The Menace
by David H. Keller
Chapter III: The Tainted Flood
AFTER his strenuous period of working in the interest of the United States, Taine was more than glad to return to his home and family in San Francisco. His wife and daughters were delighted to see him and the little black dog nearly barked his head off in canine welcome.
Taine reported to the Chief of the Secret Service at once and asked for and was granted a month’s leave of absence from duty. They let him know at Headquarters that they had received some very nice letters concerning his work and that he had done a lot to put the city on the map of the world as far as intelligent detective work was concerned. He thanked him shook hands all around, and went back home prepared for thirty days of peace and quiet idleness.
In honor of his return Mrs. Taine prepared a supper of stewed mutton and dumplings, a dish her husband was very fond of, but which he got only at rare intervals, for it was very hard on his digestion. This time, however, she felt that he had earned a specially fine supper.
After the dishes were washed, they all went into the sitting room. Taine’s slippers were put on and he was comfortably placed in his favorite chair with the evening paper in his hands and a lighted pipe in his mouth. The black puppy slept curled up at his feet, the daughters sat around the center table studying their lessons, and Mrs. Taine talked quietly to a neighbor who had just come in to learn the latest gossip.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Mrs. Taine, to her neighbor’s question, “we certainly are glad to have Mr. Taine back home again. He had a most exciting time of it this trip.”
“Oh! It must be so thrilling! Doesn’t he ever get frightened?”
“No, indeed! He does not know what fear is. The most horrible places he has been in with his life hanging on a thread, and yet he never is afraid.”
“You must be awful proud to have such a husband.”
“I certainly am. Have you heard about what the President said?”
Taine listened to the conversation while he read his newspaper and smoked his pipe. He smiled a little at his wife’s praise. No one knew better than he himself just what kind of a detective he really was, and just how often his blunders had nearly been his ruin. It was only his firm faith in predestination that enabled him to go on with such a hazardous calling. Meantime the daughters had kissed him and gone to bed, and as the ladies seemed to be very well occupied talking about church affairs, he thought he might as well take the dog out for a walk.
Without being especially noticed by his wife he left the room and, putting on his overcoat, let the eager black puppy out of the front door ahead of him. The night was cold and damp as is so often the case in San Francisco and the fog put a white halo around all of the street lamps. Glad to be back in familiar territory, Taine walked briskly down the street. He had not gone far when he had the peculiar sensation that he was being followed. Nothing irritates an operator more than to feel that he is being shadowed; it is all well enough for him to pry into the most secret life of others, but it is an entirely different matter when the tables are reversed and he becomes the hunted instead.
AS soon as he was thoroughly satisfied that he was being followed, Taine started to lose his trailers. A rapid and zig-zaggy half hour was spent in jitneys, trolley cars, dashing in and out of office buildings, up and down elevators and into restaurants and movies by the front door and out by a side entrance. During this half hour, he believed that he had identified the three men who were after him, and, once that was accomplished, it was a matter of professional pride to double on them in such a way that he became the follower again. He went into a theater where he was well known, borrowed a wig and a costume and was out on the street and into the theater again inside of five minutes. Just as he was buying his ticket, he saw the three suspects leaving.
After that he felt thoroughly confident and satisfied with the game as it was being played. He soon saw that the three men were following a cold trail and in a short time they acted as though they also knew it. At least they ceased to double on their tracks, got into a jitney and started on a straight line to leave the city. In back of them was another jitney occupied by a woman.
In the course of the next hour, Taine found himself on a small balcony of a deserted house in the suburbs of the city. While the night was cold and damp, there was no wind and the increasing fog made it easy for anyone to hide in its enveloping blanket of gray. The three men he had followed were in a room in the same house, seated around a plain wooden table. He could hear their conversation distinctly as they made no effort to speak low. Their entire conduct while in this room showed conclusively that they were positively ignorant of Taine’s proximity.
Taine was rather pleased, yet he was worried. The fact that he had eluded them and trailed them to their den was a source of pride to the detective. He was also glad that he had left the black dog at a neighbor’s during the first three minutes of the chase. The thing that caused him deepest concern was his positive identification of the three men as the white negroes who for so many years had been plotting against the safety and happiness of the people of the United States. Twice before he had been able to block their plans, and yet he felt that conditions would be insecure in his country as long as these criminals were at large. Their presence in San Francisco, and their following him was another source of worry. No doubt they knew who he was and just what part he had taken against them. The only reason they were on the Pacific Coast was to secure revenge on the man who, practically single handed, had been able to stop their nefarious schemes. Taine was not so much worried about himself as he was about his wife and children. There was no telling what such criminals would do. Meantime, he was paying the strictest attention to their conversation.
