XI
BURGLARY UNDER ARMS
And there P. Sybarite stood, near the middle of a fence-enclosed areaof earth and flagstones; winded and weary; looking up and all aroundhim in distressed perplexity; in a stolen coat (to be honest about it)and with six months' income from a million dollars unlawfully procuredand secreted upon his person; wanted for resisting arrest andassaulting the minions of the law; hounded by a vengeful anddetermined posse; unacquainted with his whereabouts, ignorant of anyway of escape from that hollow square, round whose sides window afterexcitable window was lighting up in his honour; all in all, asdistressful a figure of a fugitive from justice as ever was on land orsea....
Conceiving the block as a well a-brim with blackness and clamorouswith violent sound, studded on high with inaccessible, yellow-brightloopholes wherefrom hostile eyes spied upon his every secret movement,and haunted below by vicious perils both animate and still: he foundhimself possessed of an overpowering desire to go away from therequickly.
But--short of further dabbling in crime--_how_?
To break his way to the street through one of those houses would henot only to invite apprehension: it would be downright burglary.
To continue his headlong career of the fugitive backyards tom-cat wasout of the question, entirely too much like hard work, painful intothe bargain--witness scratched and abraded palms and agonised shins.Sooner or later his strength must fail, some one would surely espy himand cry on the chase, he must be surrounded and overwhelmed: while tohide behind some ash-barrel was not only ignoble but downrightfatuous: faith the most sublime in his _Kismet_ couldn't excuse anyhope that, eventually, he wouldn't be discovered and ignominiouslyrouted out.
Very well, then! So be it! Calmly P. Sybarite elected to ventureanother and deeper dive into amateurish malfeasance; and gravely hestudied the inoffensive building whose back premises he was theninfesting.
It seemed to offer at least the negative invitation of desuetude. Itshowed no lights; had not an open window--so far as could bedetermined by straining sight aided only by a faint reflection fromthe livid skies. One felt warranted in assuming the premises to bevacant. Encouraging surmise! If such were in fact the case, he mighthope soon to be counting his spoils in the privacy of histop-floor-hall-bedroom, back....
At the same time, to one ignorant of the primary principles ofhouse-breaking, the problem of negotiating an entrance was offormidable proportions.
To break a basement window was feasible, certainly--but highlyinadvisable for a number of obvious reasons.
To force a window-latch required (if memory served) a long flat-bladedknife--a kitchen knife; and P. Sybarite happened to have no suchimplement about him.
Similarly, to pry open the back door would require the services of ajimmy (whatever that might be).
Moreover, there were such things as burglar alarms--inventions of thedevil!
On the other hand, unless his senses deceived him, there were policeofficers in plenty only a fence or two away; and the back of thishouse boasted a fire-escape. By inverting a convenient ash-can andstanding on it, an active man might possibly, if sufficientlydesperate, manage to jump a vertical yard (more or less), catch thelowermost grating of the fire-escape, and draw himself up.
In a thought P. Sybarite turned the galvanised iron cylinderbottom-up, clambered upon it, and on tiptoe sought to gauge the exactdistance of the requisite leap. But now the grating seemed to havereceded at least three feet from its position as first judged--to behopelessly removed from the grasp of his yearning fingers.
Yet that mad attempt must be made. Why die fighting when a broken neckwould serve as well?
Gathering his slight person together, P. Sybarite crouched, quivered,jumped for glory and the Saints--and all but brained himself on thatimpish and trickish grating. Clutching it and kicking footloose, hewas stunned by the wonder of many brilliant new-born constellationsswirling round his poor head to the thunderous music of the spheres,as rendered by the ash-can which, displaced by the vigour of hisacrobatics, had toppled over and was rolling and clattering hideouslyon the flagging.
In his terrified bosom P. Sybarite felt the heart of him turn to coldand clammy stone.
No clamour more infernal could well have been improvised, givensimilar circumstances and facilities as rude. It seemed hours, ratherthan instants, that the damned thing wallowed and bellowed beneathhim, raising a din to disturb all Christendom. While, the moment itwas still, the cries of the police pack belled clear and near at hand:
"This way, b'ys!"
"There he is, the--"
"Got 'im now--"
"Halt or--!"
Another pistol shot!...
Glancing over shoulder, the hunted man caught a glimpse of uncouthshapes wriggling along a fence ridge several rods away. No more thanthe barest glimpse, it served: with a mighty heave and wriggle hebreasted the lower platform, shifted a hand to the top of its railing,heaved himself up to a foothold, and swarmed up the iron ladder withan agility an ape might have envied.
