CHAPTER XXII

FOOL'S LUCK

Now it pains me even yet to write of what followed. Having conceived and contrived such an ingenious method of escape--and I needn't pretend that I don't think it pretty clever of me--why couldn't I have utilized it to the full? Why was I not able to free my hands without Corby knowing? Why couldn't I have suddenly sprung upon him, left him bound and gagged, rushed to the rescue of Varney, and rounded up the whole gang single-handed? It might easily have happened thus, but it didn't. Why had that rope to snap at the moment it did, when Corby was wide awake and even looking at me? I'm sure I don't know; things seem to happen adversely like that to some people, and I suppose it was down in the book of fate that I was never destined to play the hero. At any rate the result was disastrous.

To properly understand what followed you must remember how I was tied; my feet were bound behind me and fastened to my wrists so that I was like a bent bow, and when, without warning, the rope snapped, I was like that bow suddenly released. I was lying on my side at the time, and a six-foot bow at full tension creates quite a disturbance when that tension is suddenly released. The result was that my legs flew down, my arms up, and I shot from the couch to the floor where I skidded like a tin Lizzie on a slippery road. The next moment Corby had taken a flying leap on my chassis.

Now my feet were still bound fast together, though my hands were free, but even with this drawback, I think I could have accounted satisfactorily for Corby--I had the makings of a good strangle hold on him--if it had not been for the entrance of Frean and a man whom I saw to be Joyce. Evidently they had heard the small riot. Frean danced around and offered advice, but the intensely practical Joyce lost no time in whipping a slung shot from his pocket and letting me have it, a very scientific wallop that didn't even break my scalp, but which caused me instantly to abandon the ambition to make Corby a corpse.

When I regained interest in the proceedings, I was back on the couch, hog-tied anew, while Corby was examining the broken rope. "Cheese!" he exclaimed. "For shame, Mr. Lawton," his dead eyes regarding me with mild reproof. "And I believe I've seen mice about. Tut, tut, this will never do. You're always trying to slip something under me, get me in bed with the Company. It isn't fair, it isn't right. I could almost believe you dislike me, Mr. Lawton."

"You shouldn't overexert yourself so unnecessarily on such a hot night, Lawton," added Frean with a nervous giggle. "You know I've warned you about apoplexy. Do be reasonable."

"Hope I didn't hurt you, sir," put in Joyce with mock concern. "You'll be glad to hear, sir, that I got that Eyetalian who was gunning for me the other night. Yes, sir, I had him arrested. And have you found out yet, sir, what it means by 'Varney moves on second?' Oh, yes, I saw you pick up the message that day; very thoughtful of you, sir."

I hardly heard their gibes for I was waiting to hear that awful cry again. The fact that Joyce was here showed beyond all doubt that Corby had told the truth and that Theodore Varney was indeed the victim of these scoundrels. And if Varney, what about Miss Gelette? Was she here, too? She went everywhere with her uncle, never let him out of her sight; even with the help of that smug and smiling villain, Joyce, I could hardly see how they had been able to decoy Varney without her knowledge.

"Frean," I said, "what is this ghastly game you're trying to work on poor Varney? What is it all about? Surely it won't do any harm to tell me now. If it's money you want----"

Again there came that dreadful cry, against which I couldn't even stop my ears. Frean paled and looked rather sick, but Joyce grinned and said cheerfully "the old bird's got a fine register."

Corby nodded, head at a meditative angle, the voracious sparkle in his eye. "I like that note. I wish I was down there. You're missing something. Trade you jobs, if you like."

"Daren't," said Joyce and got up. "I'd better beat it."

"Frean," I cried, "for Heaven's sake stop that hellish business down there! I can't appeal to these brutes, but surely I can to you! You must have some decency left. You said I'd cry for mercy; well, I am. You see me now, if that's any satisfaction. Tell Scallon I'll do anything, pay anything----"

"You will in any case," he broke in with a white sneer, "and I've got nothing to do with it."

