 CHAPTER IX OF THE SILENT BULLET by Arthur B. Reeve This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Elliot Miller. THE TERROR IN THE AIR There's something queer about these airplane accidents at Belmont-Ponk. Muse Kennedy one evening, as as I caught a big headline in the last edition of The Star, which I had brought up town with me. Queer, I echoed. Unfortunate, terrible, but hardly queer. Why, it is a common saying among the aeronauts, if they keep at it long enough, they will all lose their lives. Yes, I know that, rejoined Kennedy. But Walter, have you noticed that all these accidents have happened to Norton's new gyroscope machines? Well, what of that, I replied. Isn't it just barely possible that Norton is on the wrong track in applying the gyroscope to an airplane? I can't say I know much about either, the gyroscope or the airplane. From what I hear, the fellows at the office say it would seem to me that the gyroscope is a pretty good thing to keep off an airplane. Not to put on it. Why, asked Kennedy blandly. Well, it seems to me, from what the experts say, that anything which tends to keep your machine in one position is just what you don't want in an airplane. What surprises them, they say, is that the thing seems to work so well up to a certain point, that the accidents don't happen sooner. Why, our man on the aviation field tells me that, when that poor fellow Brown was killed, he had all but succeeded in bringing his machine to a dead stop in the air. In other words, he would have won the Brooks Prize for perfect motionlessness in one place. And then Herrick, the day before, was going about 70 miles an hour when he collapsed. They said it was heart failure, but, tonight, another expert says in the star, here, I'll read it. The real cause was carbonic acid gas poisoning, due to the pressure on the mouth from driving fast through the air. And the consequent inability to expel the poisoned air which had been breathed. Air once breathed is practically carbonic acid gas. When one is passing rapidly through the air, this carbonic acid gas is pushed back into the lungs, and only a little can get away because of the rush of air pressure into the mouth. So, it is rebreathed, and the result is gradual carbonic acid gas poisoning, which produces a kind of narcotic sleep. Then it wasn't the gyroscope in that case, said Kennedy with a rising inflection. No, I admitted reluctantly, perhaps not. I could see that I had been rash in talking so long. Kennedy had only been sounding me to see what the newspaper thought of it. His next remark was characteristic. Norton has asked me to look into the thing, he said quietly. If his invention is a failure, he is a ruined man. All his money is in it. He is suing a man for infringing on his patent, and he is liable for damages to the heirs, according to his agreement with Brown and Harrick. I have known Norton for some time. In fact, he worked out his ideas at the university physical laboratory. I have flown in his machine, and it is the most marvelous biplane I ever saw. Walter, I want you to get to a Belmore Park assignment from the star and go out to the aviation meet with me tomorrow. I'll take you on the field, around the machines. You can get enough local color to do a dozen star specials later on. I may add that devising a flying machine capable of remaining stationary in the air means a revolution that will relegate all other machines to the scrap heap. From a military point of view, it is the one thing necessary to make the aeroplane the superior in every respect to the dirigible. The regular contest did not begin until the afternoon, but Kennedy and I decided to make a day of it, and early the next morning we were speeding out to the park where the flights were being held. We found Charles Norton, the inventor anxiously at work with his mechanisms in the big temporary shed that had been accorded to him, and was dignified with the name of Hanger. I knew you would come, Professor! he exclaimed, running forward to meet us. Of course, echoed Kennedy, I am too much interested in this invention of yours not to help you, Norton. You know what I've always thought of it. I've told you often that it is the most important advance since the original discovery by the rights that the aeroplane could be balanced by warping the planes. I'm just fixing up my third machine, said Norton. If anything happens to it, I shall lose the prize, at least as far as this meet is concerned. For I don't believe I shall get my fourth and newest model from the makers in time. Anyhow, if I did, I couldn't pay for it. I'm ruined. If I don't win that twenty-five thousand dollar Brooks Prize. And besides, a couple of Army men are coming to inspect my aeroplane and report to the War Department on it. I'd have stood a good chance of selling it, I think, if my flakes here had been like the trials you saw. But Kennedy, he added, and his face was drawn and tragic. I'd drop the whole thing if I didn't know I was right. Two men dead. Think of it. Why, even the newspapers are beginning to call me a cold, heartless scientific crank to keep on. But I'll show them. This afternoon I'm going to fly myself. I'm not afraid to go anywhere I send my men. I'll die before I admit I'm beaten. It was easy to see why Kennedy was fascinated by a man of Norton's type. Anyone would have been. It was not foolhardiness. It was dogged determination, faith in himself, and in his own ability to triumph over every obstacle. We now slowly entered the shed where two men were working over Norton's biplane. One of the men was a Frenchman, Gérette, who had worked with Farman, a silent dark-brown weather-beaten fellow with the sort of sullen politeness. The other man was an American, Roy Sinclair, a tall, lithe, wiry chap with a seemed and furrowed face and a loose-jointed but very deft manner which marked him a born bird-man. Norton's third aviator, Humphreys, who was not to fly that day much to his relief, was reading a paper in the back of the shed. We were introduced to him, and he seemed to be a very companionable sort of fellow, though not given to talking. Mr. Norton, he said after the introduction. There's quite an account of your injunction against delaying in this paper. It doesn't seem to be very friendly, he added, indicating the article. Norton read it in frown. I'll show them yet that my application of the gyroscope is patentable. Delain will put me into interference in the patent offices, as the lawyers call it, will he? Well, I filed a caveat over a year and a half ago. If I'm wrong, he's wrong, and all gyroscope patents are wrong. And if I'm right, by George, I'm first in the field. That's so, isn't it? He appealed to Kennedy. Kennedy shrugged his shoulders noncommittally, as if he had never heard of the patent office or the gyroscope in his life. The men were listening, whether or not from loyalty, I could not tell. Let us see your gyroplane. I mean, eroscope, whatever it is you call it, asked Kennedy. Norton took the cue. Now, you newspaper men are the first that I've allowed in here, he said. Can I trust your word of honour not to publish a line except such that I okay after you write it? We promised. As Norton directed, the machinations wheeled the aeroplane out on the field in front of the shed. No one was about. Now this is the gyroscope, began Norton, pointing out a thing encased in an aluminum sheath, which Wade all told perhaps fourteen or fifteen pounds. You see, the gyroscope is really a flywheel mounted on gimbals and can turn on any of its angles so that it can assume any angle in space. When it is at rest like this you can turn it easily, but when set revolving it tends to persist always in the plane in which it would start it rotating. I took hold of it and it did turn readily in any direction. I could feel the heavy little flywheel inside. There is a pretty high vacuum in that aluminum case, went on Norton. There's very little friction on that account. The power to rotate the flywheel is obtained from this little dynamo here, run by the gas engine, which also turns the propellers of the aeroplane. But suppose the engine stops. How about the gyroscope? I ask ethically. It will go right on for several minutes. You know, the Brennan monorail car will stand up some time after the power is shut off. And I carry a small storage battery that will run it for some time too. That's all been guarded against. Jaret cranked the engine, a seven cylinder to fare, with the cylinder sticking out like the spokes of a wheel without a rim. The propellers turned so fast that I could not see the blades, turned with that strong, steady, fierce droning buzz that can be heard a long distance and which is a thrilling sound to hear. Norton reached over and attached the little dynamo at the same time setting the gyroscope at its proper angle and starting it. This is a mechanical brain of my new flyer, he remarked, padding the aluminum case lovingly. You can look in through this little window in the case and see the flywheel inside revolving. Ten thousand revolutions a minute. Press down on the gyroscope, he shouted to me. As I placed both hands on the case of the apparently frail little instrument he added, you remember how easily you moved it just a moment ago? No. I pressed down with all my might. Then I literally raised myself off my feet and my whole weight was on the gyroscope. That uncanny little instrument seemed to resent. Yes, that's the word, resent my touch. It was almost human in the resentment too. Far from yielding to me, it actually rose on the side I was pressing down. The men who were watching me laughed at the puzzled look on my face. I took my hands off and the gyroscope leisurely and nonchalantly went back to its original position. That's the property we use applied to the rudder and the air lawns, those flat planes between the large main planes. That gives automatic stability to the machine, continued Norton. I'm not going to explain how it's done. It's in the combination of the various parts that I have discovered the Braysek principle, and I'm not going to talk about it till