A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.
“We can beat ’em to the Pacific coast, all right!” Jimmie laughed. “Look
here,” he went on, pointing to the _Louise_, now being run out of the
hangar by the workmen. “There’s a flying machine that’s going to be a
world-beater. I ran fifty miles an hour this afternoon, and didn’t put
on full power, at that! She’s a bird, is _Louise_!”
“It isn’t always the speed that counts in a flying machine,” smiled
Havens. “The perfect flying machine is one that is constructed for
endurance—one which will fly for days and nights without breaking
down—one which can be trusted in the air as you trust a faithful horse
on a country road.”
“Well,” laughed Jimmie, “I think the _Louise_ has had plenty of
endurance tests, that is so far as her separate parts are concerned.
Every piece in her, down to the last screw, has been tested time and
again, and the run yesterday afternoon showed that she worked like a
full-jeweled watch.”
“And what about the _Bertha_,” laughed Havens, turning to Ben.
“Aw, the _Bertha_ isn’t in it with the _Louise_!” shouted Jimmie. “I’ll
race the _Bertha_ to Monterey bay for a thousand dollars,” he added with
a grin. “And I’ll win the money, too.”
“That will never do, boys,” Havens advised. “You’ve got to keep together
and work together all the way across.”
“And now,” asked Ben, as they all turned toward the machines, glistening
now in the brilliant moonlight, “where are we going to land?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t explained the details of the trip as thoroughly as
I should,” answered Havens, “for the reason that I expected to go with
you from the start. However, I’ll be along before you get to the
Mississippi river and post you fully.”
“But suppose anything should happen that you should be delayed,”
suggested Jimmie. “What then?”
“Well,” Havens went on, “south of the bay of Monterey, in Southern
California, close to the Pacific coast, lies the Sierra de Santa Lucia
mountains. On one side the rock runs almost vertically to the ocean,
from three to five thousand feet below. On the other side there is a
slope of oak and pine and sycamore to a great canyon which stretches
between the mountains and the foothills to the line of the Southern
Pacific railroad, sixty or seventy miles away.
“This is said by men whom I have consulted to be the wildest and most
lawless region in all California. There is a government reservation
there, but the forest rangers have hard work keeping fires out of the
forest and cattle off the slopes.
“It is believed that Phillips and Mendosa sought this region immediately
after the burglary in New York. In fact, the chief of police reports
that they are known to have left San Francisco in a steamer bound south
ten days after the commission of the crime.
“Now,” Havens continued, “these men are beyond the reach of telegraphic
or mail service. They can be warned of the approach of officers only by
messenger from Monterey, or by messengers sent through the gulches
across from the Southern Pacific line.
“This situation compels us to beat the aeroplane we saw yesterday
afternoon to the Pacific coast,” Havens explained.
“But,” interposed Jimmie, “the murderers’ friends might telegraph to
Monterey, or to some point on the railroad, and a messenger might be
despatched into the mountains. An arrangement of this sort would
certainly inform the murderers in advance of our coming.”
“But there is the danger of discovery if messages and messengers are
resorted to,” Havens continued. “Besides, it is very doubtful if
accomplices have been stationed at any station in the vicinity of the
mountains. It is more than likely that Phillips and Mendosa entered that
wild region with the intention of cutting themselves off from all human
kind, leaving friends in New York to look out for their interests here.”
“Then,” laughed Jimmie, “let Phillips and Mendosa watch out for a
freckled-faced boy with red hair, for he’s going to cross their life
line the first thing they know!”
“Why don’t you put out a sign and tell fortunes?” asked Carl, with a
grin. “You ought to be able to do that!”
“Ain’t I telling the fortunes of these two murderers now?” demanded
Jimmie. “The clairvoyants tell you to look out for tall, dark complected
men with fierce eyes, if you go to them, and I’m telling these outlaws
to look out for a freckled-faced boy with red hair who’s going to get
their number directly.”
