The First Skirmish
To my disappointment, there was very little in the desk. A few old
letters, an invitation or two, some receipts and a couple of blank
income-tax return forms were all that my first search revealed. But
having come there with so much difficulty, I was determined to find
it, if there were anything to be found, and going through the desk
more carefully a second time disclosed something that might be more
valuable. It was a tiny account book; I found it in a little hollow
under the blotter.
I studied it for a moment there in the silence, by the aid of my
little torch, and presently received a shock. For it was half full of
names, and these included several of the people whom I knew. After
each name was a series of dates, followed by single figures, so that a
single entry read something like this:
Emily Horton: August 11—2.
August 15—3.
August 17—2, etc.
Suddenly there was a tiny sound from the hall outside, and I
instinctively switched off my torch and slipped the little book into
my pocket. I turned toward the doorway, which lay in shadow. Then I
became conscious that my heart was pounding heavily, for I could see
that something was moving in the shadowy corner.
“Hands up!”
I was blinking in a glare of blinding light, from the suddenly
illuminated chandelier, my hands high above my head, and staring into
the unwavering muzzle of a large and efficient-looking automatic. The
owner of the gun stood just inside the doorway, with two other men
flanking him on either side—and a very determined and formidable trio
they looked.
In the pause that followed I had time to recognize Vining, from
Moore’s description, as the man with the gun. I had also time to
wonder what had become of my reënforcements in the shape of Larry.
Obviously the next move was in either his hands or Vining’s, for I was
effectually covered.
“Drop one hand and take off that mask!” Vining snapped.
I was silent and made no move.
“Won’t, eh?” he snarled. “Don’t forget that I’m perfectly justified in
killing you where you stand. Just a little pull on this”—he curled his
finger suggestively around the trigger for my benefit—“and you’ll be
very little trouble, my friend. Are you going to take it off?”
The three men were just inside the door. But as Vining spoke he took a
step forward into the room and toward me, and his companions came
forward with him. The light switch was on the wall, just inside the
door, and as Vining advanced I saw a hand steal through the doorway
and along the wall in the direction of the switch. Then Larry’s black
poll appeared and he beckoned me with his other hand, but he did not
turn the switch at once.
Vining swore. “—— him! Take that mask off and search him!” he said to
his two satellites, who were standing, waiting for orders.
I glanced at the two men and wondered. They were swarthy and foreign,
with high cheekbones—distinctly Slavic. But as they stepped toward me,
a great many things happened at once.
For one thing, Larry came fully into view. He had a small rug in his
hand. He stepped silently as close as he could to Vining and still
reach the switch. Then at one and the same moment the rug sailed over
Vining’s head, the light went out, my fist connected with one Slavic
jaw, while with my other arm I caught the other assistant around the
middle to act as a shield in case Vining’s gun went off. And Larry
must have caught Vining from behind, for another loud crash from the
other side of the dark room accompanied the bang with which my first
victim brought up against the floor. I threw the second Russian down
by means of the cross-buttock, with which simple expedient he did not
seem familiar, judging by the way he literally fell for it. Then I
stumbled over the first Russian and blundered into Larry in the
doorway, and together we fled for the front door and the outside
world, Larry chuckling richly under his breath.
As we crowded through the front door, there came the roar of
somebody’s revolver from the room behind us and a scream of pain—and
Larry broke into open laughter.
“Sure, sor,” he panted, as we fled down the last flight, “they’ll kill
each other entirely if we do but lave thim to ut!”
“Maybe,” I answered, “but they’ll rouse the whole place about our
ears. We’ve got to get out of here—and quick!”
The headlights of my car were burning faithfully down the street, and
as we hurried toward it, I noticed another, larger car a little
farther down, across the street and facing the other way. It had not
been there when we came. As we came out from the shadow of the house
next door a figure detached itself from the larger car and approached
us slowly.
“Your mask, Larry,” I warned him, taking off mine at the same time.
