“And the violin,” he added. “Fifteen hundred crippled children!”
He paused to listen. Some one was shouting. They had found his plane, discovered that he was gone.
“What will they do now?” He raced on.
He was to know soon enough. From somewhere in that expanse of pasture a pencil of light began circling.
“It’s a searchlight from their plane. I’m lost, perhaps.
“But no. Perhaps not.”
With one eye on the light, he moved slowly forward. When at last it sought his fence row and followed it, there was nothing moving there. The light did not pause as it passed across a log or a stone in the fence row. It moved to its limit in that direction and then began searching other corners.
“They won’t suspect that the bag is back yonder,” he told himself. “Think I have it.”
For a time, ready at any moment to play ’possum, he crept forward. Coming to an intersection of fences, he turned east.
At last he sprang to his feet and ran again.
Quite out of breath, and beyond the range of the light, he slowed down.
“A mile and a half,” he whispered. “Covered half of it already. Have to use my flashlight to find the bag. More danger. They may see it. Oh, well, my legs are as good as theirs. But guns!” He shuddered.
Fifteen minutes of brisk walking and he judged himself to be near the place where the parachute had dropped.
Turning his back to the fence he prepared to walk straight forward for some distance. He had not taken a dozen steps when his foot caught on something and he barely escaped a fall.
Putting out a hand, he let forth an involuntary exclamation. He had tripped on the red parachute.
“Great luck!” he exclaimed.
The next moment found the precious bag and the parachute (which he vowed should still bring a doll to his little friend) tucked under his arm.
“Now,” he thought, “what next?”
He paused to reflect. This was a pasture. Every pasture, if it does not touch the farm yard on one corner, has a lane leading to the farm buildings. If he continued to follow the fence he might come to the farmer’s house. So he reasoned.
And he was right. Fifteen minutes had not passed before the farmer, aroused by the loud barking of his dog, was standing in his door, demanding:
“Who’s there?”
“An Air Mail flyer,” Curlie replied, in as even a tone as he could command. “Plane’s down in your pasture. I need your help. The mail must go through.”
“Down, there!” the man growled at his dog. “What do you want,” he asked Curlie.
“Have you a car?” Curlie asked, stepping to the door.
“Yes, a truck.”
“How far is it to town?”
“To Aurora, eight miles.”
“Aurora!” Curlie’s hopes rose. At Aurora there was an airport. If this farmer but knew the way to the airport, the precious parcel of mail would not be long delayed.
He felt for the sack. The three packages, undamaged by the fall, were still there.
“Take me to Aurora at once,” he said in a tone that carried authority. “You will be well paid. But besides this, it is your duty. Every man, in time of emergency, is the servant of his country.”
“Yes, that is true,” the man agreed, as he drew on his coat. “We’ll get the car; then we’ll go for the mail.”
“I have it here.”
“So little!” The man stared with unbelieving eyes.
“There is much more. This is all that matters now. This is urgent. It’s a registered sack. Perhaps a matter of life and death.”
Even as Curlie spoke he caught the sound of voices. They came from the direction of the plane. His pursuers were approaching the farmhouse, having discovered that the registered mail was gone. Would he yet be caught?
“Come!” he exclaimed. “We must go!”
The farmer, too, had heard the shouts. He appeared bewildered, undecided.
Without wasting another word, the boy whipped out his flashlight, set it circling the barnyard, then dashed to a shed where the truck was kept. The next instant the motor was purring.
Before the farmer had collected his wits sufficiently to move, Curlie had driven the truck into the center of the yard.
“Perhaps he thinks I am a mail robber, those others the pilots,” he told himself. “What can a farmer know about such things? If worse comes to worst, I’ll drive away alone and take the consequences.”
This proved unnecessary. Awakened from his sleep to find himself confronted by an emergency, the slow-going, methodical farmer had found his mind unequal to the situation. When his own truck came rumbling up to his doorstep he climbed in; then, at the boy airman’s request, he pointed the way to the small city nearest his home.
For a time at least after that, fortune favored Curlie. The road to town, he found, led by the airport. Half an hour had not elapsed before the shuddering farm truck drew up at the airport’s entrance.
Hastily handing the farmer a banknote, he began pounding at the door of a room where a dim light shone.
“What you want?” grumbled a voice, as the door opened.
“A plane to Chicago. Special Air Mail. An emergency. Plane down in a pasture five miles back.”
