"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."
"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, 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 Chamberlin, 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 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…"
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 monotonous – 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 and ciphers. "May take a little time to figure it out, but it doesn't look difficult. Where can I reach you?"
"I'm at the Monticello – name of Robert P. Oliver. Put in a call for me as soon as you see the light on it. I've got something important to do right now," and he hung up without another word.
A quick grab for his hat, a pat under his arm, to make sure that the holster holding the automatic was in place, and Callahan was on his way downstairs.
Once in the street, he quickened his pace and was soon gazing skyward at the corner of two deserted thoroughfares not many blocks from the Monticello. A few minutes' consultation with his watch confirmed his impression that everything was right again and he commenced his search for the night watchman.
"Who," he inquired of that individual, "has charge of the operation of that phonograph sign on the roof?"
"Doan know fuh certain, suh, but Ah think it's operated by a man down the street a piece. He's got charge of a bunch of them sort o' things. Mighty funny kinder way to earn a livin', Ah calls it – flashing on an' off all night long…"
"But where's he work from?" interrupted Callahan, fearful that the negro's garrulousness might delay him unduly.
"Straight down this street three blocks, suh. Then turn one block to yo' left and yo' cain't miss the place. Electrical Advertisin' Headquarters they calls it. Thank you, suh," and Callahan was gone almost before the watchman could grasp the fact that he held a five-dollar bill instead of a dollar, as he thought.
It didn't take the Secret Service man long to locate the place he sought, and on the top floor he found a dark, swarthy individual bending over the complicated apparatus which operated a number of the electric signs throughout the city. Before the other knew it, Callahan was in the room – his back to the door and his automatic ready for action.
"Up with your hands!" snapped Callahan. "Higher! That's better. Now tell me where you got that information you flashed out to sea to-night by means of that phonograph sign up the street. Quick! I haven't any time to waste."
"Si, si, señor," stammered the man who faced him. "But I understand not the English very well."
"All right," countered Callahan. "Let's try it in Spanish," and he repeated his