood up.  He said gently: "My dear, do you realize that any crime committed at sea comes under the jurisdiction of an admiralty court?"
"I do!"
"And that I am not an admiralty lawyer?"
"I don't care!" she cried I'd rather have you to defend Roger than the best admiralty lawyer on earth.  Roger is innocent.  You are the cleverest criminal lawyer in America.  I have plenty of money.  I'll spend every penny of it, if necessary, to prove that Roger is innocent and to find the one who is guilty!"
The lawyer sighed.  "But you haven't the remotest idea who the guilty man is."
"You will find him," Carolina said confidently.
Gillian smiled.  "How?  What clues have you given me?"
"There were no clues."
"You must have overlooked them."
"Roger and I went over that boat from stem to stern."
Gillian frowned.  "The point that perplexes me most is that every man on board was accounted for within, say, five minutes of the time the murders were committed – and not a drop of blood on any of them.  Somehow, I can't take stock in your argument that the murderer may have worn gloves and a slicker.  The man who committed those murders was in too violent a mood to think of such details.  Let's suppose, for sake of argument, that no one in that room did commit those murders.  How about a stowaway?"
"We thought of that.  That's why we searched the ship.  There was not a sign of a stowaway."
The criminal lawyer groaned.  "My dear girl," he said, "do you realize just what you are asking me to undertake?"  He tapped on his desk with a forefinger.
"Three nights ago an unknown man with an ax slipped into your father's stateroom and chopped his head off, then into the mate's room and chopped his head off.  He left no clues.  He was not spotted or splashed with blood.  Was he a ghost?  Did he come out of the night and vanish again into the night?"
"One of the crew did it," the girl said firmly.
"You say yourself that Roger was the only man aboard with motives for those killings.  That's what the crew says.  That's what the Federal attorney will say.  He will certainly indict Roger.  I am not a miracle worker.  I am not even a detective.  How can you, as a reasonable girl, expect me to solve such a tangled mystery?"
Carolina sprang up.  Under the mahogany tan, she was pale.  Her smallness, her raggedness, made her pathetic.  Gillian was sorry for her.  He was always sorry for the sweethearts, the wives, the mothers, the sisters of murderers who came to him, begging him for help.
She took one of his hands and squeezed it, and Gillian was astonished at the strength of her small hands.  Her eyes looking up at him were as trustful as a child's.
"If I hadn't known that you could save Roger and find the guilty man, do you suppose I would have held up those men and brought that schooner up this river?  You're my only chance!  You've got to take this case!"
The telephone began to ring.

CHAPTER III
CHALLENGE

GILLIAN picked up the receiver.  The switchboard operator in the outer office began talking rapidly.
"Mrs. Hazeltine is here and says she has a luncheon appointment with you and wants to know if she shall come in or wait.  There have been a dozen calls in the past few minutes from newspaper offices; wanting to know about some murders on a schooner, and there are reporters and photographers sitting around like a flock of hawks in the waiting room.  Mr. Carter told me you weren't to be disturbed.  The district attorney's office is on the wire now; it's Mr. Yistle himself.  I told him you had left orders not to be disturbed, but he insists on talking to you."
Gillian struck a match and relighted his cigar.  The day was threatening to be a busy one.  He said:
"Have Mrs. Hazeltine come right in.  Tell the reporters that I can't see them this morning, but will give out an interview as soon as I have talked to Mr. Pawling.  I'll take Mr. Yistle's call.  Put him on."
The line clicked and a harsh bass voice came on the wire.  Little love had ever been lost between Gillian Hazeltine and Adelbert Yistle.  Many lawyers who fight one another in the courtroom are the best of friends outside of it, but this rule did not apply to Gillian and Mr. Yistle.  For years they had been the best of enemies.
"Gillian," Mr. Yistle began, "I understand you've been retained to defend the man who murdered the captain and the first mate of this black schooner that just came up the river.  What's in this rumor?"
"I'd like to know, myself," Gillian answered.  "Who started it?"
"The murderer himself!"
"Does he say I'm defending him"?
"He does!"
Gillian sent a thoughtful glance in the direction of the girl in the tattered sailor suit.  Her brown eyes were brightly upon him.
"As a matter of fact," Gillian said pleasantly into the transmitter, "I can't see, Bert, how this affects you.  The case won't go through the State courts.  It's a Federal issue."
"I am aware of that," said the district attorney.  "And it happens that Sherman Fowler, the United States district attorney, has had a nervous breakdown and has requested me to represent him.  I have just finished interviewing the five surviving members of the Jula Jungle's crew, and I am firmly convinced that Roger Pawling is guilty of these murders.  I would not have touched the case if I hadn't learned that you are to defend him.  I consider it my duty to see that that blackguard does not escape justice through any foxiness of yours."
Mr. Yistle loved the word "blackguard."  He had often called Gillian a blackguard.  Indeed, almost any one who did not agree with Mr. Yistle's views was apt to be added to his list of blackguards.
"I," said Gillian, "am so convinced that Roger Pawling is innocent of these crimes that I consider it my duty to apprehend the real murderer!"
Mr. Yistle's answer to that came sizzling:
"I knew it!  You're up to your old tricks!  You won't let a chance pass by for personal publicity!  That girl is in your office now.  You're not thinking of justice!  You're thinking of the fun you'll have in spreading her face over the tabloids!  You can't resist an opportunity to be a Barnum.  I'm telling you, Gillian, that your showmanship won't get you far in a Federal court!"
Gillian chuckled.  "Why not?  Won't the case go before a jury?  When didn't good showmanship impress a jury, State or Federal?"
The ill-tempered man at the other end uttered a snort of anger.
"It's a rotten shame that a man with your instincts is permitted to practice before the bar!" he declared.  "It isn't a case with you of justice.  It's how much notoriety you can grab!  That's all you are – a headline grabber – a publicity hog!  All right!  I've warned you.  Go on and put your head into the noose!  Put Roger Pawling's head into the noose!  He's going to swing – and I'm going to attend the hanging."
The line clicked upon emptiness.  Gillian was not smiling when he replaced the receiver.  Perhaps Mr. Yistle was right.  Perhaps Roger Pawling was guilty.  Perhaps he would hang.  Gillian didn't know.  He believed that the younger man was innocent only because he believed that Carolina Dawn had told him the truth.  He was acting, as usual, upon emotion.  He was so sorry for this pair of unlucky lovers that he wanted to do what little he could for them.
The door opened quickly and Gillian's lovely redheaded wife came in.  After five years of marriage, Gillian was still sure that he had married the world's finest, most beautiful woman.
Vee Hazetine's eyes were almost as green as a Ceylon emerald, and they always seemed to shimmer with an inner, secret amusement.
She came around the desk, pecked her famous husband on the mouth, gave his shoulder a little hug and said:
"Darling, am I intruding?"
And Gillian fondly answered, "My dear, your entrance was timed to a split second.  We need your expert help.  This young lady is Carolina Dawn."
Briefly, Gillian told Vee about the mystery of the Jula Jungle.  Concluding, he said: "This romantic tragedy of the high seas has provided me with a tough job.  I've taken the job because I am convinced that Carolina is a straight shooter.  It goes without saying that in the next few days she will be as popular with newspapermen as catnip is with cats.  Obviously, she cannot wander about the streets of this city in that costume.  Where is she to stay?  How is she to secure clothing without being subjected to embarrassment?"
Vee had been watching him.  Now she glanced quickly at the subject of their discussion.  Carolina Dawn, for the first time since she had entered the office, smiled.  It was an illuminating smile.  Her perfect white teeth against the mahogany tan were startling.  She was no longer a little sea Arab; she was a hopeful and trusting girl.
"My suggestion," Vee said promptly, "is that Carolina be our guest.  I have a bridge tea on for this afternoon.  I'll cancel it.  My roadster is downstairs.  Why can't we slip out of this office the back way, go downstairs in the freight elevator, and escape the reporters?  We'll go home.  I will telephone various shops for dresses, shoes, hats – everything she needs.  When you're ready for her to meet the cameramen, she'll be prepared.  Is that what you had in mind?"
"Exactly," Gillian said.
"Of course," Vee went on, "Miss Dawn will wear mourning.  And you'll want her to wear mourning throughout the trial."
Gillian nodded.  "I'll leave all details to you."
He pressed one of a row of ivory buttons at the back of his desk.  The door opened and Donald Carter came in.  The young law clerk glared at Carolina Dawn, and she smiled scornfully at him.
Gillian said: "Don, I want you to escort Mrs. Hazeltine and Miss Dawn out the back way to the service elevator and down to Mrs. Hazeltine's roadster.  Miss Dawn is anxious to avoid newspaper photographers.  If any photographer tries to force his attentions on her, you have my authorization to wallop him in the jaw."
The law clerk and the two girls were leaving.  Gillian's telephone began to ring.  Gillian picked up the receiver and the switchboard girl said:
"Mr. Hazeltine, Sergeant Dan Murphy of the homicide squad is on the wire.  I told him you had left orders not to be disturbed, but he says the matter is urgent."
"I'll talk to Dan," the lawyer said.  And when the familiar wheezy voice of the old detective came on the wire:
"Good morning, Dan; how's your arthritis?"
"Mr. Hazeltine," the detective wheezed, "I've been so busy that I've clear forgot I ever had a symptom.  I'm phonin' from the Fourth Precinct station house.  Is it true you are after defendin' this boy who was a passenger on board that ould hulk that came sailin' up the river a bit ago?"
"Yes, Dan.  Have you got him there?"
"I've got every ill-begotten rascal on board the ould hulk here, Mr. Hazeltine.  Never in my long life have I clapped eyes on such a pack of cutthroats.  When the call came in, I went right down with the wagon.  They swear by all that's holy that the boy is the murderer, so I let them lodge their charge against him, then I clapped them in cells on a suspicion charge.  And such yellin' and hollerin' as has been goin' on since would make a mule stone deef, Mr. Hazeltine.
"Now Mr. Yistle is here, raisin' the roof because I locked 'em up.  He says it is a conspiracy on your part to blacken their lily-white characters as witnesses.  I says, 'Well, are they material witnesses, or ain't they?'  And he said it made entirely no difference what they were.  They are his witnesses, he says, and he is gettin' bail bonds for all of them.  He'll have them out of here in two hours, unless you act quick.  You tell me what to do and I will do it."
"Change the charge against them," Gillian answered, "and hold them as material witnesses.  Have you put a guard aboard the schooner"'
"Yes, sir.  The minute we got the call from the waterfront I sent down a detail.  They went right aboard, and they're there now."
"I'd appreciate it, Dan, if that boat was kept closely guarded.  I don't want what clues there may be spoiled by a mob of curiosity-seekers and souvenir collectors.  I'll see you as soon as I've taken a look at the Jula Jungle.  How does it all size up from your point of view, Dan?"
"It looks like that boy did it, all right, Mr. Hazeltine.  All but one of these five pirates claim they were eyewitnesses to both murders."

CHAPTER IV
STUBBORN WITNESSES

THE dingy black schooner, soon to be made notorious by the press of a nation, was anchored in midstream when Gillian reached the waterfront.  Small boats of all descriptions dotted the water about her, and the docks adjacent were crowded with people.
Gillian secured the services of a boy with a punt, who sculled him out to the anchorage.  A half dozen uniformed policemen strolled about the Jula Jungle's deck, keeping sightseers at a distance.  The officers, recognizing Gillian, permitted him to board.  And for the next hour Gillian prowled about the old schooner; inspected it from stem to stern.  He expected to find no clues; he wanted merely to familiarize himself with the scene of those two gruesome murders.
He examined each of the rooms in the after house; found black stains which might or might not have been bloodstains.
There were two stairways into the after house, one from the large after deck where the wheel was, and one from the starboard side, forward.
In his quick but careful search of the Jula Jungle, Gillian found but two items of interest, although by no stretch of the imagination could they be called clues.  The door of Roger Pawling's stateroom was missing, and the rowboat which had hung between the davits on the after deck was missing.  The ropes had recently been slashed.
Satisfied that he was sufficiently familiar with the murder settings to discuss them, Gillian returned to shore and took a taxicab to the Fourth Precinct station house.  A mob of reporters met him.
They came plunging down the steps at him, surrounded him.  Gillian was popular with newspapermen.  He not only knew news values, but he was an artist at creating news.  Of a dull trial he had often made a national sensation.  As Mr. Yistle said so bitterly, Gillian was a great showman.
This morning the newspapermen threatened to tear the clothes off his back.  The story of the Jula Jungle was "hot."  It would strike front pages all over the country like an exploding bomb.  It was fantastic.  It was full of human interest and love interest and it fairly scintillated with dramatic highlights.
They began shooting questions at him:
"Is it true you are taking Roger Pawling's case?"
"Is it true Pawling and the Dawn girl are engaged to be married?"
"Where is she?"
"What's the reason for the hold-out?"
"Who killed them if Pawling didn't?"
Gillian shot answers as fast as the questions came.  He was noncommittal; it was still too early in the game to talk.  But he managed to stress the love affair.  He wanted the public to be sympathetic rather than antipathetic toward the two lovers.
"Can you imagine how the poor child feels – her father brutally murdered, and the man she loves, viciously accused of the deed?"
"Do you know who the murderer is?"
Gillian looked mysterious.  He wouldn't answer that one.
When the reporters would let him go, he went on into the jail.
Dan Murphy was waiting for him in his office, a silvery-haired Irishman with keen blue eyes and a fighter's jaw.  He looked glum.
"I changed the charge," he told Gillian.  "And when Yistle learned about it, he hit the roof.  Hear them lousy pirates?"
Gillian heard them.  Back in the jail, shouts, yells and roars were making a lively tumult.
"Pirates," Dan growled.  "They're yellin' blue murder because I clapped the boilin' of them into cells.  'Ye can't clap innocent men behind bars,' says they.  'Oh, I can't, can't I?' says I.  I took enough dirks off of them to start a hardware store.  But I can't stop their yellin'.  I've threatened to put them on bread and water, and I've threatened them with the steam hose.  Yistle will have 'em out of here in another hour, Mr. Hazeltine.  If you want them on the carpet, you had better work fast."
"Have you a list of their names?"
"Yes, sir.  Right here."
Dan had the names of the Julia Jungle's crew on a sheet of paper, which he gave to Gillian.  Gillian scanned the list with interest:

Hans Larssen, mate.
Pete Wallaby, steward.
Ben Carney (black), cook.
Lester Slick, deck hand.
Pierre Lohac, deck hand.

"I'll use this office," said Gillian.  Send them in to me one at a time."  
"You want the bhoy first?"
"No, Dan; last."
"Yes, sir."
Gillian seated himself at Dan's scarred old oak desk, jammed a cigar into his teeth, lighted it, drew a pad of paper before him, picked up a pencil.
The door opened and Dan's wheezy voice roared: "One more crack out of ye, and you git busted in the jaw."
A man lurched in who could only be described as a human gorilla.  Below the medium stature, with massive shoulders and long arms, the resemblance he bore that savage beast was startling.  His forehead was low.  His eyes were small, beady and close-set.  His thick lips were cracked and drawn back from tobacco-stained fangs.  His clothes were in tatters.
With his hairy paws carried in half-fists, he came rolling toward the desk.  He hitched up his ragged pants, rolled his quid to the other check, and snarled:
"Well, who the devil are you?"
Gillian's steel-blue eyes narrowed and his teeth clicked.  Then he smiled.
"Supposing," he said crisply, "we put it the other way around.  Who the devil are you?"
"Lester Slick – and what's it to you?"
"The pleasure is mutual," said Gillian.  "What's your nationality?"
"United States citizen."
Gillian, glancing at the list of names, saw that Mr. Slick was down as a deck hand.
"Were you ever arrested on a criminal charge?"
Lester Slick hesitated, then snarled, Not me, mister!"
"Let's see your papers."
The gorilla reluctantly obliged.  Gillian examined the papers and jotted down notes on the pad.  Handing Mr. Slick's papers back, Gillian shot out: "Who killed the skipper and the mate?"
The beady eyes shifted a little from Gillian's, then returned.  Hoarsely: "Roger Pawling."
"Did you see the murders?"
The gorilla spat into the cuspidor by the desk, hitched up his tattered pants and said: "What I know, I know.  What I saw, I saw.  When the trial starts, I talk – and not five minutes sooner."
Slick placed one hairy paw on the desk and looked down at Gillian with a leer.
"I know who you are.  You're Gillian Hazeltine.  You're the guy they call the Silver Fox.  Go ahead and fox me!  Pawling has hired you to get him off.  Try and do it!  That guy is sewed up in a sack."
"Supposing," Gillian said, "that we found out that Roger Pawling is innocent.  How would you like to have those murders pinned on you?"
The gorilla stared at him a moment, and his leathery skin turned, yellowish.  Then he recovered his composure.
"Blah!" was his comment, "Try and do it.  Try and pin it on me!"
"You may have heard," Gillian said, "that I am rough on liars."
"Oh, yeah?" jeered Mr. Slick.
"Yeah," said Gillian.  "I'm just warning you.  Don't lie on that witness stand."
"Listen," said the gorilla.  "I'm so scared I'm shakin' all over like a plate o' jelly!"
Gillian called Dan Murphy and said, "Dan, put this rat back in his cell and bring me another one."
The next member of the crew to appear was a tall, blond, blue-eyed Swede.  He was Hans Larssen, the second mate.  He spoke willingly but cautiously, and he did not once remove his mild blue eyes from Gillian's face.  Gillian paid particular attention to his hands.  They were powerful hands.
Hans Larssen said that he had taken command, as senior officer, immediately after the murders.
"Let me see your papers."
Larssen surrendered them.  He proved to be a naturalized United States citizen.  Gillian jotted down notes and asked carelessly, "Where were you, Larssen, when the murders took place?"
"At the wheel."
"From where you were standing, then, you could have looked down through the portholes in the after house into the captain's room and the mate's room."
"Yes, sir."
"If there had been a light burning in either of those cabins, you could have been an eyewitness to one or both murders."
"Yes, sir."
"Well – were you?"
"I'd rather not talk, sir, until it's time for the trial."
Gillian puffed thoughtfully at his cigar, and even more thoughtfully gazed at Larssen's large, powerful hands.
"Have all you men," he asked, "decided to say nothing about these murders until the trial?"
"Yes, sir.  "
"Don't you realize that that attitude is likely to arouse suspicion?  It looks to me like conspiracy."
"A seaman doesn't like to say much, in a case like this," was the answer, "to a landsman."
"Has Mr. Yistle talked to you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Don't you realize that all of the information he has secured from you must be thrown open to me?"
"In that case," Larssen quickly answered, "why do you have to ask all these questions?"
Gillian smiled coldly.  A glance had told him that Larssen was smart – smart enough to be the gang leader.  The lawyer said sharply:
"Larssen, do you want to see an innocent man hang?"
"No, sir: but Roger Pawling is guilty."
Gillian took another, tack.  "What was the weather the night of the murders?"
"A flat calm."
"Dry?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then you could have left the wheel?"
Larssen's eyes narrowed.  "I was at the wheel."
Gillian glanced at Larssen's brawny arms.  They were bare to the tattered sleeves of his shirt, above the elbows.  Gillian bent forward and looked closer.  He saw tattooing and a legion of dark spots.
"What are those dark spots all over your arms?"
"Freckles!"
"Cocaine freckles?'
Larssen growled: "What have they got to do with it?"
"Who knows?  How long have you been using cocaine?"
"I can't see that that has anything to do with who killed Captain Dawn and Dirk Morton!"
"We'll let that pass.  What kind of man was Dirk Morton?"
"He was as hard as nails."
"An old-fashioned blood-ship mate?" Gillian prompted.
"Yes."
"Did he ever beat men up?"
"Yes."
"Was he a big man?"
"About my size."
"Did you ever fight with him?" 
Larssen grinned.  "We were like brothers."
"That must," Gillian said ironically, "have been beautiful.  You never were tempted to lop off his head with an ax?"
"Never!"
"Were you in love with Miss Dawn?"
"Not me!"
"How did you get along with the skipper?"
"He was like a father to me."
"When he was murdered, did he make an outcry?"
"A gargling sound."
"How about Dirk Morton?"
"He began to yell.  All of a sudden he just stopped."
"Were there lights in the cabins?"
Hans Larssen opened his mouth, then shut it like a trap.  "I'll tell it on the witness stand."
"Larssen, why was the door removed from Mr. Pawling's room and thrown overboard?" Gillian demanded.
"I don't know anything about it."
"Why was the after lifeboat removed from its davits?"
"Was it?"
Gillian had reached the conclusion that Larssen would make a very dangerous witness.
"Larssen," he said, "you and I know that Roger Pawling did not commit those murders.  Why weren't you at the wheel when they took place?"
Larssen's jaw was thrust out.  His blue eyes were menacing.
"Are you sayin' I had a hand in those murders?"
"I am saying," Gillian barked, "that you are lying.  You know that Pawling did not murder those men.  I'm warning you, I have no patience with liars.  If you go on that stand and lie – you'll suffer."
The Swede folded his brawny arms on his powerful chest.
"If I'm lying, it's up to you to prove it.  It's five to one."
"Five liars," Gillian said, "against one."
"What the heck?" the big man jeered.  "Try and prove we're lyin'."
Gillian was looking at the tattooed mark on the Swede's forearm.  It consisted of a red circle in the center of which was a smaller blue circle.  Within the inner circle was a square black dot.
"What does that represent?"
Larssen glanced down at his arm.  His air was one of childlike surprise.
"Why, that?  What does any tattoo mark stand for?  An old man in Tahiti tattooed that on my arm when I was a kid."
"You don't know what it means?"
"I do not."
Larssen folded his arms the other way, so that the tattoo mark was hidden.  He said: "Ask me some more questions.  Go on.  I'm waitin'."
Gillian called Dan Murphy, told him to put Larssen back in his cell and bring another man.

