The Case and the Girl Part 23

The woman nodded.

"Jim will know what to do with him," she said. "All we got to do is keep him safe."

"I'll attend to that; come on, Mark, let's throw the d.a.m.n sneak into that left-hand stateroom. He'll stay there all right. Aw, take hold; don't be afraid of hurting the fellow."

They roughed him forward, but West made no attempt to resist; his hands were bound, and he was helpless. The woman threw open the narrow door, and he was bundled unceremoniously across the threshold, and thrown heavily to the floor. He struggled partially upright, protesting against being left in that helpless condition, but the red-moustached man only laughed, shutting the door tightly, and locking it. The single port hole was covered by heavy drapery, the stateroom in total darkness. Through the door panels he could hear a voice speaking.

"He's better off that way until we get out of here. You stay here, Mary, till I can attend to him myself. Those fellows ought to have that engine fixed by this time. Mark and I better go up on deck awhile."

"But, Joe, do you think they have caught on to us?" she asked anxiously.

"No, I don't; this guy wouldn't be snooping about alone if they had. He ain't no fly cop, and just happened to be loafin' here--that's my guess.

He knew this was the Coolidge Yacht, and that set him to asking questions. That guy don't look to me like he was the kind to be afraid of. All we got to do is hold him here until Jim decides what he's up to.

I don't want to hurt him none, unless I have to. Everything else all right, I suppose?"

"Sure; quiet as a mouse; asleep, I guess."

"That's good; well you stay here until I come back. Want a gun?"

She did not answer so as to be heard, but West could distinguish the movement of feet in the outer cabin, and then the closing of a door.

Undoubtedly the two men had gone on deck, leaving the woman there alone.

His feet were not tied, and he could sit up, although the hands were tightly bound behind him. With eyes accustoming themselves to the gloom, he could discern something of his surroundings. He was in the ordinary stateroom of a small yacht, with barely s.p.a.ce in which to move about comfortably. Two bunks were at one side, with a metal stand at their foot for washing purposes. A rug covered the floor, the beds were made, and a stool, screwed to the deck, occupied a position just below the porthole.

A few hooks were in evidence on the opposite wall; but no garments dangled from them to tell of previous occupancy. Indeed the place was scrupulously clean, as though unused for some time.

West made his way to the port, pushed aside the curtain with his shoulders and looked out. The smallness of the opening made any hope of escape in that way impossible; nor could he expect to attract the attention of any one ash.o.r.e. His view was limited to the east and north, a wide expanse of blue water, the only thing in sight being the pleasure boat bound for Lincoln Park, already little more than a black dot in the distance. Convinced of his complete helplessness, he sat down on the stool to consider the situation.

He had been a fool; there was no doubt as to that; the only thing now was how he could best retrieve his folly. He had walked blindly into a trap, suspecting nothing, confidently relying on his own smartness, believing himself unknown. Now he must find his way out. It angered him to realize how easily it had been accomplished; not so much as a blow struck; no opportunity even for him to cry out an alarm--only that dark cabin, and the threatening revolver shoved against his cheek. He wondered where McAdams was; perhaps hunting him even then on the pier; and s.e.xton, what had he succeeded in discovering out at Fairlawn? That Natalie Coolidge had returned home, no doubt. At least he no longer believed she was with this yachting party--evidently there was but one woman on board. Yet, whether she was there or not, it was clear enough from what he had heard that this sudden voyage of the _Seminole_ had some direct connection with the mystery he was endeavouring to solve. That was why he had been decoyed aboard, and made prisoner--to keep him silent; to get him securely out of the way. Yet this knowledge revealed nothing as to what their real purpose was.

What did they intend doing with him now that he was in their hands? Joe had declared his fate would be left with Hobart. Then it must be that they had a rendezvous arranged somewhere with that arch-conspirator, some hidden spot along the lake sh.o.r.e where they were to meet shortly, and divide the spoils, or make further plans. Hobart unquestionably was the leader of the gang; but who was the woman? She had evidently been in Mike's Place the night before, and had a glimpse of his face. She must have left with that party in the automobile, yet she surely was not the one who had dropped that note begging the police to search this vessel.

