by Rex Stout
“Well?” he inquired coolly.
Dougherty pointed to the limousine.
“Get in!” he commanded.
The other two men, whom Knowlton saw to be Sherman and Jennings, made a cautious step forward, evidently with the intention of getting between him and the door.
“Take it easy,” advised Knowlton, smiling at them composedly. “If I want to go in,” he nodded toward the door of the apartment house, “I’ll go. And now, Dougherty, what is it you want? I’d advise you not to try any tricks.”
“To Hades with your advice!” put in Sherman. “This is our game.”
“Shut up!” growled Dougherty. Then he turned to Knowlton. “You know why we’re after you. Dumain and Driscoll and Booth are waiting at Dumain’s rooms. We’ll give you a fair chance in ten-round go with Driscoll. But, believe me, he’ll beat you up right. And if he don’t, I will.”
Knowlton gazed at the ex-prizefighter for a second in silence, then started toward the limousine.
“You say this is a square deal, Dougherty?” he asked, turning suddenly.
Dougherty, amazed at his coolness, replied that it was.
Knowlton continued:
“I’m willing to take you on one at a time, but I don’t care to walk into a trap.”
He looked at Dougherty for another minute, appeared to hesitate, then jumped up on the seat in front beside the chauffeur.
“You’ll freeze, man!” exclaimed Dougherty, while Sherman and Jennings got in the limousine. “Get inside with us.”
“No thanks,” said Knowlton dryly. “I prefer the cold.”
Dumain’s rooms were only a few blocks away, and within five minutes the limousine had stopped in front of them. The cold wind rushing against Knowlton with stinging force had set every nerve in his body tingling and filled him with a glow of exhilaration.
Dumain’s rooms—on Twenty-first Street a little west of Sixth Avenue—were on the first floor of a four-story apartment house, with an old-fashioned high stoop leading to the door. Up the steps of this went Dougherty, with Knowlton at his side, followed by Sherman and Jennings. In answer to their ring Dumain himself opened the door.
“Did you get heem?” he asked.
“I came,” Knowlton answered before Dougherty could speak.
Dumain led them down a long hall and into a room on the right.
Evidently this room—a large one—had been arranged for the expected encounter. It was bare of furniture save for a row of chairs along the further wall. The floor was partly covered with a coarse Wilton rug.
At one end, in the center, was a high mantel loaded down with vases, bronzes, trays, and pasteboard boxes—these latter evidently containing some of the paraphernalia of the palmist.” The two windows at the opposite end were closed and the shades drawn.
Driscoll and Booth were seated on two of the chairs along the wall when the newcomers entered.
“All ready, eh?” Knowlton observed, standing in the middle of the room and looking around with an amused smile.
Dougherty regarded him with undisguised admiration.
“By gad, you’re a cool one!” he remarked.
Knowlton walked over to a chair and sat down without answering him.
The others were gathered together in a group by the door, consulting in undertones, with occasional glances at Knowlton. Finally, with nods of satisfaction and at a word from Dumain, they crossed the room and seated themselves.
The little Frenchman stood in front of them and spoke:
“We deed not come here to talk. I will say very leetle. I will mention no names. Zat is, I will not mention her name. Eet ees to be a fight for ten rounds by Meester Dreescoll and Meester Knowlton. Meester Dougherty will referee. Meester Knowlton must have what you call a second. Will you be heem, Sherman?”
“No!” Knowlton interposed. “I want no second. I shan’t need any.”
Dougherty sprang to his feet impatiently.
“Strip, then!” he shouted.
The combatants lost no time. Driscoll carried a chair to the corner of the room near the door; Knowlton carried one to the opposite corner. Then, stripping bare to the waist, each seated himself to await the call of the referee. Booth stood by Driscoll’s chair, holding his overcoat. The others were seated in the chairs along the wall.
“Two-minute rounds,” announced Dougherty from the middle of the room. He was in his shirtsleeves and was holding a watch in his hand. Then, stepping to one side, he called:
“Time!”
