by Rex Stout
“A kees from zee bride?” Dumain suggested.
“No, you darned Frenchman. An invitation to the wedding!”
CHAPTER XV.
Number Thirty-two
AFTER A NIGHT IN HIS CELL AT THE TOMBS Knowlton rose from his cot early in the morning with a racking headache and a poignant sense of desolation and despair.
But his breakfast, which he forced himself to swallow, and his bath, such as it was, considerably refreshed him, and he found that the night had, at least, cleared his brain and left him able to think. He sat on the edge of his cot and considered his calamity, if not calmly, with fortitude and a supply of the dry light of reason.
He tried to keep his mind off of Lila; he could not think of her with fortitude; it filled him with an overwhelming sense of her loyalty and bravery and sweet compassion.
He reviewed in his mind the probable evidence against himself, turning it over and over, trying to discover its value, but it was like groping blindly in the dark. He knew nothing of what was known.
Had Red Tim been captured? Did they have any direct evidence of any of his—he sought a word—transactions? Or had they counted on catching him “with the goods on”—and been foiled by Lila?
All the morning he sat and pondered on these questions when he was not thinking of Lila. He felt little anxiety concerning her; she had given, before him, so convincing an instance of her wit and courage that he felt assured of her safety. He knew she had escaped from the rooms, and though she had carried a dangerous burden she could have found no serious difficulty in disposing of it.
He remembered her embarrassed timidity as she had entered his rooms, her flash of anger at his seeming indifference, the light of awakening gladness in her eyes as he had told her his love—and then, her arms clasped about his neck, her lips pressed to his, her frank, sweet words of surrender.
And now—he glanced at the bare prison walls—this! He shuddered and groaned.
At that moment there came a voice from the grated door—the rasping voice of the turnkey:
“Knowlton! Someone to see you!”
The man on the cot sprang to his feet in surprise. Could it be—But no, surely it could not be Lila, he thought, and, hesitating, stammered:
“Who is it?”
Then he crossed to the door and peered through the grating.
“Dougherty!” he cried, astonished. “What in the name of Heaven brings you here?”
The ex-prizefighter, who was standing in the middle of the corridor, approached the door.
“Hello, Knowlton! You seem to be on the wrong side this time. How’s the world?”
Knowlton stood staring at him stiffly, without speaking. Why had he come? Had anything happened to Lila? Had she been arrested?
“What do you want?” he demanded, in a voice hoarse with anxiety.
Dougherty laughed.
“That’s a devil of a way to talk to a friend. But I can see you’ve got the Willies, so I’ll excuse you.”
“A—a friend?” Knowlton stammered.
“Sure.” Dougherty laughed again, possibly to hide a certain embarrassment. “Do you think I’d be here if I wasn’t? Among other things, I’ve got a little note here for you from Miss Williams.”
“Where is she?”
“At home.”
“Is she all right? Is she well?”
“Yes—both.”
“Thank God! And the note?”
“Not so loud.” Dougherty came closer to the door. “I’ll have to slip it to you on the quiet. And talk lower—you never can tell in this little hotel who’s around. Wait a minute—here—quick!”
A tiny roll of paper showed itself through the bars of the door. Knowlton grasped it with anxious fingers and placed it in his pocket.
His voice was tremulous with feeling.
“Thanks, old man. A thousand thanks. You’re sure she’s all right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thank God!” Knowlton’s fingers closed convulsively over the paper in his pocket. “That’s really all I cared about. It doesn’t matter much what happens to me—anyway, I deserve it. But if she had been—”
“Well, she wasn’t,” Dougherty interrupted. “And now to get down to business, for I haven’t got any too much time. You’re going to get out of this thing, Knowlton, and we’re going to help you.”
“But why—”
“Never mind why. Of course we’re doing it mostly for her, but she told us some stuff about you this morning that we didn’t know, and we feel we gave you kind of a dirty deal, and we want to square up. But mostly it’s for her. You are on the square with her, ain’t you? That’s all we want to know.”
The question was humiliating, but Knowlton swallowed it. He felt that he deserved it, and he realized that Dougherty had a right to ask it.
He said simply:
“You know I am. Didn’t she tell you?”
“Yes. I know. And say—you’re a lucky devil, Knowlton.”
Then they proceeded to a discussion of the steps to be taken for Knowlton’s defense. Dougherty was surprised to discover that he knew nothing of the nature of the evidence against him, and declared that it greatly increased their difficulties.
He ended:
“But leave that to the lawyer. Dumain has gone after him now—I left him over at the subway—and they’ll probably be here this afternoon.”
“But—” Knowlton hesitated.
“Well?”
“Why, about the lawyer. I had thought of conducting my own defense. I don’t believe he can help us any.”
“What’s the matter? Broke?” said Dougherty bluntly.
“The fact is—yes. Or nearly so. And I certainly can’t take any more favors—”
“Go to the deuce with your favors! Didn’t I say we’re going to help you out of this? Don’t be a fool, Knowlton! But I can’t quite understand how you can be broke. I supposed you had a nice little pile stowed away somewhere. You don’t mean to tell me you shoved the queer for that gang and got nothing out of it?”
