Children of the Whirlwind Part 35

"What's that, young fellow?"

"You love Miss Sherwood, don't you? At least you've the same as told me that in words, and you've told me that in loud-voiced actions every time you've seen her."

"Well--what if I do?"

"If you had the clearness of vision that is in the gla.s.sy eye of a cold boiled lobster you would see that she feels the same way about you."

"See here, Larry"--all the boisterous quality had gone from Hunt's voice, and it was low-pitched and a bit unsteady--"I don't mind your joshing me about myself or my painting, but don't fool with me about anything that's really important."

"I'm not fooling you. I'm sure Miss Sherwood feels that way."

"How do you know?"

"I've got a pair of eyes that don't belong to a cold boiled lobster. And when I see a thing, I know I see it."

"You're all wrong, Larry. If you'd heard what she said to me less than a year ago--"

"You make me tired!" interrupted Larry. "You two were made for each other. She's waiting for you to step up and talk man's talk to her--and instead you sulk in your tent and mumble about something you think she might have thought or said a year ago! You're too sensitive; you're too proud; you've got too few brains. It's a million dollars to one that in your handsome, well-bred way you've fallen out with her over something that probably never existed and certainly doesn't exist now. Forget it all, and walk right up and ask her!"

"Larry, if I thought there was a chance that you are right--"

"A single question will prove whether I'm right!"

Hunt did not speak for a moment. "I guess I've never seen my part of it all in the way you put it, Larry." He stood up, his whole being subdued yet tense. "I'm going to slide back into town and think it all over."

Larry followed him an hour later, bent on routine business of the Sherwood estate. Toward seven o'clock he was studying the present decrepitude and future possibilities of a row of Sherwood apartment houses on the West Side, when, as he came out of one building and started into another, a firm hand fell upon his shoulder and a voice remarked:

"So, Larry, you're in New York?"

Larry whirled about. For the moment he felt all the life go out of him.

Beside him stood Detective Casey, whom he had last seen on the night of his wild flight when Casey had feigned a knockout in order to aid Larry's escape from Gavegan. Any other man affiliated with his enemies Larry would have struck down and tried to break away from. But not Casey.

"h.e.l.lo, Casey. Well, I suppose you're going to invite me to go along with you?"

"Where were you going?"

"Into this house."

"Then I'll invite myself to go along with you."

He quickly pushed Larry before him into the hallway, which was empty since all the tenants were at their dinner. Larry remembered the scene down in Deputy Police Commissioner Barlow's office, when the Chief of Detectives had demanded that he become a stool-pigeon working under Gavegan and Casey, and the grilling and the threats, more than fulfilled, which had followed.

"Going to give me a little private quiz first, Casey," he asked, "and then call in Gavegan and lead me down to Barlow?"

"Not unless Gavegan or some one else saw and recognized you, which I know they didn't since I was watching for that very thing. And not unless you yourself feel hungry for a visit to Headquarters."

"If I feel hungry, it's an appet.i.te I'm willing to make wait."

"You know I don't want to pinch you. My part in this has been a dirty job that was just pushed my way. You know that I know you've been framed and double-crossed, and that I won't run you in unless I can't get out of it."

"Thanks, Casey. You're too white to have to run with people like Barlow and Gavegan. But if it wasn't to pinch me, why did you stop me out there in the street?"

"Been hoping I might some day run into you on the quiet. There are some things I've learned--never mind how--that I wanted to slip you for your own good."

"Go to it, Casey."

"First, I've got a hunch that it was Barney Palmer who tipped off the police about Red Hannigan and Jack Rosenfeldt, and then spread it among all the crooks that you were the stool and squealer."

"Yes, I'd guessed that much."

"Second, I've got a hunch that it really was from Barney Palmer that Barlow got his idea of making you become a stool-pigeon. Barney is a smooth one all right, and he figured what would happen. He knew you would refuse, and he knew Barlow would uncork h.e.l.l beneath you. Barney certainly called every turn."

