Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

This story began in Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction for August 27

An occultist prophesied his death at the wheel, so he defied it everywhere else: at each turn he flirted with the grim specter.

Chapter XLIII The Man in the Gray Coat

The buzzer on Steele’s desk sounded twice. He took up the telephone.

“Steele speaking.”

A quiet, deep voice answered. “This is District Attorney O’Neil.”

“Oh, yes! Good afternoon, Mr. O’Neil.”

“A matter has come to my attention which I think may interest you. A man identified as Charles F. Drohan, a well-known bootlegger and gangster, died at the City Hospital this morning from hydrophobia, caused by having had his hand bitten by a dog. He made a number of statements which were taken down and sent to my office. In these statements are unmistakable references to the death of Stone.”

“Indeed?” said the head of the agency, with quick interest.

“The man also mentioned your name, Mr. Steele; and, although much of this is incoherent and is evidently in reference to some money he had upon his person, it occurs to me that it might mean more to you than it does to me. I am sending a copy over to you.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. O’Neil.”

“Drohan evidently believed that he was talking to some one whose name was Artie,” the public prosecutor added. “You don’t know of any gangster whose first name is Arthur who was in the cabaret on the night of the crime?”

“Artie—” Steele repeated thoughtfully. “I don’t believe I do.”

“Well, I’ll send the paper over. If anything does occur to you, I’d like to hear from you, as I am very anxious to throw some light on that crime.”

The private investigator thanked him.

In the morning the statements arrived at the office of the agency. Steele examined them in his inner room for more than an hour, and also read the short newspaper account of how Drohan had been found stricken. At eleven o’clock he went out and drove in his gray roadster to station ten, where he learned that Officer Barnes would be on duty on his regular route during the first half of the night.

Returning to his office after luncheon, Steele called the State’s prosecutor.

“Steele, of the National Detective Agency,” he told the secretary.

“Yes, Mr. Steele?” the district attorney answered presently.

“Mr. O’Neil, I have examined Drohan’s statements very carefully. I am not sure how much help they will provide in the Stone case, but there are certain references which should be kept from reaching any of the other gangsters. I—” He hesitated. “What do you think the chances are of keeping the contents of the paper from reaching them?”

“What do you mean?” asked O’Neil, slightly puzzled.

“Well, it is of the utmost importance that the Castle gangsters be kept from learning what Drohan said. In fact, it may possibly be a life or death matter, involving a man who has obtained evidence against them. Do you think it likely that any one at the hospital has talked?”

“As to that, I can’t say, Mr. Steele. I suppose Drohan’s family or friends have taken the body, and they may have asked some questions. I’ll send my officer right over there this afternoon, to caution the physicians and nurses that they shouldn’t say anything about the statements.”

This, the investigator felt, was none too reassuring, but it seemed the best that could be done. His manner was grave as he hung up the receiver.

Important matters were awaiting his attention. One was directly connected with the Harrison case. He touched a button and summoned Thompson to the room.

“I want you and Brown to go to court at once about that Edwards warrant. Call at police headquarters first, and ask for Special Officer Bennett.”

“We... we didn’t get any more evidence, sir—” the operative ventured.

“No, I understand that. Present what you have.”

The two young detectives went immediately to headquarters, where they found Bennett, the leader of the raiding squad, and explained that Steele desired to have a warrant sworn out for the arrest of a man on a liquor complaint. As liquor prosecutions were part of Bennett’s duty, he consented to go to court with them and to take charge of the warrant.

Judge Epstein was sitting when the operatives gave their testimony. Edwards, named in the document as “John Doe,” had been keeping and selling liquor in one of the best residential districts, and Steele’s concern had been engaged by several citizens to prosecute him. But the magistrate refused to grant the warrant, stating that there was not sufficient evidence.

“I told the boss we didn’t have enough!” Thompson fumed, as they left the courthouse.

He turned to Bennett. “We’ll have to see what Mr. Steele wants us to do—”

“All right,” the raiding officer agreed. “Tell him I’m ready whenever he is.”

They returned to their office and reported the judge’s adverse decision.

“Very well,” was their employer’s only comment.

In the early evening Steele drove up Albion Avenue for some distance, and talked with Officer Barnes of division ten. The policeman willingly repeated his story about the discovery of Drohan’s condition. Asked about the man who had been with the bootlegger, he described the other’s appearance and his clothes, and added that no trace of him had been found since.

The automobile, he said, was at the nearest service station awaiting disposal. He was emphatic upon the point that Drohan had not made any remark in his presence; he had been in convulsions until the ambulance had arrived.

Steele thanked him and visited the service station, hoping that he might learn something more by examining the car. He was disappointed in this, for the sedan had been claimed and taken away, but he received considerable information from the attendant on duty.

“You know,” he declared, “I couldn’t figure what was wrong with the poor chap. His radiator was burning up for want of water — he hadn’t filled it for days, I guess — and he almost had a fit when I went to fill it. ‘Fear of water,’ eh?” He shook his head.

“Did you notice the man with him?”

“Oh, yes, sir! Queer about that fellow, too — the way he ducked out of sight so quick.” He gave Steele a good description.

Early in the morning the investigator called Marvin to his office. The latter had come from New York in response to his telegram. Bolton had not arrived from Chicago, but was expected in the late forenoon.

“Marvin,” said Steele, latching the door, “I have a question to ask you. I want you to think carefully. About the search warrants for Harrison’s. Have you ever told any one, any one at all, how you obtained them?”

The younger man met his glance. “No, sir.”

“You are positive? You’ve never mentioned it?”

“No, sir, I have not,” declared Marvin, still looking at him frankly, although there was perplexity upon his face. “I’m certain that I’ve never even spoken of it — except, perhaps, once, in a half joking way, in New York while I was lunching with Art Williams. Why, Mr. Steele?”

Without answering, his employer rose and walked to the window, where he stood looking down at the traffic in the street. Marvin was deeply curious, but he did not question him again.

He wondered why Steele was so quiet and so solemn.

Chapter XLIV To Warn McArthur

During the noon hour Steele went to police headquarters in company with Thompson and Brown.

“Mr. Bennett?” the head of the agency inquired.

“Mr. Bennett is out to lunch, Mr. Steele,” said LeClair, one of the raiding squad. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No, thank you; never mind now. My operatives applied for an arrest warrant yesterday, and Judge Epstein wouldn’t grant it. You might tell Officer Bennett, if you will, that our client is in a hurry, and I’m going to ask McNulty to take the warrant if he’s upstairs.”

The headquarters building adjoined the courthouse. Ascending to the second floor, the three men found Special Officer McNulty of the district attorney’s office waiting for them.

“Mr. O’Neil says you’d like me to get out a warrant.”

“Yes; if you will, please, Mr. McNulty.”

Judge Epstein’s court was at recess, and they took seats.

After an interval, a court officer swung open a door at the end of the room. “The co-o-ourt!” he proclaimed; and all rose while the justice entered, glancing around over the tops of his spectacles.

McNulty had already obtained a blank. He nodded to Steele, and they stepped to the bench, leaving the operatives seated. In the buzz of preliminary matters, scarcely any one noticed them.

“If it pleases your honor,” Steele requested, quietly, “we desire a search warrant for the premises at 142 Warrington Street, on the grounds of illegal gaming and gaming implements.”

“What evidence have you that there is gambling on these premises?” the court asked.

Steele turned and raised a finger. Two men who had been seated in a corner approached. Bolton told the judge what he had seen in the house.

“My evidence is the same, your honor,” said Marvin.

“I have two other witnesses with more recent observations—” At the investigator’s nod, Thompson and Brown rose.

Judge Epstein dismissed it with a gesture. “I grant the warrant,” he stated — and gave his attention to others.

The clerk completed the document, and they left the court.

Steele had lunch, sent several telegrams connected with other cases, and returned to his office. As soon as he entered, Somers informed him that the district attorney had been trying to reach him by telephone.

The head of the agency frowned. What had developed now? He called O’Neil’s office, only to be told that the prosecutor was at a special sitting of the grand jury.