I paid no particular attention to the man from the other car until he
reached us. It was too dark for me to see his face, and too dark, I
hoped, for him to see mine. For as we met he glanced at us closely and
then, without a word, turned and hurried back to his car.
I caught Larry’s arm. “By gad, that looks like more of them. Jump in
quick!” I told him.
I was in the driving seat with Larry tumbling in behind me before the
stranger reached his own car. But just as I slipped in the clutch
something whistled between Larry and me, and a section of glass from
my wind-shield leaped into the air and fell on the hood.
“Head down, Larry,” I shouted, as we gathered speed. Then I looked
back.
The other car was drawn across the road, with the front wheels on the
sidewalk, in the act of turning. It looked enormous in the dim light,
and I could see that it had more than one occupant, though how many I
could not tell. Another bullet whistled over our heads, perilously
close, but there came no sound of an explosion.
“Air-guns again, Larry,” I shouted, above the roar of my open cut-out.
“If we’re to save our skins we’ve got to shake them.”
Fortunately Park Avenue, when we reached it, was clear for the moment
and we drove across, heading for Fifth. Larry looked back this time,
for I had to watch the wheel.
“They’re at Park now, sor,” he shouted. “They’re stuck in the
thraffic, I—no, sor, they’re through—and coming like the wind!” he
added.
I was pretty sure of being able to shake them off, for my little car
could do sixty easily, being well engined and heavily built, and that
was as fast as any car would dare go under any circumstances, in the
city, I thought. But Larry had a better idea.
“Tis a big, long cyar, they have, sor. ’Twill take them long to turn
corners, I’m thinkin’,” he shouted.
By the time we reached Madison Avenue the big car was about a hundred
feet behind us and gaining rapidly. Again the street was clear
luckily, and I swung round the corner to the right on two wheels. The
pursuing car turned more slowly, as Larry had surmised, and by the
time I turned east again, it was just getting into speed on Madison
Avenue.
I was well down the block toward Park Avenue again when the long hood
swung round the corner of Madison, and it looked very much as if we
could get away by constantly turning corners.
But we were both of us mad to count on our luck holding so long, for
at Park Avenue I met a phalanx of three cars abreast, going south, and
by the time I was able to turn south on Park Avenue, the big car was
close behind. Fortunately there was one car between, for our pursuers
again took long in turning.
As it turned into Park behind us, Larry looked back again. “There’s
three of them in the car, sor. Must be their lucky number.” At all
events Larry was always a cheery companion.
But now I did not dare turn out again, they were too close. By
reckless driving that brought a shout from more than one other car, I
managed to keep my lead and even to lengthen it by passing another
car. But as we swept up on the viaduct around the Grand Central, the
big car nosed its way back to third place again.
Larry leaned close to me. “Can you make a left-hand turn, sor?” he
asked eagerly. “Can ye get to Third Avenue?”
“What for?”
“I’ve an idea, sor. I think we can give thim a lesson if you can get
to the L.”
I had no idea what Larry had up his sleeve, and I had to watch my
driving too closely to find out. Besides, by the time we dipped down
to Fourth Avenue again, at 40th Street, the pursuing car had crept
still closer, so I had no chance to turn either way.
The traffic was thinning out, too, and remembering the recklessness of
our pursuers, I felt the skin crawling on the back of my head, where I
expected a better-aimed bullet almost any moment.
However, either they had grown more cautious or they had made certain
that they could catch us without difficulty, for as far as I know they
did not fire again.
At 34th Street I had a stroke of luck. I got across just before the
traffic cop blew his whistle, and while I do not suppose that would
have stopped our pursuers, there was another car in between which
pulled up and obliged them to stop to avoid a collision.
The traffic cop called after me, but I was much too busy to pay
attention at the moment. “We’ve beat them, sor, we’ve beat them. Now
where, sor?” cried Larry.
“We’ll twist about a bit, Larry, and try to throw them off the scent
entirely,” I answered.
At 32nd Street I turned west. Then, at Madison, having plenty of time,
I made a left-hand turn, going south again, as I imagined that they
would immediately expect me to go north.