But as he mounted, it grew momentarily more evident that the stagethunder manufactured by that wretched galvanised iron cylinder had, infact, served him far from ill; reverberating from wall to wall withinthe hollow of the block, its dozen echoes diverted pursuit to as manyquarters, luring the limbs of the law every way but the right one.Nobody, it appeared, was alert enough to espy that fugacious shadow onthe fire-ladder. And in less than a brace of minutes P. Sybarite, atthe top, was pulling himself gingerly over the lip of a stone coping.
Surmising that he had gained not the roof of the house but that of atwo-story rear extension, he found himself in what seemed a smallroof-garden, made private by awnings and Venetian blinds. Between hissoles and the stone flooring he could feel the yielding texture of agrass mat, and he could not only dimly discern but also smell theperfume of green things in pots here and there. And his first stepforward brought him into soft collision with a wicker basket-chair.
He paused and took thought in perturbation.
A most disappointing and deceptive sort of a house--inhabited, afterall: its sombre and quiet aspect masking Heaven alone knew whatpitfalls!...
Not a glint of light, not a sound....
When he moved again, it was with scrupulous caution.
Stealing softly on, the darkness seemed to thicken round him. He wassensible of suspense and qualms, of creeping flesh and an almostirresistible inclination to hold his breath. Uncanny business,this--penetrating unknown fastnesses of a dark and silent house atdead of night: a trespasser unable to surmise when the righteoushouseholder, lurking on familiar ground and vigilant under arms, mightnot open fire....
Nevertheless, the police behind him were a menace of known calibre.With whatever shrinkings and dire misgivings, P. Sybarite went on.
Without misadventure he gained the main wall of the house, and therefound open windows and (upon further cautious investigation) adoorway, likewise wide to the bland night air. Hesitant on thethreshold of this last he sought with impotent senses to probeimpenetrable obscurity--listening, every nerve taut and vibrant, forsome sound significant of human tenancy, and detecting never an one.In spite of this, it was without the least confidence that presentlyhe plucked up heart to proceed....
Three steps on into darkness, and his knee found a chair that mighthave poised itself on one leg, in malicious ambush, so promptly did itgo over--and with what a racket.
Incontinently something rustled quite near at hand; followed aclick--blinding light--a shrill, excited voice:
"Hands up!"
With a jerk, up went his hands high above his head. Blinking furiouslyin the glare, he comprehended his plight.
The lights he found so dazzling blazed from sconces round the walls ofa bedroom more handsome than any he had thought ever to see--unlessperhaps upon a stage. The voice belonged to a young woman sitting upin bed and coolly covering him with the yawning muzzle of a peculiarlypoisonous-looking automatic pistol.
It was as
tonishingly evident that she wasn't at all frightened. Thearm that levelled the weapon (a round and shapely arm, bare to theshoulder) was admirably steady; the rich colouring of her distinctlyhandsome face showed not a trace of pallor; and the fire thatflickered in her large and darkly beautiful eyes was of indignationrather than of fear.
Abruptly she dropped her weapon and sat up yet straighter in herhuddled bed-clothing, mouth and eyes widening with astonishment.
"Well!" she said quite simply--"I'll be damned if it ain't a cop!"
P. Sybarite immediately took occasion to lower his hands to a morecomfortable position.
Fright inspired his latent histrionic genius; momentarily he becamealmost a good actor.
"Thank God!" he exclaimed fervently. "You're the one woman in athousand who knows enough to look before she shoots! _Phwew!_"
"You're the one woman in a thousand who knows enough tolook before she shoots!"]
Quite naturally he drew a braided blue cuff across a beaded forehead.
"That's all very well," the woman took him up sharply--"but be carefulI don't shoot after looking. Cop or no cop, you--what the devil do youwant in my bedroom at this hour of the night?"
"Madam," P. Sybarite expostulated, aggrieved yet with an air of theutmost candour--"my duty, of course!"
"Duty!" she echoed. "What do you think you mean by that?"
"Perhaps," he countered blandly, "you're not aware a burglar haspassed through this room?"
"A burglar? What rot!"
"Pardon me, madam," P. Sybarite lied nonchalantly, "but five minutesago I was called in by the people in Two-thirty-three Forty-fifthStreet, to nab a burglar who'd broken in there. They thought they hadhim locked up safe enough in one of the rooms, but when they came toopen the door and let _me_ at him--the bird had flown! He'd taken along chance--swung himself from the window-ledge to a fire-escape fivefeet away--don't ask _me_ how he did it! I got to the window just intime to see him go over the back fence. You heard me take a shot athim? No?"