THERE were three of them. He had seen two of them on the Gold Ship — one known as Count Sebastian or George, the other, the one called Marcus. The third was Dr. Semon, scientist and inventor. Taine had met Dr. Semon in the Center Internationale the night that building had blown up and the white negro had boasted of his discovery of a serum that would turn a black man white overnight. Marcus was probably the man who had discovered the method of manufacturing synthetic gold. George was no doubt the brains of the group as far as leadership and organization were concerned. Said Marcus:
“I do not want to leave the city till we get Taine. I have a hunch that we shall never get very far so long as he is alive. A day or two one way or the other will not make any difference with our New York plans. I know a Chinaman that will slip bamboo splinters into his food and put him and his whole family into the cemetery in a few days.”
“I am opposed to it!” answered the Count, decisively. "He is a very prominent person, a lot more prominent than he thinks he is. If anything happens to him, we shall have the Secret Service of the United States after us in earnest and openly. So far they have seen fit to leave us alone — that is, they made no attempt to arrest us after the gold fiasco. Taine is quiet now and his performance of to-night shows plainly that he is not to be caught napping. We are all educated men but at the best we are not super-criminals and I think we had better go ahead with our plans and leave Taine alone. He is not going to be successful all the time. Semon, have you figured out the amount of your new chemical that will be needed to thoroughly impregnate the water of the New York reservoirs?”
“Yes,” replied the Doctor. “I have everything done except the actual operation. We have the chemical in a very finely powdered form, enough of it to make a one to a million solution of all the water the City of New York uses in three days. My plan is to scatter it over the surface of the water by aeroplane on the same principle that they dust the cotton fields in the South. We shall have to make five trips from the store house, but the plane can carry five hundred pounds at a trip and twenty-five hundred pounds will do the work nicely.”
“And you believe it will work as quickly wholesale in an uncertain dilution as it did in your experiments?” “I am confident of it. Of course, it is hard to determine just how much water there is in the pipes leading to the city, but I believe that the treated water will be used by the end of twenty-four hours and after that the lot of the people of the city will be hopeless. Even if they suspect that there is something wrong with the water, what can they do? They have to use the water to drink, to cook with, to wash their clothes, their skin and their teeth. Inside and outside of their bodies they will be exposed to the drug. The first half million cases will not be understood — the authorities will do their best to keep if quiet — the changed men and women will be kept indoors — perhaps quarantined. By the end of the third day the water supply will be pure, but by that time it will be too late.”
The man called Marcus jumped to his feet, and raised his clenched hands above him as though to strike the Almighty in the face.
“What a revenge! Oh! If only it works as we think it will! Think of it! For years, from all parts of the United States the wealth, brains and beauty of the white race have gravitated to New York. Like gods they have sat there, dictating fashion, habits and morals to the millions of people who live in the rest of the western hemisphere. Like gods they have lived here and we negroes have just been their slaves and their playthings. -We were a little more than animals, and a little less than human beings! They thought we were a higher type of ape. In their voices they tainted our blood and changed our blackness to an ashy gray. Now these imitators of Jehovah are going to turn black themselves. They will go to bed drunk with power and and content with life, the proud descendants of thousands of generations of white ancestry and they will wake up black. The physicians will think it is some new disease and for a few hours they will be very busy, till they themselves are blackened from head to heel. The city will be a merry Hell— for us— it will be a city of shadows.”
“It will be worse than that!” cried the man called George, who on the Gold Ship had called himself Count Sebastian, “The news of what happens in that city will be kept out of the city papers — for a day, or three. Then by letter and telegraph and radio, by frightened fugitives in planes and automobiles, the word will travel around the world, ‘The People of New York Are Turning Black .’ — A disease changing the color of eight million people — a pestilence touching rich and poor, great and small, the good man and the criminal! The city will be accursed. A quarantine will be established, but it will not be necessary, for no one will want to go there for any purpose save some brave men from the Public Health Service who will be sent to investigate. The business of the city will be crushed. Millions will try to leave, even though their skins are black. Outside the city, though, they will be treated as black folks. That in itself will be a rich joke. They do not realize what segregation means, but they will soon know. The negroes will despise them as painted monstrosities. If they go into a colored community, they will have to show that their parents were black before they will even be given a crust of bread. They will be unable to get work: everyone will be afraid of them and sicken at their sight. They will be lepers!”
“Other cities will follow. Chicago, Philadelphia, Denver. Soon it will not be a case of millions leaving the United States. Will they receive welcome in Europe? Will Canada sit calmly silent when ten million fugitives cross her border? In a year the proudest country in the world will be in a process of dissolution. Revenge? Why, such a thing will be worse than death. New York could overnight topple into the crater of a new volcano without causing one hundredth of the damage.
“Of course there will be some white people left. That will be another of the rare bits of sarcastic humor the situation will evolve. They will be the poor people, the crackers and the red necks and the white trash who live in the piney woods and on the mountains and drink white mule and mountain spring water. They will stay white and won’t hesitate to shoot any black man who might bring the
disease to their isolated mountain homes.”
“All that will happen,” said Dr. Semon, “but first we must kill Taine.”
