The Flying Stingaree Part 15

"You're right." Rick shook his head in dismay. Lefty Camillion, whose first name was Thomas, was a notorious crime syndicate leader who had come into prominence about two years ago during Senate investigations of racketeering. In three days Camillion had become a television personality, of sorts, when it became clear that he apparently was responsible for a number of murders and a thousand lesser crimes, although he himself had not done the actual killings. There was insufficient evidence to jail him, but enough to deport him. He dropped out of sight while his lawyers were fighting the deportation proceedings. Now he had shown up again, on the Eastern Sh.o.r.e.

"A crime syndicate chief, a crooked scientist, flying stingarees, an old mansion, a peculiar antenna, and a missing crabber. What does it add up to?" Rick demanded.

Scotty shrugged. He didn't answer. There was no answer--yet.

CHAPTER XI

On the Bottom

There were three wooden cases stored in the full-length closet in the houseboat cabin. Rick and Scotty took the two bulkiest to the c.o.c.kpit and opened them to disclose full skin-diving equipment. The boys had made the cases themselves, to be carried like suitcases. Each held a single air tank, regulator, mask, fins, snorkel, underwater watch, depth gauge, weight belt, equipment belt, and knife. The third case contained spears and spear guns, but they wouldn't need those in searching for the object that had splashed near the houseboat.

While Rick checked the equipment, made sure there was sufficient air in the tanks, and put on the regulators, Scotty searched for a heavy stake and something with which to drive it. He found a sledge hammer in Steve's workshop. At the edge of the woods was a pile of saplings that had been cut to make a fence. He chose a sapling that would serve as a stake and took it back to the boat.

One of the spare lines that the houseboat carried was quarter-inch nylon. Scotty fastened one end of the small rope to the sapling, about halfway up, and secured it with a timber hitch. Then he wound the rope on the sapling as smoothly as possible.

Rick finished checking the equipment and announced that he was ready.

"Same here," Scotty replied. "Let's get into swim trunks."

As the two changed, Rick asked, "Suppose we find something, but can't get it up without help? How do we mark the place?"

Scotty paused. Normally they would simply attach a line to a float and secure the float to the object. But a float would attract attention.

"Take bearings?"

Rick shook his head. "The boat will be swinging at anchor. It might be hard to get good bearings. Would a piece of fish line work? We could tie it to the object, carry it to the sh.o.r.e, and secure it to something underwater. The line would sink. Later, we could just drag until we caught the line."

"It would work," Scotty agreed. "There's a new spool of heavy line on the shelf in the closet. Fifty yards. That should do."

"Especially since the most we would need is fifty feet," Rick agreed.

"I'll stick it in a belt pocket, just in case."

Back on deck, Rick started the houseboat's outboard motors and listened critically. They were operating smoothly. Scotty walked up the pier and untied the bowline. At Rick's signal, he stepped aboard on the foredeck, bringing the line with him. Rick cast off the stern line, pushed the houseboat away from the pier, then put the motors in gear.

The trip to Swamp Creek was a familiar one now. Rick cut corners, knowing he had enough water under the keel, heading directly for the creek entrance. Scotty came back to the c.o.c.kpit and joined him.

"Do you suppose Orvil Harris will be around?"

Rick shrugged. "It's pretty late for a crabber. He's probably gone by now."

"I wonder if he'll ever see any flying stingarees come out of the creek."

Rick shook his head. "Most of the sightings are in the late morning or late afternoon. Only a couple were around dawn."

While the houseboat moved across the Little Choptank, Scotty checked the tide tables. He reported that the tide was coming in. It was about one hour from high tide. Rick had been studying the chart. "No problem," he said. "Mean low water averages four feet in the cove, with seven feet in the middle. Think your stake will be long enough?"

Scotty had placed the sapling with its winding of rope on the cabin top.

He estimated its length again. "Depends on how deep the mud is. If it's more than three feet, the top of the stake will be under water."

"Three feet is a lot of mud," Rick said. "It's likely a lot less than that."

He turned into the creek mouth, throttling back. It would be hard to anchor precisely where the houseboat had been anch.o.r.ed that first night, but he was sure they could find the spot within twenty feet. Scotty went up on the bow and got the anchor ready.

"Use about thirty feet of line," Rick called. He took the houseboat to the exact center of the cove, as closely as he could estimate, then put the motors in reverse to kill the speed. When it fell to zero, he yelled to Scotty. Scotty lowered the anchor and made it fast, then hurried back to join Rick, who backed off until he felt the anchor dig in.

