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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/44336-0.txt b/44336-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a6073fd --- /dev/null +++ b/44336-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5654 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44336 *** + + THE SHADOW + + + BY + ARTHUR STRINGER + + + NEW YORK + THE CENTURY CO. + 1913 + + Copyright, 1913, by + The Century Co. + _Published, January, 1913_ + + + + + THE SHADOW + + + + + I + + +Blake, the Second Deputy, raised his gloomy hound’s eyes as the door +opened and a woman stepped in. Then he dropped them again. + +“Hello, Elsie!” he said, without looking at her. + +The woman stood a moment staring at him. Then she advanced thoughtfully +toward his table desk. + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“You’re—you’re not tied up already, are you?” he had hesitatingly +demanded. “You’re not married?” + +“No, I’m not tied up!” she had promptly and fiercely responded. “My +life’s my own—my own!” + +“Then why can’t you marry me?” the practical-minded man had asked. + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“It’s Connie Binhart,” cut out the Second Deputy. + +He could see discretion drop like a curtain across her watching face. + +“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. + +“I guess,” he went on with slow patience, “we know him best round here as +Charles Blanchard.” + +“Blanchard?” she echoed. + +“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.” + +“Newcomb?” again meditated the woman. + +“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.” + +“When was that?” demanded the woman. + +“That was last October,” he answered with a sing-song weariness +suggestive of impatience at such supererogative explanations. + +“I was at Monte Carlo all last autumn,” was the woman’s quick retort. + +Blake moved his heavy body, as though to shoulder away any claim as to +her complicity. + +“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.” + +Their glances at last came together. No move was made; no word was +spoken. But a contest took place. + +“Why ask _me_?” repeated the woman for the second time. It was only too +plain that she was fencing. + +“Because you _know_,” 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. + +“Jim, I can’t tell you,” she slowly asserted. “I can’t do it!” + +“But I’ve got ’o know,” he stubbornly maintained. “And I’m going to.” + +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. + +“I can’t tell you,” she repeated. “I’d rather you let me go.” + +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. + +“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 _me_, +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.” + +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.” + +“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. + +“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—” + +“Auburn?” she repeated very quietly. Then she raised her eyes to his. +“Can you say a thing like that to me, Jim?” + +He shifted a little in his chair. But he met her gaze without a wince. + +“This is business, Elsie, and you can’t mix business and—and other +things,” he tailed off at last, dropping his eyes. + +“I’m sorry you put it that way,” she said. “I hoped we’d be better +friends than that!” + +“I’m not counting on friendship in this!” he retorted. + +“But it might have been better, even in this!” she said. And the artful +look of pity on her face angered him. + +“Well, we’ll begin on something nearer home!” he cried. + +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. + +“This Steinert check’ll do the trick. Take a closer look at the +signature. Do you get it?” + +“What about it?” she asked, without a tremor. + +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. + +“I may or I may not know who forged that check. I don’t _want_ to know. +And when you tell me where Binhart is, I _won’t_ know.” + +“That check wasn’t forged,” contended the quiet-eyed woman. + +“Steinert will swear it was,” declared the Second Deputy. + +She sat without speaking, apparently in deep study. Her intent face +showed no fear, no bewilderment, no actual emotion of any kind. + +“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. + +“Will I be dragged into this case, in any way, if Binhart is rounded up?” +the woman finally asked. + +“Not once,” he asserted. + +“You promise me that?” + +“Of course,” answered the Second Deputy. + +“And you’ll let me alone on—on the other things?” she calmly exacted. + +“Yes,” he promptly acknowledged. “I’ll see that you’re let alone.” + +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. + +“Binhart’s in Montreal,” she said. + +Blake, keeping his face well under control, waited for her to go on. + +“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.” + +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. + +“You know his writing?” she asked. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Nolan,” he said into the receiver, “I want to know if there’s a King +Edward Avenue in Montreal.” + +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. + +“Yes, sir,” came the answer over the wire. “It’s one of the newer avenues +in Westmount.” + +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 +_concerto_ of skepticisms. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“Elsie, you’re all right,” he acknowledged with his solemn and +unimaginative impassivity. “You’re all right.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“How?” asked the woman. + +“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. + +“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. + +“D’you want it?” he queried with simulated indifference, as he made a +final and lingering study of it. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + II + + +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. + +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. + +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 _wanderlust_ 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: + + “MEN WANTED.” + +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. + +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 _Tribune_ +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _The Counterfeit Detector_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _aides_ 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.” + +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 _Portrait Parle_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _my_ side of the fence, you’d last about as long as a +snowball on a crownsheet!” + + + + + III + + +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. + +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. + +“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 _park_ gun! +That’s all you are, a broken-down bluff, an ornamental has-been, a park +gun for kids to play ’round!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“We’ve been going over this Binhart case,” began the Commissioner. “It’s +seven months now—and nothing done!” + +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. + +“I always said McCooey wasn’t the man to go out on that case,” said the +Second Deputy, still watching Copeland. + +“Then who _is_ the man?” asked the Commissioner. + +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. + +“What’s the matter with Washington and Wilkie?” inquired Blake, +attentively regarding his cigar. + +“They’re just where we are—at a standstill,” acknowledged the +Commissioner. + +“And that’s where we’ll stay!” heavily contended the Second Deputy. + +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. + +“Why?” demanded his superior. + +“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!” + +“Then what is your suggestion?” It was Copeland who spoke, mild and +hesitating. + +“D’ you want my suggestion?” demanded Blake, warm with the wine-like +knowledge which, he knew, made him master of the situation. + +“Of course,” was the Commissioner’s curt response. + +“Well, you’ve got to have a man who knows Binhart, who knows him and his +tricks and his hang outs!” + +“Well, who does?” + +“I do,” declared Blake. + +The Commissioner indulged in his wintry smile. + +“You mean if you weren’t tied down to your Second Deputy’s chair you +could go out and get him!” + +“I could!” + +“Within a reasonable length of time?” + +“I don’t know about the time! But I could get him, all right.” + +“If you were still on the outside work?” interposed Copeland. + +“I certainly wouldn’t expect to dig him out o’ my stamp drawer,” was +Blake’s heavily facetious retort. + +Copeland and the Commissioner looked at each other, for one fraction of a +second. + +“You know what my feeling is,” resumed the latter, “on this Binhart +case.” + +“I know what _my_ feeling is,” declared Blake. + +“What?” + +“That the right method would’ve got him six months ago, without all this +monkey work!” + +“Then why not end the monkey work, as you call it?” + +“How?” + +“By doing what you say you can do!” was the Commissioner’s retort. + +“How’m I going to hold down a chair and hunt a crook at the same time?” + +“Then why hold down the chair? Let the chair take care of itself. It +could be arranged, you know.” + +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. + +“How’d you do the arranging?” he calmly inquired. + +“I could see the Mayor in the morning. There will be no Departmental +difficulty.” + +“Then where’s the trouble?” + +“There is none, if you are willing to go out.” + +“Well, we can’t get Binhart here by pink-tea invitations. Somebody’s got +to go out and _get_ him!” + +“The bank raised the reward to eight thousand this week,” interposed the +ruminative Copeland. + +“Well, it’ll take money to get him,” snapped back the Second Deputy, +remembering that he had a nest of his own to feather. + +“It will be worth what it costs,” admitted the Commissioner. + +“Of course,” said Copeland, “they’ll have to honor your drafts—in +reason.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Then what’re we beefing about?” he demanded. “You want Binhart and I’ll +get him for you.” + +The Commissioner, tapping the top of his desk with his gold-banded +fountain pen, smiled. It was almost a smile of indulgence. + +“You _know_ you will get him?” he inquired. + +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. + +“I say I’ll get him!” he calmly proclaimed. “And I guess that ought to be +enough!” + + + + + IV + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“You saw Blake again?” he half asked, half challenged. + +“No,” she answered. + +“Why?” + +“I was afraid to.” + +“Didn’t I tell you we’d take care of your end?” + +“I’ve had promises like that before. They weren’t always remembered.” + +“But our office never made you that promise before, Miss Verriner.” + +The woman let her eyes rest on his impassive face. + +“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.” + +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?” + +The First Deputy smiled. It was not altogether at the mere calmness with +which she could suggest such an atrocity. + +“Hardly,” he said. + +“Then what is it?” she demanded. + +He was both patient and painstaking with her. His tone was almost +paternal in its placativeness. + +“It’s merely a phase of departmental business,” he answered her. “And +we’re anxious to see Blake round up Connie Binhart.” + +“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.” + +“Did you give it to him?” + +“No, he hammered it out of me. But you knew he was going to do that. That +was part of the plant.” + +She sat studying her thin white hands for several seconds. Then she +looked up at the calm-eyed Copeland. + +“How are you going to protect me, if Blake comes back? How are you going +to keep your promise?” + +The First Deputy sat back in his chair and crossed his thin legs. + +“Blake will not come back,” he announced. She slewed suddenly round on +him again. + +“Then it _is_ a plant!” she proclaimed. + +“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.” + +The woman gave a little hand gesture of impatience. + +“But don’t you see,” she protested, “supposing he gives up Binhart? +Supposing he suspects something and hurries back to hold down his place?” + +“They call him Never-Fail Blake,” commented the unmoved and dry-lipped +official. He met her wide stare with his gently satiric smile. + +“I see,” she finally said, “you’re not going to shoot him up. You’re +merely going to wipe him out.” + +“You are quite wrong there,” began the man across the table from her. +“Administration changes may happen, and in—” + +“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.” + +“No competent officer is ever worked out of this Department,” parried the +First Deputy. + +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. + +“Mr. Copeland, aren’t you afraid some one might find it worth while to +tip Blake off?” she softly inquired. + +“What would you gain?” was his pointed and elliptical interrogation. + +She leaned forward in the fulcrum of light, and looked at him soberly. + +“What is your idea of me?” she asked. + +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. + +“I think you are a very intelligent woman,” Copeland finally confessed. + +“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 _got_ to be!” + +“And?” prompted the First Deputy, as she came to a stop. + +“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.” + +“And?” again prompted the First Deputy. + +“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 _got_ to be safe!” + +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. + +“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 _are_ +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!” + +He sat pondering just how much of this he could believe. But she +disregarded his veiled impassivity. + +“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.” + +“But that does not rest with me, Miss Verriner!” + +“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!” + +Copeland, with his chin on his bony breast, looked up to smile into her +intent and staring eyes. + +“You are a very clever woman,” he said. “And what is more, you know a +great deal!” + +“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. + +“Your knowledge,” he said with a deliberation equal to her own, “will +prove of great value to you—as an agent with Wilkie.” + +“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. + +“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!” + +“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. + + + + + V + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“Draw for lead?” asked Blake, lighting a cigar. + +“Sure,” said Loony. + +Blake pushed his ball to the top cushion, won the draw, and broke. + +“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. + +Loony studied the balls for a second or two. Wolf was a “dip” with an +international record. + +“Last time I saw Wolf he was out at ’Frisco, workin’ the Beaches,” was +Loony’s reply. + +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. + +“Where’s Angel McGlory these days?” asked Blake, as he reached over to +place a ball. + +“What’s she been doin’?” demanded Loony, with his cue on the rail. + +“She’s traveling with a bank sneak named Blanchard or Binhart,” explained +Blake. “And I want her.” + +Loony Ryan made his stroke. + +“Hep Roony saw Binhart this mornin’, beatin’ it for N’ Orleans. But he +wasn’t travelin’ wit’ any moll that Hep spoke of.” + +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. + +“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. + +“What’s up?” he demanded. “Who’d you spot?” + +“Nothing, Wolf, nothing! But this game o’ yours blamed near made me +forget an appointment o’ mine!” + +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. + + + + + VI + + +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. + +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 +_papa-bottes_ in ribbons of bacon, to say nothing of fruit and +_bruilleau_. + +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. + +“Abe, I’ve come down to gather you in,” announced the calmly mendacious +detective. He continued to sip his bruilleau with fraternal unconcern. + +“You got nothing _on_ me, Jim,” protested the other, losing his taste for +the delicacies arrayed about him. + +“Well, we got ’o go down to Headquarters and talk that over,” calmly +persisted Blake. + +“What’s the use of pounding me, when I’m on the square again?” persisted +the ex-drum snuffer. + +“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.” + +“Did you bump into Binhart in St. Louis?” + +“We had a talk, three days ago.” + +“Then why’d he blow through this town as though he had a regiment o’ +bulls and singed cats behind him!” + +Blake’s heart went down like an elevator with a broken cable. But he gave +no outward sign of this inward commotion. + +“Because he wants to get down to Colon before the Hamburg-American boat +hits the port,” ventured Blake. “His moll’s aboard!” + +“But he blew out for ’Frisco this morning,” contended the puzzled +Sheiner. “Shot through as though he’d just had a rumble!” + +“Oh, he _said_ that, but he went south, all right.” + +“Then he went in an oyster sloop. There’s nothing sailing from this port +to-day.” + +“Well, what’s Binhart got to do with our trouble anyway? What I want—” + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Manchuria_. 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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +Crossing the Sound, he reached Victoria in time to see the _Empress of +China_ 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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + VII + + +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 _Empress of China_ that the Reverend +Caleb Simpson had safely landed from the _Manchuria_ at Hong Kong, and +was about to leave for the mission field in the interior. + +The so-called bishop, sitting in the wireless-room of the _Empress of +China_, 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. + +But at Yokohama, Blake hurried ashore in a _sampan_, 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 _Toyo Kisen Kaisha_ +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + VIII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“You clum b’long me,” was the enigmatic message uttered in the +detective’s ear. + +“Why should I go along with you?” Blake calmly inquired. + +“You clum b’long me,” reiterated the Chinaman. The finger again touched +the detective’s arm. “Clismas!” + +Blake rose, at once. He recognized the code word of “Christmas.” This was +the messenger he had been awaiting. + +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. + +His guide was pointing to a closed door in front of them. + +“You sabby?” he demanded. + +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. + + + + + IX + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“You’re the party who’s on the man hunt,” she announced. + +“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. + +“You’re after this man called Binhart,” she declared. + +“Oh, no, I’m not,” was Blake’s sagacious response. “I don’t want +Binhart!” + +“Then what do you want?” + +“I want the money he’s got.” + +The little painted face grew serious; then it became veiled. + +“How much money has he?” + +“That’s what I want to find out!” + +She squatted ruminatively down on the edge of her divan. It was low and +wide and covered with orange-colored silk. + +“Then you’ll have to find Binhart!” was her next announcement. + +“Maybe!” acknowledged Blake. + +“I can show you where he is!” + +“All right,” was the unperturbed response. The blue-painted eyes were +studying him. + +“It will be worth four thousand pounds, in English gold,” she announced. + +Blake took a step or two nearer her. + +“Is that the message Ottenheim told you to give me?” he demanded. His +face was red with anger. + +“Then three thousand pounds,” she calmly suggested, wriggling her toes +into a fallen sandal. + +Blake did not deign to speak. His inarticulate grunt was one of disgust. + +“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!” + +Her eyes were as tranquil as a child’s. Blake remembered that he was in a +world not his own. + +“Why should I want him killed?” he inquired. He looked about for some +place to sit. There was not a chair in the room. + +“Because he intends to kill _you_,” answered the woman, squatting on the +orange-covered divan. + +“I wish he’d come and try,” Blake devoutly retorted. + +“He will not come,” she told him. “It will be done from the dark. _I_ +could have done it. But Ottenheim said no.” + +“And Ottenheim said you were to work with me in this,” declared Blake, +putting two and two together. + +The woman shrugged a white shoulder. + +“Have you any money?” she asked. She put the question with the +artlessness of a child. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“Well, what word’ll I take back to Ottenheim?” he demanded. + +The woman grew serious. Then she showed her rice-like row of teeth as she +laughed. + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“But where’s Binhart?” he demanded, as he looked stolidly about for his +black boulder. + +“Never mind Binhart,” she cried, touching the eviscerated body at her +feet with one slipper toe, “or we’ll get what _he_ got!” + +“I want that man Binhart!” persisted the detective. + +“Not here! Not here!” she cried, folding the loose folds of the cloak +closer about her body. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +He felt grateful for that open air, for the coolness, for the sense of +deliverance which came with even that comparative freedom. + +“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. + +“On the next roof you must take off your shoes,” she warned him. “You can +rest then. But hurry—hurry!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I’m dished!” she murmured, as she sat there breathing audibly through +the darkness. “I’m dished for this coast!” + +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. + +The girl touched him on the knee and then shifted her position on the +coping tiles, without rising to her feet. + +“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 _Praya_. Now look where I’m pointing. That’s +the Luiz Camoes lodging-house. You see the second window with the light +in it?” + +“Yes, I see it.” + +“Well, Binhart’s inside that window.” + +“You know it?” + +“I know it.” + +“So he’s there?” said Blake, staring at the vague square of light. + +“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.” + +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. + +“What are you going to do?” she asked. + +“I’m going to get Binhart,” was Blake’s answer. + +He could hear her little childlike murmur of laughter. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“What’ll you do?” he asked. + +Again he heard the careless little laugh. + +“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.” + +“And then?” asked Blake, watching the window of the Luiz Camoes +lodging-house below him. + +“Then I’ll work my way up to Port Arthur, I suppose. There’s a navy man +there who’ll help me!” + +“Haven’t you any money?” Blake put the question a little uneasily. + +Again he felt the careless coo of laughter. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Good-by, white man,” she whispered. + +“Good-by!” he whispered back, as he worked his way cautiously and +ponderously along that perilous slope. + +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.” + + + + + X + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The servant was leading him down the length of the half-lit hall when +Blake caught him by the sleeve. + +“You tell my rickshaw boy to wait! Quick, before he gets away!” + +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. + +He stood for a second or two, thinking. Then with the knuckle of one +finger he tapped on the door, lightly, almost timidly. + +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. + +Facing him, at the far side of the room, he saw Binhart. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +“That’s all right,” he said. “Don’t get up!” + +Binhart eyed him. During that few seconds of silent tableau each man was +appraising, weighing, estimating the strength of the other. + +“What do you want, Jim?” asked Binhart, almost querulously. + +“I want that gun you’ve got up there under your liver pad,” was Blake’s +impassive answer. + +“Is that all?” asked Binhart. But he made no move to produce the gun. + +“Then I want you,” calmly announced Blake. + +A look of gentle expostulation crept over Binhart’s gaunt face. + +“You can’t do it, Jim,” he announced. “You can’t take me away from here.” + +“But I’m going to,” retorted Blake. + +“How?” + +“I’m just going to take you.” + +He crossed the room as he spoke. + +“Give me the gun,” he commanded. + +Binhart still sat in the low reed chair. He made no movement in response +to Blake’s command. + +“What’s the good of getting rough-house,” he complained. + +“Gi’ me the gun,” repeated Blake. + +“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. + +“Now, get your clothes on,” commanded Blake. + +“What for?” temporized Binhart. + +“You’re coming with me!” + +“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.” + +“I’ll risk it,” announced the detective. + +“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!” + +“What t’ hell do I care for law,” was Blake’s retort. “I want you and +you’re going to come with me.” + +“Where am I going?” + +“Back to New York.” + +Binhart laughed. It was a laugh without any mirth in it. + +“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!” + +“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.” + +Binhart sat studying the other man for a moment or two. + +“Then how about a little real talk, the kind of talk that money makes?” + +“Nothing doing!” declared Blake, folding his arms. + +Binhart flickered a glance at him as he thrust his own right hand down +into the hand-bag on his knees. + +“I want to show you what you could get out of this,” he said, leaning +forward a little as he looked up at Blake. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“Where’s Binhart?” asked Blake. + +“That’s all right, old chap, you just rest up a bit,” said the placatory +youth. + +At nine the next morning Blake was taken ashore at Hong Kong. + +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. + + + + + XI + + +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. + +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 +_Toyo Kisen Kaisha_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _lingua Franca_ 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. + +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. + +But Binhart, in the meantime, had caught a Lloyd Brazileiro steamer for +Rio de Janeiro, and was once more on the high seas. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + + + + + XII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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!” + +“Have a smoke?” asked Blake. + +“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. + +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. + +It came in the form of an incredibly thin _gringo_ 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 _mezcal_ of Guatemala and the _anisado_ of +Ecuador had combined with the _pulque_ of Mexico to set their +unmistakable seal. + +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. + +“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. + +Blake smoked for a moment or two before answering. + +“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. + +“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. + +“Well, I’m saying it now!” Blake’s guttural voice was reminding him. + +“Then why didn’t you say it an hour ago?” contested McGlade, with his +alcoholic peevish obstinacy. + +“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. + +“I can tell you all right, all right—but it won’t do you much good!” + +“Why not?” And still Blake was bland and patient. + +“Because,” retorted McGlade, fixing the other man with a lean finger that +was both unclean and unsteady, “_you can’t get at him_!” + +“You tell me where he is,” said Blake, striking a match. “I’ll attend to +the rest of it!” + +McGlade slowly and deliberately drank the last of his swizzle. Then he +put down his empty glass and stared pensively and pregnantly into it. + +“What’s there in it for me?” he asked. + +Blake, studying him across the small table, weighed both the man and the +situation. + +“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 _his_ funeral. All he wanted was Binhart. + +“Binhart’s in Guayaquil,” McGlade suddenly announced. + +“How d’ you know that?” promptly demanded Blake. + +“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.” + +“What liner?” + +“He went aboard the _Trunella_. He thought he’d get down to Callao. But +they tied the _Trunella_ up at Guayaquil.” + +“And you say he’s there now?” + +“Yes!” + +“And aboard the _Trunella_?” + +“Sure! He’s got to be aboard the _Trunella_!” + +“Then why d’ you say I can’t get at him?” + +“Because Guayaquil and the _Trunella_ 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!” + +“But there’s got to be _something_ going there!” contended Blake. + +“They daren’t do it! They couldn’t get clearance—they couldn’t even get +_pratique_! 