At four o’clock, Steele had not obtained communication with him. He called police headquarters and asked for Special Officer Bennett.

“This is Steele, Mr. Bennett.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Steele.”

“I left word to-day about a warrant I planned to apply for.”

“Yes — I was at lunch. Did you get the warrant?”

“McNulty of the D.A.’s office has taken it,” the investigator replied. “He says he may heed a little assistance in serving it. Can you let us have one or two of your men?”

“Certainly. When do you want it served?”

“We thought of to-night—”

“All right, Mr. Steele. Where, and what time?”

“Suppose we meet in the drug store beneath Huntington Hall at eleven.”

“That’s O.K. with me,” declared Bennett. “I’ll have two men there, or else come myself. I have another little job to-night.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bennett.”

After another half hour, Steele tried the district attorney’s office once more. This time he was successful.

“Yes, I called you early this afternoon,” O’Neil answered. “McNulty probably didn’t say anything to you this noon about his visit to the City Hospital, because I told him it wasn’t to be spoken of.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Well, he explained carefully to them that they shouldn’t talk to any one about Drohan’s statements. Of course, we don’t know that they haven’t let slip something already. But I’m positive there has been no leak here.

“McNulty and my secretary are the only ones who know anything about the matter. I have locked up the original paper, and there are no copies except yours and the ones I sent to the superintendent of police and the captain of division five. I—” He hesitated. “I don’t know how much help division five will be able to give me on the case, but I don’t want them to say I am keeping them in the dark.”

“I see,” said Steele.

He thanked O’Neil for his interest, and sat gazing thoughtfully at his desk.

Then, taking up the telephone again, he called another number — a man who lived in the South End, an informer. The authorities had many stool pigeons. Since his connection with the district attorney and with James Ward, Steele had had a few. He asked the man several questions, and the answers were disquieting.

Steele came to his decision quickly. He must finish without Dizzy McArthur. The inventor would be bitterly disappointed, but it was the safer and saner course. At least, he must let him make the choice with his eyes fully open, not blindly — must tell him the peril, not leave him unsuspecting.

It would mean abandoning certain plans which had already been worked out in detail. That was, if he could induce the inventor to withdraw. But it was safer. He called McArthur’s home.

There was no answer. He tried his club, but the inventor was not there.

The clock on Steele’s desk showed five minutes after five. From beneath his windows ascended the noise of traffic homeward bound. He pressed a button.

Somers entered, wearing his coat and holding his hat.

“Don’t let any of the men go home for a little while,” the investigator ordered. “I may need them all.”

The youth went out, puzzled. Harper, an older man who was in charge of the local branch, entered Steele’s room and sat with him, hesitating to ask questions. At five thirty the head of the agency tried McArthur’s home again. There was still no response. He called the club. McArthur was not there and had not been there.

“You may go to dinner,” Steele told his men. “Be here at seven.”

At that hour they returned — Marvin, Bolton, Somers, Thompson, Brown, and Harper — and found their employer alone in his office, telephone in hand, his face expressionless.

“I want you to scatter through town and look for a man,” he told them. “All of you except Harper; he has to meet the train, and he doesn’t know the man, anyway. Bolton and Marvin, it’s the chap who took you into Harrison’s. Thompson, Somers, and Brown — it’s the man you’ve often trailed through the South End at night.

“He has promised to be on hand at eleven. However, that doesn’t mean meeting us. He may go home or to his club before that, but I can’t risk it. I’ll send a man to cover his house. Find him if you can. If you can’t — come back here at ten. We must reach him some way before he goes into the South End to-night.”

He gave a few more rapid instructions to his operatives, and they scattered. Harper shook his head when they had gone. The law of averages was heavily against them. He remained with Steele until nine; and at every half hour the latter made his telephone call to the club.

Shortly after Harper had left the office, Harris, the man on night duty, entered from the outer room.

“Williams is on the line, sir, to ask if you want him to work to-night.”

“Tell him I’ll not need him,” Steele replied.

At two minutes before ten, all of the operatives had returned to the building. The gravity of the situation had been sensed by each. It was a quiet, tense little group which faced the director-in-chief. There was no need for them to tell him of their failure.

“Did you watch the theater district?” Steele asked.

“Yes, sir — until eight thirty,” replied Somers. “After that we watched the railroad stations.”

“Well,” the head of the agency said, simply, his countenance still inscrutable, “I don’t think we can do anything more for the present.”

There was silence, broken only by a church clock which slowly struck the hour, like a bell that was tolling.

Chapter XLV From South Wyndham

Dizzy McArthur had been obliged to spend the entire afternoon at the State House, looking up records and making certain applications connected with his business. It was after six o’clock, and nearly dark, when he walked uptown and entered a telegraph office about a half mile from his home.

There he spent an hour and forty minutes dispatching two messages to his business agent in Washington and awaiting a reply. When he presented his second telegram to the young woman in the office, she paused as she was turning back to her desk.

“Is this Mr. Kendall McArthur, of 36 Winthrop Street?”

“Yes.”

“We have two telegrams here for you, sir. They came late this afternoon, but we received no answer at your home, and the messenger was unable to deliver them at the door.”

McArthur opened the telegrams. The first was from his brother, who was in New York, sending word that he was detained. The other was from South Wyndham, and read:

He blinked. From Mrs. James Ward, who had been in a critical state at the sanatorium since the chief had died. For days, the inventor had heard, she had not spoken. What was the reason for this request?

Perhaps some important instruction, which the chief, at the very last, had wanted given. The chief, who had trusted him! And what did Mrs. Ward mean by “more danger?” Was it hanging over her son?

At all events, Mrs. Ward needed help and advice immediately.

But McArthur could not go until after midnight. It was impossible; he was sure that the chief’s wife would not wish it if she knew the circumstances. What could he do? He couldn’t ask assistance from Steele — for Steele and all his men were to be busy, also. Where was Harold Ward?

He stepped to a booth in the office and called Ward’s home, but received no answer.

His reply from Washington had not come. He seized a third blank.

The inventor drew a long breath as he paid for the message. He had done all that he could until twelve o’clock.

No — not all!

The answer from his agent came at last. Hurrying out of the office, he went rapidly up the street to the next corner, to one of the new “drive-yourself” automobile rental stations.

“What kind of cars have you?” he asked.

The clerk named several popular makes, and McArthur selected the fastest.

“I’ll want it at nine thirty, and I’ll keep it all night or longer.”

“Very well, sir,” agreed the man, offering a contract blank. “If you’ll sign now, we’ll reserve the car for you. And your license, please.”

The inventor frowned. “Oh, Lord!” he murmured in disgust.

“What’s the matter?”

“I didn’t take it when I changed my clothes. Can’t I get by? It’s very urgent—”

The clerk shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. The regulations are strict.”

McArthur went hastily down town and tried another rental station, but without any better result. In desperation he visited a garage.

The manager did not rent automobiles. He referred McArthur to another establishment.

At length the inventor found a man who promised to have a first-class touring car and a skilled driver ready in an hour. His rates were reasonable, but he insisted upon a substantial payment in advance. Fortunately, McArthur had enough.

He had intended to call Steele, and ascertain if everything had proceeded according to plan, but he realized that it was now too late to find the investigator at his office. At a small restaurant he had dinner. After all, Steele’s voice had been confident when he had told him that he believed this would be the last night.

One night more! His chief, James Ward, had said that, when he was near death. He had said it with little thought of the long, long series of failures and disappointments to follow. With his whole heart, through the many nights and weeks afterward, McArthur had tried to bring the words into reality. Now, at last, Steele, too, had said it; the head coach in the game of peril had predicted — one night more.

The inventor fully realized the difficulties. He had learned the secret ring of one — four — two on the doorbell, but inside the house were four other doors — heavy doors — one in each hallway. How had Steele planned to prevent the sending of advance information? McArthur did not know. It wasn’t his part to know. He could only go ahead and play the game himself. And he must not forget his signals!

Eleven-fifty. Three times four.