the thing is settled by the courts. But it is there, and the court will see it, and I'll prove that Delain is a fraud, a fraud when he says that my combination isn't patentable and isn't practicable even at that. The truth is that his device as it stands isn't practicable, and besides, if he makes it so it infringes on mine, would you like to take a flight with me? I looked at Kennedy in a vision of the wreckage of the two previous accidents, as the star photographer had snapped them, flashed across my mind. But Kennedy was too quick for me. Yes, he answered, a short flight, no stunts. We took our seats by Norton, I at least with some misgiving. Gently the machine rose into the air. The sensation was delightful, the fresh air of the morning came with a stinging rush to my face. Below I could see the earth sweeping past as if it were a moving picture film. Above the continuous roar of the engine and propeller. Norton indicated to Kennedy the automatic balancing of the gyroscope as it bent the airlines. Could you fly in this machine without the gyroscope at all? yelled Kennedy. The noise was deafening, conversation almost impossible. Though sitting side by side he had to repeat his remark twice to Norton. Yes, called back Norton, reaching back of him, he pointed out the way to detach the gyroscope and put a sort of break on it that stopped its revolutions almost instantly. It's a ticklish job to change in the air, he shouted. It can be done, but it's safer to land and do it. The flight was soon over, and we stood admiring the machine while Norton expiated on the compactness of his little dynamo. What have you done with the wrecks of the other machines? inquired Kennedy at length. They're stored in a shed down near the railroad station. They're just a massive junk, though there are some parts I can use, so I'll ship them back to the factory. Might I have a look at them? Surely. I'll give you the key. Sorry I can't go myself, but I want to be sure everything is all right for my flight this afternoon. It was a long walk over to the shed near the station, and, together with our examination of the wrecked machines, it took us the rest of the morning. Craig carefully turned over the wreckage. It seemed a hopeless quest to me, but I fancied to him that it merely presented new problems for his deductive and scientific mind. These gyroscopes are out of business for good, he remarked as he glanced at the dented and battered aluminum cases. But that doesn't seem to be anything wrong with them except what would naturally happen in such accidents. For my part, I felt a sort of awe at the mass of wreckage in which Brown and Herrick had been killed. It was to me more than a tangled mass of wires and splinters. Two human lives had been snuffed out in it. The engines are a massive scrap. See how the cylinders are bent and twisted, remarked Kennedy with great interest. The gasoline tank is intact, but dented out of shape. No explosion there, and look at this dynamo, why the wires in it are actually fused together. The insulation has been completely burnt off. I wonder what could have caused that. Kennedy continued to regard the tangled mass thoughtfully for some time, then locked the door, and we strolled back to the grandstand on our side of the field. Already the crowded began to collect. Across the field we could see the various machines in front of their hangars with the men working on them. The buzz of the engines was wafted across by the light summer breeze, as if a thousand cicadas had broken loose to predict the warm weather. Two machines were already in flight, a little yellow demoiselle scurrying around close to the earth like a frightened hen, and a blaret high overhead, making slow and graceful turns like a huge bird. Kennedy and I stopped before the little wireless telegraph station of the signal core in front of the grandstand, and watched the operator working over his instruments. There it is again, muttered the operator angrily. What's the matter, asked Kennedy, amateurs interfering with you? The man nodded a reply, shaking his head with a telephone-like receiver viciously. He continued to adjust his apparatus. Can't found it, he exclaimed. Yes, that fellow has been jamming me for the past two days, off and on, every time I get ready to send or receive a message. Williams is going up with a right machine equipped with a wireless apparatus in a minute, and this fellow won't get out of the way. By Jove, those are powerful impulses of his. Hear that crackling? I've never been interfered with so in my experience. Touch that screen door with your knife. Kennedy did so, and elicited large sparks with quite a tingle of a shock. Yesterday and the day before it was so bad, we had to give up attempting to communicate with Williams, continued the operator. It was worse than trying to work in a thunder-shower. That's the time we get our troubles, when the air is overcharged with electricity, as it is now. That's interesting, remarked Kennedy. Interesting! flashback the operator, angrily noting the condition in his logbook. Maybe it is, but I'll call it damned mean. It's almost like trying to work in a power station. Indeed, queried Kennedy. I beg your pardon. I was only looking at it from the purely scientific point of view. Who is it, do you suppose? How do I know? Some amateur, I guess. No professional would butt in this way. Kennedy took a leaf out of his notebook and wrote a short message which he gave to a boy to deliver to Norton. Detach your gyroscope and dynamo, it read. Leave them in the hangar. Fly without them this afternoon and see what happens. No use to try for the prize today. Kennedy. We sauntered out on the open part of the field, back of the fence and to the side of the stands, and watched the flyers for a few moments. They were in the air now, and I could see Norton and his men getting ready. The boy with the message was going rapidly across the field. Kennedy was impatiently watching him. It was too far off to see just what they were doing, but as Norton seemed to get down out of his seat in the airplane when the boy arrived, and it was wheeled back into the shed, I gathered that he was detaching the gyroscope and was going to make the flight without it, as Kennedy had requested. In a few minutes it was again wheeled out. The crowd, which had been waiting especially to see Norton, applauded. Come, Walter, exclaimed Kennedy, let's go up there on the roof of the stand where we can see better. There's a platform and a railing, I see. His pass allowed him to go anywhere on the field, so in a few moments we were up on the roof. It was a fascinating vantage point, and I was so deeply engrossed between watching the crowd below, the bird men in the air, and the machines waiting across the field that I totally neglected to notice what Kennedy was doing. When I did, I saw that he had deliberately turned his back on the aviation field and was anxiously scanning the country back of us. What are you looking for? I asked. Turn around, I think Norton is just about to fly. Watch and then, answered Craig, tell me when he gets in the air. Just then Norton's airplane rose gently from the field. A wild shot of applause came from the people below us, at the heroism of the man who dared to fly this new and apparently faded machine. It was succeeded by a breathless, deathly calm, as if after the first burst of enthusiasm the crowd had suddenly realized the danger of the intrepid aviator. Would Norton add a third to the fatalities of the meat? Suddenly Kennedy jerked my arm. Walter, look over there across the road back of us, at the old weather-beaten barn. I mean the one next to that yellow house. What do you see? Nothing except that on the peak of the roof there's a pole that looks like a short stub of a small wireless mast. I should say there was a boy connected with that barn. A boy who has read a book on wireless for beginners. Maybe, said Kennedy, but is that all you see? Look up in the little window of the gable, the one with the closed shutter. I looked carefully. It seems to me that I saw a gleam of something bright at the top of the shutter, Craig, I ventured, a spark or a flash. It must be a bright spark, for the sun is shining brightly, mused Craig. Oh, maybe it's a small boy with a looking glass. I can remember when I used to get behind such a window and shine a glass into the darkened room of my neighbors across the street. I had really said that half in railery, for I was at a loss to account for any way for the light, but I was surprised to see how eagerly Craig accepted it. Perhaps you are right in a way, he ascended. I guess it isn't a spark, after all. Yes, it must be the reflection of the sun on that piece of glass. The angles are just about right for it. Anyhow, it caught my eye. Still, I believe that barn will bear watching. Whatever his suspicions, Craig kept them to himself and ascended. At the same time, Norton gently dropped back to earth in a front of his hangar, not ten feet from the spot where he started. The applause was deafening, as the machine was again wheeled into the shed safely. Kennedy and I pushed through the crowd to the wireless operator. How's she working? inquired Craig. Rotten! replied the operator sullenly. It was worse than ever about five minutes ago. It's much better now, almost normal again. Just then the messenger boy, who had been hunting through the crowd for us, handed Kennedy a note. It was merely a scrawl from Norton. Everything seems fine. I'm going to try her next with the gyroscope. Norton. Boy! exclaimed Craig, has Commander Norton a telephone. No, sir, only that hangar at the end has a telephone. Well, you run across that field as fast as your legs can carry you, and tell him if he values his life not to do it. Not to do what, sir? Don't stand there, youngster! Run! Tell him not to fly with that gyroscope. There's a five-spot in it if you get over there before he starts. Even as he spoke the Norton aeroplane was wheeled out again. In a minute Norton had climbed up into his seat and was testing the levers. Would the boy reach him in time? He was half