CHAPTER VIII

CAUGHT IN THE WEB

The wife of Kirklan Gilmore was not literary, had not even any tendencies in that direction; no literary qualifications had been required for her employment as a typist in Atchinson's publishing house. Her reading had been superficial, shallow, but she had an adaptable mind and was constantly picking up surface things, chance clever little quips and quotations, which, if she were not put to a severe test, might pass for an acquaintance with the classics.

When, overwhelmed by the appearance of Victor Sarbella as her husband's guest, she had fled to her room, it was with the realization that still another specter of the past had appeared to haunt and undo her. And there flashed through her mind a fragment of an old quotation:

Oh, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practice to deceive.

Yes, what a tangled web she had woven--inextricably enmeshed in the snarled skeins of her ambitious folly. How circumstances had conspired against her.

"What a fool I was to think I could get by with it!" she whispered bitterly. "How will it end? It was bad enough without Sarbella. Him--him! It was like a ghost from the grave. He will tell my husband; of course he will tell him--he could want no better revenge than that. That look in his eyes--how he hates me!"

She began to think of flight, even made a half-hearted, indecisive move to gather up some of her things, but there was no train now until morning, and the thought of driving the car, novice at the wheel that she was, through the dark night terrified her. Besides which the car was probably in the garage, locked; and she did not have the key. There seemed nothing to do but wait.

Helen would have been a very blind person indeed had she not realized that Kirklan had sensed something amiss in the amazing meeting between her and Sarbella; and, as time dragged on--eight o'clock, nine, and then ten--she wondered why her husband had not come raging upstairs to fling the past accusingly into her face, to order her out of the house, perhaps to kill her!

"Surely he would come if he knew," she told herself. "Hasn't Sarbella told him? Why, he--he must have told him!" It was past her understanding.

Wearily she went to her dressing table, removed the dress she had worn at dinner, slipped into a flowing-sleeved dressing gown that was charmingly open at the throat, and began to let down her glorious bronze hair which cascaded over her shoulders.

Detached as Greenacres was, the house was very still, so still that the many sounds which always fill a country night, floated through the window, magnified by her taut, tortured nerves to crescendo volume.

"Something has got to happen. Why can't it happen now and be over with!" she moaned. "The suspense, this awful suspense! I can't stand it--I can't!"

Nervously she went to the window, and, pushing aside the curtains, leaned out, staring into the night. The future, her future, was like that--black, impenetrable, void, and she felt that there could never be any dawn--not for her.

"My life's been nothing but tragedy," she told herself bitterly. "I thought I might be happy and respectable. There's a curse on me; that's what it is, a curse. I'd be better off dead, but--I don't want to die."

Helen, staring off into black space, did not see the skulking form that moved stealthily through the shrubbery, circling uneasily, furtively about the house. The slinking man stared upward at the lighted window, stopped, as she leaned out across the sill, framed in the open space by the light which burned within the room behind her.

"It's her!" he grunted, but, as he crept forward, intending to call softly, she disappeared.

Don Haskins had deserted the stolen taxicab two miles down the road; by cautious questioning he had learned the location of Greenacres and had walked the rest of the way, and here he was. It had been a troubling problem as to how he would get in touch with Helen. He had thought of going into the village and calling her on the telephone, but there were objections to this plan. In the first place he did not want to risk an appearance in the village; added to that, it might be bad business calling her to the phone so late at night. It had been his tentative idea to find a hiding place on the spacious estate until he could get in touch with her. Already he had considered the stable as a likely place for his purpose.

"That's her room," he told himself, still looking up at the lighted window. "Now, if she was alone----" He crept closer to the house the better to study the situation, and he found it very much to his liking. The window of Helen's room opened out on the roof of the veranda which semicircled the house on two sides.

It might be risky business, but a desperate man, the prospect of the death chair looking him in the face, does not stop to weigh such minor risks as this. He reached an almost instant decision. He sat down in the grass and removed his shoes; tying the laces together, he swung them about his neck.

"I never done no porch climbin'," he muttered, "but it don't look so hard."

