by Unknown
The automobile came in answer to a signal and the three in silence entered it. The car trembled and had just begun to move when Mr. Grimm remembered something, and leaped out.
“Wait for me!” he called. “There’s a man locked in the coal-bin!”
He disappeared into the house, and Miss Thorne, with a gasp of horror sank back in her seat with face like chalk. The prince glanced uneasily at his watch, then spoke curtly to the chauffeur.
“Run the car up out of danger; there’ll be an explosion there in a moment.”
They had gone perhaps a hundred feet when the building they had just left seemed to be lifted bodily from the ground by a great spurt of flame which tore through its center, then collapsed like a thing of cards. The prince, unmoved, glanced around at Miss Thorne; she lay in a dead faint beside him.
“Go ahead,” he commanded. “Baltimore.”
XXIV
THE PERSONAL EQUATION
Mr. Campbell ceased talking and the deep earnestness that had settled on his face passed, leaving instead the blank, inscrutable mask of benevolence behind which his clock-like genius was habitually hidden. The choleric blue eyes of the president of the United States shifted inquiringly to the thoughtful countenance of the secretary of state at his right, thence along the table around which the official family was gathered. It was a special meeting of the cabinet called at the suggestion of Chief Campbell, and for more than an hour he had done the talking. There had been no interruption.
“So much!” he concluded, at last. “If there is any point I have not made clear Mr. Grimm is here to explain it in person.”
Mr. Grimm rose at the mention of his name and stood with his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes met those of the chief executive listlessly.
“We understand, Mr. Grimm,” the president began, and he paused for an instant to regard the tall, clean-cut young man with a certain admiration, “we understand that there does not actually exist such a thing as a Latin compact against the English-speaking peoples?”
“On paper, no,” was the reply.
“You personally prevented the signing of the compact?”
“I personally caused the destruction of the compact after several signatures had been attached,” Mr. Grimm amended. “Throughout I have acted under the direction of Mr. Campbell, of course.”
“You were in very grave personal danger?” the president went on.
“It was of no consequence,” said Mr. Grimm simply.
The president glanced at Mr. Campbell and the chief shrugged his shoulders.
“You are certain, Mr. Grimm,” and the president spoke with great deliberation, “you are certain that the representatives of the Latin countries have not met since and signed the compact?”
“I am not certain—no,” replied Mr. Grimm promptly. “I am certain, however, that the backbone of the alliance was broken—its only excuse for existence destroyed—when they permitted me to learn of the wireless percussion cap which would have placed the navies of the world at their mercy. Believe me, gentlemen, if they had kept their secret it would have given them dominion of the earth. They made one mistake,” he added in a most matter-of-fact tone. “They should have killed me; it was their only chance.”
The president seemed a little startled at the suggestion.
“That would have been murder,” he remarked.
“True,” Mr. Grimm acquiesced, “but it seems an absurd thing that they should have permitted the life of one man to stand between them and the world power for which they had so long planned and schemed. His Highness, Prince Benedetto d’Abruzzi believed as I do, and so expressed himself.” He paused a moment; there was a hint of surprise in his manner. “I expected to be killed, of course. It seemed to me the only thing that could happen.”
“They must have known of the far-reaching consequences which would follow upon your escape, Mr. Grimm. Why didn’t they kill you?”
Mr. Grimm made a little gesture with both hands and was silent.
“May they not yet attempt it?” the president insisted.
“It’s too late now,” Mr. Grimm explained. “They had everything to gain by killing me there as I stood in the room where I had interrupted the signing of the compact, because that would have been before I had placed the facts in the hands of my government. I was the only person outside of their circle who knew all of them. Only the basest motive could inspire them to attempt my life now.”
There was a pause. The secretary of state glanced from Mr. Grimm to Mr. Campbell with a question in his deep-set eyes.
“Do I understand that you placed a Miss Thorne and the prince under—that is, you detained them?” he queried. “If so, where are they now?”
“I don’t know,” was the reply. “Just before the explosion the three of us entered an automobile together, and then as we were starting away I remembered something which made it necessary for me to reenter the house. When I came out again, just a few seconds before the explosion, the prince and Miss Thorne had gone.”
The secretary’s lips curled down in disapproval.
“Wasn’t it rather unusual, to put it mildly, to leave your prisoners to their own devices that way?” he asked.
“Well, yes,” Mr. Grimm admitted. “But the circumstances were unusual. When I entered the house I had locked a man in the cellar. I had to go back to save his life, otherwise—”
“Oh, the guard at the door, you mean?” came the interruption. “Who was it?”
Mr. Grimm glanced at his chief, who nodded.
“It was Mr. Charles Winthrop Rankin of the German embassy,” said the young man.
“Mr. Rankin of the German embassy was on guard at the door?” demanded the president quickly.
“Yes. We got out safely.”
“And that means that Germany was—!”
The president paused and startled glances passed around the table. After a moment of deep abstraction the secretary went on:
“So Miss Thorne and the prince escaped. Are they still in this country?”