across the field waving his arms like mad, but apparently Norton and his men were too engrossed in their machine to pay attention. Good heavens! exclaimed Craig. He's going to try it. Run, boy, run! he cried, although the boy was now far out of hearing. Across the field we could hear now the quick staccato chug-chug of the engine. Slowly, Norton's aeroplane, this time really equipped with the gyroscope, rose from the field and circled over towards us. Craig frantically signaled to him to come down, but, of course, Norton could not have seen him in the crowd. As for the crowd, they looked to scant to Kennedy as if he had taken leave of his senses. I heard the wireless operator cursing the way his receiver was acting. Higher and higher Norton went in one spiral after another, those spirals which his gyroscope had already made famous. The man with the megaphone in front of the judge's stand announced in hollow tones that Mr. Norton had given notice that he would try for the Brooks Prize for stationary equilibrium. Kennedy and I stood speechless, helpless, appalled. Slower and slower went the aeroplane. It seemed to hover just like the big mechanical bird that it was. Kennedy was anxiously watching the judges with one eye and Norton with the other. A few in the crowd could no longer restrain their applause. I remember that the wireless back of us was spluttering and crackling like mad. All of a sudden a groan swept over the crowd. Something was wrong with Norton. His aeroplane was swooping downward at a terrific rate. Would he be able to control it? I held my breath and gripped Kennedy by the arm. Down, down came Norton frantically fighting by main strength, it seemed to me, to warp the plane so that their surface might catch the air and check his descent. He's trying to detach the gyroscope, whispered Craig Horsley. The football helmet which Norton wore blew off and fell more rapidly than the plane. I shut my eyes, but Kennedy's next exclamation caused me quickly to open them again. He'll make it after all. Somehow Norton had regained partial control of his machine, but it was still swooping down at a tremendous pace toward the level center of the field. There was a crash as it struck the ground in a cloud of dust. With a leap Kennedy had cleared the fence and was running toward Norton. Two men from the judge's stand were ahead of us, but except for them we were the first to reach him. The men were tearing frantically at the tangled framework, trying to lift it off Norton, who lay pale and motionless pinned under it. The machine was not so badly damaged after all, but that together we could lift it bodily off him. A doctor ran out from the crowd and hastily put his ear to Norton's chest. No one spoke, but we all scanned the doctor's face anxiously. Just stunned, he'll be all right in a moment. Get some water, he said. Kennedy pulled my arm. Look at the gyroscope dynamo, he whispered. I looked. Like the other two which we had seen, it was also a wreck. The insulation was burned off the wires. The wires were fused together, and the storage battery looked as if it had been burnt out. A flicker of the eyelid and Norton seemed to regain some degree of consciousness. He was living over again the ages that had passed during the seconds of his terrible fall. Will they never stop? Oh, those sparks! Those sparks! I can't disconnect it. Sparks! More sparks! Will they never—?" So he rambled on. It was fearsome to hear him. But Kennedy was now sure that Norton was safe and in good hands, and he hurried back in the direction of the grandstand. I followed. Flying was over for the day, and the people were filing slowly out toward the railroad station where the special trains were waiting. We stopped at the wireless station for a moment. Is it true that Norton will recover? inquired the operator. Yes, he was only stunned, thank heaven. Did you keep a record of the antics of your receiver since I saw you last? Yes, sir, and I made a copy for you. By the way, it's working all right now when I don't want it. If Williams was only in the air now, I'd give you a good demonstration of communicating with an aeroplane. continued the operator as he prepared to leave. Kennedy thanked him for the record and carefully folded it. Joining the crowd, we pushed our way out, but instead of going down to the station with them, Kennedy turned toward the barn in the Yellow House. For some time we waited about casually, but nothing occurred. At length, Kennedy walked up to the shed. The door was closed and double padlocked. He knocked, but there was no answer. Just then a man appeared on the porch of the Yellow House, seeing as he beckoned. As we approached, he shouted, He's gone for the day! Has he a city address any place I could reach him tonight? asked Craig. I don't know. He hired the barn for me two weeks and paid in advance. He told me if I wanted to address him the best way was Dr. K. Lamar, General Delivery, New York City. Uh, then I suppose I had better write to him, said Kennedy, apparently much gratified to learn the name. I presume he'll be taking away his apparatus soon. Can't say. There's enough of it. Cy Smith, he's in the electric light company up to the village, says the doctors use a powerful lot of current. He's good pay, though he's awful closed-mouthed. Flying over for today, ain't it? Was that fellow much hurt? No, he'll be all right tomorrow. I think he'll fly again. The machine's in pretty good condition. He's bound to win that prize. Goodbye. As I walked away, I remarked, How do you know Norton will fly again? I don't, answered Kennedy, but I think that either he or Humphries will. I wanted to see that this Lamar believes it anyhow. By the way, Walter, do you think you could grab a wire here and phone in a story to the star that Norton isn't much hurt and will probably be able to fly tomorrow? Try to get the City News Association, too, so that all the papers will have it. I don't care about risking the General Delivery. Perhaps Lamar won't call for any mail, but he certainly will read the papers. Put it in the form of an interview with Norton. I'll see that it is all right and that there is no comeback. Norton will stand for it when I tell him my scheme. I caught the star just in time for the last edition, and some of the other papers that had later editions also had the story. Of course, all the morning papers had it. Norton spent the night in Miniola Hospital. He didn't really need to stay, but the doctor said it would be best in case some internal injury had been overlooked. Meanwhile, Kennedy took charge of the hangar where the injured machine was. The men had been in a sort of panic. Humphrey could not be found, and the only reason, I think, why the two mechanitions stayed was because something was due them on their pay. Kennedy wrote them out personal checks for their respective amounts, but dated them two days ahead to ensure they're staying. He threw off all disguise now and with authority from Norton directed the repairing of the machine. Fortunately, it was in pretty good condition. The broken part was the skids, not the essential parts of the machine. As for the gyroscope, there were plenty of them and another dynamo, and it was a very simple thing to replace the old one that had been destroyed. Sinclair worked with a will, far past his regular hours. Gérette also worked, though one could hardly say with a will. In fact, most of the work was done by Sinclair and Kennedy, with Gérette sullenly grumbling, mostly in French under his breath. I did not like the fellow when was suspicious of him. I thought I noticed that Kennedy did not allow him to do much of the work, either, though that may have been for the reason that Kennedy never asked anyone to help him who seemed unwilling. There! exclaimed Craig, about ten o'clock. If we want to get back to the city in any kind of time tonight, we had better quit. Sinclair, I think you can finish repairing these skids in the morning. We locked up the hangar and hurried across to the station. It was late when we arrived in New York, but Kennedy insisted on posting off up to his laboratory, leaving me to run down to the star office to make sure that our story was all right for the morning papers. I did not see him until morning, when a large touring car drove up. Kennedy routed me out of bed, and the tunnel of the car was a huge package carefully wrapped up. Something I worked on for a couple of hours last night. Explained Craig, patting it. If this doesn't solve the problem, then I'll give up. I was burning with curiosity, but somehow, by a perverse association of ideas, I merely reproached Kennedy for not taking enough rest. Oh! he smiled. If I hadn't been working last night to Walter, I couldn't have rested at all for thinking about it. When we arrived at the field, Norton was already there with his head bandaged. I thought him a little pale, but otherwise all right. Girrette was sulking, but Sinclair had finished the repairs and was busily engaging in going over every bolt and wire. Humphries had sent word that he had another offer and had not shown up. We must find him, exclaimed Kennedy. I want him to make a flight today. His contract calls for it. I can do it, Kennedy, asserted Norton. See, I'm all right. He picked up two pieces of wire, then held them at arm's length, bringing them together, tip to tip, in front of him just to show us how he could control his nerves. And I'll be better yet by this afternoon, he added. I can do that stunt with the points of pins, then. Kennedy shook his head gravely, but Norton insisted, and finally Kennedy agreed to give up wasting time trying to locate Humphries. After that, he and Norton had a long whispered conference in which Kennedy seemed to be unfolding a scheme. I understand, said Norton at length. You want me to put this sheet-lead cover over the dynamo and battery first? Then you want me to take the cover off and also to detach the gyroscope and to fly without using it, is that it? Yes, assented Craig. I will be on the roof of the grandstand. The signal will be three waves of my head, repeated till I see