CHAPTER V
CONSPIRACY?

THE next visitor was a whining, sniffling, fish-eyed cockney.  He said his name was Pete Wallaby.  He had a habit of ducking his head when he answered a question, and of scraping his feet.
"You're the steward of the Jula Jungle?"
"Yes, sir; I ham, sir.'  I've been the steward aboard of 'er fer goin' on fifteen years, sir."
"How long did you sail under Captain Dawn?"
"Fer five years, sir – ever since he bought the Jula Jungle."
"How long did you know Dirk Morton?"
"Fer goin' on fifteen years, sir."
Gillian looked at the sniffling cockney with keener interest.
"Were you friends?"
"Oh, yes, sir; we was just like brothers."
"H'm.  Tell me something about Morton.  Was he a cruel man?"
"Well, sir; he was and he wasn't."
Gillian leaned forward.  "Don't side-step, Wallaby.  I want to know all about Dirk Morton.  The truth was, he was a hard case.  If a man crossed him, Dirk beat him up, didn't he?  Did he ever beat you up?"
"Yes, sir – but I never 'eld it against 'im, sir."
"You mean, you didn't murder him."
"Swelp me, sir, I didn't!"
"Who did?"
"Roger Pawling, sir!"
"Did you see the murder?"
"I-I can't talk about it, sir, until the trial."
"Who told you not to?  Larssen?"
Wallaby hesitated.  He was clasping a weather-beaten blue serge cap in his hands.  Now he was wringing it.  Wallaby reminded Gillian very much of a rat.
"Never mind," said Gillian.  "I want to know about Dirk Morton.  How old a man was he?"
"About thirty-six or seven, I should say, sir."
"Was he a powerful man?"
"Yes, sir.  He stood six foot two in his stocking feet, he did.  I've seen him pick up a deck of playing cards and tear them in half.  And I've seen him take a heavy iron spike and twist it in 'is 'ands sir.  And I've seen 'im in fights ashore.  I've seen 'im take two big men and bash their 'eads together until they were unconscious.  Indeed, he was a powerful man, sir."
"The crew hated him?"
"Yes, sir."
"You own a quarter interest in the Jula Jungle, don't you, Wallaby?"
"I do, sir."
"Did you ever have any disagreements with Captain Dawn as to the kind of trading she was to do?"
"Yes, sir; 'e was a stubborn old man, sir; but they was all friendly arguments, sir."
"You wanted to go into the copra trade, didn't you?"
"Yes, sir; there's good money in copra."
"So, if Captain Dawn was out of your way, you and Larssen could have gone trading in the West Indies?  That will come out at the trial."
"Yes, sir; but Mr. Pawling killed the captain and mate, sir."
Gillian disgustedly sent him back to his cell.  With or without instructions from Mr. Yistle, the, crew of the Jula Jungle had forged a conspiracy against the life of Roger Pawling.  Those murders Gillian would not put above any of the men he had so far interviewed.  Of the three of them, Wallaby was closest to the murderer type, if there is such a type.  He was the sniveling, cowardly kind who would strike in the dark, would stab a man in the back.
The next man to come in, Ben Carney, the Jula Jungle's cook, was the biggest and blackest Gillian had ever seen.  His attitude was that the whole affair was a huge joke.  He was grinning broadly when he came in.  
Gillian looked at him steadily.  "What's the joke, Carney?" 
The Negro stopped laughing.  He looked surprised.  He stared at Gillian with mock seriousness.
"Whuzzat, white man?  Whut joke?  Hain't no joke.  No, suh.  Dis is serious, dis is.  Yassuh."
"What do you know about the murder of your captain and Mr. Morton?" 
"Whut Ah knows?  White man, Ah knows.  But don't ask me no questions.  Ah ain't in no gabbin' mood dis mawnin'."
"Who killed those men?"
"Da's easy.  Roger Pawlin' did."
"Carney," Gillian said harshly, "you're lying.  You know you're lying.  Do you know what's going to happen to you if you go into court and tell lies?"
"White man," the Negro chuckled, "dey jes' ain't nuffin' gwine happen to dis black boy nohow noway.  Ah know who you is.  Yo's Gillyum Hazeltine.  Folks calls you de Silver Fox.  Ah reckon you sho' is foxy, but Ah'm foxy, too."
Gillian looked at Ben Carney's hands.  They were big and powerful.
"Where," the lawyer asked, "was the ax kept that was used to kill the captain and the mate?"
"Right outside de galley, by de woodbox."
"You used that ax every day?"
"Yassuh, but not at night.  Ah neber used dat ax at night.  Bad luck to use an ax at night."  He chuckled.  "Sho' was bad luck fo' de skipper and Misto' Morton."  
"How did you get along with Dirk Morton?"
"Jes' fine."
"You were just like brothers, I suppose."
"Yassuh, jes' lak brothers."
"Ever fought with him?"
"Sho', I fit with him.  He beat me up good and plenty, first day we sailed.  But Ah didn' mind."
Gillian called Dan Murphy and told him to put Ben Carney back in his cell.
The fifth man was Pierre Lohac; a nervous, excitable, anxious Frenchman.  A naturalized citizen, Pierre Lohac had sailed in American bottoms for the past twenty years.  He had fanatical eyes, lean, strong hands, powerful shoulders.  He spoke with hardly the trace of an accent.
As he had done with the others, Gillian asked him for his papers, and jotted down notes on the pad.  Then:
"What do you know about the death of Captain Dawn and Dirk Morton?"
"I am not talking," the Frenchman answered.
"How did you get along with the first mate?"
"Nobody got along with the mate.  He was too free with the rope's end and the belaying pin."
"Did he ever beat you up?"
"Yes, sir."
"Of course," Gillian said ironically, "you didn't hold a grudge against him."
The Frenchman shrugged.  "What good would a grudge do?"
"Perhaps you can tell me what your grudge is against Roger Pawling."
"I have no grudge against Mr. Pawling."
"Then you disagree with the rest of the crew about the killings.  Mr. Pawling did not commit those murders – is that what you're saying?"
The Frenchman vigorously shook his head.  "He did the killings, but I have no grudge against him."
"Did you see the killings?" 
"I will not talk about them."  
"Who ordered you not to talk?" 
The Frenchman shrugged.  
"Mr. Larssen?"
No answer.
"Mr. Yistle, the prosecuting attorney?"
No answer.
"Do you realize that if you go into court and lie, you will be sent to jail for perjury?"
A glimmer of amusement appeared in Lohac's eyes.
"First it must be proved that I am lying."
"You're lying now!" Gillian barked.
"Is it proved?" the Frenchman drawled.
"All five of you are lying.  You are going into court, you five men, with a manufactured story.  You are attempting to send an innocent man to the gallows.  Why?"
"Perhaps because the 'innocent' man is guilty."
"Did you see the murders with your own eyes?"
Pierre Lohac shrugged.  "Who else but Roger Pawling had anything to gain by the murders?  The captain stood in his way.  Mr. Morton stood in his way.  What did we, the crew, have to gain by those murders?  Perhaps you can answer that."
Gillian felt disgusted and defeated.  "Who was being shielded?  Larssen?  Ben Carney?  Lester Slick?  Pete Wallaby?  This Frenchman?  Had the five of them conspired to murder the captain and the mate – and shifted the blame to the passenger?  If they had, why had they done it?  Why should the crew of a respectable cargo schooner kill off their skipper and mate?  What had they to gain?
Certainly, the answers to these perplexing questions were not to be had from the five men.  Gillian sent for Dan, and requested him to return Lohac to his cell and fetch Pawling.

CHAPTER VI
A GRUESOME DISCOVERY

The door opened and a tall slender young man came into the room in the station house where Gillian was waiting.  Except for bright spots of scarlet on his cheekbones, Roger Pawling's face was pale.  But there was fire and fight in his blue eyes.  He had a fighter's mouth and a fighter's chin.
He came in long, swift-strides to the desk.  There was a dauntless something in the way he carried his head that made Gillian take an instant liking to him.
He held out his hand to Gillian and said, "I know you're Mr. Hazeltine.  It's a big relief to meet you at last.  Is Carolina safe?"
"She'll be here shortly.  Sit down."
Roger Pawling sat down and said: "Do you think I committed those murders?"
"I do not."
"Thank God for that," the young man breathed.  "I'm not going to let those cutthroats get away with it."
"It's going to be a fight," Gillian warned him.
Yes, sir!  Count me in.  This isn't just a case of saving my neck.  There's my family to consider, and there's Carolina.  She's never doubted me.  I've got to come clear for her sake.  Now, what's the first thing to do?"
"Whom do you suspect?"
"Every man in the crew!"
"No one man?"
"Larssen or Wallaby or both, because they were part owners of the schooner.  They definitely had something to gain with the old man out of the way.  But that doesn't explain Morton's death."
"Did Morton want the Jula Jungle to go into the copra trade, too?"
"I don't think he much cared what she traded in."
"Tell me something about Captain Dawn."
"He was the typical old-school sailing captain – a czar of the decks.  He was a great disciplinarian, very firm, but absolutely fair and square with the men.  He didn't want to trade in copra because he thought there was more money in the lumber and chalk trade, and he hated the tropics.  Larssen and Wallaby quarreled with him a great deal about trading."
"How about Dirk Morton?"
"Old-fashioned blood-ship mate.  A born bully.  He looked it, too.  Bright red hair and a pair of the meanest eyes I've ever seen in a human being.  Some sailors have girls in every port.  He had enemies instead.  He was a big brute and as strong as an ox.  Every man aboard hated the sight of him.  He'd knock a man down on the slightest provocation.  We hated each other like a pair of strange pit dogs."
"How about Morton's attitude toward Carolina?" Gillian queried.
"He was mad about her.  It was an obsession.  It had been going on for years – since she was a kid.  He wanted to marry her.  I don't think she ever would have weakened.  She hated him.  But when I came on the scene and we fell for each other, Dirk made out that she had been on the verge of marrying him – and I spoiled his plans.  That made, the situation pretty uncomfortable, because the Jula Jungle is a small boat – the Leviathan wouldn't have been big enough for Dirk and me.
"Dirk picked on me from the day we left New York.  Carolina and I tried to ignore him, but he was the kind you can't ignore.  He insulted me every chance he got, and one night we had it out hot and heavy.  It was right after supper.  Dirk was spelling Larssen at the wheel.  I came up on the after deck and filled my pipe and lit it.  Carolina took my arm, and we started walking back and forth across the deck.
"All of a sudden, Dirk left the wheel, jumped at me, snatched the pipe out of my mouth and chucked it overboard.  Then he hit me in the face.  I've done quite a little boxing.  I lit right into him.  I hit him with everything I had.  I had known that a fight would come sooner or later, and I'd made up my mind that when it happened, I would give him the works.  I used Dempsey's well-known punch – a straight punch to the stomach and an uppercut to the jaw.
"It seemed to work.  He went back about five steps, stumbled and sat down hard.  There was a rack of belaying pins handy to where he sat down, and when he came up he had one of them in his hand.  I tried to dodge it and get up under it for another punch at his stomach.  No use.  He outreached me by inches.  I caught that pin on the back of the head – went out like a light.
"When I snapped out of it, he was dousing me with buckets of sea water.  That was all right.  He called me a lot of rotten names, said I was a slick city guy trying to seduce an innocent girl.  I got up and socked him again and got the belaying pin again.  Did you ever see Babe Ruth swing a baseball bat?  Well, that was how that pin looked when it clipped me the second time.  I went out, and stayed out for two hours.  I thought my head was cracked.
"I stayed in bed most of the next day.  It was that night that the skipper and Dirk were murdered."
"Did you ever make any threats against Dirk's life?" Gillian asked.
"You bet I did!"
"Before the crew?"
"Sure!  I said I'd kill him the first chance I got."
"Did you ever threaten the captain's life?"
"No, sir!  Certainly not.  He was a fine old scout.  He rode the life out of me, but I think the old boy was honestly beginning to like me.  He didn't think much of Dirk, after that fight."
Gillian's cigar had gone out.  He relighted it and said:
"You were in your room, weren't you, when the murders took place?"
"Yes, sir.  I had a rotten headache from those two wallops with the belaying pin.  Carolina had given me some sleeping powders and I was sound asleep."
"What did you hear?"
"Some one trying to smash in my door.  I was pretty scared.  I waited and when nothing happened, I went out.  I met Carolina coming out of her room.  We discovered the murders, and a minute later, the crew came piling in.  Carolina had fainted and I was holding her when the crew rushed in."
"How long after the murders was this?" Gillian demanded anxiously.
"It couldn't have been more than two minutes."
"Did you see any blood on any one?"
"No, sir.  And I looked carefully.  I'm certain there wasn't a spot of blood on any of them.  And the more I thought about that, the more it puzzled me.  How can a man kill two men with an ax without getting a spot of blood on him?  It stumped me.
"There were no blood stains on their hands or clothes.  When I'd made sure of that, I began looking for clues.  Both men's heads had been cut off with an ax.  The stumps of their necks looked as if the cutting had been done with one blow.  I mean, their heads were cut off clean.  The captain's head was lying on the floor near the head of his bed.  Dirk's head was missing."
Roger Pawling paused.  Gillian was looking at him incredulously.
"Where was it?"
"Overboard.  We searched the ship for it.  Dirk's head and the ax were never found."