“No,” insisted Count Sebastian. “Let’s wait. It will be more fun to watch him pretend to think when the President sends for him to unravel the latest New York mystery. He will not escape us finally. Ebony Kate will keep on the watch. Her sister works for his wife.”
“Let’s go," said Marcus. “The plane is in back of the house. We can make St. Louis in one flight if we are fortunate.”
They left the room. Taine stayed on the balcony till he was sure they were well down stairs and then pried the window open and tiptoed into the room. He wanted to see a piece of paper that one of the men had dropped under the table. Holding it in front of his flash light, he saw that it was a map. Silently cursing the woman's clothes he had on, he went out on the balcony and dropped to the ground. Just as he landed, he heard the drone of an aeroplane starting from the other side of the house.
Taine knew what he wanted to do; but he was not sure how he was going to do it.
On him depended the happiness of millions, the safety of his country.
He wanted to rush to his Chief with the news; he felt that the radio and the telegraph should carry the warning to the threatened city. The War Department ought to be notified and combat planes from San Francisco, Denver, and St. Louis should hunt through the air till the mangled bodies of the conspirators were burning harmlessly on the ground, owned forever more by the Caucasian race.
But who would believe him?
Suppose he told them the whole story? Told them what he had heard? It would be a tale so preposterous, so unreal and fantastic that he would be at once placed under observation in a Psychopathic Hospital. Before they found him sane, the damage would be done. Suppose they did believe him at Headquarters? What if they did send him by plane to Washington to arouse the nation? What should they tell the millions of morons in New York? That they must not drink, eat or wash till further notice? How many of them, superior adults or feebleminded, would heed and obey? How could they obey? How long can eight million people live without touching water when an apparently pure supply was flowing from a hundred million faucets? And if they did realize the danger, what would happen? Every one who could do so would leave the city — even if they had to walk. It might stay a white city but it would be an empty one. No. Try as he could there was nothing to do but to stop these men before they sprinkled the pigment-producing drug over the waters of New York. They had to be stopped and there was no one to do it except Taine. Try as he would he could not escape his fate.
After it was all over — the danger past — the city saved for the Caucasian race — then and then only he could talk about it....
But who would believe him?
He thought of Biddle, who had sent him, singlehanded, against The Powerful Ones. He tried to recall how the President of the United States looked when he told him that the gold must not come to the shores of America. Perhaps those two men would believe him, later, when he told them the story. It might be that his wife would understand that he was telling the truth.
He wondered if they were telling the truth!
Could white people be turned black by drinking water that had a chemical in it diluted one million times?
Was it possible for such a disaster to take place in the twentieth century?
And if it could be done, what could he do to stop it?
Just then he thought of one of his most highly prized souvenirs from his last adventure, a small visiting card with the President’s name engraved on it. On the reverse of the card, in the President’s handwriting, was written.
The Bearer, Mr. Taine, is a direct representative of the President. All citizens are requested to render him any service he needs.
He had always carried that card with him. He had it now in a secret pocket of an inside vest, wrapped around with five hundred dollar bills. He remembered a silly story he had learned in his high school days. Something about a god called Time who had lots of hair on the front of his head but was bald behind. If you grabbed him at all, it had to be at the very beginning, “taking time by the forelock”; once he had passed, it was too late.
Running out on the street, still feeling rather silly in his feminine array, Taine took the first jitney and started on his journey to save his country from the peril which seemed to be impending.
They started to laugh at the little woman who came running into the Government airplane station and demanded a plane to take him to Baltimore. They laughed harder when he said he wanted to make a non-stop flight. They never would have taken him to the commanding officer (who was playing poker with his staff) had it not been for the woman’s tears.
“I want to see you privately!” the woman said to that officer.
“Not by a long shot!” answered the Colonel. “I have cut my wisdom teeth and there is not going to be any blackmail around this station.”
“Fiddlesticks!” said the woman, starting to tear off her dress. I am Taine, of the San Francisco Secret Service. I have to get to Baltimore, to the medical school there, and I want to travel quick.”
The Colonel looked at the little man who was shivering before him in B. V. D.’s and a funny kind of a vest.
“That may be so, but you travel by train.”
“Look at this,” said Taine as he took some paper money from around a small piece of paste board and handed him a visiting card. The officer read it on both sides; then he turned to his Adjutant.
“Do you know the President’s writing?”
“I believe so.”
“How about this?”
“Looks as though it might be genuine.”
The Commanding Officer drummed on the table with his finger-nails. Finally he woke up from his silent thinking:
“Captain Jenkins!” he said sharply. “For weeks you have been making preparations to break the record for the longest time a plane can stay in the air. I understand you were going to try it to-morrow. Lieutenant Jones was going with you. You and Jones are to Start right away. Throw away one hundred pounds of impediments and take Mr. Taine with you. Your route is Denver, St. Louis, Washington and Baltimore. I understand that he has to get there at once. If you do not want to make the trip in this fog, I will ask for volunteers.”
