"But"—there was disappointment in Stranway's tones—"have you nothing more to go on than that? Nothing to connect him in any way with the crime?"
"No," said the little old gentleman gravely. "I have nothing more than that, except that his life in Paris while under our observation was decidedly pernicious. He may be as innocent of any connection with the crime as you or I."
Stranway shook his head.
"I am afraid it is a very slender hope," he said.
"I believe in Marlin's innocence," Charlebois responded quietly. "I believe intuitively it will be established—and there is hope from no other source than this."
"Yes; I see," Stranway responded seriously. "And now what am I to do?"
"This for the moment," Charlebois answered. "You will probably have to act quickly when the moment arrives; and, that there may be no loss of time, go to the garage at once, take the new touring car that was delivered to us this morning, drive it yourself to the corner of the avenue, and wait there by the Jefferson Night Court. By that time, I should have heard from the dock, and will send you such instructions as I may then have to give you. But principally, you are to get this man—his name is Peter Rolver—to Parker's Landing as soon as possible. You may have trouble, but——"
"I will get him there," said Stranway grimly, as he rose from his chair.
Charlebois smiled soberly.
"I have no doubt of that," he said. "Go then, my boy. Go at once."
Chapter XII.
In Which a Trap is Baited
Table of Contents
Twenty minutes later, Stranway, at the wheel of a high-powered touring car of the latest and most expensive make, drew up beside the curb in front of the police court on Sixth Avenue. He looked at his watch as he stopped the car. It was eleven thirty-five. From where he sat he could watch the entrance to Dominic Court, a block and a half away.
A strange case, Charlebois had said. It unquestionably was! Stranway's brows furrowed, as, waiting, he settled in his seat. Somehow, he could not quite take the work before him as seriously as usual—the chance of this man Rolver being implicated in the crime seemed too remote, too chimerical, too visionary. But how like Charlebois it was that, on the credit or the debit side, leaving no single stone unturned, sparing neither labour, time nor money, he might repay—sternly, implacably, or with great-hearted, infinite, kindly, human love—those curious accounts he had inscribed in the long-ago on the pages of the Red Ledger!
Stranway lighted a cigarette, and, as he smoked, the picture Charlebois had drawn of Marlin and Marlin's wife, and with it the gentle, earnest face of the little old gentleman himself, full of calm trust and faith, rose before his eyes; and a wave of pity for the two unfortunates, and sympathy for the man who was at once his chief and friend, swept over him. There seemed no other thing to expect, viewed logically and rationally, but failure.
A half hour passed, another quarter. No message yet had come from Charlebois. It was already twelve-twenty. Stranway slipped his watch back into his pocket after one of many consultations, and leaned suddenly forward. Ah! Yes! Someone at last was emerging from the passageway leading from Dominic Court. The man came briskly down the avenue, stopped beside the car, handed Stranway an envelope and passed on.
Stranway tore it open and read the note he found therein. Its sentences were crisp and terse almost to the point of being enigmatical:
"R at the Brabant-Lorraine. At luncheon now. Hurry. Leave car side entrance. Join him at same table. Pretend slight but not offensive intoxication. Assume character of garrulous automobile enthusiast. Take cue from assistance you will receive. Rainier in lobby. Second house up, right-hand side, first street past bank at Parker's Landing. C."
Once more Stranway read the note carefully, then he tore it into little shreds, dropped them into his pocket—and the car leaped forward.
It was fifteen minutes later when Stranway drew up at the side entrance of the big hotel, and, leaving the car at the curb, walked around the corner to the main entrance on Fifth Avenue and entered the lobby of the Brabant-Lorraine.
A man rose from a lounging chair and sauntered nonchalantly past him—it was Rainier.
Stranway followed. Rainier led the way along the wide corridor that gave off the lobby, stopped before the café door, and nodded almost imperceptibly to the head waiter, who was standing at the threshold.
"One?" inquired the head waiter politely of Stranway. "Yes, sir; this way, sir."
Rainier had taken out his cigarette case and was profoundly occupied in tapping one end of a cigarette against his thumb nail.
"Head waiter is fixed," he said in an undertone, but without turning his head, as Stranway stepped past him. "He'll jolly Rolver into letting you occupy the same table."
The room, a large one, was well filled; all the tables, so far as Stranway could judge from a cursory survey, being occupied—save for one or two here and there which, from their up-tilted chairs, had evidently been reserved. One of these, Stranway noticed, was directly behind him as he halted before a table already occupied by one man, while the head waiter, bowing and explaining in deferential tones that the hotel was very crowded at luncheon that day, asked its occupant if he would be gracious enough to share his table with another gentleman. The reply was a grunt of compliance, and Stranway, with the slightest indication of a lurch, settled into the chair that the waiter pulled out for him.
Stranway bowed with exaggerated dignity to the man opposite whom he found himself—and clumsily dropped on the floor the pencil that the waiter handed him with an order blank. He apologised profusely to the waiter and to his table companion, who, obviously, must be Rolver. Rolver responded with a curt nod, and a smile that was more a contemptuous sneer of understanding.