The fighters, as they advanced to the center of the room, appeared to be evenly matched in weight and build. Their white bodies, trim and supple, glowed from the sudden contact with the air, for even within the room it was chilly.
But a closer inspection revealed a difference. Driscoll was a little too fat; his arms too plump and smooth. And his step to the practised eye lacked elasticity and lightness. His eyes gleamed with a wariness and alertness which it was impossible to communicate to the body, handicapped as it was.
A little murmur of astonishment ran along the quartet of spectators as they turned their eyes on Knowlton, and the referee, in his surprise, nearly dropped his watch.
Here was a man worth looking at. His flesh, white and smooth as his opponent’s, showed little muscular ripples as he bent forward in a posture of defense, and his arms, firm and of goodly length, displayed magnificent knots on the inner forearm and from the elbow to the shoulder. His waist was small, and under the skin on the back of the shoulders appeared tightly drawn, steel-like bands of muscle.
Exclamations in undertones came from the row of chairs:
“Heavens! The man’s a white hope!”
“I’d hate to be in Driscoll’s place!”
“Where d’ye suppose he got it?”
On the face of Sherman, who was silent, appeared a curious expression of mingled fear and hatred.
Really, there was no mystery about it. The athletic records of a certain Western university could have explained all in five minutes. This was the man who had made it necessary for that university to add another cabinet to their trophy and medal room.
But, feeling as they did that their man was hopelessly beaten on form, the Erring Knights nevertheless urged him on with cheering words as the fighters squared off.
“Go to it, Driscoll!”
“Eat him up, Bub!”
“Soak the big dub!”
And Driscoll did his best. He began by trying to outbox his opponent. But within the first twenty seconds Knowlton pulled down his guard with a clever feint and staggered him with a straight punch to the face.
Driscoll came back with a cheerful grin and by fast footwork and taking the fullest advantage of his longer reach, went to the end of the round without further damage. Knowlton went to his corner smiling.
The next three rounds were slow. Driscoll, afraid of his wind, tried once or twice to rush the fighting, but was unable to reach his man. Knowlton, always smiling; took it easy. His breath came as regularly as though he were sitting still.
The smile got on Driscoll’s nerves. He knew he was being played with, and that aroused his anger. Time and again he aimed a blow at those lightly parted lips, only to find them a foot out of his reach.
He began to pant heavily and was unsteady on his feet as he walked to his corner at the end of the fourth round. Helpless rage possessed him as he looked across the room and saw Knowlton sitting in his chair with easy unconcern.
At the cry of “Time!” he gathered himself together and rushed at Knowlton with set teeth and glaring eyes. Knowlton, unprepared for the sudden onslaught, was caught off his guard and carried to the floor.
Shouts of encouragement came from the excited spectators. Knowlton sprang to his feet. The smile was gone.
“Kill him, Driscoll!”
“You’ve got him going!”
“Put him to sleep!”
Again Driscoll rushed madly. But this time Knowlton was prepared. He stepped aside nimbly as a
cat, and Driscoll stumbled and nearly fell. As he recovered his balance Knowlton turned and swung with his right.
It caught Driscoll on the ear and he went down like a shot. He was up at the count of three and, sobbing with rage, rushed again. The onlookers sprang to their feet in excitement.
This time Knowlton met the assault squarely and stopped it with a stiff punch.
“Time!” called Dougherty.
Everybody began to talk at once. Booth helped Driscoll to his corner. Blood was on his face and he breathed in quick, short gasps.
“Cut it, Bub,” said Jennings, running over to him. “The big slob’ll kill you.”
Driscoll tried to grin, but wasted no breath on speech. He leaned back in his chair while Booth waved a towel wildly up and down in front of him. When he heard Dougherty call “Time!” for the sixth round he would have sworn that he had rested not more than ten seconds.
Cries came from the onlookers to “take it easy” and “watch him,” but Driscoll heeded them not. His blood was boiling and the face of his opponent appeared to him in a dim and wavering haze.