“No need of that, Colonel,” said Jenkins. “Fix the gentleman up in some clothes so he will not freeze to death and we will start in an hour. Will you arrange for some sandwiches and coffee, sir?”
In exactly fifty-five minutes. Jenkins, Jones and Taine were in the air on their way east. Taine was not at all happy. He had never been in a plane and had always been confident he would not enjoy an air journey. During the first half hour he had ample reason to know that his anticipations had been correct; there was no doubt as to his increasing sickness. After the worst of his nausea was over, he became drowsy, and fell asleep. When he awoke, they were on the ground. Jenkins asked him if he had had a good sleep and explained that they had been forced down near St. Louis by a leak in the gas line. They would have it fixed in a half hour and hoped to start at once. Did Mr. Taine want anything to eat?
Taine looked at a sandwich, washed down the look with a cup of black coffee and said he was ready whenever they were. He was especially anxious to know if they had passed any planes. Jones laughed at that and said that the planes had been thicker than swarming bees. The sun was shining and the sky blue and clear. Taine went back to his seat, told them to let him know when they arrived at Baltimore. They wanted to know if he did not want to see St. Louis and the Mississippi from an airplane, but he said that all he wanted was to think and sleep or anything at all, just so long as he could avoid a repetition of his recent sickness. He had seen both the river and the city from the ground and that satisfied him. The two aviators looked with a pitying curiosity at the little man and made him comfortable in some blankets. He soon felt a bumping and then everything was quiet. In reality he went to sleep again — and stayed asleep till they arrived at Baltimore. It was really a fairly remarkable trip, from one side of the continent to the other in two hops, but the only thing that Taine was interested in was that he was finally in Baltimore and reasonably sure that he was some hours ahead of the three conspirators.
He said a few words of appreciation to the army officers and took an automobile to Johns Hopkins University. Here the card from the President again served him in good stead and within a very short time he was in conference with the Professor of Dermatology of that medical college.
The Professor was very properly thrilled. He had taught the subject of diseases of the skin for thirty years, and up to the present time no one had seemed to realize what a very important part of medicine it was. To have a man come all the way from San Francisco to consult him, a man with a personal message from the President of the United States, was enough honor to make him glow to the point of breaking out with a neurotic urticaria. He listened, rather impatiently, to Taine’s presentation of the hypothetical case, and then, rather promptly and in as dignified a manner as though rendering a decision of the Supreme Court, he gave his answer:
“There is no disease, condition or manner of living, Mr. Taine, that really turns a white skin black. Certain diseases turn the skin yellow, for example, jaundice; or give it a bronze color, as in Addison’s disease; or a dark gray as in poisoning from a silver salt; but no disease or drug described up to the present can turn a white man into a negro. Of course, there are certain diseases where part of the body becomes rather changed in color but of the hundreds of such cases I have seen in my long years of experience, I do not recall a single case where the change in color was so distinct or universal as to deceive a careful observer in regard to the patient’s race.
“However, in justice to myself, it is only fair to state that there are thousands of new chemical compounds which so far have not been tested in regard to their effect on the human skin. Erlich made six hundred and five arsenical compounds before he discovered the celebrated 606, the basis of all modern treatment of syphilis. There are many synthetic dyes, some of which are highly poisonous to the human organism causing rapid dissolution, disintegration and even decay of the entire body, Mr. Taine, and in some cases where poisoning has resulted from the ingestion or injection of such drugs, the skin has turned a deep purple, just before death.”
Taine thanked him heartily and said he would have to go:
“I am astonished at your wonderful learning, Professor. You know a great deal about almost everything, and I certainly thank you for your interest in the matter. However, I must say that up to the present time you have not definitely answered my question, which was, whether a white man could be turned black by drinking or bathing in water which was poisoned by an unknown drug in the strength of one to one million?”
“I do not know!” said the Professor, rather bewildered.
“And I do not know, either,” said Taine, “but I am going to find out.”
“If you do,” said the Professor, eagerly, “will you come back and tell me? I should like to write a monograph on it, and of course I would give you a copy.”
“I would expect you to give me at least one copy,” said Taine, “though of course I could go to the Congressional Library and read it there.”
“You will not have to do that. I shall be glad to give you a copy. I will even write my name on it, and I do not do that for everybody.”
Taine heard only half of that last remark, for he was rushing out of the building before the Professor had come to the end of his generous offer. His chief anxiety now was to get to New York City as soon as he could. He would have liked to go back to Washington and talk over the problem with some of the men there, but he resisted this temptation and he rushed to the B. & O. station instead. Here he became a human dynamo and after brushing aside three office boys and actually knocking an insulting clerk down, he saw the Superintendent and in a few minutes of rapid talking convinced him that he was in earnest. But it took all of his power of argument and the President’s card thrown in for good measure, to secure a special train to New York. The tale should include the details of this ride to New York in a locomotive, hanging on to the fireman, and cinders thoroughly scattered all over the inside and outside of the man from San Francisco.
