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CHAPTER XXII
IN DANGER OF COLLISION
The cabin in the clearing being no longer in Harvey Hamilton’s field of vision, he gave his attention to the management of his aeroplane. In order to avoid so far as possible arousing suspicion, he made a sweeping bend to the northward, with a view of passing over the ridge and then returning to Chesterton from the east. By following this course, he would make it impossible for the tenants of the log cabin to see him, and thus render distrust on their part out of the question.
It was important that he should remain over night in Chesterton, in order to report to Detective Pendar and receive instructions from him. The youth was morbidly sensitive about offending the gentleman, or doing anything that could interfere with the success of the extraordinary enterprise in which he was engaged.
Harvey had changed the course of the machine and lifted the edge of his front rudder in order to make sure of clearing the top of the ridge, when Bohunkus touched him smartly with the toe of his shoe. The aviator turned his head to learn the cause, and the dusky youth with staring eyes pointed to the northwest, that is somewhat to the left of the course they were following. Looking in that direction, Harvey to his astonishment saw an aeroplane no more than a mile distant. With a minute or two at his disposal, he brought his binoculars into play.
The first glance told him an amazing fact.
“As sure as I’m alive, it’s the Dragon of the Skies! Professor Morgan is coming this way too! I’ll be neighborly and meet him.”
The vertical rudder at the rear was shifted, and the two machines the next moment were so headed that a collision threatened unless one changed its course.
Bohunkus kicked the shoulder of his friend again. His dark face revealed his terror.
“He’s gwine to smash dis locumotive! What’ll ’come ob us?”
Of course not a syllable of these words could be heard in the thunderous throbbing of the motor, but the expression of Bunk’s face and the vigorous contortions of his lips made his meaning clear. It occurred to Harvey that there might be cause for his companion’s alarm. There is no accounting for the whimsies of a crank, and, having destroyed one aeroplane, what more likely than that he should wreak his fury upon another, particularly when it was handled by the owner of the former?
Harvey’s first inclination was to shift his course again and run away from the Professor, but he reflected that if he did so, he would invite pursuit, and speedy as was the new machine it was certain the Dragon of the Skies was speedier. An inventor who was able to construct an “uplifter” that would hold his monoplane as stationary as a bird waiting for sight of the fish far below before making its dive, or could muffle his motor into noiselessness without lessening its power, was sure, beside doing all this, to acquire a speed that no rival could equal.
It was better to put a bold face on the situation, and paying no heed, therefore, to the gestures and mute shouts of his companion, Harvey headed for the monoplane, which approached with the speed and accuracy of an arrow.
Less than two hundred yards separated the two when Professor Morgan veered to the right, curving so far that his course shifted to a right angle of the other machine, toward which he turned broadside.
There sat the strange man in plain view, his feet on the cross-piece below, his hands resting on the upright levers, between which he sat bolt upright, with his linen duster buttoned from chin to ankles, his cap drawn low, while those blazing black eyes above his grizzled beard suggested an owl peering through a thicket and were turned full upon the two youths in the biplane.
Harvey waved his hand in salutation, but the Professor did not seem to see him or Bunk. He glided past, and when he had shot beyond a point opposite, turned his head so as to look directly in front. Harvey gave him no further notice, for he was now so near the ridge that all his skill was needed to direct his aeroplane.
Bohunkus was not yet free from his shivering fear, and kept his eye upon the dreaded Professor.
“I know what de willain am up to,” he reflected; “he’s only makin’ b’lieve dat he’s gwine to lebe us. He’ll snoke round behind and de fust thing we know will be when dat rudder out in front jams into us, slides under me, lifts me out ob dis seat and pitches me head fust down among dem treetops.”
But the form of the Dragon of the Skies grew smaller and fainter until the aching eyes of the negro could see it no longer. By that time the watcher concluded that nothing for the present was to be feared from the eccentric individual.
“But we hain’t done wid him yit,” said Bunk; “he’s got his eye on us, for if he hadn’t why am he hangin’ round de country, bobbin’ up when we ain’t lookin’ fur him? He’ll find out where we’re gwine to stay to-night and den he’ll get a new axe as big as de side ob a house and smash dis machine wuss dan de oder. De Perfesser am mighty sly and I doan’ like him; I wish he’d take a shine to some oder part ob de world.”
