 CHAPTER XXVII Champagne in the glass is a beautiful thing to see, so is water the morning after. That is the fault with frolic, there is always an inescapable rebound. The most violent love drops into humdrum tolerance. A pessimist is only a poor devil who has anticipated the inevitable. He has his headache at the start. Mental champagnes have their aftermaths, even as the juice of the grape. Hawksley and Kitty, hurrying back, began to taste leaves. They began to see things, too, menace in every loiterer, threat in every alley. They had had a glorious lark, somewhere beyond would be the piper with an appalling bill. They exaggerated the dangers, multiplied them, perhaps wisely. There would be no let down in their vigilance until they reached Haven, but this state of mind they covered with smiling masks, banter, bursts of laughter, and flashes of wit. They were both genuinely frightened, but with unselfish fear. Kitty's fear was not for herself, but for Johnny Two Hawks. If anything happened, the blame would rightly be hers. With that head he wasn't strictly accountable for what he did, she was. A firm negative on her part, and he would never have left the apartment. And his fear was wholly for this astonishing girl. He had recklessly thrust her into grave danger. Who knew better than he the implacable hate of the men who sought to kill him? Moreover, his strength was leaving him. There was an alarming weakness in his legs, purely physical. He had overdone, and if need rose he would not be able to protect her. Damnable fool! But she had known. That was the odd phase of it. She hadn't come blindly. What moot had urged her to share the danger along with the lark? Now she was always just beyond his reach, this girl. He would never forget that fan popping out of the pistol, the egg burning in the pan. The apartment was only three blocks away when Kitty decided to drop her mask. I'd give a good deal to see a policeman. They're never around when you really want them. Johnny Two Hawks, I'm a little fool. You wouldn't have left the apartment but for me. Will you forgive me? It is I who should ask forgiveness. I say, how much farther is it? Only about two blocks, but they may be long ones. Let's step into this doorway for a moment. I see a taxi cab. It looks to be standing opposite the building. Don't like it. Suppose we watch it for a few minutes. Hawksley was grateful for the respite, and together they stared at the unwinking red eye of the taillight. But no man approached the cab or left it. I believe I've hit upon a plan, said Kitty. Certainly we have not been followed. In that event they would have had a dozen chances. If someone saw us leave together, naturally they will expect us to return together. We'll walk to the corner of our block, then turn east, but I shall remain just out of sight while you will go around the block. Fifteen minutes should carry you to the south corner. I'll be on watch for you. The moment you turn I'll walk toward you. It will give us a bit of a handicap in case that taxi is a menace. If anyone appears, run for it. Where's that cane you had? What a jolly ass I am. I remember now. I left the stick against the wall of the opera house. Blockhead. With a stick now. I'm hopeless. Never mind. Let's start. That taxi may be perfectly honest. It's our guilty consciences that are peopling the shadows with goblins. What really bothers us is that we have broken our word to the kindliest man in all this world. Hawksley wondered if he could walk around the block without falling down. He saw that he was facing a physical collapse, hastened by the knowledge that the safety of the girl depended largely upon himself. What he had accepted at the beginning as strength had been nothing more than exhilaration and nerve energy. There was now nothing but the ladder, and only feeble straws at that. Oh, he would manage somehow. He jolly well had to, and there was a bare chance of falling in with a bobby. But run? Honestly now, how the devil was a chap to run on a pair of spools. Arriving at the appointed spot they separated. He waved his hand airily and marched off. If he felt it would be out of sight where the girl could not see him. Clever chap. Damn, rotter. For himself he did not care. He was weary of this game of hide-and-seek, but had lured the girl into it. When he turned the first corner of his journey he paused and leaned against the wall, his eyes shut. When he opened them the sidewalk and the street lamps were normal again. As soon as he disappeared a new plan came to Kitty. She put it into execution at once, on the basis that yonder taxicab was an enemy machine. He left her retreat and walked boldly down the street, her eyes alerted for the least suspicious sign. If she could make the entrance before they