It was silent in the cove with the motors off. "I'll start," Rick offered, and at Scotty's nod he picked up his Scuba and slipped into the harness. His weight belt was next, then his fins. Finally he slipped the mask strap over his head, and put the mouthpiece in place. He took a couple of breaths to make sure he was getting air, then walked to the edge of the c.o.c.kpit and fell backward into the water, letting his tank take the shock of landing. He slipped the mask off, took the mouthpiece out, and spat into the mask to prevent fogging, then he rinsed it, put it on, and replaced the mouthpiece.

Scotty had taken the sapling from the cabin top. He handed it to Rick, who dove with it, thrusting the sharpened end into the mud far enough so that the sapling stayed in place.

Rick surfaced again and swam to the boat, which had drifted a few feet.

Catching the leg of one motor, he pulled the boat back to where the sapling projected above the surface. He held the boat in position while Scotty took the sledge and drove the sapling down until its top was only a few inches above the water. Rick tested the pole. It was firm.

He removed the mouthpiece, treading water. "Looks okay. I'm going to start."

"Good luck," Scotty called.

Rick submerged and swam down, using the pole as a guide. The rope, attached to the pole, was perhaps two feet above the bottom. He freed the end of the rope, unwound a few feet, slipped the end through his belt, and secured it with a slip knot. Then, hands extended, he began the slow work of covering the cove bottom inch by inch, searching for the thing that had splashed.

The boy swam in an ever-widening circle, the rope unwinding from the sapling as he moved. The unwinding of the line, which he kept taut, ensured that he would cover new ground each time he rounded the pole, but without missing any. He couldn't see, because his hands stirred up mud as he traveled. Only his sense of touch told him what was on the bottom. He wasn't afraid of grabbing a crab or an eel. All underwater creatures with any mobility at all get out of the way as fast as possible. He knew the compression wave caused by his movement would warn all living creatures.

His groping hands identified various pieces of wood, all natural, and a.s.sorted other objects including an old tire. There were cans, some of them food tins that had been opened, and some beverage cans, recognizable because of their triangular openings. Once he found a section of fis.h.i.+ng pole.

It was a long, tedious job. The world closed in on Rick and there was only the murk outside his mask and the rhythmic sound of his own breathing. Only his hands, constantly probing the mud, were in touch with reality. He lost all sense of time. Once, to see how much ground he had covered, he pulled himself to the pole by the line, estimating his distance. He was about fifteen feet from his starting point. He returned to the full extent of the line and started the round again, after looking at his watch. He had to hold it close to see the dial through the murk. He had been down only twenty minutes, although the time seemed much longer.

Ten minutes later his hand swept over something smooth. Instantly he turned in toward the pole, and swam back around the circle for perhaps ten feet. Then, covering the ground again by crawling along the bottom, he felt for the object. His fingers touched it. His first impression was of something cylindrical, but he made no attempt to pick it up. He needed to explore it thoroughly, first. His breathing was faster, and he knew his pulse had accelerated at the moment of discovery. If this continued, he would use air too fast. He willed himself to slow his breathing, and for a few seconds he stopped altogether.

In that instant, Rick heard a slap on the water, then another. He waited, holding his breath. There was a pause, then more gentle slaps.

He counted them.

One, two, three, four--the signal for danger!

He and Scotty had long ago agreed that four sounds underwater would be the danger signal. He reacted instantly. The fis.h.i.+ng line was in a pocket on his equipment belt. He took it out and pulled line from the spool. Then, probing deeply with one hand, he pushed the line under the smooth object, reached across and down with the other hand. When his hands met, he pa.s.sed the line from one to the other and pulled the line through. Now it was around the object. He tied the line quickly, then rolled over on his back and looked upward at the surface. He could gauge the position of the sun, even though he could see no details. Using the rays filtering through the murk as a guide, he oriented himself.

"Which bank?" He thought quickly. Danger could only come from the mansion, and that was on the south bank. He turned and swam north, going slowly, paying out line from the spool. Now that he was traveling in a straight line, he covered the bottom quickly, and in less than a minute he was in shallow water. He stopped, afraid that his tank would show above the surface.

It was clearer in the shallows. He made out the line of a branch, or root of some kind that thrust its way through the surface. It would serve. Quickly he pa.s.sed the spool around it and made a knot, then he pushed the spool itself into the mud and turned.

Now to find the boat again. Cruising slowly, he headed in the general direction, rising slightly as he swam. Finally, he found the boat by its shadow and swam under it to the stern. Again orienting himself by the sun, he made sure that the boat would be between him and the south bank.

He surfaced and pulled off his mask.

Scotty was swabbing the deck of the c.o.c.kpit as casually as though trouble was the last thing on his mind. Rick wondered briefly if he had imagined the danger signal, or had mistaken some other sound for a signal. Then Scotty hailed him.

"Where are all the clams?"

Rick's mind raced. Obviously someone was listening. Was the someone on the boat, or ash.o.r.e?