Conference with a G-Man
It was well after midnight before the two boys turned in for the night,
setting their alarm clock to ring at daybreak. And at dawn they awoke
and held council.
“The village stores open about seven-thirty or so, John,” Stan said as
they ate a hearty breakfast. “You go for the paint while I get out that
small can of black paint we had left from the last job and mark out a
new name. What will we call her now?”
“Not going to ask your Dad?”
“I think not, because, I’ve a hunch the Porpoise Island crowd may poke
into here looking for us and if we have a new name on the boat it will
help disguise her. What do you suggest, John?”
“Let’s call her ‘_Staghound_’!”
“Sounds o.k. That was the name of a famous clipper, wasn’t it?”
“I think so.”
“_Staghound_ it is then!” Stan rejoined.
Breakfast finished, and time drawing on towards the opening of the
stores, they set the mainsail and took in the anchor. They sailed to
the landing of the town and moored to the pilings there. The tide was
going out and, by fastening her properly towards the shore end of the
pier they knew she would be almost high and dry at low tide, resting on
the sand. This would enable Stan to paint in the lettering and John to
help slap the white paint onto her hull. John hurried for the paint and
Stan went over-side and, standing up to his neck in the water, began
blocking out the new name over the old name. He was still so engaged
when John came back lugging the new paint and a small can of tan
top-side paint for the cabin.
With the black paint left from the time the _Water Witch_ had been
painted at Cedar Island, Stan began painting in the new name neatly
while the tide dropped and left him standing up to his knees in the
water now. In the meantime John had washed down the rest of the hull
and was repainting it white. It had to be a heavy, well spread coat to
cover the old black, but John was equal to the task, and by the time
the tide was coming back, towards noon, both boys had put finishing
touches on the white and were giving the top sides--cabin trunk and
top--a coat of tan. At dinner time they were amused by the townspeople
who came down to witness the changes in the _Water Witch_. After a good
meal, they went back to work, sawing off the bowsprit, after taking
down the outer stay to the mainmast head and unhooking the jib. A plane
from the tool box now came in handy to smooth down the stump of the
bowsprit, and putty and white paint with a tan topping soon disguised
the bow of the _Staghound_!
“Might as well work away and finish the job as fast as we can to-day,
eh, John?” Stan said, as they dumped the remains of the forward spar
into an old pile of lumber at the end of the wharf. “Let’s rig a tripod
and take out the mast!”
It was a good afternoon’s work to rig a tripod of oak “sills” from that
lumber pile and with a heavy tackle and the help of a couple of wharf
“idlers” to swing out the mast and lay it upon the wharf. By that time
an interesting thing had taken place. One of the onlookers offered to
buy the mast and sails when he found out they were no longer wanted.
“Don’t know why you want to ruin a good boat, young fella,” said the
man, “but I’ll take that mast fer a price and the sail, effen you say
the word!”
They dickered over the price a few minutes and when they were through
Stan had some twenty-five dollars toward the new mainsail and Marconi
mast!
“Just a drop in the bucket compared to what that new mast will cost,
John, but it’ll help!” laughed Stan. “And Nevens will never know the
mast on another boat!”
All day they had kept a weather eye open for gray speedboats running in
from Point Zenith, but none came till about supper time. By that time,
as they were about to go below for a meal, having got the _Staghound_
away from the wharf on a high tide, and anchored some distance out
in the harbor after the judicious use of a pair of oars for forced
sculling, they were not surprised to see what they had expected!
Round the point roared a speedboat, humming softly into the harbor.
The boys ducked below and peered out the cabin ports watching the boat
circle around. Would the men in that boat recognize the _Staghound_?
But they need not have had any fear for, without her short mast, and
her bowsprit and without her black sides and the name on her stern, the
old _Water Witch_ was a strange object, just another white yacht!
“Don’t see them!” came a familiar voice and the gray boat hummed right
past the _Staghound_!
It was Dago, sitting in the bow seat of that runabout, a worried frown
on his far from handsome face! Stan could not suppress a gleeful
chuckle.
“How I’d like another pot shot at you, Mr. Dago!” cried Stan, softly.
John was grinning like a cat.
“Me too. Tamp me down with a ten-pound weight!”
They watched the boat disappear around the point again, and then gave
sighs of delighted relief. They ate with gusto, cracking jokes, and
figuring the size of mast and area of sail needed for the revamped
sloop. The rough estimate of money involved was a bit staggering but
they had a large sum of reward money due from the Hogan case and knew
that Mr. Sandborn would insist on lending them enough to take care of
the present need. After supper, their figures in hand, as near as they
could tell, they went to bed to get a few hours’ sleep.
As they lay in their bunks Stan spoke of the _Sea Hawk_, the yacht they
had seen in the cove.
“The _Sea Hawk_ figured in several rum-running cases, John,” he
explained, “and got out of them through technicalities. Fitted out as a
yacht in every way, she can still carry a load of anything illegal that
the underworld might want to transport or sell! I wonder who owns her
now and why she was at Black Cove. Does Nevens own her?”
John grunted.
