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THE GRAY MASK
by
WADSWORTH CAMP
Author of
"The Abandoned Room"
"The House of Fear," Etc.
Frontispiece by Walter De Maris
Garden City, New York
Doubleday, Page & Company
1920
Copyright, 1920, by
Doubleday, Page & Company
All Rights Reserved, Including That of
Translation into Foreign Languages,
Including the Scandinavian
Copyright, 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, by P. F. Collier & Sons, Inc.,
in the United States, Great Britain and Canada
[Illustration: "_'Even if you had croaked him you wouldn't dare
acknowledge it here. Why, George, you're kneeling where he lay'_"]
CONTENTS
I. GARTH IS SHOWN A GRAY MASK
II. IT OPENS NORA'S EYES
III. IN THE STEEL ROOM
IV. GARTH BUYS A BOUTONNIERE
V. WHAT HAPPENED AT ELMFORD
VI. A CRYING THROUGH THE SILENCE
VII. NORA FEARS FOR GARTH
VIII. THROUGH THE DARK
IX. THE PHANTOM ARMY
X. THE COINS AND THE CHINAMAN
XI. NORA DISAPPEARS IN AN EMPTY HOUSE
XII. THE HIDDEN DOOR
XIII. ALSOP'S INCREDIBLE VISITOR
XIV. THE LEVANTINE WHO GUARDED A CURTAIN
XV. THE VEILED WOMAN
XVI. A NOTE FROM THE DEAD
XVII. THE KNIFE BY THE LIFELESS HAND
XVIII. THE STAINED ROBE
XIX. PAYMENT IS DEMANDED FOR THE GRAY MASK
XX. THE BLACK CAP
XXI. THE ANTICS OF A TRAIN
THE GRAY MASK
CHAPTER I
GARTH IS SHOWN A GRAY MASK
Garth, in response to the unforeseen summons, hurried along the hallway
and opened the inspector's door. As he faced the rugged figure behind
the desk, and gazed into those eyes whose somnolence concealed a
perpetual vigil, his heart quickened.
He had been assigned to the detective bureau less than six months. That
brief period, however, had revealed a thousand eccentricities of his
chief. The pudgy hand beating a tattoo on the table desk, the lips
working at each other thirstily, the doubt that slipped from behind the
veil of the sleepy eyes, were all like largely printed letters to
Garth--letters that spelled delicate work for him, possibly an
exceptional danger.
"Where were you going, Garth?"
"Home. That is--"
Garth hesitated and cleared his throat.
"First--I thought I might drop in on Nora for a minute."
With a quick gesture the inspector brushed the mention of his daughter
aside. Abruptly he verified Garth's hazard.
"How much do you love your life?"
The inspector's voice possessed the growling quality of an animal. A
warning rather than an aggressive roar, it issued from a throat remotely
surviving behind great masses of flesh. Garth had rarely heard it
raised, nor, for that matter, had it ever deceived him as to the other's
amiability and gentleness of soul. Its present tone of apologetic regret
startled him.
"On the whole I value my life rather highly just now," he answered,
trying to smile.
"Then turn this down and nothing said," the inspector went on. "It's
volunteer's work. No gilt-edged prophecies. It's touch and go whether
whoever tackles it eats bacon and eggs to-morrow morning."
"What's the job?" Garth asked.
The inspector glanced up.
"You've heard of that fellow without a face?"
Garth stared until he thought he understood.
"One of those Bellevue cases? Awful burns?"
The heavy head shook impatiently.
"No. This fellow Simmons in Chicago--several years ago
now--experimenting with some new explosive in a laboratory. He got his
arm up in time to save his eyes."
"Seems to me I remember," Garth began.
"Worn a gray mask ever since," the inspector said.
He drew a telegram from a pile of papers at his elbow, spread it on the
writing-pad, and tapped it with his thick forefinger. Garth wondered
what was coming. A feeling of uneasiness compelled him to lower his eyes
before the other's steady gaze. There was something uncanny about this
thought of a mask, worn always to hide a horror.
The inspector's tapping quickened to an expression of anger. His voice
exposed a cherished resentment.
"No doubt about your having heard of our friend Hennion?"
Garth started forward, resting his closed fists on the desk top. His
face was excited, unbelieving.
"Mean to say there's a chance--"
The inspector ceased his tapping. He looked up slyly.
