THE PURSUIT
Darkness had fallen when Florence stepped from the theatre, just one
week later. Rehearsal had started at five on that afternoon. Two members
of the cast had found it impossible to be there at an earlier hour. Once
into the swing of the thing, they had worked on and on quite unconscious
of the fleeing hours.
She shuddered a little as she closed the door behind her. In her right
hand was her leather Boston bag. As upon other occasions, a short chain,
running through two rings at the top of the bag, held it tight shut. The
ends of the chain were united by a stout little padlock.
Strong custodian of his Highness, the God of Fire, she peered through
the darkness, looking north and south for a cab. Her brow wrinkled. On
entering the building that night she had spied two dark-faced men
loitering outside.
“And it’s important,” she told herself, setting her lips tight. “Very,
very important.”
She was thinking of the strange God of Fire. Many times his story had
been told that week. On the dramatic pages of daily papers and even in
one magazine his ugly face had appeared. And always beside him, as if
for contrast, was the lovely face and figure of the “sweetest dancer of
all time,” Petite Jeanne.
“Day after to-morrow is the night of nights.” She caught her breath. How
much it meant to them all; to Angelo, to Swen, to Dan Baker, to Petite
Jeanne and to all the rest.
This night they had held dress rehearsal. And it had been such a
glorious affair! She had not dreamed that such a multitude of lovely
scenes and heavenly melodies could be packed into two short hours.
Everyone, from Solomon, the manager, to the least and youngest of the
chorus, was jubilant. They were made! In a lean year they would score a
triumph. The thing would run for months. They would ride in taxis and
find flowers in their dressing rooms each night.
“But I must not dream.” Shaking herself free from these thoughts,
Florence tucked a small package securely under her arm. Then picking up
the bag she stepped out.
She must find a cab for the little French girl. Still warm from exercise
and excitement, Jeanne must not be exposed to the night’s damp chill.
No cab was in sight. “Must go round the corner and call one.”
She was about to do so when, with the suddenness of thought, a terrible
thing happened. Springing from the shadows of a great pillar, two short,
dark men dashed at her. Ten seconds of mad tussle in which her dress was
torn, her arm wrenched, and her cheeks bruised, and they were away—with
the leather bag!
The thing Florence did next was little short of amazing. She did not
cry: “Stop thief!” did not call out at all. Instead, she ran after the
fleeing men. But when they arrived at the end of the building, turned
and darted into the darkness beside a bridge, she followed no longer;
but, taking a tighter grip on the paper-wrapped package under her arm,
she redoubled her speed and raced straight on. This soon brought her
into the shadow of a block-long shed which housed derelict automobiles
and river boats.
Arrived at the end of this shed, she turned, abruptly to the left and
lost herself in a labyrinth of railway tracks and freight cars.
Here, beside a car marked BANANAS, she paused for breath. Strangely
enough, at this moment she laughed a low, musical laugh.
She tarried there for only a moment. Then, like a startled deer, she
sprang to attention. Heavy footsteps sounded in the night.
With a hasty glance this way and that, she crept from her hiding place
and darted from shelter to shelter until she caught the dark gleam of
the river.
Beyond the last car was a steep incline built of ashes and street
rubbish. At the river’s brink this broke off abruptly. She knew its
purpose. Men backed dump trucks up this incline to spill their contents
of rubbish into a scow waiting at the bank of the river.
Darting into the shadow of this crude embankment, she crouched, waiting,
straining her ears for the sound of her pursuers.
For a moment she allowed her eyes to stray to the river. “There,” she
assured herself, “is the last scow towed in for loading.
“Not been used for months,” she thought. “No smell of freshly dumped
rubbish here.”
Hardly had she arrived at this conclusion than a new crisis presented
itself. Two dark shadows had darted from one box car to another.
“They’ll be here in another moment. Find me. I can’t escape. But then,
I—”
She thought of the scow. It was deep. She could only guess how deep. It
was as dark as a well.
“They’d never expect to find me there.” She was away like a streak. Over
the side of the scow she went, and dropped. But not all the way. With
her hands she clung to the side of the scow. Her feet did not touch
bottom.
As she clung there, wondering whether or not to release her hold, the
paper-wrapped package slipped from beneath her arm and dropped with a
splash.
“Dumb!” she muttered. Then, “Oh, my glory! Water! I wonder how deep!”