WHEN OLD FOES GET TOGETHER
But Clifford dared wait no longer for his reinforcements--and he dared
not shoot, with Mary standing between him and his most-desired target,
Bradley. He sprang through the curtains, his automatic in his right
hand, and swung his left fist mightily just beneath the ear of the
unsuspecting Slim Harrison, who went down like a dead man.
“Look out!” shrilled Loveman, loosening Mary’s arm.
Bradley whirled about, instinctively holding Mary before him, from
whose shoulders the unloosened cloak was falling, and from whose face
the as yet unknotted veil fell away.
“Come on, boys,” Clifford cried, as if to a squad behind him. “Guard
the front door, and round up the whole bunch!”
“Beat it through the basement!” Bradley roared to the others. And at
the same instant he hurled Mary straight at the on-coming Clifford. As
she struck Clifford, Bradley leaped upon him and knocked his pistol
flying from his hand, and then, brushing Mary aside with a powerful
sweep, he grappled Clifford in his bear-like arms. The two men went
swaying heavily. Clifford had a brief vision of the others staring on
nonplussed--then they were gone, and he and Bradley were alone, except
for the limp Harrison on the floor.
“So it was all a bluff--those others!” Bradley snarled at him. Exultant
triumph gleamed in his malignant face. “God, I been waiting--long
enough for this--but I’m going to get you at last!”
Clifford tried to struggle free: Mary must have been taken by those
others, and his every impulse called on him to pursue. But there was
no breaking the clutch of those mighty, hate-hungry arms. He tried
only to struggle defensively, hoping for the appearance of Jimmie
Kelly--but in a few moments he realized that if he merely tried to hold
his own against this maddened antagonist he would swiftly be a defeated
man--and that once beaten down he would be maimed to the exhaustion of
Bradley’s fury. And then he realized and accepted this for what it was
and what it had to be: it was that “next time” for which Bradley had
often wished--the “time” which between these two old enemies there was
no avoiding.
This splendid dining-room had in its time looked upon many strange
scenes, but never had it looked upon such a scene as that which
followed. In each man--hostile always, and super-enemies since Clifford
had driven Bradley from the Police Department by the exposure of his
criminal practices--was the same supreme desire to destroy the other,
destroy him physically--to crush him utterly with infuriated muscles.
Grappling each other they went staggering about the great muted room.
The table, with its champagne glasses, its silver-and-glass épergne
of terraced fruit, went toppling over. The next moment a splendid if
incongruous buhl cabinet was a wreck and its ostentatious exhibit of
cut-glass was a thousand fragments upon the floor. And still the two
men-beasts swayed about in their destructive fury.
A minute of this mad straining of muscle against muscle, and that part
of Clifford’s rage which was unbridled madness disappeared--though the
rage itself remained. His head began to clear. He perceived that in
such an animal-like struggle as this he was foredoomed: Bradley was
the heavier and had the greater strength. So he began to try to break
free: if he could change this to a fight with fists, and could keep
Bradley at arm’s length, there would be a different tale, for he knew
himself Bradley’s superior at boxing. But Bradley also knew this and
clung unbreakingly on: his was the art of the New York policeman who
has risen from the “gas-house district”--an art in which no practice
that will maim or win is barred. He kicked fiercely at Clifford’s
shins; he tried to drive his knee up into Clifford’s stomach; suddenly
bending his own body inwardly into an arc, he as suddenly contracted
his gorilla-like arms, with the intent to disable his enemy, caught
unawares--perhaps break his back; and he closed a huge hand upon
Clifford’s face as though it would strip the features from the
skull--and only removed that awful grip when Clifford sunk his teeth
into the heel of the palm.
For the time Clifford had forgotten all but Bradley. Had he thought of
Jimmie Kelly, he would now have resented Jimmie’s entrance.
All this while, whenever he could get a free arm, and dared risk a
blow, Clifford was driving his fist into the glowering face before his
own. He was not directing his blows in the hope of a knock-out; the
range was too short for his fist to secure the crashing power for that;
but he sent his fists at the lips, at the nose, at the eyes. He was
working toward an end, now--working with a cold mind, though with fury
unabated. He wanted those lips and nostrils to stream blood; he wanted
those eyes to puff up and close. That of itself would not win him this
gigantic struggle, since Bradley’s great strength would not be reduced
thereby. But it might cause Bradley to lose all self-control, and in
his huge, unguarded violence to give Clifford the opening for which he
was working and waiting.
Clifford’s nerves and muscles were now remembering something of the
skill that had been his when he had been a member of his university’s
champion wrestling team. But he was carefully masking his plan. To
Bradley he was apparently fighting the same kind of fight as his
own--where brute strength triumphed in the end. And with Clifford there
was the question whether his old skill at its best would avail against
such superior strength as Bradley’s--and also the question, would he
get the chance to use it?
At length there came a moment when Bradley thought that he had won. He
gave Clifford a supreme bear-hug--more than once he had thus cracked
strong men’s ribs. Clifford gave a gasping cry, his mouth fell loosely
agape, his knees gave way, and he hung a dead weight in Bradley’s arms.
Bradley was not primarily a fist-fighter, but he knew the value of a
fist at the right moment.