“That I don’t know,” replied Mr. Grimm. He stood silent a moment, staring at the president. Some subtle change crept into the listless eyes, and his lips were set. “Perhaps I had better explain here that the personal equation enters largely into an affair of this kind,” he said at last, slowly. “It happens that it entered into this. Unless I am ordered to pursue the matter further I think it would be best for all concerned to accept the fact of Miss Thorne’s escape, and—” He stopped.
There was a long, thoughtful silence. Every man in the room was studying Mr. Grimm’s impassive face.
“Personal equation,” mused the president. “Just how, Mr. Grimm, does the personal equation enter into the affair?”
The young man’s lips closed tightly, and then:
“There are some people, Mr. President, whom we meet frankly as enemies, and we deal with them accordingly; and there are others who oppose us and yet are not enemies. It is merely that our paths of duty cross. We may have the greatest respect for them and they for us, but purposes are unalterably different. In other words there is a personal enmity and a political enmity. You, for instance, might be a close personal friend of the man whom you defeated for president. There might”—he stopped suddenly.
“Go on,” urged the president.
“I think every man meets once in his life an individual with whom he would like to reckon personally,” the young man continued. “That reckoning may not be a severe one; it may be less severe than the law would provide; but it would be a personal reckoning. There is one individual in this affair with whom I should like to reckon, hence the personal equation enters very largely into the case.”
For a little while the silence of the room was unbroken, save for the steady tick-tock of a great clock in one corner. Mr. Grimm’s eyes were fixed unwaveringly upon those of the chief executive. At last the secretary of war crumpled a sheet of paper impatiently and hitched his chair up to the table.
“C
oming down to the facts it’s like this, isn’t it?” he demanded briskly. “The Latin countries, by an invention of their own which the United States and England were to be duped into purchasing, would have had power to explode every submarine mine before attacking a port? Very well. This thing, of course, would have given them the freedom of the seas as long as we were unable to explode their submarines as they were able to explode ours. And this is the condition which made the Latin compact possible, isn’t it?”
He looked straight at Mr. Grimm, who nodded.
“Therefore,” he went on, “if the Latin compact is not a reality on paper; if the United States and England do not purchase this—this wireless percussion cap, we are right back where we were before it all happened, aren’t we? Every possible danger from that direction has passed, hasn’t it? The world-war of which we have been talking is rendered impossible, isn’t it?”
“That’s a question,” answered Mr. Grimm. “If you will pardon me for suggesting it, I would venture to say that as long as there is an invention of that importance in the hands of nations whom we now know have been conspiring against us for fifty years, there is always danger. It seems to me, if you will pardon me again, that for the sake of peace we must either get complete control of that invention or else understand it so well that there can be no further danger. And again, please let me call your attention to the fact that the brain which brought this thing into existence is still to be reckoned with. There may, some day, come a time when our submarines may be exploded at will regardless of this percussion cap.”
The secretary of war turned flatly upon Chief Campbell.
“This woman who is mixed up in this affair?” he demanded. “This Miss Thorne. Who is she?”
“Who is she?” repeated the chief. “She’s a secret agent of Italy, one of the most brilliant, perhaps, that has ever operated in this or any other country. She is the pivot around which the intrigue moved. We know her by a dozen names; any one of them may be correct.”
The brows of the secretary of war were drawn down in thought as he turned to the president.
“Mr. Grimm was speaking of the personal equation,” he remarked pointedly. “I think perhaps his meaning is clear when we know there is a woman in the case. We know that Mr. Grimm has done his duty to the last inch in this matter; we know that alone and unaided, practically, he has done a thing that no living man of his relative position has ever done before—prevented a world-war. But there is further danger—he himself has called our attention to it—therefore, I would suggest that Mr. Grimm be relieved of further duty in this particular case. This is not a moment when the peace of the world may be imperiled by personal feelings of—of kindliness for an individual.”
Mr. Grimm received the blow without a tremor. His hands were still idly clasped behind his back; the eyes fastened upon the president’s face were still listless; the mouth absolutely without expression.
“As Mr. Grimm has pointed out,” the secretary went on, “we have been negotiating for this wireless percussion cap. I have somewhere in my office the name and address of the individual with whom these negotiations have been conducted. Through that it is possible to reach the inventor, and then—! I suggest that we vote our thanks to Mr. Grimm and relieve him of this particular case.”
The choleric eyes of the president softened a little, and grew grave as they studied the impassive face of the young man.
“It’s a strange situation, Mr. Grimm,” he said evenly. “What do you say to withdrawing?”
“I am at your orders, Mr. President,” was the reply.
“No one knows better what you have done than the gentlemen here at this table,” the president went on slowly. “No one questions that you have done more than any other man could have done under the circumstances. We understand, I think, that indirectly you are asking immunity for an individual. I don’t happen to know the liability of that individual under our law, but we can’t make any mistake now, Mr. Grimm, and so—and so—” He stopped and was silent.
