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margin-left:auto; } + div.bq { margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto; max-width:23em; } + hr { max-width:20em; } + +</style> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Shadow, by Arthur Stringer + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Shadow + +Author: Arthur Stringer + +Release Date: December 2, 2013 [EBook #44336] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHADOW *** + + + + +Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Mardi Desjardins and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at +http://www.pgdpcanada.net + + + + + + +</pre> + +<div id="cover" class="img"> +<img id="coverpage" src="images/cover.jpg" alt="The Shadow" width="500" height="771" /> +</div> +<div class="box"> +<h1>THE SHADOW</h1> +<p class="center"><span class="smaller">BY</span> +<br />ARTHUR STRINGER</p> +<div class="img" id="logo"><img src="images/logo.jpg" alt="Author’s Logo" width="168" height="166" /></div> +<p class="tbcenter"><span class="smaller">NEW YORK</span> +<br /><span class="small">THE CENTURY CO.</span> +<br /><span class="smaller">1913</span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="smaller">Copyright, 1913, by +<br /><span class="sc">The Century Co.</span> +<br /><i>Published, January, 1913</i></span></p> +</div> +<div class="pb" id="Page_3">[3]</div> +<h1 title="">THE SHADOW</h1> +<h2 id="c1">I</h2> +<p>Blake, the Second Deputy, raised his +gloomy hound’s eyes as the door opened +and a woman stepped in. Then he dropped +them again.</p> +<p>“Hello, Elsie!” he said, without looking at +her.</p> +<p>The woman stood a moment staring at him. +Then she advanced thoughtfully toward his +table desk.</p> +<p>“Hello, Jim!” she answered, as she sank into +the empty chair at the desk end. The rustling +of silk suddenly ceased. An aphrodisiac +odor of ambergris crept through the Deputy-Commissioner’s +office.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_4">[4]</div> +<p>The woman looped up her veil, festooning +it about the undulatory roll of her hat brim. +Blake continued his solemnly preoccupied +study of the desk top.</p> +<p>“You sent for me,” the woman finally said. +It was more a reminder than a question. And +the voice, for all its quietness, carried no sense +of timidity. The woman’s pale face, where +the undulating hat brim left the shadowy eyes +still more shadowy, seemed fortified with a +calm sense of power. It was something more +than a dormant consciousness of beauty, +though the knowledge that men would turn +back to a face so wistful as hers, and their +judgment could be dulled by a smile so narcotizing, +had not a little to do with the woman’s +achieved serenity. There was nothing outwardly +sinister about her. This fact had always +left her doubly dangerous as a law-breaker.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_5">[5]</div> +<p>Blake himself, for all his dewlap and his +two hundred pounds of lethargic beefiness, felt +a vague and inward stirring as he finally lifted +his head and looked at her. He looked into +the shadowy eyes under the level brows. He +could see, as he had seen before, that they were +exceptional eyes, with iris rings of deep gray +about the ever-widening and ever-narrowing +pupils which varied with varying thought, as +though set too close to the brain that controlled +them. So dominating was this pupil that +sometimes the whole eye looked violet, and +sometimes green, according to the light.</p> +<p>Then his glance strayed to the woman’s +mouth, where the upper lip curved outward, +from the base of the straight nose, giving her +at first glance the appearance of pouting. +Yet the heavier underlip, soft and wilful, contradicted +this impression of peevishness, deepened +it into one of Ishmael-like rebellion.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_6">[6]</div> +<p>Then Blake looked at the woman’s hair. It +was abundant and nut-brown, and artfully and +scrupulously interwoven and twisted together. +It seemed to stand the solitary pride of a life +claiming few things of which to be proud. +Blake remembered how that wealth of nut-brown +hair was daily plaited and treasured +and coiled and cared for, the meticulous attentiveness +with which morning by morning +its hip-reaching abundance was braided and +twisted and built up about the small head, an +intricate structure of soft wonder which midnight +must ever see again in ruins, just as the +next morning would find idly laborious fingers +rebuilding its ephemeral glories. This rebuilding +was done thoughtfully and calmly, as +though it were a religious rite, as though it +were a sacrificial devotion to an ideal in a life +tragically forlorn of beauty.</p> +<p>He remembered, too, the day when he had +first seen her. That was at the time of “The +Sick Millionaire” case, when he had first +learned of her association with Binhart. She +had posed at the Waldorf as a trained nurse, +in that case, and had met him and held him off +and outwitted him at every turn. Then he +had decided on his “plant.” To effect this he +had whisked a young Italian with a lacerated +thumb up from the City Hospital and sent +him in to her as an injured elevator-boy looking +for first-aid treatment. One glimpse of +her work on that thumb showed her to be betrayingly +ignorant of both figure-of-eight and +spica bandaging, and Blake, finally satisfied as +to the imposture, carried on his investigation, +showed “Doctor Callahan” to be Connie Binhart, +the con-man and bank thief, and sent the +two adventurers scurrying away to shelter.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_7">[7]</div> +<p>He remembered, too, how seven months after +that first meeting Stimson of the Central +Office had brought her to Headquarters, fresh +from Paris, involved in some undecipherable +way in an Aix-les-Bains diamond robbery. +The despatches had given his office very little +to work on, and she had smiled at his thunderous +grillings and defied his noisy threats. But +as she sat there before him, chic and guarded, +with her girlishly frail body so arrogantly well +gowned, she had in some way touched his +lethargic imagination. She showed herself to +be of finer and keener fiber than the sordid +demireps with whom he had to do. Shimmering +and saucy and debonair as a polo pony, +she had seemed a departure from type, something +above the meretricious termagants round +whom he so often had to weave his accusatory +webs of evidence.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_8">[8]</div> +<p>Then, the following autumn, she was still +again mysteriously involved in the Sheldon +wire-tapping coup. This Montreal banker +named Sheldon, from whom nearly two hundred +thousand dollars had been wrested, put +a bullet through his head rather than go home +disgraced, and she had straightway been +brought down to Blake, for, until the autopsy +and the production of her dupe’s letters, Sheldon’s +death had been looked upon as a murder.</p> +<p>Blake had locked himself in with the white-faced +Miss Elsie Verriner, alias Chaddy Cravath, +alias Charlotte Carruthers, and for three +long hours he had pitted his dynamic brute +force against her flashing and snake-like evasiveness. +He had pounded her with the artillery +of his inhumanities. He had beleaguered +her with explosive brutishness. He had bulldozed +and harried her into frantic weariness. +He had third-degreed her into cowering and +trembling indignation, into hectic mental uncertainties. +Then, with the fatigue point well +passed, he had marshaled the last of his own +animal strength and essayed the final blasphemous +Vesuvian onslaught that brought about +the nervous breakdown, the ultimate collapse. +She had wept, then, the blubbering, loose-lipped, +abandoned weeping of hysteria. She +had stumbled forward and caught at his arm +and clung to it, as though it were her last +earthly pillar of support. Her huge plaited +ropes of hair had fallen down, thick brown +ropes longer than his own arms, and he, +breathing hard, had sat back and watched +them as she wept.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_9">[9]</div> +<p>But Blake was neither analytical nor introspective. +How it came about he never quite +knew. He felt, after his blind and inarticulate +fashion, that this scene of theirs, that this +official assault and surrender, was in some way +associated with the climacteric transports of +camp-meeting evangelism, that it involved +strange nerve-centers touched on in rhapsodic +religions, that it might even resemble the final +emotional surrender of reluctant love itself to +the first aggressive tides of passion. What it +was based on, what it arose from, he could not +say. But in the flood-tide of his own tumultuous +conquest he had watched her abandoned +weeping and her tumbled brown hair. And +as he watched, a vague and troubling tingle +sped like a fuse-sputter along his limbs, and +fired something dormant and dangerous in the +great hulk of a body which had never before +been stirred by its explosion of emotion. It +was not pity, he knew; for pity was something +quite foreign to his nature. Yet as she lay +back, limp and forlorn against his shoulder, +sobbing weakly out that she wanted to be a +good woman, that she could be honest if they +would only give her a chance, he felt that thus +to hold her, to shield her, was something desirable.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_10">[10]</div> +<p>She had stared, weary and wide-eyed, as his +head had bent closer down over hers. She had +drooped back, bewildered and unresponsive, as +his heavy lips had closed on hers that were still +wet and salty with tears. When she had left +the office, at the end of that strange hour, she +had gone with the promise of his protection.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_11">[11]</div> +<p>The sobering light of day, with its cynic relapse +to actualities, might have left that promise +a worthless one, had not the prompt evidence +of Sheldon’s suicide come to hand. +This made Blake’s task easier than he had expected. +The movement against Elsie Verriner +was “smothered” at Headquarters. +Two days later she met Blake by appointment. +That day, for the first time in his life, +he gave flowers to a woman.</p> +<p>Two weeks later he startled her with the +declaration that he wanted to marry her. He +didn’t care about her past. She’d been +dragged into the things she’d done without +understanding them, at first, and she’d kept +on because there’d been no one to help her +away from them. He knew he could do it. +She had a fine streak in her, and he wanted to +bring it out!</p> +<p>A little frightened, she tried to explain that +she was not the marrying kind. Then, brick-red +and bull-necked, he tried to tell her in his +groping Celtic way that he wanted children, +that she meant a lot to him, that he was going +to try to make her the happiest woman south +of Harlem.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_12">[12]</div> +<p>This had brought into her face a quick and +dangerous light which he found hard to explain. +He could see that she was flattered by +what he had said, that his words had made her +waywardly happy, that for a moment, in fact, +she had been swept off her feet.</p> +<p>Then dark afterthought interposed. It +crept like a cloud across her abandoned face. +It brought about a change so prompt that it +disturbed the Second Deputy.</p> +<p>“You’re—you’re not tied up already, are +you?” he had hesitatingly demanded. “You’re +not married?”</p> +<p>“No, I’m not tied up!” she had promptly +and fiercely responded. “My life’s my own—my +own!”</p> +<p>“Then why can’t you marry me?” the practical-minded +man had asked.</p> +<p>“I could!” she had retorted, with the same +fierceness as before. Then she had stood looking +at him out of wistful and unhappy eyes. +“I could—if you only understood, if you could +only help me the way I want to be helped!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_13">[13]</div> +<p>She had clung to his arm with a tragic forlornness +that seemed to leave her very wan and +helpless. And he had found it ineffably +sweet to enfold that warm mass of wan helplessness +in his own virile strength.</p> +<p>She asked for time, and he was glad to consent +to the delay, so long as it did not keep +him from seeing her. In matters of the emotions +he was still as uninitiated as a child. He +found himself a little dazed by the seemingly +accidental tenderness, by the promises of devotion, +in which she proved so lavish. Morning +by jocund morning he built up his airy dreams, +as carefully as she built up her nut-brown +plaits. He grew heavily light-headed with +his plans for the future. When she pleaded +with him never to leave her, never to trust her +too much, he patted her thin cheek and asked +when she was going to name the day. From +that finality she still edged away, as though +her happiness itself were only experimental, +as though she expected the blue sky above +them to deliver itself of a bolt.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_14">[14]</div> +<p>But by this time she had become a habit with +him. He liked her even in her moodiest moments. +When, one day, she suggested that +they go away together, anywhere so long as it +was away, he merely laughed at her childishness.</p> +<p>It was, in fact, Blake himself who went +away. After nine weeks of alternating suspense +and happiness that seemed nine weeks of +inebriation to him, he was called out of the +city to complete the investigation on a series of +iron-workers’ dynamite outrages. Daily he +wrote or wired back to her. But he was kept +away longer than he had expected. When he +returned to New York she was no longer there. +She had disappeared as completely as though +an asphalted avenue had opened and swallowed +her up. It was not until the following winter +that he learned she was again with Connie Binhart, +in southern Europe.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_15">[15]</div> +<p>He had known his one belated love affair. +It had left no scar, he claimed, because it had +made no wound. Binhart, he consoled himself, +had held the woman in his power: there +had been no defeat because there had been no +actual conquest. And now he could face her +without an eye-blink of conscious embarrassment. +Yet it was good to remember that +Connie Binhart was going to be ground in the +wheels of the law, and ground fine, and ground +to a finish.</p> +<p>“What did you want me for, Jim?” the +woman was again asking him. She spoke with +an intimate directness, and yet in her attitude +were subtle reservations, a consciousness of the +thin ice on which they both stood. Each saw, +only too plainly, the need for great care, in +every step. In each lay the power to uncover, +at a hand’s turn, old mistakes that were best +unremembered. Yet there was a certain suave +audacity about the woman. She was not really +afraid of Blake, and the Second Deputy +had to recognize that fact. This self-assurance +of hers he attributed to the recollection that +she had once brought about his personal subjugation, +“got his goat,” as he had phrased it. +She, woman-like, would never forget it.</p> +<p>“There’s a man I want. And Schmittenberg +tells me you know where he is.” Blake, +as he spoke, continued to look heavily down at +his desk top.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_16">[16]</div> +<p>“Yes?” she answered cautiously, watching +herself as carefully as an actress with a rôle +to sustain, a rôle in which she could never be +quite letter-perfect.</p> +<p>“It’s Connie Binhart,” cut out the Second +Deputy.</p> +<p>He could see discretion drop like a curtain +across her watching face.</p> +<p>“Connie Binhart!” she temporized. Blake, +as his heavy side glance slewed about to her, +prided himself on the fact that he could see +through her pretenses. At any other time he +would have thrown open the flood-gates of +that ever-inundating anger of his and swept +away all such obliquities.</p> +<p>“I guess,” he went on with slow patience, +“we know him best round here as Charles +Blanchard.”</p> +<p>“Blanchard?” she echoed.</p> +<p>“Yes, Blanchard, the Blanchard we’ve been +looking for, for seven months now, the Blanchard +who chloroformed Ezra Newcomb and +carried off a hundred and eighteen thousand +dollars.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_17">[17]</div> +<p>“Newcomb?” again meditated the woman.</p> +<p>“The Blanchard who shot down the bank +detective in Newcomb’s room when the rest of +the bank was listening to a German band playing +in the side street, a band hired for the +occasion.”</p> +<p>“When was that?” demanded the woman.</p> +<p>“That was last October,” he answered with +a sing-song weariness suggestive of impatience +at such supererogative explanations.</p> +<p>“I was at Monte Carlo all last autumn,” was +the woman’s quick retort.</p> +<p>Blake moved his heavy body, as though to +shoulder away any claim as to her complicity.</p> +<p>“I know that,” he acknowledged. “And +you went north to Paris on the twenty-ninth +of November. And on the third of December +you went to Cherbourg; and on the ninth you +landed in New York. I know all that. +That’s not what I’m after. I want to know +where Connie Binhart is, now, to-day.”</p> +<p>Their glances at last came together. No +move was made; no word was spoken. But a +contest took place.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_18">[18]</div> +<p>“Why ask <i>me</i>?” repeated the woman for +the second time. It was only too plain that +she was fencing.</p> +<p>“Because you <i>know</i>,” was Blake’s curt retort. +He let the gray-irised eyes drink in the +full cup of his determination. Some slowly +accumulating consciousness of his power +seemed to intimidate her. He could detect a +change in her bearing, in her speech itself.</p> +<p>“Jim, I can’t tell you,” she slowly asserted. +“I can’t do it!”</p> +<p>“But I’ve got ’o know,” he stubbornly maintained. +“And I’m going to.”</p> +<p>She sat studying him for a minute or two. +Her face had lost its earlier arrogance. It +seemed troubled; almost touched with fear. +She was not altogether ignorant, he reminded +himself, of the resources which he could command.</p> +<p>“I can’t tell you,” she repeated. “I’d +rather you let me go.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_19">[19]</div> +<p>The Second Deputy’s smile, scoffing and +melancholy, showed how utterly he ignored +her answer. He looked at his watch. Then +he looked back at the woman. A nervous tug-of-war +was taking place between her right and +left hand, with a twisted-up pair of ecru +gloves for the cable.</p> +<p>“You know me,” he began again in his deliberate +and abdominal bass. “And I know +you. I’ve got ’o get this man Binhart. I’ve +got ’o! He’s been out for seven months, now, +and they’re going to put it up to me, to <i>me</i>, +personally. Copeland tried to get him without +me. He fell down on it. They all fell +down on it. And now they’re going to +throw the case back on me. They think it’ll +be my Waterloo.”</p> +<p>He laughed. His laugh was as mirthless as +the cackle of a guinea hen. “But I’m going +to die hard, believe me! And if I go down, if +they think they can throw me on that, I’m going +to take a few of my friends along with me.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_20">[20]</div> +<p>“Is that a threat?” was the woman’s quick +inquiry. Her eyes narrowed again, for she +had long since learned, and learned it to her +sorrow, that every breath he drew was a breath +of self-interest.</p> +<p>“No; it’s just a plain statement.” He +slewed about in his swivel chair, throwing one +thick leg over the other as he did so. “I hate +to holler Auburn at a girl like you, Elsie; but +I’m going—”</p> +<p>“Auburn?” she repeated very quietly. +Then she raised her eyes to his. “Can you say +a thing like that to me, Jim?”</p> +<p>He shifted a little in his chair. But he met +her gaze without a wince.</p> +<p>“This is business, Elsie, and you can’t mix +business and—and other things,” he tailed off +at last, dropping his eyes.</p> +<p>“I’m sorry you put it that way,” she said. +“I hoped we’d be better friends than that!”</p> +<p>“I’m not counting on friendship in this!” +he retorted.</p> +<p>“But it might have been better, even in +this!” she said. And the artful look of pity +on her face angered him.</p> +<p>“Well, we’ll begin on something nearer +home!” he cried.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_21">[21]</div> +<p>He reached down into his pocket and produced +a small tinted oblong of paper. He +held it, face out, between his thumb and forefinger, +so that she could read it.</p> +<p>“This Steinert check’ll do the trick. Take +a closer look at the signature. Do you get +it?”</p> +<p>“What about it?” she asked, without a +tremor.</p> +<p>He restored the check to his wallet and the +wallet to his pocket. She would find it impossible +to outdo him in the matter of impassivity.</p> +<p>“I may or I may not know who forged that +check. I don’t <i>want</i> to know. And when +you tell me where Binhart is, I <i>won’t</i> know.”</p> +<p>“That check wasn’t forged,” contended the +quiet-eyed woman.</p> +<p>“Steinert will swear it was,” declared the +Second Deputy.</p> +<p>She sat without speaking, apparently in +deep study. Her intent face showed no fear, +no bewilderment, no actual emotion of any +kind.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_22">[22]</div> +<p>“You’ve got ’o face it,” said Blake, sitting +back and waiting for her to speak. His attitude +was that of a physician at a bedside, +awaiting the prescribed opiate to produce its +prescribed effect.</p> +<p>“Will I be dragged into this case, in any +way, if Binhart is rounded up?” the woman +finally asked.</p> +<p>“Not once,” he asserted.</p> +<p>“You promise me that?”</p> +<p>“Of course,” answered the Second Deputy.</p> +<p>“And you’ll let me alone on—on the other +things?” she calmly exacted.</p> +<p>“Yes,” he promptly acknowledged. “I’ll +see that you’re let alone.”</p> +<p>Again she looked at him with her veiled and +judicial eyes. Then she dropped her hands +into her lap. The gesture seemed one of +resignation.</p> +<p>“Binhart’s in Montreal,” she said.</p> +<p>Blake, keeping his face well under control, +waited for her to go on.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_23">[23]</div> +<p>“He’s been in Montreal for weeks now. +You’ll find him at 381 King Edward Avenue, +in Westmount. He’s there, posing as an expert +accountant.”</p> +<p>She saw the quick shadow of doubt, the eye-flash +of indecision. So she reached quietly +down and opened her pocket-book, rummaging +through its contents for a moment or two. +Then she handed Blake a folded envelope.</p> +<p>“You know his writing?” she asked.</p> +<p>“I’ve seen enough of it,” he retorted, as he +examined the typewritten envelope postmarked +“Montreal, Que.” Then he drew out +the inner sheet. On it, written by pen, he read +the message: “Come to 381 King Edward +when the coast is clear,” and below this the +initials “C. B.”</p> +<p>Blake, with the writing still before his eyes, +opened a desk drawer and took out a large +reading-glass. Through the lens of this he +again studied the inscription, word by word. +Then he turned to the office ’phone on his desk.</p> +<p>“Nolan,” he said into the receiver, “I want +to know if there’s a King Edward Avenue in +Montreal.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_24">[24]</div> +<p>He sat there waiting, still regarding the +handwriting with stolidly reproving eyes. +There was no doubt of its authenticity. He +would have known it at a glance.</p> +<p>“Yes, sir,” came the answer over the wire. +“It’s one of the newer avenues in Westmount.”</p> +<p>Blake, still wrapped in thought, hung up the +receiver. The woman facing him did not seem +to resent his possible imputation of dishonesty. +To be suspicious of all with whom he came in +contact was imposed on him by his profession. +He was compelled to watch even his associates, +his operatives and underlings, his friends as +well as his enemies. Life, with him, was a +<i>concerto</i> of skepticisms.</p> +<p>She was able to watch him, without emotion, +as he again bent forward, took up the ’phone +receiver, and this time spoke apparently to another +office.</p> +<p>“I want you to wire Teal to get a man out +to cover 381 King Edward Avenue, in Montreal. +Yes, Montreal. Tell him to get a man +out there inside of an hour, and put a night +watch on until I relieve ’em.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_25">[25]</div> +<p>Then, breathing heavily, he bent over his +desk, wrote a short message on a form pad and +pushed the buzzer-button with his thick finger. +He carefully folded up the piece of paper as +he waited.</p> +<p>“Get that off to Carpenter in Montreal +right away,” he said to the attendant who answered +his call. Then he swung about in his +chair, with a throaty grunt of content. He +sat for a moment, staring at the woman with +unseeing eyes. Then he stood up. With his +hands thrust deep in his pockets he slowly +moved his head back and forth, as though assenting +to some unuttered question.</p> +<p>“Elsie, you’re all right,” he acknowledged +with his solemn and unimaginative impassivity. +“You’re all right.”</p> +<p>Her quiet gaze, with all its reservations, was +a tacit question. He was still a little puzzled +by her surrender. He knew she did not regard +him as the great man that he was, that his +public career had made of him.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_26">[26]</div> +<p>“You’ve helped me out of a hole,” he +acknowledged as he faced her interrogating +eyes with his one-sided smile. “I’m mighty +glad you’ve done it, Elsie—for your sake as +well as mine.”</p> +<p>“What hole?” asked the woman, wearily +drawing on her gloves. There was neither +open contempt nor indifference on her face. +Yet something in her bearing nettled him. +The quietness of her question contrasted +strangely with the gruffness of the Second +Deputy’s voice as he answered her.</p> +<p>“Oh, they think I’m a has-been round here,” +he snorted. “They’ve got the idea I’m out +o’ date. And I’m going to show ’em a thing +or two to wake ’em up.”</p> +<p>“How?” asked the woman.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_27">[27]</div> +<p>“By doing what their whole kid-glove gang +haven’t been able to do,” he avowed. And +having delivered himself of that ultimatum, +he promptly relaxed into his old-time impassiveness, +like a dog snapping from his kennel +and shrinking back into its shadows. At the +same moment that Blake’s thick forefinger +again prodded the buzzer-button at his desk +end the watching woman could see the relapse +into official wariness. It was as though he had +put the shutters up in front of his soul. She +accepted the movement as a signal of dismissal. +She rose from her chair and quietly lowered +and adjusted her veil. Yet through that +lowered veil she stood looking down at Never-Fail +Blake for a moment or two. She looked +at him with grave yet casual curiosity, as tourists +look at a ruin that has been pointed out to +them as historic.</p> +<p>“You didn’t give me back Connie Binhart’s +note,” she reminded him as she paused with +her gloved finger-tips resting on the desk edge.</p> +<p>“D’you want it?” he queried with simulated +indifference, as he made a final and lingering +study of it.</p> +<p>“I’d like to keep it,” she acknowledged. +When, without meeting her eyes, he handed it +over to her, she folded it and restored it to her +pocket-book, carefully, as though vast things +depended on that small scrap of paper.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_28">[28]</div> +<p>Never-Fail Blake, alone in his office and still +assailed by the vaguely disturbing perfumes +which she had left behind her, pondered her +reasons for taking back Binhart’s scrap of +paper. He wondered if she had at any time +actually cared for Binhart. He wondered if +she was capable of caring for anybody. And +this problem took his thoughts back to the time +when so much might have depended on its +answer.</p> +<p>The Second Deputy dropped his reading-glass +in its drawer and slammed it shut. It +made no difference, he assured himself, one +way or the other. And in the consolatory moments +of a sudden new triumph Never-Fail +Blake let his thoughts wander pleasantly back +over that long life which (and of this he was +now comfortably conscious) his next official +move was about to redeem.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_29">[29]</div> +<h2 id="c2">II</h2> +<p>It was as a Milwaukee newsboy, at the age +of twelve, that “Jimmie” Blake first found +himself in any way associated with that arm +of constituted authority known as the police +force. A plain-clothes man, on that occasion, +had given him a two-dollar bill to carry about +an armful of evening papers and at the same +time “tail” an itinerant pickpocket. The +fortifying knowledge, two years later, that +the Law was behind him when he was pushed +happy and tingling through a transom to release +the door-lock for a house-detective, was +perhaps a foreshadowing of that pride which +later welled up in his bosom at the phrase that +he would always “have United Decency behind +him,” as the social purifiers fell into the +habit of putting it.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_30">[30]</div> +<p>At nineteen, as a “checker” at the Upper +Kalumet Collieries, Blake had learned to remember +faces. Slavic or Magyar, Swedish or +Calabrian, from that daily line of over two +hundred he could always pick his face and correctly +call the name. His post meant a life +of indolence and petty authority. His earlier +work as a steamfitter had been more profitable. +Yet at that work he had been a menial; it involved +no transom-born thrills, no street-corner +tailer’s suspense. As a checker he was at least +the master of other men.</p> +<p>His public career had actually begun as a +strike breaker. The monotony of night-watchman +service, followed by a year as a +drummer for an Eastern firearm firm, and another +year as an inspector for a Pennsylvania +powder factory, had infected him with the +<i>wanderlust</i> of his kind. It was in Chicago, +on a raw day of late November, with a lake +wind whipping the street dust into his eyes, +that he had seen the huge canvas sign of a +hiring agency’s office, slapping in the storm. +This sign had said:</p> +<p class="center">“MEN WANTED.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_31">[31]</div> +<p>Being twenty-six and adventurous and out of +a job, he had drifted in with the rest of earth’s +undesirables and asked for work.</p> +<p>After twenty minutes of private coaching +in the mysteries of railway signals, he had been +“passed” by the desk examiner and sent out +as one of the “scab” train crew to move perishable +freight, for the Wisconsin Central was +then in the throes of its first great strike. And +he had gone out as a green brakeman, but he +had come back as a hero, with a <i>Tribune</i> reporter +posing him against a furniture car for +a two-column photo. For the strikers had +stoned his train, half killed the “scab” fireman, +stalled him in the yards and cut off two thirds +of his cars and shot out the cab-windows for +full measure. But in the cab with an Irish +engine-driver named O’Hagan, Blake had +backed down through the yards again, picked +up his train, crept up over the tender and along +the car tops, recoupled his cars, fought his way +back to the engine, and there, with the ecstatic +O’Hagan at his side, had hurled back the last +of the strikers trying to storm his engine steps. +He even fell to “firing” as the yodeling +O’Hagan got his train moving again, and then, +perched on the tender coal, took pot-shots with +his brand-new revolver at a last pair of strikers +who were attempting to manipulate the hand-brakes.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_32">[32]</div> +<p>That had been the first train to get out of the +yards in seven days. Through a godlike disregard +of signals, it is true, they had run into +an open switch, some twenty-eight miles up +the line, but they had moved their freight and +won their point.</p> +<p>Blake, two weeks later, had made himself +further valuable to that hiring agency, not +above subornation of perjury, by testifying in +a court of law to the sobriety of a passenger +crew who had been carried drunk from their +scab-manned train. So naïvely dogged was he +in his stand, so quick was he in his retorts, that +the agency, when the strike ended by a compromise +ten days later, took him on as one of +their own operatives.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_33">[33]</div> +<p>Thus James Blake became a private detective. +He was at first disappointed in the +work. It seemed, at first, little better than his +old job as watchman and checker. But the +agency, after giving him a three-week try out +at picket work, submitted him to the further +test of a “shadowing” case. That first assignment +of “tailing” kept him thirty-six hours +without sleep, but he stuck to his trail, stuck to +it with the blind pertinacity of a bloodhound, +and at the end transcended mere animalism by +buying a tip from a friendly bartender. +Then, when the moment was ripe, he walked +into the designated hop-joint and picked his +man out of an underground bunk as impassively +as a grocer takes an egg crate from a +cellar shelf.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_34">[34]</div> +<p>After his initial baptism of fire in the Wisconsin +Central railway yards, however, Blake +yearned for something more exciting, for +something more sensational. His hopes rose, +when, a month later, he was put on “track” +work. He was at heart fond of both a good +horse and a good heat. He liked the open air +and the stir and movement and color of the +grand-stand crowds. He liked the “ponies” +with the sunlight on their satin flanks, the +music of the band, the gaily appareled women. +He liked, too, the off-hand deference of the +men about him, from turnstile to betting shed, +once his calling was known. They were all +ready to curry favor with him, touts and rail-birds, +clockers and owners, jockeys and gamblers +and bookmakers, placating him with an +occasional “sure-thing” tip from the stables, +plying him with cigars and advice as to how +he should place his money. There was a tacit +understanding, of course, that in return for +these courtesies his vision was not to be too +keen nor his manner too aggressive. When +he was approached by an expert “dip” with +the offer of a fat reward for immunity in +working the track crowds, Blake carefully +weighed the matter, pro and con, equivocated, +and decided he would gain most by a “fall.” +So he planted a barber’s assistant with whom +he was friendly, descended on the pickpocket +in the very act of going through that bay-rum +scented youth’s pocket, and secured a conviction +that brought a letter of thanks from the +club stewards and a word or two of approval +from his head office.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_35">[35]</div> +<p>That head office, seeing that they had a man +to be reckoned with, transferred Blake to their +Eastern division, with headquarters at New +York, where new men and new faces were at +the moment badly needed.</p> +<p>They worked him hard, in that new division, +but he never objected. He was sober; he was +dependable; and he was dogged with the doggedness +of the unimaginative. He wanted to +get on, to make good, to be more than a mere +“operative.” And if his initial assignments +gave him little but “rough-neck” work to do, +he did it without audible complaint. He did +bodyguard service, he handled strike breakers, +he rounded up freight-car thieves, he was given +occasionally “spot” and “tailing” work to do. +Once, after a week of upholstered hotel lounging +on a divorce case he was sent out on night +detail to fight river pirates stealing from the +coal-road barges.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_36">[36]</div> +<p>In the meantime, being eager and unsatisfied, +he studied his city. Laboriously and patiently +he made himself acquainted with the +ways of the underworld. He saw that all his +future depended upon acquaintanceship with +criminals, not only with their faces, but with +their ways and their women and their weaknesses. +So he started a gallery, a gallery of +his own, a large and crowded gallery between +walls no wider than the bones of his own skull. +To this jealously guarded and ponderously +sorted gallery he day by day added some new +face, some new scene, some new name. Crook +by crook he stored them away there, for future +reference. He got to know the “habituals” +and the “timers,” the “gangs” and their “hang +outs” and “fences.” He acquired an array of +confidence men and hotel beats and queer +shovers and bank sneaks and wire tappers and +drum snuffers. He made a mental record of +dips and yeggs and till-tappers and keister-crackers, +of panhandlers and dummy chuckers, +of sun gazers and schlaum workers. He +slowly became acquainted with their routes +and their rendezvous, their tricks and ways and +records. But, what was more important, he +also grew into an acquaintanceship with ward +politics, with the nameless Power above him +and its enigmatic traditions. He got to know +the Tammany heelers, the men with “pull,” the +lads who were to be “pounded” and the lads +who were to be let alone, the men in touch with +the “Senator,” and the gangs with the fall +money always at hand.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_37">[37]</div> +<p>Blake, in those days, was a good “mixer.” +He was not an “office” man, and was never +dubbed high-brow. He was not above his +work; no one accused him of being too refined +for his calling. Through a mind such as his +the Law could best view the criminal, just as +a solar eclipse is best viewed through smoked +glass.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_38">[38]</div> +<p>He could hobnob with bartenders and red-lighters, +pass unnoticed through a slum, join +casually in a stuss game, or loaf unmarked +about a street corner. He was fond of pool +and billiards, and many were the unconsidered +trifles he picked up with a cue in his hand. +His face, even in those early days, was heavy +and inoffensive. Commonplace seemed to be +the word that fitted him. He could always +mix with and become one of the crowd. He +would have laughed at any such foolish phrase +as “protective coloration.” Yet seldom, he +knew, men turned back to look at him a second +time. Small-eyed, beefy and well-fed, he +could have passed, under his slightly tilted +black boulder, as a truck driver with a day off.