“Where is my nail file—and brush?” I could imagine her saying, as she hunted for them in pretty confusion, aided by Kennedy who, when he wanted to, could act the Fitzhugh and Gavira as well as they. The implements were not to be found and from a drawer she took another set.
Just then Gavira passed on his way to his office in the front of the building, saw me, and smiled. “Kennedy’s cut you out,” he laughed, catching a glimpse through the door. “Never mind. I used to think I had some influence there myself—till the captain came along. I tell you these oldsters can give us points.”
I laughed, too, and joined him down the hall, not because I cared what he thought, but because his presence had reminded me of my original mission to call up Marlowe. However, I decided to postpone calling another moment and take advantage of the chance to talk to the house physician.
“Yes,” I agreed, as long as he had opened the subject. “I fancy the captain likes young people. He seems to enjoy being with them—Miss Hillman, for instance.”
Gavira shot a sidelong glance at me. “The Belleclaire’s a dangerous place for a wealthy widower,” he returned. “I had some hopes in that direction myself—in spite of Fitzhugh—but the captain seems to leave us all at the post. Still, I suppose I may still be a brother to her—and physician. So, I should worry.”
The impression I got of Gavira was that he enjoyed his freedom too much ever to fall in love, though an intimacy now and then with a clever girl like Alma Hillman was a welcome diversion.
“I’m sorry I sha’n’t be able to be with you until late tonight,” he said, as he paused at his office door. “I’m in the medical corps of the Guard and I promised to lecture tonight on gunshot wounds. Some of my material got smashed up, but I have my lantern slides, anyhow. I’ll try to see you all later, though.”
Was that a clever attempt at confession and avoidance on his part? I wondered. But, then, I reflected he could not possibly know that we knew he had anaerobic microbes and spores in his possession. I had cleared up nothing and I hastened to call up the shipyard, sure that the line could not be busy still.
Whatever it was that was the matter, central seemed unable to get me my number. Instead, I found myself cut right into a conversation that did not concern me, evidently the fault of the hotel switchboard operator. I was about to protest when the words I heard stopped me in surprise. A man and a woman were talking, though I could not recognize the voices and no names were used.
“I tell you I won’t be a party to that launching scheme,” I heard the man’s voice. “I wash my hands of it. I told you that all along.”
“Then you’re going to desert us?” came back the woman’s voice, rather tartly. “It’s for that girl. Well, you’ll regret it. I’ll turn the whole organization on you—I will—you—you—” The voices trailed off, and, try as I could to get the operator to find out who it was, I could not.
Who was it? What did it mean?
Kennedy had finished with the manicure some time before and was waiting for me impatiently.
“I haven’t been able to get Marlowe,” I hastened, “but I’ve had an earful.” He listened keenly as I told him what I had heard, adding also the account of my encounter with Gavira.
“It’s just as I thought—I’ll wager,” he muttered, excitedly, under his breath, taking a hurried turn down the corridor, his face deeply wrinkled.
“Well! Anything new? I expected to hear from you, but haven’t,” boomed the deep voice of Marlowe, who had just come in from an entrance in another direction from that which we were pacing. “No clue yet to my crank?”
Without a word, Kennedy drew Marlowe aside into a little deserted alcove. Marlowe followed, puzzled at the air of mystery.
Alone, Craig leaned over toward him. “It’s no crank,” he whispered, in a low tone. “Marlowe, I am convinced that there is a concerted effort to destroy your plans for American commerce building. There isn’t the slightest doubt in my mind that it is more serious than you think—perhaps a powerful group of European steamship men opposed to you. It is economic war! You know they have threatened it at meetings reported in the press all along. Well, it’s here!”
Half doubting, half convinced, Marlowe drew back. One after another he shot a rapid fire of questions. Who, then, was their agent who had fired the shot? Who was it who had deserted, as I had heard over the wire? Above all, what was it they had planned for the launching? The deeper he got the more the beads of perspiration came out on his sunburnt forehead. The launching was only eighteen hours off, too, and ten of them were darkness. What could be done?
Kennedy’s mind was working rapidly in the crisis as Marlowe appealed to him, almost helplessly.
“May I have your car tonight?” asked Craig, pausing.
“Have it? I’ll give it to you if it’ll do any good.”
“I’ll need it only a few hours. I think I have a scheme that will work perfectly—if you are sure you can guard the inside of the yard tomorrow.”
“I’m sure of that. We spent hours today selecting picked men for the launching, going over everything.”
Late as it was to start out of town, Craig drove across the bridge and out on Long Island, never stopping until we came to a small lake, around the shores of which he skirted, at last pausing before a huge barn-like structure.
As the door swung open to his honking the horn, the light which streamed forth shone on a sign above, “Sprague Aviation School.” Inside I could make out enough to be sure that it was an aeroplane hangar.
“Hello, Sprague!” called Kennedy, as a man appeared in the light.
The man came closer. “Why, hello, Kennedy! What brings you out here at such an hour?”
Craig had jumped from the car, and together the two went into the hangar, while I followed. They talked in low tones, but as nearly as I could make out Kennedy was hiring a hydro-aeroplane for tomorrow with as much nonchalance as if it had been a taxicab.
As Kennedy and his acquaintance, Sprague, came to terms, my eye fell on a peculiar gun set up in a corner. It had a tremendous cylinder about the barrel, as though it contained some device to cool it. It was not a machine-gun of the type I had seen, however, yet cartridges seemed to be fed to it from a disk on which they were arranged radially rather than from a band. Kennedy had risen to go and looked about at me.
“Oh, a Lewis gun!” he exclaimed, seeing what I was looking at. “That’s an idea. Sprague, can you mount that on the plane?”
Sprague nodded. “That’s what I have it here for,” he returned. “I’ve been testing it. Why, do you want it?”
“Indeed I do! I’ll be out here early in the morning, Sprague.”
“I’ll be ready for you, sir,” promised the aviator.
Speeding back to the city, Kennedy laid out an extensive program for me to follow on the morrow. Together we arranged an elaborate series of signals, and that night, late as it was, Craig returned to the laboratory, where he continued his studies with the microscope, though what more he expected to discover I did not know.
In spite of his late hours, it was Craig who wakened me in the morning, already prepared to motor out to the aviation school to meet Sprague. Hastily he rehearsed our signals, which consisted mostly of dots and dashes in the Morse code which Craig was to convey with a flag and I to receive with the aid of a powerful glass.
I must admit that I felt somewhat lost when, later in the morning, I took my place alone on the platform that had been built for the favored few of the launching party at the bow of the huge Usona, without Craig. Already, however, he had communicated at least a part of his plan to Marlowe, and the captain and Marjorie were among