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!” + +Blake, at this last word, raised his ponderous head. + +“The boat-patrols wouldn’t phase me,” he announced. His thoughts, in +fact, were already far ahead, marshaling themselves about other things. + +“You’ve a weakness for yellow fever?” inquired the ironic McGlade. + +“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. + +“You don’t mean you’re going to try to get into Guayaquil?” demanded +McGlade. + +“If Connie Binhart’s down there I’ve got to go and get him,” was +Never-Fail Blake’s answer. + + * * * * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Pip,” Blake very quietly announced, “you’re going to sail for Guayaquil +to-morrow!” + +“Am I?” queried the unmoved Pip. + +“You’re going to start for Guayaquil to-morrow,” repeated Blake, “and +you’re going to take me along with you!” + +“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!” + +“I admit that,” quietly acknowledged the other man. “I saw her +yesterday!” + +“And she don’t carry no passengers—she ain’t allowed to,” announced her +master. + +“But she’s going to carry me,” asserted Blake, lighting a fresh cigar. + +“What as?” demanded Tankred. And he fixed Blake with a belligerent eye as +he put the question. + +“As an old friend of yours!” + +“And then what?” still challenged the other. + +“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!” + +Tankred continued to smoke. + +“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?” + +“No, you’re doing the coquetting in this case, I guess!” + +“Then I ain’t standin’ for no rivals—not on this coast!” + +The two men, so dissimilar in aspect and yet so alike in their accidental +attitudes of an uncouth belligerency, sat staring at each other. + +“You’re going to take me to Guayaquil,” repeated Blake. + +“That’s where you’re dead wrong,” was the calmly insolent rejoinder. “I +ain’t even _goin’_ to Guayaquil.” + +“I say you are.” + +Tankred’s smile translated his earlier deliberateness into open contempt. + +“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!” + +“But you’re going to get as close to Guayaquil as you can, and you know +it.” + +“Do I?” said the man with the up-tilted cigar. + +“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!” + +For the first time Tankred turned and studied him. + +“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. + +“There’s a man I want down there, and I’m going down to get him!” + +“Who is he?” + +“That’s my business,” retorted Blake. + +“And gettin’ into Guayaquil’s your business!” Tankred snorted back. + +“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!” + +“How do I know that?” + +“You’ll have my word for it!” + +Tankred swung round on him. + +“D’ you realize you’ll have to sneak ashore in a _lancha_ 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?” + +“I know all that!” acknowledged Blake. + +For the second time Tankred turned and studied the other man. + +“And you’re still goin’ after your gen’leman friend from up North?” he +inquired. + +“Pip, I’ve got to get that man!” + +“You’ve got ’o?” + +“I’ve got to, and I’m going to!” + +Tankred threw his cigar-end away and laughed leisurely and quietly. + +“Then what’re we sittin’ here arguin’ about, anyway? If it’s settled, +it’s settled, ain’t it?” + +“Yes, I think it’s settled!” + +Again Tankred laughed. + +“But take it from me, my friend, you’ll sure see some rough goin’ this +next few days!” + + + + + XIII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“It’s time you were gettin’ your clothes on,” he announced. + +“Getting my clothes on?” queried Blake through the darkness. + +“Yes, you can’t tell what we’ll bump into, any time now!” + +The wakened sleeper heard the other man moving about in the velvety black +gloom. + +“What’re you doing there?” was his sharp question as he heard the squeak +and slam of a shutter. + +“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!” + +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. + +“You’d better turn out!” he called back as he stepped into the engulfing +gloom of the gangway. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He swung nervously about as he felt a hand clutch his arm. He found +Tankred speaking quietly into his ear. + +“There’ll be one boat over,” that worthy was explaining. “One boat—you +take that—the last one! And you’d better give the _guinney_ a ten-dollar +bill for his trouble!” + +“All right! I’m ready!” was Blake’s low-toned reply as he started to move +forward with the other man. + +“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!” + +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 +_Trunella_ must ride at anchor and Binhart must be. + +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 _lancha_ tied to the +landing-ladder had been suddenly quenched. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _lanchas_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +This boat, he saw, was still securely tied to its mate, one of the +larger-bodied _lanchas_, 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. + +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. + +He had the last strand of the rope severed before the Ecuadorean with the +carbine reached the _lancha_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +_Trunella_ should be so foolishly delayed, that so many cross-purposes +should postpone and imperil his quest of Binhart. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + XIV + + +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. + +He rowed, always keeping his bow towards the far-off spangle of lights +which showed where the _Trunella_ lay at anchor. + +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. + +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. + +He rowed feverishly on, until the lights of the _Trunella_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Where in the name o’ God did _you_ come from?” demanded the man with the +brier-root pipe. + +“I came out from Guayaquil,” answered Blake, reaching searchingly down in +his wet pocket. “And I can’t go back.” + +The sandy-headed man backed away. + +“From the fever camps?” + +Blake could afford to smile at the movement. + +“Don’t worry—there’s no fever ’round me. _That’s_ what I’ve been +through!” And he showed the bullet-holes through his tattered coat-cloth. + +“How’d you get here?” + +“Rowed out in a surf-boat—and I can’t go back!” + +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. + +“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. + +“That Alfaro gang after you?” he inquired. + +“They’re _all_ 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. + +“What d’ you want me to do?” he finally asked. + +Blake, instead of answering that question, asked another. + +“When do you move out of here?” + +The engineer put the coins in his pocket. + +“Before noon to-morrow, thank God! The _Yorktown_ ought to be here by +morning—she’s to give us our release!” + +“Then you’ll sail by noon?” + +“We’ve _got_ 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!” + +A great wave of contentment surged through Blake’s weary body. He put his +hand up on the smaller man’s shoulder. + +“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!” + +The pale-eyed engineer studied the problem. Then he studied the figure in +front of him. + +“There’s nothing crooked behind this?” + +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!” + +“I’m fourth engineer on board here, and the Old Man would sure fire me, +if—” + +“But you needn’t even know about me,” contended Blake. “Just let me crawl +in somewhere where I can sleep!” + +“You need it, all right, by that face of yours!” + +“I sure do,” acknowledged the other as he stood awaiting his judge’s +decision. + +“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!” + +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!” + +“Oh, I’ll face it, all right!” was Blake’s calmly contented answer. “All +I want now is about nine hours’ sleep!” + +“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. + + + + + XV + + +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. + +“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 _Trunella_ were not +in motion. “Why aren’t we under way?” + +“They’re having trouble up there, with the _Commandante_. 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!” + +“Where’ll you get me?” asked Blake. He was on his feet by this time, +arraying himself in his wet and ragged clothing. + +“That’s what I’ve been talking over with the Chief,” began the young +engineer. Blake wheeled about and fixed him with his eye. + +“Did you let your Chief in on this?” he demanded, and he found it hard to +keep his anger in check. + +“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!” + +“Well, supposing I’m not?” + +“Then they’d haul you back and give you a half year in that _Lazaretto_ +o’ theirs!” + +“Well, what do I have to do to keep from being hauled back?” + +“You’ll have to be one o’ the workin’ crew, until we get off. The Chief +says that, and I think he’s right!” + +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. + +“You don’t mean stoke-hole work?” he demanded. + +The fourth engineer continued to look worried. + +“You don’t happen to know anything about machinery, do you?” he began. + +“Of course I do,” retorted Blake, thinking gratefully of his early days +as a steamfitter. + +“Then why couldn’t I put you in a cap and jumper and work you in as one +of the greasers?” + +“What do you mean by greasers?” + +“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!” + +And it was in this way, thirty minutes later, that Blake became a greaser +in the engine-room of the _Trunella_. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _dungaree_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _cargadores_. He was a _dungaree_-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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Trunella_ 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 _Trunella_ had steamed many miles +southward on her long journey towards the Straits of Magellan. + + + + + XVI + + +Seven days after the _Trunella_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Over heartbreaking mountainous paths, through miasmic jungles, across +sun-baked plateaus, chilled by night and scorched by day, chafed and +sore, tortured by _niguas_ and _coloradillas_, mosquitoes and _chigoes_, +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 _guaro_ and great quantities of black coffee; +when ill he ate quinin. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Hello, Jim!” said the sick man, in little more than a whisper. + +“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. + +“What’s up, Connie?” he asked, sitting calmly down beside the narrow bed. + +The sick man moved a hand, weakly, as though it were the yellow flapper +of some wounded amphibian. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +The man on the bed did not answer for some time. When he spoke, he spoke +without looking at the other man. + +“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!” + +Blake leaned forward and fought away the flies again. + +“Then it’s a good thing I got up with you.” + +The sick man rolled his eyes in their sockets, so as to bring his enemy +into his line of vision. + +“Why?” he asked. + +“Because I’m not going to let you die,” was Blake’s answer. + +“You can’t help it, Jim! The jig’s up!” + +“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!” + +Binhart slowly moved his head from side to side. Then the heat-lightning +smile played about the hollow face again. + +“It was some chase, Jim, wasn’t it?” he said, without looking at his +old-time enemy. + +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. + +“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!” + +A sweat of weakness stood out on Binhart’s white face. + +“Where to?” he asked, as he had asked once before. And his eyes remained +closed as he put the question. + +“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. + +“You’ll never get me there!” he said, in little more than a whisper. +“Never!” + + + + + XVII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +The other man said nothing, but his slight head-movement was one of +comprehension. + +“So I just wanted to say there’s no side-stepping, no four-flushing, at +this end of the trip!” + +“I understand,” was Binhart’s listless response. + +“I’m glad you do,” Blake went on in his dully monotonous voice. “Because +I got where I can’t stand any more breaks.” + +“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. + +It was as they made their way slowly down to the coast that Blake put an +unexpected question to Binhart. + +“Connie, where in hell did you plant that haul o’ yours?” + +This thing had been worrying Blake. Weeks before he had gone through +every nook and corner, every pocket and crevice in Binhart’s belongings. + +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. + +“Oh, I left that up in the States, where it’d be safe,” he answered. + +“What’ll you do about it?” Blake casually inquired. + +“I can’t tell, just yet,” was Binhart’s retort. + +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 _you_ ought to get it!” + +“What do you mean?” asked Blake. He resented the bodily weakness that was +making burro-riding a torture. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Well, you quit, and I’ll stand for the Law!” + +“But, can’t you see, they’d never stand for you!” + +“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!” + +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. + +“But how’d we ever handle the deal?” prompted the tired-bodied man on the +burro. + +“You remember a woman called Elsie Verriner?” + +“Yes,” acknowledged Blake, with a pang of regret which he could not +fathom, at the mention of the name. + +“Well, we could fix it through her.” + +“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. + +“No, but she could get it,” was Binhart’s response. + +“And what good would that do _me_?” + +“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.” + +Blake rode on again in silence. + +“All right,” he said at last. “I’m willing.” + +“Then how’ll you prove it? How’d I know you’d make good?” demanded +Binhart. + +“That’s not up to me! You’re the man that’s got to make good!” was +Blake’s retort. + +“But you’ll give me the chance?” half pleaded his prisoner. + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“Hadn’t we better lay up for a few days?” suggested Binhart. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +But Binhart, knowing what he knew, was content to wait. + +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. + + + + + XVIII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Cabaret de Neant_ 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! + + + + + XIX + + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“Well, I’m back,” he announced in his guttural bass, as though to bridge +a silence that was becoming abysmal. + +“Yes, you’re back!” echoed Elsie Verriner. She spoke absently, as though +her mind were preoccupied with a problem that seemed inexplicable. + +“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!” + +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. + +“I’m not a lobster palace floater,” she quietly replied. “And you know +it.” + +“Then what are you?” he demanded. + +“I’m a confidential agent of the Treasury Department,” was her +quiet-toned answer. + +“Oho!” cried Blake. “So that’s why we’ve grown so high and mighty!” + +The woman sank into the chair beside which she had been standing. She +seemed impervious to his mockery. + +“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. + +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. + +“You know where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing!” he suddenly cried +out. + +“I’m not positive that I do,” was the woman’s guarded answer. + +“That’s a lie!” thundered Blake. “You know as well as I do!” + +“What have you been doing?” asked the woman, almost indulgently. + +“I’ve been trailing Binhart, and you know it! And what’s more, you know +where Binhart is, now, at this moment!” + +“What was it you wanted me for?” reiterated the white-faced woman, +without looking at him. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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!” + +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. + +“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. + +“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!” + +The woman leaned a little forward, staring into his eyes. + +“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. + +“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!” + +“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!” + +“Making what worse?” demanded Blake. + +“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!” + +“What have I lost by it?” + +“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!” + +“As who expected?” + +“As Copeland and the others expected when they sent you out on a blind +trail.” + +“I wasn’t sent out on a blind trail.” + +“But you found nothing when you went out. Surely you remember that.” + +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. + +“Are you trying to say this Binhart case was a frame up?” he suddenly +cried out. + +“They wanted you out of the way. It was the only trick they could think +of.” + +“That’s a lie!” declared Blake. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Why, you welched on Binhart yourself. You put me on his track. You sent +me up to Montreal!” + +“They made me do that,” confessed the unhappy woman. “He wasn’t in +Montreal. He never had been there!” + +“You had a letter from him there, telling you to come to 381 King Edward +when the coast was clear.” + +“That letter was two years old. It was sent from a room in the King +Edward Hotel. That was part of their plant.” + +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. + +“So you sold me out!” he finally said, studying her white face with his +haggard hound’s eyes. + +“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!” + +“What do _you_ know about friendship?” cried the gray-faced man. + +“We were friends once,” answered the woman, ignoring the bitter mockery +in his cry. + +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. + +“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. + +“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!” + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +He lurched forward to his feet. His great crouching body seemed drawn +towards her by some slow current which he could not control. + +“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. + +“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. + +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. _He was killing her!_ + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + XX + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I want to see Mr. Copeland,” was Blake’s calmly assured announcement. + +“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. + +“But this is important,” said Blake. + +“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. + +“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!” + +“Mr. and Mrs. Copeland are at the Metropolitan, sir,” explained the +servant. “At the Opera. And they are not back yet.” + +“Then I’ll wait for him,” announced Blake, placated by the humbler note +in the voice of the man in the service-coat. + +“Very good, sir,” announced the servant. And he led the way upstairs, +switching on the electrics as he went. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“I do!” said Blake, without rising from his chair. + +“About what?” asked Copeland. There was an acidulated crispness in his +voice which hinted that time might be a matter of importance to him. + +“You know what it’s about, all right,” was Blake’s heavy retort. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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!” + +Copeland, for all his iciness, seemed to resent the thrust. + +“We have always something to learn,” he retorted, meeting Blake’s stolid +stare of enmity. + +“I guess I’ve learned enough!” said Blake. + +“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. + +“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!” + +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. + +“Then might I ask what you are after?” inquired Copeland. He folded his +arms, as though to fortify himself behind a pretense of indifferency. + +“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!” + +“Blake,” said Copeland, very quietly, “you are wrong in both instances.” + +“Am I!” + +“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.” + +“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 _me_ back down. I began this man-hunt, and _I’m going to +end it_!” + +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. + +“That man-hunt is out of our hands,” he heard Copeland saying. + +“But it’s not out of _my_ hands!” reiterated the detective. + +“Yes, it’s out of your hands, too,” answered Copeland. He spoke with a +calm authority, with a finality, that nettled the other man. + +“What are you driving at?” he cried out. + +“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. + +“By God, it’s not ended!” Blake thundered back at him. + +“It _is_ ended,” quietly contended the other. “And precisely as you have +put it—Ended by God!” + +“It’s what?” cried Blake. + +“You don’t seem to be aware of the fact, Blake, that Binhart is dead—dead +and buried!” + +Blake stared up at him. + +“Is what?” his lips automatically inquired. + +“Binhart died seven weeks ago. He died in the town of Toluca, out in +Arizona. He’s buried there.” + +“That’s a lie!” cried Blake, sagging forward in his chair. + +“We had the Phœnix authorities verify the report in every detail. There +is no shadow of doubt about it.” + +Still Blake stared up at the other man. + +“I don’t believe it,” he wheezed. + +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. + +“Bridley, go to my secretary and bring me the portfolio in the second +drawer.” + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + + + + + XXI + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + * * * * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + XXII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _patina_ of time. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Hello, Batty,” he said as he set the exhibit oscillating with a push of +the knee. “How’s business?” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Batty, how long’re yuh going to peddle glue, anyway?” he suddenly asked. + +The glue-peddler, watching the crowds that drifted by him, did not +answer. He did not even look about at his interrogator. + +“D’ yuh _have_ to do this?” asked the wide-shouldered youth in uniform. + +“No,” was the peddler’s mild yet guttural response. + +The other prodded with his night-stick against the capacious overcoat +pockets. Then he laughed. + +“I’ll bet yuh’ve got about forty dollars stowed away in there,” he +mocked. “Yuh have now, haven’t yuh?” + +“I don’ know!” listlessly answered the sunken-shouldered figure. + +“Then what’re yuh sellin’ this stuff for, if it ain’t for money?” +persisted the vaguely piqued youth. + +“I don’ know!” was the apathetic answer. + +“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. + +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.” + +And at almost the same time, approaching him from the west, he had caught +sight of another figure. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“I got him!” he gasped. + +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. + +“Yuh got _who_?” 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. + +“I got him!” calmly repeated the old street-peddler. + +“Yuh got _who_?” demanded the still puzzled young patrolman, oblivious of +the quiescent light in the bewildered eyes of McCooey, close beside him. + +“Binhart!” answered Never-Fail Blake, with a sob. “_I’ve got Binhart!_” + + + THE END + + + + + Transcriber’s Notes + + +--Preserved the copyright notice from the printed edition, although this + book is in the public domain in the country of publication. + +--Silently corrected a few typos (but left nonstandard spelling and + dialect as is). + +--Renumbered the chapter numbers (there were two chapters numbered V). + +--Silently corrected two slight errors related to New York City place + names. + +--In the text versions, delimited text in italics by _underscores_. + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Shadow, by Arthur Stringer + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44336 *** diff --git a/44336-h/44336-h.htm b/44336-h/44336-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e1475f6 --- /dev/null +++ b/44336-h/44336-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7319 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> +<!-- terminate if block for class html --> + +<title>The Shadow, by Arthur Stringer</title> +<meta name="author" content="Arthur Stringer" /> +<link rel="schema.DC" href="http://dublincore.org/documents/1998/09/dces/" /> +<meta name="DC.Creator" content="Arthur Stringer (1874-1950)" /> +<meta name="DC.Title" content="The Shadow" /> +<meta name="DC.Language" content="en" /> +<meta name="DC.Format" content="text/html" /> +<meta name="pss.pubdate" content="1913" /> +<style type="text/css"> +xbody, table.twocol tr td { margin-left:2em; 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clear:both; } + .toc dt.scl { text-align:left; clear:both; font-variant:small-caps; } + .toc dt.sct { text-align:right; clear:both; font-variant:small-caps; margin-left:1em; } + .toc dt.jl { text-align:left; clear:both; font-variant:normal; } + .toc dt.scc { text-align:center; clear:both; font-variant:small-caps; } + .toc dt span.lj { text-align:left; display:block; float:left; } + .toc dt.jr { font-style:normal; } + .toc dt a span.cn, .toc dt span.cn { width:3em; text-align:right; margin-right:.7em; float:left; color:green; } + dt .large {font-weight:bold; } + div.bcat dl dd { margin-left:4em; max-width:21em; } + div.bcat dl dt { text-indent:-2em; margin-left:2em; } + +.clear { clear:both; } +.htab { margin-left:8em; } + /* MAXWIDTH FOR JUVENILE BOOKS */ + p, blockquote, li, dd, dt, div.bcat, pre { text-align:justify; margin-right:auto; margin-left:auto; } + p, li, dd, dt, div.bcat, pre { max-width:25em; } + blockquote { max-width:23em; } + + + div.verse { max-width:25em; margin-right:auto; 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> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44336 ***</div> + +<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> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44336 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/44336-h/images/cover.jpg b/44336-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a0b02b4 --- /dev/null +++ b/44336-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/44336-h/images/logo.jpg b/44336-h/images/logo.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0b197e5 --- /dev/null +++ b/44336-h/images/logo.