</p> +<p>What others might have denominated as +“dirty work” he accepted with heavy impassivity, +consoling himself with the contention +that its final end was cleanness. And one of +his most valuable assets, outside his stolid +heartlessness, was his speaking acquaintanceship +with the women of the underworld. He +remained aloof from them even while he mixed +with them. He never grew into a “moll-buzzer.” +But in his rough way he cultivated +them. He even helped some of them out of +their troubles—in consideration for “tips” +which were to be delivered when the emergency +arose. They accepted his gruffness as simple-mindedness, +as blunt honesty. One or two, +with their morbid imaginations touched by his +seeming generosities, made wistful amatory +advances which he promptly repelled. He +could afford to have none of them with anything +“on” him. He saw the need of keeping +cool headed and clean handed, with an eye always +to the main issue.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_39">[39]</div> +<p>And Blake really regarded himself as clean +handed. Yet deep in his nature was that obliquity, +that adeptness at trickery, that facility +in deceit, which made him the success he was. +He could always meet a crook on his own +ground. He had no extraneous sensibilities to +eliminate. He mastered a secret process of +opening and reading letters without detection. +He became an adept at picking a lock. One +of his earlier successes had depended on the +cool dexterity with which he had exchanged +trunk checks in a Wabash baggage car at +Black Rock, allowing the “loft” thief under +suspicion to carry off a dummy trunk, while +he came into possession of another’s belongings +and enough evidence to secure his victim’s +conviction.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_40">[40]</div> +<p>At another time, when “tailing” on a +badger-game case, he equipped himself as a +theatrical “bill-sniper,” followed his man about +without arousing suspicion, and made liberal +use of his magnetized tack-hammer in the final +mix up when he made his haul. He did not +shirk these mix ups, for he was endowed with +the bravery of the unimaginative. This very +mental heaviness, holding him down to materialities, +kept his contemplation of contingencies +from becoming bewildering. He enjoyed +the limitations of the men against whom +he was pitted. Yet at times he had what he +called a “coppered hunch.” When, in later +years, an occasional criminal of imagination +became his enemy, he was often at a loss as +to how to proceed. But imaginative criminals, +he knew, were rare, and dilemmas such as these +proved infrequent. Whatever his shift, or +however unsavory his resource, he never regarded +himself as on the same basis as his opponents. +He had Law on his side; he was the +instrument of that great power known as +Justice.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_41">[41]</div> +<p>As Blake’s knowledge of New York and +his work increased he was given less and less +of the “rough-neck” work to do. He proved +himself, in fact, a stolid and painstaking “investigator.” +As a divorce-suit shadower he +was equally resourceful and equally successful. +When his agency took over the bankers’ +protective work he was advanced to this new +department, where he found himself compelled +to a new term of study and a new circle of alliances. +He went laboriously through records +of forgers and check raisers and counterfeiters. +He took up the study of all such gentry, sullenly +yet methodically, like a backward scholar +mastering a newly imposed branch of knowledge, +thumbing frowningly through official +reports, breathing heavily over portrait files +and police records, plodding determinedly +through counterfeit-detector manuals. For +this book work, as he called it, he retained a +deep-seated disgust.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_42">[42]</div> +<p>The outcome of his first case, later known +as the “Todaro National Ten Case,” confirmed +him in this attitude. Going doggedly over the +counterfeit ten-dollar national bank note that +had been given him after two older operatives +had failed in the case, he discovered the word +“Dollars” in small lettering spelt “Ddllers.” +Concluding that only a foreigner would make +a mistake of that nature, and knowing the +activity of certain bands of Italians in such +counterfeiting efforts, he began his slow and +scrupulous search through the purlieus of the +East Side. About that search was neither +movement nor romance. It was humdrum, +dogged, disheartening labor, with the gradual +elimination of possibilities and the gradual +narrowing down of his field. But across that +ever-narrowing trail the accidental little clue +finally fell, and on the night of the final raid +the desired plates were captured and the notorious +and long-sought Todaro rounded up.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_43">[43]</div> +<p>So successful was Blake during the following +two years that the Washington authorities, +coming in touch with him through the operations +of the Secret Service, were moved to +make him an offer. This offer he stolidly considered +and at last stolidly accepted. He became +an official with the weight of the Federal +authority behind him. He became an investigator +with the secrets of the Bureau of Printing +and Engraving at his beck. He found +himself a cog in a machinery that seemed limitless +in its ramifications. He was the agent +of a vast and centralized authority, an authority +against which there could be no opposition. +But he had to school himself to the knowledge +that he was a cog, and nothing more. And +two things were expected of him, efficiency +and silence.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_44">[44]</div> +<p>He found a secret pleasure, at first, in the +thought of working from under cover, in the +sense of operating always in the dark, unknown +and unseen. It gave a touch of something +Olympian and godlike to his movements. +But as time went by the small cloud of discontent +on his horizon grew darker, and +widened as it blackened. He was avid of +something more than power. He thirsted not +only for its operation, but also for its display. +He rebelled against the idea of a continually +submerged personality. He nursed a keen +hunger to leave some record of what he did or +had done. He objected to it all as a conspiracy +of obliteration, objected to it as an +actor would object to playing to an empty +theater. There was no one to appreciate and +applaud. And an audience was necessary. +He enjoyed the unctuous salute of the patrolman +on his beat, the deferential door-holding +of “office boys,” the quick attentiveness of +minor operatives. But this was not enough. +He felt the normal demand to assert himself, +to be known at his true worth by both his fellow +workers and the world in general.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_45">[45]</div> +<p>It was not until the occasion when he had +run down a gang of Williamsburg counterfeiters, +however, that his name was conspicuously +in print. So interesting were the details +of this gang’s operations, so typical were +their methods, that Wilkie or some official under +Wilkie had handed over to a monthly +known as <i>The Counterfeit Detector</i> a full account +of the case. A New York paper has +printed a somewhat distorted and romanticized +copy of this, having sent a woman reporter to +interview Blake—while a staff artist made a +pencil drawing of the Secret Service man during +the very moments the latter was smilingly +denying them either a statement or a photograph. +Blake knew that publicity would impair +his effectiveness. Some inner small voice +forewarned him that all outside recognition of +his calling would take away from his value as +an agent of the Secret Service. But his +hunger for his rights as a man was stronger +than his discretion as an official. He said +nothing openly; but he allowed inferences to +be drawn and the artist’s pencil to put the finishing +touches to the sketch.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_46">[46]</div> +<p>It was here, too, that his slyness, his natural +circuitiveness, operated to save him. When +the inevitable protest came he was able to prove +that he had said nothing and had indignantly +refused a photograph. He completely cleared +himself. But the hint of an interesting personality +had been betrayed to the public, the +name of a new sleuth had gone on record, and +the infection of curiosity spread like a mulberry +rash from newspaper office to newspaper +office. A representative of the press, every +now and then, would drop in on Blake, or +chance to occupy the same smoking compartment +with him on a run between Washington +and New York, to ply his suavest and subtlest +arts for the extraction of some final fact with +which to cap an unfinished “story.” Blake, +in turn, became equally subtle and suave. His +lips were sealed, but even silence, he found, +could be made illuminative. Even reticence, +on occasion, could be made to serve his personal +ends. He acquired the trick of surrendering +data without any shadow of actual statement.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_47">[47]</div> +<p>These chickens, however, all came home to +roost. Official recognition was taken of +Blake’s tendencies, and he was assigned to +those cases where a “leak” would prove least +embarrassing to the Department. He saw +this and resented it. But in the meantime he +had been keeping his eyes open and storing +up in his cabinet of silence every unsavory +rumor and fact that might prove of use in the +future. He found himself, in due time, the +master of an arsenal of political secrets. And +when it came to a display of power he could +merit the attention if not the respect of a +startlingly wide circle of city officials. When +a New York municipal election brought a +party turn over, he chose the moment as the +psychological one for a display of his power, +cruising up and down the coasts of officialdom +with his grim facts in tow, for all the world +like a flagship followed by its fleet.</p> +<p>It was deemed expedient for the New York +authorities to “take care” of him. A berth +was made for him in the Central Office, and +after a year of laborious manipulation he +found himself Third Deputy Commissioner +and a power in the land.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_48">[48]</div> +<p>If he became a figure of note, and fattened +on power, he found it no longer possible to +keep as free as he wished from entangling alliances. +He had by this time learned to give +and take, to choose the lesser of two evils, to +pay the ordained price for his triumphs. Occasionally +the forces of evil had to be bribed +with a promise of protection. For the surrender +of dangerous plates, for example, a +counterfeiter might receive immunity, or for +the turning of State’s evidence a guilty man +might have to go scott free. At other times, +to squeeze confession out of a crook, a cruelty +as refined as that of the Inquisition had to be +adopted. In one stubborn case the end had +been achieved by depriving the victim of sleep, +this Chinese torture being kept up until the +needed nervous collapse. At another time the +midnight cell of a suspected murderer had +been “set” like a stage, with all the accessories +of his crime, including even the cadaver, and +when suddenly awakened the frenzied man +had shrieked out his confession. But, as a +rule, it was by imposing on his prisoner’s better +instincts, such as gang-loyalty or pity for +a supposedly threatened “rag,” that the point +was won. In resources of this nature Blake +became quite conscienceless, salving his soul +with the altogether jesuitic claim that illegal +means were always justified by the legal end.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_49">[49]</div> +<p>By the time he had fought his way up to the +office of Second Deputy he no longer resented +being known as a “rough neck” or a “flat +foot.” As an official, he believed in roughness; +it was his right; and one touch of right +made away with all wrong, very much as +one grain of pepsin properly disposed might +digest a carload of beef. A crook was a crook. +His natural end was the cell or the chair, and +the sooner he got there the better for all concerned. +So Blake believed in “hammering” +his victims. He was an advocate of “confrontation.” +He had faith in the old-fashioned +“third-degree” dodges. At these, in his +ponderous way, he became an adept, looking +on the nervous system of his subject as a nut, +to be calmly and relentlessly gnawed at until +the meat of truth lay exposed, or to be cracked +by the impact of some sudden great shock. +Nor was the Second Deputy above resorting to +the use of “plants.” Sometimes he had to call +in a “fixer” to manufacture evidence, that the +far-off ends of justice might not be defeated. +He made frequent use of women of a certain +type, women whom he could intimidate as an +officer or buy over as a good fellow. He had +his <i>aides</i> in all walks of life, in clubs and offices, +in pawnshops and saloons, in hotels and +steamers and barber shops, in pool rooms and +anarchists’ cellars. He also had his visiting +list, his “fences” and “stool-pigeons” and +“shoo-flies.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_50">[50]</div> +<p>He preferred the “outdoor” work, both +because he was more at home in it and because +it was more spectacular. He relished the bigger +cases. He liked to step in where an underling +had failed, get his teeth into the situation, +shake the mystery out of it, and then +obliterate the underling with a half hour of +blasphemous abuse. He had scant patience +with what he called the “high-collar cops.” He +consistently opposed the new-fangled methods, +such as the <i>Portrait Parle</i>, and pin-maps for +recording crime, and the graphic-system boards +for marking the movements of criminals. +All anthropometric nonsense such as Bertillon’s +he openly sneered at, just as he scoffed +at card indexes and finger prints and other +academic innovations which were debilitating +the force. He had gathered his own data, at +great pains, he nursed his own personal knowledge +as to habitual offenders and their aliases, +their methods, their convictions and records, +their associates and hang outs. He carried +his own gallery under his own hat, and he was +proud of it. His memory was good, and he +claimed always to know his man. His intuitions +were strong, and if he disliked a captive, +that captive was in some way guilty—and he +saw to it that his man did not escape. He was +relentless, once his professional pride was involved. +Being without imagination, he was +without pity. It was, at best, a case of dog +eat dog, and the Law, the Law for which he +had such reverence, happened to keep him the +upper dog.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_52">[52]</div> +<p>Yet he was a comparatively stupid man, an +amazingly self-satisfied toiler who had chanced +to specialize on crime. And even as he became +more and more assured of his personal +ability, more and more entrenched in his tradition +of greatness, he was becoming less and +less elastic, less receptive, less adaptive. +Much as he tried to blink the fact, he was compelled +to depend more and more on the office +behind him. His personal gallery, the gallery +under his hat, showed a tendency to become +both obsolete and inadequate. That endless +catacomb of lost souls grew too intricate for +one human mind to compass. New faces, new +names, new tricks tended to bewilder him. He +had to depend more and more on the clerical +staff and the finger-print bureau records. His +position became that of a villager with a department +store on his hands, of a country shopkeeper +trying to operate an urban emporium. +He was averse to deputizing his official labors. +He was ignorant of system and science. He +took on the pathos of a man who is out of his +time, touched with the added poignancy of a +passionate incredulity as to his predicament. +He felt, at times, that there was something +wrong, that the rest of the Department did +not look on life and work as he did. But he +could not decide just where the trouble lay. +And in his uncertainty he made it a point to +entrench himself by means of “politics.” It +became an open secret that he had a pull, that +his position was impregnable. This in turn +tended to coarsen his methods. It lifted him +beyond the domain of competitive effort. It +touched his carelessness with arrogance. It +also tinged his arrogance with occasional cruelty.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_53">[53]</div> +<p>He redoubled his efforts to sustain the myth +which had grown up about him, the myth of +his vast cleverness and personal courage. He +showed a tendency for the more turbulent centers. +He went among murderers without a +gun. He dropped into dives, protected by +nothing more than the tradition of his office. +He pushed his way in through thugs, picked +out his man, and told him to come to Headquarters +in an hour’s time—and the man usually +came. His appetite for the spectacular +increased. He preferred to head his own +gambling raids, ax in hand. But more even +than his authority he liked to parade his knowledge. +He liked to be able to say: “This is +Sheeny Chi’s coup!” or, “That’s a job that +only Soup-Can Charlie could do!” When a +police surgeon hit on the idea of etherizing an +obdurate “dummy chucker,” to determine if +the prisoner could talk or not, Blake appropriated +the suggestion as his own. And when +the “press boys” trooped in for their daily gist +of news, he asked them, as usual, not to couple +his name with the incident; and they, as usual, +made him the hero of the occasion.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_54">[54]</div> +<p>For Never-Fail Blake had made it a point +to be good to the press boys. He acquired an +ability to “jolly” them without too obvious loss +of dignity. He took them into his confidences, +apparently, and made his disclosures personal +matters, individual favors. He kept careful +note of their names, their characteristics, their +interests. He cultivated them, keeping as +careful track of them from city to city as he +did of the “big” criminals themselves. They +got into the habit of going to him for their +special stories. He always exacted secrecy, +pretended reluctance, yet parceled out to one +reporter and another those dicta to which his +name could be most appropriately attached. +He even surrendered a clue or two as to how +his own activities and triumphs might be +worked into a given story. When he perceived +that those worldly wise young men of +the press saw through the dodge, he became +more adept, more adroit, more delicate in +method. But the end was the same.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_55">[55]</div> +<p>It was about this time that he invested in his +first scrap-book. Into this secret granary went +every seed of his printed personal history. +Then came the higher records of the magazines, +the illustrated articles written about “Blake, +the Hamard of America,” as one of them expressed +it, and “Never-Fail Blake,” as another +put it. He was very proud of those +magazine articles, he even made ponderous and +painstaking efforts for their repetition, at considerable +loss of dignity. Yet he adopted the +pose of disclaiming responsibility, of disliking +such things, of being ready to oppose them +if some effective method could only be thought +out. He even hinted to those about him at +Headquarters that this seeming garrulity was +serving a good end, claiming it to be harmless +pother to “cover” more immediate trails on +which he pretended to be engaged.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_56">[56]</div> +<p>But the scrap-books grew in number and +size. It became a task to keep up with his +clippings. He developed into a personage, as +much a personage as a grand-opera prima +donna on tour. His successes were talked over +in clubs. His name came to be known to the +men in the street. His “camera eye” was now +and then mentioned by the scientists. His unblemished +record was referred to in an occasional +editorial. When an ex-police reporter +came to him, asking him to father a macaronic +volume bearing the title “Criminals of America,” +Blake not only added his name to the title +page, but advanced three hundred dollars to +assist towards its launching.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_57">[57]</div> +<p>The result of all this was a subtle yet unmistakable +shifting of values, an achievement of +public glory at the loss of official confidence. +He excused his waning popularity among his +co-workers on the ground of envy. It was, he +held, merely the inevitable penalty for supreme +success in any field. But a hint would +come, now and then, that troubled him. “You +think you’re a big gun, Blake,” one of his underworld +victims once had the temerity to cry +out at him. “You think you’re the king of +the Hawkshaws! But if you were on <i>my</i> side +of the fence, you’d last about as long as a snowball +on a crownsheet!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_58">[58]</div> +<h2 id="c3">III</h2> +<p>It was not until the advent of Copeland, the +new First Deputy, that Blake began to suspect +his own position. Copeland was an out-and-out +“office” man, anything but a “flat +foot.” Weak looking and pallid, with the sedentary +air of a junior desk clerk, vibratingly +restless with no actual promise of being penetrating, +he was of that indeterminate type +which never seems to acquire a personality of +its own. The small and bony and steel-blue +face was as neutral as the spare and reticent +figure that sat before a bald table in a bald +room as inexpressive and reticent as its occupant. +Copeland was not only unknown outside +the Department; he was, in a way, unknown +in his own official circles.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_59">[59]</div> +<p>And then Blake woke up to the fact that +some one on the inside was working against +him, was blocking his moves, was actually using +him as a “blind.” While he was given the +“cold” trails, younger men went out on the +“hot” ones. There were times when the Second +Deputy suspected that his enemy was +Copeland. Not that he could be sure of this, +for Copeland himself gave no inkling of his attitude. +He gave no inkling of anything, in fact, +personal or impersonal. But more and more +Blake was given the talking parts, the rôle of +spokesman to the press. He was more and +more posted in the background, like artillery, +to intimidate with his remote thunder and +cover the advance of more agile columns. He +was encouraged to tell the public what he +knew, but he was not allowed to know too +much. And, ironically enough, he bitterly resented +this rôle of “mouthpiece” for the Department.</p> +<p>“You call yourself a gun!” a patrolman who +had been shaken down for insubordination +broke out at him. “A gun! why, you’re only +a <i>park</i> gun! That’s all you are, a broken-down +bluff, an ornamental has-been, a park +gun for kids to play ’round!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_60">[60]</div> +<p>Blake raged at that, impotently, pathetically, +like an old lion with its teeth drawn. He +prowled moodily around, looking for an enemy +on whom to vent his anger. But he could find +no tangible force that opposed him. He could +see nothing on which to centralize his activity. +Yet something or somebody was working +against him. To fight that opposition was like +fighting a fog. It was as bad as trying to +shoulder back a shadow.</p> +<p>He had his own “spots” and “finders” on the +force. When he had been tipped off that the +powers above were about to send him out on +the Binhart case, he passed the word along to +his underlings, without loss of time, for he felt +that he was about to be put on trial, that they +were making the Binhart capture a test case. +And he had rejoiced mightily when his dragnet +had brought up the unexpected tip that +Elsie Verriner had been in recent communication +with Binhart, and with pressure from the +right quarter could be made to talk.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_61">[61]</div> +<p>This tip had been a secret one. Blake, on +his part, kept it well muffled, for he intended +that his capture of Binhart should be not only +a personal triumph for the Second Deputy, +but a vindication of that Second Deputy’s +methods.</p> +<p>So when the Commissioner called him and +Copeland into conference, the day after his +talk with Elsie Verriner, Blake prided himself +on being secretly prepared for any advances +that might be made.</p> +<p>It was the Commissioner who did the talking. +Copeland, as usual, lapsed into the background, +cracking his dry knuckles and blinking +his pale-blue eyes about the room as the voices +of the two larger men boomed back and forth.</p> +<p>“We’ve been going over this Binhart case,” +began the Commissioner. “It’s seven months +now—and nothing done!”</p> +<p>Blake looked sideways at Copeland. There +was muffled and meditative belligerency in the +look. There was also gratification, for it was +the move he had been expecting.</p> +<p>“I always said McCooey wasn’t the man to +go out on that case,” said the Second Deputy, +still watching Copeland.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_62">[62]</div> +<p>“Then who <i>is</i> the man?” asked the Commissioner.</p> +<p>Blake took out a cigar, bit the end off, and +struck a match. It was out of place; but it +was a sign of his independence. He had long +since given up plug and fine-cut and taken to +fat Havanas, which he smoked audibly, in +plethoric wheezes. Good living had left his +body stout and his breathing slightly asthmatic. +He sat looking down at his massive knees; his +oblique study of Copeland, apparently, had +yielded him scant satisfaction. Copeland, in +fact, was making paper fans out of the official +note-paper in front of him.</p> +<p>“What’s the matter with Washington and +Wilkie?” inquired Blake, attentively regarding +his cigar.</p> +<p>“They’re just where we are—at a standstill,” +acknowledged the Commissioner.</p> +<p>“And that’s where we’ll stay!” heavily contended +the Second Deputy.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_63">[63]</div> +<p>The entire situation was an insidiously flattering +one to Blake. Every one else had +failed. They were compelled to come to him, +their final resource.</p> +<p>“Why?” demanded his superior.</p> +<p>“Because we haven’t got a man who can +turn the trick! We haven’t got a man who +can go out and round up Binhart inside o’ +seven years!”</p> +<p>“Then what is your suggestion?” It was +Copeland who spoke, mild and hesitating.</p> +<p>“D’ you want my suggestion?” demanded +Blake, warm with the wine-like knowledge +which, he knew, made him master of the situation.</p> +<p>“Of course,” was the Commissioner’s curt +response.</p> +<p>“Well, you’ve got to have a man who knows +Binhart, who knows him and his tricks and his +hang outs!”</p> +<p>“Well, who does?”</p> +<p>“I do,” declared Blake.</p> +<p>The Commissioner indulged in his wintry +smile.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_64">[64]</div> +<p>“You mean if you weren’t tied down to your +Second Deputy’s chair you could go out and +get him!”</p> +<p>“I could!”</p> +<p>“Within a reasonable length of time?”</p> +<p>“I don’t know about the time! But I could +get him, all right.”</p> +<p>“If you were still on the outside work?” interposed +Copeland.</p> +<p>“I certainly wouldn’t expect to dig him out +o’ my stamp drawer,” was Blake’s heavily +facetious retort.</p> +<p>Copeland and the Commissioner looked at +each other, for one fraction of a second.</p> +<p>“You know what my feeling is,” resumed +the latter, “on this Binhart case.”</p> +<p>“I know what <i>my</i> feeling is,” declared +Blake.</p> +<p>“What?”</p> +<p>“That the right method would’ve got him +six months ago, without all this monkey +work!”</p> +<p>“Then why not end the monkey work, as you +call it?”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_65">[65]</div> +<p>“How?”</p> +<p>“By doing what you say you can do!” was +the Commissioner’s retort.</p> +<p>“How’m I going to hold down a chair and +hunt a crook at the same time?”</p> +<p>“Then why hold down the chair? Let the +chair take care of itself. It could be arranged, +you know.”</p> +<p>Blake had the stage-juggler’s satisfaction of +seeing things fall into his hands exactly as he +had manœuvered they should. His reluctance +was merely a dissimulation, a stage wait for +heightened dramatic effect.</p> +<p>“How’d you do the arranging?” he calmly +inquired.</p> +<p>“I could see the Mayor in the morning. +There will be no Departmental difficulty.”</p> +<p>“Then where’s the trouble?”</p> +<p>“There is none, if you are willing to go out.”</p> +<p>“Well, we can’t get Binhart here by pink-tea +invitations. Somebody’s got to go out and +<i>get</i> him!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_66">[66]</div> +<p>“The bank raised the reward to eight thousand +this week,” interposed the ruminative +Copeland.</p> +<p>“Well, it’ll take money to get him,” snapped +back the Second Deputy, remembering that he +had a nest of his own to feather.</p> +<p>“It will be worth what it costs,” admitted the +Commissioner.</p> +<p>“Of course,” said Copeland, “they’ll have to +honor your drafts—in reason.”</p> +<p>“There will be no difficulty on the expense +side,” quietly interposed the Commissioner. +“The city wants Binhart. The whole country +wants Binhart. And they will be willing to +pay for it.”</p> +<p>Blake rose heavily to his feet. His massive +bulk was momentarily stirred by the prospect +of the task before him. For one brief moment +the anticipation of that clamor of approval +which would soon be his stirred his +lethargic pulse. Then his cynic calmness again +came back to him.</p> +<p>“Then what’re we beefing about?” he demanded. +“You want Binhart and I’ll get +him for you.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_67">[67]</div> +<p>The Commissioner, tapping the top of his +desk with his gold-banded fountain pen, +smiled. It was almost a smile of indulgence.</p> +<p>“You <i>know</i> you will get him?” he inquired.</p> +<p>The inquiry seemed to anger Blake. He +was still dimly conscious of the operation of +forces which he could not fathom. There were +things, vague and insubstantial, which he could +not understand. But he nursed to his heavy-breathing +bosom the consciousness that he himself +was not without his own undivulged +powers, his own private tricks, his own inner reserves.</p> +<p>“I say I’ll get him!” he calmly proclaimed. +“And I guess that ought to be enough!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_68">[68]</div> +<h2 id="c4">IV</h2> +<p>The unpretentious, brownstone-fronted +home of Deputy Copeland was visited, +late that night, by a woman. She was dressed +in black, and heavily veiled. She walked with +the stoop of a sorrowful and middle-aged +widow.</p> +<p>She came in a taxicab, which she dismissed +at the corner. From the house steps she looked +first eastward and then westward, as though to +make sure she was not being followed. Then +she rang the bell.</p> +<p>She gave no name; yet she was at once admitted. +Her visit, in fact, seemed to be expected, +for without hesitation she was ushered +upstairs and into the library of the First Deputy.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_69">[69]</div> +<p>He was waiting for her in a room more intimate, +more personal, more companionably +crowded than his office, for the simple reason +that it was not a room of his own fashioning. +He stood in the midst of its warm hangings, +in fact, as cold and neutral as the marble Diana +behind him. He did not even show, as he +closed the door and motioned his visitor into a +chair, that he had been waiting for her.</p> +<p>The woman, still standing, looked carefully +about the room, from side to side, saw that they +were alone, made note of the two closed doors, +and then with a sigh lifted her black gloved +hands and began to remove the widow’s cap +from her head. She sighed again as she tossed +the black crepe on the dark-wooded table beside +her. As she sank into the chair the light +from the electrolier fell on her shoulders and on +the carefully coiled and banded hair, so laboriously +built up into a crown that glinted nut-brown +above the pale face she turned to the +man watching her.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_70">[70]</div> +<p>“Well?” she said. And from under her +level brows she stared at Copeland, serene in +her consciousness of power. It was plain that +she neither liked him nor disliked him. It was +equally plain that he, too, had his ends remote +from her and her being.</p> +<p>“You saw Blake again?” he half asked, half +challenged.</p> +<p>“No,” she answered.</p> +<p>“Why?”</p> +<p>“I was afraid to.”</p> +<p>“Didn’t I tell you we’d take care of your +end?”</p> +<p>“I’ve had promises like that before. They +weren’t always remembered.”</p> +<p>“But our office never made you that promise +before, Miss Verriner.”</p> +<p>The woman let her eyes rest on his impassive +face.</p> +<p>“That’s true, I admit. But I must also admit +I know Jim Blake. We’d better not +come together again, Blake and me, after this +week.”</p> +<p>She was pulling off her gloves as she spoke. +She suddenly threw them down on the table. +“There’s just one thing I want to know, and +know for certain. I want to know if this is a +plant to shoot Blake up?”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_71">[71]</div> +<p>The First Deputy smiled. It was not altogether +at the mere calmness with which she +could suggest such an atrocity.</p> +<p>“Hardly,” he said.</p> +<p>“Then what is it?” she demanded.</p> +<p>He was both patient and painstaking with +her. His tone was almost paternal in its placativeness.</p> +<p>“It’s merely a phase of departmental business,” +he answered her. “And we’re anxious +to see Blake round up Connie Binhart.”</p> +<p>“That’s not true,” she answered with neither +heat nor resentment, “or you would never have +started him off on this blind lead. You’d +never have had me go to him with that King +Edward note and had it work out to fit a street +in Montreal. You’ve got a wooden decoy up +there in Canada, and when Blake gets there +he’ll be told his man slipped away the day before. +Then another decoy will bob up, and +Blake will go after that. And when you’ve +fooled him two or three times he’ll sail back +to New York and break me for giving him a +false tip.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_72">[72]</div> +<p>“Did you give it to him?”</p> +<p>“No, he hammered it out of me. But you +knew he was going to do that. That was part +of the plant.”</p> +<p>She sat studying her thin white hands for +several seconds. Then she looked up at the +calm-eyed Copeland.</p> +<p>“How are you going to protect me, if Blake +comes back? How are you going to keep your +promise?”</p> +<p>The First Deputy sat back in his chair and +crossed his thin legs.</p> +<p>“Blake will not come back,” he announced. +She slewed suddenly round on him again.</p> +<p>“Then it <i>is</i> a plant!” she proclaimed.</p> +<p>“You misunderstand me, Miss Verriner. +Blake will not come back as an official. There +will be changes in the Department, I imagine; +changes for the better which even he and his +Tammany Hall friends can’t stop, by the time +he gets back with Binhart.”</p> +<p>The woman gave a little hand gesture of impatience.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_73">[73]</div> +<p>“But don’t you see,” she protested, “supposing +he gives up Binhart? Supposing he suspects +something and hurries back to hold down +his place?”</p> +<p>“They call him Never-Fail Blake,” commented +the unmoved and dry-lipped official. +He met her wide stare with his gently satiric +smile.</p> +<p>“I see,” she finally said, “you’re not going +to shoot him up. You’re merely going to +wipe him out.”</p> +<p>“You are quite wrong there,” began the man +across the table from her. “Administration +changes may happen, and in—”</p> +<p>“In other words, you’re getting Jim Blake +out of the way, off on this Binhart trail, while +you work him out of the Department.”</p> +<p>“No competent officer is ever worked out of +this Department,” parried the First Deputy.</p> +<p>She sat for a silent and studious moment or +two, without looking at Copeland. Then she +sighed, with mock plaintiveness. Her wistfulness +seemed to leave her doubly dangerous.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_74">[74]</div> +<p>“Mr. Copeland, aren’t you afraid some one +might find it worth while to tip Blake off?” she +softly inquired.</p> +<p>“What would you gain?” was his pointed and +elliptical interrogation.</p> +<p>She leaned forward in the fulcrum of light, +and looked at him soberly.</p> +<p>“What is your idea of me?” she asked.</p> +<p>He looked back at the thick-lashed eyes with +their iris rings of deep gray. There was something +alert and yet unparticipating in their +steady gaze. They held no trace of abashment. +They were no longer veiled. There +was even something disconcerting in their lucid +and level stare.</p> +<p>“I think you are a very intelligent woman,” +Copeland finally confessed.</p> +<p>“I think I am, too,” she retorted. “Although +I haven’t used that intelligence in the +right way. Don’t smile! I’m not going to +turn mawkish. I’m not good. I don’t know +whether I want to be. But I know one thing: +I’ve got to keep busy—I’ve got to be active. +I’ve <i>got</i> to be!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_75">[75]</div> +<p>“And?” prompted the First Deputy, as she +came to a stop.</p> +<p>“We all know, now, exactly where we’re at. +We all know what we want, each one of us. +We know what Blake wants. We know what +you want. And I want something more than +I’m getting, just as you want something more +than writing reports and rounding up push-cart +peddlers. I want my end, as much as you +want yours.”</p> +<p>“And?” again prompted the First Deputy.</p> +<p>“I’ve got to the end of my ropes; and I +want to swing around. It’s no reform bee, +mind! It’s not what other women like me +think it is. But I can’t go on. It doesn’t +lead to anything. It doesn’t pay. I want to +be safe. I’ve <i>got</i> to be safe!”</p> +<p>He looked up suddenly, as though a new +truth had just struck home with him. For the +first time, all that evening, his face was ingenuous.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_76">[76]</div> +<p>“I know what’s behind me,” went on the +woman. “There’s no use digging that up. +And there’s no use digging up excuses for it. +But there <i>are</i> excuses—good excuses, or I’d +never have gone through what I have, because +I feel I wasn’t made for it. I’m too big a +coward to face what it leads to. I can look +ahead and see through things. I can understand +too easily.” She came to a stop, and sat +back, with one white hand on either arm of +the chair. “And I’m afraid to go on. I want +to begin over. And I want to begin on the +right side!”</p> +<p>He sat pondering just how much of this he +could believe. But she disregarded his veiled +impassivity.</p> +<p>“I want you to take Picture 3,970 out of the +Identification Bureau, the picture and the Bertillon +measurements. And then I want you +to give me the chance I asked for.”</p> +<p>“But that does not rest with me, Miss Verriner!