The man glanced at the mail sack, at Curlie’s uniform, then said cheerily:
“Righto! Warm one up at once. Good bus. Want the stick?”
“You better come. Take her back. I can’t.”
“Right!”
A moment later a powerful motor began a low rumble. The rumble increased to a roar, then died down again. Three times this was repeated. Then Curlie climbed aboard a two-seater.
“Time for three winks,” he thought, as he strapped himself in.
Long hours had passed since he had left his last airport. Excitement and mental struggle had tired him. Accustomed as he was to being aloft, he fell asleep at once and remained so until the bump-bump of his plane, landing on the city field, awoke him.
“We’re there!” he thought to himself. “The city at last!”
But his task was only begun. Ordinarily he would have delivered his mail to a truck driver. The driver would carry it to the post office and his responsibility would end. But to-night he was late. An emergency existed. Knowing the great need, he was obliged to decide whether or not to take matters in his own hands. Should he rip open the locked sack and deliver the three parcels in person?
In such a course he realized there would be a grave element of risk. Tampering with the mail is serious business. Should one package escape from his hands before it was delivered, he would be held responsible. The loss of one precious package would mean a loss to his company. The company alone was responsible for the mail until it was received by the postal authorities.
“A slip would mean loss of position—disgrace,” he told himself.
He looked at his watch. It was well past midnight. “The last post office messenger boy leaves at 11 o’clock,” he told himself. “Had the emergency existed in the beginning I might have phoned in and had a mail clerk stay until I arrived. Now there is only one chance. I must take matters in my own hands or wait for the office to open in the morning. And that may be too late.” For a moment he hesitated.
He was tired. The way had been long. His comfortable bed awaited him. It would be so easy to report the whole affair, send planes and pilots for his abandoned mail plane, and then turn over the special sack to the office and go home.
“A fellow isn’t responsible for that which he is not supposed to know,” he told himself stoutly. “Mr. Wiseman had no real right to tell me about those packages. I—”
But now rose the picture of a child tossing in pain, of a father pacing the floor waiting for medicine that did not come. Then a second picture came to haunt him: hundreds of eager-eyed crippled children waiting in vain for the celestial notes of a marvelous violin played by a master’s hands.
“The law of the need of those who suffer is higher than any other law,” he told himself stoutly. “I will take the risk. I will deliver them in person.”
Five minutes later, after having reported the astonishing affair to the night director of the airport, he plunged into the darkness that is a great city’s outer borders at night, with the precious sack still under his arm. Written on the tablets of his mind was the address of the home where the sick girl lay.
Boarding a street car, he rode eight blocks. Having overhauled a night prowling taxi, he leaped into it from the car and went speeding away into the night.
As he settled back for an eight mile ride, there crept into his mind again grave misgivings. The sack at his side had been cut open by his own hand, and this the most precious, the most carefully guarded of all mail. Not one package might pass from one hand to another without an official signature and a stamp.
“And I dared break all rules!” he told himself, as his heart stood still. “One slip now, and I am done!”
“Done! Out of the mail service forever. Out!”
How he loved his work! Climbing into the clouds in the dewy morning; racing the stars at night; the air; the sky; all the freedom of a bird. How could he stand losing all this?
And yet, even from these he passed to more disturbing thoughts. Was that gang still after him? Where were they now?
“They, too, may be in the city by now,” he told himself. “What if they overhaul me before my task is done?” He shuddered.
“They must not!”
“Driver!” He leaned forward. “Driver, all the speed you dare. And an extra fee for your trouble.”
With a fresh burst of power the taxi sped on through the night.
There was little sleeping that night in Johnny Thompson’s tent at the back of his booth, at the “Greatest of all Carnivals.” True, Johnny remained in the tent to doze off at times. Drew Lane and his partner spent their time in scouting about searching for clues that might lead them to the whereabouts of Greasy Thumb and his gang.
Once, while Johnny was alone, he drew the roll of bills from his pocket.
“What am I to do with these?” he asked himself. “Give them to that truck farmer? Simple enough. But where is he? Where does he live?”
He examined the bills closely, then let out a low whistle. Two of them were marked with a faint red cross in the corner.
“Marked money!” he exclaimed in a low tone. “Bad business! Dangerous! Like to throw them away.”
Yet, because this roll represented a fairly large sum of money, he did not obey that impulse. Instead, he thrust them once more into his pocket.
