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Roy Glashan's Library
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Cosmopolitan, August 1918, with "The Love Game"
Craig Kennedy knows that there are other ways of circumventing the plots and plans of criminals than application of scientific knowledge, as witness the very unusual tactics he employs in handling the mysterious case he has here presented in him.
"WITH the harbor so full of ships, and everything going at top speed, there's all manner of trouble down on the water-front." Our old friend Burke, of the secret service, was plainly worried and perplexed. "For instance," he hastened, "this morning there was a body of a man found floating in the Lower Bay. His body seemed to be covered with peculiar sores, and his skull was crushed in—apparently it was a murder."
"Perhaps more than a murder," considered Kennedy, at once interested. "It may have been a method of disposing of the man for some other reason."
Burke eyed him keenly.
"Quite true—just the point. But why?" he queried.
"Who was the man?" Craig inquired.
"He hasn't been identified yet," replied Burke. "I'll let you know if the police succeed in finding out who he is. Then there's another thing: It may be related, or it may not. At least," he added, "I'm going to relieve my mind to you of all my troubles."
"Go ahead," encouraged Kennedy.
"Only this morning came an appeal from the health officer at Quarantine," resumed Burke. "The Mandalay, a freighter, arrived in port last night. There's a crew of Chinese coolies on board, and there seems to be some strange sickness that has broken out among them. That, of course, isn't anything that, on the face of it, concerns the secret service. But, the point is this: one of the harbor-patrol boats noticed, before the Mandalay cast anchor, that a rather mysterious craft nosed up alongside. It pushed off right away, but the men on the patrol were sure that some small packages were passed out through one of the portholes. They chased the motor-boat, but she got away. That's been turned over to me to investigate. Will you help me?"
"You know you have only to ask."
Burke grasped his hand, then seized mine in his other hand, thanked us, and, in a few moments, left. We had now to wait until we got further word from him. Kennedy turned impatiently to complete some experiments. As I sat there watching him, there was a light tap on the door, and it was pushed open hesitatingly.
For a moment, a very pretty, light-haired girl, slender, with a most fascinating glow of health on her tanned cheeks stood framed in the doorway.
"Professor Kennedy?" she inquired. Kennedy bowed, but before he could answer anything, she added, "I am Rita Hyde, an artist." It was then that I noticed the huge leather portfolio which she carried, and instantly I recognized the name.
"I've come to you, Professor Kennedy," she continued, "to confide in you." She paused a moment; then, "Don't laugh at me," she pleaded prettily, "but the height of my ambition is—well you see, I've been drawing pictures for so many mystery stories that I want to live one—I want to be a detective. It fascinates me."
Kennedy smiled at her enthusiasm. Evidently she still felt the necessity of convincing him that she was no ordinary person. From the portfolio she drew a copy of her latest drawing. It bore the caption: "The Torch of Liberty." Across deep-blue water, the rays of the torch of the Statue of Liberty lighted a path, down which could be seen a fleet of transports, freighters, warships, fading off into the distance toward Europe, while the light streamed out to sea, pointing the way.
"Indeed a beautiful concept," complimented Craig.
Undeniably, Rita Hyde had talent. Yet it was not a compliment on it that she had come to seek, and her frank face showed her disappointment.
"Isn't there something I could do?" she pleaded. "None of my friends takes me seriously. But I mean it. I've heard so much about you, Mr. Kennedy. Besides, I know our country needs us all to help."
She was a pretty girl, and, as she talked, I could see that Kennedy was becoming interested in her.
"Who—er—yes," he finally consented. "I don't see why you shouldn't try. Just now, Mr. Burke, of the secret service, was here. He has a case to investigate. I rather suspect that that is just where you could help us out. I'd be glad to let you know."
"Oh!" she exclaimed eagerly, "that is delightful! It is just what I'd like. Thank you ever so much. Won't you drop in—and Mr. Jameson, too—at my studio in Macdougal's Alley—soon so that we can begin?"
Kennedy accompanied her to the door. I thought he held her little hand a trifle longer than was necessary.
