you'll be in on that. I guess your nerves have been getting shaky
lately, haven't they? Well, you can figure on the swellest rest-cure you
ever heard of, Bertha. Take it from me! We're going down to keep the Pug
company presently. You blow around to Matty's about midnight and get the
election returns. We'll finish the job after that by getting Cloran
out of the road some way before morning, and that will let you out for
keeps--there won't be any one left to recognize the woman who was with
Deemer the night he shuffled out.” He backed to the doorway. “Get me?
Come over to Matty's and see the rajah's sparklers about midnight. We'll
have 'em then--and the she-fiend, too. So long, Bertha!”
She scarcely heard him; she answered mechanically.
“Good-night,” she said.
XIX. DREAD UPON THE WATERS
For a moment after Danglar had gone, Rhoda Gray stood motionless; and
then, the necessity for instant action upon her, she moved quickly
toward the doorway herself. There was only one thing she could do, just
one; but she must be sure first that Danglar was well started on his
way. She reached the doorway, looked out--and suddenly caught her breath
in a low, quick inhalation, In the semi-darkness she could just make out
Danglar's form, perhaps twenty-five yards away now, heading along the
lane toward the street; but behind Danglar, at a well-guarded distance
in the rear, hugging the shadows of the fence, she saw the form of
another man. Her brows knitted in a perplexed and anxious frown. The
second man was undoubtedly following Danglar. That was evident. But why?
Who was it? What did it mean?
She retreated back into the shed, and commenced hastily to disrobe and
dress again in her own clothes, which she had flung down upon the
floor. In the last analysis, did it matter who it was that was following
Danglar--even if it were one of the police? For, supposing that the man
who was shadowing Danglar was a plain-clothes man, and suppose he even
followed Danglar and the rest of the gang to the old iron plant, and
suppose that with the necessary assistance he rounded them all up, and
in that sense effected the Adventurer's rescue, it scarcely meant a
better fate for the Adventurer! It simply meant that the Adventurer, as
one of the gang, and against whom every one of the rest would testify as
the sole means left to them of wreaking their vengeance upon one who had
tricked and outwitted them again and again for his own ends, would stand
his trial with the others, and with the others go behind prison bars for
a long term of years.
She hurried now, completing the last touches that transformed her from
Gypsy Nan into the veiled figure of the White Moll, stepped out into
the lane, and walking rapidly, reached the street and headed, not in the
direction of Harlem, but deeper over into the East Side. Even as Danglar
had been speaking she had realized that, for the Adventurer's own sake,
and irrespective of what any premature disclosure of her own identity
to the authorities might mean to her, she could not call upon the police
for aid. There was only one way, just one--to go herself, to reach the
Adventurer herself before Danglar returned there and had an opportunity
of putting his worse than murderous intentions into effect.
Well, she was going there, wasn't she? And if she lost no time she
should be there easily ahead of them, and her chances would be excellent
of releasing the Adventurer with very little risk. From what Danglar
had said, the Adventurer was there alone. Once tied and gagged there had
been no need to leave anybody to guard him, save that the watchman would
ordinarily serve to keep any one off the premises, which was all that
was necessary. But that he had been left at all worried her greatly. He
had, of course, already refused to talk. What they had done to him she
did not know, but the 'solitary confinement' Danglar had referred to
was undoubtedly the first step in their efforts to break his spirit. Her
lips tightened as she went along. Surely she could accomplish it! She
had but to evade the watchman--only, first, the lost revolver, the one
safeguard against an adverse turn of fortune, must be replaced, and that
was where she was going now. She knew, from her associations with the
underworld as the White Moll in the old days, where such things could be
purchased and no questions asked, if one were known. And she was known
in the establishment to which she was going, for evil days had once
fallen upon its proprietor, one “Daddy” Jacques, in that he had incurred
the enmity of certain of his own ilk in the underworld, and on a certain
night, which he would not be likely to forget, she had stood between him
and a manhandling that would probably have cost him his life, and--Yes,
this was the place.
She entered a dirty-windowed, small and musty pawnshop. A little old
man, almost dwarf-like in stature, with an unkempt, tawny beard, who
wore a greasy and ill-fitting suit, and upon whose bald head was perched
an equally greasy skull cap, gazed at her inquiringly from behind the
counter.
