A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah! (8 page)

An order, a meeting, a passenger on this ship, threats and humiliations as well as the revelation that his fam-ily remaining in France would be in jeopardy if he dared refuse. He could not. The midnight meeting and the horrible events that fol-lowed. Then the final terrible mo-ment when the agent had gone and he knew that he could not commit this crime by himself.

Washington listened and under-stood, and it was at his instruction that the broken man was taken away—because he understood only too well. It was later, scant minutes before the flying ship began her final approach to the Narrows and a landing in New York Harbor that the captain brought Washington the fi-nal report.

“The other man is the real mys-tery, though it appears he was not French. A professional at this sort of thing, no papers in his luggage, no makers’ marks on his clothes, an ab-solute blank. But he was British, ev-eryone who spoke to him is sure of that, and had great influence or he would not be aboard this flight. All the details have been sent to Scot-land Yard and the New York Police are standing by now at the dock. It is indeed a mystery. You have no idea who your enemies might be?”

Washington sealed his last bag and dropped wearily into the chair.

“I give you my word, Captain, that until last night I had no idea I had any enemies, certainly none who could work in liaison with the French secret service and hire under-ground operatives.” He smiled wryly. “But I know it now. I certainly know it now.”

VI. IN THE LION’S DEN

A truck had gone out of control on Third Avenue and, after caroming from one of the elevated railway pil-lars, mounting the curb and breaking off a water hydrant, it had turned on its side and spilled its cargo out into the street. This consisted of many bundles of varicolored cloth which had split and spread a gay bunting in all directions. The workings of chance had determined that the site of the accident could not have been better chosen for the machinations of mischief, or more ill chosen for the preserving of law and order, for the event had occurred directly in front of an Iroquois bar and grill.

The occupants of the bar now poured into the street to see the fun, whooping happily through the streaming water and tearing at the bundles to see what they contained. Most of the copper-skinned men were bare above the waist, it being a warm summer day, clad only in leg-gings and moccasins below with per-haps a headband and feather above. They pulled out great streamers of the cloth and wrapped it about themselves and laughed uproari-ously while the dazed truck driver hung out of the window of his cab above and shook his fist at them.

The fun would have ended with this and there would have been no great mischief done if this estab-lishment, The Laughing Water, had not been located just two doorways away from Clancy’s, a drinking pal-ace of the same order that drew its custom solely from men of Hiber-nean ancestry.

This juxtaposition had caused much anguish to the po-lice and the peace of the area in the past and was sure to do so in the fu-ture, and in fact promised to accom-plish the same results now in the present.

The Irishmen, hearing the ex-citement, also came out into the street and stood making comments and pointing and perhaps envying the natural exuberance of the In-dians‘. The results were predictable and within the minute someone had been tripped, a loud name had been called, blows exchanged and a gen-eral melee resulted. The Iroquois, forced by law to check tomahawks and scalping knives at the city limits, or leave them at home if they were residents, found a ready substitute in the table knives from the grill. The Irish, equally restricted in the public display of shillelaghs, and black-thorn sticks above a certain weight, found bottles and chair legs a work-able substitute and joined the fray. War whoops mixed with the names of saints and the Holy Family as they clashed.

There were no deaths or serious maimings, since the object of the ex-ercise was pleasure, but there were certainly broken heads and bones and at least one scalp taken, the to-ken scalp of a bit of skin and hair. The roar of a passing el train drowned the happy cries and when it had rumbled into oblivion police si-rens took its place. Spectators stood at a respectable distance and enjoyed the scene while barrow merchants, quick to seize the opportunity, plied the edge of the crowd selling refresh-ments.

It was all quite enjoyable.

Ian Macintosh found it highly ob-jectionable, not the sort of thing at all that one would ever see on the streets of Campbelltown, or in Machrihanish. People who gave Highlanders a bad name for fighting and carousing ought to see the Col-anies first. He sniffed loudly, an act easily done since his sniffer was a monolithic prow seemingly designed for that or some more important function. It was the dominating ele-ment of Macintosh’s features, nay of his entire body for he was slight and narrow and dressed all in gray as he thought this only properly fitting, and his hair was gray while even his skin, when not exposed to the ele-ments for too long a time, also par-took of that neutral color. So it was his nose that dominated and due to its prominence, and to his eager at-tention to details and to book-keeping, his nickname of “Nosey” might seem to be deserved, though it was never spoken before his face, or rather before his nose.

