“And now that you know who I really am,” Jeffers continued in his feminine falsetto, “my Arabian Nights masquerade is at an end. Let us return to the White House.”
Just then the waiter bustled up. Adams handed the man a dollar bill, saying, “I’m sorry, but the lady suddenly feels faint.”
He and his partner got up and made for the exit.
The head waiter rushed over. “Lieutenant Adams, is there anything wrong?”
“Not at all, Pierre,” Adams assured him.
The President flashed the man a dazzling feminine smile, and murmured, “I just feel a little faint, Pierre; but we certainly shall return some other evening.”
“I do hope so, Mademoiselle.”
Adams, still stunned, helped Jeffers on with his wrap, and escorted him to the elevator.
As they walked slowly back to the White House, Adams shuddered, sighed, and said, “You can never know, Excellency, what a blow it was to me to find that you are not your sister. I saw a photograph of her once, and I believe that I actually fell in love with it. She must have been a wonderful girl!”
Steel Jeffers stiffened suddenly; Adams could feel it in his fingertips on the President’s elbow. Then he relaxed. “Helen and I placed the welfare of America ahead of anything else. I still do. But events—and James Dougherty—have hemmed me in. Well, anyway, I am glad that you feel as you do about Helen. Don’t give up hope, Jack. Some day, perhaps—” He stopped abruptly.
“Is Helen still alive?” Adams eagerly exclaimed.
Steel Jeffers passed his hand in a tired gesture across his face, and shivered. “I don’t know just what I’m saying.” His voice broke strangely. “In the language of the younger generation, let’s skip it.”
He remained in moody silence the rest of the way to the White House, and dismissed his escort at the steps of the servants’ entrance.
Lieutenant Adams stood at the foot of the steps, and gazed up at the seeming girl, until the door closed. Then he hastened to his own quarters on P Street, his mind a turmoil of emotions. All night long he tossed on his bed, longing for the girl whom he had thought he had found, only to lose again.
The next day, when Adams reported for work at the White House he learned that Admiral Southworth’s condition had improved, and that a special amphibian ambulance-plane was already on its way to the Adirondacks to bring him back. Suppressed excitement pervaded the executive mansion. Secretary Dougherty smiled jeeringly through his black beard, and his eyes twinkled brightly.
He even slapped Adams jovially on the shoulder, and ejaculated, “Well, my boy, back to normalcy, eh?” Then stiffened guiltily, as though he said too much. But Adams’ thoughts were on Helen Jeffers, and he hardly noticed.
Shortly after lunch a motor-ambulance arrived at the White House from the Potomac naval air base, and two gobs with Red Cross brassards on their sleeves carried in a sheet-covered figure on a stretcher.
Secretary Dougherty bustled officiously up to the bearers, and was about to give some order, when Franz Vierecke, with unusual assertion shining in his pale blue eyes, elbowed him to one side, exclaiming, “Nein! He moost haf rest!”
So the shrouded figure was carted off to one of the guestrooms of the White House.
But the return of Admiral Southworth did not immediately bring matters back to normalcy. The next day strikes broke out in Boston, New York and San Francisco. The police and State troops held aloof. But black-coated Federal soldiery moved in, and kept the strikers effectively in check, handling the situation with such finesse and regard for popular sympathy as to make evident that Secretary Dougherty was not in charge at the White House, and that Steel Jeffers was still running things.
Doctors and nurses were provided for Admiral Southworth, but still a black-uniformed military guard, placed in front of the door of the Presidential bedroom, denied admittance to all except Dougherty and Vierecke.
Students rioted and staged demonstrations at Harvard, Columbia, and Stanford. The ringleaders promptly disappeared, but there were no wholesale executions.
That evening someone heaved a brick at Lieutenant Adams in the street. And all through the night he could hear sporadic popping noises throughout the city, as on the night before the Fourth. Each pop signified to his ears the elimination of one more potential enemy of the existing regime.
The next morning on his way back to work, he had to pick his way through the remains of several barricades, and once he slipped on a dark red slimy puddle. He shook his head sadly. Poor misguided individuals!