He paid for his dinner and returned to the garage. The car was ready, but the driver had not arrived. McArthur surveyed the machine critically. He was satisfied. After another half hour, the chauffeur came, eating the last of a sandwich. He was a big, stout fellow with good-natured blue eyes.

The proprietor introduced him as Mr. Keady, and McArthur gave his instructions.

“I’m going to South Wyndham, by the shore turnpike, starting about midnight, and you’ll have to step on it.”

“I can do that, sir.”

“All right. Until then, you’ll have to wait for me. I’ll show you where to wait.”

The man touched his cap and rolled the car out to the street. A headlight bulb was defective, and he paused to replace it. McArthur got into the front seat beside him.

“Ain’t that a beautiful motor, sir?” the chauffeur asked.

“It’s smooth,” the inventor agreed. “Tires all good?”

“Almost new.”

“What about the exhilarator?”

Mr. Keady looked at him. “The accelerator, sir?”

“I call it the exhilarator.”

“No, sir, the accelerator,” the man explained. “It accelerates the motor.”

“Oh?” said McArthur politely.

The chauffeur threw in the clutch, and they glided away. As they passed a church on the first corner, the clock was striking ten.

Chapter XLVI The Forces Gather

At twenty minutes before eleven, Steele called for Special Officer McNulty at his home. He was alone in his roadster. The white-haired policeman came out immediately, bundled in his overcoat, and the private investigator carefully adjusted the side curtains to keep out the wind. They proceeded across town to Huntington Hall.

There Steele parked his car across the street, and they entered the drug store beneath the auditorium. A few customers were in the store, but none whom they recognized.

They waited until the clock on the wall showed eleven, but did not see Bennett or any of his men. Steele compared the clock with his watch.

“They’re usually late,” McNulty grumbled.

At five minutes past the hour a large, new, high-priced sedan glided to a stop at the curb in front of the door. There were three men inside. Special Officer Bennett of headquarters alighted, puffing languidly at his pipe. Followed by his companions, he entered the drug store.

He smiled as he saw the private investigator.

“Good evening, Mr. Steele.”

“Good evening, Mr. Bennett.”

“Well — we’re here.”

“I’m certainly very much obliged to you.”

No one in the store paid any attention to the group. Bennett, clean-cut and neatly dressed, would have passed for a real estate broker or a star salesman. Fortner, who usually drove the raiding squad’s fast automobile, was not a typical policeman, although he was large and heavy. The third man, Haley, looked more like a professional gunman than a plainclothes officer. He was small and of dark complexion, with a broken nose.

“Mr. McNulty has the ticket, I suppose?” Bennett asked.

Steele touched his arm, and they moved to a secluded corner.

“Yes, Mr. McNulty has the warrant, although I don’t want him to have to take any very active part in serving it.”

“What is it, John Doe, or in the man’s name?”

“Oh, it’s a search warrant,” replied McNulty, fumbling in his breast pocket.

“A search warrant!” repeated Bennett, in surprise. “I didn’t understand that. We haven’t men enough, have we? What’s the nature of it?”

“We probably haven’t officers enough,” Steele answered, “but, according to the words of the warrant, the complainant or his witnesses are authorized to render the officer serving the document any necessary assistance, provided that the officer asks for such assistance. Mr. McNulty, do you wish assistance from my men in serving this warrant?”

“Yes, Mr. Steele,” replied the elderly policeman, still looking among papers from his pocket. “I think we’ll need it.”

“Where are your men?” asked Bennett curiously.

“Here is one.” The private investigator nodded toward a youth who had joined the group. “I believe the others are outside.”

The raiding officer moved to the door, and caught his breath in amazement. Behind his powerful sedan, a line of four closed cars had drawn up, and each car was filled with men.

“For Heaven’s sake! Where did you get them all, Mr. Steele? What kind of a job is this, anyway?”

“As for obtaining them,” the head of the agency replied, “the majority are regularly in my employ. I have Harper, Thompson, Brown, Somers, and Harris of my local office; Marvin, Bolton, and Freeman of my office in New York; Clapp and Rawley, who are stationed in Chicago; and the others are men I have borrowed from local detective agencies. They all have firearms permits, and I think we can render you and Officer McNulty capable assistance.”

“But where on earth are we going?”

“Did you find the warrant, Mr. McNulty?”

“Yes; here it is.”

He passed it to Bennett, who opened it and looked at the address designated. For a moment Bennett did not speak. He stared at the paper as if he had seen a ghost.

“Harrison’s!” he attempted finally.

“That’s it, Bennett,” said Steele in an expressionless voice. “We are planning to knock it to-night.”

Chapter XLVII Little Evelyn’s Message

When McArthur and his driver, Keady, had arrived at the corner of Columbia and Dartnell Streets, on the outskirts of the South End, the former suggested that they stop.

“I have an appointment,” he explained, “but it isn’t quite time for me to keep it. When I do keep it, I’m going to have you wait for me on Oliver Street.”

“All right, sir.”

Entering a store on the corner, McArthur purchased a box of his favorite cigarettes. He placed one in his holder, took it out, put it back in the box, and entered a telephone booth.

He called the news room of the Record.

“Mr. Brown, the sporting editor, please.

“Hello, Jimmie? This is Four-Ace McArthur. How late are you working tonight?”

“Oh, not very late, Mac. About a half hour more. Why? Going down to H’s?”

“Are you going?” the inventor asked.

“I thought I might. I haven’t seen any of the boys for over a week. Or the girls, either.” he added, laughing.

“I suppose the Ice Palace riot is keeping you late?”

“The Ice Palace riot!” repeated Jimmie.

“Yes — the riot up there to-night.”

“What was this?” demanded the other quickly. “We haven’t heard anything about it!”

“Good heavens,” declared McArthur, “I thought it was all over town. The whole visiting team arrested for assault upon the local goal tend; thirty-six spectators arrested for throwing pennies and nickels; fifteen arrested for throwing nails; six for throwing eggs; and one for throwing a monkey wrench. They’re going to get grand jury indictments.”

“For the love of Pete! Say, Mac, are you kidding me?”

“Go up to the Ice Palace when you get through and see,” returned the inventor.

“I will! Thanks for the tip!”

McArthur lit his cigarette and stepped outside, exhaling thoughtfully.

Across the street, two girls were standing. They were painted, and expensively dressed. The inventor recognized both — Rose Mantha and Diamond-Tooth Marjie. It occurred to him that they were looking at him intently and oddly.

Presently a red cab stopped, with a single passenger, a man. The taller girl, Marjie, ran to join him, and they rode down Columbia Street in the direction of Warrington. The other, Rose Mantha, crossed and approached McArthur.

He thought she glanced around cautiously as she came, and he was certain that she was looking at him strangely.

“Mr. Mac,” she ventured, in her rich, soft voice, “you’re not such a bad sort, in spite of all they say. Evelyn wants to see you.”

“In spite of all who says?” asked the inventor, blinking.

“Oh, I don’t know — but honest, Evelyn wants to see you. She’s down in the Canton now. She told me if I saw you, to be sure and tell you. She wants to say something to you.”

“Indeed?” said McArthur. “In the Canton—”

Rose left him and walked up Dartnell Street.

So Little Evelyn was in the Canton again! Also — a fact even more surprising — she was asking for him! McArthur had no intention of going to the cabaret to learn what she wanted. He knew that he hadn’t time to become involved in another situation like the last.

He remained on the corner and smoked for fifteen minutes, failing to see any one else whom he recognized. It was a clear night, although quite cold; and automobile traffic was heavy. An ideal night for the final effort!

Throwing away his second cigarette, the inventor stepped to his car.

“We’ll go down Columbia to Mountfort,” he directed.

“Yes, sir.”

As they passed the Canton Cabaret, McArthur glanced back sharply at sight of a slender form in a light fur coat by the entrance. It was Little Evelyn, watching the automobiles which passed. For an instant McArthur thought that she had seen him.

At Mountfort Street, which was the last before Warrington, he told Keady to turn to the right, and they stopped just beyond the second corner, on Oliver street.

