The Shadow Laughs

CHAPTER XXI VINCENT ESCAPES

Harry Vincent was sitting on a chair in the corner of a dingy room. His left wrist was locked to a ring in the wall, by means of a pair of handcuffs.

He had been in this unpleasant situation for forty-eight hours. His captor had locked him up, and had placed him on a cot.

In the morning, a chair had been substituted for the cot. Harry had received meals; the cot had replaced the chair for the second night.

Now another day had ended. Soon the mysterious man who had captured him would be back again, and Harry would be transferred to the cot.

This was a monotonous life. Harry had said very little to his captor. The man, in turn, had spoken only a few words.

While Harry was musing thus, the door of the room opened, and the man entered.

He was short and heavy-set. He wore a thick black mustache. His eyes were sharp and suspicious. His dark complexion gave him a villainous appearance.

Harry wondered that he had not received harsher treatment from this relentless-looking fellow. The captor seemed like a man who was used to nightly prowls. He was attired in dark suit and hat.

Harry had thought a lot about the situation. He had decided that his captor was the outside man of the crew who were operating at Blair Windsor’s place; but he had not guessed their object.

The dark-visaged man looked at Harry Vincent, and his eyes were not kindly. He sat on a battered chair on the other side of the room. The single oil lamp showed his features plainly.

“How do you feel, now?” questioned the mustached man.

Harry did not reply.

“I’m going to give you a chance to talk,” came the next statement. “I’ve asked you a few questions before; but you haven’t chosen to answer. That won’t do you any good.”

Harry was still silent.

“Who are you?” came the question.

“Who are you?” asked Harry, tersely. “It seems to me I’m the injured party. I won’t talk until you do.”

The stranger laughed unpleasantly.

“I’ll tell you enough for your own good,” he said. “I saw you once before — hanging around the farmhouse. I saw you come out from the side. You had a car down the road — hidden in the field. I walked by in the dark. I was too late to get you.

“So I didn’t take any chances two nights ago. I nabbed you quick. I brought you here, and we’re way out in the woods — alone. Your position isn’t a comfortable one, is it?”

“No,” admitted Harry.

“I made a mistake in grabbing you,” admitted the stranger. “I thought of that as soon as I had you. But I had to go through with it. They’ve probably missed you by now, and it may give me a lot of trouble. So unless you talk — to-night — I’m going to put you in a worse place than this.”

“Tell me who you are. Maybe I’ll talk then.”

“You ought to know who I am. Use your imagination. It won’t take much.”

Harry did not reply. He felt that if he made a single statement regarding his identity, he would get himself in for a lot of trouble. His situation was bad enough. Silence had not made it worse.

He knew that the men who were plotting against Blair Windsor were dangerous. This fellow appeared to be the worst of the crowd.

He wondered what had been said about his absence. He had imagined that it might cause considerable comment at Windsor’s place. Then he realized that it could be easily explained by either Quinn or Crull — whichever was the traitor in the party.

A statement from either of the men would indicate that Harry had gone away for a few days. Perhaps his car had been removed. He hoped that the wireless equipment had not been discovered.

The man with the black mustache drew two cigars from his pocket and gave one to Harry.

“Listen young fellow,” he said, in a more kindly voice. “I’m not out to treat you rough. I figured It was my job to grab you, and I did.

“You know a lot that you aren’t telling. You’re going to tell it, sooner or later. So why not be friends? It may work out to your advantage.”

He struck a match while he spoke, and lighted the tip of Harry’s cigar.

The first puff convinced Harry that the stranger was a good judge of fine perfectos, whatever his shortcomings might be. The two men smoked in silence for a considerable time.

“How about it?” asked the man. “Want to talk a bit? This is pretty near your last chance.”

Harry shook his head.

“All right,” said the stranger, in an indifferent tone. “I’m going to move you out of here.”

“Go ahead,” said Harry. “It would be more interesting than staying here.”

“Think so?” was the reply. “Better guess again.”

The dark man arose, and produced a few coils of rope from a corner of the room.

“I’ve got everything here,” he said. “I’m going to truss you up, young fellow. I may need those bracelets you’re wearing. They come in handy when I have to work quick. So I’m going to put rope on you.”

He began to bind Harry’s ankles as he spoke.

“I’m going back to the old farmhouse,” he continued. “Maybe I’ll run into some new developments. Perhaps I’ll get a line on who you are. No telling what may happen.

“Then I’ll be back. It will be your last chance to talk. If you don’t open up then, I’ll pack you in the car, and take you where you won’t want to be.”

He finished on Harry’s ankles. Coming from behind he roped the young man’s wrists. Then he unlocked the handcuff, and finished by tying Harry securely.