As he turned, already I began to view Kennedy's acceptance of this vivacious young person with an indefinite feeling of misgiving. He resumed the work on which he had been engaged, but I could see that he was only carrying it on mechanically. Was Burke's case on his mind, or was he thinking of the pretty little artist?
IT was late in the afternoon when the telephone-bell rang. It
was a call from Burke, and Kennedy turned from the instrument
energetically.
"The body has been identified," he announced to me. "It was a river junkman, Tom Grady—one of those nondescript sutlers of the water-front. The police say that he has been hanging around lately at Clancy's saloon on Water Street, just outside the barred zone. He seemed to have plenty of money, more than he ever had before, and they know that, at times, he was drinking pretty freely and spending money fast on the girls who hang out there. Burke suggests that some of the girls may have heard him say something, that we might get a line on the case if we went down there."
He paused a moment, as if not knowing just how I would take what he had to add. "Perhaps," he decided, "if we went with Rita Hyde, it might seem more natural for us to visit the place than for two men alone."
As we rode down-town, I wondered whether that was his real reason or just an excuse to see Rita.
At last Kennedy and I turned into Macdougal's Alley. We picked our way over the cobbles of the lane, which had once been a mews.
RITA HYDE had established herself in the upper part of what
had formerly been a stable, and, as we mounted the wooden stairs,
we could hear merry voices.
"Just in time!" greeted Rita joyously at sight of us, or, rather, of Craig. "We're having tea."
She introduced us to her two visitors. One was a very handsome dark-haired girl, Lydia Bittner. The man, a tall, slender, rather distinguished-looking chap, she introduced as Doctor Bryson. He seemed to be making a decided effort to get on good terms with Rita. In addition to being a doctor, I found he was really an artist, and no mean one at that. He had brought some marine paintings and sketches of his own to show Rita, and evidently, already, they had established a basis of friendship.
The conversation quickly shifted to art, and Bryson told of his yacht, the Flaneur, of painting and sketching he had done on it and planned to do.
As the time passed, I found myself much with Lydia Bittner. She was, as I have said, a handsome girl, and at another time I should have considered myself lucky to be thrown in her company. But now I was ill at ease.
"Isn't Rita charming?" she asked, in an evident effort to make conversation, I hastened to agree. But Lydia was a keen observer, and I know she saw that I was keeping a jealous eye on Kennedy.
As I watched them, I saw that Kennedy was getting along famously with Rita. As for Lydia Bittner, I hardly knew what to do or say. I did not wish to appear rude—yet girls did not seem to me to fit, just now, at least, into the perplexing case of Burke's.
The time passed slowly enough for me, but quickly for Craig. Finally, long past the dinner-hour, the others prepared to leave. Adroitly I sidestepped the duty of taking Lydia home, and Doctor Bryson accepted it with better grace than I had expected.
"You are all invited to take tea with me on the Flaneur," he insisted, on parting. "She's anchored off the Fort Lee ferry. We'll consider it set for to-morrow—eh, Rita?"
She agreed, but apparently the invitation meant nothing to her. Clever though she was, I fancied she wanted the others to go so that she might talk to Craig.
At last, however, he was alone with her and, I might add, myself.
"Well, Rita," he said, as the footsteps down the stairs ceased, "I think I've got your chance."
"Oh, good!" she cried, her expressive eves fairly dancing. "Tell me about it. May I go out with you?"
"There was a body of a man picked up in the river today," Craig replied. "The police have endeavored to identify him, and they've succeeded. His name was Grady—one of the river junkmen. They say he hung out at Clancy's saloon on Water Street, where he had plenty of money to spend and spent it freely on the girls there, I want you to go with us. You can get in with some of the girls there better than we can. Find out where he got his money." Rita listened eagerly.
"All right!" she cried. "I'm ready now."
"Oh, no," smiled Kennedy, surveying her pretty frock, which set off her trim figure neatly; "not that way."
"Of course not: How stupid of me! Never mind. I'll learn. Shall I put on old clothes?"
