Read Chapter 9: The Second Warning

The knock came at two in the morning, three sharp raps that cut through the hum of the ship’s engines like a blade. Jack was already awake, sitting in the dark with the ledgers spread across his lap, the silver key cold against his palm. He’d barely slept since the dinner. Margaret Hayes’s face kept drifting through his mind—those sharp, knowing eyes that had seen through him in seconds. He’d made a mistake trusting her. Or maybe he hadn’t. He couldn’t decide which was worse.

The knock came again. Harder.

Jack slid the ledgers beneath his mattress, tucked the key into the hollow heel of his shoe, and crossed to the door. He didn’t open it. “Who’s there?”

“Open the bloody door, O’Leary.” The voice was a low growl, thick with a London slur that Jack knew too well. Big Nose Moran. “We’ve things to discuss, and I ain’t standing in this corridor all night.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. He considered the porthole—too small. The balcony—there wasn’t one. He was a rat in a trap, and Moran was the terrier at the entrance. Jack opened the door.

Moran filled the frame, his bulk casting a long shadow down the first-class corridor. His nose—the one that had earned him the name—was a lump of scarred cartilage, broken so many times it had given up on symmetry. He wore a steward’s uniform that was two sizes too small, straining at the shoulders. That explained how he’d gotten past the crew-only barriers.

“Nice digs,” Moran said, pushing past Jack into the cabin. He ran a thick finger along the mahogany vanity, examining the dust. “Crawley pays your debts, and you live like a bloody duke. Interesting arrangement.”

“I’m good with money. When I have it.”

Moran chuckled, but there was nothing warm in it. He turned, blocking the door. “Here’s the thing, O’Leary. I been thinking. You owe Crawley two hundred quid. That’s a lot of coin for a pickpocket who’s supposed to be skint. So where’d you get the fare for a first-class cabin, eh? Who’s paying for the silk sheets and the champagne?”

“I had a good run at the tables in Southampton.”

“Did you now?” Moran’s eyes drifted to the mattress, then to the writing desk, then to Jack’s shoes. He was reading the room like a ledger of his own. “Thing is, I heard a different story. Heard there’s a bloke on this ship carrying something valuable. Something that’s got a few people already dead.”

Jack kept his face still. “People die on ships all the time. Heart attacks. Bad shellfish.”

“The mail room clerk didn’t have shellfish. He had a rope around his neck.” Moran stepped closer. Jack held his ground. “And they say there’s a list. A list of names. Bank vaults. Diamonds. A little silver key that opens a lock worth more than your life.”

The air went cold. Jack’s mind raced through every person who knew about the key—Andrews, dead. The inquiry agent, sniffing around. Vance, waiting at table eight. Margaret Hayes, who was sharper than she let on. Someone had talked. Someone had pointed Moran in his direction.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” Jack said, keeping his voice level, “but you’ve got the wrong man. I’m just a gambler with a debt.”

Moran shook his head slowly, a snake savoring its meal. “You’re a liar, is what you are. But that’s fine. Liars are easy to break.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a photograph. Jack’s own face stared back at him—younger, thinner, with the hollow cheeks of a man who’d spent six months in a Dublin jail cell. The mugshot. Moran had been circulating it, just as Carter feared.

“I’ve shown this to half the crew,” Moran said. “Stewards, waiters, the lot. Told ’em you’re a wanted man in three countries. Told ’em there’s a reward for information leading to your arrest. You know how crew members feel about rewards, O’Leary? They’re like rats. They’ll turn on anyone for a crust of bread.”

Jack’s pulse hammered in his throat. One word from Moran to the captain, and Jack would be locked in the brig before breakfast. The key, the ledgers, the entire plot—over. Not even the icebergs could kill him as fast as that.

“You want your money,” Jack said slowly. “I’ll have it in New York. I’ve got connections there. Legitimate ones. You’ll have your two hundred within a day of docking.”

“I don’t want your money anymore.”

The sentence hung in the air between them.

“What do you want?”