you get it. After a quick luncheon we went up to our vantage point. On the way Kennedy had spoken to the head of the Pinkerton's engaged by the management for the meat, and it also dropped in to see the wireless operator to ask him to send up a messenger if he saw the same phenomena as he had observed the day before. On the roof, Kennedy took from his pocket a little instrument with a needle which trembled back and forth over a dial. It was nearing the time for the start of the days flying, and their aeroplanes were getting ready. Kennedy was calmly biting a cigar, casting occasional glances at the needle as it oscillated. Suddenly, as Williams rose in the right machine, the needle swung quickly and pointed straight at the aviation field, vibrating through a small area back and forth. The operator is getting his apparatus ready to signal to Williams, remarked Craig. This is an apparatus called an Undominar. It tells you the direction and something of the magnitude of the Hertzian waves used in wireless. Five or ten minutes passed. Norton was getting ready to fly. I could see through my field-glass that he was putting something over his gyroscope and over the dynamo, but could not quite make out what it was. His machine seemed to leap up in the air as if eager to redeem itself. Norton, with his white bandaged head, was the hero of the hour. No sooner had his aeroplane got up over the level of the trees than I heard a quick exclamation from Craig. Look at the needle, Walter! he cried. As soon as Norton got into the air it shot around directly opposite to the wireless station, and now it's pointing. We raised our eyes in the direction which it indicated. It was precisely in line with the weather-beaten barn. I gasped. What did it mean? Did it mean in some way another accident to Norton, perhaps a fatal this time? Why had Kennedy allowed him to try it today when there was even a suspicion that some nameless terror was abroad in the air? Quickly I turned to see if Norton was all right. Yes, there he was, circling above us in a series of wide spirals, climbing up, up. Now he seemed almost to stop. To hover motionless. He was motionless. His engine had been cut out, and I could see his propeller stopped. He was riding as a ship rides on the ocean. A boy ran up the ladder to the roof. Kennedy unfolded the note and shoved it into my hands. It was from the operator. Wireless out of business again. Curse that fellow who is butting in. Amkeeping record was all it said. I shot a glance of inquiry at Kennedy, but he was paying no attention now to anything but Norton. He held his watch in his hand. Walter, he ejaculated as he snapped it shut, it has now been seven minutes and a half since he stopped the propeller. The Brooks prize calls for five minutes only. Norton has exceeded it fifty percent. Here goes. With his hat in his hand, he waved three times and stopped. Then he repeated the process. At the third time the aeroplane seemed to give a start. The propeller began to revolve. Norton started it on the compression successfully. Slowly he circled down again. Toward the end of the descent, he stopped the engine and volplained or coasted to the ground, landing gently in front of his hangar. A wild cheer rose into the air from the crowd below us. All eyes were riveted on the activity about Norton's biplane. They were doing something to it. Whatever it was, it was finished in a minute, and the men were standing again at a respectful distance from the propellers. Again Norton was in the air. As he rose above the field, Kennedy gave a last glance at his on-dometer and sprang down the ladder. I followed closely. Back of the crowd he hurried down the walk to the entrance near the railroad station. The man in charge of the Pinkertons was at the gate with two other men, apparently waiting. Come on, shouted Craig. We four followed him as fast as we could. He turned in at the lane running up to the yellow house so as to approach the band from the rear, unobserved. Quietly now, he cautioned. We were now at the door of the barn. A curious crackling, snapping noise issued. Craig gently tried the door. It was bolted on the inside. As many of us as could through ourselves like a human catapult against it. It yielded. Inside, I saw a sheet of flame fifteen or twenty feet long. It was a veritable artificial bolt of lightning. A man with a telescope had been peering out of the window, but now was facing us in surprise. The Ma! shouted Kennedy, drawing a pistol. One motion of your hand and your dead man. Stand still where you are. You are caught red-handed. The rest of us shrank back in momentary fear of the gigantic forces of nature which seemed to let loose in the room. The thought in my mind at least was, suppose this archfiend should turn his deadly power on us? Kennedy saw us from the corner of his eyes. Don't be afraid, he said with just a curl to his lip. I've seen all this before. It won't hurt you. It's a high frequency current. The man has simply appropriated the invention of Mr. Nicola Tesla. Seize him. He won't struggle. I've got him covered. Two burly pinkertons leaped forward gingerly into the midst of the electrical apparatus, and in less time than it takes to write it, Lamar was hustled out to the doorway, each arm pinion back of him. As we stood, half days by the suddenness of the turn of events, Kennedy hastily explained, Tesla's theory is that under certain conditions the atmosphere, which is normally a high insulator, assumes conducting properties and so becomes capable of conveying any amount of electrical energy. I myself have seen electrical oscillations such as these in this room of such intensity that while they could be circulated with impunity through one's arms and chest they would melt wires farther along in the circuit. Yet the person through whom such a current is passing feels no inconvenience. I have seen a loop of heavy copper wire energized by such oscillations and a mass of metal within the loop hinted to the fusing point. And yet into the space in which this destructive aerial turmoil was going on, I have repeatedly thrust my hand and even my head without feeling anything or experiencing any injurious after effect. In this form all the energy of the dynamos of Niagara could pass through one's body and yet produce no injury. But diabolically directed, this vast energy has been used by this man to melt the wires in the little dynamo that runs Norton's gyroscope. That is all. Now to the aviation field I have something more to show you. We hurried as fast as we could up the street and straight out on the field across toward the Norton hangar, the crowd gaping in wonderment. Kennedy waved frantically for Norton to come down and Norton, who was only a few hundred feet in the air, seemed to see and understand. As we stood waiting before the hangar, Kennedy could no longer restrain his impatience. I suspected some wireless power trick when I found that the field wireless telegraph failed to work every time Norton's aeroplane was in the air, he said, approaching close to Lamar. I just happened to catch sight of that peculiar wireless mast of yours. A little flash of light first attracted my attention to it. I thought it was an electric spark, but you are too clever for that, Lamar. Still you forgot a much simpler thing. It was the glint of the sun on the lens of your telescope as you were watching Norton that betrayed you. Lamar said nothing. I'm glad to say you had no confederate in the hangar here, continued Craig. At first I suspected it. Anyhow, you succeeded pretty well single-handed. Two lives lost and two machines wrecked. Norton flew all right yesterday when he left his gyroscope and dynamo behind, but when he took them along you were able to fuse the wires in the dynamo. You pretty nearly succeeded in adding his name to those of Brown and Herrick. The whore of Norton's machine told us he was approaching. We scared her to give him space enough to choose the spot where he would alight. As the men caught his machine to steady it, he jumped lightly to the ground. Where's Kennedy? he asked, and then without waiting for a reply he exclaimed, clearest thing I ever saw up there. The dynamo wasn't protected by the sheet-led shield in this flight as in the first today. I hadn't risen a hundred feet before I happened to hear the damnedest sputtering in the dynamo. Look, boys, the insulation is completely burned off the wires, and the wires are nearly all fused together. So it was in the other two wrecked machines, added Kennedy, coming coolly forward. If you hadn't had everything protected by those shields I gave you in your first flight today, you would have simply repeated your fall of yesterday, perhaps fatally. This fellow has been directing the full strength of his wireless high-tension electricity straight at you all the time. What fellow! demanded Norton. The two Pinkerton's shoveling are forward. Norton gave a contemptuous look at him. The lane, he said. I knew you were a crook when you tried to infringe on my patent, but I didn't think you were coward enough to resort to... to murder. Lamar, or rather Delayne, shrank back as if even the protection of his captors was safely compared to the threatening advance of Norton toward him. Poof! exclaimed Norton, turning suddenly on his heel. What a fool I am! The law will take care of scoundrels such as you. What's the grandstand cheering for now? he asked, looking across the field in an effort to regain his self-control. A boy from one of the hangars down the line spoke up from the back of the crowd in a shrill piping voice. You've been awarded the Brooks Prize, sir! he said. End of THE TERROR IN THE AIR Recording by Elliott Miller CHAPTER X of THE SILENT BULLET by Arthur B. Reeve This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Elliott Miller THE BLACK HAND Kennedy and I had been dining rather late in one evening at Luigi's, a little Italian restaurant on the lower west side. We had known the place well in our student days and had made a point of visiting it once a month since, in order to keep in practice in the fine art of gracefully