III. ALIAS GYPSY NAN
Rhoda Gray went slowly from the room. In a curiously stunned sort ofway she reached the street, and for a few blocks walked along scarcelyconscious of the direction she was taking. Her mind was in turmoil. Thenight seemed to have been one of harrowing hallucination; it seemed asthough it were utterly unreal, like one dreaming that one is dreaming.And then, suddenly, she looked at her watch, and the straight littleshoulders squared resolutely back. The hallucination, if she chose tocall it that, was not yet over! It was twenty minutes of one, and therewas still Skarbolov's--and her promise.
She quickened her pace. She did not like this promise that she hadmade; but, on the other hand, she had not made it either lightly orimpulsively. She had no regrets on that score. She would make it againunder the same conditions. How could she have done otherwise? It wouldhave been to stand aside and permit a crime to be committed which shewas assured was easily within her power to prevent. What excuse couldshe have had for that? Fear wasn't an excuse. She did not like thethought of entering the back door of a store in the middle of the nightlike a thief, and, like a thief, taking away that hidden money. She knewshe was going to be afraid, horribly afraid--it frightened her now--butshe could not let that fear make a moral coward of her.
Her hands clenched at her sides. She would not allow herself to dwellupon that phase of it! She was going to Skarbolov's, and that was allthere was to it. The only thing she really had to fear was that sheshould lose even a single unnecessary moment in getting there. Halfpastone, Gypsy Nan had said. That should give her ample time; but thequicker she went, the wider the margin of safety.
Her thoughts reverted to Gypsy Nan. What had the woman meant by her lastfew wandering words? They had nothing to do with Skarbolov's, that wascertain; but the words came back now insistently. "Seven-three-nine."What did "seven-three-nine" mean? She shook her head helplessly. Well,what did it matter? She dismissed further consideration of it. Sherepeated to herself Gypsy Nan's directions for finding the spring of thesecret drawer. She forced herself to think of anything that would barthe entry of that fear which stood lurking at the threshold of her mind.
From time to time she consulted her watch--and each time hurried thefaster.
It was five minutes past one when, stealing silently along a black lane,and counting against the skyline the same number of buildings she hadpreviously counted on the street from the corner, she entered an equallyblack yard, and reached the back door of Skarbolov's little store. Shefelt out with her hands and found the padlock, and her fingers pressedon the link in the chain that Gypsy Nan had described. It gave readily.She slipped it free, and opened the door. There was faint, almostinaudible, protesting creak from the hinges. She caught her breathquickly. Had anybody heard it? It--it had seemed like a cannon shot. Andthen her lips curled in sudden self-contempt. Who was there to hear it?
She stepped forward, closed the door silently behind her, and drewout her flashlight. The ray cut through the blackness. She was in whatseemed like a small, outer storeroom, that was littered with an untidycollection of boxes, broken furniture, and odds and ends of all sorts.Ahead of her was an open door, and, through this, the flashlightdisclosed the shop itself. She switched off the light now as she movedforward-there were the front windows, and, used too freely, the lightmight by some unlucky chance be noticed from the street.
And now, in the darkness again, she reached the doorway of the shop. Shehad not made any noise. She assured herself of that. She had never knownthat she could move so silently before--and--and--Yes, she would fightdown this panic that was seizing her! She would! It would only take aminute now--just another minute--if--if she would only keep her head andher nerve. That was what Gypsy Nan had said. She only needed to keep hernerve. She had never lost it in the face of many a really serious dangerwhen with her father--why should she now, when there was nothing but thesilence and the darkness to be afraid of!
The flashlight went on again, its ray creeping inquisitively now alongthe rear wall of the shop. It held finally on an escritoire over in thefar corner at her right.
Once more the light went out. She moved swiftly across the floor, andin a moment more was bending over the escritoire. And now, with her bodyhiding the flashlight's rays from the front windows, she examined thedesk. It was an old-fashioned, spindle-legged affair, with a nest ofpigeonholes and multifarious little drawers. One of the drawers, widerthan any of the others, and in the center, was obviously the one towhich Gypsy Nan referred. She pulled out the drawer, and in the actof reaching inside, suddenly drew back her hand. What was that?Instinctively she switched off the flashlight, and stood tense and rigidin the darkness.
A minute passed-another. Still she listened. There was nosound--unless--unless she could actually hear the beating of her heart.Fancy! Imagination! The darkness played strange tricks! It--it wasn't soeasy to keep one' s nerve. She could have sworn that she had heard somesort of movement back there down the shop.
