Sound of the Trumpet

by Grace Livingston Hill

  Thoroughly scared, with white face and trembling hands, Victor went out, wishing there were some other exit through which he might vanish until this man from Washington was gone. What was coming now? And wouldn’t his father come to the rescue if they began charging him for any connection with this robbery?

  Of course, he didn’t know anything about it, and, of course, his father must know he didn’t. It was likely some of his own pet workmen, fellows too old to really work, who wanted to feather their nests. Or more likely still, foreigners who were somehow connected with the enemy. He had told his father he ought to get rid of all foreigners, just in case.

  With this reflection, he stepped into the little waiting room designated and met the eagle eye of the government detective, and so his grilling began.

  Victor put on his most arrogant air and endeavored to awe the government detective with a good dose of the lofty Vandingham manner, but the keen eyes did not flinch, the hard line of the man’s mouth did not soften. He was definitely unfriendly and unbelieving. And Victor, mindful of his father’s warning about a Dictaphone, and extremely conscious of the unbelieving attitude of his tormentor, had a hard time. He emerged from that interview minus most of his dignity, and certainly not any further from the doubts of his examiner. It was perhaps the first time that Victor had ever been up against any person who utterly frightened him. At school when the professors had been strict, he always had recourse to complaining to his family and having himself removed from school. This had been extremely successful during his childhood days when his mother was the arbiter of his fate. Later, in college, there had been other ways to manage. His father would promise a big donation for a new building or something of that sort if they didn’t anger him by complaints of his son. Of course, not every college was open to such bribery, but most of them could be managed along such lines and be made to forget their grievances at himself. But this was the government, and this would be law, and he must go cautiously. So he stumbled along from question to question until he got himself pretty well tangled up, and if his father had been present, even he would have felt sorry for the boy who had always been so hard to manage.

  He found himself, too, having to defend Erda. Not because he wanted to, but because if he did not he would have the worse to blame for letting her go so inconsequentially. In fact, he found they were suggesting that he had been in collusion with his secretary in pulling off this miserable robbery, and once more its importance in the whole scheme of American life just now became apparent to him, until he was appalled.

  His mother had never seen such a look of soberness in her son’s eyes when he finally came home to get a little rest and some food. She piled him with questions which he would not answer and with food he would not eat, and then she wept until he cursed her and locked his door.

  It was about that time that word came to the plant that a dead man had been found under the outer wall, in the dark of the railroad bridge. And when at last he was identified, he turned out to be one of the workers at the plant. Then they sent for Victor again for more questions, as he was supposed to be in charge of the men who worked that location. They wanted to know when this man was last seen, whether he had permission to leave the plant, who would be responsible for him, and Victor had nothing to say except that he was away that day and didn’t know. He named the man whom he had put in charge, but it turned out that the man had been discharged by his father the week before and had not been around the place since. It was said he had joined the army and been sent to camp. That proved that Victor had been doing some pretty crooked lying. He tried to excuse himself by saying that his secretary looked after such matters for him, but that too seemed an obvious lie, as Erda had been in New York that day, if his former statements were correct, and the evidence loomed against him. He was not arrested, but he was told to keep within certain limits and be ready to answer a call at any time.

  Victor would have been still more frantic if he could have known that the dead man was the one who had been rounding a corner of the wall, next to the railroad, as Erda had come forth from the gate with her booty. It had been but the work of an instant flash for the small weapon she had carried concealed in her sleeve to do in the man whom she had feared might have seen her at this minute when she thought she was safe. It had passed with Erda as one incident of many, and she hurried on as he fell, knowing only that he had not followed her as she fled to Weaver’s rendezvous. Erda had had much practice in shooting and never did her work halfway. And the dead man told no tales.

  But the men who were watching everything had seen that startled look in Victor’s eyes, that catching of his breath when he heard about the dead man, and put one more link in the chain of evidence against him, and so, as murder entered the picture, the chain began to tighten about Victor himself. Oh, if only Erda would come back! If only he could find her!

  So he put a private detective on her track. But the days went by and there was no sign of her.

  Then suddenly she called up and said the funeral was over and she would be returning the next day. Victor, breathless, tried to warn her what had happened, and then thought just in time that perhaps she wouldn’t come back if she knew her danger. So he hesitated, and then went on, only imploring her to come quickly, that there were some important letters to write and he needed her. He added a question. “Where are you, Erda? How can I get in touch with you tonight in case I need to ask you a question?”

  But Erda had hung up.

  Chapter 17

  Because the government was in charge, there had been no publicity so far concerning the robbery at the plant, and the Vandinghams were not as yet in the public eye. Even Mrs. Vandingham did not know to a great extent all that happened. Her husband had learned long ago that anything told in his home would no longer remain a secret. And Victor, though he was not as closemouthed as his father, at least not for the same reason, realized that if he wished to keep his mother on his side, he must not let her know what was going on. Their only great difference of opinion was about Erda. She did object to Erda, and Victor no longer desired to hear the subject of his chosen secretary discussed. If his mother knew what was being said about Erda by his father and the detectives and others at the plant, she would be quick to remind him that she had “told him so.” So he did not tell her of the trouble at the plant, and she went serenely on, trying to plan great things for his future and hoping someday to be able to bring him and Lisle Kingsley together again. That was her great desire. She liked Lisle and thought her the most fitting person to be her son’s wife. And in that thought, her plans fitted nicely with those of her son. Of course, as she knew nothing yet of what had passed between Victor and Lisle so far, she was not utterly hopeless. Lisle would come round pretty soon, and smile as sweetly as ever at her old playmate, when she saw what a great man Victor had become. And when, somehow, they could get rid of that little viper of an Erda, whom she blamed for every indiscretion and mistake her son had made.

