MARY JOHNSON
"No news" reports coming in from operatives, and new instructions going
out from "the old man" himself, was the routine of Updyke's office for
the next hour. Mary Johnson, his secretary, of only a few months'
experience, came timidly over to his desk and asked if he had looked
over the Parkins record during the past month or so.
"I think there were some notations made by Miss Carew just before she
left," said she.
"Bring it," snapped Updyke, abstractedly. Then as the girl turned to go
he called her back.
"I'm sorry to have been cross with you, little woman, but you'll forgive
me I know. This is a bad case, and every moment is precious. Hurry back
with the report," said he, smiling into her alert blue eyes.
On her return he seized the record eagerly, and the girl bent over his
shoulder and pointed out three memorandums, which he carefully read.
The addendum was in the handwriting of Miss Carew, and read as follows:
6-12-1919--has built shack on the ocean side of South Bay, opposite
Smith Point. Two rooms, stove, kitchenette--goes there during
summer months--at week-ends--place is made comfortable for duck
shooting in late fall. Double bed--5-15-1920--Joined the Indian
Head Social Club, near Jamesport, East of Riverhead. Membership
composed almost entirely of divorcees, both men and women. Single
men and pretty women, eligible. Golf club--card games--liquor
lockers--thirty suites--baths--swimming pool--indoor
athletics--free and easy--no questions asked--no interference. Open
all year--once known as The Mad House, then Herman's Road House.
Herman still owns it, but has modernized the place and bids for
better clients under the guise of a social country club.
"Get Riverhead, and ask for George Carver, head clerk at the White
House," said Updyke to the girl beside him. "Glad to note that some one
is on the job around here," he added gruffly.
In less than three minutes the connection was made, but even to the man
at the helm, minutes seemed hours--such was his mental strain.
"Hello, George--this is Updyke--Yes--fine, thank you--do you know
William Parkins?--only by sight--eh?--he belongs to Indian Head Social
Club--find out if he is over there--call me back quickly--thanks--hurry
boy!"
The next five minutes dragged along at a snail's pace, so overwrought
was Updyke--and no less the efficient Mary Johnson. But the right tingle
came along in due course of time.
"This you, Henry--all right--he telephoned from Yaphank for a parlor and
bath suite--expected very soon--can I help you in any way?"
"You are still a deputy sheriff?" queried Updyke.
"Yes--they wouldn't take my resignation."
"Listen carefully, George--this is a serious matter. This man Parkins
has kidnapped a beautiful, chaste girl, and is taking her to Indian
Head, if I am not in error. You have a motorcycle?"
"Oh, yes--can't get along without one over here," replied Carver.
"Then hop it instantly, and ride for your life to that club. If Parkins
hasn't arrived--thank God!--you stop him before he gets there, and save
a great scandal that would ruin the girl. She is as pure as snow, and
is betrothed to the best friend I have on earth. Help me out, boy! Get
that man Parkins--serve a 'John Doe' warrant on him and take him to the
home of Drury Villard at Dreamy Hollow. It's a big black limousine, two
men in front, and Parkins, with a woman accomplice, inside. The
chauffeur is McGonigle's man, but the other fellow is my man. He may
need help--he might be killed--but you save the day from scandal."
"I'll do my best, old-timer. What you have told me makes me see red. I
may shoot the skunk," said he in a rasping voice. "If it was a Riverhead
case, we'd tar and feather him."
"Go like the wind, George--and don't fail," replied Updyke, a husky tone
in his deep voice.
When George Carver swung into the Jamesport road a cloud of dust trailed
behind him until he stopped in front of the clubhouse. Parkins had not
arrived, so everything was safe thus far. Turning back along the road he
traveled leisurely and muffled the "cut-out."
Updyke had figured matters out almost to a nicety. Two miles west of
Jamesport a limousine hove in view.
The car was coming fast, head-on for passage against all-comers. But
Carver was an old hand at stopping speeders.
He jumped from his machine and laid it crosswise of the narrow road.
