Chapter 18

“The one thing, you may not know, that has kept us back while wireless telegraphy has gone ahead so fast is that in wireless we have been able to discard coherers and relays and use detectors and microphones in their places. But in telautomatics we have to keep the coherer. That has been the barrier. The coherer until recently has been spasmodic, until we had Hammond’s mercury steel-disc coherer and now my own. Why,” he cried, “we are just on the threshold, now, of this great science which Tesla has named telautomatics—the electric arm that we can stretch out through space to do our work and fight our battles.”

It was not difficult to feel the enthusiasm of the captain over an invention of such momentous possibilities, especially as the Z99 was well out in the harbour now and we could see her flashing her red and green signal-lights back to us.

“You see,” the captain resumed, “I have twelve numbers here on the keys of this radio-combinator—forward, back, stop propeller motor, rudder right, rudder left, stop steering motor, light signals front, light signals rear, launch torpedoes, and so on. The idea is that of a delayed contact. The machinery is always ready, but it delays a few seconds until the right impulse is given, a purely mechanical problem. I take advantage of the delay to have the message repeated by a signal back to me. I can even change it, then. You can see for yourself that it really takes no experience to run the thing when all is going right. Gladys has done it frequently herself. All you have to do is to pay attention, and press the right key for the necessary change. It is when things go wrong that even an expert like myself—confound it—there’s something wrong!”

The Z99 had suddenly swerved. Captain Shirley’s brow knitted. We gathered around closer, Gladys next to her father and leaning anxiously over the transmitting apparatus.

“I wanted to turn her to port yet she goes to starboard, and signals starboard, too. There—now—she has stopped altogether. What do you think of that?”

Gladys stroked the old seafarer’s hand gently, as he sat silently at the table, peering with contracted brows out into the now brilliantly moonlit night.

Shirley looked up at his daughter, and the lines on his face relaxed as though he would hide his disappointment from her eager eyes.

“Confound that light! What’s the matter with it?” he exclaimed, changing the subject, and glancing up at the gas-fixture.

Kennedy had already been intently looking at the Welsbach burner overhead, which had been flickering incessantly. “That gas company!” added the Captain, shaking his head in disgust, and showing annoyance over a trivial thing to hide deep concern over a greater, as some men do. “I shall use the electricity altogether after this contract with the company expires. I suppose you literary men, Mr. Jameson, would call that the light that failed.”

There was a forced air about his attempt to be facetious that did not conceal, but rather accentuated, the undercurrent of feelings in him.

“On the contrary,” broke in Kennedy, “I shouldn’t be surprised to find that it is the light that succeeded.”

“How do you mean?”

“I wouldn’t have said anything about it if you hadn’t noticed it yourself. In fact, I may be wrong. It suggests something to me, but it will need a good deal of work to verify it, and then it may not be of any significance. Is that the way the Z99 has behaved always lately?”

“Yes, but I know that she hasn’t broken down of herself,” Captain Shirley asserted. “It never did before, not since I perfected that new coherer. And now it always does, perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes after I start her out.”

Shirley was watching the lights as they serpentined their way to us across the nearly calm water of the bay, idly toying with the now useless combinator.

“Wait here,” he said, rising hurriedly. “I must send my motor-boat out there to pick her up and tow her in.”

He was gone down the flight of rustic steps on the face of the cliff before we could reply.

“I wish father wouldn’t take it to heart so,” murmured Gladys. “Sometimes I fear that success or failure of this boat means life or death to him.”

“That is exactly why we are here,” reassured Kennedy, turning earnestly to her, “to help him to settle this thing at once. This is a beautiful spot,” he added, as we stood on the edge of the cliff and looked far out over the tossing waves of the sound.

“What is on that other point?” asked Kennedy, turning again toward the harbour itself.

“There is a large cottage colony there,” she replied. “Of course many of the houses are still closed so early in the season, but it is a beautiful place in the summer. The hotel over there is open now, though.”

“You must have a lively time when the season is at its height,” ventured Kennedy. “Do you know a cottager there, a Mrs. Brainard?”

