I was plagued by the same worry but refused to admit it.
“Mrs. Mabry would be very disappointed to hear you talk like that,” I told Flo.
“Mrs. Mabry?”
“Surely you must remember Mrs. Mabry. She was our Girl Scout leader when we were in sixth-grade. You practically worshiped the ground Mrs. Mabry walked on, as I recall.”
Flo was unmoved by what Mrs. Mabry might or might now think about her former protégé’s lack of get-up-and-go. Florence remained firmly rooted to the spot as the glow of the headwaiter’s flashlight receded into the distance.
We were losing him.
“The woods stretch for only a few miles,“ I insisted. “Then it turns back to farmland. Even should we become disoriented, we’ll soon find our way out.”
Flo remained unmoved.
“If this fellow we’re tailing should prove to be a saboteur, everything will be lovely. Think of poor Anne.”
“Lovely is not the word I’d use,” Florence muttered, but she started to move again.
We’d now fallen many yards behind the headwaiter. Failing to see the flash of his light, we quickened our pace, and for a minute or two I feared we had lost him completely. But then I again saw a gleam of light off to the right.
Taking care to make no noise in the underbrush, we soon approached the man from behind.
A breeze had come up and dark clouds scudded across the sky, blocking out moon at intervals, making it much harder to distinguish anything in the distance aside from the beam of the headwaiter’s flashlight.
“Great,” said Flo. “Now we’re going to be soaked, as well as lost. I’m turning around and taking shelter under the eaves of the ark.”
“Wait,” I said. “We’ve arrived.”
The flashlight beam had halted. The waiter stood in a small clearing with a small deserted shack in the middle of it. Flo and I paused behind a giant tree at the edge, watching.
The waiter looked at a watch which he held close to his flashlight beam.
“What time do you suppose it is?” Florence whispered.
“Not very late. Probably about nine o’clock.”
The headwaiter switched off his flashlight and waited.
“Whose cabin is it?” whispered Florence. “Do you know?”
“I think it might be the one that was built several years ago by an artist who lived here while he painted the ravine and river. I heard he died last winter, so I imagine no one uses it now.”
The cabin was a curious structure, picturesquely situated beneath the low-spreading branches of an ancient tree. There were no windows that I could see from where we stood, but a raised structure on the flat roof contained a large skylight.
After standing in the clearing facing the shack for several minutes, the waiter appeared to lose patience. He raised fingers to his lips and whistled twice. To my surprise, an answering signal came from within the dark cabin.
The front door opened, and a man stepped outside.
“That you, Antonio?” the man called out.
Antonio, the waiter, crossed the clearing to the cabin door.
“Had any trouble?” he asked the man.
“Everything’s been going okay. I’ll be glad to pull out o’ here though.”
Antonio made a reply which I could not hear. The men went inside the cabin and closed the door behind them.
“Who was that man the waiter met? Did you know him, Jane?”
“I couldn’t see his face. He stood in the shadow of the door. His voice sounded familiar, though.”
“I thought so, too. What do you suppose those men are up to, anyway?”
“Nothing good, I’m sure.”
We huddled together at the edge of the clearing, uncertain what to do next. The shack remained dark, and even though the moon made a reappearance from time-to-time, we could see and hear nothing of use to us.
“Why not go for the police?” Florence suggested. “We could take the Halvorson’s boat.”
“Neither of us knows how to drive it,” I said. “And even if we did, I have a hunch those men may not stay here long. By the time we could bring help, the place might be deserted. Besides, we haven’t a scrap of real evidence against them.”
“How about the stolen motorboat?”
“We’re not even sure about that, Flo. Anne and her husband both have disappeared. Accusing a man falsely is a very serious offense.”
“Then what are we to do? Just stand here and wait until they come outside?”
“That’s all we can do—unless—”
“Unless what?
“Flo, I have a corking idea. See how those tree limbs arch over the roof of the shack?”