Angry with herself, she thrust her hand into the opening now and felthurriedly around. Yes, there it was! Her fingers touched what wasevidently a little knob or button. She pressed upon it. There was afaint, answering click. She turned on the flashlight again. Whathad before appeared to be nothing but one of the wide, pearl inlaidpartitions between two of the smaller drawers, was protruding invitinglyoutward now by the matter of an inch or so. Rhoda Gray pulled it open.It was very shallow, scarcely three-quarters of an inch in depth, butit was quite long enough, and quite wide enough for its purpose!Inside, there lay a little pile of banknotes, banknotes of very largedenomination--the one on top was a thousand-dollar bill.
She reached in and took out the money-and then from Rhoda Gray's lipsthere came a little cry, the flashlight dropped from her hand andsmashed to the floor, and she was clinging desperately to the edge ofthe escritoire for support. The shop was flooded with light. Over bythe side wall, one hand still on the electric-light switch, the otherholding a leveled revolver, stood a man.
And then the man spoke--with an oath--with curious amazement:
"My God--a woman!"
She did not speak, or stir. It seemed as though not fear, but horrornow, held her powerless to move her limbs. Her first swift brain-flashhad been that it was one of Gypsy Nan's accomplices here ahead of theappointed time. That would have given her cause, all too much of cause,for fear; but it was not one of Gypsy Nan's accomplices, and, far worsethan the fear of any physical attack upon her, was the sense of ruin anddisaster that the realization of a quite different and more desperatesituation brought her now. She knew the man. She had seen those square,heavy, clamped jaws scores of times. Those sharp, restless black eyesunder over-hanging, shaggy eyebrows were familiar to the whole EastSide. It was Rorke--"Rough" Rorke, of headquarters.
He came toward her, and halfway across the room another exclamationburst from his lips; but this time it held a jeer, and in the jeer asort of cynical and savage triumph.
"The White Moll!"
He was close beside her now, and now he snatched from her hand thebanknotes that, all unconsciously, she had still been clutching tightly.
"So this is what all the sweet charity's been about, eh?" he snapped."The White Moll, the Little Saint of the East Side, that lends a helpinghand to the crooks to get 'em back on the straight and narrow again! TheWhite Moll-hell! You crooked little devil!"
Again she did not answer. Her mind was clear now, brutally clear,brutally keen, brutally virile. What was there for her to say? She wascaught here at one o'clock in the morning after breaking into the place,caught red-handed in the very act of taking the money. What story couldshe tell that would clear her of that! That she had taken it so thatit wouldn't be stolen, and that she was going to give it back in themorning? Was there anybody in the world credulous enough to believeanything like that! Tell Gypsy Nan's story, all that had happenedto-night? Yes, she might have told that to-morrow, after she hadreturned the money, and been believed. But now-no! It would even makeher appear in a st
ill worse light. They would credit her with being amember of this very gang to which Gypsy Nan belonged, one in the secretsof an organized band of criminals, who was trying to clear her ownskirts at the expense of her confederates. Everything, every act ofhers to-night, pointed to that construction being placed upon her story,pointed to duplicity. Why had she hidden the identity of Gypsy Nan? Whyhad she not told the police that a crime was to be committed, and leftit to the police to frustrate it? It would fit in with the story, ofcourse--but the story was the result of having been caught in the actof stealing twenty thousand dollars in cash! What was there to say--and,above all, to this man, whose reputation for callous brutality in thehandling of those who fell into his hands had earned him the sobriquetof "Rough" Rorke? Sick at heart, desperate, but with her hands clenchednow, she stood there, while the man felt unceremoniously over herclothing for a concealed weapon.
Finding none, he stooped, picked up the flashlight, tested it, and foundit broken from its fall.
"Too bad you bust this, we'll have to go out in the dark after I switchoff the light," he said with unpleasant facetiousness. "I didn'thave one with me, or time to get one, when I got tipped off there wassomething doing here to-night." He caught her ungently by the arm."Well, come along, my pretty lady! This'll make a stir, this will! TheWhite Moll!" He led her to the electric-light switch, turned off thelight, and, with his grasp tight upon her, made for the front door. Hechuckled in a sinister manner. "Say, you're a prize, you are! And prettyclever, too, aren't you? I wasn't looking for a woman to pull this. TheWhite Moll! Some saint!"
