As the man in the limousine jumped out his chauffeur pointed his hand
menacingly at the chauffeur on the taxicab seat. That individual raised
his arms without resistance. He could not see the gun, but he knew it
was there.
The man with the straw-colored hair swung open the door of the taxicab
ferociously--to find the cab empty. He whirled back into the limousine,
which was already moving. The right mud-guard was badly crumpled.
"Station--all the power you've got!"
Tricked. He understood what had happened. When the taxis had maneuvered
into the side-street the original middle car had gone either to the
front or to the rear. There was nothing for it but to play his last
card--mistaken identity. To get Mathison away from his luggage for an
hour or two.
The occupant of the fourth taxi, also comprehending what had taken
place, picked up the speaking-tube and ordered full speed ahead.
"Sarah, this young man will bear watching. He has ideas. I doubt if I
shall be necessary to him at all."
"If madame should be hurt...."
"No bridges until we come to them. Keep your veil down. He might be
watching from his car-window when we arrive. He must never see you."
Mathison was extremely pleased with the result of his exploit. To have
thought out all these moves in mid-Pacific, and to find them moving
without a hitch! He closed the door of his compartment and drew the
window-curtains. He pulled down the covering of Malachi's cage.
"Malachi, you're likely to think cross-eyed all the rest of your days.
But to-morrow night at this time you'll have peace and quiet."
Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a bit of paper come jerkily
under the door. He pounced upon it.
All compartments 2 on train bought out in advance; unknown persons.
Want anything done about it? Answer window.
After a minute's wait Mathison raised the curtain a little and gave a
negative sign with his hand. Then he dropped upon the lounge. So that's
how it had happened! Luck and accident in San Francisco because travel
East had been light, but a matter of foresight and calculation in Omaha
and Chicago. Confident that he would always occupy No. 1, that he would
travel a given route as rapidly as transportation facilities permitted,
they had bought out No. 2 compartments on both trains.
There would be real action from now on. They would begin to realize that
they hadn't any time to lose. Very well; they would find him ready. He
smiled. The Secret Service agents were beginning to fidget, the best
possible proof that his plans were moving forward like clockwork.
To-morrow night the climax! Only a few more strands and the web would be
complete.
"We idiotic Yankees!"
He went to bed early. He was confident that there would be no more gas.
He was dead for the need of a few hours of recuperative sleep. The
jolting ride across town had helped to dissipate most of the bodily
numbness; but now his brain was crying out for oblivion. He fell asleep
almost instantly.
And yet a cessation of movement brought him out of this profound
slumber. It was as if his subconsciousness had stood on guard. He peered
out from the side of the curtain. They were in a railway yard somewhere.
Stalled. Freights were all about and yard engines puffing and whistling.
He looked at his watch. Two. He had slept four hours. He resisted the
intense craving to bury his head in the pillow again. No doubt he had
been refreshed actually, but he was still drunk for the want of sleep.
He slipped out of his berth, drenched a towel and slapped it over his
face. Then he turned on the lights and dressed. When the right time came
he would sleep forty hours.
The train went on at four. At dawn it came to a standstill again and did
not stir until nine. They were on a side-track, and along the main line
freight was roaring and thundering. What was happening to the world? A
limited, one of the fastest known, side-tracked for freight! From six
until nine the freight rolled by.
A newspaper! It was almost unbelievable. He felt rather stunned. He
hadn't held a newspaper in his hands since leaving Honolulu! He did not
actually know whether the Germans were in Paris or the Allies in Berlin.
So held by the chase across the continent, giving his every thought to
the affair, he had forgotten that the world was going on outside this
particular orbit and great events were toward.
Twice again that day there were long delays at sidings, east of towns
barely mentioned on the map. All the freight in America seemed to be
moving east. On schedule time the train should be passing through
central New York; and here they were, miles and miles west of Buffalo,
the next real stop. The reporter brought him a sporting page from one
Chicago newspaper and the editorial page from another. He was vaguely
able to learn that nothing new had happened Over There, and that there
was a coal famine and a great congestion at ports for lack of ships.
