The Black Bag - Louis Joseph Vance (best reads of all time txt) 📗
- Author: Louis Joseph Vance
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“I know; but there must be no misunderstanding…. Don’t worry; we’ll win
out yet, I’ve a plan.”
Splendide mendax! He had not the glimmering of a plan.
The engine panting, the train drew in beneath the vast sounding dome of the
station, to an accompaniment of dull thunderings; and stopped finally.
Kirkwood got out, not without a qualm of regret at leaving the compartment;
therein, at least, they had some title to consideration, by virtue of their
tickets; now they were utterly vagabondish, penniless adventurers.
The girl joined him. Slowly, elbow to elbow, the treasure bag between
them, they made their way down toward the gates, atoms in a tide-rip
of humanity,—two streams of passengers meeting on the narrow strip of
platform, the one making for the streets, the other for the suburbs.
Hurried and jostled, the girl clinging tightly to his arm lest they be
separated in the crush, they came to the ticket-wicket; beyond the barrier
surged a sea of hats—shining “toppers,” dignified and upstanding, the
outward and visible manifestation of the sturdy, stodgy British spirit of
respectability; “bowlers” round and sleek and humble; shapeless caps with
cloth visors, manufactured of outrageous plaids; flower-like miracles of
millinery from Bond Street; strangely plumed monstrosities from Petticoat
Lane and Mile End Road. Beneath any one of these might lurk the maleficent
brain, the spying eyes of Calendar or one of his creatures; beneath all of
them that he encountered, Kirkwood peered in fearful inquiry.
Yet, when they had passed unhindered the ordeal of the wickets, had run
the gantlet of those thousand eyes without lighting in any pair a spark of
recognition, he began to bear himself with more assurance, to be sensible
to a grateful glow of hope. Perhaps Hobbs’ telegram had not reached its
destination, for unquestionably the mate would have wired his chief;
perhaps some accident had befallen the conspirators; perhaps the police had
apprehended them…. No matter how, one hoped against hope that they had
been thrown off the trail.
And indeed it seemed as if they must have been misguided in some
providential manner. On the other hand, it would be the crassest of
indiscretions to linger about the place an instant longer than absolutely
necessary.
Outside the building, however, they paused perforce, undergoing the
cross-fire of the congregated cabbies. It being the first time that he
had ever felt called upon to leave the station afoot, Kirkwood cast about
irresolutely, seeking the sidewalk leading to the Strand.
Abruptly he caught the girl by the arm and unceremoniously hurried her
toward a waiting hansom.
“Quick!” he begged her. “Jump right in—not an instant to spare.—”
She nodded brightly, lips firm with courage, eyes shining.
“My father?”
“Yes.” Kirkwood glanced back over his shoulder. “He hasn’t seen us yet.
They’ve just driven up. Stryker’s with him. They’re getting down.” And to
himself, “Oh, the devil!” cried the panic-stricken young man.
He drew back to let the girl precede him into the cab; at the same time
he kept an eye on Calendar, whose conveyance stood half the length of the
station-front away.
The fat adventurer had finished paying off the driver, standing on the deck
of the hansom. Stryker was already out, towering above the mass of people,
and glaring about him with his hawk-keen vision. Calendar had started to
alight, his foot was leaving the step when Stryker’s glance singled out
their quarry. Instantly he turned and spoke to his confederate. Calendar
wheeled like a flash, peering eagerly in the direction indicated by the
captain’s index finger, then, snapping instructions to his driver, threw
himself heavily back on the seat. Stryker, awkward on his land-legs,
stumbled and fell in an ill-calculated attempt to hoist himself hastily
back into the vehicle.
To the delay thus occasioned alone Kirkwood and Dorothy owed a respite of
freedom. Their hansom was already swinging down toward the great gates of
the yard, the American standing to make the driver comprehend the necessity
for using the utmost speed in reaching the Craven Street address. The man
proved both intelligent and obliging; Kirkwood had barely time to drop down
beside the girl, ere the cab was swinging out into the Strand, to the peril
of the toes belonging to a number of righteously indignant pedestrians.
“Good boy!” commented Kirkwood cheerfully. “That’s the greatest comfort of
all London, the surprising intellectual strength the average cabby displays
when you promise him a tip…. Great Heavens!” he cried, reading the girl’s
dismayed expression. “A tip! I never thought—!” His face lengthened
dismally, his eyebrows working awry. “Now we are in for it!”
Dorothy said nothing.
He turned in the seat, twisting his neck to peep through the small rear
window. “I don’t see their cab,” he announced. “But of course they’re after
us. However, Craven Street’s just round the corner; if we get there
first, I don’t fancy Freddie Hallam will have a cordial reception for our
pursuers. They must’ve been on watch at Cannon Street, and finding we were
not coming in that way—of course they were expecting us because of Hobbs’
wire—they took cab for Charing Cross. Lucky for us…. Or is it lucky?” he
added doubtfully, to himself.
The hansom whipped round the corner into Craven Street. Kirkwood sprang up,
grasping the treasure bag, ready to jump the instant they pulled in toward
Mrs. Hallam’s dwelling. But as they drew near upon the address he drew back
with an exclamation of amazement.
The house was closed, showing a blank face to the street—blinds drawn
close down in the windows, area gate padlocked, an estate-agent’s board
projecting from above the doorway, advertising the property “To be let,
furnished.”
