CHAPTER XIII

IN THE DUNGEON

Nat Ridley was doing some quick and hard thinking as he made his way like an eel along the floor toward the cellar stairs. He realized that he was in great danger, but he could not be certain that the shots fired had been aimed at him.

"If those shots weren't for me, there would have been some coming my way in a little while," mused the sleuth. "That messenger was sharper than I thought. He spotted me with El Capitan's letter," and Nat's hand went to his pocket to make sure he still had the note. He also wanted to be certain that he had his automatic.

"Tried to force a quarrel on me! That's what they did!" decided Nat as he hurried to the head of the stairs in the darkness. Fortunately he had noticed them well when the lights were on, as he had thought he might have to make use of them.

"I wish I knew more Spanish," mused Nat, who was by this time at the head of the cellar steps. "I'd like to know just what El Capitan said when he heard the messenger give me away. Well, I'll have to let that go and save myself. Whew, they're going it in there!"

Indeed, great excitement now prevailed in the main room of the night club. Several more shots were fired, but Nat knew now that the bullets could not reach him. He closed the door back of him and, not relishing going down unfamiliar stairs in the dark, he took out his flashlight.

This he screened by holding it in his hand so that only the faintest glimmer came from between his fingers. But it was enough to enable him to see so he would not stumble.

Nat expected to observe some of the club servants or habitués come running up the steps at any moment to ascertain what the excitement was about. But he saw no one, and the change from the noise of the main room to the comparative quiet of the cellar was a relief. Nat Ridley was not an admirer of jazz, and loved to be quiet.

He reached the bottom step and noted that the cellar was a large one, extending in two directions from the flight of stairs. There were dim lights burning here and there, and in the distance Nat could hear the tinkle of glasses and bottles.

"They must have private rooms down here, where they have all sorts of high jinks," reasoned the sleuth. "Well, I'll give it the once over."

There was now no need of using his flashlight, for the cellar had its own illumination, though not of the brightest, and Nat did not want to make himself a conspicuous object by holding the little electric torch in his hand.

He put it in his pocket and, making sure again that his automatic was in readiness, he stepped out and walked softly along the cement floor of the cellar.

"Guess I'll give that merry party the once over," decided the detective as the noise of laughter, singing, and the tinkle of glasses and bottles became more distinct. "I might pick up some information."

Keeping close to the wall and treading softly, at the same time casting a look behind him now and then to make sure he was not followed, Nat advanced toward that part of the cellar whence issued the noise of merrymaking.

It came from what seemed to be a wine vault, but in which a table was set with food, and about this were grouped a number of men and women who were evidently servants of the club.

At this hour of the morning their duties were pretty much over, and it was plain that they had gathered to enjoy, though in a more limited way, the same fun as that indulged in by the patrons upstairs.

"I don't believe I care to mingle with them," thought Nat. "It might arouse suspicion. But it's queer they don't go up to see what all that row is over their heads."

For the Cordova Club seemed undergoing a raid or something of that sort. Men and women were rushing about and occasionally a shot was fired. The band had stopped playing, and Nat could only account for the indifference of the servants on the assumption that they were used to all sorts of queer antics on the part of the jazz-mad patrons.

"They don't want to mix in it," reasoned Nat.

He turned aside from the room where the early morning meal was in progress, and started back the other way. As he turned a corner he collided, full tilt, with a man.

In an instant Nat had his automatic out and pressed it against the stranger's ribs, with a whispered order to keep silent. But in the light that filtered around the turn in the corridor, the sleuth saw that he had little to fear from the unknown.

He was an old man with white hair and a bent and stooped back--evidently an aged servant, perhaps the keeper of the hidden store of wine and liquor.

"Pardon, señor," said the old man in a low voice. "It was my fault--I did not see you coming."

"Nor I you," admitted Nat, glad that the fellow spoke English. Then with a happy thought the detective added: "El Capitan sent me----"

He let the sentence end there. It was better not to be too explicit. And, in a manner of speaking, El Capitan had sent Nat to the cellar. For had not the messenger made the disclosure, and had not the former army officer made so threatening a gesture, Nat would still be upstairs.

"Ah, El Capitan--yes, señor. He sends many down here. You are welcome."

Nat was wondering what the answer was to this when the old man whom the detective had released from the first grip he had taken on his arm, walked away, making a sign to Nat to follow.

"I wonder where he wants to take me?" mused the sleuth, and he was in half a mind to refuse to go. But then he wanted to get out of this cellar before those above discovered that he had come down, and he thought the old man might show him an exit.

But the man had something else in view, for, muttering to himself, he led the way until he stopped before a small room fitted with a small table and two chairs. The table was set for a meal, though there were no viands on it.

"Pleased to be seated, señor," invited the old man with a deferential bow. "I will order the food prepared. Doubtless the lady will be here soon?"

It was a question, and Nat could not conceal his surprise as he asked:

"What lady?"

"Why, señor, the one you are to dine with."

"I haven't any appointment to dine here with a lady," said Nat, with a grim smile. "There must be some mistake."

"Pardon, señor, no mistake," murmured the old man. "El Capitan said he would send to me this evening an Americano who would dine in seclusion with a lady. I made ready this rendezvous, and you come. I but ask where the lady is."

"And I tell you--" began Nat, and then he held his tongue. He began to see it now. Doubtless the Mexican had plans concerning another American and things had gone wrong. The old servant had naturally supposed Nat was the one expected.

"Let it ride that way," decided the sleuth. "I may find out something this way. I'm taken for somebody else. Well, I'll play the game." Then to the old man he said: "The lady--she will be here soon. Get the food ready. And show me the way out--I mean how to emerge without the need of climbing the stairs."

"Of a surety, señor, yes, there is another way out. See, you have but to press here," and he indicated a certain stone in the cellar wall, leaning against it. At once what seemed to be a section of the foundation swung back and a short flight of steps was disclosed.

"So that's the way out?" asked Nat.

"That is the way out, after one has dined here with the lady," said the old man, smiling.

Nat watched him walk out and along the cellar, doubtless toward the kitchen, for the smell of cooking was plain to the nose of the sleuth. Nat looked about the room. Aside from the secret staircase, the opening to which had been closed, there was nothing about it different from other basement rooms, many of which are used in New York for night clubs.

"All the same I want to see if I can work that secret door," murmured Nat. He found, to his satisfaction, that the operation was simple once it was known what stone to press, and he opened and closed the stone door.

Then, desiring to make sure he was not being spied upon, the detective stepped outside the private room. He moved a little away from the entrance and as he did so he heard, near at hand, a girl's voice crying:

"Oh, don't! Don't strike me again! I can't stand it!"

The heavy tones of a negro woman snarled:

"I's done got to beat yo' ef yo' don't sign dem papers for de captain! Stand up now an' take yo' medicine!"

"No! No!" pleaded the other voice.

Nat Ridley leaped into action. The voices seemed to come from behind the cellar wall, but he flashed his light and saw a heavy wooden door in the wall near the door of the private room.

It was the work of but a moment for the detective to swing back the door, which was closed but not locked, and then he found himself looking into a veritable stone dungeon, in the middle of which knelt a beautiful, blonde girl.

Standing over her, with a blacksnake whip upraised, was a powerful negro wench.

"Don't! Don't beat me again!" pleaded the girl. But the lash fell with stinging force across her back.