He began to fuss and fume and fret. He endeavored a thousand times to
find a fresh angle for his weary shoulders. It couldn't be done.
Pullmans were built for dividends, not comfort.
He wore a gray traveling-suit and a cap to match. The suit, though new,
was in an astonishingly disreputable state. The solution is apparent; it
does not signify carelessness. The fact is that you cannot loll and
twist and curl up and at the same time keep the warp and woof of Scotch
worsteds shipshape.
He yawned, stretched his arms until the sockets cracked, turned
wrathfully and struck the top of the seat--that rolling lopover which is
still one of the mysteries of modern times. Perhaps, in making the
original car there had been a few yards of plush and excelsior left
over. Splendid! Just enough for a pillow on the top of the seat-back,
where no human head might reach it reposefully.
Mathison jumped to his feet and went through a bit of setting-up
exercise. It was wasted effort. When a man is bored to the point where
his soul aches along with his body, what he needs is a mental jolt, not
a quickening of his respiratory organs. Nothing except that which
attacks the eye surprisingly will serve to pull a man out of the bog of
such lethargy.
Within the compartment, a pressed-steel imitation red mahogany, green
plush, and a bluish haze which was the essence of many incinerated
cigars and consumed pipes; outside, snow, thick and dusty and
impenetrable. A great rimless, earthless, skyless world. But for the
clatter of wheel upon rail, the train might have been speeding through
the clouds; the illusion was almost perfect. Darkness was falling.
Winter! After all these years of tropical climes!
The confinement was really heartbreaking. Never had he been shut up like
this. And the craving for sleep was becoming a menace. It wouldn't have
been so bad had he dared move about freely, eat his meals in the diner,
and smoke his cigar or pipe among men.
On the opposite seat were the magazines which had been given him in
Omaha. He reached for one of them. He had long since read all the
stories and advertisements. Whenever monotony reached that point where
it threatened to become insupportable he dove for these magazines. He
could keep himself awake with them.
Odd, but he was always returning to that posed photograph. It haunted
him: a wonderful bit of photography. Rembrandt in tone. It was a
restaurant scene. The woman's arms and shoulders were lovely, but her
face was a leaden silhouette, tantalizing, until you chanced to look
into the wall mirror at the far side of her. Even this reflection was
dim; but you caught the beauty of the outline, the quiet strength of the
nose and chin; a rare face, not only beautiful, but intellectual. For a
long time Mathison stared at it; and then he discovered something he had
missed in previous scrutinies. In the lower right-hand corner, in very
small type, he read, "Posed by Norma Farrington." Some new actress. As
for that, many new ones had come and gone since he had visited New York.
He tore out the picture. He couldn't have told why. Norma Farrington. He
smiled.
An idea had come to him, a charming idea such as often tickles the
imagination of young men when they see the portrait of a beautiful
woman. The more he mulled over the idea the more fascinating it became.
Certainly she would not have him arrested for wanting to meet her. He
folded the picture and put it away. Supposing he really started out upon
such an adventure in earnest, not in imagination? Danger? Scarcely,
with the little time he had at his disposal. Soon he would be in the
waters that were full of slinking death. And it was this fact that let
down the bars to the spirit of recklessness. A few hours of sport before
the death grapple. _Why not? Why not? Why not?_ pulsed his father's
blood. No. He was John Mathison's master. Wild blood he might have in
his veins, but it was also the blood of unbroken promises.
What had started this rather sinister idea in his mind, or rather
reawakened it? The photograph of the actress? No. The gray lady. The
charm of her companionship, the hint of the things he had missed. Queer
things, human beings!
No, he would not bother Norma Farrington. He would build one of his
exciting romances around her and let it go at that. But he would hunt up
Mrs. Chester before his leave was over, have tea with her, present her
with Malachi, and tell her the story in detail.
Another human inconsistency. Hallowell had become strangely remote. As
though the thing had happened months instead of days ago. And yet every
move he made was in the service of Bob--to bring his great dream to
fulfilment and confusion to his enemies.
He heard some one knocking on the door. He rose quickly and stood
listening. Two taps, a pause, followed by two more taps. Mathison
released the lock, and with his foot ready and his shoulders hunched he
drew back the door about an inch. He saw the shining black face of the
porter.