suspected the trick she could obtain help before Johnny Twohawks made the south turn. She reached her objective, pushed through the revolving doors, and turned. Dimly she could see the taxi driver, but he appeared to be dozing on the seat. As a matter of fact one of the three men in the taxi recognized Kitty, but too late to intercept her. Her maneuver had confused him temporarily. And while he and his companions were debating, Kitty had time to summon Cutty's man from elevator four. Step into the car, he roughly ordered, after she had given him a gist of her suspicions. He turned off the lights, stepped out, and shut the gates with a furious bang. And stick to the corner. I'll attend to the other fool. He rushed into the street, his automatic ready, eyed the taxi-cab speculatively, wheeled suddenly, and ran south at a dog-trot. He rounded the south corner, but he did not see Hawksley anywhere. The dog-trot became a dead run. As he wheeled round the corner of the parallel street he almost bumped into Hawksley, who had a policeman in tow. Officer, said the man with the boy's face, this is federal business. Aliens. Come along. There may be trouble. If there should be any shooting, don't bother with the atmosphere. Pick out a real target. Anarchists. About the size of it. Miss Conover, asked Hawksley. Safe. No thanks to you, though. I like to knock your block off, if you want to know. Do it. Damn little use to me, declared Hawksley, sagging. Here, what's the matter with you? cried the policeman, throwing his arm round Hawksley. They nearly killed him a few days gone. A crack on the beam, and he wasn't satisfied. Help him along. I'll be hiking back. But the taxi cab was gone. Before Cuddy's lieutenant opened the gate to the apartment, he spoke to Hawksley. The boss is doing everything he can to put you through, sir. Miss Conover's wit saved you. For if you hadn't separated it, I've nailed you. I've been running round like a chicken with its head cut off. I forgot that door on the seventeenth floor. I tell you honestly, you've been playing with death. It wasn't fair to Miss Conover. It was my fault, volunteered Cuddy. Mine, protested Hawksley. Well, they know where you roost now, for a fact. You've spilled the beans. I'm sorry I lost my temper. The devil fly away with you both. Ha-ha! Not your game, anyhow. You'd darn it all if anything had happened to you. The boss would never have forgiven me. He's the whitest old scout God ever put the breath of life into. He's always doing something for somebody. He'd give you the block if you had the gall to ask for it. Play the game fifty-fifty with him, and you'll land on both feet. And you, Miss Conover, must not come here again. I promise. I'll tell you a little secret. It was the boss who sent you out of town. He was afraid you'd do something like this. When you're ready to go home, you'll find Tony Bernini downstairs. Soar as a crab, too, I'll bet. I'll be glad to go home with him, said Cuddy, thoroughly chastened in spirit. That's all for the night. Cuddy and Hawksley stepped out into the corridor. The problem they had sought to shake off, re-established in their thoughts, added to, if anything. How do you feel? The pole, lied Hawksley. My word, though, I wobbled a bit going round that block. I almost kissed the bobby. I say he thought I'd been tilting a few. But it was a lark. Dinner is served, announced Kuruki at their elbows. His expression was coldly bland. "'Dinner!' cried Hawksley, brightening. What does the American soldier say? "'Eats!' answered Kitty. All tension vanished in the double laughter that followed. They approached dinner with something of the spirit that had induced Hawksley to fiddle and Kitty to pass the hat in front of the metropolitan opera-house. Hawksley's recuperative powers promised well for his future. By the time coffee was served his head had cleared and his legs had resumed their normal functions of support. I was so infernally bored. And now,' asked Kitty recklessly, fancy asking me that. Do you realize that all this is dreadfully improper? "'Oh, I say now! Where's the harm? If ever there was a young woman capable of taking care of herself, that isn't it. It's just being here alone with you. But you are not alone with me!' Kuruki, Kitty shrugged. "'No. At my side of the table is Stefani Gregor, at yours, the man who has befriended me. Thank you for that. I don't know of anything nicer you could say. But the outside world would see neither of our friends. I did not come here to see you. No need of telling me that. I had a problem, a very difficult one, to solve, and I believed that I might solve it if I came to these rooms. I had quite forgotten you. Instantly upon receiving this blunt explanation he determined that she should never cease to remember