Having surmounted the ridge, Harvey sailed ten or more miles to the northward and descended at a town containing probably ten thousand population. There he renewed his supply of gasoline and oil, and halted for an hour or so, when he was prepared to return to Chesterton. While he and Bohunkus were seated apart from the others at the hotel, the colored youth gave voice to his dissatisfaction.
“What’s de use ob hangin’ round dis part ob de country, Harv? How many times do yo’ expect to go to Chesterton?”
“I have some business there to attend to. When that is finished, we can travel as far as you wish in any direction.”
“Why can’t we go to Afriky?” was the astounding question.
Harvey laughed.
“Why, Bunk, that is thousands of miles off. We should have to cross the Atlantic Ocean.”
“What’s to hender doing dat?”
“You know we have to renew our supply of gasoline and oil every few hours. Can you tell me how it is possible to do it when hundreds of miles from land? We spoke of this before.”
“Don’t de ships and steamboats carry de stuff?”
“If we could count upon meeting one of them when needed, we might get on, but when father and I crossed the ocean, we passed days at a time without seeing a sail.”
“Hang a boat on to de bottom of dis keer and paddle till we run agin a ship.”
“Drive that wild idea out of your head, Bunk. I don’t doubt that you and I shall live to see the day when aeroplanes will make regular trips between the continents, but we must wait till that time comes.”
“Doan’ yo’ spose Perfesser Morgan can doot?”
“He has made so many wonderful inventions, he may be the first to succeed. When he does, we shall hear of it.”
Bohunkus was silent for a minute or so. If his friend had imagined what wild freak had entered the lad’s brain, he would have made all haste to root it out, but unfortunately he did not dream of anything of the kind.
The next query of Bunk was more startling to Harvey than anything that had gone before.
“Harv, did yo’ see dat little girl?”
“What do you mean?” demanded the other sharply.
“When we was sailing ober dem woods, after we’d left Chesterton.”
“I saw no little girl; did you?”
“Sartinously; yo’ doan’ forgot dat cabin down among the trees where a small creek runs in front ob it.”
This was unquestionably the place in which Harvey had been so much interested. He had not observed a living person near it, while his dusky companion had seen the very person that was in many minds.
“I saw the old house and the smoke coming out of the chimney, but did not catch sight of a man, woman or child. Tell me how it was with you.”
“Nuffin ’ticular; we’d got a little way beyont and you wasn’t looking back when I took a notion to turn my head. Dere warn’t any man or woman in sight, but a little gal was standin’ in front ob de door, a wavin’ her handkerchief at me. I took off my cap and swinged it at her, but we was too fur off and de ingine made too much noise for us to hold a conwersation.”
“This is very interesting, Bunk.”
Remembering the instructions of Detective Pendar, Harvey gave no hint of why he felt so much concern over what had just been told him. The slow wits of Bohunkus were likely to cause trouble and probably defeat the delicate plans which the officer of the law had in mind. What the colored youth had told removed the last vestige of doubt from the young aviator as to the identity of the cabin of which he had caught a passing glimpse. He felt certain that the little girl whom Bohunkus saw and with whom he exchanged salutations was Grace Hastings, kidnapped weeks before, and for whose recovery her father was spending a fortune. Harvey knew the exact spot where she was a prisoner and could direct the detective unerringly to it. He was eager to do so, for his heart was enlisted in the sacred task.
In his desire to do something effective, Harvey was on the point of setting out again with his aeroplane and taking a course that would lead him over the cabin in the clearing. He wished to gain another view of it, and particularly of the child whose absence had plunged her parents in anguish more poignant than if they had looked upon her pale innocent face in death.
But the youth was impressed with the necessity of using the utmost care with every step he took. If he sailed over the cabin again, the fact was likely to be noticed by the men in the structure. If they had not already observed the aeroplane, they had learned of its flight from the chatter of the young captive, and should it return within a few hours would mean something out of the ordinary. It would cause a change of quarters at once and place the recovery of the child beyond attainment.
