A misting rain was being swirled about by a temperish wind as Larry
came out into the little street. Down toward the river the one gaslight
glowed faintly like an expiring nebula; all the little shops were
closed; home lights gleamed behind the curtained windows which the storm
had closed; so that the street was now a little canyon of uncertain
shadows.
Larry had not needed to think to know that Gavegan would be making his
vindictive approach from the westerly regions where lay Headquarters.
So, keeping in the deeper shadows close to the building, Larry took the
eastern course of the street, remembering in a flash a skiff he had seen
tethered to a scow moored to the pier which stretched like a pointer
finger from the little Square. As yet he had no plan beyond the
necessity of the present moment, which was flight. Could he but make
that skiff unseen and cast off, he would have time, in the brief
sanctuary which the black river would afford him, to formulate the
wisest procedure his predicament permitted him.
As he came near that smothered glow-worm of a street-lamp it assumed for
him the betraying glare of a huge spot-light. But it had to be passed to
gain the skiff; and with collar turned up and hat-brim pulled down and
head hunched low, he entered the dim sphere of betrayal, walked under
its penny's-worth of flame, and glided toward the shadows beyond, his
eyes straining with the preternatural keenness of the hunted at every
stoop and doorway before him.
He was just passing out of the sphere of mist-light--the lamp being now
at his back helped him--when he saw three vague figures lurking half a
dozen paces ahead of him. His brain registered these vague figures with
the instantaneity of a snapshot camera at full noon. They were mere
shadows; but the farther of the three seemed to be Barney Palmer--he
was not sure; but of the identity of the other two there was no doubt:
“Little Mick” and “Lefty Ed,” both members high in the councils of
the Ginger Bucks, and either of whose services as a killer could be
purchased for a hundred dollars or a paper of cocaine, depending upon
which at the moment there was felt the greater need.
In the very instant that he saw, Larry doubled about and ran at full
speed back up the street. Two shots rang out; Larry could not
tell whether they were fired by Little Mick or Lefty Ed or Barney
Palmer--that is, if the third man really were Barney. Again two shots
were fired, then came the sound of pursuing feet. Luckily not one of the
bullets had touched Larry; for the New York professional gunman is
the premier bad shot of all the world, and cannot count upon his
marksmanship, unless he can get his weapon solidly anchored against his
man, or can sneak around to the rear and pot his unsuspecting victim in
the back.
As Larry neared the pawnshop with the intention of making his escape
through the western stretch of the street, he saw that Old Isaac has
switched on the lights; and he also saw Officer Gavegan bearing down in
his direction. They sighted each other in the same instant, and Gavegan
let out a roar and started for him.
Caught between two opposing forces, Larry again had no time to plan.
Rather, there was nothing he could plan, for only one way was open
to him. He dashed into the pawnshop and into the back room. At the
Duchess's desk Hunt was scribbling at furious speed.
“I'm caught, Hunt--Gavegan's coming,” he gasped, and ran up the stairs,
Hunt following and stuffing his scribblings into a pocket. As Larry
passed the open studio door he saw Casey sitting up. “Down on the floor
with you, Casey! Hunt, work over him to bring him to--and stall Gavegan
for a while if you can.”
With that Larry sprang to a ladder at the end of the little hall, ran
up it, unhooked and pushed up the trap, scrambled through upon the roof,
and pushed the trap back into place.
Fortune, or rather the well-wishing wits of friends below, gave Larry a
few precious moments more than he had counted on. He was barely out
on the rain-greased tin roof, with the trap down, when Gavegan came
thumping up the stairs and into the studio. At sight of the recumbent
Casey, head limply on Hunt's knees, and his loose face being laved by a
wet towel in Hunt's hands, Gavegan let out another roar:
“Hell's bells! What the hell's this mean?”
“I tried to nab Brainard,” Casey mumbled feebly, “and he knocked me out
cold--the same as he did you, Gavegan.”
“Hell!” snorted Gavegan, his wrath increased by this reference. “You
there”--to Hunt and the Duchess--“where'd Brainard go? He's in this
house some place!”
“I don't know,” said Hunt.
