Down, down, he plunged, with no sensation until he splashed into the cold water of the river. Suddenly, his consciousness returned. At first , he could finally feel himself falling and now sinking to the bottom of what could be a watery grave. Then he remembered Fleming and the struggle and now wide awake, realized what had happened. The river wasn’t terribly deep, but deep enough for him to sink to the bottom landing on his back in the sandy bed.
He flipped himself forward, half sitting and reaching above his head, pushing off the bottom with his feet to propel himself into a rise toward the surface. Knowing he would have to swim for it, and realizing that his suit coat and boots could inhibit him, he was twisting and turning his body, wriggling out of the jacket and kicking his boots off as he sped toward the surface.
He had just finished removing the coat as he broke out of the water. It was almost as dark out of the water as it had been below, but even in the darkness and the heavy rain, he could make out the large moving shape of the steamer off to his right, between him and the eastern shore.
Quickly, he lunged into a crawl stroke, trying to reach the ship before it would pass him and leave him behind. Stroke after furious stroke, the G-Man sped toward the boat. It was close enough now to hear the lumbering engine and he found himself just ahead of the big stern wheel and could feel himself riding off its wake. This momentum, combined with the natural northward current added to his speed and allowed him to keep up with the chugging craft. But he couldn’t keep this pace for long and he couldn’t get too close behind the big paddles for fear of being sucked into them.
Clayton finally reached the stern and latched onto a docking hook. Relief. He could lie back now and let the boat tow him along. He lay back in the water, heaving for air and letting the cutting rain spicules pound his face. Then as he gathered his strength, he regarded the big paddle wheel beside him slapping its blades thunderously into the river and driving the bulky vehicle forward.
For several moments Jack surveyed the situation. There were no handholds for him to climb up to the deck. The only way up would be to ride the paddle wheel blades up, if he could , without being beaten to pieces. Even if he could, the wheel would take him past the first deck. He would have to ride all the way to the top and leap forward to land on the upper deck roof. He would have to be crazy to try such a stunt. Or desperate. “Well, I guess I’m both,” Jack thought to himself as he clenched his jaw in determination and swung himself toward the churning wheel. The blades whacked him on the knuckles and he quickly pulled himself back out of the way having failed to find hold on a passing blade.
Twice more he tried it. Twice he failed. Then, one more lunge and he found himself hanging from a blade, his kicking feet trying to avoid getting caught in the next blade below. The spinning wheel raised him rapidly toward the apex of its cycle. Jack would have to time it just right to leap forward and land on the ship’s roof. If he missed, he would be pulled down between the wheel and the stern to be crushed in the close space or beaten to death when it pulled him back down into the water.
There was no time to think. No time to judge. The wheel was churning too fast. Only instinct could pull him free of the wheel, stretch him into a dive and land on his side rolling across the steamer’s rooftop gathering scrapes and bruises.
He lay there several moments, wondering if he had done it. After a brief rest, he decided, he must have or else he was awakening in the afterworld and not in as pleasant a place as would have hoped for.
But apparently he was still in this world. Looking up into the sky he realized that the storm was subsiding. The rain was not pelting him as hard and the ship was not rocking as violently as before.
Jack pushed himself erect. Stood swaying unsteadily in the now diminishing wind getting his bearings and mentally noting every aspect of the roof top. There appeared to be an entrance way to the roof from down below about halfway along the port side of the craft. Jack padded across the rooftop on his sodden stockinged feet and bent over the partially raised square trap door-like porthole. Luckily, it was not locked from below and Jack had no problem pulling it wide open. He lowered himself feet first into the gaping hole and secured his feet on the access ladder which led him to the promenade deck on the upper level. This was about where he had fallen, but on the other side of the boat.
He felt inside his clinging water soaked trouser pocket and found he still had his key to his state room. He would need the sixgun he had left in there.
Jack found his way back to his room, entered quickly without being seen and retrieved his weapon which he held high in his hand as he opened the door to leave.
A quick movement in the hall forced him to duck back inside, swinging the door almost shut, but leaving a crack of an opening to peer out. He could see Francy Jones scurrying down the hall to the stairway leading to the lower deck. Once she disappeared into the well, Jack hurried forward, pulling the door behind him hoping to leave no trace that he had been there. There wasn’t much he could do about the puddles of water he had tracked in and out. Hopefully, Francy had not noticed or didn’t think anything about it since she probably didn’t expect that Jack could have possibly returned from his watery grave.
He hurried into the stairwell and clambered below, his bootless feet quiet on the metal stairs. Francy had already reached the lower deck and was walking hurriedly down the passage way when Jack reached the bottom of the stairs and peered around a corner to see her knock on a door, apparently an identifying code of some sort for she entered without waiting for acknowledgement from inside.
Someone else was entering the passage way from the other end of the hall. Jack ducked back and cautiously peered out again. It was Bert Fleming. He approached the same door, knocked and entered as did the visitor before him.
Jack stepped out and approached the door. It was C12, the number on the back of the ticket. He stood close, putting his right ear to the door, holding his pistol ready. There was a murmur of voices and he could hear steps toward the door and saw the doorknob start to turn.
He dashed away quickly and slid around a corner. He pressed his back tight against the wall and held his breath hoping he had not been seen. Francy passed by heading back up the stairs. Apparently, he had escaped detection. He took a breath and sighed with relief.
Was she coming back? He dared not return to the door, for she could return and he might not be so lucky another time. He decided he would wait. Worse case, if Francy did not return, he could at least watch and see who else might be coming and going. He settled back and waited.
After a few moments, Clayton once again heard the clang of shoe leather on metal steps and then saw the reappearance of Francy Jones. She carried a large brown envelope and hurried past his hiding spot on her way to C12.
As she passed by, Jack stepped out behind her and wrapped his left arm around her and clasped his hand over her mouth in one swift motion and pulled her to a halt, holding her firmly against his water soaked body.
She tried to struggle, but Clayton’s grasp was too strong for her. Her muffled protests were hardly audible and her eyes widened in fear and surprise. “I’m baaack!” Jack chided in almost a whisper. “Don’t move! Don’t make a sound! Understood?” he pressed the muzzle of his six shooter to her temple.
She nodded emphatically.
“Now let’s go visit your friends.” He pushed her along the passage way to the door. “Now knock the way you are supposed to. No tricks, I know the code.” He relaxed his grip enough to let her knock, then he loosed her, turned the knob, threw open the door and pushed her inside ahead of him, holding her as a shield.
****
Chapter Five
Change of Plans