HARBOR BELLS
The train came to a jolting stop and they all piled off. “Indian
Point!” Lena exclaimed. “So this is it! But where’s the city?”
“It’s not quite a city,” Lieutenant Warren said. “Two thousand people
in summer, one thousand in winter, I should say. But there are
year-round stores and shops.”
“And a beauty parlor?” Lena asked.
“Oh, yes, I should guess so. At least a hairdressing establishment.”
At that both Norma and Betty laughed. Lena gave them a sharp look.
Two large ancient cars appeared, together with a truck. Their bags were
piled into the truck; they crowded into the cars and were driven away.
“Harbor Bells, that’s the name of our little hotel,” their leader
explained. “And they call the building where we’ll be working the Sea
Tower.”
“What fascinating names!” Betty exclaimed.
“You’ll find them as fascinating as their names,” Lieutenant Warren
prophesied.
“And there’s the sea!” Norma exclaimed. “How I shall love it!”
“It comes almost to our door when there’s a storm. And the Sea Tower
really gets its feet wet.”
The road twisted and turned, first along the rocky slope, then above
the edge of a beach that Norma thought must be grand in summer.
“There it is!” Lieutenant Warren exclaimed as they rounded a turn.
“There’s our Harbor Bells!”
Just as she said this their ears were treated to a shock—a great
booming roar shook the silent air.
“Good grief!” Millie exclaimed. “Are we being bombed?”
“Not yet,” Lieutenant Warren laughed. “That came from the fort up there
on the cliffs, two miles away. You can see just a little of its wall
from here.”
“One gun salute for us,” Norma suggested.
“Hardly that. Probably a practice shot. They don’t waste shots like
that on a handful of WACs.”
At that they all laughed. And here they were at the gate of Harbor
Bells.
Leaving their bags to be brought in by the truck driver and his
assistants, they paired off and marched soldierwise up the broad
sloping path to the wide veranda of the hotel.
Above the door hung five bells of different sizes.
“Oh! Harbor Bells!” Betty exclaimed.
Seizing a small wooden hammer that lay on the ledge, she struck the
bells one at a time. Then, as they all stood by enchanted, she played
in a simple manner a tune they all loved:
“Sweet evening bells, sweet evening bells,
How many a tale their music tells.”
“Glorious Harbor Bells!” Norma exclaimed.
Harbor Bells, as they discovered very quickly, was no ordinary summer
hotel. It had been built for both summer and winter. In the rich days
when people had plenty of gasoline, tired business men from far and
wide drove to Harbor Bells for the weekend.
Mrs. Monahan, the proprietor, was a rare cook. Her clam chowder,
swordfish steaks, and home-fried chicken were famous.
“And this,” said Lieutenant Warren after she had explained all this,
“is Mrs. Monahan herself. She’s agreed to stay with us and take care of
us for a while, at least.”
“Sure, an’ if ye can stand to have me about!” Mrs. Monahan, a round,
red-faced lady, let out a cackling laugh.
“We’ll stand you for the duration if you’ll only stay,” the Lieutenant
exclaimed.
At Harbor Bells there was both a large and a small dining room, with a
huge fireplace, and plenty of cozy rooms upstairs. When the girls had
eaten a hearty meal of fried swordfish steak, baked potatoes, blueberry
pie, and coffee, and had settled themselves in their rooms, they were
for the most part ready for a good long sleep.
Not so Norma and Betty. Mrs. Monahan had kindled a fire on the open
hearth. Before this they dragged large, comfortable chairs and settled
themselves for a good chat.
“This,” said Betty, “is the real thing! But boy! Is it going to be hard
to work here! It’s too much like Natoma Beach in Florida. Dad has a
shack down there. Oh, quite a place! And that’s where we have our
fun—or did, before the war.”
“We have a shack—a real one,” Norma said. “Nothing fancy—not even a
fireplace, just a big kitchen stove—up on Isle Royale, in Lake
Superior. It’s really grand!” There was a pause.
“Work?” she murmured. “Oh, I guess we’ll work right enough, and hard.”
“You’re just right you will!” It was Lieutenant Warren who spoke.
“Oh!” Norma exclaimed. “Let me drag you up a chair.”
“No. Sit still. I’ll get it.”
