The question of navigation solved, the two next devoted themselves to perfecting the “X-plosive bullet,” as Seaton called it. From his notes and equations Seaton calculated the weight of copper necessary to exert the explosive force of one pound of nitroglycerin, and weighed out, on the most delicate assay-balance made, various fractions and multiples of this amount of the treated copper, while Crane fitted up the bullets of automatic-pistol cartridges to receive the charges and to explode them on impact.
They placed their blueprints and working notes in the safe, as usual, taking with them only those notes dealing with the object-compass and the X-plosive bullet, upon which they were still working. No one except Shiro knew that the original tracings, from which the blueprints had been made, and their final, classified notes were always kept in the vault. They cautioned him and the three guards to keep a close watch until they returned. Then they set out in the biplane, to try out the new weapon in a lonely place where the exploding shells could do no damage.
They found that the X-plosive came fully up to expectations. The smallest charge they had prepared, fired by Crane at a great stump a full hundred yards away from the bare, flat-topped knoll that had afforded them a landing-place, tore it bodily from the ground and reduced it to splinters, while the force of the explosion made the two men stagger.
“She sure is big medicine!” laughed Seaton. “Wonder what a real one will do?” and drawing his pistol, he inserted a cartridge carrying a much heavier charge.
“Better be careful with the big ones,” cautioned Crane. “What are you going to shoot at?”
“That rock over there,” pointing to a huge boulder half a mile away across the small valley. “Want to bet me a dinner I can’t hit it?”
“No. You forget that I saw you win the pistol trophy of the District.”
The pistol cracked, and when the bullet reached its destination the great stone was obliterated in a vast ball of flame. After a moment there was a deafening report—a crash as though the world were falling to pieces. Both men were hurled violently backward, stumbling and falling flat. Picking themselves up, they looked across the valley at the place where the boulder had stood, to see only an immense cloud of dust, which slowly blew away, revealing a huge hole in the ground. They were silent a moment, awed by the frightful power they had loosed.
“Well, Mart,” Seaton broke the silence, “I’ll say those one-milligram loads are plenty big enough. If that’d been something coming after us—whether any possible otherworld animal, a foreign battleship, or the mythical great sea-serpent himself, it’d be a good Indian now. Yes? No?”
“Yes. When we use the heavier charges we must use long-range rifles. Have you had enough demonstration or do you want to shoot some more?”
“I’ve had enough, thanks. That last rock I bounced off of was no pillow, I’ll tell the world. Besides, it looks as though I’d busted a leg or two off of our noble steed with my shot, and we may have to walk back home.”
An examination of the plane, which had been moved many feet and almost overturned by the force of the explosion, revealed no damage that they could not repair on the spot, and dusk saw them speeding through the air toward the distant city.
In response to a summons from his chief, Perkins silently appeared in Brookings’ office, without his usual complacent smile.
“Haven’t you done anything yet, after all this time?” demanded the magnate. “We’re getting tired of this delay.”
“I can’t help it, Mr. Brookings,” replied the subordinate. “They’ve got detectives from Prescott’s all over the place. Our best men have been trying ever since the day of the explosion, but can’t do a thing without resorting to violence. I went out there myself and looked them over, without being seen. There isn’t a man there with a record, and I haven’t been able so far to get anything on any one of them that we can use as a handle.”
“No, Prescott’s men are hard to do anything with. But can’t you … ?” Brookings paused significantly.
“I was coming to that. I thought one of them might be seen, and I talked to him a little, over the phone, but I couldn’t talk loud enough without consulting you. I mentioned ten, but he held out for twenty-five. Said he wouldn’t consider it at all, but he wants to quit Prescott and go into business for himself.”
“Go ahead on twenty-five. We want to get action,” said Brookings, as he wrote an order on the cashier for twenty-five thousand dollars in small-to-medium bills. “That is cheap enough, considering what DuQuesne’s rough stuff would probably cost. Report tomorrow about four, over our private phone—no, I’ll come down to the café, it’s safer.”
The place referred to was the Perkins Café, a high-class restaurant on Pennsylvania Avenue, heavily patronized by the diplomatic, political, financial, and sporting circles of upper-class Washington. It was famous for its discreet waiters, and for the absolutely private rooms. Many of its patrons knew of its unique telephone service, in which each call went through such a devious system of relays that any attempt to trace it was hopeless; they knew that while “The Perkins” would not knowingly lend itself to any violation of law, it was an entirely safe and thoroughly satisfactory place in which to conduct business of the most secret and confidential character; a place from which one could enjoy personal conversation with persons to whom he wished to remain invisible and untraceable: a place which had never been known to “leak.” For these reasons it was really the diplomatic and political center of the country, and over its