“Don’t ask me riddles, to-night, Skipper. Blast my tenpins and sing out
when the whales breach--but I’ll be glad when this case is solved!”
“And why the salvage job in Black Cove, divers, night work? What ship
was she? What is still aboard her?”
“All I know, Stan, is that Dago is a bad actor, and Mr. Nevens is
no better than he should be! Think of that secret laboratory, his
aquariums, his underground passages, all his electrical devices! And
none of his boats seem to show riding lights or running lights at
night!”
“Since the law requires running lights when under way----”
“We didn’t show running lights ourselves last night, Stan,” John
remarked, interrupting.
“That’s right, and well we didn’t, for they’d have found us sooner!”
“Anyhow, Nevens’ boats break the law all the time, it seems, and that
alone is an indication of criminal guilt!”
“You’re right, John. I know this much--we’re on the trail of something
big, and it ought to be out in the open before long when the G-men get
on the trail!”
They went to sleep after that, and the alarm woke them late that night.
They up-anchored, and sculled into the town pier; then they moored
the _Staghound_ securely, locked the cabin slide tightly, and hurried
through the dark streets bound for Centerport. The last street car for
the night was just leaving the tiny depot when they boarded it, and it
bore them swiftly towards their home city, about ten miles away.
They alighted from the car at the center, and hurried homeward through
the deserted streets.
“Nevens will stop at nothing to get us, John,” Stan said, as they got
near home. “So don’t be surprised if some one is hanging around outside
my house! He could locate our homes from the street directory and plant
watches ’round them. We’ll have to get in by a roundabout way!”
This they did, going to Stan’s home first, coming to the house through
a back street and over the back fence, quietly, and being admitted by
Mrs. Sandborn. She was, of course, delighted to see her son and his
chum; so was Mr. Sandborn, who was reading in comfort by a log fire at
the fireplace.
“I’ll call your mother, John,” Stan’s mother said, going to the phone,
“and let her know you are here while you and Stan raid the pantry.”
A few minutes later, munching a sandwich, John talked with his folks
over the phone, saying he’d drop in for the night in a short while.
Then the boys adjourned to Mr. Sandborn’s den where, amidst curious
objects of many sorts, ship models, deer horns, and guns, the boys
related their many adventures in detail. The good-looking, youngish
G-man listened intently, frowning from time to time as they talked and
asking many questions. Then they showed him the brass fitting which
they had brought with them, the pair of rubber gloves, and a few papers
with smudges on them.
“Guess you were right, Stan, no fingerprints on these papers,” said the
G-man after a careful study of the smudges. “And this brass fitting is
part of the rail of some yacht.”
“Who do you s’pose Mr. Nevens is, Dad?” Stan asked anxiously.
“I’m not sure, but he sounds very like an old time Western bandit known
as ‘Cowboy Nevada’! Your description fits him and he has not been seen
about his old haunts for several years. It may interest you to know
that the F. B. I. wants him for a Federal bank robbery! I guess Mr.
Nevens is due for a little investigation! And Dago sort of clinches
my opinion because he fits the description of Nevada’s side-kick and
companion in crime, ‘Bats Duplisse’--gunman and stick-up artist of the
West.”
“What are you going to do, Dad?” Stan asked; “and what do you want us
to do?”
“Keep right on with your plans. Finish your re-rigging job on the
_Water_--I mean _Staghound_--and then go back to the Island. Get some
pictures of everything of interest, good clear prints. Get fingerprints
of everyone round there, if you can. This cook ‘Wan Ho Din,’ now, might
mean something to the F. B. I. if we had a fingerprint to compare with
our files. Excuse me a few minutes while I talk with the Chief and see
what he says.”
He returned to the den fifteen minutes later after quite a talk on the
long distance wires with the Chief in Washington, and his face was
serious.
“I’ve been assigned to this case, boys. I’m going to look Porpoise
Island over for a while. How and when I may see you again in the next
week or so I cannot be sure, of course, but you may see me down there
and, unless I speak first, don’t act as though you knew me for, even if
we were alone, spies might be watching and listening. In a pinch, I’ll
find some way of getting in touch with you, and in the meantime, and at
any time, get a message to 27 Eagle Street, in Main Haven, asking for
‘John.’ John is a G-man who runs what appears to be an ordinary grocery
store. Actually, he is operating on a case down there and will know
what to do in a jam.”
After that, John Tallman went home by a back way to sleep for the
night, and Stan hit his own bed with grateful sighs. It had been agreed
that both boys would remain at their homes for twenty-four hours,
hidden in case Nevens had watchers on the lookout, then the next night
they would leave early in the morning so that they could pick up the
Marconi mast and new sails at the marine store. The order was to be
placed in the morning, and, by paying extra, delivery could be made
next day, especially as they could change their sail plan a bit to
favor any small Marconi mast which the store might have on hand.
Indeed, next morning Stan was lucky enough to contact the store on
a mast in stock and a sail and jib to fit! This was great luck. And
furthermore, the delivery was to be made at the wharf in Zenith
Village! It now would only be necessary for the boys to be in Zenith to
sign for the delivery!