“No! No!”
In the end they all took a hand at bringing up the chair.
“Umm! I like this!” Lieutenant Warren murmured.
“Who wouldn’t?” Betty exclaimed.
“And you’ll love the Sea Tower.”
“I’m eager to see it,” said Norma.
“You know,” Lieutenant Warren mused, “every time I settle down in a new
place I feel an urge to tell a story of a rather strange thing that
happened to me in India. It’s a spy story, really, although it didn’t
start out that way.”
“India!” Betty exclaimed.
“A spy story!” came from Norma. She gave the Lieutenant a searching
look.
“Does it have a moral for young WACs?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then please tell it to us,” Norma urged.
“Just after I finished college,” Lieutenant Warren began, “a friend
secured a position for me as a teacher of English in a high-class
school for British girls, in India.
“The school was located close to a fort, very much like Fort Des
Moines, only much larger. Ten thousand British troops were stationed
there.
“On my way over I had taken many pictures and wanted to get them
developed and printed. I was told that a very good German photographer
had a shop facing the army parade ground, so I hunted him up.
“‘Oh, no! I couldn’t do your pictures!’ he exclaimed when I suggested
it. ‘I am far too busy. Besides, amateurs, they never take good
pictures. Never! Especially young women! Their pictures are always
horrible!’
“I didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared at him and then at his
studio. It was a remarkable studio. Every inch of the wall was covered
with pictures—remarkable pictures, too. All the leading British
officers were there, and rich rulers of India, too. And there were
pictures of wild animals in the jungle, elephants, tigers, and water
buffalo.
“Did you do all these?” I asked.
“‘Yes, and many, many more. You see, Miss, I am really very famous as a
photographer.’
“He was a remarkable man. His hair was white, and stood straight up.
And his face was lined but round and smooth—unnatural, as if it might
have been made up for a stage performance.
“‘And you won’t do my pictures?’ I asked him.
“‘I can’t waste my time and money on such rubbish,’ he fairly fumed.”
“I can just see him.” Betty laughed. “But did he do the pictures?”
“Oh yes. I was young then, and usually got my way. I told him that at
least he wouldn’t be wasting his money, for I meant to pay him. So he
said:
“‘Oh, all right! Bring them in and we shall see!’
“Well.”—Lieutenant Warren leaned back in her chair. “My father was a
good amateur photographer, he had taught me how to take pictures. My
pictures came out very well. This eccentric photographer, who hadn’t
had time for me, complimented me.”
“And after that,” Norma laughed, “Herr Photographer was one of your
best friends.”
“Not quite that. But he did make many pictures and took an unusual
interest in showing me his treasures.”
“And that was how you discovered he was a spy?” suggested Betty.
“Well, yes—and no. Truth is, when I left India I had not the slightest
notion that he was a spy.”
“Then how in the world—” Norma broke in.
“Now—now!” the Lieutenant exclaimed mockingly. “No turning to the back
of the book.”
“But to make a long story short,” she went on, “this photographer had a
beautiful place back up in the hills. Once he took me there in his car.
It was a gorgeous estate. Palm trees, rare birds, a fountain fed by
springs, and a house built of teakwood.
“Back of the house were dovecotes where many rare varieties of pigeons
billed and cooed. Some were jet black, the only black ones I’ve ever
seen.
“Dogs! He had a dozen of them. Some of them really looked ferocious.
And there were monkeys staring at you from the trees.”
“Regular menagerie.” Norma drawled.
“Yes, just that. And all for a purpose.”
“What came of it?” Norma asked.
“Well,” Miss Warren went on, “he made many pictures for me. We became
quite good friends. He helped me and complimented me often.
“For all that he appeared to be a very strange person. He took pictures
if it suited his fancy. If not, he refused. Some stuffy old grand dame
wanted to sit for a picture and he refused to do the work. Then too he
was away for weeks at a time. How he could support his shop and that
mansion in the hills with so little real work I could never understand.
“In summer, when it was hot, I went to stay in a very lovely resort
high up in the mountains. The resort keeper wrote Herr Photographer,
asking him to come up and take some pictures. His reply was:
“‘Miss Rita Warren is with you. She can take them as well as I.’”
“And were you flattered!” Betty laughed.