But it was hard, much harder than he had anticipated; the porch post was large of circumference, making it difficult to hug his arms about it with a freezing grip. Several times he slid pantingly down just as his straining fingers were within a few inches of the raised awning. The perspiration poured from his body and moistened the palms of his hands, so that he had to keep wiping them dry.

In one last desperate effort he got hold of the awning's edge and began to pull himself upward to the cornice. The triumph, however, was far from noiseless; awning hooks snapped loose from the wood, and the awning itself tore with a ripping sound under the strain.

Panting, breathless, exhausted, Haskins lay flat on the roof, waiting to see if the sounds would arouse the house. He marked the time by counting, one to sixty, one to sixty, until four minutes had dragged past. Not even Helen, within the room of the open window directly above, seemed to have heard.

Haskins began edging himself, a few inches at a time, across the shingles toward the patch of light that streamed out across the roof. Presently he had reached the sill and, drawing himself up, peered within.

Helen was again at the dressing table, mechanically applying bedtime cosmetics. Otherwise the room was empty; Don made sure of that before he pulled himself still further forward.

"Sh!" he hissed. "It's me--Don. Douse the glim!"

Helen Gilmore did not turn; there was no need. Through the dressing-table mirror she could see his unshaven face at the corner of the window sill. Her hand clapped to her mouth to stem the scream which rose in her throat. Her body rocked in the low-backed chair, but she did not faint.

"Douse the light!" Haskins commanded again in a piercing whisper. "Somebody might see me sneakin' in."

Helen stumbled unsteadily to her feet and snapped out the lights. In the darkness she heard him floundering through the window and into the room, heard the curtains rip, when he caught at them, evidently to keep his balance, as he lunged forward. She even heard his panting breath, as it wheezed through his mouth.

Don turned, lowered the sash, and drew down the blind. "Lock the door an' then flash on the lights again," he ordered tensely.

"The door is already locked," answered Helen, as she fumbled for the light switch. The next instant they were blinking at each other; she leaning limply against the wall, he standing in the center of the floor. "My God, Don, what made you come here--to-night of all nights? I can't stand any more; I can't. You gave me until to-morrow----"

"Blame the damn cops," he grunted. "It was them did it--them an' Eighth Avenue Annie. She sicked 'em onto me." He still believed that the old hag had double crossed him.

"You mean----"

"Yeah, they're after me. I'm in for it right. They had the darbies on me, but I beaned the dick that nabbed me, got 'em off, took his gat, swiped a taxi, an' here I am. My hunch was right. Dago Mike squealed on the loft-job croak."

"How did you--find me--this room?" gasped Helen.

Despite the desperation of the situation, Don Haskins grinned a little.

"Seen you when you poked your head outta the window; shinned up the porch, an' here I am."

"I--I haven't got the money, Don; I haven't got it--yet."

"But you're gonna get it to-morrow? I betcha y'are." His tone was menacing. "You gotta hide me somewheres until----Mebbe you can drive me somewheres in a car. Boston, huh?"

Helen lifted her hands in a weary gesture. "Everything seems to be happening at once," she whispered. "I--I don't know if I am going to be able to get the money or not--now."

The man glowered menacingly. "Don'tcha try to pull no stall on me; that stuff don't go. Understand?"

"Don, listen. My husband was on the same street yesterday when--when I went to that place to see you. His publisher saw me--the man I used to work for."

"Aw, say; you don't expect me to swallow no guff like that?"

"Sh! Not so loud, Don. It's true. Atchinson saw me. Kirklan didn't believe it at first, but now he feels sure it's true. At first he'd promised me the money. I told him that I wanted to pay an old bill, but I don't know what he is going to do now. Then"--a shudder went through her--"to make it all worse, a man came to the house to-night, a Mr. Sarbella. He----"

Haskins lifted his hand to his unshaven chin and stared at her dubiously. "Sarbella? I guess you're bats, ain'tcha? Why, that guy's dead!"