CHAPTER VII
THE MYSTERIOUS TATTOO-MARK

Gillian said sharply: "Was there a trail of blood from the dining saloon to the deck?"
"Yes, sir.  Have you been aboard the Jula Jungle?"
"I looked her over before I came here," Gillian replied.
"You noticed, then, that there are two stairways leading from the after house; one out onto the after deck, the other onto the starboard side of the deck forward of the house.  The trail of blood led up this forward stairway – and vanished.  Whoever cut off Dirk's head had carried it up – no knowing why – and heaved it overboard along with the ax.  There were absolutely no clues.  If there were finger-prints, it's too late now to bother with them – everybody in the crew has pawed things over so."
"Who accused you of the murder?"
"The gorilla – Lester Slick."
"What did he say?"
"He said to Larssen: 'There's the guy who did it, Hans."  Larssen, as acting captain, put me in irons and they put me in the chain locker."
"Did you put up a fight?"
"You bet I did!  I knocked out Wallaby and the Frenchman.  I kicked Larssen so hard in the shins he's still limping.  Somehow, my suspicions always come back to Larssen.  But I can't prove it.  I've worn my brain ragged trying to find motives to pin it on any of them.  Mr. Hazeltine, what are the usual motives for murder?"
"There are three," Gillian told him: "Hatred or revenge; the hope of gain, and the crimes of passion – the love murder.  Cherche, la femme – Carolina.  Give me what facts you can for each of those motives."
"The men certainly hated Dirk enough to have killed him," Roger answered thoughtfully.  "And some of them hated the captain.  Lohac, for example, is a Communist.  He hated the old man's czarish methods.
"Take the gain theory.  By killing off the captain and Dirk, Wallaby and Larssen, each of whom owns a quarter interest in the schooner, would have their way with her.  The skipper was a stubborn old boy.  He wanted to go into the lumber and chalk trade – taking lumber to Labrador and Nova Scotia and bringin' back chalk or gypsum.  Wallaby and Larssen wanted to go into the copra trade.  After the murders, these two decided to start without delay for Mexico.
"But there was something mysterious behind that, Mr. Hazeltine.  I overheard them – Wallaby and Larssen whispering together several times.  They were talking about the Gulf of Mexico, but they weren't talking copra.  It might have been rum-running or dope-smuggling or Chink-running.  It was something off-color and mysterious, because they were pretty secretive about it.  They talked openly enough about the copra trade to the skipper.  They quarreled about it a lot.
"Now take the third theory.  I've been certain that one or more of those cutthroats wanted the skipper and Dirk out of the way, to be free to go after Carolina.  If that was the motive, it was backed up by the fact that, whoever did the killing, next tried to batter down Carolina's door, gave that up, and tackled mine.  They didn't 'get around to Carolina – she beat them to it."
Gillian nodded.  "Where does all this bring us?  There are no clues and there are so many motives that the issue is completely confused.  Whoever did the killings certainly intended to kill you."
"And decided not to," the young man agreed, "because I was going to be chained up down in that hole and taken to Mexico.  But they changed their minds.  They decided to kill me, anyway.  Wallaby tried to – that same night.  Shortly before dawn, Wallaby came down into the chain locker and tried to cut my throat.  I had fallen asleep from sheer nervous exhaustion.  I woke up with a scared feeling.  I could hear the water gurgling under the bows, and – I heard a man breathing hard.  I could smell his breath.  It was sour with booze.
"A hand came out of the darkness and covered my face.  Then I felt a knife at my throat.  There I was, Mr. Hazeltine, handcuffed to that wood post.  Believe me, I acted fast!  I drew up my knees and kicked up.  My knees caught him in the stomach or the groin.  He flew up and came down with a crash near the door.
"I must have knocked the wind out of him.  I was scared as the devil; he'd get me – then they'd get Carolina!  But he didn't come back.  Pretty soon he began to groan.  Then he began to puff, the way a man does when his breath has been knocked out of him.  Then I heard him crawl away.  He didn't come back."
Roger stopped, throwing out his hands in helpless puzzlement.
Gillian got out of his chair.  Followed by a trailing plume of cigar smoke, he walked to the window and looked down into the jail yard.  He said, in a muffled voice:
"No clues – too many motives."  He turned about with a queer smile at his lips and said: "Roger, do you believe in ghosts?"
Roger looked at him solemnly and answered: "Why bother with ghosts when we have five cutthroats to select from?"
"But who else but a ghost could have sneaked into that cabin, killed two men and made his get – away on a ship as small as the Jula Jungle?"
"Don't you mean," the young man guessed, "that you're stumped for some logical explanation of those men appearing in the cabin so soon after the murders without blood stains on their clothes or even a drop of blood on their hands?"
"Also," Gillian went on, "I'm interested in knowing when the lifeboat was cut away from the after davits.  The only interesting things I found on that boat were the freshly cut rope ends dangling from those after davits – and the door missing from your room."
The young man smiled.  "That last is easy.  They took the pins out of the hinges and tossed the door overboard, because it bore evidence in my favor.  As for the boat, some of the crew – the murderer or murderers – had cut it from the davits and tied it to the stern by a painter.  The murderer was going to make his get-away in the boat, but changed his mind when the crew sided with him in the conspiracy against me.  That rope was so short it kept sawing on the rail.  The rope snapped while I was at the wheel after Carolina freed me and locked up the crew.  There was nothing in the boat but a pair of oars.  I had my hands too full to put about and pick it up.  I'm afraid that isn't a clue, Mr. Hazeltine."
The door opened and Dan came in, red-faced and almost speechless with excitement.
"Mr. Hazeltine," he wheezed, "I've found the murderer!  Bill, fetch him in!"
Roger had sprung up; was staring at the doorway.
Lester Slick, the gorilla-like deck hand, was shoved into the room by a guard.  His face was yellow.  His small, close-set eyes were glinting like a cornered rat's.
Dan explained: "I caught him in the act of tossin' a note across the corridor to Wallaby.  Here's the note!"
Gillian looked eagerly at the scrap of paper Dan gave him.  It read:
"If you squeal, you get your throat cut."
Under this dire warning was, in pencil, the symbol that Gillian had seen tattooed on Hans Larssen's forearm – a square dot within a circle within a circle.
He looked from the hasty scrawl to Slick and asked him what the mark stood for.
The deck hand growled: "How do I know?  I didn't write it."
"You're a liar!" shouted Dan Murphy.  "I saw you write it."
"You saw me throw it.  You didn't see me write it.  I only passed the note along.'
"Who wrote it?" Dan demanded, and Slick snarled the answer.
"Find out!"
"Bring Larssen in here," Gillian said.  "Bring them all in here."
Dan departed.  He returned immediately with the four other members of the Jula Jungle's crew.
Gillian had been watching Lester Slick.  Now he stepped up to him, tore his shirt and exposed, on his hairy chest, the same tattooed symbol he had seen on Larssen's forearm.
"Strip all these men to the waist!" Gillian ordered Dan.
When Dan had complied, Gillian examined the other three.  Wallaby had the symbol tattooed on his left biceps.  The Frenchman Lohac bore the mysterious insignia on the right shoulder blade.  Almost invisible, the mark was found on black Ben Carney's left wrist.
"You men," Dan Murphy said, "might just as well come clean.  We know you killed those two men."
"Yeah?" said the gorilla.  "Go on and prove it, flatfoot."
Dan turned in despair to Gillian.
"Mr. Hazeltine, I saw this guy throw this note across the corridor to that rat's cell.  It fell short and I grabbed it.  It proves to me that Slick committed them murders.  I'll give 'em all the third-degree.  I'll sweat the truth out of 'em.' I'll torture 'em until they howl to confess."
"Wait a minute," Gillian said.  "Larssen, what does this mark stand for?  It's some secret order, isn't it?"
Larssen glanced quickly at Wallaby and answered smoothly:
"It's nothing but an ornament, sir.  As I told you, I had it tattooed on my, arm by an old man in Tahiti years ago.  These men liked it, and Ben Carney tattooed it on them, and they put it on him to hear him squeal."
Any further questions Gillian might have asked were blocked by the precipitate entrance into the room of Mr. Yistle, the district attorney.  He was red with rage.  His angry eyes swept down the line-up of prisoners, clashed with the steady blue eyes of Roger Pawling, dealt an optical blow to old Dan Murphy, and came to rest, fairly sizzling upon the bronzed, half-smiling countenance of Gillian.
"What," he hotly demanded, "is the meaning of this?"
When Mr. Yistle was angry, he sputtered.  He sputtered now.
A square-built man, with a strong, judicial forehead surmounted by a mop of iron-gray hair, and a massive pair of jaws surmounted by an irongray mustache, Mr. Yistle was a commanding figure.  Through sheer force of personality he now endeavored to dominate the present situation.
"Who," he harshly demanded, "is responsible for this?  What is the meaning of it?"
"Believe it or not," Dan Murphy grunted, "it's the Wednesday afternoon sewin' circle."
Mr. Yistle ignored this as comedy too low to merit his notice.  The full force of his dynamic personality was being projected at Gillian.
"We have been trying," Gillian answered, "to get at the bottom of the riddle: Who killed Captain Dawn and his chief mate?"
"There is no riddle," Mr. Yistle declared angrily.  "This fellow Pawling did the killing.  I am certain of it."
"You are the only man in this room who is," Gillian said.
Mr. Yistle set his iron jaw.  "He will be indicted for those murders.  And he will be hanged for those murders.  You have no right to bulldoze these men.  They are free men.  I have bail bonds for the five of them."
"You have no right to turn these cutthroats loose," Dan Murphy broke in.  "One of them is the man you ought to indict.  Instead of wastin' your time accusin' this bhoy, you ought to be gettin' out indictments for these five pirates.  Besides, ain't they material witnesses?  Don't the five of them claim they piece together a story – and a tall one it must be! – that will send this bhoy to the gallows?"
"There is no argument," Mr. Yistle snapped.  "You men are free."
"Mr. Hazeltine," Dan said quickly, "you swear out five warrants on any charge you want, and I'll book them and clap them back into their cells, bail bonds or no bail bonds."
"Why waste our valuable time?" Mr. Yistle asked cuttingly.  "I'll have them out again in an hour on writs of habeas corpus."
"But," said Gillian, "any or all of them may clear out.  Then where is your case?"
"I'll worry about that," Mr. Yistle said.
"The defense would prefer to have them locked up," said Gillian.
Mr. Yistle snorted.  "Defense!  You have no defense.  You're up to your old tricks.  You haven't a case.  You're going to go into court without a case and trust to luck."
Dan had sidled over to Gillian.
Shall I get those warrants?"
"No," said Gillian.  "Let them go."
"But the killer is standin' right there, Mr. Hazeltine!"
"Let them go."
"Who cares?" Roger Pawling asked.  "Swear out a warrant, Dan, for John Doe; address, Atlantic Ocean occupation, ghost!"
Larssen looked sharply at him, then at Gillian.  The Swede's face suddenly lost its color; went yellowish-gray under the coat of sun- and sea-burn.  Then he seemed to recover his composure.  His color returned in a red flood, stained his heck and even his ears.
Gillian looked at him thoughtfully and snorted, "I've got a guard, day and night, on board that boat, and no one's goin' snoopin' around."
Mr. Yistle said firmly: "I see no reason why these men should not live aboard their schooner.  After all, it's the only home they have.  And I further see no reason why they should not put in the time until the trial on repairing and painting her.  I should say that she is sadly in need of attention.  I will also say that the Federal attorney will welcome this chance to save these men's lodging money."
Gillian did not relish the idea.
"Look here," sneered Mr. Yistle.  "I'll have these men put up at a hotel for a couple of days.  Hire all the detectives you wish to go over the boat for clues.  At the end of that time, let these men go aboard and live."
Pete Wallaby was anxiously watching Gillian.
"Very well," Gillian agreed.  "But give me two days before you let them go aboard.  And I want that guard kept aboard, day and night, until after the trial."
With this understanding, Mr. Yistle and the five sailors departed.  When they were gone, Dan said to Gillian:
"There's a couple of things I don't understand, Mr. Hazeltine.  What was all this talk about a ghost?"
Gillian smiled.  "Who do you think the guilty man is?"
Dan snorted.  "Either that gorilla or the Negro."
"Or Larssen or the Frenchman or a pair of them," said Roger firmly.  "Why not two of them, Mr. Hazeltine, with Larssen as the leader?  Those men are taking orders from Larssen.  You know it.  He's got them buffaloed.  He's smooth and deliberate and colder than a shark's heart.  And he takes dope.  Why not Larssen?"
"Why not John Doe, the Atlantic Ocean ghost?"
Dan snorted again.  Another thing I don't understand is, why did you let those pirates get away?  You could have protested bailing.  You could have had them held, anyhow, as material witnesses."
"They won't get away," Gillian answered.  "They're too confident that they have an airtight case against Roger.  All they own in the world is their interest in that schooner."
"But only two of them own interests in her."
"They'll see that the other three don't run out on them.  And they're going to be watched, anyway."
"That's another thing, I don't understand, Mr. Hazeltine," Dan said.  "Why, if you're turnin' the ould hulk over to them, do you want a guard on board day and night?"
"So that they will be thoroughly watched.  When they go ashore, I want them tailed."
"I will attend to that," Dan said.
"But I still claim it ain't right for this bhoy to rot away in a cell while those five thugs wander free."
Roger had seated himself.  He looked disconsolately at Gillian.
"How much progress have we made?" he asked in a tired voice.
"I don't know," Gillian admitted frankly.  He walked over and placed his hand on the boy's shoulder.  "Cheer up.  We aren't licked."
The door flew open.  Vee Hazeltine came in, followed by a young woman Gillian did not at first recognize.  Then he sighed with wonder at the miracles which modistes, manicurists, hairdressers and millinery shops can achieve.
Carolina Dawn, gracious and lovely in a close-fitting black hat, a smart black frock, gunmetal stockings and patent leather slippers, was in mourning, but not too deeply in mourning.
For a moment she stood poised on the threshold.  Then she flew into the room as Roger came out of the chair.  They went into each other's arms.  They clung together as if they had been parted for years; might never meet again.  Carolina stroked Roger's face and his hair and kissed him while tears ran down her brown cheeks.
Vee came over to Gillian and her bright green eyes were shimmering.
She said: "Darling, I think it's dreadful.  Love like that ought to be protected and sheltered – it's altogether too rare.  She hasn't talked of a single thing but Roger.  He's so brave and so fine and so clever!  What chance has the poor fellow?"
"It depends on what I can uncover in the next few days."
"Which of those five brutes is the murderer?"
Dan Murphy, overhearing, said promptly: "That gorilla of a Slick!"
And Roger over Carolina's shoulder said: "Larssen!  And he's  buffaloed the rest of them to stand by him and send me to the gallows!"
Gillian said nothing.

CHAPTER VIII
ABOARD THE MYSTERY SHIP

IN the lower hall, Gillian was again surrounded by a pack of lustily inquiring reporters.
Josh Hammersley literally buttonholed him.
"Gill, what's this ghost rumor?"
Another reporter chimed in: "Yeah!  Where do you get this ghost stuff, Mr. Hazeltine?"
Gillian looked from one to another with bright blue eyes.
"What's the rumor?"
"Bert Yistle says you're claiming a ghost came aboard and did those killings.  What do you mean?"
"What's the matter with the ghost?" Gillian retorted.  "Isn't it a good story?  Where's your news sense?  Look at the headlines I'm handing you on a silver platter!  'Ghost Murders Captain and Mate of Mystery Schooner, Says Hazeltine.  Amazing Disclosures Promised by Police at Any Hour!' What's wrong with that picture?"
"Since when," yelled a tabloid man, "did you believe in ghosts?  People will say you're nuts."
"People have already said that," Gillian pointed out.
"Are you trying to tell us," broke in another reporter, "that neither Roger Pawling nor one of those five sailors murdered those two men?"
"I'm saying flatly that Pawling did not."
"Which of the crew do you really suspect?"
"Your guess is as good as mine."
"How far can we go on this ghost story?"
"I can't prevent you from going the limit."
"Oh, yeah?" said a scornful young man.  "It's a hot story.  'Ghost With Water Wings Solves Mystery Schooner Riddle.  Famous Criminal Lawyer Goes Supernatural!  Hazeltine's Happy Haunts Hoax Hoary Herd of Horrid Hop-heads – the hop-heads being us."
Gillian grinned.  "Not bad!  And you can add: 'While Yistle Yells For Yardarm."'
He made his way through the reporters and entered a telephone booth.  They might kid him to their hearts' content about the ghost – but they would print the story.  They would enlarge upon it.  Their collaborators with brush, pen and pencil would portray for the sensation-loving public a ghoulish specter, ax in hand, draped with seaweed, slipping aboard the "mystery schooner" in the dead of night to behead the captain and chief mate.
But the results of Gillian's ghost story were destined to be far different from his expectations.
Closing the door of the booth, he called his office and asked for Carter.
To the young clerk he said: "Don, I want you to take down these five names and the information I have on each.  I want exhaustive investigations begun at once.  Expense is not an object, but time is.  Put in a call for the chief of the identification bureau of each of these cities, and get in touch with the Pinkerton agency in each city.  I want every scrap of information available."
Gillian read off to him the names of the Jula Jungle's crew and gave to him such information as he had obtained from the five men's papers.  Then:
"I'll be sending up a messenger boy right away with the copy of a tattoo mark – a black dot about a quarter inch square inside a blue circle about an inch in diameter, and a red circle about two inches in diameter around that.  Have a telephoto of this design, with the colors indicated, transmitted at once to Arnold Blackwood, Crestwood Arms, New York, and tell him to wire me what it stands for.  He is the coat of arms expert.  Check that and get busy."
Emerging from the booth Gillian secured a messenger boy and sent the artist's sketch to Carter, then betook himself to the waterfront in a taxicab.
It was almost impossible for his cab to move through the thick crowds which were coming and going.  Docks lining the north shore of the Sangamo, were solid with people, all staring over the sluggish yellow water at the shabby black hull, the skinny masts which spelled romance and mystery and tragedy on the high seas.
Truly the Jula Jungle was, to the best of her ability, playing her part.  The black hull, empty of cargo, perched high upon the yellow water.  Her portholes were like furtively-watching eyes.  A sinister, forbidding air brooded about her.
It took Gillian a full hour to find a man with a boat to row him out, and the man at first refused to take him; said that hundreds of people had attempted to go aboard and been forbidden admittance by the police.
Gillian was met at the top of the companion ladder by Corporal Flaherty.  The lawyer's first question was:
"Has any one been aboard?"
"No, Sir," said the corporal.  "Sergeant Murphy gave me orders to let nobody aboard but you and Mr. Yistle and anybody you might give a card to.  Hundreds of sightseers have tried, though.  How is the case coming, Mr. Hazeltine?"
Gillian shrugged.
"Did that boy do it?" Flaherty asked.
"No."
"Have you got any suspicions?" 
"Yes.  That's why I'm here."  
"If I can be of any help, just let me know."
"Thank you, Mike."
But Gillian did not want any help.  The thread of suspicion which he had picked up was exceedingly fine and delicate.  It might lead nowhere, or it might lead to a patchwork maze of insoluble 'if's, or it might lead to an amazing Revelation.
He went down into the after cabin and opened the doors of all the rooms which gave off the dining saloon.  Then he sat down at the head of the table, took out a cigar, lighted it, puffed, and thought.  At last, with the cigar almost consumed, he got up.
He went into the captain's cabin and searched it carefully; then, into the cabin where Dirk Morton had met his death.  From there he went into and inspected the cabin occupied by Carolina, and the cabin occupied by Roger Pawling.
He climbed the after stairway to the poop deck; took his stand behind the wheel, and looked into the cabins.  Leaving the wheel, he went to each porthole in the after wall of the house and looked down inside the cabins from there.
Gillian returned to the cabin, smoked another cigar, then left it by the forward stairway – the stairway up which the trail of blood had led to the starboard side of the deck.  He paused at the rail, and his eyes grew dreamy as though he were visualizing the grisly scene of that crime-haunted night two months ago.
Briskly, then, he walked forward.  He went into the forecastle, looked at the bunks; came out and went down into the chain locker where Roger had been held a prisoner.  It was a black hole, practically without ventilation or light.  Standing in it, he struck a match and looked at the stanchion to which the young man had been ironed by the crew before Carolina had held them up and freed him.
Gillian continued his inspection of the Jula Jungle.  It was a much more searching inspection than his first one.  He looked into the paint locker.  He poked into closets.  He descended into each of the cargo holds with a lantern.  Gillian wanted to acquaint himself with every detail of the Jula Jungle, below and above water.  He poked into every accessible part of the ship, from cutwater to counter, from keelson to pantry shelves.
When he finished, it was dark, and Gillian was covered from head to foot with dirt and cobwebs.  His face was streaked with grime.  His hands were black.  His clothing was torn.  He had had no lunch, and he would not eat for hours.
He was weary and he was somewhat disappointed.  He had hoped to discover amazing clues, and he had found nothing of great consequence; nothing, it was sure, that would vitally affect the case against Roger.
Yet he was not finished.  When darkness fell, the police force lighted lanterns and strung them along the deck.  Gillian borrowed two of these lanterns, took them into the after house, placed one on the floor of the captain's room, the other on the floor of Dirk Morton's room.  Then he returned to the poop deck, took his stand behind the wheel, and noted what he could see through the cabin portholes in each of the lighted cabins.
In each case, he could see each room almost in its entirety.  Behind the wheel, without moving his head an inch, he could see the doorway of each cabin.
A voice in the darkness behind Gillian startled him.  It was Mr. Yistle.  He was chuckling with amusement.  He said:
"Where you're standing, Gill, Larssen was standing that night when the ghost came aboard and chopped off the heads of those two men with his spectral ax!  It must have given Larssen an awful start – that green-faced ghost, with the yellow seaweed in his hair dripping brine!"
Gillian eyed him amiably and said:
"Where do you suppose Larssen really was when he saw that ghost that terrified him so?"
"At the wheel!"
"But the men all agree that there was no wind.  It was a flat calm.  The chances were a hundred to one against Larssen's being at the wheel.  Where was Larssen?"
"Looking in those portholes, watching the murders!"
"Rot!  Another point: Why is a boat missing from these davits?"
Adelbert Yistle snorted with contempt.  "Look," Gillian said, going to the davits; "these falls have been slashed.  Whoever wanted that boat wanted it in a hurry.  Who?  Why?  When?"
"Easy!  Pawling intended to make a get-away in it, but later changed his mind!"
"Wrong!  Here are more clues: Why was the first mate's head thrown overboard?  Why wasn't the captain's head thrown into the sea, too?"
"Pawling hated the sight of Dirk Morton's face.  Murderers do queer things in their maniacal fury."
"Why," Gillian pursued, "was blood smeared all over the girl's and Pawling's doors, but no blood was visible on any man aboard two minutes later?  Do you subscribe to the rubber gloves and slicker theory?"
Not at all.  Five eyewitnesses saw blood on Pawling's hands, face and pajamas."
"Why," Gillian asked, "was the door of Pawling's room thrown overboard?"
"He did it himself, to back up his silly argument that it was battered in and smeared with blood!  Trot out another clue!"
"Why do Larssen and Wallaby turn green when you mention ghosts in their presence?"
"I suppose," Mr. Yistle answered sarcastically, "it's because they're seeing the ghosts of the two men they murdered!  Why not ask a spiritualistic medium?"
One of the policemen on guard approached the two lawyers.  Apologetically he said to Gillian:
"I've been rummaging around in the fo'c's'le, Mr. Hazeltine, and I found these under Ben Carney's bunk.  Would they interest you?"
He held out to Gillian a yellow slicker and a pair of rubber gloves.  Mr. Yistle snatched them.  He quickly examined them.  Gillian watched him with twinkling eyes.
"There's not a spot of blood on gloves or slicker!" Mr. Yistle triumphantly announced.
"But there is dried salt on both – a crust of it."
"What does that prove?"
"They could have been towed behind a boat.  Blood wouldn't cling long to rubber or a boiled linseed oil surface."
"You're miles off the track," Mr. Yistle declared.  "You're barking up the wrong tree, Or else you're indulging in your favorite indoor sport – trying to make a sucker out of me!  But I've got you licked before you start; and you know it!"
But Gillian was far from licked.  He knew that these strange and curiously assorted clues that he had unearthed were leading to an amazing solution of this mystery.  His only fear was that they would not lead him to the murderer soon enough to save Roger Pawling from the gallows.