“There is only one safe thing for me to do,” was his decision; “I must take so roundabout course to Chesterton that no one in the cabin will know of it. I shall wait in the town till I can have a talk with Pendar. I have done all he asked of me and from this point forward, under heaven everything depends upon him.”
CHAPTER XXIII
THE CABIN IN THE WOODS
Twilight had come when Harvey Hamilton, with Bohunkus Johnson seated behind him, descended in the same spot in Chesterton that he had used upon his disastrous visit of the night before. A similar crowd greeted him, and he hired several of their number to drag the aeroplane to the primitive hangar in which the wrecked one had been sheltered.
He learned that Paul Mitchell had shipped the engine and other valuable parts to Garden City, while the shattered framework had been piled to one side to serve as kindling wood for the hotel. Thus vanished one aeroplane to be succeeded speedily by another. Harvey announced that he intended to stay until the morrow. He first engaged two reliable men, upon the recommendation of the landlord, to stay by the machine all night, with instructions to challenge any one who approached and to shoot if necessary.
“We’ll likely shoot first and challenge afterward,” remarked one with a grin; “I only hope the same fellow will try his hand on this that splintered t’other one.”
Nine guests were at supper, that being the name of the meal which was served at the close of the day. One of them was Simmons Pendar, who hardly glanced in the direction of Harvey Hamilton seated opposite. The youth made no attempt to catch his eye, though aware that the detective glanced at him several times. When certain the action would be observed, the young aviator committed a breach of decorum by deliberately scratching his head with one hand. While this was not the precise telegram that had been agreed upon the night before, it was sufficiently to the point, and Harvey was confident it had accomplished its purpose.
The two lads lingered at the table after Pendar and most of the others had left the dining hall. Then they strolled outside on the porch, where by that time the full moon was shining in an unclouded sky. The air was so balmy and soft that few lingered indoors. The gas had been lighted in the sitting-room to which Harvey sauntered, and mosquitoes and other insects hovered in the glare. Three men were seated in lounging positions, one smoking a cigarette, while the others nodded as if yielding to drowsiness. Harvey identified two as having been present when the bit of paper was flipped upon the pad he was using for his crude sketches. The three looked like drummers, but a couple were distinctively foreign in appearance. One had a black curled mustache, with eyes and hair of midnight hue, a second was almost as dark, while the third was an unmistakable blond. They appeared to be unacquainted with one another, but Harvey was almost certain that two if not the three were the men who were watching Pendar while he in turn was keeping them under scrutiny. The officer, however, was nowhere to be seen and the youth did not think it prudent to make any search for him.
“I think I’ll go to my room,” he remarked, rising to his feet with a yawn; “we have had a pretty strenuous day and shall want to leave early to-morrow.”
“All right,” grunted Bohunkus; “I feels sorter sleepy myself, and if dese blamed ’skeeters don’t lebe me alone I’ll tumble into bed likewise.”
As Harvey passed out of the door, he carelessly lifted his cap and scratched his head, thus making the full signal previously arranged. He still failed to see the detective and doubted whether he was near.
The youth did not light the gas in his room, though he lacked the pretext of wishing to keep out the insects, since each window was furnished with a screen. He sat down and listened.
Fifteen minutes later, without the slightest preliminary warning, a soft, almost inaudible tap sounded on the door. He drew it noiselessly inward, and recognized the form of Detective Pendar against the soft yellow background. Neither spoke at first. The caller shoved the door shut and with extreme care turned the key. Then he whispered:
“Let’s take the other side of the room.”
Carrying their chairs thither they placed them side by side. Enough illumination came through the transom for them dimly to discern each other.
“You caught on at the table?” remarked Harvey inquiringly.
“Of course; I noticed your signal, too, when you walked out of the sitting-room.”
“Where were you?”
“On the porch, with my eyes on you. I knew you wished to speak with me, but I preferred first to receive your notice.”
“I caught your wink to-day when about to start off with my new machine, but I couldn’t guess what you meant.”