"What is it?"
"Bad news, suh."
"Come along inside." The porter slipped through the opening, and he
winced as he heard the door close and the lock snap. "What's the
trouble?"
"Dey's a big freight wreck beyon' de nex' town, an' we'se t' be stalled
ontil mo'nin', suh."
"What!" explosively.
"Yes, suh. Freight ovah de passenjah rails. An' den dey's dat new
rule--coal an' freight fust. We can't get by dat wreck onless dey
side-tracks de freight; an' de freight goes whoozin' by while we twiddle
thumbs. It's dat Gahfield awdah; an' dey ain't no use buckin' ag'in' it,
wah-times. Dey takes the diner off, too. No fish. So yo' will haff t'
eat in de station aw go t' one o' de hotels in town."
"How big a town is this?"
"Middlin'; but dey's got a fine hotel called de Watkins, jus' a little
ways f'm de station. Bath in all de rooms, suh."
"Bath in all the rooms," repeated Mathison, meditatively.
"I can bring yo' sumpin' in," suggested the porter, but without much
enthusiasm. "Dey won't be no trimmin's like yo'd get at de hotel."
"How long will we be stalled?"
"Dey calc'lates ontil nine in de mo'nin', suh."
"What are the other passengers going to do?"
"Dey's all climbin' out fo' dinnuh."
Mathison pulled at his lip. His decision came in a flash, one of that
caliber which only true adventurers dare make. The blind Madonna of the
Pagan, Chance! With a wave of the hand, to consign the burden to her!
Perhaps it was the green plush, the red paint on the four steel walls;
anyhow, he decided to spend the night at the hotel. He would immediately
deposit the manila envelope and the little red book--Hallowell's--in
the hotel safe and advise New York by wire his positive whereabouts. If
anything happened to him, they would know where to find his personal
effects. There would be no Secret Service operatives at his beck and
call here; he would be on his own.
This decision reacted upon him mentally and physically like champagne.
All his craving for sleep, all his depression, went by the board
magically. He began to thrill and bubble with gaiety. And there would be
Malachi. In the quiet of the hotel room he might be inveigled into
talking.
"All right, George; I'll climb out, too. The Lord help me, but I can't
stand this damned green plush any longer! I'll spend the night at your
Watkins. Now listen. When the train stops wait half an hour before you
come for my kit-bags. Engage a taxi. If you can get me into that taxi
without being observed, there'll be a five-spot for you. You didn't tell
the waiter this morning about knocking. When I finally got the meal it
was cold."
"I done fo'got. I sure is busy dis trip."
"Will you be aboard all night?"
"Yes, suh. I ain't allowed to leave in a case like dis. Dey won't
nobody see yo' in all dis rampagin' snow. All right; thutty minutes
aftuh de train stops."
The porter backed out. Almost instantly he heard the lock snap into the
socket. He scratched his woolly poll ruminatingly.
"Well, suttinly dis niggah nevah struck a bunch like dis befo'. Two
women hidin' behin' veils w'en I makes up de beds--like dey jes' got
ovah smallpox. An' dis chap makin' me signal on de do', an' totin' a
parrot! Well, politeness is mah middle name. I'se goin' t' do jes' es
dey tells me. W'en I gits t' New York I'll buy dat Ford Lizzie."
In the fourth compartment sat three men, playing cutthroat auction. One
of them had just bid "two without" when the porter knocked.
"Come in!" shouted the blond man. "Ah, George, what's the news?"
The porter became a very mysterious individual. He shut the door softly
and leaned toward the blond man's ear.
"He's goin' int' town, suh."
"Going to take his things with him?"
"Yes, suh. I'm t' call fo' him thutty minutes aftuh de train stops.
Dey's sumpin' I fo'got t' tell yo', suh. It's de way I has t' knock on
his do' befo' I can git in. I hits two times, den I waits a moment, den
I hits two times mo'."
One of the men started to say something angrily, but the blond man
silenced him with a gesture.
"You should have told me that before, George," reproachfully.
