The presidential snapshot

Inasmuch as the president had not pledged him to secrecy, the Camera Chap decided to take one person into his confidence regarding his visit to the White House. He knew that Tom Paxton, managing editor of the Sentinel, could be trusted, and there were reasons why Hawley felt that it was necessary to have him know the purpose of the undertaking on which he was about to embark. So he returned to New York that night, and arrived at the Sentinel office just as Paxton was closing down his desk with the intention of going home.

“Back so soon!” The boyish-looking managing editor greeted him, grinning. “I supposed it would take you at least a couple of weeks to tell the president all you know about how to run the ship of state. Seriously speaking, though, old man, I’m glad you’ve returned. I’ve got a little job for you up in Canada that needs your immediate attention. It——”

“I’m sorry, Tom,” the Camera Chap interrupted, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to hand that assignment to somebody else. I can’t touch it. I’ve got to have a couple of months’ leave of absence—to begin at once.”

Paxton looked his astonishment. “What are you going to do with it?”

“I am going to South America,” Hawley announced. “To Baracoa, to be precise. I suppose you recall, Tom, the sensational disappearance of President Felix, a couple of years ago?”

“Of course,” Paxton replied. He had a phenomenal memory for contemporaneous history. It was the boast of the Sentinel staff that he could give, offhand, facts and figures of any event of importance in any part of the world within the past ten years.

“Francisco Felix,” he went on, as though reading from a book, “the poor Baracoa laborer who became president. They called him ‘the South American Abraham Lincoln.’ He was the idol of the people—the most beloved and respected executive Baracoa has ever had—until he proved himself to be a crook by absconding with the contents of the national treasury.”

The Camera Chap smiled. “That is the story which is generally accepted,” he said quietly. “But there is a possibility that the world may have done President Felix a great injustice.”

“What do you mean?” Paxton asked, looking searchingly in the other’s face.

“It now appears,” said the Camera Chap, “that instead of being a fugitive and an absconder, Felix may really have been the victim of a daring conspiracy; that instead of being free in some part of Europe at this moment, living in luxury on his loot, the unhappy man is in reality eating out his heart in a South American dungeon—where he has been ever since that fatal night that he is supposed to have skipped from Baracoa in his private yacht. In other words, Tom, it was all a frame-up. According to this story, Felix was kidnaped by the Portiforo party, who, realizing that he was too strong with the people to be deposed by an ordinary revolution, took this means of discrediting him and seizing the reins of government.”

Editor Paxton smiled incredulously. “Sounds pretty far-fetched. Yet I don’t know,” he added musingly. “Almost anything is possible down in that part of the continent; and I recall that there were some circumstances about Felix’s disappearance which struck me at the time as queer. There is the fact, for instance, that he has never been seen since the day his yacht reached the south coast of France.”

“He wasn’t seen even then,” Hawley reminded him. “At least, there is no proof that the man who came ashore was really Felix. The only persons who saw him were some French peasants, and, of course, they wouldn’t know Felix by sight.”

“There was the crew of the yacht,” Paxton suggested. “You are forgetting, perhaps, that later on they were caught and they admitted the whole business.”

“It is possible that they were in the conspiracy,” Hawley argued. “Every member of the crew could have been a Portiforo agent, carefully instructed as to the story he was to tell.”

The managing editor nodded. “Yes; that’s possible. By George!” he added, a glint in his eyes, “what a wonderful story—if it should be true. Where on earth did you get hold of it?”

“At the White House,” the Camera Chap replied, sinking his voice almost to a whisper.

“What! You don’t mean to say the president believes it?”

“Not exactly. In fact, he is strongly inclined to think that it is a preposterous theory concocted by Portiforo’s enemies. Still, there is a doubt in his mind. That is why I am going to Baracoa.”

“He is sending you there to investigate this yarn?”

“To find Felix, if he is really in Baracoa, and to bring back a snapshot of him,” Hawley said simply.

“Good stuff!” Paxton approved. “If we had photographic evidence the United States would be in a position to intervene, and demand Felix’s immediate release. That, of course, would mean the finish of Portiforo, and I happen to know that there are reasons why Washington wouldn’t be exactly sorry to see a change in the government of Baracoa. But I say, old man,” he added anxiously, “do you appreciate the magnitude of the job you’re tackling? Do you realize the danger?”

“Surely I do,” Hawley answered. “The president warned me that I would have to be very careful—that if the story happened to be true, and Portiforo should find out the object of my trip to Baracoa, the consequences would be serious. They would probably seek to remove the evidence—by murdering poor Felix before I had a chance to get to him.”

Paxton frowned. “Yes, I have no doubt they would do that. They would make short work of Felix. But I wasn’t referring to him; I was thinking of what might happen to you if they were to nab you in the act of trying to get that snapshot.” His tone was very grave. “I am afraid, old man, that they would stand you up against a stone wall, with a handkerchief around your eyes and spray you with lead from their guns.”

The Camera Chap laughed. “Not as bad as that, I guess. A dungeon cell and a ball and chain would be about the limit.”

“I’m not so sure,” Paxton muttered. “What protection does the president promise you in case you are caught?”

“He didn’t promise me any protection,” the Camera Chap replied cheerfully. “On the contrary, he gave me clearly to understand that I am going into this thing at my own risk. He explained that if I am apprehended in the act of violating any of the laws of a friendly nation, the United States government wouldn’t have any right to intervene.”

“I thought so,” growled Paxton. “Why the deuce couldn’t he have given this job to a secret-service man instead of you?”

“I didn’t ask him that,” Hawley answered, smiling. “But don’t worry, Tom. I’m going to get along all right. They’re not going to catch me, you know.”

The managing editor shook his head forebodingly. “I’ve a good mind to refuse you that leave of absence,” he said. “I’d do it, too, if I didn’t know that you’d go, anyway—and if you were working for anybody else but the President of the United States. When do you expect to start?”

“To-morrow. The Colombia, of the Andean line, sails for South American waters at two p. m. I’ve engaged passage on her.”

“You’re certainly not losing any time,” Paxton chuckled. “Would you like me to send somebody along to help you, old man? You can have the pick of our staff.”

The Camera Chap declined this offer. “I’m ever so much obliged,” he said, “but I have decided that I had better work alone. It seems to me that this is one of those cases where one head will be better than two.” He extended his hand. “Good-by, Tom. I’ll trot along. I’ve got to go home and pack my trunk.”

“Good-by, old man,” said the managing editor, gripping the outstretched hand with a fervor he rarely displayed. “Good-by, and good-luck to you! You’ll need all the luck you can command; for this is by far the most dangerous job you’ve ever tackled. By the way, let me give you a little tip that may prove valuable. If you should happen to get into trouble, and have to appeal to the American minister to save you, you’d better not let him know, if you can help it, that you are a member of the Sentinel staff.”

“Why not? I should think——”

“Minister Throgmorton doesn’t like the Sentinel,” Paxton interrupted dryly. “He has good reason for his prejudice. We have been roasting him editorially ever since he was appointed. So, under the circumstances, I scarcely think he would move heaven and earth to help a Sentinel man.”