Baldwin continued. “There’s something fishy about the death of Helen Jeffers. The girl was in charge of her brother’s campaign headquarters and apparently perfectly well, right up to election day. The coroner who signed her death certificate hasn’t been seen since. Her brother was reported prostrated by her death—went into seclusion immediately in a mountain camp—yet no doctor went with him.”
“But weren’t Southworth and Vierecke there?” Adams interrupted.
Baldwin replied, “Southworth—now Rear Admiral and White House physician—didn’t arrive at the mountain lodge until two weeks after election. Doctor Vierecke didn’t land from Austria until a week after that.”
“But if Jeffers wasn’t ill, why have doctors at all?” asked Lincoln. “He seemed weak and shaken when he came back from the mountains, just before inauguration.”
“That’s the next point which I wish investigated,” Baldwin asserted. “Just what is the why of Admiral Southworth and his Austrian assistant? Jack, can’t you get a line on them? You’re in the White House.”
“I know something about them already,” Adams diffidently replied. “Southworth did research work in hormones, before he went into the Navy. That’s how he happened to know Vierecke, as hormones was Vierecke’s specialty at Goettingen.”
“Not much to go on,” said Lincoln. “Do some spying, Jack. I understand that two of them have a fully equipped chemical and biological laboratory in the basement of the White House. Why should there be such an establishment there? We must investigate everything the least bit screwy about the President, in the hope of some day finding his weak spot. Well, go on, Sim.”
Baldwin thrust his hand into a briefcase as fat as himself, and pulled out a photograph. The others clustered around. From the picture, there looked up at them the frank sweet face of a young girl. “Helen Jeffers,” he announced, “just before her death or disappearance. You’d know she was a Jeffers, wouldn’t you?”
But Adams could see no resemblance to her brother. Soft wavy dark hair. Frank open eyes. Perfect features. Full alluring lips. Softly curved neck and shoulders.
Strange that such a thoroughly feminine girl had formed a compatible member of that triumvirate—with Steel Jeffers, the popular and magnetic front; and Dougherty, the practical wirepulling organizer—which had pushed Steel Jeffers up to the position of supreme power in America!
“Some baby!” murmured several of the conspirators, appraisingly.
But a stronger feeling touched Lieutenant Adams. Of course, he had seen newspaper cuts of her at the time of her brother’s campaign, but this was different. He squared his shoulders with determination. His gray eyes narrowed, and a whimsical smile played on his lips.
“Gentlemen,” he announced, with mock solemnity, “I am going to find Helen Jeffers for you.” In his mind he added: “And for myself.”
Chapter II
The next morning, a bright sunlit June day, Lieutenant Adams swung through the streets with a determined stride on his way to his post at the White House. Mechanically he returned the Roman salutes of the black-uniformed military men whom he passed. Civilians were few on the streets of Washington these days. Washington had become a vast military establishment.
Entering the executive mansion, he passed the shrewd-faced, bushy-eyebrowed old sea doctor, Admiral Southworth, going out. Adams reported to one of the Assistant Secretaries, and was informed that Steel Jeffers was not up yet. Fine! This would give him time on his own to investigate the mysterious laboratory.
As he approached the always-locked doors in the cellar, they opened. Ducking quickly behind a pillar, he saw the bullet-headed Dr. Vierecke emerge, hat on head and without his white smock, then turn, key in hand, and lock the doors. Glancing furtively around, the doctor shoved the key into the dirt of a potted plant standing nearby, then hurried off down the corridor. Adams slipped out from behind the pillar, and followed until Vierecke left the building. Then he hastened to the office wing, and asked the appointment clerk, “Where are Admiral Southworth and Dr. Vierecke?”
The girl consulted a memorandum book and replied, “They’ve both gone to a conference over at the Public Health Service. Won’t be back until after lunch.”
Grinning to himself, Adams strode back, extricated the key, from the dirt of the plant pot, unlocked the laboratory, and entered, locking the door behind him.
His gray eyes were alight with anticipation. What an opportunity! The only two men who ever entered the laboratory would be safely out of the way for the rest of the morning. And if the President wished Adams, the autocall bells throughout the White House would ring his number, and he could come running.
