XIX
NEMESIS
"Dolt!... Blockhead!... Imbecile!... Idiot!... Numskull!... Ass!...Simpleton!... Loon!..."
The chill air of early morning wiped the blistering epithets from hislips as he fled like a madman down Fifth Avenue, at every stridewringing from the depths of an embittered bosom new and more virulentterms of vituperation with which to characterize his infatuatedstupidity--and finding one and all far too mild. In simple truth, theKing's English lacked invective poisonous enough to do justice to hisself-contempt.
Deliberately had he permitted himself to be duped, circumvented,over-reached. He had held in his hand a tangible clue to that mysterywhich had so perplexed him--and had allowed it to be filched awaybefore he could recognise it and shape his course accordingly.
Why had he never for an instant dreamed that the term "_two-thirty_"could indicate anything but the hour of some otherwise undesignatedappointment? Of course it had signified the number of Marian'scarriage-check, "230": _two hundred and thirty_, rolling off themodern tongue, stripped to essentials--thanks to the telephone'sabbreviated influence--as, simply, "_two-thirty_"!
And he had held that check in his hand, had memorised its number andrepeated it to Marian, had heard it bawled by the carriage porter, hadshouted it himself in reply: never for an instant thinking to connectit with the elder Shaynon's parting admonition to the gang leader!
If he had ere this entertained any doubts whatever of the ugly groundsfor his fears they were now resolved by recognition of Bayard's clumsyruse to keep him both out of the cab and out of the way, whileNovember and his lieutenants executed their infamous commission....
And all that was now ten--fifteen--twenty minutes old! Marian's carwas gone; and if it had not reached the Plaza, the girl was lost,irrevocably lost to the frantic little man with the twinkling redheels and scarlet breeches, sprinting so wildly down Fifth Avenue inthe dank, weird dusk that ran before the dawn of that April morning.
Fortunately he hadn't far to run; else he would certainly have beenwaylaid or overhauled by some policeman of enquiring turn of mind,anxious (in the way of duty) to learn his reason for suchextraordinary haste.
As it was, P. Sybarite managed to make his goal in record time withoutattracting the attention of more than half a dozen wayfarers; all ofwhom gave him way and went their own with that complete indifferenceso distinctly Manhattanesque....
He had emerged from the restaurant building to find the street bare ofany sort of hirable conveyance and himself in a fret too exacting toconsider walking to the Plaza or taking a street-car thither. Nothingless than a taxicab--and that, one with a speed-mad chauffeur--wouldsatisfy his impatient humour.
And indeed, if there were a grain of truth in his suspicions, formlessthough in a measure they remained, he had not an instant to lose.
But on the way to the Bizarre from Peter Kenny's rooms, some freak ofa mind superficially preoccupied had caused him to remark, on thesouth side of Forty-third Street, immediately east of Sixth Avenue, along rank of buildings which an utilitarian age had humbled from theironce proud estate of private stables to the lowlier degree of quartersfor motor vehicles both public and private.
Of these one building boasted the blazing electric announcement: "_ALLNIGHT GARAGE_."
Into this last P. Sybarite pelted at the top of his speed and pulledup puffing, to stare nervously round a place gloomy, cavernous, andpungent with fragrance of oil, rubber, and gasoline. Here and therelonely electric bulbs made visible somnolent ranks of motor-cars. Outof the shadows behind him, presently, came a voice drawling:
"You certainly do take on like you'd lost a power of trouble."
P. Sybarite whirled round as if stung. The speaker occupied a chairtilted back against the wall, his feet on the rungs, a cigarettesmouldering between his lips in open contempt of the regulations ofthe Fire Department and all other admonitions of ordinarycommon-sense.
"What can I do for you?" he resumed, nothing about him stirring saveeyes that twinkled as they travelled from head to foot of the odd andstriking figure P. Sybarite presented as _Beelzebub, Knight Errant_.
"Taxi!" the little man panted vociferously.
The other yawned and stretched. "It can't be done," he admittedfairly. "They ain't no such animal on the premises."
With a gesture P. Sybarite singled out the nearest car.
"What's that?" he demanded angrily.
Shading his eyes, the man examined it with growing wonder whichpresently found expression: "As I live, it's an autymobeel!"
"Damn your sense of humour!" stormed P. Sybarite. "What's the matterwith that car?"
"As man to man--nothing."
"Why can't I have it?"
"Ten dollars an hour--"
"I'll take it."
"But you _asked_ for a taxi," grumbled the man, rising to press abutton. Whereupon a bell shrilled somewhere in the dark backwards ofthe establishment. "Deposit...?" he suggested, turning back.
