THAT night at dinner I asked Hiram how much he knew about gasoline
engines, and he looked up at me sharply.
"Not very much; very little, in fact. The Gold-Beater gave me a car
once--a pretty good one--and I was learning about motors fairly fast
when something happened. I knew motors needed water, oil and gasoline,
and that when I did certain things it went, and sometimes it moved
pretty fast. That was the trouble--I met a bigger car and we both went
over in a man's front yard. I lost two wheels and other things--I never
saw it again. The Gold-Beater and the insurance company settled somehow.
"Do you know," he continued after a pause, "I don't blame the
Gold-Beater much--two thousand was my share for putting an innocent
pedestrian in the park on the bad side--I wonder he didn't get the
marble heart sooner." As he said this his lips curled with
self-criticism.
"How soon will you have the motor ready to start? I am going to be very
busy to-morrow. Can you and the captain manage to start it alone?"
"To-morrow at noon we will have everything ready for a try-out and if I
don't feel safe we will not attempt to start without you. Don't want to
take any chances; there's too much at stake," he insisted with rare
judgment.
"Everything is fair in love and war," is the libertine's comfort in the
case of a love contest--and in war it depends on the kind of an enemy we
have. In this war any means of obtaining evidence against our enemy was
justified. That was my firm belief. That night Becker & Co.'s office was
entered as planned and his safe opened. While there was plenty of
evidence that he was trading illicitly and with the enemy, I was
disappointed in finding no evidence of his thieving propensity, except a
letter he had received that day from the captain of a Swedish ship,
_Sparticide_, then in port, who in poor English explained that he had
"received the sample and thought it would do, though the price was
altogether too high. If he would pack in half barrels and deliver as
suggested, he would take the lot for cash, delivered alongside."
This letter was carefully copied and replaced.
When I reached home just before daylight, Hiram, Jr., was fast asleep,
but when I awakened later in the day he had gone.
I spent the greater part of the morning getting the five bales of waste
paper that had been unloaded from Becker's boat on the steamship docks,
into a private fireproof room in the storage warehouse where we had our
barrel of "steel filings" stored, and secured an affidavit from the
steamship company that they were received from Becker & Co.
When I found leisure to examine them, I drew samples from each bale and
carefully estimated the number, finding they checked up with the amount
of filled sausage cartons stolen from the car.
Before leaving the warehouse I had our barrel put into the same room and
secured it with a special Government padlock. Recent correspondence had
developed that it contained a very rare German aniline dye, which
American manufacturers had as yet been unable to produce, and offers for
it had risen to such a fabulous sum I was afraid to tell Hiram about it
for the present.
When I reached my office, my clerk, Miss Bascom, was out to luncheon,
but I had not been there long before Superintendent Kitchell came in and
formally introduced Mr. Hiram Strong, Sr., whom he had mentioned as
being in transit over the system in his private car, and asked me to
extend any possible courtesy, after which he bowed himself out
obsequiously.
I knew I was in the presence of a man. He was tall and his full chest
and very broad shoulders impressed me as they had impressed Hiram. His
hair was iron gray and his very hat seemed to be made to order for him.
His eyes appeared to penetrate without effort the object on which they
turned, and one knew instinctively that he could and would note any
discrepancy between what a person thought and what he uttered.
I saw at once how Hiram, Jr., had come by his nose piece, also his fine,
clear skin and chiseled mouth.
Superintendent Kitchell, contrary to his boast, had told him all he knew
about Hiram, Jr. He did not seem to want to hear more from me, but did
want some information about getting down the river to the Hunting Club,
where he was going to shoot ducks.
"I left New York supposing I could dispense with my secretary for a few
weeks anyhow, but in that I am disappointed. Would it be too much
trouble to obtain a stenographer to write some letters for me?"
Hiram Strong, Sr., like his son, was one to whom anything within reason
could not be refused.
"Such talent is very scarce in New Orleans now, but if you can manage
with my clerk, Miss Bascom, who is fairly efficient, you are welcome to
her services--if she does not object," was the only thing I could say.
"I think she will do; in fact, almost any one," he assured me.
But somehow I felt that I was doing the wrong thing, for it suddenly
occurred to me that Miss Bascom's attitude or position was so clouded
and mysterious that, until I knew more, I should not trust her with
anything important. But Hiram Strong, Sr., was not a man to be refused.
When Miss Bascom came in I introduced her and was about to explain what
was wanted, when I stopped in amazement. The moment I mentioned the name
"Mr. Strong" her face became white as marble, she raised her hand as
though to advance and greet him, but it fell and she stood as though
petrified, while I explained what he desired.
"I--I hope I will be able to serve you," she managed to say, while she
gazed fixedly at him. I could not guess whether it was fear or other
excitement.
"My work is simple correspondence, and I am sure you will be able to
manage it," he replied assuringly, and I was not certain whether he was
admiring her quail-like figure and unusually pretty face, or, like
myself, was trying to divine the unusual excitement under the light
bronze hair.
"I will do my best," she managed to say, beginning to edge away toward
her desk by the window.
"Would it be asking too much for you to come out to the car? It is just
under the train shed."