Most conspicuous in the room were two long workbenches with sinks, bunsen burners, retorts, glass and rubber piping, and test tubes.
A squeaking noise in one end of the laboratory attracted his attention to dozens of caged guinea pigs. Adams strode over to the cage. On each cage was posted a sign on which each individual was identified by symbols, including some Adams had never seen. Thoughtfully he scratched his blond head, grinned, and then copied several of the charts into a little pocket notebook as samples—he could return and copy more if these few should hold any significance for the biologist among the conspirators.
He looked in the ice-chest, but found nothing there except some small unlabeled bottles.
Next he inspected a cabinet of surgical tools. The large number of hypodermic needles impressed him. His mind flashed back to the change which had come over Steel Jeffers when, wavering on the question of executing the young traitors, he had been called out of the Blue Room by Herr Doktor Vierecke, and had returned, filled with merciless determination. Could the secret of the power of the sinister cabal lie in drugs?
Adams shuddered. The brother of Helen Jeffers a drug addict? Incredible! Nevertheless, the possibility must be investigated. So, with sinking heart, Adams turned to a bank of open shelves, stacked with labeled bottles.
To his relief, he found no morphine, opium, heroin, cocaine, or any other substance the name of which he recognized as being that of a narcotic. He copied down the names of several chemicals which he did not recognize. These might be narcotics.
Then his attention was directed to several large drums, labeled “Cholesterol.”
He was just jotting down the word, together with the name and address of the supply company, when a bell in the corridor outside clicked his autocall! The President wanted him.
Hurrying to the door, he was about to unlock it, when he heard voices outside. Putting his ear to the crack, he listened. In crisp tones, the old Admiral was saying, “You fat-headed fool! Why didn’t you hide the key where I told you to?”
“Ve haf two keys.”
“I left mine in my other suit. It is at the cleaners.”
“Unt I did put der key in der pot.”
“Ding! Ding—ding—ding!” insistently rang the autocall. If Adams didn’t hurry, embarrassing inquiries would be made.
“Now listen, you fat-head,” said the sharp incisive voice of the old sea-dog. “Go to the head housekeeper, and tell her to find out pronto who’s been messing around that flowerpot. I’ll send someone over to the tailors for my key. Report to me in the executive offices. Now vamoose!”
Footsteps of both men could be heard moving off down the corridor. Adams unlocked the door, and peered out. No one in sight; so he hastily emerged, locked the door, thrust the key in his pocket, and dog-trotted to the Blue Room.
Stopping just outside the room, he smoothed down his black uniform, and entered unconcernedly. Stepping up to the desk in the bay window, he raised his arm in a brisk Roman salute. Steel Jeffers looked up.
“Oh, yes,” Jeffers absently announced. “Here are some papers to be taken over to the War Department.”
Adams’ set jaw relaxed, and he drew a deep breath of relief. Taking the papers, he raised his arm again in salute, faced about, and strode from the room.
In the big hall outside, he ran across Admi
ral Southworth. The bushy-browed old sea-doctor was visibly agitated. “Oh! Ah! Lieutenant, you going anywhere in particular?”
“War Department sir,” Adams briskly replied; and he couldn’t resist adding, “But I thought that the Admiral was at a conference.”
Southworth bent narrow eyes of scrutiny at him. “Meeting called off. Not that it’s any business of yours, you young whelp.”
“Can I do anything for the Admiral?” Adams asked innocently.
“Why, ah, yes. Step over to that tailor shop on 17th between G and F, and get a key for me. I left it in a suit. It’s—it’s the key to my locker at the Army and Navy Club, and I’m going to need it this noon.”
“Yes, sir,” said Adams, with expressionless face.
He took the President’s papers to the War Department, and then retrieved the Admiral’s laboratory key. On his way back to the White House, he racked his brains for some excuse not to deliver this key; but finally he reflected that, if he kept both keys this would merely result in Southworth having a new lock fitted.
So he handed Admiral Southworth his key.
