A DUEL OF WITS
Cole opened the door a trifle wider. The footfalls, furtive and
hesitant, sounded as if several men were coming up the protesting
stairs. He fancied there were many others below who were ready to jump
into the fight if he should be successful in disposing of the ones now
approaching. His mind worked with lightning speed as he turned away
from the door.
The room, hexagonal in shape, with a tall window at each angle, was
lighted from a tarnished brass fixture at one side. While watching
the light from the outside, Cole had noticed that from the windows to
the ground was a sheer drop of one hundred and fifty feet, so escape
in that direction was impossible. The walls, covered with once gaudy
paper that was now faded and torn, seemed to offer no loophole. The
unswept floor was cluttered with pieces of dilapidated furniture of
a kind which suggested that the room had once served as a rendezvous
for gamblers. The single door was the only exit, and flight in that
direction was cut off by the men now creeping up the stairs. As nearly
as Cole could determine from the sounds, they were as yet only halfway
up. For an instant his thoughts flew to Doctor Latham, and he wondered
if the physician was still waiting for him outside.
He stepped quickly toward the girl. “Talk,” he whispered, “talk about
anything.”
She took her cue with a comprehending nod, and Cole hastened back to
the door.
“But I don’t know, so how can I tell you?” she asked in a tone whose
naturalness instantly won his approval. He was quick to follow up her
lead.
“You have no idea who the leader of these cutthroats is?” he asked in a
slightly nettled tone.
“None whatever.”
He listened for a moment. The footsteps were coming gradually closer.
When he spoke again, he threw his voice so that it sounded as if coming
from the center of the room, a ventriloquial trick he had practiced
when a boy and often found useful.
“You have been here a good many hours,” he pointed out. “I thought you
might have overheard something that gave you a clew.”
“You forget that I have been locked up in this room all the time.”
“That’s so,” Cole admitted, tightening his grip on his automatic. The
footfalls on the stairs had ceased. Evidently the persons who were
approaching had stopped to listen to the conversation. “You haven’t
seen any one who looks as if he might be the boss of the outfit?”
“No one,” she declared convincingly. “So far I have come in contact
only with underlings. The man higher up, whoever he is, has remained in
the background. Of course, I could make a guess.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Doctor Latham.”
Cole smiled. It was an excellent bit of strategy, and he was confident
that the men below had heard. Her cleverly simulated suspicion in
regard to the physician was well calculated to deceive them in regard
to the extent and accuracy of her information.
“You may be right,” he said thoughtfully just as the footsteps began to
move upward again, and once more his voice sounded as if coming from
the interior of the room. “I’ve had my eyes on the doctor myself. He is
a sly bird, but I’m not sure that his cranium is the adequate size for
a job of this kind. However he will bear watching. But we’re wasting
time. The first thing to do is to get you safely out of this nest of
crooks. I think the way is clear, but we must——”
“You’re a little bit slow,” said a voice, and the door came open,
admitting a stocky individual with a leveled automatic. He came
straight forward, stopping bewilderedly as he saw only the girl, and
in that instant Cole reached out behind him, seized him firmly by the
neck and, swinging him backward with a powerful sweep, slammed his head
against the wall. With a fragmentary cry the man went lurching to the
floor, and in almost the same instant Cole whirled round and struck
his companion a vigorous blow with the butt of his pistol. The fellow
dropped like a dead-weight.
“Two of them!” exclaimed Cole, feeling quite elated at the success of
his ruse. “Where’s the third?”
Miss Brownell, breathing rapidly, looked hard at the door. Cole glanced
out, but there was neither sign nor sound of movement on the stairs.
“I thought there were several of them,” he muttered. “Must have been
mistaken. Sounds are deceptive, you know. This may come in handy.”
He stooped, picked up the weapon dropped by his second adversary,
and handed it to Miss Brownell. With an expert air she examined the
mechanism, making sure it was loaded.
“You worked the trick to the queen’s taste, Miss Brownell,” he declared
approvingly. “It was a good piece of work.”
“But you did it all.”
“Far from it! I couldn’t have thrown them off their guard if you hadn’t
helped. Do you know,” peering at her curiously, “I was afraid you would
faint, or something like that.”
She laughed. “You haven’t a very high opinion of our sex, Mr. Cole.”
“It is rising every moment. We must get away before these rascals come
to. Feel strong enough for a walk?”
“Just try me! Your exhibition of fisticuffs was so stimulating that I
am ready for anything.”
“Then let’s start. Latham must be wondering what has become of me.”
With a glance at his fallen foes, Cole started down the stairs, the
girl following. He did not wish to alarm her by voicing his misgivings,
but he was far from certain that they would reach the bottom without
an interruption. Doubtless the others must be aware by this time that
something was amiss. The burly sentinel he had knocked down at the foot
of the stairs had probably either recovered consciousness or been found
by his accomplices. In either event, their path was beset by perils.
Pistol in one hand, Cole proceeded cautiously down the stairs. They
were dark, and the constant winding made progress difficult. He had
discovered that Miss Brownell was brave and resourceful, but he would
breathe more easily when he had got her out of harm’s way.
They reached another turn, and suddenly the girl stumbled and lurched
violently against him.
“Ouch!” she moaned, trying to repress an exclamation of pain. “My
ankle! I think I twisted it.”
Cole cursed softly as he gathered her in his arms. Her figure was
writhing in the throes of physical distress.
“As I told you once before,” she complained mockingly, trying to make
light of the injury, “you are not at all gallant. Almost any other man
would have welcomed the chance.”
Cole muttered something under his breath. A dislocated ankle
complicated a situation that was already critical enough, but the
girl’s superb behavior stirred him to unwilling admiration. His fears
were all for her, not for himself. He was almost at the foot of the
stairs now. If he could only get her safely out of the building and
place her in Doctor Latham’s care. If only——
Abruptly he stopped before a door. With his burden in his arms he had
reached the foot of the stairs. For a moment he stopped and listened,
but all seemed quiet on the other side. An involuntary moan of pain
told that Miss Brownell was suffering intensely. Balancing her on his
shoulder he reached out a hand and pushed the door open.
Instantly he felt a premonition that something was wrong. The sentry,
whom he had left unconscious at the door before ascending to the tower,
was no longer there. He started to draw back, but it was too late. A
shadow leaped swiftly across the path of light in front of the open
door. A hand clutching a bludgeon was raised to strike. Cole, with
the girl on his shoulder, could not dodge the blow. It caught him
squarely on the jaw, and the terrific impact sent him reeling against
the stairs. The girl slipped away from him, and in his last conscious
moment he tried to ease her fall.
“I take it all back,” she whispered in his ear, her bantering tone
edged with pain and anguish. “You—you _are_ gallant, Mr. Cole.”
But Cole heard nothing.