Toward it he rushed in blind fury. Knowlton stepped back and there was a dull thud as his fist landed on Driscoll’s shoulder.
Driscoll staggered, but kept his feet. Again and again he rushed, and again and again he was stopped by Knowlton’s fist. It was evident that Knowlton was putting no force in his blows, but was merely stopping the rushes with extended arm.
This enraged the spectators.
“End it, darn you!” howled Booth.
Knowlton smiled—and ended it. Not waiting for Driscoll’s rush, he leaped forward and swung with his right. Driscoll, receiving the blow on his left side, staggered and swayed, then sank to the floor, a limp, helpless heap.
Knowlton gave the prostrate form a single glance, then walked to his corner and sang out coolly: “Next!”
“I’ll next you, you bruiser!” The voice, filled with tears of rage, was Dougherty’s. He had sprung to Driscoll’s corner and was removing his vest and shirt.
The others lifted Driscoll, assisted him to the side of the room, and, wrapping his overcoat closely about him, seated him in a chair. His eyes were closed, and Booth stood at his side to support him.
Jennings ran over to help Dougherty. Sherman sat silent, the muscles of his face twitching queerly. Little Dumain was jumping up and down in the intensity of his excitement.
“I hope he keels you!” he screamed, shaking a fist at Knowlton.
“Chacun tire de son côte,” said Knowlton calmly.
“Mon Dieu! Français!” shrieked Dumain. “Eet ees degradation!”
Knowlton laughed at him.
Dougherty, stripped to the waist, advanced to the middle of the room and pushed the little Frenchman aside.
“Come on,” he said grimly to Knowlton. “We don’t need a referee. This is no boxing match. It’s a fight, and you’ll soon find it out.
Dumain retreated to the side of Booth. Sherman rose from his chair and stood in front of it. Driscoll opened his eyes for the first time, and kept them open.
The battle that followed was worth the price of a ringside seat at Madison Square Garden.
Within the first minute Knowlton discovered that the man he was facing was by no means a tyro. He had thought that Dougherty, completely out of condition, would be unable to withstand even the crudest kind of attack and had led with a double swing. Dougherty stepped back cleverly, waited the exact fraction of a second necessary, and then lunged forward like a panther.
Knowlton found himself on the floor with blood streaming from his nose, while the onlookers shrieked with ecstasy. He regained his feet warily, and, changing his mind as to the capabilities of his opponent, altered his tactics to suit.
Dougherty was fighting with all the cunning at his command. He realized that he was handicapped by the shortness of his wind, but figured that this was nearly, if not quite, equalized by the fact that Knowlton was not fresh. He did not throw himself away, as he had done in the encounter with Driscoll in the billiard room of the Lamartine. Instead, he called into play all his old-time ring knowledge and relied on superior tactics and skill. He waited for another break on the part of Knowlton.
But Knowlton was not to be caught napping again. He fought cautiously and warily, watching for an opening. He was not a pleasant sight to look at. The blood from his nose covered the lower half of his face and one side of his neck. His hair was matted with sweat, and his damp body glistened as he bent, now, forward, now to one side or the other, dodging, feinting, waiting.
For upward of five minutes they sparred and shifted, neither one gaining any advantage or landing a punishing blow. Then it began to get warmer.
Dougherty’s foot happened to alight on an upturned corner of the rug, and as he glanced downward for the merest fraction of a second Knowlton closed in and landed a stinging jab on his face, turning him half round.
Instead of returning, he completed the circle, and, catching Knowlton unaware, staggered him with a left swing. They exchanged blows at close quarters, then clinched for a rest.
Knowlton was beginning to weaken under the prolonged strain. He had played with Driscoll longer than was good for his wind, and by now he was breathing heavily, while Dougherty was comparatively fresh. He tried to hold the clinch to get his wind, but Dougherty broke away.
Then, urged on by the exited and encouraging cries of the Erring Knights, Dougherty started in to finish it. By using his feet cleverly Knowlton avoided close fighting, but he received two body blows that made him grunt.
