A CRY
“Gold! Gold!” The vibrant murmurs, edged with a triumphant and sinister
note, echoed in Cole’s ears as he opened his eyes. The house was
shivering with a slow, rhythmic tremor, a throbbing pulsation that
instantly began to pierce the fog in his mind.
From his recumbent position on the floor he struggled to a sitting
posture. Lifting his head, he listened to the grimly exultant pæan
rising from the bowels of the earth.
“Feeling better?” asked a voice which he vaguely recognized at Doctor
Latham’s.
Cole did not answer. The subterranean vibrations seemed to cast a spell
over his awakening senses.
“Hear it?” he asked at length.
“Hear what?”
“This infernal hymn of gold. It will drive me crazy if I have to listen
to it much longer.”
“Then don’t listen. Know what time it is?”
Cole shook his head as if to indicate that the matter was of absolutely
no importance.
“Precisely twelve o’clock,” said the doctor, and Cole heard something
resembling the snapping of a watch lid. “You have been unconscious for
something like ten hours. That was the second knock-out in a night,
Cole. Why can’t these scoundrels show a little versatility?”
“What happened?” asked Cole dully.
“As if that mattered now! Englebreth gave a signal of some sort, and
the next thing I knew about half a dozen of his hired thugs swooped
down on us. My recollections cease at that point.”
“Where are we?”
“In the same room we occupied last night, before we were ushered into
Englebreth’s august presence. The windows are just as tightly shuttered
as they were then, and the door is just as impregnable. I wonder if
these hounds mean to let us starve to death.”
Cole looked about him. An electric light was burning dimly over their
heads. Through a narrow rift in one of the shutters came a shaft of
sunlight, gilding the dust in the stale air.
“Where is Miss Brownell?” he asked abruptly.
“Wish I knew,” muttered the doctor. Of a sudden all the levity had died
out of his voice. “You and I were alone in this room when I came to. If
these rats harm a single hair on her head——” The threat died unfinished
in a groan.
With difficulty Cole rose to his feet and leaned against the wall.
“I don’t seem to remember just where we were at,” he mumbled.
“You gave Miss Brownell a slap on the cheek,” the doctor reminded him.
“It was a brilliant idea, Cole.”
“So it was—but it failed, as I remember,” Cole muttered grimly. “What
was the situation just before that?”
“Englebreth was doing his level best to bluff me into revealing the
formula of the mythical seventh ingredient. Perhaps you remember his
sportsman-like proposition. I was to give him the formula in return for
my life.”
“He would promptly kill you the moment you surrendered the formula,”
Cole pointed out.
“Without a doubt. He would kill all three of us. But, as it happens, I
can’t give him the formula, because it doesn’t exist.”
“But as long as he thinks it does, we are holding a trump card in
reserve,” said Cole, regaining his grip on the tangled threads of the
situation.
“If only we knew how to use it!”
“We’ll find a way,” said Cole confidently, dragging himself to a chair
at one side of the room. “Anything about your person that could be used
as a weapon in an emergency?”
“Not a thing. I am plucked clean.”
“So am I,” said Cole after a hasty survey of his pockets. “No, here is
a stick pin. They seem to have overlooked that. The pin is long and
sharp. You could pierce a person’s jugular vein with an implement of
this kind, couldn’t you, doctor?”
“If you knew exactly where to strike.”
“You do, of course, being a doctor. As a weapon it would be useless in
my hand, so I will transfer it to you. I suggest you conceal it under
the lapel of your coat.”
Puzzled, Latham took the ornament and did as Cole had directed. As he
hid it under his lapel, he seemed inclined to ask a question, but Cole
forestalled him.
“I think some one is coming,” he remarked in an undertone.
Latham, listening, heard the sounds which Cole’s keener ears had caught
first. Folding his arms across his chest, he struck a carefree pose and
looked toward the door. It opened, and two armed stalwarts walked in.
They were followed by Englebreth in his wheel chair. Two more guards,
also armed, brought up the rear. With a cautious look to all sides,
the invalid trundled his wheel chair into the center of the room. The
barrel of a small automatic gleamed viciously in the electric light.
