The Second Murray Leinster Megapack Read Free Page A

which had been tied into a certain intricate knot. And Bell had kept quiet. He went to his apartment, found his bags packed and tickets to Rio via the Almirante Gomez in an envelope on his dressing-table, and went out and caught a train to the ship.
    And that was all he knew. The siren up above blared dolefully into the fog. It was damp, and soggy, and depressing. The other passengers were under cover, and the decks seemed to be deserted. From the saloon came the sound of music. Bell pulled the collar of his light topcoat about his throat and strolled on toward the bow.
    He faced a row of steamer chairs. There was a figure curled up in one of them. Paula Canalejas, muffled up against the dampness and staring somberly out into the mist. Bell had met her in Washington and liked her a great deal, but he swore softly at sight of her in his way.
    The afternoon before, he had seen a stoker on the Almirante Gomez pick up a bit of rope and absently tie knots in it while he exchanged Rabelasian humor with his fellows. He had not looked at Bell at all, but the knots he tied were the same that Bell had last seen tied in a rubber band on a desk in the State Department in Washington. And Bell knew a recognition signal when he saw one. The stoker would be off watch, just now, and by all the rules of reason he ought to be out there on the forecastle, waiting for Bell to turn up and receive instructions.
    But Bell paused, lit a cigarette carefully, and strolled forward.
    “Mr. Bell.”
    He stopped and beamed fatuously at her. It would have been logical for him to fall in love with her, and it is always desirable to seem logical. He had striven painstakingly to give the impression that he had fallen in love with her—and then had striven even more painstakingly to keep from doing it.
    “Hullo,” he said in bland surprise. “What are you doing out on deck?”
    Brown eyes regarded him speculatively.
    “Thinking,” she said succinctly. “About you, Mr. Bell.”
    Bell beamed.
    “Thinking,” he confided, “is usually a bad habit, especially in a girl. But if you must think, I approve of your choice of subjects. What were you thinking about me?”
    The brown eyes regarded him still more speculatively.
    “I was wondering—” said Paula, glancing to either side, “I was wondering if you happen to be—er—a member of the United States Secret Service.”
    Bell laughed with entire naturalness.
    “Good Lord, no!” he said amusedly. “I have a desk in the State Department building, and I read consular reports all day long and write letters bedeviling the consuls for not including unavailable statistics in their communications. That’s my work. I’m on leave now.”
    She looked skeptical and, it may be, disappointed.
    “You look as if you didn’t believe me,” said Bell, smiling. “I give you my word of honor I’m not a member of the United States Secret Service. Will that do to relieve your suspicions?”
    “I believe you,” she said slowly, “but it does not relieve my mind. I shall think about other people. I have something important to tell a member of the United States Secret Service.”
    Bell shrugged.
    “I’m sorry,” he said amiably, “that I can’t oblige you by tipping one of them off. That’s what you wanted me to do, isn’t it?”
    She nodded, and the gesture was very much like a dismissal. Bell frowned, hesitated, and went on. He was anxious to meet the stoker, but this.…
    The siren droned dismally over his head. Fog lay deep about the ship. The washing of the waves and dripping of water on the decks was depressing. It seemed to be getting thicker. Four stanchions ahead, the mist was noticeable. He found that he could count five, six, seven.… The eighth was indefinite. But a bar materialized in the fog before him, and the grayness drew away before him and closed in behind. When he was at the forward end of the promenade, looking down upon the forecastle deck, he was isolated. He heard footsteps some