P. Sybarite disbursed a golden double-eagle; and to the operator who,roused by the bell, presently drifted out of the shadows, gaping andrubbing his eyes, he promised a liberal tip for haste.
In two minutes he was rolling out of the garage, ensconced in the bodyof a luxurious and high-powered touring machine which he stronglysuspected to be somebody's private car lawlessly farmed out while itsowner slept.
The twilight was now stronger, if still dull and as cold as the air itcoloured, rendering P. Sybarite grateful for Peter Kenny's invernessas the car surged spiritedly up the deserted avenue, its disdain forspeed regulations ignored by the string of yawning peg-postcops--almost the only human beings in sight.
Town was indeed deep sunk in lethargy at that small hour; thetraditional milk-wagon itself seemed to have been caught napping. Withone consent residence and shop and sky-scraping hotel blinkedapathetically at the flying car; then once more turned and slept. Eventhe Bizarre had forgotten P. Sybarite--showed at least no sign ofrecognition as he scurried past.
A curious sense of illusion troubled the little man. The glamour ofthe night was gone and with it all that had lent semblance ofplausibility to his incredible career; daylight forced all back intoconfused and distorted perspective, like the pageant of some fantasticand disordered dream uncertainly recalled long hours after waking.
As for himself, in his absurd attire and bound upon his ambiguouserrand, he was all out of the picture--horribly suggestive of anaddled sparrow who had stayed up all night on purpose to cheat somelegitimately early bird out of a chimerical first worm....
Self-conscious and ill at ease, he presented himself to the amusedinspection of the night force in the office of the Plaza, made hishalting enquiry, and received the discounted assurance that MissBlessington, though a known and valued patron of the house, was notthen its guest.
Convinced, as he had been from the moment that the words "two-thirty,"falling from the lips of the Bizarre's house detective, had made himalive to his terrible oversight, that this would be the outcome at thePlaza, he turned away, sobered, outwitted, and miserably at a loss toguess what next to do.
Gloomily he paused with a hand on the open door of his car, thoughtsprofoundly disturbed and unsettled, for so long that the operator grewrestless.
"Where next, sir?" he asked.
"Wait," said P. Sybarite in a manner of abstraction that did him noinjustice; and entering the car, mechanically shut the door and satdown, permitting his gaze to range absently among the dusky distancesof Central Park; where through the netted, leafless branches, thelamps that march the winding pathways glimmered like a hundred tinymoons of gold lost in some vast purple well....
Should he appeal to the police? His solicitude for the girl forbadehim such recourse save as a last resort. Publicity must be avoideduntil the time when, all else having failed, it alone held out somelittle promise of assistance.
But--adrift and blind upon uncharted seas of uncertainty!--what to do?
Suddenly it became plain to him that if in
truth it was with her as hefeared, at least two persons knew what had become of the girl--twopersons aside from himself and her hired kidnappers: Brian Shaynon andBayard, his son.
From them alone authoritative information might be extracted, by ruseor wile or downright intimidation, eked out with effrontery, a stoutheart, and perhaps a little luck.
A baleful light informing his eyes, an ominous expression settlingabout his mouth, he gave the operator the address of Shaynon'stown-house; and as the car slipped away from the hotel was sensible ofkeen regret that he had left at Peter Kenny's, what time he changedhis clothing, the pistol given him by Mrs. Jefferson Inche, togetherwith the greater part of his fortuitous fortune--neither firearms norlarge amounts of money seeming polite additions to one's costume for adance....
In five minutes the car drew up in front of one of those fewold-fashioned, brownstone, English-basement residences which to-daysurvive on Fifth Avenue below Fifty-ninth Street, elbowed, shouldered,and frowned down upon by beetling hives of trade.
At all of its wide, old-style windows, ruffled shades ofstraw-coloured silk were drawn. One sign alone held out any promisethat all within were not deep in slumber: the outer front doors werenot closed. Upon the frosted glass panels of the inner doors a dimlight cast a sickly yellow stain.
Laying hold of an obsolete bell-pull, P. Sybarite yanked it with aspirit in tune with his temper. Immediately, and considerably to hissurprise, the doors were thrown open and on the threshold a butlershowed him a face of age, grey with the strain of a sleepless night,and drawn and set with bleary eyes.
"Mr. Shaynon?" the little man demanded sharply.
"W'ich Mr. Shaynon, sir?" enquired the butler, too weary to betraysurprise--did he feel any--at this ill-timed call.
"Either--I don't care which."
"Mr. Bayard Shaynon 'as just left--not five minutes ago, sir."
"Left for where?"
"His apartments, I presume, sir."
"Then I'll see Mr. Brian Shaynon."
