Walk into My Parlor
Ivanovitch had been looking at the so-called Tom, but he turned away
and Pride gave him a swift, comprehensive look. He turned to me.
“Excuse me, sir, but you spoke of seeing Mr. Jenkins to-day, sir.
Something about an option?”
“By Jove, yes,” I answered, wondering what on earth Pride had in mind.
“I’ll have to take that up before I leave.” I turned to Ivanovitch.
“It’s a little matter of business that I can attend to in half an
hour. Will that delay you too much?”
I could see that the Russian did not like it, but he could not say so.
“If you must, you must,” he answered. “But we should be starting now.
You will be as quick as possible?”
“I certainly will,” I answered gayly. “I would not miss this for all
the real estate in the world.”
I jumped into the car. “Make for Times Square, Tom,” I directed Pride.
“Back in half an hour or less, Ivanovitch.”
Ivanovitch nodded a little glumly as Pride slipped in the clutch.
“Very well,” he called after us.
Pride tore around a couple of corners and pulled up in front of a drug
store. Then he jumped down and opened the door of the car like a man
in a hurry. “Man, man, I’ve got some quick telephoning to do. Damn it,
we may not be able to get what we need from the police in so short a
time. I’m going in to telephone now. In the meantime, have you got
that ring and that file?”
I struck my forehead with my open palm. “I certainly belong to the
Sherlock Holmes class,” I told him. “They are in my other clothes in
the bag.”
Pride laughed. “Well, hurry up and get them out while I’m telephoning.
I don’t want to wait here too long, after what you said about Times
Square. He might stroll around here.”
I got the bag out from under the seat, found the ring and file and
slipped the former on my finger and the little box containing the
latter into a handy pocket. But after the bag was packed and stowed
away again and all neat and tidy, I lit a match and held my deadly
ring so that the snake’s head was in the flame for three or four
seconds.
It was some time before Pride appeared. And when he did come out, it
was with a very long face. He came up and opened the door of the car,
as though asking for orders.
“Hell,” he said softly; “it took me nearly twenty minutes to locate
Peters, and he cannot get more than one motor-bike cop up here in the
time. He’s going to try to get a police car stationed near the house
to pick you up also, but he seemed doubtful. We’d better get back
anyhow. I’ll probably be able to follow you myself.”
“All right,” I answered; “but the Russian is wise to us, I think. He
knows, or else there’s an awful lot of coincidence in most of his
remarks. Never mind. We’ve got to find the place, and this is a
chance.”
Pride jumped into the driving seat, and a few moments later we were
back in front of the Russian’s house. As he opened the car door for me
he asked: “You haven’t got a gun on you, have you?”
I told him I hadn’t.
“That’s right. It will only be taken away from you and it would simply
confirm their suspicions. Now good luck, old man. The die is cast.”
A horn tooted softly just behind us and we turned. A big limousine was
waiting to get in front of the door. The man driving it was Niko,
Ivanovitch’s servant. Pride jumped into the driving seat of our car
and pulled away at once, saluting without another word. I turned and
went up to the door.
Ivanovitch himself let me in. “Ah, you’re back again in time. I’m
glad; for I should have had to go without you. However, I’ve
telephoned about you, and they are expecting you. Now let us go, shall
we?”
“Expecting me, are they?” I thought. “That makes it nice.”
Ivanovitch picked up his coat and hat from a chair and held the front
door open for me, and together we went down to the car. Niko had
disappeared, but, to my surprise, another man sat in the driving seat.
Naturally I looked him over pretty sharply. And then I started in my
turn, For the face of Ivanovitch’s new driver was quite familiar to
me. He was one of the two men who had been with Vining the day he
caught me burgling his flat!
A wave of feeling went through me as I stepped into the car. It was
compounded of hope and delight. I hoped the man would not recognize me
because of the mask I wore that night. But I was tremendously elated.
For here was final proof positive that I was on the right track.
Vining and Ivanovitch, Mrs. Fawcette and the rest of the bunch of
Russians were all in the same gang then. And the orgies of Vining’s
stories to Moore must be the orgies of Ivanovitch’s stories to me. At
last I was on my way to the headquarters of the gang.
