The Last Drive

by Rex Stout

  Rankin, too, heard the voice from his vantage-point outside the window. It came from a man who had been seated in one of the chairs by the windows at the front of the room, and who now sprang forward toward young Adams with an eager and anxious countenance. He was a young fellow about Harry’s age, but of a very different mould. The quick, shifty eyes, the whitish cheeks, already too often shaven, the nervous oiliness of his manner even in his excitement, were all quite familiar features to one who had had opportunity to observe a certain type of young man who infests Wall Street.

  He turned toward the house, but before he had taken two steps he saw something that caused him to draw back hastily into the shadow of the laca bush.

  “Have you got it?” came from his eager lips before the other had time to return his greeting.

  Harry Adams shook his head.

  “No, I haven’t. I—”

  “You haven’t! But, man, you must have! You promised! Why, I came—my God! You promised, Harry!”

  Young Adams took him by the arm. His voice was commanding:

  “Don’t shout so. I’ll explain. I don’t want to talk in here. It was risky your sitting in here where everybody could see you from the street. Come outside.”

  As they turned toward the door the detective retreated hastily from the window and dropped noiselessly over the porch railing onto the grass below. As he crouched there in the shadow he heard their feet descending the steps and saw their shadows on the lawn. The unknown’s voice came:

  “I’ve got my roadster. Shall we—”

  “No,” came Harry’s reply. “We’ll walk a little.”

  He continued in a lower tone, and Rankin, straining his ear, couldn’t catch the words. The two young men turned down the sidewalk to the left. Rankin prepared to follow. As he straightened up he caught sight of a form disappearing in a doorway a little down the street. “Probably the man that followed us from Greenlawn,” thought the detective. “Who the devil can he be and what is he up to? Well, we’ll attend to him later.”

  The two young men continued on down the street, talking earnestly in low tones; their voices came, but not the words. Rankin stepped cautiously after them at a distance. If only he could hear what they were saying! He drew a little closer; the sidewalk here, flanked by trees, was in heavy shadow, which made it less risky; but though he got within thirty feet of them he could only catch a meaningless word now and then. Otherwise, the silence of the night was almost unbroken; the call of insects sounded occasionally, the hoot of an owl came from the woods toward the river, and the horn of a motor car tooted faintly somewhere far down the road. Subconsciously the detective noted the curious resemblance between the two latter sounds, as if one were answering to the other.

  At length the two young men halted and, half turning, stood still talking. The detective crept closer. The nearest street lamp was a block away, and the moonlight tried in vain to penetrate the thick foliage of the trees. Rankin moved cautiously and silently from one protecting trunk to another; he was quite close now. One more advance—his foot bent a twig, but it was unheard—and he stood behind a tree so close that he could almost have put out his hand and touched the unknown, who was nearest him.

  Harry’s voice came, scarcely more than a whisper.

  “I simply don’t see how I can help you, Gil, but as I say, I’ll try. You can see it’s not my fault. It’s a horrible mess, and that’s all there is to it. I’ll telephone you tomorrow morning, at Migg’s at ten o’clock. You go back there and stay there, and whatever you do don’t show your face anywhere, or you’re a goner; they may be after you now. I’ve been thinking it over—”

  The interruption came from the street. An automobile had come up from the other end of the village and through it with dimmed lights. Here it was approaching the country again, and the lights, turned on suddenly, blazed forth with startling brilliancy. Like two monstrous flaming eyes they glared down the road and, as the wheel turned a little, in among the trees flanking the sidewalk; and the form of Canby Rankin, behind one of the trees, was revealed as in the light of noonday.

  Young Adams saw him, not ten feet away, stopped, and sprang forward.

  “What the—who—why, it’s Mr. Rankin!”

  Feeling profoundly foolish, the detective stepped out. The unknown, who had leapt away like a scared rabbit, halted and turned, holding himself in readiness for flight.

  “Who’s Mr. Rankin?” he demanded in a voice that rasped.

  “Why—” Harry stammered “— he’s a friend of Uncle Carson’s—that is, he’s a detective—”

  “A detective—damn you, Adams!”

