On this day of all days dignitaries from Washington must appear to inspect
the aeroplane accomplishments of the Waite Motor Company. Potter chafed
and treated himself to a scorching remark or two, but there was nothing
for it but to give them his attention. It meant only delay. No suspicions
were aroused and little was to be risked by putting off action for a few
hours. But Potter was not one who liked to procrastinate; if he erred, it
was toward the other extreme.... At noon he was able to turn the
dignitaries over to his father.
With the return of the men to work after their dinner-hour he called his
secretary.
"Have a machinist named Harker sent to me. Then find Downs, and bring him
here yourself."
The young man went out, and Potter waited with rising impatience and not
without excitement. Angling for spies is a pastime likely to stir the
blood.
In fifteen minutes Downs appeared, but not Harker.
"Where's that man?" Potter demanded.
"I'll see again, Mr. Waite," said the secretary. He returned presently to
say that the foreman had told Harker to report to Potter, that the man had
left his machine to do so, and was not now to be found.
"Find that man," Potter said, sharply.
"What do you want of me?" Downs asked, when the secretary hastened out to
carry Potter's orders.
"I've found the man who bosses the German agents in this plant!"
"This Harker?"
"Yes."
"And you sent a messenger to tell him to report to you?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Waite, you're some manufacturer. I'll admit that, but you're a hell
of a detective."
"I don't get you."
"You might as well have sent him a card saying, 'I suspect
you--Skedaddle.'"
"You think he's taken fright?"
"I know it.... Your telephone."
Downs called a number. "Look up the address in your records of a man named
Harker," he said into the receiver. "We want him. He just left the plant
here.... Get him."
He turned to Potter. "Now," he said, "suppose you let me in on this. It's
rather in my line of work, you know."
"I suppose I should have come to you at once--but I didn't. Here's what
I've got.... I have reason to suspect that a man named William Cantor is
the chief of the German agents in this section. I believe his real name is
Adolf von Arnheim, and he is an officer in the German army--an aviator.
One of his paymasters is a chauffeur named Philip who works for Herman von
Essen. Last night I saw this Philip turn over funds to Harker and another
man. There you are."
"Good work. No time to ask how you got it. Where does this Cantor hang
out?"
Potter gave the address of Cantor's office. "I never did know what his
business was."
"Can we have a car--quick?"
"Come on."
They hastened out of the main building and to the garage where the
company's officials kept their cars. Potter's runabout was there. "Pile
in," he said. "Where to?"
"Cantor's office."
Potter shot out of the archway and whirled down-town through the clear,
chilly December air. He did not stop for corners or traffic officers, but,
keeping his knee against the horn button, gave the car all he could give
it--and Downs clung to his seat and prayed.
They drew up abruptly before the entrance to the building where Cantor
maintained an office, and sprang out. The elevator carried them to the
seventh floor.
"The thing is to get in without scaring whoever is there," said Downs. "In
this case the papers filed there are as valuable, more valuable, than the
men. We must give them no time to destroy anything."
Good fortune was with them. As they approached Cantor's door a man opened
it and was about to step into the corridor. Downs stepped forward quickly.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "but can you tell me where James W. Rogers's
office is?"
The man stood with the door half opened behind him. "I'm sorry," he said,
"but I never heard the name."
By that time Downs was within arm's reach. He lunged forward, gripped the
man, and hurled him backward through the door. Potter leaped after them.
"Shut the door!" snapped Downs from a victor's perch on the astounded
man's chest. "Help roll him over." The man was turned on his face and
steel circles clinked upon his wrists.
"Who are you?... What does this mean?" the man said, furiously.
"I'm not sure," said Downs, "till we take a look-see. Maybe it's just an
outrage on a respectable business man. If it is you may expect profuse
apologies."
A huge safe stood open invitingly. Downs pounced upon it, found it full of
little drawers, and the drawers laden with papers, with card indices and
the like--and all covered with German script. "Um!..." he said. "Read
German?"
"Yes," said Potter.
"I don't. Talk it, but don't read to speak of. Have a look."
Potter unfolded a document, read it, shrugged his shoulders.
"No apologies needed," he said to the handcuffed man. "These," he said to
Downs, "seem to be reports from agents--reports of their movements." He
examined a card from an adjoining drawer. "These are the agents, all
neatly indexed, with the salaries paid," he said. "The Germans are a
systematic and efficient people."
"They _will_ stick to system," said Downs, with a chuckle. "It's a great
labor-saver for us."
"When you find the system," said Potter, with a chuckle.
"We seem to have the whole bag of tricks. The next thing is to go over
this mass of stuff and then have a general round-up."
"Somebody will be calling here, or coming in--and give the alarm," said
Potter.
"Anybody who sticks his nose in here leaves it here," Downs snapped.
