 CHAPTER VII TWICE BEFORE In her life Kitty had looked upon death by violence, and it required only this present picture to convince her that she would never be able to gaze upon it callously, without pity and terror. Newspaper life, at least the repertorial side of it, has an odd effect upon men and women. It sharpens their tragical instincts and perceptions, and dulls eternally the edge of tenderness and sentimentality. It was natural for Kitty to possess the keenest perceptions of tragedy. But she had been taken out of the repertorial field in time to preserve all her tenderness and romanticism. Otherwise she would have seen in that crumpled object with the sinister dob of blood on the forehead merely a story, and would have approached it from that angle. But was he dead? She literally forced her steps toward the body and stared. She dropped to her knees because they were threatening to buckle in one of those flashes of physical incoordination to which the strongest will must bow occasionally. She was no longer afraid of the tragedy, but she feared the great surging pity that was striving to express itself in sobs, and she knew that if she surrendered she would forthwith become hysterical for the rest of the evening, and incompetent to carry out the plan in her head. A strong, healthy young man done to death in this fashion, only a few minutes after he had left her kitchen. Somehow she could not look upon him as a stranger. She had given him food. She had talked to him. She had even laughed with him. He was not like those dead she had seen in her repertorial days. Her orbit and Johnny Two Hawks had indeterminately touched. She had known old Gregory, or Gregor, who had been this unfortunate young man's friend, and he had hoped they may never meet again. The murderous scoundrels had been watching. They must have entered the apartment shortly after he had entered hers. Conceivably they would have Gregor's key. They had watched and waited. Striking him down it may have been at the very moment he had crossed the sill of the window. Her hands shook so idiotically that it was impossible, for a time, to tell if the man's heart was beating. All at once a wave of hot fury rushed over her. Fury at the cowardlyness of the assault and the vertigo passed. She laid her palm firmly over Johnny Two Hawks' heart. Alive! He was alive! She straightened his body and put a pillow under his head. Then she sought water and towels. There was no cut on his forehead, only blood, but the top of his head had been cruelly beaten. He was alive, but without immediate aid he might die, the poor young man. There were two physicians in the block. One or the other would be in. She ran to the door to find it locked. She had forgotten. Next she found the telephone wire cut, and the speaking tube battered in inutile. She would have to return to her own apartment to summon help. She dared not leave the light on. The scoundrels might possibly return, and the light would warn them that their victim had been discovered, and naturally they would wish to ascertain whether or not they had succeeded in their murderous assault. As she was passing the first landing windows, she saw a cutty emerging from the elevator. She flew across the fire escape platform, with the resilient step of one crossing thin ice. Probably the most astonished man in New York was the War Correspondent, when the door opened and a pair of arms were flung about him, and a voice smothered in the lapel of his coat cried, Oh, cutty, I never was so glad to see any one. What in the name of—come, we'll handle this ourselves, hurry! She dragged him along by the sleeve, but it is life and death, no talk now. Cutty, immaculate in his evening clothes, very much perturbed, went along after her. As she passed through the kitchen window and beckoned him to follow, he demured. Kitty, what the deuce is going on here? I'll answer your questions when we get him into my apartment. They tried to murder him and left him there to die. Cutty possessed a great art, an art highly developed only in explorers and newspaper reporters of the First Order—adaptability—of being able to cast aside instantly the conventions of civilization and let down the bars to the primordial, the instinctive, and the natural. Thus the cutty who stepped out beside Kitty into the drizzle was not the cutty she had admitted into the apartment. She did not recognize this remarkable transition until later, and then she discovered that Cutty, the suave and lackadaisical in idleness, was a tremendous animal hibernating behind a crackle shell. What a narrowly Cutty would have declined to come through this shell, thin as it was. He liked these catnaps between great activities. But this lovely creature was Conover's daughter, and she would have the seventh sense divination of the born reporter. Something big was in the air. Go on, he said briskly, I'm at your heels, and stoop as you pass those hall windows, no use throwing a silhouette for somebody in those rear houses to see. Old Tommy Conover's daughter, sure, pop. There you go, under the ladder. You've dished the whole affair, whatever it is. No, no, just spoofing, Kitty. A long face is no good anywhere, even at a funeral. This window? All right. Know where the lights are? Very good. When Cutty saw the man on the floor, he knelt quickly. Nasty bang on the head, but he's alive. What's this? His cap? Poughkeepsie? By George, padded with his handkerchief. Must have known something was going to fall on him. Now, what's it all about? When we get him to my apartment. Yours? Good Lord, what's the matter with this? They tried to kill him here. They might return to see if they had succeeded. They mustn't find out where he is gone. I'm strong. I can take hold of his knees. Neither of us could walk backward over that fire escape. He looks husky, but I'll try it. Now obey me without question or comment. You'll have to help me get him outside the window and in through yours. Between the two windows, I can handle him alone. I only hope we shan't be noticed, for that might prove awkward. Now take hold. That's it. When I'm through the window, just push his legs outside. Panting, Kitty obeyed. All right, said Cutty. I like your pluck. You run along ahead and be ready to help me in with him. A healthy beggar. Here goes. With a heave and a hunch and another heave, Cutty stood up. The limp body disposed scientifically across his shoulders. Kitty was quite impressed by this exhibition of strength, and a man whom she considered as elderly, old. There was an underthought that such feats of bodily prowess were reserved for young men. With the naive conceit of twenty-four, she ignored the actual mathematics of fifty years of clean living and thinking, missed the physiological fact that often men at fifty are stronger and tougher than men in the twenties. They never waste energy. Their precision of movement and deliberation of thought conserved the residue against the supreme moment. As a parenthesis, to a young woman what is a hero? Generally something conjured out of a book she has read. The unknown, handsome young man across the street. The leading actor in a society drama. The idol of the movie. A hero must, of necessity, be handsome. That is the first essential. If he happens to be brave and debonair, rich and aristocratic, so much the better. Somehow, to be brave and to be heroic are not actually accepted synonyms in certain youthful feminine minds. For instance, every maid will agree that her father is brave. But teller he is a hero because he pays his bills regularly, and she will accept the statement with a smile of tolerant indulgence. Thus Kitty viewed Cutty's activities with a thrill of amazed wonder. Had the young man hoisted Cutty to his shoulders, her feeling would have been one of exultant admiration. Let age crown its garnered wisdom, youth has no objections to that. But feats of physical strength, that is poaching upon youth's preserves. Kitty was not conscious of the instinctive resentment. At that moment Cutty was to her the most extraordinary old man in the world. Forward he whispered, I want to know why I am doing this movie stunt. The journey began with Kitty in the lead. She prayed that no one would see them as they passed the two landing windows. Below and above were vivid squares of golden light. She regretted the drizzle. No closed laden lines intervened to obscure their progress. Someone in the rear of the houses in 79th Street might observe the silhouettes. The whole affair must be carried off secretly or their efforts would come to nothing. Once inside the kitchen Cutty shifted his burden into his arms, the way one carries a child, and followed Kitty into the unused bedroom. He did not wait for the story, but asked for the telephone. I am going to call for a surgeon at the lambs. He is just back from France and knows a lot about broken heads, and we can trust him absolutely. I told him to wait there until I called. Cutty, you are a deer. I don't wonder Father loved you. Presently he turned away from the telephone. He'll be here in a jiffy. Now then, what the deuce is all this about? Briefly Kitty narrated the episodes. Samaritan stuff, I see. Any absorbent cotton? I can wash the wound after a fashion. Warm water and castile soap. We can have him in shape for Harrison. Alone Cutty took note of several apparent facts. The victim's flannel shirt was torn with a collar, and there were marks of fingernails on the throat and chest. Upon close inspection he observed a thin red line around the neck, the mark of a thong. Had they tried to strangle him, or had he carried something of value? Soak underwear in a clean body, well-born, foreign. After a conscientious hesitance, Cutty went through the pockets. All he found were some crumbs of tobacco and a soggy matchbox. They had cleaned him out, evidently. There were no Taylor's labels in any of the pockets, but there were signs that these had once existed. The man on the bed had probably ripped them out himself, did not care to be identified. A criminal in flight? Cutty studied the face on the pillow. Shorn of that beard it would be handsome. Not the type criminal, certainly. A bit of natural cynicism edged into his thoughts. Kitty had seen through the beard, otherwise she would have turned the affair over to the police. Not at all like her mother, yet equally her mother's match in beauty and intelligence. Conover's girl, whose eyes had nearly popped out of her head, at the first sight of those drum-lined walls of his. Two hawks. What was it that was trying to stir in his recollection? Two hawks. He was sure he had heard that name before. Oxley meant nothing at all, but two hawks possessed a strange attraction. He stared off into space. He might have heard the name in a tongue other than English. A sound. It came from the lips of the young man. Cutty frowned. The poor chap wasn't breathing in a promising way. He groaned after each inhalation. And what had become of the old fellow Kitty called Gregory? A queer business. Kitty came in with a basin in a roll of absorbent cotton. He is groaning, she whispered. Pretty rocky condition, I should say. That handkerchief in his cap doubtless saved him. Now, little lady, I frankly don't like the idea of his being here. Suppose he dies. In that event, they'll be the very devil to pay. You are all alone here, without even a maid. Am I