him after this night. His vanity was not touched. It was something far more elusive. It was perhaps a recurrence of that inexplicable desire to hurt. Somehow he sensed the flexible steel behind which lay the soul of this baffling girl. He would presently find a chink in the armour with that old amati. Blows on the head have few surgical comparisons. That which kills one man only temporarily stuns another. One man loses his identity. Another escapes with all his faculties and suffers but trifling inconvenience. In Hawksley's case the blow had probably restricted some current of thought, and that which would have flowed normally now shut out obliquely, perversely. It might be that the natural perverseness of his blood, unchecked by the noble influence of Stefani Gregor and liberated by the blow, governed his thoughts in relation to Kitty. In the subjugation of women, the old cynical warfare of sex, the dominant business of his rich and idle forebears, the business that had made Boris Karlov a deadly and implacable enemy, became paramount in his disordered brain. She had forgotten him. Very well he would stir the soul of her, play with it, lift it to the stars and dash it down, if she had a soul, beautiful, natural, alone. He became all Latin under the pressure of this idea. I will play for you, he said quietly. Please, and then I'll go home where I belong, I'll be in the living-room. When he returned he found her before a window, staring at the myriad lights. Sit here, he said, indicating the divan. I shall stand and walk about as I play. Kitty sat down, touching the pillows reflectively. She thought of the tears she had wept upon them. That sinister and cynical thought. Suddenly she saw light. Her problem would have been none at all if Cuddy had said he loved her. There would have been something sublime in making him happy in his twilight. He had loved and lost her mother. To pay him for that. He was right. Those twenty-odd years, his seniority, had mellowed him, filled him with deep and tender understanding. To be with him was restful. The very thought of him now was resting. No matter how much he might love a younger man, he would frequently torture her by unconscious egoism, and by the time he had mellowed the mulled wine would be cold. If only Cuddy had said he loved her. What shall I play? Kitty raised her eyes in frank astonishment. There was a fiercely proud expression on Hocksey's face. It was not the man. It was the artist who was angry. Forgive me. I was dreaming a little. She apologized with quick understanding. I am not quite myself. Neither am I. I would play something to fit your dream. But wait. When I play, I am articulate. I can express myself, all emotions. I am what I play, happy, sad, gay, full of the devil. I warn you, I can speak all things. I can laugh at you, weep with you, despise you, love you. All in the touch of these strings. I warn you there is magic in this amati. Will you risk it? Ordinarily, had this floored outburst come from another man, Kitty would have laughed. It had the air of peaked vanity, but she knew that this was not the interpretation. On the streets he had been the most amusing and surprising comrade she had ever known as Mary and Whimsical as Cuddy, young and handsome, the real man. He had been real that night when he entered through her kitchen window with the drums of jeopardy about his neck. He had been real that night she had brought him his wallet. Electric antagonism! The room seemed charged with it. The man had stepped aside for a moment and the great noble had taken his place. It was not because she had been reared in rather a theatrical atmosphere that she transcribed his attitude thus. She knew that he was noble. That she did not know his rank was of no consequence. Cuddy's narrative, which she had pretended to believe, had set this man in the middle class, never in this world. There was only one middle class out of which such a personality might and often did emerge, the American middle class. In Europe never. No peasant blood, no middle-class corpuscle stirred in this man's veins. The ancient boyar looked down at her. Play! said Cuddy. There was a smile on her lips, but there was fiery challenge in her slate-blue eyes. The blood of Irish kings, and what Irishman dares deny it, surged into her throat. We wear masks, we inherit generations of masks, and a trivial incident reveals the primordial which lurks in each one of us. Cuddy with her stone hatchet and hawksly swinging the curved blade of hunk. He began one of those tempestuous compositions, brilliant and bewildering, that submerged the most appreciative lay mentality, because he was angry, a double anger that he should be angry over he knew not what, and broke off in the middle of the composition because