Ivanovitch stepped in after me and closed the door. As he sat down
beside me he laughed softly. “I thought afterwards that it would be so
dull for us both if I drove,” he observed. “So I sent for the
chauffeur after all. You see, some one would have to ride with you
anyway, to be sure you did not look out to find how and whither we
were going.”
“What a mystery!” I laughed. “It’s like the _Arabian Nights_.”
“Ye-es,” he drawled; “quite like, indeed.”
The car started smoothly away from the curb, and Ivanovitch leaned
forward and pressed a button half concealed by the rug rack. To my
amazement, shutters tolled silently up over all the windows and we
were in total darkness. A moment later an electric globe flashed on
overhead and I turned to find the amused eyes of my guide on me.
“Neat, isn’t it?” he inquired.
“But it is all marvelous,” I answered in a delighted tone. “Judging by
the efficiency of your preparations, these must be a wonderful lot of
evenings. How long a drive is it, if you can tell me so much?”
He shook his head, smiling still. “Not even that, my friend. I am sure
you would not give us away; but you see we make a rule to trust no
one, and we stick to it. It’s a pretty good plan, don’t you think so?”
“Yes, indeed,” I answered. “But then you must be one of the organizers
or officers or charter members, or whatever you call it?”
Ivanovitch did not seem to take to that question. At all events he did
not answer it. And we drove along for some time after that in silence.
Presently, however, he started another topic of conversation and we
chatted pleasantly enough.
From the very start I had done my best to get a general idea of the
direction we were taking by noting the corners we had turned indicated
by the swaying of the car this way or that. It seemed to me that we
were going east and south. But owing to stops and very gentle starts
which might have been turns to left or right, I could not be certain.
Besides, I had to pay some attention to what I was saying to my host.
He grew more animated as we talked, and kept me busy making
intelligent replies. It almost seemed as though he wanted to prevent
me from taking any note of our progress.
I did notice one thing, however. In the course of our tide, there came
a hollow quality in the sound of the traffic round us at about the
same time that we began to pull up along grade. This continued until
we had topped it and dropped down a decline of about the same length,
as near as I could tell. And I knew what that meant. It meant that we
had crossed one of the bridges over the East River and were passing
through Brooklyn.
But there, as one generally does in Brooklyn, I lost finally my sense
of direction altogether and turned my attention entirely to
Ivanovitch.
He talked on agreeably for half an hour or so. By this time I noticed
that practically all sounds of traffic had ceased. The car we were in
was a powerful one and very silent running, so that it was easy to
detect the sound of any passing vehicle.
A little later, Ivanovitch gave me a swift but fleeting glance and
leaned forward, taking a speaking tube from its hook. He spoke into it
for a moment or two, and I cursed my ignorance of Russian. But the car
immediately slowed up a good deal and we rode along almost silently.
“Please do not talk now,” Ivanovitch said to me. “You see, there is
always the danger of being followed, and this necessitates taking
certain precautions, So we will listen for a time, if you don’t mind.”
He reached up and opened a little shuttered window in the back of the
tonneau. First he looked out and then he turned his head sideways to
listen.
I was in a fever of excitement. All through the ride I had been
playing, in the back of my mind, with the thought of seeing Natalie
again, of finding Moore and Larry, and possibly even finding and
rescuing my little sister. But now at this new move my mind flew to
Pride and the importance of his successful pursuit; for I had not the
slightest idea where we were. And in the bottom of my heart I was
satisfied now that Ivanovitch knew who I was and was simply taking me
to this party to get me into safe hands. It had all been too easy.
Therefore the only hope lay in Pride being able to trace me
successfully and get me out of it along with the others. For I had
little confidence in my chances of getting out of it by myself, once
they had me there in their hands and probably badly outnumbered.
I got up silently back of my host and managed to catch a glimpse out
of the corner of the open window over his head. But it was pitch dark
outside now. There were no street lights where we were, and I could
see nothing at all. “Anybody there?” I whispered, and tried to edge
Ivanovitch away from the window.
He turned swiftly and shut the window. “My friend,” he said in his
even tone, “you will be entirely silent, if you please. And do not
attempt to look out of the window again, eh?”
