by John Blaine
He swung out of bed noiselessly and glanced at the clock. The luminous dial told him it was just past four o’clock.
He stood at the window for long minutes, his eyes roving across the ground below.
A shadow moved through the orchard and was gone so swiftly he wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it; but he kept watching, alert for the slightest movement.
Then he saw the prowler.
A dark shape moved stealthily through the trees toward the back side of the island.
Scotty slipped his feet into moccasins Rick had given him. Then he hurried to the window again. The dark figure had vanished. Scotty guessed he was making for the woods beyond the laboratory.
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The next moment, Scotty was swinging over the window sill. He didn’t want to waste time going downstairs and through the house. He hung full length, then dropped.
Only a cricket broke the dark silence. He turned and went swiftly in the direction the prowler had taken.
In a few moments the orchard was behind him and he stood in the clearing just outside the woods. He hesitated. Since he was going to the back of the island, he decided to go along the shore. The path wasn’t so rough that way. He made his way along the seaward edge of the woods, watching for a sign of the prowler.
Suddenly he stopped short and turned sharply. A light had flickered, just for an instant, off in the woods to his right. There it was again, just for a second. The prowler was using a flashlight.
Somewhere over in that direction was the fork in the trail. Scotty estimated quickly. From what Rick had said, the tide would now be going out, giving easy access to the mainland. The prowler was taking this way to get off the island!
He put a hand on his hip and then withdrew it, berating himself for a fool. The pistol Mr. Brant had given him was back on his bureau. Forgetting the gun had made his problem much more difficult. He would have to get close and take the prowler by hand.
Once he had made the decision, he turned away from the route the man had taken and hurried through the woods in a roundabout direction. He wanted to come out on the bluff overlooking the tidal flat.
His sense of direction steered him accurately. Other marines of his platoon had said that Scotty had “’a compass in his head.” Now that gift came in handy.
He reached the edge of the bluff and made his way along it, his ears attuned to every sound around him.
But the prowler was making no noise. Suddenly Scotty dropped flat to the ground. A sixth sense had warned him that his quarry was only a few yards away, approaching the bluff from the trail.
On the open rim of the flats there was more light. He saw the dim figure come out of the trees to the rim of the ledge and halt; and at the same time, Scotty began to inch his way forward, his elbows and knees moving slowly.
The prowler was bent over, working at something Scotty couldn’t see. He knew only that the vague silhouette had shortened as the man stooped over something on the ground.
He was holding his breath now and was moving with painful slowness. He had only a few feet to go; then he would rise with a piercing shout and charge. The yell would startle the prowler, and before he knew what was happening Scotty would be at him. He hoped grimly that the man wasn’t good at infighting.
But even as the plan took form, Scotty froze, every muscle rigid. Lights had appeared on the New Jersey shore, powerful beams that swept over him and clicked off. There was the sound of an engine coming closer, then it coughed into silence.
Scotty lay still, hugging the ground. The prowler had confederates on the New Jersey shore. The dense woods had hidden the car and muffled the sound of its engine until it appeared at the very edge of the mainland shore.
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But it was more than that! In the brief moment when the headlights had swept the bluff, Scotty had seen the prowler lowering something to the tidal flats by a rope!
CHAPTER XVI
Scotty Disappears
Rick awoke in the Collins farmhouse just after dawn. For a moment he didn’t recognize the strange room; then, as the fog of sleep slipped away, he remembered and climbed quickly out of bed.
“My husband’s clearing a path for your plane,” Mrs. Collins told him. “Sit down and have some breakfast.”
Rick looked longingly at the savory ham and eggs and thanked Mrs. Collins. Then he explained that he must get home as quickly as possible.
Mr. Collins was just finishing the path through the wheat when Rick arrived. He told the boy to forget about paying for the damage, but Rick wouldn’t hear of it. He thanked the farmer and promised to send a check as soon as he got home.
There was a bad moment at the take-off when the Cub almost failed in the full-stall take-off, but Rick put the nose down and coaxed, and the small plane responded gallantly. He circled and waved to his watching host and then turned in the direction of Spindrift.
As the wheels touched turf on the island landing strip, he mused, “I hope Scotty didn’t dig up any trouble. Dad should have gotten home last night. I hope Scotty told him everything.”
Hurrying out of the orchard toward the house, he saw a familiar figure pacing the porch.
“Dad!” he called.
Hartson Brant came to meet him. “I was worried about you, son. Glad to see you got back safely.”
“I’m glad you’re back, too, Dad,” he said fervently. “What about the microtron tube?”
Mr. Brant shook his head. “Vanished. Completely vanished. And there’s no doubt that it was stolen.
I’ve called the police again.”
“We didn’t do such a good job of handling things while you were gone,” Rick said disconsolately.
“It’s not your fault.”
“Then Scotty told you about what happened?”
Hartson Brant nodded. “Scotty kept watch last night; but I’m afraid it was locking the barn after the horse was stolen.”
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“Where is Scotty?” Rick asked.