“Yes, you do! Leave that boob side-kick of mine sleep it off, and help
me find Brainard or you'll feel my boot!”
The big painter stood up facing the big detective and his left hand
gripped the latter's wrist and his right closed upon the detective's
throat just as it had closed upon the lean throat of Old Jimmie on the
day of Larry's return--only now there was nothing playful in the noose
of that big hand. He shook Gavegan as he might have shaken a pillow,
with a thumb thrusting painfully in beneath Gavegan's ear.
“I've done nothing, and that bully stuff doesn't go with me!” he
fairly spat into Gavegan's face. “You talk to me like a gentleman and
apologize, or I'll throw you out of the window and let your head bounce
off one of its brother cobblestones below!”
Gavegan choked out an apology, whereat Hunt flung him from him. The
detective, glowering at the other, pulled aside curtains, peered into
corners; then made furious and fruitless search of the rooms below,
bringing up at last at Maggie's door, which the Duchess had slipped
ahead of him and locked. When he demanded the key, the Duchess told him
of Maggie's departure and her carrying the key with her. It was a
solid door, with strong lock and hinges; and two minutes of Gavegan's
battering shoulders were required to make it yield entrance. Not till he
found the room empty did Gavegan think of the trap and the roof.
Larry made good use of these few extra minutes granted him. Whatever
he was to do he realized he must do it quickly. Not for long would the
forces arrayed against him be small in number; Gavegan, though beaten at
the outset, would send out an alarm that would arouse the police of the
city--and in their own degree the gangsters would do the same. During
his weeks of freedom Larry had unconsciously studied the layout of the
neighborhood, his old instincts at work. The subconscious knowledge thus
gained was of instant value. He hurried along the slippery roofs, taking
care not to trip over the dividing walls, and came to the rear edge of
a roof where he had marked a fire-escape with an unusually broad upper
landing. He could discern the faint outlines of this; and hanging to the
gutter he dropped to the fire-escape, and a moment later he was down
in the back yard; and yet two moments later he was over two fences and
going through a rabbit's burrow of a passageway that went beneath a
house into the street behind his own.
He did not pause to reconnoiter. Time was of the essence of his safety,
risks had to be taken. He plunged out of his hole--around the first
corner--around the next--and thus wove in and out, working westward,
till at last, on turning a corner into a lighted street, he saw possible
relief in two stray taxicabs before a little East Side restaurant, one
of which was just leaving.
“Taxi!” he called breathlessly.
The chauffeur of the moving car swung back beside the curb and opened
the door. But even as he started to enter he saw Little Mick and Lefty
Ed turn into the street behind him. However, the brightness of this
street ill-accorded with the anonymity with which their art is most
safely and profitably practiced, so Larry got in without a bullet
flicking at him.
“Forty-Second Street and Broadway,” he called to the chauffeur as he
closed the door.
The car started off. Looking back through the little window he saw Lefty
Ed enter the other taxicab, and saw Little Mick standing on the curb.
He understood. Little Mick was to send out the alarm, while Lefty was to
follow the trail.
Let Lefty follow. At least Larry now had a few minutes to consider some
plan which should look beyond the safety of the immediate moment. He
was well-dressed, albeit somewhat wet and soiled; he had money in his
pockets. What should he do?
Yes, what should he do? The more he considered it the more ineluctable
did his situation become. By now Gavegan had sent out his alarm; within
a few moments every policeman on duty would have instructions to watch
for him. He might escape for the time, at least, these allies of his
one-time pals by going to a hotel and taking a room there; but to walk
into a hotel would be to walk into arrest. On the other hand, he might
evade the police if he sought refuge in one of his old haunts, or
perhaps with old Bronson; but then his angered pals knew of these
haunts, and to enter one of them would be to offer himself freely to
their vengeance.
There were other cities--but then how was he to get to them? He saw
Manhattan for what it was to a man who was a fugitive from justice and
injustice: an island, a trap, with only a few outlets and inlets for
its millions: two railway stations--a few ferries--a few bridges--a few
tunnels: and at every one of them policemen watching for him. He could
not leave New York. And yet how in God's name was he to stay here?