“Oh, yes, indeed. I have known her in Washington for some time.”

“No doubt the cottagers envy you your isolation here,” remarked Kennedy, turning and surveying the beautifully kept grounds. “I should think it would be pleasant, too, to have an old Washington friend here.”

“It is. We often invite our friends over for lawn-parties and other little entertainments. Mrs. Brainard has just arrived and has only had time to return my first visit to her, but I expect we shall have some good times this summer.”

It was evident, at least, that Gladys was not concealing anything about her friend, whether there was any suspicion or not of her.

We had gone into the house to await the return of Captain Shirley. Burke had just returned, his face betraying that he was bursting with news.

“She’s here, all right,” he remarked in an undertone to Kennedy, “in the Stamford cottage—quite an outfit. French chauffeur, two Japanese servants, maids, and all.”

“The Stamford cottage?” repeated Gladys. “Why, that is where Mrs. Brainard lives.”

She gave a startled glance at Kennedy, as she suddenly seemed to realise that both he and the secret-service man had spoken about her friend.

“Yes,” said Burke, noting on the instant the perfect innocence of her concern. “What do you know about Mrs. Brainard? Who, where is, Mr. Brainard?”

“Dead, I believe,” Gladys hesitated. “Mrs. Brainard has been well known in Washington circles for years. Indeed, I invited her with us the night of the Manila display.”

“And Mr. Nordheim?” broke in Burke.

“N-no,” she hesitated. “He was there, but I don’t know as whose guest.”

“Did he seem very friendly with. Mrs. Brainard?” pursued the detective.

I thought I saw a shade of relief pass over her face as she answered, “Yes.” I could only interpret it that perhaps Nordheim had been attentive to Gladys herself and that she had not welcomed his attentions.

“I may as well tell you,” she said, at length. “It is no secret in our set, and I suppose you would find it out soon, anyhow. It is said that he is engaged to Mrs. Brainard—that is all.”

“Engaged?” repeated Burke. “Then that would account for his being at the hotel here. At least, it would offer an excuse.”

Gladys was not slow to note the stress that Burke laid on the last word.

“Oh, impossible,” she began hurriedly, “impossible that he could have known anything about this other matter. Why, she told me he was to sail suddenly for Germany and came up here for a last visit before he went, and to arrange to come back on his return. Oh, he could know nothing—impossible.”

“Why impossible?” persisted Burke. “They have submarines in Germany, don’t they? And rival companies, too.”

“Who have rival companies?” inquired a familiar voice. It was Captain Shirley, who had returned out of breath from his long climb up the steps from the shore.

“The Germans. I was speaking of an attache named Nordheim.”

“Who is Nordheim?” inquired the captain.

“You met him at the Naval building, that night, don’t you remember?” replied Gladys.

“Oh, yes, I believe I do—dimly. He was the man who seemed so devoted to Mrs. Brainard.”

“I think he is, too, father,” she replied hastily. “He has been suddenly called to Berlin and planned to spend the last few days here, at the hotel, so as to be near her. She told me that he had been ordered back to Washington again before he sailed and had had to cut his visit short.”

“When did you first notice the interference with the Turtle?” asked Burke. “I received your message this morning.”

“Yesterday morning was the first,” replied the captain.

“He arrived the night before and did not leave until yesterday afternoon,” remarked Burke.

“And we arrived to-night,” put in Craig quietly. “The interference is going on yet.”

“Then the Japs,” I cut in, at last giving voice to the suspicion I had of the clever little Orientals.

“They could not have stolen the plans,” asserted Burke, shaking his head. “No, Nordheim and Mrs. Brainard were the only ones who could have got into the draughting room the night of the Manila celebration.”

“Burke,” said Kennedy, rising, “I wish you would take me into town. There are a few messages I would like to send. You will excuse us, Captain, for a few hours? Good evening, Miss Shirley.” As he bowed I heard Kennedy add to her: “Don’t worry about your father. Everything will come out all right soon.”

Outside, in the car which Burke had hired, Craig added: “Not to town. That was an excuse not to alarm Miss Shirley too much over her friend. Take us over past the Stamford cottage, first.”

