by George Gibbs
*CHAPTER XIX*
*IN THE DARK*
Jim Horton looked at his watch again. He had kept the visitors in theapartment of Monsieur de Vautrin more than an hour. He hurriedcautiously down the stairs toward the doors of the rooms occupied byQuinlevin's party. There was no one in sight and so he stole along thecorridor, listening. Moira and Nora Burke had entered their rooms. ButPiquette would of course be in the room of Quinlevin. No sound. And sohe waited for a moment in the shadow of a doorway, hoping at any momentto see Piquette emerge, reassured at the thought that the Irishman atleast had probably not yet come up. But the suspense and inactionweighed upon him, and at last, moving quickly, he went down the backstair and so to the office, where he sought out the friend of Piquette,Monsieur Jacquot. But to his disappointment he found that the man hadgone off duty for the night and was probably in Nice. Quinlevin, hediscovered, had been seen leaving the hotel, so any immediate dangerfrom him was not to be expected.
Jim Horton was plagued with uncertainty. If Piquette had alreadysucceeded in her mission, he couldn't understand why she hadn't returnedto her room. Perhaps he had missed her on the way. She might have usedthe main stair-way, though under the circumstances this would not havebeen probable. During the day he had managed to take a surreptitioussurvey of the rear of the hotel where the Quinlevin suite was situated,and it was only Piquette's suggestion to keep the Irishman busy whileshe searched his room that had dissuaded Horton from an attempt to reachQuinlevin's room from the outside. There was a small portico at theIrishman's windows which, it seemed, possibly could be reached byclimbing a wooden trellis and a small projecting roof of an out-buildingwhere a rain spout rose alongside a shutter which offered a good handhold--something of a venture at night, but a chance if everything elsefailed.
He was sure now that he had missed Piquette on the way and if she hadbeen successful she was by this time safe in her room with the doorssecurely bolted and a push-button at hand by means of which, ifmolested, she could summon the servants of the hotel. And Quinlevinwould hardly dare to try that, because an investigation meant thepolice, and the police meant publicity--a thing to be dreaded at thistime with the battle going against him. Nor did Horton wish to make arow, for Piquette was a burglar--nothing less--and discovery meantplacing her in an awkward position which would take some explaining.Monsieur Jacquot would have been a help, but there was no hope of tryingto use him to intimidate Quinlevin even had the Frenchman been willingto take a share in so grave a responsibility.
So Jim Horton waited for awhile, lurking in the shadows of a smallcorridor near the office, watching the entrance of the hotel for theIrishman's return, and was just about to go out of the rear door intothe garden for a little investigation of his own when he heard thesounds of voices near the office and saw Monsieur de Vautrin dressed fortravel, talking to the major-domo. Horton paused behind a column towatch and listen, the Duc's flushed face and gay mien proclaiming thetriumph he had experienced and, while he had packed his clothing, nodoubt a short session with the brandy-bottle. This was Monsieur deVautrin's incognito, this his silent departure from the shades of hisbeloved Monte Carlo. The man was a fatuous dotard, not worth the painsthat had been wasted upon him. His account paid, Monsieur de Vautrinwalked toward the door, where an automobile awaited him, but as he wasabout to get into the machine a tall figure emerged from the darknessand stood beside him. A passage of words between the two men and theDuc laughed.
"A great game, Monsieur the Irishman," Horton heard him say, "but youhave lost. In a week I shall be again in Paris in the hands of myavocat. And then--beware!"
Quinlevin shrugged and de Vautrin got into the machine which dashed offinto the darkness, leaving the Irishman standing uncertainly upon thestep. It was not until then that Horton noticed that he had acompanion, for at that moment two figures emerged into the light andHorton knew that Quinlevin's forces had been augmented by one. ForMonsieur Tricot had arrived.
The two men came in hurriedly, as though having reached a decision, andwent up the stairs.
"There'll be the devil to pay if Piquette has succeeded," mutteredHorton to himself. And then in a quick afterthought, "And maybe a worsedevil--if she hasn't."
He waited until they had gone beyond the landing and then hurried to therear stairway and up the two flights to the door of Piquette'sroom--aghast at his discovery. She was not there, nor had she beenthere, for he struck a match and found its condition precisely that inwhich he had left it half an hour before. He waited for a few moments,then turned the corner of the corridor and went quickly towardQuinlevin's door, waiting for a moment and listening intently. He madeout the murmur of voices, a man's and a woman's, but he could not hearit distinctly. But that the man's voice was the Irishman's he did notdoubt, nor that the woman's was Piquette's. Cautiously he turned theknob of the door. It was locked. Quinlevin evidently expected him.There was no chance of ingress here unless Quinlevin permitted it. TheIrishman had the law on his side. If Horton persisted, Quinlevin couldshoot him (which was what he wished to do), with every prospect ofacquittal in any trouble that might follow.