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..07ecf49 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #44336 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/44336) diff --git a/old/44336-0.txt b/old/44336-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5b43b30 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/44336-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6043 @@ +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 + + + + + + + + + + THE SHADOW + + + BY + ARTHUR STRINGER + + + NEW YORK + THE CENTURY CO. + 1913 + + Copyright, 1913, by + The Century Co. + _Published, January, 1913_ + + + + + THE SHADOW + + + + + I + + +Blake, the Second Deputy, raised his gloomy hound’s eyes as the door +opened and a woman stepped in. Then he dropped them again. + +“Hello, Elsie!” he said, without looking at her. + +The woman stood a moment staring at him. Then she advanced thoughtfully +toward his table desk. + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“You’re—you’re not tied up already, are you?” he had hesitatingly +demanded. “You’re not married?” + +“No, I’m not tied up!” she had promptly and fiercely responded. “My +life’s my own—my own!” + +“Then why can’t you marry me?” the practical-minded man had asked. + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“It’s Connie Binhart,” cut out the Second Deputy. + +He could see discretion drop like a curtain across her watching face. + +“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. + +“I guess,” he went on with slow patience, “we know him best round here as +Charles Blanchard.” + +“Blanchard?” she echoed. + +“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.” + +“Newcomb?” again meditated the woman. + +“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.” + +“When was that?” demanded the woman. + +“That was last October,” he answered with a sing-song weariness +suggestive of impatience at such supererogative explanations. + +“I was at Monte Carlo all last autumn,” was the woman’s quick retort. + +Blake moved his heavy body, as though to shoulder away any claim as to +her complicity. + +“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.” + +Their glances at last came together. No move was made; no word was +spoken. But a contest took place. + +“Why ask _me_?” repeated the woman for the second time. It was only too +plain that she was fencing. + +“Because you _know_,” 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. + +“Jim, I can’t tell you,” she slowly asserted. “I can’t do it!” + +“But I’ve got ’o know,” he stubbornly maintained. “And I’m going to.” + +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. + +“I can’t tell you,” she repeated. “I’d rather you let me go.” + +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. + +“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 _me_, +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.” + +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.” + +“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. + +“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—” + +“Auburn?” she repeated very quietly. Then she raised her eyes to his. +“Can you say a thing like that to me, Jim?” + +He shifted a little in his chair. But he met her gaze without a wince. + +“This is business, Elsie, and you can’t mix business and—and other +things,” he tailed off at last, dropping his eyes. + +“I’m sorry you put it that way,” she said. “I hoped we’d be better +friends than that!” + +“I’m not counting on friendship in this!” he retorted. + +“But it might have been better, even in this!” she said. And the artful +look of pity on her face angered him. + +“Well, we’ll begin on something nearer home!” he cried. + +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. + +“This Steinert check’ll do the trick. Take a closer look at the +signature. Do you get it?” + +“What about it?” she asked, without a tremor. + +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. + +“I may or I may not know who forged that check. I don’t _want_ to know. +And when you tell me where Binhart is, I _won’t_ know.” + +“That check wasn’t forged,” contended the quiet-eyed woman. + +“Steinert will swear it was,” declared the Second Deputy. + +She sat without speaking, apparently in deep study. Her intent face +showed no fear, no bewilderment, no actual emotion of any kind. + +“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. + +“Will I be dragged into this case, in any way, if Binhart is rounded up?” +the woman finally asked. + +“Not once,” he asserted. + +“You promise me that?” + +“Of course,” answered the Second Deputy. + +“And you’ll let me alone on—on the other things?” she calmly exacted. + +“Yes,” he promptly acknowledged. “I’ll see that you’re let alone.” + +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. + +“Binhart’s in Montreal,” she said. + +Blake, keeping his face well under control, waited for her to go on. + +“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.” + +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. + +“You know his writing?” she asked. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Nolan,” he said into the receiver, “I want to know if there’s a King +Edward Avenue in Montreal.” + +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. + +“Yes, sir,” came the answer over the wire. “It’s one of the newer avenues +in Westmount.” + +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 +_concerto_ of skepticisms. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“Elsie, you’re all right,” he acknowledged with his solemn and +unimaginative impassivity. “You’re all right.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“How?” asked the woman. + +“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. + +“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. + +“D’you want it?” he queried with simulated indifference, as he made a +final and lingering study of it. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + II + + +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. + +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. + +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 _wanderlust_ 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: + + “MEN WANTED.” + +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. + +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 _Tribune_ +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _The Counterfeit Detector_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _aides_ 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.” + +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 _Portrait Parle_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _my_ side of the fence, you’d last about as long as a +snowball on a crownsheet!” + + + + + III + + +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. + +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. + +“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 _park_ gun! +That’s all you are, a broken-down bluff, an ornamental has-been, a park +gun for kids to play ’round!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“We’ve been going over this Binhart case,” began the Commissioner. “It’s +seven months now—and nothing done!” + +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. + +“I always said McCooey wasn’t the man to go out on that case,” said the +Second Deputy, still watching Copeland. + +“Then who _is_ the man?” asked the Commissioner. + +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. + +“What’s the matter with Washington and Wilkie?” inquired Blake, +attentively regarding his cigar. + +“They’re just where we are—at a standstill,” acknowledged the +Commissioner. + +“And that’s where we’ll stay!” heavily contended the Second Deputy. + +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. + +“Why?” demanded his superior. + +“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!” + +“Then what is your suggestion?” It was Copeland who spoke, mild and +hesitating. + +“D’ you want my suggestion?” demanded Blake, warm with the wine-like +knowledge which, he knew, made him master of the situation. + +“Of course,” was the Commissioner’s curt response. + +“Well, you’ve got to have a man who knows Binhart, who knows him and his +tricks and his hang outs!” + +“Well, who does?” + +“I do,” declared Blake. + +The Commissioner indulged in his wintry smile. + +“You mean if you weren’t tied down to your Second Deputy’s chair you +could go out and get him!” + +“I could!” + +“Within a reasonable length of time?” + +“I don’t know about the time! But I could get him, all right.” + +“If you were still on the outside work?” interposed Copeland. + +“I certainly wouldn’t expect to dig him out o’ my stamp drawer,” was +Blake’s heavily facetious retort. + +Copeland and the Commissioner looked at each other, for one fraction of a +second. + +“You know what my feeling is,” resumed the latter, “on this Binhart +case.” + +“I know what _my_ feeling is,” declared Blake. + +“What?” + +“That the right method would’ve got him six months ago, without all this +monkey work!” + +“Then why not end the monkey work, as you call it?” + +“How?” + +“By doing what you say you can do!” was the Commissioner’s retort. + +“How’m I going to hold down a chair and hunt a crook at the same time?” + +“Then why hold down the chair? Let the chair take care of itself. It +could be arranged, you know.” + +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. + +“How’d you do the arranging?” he calmly inquired. + +“I could see the Mayor in the morning. There will be no Departmental +difficulty.” + +“Then where’s the trouble?” + +“There is none, if you are willing to go out.” + +“Well, we can’t get Binhart here by pink-tea invitations. Somebody’s got +to go out and _get_ him!” + +“The bank raised the reward to eight thousand this week,” interposed the +ruminative Copeland. + +“Well, it’ll take money to get him,” snapped back the Second Deputy, +remembering that he had a nest of his own to feather. + +“It will be worth what it costs,” admitted the Commissioner. + +“Of course,” said Copeland, “they’ll have to honor your drafts—in +reason.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Then what’re we beefing about?” he demanded. “You want Binhart and I’ll +get him for you.” + +The Commissioner, tapping the top of his desk with his gold-banded +fountain pen, smiled. It was almost a smile of indulgence. + +“You _know_ you will get him?” he inquired. + +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. + +“I say I’ll get him!” he calmly proclaimed. “And I guess that ought to be +enough!” + + + + + IV + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“You saw Blake again?” he half asked, half challenged. + +“No,” she answered. + +“Why?” + +“I was afraid to.” + +“Didn’t I tell you we’d take care of your end?” + +“I’ve had promises like that before. They weren’t always remembered.” + +“But our office never made you that promise before, Miss Verriner.” + +The woman let her eyes rest on his impassive face. + +“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.” + +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?” + +The First Deputy smiled. It was not altogether at the mere calmness with +which she could suggest such an atrocity. + +“Hardly,” he said. + +“Then what is it?” she demanded. + +He was both patient and painstaking with her. His tone was almost +paternal in its placativeness. + +“It’s merely a phase of departmental business,” he answered her. “And +we’re anxious to see Blake round up Connie Binhart.” + +“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.” + +“Did you give it to him?” + +“No, he hammered it out of me. But you knew he was going to do that. That +was part of the plant.” + +She sat studying her thin white hands for several seconds. Then she +looked up at the calm-eyed Copeland. + +“How are you going to protect me, if Blake comes back? How are you going +to keep your promise?” + +The First Deputy sat back in his chair and crossed his thin legs. + +“Blake will not come back,” he announced. She slewed suddenly round on +him again. + +“Then it _is_ a plant!” she proclaimed. + +“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.” + +The woman gave a little hand gesture of impatience. + +“But don’t you see,” she protested, “supposing he gives up Binhart? +Supposing he suspects something and hurries back to hold down his place?” + +“They call him Never-Fail Blake,” commented the unmoved and dry-lipped +official. He met her wide stare with his gently satiric smile. + +“I see,” she finally said, “you’re not going to shoot him up. You’re +merely going to wipe him out.” + +“You are quite wrong there,” began the man across the table from her. +“Administration changes may happen, and in—” + +“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.” + +“No competent officer is ever worked out of this Department,” parried the +First Deputy. + +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. + +“Mr. Copeland, aren’t you afraid some one might find it worth while to +tip Blake off?” she softly inquired. + +“What would you gain?” was his pointed and elliptical interrogation. + +She leaned forward in the fulcrum of light, and looked at him soberly. + +“What is your idea of me?” she asked. + +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. + +“I think you are a very intelligent woman,” Copeland finally confessed. + +“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 _got_ to be!” + +“And?” prompted the First Deputy, as she came to a stop. + +“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.” + +“And?” again prompted the First Deputy. + +“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 _got_ to be safe!” + +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. + +“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 _are_ +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!” + +He sat pondering just how much of this he could believe. But she +disregarded his veiled impassivity. + +“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.” + +“But that does not rest with me, Miss Verriner!” + +“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!” + +Copeland, with his chin on his bony breast, looked up to smile into her +intent and staring eyes. + +“You are a very clever woman,” he said. “And what is more, you know a +great deal!” + +“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. + +“Your knowledge,” he said with a deliberation equal to her own, “will +prove of great value to you—as an agent with Wilkie.” + +“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. + +“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!” + +“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. + + + + + V + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“Draw for lead?” asked Blake, lighting a cigar. + +“Sure,” said Loony. + +Blake pushed his ball to the top cushion, won the draw, and broke. + +“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. + +Loony studied the balls for a second or two. Wolf was a “dip” with an +international record. + +“Last time I saw Wolf he was out at ’Frisco, workin’ the Beaches,” was +Loony’s reply. + +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. + +“Where’s Angel McGlory these days?” asked Blake, as he reached over to +place a ball. + +“What’s she been doin’?” demanded Loony, with his cue on the rail. + +“She’s traveling with a bank sneak named Blanchard or Binhart,” explained +Blake. “And I want her.” + +Loony Ryan made his stroke. + +“Hep Roony saw Binhart this mornin’, beatin’ it for N’ Orleans. But he +wasn’t travelin’ wit’ any moll that Hep spoke of.” + +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. + +“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. + +“What’s up?” he demanded. “Who’d you spot?” + +“Nothing, Wolf, nothing! But this game o’ yours blamed near made me +forget an appointment o’ mine!” + +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. + + + + + VI + + +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. + +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 +_papa-bottes_ in ribbons of bacon, to say nothing of fruit and +_bruilleau_. + +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. + +“Abe, I’ve come down to gather you in,” announced the calmly mendacious +detective. He continued to sip his bruilleau with fraternal unconcern. + +“You got nothing _on_ me, Jim,” protested the other, losing his taste for +the delicacies arrayed about him. + +“Well, we got ’o go down to Headquarters and talk that over,” calmly +persisted Blake. + +“What’s the use of pounding me, when I’m on the square again?” persisted +the ex-drum snuffer. + +“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.” + +“Did you bump into Binhart in St. Louis?” + +“We had a talk, three days ago.” + +“Then why’d he blow through this town as though he had a regiment o’ +bulls and singed cats behind him!” + +Blake’s heart went down like an elevator with a broken cable. But he gave +no outward sign of this inward commotion. + +“Because he wants to get down to Colon before the Hamburg-American boat +hits the port,” ventured Blake. “His moll’s aboard!” + +“But he blew out for ’Frisco this morning,” contended the puzzled +Sheiner. “Shot through as though he’d just had a rumble!” + +“Oh, he _said_ that, but he went south, all right.” + +“Then he went in an oyster sloop. There’s nothing sailing from this port +to-day.” + +“Well, what’s Binhart got to do with our trouble anyway? What I want—” + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Manchuria_. 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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +Crossing the Sound, he reached Victoria in time to see the _Empress of +China_ 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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + VII + + +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 _Empress of China_ that the Reverend +Caleb Simpson had safely landed from the _Manchuria_ at Hong Kong, and +was about to leave for the mission field in the interior. + +The so-called bishop, sitting in the wireless-room of the _Empress of +China_, 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. + +But at Yokohama, Blake hurried ashore in a _sampan_, 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 _Toyo Kisen Kaisha_ +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + VIII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“You clum b’long me,” was the enigmatic message uttered in the +detective’s ear. + +“Why should I go along with you?” Blake calmly inquired. + +“You clum b’long me,” reiterated the Chinaman. The finger again touched +the detective’s arm. “Clismas!” + +Blake rose, at once. He recognized the code word of “Christmas.” This was +the messenger he had been awaiting. + +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. + +His guide was pointing to a closed door in front of them. + +“You sabby?” he demanded. + +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. + + + + + IX + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“You’re the party who’s on the man hunt,” she announced. + +“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. + +“You’re after this man called Binhart,” she declared. + +“Oh, no, I’m not,” was Blake’s sagacious response. “I don’t want +Binhart!” + +“Then what do you want?” + +“I want the money he’s got.” + +The little painted face grew serious; then it became veiled. + +“How much money has he?” + +“That’s what I want to find out!” + +She squatted ruminatively down on the edge of her divan. It was low and +wide and covered with orange-colored silk. + +“Then you’ll have to find Binhart!” was her next announcement. + +“Maybe!” acknowledged Blake. + +“I can show you where he is!” + +“All right,” was the unperturbed response. The blue-painted eyes were +studying him. + +“It will be worth four thousand pounds, in English gold,” she announced. + +Blake took a step or two nearer her. + +“Is that the message Ottenheim told you to give me?” he demanded. His +face was red with anger. + +“Then three thousand pounds,” she calmly suggested, wriggling her toes +into a fallen sandal. + +Blake did not deign to speak. His inarticulate grunt was one of disgust. + +“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!” + +Her eyes were as tranquil as a child’s. Blake remembered that he was in a +world not his own. + +“Why should I want him killed?” he inquired. He looked about for some +place to sit. There was not a chair in the room. + +“Because he intends to kill _you_,” answered the woman, squatting on the +orange-covered divan. + +“I wish he’d come and try,” Blake devoutly retorted. + +“He will not come,” she told him. “It will be done from the dark. _I_ +could have done it. But Ottenheim said no.” + +“And Ottenheim said you were to work with me in this,” declared Blake, +putting two and two together. + +The woman shrugged a white shoulder. + +“Have you any money?” she asked. She put the question with the +artlessness of a child. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“Well, what word’ll I take back to Ottenheim?” he demanded. + +The woman grew serious. Then she showed her rice-like row of teeth as she +laughed. + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“But where’s Binhart?” he demanded, as he looked stolidly about for his +black boulder. + +“Never mind Binhart,” she cried, touching the eviscerated body at her +feet with one slipper toe, “or we’ll get what _he_ got!” + +“I want that man Binhart!” persisted the detective. + +“Not here! Not here!” she cried, folding the loose folds of the cloak +closer about her body. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +He felt grateful for that open air, for the coolness, for the sense of +deliverance which came with even that comparative freedom. + +“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. + +“On the next roof you must take off your shoes,” she warned him. “You can +rest then. But hurry—hurry!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I’m dished!” she murmured, as she sat there breathing audibly through +the darkness. “I’m dished for this coast!” + +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. + +The girl touched him on the knee and then shifted her position on the +coping tiles, without rising to her feet. + +“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 _Praya_. Now look where I’m pointing. That’s +the Luiz Camoes lodging-house. You see the second window with the light +in it?” + +“Yes, I see it.” + +“Well, Binhart’s inside that window.” + +“You know it?” + +“I know it.” + +“So he’s there?” said Blake, staring at the vague square of light. + +“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.” + +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. + +“What are you going to do?” she asked. + +“I’m going to get Binhart,” was Blake’s answer. + +He could hear her little childlike murmur of laughter. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“What’ll you do?” he asked. + +Again he heard the careless little laugh. + +“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.” + +“And then?” asked Blake, watching the window of the Luiz Camoes +lodging-house below him. + +“Then I’ll work my way up to Port Arthur, I suppose. There’s a navy man +there who’ll help me!” + +“Haven’t you any money?” Blake put the question a little uneasily. + +Again he felt the careless coo of laughter. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Good-by, white man,” she whispered. + +“Good-by!” he whispered back, as he worked his way cautiously and +ponderously along that perilous slope. + +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.” + + + + + X + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The servant was leading him down the length of the half-lit hall when +Blake caught him by the sleeve. + +“You tell my rickshaw boy to wait! Quick, before he gets away!” + +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. + +He stood for a second or two, thinking. Then with the knuckle of one +finger he tapped on the door, lightly, almost timidly. + +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. + +Facing him, at the far side of the room, he saw Binhart. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +“That’s all right,” he said. “Don’t get up!” + +Binhart eyed him. During that few seconds of silent tableau each man was +appraising, weighing, estimating the strength of the other. + +“What do you want, Jim?” asked Binhart, almost querulously. + +“I want that gun you’ve got up there under your liver pad,” was Blake’s +impassive answer. + +“Is that all?” asked Binhart. But he made no move to produce the gun. + +“Then I want you,” calmly announced Blake. + +A look of gentle expostulation crept over Binhart’s gaunt face. + +“You can’t do it, Jim,” he announced. “You can’t take me away from here.” + +“But I’m going to,” retorted Blake. + +“How?” + +“I’m just going to take you.” + +He crossed the room as he spoke. + +“Give me the gun,” he commanded. + +Binhart still sat in the low reed chair. He made no movement in response +to Blake’s command. + +“What’s the good of getting rough-house,” he complained. + +“Gi’ me the gun,” repeated Blake. + +“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. + +“Now, get your clothes on,” commanded Blake. + +“What for?” temporized Binhart. + +“You’re coming with me!” + +“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.” + +“I’ll risk it,” announced the detective. + +“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!” + +“What t’ hell do I care for law,” was Blake’s retort. “I want you and +you’re going to come with me.” + +“Where am I going?” + +“Back to New York.” + +Binhart laughed. It was a laugh without any mirth in it. + +“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!” + +“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.” + +Binhart sat studying the other man for a moment or two. + +“Then how about a little real talk, the kind of talk that money makes?” + +“Nothing doing!” declared Blake, folding his arms. + +Binhart flickered a glance at him as he thrust his own right hand down +into the hand-bag on his knees. + +“I want to show you what you could get out of this,” he said, leaning +forward a little as he looked up at Blake. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“Where’s Binhart?” asked Blake. + +“That’s all right, old chap, you just rest up a bit,” said the placatory +youth. + +At nine the next morning Blake was taken ashore at Hong Kong. + +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. + + + + + XI + + +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. + +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 +_Toyo Kisen Kaisha_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _lingua Franca_ 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. + +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. + +But Binhart, in the meantime, had caught a Lloyd Brazileiro steamer for +Rio de Janeiro, and was once more on the high seas. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + + + + + XII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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!” + +“Have a smoke?” asked Blake. + +“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. + +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. + +It came in the form of an incredibly thin _gringo_ 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 _mezcal_ of Guatemala and the _anisado_ of +Ecuador had combined with the _pulque_ of Mexico to set their +unmistakable seal. + +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. + +“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. + +Blake smoked for a moment or two before answering. + +“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. + +“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. + +“Well, I’m saying it now!” Blake’s guttural voice was reminding him. + +“Then why didn’t you say it an hour ago?” contested McGlade, with his +alcoholic peevish obstinacy. + +“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. + +“I can tell you all right, all right—but it won’t do you much good!” + +“Why not?” And still Blake was bland and patient. + +“Because,” retorted McGlade, fixing the other man with a lean finger that +was both unclean and unsteady, “_you can’t get at him_!” + +“You tell me where he is,” said Blake, striking a match. “I’ll attend to +the rest of it!” + +McGlade slowly and deliberately drank the last of his swizzle. Then he +put down his empty glass and stared pensively and pregnantly into it. + +“What’s there in it for me?” he asked. + +Blake, studying him across the small table, weighed both the man and the +situation. + +“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 _his_ funeral. All he wanted was Binhart. + +“Binhart’s in Guayaquil,” McGlade suddenly announced. + +“How d’ you know that?” promptly demanded Blake. + +“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.” + +“What liner?” + +“He went aboard the _Trunella_. He thought he’d get down to Callao. But +they tied the _Trunella_ up at Guayaquil.” + +“And you say he’s there now?” + +“Yes!” + +“And aboard the _Trunella_?” + +“Sure! He’s got to be aboard the _Trunella_!” + +“Then why d’ you say I can’t get at him?” + +“Because Guayaquil and the _Trunella_ 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!” + +“But there’s got to be _something_ going there!” contended Blake. + +“They daren’t do it! They couldn’t get clearance—they couldn’t even get +_pratique_! 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!” + +Blake, at this last word, raised his ponderous head. + +“The boat-patrols wouldn’t phase me,” he announced. His thoughts, in +fact, were already far ahead, marshaling themselves about other things. + +“You’ve a weakness for yellow fever?” inquired the ironic McGlade. + +“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. + +“You don’t mean you’re going to try to get into Guayaquil?” demanded +McGlade. + +“If Connie Binhart’s down there I’ve got to go and get him,” was +Never-Fail Blake’s answer. + + * * * * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Pip,” Blake very quietly announced, “you’re going to sail for Guayaquil +to-morrow!” + +“Am I?” queried the unmoved Pip. + +“You’re going to start for Guayaquil to-morrow,” repeated Blake, “and +you’re going to take me along with you!” + +“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!” + +“I admit that,” quietly acknowledged the other man. “I saw her +yesterday!” + +“And she don’t carry no passengers—she ain’t allowed to,” announced her +master. + +“But she’s going to carry me,” asserted Blake, lighting a fresh cigar. + +“What as?” demanded Tankred. And he fixed Blake with a belligerent eye as +he put the question. + +“As an old friend of yours!” + +“And then what?” still challenged the other. + +“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!” + +Tankred continued to smoke. + +“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?” + +“No, you’re doing the coquetting in this case, I guess!” + +“Then I ain’t standin’ for no rivals—not on this coast!” + +The two men, so dissimilar in aspect and yet so alike in their accidental +attitudes of an uncouth belligerency, sat staring at each other. + +“You’re going to take me to Guayaquil,” repeated Blake. + +“That’s where you’re dead wrong,” was the calmly insolent rejoinder. “I +ain’t even _goin’_ to Guayaquil.” + +“I say you are.” + +Tankred’s smile translated his earlier deliberateness into open contempt. + +“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!” + +“But you’re going to get as close to Guayaquil as you can, and you know +it.” + +“Do I?” said the man with the up-tilted cigar. + +“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!” + +For the first time Tankred turned and studied him. + +“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. + +“There’s a man I want down there, and I’m going down to get him!” + +“Who is he?” + +“That’s my business,” retorted Blake. + +“And gettin’ into Guayaquil’s your business!” Tankred snorted back. + +“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!” + +“How do I know that?” + +“You’ll have my word for it!” + +Tankred swung round on him. + +“D’ you realize you’ll have to sneak ashore in a _lancha_ 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?” + +“I know all that!” acknowledged Blake. + +For the second time Tankred turned and studied the other man. + +“And you’re still goin’ after your gen’leman friend from up North?” he +inquired. + +“Pip, I’ve got to get that man!” + +“You’ve got ’o?” + +“I’ve got to, and I’m going to!” + +Tankred threw his cigar-end away and laughed leisurely and quietly. + +“Then what’re we sittin’ here arguin’ about, anyway? If it’s settled, +it’s settled, ain’t it?” + +“Yes, I think it’s settled!” + +Again Tankred laughed. + +“But take it from me, my friend, you’ll sure see some rough goin’ this +next few days!” + + + + + XIII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“It’s time you were gettin’ your clothes on,” he announced. + +“Getting my clothes on?” queried Blake through the darkness. + +“Yes, you can’t tell what we’ll bump into, any time now!” + +The wakened sleeper heard the other man moving about in the velvety black +gloom. + +“What’re you doing there?” was his sharp question as he heard the squeak +and slam of a shutter. + +“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!” + +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. + +“You’d better turn out!” he called back as he stepped into the engulfing +gloom of the gangway. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He swung nervously about as he felt a hand clutch his arm. He found +Tankred speaking quietly into his ear. + +“There’ll be one boat over,” that worthy was explaining. “One boat—you +take that—the last one! And you’d better give the _guinney_ a ten-dollar +bill for his trouble!” + +“All right! I’m ready!” was Blake’s low-toned reply as he started to move +forward with the other man. + +“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!” + +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 +_Trunella_ must ride at anchor and Binhart must be. + +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 _lancha_ tied to the +landing-ladder had been suddenly quenched. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _lanchas_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +This boat, he saw, was still securely tied to its mate, one of the +larger-bodied _lanchas_, 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. + +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. + +He had the last strand of the rope severed before the Ecuadorean with the +carbine reached the _lancha_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +_Trunella_ should be so foolishly delayed, that so many cross-purposes +should postpone and imperil his quest of Binhart. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + XIV + + +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. + +He rowed, always keeping his bow towards the far-off spangle of lights +which showed where the _Trunella_ lay at anchor. + +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. + +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. + +He rowed feverishly on, until the lights of the _Trunella_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Where in the name o’ God did _you_ come from?” demanded the man with the +brier-root pipe. + +“I came out from Guayaquil,” answered Blake, reaching searchingly down in +his wet pocket. “And I can’t go back.” + +The sandy-headed man backed away. + +“From the fever camps?” + +Blake could afford to smile at the movement. + +“Don’t worry—there’s no fever ’round me. _That’s_ what I’ve been +through!” And he showed the bullet-holes through his tattered coat-cloth. + +“How’d you get here?” + +“Rowed out in a surf-boat—and I can’t go back!” + +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. + +“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. + +“That Alfaro gang after you?” he inquired. + +“They’re _all_ 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. + +“What d’ you want me to do?” he finally asked. + +Blake, instead of answering that question, asked another. + +“When do you move out of here?” + +The engineer put the coins in his pocket. + +“Before noon to-morrow, thank God! The _Yorktown_ ought to be here by +morning—she’s to give us our release!” + +“Then you’ll sail by noon?” + +“We’ve _got_ 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!” + +A great wave of contentment surged through Blake’s weary body. He put his +hand up on the smaller man’s shoulder. + +“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!” + +The pale-eyed engineer studied the problem. Then he studied the figure in +front of him. + +“There’s nothing crooked behind this?” + +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!” + +“I’m fourth engineer on board here, and the Old Man would sure fire me, +if—” + +“But you needn’t even know about me,” contended Blake. “Just let me crawl +in somewhere where I can sleep!” + +“You need it, all right, by that face of yours!” + +“I sure do,” acknowledged the other as he stood awaiting his judge’s +decision. + +“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!” + +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!” + +“Oh, I’ll face it, all right!” was Blake’s calmly contented answer. “All +I want now is about nine hours’ sleep!” + +“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. + + + + + XV + + +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. + +“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 _Trunella_ were not +in motion. “Why aren’t we under way?” + +“They’re having trouble up there, with the _Commandante_. 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!” + +“Where’ll you get me?” asked Blake. He was on his feet by this time, +arraying himself in his wet and ragged clothing. + +“That’s what I’ve been talking over with the Chief,” began the young +engineer. Blake wheeled about and fixed him with his eye. + +“Did you let your Chief in on this?” he demanded, and he found it hard to +keep his anger in check. + +“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!” + +“Well, supposing I’m not?” + +“Then they’d haul you back and give you a half year in that _Lazaretto_ +o’ theirs!” + +“Well, what do I have to do to keep from being hauled back?” + +“You’ll have to be one o’ the workin’ crew, until we get off. The Chief +says that, and I think he’s right!” + +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. + +“You don’t mean stoke-hole work?” he demanded. + +The fourth engineer continued to look worried. + +“You don’t happen to know anything about machinery, do you?” he began. + +“Of course I do,” retorted Blake, thinking gratefully of his early days +as a steamfitter. + +“Then why couldn’t I put you in a cap and jumper and work you in as one +of the greasers?” + +“What do you mean by greasers?” + +“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!” + +And it was in this way, thirty minutes later, that Blake became a greaser +in the engine-room of the _Trunella_. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _dungaree_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _cargadores_. He was a _dungaree_-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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Trunella_ 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 _Trunella_ had steamed many miles +southward on her long journey towards the Straits of Magellan. + + + + + XVI + + +Seven days after the _Trunella_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Over heartbreaking mountainous paths, through miasmic jungles, across +sun-baked plateaus, chilled by night and scorched by day, chafed and +sore, tortured by _niguas_ and _coloradillas_, mosquitoes and _chigoes_, +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 _guaro_ and great quantities of black coffee; +when ill he ate quinin. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Hello, Jim!” said the sick man, in little more than a whisper. + +“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. + +“What’s up, Connie?” he asked, sitting calmly down beside the narrow bed. + +The sick man moved a hand, weakly, as though it were the yellow flapper +of some wounded amphibian. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +The man on the bed did not answer for some time. When he spoke, he spoke +without looking at the other man. + +“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!” + +Blake leaned forward and fought away the flies again. + +“Then it’s a good thing I got up with you.” + +The sick man rolled his eyes in their sockets, so as to bring his enemy +into his line of vision. + +“Why?” he asked. + +“Because I’m not going to let you die,” was Blake’s answer. + +“You can’t help it, Jim! The jig’s up!” + +“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!” + +Binhart slowly moved his head from side to side. Then the heat-lightning +smile played about the hollow face again. + +“It was some chase, Jim, wasn’t it?” he said, without looking at his +old-time enemy. + +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. + +“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!” + +A sweat of weakness stood out on Binhart’s white face. + +“Where to?” he asked, as he had asked once before. And his eyes remained +closed as he put the question. + +“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. + +“You’ll never get me there!” he said, in little more than a whisper. +“Never!” + + + + + XVII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +The other man said nothing, but his slight head-movement was one of +comprehension. + +“So I just wanted to say there’s no side-stepping, no four-flushing, at +this end of the trip!” + +“I understand,” was Binhart’s listless response. + +“I’m glad you do,” Blake went on in his dully monotonous voice. “Because +I got where I can’t stand any more breaks.” + +“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. + +It was as they made their way slowly down to the coast that Blake put an +unexpected question to Binhart. + +“Connie, where in hell did you plant that haul o’ yours?” + +This thing had been worrying Blake. Weeks before he had gone through +every nook and corner, every pocket and crevice in Binhart’s belongings. + +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. + +“Oh, I left that up in the States, where it’d be safe,” he answered. + +“What’ll you do about it?” Blake casually inquired. + +“I can’t tell, just yet,” was Binhart’s retort. + +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 _you_ ought to get it!” + +“What do you mean?” asked Blake. He resented the bodily weakness that was +making burro-riding a torture. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Well, you quit, and I’ll stand for the Law!” + +“But, can’t you see, they’d never stand for you!” + +“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!” + +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. + +“But how’d we ever handle the deal?” prompted the tired-bodied man on the +burro. + +“You remember a woman called Elsie Verriner?” + +“Yes,” acknowledged Blake, with a pang of regret which he could not +fathom, at the mention of the name. + +“Well, we could fix it through her.” + +“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. + +“No, but she could get it,” was Binhart’s response. + +“And what good would that do _me_?” + +“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.” + +Blake rode on again in silence. + +“All right,” he said at last. “I’m willing.” + +“Then how’ll you prove it? How’d I know you’d make good?” demanded +Binhart. + +“That’s not up to me! You’re the man that’s got to make good!” was +Blake’s retort. + +“But you’ll give me the chance?” half pleaded his prisoner. + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“Hadn’t we better lay up for a few days?” suggested Binhart. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +But Binhart, knowing what he knew, was content to wait. + +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. + + + + + XVIII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Cabaret de Neant_ 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! + + + + + XIX + + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“Well, I’m back,” he announced in his guttural bass, as though to bridge +a silence that was becoming abysmal. + +“Yes, you’re back!” echoed Elsie Verriner. She spoke absently, as though +her mind were preoccupied with a problem that seemed inexplicable. + +“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!” + +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. + +“I’m not a lobster palace floater,” she quietly replied. “And you know +it.” + +“Then what are you?” he demanded. + +“I’m a confidential agent of the Treasury Department,” was her +quiet-toned answer. + +“Oho!” cried Blake. “So that’s why we’ve grown so high and mighty!” + +The woman sank into the chair beside which she had been standing. She +seemed impervious to his mockery. + +“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. + +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. + +“You know where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing!” he suddenly cried +out. + +“I’m not positive that I do,” was the woman’s guarded answer. + +“That’s a lie!” thundered Blake. “You know as well as I do!” + +“What have you been doing?” asked the woman, almost indulgently. + +“I’ve been trailing Binhart, and you know it! And what’s more, you know +where Binhart is, now, at this moment!” + +“What was it you wanted me for?” reiterated the white-faced woman, +without looking at him. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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!” + +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. + +“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. + +“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!” + +The woman leaned a little forward, staring into his eyes. + +“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. + +“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!” + +“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!” + +“Making what worse?” demanded Blake. + +“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!” + +“What have I lost by it?” + +“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!” + +“As who expected?” + +“As Copeland and the others expected when they sent you out on a blind +trail.” + +“I wasn’t sent out on a blind trail.” + +“But you found nothing when you went out. Surely you remember that.” + +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. + +“Are you trying to say this Binhart case was a frame up?” he suddenly +cried out. + +“They wanted you out of the way. It was the only trick they could think +of.” + +“That’s a lie!” declared Blake. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Why, you welched on Binhart yourself. You put me on his track. You sent +me up to Montreal!” + +“They made me do that,” confessed the unhappy woman. “He wasn’t in +Montreal. He never had been there!” + +“You had a letter from him there, telling you to come to 381 King Edward +when the coast was clear.” + +“That letter was two years old. It was sent from a room in the King +Edward Hotel. That was part of their plant.” + +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. + +“So you sold me out!” he finally said, studying her white face with his +haggard hound’s eyes. + +“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!” + +“What do _you_ know about friendship?” cried the gray-faced man. + +“We were friends once,” answered the woman, ignoring the bitter mockery +in his cry. + +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. + +“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. + +“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!” + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +He lurched forward to his feet. His great crouching body seemed drawn +towards her by some slow current which he could not control. + +“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. + +“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. + +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. _He was killing her!_ + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + XX + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I want to see Mr. Copeland,” was Blake’s calmly assured announcement. + +“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. + +“But this is important,” said Blake. + +“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. + +“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!” + +“Mr. and Mrs. Copeland are at the Metropolitan, sir,” explained the +servant. “At the Opera. And they are not back yet.” + +“Then I’ll wait for him,” announced Blake, placated by the humbler note +in the voice of the man in the service-coat. + +“Very good, sir,” announced the servant. And he led the way upstairs, +switching on the electrics as he went. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“I do!” said Blake, without rising from his chair. + +“About what?” asked Copeland. There was an acidulated crispness in his +voice which hinted that time might be a matter of importance to him. + +“You know what it’s about, all right,” was Blake’s heavy retort. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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!” + +Copeland, for all his iciness, seemed to resent the thrust. + +“We have always something to learn,” he retorted, meeting Blake’s stolid +stare of enmity. + +“I guess I’ve learned enough!” said Blake. + +“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. + +“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!” + +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. + +“Then might I ask what you are after?” inquired Copeland. He folded his +arms, as though to fortify himself behind a pretense of indifferency. + +“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!” + +“Blake,” said Copeland, very quietly, “you are wrong in both instances.” + +“Am I!” + +“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.” + +“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 _me_ back down. I began this man-hunt, and _I’m going to +end it_!” + +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. + +“That man-hunt is out of our hands,” he heard Copeland saying. + +“But it’s not out of _my_ hands!” reiterated the detective. + +“Yes, it’s out of your hands, too,” answered Copeland. He spoke with a +calm authority, with a finality, that nettled the other man. + +“What are you driving at?” he cried out. + +“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. + +“By God, it’s not ended!” Blake thundered back at him. + +“It _is_ ended,” quietly contended the other. “And precisely as you have +put it—Ended by God!” + +“It’s what?” cried Blake. + +“You don’t seem to be aware of the fact, Blake, that Binhart is dead—dead +and buried!” + +Blake stared up at him. + +“Is what?” his lips automatically inquired. + +“Binhart died seven weeks ago. He died in the town of Toluca, out in +Arizona. He’s buried there.” + +“That’s a lie!” cried Blake, sagging forward in his chair. + +“We had the Phœnix authorities verify the report in every detail. There +is no shadow of doubt about it.” + +Still Blake stared up at the other man. + +“I don’t believe it,” he wheezed. + +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. + +“Bridley, go to my secretary and bring me the portfolio in the second +drawer.” + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + + + + + XXI + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + * * * * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + XXII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _patina_ of time. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Hello, Batty,” he said as he set the exhibit oscillating with a push of +the knee. “How’s business?” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Batty, how long’re yuh going to peddle glue, anyway?” he suddenly asked. + +The glue-peddler, watching the crowds that drifted by him, did not +answer. He did not even look about at his interrogator. + +“D’ yuh _have_ to do this?” asked the wide-shouldered youth in uniform. + +“No,” was the peddler’s mild yet guttural response. + +The other prodded with his night-stick against the capacious overcoat +pockets. Then he laughed. + +“I’ll bet yuh’ve got about forty dollars stowed away in there,” he +mocked. “Yuh have now, haven’t yuh?” + +“I don’ know!” listlessly answered the sunken-shouldered figure. + +“Then what’re yuh sellin’ this stuff for, if it ain’t for money?” +persisted the vaguely piqued youth. + +“I don’ know!” was the apathetic answer. + +“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. + +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.” + +And at almost the same time, approaching him from the west, he had caught +sight of another figure. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“I got him!” he gasped. + +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. + +“Yuh got _who_?” 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. + +“I got him!” calmly repeated the old street-peddler. + +“Yuh got _who_?” demanded the still puzzled young patrolman, oblivious of +the quiescent light in the bewildered eyes of McCooey, close beside him. + +“Binhart!” answered Never-Fail Blake, with a sob. “_I’ve got Binhart!_” + + + THE END + + + + + Transcriber’s Notes + + +--Preserved the copyright notice from the printed edition, although this + book is in the public domain in the country of publication. + +--Silently corrected a few typos (but left nonstandard spelling and + dialect as is). + +--Renumbered the chapter numbers (there were two chapters numbered V). + +--Silently corrected two slight errors related to New York City place + names. + +--In the text versions, delimited text in italics by _underscores_. + + + + + + + +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 44336-0.txt or 44336-0.