Then with his feet on the wheel and his revolver pointed straight at the
oncoming chauffeur, he shouted:
"Halt! or I'll kill you!"--and at once the emergency was applied to the
brakes of the big machine, causing thereby a most gruesome noise.
[Illustration: "HALT! OR I'LL KILL YOU!"]
"Hands up, chauffeur! Step off of your car--lie down on the
roadside--belly to the ground!"
To the Updyke man he said--"If he makes a move kill him!"
Parkins, not yet discovered by either officer, had dropped to the floor
and pulled a dust robe over his body. Carver tried to open the door, but
it was locked from inside. The door on the other side was also bolted
from within.
"All right, Parkins, you are going to have the merriest little test put
up to you that a rascal of your stamp could conceive of in a life time!"
shouted Carver. "At this moment you and your accomplice are shielding
yourselves at the expense of a frail girl. She need have no fear--you
infernal coward! But unless you and that woman come out instantly, I'll
break in the doors and hang both of you up by the thumbs. I am counting
ten--one--two--three--four--five--get ready, 'Updyke man'--six----"
The door opened, and Mrs. Duke screamed as she saw Carver's badge.
Parkins came out first, with palms turned outward and was made to lay
face-down, his arms stretched above his head. Then came the woman, to
find, at the point of a revolver, that she had forfeited the chivalry of
honest men.
"Now you, Updyke man, slip a pair of bracelets on both the man and the
woman, while I do the same with the driver. Now, little lady," he added,
addressing Winifred, "could you ride behind me on my motorcycle to
Riverhead?"
Carver stood with hat in hand, smiling into her pallid face.
"Oh, I am sure I could," she whispered, frightened to the point of
nervous breakdown.
"Then walk back along the road a little way while I prepare these
kidnappers for a safe journey," said he, sneering down upon the
prisoners. "I wouldn't want you to see what I may have to do to them."
At the suggestion of the Updyke man each prisoner was handcuffed with
arms behind, instead of in front, as was the usual practice in extreme
cases.
"That's the safest way," said the operative, "and now we'll tie their
feet to the foot rest--Parkins in front, by himself, and the woman and
the chauffeur on the rear seat. I'll drive the car back to New York.
Updyke will be waiting for them, all right enough!"
When the job was completed, the curtains were drawn and the doors locked
from outside. Then the Updyke operative mounted the chauffeur's seat and
headed the car toward the west.
Carver now helped the girl to mount his wheel, and then jumped into the
saddle in front of her.
"Hold on to me tight--we're going to speed some!" said he, gaily, then
he shot in the gas, and they were off for Riverhead, the limousine
trailing in the dust close behind.
For a time the male prisoners eyed each other in sheepish fashion, but
Mrs. Duke cried bitterly as the car skipped along. With her arms behind
her she had no means of wiping the tear-drops that plowed ridges through
the dust on her face.
"I don't see how I ever got into this dreadful affair!" she moaned.
"Shut up!" shouted Parkins sharply. "They can't do anything with us.
That would ruin the girl's reputation."
"But that man Updyke!--how did you ever conceive the idea that you could
frustrate that brute's plans?"
"What do you know about him?" snapped Parkins.
"I've seen him, and that's enough! Oh, such a face!--such strength of
purpose!--such----"
"Cut it out I tell you--or you will lose your chance, as a woman, to say
that you had no thought of breaking the law. The girl and I were eloping
and you were along as a friend. Do you get that?"
"You are so wonderful, Mr. Parkins--indeed you are," sighed Mrs. Duke,
as her tears slackened. "I knew it the moment I saw you, all bruised and
torn. Certainly she was eloping with you, and now I remember how sweetly
she talked about you as we walked along the beach. You had always been
so kind to her father, and all that."
"See that you don't forget it," replied Parkins, already planning his
way to freedom. "And also remember this--that when she was seized by
these men, and we were arrested like kidnappers, I was taking her to one
of the swellest country clubs in the land. We were to be married there,
and you were to be the witness--see?"
