Desperate Treachery.
IT was when Stanley had turned off the main thoroughfare, with its
electric lights and thronging promenaders, into a labyrinth of dark and
small streets, that he realized he had lost his way.
He could have turned around and come back to the broad, well-lighted
avenue he had just left, but that was not Stanley Downs’ way, for he
rather enjoyed wandering about cities without any clear notion of
where he was going, only to find himself at last on some familiar
thoroughfare.
“I have nothing particular to do this evening,” he told himself. “I
don’t think I want any regular dinner, and I shall go to bed after a
while. So I will just keep going till I come out somewhere I know.”
He strolled through the dark streets for another ten minutes, without
coming to any landmark he recognized. Always behind him crept the
shadows of the two gangsters, and both held in their hands short clubs
of some kind.
“Ah! I see bright lights at the end of this street at last!” muttered
Stanley. “I knew I’d work out of this muddle, sooner or later. Glad of
it, for this darkness and the rough sidewalks are getting monotonous.”
He had stood at the mouth of a dark and forbidding alleyway as he gazed
at the reflection of the lights some three blocks ahead.
He laughed at himself for being lost in a city that he knew fairly
well, and had started to walk on, when a soft shuffling sound behind
made him swing around, with an instinctive feeling that he must protect
himself from some sudden danger.
It was this instinct that caused him to raise both arms in an attitude
of defense. Also it prevented his being struck on the head.
A blackjack came down rather hard on his left arm, while another weapon
of the same kind which menaced him on the right called for immediate
action.
Stanley Downs was used to fighting in all sorts of ways. Not only was
he a finished scientific boxer, but he had had experience in the brutal
pastime of “rough and tumble” many times.
Down went the gangster who was about to bring the loaded club on him on
his right. Stanley hit clean and true. His fist caught the fellow under
the chin and sent him flying backward until he tumbled against a wall,
where he stood, gasping.
The other rascal, having seen that his “handy billy” had not injured
the arm it had struck, gathered himself together and disappeared in
the darkness with the celerity that told of his familiarity with the
locality, as well as proving that he was a lively sprinter.
Stanley turned to look at the half-disabled ruffian who was leaning
against the wall. But hardly had he got his eyes focused on the limp
figure, when the gangster, by a powerful effort of will, slunk out of
view also.
Where he went was not apparent. There were many holes and corners in
that shady neighborhood, including doorways to houses which were like
rat burrows to those who knew them.
“Let him go!” muttered Stanley, smiling. “He hasn’t done me any harm,
and I could not bother to have him arrested, even if there were a
policeman in sight. I suppose they were just common holdups. If one
of them had landed on my head with a blackjack or sandbag, they might
have got me, too. As it was, they don’t win. I’ll get to the lighted
streets, however. I couldn’t afford to be knocked out a day or so
before that big race. After that, it wouldn’t so much matter.”
He laughed aloud at the incident which had ended in what he regarded as
rather a ludicrous manner, and went calmly back to his hotel, and soon
afterward to bed.
About the time that Stanley Downs was undressing and thinking over the
big contest in which he was to take part on the day after the morrow,
Victor Burnham sat in the back room of a low saloon in a tough part of
the city, talking to the two gangsters who had vainly endeavored to
knock Stanley senseless.
“He spoiled it, did he?” grunted Burnham. “That shows that you fellows
are not much good. I ought not to pay you. What you’ve done for me is
just nothing.”
“We couldn’t help it,” snarled one of the ruffians. “We shadowed him
for nearly an hour before we got a chance. Then somebody must have
given him a tip, for he turned just as I landed on him with the billy.
I got him on the arm, instead of the head. He didn’t pay no attention
to me, but he cut loose a left hook that took Patsy in the jaw and
laid him out stiff. I beat it, of course. There wasn’t nothing else to
do. Later I met Patsy here, and here he is. He’ll tell you whether I’m
lying or not.”
“I don’t suppose you’re lying,” interrupted Burnham disgustedly. “I
only say you are no good. But here is your fifty dollars. If you can
get him again before the race, I’ll make it a hundred more—a hundred
apiece. If he doesn’t show up in the race, I’ll know that you’ve done
it, and you’ll get your money right away.”
