The White Moll Part 28

"I don't think--I know." He stood gnawing at his lips, eying her uncertainly, half angrily, half hungrily. And then he shrugged his shoulders. "Listen!" he said. "I've got some one else, too! And I know now where the leak that's queered every one of our games and put the White Moll wise to every one of our plans beforehand has come from. I guess you'll believe me now, won't you? We've got that dude pal of hers fastened up tighter than the night he fastened me with his cursed handcuffs! Do you know who that same dude pal is?" He laughed in an ugly, immoderate way. "You don't, of course, so I'll tell you. It's the Pug!" Rhoda Gray did not answer. It was growing dark here in the shed now--perhaps that was why the man's form blended suddenly into the doorway and wall, and blurred before her. She tried to think, but there seemed to have fallen upon her a numbed and agonized stupefaction. There was no confusing this issue. Danglar had found out that the Adventurer was the Pug. And it meant--oh, what did it mean? They would kill him. Of course, they would kill him! The Adventurer, discovered, would be safer at the mercy of a pack of starved pumas, and...

"I thought that would hold you!" said Danglar with brutal serenity.

"That's why I didn't get around till now. I didn't get back from that chase until daylight--the she-fiend stole our car--and then I went to bed to get a little sleep. About three o'clock this afternoon Pinkie Bonn woke me up. He was half batty with excitement. He said he was over in the tenement in the Pug's room. The Pug wasn't in, and Pinkie was waiting for him, and then all of a sudden he heard a woman screaming like mad from somewhere. He went to the door and looked out, and saw a man dash out of a room across the hall, and burst in the door of the next room. There was a woman in there with her clothes on fire. She'd upset a coal-oil stove, or something. The man Pinkie had seen beats the fire out, and everybody in the tenement begins to collect around the door. And then Pinkie goes pop-eyed. The man's face was the face of the White Moll's dude pal--but he had on the Pug's clothes. Pinkie's a wise guy. He slips away to me without getting himself in the limelight or spilling any beans. And I didn't ask him if he'd been punching the needle again overtime, either. It fitted like a glove with what happened at old Luertz's last night. You don't know about that. Pinkie and this double-crossing snitch went there--and only found a note from the White Moll. He'd tipped her off before, of course, and the note made a nice little play so's he'd be safe himself with us. Well, that's about all.

We had to get him--where we wanted him--and we got him. We waited until he showed up again as the Pug, and then we put over a frame-up deal on him that got him to go over to that old iron plant in Harlem, you know, behind Jake Malley's saloon, where we had it fixed to hand Cloran his last night--and the Pug's there now. He's nicely gagged, and tied, and quite safe. The plant's been shut down for the last two months, and there's only the watchman there, and he's 'squared.' We gave the Pug two hours of solitary confinement to think it over and come across. We just asked him for the White Moll's address, so's we could get her and the sparklers she swiped at Old Luertz's place last night."

Still Rhoda Gray did not speak for a moment. She seemed to be held in thrall by both terror and a sickening dismay. It did not seem real, her surroundings here, this man, and the voice that was gloatingly p.r.o.nouncing the death sentence upon the man who had come unbidden into her life, and into her heart, the man she loved. Yes, she understood!

Danglar's words had been plain enough. The Adventurer had been trapped--not through Danglar's cunning, or lack of cunning on the Adventurer's own part, but through force of circ.u.mstances that had caused him to fling all thought of self-consideration to the winds in an effort to save another's life. Her hands, hidden in the folds of her skirt, clenched until they hurt. And it was another self, it seemed, subconsciously enacting the role of Gypsy Nan, alias Danglar's wife, who spoke at last.

"You are a fool! You are all fools!" she cried tempestuously. "What do you expect to gain by that? Do you imagine you can make the Pug come across with any information by a threat to kill him if he doesn't? You tried that once. You had him cold, or at least you thought you had, and so did he, that night in old Nicky Viner's room, and he laughed at you even when he expected you to fire the next second. He's not likely to have changed any since then, is he?"

"No," said Danglar, with a vicious chuckle; "and that's why I'm not trying the same game twice. That's why we've got him over in the old iron plant now."

There was something she did not like in Danglar's voice, something of ominous a.s.surance, something that startled her.

"What do you mean?" she demanded sharply.

"It's a lonely place," said Danglar complacently. "There's no one around but the watchman, and he's an old friend of Shluker's; and it's so roomy over there that no one could expect him to be everywhere at once. See?