But the day at home was a restless one for both boys. John tinkered
in his little workshop down cellar when not eating, and Stan haunted
the windows, and read from an adventure magazine between times. His
vigilance at the windows was rewarded late that afternoon when he
spotted a stranger hovering about the next corner. The man glanced once
in a while at the Sandborn home.
The G-man himself had left in the early morning to go on the case,
wearing ordinary clothes and carrying his service gun in an armpit
holster.
He went by street car to the depot and took a train for Main Haven,
arriving there around ten o’clock. Casually, as if merely shopping,
he drifted into John’s place. The place was empty of customers at
that moment, but he did not relax his attitude as John, smiling, came
forward.
“And what can I get you, sir?” asked John, his eyes meeting his
“customer’s” with an unspoken question there.
“Nice lettuce you have,” the G-man said, picking up a head, and then
continuing in an almost inaudible voice, while examining the vegetable,
“New case. Have you received your instructions?”
“Yes, indeed!” rejoined John, winking. “And very fine it is!”
“Good. I’ll have--say, have you any carrots?” Mr. Sandborn remarked,
and then added, “Seen anything of Nevens, Nevada, or whatever the name
is?”
“No, not yet,” said the grocer, quietly. “But his cook comes in to buy
the supplies.”
“Who is he?”
“Just what his name is. Nevens took him on four years ago. I never have
seen Nevens himself, but townspeople have, and it sounds a little like
Nevada.”
They talked in low tones till a customer came in, apparently interested
in the sale of vegetables, and Mr. Sandborn made a few purchases and
left. The Chief had already contacted the network of agents all over
the country, and concentration would soon begin on Porpoise Island if
Mr. Sandborn’s investigations confirmed the boys’ reports.
Having no use for the vegetables he had bought, he left them on one of
the back steps in the poorer section of the town, in as inconspicuous
a manner as possible, being quite sure no one had seen him do so,
and then went about his other business. He asked a hundred innocent
questions that forenoon, making notes of everything, mentally, and
trying to piece together parts of the facts. He visited the library,
the yacht club, and the Sailor’s Snug Harbor, and gathered more facts.
The _Sea Hawk_ was registered in the name of a “Mr. James Fitch,
lawyer,” and her port of registry as New York. Some of the facts he
learned made him smile, others caused him to whistle in a low tone. And
then he saw a gray speedboat pulling into the town wharf at noon.
In it was a trio of men, all three stern faced, all three of medium
build and in business suits. The leader appeared to be harder than the
other two and smoked cigarettes constantly. They left their boat moored
at the wharf and went briskly uptown. Mr. Sandborn hurried to John’s
store, slid into the back room, and there opened a small closet door.
He removed his jacket and armpit holster and hung them on a peg, taking
a stubby revolver from a small shelf and putting that into his pocket
instead. Then he put on his jacket again and came out through the store.
He went down to the wharf, and, watching his opportunity, slid open a
hatch over a motor in the gray boat, pulled a wire loose, and went back
onto the wharf to lounge about. He had not long to wait, for the trio
soon appeared, strode briskly down the wharf, and got into the boat.
But the motor would not start and the leader seemed impatient. Again
the helmsman tried to start the motor. It sputtered a little but would
not run. At once, of course, people began to come along the wharf,
attracted by the missing motor. The men seemed anxious to be off. One
of them cursed, and another lifted the hoods over the engines and began
an examination. His ignorance of marine engines was very apparent, and
he utterly overlooked the detached wire. Mr. Sandborn leaned over from
the crowd and asked,
“Won’t run?”
For answer the men glared up at the speaker.
“Mind if I try to start her?” queried Mr. Sandborn.
At that the leader frowned.
“If you can get her started right off--come on down and try it!”
Obligingly, Mr. Sandborn stepped down into the boat, and, because he
knew something about marine engines, he went about his work with an air
of knowledge that was convincing. None of the men and few of the other
spectators noticed when he again attached the wire. He made a fuss over
an adjustment on another part of the motor and then pronounced her
ready to go!
The helmsman stepped on the starter and the motor purred into action,
sweetly and powerfully.
“Thanks; what do we owe you?” asked the leader.
“Nothing, unless you know where I kin get a job, Mister,” said the
G-man, casually.
The men exchanged looks. The crowd seemed interested and formed a
rooting section. Half urged by the mob and mostly by some knowledge of
their own, the men told him to seat himself in the bow seat, and the
leader promised to see his “boss about a job.”
The gray boat moved swiftly away from the wharf now, bearing a G-man
bent on investigating what was to prove one of the most cleverly
planned schemes the country has ever known! So stupendous a crime was
planned that, had Mr. Sandborn known the facts that morning, he would
have stayed ashore and sent in a hurry call for the entire G-man army.
Instead he went blithely to his duty, playing the lone hand among that
band of super-criminals!
They bore down on Porpoise Island, whizzed through the channel into
Black Cove, and purred up to the boat-house and float-stage. And Mr.
Nevens himself was coming down the wharf at that moment, smiling a
greeting.