Sound of the Trumpet (16 page)

“Very well, then, I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Kidnap the girl and let the boy know she is in trouble. Then employ a bum to tell him he knows where she is and will tell him if he will get certain information from that plant for us. Try the chivalrous line and see how that works.”

Lacey shook his head.

“I’ll try it if you say so, but I don’t feel either of those young people would yield. They are wholly American, even to death. They have the same qualities you are trying to inject into your army.”

“Nonsense! They haven’t been trained as our young men are trained. They are a fun-loving, giddy set. Why our men have been bred and born to fight and to count self as nothing, for the glory of the whole earth. These Americans are soft. They are thoughtless and careless. They’ll do something that looks good to them and seems to be for their own good, and when they find out what it has done to them they’ll collapse and do what they are told if the promise of release is sufficient.”

“No, you’re wrong there! These two young people have been born and bred to honor. They drank it with their mother’s milk. They have not succumbed to the worldliness and modernism that so many are full of today. That young Vandingham has, and that is why he can be influenced by Erda, but the other girl, Lisle Kingsley, has an exalted view of life and is devoted to manners and customs. You would find it hard to kidnap a girl like that and get her into a dangerous situation.”

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t. Not if you picked your kidnapper, and you and I know plenty could do it.”

“Yes. It could be done. But there would be plenty danger in trying it. The so-called righteous indignation of the wealthy and fashionable, of the respectable church-going community would be roused and the dogs of the law would be turned loose upon us.”

“Those are things we have to expect and avoid,” said the big bully whose name was Weaver. “Those are the things we trained to overcome and beat. You know how! Now go and accomplish. I don’t care how you do it, but I want that lad and that other girl if possible, and I don’t care how much it costs. When is the next blackout? Watch for that. It’s an excellent time to carry out any schemes. Does that Kingsley girl go every night to that Red Cross class in the southern part of the city?”

“No, she goes to a dingy little religious gathering of some sort. At least that’s where she took refuge when the young man was with her.”

“Oh! So that’s the game is it? The religious angle. Well, that oughtn’t to be hard to beat. The element of fear would likely help a lot. Work it out, Lacey, and let me know tomorrow what you plan. Time is going fast, and the quicker we get this thing going, the better. It’s about the most important thing we have to do just now. This plant has got to be watched in the right way. The man that makes this possible is due for advancement. You know what that means. Now go, and see how quick you can get some action.”

The two men parted, and Lacey went on his way back to his desolate room to get on the telephone, call up his satellites, and work out a plan.

Lisle Kingsley, unaware that her name had been set down among the victims that the saboteurs were arranging to use to attain their ends, went happily on about her war work, Red Cross classes, and her university course. But none of those led her into a neighborhood where plans such as had been discussed would be easily carried out without detection. And approaching examinations kept her busy with her studies, too busy to go to the Bible classes she longed to attend. Thus God protected her.

John Sargent wrote her a brief and deeply grateful note after the lovely flowers reached his grandmother.

Lisle kept that letter among her treasures, quietly, not even telling her mother about it. She felt her mother might not understand, and since she would not be likely to see this young man again, at least not often, if at all, it didn’t matter. It somehow seemed to her that this was something all her own, something she didn’t want to talk over or have reasoned about or torn asunder by worldly traditions. She was not going to make anything of it in her life, so why should it be necessary to discuss it? It wasn’t as if there were danger in it for herself or anybody else. It was just a little happiness that was a pleasant thing to herself and would be spoiled by having objections raised. Only, what objections could there possibly be? She had sent some flowers to a dear lady who was a hopeless invalid with perhaps not long to live. And the grandson, who had helped her when she was frightened, had written a polite note thanking her. That’s all there was to it. If her mother ever came upon it, she would let her read the note. She would know at once by its tone that it was all right. Perfectly courteous. And there wasn’t anything wrong in her sending flowers to an old lady. It couldn’t possibly be misunderstood. There!

She put the letter away carefully, and now and again took it out and read it, just to reassure herself that there was nothing about it she need regret.

The little book John had sent her she read and re-read, and in time wrote a brief, pleasant, appreciative note thanking him.

One evening not long after she received the little book, she was walking to her nursery work and noticed some rough-looking men watching her. Drunk, were they? She wasn’t sure. But she didn’t like their looks. They seemed to be discussing her. A taxi was passing just then and she hailed it and got in, glad to have it turn a corner and whirl her away quickly from their sight. The occurrence lingered in her mind and worried her, so that she hesitated to go walking in the lower part of the city alone and was always casting an anxious look around for those same men. She was never sure that some she saw in the distance were not the same ones. She tried to laugh herself out of it, but finally fell into the habit of taking a taxi whenever she went into the lower part of the city.