all alone? Softly. Well, no, come to think of it. I'm no longer your godfather in theory. Give me the cotton and hold the basin. He was very tender. The wound bled a little, but it was not the kind that bled profusely. It was less a cut than a smashing bruise. Well, that's all I can do. Who was this tenant Gregory? A dear old man, a valet at a Broadway hotel. Oh, I forgot. Johnny Twohawks called him Stefani Gregor. Stefani Gregor? Yes. Yes, what is it? Why do you say it like that? Say it like what? Sparring for time. As if you had heard the name before. Just as I thought, cried Cutty, his nimble mind pouncing upon a happy invention. You're a romantic, Kitty. You're imagining all sorts of nonsense about this chap, and you must not let the situation intrigue you. If I spoke the name oddly, this Stefani Gregor, it was because I sensed in a moment that this was a bit of the overflow. South Eastern Europe, where the good Samaritan gets kicked instead of thanked. Now, here's a good idea. Of course, we can't turn this poor chap loose upon the public, now that we know his life is in danger. That's always the trouble with this Samaritan business. When you commit a fine action, you assume an obligation. You hoist the old man of the sea on your shoulders, as it were. The chap cannot be allowed to remain here, so if Harrison agrees, we'll take him up to my diggings, where no Bolshevik will ever lay eyes upon him. Bolshevik? For the sake of a handle, they might be Chinamen for all I know. I can take care of him until he is on his feet, and you will be saved all this annoyance. But I don't believe it's going to be an annoyance. I'm terribly interested and want to see it through. If he can be moved, out he goes. No arguments. He can't stay in this apartment. That's final. Exactly why not, Kitty demanded rebelliously. Because I say so, Kitty. Is Stefani Gregor an undesirable? You knew him. What do you say? Countered her godfather, evading the trap. The innocent child. He smiled inwardly. Kitty was keen. She sensed an undercurrent, and her first attempt to touch it had failed. The mere name of Stefani Gregor had not roused Kitty's astonishment. She was quite positive that the name was not wholly unfamiliar to her father's friend. Still, something warned her not to press in this direction. He would be on the alert. She must wait until he had forgotten the incident, so she drew up a chair beside the bed and sat down. Cutty leaned against the footrail, his expression neutral. He sighed inaudibly. His delightful catnap was over. Stefani Gregor, Kitty's neighbor, a valet in a fashionable hotel. Stefani Gregor, who, upon a certain day, had placed the drums of jeopardy in the palms of a war correspondent known to his familiars as Cutty. And who was this young man on the bed? There goes the bell, cried Kitty, jumping up. Wait. The bell was repeated vigorously and impatiently. Kitty, I don't like the sound of that bell. Harrison would have no occasion to be impatient. Somebody in a hurry. Now, attend to me. I'm going to steal out to the kitchen. Don't be afraid. Call if I'm needed. Open the door just a crack with your foot against it. If it's Harrison, he'll be in uniform. Call out his name. Slam the door if it's someone you don't know. Kitty opened the door as instructed, but she swung it wide because one of the men outside was a policeman. The man behind him was a thick-set, squat individual, with puffed, discoloured eyes and a nose that reminded Kitty of an alligator pair. What's going on here? The policeman demanded to know. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Of the drums of jeopardy This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Drums of Jeopardy by Harold McGrath Chapter 8 A phrase apparently quite irrelevant to the situation shot into Kitty's head. More bond perspectives. Instantly she knew, without foretasting mind of hers, that the man peering over the policeman's shoulder and Johnny Two-Hawks had met somewhere that day. She was now able to compare the results, and she placed the victory on Two-Hawks' brow. Yonder individuals somehow justified the instinct that had prompted her to play the Good Samaritan. Wentz had this gorilla come. He was not one of the men who had issued in such dramatic haste from the Gregor apartment. This man here saw you and another carrying someone across the fire escape. What's the rumpest? The policeman was not exactly belligerent, but he was dutifully determined. And though he was ready to grant, this girl with the Irish eyes was beautiful, a man never could tell. There's been a tragedy of some kind, began Kitty. This man certainly did see us carrying a man across the fire escape. He had been sat upon and robbed in the apartment across the way. Why didn't you call in the police? Because he might have died before you got here. Where's the man who helped you? Gone. He was an outsider. He was afraid of getting mixed up in a police affair and ran away. Behind the kitchen door, Cutty smiled. She would do this girl. Sounds all right, said the policeman. I'll take a look at the man. This way, if you please, said Kitty readily. You come too, sir. She added as a squat man hesitated. Kitty wanted to watch his expression when he saw Johnny two hawks. Seed on rocky soil, nothing came of the little artifice. No Buddha's graven face was less indicative than the squat man's. Perhaps his face was too sore to permit mobility of expression. The drawlary of this thought caused a quirk in one corner of Kitty's mouth. The squat man stopped at the foot of the bed with the air of a mere passerby and seemed more interested in the investigations of the policeman than in the man on the bed. But Kitty knew. A fine bang on the cocoa was a policeman's observation. Take anything out of his pockets. They were quite empty. I've sent for a military surgeon. He may arrive at any moment. This fellow live across the way? That's the odd part of it. No, he doesn't. Then what was he doing there? Probably awaiting the return of the real tenant who hasn't returned up to this hour. With an oblique glance at the squat man. Kinda queer. Say, you stay here and watch the lady while I scout around. The squat man nodded and leaned over the foot of the bed. The policeman stalked out. I was in the kitchen, said Kitty confidingly. I saw shadows on the window curtain. It did not look right. So I started to inquire and almost bumped into two men living the apartment. They took to their heels when they saw me. Again the squat man nodded. He appeared to be a good listener. Where were you when you crossed the fire escape? In the yard, on the other side of the fence. There was reluctance in the guttural voice. Oh, I see. You live there. As this was a supposition and not a direct query, the squat man wagged his head affirmatively. Kitty, her ear strained for disquieting sounds in the kitchen, laid her palm on the patient's cheek. It was very hot. She dipped a bit of cotton into the water which had grown cold and dampened the wounded man's cheeks and throat. Not that she expected to accomplish anything by this act, it relieved the nerve tension. This man was no fool. If her surmises were correct, he was a strong man, both in body and in mind. In a rage he would be terrible. However, had Johnny Two Hawks done it, beaten the man and escaped? No doubt he had been watching all the time and had at length stepped in to learn if his subordinates had followed his instructions and to what extent they had succeeded. If he dies it will be murder. It is a big city. And so many terrible things happen like this every day, but sooner or later those who commit them are found out. Nemesis always follows on the heels of vengeance. For the first time there was a flash of interest in battered eyes of the intruder. Perhaps he saw that this was not only a pretty woman, but a keen one, and sensed the veiled threat. Moreover, he knew that she had lied at one point. There had been no light in the room across the court. But what in the world was happening out there in the kitchen? Kitty wandered, so far not a sound. Had Cutty really taken flight? And why shouldn't he have faced it out at her side? Very odd on Cutty's part. Shortly she heard the heavy shoes of the policeman returning. Guess it's all right, miss. I'll report the affair at the prison and have an ambulance sent over. You'll have to come along with me, sir. Is that legally necessary? asked the squat man, rather perturbed. Sure, you saw the thing and I verified it, declared the policeman. It won't take ten minutes. Your name and address, in case this man dies. I see. Very well. Kitty wasn't sure, but the policeman seemed embarrassed about something. The directness was gone from his eyes and his speech was no longer brisk. My name is Conover, said Kitty. I got that coming in, replied the policeman. We'll be on our way. Not once again did the squat man glance at the man on the bed. He followed the policeman into the hall. His air that of one who had accepted a certain obligation to community welfare and cancelled it. Kitty shut the door and leaned against it, weakly. Where had Cutty gone? Even as she expressed the query, she smelt burning tobacco. She ran out into the kitchen to behold Cutty, seated in a chair, calmly smoking his infamous pipe. And I thought you were gone. What did you say to that policeman? I hypnotized him, Kitty. The newspaper? No, just looked into his eye and made a few passes with my hands. Of course, if you believe you ought not to tell me, said Kitty, which is the way all women start their weedling. Cutty looked into the bowl of his pipe. Kitty, when you throw a cobble into a pond, what happens? A splash. But did you ever notice the way the ripples have of running on and on until they touch the farther shore? Yes, and this is a ripple from some big stone cast into the pond of southeastern Europe. I understand. That's just the difficulty. If you understood nothing, it would be much easier for me. But you know just enough to want to fall up on your own hook. I know nothing definitely. I have only suspicions. I call on that policeman by showing him a blanket police power issued by the commissioner. I want you to pack up and move out of this neighborhood. It's not congenial to you. I'm afraid I can't afford to move until May. I'll take care of that gladly to get you out of this garlicky ruin. No, Cutty, I'm going to stay here until the lease is up. Gee whiz, the Irish are all alike, cried the war correspondent hopelessly. Petticoat or pantaloon, always looking for trouble. No, Cutty, simply we don't run away from it, and there's just as much Irish in you as there is in me. Sure, and for 30 years I've gone hunting for trouble and never failed to find it. I don't like this affair, Kitty, and because I don't, I'm going to risk my Samson locks in your lily-white hands. I am going to tell you two things. I am a secret foreign agent of the United States government. Now, don't light up that way. Dark alleys and secret papers and beautiful adventurises and bang bang have nothing at all to do with my job. There isn't a grain of romance in it. Ostensibly I am a war correspondent. I've handled all the big events in Siberian Bulgaria and Greece and Southwestern Russia. Boiled down, I am a census taker of undesirables. Socialist, anarchist, and Bolshevik I photograph them in my mental films and transmit to Washington. Thus, when