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_77">[77]</div> +<p>“It will rest with you. I couldn’t stool with +my own people here. But Wilkie knows my +value. He knows what I can do for the service +if I’m on their side. He could let me +begin with the Ellis Island spotting. I could +stop that Stockholm white-slave work in two +months. And when you see Wilkie to-morrow +you can swing me one way or the other!”</p> +<p>Copeland, with his chin on his bony breast, +looked up to smile into her intent and staring +eyes.</p> +<p>“You are a very clever woman,” he said. +“And what is more, you know a great deal!”</p> +<p>“I know a great deal!” she slowly repeated, +and her steady gaze succeeded in taking the +ironic smile out of the corners of his eyes.</p> +<p>“Your knowledge,” he said with a deliberation +equal to her own, “will prove of great +value to you—as an agent with Wilkie.”</p> +<p>“That’s as you say!” she quietly amended +as she rose to her feet. There was no actual +threat in her words, just as there was no actual +mockery in his. But each was keenly conscious +of the wheels that revolved within wheels, +of the intricacies through which each was +threading a way to certain remote ends. She +picked up her black gloves from the desk top. +She stood there, waiting.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_78">[78]</div> +<p>“You can count on me,” he finally said, as +he rose from his chair. “I’ll attend to the +picture. And I’ll say the right thing to Wilkie!”</p> +<p>“Then let’s shake hands on it!” she quietly +concluded. And as they shook hands her gray-irised +eyes gazed intently and interrogatively +into his.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_79">[79]</div> +<h2 id="c5">V</h2> +<p>When Never-Fail Blake alighted from +his sleeper in Montreal he found one +of Teal’s men awaiting him at Bonaventure +Station. There had been a hitch or a leak +somewhere, this man reported. Binhart, in +some way, had slipped through their fingers.</p> +<p>All they knew was that the man they were +tailing had bought a ticket for Winnipeg, that +he was not in Montreal, and that, beyond the +railway ticket, they had no trace of him.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_80">[80]</div> +<p>Blake, at this news, had a moment when he +saw red. He felt, during that moment, like +a drum-major who had “muffed” his baton on +parade. Then recovering himself, he promptly +confirmed the Teal operative’s report by telephone, +accepted its confirmation as authentic, +consulted a timetable, and made a dash for +Windsor Station. There he caught the Winnipeg +express, took possession of a stateroom +and indited carefully worded telegrams to +Trimble in Vancouver, that all out-going Pacific +steamers should be watched, and to Menzler +in Chicago, that the American city might +be covered in case of Binhart’s doubling southward +on him. Still another telegram he sent +to New York, requesting the Police Department +to send on to him at once a photograph of +Binhart.</p> +<p>In Winnipeg, two days later, Blake found +himself on a blind trail. When he had talked +with a railway detective on whom he could rely, +when he had visited certain offices and interviewed +certain officials, when he had sought out +two or three women acquaintances in the city’s +sequestered area, he faced the bewildering +discovery that he was still without an actual +clue of the man he was supposed to be shadowing.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_81">[81]</div> +<p>It was then that something deep within his +nature, something he could never quite define, +whispered its first faint doubt to him. This +doubt persisted even when late that night a +Teal Agency operative wired him from Calgary, +stating that a man answering Binhart’s +description had just left the Alberta Hotel for +Banff. To this latter point Blake promptly +wired a fuller description of his man, had an +officer posted to inspect every alighting passenger, +and early the next morning received +a telegram, asking for still more particulars.</p> +<p>He peered down at this message, vaguely +depressed in spirit, discarding theory after theory, +tossing aside contingency after contingency. +And up from this gloomy shower +slowly emerged one of his “hunches,” one of +his vague impressions, coming blindly to the +surface very much like an earthworm crawling +forth after a fall of rain. There was +something wrong. Of that he felt certain. +He could not place it or define it. To continue +westward would be to depend too much +on an uncertainty; it would involve the risk of +wandering too far from the center of things. +He suddenly decided to double on his tracks +and swing down to Chicago. Just why he +felt as he did he could not fathom. But the +feeling was there. It was an instinctive propulsion, +a “hunch.” These hunches were to +him, working in the dark as he was compelled +to, very much what whiskers are to a cat. They +could not be called an infallible guide. But +they at least kept him from colliding with impregnabilities.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_82">[82]</div> +<p>Acting on this hunch, as he called it, he +caught a Great Northern train for Minneapolis, +transferred to a Chicago, Milwaukee & St. +Paul express, and without loss of time sped +southward. When, thirty hours later, he +alighted in the heart of Chicago, he found himself +in an environment more to his liking, more +adaptable to his ends. He was not disheartened +by his failure. He did not believe in +luck, in miracles, or even in coincidence. But +experience had taught him the bewildering +extent of the resources which he might command. +So intricate and so wide-reaching were +the secret wires of his information that he knew +he could wait, like a spider at the center of its +web, until the betraying vibration awakened +some far-reaching thread of that web. In +every corner of the country lurked a non-professional +ally, a secluded tipster, ready to report +to Blake when the call for a report came. +The world, that great detective had found, +was indeed a small one. From its scattered +four corners, into which his subterranean wires +of espionage stretched, would in time come +some inkling, some hint, some discovery. And +at the converging center of those wires Blake +was able to sit and wait, like the central operator +at a telephone switchboard, knowing that +the tentacles of attention were creeping and +wavering about dim territories and that in time +they would render up their awaited word.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_83">[83]</div> +<p>In the meantime, Blake himself was by no +means idle. It would not be from official circles, +he knew, that his redemption would come. +Time had already proved that. For months +past every police chief in the country had held +his description of Binhart. That was a fact +which Binhart himself very well knew; and +knowing that, he would continue to move as +he had been moving, with the utmost secrecy, +or at least protected by some adequate disguise.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_84">[84]</div> +<p>It would be from the underworld that the +echo would come. And next to New York, +Blake knew, Chicago would make as good a +central exchange for this underworld as could +be desired. Knowing that city of the Middle +West, and knowing it well, he at once “went +down the line,” making his rounds stolidly and +systematically, first visiting a West Side faro-room +and casually interviewing the “stools” of +Custom House Place and South Clark Street, +and then dropping in at the Café Acropolis, in +Halsted Street, and lodging houses in even less +savory quarters. He duly canvassed every +likely dive, every “melina,” every gambling +house and yegg hang out. He engaged in leisurely +games of pool with stone-getters and +gopher men. He visited bucket-shops and barrooms, +and dingy little Ghetto cafés. He +“buzzed” tipsters and floaters and mouthpieces. +He fraternized with till tappers and +single-drillers. He always made his inquiries +after Binhart seem accidental, a case apparently +subsidiary to two or three others which he +kept always to the foreground.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_85">[85]</div> +<p>He did not despair over the discovery that +no one seemed to know of Binhart or his movements. +He merely waited his time, and extended +new ramifications into newer territory. +His word still carried its weight of official authority. +There was still an army of obsequious +underlings compelled to respect his wishes. It +was merely a matter of time and mathematics. +Then the law of averages would ordain its end; +the needed card would ultimately be turned up, +the right dial-twist would at last complete the +right combination.</p> +<p>The first faint glimmer of life, in all those +seemingly dead wires, came from a gambler +named Mattie Sherwin, who reported that he +had met Binhart, two weeks before, in the café +of the Brown Palace in Denver. He was traveling +under the name of Bannerman, wore his +hair in a pomadour, and had grown a beard.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_86">[86]</div> +<p>Blake took the first train out of Chicago for +Denver. In this latter city an Elks’ Convention +was supplying blue-bird weather for underground +“haymakers,” busy with bunco-steering, +“rushing” street-cars and “lifting +leathers.” Before the stampede at the news +of his approach, he picked up Biff Edwards +and Lefty Stivers, put on the screws, and +learned nothing. He went next to Glory McShane, +a Market Street acquaintance indebted +for certain old favors, and from her, too, +learned nothing of moment. He continued the +quest in other quarters, and the results were +equally discouraging.</p> +<p>Then began the real detective work about +which, Blake knew, newspaper stories were seldom +written. This work involved a laborious +and monotonous examination of hotel registers, +a canvassing of ticket agencies and cab stands +and transfer companies. It was anything but +story-book sleuthing. It was a dispiriting +tread-mill round, but he was still sifting doggedly +through the tailings of possibilities when +a code-wire came from St. Louis, saying Binhart +had been seen the day before at the Planters’ +Hotel.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_87">[87]</div> +<p>Blake was eastbound on his way to St. Louis +one hour after the receipt of this wire. And +an hour after his arrival in St. Louis he was engaged +in an apparently care free and leisurely +game of pool with one Loony Ryan, an old-time +“box man” who was allowed to roam with +a clipped wing in the form of a suspended indictment. +Loony, for the liberty thus doled +out to him, rewarded his benefactors by an occasional +indulgence in the “pigeon-act.”</p> +<p>“Draw for lead?” asked Blake, lighting a +cigar.</p> +<p>“Sure,” said Loony.</p> +<p>Blake pushed his ball to the top cushion, won +the draw, and broke.</p> +<p>“Seen anything of Wolf Yonkholm?” he +casually inquired, as he turned to chalk his cue. +But his eye, with one quick sweep, had made +sure of every face in the room.</p> +<p>Loony studied the balls for a second or two. +Wolf was a “dip” with an international record.</p> +<p>“Last time I saw Wolf he was out at +’Frisco, workin’ the Beaches,” was Loony’s reply.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_88">[88]</div> +<p>Blake ventured an inquiry or two about other +worthies of the underworld. The players went +on with their game, placid, self-immured, matter-of-fact.</p> +<p>“Where’s Angel McGlory these days?” +asked Blake, as he reached over to place a ball.</p> +<p>“What’s she been doin’?” demanded Loony, +with his cue on the rail.</p> +<p>“She’s traveling with a bank sneak named +Blanchard or Binhart,” explained Blake. +“And I want her.”</p> +<p>Loony Ryan made his stroke.</p> +<p>“Hep Roony saw Binhart this mornin’, beatin’ +it for N’ Orleans. But he wasn’t travelin’ +wit’ any moll that Hep spoke of.”</p> +<p>Blake made his shot, chalked his cue again, +and glanced down at his watch. His eyes were +on the green baize, but his thoughts were elsewhere.</p> +<p>“I got ’o leave you, Wolf,” he announced as +he put his cue back in the rack. He spoke +slowly and calmly. But Wolf’s quick gaze circled +the room, promptly checking over every +face between the four walls.</p> +<p>“What’s up?” he demanded. “Who’d you +spot?”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_89">[89]</div> +<p>“Nothing, Wolf, nothing! But this game +o’ yours blamed near made me forget an appointment +o’ mine!”</p> +<p>Twenty minutes after he had left the bewildered +Wolf Ryan in the pool parlor he was +in a New Orleans sleeper, southward bound. +He knew that he was getting within striking +distance of Binhart, at last. The zest of the +chase took possession of him. The trail was +no longer a “cold” one. He knew which way +Binhart was headed. And he knew he was not +more than a day behind his man.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_90">[90]</div> +<h2 id="c6">VI</h2> +<p>The moment Blake arrived in New Orleans +he shut himself in a telephone booth, +called up six somewhat startled acquaintances, +learned nothing to his advantage, and went +quickly but quietly to the St. Charles. There +he closeted himself with two dependable “elbows,” +started his detectives on a round of the +hotels, and himself repaired to the Levee district, +where he held off-handed and ponderously +facetious conversations with certain unsavory +characters. Then came a visit to certain +equally unsavory wharf-rats and a call or +two on South Rampart Street. But still no +inkling of Binhart or his intended movements +came to the detective’s ears.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_91">[91]</div> +<p>It was not until the next morning, as he +stepped into Antoine’s, on St. Louis Street +just off the Rue Royal, that anything of importance +occurred. The moment he entered +that bare and cloistral restaurant where Monsieur +Jules could dish up such startling uncloistral +dishes, his eyes fell on Abe Sheiner, +a drum snuffer with whom he had had previous +and somewhat painful encounters. Sheiner, it +was plain to see, was in clover, for he was breakfasting +regally, on squares of toast covered +with shrimp and picked crab meat creamed, +with a bisque of cray-fish and <i>papa-bottes</i> in +ribbons of bacon, to say nothing of fruit and +<i>bruilleau</i>.</p> +<p>Blake insisted on joining his old friend +Sheiner, much to the latter’s secret discomfiture. +It was obvious that the drum snuffer, having +made a recent haul, would be amenable to +persuasion. And, like all yeggs, he was an upholder +of the “moccasin telegraph,” a wanderer +and a carrier of stray tidings as to the movements +of others along the undergrooves of the +world. So while Blake breakfasted on shrimp +and crab meat and French artichokes stuffed +with caviar and anchovies, he intimated to the +uneasy-minded Sheiner certain knowledge as +to a certain recent coup. In the face of this +charge Sheiner indignantly claimed that he had +only been playing the ponies and having a run +of greenhorn’s luck.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_92">[92]</div> +<p>“Abe, I’ve come down to gather you in,” +announced the calmly mendacious detective. +He continued to sip his bruilleau with fraternal +unconcern.</p> +<p>“You got nothing <i>on</i> me, Jim,” protested the +other, losing his taste for the delicacies arrayed +about him.</p> +<p>“Well, we got ’o go down to Headquarters +and talk that over,” calmly persisted Blake.</p> +<p>“What’s the use of pounding me, when I’m +on the square again?” persisted the ex-drum +snuffer.</p> +<p>“That’s the line o’ talk they all hand out. +That’s what Connie Binhart said when we had +it out up in St. Louis.”</p> +<p>“Did you bump into Binhart in St. Louis?”</p> +<p>“We had a talk, three days ago.”</p> +<p>“Then why’d he blow through this town as +though he had a regiment o’ bulls and singed +cats behind him!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_93">[93]</div> +<p>Blake’s heart went down like an elevator with +a broken cable. But he gave no outward sign +of this inward commotion.</p> +<p>“Because he wants to get down to Colon before +the Hamburg-American boat hits the +port,” ventured Blake. “His moll’s aboard!”</p> +<p>“But he blew out for ’Frisco this morning,” +contended the puzzled Sheiner. “Shot through +as though he’d just had a rumble!”</p> +<p>“Oh, he <i>said</i> that, but he went south, all +right.”</p> +<p>“Then he went in an oyster sloop. There’s +nothing sailing from this port to-day.”</p> +<p>“Well, what’s Binhart got to do with our +trouble anyway? What I want—”</p> +<p>“But I saw him start,” persisted the other. +“He ducked for a day coach and said he was +traveling for his health. And he sure looked +like a man in a hurry!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_94">[94]</div> +<p>Blake sipped his bruilleau, glanced casually +at his watch, and took out a cigar and lighted +it. He blinked contentedly across the table at +the man he was “buzzing.” The trick had been +turned. The word had been given. He knew +that Binhart was headed westward again. He +also knew that Binhart had awakened to the +fact that he was being followed, that his feverish +movements were born of a stampeding fear +of capture.</p> +<p>Yet Binhart was not a coward. Flight, in +fact, was his only resource. It was only the +low-brow criminal, Blake knew, who ran for a +hole and hid in it until he was dragged out. +The more intellectual type of offender preferred +the open. And Binhart was of this +type. He was suave and artful; he was active +bodied and experienced in the ways of the +world. What counted still more, he was well +heeled with money. Just how much he had +planted away after the Newcomb coup no one +knew. But no one denied that it was a fortune. +It was ten to one that Binhart would +now try to get out of the country. He would +make his way to some territory without an extradition +treaty. He would look for a land +where he could live in peace, where his ill-gotten +wealth would make exile endurable.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_95">[95]</div> +<p>Blake, as he smoked his cigar and turned +these thoughts over in his mind, could afford +to smile. There would be no peace and no rest +for Connie Binhart; he himself would see to +that. And he would “get” his man; whether it +was in a week’s time or a month’s time, he would +“get” his man and take him back in triumph to +New York. He would show Copeland and the +Commissioner and the world in general that +there was still a little life in the old dog, +that there was still a haul or two he could +make.</p> +<p>So engrossing were these thoughts that +Blake scarcely heard the drum snuffer across +the table from him, protesting the innocence +of his ways and the purity of his intentions. +Then for the second time that morning Blake +completely bewildered him, by suddenly accepting +those protestations and agreeing to let +everything drop. It was necessary, of course, +to warn Sheiner, to exact a promise of better +living. But Blake’s interest in the man had +already departed. He dropped him from his +scheme of things, once he had yielded up his +data. He tossed him aside like a sucked +orange, a smoked cigar, a burnt-out match. +Binhart, in all the movements of all the stellar +system, was the one name and the one man +that interested him.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_96">[96]</div> +<p>Loony Sheiner was still sitting at that table +in Antoine’s when Blake, having wired his +messages to San Pedro and San Francisco, +caught the first train out of New Orleans. +As he sped across the face of the world, crawling +nearer and nearer the Pacific Coast, no +thought of the magnitude of that journey oppressed +him. His imagination remained untouched. +He neither fretted nor fumed at +the time this travel was taking. In spite of +the electric fans at each end of his Pullman, +it is true, he suffered greatly from the heat, +especially during the ride across the Arizona +Desert. He accepted it without complaint, +stolidly thanking his lucky stars that men +weren’t still traveling across America’s deserts +by ox-team. He was glad when he reached +the Colorado River and wound up into California, +leaving the alkali and sage brush and +yucca palms of the Mojave well behind him. +He was glad in his placid way when he reached +his hotel in San Francisco and washed the grit +and grime from his heat-nettled body.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_97">[97]</div> +<p>But once that body had been bathed and +fed, he started on his rounds of the underworld, +seined the entire harbor-front without +effect, and then set out his night-lines as cautiously +as a fisherman in forbidden waters. +He did not overlook the shipping offices and +railway stations, neither did he neglect the +hotels and ferries. Then he quietly lunched +at Martenelli’s with the much-honored but +most-uncomfortable Wolf Yonkholm, who +promptly suspended his “dip” operations at +the Beaches out of respect to Blake’s sudden +call.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_98">[98]</div> +<p>Nothing of moment, however, was learned +from the startled Wolf, and at Coppa’s six +hours later, Blake dined with a Chink-smuggler +named Goldie Hopper. Goldie, after +his fifth glass of wine and an adroit decoying +of the talk along the channels which most interested +his portly host, casually announced +that an Eastern crook named Blanchard had +got away, the day before, on the Pacific mail +steamer <i>Manchuria</i>. He was clean shaven +and traveled as a clergyman. That struck +Goldie as the height of humor, a bank sneak +having the nerve to deck himself out as a +gospel-spieler.</p> +<p>His elucidation of it, however, brought no +answering smile from the diffident-eyed Blake, +who confessed that he was rounding up a +couple of nickel-coiners and would be going +East in a day or two.</p> +<p>Instead of going East, however, he hurriedly +consulted maps and timetables, found a +train that would land him in Portland in +twenty-six hours, and started north. He +could eventually save time, he found, by hastening +on to Seattle and catching a Great +Northern steamer from that port. When a +hot-box held his train up for over half an hour, +Blake stood with his timepiece in his hand, +watching the train crew in their efforts to +“freeze the hub.” They continued to lose +time, during the night. At Seattle, when he +reached the Great Northern docks, he found +that his steamer had sailed two hours before +he stepped from his sleeper.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_99">[99]</div> +<p>His one remaining resource was a Canadian +Pacific steamer from Victoria. This, he figured +out, would get him to Hong Kong even +earlier than the steamer which he had already +missed. He had a hunch that Hong Kong +was the port he wanted. Just why, he could +not explain. But he felt sure that Binhart +would not drop off at Manila. Once on the +run, he would keep out of American quarters. +It was a gamble; it was a rough guess. But +then all life was that. And Blake had a +dogged and inarticulate faith in his “hunches.”</p> +<p>Crossing the Sound, he reached Victoria in +time to see the <i>Empress of China</i> under way, +and heading out to sea. Blake hired a tug +and overtook her. He reached the steamer’s +deck by means of a Jacob’s ladder that swung +along her side plates like a mason’s plumbline +along a factory wall.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_100">[100]</div> +<p>Binhart, he told himself, was by this time +in mid-Pacific, untold miles away, heading +for that vast and mysterious East into which +a man could so easily disappear. He was approaching +gloomy and tangled waterways that +threaded between islands which could not even +be counted. He was fleeing towards dark +rivers which led off through barbaric and +mysterious silence, into the heart of darkness. +He was drawing nearer and nearer to those +regions of mystery where a white man might +be swallowed up as easily as a rice grain is lost +in a shore lagoon. He would soon be in those +teeming alien cities as under-burrowed as a +gopher village.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_101">[101]</div> +<p>But Blake did not despair. Their whole +barbaric East, he told himself, was only a +Chinatown slum on a large scale. And he had +never yet seen the slum that remained forever +impervious to the right dragnet. He did not +know how or where the end would be. But +he knew there would be an end. He still +hugged to his bosom the placid conviction that +the world was small, that somewhere along the +frontiers of watchfulness the impact would be +recorded and the alarm would be given. A +man of Binhart’s type, with the money Binhart +had, would never divorce himself completely +from civilization. He would always +crave a white man’s world; he would always +hunger for what that world stood for and represented. +He would always creep back to it. +He might hide in his heathen burrow, for a +time; but there would be a limit to that exile. +A power stronger than his own will would +drive him back to his own land, back to civilization. +And civilization, to Blake, was merely +a rather large and rambling house equipped +with a rather efficient burglar-alarm system, +so that each time it was entered, early or late, +the tell-tale summons would eventually go to +the right quarter. And when the summons +came Blake would be waiting for it.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_102">[102]</div> +<h2 id="c7">VII</h2> +<p>It was by wireless that Blake made what efforts +he could to confirm his suspicions that +Binhart had not dropped off at any port of +call between San Francisco and Hong Kong. +In due time the reply came back to “Bishop +MacKishnie,” on board the westbound <i>Empress +of China</i> that the Reverend Caleb Simpson +had safely landed from the <i>Manchuria</i> at +Hong Kong, and was about to leave for the +mission field in the interior.</p> +<p>The so-called bishop, sitting in the wireless-room +of the <i>Empress of China</i>, with a lacerated +black cigar between his teeth, received this +much relayed message with mixed feelings. +He proceeded to send out three Secret Service +code-despatches to Shanghai, Amoy and Hong +Kong, which, being picked up by a German +cruiser, were worried over and argued over and +finally referred back to an intelligence bureau +for explanation.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_103">[103]</div> +<p>But at Yokohama, Blake hurried ashore in +a <i>sampan</i>, met an agent who seemed to be +awaiting him, and caught a train for Kobe. +He hurried on, indifferent to the beauties of +the country through which he wound, unimpressed +by the oddities of the civilization with +which he found himself confronted. His +mind, intent on one thing, seemed unable to +react to the stimuli of side-issues. From +Kobe he caught a <i>Toyo Kisen Kaisha</i> steamer +for Nagasaki and Shanghai. This steamer, +he found, lay over at the former port for thirteen +hours, so he shifted again to an outbound +boat headed for Woosung.</p> +<p>It was not until he was on the tender, making +the hour-long run from Woosung up the +Whangpoo to Shanghai itself, that he seemed +to emerge from his half-cataleptic indifference +to his environment. He began to realize +that he was at last in the Orient.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_104">[104]</div> +<p>As they wound up the river past sharp-nosed +and round-hooded sampans, and archaic +Chinese battle-ships and sea-going junks and +gunboats flying their unknown foreign flags, +Blake at last began to realize that he was in +a new world. The very air smelt exotic; the +very colors, the tints of the sails, the hues of +clothing, the forms of things, land and sky +itself—all were different. This depressed +him only vaguely. He was too intent on the +future, on the task before him, to give his +surroundings much thought.</p> +<p>Blake had entirely shaken off this vague +uneasiness, in fact, when twenty minutes after +landing he found himself in a red-brick hotel +known as The Astor, and guardedly shaking +hands with an incredulously thin and sallow-faced +man of about forty. Although this +man spoke with an English accent and exile +seemed to have foreigneered him in both appearance +and outlook, his knowledge of +America was active and intimate. He passed +over to the detective two despatches in cipher, +handed him a confidential list of Hong Kong +addresses, gave him certain information as to +Macao, and an hour later conducted him down +the river to the steamer which started that +night for Hong Kong.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_105">[105]</div> +<p>As Blake trod that steamer’s deck and +plowed on through strange seas, surrounded +by strange faces, intent on his strange chase, +no sense of vast adventure entered his soul. +No appreciation of a great hazard bewildered +his emotions. The kingdom of romance +dwells in the heart, in the heart roomy enough +to house it. And Blake’s heart was taken up +with more material things. He was preoccupied +with his new list of addresses, with his +new lines of procedure, with the men he must +interview and the dives and clubs and bazars +he must visit. He had his day’s work to do, +and he intended to do it.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_106">[106]</div> +<p>The result was that of Hong Kong he carried +away no immediate personal impression, +beyond a vague jumble, in the background of +consciousness, of Buddhist temples and British +red-jackets, of stately parks and granite +buildings, of mixed nationalities and native +theaters, of anchored warships and a floating +city of houseboats. For it was the same hour +that he landed in this orderly and strangely +English city that the discovery he was drawing +close to Binhart again swept clean the slate +of his emotions. The response had come +from a consulate secretary. One wire in all +his sentinel network had proved a live one. +Binhart was not in Hong Kong, but he had +been seen in Macao; he was known to be still +there. And beyond that there was little that +Never-Fail Blake cared to know.</p> +<p>His one side-movement in Hong Kong was +to purchase an American revolver, for it began +to percolate even through his indurated +sensibilities that he was at last in a land where +his name might not be sufficiently respected +and his office sufficiently honored. For the +first time in seven long years he packed a gun, +he condescended to go heeled. Yet no minutest +tingle of excitement spread through his +lethargic body as he examined this gun, carefully +loaded it, and stowed it away in his +wallet-pocket. It meant no more to him than +the stowing away of a sandwich against the +emergency of a possible lost meal.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_107">[107]</div> +<h2 id="c8">VIII</h2> +<p>By the time he was on the noon boat that +left for Macao, Blake had quite forgotten +about the revolver. As he steamed southward +over smooth seas, threading a way +through boulder-strewn islands and skirting +mountainous cliffs, his movements seemed to +take on a sense of finality. He stood at the +rail, watching the hazy blue islands, the forests +of fishing-boats and high-pooped junks +floating lazily at anchor, the indolent figures +which he could catch glimpses of on deck, the +green waters of the China Sea. He watched +them with intent, yet abstracted, eyes. Some +echo of the witchery of those Eastern waters +at times penetrated his own preoccupied soul. +A vague sense of his remoteness from his old +life at last crept in to him.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_108">[108]</div> +<p>He thought of the watching green lights +that were flaring up, dusk by dusk, in the +shrill New York night, the lamps of the precinct +stations, the lamps of Headquarters, +where the great building was full of moving +feet and shifting faces, where telephones were +ringing and detectives were coming and going, +and policemen in uniform were passing up and +down the great stone steps, clean-cut, ruddy-faced, +strong-limbed policemen, talking and +laughing as they started out on their night details. +He could follow them as they went, +those confident-striding “flatties” with their +ash night-sticks at their side, soldiers without +bugles or banner, going out to do the goodly +tasks of the Law, soldiers of whom he was +once the leader, the pride, the man to whom +they pointed as the Vidoc of America.</p> +<p>And he would go back to them as great as +ever. He would again compel their admiration. +The newspaper boys would again come +filing into his office and shake hands with him +and smoke his cigars and ask how much he +could tell them about his last haul. And he +would recount to them how he shadowed Binhart +half way round the world, and gathered +him in, and brought him back to Justice.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_109">[109]</div> +<p>It was three o’clock in the afternoon when +Blake’s steamer drew near Macao. Against +a background of dim blue hills he could make +out the green and blue and white of the houses +in the Portuguese quarters, guarded on one +side by a lighthouse and on the other by a +stolid square fort. Swinging around a sharp +point, the boat entered the inner harbor, +crowded with Chinese craft and coasters and +dingy tramps of the sea.</p> +<p>Blake seemed in no hurry to disembark. +The sampan into which he stepped, in fact, +did not creep up to the shore until evening. +There, ignoring the rickshaw coolies who +awaited him as he passed an obnoxiously officious +trio of customs officers, he disappeared +up one of the narrow and slippery side streets +of the Chinese quarter.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_110">[110]</div> +<p>He followed this street for some distance, +assailed by the smell of its mud and rotting +sewerage, twisting and turning deeper into the +darkness, past dogs and chattering coolies and +oil lamps and gaming-house doors. Into one +of these gaming houses he turned, passing +through the blackwood sliding door and climbing +the narrow stairway to the floor above. +There, from a small quadrangular gallery, he +could look down on the “well” of the fan-tan +lay out below.</p> +<p>He made his way to a seat at the rail, took +out a cigar, lighted it, and let his veiled gaze +wander about the place, point by point, until +he had inspected and weighed and appraised +every man in the building. He continued to +smoke, listlessly, like a sightseer with time on +his hands and in no mood for movement. The +brim of his black boulder shadowed his eyes. +His thumbs rested carelessly in the arm-holes +of his waistcoat. He lounged back torpidly, +listening to the drone and clatter of voices below, +lazily inspecting each newcomer, pretending +to drop off into a doze of ennui. But all +the while he was most acutely awake.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_111">[111]</div> +<p>For somewhere in that gathering, he knew, +there was a messenger awaiting him. +Whether he was English or Portuguese, white +or yellow, Blake could not say. But from +some one there some word or signal was to come.</p> +<p>He peered down at the few white men in +the pit below. He watched the man at the +head of the carved blackwood table, beside his +heap of brass “cash,” watched him again and +again as he took up his handful of coins, covered +them with a brass hat while the betting +began, removed the hat, and seemed to be +dividing the pile, with the wand in his hand, +into fours. The last number of the last four, +apparently, was the object of the wagers.</p> +<p>Blake could not understand the game. It +puzzled him, just as the yellow men so stoically +playing it puzzled him, just as the entire +country puzzled him. Yet, obtuse as he was, +he felt the gulf of centuries that divided the +two races. These yellow men about him +seemed as far away from his humanity, as detached +from his manner of life and thought, +as were the animals he sometimes stared at +through the bars of the Bronx Zoo cages.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_112">[112]</div> +<p>A white man would have to be pretty far +gone, Blake decided, to fall into their ways, +to be satisfied with the life of those yellow +men. He would have to be a terrible failure, +or he would have to be hounded by a terrible +fear, to live out his life so far away from his +own kind. And he felt now that Binhart +could never do it, that a life sentence there +would be worse than a life sentence to “stir.” +So he took another cigar, lighted it, and sat +back watching the faces about him.</p> +<p>For no apparent reason, and at no decipherable +sign, one of the yellow faces across the +smoke-filled room detached itself from its fellows. +This face showed no curiosity, no +haste. Blake watched it as it calmly approached +him. He watched until he felt a +finger against his arm.</p> +<p>“You clum b’long me,” was the enigmatic +message uttered in the detective’s ear.</p> +<p>“Why should I go along with you?” Blake +calmly inquired.</p> +<p>“You clum b’long me,” reiterated the +Chinaman. The finger again touched the detective’s +arm. “Clismas!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_113">[113]</div> +<p>Blake rose, at once. He recognized the +code word of “Christmas.” This was the +messenger he had been awaiting.</p> +<p>He followed the figure down the narrow +stairway, through the sliding door, out into +the many-odored street, foul with refuse, bisected +by its open sewer of filth, took a turning +into a still narrower street, climbed a precipitous +hill cobbled with stone, turned still +again, always overshadowed and hemmed in +by tall houses close together, with black-beamed +lattice doors through which he could +catch glimpses of gloomy interiors. He +turned again down a wooden-walled hallway +that reminded him of a Mott Street burrow. +When the Chinaman touched him on the sleeve +he came to a stop.</p> +<p>His guide was pointing to a closed door in +front of them.</p> +<p>“You sabby?” he demanded.</p> +<p>Blake hesitated. He had no idea of what +was behind that door, but he gathered from +the Chinaman’s motion that he was to enter. +Before he could turn to make further inquiry +the Chinaman had slipped away like a shadow.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_114">[114]</div> +<h2 id="c9">IX</h2> +<p>Blake stood regarding the door. Then +he lifted his revolver from his breast +pocket and dropped it into his side pocket, +with his hand on the butt. Then with his left +hand he quietly opened the door, pushed it +back, and as quietly stepped into the room.</p> +<p>On the floor, in the center of a square of +orange-colored matting, he saw a white +woman sitting. She was drinking tea out of +an egg-shell of a cup, and after putting down +the cup she would carefully massage her lips +with the point of her little finger. This movement +puzzled the newcomer until he suddenly +realized that it was merely to redistribute the +rouge on them.