“We did, chief. We shot the dame through the heart and left Turner to take the rap. It’s up to you now. You can stick a murder rap on him if you want. If you want me I’m at Toni’s Café.”
Kronheim smiled. “Remind me to give you a bonus, Joe. Good night.”
*
The machinations of Kronheim thereafter were far-reaching. Val, for reasons best known to himself, refused to say anything in his own defence. His lawyer talked himself hoarse, using what evidence he could find. Most of it had been supplied by Val’s wife—and the extraordinary thing was that Rita Turner was partly successful in her fight against the colossus. At least she found enough to make portions of the charge against Val seem doubtful. He escaped the chair and was commuted to a life sentence.
It seemed to him that the world had crashed in ruins. He remembered his wife’s brave, tear-streaked face in the courtroom, then he found it replaced by the inflexible visages of wardens. Alcatraz, grey and inexorable, filled the future.
To Kronheim the verdict caused some irritation, nor was he backward at saying so.
“Turner is out of the way behind prison walls, yes, where he can’t prove anything,” he said bitterly. “But he isn’t dead! And as long as he lives there is always the slender chance that he may escape. And if he does…”
“He’ll give you what you deserve, eh?” Standish asked dryly.
“He’ll be vindictive,” Kronheim corrected, glaring. “His wife is no sap, either. She got enough evidence to make it second degree murder instead of first, anyway. She’s free—and I don’t quite like it.”
Standish said, “If you’re figuring on wiping her out too, count me out. That killing of Gloria Mane was too close to the hairline for my liking. Next time you may not be so lucky. I value my neck, Kronheim, even if you don’t.”
Kronheim’s next words seemed to indicate he had dropped the subject.
“About those bombs? How much longer will you be?”
“I’m all set. I followed out your orders and got thousands of them manufactured. They’re being distributed now through the usual undercover channels to our agents.”
“And the airplane factories? We’re ready there?”
“Completely. When you give the word the underground factories are ready to disgorge. Our agents, by the use of the Mane bombs, can sabotage every defence unit in the country. We can have America under the heel now any time we want. Our air armada when released will crush all opposition by terror bombing alone.”
“Hmm….” Kronheim pondered. “How far down do you plan to sink the Mane bombs under industrial and defence centres?”
“About quarter of a mile. That should be sufficient.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t just want an ordinary explosion to wreck vital centres—I want the entire centres to drop down a mine from which they can never be retrieved.”
“It can’t be done,” Standish said quietly. “We have to remember that the earth has inner forces. If we drop the bombs too low they might split a volcanic seam. Anything could happen then!”
“As long as we have the Cause ruling the country at the finish of the campaign I don’t care if we release hell itself!” Kronheim retorted. “Sink those bombs down five miles. When they blow I want mines into which men and units and buildings will drop. Understand?”
“It’s too big a risk, man!” Standish cried.
“I’m not going to argue, Standish,” Kronheim said slowly. “I have instructed our European headquarters to sink the bombs down five miles and we’ll do the same here!”
Standish’s face was anxious. He had a sudden mental picture of agents of the Cause scattered in their sneaking thousands about the globe dropping the silent, self-sinking bombs in all manner of places. He was a scientist: Kronheim was not. Therein lay the tragedy.
“Finished?” Kronheim asked coldly.
Standish said, “I was just thinking that if one of those bombs rips a volcanic seam it might conceivably blow the lid right off a whole continent! We’re fighting for the domination of a world, not the total destruction of everything it contains! You’ve got to stop at a quarter-mile depth for safety’s sake. Explosions are O.K., but wholesale subsidences are another thing altogether.”
The big man smiled slowly. But Standish was looking at the eyes.
“Now wait a minute, Kronheim! I know what I’m talking about—”
“Of course,” Kronheim purred. “Of course. I’ll do just as you say. Now, get out!” he roared. “The Cause has no use for men who turn yellow! Get out!”