“How do you do, gentlemen?” he said in tones of mock geniality. “Wish
I could offer you some breakfast, but it has been my experience that
people are always more reasonable when their stomachs are empty. I have
come to renew our discussion where we left off last night.” He fixed
his bleak and very alert eyes on Doctor Latham.
“Better save your breath,” suggested the physician. “You may need it
before we are through with you.”
Englebreth smiled serenely. “I don’t blame you, doctor, for trying
to bolster up your courage. People usually resort to false bravado
when they are hopelessly situated. Our friend Cole enacted quite a
spectacular scene last night, but he will hardly try anything like that
again. He has learned his lesson. Well, doctor, are you ready to oblige
us?”
“If you will drop that automatic, I’ll oblige you with a smash on the
jaw,” said the physician in unprofessional but impressive language.
“Still stubborn, I see.” His smile took on a sinister quality. “I
suppose you are wondering what has become of Miss Brownell?”
The doctor bit his lip, but his gaze did not waver. “If anything
happens to Miss Brownell,” he muttered hotly, “I’ll choke you to death
with my bare hands.”
“Save your threats, doctor. They don’t interest me in the least. As
yet nothing whatever has happened to Miss Brownell, but something will
unless you adopt a more reasonable attitude. I warn you that it will be
something decidedly unpleasant.” He turned slightly in the chair and
addressed one of his bodyguards. “Ask Doctor Ballinger to step in here.”
The man nodded and left the room. A questioning glance passed between
Latham and Cole, the former looking as if a dread suspicion had
suddenly occurred to him. In a few moments the messenger returned with
Ballinger. The physician strode in with a jaunty air and saluted Cole
and Latham with exaggerated politeness.
“Ah, Ballinger,” said the cripple in an undertone, yet loud enough for
the two prisoners to hear, “I just wished to make certain that you have
made all necessary arrangements for the—ahem—experiment we discussed
last night.”
Cole, casting a sidelong glance at Latham, saw him stiffen suddenly. A
film of pallor spread above the bearded portion of his face.
“Yes, everything is ready,” announced Ballinger.
“The instruments came?”
“Just a little while ago.”
“And the ether?”
“It is here too.”
“Good, Ballinger. Be ready to proceed the moment you hear from me.” He
waved a withered hand in dismissal.
Ballinger, an inscrutable smile playing about his lips, left the room.
An intense silence followed. The cripple’s gelid gaze moved from Latham
to Cole, and then back to Latham.
“You understood?” he asked.
Neither man answered. A harrowing suspicion seemed to have come over
both of them. Latham looked as if his powerful body was racked by an
agonizing dread.
“Ballinger is a very clever man,” murmured the invalid. “You know
what happened to Malcolm Reeves.” He paused, looked stonily at Doctor
Latham, as if waiting for his last words to produce their utmost
effect. “The same thing,” he added slowly, measuring each word, “will
happen to Miss Brownell unless you change your mind, Latham.”
A cry of mingled horror, loathing and hate broke from Latham’s
compressed lips. He sprang toward the cripple, hand raised as if to
strike, but in an instant two of the bodyguards intervened.
“Glad we understand each other, Latham,” said the cripple calmly. “The
operation will start in fifteen minutes unless you submit to my terms.”
Latham stood speechless. The only sound heard in the room was a great
sigh.
“Don’t like the idea, eh, Latham?” the invalid went on in smooth,
dulcet tones. “The spectacle of Miss Brownell reduced to a gibbering
lunatic is a little too much for your imagination to dwell on. You have
a vivid recollection of what happened to Reeves.”
A dull, hoarse groan sounded in the physician’s chest. Cole, watching
him, thought he was about to give way under an overwhelming strain.
“You’re mistaken, Englebreth,” he managed to say. “There is no such
thing as the seventh ingredient. I let you go on thinking so because——”
Englebreth interrupted with a wave of his hand. “I expected you to
say that. It would be your logical evasion. You can’t deceive me with
such nonsense. Only last night you discussed the possibilities of the
seventh ingredient with Professor Carmody. As he explained it to me,
it’s a sort of electronic reaction. Not being a scientific man, I don’t
understand what that means, but it doesn’t matter. I have the utmost
respect for your scientific achievements, doctor. Will you give us the
formula?”
Latham fumbled in vain for a convincing argument. His advantage had not
only slipped away from him, but it had become a deadly boomerang in
Englebreth’s hand.
