A MYSTERIOUS MAP
It was indeed a curious map which had been reproduced on the large
photographic print which Gladys Ardmore placed on the desk before her
father.
Motioning Curlie to come forward and examine it with them, the magnate
rose from his chair to bend over the map. As Curlie stood there looking
down at it, the girl in her eagerness bent down so close to him that he
felt her warm breath on his cheek.
Nothing, however, could have drawn his gaze from that map. Wrinkled,
torn in places, patched, browned with age, smirched by many finger
marks, all of which were faithfully reproduced by the freshly printed
photograph, it still gave promise of revealing many a mystery if one
could but read it correctly.
It showed both land and water. Here on the land was a picture of a
castle and there on the water a ship. The shore of the land was not
drawn as are maps with which we are in these days familiar, but was cut
up in curious geometric forms which surely could not faithfully
represent the true lines of the shore. Towns were shown, but only on the
shoreline, their names printed in by hand in such small letters as would
require a magnifying glass to read them. Crossing and recrossing the
water in every conceivable direction were innumerable straight lines.
About the edge of the map were eight faces of children. Their cheeks
puffed out as if blowing, they appeared to represent the wind that blew
from certain quarters.
All the writing was in some foreign language. In the lower left-hand
corner was what appeared to be the name of the maker but this was so
blotted out as to be unreadable.
"Huh!" The magnate straightened up. "That's a strange map and appears to
be very ancient, but I can hardly see how it is going to help us with
our present problem."
"There is still the writing," suggested Gladys, turning over the other
photograph.
"That," said Mr. Ardmore, after a moment's study of it, "is written in
some strange tongue and is, I take it, unintelligible to us all."
"It's a photograph of the back of the map," suggested Curlie, pointing
out certain spots where the wrinkles and tears were the same.
"My French teacher will be here at ten o'clock. He knows several
languages. Perhaps he could help us," suggested Gladys.
"We will leave that to him," said her father. "Now about these
messages," he went on, turning to Curlie. "What is your theory?"
Stammeringly Curlie proceeded to explain the idea which had come to him,
the notion that Vincent Ardmore and some pal of his had been planning a
secret trip of some sort.
"That is entirely possible," said Ardmore. "Vincent is daring, even rash
at times. If some wild fancy leaped into his head, he would attempt
anything. Now that you speak of it, I do think there might be something
in your theory. Perhaps after all we may get some light from that map
and the writing on the back of it. I shall await the coming of the
professor with much anxiety."
"Father," exclaimed Gladys, "I have seen some such maps as this one at
some other place."
"Where?"
"It was over at that big library, the one you are a director of."
"The Newtonian?"
"Yes. I was over there once and they showed me a great number of ancient
maps. Oh, a very great number, and such strange affairs as they were!
There were some similar to this one. I know there were!"
"Young man," said the magnate, turning to Curlie, "may I command your
services on this matter for the day?"
Curlie bowed.
"Good! You will not be unrewarded. I am of the opinion that something
may be learned by a study of the maps my daughter speaks of.
Unfortunately I am engaged; I cannot go to the library. Would it be
asking too much were I to request that you accompany her?"
Curlie assured him it would not. In his heart of hearts he assured
himself that it would be a great privilege.
"Very well then, Gladys," the magnate bowed to his daughter, "I suggest
that you plan on being back here at eleven. By that time your French
teacher may have something to tell us."
Bowing to them both, he dismissed them with a wave of his hand.
As the neat little town car, which was apparently Gladys Ardmore's
exclusive property, hurried them away toward the north side library,
Curlie had time to think and to steal a look now and then at his fair
hostess.
Matters had been going rather rapidly of late. He found it difficult to
keep up with the march of events. What should be his next move? He was
torn between two conflicting interests: his loyalty to the radio secret
service bureau and his desire to be of service to this girl and her
father. The girl, as he stole a glance at her, appeared disturbed and
troubled. There was a tenseness about the lines of her mouth, a droop to
her eyelids. "For all the world as if she were in some way to blame for
what has happened," he told himself.
Instantly the question popped into his mind: "Does she know more than
she cares to tell?" He thought of the wireless equipment which had been
removed from the wrecked car before the reporters had arrived. The
laborer would hardly do that without orders from someone. Who had that
someone been? The millionaire had denied all knowledge of the radiophone
messages. Curlie believed that he had told the truth. Here was an added
mystery. He was revolving this in his mind when the girl spoke:
"It must be very interesting listening in."