“Naturally. I went to see him as soon as I returned. He was very
cordial. ‘Come,’ he said, taking my hand as if I were a child. ‘I have
a picture to show you. It is, I think, a masterpiece.’
“He led me into a fairly large room and switched on a light. There were
three objects in the room—a large picture in a dull gilt frame, and two
very ordinary chairs.
“‘Sit here,’ he said, ‘it is the best light.’ I sat down.
“‘You know,’ he said, ‘that this part of India was once ruled by the
French. Far up in the mountains is one of their ancient churches. I
found this picture in the tower of that church. I think it is a Madonna
by Godin.’
“I had studied art in college and was inclined to agree with him.
“One thing that struck me as strange was that in the background, on a
large rock, sat three black pigeons. Then too, in many places there
were overtones of color that did not appear to belong there. Strangest
of all, there were in places faint suggestions of geometric figures.
“He read the look on my face. ‘I am now restoring it,’ he explained.
“‘Well, I don’t like your part of the work!’ I had spoken without
thought.
“This appeared to offend him. Or did it? I couldn’t quite tell.
“He let a cloth fall over the picture. Then with a look that seemed to
say: ‘You may know too much,’ he led me from the room. That look
puzzled me for a long time.”
“But it doesn’t any more,” Norma suggested.
“Bright girl!” Lieutenant Warren exclaimed. “No, it doesn’t.”
“Why? What happened?” Betty asked.
“Well. I left India and returned to America. I heard nothing from my
photographer for a long, long time. Then England and Germany went to
war.
“One day I had a letter from a friend in India. In it she said, ‘You
know that photographer who took such a shine to you? Well, he’s dead.
The British jerked him up and shot him as a master spy.’”
“Oh!” Norma breathed.
“End of romance,” Betty exclaimed.
“Oh, it wasn’t quite that, but I was shocked, to think that I could be
so dumb. Those pigeons were, of course, for carrying messages all over
India to his fellow-spies. The dogs were to ward off strangers.”
“And the pictures?” Norma questioned.
“I never found out about that for certain.” Lieutenant Warren rose.
“However, I have been told that pictures such as those are often
shipped from place to place to convey secret information. Each bit of
‘restoring,’ as they call it, means something. Properly coded, that
picture could tell a whole lot.
“Well,” she sighed. “He’s dead. But he was rather good fun while he
lasted.” The three girls looked into the fire in silence.
“Millie is our bugler,” Lieutenant Warren suddenly said, as she started
for the stairs. “When you hear that bugle you’ll know what it means.”
“Breakfast, then work,” Norma said.
“Yes, and lots of it. You get two weeks of hard training. Then you take
over.” She was gone.
“Do you suppose she suspects we’re natural-born spy chasers?” Norma
whispered.
“Can’t tell.” Betty whispered back. “But jeepers! If she didn’t know
that man was a spy, what about us?”
“We’ve not even got a clue.” Norma agreed. “And, yet—” She did not
finish.
Betty went at once to her room, but Norma, having caught a gleam of
light through a window, stepped out on the porch for a look at the moon.
To one who sees it for the first time, the moon casting shadows over
the rugged cliffs and painting a path of gold across the sea is a
gorgeous sight.
Slipping silently to the top of the steps leading to the path, she
stood there in the shadows.
Then, for some reason, or perhaps none at all—she snapped on the
flashlight she held in her hand to paint her own path of gold down the
gravel walk.
Then it was that she got a shock, for there, half hidden by the broad
stone post of the street wall stood a man. He wore no hat. White hair
gleamed over a round face. In his hand he held a black box with a
reflector at the top, the sort of camera used most by newspaper men and
other professionals.
To say that she was startled would be to put it mildly. This mood ended
quickly, for the man snapped at her in the voice of an angry dog:
“Keep your light to yourself! This is a public street. I’ll stand here
as long as I choose.”
Turning about, the girl marched back into the hotel. She was trembling
all over.
“Right out of that story,” she whispered. “Halfway round the world.”
As she climbed the stairs she thought. “I’ll not tell a soul. I didn’t
really see him—just imagined it.”
As if to verify this, she went to her window and looked down. The
moonlight was brighter now. There was no one by the gate. And yet, cold
reason told her she had seen that man beside the pillar.
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