Straightway Mathison put his arm under hers and began plowing along
through the snow, which was more than ankle-deep. As his stride was
long, she slipped and staggered to keep pace with him. There was a
comforting strength in that arm of his.
The tension over, the encounter past, her mind was like her feet, heavy
and without spring. A thought, entering her head, wandered about
emptily, then went away. Her brain was like a vast cathedral, with one
or two lonely tourists exploring. This droll imagery caused her to burst
out laughing. Mathison merely tightened his grip.
She was soul-weary and body-weary. She would have liked to lie down in
the soft inviting snow and never move again. The drab future that lay
beyond! What might have been could not possibly be now. So long as Berta
lived Hilda must walk in her shadow. It did not matter whether Berta
roved free or was locked up in prison. And no doubt this man at her
side, clean-cut and honorable above his kind, was already planning how
to break the slender thread of their acquaintance. Why not? Seeing her,
would he not always be seeing Berta, who in his eyes was a criminal of a
dangerous type? From afar she heard his voice.
"There's a drug-store on the next corner. We'll order a taxi from there.
Your feet will be wet.... I need not tell you I'm sorry."
"That my feet are wet or that the woman you know as The Yellow Typhoon
is my twin sister? Why bother? I ought to hate her. Still, to me flesh
and blood is flesh and blood. She is dangerous and should be punished;
and yet instinct rebels at the thought. Free, she will be havoc. I know
her of old. Her furies when she was little were frightful because they
were always calculated. For days I've been dreading the encounter,
dreading yet courting it. It was inevitable. Flesh and blood! What _was_
God's idea? My poor mother! She has been through so much; and now this
must strike her. She was a circus-rider in the Copenhagen hippodrome,
beautiful and admired. My father won and married her because it pleased
his vanity. He tired of her within a month. Then he beat her. He was
half Prussian. Tortured and discarded her. Is there anything in prenatal
influence? They say not. Yet look at Berta! My father's soul. I don't
understand! brokenly.
"I am terribly sorry. An _impasse_; and I don't know which way to turn.
She is a dangerous enemy, and this is war. For your sake I want to let
her go, back to the East. For my country's sake I cannot. She must pay
the grim reckoning. I have some influence. There will be no publicity. I
can readily promise you that. You're a brick; and I'd cut my hand off to
save you this hurt. But I repeat, this is war. Fortunately the affair is
military, out of the reach of civil court, beyond the reporters.
Winnowed of all chaff, the grain is that I'm powerless. In certain
directions I have tremendous power, but only as an agent. I cannot
judge, condemn, or liberate. I am desperately sorry. She is the wife or
companion of the man I believe killed my friend. She is the woman who
gratuitously spoiled my friend's life. The counts against her are
heavy."
"I understand. You cannot break your oath of allegiance for me; and my
oath of allegiance will not permit you. But it tears and rends. Still,
she once passed out of my life absolutely. Perhaps my concern is for my
mother. I am numb with the tragedy of it. Flesh and blood, but she
denied it. I tried to save her. Suppose we let Berta's fate rest on the
knees of the gods?"
"If it is proven she had nothing to do with Hallowell's death, there is
a chance of merely interning her for the duration of the war."
"Hallowell! That afternoon he spoke to me in the Botanical Gardens. He
thought I was Berta. I tried to save him, but I reached the villa too
late. I _saw_ it, in silhouette on the curtains! I called, rang the
bell, shook the gate. Then the lights went out.... I tried to save him!"
"I know. He was the finest friend a man ever had. And somewhere up there
among the stars his spirit is at peace. John Mathison has come through!"
"Alone, all alone, without aid from any one. With an immeasurable power
behind you, you fought it out alone. It was splendid--American! That
envelope! The tameness of your surrender hurt. I did not understand
until after we were in that house and I saw you smile. That receipt was
only a trap, a bait; and the man you believe killed Hallowell walked
blindly into it. No one but you could touch that envelope, once it was
in a hotel safe. Am I right?"
"The man is a prisoner in my room at this moment. When we enter this
drug-store, it is a signal for the raiding of that house, fore and aft.
A fly couldn't escape. We idiotic Yankees! I have him. It took patience.
But there was a guardian angel watching over John Mathison. Had you not
warned me they would have learned the dance I was leading them, and
vanished. They had me for sleep. I thought I was awake, but actually I
was sleep-walking."