“I swear I am telling you the truth!” he cried brokenly.
A cold smile curled the cripple’s lips. “Such childish subterfuge
doesn’t go with me,” he said contemptuously. “Either you give me the
formula instantly, or Miss Brownell will be a lunatic inside of an
hour. Take your choice.”
He leaned back in the chair, slowly and playfully twisting the
automatic in his hand. Cole stepped forward.
“Latham has told you the truth,” he declared. “The seventh ingredient
never existed outside of his imagination.”
Englebreth shrugged with an air of utter incredulity. Cole could see
that there was no way of disturbing his firmly rooted belief. And he
knew that, even if the seventh ingredient had been a reality, Latham’s
submission would not have altered their situation.
Englebreth looked at his watch, then summoned one of his bodyguards and
whispered something in his ear. The man left the room. The slamming
of the door sounded like a death knell in the tense silence. Latham’s
chest heaved in a frenzy of suppressed emotions. Minutes passed, and
then hurried footsteps sounded overhead, accompanied by the sound of
a resisting body being dragged over the floor. Latham, with a wild
look in his face, started forward, but one of the guards shoved him
back. Breathing fast and raspingly he swayed unsteadily on his feet.
Of a sudden he gave a violent start, then stood as if frozen into
immobility. From the room above came a long cry of terror, uttered in a
woman’s voice.
Latham’s bulging eyes stared upward. There was a look of insanity in
his face.
“Stop it!” he cried hoarsely. “For God’s sake——”
Another cry, more poignant than the others, shrilled through the house.
“Stop it—you fiend!” cried Latham.
“I will, on one condition,” said Englebreth calmly. “There is still
time. They are only making preparations upstairs. She won’t cry when
the real business begins.”
Latham’s hand went to his eyes as if to exclude a hideous vision.
“Careful, Englebreth!” said Cole evenly. “If you go too far, Latham may
lose his mind.”
“And if he does, what then?” demanded the cripple jeeringly.
“A number of things may happen.” Cole gave the physician a level,
significant glance. “For instance, Latham may take it into his head to
kill himself.”
The physician’s head went up. His hands left his face. A look of
dawning comprehension crept into his features. He turned his head and
for an instant his eyes met Cole’s, reading a message there.
“Kill himself?” echoed the cripple, astonished. “What rot, Cole! How
would he do it, and why?”
“Ask him,” said Cole with a careless gesture. “I can only point out to
you that if he kills himself the secret of the seventh ingredient dies
with him. Look! He is——”
He simulated a cry of astonishment and horror. Latham, quickly
interpreting the message he had read in Cole’s eyes, had snatched the
stick pin from under the lapel of his coat.
“Watch me, Englebreth,” he declared in a voice that had suddenly
retrieved all its lost vigor. “Even a stick pin makes quite a
formidable weapon if it’s pointed in the right direction. I am pointing
this one straight at my jugular vein. The moment anybody in this room
makes a move, I drive it in. Where will your seventh ingredient be
then, Englebreth?”
The cripple stared at him in speechless bafflement. He raised a hand,
but it fell limply to his side.
“You—you’re crazy!” he stuttered.
“Maybe,” said Latham coolly.
“Or else you are only bluffing.” There was a trace of doubt in
Englebreth’s tones.
“Why should I be bluffing? I would rather kill myself than be killed by
your bunch of hyenas. I know you meant to kill me, anyway, Englebreth.
One thing is certain. Unless you stop the preparations upstairs within
the next sixty seconds, your last hope of obtaining that formula will
be gone. You can’t get anything out of a dead man.”
Englebreth strained forward in his chair, staring into the physician’s
grim, determined face.
“He means what he says,” Cole declared, smiling despite the tension of
the moment. “You will have to act quickly, Englebreth.”
The cripple considered a moment longer, then bawled an order to one
of the men at the door. The fellow hurried away, and in a moment
they heard him scurrying up the stairs. An exchange of words sounded
overhead, then all was quiet.
Englebreth made an impatient gesture with his hand. The bodyguard
closed in around him, and with petulant motions he wheeled himself out
of the room. At the door he turned his head for a moment, and a little
chill rippled down Cole’s back as he saw the cold, malignant look in
the cripple’s eye.