THROUGH THE STREETS
Greg sped down the incline, made a wide turn into the Drive and headed
down-town. As they circled they saw the other cab gathering headway.
It had a more powerful engine than Greg's, and was in better condition.
It ought to have overtaken Greg easily, but as they straightened out in
the Drive it did not do so, but contented itself with maintaining a
certain distance. Greg slowed down, and the following cab did
likewise. "What's their game?" Greg asked himself a little anxiously.
He rapped on the glass behind him to attract Amy's attention. She
opened the door.
"All right back there?" he asked cheerily.
"I--I guess so," was the somewhat shaky reply.
"Let down the front glass and we can talk better."
She did so.
"Have you got the little black book?" he asked eagerly.
"No. I was surprised by his return. I dropped it in the back of the
piano."
"No one saw you drop it there,--Bianca?"
"No, it's safe enough; if we can only find a way to get it out again.
Where can we go now?"
"To the yard."
"He will follow us there."
"Let him. We have plenty of friends there. He'll get a warm
reception."
They passed a policeman standing at the curb who glanced at them
casually as they passed. They were not exceeding the speed limit now,
or at least not by much. The other cab was a short block behind. Amy,
who continually glanced back through the little window, gasped suddenly.
"Oh, they're stopping! ... They're picking him up."
"Who, the policeman?" said Greg. "By God! de Socotra has a nerve!" he
added grimly.
"They're coming on again! Oh, faster! faster!"
Greg gave her all she would take. The old flivver roared and rocked
down the Drive, and the few pedestrians homeward bound stopped and
stared at the phenomenon. Most of the motor traffic was bound in the
opposite direction, and on his side of the road Greg had a clear
passage. The bright round globes flashed past, the cars they passed
seemed to be standing still. Greg prayed that his old tires would
support the strain. The flivver had long ago seen her best days, and
like an old horse she was scarcely making the speed that the violence
of her action would indicate. Thirty miles was about her limit.
Through the little window in the back Amy kept watch on their pursuers.
"They're gaining on us!" she said despairingly.
And indeed the bigger car drew up on them with ease, once they let her
out. De Socotra was leaning far out of the window urging the driver
on. The policeman rode in front. Foot-passengers becoming infected
with the excitement of the chase started to run after, but were soon
out-distanced. Motor cars bound up-town slowed down, turned and joined
in the chase.
The pursuing car little by little drew abreast on the outside of the
flivver. The driver pinched Greg into the curb as close as he dared,
hoping to force him to stop. No more than a foot separated the
running-boards of the two flying vehicles. Amy shrank back into the
darkest corner. The water was now boiling furiously out of the
radiator of the flivver, and Greg knew she must soon begin to miss and
slacken speed. But he held her to it.
The second car was now running wheel to wheel with Greg's, and the
policeman leaning out was almost able to put a hand on his shoulder.
"Stop, you!" he commanded.
At that moment Greg saw an opening, and he obeyed the order quicker
than they looked for. Throwing out his clutch and applying brakes, he
let the other car shoot ahead. Turning out behind it, he darted up a
side street.
Their pursuers carried on a hundred feet or more had to turn around in
the Drive and come back. Cars bound up-town got in their way. Greg
might have succeeded in giving them the slip altogether had it not been
for the other cars which had taken up the chase out of sheer
excitement. These cars were far enough in the rear to follow Greg
directly into the side street and to point the way to the policeman
when he came up.
Greg twisted and turned to the best of his ability; off the Drive the
streets were deserted; into West End Avenue, into another side street,
into the Drive again. A whole string of cars was stretched out behind
him now. Rarely had the sporty chauffeurs such a chance to defy the
speed laws. It was like pandemonium sweeping through those astonished
quiet streets. The little flivver was like a mangy fox pursued by a
pack of sleek hounds.
Greg's tricks were of no avail. Having lost the advantage of his first
turn, he could not shake them off. Meanwhile his radiator had almost
boiled dry, and the exhausted flivver was missing badly and ever
slowing down.
"No go!" said Greg grimly at last. "I'll only melt down her bearings
if I don't stop."
He quietly drew up beside the curb on Riverside.
"Mind you are to say nothing!" Amy swiftly whispered. "You are just a
cabman that I happened to pick up!"
"I can't let him carry you back!" Greg protested scowling.
"You must!" she cried with desperate earnestness. "If you don't do
what I tell you, you will force me to take his part against you!"
"How can I see you in his power!"
"You needn't fear for me," she said proudly. "He dare not injure me.
I am not afraid of him!"
Very unwillingly, Greg gave in.
Their pursuers were upon them. The policeman, de Socotra, Abanez and
the fourth man leaped from the second cab and ran up. The policeman
laid a heavy hand on Greg's shoulder and drew him to the pavement. De
Socotra flung open the door of the flivver. Within twenty seconds it
seemed as if a crowd of hundreds had gathered.
"My poor, poor child!" cried de Socotra in a heart-breaking voice.
"How could you act so!"
Amy made no reply.
"Don't you know me?"
"I know you," she said quietly.
He drew her gently out of the cab. "Come home with me, dear," he
murmured, but not so softly but that the crowd could hear and be
impressed. "You'll be all right in the morning. Mamma is waiting for
you."