"Not at all, with Mr. Taylor's permission," she replied quickly, in a
more natural tone. I nodded approval without looking at her, but did not
relax my endeavor to see if Hiram Strong, Sr., had missed anything and
decided he had not. He was not of that sort.
She went to her desk, obtained notebook and pencils, and stood
expectantly looking out of the window as though steeling herself for an
ordeal.
"I will undoubtedly see you again before I go, Mr. Taylor--I hope I will
not greatly inconvenience you by taking away your clerk," he added
suavely, going to the door and opening it as a sign for her to go with
him.
"Anything more I can do for you will be a pleasure, Mr. Strong," I said,
meeting his eye and getting a full message from him.
After they were gone I remained at my desk endeavoring to reach a
logical conclusion as to the attitude of this girl, who, at that moment,
I was ready to pronounce "infernal," probably because she had so far
baffled me. It is true I had not given her any serious attention;
perhaps I should have done so. I reviewed in my mind her traffic with
Becker and the chief clerk, Burrell, and the fact that I was quite
positive she was the author of the anonymous notes to Hiram. I decided
to put a rod in pickle for her, at once.
I asked that her movements be accounted for every hour, and something
positive be dug up concerning her antecedents, as soon as I reached the
Department office, which precaution was rewarded sooner than expected.
The remainder of the afternoon was spent in securing an auxiliary
gasoline tank and an air-compressor, which Hiram, Jr., had said he must
have to complete his running outfit.
"Old man," he began, as soon as he came in that evening, looking as
dirty and disreputable as a longshoreman, "we have a dandy outfit--the
captain says we can run away from anything. You've got the tank and
air-pump? Fine, old man, we will soon kill off Becker and the whole
crowd. All we need now is that saw-mill in the 'Dead Hoss' warehouse,
and we are ready." He finished with great enthusiasm, stripping his
upper body for a complete clean-up before eating dinner.
"Did you start the engine, Hiram?"
"No, but we are all ready. The captain wanted to, but I thought we'd
better wait for you. You've got to go out there the first thing in the
morning,--you can do that, can't you?"
"Yes, maybe--but don't you think we had better give it a pretty good
try-out before we put anything more into her?--she might prove a
flivver."
"Never on your life--she's going to run like a wolf--but maybe you are
right about giving her a good trial--suppose we bring her around into
the river?--that ought to be trial enough," he concluded, coming close
and displaying a wonderfully well developed torso that with age would be
as broad as his father's, which I had been admiring but a short time
before. For a moment I speculated on how he would feel if he knew that
his father was in New Orleans at that moment and that I had been talking
with him.
"Wake up, Ben; you seem to be dreaming. Did you hear what I said?" he
insisted, making me dodge to escape a whack on the back.
"I believe you said it was over two hundred miles through Ponchertrain
around into the river?"
"Yes, over two hundred miles by water, but by land, right through the
city, only about a mile. But we've got to get into the river."
"Yes, if she will go two hundred miles she will go any distance."
"All right; I'm going to pack up to-night and move aboard to stay until
Becker and his crew are all in limbo headed for the penitentiary--do you
hear me, Ben?"
I heard what he said, but was lost in considering plans which at that
moment required radical change, and must be done with tact and judgment.
Hiram became thoughtful and remained so throughout dinner, and as soon
as we returned he began, without further comment, to get his belongings
together and ready for transfer to the _Fearsome_, fully convinced that
his abode there would last for a long time.
I remained in the attitude of the "immortal," who waited for something
to turn up, and I did not have long to wait.
A messenger came with two rather startling bits of information; the
_Sparticide_, the Swedish ship, had asked for her papers and wanted to
clear at five the next morning, and the more mystifying knowledge--even
to me--that my clerk, Miss Bascom, had arrived at that moment at the St.
Charles hotel and was dining there with a distinguished stranger. Would
I also check up the stranger?
Both situations needed immediate attention and I could not be in two
places at the same time. I called Hiram, Jr., from the room where he was
busily packing.
"Hiram, come here and sit down long enough for me to funnel a bit of
instruction into your think tank," said I, recalling that I had not
mentioned the _Sparticide_ matter to him.
He came and sat down in front of me, the corners of his mouth slightly
elevated, folded his hands in front of him and waited in a slightly
humorous and bored attitude for some inkling of what he was about to
draw.
"Hiram, a Swedish ship, bound for Stockholm, is in the stream on the
other side, just below Algiers, and is asking to be cleared to-morrow
morning at five. It is thought she has, or will have to-night, a
considerable quantity of Becker & Co.'s product on board. Foodstuffs of
any sort to Sweden are forbidden, and if taken are contraband. His
clearance papers are blocked until we are satisfied. Principally, what
we want now is a liberal sample of what they take aboard from Becker.
You will be there in an unofficial capacity, so use discretion, but get
the samples. Here is a copy of the captain's letter closing the deal."
I had not half finished when his eyes began to glitter and dance as
though they might jump from their sockets, and I had barely completed my
instructions when he grabbed the letter, threw on his coat and bounded
down the stairs three steps at a time.