Even the flask was not a clue that proved anything. That it belonged to the licensee of the Bermagui Hotel, and that it had been filled with tea and put into Ericson’s lunch basket, was, of course, established; but, there was no proof how it came to be floating in the sea; whether it had been washed off the Do-me when she sank, or had been lost overboard. General opinion favoured the first theory; for, as Joe Peace maintained, had the angler or one of his launchmen accidentally knocked the flask overboard it would have been retrieved. It appeared unlikely that an article such as a thermos-flask would fall overboard unobserved. The angler would take it from the basket, and pour tea from it, whilst he was in his rightful place—the cockpit.
Joe’s claim to the wide knowledge of the local sea currents, and his ability to follow them, even to “back-track” them, was given little credence by Sergeant Allen, or by Detective-Sergeant Light, who came down to assist him. The small army or reporters were even greater doubters. For a while Bermagui accommodation was taxed to its utmost, and the official search was maintained for three weeks.
No wonder that Mr Blade began to think that the missing angler was a world figure incognito. After Light went back to Sydney in one of the planes, and the search parties were disbanded, Wilton and Joe continued to search for evidence of the fate of the Do-me, and Constable Telfer confided in Blade when telling him that Sergeant Allen had received instructions to remain on the “job” until recalled.
October passed out in calm and warm weather. But November quickly produced a nor’-easterly which raged for days and kept the launches idle and the few anglers in the hotel bar.
After that one terrible night and day of vigil Mrs Spinks became almost normal. Almost but not quite, for her mind appeared to have become permanently deranged on one matter. She refused to believe that the Do-me was lost and that her son was dead. She took advantage of every opportunity to escape from the watchful care of her daughter and would hurry to the headland to search the ocean for sight of her son’s launch coming home. Often she called in on Mr Blade to request him to send to a passing ship a wireless message asking the captain to tell her son to return at once as his underclothes were due to be changed.
The neighbours and others felt pity and little wonder because in her belief that the Do-me had not gone down Mrs Spinks was firmly supported by Marion, whose mind had not been affected by the tragedy. The only change to be observed in Marion was the absence of her flashing laughter. She would shake her head when people proffered sympathy and say:
“Bill’s not dead. I’d know it if he was dead.”
The sixth day of November was indelibly printed on Blade’s mind by visits he received in the afternoon from Jack Wilton and, later, a visiting angler, a Mr George Emery. Wilton did not expend time in preliminaries.
“I’ve come to see you about Marion and Mrs Spinks,” he said, his brown eyes a little troubled but his mouth determined. “They’re in a bad way—about money. As you know, old man Spinks was a boozer and left the family well in debt when he died. It was only then that Bill got a square deal from life and began to pull things together. The building of the Do-me put him in debt again, but he had cleared this off just before the Do-me vanished.
“Other times Marion would have got a job somewhere, but now she has to look after her mother more than ever she did after the old man pegged out. I’m in love with Marion. Been that way since we were kids at school. And I wanted her to marry me—want her to marry me now—but she couldn’t make up her mind about it. And now she’s not trying. I want you to do me a favour. Will you?”
“Of course, Jack.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking of getting up a subscription to help them two, but it wouldn’t do for me to run it, Marion being a bit proud and independent. I’ve got here a hundred quid. Just took it out of the bank. You could say you had received it from a rich sympathizer in Sydney or somewhere.”
Placing the money in a compact bundle on the table, he put down beside it a smaller sheaf of notes, saying:
“This is from my partner, Joe Peace. There’s twenty-seven quid in it. That makes a hundred and twenty-seven. If you could raise another twenty-three to make the total a hundred and fifty, it could be suggested to Marion that she take over Nott’s shop. Mrs Nott wants to go to Melbourne to live, and she’s willing to sell for a hundred and fifty and the balance at interest.”
Blade’s gaze moved from the eager face to his typewriter. He did not look up when he asked:
“Would Miss Spinks go into that business, do you think?”
“I think so—so long as I had nothing to do with it. We were talking about it last night. She says she thinks her mother wouldn’t be so restless if she had to prepare the teas and suppers and make the meat-pies.”
“Very well, Jack. I’ll raise the balance.”
“Thanks, Mr Blade. I thought you’d help. You’ll keep me and Joe out of it?”
“Yes, as you wish it.”
Blade saw that his visitor waited, but hesitated, to suggest something further.
“You can depend on me to do everything I can to help Miss Spinks and her mother,” he said encouragingly.
“Good! And—and would you keep an eye on the books and things? You see, Marion and me aren’t good at that part of it.”
“I shall be glad to, Jack.”
Wilton rose to his feet, his face swept clean of trouble.
“Things is going to be droughty with us this summer,” he said, thoughtfully. “Not with the ordinary people, but with us launch-men. Two of my bookings for the swordies have been cancelled and the others have had bookings cancelled too. Me and Joe will have to take to the beach-netting for salmon for the factory. It’s a blasted shame we can’t sell tunny. There’s millions of ’em about now. All from six- to fifteen-pounders.”
Blade smiled.
“I don’t think we need worry much. Jack. The Do-me affair will blow over by Christmas now that the newspapers have shut down on it.”
Wilton had not been gone ten minutes when Mr Emery entered. He was portly, important, and now burned scarlet by the wind and sun and sea-spray. He advanced with hand outstretched.
“I’m leaving for Sydney, Blade. Business calls and all that. Blast business! Should have gone yesterday, you know, but this fishing gets into a man’s very bones.”
“Well, I hope you will come again soon.”
Mr Emery beamed, but was explosive.
“Come again! Hang it, Blade! I couldn’t keep away if every launch in Bermagui disappeared. I’m coming down for the swordies early in January. It’s a bit rough on those women, anyway. Saw them last evening on the headland when we were coming in. The daughter was trying to persuade the mother to go home with her, or it looked like it.”
It was then that Blade had inspiration. He first bound Mr Emery to confidence and then related what had transpired between Wilton and himself. Mr Emery said, less explosively:
“Give me a pen.”
He wrote his cheque hurriedly, and rose to his feet, saying:
“Give them two fellers back their savings. If I can’t still make three hundred pounds before breakfast