CHAPTER IX
A BACK BAY SNOB

WHEN Gillian reached home that evening, his first act was to telephone Dan Murphy.  To the old detective Gillian said: "Dan, have you got those five men under twenty-four-hour observation?"
"Yes, sir.  And I'll have a report of their movements on your desk every morning by ten o'clock."
"They're sailors," Gillian said, "and sailors ashore have a notorious habit of getting tight.  And when any man gets tight, he's inclined to be talkative.  The vainest man in the crew is Ben Carney; he would be inclined to talk more, boast more than the others.  Keep an eye on him.  And I want a very careful report on Wallaby."
"Sure thing, Mr. Hazeltine; I'll attend to all that.  But I think you're on the wrong trail.  It ain't the black boy or Wallaby.  It's that gorilla.  I've got a clever girl on the staff who's gonna scrape an acquaintance with him – and get him to open up.  He'll brag, too.  I'm bettin' a year's pay he's the guy we want.  Anything else I can do?"
"Don't let the Frenchman skip town.  I've a hunch he will try it.  Go ahead on your theory that the gorilla is the man we want.  I'm working along other lines."
"Yes, Sir.  Anything else?"
"Watch Wallaby."
At a little after ten o'clock on the third morning following the arrival of the Jula Jungle in the river, Gillian was seated at his desk reading the reports of the trailers of the five sailors, when his secretary brought in to him a card bearing the name of Mr. Chauncey Elsworth Haughton.  The card bore in its lower left-hand corner the name of a prominent and highly respected firm of Boston lawyers: Gates, Hanford, Billings, Haughton and Deane.
Gillian was familiar with the distinguished reputation of the firm.  He instructed his secretary to show Mr. Haughton in, and while he was waiting read a summary of the report of Operative Glynn on the previous day's movements of Pete Wallaby and his shipmates.
The cockney's activities were, on the surface at least certainly innocent enough.  At a little after eight o'clock in the morning he had left the hotel at which he and his four shipmates had been the guests of the Federal Government, and proceeded with them to a water front restaurant for breakfast.  After breakfast, he and his companions had gone to a ship chandler's on River Street and purchased a large supply of paints and brushes; thence to a wholesale grocer's, where they had laid in enough provisions, the detective guessed, to last them a month.
The five had then been rowed out to the Jula Jungle, had been searched for weapons by the police guard, and had gone to the fo'c's'le.  Ben Carney had established himself once again in the schooner's galley.  He and the Frenchman had taken up living quarters in the fo'c's'le; but Wallaby, Larssen and Lester Slick had moved their belongings into the after cabin.
Gillian was interested to learn that Larssen was occupying Carolina's room; Slick, the captain's room; and Wallaby, the first mate's room.  These three had spent the day painting these rooms.
The detective guessed that they had thus destroyed what clues might have been left, but this did not trouble Gillian.  He had turned loose the cleverest men in the research department at police headquarters on the schooner for two days.  Microscopes had gone over that entire after cabin and discerned nothing of interest or value.
After supper the five men went ashore and to a water front poolroom and speakeasy.  They had played pool, had a few drinks, answered questions of the curious with caution, and returned to their ship before midnight.
The firm clearing of a throat called Gillian's attention from this absorbing document.  He laid it down and looked up into the thin, aristocratic face of a man of about fifty-five, modestly attired in a suit of pepper-and-salt gray.  He wore a black four-in-hand tie.  A conservative gold watch-chain was draped across his vest.  His gray muttonchops were neatly trimmed.  Pince-nez of the bifocal variety rested on his thin, aquiline nose.  Through the glasses cool, critical eyes were inspecting Gillian.
Gillian rose with his warm smile and held out his hand.  The visitor accepted it with a clasp lacking in warmth and pressure.
"I am Chauncey E.  Haughton, Mr. Hazeltine."
"Sit down, Mr. Haughton," Gillian said cordially.
Mr. Haughton cleared his throat as he sat down.  His manner made Gillian wonder if there was dust on the chair.
"I am interested," said the lawyer, "in the Roger Pawling case.  To be quite honest, I took the liberty of stopping at the jail and seeing young Pawling before I came here."
"I see," said Gillian, a little perplexed.
"The truth is, Mr. Hazeltine," the thin, precise voice went on, "I have been retained by the Pawling family to act as the defense counsel."
"I am quite sure," Gillian said Warmly, "that your assistance in this case will be very welcome.  It is a difficult case."
"So I had gathered from the newspapers.  In fact, it was the newspaper reports of the investigation which brought me here.  This talk of a ghost that may have committed those murders – did you authorize that story, Mr. Hazeltine?"
Gillian smiled and nodded.
"It was called to my attention by members of the family," Mr. Haughton went on.  Gillian reflected that men like Mr. Haughton always had things called to their attention; they seldom read them for themselves.  "I declared that no lawyer in his right mind would have authorized such a ridiculous story."
"Indeed?" said Gillian, looking at the neat little man very keenly.
"Indeed!" repeated Mr. Haughton stiffly.  "I have, of course, heard rumors from time to time of the – shall we say – spectacular manner in which you handle murder defenses?  I cannot say that I approve of such methods."
"There are many who do not," Gillian amiably agreed.  "They are generally the people on the other side of the case.  My clients, if I may say so, seldom complain."
"This case," Mr. Haughton asserted, "must be handled with dignity.  There is the Pawling family to consider.  It is one of the oldest, most respected, most distinguished families, in Boston.  Roger Pawling, in our opinion, is guilty of the murders."
"If you are so sure that Roger is guilty," Gillian said ironically, "would it be quite ethical, according to Boston standards, for you to go into court to defend him?"
"It is not a question of his innocence or guilt," the Boston lawyer replied.  "It is a question of the honor of his family.  He will of course enter a plea of not guilty.  I will make every effort to clear him of the charge, with, of course, your assistance."
Gillian smiled.  He was beginning to work up a cordial dislike for this supercilious, pompous little man from Back Bay.
"I don't think Roger is guilty," he said.
"Of course you don't!  It is your business not to.  But your way of doing business is different from ours.  However, we will conduct this case on the basis that he did not commit the murders."
"He did not," Gillian said firmly, "commit them."
Mr. Haughton lifted his delicate brows, and he seemed to look down his nose at Gillian.  Gillian began drumming rapidly on his desk.
"That will, of course, be our attitude," said the visiting lawyer.  "He must be cleared of the charge.  We will present to the jury the facts of his early life – his gentle upbringing, the loving care fostered on him by his relatives.  Unfortunately his mother and father are dead, but his Aunt Priscilla has nobly offered to take the stand and testify to his innocent boyhood.  Then I shall produce witnesses who will testify to the purity of his lineage.  It may interest you to know that he is a Mayflower descendant.  We will drive it home to the jury that a young man with such a distinguished background could not have stooped to so vile a thing as murder."
Mr. Haughton sat back with a complacent smile.  But Gillian's expression was rather sour.
"This is a factory town, Mr. Haughton.  We aren't very highbrow here.  We don't go in much for family tradition.  We're more interested in what a man is than what his grandfather was.  You're going to be up against a jury of truck drivers, mechanics, shop foremen, steel workers – men who hate bunk"
"Bunk?" repeated Mr. Haughton icily.
"Bunk," said Gillian.  "You've got to gear your defense to their way of thinking.  No frills.  They want their facts straight from the shoulder."
Mr. Haughton's thin, severe face colored with displeasure.
"I disagree with your choice of words.  Besides, I possess information about Roger's childhood and his activities as a young man that would convince any jury he is capable of murder.  The Federal attorneys will certainly secure those facts.  We must combat them."
"What facts?" Gillian growled.
"Roger," Mr. Haughton obliged, "was always a black sheep.  As far back as his preparatory school days he was a disgrace to the family.  Why was he expelled from Oxton?"
"Well," Gillian growled, "why was he expelled from that sissified place?"
Mr. Haughton sat up even more stiffly.  His eyes were flakes of ice.  It was only too evident that he considered Gillian as less than the dust.
"Roger was expelled from Oxton for dropping little glass balls full of nitrous sulfide on the floor in his philosophy class!  The balls broke open and fumes from the vile-smelling liquid drove the students from the classroom!"
"How fiendish!" Gillian muttered.
"He was expelled from college for driving a roadster, while intoxicated, down the Boston Post Road with a chorus girl and hitting a milk truck!"
"Anybody hurt?"
"Fortunately, no.  But in an interview he gave reporters he declared that he had always longed to turn the Post Road into the Milky Way and he had at last satisfied his ambition!"
"The boy has imagination!" Gillian said.
"Imagination!" Mr. Haughton cried.  "Can you picture the consternation of his family?"
"Poor Aunt Priscilla!" Gillian said.
"I am glad you are sympathetic, Mr. Hazeltine.  I have cited these instances to show you the kind of young man Roger is.  He has been arrested innumerable times for speeding.  He was fined in New York for punching a night club proprietor in the nose.  I could go on and on.  Since he was a boy of fifteen he has been a disgrace to his family.  But what really broke his poor father's heart was this latest development – refusing to enter business, preferring instead to dress like a hobo and go about the world in filthy little sailboats!"
Gillian's face had grown redder and redder, and his eyes had grown brighter and brighter.  "You don't mean that," he said huskily.  "You aren't asking me to believe that Roger's father died of humiliation because of these escapades you've mentioned!"
"It is the truth," said Mr. Haughton.
"A father as foolish as that," Gillian broke out hotly, "is better off dead.  What has the boy done?  Nothing that you wouldn't expect a normal, healthy, spirited boy to do!  If I ever have a son, I only hope he'll go Roger one better!  And let me remind you that, whatever Roger has done, he has paid a bitter price.  He has suffered; he has been brutally punished for anything he ever did.  In this experience he has lost his boyishness and become a man.  He is a man that you and I can well admire."
The Boston attorney was firmly shaking his head.  He said:
"Mr. Hazeltine, it is even worse than I had feared.  You and I disagree fundamentally.  I am afraid that we are not going to get along.  I know a great deal about you.  That is frankly, why I came.  I must tell you that I will not tolerate buffoonery or sensationalism in connection with this case.  Ghosts!  Beautiful daughters of sea captains!  Bah!  I know what kind she is – scum of the water fronts!"
He might have gone even further than that, but just then the door opened and Gillian's secretary intruded her face.
"Miss Dawn is in the outer office.  Can she come in?"
"Send her right in," said Gillian.
The girl withdrew.  The door opened again presently, and Carolina came radiantly in.  She was smiling and her eyes were sparkling with excitement.
"Gillian–" she began and paused.  Her smile faded.  The anger in Gillian's eyes and face had not subsided.  She looked startled.  She sent a bright, inquiring glance at the severe man in the other chair.
Gillian said: "My dear, this gentleman is Mr. Haughton, of Boston.  He has been sent here by Roger's family to handle this case.  Mr. Haughton, this is the young lady we were discussing – Caleb Dawn's daughter."
The lawyer did not rise.  Perhaps he did not consider that Carolina's social status entitled her to any such act of courtesy.  But he did examine her most thoroughly.  Putting back his head, he inspected her inch by inch from the top of her charming little hat to the tips of her black slippers.  His eyes throughout this process remained cold and aloof.  Completing his appraisal, he sniffed ever so faintly.
"Indeed!" he said.
"Does it mean," Carolina panted, "that he and not you will handle Roger's defense?"
"Not at all," said the Boston lawyer.  "It means that I will employ Mr. Hazeltine in an advisory capacity."
"But won't Mr. Hazeltine be in the court room?"
"He will," grunted Gillian.
"Assisting me," stated Mr. Haughton.
Carolina looked bewildered and disappointed.
Gillian pressed a button.  When his secretary appeared he said: "Mr. Haughton is to have an office.  Have one prepared for him.  And see that he has a competent secretary."
"Yes, Mr. Hazeltine."  The girl went out.
Carolina was completing her investigation of Chauncey F.  Haughton.  Bright spots of color burned in her cheeks under the velvety brown.
She said in a low voice: "Mr. Houghton, have you talked to Roger?"
"I have talked to my client; yes."
"Don't you think it's outrageous?"
"You mean, outrageous of him to kill those two men?"
The girl's eyes widened.  "What are you saying?  Not that you think Roger killed my father and Dirk Morton?"
"I am convinced that he did!"
"But how – how can you go into court to save him, if you think that?"
"It is not a question of his innocence or guilt, as I just told Mr. Hazeltine.  It is entirely a question of clearing this horrible blot from the decent name of his family."
Carolina looked at Gillian.  He made a grimace and shrugged.
Very coldly the girl said: "In that case, I won't have you defend Roger.  I retained Mr. Hazeltine.  I am in a position to pay Mr. Hazeltine.  I don't like you.  I think you're a nasty old fussbudget."
Mr. Haughton sprang up.  He choked and gasped.  He hissed: "Scum of the seas!"
"I?" said Carolina.
"You!" panted Mr. Haughton.  "And I knew it.  I was prepared for it.  Let me tell you: I have come to take charge of Roger's defense.  I have taken charge of it.  You have utterly nothing to say about it."
"Nothing," snapped Carolina, "except that I won't have you!"
"Perhaps," Gillian broke in, we can compromise.  Mr. Haughton will present the case for the defense when the United States attorneys have presented their side.  I will cross-examine the Government witnesses.  I am suggesting this, Mr. Haughton, because of the character of the prosecution witnesses.  They are a tough, hard-boiled, vulgar lot."
"That arrangement will suit me perfectly," stated Mr. Haughton, glaring at Carolina.
She glared back for a while, then turned to Gillian with a little gesture of hopelessness.
"Gillian, it's all wrong.  This man will ball everything up for us.  Don't be so damned kind!  Treat him rough!  You know that our only chance to save Roger is to impeach the credibility of every witness the United States puts on the stand."
"I'm sure," Gillian comforted her, "that Mr. Haughton is a very able lawyer."
"But he isn't a criminal lawyer, Gillian!"
"Thank God," breathed Mr. Haughton.
Carolina chose to ignore that.
"Gillian," she said rapidly, "I came here to tell you I'd found what that tattoo mark on those men stands for.  A reporter at the jail said his paper had just found out.  They're bringing out an extra about it.  That mark was the emblem of a Swedish pirate named Larssen back in the days of Captain Kidd and Blackbeard!  One of Hans Larssen's ancestors was that pirate!  Larssen killed my dad and Dirk Morton, then organized the crew to turn pirate!  That's why they were going to Mexico!"
"The day of pirates," Mr. Haughton said coldly, "is past.  What chance would a slow schooner have in this day of forty-eight-knot destroyers and two-hundred-mile-an-hour pursuit planes?"
"Innocent-looking old schooners," Gillian pointed out, "are engaged in smuggling booze, dope, and Chinese."
"And they didn't carry out that scheme," Carolina cried, "because I trapped them in the after cabin at the point of a gun – and nailed 'em in!"
"Hmf!" commented Mr. Haughton.  "How sensational!"
Carolina's eyes blazed.
"Gillian," she said tensely, "throw me out of here, quick – or you'll have another homicide case on your hands!"

CHAPTER X
AN AMAZING COURT ROOM

CAROLINA DAWN sat in the front row which was reserved for witnesses and visiting attorneys.  From where she sat she commanded an excellent view of the backs of the heads of the three men most vitally concerned with her interests: Gillian, Roger, and Mr. Haughton.
"The daughter of the seven seas," as the press of the nation referred to her, had never been in a courtroom before, and she was excited and depressed even by the preliminary processes of the legal machine.
To the right and left of her sat the witnesses; at one end, the live sailors; at the other the Bostonians.
Carolina gazed at them with ill-concealed displeasure.  They had disdained, since their arrival in the town, to acknowledge her existence.  To them she was nothing but a flaw in the family honor.  That a Pawling should condescend to become engaged to such trash of the sea as Carolina Dawn!
But beyond their dislike for them and their haughtiness was the firm belief that they would be of small use to Roger's cause.  Roger must come out of this clean and whole.  There must not be the slightest shadow of a doubt upon his innocence.
It had amused Carolina to see these haughty Back Bay Bostonians when reporters and news photographers and movie cameramen were around.  How they loved the limelight!  How willingly they partook of this "disgusting publicity!"
Carolina hoped that Gillian would bring the trial to a smashing end before their time came to testify to Roger's "character," these snobs who had regarded the lively, energetic Roger Pawling as a "black sheep."
She continued her inspection of the courtroom.  To her, this shabby, dusty place was a battlefield upon which the forces of justice and the forces of wrong would presently march and come to grips.  Lies, truth and legal genius would be the weapons employed.  And upon the outcome of the battle hinged her life's happiness.  An indomitable spirit would not let her admit that defeat was a possibility.
Roger's golden head was being held high.  Once he turned and looked at her; smiled.  Her heart fluttered as it always did when he smiled at her.
She studied Gillian as he sat, relaxed, beside Roger.  His face was now in profile.  He was talking to Mr. Haughton.  Now and then Gillian pushed up from his forehead a lock of black hair that was always falling down into his eyes.
Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the lawyer from Boston.  She had seen him but once since that memorable meeting, weeks ago, in Gillian's office, and his manner had been even more insulting than on their first meeting.
And she had told him that he was nothing but a monkey wrench in the machine Gillian was building to free Roger!  How she hated the man!
From him she looked at the two judges.  They were severe-looking old men, and there was something ominous about the black robes they wore.  They looked as if they were predisposed to think that any man brought before them was guilty.  Gillian had told her that they were fair and just men, but harsh.
One was Circuit judge Barlow; the other District judge Marsh.  In a lull, she heard their voices.  She caught phrases: "I did that eleventh hole in par."  Golf!  While a man's life was at stake!
From the judges, she looked at the jury.  Twelve good men and true, so some one had said.  Good men?  True?
They looked very dumb to Carolina.
They were the result of five days of hot quarreling among Gillian, Mr. Yistle, and Mr. Haughton.  Landsmen all, she felt uneasy about them.  The foreman was smirking at her now.  He was a beefy man with piggy eyes and a thick sensuous mouth; a weak chin.  He was trying to flirt – ogling her.
It flashed over Carolina that no one, in the courtroom but Gillian was seriously thinking of Roger.  She amended that when her roving eyes lighted on Mr. Adelbert Yistle.  His mop of iron-gray hair was rumpled.  His face was flushed and moist.  His eyes were flashing.  There was nothing flippant or irrelevant about Mr. Yistle.  He was all fight – a gladiator prepared for the fray!
Then as she watched him, a bailiff banged for order.  Every one stopped talking, and Mr. Yistle began.
" ... Necessary to inform you gentlemen that a murder case tried before a United States court is entirely different from a murder case tried before a State court.  In this court, gentlemen, there are no degrees of murder.  The defendant, if found guilty, is not guilty of first or second-degree homicide, or of first or second-degree manslaughter.  He is guilty of murder.  If he is found guilty, he is hanged.  If he is not found guilty, he is freed.  There are no halfway measures in a Federal court.
As the representative of the United States district attorney, who is too ill to conduct this prosecution, it is my duty to prove to you beyond a reasonable doubt that that man who is seated over there, that man known as Roger Pawling, is guilty of the deliberate, horrible murders of Captain Caleb Dawn and First Officer Dirk Morton."
Mr. Yistle now went on to define to the jury just what was meant, legally, by the phrase, "a reasonable doubt."  His bearing was majestic.  His eloquence was fiery.  His attitude, as he talked, became that of an inspired avenger.
"I consider it my sacred duty, gentlemen of the jury, to prove to you beyond a reasonable doubt that Roger Pawling did deliberately enter the cabin of Captain Dawn and murder him by severing his head with an ax; that he then entered the cabin of Dirk Morton, and in the same brutal and fiendish manner did bring his life to an abrupt end.
"Before I present witnesses, I wish to introduce as Exhibit A for the United States this drawing of the deck plan of the Jula Jungle, and as Exhibits B, C, and D these detailed drawings of the after house, the saloon, and the rooms occupied by the officers, the passenger, and Miss Dawn.  Has the defense objection?"
"The defense has," Gillian said.
Mr. Yistle glared at him.  Mr. Haughton stared at his assistant with icy inquiry.
Judge Barlow said: "Mr. Hazeltine, I thought you had approved of these various sketches in a conference with Mr. Yistle yesterday."
"Your honor," Gillian grimly replied, "certain information has just come to me that has caused me to change my mind on using sketches and photographs.  I respectfully petition that this trial take place on board the Jula Jungle."
"I emphatically object," Mr. Yistle barked.
Gillian addressed at him a steely blue glance, and quickly shifted his eyes to the two judges.
"If the court please," he said in a voice that seemed to ring, "moving the trial to the schooner would obviate the use of sketches and photographs, and it would eliminate frequent visits by attorneys, jurymen and judges to the schooner.  This trial threatens to be a long-drawn-out affair.  The United States has upwards of twelve witnesses.  The defense will produce more than twenty witnesses.  The mass of testimony from this formidable array of witnesses will be materially reduced if testimony is taken at the scene of the murders."
Mr. Yistle burst out: "Your honor, I will admit that adjournment to the schooner would make the task of news-reel cameramen and news photographers easier.  May I suggest to your honor that if Mr. Hazeltine's suggestion were followed, there would be great difficulty in controlling the great boatloads of spectators who would hover about.  In case of rain, where would we be?"
"In the very spacious dining saloon," Gillian promptly answered.
There was great finality in Mr. Yistle's headshake.
"I submit," he claimed, "that such action would be absolutely without precedent."
"I submit," Gillian came back, "that whereas we are submitting evidence on a nautical scene to a jury of landsmen, it would greatly simplify matters if the scene were constantly before their eyes.  Lengthy explanations of nautical terms would be eliminated.  I submit that this court's calendar is crowded, and that my suggestion, if followed, would greatly reduce the time required for this case."
Judge Barlow beckoned Gillian and Mr. Yistle to the bench.  The two attorneys joined with the two justices in a spirited discussion.  With Gillian supplying the pros and Mr. Yistle the cons, the argument waxed warm.  The courtroom grew restless.  A bailiff banged for order.
Judge Barlow at length said: "Mr. Hazeltine's suggestion to adjourn court to the Jula Jungle is, while without precedent, a practical and workable one.  The court orders an adjournment.  I regret that there will be no room aboard for spectators, but there will be space enough for the press representatives.  Gentlemen of the jury, you are admonished to discuss this case with no one on your way to the Jula Jungle.  Court is adjourned."
Mr. Yistle irritably gathered up his papers.  Mr. Haughton was also displeased.  He said to Gillian with his usual frankness:
"You are displaying the cheap showmanship for which you are so notorious.  You have something up your sleeve."
"Yes," Gillian agreed.  "It's been up there since the day that old hulk came into the river.  It became an amazing suspicion only a few minutes ago, but it is too preposterous to discuss."
Mr. Haughton looked skeptical.  He still clung, after all this time, to the belief that Roger Pawling was the murderer, and nothing Gillian had said had shaken him.  He said now, with biting irony:
"I suppose that, at the scene of the murders, you will be able to pin the guilt on the real murderer more easily than you could in this court room."
"You've guessed it," Gillian said.
He joined the exodus of jurymen, judges, witnesses, bailiffs, stenographers and newspapermen to taxicabs.  Gillian, Roger, a bailiff, Mr. Haughton, and Carolina rode in one cab.
At the waterfront, a police launch was used to transfer the crowd to the deck of the schooner.  Reporters perched on the roof of the after house.  Benches were procured for judges and jury; more benches for witnesses.
There was no wind, but the sky was overcast.  Rain might begin to fall at any moment.
Mr. Yistle, shuffling irritably through a portfolio of papers, snapped:
"My first witness will be, Miss Carolina Dawn."