Victor, by this time, had “taken over,” as he called it, his father’s business. That is, he had a large and beautifully equipped office, though those who were watching saw no sign that his father, because of Victor’s activities, did any less than he always had done. The only difference seemed to be that expensively furnished office of Victor’s, through which the most important people entered to see his father in a plain inner office. There were no frills in the elder Vandingham’s private office.

And it was not long before Erda Brannon was established as Victor’s personal secretary. Thus she was in a position not only to see everything that was done at the plant, but also to read all the private, confidential correspondence, and to understand just how and what and when everything happened that was of special interest to the enemy. But of all this, Victor was unaware. He was much intrigued with Erda for the present, and whenever he turned his eyes toward the Kingsley house or felt a stab of regret for the way he was neglecting his off-and-on “best girl,” he drew an ugly look down across his handsome face and told himself it was good for her. She would learn she couldn’t treat him like the dirt under her feet and expect him to continue to dance attendance on her. He would keep this up till she learned her lesson thoroughly, and then he would go and condescend to her again. She would come around soon enough, he assured himself, when she saw that he meant business. This spurt of war work and nursery and hard study couldn’t deceive him. So he continued to laze around his luxurious office, idly reading a mystery story or flirting with Erda, while she plied her trade of finding out all she could about the secrets of the war plant. He made no attempt whatever to curb her eager interest in the machinery and in the mysterious parts the plant was making for a supposedly secret weapon that was to revolutionize the war and win the victory for the Allies. Victor, for the time being, had little thought for anything of this sort. It didn’t appeal to him to take any pains to guard the secrets that his father considered sacred. They seemed to him a lot of nonsense, and his father was making a great fuss about nothing to create an impression on the enemy. There was nothing to it at all, Victor said.

It never occurred to him to question the necessity that was keeping him there in a fine office while other men his age were fighting and dying for a real cause. He had heard his mother’s sales talk so much that he actually began to believe that his own part in the war was very necessary.

Sometimes behind her hand, behind his back, Erda smiled a contemptuous smile, marveling at how blind he was.

Then one day Victor caught a glimpse of Lisle Kingsley as she came down the steps of her father’s house. He watched her graceful tripping feet, the swing of her lithe body, the tilt of her lovely head, and the old attraction returned to him in full force. Lisle seemed to be as happy as when she was a child. His punishing had not reduced her to humility and pining. She carried a briefcase and had the mark of being on her way to classes. Silly that she could interest herself in learning, mere learning, when she might even now be his wife and have a home of her own, and an enviable position in society. She was too well satisfied with things as they were. It was high time he went back to her.

So that evening he went to call with the same old nonchalance as always. He gave no explanation or apology for his absence of weeks, just walked in and began to carry on from his last contact. That was the way to treat such breaks. Just ignore them.

However, it was not Lisle but her mother who was sitting in the living room knitting when he walked in. He paused an instant and looked quickly around the room.

“Where’s Lisle?” he said, as if he had a right to demand her presence.

“Oh, good evening, Victor,” she said politely. “Lisle is out this evening. Won’t you sit down?”

“Where has she gone?” he asked, ignoring her question.

“Why, I really don’t remember. She has so many engagements these days that I don’t always keep track of them. Did she expect you this evening?”

He eyed her curiously.

“Do I have to telephone every time I want to see her?”

“Well, perhaps, if you really want to see her. You certainly didn’t expect her to sit at home awaiting your pleasure to arrive?”

“Getting smart, aren’t you Em—ly?”

Mrs. Kingsley made no reply to that, just kept on knitting, counting stitches. After another one or two insolent remarks, Victor said, “When will she be home?”

“Well, I’m not quite sure,” said Lisle’s mother. “Would you care to sit down and wait? There are some magazines over on the table if you’d like to read.”

So Victor settled down to read, turning the pages idly, snapping them half angrily as time went on and Lisle did not appear and Mrs. Kingsley continued to knit silently.

And when at last they heard Lisle’s key in the lock, heard her enter and come lightly across the hall and toward the door, humming a soft tune, they both looked up. She dawned on the living room like a bright lovely star, her cheeks glowing.

“Oh, Mother, it was nice of you to sit up for me! It always looks so lonesome in this room when you’re not in it.”

“I always like to sit up until I know you are back. Where have you been, dear? I forgot to ask you.”

“Why, we had to sing for some soldier boys down at the Red Cross rooms. It was fun, Mother, and the boys enjoyed it so much.”

“That’s nice. But you see, you have a caller. He’s been waiting some time!”

Then Victor unfolded his languid self from the big chair where he had slumped and turned a frowning face toward the ungovernable maiden, as if she were somehow to blame. She had been having a nice time, had she? Well, it was high time he came back and took possession.

L
isle turned a pleasantly bright look toward her old playmate and lifted her eyebrows a trifle.