Half an hour later, having returned from one more fruitless search, Drew and Tom were about to join Johnny in a steaming cup of coffee when, without ceremony, a curious individual crept into the tent.
At sight of him Johnny started back. A very small man, with a long sharp nose and piercing yellow eyes, he might have been said to crawl rather than walk.
“It’s all right,” Drew assured Johnny. “Meet the Ferret. He is one of us. Very much so.”
“Hello, Ferret,” he greeted the newcomer. “What’s up?”
The man did not reply at once. Instead, he put out a hand for a cup of the scalding coffee, placed it to his lips and drained it without a pause.
“Hot stuff!” muttered Johnny.
“Very hot!” agreed Drew.
The dog has been named man’s best friend. Yet as a hunter he has his handicaps. True, he is a swift runner and can make a great noise. Often by sheer bluff he drives the coyote from the hen roost. Then, too, he can dig. At times he drags a rat from his den and destroys him.
The cat has his good points also. He is sly, patient. For hours he waits beside some enemy’s trail until the great moment comes. Then one swift spring, a cry of surprise and pain, and all is over.
Yet dog and cat alike are powerless before the sly, deep-digging weasel, the mink and the skunk. Only one crafty, half tamed pet of mankind can cope with these. The ferret with his slim, snake-like body, his beady eyes, his prying nose, glides noiselessly into the deepest burrows and sends its denizens rushing from their dark haunts into sunshine and death.
So, too, in the ranks of mankind the ferret is to be found. Lacking in physical strength and prowess, yet endowed with a faculty for discovering hidden dens, the human ferret is ever closely associated with the police. He wears neither badge nor uniform. His name is not on the pay roll. Despised by some, he is feared by many. For it is he who many times brings the evil doer to justice.
The strange person who crept into Johnny’s tent was of this sort. Indeed, so definitely had his vocation been chosen for him by nature that he was known only as “The Ferret.” If he had any other name it had been forgotten.
“The Ferret” had one great redeeming quality. He was a sincere friend of justice. He furnished information only to those who made an honest attempt to enforce the law. He was possessed of an uncanny power. He appeared to read men’s minds. Was an officer a traitor to the cause he had sworn to serve? “The Ferret” knew it on the instant. No information was forthcoming to such a one. Indeed, if he did not watch his step he was likely to feel “The Ferret’s” bite.
The source of his income was not known. Some rumors had it that a rich philanthropist, realizing his value to the community, had endowed him for life. Another was that he was rich in his own name, that he owned a flat building, stocks, bonds and mortgages, and that his occupation was but a hobby. Strange hobby, you will say; yet there have been stranger, and far less useful.
Because they were honest, sincere and fearless, Drew and Howe were ever in “The Ferret’s” favor.
Drew Lane’s eyes were alight as they fell upon the insignificant form of “The Ferret.”
“What’s up?” he demanded once more.
“Mailplane brought down and robbed ten miles from here.” “The Ferret’s” voice was low and soft.
How could “The Ferret” know this so quickly? Who can say? The source of his information must have been of an obscure nature. For when Drew pressed him for details he could furnish none. Nor could he tell whether Greasy Thumb had a hand in it.
“But what’s so valuable in the Air Mail?” Johnny asked. “I thought that was for the most part personal messages, important to the sender, but worthless to others.”
“For the most part, yes,” Drew agreed. “But think of the emergencies the Air Mail is prepared to meet. A big deal in stocks is on. The actual securities must be delivered within twenty-four hours. The Air Mail brings them. Mrs. Jones-Smith-Walker, the millionaire widow, arrives in Chicago only to find that a great reception has been planned for her at the country home of her bosom friends, Mrs. Burns-Walker. Her jewels, a hundred thousand dollars’ worth or more, are in New York. Without them she will not be properly dressed. The Air Mail brings them. And who knows but that, through some secret channels the powerful, sometimes rich, sometimes poor, gang that is forever preying upon the foolish rich society folks are tipped off in advance regarding the consignment. Worth going after. What? If you don’t care for the law and have little fear of prison.
“Mind,” he added, “I don’t say this is the case. I have no information which would even lead me to suspect such a thing.
“Only one fact stands out clearly!” he exclaimed, springing into action. “The trail leads to the city. Big affairs may be pulled off by crooks in the country at times. But they always speed away to the city afterward. For it is there that they may most effectually lose themselves.
“Come. Let’s be moving. We will find Greasy Thumb in the city.”