Kirkwood looked back, craning his neck round the side of the cab. At the
moment another hansom was breaking through the rank of humanity on the
Strand crossing. He saw one or two figures leap desperately from beneath
the horse’s hoofs. Then the cab shot out swiftly down the street.
The American stood up again, catching the cabby’s eye.
“Drive on!” he cried excitedly. “Don’t stop—drive as fast as you dare!”
“W’ere to, sir?”
“See that cab behind? Don’t let it catch us—shake it off, lose it somehow,
but for the love of Heaven don’t let it catch us! I’ll make it worth your
while. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!” The driver looked briefly over his shoulder and lifted his
whip. “Don’t worry, sir,” he cried, entering into the spirit of the game
with gratifying zest. “Shan’t let ‘em over’aul you, sir. Mind your ‘ead!”
And as Kirkwood ducked, the whiplash shot out over the roof with a crack
like the report of a pistol. Startled, the horse leaped indignantly
forward. Momentarily the cab seemed to leave the ground, then settled
down to a pace that carried them round the Avenue Theatre and across
Northumberland Avenue into Whitehall Place apparently on a single wheel.
A glance behind showed Kirkwood that already they had gained, the pursuing
hansom having lost ground through greater caution in crossing the
main-traveled thoroughfare.
“Good little horse!” he applauded.
A moment later he was indorsing without reserve the generalship of their
cabby; the quick westward turn that took them into Whitehall, over across
from the Horse Guards, likewise placed them in a pocket of traffic; a
practically impregnable press of vehicles closed in behind them ere
Calendar’s conveyance could follow out of the side street.
That the same conditions, but slightly modified, hemmed them in ahead, went
for nothing in Kirkwood’s estimation.
“Good driver!” he approved heartily. “He’s got a head on his shoulders!”
The girl found her voice. “How,” she demanded in a breath, face blank with
consternation, “how did you dare?”
“Dare?” he echoed exultantly; and in his veins excitement was running like
liquid fire. “What wouldn’t I dare for you, Dorothy?”
“What have you not?” she amended softly, adding with a shade of timidity:
“Philip…”
The long lashes swept up from her cheeks, like clouds revealing stars,
unmasking eyes radiant and brave to meet his own; then they fell, even as
her lips drooped with disappointment. And she sighed…. For he was not
looking. Man-like, hot with the ardor of the chase, he was deaf and blind
to all else.
She saw that he had not even heard. Twice within the day she had forgotten
herself, had overstepped the rigid bounds of her breeding in using his
Christian name. And twice he had been oblivious to that token of their
maturing understanding. So she sighed, and sighing, smiled again; resting
an elbow on the window-sill and flattening one small gloved hand against
the frame for a brace against the jouncing of the hansom. It swept on with
unabated speed, up-stream beside the tawny reaches of the river; and for
a time there was no speech between them, the while the girl lost
consciousness of self and her most imminent peril, surrendering her being
to the lingering sweetness of her long, dear thoughts….
“I’ve got a scheme!” Kirkwood declared so explosively that she caught her
breath with the surprise of it. “There’s the Pless; they know me there, and
my credit’s good. When we shake them off, we can have the cabby take us to
the hotel. I’ll register and borrow from the management enough to pay our
way to Chiltern and the tolls for a cable to New York. I’ve a friend or two
over home who wouldn’t let me want for a few miserable pounds…. So you
see,” he explained boyishly, “we’re at the end of our troubles already!”
She said something inaudible, holding her face averted. He bent nearer to
her, wondering. “I didn’t understand,” he suggested.
Still looking from him, “I said you were very good to me,” she said in a
quavering whisper.
“Dorothy!” Without his knowledge or intention before the fact, as
instinctively as he made use of her given name, intimately, his strong
fingers dropped and closed upon the little hand that lay beside him. “What
is the matter, dear?” He leaned still farther forward to peer into her
face, till glance met glance in the ending and his racing pulses tightened
with sheer delight of the humid happiness in her glistening eyes. “Dorothy,
child, don’t worry so. No harm shall come to you. It’s all working out—all
working out right. Only have a little faith in me, and I’ll make
everything work out right, Dorothy.”
Gently she freed her fingers. “I wasn’t,” she told him in a voice that
quivered between laughter and tears, “I wasn’t worrying. I was … You
wouldn’t understand. Don’t be afraid I shall break down or—or anything.”
“I shan’t,” he reassured her; “I know you’re not that sort. Besides,
you’d have no excuse. We’re moving along famously. That cabby knows his
business.”
In fact that gentleman was minute by minute demonstrating his peculiar
fitness for the task he had so cheerfully undertaken. The superior
horsemanship of the London hackney cabman needs no exploitation, and he
in whose hands rested the fate of the Calendar treasure was peer of his
compeers. He was instant to advantage himself of every opening to forward
his pliant craft, quick to foresee the fortunes of the way and govern
himself accordingly.
Estimating with practised eye the precise moment when the police supervisor
of traffic at the junction of Parliament and Bridge Streets, would see
fit to declare a temporary blockade, he so managed that his was the last
vehicle to pass ere the official wand, to ignore which involves a forfeited
license, was lifted; and indeed, so close was his calculation that he
escaped only with a scowl and word of warning from the bobby.
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