Knowlton almost smiled.
“But I stopped that a month ago.”
“I know that. She told us all about it. But didn’t you have sense enough to dig a fat little hole somewhere?”
Instead of answering the question Knowlton asked one of his own:
“Didn’t you ask me a little while ago if I was on the square with Miss Williams?”
Dougherty nodded, wondering what that had to do with the accumulation of a “pile.”
“Well, I’ll show you how square I was. I had two thousand dollars put away. After I got to know her, I—disposed of it.”
Dougherty stared at him incredulously.
“Do you mean to say you threw away two thousand dollars in real money?”
“Yes.”
It took the ex-prizefighter a full minute to recover from his astonishment and find his tongue, after which he stated it as his settled and firm opinion that Knowlton was hopelessly insane.
He added:
“But don’t you worry about the lawyer—leave it to us. And everything else. And now”—he glanced at his watch—”I’ve got to leave you. It’s nearly noon, and I want to catch the boys before they go out to lunch. Dumain will be here this afternoon.”
They talked a few minutes longer before the ex-prizefighter finally departed.
Knowlton listened to his footsteps and those of the turnkey as they passed down the corridor, then he crossed to the little barred window and drew forth the note from Lila. It was short:
DEAR: I have nothing to say, except that I love you, and are you sure you want to hear that? You see, I am cheerful. Mr. Dougherty and Mr. Dumain are very, very kind to me, and to you. We can never repay them. You must be cheerful, too, if you love me.
LILA.
Knowlton read it over many times and pressed it to his lips. And such is the heart of man that the tears of gratitude which filled his eyes were not for Dougherty’s offer of practical and va
luable assistance, but for this little inconsequential note, which said nothing except, “I love you!”
Dougherty, on his way uptown, was facing a new difficulty—a little matter of cash. He was reflecting on the fact that it takes money to prove a man’s innocence, especially when he happens to be guilty. And where was the money to come from?
He considered all possible sources of revenue, and found the total sadly deficient. He counted his own purse three times—it amounted to sixty-two dollars and forty-five cents. And this was a matter, not of a hundred or so, but of two or three thousands.
A thousand for the lawyer, a thousand for a “stake” for Knowlton and Lila, and a thousand for miscellaneous expenses. The ex-prizefighter was determined not to do the thing by halves. But where to get the three thousand?
He had been headed straight for the Lamartine; but instead of leaving the subway at Twenty-third Street he continued to Columbus Circle, and went for a walk in the park to think it over. One idea he had had from the first he dismissed as too hazardous; but as his field of speculation narrowed and revealed the entire lack of anything better, or even so good, he returned to it again and considered it seriously.
It was by no means sure, but it appealed to him—and there was nothing else. He left the park at Ninety-sixth Street and boarded a downtown Elevated.
It was a quarter past three by the solemn-faced clock above the hotel desk when Dougherty entered the lobby of the Lamartine. All of the men he sought—the Erring Knights—were there, except, of course, Sherman.
Dumain greeted the newcomer.
“Deed you see Knowlton?”
“Yes. Did you?”
The little Frenchman nodded.
“Wiz a lawyer. And I gave heem—zee—lawyer—two hundred dollars. Knowlton ees—ees—”
“Broke?”
“Yes.”
“I know it. That puts it up to us, and we’ve got to make good. Have you said anything to the boys?”
For reply Dumain began to give him an account of what had happened in the Lamartine during the preceding hour.
The other interrupted him impatiently.
“I don’t care what they thought. The point is, are they with us?”
“Yes. Positeevely. But they don’t understand—”
“I don’t care whether they understand or not. Where are they? There’s work to do. Come on!”
Five minutes later the five were gathered together on the leather lounge in the corner. Dumain arrived last, having gone to fetch Driscoll from the barber shop in the basement.
Dougherty, leaning against a marble pillar in front of the lounge, began:
“Now, is there anything you guys want to know? Did Dumain explain everything to you? Talk fast!”
There being no response he continued:
“All right. You all know the hole Knowlton’s in, and that we’ve promised Miss Williams to get him out. Well, we need three thousand dollars.”
There were exclamations of astonishment, and Booth, who was seated on the arm of the lounge puffing a cigarette, was so profoundly shocked that he fell off onto the floor.
“What do you want to do—buy up a jury?” came from Driscoll.
“Never mind what I want to do,” returned Dougherty. “I say we need three thousand. Ask Dumain how much the lawyer wants.”
They turned to the little Frenchman, who informed them that the attorney’s fee would hardly be less than a thousand, and might be more.
“And another thousand for a stake for Knowlton,” said Dougherty, “and the rest for—”
“But why should we stake Knowlton?”
“Shut up! I’m not asking you what to do—I’m telling you!” Dougherty roared. “Are we pikers? That’s what I want to know, are we pikers?”
The opinion of the majority, expressed somewhat forcibly, appeared to be that they were not “pikers.”
“Then listen to me. First, I say that we need that thousand dollars, and I don’t want to have to say it again. We’re lucky if we’ve got three hundred among us, except Dumain, and he’s no millionaire. The question is—where’ll we get it?”