Suddenly the man lunged forward toward the wall; seemed bent upon butting
his head against it, upon grinding his face against it. Potter leaped upon
him and hurled him away from the spot.... On the wall was an ordinary
electric push-button such as is used to ring a door-bell. What the man had
done was evident. His hands had been manacled behind him and were useless.
He had pressed the button with his face.
"Where does that alarm sound?" Downs demanded.
"Find out," said the man, sullenly.
"Some efficiency there," said Potter, ruefully. "Of course that button was
put there for just this emergency--to give the alarm if anything happened
here."
"Some other office in this building," said Downs. "On a lower floor. That
sort of arrangement wouldn't extend outside this building. Most likely the
office directly below this.... I can't leave this room and this man. You
make tracks."
Potter rushed out of the door and down the stairs, which were close at
hand, by good fortune. As his feet touched the sixth floor he saw Philip,
the chauffeur, step into an elevator, heard the elevator door crash shut.
He shouted, but it did not stop. The alarm had reached Philip and Philip
was off to spread the warning.
Another elevator was descending. It stopped on Potter's signal, and he
stepped in. "To the ground floor--quick. Make no stops. Drop her."
The startled elevator conductor obeyed, flung open the door as he arrived
level with the street, and Potter rushed out. He reached the sidewalk just
in time to see Philip in an automobile, half a block away. Potter stepped
quickly into his own machine and followed. He had no other thought but to
overtake Philip. Just what he should do when he overtook him was not a
consideration for that moment. Headlong as usual, he counted no costs and
let each second care for that second's concerns. That he had no authority
to apprehend Philip did not trouble him in the least. He believed he had
the physical ability, and that was all he required.
Philip turned east at the Campus and traversed Cadillac Square to the
County building and the intersection of Congress Street. Out this frayed
and shabby thoroughfare he continued, not with the speed of one who
fancies himself pursued, but as one travels who is upon important errand.
Potter maintained a position a hundred feet behind and waited for Philip
to stop.
Philip did not stop for a dozen blocks. Then he drew up at the curb before
a dingy frame structure housing one of those hand-to-mouth saloons which
seem to abound in Detroit, saloons which sell enormous glasses of beer for
a nickel, and find difficulty to make both ends meet, to provide food for
the family and funds to pay the considerable government license. Into this
place Philip hastened.
Potter was at his heels, stepping into a murky room reeking with the odor
of stale beer, villainous tobacco, and even more distressing aromas of
cookery not guiltless of the taint of garlic. Three men occupied the
barroom, the bartender, sprawling over his greasy bar, a stout man dozing
in a corner, and Philip.
Upon Potter's entrance Philip turned and faced the door, and Potter saw
surprised recognition in his eyes.
"Well, Philip," said Potter, "I've got you."
"You have, eh?" said Philip. "What do you mean--got me?"
"When your friend in Cantor's office pushed the button," said Potter, "I
tagged along after you." He continued to advance.
"That's far enough," Philip said, crouching. "You tagged along, eh? Well,
just tag out of that door again."
"Better come along without a row."
"If you want to keep your health," said Philip, crouching, "you'll beat it
and leave me alone."
Potter turned to the bartender, who no longer sprawled, but eyed him
intently.
"This man is a German spy--trying to escape and warn other spies," Potter
said.
"No!" said the bartender, with profound astonishment. "You don't tell me!
Him? Why, I know him! He hain't no spy--he's a chauffeur.... You hain't no
spy, be you, Phil?"
"Certainly not. This guy is nutty.... Look here, Mr. Waite, I don't want
you should get hurt. Take your foot in your hand."
"Are you coming with me?" Potter asked, sharply.
"Not on a Friday. Fridays is unlucky days." He did not take his eyes off
Potter's face, but stood with a pugilist's crouch, waiting. Potter sprang
toward him, took Philip's blow upon the side of the head, and closed in.
They grappled, whirled about, trampling the floor until the glasses behind
the bar danced upon the shelves. Potter was larger, stronger. He succeeded
in lifting Philip from his feet and hurling him to the floor, but Philip
clung to him, forcing him to sprawl on top of his prisoner. In a moment of
fierce energy Potter was kneeling upon Philip's arms and sitting upon his
chest.
The stout man who had dozed in the corner shuffled to his feet and
approached leisurely.
"This man is a spy. Help me tie him," Potter panted.
"For sure," said the man, stepping behind Potter. Then Potter felt
something hard jammed against his ribs. He did not see it, nor could he
feel its shape, but he knew what it was.
"What are you doing?" he said.
"Vell," said the stout man, "I t'ink I should take some interest. I t'ink
maybe it iss best if you git up und leave the young man alone. For sure.
You should get up, und you should _shut_ up. Right off."
The man's voice was not raised, not angry or menacing, rather genial, in
fact, but the thing pressed against Philip's ribs was not genial. Nor was
it an instrument encouraging one to dispute.