"A real one at last. You know what that means. It's the job. Take it or
leave it. I won't ask you to go where I mightn't have cared to go myself
at your age."
Garth thought rapidly. His chief had been right. The man who tried to
trip Hennion needn't worry about to-morrow's breakfast until his eyes
greeted the sun in the east.
He, with the rest of the bureau, could point to half a dozen men as
vassals of this almost mythical figure. He, like the rest, had
frequently diagnosed obscure crimes as the workmanship of the Hennion
group. But he knew also that nothing had ever been proved against this
organization of criminals, which was unique, because, in addition to
prosaic brutality, it appeared to be informed by brains of a brilliant
and inscrutable character.
"How much of a chance?" Garth asked.
All the drowsiness left the inspector's eyes.
"Maybe to sit in with them to-night. I've never had a ghost of a show
with a stool before, and this is the night of all nights. One of these
crooks has been boasting. He said--and I have it straight--'To-night we
play our ace.' Get that, Garth! What must an ace mean to that lot, eh?
And the president's here, but he'll be well looked after. Still there
are lots of big men in this town whose sudden death would make a noise
more like a home-run than a funeral. Or, if it's burglary, play it to
scale. These fellows would unlock the gates of Hades while Satan slept
in the vestibule. I've been saying to myself all day I've got to find
out what that ace is and stack the cards, and at the same time I've been
asking myself what the devil I was going to do about it. But the luck's
changed."
Garth breathed hard.
"How do you expect to throw sand in the eyes of that outfit?"
"Give me," the inspector answered slowly, his rumble approximating a
whisper, "someone with no nerves to speak of and a build like this
faceless man Simmons."
He looked up. His eyes were very sleepy again.
"You have that build, Garth. All you need is a plain, dark brown suit."
He raised the telegram.
"This is Simmons' description as he left Chicago last evening. He
expects to arrive on the Western express to-night. He's looking for
someone to meet him and take him to the headquarters of the Hennion
gang."
Garth's face lightened.
"Has he a record?"
"A suspect, chiefly because he's tied up with that anarchist crowd out
there--an analyst of explosives, a chemist, cursed by this hideous
accident--dangerous as giant powder itself! That's why his mail's been
watched, how they got onto this move. But they've no details for us.
Maybe Simmons himself doesn't know what he's up against."
With a secretive air he opened a drawer and lifted out a tightly-woven
gray cloth. It was pierced by two holes above and a long, narrow opening
below. From its edges four elastic straps dangled.
"I had it made," he said, holding it out tentatively, "so that, perhaps,
you might find out instead of Simmons."
Garth took the cloth and fitted it over his face. It left visible a
small scar on his neck. The inspector pointed at this with a pleased,
wondering smile.
"That scar peeping will fetch them. Put on a brown suit and you'll
pass."
"Where," Garth asked, "does Simmons change cars?"
"I'll have the express stopped at the end of the bridge above Garrison.
Not much chance of spies there. A couple of my men will take him off and
keep him out of mischief while you get on. Understand? You'll go up on
the West Shore and ferry over from West Point. You're on?"
"Sure. You'd jump at the chance yourself, sir."
He removed the mask. The inspector handed him a piece of frayed white
paper.
"Did you notice me fingering this just now?" he asked anxiously.
Garth shook his head.
"Then take it, and, when the time comes, play with it that way yourself.
Scratch your instructions on it with a match, a toothpick, anything
handy. It will stay white, but I can make whatever you put on it as
visible as headlines in a war extra. You'll reach town after ten. I'll
hold back instructions until eleven in case these fellows have any spies
in the department. But after that you can drop it near a uniformed
policeman with a fair chance of its reaching me."
"You'll try to trail us, too?" Garth asked.
The inspector grinned sheepishly.
"Of course I'll try. I'll probably have to let it go at that."
"Yes--slippery," Garth answered.
Now that his offer was accepted, and his plan understood, the inspector
gave way to a disquieting nervousness. He stood up and stepped around
the desk, putting his hand on Garth's shoulder.
"Watch out for yourself," he faltered. "I don't want another Kridel
case on my conscience."
The name dampened Garth's enthusiasm. He had never known Joe Kridel who,
a year ago, had been the ascending star of the bureau. But the manner of
the young man's death was depressingly familiar to him--found stabbed
through the heart in a private house whose dwellers had heard no alarm.