What then had become of the other? If she was being held prisoner, it was not at all probable she had been left somewhere ash.o.r.e; apparently she had reason to know where she was being taken--to the _Seminole_; otherwise she would never have written as she did. She must have overheard their plans, before she hastily scratched off the note desperately; and yet those plans might have been changed. However, if so, why were these people--accomplices of Hobart no doubt--fleeing in the yacht, seeking to conceal their ident.i.ty in an effort to disappear? What were they fleeing from? Why were they so fearful of discovery by the police? What would cause them to kidnap him, merely on suspicion that he was a friend of Natalie Coolidge? The very act was proof positive of the desperation of their crime. It could be accounted for on no other theory.

West paced the narrow s.p.a.ce, his brain whirling, as he attempted to reason the affair out, his own helplessness becoming more and more apparent. What could he do? There was but one answer--absolutely nothing as he was then situated. He could only wait for some movement on the part of the others; his fate was out of his own hands; he had been a fool, and must pay the price. The cords about his wrists chafed and hurt with each movement. The metal wash-stand gave him an inspiration; its upper strip was thin, and somewhat jagged along the edge; possibly it might be utilized to sever the strands. It was better to try the experiment than remain thus helplessly bound. With hands free he could at least defend himself.

He made the effort, doubtfully at first, but hope came as the sharp edge began to tear at the rope. It was slow work, awkward, requiring all the strength of his arms, yet he felt sure of progress. He could feel the strands yield little by little, and redoubled his efforts. It hurt, the rope lacerating his wrists, and occasionally the jagged steel cut into the flesh cruelly, but the thought of freedom outweighed the pain, and he persevered manfully. At last, exercising all his muscle, the last frayed strand snapped. His wrists were bleeding, and the hands numb, but the severed cord lay on the floor and he again had the free use of his arms.

The sudden freedom brought new hope and courage. He listened at the door, testing the k.n.o.b cautiously. There was no yielding, and for the moment no sound reached him from without. The woman was doubtless there on guard, and any effort he might make to break down the door would only bring the whole gang upon him. Unarmed, he could not hope to fight them all. As he stood there, hesitating, unable to determine what to attempt, he became aware of a throbbing under foot, increasing in intensity. West knew instantly what it meant--they were testing out the engine; if all worked well, the boat would cast off.

He sprang back to the port and stared out, eagerly hoping that, as they swept out into the lake, he might find some opportunity to communicate with some one on the pier. Perhaps by this time Mac would have arrived, and be watching their departure, unable to intervene, as he had no warrant for arrest, or any definite knowledge that the yacht was being used for a criminal purpose. He had not long to wait. Hurrying steps echoed along the deck; a voice shouted out some order, and the end of a loosened rope dropped splashing into the water astern; the boat trembled to the pulsations of the engine, and West realized that it was at first slowly, then more swiftly, slipping away into the broad water. Already he could perceive the white wake astern, and, an instant later, as the turn to the right widened, he had a glimpse of the pier, already separated from him by a broad expanse of trembling water. Above the noise his voice would scarcely reach that distance. A crowd of people stood there watching, clinging along the edge of the promenade--McAdams was not among them. It would be useless to strive to attract their attention; not one among them would comprehend; even if they did, not one of them could help. He still stood there, gazing back at the fast receding pier, gradually becoming blurred in the distance, but hopelessly. He knew now he must face his fate alone.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE FATE OF A PRISONER

The _Seminole_ headed straight out into the lake, its course evidently a little to the north of east. The steady throb of the engine exhibited no lack of power, the snowy wake behind telling of rapid progress. There was a distinct swell to the water, increasing as they advanced, but not enough to seriously r.e.t.a.r.d speed, the sharp bow of the yacht cutting through the waves like the blade of a knife, the broken water churning along the sides. West clung to his perch, peering out through the open port, watching the fast disappearing sh.o.r.e line in the giant curve from the Munic.i.p.al Pier northward to Lincoln Park. In spite of the brightness overhead, there must have been fog in the air, for that distant view quickly became obscure and then as suddenly vanished altogether. There remained no sign of land in sight; only the seemingly limitless expanse of blue water, not so much as a trail of smoke breaking the encircling rim of the sky.

