CHAPTER XIII

SECRET SERVICE

The young Air Mail pilot whom Johnny had, for the tenth time that day, decided to search out, had not been idle.

Two long hours he had crouched beside the wall of the museum waiting for the one who had robbed him of the precious, mysterious package. He waited in vain. At last he gave up hope.

With leaden feet and drooping spirits he left the park in search of a restaurant.

A hot breakfast revived his spirits. “I’ll go back and face the music,” he told himself with a grim set of his jaw. “What I did was, I judged, for the greatest good of all, and no man can do more than that.”

He climbed a stairway, boarded an elevated train and went rattling away toward the distant airport.

He settled back in his place for half an hour’s ride and allowed his thoughts to wander. They were long, long thoughts. He was the youngest air pilot in the mail service. He had worked hard to reach that goal. The money for his flying instruction had been saved bit by bit. When he had earned an air pilot’s license he still had a long way to go. Little by little, he had piled up hours of successful flight until he was considered eligible for the Air Mail service. Months as a substitute, with an occasional flight, had preceded his regular commission.

“And now this!” he groaned.

He had not entered the service through a desire for adventure alone. He wished to serve his country. Knowing how rapidly the air service was developing, he had decided that there lay his great opportunity.

“Romance, adventure,” he murmured, “that’s all some people see in this airplane business.” He had once heard Lindbergh say that piloting a great passenger plane was about as exciting as driving a truck.

“And yet,” he smiled grimly, “the last few hours have shown me adventure enough. Forced down by an unknown pilot in the night.” He wondered now who his assailants could have been. He no longer believed they had been after the priceless violin.

“It was that other package sent by one radical group to another. But what did it contain? What must it contain to incite men to such reckless deeds of intrigue?”

He saw now where he had made his mistake. Having learned from the noted violinist, Fritz Lieber, something of the nature of the package he was carrying and of the people to whom it was addressed, he should have moved with greater caution.

“Too late to think about that now,” he told himself. “Have to go to Crane and tell my story.”

Robert Crane, Jr., was District Manager of the Air Transportation Company. He was young, a college graduate, and son of a rich man. Curlie had seen little of him but had always feared him. Old men of long experience, whatever their importance in the world of affairs, never frightened him. But of a young man in a high position he simply did not know what to expect, that was all.

Thus it was with many misgivings that he sought out the young manager’s office.

Robert Crane sprang to his feet the instant the boy entered the door.

“Where have you been?” he demanded.

“I—”

“Delivering the mail in person, I am told. Since when has our company held that contract?”

“In an emergency,” Curlie was getting control of himself, “when there is great need one does what seems best.”

“Sit down!” The manager indicated a chair. Curlie sat down. “Now tell me about it, but be brief. There’s a man from the Government Secret Service waiting in the back office.”

Curlie shuddered, cleared his throat twice, spoke a few words, choked up, took a fresh start. Then securing a firm grip on himself he proceeded to tell his story.

The young manager sat erect in his chair. The clock ticked off the seconds. From somewhere far away came the rumble of an airplane motor. When the boy had finished he was aware that he had told his story well.

“That—ah—” The young manager started to speak as Curlie finished, then stopped to stare at the ceiling. He punched two holes through a blotter, looked up, then punched three more.

“Undecided,” the boy thought to himself. “He’s young. That’s the trouble. An older man would know exactly what to do. I—”

“We’ll talk to that man.” Robert Crane broke in on his thoughts. He rang a bell. A girl appeared.

“Show in Mr. Simons.”

A moment later a short, stout man with bristling gray hair appeared.

“This is Curlie Carson,” said the manager, “our man.” Curlie liked the way he said “our.” “Sit down. I’ll tell you about it.”

Simons sat down. “Secret Service,” Curlie thought, and shuddered anew.

In the five minutes that followed Curlie’s admiration for Robert Crane grew by leaps and bounds. He told Curlie’s story to the Secret Service man, told it as the boy could not have told it, and all in the space of five minutes.

“What if he is a rich man’s son?” Curlie said to himself. “He’s not to blame for that. He has his work to do in the world just as the rest of us have. He’ll do it, too.”

“That’s his story,” Robert Crane finished, “and don’t forget this; it’s _our_ story as well. He is _our_ man. We trust him; don’t hire a man we can’t. He’s _our_ man. We’ll back him with the last resource we can command!”

A lump rose in Curlie’s throat. He felt that he was about to disgrace himself with tears. So this was Robert Crane, the young man he had feared!

Regaining control of himself, he turned to face the Secret Service man.

“Quite right, Mr. Crane, quite right,” Mr. Simons was saying. “But the young man’s conduct has been—well, irregular. One doesn’t open locked mailsacks with a knife, not as a common thing.

“And this affair,” he leaned suddenly forward. “You are not aware, perhaps, that this innocent looking package contained a king’s ransom in jewels?”

Curlie stared. Crane started to speak, then stopped.

“Fact.” The Secret Service man’s voice cracked like a pistol. “Smuggled in. Part of the Crown Jewels of Russia. Reds over there had ’em. They decided to risk sneaking ’em here to be sold over the grapevine trail. Then, like as not, they’d spend the money trying to make this a Godless country without families or homes.

“And now,” he exclaimed, “for all we know they will succeed! Who has that package now? Tell me that! Who but some Bolshevik? Who dares even guess it is anyone else? And where is our Government’s rightful customs duty on those jewels? Gone. Hundreds of thousands, to say nothing of the inestimable harm that that money will do!”

He reached for his hat. “Well, we’ve got to get that man!” He went stumping out of the room.

“Guess that’s about all.” There was a kindly look on the young manager’s face, as he turned to Curlie. “You need sleep. Better get some. And don’t worry. We’ll fix it, we and God. Don’t ever forget that God is in on every transaction, either for or against us. We try to be on His side.”

Curlie did not speak. He could not. He turned and walked slowly from the room.

He was hardly out of the door when he was confronted by an eager-faced young lady.

“If you please,” she said, “is Mr. Carson in there?”

“I am Curlie Carson.”

“Now what?” the boy thought to himself.

“I am Grace Palmer,” said the girl, “and I wanted so much to see you.”

Grace Palmer. Worse and worse. He had never heard of her. Here was fresh mystery.

Yet, if he had but known it, this sudden meeting was to figure largely in his destiny.