The Stamford cottage was on the beach, between the shore front and the road. It was not a new place but was built in the hideous style of some thirty years ago with all sorts of little turned and knobby ornaments. We paused down the road a bit, though not long enough to attract attention. There were lights on every floor of the cottage, although most of the neighbouring cottages were dark.

“Well protected by lightning-rods,” remarked Kennedy, as he looked the Stamford cottage over narrowly. “We might as well drive on. Keep an eye on the hotel, Burke. It may be that Nordheim intends to return, after all.”

“Assuming that he has left,” returned the secret-service man.

“But you said he had left,” said Kennedy. “What do you mean?”

“I hardly know myself,” wearily remarked Burke, on whom the strain of the case, to which we were still fresh, had begun to tell. “I only know that I called up Washington after I heard he had been at the hotel, and no one at our headquarters knew that he had returned. They may have fallen down, but they were to watch both his rooms and the embassy.”

“H-m,” mused Kennedy. “Why didn’t you say that before?”

“Why, I assumed that he had gone back, until you told me there was interference to-night, too. Now, until I can locate him definitely I’m all at sea—that’s all.”

It was now getting late in the evening, but Kennedy had evidently no intention of returning yet to Lookout Hill. We paused at the hotel, which was in the centre of the cottage colony, and flanked by a hill that ran back of the colony diagonally and from which a view of both the hotel and the cottages could be obtained. Burke’s inquiries developed the fact that Nordheim had left very hurriedly and in some agitation. “To tell you the truth,” confided the clerk, with whom Burke had ingratiated himself, “I thought he acted like a man who was watched.”

Late as it was, Kennedy insisted on motoring to the railroad station and catching the last train to New York. As there seemed to be nothing that I could do at Lookout Hill, I accompanied him on the long and tedious ride, which brought us back to the city in the early hours of the morning.

We stopped just long enough to run up to the laboratory and to secure a couple of little instruments which looked very much like small incandescent lamps in a box. Then, by the earliest train from New York, we returned to Lookout Hill, with only such sleep as Kennedy had predicted, snatched in the day coaches of the trains and during a brief wait in the station.

A half-hour’s freshening up with a dip in the biting cold water of the bay, breakfast with Captain Shirley and Miss Gladys, and a return to the excitement of the case, had to serve in place of rest. Burke disappeared, after a hasty conference with Kennedy, presumably to watch Mrs. Brainard, the hotel, and the Stamford cottage to see who went in and out.

“I’ve had the Z99 brought out of its shed,” remarked the captain, as we rose from the breakfast-table. “There was nothing wrong as far as I could discover last night or by a more careful inspection this morning. I’d like to have you take a look at her now, in the daylight.”

“I was about to suggest,” remarked Kennedy, as we descended the steps to the shore, “that perhaps, first, it might be well to take a short run in her with the crew, just to make sure that there is nothing wrong with the machinery.”

“A good idea,” agreed the captain.

We came to the submarine, lying alongside the dock and looking like a huge cigar. The captain preceded us down the narrow hatchway, and I followed Craig. The deck was cleared, the hatch closed, and the vessel sealed.

XX

THE WIRELESS DETECTOR

Remembering Jules Verne’s enticing picture of life on the palatial Nautilus, I may as well admit that I was not prepared for a real submarine. My first impression, as I entered the hold, was that of discomfort and suffocation. I felt, too, that I was too close to too much whirring machinery. I gazed about curiously. On all sides were electrical devices and machines to operate the craft and the torpedoes. I thought, also, that the water outside was uncomfortably close; one could almost feel it. The Z99 was low roofed, damp, with an intricate system of rods, controls, engines, tanks, stop-cocks, compasses, gauges—more things than it seemed the human mind, to say nothing of wireless, could possibly attend to at once.

“The policy of secrecy which governments keep in regard to submarines,” remarked the captain, running his eye over everything at once, it seemed, “has led them to be looked upon as something mysterious. But whatever you may think of telautomatics, there is really no mystery about an ordinary submarine.”