“I wonder if we will,” Johnny murmured to himself, as he began a hasty pack-up of his personal effects preparatory to leaving his spindle wheel and many baskets of groceries to anyone who chose to take them over on the morrow.
“The city,” he murmured after a time, “the strangest, weirdest, most fascinating, most beautiful, most dangerous place man has ever known. In the jungle the tiger slinks away from man. There you may sleep in peace. On the polar waste the great white bear floats by on his palace of ice. He will not molest you. In the Rockies where the grizzly roams and the mountain lion inhabits the treetops you are safe. But the city? Oh, well, perhaps you are safe enough there. Who knows?
“Good-bye,” he whispered back as he left his booth, “good-bye, old carnival. Good-bye, big-noise-about-nothing. Good-bye, screaming women. Good-bye, laughing children. We’re here to-day and away to-morrow.” He choked a little over these last words. This strange life, the carnival spirit, had got under his skin. Gladly he would have remained. But duty called. “Good-bye, good-bye. We’re here to-day and away to-morrow. The city beckons. We must go.”
Settled on the cushions on the back seat of a high-powered police car driven by Drew Lane, Johnny Thompson had time for a few sober reflections.
As you know from readingThe Arrow of Fire, Johnny’s latest venture was in the field of police detection. Many tales Johnny had read of shrewd private detectives who outwitted clever criminals and showed up the stupidity of the police. Johnny had found it difficult to believe that all police detectives were stupid. By contact with four men, Herman McCarthey, Newton Mills, Drew Lane and Tom Howe, he had come to know that men with keen minds and sturdy bodies were more and more offering their services to the police departments of their cities.
“No better detective ever lived than Drew Lane,” a reporter had once said to Johnny. And Johnny had found this to be true. He gave himself over with genuine abandon to the business of being Drew Lane’s understudy.
Yet, at this moment he found himself missing certain friends who had added joy and inspiration to his life. In a great city friends come and go quickly. Herman McCarthey had retired from active service.
“And Newton Mills,” he grumbled to himself. “Where is he?”
Where indeed? Johnny had once lifted this shadow of a great detective out from a living hell of remorse and drink and had set him doing marvelous things for the law again.
“But now he is gone,” he mourned. “I wonder if drink has claimed him. Or is he dead?
“Hardly dead,” he corrected himself. “Men, like wounded fish, come to the surface to die. Had he died I would have known it.”
Strangely enough, at this moment he thought once more of that spectre-like individual, the Gray Shadow, that had three times crossed his path and three times vanished.
“Unusual sort of person, if it be a person,” he said to himself. “Always appears when I am in more or less danger. If I believed in the return of the spirits of the dead I’d say it was the spirit of some dead friend set to guard me.”
And Joyce Mills, that daring daughter of a famous father, you will recall her. Johnny, too, recalled her with a sigh.
Some people he found it difficult to understand. Joyce Mills was one of these. Once she had inspired him. Now she had gone into the humdrum business of selling books in a department store.
“At least that’s what she was doing when I saw her last. Queer business for a girl like that,” he grumbled.
And yet, as he recollected his last meeting with her, he seemed again to detect a mysterious twinkle in her eyes which appeared to say: “You don’t know all; nor even half.”
“Odd sort of girl,” he said to himself. “Have to look her up.”
But here we are nearing the city and a new day.
“Turn, turn my wheel,All things must changeTo something new,To something strange.The wind blows east,The wind blows west,The blue eggs in the robin’s nestWill soon have wingsAnd beaks and breasts,And flutter and fly away;To-morrow be to-day.”
“Turn, turn my wheel,
All things must change
To something new,
To something strange.
The wind blows east,
The wind blows west,
The blue eggs in the robin’s nest
Will soon have wings
And beaks and breasts,
And flutter and fly away;
To-morrow be to-day.”
So much for the thoughts of Johnny Thompson. He expressed himself in verse at times. Not so, Drew Lane. His thoughts were of a grim and practical sort.
“Tom,” he said, speaking to his companion and pal, “Tom, old boy, if we see Greasy Thumb and his pardner, Three Fingers Barbinelle, we’ll arrest them on sight.”
“And arrange a case against them later,” agreed Tom.
“Hold them on a vagrancy charge. Or more than likely we’ll find them carrying guns.”
“Almost sure to.”
“Then,” Johnny broke in, “you’ll need to be quick.”