He thought of Maggie. So she wanted the life of dazzling, excitement, of
brilliant adventure, did she? He wondered how she would like a little of
the real thing--such as this?
As he neared Forty-Second Street he still was without definite plan
which would guarantee him safety, and there was Lefty hanging on
doggedly. An idea came which would at least extend his respite and give
him more time for thought. He opened the door of his cab and thrust a
ten-dollar note into the instinctively ready hand of his driver.
“Keep the change--and give me a swing once around Central Park, slowing
down on those hilly turns on the west side.”
“I gotcha.”
The car entered the park at the Plaza and sped up the shining, almost
empty drive. Larry kept watch, now on the trailing Lefty, now on the
best chance for execution of his idea--all the way up the east side and
around the turn at the north end. As the car, now south-bound, swung up
the hill near One Hundred and Fifth Street, at whose crest there is
a sharp curve with thick-growing, overhanging trees, Larry opened the
right door and said:
“Show me a little speed, driver, as soon as you pass this curve!”
“I gotcha,” replied the chauffeur.
The slowing car hugged the inside of the sharp turn, Larry holding the
door open and waiting his moment. The instant the taxi made the curve
Lefty's car was cut from view; and that instant Larry sprang from the
running-board, slamming the door behind him, landed on soft earth and
scuttled in among the trees. Crouching in the shadows he saw his car
speed away as per his orders, and the moment after he saw Lefty's car,
evidently taken by surprise by this obvious attempt at escape, leap
forward in hot pursuit.
Larry slipped farther in among the trees and sat down, his back against
a tree. This was better. For the time he was safe.
He drew a long breath. Then for a moment what he had just been through
this last hour came back to him in an almost amusing light: as something
grotesquely impossible--much like those helter-skelter, utterly unreal
chases which, with slight variations of personalities and costumes, were
the chief plots for the motion-picture drama in its crude childhood. But
though there seemed a likeness, there was a tremendous difference. For
this was real! Every one was in earnest!
Again he thought of Maggie. What would she think, what would be her
attitude, if she knew the truth about him?--the truth about those she
had gone with and the life she had gone into? Would she be inclined
toward HIM, would she help him?...
Again he thought of what he should do. Now that he commanded a composure
which had not been his during the stress of his flight, he examined
every aspect with greater care. But the conclusions of composure were
the same as those of excitement. He could not gain entrance to one
of the great hotels and remain in his room, unidentified among its
thousands of strangers; he could not find asylum in one of his old
haunts; he dared not try to leave Manhattan. He was a prisoner, whose
only privilege was a larger but most uncertain liberty.
And that liberty was becoming penetratingly uncomfortable. An hour had
passed, the ground on which he sat was wet and cold, and the misty air
was assuming a distressing kinship with departed winter and was making
shivering assaults upon his bones. At the best, he realized, he could
not hope to remain secure in this cultivated wilderness beyond daylight.
With the coming of morning he would certainly be the prey of either his
pals or the police. And if they did not beat him from his hiding, plain
mortal hunger would drive him out into the open streets. If he was to
do anything at all, he must do it while he still had the moderate
protection of the night.
And then for the first time there came to him remembrance of Hunt's
rapid injunction, given him in the hurly-burly of escape when no
thoughts could impress the upper surface of his mind save those of the
immediate moment. “If you're trapped, call Plaza nine-double-o-one and
say 'Benvenuto Cellini.'”
Larry had no idea what that swift instruction might be about. And the
chance seemed a slender, fantastical one, even if he could safely get to
a public telephone. But it seemed his only chance.
He arose, and, keeping as much as he could to the wilder regions of the
park, and making the utmost use of shadows when he had to cross a
path or a drive, he stole southward. He remembered a drug-store at
Eighty-Fourth Street and Columbus Avenue, peculiarly suited to his
purpose, for it had a side entrance on Eighty-Fourth Street and was in a
neighborhood where policemen were infrequent.
Fortune favored him. At length he reached Eighty-Fourth Street and
peered over the wall. Central Park West was practically empty of
automobiles, for the theaters had not yet discharged their crowds and no
policeman was in sight. He vaulted the wall; a minute later he was in
a booth in the drug-store, had dropped his nickel in the slot, and was
asking for Plaza nine-double-o-one.
