CHAPTER VI
THE RED MENACE
During the weeks while Tom and his friends were busy at their work onthe under-sea radio, grave and sinister events were taking place, ofwhich the boys knew little or nothing, but which kept Mr. Pauling, Mr.Henderson and their men in a perpetual state of worry, and of sleeplessnights and unceasing work.
Close upon the heels of the unprecedented influx of contraband liquor,which despite every effort continued undiminished and which hadcompletely baffled the officials, came a flood of Bolshevist propagandaof the most dangerous and revolutionary character. Suddenly, and withoutwarning, it had appeared throughout the country. Every town, city andvillage was filled with it and so cleverly were the circulars, bookletsand handbills worded, so logical were the arguments and statements theycontained, so appealing to the uneducated foreign element and thedissatisfied army of the unemployed that they were greedily read,accepted and absorbed until the country was menaced by a red revolutionand officials went to bed never knowing what bloodshed and destructionthe morrow might hold in store.
Almost coincident with this came a wave of crime. Hold-ups, burglars,murders, kidnaping and incendiarism swept like an epidemic through thebig cities. Scarcely a day passed that the daily papers did not bearglaring headlines announcing some new and daring crime. Bank messengers,paymasters, cashiers and business men were held up at the point ofrevolvers or were blackjacked on the public streets in broad daylight.Stores and shops were boldly entered by masked bandits who held up androbbed the clerks and customers alike. Taxis and motor cars wereattacked, their occupants beaten into unconsciousness and robbed and thevehicles stolen under the noses of the police. Homes of the rich, banksand business houses were entered and ransacked despite electric burglaralarms and armed guards. Each day the daring criminals grew bolder. Fromthugs they were changing into murderous bandits; where formerly a manwas knocked down or blackjacked the victims were now shot in cold blood.Murders and homicides were of daily occurrence. Even on crowdedthoroughfares within sight of hundreds of passers-by men were killed andthe bandits escaped and no one felt that life and property were safe.The police seemed powerless and at a loss. Now and then a bandit wascaptured. Occasionally one would be shot down, wounded or killed by anofficer or by some prospective victim, but still the crimes continuedunabated. Indeed, the more the police strove to check the bandits themore they appeared to thrive and increase and the bolder they became.Lawlessness was rampant and, while the public wondered, criticized,clamored for protection, and countless theories were put forth, those inthe inner circle, the secret agents of the government and the trustedones, knew that, back of it all, the underlying cause and the root ofthe evil was the red propaganda which they were powerless to check.
Many were the secret meetings, the closely guarded conferences heldbetween the untiring officers detailed to run the menace to earth, tostamp the venomous Bolshevist serpent underfoot, to bring the country toits safe and sane law-abiding state of the past. And prominent in allsuch closely guarded, mysterious councils were Mr. Pauling and Mr.Henderson.
"There is some one mind directing it all, in my opinion," declared Mr.Pauling. "Some arch criminal--a Bolshevist emissary--some man with atremendous brain, marvelous executive ability, immense personalmagnetism, but whose mind, heart and soul are warped and twisted. Onewho is such a criminal as the world has fortunately never known before.If we can lay our hands on him the rest will be easy. Without a leader,without a directive brain, these common criminals will be lost. They arearrant cowards, mere tools and yet, by some almost superhuman power, arecontrolled, directed, moved like pawns on a chessboard, by an unseen,mysterious being who so far has completely baffled us."
"I agree with you perfectly," said Mr. Henderson. "I believe the sameman, the same arch fiend, is back of the rum-running; that this ismerely a tryout, a test, to see if we can detect him and that through itall is a deep-laid, dastardly plot to inflame the people and at the sametime enrich himself. To my mind, it savors of some one far greater inbrain power, in intrigue and in ability than those unshaven, misguidedRussians. It looks far more as if it were German work--perhaps some highofficer of the Prussian army or navy--who, afraid of his own republicancountrymen and filled with a fiendish desire for revenge, is devotinghimself to the destruction of law and order in the United States."