Rhoda Gray shivered. Disgrace, ruin, stared her in the face. A sea offaces in a courtroom, morbid faces, hideous faces, leered at her. Graywalls rose before her, walls that shut out sunshine and hope, pitiless,cold things that seemed to freeze the blood in her veins. And to-night,in just a few minutes more--a cell!
From the street outside came the sound of some one making a cheery, butevidently a somewhat inebriated, attempt to whistle some ragtime air.It seemed to enhance her misery, to enhance by contrast in its care-freecheeriness the despair and misery that were eating into her soul.Her hands clenched and unclenched. If there were only achance--somewhere--somehow! If only she were not a woman! If she couldonly fight this hulking form that gripped so brutally at her arm!
Rough Rorke opened the door, and pulled her out to the street. Sheshrank back instinctively. It was quite light here from a nearby streetlamp, and the owner of the whistle, a young man, fashionably dressed,decidedly unsteady on his legs, and just opposite the door as they cameout, had stopped both his whistle and his progress along the street tostare at them owlishly.
"'Ullo!" said the young man thickly. "What'sh all this about--eh?What'sh you two doing in that place this time of night--eh?"
"Beat it!" ordered Rough Rorke curtly.
"That'sh all right." The young man came nearer. He balanced himself withdifficulty, but upon him there appeared to have descended suddenly avast dignity. "I'm--hic--law--'biding citizen. Gotta know. Gotta showme. Damn funny--coming out of there this time of night! Eh--what'sh theidea?"
Rough Rorke, with his free hand, grabbed the young man by the shoulderangrily.
"Mind your own business, or you'll get into trouble!" he rasped out."I'm an officer, and this woman is under arrest. Beat it! D'ye hear?Beat it--or I'll run you in, too!"
"Is that'sh so!" The young man's tones expressed a fuddled defiance. Herocked on his feet and stared from one to the other. "Shay, is that'shso! You will--eh? Gotta show me. How do I know you're--hic--officer? Eh?More likely damned thief yourself! I--"
The young man lurched suddenly and violently forward, breaking RoughRorke's grip on Rhoda Gray--and, as his arms swept out to grasp at thedetective in an apparently wild effort to preserve his balance, RhodaGray felt a quick, significant push upon her shoulder.
For the space of time it takes a watch to tick she stood startled andamazed, and then, like a flash, she was speeding down the street. A roarof rage, a burst of unbridled profanity went up from Rough Rorke behindher; it was mingled with equally angry vituperation in the young man'svoice. She looked behind her. The two men were swaying around crazily ineach other's arms. She ran on--faster than she had ever run in herlife. The corner was not far ahead. Her brain was working with lightningspeed. Gypsy Nan's house was just around the corner. If she could getout of sight--hide--it would...
She glanced behind her again, as her ears caught the pound of racingfeet. The young man was sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, shakinghis fist; Rough Rorke, perhaps a bare fifty yards away, was chasing herat top speed.
Her face set hard. She could not out-run a man! There was only one hopefor her--just one--to gain Gypsy Nan's doorway before Rorke got aroundthe corner.
A yard--another--still another! She swerved around the corner. And,as she turned, she caught a glimpse of the detective. The man wasnearer--much nearer. But it was only a little way, just a little way, toGypsy Nan's--not so far as the distance between her and Rorke--and--andif the man didn't gain too fast, then--then--A little cry of dismay camewith a new and terrifying thought. Quite apart from Rorke, some one elsemight see her enter Gypsy Nan's! She strained her eyes in all directionsas she ran. There wasn't any one--she didn't see any one--only Rorke,around the corner there, was bawling out at the top of his voice,and--and...
She flung herself against Gypsy Nan's door, stumbled in, and, closingit, heard Rorke just swinging around the corner. Had he seen her? Shedidn't know. She was panting, gasping for her breath. It seemed asthough her lungs would burst. She held her hand tightly to her bosom asshe made for the stairs--she mustn't make any noise--they mustn'thear her breathing like that--they--they mustn't hear her going up thestairs.
How dark it was! If she could only see--so that she would be sure notto stumble! She couldn't go fast now--she would make a noise if she did.Stair after stair she climbed stealthily. Perhaps she was safe now--ithad taken her a long time to get up here to the second floor, and therewasn't any sound yet from the street below.
