CHAPTER V
ON GUARD
Was he in the city? In a suburban town? On a country road? It seemedchildishly absurd that he could not at least differentiate to thatextent; and yet, from the moment he had been placed in the automobilein which he now found himself, he was forced to admit that he could nottell. He had started out with the belief that, knowing New York and itssurroundings as minutely as he knew them, it would be impossible, dowhat they would to prevent it, that at the end of the journey he shouldbe without a clew, and a very good clew at that, to the location of whathe now called, appropriately enough it seemed, the Crime Club.
But he had never ridden blindfolded in a car before! He could seeabsolutely nothing. And if that increased or accentuated his sense ofhearing, it helped little--the roar of the racing car beat upon hiseardrums the more heavily, that was all. He could tell, of course, thenature of the roadbed. They were running on an asphalt road, that wasobvious enough; but city streets and suburban streets and hundreds ofmiles of country road around New York were of asphalt!
Traffic? He was quite sure, for he had strained his ears in an effort todetect it, that there was little or no traffic; but then, it must beone or two o'clock in the morning, and at that hour the city streets,certainly those that would be chosen by these men, would be quite asdeserted as any country road! And as for a sense of direction, he hadnone whatever--even if the car had not been persistently swerving andchanging its course every little while. If he had been able to form evenan approximate idea of the compass direction in which they had started,he might possibly have been able in a general way to counteract thisfurther effort of theirs to confuse him; but without the initialdirection he was essentially befogged.
With these conclusions finally thrust home upon him, Jimmie Dalephilosophically subordinated the matter in his mind, and, leaning back,composed himself as comfortably as he could upon his seat. There was aman beside him, and he could feel the legs of two men on the seat facinghim. These, with the driver, would make four. He was still well guarded!The car itself was a closed car--not hooded, the sense of touch toldhim--therefore a limousine of some description. These facts, in a senseinconsequential, were absorbed subconsciously; and then Jimmie Dale'sbrain, remorselessly active, in spite of the pain from his throbbinghead, was at work again.
It seemed as though a year had passed since, in the early evening, asLarry the Bat, he had burrowed so ironically for refuge in Chang Foo'sden--from her! It seemed like some mocking unreality, some visionarydream that, so short a while before, he had read those words of hersthat had sent the blood coursing and leaping through his veins in madexultation at the thought that the culmination of the years had come,that all he longed for, hoped for, that all his soul cried out for wasto be his--"in an hour." An HOUR--and he was to have seen her, the womanwhose face he had never seen, the woman whom he loved! And the hourinstead, the hours since then, had brought a nightmare of events soincredible as to seem but phantoms of the imagination.
Phantoms! He sat up suddenly with a jerk. The face of the deadchauffeur, the limp form lashed in that chair, the horrible picture inits entirety, every detail standing out in ghastly relief, took formbefore him. God knew there was no phantom there!
The man beside him, at the sudden start, lifted a hand and felthurriedly over the bandage across Jimmie Dale's eyes.
Jimmie Dale was scarcely conscious of the act. With that face beforehim, with the scene re-enacting itself in his mind again, had comeanother thought, staggering him for a moment with the new menace that itbrought. He had had neither time nor opportunity to think before; it hadbeen all horror, all shock when he had entered that room. But now, likean inspiration, he saw it all from another angle. There was a glaringfallacy in the game these men had played for his benefit to-night--afallacy which they had counted on glossing over, as it had, indeed, beenglossed over, by the sudden shock with which they had forced that sceneupon him; or, failing in that, they had counted on the fact that his,or any other man's nerve would have failed when it came to open defiancebased on a supposition which might, after all, be wrong, and, beingwrong, meant death.
But it was not supposition. Either he was right now, or these men werechildish, immature fools--and, whatever else they might be, they werenot that! NOT A SINGLE DROP OF POISON HAD PASSED THE CHAUFFEUR'S LIPS.The man had not been murdered in that room. He had not, in a sense, beenmurdered at all. The man, absolutely, unquestionably, without a loopholefor doubt, had either been killed outright in the automobile accident,or had died immediately afterward, probably without regainingconsciousness, certainly without supplying any of the information thatwas so determinedly sought.
Yes, he saw it now! Their backs were against the wall, they were attheir wits' end, these men! The knowledge that the chauffeur possessed,that they KNEW he possessed, was evidently life and death to them. Tokill the man before they had wormed out of him what they wanted to know,or, at least, until, by holding him a prisoner, they had exhausted everymeans at their command to make him speak, was the last thing they woulddo!
Jimmie Dale sat for a long time quite motionless. The car was speedingat a terrific rate along a straight stretch of road. He could almosthave sworn, guided by some intuitive sense, that they were in thecountry. Well, even if it were so, what did that prove! They mighthave started FROM New York itself--only to return to it when they hadsatisfied themselves that he was sufficiently duped. Or they might havestarted legitimately from outside New York, and be going toward the citynow. Since the ultimate destination was New York, and they had made noattempt to hide that from him, it was useless to speculate--for at bestit could be only speculation. He had decided that once before! The manat his side felt again over the scarf to see that it was in place.
Curiously now Jimmie Dale recalled the inward monitor that had warnedhim the honours had not all been his in this first round with the CrimeClub to-night. If they had deliberately murdered the chauffeur becauseof a refusal to answer, they would equally have done the same to him.Fool that he had been not to have seen that before! And yet would ithave made any difference? He shook his head. He could not have acted toany better advantage than he had done. He could not--his lips curled ingrim derision--have been any more convincing.
