Heavy feet pounded on the deck above them. The hatchway made noise as it slid back along the metallic guides.
Mason pulled Della Street toward the doorway leading to the rear cabin. “Quick,” he said in a whisper, “in the cabin!”
As Mason pushed Della Street into the rear cabin, a flashlight sent a brilliant circle of light down into the cabin, then was promptly extinguished. A leg swung over to the companionway and stopped. For a few seconds the intruder was motionless, then the leg was withdrawn. The hatch slammed back into position. Steps made sound across the sloping deck, thudded into the rowboat. Oars made a frantic splashing.
“Quick,” Mason said, groping toward the companion way, “get that flashlight, Della. Feel along on the low side of the cabin. It will have rolled down there. Get it and give it to me.”
Mason pushed up the companionway, thrust his head and shoulders out into the chill of the night air.
The mist had settled into a damp fog which hung over the water like a fleece, blanketing sounds, distorting perspective.
Panic-stricken oars were splashing vigorously out in the milky darkness.
“Hey, you,” Mason called, “come back here!”
The frenzied speed of the oars was redoubled, but no other answer came from the fog-filled darkness.
“Here’s the light. Chief.”
Della thrust the metallic cylinder into the lawyer’s hand. He pressed the button, sent a beam of light out into the fog. It was no more effective then if the beam had tried to penetrate watered milk.
The sound of oars was growing momentarily fainter.
Mason muttered his impatience.
“What frightened him?” Della asked. “We didn’t make any noise.”
“The stove,” Mason explained. “He slid back the hatch above the companionway and the heat came rushing up to meet him. He knew then someone was aboard.”
“Gosh, Chief, I was so scared! My joints are all jelly — particularly my knees.”
Mason drew her to him. He switched off the flashlight, stood with Della pressed close, listening.
There was a faint dripping sound as fog condensations dropped from the yacht. Otherwise, there was no sound.
“He may have quit rowing and is letting the tide take him out,” Mason said, disappointment in his voice. “Lord, how I wish Cameron would show up with that outboard!”
They stood straining their ears, then Della stirred uneasily, “Chief, I think I hear it!”
Once more they listened. A peculiar undertone of sound grew in volume, became unmistakably the staccato of an outboard motor.
“He’s coming from the direction where that rowboat disappeared,” Mason said. “He may run right on it. Let’s get him to hurry.”
He snapped the flashlight, elevated the beam, swung it in a series of circles, signaling the boat into greater speed.
Within a minute or two, the skiff came gliding toward them out of the darkness, the outboard motor ceasing its pulsations as an expert hand guided the skiff up to the low side of the yacht.
“Come on, Della,” Mason said. “Let’s go.”
Bracing himself, he placed his hands beneath her shoulders and swung her clear of the deck and into the skiff. A moment later, Mason was in beside her.
“Quick,” he said to Cameron. “There’s a rowboat we want to catch. Its back in the direction you came from. Give it all you’ve got for about two minutes, then shut off the motor and we’ll listen.”
“A rowboat?” the boatman asked. “I haven’t rented any boats. I...”
“Never mind,” Mason said, “let’s get started.”
The outboard motor roared into action once more. Water churned up in the rear of the skiff and as the little craft gathered headway, the moisture-beaded air struck against the faces of the passengers.
“All right,” Mason said after a couple of minutes. “Let’s stop and listen.”
Cameron shut off the motor. The boat glided along through the water, the gurgling sound which accompanied its motion for the moment making it impossible to hear anything else. Then gradually as the boat lost momentum, the silence gripped them — a fog-filled silence broken only by a very faint lapping of water against the bow of the boat. There were no sounds of oars in oarlocks.
After two or three minutes of tense listening, Cameron said, “You can’t do anything this way unless you happen to run right on him. He’ll hear you coming, get out of the way, quit rowing when you shut off the motor and then start rowing again when he hears the motor.”
“All right, then,” Mason said. “There’s only one thing to do. That’s zigzag back and forth. He must be around here somewhere.”
Immediately Cameron started the motor. The little skiff zigzagged back and forth through the fog. Mason sat up in the bow, his face straining through the darkness, searching for the vague indistinct shape on the water that he hoped would glide by, or, perhaps, loom up directly in front of the skiff.
He saw nothing.
Once more the motor slowed to almost silence. Cameron called out, “I don’t dare to do any more, Mr. Mason. I’m going to get lost. You can’t see your landmarks here. I’m not too certain where I am right now.”
“All right,” Mason conceded. “I guess it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. Which way is the yacht? I want to go back again.”
“Well,” the boatman conceded, “I’m not just exactly certain, but I’ll see if I can find it. It should be around here.”
He swung the bow of the skiff, held it steady. “I can’t leave my place there for too long a time,” he said. “I’m really not supposed to leave at all. What would anyone want aboard that yacht?”
Mason said, “I’m beginning to wonder about that myself. He’d hardly have been trying to remove something. Perhaps he knew we were aboard— Say, wait a minute. Perhaps we don’t want to go back to that yacht. He may have been...”
Off to the right and perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead, a sheet of flame mushroomed into an exploding pattern that ripped apart the night with a concussion that all but knocked them flat in the boat. A half moment later, the roar of sound crashed against their eardrums.
Instinctively the boatman shut off the motor. The boat drifted for a moment in a silence that seemed as a tangible wall blocking all sensation from their eardrums.
High overhead, there was a whirring sound in the air — a sound which grew in intensity and was followed by a splash some hundred yards off to the left. A moment later, other splashes sounded all around them.
“Falling debris,” Mason said.
Cameron shifted his pipe in his mouth. “That there explosion” he said, “must have been what you was thinking of when you changed your mind about going back.”
“And that’s that,” Mason said grimly. “Let’s get back.”
The outboard motor snarled into high speed. The little skiff fairly leaped ahead in the water then swung in a wide half circle. The particles of fog moisture misted against the faces of the passengers until the fog seemed to have turned to a drizzling rain. The cold damp chill which lay along the water penetrated through their garments to the very bone.
“Won’t be long,” Cameron said. “Just hope I’m not lost, that’s all.”
There followed an interval of several minutes during which the three persons in the little boat were too chilled and uncomfortable to do any talking. Then a sparbuoy loomed up out of the darkness almost dead ahead. Cameron swung the skiff so as to just miss the buoy, then after a few moments, swung the boat hard to port. A vague shadowy mass of land loomed against pale stars as the fog suddenly thinned. A light appeared ahead with a halo of moisture surrounding it. The little skiff swept around in a curve and, seemingly without warning, the darkness ahead resolved itself into mist-enshrouded outlines of yachts moored to the float at the yacht club.