"Not--not Andrea," choked Helen. "Victor Sarbella. At first I thought--they look so much alike. He recognized me. Oh, the awful look of hatred that he gave me!"

"You mean that Sarbella spilled to Gilmore?"

"I--I don't know. I haven't seen any one since dinner. I--I suppose he did. He hates me, and he wants revenge. The newspapers said----"

"That he was gonna get you," finished Don. "Yeah, I remember readin' that. The papers made quite a piece about it--Eyetalian revenge an' that sort of spiel. I guess you're some scared that the Sarbella guy's gonna croak you, huh? Right here in the house, is he?"

Helen nodded. "Yes, right here in the house," she answered.

Don whistled softly. "Well, if that ain't the cat's eyebrows!" he murmured, as he stared at her suspiciously. If what she told him was true, he probably had lost the club he had been holding over her head to extort money from her. But he doubted if it were true; Helen, he told himself, was clever. Perhaps she hadn't found it easy to get the thousand dollars blackmail money from her husband, and she had made up this story as a pure bluff.

"Where's the Gilmore guy?" he demanded.

"I don't know. I told you that I hadn't seen any one since dinner. I can't understand why Kirklan hasn't come to me, if Sarbella has told him."

Haskins pursed his lips thoughtfully and wrinkled his shallow forehead; after a moment he nodded. "I gotcha; if Gilmore had the low-down on you he'd have come stormin' in here to have it out with you. Sure he would. No, I guess Sarbella ain't spilled to him. I guess that ain't his way of gettin' even with you. Stiletto! That's the way them Eyetalians do it."

Helen gasped; she hadn't thought of that possibility. She was inclined to treat the suggestion lightly, but there came back to her the memory of Victor Sarbella's black eyes flaming into her face, hot with a stored-up hatred, and she shivered.

"Oh, I--I don't think he would kill me!" she gasped.

"Then you don't know them Eyetalians," Don grunted sagely. "They sure is strong on the revenge stuff. If I was you I'd keep right here in this room, while he was on the premises. But that's your trouble, and I got troubles of my own. When do I get that thousand bucks you was gonna hand over?"

"But if Sarbella has told Kirklan who I am, what I was before----"

"Then you figger to pass me up, huh? Guess again. Even if Sarbella does, Gilmore won't squeal to the cops; a guy like him don't want no family scandal, see! Mebbe he'll show you the gate, but he ain't gonna send you up the river--not if he's crazy about you like you said yesterday. But me, that's different. You done me dirty; you throwed me over, made a bum outta me." His face contorted unpleasantly. "I owe you one, I do, an' I'm handin' you this on the level; if I get nabbed this trip I'm goin' to spill. I'm gonna send for the district attorney an' tell him----"

"I'll try to get the money for you, Don; I'll try my best," broke in Helen with a quick promise.

Don glared at her triumphantly, as he reached into his pocket for one of the cigarettes that he had taken from the unconscious taxi driver, lighted it, and, puffing slowly, began rocking to and fro on his feet. A silly smile spread over his face, as glancing down, he saw a bare toe protruding from one sock, where a hole had been rubbed by friction against the porch post in his climb of a few minutes before. He remembered that his shoes still swung from around his neck. With a chagrined exclamation he untied the laces and put the shoes on. Helen did not smile.

"Yes," she said again, "I'll try to get the money for you to-morrow." Her hands went out in a nervous gesture, and Don caught the sparkle of a diamond on her finger. She had not worn it on her visit to Eighth Avenue Annie's--for good reasons. Haskins stared at the ring and put a hasty appraisal of four or five hundred dollars on it.

"I'll take that for security," he said, pointing. She drew back against the wall in a move of refusal, and Don, eyes narrowed, darted toward her.

"Aw, I guess you will," he growled.

But, when his fingers touched the smooth, white skin of her arm and seized her in an effort to force the diamond from her, a change came over him. A fierce return of his old love for her swept through him. All his hate melted, like ice returned to its first form of water. His arm tightened about her, drawing closer; his unshaven, stubbly chin buried against her throat.