Fedor Slapisky lands at Ellis Island with the idea of blowing up New York, he's returned with thanks. I didn't ask for the job. It was thrust upon me because of my knowledge of the foreign tongues. I accepted it because I am a loyal American citizen. And you laughed at me because you didn't know who might be at the door. Precisely. I am known in lower New York under another name. I'm a rabid internationalist, down with everything. I don't go out much these days. Keep under cover as much as I can. Once recognized, my value would be nil. In a flannel shirt, I am a dangerous codger. And Gregor and this poor young man are in some way mixed up with internationalism. Victims, probably. What is the other thing you wish to tell me? Because your eyes are slate blue like your mother's. I loved your mother, Kitty, said Cuddy, blinking into his pipe. And the singular fact is, your father knew, but your mother never did. I was never able to tell your mother after your father died. Their bodies were separated, but not their spirits. Kitty nodded. So that was it. Poor Cuddy. I make this confession because I want you to understand my attitude toward you. I am going to elect myself as your special garden so long as I am in New York. From now on, when I ask you to do something, understand that I believe it best for you. If my suspicions are correct, we are not dealing with fools, but with madmen. The most dangerous human being, Kitty, is an honest man with a half-baked or crooked idea. And that's what this world pothor, Bolshevism, is. Honest man with crooked ideas carrying the torch of anarchism and believing it enlightenment. What makes them tear down things? Every beautiful building is only a monument to their former wretchedness, and so they annihilate. None of them actually knows what he wants. A thousand willow the wisps in front of them and all alike. A thousand years to throw off the shackles, and they expect utopia in ten minutes. It makes you want to weep. Socialism, the brotherhood of man, is a beautiful thing, theoretically. But it is like some plays. They read well, but do not act. Lopping off heads, believing them to be ideas. The poor things. That's it. Though I betray them, I pete them. Democracy, slowly and surely. As prickly with faults, the cactus pair. But every year there are less prickles. We don't stand still or retrogress. We keep going on and up. Take this town. Think of it today, and compare it with the town your father knew. There's the bell. I imagine that will be Harrison. If we can move this chap, will you go to a hotel for the night? I'm going to stay here, Cuddy. That's final. Cuddy, side. End of chapter 8 Chapter 9 At the prison station, the squat man gave a name and an address to the board sergeant at the desk. Passed out a cigar, lit one himself, expressed some innocuous opinions upon one or two topics of the day, and walked leisurely out of the precinct. He wanted to laugh. These pig heads had never thought to question his presence in the backyard of the house in 79th Street. It was the way he'd carried himself. Those years in New York, prior to the war, had not been wasted. The brass-buttoned fools. Serenely unconscious that he was at liberty by explicit orders, because the Department of Justice did not care to trap a werewolf before ascertaining where the pack was and what the kill, he proceeded leisurely to the corner, turned and broke into a run, which carried him to a drug store in 80th Street. Here he was joined by two men, apparently coal-heavers by the look of their hands and faces. They would take him to a hospital, find where they know to find me. Remember, this is your business, and what to you if you fail. Where is it? One of the men extended an object wrapped in ordinary grocer's paper. Ha, that's good. I shall enjoy myself presently. Remember, telephone me the moment you learn where they take him. He is still alive, bongless, and you came away empty-handed. There was nothing on him. We searched. He has hidden them in one of those rooms. I'll attend to that later. Watch the hospital for an hour or so then tell him for information regarding his condition. Is that motor for me? Very good. Remember. Inside the taxi cab the squat man patted the object on his knees and chuckled from time to time audibly. It would be worth all that journey. All he had gone through since dawn that morning. Stephanie Gregor, after these seven long years the man who had betrayed him. To reach into his breast and squeeze his heart as one might squeeze a bit of cheese. Many things to tell, many pictures to paint. He rode far downtown, wound in and out of the warehouse district for a while, then dismissed the taxi and proceeded on foot to his destination. A decayed brick mansion of the forties sandwiched in between two deserted warehouses. In the hall of the first landing a man sat in a chair under the gas, reading a newspaper. At the approach of the squat man he sprang to his feet, but a phrase dissipated his apprehension and he nodded toward a door. Unlocked for me and see that I am not disturbed. Presently the squat man stood inside the room which was dark. He struck a match and peered about for the candle. The light discovered a room barren of all furniture, accepting the table upon which stood the candle and a single chair. In this chair was a man, bound. He was small and dapper. His gray hair swept back a la litz. His chin was on his breast, his body limp. Apparently the bonds alone held him in the chair. The squat man laid his bundle on the table and approached the prisoner. Stephanie Gregor looked up. It is I. He drummed on his chest like a challenging gorilla. I, Boris Kalov. Slowly the eyes of the prisoner went up, revealing mild blue eyes. But almost instantly the mildness was replaced by an agate hardness and the body became upright. Yes, it is Boris whom you betrayed. But I escaped by a hair, Stephanie, and we meet again. What good to tell this poor madman that Stephanie Gregor had not betrayed him, that he had only warned those marked for death. There was no longer reason inside that skull to die, probably in a few moments. So be it. Had he not been ready for seven years? But that poor boy, to have come all these thousands of miles only to walk into a trap. Had he found that note? Had they killed him? Doubtless they had, or Boris Kalov would not be in this room. We killed him tonight, Stephanie, in your rooms. We threw out the food so he would have to seek something to eat. The last of that bread, stem and branch. We are no longer the mud. We ourselves are the hills. We are conquering the world. Today Europe is ours. Tomorrow America. A wintry little smile stir the lips of the man in the chair. America, with its keen perceptions of the ridiculous, its withering humor. No more the desolute opera dancers will dance to your fiddlings, Stephanie, while we starve in the town. Fiddler vale tutto, the rivers and seas of Russia are red. We roll east and west, and our emblem is red. Stem and branch. We ground our hills in their faces as for centuries they ground theirs in ours. He escaped us there, but I was nemesis. He died tonight. The body in the chair relaxed a little. He was clean and honest, Boris. I made him so. He would have done fine things if you had let him live. That breed. Why, you yourself loved him when he was a boy. Stem and branch. I loved my little sister Anna too. For what did they do to her behind those marble walls? Did you fiddle for her? Or was she when they let her go? My pretty little Anna, the fires of hell for those damn green stones of yours, Stephanie. She heard of them and wanted to see them, and you promised. I? I never promised, Anna. So that was it. Boris, I only saw her there. I never knew what brought her. But the boy was in England then. The breed, the breed, brought the squat man. Ha, but you should have seen. Those gay officers and their damn master. We left them with their faces in the mud, Stephanie, in the mud. And the women begged. Fine music, those proud hearts, begging Boris Kalo for their lives, their faces in the mud. You, born of us in those astrakhan heels, you denied us because you liked your fiddle, and a full belly and to play keeper of those emeralds. The winding paths of torture and misery and death, by which they came into the possession of that house. And always the proletariat has had to pay in blood and daughters, you of the people, to betray us. I did not betray you. I only tried to save those who had been kind to me. A cunning light shot into Karloff's eyes. The emeralds. He struck his pocket. Here, Stephanie, and they shall be broken up to buy bread for our people. That poor boy, so he brought them. What are you going to do with me? Watch you grow thin, Stephanie. You want death, you shall want food instead. All little enough to keep you alive. You must learn what it is to be hungry. The squat man picked up the bundle from the table and tore off the wrapping paper. A violin, the color of old burgundy, lay revealed. Boris, the man in the chair writhed. Have I waked you, Stephanie? Tenderly. The strativerious, the very grand duke of fiddles, and he and his damned officers, how they used to call out, get Stephanie to fiddle for us. And you fiddled, dragged your genius to the mod to keep your belly warm. To save a soul, Boris, the boys, when I fiddled, his uncle forgot to drag him into an orgy. Ah, yes, I fiddled, fiddled because I had promised his mother. The Italian singer. She was lucky to die when she did. She did not see the torch, the bayonet in the mod, but the boy did with his English accent. How he escaped, I don't know, but he died tonight, and the emeralds are in my pocket. See. Karlov held the instrument close to the other's face. Look at it well, this grand duke of fiddles. Look, fiddler, look. The huge hands pressed suddenly. There was a brittle crackling, and a rare violin became kiddling. A saw broke from the prisoner's lips. What to Karlov was a fiddle to him was a soul. He saw the mad man fling the wreckage to the floor and grind his heels into the fragments. Gregor shut his eyes, but he could not shut his ears, and he sensed in that cold, demoniacal fury of the crunching heel the rising of maddened peoples. Please visit LibriVox.org The Drums of Jeopardy by Harold McGrath Chapter X Meanwhile, Captain Harrison of the Medical Corps entered the Konova apartment briskly. You old vagabond, what have you been up to? I beg pardon, as he saw Kitty emerge from behind Cutty's bulk. This is Miss Konova, Harrison. Very pleased, I'm sure. Luckily my case was in the coat room at the club. I took the liberty of telephoning for Miss Francis, who returned on the same ship with me. I concluded that your friend would need a nurse. Let me have a look at him. Callously but lightly and skillfully, the surgeon examined the battered head. Escaped concussion by a hair, you might say, probably had his cap on. That black guy, though, is an older affair. Who is he? I suspect he's some political refugee. We don't know a thing about him otherwise. How soon can he be moved? He ought to be moved at once and given the best of care. I can give him that in my eagle's nest. Harrison, this chap's life is in danger, and if we get him into my lofty diggings, they won't be able to trace him. Not far from here there's a private hospital I know. It goes through from one street to the next. I