“Oh, Harry! Please be quiet!” implored the girl. She turned her eyes, eloquent with gratitude, to the lieutenant. “I’m sure the lieutenant will do exactly as he has promised.”
“Indeed I will,” he assured me—and half winked at her.
I laughed outright, I couldn’t help it. No heart of any marine I had ever met, officer or otherwise, could have withstood that look of Eve’s—so appealing, so grateful, so wistfully appreciative.
“All right, lieutenant,” I said. “I don’t blame you a bit. I bet myself I couldn’t be kidnapped under a New York cop’s eye at a subway entrance. But I lost. Then I bet myself I couldn’t be kidnapped in a subway train. And again I’ve lost. Nevertheless, if you should get wondering whether I’m crazy or not, take a chance, lieutenant, and call up the Club.”
“Oh, brother,” breathed Eve, and wept once more.
I sank back into my seat, waiting another opportunity. The girl kept her hand on mine, her eyes, intermittently, on the leatherneck lieutenant. Consardine had seated himself at my right. Walter sat at Eve’s side.
At Brooklyn Bridge the marines got out, with many backward looks at us. I saluted the lieutenant sardonically; the girl sent him a beautifully grateful smile. If anything else had been needed to make him forget my appeal it was that.
Quite a crowd piled on the car at the Bridge. I watched them hopefully, as they stampeded into the seats. The hopefulness faded steadily as I studied their faces. Sadly I realized that old Vanderbilt had been all wrong when he had said, “The public be damned.” What he ought to have said was “The public be dumb.”
There was a Hebraic delegation of a half dozen on their way home to the Bronx, a belated stenographer who at once began operations with a lipstick, three rabbit-faced young hoods, an Italian woman with four restless children, a dignified old gentleman who viewed their movements with suspicion, a plain-looking Negro, a rather pleasant-appearing man of early middle age with a woman who might have been a school teacher, two giggling girls who at once began flirting with the hoods, a laborer, three possible clerks and a scattering dozen of assorted morons. The typical New York subway train congregation. A glance at right and left of me assayed no richer residue of human intelligence.
There was no use in making an appeal to these people. My three guardians were too far ahead of them in gray matter and resourcefulness. They could make it abortive before I was half finished. But I might drop that suggestion of calling up the Club. Someone, I argued, might have their curiosity sufficiently developed to risk a phone call. I fixed my gaze on the dignified old gentleman—be seemed the type who possibly would not be able to rest until he had found out what it was all about.
And just as I was opening my mouth to speak to him, the girl patted my hand and leaned across me to the man in the Inverness.
“Doctor,” her voice was very clear and of a carrying quality that made it audible throughout the car. “Doctor, Harry seems so much better. Shall I give him—you know what?”
“An excellent idea, Miss Walton,” he answered. “Give it to him.”
The girl reached under her long sport coat and brought out a small bundle.
“Here, Harry,” she handed it to me. “Here’s your little playmate—who’s been so lonely without you.”
Automatically I took the bundle and tore it open.
Into my hands dropped out a dirty, hideous old rag-doll!
As I looked at it, stupefied, there came to me complete perception of the truly devilish cunning of those who had me in their trap. The very farcicality of that doll had a touch of terror in it. At the girl’s clear voice, all the car had centered their attention upon us. I saw the dignified old gentleman staring at me unbelievingly over his spectacles, saw Consardine catch his eye and tap his forehead significantly—and so did every one else see him. The Negro’s guffaw suddenly stopped. The Hebraic group stiffened up and gaped at me; the stenographer dropped her vanity case; the Italian children goggled at the doll, fascinated. The middle-aged couple looked away, embarrassed.
I realized that I was on my feet, clutching the doll as though I feared it was to be taken from me.
“Hell!” I swore, and lifted it to dash it to the floor.
And suddenly I knew that any further resistance, and further struggle, was useless.
The game was rigged up against me all the way through the deck. For the moment I might as well throw down my hand. I was going, as Consardine had told me, where the “greater intellect and will” pleased, whether it pleased me or not. Also I was going when it pleased. And that was now.