“Son,” replied Drew with a drawl, “In this sort of work there are but two classes of people, ‘the quick and the dead.’”
What things may happen to him who travels the dark streets of a great city at night! What terrors lurk in corners that lie inky black beyond the reach of some feeble light. What unexpected hidden evil lies ever just before him. And yet, how many countless thousands have traveled these streets in peace and safety, with not one finger lifted to do them harm!
It happened thus to Curlie Carson. With the precious mail sack tucked securely beneath one elbow, he rode into the night while the taximeter ticked off the miles. The driver he had chanced upon was skillful and safe. He knew his city well. The street address was all he needed. In due course of time he brought the cab to a jolting stop.
The fee was soon paid, and Curlie found himself passing down a winding walk bordered on either side by a low hedge which led to a quiet looking gray brick house.
A light was burning in the front window on the second floor. His hand trembled as he pressed the door bell. He had risked so much. He had broken the laws of the postal service, laws that until now had been all but sacred to him. What if, after all, he were too late? What if that light were but a death watch?
Footsteps sounded. A light, hanging in a brass lantern above him, suddenly shone down upon him.
The door opened. A middle-aged man in a gray dressing robe stood before him.
“Is—is the Professor here?” he asked.
“I am the Professor.” The man’s tone was kindly.
“I am from the Air Mail service. There was medicine. I have—”
“The medicine! Where is it?”
“Then,” thought Johnny, “it is not too late.”
“Here!” He thrust a hand into the mail bag, to secure the smallest package.
“Let me have it.” The man grasped it eagerly, then sprang away up the stairs, leaving the astonished boy to stand and stare.
“Well,” he thought after a time, “guess that’s about all of that.” He turned, about to go, when a thought struck him.
He had no receipt for the package. What proof had he that it had been delivered at all?
“Won’t do,” he told himself. “I’m in deep enough now. Got to have a receipt.”
He had turned about and stood undecided whether to ring the bell at once or wait, when suddenly a woman with a very beautiful face appeared before him.
“You brought the medicine. It will save her. The doctor says it will be all right now. How can we thank you!” She all but embraced him.
Curlie took a backward step. He swallowed hard twice. Then he spoke. “You—you might just sign a receipt saying you received the package.”
“Certainly. Where is the form?”
“I—I haven’t any. You see,” he half apologized, “I was forced to land in a pasture. I knew about the medicine. I got through—don’t matter how. Then I—I cut the sack so I could deliver the medicine. You see I—”
“You mean you broke the law to save our child?”
“Well, you might say—. Anyway, I know it’ll be all right. If one obeys his conscience he doesn’t get into much trouble, does he?”
“Perhaps not. But all the same that was quite wonderful.”
She invited him into a room whose walls were lined with books. She left him there while she went for the wrapper that showed the registry number. When she had returned she penned a receipt and handed it to him.
“You must be hungry and tired,” she said. “Won’t you stay and rest? We will have some hot coffee for you at once.”
“If you don’t mind,” the boy smiled his thanks, “there are two other packages. One should be delivered without delay. It’s a priceless violin. Fritz Lieber’s own.”
“Fritz Lieber!” There was awe in her tone. “You must not go in a taxi. Our car is out. The driver has been ready to go for the medicine, if it were necessary. He shall take you.”
“That,” said Curlie as he seemed to feel the cozy comfort of a private car, “will be grand.”
“It only partly pays. If ever you are in trouble, and need a friend, please do not forget us.” She pressed his hand hard as she left him at the door.
Once more the impromptu messenger boy raced into the night.
“If you ever need a friend, don’t forget us.”
These words came to him again and again. It was as if they had just been spoken.
“A friend,” he thought to himself. “Will I be badly in need of a friend?”
Surely if anything went wrong before the remaining packages were delivered he would. He had broken postal regulations, smashed them all to bits.
But here he was again. The car had drawn up before a hotel of magnificent proportions. Even at these last hours of night, a liveried attendant opened the car door.
“Fri—Fritz Lieber,” said Curlie in some confusion. “I must see him.”
The doorman stared at him and his torn mailsack, but led the way to the desk.
Here the boy repeated his request.
“It is very unusual for a guest, especially so important a guest, to be disturbed at this hour,” said the clerk. “What is it, a registered package? You may leave it. We’ll deliver it.”
