Jimmy Kirkland and the Plot for a Pennant Part 24

"There's no danger in going to one of the finest homes on the drive to call on a young woman," laughed McCarthy.

"I'll get away as soon as possible and tackle you for fifty points, three cushions, before we start for the train," promised McCarthy.

"You hang around."

McCarthy had puzzled for two days over the odd conduct of Helen Baldwin, and her brief note, appointing that evening for the call, had failed to bring any solution of the riddle. He knew now that the girl with whom he had imagined himself in love was selfish and shallow, but he could not believe her criminal, nor did he for an instant think that she was a part of the conspiracy to rob the Bears of their championship. That he was in any danger he did not consider possible.

He went uptown determined to hasten the interview as much as possible and arrived at the Baldwin mansion shortly after eight o'clock.

Presently Helen Baldwin came. She was wearing a dark street gown and her face was pale, dark rings under her eyes showing that she had been suffering.

"Larry," she said quietly, "you'll think me hateful and wicked. I have had a terrible time these last two days, and I have been thinking.

"I wanted to tell you I was a foolish, vain girl. I didn't love you; I was in love with the thought of being mistress to James Lawrence's fortune. I was conceited and silly and never thought of any one but myself; but I did like you, Larry--I do. You will believe that, will you not?"

"Yes," he said simply.

"I thought baseball was just a silly game," she went on, as if each word cost her a pang. "I couldn't understand why you gave up so much; why you insisted upon staying with the team. I didn't know that here in the East it is a great business and that hundreds of thousands of people take it so seriously. Uncle Barney asked me to get you to quit, and I told him you would. My vanity was hurt when you refused."

"You found out what it means for me to quit?" he asked.

"Yes. Uncle Barney came home in a terrible rage. He had been drinking and when he saw me he swore about you. He swore he'd fix you."

Her voice sank to a frightened whisper.

"He was only bluffing--I beg pardon; only talking," he said, striving to soothe her.

"I didn't know until then that I really cared, Larry," she went on.

"He frightened me. I asked him questions, and he told me what he and some others have been doing to keep your club from winning."

"What did he tell you?" he asked quickly.

"He said they had one of your pitchers, I think he said, fixed, and that he had paid some other players to hurt you and to hurt Mr. Wilc.o.x, I think he said. He wanted me to get you to come to meet me somewhere, and they'd kidnap you and someone else--Mr. Swanson, I believe it was."

"He's a kindly fellow," commented McCarthy coldly, an angry light gleaming in his blue eyes. "Did he say where this was to take place?"

"No. He tried to get me to write you to meet me at some place he named. He said I needn't go there, just get you to come. I told him I would. When he went to sleep I telephoned you because I was so frightened. To-day we had a terrible quarrel. I refused to write to you to meet me at the place he named."

Her terror was so evident that her words were not necessary to add conviction.

McCarthy laughed a short, rasping laugh.

"It's a good joke on him," he explained. "If he and his thugs are hunting for me all over the city and I here in his own home, safe; the last place he would look for me."

"You mustn't wait," she urged anxiously. "You mustn't wait here, Larry. He is drinking and I do not know what he might do if he came home and found you here. You must go now."

"I'll run back to the hotel and pick up my bodyguard, Swanson," he said steadily, and with an attempt at indifference of manner, "I think I'll be safe."

"You'll kiss me goodbye, Larry," she pleaded. "She wouldn't care--if she knew."

"She?" he asked. "What do you mean?"

He was astonished and curious to learn how the girl knew anything of his growing regard for Betty Tabor.

"I knew, I knew," she repeated. "I knew it the first time we met--I knew there was another girl"----

"I'm certain I did not hint at such a thing," he replied with an attempt at dignified bearing. "I have not even told her."

"Good-bye," she said. "I hope you're happy, Larry, and please don't think I meant to do wrong."

She clung to him weeping until he put away her hands and went out. The girl threw herself face downward upon the lounge and sobbed, this time from a sense of loneliness and perhaps of loss.

McCarthy descended the stairs and walked rapidly through the darkened lawn to the street. In spite of his pretense of believing there was no danger he found himself nervous. He walked two blocks toward the street car line, when a taxicab swerved toward the sidewalk.

"Taxi, sir, taxi?" asked the driver. "Take you downtown, sir?"

McCarthy hesitated an instant. If he hurried back to the hotel and found Swanson he would rid himself of the nervous dread of something intangible which he could not explain.

"How much downtown?" he asked, stopping near the taxicab, which had come to a full stop.

"Take you down for half rates, sir; I'm going that way."

"Very well," said McCarthy.

He walked to the side of the car, and turned the handle to step within.

The instant he entered the car he felt himself seized and jerked downward while a pair of hands gripped at his throat. A vicious blow struck him on the back of the neck. Twisting, fighting, squirming, he struggled to free himself from the hands that were throttling him. His knees found a grip upon the floor of the car, and bracing himself, he jerked loose from one of the men, and struck wildly at the shape he saw silhouetted against the opposite window. His fist met flesh with a crunching sound.

"I'll kill you for that," gritted someone, striking him. In the half light of the interior McCarthy saw an object descending. He threw up an arm to protect his head, and with a crunching blow a heavy blackjack fell upon his arm. He seized the weapon and jerked it from the hand that had held it, but it fell to the floor of the cab.

McCarthy had struggled to his feet, bowing as his head struck the roof.

One man, seated, kicked at him and hurt him cruelly. He was standing, with the car door swinging wide, while the car lurched and raced along a rough street.

Curses, groans, cries of pain and anger came from the interior as the player, battling against two unknown opponents, fought on. All three of the partic.i.p.ants in the battle at forty miles an hour, were hampered by the smallness of the interior.

McCarthy strove to tear himself from the arms and legs that struck and kicked him, to get his head out of the window to raise the alarm.

Again and again he cried. Then suddenly the car lurched around a corner at a mad pace, tipping onto two wheels and skidding sickeningly.

At that instant one of his a.s.sailants drove his feet against his body, and, as the car lurched wildly, McCarthy broke loose, grasped frantically for something to save himself, plunged from the machine, struck upon the asphalt of the side street into which the car had whirled, slid along it to the gutter and lay a huddled heap.

The car stopped quickly and whirled back to where he lay. The men leaped out, one cursing and frothing, the other urging silence and haste. Between them they lifted the half-conscious player and shoved him into the bottom of the car.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE MEN LEAPED OUT]

"Hurry up, Fred," urged the quiet man to the driver. "These fellows down at the corner are coming. Jump in, Jack."

They leaped back into the taxi, and the man called Jack said viciously:

"There--you, that'll teach you"--He kicked the prostrate player.

"Cut that out," ordered the quiet man, quickly. "You needn't murder him; he's fixed."