Read Online The Slickers by L. Ron Hubbard - Free Book Online

him. Then, certain that Morecliff would live, the Federal man crawled aft closer to the flames. His red-rimmed eyes peered everywhere for Davis.
    Lying in the protection of a bitt, Clark found him. Gasping for breath, his bladelike face swollen and blistered, Davis looked up with dull eyes. There was something unnatural about the man’s attitude. His back looked stiff, as though braced against pain.
    â€œA knife,” croaked Davis. “He got … me … with a knife. He …”
    The man had fainted. Clark rolled him over. The hilt of a weapon protruded from between his shoulder blades. Clark pulled it out. Thrusting a handful of kapok taken from a torn lifebelt over the wound, he bound it as well as he could.
    Then, suddenly, he felt his head swimming—and the deck was hot against his cheek. He could no longer find the strength to hold up his head. He realized that he had been running on sheer nerve for hours, and now that nerve was gone.
    Twice he tried to stagger to the rail, where the rescue liner’s boats were dragging people from the water. But it was no use. He was too tired to go on—too tired to fight.…
    â€œ Cubana, ahoy!” a loud, bellowing voice rolled out across the water. “Coast Guard cutter 337! Stand by with lines! We’ll take you off!”
    Robert W. Clark, of the US Secret Service, sat up. It was as though he had had a bucket of ice water thrown over his scorched body. The Coast Guard! His own outfit!
    On his feet, he found a line. Found a monkey fist and threw it round and round his head. It whistled away from him. He felt it jerk tight. Then he began to pull. A hawser was coming toward him. A man gave him a hand.
    The hawser was dropped over the bitt. A winch on the cutter creaked and whirred. It was coming right in alongside the Cubana.
    Person after person went over to the cutter to be treated for burns and exposure—out of the red hell to the cool ’tween decks of the gray ship.
    Now other vessels were arriving, and the sea was laced with crisscrossing searchlights.
    But not until dawn did Bob Clark allow himself to stagger into the cutter’s sick bay for treatment, hot coffee and, better than either, sleep.
    H ours later, with the afternoon sun pouring through the wardroom ports of the cutter, Bob Clark was finishing his story of the disaster. Only a few officials were there, and a few of the passengers of the doomed Cubana. Davis, Morecliff and Harrington sat against the far wall under guard. Jean Raymond looked across the green-covered table at Bob Clark.
    â€œNow,” said Clark, “to finish up, I promised to tell you who the firebug is, and why he did it. I know now that none of all this was without reason. The man was driven by fear and greed.”
    He spread out the three radiograms he had taken from the radio room, the ace of spades, the gold locket, the bill of lading.
    â€œThese will give us the entire story. I thought for a while that all this was caused by Davis. But it was not. Actually, Davis is a dupe. Head of the most powerful drug ring in New York, he ordered a million and a half dollars’ worth of dope from Havana. He paid a million in advance, leaving the other half million to be paid on delivery. I found the notation of these amounts in Davis’ briefcase. This bill of lading was discovered on Davis’ stateroom floor. You will notice that Davis is the consignee.”
    Heads nodded. All eyes were fastened on Clark.
    â€œDavis, as director of this company, was able to import dope without inspection. He made good use of the fact that no one would ever suspect him.” Clark glanced at Davis’ contorted face. “He thought that this dope was contained in these boxes, but he had nothing to do with the fire. I thought he had, when he interfered with my sending rockets. I know now that, as an officer of the line, he did not want another ship to salvage on the Cubana before it was absolutely