Chapter XIX In the Dark
Jim Horton looked at his watch again. He had kept the visitors in the apartment of Monsieur de Vautrin more than an hour. He hurried cautiously down the stairs toward the doors of the rooms occupied by Quinlevin’s party. There was no one in sight and so he stole along the corridor, listening. Moira and Nora Burke had entered their rooms. But Piquette would of course be in the room of Quinlevin. No sound. And so he waited for a moment in the shadow of a doorway, hoping at any moment to see Piquette emerge, reassured at the thought that the Irishman at least had probably not yet come up. But the suspense and inaction weighed upon him, and at last, moving quickly, he went down the back stair and so to the office, where he sought out the friend of Piquette, Monsieur Jacquot. But to his disappointment he found that the man had gone off duty for the night and was probably in Nice. Quinlevin, he discovered, had been seen leaving the hotel, so any immediate danger from him was not to be expected.
Jim Horton was plagued with uncertainty. If Piquette had already succeeded in her mission, he couldn’t understand why she hadn’t returned to her room. Perhaps he had missed her on the way. She might have used the main stair-way, though under the circumstances this would not have been probable. During the day he had managed to take a surreptitious survey of the rear of the hotel where the Quinlevin suite was situated, and it was only Piquette’s suggestion to keep the Irishman busy while she searched his room that had dissuaded Horton from an attempt to reach Quinlevin’s room from the outside. There was a small portico at the Irishman’s windows which, it seemed, possibly could be reached by climbing a wooden trellis and a small projecting roof of an out-building where a rain spout rose alongside a shutter which offered a good hand hold—something of a venture at night, but a chance if everything else failed.
He was sure now that he had missed Piquette on the way and if she had been successful she was by this time safe in her room with the doors securely bolted and a push-button at hand by means of which, if molested, she could summon the servants of the hotel. And Quinlevin would hardly dare to try that, because an investigation meant the police, and the police meant publicity—a thing to be dreaded at this time with the battle going against him. Nor did Horton wish to make a row, for Piquette was a burglar—nothing less—and discovery meant placing her in an awkward position which would take some explaining. Monsieur Jacquot would have been a help, but there was no hope of trying to use him to intimidate Quinlevin even had the Frenchman been willing to take a share in so grave a responsibility.
So Jim Horton waited for awhile, lurking in the shadows of a small corridor near the office, watching the entrance of the hotel for the Irishman’s return, and was just about to go out of the rear door into the garden for a little investigation of his own when he heard the sounds of voices near the office and saw Monsieur de Vautrin dressed for travel, talking to the major-domo. Horton paused behind a column to watch and listen, the Duc’s flushed face and gay mien proclaiming the triumph he had experienced and, while he had packed his clothing, no doubt a short session with the brandy-bottle. This was Monsieur de Vautrin’s incognito, this his silent departure from the shades of his beloved Monte Carlo. The man was a fatuous dotard, not worth the pains that had been wasted upon him. His account paid, Monsieur de Vautrin walked toward the door, where an automobile awaited him, but as he was about to get into the machine a tall figure emerged from the darkness and stood beside him. A passage of words between the two men and the Duc laughed.
“A great game, Monsieur the Irishman,” Horton heard him say, “but you have lost. In a week I shall be again in Paris in the hands of my avocat. And then—beware!”
Quinlevin shrugged and de Vautrin got into the machine which dashed off into the darkness, leaving the Irishman standing uncertainly upon the step. It was not until then that Horton noticed that he had a companion, for at that moment two figures emerged into the light and Horton knew that Quinlevin’s forces had been augmented by one. For Monsieur Tricot had arrived.
The two men came in hurriedly, as though having reached a decision, and went up the stairs.
“There’ll be the devil to pay if Piquette has succeeded,” muttered Horton to himself. And then in a quick afterthought, “And maybe a worse devil—if she hasn’t.”
He waited until they had gone beyond the landing and then hurried to the rear stairway and up the two flights to the door of Piquette’s room—aghast at his discovery. She was not there, nor had she been there, for he struck a match and found its condition precisely that in which he had left it half an hour before. He waited for a few moments, then turned the corner of the corridor and went quickly toward Quinlevin’s door, waiting for a moment and listening intently. He made out the murmur of voices, a man’s and a woman’s, but he could not hear it distinctly. But that the man’s voice was the Irishman’s he did not doubt, nor that the woman’s was Piquette’s. Cautiously he turned the knob of the door. It was locked. Quinlevin evidently expected him. There was no chance of ingress here unless Quinlevin permitted it. The Irishman had the law on his side. If Horton persisted, Quinlevin could shoot him (which was what he wished to do), with every prospect of acquittal in any trouble that might follow.
