The Perils of Pauline

by Lawrence Fletcher

  CHAPTER XII

  THE OLD GRIGSBY HOUSE PAYS PENANCE

  To young Bassett, of The American, the excitement of existence, sincehe became a reporter and joined the jehus of the truth wagon, hadconsisted mainly of "chasing pictures" in the afternoons and going tostrings of banquets at night. He had no more enthusiasm forphotographs than he had for banquets. Word painting and graining washis art. And so when a big story walked up and beckoned to him he wasas happy as a boy in love.

  It had been a dull day for news. The evening papers were barren ofsuggestions and the assignments had run out before Bassett's name wasreached. That meant another afternoon of dismal lingering in theoffice, without even a photograph to chase.

  Bassett flung himself disgustedly into a chair and straightened anewspaper with a vicious crackle as the last of the other reportershurried out. He thought he caught a gleam of merry pity in thereporter's eye. Never mind. Let 'em laugh. Let 'em wait. One ofthese days he'll be the one getting the real stuff and putting itthrough, too, from tip to type, without a rewrite man or a copy readertouching it. Let 'em wait!

  "In a balloon? Where?"

  The suddenly vibrant voice of the city editor talking over thetelephone caused Bassett to lower his paper and hushed even the chatterof the office boys.

  "Palisades--Panatella; yes. Who's the girl? You don't know?"

  The paper dropped from Bassett's hands.

  "Much obliged. I'll have a man over there, but you go right ahead."The city editor clicked down the receiver and whirled in his chair.

  "Oh--Bassett. Our Weehawken man says a young woman has been carriedoff by Panatella's balloon. They've lost the balloon. Get a car andget over there quick. Go as far as you like, only find the girl andlet me hear from you--quick."

  Bassett jumped to a phone and ordered a high-powered machine to meethim at Ninety-sixth street. He ran down William street, with his strawhat under his arm, and dived into the subway. An express had him atNinety-sixth street in a few minutes. His machine was there. Theydashed for the ferry and were on the aviation field before thebewildered crowd that had witnessed the runaway flight of the balloonhad dispersed.

  Bassett jumped out and mingled with the people. They knew nothingexcept the general direction toward the west that the balloon hadtaken. Automobilists had pursued for a long way, but had seen the gasbag turn to the north and disappear in the hills. The automobilistshad returned--most of them. Two who had been with the girl beforeshe leaped into the basket had not returned.

  Bassett got back in the car beside the driver, and they glided off onthe westward road.

  Every one in the farm houses along the route had seen the balloon. Butthe houses were further and further apart as Bassett's course was drawnnorthward and, often he missed the trail.

  The trail was blazed by the wheel ruts of a giant touring car and asmall runabout that frequently left the highways and plowed across thefields. He lost them in the middle of a field that was marshy wherethe automobiles left the road and rock-dry at the middle and furtherside. After a half-hour's maneuvering he ordered the driver to go backto the road.

  "Maybe they done the same thing--turned round an' come back,"suggested the chauffeur. "Hello, what kind of a rig is that?" he addedas a wagon appeared around a bend in the road.

  The peculiar thing about the "rig" was that while it was a tonguedwagon with whiffletrees for two horses, there was only one horse. Thedriver, a bearded farmer, was urging the patient animal on, although itwas impossible for it to do more than plod in its awkward harness.

  "What's the matter?" called Bassett, cheerily, as the machine drewalongside and stopped.

  "I dunno," replied the farmer, shaking his grizzled bead. "Ef I was ayoung feller like you I'd go right off an' find out."

  "I'll go right away; what's up?"

  "I dunno. I ain't knowed anythin' like it in this part o' the countryin fifty year. First, down yonder on the old river road I meets aautymobile, with a man drivin' it and somethin' alive an' movin' lyin'in a blanket by his feet. I ain't got more'n a half mile back fromthere when I finds a fine young feller, with his good clothes--whathe's got left--tore to pieces, no shoes, or hat on him, an' his headbleedin' bad from cuts. 'Where are they? Did you see a autymobile?'he yells at me. I tells him what I had saw, an' he takes my off hossthere an' goes gallopin' up the road."