"That is very plausible as a theory," remarked another man, "but it doesnot get us anywhere. If this is so, where does this master mind stay?Where are his headquarters? Surely he must have underlings,--lieutenantsand trusted emissaries and some place, some headquarters, from which hisnefarious schemes are sent forth. Nothing comes in by mail or bypassengers we know. Every alien who enters is known. Not a word thattends to bear out your theories had been wrung from the men capturedeven though they were on the verge of death or were about to go to theelectric chair. No, I do not agree with you. It's merely the aftermathof the war. Men were taught to handle firearms and to kill their fellowmen. They were fed up, encouraged and lived with excitement and constantperil. The war ended; they were out of work, they pined for the thrillof danger and their viewpoint of life, of property and of right andwrong was distorted. Banditry offered an easy way of securing funds; itfilled their desire for excitement; it satisfied their grudge againstsociety and their country and, like all crimes which succeed, it becamecontagious and got a grip on more and more men. It's all the logicaloutcome of the war and in my opinion the red propaganda has nothingwhatever to do with it."
Mr. Henderson smiled. "Perhaps I may be able to change your views,Selwin," he remarked. "I wanted to know your ideas before I came outwith it. As you all know, I was on special work during the war--detailedto decode all suspicious messages that came in by radio or cable and touse my vivid imagination to try to find hidden meanings in apparentlyinnocent messages. You all know the result, and there is no need ofrecalling specific cases, such as the famous sugar shipment to Garciaand the announcement of a baby's birth but which, thanks to my 'hunch'or imagination or whatever you wish to call it, led to the apprehensionof the most dangerous female spy of the time and the confiscation ofthose incriminating documents which saved the _Leviathan_ fromdestruction, prevented several thousand of our boys from going to thebottom of the sea, kept Brooklyn bridge from being blown to bits, thusblocking the Navy Yard, and prevented countless women and children frombeing widows and orphans. But perhaps you do not all know that, back ofthat stupendous plot, that greatest attempted coup of the enemy toterrorize and cripple the United States, that supreme effort of a dying,beaten nation to turn the tide of war and transform her from thevanquished to the victor, was the work of one man. To him was entrustedthis almost superhuman task. The reward, if he succeeded, was to behonors and riches beyond conception. Had he won he would to-day beseated upon the throne of England--the despotic, iron-handed governor ofa German colony with his feet upon the neck of the British people andwith the colossal indemnity, which it had been planned to exact from ourcountry, as his monetary reward. If he failed, his life was to pay theforfeit. Not only his life was to be sacrificed, but his lands andproperty were to be confiscated, his family imprisoned, degraded andexiled. It was, I think, the greatest, the most stupendous gamble everknown. And the gambler lost! By the merest chance, by pure accident, bya coincidence which no human being could have foreseen, his messages--thevital message--came into my hands and, through a tiny mistake, an errorwhich might have passed a thousand eyes unnoticed, the conspirator--thisgambler in nations and life--was betrayed and all his efforts, hiswidespread plots, his carefully organized plans came to nothing. But yethe escaped. Evidently he considered a gambling debt one that could bedisregarded. His country, or rather his emperor, had overlooked a mostimportant matter. He had failed to provide for getting hold of thegambler to collect his debt. No doubt, had Germany been victorious, someemissary of the Kaiser would eventually have found this man and wouldhave exacted payment in full. But with Germany's downfall he was safe--atleast as long as he remained out of Ger
many--and so completely did heefface himself that we came to the conclusion that he had committedsuicide. But, gentlemen, I am willing to wager my reputation that hestill lives. I have evidence which to my mind is absolutely conclusivethat he is at the bottom of this Bolshevist propaganda, this influx ofliquor, this wave of crime."
Amazed, the others gazed at Mr. Henderson as he paused after thissurprising announcement.
"Jove! That's some statement!" cried one. "If you're right, Henderson,we've got our work cut out for us. I can see why he might do it though.I know who you mean--there's no use mentioning names even here. And if itis he I can understand why he has picked on Uncle Sam. But, by Jove, oldman, if 'tis he, then watch your step! He's no man to forgive or forget.He'll have his eye on you and mark you for a come-back, I'll wager."
