Gibson carefully locked the door behind them as they entered and led
them to an inner office, the door of which he also locked. The blinds of
the window were down in this room and an electric globe over Gibson's
desk furnished the only light.
As the commissioner pulled the cap from his head and seated himself at
his desk, motioning them to other chairs, John was astonished by the
change in his appearance. His hair, usually so perfectly combed, was
tousled and unkempt and his eyes were a trifle bloodshot. He noticed
that Brennan was also studying Gibson questioningly.
"I gave you something of a surprise, didn't I?" said Gibson with a
laugh, as he saw the reporters examining him.
"You certainly did," said Brennan. "I've been trying to figure out
what's coming."
"No need," said Gibson. "I'll tell you everything. But before I begin I
must ask you to pledge yourselves to secrecy. Not a word of what I am
about to tell you must be breathed to a soul until I give permission.
I'm going to put my trust in you boys and you must also agree to go
through with your parts in what I am going to place before you. Is it a
go?"
John waited for Brennan to answer.
"You can rely on us," Brennan said, and John nodded his assent when
Gibson looked to him for confirmation.
Gibson drew a watch from his vest pocket and glanced at it. John noticed
that it was a cheap nickel-plated timepiece instead of the thin gold one
he had seen the commissioner wear previously.
"I'll have to talk fast," Gibson said. "I haven't any time to spare.
Every minute counts now and as I tell you my story you'll understand.
Pay close attention because you must grasp the situation thoroughly."
The last admonition was superfluous. Brennan and John were on the edge
of their chairs.
"I'll begin at the beginning," he continued. "About a week ago one of
the detectives I have employed to help me in my crusade came to me with
information concerning a plot to wreck and rob the Southern Pacific
passenger train 'Lark' near Los Angeles. He told me that the man
planning the robbery was known as 'Red Mike,' an ex-convict with a
grudge against the Southern Pacific. He had run across 'Mike' in a Los
Angeles street rooming house.
"This detective gained 'Red Mike's' confidence and he wanted him to
join with him in the wrecking of the 'Lark.' My detective learned from
'Red Mike' that he planned to throw the 'Lark' into a ditch by placing a
derailer on the track at a point in the hills a short distance from the
city and to rob the mail car in the confusion of the wreck.
"'Red Mike' said he could not carry the thing through himself, that he
needed a partner, someone to help him carry away the loot and drive an
automobile in which they were to escape over the border into Mexico. My
detective told me that 'Red Mike' was desperate and knew his business.
"When I heard this story I decided to thwart 'Red Mike' myself. I told
my detective I would act the part of 'Red Mike's' partner and frustrate
his fiendish plot at the last minute so that I could have evidence
enough to send him to the penitentiary for life. I outfitted myself in
the clothes in which you see me and bought a car so that my disguise as
a rent-car driver would be complete."
Brennan lighted a fresh cigarette, carefully standing its predecessor on
end on Gibson's highly polished table.
"When I disappeared from my office I went with my detective to 'Red
Mike.' We had to work carefully so as to get 'Red Mike's' complete
confidence. I have been living with 'Mike' ever since and tonight he
means to go through with it. He has everything ready. Last night he took
me to where he plans to wreck the 'Lark' and we rehearsed what we are to
do. We are to put the derailer on the track, send the train into the
ditch and, during the confusion, rob the mail car and make our getaway
in the machine.
"And this is how I have arranged to save the 'Lark' and get 'Red Mike'
red-handed. The Southern Pacific superintendent knows all this and will
bring the 'Lark' to a stop as close to the derailer on the track as he
can. My detectives will be hidden all around. As the train pulls to a
stop they'll close in and everything will be over."
John gasped at the sheer audacity of the story as it fell from Gibson's
lips. He saw Brennan, his eyes glittering, nervously taking deep inhales
of tobacco smoke.
"Now, this is what you are to do," Gibson continued. "You will go with
my detectives and see the whole show with your own eyes. You will be the
only reporters with them. I am to meet 'Red Mike' at 7 and go with him.