Convincing! It was all clear enough now! If the chauffeur had suffereddeath rather than talk, even admitting the fact that they had moregrounds for suspecting the chauffeur's complicity, would his, JimmieDale's, mere denial, his choice, too, of death, have been any the moreconvincing, or have saved his life where it had not saved the other's?A certain added respect for these men, against whom, until the end now,his victory or theirs, he realised he was fighting for his life, cameover him as he recognised the touch of a master hand. They did not knowwhere to find the Tocsin; the package that she had said was vital tothem was still beyond their reach; the chauffeur was dead; and he,Jimmie Dale, alone remained--a clew that they had still to prove validor invalid it was true, but the only clew in their possession. And,gaining nothing from him by a show of force, to throw him off his guard,they had let him go--meaning him to believe they were convinced he knewnothing, and that the episode, the adventure of the night, was, as faras they were concerned, ended, finished, and done with!
Time passed, a very long time, as he sat there. It might have been anhour--he could only hazard a guess. Not one of the men in the carhad spoken a word. But to Jimmie Dale, the car itself, the ride, itsduration, these three strange companions, were for the time beingextraneous. Even that sick giddiness in his head had, at leasttemporarily, gone from him.
And so, all unsuspectingly, he was to lead them to the Tocsin and fallinto the trap himself! His hands, thrust deep in his pockets, weretightly clenched. They were clever enough, ingenious enough, powerfulenough to watch him henceforth at every turn--and from now on, day andnight, they were to be reckoned with. Suppose that in some way, as itmight well have happened, for it was now vitally necessary that sheshould communicate with him and he with her, he had played blin
dly intotheir hands, and through him she should have fallen into their power! Itbrought a sickening chill, a sort of hideous panic to Jimmie Dale--andthen fury, anger, in a torrent, surged upon him, and there came amerciless desire to crush, to strangle, to stamp out this inhuman bandof criminals that, with intolerable effrontery to the laws of God andman, were so elaborately and scientifically equipped for their monstrouspurposes!
And then Jimmie Dale, in the darkness, smiled again grimly as theleader's reference to the Gray Seal recurred to him. Well, perhaps, whoknew, they would have reason more than they dreamed of to wish theGray Seal enrolled in their own ranks! It was strange, curious! He hadthought all that was ended. Only a few short hours before he had hiddenaway all, everything that was incident to the life of the Gray Seal, theclothes of Larry the Bat, that little metal case with the gray-coloured,adhesive seals, a dozen other things, believing that it only remainedfor him to return and destroy them at his leisure as a finishing touchto the Gray Seal's career--and now, instead, he was face to face withthe gravest and most dangerous problem that she had ever called upon himto undertake!
Well, at least, the odds were not all in the Crime Club's favour. Wherethey now certainly believed him to be entirely off his guard, he wasthoroughly on his guard; and where they might suspect him, watch him,they would suspect and watch only the character, the person of JimmieDale, and count not at all upon either Larry the Bat or--the Gray Seal.
A sort of savage elation fell upon Jimmie Dale. His brain, that had beenstagnant, confused, physically sick with pain and suffering, was workingnow with its old-time vigour and ease, mapping, planning, scheming theway ahead. To strike, and strike quickly--to strike FIRST! It must behis move next--not theirs! And he must act to-night at once, the momenthe was given this pretence to liberty that they had in store for him,before they had an opportunity of closing down around him with a networkof spies that he could not elude. By morning, Jimmie Dale would be Larrythe Bat, and inhabiting the Sanctuary again. And a tip to Jason, hisold butler, to the effect, say, that he had gone away for a trip,would account for his disappearance satisfactorily enough; it would notnecessarily arouse their suspicions when they eventually discovered hewas gone, for against that was always the possible, and quite likelypresumption that, where they had succeeded in nothing else, they hadat least succeeded in frightening him thoroughly and to the extent ofimbuing him with a hasty desire to put a safe distance between himselfand them.
And now, with his mind made up to his course of action, an intenseimpatience to put his plan into effect, an irritation at the uselesstwistings and turnings of the car that had latterly become morefrequent, took hold upon him. How much longer was this to last! Theymust have been fully an hour and a half on the road already, and--ah,the car was stopping now!
He straightened up in his seat as the machine came to a halt--but theman at his side laid a restraining hand upon him. The car door opened,and one of the men got out. Jimmie Dale caught an indistinct murmur ofvoices from without, then the man returned to his seat, and the car wenton again.
Another half hour passed, that, curbing his irritation and impatience,was filled with the conjectures and questions that anew came crowding inupon his mind. Why had the car made that stop? It was rather curious. Itwas certainly a prearranged meeting place. Why? And these clothes thathe now wore--why had they made him change? His own had not been verybadly torn. The reason given him was, on the face of it now, in viewof what he now knew, mere pretence. What was the ulterior motive behindthat pretence? What did this package, that had already cost a man hislife to-night, contain? Who was the chauffeur? What was this death feudbetween the Tocsin and these men? Did she know where the Crime Club was?Who and where was John Johansson? What was this box that was numbered428? Could she supply the links that would forge the chain into anunbroken whole?
And then for the second time the car slowed down--and this time the manon the seat beside Jimmie Dale reached up and untied the scarf.
"You get out here," said the man tersely.