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_115">[115]</div> +<p>She was dressed in a silk petticoat of almost +lemon yellow and an azure-colored silk bodice +that left her arms and shoulders bare to the +light that played on them from three small +oil lamps above her. Her feet and ankles +were also bare, except for the matting sandals +into which her toes were thrust. On one thin +arm glimmered an extraordinarily heavy +bracelet of gold. Her skin, which was very +white, was further albificated by a coat of rice +powder. She was startlingly slight. Blake, +as he watched her, could see the oval shadows +under her collar bones and the almost girlish +meagerness of breast half-covered by the azure +silk bodice.</p> +<p>She looked up slowly as Blake stepped into +the room. Her eyes widened, and she continued +to look, with parted lips, as she +contemplated the intruder’s heavy figure. +There was no touch of fear on her face. It +was more curiosity, the wilful, wide-eyed +curiosity of the child. She even laughed a +little as she stared at the intruder. Her +rouged lips were tinted a carmine so bright +that they looked like a wound across her white +face. That gash of color became almost +clown-like as it crescented upward with its +wayward mirth. Her eyebrows were heavily +penciled and the lids of the eyes elongated by +a widening point of blue paint. Her bare +heel, which she caressed from time to time with +fingers whereon the nails were stained pink +with henna, was small and clean cut, as clean +cut, Blake noticed, as the heel of a razor, while +the white calf above it was as thin and flat as +a boy’s.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_116">[116]</div> +<p>“Hello, New York,” she said with her +foolish and inconsequential little laugh. Her +voice took on an oddly exotic intonation, as +she spoke. Her teeth were small and white; +they reminded Blake of rice, while she repeated +the “New York,” bubblingly, as though +she were a child with a newly learned word.</p> +<p>“Hello!” responded the detective, wondering +how or where to begin. She made him +think of a painted marionette, so maintained +were her poses, so unreal was her make up.</p> +<p>“You’re the party who’s on the man hunt,” +she announced.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_117">[117]</div> +<p>“Am I?” equivocated Blake. She had risen +to her feet by this time, with monkey-like +agility, and showed herself to be much taller +than he had imagined. He noticed a knife +scar on her forearm.</p> +<p>“You’re after this man called Binhart,” she +declared.</p> +<p>“Oh, no, I’m not,” was Blake’s sagacious +response. “I don’t want Binhart!”</p> +<p>“Then what do you want?”</p> +<p>“I want the money he’s got.”</p> +<p>The little painted face grew serious; then +it became veiled.</p> +<p>“How much money has he?”</p> +<p>“That’s what I want to find out!”</p> +<p>She squatted ruminatively down on the edge +of her divan. It was low and wide and covered +with orange-colored silk.</p> +<p>“Then you’ll have to find Binhart!” was +her next announcement.</p> +<p>“Maybe!” acknowledged Blake.</p> +<p>“I can show you where he is!”</p> +<p>“All right,” was the unperturbed response. +The blue-painted eyes were studying him.</p> +<p>“It will be worth four thousand pounds, in +English gold,” she announced.</p> +<p>Blake took a step or two nearer her.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_118">[118]</div> +<p>“Is that the message Ottenheim told you to +give me?” he demanded. His face was red +with anger.</p> +<p>“Then three thousand pounds,” she calmly +suggested, wriggling her toes into a fallen +sandal.</p> +<p>Blake did not deign to speak. His inarticulate +grunt was one of disgust.</p> +<p>“Then a thousand, in gold,” she coyly intimated. +She twisted about to pull the strap +of her bodice up over her white shoulder-blades. +“Or I will kill him for you for two +thousand pounds in gold!”</p> +<p>Her eyes were as tranquil as a child’s. +Blake remembered that he was in a world not +his own.</p> +<p>“Why should I want him killed?” he inquired. +He looked about for some place to +sit. There was not a chair in the room.</p> +<p>“Because he intends to kill <i>you</i>,” answered +the woman, squatting on the orange-covered +divan.</p> +<p>“I wish he’d come and try,” Blake devoutly +retorted.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_119">[119]</div> +<p>“He will not come,” she told him. “It will +be done from the dark. <i>I</i> could have done it. +But Ottenheim said no.”</p> +<p>“And Ottenheim said you were to work with +me in this,” declared Blake, putting two and +two together.</p> +<p>The woman shrugged a white shoulder.</p> +<p>“Have you any money?” she asked. She +put the question with the artlessness of a child.</p> +<p>“Mighty little,” retorted Blake, still studying +the woman from where he stood. He was +wondering if Ottenheim had the same hold on +her that the authorities had on Ottenheim, the +ex-forger who enjoyed his parole only on condition +that he remain a stool-pigeon of the +high seas. He pondered what force he could +bring to bear on her, what power could squeeze +from those carmine and childish lips the information +he must have.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_120">[120]</div> +<p>He knew that he could break that slim body +of hers across his knee. But he also knew +that he had no way of crushing out of it the +truth he sought, the truth he must in some way +obtain. The woman still squatted on the +divan, peering down at the knife scar on her +arm from time to time, studying it, as though +it were an inscription.</p> +<p>Blake was still watching the woman when +the door behind him was slowly opened; a head +was thrust in, and as quietly withdrawn again. +Blake dropped his right hand to his coat +pocket and moved further along the wall, +facing the woman. There was nothing of +which he stood afraid: he merely wished to be +on the safe side.</p> +<p>“Well, what word’ll I take back to Ottenheim?” +he demanded.</p> +<p>The woman grew serious. Then she +showed her rice-like row of teeth as she +laughed.</p> +<p>“That means there’s nothing in it for me,” +she complained with pouting-lipped moroseness. +Her venality, he began to see, was +merely the instinctive acquisitiveness of the +savage, the greed of the petted child.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_121">[121]</div> +<p>“No more than there is for me,” Blake +acknowledged. She turned and caught up a +heavily flowered mandarin coat of plaited +cream and gold. She was thrusting one arm +into it when a figure drifted into the room +from the matting-hung doorway on Blake’s +left. As she saw this figure she suddenly +flung off the coat and stooped to the tea tray +in the middle of the floor.</p> +<p>Blake saw that the newcomer was a Chinaman. +This newcomer, he also saw, ignored +him as though he were a door post, confronting +the woman and assailing her with a quick +volley of words, of incomprehensible words in +the native tongue. She answered with the +same clutter and clack of unknown syllables, +growing more and more excited as the dialogue +continued. Her thin face darkened and +changed, her white arms gyrated, the fires of +anger burned in the baby-like eyes. She +seemed expostulating, arguing, denouncing, +and each wordy sally was met by an equally +wordy sally from the Chinaman. She challenged +and rebuked with her passionately +pointed finger; she threatened with angry +eyes; she stormed after the newcomer as he +passed like a shadow out of the room; she met +him with a renewed storm when he returned a +moment later.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_122">[122]</div> +<p>The Chinaman now stood watching her, impassive +and immobile, as though he had taken +his stand and intended to stick to it. Blake +studied him with calm and patient eyes. That +huge-limbed detective in his day had +“pounded” too many Christy Street Chinks +to be in any way intimidated by a queue and +a yellow face. He was not disturbed. He +was merely puzzled.</p> +<p>Then the woman turned to the mandarin +coat, and caught it up, shook it out, and for +one brief moment stood thoughtfully regarding +it. Then she suddenly turned about on +the Chinaman.</p> +<p>Blake, as he stood watching that renewed +angry onslaught, paid little attention to the +actual words that she was calling out. But as +he stood there he began to realize that she was +not speaking in Chinese, but in English.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_123">[123]</div> +<p>“Do you hear me, white man? Do you hear +me?” she cried out, over and over again. Yet +the words seemed foolish, for all the time as +she uttered them, she was facing the placid-eyed +Chinaman and gesticulating in his face.</p> +<p>“Don’t you see,” Blake at last heard her +crying, “he doesn’t know what I’m saying! +He doesn’t understand a word of English!” +And then, and then only, it dawned on Blake +that every word the woman was uttering +was intended for his own ears. She was +warning him, and all the while pretending +that her words were the impetuous words of +anger.</p> +<p>“Watch this man!” he heard her cry. +“Don’t let him know you’re listening. But +remember what I say, remember it. And God +help you if you haven’t got a gun.”</p> +<p>Blake could see her, as in a dream, assailing +the Chinaman with her gestures, advancing on +him, threatening him, expostulating with him, +but all in pantomime. There was something +absurd about it, as absurd as a moving-picture +film which carries the wrong text.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_124">[124]</div> +<p>“He’ll pretend to take you to the man you +want,” the woman was panting. “That’s +what he will say. But it’s a lie. He’ll take +you out to a sampan, to put you aboard Binhart’s +boat. But the three of them will cut +your throat, cut your throat, and then drop +you overboard. He’s to get so much in gold. +Get out of here with him. Let him think +you’re going. But drop away, somewhere, +before you get to the beach. And watch +them all the way.”</p> +<p>Blake stared at the immobile Chinaman, as +though to make sure that the other man had +not understood. He was still staring at that +impassive yellow face, he was still absorbing +the shock of his news, when the outer door +opened and a second Chinaman stepped into +the room. The newcomer cluttered a quick +sentence or two to his countryman, and was +still talking when a third figure sidled in.</p> +<p>Those spoken words, whatever they were, +seemed to have little effect on any one in the +room except the woman. She suddenly +sprang about and exploded into an angry +shower of denials.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_125">[125]</div> +<p>“It’s a lie!” she cried in English, storming +about the impassive trio. “You never heard +me peach! You never heard me say a word! +It’s a lie!”</p> +<p>Blake strode to the middle of the room, +towering above the other figures, dwarfing +them by his great bulk, as assured of his mastery +as he would have been in a Chatham +Square gang fight.</p> +<p>“What’s the row here?” he thundered, +knowing from the past that power promptly +won its own respect. “What’re you talking +about, you two?” He turned from one intruder +to another. “And you? And you? +What do you want, anyway?”</p> +<p>The three contending figures, however, ignored +him as though he were a tobacconist’s +dummy. They went on with their exotic +cackle, as though he was no longer in their +midst. They did not so much as turn an eye +in his direction. And still Blake felt reasonably +sure of his position.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_126">[126]</div> +<p>It was not until the woman squeaked, like a +frightened mouse, and ran whimpering into +the corner of the room, that he realized what +was happening. He was not familiar with +the wrist movement by which the smallest +bodied of the three men was producing a knife +from his sleeve. The woman, however, had +understood from the first.</p> +<p>“White man, look out!” she half sobbed +from her corner. “Oh, white man!” she repeated +in a shriller note as the Chinaman, +bending low, scuttled across the room to the +corner where she cowered.</p> +<p>Blake saw the knife by this time. It was +thin and long, for all the world like an icicle, +a shaft of cutting steel ground incredibly thin, +so thin, in fact, that at first sight it looked +more like a point for stabbing than a blade for +cutting.</p> +<p>The mere glitter of that knife electrified the +staring white man into sudden action. He +swung about and tried to catch at the arm that +held the steel icicle. He was too late for that, +but his fingers closed on the braided queue. +By means of this queue he brought the Chinaman +up short, swinging him sharply about so +that he collided flat faced with the room +wall.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_127">[127]</div> +<p>Then, for the first time, Blake grew into a +comprehension of what surrounded him. He +wheeled about, stooped and caught up the +papier-mâché tea-tray from the floor and once +more stood with his back to the wall. He +stood there, on guard, for a second figure with +a second steel icicle was sidling up to him. He +swung viciously out and brought the tea-tray +down on the hand that held this knife, crippling +the fingers and sending the steel spinning +across the room. Then with his free hand +he tugged the revolver from his coat pocket, +holding it by the barrel and bringing the metal +butt down on the queue-wound head of the +third man, who had no knife, but was struggling +with the woman for the metal icicle she +had caught up from the floor.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_128">[128]</div> +<p>Then the five seemed to close in together, +and the fight became general. It became a +mêlée. With his swinging right arm Blake +battered and pounded with his revolver butt. +With his left hand he made cutting strokes +with the heavy papier-mâché tea-tray, keeping +their steel, by those fierce sweeps, away +from his body. One Chinaman he sent +sprawling, leaving him huddled and motionless +against the orange-covered divan. The +second, stunned by a blow of the tea-tray +across the eyes, could offer no resistance when +Blake’s smashing right dealt its blow, the +metal gun butt falling like a trip hammer on +the shaved and polished skull.</p> +<p>As the white man swung about he saw the +third Chinaman with his hand on the woman’s +throat, holding her flat against the wall, placing +her there as a butcher might place a fowl +on his block ready for the blow of his carver. +Blake stared at the movement, panting for +breath, overcome by that momentary indifference +wherein a winded athlete permits without +protest an adversary to gain his momentary +advantage. Then will triumphed over the +weakness of the body. But before Blake +could get to the woman’s side he saw the Chinaman’s +loose-sleeved right hand slowly and deliberately +ascend. As it reached the meridian +of its circular upsweep he could see the woman +rise on her toes, rise as though with some quick +effort, yet some effort which Blake could not +understand.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_129">[129]</div> +<p>At the same moment that she did so a look +of pained expostulation crept into the staring +slant eyes on a level with her own. The yellow +jaw gaped, filled with blood, and the +poised knife fell at his side, sticking point +down in the flooring. The azure and lemon-yellow +that covered the woman’s body flamed +into sudden scarlet. It was only as the figure +with the expostulating yellow face sank to the +ground, crumpling up on itself as it fell, that +Blake comprehended. That quick sweep of +scarlet, effacing the azure and lemon, had +come from the sudden deluge of blood that +burst over the woman’s body. She had made +use of the upstroke, Mexican style. Her +knife had cut the full length of the man’s abdominal +cavity, clean and straight to the +breastbone. He had been ripped up like a +herring.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_130">[130]</div> +<p>Blake panted and wheezed, not at the sight +of the blood, but at the exertion to which his +flabby muscles had been put. His body was +moist with sweat. His asthmatic throat +seemed stifling his lungs. A faint nausea +crept through him, a dim ventral revolt at the +thought that such things could take place so +easily, and with so little warning.</p> +<p>His breast still heaved and panted and he +was still fighting for breath when he saw the +woman stoop and wipe the knife on one of the +fallen Chinaman’s sleeves.</p> +<p>“We’ve got to get out of here!” she whimpered, +as she caught up the mandarin coat and +flung it over her shoulders, for in the struggle +her body had been bared almost to the waist. +Blake saw the crimson that dripped on her +matting slippers and maculated the cream +white of the mandarin coat.</p> +<p>“But where’s Binhart?” he demanded, as +he looked stolidly about for his black boulder.</p> +<p>“Never mind Binhart,” she cried, touching +the eviscerated body at her feet with one slipper +toe, “or we’ll get what <i>he</i> got!”</p> +<p>“I want that man Binhart!” persisted the +detective.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_131">[131]</div> +<p>“Not here! Not here!” she cried, folding +the loose folds of the cloak closer about her +body.</p> +<p>She ran to the matting curtain, looked out, +and called back, “Quick! Come quick!” +Then she ran back, slipped the bolt in the +outer door and rejoined the waiting detective.</p> +<p>“Oh, white man!” she gasped, as the matting +fell between them and the room incarnadined +by their struggle. Blake was not sure, +but he thought he heard her giggle, hysterically, +in the darkness. They were groping +their way along a narrow passage. They +slipped through a second door, closed and +locked it after them, and once more groped +on through the darkness.</p> +<p>How many turns they took, Blake could +not remember. She stopped and whispered +to him to go softly, as they came to a stairway, +as steep and dark as a cistern. Blake, at the +top, could smell opium smoke, and once or +twice he thought he heard voices. The woman +stopped him, with outstretched arms, at the +stair head, and together they stood and +listened.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_132">[132]</div> +<p>Blake, with nerves taut, waited for some +sign from her to go on again. He thought she +was giving it, when he felt a hand caress his +side. He felt it move upward, exploringly. +At the same time that he heard her little groan +of alarm he knew that the hand was not hers.</p> +<p>He could not tell what the darkness held, +but his movement was almost instinctive. He +swung out with his great arm, countered on +the crouching form in front of him, caught at +a writhing shoulder, and tightening his grip, +sent the body catapulting down the stairway +at his side. He could hear a revolver go off +as the body went tumbling and rolling down—Blake +knew that it was a gun not his own.</p> +<p>“Come on, white man!” the girl in front of +him was crying, as she tugged at his coat. +And they went on, now at a run, taking a turn +to the right, making a second descent, and +then another to the left. They came to still +another door, which they locked behind them. +Then they scrambled up a ladder, and he could +hear her quick hands padding about in the +dark. A moment later she had thrust up a +hatch. He saw it led to the open air, for the +stars were above them.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_133">[133]</div> +<p>He felt grateful for that open air, for the +coolness, for the sense of deliverance which +came with even that comparative freedom.</p> +<p>“Don’t stop!” she whispered. And he followed +her across the slant of the uneven roof. +He was weak for want of breath. The girl +had to catch him and hold him for a moment.</p> +<p>“On the next roof you must take off your +shoes,” she warned him. “You can rest then. +But hurry—hurry!”</p> +<p>He gulped down the fresh air as he tore at +his shoe laces, thrusting each shoe in a side +pocket as he started after her. For by this +time she was scrambling across the broken +sloping roofs, as quick and agile as a cat, dropping +over ledges, climbing up barriers and +across coping tiles. Where she was leading +him he had no remotest idea. She reminded +him of a cream-tinted monkey in the maddest +of steeplechases. He was glad when she came +to a stop.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_134">[134]</div> +<p>The town seemed to lay to their right. Before +them were the scattered lights of the harbor +and the mild crescent of the outer bay. +They could see the white wheeling finger of +some foreign gunboat as its searchlight played +back and forth in the darkness.</p> +<p>She sighed with weariness and dropped +cross-legged down on the coping tiles against +which he leaned, regaining his breath. She +squatted there, cooingly, like a child exhausted +with its evening games.</p> +<p>“I’m dished!” she murmured, as she sat +there breathing audibly through the darkness. +“I’m dished for this coast!”</p> +<p>He sat down beside her, staring at the searchlight. +There seemed something reassuring, +something authoritative and comforting, in the +thought of it watching there in the darkness.</p> +<p>The girl touched him on the knee and then +shifted her position on the coping tiles, without +rising to her feet.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_135">[135]</div> +<p>“Come here!” she commanded. And when +he was close beside her she pointed with her +thin white arm. “That’s Saint Poalo there—you +can just make it out, up high, see. And +those lights are the Boundary Gate. And this +sweep of lights below here is the <i>Praya</i>. Now +look where I’m pointing. That’s the Luiz +Camoes lodging-house. You see the second +window with the light in it?”</p> +<p>“Yes, I see it.”</p> +<p>“Well, Binhart’s inside that window.”</p> +<p>“You know it?”</p> +<p>“I know it.”</p> +<p>“So he’s there?” said Blake, staring at the +vague square of light.</p> +<p>“Yes, he’s there, all right. He’s posing +as a buyer for a tea house, and calls himself +Bradley. Lee Fu told me; and Lee Fu is always +right.”</p> +<p>She stood up and pulled the mandarin coat +closer about her thin body. The coolness of +the night air had already chilled her. Then +she squinted carefully about in the darkness.</p> +<p>“What are you going to do?” she asked.</p> +<p>“I’m going to get Binhart,” was Blake’s answer.</p> +<p>He could hear her little childlike murmur of +laughter.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_136">[136]</div> +<p>“You’re brave, white man,” she said, with +a hand on his arm. She was silent for a moment, +before she added: “And I think you’ll +get him.”</p> +<p>“Of course I’ll get him,” retorted Blake, +buttoning his coat. The fires had been relighted +on the cold hearth of his resolution. +It came to him only as an accidental afterthought +that he had met an unknown woman +and had passed through strange adventures +with her and was now about to pass out of her +life again, forever.</p> +<p>“What’ll you do?” he asked.</p> +<p>Again he heard the careless little laugh.</p> +<p>“Oh, I’ll slip down through the Quarter and +cop some clothes somewhere. Then I’ll have +a sampan take me out to the German boat. +It’ll start for Canton at daylight.”</p> +<p>“And then?” asked Blake, watching the window +of the Luiz Camoes lodging-house below +him.</p> +<p>“Then I’ll work my way up to Port Arthur, +I suppose. There’s a navy man there who’ll +help me!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_137">[137]</div> +<p>“Haven’t you any money?” Blake put the +question a little uneasily.</p> +<p>Again he felt the careless coo of laughter.</p> +<p>“Feel!” she said. She caught his huge hand +between hers and pressed it against her waist +line. She rubbed his fingers along what he +accepted as a tightly packed coin-belt. He +was relieved to think that he would not have +to offer her money. Then he peered over the +coping tiles to make sure of his means of descent.</p> +<p>“You had better go first,” she said, as she +leaned out and looked down at his side. “Crawl +down this next roof to the end there. At the +corner, see, is the end of the ladder.”</p> +<p>He stooped and slipped his feet into his +shoes. Then he let himself cautiously down to +the adjoining roof, steeper even than the +one on which they had stood. She bent +low over the tiles, so that her face was very +close to his as he found his footing and stood +there.</p> +<p>“Good-by, white man,” she whispered.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_138">[138]</div> +<p>“Good-by!” he whispered back, as he worked +his way cautiously and ponderously along that +perilous slope.</p> +<p>She leaned there, watching him as he gained +the ladder-end. He did not look back as he +lowered himself, rung by rung. All thought +of her, in fact, had passed from his preoccupied +mind. He was once more intent on his own +grim ends. He was debating with himself just +how he was to get in through that lodging-house +window and what his final move would be +for the round up of his enemy. He had made +use of too many “molls” in his time to waste +useless thought on what they might say or do or +desire. When he had got Binhart, he remembered, +he would have to look about for something +to eat, for he was as hungry as a wolf. +And he did not even hear the girl’s second soft +whisper of “Good-by.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_139">[139]</div> +<h2 id="c10">X</h2> +<p>That stolid practicality which had made +Blake a successful operative asserted +itself in the matter of his approach to the Luiz +Camoes house, the house which had been +pointed out to him as holding Binhart.</p> +<p>He circled promptly about to the front of +that house, pressed a gold coin in the hand of +the half-caste Portuguese servant who opened +the door, and asked to be shown to the room +of the English tea merchant.</p> +<p>That servant, had he objected, would have +been promptly taken possession of by the detective, +and as promptly put in a condition +where he could do no harm, for Blake felt that +he was too near the end of his trail to be put +off by any mere side issue. But the coin and +the curt explanation that the merchant must be +seen at once admitted Blake to the house.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_140">[140]</div> +<p>The servant was leading him down the length +of the half-lit hall when Blake caught him by +the sleeve.</p> +<p>“You tell my rickshaw boy to wait! Quick, +before he gets away!”</p> +<p>Blake knew that the last door would be the +one leading to Binhart’s room. The moment +he was alone in the hall he tiptoed to this door +and pressed an ear against its panel. Then +with his left hand, he slowly turned the knob, +caressing it with his fingers that it might not +click when the latch was released. As he had +feared, it was locked.</p> +<p>He stood for a second or two, thinking. +Then with the knuckle of one finger he tapped +on the door, lightly, almost timidly.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_141">[141]</div> +<p>A man’s voice from within cried out, “Wait +a minute! Wait a minute!” But Blake, who +had been examining the woodwork of the door-frame, +did not choose to wait a minute. Any +such wait, he felt, would involve too much risk. +In one minute, he knew, a fugitive could either +be off and away, or could at least prepare himself +for any one intercepting that flight. So +Blake took two quick steps back, and brought +his massive shoulder against the door. It +swung back, as though nothing more than a +parlor match had held it shut. Blake, as he +stepped into the room, dropped his right hand +to his coat pocket.</p> +<p>Facing him, at the far side of the room, he +saw Binhart.</p> +<p>The fugitive sat in a short-legged reed chair, +with a grip-sack open on his knees. His coat +and vest were off, and the light from the oil +lamp at his side made his linen shirt a blotch +of white.</p> +<p>He had thrown his head up, at the sound of +the opening door, and he still sat, leaning forward +in the low chair in an attitude of startled +expectancy. There was no outward and apparent +change on his face as his eyes fell on +Blake’s figure. He showed neither fear nor +bewilderment. His career had equipped him +with histrionic powers that were exceptional. +As a bank-sneak and confidence-man he had +long since learned perfect control of his features, +perfect composure even under the most +discomforting circumstances.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_142">[142]</div> +<p>“Hello, Connie!” said the detective facing +him. He spoke quietly, and his attitude +seemed one of unconcern. Yet a careful observer +might have noticed that the pulse of his +beefy neck was beating faster than usual. And +over that great body, under its clothing, were +rippling tremors strangely like those that shake +the body of a leashed bulldog at the sight of a +street cat.</p> +<p>“Hello, Jim!” answered Binhart, with equal +composure. He had aged since Blake had last +seen him, aged incredibly. His face was thin +now, with plum-colored circles under the faded +eyes.</p> +<p>He made a move as though to lift down the +valise that rested on his knees. But Blake +stopped him with a sharp movement of his +right hand.</p> +<p>“That’s all right,” he said. “Don’t get +up!”</p> +<p>Binhart eyed him. During that few seconds +of silent tableau each man was appraising, +weighing, estimating the strength of the other.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_143">[143]</div> +<p>“What do you want, Jim?” asked Binhart, +almost querulously.</p> +<p>“I want that gun you’ve got up there under +your liver pad,” was Blake’s impassive answer.</p> +<p>“Is that all?” asked Binhart. But he made +no move to produce the gun.</p> +<p>“Then I want you,” calmly announced +Blake.</p> +<p>A look of gentle expostulation crept over +Binhart’s gaunt face.</p> +<p>“You can’t do it, Jim,” he announced. “You +can’t take me away from here.”</p> +<p>“But I’m going to,” retorted Blake.</p> +<p>“How?”</p> +<p>“I’m just going to take you.”</p> +<p>He crossed the room as he spoke.</p> +<p>“Give me the gun,” he commanded.</p> +<p>Binhart still sat in the low reed chair. He +made no movement in response to Blake’s command.</p> +<p>“What’s the good of getting rough-house,” +he complained.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_144">[144]</div> +<p>“Gi’ me the gun,” repeated Blake.</p> +<p>“Jim, I hate to see you act this way,” but +as Binhart spoke he slowly drew the revolver +from its flapped pocket. Blake’s revolver barrel +was touching the white shirt-front as the +movement was made. It remained there until +he had possession of Binhart’s gun. Then he +backed away, putting his own revolver back in +his pocket.</p> +<p>“Now, get your clothes on,” commanded +Blake.</p> +<p>“What for?” temporized Binhart.</p> +<p>“You’re coming with me!”</p> +<p>“You can’t do it, Jim,” persisted the other. +“You couldn’t get me down to the water-front, +in this town. They’d get you before +you were two hundred yards away from that +door.”</p> +<p>“I’ll risk it,” announced the detective.</p> +<p>“And I’d fight you myself, every move. +This ain’t Manhattan Borough, you know, +Jim; you can’t kidnap a white man. I’d have +you in irons for abduction the first ship we +struck. And at the first port of call I’d have +the best law sharps money could get. You +can’t do it, Jim. It ain’t law!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_145">[145]</div> +<p>“What t’ hell do I care for law,” was Blake’s +retort. “I want you and you’re going to come +with me.”</p> +<p>“Where am I going?”</p> +<p>“Back to New York.”</p> +<p>Binhart laughed. It was a laugh without +any mirth in it.</p> +<p>“Jim, you’re foolish. You couldn’t get +me back to New York alive, any more than you +could take Victoria Peak to New York!”</p> +<p>“All right, then, I’ll take you along the +other way, if I ain’t going to take you alive. +I’ve followed you a good many thousand +miles, Connie, and a little loose talk ain’t going +to make me lie down at this stage of the +game.”</p> +<p>Binhart sat studying the other man for a +moment or two.</p> +<p>“Then how about a little real talk, the kind +of talk that money makes?”</p> +<p>“Nothing doing!” declared Blake, folding his +arms.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_146">[146]</div> +<p>Binhart flickered a glance at him as he +thrust his own right hand down into the hand-bag +on his knees.</p> +<p>“I want to show you what you could get out +of this,” he said, leaning forward a little as he +looked up at Blake.</p> +<p>When his exploring right hand was lifted +again above the top of the bag Blake firmly +expected to see papers of some sort between +its fingers. He was astonished to see something +metallic, something which glittered +bright in the light from the wall lamp. The +record of this discovery had scarcely been carried +back to his brain, when the silence of the +room seemed to explode into a white sting, a +puff of noise that felt like a whip lash curling +about Blake’s leg. It seemed to roll off in a +shifting and drifting cloud of smoke.</p> +<p>It so amazed Blake that he fell back against +the wall, trying to comprehend it, to decipher +the source and meaning of it all. He was still +huddled back against the wall when a second +surprise came to him. It was the discovery +that Binhart had caught up a hat and a coat, +and was running away, running out through +the door while his captor stared after him.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_147">[147]</div> +<p>It was only then Blake realized that his +huddled position was not a thing of his own volition. +Some impact had thrown him against +the wall like a toppled nine-pin. The truth +came to him, in a sudden flash; Binhart had +shot at him. There had been a second revolver +hidden away in the hand bag, and Binhart +had attempted to make use of it.</p> +<p>A great rage against Binhart swept through +him. A still greater rage at the thought that +his enemy was running away brought Blake +lurching and scrambling to his feet. He was +a little startled to find that it hurt him to run. +But it hurt him more to think of losing Binhart.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_148">[148]</div> +<p>He dove for the door, hurling his great bulk +through it, tossing aside the startled Portuguese +servant who stood at the outer entrance. +He ran frenziedly out into the night, knowing +by the staring faces of the street-corner group +that Binhart had made the first turning and +was running towards the water-front. He +could see the fugitive, as he came to the corner; +and like an unpenned bull he swung about and +made after him. His one thought was to capture +his man. His one obsession was to haul +down Binhart.</p> +<p>Then, as he ran, a small trouble insinuated +itself into his mind. He could not understand +the swishing of his right boot, at every hurrying +stride. But he did not stop, for he could +already smell the odorous coolness of the water-front +and he knew he must close in on his man +before that forest of floating sampans and native +house-boats swallowed him up.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_149">[149]</div> +<p>A lightheadedness crept over him as he came +panting down to the water’s edge. The faces +of the coolies about him, as he bargained for a +sampan, seemed far away and misty. The +voices, as the flat-bottomed little skiff was +pushed off in pursuit of the boat which was +hurrying Binhart out into the night, seemed +remote and thin, as though coming from across +foggy water. He was bewildered by a sense +of dampness in his right leg. He patted it +with his hand, inquisitively, and found it wet. +He stooped down and felt his boot. It was +full of blood. It was overrunning with blood. +He remembered then. Binhart had shot him, +after all.</p> +<p>He could never say whether it was this discovery, +or the actual loss of blood, that filled +him with a sudden giddiness. He fell forward +on his face, on the bottom of the rocking +sampan.</p> +<p>He must have been unconscious for some +time, for when he awakened he was dimly +aware that he was being carried up the landing-ladder +of a steamer. He heard English +voices about him. A very youthful-looking +ship’s surgeon came and bent over him, cut +away his trouser-leg, and whistled.</p> +<p>“Why, he’s been bleeding like a stuck pig!” +he heard a startled voice, very close to him, +suddenly exclaim. And a few minutes later, +after being moved again, he opened his eyes +to find himself in a berth and the boyish-looking +surgeon assuring him it was all +right.</p> +<p>“Where’s Binhart?” asked Blake.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_150">[150]</div> +<p>“That’s all right, old chap, you just rest +up a bit,” said the placatory youth.</p> +<p>At nine the next morning Blake was taken +ashore at Hong Kong.</p> +<p>After eleven days in the English hospital +he was on his feet again. He was quite strong +by that time. But for several weeks after +that his leg was painfully stiff.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_151">[151]</div> +<h2 id="c11">XI</h2> +<p>Twelve days later Blake began just +where he had left off. He sent out his +feelers, he canvassed the offices from which +some echo might come, he had Macao searched, +and all westbound steamers which he could +reach by wireless were duly warned. But +more than ever, now, he found, he had to depend +on his own initiative, his own personal +efforts. The more official the quarters to +which he looked for cooperation, the less response +he seemed to elicit. In some circles, he +saw, his story was even doubted. It was listened +to with indifference; it was dismissed +with shrugs. There were times when he himself +was smiled at, pityingly.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_152">[152]</div> +<p>He concluded, after much thought on the +matter, that Binhart would continue to work +his way westward. That the fugitive would +strike inland and try to reach Europe by means +of the Trans-Siberian Railway seemed out of +the question. On that route he would be too +easily traced. The carefully guarded frontiers +of Russia, too, would offer obstacles which he +dare not meet. He would stick to the ragged +and restless sea-fringes, concluded the detective. +But before acting on that conclusion he +caught a <i>Toyo Kisen Kaisha</i> steamer for +Shanghai, and went over that city from the +Bund and the Maloo to the narrowest street +in the native quarter. In all this second search, +however, he found nothing to reward his efforts. +So he started doggedly southward +again, stopping at Saigon and Bangkok and +Singapore.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_153">[153]</div> +<p>At each of these ports he went through the +same rounds, canvassed the same set of officials, +and made the same inquiries. Then he +would go to the native quarters, to the gambling +houses, to the water-front and the rickshaw +coolies and half-naked Malay wharf-rats, +holding the departmental photograph of Binhart +in his hand and inquiring of stranger +after stranger: “You know? You savvy +him?” And time after time the curious yellow +faces would bend over the picture, the inscrutable +slant eyes would study the face, sometimes +silently, sometimes with a disheartening +jabber of heathen tongues. But not one +trace of Binhart could he pick up.