Kitabı oku: «The Flying Boys in the Sky», sayfa 11
He was anxious now to meet Detective Pendar, for he had important news for him, but the man was nowhere in sight nor could the youth tell where to look for him.
CHAPTER XXVIII
FIRED ON BY THE KIDNAPPERS
When glancing around in quest of Detective Pendar, Harvey Hamilton failed to look behind him. Some one touched his shoulder, as he stood beside his aeroplane. Glancing back, there was his man.
The time for them to be strangers to each other had passed. Pendar asked crisply:
“How did you make out?”
“I found the spot.”
“Certain there is no mistake about it?”
“I saw the little girl herself; we have located her.”
“Can you take me thither?”
“Yes, but I can’t land; there isn’t enough space.”
“Let me down in front of Uncle Tommy’s home; it isn’t far off.”
“All right; take your seat; I’ll have you there in a jiffy. I didn’t see either of those men.”
“There’s one of them now on the edge of the crowd, toward the porch of the hotel.”
While the detective was seating himself, the young aviator looked in the direction indicated. The Italian, Amasi Catozzi, was standing a little apart from the others, watching the couple as a cat watches a mouse which she expects to come within reach of her claws the next moment. Dressed in a gray, natty suit and slouch hat, he kept his hands in the pockets of his coat, which was buttoned to his gaudy necktie.
The hurried words between the man and boy must have told the truth to the Black Hander. The individual whom he had accepted as a commercial traveler was a professional detective, whose search for the kidnapped child had brought him to this country town and very near the spot where she was held a prisoner. He must have believed, too, that the aeroplane had come thither, not accidentally, but to play an assigned part in the drama. The prospect of the whole daring scheme being brought to naught filled the miscreant with unrestrainable rage. He stood for a moment like a statue, his swarthy face aflame with passion. Then he took several hasty steps forward as if to interfere. The propeller of the biplane was revolving faster and faster, and it began gliding down the moderate slope, preparatory to leaping upward from the earth. Harvey, with hands and feet busy, gave his whole attention to the task, but the shrewd Pendar rightly suspected they were not yet through with the wretch who strode toward them.
The machine was in the act of leaving the ground when Catozzi’s right hand was jerked out of his coat pocket. Leveling a revolver, he blazed away twice in rapid succession at the detective. The latter had turned in his seat so as to face him, and was barely a second behind him in returning the shot.
The couple were not fifty feet apart when this interchange took place. The Italian was an expert with firearms and had he not been incited by so consuming a passion, he assuredly would have got his man. He missed by a hair’s breadth, but the cool Simmons Pendar did better. He saw his enemy’s body twitch, the Italian staggered backward a couple of paces, and the pistol dropped from his grasp.
The detective knew, however, that he had only winged him. In truth he had not tried to kill but only to wound, and he succeeded. In that moment Pendar, who generally held himself well in hand, felt such a thrill of anger that he determined to end the wretch’s power for evil forever. He sighted his weapon with the utmost care, and had the conditions been favorable, he assuredly would have scored a “bull’s eye,” but it must be remembered that the aeroplane was in action, and already in the air, heading westward and going at a speed of thirty or forty miles an hour.
Moreover, Bohunkus Johnson at this point got into the game. He had seated himself, as we remember, on the porch and was sulking over the reproof of Harvey Hamilton. Now when he saw him going off without him, he sprang to his feet; leaped down the few steps, dashed forward and shouted:
“Hold on, Harv! Yo’ve forgot something!”
But his friend could not wait for him. In the racket made by the motor, he heard nothing, and, if he had caught the words he would have paid no heed. Far more weighty matters claimed his undivided efforts. The action of the colored youth, however, brought him in direct line with the Italian, and the fast receding detective dared not fire because of the danger of hitting the negro or some member of the group of staring spectators.
The incidents described took so brief a time that no one who witnessed them understood what had taken place until all was ended. Certainly they could not have dreamed of its meaning. Why the drummer seated behind the young aviator should turn about and exchange shots with another man who seemed also to be a drummer, was more than any person could figure out, unless he laid it to bitter business rivalry.