CHAPTER XI
"OUR ONLY CHANCE"

There on a box beside the steering wheel was the witness stand.  The daughter of Caleb Dawn, looking very slim – and small and young, walked to the chair and raised her right hand.  A clerk with a Bible heard her oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Turning to the jury, Mr. Yistle said: "Gentlemen, before we can proceed to the taking of material testimony, it is first necessary to prove to the satisfaction of the law that the two men named in the indictment as the victims of Roger Pawling's horrible act are actually dead.  I have asked Miss Dawn to take the stand solely to establish the fact.
"Miss Dawn, shortly after two o'clock on the morning of April 12th, did you, as the result of a certain confusion and outcry, leave your stateroom downstairs – in the after house and make the discovery that your father and Dirk Morton, the chief mate, had summarily met their death?"
"I did," the girl answered in a low voice.
"You knew both men in life well enough so that your inspection of their dead bodies left no doubt in your mind that Captain Caleb Dawn and First Mate Dirk Morton had been murdered, presumably in their sleep?"
"I did."
"That will be all.  Does the defense wish to take this witness?"
"No," said Gillian.
"You are excused, Miss Dawn.  My next witness will be Ben Carney."
At this juncture a tug chugged by, with a movie photographer on the deck rapidly turning the handle of his camera.  Mr. Yistle snorted.  Mr. Haughton sniffed.  So, audibly, did several of Mr. Haughton's Boston witnesses.
The Negro cook slouched to the stand.  He automatically raised his hand and was sworn.
Flatfootedly, Mr. Yistle faced him.  "Mr. Carney, on the morning of April 12th, were you called upon to perform a very painful but necessary duty in committing the remains of Captain Caleb Dawn and of Dirk Morton to the sea?"
"Yassuh.  Sho' was disagreeable and painful."
"Kindly tell the jury just what you did."
"Ah sewed up de cap'm and de mate in sailcloth lak Misto' Lahssen done tol' me, suh.  Dassall.  I sewed up each gemman separate, with iron bars 'round 'em, so's the sharks wouldn't bite through the sailcloth and eat 'em.  Yassuh."
"Now, Mr. Carney, in performing this very painful but necessary duty, did you chance to examine the torsos of the two dead men?"
"The whassos, suh?"
"The bodies from the waist up.  Specifically, the necks.  Did you examine the necks, or the stubs of necks, of the two dead men?"
"Sho' did, suh."
"What conclusion did you draw as to how those two unfortunate men had met their death?  Tell the jury."
The big black man looked at the jury.
"Yassuh," he said amiably, and rolled his eyes.  "De perclusion Ah drawed was dat de cap'm and de mate had had dey heads lopped off neat wid an ax.  Yassuh.  One wallop – and off came de cap'm's head.  One wallop and off came de mate's head.  Lak dat!  Whant!  Whant!" 
"They must have been terrific blows," suggested Mr. Yistle.
"You tell 'em, boss.  Whamt!  Whant!  Dassall!  Goo'-by, friends.  Hello, hebben!"
Mr. Yistle turned to Gillian.  "I will recall this witness later to support and confirm certain material testimony.  Do you wish to cross-examine him now, or will you wait?"
Gillian waved his hand in dismissal.
Hans Larssen was Mr. Yistle's next witness.  The big blue-eyed blond, who had been the acting master of this ship until Carolina Dawn's "mutiny," went to the chair.  He was calm, composed.  His eyes on the jury were mild and trustful.
Larssen testified that, as acting master, he had performed burial services over the two bodies and consigned them to the sea.
Having legally established that the two dead men were dead and now at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, Larssen was excused subject to recall, and Mr. Yistle began his real attack.
He said to the jury: "Because the events of that tragic night were observed by the witnesses I shall produce, I will have the story of the death of Captain Dawn and Dirk Morton told to you from the witness stand in proper time order from beginning to end.  First, we will hear from Mr. Peter Wallaby."
Peter Wallaby crossed the deck to the chair.  He sniffled as he sat down.  He looked dolefully at the jury.  He sniffled again.  He looked as if he might burst into tears.  The tip of his sharp little nose was red.  It seemed to twitch.
Mr. Yistle began to fire questions at him.
"Are you the steward of this boat?"
"Yes, sir; I ham, sir."
"Are you personally acquainted with that young man sitting over there on that bench?"
"Yes, sir; that is Mr. Roger Pawling."
"In the course of your duties as steward, was it necessary for you to go in and out of the dining saloon frequently?"
"Yes, sir."
"On these visits did you ever hear Captain Dawn and Mr. Pawling arguing or quarreling?"
"Yes, sir; often, sir.  After the first week out, it seemed like the captain and Mr. Pawling were quarreling hall the time, sir."
"What were they quarreling about?"
"They were quarreling about Captain Dawn's daughter – the young lydy a settin' over there, sir.  It seems as 'ow Mr. Pawling 'ad took quite a fawncy to the young lydy, sir.  And the captain, 'e objected most strenuous, sir.  And on the night before the captain was murdered by this young man–"
"Objection!" Gillian snapped.
"Sustained," ruled Judge Barlow.
Mr. Yistle: "It has not yet been proved, Mr. Wallaby, that Mr. Pawling committed the murders.  You must not presume that."
The cockney sniffled and smiled.  His vampire teeth flashed and became invisible.
"I get you, sir.  On the night before the captain was murdered, the two of them almost came to blows, sir.  The young man, Mr. Pawling, 'e says to the captain, 'Captain, 'e says, 'if you think Carolina and I aren't goin' to get married, 'e says, 'you're a crazy old fool.  If necess'ry,' e says, 'I will kill any man wot stands between me and 'er.'"
Carolina's nails were biting into her palms.  She sent a wan look at Gillian, but he only smiled.  His smile said: The lying has only begun.
Mr. Yistle was briskly and capably leading his witness to tell of other quarrels Roger had had with the Captain, and of quarrels he had had the mate.
On numerous occasions, Wallaby testified, Roger had threatened each of the two men.
"'E and the myte, Mr. Morton came to blows, sir, the night before the myte was killed.  The myte, 'e knock Mr. Pawling unconscious, sir; when Mr. Pawling came to, the myte says, 'If I catch you 'angin' around that innocent girl again, 'e says, 'I knock your teeth down your dirt throat.'
"And what did Mr. Pawling say to that?"
"'E says, 'Oh, you will, will you?' 'e says.  'Well,' 'e says, 'two can at that game.  You may not live,' 'e says, 'to knock my teeth down throat.'"
Mr. Yistle began to review Wallaby's testimony.  He refreshed the, witness' memory, and Wallaby, sniffling, recalled further quarrels, and further threats the prisoner had made on the lives of the two men.
When the fact had been firmly established that Roger Pawling had done practically nothing on board the Julia Jungle except to quarrel with the captain and mate and threaten their lives, Mr. Yistle said politely: "Through with this witness."
Gillian did hot move from his bench.  He said:
"Do you intend to recall this witness, too?"
"I do," said Mr. Yistle.  "Do you waive cross-examination?"
"Not entirely," Gillian answered with a grim smile.  "I want to ask Mr. Wallaby one or two questions.  They concern Mr. Wallaby's past.  Mr. Wallaby, I want you to think this question over, weigh it carefully – and answer it truthfully.  Were you ever arrested and tried for murder?"
Mr. Yistle loudly objected, declaring that the question was irrelevant.
"I am merely," Gillian explained, endeavoring to impeach the credibility of this witness."
Judge Barlow said: "The objection is overruled.  Proceed."
"Answer the question," Gillian said to the witness.
"Well, wot if I was?" snarled the cockney.  "We all myke mistykes, don't we?  I myde mine in Sydney, Australia.  I was young.  I was took in by a crowd of roughs.  I was drinkin' and gamblin'.  I can explain everything!  You listen!"  The cockney's voice was going higher and higher.  He was making wild gestures with his hands, fluttering his fingers in great arcs, flashing his little vampire teeth.  "I killed that blighter in self-defense!"
"Don't lie to me!  You stabbed Dan Parker, a British seaman, in the back after a fight in a pub on the night of January ninth, nineteen hundred and twelve.  Wasn't there a fight in that pub?"
"There was.  Everybody was fightin'–"
"Didn't you follow Dan Parker down an alley afterward and stab him in the back?  Didn't you get twenty years for it?  And wasn't the case reopened in a higher court and the verdict reversed because of a technical error?  Isn't that how you got your freedom after you had deliberately and with premeditation murdered that seaman?"
The cockney was beating on his knees with his fluttering hands.
Mr. Yistle harshly objected.  He said that Gillian was bulldozing his witness.
"I am merely proving that this man's testimony in any court of law is not fit for intelligent men to hear!" Gillian hotly countered.
"Well, what of it?" Mr. Yistle shouted.  "You have established in the minds of the jury that the witness made an early mistake.  Your honor, I object to this testimony."
"Overruled!"
"Exception!"
"Exception is noted.  Mr. Hazeltine, have you finished with this witness?"
"If the court please, I have endeavored to prove that this man's testimony is worthless in any court of law.  I submit that his testimony under direct examination be stricken from the record."
"Denied!"
Mr. Yistle grinned savagely at Gillian.  He might as well have cried, like a triumphant duelist, "Touché!"
"It will be my plan," Gillian addressed the court, "to prove, one at a time, that the five material witnesses are unfit to testify in this or any other court.  Each of these men has a criminal record and–"
"Objection!" Mr. Yistle cried, "It is summation."
"Sustained," ruled the court.  "Save such remarks for your summing up, Mr. Hazeltine.  Are you through with this witness?"
"No, your honor."  Gillian turned back to Wallaby: "Wallaby, do you own a quarter interest in this boat?"
"Yes, sir."
"Does Larssen own another quarter interest?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you and Larssen ever quarrel with Captain Dawn as to what kind of trading she was to engage in?"
"Oh, no, sir.  We just had friendly talks.  That's all.  We never quarreled."
"If Captain Dawn were out of your way, you and Larssen could do what you wished with the schooner, could you not?"
"Objection!" Mr. Yistle snapped.  "The question is inferential."
"Overruled.  The witness will answer."
Wallaby looked scared.  He said: "What was the question?"
"I'll put it another way," Gillian said.  "You and Larssen would have profited by murdering the captain, wouldn't you?"
"No, Sir!" Wallaby shrilled.  "Indeed not!"
"But didn't he oppose your plan of taking this schooner to the Gulf of Mexico and putting her in the copra trade, or the booze-running or dope-running racket?"
"We weren't goin' to run booze or dope!" the witness shrilled.  "We were goin' to carry copra."
"But the captain opposed you!"
"The captain, 'e 'ated the tropics."
"Answer my question yes or no.  Didn't the captain oppose your plan of taking this boat south?"
"Yes!"
"Then, if you had killed him, you could have taken the boat south."
"We didn't kill him!"
"Wallaby, who cut the lifeboat away from these after davits?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Who took the door off Mr. Pawling's room and threw it overside?"
"Mr. Pawling did sir, while Miss Dawn guarded us with a gun."
"This witness is excused for recall," Gillian said.
Mr. Haughton was frowning.  He was impatient for the United States to finish presenting its case, so that he could produce the cream of Boston's aristocracy.  He said reprovingly to Gillian:
"You are being too antagonistic."
"I haven't even begun," Gillian growled.  "Our only chance so far is to plant in the jury's mind the fact that each of these witnesses has a criminal record and that at least two of them would have had something to gain by the captain's death.  That's my campaign."
Mr. Haughton sniffed.  Mr. Yistle barked:
"Ben Carney – recall!"

