Edgar Wallace

Patria

Warsaw 2018

Contents

EPISODE I. LAST OF THE FIGHTING CHANNINGS

EPISODE II. A SACRED TRUST

EPISODE III. WINGED MILLIONS

EPISODE IV. THE DECEPTION

EPISODE V. THE ISLAND THAT GOD FORGOT

EPISODE VI. ALIAS NEMESIS

EPISODE VII. RED DAWN

EPISODE VIII. RED NIGHT

EPISODE IX. CATSPAW & SCAPEGOAT

EPISODE X. SNATCHED FROM DEATH

EPISODE XI. LOVERS' LEAP

EPISODE XII. RAIDERS OF THE BORDER

EPISODE XIII. THE WINGS OF DEATH

EPISODE XIV. THE FRONTIER PERIL

EPISODE XV. FOR THE FLAG

EPISODE I. LAST OF THE FIGHTING CHANNINGS

CAPTAIN DONALD PARR, of the United States Secret Service, stood in the shadow of a hedge and looked thoughtfully across the links of the Newport Country Club. He was watching two men, one tall and young, the other a man of middle age and middle height with a heavy, sleepy-looking face. That he should watch them so intently was only natural, for Captain Donald Parr had come swiftly to Newport to keep these two men under observation.

The mind of one, at least, was elsewhere than on the game. Once or twice Manuel Morales, the elder of the two, looked round as though in search of something.

“What are you staring at?” growled de Lima.

The other man made no reply. He was watching a tiny white flag at the far side of the grounds, a flag that waved to and fro with great rapidity and with something like system, and he was busy memorising the message which the signaller was sending. De Lima saw the flag, but could not read the signal.

“What is it?” he asked quickly.

Morales was frowning.

“I shall have to go back to New York,” he said; “the Channings have turned down our contract for the supply of munitions.”

“The money is all right,” said de Lima, “why should they turn it down?”

“Why do the Channings do anything?” demanded the stout man. “They are a law unto themselves, my friend. Channings are that curiosity, a patriotic munitions works, and because they think that the arms we are buying will be used against American soldiers, they refuse to sell to us.”

He threw down his club and walked quickly across the green to where the flag had been waving.

Another had seen that message and had jotted in down. As Morales moved towards the hidden signaller, Donald Parr stepped back into the bushes and made his way through the thick plantation in the direction which Morales had taken. The Mexican reached the bushes first, and after a glance to left and right plunged into the thicket.

He found awaiting him one of the eight men he had trained from childhood to his service. He was a lean, leathery-faced man, unmistakably a Polynesian. It was said of Morales that he paid periodical trips to the island to recruit likely servitors. It paid him to give them a college education–the sharper the instrument, the more effective it was for Morales’ purposes.

“You got my message, Señor?” asked the man, and Morales nodded.

“Channings must change their mind,” he said. “I want those arms, and I want them quickly.”

“You will never get them, Señor,” said the man decidedly. “Peter Ripley is the boss of Channings, and will be till Patria Channing comes of age, and even after. I know what you are thinking. The young lady comes of age to-morrow, but Ripley will be advising her all the time. There is only one chance for us.”

“What is that?” asked Morales.

“If we remove him. He is an old man, but he may live for many years. Let me settle with him.”

Morales nodded, and a gleam came into his eye.

“The girl might be persuaded,” he said, half to himself. “She comes of age to-morrow–I am almost inclined to try it.”

He took out his notebook and wrote a few lines.

“Here are your instructions,” he said. “I want you to probe into Ripley’s past and see if there is anything we can find against him, by which we can hold him. If the worst comes to the worst, Ripley must go.”

The messenger stuck the slip of paper in the band of his peaked cap and without another word disappeared into the bush, and Morales slowly retraced his steps to where he had left de Lima. His mind was working rapidly. De Lima was a man of substance, a great favourite with society, rich, powerful, and well-favoured. He was a friend of Patria Channing, and had the entrée to the most exclusive set of Newport. Suppose de Lima tried his fortune with the girl? It was worth the attempt.

Captain Parr had been a witness to the meeting, though his place of concealment was too far away for him to catch the gist of the conversation which had been carried on between the two men. He saw the messenger slip the note into his cap, and when he turned and dived into the thicket, Donald, after a moment’s hesitation, followed.