Horton waited here only a moment and then ran quickly down the stairs,past some guests on their way to the Casino, and out into the garden.At this hour of the night it was dark, for the dining rooms were uponthe other side and the smoking and billiard rooms were deserted.Glancing toward the well-lighted promenade just beyond the hedge, hestole along the walls of the hotel beneath the windows of the firstfloor, using the deeper shadows, until he reached a palm tree, from theshelter of which he carefully scrutinized the facade of the building,identifying the windows and portico of the room of Quinlevin. Then wentnearer, to a clump of bushes, beneath the portico, where he crouched tolisten for any sounds that might come from above. Silence, except forthe distant murmuring of the surf among the rocks below the Casino.
He tried to believe that the voice he had heard through the doorupstairs was not Piquette's--that it might have been Moira's or NoraBurke's. But if it was not Piquette's voice, then where was she? Andwhy had she stayed so long, venturing Quinlevin's wrath at herintrusion? There seemed to be no doubt that she had overstayed theallotted time and that now they had come in upon her---the Irishman andthe rascal Tricot. She was in for a bad half hour--perhaps somethingworse.
But Horton reassured himself with the thought that Quinlevin desired tokeep the tale of his hazard of new fortune a secret. They would notdare to do physical harm to Piquette in a hotel, which had its name forrespectability. They would not dare to risk her outcries, which, ifdamaging to herself, would be doubly damaging to Barry Quinlevin. SoHorton crouched in the center of his hiding place and uncertainlywaited, sure that if she was in danger his place was now besidePiquette, who had played a game with death for him in the house in theRue Charron. He glanced up at the trellis just beside him, planning theascent. And as he did so he noticed a small object hanging among thetwigs just above his head. It was within reach of his hand and he tookit--a letter or a slip of paper somewhat rumpled. He fingered and thenlooked at it, but it was too dark to see. Near him upon the turf wasanother square of paper--and a letter further off, another, and anotherhanging in the opposite side of the bush.
In his hands idly he fingered the letter. The paper was fine and itbore an embossed heading or crest. He was about to throw it aside whenhe looked up the wall of the building at the portico outside BarryQuinlevin's windows--realizing with a sudden sense of his discovery thatthese papers had fallen from the windows of the second floor or those ofthe third--Quinlevin's. Of course they were unimportant--and yet....He started to his feet and looked around. Elsewhere, so far as he couldsee, the garden was scrupulously neat, the pride of a gardener who waswell paid to keep up the traditions of this fairyland. Horton bent oversearching and found another paper, even more rumpled than the others.He glanced up at the windows on the third floor. There was no sign ofoccupancy, for
though one of the windows was open, both were still dark,but he waited a moment listening and fancied that he heard the lowmurmur of voices, then a dull glow as though some one had made a lightfor a cigarette.
But the papers in his fingers! He realized with a growing excitementthat they were quite dry to the touch and had not therefore been longexposed to the damp sea air. Had Piquette...? Not daring to strike alight he turned and crept quickly back to the light of the hall way.And here, behind the door, he read the papers quickly. Their meaningflashed through his consciousness with a shock--a letter from Monsieurde Vautrin, a receipt for money, and the crumpled paper a square printeddocument bearing the now familiar name of Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy deVautrin--the birth certificate upon which all Barry Quinlevin's fortuneshung--and Moira's.
He could not take time to investigate the characters of the handwriting,for the light was dim. And the real significance of his discovery wasnot to be denied. No one but Piquette would have thrown such papers outof the window into the garden, nor would she have done so desperate athing unless she had found herself at bay with no other means ofdisposing of them. He reasoned this out for himself while he thrust thedocuments safely into an inner pocket and crept quickly back to hisplace beneath the windows, searching as he went upon the ground for anyother papers that might have escaped him. There was no time to spare.Piquette was up there. He was sure of it now. Otherwise why hadn't sheescaped and run down to recover the documents before Quinlevin's returnwith Tricot? But why had she thrown them from the window unless theirpresence threatened? These and other speculations were to remainunanswered, for if Piquette were in that room alone with the two men herdanger was great.