CHAPTER XII
GORY TESTIMONY

THE large and powerful black man returned to the witness stand with a grin.
Mr. Yistle: "Mr. Carney, did you keep an ax in the galley of this ship?"
"Yassuh."
"What was its purpose?"
"It come in handy when Ah needed to split firewood fo' de galley stove, suh.  Cain't split firewood widout an ax, boss."
"At any time did you observe that the accused – Mr. Pawling – was peculiarly interested in this ax?"
"Ah sho' did, boss.  He sho' was interested in dat ol' ax.  He used to come back to de galley an' heft it.  He used to take it out and split up wood fo' exercise.  Ah didn't hab no quarrel wid him about splittin' mah wood.  But what got me wonderin' was when he whetted it up.  Yassuh.  He sho' did whet up dat ole ax."
"You mean, he sharpened it?"
"Dassit!  He sho' did sharpen up dat ol' ax.  He whetted it an' he whetted it till dat ol' ax was jes' lak a razor.  Sho' could split a hair on it when he got through whettin'.  Never did see such a fine cuttin' edge on an ax in mah bawn days."
"Well, what was his purpose in sharpening the ax?  Tell the jury about that."
"Reckon Ah cain't explain it, suh.  Whuffo' does any man want an ax so sharp?  Mebby he was fixin' to chop off somebody's haid."
"Objection!" Gillian barked.
"Sustained.  Strike out that answer."  Judge Barlow bent a severe gaze on the Negro.  "You must answer questions directly and without inference or supposition."
The Negro said, "Yes, jedge.  Sho'.  But whuffo' did he sharpen up dat ol' ax dataway?  It was lak dis, jedge.  When a man splits wood, he wants a dull ax.  When he chops wood, he wants a sharp ax.  We wasn't choppin' wood, we was splittin' wood.  It was already cut to length fo' de galley stove.  Whuffo' did he whet up dat ol' ax jes' to split wood?  Da's whut Ah wanna know."
"I see," said the judge.
Gillian could not pounce on that testimony, and it was dangerous testimony.  He knew that the Negro was lying about the ax, but Carney testified so convincingly that the jury would believe him.
Mr. Yistle asked: "When did this happen?  When did Mr. Pawling put such a sharp edge on that ax?"
"De mawnin' ob de day the cap'm and mate was kilt."
The reporters perched on the deck of the after house murmured.  A bailiff glared at them.
Mr. Yistle: "Ben, did you ask Mr. Pawling why he was sharpening that ax?"
"Yassuh.  I says to him, 'White boy,' I says, 'whuffo' you whettin' up dat ol' ax so sharp?'  And he says, 'Mebbe Ah's gwine kill somebuddy, nigga.'  Dat's whut he says."
Mr. Yistle bowed to Gillian, and his eyes were sparkling.
"Ben," Gillian began his cross-examination, "were you ever convicted on a criminal charge?"
The Negro rolled his eyes.  He lifted his big shoulders.
"Boss man, Ah disrecollect."
"Perhaps I can refresh your memory.  On the evening of December twenty-fifth – Christmas night – in 1920, did you not attack a washwoman in Daytona, Florida, with a razor, and slash her face and neck so that it was necessary for her to spend two months in a hospital?"
"Ah don' seem to remember."
"I see.  You've attacked so many women with a razor that you don't recollect that particular incident.  After all, a man who goes around slashing people with razors as you've done wouldn't recall a single little instance like that one.  Isn't that the size of it?"
"Listen heah, white man–" the witness indignantly began.
"Objection!" snapped Mr. Yistle.
"Sustained.  Reframe your question, Mr. Hazeltine."
"Yes, your honor.  Carney, you served seven years for slashing that woman with your  razor, didn't you?"
"No, suh!  Ah sutny did not!  Ah only served fo' yeahs."
"Then you admit slashing that poor, crippled old lady with your razor?"
"She wasn't a po' crippled old lady!  She was a pow'ful young wench.  We had wu'ds.  Dat black gal, she rode me all ragged, she did."
"So you slashed her with your, razor.  You're quite an expert on sharp-edged tools aren't you, Carney?"
"Ah knows a cuttin' edge when Ah sees one."
"Your honor," Gillian said, "I submit that this man's testimony under direct examination lacks credibility because of his criminal record.  If the court please, it should be stricken from the record."
"Denied."
This request was purely technical.  Gillian knew that his wish would be denied.  He merely wanted to keep in the forefront of the jury's minds that a witness with a criminal record was unreliable.
"Will this witness be recalled?"
"He will," snapped Mr. Yistle.  "Next witness – Lester Slick!"
The gorilla man took the stand and testified that he was a deck hand and was personally acquainted with Roger Pawling.
Mr. Yistle: "Mr. Slick, kindly describe to the jury your actions and observations in regard to the accused on the morning of April twelfth at or before two o'clock."
"Well, sir, it was a hot night – so hot that a man couldn't get a wink of sleep in the fo'c's'le.  So Pierre Lohac and I drug out our mattresses and laid 'em on the stabbard side o' the deck just for'ard o' the galley, where we could get what breeze was blowin'.
"The Frenchman and I was layin' there, tryin' to get to sleep.  The second mate, Mr. Larssen, was at the wheel.  He had just struck four bells – two o'clock, that is, in land time – when I see this young feller, this Roger Pawling, come sneakin' along the deck like he didn't want nobody to see him.
"I was lyin' on my back, looking up at the stars beyond the riggin', when I heard the scuff of his foot on the top stair, or the wave check at the top of the stairway leadin' for'ard out o' the after house.  When I looked, there he was, dim-like in the light o' the stars.  He was actin' so sneaky that I sat right up and looked.  But he didn't see me or if he did, he didn't pay no attention.  He snuck into the galley, and when he come out he had the cook's ax in his two hands, holdin' it to his chest like this."
Mr. Slick demonstrated how the accused had held the ax.
"He walked back down the deck to the after stairway again, and I give Frenchy a nudge in the ribs.  I says, 'Frenchy,' I says, 'there's some dirty, work goin' on here.  Wake up.  Roger just borried the cook's ax and took it down into the after house.'
"So Frenchy and I, we circled the after house on the port side and we find Ben Carney standin' beside the wheel talkin' to Mr. Larssen.
"I told Mr. Larssen what I had just saw.  And the words was hardly out of my mouth when it happened!"
"What happened?" Mr. Yistle barked in the breathless silence.  A fine drizzle was falling, but no one gave heed to it.
"I'll have to explain," the witness answered.  "Mr. Larssen was standin' there, with one hand on a spoke o' the wheel.  Ben was standin' right there with his back to the rail, and Frenchy and I were standing right there.
"From where the four of us was standin', we could see through those portholes there into the cabins."
"Wait a minute," Mr. Yistle stopped him.  "Do you mean there were lights in those cabins?"
"I'm gettin' to that," the gorilla man answered.  "That porthole there is the porthole of the captain's room.  And that one in the middle there is the porthole of Mr. Pawling's room.  And that one, over on the port side, is the porthole of the first mate's room."
Mr. Yistle said sharply: "What did you see in those portholes?"
The gorilla slowly shook his head.
"It was terrible, it was.  While the four of us was watchin', we saw Mr. Pawling come into the skipper's room with a candle in his left hand and the ax in his right.  We wondered what he was up to.  Not one of us had the idee that he was up to anything like cold-blooded murder.  We just stood and watched, curious-like.
"Mr. Pawling, he set the candle down on that little table under the porthole, then he grabbed the ax in both hands, lifted it up and swung it down with a terrible swing.  Up come the ax and down come the ax!  Like that!
"We heard the thump of it, then a gurglin' sound, and a sort of splashin' sound.  I figgered that when a man gets his head lopped off like that, clean, the blood squirts out of the neck arteries in a solid stream.  It must have been that stream strikin' the bulkhead that I heard."
"Never mind what you thought.  What did you do?"
"Do?" Mr. Slick repeated.  "We was just struck dumb.  It was just like seein' a terrible dream, it was.  We just couldn't believe such a thing – goin' in like that and loppin' off a man's head while he was asleep.  What would you 'a done?"
"Answer my question.  What did you do?"
"I told you – we was froze stiff!  We watched Mr. Pawling pick up the candle–"
"Was his hand steady?"
"I don't remember.  He picked the candle up–"
"Wait a minute.  Let's go back a little.  Did you see the ax strike the captain?"
"I don't like to think about it," the witness answered.  "Yes, sir.  I saw it all.  The old man was lyin' face down on his bunk.  It was built as a double-decker, but he had the upper bunk took out.  On account o' the heat, he didn't have a stitch of anything on him.  He was layin' there plumb naked.  I saw Mr. Pawling lift up the ax and bring it down smack on the old man's neck.  His head come off just as neat and clean–"
"That will do."
Roger had risen from the bench on which he sat beside Gillian.  He was pale and his lips were working convulsively.  Gillian quickly grasped his arm and pulled him back.  "Never mind," he said.
"But don't you see," the young man whispered huskily, "he's making it sound so damned convincing!  I'd almost believe it myself!  They're building up an absolutely watertight case!  No wonder he can describe it in such detail!  If Larssen didn't do it, he did!"
The witness was saying: " ...  Just froze stiff, we was.  And before we could snap out of it, we saw him take that candle up and move on past his room into Dirk Morton's room.  Dirk was layin' on his bunk like the skipper had been, without a stitch on, only he was lyin' face up, with his head facin' the door.  His mouth was open and he was snorin'.
"Mr. Pawling come in, put the candle down on the edge of the washbasin and took two hands to the ax again.  We began yelling at him.  He looked up, holdin' the ax, but he couldn't see nothin' because the light was on his side o' the porthole.  Up come the ax – and down come the ax!  And off come Dirk Morton's redhead!"
The witness paused again.  Every one on the after deck, including the two judges, was staring at him with horror.  Even Gillian was, for the moment, spellbound by the picture he had drawn.  It was vivid and real and it sounded like truth.  He was realizing what a tremendous task lay ahead of him, in persuading the jury to disregard the testimony of these men.  How carefully they had rehearsed these lies!  How beautifully Mr. Yistle had trained them.
Mr. Yistle said: "You saw Mr. Pawling, the accused, strike off Dirk Morton's head with the ax, after he had struck off Captain Dawn's head with the ax.  The light afforded by the candle was sufficient in both cases for you to identify the man with the ax as Mr. Pawling, and his victims, respectively, as Captain Dawn and Dirk Morton?
"Yes, sir.  We could see it plain."
"You say he struck each man a single blow?"
"Yes, sir.  He had been practicin' on that wood pile and his aim was mighty good."
"Tell the jury what happened after you saw Mr. Pawling strike off Dirk Morton's head."
"Things was pretty confusin', they happened so fast.  The first thing, as I rec'lect, was that Mr. Pawling picked up the candle and started out of the mate's room.  I remember Mr. Larssen yellin', 'Come on, you guys.  We gotta grab that feller!  He'll be killin' us next!'
"Well, we hesitated about gone' down into that cabin.  Mebbe you can understand why.  It was dark down there by then, and nobody wanted their head to come off the way the captain's and Dirk's had come off.  We went to the head of the stairs and waited there a minute.
"We heard the sounds of the ax smashin' down below.  Later on, we figgered he had gone all around the big room smashin' things.  He smashed in a panel on Miss Dawn's door, and he smashed in a panel on his own door.  I guess he smashed up a few chairs, too, but I ain't sure."
The witness paused and bared his tobacco-stained fangs.  Mr. Yistle continued his examination:
"Let's go back into Dirk's room a moment.  Mr. Slick, after you saw Mr. Pawling chop off Dirk Morton's head, did you notice him do anything strange?"
"Well, it was all pretty strange, Mr. Yistle.  Just what do you mean, for instance?  I don't quite understand what you mean."
"I mean, did you see him do anything strange in connection with Dirk Morton's head?"
"Oh, yes.  Yes, sir, that's right.  It sure was strange, all right.  After he had chopped off his head, he stood and watched the blood squirting out of the mate's neck and the body flopping around the way a chicken's does when you cut off its head.
"Then he stooped over that bloody mess and picked up the head by a handful of red hair.  He stood and looked at it a second, then he grinned.  Then he went out with the head in one hand and the ax in the other.  It was after that that we heard him smashin' things up."
Gillian wondered if the jury had swallowed that.  Coming as an afterthought, it sounded unconvincing.  But the jurymen were gazing raptly at the witness, with horror written on their faces.  They had evidently swallowed it word for word.
Mr. Yistle: "He didn't pick up the candle when he went out?"
"No, sir; he had his hands full as it was.  But he knocked the candle over, or it fell over, I forget which.  Anyway, there was no light at all.  Just those sounds of smashing goin' on down there, and Mr. Larssen tellin' us to go down and grab him.
"All of a sudden, it got quiet again.  I know now that Mr. Pawling was running up the for'ard stairway and to the rail and throwing Mr. Morton's head overboard with the ax.  He came back down the stairs, and when he got down, we got there just about a second later.  We all struck matches, and we grabbed him."
In the tense silence Mr. Yistle walked ponderously over to the witness.  He placed the palm of his left hand under the elbow of his right arm.  Slowly he shook his right index finger in the gorilla's face.
How about the captain's daughter?  Where was she?  What was she doing?"
"When we got down into the cabin, she was in Mr. Pawling's arms.  She had fainted.  She was comin' to as we crowded around.  First thing she says was, 'Oh, Roger, why did you kill them?"
"There must have been blood on her from his hands."
"Yes, sir; she was all smeared with blood from him.  She kept yellin': 'Oh, Roger, why did you kill them?'  Then she got hysterics.  She laughed and cried and carried on somethin' awful."
"I want you to tell the jury about the blood you saw on Mr. Pawling and elsewhere."
"Well, sir, he was bloody all over.  There was blood on his face and on his hands and wrists clear up beyond his elbows.  His hands was solid blood.  His pajama sleeves was soppin' wet with it.  It was terrible.  The saloon and the skipper's and mate's cabins was like a slaughterhouse.  Blood everywhere and on everything."
"When you seized Mr. Pawling, what did you do with him?"
"We put him in irons."
"Did he resist?"
"I'll tell the cock-eyed world he did!  He socked Frenchy in the jaw and Pete Wallaby in the forehead and knocked them cuckoo.  We carried him into the chain locker."
"Did he escape from there?"
"You might call it escapin'.  Noon the next day, the five of us was settin' in the saloon eatin' lunch when Miss Dawn's door pops open and out she comes with a gun in her band.  She says to stick 'em up.  She made Mr. Larssen hand over the keys to Pawling's handcuffs."
"That will be all for the present," Mr. Yistle said.
Gillian arose.  The drizzle was increasing.  He said:
"Mr. Slick, what was Mr. Pawling wearing that night?"
"A suit of pajamas and a blue bathrobe."
"What became of them?"
"They must have been thrown overboard, sir."
Gillian pointed to the window farthest over on the port side.
"Is that the porthole at which you were standing when you saw Mr. Pawling chop off Dirk Morton's head?"
"Yes, sir; that's the one."
"You saw him place the candle on the washstand, then pick up the ax and chop off Mr. Morton's head?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then you say he stood and watched the blood spurt out of the stump of the dying man's neck and observed the manner in which the body was jerking and twitching?"
"Yes, sir."
"And then you saw him stoop down and pick up Dirk Morton's head?"
"Yes, sir."
"From where you were standing, or crouching, what did that head look like?  Try to describe it."
"I don't know if I can, sir.  Mr. Morton had, as you know, bright red hair.  Mr. Pawling just grabbed a handful of it and held up the head."
"Was the hair long?"
"Yes, sir.  Dirk wore his hair pretty long."
"He wasn't inclined to be bald?"
"No, sir; he had real thick hair."
"Was his mouth open – I mean, when Mr. Pawling picked up the head and looked at it"'
"I think it was.  And the eyes were open, too.  I can remember seeing the light on them.  It was terrible."
Gillian nodded.  "Mr. Slick, I want you to tell the jury just what was your honest opinion of Dirk Morton.  Please answer that question carefully.  Take your time.  Did you love him like a brother?"
"No, sir; I did not.  He was a bully.  No one liked him.  He was mean to everybody on board.  Captain Dawn was a-scared of him half the time.  I don't think he realized what a bully Dirk was when he signed him on."
"Did Dirk ever beat you up?"
"There wasn't a man in the crew he didn't beat up sometime or other."
"It didn't break your heart when he was killed, did it?"
Mr. Yistle started to object.  He was wearing a puzzled frown.  He opened his mouth, reconsidered, and closed it.
The witness bared his yellowed fangs in a leer.
"I didn't bust down and bawl when I knew he was dead!"
Mr. Yistle interrupted: "Your honor, I can't see that this line of questioning is getting us anywhere.  It strikes me as being entirely irrelevant."
But judge Barlow would not sustain his objection.  He told Gillian to continue.  Gillian did so, but he took a new tack.
"Mr. Slick, was Mr. Wallaby on this deck with Mr. Larssen, Ben Carney, Pierre Lohac and you when the murders were committed?"
"No, sir."
"Was he in the cabin when you arrested Mr. Pawling?"
"He was.  That is, he came down right after us,"
"Where had he been?"
"I think in the fo'c's'le."
"How long have you been a deck hand in the crew of this schooner?"
"Four years and two months up to the time we anchored here."
"In those four years, Wallaby and Dirk Morton were also members of the crew, were they not?"
"Yes, sir."
"They had been sailing in this schooner before you joined the crew?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you ever see Dirk Morton beat up Wallaby?"
"Yes, sir; several times."
"Did it ever strike you that Wallaby was under the influence of Dirk Morton?  I'll be more specific.  Did it strike you that Dirk Morton ordered Wallaby around like a slave?"
"Yes, sir.  I noticed that."  The gorilla's eyes were narrow now, and glinting with suspicion.
Gillian proceeded more cautiously.
"Did you sever wonder about it?"
"I guess we all wondered about it."
"Didn't you have a conversation once with Mr. Pawling in which you stated that you thought Dirk Morton 'had something on' Wallaby – meaning, a knowledge of some guilty, incident in Wallaby's past?"
"I don't recall any such conversation," said the witness.
"Your memory," Gillian barked, "has been surprisingly fresh on other points.  Try to recall that conversation."
"I don't remember it."
"Very well.  Let's go back a few years," Gillian suggested suavely.  "Were you not arrested in Pensacola, Florida, on March 18, 1923, by Coast Guard officers with a gang of rum runners in connection with the murder of Coast Guard Lieutenant Andrew Leslie?"
The gorilla bared his fangs.  "Did I kill him?" he snapped.  
"Were you not sentenced to a three-year term for perjury?"
"What if I was?"
"Your honor," Gillian said quickly, "I submit that this man is a perjurer; was convicted of a charge of perjury in a United States court; that his entire testimony is inadmissible."
Judge Barlow denied Gillian's request.  The judge then said to the jury:
"Gentlemen, I presume that you are all aware of what Mr. Hazeltine is trying to do.  He has every right to bring up the question of these men's criminal pasts, if they have such pasts.  Such testimony as they have given in direct examination is admissible to the record.  I am sure that Mr. Hazeltine will not object to my making it quite clear that he wishes you to consider the weight of their testimony as influenced by their criminal records.  He has a perfect right to cast doubt on the credibility of every witness the United States offers.  Do you wish to ask further questions of this witness, Mr. Hazeltine?"
"Yes, your honor."  
Gillian addressed Slick.  "I want you to tell the jury just when you had that mark tattooed on your chest.  Kindly open your shirt and show the jury that mark."
The gorilla unbuttoned his shirt.
Gillian: "When was that mark tattooed there?"
"I don't remember."
"Wasn't it done on the forenoon of the day Captain Dawn and Dirk Morton were buried at sea?"
"I don't remember."
"I'll try to refresh your memory," Gillian said grimly.  "On the night of May 6, did you go to a night club with a girl named Clara Delaney?"
"Here, in this town?"
"Here, in this town."
"Well, what if I did?"
"In the course of the evening, don't you recall telling Miss Delaney that Ben Carney tattooed you, Pierre Lohac and Pete Wallaby, with a careful and artistic imitation of the mark on Hans Larssen's forearm?"
The gorilla snarled.  "So that tomato was one of your spies, eh?"
"I can produce her to corroborate what I am saying."
"Don't bother.  Sure!  We got tattooed that morning.  We didn't have anything else to do.  We were killin' time."
Mr. Yistle interrupted.  He declared that all of these questions and answers were irrelevant.  The two judges looked inquiringly at Gillian.
Gillian  said to them: "I am endeavoring, a step at a time, to prove that a conspiracy exists to send the accused to the gallows; that these five men have plotted and planned to foist the guilt of the two murders on him.  Each of the five men has this mark tattooed somewhere upon his body.  That mark is prima facie evidence that such a conspiracy was and is in effect."
Judge Barlow said quickly.  "Can you prove that now, Mr. Hazeltine?"
"My whole defense, your honor, is based on the fact that such a conspiracy exists and that each member of it, because of previous criminal records, is unfit to give testimony in any law court."
"Objection is overruled, You may proceed, Mr. Hazeltine."
"This witness is excused," Gillian said.
"My next witness," Mr. Yistle snapped, "is Hans Larssen."

CHAPTER XIII
A DANGEROUS WITNESS

THE big, blond mate took the stand and was sworn.  Very carefully Larssen answered Mr. Yistle's questions.  Yes; he had been at the wheel, aft, at the hour of the murders – two o'clock in the morning.  Yes; he had looked into the portholes at the rear of the after cabin, and, by the light of Pawling's candle, had seen Roger Pawling dispatch with the ax first the captain, then the big redheaded mate.
"Why," Mr. Yistle asked, "did you not run down into the cabin when you saw Mr. Pawling murder the captain?  Why did you not rush down there and overpower him?  Why did you permit him to go into Mr. Morton's cabin and murder him?  Kindly give the jury your own answers to these questions, Mr. Larssen."
The mild blue eyes of the second mate traveled to the jury.
"We were scared stiff, that's why.  After what we had just seen – the way he chopped off the skipper's head – no man alive would have gone down there.  He could have blown out that candle and killed any of all of us.  The only firearms aboard were down in that cabin."
"When did you go down?"
"It must have been a couple of minutes after he chopped off Dirk Morton's head.  We decided to rush him.  When we went down there he was in a daze.  He was holding Miss Dawn in his arms and–"
"Wait a minute!  Did you hear her say, 'Oh, Roger, why, did you kill them?'"
"Yes, sir.  I heard her say it several times."
"Did you see much blood on him?"
"Yes, sir, he was smeared all over with blood."
"Did he offer resistance when you tried to put him in irons?"
"Yes, sir.  He knocked out two of the men and kicked me in the shins."
Mr. Yistle questioned Larssen at length, drawing from him a more detailed picture of the murders and of the arrest of Roger Pawling.  Larssen made an excellent witness.
Gillian opened cross-examination by asking the big blond man to tell him something about the unusual influence which Dirk Morton was reputed to have exercised over Pete Wallaby.
"I was not aware of it," Larssen said firmly.
"Do you recall saying on one occasion to Miss Dawn that it struck you as strange that Wallaby would stand for such abuse from Dirk Morton, unless Morton had something pretty serious on Wallaby?"
"No, I don't."
"Didn't you once ask Dirk Morton why he was so abusive to Pete Wallaby?"
"I did not."
Gillian abandoned that line of questioning.  He said:
"Mr. Larssen, when I questioned you on the morning when this boat put into port here, I asked you about the weather on the night, or morning, of the murder.  You told me that there was no wind, that there was a flat calm sea?"
"Yes, sir."
"It was hot and calm?"
"Yes, sir."
"It must have been very unseasonable weather."
"Yes, sir."
"This boat was not moving at all?"
"No, sir."
"The sails were hanging limp and motionless?"
"Yes, sir."
"When a sailing vessel is becalmed in such a way as you have described, and if there is no indication that a wind is apt to spring up, is it customary for a man to stay at the wheel?"
"It was on this ship, sir.  Captain Dawn was very particular."
"But Captain Dawn was in bed and asleep, wasn't he?"
"That makes no difference.  He was my superior officer and he had given me orders to stay at the wheel.  I was at the wheel."
"You always obey orders without question?"
"I always do!"
"Have you never disobeyed an order that a superior officer has given you?"
"I always obey orders!"
You aren't lying?"
Larssen glared at him.  "You heard me.  I always obey orders!"
"Why were you discharged from the crew of the schooner Azura in Baltimore on January 5, 1913?" Hazeltine demanded.  "Wasn't it because the captain – Captain Black – told you to take charge of the ship while he motored to Philadelphia, and then came back unexpectedly to find you had gone ashore on a spree?"
Larssen did not answer.  
Judge Barlow said: "The witness will answer!"
"I had forgotten."
"Then you do," Gillian pressed his point, "occasionally disobey orders when the captain isn't looking?" 
"Say," Larssen snapped, "I can see through you like a piece of, glass!  If I say I wasn't at the wheel, you'll say: I was down in the cabin with that ax!"
"That's where you were, wasn't it?"
"No!" Larssen roared.
"But you've admitted you, weren't at the wheel!"
"I do not!  I was at the wheel!  I tell you, I was at the wheel!"
"In a dead flat calm, with the skipper asleep, and the barometer showing no indication of wind coming?"
"Yes, yes, yes!  I was at the wheel!"
"You're going to stick to that story, are you?"
Mr. Yistle objected.  He was sustained.
Gillian: "Mr. Larssen, isn't it true that you use cocaine?"
"What if I do?"
"In using cocaine, isn't it customary, using it as you do, to dissolve a cocaine tablet in warm water, fill the needle with this solution and inject the contents into a vein?"
"You seem to know as much about it as I do!"
"You use cocaine, do you not, when your spirits are low – when you have need of reckless courage?"
"Objection!" roared Mr. Yistle.
"Sustained!"
Gillian said rapidly: "Larssen, isn't it true that you left that wheel to fix yourself a shot of cocaine so you'd have enough nerve to go into that cabin and kill those two men?"
"No!  No!  I didn't kill them!  I tell you, I was at the wheel and saw Pawling cut off those men's heads!"
"Where did you take cocaine that night?"
"I don't remember."
Gillian said quickly: "After you took the cocaine, who were the ghosts that you saw?"
"I didn't see any ghosts!"
"Who cut the lifeboats from these after davits?"
"I don't know!"
"Let's go briefly over the events of the morning following the murder.  After breakfast, you ordered Ben Carney to sew up the dead men in canvas for burial.  When they were properly sewed up, you read the burial services and put them overboard; then you had Slick, Lohac, Wallaby and Barney tattooed.  Then what did you do?"
"I didn't have them tattooed.  They had themselves tattooed.  After that we sat down to eat lunch."
"What did you do after the tattooing and before lunch?"
"Nothing."
"Didn't you throw Mr. Pawling's door overboard?"
"No!  He threw it over himself so he could get away with that fishy story about its panel having been smashed and having blood on it!"
"Did you see him?" 
"Yes!"
"What do you know about that missing lifeboat?"
Larssen looked at him narrowly.  Then he said harshly: "Nothing, mister; not a thing."
"When did you first notice that it had been cut from its falls and was towing astern by its painter?"
"I didn't pay any attention to it.  I didn't see it.  How could I?  There wasn't any wind until an hour or two after we had been nailed up in the after cabin."
"You mean, you weren't on this deck at any time after the murder and the arrest of Mr. Pawling?"
"No.
"Of course; why should you be?  There was a flat calm, didn't you say?"
"That's what I said."
"You didn't think it was necessary to be at the wheel or to put a man at the wheel?"
"No."
"Yet, at the time of the murders, it was calm, too, and you were at the wheel.  How can you account for that?"
Larssen's eyes had narrowed to slits.  His hands were clenched into fists on his knees.  He licked his lips repeatedly and blurted:
"I was captain after the murders, wasn't?"
"Yes!" Gillian said triumphantly.  "You could do what you pleased then, couldn't you?"
"I had command of this ship, if that's what you mean."
"And you were also a fourth owner.  With the captain out of your way–"
Mr. Yistle shouted an objection.  He was sustained.
Gillian grimly proceeded, reframing his question: "You were in command, and you had, at the captain's death, acquired the right because of your quarter ownership to dictate where she should go?"
"I did."
"And you decided to take her to Mexico.  Why Mexico?' Why not the nearest port?"
"Why not the port we were cleared for?" Larssen growled.  "What difference did it make?  We weren't inside territorial waters, were we?  I could decide the best place to go, couldn't I?"
"Why were you going to Mexico?"
"Because I was going to put this boat in the copra trade, as I'd been wanting to do."
"Not dope-running or rum-smuggling?"
"I said copra."
"Didn't you have a conversation in Havana, Cuba, about a year ago with a man named Leon Harmanos, who owns a rum distillery there?"
Larssen did not answer.
"Didn't you tell Leon Harmanos that you were planning to turn this boat into a rum-runner?  Didn't you talk to him about shipments?"
Larssen spat out: "What if I did?"
"Then you were lying about the copra."
"I was not.  I intended carrying copra."
"To hide the rum?  Well, never mind.  Let's go on.  I suppose, Mr. Larssen, you have been reading the lengthy newspaper accounts of this case since this ship came into port here?"
"I have."
"Then you must have read of the statement given out by Mr. Arnold Blackwood to the effect that that tattoo mark on your forearm is an old secret symbol of your family, and was used by one of your ancestors a Swedish pirate named Johannes Larssen, as a house flag."
"Sure.  I read that."
"Do you deny that it is true?"
"I certainly do."
"Your honor," Gillian said, "I should like to read into the record the report that Mr. Arnold Blackwood, the cipher expert, has made on this tattoo mark that these men are wearing."
Mr. Yistle hotly objected, but was overruled.  Gillian read the report and another report, this one from a genealogist, who had traced Hans Larssen's pedigree directly back to the old pirate.  The report concluded with the statement that Hans Larssen's great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, Johannes Larssen, had been hanged in Maracaibo in the year 1708.
Then Gillian addressed the witness with this question:
"You deny, do you, that you were carefully organizing this crew to stand behind you on a rum-running or dope-running program or any other illegal sort of venture, call it piracy or what you will?"
"I do!"
"Then I ask you once again: Why did you have that old pirate's house flag tattooed on the bodies of these men?"
The Swede stared at Gillian malevolently.  Gillian quickly turned to the jury.
"Gentlemen," he said, "you have been listening carefully to all of this evidence.  You have heard me prove with reports from authorities that this man is a descendant of a pirate who was hanged; that he is wearing on his forearm the symbol of that old pirate, that he was planning to engage in rum-running, dope-smuggling, or some other illegal venture – perhaps piracy.  Now I want you to hear his answer to my question: Why did he have that piratical emblem tattooed on these three men?"
"Objection!" yelled Mr. Yistle.
"Overruled."
"Because," Gillian said with a wide smile, "they thought it was pretty?  Is that why they had it tattooed on themselves?"
"They liked the looks of it," Larssen shouted.
Mr. Yistle now moved that all of this testimony be stricken from the record.  His request was denied.  He drew a deep breath and looked at Gillian.  In that look was supreme confidence.  Gillian might shake his witnesses on minor points, but he could not budge them an inch from their story of the murders.