That day three things of note happened. First, an investigating committee from the Senate, headed by Senator Anders of New Hampshire, and accompanied by armed guards loaned by the State of Maryland, called at the White House, demanded to see President Jeffers, and were denied admittance. Lieutenant Adams marveled that the Marylanders were not arrested for treason. Secondly, Admiral Southworth, in a wheelchair, was pushed to the basement laboratory by Dr. Vierecke, and remained there for several hours. And that evening Liam Lincoln accused Jack Adams of disloyalty to the Cause for refusing to divulge to his fellow-conspirators the inside dope on the President’s illness. Hot words again ensued, and the others narrowly averted a fight between the two of them.
The next day Senator Anders’ resolution, declaring the Presidency vacant, was called up for a vote in Congress. The leaderless yes-men of House and Senate did not know which way to turn. The few really intelligent members of the Administration forces began to wonder how to take advantage of this situation to advance their own ambition.
Then suddenly in the midst of the debate, Steel Jeffers went on the air. His well-known voice boomed out of the little radio in the Senate restaurant. Instantly, the news swept up to the cloakrooms. A loudspeaker on the clerk’s table was turned loose on the startled assemblage.
As the ringing appeal for peace and tranquillity and loyalty resounded through the chamber, the opposition crumbled, although some die-hards still refused to believe.
“It’s a trick!” cried Senator Anders. “A tape recording of the President’s voice is being used to fool us!” He rushed from the chamber, phoned the White House, and was informed that Steel Jeffers was broadcasting from his sickroom. “But has anyone actually seen him, to know that it is he?” Anders demanded.
Over the air came the answer, in the unmistakable voice of Jeffers himself, “You still doubt that I am back in the saddle? Then let the Senate Committee call tomorrow at 2:15. I shall receive them in person.”
The next afternoon Senator Anders and his colleagues, with their bodyguard of Maryland State troops, arrived at the White House. The doors were thrown open by the Negro attendant, and they marched in.
The large hall was empty of any other persons, and had a closed-for-the-season look: shades drawn, musty smell, furniture shrouded with sheets. But as the attendant closed and locked the doors, the sheets were whisked off of the supposed furniture—machine-guns, manned by black-uniformed troops.
A door opened at one side, and Secretary Dougherty emerged, grinning evilly through his black beard, his eyes snapping. Behind him there debauched into the hall a score of Federal soldiers. Rubbing his hands gleefully together, the Secretary commanded, “Gentlemen, please reach for the ceiling.”
But the Captain of the Marylanders stepped resolutely forward. “By whose authority?” he demanded.
“By the authority of the President!”
“It’s a lie!” shouted Senator Anders. “Steel Jeffers is dead!”
The Captain of the Marylanders snatched out his revolver, leveled it at the Secretary of State, and squeezed the trigger. A jet of flame roared forth.
Chapter VII
An answering roar came from the gun of one of the black uniformed Federal soldiers, and the Maryland officer pitched forward, dead.
Secretary Dougherty staggered backward and his dark eyes rolled. He straightened. His red lips parted in an animal snarl. “I wear a bulletproof vest,” he snapped. “And fortunately the Maryland militia st
ill carry only thirty-eights, instead of forty-fives. Gentlemen, surrender.”
The entire delegation promptly raised their hands aloft, and were disarmed. The militiamen were then herded away, and the doors of the Blue Room swung open to admit the Senators.
At his desk in the bay window sat the President, pale and frail-looking, but eyes snapping with old-time vigor. At his side stood Lieutenant Adams; and banked behind him was a full squad of black-coated Federals, with automatic pistols in their hands.
“Ah!” Steel Jeffers commented, in tones appropriate to his name. “I am highly honored. Is it true that you gentlemen have the temerity to doubt my existence?”
Senator Anders coughed embarrassedly. “Well—er—you see, Excellency, it was quite natural… er—”
“Cannot the President of the United States take a slight rest,” snapped Jeffers, “without a pack of jackals snarling for his corpse?” His voice broke. His eyes wavered huntedly for an instant. Then he coughed, lowered the pitch of his voice, and continued incisively, “Kindly return to the Senate, and inform your associates that Steel Jeffers is alive—and in good health and sane! Another occurrence like this will compel me to dissolve the Congress!”