Cuddy sat upright, stonely unimpressed. Tchaikovsky's Serenade Melanchoic, kitty after a few measures, laid aside her stone hatchet and her body relaxed. Music! She began to absorb it as parched earth absorbs the tardy rain. Then came the waltz which had haunted her. Her face grew tenderly beautiful, and hawksly, a true artist, saw that he had discovered the fifth string, and he played upon it with all the artistry which was naturally his, and which had been given form by the master who had taught him. For the physical exertions he relied upon nerve energy again. Nature is generous when we are young. No matter how much we draw against the account she always has a little more for us. He forgot that only an hour gone he had been dizzy with pain, forgot everything, but the glory of the sounds he was evoking and their visible reaction upon this girl. The devil was not only in his heart, but in his hand. Never had kitty heard such music. To be played to in this manner, directly, with embracing tenderness, with undivided fire, would have melted the soul of gobsick the moneylender, and kitty was warm-blooded, Irish, emotional. The fiddle called poignantly to the Irish in her. She wanted to go roving with this man, with her hand on his shoulder, to walk in the thin air of high places. Through it all, however, she felt vaguely troubled, the instinct of the trap. The sinister and cynical idea which had clandestinely taken up quarters in her mind awoke and assailed her from a new angle that of youth. Something in her cried out, Stop, stop! But her lips were mute, her body unchained. Suddenly Hawksley laid aside the fiddle and advanced. She reached down and drew her up. Kitty did not resist him. She was numb with enchantment. He held her close for a second, then kissed her. Her hair, eyes, mouth, released her and stepped back, a bantering smile on his lips, and cold terror in his heart. The devilhood inspired this phase of the drama, now deserted his victim, as he generally does in the face of superior forces. He stood perfectly still for a full minute, stunned. It was that smile, frozen on his lips, that brought her back to intimacy with cold realities. Had he asked her pardon, had he shown the least repentance she might have forgiven, forgotten. But knowing mankind as she did, she could give but one interpretation to that smile, of which he was no longer conscious. That anger, in quiet level tones, she said, I had foolishly thought that we too might be friends. You have made it impossible. You have also abused the kindly hospitality of the man who has protected you from your enemies. A few days ago he did me the honour to ask me to marry him. I am going to. I wish you no evil. She turned and walked from the room. Even then there was time, but he did not move. It was not until he heard the elevator-gate crash that he was physically released from the thralldom of the inner revelation. Love! In the blinding flash of a thunderbolt! He had kissed her, not because he was the son of his father, but because he loved her. And now he never could tell her. He must let her go, believing that the man she had saved from death had repaid her with insult. At the top of all his misfortunes, his tragedies—love! There was a God, yes, but his name was irony—love! He stepped toward the divan, stumbled and fell against it, his arms spread over the pillows, and in this position he remained. For a while his thoughts were broken, inconclusive. He was like a man in the dark, groping for a door. Principally his poor head was trying to solve the riddle of his never-ending misfortunes. Why? What had he done that these calamities should be piled upon his head? He had lived decently. His youth had been normal. He had played fair with men and women. Why make him pay for what his forebears had done? He wasn't fair, game. He. A singular revelation cleared one corner. Kitty had spoken of a problem, and he, by those devil-urged kisses, had solved it for her. She had been doddering, and his own act had thrust her into the arms of that old thoroughbred. That cynical suggestion of his the other morning had been acted upon. God had long ago deserted him, and now the devil himself had taken leave. Hawksley buried his face in the pillow, once made wet with Kitty's tears. The great tragedy in life lies in being too late. Hawksley had learned this once before. It was now being driven home again. Cutty was to find it out on the morrow, for he missed his train that night. The shuttles of the weaver in this pattern of life were two green stones, called the drums of jeopardy, inanimate objects, with perfect tools in the hands of destiny. But for these stones Hawksley would not have tarried too long on a certain red night. Cutty would not now be stumbling about the labyrinths