“Now there’s one more thing I want to tell you for your information in
case my departure should be delayed,” Havens went on. “It appears that
this man Mendosa is a sort of a crank in the matter of diamonds. He is
known to possess several stones of considerable value, in addition to
small trinkets set with the precious stones. On the morning following
the robbery and murder, a small diamond and a tiny, triangular piece of
gold were found on the rug in front of the office desk which the
burglars cheekily used during the examination of the securities.
“It is believed by the officers that this stone and this piece of gold
became detached from a ring worn by Mendosa on that night. The stone
looks like one of a cluster, and the triangular piece of gold is
unquestionably part of a claw originally used to keep the diamonds in
the setting. These two constitute the only clues.”
“Are you going to take them with you?” asked Jimmie.
“Certainly,” replied Havens.
“Then you want to hustle along with them,” laughed Carl, “for we’re
going to sail right out of the air and light down on top of the two
murderers! So we’ll need the stone and the triangular piece of gold for
comparison. We’re going to do this up quick!”
“And now, one last word,” the millionaire concluded. “In case I should
not reach you before you gain the Pacific coast, my advice is that you
approach the mountains from the east during the night time. Then you
ought to land on one of the high summits and work out from that point,
using your flying machines only for long distance work.”
“Of course,” laughed Ben, “we can’t go sailing over the mountains with
our machines in broad daylight, whistling for the outlaws to come out of
their hiding-places and be taken back to electric chairs in New York!”
“No, there’ll be quite a lot of mountain climbing,” advised Havens. “And
now,” he continued, “that everything is understood and the provisions
and tents are snugly packed on the flying machines, you would better be
on your way. It is quite possible that the aviator who chased Jimmie up
New York bay yesterday afternoon headed for the west immediately after
leaving this vicinity.”
“In that case, we’ll have to catch him!” Jimmie grinned.
“If we can!” Carl exclaimed.
“Aw, of course we can!” Jimmie returned.
“How fast ought we to travel?” asked Ben of Mr. Havens.
“I think,” returned the millionaire, “that you ought to travel about
fifty miles an hour for sixteen hours a day. That will give you eight
hundred or a thousand miles a day, and also eight hours each night for
sleep. That ought to be enough.”
The boys all insisted that that would be more than enough, and moved
toward their machines.
“Wait a minute!” Ben cried, as he climbed into the seat on the _Bertha_,
“who’s going to ride with me?”
“You’ve got most of the equipage and provisions,” Havens suggested. “You
know,” the millionaire continued, “that we couldn’t trust Jimmie with
the provisions! He’d be stopping in the top of every tall tree to take a
snack, and that would never answer!”
“And you know, too,” Carl put in, “that we never could trust Jimmie
alone in a flying machine! That’s why it’s been planned that I ride with
him.”
“All right, you fellows,” grinned Jimmie, “I’ll show you who makes the
winning in this murder case! Great Scott!” he added with a wrinkling of
the nose, “isn’t this a wonder? Who’d ever think of sending us boys off
into the mountains to do secret service work?”
Havens took out a pencil and began figuring on the back of a letter
taken from a pocket.
“According to this schedule,” he said in a moment, “you boys ought to
reach the bay of Monterey in four or five days. This is Monday. By
Saturday morning, then, you ought to have your machines stowed away in
one of the gorges facing the Pacific ocean. Can you do it?”
“You bet we can do it!” declared Jimmie.
“And when you need provisions,” Havens advised, “get one of the machines
out at night and proceed to Monterey, but don’t take the aeroplanes into
the town; don’t attract any attention if you can avoid it.”
“Where’re you going to meet us?” asked Ben.
“Probably at St. Louis,” was the reply. “At the post-office. Look for me
there when you arrive.”
In a moment the purr of the motors cut the air. The machines ran
swiftly, steadily, down the field and swept upward. Havens stood
watching them for a long time. The planes glistened like silver in the
moonlight, and the song of the motors came to his ears like sweet music.
The millionaire loved a flying machine as track-men love a swift and
beautiful horse. He finally turned away to find a uniformed messenger
boy standing by his side, presenting a yellow envelope.
“What is it, kid?” he asked.
“Message from the hospital,” was the answer.
“Who sent it?” asked the millionaire, taking the envelope into his hands
and tearing off the end.
