ON GUARD
Was he in the city? In a suburban town? On a country road? It seemed
childishly absurd that he could not at least differentiate to that
extent; and yet, from the moment he had been placed in the automobile
in which he now found himself, he was forced to admit that he could not
tell. He had started out with the belief that, knowing New York and its
surroundings as minutely as he knew them, it would be impossible, do
what they would to prevent it, that at the end of the journey he should
be without a clew, and a very good clew at that, to the location of what
he now called, appropriately enough it seemed, the Crime Club.
But he had never ridden blindfolded in a car before! He could see
absolutely nothing. And if that increased or accentuated his sense of
hearing, it helped little--the roar of the racing car beat upon his
eardrums the more heavily, that was all. He could tell, of course, the
nature of the roadbed. They were running on an asphalt road, that was
obvious enough; but city streets and suburban streets and hundreds of
miles of country road around New York were of asphalt!
Traffic? He was quite sure, for he had strained his ears in an effort to
detect it, that there was little or no traffic; but then, it must be
one or two o'clock in the morning, and at that hour the city streets,
certainly those that would be chosen by these men, would be quite as
deserted as any country road! And as for a sense of direction, he had
none whatever--even if the car had not been persistently swerving and
changing its course every little while. If he had been able to form even
an approximate idea of the compass direction in which they had started,
he might possibly have been able in a general way to counteract this
further effort of theirs to confuse him; but without the initial
direction he was essentially befogged.
With these conclusions finally thrust home upon him, Jimmie Dale
philosophically subordinated the matter in his mind, and, leaning back,
composed himself as comfortably as he could upon his seat. There was a
man beside him, and he could feel the legs of two men on the seat facing
him. These, with the driver, would make four. He was still well guarded!
The car itself was a closed car--not hooded, the sense of touch told
him--therefore a limousine of some description. These facts, in a sense
inconsequential, were absorbed subconsciously; and then Jimmie Dale's
brain, remorselessly active, in spite of the pain from his throbbing
head, was at work again.
It seemed as though a year had passed since, in the early evening, as
Larry the Bat, he had burrowed so ironically for refuge in Chang Foo's
den--from her! It seemed like some mocking unreality, some visionary
dream that, so short a while before, he had read those words of hers
that had sent the blood coursing and leaping through his veins in mad
exultation at the thought that the culmination of the years had come,
that all he longed for, hoped for, that all his soul cried out for was
to be his--“in an hour.” An HOUR--and he was to have seen her, the woman
whose face he had never seen, the woman whom he loved! And the hour
instead, the hours since then, had brought a nightmare of events so
incredible as to seem but phantoms of the imagination.
Phantoms! He sat up suddenly with a jerk. The face of the dead
chauffeur, the limp form lashed in that chair, the horrible picture in
its entirety, every detail standing out in ghastly relief, took form
before him. God knew there was no phantom there!
The man beside him, at the sudden start, lifted a hand and felt
hurriedly over the bandage across Jimmie Dale's eyes.
Jimmie Dale was scarcely conscious of the act. With that face before
him, with the scene re-enacting itself in his mind again, had come
another thought, staggering him for a moment with the new menace that it
brought. He had had neither time nor opportunity to think before; it had
been all horror, all shock when he had entered that room. But now, like
an inspiration, he saw it all from another angle. There was a glaring
fallacy in the game these men had played for his benefit to-night--a
fallacy which they had counted on glossing over, as it had, indeed, been
glossed over, by the sudden shock with which they had forced that scene
upon him; or, failing in that, they had counted on the fact that his,
or any other man's nerve would have failed when it came to open defiance
based on a supposition which might, after all, be wrong, and, being
wrong, meant death.
But it was not supposition. Either he was right now, or these men were
childish, immature fools--and, whatever else they might be, they were
not that! NOT A SINGLE DROP OF POISON HAD PASSED THE CHAUFFEUR'S LIPS.
The man had not been murdered in that room. He had not, in a sense, been
murdered at all. The man, absolutely, unquestionably, without a loophole
for doubt, had either been killed outright in the automobile accident,
or had died immediately afterward, probably without regaining
consciousness, certainly without supplying any of the information that
was so determinedly sought.
Yes, he saw it now! Their backs were against the wall, they were at
their wits' end, these men! The knowledge that the chauffeur possessed,
that they KNEW he possessed, was evidently life and death to them. To
kill the man before they had wormed out of him what they wanted to know,
or, at least, until, by holding him a prisoner, they had exhausted every
means at their command to make him speak, was the last thing they would
do!
Jimmie Dale sat for a long time quite motionless. The car was speeding
at a terrific rate along a straight stretch of road. He could almost
have sworn, guided by some intuitive sense, that they were in the
country. Well, even if it were so, what did that prove! They might
have started FROM New York itself--only to return to it when they had
satisfied themselves that he was sufficiently duped. Or they might have
started legitimately from outside New York, and be going toward the city
now. Since the ultimate destination was New York, and they had made no
attempt to hide that from him, it was useless to speculate--for at best
it could be only speculation. He had decided that once before! The man
at his side felt again over the scarf to see that it was in place.
Curiously now Jimmie Dale recalled the inward monitor that had warned
him the honours had not all been his in this first round with the Crime
Club to-night. If they had deliberately murdered the chauffeur because
of a refusal to answer, they would equally have done the same to him.