In recovering from the second of these he opened his guard, and a clean uppercut on the point of the jaw bent him backward and left him dazed.
Dougherty followed it up savagely, landing on the body at will, while Knowlton retreated blindly, covering his face with his hands. The onlookers howled with delight.
“Now get him, Tom!”
“It’s all yours, old boy!”
“Keel heem!”
But they did not know Knowlton. Driven into a corner, apparently a beaten man, he felt within himself that stirring of the spirit that comes only on the boundary line of despair.
He had felt it before on the gridiron when, with his body a mass of bruises, he had hurled himself savagely forward and caught in a viselike grip and held the flying figure that sought to reach the sacred white line but a few feet away—on the track when, with aching legs and painful, gasping breath, he had by one last supreme effort passed the streak of white that seemed to his blurred eyes to have been there before him since the beginning of time. It is the spirit of the true fighting man.
He pushed Dougherty away from the corner, merely shaking his head slightly as he received a swinging blow full in the face. Then he fought back stubbornly, desperately, irresistibly.
Dougherty gave ground. It was by inches, but he retreated. Knowlton made no pretense at guarding. He simply fought.
The tide began to turn. Dougherty fell back more rapidly. His breath came heavily.
Perspiration ran in little rivulets down his cheeks and neck and body and stood out in large beads on his forehead. His face became fixed in a sort of unseeing stare, and his blows were wild and purposeless. He seemed unable to see his opponent.
“My God, Tom! Hit him! Can’t you hit him?” cried Driscoll.
Knowlton pressed on unwaveringly. He landed blow after blow on his opponent’s unprotected body. Dougherty attempted to swing, took a step forward, stumbled, and fell to his knees. It appeared to be the end.
But the end came from an unexpected quarter. As Dougherty fell, Sherman ran to the mantel at the end of the room, took from it a figure of bronze, and, before any one could guess his purpose, hurled it straight at Knowlton. Knowlton turned, threw up his arms, and sank to the floor with the blood streaming from a deep gash on his head just back of the temple.
For a moment there was dead silence, while all eyes were turned on Sherman. He stood motionless by the mantel, his face ver
y white.
Then all was confusion. Dumain and Booth ran and bent over Knowlton, crying to Jennings to watch Sherman. Driscoll, by this time fully recovered, ran to Dougherty. Sherman started for the door, but was stopped by Jennings, whose eyes were filled with a dangerous light.
“Stay there, you—coward!” he bellowed.
Dougherty had pushed Driscoll aside and was kneeling by the side of Knowlton, and he at once took command of the situation.
Dumain was sent off for bandages and returned with a white linen shirt, tearing it into strips. Booth brought water and some towels, and Driscoll sought the telephone in the next room to call up a doctor. Jennings was assisting Dougherty in his attempt to stop the flow of blood.
Thus busied, they entirely overlooked Sherman.
Intercepted by Driscoll in his attempt to get away, he had returned to the farther corner of the room and had looked on at the scene of activity with an assumed indifference which did not entirely conceal his fear.
Moving suddenly, he felt his foot meet with an obstruction, and, looking down, saw Knowlton’s clothing lying in a heap on the floor.
Quick as thought, and glancing at the others to see if he were observed, he stooped down and searched the pockets of the coat and vest. A shade of disappointment crossed his face at the result.
All that he was able to find was a long, black wallet in the inside pocket of the coat.
This he transferred to his own pocket and then assumed his former position of indifference.
In a few minutes the doctor arrived. He viewed the curious scene that greeted his eyes with professional stolidity and proceeded to examine his patient, who remained lying on the floor in the position in which he had fallen.
Without a word, save now and then a grunted command for water or other assistance, the doctor examined the wound and washed, stitched, and bandaged it.
At the commencement of the operation of stitching Knowlton opened his eyes, raised a hand to his head, and struggled to rise.
“Easy—easy. Lie still,” said the doctor.