"Then I wasn't useless, after all?"
"No." He smiled at the sky, at the stars he couldn't see but knew were
there. Day after to-morrow!
Mathison was a one-idea man. What I mean is, when he undertook a task he
went at it directly, whole-heartedly; there were never any side issues.
Presently he spoke again. "There is one favor I must ask of you, to
tighten the noose around this man's neck. Will you testify before the
authorities that you found the blue-print in his kit-bag? Otherwise I
cannot prove that it was in his possession. The theft of the receipt
constitutes a military crime; but the blue-print convicts him of murder,
either as principal or accessory. I can promise you there will be no
publicity. Will you help me?"
"I have sworn to."
"Do you know that blond man's name?"
"No."
"Neither do I. Curious thing. In that little red book there are three
descriptions; these vary only in the occupations of the men described.
All three are bulky, blond, and ruddy. Until now I dared not be
inquisitive."
"And will you do me a favor?"
"Ask it."
"Let me see it through."
"You mean, go back with me to the hotel?"
"Yes."
"Very well. And you can take Malachi home with you."
They entered the drug-store, stamping the snow from their feet.
To be with him just a little while longer.... Because she loved him,
she, Hilda Nordstrom, the proud! Not because she wanted to, but because
it was written. The one man in the world, and he did not care. Friendly
and interested, mystified until now; and to-morrow he would go his way.
The daughter of a circus-rider, the sister of The Yellow Typhoon. The
Farrington was no more; to him she would always be Hilda Nordstrom. Her
fame would not touch him, for he was without vanity. What had her heart
been calling out through it all, since the miracle of the violets? "Love
me! Love me!" She had thrown it forth as a hypnotist throws the will.
"Love me! Love me!" And all the while he was busy with this affair of
the manila envelope, the blue-print and vengeance. All he had sought her
for was to prove that there were two women, so that he might minimize
the confusion, make no future misstep. Was there another woman? Had he
not hinted at the supper-table that there was? And yet, on board the
_Nippon Maru_, hadn't he told her there was no one? She just could not
make him out. There, on the Pacific, his every act had been boyish,
tender, whimsical. Here, he was smiling, bronze, inscrutable,
primordial. Blood and iron. The one man; and he was only friendly, he
didn't care. When she paused to analyze the situation, however, the
question arose: Why should he care? As Hilda Nordstrom--The
Farrington--he had known her less than three hours. It was so hard to
remember that on board the ship he had been John Mathison to her, but
she had been to him a baffling, begoggled old lady, hugging shadowy
corners and keeping her back to the moon.
What had happened to the world? Only a little while gone--a few
months--she had been happy, gay with the gay, enjoying life, success,
the rewards of long and weary endeavor. And up over the fair horizon had
risen The Typhoon. Berta, always Berta!
"Pardon! I did not hear," she said.
"I said I was going to do a bit of telephoning. I'll round up a taxi.
The boy is making you a cup of hot chocolate. Better drink it."
"Oh."
Mathison was gone for a quarter of an hour. He came back to her smiling.
The taxi was at the curb.
"Better let me take you straight home," he suggested.
"You promised."
"But to-morrow...."
"To-morrow," she smiled, "always takes care of itself."
"Come. After all, it will be a matter of only a few moments. All I've
got to do is to run up to the room and give the Secret Service men their
orders. And I'll bring down Malachi. You are sure you want him?"
"Of course I am!" His little green parrakeet!
Later, when they entered Peacock Alley--totally deserted at this
hour--he flung his greatcoat into a chair, pinning the green ribbon to
the breast of his jacket.
"Suppose you sit here on this divan? I sha'n't be gone more than ten
minutes. I ordered the taxi to wait."
"Go along, sailorman. And don't forget Malachi."
He wondered if she realized how easily that name fell from her lips....
Well, day after to-morrow! He marched briskly up to the desk.
"Take a good look at me," he said to the clerk; "then go to the safe and
get the manila envelope with my photographs on it."
"Yes, sir. I was waiting for you," replied the clerk, with subdued
excitement. "The man who presented the receipt is in charge in your
rooms." He returned shortly with the envelope.
Mathison crumpled it into a pocket. "Of course you understand that all
these mysterious actions have to do with the government and that there
must be absolute secrecy on the part of the management."
"I have my orders to that effect, sir."
Mathison nodded and turned toward the nearest elevator shaft.