“I meant nothing except to wish you good luck; of course I was aware what you had set out to do and I shall be glad to know what success you met.”
“Far better than I expected; I found the place.”
“You mean where the little girl is held a prisoner?”
“Yes.”
Harvey was surprised that the detective did not show excitement over the news. He remained cool and deliberate and spoke in low-toned words as before.
“Then you saw the child?”
“No, but I sailed over the house.”
“How do you know the child is there?”
“Bohunkus, my colored companion, saw her just after we had passed and waved his cap in reply to her salutation with her handkerchief.”
“Did he see any of the men?”
“No; they kept out of sight, at least so long as we could have seen them.”
“How did your boy describe the girl?”
“He didn’t describe her,” replied Harvey, a bit chagrined over the pointed questions, “except to say she was a little girl.”
“Didn’t tell how she was dressed or how old she appeared to be? The last might have been hard to answer, but he should have noticed her apparel.”
“Probably he did, but I did not think of asking him.”
“It was hardly necessary,” remarked the detective, as if regretting his incisive queries. “Now, if you will be good enough to locate the spot I shall be infinitely obliged.”
Harvey was able to do this with so much accuracy that his friend complimented him.
“You have done remarkably well; if we succeed in restoring the child to her parents, much of the credit will be due you. I know the exact spot and can go to it without trouble.”
“Will you do so?”
“I shall make the effort, but I am in a delicate situation. You noticed those three men in the sitting-room when you were there a little while ago. Two are members of the Black Hand and are acting as scouts.”
“I set down all three as being such.”
“The blond has nothing to do with the others. He is a genuine commercial traveler for a Philadelphia clothing house and will leave to-morrow. It is the others who belong to the worst gang in the country.”
“Do you think they have any suspicion of me?”
Detective Pendar chuckled softly.
“Why should they? You have not given the first cause.”
“But they suspect you?”
“I can say I have reason to hope not; I have behaved so well and sold so much hardware stuff in this town that they ought to believe I am what I pretend to be.”
“What further help can I give you, Mr. Pendar?”
“None, so far as I see at this moment. But you mustn’t minimize your share; the location of the prison is a great and invaluable exploit of itself.”
“What will you next do?”
“It is impossible to say, so much depends upon circumstances as they develop.”
This answer was so vague that it reminded Harvey he was asking questions which he had not the right to ask. The man before him was a professional detective, whose calling required him to be secretive. While such persons often reveal their secrets in stories, they are the last ones in the world to do so in real life.
“I need not remind you,” he continued, “not to drop a hint of these matters to your colored companion.”
“I shall not forget your warning on that point. He means well, but in some respects he is as stupid as a child of five years. What do you think?” asked Harvey with a light laugh, “he asked me to start with him and the aeroplane for Africa to call on his father, Chief Bohunkus Foozleum.”
“He may make the journey yet,” was the remarkable response of the detective.
“Do you think it possible?”
“Not yet, but it isn’t safe to declare anything impossible in our twentieth century. This navigation of the air will make miraculous advancements in the next ten years. Well,” abruptly added the caller, “if the coast is clear, I must bid you good night.”
“When shall I see you again?” asked Harvey.
“Will you return to Chesterton to-morrow?”
“Is it advisable?”
“I see no objection to your doing so. If you do, and I am here, we may signal each other as before. I’ll raise my hat and scratch my head as notice that I wish to have a talk with you in your room, and you will do the same with me if necessary. Please keep your seat.”
Harvey saw the dim figure move across the room like a shadow. Pendar waited two or three minutes with his hand on the knob, as if he had heard something, though the listening youth did not detect the slightest sound. Then the door opened as noiselessly as before and he vanished into the hall, leaving the same dead quiet behind him.
Harvey waited some time before preparing for bed. Then he gave expression to his impatience with himself:
“He got everything I knew about this business from me, and I didn’t worm a single fact from him. I meant to ask his opinion of the wrecking of my machine, how father learned so early of it, what course Pendar means to follow, and lots of other things, but I know no more than before he came into the room. There’s one thing certain, he understands his business through and through, and I don’t know the a-b-c of it.”
