Rayton: A Backwoods Mystery Part 27

"You are wrong, my big friend. You can have your liberty--qualified liberty--this minute if you wish. All you have to do is swear to me, on your honor as a Christian and a gentleman, that you will never mention this little adventure to a living person. You must invent some story for Rayton and set out for New York to-night. You must drop this feeble idea of yours of playing the detective. In short, you must swear to mind your own business in the future and leave me and mine alone."

"I'll see you in h.e.l.l first!" cried the sportsman. "I am on your trail, and I'll stick to it. You'll pay heavily for this."

Wigmore chuckled. "Pay?" he said. "Pay? You forget, you big slob, that I am banker in this game--and I am not the kind of banker that pays."

"What do you think you are going to do with me?" asked Banks, with outward calm.

"Lots of things," replied Wigmore. "I will reduce your flesh, for one thing; and your fat pride for another. I'll make you whimper and crawl 'round on your knees. But just now I'll request you to come downstairs.

Since you have broken the door of that room, I must give you another."

"I hope the other room will be an improvement on this."

"Yes. A very comfortable room."

"And what about breakfast?"

"You will have a cup of tea in half an hour--if you behave yourself in the meantime."

Banks laughed uncertainly.

"See here, captain, don't you think this joke has gone far enough?" he asked.

"Not at all," replied Wigmore. "My joke has just begun. Yours ended very quickly, on the floor of my sitting room--but that was your own fault.

You are a blundering joker, Banks. You should have made sure that I was not at home before you went round shaking all the doors, and then crawled through the window. But that is a thing of the past, now, and so beyond mending. I hope you will derive more entertainment from my joke than you did from your own."

Banks had no answer to make to that. He fisted his big hands and breathed heavily.

"I must ask you now to step back to the farther wall of your room," said Wigmore.

Banks hesitated for a moment, then backed across the threshold and across the little room until his shoulders touched the farther wall.

"Stay there until I give you the word," said the old man.

Then face and rifle barrel vanished, and, at the same instant, Banks moved forward noiselessly and swiftly, lifted the couch in his strong hands, and dropped it down the dark well of the staircase. It crashed and banged against the wooden steps and the plaster walls; and before its clattering had ceased the big sportsman himself was halfway down the stairs. Halfway--and then he halted and recoiled, clutching at the cold walls! The couch had been a second too slow in following Wigmore, and Banks a second too slow in following the couch. The captain stood at the bottom of the stairs, a foot beyond the wreckage of the couch, laughing sardonically and presenting the muzzle of the rifle fair at his captive's waist.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THEN HE HALTED AND RECOILED, CLUTCHING AT THE COLD WALLS!"]

"That was a false start," he said. "But I was expecting it, fortunately."

Banks sat down on a dusty step, trembling violently. He felt sick--actually sick at his stomach--with rage, chagrin, and terror of that ready rifle and the sinister face behind it. The eyes of the old man were more terrifying than the menacing black eye of the weapon. The gleam at their depths was scarcely human.

"Well?" asked Banks, at last, weakly. He pa.s.sed a gloved hand across his forehead. "Well? What are you going to do?"

"That depends on you," said the captain. "If you throw furniture at me every time I turn my back, I'll be forced to knock you out again and tie you up. I can't risk being killed by you, for my life is valuable."

"Do you intend to hit me again with the sandbag?" asked the New Yorker thickly.

"No, I don't mean to take that risk again," replied the other. "Another crack like that might kill you--and I don't want to kill you just yet, unless I have to. Perhaps I won't kill you at all, my dear fellow. I may--of course; but I don't think so at the moment. I am whimsical, however--a man of quick and innumerable moods. However, I do not expect to thump you again with the sandbag. I have this rifle--for serious work--and this queer-looking little pistol for the joking. It is a chemical pistol--quite a new invention. I have tested it, and found it to be all the manufacturers claim for it. Don't move! You can see and hear perfectly well where you are! If I discharge it in your face, at a range of twenty feet, or under, it will stun you, and leave you stunned for an hour or more, without tearing the flesh or breaking any bones.

The thing that hits you is gas--I forget just what kind. It is pretty potent, anyway--and I don't suppose you are particular as to what variety of gas you are shot with. It is a fine invention, and works like a charm. I am quite eager to test it again."

"Don't! Don't! Great heavens, man, have you gone mad?" cried Mr. Banks.

Old Wigmore raised the odd, sinister-looking pistol in his left hand.

"I don't think it hurts very much," he said. "Feels like being smothered, I believe. Of course the shock may be quite severe at such close range as this."