And now she mounted the short, ladder-like steps to the attic, and,feeling with her hand for the crack in the flooring under the partition,reached in for the key. As her fingers closed upon it, she choked backa cry. Some one had been here! A piece of paper was wrapped around thekey. What did it mean? What did all these strange, yes, sinister, thingsthat had happened to-night mean? How had Rorke known that a robbery wasto be committed at Skarbolov's? Who was that man who had effected herescape, and who, she knew now, was no more drunk than she was? Fast,quick, piling one upon the other, the questions raced through her mind.
She fought them back. There was no time for speculation now! There wasonly one question that mattered: Was she safe?
She stood up, thrust the paper for safe-keeping into her bosom, andunlocked the door. If--if Rorke did not know that she had entered thishouse here, she could remain hidden for a few hours; it would give hertime to think, and...
It came this time, no strength of will would hold it back, a littlemoan. The front door below had opened, a heavy footstep sounded in thelower hall. She couldn't see, of course. But she knew. It was Rorke! Sheheard him coming up the stairs.
And then, in a flash, it seemed, her brain responded to her despairingcry. There was still a way--a desperate one--but still a way--if therewas time! She darted inside the garret, locked the door, found thematches and candle, and, running silently to the rear wall, pushedup the board in the ceiling. In frantic haste she tore off her outergarments, her stockings and shoes, pulled on the rough stockings andcoarse boots that Gypsy Nan had worn, slipped the other's greasy,threadbare skirt over her head, and pinned the shawl tight about hershoulders. There was a big, voluminous pocket in the skirt, and intothis she dropped Gypsy Nan's revolver, and the paper she had foundwrapped around the key.
She could hear a commotion from below now. It was the one thing she hadcounted upon. Rough Rorke might know she had entered the house, but hecould not know whereabouts in the
house she was, and he would naturallysearch each room as he came to it on the way up. She fitted thegray-streaked wig of tangled, matted hair upon her head, plunged herhand into the box that Gypsy Nan used for her make-up and daubed someof the grime upon both hands and face, adjusted the spectacles upon hernose, hid her own clothing, closed the narrow trap-door in the ceiling,and ran back, carrying the candle, to the washstand.
Here, there was a small and battered mirror, and more coolly, moreleisurely now, for the commotion still continued from the floor below,she spread and rubbed in, as craftily as she could, the grime streakson her face and hands. It was neither artistic nor perfect, but inthe meager, flickering light now the face of Gypsy Nan seemed to starereassuringly back at her. It might not deceive any one in daylight--shedid not know, and it did not matter now--but with only this candle tolight the garret, since the lamp was empty, she could fairly count onher identity not being questioned.
She blew out the candle, left it on the washstand, because, if she couldhelp it, she did not want to risk having it lighted near the bed ordoor, and, tiptoeing now, went to the door, unlocked it, then threwherself down upon the bed.
Possibly a minute went by, possibly two, and then there was a quick stepon the ladder-like stairs, the door handle was rattled violently, andthe door was flung open and slammed shut again.
Rhoda Gray sat upright on the bed. It was her wits now, her wits againstRough Rorke's; nothing else could save her. She could not even make outthe man's form, it was so dark; but, as he had not moved, she was quitewell aware that he was standing with his back to the door, evidentlytrying to place his surroundings.
It was Gypsy Nan, not Rhoda Gray, who spoke.
"Who's dere?" she screeched. "D'ye hear, blast youse, who's dere?"
Rough Rorke laughed gratingly.
"That you, Nan, my dear?"
"Who d'youse t'ink it is-me gran'mother?" demanded Rhoda Graycaustically. "Who are youse?"
"Rorke," said Rorke shortly. "I guess you know, don't you?"
"Is dat so?" snorted Rhoda Gray. "Well den, youse can beat it--hopit--on de jump! Wot t'hell right have youse got bustin' into me room atdis time of night--eh? I ain't done nothin'!"
Rough Rorke, his feet scuffling to feel the way, came forward.
"Cut it out!" he snarled. "I ain't the only visitor you've got! It's notyou I want; it's the White Moll."
"Wot's dat got to do wid me?" Rhoda Gray flung back hotly. "She ain'there, is she?"
"Yes, she's here!" Rough Rorke's voice held an ugly menace. "I losther around the corner, but a woman from a window across the street, whoheard the row, saw her run into this house. She ain't downstairs--so youcan figure the rest out the same way I do."