“Now,” the inventor said carefully, “I don’t expect to be back until twelve o’clock, but I want you to stay here in the car all the time, in case I should.”

“I will, sir,” the chauffeur promised.

McArthur walked back along Mountfort Street to Columbia. He looked at his watch as he reached the intersection. Four minutes of eleven. Within an hour, the whole, long issue would be settled — the work finished. Unless Steele had been over-confident.

He felt oddly apprehensive in regard to that.

From where he stood on the corner of Mountfort and Columbia, he could see one side of Harrison’s house, its four stories apparently in darkness. House of death! It bad brought death to more than one of its regular visitors. Death to Wesley Stone. To James Ward, who had worn out his life trying to close it. Was it to claim another victim on this final night?

McArthur glanced carefully up the street, then down. There was not a sign of Steele’s men in the neighborhood, or of the raiding squad or any other police. He felt strangely alone in the gang district. It was the first night that he had ever been conscious of this feeling. But he knew that he had his own part of the work to carry out — a vital part.

Eleven fifty. Three times four.

In one respect, the plan was similar to the previous one. McArthur must enter the house, and must make certain that Harrison was there. He believed that he could gain admittance once more, for he had left the way open for this on his last visit. If Harrison should not be there, he must come out, before the appointed time. If Harrison was there—

“Eleven fifty. Three times four,” he repeated. He said it over and over. “Eleven fifty. Three times four. And don’t you forget it, McArthur, unless you want to go into the time-box and stay there.”

And what of Little Evelyn? Could he delay long enough, after all, to go back to the Canton and invent some pretext for sending her out of danger? He glanced again at his watch, and strode rapidly up the street.

On the way, he considered what he could tell the girl, what ruse he could employ. Not the same one he had devised earlier, or she might suspect what it meant! He might tell her—

With a screech of brakes, a red cab stopped at the curb beside him.

Duke Andrews was the driver. Inside were two men and a woman. McArthur recognized one of the men as Kirke, a friend of Drohan. Kirke was grinning at him, saluting him. He stepped closer, and saw that the other man was a Greek known as Frankie whom he had seen in the gaming house. The heavy, cow-eyed woman in the cab was called King Solomon.

“H’lo, Mac — where you goin’?” greeted Kirke.

“Oh — nowhere in particular—”

“Comin’ in to see Brick to-night?”

The inventor thought quickly. This might be his one best chance to get inside.

“I was, later,” he answered. “Why — does he want to see me?”

“Yeah — he does, Mac,” said the gangster, grinning again.

“I told him I’d be around in a few days,” McArthur offered. He was slightly puzzled by the fact that Kirke continued to laugh while the Greek kept looking at him intently.

“Let’s take a run up now,” Kirke proposed amiably. “Duke will slide us up. Brick’s got a little proposition he wants to make you. I’d sure like to see you accept it.

“What d’you say? Get in, Mac!”

A trifle uncertainly, the inventor complied. The Greek turned down a seat for him. There was something about the whole procedure which seemed a little odd. He could not quite understand their interest or their extreme friendliness.

King Solomon looked soberly at him as he sat down. “Hello, Mr. Mac!” she rumbled.

Duke Andrews turned the cab.

“Well, Mac,” observed Kirke, “poor old Topper’s gone, eh?”

“A dreadful death,” McArthur nodded.

“I’ll say so! When hydrophoby gets a guy, he goes out quick.”

“Out quick is right, papa,” said Frankie the Greek.

They were at the corner of Mountfort, the last street before Warrington. Andrews slowed suddenly as another machine came out from the right. Both drivers stopped for an instant. The inventor saw that the car was a small sedan, carrying three men.

One of them, in the back seat, thrust his head from the window. His face was familiar, and he looked straight at McArthur.

“Say, Jack,” he called, “which way is Beach Street?”

Chapter XLVIII M’Arthur Goes Through

The inventor did not need to consult his notebook. He knew this signal, this one of all others: it meant he was in danger of his life.

It explained the strange way in which Kirke and his friends — and Rose Mantha, too — had looked at him. It explained their eagerness to take him with them in the cab. Gangland had found him out at last!

The message from Steele was probably intended to warn him that he must give up his part of the program. Give it up — if he could! In the cab with three men, counting the hostile driver, escape would be difficult. McArthur was not even considering it. He had spent too many cold, dark nights, too many long weeks, to withdraw at the finish. He hadn’t carried to the mouth of the goal only to wilt under pressure.

Did the gangsters really wish to take him into Harrison’s? The move perplexed him. But it was true, for the cab turned the corner and stopped at the door.

“Thanks, Duke,” said Kirke. “Come on in, Mac.”

When the inventor had alighted with the others, he saw the purpose of their action. Inside Harrison’s, with its sound-proof and sight-proof arrangements, he would be much more completely at their mercy than on the street. He wondered what else he would learn in the house. Had they also discovered the secret of the proposed raid, and would he find the place deserted by all except a special committee for his welcome?

He brushed a few cigarette-ashes from his coat, and entered the vestibule with his companions.

The Greek rang the bell. Seven rings; once — four times — twice. A bolt was shot back, and the bullet-headed individual admitted them.

The man paused, in the act of closing the door, and stared hard at McArthur. His glance, with no friendliness in it, followed him to the foot of the stairs.

The big bolt was slammed back into place.

On the way up the stairs, McArthur expected at every instant to be assaulted by Kirke and the Greek simultaneously, or to feel the stunning thump of a blackjack. But, to his great surprise, they proceeded without violence to the third floor, where Kirke rang for admittance.

The gaming room was crowded and noisy. All of the usual activities were in full swing. The four newcomers entered without attracting any attention.

After a few seconds, however, one of the players at a near-by table caught sight of McArthur, and glared at him sharply. He said something to the others at the table, and all turned their heads. A roughly dressed man of thirty, who was seated watching the game, spoke quickly to them, and they resumed their playing.

Others presently became aware of his arrival, and there was a general abatement of conversation and laughter in the vicinity of the door. Many of the players obviously did not know McArthur, but at each table there were some who looked at him with open hostility.

“Here’s Brick—” said Kirke.

Harrison, who had been standing by the largest roulette wheel, had sensed something unusual. He was approaching.

“Well, well, Mr. Mac!” he exclaimed, his face twisting into a wide grin — a little too wide a grin, the inventor thought.

“Hello, Mr. Harrison,” he returned, blinking.

“Well, how’s Four-Ace Mac to-night?”

“Flourishing. How are you, Mr. Harrison?”

There was a tense quiet now throughout one end of the room.

“Goin’ to stay a little while to-night. Mr. Mac?”

“I can’t stay very long,” McArthur apologized.

“Oh, don’t be in a hurry. We can show you a lot of action to-night.” The manager was still smiling.

A youth at one of the tables laughed harshly. The inventor threw a half glance in his direction. He recognized the youth, who was notching a large table but not participating. It was one of the Castle brothers.

McArthur glanced at his watch. “I may be able to stay a few minutes,” he ventured.

“Yeah — do,” urged Harrison hospitably.

The inventor put the watch back in his pocket. Eleven thirty-eight.

At first he had thought that he would have to fight for time. But he understood the gangsters’ intention now. They had discovered, in some unknown way, his connection with Steele; but they did not know that he had been warned of their discovery. Their purpose was not to deal with him here in their stronghold, but to keep him here until late at night, when only the members of the “big mob” and their friends would be on the streets. The affair was to be almost exactly a repetition of the Wesley Stone matter.

“You know, Mr. Harrison,” the inventor declared, returning his smile, “I’ve been thinking about that proposition you made to me one night.”

He had stepped closer, but others were still listening.

“Have you? Well, that’s fine!” answered the big man. “Fine, Mr. Mac! You’re a good sport, you are, Mac! A regular fellow!” He slapped him jovially on the back several times — then on the hips, to see if he carried a weapon.

“Yes. To tell you the truth,” the inventor added, “I’ve been losing quite a little sleep thinking about it.”

“Haw!” said Harrison. Kirke and some one else chuckled.