“I haven’t seen him this morning. I imagine he must be at the laboratory. It’s only seven o’clock, you know.”
The two Brants walked toward the lab buildings and found the place quiet. There was no sign of Scotty.
“He may be in his room,” Mr. Brant suggested.
A feeling of apprehension crept over Rick. “I don’t think so, Dad,” he said, and ran toward the house.
There was no answer when he called Scotty’s name^ and his friend’s room was empty. He ran back to the lab and searched again, without results.
“Scotty has disappeared/’ he told his father tensely.
“ Are you sure?”
“He isn’t around,” Rick said. “There’s no trace of him.”
Mr. Brant’s lips tightened. “First one of my associates turns traitor, and now this. If they’ve hurt that boy—“
“Dad,” Rick interrupted, “here comes that detective again.”
The police lieutenant who had left in such disgust a few days before was striding across the yard from the boat landing.
“Well, what is it this time?” was his greeting to Hart-son Brant.
Rick’s father told the detective about the missing microtron tube, and they walked toward the laboratories together.
“Scotty, where the heck are you?” Rick muttered to himself. He wasn’t on the island, or he’d be at the house or lab. If he had been at the lab and had seen someone, he probably would have followed him. But where? To the mainland? Not by boat, because Rick had noticed that both boats were at the dock.
There was only one other way to get off the island-the tidal flats.
There was no use bothering his father unless the idea produced something definite. He started on a run toward the back of the island.
Rick had not been a member of the Whiteside High School track team for nothing. In a few minutes he was breaking out of the woods into the clearing overlooking the flats.
The shelf of rock was deserted. If Scotty had chased anyone
this far, he must have gone over the bluff.
Rick went to the edge and looked down at the foam-flecked rocks below. It was past low tide and the water was rising again. As he turned back toward the path, he caught a flash of bright color to one side of the trail.
“Scotty!” he yelled, and ran toward the spot of blue.
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It was Scotty’s sweater! Rick reached for it, and as he did so, he felt something heavy, folded inside the garment. His breath caught sharply.
It was the microtron tube!
He stared around him unbelievingly, as though expecting Scotty to materialize out of nowhere and explain. Then he cradled the precious tube in both hands and ran for the laboratory.
Hartson Brant was just walking out of the building with the detective and John Stringfellow.
Mr. Brant saw the tube in Rick’s hands. “Rick! Where did you find it?”
Stringfellow’s jaw dropped.
“I found it at the flats in Scotty’s sweater,” Rick puffed.
“But how—“ Stringfellow stopped. “How on earth did it get there?”
“Apparently Scotty put it there,” Mr. Brant said. “The point is, where did he find it?”
“Doesn’t it seem obvious to you, Hartson?” Stringfellow answered. “He stole it, found he couldn’t get it off the island, and cached it in the woods.”
“Scotty didn’t steal it!” Rick leaped to his friend’s defense. “But when we find him, we’ll know who did, I bet!”
“Is this another one of those things?” the detective cut in dryly. “Can I go back to my little police station and have my nervous breakdown there?”
“You’d better stay, lieutenant,” Hartson Brant said sharply. “That boy may return, and when he does, he is likely to have something to say that will interest you. It’s ridiculous to think that he stole the tube. I suspect he took it away from someone.”
Rick handed his father the tube, and in a few moments everyone on the island knew of its return.
“You may as well know,” Hartson Brant announced to the staff, as they assembled in the main workroom, “that there is an effort being made to wreck this experiment. I do not know why this attempt is being made, but there is no doubt that it has been almost successful. We are on the last lap of our work now, and I have no doubt more serious steps may be taken to stop us. For that reason, I think we should have constant guards around the equipment. Lieutenant, will you call your office and provide for such guards?”
The detective nodded reluctantly. “I think you’re seeing bogiemen,” he said. “However, I’ll do it.”
As the scientists began to break up, to converse in low tones around the room, Rick went to the house for a belated breakfast. There was nothing he could do but wait for some word from Scotty.
To his surprise, his worries hadn’t impaired his appetite and he ate heartily.
He was just buttering a piece of toast when he heard an odd hissing sound. A glance showed him Barby, Page 72
standing just inside the living-room door, where Mrs. Brant could not see her.
Rick rose with studied casualness and walked to her side. Once out of earshot of his mother, he demanded: “What’s up?”
Barby pointed to the telephone, breathless with excitement. “Scotty,” she whispered.
Rick dived for the phone.
“Scotty, where the heck are you?”
“I’ve got them, Rick. Jump in the Cub and fly due West. I’ll be waiting for you near the red steeple just outside of town. I’ll wave my handkerchief. There’s room to land.”
“But what’s it all about? Talk, Scotty!”
“Hold your hat,” Scotty answered. “I’ve found the secret laboratory!”
CHAPTER XVII
The Secret Laboratory
When Scotty saw the prowler lowering something over the bluff, he realized instantly what was happening. The man, whoever he was, had taken the stolen microtron tube from its hiding place and was putting it where his confederates could get it.