“I want a gun, and a good one, please,” she said, after a glance around
her to assure herself that they were alone.
The other squinted at her through his spectacles, as he shook his head.
“I haven't got any, lady,” he answered. “We're not allowed to sell them
without--”
“Oh, yes, you have, Daddy,” she contradicted quietly, as she raised her
veil. “And quick, please; I'm in a hurry.”
The little old man leaned forward, staring at her for a moment as though
fascinated; and then his hand, in a fumbling way, removed the skull
cap from his bead. There was a curious, almost wistful reverence in his
voice as he spoke.
“The White Moll!” he said.
“Yes,” she smiled. “But the gun, Daddy. Quick! I haven't an instant to
lose.”
“Yes, yes!” he said eagerly--and shuffled away.
He was back in a moment, an automatic in his hand.
“It's loaded, of course?” she said, as she took the weapon. She slipped
it into her pocket as he nodded affirmatively. “How much, Daddy?”
“The White Moll!” He seemed still under the spell of amazement. “It is
nothing. There is no charge. It is nothing, of course.”
“Thank you, Daddy!” she said softly--and laid a bill upon the counter,
and stepped back to the door. “Good-night!” she smiled.
She heard him call to her; but she was already on the street again,
and hurrying along. She felt better, somehow, in a mental way, for that
little encounter with the shady old pawnbroker. She was not so much
alone, perhaps, as she had thought; there were many, perhaps, even if
they were of the underworld, who had not swerved from the loyalty they
had once professed to the White Moll.
It brought a new train of thought, and she paused suddenly in her walk.
She might rally around her some of those underworld intimates upon whose
allegiance she felt she could depend, and use them now, to-night, in
behalf of the Adventurer; she would be sure then to be a match for
Danglar, no matter what turn affairs took. And then, with an impatient
shake of her head, she hurried on again. There was no time for that. It
would take a great deal of time to find and pick her men; she had even
wasted time herself, where there was no time to spare, in the momentary
pause during which she had given the thought consideration.
She reached the nearest subway station, which was her objective, and
boarded a Harlem train, satisfied that her heavy veil would protect her
against recognition. Unobtrusively she took a window seat. No one paid
her any attention. Hours passed, it seemed to her impatience, while the
black walls rushed by, punctuated by occasional scintillating signal
lights, and, at longer intervals, by the fuller glare from the station
platforms.
In the neighborhood of 125th street she left the train, and, entering
the first drug store she found, consulted a directory. She did not know
this section of New York at all; she did not know either the location or
the firm name of the iron plant to which Danglar, assuming naturally, of
course, that she was conversant with it, had referred; and she did not
care to ask to be directed to Jake Malley's saloon, which was the only
clew she had to guide her. The problem, however, did not appear to be
a very difficult one. She found the saloon's address, and, asking the
clerk to direct her to the street indicated, left the drug store again.
But, after all, it was not so easy; no easier than for one unacquainted
with any locality to find one's way about. Several times she found
herself at fault, and several times she was obliged to ask directions
again. She had begun to grow panicky with fear and dread at the time she
had lost, before, finally, she found the saloon. She was quite sure that
it was already more than half an hour since she had left the drug store;
and that half an hour might easily mean the difference between safety
and disaster, not only for the Adventurer, but for herself as well.
Danglar might have been in no particular hurry, and he would probably
have gone first to whatever rendezvous he had appointed for those of the
gang selected to accompany him, but even to have done so in a leisurely
way would surely not have taken more than that half hour!
Yes, that was Jake Malley's saloon now, across the road from her, but
she could not recall the time that was already lost! They might be there
now--ahead of her.
She quickened her steps almost to a run. There should be no difficulty
in finding the iron plant now. “Behind Jake Malley's saloon,” Danglar
had said. She turned down the cross street, passed the side entrance to
the saloon, and hastened along. The locality was lonely, deserted, and
none too well lighted. The arc lamps, powerful enough in themselves,
were so far apart that they left great areas of shadow, almost
blackness, between them. And the street too was very narrow, and the
buildings, such as they were, were dark and unlighted--certainly it was
not a residential district!
