KIDNAPPED
A hand gripped his shoulder as though in a vise, and swung him around;
the muzzle of an automatic confronted him, and behind it the threatening
eyes of Joe glared directly into his own.
"Not a move, you damned spy," a voice said coldly. "Now, Mark, frisk the
cuss, and be lively about it. Had a gun, hey; I thought so. Give it to
me. Now get the cord over there and give him a turn or two. A very good
job, old boy; the fellow is safe enough, I should say."
He turned his eyes away, searching the cabin, confident that West was
sufficiently secured.
"Come on out, Mary," he said sharply. "Who is this guy, anyhow?"
A woman came forward through the shadows. West had a glimpse of her face,
but the features were unfamiliar. A woman of forty, perhaps, still
attractive in appearance, with dark hair and bold black eyes that met
his own defiantly. He was puzzled, doubtful as to what it all meant. So
this was the woman he had seen on board; not Natalie Coolidge at all.
There had been a mistake of some kind; but if so, why had these people
given him this sort of reception aboard? These thoughts swept his mind in
a flash, as the woman peered forward to see his features more clearly.
For a moment she said nothing, and Joe broke out impatiently.
"He's the lad, ain't he?" he asked. "We ain't gone an' picked up the
wrong guy?"
"No; he's the bird all right. I never lamped him but once before myself.
I heard his name then, but forgot it. He's her friend, there ain't no
doubt o' that, Joe, and it ain't likely he's hanging around here just for
fun, is it? My idea was it would be safer to take him in."
"Sure; what's yer name, young fellow?"
Concealment was useless; they evidently had him correctly spotted; to lie
would do no good.
"Matthew West."
"That's the name," the woman exclaimed eagerly. "He is a soldier--a
Captain, or something like that. Jim told me about him; he's the same
fellow who was snooping about Mike's Place last night, before we
pulled out."
"Is that so? How the hell did you get out of there?"
"We had a little trouble," West admitted, "but they let me go."
"Yes, they did! I know better than that; Hobart don't do business
that way. I reckon we've played his game all right taking you in.
Well, you don't get out of here so easy, let me tell you. How'd you
come to get onto us?"
"That's my business."
"Oh, is it? Well, we'll make it ours from now on. There is one thing
pretty sure--you were here playing a lone hand. So it don't make much
difference what yer idea was. We'll take the bird along with us, Mary;
then he'll be out of temptation."
The woman nodded.
"Jim will know what to do with him," she said. "All we got to do is keep
him safe."
"I'll attend to that; come on, Mark, let's throw the damn sneak into that
left-hand stateroom. He'll stay there all right. Aw, take hold; don't be
afraid of hurting the fellow."
They roughed him forward, but West made no attempt to resist; his hands
were bound, and he was helpless. The woman threw open the narrow door,
and he was bundled unceremoniously across the threshold, and thrown
heavily to the floor. He struggled partially upright, protesting against
being left in that helpless condition, but the red-moustached man only
laughed, shutting the door tightly, and locking it. The single port hole
was covered by heavy drapery, the stateroom in total darkness. Through
the door panels he could hear a voice speaking.
"He's better off that way until we get out of here. You stay here, Mary,
till I can attend to him myself. Those fellows ought to have that engine
fixed by this time. Mark and I better go up on deck awhile."
"But, Joe, do you think they have caught on to us?" she asked anxiously.
"No, I don't; this guy wouldn't be snooping about alone if they had. He
ain't no fly cop, and just happened to be loafin' here--that's my guess.
He knew this was the Coolidge Yacht, and that set him to asking
questions. That guy don't look to me like he was the kind to be afraid
of. All we got to do is hold him here until Jim decides what he's up to.
I don't want to hurt him none, unless I have to. Everything else all
right, I suppose?"
"Sure; quiet as a mouse; asleep, I guess."
"That's good; well you stay here until I come back. Want a gun?"
She did not answer so as to be heard, but West could distinguish the
movement of feet in the outer cabin, and then the closing of a door.
Undoubtedly the two men had gone on deck, leaving the woman there alone.
His feet were not tied, and he could sit up, although the hands were
tightly bound behind him. With eyes accustoming themselves to the gloom,
he could discern something of his surroundings. He was in the ordinary
stateroom of a small yacht, with barely space in which to move about
comfortably. Two bunks were at one side, with a metal stand at their foot
for washing purposes. A rug covered the floor, the beds were made, and a
stool, screwed to the deck, occupied a position just below the porthole.
A few hooks were in evidence on the opposite wall; but no garments
dangled from them to tell of previous occupancy. Indeed the place was
scrupulously clean, as though unused for some time.
West made his way to the port, pushed aside the curtain with his
shoulders and looked out. The smallness of the opening made any hope of
escape in that way impossible; nor could he expect to attract the
attention of any one ashore. His view was limited to the east and north,
a wide expanse of blue water, the only thing in sight being the pleasure
boat bound for Lincoln Park, already little more than a black dot in the
distance. Convinced of his complete helplessness, he sat down on the
stool to consider the situation.