“The night matron,” was the reply. “She said I had to hump myself.”
“That’s wrong!” laughed Havens. “She shouldn’t expect a messenger boy to
hump himself! In fact,” he went on, whimsically, “the only time a
messenger boy is permitted to make haste is when he is on his way to a
baseball game. That’s right, sonny!” he continued.
The boy grinned and made trenches in the smooth earth of the field with
the toe of a broken shoe.
Havens glanced casually at the message at first, thinking that perhaps
the surgeon might have taken it into his head to report progress in the
case of the man so recently placed in his charge. He knew very well that
the surgeon would manage to prevent the escape of the prisoner should he
regain consciousness, so he had put that phase of the case entirely from
his mind. However, his eyes widened and an exclamation of astonishment
came from his lips as he read the note which had been written by the
night matron, and not by the surgeon at all.
“Mason, the injured man recently sent here on your order,” the note
read, “has most mysteriously disappeared from the hospital. Doctor Bolt,
the surgeon detailed, at your request, to take charge of the case,
decided to watch the man for the night, and so my attendants were
withdrawn. The surgeon must have fallen asleep, for in half an hour’s
time he came running to my door shouting that Mason had escaped. As soon
as possible I visited the room from which the man had disappeared and
found the window sash raised.
“There were many footprints in the soft earth under the window—the
footprints of men in coarse shoes—and a smear of blood on the window
casing disclosed the fact that the injured man had been drawn through
the opening. It is quite evident to me, therefore, that the man was
carried from the room by some one interested in the case, to which
Doctor Bolt only indirectly referred when talking with me. Your presence
at the hospital is earnestly requested.”
The note was signed, as stated, by the night matron. Scarcely had Havens
finished the reading of it when he heard some one stumbling through the
darkness, and the next moment Surgeon Bolt, looking crestfallen and
excited, stood before him, like a schoolboy anticipating censure.
“Well?” asked Havens rather angrily.
“It’s the strangest thing I ever saw!” exclaimed the surgeon. “Mindful
of your interest in the man, I decided not to trust him to the care of
any of the hospital attendants to-night. After doing what I could for
him, I sat down by the side of his bed to read and smoke. My mind was
never clearer or farther from drowsiness than it was at that time.”
“Yes,” Havens said, in a sarcastic tone, “the result seems to indicate
that you were wide awake!”
“I tell you,” almost shouted Bolt, “that I was stupefied by the
injection of chloroform or some other anesthetic into the room!”
“How could that be possible?” demanded Havens.
“I don’t know!” wailed Bolt. “I certainly do not know! The window was
closed when I looked at it last, just before I became unconscious. When
I came to my senses to find the bed empty, a cold wind was blowing on my
face. That is undoubtedly what awakened me. Only for that I might have
slept myself to death!”
While the two talked together a watchman from the office building
approached and informed Havens that a lady was waiting there to see him.
“That, probably,” suggested Bolt, “is the night matron from the
hospital. She was making investigations when I left, and promised to
come here at once on the discovery of anything new in the case.”
Havens hastened to the office building and there, as the surgeon had
predicted, found the night matron waiting for him.
“I can’t understand,” she said addressing the millionaire abruptly,
without waiting for him to speak, “what is going on at the hospital
to-night! Immediately after the departure of Doctor Bolt I sent word for
every person, man or woman, connected with my service to appear in the
reception room. In five minutes’ time I discovered that two men employed
only three days ago were not present.
“After waiting a few moments for their appearance, I sent a messenger to
their rooms. They were not there! Their beds had not been slept in, and
every article of wearing apparel belonging to them had been taken from
their closets.”
“One question,” Doctor Bolt said, addressing the matron. “Was any one on
watch outside the door of the room in which I was so mysteriously put to
sleep?”
“There was no one on watch there,” was the reply.
“Then,” declared Bolt, “the two attendants who have disappeared injected
the anesthetic I have already referred to through the keyhole of the
door. After I became unconscious they entered and removed the prisoner.
It is all the fault of the hospital!”
The night matron turned up her nose at the surgeon.