UNDER COVER
The shed roof was below, and he struck it, fortunately feet first, but
the sharp slant of the boards sent him hurtling forward over the edge
into a miscellaneous pile of boxes beneath, his body finally resting on
the hard ground. He lay there dazed, the breath knocked entirely out of
him, bruised, and scarcely certain whether he was dead or alive. For the
moment, he seemed to have lost all consciousness, unable to realize even
what had occurred in that upper room, or to comprehend the necessity of
immediate flight. All about him was intense darkness, and, after the
crash of his fall, no sound broke the silence. He could see nothing, hear
nothing to arouse his faculties; his flesh quivered with pain, although
he felt sure no bones were fractured, for he could move both arms and
limbs freely, while after the first shock, his mind returned to activity,
dominated by the single conviction that he must get away from there
before those men could get down stairs.
But how? He retained no strength, no ability to use his limbs sufficient
to carry him away from the neighbourhood swiftly. He felt paralysed,
numb, even his brain functioning strangely, the danger of his helpless
condition its only incentive to action. He endeavoured to rise, rolling
partially over in the effort which failed, but the movement, slight as it
was, left one hand dangling over an excavation at his right. His fingers
explored the edge of this opening cautiously, revealing a cellar-way,
leading down into the basement. The opening was black, silent,
mysterious, yet it was a hiding place. If he could manage to roll down
those steps into those depths below, he might hide there unseen, until he
regained strength, until the first effort at pursuit had been abandoned.
Then there might be a chance for escape.
West grasped the idea clearly enough. Those fellows would be there
swiftly. If they found him gone they would have no doubt but what he
landed safely, and had made a get-away. They would search, of course,
perhaps out into the alley, hoping he might have been injured, but it was
hardly probable they would think to explore the cellar. Even if they did,
he could surely creep into some dark corner where he might escape
observation. Anyway, crippled as he was, this offered the one and only
chance. He could not argue and debate; he must act.
He rolled over, and lowered himself down into the opening, locating the
half-dozen broken and rotted steps with his feet. He made no attempt to
stand, but simply slid down, finding a partially closed door at the
bottom, the passage-way blocked by a litter, the exact nature of which
could not be determined in the darkness. With some difficulty, and more
than ever conscious of his weakness, and the pain of bruises, he managed
to crawl over this pile of debris, and crouch down finally in the intense
blackness within. He felt like a trapped rat, still gasping for breath,
his body quivering from exertion.
Yet his retreat had been none too rapid. The silence above was broken by
the creak of an opening door, the sound of excited voices, and a sudden
gleam of light, finding entrance through the open cellar-way. West
startled, crept back into a corner, every nerve alert at approaching
peril. He recognized Hobart's voice, as the fellow plunged down the steps
from the first floor out into the yard.
"To hell, of course he's here!" he stormed. "My God, man, he dived out
head first; I saw him. He'll be dead as a door nail now. Come on with
that lantern, Turner. Where in thunder is the ladder--does any one know?"
"You think he lies on the roof?"
"Why not? That's where he must have struck, ain't it, Shorty? I don't
know though; it is so steep he'd most likely roll off. Here, you, let me
take the glim. There's nothing here in these boxes. Ah, there's the
ladder; climb up, Shorty, and see if the guy is stuck anywhere on the
roof. Go on! What are you afraid of; if he's there, he's a stiff all
right, believe me."
Turner's voice, hoarse and rumbling, came back from above.
"There ain't nuthin' up here, Jim. Damn me, if I don't believe the cuss
got clean away. Gee, but he was sure a nervy guy all right."
"Nervy? Crazy, you mean. But he never took that fall without busting
something. The bird is lying about here somewhere. You make sure he ain't
up there, Shorty."
"Well, he ain't; I kin see every inch o' this roof. Perhaps he fell in
between them barrels down there."
The two evidently searched thoroughly, the rays of the lantern dancing
wildly about, while Hobart savagely cursed his companion, and reiterated
his belief that no man could ever take that plunge, and escape unhurt.
"It couldn't be done, I tell you; maybe he could crawl, but that would be
all. Why he went down head first; I saw him go out the window, and that
drop would daze a cat. Say, Shorty, maybe the stiff dropped down into
this cellar-way. Let's take a look."
The light streamed in through the narrow opening, and some one
scrambled cautiously down the rotted steps. West, drawing himself
securely back behind the protection of his barrel, saw the lantern
thrust forward, and a face behind it peering in the shadows. The fellow
did not advance into the room, but Hobart did, pressing his way roughly
past, and standing there full in the glow of light, staring about into
the dim shadows. He evidently saw nothing to arouse suspicion, for his
voice was angry with disgust.
"Not a damn sign here, Shorty. It looks like the fellow maybe did get
away. But it beats me how. There ain't no place now for us to look but
the alley."
"An' if he ain't there?"
"Then we'll hop this dump mighty sudden, I'm telling you. We'll slip out
and leave Mike to explain how he got his coco cracked. With that guy
loose, it won't be healthy for me hanging around here."
