An hour passed, during which a whirling horde of hopes, ambitions and
anticipations, not unmixed with fears, passed through Lawrence's mind.
There was so much to hope for; so little to build on. It had been a long
while since the day when Moll went down to the river with the two little
children, the hapless babies whose tender little feet had been so rudely
torn from the pleasant paths that Fate had set for them. Lawrence
thought sadly of the little brother who had gone down in the sly and
ruthless current of the Ohio River.
At first he could scarcely wait to share his news with Mr. Ridgeway;
then the habits of a lifetime of self-dependence commenced to assert
themselves. Mr. Ridgeway was involved in an adventure that might turn
out to have a serious, indeed possibly a fatal outcome. Lawrence smiled.
The knowledge that had come to him in such a strange and unexpected way
seemed of more importance than all the crown jewels in the world.
Jewels!...
Why, he had a chance at last for a name, for a home, for people of his
own! The thought made him dizzier than any flight through the uncharted
upper reaches of endless ether. Yet after all, the affair did not touch
his new employer and friend, and Lawrence doubted the wisdom of
bothering him about it. It would be better, he finally decided, to wait
until the job was over, and then hurry back to Louisville. It would be
easy enough to find out from the records or old files of the papers when
two little children and their nurse had been drowned. That was all that
he needed to know. It made him wild to think that he had lived so many
years, poor, cast-off, lonely, in the same city with his own people.
That they might have left Louisville did not occur to Lawrence. He
imagined them still there, still sadly and tenderly grieving for the
lost babies.
Yes, he would wait! He would see the thing through himself. Then he
would return to Mr. Ridgeway and tell him the glad news. Perhaps his
mother and father would accompany him. But like a cloud came the
thought, suppose in all the passing years death had overtaken father or
mother, perhaps both?
Lawrence could scarcely endure the thought, and put it from him with a
determined effort to let nothing mar his happiness. But all the more he
decided he would keep it all locked in his own breast until the present
task was well accomplished. He felt tenderly of the flat square in his
pocket, the outline of the case holding the photograph. A warmth seemed
to spread from it. No, she at least--mother, sister, some one, the owner
of that loving and beautiful face--was waiting for him. On earth,
living, he felt that some day he should greet her. He patted the case.
"Oh, who are you, dear?" he whispered.
Mr. Ridgeway came rushing up and jumped into the machine.
"It is all set now!" he exclaimed. "Everything ready! Everything
arranged! I have just sent one of the White House messengers with
instructions to O'Brien. The man will return to my private secretary
with O'Brien's personal receipt. I have also sent a telegram to the man
in charge at Barnegat. I want you to drop me at the house and take the
car up to your apartment. Have you a suitcase? Pack in it just what you
will need while we are in the dirigible. When we get across, we will buy
everything we need in the way of clothes. As soon as you get your things
packed, come back and join me. We will spend the night quietly at home,
and about four o'clock tomorrow morning we will go to the field, stuff
the suitcases in one of the airplanes, and sail down to Barnegat. At
dawn, O'Brien is to make a fuss around the field, and will start off
with the dirigible that is there. If any chasing is to be done, those
scoundrels will chase _him_. He is to have a good crew with him and is
to follow our general direction but keep out of sight of us. We can pick
him up by wireless any time. I don't believe there is a flaw in the
whole thing!"
Lawrence agreed to this, and dropping Mr. Ridgeway went on to his
apartment, where it took him about five minutes to pack. He was back at
the house in no time, and soon in bed.
Little did either of them dream of the adventures befalling O'Brien.
O'Brien, having read the letter of instructions from Mr. Ridgeway,
buttoned the letter in an inside pocket. He then changed his coat and
putting on a cap, took a car and went within walking distance of the
disreputable flat building which housed the gang. O'Brien was going to
pin all his hopes on what he would find in their rooms. He had changed
his coat and had slung a small packet over his shoulder.
O'Brien was now a plumber! He entered the flat whistling, walked up an
interminable number of stairs to the top floor, where Lawrence had
tracked the two men. Here the whistling which had grown very low ceased
entirely as O'Brien, putting an ear to the door, listened for sounds
from within. Hearing nothing, he resumed the whistle and rapped gaily on
the panel. There was no response and O'Brien repeated the knock. It was
not late, but he feared that one or more of the gang might have taken
that night of all nights to get some sleep. The silence continuing,
O'Brien cast a keen glance around the small and sordid hallway.
Once more O'Brien turned his attention to the door. He slipped a
skeleton key from his pocket and noiselessly tried it. The door opened
under his touch. O'Brien's manner changed. He was no longer the
merry-eyed plumber, whistling as he came in a hurry call to tighten a
leaky gas jet that threatened to snuff out some worthy without whom the
country could doubtless stagger along. He became keen eyed and cat like.
Slipping in, he closed and locked the door.