  With the first word the unknown was off down the sidewalk at a bound. Rankin leaped after him. Harry called out:

  “It’s all right, Gil! Come back! He’s not after you!”

  The last was a rather absurd remark, since as it was uttered Rankin was quite obviously after Gil in the most literal sense of the word. Heedless of Harry’s shouts, repeated from the rear, the unknown rushed madly down the street, his feet pounding on the brick sidewalk as he leapt forward like a stampeded steer; and fifty feet behind was the detective, running low on his toes, almost silently. A window went up in a house as they passed, doubtless that of some sleeper awakened by Harry’s shouts, and a call came through the night, unheeded. A block ahead shone the lights of the hotel; at sight of them the unknown bounded forward with fresh energy, increasing a little the distance from his pursuer. He made for the front of the building, where stood the racy-looking roadster; and Rankin, guessing his purpose, strained every muscle. Reaching the roadster, the unknown jumped to the seat; almost instantly came the buzz of the engine; a lever clicked; the car started, jerked, and started again. But too late. Rankin, leaping through the air, was beside him.

  There was a short, sharp struggle over the levers, and the car jerked to a stop and stood still with the engine whirring madly. Yelling an oath, the unknown stooped and, rising again with a heavy wrench in his hand, swung it at the detective’s head. Rankin parried the blow, catching his arm, but in doing so lost his balance and tumbled from the car to the ground, dragging the other with him. At that instant Harry came running up.

  “It’s all right, Gil—for God’s sake, Mr. Rankin, let him go!”

  But Rankin’s blood was up now, and even if he had heard he would not have heeded. The murderous look in the other’s eyes as he struck with the wrench had roused him to fury; and he loved a fight. He got one.

  He had landed on his knees on the pavement, with Gil, pulled after, tumbling on his shoulders. The impact knocked Rankin prostrate, with the other on top, raining wild blows on his face and neck. With a mighty heave of his body the detective half unseated him, twisted about and caught his arms. Holding with a grip of steel, he worked to his knees, then one foot to the ground, then both. He was upright. With a desperate effort the unknown got an arm loose and swung, but Rankin sprang forward to clinch before the blow could land. Breathing heavily, grappling fiercely together, they swayed back and forth over the pavement; and with the superhuman strength of fear in him, Gil was holding his own. Harry Adams stood on the sidewalk, starting forward and then halting again, as if unable to decide which man to help; and all the time calling frantically to Gil that it was “all right,” and to Rankin to let him go.

  They lurched back and forth across the sidewalk, struggling silently; then suddenly Rankin’s foot caught on the edge of the curb and he stumbled, loosening his hold. On the instant Gil jerked away, then hurled himself forward and bore the other to the ground, knocking the breath out of him; and then jumped to his feet and sprang for the car with a triumphant oath. Swiftly Rankin was back on his feet and after him, dragging him from his seat, though his head was dizzy and stunned from the impact of the pavement. Gil clung to the edge of the car; Rankin tugged at him, and when the hold was suddenly released they tumbled backwards together. Gil was up fi
rst; his eye caught something on the ground; a quick swoop, and he straightened and turned with the heavy iron wrench in his hand. “Now, damn you!” he screamed, and rushed forward.

  Rankin dodged swiftly, and got a glancing blow on the shoulder. Again the wrench was raised, but the detective leaped forward and caught the arm before it could come down. There was a sharp pain in his shoulder, but he grappled and held on, jerking at the wrench with one hand, and finally got it loose and sent it spinning through the air. Then he drew back and swung his clenched fist at the others’ jaw, unexpectedly and successfully. He felt his knuckles crunch on the flesh and bone, and the unknown went down like a log. Rankin sprang astride of him and sat on him; and then Harry Adams’s agitated voice came:

  “Let him go, Mr. Rankin—please let him go. He’s done nothing—that is, not what you think. You must let him go, sir.”

  The detective merely grunted, pinning down his captive’s arms.

  “You must, Mr. Rankin—he meant no harm to you—”

  “Of course not,” panted the detective. “He just wanted to see how close he could come with that wrench without hitting me.”

  “You were after him.”

