by Sax Rohmer
For one fleeting moment a haunted look came into the abbot’s eyes. A furtive memory had presented itself, only to elude him.
“None,” he replied wearily; “but his following to-day is greater than mine. Just as a priest and with no personal pretensions, I have tried—God knows I have tried—to keep the people sane and clean. Machinery has made men mad. As machines reach nearer and nearer to the province of miracles, as Science mounts higher and higher—so Man sinks lower and lower. On the day that Machinery reaches up to the stars, Man, spiritually, will have sunk back to the primeval jungle.”
He dropped into his chair.
Smith, resting a lean, nervous hand upon the desk, leaned across it, staring into the speaker’s face.
“Harvey Bragg is a true product of his age,” he said tensely—”and he is backed by one man! I have followed this man from Europe to Asia, from Asia to South America, from South to North. The resources of three European Powers and of the United States have been employed to head that man off. But he is here! In the political disruption of the country he sees his supreme opportunity.”
“His name, Mr. Smith?”
“In your own interests, Father, I suggest it might be better that you don’t know—yet.”
Abbot Donegal challenged the steely eyes, read sincerity there, and nodded.”
“I accept your suggestion, Mr. Smith. In the Church we are trained to recognize tacit understandings. You are not a private investigator instructed by the President, nor is ‘Mr. Smith’ your proper title. But I think we understand one another. . . . And you tell me that this man, whoever he may be, is backing Harvey Bragg?”
“I have only one thing to tell you: Stay up here at the top of your tower until you hear from me!”
“Remain a prisoner?”
Patrick Donegal stood up, suddenly aggressive, truculent.
“A prisoner, yes. I speak, Father, with respect and authority”
“You may speak, Mr. Smith, with the authority of Congress, of the President in person, but my first duty is to God; my second to the State. I take the eight o’clock Mass in the morning.”
For a moment their glances met and challenged; then:
“There may be times, Father, when you have a duty even higher than this,” said Smith crisply.
“You cannot induce me, my friend, to close my eyes to a plain obligation. I do not doubt your sincerity. I have never met a man more honest or more capable. I cannot doubt my own danger. But in this matter I have made my choice.”
For a moment longer Federal Agent 56 stared at the priest, his lean face very grim. Then, suddenly stooping, he picked up his leather topcoat and his hat from the floor and shot out his hand.
“Good night, Father Abbot,” he snapped. “Don’t ring. I should like to walk down, although that will take some time. Since you refuse my advice, I leave you in good hands.”
“In the hands of God, Mr. Smith, as we all are.”
Outside on the street, beyond the great bronze door with its figure of the thorn-tortured head, King Blizzard held high revel. Snow was spat into the suffering face when the door was opened, as though powers of evil ruled that night, pouring contumely, contempt, upon the gentle Teacher. Captain Mark Hepburn, U.S.M.C, was standing there. He had one glimpse of the olive face of James Richet, who ushered the visitors out, heard his silky “Good night, Mr. Smith”; then the bronze door was closed, and the wind shrieked in mocking laughter around the Tower of the Holy Thorn.
Dimly through the spate of snow watchful men might be seen.
“Listen, Hepburn,” snapped Smith, “get this address:
Weaver’s Farm, Winton, Connecticut. Phone that Dr. Orwin Prescott is not to step outside for one moment until I arrive. Arrange that we get there—fast. Have the place protected. Flying hopeless to-night. Special train to Cleveland. Side anything in our way. Have a plane standing by. Advise the pilot to look up emergency landings within easy radius of Weaver’s Farm. If blizzard continues, arrange for special to run through to Buffalo. Advise Buffalo.”
“Leave it to me.”
“Cover the man James Richet. I want hourly reports sent to headquarters. This priest’s life is valuable. See that he’s protected day and night. Have this place covered from now on. Grab anybody—anybody—that comes out to-night.”
“And where are you going, Chief?”
“I am going to glance over Dom Patrick’s home quarters. Meet me at the station. . . .”
