Chapter XL The Open Door
As his cognomen indicated, Bradley was short and slim and boyish-looking. He had fresh, rosy cheeks and innocent, bland blue eyes, which reminded one vaguely of cherubs and better worlds than this. In reality he was as sophisticated a little chap as had ever made the lives of New Haven professors miserable; and he had a command of language which, during his two years of “coxing” on the varsity shell, had caused the hair of even those hardened athletes to stand on end. To the harassed Hamersley his appearance at that particular moment seemed like a direct dispensation of Providence.
“Shrimp!” he spluttered, clutching the diminutive chap by the shoulders, “there’s a fellow going up the avenue there—short, slim, dark clothes and brown felt hat. He’s a detective, after Barry Lawrence. I’ve got to know where he goes. For the love of Mike, follow him and tell me where he lands! I’ll be at the club. Be quick, now, or you’ll miss him!”
The single, searching glance Bradley cast at his friend’s face convinced him that this was no joke, and without a question he snapped back: “Right. I’m on.” And he hustled off up the street.
Jock watched him anxiously as he scurried away, and presently, when pursuer and pursued were lost to sight, the big chap sighed and turned back in the direction from which he had come.
“He’ll catch the dope if it’s a possible thing,” he muttered. “Hang it all! I wish Barry were here.”
He was puzzled to learn, on reaching the club, that Lawrence had phoned during his absence and left an urgent message that he was not to leave the building until he heard again from the Harvard man. Of what it could mean Hamersley had no idea, unless Barry had become wise to the situation in some way and was also following up a clew.
At all events, there seemed nothing else for him to do but wait; and for nearly an hour he performed that difficult and trying duty in a manner which nearly drove the other club members to murder.
Apparently unable to keep still, he tramped back and forth through the rooms on the lower floor with a frowning countenance. He was deaf to the gibes and jokes hurled after him, oblivious to remarks and questions from his friends, heedless to everything save the matter which filled his mind so exclusively. Had he not been so universally known and liked by almost all the members, there is no telling what might have happened. As it was, when Shrimp Bradley appeared about a quarter past eight, and Jock made a rush for him which compared favorably with some of his best efforts on the gridiron, there was a general sigh of thankfulness that something had at length arisen to break the spell.
“Let me get my breath!” panted Shrimp. “I never hustled so before. Yes, I got him! Did you take me for a piker? Sure, I want a drink. I’ve got a thirst a mile long. I want something to eat, too, and tell him to hustle. You and I have got our night’s work cut out for us, old socks!”
While he was talking Jock had pushed him into the small room to the left of the door, which happened at the moment to be unoccupied. Placing one big thumb against the bell, he kept it there until the attendant appeared on the run and took their order.
“Now,” exclaimed Hamersley, sinking into a chair, “where’d he go? Harlem?”
“Harlem? No. He went up three blocks and then hopped onto a stage going downtown. Luckily I was just about a block behind, so I sprinted and grabbed it. We rode down to Fourteenth, and then he got off. I stayed on half a block longer, then beat it. I was hustling back, keeping well in near the buildings, when I saw him coming down with another guy, and I slipped into a doorway. As luck would have it, they stopped a couple of feet past me for the stranger to light a cigarette, and I heard about all they said. They talked in riddles, of course, but I made out pretty clearly that they’ve got a girl locked up somewhere, and that they caught her by telling her some fellow was in trouble. I made out, too, that the girl put up something of a fight, but they told her if she didn’t keep quiet ’twould be worse for the fellow, and she behaved after that. They said they’d have him by nine o’clock. Do you suppose they meant Barry Lawrence?”
“Sure!” said Hamersley hoarsely. “But how did you make out all of that, Shrimp? They must have been boobs to talk so much in the open street.”
“Oh, they weren’t so slow,” protested Bradley; “but neither am I, Jock. I kept my ears open and read between the lines. What they said couldn’t have meant much of anything else.”
“Well, go on!” cried Jock impatiently.
“That’s all I heard,” said Bradley. “They were moving off by that time and the wind was blowing the other way. I let ’em get ‘most to the next corner before I slipped out after them. They went down the avenue as far as Eleventh, and then turned west, with me following as close as I dared. I reckon they weren’t thinking about any one being after ’em, though, because they never once looked back. They went down the street almost to the next corner, then walked up the steps of a brownstone front, opened the door with a latchkey, and stepped in. In a couple of minutes I pranced past to get the number, noticed the sign, ‘Rooms to Let,’ boarded a Sixth Avenue car, grabbed a taxi at Twenty-third Street, and hustled back.”
Hamersley nodded, but remained silent.
“What’s biting you, Jock?” inquired Bradley sharply. “Aren’t you wise to what I’m telling you? Don’t you catch on that there’s a girl in trouble?”
“Sure!” gasped Hamersley. “But what girl?”
“What girl!” snapped Shrimp. “How do I know, when you didn’t tell me anything? Don’t you know?”
Jock shook his head dazedly. “First I’ve heard of any girl,” he returned weakly. “I thought it was——”
“What girl are you talking about?” demanded a voice from the doorway, in a tone which made both men jump.
“Barry!” roared Hamersley, leaping at him. “For Pete’s sake, come and put us wise! I put Shrimp on the trail of a man who was asking me all about you, and he comes back with a weird tale of a girl kidnaped by a bunch and kept a prisoner in a boarding house down on West Eleventh Street, near Sixth——”
“West Eleventh!” exclaimed Lawrence triumphantly. “By Jove! You’ve hit it right. Come on—both of you. There isn’t a minute to lose. I’ll tell you the rest in the taxi.”
He turned and hurried out of the room, followed by Hamersley, and, more slowly, by Shrimp Bradley, who had paused to secure the remaining sandwiches. Issuing hastily from the club, Barry told the driver to take them to the corner of Sixth Avenue and Eleventh Street, and they all piled in and slammed the door behind them.
During the hurried ride downtown they exchanged stories briefly, so that when they reached their destination they were ready to act. In half a minute Bradley had led the way to the house, and Lawrence swiftly took in its salient features. It was an ordinary-looking, four-storied brownstone dwelling, a little gone to seed, perhaps, which accounted for the sign displayed in a lower window. The room on the second floor front was brightly lighted, but the shades were pulled down. All the other windows were dark. In that instant Barry had made up his mind.
“I’m going in if I can get in, fellows,” he said abruptly.
“Hadn’t you better wait——” began Bradley.
But Lawrence cut him short. “Not if I know it!” he exclaimed. “I’ve waited too long already. I’m going in! See if you can find a cop, Shrimp. Jock, will you watch the house?”
Before the others could realize what was happening, he had raced up the steps and grasped the doorknob firmly. To the intense surprise of his two companions, the door yielded to his touch, and a second later he had disappeared, leaving them staring dazedly at each other.
“There’s something queer about this!” Hamersley burst out the next instant. “I don’t like the looks of it a little bit.”
Bounding up the steps, he seized the knob and twisted it, flinging his whole weight against the door. It held fast. He tried again with the same result, then turned a serious face toward Bradley.
“Beat it, Shrimp!” he said hurriedly. “Get a cop, quick! It’s a trap, that’s what it is!”