“But I’ve decided that I wouldn’t be able to swing a game of that kind.”

“No? Afraid your conscience would bother you, eh?”

“Well, it might,” McArthur admitted.

“I suppose so. Some people have awful queer consciences.”

“Besides, I wouldn’t be any good at that kind of thing, anyway. I’m only an entertainer. But I’ll tell you what I did think of doing — if I could come to satisfactory terms with you.”

“What’s that?” asked the other, in a curious tone.

“Why, I’ll teach your bunch how I do the stuff — then you can send some of them upstairs, and pay me ten per cent on all profits.”

Harrison winked at Kirke. “How would you know we wasn’t holdin’ out on you?”

“Oh, I’d trust you,” the inventor assured him.

Kirke snickered.

“I’ll drop around in a few days and arrange the contract,” McArthur suggested, glancing at his watch for the second time.

“Don’t go yet, Mr. Mac,” returned his host.

“I really must, Mr. Harrison—”

“Aw, be a good fellow and stay a little while.”

“Well, if you insist—” McArthur surrendered. Eleven forty-six.

He must not look at his watch again.

“Sure. Sit down and make yourself at home.”

“All right, thanks. And if any of your boys would like to know my stunts,” he added, blinking, “it won’t take me five minutes to show them the secret.”

They looked at him uncertainly.

“You wouldn’t really show us?” asked Kirke, with some interest.

“Certainly. I’ve no more use for the stuff.”

“Humph. I dare say that’s true,” observed Harrison.

“Four-Ace Mac,” the Greek commented, without mirth.

“Oh, is that the one you want?” the inventor responded instantly. “Surely — I’ll give you that trick in no time.”

He took a pack of new cards from his pocket. Several of the players, observing his act, turned, in curiosity.

“Come on, boys!” Harrison invited, loudly. “Our friend Mr. Four-Ace Mac is goin’ to show us his secrets. You better all take it in, for it may be your last chance to see him perform.”

A murmur of surprise filled the room. Chairs scraped here and there as men rose and came forward, amused and puzzled.

“Four-Ace Mac!” some one else said — but it was a jeering tone.

The inventor stood facing them, smiling and bowing.

“Gentlemen,” he said, rising his voice a little, “on this, perhaps my last appearance among you, I have agreed to show you the secret of some of my mysteries.”

A few more of the men came forward, until they formed a half circle before him. McArthur noticed the difference in the way they watched him: the patrons, who did not know of his connection with Ward and Steele, and whose interest was in his exhibition; and the gangsters, whose glances held either ridicule or burning hatred.

He wondered which members of the crowd had guns. Castle, undoubtedly. The Greek, undoubtedly. The man who sat near by at the end of his table, probably; he had been in the cabaret with Stone.

“Now, the little four-ace trick,” he explained, “is very simple. You simply lay down the aces, face up, this way. Shuffle the deck, and cover each ace with three cards, face down. Gentlemen, do you all follow me? Then take one of the four piles” — he took the one with the ace of spades — “and put it aside. Then pick up one of the three remaining piles, and show every one that the ace is still on the bottom.”

He showed them.

“But, presto! — you throw down the cards, one by one, and the little ace is gone. One — two — three — four! It’s so simple!” There were shouts of amazement from many of the gamblers.

“But, gentlemen, don’t you see it?” McArthur asked, in professional tones. He stood blinking at them all while some of the watchers returned unwanking stares. “You make your mistake, I think, when you look at me instead of at the cards as they fall on the table. Now we’ll try it again.”

More players had left their games and pushed forward. McArthur took up one of the two remaining piles, showed the ace, and threw them down face upward.

“One — two — three — four!” he counted. The ace had disappeared.

There were fresh exclamations. Others crowded forward in wonder — many of the gamblers leaving their money on the tables.

“Now the last!” cried Dizzy McArthur. “Watch the table, watch the cards, and you can’t miss it! See! There’s the ace!”

Up and down went his arm with the final pile of cards, and with each gesture his voice rang through the room!

“One — two — three—” Crash!

A splintering impact shook the house to its foundation. All along the wall, for the length of the hallway outside, a row of ax-blades knifed through the partition. The heavy door itself burst back into the room, shivering on its hinges; and after it came Steele with a sledge hammer, Bennett and Fortner with drawn pistols.

There was an oath, a cry of terror, a volley of imprecations. McArthur lifted the table and charged with it against the nearest gunman, trampling him to the floor. From above and below came the crash of other doors going in. At the back of the room a gun roared — once — twice: another barked from McArthur’s left; a third spoke sharply from the door. Frankie the Greek gave a scream of pain and stumbled to his knees, dropping his weapon.

“You’re all under arrest!” shouted Special Officer Bennett. “Don’t any one else move!”

Chapter XLIX The Goal

With a savage oath, John Castle leaped over a fallen chair and ran to the corner beyond the roulette wheels, followed by several others. Fortner of headquarters fired a shot at the floor to stop them, but they raced on without heeding it. In the extreme corner of the room a section of the wall sprang back, revealing a small rear stairway.

It had long been agreed that if ever there should be a raid, Harrison and his assistants might escape by these stairs and by the back alley. The staircase extended from the fourth floor to the basement. Harrison, however, was too stunned to take advantage of it. He was livid.

“Bennett, you double crossing sinker,” he bellowed, “you’re the last man that ever ought to raid my joint—”

Steele, seeing a half dozen or more of the men disappear through the hole in the wall, ran to one of the back windows. He ripped off the heavy curtains and shade, raised the sash, opened the outer slide, and shouted down a warning. Taking a whistle from his pocket, he thrust out his head and blew several long blasts.

Meanwhile, detachments under McNulty, Harper and Marvin had forced entrance to the rooms on the other floors. At the top of the house, the players and attendants were so surprised that there was not the slightest attempt at escape or resistance. McNulty entered the lower rooms and the basement, placing every one under arrest, but many of the drug addicts refused to obey him and crowded out by the special exit at the rear. An aged Chinese and another man followed them, carrying boxes which held nearly all the narcotics.

But officer Harvey of division four, standing on the corner of Columbia Street as usual at eleven-fifty, heard the notes of a police whistle in the alley at the back of the house. He crossed hurriedly, and as he approached he saw three men emerge and race down the street. Turning his flash light into the alley, he discovered others running out.

Haley of headquarters and Somers were already stationed at the back, but the former had no flash light and mistook the fleeing men for Steele’s operatives. Somers grappled with one, and a fight ensued. Harvey, standing squarely at the mouth of the exit with his light, was visible to all. The gangsters halted. Two guns flashed, and the bullets zipped past the policeman’s head.

Harvey sprang instantly to a crouching position behind several ash barrels, drawing his pistol. He fired three times, the angry spurts of flame stabbing into the dark. In the alley there was a choking curse. Others emptied their weapons at Harvey, but he remained in the shelter of the barrels.

Then appeared the far-reaching results of his having gone outside of his division to investigate the whistles. Another patrolman of division four, hearing the fusillade, ran to the nearest box and sent word to his station that there was a gun battle in the vicinity of Columbia Street. The lieutenant dispatched the patrol wagon, with every man in the station, and put in a call to headquarters for the riot squad.

Special Officer Bennett seized all the money in sight in the main gaming room, then hurried upstairs, where other large amounts were taken. When this cash was counted later in the district attorney’s office, it was found to total more than one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars.

The Chinese and his helper, being told by men in the alley that escape was blocked, gave up trying to dispose of the narcotics; and several thousand dollars’ worth were carried away by the police.

Eighty-one prisoners were conveyed to headquarters in wagonloads. Fifteen were charged with being present where opium smoking was in progress; forty-three with being present where gaming implements were found; and eleven with gambling. Frankie the Greek, wounded, was held on additional charges of assault and of carrying a concealed weapon; and another man, the one upset by McArthur, was held on the latter charge.

The aged Chinese was charged with selling narcotics, and with assisting at maintaining premises for their use. Muir, the man actually responsible, was not found in the house, for a reason which will appear. A man on the fourth floor was held for assisting at maintaining a gaming house; Brick Harrison for maintaining the whole establishment.

