The Automaton and its emissaries left the cellar. In the distance a door
slammed and Locke was left to his terrible fate.
Except for the gurgling of the flowing acid and the scampering of the
rats all was silent.
Locke tried to move. But the sharp barbs of the wire cut into his flesh,
a torture to test the fortitude of a stoic.
Moreover, Locke had barely recovered from the shock of his fall into the
cellar. Thus for a few seconds that seemed to him to be ages he lay
there watching the fiery death creep closer. Then the will to live
surged through him and he struggled furiously to escape from the deadly
path of the acid. Gone now was his flinching and shrinking as the sharp
barbs lacerated his tender flesh. Gone was the calmness that denoted
surrender and the acceptance of his fate.
With bunching muscles he writhed inch by inch to one side, out of the
path of the flow of the acid. He was just in time, for, at his last
mighty effort, the consuming fluid flowed past, not an inch from his
face.
To extricate himself from the coils of the wire was a slow and painful
task. Wounded with a hundred wounds, with each movement of his body
adding a further injury, many times Locke was forced to desist in his
efforts to free himself. However, he persisted, though, strong man that
he was, the tears of agony burned his eyes and beads of cold sweat stood
on his brow even before the first coil was loosened.
He could not, even to save his own life, have persisted in this
self-inflicted torture had it not been for the thought of Eva hurrying
to this dreadful den. That thought almost drove him mad and spurred him
to furious effort.
It was well that it did. For at this very moment the beastly emissary in
the café above was closing in on her.
Locke gave a final heave and tugged at the last strands of the wire that
held him prisoner. His clothes ripped to tatters and his flesh torn and
lacerated, he at last stood free.
Without an instant's pause he collected packing-cases and even barrels.
He stacked them one upon the other, pyramiding them under the trap-door
through which he had fallen into the cellar. Then he climbed upon them,
leaped, and tried to grasp the edge of the floor above him, but fell
short and came tumbling down amid the boxes and barrels, only to start
stacking them up all over again.
Finally he managed to grasp the edge of the floor with one hand and draw
himself up. For a few moments he lay panting on the floor, then groped
for the panel through which he had entered not half an hour before. It
was locked, but a shrewd kick above the lock opened it to him and he
rushed through the storeroom and out into the now brilliantly lighted
café.
He was barely in time.
The emissary already had Eva in his grasp and was choking her into
unconsciousness. The foul habitués of the resort, far from aiding the
poor girl, seemed for the first time that day to be showing interest and
to be thoroughly enjoying the brutal sight.
With a shout Locke charged. His right swing landed just behind the
emissary's ear and the man dropped, pulling Eva down with him. But Locke
had her up and behind him in a second.
Three other emissaries appeared as though by magic and attacked him on
all sides.
Locke's automatic had been lost when he fell into the cellar.
Consequently he grabbed up one of the café chairs, which he wielded like
a club.
One emissary had worked around until he was at one side of Locke and
almost behind him, a blackjack raised in his hand. But Eva warned Locke
in time. Whirling about, he made a full swing with the chair and caught
the emissary full in the face with it. The man went down and stayed
down.
"Run quick as you can," panted Locke to Eva. "Get the car started."
She was reluctant to leave him, and Locke saw that delay was dangerous.
He hurled what remained of the chair into the faces of the last two
emissaries, then turned and rushed up the steps, carrying Eva along with
him.
A whir of the starter, the throbbing of the engine as the gas in the
cylinders ignited, and they were streaking toward Brent Rock, safe.
In a still fashionable, but older, part of the town, the elder Balcom
had his quarters. They were spacious and furnished in Oriental style,
with many a suggestion of the Indian Ocean.
Balcom was evidently annoyed, and seriously so. He was striding up and
down the apartment, scowling and puffing furiously at a black cigar. In
his hand was a letter, and from time to time he halted and glanced at
it, then fell back to his quick walking again, while a sinister light
came into his eyes. Yet the contents of the note were hardly such as
would have seemed likely to cause a man of honest purpose any agitation.
MR. HERBERT BALCOM,
International Patents, Inc.
DEAR SIR,--A special meeting of the executive board of
International Patents, Inc., will be called at Brent Rock
this afternoon to determine the future policies of this company.
[Signed] EVA BRENT.
Balcom had read the notice for the tenth time when a negro servant
entered and announced that his son Paul wished to see him.
"Show him in--then," growled Balcom to the servant.
Paul entered. He was evidently somewhat chagrined and crestfallen. Nor
did his father's next words tend to cheer him up.
"I suppose you'll acknowledge that you've made a miserable mess of it,"
accused the older man. "When will you stop mixing women with business?"
Paul was silent. Indeed there was nothing that he could say.
"And now look at this note," pursued Balcom, in growing rage. "It brings
things to a head. What can we do?"
He thrust the note at Paul, who read it. Balcom himself reread it,
crumpled it in anger, tore it, and threw the pieces in violence on the
floor.
This time it was to be Paul who was to formulate a plan. It was of such
a dark and criminal nature that even Herbert Balcom, hardened as he was
himself, was for the moment appalled at his son's temerity. But as he
listened to Paul's words they fascinated him and he leaned forward the
better to take in the scheme.
As Paul and his father planned, it seemed that here was power unlimited,
wealth beyond all counting and without the possibility of discovery.
For, like most men of his caliber, the approbation of the community was
dear to Balcom.
"Good, Paul!" approved Balcom. "Go to it at once."
