CURLIE RECEIVES A SHOCK
Having boarded an interurban car, Curlie slept his way into the city.
Once there he hurried over to the secret tower room, where the news of
his night's adventure was received with great joy.
"So you got him!" exclaimed Coles Masters. "Smashed him up right? Bully
for you. That's great!" He slapped Curlie on the back.
Dropping into his chair, Curlie dictated a message by secret wire to
headquarters in New York. The message stated in modest, concise terms
that the nuisance on 600 in the secret tower region was at an end; that
the station had been effectively broken up and that the offender would
no doubt soon be in the hands of the law.
A half hour later he received a highly commendatory message,
congratulating him on his achievement and bidding him keep up the good
work.
After glancing over Coles' reports for the evening and making mental
notes from them, Curlie prepared to seek his bed and indulge in a good,
long sleep, the first in several days.
"There isn't a bit of hurry in going after that rich young fellow or
girl, if it is a girl," he said to Coles. "That'll keep. We've got
plenty of proof." He jerked a thumb toward the corner where was a box
into which he had tossed the various small parts of a sending set and
the number plate of the car. "All we need to do now is to saunter out
there some fine morning and have a heart-to-heart talk with J. Anson
himself."
Had Curlie but known it, there was to be a great deal more than that to
it. There was to be an adventure in it for him such as he had never
before experienced, an adventure which was destined to take him
thousands of miles from the secret tower room and which was to throw
him into such dangers as would cause the bravest to shrink back in
terror.
Since he was blissfully ignorant of all this he was also blissfully
happy in the consciousness of having achieved success in the thing he
had undertaken.
"This," he laughed as he said it, "is going to bring me face to face
with one of America's greatest millionaires. It's like going before a
king in some ways. In others I fancy it's more like meeting a lion in
the street. Anyway, I've always wanted to meet a king, a lion and a
millionaire and here's where I meet one of them. Ever meet one?" He
turned to Coles.
"Meet which?" Coles smiled. "King, lion or millionaire?"
"Millionaire."
"No, can't say that I have, though I doubt if we'd either of us
recognize one if we should meet him on the street. Someone has said that
humanity is everywhere much the same and I fancy that's true even of
very rich folks. They may try to bluff you with their power but if they
find they can't do that, I guess they'll turn out to have the same
dreams, the same hopes and fears, the same joys and sorrows as the rest
of us."
"Do you think so?" said Curlie thoughtfully. "I hope that's true. It
would be a good thing for the world if it were true and if all the
people in the world knew it.
"Well, good night." He drew on his cap. "See you in about sixteen hours.
Guess it'll take me that long to catch up my sleep. After that I'm going
after that fellow who's breaking in on 1200, that fellow over at the
hotel with the whispering friend, or enemy, whichever she may turn out
to be."
Had he but known it, it was to be many days before he was to go after
that offender on the 1200 meter wave lengths and then it was to be in
ways of which he had not yet dreamed. And so he slept.
When he awoke after fourteen hours of refreshing sleep, it was to hear
the newsies crying their evening papers. For some time he lay there
listening to their shrill shouts and attempting to catch what they were
saying.
"Ex-tree! All about--" He could get that far, probably because he had
heard it so often before, but no further could he go. The remainder was
a jumble of meaningless sounds.
Suddenly, as he listened, a shrill urchin shouted the words out directly
beneath his very window:
"Wul--ex-tree! All about the mur-der-ed millionaire's son!"
"Here! Here!" exclaimed Curlie, thrusting his head out of the window.
"What millionaire's son? Give me one of those papers." He tossed the boy
a nickel and received a tightly wrapped paper. Sent through the window
as if shot from a catapult, it landed with a bump on the floor.
His hand trembled so he could scarcely unroll the paper. His head
whirled.
"Murdered?" he said to himself. "Millionaire's son murdered? Can it be
Vincent Ardmore? Did a bullet from my automatic, glancing from the
wheel, inflict a mortal wound?"
He saw himself behind prison bars in murderer's row.
Cold perspiration stood out on his brow as he read in staring headlines:
"J. ANSON ARDMORE'S SON BELIEVED MURDERED."
"Believed?" He caught at that single word as a camel in a desert snaps
at a straw. So they were not sure.
Hastily he read the column through, then dropped limply into a chair.
"Oh! What a shock!" he breathed.
He was vastly relieved. The article stated that the car belonging to the
millionaire's son had been found by a laborer employed on the estate as
he came to his work very early in the morning. The car, which was badly
smashed up, bore the mark of a bullet in a rear tire and one in the
lower part of the body. It was believed that the young man, being
pursued by bandits and having attempted to escape, had had his car
riddled by bullets and had been thrown into the ditch.
"There are grave reasons for supposing," the article went on to state,
"since no trace of the young man has yet been found, that he has been
either kidnapped for ransom or, having been killed by a stray bullet,
has been buried somewhere in the forest preserve.
"Bands of armed men are searching the woods and every available police
officer and detective has been put on the case. A reward of $5,000 has
been offered by the father for any information which may lead to the
discovery of the whereabouts of his son."
"Whew!" exclaimed Curlie, mopping his brow. "What a rumpus!"
Suddenly he sat up straight. "Doesn't say one word about that wireless
apparatus in the car. How about that?"
He sat with wrinkled brow for a moment.
"Ah!" he slapped his knee, "I have it! The laborer of course came
directly to his master. The shrewd old millionaire, guessing that his
son had been breaking radio laws, had all of that equipment removed
before the public was let in on the deal. He bribed the laborer to
secrecy on that point and there you are."
Again his brow wrinkled. "Five thousand dollars!" he whispered. "That's
a lot of money. I could supply some valuable information which might
entitle me to the five thousand. Question is, do I want to risk it? The
thing that's happened is about this, far as I can figure it out: Our
young amateur radio friend, when his auto turned turtle, hiked off into
the woods. For a time he stayed there. Then, when nothing happened for
some time, he came sneaking back. When he found I'd taken his number
plate and some parts of his radio equipment, he guessed right away that
I was connected with the radio secret service. He's hiding right now,
unless I miss my guess, with some of his rich young friends.
"I might tell all that and I might get the reward, but supposing
something really had happened? Oh, boy, what a mess!
"And yet," he mused, after a moment, "I've done nothing to be ashamed
of. I'm an officer of the law. I did what I did because a fellow was
resisting arrest. Ho, well, I'll just let things stand and simmer.
Something may come to the top yet."