"He ain't got the goods on you, has he?"
"No, he ain't got the goods, but he is dead wise to some things, and he
didn't get out of that shindy up stairs without getting hurt. He'll be
sore all right, and will raise all the hell he can. It's safer to keep
out of the way."
"An' what about that other buck, Hobart? It won't do to have him picked
up, if this guy gets the harness bulls to take a look around here."
"That ain't his style, Shorty; he won't spiel anything to the cops about
this row. He's an ex-soldier, a Captain, and he's nuts on the girl.
That's why he dipped into this mess--trying to save her--see? Maybe he
won't be so keen now, after the song and dance she gave him up stairs.
I'm half inclined to think the guy will drop out entirely, damn glad to
get off alive, now he believes she is as rotten as the rest of us. But I
ain't sure--maybe he is the kind that sticks. That's why I don't take any
chances just now. Things ain't quite ripe for a get away--see?"
"Sure; she gave him some straight stuff, hey?"
"She certainly did; she's as smart as she is good looking. It somehow
don't strike me this guy is going to bother her any more. I'm figuring
that he's out of it."
"But his partner?"
"Oh, we'll leave him somewhere propped up against a door. Likely he'll
never know what happened to him, or where. He ain't nothing to be afraid
of--just a butler with a cracked head. It's the other guy who has got the
brains. Come on; let's take a look out in the alley."
Their shadows vanished up the stairs, the glow of light disappearing, and
leaving the cellar in impenetrable darkness. West did not venture to
move, however, content to wait until thoroughly assured the way for
escape was clear. He had not learned much from this conversation, except
to increase his conviction that a serious crime was being consummated.
The full nature of this conspiracy was as obscure as ever; rendered even
more doubtful indeed by the active participation of Natalie Coolidge.
This was what puzzled and confused him the most. He could no longer
question her direct interest in the affair, or her willingness to assist
in overcoming his efforts. Even without the free testimony of the men
this fact was sufficiently clear. She had deliberately lied to him,
attempted deceit, and then, when he refused to yield to her efforts, had
so reported to Hobart, and left him to his fate. It was manifestly
impossible for him to believe in her any longer. Yet what could it all
mean? How could she hope to benefit by such an association? Why could she
thus shield the murderers of Percival Coolidge? What possible object
could there be in the commission of this crime, except to gain possession
of her own fortune? It was all mystery to his mind; a new unanswerable
question arising wherever he looked.
What strange influence could this man Hobart exercise over the girl? To
West's judgment he was in no way the sort of man to appeal to Natalie
Coolidge. He was of a low, cunning order, with some degree of outward
polish, to be sure, yet inherently tough, and exhibiting marks of a
birth-right which indelibly stamped him of a social class far below her
own. Surely, she could not love the fellow, yet unquestionably he
possessed a mysterious power over her, difficult to explain through any
other hypothesis. If West had not known the young woman under different
conditions, he might have accepted this theory, and dismissed the whole
matter from mind. But it was the haunting memory of that earlier Natalie
Coolidge, the mistress of Fairlawn, which would not permit his complete
surrender. She had seemed all that his dream of womanhood called for.
Unconsciously, he had given her his heart, and he could not tear the
remembrance from mind. There was something wrong, terribly wrong; what it
was he had no means of knowing, yet, there in the dark, he determined he
would know, would never be content until he learned the whole truth. All
his hope, all his future, depended on the answer.
Hobart and Turner were absent for some little while; the sound of their
voices ceased, but the distant flicker of the lantern enabled West to
trace their progress up the alley, and then back again. They returned in
no pleasant humour, convinced that their expected victim had escaped
safely, but made no further effort to search the yard. Hobart said enough
to make it plain that his immediate project was to disappear, leaving
Mike to his own devices. With this point settled the two tramped heavily
up the stairs, and disappeared within. West, confident at last, that the
way was left clear, wriggled out from his place of concealment behind the
barrel, and stood erect. He felt stronger now, and in less pain,
convinced that his injuries were in no degree serious. He could move his
limbs freely and his mind was active. The darkness was so intense he had
to grope his way forward, anxious to make no noise which might betray
his presence. No doubt the basement could be reached in some way from the
floor above, and any unusual sound below might easily attract attention.
In the intensity of the gloom, his sense of direction failed, taking him
somewhat further back before he finally located the exact position of
those outer steps. Then as he turned abruptly, his foot came in contact
with an obstacle on the floor. For an instant he could not determine what
it was; then, with a thrill of horror, he realized the presence of a
human body. There was no sound, no movement, and West drew back from
contact with the object, shrinking in horror. Then he gripped himself
sternly--whoever, whatever this was, he must know. Alive or dead he must
determine the truth. He bent over, feeling with his hands in the
darkness. Good God, the flesh was warm; it was no cold corpse he touched,
but a living human being; ay! tied like a mummy, unable to move hand or
foot. Then, as suddenly, his groping fingers, eager enough now,
discovered the cause of silence--the man was gagged, cruelly gagged,
helpless to utter a sound.