Henderson smiled grimly. "He has already," he remarked dryly. "That's myproof that he's the man. Like all of his kind he's so confoundedlyconceited, so cocksure of himself, so puffed up with his own importancethat, sooner or later, he's bound to overdo himself. He cannot resistthe temptation to let some one know what a big toad in the puddle he is.He must boast or bust and such men always hang themselves if you givethem rope enough. Here's the rope he's hung himself with!"
As he finished, Mr. Henderson tossed a sheet of paper on the table andthe others crowded close to examine it.
To the casual observer, it would have meant little. A sheet of ordinarynote paper with a single line written by a typewriter across it. Therewas no date, no signature, merely the words: "Remember Mercedes andGarcia." But to these keen-eyed, square-jawed, quiet men those wordscarried grave import. To them, it meant more than pages of writing mighthave carried.
"I guess you're right," exclaimed Selwin. "That is, as far as his beingalive and this coming from him is concerned. But why do you think he orthis has any connection with the other matters?"
"Another coincidence--or perhaps you'll say imagination," replied Mr.Henderson. "Examine this pamphlet--the latest effusion of our redpropagandists. Do you notice anything peculiar about it?"
Each man shook his head as the flimsy pamphlet passed from hand to hand.
"Very well," commented Mr. Henderson. "You notice that it's notprinted--that is, with type. It's a zincotype impression fromtypewriting. And if you look closely you'll also see that the small "a"has a broken tail, the capital "T" has a little twist in one arm of thetop, the small "e" is flattened or battered and the "B" always shows atiny smudge above it where the character on the same key struck thepaper owing to the type bar being bent slightly. Now, kindly examinethis terse note I showed you and see if you do not find the identicaldefects in the same letters."
"By Jove, yes!" cried one, as they again studied the paper. "Henderson,you're a winner. The machine that wrote one wrote the other. Not a shadeof a doubt of it. But how about the rest of these dirty sheets and howabout the bandits and the liquor?"
"I've examined several thousand circulars and pamphlets," replied Mr.Henderson, "and all that are typewritten are the same. Our friend isdoing all the writing on one machine. I imagine he is hanging outsomewhere and takes no chances by entrusting his work to outsiders. Aman could do all the typing and could make zinc photo plates in a singlesmall room. As for my hunch that the rum-runners are connected with thesame gang, it's based on this."
As he spoke, he placed a small metal object on the table, a bit of leadabout half an inch in diameter and resembling a small coin. The otherspicked it up and examined it curiously.
"Well, what's this to do with the matter?" asked one.
"This note," replied Mr. Henderson, "was left at my door and to preventit from blowing away this bit of lead was placed upon it. You don't seeanything suspicious about it, but you may when I draw your attention tothe fact that this is a metal seal from a particular brand and make ofan extremely high-priced French West Indian liquor. Until the day afterI received this reminder of Mercedes and Garcia, there was not, to thebest of our knowledge and belief, a single bottle of that Pere Kerrmanliqueur in the United States--except possibly in the private stock ofsome millionaire or exclusive club. Two days later, the country wasflooded with it."
"You win!" cried Selwin. "Now about the bandits. Have you got them deadto rights, too?"
"Ask Pauling," replied Mr. Henderson. "He's the next witness."
"Here's my exhibit A," said Mr. Pauling, as he drew a creased paper froman inside pocket and placed it before the assembled officials.
"H-m-m, another threat, eh?" remarked the first one who examined it.
"Yes, commanding me to drop investigation of that hold-up gang that thepolice nabbed on West 16th St. last week. Nothing was said while thepolice were at it, but as soon as I took hold I received this."
"And written with the same old machine!" exclaimed Selwin. "All right,Pauling, I may be from Missouri, but you and Henderson have shown me.Now let's plan a campaign."
"If these two notes were sent by the same man, as they appear to havebeen," remarked a quiet man who heretofore had said nothing but had beensteadily consuming one black cigar after another by the process ofchewing them between his strong white teeth, "then our game is rightunderfoot, so to speak--right in little old Manhattan probably."
"Bully for you, Meredith!" cried a small, wiry, nervous man, clappingthe other familiarly on the back. "'The mills of the gods,' etc., youknow. Where did you fish that idea from?"
"From some place you lack--a brain," retorted Meredith continuing to bitesavagely at his cigar. "But, fooling aside," he went on, "it's a cinchhe is. Henderson and Pauling get their notes only two days apart and,what's more, Pauling gets his within twenty-four hours after he startsthat investigation. No time for word to get any other place and have abit of typewritten paper get back."