know the doctor. We'll have the ambulance carry the patient there, but at the rear I'll have one of the office newspaper trucks, and after a little wait we'll shoot the stretcher into the truck. The police will not bother us. I've seen to that. I rather believe it falls in with my work. The main idea, of course, is to rid Miss Conover of any trouble. Just as you say, agree the surgeon. That's all I can do for the present. I'll run down to the entrance and wait for the nurse. Will he live? asked Kitty. Of course he will. He is in good physical condition. Imagine he has simply been knocked out. Serious only if unattended. Your finding him probably saved him. Twelve hours will tell the story. Maybe on his feet inside a week. Still it would be advisable to keep him in bed as long as possible. Fagged out, I should say, from that beard. I'll go down and wait for Mrs. Francis. And ring three tunes when you return, advised Cutty. All right, did they try to strangle him or did he have something around his neck? Hanged if I know. All out of the room now, I want it dark. Just as soon as the nurse arrives I'll return. Three rings. Harrison left the apartment. Cutty spent a few minutes at the telephone. Then he joined Kitty in the living room. Kitty, what was a stranger like? Like a gorilla, he spoke English as if he had a cold. Cutty scowled into space. Have a scar over an eyebrow? Good gracious, I couldn't tell. Both his eyes were black and his nose banged dreadfully. Johnny Twohawks probably did it. Bully for Twohawks. Kitty, you're a marvel. Not a flipper from the start. And those slate-blue eyes of yours don't miss many things. Listen, she interrupted, taking hold of his sleeve. Hear it? Only the elevated. Tumpy-tump-tump. Tumpy-tump-tump. Cutty, you hypnotized me this afternoon with your horrid drums. The emeralds? He managed to repress the start. I don't know what it is, drums, anyhow. Maybe it is the emeralds. Something has been happening ever since you told me about them, the misery and evil that follow their wake. But the story goes that women are immune, Kitty. Nonsense. No woman is immune where a wonderful gem is concerned, and yet I've common sense and humor. And a lot more besides, Kitty, you're a raving, howling little beauty, and how you've remained out of captivity this long is a puzzler to me. Haven't you got a bow somewhere? No, Cutty. Perhaps I'm one of those who are quite willing to wait patiently. If the one I want doesn't come, why? I'll be a jolly philosophical old maid. No seconds are calls from me, as the Mags and Editor says. Exactly what do you want? Cutty was keenly curious for some reason he could not define. He did not care for diamonds as stones, but he admired any personality that flashed differently from each new angle exposed. Oh, a man, among other things. I don't mean one of those godlike cromos in the frontest piece of popular novels. He hasn't got to be handsome, but he must be able to laugh when he's happy, when he's hurt. I must be his business in life. He must know a lot about things I know. I want a comrade who will come to me when he has a joke or an ache, a gay man and whimsical. The law can make any man a husband, but only God can make a good comrade. Kitty, said Cutty, his fine eyes sparkling. I shan't have to watch over you so much as I thought. On the other hand, you have described me to a dot. Quite possibly. Vanity has its uses. It keeps us in contact with bathtubs and nice clothes. I imagine that you would make both husband and comrade, or you would have, 20 years ago. Without intentional cruelty. Wasn't Cutty 52? Kitty, you've touched a vital point. It took those 20 years to make me companionable. Experience is something we must buy. It isn't left in somebody's will. Let us say that I possess all the necessary attributes. Save one. And what is that? Youth, Kitty. And take the word of a senile old dotard. Your young man, when you find him, will lack many of the attributes you require. On the other hand, there is always a possibility that these will develop as you jog along. The terrible pity of youth is that it has the habit of conferring these attributes rather than finding them. You put garlands on the heads of snow images, and the first glare of sunshine poof. Cutty, I'm beginning to like you immensely. Smiling. Perhaps women ought to have two husbands, one young and handsome, and the other old and wise like yourself. Cutty wished he were alone in order to analyze the stab. Old. When he knew that mentally and physically he could take and break a dozen two hawks. Old. He'd never thought himself that. Fifty-two years. They had piled upon him without his appreciation of the fullness of the score. And yet he was more than a match for any ordinary man of thirty in sinew and brain, and no man met the new morning with more zest than he himself met it. But to Kitty he was old. Lavender and oak leaves were being draped on his doorknob. He laughed. Why do you laugh? Oh, because hark. The two of them ran to the bedroom door. Olga. Olga. And then a guttural leveled jumble of sounds. Kitty's quick brain reached out for a similitude. Water rushing over ragged boulders. Olga, she whispered. He is a Russian. There are Serbian algas and Bulgarian algas and Romanian algas. Probably his sweetheart. The poor thing. Sounds like Russian, added Kitty. His conscience pricking him. But he welcomed that Olga. It would naturally put a damper on Kitty's interest. There's Harrison with the nurse. Quarter of an hour later the patient was taken down to the ambulance and conveyed to the private hospital. Kitty had no way of ascertaining whether they were followed, but he hoped they would be. The knowledge that their victim was in a nearby hospital would naturally serve to relax the enemy vigilance temporarily, and this would permit safely and secretly the second leg of the journey. That to his own apartment. He decided to let an hour go past. Then two hawks was taken through the building to the rear and transferred to the truck. Cutty sat with the driver, while Captain Harrison and the nurse rode inside with the patient. On the way, Cutty was rather disturbed for the deep impression Kitty Konover had made upon his heart and mind. That afternoon he had looked upon her with fatherly condescension, as the pretty daughter of the two he had loved most. From the altitude of his fifty-two, he had gazed down upon her twenty-four, weighing her as like all young women of twenty-four, pleasure-loving and bow-hunting and fashion scorched, and in a flash he had revealed the formed mind of a woman of thirty, altitude. He had forgotten that relative to altitudes there are always two angles of vision, that from the summit and that from the green valley below. Kitty saw him beyond the treeline, but just this side of his nose, and matched his condescension with pity. He chuckled, doddering old ass, what did it matter how she looked at him? Beautiful and young and full of common sense, yet dangerously romantical. To wait for the man she wanted, what did that signify but romance? And there was her Irish blood to consider. The association of pretty nurse and interesting patient always afforded excellent background for sentimental nonsense, the obligations of the one and the gratitude of the other. Well, he had nipped that in the bud. And why hadn't he taken this two-hawks person? How easy it was to fall into Kitty's way of naming the chap! Why hadn't he taken him directly to the Roosevelt? Why all this pothor and secrecy over total stranger? Stephanie Gregor, who lived opposite Kitty and who hadn't prospered particularly since the day he had exhibited the drums of jeopardy, he was the reason. These were volcanic days, and a friend of Stephanie Gregor, who played the violin like Paganini, might well be worth the trouble of a little courtesy. Then, too, there was that mark of the thong, a charm, a military identification disc, or something of value. Whatever it was, the rogues had got it. Murder and loot, and as soon as he returned to consciousness, the young fellow would be making inquiries. Perhaps Kitty's point of view regarding a certain duffer age at fifty-two years was nearer the truth than the duffer himself realized. Second childhood, as if the drums of jeopardy would ever again see light after that tempest of fire and death that mud volcano. One thing was certain, there would be no more catnapping. The game was on again. He was assured of that side of it. Green stones, the sunlight breaking against the flaws in a shower of golden sparks. Green is the pulp of a champagne grape, the drums of jeopardy. Murder and loot, he could understand. Immediately after the patient was put to bed, Cutty changed, a nondescript suit of the day laborer type, and a few duff touches of cold dust completed his makeup. I shan't be back until morning, he announced. Work to do. Kuroki will be at your service through the night, Ms. Francis. Strike the permise gong once at any hour. Come along, Harrison. Want any company? Asked Harrison with a belligerent twist to his mustache. Cutty laughed. No. You run along to your lambs. I'm running with the wolves tonight, old scout. And you might get that spic and span uniform considerably moosed up. Besides, it's raining. But what's to become of Ms. Conover? She ought not to remain alone in that apartment. Well, well, I thought of that, too. But she can take care of herself. Those ruffians may call up the hospital and learn that we tricked them. And then try to force the truth from Ms. Conover. That's precisely the wherefore of this cold dust, on your way. Eleven o'clock. Cutty was in the kitchen, without light. Her chair by the window, which she had thrown up. She had gone to bed, but sleep was impossible. So she decided to watch the Gregor windows. Sometimes the mind is like a movie camera, set for a double exposure. The whole scene is visible. But the camera sees only half of it. Thus, while she saw the windows across the court, there entered the other side of her mind, a picture of the immaculate Cutty crossing the platform with Johnny Two Hawks thrown over his shoulder. The mental picture obscured the actual. She had called him old. Well, he was old. And no doubt he looked upon her as a child, wanting her to spend the night at a hotel. The affair was over. No one could bother Cutty Conover. Why should they? But it took strength to shoulder a man like that. What fun he and her father must have had together. And Cutty had loved her mother. That made Cutty exquisitely tender for a moment. All alone, at the age when new friendships were impossible. A lovable man like that going down through life alone. Since his taker of alien undesirables, a queer occupation for a man so famous as Cutty. Patriotism. To plunge into that seething revolutionary scum to sort the dangerous madmen from the harmless madmen. Courage and strength and mental resource. Yes, Cutty possessed these, and he would be the kind to laugh at a joke or a hurt. One thing, however, was indelibly printed on her mind. Stephanie Gregor, either Cutty had met a known the man, or he had heard of him. Suddenly, she became conscious that she was blinking as one blinks from mirror-reflected sunlight. She cast about for the source of this phenomenon. Obliquely. From between the interstices of the fire escape platform, came a point of moving white light. She craned her neck. A