  And so the excitement went on quietly, with not even the press getting hold of a hint of it.

  It was just at that stage of affairs that Erda, in a becoming and very smart black suit, arrived at her job one morning, becomingly tearful and pensive at the death of her dearest friend, and eagerly ready to enter upon her duties.

  She had not been very open with the other women in the office, or else they would have approached her about the recent happenings while she had been absent. They just bowed distantly and eyed her with scared looks, for there had been many wonderings among them just what was going to happen to Erda, and they were somewhat reassured that she had returned so apparently normal and in good form. There had been whisperings that she might have been connected with the disappearance of the precious gadget. But now she was back, apparently unafraid, and it seemed hardly likely that she was the thief.

  She tried to march into Victor’s office and take her former place, but she found the door locked, and her key did not seem to unlock it. Upon questioning, she w
as told that there had been changes made during her absence and that Victor’s former room was closed for the time. She would have to take one of the empty desks in the main room until Mr. Vandingham Senior arrived.

  Erda had not reckoned on anything as drastic as this happening and began to wonder if it wouldn’t have been better to disappear from the picture entirely, rather than to return and hope to bluff her way through it. But she was here now. It was too late. And of course it was better to allay any suspicion that might arise either now or later, so she settled down cheerily, took off her wraps, put them in the cloakroom, took out a paper she had bought on the way from the station, and prepared to wait.

  Soon, however, an office boy came to bring a message for her. Mr. Vandingham Senior would like her to come to his office.

  In some trepidation, Erda went. She had been through many alarming experiences in her daring young life, and she wasn’t sure what she feared just now, certainly not detection. For whatever happened, she had done the thing she had come there to do. It might cost her the loss of her job, but there were other jobs, and of course she was not working for the Vandinghams. But where was Victor, and what attitude would he have toward her? If she could only speak to Victor first, she was confident that she could put up a good story. She could make him understand how sad she had been at losing her friend and what a frightful time she had been through. She could excuse herself for her so-long absence. But the older Vandingham was an unknown quantity, one that she did not particularly admire. He was grave and stern. He had not warmed to her beauty nor her coquetry. Could she in any way get into his good graces? She tapped at the door of his office, and in response to his crisp “Come,” she entered.

  He was not alone. The detective from Washington was there, too, had in fact been waiting for her ever since his men had, by process of elimination, found out where she’d been in New York. They had trailed her down on the train and kept the office in constant touch with the situation. Erda had not dreamed that such careful detection could be found anywhere on this side of the ocean, therefore she felt no alarm as she entered coolly, smiled a good morning in a grave sweet way to Mr. Vandingham, and said cheerfully, “You’ve been making some changes in the office, Mr. Vandingham!”

  The head of the plant bowed gravely.

  “Yes, Miss Brannon. And now, will you sit down? This is Lieutenant Armes of the war department in Washington, and he wishes to ask you a few questions.”

  Then began a grilling for two hours, which was worse than anything Erda had dreamed could possibly come to her, in this country, certainly. Not after all her experience and training.

  “Where were you on the afternoon of Thursday, five days ago, Miss Brannon? What train did you take to New York? Where did you buy your ticket? Had you reservations on that train? At what hour did you receive the telegram which you say was the cause of your journey?”

  Every step of the way, moment by moment, through the hours of each day and night since she had started on this fateful escapade.

  She was quick-brained, and for the most part she answered coolly enough through the routine of the first questions. She was even able to keep a quiet bearing and control any tendency to tremble when the lieutenant sprang sudden surprises on her and watched her sharply. Though she was the more conscious of the elderly Vandingham, who kept his solemn eyes upon her every instant.

  “Are you accustomed to using firearms?” The question came out of the blue.

  “Firearms?” said Erda sweetly, with a girlish shiver. “Oh, dear no! I’m just terribly afraid of a gun. It almost throws me into hysterics to see one shot off!”

  “Hm!” said the lieutenant. “I would not have judged that you would have that sort of reaction.”

  “No,” agreed the older man. “No, I certainly would not.”

  Erda gave him a quick glance and was not quite sure whether he had more in his voice than appeared on the surface or not.

  There were some more questions asked, common-place enough themselves, and then the lieutenant aimed another.

  “Were you well acquainted with the workman who was shot that night?”

  “Shot?” said Erda, lifting a face suddenly white with startled astonishment. “Was there a man shot? One of the workmen, you say? I wouldn’t know. I have been in New York, you know. What was his name?”

