THE CONFESSION
Before the conversation could be continued, the desk telephone rang and
Mr. Pauling instantly answered.
“Hello!” the boys heard him say. “Hello! Good! Right away. Call
Henderson. Yes, have everything ready. He’ll live perhaps? Yes,
Henderson will bring Ivan. Keep a record of everything. Good-by!”
As he ceased speaking, Mr. Pauling sprang up. “It’s Doctor Hewlett,” he
announced as he started for the door, “The man’s regaining
consciousness. He may talk at any moment and I must rush there. If
Murphy calls, send him over.”
An instant later, Mr. Pauling was hurrying to his car and the boys, Mrs.
Pauling and Rawlins commenced discussing the events which had followed
one another so rapidly during the past few hours.
Rawlins had to tell the story all over again to Tom’s mother and Frank
gave his version. Then all speculated on what the mystery surrounding
the submarine and the raid on the garage might be.
“It’s rather too bad that Fred can’t tell us anything yet,” said Mrs.
Pauling, “but I realize, in his position, secrecy must be maintained.
However, after it’s all over I suppose we shall know—that is, if the
newspapers don’t tell us first. They usually manage to find out such
secrets somehow.”
“Well, I admit I can’t see head nor tail to it,” declared Rawlins. “Of
course, as long as Mr. Pauling says those chaps are Russians and were
talking Bolshevik I suppose they are and were; but I _know_ that sub was
a Hun boat—not one of the big, latest U-boats, but the kind that was
over on our coast here once or twice. I’ve done a lot of work studying
submarines and they can’t fool me. Now, of course there’s no reason why
a Russian should not use a German sub if he could get hold of it, but
what were they doing over here in the East River is what gets me. I
don’t believe they were just rum-runners, even if Murphy and his crowd
did find a lot of booze over there, and what was that cigar-shaped
sub-sea gadget they were pulling along with ’em?”
“Why, I think that’s all simple,” declared Tom. “They probably brought
liquor in here with the submarine and carried it to the garage in that
torpedolike thing.”
Rawlins shook his head. “No, old man,” he replied. “A sub would never do
for a rum-runner. Why, every port in the West Indies is watched and the
whole world would hear if a sub poked her nose into a harbor and tied up
to a dock to load rum. It’s too bad we didn’t tackle those chaps out
there before they got to the sub. We might have brought in that torpedo
arrangement, too.”
“Gee, I’d forgotten all about that!” exclaimed Tom. “What became of it?”
“Why, didn’t I tell you?” replied Rawlins. “They shoved it into the
submarine. I was watching ’em do that when they spotted me. If they’d
had sense they’d have gone in after it and cleared out, but instead,
they had to try rough-house stuff and got left. I expect they thought
we’d seen too much and didn’t know I was armed. Then, when their mates
in the sub heard you yelling for help and heard Frank’s replies, they
thought the game was up and pulled stakes without stopping for the two
chaps below.”
“I wonder if they’ll get her—the destroyers, I mean,” said Frank.
“I doubt it,” replied Rawlins. “The sea’s a mighty big place and the
Lord knows where she’ll emerge. No knowing which way she headed either.
For all any one knows she may have scooted over to some hangout on Long
Island or swung around up the Hudson or slipped into the sound or stood
out to sea. But I doubt if she’ll try getting out of the harbor
submerged. Too risky. She might bump into a liner or a ship any minute
and she’d have to go blind—no periscope out, you see, because she’ll
know we’d have chasers, looking for her. No, I expect they’ll submerge,
rest on the bottom in shallow water somewhere and wait until night. Then
she could sneak out to sea with just her conning tower out. There’s
about one chance in a million of finding her and that’s the only way we
slipped up. Just as soon as I saw her I knew something crooked was going
on—knew it soon as ever I put eyes on those fellows in self-contained
suits—infringing my patents, darn ’em—and I planned to get back and
notify the authorities. Then we could have nabbed her and her whole
crew. Slipped up by letting those Bolshevik birds spot me. And Tom—did
you notice those fellows didn’t have those gadgets on their helmets? How
do you suppose they worked their radio without ’em?”
“Gosh!” exclaimed Tom. “I didn’t think of it at the time, but it’s so.
Say, what became of their suits? We can examine their outfits and find
out all about it.”
“Suits are safe enough down at the dock,” Rawlins assured him. “You’ll
have some fun examining them, I’ll say.”
“Why didn’t you ask Mr. Murphy all about what it meant?” inquired Frank,
who had been pondering on the mystery.
