That night Farrell’s sleep was interrupted by the persistent ringing of the doorbell.
“If anyone’s waking me up to offer me a drink I’ll kick him into the Gulf,” he muttered sleepily. He heard the purr of a powerful motor idling in the drive in front of the house. “Hmmm…that engine sounds like class. Maybe a distinguished visitor.”
The doorbell rang again, a long, persistent ring, followed by several staccato jerks. Someone was impatient and eager.
“Keep your shirt on, brother,” Farrell shouted as he found his slippers. Then through his sleepiness came the recollection of his being hunted. He picked his Colt .45 from the dresser.
Farrell strode silently across the thick carpet, yanked the door suddenly. As he leaped clear, he covered the entrance with his pistol. Then he stared for a moment, and lowered his automatic. His caller was an uncommonly pretty girl. As Farrell snapped on the gallery light, he noted with approval the costly simplicity of her sports costume.
“Oh, Mr. Farrell!” she exclaimed, her greenish eyes widening in dismay. “Don’t shoot!”
She laughed softly at Farrell’s embarrassment, but despite her amusement, she was agitated. She was nervously fingering the handle of a circular hat box that she had picked up and was holding in her arms as though guarding something fragile and precious.
“I beg your pardon,” said Farrell. “I wasn’t expecting a lady at this hour. And—” He glanced at the pistol in his hand. “I’m awfully nervous, you know, alone in a big house like this.”
“You look it,” the girl retorted. She laughed and glanced over her shoulder. The green eyes shifted to the tightly clutched hat box. “They’re on my trail, and I can’t shake them. I hate to ask you to take—”
“Step in and tell me about it, Miss—”
“Lydia Wilson,” she said as she entered.
“Wonder what’s eating her?” was Farrell’s thought as he saw her start violently as the door clicked closed behind her. “She’s got ’em, and got ’em bad!”
As he gestured toward a chair, Farrell regarded the long lashed eyes and copper tinged hair.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” Lydia answered as she opened the hat box.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Farrell as she removed the silver image of a peacock with outspread fan. The body of the bird was scarcely larger than a spring chicken. “Are you by any chance calling to remind me of that hundred thousand? Now, if they’d sent you in the first place,” he continued, dividing his glance between the exquisite Persian workmanship of the peacock, and the loveliness of the girl, “I’d have coughed up in a minute.”
“Why—I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” countered Lydia, obviously puzzled.
“Oh, well, never mind. I’ve just got a private grudge against peacocks. But what’s it all about? And how come you’re picking on me?”
“It’s for Hillman Parr, in New Orleans. They’ve been after me ever since I left Pensacola. I hate to ask you to take such a terrible risk—”
“I take risks for fun, money, or marbles,” assured Farrell. “But why elect me?”
“Heard of you—spent a summer on the Gulf Coast, once. But call me at the Cortez tomorrow morning. I simply can’t stop to explain. You will, won’t you?” she pleaded, then thrust the peacock into his hands as though she feared that he might refuse. “Hillman Parr, the collector. Everyone knows him. And do be on your guard!”
She fairly ran to the door as she uttered her warning.
“Hey, wait a minute—” protested Farrell as he turned and set the peacock on the table, then started after her. The door clicked in his face. As he fumbled with the latch, he heard the door of her car slam. “Steady, there!” he called, as he opened the house door and cleared the gallery with a bound, “Hold on a minute!”
But Lydia stepped on the accelerator. Farrell caught a glimpse of a New York license plate, and her hand waving him farewell as she cleared the gatepost by a hair.
“Afraid I’d turn her down and make her carry her own jewelry—” Then, as he heard the roar of the motor, “Going like the hammers of hell! But if she was so scared, why didn’t she stay here?” he wondered as he retraced his steps and entered the living room.
Farrell grinned at his reflection in the mirror.
“Did my map scare her out, or was she afraid of compromising me?”