Amy quietly submitted. Greg was boiling inwardly, but he loyally
obeyed her command to say nothing.
De Socotra drew Amy's arm tenderly under his own and faced the
policeman and the crowd. "She is not herself," he said in a
deprecating, appealing voice. "It is a nervous break-down. See how
she ran out without hat or coat in such weather. She didn't know what
she was doing."
The crowd murmured in respectful sympathy.
De Socotra looked for the cab that had brought him. "Come, dear, let
us go home."
"What will I do with this fellow, sir?" asked the policeman. "Don't
you want to lay a complaint against him?"
"Oh, I don't think so," said de Socotra, determined to play the kindly
gentleman to the end. "I don't suppose he knew what he was doing."
Then for the first time he appeared to recognize Greg. "Hello!" he
said, "aren't you the man who drove me earlier this evening?"
There was nothing to be gained by denying it. Greg nodded.
"How did you get in on this?" asked De Socotra.
Since he was forced to play the unwelcome part, Greg played it as well
as he could. "Well, after I filled up my tank," he said slyly, "I went
on to the address you gave me. Something seemed to be the matter, and
I thought maybe you'd want me again. You treated me liberal. Then the
young lady came running out. I didn't know she had anything to do with
you. She said she'd pay me anything I asked if I'd get her away from
there. I thought she was in distress-like."
Greg was comforted by the sight of a gleam of approval in Amy's eyes.
Whether or not de Socotra really believed this yarn he could not tell
from his face.
He feigned to believe it. "Too much melodrama!" he said indulgently.
"Let him go, officer."
But the policeman hated to relinquish his capture. "Why didn't you
stop when I first told you?" he demanded.
Greg put on a hang-dog air. "Ah, she said he was after her, that he
wanted to do her some hurt."
"Her own father!" put in de Socotra with a shocked air.
"You saw me!" said the indignant officer. "You ought to know I
wouldn't stand for no rough stuff!"
"Well, I was excited-like," muttered Greg.
"I had ought to take you in for speeding if for nothing else! You
ought to lose your license for that!"
"Please let him go, officer," said de Socotra magnanimously. "The poor
fellow's livelihood depends on his license. I wouldn't want him to
suffer through the misfortune of my poor girl."
Greg did not believe that de Socotra's suspicions were not aroused as
to his real part in the affair; but de Socotra was not any more anxious
for a police-court examination than Greg was: hence the seeming
magnanimity. Greg saw a glance of intelligence pass between de Socotra
and Abanez, and as the policeman very reluctantly removed his hand from
Greg's shoulder, Abanez said:
"You may take me and my friend down-town. We are already late for our
appointment."
Amy flashed him a warning. Greg scarcely needed it. For a moment he
hesitated; but since he had taken his line, it seemed better to stick
to it. He determined to watch himself though.
He touched his cap. "Where to, sir?"
"92 Stuyvesant Square."
Greg was reminded of Pa Simmons' first report that day.
Meanwhile de Socotra and his two henchmen bade each other courteous
farewells. Abanez and the other expressed a fervent hope that the
young lady would be better in the morning--Greg smiled to himself at
the grim comedy. The two Spanish-Americans got into the flivver, and
de Socotra handed Amy into the other taxi. The policeman seated
himself by the chauffeur to ride back to his beat. They started
simultaneously, Greg turning down-town, the other keeping on up the
Drive. The bystanders remembered their suppers and melted away.
Greg made the best time he could, for he was wildly eager to get back
to the Stickney Arms, but he had to humor the old flivver now. She was
like a broken-winded horse. Stuyvesant Square, as everybody knows, is
one of the last haunts of old-fashioned respectability away down town.
It was a good four mile drive, and Greg chafed bitterly at the time he
was losing.
A broad and well-lighted street with a trolley line bisects the Square,
but around the sides it is dim, respectable and lonely. Greg privately
determined that nothing should induce him to leave his cab. Greg
looked in vain for Number 92. Having made a complete circuit of the
Square he was satisfied there was no such number.
He stopped and notified his fares. "Do you know the house you want to
go to?" he asked them.
Abanez replied: "Yes, it's on the east side. Drive slowly up that side
and I'll point it out to you."
Near the top of this side of the Square he called Greg's attention to a
tall narrow house with a brownstone front, and Greg drew up before it.
No lights showed in any of the windows; to Greg it looked like an
unoccupied house. His fares did not immediately get out, and Greg
looked around to see what they were waiting for. The window behind him
was still open.
"Wait a minute," said Abanez, "we have not quite finished our talk."
At the moment the significance of this maneuver did not occur to Greg.
Afterwards he remembered that a man was passing on the sidewalk. They
waited until he turned the corner.
Without warning two hands from behind closed around Greg's throat,
cutting off the slightest outcry. As his mouth, gasping for breath,
instinctively opened, two other hands forced a cotton gag between his
teeth and knotted it behind his head. Greg, struggling desperately but
in vain, was dragged bodily back through the window to the floor of the
cab. There pinning his body in an excruciating attitude between the
two doors, both knelt on him, effectually stilling his struggles.
