_Trapped!_
"Get the money," said Ronicky to Jerry Smith.
"There it is!"
He pointed to the drawer, where McKeever, as banker, had kept the money.
The wounded man in the meantime had disappeared.
"How much is ours?" asked Jerry Smith.
"All you find there," answered Ronicky calmly.
"But there's a big bunch--large bills, too. McKeever was loaded for
bear."
"He loses--the house loses it. Out in my country, Jerry, that wouldn't
be half of what the house would lose for a little trick like what's been
played on us tonight. Not the half of what the house would lose, I tell
you! He had us trimmed, Jerry, and out West we'd wreck this joint from
head to heels."
The diffident Jerry fingered the money in the drawer of the table
uncertainly. Ronicky Doone swept it up and thrust it into his pocket.
"We'll split straws later," said Ronicky. "Main thing we need right
about now is action. This coin will start us."
In the hall, as they took their hats, they found big Frederic Fernand in
the act of dissuading several of his clients from leaving. The incident
of the evening was regrettable, most regrettable, but such things would
happen when wild men appeared. Besides, the fault had been that of
McKeever. He assured them that McKeever would never again be employed in
his house. And Fernand meant it. He had discarded all care for the
wounded man.
Ronicky Doone stepped to him and drew him aside. "Mr. Fernand," he said,
"I've got to have a couple of words with you."
"Come into my private room," said Fernand, eager to get the fighter out
of view of the rest of the little crowd. He drew Ronicky and Jerry Smith
into a little apartment which opened off the hall. It was furnished with
an almost feminine delicacy of style, with wide-seated, spindle-legged
Louis XV. chairs and a couch covered with rich brocade. The desk was a
work of Boulle. A small tapestry of the Gobelins made a ragged glow of
color on the wall. Frederic Fernand had recreated an atmosphere two
hundred years old.
He seated them at once. "And now, sir," he said sternly to Ronicky
Doone, "you are aware that I could have placed you in the hands of the
police for what you've done tonight?"
Ronicky Doone made no answer. His only retort was a gradually spreading
smile. "Partner," he said at length, while Fernand was flushing with
anger at this nonchalance on the part of the Westerner, "they might of
grabbed me, but they would have grabbed your house first."
"That fact," said Fernand hotly, "is the reason you have dared to act
like a wild man in my place? Mr. Doone, this is your last visit."
"It sure is," said Ronicky heartily. "D'you know what would have
happened out in my neck of the woods, if there had been a game like the
one tonight? I wouldn't have waited to be polite, but just pulled a gat
and started smashing things for luck."
"The incident is closed," Fernand said with gravity, and he leaned
forward, as if to rise.
"Not by a long sight," said Ronicky Doone. "I got an idea, partner, that
you worked the whole deal. This is a square house, Fernand. Why was I
picked out for the dirty work?"
It required all of Fernand's long habits of self control to keep him
from gasping. He managed to look Ronicky Doone fairly in the eyes. What
did the youngster know? What had he guessed?
"Suppose I get down to cases and name names? The gent that talked to you
about me was John Mark. Am I right?" asked Ronicky.
"Sir," said Fernand, thinking that the world was tumbling about his
ears, "what infernal--"
"I'm right," said Ronicky. "I can tell when I've hurt a gent by the way
his face wrinkles up. I sure hurt you that time, Fernand. John Mark it
was, eh?"
Fernand could merely stare. He began to have vague fears that this young
devil might have hypnotic powers, or be in touch with he knew not what
unearthly source of information.
"Out with it," said Ronicky, leaving his chair.
Frederic Fernand bit his lip in thought. He was by no means a coward,
and two alternatives presented themselves to him. One was to say nothing
and pretend absolute ignorance; the other was to drop his hand into his
coat pocket and fire the little automatic which nestled there.
"Listen," said Ronicky Doone, "suppose I was to go a little farther
still in my guesses! Suppose I said I figured out that John Mark and his
men might be scattered around outside this house, waiting for me and
Smith to come out: What would you say to that?"
"Nothing," said Fernand, but he blinked as he spoke. "For a feat of
imagination as great as that I have only a silent admiration. But, if
you have some insane idea that John Mark, a gentleman I know and respect
greatly, is lurking like an assassin outside the doors of my house--"
"Or maybe inside 'em," said Ronicky, unabashed by this gravity.
"If you think that," went on the gambler heavily, "I can only keep
silence. But, to ease your own mind, I'll show you a simple way out of
the house--a perfectly safe way which even you cannot doubt will lead
you out unharmed. Does that bring you what you want?"
"It sure does," said Ronicky. "Lead the way, captain, and you'll find us
right at your heels." He fell in beside Jerry Smith, while the fat man
led on as their guide.
"What does he mean by a safe exit?" asked Jerry Smith. "You'd think we
were in a smuggler's cave."
"Worse," said Ronicky, "a pile worse, son. And they'll sure have to have
some tunnels or something for get-aways. This ain't a lawful house,
Jerry."
As they talked, they were being led down toward the cellar. They paused
at last in a cool, big room, paved with cement, and the unmistakable
scent of the underground was in the air.
"Here we are," said the fat man, and, so saying, he turned a switch
which illumined the room completely and then drew aside a curtain which
opened into a black cavity.
Ronicky Doone approached and peered into it. "How does it look to you,
Jerry?" he asked.
"Dark, but good enough for me, if you're all set on leaving by some
funny way."
"I don't care how it looks," said Ronicky thoughtfully. "By the looks
you can't make out nothing most of the time--nothing important. But
they's ways of smelling things, and the smell of this here tunnel ain't
too good to me. Look again and try to pry down that tunnel with your
flash light, Jerry."
Accordingly Jerry raised his little pocket electric torch and held it
above his head. They saw a tunnel opening, with raw dirt walls and floor
and a rude framing of heavy timbers to support the roof. But it turned
an angle and went out of view in a very few paces.
"Go down there with your lantern and look for the exit," said Ronicky
Doone. "I'll stay back here and see that we get our farewell all fixed
up."
The damp cellar air seemed to affect the throat of the fat man. He
coughed heavily.
"Say, Ronicky," said Jerry Smith, "looks to me that you're carrying this
pretty far. Let's take a chance on what we've got ahead of us?"