I thought I heard something moving behind me in the cabin, and
wheeled sharply, holding my revolver leveled. The idea had come to
me that the crew had mutinied, and that every one in the after house
had been killed. The idea made me frantic; I thought of the women,
of Elsa Lee, and I was ready to kill.
"Where is the light switch?" I demanded of Singleton, who was still
on the companion steps, swaying.
"I don't know," he said, and collapsed, sitting huddled just above
the captain's body, with his face in his hands.
I saw I need not look to him for help, and I succeeded in turning
on the light in the swinging lamp in the center of the cabin. There
was no sign of any struggle, and the cabin was empty. I went back
to the captain's body, and threw a rug over it. Then I reached over
and shook Singleton by the arm.
"Do something!" I raved. "Call the crew. Get somebody here, you
drunken fool!"
He rose and staggered up the companionway, and I ran to Miss Lee's
door. It was closed and locked, as were all the others except
Vail's and the one I had broken open. I reached Mr. Turner's door
last. It was locked, and I got no response to my knock. I
remembered that his room and Vail's connected through a bath, and,
still holding my revolver leveled, I ran into Vail's room again,
this time turning on the light.
A night light was burning in the bath-room, and the door beyond was
unlocked. I flung it open and stepped in. Turner was lying on his
bed, fully dressed, and at first I thought he too had been murdered.
But he was in a drunken stupor. He sat up, dazed, when I shook him
by the arm.
"Mr. Turner!" I cried. "Try to rouse yourself, man! The captain has
been murdered, and Mr. Vail!"
He made an effort to sit up, swayed, and fell back again. His face
was swollen and purplish, his eyes congested. He made an effort to
speak, but failed to be intelligible. I had no time to waste.
Somewhere on the Ella the murderer was loose. He must be found.
I flung out of Turner's cabin as the crew, gathered from the
forecastle and from the decks, crowded down the forward companionway.
I ran my eye over them. Every man was there, Singleton below by the
captain's body, the crew, silent and horror-struck, grouped on
the steps: Clarke, McNamara, Burns, Oleson, and Adams. Behind the
crew, Charlie Jones had left the wheel and stood peering down, until
sharply ordered back. Williams, with a bandage on his head, and Tom,
the mulatto cook, were in the group.
I stood, revolver in hand, staring at the men. Among them, I felt
sure, was the murderer. But which one? All were equally pale,
equally terrified.