At first, the man walked slowly, then he quickened his pace. Presently, he heard the footsteps behind him and ran. He knew his pursuer was gaining on him, and redoubled his efforts. As he ran he heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs, but could not judge the direction whence the sound came. He clapped on speed for one final effort, and then, without warning, leapt out onto the road under the very feet of a galloping horse.

The breast of the struck him and sent him flying back, half unconscious. As he fell, Donald Parr dashed out into the road a few paces away, and, taking in the situation, ran to the fallen man and, bending down, pulled the written slip from the cap-band.

“I hope he is not hurt,” said a soft voice.

The Secret Service man looked up. A girl sat astride the prancing thoroughbred, her escort by her side.

“Why, Wrenn,” he said, “this is unexpected.”

Rodney Wrenn bent down with a laugh and took the outstretched hand.

“Miss Channing,” he turned to his companion, “may I present Captain Donald Parr, of the Secret Service. This is Miss Patria Channing.”

Donald had no need to be told that this was Patria Channing. He had seen her many times, had shadowed her more often than she could guess, and not once, but many times, had stood between her and danger, although she was unconscious of the fact. It was the first time that he had met her face to face, and he saw a tall and slender girl with a high forehead, a pair of grave brown eyes, and a chin that stood for the obstinacy and courage of the Fighting Channings. He knew her by repute as the richest heiress in America, the mistress of a munitions plant almost as great as Krupps. He knew something of the romance of this family which had fought America’s battles for a hundred years, and now, as he felt the firm grip of her little hand, he realised instinctively that the Channings breed still held.

“No; he is not hurt,” said Donald.

“Was he running away from you?” asked the girl. “Has he committed a crime? He looked like a chauffeur.”

“I think he is knocked out,” said Donald, “but don’t worry about him.”

The girl turned to her companion.

“Why don’t you bring Captain Parr to my dance to-night?” she asked.

“Certainly,” said Wrenn, with no great warmth; “but Captain Parr is such a busy man that I don’t suppose he will have the time.”

“I will find the time, Miss Channing, if you will give me the opportunity,” said Donald, promptly.

The girl laughed and, with another glance at the underbrush which sheltered the fallen figure of the fugitive, turned and galloped away; and Donald, looking after her, had the curious sensation of having parted with an old friend. He turned back to the bush to look for the man. To his surprise, he had disappeared.

Morales had turned into the club with de Lima.

“Listen,” said Morales. “You know Patria Channing. She likes you. You have the opportunity of meeting her. Why don’t you marry her?”

“Marry Patria Channing,” said de Lima, thoughtfully, and an ugly little smile lit his face; “by the Saints! That’s an idea–but where do you come in? Why are you so keen on this?”

“I want munitions,” said Morales shortly. “I am much deeper, financially, in this revolution than you know. If it is a success–and it will be a success if we get the arms–I stand to win a fortune as big as Patria Channing’s.”

“Even of she accepted me, Ripley–”

“I shall deal with Ripley,” said the other grimly. “Try your luck.”

A waiter approached them.

“There is a call for you at the telephone, sir,” he said.

“For me?” said Morales in surprise. He got up and walked to the booth.

He heard the agitated voice of his agent and closed the door of the telephone-booth.

“Captain Parr came after me,” said the voice. “He has taken from me the instructions you gave me.”

“You fool,” snarled Morales, savagely, “why didn’t you shoot?”

“Señor,” pleaded the voice, “I was knocked insensible. As I was recovering, I felt him remove the note. What am I to do?”

Morales thought quickly.

“There is no time to be lost,” he said. “Get away as quickly as you can. Make New York to-night and settle with Ripley.”

That night a gay and gallant party gathered at Patria Channing’s palatial Newport home. Donald Parr thought he had never seen anything to radiantly beautiful as the girl as she swung into the crowded ballroom, and his heart gave a leap when he saw that she wore two of the roses that he had sent her. And yet, for all the confidence in her poise, there was a look of trouble in her fair face.

Rodney Wrenn, who had also watched for her coming, saw that look, and was uneasy. He looked, too, for the flowers he had sent and swore softly when he saw that they were not worn. He half-anticipated the answer she would give to the note which he had sent with the flowers: she had rejected.

The night was not far advanced when he led her out onto the moonlit terrace. She had dreaded this interview. De Lima she had dismissed in a sentence, for, contrary to Morales’ belief, she disliked the man. “I would not marry you if you were the only man,” as she repulsed him from the too-familiar embrace which he attempted. She had disposed of his hopes without compunction, and de Lima had gone miserably to the buffet to drown his sorrows in her wine.