into which his looting instincts had thrust him, and Kitty Conover would have jogged along in the humdrum rut, if not happy, at least philosophically content with her lot. CHAPTER XXVIII THE DRUMS OF JEPERTY CHAPTER XXVIII Decision is always a mental relief. Hesitance occurs. Kitty, having shifted her burdens to the broad shoulders of Cutty, felt as she reached the lobby as if she had left storm and stress behind and entered calm. She would marry Cutty. She had published the fact, burned her bridges. She had stepped into the car, her heart full of cold fury. Now she began to find excuses for Hawksley's conduct. A sick brain. He was not really accountable for his acts. Her own folly had opened the way. Of course she would never see him again. Why should she? Their lives were as far apart as the Volga and the Hudson. Bernini met her in the lobby. I've got a cab for you, Miss Conover. He said, as if nothing at all had happened. Have you cut his address? Yes. Then take me at once to a telegraph office. I have a very important message to send him. All right, Miss Conover. Say, decision made. It is yes. And sign it, just Kitty. Without being conscious of it, her soul was still in the clouds, where it had been driven by the music of the fiddle. Thus, what she assumed to be a normal sequence of a train of thought was only a sublime impulse. She would marry Cutty. More, she would be his wife, his true wife. For his tenderness, his generosity, his chivalry, she would pay him in kind. There would be no nonsense. Love would not enter into the bargain. But there would be the fragrance of perfect understanding. That he was 52, and she was 24 no longer mattered. No more loneliness, no more genteel poverty. For such benefits, she was ready to pay the score in full. A man she was genuinely fond of, a man she could look up to, always depend upon. Was there such a thing as perfect love? She had her doubts. She reasoned that love was what a body decided was love, the psychological moment when the physical attraction became irresistible. Who could tell before the fact, which was the true and which the false? Lived there a woman, herself accepted, who had not hesitated between two men, a man who had not dotted between two women for better or for worse? What did the average woman know of the man, the average man know of the woman, until afterward? To stake all upon a guess. She knew, Cuddy, under her own eyes, he had passed through certain proving fires. There would be no guessing the manner of man he was. He was 52, that is to say, the grand passion had come and gone. There would be mutual affection and comradeship. True, she had her dreams, but she could lay them away without any particular regret. She had never been touched by the fire of passion. Let it go. But she did know what perfect comradeship was, and she would grasp it and never lose her hold, something out of life. A narrow squeak, Miss Conover, said Barumi, breaking the long silence. Miss is as good as a mile, replied Cuddy, not at all grateful for the interruption. We've done everything we could to protect you. If you can't see now why the jig is up, a chain is as strong as its weakest link. And in a game like this, a woman is always the weakest link. You're quite a philosopher. I have reason to be. I'm married. Am I expected to laugh? Miss Conover, you're a wonder. You come through these affairs with a smile when you ought to have hysterics. I'll bet a donut that when you see a mouse, you go and get it a piece of cheese. Do you want the truth? Well, I'll tell it to you. You have all kept me on the outer edge of this affair, and I've been trying to find out why. I have the reputorial instinct, as they say. I inherited it from my father. You put a strange weapon in my hands. You tell me it is deadly, but you don't tell me which end is deadly. Do you know who this Russian is? Honestly, I don't. Does Cuddy? I don't know that either. Did you ever hear of a pair of emeralds called the drums of jeopardy? Nope, but I do know if you continue these stunts, you'll head the whole game into the ditch. You may set your mind at ease. I'm going to marry Cuddy. I shall not go to the apartment again until Huxley, as he is called, is gone. Well, well, that's good news. But let me put you wise to one fact, Ms. Conover. You have picked some man. I'm not much of a scholar, but knowing him as I do, I'm always wondering why they made faith, hope, and charity in female form. But this night's work was bad business. They know where the Russian is now, and if the game lasts long enough, they'll reach the chief, find out who he is, and that'll put the kibosh on his usefulness here and abroad. Well, here's home and no more lecture from me. Sorry I've been so much trouble. Perhaps we ought to have