I did not agree with our “Captain Nemo,” as, the examination completed, he threw in a switch. The motor started. The Z99 hummed and trembled. The fumes of gasoline were almost suffocating at first, in spite of the prompt ventilation to clear them off. There was no escape from the smell. I had heard of “gasoline heart,” but the odour only made me sick and dizzy. Like most novices, I suppose, I was suffering excruciating torture. Not so, Kennedy. He got used to it in no time; indeed, seemed to enjoy the very discomfort.

I felt that there was only one thing necessary to add to it, and that was the odour of cooking. Cooking, by the way, on a submarine is uncertain and disagreeable. There was a little electric heater, I found, which might possibly have heated enough water for one cup of coffee at a time.

In fact, space was economised to the utmost. Only the necessaries of life were there. Every inch that could be spared was given over to machinery. It was everywhere, compact, efficient—everything for running the boat under water, guiding it above and below, controlling its submersion, compressing air, firing torpedoes, and a thousand other things. It was wonderful as it was. But when one reflected that all could be done automatically, or rather telautomatically, it was simply astounding.

“You see,” observed Captain Shirley, “when she is working automatically neither the periscope nor the wireless-mast shows. The wireless impulses are carried down to her from an inconspicuous float which trails along the surface and carries a short aerial with a wire running down, like a mast, forming practically invisible antennae.”

As he was talking the boat was being “trimmed” by admitting water as ballast into the proper tanks.

“The Z99,” he went on, “is a submersible, not a diving, submarine. That is to say, the rudder guides it and changes the angle of the boat. But the hydroplanes pull it up and down, two pairs of them set fore and aft of the centre of gravity. They lift or lower the boat bodily on an even keel, not by plunging and diving. I will now set the hydroplanes at ten degrees down and the horizontal rudder two degrees up, and the boat will submerge to a depth of thirty feet and run constant at that depth.”

He had shut off the gasoline motor and started the storage-battery electric motor, which was used when running submerged. The great motors gave out a strange, humming sound. The crew conversed in low, constrained tones. There was a slightly perceptible jar, and the boat seemed to quiver just a bit from stem to stern. In front of Shirley was a gauge which showed the depth of submergence and a spirit-level which showed any inclination.

“Submerged,” he remarked, “is like running on the surface under dense-fog conditions.”

I did not agree with those who have said there is no difference running submerged or on the surface. Under way on the surface was one thing. But when we dived it was most unpleasant. I had been reassured at the start when I heard that there were ten compressed-air tanks under a pressure of two thousand pounds to the square inch. But only once before had I breathed compressed air and that was when one of our cases once took us down into the tunnels below the rivers of New York. It was not a new sensation, but at fifty feet depth I felt a little tingling all over my body, a pounding of the ear-drums, and just a trace of nausea.

Kennedy smiled as I moved about. “Never mind, Walter,” he said. “I know how you feel on a first trip. One minute you are choking from lack of oxygen, then in another part of the boat you are exhilarated by too much of it. Still,” he winked, “don’t forget that it is regulated.”

“Well,” I returned, “all I can say is that if war is hell, a submarine is war.”

I had, however, been much interested in the things about me. Forward, the torpedo-discharge tubes and other apparatus about the little doors in the vessel’s nose made it look somewhat like the shield used in boring a tunnel under compressed air.

“Ordinary torpedo-boats use the regular automobile torpedo,” remarked Captain Shirley, coming ubiquitously up behind me. “I improve on that. I can discharge the telautomobile torpedo, and guide it either from the boat, as we are now, or from the land station where we were last night, at will.”

There was something more than pride in his manner. He was deadly in earnest about his invention.

We had come over to the periscope, the “eye” of the submarine when she is running just under the surface, but of no use now that we were below. “Yes,” he remarked, in answer to my half-spoken question, “that is the periscope. Usually there is one fixed to look ahead and another that is movable, in order to take in what is on the sides and in the rear. I have both of those. But, in addition, I have the universal periscope, the eye that sees all around, three hundred and sixty degrees—a very clever application of an annular prism with objectives, condenser, and two eyepieces of low and high power.”

