*****
The lower decks of the twenty-five ton, six hundred and sixty-six foot Empress of Japan were where the literal “lower class” of the passengers were housed for the trip. The quarters were cramped and often had four berths to a cabin. The companionways were narrow, the ceilings a little lower, and the sense of claustrophobia, of the weight of the ocean all around, very palpable.
The individuals who bought passage had a powerful reason to be somewhere other than the Asian cities they lived in, going to the promised land of North America for jobs, to flee the coming violence they all sensed was in the air or to escape a past they hoped landing in North America would wash clear. They paid considerably less than those in the upper decks but perhaps had more desperate reasons to endure the conditions steerage imposed. They had fewer privileges to see sunlight and sea or access to amenities on the two-week voyage.
Into those narrow corridors the granite man led a sergeant-at-arms and Nyoka Gordon. “Will you tell me what we are doing down here,” she asked him. “Who are we coming after?”
He remained impassive, smiling at her like an Easter Island stone head. Instead he stopped before a numbered metal door and, after a nod to the armed sailor, knocked.
“Come in, ya git, it’s not a ruddy palace!” The voice from inside growled and slurred.
Dr. Shadows pushed the door in and bent to step into the cramped room. “Very nice to see you again, Mister Carson,” the granite man said. “You should have said hello when you came up top earlier to shake a leg.”
On a bunk in the room, the Australian started when the American entered. He twisted to the side and attempted to pull a revolver from under a pillow behind him.
Dr. Shadows leapt forward and pinned the gun hand, connecting with a short sharp right to the man’s jaw with just enough power to daze him.
The sergeant-at-arms stepped forward and clamped irons on the Australian while the American stepped back with the man’s revolver.
Under the bunk a pair of buccaneer boots were clearly visible and Nyoka pointed at them.
“Yes,” Dr. Shadows said, “he was the pirate. I checked the manifest when we left Hong Kong. Mister Carson’s name wasn’t on the steerage passengers’ list but I had my suspicions so I had-uh-someone checking around; he is a pretty distinctive character.”
“So he killed Chan?” Nyoka asked.
“I didn’t kill no one!” Carson insisted. “I just took the swag from the Sheila.”
“You lying scum!” the girl hissed. “Why did you have to kill him? He was such a good man!”
“You, big man,” Carson said, “you gotta believe me. Sure I wanted to make them all pay for leaving me out—tossing me on my ear like a ruddy wanker, but I never killed nobody. You have to believe me!”
The little parade began to attract a curious crowd as they marched Carson along the narrow corridors.
“I do believe you, Carson,” Dr. Shadows said. “I know you didn’t kill Chan. Your attack on Lila was a moment of weakness—a crime of opportunity and desperation.”
“I did the bint, I confess that,” Carson said, “but I didn’t kill no one, I swear!”
“But if he didn’t,” she asked, “then who did?”
The “parade” reached a companionway to the upper decks.
“Can you handle him from here?” the granite man asked the armed sailor.
“Yes, sir,” the officer said, “He won’t give me any trouble, will you now, matey?” Carson nodded slightly, his downcast eyes proclaiming his defeat.
“Good,” Dr. Shadows said, “I have an appointment with a killer.” He turned to look at the still puzzled Nyoka. “You can come, but hang back when I tell you to. There have been enough deaths already in this affair.”
Properly warned the costumed woman nodded and followed close behind the still bicorned American sleuth as he went down to the central hold of the ship.
“This is where the artifacts are packed for the exhibit in America!” she whispered when she realized what hold they were entering.
“I know,” Dr. Shadows whispered. “It’s the perfect place to hide artifacts so they won’t be discovered in customs.”
She looked at him with continued puzzlement. “But we would discover it when we unpacked!”
“By ‘we’ you mean yourself, your father, Yamashita or Von Schultz?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” he said as they reached the hatch of the hold to see that it was ajar. “You and your father—and Yamashita are in the clear—so—”
He dramatically yanked the hatch completely open to reveal the crouched figure of Gunter Von Schultz.