</p> +<p>Then he went on to Penang. There he went +doggedly through the same manœuvers, canvassing +the same rounds and putting the same +questions. And it was at Penang that a sharp-eyed +young water-front coolie squinted at the +well-thumbed photograph, squinted back at +Blake, and shook his head in affirmation. A +tip of a few English shillings loosened his +tongue, but as Blake understood neither Malay +nor Chinese he was in the dark until he led his +coolie to a Cook’s agent, who in turn called +in the local officers, who in turn consulted with +the booking-agents of the P. & O. Line. It +was then Blake discovered that Binhart had +booked passage under the name of Blaisdell, +twelve days before, for Brindisi.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_154">[154]</div> +<p>Blake studied the map, cashed a draft, and +waited for the next steamer. While marking +time he purchased copies of “French Self-Taught” +and “Italian Self-Taught,” hoping to +school himself in a speaking knowledge of these +two tongues. But the effort was futile. Pore +as he might over those small volumes, he could +glean nothing from their laboriously pondered +pages. His mind was no longer receptive. It +seemed indurated, hard-shelled. He had to acknowledge +to his own soul that it was beyond +him. He was too old a dog to learn new +tricks.</p> +<p>The trip to Brindisi seemed an endless one. +He seemed to have lost his earlier tendency to +be a “mixer.” He became more morose, more +self-immured. He found himself without the +desire to make new friends, and his Celtic ancestry +equipped him with a mute and sullen +antipathy for his aggressively English fellow +travelers. He spent much of his time in the +smoking-room, playing solitaire. When they +stopped at Madras and Bombay he merely +emerged from his shell to make sure if no +trace of Binhart were about. He was no more +interested in these heathen cities of a heathen +East than in an ash-pile through which he +might have to rake for a hidden coin.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_155">[155]</div> +<p>By the time he reached Brindisi he had recovered +his lost weight, and added to it, by +many pounds. He had also returned to his +earlier habit of chewing “fine-cut.” He gave +less thought to his personal appearance, becoming +more and more indifferent as to the impression +he made on those about him. His +face, for all his increase in flesh, lost its ruddiness. +It was plain that during the last few +months he had aged, that his hound-like eye had +grown more haggard, that his always ponderous +step had lost the last of its resilience.</p> +<p>Yet one hour after he had landed at Brindisi +his listlessness seemed a thing of the past. +For there he was able to pick up the trail +again, with clear proof that a man answering +to Binhart’s description had sailed for Corfu. +From Corfu the scent was followed northward +to Ragusa, and from Ragusa, on to Trieste, +where it was lost again.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_156">[156]</div> +<p>Two days of hard work, however, convinced +Blake that Binhart had sailed from Fiume to +Naples. He started southward by train, at +once, vaguely surprised at the length of Italy, +vaguely disconcerted by the unknown tongue +and the unknown country which he had to face.</p> +<p>It was not until he arrived at Naples that he +seemed to touch solid ground again. That +city, he felt, stood much nearer home. In it +were many persons not averse to curry favor +with a New York official, and many persons +indirectly in touch with the home Department. +These persons he assiduously sought out, one +by one, and in twelve hours’ time his net had +been woven completely about the city. And, +so far as he could learn, Binhart was still somewhere +in that city.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_157">[157]</div> +<p>Two days later, when least expecting it, he +stepped into the wine-room of an obscure little +pension hotel on the Via Margellina and saw +Binhart before him. Binhart left the room +as the other man stepped into it. He left by +way of the window, carrying the casement with +him. Blake followed, but the lighter and +younger man out-ran him and was swallowed +up by one of the unknown streets of an unknown +quarter. An hour later Blake had his +hired agents raking that quarter from cellar to +garret. It was not until the evening of the +following day that these agents learned Binhart +had made his way to the Marina, bribed +a water-front boatman to row him across the +bay, and had been put aboard a freighter +weighing anchor for Marseilles.</p> +<p>For the second time Blake traversed Italy +by train, hurrying self-immured and preoccupied +through Rome and Florence and Genoa, +and then on along the Riviera to Marseilles.</p> +<p>In that brawling and turbulent French port, +after the usual rounds and the usual inquiries +down in the midst of the harbor-front forestry +of masts, he found a boatman who claimed to +have knowledge of Binhart’s whereabouts. +This piratical-looking boatman promptly took +Blake several miles down the coast, parleyed in +the <i>lingua Franca</i> of the Mediterranean, argued +in broken English, and insisted on going +further. Blake, scenting imposture, demanded +to be put ashore. This the boatman +refused to do. It was then and only then that +the detective suspected he was the victim of a +“plant,” of a carefully planned shanghaing +movement, the object of which, apparently, +was to gain time for the fugitive.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_158">[158]</div> +<p>It was only at the point of a revolver that +Blake brought the boat ashore, and there he +was promptly arrested and accused of attempted +murder. He found it expedient to +call in the aid of the American Consul, who, in +turn, suggested the retaining of a local advocate. +Everything, it is true, was at last made +clear and in the end Blake was honorably released.</p> +<p>But Binhart, in the meantime, had caught a +Lloyd Brazileiro steamer for Rio de Janeiro, +and was once more on the high seas.</p> +<p>Blake, when he learned of this, sat staring +about him, like a man facing news which he +could not assimilate. He shut himself up in his +hotel room, for an hour, communing with his +own dark soul. He emerged from that self-communion +freshly shaved and smoking a +cigar. He found that he could catch a steamer +for Barcelona, and from that port take a Campania +Transatlantic boat for Kingston, Jamaica.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_159">[159]</div> +<p>From the American consulate he carried +away with him a bundle of New York newspapers. +When out on the Atlantic he arranged +these according to date and went over +them diligently, page by page. They seemed +like echoes out of another life. He read listlessly +on, going over the belated news from his +old-time home with the melancholy indifference +of the alien, with the poignant impersonality +of the exile. He read of fires and crimes and +calamities, of investigations and elections. He +read of a rumored Police Department shake +up, and he could afford to smile at the vitality +of that hellbender-like report. Then, as he +turned the worn pages, the smile died from his +heavy lips, for his own name leaped up like a +snake from the text and seemed to strike him +in the face. He spelled through the paragraphs +carefully, word by word, as though it +were in a language with which he was only +half familiar. He even went back and read +the entire column for a second time. For there +it told of his removal from the Police Department. +The Commissioner and Copeland had +saved their necks, but Blake was no longer +Second Deputy. They spoke of him as being +somewhere in the Philippines, on the trail of the +bank-robber Binhart. They went on to describe +him as a sleuth of the older school, as an +advocate of the now obsolete “third-degree” +methods, and as a product of the “machine” +which had so long and so flagrantly placed politics +before efficiency.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_160">[160]</div> +<p>Blake put down the papers, lighted a cigar, +sat back, and let the truth of what he had read +percolate into his actual consciousness. He +was startled, at first, that no great outburst of +rage swept through him. All he felt, in fact, +was a slow and dull resentment, a resentment +which he could not articulate. Yet dull as it +was, hour by hour and day by idle day it grew +more virulent. About him stood nothing +against which this resentment could be marshaled. +His pride lay as helpless as a whale +washed ashore, too massive to turn and face the +tides of treachery that had wrecked it. All he +asked for was time. Let them wait, he kept +telling himself; let them wait until he got back +with Binhart! Then they would all eat crow, +every last man of them!</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_161">[161]</div> +<p>For Blake did not intend to give up the trail. +To do so would have been beyond him. His +mental fangs were already fixed in Binhart. +To withdraw them was not in his power. He +could no more surrender his quarry than the +python’s head, having once closed on the rabbit, +could release its meal. With Blake, every instinct +sloped inward, just as every python-fang +sloped backward. The actual reason for the +chase was no longer clear to his own vision. +It was something no longer to be reckoned +with. The only thing that counted was the +fact that he had decided to “get” Binhart, that +he was the pursuer and Binhart was the fugitive. +It had long since resolved itself into a +personal issue between him and his enemy.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_162">[162]</div> +<h2 id="c12">XII</h2> +<p>Three hours after he had disembarked +from his steamer at Rio, Blake was +breakfasting at the Café Britto in the Ovidor. +At the same table with him sat a lean-jawed +and rat-eyed little gambler by the name of +Passos.</p> +<p>Two hours after this breakfast Passos +might have been seen on the Avenida Central, +in deep talk with a peddler of artificial diamonds. +Still later in the day he held converse +with a fellow gambler at the Paineiras, half-way +up Mount Corcovado; and the same +afternoon he was interrogating a certain discredited +concession-hunter on the Petropolis +boat.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_163">[163]</div> +<p>By evening he was able to return to Blake +with the information that Binhart had duly +landed at Rio, had hidden for three days in +the outskirts of the city, and had gone aboard +a German cargo-boat bound for Colon. Two +days later Blake himself was aboard a British +freighter northward bound for Kingston. +Once again he beheld a tropical sun shimmer +on hot brass-work and pitch boil up between +bone-white deck-boards sluiced and resluiced +by a half-naked crew. Once again he had to +face an enervating equatorial heat that vitiated +both mind and body. But he neither +fretted nor complained. Some fixed inner +purpose seemed to sustain him through every +discomfort. Deep in that soul, merely +filmed with its fixed equatorial calm, burned +some dormant and crusader-like propulsion. +And an existence so centered on one great issue +found scant time to worry over the trivialities +of the moment.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_164">[164]</div> +<p>After a three-day wait at Jamaica Blake +caught an Atlas liner for Colon. And at +Colon he found himself once more among his +own kind. Scattered up and down the +Isthmus he found an occasional Northerner +to whom he was not unknown, engineers and +construction men who could talk of things +that were comprehensible to him, gamblers +and adventurers who took him poignantly +back to the life he had left so far behind him. +Along that crowded and shifting half-way +house for the tropic-loving American he +found more than one passing friend to whom +he talked hungrily and put many wistful +questions. Sometimes it was a rock contractor +tanned the color of a Mexican saddle. +Sometimes it was a new arrival in Stetson and +riding-breeches and unstained leather leggings. +Sometimes it was a coatless dump-boss +blaspheming his toiling army of spick-a-dees.</p> +<p>Sometimes he talked with graders and car-men +and track-layers in Chinese saloons along +Bottle Alley. Sometimes it was with a +bridge-builder or a lottery capper in the bar-room +of the Hotel Central, where he would +sit without coat or vest, calmly giving an eye +to his game of “draw” or stolidly “rolling +the bones” as he talked—but always with his +ears open for one particular thing, and that +thing had to do with the movements or the +whereabouts of Connie Binhart.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_165">[165]</div> +<p>One night, as he sat placidly playing his +game of “cut-throat” in his shirt-sleeves, he +looked up and saw a russet-faced figure as +stolid as his own. This figure, he perceived, +was discreetly studying him as he sat under +the glare of the light. Blake went on with +his game. In a quarter of an hour, however, +he got up from the table and bought a fresh +supply of “green” Havana cigars. Then he +sauntered out to where the russet-faced +stranger stood watching the street crowds.</p> +<p>“Pip, what’re you doing down in these +parts?” he casually inquired. He had recognized +the man as Pip Tankred, with whom he +had come in contact five long years before. +Pip, on that occasion, was engaged in loading +an East River banana-boat with an odd ton +or two of cartridges designed for Castro’s +opponents in Venezuela.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_166">[166]</div> +<p>“Oh, I’m freightin’ bridge equipment +down the West Coast,” he solemnly announced. +“And transshippin’ a few cases o’ +phonograph-records as a side-line!”</p> +<p>“Have a smoke?” asked Blake.</p> +<p>“Sure,” responded the russet-faced bucaneer. +And as they stood smoking together +Blake tenderly and cautiously put out the +usual feelers, plying the familiar questions +and meeting with the too-familiar lack of response. +Like all the rest of them, he soon +saw, Pip Tankred knew nothing of Binhart +or his whereabouts. And with that discovery +his interest in Pip Tankred ceased.</p> +<p>So the next day Blake moved inland, working +his interrogative way along the Big Ditch +to Panama. He even slipped back over the +line to San Cristobel and Ancon, found nothing +of moment awaiting him there, and +drifted back into Panamanian territory. It +was not until the end of the week that the +first glimmer of hope came to him.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_167">[167]</div> +<p>It came in the form of an incredibly thin +<i>gringo</i> in an incredibly soiled suit of duck. +Blake had been sitting on the wide veranda +of the Hotel Angelini, sipping his “swizzle” +and studiously watching the Saturday evening +crowds that passed back and forth through +Panama’s bustling railway station. He had +watched the long line of rickety cabs backed +up against the curb, the two honking autobusses, +the shifting army of pleasure-seekers +along the sidewalks, the noisy saloons round +which the crowds eddied like bees about a +hive, and he was once more appraising the +groups closer about him, when through that +seething and bustling mass of humanity he +saw Dusty McGlade pushing his way, a Dusty +McGlade on whom the rum of Jamaica and +the <i>mezcal</i> of Guatemala and the <i>anisado</i> of +Ecuador had combined with the <i>pulque</i> of +Mexico to set their unmistakable seal.</p> +<p>But three minutes later the two men were +seated together above their “swizzles” and +Blake was exploring Dusty’s faded memories +as busily as a leather-dip might explore an inebriate’s +pockets.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_168">[168]</div> +<p>“Who’re you looking for, Jim?” suddenly +and peevishly demanded the man in the soiled +white duck, as though impatient of the other’s +indirections.</p> +<p>Blake smoked for a moment or two before +answering.</p> +<p>“I’m looking for a man called Connie Binhart,” +he finally confessed, as he continued to +study that ruinous figure in front of him. It +startled him to see what idleness and alcohol +and the heat of the tropics could do to a man +once as astute as Dusty McGlade.</p> +<p>“Then why didn’t you say so?” complained +McGlade, as though impatient of obliquities +that had been altogether too apparent. He +had once been afraid of this man called Blake, +he remembered. But time had changed +things, as time has the habit of doing. And +most of all, time had changed Blake himself, +had left the old-time Headquarters man +oddly heavy of movement and strangely slow +of thought.</p> +<p>“Well, I’m saying it now!” Blake’s guttural +voice was reminding him.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_169">[169]</div> +<p>“Then why didn’t you say it an hour ago?” +contested McGlade, with his alcoholic peevish +obstinacy.</p> +<p>“Well, let’s have it now,” placated the +patient-eyed Blake. He waited, with a show +of indifference. He even overlooked Dusty’s +curt laugh of contempt.</p> +<p>“I can tell you all right, all right—but it +won’t do you much good!”</p> +<p>“Why not?” And still Blake was bland +and patient.</p> +<p>“Because,” retorted McGlade, fixing the +other man with a lean finger that was both +unclean and unsteady, “<i>you can’t get at him</i>!”</p> +<p>“You tell me where he is,” said Blake, +striking a match. “I’ll attend to the rest of +it!”</p> +<p>McGlade slowly and deliberately drank the +last of his swizzle. Then he put down his +empty glass and stared pensively and pregnantly +into it.</p> +<p>“What’s there in it for me?” he asked.</p> +<p>Blake, studying him across the small table, +weighed both the man and the situation.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_170">[170]</div> +<p>“Two hundred dollars in American greenbacks,” +he announced as he drew out his wallet. +He could see McGlade moisten his flaccid +lips. He could see the faded eyes fasten +on the bills as they were counted out. He +knew where the money would go, how little +good it would do. But that, he knew, was +not <i>his</i> funeral. All he wanted was Binhart.</p> +<p>“Binhart’s in Guayaquil,” McGlade suddenly +announced.</p> +<p>“How d’ you know that?” promptly demanded +Blake.</p> +<p>“I know the man who sneaked him out from +Balboa. He got sixty dollars for it. I can +take you to him. Binhart’d picked up a +medicine-chest and a bag of instruments from +a broken-down doctor at Colon. He went +aboard a Pacific liner as a doctor himself.”</p> +<p>“What liner?”</p> +<p>“He went aboard the <i>Trunella</i>. He +thought he’d get down to Callao. But they +tied the <i>Trunella</i> up at Guayaquil.”</p> +<p>“And you say he’s there now?”</p> +<p>“Yes!”</p> +<p>“And aboard the <i>Trunella</i>?”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_171">[171]</div> +<p>“Sure! He’s got to be aboard the <i>Trunella</i>!”</p> +<p>“Then why d’ you say I can’t get at him?”</p> +<p>“Because Guayaquil and the <i>Trunella</i> and +the whole coast down there is tied up in quarantine. +That whole harbor’s rotten with +yellow-jack. It’s tied up as tight as a drum. +You couldn’t get a boat on all the Pacific to +touch that port these days!”</p> +<p>“But there’s got to be <i>something</i> going +there!” contended Blake.</p> +<p>“They daren’t do it! They couldn’t get +clearance—they couldn’t even get <i>pratique</i>! +Once they got in there they’d be held and +given the blood-test and picketed with a gunboat +for a month! And what’s more, +they’ve got that Alfaro revolution on down +there! They’ve got boat-patrols up and +down the coast, keeping a lookout for gun-runners!”</p> +<p>Blake, at this last word, raised his ponderous +head.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_172">[172]</div> +<p>“The boat-patrols wouldn’t phase me,” he +announced. His thoughts, in fact, were already +far ahead, marshaling themselves about +other things.</p> +<p>“You’ve a weakness for yellow fever?” inquired +the ironic McGlade.</p> +<p>“I guess it’d take more than a few fever +germs to throw me off that trail,” was the detective’s +abstracted retort. He was recalling +certain things that the russet-faced Pip Tankred +had told him. And before everything +else he felt that it would be well to get in +touch with that distributor of bridge equipment +and phonograph records.</p> +<p>“You don’t mean you’re going to try to +get into Guayaquil?” demanded McGlade.</p> +<p>“If Connie Binhart’s down there I’ve got +to go and get him,” was Never-Fail Blake’s +answer.</p> +<p class="center"><span class="gs">* * * * * * * *</span></p><p>The following morning Blake, having made +sure of his ground, began one of his old-time +“investigations” of that unsuspecting worthy +known as Pip Tankred.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_173">[173]</div> +<p>This investigation involved a hurried journey +back to Colon, the expenditure of much +money in cable tolls, the examination of records +that were both official and unofficial, the +asking of many questions and the turning up +of dimly remembered things on which the +dust of time had long since settled.</p> +<p>It was followed by a return to Panama, a +secret trip several miles up the coast to look +over a freighter placidly anchored there, a +dolorous-appearing coast-tramp with unpainted +upperworks and a rusty red hull. +The side-plates of this red hull, Blake observed, +were as pitted and scarred as the face +of an Egyptian obelisk. Her ventilators +were askew and her funnel was scrofulous and +many of her rivet-heads seemed to be eaten +away. But this was not once a source of apprehension +to the studious-eyed detective.</p> +<p>The following evening he encountered +Tankred himself, as though by accident, on +the veranda of the Hotel Angelini. The latter, +at Blake’s invitation, sat down for a cocktail +and a quiet smoke.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_174">[174]</div> +<p>They sat in silence for some time, watching +the rain that deluged the city, the warm devitalizing +rain that unedged even the fieriest +of Signor Angelinas stimulants.</p> +<p>“Pip,” Blake very quietly announced, +“you’re going to sail for Guayaquil to-morrow!”</p> +<p>“Am I?” queried the unmoved Pip.</p> +<p>“You’re going to start for Guayaquil to-morrow,” +repeated Blake, “and you’re going +to take me along with you!”</p> +<p>“My friend,” retorted Pip, emitting a curling +geyser of smoke as long and thin as a +pool-que, “you’re sure laborin’ under the misapprehension +this steamer o’ mine is a Pacific +mailer! But she ain’t, Blake!”</p> +<p>“I admit that,” quietly acknowledged the +other man. “I saw her yesterday!”</p> +<p>“And she don’t carry no passengers—she +ain’t allowed to,” announced her master.</p> +<p>“But she’s going to carry me,” asserted +Blake, lighting a fresh cigar.</p> +<p>“What as?” demanded Tankred. And he +fixed Blake with a belligerent eye as he put +the question.</p> +<p>“As an old friend of yours!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_175">[175]</div> +<p>“And then what?” still challenged the +other.</p> +<p>“As a man who knows your record, in the +next place. And on the next count, as the +man who’s wise to those phony bills of lading +of yours, and those doped-up clearance +papers, and those cases of carbines you’ve got +down your hold labeled bridge equipment, +and that nitro and giant-caps, and that hundred +thousand rounds of smokeless you’re +running down there as phonograph records!”</p> +<p>Tankred continued to smoke.</p> +<p>“You ever stop to wonder,” he finally inquired, +“if it ain’t kind o’ flirtin’ with danger +knowin’ so much about me and my freightin’ +business?”</p> +<p>“No, you’re doing the coquetting in this +case, I guess!”</p> +<p>“Then I ain’t standin’ for no rivals—not +on this coast!”</p> +<p>The two men, so dissimilar in aspect and +yet so alike in their accidental attitudes of an +uncouth belligerency, sat staring at each +other.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_176">[176]</div> +<p>“You’re going to take me to Guayaquil,” +repeated Blake.</p> +<p>“That’s where you’re dead wrong,” was +the calmly insolent rejoinder. “I ain’t even +<i>goin’</i> to Guayaquil.”</p> +<p>“I say you are.”</p> +<p>Tankred’s smile translated his earlier deliberateness +into open contempt.</p> +<p>“You seem to forget that this here town +you’re beefin’ about lies a good thirty-five +miles up the Guayas River. And if I’m gun-runnin’ +for Alfaro, as you say, I naturally +ain’t navigatin’ streams where they’d be able +to pick me off the bridge-deck with a fishin’-pole!”</p> +<p>“But you’re going to get as close to Guayaquil +as you can, and you know it.”</p> +<p>“Do I?” said the man with the up-tilted +cigar.</p> +<p>“Look here, Pip,” said Blake, leaning closer +over the table towards him. “I don’t give a +tinker’s dam about Alfaro and his two-cent +revolution. I’m not sitting up worrying +over him or his junta or how he gets his ammunition. +But I want to get into Guayaquil, +and this is the only way I can do it!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_177">[177]</div> +<p>For the first time Tankred turned and +studied him.</p> +<p>“What d’ you want to get into Guayaquil +for?” he finally demanded. Blake knew that +nothing was to be gained by beating about the +bush.</p> +<p>“There’s a man I want down there, and +I’m going down to get him!”</p> +<p>“Who is he?”</p> +<p>“That’s my business,” retorted Blake.</p> +<p>“And gettin’ into Guayaquil’s your business!” +Tankred snorted back.</p> +<p>“All I’m going to say is he’s a man from +up North—and he’s not in your line of business, +and never was and never will be!”</p> +<p>“How do I know that?”</p> +<p>“You’ll have my word for it!”</p> +<p>Tankred swung round on him.</p> +<p>“D’ you realize you’ll have to sneak ashore +in a <i>lancha</i> and pass a double line o’ patrol? +And then crawl into a town that’s reekin’ +with yellow-jack, a town you’re not likely to +crawl out of again inside o’ three months?”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_178">[178]</div> +<p>“I know all that!” acknowledged Blake.</p> +<p>For the second time Tankred turned and +studied the other man.</p> +<p>“And you’re still goin’ after your gen’leman +friend from up North?” he inquired.</p> +<p>“Pip, I’ve got to get that man!”</p> +<p>“You’ve got ’o?”</p> +<p>“I’ve got to, and I’m going to!”</p> +<p>Tankred threw his cigar-end away and +laughed leisurely and quietly.</p> +<p>“Then what’re we sittin’ here arguin’ +about, anyway? If it’s settled, it’s settled, +ain’t it?”</p> +<p>“Yes, I think it’s settled!”</p> +<p>Again Tankred laughed.</p> +<p>“But take it from me, my friend, you’ll +sure see some rough goin’ this next few +days!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_179">[179]</div> +<h2 id="c13">XIII</h2> +<p>As Tankred had intimated, Blake’s journey +southward from Panama was anything +but comfortable traveling. The vessel +was verminous, the food was bad, and the heat +was oppressive. It was a heat that took the +life out of the saturated body, a thick and +burdening heat that hung like a heavy gray +blanket on a gray sea which no rainfall seemed +able to cool.</p> +<p>But Blake uttered no complaint. By day +he smoked under a sodden awning, rained on +by funnel cinders. By night he stood at the +rail. He stood there, by the hour together, +watching with wistful and haggard eyes the +Alpha of Argo and the slowly rising Southern +Cross. Whatever his thoughts, as he +watched those lonely Southern skies, he kept +them to himself.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_180">[180]</div> +<p>It was the night after they had swung about +and were steaming up the Gulf of Guayaquil +under a clear sky that Tankred stepped down +to Blake’s sultry little cabin and wakened him +from a sound sleep.</p> +<p>“It’s time you were gettin’ your clothes +on,” he announced.</p> +<p>“Getting my clothes on?” queried Blake +through the darkness.</p> +<p>“Yes, you can’t tell what we’ll bump into, +any time now!”</p> +<p>The wakened sleeper heard the other man +moving about in the velvety black gloom.</p> +<p>“What’re you doing there?” was his sharp +question as he heard the squeak and slam of +a shutter.</p> +<p>“Closin’ this dead-light, of course,” explained +Tankred. A moment later he +switched on the electric globe at the bunk-head. +“We’re gettin’ in pretty close now +and we’re goin’ with our lights doused!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_181">[181]</div> +<p>He stood for a moment, staring down at +the sweat-dewed white body on the bunk, +heaving for breath in the closeness of the little +cabin. His mind was still touched into +mystery by the spirit housed in that uncouth +and undulatory flesh. He was still piqued by +the vast sense of purpose which Blake carried +somewhere deep within his seemingly tepid-willed +carcass, like the calcinated pearl at the +center of an oyster.</p> +<p>“You’d better turn out!” he called back as +he stepped into the engulfing gloom of the +gangway.</p> +<p>Blake rolled out of his berth and dressed +without haste or excitement. Already, overhead, +he could hear the continuous tramping +of feet, with now and then a quiet-noted order +from Tankred himself. He could hear other +noises along the ship’s side, as though a landing-ladder +were being bolted and lowered +along the rusty plates.</p> +<p>When he went up on deck he found the boat +in utter darkness. To that slowly moving +mass, for she was now drifting ahead under +quarter-speed, this obliteration of light imparted +a sense of stealthiness. This note of +suspense, of watchfulness, of illicit adventure, +was reflected in the very tones of the motley +deckhands who brushed past him in the humid +velvety blackness.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_182">[182]</div> +<p>As he stood at the rail, staring ahead +through this blackness, Blake could see a light +here and there along the horizon. These +lights increased in number as the boat steamed +slowly on. Then, far away in the roadstead +ahead of them, he made out an entire cluster +of lights, like those of a liner at anchor. +Then he heard the tinkle of a bell below deck, +and he realized that the engines had stopped.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_183">[183]</div> +<p>In the lull of the quieted ship’s screw he +could hear the wash of distant surf, faint and +phantasmal above the material little near-by +boat-noises. Then came a call, faint and +muffled, like the complaining note of a harbor +gull. A moment later the slow creak of +oars crept up to Blake’s straining ears. Then +out of the heart of the darkness that surrounded +him, not fifty feet away, he saw +emerge one faint point of light, rising and +falling with a rhythm as sleepy as the slow +creak of the oars. On each side of it other +small lights sprang up. They were close beside +the ship, by this time, a flotilla of lights, +and each light, Blake finally saw, came from +a lantern that stood deep in the bottom of a +boat, a lantern that had been covered with a +square of matting or sail-cloth, until some +prearranged signal from the drifting steamer +elicited its answering flicker of light. Then +they swarmed about the oily water, shifting +and swaying on their course like a cluster of +fireflies, alternately dark and luminous in the +dip and rise of the ground-swell. Within +each small aura of radiance the watcher at +the rail could see a dusky and quietly moving +figure, the faded blue of a denim garment, the +brown of bare arms, or the sinews of a straining +neck. Once he caught the whites of a +pair of eyes turned up towards the ship’s deck. +He could also see the running and wavering +lines of fire as the oars puddled and backed in +the phosphorescent water under the gloomy +steel hull. Then he heard a low-toned argument +in Spanish. A moment later the flotilla +of small boats had fastened to the ship’s side, +like a litter of suckling pigs to a sow’s breast. +Every light went out again, every light except +a faint glow as a guide to the first boat at the +foot of the landing-ladder. Along this ladder +Blake could hear barefooted figures padding +and grunting as cases and bales were +cautiously carried down and passed from boat +to boat.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_184">[184]</div> +<p>He swung nervously about as he felt a hand +clutch his arm. He found Tankred speaking +quietly into his ear.</p> +<p>“There’ll be one boat over,” that worthy +was explaining. “One boat—you take that—the +last one! And you’d better give the +<i>guinney</i> a ten-dollar bill for his trouble!”</p> +<p>“All right! I’m ready!” was Blake’s low-toned +reply as he started to move forward +with the other man.</p> +<p>“Not yet! Not yet!” was the other’s irritable +warning, as Blake felt himself pushed +back. “You stay where you are! We’ve got +a half-hour’s hard work ahead of us yet!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_185">[185]</div> +<p>As Blake leaned over the rail again, watching +and listening, he began to realize that the +work was indeed hard, that there was some +excuse for Tankred’s ill-temper. Most men, +he acknowledged, would feel the strain, where +one misstep or one small mistake might undo +the work of months. Beyond that, however, +Blake found little about which to concern +himself. Whether it was legal or illegal did +not enter his mind. That a few thousand tin-sworded +soldiers should go armed or unarmed +was to him a matter of indifference. It was +something not of his world. It did not impinge +on his own jealously guarded circle of +activity, on his own task of bringing a fugitive +to justice. And as his eyes strained +through the gloom at the cluster of lights far +ahead in the roadstead he told himself that it +was there that his true goal lay, for it was +there that the <i>Trunella</i> must ride at anchor +and Binhart must be.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_186">[186]</div> +<p>Then he looked wonderingly back at the +flotilla under the rail, for he realized that +every movement and murmur of life there had +come to a sudden stop. It was a cessation of +all sound, a silence as ominously complete as +that of a summer woodland when a hawk soars +overhead. Even the small light deep in the +bottom of the first <i>lancha</i> tied to the landing-ladder +had been suddenly quenched.</p> +<p>Blake, staring apprehensively out into the +gloom, caught the sound of a soft and feverish +throbbing. His disturbed mind had just +registered the conclusion that this sound must +be the throbbing of a passing marine-engine, +when the thought was annihilated by a second +and more startling occurrence.</p> +<p>Out across the blackness in front of him +suddenly flashed a white saber of light. +For one moment it circled and wavered restlessly +about, feeling like a great finger along +the gray surface of the water. Then it smote +full on Blake and the deck where he stood, +blinding him with its glare, picking out every +object and every listening figure as plainly as +a calcium picks out a scene on the stage.</p> +<p>Without conscious thought Blake dropped +lower behind the ship’s rail. He sank still +lower, until he found himself down on his +hands and knees beside a rope coil. As he +did so he heard the call of a challenging Spanish +voice, a murmur of voices, and then a repeated +command.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_187">[187]</div> +<p>There was no answer to this challenge. +Then came another command and then silence +again. Then a faint thrill arrowed through +Blake’s crouching body, for from somewhere +close behind him a gun-shot rang out and was +repeated again and again. Blake knew, at +that sound, that Tankred or one of his men +was firing straight into the dial of the searchlight, +that Tankred himself intended to defy +what must surely be an Ecuadorean gunboat. +The detective was oppressed by the thought +that his own jealously nursed plan might at +any moment get a knock on the head.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_188">[188]</div> +<p>At almost the same time the peevishly indignant +Blake could hear the tinkle of the +engine-room bell below him and then the +thrash of the screw wings. The boat began +to move forward, dangling the knocking and +rocking flotilla of <i>lanchas</i> and surf-boats at +her side, like a deer-mouse making off with its +young. Then came sharp cries of protest, in +Spanish, and more cries and curses in harbor-English, +and a second engine-room signal and +a cessation of the screw thrashings. This was +followed by a shower of carbine-shots and the +plaintive whine of bullets above the upperworks, +the crack and thud of lead against the +side-plates. At the same time Blake heard +the scream of a denim-clad figure that suddenly +pitched from the landing-ladder into +the sea. Then came an answering volley, +from somewhere close below Blake. He could +not tell whether it was from the boat-flotilla or +from the port-holes above it. But he knew +that Tankred and his men were returning the +gunboat’s fire.</p> +<p>Blake, by this time, was once more thinking +lucidly. Some of the cases in those surf-boats, +he remembered, held giant-caps and +dynamite, and he knew what was likely to happen +if a bullet struck them. He also remembered +that he was still exposed to the carbine +fire from behind the searchlight.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_189">[189]</div> +<p>He stretched out, flat on the deck-boards, +and wormed his way slowly and ludicrously +aft. He did not bring those uncouth vermiculations +to a stop until he was well back in +the shelter of a rusty capstan, cut off from +the light by a lifeboat swinging on its davits. +As he clambered to his feet again he saw this +light suddenly go out and then reappear. As +it did so he could make out a patrol-boat, gray +and low-bodied, slinking forward through the +gloom. He could see that boat crowded with +men, men in uniform, and he could see that +each man carried a carbine. He could also +see that it would surely cut across the bow of +his own steamer. A moment later he knew +that Tankred himself had seen this, for high +above the crack and whine of the shooting and +the tumult of voices he could now hear Tankred’s +blasphemous shouts.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_190">[190]</div> +<p>“Cut loose those boats!” bellowed the frantic +gun-runner. Then he repeated the command, +apparently in Spanish. And to this +came an answering babel of cries and expostulations +and counter-cries. But still the firing +from behind the searchlight kept up. Blake +could see a half-naked seaman with a carpenter’s +ax skip monkey-like down the landing-ladder. +He saw the naked arm strike with +the ax, the two hands suddenly catch at the +bare throat, and the figure fall back in a huddle +against the red-stained wooden steps.