“I’ve got you now--damn you!” he gasped fiercely, and loosened his
right arm to draw back his fist to drive it into that flaccid face for
the finishing blow.
But that blow was never delivered. With a lightning swiftness Clifford
wrenched free from that too-confident left arm, half dropped to the
floor--shot swiftly up with a backward leap that placed him behind
Bradley, and as he came up his left arm darted under Bradley’s left
shoulder, and his left hand crooked itself upon the back of Bradley’s
bull neck. And in the same instant his right hand shot forward and
caught Bradley’s right wrist.
Bradley gave a sneering laugh. “Want a kid’s horseback ride, do you!”
Snarling contemptuously again, Bradley shook his heavy shoulders as
a great dog might shake its dripping ruff. But Clifford did not fly
off. Instead his body braced itself and his arms stiffened. Bradley’s
head was driven sharply into his chest, his right arm was drawn out
straight. He gave a grunt and set his muscles contemptuously against
this unknown maneuver. Not yet did the man dream what was happening to
him.
Grimly Clifford began to exert his strength, himself wondering if he
could carry this thing through. This hold that he had upon Bradley
was a hold that he had practiced in some fractional degree of its
potentialities in friendly contests--but never had he seen that hold
used upon a human being to the reputed limits of its effectiveness. He
recalled the avarice of this man, the brutal cunning, the ruthlessness,
the devil’s misuse of power--the thousands he had bled financially, the
unnumbered ones he had “framed” and whose freedom he had coldly sworn
away--and Clifford was aflame with retributive rage for all those whom
this man in his might had made suffer. It was as though the strength of
all these sufferers had been transferred into him. Certainly he never
had had such might before. Slowly, inch by inch he drew Bradley’s right
arm back and downward--Bradley straining with outstanding muscles and
corded ligaments to withstand the terrific leverage.
The right arm reached its lowest arc, then Clifford began to bend it
back and pull it up. A groan burst from Bradley--then, “Take a chance,
Slim; for God’s sake, shoot!”
There was a report: a bullet grazed Clifford’s scalp--it must have
missed Bradley’s head by inches. Clifford, raising his set face, his
eyes bulging from his own effort, saw the dazed Slim on one elbow,
aiming at him again. He swung Bradley about, so that his body was
a better protection, and, heaving, panting, went on drawing that
straining arm up--inch by inch.
Suddenly the curtains parted and Jimmie Kelly entered, behind him three
of his men, Mr. Morton and Uncle George. Jimmie saw Slim’s pointed
weapon following the pair, waiting its chance; and leaping in he tore
it from that deadly hand.
“Steady, Bob,” he cried, “and I’ll get Bradley for you!”
“Keep out of this!” Clifford panted hoarsely. “I’ve got him myself.”
They all stood back and stared at those straining, locked figures. The
two seemed hardly to move, so tensely was the force of one set against
the force of the other. But slowly, slowly, Clifford forced the right
arm of Bradley up behind his back. Then summoning his all of strength,
he heaved sharply and mightily upwards, as though he was lifting the
very foundations of the house. There was a sharp report, almost as if
Slim had shot again. A cry of agony burst from Bradley, and he went
staggering across the room, and was saved from falling only by the
embrace of one corner. Even so, he swayed on his feet; gasping groans
came from his lips; and his right arm hung loosely at his side at a
weird angle.
“By God!” Uncle George ejaculated slowly. “I once said that if ever
anybody got Bradley, you would be the man--and, son, you certainly did
get him!”
Himself reeling, struggling for breath, Clifford gazed at the face of
his enemy, pulpy and bleeding and distorted with agony. “Yes, I got
him,” he gasped. Dizzily he walked over to Bradley. “I got you this
time, Bradley,--I got you at last!”
But the loose figure with the misshapen face did not answer; as
a matter of fact, Bradley did not hear. For a moment Clifford,
panting, stood gazing on him; then his mind began to recover from the
all-engrossing fury which had accomplished and motivated and energized
this struggle. It began to return to the larger issues.
He wheeled about. “Yes--I got him. Jimmie, I think you’ll find on him
that Mordona necklace. Hand him over to a couple of your men. Yes,
I got him,” he repeated. “But I got only the body. The brains got
away--Peter Loveman.”
“And Jack?” eagerly put in Mr. Morton.
“He must have gone with Loveman--” And as Clifford answered he was
asking himself a vastly more vital question: where was Mary Regan?
“But where did they go?” cried the father. “Can’t we get him?”
Clifford did not reply. Already his faculties had recovered; they
were working with incredible speed, a speed that made each thought a
flash. He recalled what he had witnessed and heard before Bradley had
come--recalled the details of the plot with which Bradley had taunted
his victim--he totaled them--he made his deduction.
He sprang across the room with new energy and seized Slim Harrison by
the collar. “They wouldn’t have taken your car without you! You’re
going to drive _us_!--and you’re going to show us all your machine has
got! Come on, Jimmie,” he cried sharply. “No, Jimmie, you and Uncle
George go down and look through the basement and see if there’s signs
of any of them there--and meet me out in front! Come on, Mr. Morton!”
And leaving the bruised and unregarding Bradley in charge of Jimmie’s
men, Clifford hurried the dazed Slim Harrison before him through the
tapestries and out of Le Bain’s house of luxurious silence.