battery lamp. The round spot of light worked along the cement floor, vanished occasionally, reappeared, and then vanished altogether. Somebody was down there hunting for something. What? Cutty remained with her head out of the window for some time, unmindful of the spatter of rain. But nothing happened. The man was gone. Of course, the incident might not have the slightest bearing upon the previous adventures of this amazing night. Still, it was suggestive. The young man had worn something round his neck. But if his enemies had it, why should this man comb the court? Unless he was a tenant and had knocked something off a window ledge. She began to appreciate that she was very tired, and decided to go back to bed. This time she fell asleep. Her disordered thoughts rearranged themselves in a dazzling dream. She found herself wandering through a glorious translucent green cavern, a huge emerald. And in the distance, she heard that unmistakable tum-pe-tump-tump. Tump-pe-tump-tump. It drew her irresistibly. She fought and struggled against the fascinating sound, but it continued to draw her on. Suddenly, from round a corner came the squat man, his hair ala fuzzy-wuzzy. He caught her savagely by the shoulder, and dragged her toward a fire of blazing diamonds. On the other side of that fire was a blond young woman with a chair of rubies on her head. Save me, I am Olga, Olga. Kitty struggled fiercely and awoke. The light was on. At the side of her bed were two men. One of them was holding her bare shoulder and digging his fingers into it cruelly. They looked like coal heavers. We do not wish to harm you, and won't if you're sensible. Where did they take the man you brought? End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 With the drums of jeopardy This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Drums of Jeopardy by Harold McGrath Chapter 11 Kitty did not wrench herself loose at once. She wasn't quite sure that this was not a continuance of her nightmare. She knew that nightmares had a way of breaking off in the middle of things, of never arriving anywhere. The room looked natural enough, and the pain in her shoulder seemed real enough, but one never could tell. She decided to wait for the next episode. Answer! cried the spokesman of the two, twisting Kitty's shoulder. Where did they take him? Awake! Kitty wrenched her shoulder away and swept the bed clothes up to her chin. She was thoroughly frightened, but her brain was clear. The spark of self-preservation flew hither and about in search of expediencies, temporizations. She must come through this somehow with a vantage on her side. She could not possibly betray that poor young man, for that would entail the betrayal of Cuddy also. She saw but one avenue, the telephone, and these two men were on the wrong side of the bed, between her and the door. What do you want? Her throat was so dry she wondered whether the words were projected far enough for them to hear. We want the address of the wounded man you brought into this apartment. They took him to a hospital. He was taken away from there. He was? Yes, he was. You may not know where, but you will know the address of the man who tricked us, and that will be sufficient. The army surgeon? He was called in by chance. I don't know where he lives. The man in the dress suit? He was with the surgeon. He came first. Come, we have no time to waste. We don't want to hurt you, and we hope you will not force us. Will you step out of the room while I dress? No. Tell us where the man lives, and you can have the whole apartment to yourself. You speak English very well. Enough. Do you want us to bundle you up in the bed clothes and carry you off? It will not be a pleasant experience for a pretty young woman like yourself. Something happened to the man you knew as Gregory. Will that make you understand? You know what abduction means? Your police will not catch us. But I might give you the wrong address. Try it and see what happens. Young lady, this is a bad affair for a woman to be mixed up in. Be sensible. We are in a hurry. Well, you seem to have acquired at least one American habit. Set a gruff voice from the bedroom doorway. Raise your hands quickly, and don't turn. Went on the gruff voice. If I shoot, it will be to kill. It is a rough game, as you say. That's it. And keep them up. Now then, young lady. Sleep on your kimono. Get up and search these men. I am in a hurry too. Kitty obeyed, very lovely in her dishevelment. Repugnant as a task wash, she disarmed the two men and flung their weapons on the bed. Now, something to tie their hands, anything that will hold. Kitty could see the speaker now. Another cold heaver, but evidently on her side. Tie their hands behind them. I warn you not to move, men. When I say I'll shoot, I mean it. Don't be afraid of hurting them, miss. Very good. Now, bandage to their eyes. Handkerchiefs. But Kitty's handkerchiefs. Did not run to the dimensions required, so she ripped up a petticoat. Torn between her eagerness to complete a disagreeable task and her offended modesty, Kitty went through the performance with creditable alacrity. Then she jumped back into bed, doubled her knees, and once more drew up the bed clothes to her chin. Content to be a spectator, her eyes as wide as ever they possibly could be. Some secret service man, Cutty, had sent to protect her. Dear old Cutty. Small wander he had urged her to spend the night at a hotel. The admiration of her childhood returned, but without the shackles of shyness. She had always trusted him absolutely, and to this trust was now added understanding. To have him pop into her life again in this fashion, all the ordinary approaches to intimacy wiped out by these amazing episodes, the years abridged in an hour, if only he were younger. Watch them, miss. Don't be afraid to shoot. I'll return in a moment, still gruffly. The secret service man pushed his prisoners into chairs and left the bedroom. Kitty did not care how gruff the voice was. It was decidedly pleasant in her ears. Gingerly she picked up one of the revolvers. Kitty conned over with shooting irons in her hands, like a movie actress. She heard a whistle. After this an interval of silence saved for the ticking of the alarm clock on the stand. She eyed the blindfolded man speculatively, swung out of bed, and put on her stockings and sandals. Then she sat on the edge of the bed, and waited for the sequence. Kitty conned over was going to have some queer recollections to tell her grandchildren, providing she had any. That morning she had risen to face a humdrum normal day, and here she was, at midnight, hobnobbing with quiescent murder and sudden death. Tomorrow Berlin game would ask her to hustle up the Sunday stuff, and she would hustle. She wanted to laugh, but was a little afraid that this laughter might degenerate into incipient hysteria. There was still in her mind a vivid recollection of her dream. The fire of diamonds and the blonde girl with a tiara of rubies. Olga! Olga! Russian! The whole affair was Russian. She shivered. Always that land and people had appeared to her in sinister aspect. No doubt an impression acquired from reading melodramas written by Englishmen who, once upon a time, had given Russia preeminence as a political menace. Russia. In all things. Music. Art. Literature. The tragic note. Stephanie Gregor and Johnny Two Hawks had roused the enmity of some political society with this result. Nihilist or Bolshevist or Socialist there was a little choice, and Cuddy sensibly did not want her drawn into the whirlpool. What a pleasant intimacy hers and Cuddy's promised to be, and if he hadn't casually dropped into the office that afternoon she would have surrendered the affair to the police, and that would have been the end of it. Amazing thought you might jog along all your life at the sight of a person and never know him half so well as someone you met, a tense episode. Like that of the immaculate Cuddy crossing the fire escape with Two Hawks on his shoulders. She heard the friendly coal-heaver going down the corridor to the door. When he returned to the bedroom, two men accompanied him. Not a word was said. The two men marched off with the prisoners and left Cuddy alone with her savior. Thank you, she said simply. You poor little chicken, did you believe I had deserted you? The voice wasn't gruff now. Cuddy? Cuddy ran to him, flinging her arms around his neck. Oh, Cuddy! Cuddy's heart, which had bumped along an astonishing number of a million times in 52 years, registered a memorable bump against his ribs. The touch of her soft arms and the faint indescribable perfume which emanates from a dainty woman's hair thrilled him beyond any thrill he had ever known. For Cuddy's mother had never put her arms around old Cuddy's neck. Of course, he understood readily enough. Molly's girl, flesh of her flesh, and she had rushed to him as she would have rushed to her father. He patted her shoulder clumsily, still a little dazzled for all the revelation in the analysis. The sweet intimacy of it. The door of paradise opened for a moment and then shut in his face. I did not recognize you at all, she cried standing off. I shouldn't have known you on the street, and it is so simple. What a wonderful man you are! For an old codger, Cuddy's heart registered another sizable bump. Kitty laughed, never call yourself old to me again. Are you always doing these things? Well, I keep moving. I suspect it's something like this might happen. Those two will go to the tombs to await deportation if they are aliens. Perhaps we can dig something out of them relative to this man, Gregor. Anyhow, we'll try. Cuddy I saw a man in the court with a pocket lamp before I went to bed. He was hunting for something. I didn't find anything but a lot of fresh food someone had thrown out. It was you then? Yes, there was a vague possibility that your protege might have thrown out something valuable during the struggle. What? Lord knows. A queer business, Kitty, you've lugged me into my own. And there is one thing I want you to remember particularly. Life means nothing to the men opposed. Neither chivalry nor ethics. Annihilation is in their business. They don't want civilization. They want chaos. They have lost the sense of comparisons, or they would not seek to thrust Bolshevism down the throats of the rest of the world. They say democracy has failed, and their substitute is murder and loot. Kitty, I want you to leave this roost. I shall stay until my lease expires. Why in the face of real danger? Because I intend to, Cuddy, unless you kidnap me. Have you any good reason? You'll laugh, but something tells me to stay here. But Cuddy did not laugh. Very well. Tomorrow an assistant janitor will be installed. His name is Antonio Bernini. Every night he will whistle up the tube, whistle back. If you are going out for the evening, notify him where you intend to go and when you expect to be back. A wire from your bed to his cot will be installed. In danger, press the button. That's the best I can do for you since you decide to stick. I don't believe anything more will happen tonight, but from now on you will be watched. Never come directly to my apartment. Break your journey two or three times with taxis. Always use elevator four. The boy's mind belongs to the service, so our Bolshevik friends won't gather anything about you from him. As a matter of