The room in which he stood had a ceiling cut into many angles and
irregularities, and the front part of it was the inside of a tower or
turret which formed the top ornamentation of the building. This part of
the room alone had a flat ceiling, and in the center of it was something
that looked like a small trap door. That too looked unused. In the back
part of the room was a door leading into a back room. Out of this still
another door opened into a dark passageway, and there was a steep flight
of stairs. At the sight of the stairs O'Brien nodded. He meant to use
those himself if he happened to be surprised while on his tour of
inspection. He commenced to be sorry that he had not brought another
detective with him. But hurrying back to the front room he commenced a
careful search for the papers he was hoping to discover. There were but
few places to put anything, and O'Brien's hopes went steadily down as he
looked. All over the wall loose plaster hung or crumbled off as he
brushed against it. He finished with the front room and went carefully
over the back room, where two cots and a deal table comprised the
furnishings.
On the floor beside one of the cots stood a bottle almost full, and an
empty glass. O'Brien picked up the bottle and smelled of it.
"The proper stuff for a nightcap," he said to himself and taking a small
bottle out of his pocket, shook the contents into the larger bottle. "A
druggist for a brother is a handy thing," he chuckled as he returned to
the front room.
He stood irresolute for a moment, then looked up at the small square
trap above him. A rickety table stood near one of the windows, and
setting it under the trap he leaped lightly to its soiled top. The
ceiling was very high, but he managed to reach up and shove the trap
aside, and catching the ledge swung himself up.
O'Brien was no fairy, and it was a tight squeeze, but he wriggled
through with no greater damage than a torn coat and a barked knuckle.
Using his flashlight, he saw that he was in a small circular space about
twelve feet across. The top was cone shape, and there was no floor. Dust
lay inches deep on the rafters where he sat uncomfortably. Then he saw
something that caused his heart to leap delightedly. Directly beside
him, tied with a cord and covered with broken seals, lay a packet of
papers. O'Brien knew that his hunt had not been in vain. Buttoning the
papers carefully inside his coat, he put a leg down through the trap
when a sound below caused him to drag it quickly back and clap the trap
over in its place.
A key grated in the lock. Someone was coming.
"An all night job for me!" sighed O'Brien, then remembered with a gleam
of hope the powder he had added to the contents of the bottle. Changing
his position, he stretched himself along a rafter, nearly losing his
balance as he did so. But he managed to save himself from bursting
through the plaster, although he heard it crack beneath the foot that
had pressed on it for a moment.
"Who left the gas on?" said someone with an oath.
O'Brien recognized the gruff voice of Brown.
"Search me!" someone else answered, and another hastened to clear
himself of the charge.
"It must have been John," said Brown. "Where is he? I thought he was
right on our heels. He is no good at all. Wish someone would croak him!"
He slammed the door, and came over to the table under the trap. A moment
later one of the other men came into O'Brien's narrow range of vision,
carrying the bottle and glass. He set it on the table, and looked at
Brown.
"Leave it there for awhile. There is none too much in it. If Smith comes
he will want most of it."
O'Brien's heart leaped. So they were expecting Smith! This was almost
too good to be true. He grinned. He prayed that Smith _would_ want most
of it. The fourth man came, but no one thought to ask him about the gas.
Chairs creaked and the cheap cots groaned and squeaked as the men flung
themselves down to rest. At the table, Brown, who was the only one
within O'Brien's line of vision, took out a pencil and commenced to jot
down something on a piece of paper. No one said anything. O'Brien sensed
discord in the air, and a tense nervousness. It was clear from the very
atmosphere that the four cutthroats hated each other cordially.
Almost an hour passed. Someone snored. Then a gentle tap sounded on the
door, the sleeper awoke with a snort, someone opened the door, and there
was a low murmur of greetings.
The mysterious Mr. Smith came over to the table and took Brown's chair.
As he looked down O'Brien nearly groaned. A broad brimmed fedora was
drawn down over the man's face, and O'Brien was unable to see a feature
of the arch-plotter. But at least he could hear him talk.
It was evident that Smith was in a bad humor.
"Well, what have you to tell me?" he demanded in the silky, smooth tones
that had irritated Lawrence.
"Nothing," said Brown. "Won't you have a drink?"
"Not yet, thank you," answered Smith politely. "Afterwards, perhaps.
Where do you get this?"
"Downstairs," said Brown, who seemed to be the spokesman.
"Well, _I_ have news and plenty of it," said Smith. "Not much longer
will we have to eat our hearts out here. In an hour, two hours, I shall
give you the best of news. Yes, indeed!" He nodded. "But first there is
something for you to do, you over there, and you, Brown. I will sit
here, perhaps comforting myself with this friendly bottle, while you
take a taxi and bring O'Brien here."
"Bring O'Brien?" cried Brown.
The fedora nodded.
"Just that!"
"Why, he won't come! Where is he?" asked Brown.
"Either at the Ridgeway place or his own apartment. Oh, I have it all
clear now, and O'Brien is in the thick of it. He is what you call the
solution. He knows all. He is going to be made to tell. Won't come? Of
_course_ he will come! That is what you are for, Brown. A messenger from
the White House gave him a letter tonight. Go and bring him here."
"He won't come easy," growled Brown.
