by Rex Stout
“He gets it from a Western gang, through a guy called Red Tim,” said Sherman. “They’ve been closing in on ’em for two months, and Red Tim beat it last night. He can’t be found this morning, though he was seen on Broadway at midnight. That makes it harder for us.”
“How?” inquired Dougherty.
“It makes it harder to get anything on him,” Sherman explained. “Red Tim was probably the only one that ever saw Knowlton. He would have peached in a minute; but now he’s gone, and the only way to get anything on Knowlton is to catch him with the goods on. And you’d be taking a chance. If you grabbed him he might happen to be clean.”
“But that has nothing to do with us,” Dougherty objected. “We don’t want to grab him.”
“No, I suppose you want him to make his getaway,” Sherman sneered.
Dougherty stared at him.
“What else would we want?” he demanded. “Do you think we want to peach? No, thank you. We may be none too good, but we won’t hang a guy up, no matter who he is. Anyway, we want him to beat it. Ain’t that what we’ve been after all along—to get him away from here? All we’ve got to do is to see that he does make his getaway.”
Sherman’s face was a study. Filled with chagrin at having miscalculated and with rage at the possible frustration of his designs, he controlled himself with difficulty.
“And you think that will work?” he demanded, while his voice trembled. “How would you go about it?”
“Easee,” put in Dumain. “We tell heem either he goes or we what you call eet report. We tell heem what we know. We prove eet to heem. Zen he goes. No more Knowlton.”
“Sure,” Sherman sneered. “How easy! No more Knowlton, eh? Do you know what he’d do? He’d go home, burn up all his nice little paper, come back, and tell us to go to the deuce.”
“Veree well,” Dumain agreed. “Zen we make heem go. We would no longer what you call fool wiz heem. Because now we know he ees no fit for her.”
“You tried that once before. Did he go? If it hadn’t been for me bringing him down with a piece of bronze he’d have gone out laughing at us,” Sherman retorted. “I tell you, the only thing to do is to lock him up.”
But at this there was a general clamor. On this point the Erring Knights, with the exception of Sherman, seemed to be all of one mind. They would not “peach.”
What they contemplated doing was perhaps a species of blackmail—but we are getting into deep water. With them it was no subtle question of ethics; it was simply an instinctive belief that one was excusable and the other was not.
Sherman found himself the sole member of a helpless minority. He argued and pleaded and threatened, but they were immovable. Too late he realized his mistake in having taken the others into his confidence, and, while prolonging the discussion as far as possible, his brain was busily working to discover a way to retrieve his error.
If he persisted he saw plainly that the others would turn against him and warn Knowlton. Craftily he sought to recover the lost ground.
He began slowly to yield to the others’ arguments, and he perceived that they were swallowing the bait.
“I owe him no more than you do,” he said in answer to a question from Dumain.
“Then why are you so anxious to see him jugged?” Dougherty demanded.
“I’m not,” replied Sherman with a show of exasperation. “All I want is to get him away from here. My way is sure and yours isn’t.”
“But it is,” put in Driscoll. “Dumain and I have been responsible for letting it go as far as it has, but do you think we’ll do it again? Anyway, what does it matter what you want? We’ll do as we please.”
“That’s right,” said Sherman bitterly. “I do all the work and furnish the information, and this is what I get. Sure, what does it matter what I want?”
“Well, you’re right about that,” Dougherty admitted. “But we can’t see this other thing—we simply can’t do it. And our way is just as good if we stick.”
“But you won’t stick.”
“What about it, boys?” Dougherty queried.
There came a chorus of oaths and protestations to the effect that John Knowlton would now, then, and forever find the lobby of the Lamartine extremely uninhabitable.
Sherman appeared to weaken.
“Go slow, go slow, or they’ll suspect,” he was saying to himself.
The others pressed harder and assaulted him from all sides at once. Finally, “Well, have it your own way,” he said with a shrug of the shoulders.
The others applauded.