Horton waited here only a moment and then ran quickly down the stairs, past some guests on their way to the Casino, and out into the garden. At this hour of the night it was dark, for the dining rooms were upon the other side and the smoking and billiard rooms were deserted. Glancing toward the well-lighted promenade just beyond the hedge, he stole along the walls of the hotel beneath the windows of the first floor, using the deeper shadows, until he reached a palm tree, from the shelter of which he carefully scrutinized the façade of the building, identifying the windows and portico of the room of Quinlevin. Then went nearer, to a clump of bushes, beneath the portico, where he crouched to listen for any sounds that might come from above. Silence, except for the distant murmuring of the surf among the rocks below the Casino.
He tried to believe that the voice he had heard through the door upstairs was not Piquette’s—that it might have been Moira’s or Nora Burke’s. But if it was not Piquette’s voice, then where was she? And why had she stayed so long, venturing Quinlevin’s wrath at her intrusion? There seemed to be no doubt that she had overstayed the allotted time and that now they had come in upon her—-the Irishman and the rascal Tricot. She was in for a bad half hour—perhaps something worse.
But Horton reassured himself with the thought that Quinlevin desired to keep the tale of his hazard of new fortune a secret. They would not dare to do physical harm to Piquette in a hotel, which had its name for respectability. They would not dare to risk her outcries, which, if damaging to herself, would be doubly damaging to Barry Quinlevin. So Horton crouched in the center of his hiding place and uncertainly waited, sure that if she was in danger his place was now beside Piquette, who had played a game with death for him in the house in the Rue Charron. He glanced up at the trellis just beside him, planning the ascent. And as he did so he noticed a small object hanging among the twigs just above his head. It was within reach of his hand and he took it—a letter or a slip of paper somewhat rumpled. He fingered and then looked at it, but it was too dark to see. Near him upon the turf was another square of paper—and a letter further off, another, and another hanging in the opposite side of the bush.
In his hands idly he fingered the letter. The paper was fine and it bore an embossed heading or crest. He was about to throw it aside when he looked up the wall of the building at the portico outside Barry Quinlevin’s windows—realizing with a sudden sense of his discovery that these papers had fallen from the windows of the second floor or those of the third—Quinlevin’s. Of course they were unimportant—and yet.... He started to his feet and looked around. Elsewhere, so far as he could see, the garden was scrupulously neat, the pride of a gardener who was well paid to keep up the traditions of this fairyland. Horton bent over searching and found another paper, even more rumpled than the others. He glanced up at the windows on the third floor. There was no sign of occupancy, for though one of the windows was open, both were still dark, but he waited a moment listening and fancied that he heard the low murmur of voices, then a dull glow as though some one had made a light for a cigarette.
But the papers in his fingers! He realized with a growing excitement that they were quite dry to the touch and had not therefore been long exposed to the damp sea air. Had Piquette...? Not daring to strike a light he turned and crept quickly back to the light of the hall way. And here, behind the door, he read the papers quickly. Their meaning flashed through his consciousness with a shock—a letter from Monsieur de Vautrin, a receipt for money, and the crumpled paper a square printed document bearing the now familiar name of Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy de Vautrin—the birth certificate upon which all Barry Quinlevin’s fortunes hung—and Moira’s.
He could not take time to investigate the characters of the handwriting, for the light was dim. And the real significance of his discovery was not to be denied. No one but Piquette would have thrown such papers out of the window into the garden, nor would she have done so desperate a thing unless she had found herself at bay with no other means of disposing of them. He reasoned this out for himself while he thrust the documents safely into an inner pocket and crept quickly back to his place beneath the windows, searching as he went upon the ground for any other papers that might have escaped him. There was no time to spare. Piquette was up there. He was sure of it now. Otherwise why hadn’t she escaped and run down to recover the documents before Quinlevin’s return with Tricot? But why had she thrown them from the window unless their presence threatened? These and other speculations were to remain unanswered, for if Piquette were in that room alone with the two men her danger was great.