That let's him out. He's been well greased, and he won't know anything.

Don't you worry, old girl! That's what I came here for--to tell you that everything is all right, after all. The Pug will talk. Maybe he wouldn't if he just had his choice between that and the quick, painless end that a bullet would bring; but there are some things that a man can't stand.

Get me? We'll try a few of those on the Pug, and, believe me, before we're through, there won't be any secrets wrapped up in his bosom."

Rhoda Gray stood motionless. Thank G.o.d it had grown dark--dark enough to hide the whiteness that she knew had crept over her face, and the horror that had crept into her eyes. "You mean"--her voice was very low--"you mean you're going to torture him into talking?"

"Sure!" said Danglar. "What do you think!"

"And after that?"

"We b.u.mp him off, of course," said Danglar callously. "He knows all about us, don't he? And I guess we'll square up on what's coming to him!

He's put the crimp into us for the last time!" Danglar's voice pitched suddenly hoa.r.s.e in fury. "That's a h.e.l.l of a question to ask! What do you think we'd do with a yellow cur that's double-crossed us like that?"

Plead for the Adventurer's life? It was useless; it was worse than useless--it would only arouse suspicion toward herself. From the standpoint of any one of the gang, the Adventurer's life was forfeit.

Her mind was swift, cruelly swift, in its workings now. There came the prompting to disclose her own ident.i.ty to tell Danglar that he need not go to the Adventurer to discover the whereabouts of the White Moll, that she was here now before him; there came the prompting to offer herself in lieu of the man she loved. But that, too, was useless, and worse than useless; they would still do away with the Adventurer because he had been the Pug, and the only chance he now had, as represented by whatever she might be able to do, would be gone, since she would but have delivered herself into their hands.

She drew back suddenly. Danglar had stepped toward her. She was unable to avoid him, and his arm encircled her waist. She s.h.i.+vered as the pressure of his arm tightened.

"It's all right, old girl!" he said exuberantly. "You've been through h.e.l.l, you have; but it's all right at last. You leave it to me! Your husband's got a kiss to make up for every drop of that grease you've had to put on the prettiest face in New York."

It seemed as though she must scream out. It was hideous. She could not force herself to endure it another instant even for safety's safe. She pushed him away. It was unbearable--at any risk, cost what it might.

Mind, soul and body recoiled from the embrace.

"Leave me alone!" she panted. "You've been drinking. Leave me alone!"

He drew back, and laughed.

"Not very much," he said. "The celebration hasn't started yet, and you'll be in on that. I guess your nerves have been getting shaky lately, haven't they? Well, you can figure on the swellest rest-cure you ever heard of, Bertha. Take it from me! We're going down to keep the Pug company presently. You blow around to Matty's about midnight and get the election returns. We'll finish the job after that by getting Cloran out of the road some way before morning, and that will let you out for keeps--there won't be any one left to recognize the woman who was with Deemer the night he shuffled out." He backed to the doorway. "Get me?

Come over to Matty's and see the rajah's sparklers about midnight. We'll have 'em then--and the she-fiend, too. So long, Bertha!"

She scarcely heard him; she answered mechanically.

"Good-night," she said.

XIX. DREAD UPON THE WATERS

For a moment after Danglar had gone, Rhoda Gray stood motionless; and then, the necessity for instant action upon her, she moved quickly toward the doorway herself. There was only one thing she could do, just one; but she must be sure first that Danglar was well started on his way. She reached the doorway, looked out--and suddenly caught her breath in a low, quick inhalation, In the semi-darkness she could just make out Danglar's form, perhaps twenty-five yards away now, heading along the lane toward the street; but behind Danglar, at a well-guarded distance in the rear, hugging the shadows of the fence, she saw the form of another man. Her brows knitted in a perplexed and anxious frown. The second man was undoubtedly following Danglar. That was evident. But why?

Who was it? What did it mean?

She retreated back into the shed, and commenced hastily to disrobe and dress again in her own clothes, which she had flung down upon the floor. In the last a.n.a.lysis, did it matter who it was that was following Danglar--even if it were one of the police? For, supposing that the man who was shadowing Danglar was a plain-clothes man, and suppose he even followed Danglar and the rest of the gang to the old iron plant, and suppose that with the necessary a.s.sistance he rounded them all up, and in that sense effected the Adventurer's rescue, it scarcely meant a better fate for the Adventurer! It simply meant that the Adventurer, as one of the gang, and against whom every one of the rest would testify as the sole means left to them of wreaking their vengeance upon one who had tricked and outwitted them again and again for his own ends, would stand his trial with the others, and with the others go behind prison bars for a long term of years.