"You have! You can't salve your conscience that way. You pretended to be Varney's friend; you dined with him--why, man, you wouldn't torture a dog like that! He's an old man, an incurable invalid. Can't they even let him die in peace? Go down and tell Scallon he can have every penny I own----"

"I've got nothing to do with it!" he almost screamed. "Do you think they'd let me interfere? What do you take me for? Come along, Joyce." And he almost ran from the room.

"A very tender fellow," commented Corby. "A little weak in the stomach; but he's coming on finely. He'll make a good member when he's had a little more experience. Quite a capable actor, too, don't you think? We all have our talents." And picking up his book he sat down on the foot of the cot and leaned against the window.

I found it impossible to keep my thoughts away from Corby's words about it being my turn next, and Scallon's reference about my eyes and ash trays. Apart from the smarting burn on my cheek--I carry the deep scar to this day--there was ample evidence that Tim Scallon was a man of his word, as he claimed.

Now, I'm no martyr--I think I've hinted at this before--and I knew it. Frankly, I don't care for that sort of thing, especially if you have to take it on an empty stomach and after a preliminary hammering. I've always admired the early Christian martyrs immensely, but admiration never went to the point of wanting to emulate them. I should like to believe I had the nerve and stamina to suffer to the last gasp for the sake of a principle, but at heart I knew quite well that Nero would have missed making a night light of me, or a meal ticket for the lions, if my tongue had known its business; so I contemplated with gloomy misgiving my coming interview with the Black King.

I didn't want to betray Blunt, and I had made up my mind to suffer a lot; I meant to stick it to the finish if I could, just as old Varney was sticking it, but I wouldn't have taken any bets on my doing so. In fact, I had a humiliating and sneaking conviction that I'd do about anything before my eyes became ash trays, and this knowledge did not increase my self-respect or my love for those who had placed me in such a position.

All this time I was listening, and so was Corby, for another of those awful cries from below stairs; but none came and Corby finally picked up his book with a yawn.

"Must have lost consciousness," he said. "Stubborn old bird. It is remarkable, Mr. Lawton, how much pain the human anatomy can stand. History is replete with some very fine examples of fortitude. On the face of it, you should be able to stand far more than old Varney; you are a better physical machine. But then one has to consider the spirit as well as flesh. I've known big, hulking brutes like you to faint if they cut their own finger. I hope you aren't that kind; I hope you won't disappoint me."

"You are too grisly, Corby. You're overdoing it. It doesn't frighten me, I assure you. In fact, you're simply a bore."

He smiled pensively and resumed reading.

Now, as I looked at him, raging silently at my own utter helplessness, a strange thing happened, so strange and startling, indeed, that I wondered for a moment if I were dreaming. There was not a breath of air in the humid night, and yet I saw the blind of the open window at Corby's back move slightly. I must have dreamed it--but, no, there it moved again. I was sure of it.

Corby looked at me over his book, as though attracted by my concentrated stare. "You look interested, Mr. Lawton. What's up?"

"I was only wondering," I said, "why you didn't go into the moving picture game. You're so beautiful. Your features should be perpetuated on the screen." I had to say something like that, for the blind had moved again, and I could hardly trust my voice.

"No more beautiful than you," he said. "We are a pair. But after to-night, I should be the more beautiful of the two. Yes, indeed. It is well, Mr. Lawton----" He suddenly gurgled and choked, for two hands had shot from under the blind and got him fast by the throat.

I never saw a quicker, neater bit of work. Being a vindictive sort where my enemies are concerned, I like to remember and ponder over that picture. Corby's startled, helpless expression quickly changed to one of rage and agony, as that viselike grip bit into his neck; he tried to pull his knife, but he hadn't a chance in the world, seated as he was below the window, and with those powerful hands gripping him from behind.

In a trice he was choked half senseless, slammed back on the cot, and then smothered as a wiry little figure followed the capable hands. Then, to hurry matters, the newcomer whipped a billy from his hip pocket, and tapped Mr. Corby scientifically on his bulging forehead; whereupon the proceedings ended as suddenly as they had begun.