You can understand how essential it is that everything goes just as I
planned it. If there's a slip-up anywhere it means my life. 'Red Mike'
has told me that he'll kill me if he finds that he has been
double-crossed.
"That's all I need to tell you, I think, except that you will meet my
detectives outside this building at half past seven. I'm doing this to
save the lives of the passengers on the 'Lark' and to show the people of
Los Angeles that the detectives of the police department, as I have
charged, aren't on their jobs. It should convince them that there is
something at least in what I have been saying."
He glanced at his watch again.
"It's half past six now," he said. "I must get out of here. 'Red Mike'
is waiting for me and I can't let him become suspicious."
He rose from his chair.
"By the way, have you boys guns?" he asked. Brennan and John answered
negatively by shaking their heads. He reached into a drawer of his desk
and drew out two automatic pistols.
"My detectives will carry rifles and sawed-off shotguns," he said,
handing the pistols to the reporters. "You boys might as well have
these."
He hesitated, a half-smile on his lips.
"You may need them," he added.
John saw Brennan look at Gibson with what he thought was unbounded
admiration. The commissioner held out his hand.
"Well, Brennan," he said. "What do you think of it?"
"It's a peach," Brennan said, taking Gibson's hand. "And here's luck,
Mr. Commissioner. I'll hand it to you, you've got nerve."
Gibson smiled again as he turned to John.
"And you, Gallant?" he asked.
"I hope----" he began.
"I know you do," Gibson said. "Do you know why I let you and Brennan in
on this?"
Oddly, a thought of Consuello came into John's mind.
"Well," Gibson explained, "I saw you that night you mixed it with
Battling Rodriguez out at Vernon. I knew I could trust any man who took
what you got and kept going until you dropped."
"Thanks," John managed to say.
Gibson opened the door to his outer office and caught sight of Benton,
the photographer, waiting there.
"What about your photographer?" he asked.
"We'll take care of him," Brennan gave the assurance.
"All right, see you later," said the police commissioner, going out and
closing the door behind him. They heard him hurrying away. John looked
at his watch. It was twenty minutes to seven. Brennan stood still,
watching the door through which Gibson had gone for several minutes and
then turned quickly.
"Well?" he said.
"What do you say?" said John.
"Let's go," Brennan said snapping out his words. "We're in on something
big."
The photographer followed them to the elevator and down to the street
where they waited for Gibson's detectives.
"What's doing?" Benton asked.
"Can you work that camera of yours with a load of buckshot whistling by
your head?" asked Brennan.
"Hot stuff, huh?" Benton asked, eagerly. John saw that the
photographer's face actually brightened at the prospect of something out
of the usual. Brennan told him, in short graphic sentences, what was
before them.
"Gosh darn!" Benton ejaculated. "Hot dog and sweet puppies!"
As an outlet for his excitement he danced a queer little jig on the
sidewalk, muttering a rhythmic verse as he shuffled his feet. At the
termination of each heavily accented line he slapped his right foot down
loudly. As he jigged his voice grew louder until John could discern the
familiar lines from Kipling:
"It was 'Din! Din! Din!'
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
'E's chawin' up the ground,
An' he's kickin' all around;
For Gawd's sake, git the water, Gunga Din!"
In a few minutes three automobiles, following each other closely,
wheeled into the curb. A man in the front seat of the first car motioned
to them.
"Brennan and Gallant?" he asked, brusquely. "Who's that with you?"
"Our photographer," Brennan explained.
"All right, get in."
They clambered into the tonneau and the machine shot away from the curb,
followed by the other two.
"Well, we're on our way," said Brennan, settling back in the cushions.
Absent-mindedly Benton resumed his half chant song.
