Or did the answer lie in a concealed wireless, operating[5] upon information supplied through underground channels?
These were only a few of the questions which raced through Callahan's mind. The submarine base he dismissed as impracticable. He knew that the Thor, the Unita, the Macedonia, and nine other vessels had, at the beginning of the war, cleared from American ports under false papers with the intention of supplying German warships with oil, coal, and food. He also knew that, of the million and a half dollars' worth of supplies, less than one-sixth had ever been transshipped. Therefore, having failed so signally here, the Germans would hardly try the same scheme again.
The rumor that German officers had actually come into New York, where they were supposed to have been seen in a theater, was also rather far-fetched. So the wireless theory seemed to be the most tenable. But even a wireless cannot conceal its existence from the other stations indefinitely. Of course, it was possible that it might be located on some unfrequented part of the coast--but then how could the operator obtain the information which he transmitted to the U-boat?
Callahan gave it up in despair--for that night. He was tired and he felt that eight hours' sleep would do him more good than thrash-
ing around with a problem for which there appeared to be no solution; a problem which, after all, he couldn't even be sure existed.
Maybe, he thought, drowsily, as he turned off the light--maybe the German on the U-boat was only boasting, after all--or, maybe....
The first thing Jimmy did the next morning was to call upon the head of the recently organized Intelligence Bureau of the War Department--not the Intelligence Division which has charge of censorship and the handling[6] of news, but the bureau which bears the same relation to the army that the Secret Service does to the Treasury Department.
"From what ports are transports sailing within the next couple of weeks?" he inquired of the officer in charge.
"From Boston, New York, Norfolk, and Charleston," was the reply--merely confirming Callahan's previous belief. He had hoped that the ground would be more limited, because he wanted to have the honor of solving this problem by himself, and it was hardly possible for him to cover the entire Atlantic Coast.
"Where's the biggest ship sailing from?" was his next question.
"There's one that clears Norfolk at daylight on Monday morning with twelve thousand men aboard...." "Norfolk?" interrupted Callahan. "I thought most of the big ones left from New York or Boston."
"So they do, generally. But these men are from Virginia and North Carolina. Therefore it's easier to ship them right out of Norfolk--saves time and congestion of the railroads. As it happens, the ship they're going on is one of the largest that will clear for ten days or more. All of the other big ones are on the other side."
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"Then," cut in Callahan, "if the Germans wanted to make a ten-strike they'd lay for that boat?"
"They sure would--and one torpedo well placed would make the Tuscania look like a Sunday-school picnic. But what's the idea? Got a tip that the Huns are going to try to grab her?"
"No, not a tip," Callahan called back over his shoulder, for he was already halfway out of the door; "just a hunch--and I'm going to play it for all it's worth!"
The next morning, safely ensconced at the Monticello under the name of "Robert P. Oliver, of Williamsport,[7] Pa." Callahan admitted to himself that he was indeed working on nothing more than a "hunch," and not a very well-defined one at that. The only point that appeared actually to back up his theory that the information was coming from Norfolk was the fact that the U-boat was known to be operating between New York and the Virginia capes. New York itself was well guarded and the surrounding country was continually patrolled by operatives of all kinds. It was the logical point to watch, and therefore it would be much more difficult to obtain and transmit information there than it would be in the vicinity of Norfolk, where military and naval operations were not conducted on as large a scale nor with as great an amount of secrecy.
Norfolk, Callahan found, was rather proud of her new-found glory. For years she had basked in the social prestige of the Cham-berlin, the annual gathering of the Fleet at Hampton Roads and the military pomp and ceremony attendant upon the operations of Fortress Monroe. But the war had brought a new thrill. Norfolk was now one of the principal ports of embarkation for the men going abroad. Norfolk had finally taken her rank with New York and Boston--the rank to which her harbor entitled her.
Callahan reached Norfolk on Wednesday morning. The America, according to the information he had received from the War Department, would clear at daybreak Monday--but at noon on Saturday the Secret Service operative had very little more knowledge than when he arrived. He had found that there was a rumor to the effect that two U-boats were waiting off the Capes for the transport, which, of course, would have the benefit of the usual convoy.
"But," as one army officer phrased it, "what's the use[8] of a convoy if they know just where you are? Germany would willingly lose a sub. or two to get us, and, with the sea that's been running for the past ten days, there'd be no hope of saving more than half the boys."
Spurred by the rapidity with which time was passing and the fact that he sensed a thrill of danger--an intuition of impending peril--around the America, Callahan spent the better part of Friday night and all Saturday morning running down tips that proved to be groundless. A man with a German name was reported to be working in secret upon some invention in an isolated house on
Willoughby Spit; a woman, concerning whom little was known, had been seen frequently in the company of two lieutenants slated to
sail on the America; a house in Newport News emitted strange "clacking" sounds at night.
But the alleged German proved to be a photographer of unassailable loyalty, putting in extra hours trying to develop a new process of color printing. The woman came from one of the oldest families in Richmond and had known the two lieutenants for years. The house in Newport News proved to be the residence of a young man who hoped some day to sell a photoplay scenario, the irregular clacking noise being made by a typewriter operated none too steadily.
"That's what happens to most of the 'clues' that people hand you," Callahan mused as he sat before his open window on Saturday evening, with less than thirty-six hours left before the America was scheduled to leave. "Some fellows have luck with them, but I'll be hanged if I ever did. Here I'm working in the dark on a case that I'm not even positive exists. That infernal submarine may be laying off Boston at this minute, waiting for the ship that leaves there Tuesday. Maybe they don't get any word from shore at all.... Maybe they just...."[9]
But here he was brought up with a sudden jar that concentrated all his mental faculties along an entirely different road.
Gazing out over the lights of the city, scarcely aware that he saw them, his subconscious mind had been following for the past three minutes something apparently usual, but in reality entirely out of the ordinary.
"By George!" he muttered, "I wonder...."
Then, taking his watch from his pocket, his eyes alternated between a point several blocks distant--a point over the roofs of the houses--and the second hand of his timepiece. Less than a minute elapsed before he reached for a pencil and commenced to jot down dots and dashes on the back of an envelope. When, a quarter of an hour later, he found that the dashes had become mo-
4
notonous--as he expected they would--he reached for the telephone and asked to be connected with the private wire of the Navy
Department in Washington.
"Let me speak to Mr. Thurber at once," he directed. "Operative Callahan, S. S., speaking.... Hello! that you, Thurber?... This is Callahan. I'm in Norfolk and I want to know whether you can read this code. You can figure it out if anybody can. Ready?... Dash, dash, dash, dot, dash, dash, dot--" and he continued until he had repeated the entire series of symbols that he had plucked out of the night.
"Sounds like a variation of the International Morse," came the comment from the other end of the wire--from Thurber, librarian of the Navy Department and one of the leading American authorities on code