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Updated: May 6, 2025
He'll repeat it again. They always do." As Curlie listened, his face grew grave with concern. The message came from the head station of the radiophone secret service bureau. That station was located in New York. The message was a reprimand. Kindly, friendly but firmly, it told Curlie that for two nights now someone in his area had been breaking in on 600. Coast-to-ship messages had been disturbed.
It was indeed a curious map which had been reproduced on the large photographic print which Gladys Ardmore placed on the desk before her father. Motioning Curlie to come forward and examine it with them, the magnate rose from his chair to bend over the map. As Curlie stood there looking down at it, the girl in her eagerness bent down so close to him that he felt her warm breath on his cheek.
It's big, Curlie, big!" again the whisper rose almost to speaking tone. "And he is a terribly determined man; wouldn't stop at anything." The whisper ceased. For a moment Curlie sat there lost in reflection, then he muttered savagely: "Oh! get off the air, you little whispering mystery, you're spoiling my technique.
On a map of the city which lay before him he had made a pencil cross and said: "It came from there." And he was right for, strange as it may seem, an expert such as Curlie can sit in a hidden tower room such as his was and detect the exact location of a station whose message has set his ear drums aquiver. The location had puzzled him.
"That radiophone was mounted on a car," he decided; "I'll stake my life on that. Now if he keeps it up, how am I to catch him?" The next night found Curlie in the secret tower room alone. Joe Marion was away helping to run down a case of "malicious interference." It was curious business, this work of the radio secret service.
Me, Captain Jarvis, hafraid." He turned suddenly upon Curlie. "Go git yer togs an' shake a leg er the bloomin' Kittlewake'll be off without you on board." "That's the talk!" smiled Curlie. "Never fear! We'll be here." He turned to Joe. "You go ashore and buy us each a suit of roughing-it things, a so'-wester and the like. We'll need 'em. I'll be back in less than an hour."
He tuned in this one and cut that one out. "Whew!" he exclaimed, mopping his brow, "what a night! Wish Curlie were here." To start the night's entertainment a boy had broken in on the radio concert. Then a crank had come shouting right into the middle of a speech by a politician. A few moments later a message on 1200 had fairly burst his ear-drums.
He had been about to reveal the fact that he was aware of the presence of the wireless set in the auto the night the millionaire's son disappeared. "I can't see just how your messages could aid us in finding my son." The magnate spoke more calmly. "However, all things are possible. May I see the copies?" "Of course," said Curlie, hesitatingly, "this is a private matter.
But, no, he drew his hands resolutely back. It was not wise. There was danger in it. This might be a trap. They might locate his secret tower room by that single O.K. Then disaster would follow. The whisper came again: "You're clever, Curlie, awfully clever. The way you doubled over and turned yourself wrong side out was great! But please do be careful.
Only one thing he could be sure of; his throbbing brain told it to him over and over: Alfred Brightwood, his friend, was gone gone forever. The sea had swallowed him up. When Curlie Carson had fastened the mysterious post-shaped affair to the springs of his berth, he fought his way against wind, waves and darkness back to the radiophone cabin.
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