Then he began to speak in a quiet voice. "Never touched me. Bubbles.
Pull that cord at the right of the window. That will close the curtains.
Careful not to show yourself. The man that fired that shot thinks he got
me. I fell over to make him think so and to keep him from shooting
again. Now then"--the curtain had been drawn over the window with the
broken pane--"let's see what sort of a gun our friend uses, and then
perhaps we can spot our friend. Did you hear the shot?"
"No, sir. There was a noise just when the clock broke like when a steel
girder falls on the sidewalk."
"That noise was just _before_ the clock broke, Bubbles. And it was loud
enough to drown the noise of our friend's gun. Clever work, though, to
_have_ to pull the trigger at a given moment, and to make such a close
shot. Probably had his gun screwed in a vise."
Meanwhile Lichtenstein had extracted from the ruined clock a .45-calibre
bullet of nickel steel. A glance at the grooves made by the rifling of
the barrel from which it had been expelled caused him to raise his
colorless eyebrows and smile cynically.
"New government automatic, Bubbles," he said, "and the funny part of it
is they've only been issued to officers so far, and the factory hasn't
put 'em on sale yet."
"Must have been stole from an officer, then," said Bubbles.
"You steal her jewels from an actress," said Lichtenstein, "her mite
from the widow, its romances from the people, but you don't steal his
side arms from an American army officer. No. Somebody in the factory has
let the weapon that fired this slip out. It doesn't matter--it's just a
little link in the long chain."
He seated himself calmly at the table and set down in black and white
the fact that he had been very nearly murdered by a bullet fired from
the new army pistol. Then he began to gather up the sheets of his
manuscript.
"Now I wonder," he said, "where I can go to finish this document? I
don't want them to 'get' me until I've paved the way for the man that
comes after me. Now then--the secret passage isn't only for the wicked."
Kneeling on the clean hearth, Mr. Lichtenstein caused the ornamental
cast-iron back of the fireplace to swing outward upon a hinge. Reaching
a long arm into the disclosed opening, he unfastened and pushed ajar the
iron back of a fireplace in the next house.
Bubbles, crawling through first, found himself in a somewhat overdressed
pink and blue bedroom. The lace curtains were too elaborate. The room
was luxurious and vulgar. Among the photographs on the centre-table
reposed a champagne-bottle, three parts empty, and two glasses, in which
a number of flies were heavily crawling.
Lichtenstein, having carefully replaced the fire-backs, rose smiling,
and clapped a hand upon Bubbles's shoulder.
"Now then, Bubbles," he said, "push that bell-button by the door four
times, and we'll see what Mrs. Popple can do to get us out of this.
Never met Mrs. Popple? She's one of us, and at heart a good one."
The lady in question came swiftly in answer to the four rings. At first
sight she passed for a woman of hard and forbidding aspect; filmy laces
and a clinging kimona of rose-pink silk neither softened nor made
feminine the alabaster-colored face with its thin, straight mouth, heavy
hairy eyebrows, and clean-cut Greek nose. Only her costume and her hair,
indescribably fine, and indescribably yellow, betrayed that there were
follies in her nature. But the moment she spoke you liked her. She had a
slow, deep, beautiful voice, and the slowness of her speech was offset
by the fewness of her words.
"What's wrong, Abe?"
Lichtenstein explained briefly, and added: "Now how are we to get out of
this without being spotted and followed?"
"Easy," said Mrs. Popple. She went to a vast wardrobe painted white, and
pulled the creaking doors wide open. "Wedge the man into one dress,"
she said, "pad the boy into another. Send 'em off in a taxi. Now, boy.
Is this Bubbles? Pleased to meet you. I'm old enough to be your
grandmother."
The words were a command, and the boy, much embarrassed, began to take
off his coat.
"Get busy, Abe. Can take your own things along in a suit-case. I don't
look, see? I'm looking out duds for you. What's that? Razor? Find
everything in medicine-closet over wash-basin in bath-room."
Lichtenstein disappeared, and gave forth presently the rasping sounds of
a man shaving in a hurry. And in the meanwhile, always swift and sure,
Mrs. Popple initiated Bubbles into the ABC's of female attire.
"No trouble about a straight front for you," she chuckled, and gave a
sudden strong tug at the laces of Bubbles's corsets. He gasped, and the
tears came to his eyes.
"Mind to take little steps," she said, "and don't swing your arms." She
clasped a blond wig upon his head, and drew back to see the effect.
"Abe," she called, "she's a pippin!"
A moment later she frowned, almost savagely, laid her finger on her
lips, knelt at the fireplace, thrust her head far in and
listened intently.
Lichtenstein, one side of his face in lather, appeared at the bath-room
door. His eyes on the crouching figure of Mrs. Popple, he continued
calmly and methodically to shave himself.
After an interval the woman rose, and shook her head.
"Can't make out who's in there," she whispered. "Have Lizzie watch front
window see who goes out."
Lichtenstein nodded, washed the tag ends of lather from his face, and
proceeded in dead silence to dress himself as a lady of somewhat
doubtful age, looks, and position. But Bubbles would have made a very
pretty girl, if Mrs. Popple had not insisted on powdering his face till
it was as white as that of a clown.
"Won't do to be conspicuous," she explained.
Lichtenstein packed the things which he and Bubbles had taken off into a
suit-case marked "A.P." (Amelia Popple), and led the way downstairs. A
little later a taxicab drew up at the curb, and the two disguised
secret-service agents sauntered down the high steps of Mrs. Popple's
brownstone house, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and
got in.
"Where to?" said the driver, with rather a bold leer. The average lady
who descended or ascended Mrs. Popple's steps; was not considered
respectable even by taxi-drivers.
It had been agreed that Bubbles, having of the two the more feminine
adaptabilities of voice, should do the talking.
"Grand Central," he said.