"Huh! Then, according to you, all this red rubbish is also written rightin the old home-town, eh?" snorted the thin man.
"Yep," replied Meredith. "Expect that's why we haven't nailed its sourceyet. Fact is, I believe there isn't any rum being smuggled in. Beenstored here and just being distributed now. Bet we've all been walkingover the trail star-gazing. So darned sure it was all coming in fromoutside we never thought of it being right alongside of us."
"That's a possibility," admitted Henderson and then, dropping theirvoices, the half dozen men earnestly discussed plans, offeredsuggestions, examined mysterious documents stored in a hidden andmassive safe in the wall and pored over maps and diagrams which no one,outside of this inner circle, would ever see.
At the end of two hours, the conference broke up. The papers anddocuments were replaced in their secret vault, the maps and diagramswere locked in a steel box and thrust in another safe and the menchatted on various matters, discussing the latest news, arguing therespective merits of motor cars, expressing opinions as to the nextpennant winner, telling jokes and thoroughly enjoying themselves as ifthey had not a care in the world and were not literally carrying theirlives in their hands day and night.
"What's that boy of yours doing in radio now?" asked Meredith,addressing Mr. Pauling when the conversation finally turned towardswireless. "Henderson was telling me about their 'radio detective' stuff.Great kid--Tom."
"Oh, he and Frank Putney are working on a submarine radio scheme. I meta young chap at Nassau with a new-fangled diving suit and he and theboys are trying to work out a radio outfit to use under water. Say,they're succeeding, too."
"Jove! that's a great scheme!" exclaimed another. "Under-sea wireless!Well, I'll be hanged, what won't our kids be up to next!"
"Wish we'd had anything as good to tinker with when we were kids,"declared Selwin. "I remember how every one laughed at Marconi when hefirst started wireless. My boy's crazy over it now. Well, I must begetting on."
Rising, Selwin slipped from the room, sauntered casually about thecorridor, noted the seemingly inattentive janitor brushing imaginarydust from a window frame, knew that the lynx-eyed guard was on his job,and without a sign of recognition made his way to the elevator and thestreet. At
intervals of half an hour or so the others left, some by thesame corridor, others through an outer room, where an office boy seemeddozing in a chair over a lurid, paper-covered novel--but upon whoseboyish, freckled cheeks a closely-shaven, heavy beard might have beendetected by a near examination--while still others took a roundaboutroute and descended to the street on the opposite side of the building.At last, only Mr. Pauling and Henderson were left and the two friends,glad of a chance to have a quiet smoke and to be free from care for ashort time, sat chatting and talking over Mr. Pauling's last trip to theWest Indies.
"It was positively baffling," stated Mr. Pauling in reply to a question."I knew they were filled to the gunwales with liquor and I knew as wellas I wanted to that the cargo was going to the States and yet, when theygot here and our men boarded them they were either empty or carriedlegitimate cargoes or else they never touched our ports and came backempty. It's common talk that the stuff is going to us, but no one hasgiven away how it's done yet. Why, I even had one trailed--shadowed by adisguised cutter--and they kept her within sight for days and then I'llbe hanged if she didn't come back without a sign of cargo. Now where didthey land it? Only solution is they got cold feet and heaved itoverboard."
"More likely they met some other craft during the night andtranshipped," suggested Mr. Henderson. "I imagine that's how they get itin. Have some prearranged signal and spot and ship the stuff in atanother port while they sail boldly into harbor. Of course we'rewatching for them and let up on other places and while we're boardingthe suspect the other craft gets in on some unfrequented bit of coastand meets a truck or car. It's not hard. We can't guard _all_ the coastwith our force and I'm sure that game's played sometimes, if not always.We've taken a lot of stuff that afterwards proved to be colored water orcane-juice and of course they didn't bring that from Cuba or the Bahamasjust for the sake of getting our goats."
"And then there were the Chinese," resumed Mr. Pauling. "Of course therewe've another difficulty because, once set ashore or near shore, Johncan look after himself and doesn't need a truck to carry him out of oursight. Just the same I'd give a lot to know the secret of their puttingit over on us."