Fool that he had been not to have seen that before! And yet would it
have made any difference? He shook his head. He could not have acted to
any better advantage than he had done. He could not--his lips curled in
grim derision--have been any more convincing.
Convincing! It was all clear enough now! If the chauffeur had suffered
death rather than talk, even admitting the fact that they had more
grounds for suspecting the chauffeur's complicity, would his, Jimmie
Dale's, mere denial, his choice, too, of death, have been any the more
convincing, or have saved his life where it had not saved the other's?
A certain added respect for these men, against whom, until the end now,
his victory or theirs, he realised he was fighting for his life, came
over him as he recognised the touch of a master hand. They did not know
where to find the Tocsin; the package that she had said was vital to
them was still beyond their reach; the chauffeur was dead; and he,
Jimmie Dale, alone remained--a clew that they had still to prove valid
or invalid it was true, but the only clew in their possession. And,
gaining nothing from him by a show of force, to throw him off his guard,
they had let him go--meaning him to believe they were convinced he knew
nothing, and that the episode, the adventure of the night, was, as far
as they were concerned, ended, finished, and done with!
Time passed, a very long time, as he sat there. It might have been an
hour--he could only hazard a guess. Not one of the men in the car
had spoken a word. But to Jimmie Dale, the car itself, the ride, its
duration, these three strange companions, were for the time being
extraneous. Even that sick giddiness in his head had, at least
temporarily, gone from him.
And so, all unsuspectingly, he was to lead them to the Tocsin and fall
into the trap himself! His hands, thrust deep in his pockets, were
tightly clenched. They were clever enough, ingenious enough, powerful
enough to watch him henceforth at every turn--and from now on, day and
night, they were to be reckoned with. Suppose that in some way, as it
might well have happened, for it was now vitally necessary that she
should communicate with him and he with her, he had played blindly into
their hands, and through him she should have fallen into their power! It
brought a sickening chill, a sort of hideous panic to Jimmie Dale--and
then fury, anger, in a torrent, surged upon him, and there came a
merciless desire to crush, to strangle, to stamp out this inhuman band
of criminals that, with intolerable effrontery to the laws of God and
man, were so elaborately and scientifically equipped for their monstrous
purposes!
And then Jimmie Dale, in the darkness, smiled again grimly as the
leader's reference to the Gray Seal recurred to him. Well, perhaps, who
knew, they would have reason more than they dreamed of to wish the
Gray Seal enrolled in their own ranks! It was strange, curious! He had
thought all that was ended. Only a few short hours before he had hidden
away all, everything that was incident to the life of the Gray Seal, the
clothes of Larry the Bat, that little metal case with the gray-coloured,
adhesive seals, a dozen other things, believing that it only remained
for him to return and destroy them at his leisure as a finishing touch
to the Gray Seal's career--and now, instead, he was face to face with
the gravest and most dangerous problem that she had ever called upon him
to undertake!
Well, at least, the odds were not all in the Crime Club's favour. Where
they now certainly believed him to be entirely off his guard, he was
thoroughly on his guard; and where they might suspect him, watch him,
they would suspect and watch only the character, the person of Jimmie
Dale, and count not at all upon either Larry the Bat or--the Gray Seal.
A sort of savage elation fell upon Jimmie Dale. His brain, that had been
stagnant, confused, physically sick with pain and suffering, was working
now with its old-time vigour and ease, mapping, planning, scheming the
way ahead. To strike, and strike quickly--to strike FIRST! It must be
his move next--not theirs! And he must act to-night at once, the moment
he was given this pretence to liberty that they had in store for him,
before they had an opportunity of closing down around him with a network
of spies that he could not elude. By morning, Jimmie Dale would be Larry
the Bat, and inhabiting the Sanctuary again. And a tip to Jason, his
old butler, to the effect, say, that he had gone away for a trip,
would account for his disappearance satisfactorily enough; it would not
necessarily arouse their suspicions when they eventually discovered he
was gone, for against that was always the possible, and quite likely
presumption that, where they had succeeded in nothing else, they had
at least succeeded in frightening him thoroughly and to the extent of
imbuing him with a hasty desire to put a safe distance between himself
and them.
And now, with his mind made up to his course of action, an intense
impatience to put his plan into effect, an irritation at the useless
twistings and turnings of the car that had latterly become more
frequent, took hold upon him. How much longer was this to last! They
must have been fully an hour and a half on the road already, and--ah,
the car was stopping now!
He straightened up in his seat as the machine came to a halt--but the
man at his side laid a restraining hand upon him. The car door opened,
and one of the men got out. Jimmie Dale caught an indistinct murmur of
voices from without, then the man returned to his seat, and the car went
on again.
Another half hour passed, that, curbing his irritation and impatience,
was filled with the conjectures and questions that anew came crowding in
upon his mind. Why had the car made that stop? It was rather curious. It
was certainly a prearranged meeting place. Why? And these clothes that
he now wore--why had they made him change? His own had not been very
badly torn. The reason given him was, on the face of it now, in view
of what he now knew, mere pretence. What was the ulterior motive behind
that pretence? What did this package, that had already cost a man his
life to-night, contain? Who was the chauffeur? What was this death feud
between the Tocsin and these men? Did she know where the Crime Club was?
Who and where was John Johansson? What was this box that was numbered
428? Could she supply the links that would forge the chain into an
unbroken whole?
And then for the second time the car slowed down--and this time the man
on the seat beside Jimmie Dale reached up and untied the scarf.
“You get out here,” said the man tersely.