shown you which end shoots. Good night. If Kitty had any doubt as to the wisdom of her decision, the cold, gloomy rooms of her apartment dissipated them. She wandered through the rooms, musing, calling back animated scenes. What would the spirit of her mother say? Had she dotted between Conover and Cuddy? Perhaps. But she had been one of the happy few who had guessed right. Singular thought, her mother would have been happy with Cuddy too. Oh, the relief of knowing what the future was going to be. She took off her hat and tossed it upon the table. The good things of life and a good comrade. Food, the larder would be empty and there was her breakfast to consider. She passed out into the kitchen, wrote out a list of necessities, and put it on the dumbwaiter. Now for the dishes she had so hardly left. She rolled up her sleeves, put on the apron and fell to the task. After such a night, dishwashing, she laughed. It was a funny old world. Pauses. Perhaps she should have gone to a hotel away from all familiar objects. Those flat irons intermittently pulled her eyes round. Her fancy-played tricks with her whenever her glance touched the window, faces peering in. In a burst of impatience, she dropped the dish towel, hurried to the window and threw it up. Black emptiness. Cuddy crossing the platform with hoxley on his shoulders. She saw that and it comforted her. She finished her work and started her bed. But first she entered the guest room and turned on the lights. Olga. She had intended to ask him who Olga was. A great pity. They might have been friends. The back of her hand went to her lips, but did not touch them. She could not rub away those burning kisses. That is not with the back of her hand. Vividly she saw him fiddling bareheaded in front of the Metropolitan Opera House. It seemed, though, that it had happened years ago. A great pity. The charm of that frolic would abide with her as long as she lived. A brave man, too. Hadn't he left her with a gay wave of the hand, not knowing for one of strength if he could make the detour of the block? That took courage. His journey halfway across the world had taken courage. Yet he could so basely disillusion her. It was not the kiss, it was the smile. She had seen that smile before, born of evil. If only he had spoken. The heavenly magic of that fiddle, it made her sad. Genius, the ability to play with souls, soothe, tantalize, lift up, and then to smile at her like that. She shut down the curtain upon those cogitations and summoned Cuddy, visualized his handsome head shot with gray, the humor of his smile. She did care for him, no doubt of that. She couldn't have sent that telegram out. Cuddy, name of a pipe, as the Frenchman said. All at once, she rocked with laughter. She was going to marry a man who's given name she could not recall. Henry, George, John, William? For the life of her, she could not remember. And with this laughter still bubbling in a softer note, she got into bed, twisted about from side to side, from this pillow to that, the tired body seeking perfect relaxation. A broken melody entered her head. Sleepily, she sought one channel of thought after another to escape. Still, the melody persisted. As her consciousness dodged hither and thither, the bars and measures joined. She sat up, chilled, bewildered. That Tchaikovsky waltz, she could hear it as clearly as if Johnny Twohawks and the Amati were in the very room. She grew afraid of what she did not know. And while she sat there in bed, threshing out this fear to find the grain, Cuddy was tramping the streets of Washington, her telegram crumpled in his hand. From time to time, he would open it and reread it under a street lamp. To marry her and then to cheat her. It wasn't humanly possible to marry her and then to let her go. He thought of those warm, soft arms around his neck, the absolute trust of that embrace. Molly's girl. No, he could not do it. He would have to back down, tell her he could not put the bargain through, invent some other scheme. The idea had been repugnant to her. It had taken her a week to fight it out. It was a little beyond his reach, however, why the idea should have been repugnant to her. It entailed nothing beyond a bit of mummary. The repugnance was not due to religious training. The conover household, as he recalled it, had been rather a lax in that respect. Why then should Cuddy have hesitated? He thought of Huxley and swore. But for Huxley's suggestion, no muddle like this would have occurred. Devil take him and his infernal green stones. Cuddy suddenly remembered his train. He looked at his watch and saw that his lower birth was well on the way to Baltimore. Always and eternally he was missing something. End of chapter 28, recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 