"Listening in?" Curlie feigned ignorance of her meaning.
"Yes, isn't that what you do? Listen in on radio all the time?"
Curlie started. How did she know?
"Why, yes, since you've asked, that is my work."
"Where--where--" she hesitated, "is your station?"
"That," smiled Curlie, "is a state secret; very few know where it is."
"Oh!" she breathed. "A mystery?"
Curlie nodded.
"Something like that."
"I love mysteries," she whispered. "I love to unravel them. Some day I
shall surprise you. I shall come walking into that secret room of
yours." There was a look on her face that he had not seen there before.
It was disturbing. It spoke of a quality which, he concluded, she had
inherited from her father, the quality of firmness and determination,
which had made him great.
"I--I'd rather you wouldn't try," he almost stammered.
"Oh! here we are," she exclaimed, "at the library."
Leaping out of the car she led the way up the broad steps of an
imposing gray stone structure.
"Down this way," she whispered, as if awed by the vast fund of knowledge
stowed away between those walls. Without further words they made their
way within.
Ten minutes later they were together bending over a great pile of
ancient maps. Done on sheepskin and vellum, gray and brown with age, yet
with colors as bright as on the day they were drawn, these maps spoke of
an age that was gone and of a map-making art that is lost forever.
"Look at this one!" exclaimed the girl. "The date's on it--1450. Made
before the days of Columbus. And look! It is like the one Vincent had
the photograph of; the most like of any."
"Yes, but not the same," said Curlie. "See, those strangely shaped
islands in the lower, right-hand corner are not on it; neither are the
cherubs blowing to imitate the wind."
"That's true," said the girl in a disappointed tone, "I had hoped it
might be the same map. It might have told us something."
Suddenly Curlie was struck with an idea. Leaving the girl's side, he
approached the librarian.
"Have any of these maps been photographed recently?" he asked in a low
tone.
"Not for several years," she answered. "But there are reproductions of
these and others. They're in a bound volume in the next room. There the
maps are reproduced on a large scale and a description of each is given.
The lady in charge will show you."
Curlie tiptoed into that room. He was soon turning the pages of a large
book which resembled an atlas.
After studying each successive page for some time, he came to a halt
with a suppressed exclamation.
There, staring up at him, was a reproduction of the very map which had
been photographed for Vincent Ardmore and, if further proof were
lacking, there on the opposite page was a reproduction of the writing
on the back of it, with a translation in fine print below.
Hurriedly he read this translation through. Twice he paused in utter
astonishment. Three times he wrote down a brief note on a scrap of
paper. When he had finished, he looked at the lower left-hand corner of
the map, then copied some figures reproduced there.
Closing the book quickly, as if afraid the girl would find him looking
at it, he paused for a second to banish all sign of excitement from his
face, then walked leisurely from the room.
"Find anything?" he asked in as quiet a tone as he could command.
"No," there was a tired and worried look in her eyes. "I'm afraid the
map is not here."
"By the way," he said in a casual way, "does your brother happen to have
a pal living at Landensport on the coast?"
"Why, yes," she said quickly, "that's Alfred Brightwood. They were chums
in Brimward Academy."
"I thought that might be so."
"And you think--think--" she faltered.
"What we think," he smiled a disarming smile, "doesn't count for much.
It's facts which really matter. Excuse me; I'll be back in a moment," he
said hurriedly. "Want to telephone."
In the booth of the library he conversed long and earnestly with his
chief.
"Why, yes," came over the phone at last, "I don't see but that you had
better finish the thing up. We can't let rich young offenders off
easily. It would destroy the service entirely. Go ahead. Coles Masters
can handle the station while you are away."
The interview ended, he got Joe Marion on the wire.
"Joe," he said hurriedly, "throw some of my things into a bag and some
of your own with them. Be down at the Lake Shore station at one-fifteen
prepared for a short trip. Where to? Oh, New York and then some. It's
important and interesting. Be there! Good. Good-bye till then." He
snapped down the receiver and hurriedly left the booth.
"Shall we go back?" he asked the girl.
"I suppose we might as well," she said dejectedly. Then brightening
suddenly, "Yes, let's hurry back. Perhaps the professor has found out
something from that queer old writing."