fact, Cuddy had now come to the conviction that it would be well to let Cuddy remain here as a lure. He had urged her to leave, and she had refused, so his conscience was tolerably clear. Besides, she would henceforth be guarded with a ceaseless efficiency second only to that which encompassed as a president of the United States. Always some man of the service would be watching those who watched her. This was going to develop into a game of small nets, one or two victims at a time. Because these enemies of civilization lacked coherence in action, there would be slim chance of rounding them up in bulk. But from now on men would vanish, one here, a pair there, perhaps on occasion four or five, and those who had known them would know them no more. The policy would be that employed by the British in the submarine campaign, mysterious silence after the vanishment. It's also exciting, said Cuddy, but that poor old man Gregor, he had a wonderful violin Cuddy, and sometimes I used to hear him play folklore music, sad, haunting melodies. We'll know in a little while what's become of him. I doubt there is a foreign organization in the city that hasn't one or more of our men on the inside. A word will be dropped somewhere. I'm rarely active on this side of the Atlantic, and what I'm doing now is practically due to interest. But every active operative in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and Chicago is on the lookout for a man who, if left free, will stir up a lot of trouble. He has leadership, this Boris Karloff, a former intimate here of Trotsky's. We have reason to believe that he slipped through the net in San Francisco, probably under a cleverly forged passport. Now please describe the man who came in with a policeman. I haven't had time to make inquiries at the precinct, where they will have a minute description of him. He made me think of a gorilla, just as I told you. His face was pretty well banged up. Naturally I did not notice any scar. A dreadfully black beard. Shaven. Squat, powerful like a gorilla. Lord, I wish I had a glimpse of him. He is one of the few top-notchers I haven't met. He is a spark, the hand and the plunger. The powder is already in this land of ours. Our job is to keep off the sparks until we can spread the stuff, so it will only go puff instead of bang. This man Karloff is bad medicine for democracy. Poor devil. Why do you say that? Because I'm honestly sorry for them. This fellow Karloff has suffered. He is now a species of madmen. Nothing will cure. He and his kind have gained their ends in Russia, but the impetus to burn and kill and loot is still unchecked. Sorry, yes, but we can't have them here. They remind me of nothing so much as those blind, deep sea monsters in one of Kipling's tales thrown up into air and sunlight by a submarine volcano, slashing and bellowing. But we can't have them here any longer. Keep those revolvers under your pillow. All you have to do is to point. Nobody will know that you can't shoot. And always remember, we're watching over you. Good night. More kings for lunch? Well, I'll be hanged, but it can't be. Kitty, you and I must not be seen in public. If that was Karloff, you will be marked, and so will anyone who travels with you. Good gracious. Fact. But come up to the roost, changing taxes tomorrow at five and a half tea. Down in the streets, Cutty born to the slanting rain, no longer a drizzle. With his hands jammed in his side pockets, and his gaze on their sparkling pavement, he continued downtown in a dangerously ruminating frame of mind. Dangerous, because had he been followed, he would not have known it. Molly Conover's girl. That afternoon it had been Tommy Conover's girl. Now she was Molly's. It occurred to him for the first time that he was one of those unfortunate individuals who are always able to open the door to paradise for others and are themselves forced to remain outside. Hadn't he introduced Conover to Molly, and hadn't they fallen in love on the spot? Too old to be a hero, and not old enough to die. He grinned. Someday he would use that line. Of course it wasn't to Cutty who set this peculiar cogitation in motion. It wasn't her arms in the perfume of her hair. The actual thrill had come from a recrudescence of a vanished passion. Anyhow, a passion that had been held suspended all these years. Still it offered a disquieting prospect. He was sensible enough to realize that he would be in for some confusion in trying to disassociate the phantom from the quick. Most pretty young women were flitter flutters, unstable, shallow, immature. But this little lady had depth, the sense of the living drama, and Lord, she was such a beauty, wanted a man who would laugh when he was happy and when he was hurt. A bull's eye bang like that, for the only breed worth its salt was the kind that laughed when happy and when hurt. The average young woman rushing into his arms the way she had would not have stirred him in the least, and immediately upon the heels of this thought came a taste of the confusion he saw in store for himself. Was it the phantom, or Kitty? He jumped to another angle to escape the impasse. Kitty's coming to him in that fashion raised an unpalatable suggestion. He evidently looked fatherly, no matter how he felt, hanged his 52 years to come crowding his doorstep all at once. He raised his head and laughed. He suddenly remembered now. At nine that night he had been scheduled to deliver a lecture on the Italo-Jugoslav model before a distinguished audience in the ballroom of a famous hotel. He would have some fancy apologizing to do in the morning. He stepped into a doorway, then peered out cautiously. There was not a single pedestrian in sight. No need of hiking any further in this rain. So he hunted for a taxi. Tomorrow he would set the wires humming relative to old Stephanie Gregor. Boris Karloff, if indeed it were he, would lead the way. Hadn't Stephanie and Boris been boyhood friends, and hadn't Stephanie betrayed the latter in his some political affair? He wasn't sure, but a glance among his 1912 notes would clear up the fog. But that young chap, who was he? Cutty said his process of logical deduction moving. Karloff, always supposing that guerrilla was Karloff, had come in from the west, so had the young man. Gregor's inclinations had been toward aristocracy, at least that had been the impression. A Bolshevik would not seek haven with a man like Gregor as this young man had. But two hawks bothered him. The name bothered him, because it had no sense either in English or in Russian. And yet he was sure he had heard it somewhere. Perhaps his notes would throw some light on that subject, too. When he arrived home, Miss Frances, the nurse, informed him that the patient was babbling in an outlandish tongue, for a long time Cutty stood by the bedside, translating, Olga, Olga. And she gave me food, Stephanie, this charming American girl. Never must we forget that. I was hungry, and she gave me food, but I paid for it. You, gone, there was no one else, and she is poor, the torches, I am burning, burning, Olga. What does he say? asked the nurse. It is Russian. Is it a crisis? he evaded. Not necessarily. Dr. Harrison said he would probably return to consciousness sometime tomorrow, but he must have absolute quiet, no visitors. A bad blow, but not a fatal consequence. I've seen hundreds of cases much worse pulled out in a fortnight. You'd better go to bed, sir. All right, said Cutty gratefully. He was tired. The ball did not rebound as it used to. The resilience was petering out. But look alive there. Big events were toward, and he must not stop to feel of his pulse. Three o'clock in the morning. The man in the Gregor bedroom sat down in the bed, the pocket lamp dangling from his hairy fingers. Not a nook or cranny in the apartment had he overlooked. In every cupboard, drawer, in the beds and under, the trucks, behind the radiators, and the pictures, the shelves and clothes in the closets, what he sought he had not found. His vengeance would not be complete without those green stones in his hands. Anna would call from her grave. Pretty little Anna, who had trusted Stephanie Gregor, and gone to her doom. All these thousands of miles by hook and crook, by forged passports, by sums of money, sleepless nights and hunger days, for this. The last of that branch of the breed out of his reach, and the stones vanished. A queer superstition had taken lodgements in his brain. He recognized it now for the first time. The possession of those stones would be a sign from God to go on. Green stones for bread. Green stones for bread. The drums of jeopardy. In his hands they would be talismanic. But wait! That pretty girl across the way, supposing he had entrusted the stones to her, or hidden them there without her being aware of it. END OF CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XII. Kitty Konova ate in the kitchen. First off, this statement is likely to create the false impression that there was an ordinary grain here, a wedge of base hemlock in the citron. Not so. She ate in the kitchen because she could not yet face that vacant chair in the dining room without choking and losing her appetite. She could not look at the chair without visualizing that glorious whimsical, fascinating mother of hers who could turn grumpy janitors into comedians, and sent important bill collectors away with nothing but spangles in their heads. So long as she stayed out of the dining room she could accept her loneliness with sound philosophy. She knew, as all sensible people know, that there were ghosts, that memory had haunted galleries, and that empty chairs were evocations. Her days were so busily active there were so many first nights and concerts that she did not mind such evenings as she had to spend alone in the apartment. Persons were in and out of the office all through the day, and many of them entertaining. For only real persons ever penetrated that well guarded cubbyhole off the noisy city room. Many of them were old friends of her mother. Of course they were a little pompous, but this was less innate than acquired, and she knew that below they were worthwhile. She had come to the conclusion that successful actors and actresses were the only people in America who spoke English fluently and correctly. Yes, she ate in the kitchen, but she would have been a fit subject for the fastidious Fragonard. Kitty was naturally an exquisite. Everything about her was dainty, her body and her mind. The background of pans and dishes, gas range and sink, did not absorb Kitty. Her presence here in the morning lifted her out of the rut of common place and created an atmosphere that was ornamental. Pink panois and turquoise blue boudoir cap, silk petticoat and stockings and adorable little slippers. No harm to tell a secret. Kitty was educating herself for a husband. She knew that if she acquired the habit of daintyness at breakfast before marriage, it would become second nature after marriage. Moreover, she was determined that it should be tremendous news that would cause a newspaper to intervene. She had all the confidence in the world in her mirror. She got her breakfast this morning singing. She was happy. She had found a door out of monotony. Theatrical drama had given way to the living. She had opened the Book of Adventure and she was going straight through to Phineas. That there was an