Well, they had played with me long enough. I would throw my hand down, but as I sat back I would have a little diversion myself.
I dropped into my seat, sticking the doll in my upper pocket where its head protruded grotesquely. The dignified old gentleman was making commiserating clucking noises and shaking his head understandingly at Consardine. One of the rabbit-faced youths said “Nuts” and the girls giggled nervously. The Negro hastily got up and retreated to the next car. One of the Italian children pointed to the doll and whined, “Gimme.”
I took the girl’s hand in both of mine.
“Eve, darling,” I said, as distinctly as she had spoken, “you know I ran away because I don’t like Walter there.”
I put my arm around her waist.
“Walter,” I leaned over her, “no man like you just out of prison for what was, God knows, a justly deserved sentence, is worthy of my Eve. No matter how crazy I may be, surely you know that is true.”
The old gentleman stopped his annoying clucking and looked startled. The rest of the car turned its attention like him, to Walter. I had the satisfaction of seeing a slow flush creep up his cheeks.
“Dr. Consardine,” I turned to him, “as a medical man you are familiar with the stigmata, I mean the marks, of the born criminal. Look at Walter. The eyes small and too close together, the mouth’s hardness deplorably softened by certain appetites, the undeveloped lobes of the ears. If I ought not be running loose—how much less ought he to be, doctor?”
Every eye in the car was taking in each point as I called attention to it. And each happened to be a little true. The flush on Walter’s face deepened to a brick red. Consardine looked at me, imperturbably.
“No,” I went on, “not at all the man for you, Eve.”
I gripped the girl closer. I drew her tightly to me. I was beginning to enjoy myself—and she was marvelously pretty.
“Eve!” I exclaimed. “All this time I’ve been away from you—and you haven’t even kissed me!”
I lifted up her chin and—well, I kissed her. Kissed her properly and in no brotherly manner. I heard Walter cursing under his breath. How Consardine was taking it I could not tell. Indeed I did not care—Eve’s mouth was very sweet.
I kissed her again and again—to the chuckles of the hoods, the giggles of the girls, and horrified exclamations of the dignified old gentleman.
And the girl’s face, which at the first of my kisses had gone all rosy red, turned white. She did not resist, but between kisses I heard her whisper:
“You’ll pay for this! Oh, but you’ll pay for this!”
I laughed and released her. I did not care now. I was going to go with Dr. Consardine wherever he wanted to take me—as long as she went with me.
“Harry,” his voice broke my thought, “come along. Here is our station.”
The train was slowing up for the Fourteenth Street stop. Consardine arose. His eyes signaled the girl. Her own eyes downcast, she took my hand. Her hand was like ice. I got up, still laughing. Consardine at my other side, Walter guarding the rear, I walked out upon the platform and up the steps to the street. Once I looked behind me into Walter’s face, and my heart warmed at the murder in it.
It had been touche for me with two of them at any rate—and at their own game.
A chauffeur in livery stood at the top of the steps. He gave me a quick, curious glance and saluted Consardine.
�
��This way—Kirkham!” said the latter, curtly.
So I was Kirkham again! And what did that mean?
A powerful car stood at the curb. Consardine gestured. Eve’s hand firmly clasped in mine, I entered, drawing her after me. Walter had gone ahead of us. Consardine followed. The chauffeur closed the door. I saw another liveried figure on the driver’s seat. The car started.
Consardine touched a lever and down came the curtains, closeting us in semi-darkness.
And as he did so the girl Eve wrenched her hand from mine, struck me a stinging blow across the lips and huddling down in her corner began silently to weep.
CHAPTER FOUR
The cab, one of expensive European make, sped smoothly over to Fifth Avenue and turned north. Consardine touched another lever and a curtain dropped between us and the driving seat. There was a hidden bulb that shed a dim glow.
By it I saw that the girl had recovered her poise. She sat regarding the tips of her shapely narrow shoes. Walter drew out a cigarette case. I followed suit.