“But, Excellency,” interposed Secretary Dougherty, “ought these traitors be permitted to leave?”
Jeffers sighed, then drew himself erect. “Let them leave while the leaving is good!”
As Dougherty ushered out the thoroughly cowed delegation, the President turned his eyes toward his aide, and asked with a grim smile, “Well, Jack Adams, do you approve?”
Surprised, Adams stammered, “You… you know my views about reprisals. I am glad that you spared them.”
Jeffers smiled the ghost of a smile. “I have set my hand to the plow, and must go on to the end of the furrow. Ah, Dr. Vierecke. You take me back to my bedroom.”
The white-coated doctor strode across the room, assisted Jeffers into his wheelchair, and wheeled him out.
Before nightfall Governor Carter of Maryland and Senator Anders of New Hampshire had been mysteriously assassinated. America was rapidly getting back to normal.
That evening in Adams’ quarters, the Lieutenant was crowing over his discomfited co-conspirator, Liam Lincoln. “Hasn’t it all turned out just as I prophesied? The time had not yet arrived for us to strike the blow for freedom. Fellows, if you’d taken Liam’s advice instead of mine, where would we all be now? In a wooden box like the Governor of Maryland and the Senator from New Hampshire. As it is, both we and our conspiracy still live.”
Lincoln viciously pushed back his black forelock. His dark eyes snapped with fanaticism. “Jack, why don’t you shoot the President?” he sneered. “You’re not afraid, are you?”
Adams stared back contemptuously. “Don’t be an ass, Lincoln! If we make a martyr of Steel Jeffers, his regime will live on. And you know how much worse Secretary Dougherty would be than Jeffers.”
“But Vice President Nieman would succeed to the Presidency, wouldn’t he?” asked roly-poly Simeon Baldwin.
“Not if Nieman happened to die conveniently. In that event, the Secretary of State would take over.”
“Then why doesn’t Dougherty arrange both assassinations?” asked Cabot the chemist, ruminatively.
“Because, so long as Jeffers displays just the right combination of ruthlessness and proletarian appeal, Dougherty is sitting pretty. Say, that gives me something to keep in mind.” Adams’ gray eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “If Steel Jeffers should ever become permanently ill, Dougherty will bear watching.”
“You will bear watching right now,” asserted Liam Lincoln under his breath.
Adams ignored him.
In the days which followed, the President became more and more his old forceful self. Once again he took sadistic delight in the ruthless pacification of America. One by one the individuals who had raised their voices against him, either disappeared or precipitately fled the country. Those newspapers which had had the temerity to assert the freedom of the press found their stock and bonds bought up by the Federal Finance Corporation. Admiral Southworth, too, recovered his health, and again devoted himself to his basement laboratory as of old.
Adams resented the growing influence of Dougherty and the resulting ever-increasing ruthlessness of the President. And he puzzled over the fact that Steel Jeffers seemed to take an amused interest in him. Formerly he had treated Adams as a mere appurtenance of the executive offices; but now, whenever he spoke to his aide, there was a twinkle in his cold eyes, with perhaps a trace of scorn and contempt in it.
At Adams’ first opportunity, when Admiral Southworth and Dr. Vierecke were both absent, he hastened to the potted plant in the basement corridor. He plunged his fingers deep into the soil of the pot, he carefully sifted the earth, but the key was gone!
That night, when he reported this loss to the meeting of the conspirators, there occurred his bitterest break thus far with the fanatic Liam Lincoln, who heatedly accused him of lying—of being an admirer and a supporter of the President.
And there was just enough shadow of truth to this accusation, so that Adams could not reply very forcefully. He merely gave his usual rather lame retort about his daily risking his life in the very den of the enemy while Liam Lincoln sulked in the background.
The meeting broke up with considerable bad feeling, Lincoln’s parting shot being, “If you are really on the level, Jack, you can prove it in just one way. Get into that laboratory, and find out what is going on.”
“I will!” Adams rashly retorted.