“Yes.”
“That old oak was built to order.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“You will in a minute if you’re a good climber,” I said. “We can get up that tree and onto the roof. I’m sure there’s a skylight we can see through, and even if it’s too dark inside to distinguish much at least we can hear what’s being said.”
“Let’s just wait here,” Flo said. “So many things could go wrong. Don’t you think they’ll notice when we start stomping all over their roof?”
“We won’t stomp,” I insisted. “If we drop down gently from the branch of that tree, we’d barely make any sound.”
“I’m staying right here,” said Flo.
“Then wait where you are until I get back,” I said, and started across the clearing.
As I had anticipated, Flo was none-to-keen on being left alone in the dark woods. Halfway to the cabin, she caught up with me, and together we crept to the base of the scraggly old oak.
The branches were so low that I pulled myself into them without difficulty. I then helped Florence scramble up beside me. We clung to the tree for a moment, listening to make certain that no sound had betrayed us.
“So far, so good,” I whispered. “Now to get onto the roof. And it does have a skylight.”
“We’ll probably tumble through it and break our necks.”
I ignored Flo’s pessimism and crept up the branch which overhung the roof. I could see a dim light coming from within, a candle, I assumed, but I could make out nothing more.
“I’m getting on the roof,” I whispered to Flo.
I lowered myself silently onto the roof and then motioned for Florence to follow, but she shrank back, shaking her head vigorously.
I abandoned the attempt to get Florence onto the roof and crept toward the skylight. Lying full length, I pressed my face against the glass.
In the barren room below a candle burned on a table. Antonio, the headwaiter whom I had first seen at the Green Parrot, sat with his legs resting on the fender of a pot-bellied stove. Opposite him was an older man whose face was obscured in shadow.
“I tell you, I’m getting worried,” the older fellow said. “When the Coast Guards took me off that coal barge they gave me the third degree. I can’t risk having anything hung on me.”
It must be Clarence Sinclair, but I wanted to be sure, so I pressed my face closer to the glass.
The older man shifted in his chair and as the light of the candle flickered on his face, and I could see him clearly for the first time.
It was, without a doubt, Clarence Sinclair.
Chapter Twenty-One
“You’ve done good work, Sinclair,” Antonio told him. “All you have to do now is sit tight for a few more hours. We’ll give you your cut of the bonus if the job comes off right. And don’t you worry. Nobody’s going to make you a Patsy. If this job doesn’t get pinned on that young fool you got trussed up here; we’ve got ways of shifting suspicion onto Maxwell.”
“Two-hundred dollars won’t do me no good if I end up in jail for attempted murder,” Mr. Sinclair whined.
“Nothing will go wrong. Everything has been planned down to the last detail. Maxwell is away in Chicago, but we have ways of making it seem he never left Greenville if it comes to that.”
&nbs
p; “I’m already in bad with the police,” Sinclair whined. “I wouldn’t have gone in with you if I’d known just what I was doing.”
“You got your kale for the Seventh Street bridge job, didn’t you?”
“A hundred dollars.”
“It was more than you earned,” Antonio said, his voice rising. “All you had to do was let me get away after I dynamited the bridge. You nearly shot off my head.”
“I had to make it look as if I was doin’ my duty. Those women were watching me.”
“That blasted Mrs. Carter came snooping around at the Parrot,” I heard Antonio say. He was becoming increasingly agitated. He let the tilted chair legs thud on the floor, then stood to his feet. “Brought a reporter with her, too. I got rid of ’em in short order.”
“She wasn’t very sympathetic when she found me bound and gagged aboard the coal barge,” Clarence Sinclair said. “I think she may have suspected that it was a put-up job. That’s why I want to get out o’ town while the getting is good. You know that father of hers is a newspaperman and so is her fiancé. She’s a blasted busybody—”
“Don’t worry about Mrs. Carter. She may suspect the truth, but she has no proof. You can leave after tonight. We’ll blow the Maxwell Mansion sky high at one o’clock.”