“But there’s one thing I want to say,” Sherman continued, “and that is, don’t say anything to Knowlton till tomorrow.”
“And why?” said Dougherty.
“Because I’ve got a private detective on his trail, and I want to call him off. And there’s another reason, which you don’t need to know. What are you going to do—wait till he shows up here?”
“What do you think?”
“I’d wait for him here till tomorrow night, and then, if he hasn’t come, go to his rooms. But remember, not a word till tomorrow.”
“All right,” Dougherty agreed. “And now, who’ll be spokesman?”
Sherman rose to his feet, glancing at his watch.
“Count me out,” he said, turning to go. “That’s your job. Dougherty. See you later.”
He sauntered carelessly into the lobby, spoke to Lila and the Venus at the cigar stand, then wandered out into the street.
For a block he strolled along slowly, glancing in at the shop windows, and now and then to the rear. But as soon as he had rounded a corner, out of sight of the hotel, he broke into long, rapid strides.
He had made one mistake, he told himself; he would not make another.
His first thought, after the visit of his detective the night before, was to immediately betray Knowlton to the police. But it was certain that whoever betrayed Knowlton would earn the undying hatred of Lila Williams, and Sherman had therefore sought to bestow that office on one of the Erring Knights.
And they—fools, he said scornfully—had decided to speak to Knowlton instead.
But there was still a chance. He had gotten Dougherty to agree to wait until the following day, and before that time he hoped to have the game in his own hands, if only Dougherty would stick to his agreement, and there was no reason to think otherwise.
He hastened his step. At the subway station on Twenty-third Street he boarded a downtown train.
Fifteen minutes later he was seated in the outer office of a dingy suite whose windows looked out on that curious labyrinth south of the Brooklyn Bridge, and beyond, the East River.
An attendant approached.
“He will see you now, sir.”
Sherman rose and followed him to an inner room.
The room was uncarpeted and bare save for two wooden chairs, a massive steel safe, and a roll-top desk. On one of the chairs, placed in front of the desk, was seated a heavy, red-faced man with carroty hair. He dismissed the attendant with a curt nod before he spoke to Sherman.
“What’s up now, Billy?”
Sherman, knowing that he had to deal with a busy man, told him in as few words as possible what the reader already knows concerning Knowlton. The other listened to the end with an impassive face.
“You say he was seen with Red Tim last night?” he asked, when Sherman had finished.
“Yes. At Manx’s café on Twenty-eighth Street and Broadway.”
“And Red Tim had a bundle! Who was the idiot that saw him? Why didn’t he arrest him?”
“Private. He was working for me. He didn’t want to put Knowlton next.”
“Ah! This is personal, then?”
“What if it is?” Sherman returned. “Does that make any difference?”
“No-o,” said the other slowly. “But I don’t see how we can get him. What evidence have we got? Red Tim can’t be found. You say Knowlton refused a bundle last night. Of course, if he had taken that, and had it
on him—”
“That isn’t necessary,” Sherman interrupted. “Why didn’t he take that last night? Because he already had all he could handle. He’s stuffed with it. Look here.” He drew forth a wallet and took from it a stack of bills. “This was his. I got it—never mind how.”
“All tens, eh?” said the other, taking the bills. “And beauties!” He examined them curiously. “But how can we prove they were found on him?”
“I can swear to it,” said Sherman. “And that isn’t all. He’s sure to have more on him now. And he’s sure to have a bunch stowed away in his rooms. If you get him there, unexpected, you’ll have all the evidence you need and more, too.”
The man at the desk appeared to be lost in thought.
“What is the address of his rooms?” he asked finally.
Sherman gave him the number of the house on West Thirtieth Street.
“What floor?”
“Second.”
“Do you know anything of his habits? When will he be there?”
“Between seven o’clock and a quarter to eight in the evening.”
“Anyone living with him?”
“No.”
“Flat in his name?”
“Yes. John Knowlton.”