And now she became aware that she was close to the river, for the sound
of a passing craft caught her attention. Of course! She understood now.
The iron plant, for shipping facilities, was undoubtedly on the bank of
the river itself, and--yes, this was it, wasn't it?--this picket fence
that began to parallel the right-hand side of the street, and enclose,
seemingly, a very large area. She halted and stared at it--and suddenly
her heart sank with a miserable sense of impotence and dismay. Yes, this
was the place beyond question. Through the picket fence she could make
out the looming shadows of many buildings, and spidery iron structures
that seemed to cobweb the darkness, and--and--Her face mirrored her
misery. She had thought of a single building. Where, inside there,
amongst all those rambling structures, with little time, perhaps none at
all, to search, was she to find the Adventurer?
She did not try to answer her own question--she was afraid that her
dismay would get the better of her if she hesitated for an instant. She
crossed the street, choosing a spot between two of the arc lamps where
the shadows were blackest. It was a high fence, but not too high to
climb. She reached up, preparatory to pulling herself to the top--and
drew back with a stifled cry. She was too late, then--already too late!
They were here ahead of her--and on guard after all! A man's form,
appearing suddenly out of the darkness but a few feet away, was making
quickly toward her. She wrenched her automatic from her pocket. The
touch of the weapon in her hand restored her self-control.
“Don't come any nearer!” she cried out sharply. “I will fire if you do!”
And then the man spoke.
“It's you, ain't it?” he called in guarded eagerness. “It's the White
Moll, ain't it? Thank God, it's you!”
Her extended hand with the automatic fell to her side. She had
recognized his voice. It wasn't Danglar, it wasn't one of the gang, or
the watchman who was no better than an accomplice; it was Marty Finch,
alias the Sparrow.
“Marty!” she exclaimed. “You! What are you doing here?”
“I'm here to keep you from goin' in there!” he answered excitedly.
“And--and, say, I was afraid I was too late. Don't you go in there! For
God's sake, don't you go! They're layin' a trap for you! They're goin'
to bump you off! I know all about it!”
“You know? What do you mean?” she asked quickly. “How do you know?”
“I quit my job a few days after that fellow you called Danglar tried
to murder me that night you saved me,” said the Sparrow, with a savage
laugh. “I knew he had it in for you, and I guess I had something comm'
to him on my own account too, hadn't I? That's the job I've been on
ever since--tryin' to find the dirty pup. And I found him! But it wasn't
until to-night, though you can believe me there weren't many joints in
the old town where I didn't look for him. My luck turned to-night. I
spotted him comin' out of Italian Joe's bar. See? I followed him. After
a while he slips into a lane, and from the street I saw him go into a
shed there. I worked my way up quiet, and got as near as I dared without
bein' heard and seen, and I listened. He was talkin' to a woman. I
couldn't hear everything they said, and they quarreled a lot; but I
heard him say something about framin' up a job to get somebody down to
the old iron plant behind Jake Malley's saloon and bump 'em off, and I
heard him say there wouldn't be any White Moll by morning, and I put two
and two together and beat it for here.”
Rhoda Gray reached out and caught the Sparrow's hand.
“Thank you, Marty! You haven't got it quite right--though, thank Heaven,
you got it the way you did, since you are here now!” she said fervently.
“It wasn't me, it wasn't the White Moll, they expected to get here; it's
the man who helped me that night to clear you of the Hayden-Bond robbery
that Danglar meant to make you shoulder. He risked his life to do it,
Marty. They've got him a prisoner somewhere in there; and they're
coming back to--to torture him into telling them where I am, and--and
afterwards to do away with him. That's why I'm here, Marty--to get him
away, if I can, before they come back.”
The Sparrow whistled low under his breath.
“Well, then, I guess it's my hunt too,” he said coolly. “And I guess
this is where a prison bird horns in with the goods. Ever since
I've been looking for that Danglar guy, I've been carryin' a full
kit--because I didn't know what might break, or what kind of a mess
I might want to get out of. Come on! We ain't got no time. There's
a couple of broken pickets down there. We might be seen climbin' the
fence. Come on!”