29 Not unusually, when we burn our bridges, we have in the back of our minds the dim hope that there may be a shallow ford, somewhere. Thus bridges should not be burned impulsively. There may be no ford. The idea of retreat pushed forward in Kitty's mind the moment she awoke. But she pressed it back in shame. She had given her word and she would stand by it. The night had been a series of wild impulses. She had not sent that telegram to Cuddy as the result of her deliberations in the country. Impulse. A flash and the thing was done. Her bridges burned. To crush Johnny Toohawks, fill his cup with chagrin. She had told him she was going to marry Cuddy. That was the milk and the coconut. Morning has a way of showing up night gold for what it is. Tinsel. Kitty saw the stage of last night's drama dismantled. If there was a shallow ford, she would never lower her pride to seek it. She had told Toohawks, sent that wire to Cuddy, broke the news to Bernini. But did she really want to go back? Not to know her own mind, to swing back and forth like a pendulum. Was it because she feared that having married Cuddy, she might actually fall in love with some other man later? She could still go through the mummary as Cuddy had planned. But what about all the sublime generosity of the preceding night? A queer feeling pervaded her. She was a marionette, a human mannequin, and some invisible hand was pulling the wires that made her do all these absurd things. Her own mind no longer controlled her actions. The persistence of that waltz, it had haunted her, broken into her dreams, awakened her out of them. Why should she be afraid? What was there to be afraid of in a reoccurring melody? She had heard a dozen famed violinists play it. It had never before affected her beyond the flash of emotionalism. Perhaps it was the romantic misfortune of the man, the mystery surrounding him, the menace which walled him in. Breakfast. Human mannequins had appetites. So she made her breakfast. Before leaving the kitchen, she stopped at the window. The sun filled the court with brilliant light. The patches of rust on the fire escape ladder, which was on the Gregor side of the platform had the semblance of powdered gold. Half an hour later she was speeding downtown to the office. All through the day she walked, worked, talked as one in a state of trance. There were periods of stupefication which at length roused Berlin game's curiosity. Kitty, what's the matter with you? You look dazed about something. How do you clean a pipe? She countered, irrelevantly. Clean a pipe, he repeated, nearly overbalancing his chair. Yes, you see, I may make up my mind to marry a man who smokes a pipe, said Kitty, desperately eager to steer Berlin game into another channel. And certainly I ought to know how to clean one. Kitty, I'm an old timer. You can't sidetrack me like this. Something has happened. You say you had a great time in the country and you come in as pale as the moon, like someone suffering from shell shock. Ever since Cutty came in here that day you've been acting oddly. You may not know it, but Cutty asked me to send you out of town. You've been in some kind of danger. What's the yarn? So big that no newspaper will ever publish it, Burley. If Cutty wants to tell you someday he can, I haven't the right to. Did he drag you into it or did you fall into it? I walked into it as presently I shall walk out of it, all on my own. Better keep your eyes open. Cutty's a storm petrol. When he flies there's rough weather. What do you know about him? Probably what he's already told you, that he is a foreign agent of the government. What do you know? Everything but one thing and that's a problem, particularly my own. Alien stuff I suppose. Cutty's strong on that. Well, mind your step. The boys are bringing in queer scraps about something big going to happen Mayday. No facts, just rumors. Better shoot for home the shortest route each night and stick around there. There are certain spiritual exilerants that nullify caution, warning the presence of danger. The boy with his first pay envelope. The lover who has just been accepted. The debutante on the way to her first ball. The impetus that urges us to rush in where angels fear to tread. At a quarter after five, Cutty left the office for home unaware that the attribute designated as caution had evaporated from her system. She proceeded toward the subway mechanically, the result of habit. Casually she noticed two taxi cabs standing near the subway entrance. That she noted them at all was due to the fact that the subway entrances are not fortuitous hunting grounds for taxi cabs. Only the unusual would have attracted her in her present condition of mind. It takes time and patience to weave a good web. Observe any spider. Time and finding