CURLIE MEETS A MILLIONAIRE
It was a tense situation for Curlie. He spent an uneasy night and that
in spite of the fact that the air was particularly free from trouble.
"Hang it all," he exclaimed once as, dashing the receiver from his head,
he sprang from his chair to pace the floor of the secret tower room,
"I'd welcome something in the line of trouble. This eternal
thinking--thinking--thinking, drives me wild. What to do, that's the
question. Suppose I'd ought to go out and tell Ardmore what I know. If a
millionaire father's like any other father, I guess he's pretty well
wrought up by now. But if I go, and if I tell him the whole truth, I'm
as sure as I am of anything that it will get me into a mess and that's
the sort of thing I don't like."
Glancing down, his eye was caught by Coles' report of the night before.
Dropping once more into his chair, he began going through the messages
written there. When he came to the one sent out by the boy whose car he
had wrecked, he pondered over it for a long time.
"'Island, airplane, map, much gold; airplane, map, island, gold,'" he
repeated. "What does one make out of that? It might be that this boy has
been planning a secret voyage with some other chap. Certainly sounds
like it. Other messages were the same kind. By Jove! Perhaps he's
skipped out and gone on that trip and is not hiding out at all! Let's
see."
Taking down a file he drew forth a bunch of message records clipped
together. They were those sent by the moving operator on 600, the
millionaire's son.
A long time he studied over these.
"Seems to sort of prove my theory," he muttered once. "Can't be sure
though."
Then, suddenly he sat up straight. "That's the idea." He slapped his
knee. "The very thing! Why didn't I think of that before? If he
doesn't shew up by morning I'll do it. I'll just take these records over
to Ardmore and suggest to him that they may shed some light on the
subject. Don't need to tell him I was in on the wrecking of the car at
all. That wouldn't help any. These records might. And if I can help to
find him and bring him back, then, oh, boy! Oh you baby fortune! Five
thousand big, red, round dollars!"
He sat back trying to measure the meaning of the possession of five
thousand dollars which did not have to be spent for bed, board and
clothing. At last he gave it up in despair.
The morning papers assured the interested city that the son of their
money king was still missing. To make sure that this report was correct,
Curlie called up the mansion and inquired about it. When he learned that
it was indeed true, he requested the servant who answered the telephone
to inform the millionaire that a representative of the Secret Service of
the Air would arrive at his residence with copies of certain radiophone
messages sent out by his son previous to his mysterious disappearance,
which might shed some light on the subject.
Shortly after that he leaped into the driver's seat on the Humming Bird
and motored away to the west.
Arrived at the Forest Preserve, he backed the car into the deserted
roadway in the forest at the very spot where he and Joe had concealed
themselves the night of the race.
"Have to leave you here, old thing," he whispered. "If a fellow were to
pull up that driveway in such a rakish craft as you are, they might
think him crazy and throw him out.
"Well here goes," he whispered to himself, as, having rounded the last
clump of decorative shrubbery, he came in sight of the red stone
mansion.
"Whew! What a stunner!" whispered Curlie to himself.
The sun was tipping the parapets of that mansion with gold; the dew
sparkled on the perfectly kept green. It was indeed a beautiful
picture.
Tiptoeing up the steps, he was about to lift the heavy bronze knocker
when a porter opened the door and motioned him to enter.
"Are you the man?" he asked in a low tone.
"I'm the boy who wired about the messages."
"Step right this way. He's waiting."
Curlie's heart beat fast. Was he to be ushered at once into the august
presence of the magnate? He had pictured to himself hours of waiting,
interviews by private secretaries and all that.
And yet here he was. In a large room furnished in rich mahogany,
seemingly the rich man's home office, he was being greeted by a stout,
broad-shouldered, brisk and healthy-looking man who was assuring him
that he was speaking to J. Anson Ardmore himself and inviting him to sit
down.