"Not old exactly—" hesitated Craig. "Put on something—well—er—sporty but tawdry. Understand? Rouge up—make yourself look cheaply artificial. You—you'll pardon me for even thinking you can?"
She laughed merrily.
"You never saw me make up some of my models!" she cried, and she disappeared into an inner room. Kennedy's eves followed approvingly.
Perhaps fifteen minutes later, Rita reappeared. The change was wonderful.
"Just the thing!" exclaimed Kennedy enthusiastically. She had taken a very dashing gown of the season before in which, evidently, she had once been caught out in the rain. Her face was rouged and powdered and lip-sticked until even a longshoreman's queen could have done no better. "You are really an artist," complimented Craig, in admiration.
HALF an hour later, Kennedy, Rita, and myself arrived at
Clancy's and pushed open the side door that led into a back room.
At a glance, I estimated the place. In one corner was a battered,
almost tuneless piano, on which a young blood was beating out
some of the latest ragtime, to which one of the waiters was
singing in a raucous tenor.
About the sides of the room were several little tables with chairs, and in the center of the room a sanded dancing-floor.
As we entered, I saw a girl rise and hurry out through another door. I could have sworn it was Lydia Bittner, although I did not see her face. The fellow who had been talking with her waited at the table, but, even after we had seated ourselves, she did not come back. That confirmed me in the suspicion that it was really Lydia.
"Humph," snorted the fellow, rising finally and paying his check, preparing to go. "She stood me up."
Between songs, the waiter consented to serve, and it was not long before Kennedy managed to make discreet inquiries of him about Grady. The waiter seemed to know him, but not to know of the tragedy. Craig said nothing of it, especially as the waiter, in answer to another query, whispered that there was one of his "lady friends" in the café now, and he would bring her over. A few moments later he introduced Katy Connor as a friend of Grady's. She sat down at our table, and was just beginning to get a bit confidential with Rita, when a young fellow slouched in.
"Hello, Katy," he greeted thickly.
"Hello, Pete!" she replied.
For a moment he regarded us, then slouched over nearer to the table.
"Say, Katy, when you goin' ter cut this out?" he demanded roughly. "First, it's Grady—den dese here guys—anyone wit' money ter buy. An' say, kid," he added, turning toward Rita with a sort of smoldering resentment, "who are you—comin' in here an' gettin' me Katy away, anyhow?"
He had been drinking more than a bit, and his voice attracted the couples at the other tables. It was evident, too, that more than one sympathized with Pete. Strangers were always looked upon with suspicion and hostility.
Spurred on, Pete was positively menacing toward Rita, as though it were she who was leading Katy astray from the straight and narrow.
As he leaned over, Rita drew back closer to Kennedy. For a moment, it looked as though there was going to be a fight. Rita clung to Kennedy. She was a trifle pale under the rouge, but still game.
Suddenly Katy rose and, with a snippy remark to her partner, moved over to another table. Kennedy, too, decided that discretion was the better part of valor; so we quietly withdrew, leaving Pete muttering and Katy scolding.
True, nothing much had been accomplished. Yet Kennedy seemed highly elated. He and Rita, I felt, were getting pretty friendly. There was compensation enough merely to have been in her society. It was evidently pleasing to Kennedy to have her to protect.
"I'm sorry," Rita apologized, as, at last, we came to the studio again. "I'll try to do better next time."
"You did very well," reassured Kennedy, while they lingered over the farewell.
IT was early the next morning that we received a visit from
Burke.
"One thing I'm sure of now," he announced, as he laid a package on the table: "That mysterious motor-boat which nosed up to the Mandalay and took off the packages handed out through the porthole contained a river junkman—hardly Grady, however."
I knew the river junk boatmen. Most of them were rascals. The police insisted that none of them could make a living by legitimate trade. Pier watchmen had declared that all junk boatmen were pirates. Undoubtedly, I thought, some of these gentry might readily be spies, selling their knowledge to enemy agents. They were a harbor pest.
Burke had digressed into a tirade against the rascals when from the package there came a peculiar squeak.