Paul looked keenly at his father.
"Haven't you anything to add?"
"No, I have nothing to advise. The scheme is perfect, and as you
conceived it you can also execute it. The best of luck to you, my boy."
A few moments later Paul went out, his dark face beaming at being
reinstated in his father's good graces. He was full of his plan.
Down in one of the city's worst sections and near the river-front there
stood an old ramshackle building. Why it had not been condemned by the
building inspectors was a mystery. But it stood in all its squalid
ugliness. The door and the windows were locked and shuttered. One could
see at a glance that the building had been long unused.
There was an alley strewn with tin cans and other refuse leading to the
back of the house, and it was down a flight of broken brick steps that
Old Meg, the fortune-teller, had her den where through the superstitions
of those inhabiting the neighborhood she managed to eke out a miserable
existence. The interior of the den was unspeakably filthy. The furniture
consisted of a broken-down couch, a chest of drawers in a like
condition, a card-table, a few kitchen chairs, and some boxes. Most of
the panes in the windows had been broken and the empty spaces had been
covered with old newspapers. Consequently, a candle thrust into an old
wine-bottle supplied the only real light.
At the table, idly shuffling a pack of grimy cards, sat Old Meg, a
horrible old hag, wrinkled in face like a mummy, with only the stumps of
teeth which had more the appearance of tusks. Her unkempt hair was
matted and ugly wisps of it hung down over her bleary eyes. For clothes
she wore an old-fashioned faded gingham wrapper and around her shoulders
a dirty torn shawl. On her feet was a pair of man's shoes, many sizes
too large, which had evidently been cast away as useless by some former
owner, himself squalid. These she managed to keep on by tying the tops
with wrapping-cord. A more unlovely human being it would have been hard
to find in all the great city. There she sat, crooning a ballad to
herself in a high, cracked voice. It sounded like an incantation.
A step sounded in the alley and Old Meg looked up and listened intently.
The sound came nearer. She got up and retreated into a dark corner, for
she knew the neighborhood well, and many a time some thug, brutal with
drink, had entered her den and wrung her last few pennies from her.
But it was no inhabitant of this quarter of the town who entered this
time. It was Paul Balcom.
The hag grinned in a horrible way at him, for it was not unusual for
people of his kind to visit her and it always meant money. With her
apron she dusted off the chair that stood at the table and begged him to
be seated. Then she shuffled the cards and cut, shuffled and cut, and
then as though at last satisfied she laid them face downward on the
table and spoke.
"Wish, my handsome gentleman, and may your wish come true."
"Go ahead with the hocus-pocus," growled Paul.
Mother Meg picked up one card after another and her cracked voice was
evidently following a set formula.
"If the queen of spades comes between the king of clubs and the queen of
hearts--"
Paul listened with a strained intentness as the hag singsonged on and
on. Then a look of satisfaction came into his eyes and he smiled
happily. Next his look changed to a nasty look of determination, and he
abruptly got up, tossing a bank-note on the table which Old Meg grabbed
with avidity, calling down Heaven's blessings on the handsome gentleman
until Paul, running up-stairs, could hear no more.
Paul returned immediately to his father's apartment, where Balcom was
impatiently waiting for him. He described minutely Old Meg, her
eagerness for money, and the squalid quarters in which she lived. The
elder Balcom seemed satisfied and they left the apartment together.
"Paul," directed Balcom, "get out to Brent Rock as soon as you can while
I make arrangements with this Old Meg."
Balcom stepped into his own car, while Paul hailed a taxicab, and a few
minutes later Balcom alighted before the house of Old Meg. He walked
down the alley and descended into the den.
As before, Meg was in hiding in a dark corner until she could ascertain
just who her visitor might be. Seeing Balcom, she came out and
courtesied and scraped as she had for Paul.
Balcom announced the object of his visit immediately, and while he was
speaking he fingered a roll of bills which he had taken from his pocket
the better to arouse the old hag's avariciousness.
It had the desired effect and her eyes fairly gleamed with the craving
of possession.
"Do as I tell you, Meg," directed Balcom, "and I'll make you rich. Do
you understand? Rich!" he emphasized, rolling out the last word silkily
on his tongue.
Old Meg's last scruples, had she ever had even one, fell before this
temptation and she became almost the slave of Balcom.
Balcom now gave a command and the old hag sidled to the door of an inner
room.
"Jimmy! Jimmy!" she called. "Come here to me."
In a moment a boy slunk into the room. He was sharp-faced, pinched for
food, and in tatters, as disreputable-looking as the hag herself. Meg
whispered something to him, and, as though galvanized by an electric
current, the boy shot up-stairs. He was soon back again with two
brutal-looking men who looked suspiciously at Balcom and then shuffled
into a corner, where they conferred eagerly with Old Meg.
At first it was plain to be seen that they were refusing to do her
bidding, but Meg made a movement as though she were counting money.
After that it was equally plain that they agreed.
Meg sidled over to Balcom and he unwrapped a few bills of large
denomination and handed them to her. She immediately hid them in her
dress, with many a furtive look toward her accomplices.
Balcom's eyes followed those of the old hag, and, realizing that his
whole conspiracy might fail unless the men were assured of further
reward on the completion of their task, he approached them smoothly.
"Of course," he insinuated, "you understand that if you three follow
instructions to the letter I'll double that amount." Then he left the
place, brushing his coat with his handkerchief as he did so. "Brent
Rock," he said to his chauffeur, curtly, as he stepped into his car.