  “And I got him.”

  “You must let him go.”

  “Don’t be a damned idiot, Harry. Of course I won’t let him go.”

  The unknown stirred a little. The detective tightened his hold, resting for breath.

  “But I say you must.” Young Adams moved so that he stood directly over the two men on the pavement, and spoke rapidly. “Listen, Mr. Rankin. It’s a question of my honor. Gil came down here to see me. It would be the same as if I’d betrayed him, when I’d promised to help him. You must let him go. It’s a matter of honor.”

  “Your honor is your own lookout, my boy. As for me, I’m going to have a good long talk with your pleasant-mannered friend and find out why he’s so free with his wrenches.”

  “Mr. Rankin, let him go.”

  Silence. The detective shifted his hold a little and, leaning over, saw the shifty eyes open, and simultaneously felt a reawakening of the muscles of the man beneath him; and then he felt something else: two strong hands gripping him from above.

  “I’m sorry, sir—”

  “Keep off, Harry!”

  The detective sat harder. Gil’s body twisted feebly about. Young Adams seemed to hesitate an instant, then he stooped swiftly and encircled Rankin with his arms. The detective struggled, but in vain; he was still all but exhausted, and the strength of the young athlete was too much for him. Inexorably he was dragged from his captive and across the sidewalk; he tried to twist about, but the arms held him in a grip of steel. The unknown, left free, stirred and turned, lifting himself to his knees; there he stopped for a moment, swaying as if dazed, then hastily scrambled to his feet. Young Adams was calling to him quietly:

  “Get in the car, Gil, and beat it. Quick! Come on, pull yourself together! Beat it, I say! You might have known—I’ll phone you in the morning. Lay low till you hear from me.”

  The unknown lost no time, nor wasted breath in speech. For a second he stood uncertainly in the attitude of a man who asks “Where am I?” then turned without a word and staggered to the roadster and pulled himself in. The engine was still running. A jerk of a lever, and the car leaped forward into the night.

  Harry waited till the red light had completely disappeared in the darkness, then released his hold on the detective and stepped aside.

  “I’m sorry, sir—”

  Rankin made no reply. He was feeling gingerly about his shoulder for broken bones, and moving his arm cautiously up and down. It seemed to work all right. Now that the passion of battle was leaving him, he felt a little silly as he looked at the young man standing there quietly before him in the peaceful moonlight.

  “Who the deuce is Gil?” he asked abruptly.

  Then as Harry hesitated with his reply the detective looked at his watch, shook himself together and brushed the dust from his clothing.

  “Nearly one o’clock,” he observed. “No use standing here. Let’s get back to Greenlawn. You can tell me about it on the way.”

  So it was as they trudged back along the moonlit country road, side by side, that Harry explained. Until they reached the border of the village he was silent, and when he began to speak his words came jerkily.

  “I’ll have to tell you about it, I suppose,” he said slowly, “so you’ll understand my position. Not that there’s anything really wrong about it as far as I’m concerned, but I—well, I’m not very proud of it.”

  They walked on a moment in silence, then he continued:

  “Gil—Gil Warner—was a classmate of mine at college. He did me a mighty good turn one night—in fact he saved my life and more, too. But that hasn’t anything to do with the worst part of the business—that is, my worst part—the beginning.

  “I never really liked Gil, but I was under a great obligation to him, so when he came to New York I saw more or less of him—got him invited places and so on. Finally, about four months ago, he started after me to go in on a stock speculation with him. At first I wouldn’t listen, but he talked it up and it really sounded good. He wanted me to interest Uncle Carson in it, and at length I consented; but I didn’t have much success. Uncle looked into it a little and turned it down cold; said it wasn’t worth a cent.”

  “Did the Colonel meet Warner?” the detective put in.

  “No. I didn’t mention Gil’s name. Then Gil got after me to go in on my own hook. You know, I have—had—about a hundred thousand left me by father, in good securities. I refused twenty times, but he kept after me, and at last I gave in. That’s where I was a blanked ass. But it really looked good to me. I went to Mr. Mawson—”

  “What did you go to Mawson for?”