“It is a registered package.” Curlie spoke slowly as he sized up the clerk and decided not to confide in him. “I can’t leave it. I must have Mr. Lieber’s own signature. And I want you to know that it is important. Mr. Lieber will thank you for letting him know I am here.”
“I am not sure about that,” grumbled the clerk. Nevertheless, he took down the receiver and called a number.
He waited a moment, spoke a few words in a low tone, then turning to Curlie said,
“Mr. Lieber wishes to know whether or not it is a violin.”
“It is,” replied the boy.
A few more words, a surprised look on the clerk’s face, then a curt,
“He’ll see you. Room 1080. Elevator’s over there.” A jerk of the clerk’s thumb and Curlie was once more on his way.
“Well, that’s that,” the boy thought as the elevator ascended. “Soon be free from the responsibility of carrying about a priceless violin.”
“But this other package?” There was a question. What was he to do with it, try to deliver it in person, or turn it over to the postal authorities? He knew little about that package. Some wild-eyed man in shabby clothes had paid the largest possible fee to insure its safe delivery. The address was on the first floor of a building in a doubtful section of the city. That was all he knew. Little enough, yet he was destined in time to know enough about it to realize that had it been filled with high explosive it could have been scarcely less troublesome.
He was now at the door of the great violinist’s room. He knocked, and was admitted at once. He found Fritz Lieber in a dressing gown. Beside him was a table littered with papers.
“Already up,” he said, nodding at the sheets of paper. “I’ve been writing music. My mind’s fresh in the morning.
“So you have my fiddle? Good! Grand! Where’s the blank? I’ll sign it.”
“There—there isn’t any blank. I—” Curlie paused in some confusion.
For ten seconds he looked into the frank and friendly eyes of the great master. Then, dropping into a chair, he told his whole story.
“I’ll say you’ve done well!” exclaimed the musician. “Saved me from some bad hours.
“But this other?” His eyes fell upon the third package. He read the address at a glance. Then he whistled.
“For them! You won’t want to go around there before daylight.
“But see here! What a fee they paid! What can they have that is so very valuable?”
“Do—do you know the people?” Curlie’s lips trembled with excitement.
“Not personally. At least they’re no friends of mine. But I know a lot about them.
“You see,” the violinist went on in a changed tone, “my hobby is a sort of study of people and nations and all that. How they live, how they govern themselves, what becomes of their money, and so on. And these people,” he continued with added emphasis, “are Bolsheviks. They represent the present Russian government in America. They are doing the best they can to stir up trouble here. They would gladly destroy our present social order, our government, and set up one similar to the one they have in Russia.
“So you see,” his tone changed once more, “they are well worth a thought or two.”
“Yes,” agreed Curlie, “I’ve thought of them now and then myself. And I—I’ve sort of admired them.”
“Admired them?” The musician shot him a quick glance. “Why?”
“Their courage, and all that. Don’t you know? Doing things in a different way. Putting down tyrants. Starting a government where everything is owned by the people.”
“There’s something to be said for them.” Fritz Lieber’s tone was thoughtful. “They were ruled by tyrants. There is no getting around that. They were slaves. They had a right to revolt. But now—now they have gone too far.
“How would you like to live in a land that denied the very existence of God?” He wheeled about to face the boy.
“Why I—”
Fritz Lieber held up a hand for silence. “In a land where the authority of the Divine Master is denied, where ‘home’ and ‘mother’ are words that have no meaning, where the government is doing its best to destroy home life, where a little girl is not allowed to play with dolls because she may want later to have a home and children to call her mother!”
“I wouldn’t like that!” Curlie thought of his own home and his own mother.
“The present powers that be in Russia, as far as anyone can find out,” the musician went on soberly, “wish in time to raise all children in nurseries, as we do chickens in incubators, to destroy most that has long been held sacred by the nations of the civilized world. I know, for I have looked deeply into these matters. I have a friend in the United States Secret Service.
“And that gives me an idea!” he exclaimed suddenly. “You say a plane forced you down. You think they wanted my violin. I doubt it.
“My friend,” he laid one hand on the third package, “this is what they were after. They would have it at any cost.”
“But what—”
“Who knows what that package may contain? Of late these secret agents of the Soviet, these men who spread dissatisfaction among the workers and the unemployed, have had some secret source of wealth.”
He took the package and shook it.
“No sound. And yet it is not money. A long, slim package. Who sends money so?