"No, I didn't," said the woman in a manner eloquent of positiveincredulity.
"Well, _any_way," P. Sybarite went on with elaborate ease, "I saw thisman climb your fire-escape and so I came after him."
The woman frowned as she weighed this likely story; and P. Sybaritewas at pains to conceal any exultation he may have felt over theprompt response of his vivid imagination to the call of exigence.
Would she or wouldn't she accept that wildly fanciful yarn of his? Formoments that, brief though they must have been, seemed intolerablyprotracted, he awaited her verdict in the extremest anxiety--not,however, neglecting to employ the respite thus afforded him to makeanother quick survey of the room and a second and more shrewdappraisal of its admirably self-possessed tenant.
A bit too florid and ornate--he concluded--woman and lodgings alikewere somewhat overdone. A superabundance of gilt and pink marred thecolour scheme of the apartment; and there was ostentatious evidence ofwealth lavishly expended on its furnishings. An overpoweringvoluptuousness of silken clothing dressed the bed itself.
But if her setting were luxurious, the woman outshone it tenfold withthe dark splendour of her animal beauty. As comely and as able-bodiedas a young pantheress, she was (one judged) little less dangerous--asvital, as self-centred, as deadly. Sitting up in bed, openly carelessof charms hardly concealed by nightwear of sheer silk lace and _crepede Chine_, she looked P. Sybarite up and down with wide eyes overwisein the ways of life, shrewdly judicious of mankind; handled her pistolwith experienced confidence; spoke, in a voice of surpassingsweetness, with decision and considerable overt contempt for thephraseology of convention--swearing without the least affectation,slanging heartily when slang best suited her humour....
"Maybe you're telling the truth, at that," she announced suddenly,eyes coldly unprepossessed. "You sound fishy as all-hell, and God_knows_ you're the sickest-looking cop I ever laid eyes on; but thereare less unlikely things than that a second-story man should try thisroute for his getaway.... Well!" she demanded urgently--"what're youstanding there for, like a stone man?"
"My dear lady--!" expostulated the dismayed P. Sybarite.
"Can the fond stuff and get busy. What're you going to do?"
"What am I--? What--ah--do you wish me to do?"
"If you're a cop, go to it--cop somebody," she replied with a brusquelaugh--"and then clear out. I can use the room and time you'reoccupying. Besides, while you stand there staring as if you'd neverseen a good-looking woman in a nightgown before, you're slipping thesaid burglar a fine young chance to make the front door--unless he'sunder the bed."
"Under the bed?" stammered the masquerader.
"You said something then," the woman snapped. "Why not look?"
Mechanically obedient to her suggestion, down P. Sybarite plumped onhis knees, lifted the silken valance at the foot of the bed, andpretended to explore the darkness thereunder--finding precisely whathe had anticipated, that is to say, nothing.
While thus occupied (and badgering his addled wits to invent someplausible way to elude this Amazon) he was at once startled and stillfurther dismayed to hear the bed-springs creak, a light double thumpas two bare feet found the floor, and again the woman's voiceflavoured with acid sarcasm.
"You seem to find it interesting down there. Is it the view? Or areyou trying to hypnotise your burglar by the well-known power of thehuman eye?"
"It's pure and simple reverence for the proprieties," P. Sybaritereplied without stirring, "keeps me emulating the fatuous ostrich. Idon't pretend it's comfortable, but I, believe me, madam, am a plainman, of modest tastes, unaccustomed to--"
"Get up!" the lady interrupted peremptorily. "I guess your regard forthe proprieties won't suffer any more than my fair name. Come out ofthat and hunt burglars like a good little cop."
"But who am I," pleaded the little man, "to gaze unblinded upon thesun?"
"That," said the lady, smothering a giggle, "will be about _all_ fromyou. Get up--or I'll call in a sure-enough cop to search your title tothat uniform."
Hastily P. Sybarite withdrew his head and rose. An embarrassed glanceaskance comforted him measurably: the lady had thrown an exquisitenegligee over her nightdress and had thrust her pretty feet intoextravagantly pretty silken mules.
"Now," said she tersely, "we'll comb the premises for this burglar ofyours: and if we don't find him"--her lips tightened, her browsclouded ominously--"I promise you an interesting time of it!"
