Chapter XXIII By Force of Arms
For a moment Lawrence sat rigid, stunned with surprise at the unexpected audacity of the thing. Then, as the car swung around the corner of Fifth Avenue, a bright glare of light streamed in through the front window, full upon the face of the individual beside him. To Barry’s intense astonishment, and not a little to his chagrin, he recognized the supposed broker who had occupied the next compartment that afternoon in the Belmont café.
“So it’s you!” he exclaimed aloud.
The man reached forward with his left hand, and jerked down the front curtain, plunging the interior of the limousine into almost utter darkness.
“It sure is,” he returned coolly, but with an undercurrent of satisfaction in his voice.
The hand which held the automatic against Barry’s head did not relax. Lawrence had an odd impression that, even through the length of immovable steel, he could feel the fellow’s muscles tensed, and his whole being alert for the slightest stirring on the part of his prisoner. He did not really believe that the man would actually pull the trigger, no matter what happened, but under such circumstances one does not feel anxious to put beliefs like that to a test.
As the car whirled southward without a single pause or even slowing down—at that hour traffic regulations were very much relaxed—Lawrence strove desperately to bring some order to the chaos of his mind.
Who was the audacious unknown, and what could possibly be his purpose in acting in this high-handed manner? He recalled vividly the strange attack which had been made on him several nights before. Was this a natural sequence of that assault, and of the persistent shadowing which had been going on ever since? Was this fellow hand in glove with the bearded man and his gawky, foreign-looking confederate? Or was he acting in behalf of Tappin and the bank officials? Where was he himself being taken, and for what object?
The car jolted over cross tracks twice, with a very brief interval between, and Barry knew it was the Twenty-ninth and Twenty-eighth Street surface lines. In a few seconds they would reach Twenty-third, where a slowing down at least would be imperative. There were always policemen about that corner. Should he plunge forward at the right moment, smash the glass of the door near him, and risk a shot from the revolver, or should he quietly let things take their course, in the hope of finding out something which would help to clear the mystery?
He finally decided on the latter course, at least until he could have time to sound his captor, and, relaxing in his corner, he promptly proceeded to that end.
“I suppose you know what you’re doing?” he remarked suddenly.
“I generally do,” the unknown drawled.
“Really?” murmured Lawrence. “Then you must realize that you’re running a considerable risk, taking the law into your own hands this way.”
The other chuckled. “Law!” he exclaimed. “You’re a great one to talk about the law, when you’re——”
He broke off abruptly, much to Barry’s disappointment, and the latter retorted swiftly:
“Nabbed, am I? Will you be good enough to tell me what crime I am charged with?”
“Ha! ha! That’s good. As if you didn’t know without any telling! You’ll find out soon enough, my friend.”
“You think so?” Barry retorted sharply. “I hope you’re taking me to a station house or before a magistrate, where this matter can be straightened out at once.”
“You want——” the man began incredulously, then paused.
“Of course that’s what I want,” Lawrence put in swiftly. “What’s more, I demand it. I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of—nothing I’m afraid of having the whole world know. Just take me before a magistrate, and see how long your flimsy charges, whatever they may be, will hold me.”
There was an instant’s pause, then the man laughed. “Ha! ha! Sounds good, but you can’t fool me that way. I’ve heard that line of talk before, many a time.”
Superficially his tone was confidence itself, but Barry’s alert senses caught a faint note of hesitancy in his voice which was at once puzzling and encouraging.
“Very likely,” the Harvard chap retorted. “Perhaps you’ve also observed the consequences of holding up an innocent man at the point of a gun, and carrying him off against his will. I recall one instance where the judge was hard-hearted enough to define it as kidnaping. The perpetrator was sent up for six years, as I remember.”
This time the stranger’s laugh was decidedly forced.
“You’re wasting your breath,” he said, with some curtness. “You may be slick enough to put it over that foreign bunch across the pond, but, we ain’t so easy over here.”
Lawrence started ever so slightly, and drew a quick, noiseless breath. He had not the most remote idea what the man was talking about, but the fact was instantly apparent that it had nothing whatever to do with Tappin and the Beekman Trust Company.
In spite of his bewilderment at this discovery, Barry was decidedly relieved. He was not at all anxious for a revival of the old affair before he had taken the steps he planned in regard to Julian Farr’s exposure. He was absolutely innocent, of course, and felt that it would be impossible for them to prove anything against him. Still, the bank people might make things annoying, and perhaps ruin the plans he had made about the cashier.
The car bumped over the Twenty-third Street tracks, and went speeding on down Fifth Avenue. After a time another slight jolt told Lawrence that Fourteenth Street had been reached and put behind, but still the course was held straight southward.
Barry tried to sound his captor a little more, but the latter had grown taciturn, and shut him up without revealing another scrap of information.
Eighth Street was crossed, and, a moment or two later, the car swerved sharply to the right.
“Washington Square,” Barry thought, with every sense alert. “Now, where the mischief are they taking me?”
The twists and turns which followed were so bewildering that Barry soon ceased trying to keep track of his whereabouts. The car sped on, whirling around corners, taking long, straight stretches with a rush, and darting back and forth, up and down, in such a manner that Lawrence finally lost even his sense of direction.
Evidently the detective—Barry was sure by this time of his captor’s occupation—was headed for some rendezvous where possibly he would meet the persons who had employed him in this lawless undertaking. Between leaving the car and entering the building, wherever that might be, there would surely be some slight chance of breaking away, and Lawrence determined to be ready to take advantage of it the instant the car stopped.
Thus it was that, when the automobile began to slow down and swerve in toward the curb, Barry held himself tense, with feet braced in such a manner that he was ready to launch himself straight at his companion in the twinkling of an eye, snatch the automatic, and fling himself from the car to freedom.
“No monkeyshines, now!” admonished the unknown suddenly, as if reading Lawrence’s very thoughts. “You try to make a get-away, and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
“Why should I?” Barry returned, with light indifference. “I’m too anxious to see you get yours, to leave just now.”
The only answer was an inarticulate grunt. The car skidded a little, then stopped with a jerk. Lawrence was waiting breathlessly for the pressure of the revolver to be removed, when suddenly his heart sank into his boots.
From the sidewalk came the low murmur of voices, followed almost instantly by the jerking open of the door. In a single swift glance he took in the shadowy forms of three men grouped around the car—four, if he counted the chauffeur, who was slipping out of his seat to join them.
It would be folly to try to break away against such odds as this. He would do better to submit without resistance and bide his time.