All this was directed by McNulty, who held the search warrant. Outside the house efforts to escape by the back alley had been abandoned entirely.

A few men succeeded in scaling the wall of a garage at the blind end. They crossed the roof and dropped into a neighboring yard. John Castle and Kirke were two who did this. Another was the doorkeeper from the third floor. Another was Dizzy McArthur.

The inventor had taken the “back way out” because he couldn’t wait for Steele to identify him. It was twelve o’clock, and away down on the south shore the chief’s wife needed help. Dropping lightly from the roof of the garage he found other men close at hand, and recognized them. He turned and sprinted.

“There he is! There’s the stool pigeon!” screamed Kirke.

“You damn snitch!” Castle snarled.

They leaped forward in pursuit; while a third man, after hurling something, joined them. There was a spatter of glass against the side of the house, and a tinkle of fragments. McArthur gained the street, darted to the right, put down his head, and raced away from the gangsters in great, leaping strides.

“Stool pigeon! Stool pigeon! There he goes! Croak him! Croak him!”

There were no shots, either because the men feared arrest or because their pistols were empty. He ran on across Warrington Street, toward Mountfort and Oliver. At Warrington some of the gangsters’ friends took up the chase, close behind.

They could not overtake McArthur, but he glanced back, shaking his head. It was going to be close. His driver, Keady, probably wouldn’t have the motor warmed. Through Mountfort he flitted, his pursuers cursing and panting behind — then out into Oliver—

He caught his breath. The touring car was there, but it was empty. Mr. Keady had gone, attracted by the uproar of the raid.

The motor key was in the switch, however—

McArthur laughed.

Chapter L M’Arthur’s Third Race

Throwing himself into the driver’s seat, McArthur jammed the starter button. He switched on the bright lights, watching their rays grow brighter as he raced the motor.

In the mirror at his left he could see the corner. Two men turned it — then another, and another. They hesitated a second, and dashed toward the car.

The inventor pulled the choke lever away out and let in the clutch. The machine leaped forward. It gathered speed rapidly. Shouts and imprecations followed him. He turned to the left.

A half minute told him that he had shaken off pursuit. But he couldn’t go back to look for Keady. The gangsters knew his number now; and his return to the district would be a signal for missiles and bullets. Besides, he hadn’t time.

Through Fessenden Street to Ipswich, up Ipswich to Dover, down Dover to the avenue, he fled on, knifing his way toward the start of the turnpike and the South Shore.

It was incomprehensible to McArthur how the gangsters picked up the trail again. He was far out on Broad Street, traveling at high speed, when he noticed a pair of dancing lights in his mirror which were keeping the pace. They were more than keeping it; they were gaining. But even then, the inventor didn’t guess that the car belonged to his enemies, because it seemed impossible that it could.

As the machine, a big sedan, drew abreast, he saw them, all too plainly — Duke Andrews driving, another man in front, the tense forms of Castle and Kirke behind.

They had caught McArthur by surprise, and had all but crowded him to the curb. He plunged the accelerator. The touring car, much lighter than the other, responded with a dash which pulled him free.

A stream of foul curses told him unmistakably that the gangsters’ intention had been to force a halt or a collision. He was not in doubt as to their purpose. They had followed him with a single thought — revenge — and it could be obtained satisfactorily in only one way.

There was little traffic on Broad Street. McArthur pulled the throttle open, then pushed it back, abandoning it for the foot accelerator, and raced ahead. The bright lights in the mirror were close, losing ground slowly. He looked sharply for police officers who might stop the chase, but saw none. Ahead, however, at the end of Broad Street and the start of the South Shore Turnpike, burned the blue lamps of station eighteen.

Here was refuge, beyond question. He could enter the police station and remain under protection until the miscreants had left the neighborhood. But meanwhile, what of Mrs. Ward?

“Are you going to be yellow this time, McArthur, when the chief’s wife needs you?”

He flashed past the station and through the square, out over the road beyond. The big, sedan followed.

Through the early miles of the turnpike, within the limits of Brookford and Plainsfield, there was little change in the relative position of the cars. Both were flying in defiance of all regulations, at the risk of pursuit by police. Once, between the two cities, the gangsters fired four shots, and McArthur heard one bullet strike the body of his car.

Had it punctured the gasoline tank?

Outside West Plainsfield the rows of street lamps ended; the dark, winding, lonely highway began. The inventor sank lower in his seat, settling down to the struggle.

Once again the myriad objects of the night sprang to life before his headlights and flitted past like phantoms. A brisk wind, sharp and invigorating, swished through the curtain from the west and fanned his face. The whirl of the motor rose to a peculiar, tremulous note which told of power. The figures and tiny dots on the dashboard crept around, farther around, mark by mark.

The turnpike was bare, washed clean by the rains and swept dry by the wind. McArthur plunged around two long curves and down a steep hill, his motor trembling and singing. A danger sign stared out at him, with its warning of a railroad crossing. His car struck the tracks with a resounding bump and went bouncing on.

He blinked, and looked at the mirror. The dancing bright specks were smaller.

A cat paused in the road, its pale green eyes gleaming at him, then scurried for safety. Up a hill, around a third curve, down another sharp incline, he dashed along with his foot against the floor. He looked at the mirror again. Its face was dark.

It was on the long, hard, winding hill which snakes upward into Kensington that he first felt the motor skipping. Near the foot of the grade, it was scarcely noticeable. But as he climbed farther he lost headway rapidly, and narrowly avoided having to change the gears. He was sure that it wasn’t a shortage of gasoline. There was a leak in the high-tension wire, or a corroded battery terminal.

He pulled on through the town; and when he reached the next dark stretch, there were bright specks in his mirror again.

For more than ten miles the battle went on in exactly the same manner. On level road, downhill, around dangerous curves, the inventor left his pursuers far behind. With each upgrade the motor began to miss its throbbing beats, and he speedily lost all he had gained. Faulty ignition always shows its tricks when the pulling is hardest.

McArthur laughed as he swept through Plympton. He had asked for it, hadn’t he? — the peril creeping toward him out of the dark.

He wondered what would happen if the electricity should fail entirely. Or suppose that he should suddenly stop at the side of the road, extinguish the lights, and hide in the woods? If the pursuers should speed past without noticing the automobile, he might emerge, ask for a ride from some other motorist, and proceed with his whereabouts unsuspected. But if the gangsters should see the car, and should stop—

The wind was stronger when he reached Middleton. The defective ignition was still troublesome, but did not seem to have become worse.

Beyond the town, McArthur thought of other possibilities. He wouldn’t have to stop the car at the side of the turnpike. He could seize a moment when he held sufficient lead to escape observation by his adversaries, and turn sharply off into some small road, permitting them to pass. Then, if he could obtain a ride—

But how long would it take to find a friendly motorist? The two machines were almost alone on the highway.

Besides, if he should adopt that course, it would be an admission that he was beaten, wouldn’t it?

At Jeffries, the inventor was a half mile ahead. At Dunstable Hills, the distance had been cut to less than a quarter. At Dunstable and the fork, he had increased it slightly. At Hillbury, it was about the same. Between Hillbury and North Rockford—

The first warning was a brighter glow from the dashboard. It was followed by darkness there.

McArthur blinked. The dash-light bulb had burned out.

He found the circumstance somewhat disquieting. As he sped on, he watched the spreading path of the headlights. Presently he decided that the rays were being thrown on the right side only, and that they were unusually strong on that side.

The left headlight had gone out, also.

There was no longer any doubt as to the trouble with the electricity. A battery terminal was loose or badly corroded, and unless remedied it would soon burn out every bulb in the system. The inventor knew that it was only a question of minutes before the other headlight would flash.

He thought of dimming it as a preventative. But as he reached toward the switch, the shimmering rays in front grew clear and strong for a second — then winked into darkness.

He was racing over a pitch-black road.

In desperation he snapped on a spotlight beside the windshield. It flooded the highway with dazzling white light for nearly a full minute. With a final flash of brilliance, it was gone.