“What about Mrs. Maxwell? I didn’t sign on to getting nobody killed. That bomb in her car was a dud, but this time it’s the real thing.”
“Never mind about what’s to become of Mrs. Maxwell,” Antonio said. “That’s none of your affair.”
“And what about this prisoner I’ve been nursemaiding?”
“We’ll plant enough evidence around the Maxwell Mansion to cinch his guilt with the police. Then we’ll dump him in Chicago where he’ll be picked up.”
“Isn’t he apt to remember what happened and spill the whole story.”
“Even if he does, the police won’t believe him,” Antonio said. “They’ll figure he’s only trying to get out from under. Anyway, we’ll be in a safehouse by then.”
“What time will you pick me up here?” Sinclair asked.
“Ten minutes till one. The automobile will arrive right on the tick, so synchronize your watch.”
The two men compared timepieces, and then Antonio arose.
“Let’s have a look at the prisoner,” Antonio said. “Is he still out cold?”
“He was the last time I looked at him. Hasn’t moved since he was brought here.”
Sinclair went across the room to a large sea chest sitting in the corner of the room and opened the lid. There was a man inside, bound with ropes. He barely stirred when the light hit his face. I could see his bloodstained face clearly, and his identity gave me quite a shock.
It was Fred Halvorson.
“He’ll not bother you tonight, Sinclair,” Antonio said. “One of the boys can help you lift him into the car.”
“I don’t like this business,” Sinclair complained again. “I think his skull got fractured? What if he dies. I don’t want to go down as no murderer.”
“He’ll be okay by tomorrow,” Antonio answered indifferently. “Luciano gave him a little too much with the blackjack.”
I had heard all I needed to hear. I inched soundlessly away from the skylight and eased myself back onto the overhanging tree branch where Flo waited for me.
“Learn anything?” Florence demanded in a whisper.
“Did I? Flo, that other man is Clarence Sinclair. He and our waiter friend—Antonio—have a prisoner inside the cabin.”
“A prisoner? My gracious! Then they must be the saboteurs.”
“They’re planning to blow up the Maxwell Mansion at one o’clock, and quite possibly Mrs. Maxwell with it,” I told Flo. “Plus, I imagine there must be at least a maid who sleeps in.”
“What about Mr. Maxwell?”
“He’s away in Chicago.”
“Oh.”
“They intend to pin the crime on Fred Halvorson.”
“He’s not one of them, then?”
“It seems not. They have poor old Fred trussed up inside an old trunk, and he’s badly injured. Flo, you’ve got to hotfoot it to town and bring the police.”
“Come with me,” Florence pleaded. She appeared frightened at the mere thought of going through the dark woods alone. “Besides,” Flo continued, “I’ve no idea how to operate that motorboat, and that’s assuming Antonio won’t have taken off with it by the time you get there. No, I’m less than useless.”
“There’s bound to be some sort of conveyance left behind, even if he takes off with the Halvorson’s motorboat,” I insisted. “That headwaiter got here somehow.”
“Someone might have dropped him off on the river bank,” Flo pointed out.
She was right, but there was nothing to do but hightail it to the river bank and try to make a getaway before the headwaiter discovered our presence.
“One of us ought to stay and keep watch,” I said. “I think I can get the boat going. I watched Anne, and I think I know at least how to start it up. I’ll go if you’re willing to remain.”
“If I’m to stay behind,” Florence said, “I’ll not do it up a tree.”
Flo started to descend the tree, but midway down, her hand loosened its hold, and she slipped several feet. Although she had the presence of mind not to shriek, she made enough noise to attract the attention of the men inside the shack.
“What was that? I hear someone outside.”
The game was up.
“Run, Flo!” I hissed down to her, “Run as fast as you can.”
It was too late to take the time to clamber down the tree. I darted to the roof edge, swung myself down with my hands and dropped the six feet to the ground.