Parkins' eyes flashed, and his lips curled into a cruel smile as he
thought of the revenge he would take upon Villard and the girl, if
called to the witness stand. How the reporters would enjoy it! And how
Villard's face would burn with shame as lawyers for the defense drove
home his crazy notions about spiritual communications!
The thought almost made him happy.
At Riverhead telephoning was in order. The car containing the prisoners
was, by Updyke's order, to be driven through to New York and the
culprits brought to his office. The girl, Winifred, would await the
arrival of Villard's car at Yaphank, Carver gladly agreeing to convey
her that far, changing to his runabout at Riverhead--thus adding to her
comfort until she would meet up with her friends.
Sawyer was so overcome with joy at "the news from the front," as he
called it, that he insisted on being taken along with Villard. So, with
Santzi as a mascot, and Jacques at the wheel, they were soon on their
way. But aside from the joy in each breast, there was a grim thought in
each mind--and small charity for Parkins and the nurse he had used as a
foil.
Then, too, the shock of Winifred's strange disappearance had so upset
the nerves of Alexander Barbour that he now hovered near "The Great
Crossing." But the ever kindly Mrs. Bond had his case in hand, and the
doctor had been called, although he had not arrived when Villard's party
left for Yaphank.
"If Winifred will agree, we will be married to-night," said Villard, in
an undertone, to Sawyer.
The latter did not reply, although he remained in deep thought for
almost a mile, as shown by the speedometer.
"No, my friend," said he, finally, and with an effort to tell the truth
without offending--"her youthful dreams must not be wiped out in any
such rough-shod manner. I know the big heartedness of your intentions,
but Winifred is a girl and she must have the say. There are her old-time
friends at Patchogue. Those she cares for should by all means be
invited. She must have a fling of some pretensions or she will brood in
silence at your lack of sympathy."
"Alas, you are right--as usual," sighed Villard. "However, my pessimism
is newly born from the fruits of this evil day."
"There you go again--evil day! Why, it's the greatest day of your life!
The girl over there among the stars has again reached out in your
behalf, and this time the proof is positive of her watchfulness over
you."
"Forgive me, Sawyer," said Villard simply, patting his friend on the
knee. "My little girl shall take her own time and have a wedding after
her own heart. Then Dreamy Hollow will wake up and amount to something!"
It was a wide-eyed and dusty little heroine that George Carver handed
over at Yaphank. Santzi jumped out of the roadster and fairly lifted
her into the place between the two men on the back seat, who stood up to
greet her.
At once she snuggled closely to Villard, and shivered, until finally he
put his big arm about her and soothed her with gentle words of sympathy.
Sawyer looked away from it all, his eyes moist at the girl's sweet
simplicity, but Villard motioned Carver to his side of the car and
leaned over and whispered--then put a card in his hand.
"Well, I may call in on you at your home some day, but I seldom go to
New York. I've seen a little of Dreamy Hollow while riding by at times.
The young lady sitting beside you has a strong heart and she knows how
to keep up her nerve," said he, laughing up at her pale smiling face.
"Most women would have had a sure enough fit, if placed in the same
situation."
Then, doffing his cap, he said--
"Good-by, all," and offered his hand to the girl.
Kissing the tips of her dainty fingers Winifred held them out to him,
and said--
"Good-by, sir. I shall never forget your kindness, and your bravery--nor
will any of us," she added, glancing from Carver to Villard, and back
to Carver again.
And then, with a little sigh, she fell back between Villard and Sawyer
and closed her eyes. Within a few minutes she was sound asleep. The
adventure had taxed her beyond her strength.
That night Villard shivered in his sleep, but not from cold. There was a
certain dread of misfortune--he knew not what--that filled his mind.
Publicity, from a gossip standpoint, was his pet aversion. The thought
of its blight upon his name, and the haunting fear of being pointed out
as the man whose sweetheart had been kidnapped by one of his partners,
simply brought out a cold sweat over his body. At midnight he could
stand it no longer, whereupon he turned on his reading lamp and reached
for the bedside telephone--then called up the hotel where Updyke lived,
and was connected with his room.
The big fellow was just retiring when he answered the call.