He reached the metropolis of the United States at midnight. At once he telephoned to Gray, Chief of the city’s Secret Service. He was in Chicago. He called up Mr. Biddle, the Banker. He was at home, but had retired for the night, and could not be seen till nine in the morning. Taine was badly worried and growing rather mad. He had a plan and he could not work it out unless he had help. The President’s card was not of any value, unless he could get the right people to read it, and meantime the precious moments were passing Hunger and fatigue and anxiety made him sweat and the drops running down his cheeks made ludicrous streaks amid the dirt and cinders clinging to his three day old beard.
He dashed over to the ticket office and had a hundred dollar bill changed. Then he ran out to the taxi stand and gave the driver of a yellow cab the address of the sleeping banker, Mr. Biddle.
After frantic ringing of the door bell, the butler opened the sacred portals. He was very haughty in his statement that Mr. Biddle would see no one. Taine strong-armed him so thoroughly that he did not wake up for some hours and then did not have a very clear idea of what had taken place. The detective ran up the steps calling Biddle’s name. A woman screamed and a man ran out in white pajamas and shot at Taine, who cried:
“Don’t shoot again, Mr. Biddle. I am Taine, the detective. Don’t you remember the man from San Francisco? Put that gun up. You will hurt someone shooting that way.”
BIDDLE finally quieted the household and himself and then sat down in the library and listened to Taine. The banker made a very good listener. Finally the detective finished.
“What can I do to help you?” asked Biddle.
“I want to see the man who knows the most about the Croton Water Shed. The man who has been all over the grounds, who helped make the survey and had charge of the maps and blue prints.”
“We will get him.”
For the next twenty minutes the banker sat patiently calling up man after man. Finally he jumped up in triumph.”
“I found the man,” he said, “and he is on his way down town. He will be here in twenty-five minutes, pick us up and we will all go down town to his office where the maps are. I shall have to dress. What can I do for you?”
“How about a safety razor and a place to shave?” “You can have that. How about a drink?”
“Not now. If I ever get out of this mess, I may get drunk, but not now.”
“Have a cigar?”
“No! I never smoke. I find that the tobacco injures the delicate enamel of the teeth and once that is injured decay sets in and your teeth are soon lost, never to be replaced.”
The banker dressed and Taine shaved and they were hardly finished when the door bell rang. It kept on ringing and finally the banker went to answer it himself. In doing so, he stumbled over the butler. Only then did Taine think of explaining to him that the poor fellow was not dead but simply knocked out by a detective’s rough treatment. Immediately after that the three men, Biddle, Taine and the Surveyor, were in a taxi headed for City Hall.
“Well?” said the Surveyor, a few minutes later, in his large and orderly office, “what is the problem, and where do I come in after losing my night’s rest.” “You will get your share — later,” answered the Banker. “For the time being, listen to this man and see if you can help him.”
“All I want you to do,” chimed in the detective, “is to tell me if you can recognize this map as a part of the country around or near the Croton Water Shed.” He took a small folded piece of paper out of his inside pocket and handed it to the Surveyor.
The man looked at it, and then jumped up from his chair, crying:
“Don’t interrupt me!”
“We won’t!” said the Banker.
“Don’t make any noise!”
“We won’t!”
“I must have perfect silence. I want to concentrate. I must think!”
“Certainly,” said Taine, soothingly. Then in spite of his dread and anxiety, he took a pencil and pad of paper off the desk and wrote:
His mind is very delicate. He would never make a detective.
and handed it to Biddle, who read it, smiled and wrote: Nor a banker and passed it back. However, the man was really capable in spite of his peculiarities, for after ten minutes of the greatest physical and mental agitation, he ran to a cabinet, took out a large blue print on the scale of one inch to the mile, spread it on the table, compared it with the small map Taine had handed him, and cried:
“There it is. I thought I remembered the place. Slept in that old cabin several nights when we were surveying that part of the shed.”
“Is it hard to get to?” asked Taine.
“No. There is a fairly good road within a hundred feet but no one goes there. The whole area was bought by the state and practically cleared of its population.”
“Let’s start,” said Taine, “and get there as fast as we can.”
“What’s the hurry?” asked the Surveyor.
The Banker told him in a few well chosen words. After that it was a foot race to see which one could get down to the waiting automobile first. In no time at all they were tearing up Fifth Avenue, headed for the cabin in the woods. The Surveyor insisted on driving in spite of the protests of the taxi-cab chauffeur. Biddle, however, kept his head, and they went right back to the banker’s house, where they changed cars for his seven passenger Paige. They also picked up three policemen, and then headed for the country. The Banker’s chauffeur was no mean driver himself and with the Surveyor beside him to tell him just where to turn, they had no trouble in averaging fiftyfive miles an hour. There was no car trouble and no delay and yet dawn was breaking as the car stopped in the woods and the Surveyor jumped out and started to run.