Conversation between Harvey Hamilton and Detective Pendar was impossible, nor was it necessary. The few sentences spoken were sufficient, though had there been the opportunity, the man would have asked for more particulars. Although on this warm summer day he wore no top coat, he carried two pairs of patent handcuffs, and his weapon still held four charges, which no man in the world better knew how to utilize. He would have been very glad to stand up in front of the raging Catozzi with both their revolvers cracking and only a few paces between them, but the time had not yet come for a duel of that kind. He gave his intensest attention to what was before him while Harvey Hamilton was equally resolute with his duty.
Catozzi was not hit so hard as he thought when the twinge first thrilled his shoulder. The bullet of the detective inflicted only a flesh wound, and the man rallied instantly from the shock. He recovered his weapon and for a minute watched the aeroplane speeding away like an enormous bird. Then he noted that its line of flight was directly over the spot. Not a vestige of doubt remained as to what this meant.
The landlord had come out on the porch during the stirring incidents and now approached the Italian.
“What the mischief did that man mean by shooting at you? Did he hurt you bad?”
“No, no, no,” replied Catozzi, who despite the fact that a crimson stain was beginning to show on his upper arm angrily added:
“I am not hurt; don’t bother me.”
He set off down the street, taking the direction followed by the detective the night before. He walked fast until he reached the beginning of the path which led to the home of the ancient weather prophet. There he turned off and his pace became almost a run. He needed no one to tell him the desperate need of haste.
He had gone only half way when he left the main path and followed a faintly marked trail, – so dimly indicated indeed that any person not keen sighted or looking for something of the kind would have missed it altogether.
Meanwhile Harvey Hamilton was attending strictly to business. Directly south of the tumble-down home of Uncle Tommy Waters, and less than an eighth of a mile away, stood a smaller and more dilapidated cabin, with no signs of cultivation about it. It seemed wedged among a mass of rocks and stones, which formed a part of the structure. One side was wholly composed of rocks. Surveying the miserable shanty, one would have concluded that it had never been used as a permanent dwelling, but might have been flung into shape by a party of hunters who, visiting that section, had aimed to provide against sudden storm and preferred to sleep there rather than at any house or in the town.
When the aeroplane was skimming over this unattractive spot, Harvey turned his head and, meeting the glance of the detective, nodded. The gesture said: “That’s the place,” and the answering nod indicated that the man understood.
What it was that had told the young aviator the startling truth was more than his companion could guess, for, search as he might, he could not detect the first sign of life below them. There was the gray pile of boards and rails, which looked as if they had been tossed among the boulders by a cyclone, but nothing else met the eye. All the same, the youth had not been mistaken.
Had not the interest of the two been centered upon what was beneath them, they would have made an interesting discovery. Less than a mile distant, a monoplane, as close to the earth as their own, was bearing down upon them. One glance would have made known to our friends that it was the well remembered Dragon of the Skies. There could be no doubt that its owner, Professor Milo Morgan, was on his way to take part in the game. But that interesting fact was not learned until a brief while later.
Having shown his companion the cabin he had sought so long, Harvey Hamilton shot beyond it, and circled about until over the clearing in front of Uncle Tommy Waters’ home, when he began descending by means of the spiral, that picturesque and graceful manœuver, always attended with peril, as was shown on the last day of the year 1910, when the daring aviator Arch Hoxsey was killed at Los Angeles and John B. Moisant met his death at New Orleans.
It will be remembered that the biplane was at an elevation of not more than five hundred feet when he began to volplane. The forenoon was clear, and radiant with sunshine. There was no breeze except that which was caused by the motion of the aeroplane. Harvey had excellent control, and was confident of coming down at the spot selected, when, without the slightest warning, he was caught in the fierce grip of an eddy, whirlpool or pocket, or whatever it might be called, and tossed about as if he were a feather. The ailerons fluttered and the machine lurched like a mortally wounded bird, frantically trying to hold its place in the air. Recalling the instructions of Professor Sperbeck, Harvey did not run away from the startling flurry, but plunged straight into it. It was another illustration of the peril to which all aviators are exposed, of being caught at any unexpected moment by the currents that must always be invisible.
