SOMETHING BIG
"You see," Curlie began as he crossed his slim legs beside a small table
in an all-night lunch room, buried somewhere in the deep recesses of
this same skyscraper, "that fellow sent the message about the easterly
breeze that blew west and I located the station at that hotel. This
morning I went over to see how the place looked. It's a wonderful hotel,
that one; palm garden in the middle of it, marble columns, fountain,
painted sheet iron ceiling that'd make you dizzy to look at, and the
finest dressed people you ever saw walking around everywhere.
"Well, I found my way to the sending room of the radiophone and right
away the operator wanted to throw me out; said I was a fresh kid and
all that. But when I showed him my papers, he calmed down a lot and
showed me everything he had.
"I saw right away it wasn't his equipment that had sent that
message--that'd be like sending a Big Bertha bomb into Paris with a
twenty-two caliber rifle. He just naturally didn't have the power,
that's all. So I didn't tell him anything about it; just walked out and
went around back to where I could see the way his wires ran from the
sending room to the antenna.
"I hadn't any more than got there and had one look-up when along strolls
a man who wants to know what I'm looking at. I saw right away that he
wasn't a hotel employee for he didn't wear either a bandmaster's uniform
nor a cutaway coat, so I just smiled and said:
"Got a girl friend up there on the sixteenth floor. She's leaving this
morning and arranged to drop her trunk down to me so's not to have to
tip the porter.
"Well, sir, I hadn't more than said that than a girl did pop her head
out of a sixteenth floor window and stare straight down at me.
"The fellow actually dodged. Guess he thought the trunk was due any
minute.
"Funny part of it was the girl actually seemed interested in me, just as
if she had met me somewhere before. Of course she was too high up for me
to tell what she was like, but it made me mighty curious. I counted the
windows to right and left so I could find that room if I wanted to. The
window was only the third to the right from where the lead wire to the
antenna went up.
"Well, then, that fellow--"
"Mr. Carson?" a voice interrupted Curlie. "Anyone here by the name of
Carson?" It came from the desk-clerk of the eating place.
"That's me," exclaimed Curlie, jumping up.
"Telephone."
"All right. Be back in a minute, Joe." Curlie was away to answer the
call.
"'Lo. That you, Curlie?" came through the receiver. "This is Coles
Masters. Got a bad case--extra bad. Can't understand it. Fellow's
sending 600 meter waves, with enough power to cross the Atlantic."
"Six hundred!" exclaimed Curlie in a tense whisper. "Why, that's what
they use for S.O.S. at sea! It's criminal. Endangers every ship in
distress. Five years in prison for it. Get him, can't you?"
"Can't. That's the trouble. Every time I think I've got him spotted he
seems to move."
"To move!"
"Yes, sir."
"That's queer! I'll be up right away."
"Come on," exclaimed Curlie, grabbing his hat and dragging Joe to his
feet. "It's a big one. Moves, he says. Sends 600; big power. Bet it's
that same hotel fellow. Gee whiz! Supposing it turned out to be that
sixteenth story girl and she caught me spying on her. I tell you it's
something big!"
Impatient at the slowness of the up-shooting elevator, Curlie at last
leaped out before the iron door at the top was half open, then two
steps at a time sprang up a flight of stairs. Out of breath, he arrived
at the final landing, sprang through the door to the secret tower room,
then seizing his headpiece, sank into a chair.
By a single move of the hand, Coles Masters indicated the radio-compass
he had been listening in on.
"That's where he was, last time he spoke," he grumbled, "but no telling
where he'll be next. He's been dodging all over that stretch of
country."
Curlie's fingers moved rapidly. He adjusted the coil of a radio-compass
here, another there and still another here. He twisted the knob of each
to the 600 mark, then, twisting the tuning knobs, lined them all up to
receive on the same wave length. The winding of each was set at a
slightly different angle from any other.
"That about covers him," he mumbled. "Get the distance?"
"Near as I could make out," said Coles Masters, "it was from ten to
fifteen miles. He moves toward us, then away at times, just as he does
to right and left."
"Hm," sighed Curlie, resting his chin on his hands. "That's a new dodge,
this moving business. Complicates things, that does."
For a time he sat in a brown study. At last he spoke again, this time
quite as much to himself as to the other:
"Folks don't move unless they have a way to move. That fellow has some
means of locomotion. Anyway," he sighed, "it's not our friend of the big
hotel unless--unless he or she or whoever it is has taken to locomotion,
and that's not likely. Not the same side of the city. Out near the
forest preserve."
"Yes, or a little beyond," said Coles.
"What do you think," asked Curlie suddenly, "has he got an automobile or
an airplane?"
"Can't tell," said Coles thoughtfully. "You can't really judge distances
in air accurately. There are powerful equipments which might be mounted
on either automobiles or airplanes."
"The thing that puzzled me, though, was his line of chatter. All about
some 'map, old French,' and a lot of stuff like that. I--"
Suddenly he broke off. A grinding sound had come from one of the loud
speakers. There followed in a clear, strong voice:
"Map O.K. Old French is amazing. Good for a million."
Curlie's fingers were busy once more as a tense look drew his forehead
into a scowl.
"About fifteen miles," he whispered.
Then the voice resumed:
"Time up the bird. When?"
A tense silence ensued. Then, faint, as if from far away, yet very
distinctly there came the single word:
"Wednesday." This was followed by three letters distinctly pronounced:
"L.C.W."