Standish left, perspiration dewing his face. The eyes of Kronheim seemed to be in the corridor before him. Too many times had the chief smiled only with his lips.
And the evening papers carried a column headed:
KRONHEIM TRUST SCIENTIST DROWNED
Nobody attempted to offer an explanation, beyond suicide. For that matter nobody could—except Rita Turner.
*
Stanley Wade of the Federal Department was surprised when Rita Turner was shown into his office. In a moment he knew from her sober dark eyes and taut mouth that something was wrong.
“You heard of the death of Professor Standish, the scientist at the Kronheim Trust?” she asked quietly, sitting down.
Wade nodded slowly. “Yes, Mrs. Turner, I heard. You mean his suicide?”
“That wasn’t suicide, Inspector—it was deliberate, cold-blooded murder. Standish was slain, just the same as were Dr. Mane and his daughter Gloria. Yes, I know my husband was accused of murdering Gloria Mane, but that was a frame-up.”
“After all, the rights and wrongs of that case were decided by the grand jury,” Wade replied. “There’s nothing I can do about it.
“I’m not asking you to. Val is safer in jail than out of it. What I am suggesting is that the authorities open their eyes a bit! Three deaths in succession and all of them connected with the Kronheim Trust. The facts at my husband’s trial showed some totally false love affair to be the cause of Val’s shooting Gloria Mane. Corruption and wangling in lawyer’s circles, backed by Kronheim—and Val’s own silence—stopped the real truth getting out. Gloria Mane was murdered by Kronheim’s strong arm men, just as her father was murdered by a hit and run driver in Kronheim’s employ. Kronheim destroyed Dr. Mane for one good reason. He feared his scientific knowledge—and the other reason was that Kronheim didn’t want a million dollars to go out of his bank. There was no proof that Mane had ever invented a scientific device because he never patented it. Everybody knowing anything about it was rubbed out, and so would Val have been too but for my efforts at weakening Kronheim’s lawyer’s evidence.”
Wade leaned forward on his desk. “Just who gave you all this information about Kronheim, may I ask?”
“Val himself,” the girl replied briefly. “I saw him at the jail on visitors’ day. He told me to tell you.”
“Why didn’t he tell all this at the trial?”
“Can’t you see?” Rita cried. “He dared not! To have gained his liberty by indicting Kronheim would have made him the target for killers all over the city—killers under Kronheim’s control. Anyway Kronheim would have wriggled free and Val’s life would have been jeopardized from that moment onwards. He preferred to give just enough evidence to avoid first degree murder and afterwards work from comparative safety to prove his innocence—through me…
“You see, Val was Kronheim’s personal secretary. He made out the contract and cheque for a million dollars to Mane. The contract was for a new type of bomb—a bomb that sinks by itself through the ground. Now, in a neutral country, isn’t that a queer occurrence?”
“Sinks through the ground?” Wade cried. “I don’t understand.”
Rita gave a tired smile. “Inspector, you like the rest of America think Kronheim and his Trust is limited to a financial edifice in Wall Street. That isn’t so, as Val well knows. A whole network of steelworks and industries are controlled by Kronheim, and they in turn are cover ups for other more sinister a
ctivities…There is a European war on, even though we in America feel geographically isolated from it. That may have dulled our alertness—but the things Kronheim’s doing threaten to menace our peace at any moment! Investigate the man and his activities! Do it in the interests of general safety, not to clear Val particularly. That will logically follow and he’s safe enough at present.”
Wade sat thinking, then finally he said. “Well, it all sounds very fantastic, Mrs. Turner, and I can’t help thinking that if there were anything mysterious going on our Intelligence Department would know all about it. And the War Department, too…”
“Even if Kronheim agents happened to be in both departments?”
“Good Lord, you’re not suggesting—”
“Definitely!” the girl retorted. “Rolf Kronheim is an organizing genius, an utterly ruthless agent for European power. He is even a European by birth: I checked up on that for myself. Once in my husband’s hearing he said he did not care how many Americans he killed…That is the kind of man he is.”
