At the entrance of the restaurant the starter tooted his shrill whistle,
and a driver began to crank his automobile in the waiting line of cars.
According to the rules of the taxi stands he was next in order. But, as
is frequently the custom in the hotly contested district of “good fares”
another car “cut in” from across the street. This taxi swung quickly
around and drew up before the waiting criminologist.
Grunting and mumbling, as though still deep in his cups, Monty allowed
himself to be half pushed, half lifted into the car by the attendant.
Helene followed him. “Winter Garden,” she directed, and the machine sped
away, while the thwarted driver in the rear sent a volley of anathemas
after his successful competitor.
Shirley scrutinized the interior of the machine, but there seemed
nothing to distinguish it from the thousands of other piratical craft
which pillage the public with the aid of the taximeter clock on the
port beam! Soon they were at the big Broadway playhouse, where Shirley
floundered out first, after the ungallant manner of many sere-and-yellow
beaux. He swayed unsteadily, teetering on his cane, as Helene leaped
lightly to the sidewalk beside him. The driver stood by the door of the
car, leering at him.
“Here, keep the change,” and Shirley handed him a generous bill.
“Shall I wait fer ye, gov'nor? I ain't got no call to-night. I'll be
around here all evening.”
The criminologist nodded, and the chauffeur handed Helene the carriage
number check.
“Don't let 'em steal de old gink, inside, girlie. He's strong fer de
chorus chickens.”
Helene shuddered before the hawk-like glare of his malevolent eyes, but
in her part, she shook her head with a laugh, and followed airily after
her escort.
“Good-evening, sir. Back again to-night, I see,” volunteered the ticket
taker, to whom William Grimsby was a familiar visitant. Shirley reeled
with steadied and studied equilibrium, into the foyer of the theatre,
as he nodded. Their seats were purposely in the rear of a side box, well
protected from the audience by the holders of the front positions. The
criminologist appeared to relapse into dreams of bygone days, while his
companion peered into the vast audience and then at the nimble limbed
chorus on the stage with piquant curiosity.
“For years I wanted to see an American stage and an American audience,”
she confided in an undertone, “and to think that when I do so, it is
acting myself, on the other side of the footlights in a stranger, more
dramatic part than any one else in the theatre. A curious world, isn't
it?”
Shirley breathed deeply, drinking in the maddening perfume of her
glorious hair, so perilously near his own face. The shimmer of her
shoulders, the adorable curves of that enticing scarlet mouth murmuring
so near his own, and yet so far away, in this soul-racking game of
make-believe, stirred his blood as nothing else had done in all the
kalaediscopic years.
“Yes, a more than curious world. How things have changed since last
evening when I planned a sleepy evening at the opera. I wonder what the
outcome will be?”
Helene looked up at him quickly, then as suddenly toward the Russian
danseuse within the golden frame of the great proscenium. The orchestra,
with its maddening Slavic music, stirred her pulses with a strange
telepathy. The evening wore along, until the final curtain. Shirley,
with cumbersome effort helped her with her cloak, dropping his hat and
stick more than once in simulated awkwardness. The electric numerals of
the carriage call soon brought the grimy-faced chauffeur.
“Jack on the spot, gov'nor, that's me!” and he swung the door open.
“We'll go get some supper--no, we'll take little 'scursion in Central
Park, first,” and his voice was thick, “correct, cabbie. Drive us shru
Central Park.”
“Are you going to take a chance in a dark park?” Helene asked him,
as they sat within the car, while the chauffeur cranked. Shirley was
sharply observing the man. A pedestrian crossed directly in front of the
machine, brushing against the driver, as he fumbled with the lamp. If
there were an interchange of words, the criminologist could not detect
it.
“Surely. The park is good. We can be free of interference from the
police. Are you afraid?”
“No--” yet, it was a pardonably weak little voice which uttered the
valiant monosyllable.
“Here, Miss Marigold. Take this revolver. Don't use it until you have
to, but then don't hesitate a second.”
The machine started slowly up the street. Shirley groped about the
sides and bottom of the car, to make sure that no one could be concealed
within it. They were advancing up Broadway in leisurely fashion. It
might have been for the purpose of allowing some to follow. Shirley
wondered, then sniffed the air suspiciously. The girl looked at him with
a silent question.
“Quick, tear off your glove and let me have that diamond ring I noticed
on your finger, the large solitaire, not the dinner ring.”
Unquestioningly she obeyed. There was a strange Oriental odor in the
car--suggestive of an incense. The car was gliding up Central Park West,
toward one of the road entrances into the Park proper. Shirley's hand
clutched the ring, tensely. The driver, tactfully looking straight to
the front, gave no heed to the occupants of the Death Car. He was, by
this time speeding too rapidly for either of his passengers to have
leaped out without injury. Shirley understood the smoothness of the
voice's system, by now. His hand slid to the top of the glass door pane,
on the right. Down the glass, across the bottom, down from the other
corner, and then over the top line, he cut with the diamond, using a
peculiar pressure. He rose to his feet, gave the lower part of the pane
a sharp tap. The glass, practically cut loose from its case, now
dropped and would have slid out to the roadway with a crash had he not
dexterously caught it, to draw it into the car. Quickly he repeated
the operation with the door pane at the left. A nauseating, weakening
something in the car sent Helene's head spinning; she choked for breath
and lay back weakly, despite her will. Shirley turned to the small glass
square in the rear. This came out more easily. He lay the glass with the
others, on the floor of the car. The good clear air whirled through the
openings, reviving the girl.