"I've been motoring all morning, you know," said Stranway fatuously. "Frightfully hard on the wrist, you know, those big cars. Here, waiter, you write it down." Stranway gave an order which was both un-epicurean and careless, waved the waiter away, and addressed himself again to Rolver. "I've a peach of a car," he confided blithely to the other. "Just got delivery this morning. Been trying her out, you know. Go in much for the sport?"
Rolver's answer was an uncompromising shrug of the shoulders—and Stranway beamed on him with delighted amiability, as though quite oblivious of the fact that any warmth was lacking in the other's reception of his advances.
But while he smiled at Rolver, he studied the man—and the more he studied the other, the less he liked him. Rolver, he discovered, was of medium height, rather thick-set, and, Stranway judged, somewhere between thirty and thirty-five years of age. His heavy black beard and moustache were almost too fastidiously trimmed; his eyes were grey, small and restless, and they were too nearly flush with the retreating forehead to please Stranway. The whole appearance of the man was blasé and annoyingly supercilious.
Blissfully unconscious, to all appearances, of rebuff, Stranway attacked his consommé and between mouthfuls expatiated enthusiastically on the merits of his car. By the time he had reached his meat course, Rolver was engaged with a demi-tasse and a cigar—and Rolver had thawed out a little. That is to say, the contemptuous smile of understanding had changed to a contemptuous smile of amusement, and he had interpolated a remark here and there with the very evident purpose of discovering how great was the inanity of which Stranway was capable.
"What kind of a car did you say yours was?" he inquired at this juncture.
Stranway promptly laid down his fork.
"Crouthier-Lars," said he brightly, with his mouth full. "Runs like a cat—not a sound! And say, she's a whizzer; eight cylinder—I'll take you for spin presently that'll open your eyes. Most frightfully glad to!"
To this Rolver made no return. The sound of scraping chairs behind Stranway told him that the empty table was now being occupied. Rolver's eyes were fixed in that direction, and he became suddenly engaged in twirling the ends of his moustache to a rakishly fetching angle.
"Bet you a hundred to fi
fty that Wilfred Marlin doesn't go to the electric chair to-morrow, or any other time"—a man's voice, half laughing, half earnest, came suddenly from the table just occupied.
Not a muscle of Stranway's face moved. Unostentatiously watching Rolver, he thought the man's fingers for an instant ceased their operations on the moustache ends, but, if so, the pause was very slight indeed. And then, self-contained as Stranway was, for an instant he almost lost his own control, as the sound of a woman's voice reached him—-a voice that he would have known amongst thousands, that thrilled him and quickened the beat of his pulse.
It was the Orchid.
She was speaking; her voice playfully chiding, yet still with a serious note in it:
"Now, Jimmy, that's not sportsmanlike! And it's not a very nice subject for a bet, either! You are taking Mr. Kemp at a disadvantage. Mr. Kemp"—she evidently turned to another companion—"Jimmy has what I think you call 'inside information,' and that isn't fair; though I'll do him the justice to say that I know he wouldn't let you put up the money. Anyway, I'm going to tell on him. Jimmy's uncle, you know, is a commissioner of police. Well, it seems that the police have discovered the real author of the crime for which this poor bricklayer Marlin was convicted. They found the man in Paris a month ago. Since then he has been under constant surveillance. They lured him then on some pretext into coming back to New York. He arrived this morning from Cherbourg, and is probably under arrest by now. If he isn't, it is because the police are giving him a little more rope. I'm not giving away any professional secrets, because he is sure to be arrested this afternoon anyhow, and the evening papers will be full of it. The case created quite a stir, you know."
"Good Lord!" ejaculated a deep bass voice, presumably that of Mr. Kemp. "You don't say!"
Madly Stranway was fighting now for self-possession. The blood was pounding at his temples, as, mingling with the fierce exultant thrill that the sound of the Orchid's voice had brought him, there rushed upon him a sense of abysmal irony. For more than a month now, day and night, he had been hoping, longing for his next meeting with her, and now she was here, within a few feet of him—only to be more inaccessible than ever she had been before! He dared not even glance around. The game was on, and a single false move on his part now would ruin it. He was conscious that Rolver's eyes were fastened on him sharply, intently, with a look in them that had not been there before—a look that was at once speculative and in which lurked a suspicious interest. And there was something else, too, in Rolver's eyes, and a sudden new thrill of exultation, quite independent of that caused by the Orchid's presence, swept over him. Charlebois had been right! Guilt and a hunted look were in Rolver's eyes, and the man's face was almost grey.
Stranway set down his knife and fork and smiled brightly at the other again.
"You bet she's a whizzer!" he reiterated, as though hopelessly obsessed with but one idea. "Climb the side of a house, you know, 'pon my honour, at eighty miles an hour!"
He reached for the water carafe, caught his fork in his sleeve and sent it flying to the floor. With a confused and crestfallen air, he stooped to pick it up—and glanced toward the other table. The Orchid sat between Hume and Laidley, two of the organisation's men. Not one of the three looked in his direction, or paid the slightest attention to him.
When he straightened up, a bellboy, threading his way between the numerous tables, had just reached Rolver's side. Stranway was apparently engrossed in endeavouring to attract the attention of a waiter in an effort to procure a clean fork.