"You may talk o' gin and beer,
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an'
Alder--SHOT-IT----"
The crowds on the streets as the three automobiles wove their way
through the traffic were that curious mixture of workers leaving late
for their homes and pleasure seekers coming downtown for the first
performances at the motion picture theaters, which is such an
interesting spectacle on Broadway, Spring, Hill and Main streets at
twilight. In the fading light of the day the electric signs sparkled
with less brilliancy than they show when it actually is night.
Like some huge disjointed monster with thousands of glaring eyes the
long line of automobiles moved slowly along the streets, only a yard
separating them. Street cars formed in an almost solid line along the
tracks. Lights in the upper story rooms of the business blocks snapped
out, one by one, like the blinking of fireflies.
John looked into the faces of the throng hurrying along the sidewalks
and thought how strange it was that none of them even remotely realized
that an attempt to wreck the "Lark" was to be foiled within a couple of
hours. The automobiles passed unnoticed in the everlasting flow of
traffic. Tomorrow morning, he thought, these people would read of what
had occurred and hail Gibson as a hero. The police commissioner, already
the most discussed man in the city, would then be accepted unqualifiedly
as a crusader not only sincere but courageous.
It was a great move! There could be no doubt of Gibson's courage and
rightful purpose now. He was facing death to save others and to defeat
an attempted horror. How like a "thriller" it was to be rushing toward
such a gripping scene!
What if "Red Mike" discovered at the last minute that he had been
trapped? Then it would be only a question of the first shot between him
and Gibson. Suddenly John thought of Consuello. How proud she would be
made by Gibson's dramatic coup! John envied Gibson in that moment which
he now pictured, when Gibson would meet Consuello after it was all over.
The automatic that Gibson had given him dug into his side as he slouched
back in the seat. He drew it and put it into his coat pocket. The touch
of the cold steel brought home to him that he, too, was to be a
participant in the frustration of the train wrecking.
Out of the downtown traffic the three machines increased their speed.
John glanced at his watch. It was a quarter past seven. At eight o'clock
the "Lark" would pull out of the Arcade station loaded with men, women
and children, little suspecting the danger from which they were to be
saved. What if something should go wrong? Suppose "Red Mike" was already
at the scene, making it impossible for Gibson's detectives to surround
him without being seen?
Night was settling down rapidly. He noticed there was only a quarter
moon and realized that the darkness had been a part of "Red Mike's"
nefarious plotting. He turned to Brennan, whose tensely set face was
lighted for a fraction of a second by the accelerated burning of his
cigarette as he took a deep inhale.
"I don't like to be a 'Gloomy Gus,'" Brennan said, "but what was it
General Wolfe said before the battle on the 'Plains of Abraham' at
Quebec--'The paths of glory lead but to the grave'--wasn't it?"
John almost resented the inference of "glory seeking" by Gibson, and
Brennan's cool way of suggesting that the commissioner might meet his
death. Brennan seemed to sense his unspoken exception to what he had
said.
"Oh, don't misunderstand me," he said. "It only popped into my head, I
don't know why. And Wolfe, you know, was a braggart who made good. He
died on the 'Plains of Abraham' after distributing Montcalm's army of
Frenchmen all over the landscape."
John blamed Brennan's cynicism for preventing him from viewing Gibson as
he did.
At a word from the man beside him the driver of their car slowed down
the machine and brought it to a stop. They could hear the creaking of
brakes on the other machines following them as they stopped close
behind.
"Here we are," said the man, leaving the front seat of the car. "Duck
that cigarette, Brennan. Remember, no smoking or talking. You boys
follow me and do what I tell you. One misstep and you're liable to get
the commissioner killed. And you"--he turned to Benton--"don't you try
shooting any pictures until Mr. Gibson gives the word, understand?"
John counted fourteen men from the two other machines. They walked
silently along a dusty, narrow path breaking off from the road until
they reached a point where the steep slope of a hill confronted them.
"Now, boys, everyone understands what is to be done?" asked the man from
the automobile that had carried the reporters and who John realized was
in command.
The men nodded.
"Then scatter out the way we've planned it and remember, we close in on
them when Gibson gives the signal, not before."