  “He handled things for me. He has since father’s death. I told him all about it, and he agreed to help me realize on the securities without telling uncle. I got it and put it all in United Traffic.

  We—”

  “In what?”

  “United Traffic. What’s the matter? Oh, you’ve heard how it blew up, of course. I said I was a blanked ass.”

  The detective had stopped short with an expression of surprise on his face. Now he whistled a little, as the surprise deepened into perplexity.

  “Yes, I’ve heard how it blew up,” he replied as he moved on again. “But it wasn’t that. It was—nothing. Go on.”

  “That’s all. It blew up. The bottom fell out. And then Gil came to me and said he had embezzled a big sum from the brokers he works for and sunk it in United Traffic. He was frantic. This was only day before yesterday. As I said, I was under a great obligation to him. I promised to see uncle and try to get a loan to help him out. I meant to do it tonight—and this afternoon—and uncle’s dead. I had an appointment to see Gil at Brockton. He’s—you saw what condition he’s in. They’re onto him and he’s laying low. I don’t know what to do—I’m all broken up about Uncle Carson and I can’t think anyway. I thought maybe I’d see Mr. Mawson in the morning.”

  The young man finished and the detective began to ply him with questions. All of them he answered readily and consistently. About them was the soft silence of the countryside, broken only by their voices and the rhythmic pat of their feet on the macadam as they swung along side by side; the moon was dropping to the horizon now, and there was a new ghostliness in the long narrow shadows of the trees as they stretched into the fields and moved their lazy fingers to and fro over the quiet grass. The two men became silent, walking more swiftly; an abrupt question now and then, and its answer, was all that was heard for half an hour.

  “The best thing you can do is to drop this Gil Warner entirely,” Rankin observed as they came within sight of the gate of Greenlawn. “Obligation is one thing and common sense is another. He’s a crook anyway, and the more you do the more you’ll
have to do. You say you think he’s not been in this neighborhood before. I’ll find out about that. He may know—”

  The detective stopped short.

  “By Jove, I’d forgotten!” he exclaimed after a moment.

  Harry turned inquiring eyes on him.

  “There was a man following me,” Rankin explained. “He came out of the Greenlawn gate and followed us all the way to Brockton. I saw him there in a doorway. In the excitement I forgot all about it.”

  “He came out of Greenlawn?”

  “Yes. Not far behind me. He followed all the way.” Half involuntarily the detective wheeled and looked back down the road. The next instant he grasped Harry by the arm.

  “There he is now!” he cried.

  CHAPTER V

  Harry turned and gazed back down the road.

  “Where? I don’t see anyone.”

  “No. Not now. He jumped into the shadow—that clump of trees on the right.”

  “But who can it be?”

  “I don’t know.” The detective stood peering intently toward the clump of trees two hundred yards away. “It looks as though you’d got mixed up in a dirtier piece of business than you bargained for.”

  “What—you don’t mean Uncle—”

  Rankin interrupted him:

  “Ah, there he is!”

  With the words the detective was off toward the trees with a bound, and without an instant’s hesitation Harry was at his heels. Back down the road they raced at the top of their speed; and when they had traversed half the distance, in the dim glow of the waning moonlight they saw a figure dart suddenly out of the shadow across the road, scramble over the fence and start at a dead run across the fields like a startled rabbit. Rankin swerved aside, squeezed between the wires almost without halting and took after him. Harry, not far behind, was calling as he ran:

  “Cut across! He’s making for the woods!”

  Rankin had already seen and was straining every muscle to intercept the maneuver, but Harry, with his youthful athletic stride, soon passed him. The man ahead bounded frantically across the furrows without looking back; his goal was evidently the fringe of woods bordering the river some five hundred yards from the road, and the advantage was his, as the two converged at a point half a mile down. Rankin, seeing himself outdistanced by Harry anyway, took it easier, as his injured shoulder was causing him considerable pain; then, seeing their quarry finally reach the edge of the woods and disappear, he pushed forward again. When at length he reached the spot he could see nothing, for the waning moonlight stopped at the barrier of the thick foliage and left all in darkness. Young Adams, too, had disappeared.