A call from one of the crew took him into the stern to watch the operation of something, leaving me to myself, for Kennedy was roaming about on a still hunt for anything that might suggest itself. The safety devices, probably more than any other single thing, interested me, for I had read with peculiar fascination of the great disasters to the Lutin, the Pluviose, the Farfardet, the A8, the Foca, the Kambala, the Japanese No 6, the German U3, and others.

Below us I knew there was a keel that could be dropped, lightening the boat considerably. Also, there was the submarine bell, immersed in a tank of water, with telephone receivers attached by which one could “listen in,” for example, before rising, say, from sixty feet to twenty feet, and thus “hear” the hulls of other ships. The bell was struck by means of air pressure, and was the same as that used for submarine signalling on ships. Water, being dense, is an excellent conductor of sound. Even in the submarine itself, I could hear the muffled clang of the gong.

Then there were buoys which could be released and would fly to the surface, carrying within them a telephone, a light, and a whistle. I knew also something of the explosion dangers on a submarine, both from the fuel oil used when running on the surface, and from the storage batteries used when running submerged. Once in a while a sailor would take from a jar a piece of litmus paper and expose it, showing only a slight discolouration due to carbon dioxide. That was the least of my troubles. For a few moments, also, the white mice in a cage interested me. White mice were carried because they dislike the odour of gasoline and give warning of any leakage by loud squeals.

The fact was that there was so much of interest that, the first discomfort over, I was, like Kennedy, beginning really to enjoy the trip.

I was startled suddenly to hear the motors stop. There was no more of that interminable buzzing. The Z99 responded promptly to the air pressure that was forcing the water out of the tanks. The gauge showed that we were gradually rising on an even keel. A man sprang up the narrow hatchway and opened the cover through which we could see a little patch of blue sky again. The gasoline motor was started, and we ran leisurely back to the dock. The trip was over—safely. As we landed I felt a sense of gladness to get away from that feeling of being cut off from the world. It was not fear of death or of the water, as nearly as I could analyse it, but merely that terrible sense of isolation from man and nature as we know it.

A message from Burke was waiting for Kennedy at the wharf. He read it quickly, then handed it to Captain Shirley and myself.

Have just received a telegram from Washington. Great excitement at the embassy. Cipher telegram has been despatched to the Titan Iron Works. One of my men in Washington reports a queer experience. He had been following one of the members of the embassy staff, who saw he was being shadowed, turned suddenly on the man, and exclaimed, “Why are you hounding us still?” What do you make of it? No trace yet of Nordheim

BURKE.

The lines in Craig’s face deepened in thought as he folded the message and remarked abstractedly, “She works all right when you are aboard.” Then he recalled himself. “Let us try her again without a crew.”

Five minutes later we had ascended to the aerial conning-tower, and all was in readiness to repeat the trial of the night before. Vicious and sly the Z99 looked in the daytime as she slipped off, under the unseen guidance of the wireless, with death hidden under her nose. Just as during the first trial we had witnessed, she began by fulfilling the highest expectations. Straight as an arrow she shot out of the harbour’s mouth, half submerged, with her periscope sticking up and bearing the flag proudly flapping, leaving behind a wake of white foam.

She turned and re-entered the harbour, obeying Captain Shirley’s every whim, twisting in and out of the shipping much to the amazement of the old salts, who had never become used to the weird sight. She cut a figure eight, stopped, started again.

Suddenly I could see by the look on Captain Shirley’s face that something was wrong. Before either of us could speak, there was a spurt of water out in the harbour, a cloud of spray, and the Z99 sank in a mass of bubbles. She had heeled over and was resting on the mud and ooze of the harbour bottom. The water had closed over her, and she was gone.

Instantly all the terrible details of the sinking of the Lutin and other submarines flashed over me. I fancied I could see on the Z99 the overturned accumulators. I imagined the stifling fumes, the struggle for breath in the suddenly darkened hull. Almost as if it had happened half an hour ago, I saw it.