There was a slight sound from above. He peered upward. In silhouetteagainst the sky was the figure of a man--he couldn't tell whether Tricotor the Irishman. It was to be a desperate game then. They had justguessed what Piquette had done with the birth certificate and thereseemed not the slightest hope that the man on the portico could havefailed to see his figure below the thin screen of winter foliage.Desperate! Yes, but worth it--for Piquette. He owed it to her. And,as in moments of great danger, he found himself suddenly cold withpurpose and thinking with extraordinary lucidity. Quinlevin would notdare to shoot him out of hand without a cause, but to catch a manclimbing the wall of his hotel into the window of his room,--that wouldbe a sufficient reason for an obvious act of self-defense. And yet hadQuinlevin considered the possibility of Horton's attempting so dangerousa climb? If not, the element of surprise might be in Jim Horton'sfavor.
But there was to be no choice for Horton--for as he stood, measuring theheight of the trellis, from the window above he heard a stifled voicecrying his name. "Jeem!" it called, "Go! Go!"
He ran to the trellis and climbed it easily, putting his revolver in anouter pocket as he reached the friendly roof of the little outbuilding,crouching behind a projection of the wing and gazing upward for afurther sight of Monsieur Tricot. He thought he heard sounds now, thecreaking of furniture and the growl of a masculine voice. Other sounds,more terrible, more significant.... They were choking her.... D----them! Cowards!
Scorning further secrecy, he measured with his eye the distance he wouldhave to spring for a hand hold on the window-sill of the window abovehim, the water-pipe, his main hope, upon investigation provingunreliable. The window sill which was his objective was at least twofeet above his outstretched arms and to the left, beyond the edge of theprojection on which he stood. It was not above him and he would have toleap sideways from the roof, risking a drop of at least twenty feet tothe menacing stone flagging of a path which led to the kitchen entrance.But he leaped upward and out into the dark, his fingers clutching,swinging for a second above vacancy, and then hauled himself up until hegot a hand hold on the hinge of the open shutter; then a knee on thesill, pushing the French window which yielded to his touch. He hoped theroom was unoccupied, but had no time to consider that possibility;straightening and climbing the shutter. Quinlevin's portico was withinhis reach now. He waited cautiously for a second, listening and peeringupward. No sign of any one outside, but the sounds within.... He heardthem again now--fainter, horribly suppressed. He caught the edge of theportico and swung himself up, close to the wall of the building, and ina moment had gained a safe foot-hold within the railing.
There was no light within the room and now no sound. Had they ... In thebrief moment he paused, gasping for his breath, he was aware of a figurebelow moving cautiously along the outskirts of the garden. He crouchedbelow the balustrade instinctively. It was just at this moment that thecautious head and shoulders of a man emerged from the French window topeer over. It was Tricot. Like a cat, Horton sprang for him, and theimpact of the shock sent them both sprawling, half in, half out of theroom. Neither made a sound, each aware of the hazard of his situation.Horton struck and struck again, felt the sharp scratch of MonsieurTricot's knife upon his shoulder, and caught the wrist of the hand thatheld it, twisting, twisting until the weapon dropped, clattering, justwithin the door of the room. But the Frenchman was strong and struggledupward, kicking, biting, until Horton with his right arm free struck himunder the jaw. That took some of the fight out of him, but he stillfought gamely, while Horton, whose blood was hot now, wondered whyQuinlevin hadn't joined in the entertainment. Tricot in desperationtried to reach for another weapon with the arm Horton hadn't pinioned,and it was about time to end the matter. A memory of the night in theRue Charron was behind Horton's blow which struck Monsieur Tricot neatlybehind the ear and sent him sprawling out on the portico, where his headcame into contact with the cement balustrade, and he fell and laysilent.
Horton took no chances, kicking the knife, a cruel, two-edged affair,into the fireplace and appropriating Monsieur Tricot's revolver, whichhe put into the other pocket of his coat, then turned to look forQuinlevin.
He didn't find him, but Piquette was there, prone in the arm chair, andgasping horribly for her breath.
"Piquette! It's Jim," he whispered.
Her swollen tongue refused her, but her fingers clutched his hand.
"They choked you, Piquette."
"Tri--cot," she managed to utter painfully.
"I've attended to him. Where's Quinlevin?"
She pointed, soundless, toward the door.
"He went down to look for me?" he questioned.
She nodded.