He hurried out of the saloon. Patsy and the other worthy ordered more
beer and divided the money Burnham had paid.
“What do you say, Patsy?” asked his pal. “Want to go after that duck
again for a hundred?”
“Not on your life!” returned Patsy fervently. “I wouldn’t tackle him
for five hundred.”
And Patsy meant it.
It was in the forenoon of the next day that Stanley Downs again tried
out the car he was to use in the race. By his side was the taciturn,
efficient young man who had been offered to him by the Moussard Company
as his mechanician.
The mechanician often is as important a personage in a racing car as
the driver. At any moment during the race the machine may develop some
weakness, and it is the mechanician who immediately jumps in to get
things going again. At a time when every second counts, the ability of
the mechanician to work swiftly very often wins the struggle.
Stanley was entirely satisfied with the performance of the Thunderbolt,
and was smiling as he got out of his seat in the garage, after the
trial on the track.
“Paul,” he said to the mechanician. “You might as well look things over
again. And perhaps it would be well if you got around very early in the
morning to make sure that everything is right. The other men here are
all safe, of course, or the Moussard people wouldn’t have them. But I
believe in seeing for myself that my machine is right before it starts.”
“I’ll do it, sir,” replied Paul briefly. “I’ll have the car in good
shape. But I would advise that you look her over yourself afterward.”
“I shall do that, of course, Paul,” returned Stanley. “I’m going to
the hotel to rest most of the day. If you want me, you can call me up
there.”
It was not more than two hours later, when there came a banging at
Stanley’s door, accompanied by the voice of Clay Varron calling to him
to open.
“What’s the matter. Clay? Anything happened? My uncle? Anything from
him?”
“No. I haven’t heard from him. How should I? He wouldn’t write or
telegraph me, would he? No. It’s something else. Paul Wallman, your
mechanician, is in the hospital.”
“What?” cried Stanley, realizing with a rush what this might mean to
him in the race. “Hurt? Sick?”
“Badly smashed by a car. It happened in the garage. He was bending down
by the side of your Thunderbolt. Another man, handling cars up there,
didn’t see him, and shoved a big car against him, crushing him against
an iron post. He dropped in a heap, and they hurried him off to the
hospital. His right arm is broken, and they were afraid of internal
injuries, but I hear there is nothing of that kind. His broken arm puts
him out of the race with you, however.”
“What am I to do?” exclaimed Stanley Downs, knitting his brows. “This
is a serious matter. It may mean that I shall be hopelessly beaten.
Poor Paul! I’m sorry for him, too. What shall I do? I’ll have to get
another mechanician. But good ones are scarce. I can’t afford to risk
the race with one I don’t know. At the same time——”
“Look here, Stan!” broke in Varron. “I didn’t come here to bring bad
news without having something to suggest.”
“What is it, Clay?” questioned Stanley, as he clapped a hand on his
friend’s shoulder. “I suppose you have found a good man for me—as good
a one as Paul Wallman?”
“I don’t know about that,” was the modest response. “The man I have for
you is myself!”
“Yourself?”
“Yes. I know the Thunderbolt car pretty well. I’ve driven one for
a considerable time at intervals, and I don’t think there are any
Thunderbolt tricks that can fool me. Aside from that, you know that if
there is anything the mechanician can do to take you over the finish
line first, your humble servant will do it. Is it a go?”
The hearty handshake and the expression of gratitude in Stanley Downs’
face was answer enough.
“All right, then,” went on Varron hurriedly. “Let’s get down to the
garage and look the machine over. Then we might as well take a spin
around the track together. What do you say?”
They hurried to the garage, and soon had the big racer on the street,
ready to start for the speedway, out in the country. Among those who
watched Stanley Downs drive away, with his new mechanician, was Hank
Swartz. He was frowning heavily.
“I don’t know how it is,” muttered Hank to himself, “but that Downs
always seems to fall on his feet. What was the use of paying to have
Paul knocked out, when he can get as good a man as Clay Varron to fill
his place. I know Varron. I’d rather have him in that Thunderbolt than
Paul Wallman, any time. Burnham will get the worst of this yet, if he
doesn’t watch out.”