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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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: ISO-8859-1 + +*** 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 + + + + + + + + + + THE SHADOW + + + BY + ARTHUR STRINGER + + + NEW YORK + THE CENTURY CO. + 1913 + + Copyright, 1913, by + The Century Co. + _Published, January, 1913_ + + + + + THE SHADOW + + + + + I + + +Blake, the Second Deputy, raised his gloomy hound's eyes as the door +opened and a woman stepped in. Then he dropped them again. + +"Hello, Elsie!" he said, without looking at her. + +The woman stood a moment staring at him. Then she advanced thoughtfully +toward his table desk. + +"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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"You're--you're not tied up already, are you?" he had hesitatingly +demanded. "You're not married?" + +"No, I'm not tied up!" she had promptly and fiercely responded. "My +life's my own--my own!" + +"Then why can't you marry me?" the practical-minded man had asked. + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"Yes?" she answered cautiously, watching herself as carefully as an +actress with a rle to sustain, a rle in which she could never be quite +letter-perfect. + +"It's Connie Binhart," cut out the Second Deputy. + +He could see discretion drop like a curtain across her watching face. + +"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. + +"I guess," he went on with slow patience, "we know him best round here as +Charles Blanchard." + +"Blanchard?" she echoed. + +"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." + +"Newcomb?" again meditated the woman. + +"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." + +"When was that?" demanded the woman. + +"That was last October," he answered with a sing-song weariness +suggestive of impatience at such supererogative explanations. + +"I was at Monte Carlo all last autumn," was the woman's quick retort. + +Blake moved his heavy body, as though to shoulder away any claim as to +her complicity. + +"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." + +Their glances at last came together. No move was made; no word was +spoken. But a contest took place. + +"Why ask _me_?" repeated the woman for the second time. It was only too +plain that she was fencing. + +"Because you _know_," 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. + +"Jim, I can't tell you," she slowly asserted. "I can't do it!" + +"But I've got 'o know," he stubbornly maintained. "And I'm going to." + +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. + +"I can't tell you," she repeated. "I'd rather you let me go." + +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. + +"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 _me_, +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." + +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." + +"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. + +"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--" + +"Auburn?" she repeated very quietly. Then she raised her eyes to his. +"Can you say a thing like that to me, Jim?" + +He shifted a little in his chair. But he met her gaze without a wince. + +"This is business, Elsie, and you can't mix business and--and other +things," he tailed off at last, dropping his eyes. + +"I'm sorry you put it that way," she said. "I hoped we'd be better +friends than that!" + +"I'm not counting on friendship in this!" he retorted. + +"But it might have been better, even in this!" she said. And the artful +look of pity on her face angered him. + +"Well, we'll begin on something nearer home!" he cried. + +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. + +"This Steinert check'll do the trick. Take a closer look at the +signature. Do you get it?" + +"What about it?" she asked, without a tremor. + +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. + +"I may or I may not know who forged that check. I don't _want_ to know. +And when you tell me where Binhart is, I _won't_ know." + +"That check wasn't forged," contended the quiet-eyed woman. + +"Steinert will swear it was," declared the Second Deputy. + +She sat without speaking, apparently in deep study. Her intent face +showed no fear, no bewilderment, no actual emotion of any kind. + +"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. + +"Will I be dragged into this case, in any way, if Binhart is rounded up?" +the woman finally asked. + +"Not once," he asserted. + +"You promise me that?" + +"Of course," answered the Second Deputy. + +"And you'll let me alone on--on the other things?" she calmly exacted. + +"Yes," he promptly acknowledged. "I'll see that you're let alone." + +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. + +"Binhart's in Montreal," she said. + +Blake, keeping his face well under control, waited for her to go on. + +"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." + +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. + +"You know his writing?" she asked. + +"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." + +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. + +"Nolan," he said into the receiver, "I want to know if there's a King +Edward Avenue in Montreal." + +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. + +"Yes, sir," came the answer over the wire. "It's one of the newer avenues +in Westmount." + +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 +_concerto_ of skepticisms. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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. + +"Elsie, you're all right," he acknowledged with his solemn and +unimaginative impassivity. "You're all right." + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +"How?" asked the woman. + +"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. + +"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. + +"D'you want it?" he queried with simulated indifference, as he made a +final and lingering study of it. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + II + + +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. + +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. + +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 _wanderlust_ 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: + + "MEN WANTED." + +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. + +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 _Tribune_ +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. + +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. + +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 navely 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _The Counterfeit Detector_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _aides_ 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." + +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 _Portrait Parle_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _my_ side of the fence, you'd last about as long as a +snowball on a crownsheet!" + + + + + III + + +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. + +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 rle 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 rle of "mouthpiece" +for the Department. + +"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 _park_ gun! +That's all you are, a broken-down bluff, an ornamental has-been, a park +gun for kids to play 'round!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"We've been going over this Binhart case," began the Commissioner. "It's +seven months now--and nothing done!" + +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. + +"I always said McCooey wasn't the man to go out on that case," said the +Second Deputy, still watching Copeland. + +"Then who _is_ the man?" asked the Commissioner. + +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. + +"What's the matter with Washington and Wilkie?" inquired Blake, +attentively regarding his cigar. + +"They're just where we are--at a standstill," acknowledged the +Commissioner. + +"And that's where we'll stay!" heavily contended the Second Deputy. + +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. + +"Why?" demanded his superior. + +"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!" + +"Then what is your suggestion?" It was Copeland who spoke, mild and +hesitating. + +"D' you want my suggestion?" demanded Blake, warm with the wine-like +knowledge which, he knew, made him master of the situation. + +"Of course," was the Commissioner's curt response. + +"Well, you've got to have a man who knows Binhart, who knows him and his +tricks and his hang outs!" + +"Well, who does?" + +"I do," declared Blake. + +The Commissioner indulged in his wintry smile. + +"You mean if you weren't tied down to your Second Deputy's chair you +could go out and get him!" + +"I could!" + +"Within a reasonable length of time?" + +"I don't know about the time! But I could get him, all right." + +"If you were still on the outside work?" interposed Copeland. + +"I certainly wouldn't expect to dig him out o' my stamp drawer," was +Blake's heavily facetious retort. + +Copeland and the Commissioner looked at each other, for one fraction of a +second. + +"You know what my feeling is," resumed the latter, "on this Binhart +case." + +"I know what _my_ feeling is," declared Blake. + +"What?" + +"That the right method would've got him six months ago, without all this +monkey work!" + +"Then why not end the monkey work, as you call it?" + +"How?" + +"By doing what you say you can do!" was the Commissioner's retort. + +"How'm I going to hold down a chair and hunt a crook at the same time?" + +"Then why hold down the chair? Let the chair take care of itself. It +could be arranged, you know." + +Blake had the stage-juggler's satisfaction of seeing things fall into his +hands exactly as he had manoeuvered they should. His reluctance was +merely a dissimulation, a stage wait for heightened dramatic effect. + +"How'd you do the arranging?" he calmly inquired. + +"I could see the Mayor in the morning. There will be no Departmental +difficulty." + +"Then where's the trouble?" + +"There is none, if you are willing to go out." + +"Well, we can't get Binhart here by pink-tea invitations. Somebody's got +to go out and _get_ him!" + +"The bank raised the reward to eight thousand this week," interposed the +ruminative Copeland. + +"Well, it'll take money to get him," snapped back the Second Deputy, +remembering that he had a nest of his own to feather. + +"It will be worth what it costs," admitted the Commissioner. + +"Of course," said Copeland, "they'll have to honor your drafts--in +reason." + +"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." + +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. + +"Then what're we beefing about?" he demanded. "You want Binhart and I'll +get him for you." + +The Commissioner, tapping the top of his desk with his gold-banded +fountain pen, smiled. It was almost a smile of indulgence. + +"You _know_ you will get him?" he inquired. + +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. + +"I say I'll get him!" he calmly proclaimed. "And I guess that ought to be +enough!" + + + + + IV + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"You saw Blake again?" he half asked, half challenged. + +"No," she answered. + +"Why?" + +"I was afraid to." + +"Didn't I tell you we'd take care of your end?" + +"I've had promises like that before. They weren't always remembered." + +"But our office never made you that promise before, Miss Verriner." + +The woman let her eyes rest on his impassive face. + +"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." + +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?" + +The First Deputy smiled. It was not altogether at the mere calmness with +which she could suggest such an atrocity. + +"Hardly," he said. + +"Then what is it?" she demanded. + +He was both patient and painstaking with her. His tone was almost +paternal in its placativeness. + +"It's merely a phase of departmental business," he answered her. "And +we're anxious to see Blake round up Connie Binhart." + +"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." + +"Did you give it to him?" + +"No, he hammered it out of me. But you knew he was going to do that. That +was part of the plant." + +She sat studying her thin white hands for several seconds. Then she +looked up at the calm-eyed Copeland. + +"How are you going to protect me, if Blake comes back? How are you going +to keep your promise?" + +The First Deputy sat back in his chair and crossed his thin legs. + +"Blake will not come back," he announced. She slewed suddenly round on +him again. + +"Then it _is_ a plant!" she proclaimed. + +"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." + +The woman gave a little hand gesture of impatience. + +"But don't you see," she protested, "supposing he gives up Binhart? +Supposing he suspects something and hurries back to hold down his place?" + +"They call him Never-Fail Blake," commented the unmoved and dry-lipped +official. He met her wide stare with his gently satiric smile. + +"I see," she finally said, "you're not going to shoot him up. You're +merely going to wipe him out." + +"You are quite wrong there," began the man across the table from her. +"Administration changes may happen, and in--" + +"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." + +"No competent officer is ever worked out of this Department," parried the +First Deputy. + +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. + +"Mr. Copeland, aren't you afraid some one might find it worth while to +tip Blake off?" she softly inquired. + +"What would you gain?" was his pointed and elliptical interrogation. + +She leaned forward in the fulcrum of light, and looked at him soberly. + +"What is your idea of me?" she asked. + +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. + +"I think you are a very intelligent woman," Copeland finally confessed. + +"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 _got_ to be!" + +"And?" prompted the First Deputy, as she came to a stop. + +"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." + +"And?" again prompted the First Deputy. + +"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 _got_ to be safe!" + +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. + +"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 _are_ +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!" + +He sat pondering just how much of this he could believe. But she +disregarded his veiled impassivity. + +"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." + +"But that does not rest with me, Miss Verriner!" + +"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!" + +Copeland, with his chin on his bony breast, looked up to smile into her +intent and staring eyes. + +"You are a very clever woman," he said. "And what is more, you know a +great deal!" + +"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. + +"Your knowledge," he said with a deliberation equal to her own, "will +prove of great value to you--as an agent with Wilkie." + +"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. + +"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!" + +"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. + + + + + V + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 Caf 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 cafs. 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. + +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. + +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 caf 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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +"Draw for lead?" asked Blake, lighting a cigar. + +"Sure," said Loony. + +Blake pushed his ball to the top cushion, won the draw, and broke. + +"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. + +Loony studied the balls for a second or two. Wolf was a "dip" with an +international record. + +"Last time I saw Wolf he was out at 'Frisco, workin' the Beaches," was +Loony's reply. + +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. + +"Where's Angel McGlory these days?" asked Blake, as he reached over to +place a ball. + +"What's she been doin'?" demanded Loony, with his cue on the rail. + +"She's traveling with a bank sneak named Blanchard or Binhart," explained +Blake. "And I want her." + +Loony Ryan made his stroke. + +"Hep Roony saw Binhart this mornin', beatin' it for N' Orleans. But he +wasn't travelin' wit' any moll that Hep spoke of." + +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. + +"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. + +"What's up?" he demanded. "Who'd you spot?" + +"Nothing, Wolf, nothing! But this game o' yours blamed near made me +forget an appointment o' mine!" + +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. + + + + + VI + + +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. + +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 +_papa-bottes_ in ribbons of bacon, to say nothing of fruit and +_bruilleau_. + +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. + +"Abe, I've come down to gather you in," announced the calmly mendacious +detective. He continued to sip his bruilleau with fraternal unconcern. + +"You got nothing _on_ me, Jim," protested the other, losing his taste for +the delicacies arrayed about him. + +"Well, we got 'o go down to Headquarters and talk that over," calmly +persisted Blake. + +"What's the use of pounding me, when I'm on the square again?" persisted +the ex-drum snuffer. + +"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." + +"Did you bump into Binhart in St. Louis?" + +"We had a talk, three days ago." + +"Then why'd he blow through this town as though he had a regiment o' +bulls and singed cats behind him!" + +Blake's heart went down like an elevator with a broken cable. But he gave +no outward sign of this inward commotion. + +"Because he wants to get down to Colon before the Hamburg-American boat +hits the port," ventured Blake. "His moll's aboard!" + +"But he blew out for 'Frisco this morning," contended the puzzled +Sheiner. "Shot through as though he'd just had a rumble!" + +"Oh, he _said_ that, but he went south, all right." + +"Then he went in an oyster sloop. There's nothing sailing from this port +to-day." + +"Well, what's Binhart got to do with our trouble anyway? What I want--" + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Manchuria_. 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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +Crossing the Sound, he reached Victoria in time to see the _Empress of +China_ 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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + VII + + +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 _Empress of China_ that the Reverend +Caleb Simpson had safely landed from the _Manchuria_ at Hong Kong, and +was about to leave for the mission field in the interior. + +The so-called bishop, sitting in the wireless-room of the _Empress of +China_, 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. + +But at Yokohama, Blake hurried ashore in a _sampan_, 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 _Toyo Kisen Kaisha_ +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + VIII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"You clum b'long me," was the enigmatic message uttered in the +detective's ear. + +"Why should I go along with you?" Blake calmly inquired. + +"You clum b'long me," reiterated the Chinaman. The finger again touched +the detective's arm. "Clismas!" + +Blake rose, at once. He recognized the code word of "Christmas." This was +the messenger he had been awaiting. + +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. + +His guide was pointing to a closed door in front of them. + +"You sabby?" he demanded. + +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. + + + + + IX + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"You're the party who's on the man hunt," she announced. + +"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. + +"You're after this man called Binhart," she declared. + +"Oh, no, I'm not," was Blake's sagacious response. "I don't want +Binhart!" + +"Then what do you want?" + +"I want the money he's got." + +The little painted face grew serious; then it became veiled. + +"How much money has he?" + +"That's what I want to find out!" + +She squatted ruminatively down on the edge of her divan. It was low and +wide and covered with orange-colored silk. + +"Then you'll have to find Binhart!" was her next announcement. + +"Maybe!" acknowledged Blake. + +"I can show you where he is!" + +"All right," was the unperturbed response. The blue-painted eyes were +studying him. + +"It will be worth four thousand pounds, in English gold," she announced. + +Blake took a step or two nearer her. + +"Is that the message Ottenheim told you to give me?" he demanded. His +face was red with anger. + +"Then three thousand pounds," she calmly suggested, wriggling her toes +into a fallen sandal. + +Blake did not deign to speak. His inarticulate grunt was one of disgust. + +"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!" + +Her eyes were as tranquil as a child's. Blake remembered that he was in a +world not his own. + +"Why should I want him killed?" he inquired. He looked about for some +place to sit. There was not a chair in the room. + +"Because he intends to kill _you_," answered the woman, squatting on the +orange-covered divan. + +"I wish he'd come and try," Blake devoutly retorted. + +"He will not come," she told him. "It will be done from the dark. _I_ +could have done it. But Ottenheim said no." + +"And Ottenheim said you were to work with me in this," declared Blake, +putting two and two together. + +The woman shrugged a white shoulder. + +"Have you any money?" she asked. She put the question with the +artlessness of a child. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"Well, what word'll I take back to Ottenheim?" he demanded. + +The woman grew serious. Then she showed her rice-like row of teeth as she +laughed. + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +Then, for the first time, Blake grew into a comprehension of what +surrounded him. He wheeled about, stooped and caught up the papier-mch +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. + +Then the five seemed to close in together, and the fight became general. +It became a mle. 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-mch 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"But where's Binhart?" he demanded, as he looked stolidly about for his +black boulder. + +"Never mind Binhart," she cried, touching the eviscerated body at her +feet with one slipper toe, "or we'll get what _he_ got!" + +"I want that man Binhart!" persisted the detective. + +"Not here! Not here!" she cried, folding the loose folds of the cloak +closer about her body. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +He felt grateful for that open air, for the coolness, for the sense of +deliverance which came with even that comparative freedom. + +"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. + +"On the next roof you must take off your shoes," she warned him. "You can +rest then. But hurry--hurry!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"I'm dished!" she murmured, as she sat there breathing audibly through +the darkness. "I'm dished for this coast!" + +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. + +The girl touched him on the knee and then shifted her position on the +coping tiles, without rising to her feet. + +"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 _Praya_. Now look where I'm pointing. That's +the Luiz Camoes lodging-house. You see the second window with the light +in it?" + +"Yes, I see it." + +"Well, Binhart's inside that window." + +"You know it?" + +"I know it." + +"So he's there?" said Blake, staring at the vague square of light. + +"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." + +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. + +"What are you going to do?" she asked. + +"I'm going to get Binhart," was Blake's answer. + +He could hear her little childlike murmur of laughter. + +"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." + +"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. + +"What'll you do?" he asked. + +Again he heard the careless little laugh. + +"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." + +"And then?" asked Blake, watching the window of the Luiz Camoes +lodging-house below him. + +"Then I'll work my way up to Port Arthur, I suppose. There's a navy man +there who'll help me!" + +"Haven't you any money?" Blake put the question a little uneasily. + +Again he felt the careless coo of laughter. + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +"Good-by, white man," she whispered. + +"Good-by!" he whispered back, as he worked his way cautiously and +ponderously along that perilous slope. + +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." + + + + + X + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The servant was leading him down the length of the half-lit hall when +Blake caught him by the sleeve. + +"You tell my rickshaw boy to wait! Quick, before he gets away!" + +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. + +He stood for a second or two, thinking. Then with the knuckle of one +finger he tapped on the door, lightly, almost timidly. + +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. + +Facing him, at the far side of the room, he saw Binhart. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +"That's all right," he said. "Don't get up!" + +Binhart eyed him. During that few seconds of silent tableau each man was +appraising, weighing, estimating the strength of the other. + +"What do you want, Jim?" asked Binhart, almost querulously. + +"I want that gun you've got up there under your liver pad," was Blake's +impassive answer. + +"Is that all?" asked Binhart. But he made no move to produce the gun. + +"Then I want you," calmly announced Blake. + +A look of gentle expostulation crept over Binhart's gaunt face. + +"You can't do it, Jim," he announced. "You can't take me away from here." + +"But I'm going to," retorted Blake. + +"How?" + +"I'm just going to take you." + +He crossed the room as he spoke. + +"Give me the gun," he commanded. + +Binhart still sat in the low reed chair. He made no movement in response +to Blake's command. + +"What's the good of getting rough-house," he complained. + +"Gi' me the gun," repeated Blake. + +"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. + +"Now, get your clothes on," commanded Blake. + +"What for?" temporized Binhart. + +"You're coming with me!" + +"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." + +"I'll risk it," announced the detective. + +"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!" + +"What t' hell do I care for law," was Blake's retort. "I want you and +you're going to come with me." + +"Where am I going?" + +"Back to New York." + +Binhart laughed. It was a laugh without any mirth in it. + +"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!" + +"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." + +Binhart sat studying the other man for a moment or two. + +"Then how about a little real talk, the kind of talk that money makes?" + +"Nothing doing!" declared Blake, folding his arms. + +Binhart flickered a glance at him as he thrust his own right hand down +into the hand-bag on his knees. + +"I want to show you what you could get out of this," he said, leaning +forward a little as he looked up at Blake. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"Where's Binhart?" asked Blake. + +"That's all right, old chap, you just rest up a bit," said the placatory +youth. + +At nine the next morning Blake was taken ashore at Hong Kong. + +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. + + + + + XI + + +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. + +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 +_Toyo Kisen Kaisha_ 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. + +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. + +Then he went on to Penang. There he went doggedly through the same +manoeuvers, 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _lingua Franca_ 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. + +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. + +But Binhart, in the meantime, had caught a Lloyd Brazileiro steamer for +Rio de Janeiro, and was once more on the high seas. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + + + + + XII + + +Three hours after he had disembarked from his steamer at Rio, Blake was +breakfasting at the Caf Britto in the Ovidor. At the same table with him +sat a lean-jawed and rat-eyed little gambler by the name of Passos. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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!" + +"Have a smoke?" asked Blake. + +"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. + +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. + +It came in the form of an incredibly thin _gringo_ 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 _mezcal_ of Guatemala and the _anisado_ of +Ecuador had combined with the _pulque_ of Mexico to set their +unmistakable seal. + +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. + +"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. + +Blake smoked for a moment or two before answering. + +"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. + +"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. + +"Well, I'm saying it now!" Blake's guttural voice was reminding him. + +"Then why didn't you say it an hour ago?" contested McGlade, with his +alcoholic peevish obstinacy. + +"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. + +"I can tell you all right, all right--but it won't do you much good!" + +"Why not?" And still Blake was bland and patient. + +"Because," retorted McGlade, fixing the other man with a lean finger that +was both unclean and unsteady, "_you can't get at him_!" + +"You tell me where he is," said Blake, striking a match. "I'll attend to +the rest of it!" + +McGlade slowly and deliberately drank the last of his swizzle. Then he +put down his empty glass and stared pensively and pregnantly into it. + +"What's there in it for me?" he asked. + +Blake, studying him across the small table, weighed both the man and the +situation. + +"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 _his_ funeral. All he wanted was Binhart. + +"Binhart's in Guayaquil," McGlade suddenly announced. + +"How d' you know that?" promptly demanded Blake. + +"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." + +"What liner?" + +"He went aboard the _Trunella_. He thought he'd get down to Callao. But +they tied the _Trunella_ up at Guayaquil." + +"And you say he's there now?" + +"Yes!" + +"And aboard the _Trunella_?" + +"Sure! He's got to be aboard the _Trunella_!" + +"Then why d' you say I can't get at him?" + +"Because Guayaquil and the _Trunella_ 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!" + +"But there's got to be _something_ going there!" contended Blake. + +"They daren't do it! They couldn't get clearance--they couldn't even get +_pratique_! 