The key to that puzzle had never been discovered. Even the inspector had
harbored the nature of Kridel's assignment that night of his murder.
"I hate," the inspector continued, that note of regret in his voice
again, "to give a man I like such an ugly risk."
This reached Garth as definite encouragement to words which he had
restrained for some time with difficulty. To loose them, now, however,
would be, in a way, unfair to his chief; would, in every sense, form no
fitting prelude to his formidable and dangerous task. He contented
himself, therefore, with an unsatisfactory compromise.
"If I've time I may drop in for a chat with Nora after all."
"But you won't alarm her with this?"
"Certainly not."
The inspector was very friendly.
"You know I wouldn't be surprised if Nora had taken kind of a fancy for
you herself."
Garth's face reddened. He turned away.
The inspector sighed.
"Oh, well. There's plenty of time to think of that when you bring
yourself back--alive."
* * * * * *
Before making his arrangements Garth called at the inspector's flat.
This was, in fact, a preparation. Without seeing Nora he felt he would
not be armed to enter these unfair lists with death.
He found her by the window in the sitting room. She looked, he thought,
more Latin than usual, although the black clothes she habitually wore
accentuated her dark hair and flashing eyes, the olive complexion and
regular features she had inherited from her Italian mother.
She smiled up at Garth, and, as always in face of that smile, he
recalled the unexplored neutral ground where their minds had never
really met. This impression had unquestionably retarded the development
of their relations. It had until now held their emotions in the leash of
friendship. Garth had no idea of snapping that cord at his entrance, but
Nora's proximity and the suddenness of an unexpected gesture distilled
logic and fairness for the moment's irresistible intoxication.
Their hands, reaching for the book she had dropped, met. The quick
contact was galvanic to Garth. An unconquerable impulse possessed him.
If he was to risk death that night it was folly to shirk life to-day. So
his hand closed over hers while he sought for words.
After a moment he became aware of the impassivity of her fingers within
his violent grasp. He saw grave trouble and an unanswerable doubt
extinguish the excitement in her eyes. A premonition reached him. He
fought against it desperately. His voice swayed a little.
"Don't look at me like that, Nora. You're going to marry me."
She shook her head. All at once there were tears in her eyes. Her hand
lightly brushed her black skirt.
"Jim, you've often asked me why I wear these dark clothes. Now you make
me tell you. I can trust you? Because no one knows unless my father
guesses."
He nodded. She spoke with an effort.
"For the man I was going to marry, Jim. You see he--he died."
Garth arose and turned to the window. He leaned there, staring at the
busy street, listening to its jarring discords. Among the children at
play one boy, unkempt and filthy, stood braced against a railing, crying
at the top of his lungs. In his abandonment to disappointment Garth
accepted the picture as typical of his life--a crying out for the
unattainable, a surrender to despair. The night's work lost its terror.
Its issue became a matter of callous indifference.
Then her hand was on his arm, drawing him around so that he saw her
face, which had lost its colour, and the growing doubt in her eyes.
"Try to understand, Jim. I think I scarcely do myself. I only know it
hurts to see you unhappy. Six months ago when you first came I never
dreamed a man could make even that much difference to me again."
Without warning the colour rushed back to her face. She clenched her
hands. The determination in her tone was overwhelming.
"Is that inconstancy to him? Don't think that. I'm not inconstant. I
wouldn't be that."
Garth waved his hand helplessly.
"What difference--Never mind, Nora. It's finished."
"But you--It's so unfair. And I want you for my friend."
She sat down, hiding her face.
"Later--I don't know. How can I tell? How can anybody?"
Garth saw her shoulders commence to shake. This emotion fired a tiny
hope, yet it angered him that she should suffer, too.
"Stop that," he said roughly. "It isn't worth it to you. I'm sorry I
spoke. I ought to have had better sense, but I'm going out of town
to-day on a job--"
He paused. He turned back to the window.
"That's why I spoke, because--because I may be away a very long time."
She controlled herself.
"How long, Jim?"
"God knows."
"Where? West?"
He shook his head.
"Up the state. It's just as well now. I've got to go. I ought to be
getting ready."
She arose. She spoke wistfully.
"Then good-by, Jim. And you'll try to understand? Maybe you'll come to
see me just the same when you get back?"
He swallowed hard, forcing back his craving for abandonment, for
revelation.
"When I get back," he said.