The butler's body filled the doorway. Nor did he offer to budge.
"I'm afraid, sir, Mr. Shaynon is 'ardly likely to see any one at thishour."
"He'll see me," replied P. Sybarite grimly. "He hasn't gone to bed, Igather?"
"Not yet, sir; but 'e's goin' immediate'."
"Very well. You may as well let me in."
Suspicious but impressed, the servant shuffled aside, and P. Sybaritebrushed past him into the hallway.
"Where is he?"
"If you'll give me your nime, sir, I'll tell him you're 'ere."
P. Sybarite hesitated. He was in anything but the mood for joking, yeta certain dour humour in the jest caught his fancy and persuaded himagainst his better judgment.
"Nemesis," he said briefly.
"Mr.--name--what? Beg pardon, sir!"
"Nem-e-sis," P. Sybarite articulated distinctly. "And don't Mister it.He'll understand."
"Thenk you," muttered the servant blankly; and turned.
"If he doesn't--tell him it's the gentleman who was not masked at theBizarre to-night."
"Very good, sir."
The man moved off toward the foot of a broad, shallow staircase at theback of the hall.
On impulse, P. Sybarite strode after him.
"On second thoughts, you needn't announce me. I'll go up with you."
"I'm afraid I can't permit that, sir," observed the butler, horrified.
"Afraid you'll have to."
And P. Sybarite would have pushed past, but the man with a quick andfrightened movement of agility uncommon in one of his age and bulk puthimself in the way.
"Please, sir!" he begged. "If I was to permit that, sir, it might costme my position."
"Well--"
P. Sybarite drew back, relenting.
But at this juncture, from a point directly over their heads, thevoice of Brian Shaynon himself interrupted them.
"Who is that, Soames?" he called impatiently, without making himselfimmediately visible. "Has Mr. Bayard returned?"
"No, sir," the butler called, distressed. "It's--it's a person,sir--insists on seein' you--says 'is nime's Nemmysis."
"_What!_"
"He has it right--Nemesis," P. Sybarite replied incisively. "And youmay as well see me now, whether you want to or not. Sooner or lateryou'll have to!"
There was a sound of heavy, dragging footsteps on the upper landing,and Brian Shaynon showed himself at the head of the stairs; nowwithout his furred great-coat, but still in the evening dress ofelderly Respectability--Respectability sadly rumpled and maltreated,the white shield of his bosom no longer lustrous and immaculate, histie twisted wildly beneath one ear, his collar unbuttoned, as thoughwrenched from its fastenings in a moment of fury. These things apart,he had within the hour aged ten years in the flesh: gone the proudflush of his bewhiskered gills, in its place leaden pallor; and gonethe quick, choleric fire from eyes now smouldering, dull and all butlifeless....
He stood peering down, with an obvious lack of recognition that hintedat failing sight.
"I don't seem to know you," he said slowly, with a weary shake of hishead; "and it's most inopportune--the hour. I fear you must excuseme."
"That can't be," P. Sybarite returned. "I've business withyou--important. Perhaps you didn't catch the name I gave yourbutler--Nemesis."
"Nemesis?" Shaynon repeated vacantly. He staggered and descended astep before a groping hand checked him on the baluster-rail. "Nemesis!Is this an untimely joke of some sort, sir?"
His accents quavered querulously; and P. Sybarite with a flash ofscorn put his unnatural condition down to drink.
"Far from it," he retorted ruthlessly. "The cat's out, my friend--yourbag lean and flapping emptiness! What," he demanded sternly--"whathave you done with Marian Blessington?"
"Mar--Marian?" the old voice iterated. "Why, she"--the man pulledhimself together with a determined effort--"she's in her room, ofcourse. Where should she be?"
"Is that true?" P. Sybarite demanded of the butler in a manner soperemptory that the truth slipped out before the fellow realised it.
"Miss Marian 'asn't returned as yet from the ball," he whispered."'E--'e's not quite 'imself, sir. 'E's 'ad a bit of a shock, as onemight s'y. I'd go easy on 'im, if you'll take a word from me."
But P. Sybarite traversed his advice without an instant'sconsideration.
"Brian Shaynon," he called, "you lie! The police have caught RedNovember; they'll worm the truth out of him within twenty minutes, ifI don't get it from you now. The game's up. Come! What have you donewith the girl?"
For all answer, a low cry, like the plaint of a broken-hearted child,issued from the leaden, writhen lips of the old man.
And while he stared in wonder, Brian Shaynon seemed suddenly to losethe strength of his limbs. His legs shook beneath him as with a palsy;and then, knees buckling, he tottered and plunged headlong from top tobottom of the staircase.