“And that gives me an idea!” he exclaimed suddenly. “You say a plane forced you down. You think they wanted my violin. I doubt it.
“My friend,” he laid one hand on the third package, “this is what they were after. They would have it at any cost.”
“But what—”
“Who knows what that package may contain? Of late these secret agents of the Soviet, these men who spread dissatisfaction among the workers and the unemployed, have had some secret source of wealth.”
He took the package and shook it.
“No sound. And yet it is not money. A long, slim package. Who sends money so?
“I’ll tell you what, my boy!” He turned upon Curlie once more. “You’d better not try to deliver this package. Take it to the post office and get a receipt for it. That lets you out. I’ll report its arrival in Chicago to my Secret Service friend. He can have it investigated.”
“Thank—thanks. I—I think I’ll do that.”
As Curlie left the room with that mysterious package under his arm it seemed to burn his very flesh. That, of course, was sheer imagination, nothing more. And yet—
“Bolsheviks. Hidden source of wealth,” he murmured to himself. Then he gave an involuntary start. As he left the hotel, a shadow crossed his path, then vanished.