"I expected to hear from you earlier in the evening," said he by way of
greeting. "Hot old day, eh?"
"A great day, as it turned out to be--and how I am ever going to get
even with you I don't know!" said Villard with much feeling.
"Come off of that, or I'll send you a bill for services the first of the
month," shouted Updyke.
"Well, you'd better, or I'll send you something you won't like--an
insult of some sort about people who have big hearts and no wits for
making money to 'feed the old gray mare' with."
"Don't worry--you're not out of the woods yet--but I won't check in on
that until I get through with 'so and so' and a few of his crooked
friends. I'm going out to see you to-morrow night and talk things over.
I'll say that it's going to be some trick to keep this thing out of the
papers," said Updyke, his voice carrying conviction. "It's a thousand
dollar scoop if 'so and so' wants the money bad enough. I think he is
'all in' so far as ready cash is concerned. He didn't pull this trick
just for the--you know what I mean."
"Yes--go on!"
"No, we will talk it out, with less danger. I'll run down later. I had
one terrible time in third-degree stuff and have put him away for the
night. Me for the mattress and a pillow, for awhile. Get some sleep,
yourself!"
"All right--and God bless you!" replied Drury Villard, as he shut off
the light and settled down in bed. But there is no such thing as sleep
for a wide-awake man.
A very small incident of the day kept creeping into his thoughts--young
Carver! Had not his Winifred kissed her dainty hand as she held it out
to him? Was it just a girlish impulse?--or was it the blood of youth
responding to the call? Once planted, this tiny seed of uncertainty
began to grow. The clock struck one--brooding time, for middle-aged men
who roll and toss, and think dark things in the black hours of the
night.
"It's only natural that youth responds to youth," said he to
himself--"but I too am young in years, although my crowded life has made
me old and out of tune with youth itself. I wonder if I have been fair
to this child?" he mumbled impatiently. "I wonder, I----"
Then, suddenly, his mind relaxed, and over he went--"to the land of nod
and dream."
On the following day Winifred spent the entire morning in her father's
room. He was ill at heart and in body. The events of the day before,
coupled with those of the ten days preceding had worn him down to a
frazzle of his old self. He longed for the peace and quiet of his own
home. He missed his old acquaintances with whom he exchanged salutations
each day from the standpoint of the weather--"fine day,"--"looks like
some sorter change"--"it's about time for the rains to set it," and the
like.
The good man was lonesome in the big Villard home, and added to that, a
deep cold had settled on his chest and continuous coughing had exhausted
his powers of combativeness. But at last he was asleep, coaxed by the
soft hands of his daughter who gently smoothed his forehead and face,
and combed his hair and scalp, all of which induced new circulation--and
finally, a most welcome drowsiness, which terminated in peaceful
slumber.
Tired almost to the point of exhaustion, Winifred sought the quiet of
her cosy portico, on the second floor, overlooking the west garden, and
there in a huge lounging chair sat Drury Villard, his eyes shut tight,
and fast asleep.
She gazed upon his kindly face, and then, with the joy of youthful
spirits, she put her hands over his eyes. Then in a voice deep as she
could command she whispered into his ear.
"Who dares to break the stillness of my solitude when I am sleeping over
a dull magazine article about the future prospects of rubber"--and that
was as far as she got.
The big man reached out and closed his giant hand over her soft, dainty
wrists, and drew her to a place beside him--tired little girl that she
was. And there she sat and closed her eyes while he stroked her hair and
whispered endearing words into a small pink ear--and told her a tale
about "_The Old Man of the Sea_," who--"whistled up the winds, and
called for Davy Crockett, and together watched the fury of the waves."
Indeed, Drury Villard was a gentleman of the old school, and there are
many, many verses to that rollicking old song, just right for a tired
little "mother girl" who had attended her sick father for many long
hours. It was no wonder that her eyelids closed and her body relaxed,
when dreamland hove in sight.
And for more than an hour Villard held her thus, while his brain teemed
with plans for her happiness. And when she awoke they walked out among
the flowered bushes and watched the sun go down.