"The law says you're mine!" he panted. "You're my wife. I--I guess I ain't stopped bein' crazy about you even--even when I was wantin' to kill you--wantin' to choke the life outta you like--like this."

The fingers of one hand raised before her face, writhing, twisting, like tentacles; they neared her soft throat, toyed against the skin. Helen dared not scream, but she struggled in silent terror. Her arms flailed against his sides, and her hand struck against the bulky automatic in his coat. Her fingers slipped swiftly into his pocket and seized the butt of the gun.

"You ain't this guy's wife," he went on hoarsely. "You're my wife; the law says so, and you're goin' with me." He was so beside himself that he did not feel the tug of the pistol, as it came free from his pocket. And then there crashed through the stillness of the house the slam of a closing door. Don's arms dropped limp.

"What was that?" he whispered, returning to the realization that he was a hunted man, fleeing for his life.

"I think it's Kirklan," she whispered. "His room adjoins this one. Sh! He'll hear you."

Haskins took a flying leap across the room and switched off the lights; his hand went to his pocket.

"The gat--it's gone!" he muttered under his breath. "It musta dropped outta my pocket when I was climbin' up the porch." He groped through the darkness. "Helen!"

"Sh!"

"You gotta stash me away somewheres. If I get nabbed, what I said goes--I spill what I know."

Helen in the darkness concealed the automatic beneath the flowing sleeve of her robe. With the gun she was no longer afraid of Don, but she still did fear his threats, his power to send her to Auburn prison on a charge of bigamy. A moment before he had loved her madly; the next he might hate her again with just as much intensity. She had to aid him--protect him.

"I'll hide you," she told him, "on the third floor--an old storeroom. No one ever goes there. I'll bring you food. I'll try to get you the money; I'll get you money--somehow. I'll see that you get away. Follow me."

Cautiously she opened the door. The hallway was in friendly darkness. She groped along the wall, fearful that Don would betray their presence, but he followed her in stealthy silence.

The third-floor stairway was inclosed, and it was reached through a door which, since the third floor was seldom used, creaked dismally, as she swung it open.

"Up there!" she whispered. "The last door at the left; you'll know it. It's a storeroom. I'll see you--some time to-morrow."

The door closed again whiningly, inclosing Don Haskins within the stairway. He considered it safe to light a match and did so to illuminate the upward climb. He saw accumulated dust, evidence of disuse; Greenacres servants were not good housekeepers above the second floor, it seemed. Without any difficulty he found the storeroom and, striking another match, discovered that a kindly circumstance had left a discarded couch for him to rest upon. He sat down on the edge of it and felt in his pocket for his package of cigarettes, and then something dawned upon him. The gun had been in his pocket after he had got inside the house; he remembered the touch of it, as he had sought out a cigarette.

"Curse her!" he gritted. "She took that gat outta my pocket. What did she want with it, anyhow? I got a good notion to go back down there an'----" He lighted a fag and smoked nervously, indecisively. He wanted his gun. A desperate man feels safer with something to shoot with, but he could not quite make up his mind to risk a return to the second floor.

Helen had returned to her room without detection. She switched on the lights again, but in her agitation forgot to lock the door behind her. Stunned, nervously exhausted by this new-conspiring circumstance, the appearance of Don, she sank down into a chair, and, as her arms dropped listlessly down, the gun which a few brief hours before had been the property of Detective Sergeant John Henry Tish of the New York police department slid down to the rug with a faint thud and lay at her feet. She made no move to pick it up.

She faced the door, her eyes fixed vacantly upon nothing; hopelessness engulfed her. Don--her legal husband--here. Sarbella here, too. Both of them here with her under the same roof. No wonder that she was stunned, dazed; at times she felt that she must be in the midst of a terrible nightmare, that she would wake up with the grateful realization that it wasn't true.

For perhaps ten minutes she sat motionless, surrendering any attempt to think coherently. Suddenly her lax nerves snapped taut, a gasp escaped her lips, her eyes widened. There had been no sound of a footstep in the hall, there had been no rap at the door, but the knob was turning slowly, silently, and the door began to move.