"I know, suh; but I done fo'got."
"Remember my instructions. A misstep on your part and you land in jail."
"Yes, suh." For George knew these men to be Secret Service men. He had
seen the magic shields. "Dey sure fools yo' sometimes, don't dey? He
don't look it."
"That's why I'm taking all these precautions. I can't arrest him until
we cross the New York state line. The less they look like it the more
dangerous they are. Always remember that, George. He hasn't ordered
anything to drink, has he?"
"No, suh; nuthin' but watah an' coffee."
"He hasn't sent or received any telegrams?"
"No, suh."
"What made him decide to risk leaving the car?"
George thought for a moment. "I reckons it was de green plush. He said
he couldn't stand it any longer."
The blond man laughed. "Plush! Well, I'd risk it myself if I were in his
boots. That's all, George."
The porter bobbed and went away. The moment the door closed the blond
man got up.
"Out in the open at last! All things come to him who waits. Sleep.
That's what he is after. Since the fumes I'll wager he has kept an eye
open every night; and it's beginning to tell on him. Everything is
turning out beautifully: the wreck, the storm, his restlessness."
"If that black fool had only told us about that knocking!"
"Never mind the spilled milk. We all know what to do; let us see that we
do it. I'll notify the local police at once. This may be the end of the
chase. This porter is telling us the truth. I believe now that the other
porter told the truth. Mathison isn't relying upon anybody to help him
out. He hasn't sent any telegrams or received any. At least, not from
his own car. It may be.... No; he never leaves the compartment. Yet
there's those three taxis. How could these turn up if he hadn't
telegraphed? Never mind. Here is where we shall trip him up. I'll go and
tell Berta."
Shortly after he rapped on the door of the second compartment. The door
was opened cautiously.
"Oh!" said the woman with the mole.
The blond man stepped inside. "Good news! He's going into this town for
the night. There's a wreck ahead, and we'll be stalled all night. He's
going to risk it in the open at last. Sleep. He's going to pieces for
the want of it. Out in the open!"
"It is time. I am dead. I'll never get the cramp out of my poor body.
Nearly three thousand miles cooped up like this! You were free. I had to
stay packed away in this suffocating box." She stooped and peered out of
the window. The suburb lights were flashing by. "A horrible night!"
"On the contrary, I should call it beautiful. We are and have been
perfectly prepared against a move like this. He carries two things I
must have."
"I shall be glad when it's over."
"To-night. It will depend upon you. Be careful. He is very strong and
clever. I thought the chase would be over in Chicago last night. He
tricked me neatly. But green plush!" The blond man laughed quietly.
"What are you laughing at?"
"He's going into this town, he's going to trust to his luck, because he
can't stand the sight of green plush any longer. It's acting upon him
psychologically, like red upon the fighting toro. On the other hand, he
will not act impulsively again."
"He hasn't gone yet."
"A fig for that! He'll go with the police, then. His way or mine; he'll
go into town to-night. Dress warmly but elegantly. Look the part."
Mathison put on a fresh collar and brushed himself carefully. He packed
his kit-bags and patted them affectionately, as a hunter might have
patted his faithful hounds. A real dinner, lights, cheerfulness, pretty
women; a room big enough to turn around in, a bed big enough to turn
over in, and a bathroom with a tub of hot water; a theater, perhaps,
drama, opera, burlesque, whatever the town had to offer. He would play
the game to the hilt. His danger would be maximum, whether he stayed in
the hotel or walked abroad. So he might as well get all the fun out of
it possible.
He lifted the cotton-flannel bag. "Malachi, we'll both have a bath
to-night. Only, we're probably doing a fool thing. There won't be any
one to watch over us; we'll have to go it on our own. But I'm done. I've
_got_ to get outside. You poor little beggar! Are you ever going to talk
again? Malachi!"
A pair of yellow eyes flashed belligerently, but immediately the lids
dropped.
Perhaps if the bird had the run of a room where everything was silent
and motionless, he might find his tongue. For days he had known nothing
but the strange swing of the sea and the rattle of steel. A quiet room
in which he could wander about and claw up the curtains.