She hurried now, completing the last touches that transformed her from Gypsy Nan into the veiled figure of the White Moll, stepped out into the lane, and walking rapidly, reached the street and headed, not in the direction of Harlem, but deeper over into the East Side. Even as Danglar had been speaking she had realized that, for the Adventurer's own sake, and irrespective of what any premature disclosure of her own ident.i.ty to the authorities might mean to her, she could not call upon the police for aid. There was only one way, just one--to go herself, to reach the Adventurer herself before Danglar returned there and had an opportunity of putting his worse than murderous intentions into effect.

Well, she was going there, wasn't she? And if she lost no time she should be there easily ahead of them, and her chances would be excellent of releasing the Adventurer with very little risk. From what Danglar had said, the Adventurer was there alone. Once tied and gagged there had been no need to leave anybody to guard him, save that the watchman would ordinarily serve to keep any one off the premises, which was all that was necessary. But that he had been left at all worried her greatly. He had, of course, already refused to talk. What they had done to him she did not know, but the 'solitary confinement' Danglar had referred to was undoubtedly the first step in their efforts to break his spirit. Her lips tightened as she went along. Surely she could accomplish it! She had but to evade the watchman--only, first, the lost revolver, the one safeguard against an adverse turn of fortune, must be replaced, and that was where she was going now. She knew, from her a.s.sociations with the underworld as the White Moll in the old days, where such things could be purchased and no questions asked, if one were known. And she was known in the establishment to which she was going, for evil days had once fallen upon its proprietor, one "Daddy" Jacques, in that he had incurred the enmity of certain of his own ilk in the underworld, and on a certain night, which he would not be likely to forget, she had stood between him and a manhandling that would probably have cost him his life, and--Yes, this was the place.

She entered a dirty-windowed, small and musty p.a.w.nshop. A little old man, almost dwarf-like in stature, with an unkempt, tawny beard, who wore a greasy and ill-fitting suit, and upon whose bald head was perched an equally greasy skull cap, gazed at her inquiringly from behind the counter.

"I want a gun, and a good one, please," she said, after a glance around her to a.s.sure herself that they were alone.

The other squinted at her through his spectacles, as he shook his head.

"I haven't got any, lady," he answered. "We're not allowed to sell them without--"

"Oh, yes, you have, Daddy," she contradicted quietly, as she raised her veil. "And quick, please; I'm in a hurry."

The little old man leaned forward, staring at her for a moment as though fascinated; and then his hand, in a fumbling way, removed the skull cap from his bead. There was a curious, almost wistful reverence in his voice as he spoke.

"The White Moll!" he said.

"Yes," she smiled. "But the gun, Daddy. Quick! I haven't an instant to lose."

"Yes, yes!" he said eagerly--and shuffled away.

He was back in a moment, an automatic in his hand.

"It's loaded, of course?" she said, as she took the weapon. She slipped it into her pocket as he nodded affirmatively. "How much, Daddy?"

"The White Moll!" He seemed still under the spell of amazement. "It is nothing. There is no charge. It is nothing, of course."

"Thank you, Daddy!" she said softly--and laid a bill upon the counter, and stepped back to the door. "Good-night!" she smiled.

She heard him call to her; but she was already on the street again, and hurrying along. She felt better, somehow, in a mental way, for that little encounter with the shady old p.a.w.nbroker. She was not so much alone, perhaps, as she had thought; there were many, perhaps, even if they were of the underworld, who had not swerved from the loyalty they had once professed to the White Moll.

It brought a new train of thought, and she paused suddenly in her walk.

She might rally around her some of those underworld intimates upon whose allegiance she felt she could depend, and use them now, to-night, in behalf of the Adventurer; she would be sure then to be a match for Danglar, no matter what turn affairs took. And then, with an impatient shake of her head, she hurried on again. There was no time for that. It would take a great deal of time to find and pick her men; she had even wasted time herself, where there was no time to spare, in the momentary pause during which she had given the thought consideration.

She reached the nearest subway station, which was her objective, and boarded a Harlem train, satisfied that her heavy veil would protect her against recognition. Un.o.btrusively she took a window seat. No one paid her any attention. Hours pa.s.sed, it seemed to her impatience, while the black walls rushed by, punctuated by occasional scintillating signal lights, and, at longer intervals, by the fuller glare from the station platforms.