A second later came the strong voice in answer: "A.C.S."
"That," said Curlie as he settled back in his chair, "in my estimation
ends the night's entertainment. But the nerve of the fellow!" he
exploded. "Sending that kind of rot on six hundred. Why, at this very
moment some disabled ship might be struggling in a storm on the Great
Lakes or even on the Atlantic, and this jumble of words would muddle up
their message so its meaning would be lost and the ship with it. The
worst I could wish for such a fellow is that he be dropped into the sea
with some means of keeping afloat but with neither food nor drink and a
ship nowhere in sight."
If Curlie had known how exactly this wish was to be granted in the days
that were to come, he might have experienced some strange sensations.
He straightened up and placed a dot on the map before him.
"That's where he was. I'll motor out in the morning and have a look at
things. May discover some clew."
Curlie was a bright American boy of the very best type. Like most
American boys who do not have riches thrust upon them, when he wanted a
thing he made it or made a way to get it. Three years previous he had
wanted an automobile--wanted it awfully. And his total capital had been
$49.63. He had been wanting that car for some time when an express train
hit a powerful roadster on a crossing near his home.
Having flocked in with the throng to view the twisted remains of the
car, he had been struck with an idea. This idea he had put into action.
The railroad had settled with the owner for the car. They had the wreck
of it on their hands. Curlie bought it for twenty-five dollars.
To his great delight he had found the powerful motor practically
uninjured. The driving gear too, with the exception of one cog wheel,
was in workable order. The remainder of the car he sold to a junk dealer
for five dollars. It was twisted and broken beyond redemption.
He had next searched about for a discarded chassis on which to mount his
gears and motor. This search rewarded, he had proceeded to assemble his
car. And one fine day he sailed out upon the street with the "Humming
Bird," as he had named her.
"Better call her 'Gravel Car,'" Joe had said when he saw that she had no
body at all and that he must ride with his feet thrust straight out
before him in a homemade seat bolted to a buckboard-like platform.
But when, on a level stretch of road, Curlie had "let her out," Joe had
at once acquired an immense respect for the Humming Bird. "For," he said
later, "she can hum and she can go like a streak of light, and that's
about all any humming bird can do."
No further messages of importance having drifted in to him from the
outer air, Curlie, an hour before dinner, made his way down to the
street and, having warmed up the Humming Bird's motor, muttered as he
sprang into the seat: "I'll just run out there and see what I see."
A half hour later, just as the first gray streak of dawn was appearing,
he curved off onto a gravel road. Here he threw his car over to one side
and, switching on a flashlight, steered with one hand while he bent
over the side to examine the left-hand track.
There had been a light rain at ten that night. Since that time a heavy
car with diamond-tread tires had passed along the road, leaving its
tracks in certain soft, sandy spots.
"Maybe that's him," Curlie murmured.
A little farther on, stopping his machine, he got out and walked along
the road. Examining the surface closely, he walked on for five rods,
then wheeled about and made his way back to the car.
"He was over this road three times last night. That looks like a warm
scent. Can't tell, though. My friend might not have been in a car at
all; might have been in a plane.
"We'll have a look at the very spot." He twirled the wheel and was away.
A half mile farther down the road, he paused to look at a map. "Not
quite here," he murmured. "About a quarter mile farther."
The car crept over another quarter of a mile. When he again came to a
halt he found himself on a stretch of paved road. "This is the spot
from which the last message was sent. Tough luck!" he muttered. "Can't
tell a thing here."
Glancing to his right, he sat up with a start. He had suddenly become
aware of the fact that he was just before the gate of the estate of J.
Anson Ardmore, reputed to be the richest man of the city.
"Huh!" Curlie grunted. "Car must have stood about here when that last
message was sent. Maybe it went up that lane. Maybe it didn't, too. J.
Anson's got a son, about my age I guess. Vincent they call him. He might
be up to something. There's a girl, too, sixteen or so. Can't tell what
these rich folks will do."
He stepped down the rich man's private drive, but here the surface of
crushed stone was so perfectly kept that no telltale mark was to be
seen.
He did not venture far, as he had no relish for being caught trespassing
on such an estate without some good explanation for his conduct. Just at
that moment he had no desire to explain.
As he turned to go back, he caught the thud-thud of hoof beats along the
private drive.
Fortunately the abundant shrubbery hid him from view. Hardly had he
reached the machine and assumed the attitude of one hunting trouble in
his engine when a girl rounded a corner at full gallop.
Dressed in full riding costume and mounted on a blooded horse, she swung
along as graceful as a lark. As she came into the public highway she
flashed Curlie a look and a smile. Then she was gone.
Curlie liked the smile even if it did come from one of the "four
hundred."
"Gee! Old Humming Bird," he exclaimed as he patted his car, "did she
mean that smile for you or for me? So there might be a girl in the case,
same as there seems to be in that one over at the hotel? Girl in most
every case. What if she sent those messages and I found her out? That
would sure be tough.
"But business is business!" He set his mouth grimly. "You can't fool
with old Uncle Sam, not when you're endangering the lives of some of
his bravest sons at sea."
He threw in the clutch and drove slowly along the road. Twice he paused
to examine the tracks made the night before. Each time he discovered
marks of the diamond tread.
"That radiophone was mounted on a car," he decided; "I'll stake my life
on that. Now if he keeps it up, how am I to catch him?"