handling long shreds of spaghetti. Therefore, we did not think it strange when the proprietor himself stopped the moment at our table to greet us. Glancing furtively around at the other diners, mostly Italians, he suddenly leaned over and whispered to Kennedy, I have heard of your wonderful detective work, Professor. Could you give a little advice in the case of a friend of mine? Surely, Luigi, what is the case? asked Craig, leaning back in his chair. Luigi glanced around again apprehensively and lowered his voice. Not so loud, sir. When you pay your check, go out, walk around Washington Square and come in at the private entrance. I'll be waiting in the hall. My friend is dining privately upstairs. We lingered a while over our chiante and then quietly paid the check and departed. True to his word, Luigi was waiting for us in the dark hall. With a motion that indicated silence, he let us up the stairs to the second floor and quickly opened the door into what seemed to be a fair-sized private dining-room. A man was pacing the floor nervously. On a table was some food untouched. As the door opened, I thought he startled as if in fear. And I am sure his dark face blanched if only for an instant. Imagine our surprise at seeing Gennaro, the great tenor, with whom merely to have a speaking acquaintance was to argue oneself famous. Oh, it is you, Luigi! he exclaimed in perfect English, rich and mellow. And who are these gentlemen? Luigi merely reprised. Friends, in English also, and then dropped off into a valuable low-toned explanation in Italian. I could see, as we waited, that the same idea had flashed over Kennedy's mind as my own. It was now three or four days since the papers had reported the strange kidnapping of Gennaro's five-year-old daughter, Adelina, his only child, and the sending of a demand for ten thousand dollars ransom, signed, as usual, with the mystic black hand, a name to conjure within blackmail and extortion. As Senior Gennaro advanced towards us, after a short talk with Luigi, almost before the introductions were over, Kennedy anticipated him by saying, I understand, senor, before you ask me. I have read all about it in the papers. You want someone to help you catch the criminals who are holding your little girl? No, no, exclaimed Gennaro excitedly. Not that I want to get my daughter first. After that, catch them if you can, yes. I should like to have someone do it. But read this first and tell me what you think of it. How should I act to get my little Adelina back without hampering a hair of her head? The famous singer drew from a capricious pocketbook a dirty crumpled letter, scrawled on cheap paper. Kennedy translated it quickly. It read, Honourable Sir, your daughter is in safe hands, but by the saints if you give this letter to the police as you did the other, not only she, but your family also, someone near to you, will suffer. We will not fail as we did Wednesday. If you want your daughter back, go yourself alone and without telling a soul to Enrico Albano Saturday night at the twelfth hour. You must provide yourself with ten thousand dollars in bills hidden in Saturday's Il Progresso Italiano. In the back room you will see a man sitting alone at a table. He will have a red flower on his coat. You are to say, a fine opera is Aipegalecchi. If he answers, not without Gennaro, lay the newspaper down on the table. He will pick it up, leaving his own, the Balatino. On the third page you will find written the place where your daughter has been left waiting for you. Go immediately and get her. But by the God, if you have so much as the shadow of the police near Enrico's, your daughter will be sent to you in a box that night. Do not fear to come. We pledge our word to deal fairly if you deal fairly. This is a last warning. Lest you shall forget we will show one other sign of our power tomorrow. La Manonera. The end of this ominous letter was gruesomely decorated with a skull and crossbones, a rough drawing of a dagger thrust through a bleeding heart, a coffin and, under all, a huge black hand. There was no doubt about the type of letter that it was. It was such as half of late years become increasingly common in all our large cities, baffling the best detectives. You have not shown this to the police, I presume? asked Kennedy. Naturally not. Are you going Saturday night? I am afraid to go and afraid to stay away, was a reply, and the voice of the fifty thousand dollars a seasoned tenor was as human as that of a five dollar a week father, for, at bottom, all men higher or low are one. We will not fail as we did Wednesday, re-read Craig. What does that mean? Gennaro fumbled in his pocketbook again, and at last drew forth a typewritten letter bearing the letterhead of the Leslie Laboratories, Inc. After I received the first threat, explained Gennaro, my wife and I went from our apartments at the hotel to her father's, the banker's caesary. You know who lives on Fifth Avenue. I gave the letter to the Italian squad of the police. The next morning my father-in-law's butler noticed something peculiar about the milk. He barely touched some of it to his tongue, and he has been violently ill ever since. I had once sent the milk to the laboratory of my friend Dr. Leslie to have it analyzed. This letter shows what the household escaped. My dear Gennaro, read Kennedy, the milk submitted to us for examination on the tenth has been carefully analyzed, and I begged to hand you here with the result. Specific gravity, 1.036 at 15 degrees centigrade. Water, 84.60 per centigrade. Casin, 3.49 per centigrade. Albumin, 0.56 per centigrade. Globulin, 0.32 per centigrade. Lactose, 5.08 per centigrade. Ash, 0.72 per centigrade. Fat, 3.42 per centigrade. Reisen, 1.19 per centigrade. Reisen is a new and little-known poison derived from the shell of the castor oil bean. Professor Enrich states that one gram of the pure poison would kill 15 million guinea pigs. Reisen was lately isolated by Professor Robert of Rostock, but is seldom found except in an impure state, though still very deadly. It surpasses strict nine, prusic acid, and other commonly known drugs. I congratulate you and yours on escaping, and shall, of course, respect your wishes absolutely regarding keeping secret this attempt on your life. Believe me. Very sincerely yours, C.W. Leslie. As Kennedy handed the letter back, he remarked significantly, I can see very readily why you don't care to have the police figure in your case. It has got quite beyond ordinary police methods. And tomorrow, too, they are going to give another sign of their power, grown genero, sinking into the chair before his untasted food. You say you have left your hotel, inquired Kennedy. Yes, my wife insisted that we would be more safely guarded at the residence of her father, the banker, but we are afraid even there since the poison attempt. So I have come here secretly to Luigi, my old friend Luigi, who is preparing food for us, and in a few minutes one of Cezera's automobiles will be here. And I will take the food up to her, sparing no expense or trouble. She is heartbroken. It will kill her, Professor Kennedy, if anything happens to our little Andalina. Ah, sir, I am not poor myself. A month's salary at the opera house, that is what they ask of me. Gladly would I give it ten thousand dollars all if they asked it. Of my contract with Herr Schloppenkuehr, the director, but the police, they are all for catching the villains. What good will it do me if they catch them, and my little Andalina has returned to me dead? It is all very well for the Anglo-Saxon to talk of justice and the law, but I am what you call an emotional Latin. I want my little daughter, and at any cost, catch the villains afterwards. Yes, I will pay double then to catch them so that they cannot blackmail me again. Only first I want my daughter back. And your father-in-law? My father-in-law, he has been among you long enough to be one of you. He has fought them. He has put up a sign in his banking house. No money paid on threats. But I say it is foolish. I do not know America as well as he, but I know this. The police never succeed. The ransomers paid without their knowledge, and they very often take the credit. I say pay first, then I will swear a righteous vendetta. I will bring the dogs to justice with the money yet on them. Only show me how. Show me how. First of all, replied Kennedy, I want you to answer one question, truthfully, without reservation, as to a friend. I am your friend, believe me. Is there any person, a relative or acquaintance of yourself, or your wife, or your father-in-law, whom you even have reason to suspect of being capable of extorting money from you in this way? I needn't say that that is the experience of the district attorney's office in the large majority of cases of this not-so-called black hand. No, replied the tenor, without hesitation. I know that, and I have thought about it. No, I can think of no one. I know you Americans often speak of the black hand as a myth, coined originally by a newspaper writer. Perhaps it has no organization, but, Professor Kennedy, to me it is no myth. What if the real black hand is any gang of criminals who chooses to use that convenient name to extort money? Is it the less real? My daughter is gone. Exactly, agreed Kennedy. It is not a theory that confronts you. It is a hard-cold fact. I understand that perfectly. What is the address of this Albanos? Luigi mentioned a number on Mulberry Street, and Kennedy made a note of it. It is a gambling saloon, explained Luigi. Albano is a Neapolitan, a canonista, one of my countrymen of whom I am thoroughly ashamed, Professor Kennedy. Do you think this Albano had anything to do with the letter? Luigi shrugged his shoulders. Just then a big limousine was heard outside. Luigi picked up a huge hamper that was placed in a corner of the Roman, followed closely by a senior genero, hurried down to it. As the tenor left us, he grasped our hands in each of his. I have an idea in my mind, said Craig simply, and will try to think it out in detail tonight. Where can I find you tomorrow? Come to me at