“I’ll get a line on him, anyway,” Wade said grimly.
“In the meantime,” Rita finished, “I want protective custody. Now I’ve told you all this I’m not risking going into the outer world again. I know what I’m up against—and so will you, shortly.”
*
Angorstine, Kronheim Agent No. 1, cesspool for orders and instructions of intense secrecy between Europe and the big man himself, was one of the first to learn of Federal activity. Instantly he headed for Wall Street, deserting the complex post he filled somewhere in the European Embassy.
“What’s the idea of risking coming here?” Kronheim snapped.
The brute-headed, thick-lipped Angorstine gave a calm answer.
“I thought it better to take the risk and come personally than use the telephone. The Federal Authorities are out to clean up our entire organisation.”
“Huh? What?” Kronheim stared amazedly. “But they don’t know a thing, man—”
“Yes, they do. I’ve been told that Turner told his wife plenty on her visit to the prison. She told Wade—and what’s more she convinced him. She has a way of convincing people has that woman. The machinery is moving, Kronheim—and moving fast!”
Kronheim’s fist slammed on the desk. “I’ll get that damned nosy woman if it’s the last thing I do! I knew it wasn’t safe as long as Turner didn’t fry! I’ll see that she’s—”
“You can’t. She asked for—and got—protective custody.”
Kronheim’s lips twitched at the sudden setback. Angorstine went on talking with sudden urgency.
“Either we act now or never! You’re in charge of the American campaign and Standish left everything ready. Our agents are everywhere, ready to set those bombs going down five miles just as you ordered. All key points are covered. In other parts of the world everything is ready too. The Cause can blast the neutrals wide open. The war can end in a few months, Kronheim, and the Cause can be victorious!”
“It’s forcing my hand,” Kronheim muttered, gazing at the man’s square, brutal face.
“If the authorities force it you’re done. Act! Give me the word and in three days we will be well away. Give me an appointed time for the planes to move, for the bombs to explode, for the defence units to be immobilized. Too late America will realize that in neutrality she has found destruction. The Mane bomb will bring democracy and all the idiocy it stands for smashing into the dust!”
Kronheim’s jaws squared suddenly. “Very well, Angorstine—get busy! Time the bombs for explosion six hours after sinking below ground surface. Time the entire movement of forces for midnight, three days hence. I’ll move to the underground headquarters. In the meantime I will contact Europe and make sure they give our move their blessing at headquarters. That’s all.”
“That day for which we have fought and struggled and bled is very near,” Angorstine mused, smiling twistedly. “So very near.”
CHAPTER III
DOMINATION
As Stanley Wade began to get the reports of his men operating the Federal dragnet cast across the United States he began to discover things that completely backed up Rita Turner’s vehement assertions. It seemed quite unbelievable, and yet—
“Agents of European power everywhere,” Wade breathed, looking through the papers on his desk. “The whole country’s infested with them! Spies! Spies who believe the force they worship can rule the world.” He looked up at the worried faces of the men of the Intelligence Department, the police, the Customs, and other departments of public security.
“We have only ourselves to blame, gentlemen,” Wade went on in a low voice. “It is as Mrs. Turner said: we have taken too much for granted. We allowed Kronheim to continue his work, all unsuspecting. We never realised that the Consolidated Steel Corporation, the Blue Oil Combine, the International Federation, and God knows how many other big enterprises, were connected with and controlled by Kronheim himself. He spreads his devilish tentacles all over the country.”
“Just what do we do?” one of the representatives asked anxiously.
“Do? We’ve got to round up all these agents and the rings they control. In the meantime I’m referring the matter to the President himself. This is too big for one man to handle. I’ve got to have a parole for Turner, too. He knows plenty and can probably help us. The rest is up to you to work on as you see fit. Go to it.”
Thereafter wires began to buzz. Federal experts took fast planes in various directions: some went to Washington. The whole law machine of the United States went to work in grim earnest. In spite of an elastic censorship clamping the press some of the news seeped through to a wondering public.