There was a slight sound from above. He peered upward. In silhouette against the sky was the figure of a man—he couldn’t tell whether Tricot or the Irishman. It was to be a desperate game then. They had just guessed what Piquette had done with the birth certificate and there seemed not the slightest hope that the man on the portico could have failed to see his figure below the thin screen of winter foliage. Desperate! Yes, but worth it—for Piquette. He owed it to her. And, as in moments of great danger, he found himself suddenly cold with purpose and thinking with extraordinary lucidity. Quinlevin would not dare to shoot him out of hand without a cause, but to catch a man climbing the wall of his hotel into the window of his room,—that would be a sufficient reason for an obvious act of self-defense. And yet had Quinlevin considered the possibility of Horton’s attempting so dangerous a climb? If not, the element of surprise might be in Jim Horton’s favor.
But there was to be no choice for Horton—for as he stood, measuring the height of the trellis, from the window above he heard a stifled voice crying his name. “Jeem!” it called, “Go! Go!”
He ran to the trellis and climbed it easily, putting his revolver in an outer pocket as he reached the friendly roof of the little outbuilding, crouching behind a projection of the wing and gazing upward for a further sight of Monsieur Tricot. He thought he heard sounds now, the creaking of furniture and the growl of a masculine voice. Other sounds, more terrible, more significant.... They were choking her.... D—— them! Cowards!
Scorning further secrecy, he measured with his eye the distance he would have to spring for a hand hold on the window-sill of the window above him, the water-pipe, his main hope, upon investigation proving unreliable. The window sill which was his objective was at least two feet above his outstretched arms and to the left, beyond the edge of the projection on which he stood. It was not above him and he would have to leap sideways from the roof, risking a drop of at least twenty feet to the menacing stone flagging of a path which led to the kitchen entrance. But he leaped upward and out into the dark, his fingers clutching, swinging for a second above vacancy, and then hauled himself up until he got a hand hold on the hinge of the open shutter; then a knee on the sill, pushing the French window which yielded to his touch. He hoped the room was unoccupied, but had no time to consider that possibility; straightening and climbing the shutter. Quinlevin’s portico was within his reach now. He waited cautiously for a second, listening and peering upward. No sign of any one outside, but the sounds within.... He heard them again now—fainter, horribly suppressed. He caught the edge of the portico and swung himself up, close to the wall of the building, and in a moment had gained a safe foot-hold within the railing.
There was no light within the room and now no sound. Had they... In the brief moment he paused, gasping for his breath, he was aware of a figure below moving cautiously along the outskirts of the garden. He crouched below the balustrade instinctively. It was just at this moment that the cautious head and shoulders of a man emerged from the French window to peer over. It was Tricot. Like a cat, Horton sprang for him, and the impact of the shock sent them both sprawling, half in, half out of the room. Neither made a sound, each aware of the hazard of his situation. Horton struck and struck again, felt the sharp scratch of Monsieur Tricot’s knife upon his shoulder, and caught the wrist of the hand that held it, twisting, twisting until the weapon dropped, clattering, just within the door of the room. But the Frenchman was strong and struggled upward, kicking, biting, until Horton with his right arm free struck him under the jaw. That took some of the fight out of him, but he still fought gamely, while Horton, whose blood was hot now, wondered why Quinlevin hadn’t joined in the entertainment. Tricot in desperation tried to reach for another weapon with the arm Horton hadn’t pinioned, and it was about time to end the matter. A memory of the night in the Rue Charron was behind Horton’s blow which struck Monsieur Tricot neatly behind the ear and sent him sprawling out on the portico, where his head came into contact with the cement balustrade, and he fell and lay silent.
Horton took no chances, kicking the knife, a cruel, two-edged affair, into the fireplace and appropriating Monsieur Tricot’s revolver, which he put into the other pocket of his coat, then turned to look for Quinlevin.
He didn’t find him, but Piquette was there, prone in the arm chair, and gasping horribly for her breath.
“Piquette! It’s Jim,” he whispered.
Her swollen tongue refused her, but her fingers clutched his hand.
“They choked you, Piquette.”
“Tri—cot,” she managed to utter painfully.
“I’ve attended to him. Where’s Quinlevin?”
She pointed, soundless, toward the door.
“He went down to look for me?” he questioned.
She nodded.
“Good,” laughed Jim. “We’ll be ready when he comes back.”