"I'm vastly diverted as it is--truly I am!" protested P. Sybarite,ruefully eyeing the lady's pistol. "But there 's really no need todisturb yourself: I'm quite competent to take care of anyhousebreaker--"
"That," she broke in, "is something you'll have to show me.... Where'syour nightstick?"
"My--er--what?"
"Your nightstick. What've you done with it?"
With consternation P. Sybarite investigated the vacant loop at hisside.
"Must've dropped out while I was shinning over the back fence," hesurmised vaguely. "However, I shan't need it. This"--with a bright andconfident smile displaying Penfield's revolver--"will do just aswell--better, in fact."
"That?" she questioned. "That's not a Police Department gun. Where'dyou--"
"Oh, yes, it is. It's the new pattern--recently adopted. They've justbegun to issue 'em. I got mine to-day--"
The lady's lips curled. "Very well," she concluded curtly. "I don'tbelieve a word you say, but we'll see. Lead the way--show me onesolitary sign that a burglar has been here--"
"Perhaps you'd prefer me to withdraw from the case?" the little mansuggested with offended dignity. "After all, I may be mistaken--"
"You'd better not be. I warn you, find me a burglar--or"--she addedwith unmistakable significance--"I'll find one myself."
Interpreting the level challenge of her glance, P. Sybarite's heartquaked, his soul curdled, his stomach for picaresque adventure failedhim entirely: anatomically, in short, he was hopelessly disqualifiedfor his chosen role of favourite of _K
ismet_, protagonist of this Dayof Days. Withal, there was no use offering resistance to the demandsof this masterful woman; she was patently one to be humoured against amore auspicious turn of affairs.
He shrugged, gave in with a gesture. Her imperative arm, uplifted,indicated an inner door.
"Find that burglar!"
"Swell chance I've got to get away with that proposition," hegrumbled. "You've delayed me long enough to let any burglar get cleanaway!"
"And you hang back, giving him more time," she cut in. "Lead the way,now!"
Awed, P. Sybarite grasped his revolver and strode to the door withmuch dramatic manner, but paused with a hand on the knob to look overhis shoulder.
The woman was there, not a foot distant, her countenance a mask ofsuspicious determination.
"Go on!" she commanded in menacing accents.
He pulled the door open, flung out into the hallway, paused again atthe mouth of the back pit of the stairway.
Behind him the woman snapped a switch; an electric bulb glared out ofthe darkness. And P. Sybarite, peering down, started back with a gaspof amazement that was echoed in his ear.
On the stairs, halfway down, a man was crouching in a posture offrozen consternation: a small electric pocket-lamp burning brilliantlyin one hand, the other, lifted, grasping a weapon of some curioussort, in the eyes of P. Sybarite more than anything else like, a smallblack cannon: a hatless man in evening clothes, his face half blottedout by a black mask that, enhancing the brightness of startled eyesgleaming through its peepholes, left uncovered only his angularmuscular jaw and ugly, twisted mouth.
For a full minute (it seemed) not one of the three so much as drewbreath; while through the haze of dumfounderment in P. Sybarite'sbrain there loomed the fact that once again _Kismet_ had played intohis hands to save his face in thus lending material body and substanceto the burglar of his desperate invention.
And then, as if from a heart of agony, the woman at his side breatheda broken and tortured cry:
"You dog! So it's come to murder, has it?"
As if electrified by that ejaculation, P. Sybarite whipped upPenfield's revolver and levelled it at the man on the stairs.
"Hands up!" he snapped. "Drop that gun!"
The answer was a singular sound--half a choking cough, half asmothered bark--accompanied by a jet of fire from the strange weapon,and coincident with the tinkling of a splintered electric bulb.
Instantly the hall was again drenched in darkness but little mitigatedby the light from the bedroom.
Heedless of consequences, in his excitement, P. Sybarite pulledtrigger. The hammer fell on an empty chamber, rose and fell half adozen times without educing any response other than the click of metalagainst metal: demonstrating beyond question that the revolver wasunloaded.
From the hand of the marauder another tongue of flame licked out, tothe sound of the same dull, bronchial cough; and a bullet thumpedheavily into the wall beside P. Sybarite.
Enraged beyond measure, he drew back his worthless weapon and threw itwith all his might. And _Kismet_ winged the missile to the firing armof the assassin. With a cry of pain and anger, this last involuntarilyrelaxed his grasp and, dropping his own pistol, stumbled and halffell, half threw himself down to the next floor.
As this happened, a white arm was levelled over the shoulder of P.Sybarite.
The woman took deliberate aim, fired--and missed.
The Day of Days: An Extravaganza Page 11