After that I twisted in and out, gradually working south until I
reached Broadway and Union Square. Here I turned east, intending to
run down to Third Avenue and so run north, and as I passed Lexington
Avenue, a long, black hood shot out and made for my rear wheels, and
it was only by stepping on the accelerator that I avoided the nastiest
kind of a turnover smash-up. Either our pursuers were mind-readers or
it was the worst of bad luck.
The other car swung in behind us at once, and in order to avoid being
overtaken then and there, and probably shot at close quarters, I made
a quick right-hand turn into Third Avenue, ran along beside a street
car and shot in front of it, perilously close to an L pillar.
I intended to make another right-hand turn almost at once, but Larry
had another idea. “Now we’re here, sor, shtick to the L. Ye can wind
in and out until we get to the Bowery, and then—then Oi’ll finish
thim, or me name ain’t Larry Malloy!”
My own idea was to trust to my luck and try turning corners again. But
Larry seemed so sure of his plan that I decided to risk it, although,
if I had realized its bloodthirsty nature, I might have hesitated.
The others were held up for a moment or two behind the street car and
before they could catch us again, I had turned into the broad open
sweep of the Bowery, the scene of my first meeting with Larry.
I slowed up a little and looked back. The pursuing car was half a
block behind and overtaking us rapidly.
“This is as good a place as another, sor,” said Larry grimly. “Duck
yer head as much as ye can and lave thim catch us. Most like they’ll
try to come up alongside, and that’s what I’m afther.” He was fumbling
with his kit of tools under his coat, and a moment later I caught the
dull flash of light from a heavy, blue-steel jemmy.
The whole street was deserted before us as the other car came purring
up behind. We were on the car tracks and doing about thirty-five miles
an hour. The other car must have been doing at least forty-five or
fifty.
Sure enough it came up close behind and then nosed out on to the
north-bound car tracks, evidently with the idea of running up
alongside. But as I turned out to the left, Larry rose suddenly in his
seat, turned half round, and I saw his arm flash back with the jemmy
in it. There came a clatter of glass from the pursuing car, a wild
scream, and then the most horribly roaring crash that I have ever
heard.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw the jemmy fly true to the
wind-shield and through it, just as the car turned out. It must have
caught the driver squarely in the face, for the car kept straight on
its diagonal course.
My last sight of it, looking back, was a huge car, reared up with its
front half-way to the top of a badly buckled L pillar, its front axle
bent almost double, so that wheels clasped the pillar and a limp body,
hanging head downward, across the hood.
For sheer horror I very nearly pulled up. But people were hurrying to
the crash from all directions, more than one police whistle was
blowing, and Larry was plucking at my sleeve.
“There,” he said, “that’ll tache ’em a lesson to come murtherin’
honest citizens!”
But there was an awe in his voice none the less. For death had come
very suddenly to the men behind us there.
We turned off into a side street presently, and so, driving slowly and
cautiously, made our way home again. But Larry and I did not talk much
on the way back.
I let him put the car away, while I went on to my rooms alone. To my
amazement it was only ten-thirty, though I felt as though I had lived
through a week at least since I left that afternoon. I was rather
shaky. I had seen death many times in the war, but somehow the
circumstances had been more natural and inevitable then.
When I reached my sitting-room I sat down in front of the table to
rest a moment before telephoning my news to Moore. Larry had left a
couple of letters where I could see them, and the sight of one of them
set my thoughts leaping into another channel. I had never seen her
handwriting before, but somehow I knew from whom that pale blue
envelope, addressed in a dainty sloping hand, had come.
I opened it quickly. It was dated the same day and must have been
written and mailed that morning.
“Dear Mr. Clayton,
“A promise is a promise, in spite of the conventions. Mrs. Fawcette
is giving a luncheon party for me to-morrow (Friday), and has
promised that Mr. Ivanovitch will be present. Better still, he is to
supply something very wonderful in the way of a new drink, though
whether it is to be some more of ‘that wonderful tea’ or not I do
not know.