He went out and had another look at Tricot. The man was out of it and there was a dark shadow on the stone work where he had fallen. So Horton came back into the room, found a pitcher of water, with which he bathed Piquette’s forehead and throat and then gave her to drink. And in a moment she was able to enunciate more clearly. But she was very weak and it seemed that her nerve was gone, for her shoulders shook with hysteria and she clung to Horton still in terror of her frightful experience. But Horton was taking no chances now and did the thinking and talking for them both.
“You’re sure Quinlevin went down to look for me?” he asked again.
“Yes, m-mon ami. Tricot,—’e saw you below—in—de—de garden.”
“He knows you threw out the papers?”
“Yes. Into de garden.”
“Not now,” said Horton. “In my pocket.”
“You found dem?”
“Yes.”
“Dieu merci! It’s what I—I ‘ope’.”
“But we mustn’t lose them again now, Piquette, after all this. Is the door locked?”
“I—I doan know. I——”
Horton strode to the door and turned the key.
“Now let him come,” he whispered grimly. And then, “Where’s Moira?” he asked.
“Lock’ in ’er room—yonder.”
“You saw her?”
“Yes, mon Jeem.”
“But she must have heard all this commotion.”
“I doan know.”
“Um.” He paused a moment, glanced at the door into the corridor, and then crossed quickly to the door Piquette indicated, knocking softly. There was no reply.
“Moira!” he said through the key-hole. “It’s I—Jim.”
He seemed to hear sounds within, a gasp, a movement of feet and then silence.
“Moira—it’s Jim.” There was no sound, so he unbolted the door and turned the knob. It was locked on the inside.
A gasp from Piquette, who had been listening for sounds at the other door, now warned him to be quiet and he straightened. There were footsteps outside and then a knock.
“Tricot!” said the Irishman’s voice. “Let me in.”
“Quickly!” whispered Horton, into Piquette’s ear, “in the chair and gasp like hell.”
She understood and obeyed him. Horton went to the door, turned the key and Barry Quinlevin strode in.
“He’s gone, Tricot—the papers too——”
So was Quinlevin: the door closed behind him and a wiry arm went around his throat from behind, a knee in the middle of his back, and he crumpled backward in Horton’s strong arms, down to the floor, where in spite of his struggles Horton held him powerless, quickly disarming him, his weight on the astonished Irishman’s chest, his fingers at the man’s throat, gently pressing with a threat of greater power at the slightest sound. The achievement was ridiculously easy as all important things are, given some intelligence and a will to do.
Mr. Quinlevin at this point had come to realize that the purely psychological stage of his venture had passed into the realm of the physical, in which he was no match for this young Hercules who had so easily mastered him. And Tricot...? Outside upon the balcony was a shadow that had not been there before. The game was up. And so he resorted to diplomacy, which was indeed the only thing left to him.
“Well, Horton,” he uttered, “ye’ve won.”
“Not yet, Quinlevin,” said Horton grimly. And then to Piquette, who had stopped gasping and already showed a lively interest in the proceedings, “The sheets from the bed, Piquette, if you please.”
She obeyed and helped him while they swathed their prisoner from head to foot, binding and gagging him with his own cravats and other articles of apparel which they found adaptable to the purpose and then between them lifted him to the bed where he lay a helpless clod of outraged dignity. Then they turned their attention to Monsieur Tricot, who, as they dragged him by the heels into the room, already showed signs of returning consciousness, binding him first, reviving him afterward. Of the two Tricot was now the least quiescent, but he understood the touch of Horton’s revolver at his temple, and in a moment lay like Quinlevin, writhing in his bonds but quite as helpless.
“And now, Quinlevin,” said Horton coolly, “it must be fairly obvious to you that the fraud you’ve practiced at the expense of Madame Horton is now at an end. The documents upon which you rely are in my pocket, where they will remain until they are turned over to Monsieur de Vautrin. In the morning you and your brave companion will doubtless be released by the servants of the hotel, by which time I hope to be in another part of France!”
He stopped with a shrug at the sound of Piquette’s voice.
“We mus’ not stay too long, Jeem ‘Orton. Some one may come.”
“Madame Horton?” he muttered, and went over to the door of Moira’s room and listened. There was no sound. “Moira,” he said again distinctly through the keyhole. “Will you unbolt the door?”
A small sound of footsteps moving, but they did not come toward the door.
“Moira,” he repeated more loudly. “You must let me in. We are going away from here—at once.”
