Riding back to Key West I run over in my mind all that little girl had
said, even those matters to which she vaguely referred. Something
about her face and manner had made a deep impression on me. I felt I
wanted to help this wonderful little flower girl, blooming out of the
bare reefs of the Keys, having the appearance of the serrated edges of
an immense alligator tail extending out of the Everglades into the
Straits of Florida. There was always the possibility, it seemed to me,
of its moving suddenly any time, throwing Key West and all the rest
into the Gulf of Mexico, or over into the Bermudas.
Ike Barry, of the big heart, was astonished at my good day's work for
him, and wanted to reciprocate. I told him to hustle the goods on
promptly and that would be enough for my time and trouble. Then I
inquired:
"Who is the pink-cheeked, deep-waisted Teuton individual--the
comparatively new addition--is he part of the mystery about Bulow and
Company?" I asked casually.
"Mystery is right!" he replied softly. "I don't know for sure. Wasn't
much interested, in fact. I think it's like this. When old Bulow died
the business was incorporated by the heirs, and then this fellow shows
up with a big say, executively. The manager jumps when he sneezes. The
change didn't affect their credit and that's all that interests me.
However, I can find out easily enough, and will let you know."
"Do that, Ike, and I will call it square for getting you a new
customer," but that night I found a hundred good Havanas in my room.
Afterward I put on working clothes and went down to the dock to find
Scotty. He was working on his engine, the cylinder heads off, getting
ready for a big run the next day. I fell to and helped him, enabling
me to better examine the cutter--and talk with him. Scotty was covered
with sweat, grease and indignation.
"There's something coming off to-morrow, and it beats hell that I
can't find out just what it is. This boat goes out to-morrow and I
don't go with it, for the first time. A greasy piece of German cheese
from one of the big steamers is going to run her so what in the devil
do you suppose they are up to?" he asked, wrathful and caustic.
I looked surprised and glanced about.
"No, they're gone now but they've been working on her most all day. Do
you see that plate bolted to the deck aft? They think they're fooling
me, but that is a base for mounting a five-inch gun. They put that in
place to-day. Now, why do they want a gun on this craft? And rifles
were brought aboard. They're here now; want to see 'em?"
"All the English and American cargo and passenger ships are mounting
guns for defense now," I suggested, but he shook his head negatively.
"This is no cargo boat. She's less than a hundred feet over all. We
only take a little freight to fishermen at the Bermudas and bring in
hides and sponges. We don't go where there's submarines. No--there's
something else and I believe it has a lot to do with this man Canby.
They're bitter against him. The manager and that tub of tallow, with
his left hand still in bandage, was aboard this afternoon. I couldn't
hear all they said and they talked German, which I don't understand
much. I did hear Canby's name and hear 'em swear. I tell you they are
up to some deviltry."
We adjusted the gasket, replaced the heavy cylinder head, and began
bolting it down, both silent for some minutes.
"Scotty, what else is it that makes you think there is something wrong
in the wind?" I asked, thinking hard as we worked.
"Well, why don't I go as usual? Why do they put a Boche in my place
and order me to look after repairs on the ocean tug? And why do they
want a five-pound gun and rifles? They're going to call at the
Tortugas and then cross the Gulf--to Galveston or New Orleans. There's
no submarine there. The fat party and two or three others are going.
The cabins were fixed up to-day and a new cook is shipped."
"You couldn't hear what they said about Canby?"
"No, but I'm sure they are watching him; they know what he does every
day. He's very slick and either knows too much for 'em or is beating
them to something. And 'beer-tub' is a muckle sore about having his
hand punctured."
All the unanswered questions Scotty asked struck me between the
eyes at once. What did the manager and an executive of Bulow and
Company want to see in Canby's warehouse? Was it the beautiful
leather, or something else for which they were willing to "break and
enter"--committing a felony--to see? Why were they mounting cannon and
taking on rifles if their object was lawful and peaceful? And why did
they want a crew strictly Boche? Scotty noticed my silence and looked
over anxiously.
"Scotty," I asked quietly, "do you know that, outside of gold and a
conscience, the Boche needs copper, rubber and cotton, in the order
named, more than anything else?"
"That they do."
"Think it over. Copper from Mexico, or any Gulf port in the States.
The same of cotton, and the biggest rubber port, Campeechy, across the
straits. It is possible you have overlooked or forgotten something.
Has any of Bulow's ships, tugs or barges handled anything like that?
And that, just now, might mean a Dutchman's one per cent, besides
loyalty to the murder trust, in getting that kind of merchandise into
Germany through Sweden?" We both worked swiftly as we talked, running
down the nuts on the cylinder-head studs.
Scotty, under his breath, began heaping curses on himself as a
bonehead, and tried to take it out on the wrench he was using. I
waited till he subsided.