“Keep your eyes open, and that revolver ready. Now is the time. Pretend
to sleep.”
Shirley had drawn his own automatic by this time, and he realized that
the machine was slowing down. The chauffeur, as they passed a walk
light, looked back, observing that the two were apparently unconscious.
He slowed down still more, and tooted his horn three times. A large
touring car passed them, to stop some distance ahead. Then it sped on,
as Shirley's taxi followed lazily.
A figure suddenly came out of the darkness of the road. The driver
stopped the taxi, and walked around the front, as though to adjust the
lamp. The door opened slowly. A face covered with a black handkerchief
obtruded. A hand slid up the detective's knee, along his side toward the
abdomen, and a protruding thumb began a singular pressure directly below
the criminologist's heart. Shirley's analysis for Dr. MacDonald had been
correct! But jiu-jitsu is essentially a game for two.
Shirley's left hand suddenly shot forth to the neck of his assailant.
His muscular fingers closed in a deft and vice-like pinch directly below
the silk handkerchief. It was the pneumogastric nerve, which he reached:
a nerve which, when deadened by Oriental skill, paralyzes the vocal
chords. Not a sound emanated from the mysterious man, even when
Shirley's right hand shot forward, under the chin of the other, for a
deft blow across the thorax. The other tumbled backward.
“What's wrong, Chief? Too much gas?” cried the chauffeur rushing to
the side of the fallen man. As the driver dropped to his knees, Shirley
flung himself like a tiger upon the rascal's back. The struggle was
brief--the same silent silencer accomplished its purpose. Before the
man knew what had happened to him, he was dragged inside the car, and
another deft pinch sent him to oblivion!
“Hit him over the forehead with the butt of the revolver if he opens his
mouth,” grunted Shirley. “This is the chauffeur, now I'll get the other
one.”
Just then a cry came from the darkness: it was a passing patrolman.
“What you doing in that auto?”
But Shirley waited for no parley-explanations, showing his hand, laying
the whole scandal before the morning edition of the newspapers, were all
out of question now. He must take up the pursuit later. He caught up,
the chauffeur's cap, sprang into the driver's seat, and the car shot
forward like a race horse as he threw forward the lever. The astonished
policeman was within twenty-five yards of the spot, when the auto
disappeared in the darkness. He pursued it vainly.
A few moments later, a man with a handkerchief across his face, groaned
and then raised himself on his elbow, there in the roadway. He could not
remember where he was, nor why. Slowly he crawled on hands and
knees, into the rhododendrons by the roadside, where he again lost
consciousness.
A big touring car rounded the curve of the roadway.
“Not a sign of the Chief,” said the driver. “He must have gone back to
the garage with the Monk. But that's a fool idea. Let's get down there
right away.”
The injured man's memory returned, and he rose stiffly to his feet.
He limped out of the Park, putting away the handkerchief, muttering
profanity and trying to fathom the mystery. As nearly as he could reason
it out, he must have been struck by another machine from the rear.
Far up in the northernmost driveway of the Park, where shrub grown banks
and rocky uplands shelter the thoroughfares, Shirley stopped his runaway
taxicab.
“Let me have his rubber coat, for I'm going to hide this car out on Long
Island. It's a long ride, but this man and his machine will disappear as
completely as though they had been dumped in the ocean.”
Shirley manacled the prisoner, and gagged him with a tightly knotted
handkerchief. He put the greatcoat of Grimsby's about Helene's
shoulders, as he brought her to the front seat of the machine. Then he
shut the doors on the prisoner, and drove the automobile out through the
Easterly entrance of the park.
“I'm not really brave, Mr. Montague,” said the tired voice at his side.
“I'm so glad I'm sitting by you, instead of back inside. We will be home
soon, won't we? I'm so exhausted--my first day in a strange country, you
know.”
Shirley, with the skill of a racing expert, guided the machine through
the maze of streets toward the Bridge over the East River. The touch of
that sweet shoulder, as it unconsciously nestled against his own, sent
through him a tremor which he had not experienced during the weird
silent battle in the dark.
“A strange night, in a strange country. Are you sorry you tried it?”
With a sidelong glance, he caught the starry light in her eyes as she
looked up at him: there seemed more than the mere reflection of passing
street lamps.
“A wonderful night: I'm glad, so glad, not sorry,” was her dreamy
response. She lapsed into silence as the somnolent drone of the motor
and the whirr of the wheels caused the tired eyes to close sleepily.
When he looked at her again, as they were speeding down the bridge
Plaza in Long Island City, she was dozing. The drowsy head touched
his shoulder; she seemed like a child, worn out with games, trustingly
asleep in the care of a big, strong brother.