No reply.
“It is as I suppose’, Jeem ‘Orton,” whispered Piquette at his ear. “She does not wish to come.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I saw her, Jeem,” she whispered. “I talk wit’ ’er. It is ’opeless. I do not t’ink she will come. She is afraid.”
“Afraid—of me?” he muttered incredulously. “I——”
“Not of you, mon vieux,” returned Piquette. “Of ‘erself!”
“I don’t understand——”
Piquette shrugged. “Try again den, Jeem ‘Orton.”
He did—to no avail. There was now no sound from within in reply to his more earnest entreaties.
“Something must have happened to her,” he mumbled straightening, with a glance toward the bed. “If I thought——”
“But no,” Piquette broke in quickly. “Not’ing ’as ’appen’ to ’er, mon Jeem. She is quite safe.”
“I’m not so sure about that——”
And putting his weight against the door, he tried to force it in. It yielded a trifle, but the slender bolt held. He waited a moment, listening again, silencing Piquette’s whispered protestations at the commotion he was creating, but heard nothing. Then moving away a few paces he pushed the door with his full weight and it flew open with a crash, almost throwing him to the floor.
The room was empty, but the unlocked door leading into Nora Burke’s room showed which way she had gone. He went in and looked around. Then out into the corridor by Nora’s door. There were some people at the other end of the corridor but Moira and her Irish nurse had disappeared.
Uncertainly, he came back through the rooms to Piquette, who stood in Moira’s room, watching the prisoners through the doorway.
“It is what I ’ave said, mon Jeem. Madame does not wish to go wit’ you.”
“But why——? After all——”
“‘Ave I not tol’ you? She is afraid of ’erself. She knows as I know—she is a woman who loves—but not as I love, mon Jeem. It is ’er God dat stan’ between you, ’er God—stronger dan you and what you are to ’er. She is afraid. She knows—if she touch your ’and—she will go wit’ you—whatever ’appens.”
“What makes you think that?” muttered Horton, bewildered.
“She tol’ me so——”
“You?”
“I saw ’er—talk wit’ ’er. Dat is why I wait too long ontil Monsieur Quinlevin came.”
Horton paused, thinking deeply.
“I must find her, Piquette. She’s got to go with us,” he murmured, starting toward the door away from her.
But Piquette caught him by the hand.
“No, Jeem. You mus’n’t. Do you t’ink you can fin’ ’er? Where? An’ if you do, your friend Monsieur Quinlevin will be discover’ and dey will put you in de jail——”
“Let them. I’ve got to take her away. She’s helpless, Piquette, with him—penniless, if she deserts him.”
“Not so ’elpless as you t’ink. But she does not want to see you. Is not dat enough?”
“No,” he said, trying to shake loose her clutch on his arm. “I’ll find her.”
“Jeem,” Piquette pleaded desperately. “You will spoil all de good you do. What does it matter if you fin’ ’er or not if you lose de paper to Quinlevin again? You mus’ go away now before it is too late an’ make Quinlevin powerless to ’urt ’er again.. Den, mon Jeem, when ’er future is safe, you s’all fin’ ’er. What does it matter now? In time she will come to you. I know. You s’all fin’ ’er. An’ I, Piquette, will ’elp you.”
She felt his arm relax and knew that she had won. He stared for a long moment toward the open door into Nora’s room, then turned with a quick gasp of decision.
“You’re right, Piquette. We’ve got to get away—to draw his claws for good.”
“Parfaitement! You need not worry. ’E will not ’urt ’er now.”
And so they returned to the Irishman’s room and looked carefully to the bonds of the prisoners. Nothing was disarranged. They had done their work well, and continued it by methodically making all arrangements for departure; shutting the French window, putting an extra turn on the bindings of the prostrate men, who glared at them sullenly in the obscurity. Then they went out, locking all three rooms from the outside and leaving the keys in the doors. Unobserved, they went up to their rooms—packed their belongings, descended to the office where Jim coolly paid their bills, and went out into the night.
There was a garage nearby, where they hired a car, paying for it in advance, and in less than twenty minutes, Jim Horton driving, were on their way to Vingtimille, on the border line between France and Italy. There they left the machine in the care of a hotel and wrote a postcard to the owner of the garage at Monte Carlo, telling him where he would find his machine. This message they knew would not reach him until some time the next day, by which time they would be lost in Italy.