Something touched me and I looked down. The Russian’s hand held a
small nickel-plated revolver, and the muzzle of it was nosing the
lowest button of my vest. “Sorry,” he added, smiling, “but we must
take precautions, you see. You will be careful?”
I laughed. “Well, this is getting to be a melodrama all of a sudden,
isn’t it? All right. Don’t shoot. I’ll be good.”
At my first word the Russian’s face lost its mask of good-humor for
the first time. The lips drew back from even white teeth and the eyes
narrowed into a vicious scowl. “You will be good—and silent,” he
observed. “Not another word!”
I let my mouth sag open, staring at him in simulated amazement. But
the man’s cold eye had killing in it, and I did not venture to speak
again. He turned away, opened the little window again and put his ear
to it. He listened for a long minute. Then he clapped the window shut
and took up the speaking tube. For some reason, probably to annoy me,
he spoke in English this time.
“Alexandre! We are being followed. Give the signal!”
Then he leaned back again, stowed away his revolver and turned to me
with his former cold smile.
“I must apologize, my dear Clayton, for being a little insistent,” he
said, his eyes full of malicious amusement. “But, you see, we have to
take precautions, and as long as you talked I could not hear. However,
our friends back there have a little surprise in store for them that
will probably discourage them for some time. So we can now resume our
pleasant conversation.”
“I confess,” I answered lightly, “that your manner of asking for
silence seemed a little abrupt, but it was certainly efficient. Of
course, if I had realized what you wanted, I would have been silent
without all that display of force.” I tried to seem startled and
aggrieved rather than resentful.
To some extent I think it worked, for he looked at me curiously, with
a shadow of doubt in his eyes. But he visibly swept it aside a moment
later and began to talk again.
For my part, while I listened to him with half an ear, I was listening
as keenly as I could for any evidence of pursuit. Nothing happened for
several moments, however, and I was just beginning to wonder whether
the whole thing had been planned by him to see whether I knew of any
pursuit and would rise to the bait, when the chauffeur suddenly blew
three long melancholy blasts on his Klaxon. A moment later he repeated
the signal.
I found Ivanovitch staring at me keenly. I looked back at him in
inquiry. “Is that the signal?” I whispered.
“That is the signal. Presently you shall see an example of efficient
organization.”
The Klaxon signal blew again at this moment, and the driver kept it up
at regular intervals for perhaps five minutes. But presently the usual
interval passed without a signal, and instantly Ivanovitch opened the
rear window and seized my arm.
“Come and see,” he said, his voice exultant and vicious.
I went to the window and looked back into the darkness. I could make
out the faint sound of another car following ours.
And as I watched there came a sudden blinding flash in the road only
some twenty yards behind us followed by a deafening roar.
We must have passed over the spot only a few seconds before. The
explosion was followed by the screech of brakes hastily applied. But
they were not applied quickly enough, for as our own car quickened its
speed, I heard another clanging crash behind us. It was evident that
we had been outwitted again.
I turned to find Ivanovitch’s ironical eyes on me.
“Pretty neat, eh?” he inquired. “Whoever our friends are there behind
us, they will not follow us again in a hurry, do you think so?”
I pulled myself together and tried to push out of my mind the thought
of Pride lying back there in the road, maimed and bleeding.
“But great Scott,” I cried, “what did you do? Blow up the road?”
“Exactly.”
“But people will find the hole in the road and investigate? And they
will find the wrecked car and the people in it?”
“Oh, no!” Ivanovitch shook his head. “They will find neither one nor
the other, my friend. There is a very capable gang of men back there
where that explosion took place. In an hour they will have the
occupants of the car in a safe place, the car itself out of the way
and the road mended—for it is only a dirt road, you know.”
He took out his cigarette case, offered me a cigarette, and when I
refused it, took one himself and lit it with a perfectly steady hand.
“People who interfere with us,” he remarked, blowing a cloud of smoke
into the air, “do so at their peril, my friend.”
“I agree with you perfectly,” I laughed. “Why, I had no idea such
things happened in this day and age.” I paused. “But I hope those
people who were following us did not have any other cards up their
sleeves!”