Jimmie Blunt, somehow looking as neat and well dressed as a theatrical star, for all his bit of rough-and-tumble, and certainly as cool as the proverbial cucumber, winked at me out of a blue eye that was no longer suspiciously sleepy, but sparkling and alert.

"How'd that little act do for the movies?" he lisped, with his faint, winning smile. "Couldn't have had it staged better to order. Thanks for your help, Lawton. Hope they didn't maul you much."

"My help?" I exclaimed, as he slashed through my bonds with a six-inch clasp knife. "A fat lot of help I've been! How in thunder did you----"

"Soft pedal," he warned, dropping his own voice still lower. "We haven't time for post mortems now. Yes, I know Roupell, Frean, and Scallon are here, also Joyce and Varney----"

"Then it _was_ Varney! They've been torturing him, Blunt----"

"Sorry. But I guess they didn't get very far----" He cocked an ear like a listening terrier as a door slammed downstairs, and there came Roupell's voice and the rumbling trumpet of the Black King.

"They're coming up!" I said.

"Good!" said Jimmie. "Quick!" he added. "Back as you were. Here, take these nippers and keep them under you; snap 'em when I line 'em up. That's it."

While I lay down on the couch in my old position, Blunt worked in the swift, silent, effective fashion with which he had polished off Corby. There wasn't a wasted motion.

With incredible speed and dexterity he bound and gagged Corby with the cords that had lately decorated me, then unceremoniously shoved him out of sight beneath the cot. After this he took up a position against the wall beside the door, so that when the latter should open, it would conceal him.

He had hardly done so when the stairs began to complain under the weight of two such behemoths as the Black King and his chief lieutenant. Evidently something had gone wrong, for the bull elephant was angry and trumpeting loudly.

"Blast him!" we heard him say. "I'll sweat it out of th' old rip if it takes a year! I'll keep touchin' him up till he comes through, or my name ain't Scallon! He's gonna part, all right; you see if he don't. Any guy can stand for one knock-out, but it's th' keepin' at it with no let-up that get 'em."

He kicked the door open and lumbered into the room, followed by Roupell; and evidently so secure did both feel that neither bothered to close the door.

"Where th' blazes is Corby?" demanded Scallon, turning on his lieutenant, after shooting me a scowling glance. "What kind of discipline is this? Why ain't he here?"

"I don't know. I gave him his orders," faltered Roupell. "He should be here." And his eyes began to rove as if he expected to discover Corby on the walls or ceiling.

"Should be here! It's your business to see he is," rasped Scallon. He removed his cigar and bellowed "Corby!" his mottled face growing purple.

Then the door slammed and showed Blunt with a leveled automatic resting on his hip. "Put 'em up, Tim!" he said crisply. "You, too, Rose. Up with 'em, quick! You know me, so none of your soapy work. I'll be glad of an excuse to save the State the expense of another trial."

As the twin mountains of flesh were standing with their backs to me, I couldn't observe, unfortunately, by their expressions what they felt at receiving this startling surprise package. But whatever their emotions, however desperate, courageous, and resourceful they evidently knew of old this quiet, dapper little man, whose eyes were now hard and bright as blue diamonds.

Reluctantly, very reluctantly but surely their hands were elevated, and, keeping their persons between me and the watchful .38, I snapped on the bracelets. Then Blunt frisked them.

The port-wine complexion of Roupell--or Rose, as Blunt had called him--had become more the color of absinth. He sagged at the hinges, and looked for once more than his age. But I must say Scallon took it well; brute beast though he was, and foul with crime, he had the animal courage which receives its due everywhere.

"Well, Jimmie, count one to you," he said casually, as if marking up a billiard game. But his eyes were raging. "You always did play in fool's luck."

"Yes," agreed Blunt, who never gloated, "I always did, Tim. If you can't be clever, be lucky. It's just as good, or better."