The rest of the morning he had to attend the President; but, after that, he hurried to the stenographic office of the White House.
Seating himself at one of the desks he penned a brief note, reading: “P.N. Investigate White House purchases of cholesterol. J.Q.A.” Then, clapping his black military cap onto his head, he strode out of the White House, and down the left-hand driveway to the corner of West Executive and Pennsylvania Avenues, where he stopped to buy a bag of peanuts from the old Italian who kept a stand there.
“Giuseppe,” said Adams, as his eye happened to light on the man’s tin license plate, “the Federal Peanut Commission wouldn’t let you stay in business, if they knew what your business really was.”
“I do not understand, Signore,” solemnly replied the Italian, stroking his long gray mustaches; but there was a twinkle in his beady black eyes as he said it. “My business is to sella da peanut, no?”
“No!” Adams replied, laughing. “Well, here you are.” He handed over a dollar bill, folded to conceal the note which he had written.
“Grazzia, Signore,” said Giuseppe, with a bow.
Then Adams ambled back to the White House, ruminatively cracking peanuts and eating them, and wondering what Philip Nordstrom, a conspirator who held a small clerkship in the office of the Comptroller General, would be able to learn on the subject of cholesterol.
Adams was famous in White House circles for the large quantities of peanuts which he consumed; but he was fortunately not famous for the large number of notes which he left with, and received from, the grizzled old peanut-vendor.
Chapter III
That evening when the little band of patriots gathered again in Adams’ cellar, Nordstrom, a tall blond youth with pale blue eyes, was ready to report.
“I got your note from Giuseppe, Jack,” he said, “but why your sudden interest in cholesterol?”
“Why Steel Jeffers’ sudden interest in it?” Adams grimly
“His interest isn’t sudden,” Nordstrom replied. “The White House has been buying cholesterol in quantities ever since Jeffers first became President four years ago.”
Liam Lincoln ran one slim hand through his long black hair. “Cabot,” he said, addressing that solemn-faced individual, “you’re a chemist of sorts. What possible use can Steel Jeffers have for so much what-you-call-it?”
Roly-poly Simeon Baldwin eagerly cut in, “I believe we are getting somewhere!” His fat face was alight with interest. “Maybe this cholesterol, or whatever, will furnish us the clue we’re after.”
“Well,” said Cabot judicially, “let’s first hear from Jack how he got a line on this.”
Adams then related how he had explored the laboratory.
“Did you find any small bottles capped with a rubber diaphragm?” Cabot asked.
“Why—er—no,” the Lieutenant replied. “Ought I have?”
“Well, rather! All those hypodermic needles! Lots of guinea pigs to experiment on! President getting pepped up by Dr. Vierecke every time Secretary Dougherty wants him to do something particularly diabolical!”
“Come to think of it,” Adams replied, “there were some small bottles in the ice-chest. But I didn’t notice them particularly—they weren’t labeled.”
“Can you get in there again?”
“Yes.”
“Then bring me one of those bottles.”
The next day at the first opportunity Adams headed for the laboratory. Admiral Southworth and his Prussian assistant were talking together just outside the door as he drew near. Their heads were close, and their manner seemed furtive.
“Now while I am in the Adirondacks,” the old sea doctor was saying in an undertone, “are you sure that you have on hand enough—”
“Sh!” admonished the bullet-headed Vierecke, catching sight of Adams. “Yes, ve haf plenty.” He nodded vigorously.
Southworth smiled a wind-swept smile, and held out his hand. “Well, goodbye, Franz. Take good care of everything.”
“What!” Adams exclaimed, stepping up. “You going away, Admiral?”
“Just for a couple of weeks’ fishing.” Southworth replied.
“But look here, Sir,” Adams persisted, with the sudden hope of getting a line on Southworth’s White House activities, “you are responsible for the President’s health. What if he should get sick while you’re away?”
The Admiral knotted his bushy eyebrows. “I shall be in telephonic touch with the White House at all times,” he said. “There will be an amphibian plane on the lake, always in readiness.”