</p> +<p>Blake also saw, to his growing unrest, that +the firing was increasing in volume, that at the +front of the ship sharp volley and counter-volley +was making a pandemonium of the +very deck on which he knelt. For by this +time the patrol-boat with the carbineers had +reached the steamer’s side and a boarding-ladder +had been thrown across her quarter. And +Blake began to comprehend that he was in the +most undesirable of situations. He could +hear the repeated clang of the engine-room +telegraph and Tankred’s frenzied and ineffectual +bellow of “Full steam ahead! For +the love o’ Christ, full ahead down there!”</p> +<p>Through all that bedlam Blake remained +resentfully cool, angrily clear-thoughted. +He saw that the steamer did not move forward. +He concluded the engine-room to be +deserted. And he saw both the futility and +the danger of remaining where he was.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_191">[191]</div> +<p>He crawled back to where he remembered +the rope-coil lay, dragging the loose end of it +back after him, and then lowering it over the +ship’s side until it touched the water. Then +he shifted this rope along the rail until it +swung over the last of the line of surf-boats +that bobbed and thudded against the side-plates +of the gently rolling steamer. About +him, all the while, he could hear the shouts of +men and the staccato crack of the rifles. But +he saw to it that his rope was well tied to the +rail-stanchion. Then he clambered over the +rail itself, and with a double twist of the rope +about his great leg let himself ponderously +down over the side.</p> +<p>He swayed there, for a moment, until the +roll of the ship brought him thumping against +the rusty plates again. At the same moment +the shifting surf-boat swung in under him. +Releasing his hold, he went tumbling down +between the cartridge-cases and the boat-thwarts.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_192">[192]</div> +<p>This boat, he saw, was still securely tied to +its mate, one of the larger-bodied <i>lanchas</i>, and +he had nothing with which to sever the rope. +His first impulse was to reach for his revolver +and cut through the manilla strands by means +of a half-dozen quick shots. But this, he +knew, would too noisily announce his presence +there. So he fell on his knees and peered and +prodded about the boat bottom. There, to his +surprise, he saw the huddled body of a dead +man, face down. This body he turned over, +running an exploring hand along the belt-line. +As he had hoped, he found a heavy nine-inch +knife there.</p> +<p>He was dodging back to the bow of the +surf-boat when a uniformed figure carrying +a rifle came scuttling and shouting down the +landing-ladder. Blake’s spirits sank as he +saw that figure. He knew now that his movement +had been seen and understood. He +knew, too, as he saw the figure come scrambling +out over the rocking boats, what capture +would mean.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_193">[193]</div> +<p>He had the last strand of the rope severed +before the Ecuadorean with the carbine +reached the <i>lancha</i> next to him. He still felt, +once he was free, that he could use his revolver +and get away. But before Blake could +push off a sinewy brown hand reached out and +clutched the gunwale of the liberated boat. +Blake ignored the clutching hand. But, relying +on his own sheer strength, he startled the +owner of the hand by suddenly flinging himself +forward, seizing the carbine barrel, and +wresting it free. A second later it disappeared +beneath the surface of the water.</p> +<p>That impassioned brown hand, however, +still clung to the boat’s gunwale. It clung +there determinedly, blindly—and Blake knew +there was no time for a struggle. He +brought the heavy-bladed knife down on the +clinging fingers. It was a stroke like that of +a cleaver on a butcher’s block. In the strong +white light that still played on them he could +see the flash of teeth in the man’s opened +mouth, the upturn of the staring eye-balls as +the severed fingers fell away and he screamed +aloud with pain.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_194">[194]</div> +<p>But with one quick motion of his gorilla-like +arms Blake pushed his boat free, telling +himself there was still time, warning himself +to keep cool and make the most of every +chance. Yet as he turned to take up the oars +he saw that he had been discovered by the +Ecuadoreans on the freighter’s deck, that his +flight was not to be as simple as he had expected. +He saw the lean brown face, picked +out by the white light, as a carbineer swung +his short-barreled rifle out over the rail—and +the man in the surf-boat knew by that face +what was coming.</p> +<p>His first impulse was to reach into his +pocket for his revolver. But that, he knew, +was already too late, for a second man had +joined the first and a second rifle was already +swinging round on him. His next thought +was to dive over the boat’s side. This +thought had scarcely formulated itself, however, +before he heard the bark of the rifle and +saw the puff of smoke.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_195">[195]</div> +<p>At the same moment he felt the rip and tug +of the bullet through the loose side-folds of +his coat. And with that rip and tug came a +third thought, over which he did not waver. +He threw up his hands, sharply, and flung +himself headlong across the body of the dead +man in the bottom of the surf-boat.</p> +<p>He fell heavily, with a blow that shook the +wind from his body. But as he lay there he +knew better than to move. He lay there, +scarcely daring to breathe, dreading that the +rise and fall of his breast would betray his +ruse, praying that his boat would veer about so +his body would be in the shadow. For he +knew the two waiting carbines were still +pointed at him.</p> +<p>He lay there, counting the seconds, knowing +that he and his slowly drifting surf-boat +were still in the full white fulgor of the wavering +searchlight. He lay there as a second +shot came whistling overhead, spitting into the +water within three feet of him. Then a third +bullet came, this time tearing through the +wood of the boat bottom beside him. And he +still waited, without moving, wondering what +the next shot would do. He still waited, his +passive body horripilating with a vast indignation +at the thought of the injustice of it all, +at the thought that he must lie there and let +half-baked dagoes shower his unprotesting +back with lead. But he lay there, still counting +the seconds, as the boat drifted slowly out +on the quietly moving tide.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_196">[196]</div> +<p>Then a new discovery disturbed him. It +obliterated his momentary joy at the thought +that they were no longer targeting down at +him. He could feel the water slowly rising +about his prostrate body. He realized that +the boat in which he lay was filling. He +calmly figured out that with the body of the +dead man and the cartridge-cases about him it +was carrying a dead weight of nearly half a +ton. And through the bullet hole in its bottom +the water was rushing in.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_197">[197]</div> +<p>Yet he could do nothing. He could make +no move. For at the slightest betrayal of +life, he knew, still another volley would come +from that ever-menacing steamer’s deck. He +counted the minutes, painfully, methodically, +feeling the water rise higher and higher about +his body. The thought of this rising water +and what it meant did not fill him with panic. +He seemed more the prey of a deep and sullen +resentment that his plans should be so +gratuitously interfered with, that his approach +to the <i>Trunella</i> should be so foolishly +delayed, that so many cross-purposes should +postpone and imperil his quest of Binhart.</p> +<p>He knew, by the slowly diminishing sounds, +that he was drifting further and further away +from Tankred and his crowded fore-deck. +But he was still within the area of that ever-betraying +searchlight. Some time, he knew, +he must drift beyond it. But until that moment +came he dare make no move to keep himself +afloat.</p> +<p>By slowly turning his head an inch or two +he was able to measure the height of the gunwale +above the water. Then he made note of +where an oar lay, asking himself how long he +could keep afloat on a timber so small, wondering +how far he could be from land. Then +he suddenly fell to questioning if the waters +of that coast were shark infested.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_198">[198]</div> +<p>He was still debating the problem when he +became conscious of a change about him. A +sudden pall of black fell like balm on his +startled face. The light was no longer there. +He found himself engulfed in a relieving, +fortifying darkness, a darkness that brought +him to his feet in the slowly moving boat. He +was no longer visible to the rest of the world. +At a breath, almost, he had passed into eclipse.</p> +<p>His first frantic move was to tug and drag +the floating body at his feet to the back of the +boat and roll it overboard. Then he waded +forward and one by one carefully lifted the +cases of ammunition and tumbled them over +the side. One only he saved, a smaller +wooden box which he feverishly pried open +with his knife and emptied into the sea. +Then he flung away the top boards, placing +the empty box on the seat in front of him. +Then he fell on his hands and knees, fingering +along the boat bottom until he found the +bullet-hole through which the water was boiling +up.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_199">[199]</div> +<p>Once he had found it he began tearing at +his clothes like a madman, for the water was +now alarmingly high. These rags and shreds +of clothing he twisted together and forced +into the hole, tamping them firmly into place +with his revolver-barrel.</p> +<p>Then he caught up the empty wooden box +from the boat seat and began to bale. He +baled solemnly, as though his very soul were +in it. He was oblivious of the strange scene +silhouetted against the night behind him, +standing out as distinctly as though it were a +picture thrown on a sheet from a magic-lantern +slide—a circle of light surrounding a +drifting and rusty-sided ship on which tumult +had turned into sudden silence. He was oblivious +of his own wet clothing and his bruised +body and the dull ache in his leg wound of +many months ago. He was intent only on the +fact that he was lowering the water in his surf-boat, +that he was slowly drifting further and +further away from the enemies who had interfered +with his movements, and that under +the faint spangle of lights which he could still +see in the offing on his right lay an anchored +liner, and that somewhere on that liner lay a +man for whom he was looking.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_200">[200]</div> +<h2 id="c14">XIV</h2> +<p>Once assured that his surf-boat would +keep afloat, Blake took the oars and began +to row. But even as he swung the boat +lumberingly about he realized that he could +make no headway with such a load, for almost +a foot of water still surged along its bottom. +So he put down the oars and began to bale +again. He did not stop until the boat was +emptied. Then he carefully replugged the +bullet-hole, took up the oars again, and once +more began to row.</p> +<p>He rowed, always keeping his bow towards +the far-off spangle of lights which showed +where the <i>Trunella</i> lay at anchor.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_201">[201]</div> +<p>He rowed doggedly, determinedly. He +rowed until his arms were tired and his back +ached. But still he did not stop. It occurred +to him, suddenly, that there might be +a tide running against him, that with all his +labor he might be making no actual headway. +Disturbed by this thought, he fixed his attention +on two almost convergent lights on shore, +rowing with renewed energy as he watched +them. He had the satisfaction of seeing these +two lights slowly come together, and he knew +he was making some progress.</p> +<p>Still another thought came to him as he +rowed doggedly on. And that was the fear +that at any moment, now, the quick equatorial +morning might dawn. He had no means of +judging the time. To strike a light was impossible, +for his matches were water-soaked. +Even his watch, he found, had been stopped +by its bath in sea-water. But he felt that +long hours had passed since midnight, that it +must be close to the break of morning. And +the fear of being overtaken by daylight filled +him with a new and more frantic energy.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_202">[202]</div> +<p>He rowed feverishly on, until the lights of +the <i>Trunella</i> stood high above him and he +could hear the lonely sound of her bells as the +watch was struck. Then he turned and +studied the dark hull of the steamer as she +loomed up closer in front of him. He could +see her only in outline, at first, picked out here +and there by a light. But there seemed something +disheartening, something intimidating, +in her very quietness, something suggestive of +a plague-ship deserted by crew and passengers +alike. That dark and silent hull at +which he stared seemed to house untold possibilities +of evil.</p> +<p>Yet Blake remembered that it also housed +Binhart. And with that thought in his mind +he no longer cared to hesitate. He rowed in +under the shadowy counter, bumping about +the rudder-post. Then he worked his way +forward, feeling quietly along her side-plates, +foot by foot.</p> +<p>He had more than half circled the ship before +he came to her landing-ladder. The +grilled platform at the bottom of this row of +steps stood nearly as high as his shoulders, as +though the ladder-end had been hauled up for +the night.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_203">[203]</div> +<p>Blake balanced himself on the bow of his +surf-boat and tugged and strained until he +gained the ladder-bottom. He stood there, +recovering his breath, for a moment or two, +peering up towards the inhospitable silence +above him. But still he saw no sign of life. +No word or challenge was flung down at him. +Then, after a moment’s thought, he lay flat +on the grill and deliberately pushed the surf-boat +off into the darkness. He wanted no +more of it. He knew, now, there could be +no going back.</p> +<p>He climbed cautiously up the slowly swaying +steps, standing for a puzzled moment at +the top and peering about him. Then he +crept along the deserted deck, where a month +of utter idleness, apparently, had left discipline +relaxed. He shied away from the +lights, here and there, that dazzled his eyes +after his long hours of darkness. With an +instinct not unlike that which drives the hiding +wharf-rat into the deepest corner at hand, he +made his way down through the body of the +ship. He shambled and skulked his way +down, a hatless and ragged and uncouth +figure, wandering on along gloomy gangways +and corridors until he found himself on the +threshold of the engine-room itself.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_204">[204]</div> +<p>He was about to back out of this entrance +and strike still deeper when he found himself +confronted by an engineer smoking a short +brier-root pipe. The pale blue eyes of this +sandy-headed engineer were wide with wonder, +startled and incredulous wonder, as they +stared at the ragged figure in the doorway.</p> +<p>“Where in the name o’ God did <i>you</i> come +from?” demanded the man with the brier-root +pipe.</p> +<p>“I came out from Guayaquil,” answered +Blake, reaching searchingly down in his wet +pocket. “And I can’t go back.”</p> +<p>The sandy-headed man backed away.</p> +<p>“From the fever camps?”</p> +<p>Blake could afford to smile at the movement.</p> +<p>“Don’t worry—there’s no fever ’round me. +<i>That’s</i> what I’ve been through!” And he +showed the bullet-holes through his tattered +coat-cloth.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_205">[205]</div> +<p>“How’d you get here?”</p> +<p>“Rowed out in a surf-boat—and I can’t go +back!”</p> +<p>The sandy-headed engineer continued to +stare at the uncouth figure in front of him, to +stare at it with vague and impersonal wonder. +And in facing that sandy-headed stranger, +Blake knew, he was facing a judge whose decision +was to be of vast moment in his future +destiny, whose word, perhaps, was to decide +on the success or failure of much wandering +about the earth.</p> +<p>“I can’t go back!” repeated Blake, as he +reached out and dropped a clutter of gold +into the palm of the other man. The pale +blue eyes looked at the gold, looked out along +the gangway, and then looked back at the waiting +stranger.</p> +<p>“That Alfaro gang after you?” he inquired.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_206">[206]</div> +<p>“They’re <i>all</i> after me!” answered the swaying +figure in rags. They were talking together, +by this time, almost in whispers, like +two conspirators. The young engineer seemed +puzzled. But a wave of relief swept through +Blake when in the pale blue eyes he saw almost +a look of pity.</p> +<p>“What d’ you want me to do?” he finally +asked.</p> +<p>Blake, instead of answering that question, +asked another.</p> +<p>“When do you move out of here?”</p> +<p>The engineer put the coins in his pocket.</p> +<p>“Before noon to-morrow, thank God! The +<i>Yorktown</i> ought to be here by morning—she’s +to give us our release!”</p> +<p>“Then you’ll sail by noon?”</p> +<p>“We’ve <i>got</i> to! They’ve tied us up here +over a month, without reason. They worked +that old yellow-jack gag—and not a touch of +fever aboard all that time!”</p> +<p>A great wave of contentment surged +through Blake’s weary body. He put his hand +up on the smaller man’s shoulder.</p> +<p>“Then you just get me out o’ sight until +we’re off, and I’ll fix things so you’ll never +be sorry for it!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_207">[207]</div> +<p>The pale-eyed engineer studied the problem. +Then he studied the figure in front of +him.</p> +<p>“There’s nothing crooked behind this?”</p> +<p>Blake forced a laugh from his weary lungs. +“I’ll prove that in two days by wireless—and +pay first-class passage to the next port of +call!”</p> +<p>“I’m fourth engineer on board here, and +the Old Man would sure fire me, if—”</p> +<p>“But you needn’t even know about me,” +contended Blake. “Just let me crawl in somewhere +where I can sleep!”</p> +<p>“You need it, all right, by that face of +yours!”</p> +<p>“I sure do,” acknowledged the other as he +stood awaiting his judge’s decision.</p> +<p>“Then I’d better get you down to my bunk. +But remember, I can only stow you there until +we get under way—perhaps not that long!”</p> +<p>He stepped cautiously out and looked along +the gangway. “This is your funeral, mind, +when the row comes. You’ve got to face +that, yourself!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_208">[208]</div> +<p>“Oh, I’ll face it, all right!” was Blake’s +calmly contented answer. “All I want now +is about nine hours’ sleep!”</p> +<p>“Come on, then,” said the fourth engineer. +And Blake followed after as he started deeper +down into the body of the ship. And already, +deep below him, he could hear the stokers +at work in their hole.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_209">[209]</div> +<h2 id="c15">XV</h2> +<p>After seven cataleptic hours of unbroken +sleep Blake awakened to find his +shoulder being prodded and shaken by the +pale-eyed fourth engineer. The stowaway’s +tired body, during that sleep, had soaked in +renewed strength as a squeezed sponge soaks +up water. He could afford to blink with impassive +eyes up at the troubled face of the +young man wearing the oil-stained cap.</p> +<p>“What’s wrong?” he demanded, awakening +to a luxurious comprehension of where he was +and what he had escaped. Then he sat up in +the narrow berth, for it began to dawn on him +that the engines of the <i>Trunella</i> were not in +motion. “Why aren’t we under way?”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_210">[210]</div> +<p>“They’re having trouble up there, with the +<i>Commandante</i>. We can’t get off inside of an +hour—and anything’s likely to happen in that +time. That’s why I’ve got to get you out of +here!”</p> +<p>“Where’ll you get me?” asked Blake. He +was on his feet by this time, arraying himself +in his wet and ragged clothing.</p> +<p>“That’s what I’ve been talking over with +the Chief,” began the young engineer. Blake +wheeled about and fixed him with his eye.</p> +<p>“Did you let your Chief in on this?” he +demanded, and he found it hard to keep his +anger in check.</p> +<p>“I had to let him in on it,” complained the +other. “If it came to a line up or a searching +party through here, they’d spot you first +thing. You’re not a passenger; you’re not +signed; you’re not anything!”</p> +<p>“Well, supposing I’m not?”</p> +<p>“Then they’d haul you back and give you a +half year in that <i>Lazaretto</i> o’ theirs!”</p> +<p>“Well, what do I have to do to keep from +being hauled back?”</p> +<p>“You’ll have to be one o’ the workin’ crew, +until we get off. The Chief says that, and I +think he’s right!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_211">[211]</div> +<p>A vague foreboding filled Blake’s soul. +He had imagined that the ignominy and agony +of physical labor was a thing of the past with +him. And he was still sore in every sinew +and muscle of his huge body.</p> +<p>“You don’t mean stoke-hole work?” he demanded.</p> +<p>The fourth engineer continued to look worried.</p> +<p>“You don’t happen to know anything about +machinery, do you?” he began.</p> +<p>“Of course I do,” retorted Blake, thinking +gratefully of his early days as a steamfitter.</p> +<p>“Then why couldn’t I put you in a cap +and jumper and work you in as one of the +greasers?”</p> +<p>“What do you mean by greasers?”</p> +<p>“That’s an oiler in the engine-room. It—it +may not be the coolest place on earth, in +this latitude, but it sure beats the stoke-hole!”</p> +<p>And it was in this way, thirty minutes later, +that Blake became a greaser in the engine-room +of the <i>Trunella</i>.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_212">[212]</div> +<p>Already, far above him, he could hear the +rattle and shriek of winch-engines and the far-off +muffled roar of the whistle, rumbling its +triumph of returning life. Already the +great propeller engines themselves had been +tested, after their weeks of idleness, languidly +stretching and moving like an awakening +sleeper, slowly swinging their solemn tons forward +through their projected cycles and then +as solemnly back again.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_213">[213]</div> +<p>About this vast pyramid-shaped machinery, +galleried like a Latin house-court, tremulous +with the breath of life that sang and hissed +through its veins, the new greaser could see +his fellow workers with their dripping oil-cans, +groping gallery by gallery up towards +the square of daylight that sifted down into +the oil-scented pit where he stood. He could +see his pale-eyed friend, the fourth engineer, +spanner in hand, clinging to a moving network +of steel like a spider to its tremulous +web—and in his breast, for the first time, a +latent respect for that youth awakened. He +could see other greasers wriggling about between +intricate shafts and wheels, crawling +cat-like along narrow steel ledges, mounting +steep metal ladders guarded by hot hand rails, +peering into oil boxes, “worrying” the vacuum +pump, squatting and kneeling about iron +floors where oil-pits pooled and pump-valves +clacked and electric machines whirred and the +antiphonal song of the mounting steam roared +like music in the ears of the listening Blake, +aching as he was for the first relieving throb +of the screws. Stolidly and calmly the men +about him worked, threatened by flailing steel, +hissed at by venomously quiescent powers, beleaguered +by mysteriously moving shafts, +surrounded by countless valves and an inexplicable +tangle of pipes, hemmed in by an incomprehensible +labyrinth of copper wires, menaced +by the very shimmering joints and rods over +which they could run such carelessly affectionate +fingers.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_214">[214]</div> +<p>Blake could see the assistant engineers, +with their eyes on the pointers that stood out +against two white dials. He could see the +Chief, the Chief whom he would so soon have +to buy over and placate, moving about nervous +and alert. Then he heard the tinkle of the +telegraph bell, and the repeated gasp of energy +as the engineers threw the levers. He +could hear the vicious hum of the reversing-engines, +and then the great muffled cough of +power as the ponderous valve-gear was thrown +into position and the vaster machinery above +him was coerced into a motion that seemed +languid yet relentless.</p> +<p>He could see the slow rise and fall of the +great cranks. He could hear the renewed signals +and bells tinkles, the more insistent clack +of pumps, the more resolute rise and fall of the +ponderous cranks. And he knew that they +were at last under way. He gave no thought +to the heat of the oil-dripping pit in which +he stood. He was oblivious of the perilous +steel that whirred and throbbed about him. +He was unconscious of the hot hand rails and +the greasy foot-ways and the mingling odor +of steam and parching lubricant and ammonia-gas +from a leaking “beef engine.” He quite +forgot the fact that his <i>dungaree</i> jumper was +wet with sweat, that his cap was already fouled +with oil. All he knew was that he and Binhart +were at last under way.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_215">[215]</div> +<p>He was filled with a new lightness of spirit +as he felt the throb of “full speed ahead” +shake the steel hull about which he so contentedly +climbed and crawled. He found +something fortifying in the thought that this +vast hull was swinging out to her appointed +sea lanes, that she was now intent on a way +from which no caprice could turn her. There +seemed something appeasingly ordered and +implacable in the mere revolutions of the engines. +And as those engines settled down to +their labors the intent-eyed men about him fell +almost as automatically into the routines of +toil as did the steel mechanism itself.</p> +<p>When at the end of the first four-houred +watch a gong sounded and the next crew filed +cluttering in from the half-lighted between-deck +gangways and came sliding down the +polished steel stair rails, Blake felt that his +greatest danger was over.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_216">[216]</div> +<p>There would still be an occasional palm +to grease, he told himself, an occasional bit +of pad money to be paid out. But he could +meet those emergencies with the fortitude of +a man already inured to the exactions of venal +accomplices.</p> +<p>Then a new discovery came to him. It came +as he approached the chief engineer, with the +object in view of throwing a little light on his +presence there. And as he looked into that +officer’s coldly indignant eye he awakened to +the fact that he was no longer on land, but +afloat on a tiny world with an autocracy and +an authority of its own. He was in a tiny +world, he saw, where his career and his traditions +were not to be reckoned with, where he +ranked no higher than conch-niggers and +beach-combers and <i>cargadores</i>. He was a +<i>dungaree</i>-clad greaser in an engine-room, and +he was promptly ordered back with the rest +of his crew. He was not even allowed to +talk.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_217">[217]</div> +<p>When his watch came round he went on +duty again. He saw the futility of revolt, +until the time was ripe. He went through his +appointed tasks with the solemn precision of +an apprentice. He did what he was commanded +to do. Yet sometimes the heat would +grow so intense that the great sweating body +would have to shamble to a ventilator and +there drink in long drafts of the cooler air. +The pressure of invisible hoops about the +great heaving chest would then release itself, +the haggard face would regain some touch of +color, and the new greaser would go back to +his work again. One or two of the more observant +toilers about him, experienced in engine-room +life, marveled at the newcomer and +the sense of mystery which hung over him. +One or two of them fell to wondering what +inner spirit could stay him through those four-houred +ordeals of heat and labor.</p> +<p>Yet they looked after him with even more +inquisitive eyes when, on the second day out, +he was peremptorily summoned to the Captain’s +room. What took place in that room +no one in the ship ever actually knew.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_218">[218]</div> +<p>But the large-bodied stowaway returned +below-decks, white of face and grim of jaw. +He went back to his work in silence, in dogged +and unbroken silence which those about him +knew enough to respect.</p> +<p>It was whispered about, it is true, that +among other things a large and ugly-looking +revolver had been taken from his clothing, and +that he had been denied the use of the ship’s +wireless service. A steward outside the Captain’s +door, it was also whispered, had over-heard +the shipmaster’s angry threat to put the +stowaway in irons for the rest of the voyage +and return him to the Ecuadorean authorities. +It was rumored, too, that late in the afternoon +of the same day, when the new greaser had +complained of faintness and was seeking a +breath of fresh air at the foot of a midships +deck-ladder, he had chanced to turn and look +up at a man standing on the promenade deck +above him.</p> +<p>The two men stood staring at each other for +several moments, and for all the balmy air +about him the great body of the stranger just +up from the engine-room had shivered and +shaken, as though with a malarial chill.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_219">[219]</div> +<p>What it meant, no one quite knew. Nor +could anything be added to that rumor, beyond +the fact that the first-class passenger, +who was known to be a doctor and who had +stared so intently down at the quiet-eyed +greaser, had turned the color of ashes and +without a word had slipped away. And the +bewilderment of the entire situation was +further increased when the <i>Trunella</i> swung in +at Callao and the large-bodied man of mystery +was peremptorily and none too gently +put ashore. It was noted, however, that the +first-class passenger who had stared down at +him from the promenade-deck remained +aboard the vessel as she started southward +again. It was further remarked that he +seemed more at ease when Callao was left well +behind, although he sat smoking side by side +with the operator in the wireless room until +the <i>Trunella</i> had steamed many miles southward +on her long journey towards the Straits +of Magellan.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_220">[220]</div> +<h2 id="c16">XVI</h2> +<p>Seven days after the <i>Trunella</i> swung +southward from Callao Never-Fail +Blake, renewed as to habiliments and replenished +as to pocket, embarked on a steamer +bound for Rio de Janeiro.</p> +<p>He watched the plunging bow as it crept +southward. He saw the heat and the gray +sea-shimmer left behind him. He saw the +days grow longer and the nights grow colder. +He saw the Straits passed and the northward +journey again begun. But he neither fretted +nor complained of his fate.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_221">[221]</div> +<p>After communicating by wireless with both +Montevideo and Buenos Ayres and verifying +certain facts of which he seemed already assured, +he continued on his way to Rio. And +over Rio he once more cast and pursed up +his gently interrogative net, gathering in the +discomforting information that Binhart had +already relayed from that city to a Lloyd-Brazileiro +steamer. This steamer, he learned, was +bound for Ignitos, ten thousand dreary miles +up the Amazon.</p> +<p>Five days later Blake followed in a Clyde-built +freighter. When well up the river he +transferred to a rotten-timbered sidewheeler +that had once done duty on the Mississippi, and +still again relayed from river boat to river +boat, move by move falling more and more behind +his quarry.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_222">[222]</div> +<p>The days merged into weeks, and the weeks +into months. He suffered much from the +heat, but more from the bad food and the bad +water. For the first time in his life he found +his body shaken with fever and was compelled +to use quinin in great quantities. The attacks +of insects, of insects that flew, that +crawled, that tunneled beneath the skin, turned +life into a torment. His huge triple-terraced +neck became raw with countless wounds. But +he did not stop by the way. His eyes became +oblivious of the tangled and overcrowded +life about him, of the hectic orchids and huge +butterflies and the flaming birds-of-paradise, +of the echoing aisle ways between interwoven +jungle growths, of the arching aërial roofs of +verdure and the shadowy hanging-gardens +from which by day parakeets chattered and +monkeys screamed and by night ghostly armies +of fireflies glowed. He was no longer impressed +by that world of fierce appetites and +fierce conflicts. He seemed to have attained +to a secret inner calm, to an obsessional impassivity +across which the passing calamities +of existence only echoed. He merely recalled +that he had been compelled to eat of disagreeable +things and face undesirable emergencies, +to drink of the severed water-vine, to partake +of monkey-steak and broiled parrot, to sleep +in poisonous swamplands. His spirit, even +with the mournful cry of night birds in his +ears, had been schooled into the acceptance +of a loneliness that to another might have +seemed eternal and unendurable.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_223">[223]</div> +<p>By the time he had reached the Pacific coast +his haggard hound’s eyes were more haggard +than ever. His skin hung loose on his great +body, as though a vampire bat had drained +it of its blood. But to his own appearance +he gave scant thought. For new life came +to him when he found definite traces of Binhart. +These traces he followed up, one by +one, until he found himself circling back eastward +along the valley of the Magdalena. +And down the Magdalena he went, still sure +of his quarry, following him to Bogota, and +on again from Bogota to Barranquilla, and +on to Savanilla, where he embarked on a Hamburg-American +steamer for Limon.</p> +<p>At Limon it was not hard to pick up +the lost trail. But Binhart’s movements, after +leaving that port, became a puzzle to the man +who had begun to pride himself on growing +into knowledge of his adversary’s inmost nature. +For once Blake found himself uncertain +as to the other’s intentions. The fugitive +now seemed possessed with an idea to get away +from the sea, to strike inland at any cost, as +though water had grown a thing of horror to +him. He zigzagged from obscure village to +village, as though determined to keep away +from all main-traveled avenues of traffic. +Yet, move as he might, it was merely a matter +of time and care to follow up the steps of a +white man as distinctly individualized as Binhart.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_224">[224]</div> +<p>This white man, it seemed, was at last giving +way to the terror that must have been +haunting him for months past. His movements +became feverish, erratic, irrational. +He traveled in strange directions and by +strange means, by bullock-cart, by burro, by +dug-out, sometimes on foot and sometimes on +horseback. Sometimes he stayed over night +at a rubber-gatherers’ camp, sometimes he visited +a banana plantation, bought a fresh +horse, and pushed on again. When he +reached the Province of Alajuela he made use +of the narrow cattle passes, pressing on in a +northwesterly direction along the valleys of +the San Juan and the San Carlos River. A +madness seemed to have seized him, a madness +to make his way northward, ever northward.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_225">[225]</div> +<p>Over heartbreaking mountainous paths, +through miasmic jungles, across sun-baked +plateaus, chilled by night and scorched by day, +chafed and sore, tortured by <i>niguas</i> and <i>coloradillas</i>, +mosquitoes and <i>chigoes</i>, sleeping in +verminous hay-thatched huts of bamboo bound +together with bejuco-vine, mislead by lying natives +and stolen from by peons, Blake day by +day and week by week fought his way after +his enemy. When worn to lightheadedness +he drank <i>guaro</i> and great quantities of black +coffee; when ill he ate quinin.</p> +<p>The mere act of pursuit had become automatic +with him. He no longer remembered +why he was seeking out this man. He no +longer remembered the crime that lay at the +root of that flight and pursuit. It was not +often, in fact, that his thoughts strayed back +to his old life. When he did think of it, it +seemed only something too far away to remember, +something phantasmal, something +belonging to another world. There were +times when all his journeying through steaming +swamplands and forests of teak and satinwood +and over indigo lagoons and mountain-passes +of moonlit desolation seemed utterly +and unfathomably foolish. But he fought +back such moods, as though they were a weakness. +He let nothing deter him. He stuck +to his trail, instinctively, doggedly, relentlessly.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_226">[226]</div> +<p>It was at Chalavia that a peon named Tico +Viquez came to Blake with the news of a white +man lying ill of black-water fever in a native +hut. For so much gold, Tico Viquez intimated, +he would lead the señor to the hut in +question.</p> +<p>Blake, who had no gold to spare, covered +the startled peon with his revolver and commanded +Viquez to take him to that hut. There +was that in the white man’s face which caused +the peon to remember that life was sweet. He +led the way through a reptilious swamp and +into the fringe of a nispero forest, where they +came upon a hut with a roof of corrugated +iron and walls of wattled bamboo.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_227">[227]</div> +<p>Blake, with his revolver in his hand and his +guide held before him as a human shield, cautiously +approached the door of this hut, for +he feared treachery. Then, with equal caution, +he peered through the narrow doorway. +He stood there for several moments, without +moving.</p> +<p>Then he slipped his revolver back into his +pocket and stepped into the hut. For there, +in one corner of it, lay Binhart. He lay on +a bed made of bull-hide stretched across a +rough-timbered frame. Yet what Blake +looked down on seemed more a shriveled +mummy of Binhart than the man himself. A +vague trouble took possession of the detective +as he blinked calmly down at the glazed and +sunken eyes, the gaunt neck, the childishly +helpless body. He stood there, waiting until +the man on the sagging bull-skin saw him.</p> +<p>“Hello, Jim!” said the sick man, in little +more than a whisper.