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!" + +Blake, at this last word, raised his ponderous head. + +"The boat-patrols wouldn't phase me," he announced. His thoughts, in +fact, were already far ahead, marshaling themselves about other things. + +"You've a weakness for yellow fever?" inquired the ironic McGlade. + +"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. + +"You don't mean you're going to try to get into Guayaquil?" demanded +McGlade. + +"If Connie Binhart's down there I've got to go and get him," was +Never-Fail Blake's answer. + + * * * * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Pip," Blake very quietly announced, "you're going to sail for Guayaquil +to-morrow!" + +"Am I?" queried the unmoved Pip. + +"You're going to start for Guayaquil to-morrow," repeated Blake, "and +you're going to take me along with you!" + +"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!" + +"I admit that," quietly acknowledged the other man. "I saw her +yesterday!" + +"And she don't carry no passengers--she ain't allowed to," announced her +master. + +"But she's going to carry me," asserted Blake, lighting a fresh cigar. + +"What as?" demanded Tankred. And he fixed Blake with a belligerent eye as +he put the question. + +"As an old friend of yours!" + +"And then what?" still challenged the other. + +"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!" + +Tankred continued to smoke. + +"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?" + +"No, you're doing the coquetting in this case, I guess!" + +"Then I ain't standin' for no rivals--not on this coast!" + +The two men, so dissimilar in aspect and yet so alike in their accidental +attitudes of an uncouth belligerency, sat staring at each other. + +"You're going to take me to Guayaquil," repeated Blake. + +"That's where you're dead wrong," was the calmly insolent rejoinder. "I +ain't even _goin'_ to Guayaquil." + +"I say you are." + +Tankred's smile translated his earlier deliberateness into open contempt. + +"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!" + +"But you're going to get as close to Guayaquil as you can, and you know +it." + +"Do I?" said the man with the up-tilted cigar. + +"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!" + +For the first time Tankred turned and studied him. + +"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. + +"There's a man I want down there, and I'm going down to get him!" + +"Who is he?" + +"That's my business," retorted Blake. + +"And gettin' into Guayaquil's your business!" Tankred snorted back. + +"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!" + +"How do I know that?" + +"You'll have my word for it!" + +Tankred swung round on him. + +"D' you realize you'll have to sneak ashore in a _lancha_ 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?" + +"I know all that!" acknowledged Blake. + +For the second time Tankred turned and studied the other man. + +"And you're still goin' after your gen'leman friend from up North?" he +inquired. + +"Pip, I've got to get that man!" + +"You've got 'o?" + +"I've got to, and I'm going to!" + +Tankred threw his cigar-end away and laughed leisurely and quietly. + +"Then what're we sittin' here arguin' about, anyway? If it's settled, +it's settled, ain't it?" + +"Yes, I think it's settled!" + +Again Tankred laughed. + +"But take it from me, my friend, you'll sure see some rough goin' this +next few days!" + + + + + XIII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"It's time you were gettin' your clothes on," he announced. + +"Getting my clothes on?" queried Blake through the darkness. + +"Yes, you can't tell what we'll bump into, any time now!" + +The wakened sleeper heard the other man moving about in the velvety black +gloom. + +"What're you doing there?" was his sharp question as he heard the squeak +and slam of a shutter. + +"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!" + +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. + +"You'd better turn out!" he called back as he stepped into the engulfing +gloom of the gangway. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He swung nervously about as he felt a hand clutch his arm. He found +Tankred speaking quietly into his ear. + +"There'll be one boat over," that worthy was explaining. "One boat--you +take that--the last one! And you'd better give the _guinney_ a ten-dollar +bill for his trouble!" + +"All right! I'm ready!" was Blake's low-toned reply as he started to move +forward with the other man. + +"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!" + +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 +_Trunella_ must ride at anchor and Binhart must be. + +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 _lancha_ tied to the +landing-ladder had been suddenly quenched. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _lanchas_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +This boat, he saw, was still securely tied to its mate, one of the +larger-bodied _lanchas_, 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. + +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. + +He had the last strand of the rope severed before the Ecuadorean with the +carbine reached the _lancha_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +_Trunella_ should be so foolishly delayed, that so many cross-purposes +should postpone and imperil his quest of Binhart. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + XIV + + +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. + +He rowed, always keeping his bow towards the far-off spangle of lights +which showed where the _Trunella_ lay at anchor. + +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. + +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. + +He rowed feverishly on, until the lights of the _Trunella_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Where in the name o' God did _you_ come from?" demanded the man with the +brier-root pipe. + +"I came out from Guayaquil," answered Blake, reaching searchingly down in +his wet pocket. "And I can't go back." + +The sandy-headed man backed away. + +"From the fever camps?" + +Blake could afford to smile at the movement. + +"Don't worry--there's no fever 'round me. _That's_ what I've been +through!" And he showed the bullet-holes through his tattered coat-cloth. + +"How'd you get here?" + +"Rowed out in a surf-boat--and I can't go back!" + +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. + +"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. + +"That Alfaro gang after you?" he inquired. + +"They're _all_ 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. + +"What d' you want me to do?" he finally asked. + +Blake, instead of answering that question, asked another. + +"When do you move out of here?" + +The engineer put the coins in his pocket. + +"Before noon to-morrow, thank God! The _Yorktown_ ought to be here by +morning--she's to give us our release!" + +"Then you'll sail by noon?" + +"We've _got_ 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!" + +A great wave of contentment surged through Blake's weary body. He put his +hand up on the smaller man's shoulder. + +"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!" + +The pale-eyed engineer studied the problem. Then he studied the figure in +front of him. + +"There's nothing crooked behind this?" + +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!" + +"I'm fourth engineer on board here, and the Old Man would sure fire me, +if--" + +"But you needn't even know about me," contended Blake. "Just let me crawl +in somewhere where I can sleep!" + +"You need it, all right, by that face of yours!" + +"I sure do," acknowledged the other as he stood awaiting his judge's +decision. + +"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!" + +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!" + +"Oh, I'll face it, all right!" was Blake's calmly contented answer. "All +I want now is about nine hours' sleep!" + +"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. + + + + + XV + + +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. + +"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 _Trunella_ were not +in motion. "Why aren't we under way?" + +"They're having trouble up there, with the _Commandante_. 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!" + +"Where'll you get me?" asked Blake. He was on his feet by this time, +arraying himself in his wet and ragged clothing. + +"That's what I've been talking over with the Chief," began the young +engineer. Blake wheeled about and fixed him with his eye. + +"Did you let your Chief in on this?" he demanded, and he found it hard to +keep his anger in check. + +"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!" + +"Well, supposing I'm not?" + +"Then they'd haul you back and give you a half year in that _Lazaretto_ +o' theirs!" + +"Well, what do I have to do to keep from being hauled back?" + +"You'll have to be one o' the workin' crew, until we get off. The Chief +says that, and I think he's right!" + +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. + +"You don't mean stoke-hole work?" he demanded. + +The fourth engineer continued to look worried. + +"You don't happen to know anything about machinery, do you?" he began. + +"Of course I do," retorted Blake, thinking gratefully of his early days +as a steamfitter. + +"Then why couldn't I put you in a cap and jumper and work you in as one +of the greasers?" + +"What do you mean by greasers?" + +"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!" + +And it was in this way, thirty minutes later, that Blake became a greaser +in the engine-room of the _Trunella_. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _dungaree_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _cargadores_. He was a _dungaree_-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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Trunella_ 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 _Trunella_ had steamed many miles +southward on her long journey towards the Straits of Magellan. + + + + + XVI + + +Seven days after the _Trunella_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +arial 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Over heartbreaking mountainous paths, through miasmic jungles, across +sun-baked plateaus, chilled by night and scorched by day, chafed and +sore, tortured by _niguas_ and _coloradillas_, mosquitoes and _chigoes_, +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 _guaro_ and great quantities of black coffee; +when ill he ate quinin. + +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. + +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 seor to the hut +in question. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Hello, Jim!" said the sick man, in little more than a whisper. + +"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. + +"What's up, Connie?" he asked, sitting calmly down beside the narrow bed. + +The sick man moved a hand, weakly, as though it were the yellow flapper +of some wounded amphibian. + +"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." + +"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?" + +The man on the bed did not answer for some time. When he spoke, he spoke +without looking at the other man. + +"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!" + +Blake leaned forward and fought away the flies again. + +"Then it's a good thing I got up with you." + +The sick man rolled his eyes in their sockets, so as to bring his enemy +into his line of vision. + +"Why?" he asked. + +"Because I'm not going to let you die," was Blake's answer. + +"You can't help it, Jim! The jig's up!" + +"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!" + +Binhart slowly moved his head from side to side. Then the heat-lightning +smile played about the hollow face again. + +"It was some chase, Jim, wasn't it?" he said, without looking at his +old-time enemy. + +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. + +"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!" + +A sweat of weakness stood out on Binhart's white face. + +"Where to?" he asked, as he had asked once before. And his eyes remained +closed as he put the question. + +"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. + +"You'll never get me there!" he said, in little more than a whisper. +"Never!" + + + + + XVII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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." + +The other man said nothing, but his slight head-movement was one of +comprehension. + +"So I just wanted to say there's no side-stepping, no four-flushing, at +this end of the trip!" + +"I understand," was Binhart's listless response. + +"I'm glad you do," Blake went on in his dully monotonous voice. "Because +I got where I can't stand any more breaks." + +"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. + +It was as they made their way slowly down to the coast that Blake put an +unexpected question to Binhart. + +"Connie, where in hell did you plant that haul o' yours?" + +This thing had been worrying Blake. Weeks before he had gone through +every nook and corner, every pocket and crevice in Binhart's belongings. + +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. + +"Oh, I left that up in the States, where it'd be safe," he answered. + +"What'll you do about it?" Blake casually inquired. + +"I can't tell, just yet," was Binhart's retort. + +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 _you_ ought to get it!" + +"What do you mean?" asked Blake. He resented the bodily weakness that was +making burro-riding a torture. + +"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." + +"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. + +"Well, you quit, and I'll stand for the Law!" + +"But, can't you see, they'd never stand for you!" + +"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!" + +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. + +"But how'd we ever handle the deal?" prompted the tired-bodied man on the +burro. + +"You remember a woman called Elsie Verriner?" + +"Yes," acknowledged Blake, with a pang of regret which he could not +fathom, at the mention of the name. + +"Well, we could fix it through her." + +"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. + +"No, but she could get it," was Binhart's response. + +"And what good would that do _me_?" + +"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." + +Blake rode on again in silence. + +"All right," he said at last. "I'm willing." + +"Then how'll you prove it? How'd I know you'd make good?" demanded +Binhart. + +"That's not up to me! You're the man that's got to make good!" was +Blake's retort. + +"But you'll give me the chance?" half pleaded his prisoner. + +"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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"Hadn't we better lay up for a few days?" suggested Binhart. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +But Binhart, knowing what he knew, was content to wait. + +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. + + + + + XVIII + + +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 Seor +Americano had been found in a dying condition, ten miles from the camp of +the rubber company for which he acted as surgeon. The Seor 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He found nothing companionable in that caon 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. + +He drifted on down past the cafs 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Cabaret de Neant_ 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! + + + + + XIX + + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"Well, I'm back," he announced in his guttural bass, as though to bridge +a silence that was becoming abysmal. + +"Yes, you're back!" echoed Elsie Verriner. She spoke absently, as though +her mind were preoccupied with a problem that seemed inexplicable. + +"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!" + +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. + +"I'm not a lobster palace floater," she quietly replied. "And you know +it." + +"Then what are you?" he demanded. + +"I'm a confidential agent of the Treasury Department," was her +quiet-toned answer. + +"Oho!" cried Blake. "So that's why we've grown so high and mighty!" + +The woman sank into the chair beside which she had been standing. She +seemed impervious to his mockery. + +"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. + +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. + +"You know where I've been and what I've been doing!" he suddenly cried +out. + +"I'm not positive that I do," was the woman's guarded answer. + +"That's a lie!" thundered Blake. "You know as well as I do!" + +"What have you been doing?" asked the woman, almost indulgently. + +"I've been trailing Binhart, and you know it! And what's more, you know +where Binhart is, now, at this moment!" + +"What was it you wanted me for?" reiterated the white-faced woman, +without looking at him. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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. + +"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!" + +The woman leaned a little forward, staring into his eyes. + +"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. + +"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!" + +"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!" + +"Making what worse?" demanded Blake. + +"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!" + +"What have I lost by it?" + +"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!" + +"As who expected?" + +"As Copeland and the others expected when they sent you out on a blind +trail." + +"I wasn't sent out on a blind trail." + +"But you found nothing when you went out. Surely you remember that." + +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. + +"Are you trying to say this Binhart case was a frame up?" he suddenly +cried out. + +"They wanted you out of the way. It was the only trick they could think +of." + +"That's a lie!" declared Blake. + +"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." + +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. + +"Why, you welched on Binhart yourself. You put me on his track. You sent +me up to Montreal!" + +"They made me do that," confessed the unhappy woman. "He wasn't in +Montreal. He never had been there!" + +"You had a letter from him there, telling you to come to 381 King Edward +when the coast was clear." + +"That letter was two years old. It was sent from a room in the King +Edward Hotel. That was part of their plant." + +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. + +"So you sold me out!" he finally said, studying her white face with his +haggard hound's eyes. + +"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!" + +"What do _you_ know about friendship?" cried the gray-faced man. + +"We were friends once," answered the woman, ignoring the bitter mockery +in his cry. + +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. + +"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. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +He lurched forward to his feet. His great crouching body seemed drawn +towards her by some slow current which he could not control. + +"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. + +"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. + +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. _He was killing her!_ + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + XX + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"I want to see Mr. Copeland," was Blake's calmly assured announcement. + +"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. + +"But this is important," said Blake. + +"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. + +"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!" + +"Mr. and Mrs. Copeland are at the Metropolitan, sir," explained the +servant. "At the Opera. And they are not back yet." + +"Then I'll wait for him," announced Blake, placated by the humbler note +in the voice of the man in the service-coat. + +"Very good, sir," announced the servant. And he led the way upstairs, +switching on the electrics as he went. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"I do!" said Blake, without rising from his chair. + +"About what?" asked Copeland. There was an acidulated crispness in his +voice which hinted that time might be a matter of importance to him. + +"You know what it's about, all right," was Blake's heavy retort. + +"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." + +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. + +"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!" + +Copeland, for all his iciness, seemed to resent the thrust. + +"We have always something to learn," he retorted, meeting Blake's stolid +stare of enmity. + +"I guess I've learned enough!" said Blake. + +"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. + +"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!" + +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. + +"Then might I ask what you are after?" inquired Copeland. He folded his +arms, as though to fortify himself behind a pretense of indifferency. + +"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!" + +"Blake," said Copeland, very quietly, "you are wrong in both instances." + +"Am I!" + +"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." + +"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 _me_ back down. I began this man-hunt, and _I'm going to +end it_!" + +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. + +"That man-hunt is out of our hands," he heard Copeland saying. + +"But it's not out of _my_ hands!" reiterated the detective. + +"Yes, it's out of your hands, too," answered Copeland. He spoke with a +calm authority, with a finality, that nettled the other man. + +"What are you driving at?" he cried out. + +"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. + +"By God, it's not ended!" Blake thundered back at him. + +"It _is_ ended," quietly contended the other. "And precisely as you have +put it--Ended by God!" + +"It's what?" cried Blake. + +"You don't seem to be aware of the fact, Blake, that Binhart is +dead--dead and buried!" + +Blake stared up at him. + +"Is what?" his lips automatically inquired. + +"Binhart died seven weeks ago. He died in the town of Toluca, out in +Arizona. He's buried there." + +"That's a lie!" cried Blake, sagging forward in his chair. + +"We had the Phoenix authorities verify the report in every detail. There +is no shadow of doubt about it." + +Still Blake stared up at the other man. + +"I don't believe it," he wheezed. + +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. + +"Bridley, go to my secretary and bring me the portfolio in the second +drawer." + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + + + + + XXI + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Blake even recalled, a few days later, the incident of the Shattuck +jewel-robbery, during the first weeks of his rgime 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. + +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. + +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. + + * * * * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +Phoenix and all Arizona itself seemed to know nothing. + +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. + + + + + XXII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _patina_ of time. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Hello, Batty," he said as he set the exhibit oscillating with a push of +the knee. "How's business?" + +"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. + +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. + +Yet nobody took Batty Blake seriously. It was said, indeed, that once, in +the old rgime, 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. + +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. + +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. + +"Batty, how long're yuh going to peddle glue, anyway?" he suddenly asked. + +The glue-peddler, watching the crowds that drifted by him, did not +answer. He did not even look about at his interrogator. + +"D' yuh _have_ to do this?" asked the wide-shouldered youth in uniform. + +"No," was the peddler's mild yet guttural response. + +The other prodded with his night-stick against the capacious overcoat +pockets. Then he laughed. + +"I'll bet yuh've got about forty dollars stowed away in there," he +mocked. "Yuh have now, haven't yuh?" + +"I don' know!" listlessly answered the sunken-shouldered figure. + +"Then what're yuh sellin' this stuff for, if it ain't for money?" +persisted the vaguely piqued youth. + +"I don' know!" was the apathetic answer. + +"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. + +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." + +And at almost the same time, approaching him from the west, he had caught +sight of another figure. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"I got him!" he gasped. + +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. + +"Yuh got _who_?" 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. + +"I got him!" calmly repeated the old street-peddler. + +"Yuh got _who_?" demanded the still puzzled young patrolman, oblivious of +the quiescent light in the bewildered eyes of McCooey, close beside him. + +"Binhart!" answered Never-Fail Blake, with a sob. "_I've got Binhart!_" + + + THE END + + + + + Transcriber's Notes + + +--Preserved the copyright notice from the printed edition, although this + book is in the public domain in the country of publication. + +--Silently corrected a few typos (but left nonstandard spelling and + dialect as is). + +--Renumbered the chapter numbers (there were two chapters numbered V). + +--Silently corrected two slight errors related to New York City place + names. + +--In the text versions, delimited text in italics by _underscores_. + + + + + + + +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 44336-8.txt or 44336-8.