He picked up the silver peacock which had been forced on him for delivery to Hillman Parr. On the breast was a medallion engraved in obsolete, angular Arabic script.
The work of the Servant of the Angel, Abdannar, Emir of the Faithful, may our Lord be well pleased with him.
“Pretty thick; the Peacock assassinates Burnham just to serve as a good example to me, and does it right before my eyes! And now this nice looking red-head comes charging up in a high flurry. Where does she fit into this, or does she? Persian daggers jammed into Burnham, and now this hoodoo all bespattered with inscriptions—”
He glared at the bird for a moment.
“And where does Hillman Parr come in on this? Probably stolen property and he knows it. Never saw a collector yet that’d turn down a hot work of art.”
Farrell grinned knowingly and glanced at some of his own collection; rich old rugs from Persian palaces, scimitars, kreeses, kampilans; bits of jade, and Japanese lacquer. But all of the arms that were grouped on the wall in clusters were not antiques. Some of them were mementos of their owners, indiscreet fellows who had hunted Farrell.
Farrell opened his wall safe and made room for the silver peacock. As he spun the dial, he heard a car thundering past, throttle wide open. He heard the savage scream of brakes as it slowed down to make the sharp turn in the road that crossed the L.&N. tracks and led to the highway bridge. For a moment he thought that he was listening to another example of more speed than brains.
“That bird’s in more of a hurry than she was.”
And with that thought, Farrell’s march to his bedroom halted abruptly.
“By God, that might be someone chasing her! Naturally they’d keep on her trail, not knowing she’d stopped here and left the peacock with me. And if they overtake her and find she’s not got it, they’ll take it out of her hide—”
Farrell slipped trousers over his pajamas.
“Let’s go! Trouble always follows these red-headed women.”
He slipped a pistol into his hip pocket, dashed to the garage, and in another moment the Hispano was justifying Farrell’s affectionate boasting.
“Gangway!” he cried above the roar of the motor as he charged up the grade to the two-mile highway bridge and jammed the accelerator home. He crossed the bridge in a shade more than ninety seconds. The Hispano was a blur and a high-pitched whine as it flashed through Bay Saint Louis toward Waveland and another sharp turn.
“That jane has more nerve than sense,” reflected Farrell as he slowed down out of deference to the loose gravel leading out of Waveland. “Leading the pursuit away from the peacock. Or else,” Farrell smiled sourly. “Or she’s playing me for a sap. She knew entirely too much about my weaknesses and meddlesome habits, even allowing for the rotogravure section and press notices. Wouldn’t take such a gigantic intellect to dope it out that I’d take a tumble and follow her, to see her safe to New Orleans. Rather nice, the way she checked out without giving me a chance to say aye, yes, or no.
“And now all they’ve got to do is to yank a decrepit flivver across the road, some place where I won’t be able to pull up in time, knock my bus end for appetite, pick me out of the wreckage, and haul me to a boat waiting at the Rigolets Pass. Then they can keep me filed for reference, and be sure I’ll pay off the money Mr. Peacock wants. Borrowing those machine guns probably tipped them off. Probably been watching me all day. Such a nice looking girl, too…”
And having the ambush plotted out in advance, Glenn Farrell played true to form; he crow
ded the Hispano to the limit. Until the pursuit reached the road fork at Slidell, there was but one route suitable for fast travel to New Orleans.
As Farrell passed the Pearl River Bridge, he saw that he had made a surprisingly accurate guess. A car, hall athwart the road, was waiting, ready to halt or wreck him. He jammed on the brakes and came to a smoking halt.
“Didn’t figure my bus would stop that quick,” he muttered. “That crabs their game. And if they try to rush me—”
Farrell drew his .45.
“Clear moonlight, and damned nice shooting!”
He waited for a moment to see if the assault would materialize. But instead of a rush of dark figures and the crackle of pistols, there was a curse of exasperation, and a woman’s scream. Two men emerged from the swampy depression that flanked the road. They half carried, half dragged a struggling, sobbing woman toward the car that was partly headed into the highway.