“I know it’s lonely out here,” he said. “I don’t like to leave you, for your own good. But it can’t be helped.”

Moving the cot over to the corner, the stranger urged Harry Vincent from the chair, and rolled him on the improvised bed. He blew out the light, and Harry heard him leave the little building.

The darkness was intense. Harry’s wrists and ankles chafed as he strained against the rope. He began to crave action. There must be some way out of this predicament.

He rolled toward the side of the cot, and let his feet to the floor. Then he rolled off. He found that he could urge his body along in helpless fashion.

There was a table on which stood the extinguished oil lamp. Harry groped his way to the spot, and raised himself to his knees. He pushed his chin along the table, and bumped a box or matches.

Here was a chance for escape! His captor had forgotten the matches which he had used to light the cigars. This was an opportunity!

Harry knocked the match box to the floor. After falling, and striking his head against the leg of the table, he gained a sitting position.

He brought his hands to one side as far as possible. Then he struck a match, and managed to set it on the box. His plan was to bring his wrists to the flame.

But the plan failed to work. He singed his wrists instead of the rope. He was in his shirt sleeves, and there was imminent danger of his cuffs catching fire. The match went out.

Harry’s second attempt was as futile as the first.

He realized that he must suffer considerable pain, if he insisted upon this method of escape. He could not see his hands, and it was impossible to find the flame with the necessary accuracy to burn the rope.

Harry was willing to sustain a few burns, but he did not care to blister his wrists and still remain a captive. That was the only result that he could foresee.

He sat for a few silent minutes. Then a different idea came to his mind.

He lighted another match and placed it on the box. He shifted his body as rapidly as possible, and extended his legs. He brought the rope that bound his ankles above the flame. His trousers cuffs interfered, but he managed to push them up a trifle.

This method was feasible. Harry could see what he was doing. The ropes around his ankles had thick folds. If he could sever one, he would have his feet free.

Match after match was used. There were not many in the box. Before the supply was completely exhausted, Harry strained with his ankles. The rope parted. Moving his ankles up and down, Harry freed them.

He rose and walked to the door. It was locked from the outside. He went to the window, and managed to raise it behind his back.

With considerable difficulty he let himself out, and stumbled to the ground.

He could see the dim outline of the one-story shack in which he had been kept prisoner. Now his purpose was to get away from the vicinity.

Harry had brought his coat with him. If he could only remove the rope from his aching wrists, he would be a free man.

He worked with the pockets of his coat. He had carried a knife there, but it was gone now. His flashlight was also missing. His captor must have removed those articles. But Harry could feel his wallet in the inside pocket.

He moved carefully along a path which his feet could feel, but which his eyes could not distinguish in the darkness. Next, he reached a road, and followed it.

The night was cloudy, but there was sufficient starlight for him to find his way along. Harry was fortunate in choosing the right direction; for after half a mile he came to a highway.

He saw a wooden gate which opened between two stone walls. A tin sign had been tacked to the top rail, and projected above the wooden bar. With difficulty, Harry managed to perch himself upon the gate, which, he found, was fortunately steady.

Harry worked his wrists along the edge of the tin sign. The surface was not sharp enough to gain results, but the projecting corner, Harry noticed, was somewhat pointed.

After a long, tedious process, he managed to sever the rope that bound his wrists. He stretched his arms, and rubbed his wrists. He picked up his coat, which he had dropped on the ground.

None of his money had been taken from his wallet. The stranger had evidently gone through it, looking for cards of identification. But Harry carried none.

His licenses were in the car; and his coupe — when he had last seen it — was in Blair Windsor’s large garage.

As Harry walked along the road, a car approached. It was not likely that it belonged to the man who had captured him, especially as it was coming from behind. Harry waved his hand. The driver stopped. Hold-ups were not feared in this part of the country.

“Will you give me a lift into town?” asked Harry.

“Sure thing,” replied the man in the car.

They rode along in silence. The stranger asked no questions, and Harry was too wise to inquire where he was.

After a ten-mile ride, they came to a fair-sized town. A hotel stood at the main corner.

“This is all right,” said Harry. “Thanks for the ride.”

He entered the hotel, and discovered that he was in Burmont, a town some twenty miles from the village of Brookdale. It was late in the evening, Harry was tired. He registered at the hotel.

The old-fashioned room seemed luxurious after the miserable shack in which he had spent two nights. Harry decided not to notify any one where he was until the next day. Then he could go back to Brookdale.

Would it be wise to tell what had happened? What excuse should he make for his absence?

These were perplexing questions. Harry decided that they could best be answered after a good night’s rest. The morning would be the time for action.

Then he would have an opportunity to communicate with The Shadow.