"Mr. Peter Rolver, sir?" inquired the boy.
"Yes," said Rolver.
"Gentleman to see you, sir—out in the lobby. He'd like to see you at once, sir."
"Well, who is he?" demanded Rolver. "Where's his card?"
"He didn't send one, sir. He's an officer—a police lieutenant, sir."
Out of the corner of his eye Stranway caught the quick twitch of the other's lips, the sudden clenching of the hand on the table edge; but the man's voice was steady enough as he answered:
"All right. Tell him I'll be there in a moment—as soon as I can settle my cheque."
Stranway from a seemingly fruitless effort to catch a waiter's eye, swung around in his seat to face Rolver again.
"Beastly service in this place," he grumbled. "Report to the manager, see if I don't!"
Rolver leaned over the table toward him.
"Where's that car of yours?" he asked quickly.
"H'm?" inquired Stranway, not over-intelligently.
"The car—where's your car?"
Stranway jerked his head in the direction of the side entrance.
"Out there," he said. "Why?"
"Because," said Rolver hurriedly, "I'll take you up on that invitation for a spin, if you meant what you said."
Stranway opened his eyes wide and stared at the other with an injured air.
"'Course I meant it," he declared.
"Good!" responded Rolver. "I thought you did—but I'll have to go at once."
"All right," agreed Stranway, grabbing at the fork he had been so fastidious about a moment ago. "I'll finish up my lunch in a——"
"Now!" interrupted Rolver. "I've just received some—some important news. It's a matter of life and death. You're sport enough, aren't you, to let a lunch go to help a fellow out of a hole?"
Stranway promptly pushed back his chair.
"You bet!" said he effusively.
Rolver beckoned to the waiter.
"I'll settle the cheques," he said quickly. "Out there at the side door, you said, didn't you? There isn't a moment to lose."
From the table behind Stranway came the sound of a knife or fork drumming what was apparently a nervous, if impolite, tattoo upon the edge of a plate. It ended as Rolver pushed a bill into the waiter's hand and stood up—but Stranway had read the code: "Will chase you to Parker's Landing."
Chapter XIII.
The Man in the Checked Suit
Table of Contents
The Orchid's eyes were on her plate, and she did not look up as Rolver, catching Stranway's arm, started hastily for the side door—but Stranway, passing her table, did not go without his reward. The same faint tinge of colour, that once before had set his heart to beating wildly, was mounting to her cheeks. It was not for Hume; it was not for Laidley. And somehow this "next" meeting, though neither word nor look had passed between them, a more "impossible" meeting than they had ever had before, left him, not with disappointment, but with an uplift upon him, a singing in his heart, and a daring hope that he had not been altogether out of her thoughts merely because a month had come and gone since they had last seen each other.
He was scarcely conscious he had reached his car and that Rolver had jumped into the front seat beside him—but the next instant, as the car sped forward, he was brought rudely and sharply back to a very acute realisation of his immediate surroundings and the rôle he was playing. In the vision-mirror he saw a big, red car dash around the corner behind him—a car that held three men, one of whom was in the uniform of a police officer. And Rolver had seen that police uniform too!
Rolver was staring back over his shoulder, and now he touched Stranway on the arm.
"You said this was a fast car—go faster!" he directed curtly.
"Faster?" repeated Stranway innocently. "I can't, you know—not here, not in the city. Speed ordinance, and all that, you know!"
"Look behind you!"
Stranway obeyed.
"Do you see that red car?" inquired Rolver shortly.
"Sure!" said Stranway. "She's a Peterson 'Sixty,' last year's model, valve-in-the-head motor, you know, and——"
"And do you see this?" A revolver had leapt suddenly into Rolver's hand.
"Oh, I say, you know!" protested Stranway, edging away with well-simulated alarm to the side of his seat. "What's the bally joke?"
"There is no joke," said Rolver in a hard voice. "That car is chasing us. If she catches us this will be the last car you'll ever drive,
that's all—understand?"
"She—she won't catch us," stammered Stranway, "unless we get held up by a traffic block, and"—brightening up and smiling a hesitant, conciliatory smile at Rolver—"once in the country, we can run away from her, you know, 'pon my honour, we can."
"If you know what's good for your health, then," snapped Rolver, "you'll get into the country quicker than you ever did in your life before."
"Oh, I say, you know," said Stranway earnestly, "I will—really. 'Pon my honour, I will, if you'll only put that beastly thing away. It—it might go off over a jolt, you know."
"It's liable to go off before that," Rolver gritted between his teeth. "She's creeping up on us now."
For three-quarters of an hour, now gaining, now losing, but never with more than half a block separating them, the chase continued while they worked out of Manhattan and before they finally struck the river road on the east bank of the Hudson. And so far Stranway's task had been a simple one—he had only to make the best speed he could; it was the task of the car behind, and a difficult one, to maintain the semblance of a chase that should be at once determined and unsuccessful. It had been clever work. Not once had the red car been far enough in the rear to give Rolver a chance—by making Stranway slow down—of jumping from the car, dodging out of sight, and so making his escape.
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