“Hold on!” exclaimed Taine, catching him. “I am in as great a hurry as you are, but I do not want to be killed. Those three men may be there ahead of us and if they are, they would not hesitate to shoot us. Better go slow.” His advice was followed, but the cabin was deserted.
The door was padlocked but Taine had no trouble in opening it. The party followed him inside. It was just a little cabin in the woods, a very ordinary little cabin, with a small stove and some shelves and a cot with bedding on it: but in the center of the room were twelve barrels.
They were ordinary flour barrels, Pillsbury flour barrels with the firm’s label neatly pasted on every barrel, giving the exact brand of the flour and the number of pounds. The men looked at each other and they all looked at Taine. He looked at the Surveyor.
“Sure this is the place?” he asked.
“Positive!”
“Then get me an ax or something and help me to get the top off of one of these barrels. Fast! No time to spend thinking about it!”
The top was soon off and they all crowded around to look in.
“Pshaw!” said Biddle. “Just flour. Suppose we taste it?”
He would have done so, had Taine not grabbed his hand just in time. Taine told him in no uncertain language just what kind of a fool he was, and as the truth began to slip into the Banker’s consciousness, the man grew pale and started to sweat. Then Taine asked the Banker to come outside for a conference, as a result of which the chauffeur, the Surveyor, one policeman and the Banker started off in the Paige. Taine and the other two policemen walked into the woods and hid themselves. Telling the men to watch the cabin, the detective started off through the woods. In a very few minutes he found just what he was looking for, a meadow fairly free from brush and woods, large enough and smooth enough to make a good landing field for a plane, provided, the aviator was a little more clever than the average. It was, at the most, a hundred yards from the cabin. In the middle there were ruts in the grass which looked as though a plane had landed there on a wet day.
Then Taine went back to the policeman.
FINALLY, after what seemed ages, a large truck came up the road laden with twelve barrels and several men. Behind was the Paige car. Taine inspected these barrels, said they would do, and ordered them carried very carefully into the cabin. The men who carried the twelve barrels in, carried twelve barrels out and back on the truck. When they were through the inside of the cabin looked just as it had before the lock had been picked. Taine put the padlock on, gave the driver careful directions and started him off with the truck. He then held a long conference with Biddle and started him back to New York City with the three policemen and the Surveyor. He then returned to his point of observation and thankfully ate the lunch Biddle had brought him.
With the exception of a hawk, who persistently soared above him, Taine was alone. Not really alone for he had abundant fears to keep him company. What worried him most of all was the map. Suppose the three white negroes had suspected his presence and dropped a map on purpose? They might even have had a special cabin fixed up to deceive him. While he was locating the cabin on the map and waiting for them to put in an appearance, they might be scattering the poison over the Croton waters. Was he wrong? Would Providence permit him to be wrong?
Was he predestined to be the savior of New York or face the world as a huge joke, an ignorant blunderer?
The afternoon wore wearily on, the setting sun sinking silently on silvery spruce trees. Another hawk joined the first in its aimless flight. No! Not a hawk, but a plane!! This way!! Sinking, settling softly, safely in the meadow, Taine smiled and rubbed his chin.
He was safe.
He knew he was safe when he saw three men come running through the woods toward the cabin; he was confident he was safe when he saw them unlock the door and disappear through the doorway; he sighed a prayer of thanks to his Presbyterian God when he saw them appear carrying a barrel on an improvised stretcher. Shortly after the distant buzz of a motor was followed by the appearance of a' plane over the treetops. Taine left his station near the cabin and circling through the woods gained a viewpoint of the meadow. One man, left behind, was building a fire at either end of the field to serve as guides to the aviator as darkness came.
The plane returned in the twilight. The men again ran toward the cabin, and came back staggering under the weight of another barrel. The top was knocked off and its contents transferred to a hopper in the plane. It was rather dark but Taine was able to see part of what they were doing and guess at the rest. After the departure of the machine, the man who was left behind broke up the barrel and used the dry wood to keep the signal fires burning. The detective waited till one more trip had been made, then scratched some leaves together, covered up as best he could, and fell asleep happy in his well earned contentment. It was morning when he awoke: everything seemed quiet but he decided to inspect the meadow before leaving. He had come just in time to see the plane return, pick up the third man and start off again. He walked thoughtfully to the cabin and was not at all surprised to find the door open and the room empty. The twelve barrels were gone.
“This,” said Taine to himself, “makes me believe in predestination more than ever before.”
The country Taine found himself in was wooded and very sparsely settled. The only thing that he was sure of was that he was in New York state. He was also afraid that he was hungry. Within an hour he had a slight idea that he really was hungry and this idea rapidly grew till it took entire possession of him; just as he was about to despair he came out on a hard surfaced road bordering on a large lake. Greatly interested, he walked to the shore and going down on his knees carefully examined the stones and gravel washed by the little windwaves. There was a white scum there; just the slightest trace. He put some on his finger and tasted it.