“I had hoped, Mr. President, that what I have done so far—and I don’t underestimate it—would have, at least, earned for me the privilege of remaining in this case until its conclusion,” said Mr. Grimm steadily. “If it is to be otherwise, of course I am at—”
“History tells us, Mr. Grimm,” interrupted the president irrelevantly, “that the frou-frou of a woman’s skirt has changed the map of the world. Do you believe,” he went on suddenly, “that a man can mete out justice fairly, severely if necessary, to one for whom he has a personal regard?”
“I do, sir.”
“Perhaps even to one—to a woman whom he might love?”
“I do, sir.”
The president rose.
“Please wait in the anteroom for a few minutes,” he directed.
Mr. Grimm bowed himself out. At the end of half an hour he was again summoned into the cabinet chamber. The president met him with outstretched hand. There was more than mere perfunctory thanks in this—there was the understanding of man and man.
“You will proceed with the case to the end, Mr. Grimm,” he instructed abruptly. “If you need assistance ask for it; if not, proceed alone. You will rely upon your own judgment entirely. If there are circumstances which make it inadvisable to move against an individual by legal process, even if that individual is amenable to our laws, you are not constrained so to do if your judgment is against it. There is one stipulation: You will either secure the complete rights of the wireless percussion cap to this government or learn the secret of the invention so that at no future time can we be endangered by it.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Grimm quietly. “I understand.”
“I may add that it is a matter of deep regret to me,” and the president brought one vigorous hand down on the young man’s shoulder, “that our government has so few men of your type in its service. Good day.”
XXV
WE TWO
Mr. Grimm turned from Pennsylvania Avenue into a cross street, walked along half a block or so, climbed a short flight of stairs and entered an office.
“Is Mr. Howard in?” he queried of a boy in attendance.
“Name, please.”
Mr. Grimm handed over a sealed envelope which bore the official imprint of the Department of War in the upper left hand corner; and the boy disappeared into a room beyond. A moment later he emerged and held open the door for Mr. Grimm. A gentleman—Mr. Howard—rose from his seat and stared at him as he entered.
“This note, Mr. Grimm, is surprising,” he remarked.
“It is only a request from the secretary of war that I be permitted to meet the inventor of the wireless percussion cap,” Mr. Grimm explained carelessly. “The negotiations have reached a point where the War Department must have one or two questions answered directly by the inventor. Simple enough, you see.”
“But it has been understood, and I have personally impressed it upon the secretary of war that such a meeting is impossible,” objected Mr. Howard. “All negotiations have been conducted through me, and I have, as attorney for the inventor, the right to answer any question that may properly be answered. This now is a request for a personal interview with the inventor.”
“The necessity for such an interview has risen unexpectedly, because of a pressing need of either closing the deal or allowing it to drop,” Mr. Grimm stated. “I may add that the success of the deal depends entirely on this interview.”
Mr. Howard was leaning forward in his chair with wrinkled brow intently studying the calm face of the young man. Innocent himself of all the intrigue and international chicanery back of the affair, representing only an individual in these secret negotiations, he saw in the statement, as Mr. Grimm intended that he should, the possible climax of a great business contract. His greed was aroused; it might mean hundreds of thousands of dollars to him.
“Do you think the deal can be made?” he asked at last.
“I have no doubt there will be some sort of a deal,” repl
ied Mr. Grimm. “As I say, however, it is absolutely dependent on an interview between the inventor and myself at once—this afternoon.”
Mr. Howard thoughtfully drummed on his desk for a little while. From the first, save in so far as the patent rights were concerned, he had seen no reasons for the obligations of utter secrecy which had been enforced upon him. Perhaps, if he laid it before the inventor in this new light, with the deal practically closed, the interview would be possible!
“I have no choice in the matter, Mr. Grimm,” he said at last. “I shall have to put it to my client, of course. Can you give me, say, half an hour to communicate with him?”
“Certainly,” and Mr. Grimm rose obligingly. “Shall I wait outside here or call again?”
“You may wait if you don’t mind,” said Mr. Howard. “I’ll be able to let you know in a few minutes, I hope.”
Mr. Grimm bowed and passed out. At the end of twenty-five minutes the door of Mr. Howard’s private office opened and he appeared. His face was violently red, evidently from anger, and perspiration stood on his forehead.
“I can’t do anything with him,” he declared savagely. “He says simply that negotiations must be conducted through me or not at all.”
Mr. Grimm had risen; he bowed courteously.
“Very well,” he said placidly. “You understand, of course, as the note says, that this refusal of his terminates the negotiations, so—”
“But just a moment—” interposed Mr. Howard quickly.
“Good day,” said Mr. Grimm.
The door opened and closed; he was gone. Three minutes later he stepped into a telephone booth at a near-by corner and took down the receiver.
“Hello, central!” he called, and then: “This is Mr. Grimm of the Secret Service. What number was Mr. Howard talking to?”
“Eleven double-nought six, Alexandria,” was the reply.
“Where is the connection? In whose name?”
“The connection is five miles out from Alexandria in a farmhouse on the old Baltimore Road,” came the crisp, business-like answer. “The name is Murdock Williams.”