Rawlins gave a hearty laugh. “You don’t know friend Murphy,” he
answered. “I’ll say I asked him, but you might as well ask a lamp-post.
I know why they call potatoes Murphys now—all eyes and no mouth. That’s
him, too. Nice and pleasant and everything, but not a mite of
information. When I asked him first time he just looked me all over as
if I was some kind of a rare specimen. ‘Mr. Pauling says youse is on the
level,’ he said, ‘and I’ll take his word if he says the devil himself
has turned saint. But my orders is to say nothing to nobody till I
reports to Mr. Pauling and my orders stays orders till he gives me new
ones. He’s told me to let youse in here and to look after youse and that
I’m doin’, but never a word did he say about tellin’ of youse anything,
an’ that I won’t. What youse can see youse can see and welcome and what
youse may overhear youse can hear, but I’d advise youse to not repeat
it, and now draw your own conclusions.’”
The boys laughed. “He looked like that,” said Frank. “I can just imagine
him saying it.”
“And what did you say?” inquired Mrs. Pauling. “I have met that man
Murphy—he’s one of Fred’s right-hand men.”
“Oh, I knew he was right and just slapped him on the back and told him
he was a good skate and I’d put in a good word for him at any time. Told
him I didn’t want to butt in and wouldn’t bother him with any more
questions.”
“Didn’t you see anything?” asked Tom.
“About as much as you could see when we were in the crowd in the car,”
laughed Rawlins. “The garage wasn’t packed full, but there were about a
million plain-clothes men and police there and Lord knows how many
trucks, and everything that was going on was in the center. But I did
see them piling a lot of boxes and papers and a lot of radio stuff into
a truck and I heard a policeman smack his lips and say: ‘Glory be, but
it’s a burnin’ shame to think of all the good booze that’s goin’ to
waste nowadays. Sure it makes me throat feel dry as a load of hay to
think of it.’”
“Perhaps,” suggested Mrs. Pauling. “These men you found have some
connection with the Bolshevist threats and crimes that the papers say
are taking place. Fred never lets us know much of what is going on, as
he thinks I’ll worry. But whatever it is, I feel sure it has something
to do with the troubles and worries Fred has had recently. Both he and
Mr. Henderson have been working hard both day and night on something and
Fred has looked as if he had some great problem on his mind.”
“Well, I hope it’s that,” declared Tom. “Say, wouldn’t it be great if we
really _had_ helped Dad and the government on something more important
than smuggling liquor.”
“There’s the bell again,” exclaimed Frank. “Perhaps that’s Mr. Murphy.”
Frank’s surmise proved correct and Mrs. Pauling repeated her husband’s
orders to him. Scarcely waiting to hear, the detective turned and
hurried off.
“I suppose we might as well have dinner,” said Mrs. Pauling, after
Murphy had gone. “There’s no use waiting for Fred, he may be away all
night. You’ll have dinner with us, won’t you, Mr. Rawlins?”
Dinner over, the four returned to the library and hour after hour
dragged on with no word from Mr. Pauling.
Finally, Rawlins rose to go and was saying good night when the front
door opened and Mr. Pauling, Mr. Henderson and the detective Murphy
arrived.
“Didn’t wait dinner for me, did you?” cried Tom’s father, a note in his
voice that his wife knew meant relief and elation. “Glad you didn’t.
Sorry we were so late, but couldn’t get away a minute sooner. Didn’t
even have a chance to telephone to you. But we’re as hungry as bears. I
suppose there’s a bite to eat.”
Then, seeing Rawlins, hat in hand, he continued, “Don’t go, Rawlins.
Soon as we’ve eaten we’ll try to satisfy your curiosity and the boys’
and,” he added mischievously, “the wife’s, even if she does say she
hasn’t any.”
“They’re in mighty good spirits,” declared Rawlins when the three men
had disappeared in the direction of the dining room. “So I guess
everything’s come out O. K.”
“Yes, Fred’s had a great load lifted from his mind, I know,” agreed Mrs.
Pauling, “and I’m very glad. I’ve really been worried about him lately.”
“Well, we’ll soon know what ’tis,” said Tom. “Gosh! I can scarcely
wait.”
At last they heard the voices of the three men, laughing and chatting,
as they left the dining room, and an instant later they entered the
library.
“Now I suppose you four want the truth, the whole truth and nothing but
the truth,” laughed Mr. Pauling, as he motioned the others to seats and
settled himself in his own favorite chair. “I don’t think there’s much
that I cannot reveal now—except a few matters which have no direct
bearing or interest on the part you boys and Mr. Rawlins have played.
