CHAPTER XII
CLAY READS AN AD AND ANSWERS IT
Clay was waiting for lunch at a _rotisserie_ on Sixth Avenue, and inorder to lose no time--of which he had more just now than he knew whatto do with--was meanwhile reading a newspaper propped against awater-bottle. From the personal column there popped out at him threelines that caught his attention:
If this meets the eye of C. L. of Arizona please write me. Box M-21, The Herald. Am in trouble. KITTY M.
He read it again. There could be no doubt in the world. It wasaddressed to him, and from Kitty. While he ate his one half springchicken Clay milled the situation over in his mind. She had been onthe lookout for him, just as he had been searching for her. By goodluck her shot at a venture had reached him. He remembered now that onthe bus he had casually mentioned to her that he usually read the"Herald."
After he had eaten, Clay walked down Broadway and left a note at theoffice of the "Herald" for Kitty.
The thought of her was in his mind all day. He had worried a good dealover her disappearance. It was not alone that he felt responsible forthe loss of her place as cigarette girl. One disturbing phase of thesituation was that Jerry Durand must have seen her. What more likelythan that he had arranged to have her spirited away? Lindsay had readthat hundreds of girls disappeared every year in the city. If theyever came to the surface again it was as dwellers in that underworld inthe current of which they had been caught.
Jerry was a known man in New York. It had been easy for Clay to findout the location of his saloon and the hotel where he lived. Thecattleman had done some quiet sleuthing, but he had found no trace ofKitty. Now he knew that she had turned to him in her need and criedfor help.
That she was in trouble did not surprise him. The girl was born for itas naturally as the sparks fly upward. She was a provocation to thosewho prey. In her face there was a disturbing quality quite apart fromher prettiness. Back of the innocence lay some hint of slumberouspassion. Kitty was one of those girls who have the misfortune to stirthe imaginations of men without the ability to keep them at arm'slength. Just what her present difficulty was Clay did not know, but hewas quite sure it had to do with a man. Already he had decided torescue her. He had promised to be her friend. It never occurred tohim to stand back when she called.
He had an engagement that afternoon to walk with Beatrice Whitford.She was almost the only girl in her set who knew how to walk and hadthe energy for it. In her movement there was the fluent, untamed gracethat expressed a soul not yet stunted by the claims of convention. Thegolden little head was carried buoyantly. In her step was the rhythmof perfect ease. The supple resilience of her was another expressionof the spiritual quality that spoke in the vivid face.
Clay, watching her as she moved, thought of a paragraph from MarkTwain's "Eve's Diary":
She is all interest, eagerness, vivacity, the world is to her a charm,a wonder, a mystery, a joy; she can't speak for delight when she findsa new flower, she must pet it and caress it and smell it and talk toit, and pour out endearing names upon it. And she is color mad: brownrocks, yellow sand, gray moss, green foliage, blue sky; the pearl ofthe dawn, the purple shadow on the mountains, the golden islandsfloating in crimson seas at sunset, the pallid moon sailing through theshredded cloud-rack, the star-jewels glittering in the waste of space.. . .
But the thing that tantalized him about her and filled him with despairwas that, though one moment she might be the first woman in thebirthday of the world filled with the primitive emotions of theexplorer, the next she was a cool, Paris-gowned-and-shod young modern,about as competent to meet emergencies as anything yet devised byheaven and a battling race.
They crossed to Morningside Park and moved through it to the northernend where the remains of Fort Laight, built to protect the approach tothe city during the War of 1812, can still be seen and traced.
Beatrice had read the story of the earthworks. In the midst of thetelling of it she stopped to turn upon him with swift accusation,"You're not listening."
"That's right, I wasn't," he admitted.
"Have you heard something about your cigarette girl?"
Clay was amazed at the accuracy of her center shot.
"Yes." He showed her the newspaper.
She read. The golden head nodded triumphantly. "I told you she couldlook out for herself. You see when she had lost you she knew enough toadvertise."
Was there or was there not a faint note of malice in the girl's voice?Clay did not know. But it would have neither surprised nor displeasedhim. He had long since discovered that his imperious little friend wasfar from an angel.
At his rooms he found a note awaiting him.
Come to-night after eleven. I am locked in the west rear room of thesecond story. Climb up over the back porch. Don't make any noise.The window will be unbolted. A friend is mailing this. For God'ssake, don't fail me.
The note was signed "Kitty." Below were given the house and streetnumber. Clay studied the letter a long time--the wording of it, theformation of the letters, the spirit that had actuated the writer. Itwas written upon a sheet of cheap lined paper torn from a pad. Theenvelope was one of those sold at the post-office already stamped.
Was the note genuine? Or did it lead to a trap? He could not tell.It might be a plant or it might be a wail of real distress. There wasonly one way to find out unless he went to the police. That way was togo through with the adventure. The police! Clay went back to thethought of them several times. The truth was that he had put himselfout of court there. He was in bad with the bluecoats and wouldprobably be arrested if he showed up at headquarters.
He decided to play a lone hand except for such help as Johnnie couldgive him.