One of the woman’s captors shouted. Someone in the car replied. The engine raced as the driver stepped on the gas, preparing for a fast getaway.
Farrell leaped to the road.
“What’s this monkey work?” he demanded as his pistol rose into line.
No answer. One of the men took complete charge of the woman. Farrell saw his fist smack home. The other as he released his hold on the captive drew and fired at Farrell. The bullet smashed through the windshield of the Hispano as Farrell’s .45 roared. The enemy staggered, recovered, fired again.
Then, pistol flaming, Farrell charged the rear guard, fearing to risk a shot at the woman’s captor. But as his second shot drove the gunman into a heap on the running board, an arm from within dragged him into the car as it took off with a bound and soared down the road. A farewell bullet from the fugitives gipped harmlessly overhead. It was a gesture of derision to which Farrell did not reply.
“Damn his hide,” Farrell growled as he noted the blood splashes on the paved road, “his wild shooting kept me dodging enough to give the other guy a chance to make the bus. Well, we’ll ride some more!”
As Farrell turned toward his own car he saw the wreck from which the girl had been carried. The New York license plate identified it as Lydia’s machine. He saw at a glance that the gas tank had been ripped open, and the upholstery slashed. They had looked for something, presumably the peacock, in every conceivable place of concealment; and now they were taking her away to be sweated until she told them what she had done with the silver image.
In another moment Farrell was on his way down the highway.
“Come on, sister, we’ve not started yet!” he declared as he opened the Hispano wide. “If we can’t overtake ’em, we’ll make their arrival in town conspicuous.”
At all events, Farrell reflected, as mile after mile of darkness slipped past, Lydia’s story had been bona fide, even though the whole affair was decidedly shady. Something, he decided, was absolutely off-color: else, why had the peacock been shipped by messenger, instead of by express?
Farrell flashed through Slidell unchallenged by highway patrolmen. If any were on duty, they would be in pursuit of the car ahead. At the road fork just beyond Slidell, Farrell turned to the left, reasoning that the fugitives would avoid the Pontchartrain Bridge in order to keep from being observed by the toll keeper.
Several miles beyond Slidell, the guess seemed justified. Far ahead of him, Farrell caught a glimpse of a tail light. Farrell was slowly gaining.
“Shake it up, sister, we got to catch ’em!”
But the car ahead was no sluggard, and the start from the Pearl River Bridge was more than could be overcome in a few miles. Farrell, however, persisted in the chase instead of halting to telephone ahead to New Orleans. He finally observed that he had gained appreciably on the tail light ahead.
They were approaching the railroad crossing near Gentilly. Farrell heard the scream of the limited, and caught the long beam of its headlight.
The enemy was slowing down to make the sharp turn just before the road crossed the tracks. Farrell unlimbered his pistol. Four shots left, but enough.
“Should have brought an extra clip!” he muttered in disgust. “One bum play after another…”
The limited was bearing down on the crossing.
“Got ’em sewed up!” he exulted. “Can’t slow down to make the turn, and then pick up enough to beat the train—crazy if they even think of it—”
Farrell held his breath for an instant, swallowed his heart, and jammed his own brakes. He expected to see the car smashed to fragments by the onrushing locomotive.
Then he slumped back against the cushions.
“Made it—Good Lord!”
He sighed wearily, and became aware of the violent trembling that shook him, and made him try a second time to holster his pistol.
“Red Head, you sure came near getting yours…”
After a seemingly interminable delay the crossing was clear. As he let in the clutch and crossed the tracks in the wake of the train, Farrell realized that further pursuit was useless. The enemy would by now be well into the suburbs, driving at a moderate pace, and secure against all but the most remote chance of being overtaken or recognized.
* * * *
Farrell halted at the first filling station to telephone police headquarters.