</p> +<p>“Hello, Connie!” was the other’s answer. +He picked up a palmetto frond and fought +away the flies. The uncleanness of the place +turned his stomach.</p> +<p>“What’s up, Connie?” he asked, sitting +calmly down beside the narrow bed.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_228">[228]</div> +<p>The sick man moved a hand, weakly, as +though it were the yellow flapper of some +wounded amphibian.</p> +<p>“The jig’s up!” he said. The faint mockery +of a smile wavered across the painfully +gaunt face. It reminded the other man of +heat-lightning on a dark skyline. “You got +me, Jim. But it won’t do much good. I’m +going to cash in.”</p> +<p>“What makes you say that?” argued Blake, +studying the lean figure. There was a look +of mild regret on his own sodden and haggard +face. “What’s wrong with you, anyway?”</p> +<p>The man on the bed did not answer for some +time. When he spoke, he spoke without looking +at the other man.</p> +<p>“They said it was black-water fever. Then +they said it was yellow-jack. But I know +it’s not. I think it’s typhoid, or swamp +fever. It’s worse than malaria. I dam’ +near burn up every night. I get out of my +head. I’ve done that three nights. That’s +why the niggers won’t come near me now!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_229">[229]</div> +<p>Blake leaned forward and fought away the +flies again.</p> +<p>“Then it’s a good thing I got up with you.”</p> +<p>The sick man rolled his eyes in their +sockets, so as to bring his enemy into his line +of vision.</p> +<p>“Why?” he asked.</p> +<p>“Because I’m not going to let you die,” was +Blake’s answer.</p> +<p>“You can’t help it, Jim! The jig’s up!”</p> +<p>“I’m going to get a litter and get you up +out o’ this hell-hole of a swamp,” announced +Blake. “I’m going to have you carried up +to the hills. Then I’m going back to Chalavia +to get a doctor o’ some kind. Then I’m going +to put you on your feet again!”</p> +<p>Binhart slowly moved his head from side to +side. Then the heat-lightning smile played +about the hollow face again.</p> +<p>“It was some chase, Jim, wasn’t it?” he said, +without looking at his old-time enemy.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_230">[230]</div> +<p>Blake stared down at him with his haggard +hound’s eyes; there was no answering smile on +his heavy lips, now furzed with their grizzled +growth of hair. There seemed something +ignominious in such an end, something futile +and self-frustrating. It was unjust. It left +everything so hideously incomplete. He revolted +against it with a sullen and senseless +rage.</p> +<p>“By God, you’re not going to die!” declared +the staring and sinewy-necked man at +the bedside. “I say you’re not going to die. +I’m going to get you out o’ here alive!”</p> +<p>A sweat of weakness stood out on Binhart’s +white face.</p> +<p>“Where to?” he asked, as he had asked once +before. And his eyes remained closed as he +put the question.</p> +<p>“To the pen,” was the answer which rose to +Blake’s lips. But he did not utter the words. +Instead, he rose impatiently to his feet. But +the man on the bed must have sensed that unspoken +response, for he opened his eyes and +stared long and mournfully at his heavy-bodied +enemy.</p> +<p>“You’ll never get me there!” he said, in little +more than a whisper. “Never!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_231">[231]</div> +<h2 id="c17">XVII</h2> +<p>Binhart was moved that night up into +the hills. There he was installed in a +bungalow of an abandoned banana plantation +and a doctor was brought to his bedside. He +was delirious by the time this doctor arrived, +and his ravings through the night were a +source of vague worry to his enemy. On the +second day the sick man showed signs of improvement.</p> +<p>For three weeks Blake watched over Binhart, +saw to his wants, journeyed to Chalavia +for his food and medicines. When the fever +was broken and Binhart began to gain +strength the detective no longer made the trip +to Chalavia in person. He preferred to remain +with the sick man.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_232">[232]</div> +<p>He watched that sick man carefully, jealously, +hour by hour and day by day. A peon +servant was paid to keep up the vigil when +Blake slept, as sleep he must.</p> +<p>But the strain was beginning to tell on him. +He walked heavily. The asthmatic wheeze of +his breathing became more audible. His earlier +touch of malaria returned to him, and he +suffered from intermittent chills and fever. +The day came when Blake suggested it was +about time for them to move on.</p> +<p>“Where to?” asked Binhart. Little had +passed between the two men, but during all +those silent nights and days each had been secretly +yet assiduously studying the other.</p> +<p>“Back to New York,” was Blake’s indifferent-noted +answer. Yet this indifference was +a pretense, for no soul had ever hungered more +for a white man’s country than did the travel-worn +and fever-racked Blake. But he had his +part to play, and he did not intend to shirk +it. They went about their preparations +quietly, like two fellow excursionists making +ready for a journey with which they were already +over-familiar. It was while they sat +waiting for the guides and mules that Blake +addressed himself to the prisoner.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_233">[233]</div> +<p>“Connie,” he said, “I’m taking you back. +It doesn’t make much difference whether I +take you back dead or alive. But I’m going +to take you back.”</p> +<p>The other man said nothing, but his slight +head-movement was one of comprehension.</p> +<p>“So I just wanted to say there’s no side-stepping, +no four-flushing, at this end of the +trip!”</p> +<p>“I understand,” was Binhart’s listless response.</p> +<p>“I’m glad you do,” Blake went on in his dully +monotonous voice. “Because I got where I +can’t stand any more breaks.”</p> +<p>“All right, Jim,” answered Binhart. They +sat staring at each other. It was not hate that +existed between them. It was something more +dormant, more innate. It was something that +had grown ineradicable; as fixed as the relationship +between the hound and the hare. +Each wore an air of careless listlessness, yet +each watched the other, every move, every +moment.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_234">[234]</div> +<p>It was as they made their way slowly down +to the coast that Blake put an unexpected question +to Binhart.</p> +<p>“Connie, where in hell did you plant that +haul o’ yours?”</p> +<p>This thing had been worrying Blake. Weeks +before he had gone through every nook and +corner, every pocket and crevice in Binhart’s +belongings.</p> +<p>The bank thief laughed a little. He had +been growing stronger, day by day, and as his +spirits had risen Blake’s had seemed to recede.</p> +<p>“Oh, I left that up in the States, where it’d +be safe,” he answered.</p> +<p>“What’ll you do about it?” Blake casually +inquired.</p> +<p>“I can’t tell, just yet,” was Binhart’s retort.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_235">[235]</div> +<p>He rode on silent and thoughtful for several +minutes. “Jim,” he said at last, “we’re +both about done for. There’s not much left +for either of us. We’re going at this thing +wrong. There’s a lot o’ money up there, for +somebody. And <i>you</i> ought to get it!”</p> +<p>“What do you mean?” asked Blake. He +resented the bodily weakness that was making +burro-riding a torture.</p> +<p>“I mean it’s worth a hundred and fifty +thousand dollars to you just to let me drop +out. I’d hand you over that much to quit the +chase.”</p> +<p>“It ain’t me that’s chasing you, Connie. +It’s the Law!” was Blake’s quiet-toned response. +And the other man knew he believed +it.</p> +<p>“Well, you quit, and I’ll stand for the +Law!”</p> +<p>“But, can’t you see, they’d never stand for +you!”</p> +<p>“Oh, yes they would. I’d just drop out, +and they’d forget about me. And you’d +have that pile to enjoy life with!”</p> +<p>Blake thought it over, ponderously, point +by point. For not one fraction of a second +could he countenance the thought of surrendering +Binhart. Yet he wanted both his prisoner +and his prisoner’s haul; he wanted his +final accomplishment to be complete.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_236">[236]</div> +<p>“But how’d we ever handle the deal?” +prompted the tired-bodied man on the burro.</p> +<p>“You remember a woman called Elsie Verriner?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” acknowledged Blake, with a pang of +regret which he could not fathom, at the mention +of the name.</p> +<p>“Well, we could fix it through her.”</p> +<p>“Does Elsie Verriner know where that pile +is?” the detective inquired. His withered +hulk of a body was warmed by a slow glow of +anticipation. There was a woman, he remembered, +whom he could count on swinging to his +own ends.</p> +<p>“No, but she could get it,” was Binhart’s response.</p> +<p>“And what good would that do <i>me</i>?”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_237">[237]</div> +<p>“The two of us could go up to New Orleans. +We could slip in there without any one +being the wiser. She could meet us. She’d +bring the stuff with her. Then, when you had +the pile in your hand, I could just fade off the +map.”</p> +<p>Blake rode on again in silence.</p> +<p>“All right,” he said at last. “I’m willing.”</p> +<p>“Then how’ll you prove it? How’d I +know you’d make good?” demanded Binhart.</p> +<p>“That’s not up to me! You’re the man +that’s got to make good!” was Blake’s retort.</p> +<p>“But you’ll give me the chance?” half +pleaded his prisoner.</p> +<p>“Sure!” replied Blake, as they rode on +again. He was wondering how many more +miles of hell he would have to ride through +before he could rest. He felt that he would +like to sleep for days, for weeks, without any +thought of where to-morrow would find him or +the next day would bring him.</p> +<p>It was late that day as they climbed up out +of a steaming valley into higher ground that +Binhart pulled up and studied Blake’s face.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_238">[238]</div> +<p>“Jim, you look like a sick man to me!” he +declared. He said it without exultation; but +there was a new and less passive timber to his +voice.</p> +<p>“I’ve been feeling kind o’ mean this last +day or two,” confessed Blake. His own once +guttural voice was plaintive, as he spoke. It +was almost a quavering whine.</p> +<p>“Hadn’t we better lay up for a few days?” +suggested Binhart.</p> +<p>“Lay up nothing!” cried Blake, and he +clenched that determination by an outburst of +blasphemous anger. But he secretly took +great doses of quinin and drank much native +liquor. He fought against a mental lassitude +which he could not comprehend. Never before +had that ample machinery of the body +failed him in an emergency. Never before had +he known an illness that a swallow or two of +brandy and a night’s rest could not scatter to +the four winds. It bewildered him to find his +once capable frame rebelling against its tasks. +It left him dazed, as though he had been confronted +by the sudden and gratuitous treachery +of a life-long servant.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_239">[239]</div> +<p>He grew more irritable, more fanciful. He +changed guides at the next native village, fearing +that Binhart might have grown too intimate +with the old ones. He was swayed by an +ever-increasing fear of intrigues. He coerced +his flagging will into a feverish watchfulness. +He became more arbitrary in his movements +and exactions. When the chance came, he +purchased a repeating Lee-Enfield rifle, which +he packed across his sweating back on the trail +and slept with under his arm at night. When +a morning came when he was too weak and +ill to get up, he lay back on his grass couch, +with his rifle across his knees, watching Binhart, +always watching Binhart.</p> +<p>He seemed to realize that his power was +slipping away, and he brooded on some plan +for holding his prisoner, on any plan, no matter +what it might cost.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_240">[240]</div> +<p>He even pretended to sleep, to the end that +Binhart might make an effort to break away—and +be brought down with a bullet. He +prayed that Binhart would try to go, would +give him an excuse for the last move that +would leave the two of them lying there together. +Even to perish there side by side, +foolishly, uselessly, seemed more desirable than +the thought that Binhart might in the end get +away. He seemed satisfied that the two of +them should lie there, for all time, each holding +the other down, like two embattled stags with +their horns inextricably locked. And he +waited there, nursing his rifle, watching out of +sullenly feverish eyes, marking each movement +of the passive-faced Binhart.</p> +<p>But Binhart, knowing what he knew, was +content to wait.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_241">[241]</div> +<p>He was content to wait until the fever grew, +and the poisons of the blood narcotized the +dulled brain into indifference, and then goaded +it into delirium. Then, calmly equipping himself +for his journey, he buried the repeating +rifle and slipped away in the night, carrying +with him Blake’s quinin and revolver and +pocket-filter. He traveled hurriedly, bearing +southeast towards the San Juan. Four days +later he reached the coast, journeyed by boat +to Bluefields, and from that port passed on +into the outer world, where time and distance +swallowed him up, and no sign of his whereabouts +was left behind.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_242">[242]</div> +<h2 id="c18">XVIII</h2> +<p>It was six weeks later that a slender-bodied +young Nicaraguan known as Doctor Alfonso +Sedeno (his right to that title resulting +from four years of medical study in Paris) +escorted into Bluefields the flaccid and attenuated +shadow of Never-Fail Blake. Doctor +Sedeno explained to the English shipping +firm to whom he handed over his patient that +the Señor Americano had been found in a dying +condition, ten miles from the camp of the +rubber company for which he acted as surgeon. +The Señor Americano was apparently +a prospector who had been deserted by his +partner. He had been very ill. But a few +days of complete rest would restore him. The +sea voyage would also help. In the meantime, +if the shipping company would arrange +for credit from the hotel, the matter would +assuredly be put right, later on, when the necessary +despatches had been returned from New +York.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_243">[243]</div> +<p>For three weeks of torpor Blake sat in the +shadowy hotel, watching the torrential rains +that deluged the coast. Then, with the help +of a cane, he hobbled from point to point about +the town, quaveringly inquiring for any word +of his lost partner. He wandered listlessly +back and forth, mumbling out a description of +the man he sought, holding up strangers with +his tremulous-noted inquiries, peering with +weak and watery eyes into any quarter that +might house a fugitive. But no hint or word +of Binhart was to be gleaned from those wanderings, +and at the end of a week he boarded +a fruit steamer bound for Kingston.</p> +<p>His strength came back to him slowly during +that voyage, and when he landed at Kingston +he was able to walk without a stick. At +Kingston, too, his draft on New York was +finally honored. He was able to creep out to +Constant Spring, to buy new clothes, to ride +in a carriage when he chose, to eat a white +man’s food again. The shrunken body under +the flaccid skin slowly took on some semblance +of its former ponderosity, the watery eyes +slowly lost their dead and vapid stare.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_244">[244]</div> +<p>And with increase of strength came a corresponding +increase of mental activity. All day +long he kept turning things over in his tired +brain. Hour by silent hour he would ponder +the problem before him. It was more rumination +than active thought. Yet up from the +stagnating depths of his brooding would come +an occasional bubble of inspiration.</p> +<p>Binhart, he finally concluded, had gone +north. It was the natural thing to do. He +would go where his haul was hidden away. +Sick of unrest, he would seek peace. He +would fall a prey to man’s consuming hunger +to speak with his own kind again. Convinced +that his enemy was not at his heels, he would +hide away somewhere in his own country. +And once reasonably assured that this enemy +had died as he had left him to die, Binhart +would surely remain in his own land, among +his own people.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_245">[245]</div> +<p>Blake had no proof of this. He could not +explain why he accepted it as fact. He merely +wrote it down as one of his hunches. And +with his old-time faith in the result of that subliminal +reasoning, he counted what remained +of his money, paid his bills, and sailed from +Kingston northward as a steerage passenger +in a United Fruit steamer bound for Boston.</p> +<p>As he had expected, he landed at this +New England port without detection, without +recognition. Six hours later he stepped off a +train in New York.</p> +<p>He passed out into the streets of his native +city like a ghost emerging from its tomb. +There seemed something spectral in the very +chill of the thin northern sunlight, after the +opulent and oppressive heat of the tropics. A +gulf of years seemed to lie between him and +the actualities so close to him. A desolating +sense of loneliness kept driving him into the +city’s noisier and more crowded drinking-places, +where, under the lash of alcohol, he was +able to wear down his hot ache of deprivation +into a dim and dreary regretfulness. Yet +the very faces about him still remained phantasmal. +The commonplaces of street life continued +to take on an alien aspect. They +seemed vague and far away, as though viewed +through a veil. He felt that the world had +gone on, and in going on had forgotten him. +Even the scraps of talk, the talk of his own +people, fell on his ear with a strange sound.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_246">[246]</div> +<p>He found nothing companionable in that +cañon of life and movement known as Broadway. +He stopped to stare with haggard and +wistful eyes at a theater front buoyed with +countless electric bulbs, remembering the +proud moment when he had been cheered in +a box there, for in his curtain-speech the +author of the melodrama of crime being presented +had confessed that the inspiration and +plot of his play had come from that great detective, +Never-Fail Blake.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_247">[247]</div> +<p>He drifted on down past the cafés and +restaurants where he had once dined and +supped so well, past the familiar haunts where +the appetite of the spirit for privilege had +once been as amply fed as the appetite of the +body for food. He sought out the darker +purlieus of the lower city, where he had once +walked as a king and dictated dead-lines and +distributed patronage. He drifted into the +underworld haunts where his name had at one +time been a terror. But now, he could see, his +approach no longer resulted in that discreet +scurry to cover, that feverish scuttling away +for safety, which marks the blacksnake’s progress +through a gopher-village.</p> +<p>When he came to Centre Street, at the +corner of Broome, he stopped and blinked up +at the great gray building wherein he had once +held sway. He stood, stoop-shouldered and +silent, staring at the green lamps, the green +lamps of vigilance that burned as a sign to the +sleeping city.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_248">[248]</div> +<p>He stood there for some time, unrecognized, +unnoticed, watching the platoons of broad-chested +“flatties” as they swung out and off +to their midnight patrols, marking the plainly +clad “elbows” as they passed quietly up and +down the great stone steps. He thought of +Copeland, and the Commissioner, and of his +own last hour at Headquarters. And then his +thoughts went on to Binhart, and the trail that +had been lost, and the task that stood still +ahead of him. And with that memory awakened +the old sullen fires, the old dogged and +implacable determination.</p> +<p>In the midst of those reviving fires a new +thought was fixed; the thought that Binhart’s +career was in some way still involved with that +of Elsie Verriner. If any one knew of Binhart’s +whereabouts, he remembered, it would +surely be this woman, this woman on whom, +he contended, he could still hold the iron hand +of incrimination. The first move would be to +find her. And then, at any cost, the truth +must be wrung from her.</p> +<p>Never-Fail Blake, from the obscure downtown +hotel, into which he crept like a sick +hound shunning the light, sent out his call for +Elsie Verriner. He sent his messages to +many and varied quarters, feeling sure that +some groping tentacle of inquiry would eventually +come in touch with her.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_249">[249]</div> +<p>Yet the days dragged by, and no answer +came back to him. He chafed anew at this +fresh evidence that his power was a thing of +the past, that his word was no longer law. +He burned with a sullen and self-consuming +anger, an anger that could be neither expressed +in action nor relieved in words.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_250">[250]</div> +<p>Then, at the end of a week’s time, a note +came from Elsie Verriner. It was dated and +postmarked “Washington,” and in it she +briefly explained that she had been engaged in +Departmental business, but that she expected +to be in New York on the following Monday. +Blake found himself unreasonably irritated +by a certain crisp assurance about this note, a +certain absence of timorousness, a certain unfamiliar +tone of independence. But he could +afford to wait, he told himself. His hour +would come, later on. And when that hour +came, he would take a crimp out of this calm-eyed +woman, or the heavens themselves would +fall! And finding further idleness unbearable, +he made his way to a drinking-place not +far from that juncture of First Street and +the Bowery, known as Suicide Corner. In +this new-world <i>Cabaret de Neant</i> he drowned +his impatience of soul in a Walpurgis Night +of five-cent beer and fusel-oil whiskey. But +his time would come, he repeated drunkenly, +as he watched with his haggard hound’s eyes +the meretricious and tragic merriment of the +revelers about him—his time would come!</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_251">[251]</div> +<h2 id="c19">XIX</h2> +<p>Blake did not look up as he heard the +door open and the woman step into the +room. There was an echo of his old-time +theatricalism in that dissimulation of stolid indifference. +But the old-time stage-setting, +he knew, was no longer there. Instead of sitting +behind an oak desk at Headquarters, he +was staring down at a beer-stained card-table +in the dingy back room of a dingy downtown +hotel.</p> +<p>He knew the woman had closed the door +and crossed the room to the other side of the +card-table, but still he did not look up at her. +The silence lengthened until it became acute, +epochal, climactic.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_252">[252]</div> +<p>“You sent for me?” his visitor finally said. +And as Elsie Verriner uttered the words he +was teased by a vague sense that the scene had +happened before, that somewhere before in +their lives it had been duplicated, word by +word and move by move.</p> +<p>“Sit down,” he said with an effort at the +gruffness of assured authority. But the +young woman did not do as he commanded. +She remained still standing, and still staring +down at the face of the man in front of her.</p> +<p>So prolonged was this stare that Blake began +to be embarrassingly conscious of it, to +fidget under it. When he looked up he did +so circuitously, pretending to peer beyond the +white face and the staring eyes of the young +woman confronting him. Yet she ultimately +coerced his unsteady gaze, even against his +own will. And as he had expected, he saw +written on her face something akin to horror.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_253">[253]</div> +<p>As he, in turn, stared back at her, and in her +eyes saw first incredulity, and then, what +stung him more, open pity itself, it came home +to him that he must indeed have altered for +the worse, that his face and figure must have +changed. For the first time it flashed over +him: he was only the wreck of the man he had +once been. Yet at the core of that wreck +burned the old passion for power, the ineradicable +appetite for authority. He resented +the fact that she should feel sorry for him. +He inwardly resolved to make her suffer for +that pity, to enlighten her as to what life was +still left in the battered old carcass which she +could so openly sorrow over.</p> +<p>“Well, I’m back,” he announced in his guttural +bass, as though to bridge a silence that +was becoming abysmal.</p> +<p>“Yes, you’re back!” echoed Elsie Verriner. +She spoke absently, as though her mind were +preoccupied with a problem that seemed inexplicable.</p> +<p>“And a little the worse for wear,” he pursued, +with his mirthless croak of a laugh. +Then he flashed up at her a quick look of resentment, +a look which he found himself unable +to repress. “While you’re all dolled +up,” he said with a snort, as though bent on +wounding her, “dolled up like a lobster palace +floater!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_254">[254]</div> +<p>It hurt him more than ever to see that he +could not even dethrone that fixed look of pity +from her face, that even his abuse could not +thrust aside her composure.</p> +<p>“I’m not a lobster palace floater,” she +quietly replied. “And you know it.”</p> +<p>“Then what are you?” he demanded.</p> +<p>“I’m a confidential agent of the Treasury +Department,” was her quiet-toned answer.</p> +<p>“Oho!” cried Blake. “So that’s why we’ve +grown so high and mighty!”</p> +<p>The woman sank into the chair beside which +she had been standing. She seemed impervious +to his mockery.</p> +<p>“What do you want me for?” she asked, and +the quick directness of her question implied +not so much that time was being wasted on side +issues as that he was cruelly and unnecessarily +demeaning himself in her eyes.</p> +<p>It was then that Blake swung about, as +though he, too, were anxious to sweep aside +the trivialities that stood between him and his +end, as though he, too, were conscious of the +ignominy of his own position.</p> +<p>“You know where I’ve been and what I’ve +been doing!” he suddenly cried out.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_255">[255]</div> +<p>“I’m not positive that I do,” was the +woman’s guarded answer.</p> +<p>“That’s a lie!” thundered Blake. “You +know as well as I do!”</p> +<p>“What have you been doing?” asked the +woman, almost indulgently.</p> +<p>“I’ve been trailing Binhart, and you know +it! And what’s more, you know where Binhart +is, now, at this moment!”</p> +<p>“What was it you wanted me for?” reiterated +the white-faced woman, without looking +at him.</p> +<p>Her evasions did more than anger Blake; +they maddened him. For years now he had +been compelled to face her obliquities, to +puzzle over the enigma of her ultimate character, +and he was tired of it all. He made no +effort to hold his feelings in check. Even +into his voice crept that grossness which before +had seemed something of the body alone.</p> +<p>“I want to know where Binhart is!” he +cried, leaning forward so that his head projected +pugnaciously from his shoulders like +the head of a fighting-cock.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_256">[256]</div> +<p>“Then you have only wasted time in sending +for me,” was the woman’s obdurate answer. +Yet beneath her obduracy was some +vague note of commiseration which he could +not understand.</p> +<p>“I want that man, and I’m going to get +him,” was Blake’s impassioned declaration. +“And before you get out of this room you’re +going to tell me where he is!”</p> +<p>She met his eyes, studiously, deliberately, as +though it took a great effort to do so. Their +glances seemed to close in and lock together.</p> +<p>“Jim!” said the woman, and it startled him +to see that there were actual tears in her eyes. +But he was determined to remain superior to +any of her subterfuges. His old habit returned +to him, the old habit of “pounding” a +prisoner. He knew that one way to get at +the meat of a nut was to smash the nut. And +in all his universe there seemed only one issue +and one end, and that was to find his trail and +get his man. So he cut her short with his +quick volley of abuse.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_257">[257]</div> +<p>“I’ve got your number, Elsie Verriner, +alias Chaddy Cravath,” he thundered out, +bringing his great withered fist down on the +table top. “I’ve got every trick you ever +turned stowed away in cold storage. I’ve +got ’em where they’ll keep until the cows come +home. I don’t care whether you’re a secret +agent or a Secretary of War. There’s only +one thing that counts with me now. And +I’m going to win out. I’m going to win out, +in the end, no matter what it costs. If you +try to block me in this I’ll put you where you +belong. I’ll drag you down until you squeal +like a cornered rat. I’ll put you so low +you’ll never even stand up again!”</p> +<p>The woman leaned a little forward, staring +into his eyes.</p> +<p>“I didn’t expect this of you, Jim,” she said. +Her voice was tremulous as she spoke, and still +again he could see on her face that odious and +unfathomable pity.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_258">[258]</div> +<p>“There’s lots of things weren’t expected +of me. But I’m going to surprise you all. +I’m going to get what I’m after or I’m +going to put you where I ought to have put +you two years ago!”</p> +<p>“Jim,” said the woman, white-lipped but +compelling herself to calmness, “don’t go on +like this! Don’t! You’re only making it +worse, every minute!”</p> +<p>“Making what worse?” demanded Blake.</p> +<p>“The whole thing. It was a mistake, from +the first. I could have told you that. But +you did then what you’re trying to do now. +And see what you’ve lost by it!”</p> +<p>“What have I lost by it?”</p> +<p>“You’ve lost everything,” she answered, +and her voice was thin with misery. “Everything—just +as they counted on your doing, +just as they expected!”</p> +<p>“As who expected?”</p> +<p>“As Copeland and the others expected when +they sent you out on a blind trail.”</p> +<p>“I wasn’t sent out on a blind trail.”</p> +<p>“But you found nothing when you went +out. Surely you remember that.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_259">[259]</div> +<p>It seemed like going back to another world, +to another life, as he sat there coercing his +memory to meet the past, the abysmal and embittered +past which he had grown to hate.</p> +<p>“Are you trying to say this Binhart case +was a frame up?” he suddenly cried out.</p> +<p>“They wanted you out of the way. It was +the only trick they could think of.”</p> +<p>“That’s a lie!” declared Blake.</p> +<p>“It’s not a lie. They knew you’d never +give up. They even handicapped you—started +you wrong, to be sure it would take +time, to be positive of a clear field.”</p> +<p>Blake stared at her, almost stupidly. His +mind was groping about, trying to find some +adequate motive for this new line of duplicity. +He kept warning himself that she was not to +be trusted. Human beings, all human beings, +he had found, moved only by indirection. +He was too old a bird to have sand thrown in +his eyes.</p> +<p>“Why, you welched on Binhart yourself. +You put me on his track. You sent me up to +Montreal!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_260">[260]</div> +<p>“They made me do that,” confessed the unhappy +woman. “He wasn’t in Montreal. +He never had been there!”</p> +<p>“You had a letter from him there, telling +you to come to 381 King Edward when the +coast was clear.”</p> +<p>“That letter was two years old. It was +sent from a room in the King Edward Hotel. +That was part of their plant.”</p> +<p>He sat for a long time thinking it over, +point by point. He became disturbed by a +sense of instability in the things that had once +seemed most enduring, the sickening cataclysmic +horror of a man who finds the very earth +under his feet shaken by its earthquake. His +sodden face appeared to age even as he sat +there laboriously reliving the past, the past +that seemed suddenly empty and futile.</p> +<p>“So you sold me out!” he finally said, +studying her white face with his haggard +hound’s eyes.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_261">[261]</div> +<p>“I couldn’t help it, Jim. You forced it on +me. You wouldn’t give me the chance to do +anything else. I wanted to help you—but +you held me off. You put the other thing before +my friendship!”</p> +<p>“What do <i>you</i> know about friendship?” +cried the gray-faced man.</p> +<p>“We were friends once,” answered the +woman, ignoring the bitter mockery in his cry.</p> +<p>He stared at her, untouched by the note of +pathos in her voice. There was something +abstracted about his stare, as though his mind +had not yet adjusted itself to a vast new discovery. +His inner vision seemed dazzled, just +as the eye itself may be dazzled by unexpected +light.</p> +<p>“So you sold me out!” he said for a third +time. He did not move, but under that lava-like +shell of diffidence were volcanic and +coursing fires which even he himself could not +understand.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_262">[262]</div> +<p>“Jim, I would have done anything for you, +once,” went on the unhappy woman facing +him. “You could have saved me—from him, +from myself. But you let the chance slip +away. I couldn’t go on. I saw where it +would end. So I had to save myself. I had +to save myself—in the only way I could. Oh, +Jim, if you’d only been kinder!”</p> +<p>She sat with her head bowed, ashamed of +her tears, the tears which he could not understand. +He stared at her great crown of carefully +coiled and plaited hair, shining in the +light of the unshaded electric-bulb above them. +It took him back to other days when he had +looked at it with other eyes. And a comprehension +of all he had lost crept slowly home +to him. Poignant as was the thought that she +had seemed beautiful to him and he might +have once possessed her, this thought was obliterated +by the sudden memory that in her +lay centered everything that had caused his +failure. She had been the weak link in his +life, the life which he had so wanted to crown +with success.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_263">[263]</div> +<p>“You welcher!” he suddenly gasped, as he +continued to stare at her. His very contemplation +of her white face seemed to madden +him. In it he seemed to find some signal and +sign of his own dissolution, of his lost power, +of his outlived authority. In her seemed to +abide the reason for all that he had endured. +To have attained to a comprehension of her +own feelings was beyond him. Even the effort +to understand them would have been a +contradiction of his whole career. She only +angered him. And the hot anger that crept +through his body seemed to smoke out of some +inner recess of his being a hate that was as +unreasonable as it was animal-like. All the +instincts of existence, in that moment, reverted +to life’s one primordial problem, the +problem of the fighting man to whom every +other man must be an opponent, the problem +of the feral being, as to whether it should kill +or be killed.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_264">[264]</div> +<p>Into that unreasoning blind rage flared all +the frustration of months, of years, all the disappointments +of all his chase, all the defeat of +all his career. Even as she sat there in her +pink and white frailty she knew and nursed +the secret for which he had girdled the world. +He felt that he must tear it from her, that he +must crush it out of her body as the pit is +squeezed from a cherry. And the corroding +part of it was that he had been outwitted by +a woman, that he was being defied by a physical +weakling, a slender-limbed thing of ribbons +and laces whose back he could bend and +break across his great knee.</p> +<p>He lurched forward to his feet. His great +crouching body seemed drawn towards her by +some slow current which he could not control.</p> +<p>“Where’s Binhart?” he suddenly gasped, +and the explosive tensity of that wheezing cry +caused her to look up, startled. He swayed +toward her as she did so, swept by some power +not his own. There was something leonine in +his movement, something leonine in his snarl +as he fell on her. He caught her body in his +great arms and shook it. He moved without +any sense of movement, without any memory +of it.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_265">[265]</div> +<p>“Where’s Binhart?” he repeated, foolishly, +for by this time his great hand had closed on +her throat and all power of speech was beyond +her. He swung her about and bore her +back across the table. She did not struggle. +She lay there so passive in his clutch that a +dull pride came to him at the thought of his +own strength. This belated sense of power +seemed to intoxicate him. He was swept by +a blind passion to crush, to obliterate. It +seemed as though the rare and final moment +for the righting of vast wrongs, for the ending +of great injustices, were at hand. His +one surprise was that she did not resist him, +that she did not struggle.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_266">[266]</div> +<p>From side to side he twisted and flailed her +body about, in his madness, gloating over her +final subserviency to his will, marveling how +well adapted for attack was this soft and slender +column of the neck, on which his throttling +fingers had fastened themselves. Instinctively +they had sought out and closed on that slender +column, guided to it by some ancestral propulsion, +by some heritage of the brute. It was +made to get a grip on, a neck like that! And +he grunted aloud, with wheezing and voluptuous +grunts of gratification, as he saw the white +face alter and the wide eyes darken with terror. +He was making her suffer. He was no +longer enveloped by that mild and tragically +inquiring stare that had so discomforted him. +He was no longer stung by the thought that +she was good to look on, even with her head +pinned down against a beer-stained card-table. +He was converting her into something useless +and broken, into something that could no +longer come between him and his ends. He +was completely and finally humiliating her. +He was breaking her. He was converting her +into something corrupt. . . . Then his pendulous +throat choked with a falsetto gasp of +wonder. <i>He was killing her!</i></p> +<p>Then, as suddenly as it had come, the smoke +of that mental explosion seemed to clear +away. Even as he gaped into the white face +so close to his own he awoke to reason. The +consciousness of how futile, of how odious, of +how maniacal, it all was swept over him. He +had fallen low, but he had never dreamed that +he could fall so low as this.