“If you would care to come to ordinary tea at my house, or, rather
my aunt’s house, to-morrow afternoon, about four o’clock, I will
tell you all about it, as I promised.
“Sincerely yours,
“Natalie Van Cleef.”
I pulled some paper toward me and wrote her a somewhat longer reply,
accepting the invitation. I even took the risk of begging her in a
more or less veiled way to be careful. When the letter was finished, I
took it out and put it down the hall shute myself. Then I went back to
look at my other letter. But from the events of the evening to the
dainty missive that lay open on my desk was a gap that brought the
former into lurid relief, while lending them also a touch of
unreality. It did not seem possible, there in my quiet rooms, with
that dainty letter before me, that I had just returned from a flight
for my life that ended in death for some one.
Presently I glanced at the other letter. It was in a plain envelope
and was typewritten.
Here it is:
“Dear Clayton,
“RTIEZQVLOTKGGDXGNZETHLXLDTIZZTSGZZGFSXYTKQENKTCTW.”
For a moment I took it for a practical joke. Then I remembered a
simple cipher which Moore had arranged with the Chief, and I carried
the note in to where the Underwood typewriter stood in my study.
First, I took a sheet of paper and, counting from the first letter of
the keyboard, top row, left, I put down on the paper the numbers,
reading left to right and from the top row down, which corresponded to
the letters.
Thus the first letter, R, was the fourth letter in the first row. So I
put down 4. The next letter, T, was the fifth letter in the first row,
so I put down 5. The next letter, I, was 8, E was 3, Z was 20, etc.
Reading in this way, I got:
4, 5, 8, 3, 20, 1, 23, 19, 9, 5, 18, 15, 15, 13, 21, 15, 25, 20, 3,
5, 16, 19, 21, 19, 13, 5, 8, 20, 20, 5, 12, 15, 20, 20, 15, 14, 12,
21, 6, 5, 1, 3, 25, 18, 5, 22, 5, 2.
By an ordinary alphabetic table, which I had prepared, with A as 1, B
as 2, C as 3, etc., I found that these numbers represented the
following letters:
D, E, H, C, T, A, W, S, I, E, R, O, O, M, U, O, Y, T, C, E, P, S, U,
S, M, E, H, T, T, E, L, O, T, T, O, N, L, U, F, E, R, A, C, Y, R, E,
V, E, B.
Reading these backward, I got the message:
BEVERYCAREFULNOTTOLETTHEMSUSPECTYOUMOOREISWATCHED.
Separated into words:
“Be very careful not to let them suspect you. Moore is watched.”
When I had finished taking in the full meaning of this message, which
undoubtedly came from the Chief, I realized, with a new sense of
confidence, that the Secret Service was not only back of us, but
keeping closely in touch.
Then I went to call up Moore. He answered the ’phone at once, and
listened without a word while I told him of our adventures that night
and the finding of the little book. When I had finished he whistled
softly.
“Look here, Clayton,” he said, “this thing is getting pretty serious.
They had a whirl at me to-day. At least, somebody did their best to
run over me twice this afternoon. I think we had better meet for once,
if you can manage to get to me without being followed and I can get to
you. I think you’d better bring Larry too. This is what I’ve doped
out. You and Larry take a taxi and drive slowly through the Park from
59th Street and Fifth Avenue toward the 72nd Street gate, West Side.
On the way you’ll stop and pick me up on an open space, if I am
walking bareheaded. If not, do not stop, even if you see me. If I do
not turn up or if my hat is on, it will mean that I have been
followed, so don’t worry. But I think I can shake them off in the
open. Will you do that?”
“Of course I will,” I told him. “What time?”
“About 2.30. Then, if we don’t meet, come back to your rooms and call
me at about four. I’ll be waiting.”
“All right, Moore, old man. I’ll do that. Good-night!”
“Good-night.”
So we rang off, and after slipping Vining’s little notebook under the
blotter on my table, I went to bed, telling Larry to see that our
front door was locked and the chain was up. But I did not get to sleep
very quickly.