But Rodney was different. She listened in silence to his suit and shook her head.

“I am afraid, Rodney, that I cannot give you an answer that will please you, she said gently.

“Won’t you give me a little hope?” he asked.

She shook her head slowly.

“I don’t think that would be fair either to you or two me,” she said in that quiet, even tone of hers.

The heard footsteps on the tessellated pavement, and she turned with a look of relief.

“This is my dance, Miss Channing,” said Donald Parr, as he came forward, quite oblivious of the cold welcome which Wrenn offered him.

“So it is,” said the girl; “but you shall sit this out with me and thrill me with some of your Secret Service stories.”

Donald laughed.

“I cannot promise you anything thrilling,” he said as he led her away, not knowing that he was fated to share with her, before that interval was through, an adventure that would eclipse all he had ever experienced.

* * * * *

An elderly man, sturdy and bald, sat at a writing-table in a luxuriously furnished room in New York. The home of the Channings, though unpretentious, was furnished with a taste and a richness which were eloquent not only of the wealth but of the discrimination of its owner. It was a noble apartment, the most interesting feature of which was the great marble fireplace, on the tablature of which was carved in raised letters:

"Pro Patria Mori.”

Peter Ripley, who had grown old in the firm of Channings, and was not only the manager, but the guardian of the Channings heiress, and no less the Channings tradition, found the letter he was engaged upon, one which was not easy to write. He was handing over the account of his stewardship and removing from himself the very heavy responsibility which had laid upon him for so many years.

Faithful servant of the firm, he had acquired position and wealth in the course of his service, and he viewed the coming release from the strain under which he had lived for so many years with mixed feelings. He was glad enough to pass the responsibility to the owner of the Channings millions. Yet he could not help feeling that the girl was very young and inexperienced, and he felt, too, that he would miss and regret the burden which had passed.

He sighed heavily, and took up his pen to complete the letter, when he heard the faint tinkle of a bell, and presently his negro servant bearing a card on a salver.

Ripley looked at the card and read:

"Herbert T. Sawley
United States Secret Service.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Show him in, Rastus,” and in a few moments a capable, bearded man strode into the room and took the seat which the other indicated.

“I have had a wire from my chief,” said the Secret Service man without any preliminary. “He tells me there is some sort of plot against you, and warns you to be on your guard.”

Ripley frowned.

“Another,” he said bitterly. “Was there ever a time when there was not a plot against the Channings? But I am not easily scared. By Heaven! Mr. Sawley, I’ll give those fellows who monkey with the Channings all that they ask for, and some more!”

“If you need me,” said the officer as he shook hands at parting, “you know where to find me. I am in touch with the Central Office day and night.”

The detective had hardly disappeared from the street when a figure which had been watching the house stole round the corner and made his way noiselessly up the steps.

The agent of Morales had left his motor-car at a nearby garage, and had watched the arrival and departure of the Secret Service man from a vantage-point of the opposite side of the street. He came to the door and tried it. It yielded to his touch. A few minutes before the detective’s arrival and departure there had come a messenger boy to the door, and whilst Rastus was interviewing his master the messenger had slipped back the catch so that it was a simple matter for his employer to make his entry.

The intruder closed the door behind him, moved stealthily across the hall, and after a brief reconnaissance, passed through the sliding doors of the great study.

Peter Ripley had finished his letter to Patria and had slid it into the pocket of his dressing-gown. He had dismissed the yawning Rastus with a nod and now, on the eve of his renunciation of his trust, he was seized with an irresistible desire to look upon the great treasure which on the following morning would be automatically transferred to his ward.

He walked to the fireplace and looked at the carved letters. He pressed the “P” in “Patria.” The letter sank back until it was flush with the entablature. In rapid succession he pressed the remainder of the letters, and as he pushed home the final “A” there was a click, and the great fireplace swung back, showing a square aperture down which led a flight of stone steps. He stooped and began the descent.

No sooner had he disappeared from view than the emissary of Morales rose from behind a settee and followed cautiously. The old man reached the big vault, and his hand was on the steel door of the inner strong-room when he heard the sound behind him.

He turned in a flash, and saw the bulk of the stranger silhouetted against the light which flowed down from the study. Without a moment’s hesitation he leapt upon the man. There was a short struggle, two quick flickers of flame, two crashes as the revolver exploded almost simultaneously, and Ripley heard the thud of his assailant’s body as it struck the ground.