The race seemed ended. The inventor was following the hazy outline of the turnpike more by instinct than by vision. The road itself was dark gray, while the woods on either side of it were black. There was total darkness all around, except in the face of his mirror, where two shining spots were growing larger. Reaching again to the switch, he turned off the tail-light. If it hadn’t burned out with the others, it could serve only as a target.

He laughed again.

“Stay with them, McArthur — you’ll get a break yet,” he exhorted, plunging forward through the dark.

The finish was inevitable. The marvel was that McArthur could dash on without lights as far as he did, for he had not diminished his pressure on the accelerator. He came at length to a place where something a shade lighter than the road jumped into view, straight in front. He decided that it was a bridge, but realized at the last instant that it was a fence. There was no hope of avoiding it. To lessen the impact he applied the brakes.

There was a splintering and crackling, without noticeable shock of collision, and the car slid downward for a short distance, then jolted and ploughed to a standstill.

McArthur alighted, and found Himself up to his ankles in mud and decayed cornstalks.

Chapter LI Fumes of Destruction

Instantly the inventor glanced upward. On the trees along the road, a yellow-white haze was flickering in and out with fantastic effect. There came the roar of a high-powered motor, the whine and screech of the tires as they gripped the curve — and the big sedan flashed on, its tail-light twinkling.

McArthur watched it until it had turned another bend in the distance, and its racing hum had died away.

He struck matches and investigated the easiest way out of the cornfield. The touring car was of no further use to him, although it did not appear to be badly-damaged. He left it in the mud, and floundered up the embankment to the highway.

How soon would the gangsters miss him? Would they continue in the belief that he had gained a long lead? How far would they go in the hope of sighting him?

To South Wyndham, probably. They knew that James Ward had died there.

He busied himself by trying to set up the broken fence.

He could find only half of it, however, and had not succeeded in bracing that when he became aware of more lights playing on the tree-tops. Listening intently, he found to his delight that this car, also, was coming from the north.

It was traveling at considerable speed, with a rattling and sobbing which told of a motor in need of repair. McArthur knew the difficulty in persuading motorists to stop on lonely roads at night. Waiting until the psychological instant, he rushed squarely out on the road, blocking it with the splintered section of fence.

The machine stopped.

“Don’t shoot, neighbor,” a voice requested uneasily. “I ain’t got no money here. Just hens.”

“Say, brother,” the inventor requested, throwing aside the piece of fence and blinking into the lights, “I’ve got to reach South Wyndham on a serious matter, and my car’s gone over the embankment. Can you help me out?”

“Sure thing. Get in.”

Advancing, he saw a little, wizened man with a winter coat-collar turned up and a soft straw hat. He took the seat beside him, expressing thanks.

“How fur was you goin’, neighbor? I’m only goin’ down to North Rockford depot. Got to get these reds on the mornin’ freight.”

McArthur saw crates filled with hens in the back of the car. “Is there any one at North Rockford I can hire to drive me?”

“Sure. Tom Springer’ll be glad to do it.”

Springer did not have to be awakened. He was working at the railroad station. He had a closed car, and he started with the inventor at once. The latter kept a sharp watch for his enemies all the way.

Between Rockford and Wyndham they met the gangsters’ large sedan. McArthur recognized it instantly; and a swift glance assured him that all four men were inside. He felt certain that they had not seen him in Springer’s machine, for they continued northward. They were proceeding at moderate speed.

At the entrance to the sanatorium he paid the man and thanked him. He hurried up the winding driveway to the entrance. A few lights were burning upstairs. He rang. An orderly answered.

“I had a telegram from Mrs. James Ward—”

The man, a short, dark fellow, looked curiously at him. “Yes, sir. Come in.”

McArthur entered — then started. He recognized this orderly. It was the burglar who had broken into his laboratory at home, presumably upon another’s instigation, and had later jumped bail.

“Collins!” the inventor exclaimed. He did not finish. He was conscious of something which crashed down upon his head.

McArthur was surprised by his swift return to the laboratory. He couldn’t quite understand how he had arrived there so quickly. He remembered traveling to South Wyndham. It was bewildering.

Yet it was true. All around was his apparatus of physical and chemical research. No — not his apparatus, after all. He hadn’t three racks of test tubes. He hadn’t a distilling system set up. No — this was the laboratory on the grounds at South Wyndham.

And who was this man? A small, thin, pale man, with glasses and watery eyes. This wasn’t Collins, the orderly, the burglar. But he had seen this man in court, too—

“Muir!” said McArthur.

He blinked, and attempted to rise. He failed. Presently he perceived the reason. His arms, knees and waist were tightly lashed to a chair and the chair was fast to a sink behind his back.

“What the devil?” he muttered uncertainly. His brain had not cleared.

“Don’t shout — the walls are thick,” advised Muir, in a toneless voice. He was busy mixing something in a flask. An acid bottle and several other containers were at his elbow.

“What’s the idea?” McArthur ventured.

“You’ll see pretty soon. You gave the boys a nice run for their money, didn’t you? Pretty smooth customer, you are. But I think you’ll realize in a few minutes that you’d have been better off if you’d let Brick alone.” Muir went on working.

The inventor looked around. There were ground-glass windows, still dark, and the door was closed. He recalled that the laboratory stood at some distance from the sanatorium.

“So I’m indebted to Edgerly and Marsh for this favor?”

“Edgerly doesn’t know anything about our little party,” returned the other. “He’s gone South for a rest. As for Marsh — he’ll live longer than you will, McArthur.”

He had begun to grind something with a mortar and pestle,

“Yes, we know you now,” he added. “We’ve looked up all about you. You’re Dizzy McArthur, the ex-hockey player, exaviator, and ex-speed-demon. I rather think you’ll find that fighting the Fritzies was tame compared to bucking the main mob in our burg.”

McArthur made an effort to free his arms. But they were securely bound, and the rope was heavy.

“Yes; I’ll give you credit, McArthur. You’ve knocked Harrison’s. It was some little stunt. I’ll shake hands with you before you go out. Do you know what I have here?”

“Cyanides, and some other compounds, and H₂SO₄, haven’t you?”

“Yes, and HC₁, and another acid.” replied the drug seller. He turned his watery eyes upon the prisoner. “Now don’t give Edgerly credit for any of this. It’s Bosworth’s lab, and he’s a goody-goody, a research nut. If he knew what I’m mixing here he’d fall out of bed. Ever see a generator like this, Dizzy Mac?”

The inventor frowned at it. There was a large glass receptacle with a delivery-tube, and a smaller basin of metal was fitted in at the top.

“Not so bad for a half hour’s work,” Muir suggested. “If I knew where his nibs keeps all his stuff, I’d rig up a little hood for you, too, my boy. I hate to make you take it with your eyes open.” The quiet, methodical precision of his voice was alarming.

“Cyanogen?” McArthur asked, with interest.

“You hit it,” said the other. “Possibly there’ll be a little hydrogen mixed with it. Prussic acid gas. Generally supposed to be rather poisonous, Mac. However, it has a very pleasant odor, and one tiny breath is all you’ll need.”

McArthur knew that he was not exaggerating. It was the most deadly, the most quickly fatal, of all gases.

“Now, this pan at the top is made of zinc. I’ll put the acid in there, the other mixture in the flask underneath. That will give you five or ten minutes, you see — until the acid eats through the zinc and runs down into the flask. Of course I don’t plan to be in here with you when that happens. Then we’ll start up his nibs’s patent ventilator system” — he pointed to the roof — “and draw off all the air in the lab through the top. I suppose we’ll be drawing off your last breath along with it, but that can’t be helped.”

He took the compounds which he had ground with his pestle and put them in the bottom of the flask.

“This reaction will soon go to an end through exhaustion of the solvent, and it will last long enough. We’ll take you back up the line before daybreak and leave you in the driver’s seat of that car you drove through the fence. I thought you were a driver. McArthur.

