THE MASK OF THE RED BANDANNA
It had come by special delivery, an ill-written little note scrawled on
cheap ruled paper torn from a tablet.
If you want to know who killed Cuningham i can tell you. Meet me at
the Denmark Bilding, room 419, at eleven tonight. Come alone.
_One who knows_.
Kirby studied the invitation carefully. Was it genuine? Or was it a
plant? He was no handwriting expert, but he had a feeling that it was
a disguised script. There is an inimitable looseness of design in the
chirography of an illiterate person. He did not find here the
awkwardness of the inexpert; rather the elaborate imitation of an
amateur ignoramus. Yet he was not sure. He could give no definite
reason for this fancy.
And in the end he tossed it overboard. He would keep the appointment
and see what came of it. Moreover, he would keep it alone--except for
a friend hanging under the left arm at his side. Kirby had brought no
revolver with him to Denver. Occasionally he carried one on the range
to frighten coyotes and to kill rattlers. But he knew where he could
borrow one, and he proceeded to do so.
Not that there was any danger in meeting the unknown correspondent.
Kirby did not admit that for a moment. There are people so constituted
that they revel in the mysterious. They wrap their most common actions
in hints of reserve and weighty silence. Perhaps this man was one of
them. There was no danger whatever. Nobody had any reason to wish him
serious ill. Yet Kirby took a .45 with him when he set out for the
Denmark Building. He did it because that strange sixth sense of his
had warned him to do so.
During the day he had examined the setting for the night's adventure.
He had been to the Denmark Building and scanned it inside and out. He
had gone up to the fourth floor and looked at the exterior of Room 419.
The office door had printed on it this design:
THE GOLD HILL MILLING & MINING COMPANY
But when Kirby tried the door he found it locked.
The Denmark Building is a little out of the heart of the Denver
business district. It was built far uptown at a time when real estate
was booming. Adjoining it is the Rockford Building. The two dominate
a neighborhood of squat two-story stores and rooming-houses. In dull
seasons the offices in the two big landmarks are not always filled with
tenants.
The elevators in the Denmark had ceased running hours since. Kirby
took the narrow stairs which wound round the elevator shaft. He trod
the iron treads very slowly, very softly. He had no wish to advertise
his presence. If there was to be any explosive surprise, he did not
want to be at the receiving end of it.
He reached the second story, crossed the landing, and began the next
flight. The place was dark as a midnight pit. At the third floor its
blackness was relieved slightly by a ray of light from a transom far
down the corridor.
Kirby waited to listen. He heard no faintest sound to break the
stillness. Again his foot found the lowest tread and he crept upward.
In the daytime he had laughed at the caution which had led him to
borrow a weapon from an acquaintance at the stockyards. But now every
sense shouted danger. He would not go back, but each forward step was
taken with infinite care.
And his care availed him nothing. A lifted foot struck an empty soap
box with a clatter to wake the seven sleepers. Instantly he knew it
had been put there for him to stumble over. A strong searchlight
flooded the stairs and focused on him. He caught a momentary glimpse
of a featureless face standing out above the light--a face that was
nothing but a red bandanna handkerchief with slits in it for eyes--and
of a pair of feet below at the top of the stairway.
The searchlight winked out. There was a flash of lightning and a crash
of thunder. A second time the pocket flash found Kirby. It found him
crouched low and reaching for the .45 under his arm. The booming of
the revolver above reverberated down the pit of the stairway.
Arrow-swift, with the lithe ease of a wild thing from the forest, Kirby
ducked round the corner for safety. He did not wait there, but took
the stairs down three at a stride. Not till he had reached the ground
floor did he stop to listen for the pursuit.
No sound of following footsteps came to him. By some miracle of good
luck he had escaped the ambush. It was characteristic of him that he
did not fly wildly into the night. His brain functioned normally,
coolly. Whoever it was had led him into the trap had lost his chance.
Kirby reasoned that the assassin's mind would be bent on making his own
safe escape before the police arrived.
The cattleman waited, crouched behind an out-jutting pillar in the wall
of the entrance. Every minute he expected to see a furtive figure
sneak past him into the street. His hopes were disappointed. It was
nearly midnight when two men, talking cheerfully of the last gusher in,
the Buckburnett field, emerged from the stairway and passed into the
street. They were tenants who had stayed late to do some unfinished
business.
There was a drug-store in the building, cornering on two streets.
Kirby stepped into it and asked a question of the clerk at the
prescription desk.
"Is there more than one entrance to the Denmark Building?"
"No, sir." The clerk corrected himself. "Well, there's another way
out. The Producers & Developers Shale and Oil Company have a suite of
offices that run into the Rockford Building. They've built an alley to
connect between the two buildings. It's on the fifth floor."
"Is it open? Could a man get out of the Denmark Building now by way of
the Rockford entrance?"
"Easiest in the world. All he'd have to do would be to cross the alley
bridge, go down the Rockford stairs, and walk into the street."
Kirby wasted no more time. He knew that the man who had tried to
murder him had long since made good his getaway by means of the
fifth-story bridge between the buildings.
As he walked back to the hotel where he was stopping his eyes and ears
were busy. He took no dark-alley chances, but headed for the bright
lights of the main streets where he would be safe from any possibility
of a second ambush.
His brain was as busy as his eyes. Who had planned this attempt on his
life and so nearly carried it to success? Of one thing he was sure.
The assassin who had flung the shots at him down the narrow stairway of
the Denmark was the one who had murdered his uncle. The motive for the
ambuscade was fear. Kirby was too hot on the trail that might send him
to the gallows. The man had decided to play safe by following the old
theory that dead men tell no tales.