The Big-Town Round-Up
Page 22
CHAPTER XXI
AT THE HEAD OF THE STAIRS
The cab whirled round the corner and speeded down a side street thatstretched as far as they could see silent and deserted in the storm.
The rain, falling faster now, beat gustily in a slant against the leftwindow of the cab. It was pouring in rivulets along the gutter besidethe curb. Some sixth sense of safety--one that comes to many men wholive in the outdoors on the untamed frontier--warned Clay that all wasnot well. He had felt that bell of instinct ring in him once at Juarezwhen he had taken a place at a table to play poker with a bad-man whohad a grudge at him. Again it had sounded when he was about to sitdown on a rock close to a crevice where a rattler lay coiled.
The machine had swung to the right and was facing from the wind insteadof into it. Clay was not very well acquainted with New York, but hedid know this was not the direction in which he wanted to go.
He beat with his knuckles on the front of the cab to attract theattention of the driver. In the swishing rain, and close to the throbof the engine, the chauffeur either did not or would not hear.
Lindsay opened the door and swung out on the running-board. "We'regoin' wrong. Stop the car!" he ordered.
The man at the wheel did not turn. He speeded up.
His fare wasted no time in remonstrances. A moment, and the chauffeurthrew on the brake sharply. His reason was a good one. The blue noseof a revolver was jammed hard against his ribs. He had looked roundonce to find out what it was prodding him. That was enough to convincehim he had better stop.
Under the brake the back wheels skidded and brought up against thecurb. Clay, hanging on by one hand, was flung hard to the sidewalk.The cab teetered, regained its equilibrium, gathered impetus with asnort, and leaped forward again.
As the cattleman clambered to his feet he caught one full view of thechauffeur's triumphant, vindictive face. He had seen it before, at areception especially arranged for him by Jerry Durand one memorablenight. It belonged to the more talkative of the two gunmen he hadsurprised at the pretended poker game. He knew, too, without beingtold that this man and "Slim" Jim Collins were one and the same. Thememory of Annie's stricken face carried this conviction home to him.
The Arizonan picked up his revolver in time to see the car sweep aroundthe next corner and laughed ruefully at his own discomfiture. Hepushed a hand through the crisp, reddish waves of his hair.
"I don't reckon I'll ride in that taxi any farther. Johnnie will haveto settle the bill. Hope he plays his hand better than I did," he saidaloud.
The rain pelted down as he moved toward the brighter lighted streetthat intersected the one where he had been dropped. The lights of asaloon caught his eye at the corner. He went in, got policeheadquarters on the wire, and learned that a car answering thedescription of the one used by his abductor had been headed intoCentral Park by officers and that the downtown exits were being watched.
He drew what comfort he could from that fact.
Presently he picked up another taxi. He hesitated whether to go to theaddress Annie had given him or to join the chase uptown. Reluctantly,he decided to visit the house. His personal inclination was for thehunt rather than for inactive waiting, but he sacrificed any immediatechance of adventure for the sake of covering the possible rendezvous ofthe gang.
Clay paid his driver and looked at the house numbers as he moved up thestreet he wanted. He was in that part of the city from which businessyears ago marched up-town. Sometime in decades past people of meanshad lived behind these brownstone fronts. Many of the residences wereused to keep lodgers in. Others were employed for less reputablepurposes.
His overcoat buttoned to his neck, Clay walked without hesitation upthe steps of the one numbered 243. He rang the bell and waited, hisright hand on the pocket of his overcoat.
The door opened cautiously a few inches and a pair of close-set eyes ina wrinkled face gimleted Clay.
"Whadya want?"
"The old man sent me with a message," answered the Arizonan promptly.
"Spill it."
"Are you alone?"
"You _know_ it."
"Got everything ready for the girl?"
"Say, who the hell are youse?"
"One of Slim's friends. Listen, we got the kid--picked her up at adrug-store."
"I don' know watcher fairy tale's about. If you gotta message comethrough with it."
Clay put his foot against the door to prevent it from being closed anddrew his hand from the overcoat pocket. In the hand nestled ablue-nosed persuader.
Unless the eyes peering into the night were bad barometers of theirowner's inner state, he was in a panic of fear.
"Love o' Gawd, d-don't shoot!" he chattered. "I ain't nobody but thecaretaker."
He backed slowly away, followed by Lindsay. The barrel of thethirty-eight held his eyes fascinated. By the light of his flash Claydiscovered the man to be a chalk-faced little inconsequent.
"Say, don't point that at me," the old fellow implored.
"Are you alone?"
"I told you I was."
"Is Jerry comin' himself with the others?"
"They don't none of them tell me nothin'. I'm nobody. I'm only Joey."
"Unload what you know. Quick. I'm in a hurry."
The man began a rambling, whining tale.
The Arizonan interrupted with questions, crisp and incisive. Helearned that a room had been prepared on the second floor for a woman.Slim had made the arrangements. Joe had heard Durand's name mentioned,but knew nothing of the plans.
"I'll look the house over. Move along in front of me and don't makeany mistakes. This six-gun is liable to permeate yore anatomy withlead."
The cattleman examined the first floor with an especial view to theexits. He might have to leave in a hurry. If so, he wanted to knowwhere he was going. The plan of the second story was another point hefeatured as he passed swiftly from room to room. From the laundry inthe basement he had brought up a coil of clothes-line. With this hetied Joe hand and foot. After gagging him, he left the man locked in asmall rear room and took the key with him.
Clay knew that he was in a precarious situation. If Durand returnedwith Kitty and captured him here he was lost. The man would make nomore mistakes. Certainly he would leave no evidence against him exceptthat of his own tools. The intruder would probably not be killedopenly. He would either simply disappear or he would be murdered withwitnesses framed to show self-defense. The cattleman was as muchoutside the law as the criminals were. He had no legal business inthis house. But one thing was fixed in his mind. He would be noinactive victim. If they got him at all it would be only after afighting finish.
To Clay, standing at the head of the stairs, came a sound thatstiffened him to a tense wariness. A key was being turned in the lockof the street door below. He moved back into the deeper shadows as thedoor swung open.
Two men entered. One of them cursed softly as he stumbled against achair in the dark hall.
"Where's that rat Joe?" he demanded in a subdued voice.
Then came a click of the lock. The sound of the street rain ceased.Clay knew that the door had been closed and that he was shut in withtwo desperate criminals.
What have they done with Kitty? Why was she not with them? He askedhimself that question even as he slipped back into a room that openedto the left.
He groped his way through the darkness, for he dared not flash hislight to guide him. His fingers found the edge of a desk. Round thathe circled toward a closet he remembered having noted. Already the menwere tramping up the stairs. They were, he could tell, in a vilehumor. From this he later augured hopefully that their plans had notworked out smoothly, but just now more imperative business called him.
His arm brushed the closet door. Next moment he was inside and hadclosed it softly behind him.
And none too soon. For into the room came the gunmen almost on hisheels.