“I’ll tell you what, my boy!” He turned upon Curlie once more. “You’d better not try to deliver this package. Take it to the post office and get a receipt for it. That lets you out. I’ll report its arrival in Chicago to my Secret Service friend. He can have it investigated.”
“Thank—thanks. I—I think I’ll do that.”
As Curlie left the room with that mysterious package under his arm it seemed to burn his very flesh. That, of course, was sheer imagination, nothing more. And yet—
“Bolsheviks. Hidden source of wealth,” he murmured to himself. Then he gave an involuntary start. As he left the hotel, a shadow crossed his path, then vanished.
It was that darkest hour just before dawn. The alleys were deep wells of shadow. The streets were deserted. A lone milk wagon in the distance rattled over the pavement. Curlie felt in his pocket. A single bill and some change reposed there. He drew forth the bill and unfolded it. By the uncertain light he read a “one” in the corner.
“No taxi this time,” he grumbled. “All of eight miles, and I’m practically broke. Street car for mine.”
But there were no street cars, nor even tracks.
“Have to go west.” He turned a corner to trudge along in the dark.
His active mind began going over the words of Fritz Lieber. “Bolsheviks,” he murmured once. And again, “no church, no God, no future life, no home, no mother.
“And yet,” he told himself, “those men are not really criminals. They are mistaken, that’s all—on the wrong track.
“It takes a rather hard sort of man to force an aviator down in the dark. But then, did they do that? Can’t prove it. Can’t prove anything. Some band of robbers may have learned of the value of this package. They may have decided to force me down and take it. Well, they didn’t succeed. They—”
His thoughts were broken off by sounds of an apparent struggle just ahead. There was not time to step aside. Three men came tumbling into him. Before the sudden impact he went down.
He was on his feet in an instant. But during that instant something was gone. For ten seconds his benumbed senses registered nothing. Then his lips parted in an exclamation.
“The package! They have it!”
Like a flash it came to him that this bit of night drama had been staged in advance of his coming.
There was a sound of hurrying footsteps. He followed at top speed. The man before him dashed through a door. He followed.
His mind was in a whirl. The package! It must be retrieved at any cost. His position, his reputation, perhaps his very freedom depended upon that.
The man had gone dashing along a steel track like a narrow gauge railway. He now passed through a door and lost himself in the very depths of the earth.
Once more Curlie followed. This was, he thought, to be the strangest experience of his whole life. Down a stairway, narrow and steep, which ran through a cement tunnel scarcely four feet across, they went down, down, down into, it seemed, the very heart of the earth.
“Like entering a mine,” he told himself. “But beneath this city there are no mines.”
He paused to listen. A low rumble came to his waiting ears. It grew louder, still louder. It became a thundering, crashing confusion of sound. Then it grew fainter and fainter until it was once more a mere rumble.
“I don’t know where I am,” he told himself, “but I must go on.”
It is strange how like the sea this world of human beings is. On the sea a great ship meets a little ship and greets it. They pass from one another’s view. They travel the world over. Five years, ten, fifteen pass, then they meet again. The same ships. New sails, fresh paint, new spars, but the same old ships. It is so with human lives. Men meet, become acquainted, are associated in work for a time. Then on the sea of life they part. In time the great circle of living that regulates all men’s doings brings them together again.
Curlie Carson was not the only person who entered into the grim mysteries of that great city during the darkest hour just before dawn. As you know, Johnny Thompson, his one time pal, was also to witness that dawn. And so, drawn closer and closer by who knows what mysterious forces, their lives appeared about to join again.
As the powerful car that bore the two youthful detectives and their understudy into the city passed down a particularly dark street, Drew brought the car to a silent stop.
The next instant, crouching low and followed closely by his silent partner, he sprang out of the car, leaped across an intervening space, and said in a tone that spoke of authority backed by force of arms:
“Don’t move! Stay as you are!”
Next instant Tom Howe’s slim hand shot out as he uttered a sharper command. “Keep your hands above your hips!”
“You got the break. It’s in my right hip pocket.” It was Greasy Thumb who spoke from the parked car which Drew Lane and Tom Howe had just covered with their guns.
Five minutes later, with their guns removed to a safe place in Drew Lane’s pocket, Greasy Thumb and Three Fingers were riding to the police station in Drew’s car.
“What charge?” Tom asked, after a time.
“Concealed weapons,” Drew replied. “That will hold them.”
But Drew Lane and Tom Howe were due for a surprise. Forces of which they were not aware were at work in this great, grim city.