  On and on the questions went, sometimes seeming to get near to the thread of a story and then veering off to the commonplace of times and places and dates. What were her habits of entertainment? Where did she spend her evenings? What clubs and night life was she fond of attending? Then back again to the line of the story. Not a word about the lost gadget! Hadn’t it been missed yet? Surely it wouldn’t have been so long before they found it was gone. Sometimes she almost began to hope that this questioning had nothing to do with the loss of the gadget and blueprints. Then would come another question.

  “Has Mr. Vandingham ever taken you into the buildings of the plant?”

  “Oh no,” she answered promptly. “You know the office staff are not supposed to know anything about what goes on inside those sacred areas. They are the government’s secrets, of course. My work has been mainly matters of finance, records of workers, orders for material, that sort of thing.”

  “Then you have never been inside Building A in the plant? You would not know where the different machines were placed?”

  “Oh no, of course not,” said Erda sweetly, although she grew restless under the sharp eyes that were watching her.

  “And you knew the man who was shot quite well, did you not?” went on the relentless voice.

  Erda paled visibly.

  “I? Why no, I didn’t know any of the workmen, of course, although they were always polite and pleasant to me, and I usually smiled and nodded good morning to them if we happened to pass. But no, I do not know who was shot. What was his name?”

  “It is immaterial. I thought I understood you to say that you knew him. How often have you been at the plant at night? Has Mr. Vandingham Junior been in the habit of bringing you to the office at night?”

  “Oh no,” said Erda, coolly again. “Just twice, when there were important letters to go out by the midnight mail, something about ordering steel that would be needed the next morning early.”

  Oh, Erda was clever. She skirted around those questions as one who knew her way about anywhere. And then, just as she thought he had reached the end of his long list of questions and was turning over another piece of paper, he lifted his eyes and asked, “How long have you been in the habit of carrying concealed weapons?”

  Erda almost startled then, but she managed a pretty well-feigned stare and answered, “Concealed weapons? Me carry concealed weapons? I thought I just told you how frightened I am of them.”

  Then suddenly she turned to Mr. Vandingham with a weary appeal in her eyes.

  “What is the meaning of all this questioning, Mr. Vandingham, please? And why have they selected me to grill this way? I am really very tired. I’ve traveled all night and have been through a most trying experience, seeing my dearest friend die and attending her funeral. I do wish you would excuse me from further questioning. I can’t understand what it is all about. I didn’t know a man was dead, and I didn’t know the man. What should all this have to do with me?”

  The detective looked her straight in the eye.

  “Miss Brannon, in case you don’t know the situation, some important documents have been stolen from this plant, and Washington is interested to question all the employees. That will be all this time. You will please stay within call.” And he bowed her out.

  Erda went back to the desk where she had been parked earlier that morning and tried to think what she should do next. If it was at all possible, she would like to get in touch with Weaver. Perhaps he would want her to vanish. But there was no opportunity at present to go to the telephone without attracting attention, and she had sense enough to know that her strongest action would be to sit quietly and wait, as if not
hing had disturbed her. At least she would have plenty of opportunity to observe what went on about her and that would be something to report. If only Victor would come, she might be able to find out something. But Victor did not appear, and the morning went on quietly. The old, trusted girls who usually worked in the outer room were going on about their business, typing and filing and addressing envelopes. The office of the young vice president was not open. No one seemed to be going that way. She wondered if Victor might be in there. If only his father and that detective would go away, she would get up and try the door. Perhaps when most of the girls went out to lunch she could venture to do it. But the day wore on very slowly. Then at last she was sent for once more to go to Mr. Vandingham’s office, and again under the same keen observation, she went through much the same grilling as before, only this time the questions were a little more bluntly phrased, a trifle more astonishing, to catch her off guard.

  But through it all nothing was said about the gadget, which she supposed was the most important issue of the whole situation. Could it be that somehow she had not gotten the right item? She had been so sure. She had heard so much about the thing from Victor and workmen who occasionally came into his office. Or hadn’t they discovered the loss of the thing? Didn’t it mean much to them? Perhaps there was a flaw in it, or perhaps it had just been left there as a decoy.

  Over and over again she reviewed the circumstances of the night that she stole through the dim building behind the machines. What the men had called to one another. Hadn’t she gotten the right thing? Would Weaver be satisfied? Oh, if she could only get into contact with him right away. Perhaps she ought to say she was sick and wanted to go to her office. Would they let her go? Why hadn’t they said something about it? “Documents,” they’d said. That would be the blueprints, of course. But here they were, just harping on the dead man. Just a dead workman. What was that to make such a fuss about? In the land where she was trained, she had been taught that when you died you died, and it was in a way the end and aim of life, to have done the best to further a cause and die doing it. But here they were acting as if this mere workman were important. They would never find out that she had shot him. She hadn’t thought she’d killed him—she assumed she’d just scratched him, or made him faint perhaps. She hadn’t bothered to look behind to see what happened to the man. She had been too afraid he might cry out and maybe someone would come who would recognize her. And now she was glad he was gone. He, at least, could not rise up and testify against her. She had shot people before, in another land, and even been commended for it, so she was not particularly worried. But they had no evidence to prove she had fired that shot.