"What have you there?" demanded Kennedy.
"A rat," Burke replied quickly. "I'm sure that the packages tossed out from the Mandalay contained rats. This is one of them. One of my men found some, carefully crated, under a pier where these pirates hang out."
He unwrapped the package and displayed the rodent in a small steel trap.
Kennedy approached the rat gingerly, and I wondered at it, for, although the brown river-rat has been known to be very ferocious, still this fellow was safely in a trap. He looked at him a moment, then quickly seized a bell jar and chloroformed the animal under it. Then he began his examination of it under the microscope, first going over the furry skin of the animal, then testing its blood, and observing very carefully. Suddenly there was an exclamation from him.
"That's what I was looking for," he cried, "the rat-flea! It's this flea that carries the plague—and I've found the germs, too! It's an intensely malignant, infectious disease, this plague," he went on to explain. "There are three kinds of plague closely related—the bubonic, with which the world has become familiar, the pneumonic, and the neurotoxic. As far as we know, the plague originated in Manchuria or Mongolia, where it is carried by the rodent known as the tarbagan. The rat is quite as efficient a carrier, however, besides being world-wide. In this case, I find the germs of the deadly pneumonic variety, a disease which resembles pulmonary consumption. Palpable symptoms develop quickly, ending in coma, delirium, and death—a horrible death, with filthy, glandular swellings."
It was astounding information, as I pieced together the scattered facts we already knew—the rats themselves, the sick coolies on the freighter, the junk boatmen, the death of Grady, perhaps with the disease and murdered in order to hide its presence.
I was amazed. Here was nothing short of a plot to spread the pneumonic plague not only in America but through all the Allies. The plan was devilish.
For the moment. Kennedy seemed to be his old self, fired by enthusiasm over his discovery.
"First of all," he decided, as he telephoned quickly over to the laboratory of the medical school of the university, "we've got to make it safe for ourselves. No one knows but that already some of these fleas may have bitten one of us—particularly yourself. Burke."
Burke almost paled, but, under Kennedy's reassurance, quickly regained his composure. While we waited. Kennedy planned quickly what was to be done.
"Heroic measures are necessary to combat this thing." he said. "It's a simple matter to sit here and say what should be done—not so simple to carry the thing out."
In spite of the magnitude of the task. Burke agreed to get the health authorities at work on a campaign for the extermination of all rats. I felt that now things would develop fast when the publicity of the rat-campaign spread the fact that the plot had been discovered.
In the midst of our planning the rat-crusade by federal, state, and local authority, as well as warning other ports and nations, a messenger arrived from the medical school with a package containing several vials of a colorless liquid.
"Come," Craig announced briskly; "bare your arms. I'm going to give you a little vaccination with this protective serum that our doctors have been developing with just this menace of a plague in mind, now that the health bars are perhaps a bit relaxed, due to the war."
Each of our arms he bathed carefully in alcohol; then into a vein he injected the protective serum. Then Burke and Kennedy held a hasty conference, after which, with a nod of agreement the secret-service man hurried away.
PERHAPS an hour later, Rita called up, and we met her later
up-town, ready to visit the Flaneur. Bryson met us at the
pier, and in a tender we were whisked out over the river to the
yacht. She was a trim craft, of some hundred or hundred and ten
feet, built for both speed and comfort, and perfectly appointed.
Doctor Bryson was a splendid host, and everything was of the
best.
Lydia Bittner, we found to be very good company, although it was really very little that she actually said.
But, somehow, I found myself watching her closely. I felt convinced that there was a very definite understanding between her and Bryson.
Altogether, we spent a most enjoyable afternoon; at least, it would have been so had not the case of Burke been on my mind. As for Kennedy, however, it seemed as though he regarded it as a holiday. Apparently, with the despatching of Burke, he had cast all care to the four winds and was thoroughly enjoying every moment with Rita. Even the rather noticeable attentions of Bryson to her did not ruffle him, and I more than fancied that there was already a mutual understanding between Craig and Rita. It was with some pangs of jealousy that I saw it, too. Nor did I neglect to watch Bryson. He had clearly seen the same thing even before I had, was governing himself accordingly, and endeavoring to shine before Rita in his brightest light.