“You do not mind, Eve?” I asked solicitously.
She neither looked at me nor answered. Consardine was apparently lost in thought. Walter stared icily over my head. I lighted my cigarette and concentrated upon our course. My watch registered a quarter to ten.
The tightly shaded windows gave no glimpse of our surroundings. By the traffic stops I knew we were still on the Avenue. Then the car began a series of turns and twists as though it were being driven along side streets. Once it seemed to make a complete circle. I lost all sense of direction, which, I reflected, was undoubtedly what was intended.
At 10:15 the car began to go at greatly increased speed and I judged we were out of heavy traffic. Soon a cooler, fresher air came through the ventilators. We might be either in Westchester or Long Island. I could not tell.
It was precisely 11:20 when the car came to a stop. After a short pause it went on again. I heard from behind us the clang of heavy metal gates. For perhaps ten minutes more we rolled on swiftly and then halted again. Consardine awoke from his reverie and snapped up the curtains. The chauffeur opened the door. Eve dropped out, and after her Walter.
“Well, here we are, Mr. Kirkham,” said Consardine, affably. He might have been a pleased host bringing home a thrice-welcome guest instead of a man he had abducted by outrageous wiles and falsehoods.
I jumped out. Under the moon, grown storm-promising and watery as a drunkard’s eye, I saw an immense building that was like some chateau transplanted from the Loire. Lights gleamed brilliantly here and there in wings and turrets. Through its doors were passing the girl and Walter. I glanced around me. There were no lights visible anywhere except those of the chateau. I had the impression of remoteness and of wide, tree-filled spaces hemming the place in and guarding its isolation.
Consardine took my arm and we passed over the threshold. On each side stood two tall footmen and as I went by them I perceived that they were Arabs, extraordinarily powerful. But when I had gotten within the great hall I stopped short with an involuntary exclamation of admiration.
It was as though the choicest treasures of medieval France had been skimmed of their best and that best concentrated here. The long galleries, a third of the way up to the high vaulted ceiling, were exquisite Gothic arrases and tapestries whose equals few museums could show hung from them and the shields and arms were those of conquering kings.
Consardine gave me no time to study them. He touched my arm and I saw beside me an impeccably correct English valet.
“Thomas will look after you now,” said Consardine. “See you later, Kirkham.”
“This way, sir, if you please,” bowed the valet, and led me into a miniature chapel at the side of the hall. He pressed against its fretted back. It slid away and we entered a small elevator. When it stopped, another panel slipped aside. I stepped into a bedroom furnished, in its own fashion, with the same astonishing richness as the great hall. Behind heavy curtains was a bathroom.
Upon the bed lay dress trousers, shirt, cravat, and so on. In a few minutes I was washed, freshly shaved and in evening clothes. They fitted me perfectly. As the valet opened a closet door a coat hanging there drew my sharp attention. I peered in.
Hanging within that closet was the exact duplicate of every garment that made up my wardrobe at the Club. Yes, there they were, and as I looked into the pockets for the tailor’s labels I saw written on them my own name.
I had an idea that the valet, watching me covertly, was waiting for some expression of surprise. If so he was disappointed. My capacity for surprise was getting a bit numb.
“And now where do I go?” I asked.
For answer he slid the panel aside and stood waiting for me to enter the lift. When it stopped I expected of course to step out into the great hall. Instead of that the opening panel revealed a small anteroom, oak paneled, bare and with a door of darker oak set in its side. Here was another tall Arab, evidently awaiting me, for the valet bowed me out of the elevator and re-entering, disappeared.
The Arab salaamed. Opening the door, he salaamed again. I walked over its threshold. A clock began to chime midnight.
“Welcome, James Kirkham! You are punctual to the minute,” said some one.
The voice was strangely resonant and musical, with a curious organ quality. The speaker sat at the head of a long table where places were laid for three. That much I saw before I looked into his eyes, and then for a time could see nothing else. For those eyes were of the deepest sapphire blue and they were the alivest eyes I had ever beheld. They were large, slightly oblique, and they sparkled as though the very spring of life was bubbling up behind them. Gem-like they were in color, and gem-like were they in their hardness. They were lashless, and as unwinking as a bird’s—or a snake’s.