Now he hurried by on Forty-sec-ond Street, crossing Third Avenue and sniffing one parting sniff in the direction of the melee. He pressed on through the throng, dodging skillfully even as he drew out his pocket watch and consulted it. On time, of course, on time. He was never late.

Even for so distasteful a meeting as this one. What must be done must be done. He sniffed again as he pushed open the door of the Commodore Hotel, quickly before the functionary stationed there could reach it, driving him back with an-other sniff in case he should be seek-ing a gratuity for a service not per-formed. It was exactly two o’clock when he entered and he took some grudging pleasure from the fact that Washington was already there. They shook hands, for they had met often before, and Macintosh saw for the first time the bandages on the side of‘

the other’s face that had been turned away from him until then. Gus was aware of the object of the other’s attention and spoke before the question could be asked.

“A recent development, Ian. I’ll tell you in the cab.”

“No cab. Sir Winthrop is sending his own car, as well he might, though it’s no pleasure riding in a thing that color.”

“A car need not necessarily be black,” Gus said, amused, as they went up the steps to the elevated Park Avenue entrance where the elongated yellow form of the Cord Landau was waiting. Its chrome exhausts gleamed, the wire wheels shone, the chauffeur held the door for them.

Once inside, with the con-necting window closed, Gus explained what had happened on the airship. “And that’s the all of it,” he concluded. “The cook knows noth-ing more and the police do not know the identity of his accomplice, or who might have employed him.”

Macintosh snorted loudly, a strik-ing sound in so small an enclosure, then patted his nose as though com-mending it for a good performance.

“They know who did it and we know who did it, though proving it is an-other matter.”

“But I’m sure
I
don’t know.” Gus was startled by the revelation. “You’re an engineer, Augustine, and more of an engineer than I’ll ever be, but you’ve had your head buried in the tunnel and you’ve no‘ been watching the business end, or the Stock Exchange, or the Bourse.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Then try this if you will. If some-one tries hurting you it is time to see whom you might have been hurting, too. People who might have a lot of money but might see their shares slipping a wee bit. People who look to the future and see them slipping a good deal more and intend to do something about it now. People with contacts on an international level who can reach the right people in the Sarete who are always willing to jump at a chance to make mischief for Britain. And who might they be?”

“I have no idea.”

“You’re being naive, you are!” Macintosh laid his finger along his nose, which hid this digit and a good part of his hand as well, in a conspiratorial gesture. “Now I ask you, if we be under the water, who be over it?”

“Airships, but the tunnel offers them no competition. And ships upon the ocean, but—” His voice stopped and his features wore a startled look.

Macintosh smiled a wintry smile in return.

“No names, no pack drill, and the culprits will be hard to find I warrant. But a command may be spo-ken, half in jest perhaps—and I ask you to remember Thomas Becket!—an order relayed, an order given, an ambitious man, money changes hands. I shall not spell it out but I can and do suggest that you beware in the future.”

The car stopped then before one of the taller buildings in Wall Street and they emerged with Gus in a speculative state of mind. There was more to constructing a tunnel than digging a hole he realized, and apparently assassins could now be as-sumed to be an occupational hazard. Along with Boards of Directors. But he was prepared for the latter at least, had been preparing for this day for the past week, bolstering his facts, pinning down his figures. Taking a chance, a leap into the darkness that had been troubling him ever since he had first realized what must be done. His career rest-ed upon the outcome of today’s meeting and rightly enough it con-cerned him deeply. But, since the previous night when he had been face to face with a far more literal and final leap into the darkness, his will had been strengthened. What must be done must be done—and he would do it.