Moran smiled, showing a row of yellowed teeth. “I want the key, O’Leary. And I want the list. Hand ’em over, and I’ll forget I ever saw your pretty mug. You walk off this ship a free man. Crawley’s debt gets settled, and we part ways like old friends.”

Jack laughed—a short, sharp sound that surprised even him. “You think I’m carrying a key and a list? You think I’m stupid enough to hold something that valuable on me?”

“I think you’re exactly that stupid,” Moran said. “Because you’re a small-time thief who got in over his head. You don’t have the brains to hide it properly, and you don’t have the nerve to throw it overboard. So it’s either on you or in this cabin. And I’ve got all night to search.”

He took a step toward Jack, his hands balling into fists the size of dinner plates. Jack backed up until his shoulders hit the vanity. His mind raced—the key in his shoe, the ledgers under the mattress. Moran found those, it was over. But there was no way out. No bell to ring. No steward to call.

“Moran,” Jack said, forcing calm into his voice, “you’re making a mistake. You think the key’s the prize? The key’s nothing. It opens one lock at one collection point. But the lock’s empty. The real cargo is still in the vaults, and you need the list to get to it. I don’t have the list.”

Moran paused. His eyes narrowed. “The list.”

“That’s right. The names, the vault numbers. Without it, the key’s just a pretty piece of silver. But the list is in a safe place—a place I can reach. You want the diamonds? I can get you the list. But I need time, and I need you off my back.”

Moran studied him for a long moment. Jack could see the gears turning behind those piggy eyes, weighing greed against caution. “You’re lying to me.”

“Maybe,” Jack said. “But you don’t know that. And you’re not stupid enough to kill me until you’re sure—because if I’m the only one who knows where the list is, you’ll never see a single diamond. Isn’t that right?”

The silence stretched. The ship hummed beneath their feet, engines steady, indifferent to the standoff.

Finally, Moran’s lips curled into something that might have passed for a smile. “Alright, O’Leary. We’ll do it your way—for now. You’ll get me the list by New York. Or I’ll go to the captain with that photograph and whatever else I can dig up. And I’ll make sure the crew knows exactly who they’ve got in first class. A thief. A con man. A murderer, if the story needs it.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” Moran reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brass key. He tossed it onto Jack’s desk. “That’s the key to my cabin. Steerage, E-43. You’ve got until midnight tomorrow to bring me the list. After that, I start talking.”

He turned and walked out, pulling the door closed with a soft click.

Jack stood frozen for a long moment, listening to the footsteps recede down the corridor. Then he crossed to the desk, picked up the brass key, and stared at it. Moran wanted the list by midnight. But the list was under his mattress, and the vaults were in New York. Moran would never see it—but he’d make good on his threat if Jack didn’t deliver.

He had a little over twenty hours to figure out how to kill a man without leaving a mark.

And then a new sound reached his ears. A soft knock—hesitant, barely a whisper against the wood. Jack’s heart stopped. He crossed to the door and cracked it open.

Margaret stood in the corridor, wrapped in a silk robe, her face pale in the dim electric light. Her eyes were wide, and she was holding a slip of paper in a trembling hand.

“Jack,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I need your help. Something terrible has happened.”

“What is it?”

She held out the paper. It was a cable. He scanned it, the words swimming in the dim light.

*HAYES STOP REMAIN AT TABLE EIGHT STOP BRING ANNA JACKSON STOP SHE IS NEEDED STOP*

“Anna Jackson,” Margaret said. “My friend from second class. She’s been helping me with… arrangements.” She paused, her jaw tightening. “She didn’t come back to her cabin last night. I’ve checked everywhere. She’s gone, Jack. Vanished.”

Jack looked at the cable again. Anna Jackson. The name hit him like a physical blow. He’d seen it before—scrawled in the red ledger, in Thomas Andrews’s precise hand. Entry forty-three. *Anna Jackson—vault nine, Fifth Avenue Trust. Diamond shipment, confirmed.*

The original courier.

They’d killed her.

And now Margaret was holding the cable that would lead her straight into the same trap.