  "What road?" cried Bassett.

  "Ye circle this here field an' climb the hill, then take the firstturn."

  "Which way?"

  "West, if you don't want ter jump in the river."

  "What, we're back at the river," gasped Bassett.

  "That's about my luck. The balloon's gone over the river; it's in NewYork, and some Harlem reporter is leading it down to his office on aleash to have it photographed, and I'm--I'm hoodooed, that's all."

  "I dunno," said the farmer, "but ef ye ast me, I'd say that feller inthe autymoble was makin' for the woods beyond Quirksborough. It'slonely up through there, an' he had somethin' in that there machinethat he wanted to keep lonely, I'm guessin'."

  Bassett motioned to the driver to go on. "We might as well see what itis; the balloon's gone home for supper," he said bitterly.

  In five minutes they reached the turn where the farmer had last seenHarry Marvin disappear. They took the turn into an ill-kept,dust-heavy road that had cast its blight of brown upon the reedsbordering it. The woods became more and more dense and the road morenarrow. In some places the dust was crusted, as it had dried after thelast rain, and the men in the automobile could see that the wheels ofanother machine and the hoofs of a galloping horse had plunged throughthis crust but a short time before.

  Around a bend in the road, going at full speed, Bassett sighted HarryMarvin for the first time. He stood up beside the driver and hailedhim, but Harry did not even turn around. The beat of his horse's hoofsdrowned the sound. The deep lines of the runabout's wheels in the dustheld his gaze and his senses to one thing alone--the rescue ofPauline. He urged the poor beast to its last tug of strength. Weakand dizzy from his wound, he knew that he could go but a little wayafoot. The road's high, close-set wall of trees was broken for thefirst time by a little clearing. Harry's passing glance showed himthat there was a house in the clearing. He was exhausted and a thirst,but his eyes swept back to the wheel tracks on the road.

  The runabout had gone on. Harry, without drawing rein, was about tofollow. But suddenly, weirdly, the rickety walls of the deserted housegave forth a sound, a rattle and a crash, and from a shuttered windowbeside the low-silled door bellied a sheet of smoke.

  Harry reined the foaming horse and sprang off. Freed of his weight,the animal staggered on a few paces and fell, panting, in the dust.

  Harry did not see it. He was battering at the door of the burninghouse.

  Hicks could hardly be called a nervous or a timid man. He wascertainly not a coward, like Owen; but neither did he have the shrewd,scheming mind which was the bulwark of the craven secretary'sweakness. At the moment when they discovered the young lovers safe atthe foot of the cliff after the escape from the balloon and rock ledge,the two arch conspirators were two very different men. Owen wasshaking like a leaf in his terror of discovery, but thinking of ahundred schemes to save himself. Hicks was deadly cool, and thinkingof just one thing--immediate and cold-blooded murder.

  But now, although he thought he had killed Harry, although he knew hehad Pauline gagged and bound in the bottom of the runabout, Hicks wasafraid. He was afraid of the incompleteness of the thing. He waseager to have done with the girl as well as with the man. And now thislatest plan of Owen's was but another chapter of procrastination.

  The incident of the farmer's curiosity had unnerved him, too. He putback over his face one of the white handkerchiefs that he had taken offwhen he began the flight.

  "There's no more 'pity-the-poor-girl' stuff in this," he said grufflyto Pauline. "If you don't keep quiet I'll kill you. I mean what Isay."
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  He still had the instinctive crook sense to conceal his natural voice.Hicks was afraid, but as mile after mile fell behind them and thewesterning sun gave promise of the early shelter of dark, he began togain confidence. He mumbled to himself reminiscently:

  "The old Grigsby house, eh? Nobody but--" he checked himself."Nobody but somebody would thought've that."