"Now I must go to my father--I've neglected him too long, and he is so
lonely!" said she; "and I am all he has left to comfort him."
Feeling that the end was near for Alexander Barbour, Villard shook his
head, as sadly he reckoned upon the grief of the daughter. A matter of
days, or a month at most, and his Winifred would become an orphaned
child. Once more the thought came into his mind that the sick man would
be less distraught if he knew that his daughter had the protection of a
husband. He would settle the matter after advising with Updyke, who held
opposite views to his own. With that in mind he went to his study and
shut himself in.
Just as Villard was about to sit down he heard a gentle knock upon the
panel of the door, an unusual occurrence, for the rule laid down by the
master was that no one should be announced at this particular room
except by phone. Disturbed he jumped to his feet and stalked forward.
"Who's there!" he demanded, his hand gripping the knob.
"Alexander Barbour, sir," came the answer in a weak tone of voice.
"Oh--come right in, Mr. Barbour," said Villard, affably, as he threw the
door wide open. "I very seldom hear a knock when I am in this room. All
of the folks around the house know that I'm 'out' when I'm in here. But
you are welcome."
"I'm sorry to have disturbed you," replied Winifred's father, who
coughed as gently as he could, but his face turned red from the effort.
"I didn't know," he said by way of apology.
"Sit down, dear man, and tell me what you have on your mind," encouraged
Villard. "You may be sure of my interest."
"Sir, I--I want to go home--to die. My wife might not know where I was
if I passed out here! She wouldn't likely think of finding me in this
big mansion. I am dying sir--I must go home! It's only----"
"Yes, dear man, it's only a little while before we all must take the
same road. It is our fate--we can't dodge the issue. But what of
Winifred?... You...."
Villard's voice broke off suddenly when he considered what he was on the
point of saying.
"She will want to be near me during the crossover," said Barbour,
nodding his head, indicating his certainty of his daughter's devotion.
Villard was upon the verge of humoring Barbour at any cost of time or
trouble, when suddenly he thought of Parkins. What if he were to regain
his freedom before the death of Barbour! Although now under restraint,
the scapegrace had not been legally tried and convicted. The court might
easily decide that the case was tantamount to an elopement, and Parkins,
if arrested, allowed to give bail.
"I'll tell you what I think is best for the present, Mr. Barbour," said
he, smiling into the eyes of the stricken man. "Mr. Updyke is coming out
to-night, and of the three of us, he is most capable of judging the
proper thing to do. I am sure he will find a way to safely bring about
what you have suggested. But neither you nor I know just how. Now, isn't
that a better plan?"
Alexander Barbour smiled feebly, but evidently approved of the idea. He
had seen Updyke and knew he must be a power in his line of business,
whatever that might be.
"You ought to know what is best, sir," replied the sick man. "I am not
up in such matters--but I trust you with all my heart. My daughter is
one of the sweetest young women in the world, and she must be protected
wherever she is," he replied. "Maybe she'd be safer in a little town
like Patchogue than among these grand homes on the Parkway."
"But she was more than just stolen when the accident occurred, friend
Barbour. You can hardly realize the trap you both were headed for. But,
of the two, your daughter would have fared the worst. Even if you had
been killed by the man you trusted, you would have been better off than
your innocent daughter," concluded Villard.
"Don't say another word, please," begged the father, who could not bear
to have the subject referred to. "It isn't that I don't trust you, sir,
it's because my child is my life, and I can't spare her--yet. Only a
little while will I need her. You can see that for yourself. I am on my
way to her mother--I'll soon be with her. Then you may come for
Winifred, and she will go with you. She loves you from the depths of her
heart!"
Wearied by his effort, Alexander Barbour gave himself over to another
spell of coughing, and failing to stop it, retired from the room. He had
said his say about Winifred and there was nothing left for Villard to do
but accede to his point of view. After all he had awaited so long the
advent of the girl of his dreams, that he could afford, for the sake of
all concerned, to accede to the father's wishes. But his Winifred should
be safeguarded by day and night!