All night he lay awake, thinking, worrying, discarding one plan after another. By morning he had evolved an idea.
So he carried a suit of overalls and a pair of telephone linemen’s spurs with him to the White House, and at the first opportunity sneaked down into the subcellar, the floor below the one on which the laboratory was located. Hurriedly he donned the overalls, strapped the spurs onto his legs with the spikes outside. Noiselessly as possible, he crowded himself into the ventilator shaft and struggled up. It was tough going. The shaft was narrow and the spikes on his cleats did not bite very easily into its walls.
But finally he made it! His head reached the level of the grating of the laboratory outlet. He heard the voices of Southworth and Steel Jeffers. Peering through the grating, he almost uttered an exclamation of exultance. For Southworth held poised in one hand a hypodermic needle, and in the other a diaphragm capped bottle. By sheer luck, Adams had finally obtained sure proof of the fact that Jeffers was being inoculated regularly with the strange substance in the bottles.
Holding his breath tensely, he watched Southworth jab the needle into Jeffers’ arm. The President, his coat off, and his sleeves rolled up, jerked his slim, unmuscular arm back with an exclamation, then laughed nervously.
“Guess I’ll never get up enough backbone to take that needle without wincing,” he remarked a bit hoarsely.
The injection was completed in silence that remained until Jeffers had again donned his coat. Then, with an almost curt shortness, he left the laboratory, his lips tight, and his face set in an expression of stoniness and determination.
Southworth went about cleaning up the laboratory, restoring the needle and bottle to its place. Adams remained motionless in his position behind the grating.
A sound at the laboratory door attracted his attention, and he turned his gaze to see the Prussian, Vierecke enter. Southworth turned to face him.
On Vierecke’s face was a triumphant grin as he closed the door carefully behind him, then drew a gun from his pocket.
Southworth stiffened. “What does this mean, Franz?” he asked.
“It means, we haf come to der parting of der ways, Southworth. No longer are you necessary to my blans.”
In a voice level but charged with emotion, Southworth replied, “Go ahead and kill me; but, as sure as God made little fishes, you’ll lose by it. You still don’t know the complete formula.”
“Don’d I? Vell, lissen to di
s.” There followed a string of chemical language, quite meaningless to the man concealed in the chute.
Admiral Southworth gasped; and that gasp was a complete admission that his assistant had at last learned the whole of the secret which the Admiral had thus far so jealously guarded.
“Ha!” rang out the triumphant voice of Franz Vierecke, followed by a shot, a thud, and a gurgling groan.
Chapter VIII
With a sudden resolution Adams groped within his overalls with his left hand for the automatic pistol on his right hip, then shifted it to his right hand. Quietly opening the grating of the ventilator, he peered out.
The bullet-headed Franz Vierecke was standing with his back to the grille, holding a smoking thirty-eight, as he stared down at the sprawled corpse of the Admiral.
Adams reached out, leveling his automatic. Remembering Secretary Dougherty’s bulletproof vest, he took careful aim at Vierecke’s head: “Hands up, Doctor!” he commanded.
The white-coated Prussian wheeled catlike, firing as he turned, but Adams fired first. Both weapons roared, and the laboratory assistant fell backward across the body of the Admiral. Adams scrambled hastily out of the shaft and thrust his gun into its holster. The two bodies still lay inert. He had to work fast! He unbuckled his climbing irons, stripped off his overalls, and thrust them all down the shaft. He took all the small bottles from the ice chest, emptied them in the laboratory sink, and threw them after his discarded equipment. He hastily wiped the dirt from his face and hands on a towel at the sink. Taking the key from the pocket of the dead Admiral, he unlocked the door, stepped out, and locked it behind him.
As he turned, and slid the key into his pocket, one of the White House guards came pattering around the corner. The man halted and raised his arm in salute. “I thought I heard shots, Sir.”
“Correct,” Adams grimly replied. “Vierecke and Southworth have killed each other. I go to report to the President.”
Stunned horror widened the man’s eyes. Then they narrowed suspiciously, and he reached for his hip. But Adams’ fist caught him on the point of the jaw. Down he went in a heap. Adams ran along the corridor toward the stairs.
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