Chapter 4
MRS. ADAIR
Mark Hepburn drove back through a rising blizzard. The powers of his newly accredited chief, known to him simply as “Federal Agent 56,” were peculiarly impressive.
Arrangements—”by order of Federal Agent 56”—had been made without a hitch. These had included sidetracking the Twentieth Century Limited and the dispatch of an army plane from Dayton to meet the special train.
Dimly he realized that issues greater than the fate of the Presidency were involved. This strange, imperious man, with his irritable, snappy manner, did not come under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Department of Justice; he was not even an American citizen. Yet he was highly empowered by the government. In some way the thing was international. Also, Hepburn liked and respected Federal Agent 56.
And the affection of Mark Hepburn was a thing hard to win. Three generations of Quaker ancestors form a stiff background; and not even a poetic strain which Mark had inherited from a half-Celtic mother could enable him to forget it. His only rebellion—a slender volume of verse in the university days, “Green Lilies”—he had lived to repent. Medicine had called him (he was by nature a healer); then army work, with its promise of fresh fields; and now, the Secret Service, where in this crisis he knew he could be of use.
For in the bitter campaign to secure control of the country there had been more than one case of poisoning; and toxicology was Mark Hepburn’s special province. Furthermore, his military experience made him valuable.
Around the Tower of the Holy Thorn the blizzard wrapped itself like a shroud. Only the windows at the very top showed any light. The tortured bronze door remained closed.
Stayton stepped forward out of a white mist as Hepburn sprang from his car.
“Anything to report, Stayton? I have only ten minutes.”
“Not a soul has come out, Captain, and there doesn’t seem to be anybody about in the neighbourhood.”
“Good enough. You will be relieved at daylight. Make your own arrangements.”
Hepburn moved off into the storm. Something in the wild howling of the wind, some message reaching him perhaps from those lighted windows at the top of the tower, seemed to be prompting his subconscious mind. He had done his job beyond reproach. Nevertheless, all was not well.
One foot on the running board of the car, he paused, staring up to where that high light glimmered through snow. He turned back and walked in the direction of the tower. Almost immediately he was challenged by a watchful agent, was recognized, and passed on. He found himself beside a wall of the building remote from the bronze door. Here there was no exit and he went unchallenged. He stood still, staring about him, his fur coat-collar turned up about his ears, the wind frolicking with his untidy wet black hair.
A slight sound came, only just audible above the shrieking of the blizzard, the opening of a window . . . . He crouched close against the wall.
“All clear. Good luck. . . .”
James Richet!
Then someone dropped, falling lightly in the snow almost beside him. The window closed. Hepburn reached out a long sinewy arm, grabbed and held his captive . . . and found himself looking down into the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen!
His prisoner was a girl, little above medium height, but slender, so that she appeared much taller. She was muffled up in a mink coat as a protection against that fierce wind; a Basque beret was crushed down upon curls which reminded him of polished mahogany. A leather satchel hung from one wrist, and she was so terrified that Hepburn could feel h
er heart beating as he held her in his bear-like grip.
He realized that he was staring dumbly into those uplifted deep-blue eyes, that he was wondering if he had ever seen such long, curling lashes . . . when duty, duty—that slogan of Quaker ancestors—called him sharply. He slightly relaxed his hold, but offered no chance of escape.
“I see,” he said, and his dry, rather toneless voice revealed no emotion whatever. “This is interesting. Who are you and where are you going?”
His tones were coldly remorseless. His arm was like a band of steel. Rebellion died and fear grew in the captive. Now she was trembling. But he was forced to admire her courage, for when she replied she looked at him unflinchingly.
“My name is Adair—Mrs. Adair—and I belong to the staff of the Abbot Donegal. I have been working late, and although I know there is some absurd order for no one to leave, I simply must go. It’s ridiculous, and I won’t submit to it. I insist upon being allowed to go home.”
“Where is your home?”
“That can be no business of yours!” flared the prisoner, her eyes now flashing furiously. “If you like, call the abbot. He will vouch for what I say.”