"What--what--" stammered Larry. "Why, then Barney must be--" He paused, utterly astounded by the newness of the possibility that had just risen in his mind.

"You've got it, Larry," Casey went on. "Barney is a police stool. Has been one for years. Works directly for Barlow. We're not supposed to know anything about it. He's turned up a lot of big ones. That's why it's safe for Barney to pull off anything he likes."

"Barney a police stool!" Larry repeated in the stupor of his amazement.

"Guess that's all the news I wanted to hand you, Larry, so I'll be on my way. Here's wishing you luck--and for G.o.d's sake, don't let yourself be pinched by us. So-long." And with that Casey slipped out of the hallway.

For a moment Larry stood moveless where Casey had left him. Then fierce purpose, and a cautious recklessness, surged up and took mastery of him.

It had required what Casey had told him to end his irksome waiting and wavering. No longer could he remain in his hiding-place, safe himself, trying to save Maggie by slow, indirect endeavor. The time had now come for very different methods. The time had come to step forth into the open, taking, of course, no unnecessary risk, and to have it out face to face with his enemies, who were also Maggie's real enemies, though she counted them her friends--to save Maggie against her own will, if he could save her in no other way.

And having so decided, Larry walked quickly out of the hallway into the street.

CHAPTER XXVII

On the sidewalk Larry glanced swiftly around him. Half a block down the street on the front of a drug-store was a blue telephone flag. A minute later he was inside a telephone booth in the drug-store, asking first for the Hotel Grantham, and then asking the Grantham operator to be connected with Miss Maggie Cameron.

There was a long wait. While he listened for Maggie's voice he blazed with terrible fury against Barney Paler. For Maggie to be connected with a straight crook, that idea had been bad enough. But for her to be under the influence of the worst crook of all, a stool, a cunning traitor to his own friends--that was more than could possibly be stood! In his rage in Maggie's behalf he forgot for the moment the many evils Barney had done to himself. He thought of wild, incoherent, vaguely tremendous plans. First he would get Maggie away from Barney and Old Jimmie--somehow. Then he would square accounts with those two--again by an undefined somehow.

Presently the tired, impersonal voice of the Grantham operator remarked against his ear-drum: "Miss Cameron don't answer."

"Have her paged, please," he requested.

Larry, of course, could not know that his telephone call was the very one which had rung in Maggie's room while Barney and Old Jimmie were with her, and which Barney had harshly forbidden her to answer.

Therefore he could not know that any attempt to get Maggie by telephone just then was futile.

When he came out of the booth, the impersonal voice having informed him that Miss Cameron was not in, it was with the intention of calling Maggie up between eight and nine when she probably would have returned from dinner where he judged her now to be. He knew that d.i.c.k Sherwood had no engagement with her, for d.i.c.k was to be out at Cedar Crest that evening, so he judged it almost certain Maggie would be at home and alone later on.

Having nothing else to do for an hour and a half, he thought of a note he had received from the d.u.c.h.ess in that morning's mail asking him to come down to see her when he was next in town. Thirty minutes later he was in the familiar room behind the p.a.w.nshop. The d.u.c.h.ess asked him if he had eaten, and on his reply that he had not and did not care to, instead of proceeding to the business of her letter she mumbled something and went into the p.a.w.nshop.

She left Larry for the very simple reason that now that she had him here she was uncertain what she should say, and how far she should go.

Unknown to either, one thread of the drama of Larry and Maggie was being spun in the brain and heart of the d.u.c.h.ess; and being spun with pain to her, and in very great doubt. True, she had definitely decided, for Larry's welfare, that the facts about Maggie's parentage should never be known from her--and since the only other person who could tell the truth was Jimmie Carlisle, and his interests were all apparently in favor of silence, then it followed that the truth would never be known from any one. But having so decided, and decided definitely and finally, the d.u.c.h.ess had proceeded to wonder if she had decided wisely.