“Glenn Farrell speaking…trace black Cadillac sedan…no, couldn’t get the number…three men, one of them with at least two bullet holes in him. One girl, red hair, green eyes, beige sports costume…looks exactly what the well dressed woman will wear…yeah, that’s the type!… Hell, I’m no good at weights or dimensions, but I’d say she must be about twenty four-five… And tell John Healy I’ve got a hunch this job ties in with the knifing of Burnham…no, can’t explain it, but you tell him. And I’ll see him later in the day.”
Farrell hung up and paused to consider his next move.
He could continue on into New Orleans and spend the remainder of the night at the Union Club, or else he could return to Pass Christian and get the peacock.
While Farrell was not acutely concerned about the disposition of Hillman Parr’s property, the last move was obviously the best, since the silver image would give him an immediate opportunity of investigating the possibility that Hillman Parr was in some way connected with the death of Burnham. Therefore, after having his tank refilled, Farrell set out for Pass Christian, albeit at a more moderate pace than he had taken during the vain pursuit of Lydia.
CHAPTER III
Mr. Parr is Embarrassed
It was close to sunrise when Farrell arrived at his estate, which fronted the highway that follows the Gulf Coast from Bay Saint Louis to Biloxi. He summoned old Isaac and called for coffee. Then, while awaiting the brewing of the black, chicory-tinctured eye-opener, Farrell opened the wall safe. The silver peacock awaited his inspection.
In order to be prepared for his call on Parr, Farrell felt that he should be fairly conversant with the inscription whose translation he had not completed. He therefore renewed his study of the engraved medallion. He had read the first line at sight; but on closer scrutiny he saw that those which followed were made up of characters worked into an intricate arabesque pattern whose deciphering would require considerable study: several days, perhaps.
“Hell with that!” he exclaimed, and set about making several pencil and paper rubbings of the medallion, to be studied at his leisure. “I’ll sink Parr with a good bluff on the lines I do know.”
Then, as Isaac served his coffee, “Lay out my gray checkered suit. And stuff this bird into a cardboard box. I’m damned sick of peacocks, and I want it out of my sight before it spoils my breakfast.”
“Yassuh, Mistah Glenn,” agreed the negro as he carefully set aside the penciled note and secured them with a paper weight, “peacocks is bad luck.”
“And that’s only half of it,” muttered Farrell glumly, thinking again of Burnham
, his own prospects, and the kidnapping of the charming Lydia.
But with a coffee, a shave, and a fresh suit of tropicals, Farrell’s spirits revived. And thus, after issuing a few instructions to Isaac, Farrell reloaded his .45, stuffed a handful of cigars into his breast pocket, and resumed the wheel of the Hispano.
An hour and a half later, Farrell drew up at Parr’s house on Saint Charles Avenue. He presented his card, and without delay was ushered into the dusky solitude of the high ceiled library. Parr’s desk was an island in a broad expanse of hardwood floor. The dark visaged bronzes that rose, here and there, from their marble pedestals, were lonely as lighthouses. Farrell resisted the temptation to hang his hat on a bust of Napoleon, and gravely set the cardboard box on the scholar’s desk.
“Pray be seated, Mr. Farrell,” began Parr in his oratorical manner which always left the listener wondering whether Parr addressed an individual or a historical society. “This is indeed a pleasure.”
He paused impressively for a moment, then resumed, “A rare pleasure, Mr. Farrell. At times I fancy that the solitude of my study tends to repel visitors.”
He carefully fitted his fingers tip to tip, beamed at Farrell with a trace of condescending cordiality, and permitted himself a glance at the none too neatly wrapped parcel that marred the orderly desk top.
Farrell cut the string and pulled the silver peacock from its newspaper swaddling.
“A young lady asked me to deliver this,” remarked Farrell casually as though being drafted as a messenger were part of his daily routine.
“Er-r, most unusual, Mr. Farrell,” declaimed the scholar. His eyes widened perceptibly. Parr was plainly at loss.
E. Hoffmann Price's Pierre d'Artois: Occult Detective & Associates Page 37