Except for the occasional tread of feet on the deck above, and the faint call of a voice giving orders, the yacht seemed deserted, moving unguided across the waste of waters. No sound of movement or speech reached West's ears from the cabin, and he settled down into moody forgetfulness, still staring dully out through the open port. What was to be, would be, but there was nothing for him to do but wait for those who held him prisoner, to act. He was still seated there, listless, incapable even of further thought, when the door was suddenly unlocked. He had barely time to arise to his feet, when the man with the red moustache stepped within, facing him, as he pushed tightly shut the door behind. The fellow's eyes saw the severed rope on the floor, and he smiled, kicking the strands aside contemptuously.

"Smart enough for that, were you?" he asked. "Well, I would have taken them off myself, if I had thought about it. How did you manage? Oh, I see; rather a bright trick, old man. Feeling pretty fit, are you?"

West did not answer at once; this fellow had come with an object in mind, and his only desire was to baffle him. It was to be a contest of wits, and helpless as the prisoner was physically, he had no intention of playing into the other's hands.

"I might be, if I knew what all this meant," he said at last. "Haven't you got hold of the wrong party?"

The man laughed, standing where he blocked all pa.s.sage.

"I might have been convinced that I had an hour ago," he answered coldly.

"But since then I find I've made rather a good bet. I have the honour of addressing Captain West, I believe?"

"You have the name correct; there is no reason why I should deny that.

Unfortunately, I do not know with whom I am conversing."

"Quite easily remedied. I am Joe Hogan, commonly called 'Red' Hogan. The moniker means nothing to you."

"I never heard it before."

"I thought not, which merely proves you are not a 'fly-cop,' only a measly busy-body sticking your nose into some one else's business. Well, we know how to take care of your kind, and this is likely to prove the last case you'll dabble in for a while, my man."

"What does that mean--a threat?"

"Never mind what it means; it is a straight tip. Now listen, West--Captain West I believe is the proper term of address--and you will understand better. When I got you in here I had no real knowledge as to who you were. I merely took a chance on what Mary had to say, and she twigged you at once. She's smart, that woman; never forgets a face. She sure did a good job this time. But after you were locked in safe, and n.o.body knew what had happened, and you certainly handled easily enough, I slipped ash.o.r.e into the restaurant and called up Jim Hobart on the wire.

Did he give me your pedigree? He did. Jim was about the happiest guy in the town when he learned we had you bottled. Raised h.e.l.l last night, didn't you? All right, my friend, you are going to pay the piper today.

What got you into this muss, anyhow? You are no relation to the Coolidge girl, are you?"

"None whatever; merely a friend."

"Friend, hey! Well, she's a good looker; so this friendship stuff is easily accounted for. Friend, h.e.l.l!" he laughed. "You must have it bad to put on all these stunts for sweet friendship's sake. You wouldn't even quit when she told you to."

"I believed she was compelled to say what she did to me," replied West quietly. "That she was in Hobart's power, afraid of her life. There was no other explanation of her strange action possible."

"Is that so?"

"I am willing to listen to such an explanation, Hogan, and if satisfied she really wishes me to keep out of the affair, I will."

"And if not?"

"Then I am going to fight in her cause to the very end of things. You cannot frighten me; your only chance to influence my action is to make things clear. I confess I have been fighting in the dark, not even comprehending your purpose. I do know that the main stake your gang is after is the Coolidge fortune; that, in order to get hold of it, you are obliged to keep control over Miss Natalie. But I can conceive no reason why she should a.s.sist in the conspiracy. She certainly cannot be benefited by having her own fortune stolen. This is what puzzles me, but it hasn't changed my loyalty to her. I still believe in her, and feel that she is simply a victim of circ.u.mstances beyond her control. Am I frank enough?"

"Sure; it all means you intend to remain a blunder-headed fool defending a girl who does not desire any defence--a Don Quixote tilting at wind-mills. That is your choice, is it?"

"Unless you care to explain clearly just how Miss Natalie's interests are being protected."

"Which I am not at liberty to do at present. She is satisfied, and has practically told you so, according to Jim Hobart. If you will not accept her word, there is no use of my saying anything about the matter.

Besides, West, frankly I don't give a d.a.m.n what you think. We've got you safe enough, where you can't do anything, even if you want to--so, why worry? Twenty-four hours more will finish our little job, and, until that time is up, you'll remain right here; after that we don't care where in h.e.l.l you go, or what you do--the game will have been played."