He had been a fool; there was no doubt as to that; the only thing now was
how he could best retrieve his folly. He had walked blindly into a trap,
suspecting nothing, confidently relying on his own smartness, believing
himself unknown. Now he must find his way out. It angered him to realize
how easily it had been accomplished; not so much as a blow struck; no
opportunity even for him to cry out an alarm--only that dark cabin, and
the threatening revolver shoved against his cheek. He wondered where
McAdams was; perhaps hunting him even then on the pier; and Sexton, what
had he succeeded in discovering out at Fairlawn? That Natalie Coolidge
had returned home, no doubt. At least he no longer believed she was with
this yachting party--evidently there was but one woman on board. Yet,
whether she was there or not, it was clear enough from what he had heard
that this sudden voyage of the _Seminole_ had some direct connection with
the mystery he was endeavouring to solve. That was why he had been
decoyed aboard, and made prisoner--to keep him silent; to get him
securely out of the way. Yet this knowledge revealed nothing as to what
their real purpose was.
What did they intend doing with him now that he was in their hands? Joe
had declared his fate would be left with Hobart. Then it must be that
they had a rendezvous arranged somewhere with that arch-conspirator, some
hidden spot along the lake shore where they were to meet shortly, and
divide the spoils, or make further plans. Hobart unquestionably was the
leader of the gang; but who was the woman? She had evidently been in
Mike's Place the night before, and had a glimpse of his face. She must
have left with that party in the automobile, yet she surely was not the
one who had dropped that note begging the police to search this vessel.
What then had become of the other? If she was being held prisoner, it was
not at all probable she had been left somewhere ashore; apparently she
had reason to know where she was being taken--to the _Seminole_;
otherwise she would never have written as she did. She must have
overheard their plans, before she hastily scratched off the note
desperately; and yet those plans might have been changed. However, if so,
why were these people--accomplices of Hobart no doubt--fleeing in the
yacht, seeking to conceal their identity in an effort to disappear? What
were they fleeing from? Why were they so fearful of discovery by the
police? What would cause them to kidnap him, merely on suspicion that he
was a friend of Natalie Coolidge? The very act was proof positive of the
desperation of their crime. It could be accounted for on no other theory.
West paced the narrow space, his brain whirling, as he attempted to
reason the affair out, his own helplessness becoming more and more
apparent. What could he do? There was but one answer--absolutely nothing
as he was then situated. He could only wait for some movement on the
part of the others; his fate was out of his own hands; he had been a
fool, and must pay the price. The cords about his wrists chafed and hurt
with each movement. The metal wash-stand gave him an inspiration; its
upper strip was thin, and somewhat jagged along the edge; possibly it
might be utilized to sever the strands. It was better to try the
experiment than remain thus helplessly bound. With hands free he could
at least defend himself.
He made the effort, doubtfully at first, but hope came as the sharp edge
began to tear at the rope. It was slow work, awkward, requiring all the
strength of his arms, yet he felt sure of progress. He could feel the
strands yield little by little, and redoubled his efforts. It hurt, the
rope lacerating his wrists, and occasionally the jagged steel cut into
the flesh cruelly, but the thought of freedom outweighed the pain, and he
persevered manfully. At last, exercising all his muscle, the last frayed
strand snapped. His wrists were bleeding, and the hands numb, but the
severed cord lay on the floor and he again had the free use of his arms.
The sudden freedom brought new hope and courage. He listened at the door,
testing the knob cautiously. There was no yielding, and for the moment no
sound reached him from without. The woman was doubtless there on guard,
and any effort he might make to break down the door would only bring the
whole gang upon him. Unarmed, he could not hope to fight them all. As he
stood there, hesitating, unable to determine what to attempt, he became
aware of a throbbing under foot, increasing in intensity. West knew
instantly what it meant--they were testing out the engine; if all worked
well, the boat would cast off.
He sprang back to the port and stared out, eagerly hoping that, as they
swept out into the lake, he might find some opportunity to communicate
with some one on the pier. Perhaps by this time Mac would have arrived,
and be watching their departure, unable to intervene, as he had no
warrant for arrest, or any definite knowledge that the yacht was being
used for a criminal purpose. He had not long to wait. Hurrying steps
echoed along the deck; a voice shouted out some order, and the end of a
loosened rope dropped splashing into the water astern; the boat trembled
to the pulsations of the engine, and West realized that it was at first
slowly, then more swiftly, slipping away into the broad water. Already he
could perceive the white wake astern, and, an instant later, as the turn
to the right widened, he had a glimpse of the pier, already separated
from him by a broad expanse of trembling water. Above the noise his voice
would scarcely reach that distance. A crowd of people stood there
watching, clinging along the edge of the promenade--McAdams was not among
them. It would be useless to strive to attract their attention; not one
among them would comprehend; even if they did, not one of them could
help. He still stood there, gazing back at the fast receding pier,
gradually becoming blurred in the distance, but hopelessly. He knew now
he must face his fate alone.