HARRY VINCENT left the boat house while the other men were standing about. Returning to headquarters, he entered the empty building and made directly for the telephone. He put in a call to the hotel that was located five miles from Cedar Cove.
Over the wire, Harry Vincent talked briefly with a man named Cliff Marsland. In guarded tones, Harry indicated what had happened at Cedar Cove. No one listening could have caught the gist of his remarks. For Harry was talking to another agent of The Shadow.
Cliff, waiting near Cedar Cove, would put in a long-distance call to Burbank. Unless instructions came back to the contrary, Harry Vincent would follow Commander Dadren’s order. He would leave for Washington, taking along the set of plans that the skipper had given him.
Harry was sure that no danger remained at Cedar Cove. Last night’s episode had been of his own doing. As yet, there was no indication that a spy actually was in camp. Harry had acted only at The Shadow’s bidding; and even now, Harry wondered what had inspired The Shadow to send his emergency order.
If outside persons were trying to learn the secret of Commander Dadren’s model submarine, they could learn nothing at Cedar Cove. Dadren was canny; he had tested different devices at various times. The submarine, now beneath the boat house, was incomplete. An inspection of it would reveal nothing to spies.
Only the plans were complete. They held the secret of an invention that was apparently destined to revolutionize naval warfare.
Entering his own room, Harry Vincent stowed his precious briefcase in the closet. He locked the door; then sat down at the table and began to work on detailed report sheets. He was determined that no one would learn that the plans were in his possession.
COMMANDER DADREN’S amphibian was a slow ship. Its heavy landing equipment handicapped it. That was why Dadren had taken off so shortly after dawn. He wanted to arrive in Washington before noon, and he needed an early start to accomplish his desire.
Plodding through a head wind, the cumbersome plane jounced north across the Carolina coastal region. Dadren was a stolid pilot; Hasker, behind him, seemed accustomed the monotony of the journey. As slow hours moved by, the ship reached Virginia and continued onward. Washington was not far away.
All the while, the commander had his portfolio close beside him. It was wedged between his body and the side of the pilot’s seat. With his goal almost reached, Dadren smiled beneath the goggles that he had donned. He felt sure that Harry Vincent had been over-apprehensive, so far as danger was concerned.
Then came a break in the monotony. Dadren was flying at an altitude of five thousand feet. Nearly a mile below, lay a wooded acreage; beyond it, the spread-out buildings of a small town. The chart showed the place to be the village of Tarksburg.
Between the woods and the town was an open stretch that looked like a flying field. Two biplanes were in sight; as Dadren passed above, one of the ships took off. It ascended with surprising speed. Watching the plane, Dadren was sure that a stunt flier was at the controls.
For a dozen miles, the commander kept his amphibian ahead of the biplane. He had almost forgotten the stunt flier when he suddenly became aware of the fact that the ship was above him. The biplane was passing the amphibian, traveling at the higher altitude of six thousand feet.
As the commander stared upward, the first inkling of danger came. Something cold was thrust against the back of Dadren’s neck. Turning to glance over his shoulder, the commander looked into the muzzle of a revolver held by Hasker.
WITH his free hand, the mechanic pointed upward. His face assumed a grim scowl. His lips framed words that Dadren could not hear; but he easily made out Hasker’s statement. The mechanic was stating:
“Follow that ship.”
Stolidly, Dadren turned to look ahead. Again, the gun muzzle pressed against his neck. The danger had arrived. As Harry Vincent had warned him, there was a traitor in camp. Hasker, the mechanic, had been delegated to gain the submarine plans.
Dadren delivered a smile that Hasker could not see. Under other circumstances, the commander might have ignored the traitor’s order. By killing Dadren, Hasker would risk his own life.
For a moment, Dadren was on the point of banking the amphibian. Fancy work at the controls would put Hasker in a sweat. Dadren doubted that the man would have nerve to shoot once the straight course ended, for he would be fearful about reaching the controls.
Then Dadren changed his mind. Here was adventure to his liking. He had prepared for such an emergency as this. The envelope now held by Harry Vincent would nullify the theft of the portfolio that Dadren held. Nodding to indicate his willingness to obey Hasker’s order, the commander took up the course set by the biplane.
The two ships deviated from the route to Washington. They passed over hilly terrain that took them on a northwest course. Then the biplane, a mile ahead, began to circle for a landing. Dadren conformed. He saw the other ship glide downward toward an obscure landing field, just west of a wooded hill.
Hasker’s pressing gun was firm. Again, the commander nodded. Banking, he duplicated the biplane’s maneuver. He brought the amphibian to earth one minute after the other ship had landed.
As he came to a stop upon the old field, Dadren saw men scramble from the grounded biplane. He stopped the motor.
“Climb out!” came Hasker’s growl. “No funny business, or you’ll get a bullet in your neck! Leave that package you’ve got with you.”
Dadren stepped from the plane; all the while, Hasker covered him. Three men approached; their leader was dressed like an airplane pilot. He also had a gun. He gave a nod to Hasker and the mechanic alighted, bringing the portfolio.
“Stay here,” growled the pilot of the biplane, turning to his men. “We’ll take care of this mug.”
The pilot and Hasker marched Commander Dadren toward the trees. They came to the marks of an old dirt road and continued into the woods. There they saw a man waiting. He was tall, his face sported a heavy black beard.
“Who’s that guy?” questioned Hasker, suspiciously. He was speaking to the pilot of the biplane.
“The chief,” was the reply.
“Don’t look like him,” stated Hasker, still suspicious. “He never had a beard when I met him.”
“It’s phony,” chuckled the pilot. “That’s where the chief is smart. He wears one rig when he meets me — another when he meets you. Different rigs at different times—”
THEY had arrived beside the bearded man. Commander Dadren stopped. He was face to face with Eric Hildrow; but the master plotter was wearing another of his rough disguises. Dadren, eyeing the beard, could not trace Hildrow’s features.
“Good work, Wenshell,” said Hildrow, to the pilot of the biplane. “I shall need you no longer. Take care of Commander Dadren’s plane; then return to the Tarksburg field. Be ready to disband the air circus — or what remains of it — after you have heard from me.”
“All right, chief,” returned Wenshell.
“You also have my commendation, Hasker,” said Hildrow, smugly, while Wenshell was walking away. “Inasmuch as you came with Commander Dadren, I shall have you remain with him. You have the plans?”
“In here, chief,” returned Hasker, showing the portfolio.
“Good,” said Hildrow. Then, to Dadren: “Come, commander. We are awaiting you.”
“Come where?” questioned Dadren.
“To the machine that I have waiting,” chuckled Hildrow. “A short motor trip will take you to the comfortable place that I have provided for your stay with us.”