Bread upon the waters! With a sense of warm gratitude upon her, Rhoda
Gray followed the ex-convict. They made their way through the fence.
A long, low building, a storage shed evidently, showed a few yards in
front of them. It seemed to be quite close to the river, for now she
could see the reflection of lights from here and there playing on the
black, mirror-like surface of the water. Farther on, over beyond the
shed, the yard of the plant, dotted with other buildings and those
spidery iron structures which she had previously noticed, stretched away
until it was lost in the darkness. Here, however, within the radius of
one of the street arc lamps it was quite light.
Rhoda Gray had paused in almost hopeless indecision as to how or where
to begin her search, when the Sparrow spoke again.
“It looks like we got a long hunt,” whispered the Sparrow; “but a few
minutes before you came, a guy with a lantern comes from over across the
yard there and nosed around that shed, and acted kind of queer, and I
could see him stick his head up against them side doors there as
though he was listenin' for something inside. Does that wise you up to
anything?”
“Yes!” she breathed tensely. “That was the watchman. He's one of them.
The man we want is in that shed beyond a doubt. Hurry, Marty--hurry!”
They ran together now, and reached the double side-door. It was
evidently for freight purposes only, and probably barred on the inside,
for they found there was no way of opening it from without.
“There must be an entrance,” she said feverishly--and led the way toward
the front of the building in the direction away from the river. “Yes,
here it is!” she exclaimed, as they rounded the end of the shed.
She tried the door. It was locked. She felt in her pocket for her
skeleton keys, for she had not been unprepared for just such an
emergency, but the Sparrow brushed her aside.
“Leave it to me!” he said quickly. “I'll pick that lock like one
o'clock! It won't take me more'n a minute.”
Rhoda Gray did not stand and watch him. Minutes were priceless things,
and she could put the minute he asked for to better advantage than by
idling it away. With an added injunction to hurry and that she would be
back in an instant, she was already racing around the opposite side of
the shed. If they were pressed, cornered, by the arrival of Danglar, it
might well mean the difference between life and death to all of them if
she had an intimate knowledge of the surroundings.
She was running at top speed. Halfway down the length of the shed she
tripped and fell over some object. She pushed it aside as she rose. It
was an old iron casting, more bulky in shape than in weight, though
she found it none too light to lift comfortably. She ran on. A wharf
projected out, she found, from this end of the shed. At the edge, she
peered over. It was quite light here again; away from the protecting
shadows of the shed, the rays of the arc lamp played without hindrance
on the wharf just as they did on the shed's side door. Below, some
ten or twelve feet below, and at the corner of the wharf, a boat, or,
rather, a sort of scow, for it was larger than a boat though oars lay
along its thwarts, was moored. It was partly decked over, and she could
see a small black opening into the forward end of it, though the opening
itself was almost hidden by a heap of tarpaulin, or sailcloth, or
something of the kind, that lay in the bottom of the craft. She nodded
her head. They might all of them use that boat to advantage!
Rhoda Gray turned and ran back. The Sparrow, with a grunt of
satisfaction, was just opening the door. She stepped through the
doorway. The Sparrow followed.
“Close it!” said Rhoda Gray, under her breath. She felt her heart beat
quicken, the blood flood her face and then recede. Her imagination had
suddenly become too horribly vivid. Suppose they--they had already gone
farther than...
With an effort she controlled herself--and the round, white ray of her
flashlight swept the place. A moment more, and, with a low cry, she
was running forward to where, on the floor near the wall of the shed
opposite the side door, she made out the motionless form of a man. She
reached him, and dropped on her knees beside him. It was the Adventurer.
She spoke to him. He did not answer. And then she remembered what
Danglar had said, and she saw that he was gagged. But--but she was not
sure that was the reason why he did not answer. The flashlight in her
hand wavered unsteadily as it played over him. Perhaps the whiteness of
the ray itself exaggerated it, but his face held a deathly pallor;
his eyes were closed; and his hands and feet were twisted cruelly and
tightly bound.
“Give me your knife--quick--Sparrow!” she called. “Then go and keep
watch just outside.”