"Sometime soon," he asked her finally, as we feathered our way back to the dock in the tender, "you'll make one of a party on a cruise north? Remember—you half promised."
Instead of answering immediately, she glanced at Kennedy. As she did so, she caught my eye and colored a bit. Kennedy saw and almost laughed. To him there was no concealment of his feelings. And as Bryson saw and interpreted the silent interchange, he hastened to include Craig in the invitation.
"I should be glad to be one of the party," Craig accepted, speaking to Bryson, but with eyes only for Rita.
A car was waiting for us at the landing, and we first saw Lydia to her up-town apartment, then sped down to Washington Square, where we left Rita. Bryson dropped us at our apartment, and Kennedy and he parted as agreeably as two men can when there is a girl like Rita in question.
THAT evening, the papers were full of the menace of the plague
which had suddenly appeared from China. Great stress was laid on
the wide campaign for rat-proofing the city. The Mandalay,
in the public mind, received the blame for the menace, but that,
we decided, was much better than to have it known we had every
reason to believe that the thing had been in operation for days,
perhaps weeks, before, that some one on the ship was merely one
agent for the importation of the plague, which had got out and
beyond his control among the coolies.
Little was accomplished by Craig either that night or the following day, as far as I could observe. In fact, except at intervals, I did not see much of him. Most of his time was spent either with Rita on some mission or at her studio. I felt sure that the results for the case were meager, but neither of them seemed to care. They were like children. The friendship was progressing with a whirlwind speed.
It was late that evening that Burke dropped into the laboratory. Kennedy happened to be there. He was waiting for Rita, who had agreed to do some alleged piece of detection and had promised to report her success at the laboratory.
"I've been getting reports about a yacht, the Flaneur," remarked Burke. "She's anchored out in the river—has been for some time. She's been making frequent trips up the Sound, down the Jersey and Long Island coasts."
"Whose yacht is it really?" inquired Craig.
"I find it's registered in the name of a man named Cavendish, of Chicago," replied Burke.
"'Cavendish?'" I repeated. "I thought it was Bryson's." Burke shrugged.
"What of him?" I persisted.
"I haven't made him out yet."
"But who is this Cavendish?"
Again Burke shrugged his ignorance.
"Is he in a plot—about the rats?"
"I don't know yet. We're trying to locate him. Perhaps his name is being used on the registry list to cover the real ownership of the yacht."
"Well, what about this Lydia Bittner?" I insisted, determined that Burke should be informed, even if Kennedy dallied.
There was a knock at the door, and Rita entered. Kennedy rose to greet her and introduced her to Burke.
"I'm afraid you'll fire me," she began, turning to Craig. "And yet I think I have found something."
Craig nodded an apology to us, and the two moved over by the window, gazing out at the moonlight while she talked earnestly in a low, musical tone.
Finally, they turned to us. Kennedy made some playful remark, but Rita evidently was taking herself quite seriously. She chatted eagerly with Burke. But, as the conversation flowed on, I could see that Craig was losing interest more and more in both Burke and the case, and paying more attention to every expression that flitted over the mobile face of Rita.
Burke finally excused himself. Had he felt that, in the gradual change of tone, there was a hint to go? As for myself, I determined to be just mean enough to stay. Presently, however, Rita rose.
"Thank you, Craig," she said, declining his offer to see her home; "I'm quite able to take care of myself."
Kennedy was visibly disappointed. As Rita smiled back a good-night, I could not help thinking that she had meant purposely to tantalize him more than anything else.
Somehow, I had felt myself de trop. Two were company; three a crowd. Yet both Kennedy and Rita, on this and other occasions, had been too polite to say or even hint anything. Indeed, it was the excess of cordiality that cut me most. It was too studied.