The man at the desk had taken a fountain pen from his pocket and was writing on a pad of paper. He tore off the sheet he had written on, placed it in a drawer of the desk, returned the pen to his pocket, and gazed thoughtfully out of the window for some time.
Then he turned to Sherman, saying:
“We’ll get Mr. Knowlton tonight.”
CHAPTER X.
The End of the Rope
SHERMAN HAD LEFT THE ERRING KNIGHTS IN THE billiard room of the Lamartine in a state of unrestrained delight.
At last they were to triumph over Knowlton. And it would be, so Jennings declared, a bloodless and well-deserved victory. Dougherty alone appeared to wear an expression of dissatisfaction, and he was urged to explain it.
“I don’t like it,” declared the ex-prizefighter. “That’s no way to fight a guy. Oh, I’ll stick, all right, and I’ll hand it to him straight, but I don’t like it.”
“Nobody expects to see you satisfied,” Booth observed.
Dougherty, disregarding him, continued:
“And another thing. Why does Sherman want us to hold off till tomorrow? It looks funny. You can’t tell what that guy will do.”
Dumain put in:
“He said something about zee defective.”
“Well, and what about that? He said he wanted time to call off his detective. What sense is there in that? I don’t see how it could make any difference when we tell him. It looks funny.”
“But what other motive could Sherman have?” Booth demanded.
Dougherty looked at him.
“You know a lot,” he observed contemptuously. “You know how wrong Sherman was to have us peach. Well, when he found out we wouldn’t, what if he decided to do it himself? And then, to give him time for action, he gets us to promise not to put Knowlton next till tomorrow.
“I don’t say that’s his game, but it looks suspicious. That guff about his detective is silly. He probably knew it himself, but he didn’t have time to think up a better reason.”
“Well,” put in Driscoll, “it’s easy enough to fix it. All you have to do is to see Knowlton today.”
“And the sooner the better,” said Jennings. “Beat Mr. Sherman at his own game, if that is his game.”
“I agree,” said little Dumain pompously.
Dougherty slid down from the billiard table on which he was sitting and glanced at his watch, saying:
“Ten minutes to twelve. I wonder if he’d be at home now.”
“Probably he’s in bed,” said Driscoll.
Dougherty appeared to consider.
“I’ll go right after lunch,” he said finally. “That’s settled.”
They wandered into the lobby, which by this time was pretty well filled. Dougherty and Jennings stopped in front of a racing bulletin and sighed for the good old days at Sheepshead Bay and Brighton; Driscoll strolled over to the leather lounge in the corner with a morning paper.
Dumain and Booth, joined a group at the cigar stand who were politely but firmly endeavoring to make the Venus admit that she had attempted to improve on nature in the matter of hair. She took it all in fun and good humor and kept them off with a flow of witty evasions. And, incidentally, they bought many cigars.
Driscoll, seated in the corner with his paper, was reading a certain article for the sixth time with an angry frown. The night before he had substituted for the leading man, who had suddenly been taken ill. And this article was not exactly complimentary to the substitute.
He told himself, also for the sixth time, that it was written by an idiot, a Philistine, a man who had no appreciation of true art. Then he threw down the paper, yawning, and glanced round the lobby.
Suddenly he sat bolt upright, staring in the direction of the telegraph desk. Then he looked round the lobby, saw Dougherty standing by the racing bulletin, and ran over to him.
“Look!” he said, laying one hand on Dougherty’s shoulder and pointing with the other.
The ex-prizefighter, turning and gazing in the direction indicated, saw Knowlton standing by Lila’s desk, helping her on with her coat.
“Now’s your chance,” said Driscoll.
When Knowlton heard his name called, and, turning, found Dougherty at his side, he uttered an involuntary exclamation of impatience, while Lila looked up in uneasy surprise.
She feared a scene, remembering what Dumain had said to her an hour or so before. But Dougherty seemed calm enough as he said:
“I want a word with you. Will you step aside a minute?”