Mark Hepburn’s square chin protruded from the upturned collar of his coat; his deep-set eyes never faltered in their regard.
“That can come later if necessary,” he said; “but first——”
“But first, I shall freeze to death,” said the girl indignantly.
“But first, what have you got in the satchel?”
“Private papers of Abbot Donegal’s. I am working on them at home.”
“In that case, give them to me.”
“I won’t! You have no right whatever to interfere with me. I have asked you to get in touch with the abbot.”
Without relaxing his grip on his prisoner, Hepburn suddenly snatched the satchel, pulling the loop down over her little gloved hand and thrusting the satchel under his arm.
“I don’t want to be harsh,” he said, “but my job at the moment is more important than yours. This will be returned to you in an hour or less. Lieutenant Johnson will drive you home.”
He began to lead her towards the spot where he knew the Secret Service cars were parked. He had determined to raise a minor hell with the said Lieutenant Johnson for omitting to post a man at this point, for as chief of staff to Federal Agent 56 he was personally responsible. He was by no means sure of himself. The girl embraced by his arm was the first really disturbing element which had ever crashed into his Puritan life; she was too lovely to be real: the teaching of long-ago ancestors prompted that she was an instrument of the devil.
Reluctantly she submitted; for ten, twelve, fifteen paces. Then suddenly resisted, dragging at his arm.
“Please, please for God’s sake, listen to me!”
He pulled up. They were alone in that blinding blizzard, although ten or twelve men were posted at points around the Tower of the Holy Thorn. A freak of the storm cast an awning of snow from the lighted windows, down to the spot upon which they stood, and in that dim reflected light Mark Hepburn saw the bewitching face uplifted to him.
She was smiling, this Mrs. Adair who belonged to Abbot Donegal’s staff; a tremulous, pathetic smile, a smile which in happier hours had been one of exquisite but surely innocent coquetry. Now it told of bravely hidden tears.
Despite all his stoicism, Mark Hepburn’s heart pulsed more rapidly. Some men, he thought, many, maybe, had worshipped those lips, dreamed of that beckoning smile . . . perhaps lost everything for it.
This woman was a revelation; to Mark Hepburn, a discovery. He was suspicious of the Irish. For this reason he had never wholly believed in the sincerity of Patrick Donegal. And Mrs. Adair was enveloped in that mystical halo which haunts yet protects the Celts. He did not believe in this mysticism, but he was not immune from its insidious charm. He hated hurting her, he found himself thinking of her as a beautiful, helpless moth torn by the wind from some green dell where fairies still hid in the bushes and the four-leaved shamrock grew.
He felt suddenly glad about, and not ashamed of, “Green Lilies”. Mrs. Adair, for one magical moment, had enabled him to recapture that long-lost mood. It was very odd, out there in the blizzard, with his radical distrust of pretty women and of all that belonged to Rome. . . .
It was this last thought—Rome—that steadied him. Here was some black plot against the Constitution. . . .
“I don’t ask you, I entreat you to give me my papers and let me go my own way. I promise, faithfully, if you will tell me where to find you, that I will see you to-morrow and explain anything you want to know.”
Hepburn did not look at her. His Quaker ancestors rallied around him. He squared his grim jaw.
“Lieutenant Johnson will drive you home,” he said coldly, “and will bring you your satchel immediately I am satisfied that its contents are what you say they are.”
In the amber-lighted room, where the man with that wonderful mathematical brow sat at work upon the bust of a sinister Chinaman, one of the seven telephones buzzed. He laid down the modelling tool with which he had been working and took up the instrument. He listened.
“This is Number 12,” said a woman’s voice, “speaking from Base 8. In accordance with orders I managed to escape from the Tower of the Holy Thorn. Unfortunately I was captured by a federal agent—name unknown—at the moment that I reached the ground. I was taken under escort of a Lieutenant Johnson towards an address which I invented at random. A Z-car was covering me. Heavy snow gave me a chance. I managed to spring out and get to the Z-car. I regret that the federal agent secured the satchel containing the manuscript. There’s nothing more to report. Standing by here awaiting orders.”