Far down the road he saw smoke curling upward in the thin autumn air. That meant fire and fire might mean food. He walked down the road and came to a neat little bungalow. The man who came to the door was soon identified as one of the watershed police. He was glad to furnish what he had in the way of food; not much, but enough to keep Taine alive. In answer to the inquiry, he said that there had been several aeroplanes flying around the night before.
By noon Taine was in New York City. Ordinarily he was a neat little man but he was far from that as he got off the train in the Grand Central Station. He went at once to the Biddle home, where the butler admitted him rapidly but with decided resentment, for he was still nursing a swollen jaw. The San Francisco man luxuriated in a long, hot bath, and a shave. The banker had a clothing man and a haberdasher come to the house and by the time Taine was through with his nap, a completely new outfit was ready for his use. A valet helped him dress, and served him a very light lunch in his room. By dark Biddle arrived and they had a conference in the library during which the banker told the detective that the twelve barrels were safe, in a dry place, and that he was giving a little supper that night at home to a few of the big men of the city and he wanted Taine to be there and tell them about the events of the last few days. . The San Francisco man protested — said he ought to start for the west — but the banker insisted and said that his guests were not to be disappointed and that he had secured a dress suit for Taine and had sent a long telegram to Mrs. Taine, to the effect that her husband was safe but would be too busy to write for a few days. So Taine went up stairs and had his clothes changed again, and looked very much like a society man when he came down to supper.
Ten men sat down to supper and those men represented the wealth, culture and power of the East. The Mayor was there and several business men, the President of a railroad, the head of a great department store and the private secretary of the Governor of the State. The dinner was well planned and suited Taine, who was still hungry from his long hours of fasting. After it was over and the servants were dismissed and the doors closed, Biddle introduced the little western man and asked him to tell his story, beginning with the Center Internationale episode. Taine talked without flourishes or oratory, just a plain statement of fact told by a plain man. When he finished, he took a small baking powder tin out of his pocket, carefully took the lid off and placed the open can on the table.
“That,” he said, “is a small sample of this new poison these men were going to put in your drinking water.”
“That looks harmless,” said the Mayor.” I fancy that it was all a joke. This probably is a new way Mr. Biddle entertains, us after his excelent meals.
Mr. Biddle looked at Mr. Taine. Everybody kept still. Then Taine began:
1 HAVE a little money, Mr. Mayor. Of course it is out west but Mr. Biddle will finance me. I bet you one hundred thousand dollars that you will not drink a glass of water with a little pinch of this drug dissolved in it. I will bet you another hundred thousand that if you do drink it, you will turn black inside of twenty-four hours.”
His Honor laughed nervously as he replied:
“It would not be very dignified for me to make such bets. You may be telling the truth, yet I am frank to say that I cannot believe you till the thing is demonstrated. It is too fanciful, too much like a fairy tale.”
At this the Governor’s Secretary interrupted.
“I have an idea. Up at Sing Sing, in the death house, are eleven men waiting death in the electric chair. I believe the Governor would think favorably of pardoning some of them if they would drink some of this drug as an experiment. Suppose we go up to Albany right away and see him? We could take some chemists and specialists with us to tell us what actually happened.”
“I do not like that suggestion,” said one of the business men. No matter what happens, the men will be set at liberty and they will talk. A rumor that such a danger threatened New York will be almost as bad for us as though it actually occurred. Now if we could only get some idiots! That is the very idea! Let’s go over to Ward’s Island to the Hospital for the Insane and see if we cannot get the Superintendent to furnish us with material for the experiment?”
“No! A thousand times NO!” thundered the Mayor. "Such a thing would leak out — somebody would tell, and a dozen woman’s clubs in the city would start to talk about it. To them, those idiots would seem precious. Every woman would say, ‘What if they did that to my hopeless child, entrusted to the care of a great city, and unable to defend himself? Suppose my little one, once a baby in my arms, but touched by the finger of God, so that he never grew to be anything but a baby, was turned black to satisfy the curiosity of a group of politicians and capitalists?’ Use your imagination and hear the women talking and then at the next election go to the polls prepared to see Tammany Hall wiped out of power. By the Holy Shade of Tweed I would rather drink the damned stuff myself than to give it to a single ward of the State.”
At the table was a silent young man. All through the evening he had . sat in a gloomy introspection. Mr. Biddle had invited him because he was the junior partner of the most powerful law firm in the city. His right hand, with fingers long and immaculate, lay motionless on the white table cloth. His left hand grapsed the stem of a Venetian goblet. During the entire discussion he had turned his face, expressionless, from one speaker to another. Right across the table sat Taine and the little tin can was between them. After the Governor’s telegram was read, regretting that he could not be present, but urging them to solve the question once and for all, after the Mayor had foolishly hinted that Taine was telling the tale in the capacity of a commercial and professional entertainer, after seeing Taine’s quiet rage and hearing the discussion it provoked, after all this the silent young man stood up.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “I am convinced that Mr. Taine is telling the truth as far as he can see it. To believe a thing and to prove it are two different things. I followed his story with a great deal of interest and as far as circumstantial evidence is concerned, he has proved his case. You do not believe him because you do not want to believe him. The whole situation seems impossible, so horrible that you do not dare to face the facts. For thousands of years you have thought that a white skin meant a white God. To-night you do not even dare to turn some white idiots black.