CHAPTER XIV
MORE SPECTERS FROM THE PAST

GLLIAN resumed: "Mr. Larssen, were you ever convicted on a criminal charge?  To be exact, did you serve five years in the French penal colony on Devil's Island – 1915 to 1920 – for beating to death a beggar who asked you for a few centimes on the water front at Marseilles?"
"I didn't know I was going to break his neck."
Mr. Yistle groaned.
"Ah," Gillian pounced, "so you didn't know you were going to break his neck!  Did you care?"
Mr. Yistle: "Objection!" 
"Sustained."
"Mr. Larssen," Gillian pursued, will you kindly tell the jury just how you broke that beggar's neck?"
"It was an accident," the mate growled.
"You mean, he fell off the dock and broke his neck?"
"No," the witness muttered surlily.  "I pushed him.  He fell.  He broke his neck.  It was too bad."
" And you served five years on Devil's Island?"
"What if I did?"
"Very well.  Let's not go into that.  Let's go into another matter.  Why did you leave Sweden eighteen years ago?"
"Because I wanted to go to sea."
"No other reasons?"
"No.
"Have you ever been in a town in Sweden near Stockholm, named Norrkoping?"
The witness nodded curtly.
"Where did you spend the years 1911 and 1912?"
"I don't remember – in Sweden."
"Did you not spend those two years in a prison in Stockholm for seducing a fifteen year old girl in Norrkoping?"
The witness's mild blue eyes were dancing now with fury.
"I don't remember!" he snarled.
"You deny seducing the girl?"
"I don't remember!"
"And you don't remember organizing the crew of this schooner to go in for piracy?"
"No!  I did not!"
Mr. Yistle wiped moisture from his forehead.  The drizzle, which had stopped, had set in again.  But the moisture on Mr. Yistle's brow was not entirely bestowed by heaven.
Gillian surrendered the witness to him.  And Mr. Yistle tried desperately to restore Larssen to his former stature.  But Larssen had lost his temper.  Smarting under Gillian's lashing, he snapped at Mr. Yistle.  He became a little confused.  Mr. Yistle gave it up.  Gillian leaped into the breach, in recross-examination, and reduced Larssen to a state of sputtering incoherency.
But the next witness, Pierre Lohac, turned the tide back again under Mr. Yistle's clever questioning.
Pierre Lohac told of having been waked up by Lester Slick, as they were lying on deck, shortly after four bells on the morning of the murders; told of seeing Roger Pawling sneak down the forward stairway of the after house with the ax in his hand.  With excited gestures, Lohac described the two murders just as Larssen and Slick had described them.
Then Gillian took the witness.  "Mr. Lohac, why did you have that mark tattooed on your body?" 
"Because I liked it."
"You admired it?"
"Yes, sir."
"For artistic reasons?"
"Yes, sir."
"You liked it so much that you wanted it copied on your body so that you could admire it at your leisure.  That's what you mean, isn't it?"
The Frenchman's eyes were flashing.  He may have been thinking of more than one thing at a time.  At all events, he fell into the trap.
"Yes, sir.  So I could admire it."
Mr. Yistle groaned.  Distinctly he said, "Oh, my God!"
And Gillian said rapidly: "Then why, in the name of heaven, did you have it tattooed on your shoulder blade?"
The Frenchman stared at him.  He wet his lips.  He made several expressive gestures with his hands.  Then he grinned foolishly.
"You have me there," he admitted.
Mr. Yistle groaned again.  Gillian, having turned the tide once again on this insignificant pebble of a trick, hastened to say:
Mr. Lohac, I suppose you have no criminal record.  I suppose you have never been convicted of the crime of murder."
"No, sir.  Never!"
"That distinguishes you from the other four members of this conspiracy, doesn't it?"
"Objection!"
"Sustained."
But Gillian plunged on.  "Not being a murderer places you on a much higher level than your shipmates, does it not?"
Judge Barlow said sharply: "Mr. Hazeltine, you must confine yourself to the taking of direct testimony.  Your last two questions are inadmissible, as calling for a conclusion."
"I apologize," Gillian said.  "We will go back.  Mr. Lohac, I want to ask you again: Have you ever been convicted of a murder?"
"Objection!" shouted Mr. Yistle.
"Sustained!  Mr. Hazeltine–"
"Your honor, I apologize."  But Gillian did not look contrite.  He said:
"I will reframe the question: Mr. Lohac, have you ever been sentenced on a criminal charge?"
The Frenchman looked pale and worried.  He hesitated so long that Gillian helped him.
"Perhaps your memory is bad, too.  Did you not serve two years in the Atlanta penitentiary, beginning in 1922, for your participation in smuggling cocaine, heroin and morphine into Louisiana from Cuba?"
"I was framed!"
"But did you serve those two years?"
"No!  My time was shortened for good behavior!"
"You're excused."
Several of the jurymen laughed.  Even judge Barlow smiled.  Then he said:
"Mr. Yistle, how many more witnesses have you?"
"Only one, your honor – Ben Carney.  And I wish to recall Peter Wallaby afterward."  
Judge Barlow looked at his watch.  He said: "I think we'll have time to hear one of them before we recess for luncheon."
"I would suggest, your honor," Gillian said, "that we adjourn to the dining saloon for the remainder of this session.  This drizzle of rain is growing worse."
This suggestion was acted upon.  Judges, jury, stenographers, witnesses and lawyers descended to the Jula Jungle's spacious dining saloon.  Chairs and benches were brought down.  Lamps were lighted.  Reporters huddled in doorways.  A chair in a corner was selected as the witness stand.
Mr. Yistle announced his next witness: "Benjamin Carney – recall!"

CHAPTER XV
A FIGHTING CHANCE

GILLIAN eyed the big Negro uneasily as he went to the stand.
Ben Carney had a quick imagination.  His story somehow remained the most credible of any that had been told.  His testimony now, as an actual eyewitness, might well be very damaging.  But Gillian had other facts of Carney's criminal past with which to combat this.
Mr. Yistle began the examination by asking Carney where he had been at about four bells, or two o'clock, on the morning of April 12.
The Negro's teeth flashed whitely in the dark room.
"Ah was standin' on de after deck wid Misto' Lahssen.  It was too hot fo' sleep; so Ah had come up and walked aft fo' a breath ob air.  De mate and Ah was standing there talkin" 'bout Misto' Pawling and de ol' man, and how dey was always wranglin' 'bout Miss Carolina.  when Misto' Slick an' Frenchy come hot-footin' it around from de stabbard side an' said dey had jus' saw Misto' Pawling go sneakin' down de for'ard stairway wid an ax – de ax Ah done tol' you he was whettin' dat mawnin'.  Yassuh."
"Did you see Mr. Pawling go into the two cabins and chop off the heads of the two men?" Mr. Yistle' encouraged.
Yassuh.  Sho' did.  Ah seed dat boy go into de cap'm's room, and den into de mate's room, wid a candle in one hand and de ax in de other.  Ah seed him lop off dey heads – jes' lak dat.  Whain!  Whamt!  Boss, Ah means to say Ah was one scairt black boy.  Yassuh!  It sho' turned mah blood into ribbons ob ice."
"Did you see Mr. Pawling pick up Dirk Morton's head from the floor, after severing it from his body, and stare at it?"
"Yassuh.  Ah seed dat, too."
"You saw him carry it out of the room?"
"Yass.  Sho' did."
"After you had recovered from the shock of that horrible sight, were you one of the men who rushed into this room and seized Mr. Pawling?"
"Yassuh.  Ah was de last one down!  We done seized him right ober by dat do'."
'Did you see any blood on the defendant?"
"Boss, ask me where Ah didn't see no blood!  Go on and ask me!  Wherever Ah looked, dat's all Ah saw.  Blood on everything.  Blood on his hands.  Blood on his face.  Blood all ober de flo'.  Nebber did see such a mess.  No, suh."
Gillian took the witness.  Unwrapping a paper parcel, he brought to light a pair of large rubber gloves and a yellow oilskin coat.
"Ben, do you recognize these articles of clothing?"
"Ah sho' do'!  Dey's mine!"
"Where'd you get them?"
"I bought the oilskin.  A ship doctor made me a gift ob dem gloves."
"Where were they on the night of the murders?"
"In de fo'c's'le – under mah bunk.  Yassuh!"
Gillian put the objects down and walked toward the Negro.
"Ben' do you deny that you ever discussed with Mr. Larssen, Pierre Lohac, Lester Slick and Peter Wallaby a proposition of Mr. Larssen's to turn this schooner into a rum boat – or a pirate ship?"
"Yassuh, sho' Ah do.  Ah mean, no, suh, Ah nebber did!"
"You mean," Gillian promptly took him up, "they wouldn't let you into the Conspiracy because you're a black man?"
"No, suh, Ah don't.  Mah color didn't make no difference.  Dey–"  He stopped, seeming to choke.
"They let you into the conspiracy, did they, to send Mr. Pawling to the gallows and turn pirates?"
"No, suh," the Negro shouted.  "No sech a thing.  Wasn't no 'spiracy.  Ah done tol' you dey wasn't no 'spiracy!"
"Ben," said Gillian, "that sentence you served in Florida for slashing that washwoman wasn't the only time you ever served, was it?"
"Ah don't know whut you mean, boss," he said uneasily.
"I seem," Gillian said, "to be spending most of my time refreshing your and your shipmates' memories.  Didn't you get into a knife fight with a white man named Judson Herrick, in San Francisco, on the afternoon of July 4, 1911?"
"Did Ah?"
"Didn't you?  Didn't you stab that man seven times in the chest?  Didn't you serve ten months for that?"
"Boss," said the cook earnestly, "lemme explain.  Ah did cahve mah 'nitials on dat white man, jes' lak you say.  'Cause why?  'Cause he run in a pair ob loaded dice on me in a crap game.  Yassuh!  He had it comin'!"
"In other words, whenever you get angry at a man – or a woman – you pull out a razor or a knife, or you pick up an ax–"
"Nebber picked up no ax to hit a man wid!" the Negro shouted.
"How do we know?"
"Ah'm tellin' you.  Dat's why!"
"All right!  Whenever you get mad, you use some sharp-edged cutting instrument–"
"'Tain't so!  Ah cahved dat black wench, an' I cahved dat crooked gambler.  Dassall – ain't it?"
Gillian waved his hand.  Mr. Yistle sprang up and attempted to undo the damage Gillian had done.  But Ben Carney was resentful.  He was rattled and not a little scared.  There was dark magic in the way Gillian had resurrected those old affairs of Ben's, and Ben was wary.  He was, in fact, overcautious.  Mr. Yistle's reexamination was distinctly a failure.  The Negro practically refused to talk.
Gillian wished that it was possible to avoid the cooperation Mr. Haughton was so anxious to give.  Those Boston society folk with their supercilious airs would antagonize the jury of honest workingmen.  He wished it were possible to take up immediately a discussion of the evidence now in.
He had, he believed, an even chance to bring in an acquittal verdict for Roger as things stood now.  He was sure he had implanted in the jury's mind a suspicion, which he might fan into a certainty, that the five men had conspired to send Roger to the gallows.
Mr. Yistle was worried.  He looked worried.  There were creases between his eyes and he was repeatedly running his fingers through his hair – a sure sign.
Judge Barlow said: "Mr. Yistle, have you any more witnesses?"
And Mr. Yistle said: "I want to recall Pete Wallaby, your honor.  He is the last."
"Will this examination take long?"
"No, your honor.  No longer than ten minutes."
"Very well.  We will take recess immediately afterward.  Take the stand, Mr. Wallaby."
The cockney went to the chair in the corner and seated himself.
Mr. Yistle: "Mr. Wallaby, at four bells, or two o'clock on the morning of April 12, where, to the best of your recollection, were you?"
"Asleep in the fo'c's'le, sir."
"At what time were you awakened?"
"It must 'ave been just a few minutes after two, sir."
"What awakened you?"
"I 'eard some shouts, sir, or at least I fancied I did.  I woke up and I went to the fo'c's'le doorway and listened.  I remember that it was a blistering night, sir.  I 'eard men yelling and I ran toward them.  My first thought was that the ship was on fire.
"When I reached the after 'ouse, I 'eard the yelling down below in this room.  I came down the for'ard stairway, and everywhere I looked I saw blood.  Mr. Morton was lying dead, with 'is 'ead missing, in 'is cabin; and Captain Dawn, with 'is 'ead off, was lying dead in his cabin.  I was absolutely 'orrified, sir.  Mr. Pawling was struggling and fighting with Mr. Larssen, Mr. Carney, Mr. Lohac and Mr. Slick.  Some one said Mr. Pawling 'ad just murdered the captain and the myte.  Mr. Pawling was putting up a terrific fight, but finally 'e was subdued and put in irons.
"During this fight, did he strike you?"
"Yes, sir.  He landed a powerful blow on my forehead right 'ere, sir.  It fair knocked the daylight out of me, sir."
"Did he knock you unconscious?"
"Yes, sir; I fancy 'e did.  And at the same time, I believe 'e knocked Mr. Lohac unconscious."
"Did you see blood on Mr. Pawling?"
"Yes, sir.  'Is 'ands were bloody and 'is face was bloody.  And there was blood all down the front of 'is pajamas and bathrobe."
"Do you know what became of these pajamas and bathrobe?"
"Yes, sir; they were thrown overboard that same day."
"By whom?"
"By myself, sir."
Mr. Yistle asked a few more questions pertaining to the scene in the dining saloon when Wallaby entered it that fateful night, then dismissed him.  He said curtly:
"The United States rests."
Judge Barlow asked Gillian if he intended to cross-examine the witness on his recent testimony.
"Yes, your honor."
"It had better go over until this afternoon.  Gentlemen of the jury, we are about to take a recess until two thirty o'clock this afternoon.  The Court admonishes you not to speak about this case among yourselves or permit any one to speak to you about it.  You will keep your minds open until the case is finally submitted to you.
"Bailiff, if you will have the police launch come alongside, we will go ashore.  You will take charge of the prisoner now, and the other bailiff will accompany the jury to the nearest restaurant.  I believe there is a good restaurant located near by on Water Street."
The few newspapermen who remained filed out.  Since they had come aboard, their number had thinned considerably.  In ones and twos they had been hastening ashore, to file their running stories.
Carolina waited until no one remained but Gillian and herself.
"Gillian," she said, "how do things stand?"
The lawyer shrugged.  "If Yistle and I could start arguing the case immediately after recess, there might be a fighting chance, I am worried about Haughton.  He will befog the issue.  If I only had a clean deck, I might succeed in convincing the jury what liars these five witnesses are.  But I'll frankly admit that, as things stand, the odds are against us."
"But, Gillian, with what you brought out about that tattoo mark, you've proved there was a conspiracy!  And what about these amazing disclosures you've been hinting at?  Aren't you convinced it's Larssen?"
"I've run into blind alleys," Gillian said wearily.
"But even if you get Roger off with clever arguments, there'll still be a horrible cloud over him.  You've got to find the guilty man!"
"If I can get him off at all, I'll be satisfied.  Run along now, Carolina.  I've got some terrific concentrating to do."
She looked at him for some hope, but there was none to be found in his face.
When she was gone, Gillian sat down at the table, opened a leather dispatch case and removed from it a thick pile of documents.  These represented only a small part of the data he had been securing through agents from various corners of the world.  Much of this data was worthless, but he had industriously and tirelessly sifted through it all.
Gillian opened a bound record of the Jula Jungle's career.  The old schooner had engaged in almost every known trade, from pearling to filibustering.  Gillian made a note of the filibustering, and picked up the several bound volumes of typed sheets which represented the detailed reports of several operatives on the activities of the schooner's crew.
All of these reports were fundamentally the same as the first that had reached his desk.  Except for a few mildly drunken shore parties, the five men had conducted themselves beyond reproach.  Perhaps they were too conscious of being shadowed.  They had done considerable painting and caulking on the schooner.
Generally, they spent their evenings shooting pool or at a movie.  Dan Murphy had seen to it that plenty of girls were thrown in their way; but the only piece of information of real value that the girls had secured had been that which pertained to the tattooing.
Lester Slick, the human gorilla, had said nothing more of importance to the Delaney girl.  The five men had for the most part, lived simply and quietly aboard the boat.
Gillian smoked and pondered these simple, straight, innocent facts – and got nowhere.
Filibustering'!  The word tapped at Gillian's imagination.  Filibustering!  Eleven years ago, so the record ran, the Jula Jungle had successfully run a number of machine guns through the United States blockade into Nicaragua.  One night a destroyer had stopped the Jula Jungle, but her captain had somehow bluffed his way through and, landed the machine guns.
Gillian sat back in the chair and smoked and scowled.  Suddenly his mouth opened and the cigar slid out of it and fell.  He jumped up and ran up the forward stairs and into the rain.
His subsequent actions were comparable to those of a man suddenly bereft of reason.  He opened hatch covers' and scrambled down into cargo holds.  He returned to the deck and raced forward to the fo'c's'le, only to turn about again and start madly aft.  When he was amidships, he saw the police launch putting out from the dock.  He would not have time to give full play to his inspiration.  But wait till he had Wallaby on the stand!
Gillian went into the bathroom and washed the cobwebs and grime from his face and hands.  He went out on deck and paced up and down with a long blue plume of fragrant cigar smoke trailing him while the two judges, the jury, the prisoner and the witnesses came aboard and went below.  He called to Carolina, but she did not hear him.  As she disappeared into the cabin, he started aft.
Gillian threw his cigar overboard and went down the stairs with the light of battle in his eyes.
"Filibustering."  A word packed with adventurous possibilities!