  The "old Grigsby house," in front of which the runabout came to a stopafter many miles of travel, was set back from the road about threehundred yards. In front of it and on either side, the trees had beencut away, but a tangle of riotous shrubbery lined the path to thedoor. Behind the house the trees had been left untouched, and now inits tottering condition the venerable building literally rested on twoof the great elms, like an old man on crutches.

  The windows were few and shuttered. The black steel blinds were deadas the eyes of a skull. The steel was not rusted and only a littleweather-stained.

  There were no steps to the door. It opened on the ground level, with acracked board serving as both porch and foot mat. The signs ofattempted preservation were what gave the place its ominous air. Therewas a menace in the steel shutters of the old Grigsby house, and in thefact that the path to the door was kept clear.

  Up this path Hicks carried Pauline. Before he lifted her in his armshe tested her bonds. He did not know that Pauline was too terrified toconceive the simplest plan of action. Compared with the fear thatpossessed her now the torturing suspense of the balloon flight seemedlike peace and safety.

  Hicks held her with one arm while with the other he unlocked the lowdoor. Swinging heavy on strong hinges, it opened into a narrow hall,mildewed with the dampness of decay, the dust of disuse. He carriedPauline up the stairs, which groaned and bent under his steps andpushed open a door. There was a broken chair, a table, a cot, awashstand, with pitcher and bowl, and a small oil lamp set in a bracketon the wail.

  Hicks laid Pauline on the cot, and lighted the lamp, using the samematch for a cigarette. He seemed spurred by a desire to get away as ifthe tottering, grimy halls held memories too grim for even his hardenedsoul. After testing the shutters of the window, which were locked onthe outside, he stepped back to the cot and cut Pauline's bonds, andremoved the bandage from her lips. As she fell back in a half swoon hehurried through the door, closed and locked it and went down thestairs.

  Half way down he stopped abruptly, stood for a moment listening, thenhastened on, dropping his cigarette over the banister. He did not seewhere it fell. He did not care. His only aim was to get out--to getaway. He had heard a sound as he came down the stairs that turned hisfear to terror--it was the distant grumble of an automobile horn. Helocked the door and sped down the bramble-walled path to therunabout. He had left it in the middle of the road, so that as heleaped in and started again it left no swerve of its wheel ruts towardthe old Grigsby house. It was five miles to the nearest town, butHicks made it in twenty minutes, and without hearing again thethreatening automobile horn. The first thing he did was to telephoneto Owen.

  For half an hour Owen had been locked in the library of the Marvinhouse. The events of the early afternoon, the failure of his best-laidplans, the suspense of waiting the result of Hicks's final move, hadmade him a nervous wreck. He had lighted a dozen cigars and thrownthem away. As many times he had picked up the telephone only to set itdown again without calling a number. At last he had taken out the thintube of light pills, had drawn the shades, switched on the electriclights, and sat down to wait for the half-peace that morphine broughtto his conscience.

  As he leaned back in his chair, awaiting the effect of the drug, themummy in its case stood in front of him. He closed his eyes in apleasant stupor. He opened them in terror. For a moment his handswere outstretched in front of him, with claw-like fingers clutching atthin air; then he covered his eyes with them to shut from view themummy, which stood over him, its upraised hand pointing to him thefinger of accusation; its woman's eyes blazing with anger; its coldlips speaking a message that chilled his blood.

  The telephone bell jangled again and again before Owen found courage toopen his eyes. When he did so he clutched at the instrument, eager forthe sound of a human voice.

  "Hello! . . . Yes, this is Owen . . ." He glanced apprehensively overhis shoulder at the mummy. Its hand was lowered and it stoodmotionless as before. He turned excitedly back to the telephone."It's YOU! Hicks? . . . What news? . . . . She's at Grigsby's?What do you mean? Somebody after you? . . . Not him? . . . Igive you my word there hadn't been anything on that road for twomonths. . . . What have you done? What! Nothing? You should havecalled the police from Jersey. . . . All gone to pieces? . . .Stay over there, I'll join you tonight. Yes, go back to the houseand watch. . . . What? . . . All right."