“Hello, sir!” responded the very correct voice of a man.
“Benvenuto Cellini,” said Larry.
“Hold the wire, sir,” said the voice.
Larry held the wire, wondering. After a moment the same correct voice
asked where Larry was speaking from. Larry gave the exact information.
“Stay right in the booth, and keep on talking; say anything you like;
the wire here will be kept open,” continued the voice. “We'll not keep
you waiting long, sir.”
The voice ceased. Larry began to chat about topics of the day, about
invented friends and engagements, well knowing that his stream of talk
was not being heard unless Central was “listening in”; and knowing also
that, to any one looking into the glass door of his booth, he was giving
a most unsuspicious appearance of a busy man. And while he talked, his
wonder grew. What was about to happen? What was this Benvenuto Cellini
business all about?
He had been talking for fifteen minutes or more when the glass door of
the booth was opened from without and a man's voice remarked:
“When you are through, sir, we will be going.”
The voice was the same he had heard over the wire. Larry hung up and
followed the man out the side door, noting only that he had a lean,
respectful face. At the curb stood a limousine, the door of which was
opened by the man for Larry. Larry stepped in.
“Are you followed, sir?” inquired the man.
“I don't know.”
“We'd better make certain. If you are, we'll lose them, sir. We'll stop
somewhere and change our license plates again.”
Instead of getting into the unlighted body with him, as Larry had
expected, the man closed the door, mounted to the seat beside the
chauffeur, and the car shot west and turned up Riverside Drive.
One may break the speed laws in New York if one has the speed, and if
one has the ability to get away with it. This car had both. Never before
had Larry driven so rapidly within New York City limits; he knew
this, that any trailing taxicab would be lost behind. At
Two-Hundred-and-Forty-Fifth Street the car swung into Van Cortland Park,
and switched off all lights. Two minutes later they halted in a dark
stretch of one of the by-roads of the Park.
“We'll be stopping only a minute, sir, to put on our right number
plates,” the man opened the door to explain.
Within the minute they were away again, now proceeding more
leisurely, in the easy manner of a private car going about its private
business--though the interior of the car was discreetly dark and
Larry huddled discreetly into a corner. Thus they drove over the Grand
Boulevards and recrossed the Harlem River and presently drew up in front
of a great apartment house in Park Avenue.
The man opened the door. “Walk right in, sir, as though you belong here.
The doorman and the elevatorman are prepared.”
They might be prepared, but Larry certainly was not; and he shot up the
elevator to the top floor with mounting bewilderment. The man unlocked
the door of an apartment, ushered Larry in, took his wet hat, then
ushered the dazed Larry through the corner of a dim-lit drawing-room and
through another door.
“You are to wait here, sir,” said the man, and quietly withdrew.
Larry looked about him. He took in but a few details, but he knew enough
about the better fittings of life to realize that he was in the presence
of both money and the best of taste. He noted the log fire in the broad
fireplace, comfortable chairs, the imported rugs on the gleaming floor,
the shelves of books which climbed to the ceiling, a quaint writing-desk
in one corner which seemed to belong to another country and another
century, but which was perfectly at home in this room.
On the desk he saw standing a leather-framed photograph which seemed
familiar. He crossed and picked it up. Indeed it was familiar! It was
a photograph of Hunt: of Hunt, not in the shabby, shapeless garments
he wore down at the Duchess's, but Hunt accoutered as might be a man
accustomed to such a room as this--though in this picture there was the
same strong chin, the same belligerent good-natured eyes.
Now how and where did that impecunious, rough-neck painter fit into--
But the dazed question Larry was asking was interrupted by a voice from
the door--the thick voice of a man:
“Who the hell 'r' you?”
Larry whirled about. In the doorway stood a tall, bellicose young
gentleman of perhaps twenty-four or five, in evening dress, flushed of
face, holding unsteadily to the door-jamb.
“I beg your pardon,” said Larry.
“'N' what the hell you doin' here?” continued the belligerent young
gentleman.
“I'd be obliged to you if you could tell me,” said Larry.