CHAPTER XXIV
ON THE TRAIL OF THE BLACK HANDERS
Simmons Pendar had the reputation of being one of the best officers in the detective service. Several of his exploits proved that he possessed a brilliant mind, was quick in reading the vaguest clues and marvelously successful in following them up. It is not my purpose to explain by what subtle means he convinced himself that the kidnappers of little Grace Hastings had their headquarters in the extensive wilderness to the westward of the country town of Chesterton. Had he confessed the truth he would have admitted that a trifling occurrence, one of those insignificant incidents which figure oftener than is believed in important matters, gave him the key. Being human like the rest of us, he made his mistakes now and then, but felt absolutely sure he had not blundered in the present instance.
Pendar shared his secret with no one. The surety of a magnificent money reward, the glory of succeeding where others of his profession had failed, and his deep sympathy with the victims of the unspeakable cruelty, inspired him to do everything in his power to right one of the most diabolical wrongs to which society has been forced to submit in these later days.
It may be said that the greatest difficulty of all confronted the detective when he had thus located the miscreants. The letters which they sent at intervals to the afflicted family were accompanied by terrifying threats and the demand for an increase of the ransom rose until it reached the stupendous total of fifty thousand dollars. To prevent the criminals from carrying out their threats of vengeance, cunning attempts were made to convince them that the father was doing all he could to comply with their terms. The difficulty of transferring so large a sum made the delay seem reasonable if not unavoidable. In one instance, a large package of genuine bills was placed where directed, but unfortunately for the success of the scheme two carefully disguised detectives were hidden in the vicinity. They were certain they had managed the affair so skilfully that they were not suspected, but the claimants did not go forward and a day later a letter reached Mr. Hastings telling him the trick had been detected and one more repetition of anything of that nature would close all dealings between them, with the certainty that they would never see their child again. A last chance was offered him. He was to place the money in large unmarked bills inside of a traveling bag and throw it off from the rear of the midnight train on a date named, two miles west of Chesterton, at a point indicated so clearly by a pile of towering rocks that no mistake could be made. A failure to comply with this proposal would end all dealings between the kidnappers and the parent.
The night fixed upon was the one succeeding the talk which Detective Pendar held with Harvey Hamilton as related in the preceding chapter. Thus the crisis was at hand, – so near indeed that Pendar had with him the bag and its enormously valuable contents, prepared to carry out, if it could not be avoided, the plan of the miscreants. He had promised that if success was not reached by him before the hour set, he would throw off the money at the point named. Mr. Hastings assured him that if he did not make such a pledge, he himself would do so. He could not suffer the torture any longer, and his wife was already at death’s door under the pressure of the grief that was crushing her to the dust.
These frightful letters were mailed from different points, the first reaching the family from a substation in Philadelphia. The last was postmarked at Chesterton, as if the senders wished it to be known they were near the spot where the deal was to be consummated.
A test of Detective Pendar’s acumen came in the same hour that he reached the town on the train. At the hotel he quickly fixed upon the two Italians who were registered under the names of Amasi Catozzi and Giuseppe Caprioni, and who spent most of their time in smoking cigarettes and lounging in the sitting-room or on the front porch. Pendar, as has been stated, assumed the character of a commercial traveler for a hardware house, and with no unnecessary delay entered energetically upon his duties. Like a true artist he did not over-do his part, and it is no small proof of his ability to say that he succeeded where almost any other one would have failed. The alert Italians agreed that he was what he represented himself to be, though they by no means relaxed their vigilance.
A point had been reached in the delicate business where a mistake was certain to be fatal. The detective must succeed or fail disastrously. Convinced that the child was held at some point in the adjoining forest, she must be rescued, if rescued at all, by a rush, – a charge, as might be said, that would scatter the wretches in such headlong flight as to compel them to abandon their little prisoner, whom they would not be likely to harm, since their own peril would be increased thereby.
It will be seen, however, that to carry out this coup, the officer must know the exact spot to assail. He could not spend hours in groping through the wood in search of the place, with the certain result that the abductors would take alarm and carry their captive to a secure refuge.