Clay took a downtown car and rode to the cross-street mentioned in theletter for a preliminary tour of investigation. The street designatedwas one of plain brownstone fronts with iron-grilled doors. The blankfaces of the houses invited no confidence. It struck him that therewas something sinister about the neighborhood, but perhaps the thoughtwas born of the fear. Number 121 had windows barred with ornamentalgrilles. This might be to keep burglars out. It would serve equallywell to keep prisoners in.
At the nearest grocery store Clay made inquiries. He was looking, hesaid, for James K. Sanger. He did not know the exact address. Couldthe grocery man help him run down his party? How about the folksliving at Number 121?
"Don't know 'em. They've been in only for a few days. They don'ttrade here."
Clay tried the telephone, but Information could tell him only thatthere was no 'phone at 121.
On the whole Clay inclined to think that the letter was not a forgery.In his frank, outdoor code there was no reason why Durand should hatehim enough to go to such trouble to trap him. The fellow had more thansquared accounts when he had beaten him up outside the Sea Siren. Whyshould he want to do anything more to him? But he had had two warningsthat the ex-prize-fighter was not through with him--both of them frommembers of the police force, one direct from the sergeant who hadhelped rescue him, the other by way of the Runt from headquarters.When he recalled the savage hatred of that flat, pallid face he did notfeel so sure of immunity. Clay had known men in the West, wolf-heartedkillers steeped in a horrible lust for revenge, who never forgot orforgave an injury--until their enemy had paid the price in full. JerryDurand might be one of this stamp. He was a man of a bad reputation,one about whom evil murmurs passed in secret. Not many years ago hehad been tried for the murder of one Paddy Kelly, a rival gangsman inhis neighborhood, and had been acquitted on the ground of self-defense.But there had been a good deal of talk about evidence framed in hisbehalf. Later he had been arrested for graft, but the case somehow hadnever been acted upon by the district attorney's office. The whisperwas that his pull had saved him from trial.
The cattleman did not linger in that street lined with houses ofsinister faces. He did not care to call attention to his pres
ence bystaying too long. Besides, he had some arrangements to make for thenight at his rooms.
These were simple and few. He oiled and loaded his revolver carefully,leaving the hammer on the one chamber left empty to prevent accidentsafter the custom of all careful gunmen. He changed into the wrinkledsuit he had worn when he reached the city, and substituted for hisshoes a pair of felt-soled gymnasium ones.
The bow-legged little puncher watched his friend, just as a faithfuldog does his master. He asked no questions. In good time he knew hewould be told all it was necessary for him to know.
As they rode from the Bronx, Clay outlined the situation and told hisplans so far as he had any.
"So I'm goin' to take a whirl at it, Johnnie. Mebbe they're lyin' lowup in that house to get me. Mebbe the note's the real thing. You cansearch me which it is. The only way to find out is to go through withthe thing. Yore job is to stick around in front of the hacienda andwait for me. If I don't show up inside of thirty minutes, get thepolice busy right away breakin' into the place. Do you get me,Johnnie?"
"Lemme go with you into the house, Clay," the little man pleaded.
"No, this is a one-man job. If the note is straight goods I've got towork on the Q.T. Do exactly as I say. That's how you can help mebest."
"What's the matter with me goin' into the house instead o' you? Itdon't make no difference much if they do gun me. I'm jest the commonrun of the pen. But you--you're graded stock," argued the Runt.
"Nothin' doin', old-timer. This is my job, and I don't reckon I'll letanybody else tackle it. Much obliged, just the same. You're onesure-enough white man, Johnnie."
The little fellow knew that the matter was settled. Clay had decidedand what he said was final. But Johnnie worried about it all the way.At the last moment, when they separated at the street corner, he addedone last word.
"Don't you be too venturesome, son. If them guys got you it sure wouldbreak me all up."
Clay smiled cheerfully. "They're not goin' to get me, Johnnie. Don'tforget to remember not to forget yore part. Keep under cover forthirty minutes; then if I haven't shown up, holler yore head off forthe cops."
They were passing an alley as Clay finished speaking. He slipped intoits friendly darkness and was presently lost to sight. It ran into aninner court which was the center of tortuous passages. The cattlemanstopped to get his bearings, selected the likeliest exit, and broughtup in the shelter of a small porch. This, he felt sure, must be therear of the house he wanted.
A strip of lattice-work ran up the side of the entrance. Verycarefully, testing every slat with his weight before trusting himselfto it, he climbed up and edged forward noiselessly upon the roof. Onhands and knees he crawled to the window and tried to peer in.
The blind was down, but he could see that the room was dark. Whatdanger lurked behind the drawn blind he could not guess, but after amoment, to make sure that the revolver beneath his belt was ready forinstant use, he put his hand gently on the sash.
His motions were soundless as the fall of snowflakes. The window movedslowly, almost imperceptibly, under the pressure of his hands. It gavenot the faintest creak of warning. His fingers found the old-fashionedroller blind and traveled down it to the bottom. With the faintest ofclicks he released the spring and guided the blind upward.
Warily he lifted one leg into the room. His head followed, then therest of his body. He waited, every nerve tensed.
There came to him a sound that sent cold finger-tips laying a tattoo upand down his spine. It was the intake of some one's cautious breathing.
His hand crept to the butt of the revolver. He crouched, poised foreither attack or retreat.
A bath of light flooded the room and swallowed the darkness. InstantlyClay's revolver leaped to the air.
The Big-Town Round-Up Page 13