With his head in a whirl, he managed to get himself into a chair. And
all this while he was telling himself things; things like this:
"Curlie, old boy, this is going to be strenuous. This man is powerful,
magnetic, almost hypnotizing. He will find out as much as he can from
you. He will tell as little as is necessary to attain his end. To him
all life is a game, a game in which he conceals much and discovers all
that lies in his opponent's hand. He probably knows you have the goods
on his son. Perhaps he is merely playing a game about this vanishing
son. He may know where he is all the time. If so, he'll want to know
what you know, and what you are going to do. You must be wise--wise as a
serpent."
"Well?" the magnate spoke in a brisk way. "My butler tells me you have
some messages."
"Yes, sir."
"Sent by my missing son?"
"Yes, sir."
"And may I ask," the magnate's face was a mask, not a muscle moved, "how
you happened to be in possession of these messages?"
Curlie could hear his own heart beat, but he held his ground. "Since I
am attached to the government radiophone staff, it is my duty to catch
and record all unfair and illegally sent messages, to record them as
evidence and for future reference."
Curlie fancied he saw the man start. The words that followed were spoken
still in a cold, collected tone.
"These messages you say were unfair?"
"Unfair and illegally sent."
"How illegal?"
"They were sent with exceedingly high power and on 600 meter wave
lengths. Such high power is unlawful for all amateurs and the use of 600
is granted to ships and ship stations alone.
"Ah!"
For a second the man appeared to reflect. Then suddenly:
"We are wasting time. My son has mysteriously disappeared. I have reason
to fear foul play. Let me assure you that I know nothing about his
whereabouts and, previous to this moment, that I have known nothing
regarding these illegally sent messages."
"But--" began Curlie.
"You doubt my word," his voice grew stern and hard as he read the
incredulity in Curlie's eyes. "Young man," he fairly thundered, "fix
this in your mind: No man ever has risen or ever will rise to my present
position through treachery or deceit. When I say a thing is so, by
thunder it _is_ so!"
He struck his desk a terrific blow.
"But a--"
Curlie caught himself just in time. He had been about to reveal the fact
that he was aware of the presence of the wireless set in the auto the
night the millionaire's son disappeared.
"I can't see just how your messages could aid us in finding my son." The
magnate spoke more calmly. "However, all things are possible. May I see
the copies?"
"Of course," said Curlie, hesitatingly, "this is a private matter. Few
persons know of our service. It is the desire of the government that
they should not know. These are not for publication. Do you understand
that?"
"You have my word."
Curlie passed the sheath of papers over the desk.
Slowly, one by one, the great man read them. His movement was not
hurried. He digested every word. Like many another great man he had
formed the habit of gathering, as far as possible, the full meaning of
any set of facts by his own careful research, before allowing his
opinion to be influenced by others.
He had gone half through the pack when a door over at the right opened
and a girl, dressed in some filmy stuff which brought out the smoothness
of her neck and arms and the beauty of her complexion, entered the room.
Curlie caught his breath. It was the girl he had seen on the horse that
morning, the magnate's daughter.
She had advanced halfway to her father's desk before she became aware of
Curlie's presence. Then she started back with a stammered: "I--I beg
your pardon."
"It's all right." The first smile Curlie had seen on the great man's
face now curved about his mouth. "You may remain. This is no secret
chamber."
"Fa--father," she faltered, gripping at her throat, "does he know--know
anything--about--about Vincent?"
"I can't tell yet. I am going over the messages. Please be seated."
The girl sank into a deep leather-cushioned chair. Without looking at
her Curlie was aware of the fact that she was studying him, perhaps
trying to make up her mind where she had seen him before. This made him
exceedingly uncomfortable. He was greatly relieved when at last the
magnate spoke.
"Gladys," he addressed the girl, "did you say you found some sort of map
in Vincent's room?"
"Oh, yes," she sprang to her feet. "A photograph of a very strange
looking map and also one of some queer foreign writing."
"Will you run and get those photographs?"
"Yes, father."
"It's strange," the older man mused after she had gone. "I don't
understand it at all. These messages, they are--"
"If you please--" Curlie broke in.
"Wait!" commanded the other, holding up his hand for silence. "Let us
have no opinions before all of the evidence is in. That map may aid us
in forming correct conclusions."