As for Kennedy, I felt that he was no longer the same old Craig. In spite of the amazing nature of his discoveries regarding the rats, I found him neglecting his laboratory shamefully. There were long periods when he did not appear there at all. Now and then, Burke had dropped in. But, even if Kennedy were there, the conferences were short. Burke would hasten away busily.
Then, often, Kennedy would wander down to Macdougal's Alley. I could not see that he was accomplishing anything, as far as the case went. Was Craig losing his grip? I had been watching the growth of the friendship between Kennedy and Rita with increasing alarm. In as diplomatic language as I could frame, I once ventured to remonstrate. Kennedy listened, even let me finish without an interruption. Finally, he turned to me, slowly.
"Walter," he rejoined, with a palpably injured air, "I hope you'll pardon me. I wouldn't say it unless you forced me, but, of all the vices, jealousy is the worst. Really, I'm disappointed in you."
His tone of being hurt was final. What could I say?
THE following morning, I was seated alone, as usual now, in
the laboratory, when Burke entered in great excitement. He looked
about a moment for Kennedy. But Craig was not there. I knew he
had gone to meet Rita, but not at the studio, and there was now
no chance of locating them, as likely as not they had gone
motoring on some pretense of playing at detective work.
"Something very strange," announced Burke, as though he felt he must relieve his mind, even to me. "I had one of my men put in as elevator-man in the apartment where Lydia Bittner lives. I've just received news that she is very ill, attended by a Doctor Kohn in the building. I'm on my way up there now."
I insisted on going with him, and ten minutes later we entered the apartment.
First, Burke stopped at the office of Doctor Kohn, on the first floor, to make inquiries. The doctor was in; indeed, he had stayed in because of the graveness of Lydia Bittner's case. As he recounted the symptoms, Burke exchanged a glance with me. Plainly they were precisely what Kennedy had led us to suppose would be those of the dangerous stage of the plague itself.
By making use of Doctor Kohn, he managed to get into the Bittner suite, muttering aside to me: "Thank heaven, Kennedy inoculated us."
He found a nurse there, and Lydia Bittner almost in a coma and speechless.
Burke, who was no respecter of tragedies, lost no time in searching while there was yet an opportunity. He had not hunted long before he came to a huge knitting-bag. He pulled out the yarn, the needles, and the countless other things the huge bags often hide.
He could hardly repress an audible exclamation as his hand encountered a small case in which was a crumpled paper. We studied it. On it were some cryptic marks:
Standard stop 1914 stop 2571, 24 stop 2302, 32 stop
2257, 20 stop 2686, 70 stop 2208, 33 stop 45, 36 stop
There was much more to it, but that will suffice to give an
idea of what the paper was like. Burke shoved the writing into
his pocket, and, with a parting injunction to the nurse to be on
guard, we left.
What did the paper mean? Was Lydia Bittner a spy? Was this a code message to her?
With Burke, I hastened back to our apartment, hoping that Kennedy might come in or, at least, telephone. He did not, nor could I locate him at Rita's. There was no answer. I felt that he was carrying things pretty far in his neglect of the case.
Burke and I pored over the cipher.
"'Standard,'" I repeated. "Can that mean some standard code?"
Burke did not answer. If it were, certainly we were not in the possession of the key. It would take Kennedy with his skill and patience at deciphering cryptograms to unravel it. Meanwhile, valuable time was passing.
"Standard, 1914," Burke repeated. "The 'stop' means 'stop.'"
His eye traveled to the bookcase. Suddenly he jumped up. From the shelf he drew forth the dictionary and opened it to the title-page. His finger rested on a figure at the bottom of the page. I glanced at it—the date of the imprint, 1914. In a flash, it dawned on me what a discovery Burke had made. Quickly he turned over the pages, until he came to 2571, in the T's. He ran his finger down the columns, counting. At last he stopped on the twenty-fourth word—"troop."
Together now, in great excitement, we figured out the words that followed—"smoke," "shipment," "wave," "seagull," "aeroplane" and so on.
"What does it mean?" I asked. "We're not much further along now than we were before."
Burke was silent. Finally he excused himself and returned to his office downtown, leaving me to gasp the rest of the day like a fish out of water without Kennedy.