the opera house in the afternoon, or if you want me sooner at Mr. Cisieri's residence. Good night, and a thousand thanks to you, Professor Kennedy, and to you also, Mr. Jameson. I trust you absolutely because Luigi trusts you. We sat in a little dining room until we heard the door of the limousine bang shut, and the car shoot off with a rattle of the changing gears. One more question, Luigi, said Craig, as the door opened again. I have never been on that block in Melbury Street where this Albanos is. Do you happen to know any of the shopkeepers on it or near it? I have a cousin who has a drugstore in the corner below Albanos, on the same side of the street. Good! Do you think he would let me use his store for a few minutes Saturday night? Of course, without any risk to himself. I think I could arrange it. Very well. Then tomorrow, say at nine in the morning, I will stop here, and we will all go over to see him. Good night, Luigi, and many thanks for thinking of me in connection with this case. I have enjoyed Señor Gennaro singing often enough at the opera, and want to render him this service. And I am only too glad to be able to be of service to all honest Italians. That is, if I succeed in carrying out a plan, I have in mind. A little before nine the following day, Kennedy and I dropped into Luigi's again. Kennedy was carrying a suitcase which he had taken over from his laboratory to our rooms at night before. Luigi was waiting for us, and without losing a minute we sallied forth. By means of the tortuous twists of streets in old Greenwich Village, we came out at last on Bleaker Street and began walking east amid the hurly-burly of races of lower New York. We had not quite reached Mulberry Street when our attention was attracted by a large crowd on one of the busy corners, held back by a cordon of police who were endeavoring to keep the people moving with that burly good nature which the six-foot Irish policeman displays towards the five-foot burden-bearers of southern and eastern Europe who throng New York. Apparently we saw as we edged up into the front of the crowd here was a building whose whole front had literally been torn off and wrecked. The thick plate glass of the windows was smashed to a mass of Greenwich splinters on the sidewalk, while the windows of the upper floors and for several houses down the block in either street were likewise broken. Some thick iron bars which had formally protected the windows were now bent and twisted. A huge hole yawned in the floor inside the doorway, and peering in we could see the desks and chairs a tangled mass of kindling. What's the matter? I inquired of an officer near me, displaying my reporter's fireline badge, more for its moral effect than in the hope of getting any real information in these days of enforced silence towards the press. Blakhand Bum was the laconic reply. I whistled. Anyone hurt? They don't usually kill anyone, do they? asked the officer by way of reply to test my acquaintance with such things. No, I admitted. They destroy more property than lives, but did they get anyone this time? This must have been a thoroughly overloaded bomb. I should judge by the looks of things. Came pretty close to it. The bank hadn't any more than opened when bang went this gas pipe and dynamite thing. Crowd collected before the smoke had fairly cleared. Manu owns the bank was hurt, but not badly. Now come, beat it down to headquarters if you want to find out any more. You'll find it printed on the pink slips, the squeal book by this time. Gains the rules for me to talk, he added, with a good-natured grin. Then to the crowd, gone now, yet a block in traffic keep moving. I turned to Craig and Luigi. Their eyes were riveted on the big guilt sign, half broken, and all askew overhead it read, Ciro di Cesare in company, bankers, New York, Genoa, Naples, Rome, Palermo. This is the reminder so that Genaro and his father-in-law will not forget, I gassed. Yes, added Craig, pulling us away. And Cesare himself is wounded, too. Perhaps that was for putting up the notice refusing to pay. Perhaps not. It's a queer case. They usually set the bombs off at night when no one is around. There must be more back of this than merely to scare Genaro. It looks to me as if they were after Cesare, too. First by poison, then by dynamite. We shouldered our way out through the crowd, and went on until we came to Mulberry Street, pulsing with life. Don, we went past the little shops, dodging the children, and making way for women with huge bundles of sweatshop clothing accurately balanced on their heads, or hugged up under their capricious capes. Here was just one little colony of the hundreds of thousands of Italians, a population larger than the Italian population of Rome, of whose life the rest of New York knew and cared nothing. At last we came to Albano's little wine-shop, a dark, evil, malodorous place on the street level of a five-story, alleged new law tenement. Without hesitation Kennedy entered, and we followed, acting the part of a slumming party. There were a few customers at this early hour, men out of employment and an inoffensive looking lot, though of course they eyed us sharply. Albano himself proved to be a greasy, low-broad fellow who had sort of a cunning look. I could well imagine such a fellow spreading terror in the hearts of simple folk by merely pressing both temples with his thumbs and drawing his long, bony forefinger under his throat, the so-called black hand sign that it showed up many a witness in the middle of his testimony, even in open court. We pushed through the low-ceiling back room, which was empty, and sat down at a table. Over a bottle of Albano's famous California red ink, we sat silently. Kennedy was making a mental note of the place. In the middle of the ceiling was a single gas burner with a big reflector over it. In the back wall of the room was a horizontal oblong window, barred, and with a sash that opened like a transom. The tables were dirty and the chairs rickety, the walls were bare and unfinished, with beams innocent of decoration. Altogether it was as unprepossessing a place as I had ever seen. Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, Kennedy got up to go, complimenting the proprietor on his wine. I could see that Kennedy had made up his mind to his course of action. How sordid crime really is, he remarked as we walked on down the street. Look at that place of Albano's. I defy even the police news reporter on the star to find any glamour in that. Our next stop was at the corner of the little store kept by the cousin of Luigi, who conducted us back at the partition where prescriptions were compounded and found us chairs. A hurried explanation from Luigi brought a cloud to the open face of the drugist, as if he hesitated to lay himself and his little fortune open to the blackmailers. Kennedy saw it and interrupted. All that I wish to do, he said, is to put in a little instrument here and use it tonight for a few minutes. Indeed there will be no risk to you, Vincenzo. Secrecy is what I desire, and no one will ever know about it. Vincenzo was at length convinced, and Craig opened his suitcase. There was little in it except several coils of insulated wire, some tools, and a couple of packages wrapped up, and a couple of pairs of overalls. In a moment Kennedy had donned overalls and was smearing dirt and grease over his face and hands. Under his direction I did the same. Taking the bag of tools, the wire, and one of the small packages, we went out on the street and then up through the dark and ill ventilated hall of the tenement. Halfway up a woman stopped the suspiciously. Telephone company, said Craig Curtley, his permission from the owner of the house to string a wire across the roof. He pulled an old letter out of his pocket, but, as it was too dark to read, even if the woman had cared to do so, we went on up as he had expected, unmolested. At last we came to the roof, where there were some children at play, a couple of houses down from us. Kennedy began by dropping two strands of wire down to the ground in the backyard behind Vincenzo's shop. Then he proceeded to lay two wires along the edge of the roof. We had worked only a little while when the children began to collect. However, Kennedy kept right on until we reached the tenement next to that in which Albano's shop was. Walter, he whispered, just get the children away for a minute now. Look here, you kids, I yelled. Some of you will fall off you get so close to the edge of the roof. Keep back! It had no effect. Apparently they looked not a bit frightened at the dizzying mass of clotheslines below us. Say, is there a candy store on this block? I asked in desperation. Yes, sir, came the chorus. We'll go down and get me a bottle of ginger ale, I asked. A chorus of voices and glittering eyes was the answer. They all would. I took a half-dollar from my pocket and gave it to the oldest. All right now, hustle along and divide the change. With the scamper of many feet they were gone and we were alone. Kennedy had now reached Albano's and as soon as the last head had disappeared below the scuttle of the roof he dropped two long strands down into the backyard as he had done at Vincenzo's. I started to go back, but he stopped me. Oh, that will never do, he said. The kids will see that the wires end here. I must carry them on several houses farther as a blind and trusted luck that they don't see the wires leading down below. We were several houses down, still putting up wires when the crowd came shouting back, sticky with cheap trust made candy and black with eastside chocolate. We opened the ginger ale and forced ourselves to drink it so as to excite no suspicion. Then a few minutes later descended the stairs of the tenement, coming out just above Albano's. I was wondering how Kennedy was going to get into Albano's again without exciting suspicion. He solved it neatly. Now, Walter, do you think you could stand another dip into that red ink of Albano's? I said I might in the interest of science and justice. Not otherwise. Well, your face is sufficiently dirty, he