There are some astonishments which cannot be translated verbally. So
great was Mathison's that he could neither think nor move. The aftermath
of a thunderbolt affects you like that. When a certain phase of the
hypnosis passed, and Mathison began to get the hang of life again, he
became conscious of the porter. He drew out a bill and presented it.
"Thanks. Uncle Sam will be very grateful to you. Any idea what was in
this box?"
"De lady said it was military, suh."
Mathison nodded. "The man next door, George, is not a Secret Service
man. I'd like to tell you all about it, but the time is too short. By
telling him that I'm going straight to the Waldorf you will be doing
your Uncle Sam an extra service."
"I told him, Cap'n."
"Good! Send a redcap in when the train stops. Good-by and good luck."
Mathison closed the door and locked it. The little red book he slipped
into an inner pocket, the manila envelope he dropped into one of the
kit-bags. What he did with the blue-print will be revealed at the proper
moment. Then he sat down, his brain beginning to boil with questions. By
and by he came to what he believed to be the solution of this miracle.
The Yellow Typhoon was afraid. She had betrayed her companions because
she saw immunity in the betrayal. She would never receive it from John
Mathison, Bob Hallowell's friend! She, too, should pay. All the cards in
his hand again, and he would play them on the basis that the phrase
"blood and iron" was not pertinent to the Teuton only.
For what had been the primal impetus of this remarkable journey of ten
thousand miles, of hiding continually behind steel walls, of refusing to
take profit from the vast power at his service? An eye for an eye, a
tooth for a tooth! That he was a secret agent, carrying a tremendous
undeveloped sea-offensive--which he still had by the hair--was to his
mind, obsessed with a single idea, an affair of secondary importance.
Draw the hand strongly across the surface of the water. What happens? A
wave, that follows irresistibly, fatefully, inescapably. This was, then,
primarily a man-hunt, played backward, probably as peculiar a man-hunt
as was ever conceived. The pursuers were in reality the pursued. Being a
good psychologist, Mathison had simply put himself back of his enemies'
point of view. In their minds, who would be the logical messenger? John
Mathison, transferred to European waters, the familiar friend of the
inventor, the one man living who knew exactly what the invention in its
entirety was. This established in their minds, there were ninety-nine
chances in a hundred that they would follow him. And there was always
the possibility that Paolo, the Spanish servant, had conveyed enough
scraps of information to decide them.
Had he been only vaguely certain that they carried the blue-print,
Mathison would have used his power and struck immediately after the
sleep-fume attack the first night on shore. But, he had argued,
supposing he struck and the print was not found? They would be
liberated; forewarned, they would vanish. He hadn't credited them with
the stupidity of carrying so dangerous a thing as that blue-print. In
their place he would have mailed it from San Francisco, with absolute
certainty that it would reach the hands intended. There was no
censorship over national mail. And now that the print was in his
possession, he never could prove that it had actually been in theirs.
For the real point was to secure evidence, of which to date he had not
an iota, not such as would pass muster in any court outside of Germany.
To have the blond man and his companions arrested as matters now stood
would be a waste of time. So his whole plan was to lure them to a point
where the hand of the law could touch and _hold_. An overt act, culpable
legally. And The Yellow Typhoon herself had restored the means.
There was still one puzzle--the woman's lack of curiosity. She had not
opened the envelope. Had she declared to the blond man that she had not
found it? It would not be stating it strong enough to say that she was
the most baffling woman he had ever met; he had never _read_ of one her
match.
At length Mathison and redcap swung along with the crowd making for the
gates. Just beyond the gates Mathison signaled to the redcap to pause.
He felt a hand on his arm, but he did not turn his head.
"Mathison?" came in a whisper.
"Yes. The blond man with the ruddy cheeks. The woman behind him in the
sables. Follow and report to your chief." Mathison went on.
Quarter of an hour later he entered the Waldorf. This time he seemed
indifferent to the kit-bags. The boy deposited them along with the cage
in front of the desk. Mathison signed the register, opened one of the
kit-bags, and took out the manila envelope, which, before leaving the
Philippines, he had been warned solemnly to guard with his life.
"Please deposit this in your safe and give me a receipt." Mathison spoke
calmly, but his heart pounded with suppressed excitement. Carelessly, in
view of any who cared to see, he stuffed the receipt into the little
pocket at the top of his trousers. Then he went up to his room. He set
Malachi on a stand by the radiator. He emptied the kit-bags and
distributed the contents into drawers and closets.
Afraid. The Yellow Typhoon was afraid! Or was it Hallowell!--a touch of
remorse?
He sat down and opened the little red book for some addresses Morgan had
given him. And something fluttered to his knee. It was a blue-green
feather, brilliant as an emerald. Malachi's; he was always finding
Malachi's feathers. But the sight of this one recalled a promise he had
made himself--to call up Mrs. Chester's apartment. If he had to sail
before she returned, he would leave Malachi with the apartment people.
So he stuffed the feather absently into his match-pocket. Later he sent
many messages over the telephone.
He felt in his pockets for his fountain-pen and, not finding it,
remembered that he hadn't taken it from the vest of his civilian suit.
Naturally, he went through all the pockets, and among other things came
upon a folded slip of glazed paper. He opened it.
Several minutes passed. Mathison was like stone. Norma Farrington. He
saw now why the photograph had originally intrigued him. It resembled
Morgan's description of the woman known as The Yellow Typhoon!...
Absurd! It was not within reason. Some twist, some legerdemain the
photograph had given it. The shadows; these had something to do with it.
Norma Farrington, The Yellow Typhoon? The absurdity was patent. The
notorious woman of Honan Road could not possibly be a celebrity on
Broadway. Too many miles between.
He sprang to the telephone. "Give me the theater-ticket agency....
Hello! Is Norma Farrington playing in town?... She _is_?... What
theater?... Thanks!" Mathison got out the little red book with trembling
fingers. He rang up a number. "This is Mathison, the green ribbon.
What's the report on the woman in the sables?... All right. I'll hold
the wire." Five minutes passed. "Hello!... Entered a house in Fiftieth
Street? Fine!" Mathison consulted the time; it was seven-fifty.
He became a whirlwind. He flew down-stairs and plunged toward the
revolving doors.
"Taxi!"
The vehicle was forthcoming instantly, due to his visored cap, gold
bands, and star. He jumped into the taxi, naming a theater up-town. He
paid a speculator five dollars for the only seat left--Q, center. As he
was late, he had to navigate through channels of reluctant feet. Norma
Farrington! He had only one idea with four sides to it--something
complete.
The footlights flashed. When the curtain rolled up there were three
people on the stage--no one he had ever seen before. They moved about
and talked. Occasionally a ripple of laughter ran over the house. But
none of these things meant anything to Mathison. He was not conscious of
a word that was spoken or the significance of a single movement.
There were four entrances to this stage living-room, and Mathison grew
dizzy trying to watch all four at once. At eight-forty, through the
French window--you saw a charming garden beyond--came a woman in gray.
Her expression was demure--mischievously demure. The audience broke into
applause. Tense, Mathison strained his ears.
Outside the blond man waited with the patience of his breed. His glance
never left the entrance to the theater.