Part 11 (1/2)

The three men left the room together. John Acre returned his poncho to one of the nails in the outer room.

Then they all quitted the house and started down the street.

They had not covered fifty feet when Whistler Wheeler emitted a loud yell.

”Look at the street lights in the main part of town!” he howled.

The lights were going strangely dim.

JOHN ACRE and his two companions moved with great speed. A tiny open square lay at the end of the street in which they stood. They sprinted for it. Their wild rush down the street did not stop until they stood in the small plaza.

Here, falling walls of buildings would not endanger them.

There was a sound like thunder in the far distance. The uncouth mumbling became louder. It drew closer, as though a howling mob were approaching far in the depths of the earth.

The ground began to tremble. Near by, a chimney upset. Bricks and unsound masonry tumbled off houses.

Everywhere windows were splintering and breaking.

It was as if the earth had been seized with a chill.

The shaking was not excessively violent, however. John Acre and his companions were able to keep their feet.

”It is not a big shake,” said John Acre. ”The main force seems to be centralized well to our left.”

Hardly were the words off his lips when the pulsations ceased.

”Let's see who got it this time,” Whistler Wheeler rasped.

The three men plunged to the right.

Because of the lateness of the hour the streets had been deserted, and silent. Now they were a-swarm with people. Excited mothers were shoving their children through narrow s.p.a.ces between window bars. One man with a mustache like bicycle handlebars had his head caught, and was screaming l.u.s.tily.

A hill jutted up in front of the running men. It was a very steep hill, its sides in places almost clifflike. A road curled around its base. The heart of the quake had been at the hill. Great ma.s.ses of stone had been shaken across the road. Men were already tearing at this debris at one point.

It became apparent that an automobile had been caught in the rock slide.

John Acre, Dido Galligan, and Whistler Wheeler added their help. One man was in the trapped car.

Extricating him required fully five minutes. The fellow was dead. His features were barely recognizable.

Dios, mia!”

John Acre gritted in Spanish. ”This is one of the men from our meeting.”

Dido Galligan peered at the corpse. ”I recognize him now. He was the owner of one of the largest nitrate plants in the country.”

John Acre nodded slowly. ”It is very strange. Each man to die has been the owner of a nitrate property.”A few minutes after he had drawn attention to this fact, John Acre slipped away from the vicinity. His going was furtive. Few noted his departure.

John Acre made his way to the radio station. The radio corporation had offices uptown, from which communications were ordinarily filed and delivered.

John Acre, however, never sent his radiograms through the usual channels. Too many eyes saw them.

He habitually gave his messages to the operator at the radio station itself. To deliver such a missive was the object of his present visit.

The structure which housed the radio apparatus was not an imposing building. A light glowed behind its one window. Voices came from within.

John Acre was a cautious soul. Had he not been, he would have come to a violent end long ago. He approached the radio shack quietly, his ears sharpened. He heard something which gave him a shock.

”John Acre thinks his messages have been going out,” said the operator within the radio house. ”He would have thirteen kinds of a fit if he knew what has actually happened.”

Chapter IX. MOVER OF MOUNTAINS.

INSTEAD of entering as he had intended, John Acre lurked outside the radio house, and did some very close listening.

”You are taking a great chance in holding up old Hawk Nose's messages,” said the radio operator's companion.

John Acre could not remember having heard this voice.

”I'm getting well paid for what I'm doing,” answered the radio man.

The other laughed softly. ”I do not know that I blame you for merely failing to send messages which are handed you-that is an easy way of earning money.”

”I do slightly more than that,” corrected the key tapper. ”I also make up fake messages which are given to John Acre.”

”Who pays you?”

”That, my friend, I dare not tell you.”

John Acre made a snarling mouth under his hooked nose. His hand whipped inside his coat, and came out with a revolver. This weapon had been altered to what firearm experts call a belly-buster. The barrel had been cut off until there was hardly a barrel at all. Because of this, the slugs were as likely as not to strike sidewise.

Belly-buster guns are noted for the frightful wounds they inflict.

On the point of entering, John Acre heard more words. He waited. These were choice morsels which he was overhearing.

”Do not get the idea I have not earned this money,” the radio operator was saying. ”I have held up messages from John Acre. But that is not all. I make a copy of every message which pa.s.ses through this station. These copies are turned over to the one who hires me.”

The second man in the radio shack laughed softly. ”You do not need to tell me the name of your employer, my dear friend,” he said. ”I know it already.”

”Yeah?” The operator sounded surprised.”Exactly,” laughed the other. ”You are paid by a follower of the Little White Brother. We both serve the same master.”

This was all John Acre could stand listening to. His sawed-off gun in his fist, he shouldered into the office.

”Lift your hands!” he snapped.