Their flying light fingers patted him all over and slipped in and out
of his pockets, less like human fingers than evil little animals
sniffing for prey. Greg's money they did not disturb; they were after
a bigger prize. Besides what little money he carried, there was
nothing upon him but his license cards. They desisted.
Abanez spoke to the other man who, careless of what part of Greg's
anatomy his feet rested on, stood up and leaning through the front
window thoroughly searched around and under the front seat. Unrewarded
here, he dropped back on Greg. The two men then held a short colloquy
in Spanish, but there was one English word terribly significant:
"black-jack."
Greg sensed the up-lifted arm and held his breath. The blow descended,
but did not fall true. It struck Greg merely a glancing blow on the
side of the head. He retained the wit to grunt hollowly and let his
body go slack. The man who had struck Greg said something to Abanez,
and Abanez laughed in a comfortable fat way that roused a blind fury in
Greg. But he lay still. Opening the door they climbed over Greg and
slammed the door after them.
Greg gave them a second or two, then sitting up he peered cautiously
over the sill of the window. The two men were sauntering deliberately
towards the corner.
"Cool hands!" thought Greg with a kind of wonder.
As they turned they glanced carelessly back. Greg took care not to be
seen. He waited a quarter of a minute, then slipping out of the cab
and running on his toes to the corner he flattened himself against the
building there and peeped around. His men were still proceeding down
this street with the air of gentlemen with time to kill. A third of
the way down the block they paused, looked around to make sure they
were not being followed, and mounted the steps of a house.
Greg marked the house well. The street was Seventeenth and the house
from its position must be number 716. This was the house from which
earlier in the day de Socotra had issued with the little black book.
It must be the new headquarters of the gang.
Greg returned to his cab. Stuyvesant Square is not very far from
Gibbon Street, and it occurred to Greg that if he went home and changed
his clothes, he would be in a better position to keep tab on de
Socotra's later activities that night. Moreover he could get plenty of
help at the yard; he would almost surely need help later. To think of
it was to act on it. In three minutes he was driving into the yard.
Bessie's warm, bright kitchen looked very good to him coming in from
the cold, and the smell of hot food made his head swim. There is
nothing more exhausting than violent excitement. But he had no
intention of stopping to eat. Hickey, Pa Simmons, Blossom, Ginger
McAfee, and Bull Tandy were all seated around the oil-cloth-covered
board.
All exclaimed at the sight of him. Even under the grotesque make-up
they could perceive the strained grimness of Greg's face. Moreover
there was a trickle of blood running down in front on one ear.
"What's happened?" cried Hickey.
"Plenty," said Greg laconically. "Can't stop to tell you now. Hurry
up and finish eating, you fellows, if you want to get in on it. I'll
need you to-night before I'm through. Blossom, you've got to play the
part of a piano tuner. Come up and try on one of my suits."
"Sit down and eat yourself," said Bessie. "You've got to eat, or you
can't keep up the pace."
"Make me up a couple of sandwiches like a good girl, and I'll eat them
as I go."
"I'm through," said Hickey jumping up. "What's for me to do?"
"Go out and flood the flivver with oil. The old girl's had a stiff
race, and she may have a worse one before her."
In a quarter of an hour Greg was once more the elegantly dressed young
man of the town, while Blossom was giving a fair imitation of an
artisan. He was provided with a bag of simple tools. Back in the
kitchen Greg made his dispositions for the night.
"Hickey, you'll drive me. We may need a second car. Pa, you come
along. Blossom can ride with you. We're going to the Stickney Arms
first. You just follow Hickey, Pa, and stop when he stops."
"How about me?" asked Bull Tandy discontentedly. "Where do I come in?
Say, if you want any strong-arm work I can put them guys" (referring to
Messrs. Hickey, Blossom and Simmons) "over me head with one arm."
"Me, too," said little Ginger McAfee. "You ain't goin' to leave me out
of the fun, are you, Greg? Bull's all right with his strong arm, but
strong-arms are common; you want a man with a sharp head on him like
me."
"Don't you want to come too, Bessie?" Greg grimly asked.
"I'll stop in me kitchen, thankee," said she dryly. "Very like you'll
be wantin' hot cawfee when you come home, and maybe bandages."
Greg laughed. "Sorry, you fellows," he said to Bull and Ginger, "I
can't use you right now. We'd only get in each other's light. But God
knows what this night may turn up. You stay home--I'll make it good to
you----"
"Ah, we don't want no pay," growled Bull.
"--And if I can use you later I'll send a 'phone message through the
drug-store."
Hickey was out in the yard getting the flivver ready. They heard a cry
from him, and he appeared at the door with an angry and grief-stricken
face.
"Who cut my car?" he demanded.
Greg ran out and flashed his pocket-light inside the body of the car.
A woeful sight was revealed; seat and back of the seat, pockets, even
the carpet had been wantonly slashed right and left by the disappointed
men in their vain search for the little black book. There was
something indecent in the sight, as of an old person mutilated. The
men crowding to look swore under their breaths.
"All right," said Greg grimly. "They shall pay for this with the rest.
Come on now. We're wasting precious time."