NIP AND TUCK
BEFORE Dick, half stunned by his fall, could get upon his feet, the
four masked men threw themselves upon him, and, despite his struggles,
bound him hand and foot. They cleared away the débris made by him in
his unlucky fall, and placed him in the cleared space.
“Do you speak Italian?” asked the leader in fairly good English, as
the men, after reconnoitering outside, returned and grouped themselves
about their prisoner.
“No,” lied Dick, calmly.
“That is not so,” spoke up one of the men next the leader. “He is a
good linguist and speaks our language fluently.”
Dick recognized the voice despite the mask.
“Clark! You renegade!” he shouted with sudden fury.
Clark made a hasty move in his direction, but the leader checked him.
“What matter,” he said, indifferently. “It will not be long in his
power to injure us by any information he may have picked up to-night.”
The finality of his tone sent a cold shiver up and down Dick’s spine.
Apparently his doom was sealed. Only a game of bluff might pull him out
of his ghastly predicament.
“Don’t be too certain of that,” he said, coolly. “Clark, there, can add
to the information he has already given you of me by saying that I am
a representative of the _Washington Star_, one of the most influential
newspapers in the country. You know the power of the press in America.”
His words made a visible impression on the three men. They glanced
uneasily at each other. The leader spoke hastily and sternly.
“It does not matter who is at your back. You are in our power and
cannot escape the fate of a spy.”
Dick’s heart sank, but he refused to give up. He was fighting for
time. Something must intervene.
“I was sent over to follow that man,” pointing to Clark. “Do you think
my disappearance will not be noticed if I don’t turn up safe and sound?
Well, you are wrong. By noon to-morrow you will all be in custody; your
precious plans for murdering the Grand Duke will then be nipped in the
bud. Thus, instead of carrying out the orders of the Camorra you will
be preparing to swing for my death.”
“Your arguments are all very fine, my friend,” returned the leader
composedly, “provided everything happens as you say. But no one will
know of your disappearance. It is an easy matter to secure a specimen
of your handwriting, forge a letter from New York to your employers
saying you were called there suddenly. One of the Brotherhood will
impersonate you on a voyage to Europe. We never fail in our plans.
Months will elapse before your disappearance will be noticed. You will
never be traced.”
“Sounds well,” commented Dick. “You forget I have a very substantial
body which is apt to betray your best laid schemes.”
“It will not be found.”
“Pooh! Murder will out!”
“Not in this instance.” The leader rose and stepped over into a corner
and picked up a satchel, which he opened. He took out a hypodermic
syringe and a small black leather box such as surgeons carry. “We have
plenty of disguises with us,” he continued. “You will be dressed in one
of them. Your body will be found, but it will never be recognized as
yours. In this little vial,” taking it out of the leather case, “there
is a deadly poison. Under its influence your body becomes bloated and
your features unrecognizable. It will be necessary to bury you at once,
as decomposition follows fast. Therefore, no lengthy examination can be
made.”
A terrible fear was upon Dick, brave fellow that he was. He could
have faced death by dagger or revolver without flinching, but this
creeping horror shook his nerve. Despairingly he glanced about the
room; there was no help there. His eyes traveled back to the leader,
and, fascinated, he watched him fit on the hypodermic needle and fill
the syringe. His back and forehead were bathed in a cold perspiration,
and his throat was parched and dry. He thought of Peggy, his dear, dear
love, and involuntarily a groan escaped him.
“Tut!” said the Italian. “Just a pin prick. A few twists of your limbs
and all will be over.”
At his signal two of the men tore off Dick’s left cuff and bared his
arm. As the hand holding the needle hovered above Dick’s wrist, a shot
rang out, and the leader crumpled up and fell forward over him, the
syringe flying across the room.
“Throw up your hands!” commanded a stern voice from the broken
skylight. The amazed men looked up into the barrels of four revolvers,
while Dick fainted away.
A few minutes later Dick recovered consciousness. Dazed and bewildered
he looked at the tall man bending over him, and put out his hand to
push the brandy flask away.
“De Smirnoff!” he gasped. “How in h--l did you get here?”
“Gently, gently, my friend; drink this cognac,” and, as Dick complied
with his request, he added, “I am a member of the Russian Secret
Police. It is my special duty to guard the person of his Imperial
Highness, the Grand Duke Sergius.”