  Pauline, left alone, began to regain her courage. After a few momentsshe was able to stand up and move slowly about her prison room. Shetried the door and the window shutters mechanically. She searched theroom for something that might be used to batter down the door. Therewas nothing. She sat on the cot and tried to think.

  She sprang up again, trembling. The dry, choking smell of smoke hadreached her. Hicks's lighted cigarette had fallen among the wisps ofold wall paper in the hall.

  She ran to the door. Baffled, piteous, alone, she turned--and lookedon death.

  For through the cracks in the floor flashed now the golden daggers offlame in sheaths of stifling smoke. She cowered, choking, by the outerwall of the room.

  The flame daggers grew into scimitars. The inner wall caught fire.There was no outlet for the suffocating smoke.

  She sprang to the middle of the room and seized the broken chair. Withall her might she crashed it against the door. It fell in pieces ather feet.

  She picked up a leg of the chair and, running to the window, poundedupon the shutters. She screamed, and beat upon the shutters. It wasthe rattle and crash upon the shutters that made Harry rein in hishorse before the old Grigsby house.

  He saw smoke burst from the lower windows, and, battering on the lockeddoor, he heard her screams.

  "Harry! Harry!"

  It was to him she called again in her peril, as she had called before--in the wreck of the yacht, in the den of Baskinelli, and even thisday from the rim of the runaway balloon. Always, inspired by thatcall, he had found their way to safety.

  He thrust the full weight of his mighty body against the door whichheld like solid rock.

  "Harry! Harry!" came the cries again.

  "I'm coming, Polly; I'm here!"

  He dashed to where a heavy tree limb had fallen, carried it to thedoor, raised it and charged with it as a battering ram. He might aswell have slapped the door with his flat palm.

  He looked at the windows whence the smoke poured--smoke mingled withflame. Half crazed by the cries from above, he raised the limb to tryto break the shutters. He stopped and let it fall. The toot of anautomobile horn and the excited voice of young Bassett stopped him.

  "What's doing?" gasped the reporter. "Is anybody in there?"

  Harry pointed to the shuttered window of the upper room. The criescame again, and with the sound, of the woman's voice Bassett turnedsick. He made a dizzy charge at the door, but Harry caught him back.

  "All three together," he said.

  They flung their strength at the portal--but still it held.

  Bassett turned away, sobbing. He looked up to see Harry spring intothe big car which he forced through the brambles.

  "What are you doing? You're crazy!" yelled the chauffeur, runningtoward the machine.

  "Get her--if I can't--after the smash!" was Harry's answer. Thecar lunged on at full speed.

  The impact rocked the burning house. Frame and door crashed downtogether before the battering car. It plowed for half its length intothe smoke and fire, stopped an instant, quivered and backed out again,splendid ruin.

  On Harry's forehead a deep cut streamed.

  Bassett sprang to catch him,
but he climbed out unhelped. Togetherthey leaped the shattered wall. Through searing smoke they climbed thequaking stairs and burst into the shuttered room.

  The lamp still flickered dimly in its bracket.

  "Pauline," called Harry, chokingly, "Pauline, answer me."

  There was no answer.

  On hands and knees he groped over the hot floor. He found her by thewindow, where she had fallen. And flames choked them as they fled.

  Outside he knelt beside her, chafing her hands, when she wakened. Hehad turned her so that she did not see the towering glare of the flamesas the old Grigsby house furnished burnt penance for its crimes.Pauline raised her arms and touched tenderly his bleeding brow. Helifted her into the car that Bassett and the driver had patched up.

  "Home, James," said Bassett, with a tired grin, "but stop at a telephonesomewhere and let me tell my boss that I've got a piece for the paper."