The Sparrow handed her his knife, and hurried back to the door.
She worked in the darkness now. She could not use both hands and still
hold the flashlight; and, besides, with the door partially open now
where the Sparrow was on guard there was always the chance, if Danglar
and those of the gang with him were already in the vicinity, of the
light bringing them all the more quickly to the scene.
Again she spoke to the Adventurer, as she removed the gag--and a fear
that made her sick at heart seized up on her. There was still no answer.
And now, as she worked, cutting at the cords on his hands and feet, the
love that she knew for the man, its restraint broken by the sense of
dread and fear at his condition, rose dominant within her, and impulse
that she could not hold in least took possession of her, and in the
darkness, since he would not know, and there was none to see, she bent
her head, and, half crying, her lips pressed upon his forehead.
She drew back startled, a crimson in her face that the darkness hid.
What had she done? Did he know? Had he returned to consciousness, if he
really had been unconscious, in time to know? She could not see; but she
knew his eyes had opened.
She worked frantically with the bonds. He was free now. She cast them
off.
He spoke then--thickly, with great difficulty.
“It's you, the White Moll, isn't it?”
“Yes,” she answered.
He raised himself up on his elbow, only to fall back with a suppressed
groan.
“I don't know how you found me, but get away at once--for God's sake,
get away!” he cried. “Danglar'll be here at any minute. It's you he
wants. He thinks you know where some--some jewels are, and that I--I--”
“I know all about Danglar,” she said hurriedly. “And I know all about
the jewels, for I've got them myself.”
He was up on his knees now, swaying there. She caught at his shoulder to
support him.
“You!” he cried out incredulously. “You--you've got them? Say that
again! You--you've--”
“Yes,” she said, and with an effort steadied her voice. He--he was
a thief. Cost her what it might, with all its bitter hurt, she must
remember that, even--even if she had forgotten once. “Yes,” she said.
“And I mean to turn them over to the police, and expose every one of
Danglar's gang. I--you are entitled to a chance; you once stood between
me and the police. I can do no less by you. I couldn't turn the police
loose on the gang without giving you warning, for, you see, I know you
are the Pug.”
“Good God!” he stammered. “You know that, too?”
“Try and walk,” she said breathlessly. “There isn't any time. And once
you are away from here, remember that when Danglar is in the hands of
the police he will take the only chance for revenge he has left, and
give the police all the information he can, so that they will get you
too.”
He stumbled pitifully.
“I can't walk much yet.” He was striving to speak coolly. “They trussed
me up a bit, you know--but I'll be all right in a little while when I
get the cramps out of my joints and the circulation back. And so, Miss
Gray, won't you please go at once? I'm free now, and I'll manage all
right, and--”
The Sparrow came running back from the door.
“They're comm'!” he said excitedly. “They're comm' from a different way
than we came in. I saw 'em sway up there across the yard for a second
when they showed up under a patch of light from an arc lamp on the other
street. There's three of 'em. We got about a couple of minutes, and--”
“Get those side doors open! Quick! And no noise!”' ordered Rhoda Gray
tersely. And then to the Adventurer: “Try--try and walk! I'll help you.”
The Adventurer made a desperate attempt at a few steps. It was miserably
slow. At that rate Danglar would be upon them before they could even
cross the shed itself.
“I can crawl faster,” laughed the Adventurer with bitter whimsicality.
“Give me your revolver, Miss Gray, and you two go--and God bless you!”
The Sparrow was opening the side door, but she realized now that even
if they could carry the Adventurer they could not get away in time.
Her mind itself seemed stunned for an instant--and then, in a lightning
flash, inspiration came. She remembered that iron casting, and the
wharf, and the other side of the shed in shadow. It was desperate,
perhaps almost hopeless, but it was the only way that gave the
Adventurer a chance for his life.
She spoke rapidly. The little margin of time they had must be narrowing
perilously.
“Marty, help this gentleman! Crawl to the street, if you have to. The
only thing is that you are not to make the slightest noise, and--”
“What are you going to do?” demanded the Adventurer hoarsely.
“I'm going to take the only chance there is for all of us,” she
answered.
She started toward the front door of the shed; but he reached out and
held her back.