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_267">[267]</div> +<p>A reaction of physical nausea left him weak +and dizzy. The flexor muscles of his fingers +relaxed. An ague of weakness crept through +his limbs. A vertiginous faintness brought +him half tumbling and half rolling back into +his chair, wheezing and moist with sweat. He +sat there looking about him, like a sheep killer +looking up from the ewe it has captured.</p> +<p>Then his great chest heaved and shook with +hysterical sobbing. When, a little later, he +heard the shaken woman’s antiphonal sobs, +the realization of how low he had fallen kept +him from looking at her. A great shame possessed +him. He stumbled out of the room. +He groped his way down to the open streets, +a haggard and broken man from whom life +had wrung some final hope of honor.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_268">[268]</div> +<h2 id="c20">XX</h2> +<p>No catastrophe that was mental in its +origin could oppress for long a man so +essentially physical as Blake. For two desolate +hours, it is true, he wandered about the +streets of the city, struggling to medicine his +depression of the mind by sheer weariness of +the body. Then the habit of a lifetime of +activity reasserted itself. He felt the need +of focusing his resentment on something +tangible and material. And as a comparative +clarity of vision returned to him there also +came back those tendencies of the instinctive +fighter, the innate protest against injustice, +the revolt against final surrender, the forlorn +claim for at least a fighting chance. And +with the thought of his official downfall came +the thought of Copeland and what Copeland +had done to him.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_269">[269]</div> +<p>Out of that ferment of futile protest arose +one sudden decision. Even before he articulated +the decision he found it unconsciously +swaying his movements and directing his +steps. He would go and see Copeland! He +would find that bloodless little shrimp and put +him face to face with a few plain truths. He +would confront that anemic Deputy-Commissioner +and at least let him know what one +honest man thought of him.</p> +<p>Even when Blake stood before Copeland’s +brownstone-fronted house, the house that +seemed to wear a mask of staid discretion in +every drawn blind and gloomy story, no hesitation +came to him. His naturally primitive +mind foresaw no difficulties in that possible +encounter. He knew it was late, that it was +nearly midnight, but even that did not deter +him. The recklessness of utter desperation +was on him. His purpose was something +that transcended the mere trivialities of every-day +intercourse. And he must see him. To +confront Copeland became essential to his +scheme of things.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_270">[270]</div> +<p>He went ponderously up the brownstone +steps and rang the bell. He waited patiently +until his ring was answered. It was some +time before the door swung open. Inside +that door Blake saw a solemn-eyed servant in +a black spiked-tailed service-coat and gray +trousers.</p> +<p>“I want to see Mr. Copeland,” was Blake’s +calmly assured announcement.</p> +<p>“Mr. Copeland is not at home,” answered +the man in the service-coat. His tone was +politely impersonal. His face, too, was impassive. +But one quick glance seemed to have +appraised the man on the doorstep, to have +judged him, and in some way to have found +him undesirable.</p> +<p>“But this is important,” said Blake.</p> +<p>“I’m sorry, sir,” answered the impersonal-eyed +servant. Blake made an effort to keep +himself in perfect control. He knew that his +unkempt figure had not won the good-will of +that autocratic hireling.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_271">[271]</div> +<p>“I’m from Police Headquarters,” the man +on the doorstep explained, with the easy mendacity +that was a heritage of his older days. +He produced the one official card that remained +with him, the one worn and dog-eared +and once water-soaked Deputy-Commissioner’s +card which still remained in his dog-eared +wallet. “I’ve got to see him on business, +Departmental business!”</p> +<p>“Mr. and Mrs. Copeland are at the Metropolitan, +sir,” explained the servant. “At the +Opera. And they are not back yet.”</p> +<p>“Then I’ll wait for him,” announced Blake, +placated by the humbler note in the voice of +the man in the service-coat.</p> +<p>“Very good, sir,” announced the servant. +And he led the way upstairs, switching on the +electrics as he went.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_272">[272]</div> +<p>Blake found himself in what seemed to be +a library. About this softly hung room he +peered with an acute yet heavy disdain, with +an indeterminate envy which he could not control. +It struck him as being feminine and +over fine, that shadowy room with all its warm +hangings and polished wood. It stood for a +phase of life with which he had no patience. +And he kept telling himself that it had not +been come by honestly, that on everything +about him, from the silver desk ornaments to +the marble bust glimmering out of its shadowy +background, he himself had some secret claim. +He scowled up at a number of signed etchings +and a row of diminutive and heavily +framed canvases, scowled up at them with +quick contempt. Then he peered uncomfortably +about at the shelves of books, mottled +streaks of vellum and morocco stippled with +gold, crowded pickets of soft-lettered color +which seemed to stand between him and a +world which he had never cared to enter. It +was a foolish world, that world of book reading, +a lackadaisical region of unreality, a place +for women and children, but never meant for +a man with a man’s work to do.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_273">[273]</div> +<p>His stolidly contemptuous eyes were still +peering about the room when the door opened +and closed again. There was something so +characteristically guarded and secretive in the +movement that Blake knew it was Copeland +even before he let his gaze wheel around to +the newcomer. About the entire figure, in +fact, he could detect that familiar veiled wariness, +that enigmatic and self-concealing cautiousness +which had always had the power to +touch him into a quick irritation.</p> +<p>“Mr. Blake, I believe,” said Copeland, very +quietly. He was in full evening dress. In +one hand he held a silk hat and over one arm +hung a black top-coat. He held himself in +perfect control, in too perfect control, yet his +thin face was almost ashen in color, almost the +neutral-tinted gray of a battle-ship’s side-plates. +And when he spoke it was with the +impersonal polite unction with which he might +have addressed an utter stranger.</p> +<p>“You wished to see me!” he said, as his gaze +fastened itself on Blake’s figure. The fact +that he remained standing imparted a tentativeness +to the situation. Yet his eyes remained +on Blake, studying him with the cold +and mildly abstracted curiosity with which he +might view a mummy in its case.</p> +<p>“I do!” said Blake, without rising from his +chair.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_274">[274]</div> +<p>“About what?” asked Copeland. There +was an acidulated crispness in his voice which +hinted that time might be a matter of importance +to him.</p> +<p>“You know what it’s about, all right,” was +Blake’s heavy retort.</p> +<p>“On the contrary,” said Copeland, putting +down his hat and coat, “I’m quite in the dark +as to how I can be of service to you.”</p> +<p>Both his tone and his words angered Blake, +angered him unreasonably. But he kept +warning himself to wait, to hold himself in +until the proper moment arrived.</p> +<p>“I expect no service from you,” was Blake’s +curtly guttural response. He croaked out his +mirthless ghost of a laugh. “You’ve taught +me better than that!”</p> +<p>Copeland, for all his iciness, seemed to resent +the thrust.</p> +<p>“We have always something to learn,” he +retorted, meeting Blake’s stolid stare of +enmity.</p> +<p>“I guess I’ve learned enough!” said +Blake.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_275">[275]</div> +<p>“Then I hope it has brought you what you +are looking for!” Copeland, as he spoke, +stepped over to a chair, but he still remained +on his feet.</p> +<p>“No, it hasn’t brought me what I’m after,” +said the other man. “Not yet! But it’s +going to, in the end, Mr. Copeland, or I’m +going to know the reason why!”</p> +<p>He kept warning himself to be calm, yet he +found his voice shaking a little as he spoke. +The time was not yet ripe for his outbreak. +The climactic moment was still some distance +away. But he could feel it emerging from the +mist just as a pilot sights the bell-buoy that +marks his changing channel.</p> +<p>“Then might I ask what you are after?” +inquired Copeland. He folded his arms, as +though to fortify himself behind a pretense of +indifferency.</p> +<p>“You know what I’ve been after, just as I +know what you’ve been after,” cried Blake. +“You set out to get my berth, and you got it. +And I set out to get Binhart, to get the man +your whole push couldn’t round up—and I’m +going to get him!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_276">[276]</div> +<p>“Blake,” said Copeland, very quietly, “you +are wrong in both instances.”</p> +<p>“Am I!”</p> +<p>“You are,” was Copeland’s answer, and he +spoke with a studious patience which his rival +resented even more than his open enmity. +“In the first place, this Binhart case is a closed +issue.”</p> +<p>“Not with me!” cried Blake, feeling himself +surrendering to the tide that had been tugging +at him so long. “They may be able to buy off +you cuff-shooters down at Headquarters. +They may grease your palm down there, until +you see it pays to keep your hands off. They +may pull a rope or two and make you back +down. But nothing this side o’ the gates o’ +hell is going to make <i>me</i> back down. I began +this man-hunt, and <i>I’m going to end it</i>!”</p> +<p>He took on a dignity in his own eyes. He +felt that in the face of every obstacle he was +still the instrument of an ineluctable and incorruptible +Justice. Uncouth and buffeted as +his withered figure may have been, it still represented +the relentlessness of the Law.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_277">[277]</div> +<p>“That man-hunt is out of our hands,” he +heard Copeland saying.</p> +<p>“But it’s not out of <i>my</i> hands!” reiterated +the detective.</p> +<p>“Yes, it’s out of your hands, too,” answered +Copeland. He spoke with a calm authority, +with a finality, that nettled the other man.</p> +<p>“What are you driving at?” he cried out.</p> +<p>“This Binhart hunt is ended,” repeated +Copeland, and in the eyes looking down at him +Blake saw that same vague pity which had +rested in the gaze of Elsie Verriner.</p> +<p>“By God, it’s not ended!” Blake thundered +back at him.</p> +<p>“It <i>is</i> ended,” quietly contended the other. +“And precisely as you have put it—Ended +by God!”</p> +<p>“It’s what?” cried Blake.</p> +<p>“You don’t seem to be aware of the fact, +Blake, that Binhart is dead—dead and +buried!”</p> +<p>Blake stared up at him.</p> +<p>“Is what?” his lips automatically inquired.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_278">[278]</div> +<p>“Binhart died seven weeks ago. He died +in the town of Toluca, out in Arizona. He’s +buried there.”</p> +<p>“That’s a lie!” cried Blake, sagging forward +in his chair.</p> +<p>“We had the Phœnix authorities verify the +report in every detail. There is no shadow of +doubt about it.”</p> +<p>Still Blake stared up at the other man.</p> +<p>“I don’t believe it,” he wheezed.</p> +<p>Copeland did not answer him. He stepped +to the end of the desk and with his scholarly +white finger touched a mother-of-pearl bell +button. Utter silence reigned in the room until +the servant answered his summons.</p> +<p>“Bridley, go to my secretary and bring me +the portfolio in the second drawer.”</p> +<p>Blake heard and yet did not hear the message. +A fog-like sense of unreality seemed +to drape everything about him. The earth itself +seemed to crumble away and leave him +poised alone in the very emptiness of space. +Binhart was dead!</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_279">[279]</div> +<p>He could hear Copeland’s voice far away. +He could see the returning figure of the servant, +but it seemed as gray and ghostlike as +the entire room about him. In his shaking +fingers he took the official papers which Copeland +handed over to him. He could read the +words, he could see the signatures, but they +seemed unable to impart any clear-cut message +to his brain. His dazed eyes wandered over +the newspaper clippings which Copeland +thrust into his unsteady fingers. There, too, +was the same calamitous proclamation, as final +as though he had been reading it on a tombstone. +Binhart was dead! Here were the +proofs of it; here was an authentic copy of the +death certificate, the reports of the police verification; +here in his hands were the final and +indisputable proofs.</p> +<p>But he could not quite comprehend it. He +tried to tell himself it was only that his old-time +enemy was playing some new trick on +him, a trick which he could not quite fathom. +Then the totality of it all swept home to him, +swept through his entire startled being as a +tidal-wave sweeps over a coast-shoal.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_280">[280]</div> +<p>Blake, in his day, had known desolation, but +it had seldom been desolation of spirit. It +had never been desolation like this. He tried +to plumb it, to its deepest meaning, but consciousness +seemed to have no line long enough. +He only knew that his world had ended. He +saw himself as the thing that life had at last +left him—a solitary and unsatisfied man, a +man without an aim, without a calling, without +companionship.</p> +<p>“So this ends the music!” he muttered, as +he rose weakly to his feet. And yet it was +more than the end of the music, he had to confess +to himself. It was the collapse of the +instruments, the snapping of the last string. +It was the ultimate end, the end that proclaimed +itself as final as the stabbing thought +of his own death itself.</p> +<p>He heard Copeland asking if he would care +for a glass of sherry. Whether he answered +that query or not he never knew. He only +knew that Binhart was dead, and that he himself +was groping his way out into the night, a +broken and desolate man.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_281">[281]</div> +<h2 id="c21">XXI</h2> +<p>Several days dragged away before +Blake’s mental clarity returned to him. +Then block by unstable block he seemed to +rebuild a new world about him, a new world +which was both narrow and empty. But it +at least gave him something on which to plant +his bewildered feet.</p> +<p>That slow return to the substantialities of +life was in the nature of a convalescence. It +came step by languid step; he knew no power +to hurry it. And as is so often the case with +convalescents, he found himself in a world +from which time seemed to have detached him. +Yet as he emerged from that earlier state of +coma, his old-time instincts and characteristics +began to assert themselves. Some deep-seated +inner spirit of dubiety began to grope +about and question and challenge. His innate +skepticism once more became active. +That tendency to cynical unbelief which his +profession had imposed upon him stubbornly +reasserted itself. His career had crowned +him with a surly suspiciousness. And about +the one thing that remained vital to that career, +or what was left of it, these wayward +suspicions arrayed themselves like wolves +about a wounded stag.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_282">[282]</div> +<p>His unquiet soul felt the need of some final +and personal proof of Binhart’s death. He +asked for more data than had been given him. +He wanted more information than the fact +that Binhart, on his flight north, had fallen ill +of pneumonia in New Orleans, had wandered +on to the dry air of Arizona with a “spot” on +his lungs, and had there succumbed to the +tubercular invasion for which his earlier sickness +had laid him open. Blake’s slowly +awakening and ever-wary mind kept telling +him that after all there might be some possibility +of trickery, that a fugitive with the +devilish ingenuity of Binhart would resort to +any means to escape being further harassed by +the Law.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_283">[283]</div> +<p>Blake even recalled, a few days later, the +incident of the Shattuck jewel-robbery, during +the first weeks of his régime as a Deputy +Commissioner. This diamond-thief named +Shattuck had been arrested and released under +heavy bail. Seven months later Shattuck’s +attorney had appeared before the District Attorney’s +office with a duly executed certificate +of death, officially establishing the fact that +his client had died two weeks before in the city +of Baltimore. On this he had based a demand +for the dismissal of the case. He had succeeded +in having all action stopped and the +affair became, officially, a closed incident. +Yet two months later Shattuck had been seen +alive, and the following winter had engaged +in an Albany hotel robbery which had earned +for him, under an entirely different name, a +nine-year sentence in Sing Sing.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_284">[284]</div> +<p>From the memory of that case Never-Fail +Blake wrung a thin and ghostly consolation. +The more he brooded over it the more morosely +disquieted he became. The thing grew +like a upas tree; it spread until it obsessed all +his waking hours and invaded even his dreams. +Then a time came when he could endure it no +more. He faced the necessity of purging his +soul of all uncertainty. The whimpering of +one of his unkenneled “hunches” merged into +what seemed an actual voice of inspiration to +him.</p> +<p>He gathered together what money he could; +he arranged what few matters still remained +to engage his attention, going about the task +with that valedictory solemnity with which the +forlornly decrepit execute their last will and +testament. Then, when everything was prepared, +he once more started out on the trail.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_285">[285]</div> +<p class="center"><span class="gs">* * * * * * * *</span></p><p>Two weeks later a rough and heavy-bodied +man, garbed in the rough apparel of a mining +prospector, made his way into the sun-steeped +town of Toluca. There he went quietly to +the wooden-fronted hotel, hired a pack-mule +and a camp-outfit and made purchase, among +other things, of a pick and shovel. To certain +of the men he met he put inquiries as to +the best trail out to the Buenavista Copper +Camp. Then, as he waited for the camp-partner +who was to follow him into Toluca, +he drifted with amiable and ponderous restlessness +about the town, talking with the telegraph +operator and the barber, swapping +yarns at the livery-stable where his pack-mule +was lodged, handing out cigars in the wooden-fronted +hotel, casually interviewing the town +officials as to the health of the locality and the +death-rate of Toluca, acquainting himself with +the local undertaker and the lonely young +doctor, and even dropping in on the town officials +and making inquiries about main-street +building lots and the need of a new hotel.</p> +<p>To all this amiable and erratic garrulity +there seemed to be neither direction nor significance. +But in one thing the town of +Toluca agreed; the ponderous-bodied old newcomer +was a bit “queer” in his head.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_286">[286]</div> +<p>A time came, however, when the newcomer +announced that he could wait no longer for +his belated camp-partner. With his pack-mule +and a pick and shovel he set out, late one +afternoon, for the Buenavista Camp. Yet by +nightfall, for some strange reason, any one +traveling that lonely trail might have seen him +returning towards Toluca. He did not enter +the town, however, but skirted the outer fringe +of sparsely settled houses and guardedly made +his way to a close-fenced area, in which neither +light nor movement could be detected. This +silent place awakened in him no trace of either +fear or repugnance. With him he carried his +pick and shovel, and five minutes later the +sound of this pick and shovel might have been +heard at work as the ponderous-bodied man +sweated over his midnight labor. When he +had dug for what seemed an interminable +length of time, he tore away a layer of pine +boards and released a double row of screw-heads. +Then he crouched low down in the +rectangular cavern which he had fashioned +with his spade, struck a match, and peered +with a narrow-eyed and breathless intentness +at what faced him there.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_287">[287]</div> +<p>One glance at that tragic mass of corruption +was enough for him. He replaced the screw-heads +and the pine boards. He took up his +shovel and began restoring the earth, stolidly +tramping it down, from time to time, with his +great weight.</p> +<p>When his task was completed he saw that +everything was orderly and as he had found +it. Then he returned to his tethered pack-mule +and once more headed for the Buenavista +Camp, carrying with him a discovery +which made the night air as intoxicating as +wine to his weary body.</p> +<p>Late that night a man might have been +heard singing to the stars, singing in the midst +of the wilderness, without rhyme or reason. +And in the midst of that wilderness he remained +for another long day and another long +night, as though solitude were necessary to +him, that he might adjust himself to some new +order of things, that he might digest some victory +which had been too much for his shattered +nerves.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_288">[288]</div> +<p>On the third day, as he limped placidly back +into the town of Toluca, his soul was torn between +a great peace and a great hunger. He +hugged to his breast the fact that somewhere +in the world ahead of him a man once known +as Binhart still moved and lived. He kept +telling himself that somewhere about the face +of the globe that restless spirit whom he +sought still wandered.</p> +<p>Day by patient day, through the drought +and heat and alkali of an Arizona summer, he +sought some clue, some inkling, of the direction +which that wanderer had taken. But +about Binhart and his movements, Toluca and +Phœnix and all Arizona itself seemed to know +nothing.</p> +<p>Nothing, Blake saw in the end, remained to +be discovered there. So in time the heavy-bodied +man with the haggard hound’s eyes +took his leave, passing out into the world which +in turn swallowed him up as completely as it +had swallowed up his unknown enemy.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_289">[289]</div> +<h2 id="c22">XXII</h2> +<p>Three of the busiest portions of New +York, varying with the various hours of +the day, may safely be said to lie in that +neighborhood where Nassau Street debouches +into Park Row, and also near that point where +Twenty-third Street intercepts Fourth Avenue, +and still again not far from where Broadway +and Fifth Avenue meet at the southwest +corner of Madison Square.</p> +<p>About these three points, at certain hours +of the day and on certain days of the week, +an observant stranger might have noticed the +strangely grotesque figure of an old cement +seller. So often had this old street-peddler +duly appeared at his stand, from month to +month, that the hurrying public seemed to +have become inured to the grotesqueness of his +appearance. Seldom, indeed, did a face turn +to inspect him as he blinked out at the lighted +street like a Pribiloff seal blinking into an +Arctic sun. Yet it was only by a second or +even a third glance that the more inquisitive +might have detected anything arresting in that +forlornly ruminative figure with the pendulous +and withered throat and cheek-flaps.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_290">[290]</div> +<p>To the casual observer he was merely a picturesque +old street-peddler, standing like a +time-stained statue beside a carefully arrayed +exhibit of his wares. This exhibit, which invariably +proved more interesting than his own +person, consisted of a frame of gas-piping in +the form of an inverted U. From the top bar +of this iron frame swung two heavy pieces of +leather cemented together. Next to this coalesced +leather dangled a large Z made up of +three pieces of plate glass stuck together at +the ends, and amply demonstrating the adhesive +power of the cementing mixture to be +purchased there.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_291">[291]</div> +<p>Next to the glass Z again were two rows +of chipped and serrated plates and saucers, +plates and saucers of all kinds and colors, with +holes drilled in their edges, and held together +like a suspended chain-gang by small brass +links. At some time in its career each one of +these cups and saucers had been broken across +or even shattered into fragments. Later, it +had been ingeniously and patiently glued together. +And there it and its valiant brothers +in misfortune swung together in a double row, +with a cobblestone dangling from the bottom +plate, reminding the passing world of remedial +beneficences it might too readily forget, +attesting to the fact that life’s worst fractures +might in some way still be made whole.</p> +<p>Yet so impassively, so stolidly statuesque, +did this figure stand beside the gas-pipe that +to all intents he might have been cemented to +the pavement with his own glue. He seldom +moved, once his frame had been set up and his +wares laid out. When he did move it was +only to re-awaken the equally plethoric motion +of his slowly oscillating links of cemented +glass and chinaware. Sometimes, it is true, +he disposed of a phial of his cement, producing +his bottle and receiving payment with the absorbed +impassivity of an automaton.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_292">[292]</div> +<p>Huge as his figure must once have been, it +now seemed, like his gibbeted plates, all battered +and chipped and over-written with the +marks of time. Like his plates, too, he carried +some valiant sense of being still intact, +still stubbornly united, still oblivious of every +old-time fracture, still bound up into personal +compactness by some power which defied the +blows of destiny.</p> +<p>In all seasons, winter and summer, apparently, +he wore a long and loose-fitting overcoat. +This overcoat must once have been +black, but it had faded to a green so conspicuous +that it made him seem like a bronze +figure touched with the mellowing <i>patina</i> of +time.</p> +<p>It was in the incredibly voluminous pockets +of this overcoat that the old peddler carried +his stock in trade, paper-wrapped bottles of +different sizes, and the nickels and dimes and +quarters of his daily trafficking. And as the +streams of life purled past him, like water past +a stone, he seemed to ask nothing of the world +on which he looked out with such deep-set and +impassive eyes. He seemed content with his +lot. He seemed to have achieved a Nirvana-like +indifferency towards all his kind.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_293">[293]</div> +<p>Yet there were times, as he waited beside +his stand, as lethargic as a lobster in a fish-peddler’s +window, when his flaccid, exploring +fingers dug deeper into one of those capacious +side-pockets and there came in contact with +two oddly shaped wristlets of polished steel. +At such times his intent eyes would film, as +the eyes of a caged eagle sometimes do. +Sometimes, too, he would smile with the half-pensive +Castilian smile of an uncouth and +corpulent Cervantes.</p> +<p>But as a rule his face was expressionless. +About the entire moss-green figure seemed +something faded and futile, like a street-lamp +left burning after sunrise. At other times, as +the patrolman on the beat sauntered by in his +authoritative blue stippled with its metal buttons, +the old peddler’s watching eyes would +wander wistfully after the nonchalant figure. +At such times a meditative and melancholy intentness +would fix itself on the faded old face, +and the stooping old shoulders would even unconsciously +heave with a sigh.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_294">[294]</div> +<p>As a rule, however, the great green-clad +figure with its fringe of white hair—the fringe +that stood blithely out from the faded hat +brim like the halo of some medieval saint on +a missal—did not permit his gaze to wander so +far afield.</p> +<p>For, idle as that figure seemed, the brain +behind it was forever active, forever vigilant +and alert. The deep-set eyes under their lids +that hung as loose as old parchment were always +fixed on the life that flowed past them. +No face, as those eyes opened and closed like +the gills of a dying fish, escaped their inspection. +Every man who came within their range +of vision was duly examined and adjudicated. +Every human atom of that forever ebbing +and flowing tide of life had to pass through +an invisible screen of inspection, had in some +intangible way to justify itself as it proceeded +on its unknown movement towards an unknown +end. And on the loose-skinned and +haggard face, had it been studied closely +enough, could have been seen a vague and +wistful note of expectancy, a guarded and +muffled sense of anticipation.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_295">[295]</div> +<p>Yet to-day, as on all other days, nobody +stopped to study the old cement-seller’s face. +The pink-cheeked young patrolman, swinging +back on his beat, tattooed with his ash night-stick +on the gas-pipe frame and peered indifferently +down at the battered and gibbeted +crockery.</p> +<p>“Hello, Batty,” he said as he set the exhibit +oscillating with a push of the knee. “How’s +business?”</p> +<p>“Pretty good,” answered the patient and +guttural voice. But the eyes that seemed as +calm as a cow’s eyes did not look at the patrolman +as he spoke.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_296">[296]</div> +<p>He had nothing to fear. He knew that he +had his license. He knew that under the +faded green of his overcoat was an oval-shaped +street-peddler’s badge. He also knew, which +the patrolman did not, that under the lapel +of his inner coat was a badge of another shape +and design, the badge which season by season +the indulgent new head of the Detective Bureau +extended to him with his further privilege +of a special officer’s license. For this empty +honor “Batty” Blake—for as “Batty” he was +known to nearly all the cities of America—did +an occasional bit of “stooling” for the Central +Office, a tip as to a stray yeggman’s return, +a hint as to a “peterman’s” activities in +the shopping crowds, a whisper that a till tapper +had failed to respect the Department’s +dead-lines.</p> +<p>Yet nobody took Batty Blake seriously. It +was said, indeed, that once, in the old régime, +he had been a big man in the Department. +But that Department had known many +changes, and where life is unduly active, memory +is apt to be unduly short.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_297">[297]</div> +<p>The patrolman tapping on the gas-pipe arch +with his idle night-stick merely knew that +Batty was placid and inoffensive, that he never +obstructed traffic and always carried a license-badge. +He knew that in damp weather Batty +limped and confessed that his leg pained him +a bit, from an old hurt he’d had in the East. +And he had heard somewhere that Batty was +a sort of Wandering Jew, patroling the whole +length of the continent with his broken plates +and his gas-pipe frame and his glue-bottles, +migrating restlessly from city to city, striking +out as far west as San Francisco, swinging +round by Denver and New Orleans and then +working his way northward again up to St. +Louis and Chicago and Pittsburgh.</p> +<p>Remembering these things the idle young +“flatty” turned and looked at the green-coated +and sunken-shouldered figure, touched into +some rough pity by the wordless pathos of an +existence which seemed without aim or reason.</p> +<p>“Batty, how long’re yuh going to peddle +glue, anyway?” he suddenly asked.</p> +<p>The glue-peddler, watching the crowds that +drifted by him, did not answer. He did not +even look about at his interrogator.</p> +<p>“D’ yuh <i>have</i> to do this?” asked the wide-shouldered +youth in uniform.</p> +<p>“No,” was the peddler’s mild yet guttural +response.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_298">[298]</div> +<p>The other prodded with his night-stick +against the capacious overcoat pockets. Then +he laughed.</p> +<p>“I’ll bet yuh’ve got about forty dollars +stowed away in there,” he mocked. “Yuh +have now, haven’t yuh?”</p> +<p>“I don’ know!” listlessly answered the +sunken-shouldered figure.</p> +<p>“Then what’re yuh sellin’ this stuff for, if +it ain’t for money?” persisted the vaguely +piqued youth.</p> +<p>“I don’ know!” was the apathetic answer.</p> +<p>“Then who does?” inquired the indolent +young officer, as he stood humming and rocking +on his heels and swinging his stick by its +wrist-thong.</p> +<p>The man known as Batty may or may not +have been about to answer him. His lips +moved, but no sound came from them. His +attention, apparently, was suddenly directed +elsewhere. For approaching him from the +east his eyes had made out the familiar figure +of old McCooey, the oldest plain-clothes man +who still came out from Headquarters to +“pound the pavement.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_299">[299]</div> +<p>And at almost the same time, approaching +him from the west, he had caught sight of another +figure.</p> +<p>It was that of a dapper and thin-faced man +who might have been anywhere from forty to +sixty years of age. He walked, however, with +a quick and nervous step. Yet the most remarkable +thing about him seemed to be his +eyes. They were wide-set and protuberant, +like a bird’s, as though years of being hunted +had equipped him with the animal-like faculty +of determining without actually looking back +just who might be following him.</p> +<p>Those alert and wide-set eyes, in fact, must +have sighted McCooey at the same time that +he fell under the vision of the old cement +seller. For the dapper figure wheeled quietly +and quickly about and stooped down at the +very side of the humming patrolman. He +stooped and examined one of the peddler’s +many-fractured china plates. He squinted +down at it as though it were a thing of intense +interest to him.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_300">[300]</div> +<p>As he stooped there the humming patrolman +was the witness of a remarkable and inexplicable +occurrence. From the throat of the huge-shouldered +peddler, not two paces away from +him, he heard come a hoarse and brutish cry, +a cry strangely like the bawl and groan of a +branded range-cow. At the same moment the +gigantic green-draped figure exploded into +sudden activity. He seemed to catapult out +at the stooping dapper figure, bearing it to the +sidewalk with the sheer weight of his unprovoked +assault.</p> +<p>There the struggle continued. There the +two strangely diverse bodies twisted and +panted and writhed. There the startlingly +agile dapper figure struggled to throw off his +captor. The arch of gas-pipe went over. +Glue-bottles showered amid the shattered +glass and crockery. But that once placid-eyed +old cement seller stuck to the unoffending +man he had so promptly and so gratuitously +attacked, stuck to him as though he had +been glued there with his own cement. And +before the patrolman could tug the combatants +apart, or even wedge an arm into the fight, +the exulting green-coated figure had his +enemy on his back along the curb, and, reaching +down into his capacious pocket, drew out +two oddly shaped steel wristlets. Forcing up +his captive’s arm, he promptly snapped one +steel wring on his own wrist, and one on the +wrist of the still prostrate man.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_301">[301]</div> +<p>“What’re yuh tryin’ to do?” demanded the +amazed officer, still tugging at the great figure +holding down the smaller man. In the encounter +between those two embattled enemies +had lurked an intensity of passion which he +could not understand, which seemed strangely +akin to insanity itself.</p> +<p>It was only when McCooey pushed his way +in through the crowd and put a hand on his +shoulder that the old cement seller slowly rose +to his feet. He was still panting and blowing. +But as he lifted his face up to the sky +his body rumbled with a Jove-like sound that +was not altogether a cough of lungs overtaxed +nor altogether a laugh of triumph.</p> +<p>“I got him!” he gasped.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_302">[302]</div> +<p>About his once placid old eyes, which the +hardened tear-ducts no longer seemed able to +drain of their moisture, was a look of exultation +that made the gathering street-crowd take +him for a panhandler gone mad with hunger.</p> +<p>“Yuh got <i>who</i>?” cried the indignant young +officer, wheeling the bigger man about on his +feet. As the cement seller, responding to that +tug, pivoted about, it was noticeable that the +man to whom his wrist was locked by the band +of steel duly duplicated the movement. He +moved when the other moved; he drew aside +when the other drew aside, as though they were +now two parts of one organism.</p> +<p>“I got him!” calmly repeated the old street-peddler.</p> +<p>“Yuh got <i>who</i>?” demanded the still puzzled +young patrolman, oblivious of the quiescent +light in the bewildered eyes of McCooey, close +beside him.</p> +<p>“Binhart!” answered Never-Fail Blake, +with a sob. “<i>I’ve got Binhart!</i>”</p> +<p class="tbcenter"><span class="small">THE END</span></p> +<h2>Transcriber’s Notes</h2> +<ul><li>Preserved the copyright notice from the printed edition, although this book is in the public domain in the country of publication.</li> +<li>Silently corrected a few typos (but left nonstandard spelling and dialect as is).</li> +<li>Renumbered the chapter numbers (there were two chapters numbered V).</li> +<li>Silently corrected two slight errors related to New York City place names.</li> +<li>In the text versions, delimited text in italics by _underscores_.</li></ul> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Shadow, by Arthur Stringer + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHADOW *** + +***** This file should be named 44336-h.htm or 44336-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/4/4/3/3/44336/ + +Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Mardi Desjardins and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at +http://www.pgdpcanada.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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