Well, let’s see. I guess I’d better begin at the garage—you know already
that Henderson identified the prisoner and how we had a hunch that the
affair centered in that block where the boys’ radio compasses located
the phantom speaker. I had an idea our men would have to surround the
entire block and make a house-to-house search, but the rascals saved us
that trouble. Evidently their friends had warned them that something was
wrong and Reilly’s men arrived just in time. They found a truck just
leaving the garage, and, remembering my orders to hold every one and
everything that looked suspicious, they stopped the truck—when the
driver put on speed as soon as he glimpsed the police. That was
suspicious and when they overhauled it they found it loaded with liquor.
Inside the garage, they found four more trucks and a crowd of men and
Murphy here tells me they put up a mighty good fight. That, of course,
drew a crowd and East Side crowds have no use for the blue coats. The
result was a free for all until another wagon arrived with reserves and
in the fracas several of the men in the garage broke away and
disappeared in the crowd.
“However, they got six and found enough contraband liquor in the trucks
and in a secret room under the floor to stock a dozen saloons. Most of it
was in this hidden room or cell under the floor, and very cleverly
hidden, too. Had a door formed by a false bottom to a repair pit and all
they had to do was to run a truck over the pit as if being repaired and
pass up the goods from below. There were other things in that room, too.
About twenty-five thousands dollars’ worth of furs and jewelry—all stolen
here or hereabouts; opium to the value of a hundred thousand or so, to
say nothing of morphine, cocaine and other drugs. In addition, there were
several thousand copies of red propaganda circulars and pamphlets, a neat
little engraving and printing plant and a second trapdoor that opened
into the old sewer. And the radio set was there also. A receiving
set—made in Germany by the way—and the transmission outfit. That was the
cleverest thing yet—according to Henderson who knows more about it than I
do. He tells me the what-do-you-call-it—aërial—was a folding affair
stretched across the inside of the roof and so arranged that it could be
drawn back between the girders entirely out of sight. Now I don’t know
any of the technical part of this and I’ll let Henderson explain it all
to you boys later if you wish. But the main thing, as I understand it,
was that they could send several thousand miles with the outfit on one
kind of a wave or could talk to a person a few blocks away with another
sort. At any rate, we never would have found that if we hadn’t found the
secret cell and the machine and a man at it. I’m not surprised
Henderson’s men never located it.
“That’s all about the garage. It was the headquarters and clearing house
of a dangerous gang of international cutthroats and rogues. They had
been robbing right and left, carrying their loot in motor cars and
trucks to the garage and hiding it in the secret room. Then from there
it had been carried in watertight containers, like miniature
submarines, through the old sewer to the submarine by the divers. Each
time the submarine came in she brought a cargo of liquor, drugs, cigars,
plumes, and other contraband and took away all the valuables and
receipts from sales. The conversations you overheard were between those
in the garage and other members of the gang, and the reason you boys did
not hear the other speaker was because he used a radio telegraph
instrument—that’s right, isn’t it, Henderson—and a very weak or short
wave—let’s see, a ‘buzzer set’ you called it, wasn’t it? Well, you can
get all that from Henderson, anyway.”
“But how on earth did you find all that out?” asked Rawlins, as Mr.
Pauling ceased speaking to light a cigar.
“Well, it took a little urging,” replied Mr. Pauling. “Murphy and his
men hinted to their prisoners that they’d been given the tip by the men
on the submarine and so, of course, they told all they knew in the hope
of getting lighter sentences and Henderson had the Russian up at his
office with Ivan and let _him_ think we knew all about him and the
submarine through tips given by the other crowd. As a result, we got
pretty complete information from both sides. But”—here Mr. Pauling
lowered his voice and signaled for Murphy to stand guard at the door—“we
couldn’t get what we wanted from either the Russian or any of the gang
at the garage. They’d tell us certain things—give us details and facts
about matters of which we already knew—such as the means of
communication, the submarine, etc., but beyond that they would not go.
“Short of torture I don’t believe they’d let out a word. And we knew—we
were positive—that back of it all was something deeper—a stupendous plot
aimed at the very heart and life—the very existence of the United States
and England. And we felt equally positive that back of this was an arch
criminal or rather arch fiend—a man with a tremendous brain, almost
unlimited power and marvelous resources. We could see many things which
linked this petty smuggling, the hold-ups and burglaries, the
rum-running and drug-importing with events of far greater importance.
