THE MASTERPIECE
Early that afternoon, Norma, who had cut her sleeping hours short,
joined Lieutenant Warren in one of those toy-like cars, known as peeps,
and went spinning down the shore road.
Their first stop was the cottage occupied by Bess and Beth. School,
Norma had learned, was out because of a teacher’s convention so the
twins were free to go with them to the spotter shed.
There they were able, with Beth’s help, to hold a long, hand-to-hand
conversation with Betty.
It was evident at once from the nervous movements of Betty’s hands
before the television camera that the affair of the night before had
left her greatly excited.
They discussed the situation very thoroughly.
As they left the spotter shed Lieutenant Warren said, “It looks very
much as if we were heading straight into a crisis of one sort or
another. Such things as these can’t go on. Big planes don’t always
crash-land safely in the sea.”
“They seldom do,” Norma added.
“That black pigeon of Betty’s was taken from the shore by some traitor
to our cause, and put aboard some craft.”
“Probably the sub,” Norma suggested.
“Yes, and in this way every secret of our defense will in time leak
out.”
“And any number of spies may land on our shores. Which leads us—
“To Carl Langer, his black pigeons, his rich estate, his masterpiece,
and, just perhaps, to the Spanish hairdresser.” Norma found herself
rather breathless at the end of this speech.
“You hope for too much,” was the Lieutenant’s quiet comment. “However,
we will present Carl Langer with our calling card.”
The photographer was not at his studio but the girl who kept the shop
in his absence offered to call him at the big house.
“Tell him that Norma Kent and Lieutenant Warren would like to see his
masterpiece,” said Norma.
Word came over the wire at once that the great, little man would be
delighted to see them.
“Now,” said Norma, as they drove through the gate, “if his three huge
dogs don’t eat us up, peep and all, we’ll get on fine.”
Black pigeons, looking like dwarfed nuns, sat in rows on the barn roof,
but no dogs appeared to announce their coming.
For all the world as if he had been watching at the keyhole, the
photographer, whose hair seemed whiter and more bristling than ever,
threw open the door the instant they rang the bell.
“Come in! Come in!” he welcomed.
“Mr. Langer, this is Lieutenant Warren,” said Norma.
For a brief space of time he studied the newcomer’s face intently. But
Rita Warren was older than when she was in India. Then, too, she had
made her face up rather well for the occasion and was wearing tinted
glasses. Add to this fact that a woman’s olive-drab uniform is in
itself something of a disguise, and it may not seem strange that at
first, at least, he did not recognize her.
“But then,” Norma chided herself, “more than likely he is not the man
at all. Spies who are shot seldom show up somewhere else!”
If Lieutenant Warren recognized the man, neither Norma nor Carl Langer
could have detected it from her action. She thanked him for his
interest and repeated her desire to see his masterpiece.
“You shall see it at once,” he assured them. “After that we will have
some tea—tea brought straight from India. You don’t often get that. But
first—”
He stepped to a table to press a hidden buzzer that sounded in a
distant room.
“Is that for a servant or a couple of murderers?” Norma asked herself
with a shudder. To Lieutenant Warren she whispered, “India!”
Lieutenant Warren lifted her eyebrows—that was all.
“Now if you will come this way,” said their strange host, leading the
way.
As they passed down a long corridor, Norma stole a glance or two into
other rooms. In one, whose door stood ajar, she saw an open traveling
bag, half packed.
“What is that for?” she asked herself.
At the far end of the hall they entered a room where but one light
shone. This came from a long slender tube close to the ceiling. This
light fell upon a large canvas.
Striking a pose, Carl Langer said, “Well, what do you think?”
For a full sixty seconds he received no answer. They all stood there
looking at the picture. One of those simple things that can, if well
done, be magnificent, it showed a peasant youth and a maid in her
middle teens seated among the stubble of a partly mown field. Beside
them were their scythes and rake and a rustic lunch basket. Back of
them was a shock of wheat and behind that the waving grain. On their
faces were smiles and over their faces played the sunlight.
“It’s lovely,” was Norma’s comment.
“It may be a Millet,” Lieutenant Warren said slowly. “Surely it is like
his work, but some of the colors are a little strange. There are
overtones—”
“To be sure,” Carl Langer laughed hoarsely. “The picture has been
neglected. I found it in an old church in a French-Canadian village. I
am restoring it.”
Norma saw Lieutenant Warren start and stare. But she said never a word
as they left the room.
As they prepared to take tea in the sunny living-room, a small brown
man entered with a tray.
“You need not be afraid of Hanada,” said Langer with a forced laugh.
“It is true that he is of Japanese blood, but his home is in India. He
has never seen Japan.”
At that the little brown man showed all his teeth in a grin.
“I brought him with me from India,” was the hasty reply.
“So you have lived in India? How grand!” Norma exclaimed.
“Yes, I practiced my art there for several years. Only four years ago,
I sold out and came to America.”
“Ah-ha,” Norma breathed.
“Has your successor been successful?” Lieutenant Warren asked in an
even tone.
“Oh, yes, indeed. In fact, he has become a permanent resident,” was the
odd reply.
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Lieutenant Warren.
Norma barely suppressed a laugh. So it was the man who followed Carl
Langer in India who had been shot as a spy!
All during the tea Carl Langer seemed ill at ease. His eyes often
sought the room in which an open traveling bag awaited his return.
“Wonder if he is going on a journey?” Norma thought. The answer
was—yes, a long, long journey.
“We’ll have to be going back,” Lieutenant Warren said at last. “Our
watch changes very soon, and I must be there.”
Their host expressed polite, but uneasy regrets. They bade him a polite
farewell and were away.
As their car started they were greeted by a loud roar as three huge
dogs came leaping at their peep. They were, however, quite safe in the
car; so, avoiding running over one of the beasts, they glided out of
the gate and were away.
“Well?” Norma breathed deeply.
“Believe it or not,” said Lieutenant Warren, “he is my spy of India. I
shall get Mr. Sperry on his trail first thing in the morning.”
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