A queer, nervous feeling gripped the pit of John's stomach as he
followed with Benton and Brennan behind the man who led them up the hill
as the others branched out in pairs through the brush, spreading out in
a semi-circle.
"They each have their stations," the man told Brennan. "They know what
to do."
Reaching the crest of the hill they swung down the embankment to their
right and stopped behind a clump of bushes. Below them, a hundred feet
down, John made out the railroad track. To the left they looked down
into a deep gully. On the other side of the track was a deep ravine,
dropping abruptly from the roadbed.
"They'll wait down there," the detective explained, pointing to the
gully. "He'll put the derailer on the track so as to throw the cars over
to the other side in that ditch."
He squatted down behind the clump of bushes and the others followed his
example. John looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to eight.
"It's due here at 8:18," said the detective.
"I'd give ten years of my bright young life for a cigarette," said
Brennan, sighing heavily.
The detective produced a thick moist plug of chewing tobacco, gnawed at
the corners.
"Here you are," he said, offering it to the sufferer.
"Don't, don't," said Brennan, waving it aside. "I'd swallow it sure."
John felt his heart thumping against his ribs. Try as he might he could
not stop himself from breathing in quick, short little gasps. This
detective and his men were so certain about things. How did they know
but something might have gone wrong? Perhaps Gibson and "Red Mike" were
"shooting it out" along the road somewhere now. He looked again at his
watch. It was three minutes to eight. Only seven minutes had passed
since they arrived. Incredulous he held the watch to his ear. It was
ticking regularly.
Benton pulled himself on his elbows to John's side.
"You may talk o' gin and beer,
When you're quartered safe out 'ere--"
he began.
"That's enough of that," ordered Brennan, and Benton's chant stopped.
The detective raised himself to his knees and held his head high,
listening. The roar of a motor being raced as it was switched off came
to their ears.
"That's them," said the detective. "That was Gibson's signal. He was
driving and he raced his engine to let us know when they got here."
They waited for years, it seemed to John, until two dark figures,
scarcely discernible came down the tracks toward them and turned into
the gully. He saw that Gibson and "Red Mike" were carrying something
heavy between them and that "Red Mike" also carried a short-handled
sledge hammer.
He strained his eyes trying to follow the figures into the darker
shadows of the gully from which they emerged shortly.
"That's the derailer they're carrying--they're going to slap it on the
rail," breathed the detective.
They could hear "Red Mike" grunting as he and Gibson struggled up the
side of the roadbed. They saw "Red Mike" adjust the derailer to the
rail and Gibson kneel to hold a spike as it was hammered into the tie by
"Red Mike" wielding the sledge hammer. The blows of the hammer sounded
sharply on the still night air. They heard "Red Mike" curse viciously as
he missed hitting the spike and Gibson jerked his hand away a fraction
of a second before the sledge would have smashed it against the rail.
Four spikes were driven to hold the derailer. Then Gibson and "Red Mike"
scrambled back into the gully, their figures hidden in the darkness.
"All set down there," whispered the detective, thus conveying to the
others the realization that the derailer was in place to swerve the
guiding wheels of the big locomotive of the "Lark" and send it crashing
into the ditch, pulling and overturning the coaches with it.
The horror of what might happen terrorized John for a moment. His body
tingled and perspiration broke out on his forehead. He closed his eyes.
He imagined he would hear the roar of the train as it crashed into the
derailer and rolled over the embankment--the screams and cries of the
dying and injured. A sickening feeling swept him. He was faint. He could
hear Brennan breathing deeply, the breath whistling out through his
teeth from his lungs.
"Gosh darn!" Benton gasped, as though he could hold himself no longer.
John reached for his watch. He was tugging to pull it from his pocket
when the blast of an engine whistle sounded, it seemed, almost beside
them.
It was the "Lark" whistling for a crossing a mile away as it pounded on
toward the derailer, where death and destruction yawned.