"Butted in on a lone hand, eh? Well, whatja got on me?" demanded Scallon, beginning to trumpet. His eyes were now shrewd and speculating. "You got nothin' on me but th' kidnappin'--if you can call it that--of this big tramp here. An' that'll take some provin'. You can't hang nothin' on me, an' you know it. A private bull like you ain't got no right to make an arrest, anyway. Flash your warrant. I demand to see it. I know my rights, an' I got th' coin an' pull to see I get 'em----"

"You'll get them, Tim; don't worry about that. Inspector Lannigan's been playing in fool's luck, too, and so has Bright, of the secret service. They should be here any minute now. The joint's been pinched out, and there's a hurry-up wagon round the corner waiting for you. They pulled your Philadelphia headquarters about an hour ago."

"Yah!" jeered Scallon. "Whatja take me for? That stuff has whiskers on it. Think I'll fall for it?"

But his expression changed swiftly as there came from below, from all sides of the house, in fact, the crash of splintered glass and rending wood. There followed sounds of a small-sized riot, several pistol shots, and then comparative silence.

"There's your answer, Tim," said Blunt laconically. "We've been lucky again, and it's all over but the lining up. You and Roupell--as he prefers to call himself--don't want to miss the roll call, so beat it."

As they were herded through the door, Scallon turned, his nonchalance gone, and his mottled face now distorted with rage. "I'll get you for this, Blunt!" he said thickly. "I'll get you some day if it takes a lifetime! I'll get you if it's th' last thing I do. There ain't nothin' in this world can keep me from settlin' with you!"

"Perhaps not," said Jimmie soberly. "Meanwhile----" And he prodded him with the pistol.

The house was simply swarming with uniformed police and plain-clothes men, among the latter being, as I learned later, a number of Federal officers. We hadn't gone far along the corridor when we met a grizzled, gold-laced official, whom I recognized, from pictures I'd seen, as Inspector Lannigan, of the New York force.

I discovered afterward that the solemn, cherubic individual in citizen's dress who accompanied him was the noted Chief Bright, of the secret-service. He was famed for his silence, which he now bore out, for I didn't hear him say a single word through the subsequent proceedings.

"Good work, Jimmie!" said Lannigan familiarly, for Blunt had formerly served under him. "It's a clean bag and only one casualty. What about the man Corby?"

"Back in that room, all ready for shipping. You boys'll find him under the bed. Where's Mr. Varney?"

"In there," said Lannigan, thumbing toward a door at the end of the corridor. "They put him over the jumps, but he never blabbed. A game old gentleman, Jimmie; as fine and game a one as I ever saw. I only wish we could have got here before they hurted him, the dirty blackguards!"

He whirled on Scallon, his eyes flaming like an old war eagle's, and his Irish parentage more in evidence. "Ye white-livered swine!" he said. "Them haythens in Beljum is Christian gentlemen to you! Get along down there wid the rest of your scum!"

"Down there" was the lower hall, where I glimpsed Joyce and two others--probably my assailants of the taxi--standing handcuffed, and in charge of several officers; and Scallon, propelled by a hearty kick from the irate Lannigan, joined them on all fours. Never was a king dethroned so completely.

We entered the room pointed out by Inspector Lannigan, but I saw no sign of Mr. Varney, its sole occupants being a couple of Federal officers and a man whom I had never seen before. He was past middle age, and very distinguished looking. He lay on a couch, his feet naked, and the sole of one of them a mass of raw blisters. The sight was horrible, and I wished I had helped to kick Scallon downstairs.

After a whispered word with one of the officers, Blunt beckoned me out and the door was closed. "The ambulance will be here soon," he said. "The best thing you and I can do is to beat it home. The show's over."

"But where's Mr. Varney?" I demanded. "I must see him. And who's that poor fellow in there?"

"Why, that's Mr. Varney."

"Nonsense!" I exclaimed. "You've made a big mistake. I know Varney, and that fellow----"

"Is his brother, and the only Varney that ever figured in this case," finished Blunt, the ghost of a twinkle in his blue eye.