“When they mistake cyanogen poisoning for heart failure in ordinary cases,” he added. “I guess they will when you’ve just gone over an embankment. The boys won’t be blamed for your spill, either — they’re dusting it back to town for an iron-clad alibi.

“Now, don’t be alarmed—”

There was a hissing and foaming as he poured the acid. He set the generator on the floor near McArthur’s chair.

“That’s only the acid attacking the zinc. That liberates hydrogen, you know. For five or ten minutes — gentle hydrogen. Afterward — cyanogen, C₂N₂, What do you say; are you a real sport?” With a cold smile of victory, he offered his hand.

“I’m a sportsman,” replied McArthur, extending his fingers.

The drug seller reached behind the chair and gripped his palm. He took a final glance at the hissing generator; then walked rapidly to the door. He opened it, letting in a breath of the cool, clear night air.

“So long, Dizzy Mac,” he said, with another quiet and rather terrible smile. “I’m sorry, but you have too much evidence. You understand—”

He went out, and slammed the door.

Chapter LII C₂N₂

When Muir had gone, McArthur sat gazing thoughtfully at the dull black windows of ground glass.

It was of no use, he saw. He couldn’t reach them. He had nothing to throw. And, anyway, cyanogen was too swift, too certain. He felt a conviction that this time he had come to the end.

The inventor really couldn’t say that he was afraid. He did not quite understand fear. But he was disappointed, even though he had invited it all. So many more exciting conflicts he might have waged! So many more chances he might have run!

Was there a chance now? He could see none. He knew cyanogen — instantaneous, merciless yet merciful. The rope which bound him to the chair and to the sink was large. He felt sure that in time he could loosen it, but not in ten minutes, with this engine of death hissing beside him like a serpent ready to strike.

He was glad that Muir had left the lights on, whether by accident or design, instead of leaving him alone with the thing in the dark.

The light, of course, must be showing through the windows. Was there any hope that Dr. Bosworth would awake and investigate why it was burning in the dead of the night? Or would the orderly simply explain that it had been forgotten? Beyond doubt, Collins had already been sent to guard against interruption.

He thought of Steele — who, in time, might guess that he had come to South Wyndham. But in a little more than five minutes now the vessel of zinc would be eaten through, and no power under heaven could save him after that.

Not in the driver’s seat, after all; yet, strangely, that was where people would believe it had happened.

All at once a sense of protest, of the superficiality of the whole thing, rushed over him. Was this the real meaning of the prophecy which had hung over his life for years — that in the end his lifeless form was to be placed behind a steering gear, victim to the lowest men of society? Or did it mean that he would go as James Ward had gone — in the fight, without surrender or compromise, at the wheel?

With a sudden effort he lunged forward, straining at the cords which held him fast. The chair back creaked and scraped as the rope tightened. He couldn’t break free — he knew that; he couldn’t loosen the cords enough in five minutes; but it was better to battle, even though death waited, measured by a dwindling piece of zinc. That was the one great lesson that his wild, mad game of life had taught him — to keep on fighting.

As the minutes dragged past, he fought in silence — fought because he had never quit before the final whistle, and because there were men who would go free if he couldn’t testify.

“Stay with them, McArthur,” he said again.

He never knew how he received the inspiration, the memory. It flashed in like a ray of light from a source unknown.

Cyanogen — so deadly that even a small percentage in the air would be fatal. All this time he had been thinking of its effect. He had forgotten its other properties. An equation from past years leaped back to his mind:

The dreaded vapor, cyanogen, was a compound of carbon and nitrogen, two common elements. A simple process, a mere rearrangement, would change this gas into two other gases, carbon dioxide and nitrogen — harmless gases, present in every breath of air.

What process? The equation told it. “Plus four oxygen.” Adding oxygen. Oxidation. Combustion.

McArthur wrenched his body to the right. At the same time he tried to bring his arm forward, across toward his chest. It seemed impossible. But again and again he persisted.

The stout rope creaked and rasped, above the hissing of the acid on the metal.

An inch separated his fingers from a pocket of his vest. He gave a heavier twist.

The tips of his fingers found the pocket. They reached something inside. With extreme care he eased the object out until his grasp upon it was secure. It was a match. He relaxed the pressure against the cords.

He was none too soon. A louder hissing and boiling began in the generator. Glancing down, he saw that the acid had found its way to the chemicals in the bottom of the flask. The thing had begun operation. Undoubtedly the first colorless fumes of cyanogen were already issuing from the tube.

He struck the match on the arm of his chair.

Could he, backhanded, his wrist still held by the cords, flip the burning match near enough to the mouth of the tube from which the vapor was coming? He must succeed with the first effort. There wouldn’t be time to obtain another match—

He gauged the distance, blinked, and sent the match flying from his fingers.

Po-o-ough!

The sound thrilled his heart. The end of the glass delivery tube burned with a deep, reddish-purple flame.

A minute passed — two minutes — five; and the dark flame continued. It increased, as the reaction in the generator became more rapid. Then, after a short time, it began to grow smaller. The sizzling in the flask quieted, the flame died away. It went out altogether.

The reaction had “gone to an end.”

There was no perceptible odor in the laboratory. Carbon dioxide and nitrogen are always in the air.

Meanwhile, the inventor worked feverishly to loosen his cords. If Muir and Collins should return and find him unharmed, they would quickly remedy the matter. But unless they had already had a view of the interior, they wouldn’t enter until they had first drawn the air in the laboratory skyward by means of the doctor’s ventilating system. McArthur listened for the sound of this device in operation.

After about twenty-five minutes he slipped a loop over his elbow. From there it slid down to his wrist, and one arm was free. The rest followed rapidly. He stood up, chafing his muscles.

The door had a spring lock. Catching up a steel ruler, he turned the latch and stepped out, coming face to face with four men who were advancing.

“Ah — here’s Mr. Mac!” Steele’s voice exclaimed.

The others were indistinct in the dark, but the inventor recognized Marvin.

“What’s been going on?” the head of the agency asked, with a keen glance at McArthur from his gray eyes.

“Yes — what brought you down here?” Walter Clapp inquired.

“I received a telegram.”

“Oh — so that was it?” said Steele. “From Harold Ward, I suppose?”

“From Mrs. Ward.”

“Better yet. Of course it was a fraud. Harold Ward took his mother to New Hampshire yesterday morning.”

They stepped into the laboratory.

“Well, Mr. Mac, we thought we had lost you for a little while. Most of us went to police headquarters with the prisoners. Clapp and Bolton stayed with the officers who discovered Ed Castle. They found him in the back alley, shot through the throat. Some one brought a priest before he died, and he confessed that he had shot Wesley Stone.”

“It was sheer luck how Mr. Steele learned about you, though,” said Clapp.

“Yes,” the investigator explained, “I was at headquarters waiting to use the telephone when a man named Keady reported his car stolen from Oliver Street. He told the police that a certain Kendall McArthur had engaged him to drive to South Wyndham at midnight. Of course he gave the number of his car.

“Marvin certainly burned the road for us this time. Not the way you do, Mr. Mac, yet rather fast. Beyond Hillbury I noticed a fence broken on a curve, and I thought I’d investigate.”

“We just saw our friend Muir up here,” Somers offered. “Did you see him?”

“I did,” McArthur answered.

“By the way,” remarked Steele, “when I examined your car in the cornfield, I found this note lying on the front seat cushion.”

On a sheet of note paper had been penciled hastily:

Muir was given five years, despite all the eloquence of Keenan. Harrison received two years. The Chinese was sentenced to one year; and the assistant on the top floor to nine months. The patrons escaped with fines or defaulted bail. Not such a big result, considering all the effort and hardship involved; but the owner of Harrison’s house broke the gambler’s lease, and the joint on Warrington Street is closed forever.

Special Officer McNulty has been sent to a beat in Hyde Oaks, a remote district of the city. With him is Officer Harvey.

As for McArthur, he is still playing the game. What game? Any game that’s hard enough. He stands for thirty minutes at a time before a glass, blinking at himself, adjusting and readjusting his necktie to the tiniest fraction of an inch. And from the pennant above his mirror the chief smiles down at him.