CHAPTER XVI
STARTLING EVIDENCE

JUDGE BARLOW, declaring court open, requested Peter Wallaby to take the stand.  Gillian watched the cockney as he walked to the chair as a cat might watch a rat on which it will presently pounce.
Mr. Wallaby," he began, "I want to go over once more some of your testimony.  How long have you been steward of this schooner?"
"For fifteen years, sir," said Wallaby, showing his little sharp vampire teeth.
"All of that period, until the night of April I2, you served with Dirk Morton, did you not?"
"Yes, sir; all of it."
"Will you kindly tell the jury in what business this' schooner was engaged during the summer of 1919?"
"Eleven years ago, sir?  Let me think.  In the summer of 1919, she was engaged in carrying lumber, I believe, from Charleston to Nova Scotia.  'Alifax, to be exact, sir."
"Let me refresh your memory, Mr. Wallaby.  Wasn't it the summer of 1920 that she was in the lumber trade?  On the previous summer, wasn't she engaged in filibustering – carrying machine guns and ammunition into Nicaragua?"
The witness wet his lips.  He shot a glance at Mr. Yistle.  But Mr. Yistle could give him no help.
Wallaby nodded.  "Yes, sir; I believe she was, sir."
"Did she not, on the night of August twenty-fourth, successfully land in Nicaragua, on a beach near the town of Prinzipolca, about a hundred machine guns and ten thousand rounds of ammunition?"
Again Wallaby glanced in distress at Mr. Yistle.  And Mr. Yistle acted.
"I object, your honor.  I cannot see how incidents which may or may not have taken place eleven years ago have any bearing on the guilt or innocence of the man charged with these murders."
"What I have in mind, if the court please," Gillian replied, "has a direct bearing on the murderer."
"You may proceed, Mr. Hazeltine."
"On this August night, eleven years ago," Gillian resumed, "was not this schooner overhauled by a United States destroyer?"
Even in the dim light of the room, the cockney's pallor was noticeable.  His eyes began to glitter with fright.
"Yes, sir," he mumbled.
"Did officers from the destroyer come aboard this schooner?"
"Yes, sir.  They came aboard to see our papers, sir."
"And when they saw your papers, didn't they search this ship for machine guns and ammunition?"
Wallaby started to shake his head.  His color was now almost green.  He stammered: "Y-yes, sir!"
"Did they find any?" Gillian shot at him.
"N-no, sir!  You see–"
"Why didn't they find them?"
"They only looked 'astily, sir!"
"And when the destroyer officers went back to their own ship, this schooner proceeded to shore, did it not, and landed those machine guns and ten thousand rounds of ammunition on the beach near Prinzipolca?"
"Ye-yes, sir!"
"Where," Gillian roared, "were those machine guns hidden?"
The cockney cowered back.  He licked his lips.  He rubbed his hands together.  He fluttered them in futility.
"I-I don't know, sir!"
"You were on board this ship, were you not, when those machine guns were loaded?"
"Yes, sir!"
"You were on board this ship, were you not, when they were unloaded?"
"Y-yes, sir!" came a hoarse whisper.
"Where were they hidden?"
"I tell you," the cockney cried, almost squealing, "I don't know.  I never knew.  I never asked."
"They were so well hidden that the naval officers did not find them.  Weren't they?  Answer me!"
"Ye-yes, sir."
"Where were they hidden?"
"I tell you, I don't know!"
Gillian turned to the jury.  "Gentlemen," he said, "it has been obvious to you throughout this trial that I do not subscribe to the proposition stated at the outset by the United States acting district attorney.  In short, I have been convinced that the accused is not guilty of the murder of Captain Dawn and Dirk Morton.  Before going on with the present witness, I must ask your tolerance while I give you my picture of what happened aboard this schooner on the fateful morning of April twelfth."
Mr. Yistle said promptly: "Objected to as summation."
Gillian said: "I beg to submit that it is not summation.  It takes the form of a detailed question which is being put to this witness.  Will the court give a ruling on this point?"
After a brief discussion, Gillian was instructed to proceed, with the stipulation that the judge could still rule the testimony inadmissible, if he felt it were not relevant.
"In considering the murders which took place on this schooner," he went on, "and in the course of my investigations, I came upon a number of puzzling and enlightening clues or signposts which pointed the way, in my mind, to the solution to this problem.  The problem is, simply: Who killed the two men?
"As they arranged themselves in my mind, there were about a dozen points to be considered and analyzed.  They were:
"What was, or is, the significance of the tattooed mark on the bodies of these men?  Why had it been placed there, at Larssen's instigation, shortly following the murders?
"Had the rubber gloves and yellow slicker found by a policeman under Ben Carney's bunk been worn by the murderer and washed in the sea afterward?
"How otherwise was it possible for the five men in the crew – bearing in mind my contention that Roger Pawling is innocent and that one of them had an easy opportunity to commit the murders – manage to appear in the dining saloon within five minutes after the murders were committed without blood being seen on any of them?
"Why were the head and the ax thrown overboard?
"Where was Larssen when the murders were committed?
"Where were the other members of the crew?
"Was there a stowaway aboard?
"Why do Larssen and Wallaby turn pale when ghosts are mentioned?
"Who removed the door from Roger Pawling's room and threw it overboard?  Why was this done?  Who cut the lifeboat falls and tied the boat to the stern rail by its painter?
"What value to us is the fact that Wallaby and Dirk Morton sailed together in this ship for fifteen years?
"What was behind the powerful influence that Dirk Morton is known to have exerted over Wallaby?"
Gillian paused.  There was no sound in the cabin but the steady drumming of rain on the roof.
"Let me take up these points separately," the lawyer continued.
"Let me give you my answers, in order that I can compound a single vitally important question to ask this witness.
"Was Larssen at the wheel before or after those murders took place, or while they were taking place?  He certainly was not!
"Had the gloves and slicker been worn by the murderer?  They had not.  They were under Ben Carney's bunk at the time.
"Why do Larssen and Wallaby turn pale when ghosts are mentioned?  Because they know that I have guessed the truth.  I will return to this point again in a moment.
"Why and when was Roger Pawling's door thrown overboard?  Because it was battered in and covered with blood and proved that he did not commit the murders.  It was thrown overboard next morning.  By whom?  That is not important.  Probably Wallaby."
Wallaby was staring at him with terror and fascination.
Gillian went grimly on: "Who cut the lifeboat from the falls and tied it to the stern rail?  Wallaby!  When?  Within an hour after the murder!  Why?  To permit the murderer to escape!
"Was there a stowaway aboard?  There was!"
"Wait a minute," Mr. Yistle expostulated.  "Are you trying, to tell us that a stowaway committed these murders and made his get-away"
"Nothing of the kind," Gillian answered.  "I will discuss that stowaway in a moment.  Let us consider the tattoo marks.  Why did Larssen have them put there?  I will admit that the tattoo mark was my first real clue, because it meant conspiracy.  By whom?  Why, Larssen, of course!  Why should Larssen organize this conspiracy?  To make absolutely sure that the murders would not be fastened upon him!  He was going to put this boat into the rum trade or the dope trade or the hijacking racket – all so close to piracy that it was easy for him to persuade these adventurous cutthroats that they could profitably organize under his banner!  United, they were a pirate band and would reap riches in Southern waters with this schooner disguised as a copra boat!  United, and if they cooked up a plausible story, Roger Pawling instead of one of them would be hanged for the murders!"
Mr. Yistle barked: "What you're doing is accusing Larssen of committing the murders!"
"Let's put it this way," Gillian said.  "Let's say that Larssen went to all these pains so that suspicion, even if placed upon him, would be cast off by the clever story he and his shipmates concocted with Roger Pawling as the victim!"
Gillian mopped his forehead with a snowy handkerchief.  He stuffed the handkerchief into a side pocket of his coat, took a deep breath and faced the jury again.
"Gentlemen, I am not summing up this case.  In a moment I am going to ask this witness if what I say is not true – every detail of it.  But there are other questions: What possible connection is there between these murders and the successful attempt of this schooner to smuggle machine guns and ammunition into Nicaragua eleven years ago?  Where was Larssen when the murders were committed?  Where were his shipmates?  How was it possible for the five men, any of whom might have committed the murders, to appear in this room without a spot of blood on any of them so soon afterward?
"I'll answer those questions briefly.  Larssen's shipmates were taking cocaine.  It makes no difference where he was or what he was doing.  He was not at the wheel!  It was possible for the five men to appear in the cabin shortly after the murders because none of them is the murderer!"
Mr. Yistle sank back with a relieved and contemptuous, smile.
Gillian went on, in a tense voice: "Let's follow Larssen!  He leaves the paint locker – or wherever he went – and returns to the after deck.  Through the portholes he sees Roger Pawling with Miss Dawn unconscious on his arm.  Roger Pawling is holding a match in his free hand.  By the light of that match, Larssen sees that the captain and Dirk Morton have had their heads chopped off!  He rushes to the fo'c's'le and wakens the crew.  None of them knows who committed the murders.  What they do know is that, with their criminal records, suspicion must not be fastened on any of them.  Hence, the conspiracy; hence the general tattooing the next morning, symbolizing it!"
Mr. Yistle said impatiently: "But who do you claim committed the murders?"
"Wallaby," Gillian said; "you can answer that.  And you can tell us why, for fifteen years, you were Dirk Morton's slave!  And you can tell us where that secret hiding-place is!  Will you tell us?"
The cockney stared at Gillian with glazed eyes.  His color was green.  His lips were like ashes.
Gillian smashed his fist into the palm of his hand.  "Where," he roared, "is he hiding?"
Mr. Yistle angrily broke in: "If the court please, this witness is being bulldozed.  I respectfully submit that Mr. Hazeltine is endeavoring deliberately and with his familiar melodramatic methods to befog the issue, to confuse the jury.  With his array of startling facts, what has he proved?  Missing lifeboats!  Tattoo marks!  Criminal records!  Stowaways!  Doors thrown overboard!  Filibustering!  Secret hiding-places!
"Hiding!  Where is who hiding?  This schooner has been under guard from the moment she dropped anchor in this stream.  It is inconceivable that any man hiding on her could escape detection over all these weeks.  Let's get down to brass tacks.  Let's discuss a few of these startling facts.  Let's discuss that missing lifeboat."
"Very well," Gillian agreed.  He turned to the witness.  "Wallaby, did you not cut down that lifeboat so that the murderer could escape?  And did not Miss Dawn's unexpected arrest of you and your shipmates prevent you from helping the murderer escape?"
Wallaby stared at him stupidly.
Gillian roared: "Answer my questions!  Isn't it true that Dirk Morton is still alive?  Isn't it true that, on the morning of the murders, he somehow got in touch with you and enlisted your help?  Isn't it true that you had to help, because he has something on you?  Isn't it true that you are the only man in the crew who knows that Morton committed those murders?  Isn't it true that Morton is still hiding on this boat?"
Mr. Yistle stared at Gillian, then burst into harsh laughter.
A startling crash occurred in the small room behind Mr. Yistle.  It was Dirk Morton's old room – the room that Wallaby had been occupying since the murders.  The dirty old carpet had been violently pushed up and aside, revealing a square hole in the floor from which a trap door had been thrown back.  A man was climbing out of that hole – a gaunt, redheaded man in rags, with shocking eyes staring from cavernous sockets.
Mr. Yistle gasped, stared, backed away from the doorway in such haste that he all but fell over a chair.
Dirk Morton plunged through the doorway!
Before any one could prevent him, the man whose headless corpse was supposed to be on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean dashed toward the forward stairway.  A bailiff tried to reach him and failed.
Dirk Morton rushed up the stairway with a bailiff at his heels.  A police whistle blew.
Gillian was halfway up the stairs in pursuit when Dirk Morton, with a policeman firmly grasping either arm, was brought back into the cabin.  Handcuffs were snapped on his wrists.
Panting,  he glared at Gillian, "I'll get you," he said.
Gillian grinned.  "Morton, they always say that.  Where you're going, you won't get anything but flowers, and I doubt if you'll get those.  Who was the man who stowed away in New York, down in that secret hold, and came up that night and tried to murder you?"
Dirk Morton sneered: "Try and find out!"
"Wasn't his name Jake Harper, the same Jake Harper who sailed as second mate on this schooner eleven years ago when she was filibustering?"
"What if it was?"
"Didn't you run off to Atlantic City with Jake Harper's wife one week-end last winter, when this schooner was in dry dock – and didn't Jake Harper say he'd kill you if he had to follow you all over the world?"
Dirk Morton stared at him and made no answer.  Gillian went on: 
"Wasn't it Jake Harper who came out of that hole at about two o'clock on the morning of April twelfth?"
"What if it was?" the red-haired man snarled.
"The point that puzzles me," Gillian said, "is, who ran and got the ax?  Did he slip out and get the ax while you slept?  Or did you get it?  Never mind.  It isn't important.  After your fight with him, in which you chopped off his head – very unfortunately for you – Captain Dawn saw you.  Isn't that so?  You had to kill him, didn't you, to be rid of witnesses?  Then you stripped Jake Harper, laid his body on your bunk and threw his head and clothes and the ax overboard, before going back to hide.
"You got away with it because no one saw you.  And then, somehow, you got in touch with Wallaby, but before Wallaby could help you escape in the lifeboat, Miss Dawn had nailed him in this cabin with the rest of the crew.  And you couldn't get away all the time you've been in port, because of the police guard.  What I want to know is: What have you got on Wallaby?"
"I'll never squeal on Wallaby!" the red-haired giant spat out.
Gillian faced the judges.  "If this court please, I wish to lodge a formal charge of murder against this man.  And I wish to lodge a charge of perjury and conspiracy against Hans Larssen, Pierre Lohac, Ben Carney, and Lester Slick.  The charge against Wallaby will be more serious: perjury, conspiracy, and aiding and abetting a criminal to escape justice."
It was impossible for Gillian to make himself heard above the rising roar of voices.  Every one was talking at once.  Over tossing heads, Gillian saw Roger hugging Carolina.  His attention was then distracted by Mr. Haughton.
The Boston lawyer was pale, perspiring and puffing.
"I knew you had something like this up your sleeve, Hazeltine!" he panted.  "I knew it from the very beginning!  Humiliating me!  Humiliating my witnesses!  You were perfectly aware that this would make me the laughingstock of Boston – a brutal and heartless jest that I will never live down!"
Gillian looked at him coldly and inquiringly.  "I'm afraid," he said, "I don't quite follow you, Mr. Haughton."
"You knew all along," Mr. Haughton angrily declared, "that that man was hiding down there!  You held it out as a last-minute surprised bid for notoriety!  As if you needed notoriety!  As if you aren't sufficiently notorious already, with the sensational methods you always employ!"
Gillian looked at him for a long time before he answered that charge.  Then he didn't answer it.  All he said was:
"It's queer, but the only people who really do approve of my methods are the ones I manage to save from the gallows or the electric chair."  

THE END

GEORGE F.  WORTS
An Autobiographical Sketch

The decision to become a writer of fiction was made for me by fate.  In 1914, in Panama, where I spent a week when I was a wireless operator on a little steamer that creaked up and down the Central American coast, I met an author who painted the joys of freelancing so vividly that I could not resist the call.  We were drunk.  I was twenty.  Since then, I have been trying to catch up with all of those joys he mentioned.
Starting to write stories in 1914 and, four years later selling my first one, marks up, I suppose, a very poor batting average.  But in those years I was getting experience, seeing the world, and acquiring knowledge.  I "punched brass" as a wireless operator all over the Pacific.  I entered Columbia University in 1915, and one year later left because I didn't believe in higher learning.  I still don't believe in it.  I became a newspaper reporter, later a magazine editor.
Then came the war, which I won practically single-handed by writing high-pressure publicity to induce patriotic Americans to send books to Washington for camp libraries for soldiers and gobs.  Books came by the carload, by the ton: McGuffy's readers, old almanacs, spellers, arithmetics, out-dated novels and just trash.  The soldiers and sailors who read those books soon hated the war so bitterly that they promptly got busy and ended it.  That's how I won the war.
After the war, I wanted another look at China and was sent to the Far East by Collier's to write articles on China, the Philippines, India and Malaya.
The first story I sold was written while I was editing a motion picture trade paper.  It was bought by the Argosy, and it was about a wolf named Murg.  Don't ask me why.  In the intervening years I have written millions of words.  Perhaps it is Murg who sits so patiently at my door!
I started writing fiction under the pen name of Loring Brent, because it would have annoyed the owner of the motion picture magazine to learn that I was writing fiction out of hours.  He thought I fell asleep at my desk because I was working so hard for him!  When my income from fiction exceeded my salary, I quit the job.  Since then I have been freelancing exclusively, except for a two-year period when I lived in a Florida swamp town and added to my writing the duties of postmaster game warden and deputy sheriff.  Out of that experience came a long series of stories about a Florida town I called Vingo.
I have enjoyed most writing stories about certain established characters.  Apparently the most popular of these have been the Peter the Brazen, the Vingo and the Gillian Hazeltine stories.  I stopped writing about Peter the Brazen (a swashbuckling wireless operator on ships in the China run) about ten years ago.  He was, incidentally, the subject of the only novel I have had published in America.  I am now starting a new series about him.
When I am not traveling I live in Westport, Connecticut.  My interests are horses, sailing and flying.  I took up flying about a year ago to write some articles on how it feels to learn to fly, and was badly bitten by the bug.  I can make a three-point landing about five times out of ten.
I like New York, but would prefer to live in Honolulu.  I smoke sixty cigarettes a day.  I like murder trials.  I have never mastered the noble game of poker, although I once wrote a book about it.  In my spare time I study law and medicine.  I have two young sons and a still younger daughter; an able crew for my sailboat – except that there is usually mutiny aboard the lugger!

George F Worts
1930

THE GILLIAN HAZELTINE NOVELS BY GEORGE F.  WORTS

The Lies at any Price Murder Case
The Love Bandit Murder Case
The Ezra Klagg Murder Case
The Screen of Ice Murder Case
The Crime Circus Murder Case*
The Haunted Yacht Club Murder Case
The Reptile Named Robard Murder Case
The Lost Punch Murder Case
The Murder Most Foul Murder Case
The Jungle Murder Case
The High Seas Murder Case*
The Diamond Bullet Murder Case*
The Grapevine Murder Case
The Black Ice Murder Case
The Magpie Murder Case
The Michigan Murder Case
The Decoy Murder Case
The Missing Will Murder Case
The Gold Coffin Murder Case*
The Honest Forger Murder Case
The Five Bald Men Murder Case
The Reluctant Witness Murder Case
The Hospital Homicides Murder Case*
The Girl Rebel Murder Case
The Mr. Hazeltine Defendant Murder Case

* Available in electronic form from Deerstalker Classics and the PageTurner imprint of Renaissance E Books.