“Yet, this is a matter of greatest importance to all of you. If this happened, you captains of industry would become paupers, you bankers would degenerate into small town note-shavers, and the politicians of the greatest city in the western hemisphere would start in to work for a living. You need the city to keep you where you are, and you know that it has to be a white city. Mr. Taine was right in feeling that the danger was as great as any that has ever threatened a people. He had the imagination to see how a thing like that would make New York a pariah among cities of the world.
“So far you are guessing. What you need is proof. Here is the drug and in my hand is a glass of water. Watch me! I take a spoon and put some of the drug in the water and stir it up. No doubt I have made a stronger solution than one to a million, but that is a matter of small importance. When we hold the glass up to the light, we see that it is perfectly clear. I smell it and find it has no odor. To all appearances it is simply a glass of ice water— and now I drink it.”
He did so before anyone could stop him: he did it before they even suspected that he was going to do it. The room was quiet save for a few hissing gasps. He went on talking.
“Of course I have my own reason for doing this, but that is a personal matter. I took an extra large dose of the drug so it would work quickly and relieve your suspense. I will now clear a space in front of my chair on this snow-white table and when I sit down I will spread my hands on the cloth. This will enable you to watch any result without looking at my face. We will pass the time in telling funny stories and jokes.”
He sat down and spread out his, hands. Then he said:
“Have you ever heard the one about the two Irishmen? I heard that in Dublin and you would be surprised to know who told it to me. I told it once to some cosmopolitans in Monte Carlo and the story was well liked by most of them,” and so on and on his talk rambled in an even, cultured, entertaining way and for an hour he talked and perhaps two, and the men listened to him in silence and watched his hands with dread
Those white hands turned brown and then darker and finally they were black. They saw that the hands were black as any negro’s hands had ever been — but no one dared to look the man full in the face — and he said:
“I think I can go now. There seems to be no doubt that Taine told the truth.”
The man pushed back his chair, rose to his feet and left the room.
A guest seated near Mr. Biddle started to laugh. The other men looked at him, in horror and disgust. He kept on laughing — seemed to be unable to stop — laughed till he cried and panted for breath. The guests looked at Biddle as though they felt it was his place to give the comedian his well deserved rebuke. As he evidently shared in their feeling, Biddle simply waited till he had a chance to speak:
“Smithers! Please stop!! You are the only one who sees anything funny in all this. To me the affair is a tragedy. That man is a hero. He has sacrificed something that is dearer than life for the sake of his city. You should blush for shame at your conduct!” Smithers gradually became quiet. His lobster red face paled and changed to a deadly pallor, a sickly whiteness, a sweating ashen face, as he replied:
“Oh! I know that you think it is brutal of me and all that, but I could not help it. You could not have helped it either if it had hit you the way it did me. I know the boy. For a year he has been in love with, an octoroon, a nice girl and all of that and almost white. She would not marry him because she did not want to spoil his life and he would not live with her unless they were married. That was why he wanted to make the experiment — he thought that if he was colored too, she would marry him. She might have if he were just a little bit colored — just a shade off white like she is, but he turned black — like a piece of coal. I saw his face as he went out and it hit me all of a sudden that she would never recognize him as Jamison, her former white lover. He will never be able to explain it to her, how it happened. She is almost white and do you think she would marry a black man? He was brave and in love and all that sort of. thing but fate has played him a sorry jest— I am sorry that I laughed — but — I — just— couldn’t — help it!”
Just then, before Biddle had a chance to reply, the butler handed him a telegram. He opened it and read it and then jumped to his feet:
“Here is something that demands immediate attention from every possible source. We had sent the original twelve barrels containing the poison by truck to Boston. This telegram states that while crossing the Connecticut River at Springfield the steering gear broke and the truck and the twelve barrels broke through the bridge and were sunk in the river. The driver and the other man on the truck jumped out on the bridge and did not get hurt. Meantime the people of every town south of Springfield are exposed to this menace.”
“I would advise,” said Taine, “that you get in touch with the Governors of Massachusetts and Connecticut at once and have those areas put under martial law. Here is the rest of the drug. Have it examined and see if an antidote for it cannot be found. Do not delay this. Use all of your resources and arrest these three men. While they are alive, the country is not safe. Personally I feel that I have done all that I can do for you. The future safety of your city rests with yourselves. There is a midnight train leaving for the west and if you have no objections, I will make a rush and catch it. I want to go west and see how my family is getting along.”
“But what do we owe you?” asked the Mayor.
“Oh! You send what you think it is worth to my wife. She gets all I make over and above my salary.” And by 1 A. M. Taine was speeding westward.