Banks closed his eyes. He was less of a coward than most men; but to sit there on the narrow stairs, chilled and helpless, and wait for the discharge of an unknown weapon in his face was more than courage and nerves could stand.

"Shoot!" he screamed. "Shoot, and be done with it!"

He cut a queer figure, humped there bulkily, in his great fur coat, with the fur cap pulled low about his ears, his eyes shut tight, and his big face colorless with fatigue and apprehension--a queer, pathetic, tragic figure. He waited for the explosion, every sense and every nerve stretched till his very skin ached. His mind was in a whirl. The thumping of his heart sounded in his ears like the roaring and pounding of surf.

"Shoot! Shoot!" he whispered, with dry lips and leathern tongue.

And still he waited--waited. At last he could bear the strain no longer.

He uttered a harsh cry, stumbled to his feet, and opened his eyes, leaning one shoulder heavily against a wall of the staircase. A gasp of relief escaped him. Wigmore had retreated, and now stood several yards away from the bottom step. The muzzle of the rifle was still toward his victim, but his left hand, gripping that terrible, mysterious, little weapon, was lowered to his side. He chuckled. His face looked like that of a very old, very unhuman, and very goatish satyr.

"Wipe your eyes, my dear Banks," he said. "I won't hurt you, you poor little thing. Dry your eyes, and come down the rest of the way. I'll stand here, at the head of these stairs, while you toddle into that room. Then I'll lock the door, which is very strong, and get you your cup of tea. Come along! Come along! I haven't the heart to hurt such a white-livered whimperer."

For a moment the big sportsman glared at him, contemplating a mad rush, at the risk of a bullet through his breast--but only for a moment.

Something in the old man's leer told him that the finger on the trigger would not hesitate, the muzzle would not waver. To attack now would be suicide. He realized that he was at the mercy of a madman.

"I'm coming. I'll be mightly glad of the tea," he said, with a painful attempt at a smile.

He made his way falteringly to the bottom of the steps, across the hall, and into the room indicated by the old man. All the fight and all the strength had gone out of him--for the time being, at least. The terrible play on the stairs had taken more stamina out of him than a day's march through a tangled wilderness, with a seventy-pound pack on his shoulders. He staggered to the bed, and sat down dizzily on the edge of it. Old Wigmore stood on the threshold, leering.

"I hope you like the room," he said. "I spent most of the night in fixing it up for you."

"Thanks. It looks fine," replied Banks. And it really was fine, he noticed, gazing around with reviving hope. There was a window--a real window--in the wall. He could soon attract attention from that window, or let himself out of it by a rope made of bedclothes. He had read of that dodge a dozen times. The old fellow was mad certainly; but there did not seem to be much method in his madness, after all. Banks turned his face away so as to hide a wan smile.

"Sit where you are, my boy, and I'll bring your tea in a minute," said the old man.

Then he stepped back and closed the door. Banks continued to sit on the bed and gaze around the room, uncertain whether to go to the window now or wait until Wigmore had brought the tea and again retired. He did not want to bungle things by being in too great a hurry. With a little patience and cunning on his part, his mad old jailer would soon be in his power. He decided to wait where he was. The bed was soft, and he was woefully tired. He turned sideways, threw his feet up, and sank head and shoulders back upon the tempting pillows.

With a sharp click, followed by a soft thud, the middle of the bed sank to the floor, and the bulging sides folded inward upon the astonished Mr. Banks. He shouted and struggled; but his head was lower than his heels, and his arms were pinned firmly against his sides. At last he twisted over until he lay on his left shoulder, and his right arm was clear. In another minute he would have been out of the ridiculous trap; but suddenly Captain Wigmore appeared, slipped a rope around the imbedded ankles, and bound them tight; and another around the free arm, and made it fast to the head of the bed. Then the old man stood and leered down at him.

"You are a terrible fellow for smashing furniture," he said. "You have a very violent temper. Out you come! Out you come!"

With incredible strength, the old man gripped the big, floundering sportsman, and yanked him from the bed, where he lay helpless, with his feet tied together, and his right wrist fast to the bed.

"There you are!" remarked Wigmore briskly. "Now, will you be good? Sit up, while I fix the bed. Sit up, do you hear? Then I'll give you your breakfast. You don't deserve it--but I have a tender heart."

He prodded Banks with the toe of his boot. Banks sat up without a word.

His rage clouded his mind and deadened his tongue. Wigmore dragged the heavy bedding to the floor, and gazed with admiration at the bedstead.

All the slats, save a few at the foot, were hinged in the middle.

"My own invention," said the old man. "Very ingenious, don't you think?

But it has done its work, so let it lie. Here are some blankets for you, Banks. Hope you don't object to sleeping on the floor."