"Git up," the stout man repeated, and Potter obeyed sullenly.
Philip struggled to his feet, scowling. "I told you to keep out of this,"
he said to Potter. "You're one of them that won't take advice. You come
beggin' for it, and now you're gettin' it.... You boys keep him here an
hour--after that I don't care what becomes of him.... Then you better beat
it. The government dicks are wise to us. I guess the circus is over."
"One hour?" said the stout man.
"That'll be plenty."
"He will stay--like goot young man," said the stout individual,
pleasantly. "You go along, mit nottings to worry."
Philip went first into the rear portion of the house, where the living
quarters of the proprietor had their location--judging, at least, from the
odor of cookery. He remained five minutes, then reappeared. He had done
the telephoning he had come to do.
"Don't let him make his getaway," he said, as he went out of the door.
"I t'ink you should better go in der back room," said the stout man, and
Potter obeyed reluctantly.
"How about getting away yourself?" he said. "Doesn't that interest you?"
"You should worry. In one hour you can go. Den I look out for meinself."
Potter sat down in a rickety chair, a very disgusted young man. He was a
blunderer. From the first he had blundered. And now his blundering
promised to bring all his discoveries to nothing. Cantor would escape,
others, duly warned, would escape--all, doubtless, to carry on their work
elsewhere in the country. So much for rushing into things headlong.... He
wondered what Downs was doing. There was but one ray of light in the
affair--Cantor's work was interrupted, his organization broken up. But
that was little when compared to what might have been accomplished if he
had worked with his intelligence instead of his impulses. It is no
pleasant experience for a young man of Potter's make-up to find himself
ridiculous, and he felt he was ridiculous--held a futile prisoner by a
stout old German who seemed to regard the whole thing in a humorous light.
He scowled and applied a well-selected list of names to himself.
He never knew before how long sixty minutes could be. From time to time
his guard peered owlishly at a fat silver watch and announced the passage
of time.
"Vell, we wait fifteen minutes already," he would say, or, "Perty soon we
keep company halluf an hour."
At last the hour came to an end; the stout man replaced his watch in his
pocket. "You should go now if you like," he said. "I got no more use for
you here, eh? You run along now, und maybe you keep out of troubles."
Evidently the man did not take him over-seriously, and it enraged Potter.
The stout man chuckled. "Und don't worry apout me, please. Goot-by."
Potter was accompanied to the door, and the stout man stood by, his right
hand concealing something in his pocket, until Potter started his car and
drove away. Then he vanished with suddenness.
Potter was at a loss. How should he proceed now? Should he go in search of
Downs to report his fiasco, or should he go ahead on some plan of his own?
The lesson he had just received was forgotten. He had no stomach to see
the look that would come over Downs's face when he made his report. No, he
would do something. He would not come back empty-handed. He would not go
back until he had something to show for his afternoon's work. He had set
out to catch Philip, and he would stick to it until he did keep Philip.
Such are the ways of head longitude, if one may name it so.
The one place Potter could think of where trace might be had of the man
was where he lived--over Herman von Essen's garage--and he took that as
his destination. Ten minutes brought his car to the von Essen driveway and
he turned in. His headlights cut through the dusk to the doors of the
garage, for the short winter afternoon was speeding toward darkness. As he
leaped out of the car he noted that the house was dark and paused a moment
to peer from one window to another. No light was visible, and he wondered
at it. His objective, however, was the garage, and he hastened toward it.
The doors were locked. Through the window he had used the night before he
looked in and could make out the presence of both the von Essen cars.
He went to the door that gave on the stairway leading up to Philip's
quarters, rapped, waited, but received no answer. He tried the door. It
opened to his turn of the knob, and he climbed the stairs with what
stealth he was capable of. He found no door locked. No one was in the
rooms, which were in a state of confusion. Their condition was that of
rooms hastily ransacked by a tenant snatching what was valuable and most
convenient in unexpected flight.
He descended and went to the rear door of the house. No one answered his
ring or his knock. He was beginning to be affected by a sense of
strangeness, by a certain numbing portent which seemed to weight the very
air. The hairs at the back of his neck felt as though they were striving
to stand erect, as if a chill breeze were touching them. He retreated from
the door and peered at the house, at its lightless windows, its massive
blackness against the evening sky. It wore a deserted, forbidding,
secretive look; the look of a house concealing something awful within it.
He was alarmed now, and his alarm was for Hildegarde. What did this thing
mean? What did it mean to her? Where was she?
Now he rushed to the front of the house, mounted the broad piazza and rang
the bell long and repeatedly. Not satisfied with this, he battered the
door with his fists. Suddenly the door opened, and Hildegarde stood there
outlined against the darkness, a wisp of a thing almost to be blown away
by a breeze, he thought.
She uttered a gasp, a sob of relief. "Potter.... I prayed you would
come...." She drew him into the house and closed the door behind him.