DARKNESS had settled down when, worried and determined that
the affair should not suffer from want of attention of some kind,
however slight, I decided on a little detective work of my own. I
remembered the river junkman, Grady, and our ill success at
Clancy's. Perhaps alone, I might pick up something.
It was a rainy, drizzly night on the riverfront. Lights shone only dimly through the half-fog. At last, I found myself near Clancy's, just on the outskirts of the barred zone. I was about to enter the place when I saw two muffled men leave it and slink off into the zone, which was supposed to be guarded. If they could so easily pass the outskirts, I figured that I could, and I did, waiting in the shadow of an old market-building.
Suddenly, in the shadows of the street, something arrested my attention. I could see figures moving stealthily, carefully keeping away from the water-front guards. In the darkness I could see that there was something in the hands of one of the figures. Were they seeking an opportunity to plant a bomb?
A small, dark object scampered over the street, straight for the wharf at which a ship was loading. It was a rat!
At that moment, from an adjoining building, a man in a long coat, strangely reminiscent of Craig, strode out toward the two figures. But before he had even come up with them, another figure and another converged on him. There was a sharp attack and scuffle, and the suddenness of the assault carried him off his feet. He was down, and it was four to one. Craig or not, my sense of fair play was aroused.
"Help!" I yelled, leaping out and starting toward him.
Just at that moment, farther down the street, sounded a sharp blast on a police whistle. The attackers ran toward another wharf, and I conjectured that they were river junk-boatmen, perhaps with a craft nosed up under the wharf.
I came up to the man lying prone on the street. It was Kennedy, almost unconscious. At the same time, a woman appeared, still blowing the whistle. She dropped on her knees beside him, and I saw in the fitful light that it was Rita.
By this time, pier-guards had gathered. I kept them back, with a hasty explanation, showing my pass from the Star.
"Why, Rita—you here?" gasped Craig weakly.
"Yes, Craig," she whispered, wiping the dirt and blood from his face with her lace handkerchief. "You must not go out alone this way. I had a feeling when you left me to-night that you were going to do this—and—and I couldn't stay away; I followed you down here."
By this time, we had tried to get Craig on his feet. But the blows, or perhaps the fall, had been too severe. He clung to us with his whole weight, unable to stand alone, almost speechless.
Even when we summoned a cab, the jolting seemed to cause him the greatest pain. Yet he steadfastly refused either doctor or ambulance. Whatever it was that had happened to him, he was stubborn.
Rita looked at me helplessly.
"What are we to do with him, Mr. Jameson?" she pleaded. "He'll faint if we take him all the way up-town. We're not so far from the studio. I'm sure you won't mind if I take him there? I can fix him upon the couch—and there's a doctor just around in the square. Once there, he can't refuse to see the doctor. I think I can take care of him better, too."
Kennedy, who, by this time, was really even weaker, nodded. It was very unconventional, I knew, but, then, Macdougal's Alley is conventionally unconventional.
We managed to get him there, secure a doctor, who found no broken bones but a severe internal strain, and, for a fee, prescribed absolute rest, and left.
It was late. I looked about, fidgeting. I didn't want to go—yet as a chaperon I felt decidedly inexperienced. Finally, I rose awkwardly, bowed Rita a good-night, and backed out, leaving Kennedy, tossing fitfully.
IT was very early the following morning that there came a
telephone-call from Burke, at the apartment.
"My people have located Cavendish," he reported. "He says he sold the yacht and knows nothing now about it."
"Yes?" I replied. "Suspicious, isn't it?"
"Quite. I believe she's now an enemy yacht. I think she's not only the center of the plague-plot but of invaluable service in observing the loading and sailing of ships, the shipment of munitions, the state of the warehouses and docks, everything about the harbor and coast. I've had men up there, picking an acquaintance with the crew. They've just found out from one sailor that she's getting ready to sail at a moment's notice. There's reason to think she's going to make a getaway. Tell Kennedy not to go aboard—I think there's some scheme to kidnap him. You'll do that—like a good fellow, Jameson? I've got to act fast."