"De woman was kiddin' youse!" Rhoda Gray, alias Gypsy Nan, cackledderisively. "Dere ain't nobody here but me."
"We'll see about that!" said Rough Rorke shortly. "Strike a light!"
"Aw, strike it yerself!" retorted Rhoda Gray. "I ain't yer servant!Dere's a candle over dere on de washstand against de wall, if yousewants it."
A match crackled and spurted into flame; its light fell upon the lampstanding on the chair beside the bed. Rough Rorke stepped toward it.
"Dere ain't any oil in dat," croaked Rhoda Gray. "Didn't I tell youse decandle was over dere on de washstand, an'--"
The words seemed to freeze in her throat, the chair, the lamp, theshadowy figure of the man in the match flame to swirl before her eyes,and a sick nausea to come upon her soul itself. With a short, triumphantoath, Rough Rorke had stopped suddenly and reached in under the chair.And now he was dangling a new, black kid glove in front of her. Caught!Yes, she was caught! She remembered Gypsy Nan's attempt to put on hergloves--one must have fallen to the floor unnoticed by either of themwhen Gypsy Nan had thought to put them in her pocket! The man's voicecame to her as from some great distance:
"So, she ain't here--ain't she! I'll teach you to lie to me! I'll--" Thematch was dying out. Rorke raised it higher, and with the last flickerlocated the washstand, and made toward it, obviously for the candle.
Her wits against Rough Rorke's! Nothing else could save her! Failing tofind any one here but herself, certain now that the White Moll was here,only a fool could have failed in his deduction--and Rough Rorke wasnot a fool. Her wits against Rough Rorke's! There was the time left herwhile the garret was still in darkness, just that, no more!
With a quick spring she leaped from the bed, seized the chair, sendingthe lamp to the floor, and, dragging the chair after her to make as muchnoise and confusion as she could, she rushed for the door, screeching atthe top of her voice:
"Run, dearie, run! Run!" She was scuffling with her feet, clattering thechair, as she wrenched the door open. And then, in her own voice: "Nan,I won't! I won't let you stand for this, I--"
Then as Gypsy Nan again: "Run, dearie! Don't youse mind old Nan!" Shebanged the door shut, locked it, and whipped out the key. It had takenscarcely a second. She was still screeching at the top of her voice tocover the absence of flying footers on the stairs. "Run, dearie, run!Run!"
And then, in the darkness, the candle still unlighted, Rough Rorke wason her like a madman. With a sweep of his arm he sent her crashing tothe floor, and wrenched at the door. The next instant he was on heragain.
"The key! Give me that key!" he roared.
For answer she flung it from her. It fell with a tinkle on the floor atthe far end of the garret. The man was beside himself with rage.
"Damn you, if I had time, I'd wring your neck for this, you she-devil!"he bawled-and raced back, evidently for the candle on the washstand.
Rhoda Gray, sprawled on the floor where he had thrown her, did notmove-except to take the revolver from the pocket of her dress. She wascrooning queerly to herself, as she watched Rough Rorke light the candleand grope around on the floor:
"She was good to me, de White Moll was. Jellies an' t'ings she broughtme, she did. An' Gypsy Nan don't ferret. Gypsy Nan don't--"
She sat up suddenly, snarling. Rorke had found the key, left the bottlewith the short stub of guttering candle standing on the floor, and wasback again.
"By God!" he gritted through his teeth, as he jabbed the key withfrantic haste into the lock. "I'll fix you for this!" He made a clutchat her throat, as he swung the door open.
She jerked herself backward, eluding him, her revolver leveled.
"Youse keep yer dirty paws off me!" she screamed. "Yah, wot can yousedo! Wot do I care! She was good to me, she was, an--"
Rough Rorke was gone-taking the stairs three and four at a time. Thenshe heard the street door slam.
She rose slowly to her feet--and suddenly reached out, grasping at thedoor to steady herself. It seemed as though every muscle had gone limp,as though her limbs had not strength to support her. And for a momentshe hung there, then she locked the door, staggered back, sank downon the edge of the bed, and, with her chin in her hands, stared atthe guttering stub of candle. And presently, in an almost aimless,mechanical way, she felt in her pocket for the piece of paper that shehad found wrapped around the key, and drew it out. There were threefigures scrawled upon it--nothing else.
7 3 9
She dropped her chin in her hands again, and stared again at the candle.And after a while the candle went out.
The White Moll Page 3