“Good.” said Adams, but not with much enthusiasm. Vierecke scowled from behind thick-lensed glasses. Southworth cast a sharp beetle-browed glance. Then the two of them moved off together down the corridor, resuming their whispered conversation.
As soon as they had turned the corner, Adams took the key from his pocket and let himself into the laboratory.
In the ice chest he found a half dozen small bottles capped with rubber diaphragms, as described by Godfrey Cabot. But only one of them had a label—a strip of adhesive tape, bearing a blurred word, of which only the first four letters remained legible: “Test—” This bottle, Adams slipped into his pocket.
Suddenly he had an idea. If he could cut off the supply of this drug even temporarily, he might get a line on its effect on Steel Jeffers. So, piercing every diaphragm with his pocket knife, he poured the contents down the sink, and threw all the emptied bottles into the incinerator chute.
The corridor was empty when he emerged. On a sudden impulse, he shoved the key back into the plant-pot in which he had originally found it. Then, as the President didn’t need his immediate presence, he ambled out to the street corner and bought some peanuts. Returning some time later, he reported to the Blue Room.
What a scene of confusion he found there! The hook-nosed black-bearded Secretary of State, pacing up and down, his face a thundercloud of wrath. Franz Vierecke, clad in his stiff white laboratory smock standing helplessly by, with a lost look on his pudgy fish-eyed face. President Jeffers seated at his desk, an expression of mingled concern and amusement on his finely chiseled features.
“Can’t I do something?” Adams respectfully inquired, stepping up.
“Yes,” snapped the sinister Secretary. “Get Admiral Southworth back here at once.”
“Oh!” said Adams, with well feigned surprise. Then wheeling around on Vierecke, “How long has the Admiral been gone?”
“About an hour.”
“Where was he flying from?”
“Der Potomac Field.”
“By your leave, sir.” Stepping briskly over to the desk, Adams picked up the phone. “Naval Base—Emergency.”
He got his number, ascertained that the plane had been gone for nearly an hour, and commanded that it be immediately recalled by radio.
A pause, during which he held the line. Then, rigidly suppressing any
indication of the joy which the news gave him, he turned and reported, “They say that the plane doesn’t answer. That its radio must be out of order.”
“Ausser ordnung! Ach, mein Gott!” wailed Vierecke.
“And now,” said Adams briskly to the pacing Dougherty, “hadn’t you better tell me what this is all about?”
“Fresh young puppy!” spat the Secretary through his big black beard.
“Well, you don’t seem to be being very helpful yourself, Jim,” asserted President Jeffers with some asperity. Then, turning to his aide, “Lieutenant Adams, someone has gained access to Admiral Southworth’s private laboratory, and has stolen some small bottles containing chemicals of great value to the peace of America. The exact nature of those chemicals is known only to Southworth, Vierecke, Dougherty, and myself.”
“I can serve you without knowing, Excellency,” asserted Adams. “Am I in charge?”
Secretary Dougherty ceased his pacing, and glared at the young officer. “Certainly not!” he hissed.
“I happen to be the President, Jim,” Steel Jeffers interrupted incisively. “Yes, Adams, you are in charge.”
“Good!” cried the Lieutenant. “Excellency, will you please phone the airport, and order them to continue trying to contact the plane. Herr Doktor, come with me.”
“But—but—” spluttered Dougherty. “Am I, or am I not, the Secretary of State?”
And, as Lieutenant Adams pushed the white-coated Vierecke from the room, he heard Steel Jeffers wearily yet firmly assert, “Yes, Jim, you are still the Secretary of State. But it is I who am the President.”
First Adams rushed to the Executive Offices, where he summoned the entire corps of White House guards, and gave orders that no one was to leave or enter the building. Then he led the bewildered Vierecke down to the basement, and made him unlock the laboratory, and hand over a sample empty bottle.
Next Adams called the War Department for a detachment of officers from the Intelligence Service, showed them the sample bottle, and turned them loose to find the stolen ones. Then he returned to the Blue Room, to report to President Jeffers, his keen gray eyes sparkling with enjoyment of the success of his make-believe.
Gynomorphs Page 8