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mean,” muttered Long Tom, frowning thoughtfully.
Taking his departure, Long Tom made his way to the cabin from which the strange music
had been emanating.
When he reached B Deck, he piled into a commotion. There was a quantity of gray smoke
coming out of the cabin. Quite a bit of it. Persons hung back as if terrified by what
might be burning in the cabin.
“What’s going on?” Long Tom asked a flustered steward he yanked out of the knot of
milling crew and passengers.
“A passenger walking along heard frightful screams emanating from that smoking cabin,”
he was told. “Black smoke was pouring from the edges of the door, which was shut.
Suddenly, the electric lights dimmed. Horrifying sounds came from within. Rushing
here, the passenger saw a fantastic thing—a man, lying rigid and apparently afloat
in midair, with a horrible expression on his face. A fixed grimace. And there was
nothing visible to support him in the air. Then the body of the man became a squirming,
intensely black mass of vapor, which slowly vanished before his eyes, until there
was nothing remaining.”
Long Tom absorbed this in shocked silence. He shook it off, rushed into the cabin,
batting away the pungent gray smoke. There was nothing unusual within. No radio. No
musical instrument. Not even a typewriter.
Long Tom stuck his head out of the cabin.
“This smoke is gray. You said black.”
“The witness said it was black. Evidently it is thinning.”
“Where is this witness?” demanded Long Tom.
The steward looked around wildly.
“I—I do not see him at present,” the steward stammered.
“Well, describe him to me then.”
The steward did. Long Tom listened to the description in its entirety, then rushed
off in search of the man.
But he found no sign of anyone fitting that exact description. And when the smoke
finally cleared, the occupant of Cabin B-12 was nowhere to be found.
Rummaging about the cabin, Long Tom failed to discover any source for the weird music
that combined qualities of a wailing wind and a moaning specter. Neither did he find
anything that could have produced the machine-like clacking.
Nor was the missing passenger discovered for the remainder of the passage to Southampton.
It was something to chill the blood.
Chapter 6
The Leathery Horrors
AT SOUTHAMPTON, ENGLAND, Long Tom Roberts disembarked with his luggage, which he refused
to allow a porter to carry. This was not purely penurious, but practical. The equipment
contained within was too valuable to risk loss or damage.
Seeking out a waiting room, Long Tom entered the washroom, and locked the door. There,
he swiftly changed clothes, tore the labels off his luggage, and emerged wearing a
porkpie hat and thick-lensed glasses. Changing shoes, he reverted to his normal height.
But he added several inches to his waist by tying a bladder around his belt, which
he inflated by blowing into a tube. Soap had removed the uncharacteristic ruddiness
from his face.
When he emerged, the pale electrical wizard looked no more like Walter Brunk than
he did Long Tom Roberts.
Using the name Ned Foy, he purchased a fresh ticket, grumbling at the loss the unused
portion of his original ticket represented, and re-boarded the liner via a pier shed.
Long Tom was unpacking in his new cabin when the Transylvania was warped out of its berth, to the tooting of tugboat horns. His face wore a look
of perpetual puzzlement. It was an expression he had worn since the disappearance
of the mystery man who had occupied Cabin B-12.
The vanished man’s name, as it turned out, was Emile Zirn. Not much was known about
him. A world traveler, if the labels pasted on his steamer trunks were any indication.
No one questioned had much to volunteer about him. Socially, he had been friendly
enough, but reserved.
As for the individual who had discovered Zirn’s smoking cabin and reported the grisly
manner in which the missing man
Taking his departure, Long Tom made his way to the cabin from which the strange music
had been emanating.
When he reached B Deck, he piled into a commotion. There was a quantity of gray smoke
coming out of the cabin. Quite a bit of it. Persons hung back as if terrified by what
might be burning in the cabin.
“What’s going on?” Long Tom asked a flustered steward he yanked out of the knot of
milling crew and passengers.
“A passenger walking along heard frightful screams emanating from that smoking cabin,”
he was told. “Black smoke was pouring from the edges of the door, which was shut.
Suddenly, the electric lights dimmed. Horrifying sounds came from within. Rushing
here, the passenger saw a fantastic thing—a man, lying rigid and apparently afloat
in midair, with a horrible expression on his face. A fixed grimace. And there was
nothing visible to support him in the air. Then the body of the man became a squirming,
intensely black mass of vapor, which slowly vanished before his eyes, until there
was nothing remaining.”
Long Tom absorbed this in shocked silence. He shook it off, rushed into the cabin,
batting away the pungent gray smoke. There was nothing unusual within. No radio. No
musical instrument. Not even a typewriter.
Long Tom stuck his head out of the cabin.
“This smoke is gray. You said black.”
“The witness said it was black. Evidently it is thinning.”
“Where is this witness?” demanded Long Tom.
The steward looked around wildly.
“I—I do not see him at present,” the steward stammered.
“Well, describe him to me then.”
The steward did. Long Tom listened to the description in its entirety, then rushed
off in search of the man.
But he found no sign of anyone fitting that exact description. And when the smoke
finally cleared, the occupant of Cabin B-12 was nowhere to be found.
Rummaging about the cabin, Long Tom failed to discover any source for the weird music
that combined qualities of a wailing wind and a moaning specter. Neither did he find
anything that could have produced the machine-like clacking.
Nor was the missing passenger discovered for the remainder of the passage to Southampton.
It was something to chill the blood.
Chapter 6
The Leathery Horrors
AT SOUTHAMPTON, ENGLAND, Long Tom Roberts disembarked with his luggage, which he refused
to allow a porter to carry. This was not purely penurious, but practical. The equipment
contained within was too valuable to risk loss or damage.
Seeking out a waiting room, Long Tom entered the washroom, and locked the door. There,
he swiftly changed clothes, tore the labels off his luggage, and emerged wearing a
porkpie hat and thick-lensed glasses. Changing shoes, he reverted to his normal height.
But he added several inches to his waist by tying a bladder around his belt, which
he inflated by blowing into a tube. Soap had removed the uncharacteristic ruddiness
from his face.
When he emerged, the pale electrical wizard looked no more like Walter Brunk than
he did Long Tom Roberts.
Using the name Ned Foy, he purchased a fresh ticket, grumbling at the loss the unused
portion of his original ticket represented, and re-boarded the liner via a pier shed.
Long Tom was unpacking in his new cabin when the Transylvania was warped out of its berth, to the tooting of tugboat horns. His face wore a look
of perpetual puzzlement. It was an expression he had worn since the disappearance
of the mystery man who had occupied Cabin B-12.
The vanished man’s name, as it turned out, was Emile Zirn. Not much was known about
him. A world traveler, if the labels pasted on his steamer trunks were any indication.
No one questioned had much to volunteer about him. Socially, he had been friendly
enough, but reserved.
As for the individual who had discovered Zirn’s smoking cabin and reported the grisly
manner in which the missing man
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