In a room on the ninth floor were three men. One sat near the window.
His arms were folded, and in his lap was a Colt. The fire-escape was
outside this window. In a manner peculiar to Americans, he rocked on the
rear legs of his chair; and every little while there was a slight thud
as the chair-back hit the wall or the forelegs hit the floor. The second
man sat with his back toward the bathroom. From this point of vantage he
could watch both the entrance to the room and the man on the bed. He
evinced signs of boredom, as did the face of his companion. He was
toying with an automatic. He was sunk in his chair, his legs resting on
the heels of his shoes.
The prisoner, his hands clasped behind his head, seemed particularly
interested in a pattern on the ceiling; but in reality he was counting
the thuds of the Secret Service operative's chair; and out of this sound
developed a daring campaign for liberty. Because he had surrendered
docilely, without a sign of protest or struggle, he was confident he had
by this time broken a wedge into the vigilance of his captors. He was a
big man, blond, but his cheeks were no longer ruddy.
On a stand by the radiator Malachi occasionally shifted his weight from
one foot to the other. He didn't love anybody, and he never was going to
love anybody again. His nose--or rather his beak--was thoroughly out of
joint with the world. Rooms that swung high and swung low; rooms that
rattled and banged, the red walls of which hurt his eyes; and rooms with
glaring lights. And always, just as he believed his troubles over, up
went the cotton bag and he was off to other surprises. No; he was never
going to love anybody again.
The man near the bathroom inspected his watch. "He ought to be along
now."
The man on the bed sat up. Slowly he swung his legs to the floor. He
rubbed his palms together, and the links between the manacles clinked
slightly. He stood up.
"May I go to the bathroom?"
The man in the chair near the bathroom nodded. There was no exit from
the bathroom.
"Leave the door open," he advised.
Alone, he would have risen and faced the bathroom door. But across the
room was his companion, who, from where he sat, could see into the
bathroom obliquely. Slowly the prisoner passed the chair. He was the
picture of dejection. With unbelievable swiftness in a man so big he
turned and threw his arms over the Secret Service man's head, bringing
the manacle chain against his throat, murderously, all but garroting
him. The automatic had scarcely touched the floor before the blond man,
releasing his victim and stooping behind the chair, recovered it.
Now comes the point upon which his endeavor had been based. When you
lean back in a chair, to recover necessitates a sharp forward tilt.
Sometimes you get all the way down and sometimes you have to make a
second effort. So it happened to the operative by the window, dumfounded
by the daring and suddenness of the attack. As he threw himself forward
the second time violently the automatic slipped. He caught it, but not
quick enough.
"Drop it! For I shall shoot to kill. Get up. Now kick it in my
direction. Very good." These words were uttered with dispassionate
coolness.
The victim of the garroting was writhing and coughing on the floor. He
would be out of it for several minutes. There was only one idea in his
head--to get air through his tortured throat.
To the other operative the blond man said: "I am a desperate man and I
promise to kill you if you do not obey me absolutely. Unless I go forth
free I might as well go forth dead. It is my life against yours. Walk
toward me with your hands up."
The Secret Service operative had heard voices like this before, and he
wanted to live. Moreover, he knew that every exit would be covered until
the patrol arrived, if it were not already at the curb. At the utmost
the blond devil's victory would be short-lived.
"You win," he said, quietly, stepping forward.
"Face the other way."
The operative obeyed. The manacled hands rose above the unprotected head
and the gun-butt came crashing down. The operative slumped to the floor.
The blond man's subsequent actions bespoke his thoroughness in handling
this kind of an affair. He sought the handkerchiefs, wet them, and tied
the operatives' hands behind their backs. Few fabrics are tougher than
wet linen. The man he had hit was either dead or insensible; so he paid
no more attention to this unfortunate. His interest was in the operative
who was now slowly getting air into his lungs. The blond man threw him
on his face, sat on him, then rifled the pockets for the manacle key.
He found it and freed his wrists. He ran to the bathroom again and
returned with a wet towel which he wound about the half-strangled man's
head. Next he calmly pocketed his belongings which lay on the
bureau-top.
He was reasonably certain that he could not escape by any of the hotel
entrances. There was only one chance. A window on the first floor, from
which he would have to risk a drop of twelve or fourteen feet to the
sidewalk.
Malachi was climbing up to his swing and clambering down to his perch.