Harvey braced himself, hoping that a few seconds would carry him across the zone of danger, and came within a hair of pitching from his seat. The wabbling machine suddenly tilted upward, and stood almost vertical. The escape of Detective Pendar was equally narrow. Although he gripped the supports with both hands, it seemed to him that for one terrible moment he hung by them alone, with his legs dangling in midair. He was certain the aeroplane was capsizing, and he could only wait for the end of all things. Gladly would he have given the whole reward, which dazzled his vision, for the privilege of feeling the solid earth under his feet.
CHAPTER XXIX
RETRIBUTION
Their frightful peril lasted only a few seconds. Although the machine still swayed like a ship laboring among surges, it struck more tranquil air, and with its graceful spiral motion lightly touched the ground, ran to the edge of the clearing and stopped with its front rigger within a few feet of a huge oak on the edge of the open space.
It was still spinning forward when Detective Pendar leaped from his seat, and without a word to Harvey Hamilton, who, of course, had shut off the motor, dashed away on a run through the wood, making for the spot among the rocks where the pile of lumber and rails disclosed the headquarters of the kidnapping gang. He had not yet seen one of them, but knew they whom he sought were there.
Before he reached the spot he caught sight through the treetops of the monoplane of Professor Morgan heading for the same point. Recognizing him he uttered an impatient exclamation.
“He’s going to mix in and spoil everything.”
As easily and noiselessly as a soaring eagle, the circling machine came to a rest directly over the ramshackle structure. The wonderful “uplifter” was spinning under the monoplane and held it motionless over the exact spot, at a height of barely a hundred feet.
Detective Pendar in a frenzy of excitement leaped into the scant open space, where he was in sight of the aviator, who, as he had done in a former instance, stood erect, with a large oblong object in his hand to which he was about to apply a lighted match. Reading his purpose, Pendar shouted:
“Don’t do that! You’ll kill the little girl!”
Professor Morgan did not seem to hear him, or, if he did, paid no attention.
“Don’t, Professor! You will kill the child!”
The man now called down from his elevation:
“Don’t be alarmed! She is not there!”
“I know she is,” insisted Pendar, drawing his revolver. “If you drop that bomb I’ll shoot you!”
The tall, ungainly figure remained upright. He had lighted the fuse which was spitting flame. He still held it in his hand and was carefully sighting with the purpose of making it fall where he wished.
“I tell you the girl is not there, but the men are! Put up that pistol or I’ll throw the bomb at you and send you to kingdom come with them!”
The naturally cool-headed detective was beside himself. The calm assurance of the crank overhead stayed his hand. He did not know what to do and therefore did nothing.
“Stand back!” warned the aviator; “or you’ll catch it too!”
The words were yet in his mouth, when an object eight or ten inches in length, two or three inches in diameter and of a dull gray color, left his hand and dived downward. The fuse was smoking and the bomb turned end over end several times before it alighted on the warped boards which served for a roof to the structure. It lay there for a brief interval, during which it jerked to the right and left, as a spurting hose will do when no one is holding it, then it toppled over and dropped through a gap in the boards.
The next instant there was muffled, thunderous report, and rocks, rails and splintered wood flew in every direction, as if from the mouth of Vesuvius. The bomb had exploded with terrific force, and a noise that stunned the spectator, who caught a glimpse of something resembling a huge bird which darted toward him. A rail, as if fired from a modern siege gun, whizzed within a few inches of his head and skittered among the branches behind him.
In those terrifying moments the detective saw another sight, – one that held him dumfounded for a brief interval. Among the flying debris was the form of a man, which shot upward for fifty feet, turning over, passed above the head of Pendar and fell among the trees, where it lay still and motionless.
A second man came rolling like a log rushing down hill and settled to rest a few paces in front of the shocked spectator. His clothing was on fire in a dozen places. Rousing himself, the officer snatched off his coat, and hurriedly wrapped it about the wretch, who lay still, moaning with pain.
But in the midst of the fearful scene, Simmons Pendar glanced around in quest of that which he dreaded to see above everything else in the world. Harvey Hamilton had identified the stolen child and how could she escape that awful explosion? But she was not to be seen, and with relief unspeakable he decided that Professor Morgan was truthful in his declaration. Paying no heed for the moment to the man at his feet, the detective looked upward and shouted:
“Where is she?”