The Clarion wanted to know—CAN WAR STRIKE HERE? But it could not definitely answer its own question because of lack of facts, and since the broadcasting networks were forced to use hush-hush methods also there was no explanation from that end either.
Rolf Kronheim, fully alive to the situation, worked ceaselessly. Hour by hour there came through the multiple strands of his web a series of reports collected by Angorstine. Vital centres were already in hand. Bombs, accurately timed, were ready for midnight and in the desired positions. Along every coast, in every public utility, in armament works, depots, Government offices themselves: throughout the length and breadth of the continent the ruthless undercover power of a warring regime was at work to smash this, the greatest of all democratic States.
On that third day the hours, fateful indeed for still puzzled Americans, crept onwards and the shadow deepened over peace. Inevitably news leaked out. There were hints of lightning war, invasion by long distance bombers, submarine attack—probably everything was thought of except destruction from within.
Certainly nobody thought of self-sinking bombs—except Val Turner. His parole granted by extraordinary Board meeting, he thought of the Mane bombs as he sat in the Government plane whirling him from Alcatraz island across the continent to New York.
“Say, it’s dark down there,” he observed, and his guard nodded grimly.
“Yeah. Black out in force. Just a precaution. Something blowing up, I guess.”
“I suppose,” Val said, “you don’t know what the Federal Authorities paroled me for?”
“Even if I did know it’s not my job to say anything. I was ordered to collect and deliver. The rest is up to Inspector Wade. You’ll find out everything when we hit New York.”
Val became silent. He pretty well guessed why he was wanted. He knew that nothing short of national necessity and his knowledge of Kronheim could have gotten him parole so soon. He sat turning the matter over in his mind, gazing on the darkness outside.
Even New York itself was partially blacked out. The public in general, baffled by the sudden serious turn in events and lack of decisive news, seemed to be thronging the gloomy streets. The police car had to siren its way through seething crowds to Federal headquarters.
Inside the building Wade’s office was brilliantly lighted. He looked tired and worr
ied, had his coat off to his task. In the office were officials and, in the far corner, Rita Turner herself. She sprang to her feet as Val entered.
Wade allowed them their brief, earnest greeting, then he said curtly:
“Turner, it looks as though your story to your wife here told us plenty we didn’t know about. I sent for you to give us more details. Granting there is time to act on them, that is.”
“Sure. How much do you want to know? Kronheim is an enemy agent, a master organizer—”
“Yes, yes, I know all about that. Do you know the names of any of his agents?”
Val shook his head. “Afraid not. Every man and woman working for him secretly had a number. I used to think they were contract numbers until I got to thinking things over in prison. Then it dawned on me that they must be agents—”
“How many?”
“The numbers went up to ninety-two thousand.”
Wade threw up his hands and gazed around. “There we are, gentlemen! From these reports here I calculated around ninety thousand men and women in the pay of foreign power. Some of them—most of them—are supposed to be good living American citizens. At any rate they seek shelter under our flag. They are employees of Kronheim—his trusted workers. Saboteurs, spies—rats!” he shouted savagely. “For months—for two years in fact, since the war began in Europe, Kronheim has been at work arranging for the total destruction of America. Through a slip up Turner here got a clue. In a few days we have tried to catch up on the greatest organized effort to destroy a country ever yet made. I don’t see how we’re to do it. We can’t rope in ninety thousand suspects in a few hours or days.”
“Get Kronheim himself— he’s the chief,” Turner urged.
“Knowing Kronheim is guilty is one thing: proving it is another,” Wade retorted. “He is fenced in by a wall of legal network which would require weeks of intensified effort to break down. We’re working on it, never fear. We’ve collected some of the agents and pinned them down to confessions. We’ve got something, but not by any means enough. That’s where you come in, Turner. You’ve got to recall every detail of your employment with Kronheim. You must—”
John Russell Fearn Omnibus Page 89