It was with distinct effort that I tore my gaze from them and took note of the face in which they were set. The head above them was inordinately large, high and broad and totally bald. It was an astonishing hemisphere whose capacity must have been almost double that of the average. The ears were long and narrow and distinctly pointed at the tips. The nose was heavy and beaked, the chin round but massive. The lips were full, and as classically cut and immobile as of some antique Greek statue. The whole huge, round face was of a marble pallor, and it was unwrinkled, unlined and expressionless. The only thing alive about it were the eyes, and alive indeed they were—uncannily, terrifyingly so.
His body, what I could see of it, was unusually large, the enormous barrel of the chest indicating tremendous vitality.
Even at first contact one sensed the abnormal, and the radiation of inhuman power.
“Be seated, James Kirkham,” the sonorous voice rolled out again. A butler emerged from the shadows at his back and drew out for me the chair at the left.
I bowed to this amazing host of mine and seated myself silently.
“You must be hungry after your long ride,” he said. “It was good of you, James Kirkham, thus to honor this whim of mine.”
I looked at him sharply but could detect no sign of mockery.
“I am indebted to you, sir,” I answered, as urbanely, “for an unusually entertaining journey. And as for humoring what you are pleased to call your whim, how, sir, could I have done otherwise when you sent messengers so—ah—eloquent?”
“Ah, yes,” he nodded. “Dr. Consardine is indeed a singularly persuasive person. He will join us presently. But drink—eat.”
The butler poured champagne. I lifted my glass and paused, staring at it with delight. It was a goblet of rock crystal, exquisitely cut, extremely ancient I judged—a jewel and priceless.
“Yes,” said my host, as though I had spoken. “Truly one of a rare set. They were the drinking glasses of the Caliph Haroun-al-Raschid. When I drink from them I seem to see him surrounded by his beloved cup-companions amid the glories of his court in old Bagdad. All the gorgeous panorama of the Arabian Nights spreads out before me. They were preserved for me,” he went on, thoughtfully, “by t
he late Sultan Abdul Hamid. At least they were his until I felt the desire to possess them.”
“You must have exercised great—ah—persuasion, sir, to have made the Sultan part from them,” I murmured.
“As you have remarked, James Kirkham, my messengers are—eloquent,” he replied, suavely.
I took a sip of the wine and could not for the life of me hide my pleasure.
“Yes,” intoned my strange host, “a rare vintage. It was intended for the exclusive use of King Alfonso of Spain. But again my messengers were—eloquent. When I drink it my admiration for its excellences is shadowed only by my sympathy for Alfonso in his deprivation.”
I drank that wine, worshipfully. I attacked with relish a delicious cold bird. My eye was caught by the lines of a golden compote set with precious stones. So exquisite was it that I half arose to examine it more closely.
“Benvenuto Cellini made it,” observed my host. “It is one of his masterpieces. Italy kept it for me through the centuries.”
“But Italy would never voluntarily have let a thing like that go from her!” I exclaimed.
“No, quite involuntarily, oh quite, I assure you,” he answered, blandly.
I began to glance about the dimly lighted room and realized that here, like the great hall, was another amazing treasure chamber. If half of what my eyes took in was genuine, the contents of that room alone were worth millions. But they could not be—not even an American billionaire could have gathered such things.
“But they are genuine,” again he read my thoughts. “I am a connoisseur indeed—the greatest in the world. Not alone of paintings, and of gems and wines and other masterpieces of man’s genius. I am a connoisseur of men and women. A collection of what, loosely, are called souls. That is why, James Kirkham, you are here!”
The butler filled the goblets and placed another bottle in the iced pail beside me; he put liqueurs and cigars upon the table and then, as though at some signal, he withdrew. He disappeared, I noted with interest, through still another wall panel that masked one of the hidden lifts. I saw that he was a Chinese.
The A. Merritt Megapack Page 90