Smith was angry. He brought his fist down on the table with a bang.
"Bring him if you have to carry him!" he said in a low, hissing tone.
And O'Brien, listening, knew why Lawrence had called him the
Rattlesnake. Then with a muttered curse Smith swept off his broad hat,
and flinging it across the room, leaned back in his chair. Looking down
full in the upturned face, O'Brien involuntarily gave a violent start.
Instantly there was a crackle and a piece of plaster half the size of
the turret came down with a crash. It missed hitting Smith by a hair and
surrounded him with a cloud of dust, but he did not start. Instead, with
the quickness of light, he flashed an automatic from his pocket, and
covered the leg he saw lying along the beam above him. Then getting the
direction of a man's body as the dust cleared, he aimed full at
O'Brien's body and drawled, "Come down!"
"Sure!" said O'Brien obligingly. "The jig bein' up, I will that!"
He pushed the useless trap aside and swung down to the table, someone
snatching off the bottle and glass as he did so.
They did not even make a move to seize him. The odds were too great in
their favor. He jumped off the table and stood looking at the group of
astonished villains, then his eyes turned back to Smith and sneered.
"I will say I never suspected _you_!" he said. "Of all the double-faced,
low, lyin', sneakin' scoundrels, you are the worst!"
"Don't make your end harder than it needs to be," warned the man Smith.
"Keep a civil tongue in your head and hand over your revolver. Search
him, but don't kill him," he added, as O'Brien struck out fiercely at
the first man who moved toward him.
Someone in the rear flung a rope over his head and instantly his ankles
were bound and a gag inserted between his lips. O'Brien realized that a
struggle was worse than useless. He saw them take away the papers he had
found up in the ceiling, and a moment later from the inner pocket came
the precious letter from Mr. Ridgeway. O'Brien bitterly reflected that
he should have destroyed it. Smith read his thought and laughed.
"Never, never carry important documents around with you," he said as he
opened it and read the clear, concise instructions. Nodding, he placed
it in his pocket. "Well, Brown, it wasn't so hard to get him here, was
it? Is he securely tied?" He glanced at his watch.
"It is all clear now," he said. "Their dirigible is at Barnegat Inlet.
It is not the one you have been looking after at all, Brown. They start
tomorrow night with the papers and jewels, and O'Brien here is supposed
to follow in the other dirigible. This he will use as a decoy, if we
follow him. (It is too bad, O'Brien; too bad to spoil your fun!) Then if
he succeeds in shaking us, he will follow them and pick them up soon as
possible. So he will be able to see the finish; be in at the death, as
they say. You will be _that_ all right, O'Brien!"
He laughed a chill laugh: the rattles again, and pulled out a cigarette
which he lighted. O'Brien, watching, all at once recognized the brand
and the monogram. But it was _not_ an S.
"I am going now, to see that everything is ready for our flight. We will
follow the dirigible straight out to sea, and----"
"He hears, Excellency," said Brown. The word Excellency went unrebuked.
"Yes, he hears now, but it does not matter," said Smith. He went on
talking. "We will follow the dirigible straight out to sea, and when we
get close enough to the other side, just there where the white cliffs
show up, we will begin shooting. There will be a fishing boat below
filled with our men. We will get the telling shots before they doubt
that O'Brien follows. That will be about all, except the division of the
treasure."
"What are we going to do with O'Brien?" asked Brown.
"Oh, _him_," said Smith as though he had forgotten. "Oh, yes, to be
sure." He opened the cigarette case, and from a slot in one side took
out a hypodermic needle which he filled from a tiny vial.
"Shooting is too noisy," he said as he bent over his infernal little
contraption. "And knifing is very untidy. Even here in this hole it
won't do. Brown, you will come with me. Go at once to the hangar and see
that the dirigible is in order, then keep out of sight. We have plenty
of time. You three others, listen to me. All your safety and the jewels
themselves hinge on your obedience." He laid the hypodermic needle on
the table, padding it round with his own handkerchief.
"Now listen. You will be interested too, O'Brien. I want plenty of time
for an alibi, but not too much time. I want to start at dawn instead of
tomorrow night, as dear Mr. O'Brien planned. It is now twelve o'clock.
How the hours do fly when we are in pleasant company! At exactly three
one of you will administer this little dose in the left forearm. Very
soon the patient will show every sign of extreme intoxication, and you
will then take off his bonds, hurry him downstairs and out into the
street. Go around the block and into the alley. By that time you can
ease him gently to the ground and leave him. Empty that bottle and put
it in his pocket."
"He will yell," said one of the men.
"Not a sound!" the fiend said smoothly. "The first action of this
admirable dose is complete paralysis of the vocal chords and the tongue.
Really, O'Brien, it might be worse. It would be if I did not feel that
caution is most necessary. There is no pain until the last. Only about
half an hour, O'Brien. Sorry to cut you off, man, but you should not
have chosen such a profession." He turned to Brown. "Come on!" he said,
then as an afterthought to the three assassins, "Don't drink any of that
stuff. You want all the wits you have. Good-bye, O'Brien!"