There was no reply, for Professor Morgan was not there, or at least was beyond hearing or replying to the question. Having accomplished that which he had in mind to do, he had set his silent machine again in motion, and was fast vanishing in the direction of the town of Chesterton.
Relieved of his great fear, Pendar stooped over the form at his feet. To his amazement the man seemed to have suffered only trifling injuries. The enwrapping of the coat had put out the incipient flames and the fellow came as easily to his feet as if rising from sleep. He said something to the detective in his own language, which was not understood. Pendar reached out and taking his scorched garment quietly put it on himself, but in the act of doing so he gave proof of his professional deftness by slipping a pair of handcuffs on his prisoner before he suspected the trick. He struggled desperately to free himself, and unable to do so, tried to strike his captor with the irons which clasped his wrists. But all that remained possible was to try to run away, and the detective was prepared to defeat an attempt of that nature.
That the fellow understood English became clear the next minute, when Pendar drew his revolver from his hip pocket and addressed him:
“If you try to run off I’ll shoot you!”
“Me no run off,” replied the man, cowering with fear. Probably his meekness was pretense with a view of gaining an advantage over his captor.
“Where is that little girl you stole from her home in Philadelphia?”
The prisoner shrugged his shoulders and shook his head:
“Me no understand.”
“Yes, you do; answer before I fire!”
And the weapon was leveled with the muzzle within a few inches of the man’s face, which was contorted by terror.
“Don’t know,” he hastened to say.
Detective Pendar was enraged enough to shoot him. With a dreadful sinking of hope the officer asked himself whether there was to be a miscarriage of justice after all. Grace Hastings was neither within the shanty nor anywhere near it when Professor Morgan blew it up with his bomb. Could it be that the abductors had discovered their danger before that time and removed the little one to a safe retreat, or could it be —
He dared not finish the question. One thing was clear: the negotiations that had been carried on for so many days were now ended, and could never be renewed. The friends of the child had proved their determination not to pay the ransom demanded, and no more communication could be held between them and the kidnappers.
Humanity seemed to demand that attention should be given to him who was hurled among the trees in the rear by the explosion; but in the intensity of his chagrin and wrath, Detective Pendar decided that, as he was already past help, time would be wasted upon him. Although the garments of the prisoner showed faint wisps of smoke here and there, the fire was gradually dying out and he was in no danger from that cause. His captor compressed his lips with the resolution to force the truth from the wretch. Surely he could throw light upon the disappearance of the child, and the detective was resolute in his purpose of forcing him to do so.
“What is your name?” was the first question of the master of the situation, who, noticing the other’s shrug and hesitation, added: “You needn’t pretend you don’t understand me. What is your name, I repeat?”
“Alessandro Pierotti,” was the answer.
“Who was the man that was blown into the wood behind me?”
“Giuseppe Caprioni.”
To test the truthfulness of the fellow Detective Pendar now demanded the name of the other member of the group that had loitered during the last few days about the hotel in Chesterton. Pierotti gave it correctly, and his questioner was convinced that all were right.
“That makes three. Who were the others connected with you?”
“No more, – that all.”
The detective did not believe this, aware as he was of the fearful penalties that are visited by members of the Black Hand upon those who betray their associates. He wondered in fact why Pierotti had not tried to deceive him as to the names. It may have been because he believed the truth was at the command of this captor. That others were connected with his crime was a certainty, but this was not the time nor place in which to probe the matter.
“How long did you have the little girl in this part of the country?”
The frightened prisoner wrinkled his brow in thought.
“A week, – almost – not quite.”
“Where is she now?”
“Went off – she play – she soon come back.”
This statement was perplexing and Pendar did not understand it.
“When did she go?”
“One – two – tree hour; she soon come back,” he repeated.
“Who went with her?”
“No one – she go with herself; she not go far.”
“Which way?”
Pierotti pointed in the direction of the cabin of Uncle Tommy Waters. The path which has been mentioned as dimly marked, took another course before joining the main trail which branched off from the highway a little way out from Chesterton.
While it seemed improbable that a captive like Grace Hastings would have been permitted anything in the nature of freedom at so critical a time, the detective decided to act upon the statement.
“Lead the way, Pierotti; I shall walk behind you; if you try to slip off, or I find you have deceived me, look out!”