Sir Winthrop he knew, and shook his hand, and was introduced to the other members of the Board whom he was acquainted with only by name and reputation. Self-made men all of them, solid and sure of themselves, twenty-one different in-dividuals who blended into one as he looked. One man, one body of men, whom he had to convince.

As he seated himself at the place reserved for him at the long table he realized that the meeting had been in session for some time if the state of the ashtrays was any indication; since these men were experienced marksmen the spittoons showed no such evidence. This was clear proof that he had been deliberately invited to arrive after the proposals regard-ing his new status had been put be-fore the Board. There were no ech-oes of discussion in the heavy drapes that framed the windows or in the rich cigar fragrance of the air, but some hint of differences of opinion could be detected in the rigid scowls and set faces of a few of the Board members. Obviously the unanimity of opinion did not exist here as it did on the Board in London; but Gus had expected this. He knew the state of mind of his fellow colonials and had marshaled his facts to override any objections.

“Gentlemen of the Board,” said Sir Winthrop, “we have been dis-cussing one matter for some time now, that is the possibility of my stepping down as chairman of this Board to be replaced by Captain Washington, who will also be in charge of the engineering of the tunnel here. This change has been forced upon us by the disastrous state of the finances of the entire op-eration, finances that must be mend-ed if we are to have any operation at all. It was decided to postpone a vote upon this matter until the captain could be spoken to and interrogated. He is here.

Ah, I see Mr. Stratton wishes to begin.”

Mr. Stratton’s lean figure rose from its chair like a vulture ascending, a jointed collection of black suit-ing and white skin with dark-set eyes and pointed accusing finger, an up-setting apparition at any time and even more so now as he rattled with anger.

“No good, no good at all, we can’t have our firm represented by a man with the name of Washington, no not at all. As soon have Judas Isca-riot as Board chairman, or Pontius Pilate, or Guy Fawkes—”

“Stratton, would you kindly con-fine yourself to the matter at hand and reserve the historical lecture for another time.”

The speaker of these quiet but acidulous words lolled at ease in his chair, a short and fat roly-poly sort of man with a great white beard that flowed over his chest, a great black cigar that stuck up out of his mouth like a flagstaff—and a cold, pene-trating eye that belied any impres-sion of laxity or softness that the ex-terior might suggest.

“You’ll hear me out, Gould, and stay silent. There are some things that cannot be forgotten—”

“There are some things that are better off forgotten,” came the interruption again. “It is almost two hun-dred years now and you are still try-ing to fight the rebellion over again. Enough I say. Your ancestors were Tories, very nice for them, they picked the winning side. If they had lost we would be calling them trai-tors now and maybe George Wash-ington would have had them shot the way they squeezed poor old German George to shoot him. Maybe you got guilt feelings about that, huh?, which is why you keep scratching all the time at this same itch. For the record I got ancestors, too, and one of them was involved, a Haym Solomon, poor fellow lost everything he had financing the revolution and ended up selling pickles out of a barrel on the east side. Does this bother me? Not a bit. I vote the straight Tory ticket now because that is the party of the big money and I got big money. Let bygones be bygones.”

“Then you were as unlucky in your choice of ancestors as Washington was,” Stratton snapped back, bristling and crackling with anger and shooting his cuffs in a manner which suggested that he wished there were some real shooting of certain people involved. “I wouldn’t brag about it if I were you. In any case the public at large is not aware of your indecorous lineage whereas the name Washington has an in-eradicable taint. The American pub-lic will rise in arms against anything connected with a name so odious.”

“Yore full of hogwash, Henry,” a leathery Texas voice drawled out from a large man far down the table who wore a wide-brimmed hat, des-pite the fact the others were all bare-headed. “In the west we have a hard job rememberin‘ where New En-gland is much less the details of all your Yankee feudin’. If this engineer feller can sell the stock fer us, I say hire him and be done with it.”

“Me, too,” a deep voice boomed in answer from a copper skinned in-dividual even further along the Board. “All that the Indians know is that all white men are no good. Too many of us were shot up before the Peace of 1860. If oil hadn’t been dis-covered on Cherokee lands, I wouldn’t be sitting here now. I say hire him.”