There was barely time to promise when Burke hung up. I hustled into my clothes with but one idea: I must get to Kennedy and warn him. Suppose, in his helpless condition, some of the river junkmen invaded the studio? Could Rita save him alone?
It was very early, and I had great difficulty in finding a cab, but after it was found, there was nothing to check our speed down-town. It was not long before we pulled up along Fifth Avenue, and I hurried up the alley, leaving the cab by the curb.
As I came to the studio, I found the lower door open. Quietly I entered and started up the stairs. It was with the greatest relief that I heard voices and recognized Craig talking eagerly with Rita and even laughing.
I paused. I felt like an eavesdropper and interloper. The mere fact that I had paused and that they had not heard me placed me in an awkward position.
The silvery tones of Rita's voice floated out, and I knew that she was busy over a chummy little chafing-dish breakfast, for I could detect the appetizing odor of bacon, and my nose told me a coffee-percolator was at work.
At least, Kennedy was safe. I decided to retreat. If I got away without creaking the stairs, I might come in again less unexpectedly.
I gained the lower door safely, and started back just as I saw some one enter the mews.
A moment, and I was face to face with Bryson.
"Humph!" he answered. "You here?"
I was about to reply hotly to his insulting tone, when, to my utter amazement, a cab drew up with a rush and from it fairly leaped Burke and a strapping fellow whom I recognized as his bodyguard, whom he often used. A moment, and Burke strode up.
"Well," he remarked quietly, his hands ostentatiously in his coat pocket, which bulged suggestively, "I deciphered the code. You ought to have changed that caption to the 'Torch of Treachery.' 'The Torch of Liberty'—ha, ha—what sarcasm!"
Bryson looked at Burke.
"'Torch of Liberty'—what do you mean? Who are you, sir?"
"Got time to listen?" mocked Burke. "Every one of the magazines sends copies to a neutral country. The code tells what the drawing means. In it are concealed facts that could never pass the censorship—the number of troops, that's smoke—the number and shape of puffs from the funnels in the picture; shipments to the Allies, they're told in the character of the waves and the wake of the ships; the ships themselves tell of sailings; the sea-gulls, the number of aeroplanes sent abroad. Every cloud and ray of light has its meaning. It was an elaborate camouflage for sending messages past.
"And, there's another thing. From this port the plague was to be spread, to sweep the world. When Lydia Bittner, operative for our government, discovered an inkling of the secret, she was struck down by the very plague she sought, as an American, to prevent. The serum protected us; perhaps it will save her. Meanwhile, Doctor Bryson—I had this warrant made out 'von Hellman,' to make sure—you are under arrest. The Flaneur has already been seized and forfeited for false registry."
The unmistakable outline of gun in Burke's pocket menaced.
But I did not wait. I turned and darted back up the stairs to the studio. I longed to grasp Craig's hand and let him know how wrong I had been in not guessing that, though Burke had been doing the work, back of all Craig himself had been the real actor.
As I flung the door open, I saw Rita bending over Craig, more alluring in her kimono than I had ever seen her.
"You will go—won't you?—the sea air will freshen you up. You need it—and we'll just be together—we—two—Oh!"
She turned, startled, as she saw me. Her arm rested on Kennedy's shoulder, enticingly.
Craig turned toward the window, where now he could hear plainly Burke's voice while Bryson in rage defied him.
Rita also heard, also heard them enter the lower hall.
She drew away her arm, but Kennedy caught her hand.
"My dear young lady," he exclaimed, "this is one of the oldest games in thy world!"
We turned as Burke burst into the room.
"There, von Hellman—let me introduce the Baroness Rita von der Heide. Baroness, you, too, are under arrest!"
Rita turned quickly and faced Kennedy, who was on his feet in an instant, with surprising agility. Such a transformation from an ingénue to a countenance almost vampirish I have never seen.
"My God!" she exclaimed, as the incarnation of hate flashed from her eyes at Kennedy. "My God, but you are clever!"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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