undertow of the sinister escaped her or she ignored it. In all high-strung Irish souls there is a bit of the old wife, the foreteller, the gift of prescience. And Kitty possessed this in a mild degree. Something held her here when for a dozen reasons she should have gone elsewhere. She strained her coffee, humming a tune out of the micado, the revival of which she had seen lately. My object all sublime, I shall achieve in time. To make the punishment fit the crime. The punishment fit the crime, and make the prisoner, pent unwillingly, represent a source of innocent merriment. Of innocent merriment. And there you were. To make the punishment fit the crime. While in the Bolsheviki, the IWWs, the Red Socialists, the Anarchists, and let them try it for ten years, those left would be glad enough to embrace democracy and sanity. The poor benighted things, to imagine that they were going forward there in Russia. What kind of mentality was it that could conceive a blessing to humanity in the abolition of baths and work? And Cuddy felt sorry for them. Well, as for that, so did Kitty Conover, and she would continue feeling sorry for them so long as they remained thousands of miles away. But next door. Grape-food? Eggs on toast and coffee. Mademoiselle served, she cried gaily, sitting down and attacking her breakfast with a zest of healthy youth. Often the eyes are like the lenses of a camera, minus the sensitized plate. They seep objects without printing them. Thus, a dozen times, Kitty's glance absently swept the range and the racks on each side of the stovepipe, one rack burdened with an empty pancake jug, and the other cluttered with old-fashioned flat irons. But she saw nothing. She was carefully reviewing the events of the night before. She could not dismiss the impression that Cuddy knew Stephanie Greger or had heard of him, and in either case it signified that Greger was something more than a valet, and decidedly, two hawks was not of the Russian peasantry. By the time she was ready to leave for the office, the Irish blood in her was seizing and bubbling and dancing. She knew she would do crazy, impulsive things all day. It was easy to analyze this exuberance. She had reached into the dark and touched danger, and found a new thrill in a humdrum world. The great dramatist had produced a tremendous drama, and she had watched curtain after curtain fall from the wrong side of the lights. Now she had been given a speaking part, and she would be downstage for a moment or two, dusting the furniture while the stars were retouching their makeup. It was not the thought of Cuddy, of Greger, of John and two hawks, of hidden treasure. Simply she had arrived somewhere in the great drama. When she reached the office, she had a hard time of it to settle down to the day's work. Hustle up that Sunday stuff, said Burlingame. Kitty laughed, just as she had pictured it. She hustled. I have it, she cried, breaking a spell of silence. What, Saint Phytus? inquired Burlingame patiently. No, the morgue. What the dickens? But Kitty was no longer there to answer. In old newspaper offices there is a department flippantly designated as the morgue. Obituaries on ice, as it were. A photograph or an item concerning a great man, a celebrated beauty or some notorious rogue from the King Caliber down to keep the blood brand all indexed and laid away against the instant need. So, running her fingertip down the case, Kitty found Karlov. The half tone which she eventually exhumed from the tin box was an excellent likeness of the human gorilla who had entered her rooms with the policeman. She would be able to carry this positive information to Cuddy that afternoon. When she left the office at four she took the subway to 42nd Street. She engaged a taxi from the Knickerbocker and discharged it at the north entrance to the Waldorf, which she entered. She walked through to the south entrance and got into another taxi. She left this at Wanamakers, ducking and dodging through the crowded aisles. She selected this hour because, being a woman, she knew that the press of shoppers would be the greatest during the day. Karlov's man and the Secret Service operative detailed by Cuddy both made the same mistake, followed Kitty into the dry goods shop, and lost her as completely as if she had popped up in China. At quarter to five she stepped into elevator number four of the building which Cuddy called his home, very well pleased with herself. End of Chapter 12 Chapter 13 of The Drums of Jeopardy This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Drums of Jeopardy by Harold McGrath Chapter 13 To understand Kitty at this moment one must be able to understand the Irish, and nobody does or can or will. Consider her twenty-four years, her coposcular inheritance, the love of drama and the love of adventure. Imagine possessing sound ideas of life and the ability to apply them, and spiritually always galloping off on some broad highway, more often than not furnished by some engaging scoundrel of a novelist, and you will be able to construct a half-tone of Kitty Conover. That civilisation might be actually on its deathbed, that positively half of the world was starving and dying and going mad through the reaction of the German blood touched her in a detached way. She felt sorry, dreadfully sorry for the poor things, but as she could not help them she dismissed them from her thoughts every morning after she had read the paper, the way most of us do here in these United States. You cannot grapple with the misery of an unknown person several thousand miles away. That which had taken place during the past twenty-four hours was to her a lark, a blind man's buffer-grown-ups. It was not in her to tremble, to shudder, to hesitate, to weigh this and to balance that, Irish curiosity. Perhaps in the original that immortal line read, the Irish Russian were angels feared to tread, and some proofreader had a particular grudge against the race. When the elevator reached the seventeenth floor the passengers surged forth, all except Kitty, who tarried. We don't carry to the eighteenth, Miss. I am missed gone over, she replied. I dared not tell you until we were alone. I see. The boy nodded, swept her with an appraising glance, and sent the elevator up to the loft. You understand, if anyone inquires about me you don't remember. Yes, Miss. The boss's orders. And if anyone does inquire you are to report at once. That too. The boy rolled back the door, and Kitty stepped out upon a lariston runner of rose, hues, and cobalt blue. She wondered what it cost Cutty to keep up an establishment like this. There were fourteen rooms, seven facing the north, and seven facing the west, with glorious vistas of steam-breathed roofs and brick-matter horns, and the dim horizon touching the sea. Fine rugs and tapestries and furniture gathered from the fore ends of the world, but wholly livable and in no sense atmospheric of the museum. Cutty had excellent taste. She had visited the apartment, but twice before, once in her childhood, and again when she was eighteen. Cutty had given a dinner in honor of her mother's birthday. She smiled as she recalled the incident. Cutty had placed a box of candles at the side of her mother's plate, and told her to stick as many into the cake as she thought best. Hello, said Cutty, emerging from one of the doors. What the Dickens have you been up to? My man has just telephoned me that he lost track of you and one of the makers. Cutty explained, delighted. Well, well, if you can lose a man such as I set to watch you, you'll have no trouble shaking the others. It was Karlov, Cutty. How did you learn? Searched the morgue and found a half-tone of him, positively Karlov. How is the patient? Harrison says he's pulling round amazingly, a tough skull. He'll be up for his meal in no time. How do you do it? She asked with a gesture. Do what? Manage a place like this in a busy district. It's the most wonderful apartment in New York. Riverside has nothing like it. It must cost, like, sixty. The building is mine, Cutty. That makes it possible. An uncle who knew I hated money and the responsibilities that go with it died and left it to me. Why, Cutty, you must be rich. I'm sorry, what can I do? I can't give it away. But you don't have to work. Oh, yes, I do. I'm that kind. I'd have a broken heart if I had to sit still. It's the game. Did mother know? Yes. With a toe of a snug little bronze boot, Kitty drew an outline round a pattern in the rug. Love is a funny thing, was her comment. It sure is, old-timer. But what put that thought into your head? I was thinking how very much Mumsy must have been in love with Father. But she never knew that I loved her, Kitty. What's that got to do with it? If she had wanted money, you wouldn't have had the least chance in the world. Probably not. But what would you have done in your mother's place? Snapped you up like that, Kitty flashed back. You cheerful little, little liar. Say it, Kitty laughed. But am I a cheerful little liar? I don't know. It would be an awful temptation, somebody to wait on you, heaps of flowers when you wanted them, beautiful gowns and thingummies and furs and limousines. I've often wondered what I should do if I found myself with love and youth on one side and money and attraction on the other. I've always been in straightened circumstances. I've never spent a dollar in all my days when I didn't think I ought to have held back three or four cents of it. You can't know, Kitty, what it is to be poor and want beautiful things and good times. Of course, I couldn't marry just money. There would have to be some kind of a man to go with it, someone interesting enough to make me forget sometimes that I'd thrown away a lover for a pocketbook. Would you marry me, Kitty? Are you serious? I suppose I am. No, I couldn't marry you, Kitty. I should have always been having my mother's ghost as a rival. But supposing I fell in love with you. Then I'd always been doubting your constancy. But what queer talk! Kitty, you're a joy. Lordy, my luck in dropping into Sue yesterday. And a little whipper snapper like me calling a great man like you, Kitty. Well, if it embarrasses you, you might switch to papa once in a while. Kitty's laughter rang down the corridor. I'll remember that whenever I want to make him mad. Who's here? Nobody but Harrison and the nurse, both good citizens. And I've taken them into my confidence to a certain extent. You can talk freely before them. Am I to see the patient? Harrison says not. About Wednesday your two hawks will be sitting up. I've determined to keep the poor devil here until he can take care of himself. But he's flat broke. He said he had money. Well, Karloff's men stripped him clean. Have you any idea who he is? To be honest, that's one of the reasons why I want to keep him here. He's Russian, for all his Oxford English and his Italian gestures. And from his babble I imagine he's been through seven kinds of hell. Torches and hobnailed boots and the incessant call for a woman named Olga, a young woman about eighteen. How did you find that out? From a photograph I found in the lining of his coat, a pretty blonde girl. Good heavens, recollecting her dream. Where was it printed? Amateur photography, I'll pick it up on the way to the living room. It was nothing like the blonde girl of her dream. Still the girl was charming. Kitty turned over the