“Tryin' to stall, 'r' you,” declared the young gentleman with a scowling
profundity. “No go. Got to come out your corner 'n' fight. 'N' I'm goin'
lick you.”
The young man crossed unsteadily to Larry and took a fighting pose.
“Put 'em up!” he ordered.
This was certainly a night of strange adventure, thought Larry. His wild
escape--his coming to this unknown place--and now this befuddled young
fellow intent upon battle with him.
“Let's fight to-morrow,” Larry suggested soothingly.
“Put 'em up!” ordered the other. “If you don't know what you're doin'
here, I'll show you what you're doin' here!”
But he was not to show Larry, for while he was uttering his last words,
trying to steady himself in a crouch for the delivery of a blow, a voice
sounded sharply from the doorway--a woman's voice:
“Dick!”
The young man slowly turned. But Larry had seen her first. He had no
chance to take her in, that first moment, beyond noting that she was
slender and young and exquisitely gowned, for she swept straight across
to them.
“Dick, you're drunk again!” she exclaimed.
“Wrong, sis,” he corrected in an injured tone. “It's same drunk.”
“Dick, you go to bed!”
“Now, sis--”
“You go to bed!”
The young man wavered before her commanding gaze. “Jus's you say--jus's
you say,” he mumbled, and went unsteadily toward the door.
The young woman watched him out, and then turned her troubled face back
to Larry. “I'm sorry Dick behaved to you as he did.”
And then before Larry could make answer, her clouded look was gone. “So
you're here at last, Mr. Brainard.” She held her hand out, smiling
a smile that by some magic seemed to envelop him within an immediate
friendship.
“I'm Miss Sherwood.” He noted that the slender, tapering hand had almost
a man's strength of grip. “You needn't tell me anything about yourself,”
she added, “for I already know a lot--all I need to know: about you--and
about Maggie Carlisle. You see an hour ago a messenger brought me a long
letter he'd written about you.” And she nodded to the photograph Larry
was still holding.
“You--you know him?” Larry stammered.
She answered with a whimsical smile: “Yes. Isn't he a grand, foolish
old dear? He's such a roistering, bragging personage that I've named him
Benvenuto Cellini--though he's neither liar nor thief. He must have told
you what I called him.”
So that explained this password of “Benvenuto Cellini”! “No, he didn't
explain anything. There was no time.”
“I don't know where he is,” she continued; “please don't tell me. I
don't want to know until he wants me to know.”
Larry had been making a swift appraisal of her. She was perhaps thirty,
fair, with golden-brown hair held in place by a large comb of wrought
gold, with violet-blue eyes, wearing a low-cut gown of violet chiffon
velvet and dull gold shoes. Larry's instinct told him that here was a
patrician, a thoroughbred: with poise, with a knowledge of the world,
with whimsical humor, with a kindly understanding of people, with steel
in her, and with a smiling readiness for almost any situation.
“I think no one will find you--at least for the present,” her pleasantly
modulated voice continued. “There are so many things I want to talk
over with you. Perhaps I can help about Maggie. I hope you don't mind
my talking about her.” Larry could not imagine any one taking offense
at anything this brilliant apparition might possibly say. “But we'll put
off our talk until to-morrow. It's late, and you're wet and cold, and
besides, my aunt is having one of her bad spells and thinks she needs
me. Judkins will see to you. Good-night.”
“Good-night,” said Larry.
She moved gracefully out--almost floated, Larry would have said. The
next moment the man was with him who had been his escort here, and led
Larry into a spacious bedroom with bath attached. Ten minutes later
Judkins made his exit, carrying Larry's outer clothes; and another
ten minutes later, after a hot bath, and garbed in silk pajamas which
Judkins had produced, Larry was in the softest and freshest bed that had
ever held him.
But sleep did not come to Larry for a long time. He lay wondering about
this golden-haired, poiseful Miss Sherwood. She was undoubtedly the
woman in the back of Hunt's life. And he wondered about Hunt--who he
really was--what had really driven him into this strange exile. And he
wondered about Maggie--what she might be doing--what from this strange
new vantage-point he might do for her and with her. And he wondered how
his own complex situation was going to work itself out.
And still wondering, Larry at length fell asleep.