"Scotty, you know the _Deutschland_, a cargo U-boat, has made a few
trips to northern ports and that a sister sub they never mentioned is
known to have left for this side. Is it possible Bulows have something
to do with it? And that everything the Boche fails to say is just as
important as what he usually lies about?"
"Yes, but damn it, man, it don't come easy for me to go back on them
that pay me."
"I know, Scotty, but it ain't treason to fight a German. He lies just
as easy as he ruins young girls, or mutilates prisoners and wounded
men. Their hearts, throats, teeth, eyes and hands, the very marrow of
their bones utter lies perfected for fifteen hundred years. Think it
over, Scotty," I said, wiping my hands. "I am going up to the wireless
station and will be back in about two hours."
"Don't you think there are some good ones?" he asked, looking injured,
evidently shocked by the memory that he had trusted some of them.
"Yes, Scotty, a few who left Germany because they hated it, but to be
born and to grow up in Germany adds a virus to the blood that is bad.
It can be neutralized about as easy as black can be made white. You
can't expect to rival them in general crookedness in a thousand years'
practice. They're about to hand you something."
He threw down his wrench wrathfully, wiped his hands, and followed me
up on the dock.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked, his head hanging.
"If there is another man in the Bulow service you can trust, get me
some information, but mind what I have told you about trusting a born
German. They revel in deceit and dirty, treacherous lies. When I get
back I'll tell you what I want." Instead of Scotty going back to work
I saw him go down the wharf where the ocean tug was tied up, but I was
not quite sure he was convinced.
I went to the wireless station and the information I got from
Washington was mainly satisfactory, but a long way from completing a
more or less nebulous theory, pointing to something big.
Coming back past the hotel I found a note there from Ike Barry. It
read:
"The big money in Bulow is supplied by the Transatlantic Banking
Company, New York. The fat party represents them."
When I got back to the dock Scotty was working listlessly. Didn't seem
to care if he never got the cutters ready to go out, and looked
thoroughly disgusted.
"What have you dug up, Scotty?" I knew I had him. My appeal had sunk
in.
"Not a blessed thing. I thought Jim Wheeler, the assistant engineer on
the tug, could tell me something, but he's gone. The crew's all
sauerkraut now. I'm sure Wheeler is on the level."
"Well, drop that now and pay close attention. I have a plan. It's a
big bet, but I am going to make it if you will help. When does this
cutter leave in the morning?"
"Eight o'clock."
"And how long will it take to run to Tortugas?"
"She can do it in two hours easy."
"That will bring her there at ten. Scotty, she must not get there till
twelve, or even later. I know what they are doing at Tortugas. How can
you fix it?" I asked, giving him a strong eye bracer.
He shrank as if stung. Scotty's inherited fealty to an employer was
touched. It was one thing to talk, but his nature balked at acting. He
looked down at the cutter as a lover, then across to the ocean tug
that had replaced all hands with German born. His eyes finally came
back fighting and his hands closed viselike, struggling with himself.
Now was my time to drive in the nail.
"Scotty, there are some kinds of fire you must meet with fire, however
much you hate the job. This is one of those cases. If I am right and
can pull this off, it will mean millions upon millions for the Stars
and Stripes and it's now only a question of days when we will be at
war with Germany, too."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Yes, as sure as hell! Are you going to help me?" I shot this at him
in a rasping whisper.
"I didn't say I wouldn't," he finally blurted, "but I don't know how."
"Give me your hand," I said, grabbing that greasy member and shaking
it firmly. When a Scot shakes hands on a bargain he's safe.
"Now, Scotty, have you taken gasoline yet?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"Three hundred gallons."
"Scotty, don't finish your job on that engine to-night. Let the new
engineer adjust and time it after you finish in the morning. Then just
before you come off slip this little ounce package in the gasoline
tank."
Scotty grinned for the first time. "Will that do it?"
"In about half an hour his trouble will commence. It's a trick I
learned in German shipyards."
Scotty grinned again.
"They think they know it all, especially about machinery, when, as a
matter of fact, everything they have is stolen. It's their perverted,
thieving ego, Scotty. They even murder more efficiently than anyone
else."
Scotty laughed outright. "I wonder if they will have a different kind
of hell or heaven?"
I felt sure of Scotty now, so I said, "Scotty, they know nothing about
heaven. About hell, what they don't know now they will learn when
America gets in the game. This very case may be the one to bring us
in."
Scotty started to yell but I put my hand over his mouth. "Anyhow," he
whispered, "I got one whoop coming to me later--eh?"
"You have, Scotty--stick tight, all ears and eyes, and no tongue." He
stood grinning after me as I went my way. "I'll see you soon," I said
in parting.