The Red Menace

CHAPTER XXXII THE SILVER COMET

VIC MARQUETTE was thinking — thinking in the silence of his hotel room — thinking in total darkness. That darkness had existed ever since his visitor had arrived.

Marquette had left the door ajar; a hand had come through the opening, and had turned off the light.

Then an invisible form had entered, and had seated itself in a chair. A voice had spoken from the blackness — a voice that was no louder than a whisper. For half an hour it had held Vic Marquette spellbound.

For the secret-service man had known the identity of his unknown visitor. That personage had been The Shadow; and he had calmly proposed a scheme that had proven bewildering.

The Shadow had explained facts to Vic Marquette — terse, pointed facts; and when he had finished speaking, he had left but one solution — a single plan of action, to which Marquette could do nothing other than agree.

Yet it was fully fifteen minutes after his visitor had gone when Marquette aroused himself to action.

The Shadow’s plan was a remarkable one — it depended upon chance to a great degree. Yet Marquette had faith in The Shadow. He knew that the man performed seeming miracles.

The plan which he had proposed demanded courage and ability; one important detail depended upon Marquette. Yet Marquette was to assume no risk whatever.

The secret-service man turned on the light. He picked up his hat, and left the room. He went to the street and called for a cab. He gave the driver the name of a hotel on Sixty-second Street.

Reaching his destination, Marquette told the man at the desk that he wished to speak to Lieutenant Branson.

The room clerk shook his head.

“Orders not to disturb,” he said. “He is asleep.”

“I must see him,” replied Marquette firmly.

“You can talk to his friend, Mr. Peterson,” said the clerk. “The gentleman over there in the corner of the lobby.”

Marquette walked over and stepped up to a man who was writing at a desk.

“Mr. Peterson?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I must see Lieutenant Raymond Branson immediately.”

Peterson smiled as he shook his head.

“It’s all set for to-morrow,” he said. “Looks like we’ll have the break he’s been waiting for. He’s asleep now. Can’t be disturbed.” He noted the firm look on Marquette’s face. “Who are you, anyway?” he asked.

The secret-service man drew back the lapel of his coat, and revealed a badge. A surprised look came over Peterson’s face.

“What’s up?” he questioned anxiously. “Nothing the matter, is there? No trouble for Branson? I can’t figure this, at all — ” He rose from the desk as he spoke.

“No trouble at all,” said Marquette quietly. “I want to see Branson in private. That’s all. He’ll understand when he talks to me.”

“I’ll take you to his room,” agreed Peterson. “Come on. I’ll get the key.”

FIVE minutes later, Lieutenant Raymond Branson was aroused from sleep. He was indignant for a moment, as he sat up in bed; then Marquette’s badge proved a talisman that quieted him.

Peterson was dismissed. Marquette talked to the man alone.

It was half an hour before the secret-service man had concluded his conversation with the lieutenant. As Marquette rose to leave, Branson smiled rather bitterly.

“I hadn’t figured on this,” he said. “It’s very sudden, and I can’t quite realize it. But — “

“It may mean a lot to your country,” replied Marquette.

Lieutenant Branson arose from his chair. He walked to the window, and stood with his back toward the room.

“All right,” he said. “You’ll arrange everything?”

“I shall,” replied Marquette. “Get up early as you planned; meet me, and I’ll take care of the rest. You will sail on the Colonia to-morrow morning.”

“What if this fellow fails — “

“We can worry about that later. I’m figuring that he’ll make it. You had no particular destination, did you?”

“Anywhere on the other side,” replied Branson. “But can he play the part?”

“He can play any part,” replied Marquette. “I’m going with you on the Colonia; we’ll fix everything up. Count on me. Don’t be discouraged, old man. You’ll get another chance at it.”

Vic Marquette received a phone call shortly after he reached his hotel.

A quiet voice asked him if everything had been satisfactorily arranged. Marquette gave an affirmative reply.

A LARGE crowd was assembled at a Long Island flying field early the next morning. The dim light of a new day shone on the wings of a glistening monoplane, which gleamed like burnished silver.

An automobile rolled up, and four men stepped out. Among them was one dressed in an aviator’s costume.

“It’s Branson!”

A cheer went up from the crowd. The man did not appear to notice it. He walked over to inspect the plane.

Another aviator joined him; the two shook hands, while photographers sought to obtain shots.

“Branson’s in great shape, isn’t he?” said one of the men who had driven up in the car.

“Never saw him looking better.” It was Peterson who spoke. “He had a good rest last night. I saw to that.”

The men entered the plane; the one whom the crowd had acclaimed as Branson took the pilot’s seat. The propeller whirled; the plane rolled heavily along the ground.

As it gained speed, it slowly rose in the air, and its wings, flashing in the dawn, gave it the appearance of a graceful bird.

The Silver Comet, it was called, and as it headed toward the northeast, it ascended higher and sped onward, until it became a silver speck in the clear sky.

The crowd broke into little groups; then disbanded. A solemnity had fallen over the people gathered at the flying field.

Two men had left America. They were matching their man-made bird against the mighty pitfalls of the great Atlantic. They were attempting a transoceanic flight.

That afternoon the papers reported that the plane flown by Lieutenant Raymond Branson had been sighted off the Maine coast. Later reports stated that it had been seen near Newfoundland.

All touch with the aviators had been lost. Hours passed with no report of their progress. The flight had been delayed by head winds; it was certain that the aviators were behind their anticipated schedule.

Some thirty-six hours after the take-off, there was a rumor that the plane had been seen above Ireland.

It was believed that the fliers were keeping on to continental Europe. They had run into night, and it was impossible to trace them.

This report was received by radio, aboard the Steamship Colonia outward bound from New York. It was discussed by a group of men, in the salon.

“Well,” said one man, “there’s another pair lost in the Atlantic. Take it from me, young fellow, you’ll never hear anything of this man Branson, again.”

The person to whom the speaker chanced to address his remark was none other than Lieutenant Raymond Branson, in person.

Vic Marquette smiled as he heard the statement. To the world, it was Branson who was flying the Silver Comet. No one even suspected that the actual pilot was The Shadow!