But we had no proof, no evidence to go on.
“Some of our men thought they knew who this head—this nucleus of the
whole affair was but they could not be sure—they would not even dare
mention his name—and so we were handicapped, working in the dark. But
now we do know. We know far more than I dare tell any one, than I dare
think. The injured man has placed it all in our hands. It was the most
astounding revelation I have ever known or ever expect to hear. I cannot
tell you all—I did not even permit Murphy or the doctor to be by the
man’s bedside while he spoke and as soon as I knew he could speak and
understand English I sent Ivan off, too. Only Henderson and I heard what
he said. This man was—yes, I say ‘was,’ because he is dead—was one of
those misguided men who plotted against England and became a tool of the
Germans. He betrayed his cause and his leaders, and, despised, hunted
for the traitor and coward that he was, not safe either in England,
Ireland or Germany, he became a man without a country, an enemy of all
organized governments, a fanatical ‘red’ and a trusted emissary of this
arch criminal I referred to.
“When he became conscious he raved and cursed frightfully, swearing he
had been betrayed and in his mad desire for vengeance—knowing he had but
a few moments to live—told us as best he could with his scorched and
blackened lips and tongue what we longed to know. It was unbelievable,
incredible, more marvelous than Jules Verne’s stories, but true, we
know, from the way it dovetails in with other facts in our possession.
“Among other things, we learned that many mysteriously missing ships—the
many passenger and merchant vessels which never reached port—were
deliberately sunk, torpedoed without warning and all survivors put to
death in cold blood merely to secure the gold and other valuables on
board. All this treasure, all the loot from robberies and crimes
committed in the United States and abroad, all the receipts from
smuggling and the sales of drugs and liquors were to swell the fund this
master plotter was accumulating to accomplish his final purpose.
“This he told us towards the last—when each breath was a mighty effort,
when each word was wrung from him with torture—and he even tried to tell
us where it was hidden, where this vast treasure is concealed, cachéd,
and where we might find the headquarters of this monster in human form.
He was telling us and was striving, straining to give us the location.
He had mentioned the locality in a general way, was giving us the
latitude and longitude and had gasped out three figures when he died—the
words unfinished, the secret sealed within his lips and—most important
of all, with the name of that ruthless, relentless master-fiend
unspoken.”
The boys’ eyes had grown round with wonder as Mr. Pauling was speaking.
Mrs. Pauling leaned forward, her face flushed, her lips parted. Rawlins
had remained as silent, as immovable as if carved in stone, and even Mr.
Henderson and Murphy had been so engrossed, so interested, although they
knew the story as well as Mr. Pauling, that they had allowed their
cigars to go out.
“Jehoshaphat!” exclaimed Tom, when his father ceased speaking. “Gosh! We
_did_ butt into something worth while!”
“Oh, Gee!” ejaculated Frank in disappointed tones. “Then you don’t know
where that treasure is after all!”
“No,” replied Mr. Pauling, “not within several hundred miles. But the
treasure is not the important thing, it’s the man himself we want.”
Rawlins rose, his eyes shone with unwonted brilliancy, his face was
flushed.
“I’ll say that’s some day’s work!” he cried. “But I’ll bet we _can_ get
that loot—and that whole bunch of crooks, too. I’ve a scheme, Mr.
Pauling, but I want a little time to think it over and get my brain
straightened out. There’s been too much crowded into it during the last
ten hours.”
Mr. Pauling stared at Rawlins as if he thought he might have taken leave
of his senses. Then, realizing that Rawlins was in earnest, he said
quietly, “All right, Rawlins. I don’t know what your scheme may be, but
I’ll be glad to hear it whenever you’re ready. Call me up and we’ll hear
it when you have it worked out. We owe you more than I can express to
you now.”
A moment later Rawlins had gone and hardly had his footsteps died away
when the telephone tinkled.
“Yes!” exclaimed Mr. Pauling as he listened. “Remarkable! Absolutely
deserted! Well, I guess that chapter’s closed. Thanks for letting me
know.”
“Sorry Rawlins has gone,” declared Mr. Pauling as he hung up the
receiver and wheeled about. “That was the Admiral calling. One of the
destroyers has found the submarine!”
“Gosh! then they’ve caught more of the gang!” cried Tom.
“That’s the astounding part of it,” replied his father. “She was found
drifting, her upper works just awash, about one hundred miles out to sea
and _not a living soul on board her_!”