commented, so that with the overalls you don't look very much as you did the first time you went in. I don't think they will recognize you. Do I look pretty good? You look like a coal-harver out of a job, I said. I can scarcely restrain my admiration. All right, then take this little glass bottle, go into the back room and order something cheap, in keeping with your looks. Then, when you are all alone, break the bottle. It is full of gas drippings. Your nose will dictate what to do next. Just tell the proprietor you saw the gas company's wagon on the next block and come up here and tell me. I entered. There was a sinister-looking man with sort of an unscrupulous intelligence, riding at a table. As he wrote, he puffed at his cigar. I noticed a scar on his face, a deep furrow running from the lobe of his ear to his mouth. That, I knew, was a brand set upon him by the Camora. I sat and smoked and sipped slowly for several minutes, cursing him inwardly more for his presence than for his evident look of the Malavita. At last he went out to ask the barkeeper for a stamp. Quickly I tiptoed over to another corner of the room and ground the little bottle under my heel. Then I resumed my seat. The odor that pervaded the room was sickening. The sinister-looking man with the scar came in again and sniffed. I sniffed. Then the proprietor came in and sniffed. Say, I said in the toughest voice I could assume. You got a leak. Wait! I seen the gas company wagon on the next block when I came in. I'll get the man. I dashed out and hurried up the street to the place where Kennedy was waiting impatiently. Rattling his tools, he followed me with apparent reluctance. As he entered the wine shop he snorted after a manner of gasmen. Where is the leak? You find the the leak, grunted albano. What do you gotta get it to pay for? You want me to do your work? Well, half a dozen of you lops get out of here, that's all. Jews all want to be blown to pieces with them pipes and cigarettes. Clear out, crawled Kennedy. They retreated precipitately. And Craig hastily opened his bag of tools. Quick, Walter, shut the door and hold it, exclaimed Craig, working rapidly. He unwrapped the little package and took out a round, flat, disc-like thing of black, vulcanized rubber. Jumping up on a table, he fixed it to the top of the reflector over the gas-chat. Can you see that from the floor, Walter? He asked under his breath. No, I replied. Not even when I know it's there. Then he attached a couple of wires to it and led them across the ceiling toward the window, concealing them carefully by sticking them in the shadow of a beam. At the window, he quickly attached the wires to the two that were dangling down from the roof and shoved them around out of sight. We'll have to trust that no one sees them, he said. That's the best I can do on such short notice. I've never saw a room so bare as this, anyway. There isn't another place I could put that thing without it being seen. We gathered up the broken glass of the gas-tripping's bottle, and I opened the door. It's all right now, said Craig, sauntering out before the bar. Only the next time you has anything to matter, call the company up. I ain't supposed to do this without order, see? A moment later I followed, glad to get out of the oppressive atmosphere, and joined him in the back of Vincenzo's drug-store, where he was again at work. As there was no back window there, it was quite a job to lead the wires around the outside from the backyard and in at a side window. It was at last done, however, without exciting suspicion, and Kennedy attached them to an oblong box of weathered oak, and a pair of specially constructed dry batteries. Now, said Craig, as we washed off the stains of work and stowed the overalls back in the suitcase, that is done to my satisfaction. I can tell Gennaro to go ahead safely now and meet the Black Handus. From Vincenzo's we walked over to Centra Street, where Kennedy and I left Luigi to return to his restaurant, with instruction to be at Vincenzo's at half past eleven that night. We turned into the new police headquarters and went down the long corridor to the Italian Bureau. Kennedy sent in his car to Lieutenant Giuseppe in charge, and we were quickly admitted. The Lieutenant was a short, full-faced, fleshy Italian with lightish hair and eyes that were apparently dull, until you suddenly discovered that that was merely a cover to their really restless way of taking in everything and fixing the impressions on his mind, as if on a sensitive plate. I want to talk about the Gennaro case, began Craig. I may add that I have been rather closely associated with Inspector O'Connor of the Central Office on a number of cases, so I think that we can trust each other. Would you mind telling me what you know about it if I promise you that I, too, have something to reveal? The Lieutenant leaned back and watched Kennedy closely without seeming to do so. When I was in Italy last year, he replied at length, I did a good deal of work tracing up some of Gomorrah's suspects. I had a tip about some of them to look up their records. I didn't say where it came from, but it was a good one. Much of the evidence against some of these fellows who are being tried at the Viterboro was gathered by the caribini areas as a result of hints that I was able to give them, clues that were furnished to me here in America from the source I speak of. I suppose there is really no need to conceal it, though. The original tip came from a certain banker here in New York. I can guess who it was, nodded Craig. Then, as you know, this banker is a fighter. He is a man who organized the White Hand, an organization which is trying to rid the Italian population of the Black Hand. His society had a lot of evidence regarding former members of both the Gomorrah and Naples and the Mafia in Sicily, as well as the Black Hand gangs in New York, Chicago, and other cities. Well, Caesarean, as you know, is Gennaro's father-in-law. While I was in Naples looking up the record of certain criminal, I heard of a peculiar murder committed some years ago. There was an honest old music master who apparently lived the quietest among the most harmless of lives, but it became known that he was supported by Caesarean, had received handsome presents of money from him. The old man was, as you may have guessed, the first music teacher of Gennaro, the man who discovered him. One might have been at the loss to see how he could have an enemy, but there was one who coveted his small fortune. One day he was stabbed and robbed. His murderer ran out into the street, crying out that the poor man had been killed. Naturally, a crowd rushed up in a moment, for it was in the middle of the day. Before the injured man could make it understood who had struck him, the assassin was down the street and lost in the maze of old Naples, where he well knew the houses of his friends who would hide him. The man who is known to have committed that crime, Francesco Piolli, escaped to New York. We are looking for him today. He is a clever man, far above the average. Son of a doctor in a town a few miles from Naples, went to the university, was expelled for some mad prank. In short, he was the black sheep of the family. Of course, over here he is too high-born to work with his hands on a railroad or in a trench. And not educated enough to work at anything else. So he has been preying on his more industrious countryman, a typical case of a man living by his wits with no visible means of support. Now, I don't mind telling you in strict confidence, continued the lieutenant, that it is my theory that old Cesare has seen Piolli here, knew he was wanted for that murder of the old music master, and gave me the tip to look up his record. At any rate, Piolli disappeared right after I returned from Italy, and we haven't been able to locate him since. He must have found out in some way that the tip to look him up had been given by the White Hand. He had been a Camarista in Italy, and had many ways of getting information here in America. He paused and balanced a piece of cardboard in his hand. It is my theory of this case that, if we could locate this Piolli, we could solve the kidnapping of little Andalina Genaro very quickly. That's his picture. Kennedy and I bent over to look at it, and I started in surprise. It was my evil-looking friend with a scar on his cheek. Well, said Craig, quietly handing back the card. Whether or not he is the man, I know where we can catch the kidnappers tonight, Lieutenant. It was Giuseppe's turn to show surprise now. With your assistance, I'll get this man and the whole gang to-night. Rapidly sketching over his plan and concealing just enough to make sure that no matter how anxious the Lieutenant was to get the credit, he cannot spoil the affair by premature interference. The final arrangement was that four of the best men of the squad were to hide in a vacant store across from Vincenzo's early in the evening, long before anyone was watching. The signal for them to appear was to be the extinguishing of the lights behind the colored bottles in the druggist window. A taxi cab was to be kept waiting at headquarters at the same time, with three other good men ready to start for a given address the moment the alarm was given over the telephone. We found Genaro awaiting us with the greatest anxiety at the opera house. The bomb at Cesare's had been the last straw. Genaro had already drawn from the bank ten crisp $1,000 bills. And already had a copy of Il Progresso, in which he had hidden the money between the sheets. Mr. Kennedy, he said, I'm going to meet them tonight. They may kill me. See, I have provided myself with a pistol. I shall fight, too, if necessary, for my little Adelina. But if it is only money they want, then they shall have it. One thing I want to say began Kennedy. No, no, no, cried the Tanner. I will go. You shall not stop me. I do not wish to stop you, Craig reassured him. But one thing. Do exactly as I tell you, and I swear not a hair of the child's head will be injured, and we will get the blackmailers, too. How? eerily asked Genaro. What