Knowlton was inclined to refuse, and would have done so had the request come from any other than Dougherty.
After a moment of hesitation he excused himself to Lila, telling her he would return in a moment, and accompanied Dougherty over to the leather lounge in the corner.
The ex-prizefighter began with a recapitulation of the events of the preceding three months, while Knowlton restrained his impatience with difficulty.
They were seated side by side on the lounge. Across the lobby Lila was seen seated at her desk, drumming on it absently with her fingers. Driscoll and Jennings had joined Dumain and Booth at the cigar stand, and the four were pretending to talk, with occasional furtive glances of ill-concealed curiosity at the two men seated in the corner.
The lobby was full of men smoking and laughing and talking, oblivious of the fact that a near tragedy was being enacted scarcely a dozen feet away.
“And then,” Dougherty was saying, “we let you alone. It wasn’t my fault, but Dumain and Driscoll wouldn’t stand with us. Now they’ve got to. We’ve got you marked, and the game’s up.”
“What is it—another prize-ring entertainment?” asked Knowlton.
“No. I wish it was. I don’t like this thing any better than you do. It ain’t the right kind of a deal.”
Dougherty spoke slowly and with some hesitation as he continued:
“But I promised to stick, so here goes. It’s this way: you leave New York today and give us your word to let Miss Williams alone, or in you go. We’re on. You’re shoving the queer.”
Knowlton didn’t blink an eyelash. He sat gazing across the lobby at Lila’s profile in silence, without a sign even that he had heard. Then he turned his head and met Dougherty’s eyes, saying in an even tone:
“That’s pretty bad, Tom. Couldn’t you think up anything better? You’ve been having bad dreams.”
But Dougherty shook his head.
“It’s no use, Knowlton. We know. No matter how, but it ought to be enough to tell you that you shouldn’t have trusted Red Tim. We’ve got enough on you right now to hold you tight. The game’s up.”
Knowlton was regarding his companion keenly, and he saw the truth in his unwavering gaze and air of half commiseration. Subte
rfuge was useless. The game was up.
For a long minute he sat trying to collect his thoughts. Dougherty’s untroubled calmness, the careless attitude of Lila seated but a few feet away, the gaiety of the lobby, all combined to give the thing an appearance of triviality. He could hardly realize the fact that the earth was falling away under his feet.
He turned to Dougherty:
“All right, then. You’ve got it on me. But you can’t do this, Tom. It’s not like you. Do you mean to say you’d actually peach on me?”
“Perhaps not,” the ex-prizefighter admitted. “But I’m not the only one. There’s no use talking, you’re up against it, and the only way out is to beat it.
“It’s a dirty trick, and I don’t like it any better than you do, but the fact is I’m doing you a favor. The others all know about it, and they’re dead sore, and they’d do it anyway if I didn’t.”
Knowlton’s face was expressionless. His eyes stared straight into his companion’s, and they held no anger nor resentment nor appeal. But his hand held the arm of the lounge with a grip of steel and the muscles of his jaw were set tensely in his effort to control himself.
Dougherty continued to speak. He explained the conditions under which they would leave Knowlton unmolested—he must leave New York at once and give them his word not to communicate with Miss Williams. And the sooner he left the better, since there was one member of the gang who could not be trusted. It was unnecessary, said the ex-prizefighter, to mention his name.
In the end Knowlton agreed, observing calmly that he was at the end of his rope and had no alternative. In spite of his effort at control, a lifelessness and despair crept into his tone that made Dougherty curse the part he had played. Knowlton gave his promise not to see Lila and said that he would leave New York at once.
He finished:
“Of course, she will know. That’s the worst of it, Dougherty. I don’t hold any grudge against you; I suppose you couldn’t help it. But you were all blithering idiots to imagine that she could ever do anything wrong. She never did and never will.
“I was going to lunch with her today. When I think of—but that’s useless, I suppose if I wanted to see her—but I don’t want to. It would do no good.