"I've often wondered if those boys--Tom and Frank--weren't right aboutthat strange conversation they overheard," ruminated Mr. Henderson. "I'mmorally certain they were all right in their cross bearings with theirloops, although I didn't tell them so--and yet we found nothing there.Have you asked the boys if they've heard anything more of it lately?"
"No, but I will," Mr. Pauling replied. "They've been so busy with thisnew idea I expect they've forgotten all about it. I promised I'd go downto see their-- Hello, there's the phone. Wonder who 'tis."
Leaning forward, Mr. Pauling drew the extension phone towards him,lifted the receiver and placed it at his ear.
"Yes, this is Mr. Pauling speaking," he said. Then his face blanched,his cigar dropped from his fingers and in anxious, frightened tones hecried, "What's that you say? Frank! What's that? Tom under water!Calling for help! Having a fight with--with what? Never mind! Callingthrough the radio! Yes, I'll be down instantly!"
Slamming the receiver on its hook Mr. Pauling leaped to his feet.
"It's Frank!" he cried. "Says Tom's calling for help from under water.Lord knows what's up! Send Jameson and a bunch of men. Order a patroldown. Rawlins' dock, foot of 28th. You know the place. Come yourself,too!"
Jerking open a drawer, Mr. Pauling grabbed up a heavy revolver, shovedit into his pocket, dashed through the door and as he passed thesupposed janitor gave a terse order. "Get inside!" he exclaimed,"Henderson needs you." The next instant he was plunging down the stairs.With a bound he cleared the last few steps, hurtled like a footballplayer through the pedestrians on the sidewalk, leaped into his waitingcar and the next instant was violating every traffic law as he drovemadly through the streets. Once only did he slacken speed when, as herounded the corner, he caught a glimpse of one of his men and with agesture summoned him. Instantly, the man obeyed, leaped on the runningboard and as the machine again darted ahead clambered in beside Mr.Pauling.
Before Mr. Pauling's footsteps had sounded on the stairs, before thesecret service man in the janitor's overalls could dodge inside theroom, Mr. Henderson was talking over a private wire to the nearestpolice station. Ten seconds later, he was rushing downstairs with theerstwhile janitor at his heels and hard on the wake of Mr. Pauling's carhis runabout went tearing in the same direction.
As they swung from Fourth Avenue into 28th St., gaping crowds lined thesidewalks craning their necks and peering down the street where, farahead, the police patrol was startling the neighborhood with itsclanging bell as it followed the lead of Mr. Pauling's car.
What had happened, what danger was menacing his boy, Mr. Pauling couldnot guess. But that Tom was in deadly peril he felt sure. Frank'sagonized tones proved that, and while his incoherent, stammering wordscarried no explanation Mr. Pauling knew that his son was calling for aidfrom under the water, that something terrible had occurred. Through hismind had instantly flashed the threat of the bandit chief, the threat tomake him sweat blood if he continued his investigations. Could it bethat? Had the thugs captured or attacked Tom to injure his father? Andwhere was Rawlins? With nerves already strained from overwork andfailure to accomplish what the government demanded of him, Mr. Pauling,who was noted for his self-possession, his calmness and clear-headednessin the most trying and perilous moments, was now mad with fear and histeeth actually chattered with nervousness. His car, racing at break-neckspeed, seemed almost to crawl. Every corner seemed to be purposelyblocked by traffic. He thought he had never seen so many personscrossing the streets, so many slow-moving, horse-drawn vehicles impedinghis progress. He cursed aloud, handled his levers with savage jerks,gritted his teeth and mentally prayed he would not be too late. Now,behind him, he could hear the clanging, oncoming patrol truck--he knewHenderson had lost no time. Before him lay the end of the street, theriver and the docks. With a reckless twist he swung the car into thewaterfront street, took the turn on two wheels, drove it diagonally,regardless of cursing truck-men, across the cobbled road, and withsquealing brakes, brought it to a skidding stop by Rawlins' dock. Beforeit had lost headway he had leaped out, the detective at his side, and ashe burst into the boys' workshop a crowd of blue-clad policemen werejumping from the still moving patrol and were crowding at his heels.