“And that is what I would call quite some question,” remarked Driscoll.
“It is,” Dougherty admitted, “but I’ve got a plan. It requires a little capital. I have here fifty dollars. Everybody shell.”
They hesitated for a moment, but Dougherty’s tone was one not to be withstood—and they “shelled.” The ex-prizefighter tabulated this result:
Dougherty.................... $50
Driscoll......................... 32
Jennings......................... 13
Booth............................. 65
Said he
“That’s a hundred and sixty. I need two hundred and fifty. Dumain, give me ninety dollars.”
The little Frenchman handed it over without a word. He had already given the lawyer two hundred, and it left his purse pretty slim.
“Now,” said Dougherty, “my plan is short and sweet, and make or break. I’m going to divide this into five parts. Each of us gets fifty dollars. You can take your choice of anything in town—go wherever you please and play any game you like.
“No two are to go together. We’ll meet at Dumain’s rooms at midnight, and if one or two of us hasn’t scared up a killing somewhere, you can shoot me for a fool. We’ve got five chances.”
The faces of the Erring Knights were alight with joy. They had not expected anything like this. With vociferous applause they proclaimed the greatness of Dougherty, while that gentleman divided the two hundred and fifty among them evenly and gave them sundry advice.
Driscoll and Jennings protested that they had not an even chance with the others, since they had to work from eight till eleven in the evening, whereupon Booth remarked that it was only four o’clock, and that you could lose fifty dollars in fifty seconds if you only went about it right.
They were all optimistic. Dougherty’s scheme was an excellent one, they declared—perfect, certain to win. Knowlton was as good as free. Three thousand? It would be nearer ten.
“Wait,” said the ex-prizefighter as they left the lobby together, “wait till tonight. It’ll be time enough to crow then. I never yet saw a referee count a guy out when he was still on his feet. Remember, midnight, at Dumain’s rooms.”
They parted on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, each going his own way and sending back a “Good luck!” over his shoulder to the others.
It would have appeared to the casual observer that Knowlton’s chance for freedom, if it depended on the success of this hare-brained, desperate scheme of Dougherty’s, was a slim one. But yet it was a chance.
There were five of them—they were anything but inexperienced—and they were at concert pitch. True knighthood finds its brightest glory when pitted against seemingly overwhelming odds; and though the ribbon of their lady fluttered not from their buttonholes, yet did they fight valiantly for her.
The hour of midnight found them—all five—reassembled at Dumain’s apartments on Twenty-first Street, in the room which, some two months previous, had seen the triumph of Knowlton and the treacherous blow of Sherman.
The room was not bare, as it had been then. In the center stood a table littered with books and magazines, above which a massive reading globe cast its circle of light downward, leaving the upper half of the room in darkness.
A piano stood in one corner; by the mantel a chess table with the pieces arranged, apparently, at the crisis of an unfinished game; and there were half a dozen easy chairs, of various shapes and sizes. Altogether, a very pleasant spot—Booth declared he was about persuaded to become a palmist himself.
Driscoll, who arrived last, entered on the stroke of twelve. He found the others waiting impatiently—for Dougherty had insisted that each man should keep the story of his success or failure to himself until all were present. Judging from the expression on their faces, there was little to tell.
The little Frenchman waved
Driscoll to a chair on the other side of the table and seated himself on the piano stool. Booth threw down a book he had been pretending to read, and Jennings yawned ostentatiously. All looked expectantly at Dougherty as he pounded on the arm of his chair for attention.
“I guess it’s time to kill the cat,” said the ex-prizefighter gloomily. “For your benefit,” he turned to Driscoll, “we’ve held off on the dope. I will now tell the sad story of my life. Heaven knows I wish it was different. Maybe I was wrong, but we’ve only lost two hundred—”
“Come on, cut your mutton,” Driscoll interrupted.
Dougherty glared at him, sighed, and began:
“I hate to tell it. There’s not much to tell. At exactly four-fifteen this afternoon I took a seat at a table of five at Webster’s on Thirty-sixth Street and bought a stack of blues. For an hour I fed the kitty, then it began to come.
“I helped every pair I drew to. I couldn’t lose. At about seven o’clock I’d cashed in four hundred and had a stack about the size of the Flatiron Building in front of me.
“If I’ve ever played poker I played it then. But it began to turn. They wouldn’t come. I couldn’t get better than a pair, and they were never good enough. I boosted twice on a one-card draw to four pink ones, but couldn’t get the filler.
“I prayed for ’em and tore ’em up and tried to run away with one or two, but they called me. And then—I had four ladies topped by a little guy on his first pot!”
A universal groan came from the audience.
“That finished me. I fought back as hard as I could, but they rushed me off my feet. At a quarter past eleven I cashed in exactly fifty dollars. Here it is.”
There was complete silence as Dougherty held up five ten-dollar bills and sorrowfully returned them to his pocket. Then everybody began talking at once.
“Anyway, you kept your fifty.”
“It could have been worse.”
“Zat pokaire is zee devil of a game.”
“Come on—who’s next? Go on with the story!”
This last from Driscoll.
Dougherty motioned to the little Frenchman.
