Читать книгу Across the Pacific - J. W. Duffield - Страница 6

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“What’s the matter?” asked Hapworth, as he noticed Ted’s start. “You act as though you’d had an electric shock.”

“Something like that,” admitted Ted. “Here’s another case just like that of Ed Allenby’s.”

“You don’t mean it,” exclaimed Hapworth.

“Sure as shooting,” replied Ted. “The only difference is that this is in the South, while the other was in the West. Fellow down in Texas on the route between San Antonio and Galveston. He had been flying for a while and then began to grow dizzy and had to make a landing. Just managed to do it and tumble out of his plane, and then everything went black. When he came to himself he found that the plane was gone. No sign of it anywhere. And from all account the mail he carried was just about as valuable as Ed’s. Now what do you make of that?”

“There’s only one thing to make of it,” replied Hapworth, greatly stirred up. “There’s an organized gang somewhere that’s discovered a new wrinkle and they’re working it for all it’s worth. The government has got a job on its hands for fair. There was danger enough in flying before, and now a new terror has been added to it.”

“What beats me,” went on Ted, “is how the gang knows just where the airman is going to come down. No doubt the pilot has been doped. But how can they tell just when the dope is going to operate?”

Ted referred again to the newspaper.

“The pilot took sick just about three hours after he had started,” he went on, “and if you’ll remember, Ed was about three hours out when his head began to swim. The gang may have studied the route and knew just where the pilots were apt to be three hours after they had started. And they gave them just enough dope to do its work in that three hours.”

“I don’t think science has got so far as that,” objected Hapworth. “It’s hard to believe that any man living can fix the working of a drug so precisely. Besides it would influence each separate man according to his constitution. It might make one unconscious at the end of two hours. Another man might resist the drug for four hours, even though it were the same dose. And with a plane traveling a mile a minute a difference, say, of twenty minutes would make the landing place twenty miles one side or the other of the place fixed upon. No, take it from me there’s got to be some other explanation than that.”

“I guess you’re right,” admitted Ted. “Besides, that theory would require that the man be doped just before he steps into his plane. But he may have had the meal that gave the skunks a chance to dope his food or drink an hour or two before he started.”

“Nothing in the man’s story that suggests any other theory?” asked Hapworth.

“No,” said Ted, again glancing at the paper, “he seems to have had just the same experience as Ed. Oh, there is one difference,” he corrected himself. “This fellow, Nasmith is his name, has a dim recollection that just before he passed out he heard something that sounded like the engine of another plane. He couldn’t swear to it, but that’s his impression. By Jove, I’ve hit it!” Ted exclaimed, throwing the paper to the floor and springing to his feet. “That plane that Nasmith thought he heard was following on his trail, keeping out of sight and hearing until the rascals in it saw that Nasmith was wobbling and getting ready to go down. Then, when they saw that he was lying on the ground unconscious, they swooped down, gathered in the mail, and scooted away with it.”

“Sounds very reasonable,” said Hapworth thoughtfully. “But if they had a plane of their own, why didn’t they load it with the mail bags, skip out and leave Nasmith’s plane where it was?”

“Because he might have recovered and chased them,” replied Ted. “They wanted to have plenty of time to make their getaway.”

“That presupposes that the robber plane had an extra pilot or two that knew how to fly a plane,” said Hapworth.

“Sure thing,” assented Ted. “They left one of their fellows to take charge of Nasmith’s plane. But I doubt whether he flew in it very far. The markings on the plane would have given it away. Likely enough he took it to some place near a cliff, got out, pushed the plane over the precipice and let it smash. If I were in the Secret Service I’d search every such place as that within a hundred miles of where the robbery took place.”

“Whatever gang did that had brains behind it,” remarked Hapworth.

“Right you are,” agreed Ted. “But there’s one thing about this latest robbery. It lets Ed out. It shows that he was a victim just like the other fellow.”

“Not necessarily,” objected Hapworth. “It would be easy enough for some of the regular Air Mail pilots to put their heads together and agree on some such scheme as this. There are dishonest men in every profession, you know. They could pretend to have been doped and all the rest of it.”

“Could, but are not likely to,” said Ted. “The Air Mail fellows are a picked bunch and a fine lot. I’ve met hundreds of them and not a crook among them except that fellow, Felwig, that tried to blow up my plane with a bomb when I was flying the mail over the Rockies. And as for Ed Allenby I’d stake my life on his honesty. No, I think my theory fits the facts. But gee, I’ll bet the Air Mail fellows are an anxious lot these days! No one knows when he may be picked out for the next victim of the gang.”

For the next two days Ted scanned the papers anxiously to learn everything he could about the mystery and the efforts that were being made to solve it. Although the Air Mail carrying was now in the hands of private concerns, the fact that the mail was involved in the robbery brought the matter into the scope of government action. The Secret Service men had been called into the case and it was promised that no pains would be spared to hunt down the miscreants.

Ted noted too with grief that Allenby had been taken into custody, though he was still vigorously denying that he had anything to do with the robbery. Ted instantly got into touch with him by wire, assuring him of his belief in his innocence and telling him to get the best lawyer he could at Ted’s expense.

As Ted was returning from the telegraph office after having dispatched his message he saw approaching him at a little distance Brewster Gale, the proprietor of the Hotel Excelsior.

Now if there was anyone on earth that Gale hated venomously, it was Ted. This was not simply because Ted had exposed his nefarious schemes and compelled him to make restitution to Eben. That was bad enough from Gale’s viewpoint, for money was his god.

But there was still a greater reason why he hated Ted.

Gale had two sons, twins, Gregory and Duckworth Gale, Greg and Duck for short. They were somewhat older than Ted and ever since they had reached young manhood had led a fast and dissipated life. They had been envious of Ted because of his popularity in the town and had always done all they could to down him. At first their antagonism had taken the form of petty annoyances, but later on, when Ted’s exploits had made him famous throughout the world, they had resorted to more serious efforts to injure him. Once they had cut the struts of the plane in which he was about to give an exhibition, hoping that he would crash. On another occasion they had attempted to run him down with their car after he had thrashed them both for insulting a girl.

The climax came, however, when the two rascals, desperate because their gambling proclivities had involved them deeply in debt, had attempted one night to rob the safe of the Bromville House. They had struck down both Eben and Charity with clubs and narrowly escaped being murderers as well as thieves. Ted had followed up clues that convinced him of their guilt, but before he could have them arrested they had taken alarm and left town, presumably on their way to South America. Later, when Ted had made his trip over the West Indies, he had come across the scoundrels in Porto Rico and despite their disguises had recognized and captured them and had had them sent back to Bromville for trial. They were convicted and sentenced to prison for a term of years.

Gale hated Ted worse than ever for having brought the thieves to justice. And hate was in his eyes now as they caught sight of Ted coming toward him.

Ted on his part had nothing but contempt for Gale, though he did not dignify the man enough to hate him. He would have passed Gale without a word, but the latter planted himself squarely in the young aviator’s path.

“So our fake hero is back again,” he sneered, as his malignant eyes fixed themselves on Ted’s face.

“Neither fake nor a hero,” replied Ted coolly. “Just a citizen of Bromville who’s minding his own business and would be obliged if you would do the same.”

“Minding his own business,” repeated Gale sardonically. “It’s seemed to me for a long time that you’ve made a special effort to attend to mine. I hear you nearly got your neck stretched in Mexico. I wish to heaven they’d made a good job of it!”

Ted’s eyes blazed.