The Grand Babylon Hotel - Arnold Bennett (surface ebook reader .TXT) 📗

can judge, she’s about sixty feet in length, and painted black. I fancy I shall recognize her when I see her.”

“Not much to go by, that,” exclaimed the other man curtly. But he said no more. He, as well as his mate, had received from Theodore Racksole one English sovereign as a kind of preliminary fee, and an English sovereign will do a lot towards silencing the natural sarcastic tendencies and free speech of a Thames waterman.

“There’s one thing I noticed,” said Racksole suddenly, “and I forgot to tell you of it, Mr. Hazell. Her screw seemed to move with a rather irregular, lame sort of beat.”

Both watermen burst into a laugh.

“Oh,” said the fat rower, “I know what you’re after, sir⁠—it’s Jack Everett’s launch, commonly called Squirm. She’s got a four-bladed propeller, and one blade is broken off short.”

“Ay, that’s it, sure enough,” agreed the man in the bows. “And if it’s her you want, I seed her lying up against Cherry Gardens Pier this very morning.”

“Let us go to Cherry Gardens Pier by all means, as soon as possible,” Racksole said, and the boat swung across stream and then began to creep down by the right bank, feeling its way past wharves, many of which, even at that hour, were still busy with their cranes, that descended empty into the bellies of ships and came up full. As the two watermen gingerly manoeuvred the boat on the ebbing tide, Hazell explained to the millionaire that the Squirm was one of the most notorious craft on the river. It appeared that when anyone had a nefarious or underhand scheme afoot which necessitated river work Everett’s launch was always available for a suitable monetary consideration. The Squirm had got itself into a thousand scrapes, and out of those scrapes again with safety, if not precisely with honour. The river police kept a watchful eye on it, and the chief marvel about the whole thing was that old Everett, the owner, had never yet been seriously compromised in any illegal escapade. Not once had the officer of the law been able to prove anything definite against the proprietor of the Squirm, though several of its quondam hirers were at that very moment in various of Her Majesty’s prisons throughout the country. Latterly, however, the launch, with its damaged propeller, which Everett consistently refused to have repaired, had acquired an evil reputation, even among evildoers, and this fraternity had gradually come to abandon it for less easily recognizable craft.

“Your friend, Mr. Tom Jackson,” said Hazell to Racksole, “committed an error of discretion when he hired the Squirm. A scoundrel of his experience and calibre ought certainly to have known better than that. You cannot fail to get a clue now.”

By this time the boat was approaching Cherry Gardens Pier, but unfortunately a thin night-fog had swept over the river, and objects could not be discerned with any clearness beyond a distance of thirty yards. As the Customs boat scraped down past the pier all its occupants strained eyes for a glimpse of the mysterious launch, but nothing could be seen of it. The boat continued to float idly downstream, the men resting on their oars.

Then they narrowly escaped bumping a large Norwegian sailing vessel at anchor with her stem pointing downstream. This ship they passed on the port side. Just as they got clear of her bowsprit the fat man cried out excitedly, “There’s her nose!” and he put the boat about and began to pull back against the tide. And surely the missing Squirm was comfortably anchored on the starboard quarter of the Norwegian ship, hidden neatly between the ship and the shore. The men pulled very quietly alongside.

XXVI The Night Chase and the Mudlark

“I’ll board her to start with,” said Hazell, whispering to Racksole. “I’ll make out that I suspect they’ve got dutiable goods on board, and that will give me a chance to have a good look at her.”

Dressed in his official overcoat and peaked cap, he stepped, rather jauntily as Racksole thought, on to the low deck of the launch. “Anyone aboard?”

Racksole heard him cry out, and a woman’s voice answered. “I’m a Customs examining officer, and I want to search the launch,” Hazell shouted, and then disappeared down into the little saloon amidships, and Racksole heard no more. It seemed to the millionaire that Hazell had been gone hours, but at length he returned.

“Can’t find anything,” he said, as he jumped into the boat, and then privately to Racksole: “There’s a woman on board. Looks as if she might coincide with your description of Miss Spencer. Steam’s up, but there’s no engineer. I asked where the engineer was, and she inquired what business that was of mine, and requested me to get through with my own business and clear off. Seems rather a smart sort. I poked my nose into everything, but I saw no sign of anyone else. Perhaps we’d better pull away and lie near for a bit, just to see if anything queer occurs.”

“You’re quite sure he isn’t on board?” Racksole asked.

“Quite,” said Hazell positively: “I know how to search a vessel. See this,” and he handed to Racksole a sort of steel skewer, about two feet long, with a wooden handle. “That,” he said, “is one of the Customs’ aids to searching.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t do to go on board and carry off the lady?” Racksole suggested doubtfully.

“Well,” Hazell began, with equal doubtfulness, “as for that⁠—”

“Where’s ’e orf?” It was the man in the bows who interrupted Hazell.

Following the direction of the man’s finger, both Hazell and Racksole saw with more or less distinctness a dinghy slip away from the forefoot of the Norwegian vessel and disappear downstream into the mist.

“It’s Jules, I’ll swear,” cried Racksole. “After him, men. Ten pounds apiece if we overtake him!”

“Lay down to it now, boys!” said Hazell, and the heavy Customs boat shot out in pursuit.

“This is