"Good," laughed Jim. "We'll be ready when he comes back."
He went out and had another look at Tricot. The man was out of it andthere was a dark shadow on the stone work where he had fallen. SoHorton came back into the room, found a pitcher of water, with which hebathed Piquette's forehead and throat and then gave her to drink. Andin a moment she was able to enunciate more clearly. But she was veryweak and it seemed that her nerve was gone, for her shoulders shook withhysteria and she clung to Horton still in terror of her frightfulexperience. But Horton was taking no chances now and did the thinkingand talking for them both.
"You're sure Quinlevin went down to look for me?" he asked again.
"Yes, _m-mon ami_. Tricot,--'e saw you below--in--de--de garden."
"He knows you threw out the papers?"
"Yes. Into de garden."
"Not now," said Horton. "In my pocket."
"You found dem?"
"Yes."
"_Dieu merci_! It's what I--I 'ope'."
"But we mustn't lose them again now, Piquette, after all this. Is thedoor locked?"
"I--I doan know. I----"
Horton strode to the door and turned the key.
"Now let him come," he whispered grimly. And then, "Where's Moira?" heasked.
"Lock' in 'er room--yonder."
"You saw her?"
"Yes, _mon_ Jeem."
"But she must have heard all this commotion."
"I doan know."
"Um." He paused a moment, glanced at the door into the corridor, andthen crossed quickly to the door Piquette indicated, knocking
softly.There was no reply.
"Moira!" he said through the key-hole. "It's I--Jim."
He seemed to hear sounds within, a gasp, a movement of feet and thensilence.
"Moira--it's Jim." There was no sound, so he unbolted the door andturned the knob. It was locked on the inside.
A gasp from Piquette, who had been listening for sounds at the otherdoor, now warned him to be quiet and he straightened. There werefootsteps outside and then a knock.
"Tricot!" said the Irishman's voice. "Let me in."
"Quickly!" whispered Horton, into Piquette's ear, "in the chair and gasplike hell."
She understood and obeyed him. Horton went to the door, turned the keyand Barry Quinlevin strode in.
"He's gone, Tricot--the papers too----"
So was Quinlevin: the door closed behind him and a wiry arm went aroundhis throat from behind, a knee in the middle of his back, and hecrumpled backward in Horton's strong arms, down to the floor, where inspite of his struggles Horton held him powerless, quickly disarming him,his weight on the astonished Irishman's chest, his fingers at the man'sthroat, gently pressing with a threat of greater power at the slightestsound. The achievement was ridiculously easy as all important thingsare, given some intelligence and a will to do.
Mr. Quinlevin at this point had come to realize that the purelypsychological stage of his venture had passed into the realm of thephysical, in which he was no match for this young Hercules who had soeasily mastered him. And Tricot...? Outside upon the balcony was ashadow that had not been there before. The game was up. And so heresorted to diplomacy, which was indeed the only thing left to him.
"Well, Horton," he uttered, "ye've won."
"Not yet, Quinlevin," said Horton grimly. And then to Piquette, who hadstopped gasping and already showed a lively interest in the proceedings,"The sheets from the bed, Piquette, if you please."
She obeyed and helped him while they swathed their prisoner from head tofoot, binding and gagging him with his own cravats and other articles ofapparel which they found adaptable to the purpose and then between themlifted him to the bed where he lay a helpless clod of outraged dignity.Then they turned their attention to Monsieur Tricot, who, as theydragged him by the heels into the room, already showed signs ofreturning consciousness, binding him first, reviving him afterward. Ofthe two Tricot was now the least quiescent, but he understood the touchof Horton's revolver at his temple, and in a moment lay like Quinlevin,writhing in his bonds but quite as helpless.
"And now, Quinlevin," said Horton coolly, "it must be fairly obvious toyou that the fraud you've practiced at the expense of Madame Horton isnow at an end. The documents upon which you rely are in my pocket,where they will remain until they are turned over to Monsieur deVautrin. In the morning you and your brave companion will doubtless bereleased by the servants of the hotel, by which time I hope to be inanother part of France!"
He stopped with a shrug at the sound of Piquette's voice.
"We mus' not stay too long, Jeem 'Orton. Some one may come."
"Madame Horton?" he muttered, and went over to the door of Moira's roomand listened. There was no sound. "Moira," he said again distinctlythrough the keyhole. "Will you unbolt the door?"
A small sound of footsteps moving, but they did not come toward thedoor.