The Russian’s head came round with a jerk and he stared at me for a
long moment before he answered. “What other cards could they have?” he
asked at last, and I did not like the silky tone of his voice at all.
“I’m blessed if I know,” I laughed. “But that was pretty close to
murder back there, and the sensation of aiding and abetting a murder
is a new one to me.” I caught his eye. “I imagine it takes a while to
get used to it, eh?”
I saw the angry veins swelling on the man’s forehead, and for a moment
I regretted taunting him. I had plenty of enemies as it was. But his
voice was even enough when he answered. “I don’t suppose he was hurt
much,” he said, “and he should have been minding his own business
instead of following us.”
His use of the singular in speaking of the occupant of the wrecked car
took my breath away for a moment. Either it was a queer coincidence or
the man was uncanny. I tried to pull myself together and ask him a
question about how the road had been blown up, but before I could do
so, the driver blew four short blasts on his Klaxon and the car began
to slow up. Ivanovitch turned on me.
“If you will turn your back,” he said, “I will blindfold you and tie
your hands behind you. The one is necessary to prevent your seeing
where you are—the other to prevent your lifting the bandage. You will
be freed as soon as you are inside.”
For a moment I had a wild impulse to spring on him and throttle him;
for I felt the toils closing on me. But an instant’s reflection
convinced me that such a move would be the worst kind of a mistake.
There was probably plenty of help within call and we might be found
any moment. The only thing was to submit and with as good a grace as
possible.
I laughed and turned my back to him at once, putting my hands behind
me.
“Go ahead,” I said.
Ivanovitch gave a dry chuckle, the first time I had heard him laugh at
all, and tied my hands very swiftly. A moment later a silk
handkerchief covered my eyes and was drawn tight. I was quite
helpless.
I felt the car stop and heard some one open the door. “This way,” said
Ivanovitch, and I stepped out. Judging by the freshness of the air we
were well out into the country and somewhere quite close to the sea,
for the tang of it was strong.
Some one took my arm on either side, and I stumbled forward for
perhaps a hundred yards over what I took to be a dirt road. But in a
little our footsteps began to echo and I knew that we were under
cover. There was a strong smell of gasoline and oil now—so strong that
I would have been willing to swear that we were in a garage. And,
judging by the echo of our footsteps, the building was quite a large
one. On the way I was conscious of swift and gentle hands touching me
lightly here and there, and I smiled grimly, remembering Pride’s
remark about carrying a gun.
My guides slowed up presently, and I stepped down a little. Then I was
led to a seat. A moment later a door banged and we began to descend.
I felt exactly as though I were in a nightmare. I knew that I had come
out of the car on to the level ground. We had got into what was
obviously an elevator, and yet the thing was going down instead of up.
Of that I was certain. Moreover, my guides were entirely silent, and
it was an eerie sensation to know myself helpless in the hands of my
enemies, and wait blind and tied for their first move.
The air grew damper and damper, with the queer moldy smell of vaults
and tunnels below ground. But after perhaps two minutes of very
gradual descent the elevator stopped and I was led out.
And now came the queerest thing of all; for I was guided up to a step,
lifted over it and placed in another seat, and then, with a gruff word
from Ivanovitch, found myself moving, horizontally this time and at a
considerable rate of speed. The same damp moldy air blew in my face
now, so that I was certain that we were still well under ground. But
the trip went on and on for at least five minutes and the little
car—for it swayed enough to show me that it was small—still kept up a
good speed. The crackle of a spark and a brilliant light through my
bandage told me that it was electrically driven.
When we did stop at last I was completely bewildered. But I had sense
enough to keep my ears open still, so that I was fully aware of being
guided into another elevator and shot upward again—this time much more
quickly, or so it seemed.
And presently the elevator stopped, I walked for a few yards and
halted again. I heard Ivanovitch speak in a low voice and heard the
sound of shuffling feet retreating. Then some one fumbled with the
cords at my wrists and in a moment I was free.
“You can remove the bandage now,” I heard Ivanovitch say, and with a
great surge of relief I raised my hands and swept the blindfold from
my eyes.