The sculptor replaced the receiver and resumed his task. Twice again he was interrupted, listening to a report from California and to another from New York. He made no notes. He never replied. He merely went on with his seemingless endless task; for he was eternally smearing out the work which he had done, now an ear, now a curve of the brow, and patiently remodelling.
A bell rang, the light went out, and in the darkness that unforgettable, guttural voice spoke:
“Give me the latest report of Harvey Bragg’s reception at the Hollywood Bowl.”
“Last report received,” the Teutonic voice replied, and a cigarette glowed in the darkness, “one hour and seventeen minutes ago. Pacific Coast time: twelve minutes after ten. Audience of twenty thousand people, as earlier reported. Harvey Bragg’s slogan, ‘America for every man—every man for America’was received without enthusiasm. His assurance, hitherto substantiated, that any reputable citizen who is destitute has only to apply to his office to secure immediate employment, went well. Report of end of speech not yet to hand. No other news from Hollywood Bowl. Report sent in by Number 49.”
A moment of silence followed, silence so complete that the crackling of burning tobacco in an Egyptian cigarette might have been heard.
“The report of Number 12—” he glanced at an electric clock upon the table—”at 2.05 a.m.”
“Whereupon, word for word, this man of phenomenal memory repeated the message received from Base 8 exactly as it had been delivered.
A dim bell rang and the room became lighted again. The sculptor picked up a modelling tool.
Chapter 5
THE SPECIAL TRAIN
The special train bored its way through mists of snow.
“They won’t attempt to wreck us, Hepburn!” Federal Officer 56 smiled grimly and tapped the satchel which had belonged to Mrs. Adair. “This is our safeguard. But there may be an attempt of some other kind.”
In the solitary car Smith sat facing Hepburn. Seven of the party which had taken command of the Tower of the Holy Thorn were distributed in chairs about them. Some smoked and were silent; others talked; others again neither smoked nor talked, but glanced furtively in the direction of Captain Hepburn and his mysterious superior.
“You have done a first-class job, Hepburn,” said Smith. “
I tricked the man Richet (who is some kind of half-caste) into an admission that this”—he tapped the satchel—”was material supplied by Dr. Prescott.”
“I ordered Richet’s arrest before I left.”
“Good man.”
The train roared through the night and Smith leaned forward, resting his hand upon Hepburn’s shoulder.
“The enemy knows that Dr. Prescott has found out the truth! How Dr. Prescott found out we have got to learn. Clearly he is a brilliant man. I’m afraid, Hepburn—I am afraid—”
He gripped Hepburn’s shoulder and his grip was like that of a vice.
“You have read this thing . . . and the part which is in Father Donegal’s handwriting tells the story. How he was prevented from broadcasting that story I begin to suspect. Note this particularly, Hepburn: I observed that Dom Patrick, when looking over the typescript brought in by James Richet, moistened the tip of his thumb in turning over the pages. A habit. The point seems significant?”
“Not to me,” Hepburn confessed, staring rather haggardly at the speaker.
“Ah! Think it over,” said Smith; then: “I know why you are downcast. You lost the woman—but you got what we were really looking for. Here’s the story of an outside organization aiming to secure control of the country. Don’t worry about Mrs. Adair; it’s only a question of time. We’ll get her.” , Mark Hepburn turned his head aside.
The contents of the satchel had proved to be the completed text of Abbot Donegal’s address, the last five pages revealed a plot which, if carried out, would place the United States under the domination of some shadowy being, unnamed, who apparently controlled inexhaustible supplies not only of capital but of men!
Following this revelation, his new chief, “Federal Officer 56,” had given him his entire confidence. He had suspected, but now he knew, that a world drama was being fought out in the United States. A simple soul at heart, he was temporarily dazzled by recognition of the fact that he had been appointed chief of the staff in an international crisis to Sir Denis Nayland Smith, Ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard, created a baronet for his services not only to the British Empire but to the world.