The blond man, the automatic ready, opened the door ... and Mathison
stepped in! The advantage of surprise was in this instance on Mathison's
side. A fighting-man of the first order, he struck first. He brought his
fist down hammer-wise upon the pistol, at the same time sending the toe
of his boot to the enemy's knee-cap. Instinctive actions, but both blows
went home. The blond man was forced to give back in order to set
himself.
There began, then, in that small room, one of those contests which the
Blind Poet loved to recount and which we nowadays call Homeric.
Mathison was lighter than his opponent by thirty pounds, but he gave
battle with a singing heart. This was as it should be, man to man. No
tedious affair of the courts; cold, formal justice. Hot blood and bare
hands!... An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!
The blond man, as he looked into Mathison's eyes, sensed that he was
about to fight for his life; thus he became endowed with a frenzy which
doubled his strength. His one blind endeavor was to get his gorilla arms
around this Yankee swine who had tricked and beaten him. He lunged, head
down. Mathison jabbed him, and with lightning speed shut the door with a
backward kick.
He met the blond man at every point; boxed him, used his boots, employed
the science of the Jap wrestler, threw obstacles, laughed, taunted
sailor fashion; in fact, fought with the primordial savagery of the
Stone Age, scorning the niceties of sportsmanship. He knew what his
antagonist was--a Prussian, or one who had been Prussianized. And with
devilish cunning and foresight he carried the Prussian idea to this
blond giant.... To kill him with his bare hands!
The blond man's desperate swings landed frequently; for with his eye
upon a single point, Mathison was often compelled to expose his face.
That throat! To reach it with that Japanese side-cut, a blow that saps
and blinds.
Once the enemy succeeded in gripping Mathison's jacket where its
fastenings met: and Mathison, wrenching back, left half the front of his
smart jacket in the eager hand.
Bloody, an eye half closed, his lips puffed and bleeding--but his teeth
showing soundly through the grotesque smile--a gash across his forehead,
Mathison continued to play for the throat. Queer thing about such
contests: there isn't any pain until it is over.
A dozen times they stumbled over the operatives on the floor. The one
with the towel around his head was now alive and tugging powerfully at
the wet linen binding his wrists. Finally he managed to get to his feet,
only to be hurled against the wall.
The inconvenience of these obstacles, animate and inanimate, reacted
against Mathison as often as it did against his enemy; and one time
Mathison was borne back against the foot-rail of the bed. But a violent
thrust of his knee extricated him.
Suddenly and unexpectedly Mathison was offered his opening. The
operative, who was still blinded by the wet towel, rose again and
staggered about. He struck against the blond man's shoulder, and as the
latter thrust him aside Mathison struck. Not an honorable blow, this cut
at the throat; not the sort white men use in fisticuffs. But I repeat,
these two were bent on killing each other.
When you touch a hot coal your hand jerks back. It is reflex action
purely; the conscious brain has nothing to do with it. So it is with the
blow on the Adam's apple. The hands fly to the throat because they must.
Mathison did not pause to note the effect of the stroke. He knew that it
had gone home. He had been badly punished, but he was still fighting
strong. The years of clean living, of unsapped vitality, were paying
dividends to-night. He sent in a smothering hail of blows, with all the
power he had left to put behind them.
It was now that the other man began to realize that he was no longer
interested in killing Mathison, that he sought only to get away from
this force and fury which were superior to his own. He looked about
desperately for a corner to turn; but there wasn't any. Back he went,
back until his legs struck the edge of the bed. Even as he wavered
Mathison leaped, bore his man down, knelt on his ribs and dug his
fingers into the bull-like neck. No doubt Mathison would have throttled
him. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. But a singular event stayed
his hands.
During all this surging to and fro, this battering and scuffling,
Malachi's fear and agitation had grown to the point where he was
compelled to express his disapproval in the only way he knew--by sounds,
hoarse, raucous sounds, human words.
"Mat!... _Chota Malachi!_ ... You lubber, where's my tobacco?... Mat!...
Lysgaard!... To hell with the Ki!... Mathison, Hallowell and Company,
and be damned to you!... Mat!... Lysgaard!"
Slowly Mathison drew back. The berserker lust to kill evaporated,
leaving him cold and sick. The revelation that the name of the murderer
was Lysgaard was insignificant beside the fact that Hallowell had
reached out from Beyond and saved his friend from carrying blood-guilty
hands to Hilda Nordstrom, who waited down-stairs!