The door of the cabin opened. I had leaped from the rear side of the building, and so the two men did not spot me. They immediately took off after Florence who was sprinting toward the relative safety of the woods.
Flow is not a fast runner. If the two men succeeded in catching her, they’d know been in a fight, but Flo’s physical prowess is based on brawn, not speed.
I shouted to divert attention from Flo, who was sure to be caught if I stood by and did nothing. Clarence Sinclair turned around and came after me, while Antonio resumed pursuit of Florence.
I wished it had been the other way around. I did not find it hard to keep well ahead of Clarence Sinclair. He fell so far behind me that I circled, hoping to rejoin Flo. In addition to not being very fleet of foot, Flo, once confused, might never find her way out of the forest.
I paused from time-to-time to listen to the crackle of underbrush. Instead of running toward the river, Florence and her pursuer seemed to be circling back in the direction of the shack.
I wondered that she had not headed for the river and the motorboat, but then realized that Flo probably believed she had no chance of getting the boat started and didn’t want to be caught on the river bank with no choice but to dive into the water, should she end up cornered.
The noise of the pursuit was now coming toward me, so I stopped and waited. A moment later, Florence, puffing and gasping, came running past. I started running beside her, grasping her hand to help her over the rough places.
“That man’s right behind,” Florence panted. “Are we almost to the river?”
I had been wrong. Flo had intended to head for the river; it was just that her miserable sense of direction had utterly failed her.
I did not discourage Flo by revealing that she had been running in the wrong direction. The chance of escape now was slim. Florence was nearly spent, and I could tell that Antonio was steadily gaining on us.
“The ark!” I told Flo. “If Noah has returned, and we can get inside, we’ll be safe there.”
Thorns tore at our clothing, but we stumbled on. Clarence Sinclair had been left so far behind I no longer regarded him as a threat, but Antonio was not to be outdistanced. He was getting so close that I worried he would catch us before we reached the ark.
“Go on, Jane,”
Florence gasped, coming to a halt and sinking to her knees. “I can’t make it.”
“Yes, you can!” I jerked her up again. “We’re almost there. See!”
The ark loomed up ahead. Encouraged by the sight, Florence gathered her strength and kept doggedly on. We reached the bank of the stream and nearly gave way to despair. The ark was still dark, and the gangplank which usually connected it with shore was now where to be seen. I suspected that Noah hid it in the bushes somewhere whenever he was away from the ark.
“Noah! Noah!” called Florence wildly.
Only the parrot answered, crackling saucily from a porthole: “Hello, Noah! You old soak! Where are you, Noah?”
I picked up a stout stick that lay at my feet and handed it to Flo before pulling my cosh from my pocket. Antonio emerged from among the trees. We were cornered.
Moonlight gleamed on the revolver he held in his hand. I quietly slipped the cosh back into the pocket of my skirt.
“A very pretty race, my dears,” Antonio sneered, “but shall we call this the finish line?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Stand over there against that tree,” Antonio said, motioning at a large maple which stood near the ark. “You’ll not be harmed if you do exactly as you’re told.”
I did not believe that Antonio intended to do us no harm. Anyone who intended to blow up an occupied house in the dead of night would have no scruples about bumping Flo and me off and dumping out bodies in the Grassy.
“Why not let us go home?” I said. I could feel that my hands were shaking, but my voice was remarkably calm.
“Not tonight, my dear. Unfortunately for you and your friend, you’ve learned too much regarding my affairs.”
“Then what are you going to do with us?”
It appeared that Antonio did not know himself. He kept the revolver trained on us as he looked speculatively toward the ark. I heard approaching footsteps in the woods, and someone whistled twice. Antonio answered the signal. A moment later, Clarence Sinclair, quite winded, emerged onto the riverbank.
“So you got ’em, eh?”
“The question is what to do with them,” Antonio said to Sinclair.
Rogues on the River Page 13