do you want me to do? All I want you to do is go to Albanos at the appointed time. Sit down in the back room, get into conversation with them, and, above all, senor, as soon as you get the copy of the Ballantino, turn to the third page, pretend not to be able to read the address, ask the man to read it, then repeat it after him, pretend to be overjoyed, offer to set up wine for the whole crowd. Just a few minutes, that's all I ask, and I will guarantee that you will be the happiest man in New York tomorrow. Genaro's eyes filled with tears as he grasped Kennedy's hand. That is better than having the whole police force back of me, he said. I shall never forget, never forget. As we went out, Kennedy remarked, You can't blame them for keeping their troubles to themselves. Here we send a police officer over to Italy to look up the records of some of the worst suspects. He loses his life. Another takes his place. Then, after he gets back, he is set to work on the more clerical routine of translating them. One of his associates is reduced in rank. And so what does it come to? Hundreds of records have become useless because the three years within which the criminals could be deported have elapsed with nothing done. Intelligent, isn't it? I believe it has been established that all but about fifty of seven hundred known Italian suspects are still at large, mostly in the city, and the rest of the Italian population is guarded from them by a squad of police in numbers scarcely one-thirtieth of the number of known criminals. No, it is our fault if the black hand thrives. We've been standing on the corner of Broadway waiting for a car. Now, Walter, don't forget. Meet me at the Bleaker Street station of the subway at eleven thirty. I'm off to the university. I have some very important experiments with the phosphorescent salts that I want to finish today. What has that got to do with the case? I asked, mystified. Nothing, replied Craig. I didn't say it had. At eleven thirty, don't forget. By George, though, that palely must be a clever one. Think of his knowing about Rison. I only heard of it myself recently. Well, here's my car. Goodbye. Craig swung aboard an Amsterdam Avenue car, leaving me to kill eight nervous hours of my weekly day of rest from the star. They passed at length and, at precisely the appointed time, Kennedy and I met. With suppressed excitement, at least on my part, we walked over to Vincenzo's. At night this section of the city was indeed a black enigma. The lights in the shops were olive oil, fruit, and other things were sold, were winking out one by one. Here and there strains of music floated out of wine shops, and little groups lingered on corners conversing in animated sentences. We passed out banals on the other side of the street, being careful not to look at it too closely. For several men were hanging idly about, pickets apparently, with some secret code that would instantly have spread far and wide the news of any alarming action. At the corner we crossed and looked in Vincenzo's window a moment, casting a furtive glance across the street at the dark empty store where the police must be hiding. Then we went in and casually sauntered back at the partition. Luigi was there already. There were several customers still in the store, however, and therefore we had to sit in silence while Vincenzo quickly finished a prescription and waited on the last one. At last the doors were locked and the lights lowered. All except those in the windows which were to serve as signals. Ten minutes to twelve, said Kennedy, placing the oblong box on the table. Genero will be going in soon. Let us try this machine now and see if it works. If the wires have been cut since we put them up this morning, Genero will have to take his chances alone. Kennedy reached over and with a light movement of his forefinger touched the switch. Instantly a babble of voices filled the store, all talking at once rapidly and loudly. Here and there we could distinguish a snatch of conversation, a word, a phrase now and then, even a whole sentence above the rest. There was a clink of glasses. I could hear the rattle of dice on a bare table and an oath. A cork-pot. Somebody scratched a match. We sat bewildered, looking at Kennedy for an explanation. Imagine that you're sitting at a table in Albano's back room, was all he said. This is what you would be hearing. This is my electric ear. In other words, the dictograph used, I am told, by the Secret Service of the United States. Wait! In a moment you will hear Genero come in. Luigi and Vincenzo translate what you hear. My knowledge of Italian is pretty rusty. Can they hear us? whispered Luigi in an awestruck whisper. Craig laughed. No, not yet. But I have only to touch this other switch, and I could produce an effect in that room that would rival the famous writing on Belchazar's Wall. Only it would be a voice from the Wall instead of writing. They seem to be waiting for someone, said Vincenzo. I heard somebody say, He will be here in a few minutes. Now get out. The bamboo of voices seemed to calm down as men withdrew from the room. Only one or two were left. One of them says the child is all right. She has been left in the back yard, translated Luigi. What yard did he say? asked Kennedy. No, they just speak of it as the yard, replied Luigi. Jameson, go outside in the store to the telephone booth and call the headquarters. Ask them if the automobile is ready with the men in it. I rang up, and after a moment the police central answered that everything was right. Then tell central to hold the line clear. We mustn't lose a moment. Jameson, you stay in the booth. Vincenzo, you pretend to be working around your window, but not in such a way as to attract attention. For they have men watching the street very carefully. What is it, Luigi? Generos coming. I just heard one of them say, Here he comes. Even from the booth I could hear the Dictograph repeating the conversation in the dingy little back room of Albanos down the street. He's ordering a bottle of red wine, murmured Luigi, dancing up and down with excitement. Vincenzo was so nervous that he knocked the bottle down in the window, and I believed that my heartbeats were almost audible over the telephone which I was holding. For the police operator called me down for asking so many times if all was ready. There it is, the signal, cried Craig. A fine opera is I, Pagalechi. Now listen for the answer. A moment elapsed then. Not without Generos came a gruff voice in Italian from the Dictograph. A silence ensued. It was tense. Wait, wait, said a voice which I recognized instantly as Generos. I cannot read this. What is this, 23 Print Street? Number 33. She's been left in the backyard, answered the voice. Jameson, called Craig, tell them to drive straight to 33 Print Street. Then we'll find the girl in the backyard. Quick, before the black handers have a chance to go back on their word. I fairly shouted my orders to the police headquarters. Thereof came back the answer, and I hung up the receiver. What was that? Craig was asking of Luigi. I didn't catch it. What did they say? That other voice said to Generos, sit down while I count this. Shhh, he's talking again. If it is a penny less than ten thousand, or I find a mark on the bills, I'll call to Enrico, and your daughter will be spirited away again. Translated, Luigi. Now Generos is talking, said Craig. Good, he's gaining time. He is a Trump. I can distinguish that all right. He's asking the gruff voice fellow if he will have another bottle of wine. He says he will. Good. They must be at Print Street now. We'll give them a few minutes more, not too much, for word will be back to Albanos like wildfire, and then we'll get Generos after all. Ah, they are drinking again. What was that, Luigi? The money is all right, he says. Now, in Genzo, out with the lights. A door banged open across the street, and four huge dark figures darted out in the direction of Albanos. With his finger Kennedy pulled down the other switch and shouted, Generos, this is Kennedy, to the street, Puliza, Puliza. A scuffle and cry of surprise followed. A second voice, apparently from the bar, shouted, Out with the lights, out with the lights. Bang! went a pistol, and another. The dictograph, which had been all sound a moment before, was as mute as a cigar-box. What's the matter? I asked Kennedy as he rushed past me. They have shunned out the lights. My receiving instrument is destroyed. Come on, Jameson, Vincenzo, stay back if you don't want to appear in this. A short figure rushed by me, faster than even I could go. It was the faithful Luigi. In front of Albanos, an exciting fight was going on. Shots were being fired wildly in the darkness, and heads were popping out of tenement windows on all sides. As Kennedy and I flung ourselves into the crowd, we caught a glimpse of Genaro, with blood streaming from a cut on his shoulder, struggling with the policeman while Luigi vainly was trying to interpose himself between them. A man, held by another policeman, was urging the first officer on. That's the man, he was crying. That's the kidnapper I caught him. In a moment Kennedy was behind him. Pay only you lie. You are the kidnapper. Seize him. He has the money on him. That other is Genaro himself. The policeman released the tenor, and both of them seized Paoli. The others were beating at the door, which was being frantically barricaded inside. Just then a taxi cab came swinging up the street. Three men jumped out and added their strength to those who were battering down Albanos barricade. Genaro, with a cry, leapt into the taxi cab. Over his shoulder I could see a tangled mass of dark brown curls, and a childish voice list. Why didn't you come for me, papa? The bad man told me if I waited in the yard you would come for me. But if I cried he said he would shoot me, and I waited and waited. There, there, when a papa's going to take you straight home to mother. A crash followed as the door yielded, and the famous Paoli gang was in the hands of the law. End of The Black Hand. Recording by Elliot Miller. www.voiceofe.com.