photograph. There was writing on the back. Russian, what does it say? To Ivan, from Olga with all her love. Cutty was conscious of the presence of an indefensible malice in his tones. Why the deuce should he be bitter? Glad that the chap had left behind a sweetheart. He knew exactly the basis of Kitty's interest, as utterly detached as that of a reporter going to a fire. On the day the patient could explain himself, Kitty's interest would automatically cease. An old dog in the manger, malice. Cutty, something dreadful has happened to this poor young woman. That's what makes him crowd the name. Caught in that horror, and probably he alone escaped. Is it heartless to be glad I'm an American? Do they let in these Russians? Not since the Trotsky regime. I imagine two hawks slipped through on some British passport. He'll probably tell us all about it when he comes round. But how do you feel after last night's bout? Alive. And I'm going on being alive forever and ever. Oh, those awful drums. They look like dead eyes in those dim corners. Tum-pe-tum-tum. Tum-pe-tum-tum. She cried, linking her arm in his. What a gorgeous view. Just what I'm going to do when my ship comes in. Live in a loft. I really believe I could ride up here. I mean worthwhile things. I could enjoy writing and sell. It's yours if you want it when I leave. And I'd have a fine time explaining to my friends. You old innocent. Or are you so innocent? We do live in a cramped world, but I meant it. Don't forget to whistle down to Tony Bernini when you get back home tonight. I promise. Why the gurgle? Because I'm tremendously excited. All my life I've wanted to do mysterious things. I've been with the audience all the while and I want to be with the actors. You'll give someone a wild dance. If I do, I'll dance with him. Now lead me to the cookies. She was the life of the tea table. Her wit, her evervescence, her whimsicalities amused even the prim Miss Francis. When she recounted the exploit of the camouflage fan, Cuddy and Harrison laughed so loudly that the nurse had to put her finger on her lips. They might wake the patient. I am really interested in him, went on kitty. I won't deny it. I want to see how it's going to turn out. He was very nice after I let him into the kitchen, a perfectly English manner and voice, and Italian gestures went off his guard. I feel so sorry for him. What strangers we race as art to each other. Until the war we hardly knew the Canadians. The British didn't know us at all, and the French became acquainted with the British for the first time in history. And the German thought he knew us all and really knew nobody. All the Russians I ever saw were peasants of the cattle type. So that the word Russian conjures up two pictures, the Grand Duke at Monte Carlo, and a race of men who wear long beards and never bathe except when he rains. Think of it, for the first time since God set mankind on earth, people are becoming acquainted. I never saw Russian of this type before. A leaf in the whirlpool. Anyhow, we'll keep him here until he's on his feet. By the way, never answer any telephone call. I mean, go anywhere on a call unless you are sure of a speaker. I begin to feel important. You are important. You have suddenly become a connecting link between this car loft and the men we wish to protect. I'll confess I wanted you out of that apartment at first, but when I saw that you were bent on remaining, I decided to make use of you. You are going to give me a part in the play. Yes, you are to go about your affairs as always, just as if nothing has happened. Only when you wish to come here will you play any game like that of today. Then it will be advisable. Switch your route each time. Your real part is to be that of lure. Through you, we shall gradually learn who car loft associates are. If you don't care to play the role, all you have to do is to move. The idea. I'm grateful for anything. You men will never understand. You go forth into the world each day. Politics, diplomacy, commerce, war. While we women stay at home and knit or darn socks or take care of the baby or make over our clothes and hats or do household work or play the piano or read. Never any adventure. Never any games. Never any clubs. The leaving your house to go to the office is an adventure. Our train from here to Philadelphia is an adventure. We women are always craving it, and about all we can squeeze out of life is shopping and hiding the bills after marriage and going to the movies before marriage with young men our fathers don't like. We can't even stroll the street and admire the handsome gowns of our more fortunate sisters the way you men do. When you see a pretty woman on the street, do you ever stop to think that there are ten at home meeting their hearts out? Of course you don't. So, I'm going through with this to satisfy suppressed instincts, and I shan't promise to trot along as usual. They make attempt to kidnap your kitty. That doesn't frighten me. So, I observe. But if they ever should have the luck to kidnap you, tell all you know at once. There's only one way up here, the elevator. I can get out to the fire escape, but none can get in from that direction, as the door is of steel. And, of course, you'll take me into your confidence completely. When the time comes. Half the fun in an adventure is the element of the unexpected, said Cuddy. Where did you first meet Stephanie Greger? Captain Harrison laughed. He liked this girl. She was keen and could be depended upon as witness last night's work. Her real danger lain being conspicuously pretty in looking upon this affair as merely a kind of exciting game when it was a tragedy. What makes you think I know Stephanie Greger? Asked, Cuddy, genuinely curious. When I pronounce that name, you rolled upon me as if I had struck you. Very well. When we learn who two hoxies, I'll tell you what I know about Greger. And in the meantime, you will be ceaselessly under guard. You are an asset, Kitty, to whichever side holds you. Captain Harrison is going to stay for dinner. Won't you join us? I'm going to a studio potluck with some girls, and it's time I was on the way. I'll let your tone in Bernini know. Home probably at ten. Cuddy went with her to the elevator, and when he returned to the tea table, he sat down without speaking. Why not kidnap her yourself, suggested Harrison, if you don't want her in this? She would never forgive me, if she found it out. She's the kind who would. What do you think of her, Miss Francis? I think she is wonderful. Frankly, I should tell her everything, if there is anything more to be told. When dinner was over, the nurse gone back to the patient and Captain Harrison to his club. Cuddy lit his odoriferous pipe and patrolled the windows of his study. Ever since Kitty's departure, he had been mulling over in his mind a plan regarding her future, to add a co-dissilt to his will, leaving her five thousand a year, so Molly's girl might always have a dainty frame for her unusual beauty. The pity of it was, that convention denied him the pleasure of settling the income upon her at once, while she was young. He might outlive her, you never could tell. Anyhow, he would see to the co-dissil, an accident might step in. He got out his chrysoprase. In one corner of the room, there was a large portfolio, such as artists used for their proofs and sketches, and from this he took a dozen twelve by fourteen inch photographs of beautiful women, most of them stage beauties of bygone years. The one on top happened to be Patty, the adorable Patty. Linda, Violetta, Lucia, Lord what a nightingale she had been! He laughed, laid the photograph on the desk, and dipped his hand into a canvas bag, filled with polished green stones, which would have great commercial value if people knew more about them. For nothing else in the world is quite so beautifully green. He milled tiaras above the lovely head and laid necklaces across the marvelous throat. Suddenly a phenomenon took place. The roguish eyes of the primadonna receded and vanished, and slate blue ones replaced them. The odd part of it was, he could not dissipate the fancied eyes for the replacement of the actual. Patty, with slate blue eyes. He discarded the photograph and selected another. He began the game anew, and was just beginning the attack on the problem uppermost in his mind, when the phenomenon occurred again. Kitty's eyes! What infernal nonsense! Kitty had served merely to enliven his tender recollections of her mother, twenty-four and fifty-two. And yet, hadn't he just read that Madderlink, fifty-six, had married Madmoselle de Hanne many years younger? In a kind of resentful fury, he pushed back his chair and felt a pacing, eddies and loops and spirals of smoke whirling and sweeping behind him. The only light was centered upon the desk, so he might have been some god pacing a cloud-driven Olympus in the twilight. By and by he laughed, and the atmosphere mentally cleared. Madderlink, fifty-six, Cutty, fifty-two were two different men. Cutty might mix his metaphors occasionally, but he wasn't going to miss his ghosts. He returned to his singular game, more chiars and necklaces in his brain, to a firm hold of the theme which had in the beginning lured him to the green stones. Two hawks, that name bothered him. He knew he had heard it before, but never in the Russian tongue. It might be that the chap had been spoofing kitty. Still, he had also called himself Hoxley. The smoke thickened, there were frequent flares of matches. One by one, Cutty discarded the photographs, dropping them on the floor beside his chair. His mind boring the swans out for a solution. He had now come to the point where he has ceased to see the photographs or the pictures of Madderlink. The movements of his hands were almost automatic, and in this abstract manner he came to the last photograph. He built a necklace and even ventured an earring. It was a glorious face. Black eyes had followed you, full-lipped, every indication of fire and genius. It must be understood that he rarely saw the photographs when he played this game. It wasn't amusing pastime, a mental relaxation. It was a unique game of solitaire, the photographs and chrysophrase being substituted for cards, and in some inexplicable manner it permitted him to concentrate upon whatever problem filled his thoughts. It was purely accidental that he saw Patty tonight or recalled her art. Coming upon the last photograph without having found a solution of the riddle of two hocks, he relaxed the mental pressure and his sight re-established its ability to focus. Good Lord! he ejaculated. He seized the photograph excitedly, scattering the green stones. She, the Calibrian, the enchanting coloratura who had vanished from the world at the height of her fame, thirty odd years gone, two hocks. Cutty saw himself at twenty in the pit at La Scala, with music mad Milan all about him. Two hocks, he remembered now, the nicknamed young Bloods had given her because she had been eternally guarded by her mother and aunt, fierce beaked Calibrians who had been determined that Rosa should never throw herself away on some beggarly Adonis. And this chap was her son, yesterday rich and powerful, with a name that was open sesame wherever he went. Today hunted, penniless and forlorn. Cutty sank back in his chair, stunned by the revelation, in that room yonder. End of Chapter Thirteen