Such was the situation when the arrival of Harvey Hamilton in his aeroplane gave an unexpected turn to affairs. The plan of an aerial hunt for the kidnappers had never occurred to the detective until it forced itself upon him. Here was the means thrust into his hands, and it has been shown how he turned it to account, or, more properly, how he tried to turn it to account, for its success was alarmingly problematical.
The bag with its treasure was deposited in the big safe at the hotel, no one suspecting its contents. Before this time Pendar had reached the pleasing certainty that the two Italians felt no suspicion of him. When he strolled down the long, broad street, smoking a cigar, and now and then halting to look into the store windows, neither of the men shadowed him, as they had done earlier in his visit to Chesterton. The couple were warranted in believing that since Mr. Pendar was all he claimed to be and there were no other suspicious characters in town, they had nothing to fear, the game was still their own.
Thus matters stood when the detective reached the end of the street, and still leisurely walking, passed into the open country. It will be remembered that the moon was near its full and the sky was still unclouded. It was all-important at this point that the kidnappers should not have their attention drawn to him. A scrutiny of the road to the rear removed all doubt on that point.
“It was a pretty hard job,” he reflected, “but I have thrown them off the scent and that’s a big thing at this stage of the game.”
He had passed over the road several times in a carriage on business trips to nearby towns, and was familiar with the forest as viewed from the highway. He knew the precise spot where a path turned in among the trees, which presumably led to the cabin where Bohunkus Johnson had seen the little girl.
Under the shadow of the foliage at the roadside, Pendar stood for fifteen minutes scrutinizing every point in his field of vision. His heart gave a quicker throb when, while looking in the opposite direction from the town, he discerned the dim outlines of a man coming toward him. Pendar whisked back among the shadows, where he could not be seen by the individual approaching.
Whether he was Catozzi or Caprioni remained to be learned. If either of them, the meaning was sinister. From his concealment the watcher observed that the stranger was smoking a pipe. Moreover, he was bulky of frame, stooped with age and had a slouching gait. All this might have been assumed by a young man, but he would fling aside such disguises when believing he was under the eye of no one.
The man passed within ten feet of where Pendar stood behind the trunk of a maple, and in the vivid moonlight the watcher plainly saw the other’s profile. The snub nose and retreating chin could not belong to either of the Italians, and this being the fact, the detective had no cause to give the stranger further thought.
The point at which Pendar had stopped was where the path turned into the wood. As nearly as he could judge from the account of Harvey Hamilton, he had about a mile to walk in order to reach the headquarters of the kidnappers, though if the path were winding in its course the distance might be greater. He set out without delay.
It being the summer time, the foliage excluded most of the moonlight and his journey was mainly in darkness, relieved at intervals by spaces where the moonbeams partly penetrated. Even with such occasional help, his progress would have been difficult had he not possessed the skill of an American Indian in threading his way through a trackless forest. No one was ever gifted with keener eyesight or hearing, and he used the two senses to the utmost. He was liable to meet a stranger or to be shadowed by someone. Thus the front and rear had to be guarded. Above all things, he must avoid being discovered while traversing the path, where for most of the way he had to depend upon his sense of feeling. No stronger proof of his subtle woodcraft could be asked than the fact that he never once strayed from his course. He could not have advanced more smoothly had the sun been shining.
While doing this it was his practice to stop at intervals and listen. He reasoned that if some one was approaching from the front, he would not use the extreme caution of an enemy who was following him, for the latter would know of his presence, while an individual coming toward him would not.
The detective had traversed one-half the distance, when in the moonlight he saw a small stream, not more than a rivulet in fact, which wound across the path from the trees on the left and disappeared among those on the right. It was at the bottom of a slight declivity, where a small area was shown in the moonlight. He reflected that if anyone was near, he would see him as he crossed the illuminated space. This could be averted by turning into the wood on either hand, but listening revealed nothing except the faint rustling of the night breeze among the branches. With little hesitation, therefore, he leaped lightly across, hurried up the gentle slope and plunged into the gloom on the other side.
He had gone less than a dozen rods when he abruptly paused, turned his head and listened intently. A minute or two were enough.