That put Scotty in a dilemma. If he rushed the prowler, the tube might be smashed in the struggle. If he didn’t rush him, the man would get away, and he didn’t want that. It was too good an opportunity to discover the identity of the traitor.
In a little while it would be dawn. Already the sky was more blue than black, but he could make out no details. There was nothing familiar about the prowler’s vague silhouette.
He couldn’t take the chance of breaking the fragile tube, he decided. He would have given much for a look at the traitor’s face, but it wasn’t to be risked. The tube came first.
He couldn’t be sure whether the man was holding the end of the rope or whether he had tied it to something. If the man were waiting for his confederates to come and get the tube, he would have to risk an attack.
Then the prowler faded back into the woods and vanished, evidently wanting to get back to the Brant house before daylight. He had left the tube dangling where it could be found with ease.
Already Scotty could hear low voices from across the tidal flats. He had to act fast.
In a moment the object dangling over the bluff was in his hands-a small Boston bag. He jerked it open Page 73
and his probing fingers touched rounded glass. The microtron tube!
He turned to run with it; then inspiration struck him. He took the fragile thing from the bag, hefting it in his hand. He felt around until he discovered a rock of the same approximate weight. He swiftly made the transfer and then lowered the bag back over the bluff.
He pulled off his sweater, and after carefully wrapping the tube in it, he hurried back along the path. He put the sweater a few feet off the trail. Rick would surely search for him, and he would almost certainly come down this path. He couldn’t miss the bright blue of the sweater.
Excitement sang in his veins. What he was about to do would place him in the hands of the enemy, if they only knew it. But the chance he took might clear up the whole mystery. It was worth taking.
He went through the woods to the south side of the bluff, where the sea lapped softly against the island.
He took off his clothes and made a bundle of them; then he slid into the water, holding the garments high.
The water was fairly calm, but the tide pulled at him. He circled wide, away from the rocks of the tidal flat and into deep water. He reached the mainland and dressed swiftly. Then he felt his way through the wooded coast line, until the faint gleam of starlight on glass told him he had reached the car. It was, as he had expected, the gray sedan.
He stood under a sheltering clump of birch, tensely listening. Minutes ticked by and he heard no sound.
He had given the tidal flats a wide berth in his swim to the mainland; they had not seen him. At last, satisfied, he hurried to the car, approaching it cautiously from the rear.
It was deserted. Its occupants were probably picking up the Boston bag right now. If they opened the bag ... But he didn’t believe they would. They would be in a hurry to get clear before the morning light gave them away. Already it was growing lighter.
The trunk of the car was locked. He tested the handle gingerly and then jerked with all his strength, wincing as the compartment snapped open. Then, with sweat starting out on his forehead, he crawled in and let the door swing shut. It closed with a rasp of the hinges and almost locked before he realized there would be no way of getting out again.
Straining to reach his hip pocket in the cramped space, he took his handkerchief and wadded it under the locking bolt. Now the door would be almost closed, but not locked. He blessed the luck that had made the lock the easily sprung kind.
His shoulder rested against a spare tire that gouged into his side, and his knees were drawn up almost to his chin. He wished for a moment that he had gone straight home with the tube. Every time the sedan hit a bump, he would crash against all the projections in the luggage compartment. He’d be lucky if he had any skin left when the ride was over.
It was a
gony to lie perfectly still. Something ground into his ankle. He tried to reach it, but there wasn’t room to shift his shoulders so he could move his arm. After a few tries he lay still, suffering in silence.
The compartment blanketed sound. The men were opening the car doors before he knew they had arrived. The engine roared into life and he knew any slight noise he might make would go unheard. He tried to shift into a more comfortable position.
The car lurched and his head came into violent contact with a metal projection. He stifled a gasp of pain Page 74
and clutched his head in both hands. When the pain subsided a little, he squirmed around until he was slightly more comfortable; then he held on grimly. Whatever road the sedan was traveling seemed to have been chosen for the number of bumps in it.
A new discomfort crowded in on him-hot, fume-filled air. He stood it as long as he could and then pushed the compartment door slightly open. A brown, dirt road flashed by under the car and he knew they had not yet reached the main highway.
It was light outside. Now and then the sedan passed a clearing in the woods and he could see it was almost day. He resigned himself to choking on gasoline fumes and accepted the various jolts and bumps as stoically as he could.
If the ride took him nearer a solution of the Brants’ troubles, it would be worth the discomforts. Scotty felt a strong sense of obligation to the Brants as well as a deep liking for them. They had taken him off the road and accepted him as one of them.
The bumping gave way to a smooth drone of tires and he knew they were on paved road at last. A kind of drowsiness overtook him, born of the close, fume-filled air, the soothing hum of tires, and of his lack of sleep. When the car swerved suddenly into another dirt road, he was almost asleep. A bad jounce roused him painfully, raising another lump on his battered head.
The car swung in a slow circle and stopped.
While he waited, hardly daring to breathe, there was the creak of a metal door opening. The car rolled forward again, but only a few yards. He heard the car doors slam shut.