He leant against the wall, his hand at the wound in his breast. He knew his end was near. Painfully he crawled up the steps, touched the secret spring which brought the fireplace back into position, and staggered to the table.

He gripped the telephone and called a Newport number.

* * * * *

“For me?” asked Patria, in surprise.

“Yes, Madam; it is a trunk call from New York.”

“I wonder what it is,” said the girl.

She was standing on the terrace with Donald Parr when the summons came.

“I must go. It may be something important,” she said.

Even as she put the receiver to her ear she had a strange sense of foreboding.

“It is I, Ripley,” said a faint voice. “I am dying–come to New York at once–written letter–trust....”

There was a silence.

“What is it, what is it?” cried the girl with apprehension.

“Come–New York–” said the voice, and she heard the crash of Peter Ripley’s body as he fell forward across the table–dead.

In a few incoherent words she explained the situation to Parr.

“It is too late for the ferry,” said the Secret Service man, “but I have a motor-yacht in the bay. I can take you across in time to catch the last train.”

They flew up to their rooms to change. Had either looked back they might have seen the head of Morales rise slowly over the marble balustrade of the terrace.

“You heard that,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

De Lima’s head came up.

“What is it?”

“Ripley’s dead. He has left a letter. We must get to New York and secure that letter before she arrives. Where is Kanaka?”

“He is waiting,” said de Lima eagerly; “can we get to their boat before they arrive?”

“Easily,” said Morales.

He led the way across the grounds; his car was waiting, and in a few minutes they were on the landing stage. They seized the first row-boat they could find, and the three, for Kanaka, the Polynesian servant of Morales, was with them, pulled off into the bay.

“That is Parr’s boat,” said Morales, pointing to a graceful motor-launch.

They drew up by its side, and de Lima sprang aboard. Swiftly, he disengaged one of the wires, lifted up the cushion, opened the petrol tank, and pushed the wire-end into the pungent fluid, and as rapidly replaced the seat and the cushion.

“When he turns on the juice, there will be an explosion,” said de Lima rapidly. “What are we to do?”

“Commandeer any boats we can find. I will go out with Kanaka in one. You stay and watch events in another.”

There were plenty of moored boats to choose from, and they had hardly concluded their arrangements when the figures of Parr and his beautiful charge appeared on the landing-stage. They watched them row off, and saw the detective assist the girl into the boat.

“This is where I go,” said Morales and started his engine.

De Lima had no eyes for anyone but the two people in the motor-boat. He saw Donald Parr lean down to turn the switch. Suddenly there was a deafening explosion, and the stern of the boat blew away in a hundred pieces. The white-faced girl crouched in the bow.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Donald steadily. “There has been some foul work here.”

“There is no danger,” he said cheerfully; “here is a potential rescuer.”

De Lima’s boat drew alongside. The Mexican held out his eager hands and half-lifted the girl into the boat. Instantly, with a quick jerk, he pushed off from the burning motor-boat. Donald understood his purpose too late.

“You have left Captain Donald Parr,” cried the girl in alarm; “go back, go back!”

De Lima surveyed her with a leer. She saw he had been drinking, and there was something in his eyes which filled the girl with horror.

“My young friend,” he said thickly, “I have arranged for you to spend the night with me–do you understand?”

She looked at him with a white, set face, and with a little laugh and a shrug de Lima turned to the engine.

“Go back! Go back, I tell you!” cried a stern young voice behind him.

He swung round with an oath–but put up his hands, for he was looking down the barrel of a revolver, and the girl’s hand showed no tremor.

He gasped, made one blundering step toward her, missed his balance, and before he could recover he was in the water, floating astern of the swift-running motor-boat, which was now circling round on its way back to the burning craft.

Donald was getting ready to jump when he saw the boat put about. In a few seconds he was scrambling aboard.

The girl saw the frank admiration in his face, and dropped her eyes with a faint thrill of happiness. Donald made his way to the stern of the boat.

“I am going to catch that train,” he said between his teeth, as he gripped the wheel and sent the long white racer flying for the distant ferry.

Morales was well ahead of him, and had landed at the railway pier just as the train steamed in. He strained his eyes back through the moonlit haze, but could see nothing of de Lima. Satisfied with the night’s work, he walked into the car and settled himself down for the journey. So far his plan had succeeded, and the rest would be fairly simple.

With the start he had, and with Patria hopelessly compromised, everything was going his way–then he heard his name called excitedly, and turned around to see Kanaka standing in doorway.

“Look, look!” he pointed to the window.

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