"Moira," he repeated more loudly. "You must let me in. We are goingaway from here--at once."
No reply.
"It is as I suppose', Jeem 'Orton," whispered Piquette at his ear. "Shedoes not wish to come."
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"I saw her, Jeem," she whispered. "I talk wit' 'er. It is 'opeless. Ido not t'ink she will come. She is afraid."
"Afraid--of me?" he muttered incredulously. "I----"
"Not of you, _mon vieux_," returned Piquette. "Of '_erself_!"
"I don't understand----"
Piquette shrugged. "Try again den, Jeem 'Orton."
He did--to no avail. There was now no sound from within in reply to hismore earnest entreaties.
"Something must have happened to her," he mumbled straightening, with aglance toward the bed. "If I thought----"
"But no," Piquette broke in quickly. "Not'ing 'as 'appen' to 'er, _mon_Jeem. She is quite safe."
"I'm not so sure about that----"
And putting his weight against the door, he tried to force it in. Ityielded a trifle, but the slender bolt held. He waited a moment,listening again, silencing Piquette's whispered protestations at thecommotion he was creating, but heard nothing. Then moving away a fewpaces he pushed the door with his full weight and it flew open with acrash, almost throwing him to the floor.
The room was empty, but the unlocked door leading into Nora Burke's roomshowed which way she had gone. He went in and looked around. Then outinto the corridor by Nora's door. There were some people at the otherend of the corridor but Moira and her Irish nurse had disappeared.
Uncertainly, he came back through the rooms to Piquette, who stood inMoira's room, watching the prisoners through the doorway.
"It is what I 'ave said, _mon_ Jeem. Madame does not wish to go wit'you."
"But why----? After all----"
"'Ave I not tol' you? She is afraid of 'erself. She knows as Iknow--she is a woman who loves--but not as I love, _mon_ Jeem. It is'er God dat stan' between you, 'er God--stronger dan you and what youare to 'er. She is afraid. She knows--if she touch your 'and--she willgo wit' you--whatever 'appens."
"What makes you think that?" muttered Horton, bewildered.
"She tol' me so----"
"You?"
"I saw 'er--talk wit' 'er. Dat is why I wait too long ontil MonsieurQuinlevin came."
Horton paused, thinking deeply.
"I must find her, Piquette. She's got to go with us," he murmured,starting toward the door away from her.
But Piquette caught him by the hand.
"No, Jeem. You mus'n't. Do you t'ink you can fin' 'er? Where? An' ifyou do, your friend Monsieur Quinlevin will be discover' and dey willput you in de jail----"
"Let them. I've got to take her away. She's helpless, Piquette, withhim--penniless, if she deserts him."
"Not so 'elpless as you t'ink. But she does not want to see you. Isnot dat enough?"
"No," he said, trying to shake loose her clutch on his arm. "I'll findher."
"Jeem," Piquette pleaded desperately. "You will spoil all de good youdo. What does it matter if you fin' 'er or not if you lose de paper toQuinlevin again? You mus' go away now before it is too late an' makeQuinlevin powerless to 'urt 'er again.. Den, _mon_ Jeem, when 'erfuture is safe, you s'all fin' 'er. What does it matter now? In timeshe will come to you. I know. You s'all fin' 'er. An' I, Piquette,will 'elp you."
She felt his arm relax and knew that she had won. He stared for a longmoment toward the open door into Nora's room, then turned with a quickgasp of decision.
"You're right, Piquette. We've got to get away--to draw his claws forgood."
"_Parfaitement_! You need not worry. 'E will not 'urt 'er now."
And so they returned to the Irishman's room and looked carefully to thebonds of the prisoners. Nothing was disarranged. They had done theirwork well, and continued it by methodically making all arrangements fordeparture; shutting the French window, putting an extra turn on thebindings of the prostrate men, who glared at them sullenly in theobscurity. Then they went out, locking all three rooms from the outsideand leaving the keys in the doors. Unobserved, they went up to theirrooms--packed their belongings, descended to the office where Jim coollypaid their bills, and went out into the night.
There was a garage nearby, where they hired a car, paying for it inadvance, and in less than twenty minutes, Jim Horton driving, were ontheir way to Vingtimille, on the border line between France and Italy.There they left the machine in the care of a hotel and wrote a postcardto the owner of the garage at Monte Carlo, telling him where he wouldfind his machine. This message they knew would n
ot reach him until sometime the next day, by which time they would be lost in Italy.