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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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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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: ASCII + +*** 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 + + + + + + + + + + THE SHADOW + + + BY + ARTHUR STRINGER + + + NEW YORK + THE CENTURY CO. + 1913 + + Copyright, 1913, by + The Century Co. + _Published, January, 1913_ + + + + + THE SHADOW + + + + + I + + +Blake, the Second Deputy, raised his gloomy hound's eyes as the door +opened and a woman stepped in. Then he dropped them again. + +"Hello, Elsie!" he said, without looking at her. + +The woman stood a moment staring at him. Then she advanced thoughtfully +toward his table desk. + +"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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"You're--you're not tied up already, are you?" he had hesitatingly +demanded. "You're not married?" + +"No, I'm not tied up!" she had promptly and fiercely responded. "My +life's my own--my own!" + +"Then why can't you marry me?" the practical-minded man had asked. + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"Yes?" she answered cautiously, watching herself as carefully as an +actress with a role to sustain, a role in which she could never be quite +letter-perfect. + +"It's Connie Binhart," cut out the Second Deputy. + +He could see discretion drop like a curtain across her watching face. + +"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. + +"I guess," he went on with slow patience, "we know him best round here as +Charles Blanchard." + +"Blanchard?" she echoed. + +"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." + +"Newcomb?" again meditated the woman. + +"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." + +"When was that?" demanded the woman. + +"That was last October," he answered with a sing-song weariness +suggestive of impatience at such supererogative explanations. + +"I was at Monte Carlo all last autumn," was the woman's quick retort. + +Blake moved his heavy body, as though to shoulder away any claim as to +her complicity. + +"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." + +Their glances at last came together. No move was made; no word was +spoken. But a contest took place. + +"Why ask _me_?" repeated the woman for the second time. It was only too +plain that she was fencing. + +"Because you _know_," 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. + +"Jim, I can't tell you," she slowly asserted. "I can't do it!" + +"But I've got 'o know," he stubbornly maintained. "And I'm going to." + +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. + +"I can't tell you," she repeated. "I'd rather you let me go." + +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. + +"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 _me_, +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." + +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." + +"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. + +"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--" + +"Auburn?" she repeated very quietly. Then she raised her eyes to his. +"Can you say a thing like that to me, Jim?" + +He shifted a little in his chair. But he met her gaze without a wince. + +"This is business, Elsie, and you can't mix business and--and other +things," he tailed off at last, dropping his eyes. + +"I'm sorry you put it that way," she said. "I hoped we'd be better +friends than that!" + +"I'm not counting on friendship in this!" he retorted. + +"But it might have been better, even in this!" she said. And the artful +look of pity on her face angered him. + +"Well, we'll begin on something nearer home!" he cried. + +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. + +"This Steinert check'll do the trick. Take a closer look at the +signature. Do you get it?" + +"What about it?" she asked, without a tremor. + +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. + +"I may or I may not know who forged that check. I don't _want_ to know. +And when you tell me where Binhart is, I _won't_ know." + +"That check wasn't forged," contended the quiet-eyed woman. + +"Steinert will swear it was," declared the Second Deputy. + +She sat without speaking, apparently in deep study. Her intent face +showed no fear, no bewilderment, no actual emotion of any kind. + +"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. + +"Will I be dragged into this case, in any way, if Binhart is rounded up?" +the woman finally asked. + +"Not once," he asserted. + +"You promise me that?" + +"Of course," answered the Second Deputy. + +"And you'll let me alone on--on the other things?" she calmly exacted. + +"Yes," he promptly acknowledged. "I'll see that you're let alone." + +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. + +"Binhart's in Montreal," she said. + +Blake, keeping his face well under control, waited for her to go on. + +"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." + +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. + +"You know his writing?" she asked. + +"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." + +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. + +"Nolan," he said into the receiver, "I want to know if there's a King +Edward Avenue in Montreal." + +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. + +"Yes, sir," came the answer over the wire. "It's one of the newer avenues +in Westmount." + +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 +_concerto_ of skepticisms. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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. + +"Elsie, you're all right," he acknowledged with his solemn and +unimaginative impassivity. "You're all right." + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +"How?" asked the woman. + +"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. + +"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. + +"D'you want it?" he queried with simulated indifference, as he made a +final and lingering study of it. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + II + + +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. + +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. + +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 _wanderlust_ 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: + + "MEN WANTED." + +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. + +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 _Tribune_ +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. + +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. + +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 naively 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _The Counterfeit Detector_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _aides_ 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." + +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 _Portrait Parle_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _my_ side of the fence, you'd last about as long as a +snowball on a crownsheet!" + + + + + III + + +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. + +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 role 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 role of "mouthpiece" +for the Department. + +"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 _park_ gun! +That's all you are, a broken-down bluff, an ornamental has-been, a park +gun for kids to play 'round!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"We've been going over this Binhart case," began the Commissioner. "It's +seven months now--and nothing done!" + +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. + +"I always said McCooey wasn't the man to go out on that case," said the +Second Deputy, still watching Copeland. + +"Then who _is_ the man?" asked the Commissioner. + +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. + +"What's the matter with Washington and Wilkie?" inquired Blake, +attentively regarding his cigar. + +"They're just where we are--at a standstill," acknowledged the +Commissioner. + +"And that's where we'll stay!" heavily contended the Second Deputy. + +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. + +"Why?" demanded his superior. + +"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!" + +"Then what is your suggestion?" It was Copeland who spoke, mild and +hesitating. + +"D' you want my suggestion?" demanded Blake, warm with the wine-like +knowledge which, he knew, made him master of the situation. + +"Of course," was the Commissioner's curt response. + +"Well, you've got to have a man who knows Binhart, who knows him and his +tricks and his hang outs!" + +"Well, who does?" + +"I do," declared Blake. + +The Commissioner indulged in his wintry smile. + +"You mean if you weren't tied down to your Second Deputy's chair you +could go out and get him!" + +"I could!" + +"Within a reasonable length of time?" + +"I don't know about the time! But I could get him, all right." + +"If you were still on the outside work?" interposed Copeland. + +"I certainly wouldn't expect to dig him out o' my stamp drawer," was +Blake's heavily facetious retort. + +Copeland and the Commissioner looked at each other, for one fraction of a +second. + +"You know what my feeling is," resumed the latter, "on this Binhart +case." + +"I know what _my_ feeling is," declared Blake. + +"What?" + +"That the right method would've got him six months ago, without all this +monkey work!" + +"Then why not end the monkey work, as you call it?" + +"How?" + +"By doing what you say you can do!" was the Commissioner's retort. + +"How'm I going to hold down a chair and hunt a crook at the same time?" + +"Then why hold down the chair? Let the chair take care of itself. It +could be arranged, you know." + +Blake had the stage-juggler's satisfaction of seeing things fall into his +hands exactly as he had manoeuvered they should. His reluctance was +merely a dissimulation, a stage wait for heightened dramatic effect. + +"How'd you do the arranging?" he calmly inquired. + +"I could see the Mayor in the morning. There will be no Departmental +difficulty." + +"Then where's the trouble?" + +"There is none, if you are willing to go out." + +"Well, we can't get Binhart here by pink-tea invitations. Somebody's got +to go out and _get_ him!" + +"The bank raised the reward to eight thousand this week," interposed the +ruminative Copeland. + +"Well, it'll take money to get him," snapped back the Second Deputy, +remembering that he had a nest of his own to feather. + +"It will be worth what it costs," admitted the Commissioner. + +"Of course," said Copeland, "they'll have to honor your drafts--in +reason." + +"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." + +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. + +"Then what're we beefing about?" he demanded. "You want Binhart and I'll +get him for you." + +The Commissioner, tapping the top of his desk with his gold-banded +fountain pen, smiled. It was almost a smile of indulgence. + +"You _know_ you will get him?" he inquired. + +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. + +"I say I'll get him!" he calmly proclaimed. "And I guess that ought to be +enough!" + + + + + IV + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"You saw Blake again?" he half asked, half challenged. + +"No," she answered. + +"Why?" + +"I was afraid to." + +"Didn't I tell you we'd take care of your end?" + +"I've had promises like that before. They weren't always remembered." + +"But our office never made you that promise before, Miss Verriner." + +The woman let her eyes rest on his impassive face. + +"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." + +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?" + +The First Deputy smiled. It was not altogether at the mere calmness with +which she could suggest such an atrocity. + +"Hardly," he said. + +"Then what is it?" she demanded. + +He was both patient and painstaking with her. His tone was almost +paternal in its placativeness. + +"It's merely a phase of departmental business," he answered her. "And +we're anxious to see Blake round up Connie Binhart." + +"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." + +"Did you give it to him?" + +"No, he hammered it out of me. But you knew he was going to do that. That +was part of the plant." + +She sat studying her thin white hands for several seconds. Then she +looked up at the calm-eyed Copeland. + +"How are you going to protect me, if Blake comes back? How are you going +to keep your promise?" + +The First Deputy sat back in his chair and crossed his thin legs. + +"Blake will not come back," he announced. She slewed suddenly round on +him again. + +"Then it _is_ a plant!" she proclaimed. + +"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." + +The woman gave a little hand gesture of impatience. + +"But don't you see," she protested, "supposing he gives up Binhart? +Supposing he suspects something and hurries back to hold down his place?" + +"They call him Never-Fail Blake," commented the unmoved and dry-lipped +official. He met her wide stare with his gently satiric smile. + +"I see," she finally said, "you're not going to shoot him up. You're +merely going to wipe him out." + +"You are quite wrong there," began the man across the table from her. +"Administration changes may happen, and in--" + +"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." + +"No competent officer is ever worked out of this Department," parried the +First Deputy. + +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. + +"Mr. Copeland, aren't you afraid some one might find it worth while to +tip Blake off?" she softly inquired. + +"What would you gain?" was his pointed and elliptical interrogation. + +She leaned forward in the fulcrum of light, and looked at him soberly. + +"What is your idea of me?" she asked. + +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. + +"I think you are a very intelligent woman," Copeland finally confessed. + +"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 _got_ to be!" + +"And?" prompted the First Deputy, as she came to a stop. + +"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." + +"And?" again prompted the First Deputy. + +"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 _got_ to be safe!" + +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. + +"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 _are_ +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!" + +He sat pondering just how much of this he could believe. But she +disregarded his veiled impassivity. + +"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." + +"But that does not rest with me, Miss Verriner!" + +"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!" + +Copeland, with his chin on his bony breast, looked up to smile into her +intent and staring eyes. + +"You are a very clever woman," he said. "And what is more, you know a +great deal!" + +"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. + +"Your knowledge," he said with a deliberation equal to her own, "will +prove of great value to you--as an agent with Wilkie." + +"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. + +"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!" + +"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. + + + + + V + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 Cafe 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 cafes. 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. + +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. + +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 cafe 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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +"Draw for lead?" asked Blake, lighting a cigar. + +"Sure," said Loony. + +Blake pushed his ball to the top cushion, won the draw, and broke. + +"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. + +Loony studied the balls for a second or two. Wolf was a "dip" with an +international record. + +"Last time I saw Wolf he was out at 'Frisco, workin' the Beaches," was +Loony's reply. + +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. + +"Where's Angel McGlory these days?" asked Blake, as he reached over to +place a ball. + +"What's she been doin'?" demanded Loony, with his cue on the rail. + +"She's traveling with a bank sneak named Blanchard or Binhart," explained +Blake. "And I want her." + +Loony Ryan made his stroke. + +"Hep Roony saw Binhart this mornin', beatin' it for N' Orleans. But he +wasn't travelin' wit' any moll that Hep spoke of." + +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. + +"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. + +"What's up?" he demanded. "Who'd you spot?" + +"Nothing, Wolf, nothing! But this game o' yours blamed near made me +forget an appointment o' mine!" + +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. + + + + + VI + + +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. + +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 +_papa-bottes_ in ribbons of bacon, to say nothing of fruit and +_bruilleau_. + +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. + +"Abe, I've come down to gather you in," announced the calmly mendacious +detective. He continued to sip his bruilleau with fraternal unconcern. + +"You got nothing _on_ me, Jim," protested the other, losing his taste for +the delicacies arrayed about him. + +"Well, we got 'o go down to Headquarters and talk that over," calmly +persisted Blake. + +"What's the use of pounding me, when I'm on the square again?" persisted +the ex-drum snuffer. + +"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." + +"Did you bump into Binhart in St. Louis?" + +"We had a talk, three days ago." + +"Then why'd he blow through this town as though he had a regiment o' +bulls and singed cats behind him!" + +Blake's heart went down like an elevator with a broken cable. But he gave +no outward sign of this inward commotion. + +"Because he wants to get down to Colon before the Hamburg-American boat +hits the port," ventured Blake. "His moll's aboard!" + +"But he blew out for 'Frisco this morning," contended the puzzled +Sheiner. "Shot through as though he'd just had a rumble!" + +"Oh, he _said_ that, but he went south, all right." + +"Then he went in an oyster sloop. There's nothing sailing from this port +to-day." + +"Well, what's Binhart got to do with our trouble anyway? What I want--" + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Manchuria_. 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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +Crossing the Sound, he reached Victoria in time to see the _Empress of +China_ 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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + VII + + +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 _Empress of China_ that the Reverend +Caleb Simpson had safely landed from the _Manchuria_ at Hong Kong, and +was about to leave for the mission field in the interior. + +The so-called bishop, sitting in the wireless-room of the _Empress of +China_, 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. + +But at Yokohama, Blake hurried ashore in a _sampan_, 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 _Toyo Kisen Kaisha_ +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + VIII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"You clum b'long me," was the enigmatic message uttered in the +detective's ear. + +"Why should I go along with you?" Blake calmly inquired. + +"You clum b'long me," reiterated the Chinaman. The finger again touched +the detective's arm. "Clismas!" + +Blake rose, at once. He recognized the code word of "Christmas." This was +the messenger he had been awaiting. + +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. + +His guide was pointing to a closed door in front of them. + +"You sabby?" he demanded. + +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. + + + + + IX + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"You're the party who's on the man hunt," she announced. + +"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. + +"You're after this man called Binhart," she declared. + +"Oh, no, I'm not," was Blake's sagacious response. "I don't want +Binhart!" + +"Then what do you want?" + +"I want the money he's got." + +The little painted face grew serious; then it became veiled. + +"How much money has he?" + +"That's what I want to find out!" + +She squatted ruminatively down on the edge of her divan. It was low and +wide and covered with orange-colored silk. + +"Then you'll have to find Binhart!" was her next announcement. + +"Maybe!" acknowledged Blake. + +"I can show you where he is!" + +"All right," was the unperturbed response. The blue-painted eyes were +studying him. + +"It will be worth four thousand pounds, in English gold," she announced. + +Blake took a step or two nearer her. + +"Is that the message Ottenheim told you to give me?" he demanded. His +face was red with anger. + +"Then three thousand pounds," she calmly suggested, wriggling her toes +into a fallen sandal. + +Blake did not deign to speak. His inarticulate grunt was one of disgust. + +"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!" + +Her eyes were as tranquil as a child's. Blake remembered that he was in a +world not his own. + +"Why should I want him killed?" he inquired. He looked about for some +place to sit. There was not a chair in the room. + +"Because he intends to kill _you_," answered the woman, squatting on the +orange-covered divan. + +"I wish he'd come and try," Blake devoutly retorted. + +"He will not come," she told him. "It will be done from the dark. _I_ +could have done it. But Ottenheim said no." + +"And Ottenheim said you were to work with me in this," declared Blake, +putting two and two together. + +The woman shrugged a white shoulder. + +"Have you any money?" she asked. She put the question with the +artlessness of a child. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"Well, what word'll I take back to Ottenheim?" he demanded. + +The woman grew serious. Then she showed her rice-like row of teeth as she +laughed. + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +Then, for the first time, Blake grew into a comprehension of what +surrounded him. He wheeled about, stooped and caught up the papier-mache +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. + +Then the five seemed to close in together, and the fight became general. +It became a melee. 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-mache 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"But where's Binhart?" he demanded, as he looked stolidly about for his +black boulder. + +"Never mind Binhart," she cried, touching the eviscerated body at her +feet with one slipper toe, "or we'll get what _he_ got!" + +"I want that man Binhart!" persisted the detective. + +"Not here! Not here!" she cried, folding the loose folds of the cloak +closer about her body. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +He felt grateful for that open air, for the coolness, for the sense of +deliverance which came with even that comparative freedom. + +"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. + +"On the next roof you must take off your shoes," she warned him. "You can +rest then. But hurry--hurry!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"I'm dished!" she murmured, as she sat there breathing audibly through +the darkness. "I'm dished for this coast!" + +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. + +The girl touched him on the knee and then shifted her position on the +coping tiles, without rising to her feet. + +"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 _Praya_. Now look where I'm pointing. That's +the Luiz Camoes lodging-house. You see the second window with the light +in it?" + +"Yes, I see it." + +"Well, Binhart's inside that window." + +"You know it?" + +"I know it." + +"So he's there?" said Blake, staring at the vague square of light. + +"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." + +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. + +"What are you going to do?" she asked. + +"I'm going to get Binhart," was Blake's answer. + +He could hear her little childlike murmur of laughter. + +"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." + +"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. + +"What'll you do?" he asked. + +Again he heard the careless little laugh. + +"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." + +"And then?" asked Blake, watching the window of the Luiz Camoes +lodging-house below him. + +"Then I'll work my way up to Port Arthur, I suppose. There's a navy man +there who'll help me!" + +"Haven't you any money?" Blake put the question a little uneasily. + +Again he felt the careless coo of laughter. + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +"Good-by, white man," she whispered. + +"Good-by!" he whispered back, as he worked his way cautiously and +ponderously along that perilous slope. + +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." + + + + + X + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The servant was leading him down the length of the half-lit hall when +Blake caught him by the sleeve. + +"You tell my rickshaw boy to wait! Quick, before he gets away!" + +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. + +He stood for a second or two, thinking. Then with the knuckle of one +finger he tapped on the door, lightly, almost timidly. + +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. + +Facing him, at the far side of the room, he saw Binhart. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +"That's all right," he said. "Don't get up!" + +Binhart eyed him. During that few seconds of silent tableau each man was +appraising, weighing, estimating the strength of the other. + +"What do you want, Jim?" asked Binhart, almost querulously. + +"I want that gun you've got up there under your liver pad," was Blake's +impassive answer. + +"Is that all?" asked Binhart. But he made no move to produce the gun. + +"Then I want you," calmly announced Blake. + +A look of gentle expostulation crept over Binhart's gaunt face. + +"You can't do it, Jim," he announced. "You can't take me away from here." + +"But I'm going to," retorted Blake. + +"How?" + +"I'm just going to take you." + +He crossed the room as he spoke. + +"Give me the gun," he commanded. + +Binhart still sat in the low reed chair. He made no movement in response +to Blake's command. + +"What's the good of getting rough-house," he complained. + +"Gi' me the gun," repeated Blake. + +"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. + +"Now, get your clothes on," commanded Blake. + +"What for?" temporized Binhart. + +"You're coming with me!" + +"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." + +"I'll risk it," announced the detective. + +"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!" + +"What t' hell do I care for law," was Blake's retort. "I want you and +you're going to come with me." + +"Where am I going?" + +"Back to New York." + +Binhart laughed. It was a laugh without any mirth in it. + +"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!" + +"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." + +Binhart sat studying the other man for a moment or two. + +"Then how about a little real talk, the kind of talk that money makes?" + +"Nothing doing!" declared Blake, folding his arms. + +Binhart flickered a glance at him as he thrust his own right hand down +into the hand-bag on his knees. + +"I want to show you what you could get out of this," he said, leaning +forward a little as he looked up at Blake. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"Where's Binhart?" asked Blake. + +"That's all right, old chap, you just rest up a bit," said the placatory +youth. + +At nine the next morning Blake was taken ashore at Hong Kong. + +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. + + + + + XI + + +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. + +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 +_Toyo Kisen Kaisha_ 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. + +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. + +Then he went on to Penang. There he went doggedly through the same +manoeuvers, 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _lingua Franca_ 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. + +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. + +But Binhart, in the meantime, had caught a Lloyd Brazileiro steamer for +Rio de Janeiro, and was once more on the high seas. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + + + + + XII + + +Three hours after he had disembarked from his steamer at Rio, Blake was +breakfasting at the Cafe Britto in the Ovidor. At the same table with him +sat a lean-jawed and rat-eyed little gambler by the name of Passos. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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!" + +"Have a smoke?" asked Blake. + +"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. + +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. + +It came in the form of an incredibly thin _gringo_ 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 _mezcal_ of Guatemala and the _anisado_ of +Ecuador had combined with the _pulque_ of Mexico to set their +unmistakable seal. + +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. + +"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. + +Blake smoked for a moment or two before answering. + +"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. + +"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. + +"Well, I'm saying it now!" Blake's guttural voice was reminding him. + +"Then why didn't you say it an hour ago?" contested McGlade, with his +alcoholic peevish obstinacy. + +"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. + +"I can tell you all right, all right--but it won't do you much good!" + +"Why not?" And still Blake was bland and patient. + +"Because," retorted McGlade, fixing the other man with a lean finger that +was both unclean and unsteady, "_you can't get at him_!" + +"You tell me where he is," said Blake, striking a match. "I'll attend to +the rest of it!" + +McGlade slowly and deliberately drank the last of his swizzle. Then he +put down his empty glass and stared pensively and pregnantly into it. + +"What's there in it for me?" he asked. + +Blake, studying him across the small table, weighed both the man and the +situation. + +"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 _his_ funeral. All he wanted was Binhart. + +"Binhart's in Guayaquil," McGlade suddenly announced. + +"How d' you know that?" promptly demanded Blake. + +"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." + +"What liner?" + +"He went aboard the _Trunella_. He thought he'd get down to Callao. But +they tied the _Trunella_ up at Guayaquil." + +"And you say he's there now?" + +"Yes!" + +"And aboard the _Trunella_?" + +"Sure! He's got to be aboard the _Trunella_!" + +"Then why d' you say I can't get at him?" + +"Because Guayaquil and the _Trunella_ 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!" + +"But there's got to be _something_ going there!" contended Blake. + +"They daren't do it! They couldn't get clearance--they couldn't even get +_pratique_! 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!" + +Blake, at this last word, raised his ponderous head. + +"The boat-patrols wouldn't phase me," he announced. His thoughts, in +fact, were already far ahead, marshaling themselves about other things. + +"You've a weakness for yellow fever?" inquired the ironic McGlade. + +"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. + +"You don't mean you're going to try to get into Guayaquil?" demanded +McGlade. + +"If Connie Binhart's down there I've got to go and get him," was +Never-Fail Blake's answer. + + * * * * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Pip," Blake very quietly announced, "you're going to sail for Guayaquil +to-morrow!" + +"Am I?" queried the unmoved Pip. + +"You're going to start for Guayaquil to-morrow," repeated Blake, "and +you're going to take me along with you!" + +"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!" + +"I admit that," quietly acknowledged the other man. "I saw her +yesterday!" + +"And she don't carry no passengers--she ain't allowed to," announced her +master. + +"But she's going to carry me," asserted Blake, lighting a fresh cigar. + +"What as?" demanded Tankred. And he fixed Blake with a belligerent eye as +he put the question. + +"As an old friend of yours!" + +"And then what?" still challenged the other. + +"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!" + +Tankred continued to smoke. + +"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?" + +"No, you're doing the coquetting in this case, I guess!" + +"Then I ain't standin' for no rivals--not on this coast!" + +The two men, so dissimilar in aspect and yet so alike in their accidental +attitudes of an uncouth belligerency, sat staring at each other. + +"You're going to take me to Guayaquil," repeated Blake. + +"That's where you're dead wrong," was the calmly insolent rejoinder. "I +ain't even _goin'_ to Guayaquil." + +"I say you are." + +Tankred's smile translated his earlier deliberateness into open contempt. + +"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!" + +"But you're going to get as close to Guayaquil as you can, and you know +it." + +"Do I?" said the man with the up-tilted cigar. + +"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!" + +For the first time Tankred turned and studied him. + +"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. + +"There's a man I want down there, and I'm going down to get him!" + +"Who is he?" + +"That's my business," retorted Blake. + +"And gettin' into Guayaquil's your business!" Tankred snorted back. + +"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!" + +"How do I know that?" + +"You'll have my word for it!" + +Tankred swung round on him. + +"D' you realize you'll have to sneak ashore in a _lancha_ 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?" + +"I know all that!" acknowledged Blake. + +For the second time Tankred turned and studied the other man. + +"And you're still goin' after your gen'leman friend from up North?" he +inquired. + +"Pip, I've got to get that man!" + +"You've got 'o?" + +"I've got to, and I'm going to!" + +Tankred threw his cigar-end away and laughed leisurely and quietly. + +"Then what're we sittin' here arguin' about, anyway? If it's settled, +it's settled, ain't it?" + +"Yes, I think it's settled!" + +Again Tankred laughed. + +"But take it from me, my friend, you'll sure see some rough goin' this +next few days!" + + + + + XIII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"It's time you were gettin' your clothes on," he announced. + +"Getting my clothes on?" queried Blake through the darkness. + +"Yes, you can't tell what we'll bump into, any time now!" + +The wakened sleeper heard the other man moving about in the velvety black +gloom. + +"What're you doing there?" was his sharp question as he heard the squeak +and slam of a shutter. + +"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!" + +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. + +"You'd better turn out!" he called back as he stepped into the engulfing +gloom of the gangway. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He swung nervously about as he felt a hand clutch his arm. He found +Tankred speaking quietly into his ear. + +"There'll be one boat over," that worthy was explaining. "One boat--you +take that--the last one! And you'd better give the _guinney_ a ten-dollar +bill for his trouble!" + +"All right! I'm ready!" was Blake's low-toned reply as he started to move +forward with the other man. + +"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!" + +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 +_Trunella_ must ride at anchor and Binhart must be. + +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 _lancha_ tied to the +landing-ladder had been suddenly quenched. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _lanchas_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +This boat, he saw, was still securely tied to its mate, one of the +larger-bodied _lanchas_, 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. + +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. + +He had the last strand of the rope severed before the Ecuadorean with the +carbine reached the _lancha_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +_Trunella_ should be so foolishly delayed, that so many cross-purposes +should postpone and imperil his quest of Binhart. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + XIV + + +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. + +He rowed, always keeping his bow towards the far-off spangle of lights +which showed where the _Trunella_ lay at anchor. + +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. + +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. + +He rowed feverishly on, until the lights of the _Trunella_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Where in the name o' God did _you_ come from?" demanded the man with the +brier-root pipe. + +"I came out from Guayaquil," answered Blake, reaching searchingly down in +his wet pocket. "And I can't go back." + +The sandy-headed man backed away. + +"From the fever camps?" + +Blake could afford to smile at the movement. + +"Don't worry--there's no fever 'round me. _That's_ what I've been +through!" And he showed the bullet-holes through his tattered coat-cloth. + +"How'd you get here?" + +"Rowed out in a surf-boat--and I can't go back!" + +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. + +"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. + +"That Alfaro gang after you?" he inquired. + +"They're _all_ 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. + +"What d' you want me to do?" he finally asked. + +Blake, instead of answering that question, asked another. + +"When do you move out of here?" + +The engineer put the coins in his pocket. + +"Before noon to-morrow, thank God! The _Yorktown_ ought to be here by +morning--she's to give us our release!" + +"Then you'll sail by noon?" + +"We've _got_ 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!" + +A great wave of contentment surged through Blake's weary body. He put his +hand up on the smaller man's shoulder. + +"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!" + +The pale-eyed engineer studied the problem. Then he studied the figure in +front of him. + +"There's nothing crooked behind this?" + +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!" + +"I'm fourth engineer on board here, and the Old Man would sure fire me, +if--" + +"But you needn't even know about me," contended Blake. "Just let me crawl +in somewhere where I can sleep!" + +"You need it, all right, by that face of yours!" + +"I sure do," acknowledged the other as he stood awaiting his judge's +decision. + +"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!" + +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!" + +"Oh, I'll face it, all right!" was Blake's calmly contented answer. "All +I want now is about nine hours' sleep!" + +"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. + + + + + XV + + +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. + +"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 _Trunella_ were not +in motion. "Why aren't we under way?" + +"They're having trouble up there, with the _Commandante_. 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!" + +"Where'll you get me?" asked Blake. He was on his feet by this time, +arraying himself in his wet and ragged clothing. + +"That's what I've been talking over with the Chief," began the young +engineer. Blake wheeled about and fixed him with his eye. + +"Did you let your Chief in on this?" he demanded, and he found it hard to +keep his anger in check. + +"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!" + +"Well, supposing I'm not?" + +"Then they'd haul you back and give you a half year in that _Lazaretto_ +o' theirs!" + +"Well, what do I have to do to keep from being hauled back?" + +"You'll have to be one o' the workin' crew, until we get off. The Chief +says that, and I think he's right!" + +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. + +"You don't mean stoke-hole work?" he demanded. + +The fourth engineer continued to look worried. + +"You don't happen to know anything about machinery, do you?" he began. + +"Of course I do," retorted Blake, thinking gratefully of his early days +as a steamfitter. + +"Then why couldn't I put you in a cap and jumper and work you in as one +of the greasers?" + +"What do you mean by greasers?" + +"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!" + +And it was in this way, thirty minutes later, that Blake became a greaser +in the engine-room of the _Trunella_. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _dungaree_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _cargadores_. He was a _dungaree_-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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Trunella_ 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 _Trunella_ had steamed many miles +southward on her long journey towards the Straits of Magellan. + + + + + XVI + + +Seven days after the _Trunella_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +aerial 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Over heartbreaking mountainous paths, through miasmic jungles, across +sun-baked plateaus, chilled by night and scorched by day, chafed and +sore, tortured by _niguas_ and _coloradillas_, mosquitoes and _chigoes_, +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 _guaro_ and great quantities of black coffee; +when ill he ate quinin. + +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. + +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 senor to the hut +in question. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Hello, Jim!" said the sick man, in little more than a whisper. + +"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. + +"What's up, Connie?" he asked, sitting calmly down beside the narrow bed. + +The sick man moved a hand, weakly, as though it were the yellow flapper +of some wounded amphibian. + +"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." + +"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?" + +The man on the bed did not answer for some time. When he spoke, he spoke +without looking at the other man. + +"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!" + +Blake leaned forward and fought away the flies again. + +"Then it's a good thing I got up with you." + +The sick man rolled his eyes in their sockets, so as to bring his enemy +into his line of vision. + +"Why?" he asked. + +"Because I'm not going to let you die," was Blake's answer. + +"You can't help it, Jim! The jig's up!" + +"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!" + +Binhart slowly moved his head from side to side. Then the heat-lightning +smile played about the hollow face again. + +"It was some chase, Jim, wasn't it?" he said, without looking at his +old-time enemy. + +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. + +"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!" + +A sweat of weakness stood out on Binhart's white face. + +"Where to?" he asked, as he had asked once before. And his eyes remained +closed as he put the question. + +"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. + +"You'll never get me there!" he said, in little more than a whisper. +"Never!" + + + + + XVII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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." + +The other man said nothing, but his slight head-movement was one of +comprehension. + +"So I just wanted to say there's no side-stepping, no four-flushing, at +this end of the trip!" + +"I understand," was Binhart's listless response. + +"I'm glad you do," Blake went on in his dully monotonous voice. "Because +I got where I can't stand any more breaks." + +"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. + +It was as they made their way slowly down to the coast that Blake put an +unexpected question to Binhart. + +"Connie, where in hell did you plant that haul o' yours?" + +This thing had been worrying Blake. Weeks before he had gone through +every nook and corner, every pocket and crevice in Binhart's belongings. + +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. + +"Oh, I left that up in the States, where it'd be safe," he answered. + +"What'll you do about it?" Blake casually inquired. + +"I can't tell, just yet," was Binhart's retort. + +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 _you_ ought to get it!" + +"What do you mean?" asked Blake. He resented the bodily weakness that was +making burro-riding a torture. + +"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." + +"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. + +"Well, you quit, and I'll stand for the Law!" + +"But, can't you see, they'd never stand for you!" + +"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!" + +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. + +"But how'd we ever handle the deal?" prompted the tired-bodied man on the +burro. + +"You remember a woman called Elsie Verriner?" + +"Yes," acknowledged Blake, with a pang of regret which he could not +fathom, at the mention of the name. + +"Well, we could fix it through her." + +"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. + +"No, but she could get it," was Binhart's response. + +"And what good would that do _me_?" + +"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." + +Blake rode on again in silence. + +"All right," he said at last. "I'm willing." + +"Then how'll you prove it? How'd I know you'd make good?" demanded +Binhart. + +"That's not up to me! You're the man that's got to make good!" was +Blake's retort. + +"But you'll give me the chance?" half pleaded his prisoner. + +"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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"Hadn't we better lay up for a few days?" suggested Binhart. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +But Binhart, knowing what he knew, was content to wait. + +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. + + + + + XVIII + + +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 Senor +Americano had been found in a dying condition, ten miles from the camp of +the rubber company for which he acted as surgeon. The Senor 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He found nothing companionable in that canon 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. + +He drifted on down past the cafes 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Cabaret de Neant_ 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! + + + + + XIX + + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"Well, I'm back," he announced in his guttural bass, as though to bridge +a silence that was becoming abysmal. + +"Yes, you're back!" echoed Elsie Verriner. She spoke absently, as though +her mind were preoccupied with a problem that seemed inexplicable. + +"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!" + +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. + +"I'm not a lobster palace floater," she quietly replied. "And you know +it." + +"Then what are you?" he demanded. + +"I'm a confidential agent of the Treasury Department," was her +quiet-toned answer. + +"Oho!" cried Blake. "So that's why we've grown so high and mighty!" + +The woman sank into the chair beside which she had been standing. She +seemed impervious to his mockery. + +"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. + +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. + +"You know where I've been and what I've been doing!" he suddenly cried +out. + +"I'm not positive that I do," was the woman's guarded answer. + +"That's a lie!" thundered Blake. "You know as well as I do!" + +"What have you been doing?" asked the woman, almost indulgently. + +"I've been trailing Binhart, and you know it! And what's more, you know +where Binhart is, now, at this moment!" + +"What was it you wanted me for?" reiterated the white-faced woman, +without looking at him. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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. + +"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!" + +The woman leaned a little forward, staring into his eyes. + +"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. + +"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!" + +"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!" + +"Making what worse?" demanded Blake. + +"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!" + +"What have I lost by it?" + +"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!" + +"As who expected?" + +"As Copeland and the others expected when they sent you out on a blind +trail." + +"I wasn't sent out on a blind trail." + +"But you found nothing when you went out. Surely you remember that." + +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. + +"Are you trying to say this Binhart case was a frame up?" he suddenly +cried out. + +"They wanted you out of the way. It was the only trick they could think +of." + +"That's a lie!" declared Blake. + +"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." + +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. + +"Why, you welched on Binhart yourself. You put me on his track. You sent +me up to Montreal!" + +"They made me do that," confessed the unhappy woman. "He wasn't in +Montreal. He never had been there!" + +"You had a letter from him there, telling you to come to 381 King Edward +when the coast was clear." + +"That letter was two years old. It was sent from a room in the King +Edward Hotel. That was part of their plant." + +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. + +"So you sold me out!" he finally said, studying her white face with his +haggard hound's eyes. + +"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!" + +"What do _you_ know about friendship?" cried the gray-faced man. + +"We were friends once," answered the woman, ignoring the bitter mockery +in his cry. + +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. + +"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. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +He lurched forward to his feet. His great crouching body seemed drawn +towards her by some slow current which he could not control. + +"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. + +"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. + +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. _He was killing her!_ + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + XX + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"I want to see Mr. Copeland," was Blake's calmly assured announcement. + +"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. + +"But this is important," said Blake. + +"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. + +"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!" + +"Mr. and Mrs. Copeland are at the Metropolitan, sir," explained the +servant. "At the Opera. And they are not back yet." + +"Then I'll wait for him," announced Blake, placated by the humbler note +in the voice of the man in the service-coat. + +"Very good, sir," announced the servant. And he led the way upstairs, +switching on the electrics as he went. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"I do!" said Blake, without rising from his chair. + +"About what?" asked Copeland. There was an acidulated crispness in his +voice which hinted that time might be a matter of importance to him. + +"You know what it's about, all right," was Blake's heavy retort. + +"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." + +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. + +"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!" + +Copeland, for all his iciness, seemed to resent the thrust. + +"We have always something to learn," he retorted, meeting Blake's stolid +stare of enmity. + +"I guess I've learned enough!" said Blake. + +"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. + +"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!" + +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. + +"Then might I ask what you are after?" inquired Copeland. He folded his +arms, as though to fortify himself behind a pretense of indifferency. + +"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!" + +"Blake," said Copeland, very quietly, "you are wrong in both instances." + +"Am I!" + +"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." + +"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 _me_ back down. I began this man-hunt, and _I'm going to +end it_!" + +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. + +"That man-hunt is out of our hands," he heard Copeland saying. + +"But it's not out of _my_ hands!" reiterated the detective. + +"Yes, it's out of your hands, too," answered Copeland. He spoke with a +calm authority, with a finality, that nettled the other man. + +"What are you driving at?" he cried out. + +"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. + +"By God, it's not ended!" Blake thundered back at him. + +"It _is_ ended," quietly contended the other. "And precisely as you have +put it--Ended by God!" + +"It's what?" cried Blake. + +"You don't seem to be aware of the fact, Blake, that Binhart is +dead--dead and buried!" + +Blake stared up at him. + +"Is what?" his lips automatically inquired. + +"Binhart died seven weeks ago. He died in the town of Toluca, out in +Arizona. He's buried there." + +"That's a lie!" cried Blake, sagging forward in his chair. + +"We had the Phoenix authorities verify the report in every detail. There +is no shadow of doubt about it." + +Still Blake stared up at the other man. + +"I don't believe it," he wheezed. + +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. + +"Bridley, go to my secretary and bring me the portfolio in the second +drawer." + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + + + + + XXI + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Blake even recalled, a few days later, the incident of the Shattuck +jewel-robbery, during the first weeks of his regime 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. + +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. + +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. + + * * * * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +Phoenix and all Arizona itself seemed to know nothing. + +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. + + + + + XXII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _patina_ of time. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Hello, Batty," he said as he set the exhibit oscillating with a push of +the knee. "How's business?" + +"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. + +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. + +Yet nobody took Batty Blake seriously. It was said, indeed, that once, in +the old regime, 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. + +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. + +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. + +"Batty, how long're yuh going to peddle glue, anyway?" he suddenly asked. + +The glue-peddler, watching the crowds that drifted by him, did not +answer. He did not even look about at his interrogator. + +"D' yuh _have_ to do this?" asked the wide-shouldered youth in uniform. + +"No," was the peddler's mild yet guttural response. + +The other prodded with his night-stick against the capacious overcoat +pockets. Then he laughed. + +"I'll bet yuh've got about forty dollars stowed away in there," he +mocked. "Yuh have now, haven't yuh?" + +"I don' know!" listlessly answered the sunken-shouldered figure. + +"Then what're yuh sellin' this stuff for, if it ain't for money?" +persisted the vaguely piqued youth. + +"I don' know!" was the apathetic answer. + +"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. + +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." + +And at almost the same time, approaching him from the west, he had caught +sight of another figure. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"I got him!" he gasped. + +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. + +"Yuh got _who_?" 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. + +"I got him!" calmly repeated the old street-peddler. + +"Yuh got _who_?" demanded the still puzzled young patrolman, oblivious of +the quiescent light in the bewildered eyes of McCooey, close beside him. + +"Binhart!" answered Never-Fail Blake, with a sob. "_I've got Binhart!_" + + + THE END + + + + + Transcriber's Notes + + +--Preserved the copyright notice from the printed edition, although this + book is in the public domain in the country of publication. + +--Silently corrected a few typos (but left nonstandard spelling and + dialect as is). + +--Renumbered the chapter numbers (there were two chapters numbered V). + +--Silently corrected two slight errors related to New York City place + names. + +--In the text versions, delimited text in italics by _underscores_. + + + + + + + +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.txt or 44336.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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