The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition). Edgar Wallace

The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition)

“It looks like a sea fog.”

But the captain made no reply.

Over the edge of the ocean hung a thin red haze. He put the glass down, and turned a troubled face to the two men.

“In other latitudes I should say that it was a gathering typhoon,” he said. He took another long look, put down the telescope, closed it mechanically, and hung it in the rack.

“Smoke,” he said briefly. “We are running into a fleet.”

He brought the Maria Braganza’s bows northward, but the smoke haze was there, too. East, north, south, west, a great circle of smoke and the Maria Braganza trapped in the very centre.

Out of the smoke haze grey shadowy shapes, dirty grey hulls, white hulls, hulls black as pitch, loomed into view.

The captain rang his engines to “stop.”

“We are caught,” he said.

He opened a locker on the bridge leisurely, and took out a revolver.

“I have no regrets,” he said — it was a challenge to fate.

Then he shot himself and fell dead at the feet of the two. Baggin sprang forward, but too late.

“You coward!” he screamed. He shook his fist in the dead man’s face, then he turned like a wild beast on Poltavo. “This is the end of it! This is the end of your scheme! Curse you! Curse you!”

He leapt at the Russian’s throat.

For a moment they swayed and struggled, then suddenly Baggin released his hold, dropped his head like a tired man, and slid to the deck.

Count Poltavo flung the knife overboard, and lit a cigarette with a hand that did not tremble.

One last expiring effort the Maria Braganza made; you could almost follow Poltavo, as he sped from one side of the ship to the other, by the spasmodic shots that came from the doomed ship.

Then four men-of-war detached themselves from the encircling fleets and steamed in toward the Brazilian. Shell after shell beat upon the steel hull of the “Mad Battleship,” a great hole gaped in her side, her funnels were shot away, her foremast hung limply.

A white flag waved feebly from her bridge, and a British destroyer came with a swift run across the smoky seas.

Up the companion-ladder came a rush of marines; and, after them, a revolver in his hand, T.B. Smith, a prosaic Assistant-Commissioner from Scotland Yard, and Van Ingen.

T.B. came upon the count standing with his back to a bulkhead, grimy — bloodstained, but with the butt of a cigarette still glowing in the corner of his mouth.

“You are Count Ivan Poltavo,” said T.B., and snapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. “I shall take you into custody on a charge of wilful murder, and I caution you that what you now say may be used in evidence against you at your trial.”

The count laughed, though faintly.

“You come, as ever, a bit late, my friend.” He flung overboard a tiny phial, which he had held concealed in his hand. He turned to Van Ingen.

“You will find Miss Grayson in the cabin with her father, who is dying. For him, also, Mr. Smith comes a trifle too late.”

He staggered backward.

Van Ingen and the detective sprang to his support.

The marines had gathered about in an awestruck circle.

A slight foam gathered upon the count’s lips.

He opened his eyes.

“It grows dark,” he whispered. “Goodnight, gentlemen!”

He stiffened himself suddenly, and stood boldly erect, gazing past the circle of men.

“Vive Poltavo!” he cried, in a loud, clear voice, and fell backward into their arms.

The End