The Six Messiahs

about them on the front page of a newspaper.'

'I could not agree more,' said Hoffner.

'Since they seem perfectly aware that the Book of Zohar was not in its crate in the hold, our stowaways presumed it was still in your cabin, Mr. Stern, where they originally tried to take it from Mr. Selig. Your cabin is where they plan to strike again now under this cover of darkness.'

'But why now? Out here, in the middle of the ocean?' asked Stern.

'As opposed to a day away from shore, when their chances of escaping undetected would be that much greater?' said Doyle, about to elaborate.

'Because they've realized we know they're on board and they can't afford to wait any longer. Obviously,' said Innes.

Jolly good, Innes, thought Doyle.

'How could they know this?' asked Hoffner.

'A breach in security,' said Doyle. 'On the bridge.'

'Impossible.'

'Not one of your men, Captain. One of theirs.'

'In uniform?'

'You may regrettably discover that one of your officers has gone missing.'

'Mein Gott, then we will scour the ship top to bottom, we will find these men....'

'We shall do even better than that, Captain, but we need to act without delay, we have less than thirty minutes.' Doyle turned to the engineer. 'Do you have any red phosphorus on board?'

The engineer turned to Hoffner, who translated the question.

'Yes, sir,' answered the engineer.

'Good. Bring as much as you've got to us here at once.'

The stout little engineer, whose incomplete command of English had left him utterly perplexed by these developments, felt enormous relief at having such a straightforward task to discharge. He saluted smartly and marched out of the cargo bay.

'Captain, can you secure us some firearms?'

'Of course; they are kept under lock and key on the bridge—'

'Without alerting any of your officers?'

Hoffner tugged down on the edge of his tunic and screwed up his Teutonic pride to its fullest measure.

'I believe I can manage this much.'

'What are we going to do, Arthur?' asked Innes.

'Set a trap,' said Doyle:

'Really? Tremendous! Can I help?' asked Ira Pinkus.

Doyle turned the light on him; Pinkus had crept within five feet of them, and had been huddling there for God knows how long.

'As a matter of fact, you can,' said Doyle.

Twenty minutes later. Velvety moonlight through the porthole and unearthly quiet inside Stern's cabin.

The first sound: a pick sliding smoothly into the keyhole. Scratching as it worked its way through the pins, each one freezing until with a barely audible click the lock yielded, the handle turned. The door opened slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, until it met resistance from the reattached chain. Wire cutters moved through the gap and gripped the chain; a steady increase of pressure until the pincers sliced through the last link. A gloved hand caught the strands of the chain before they could fall back to scrape against the metal door and laid them to rest.

Now the door swung open just wide enough to admit the first blackclad figure; black from head to toe, crepe-soled shoes, a mask taut over its head. The figure took stock of the room, looked at the stationary form lying in the lower bunk, then held the door for a second identically dressed figure to enter. It moved slowly and purposefully to the edge of the bunk; a thin sliver of steel in its hand gleamed in the moonlight pouring through the porthole.

Now, thought Doyle.

As the figure in black reached for the blanket, a ghastly cry came from the corridor outside; a miserable moan of torment, rising in pitch and volume.

Easy, don't overdo it.

Both men turned to the door; a third identically dressed figure stuck its head in, beckoning them over. They glided outside and looked down the passageway at the strangest spectacle.

The incandescent outline of a ship's officer illuminated the far end of the dark corridor. A glowing, ethereal outline of a man, chains draping its tattered uniform, its eyes black holes recessed in the green-gray plane of its lamentable face. The disturbing specter moaned again, rattled its chains, raised its arms menacingly, and took a step toward the three men in black.

The figures balked, momentarily distracted.

Doyle threw off the blanket, sat up in the bunk, and leveled a shotgun at the three men in the doorway.

'Don't move,' ordered Doyle.

At the sound of his voice, the door directly across the hallway flew open: Innes holding a pistol....

One of the figures dove and rolled at Innes's knees, chopping him to the ground; his pistol discharged, the bullet pinged off the metal ceiling and died into the carpeted floor. By the time Doyle pulled the trigger, the other two figures in black had with incredible speed bolted down the passage in opposite directions; the shot ricocheted harmlessly off the bulkheads. Doyle raced to the doorway. One of the fleeing assassins ran into and leveled the 'ghost' of the Elbe—Doyle saw its luminescent form go tumbling ass-over-teakettle—and disappeared around a corner. The second intruder was sprinting directly toward the hatchway where Captain Hoffner, Stern, and the engineer were laying in wait.

The third assailant jumped up out of the opposing doorway to follow the others; Innes reached out and grabbed hold of his ankle. The man turned and cracked his free foot down on Innes's left wrist; Innes cried out, releasing his grip just as Doyle raised the butt end of the rifle and clubbed the figure across the back of the head, slamming him face first hard into the far wall, but instead of collapsing the man spun out of the collision and mule- kicked Doyle in the midsection, propelling him back through the open doorway where he collided rudely with the unforgiving frame of the bunks.

As the man in black kicked, Innes swept a leg under him; the man went airborne and met the floor with a thud. Innes scrambled to his knees and landed a crushing punch to the man's head. Doyle rushed back into the hall, pinned the barrel of the rifle against the prostrate man's chest, and jacketed a live round into the chamber.

'Move and I'll shoot,' said Doyle, wheezing to recapture his wind.

The figure lay still. Doyle gasped for air: thank God Innes was so handy with his fists. Cool under pressure, too. The Fusiliers had taught him well.

'Did we get him?' asked the ghost of the Elbe, standing cautiously ten feet away in the hall.

Startled, neither of the brothers could react quickly enough as in one move the figure in black produced a derringer from a sleeve, drew it directly to the side of his own head, and fired.

'Oh, my God. Oh, my God, is he dead?' said the ghost.

'Of course he's dead, Ira,' said Innes, thoroughly annoyed. 'He shot himself in the head.'

'Well what in bejesus would a fella go and do a crazy thing like that for?' said Pinkus, leaning back against the wall, absentmindedly wiping the compound of phosphorus off his gloves.

'You're the reporter,' said Doyle, equally irritated. 'Why don't you ask him? Stay here, Innes. I'll be back.'

Doyle moved quickly away down the corridor to their left.

'Jesus, Mary, and Joe-seppie, I was spooked something fierce, Innes, and I don't mind saying it. I think I even scared myself,' said Pinkus, fanning himself with his luminescent hat. 'Say, how'd I do? I do okay?'

'If all else fails, you could always find work haunting a house.'

'Gee, that's terrific, thanks.'