a suitable place for it. Patience in the spinning. All that worried Karlov was the possibility of her not observing him. If he could place his taxi cabs where they would attract her, even casually the main difficulty would be out of the way. The moment she turned her head toward the cabs, he would step out into plain view. The girl was susceptible and adventuresome. Cutty saw a man step out of the foremost taxi cab, give some instructions to the chauffeur, and get back into the cab. Immediately to be driven off at moderate speed. She recognized the man at once. Never would she forget that squat gorilla-like body. Karlov, yonder in that cab. She ran to the remaining cab. Wherein she differed from angels. Are you free? Yes, miss. See that taxi going across town? Follow it and I will give you 10 extra fare. You're on, miss. Karlov peered through the rear window of his cab. If she had in tow a federal agent, the maneuver would fail. At a great risk to himself, but he would soon be able to tell whether or not she was being followed. As a matter of fact, she was not. She had returned to New York a day before she was expected. Her unknown downtown guardian would not turn up for duty until ordered by Cutty to do so. She entered the second cab with no definite plan in her head. Karlov, the man who wanted to kill Johnny Twohawks, the man who held Stefani Gregor a prisoner. For the present, those facts were sufficient. Don't get too near, said Cutty, through the speaking tube. Just keep the cab in sight. A perfectly logical compensation. She herself had said in motion the machinery of this amazing adventure. It was logically right that she would end it. Poor dear old Cutty. To fancy he could pull the wool over Kitty Conover's eyes. Cutty, the most honest man alive, had set his foot upon an unethical bypass and now found himself among nettles. To keep Johnny Twohawks prisoner in that lofty apartment while he hunted for the drums of jeopardy. Hadn't he said he had seen the emeralds he would steal with half a chance? Cutty playing at this sort of game, his conscience biting whichever way he turned. He had been hunting unsuccessfully for the stones that night he had come in with his face and hands bloody. Why hadn't he kissed her? Johnny Twohawks, bourgeois utter nonsense. Of course it did not matter now what he was. He had dug a bridgeless chasm with that smile. Sometime tomorrow he and Stefani Gregor would be on their way to Montana, and that would be the last of them both. Tomorrow would mark the fork in the road, but life would never again be humdrum for Kitty Conover. The taxi cabs were bumping over cobbles through empty streets. It was six by now. At that hour, this locality, which she recognized as the warehouse district, was always dead. The deserted streets, however, set in motion a slight perturbation. Supposing Karlov grew suspicious and turned aside from his objective. Even as this disturbing thought took form, Karlov's taxi cab stopped. Kitties stopped also, but without instructions from her. She had intended to drive on, and from the rear window observe if Karlov entered that old red-brick house. Go on, she called through the tube. The chauffeur obeyed, but he stopped again directly behind Karlov's taxi cab. He slid off his seat and opened the door. His face was grim. Tum-pity-tum-tum. Tum-pity-tum-tum. She did not hear the toxin this time. She felt it on her spine. From the drums of fear. If they touched her. Come with me, Miss, if you're sensible you will not be harmed. If you cut up a racket I'll have to carry you. What does this mean, faltered kitty? That we have finally got you, Miss. You can see for yourself there isn't any help in sight. Better take it sensibly. We don't intend to hurt you. It's someone else we want. There's a heavy score against you, but we'll overlook it if you act sensibly. You were very clever last night, but the game depends on the last trick. I'll go sensibly, kitty agreed. They must not touch her. Karlov did not speak as he opened the door of the house for her. His expression was Buddha-like. This way, Miss, said the chauffeur amably, you are an American. Whenever it pays. The kitty found herself in the attic, alone. They hadn't touched her. So much was gained. Poor little fool that she was. It was fairly dark now, but overhead she could see the dim outlines of the scuttle or trap. The attic was empty except for a few pieces of lumber and some soap-boxes. She determined to investigate the trap at once before they came again. She placed two soap-boxes on the end and laid a plank across. After testing its stability, she mounted. She could reach the trap easily, with plenty of leverage to spare. She was confident that she could draw herself up to the roof. She sought for the hooks and liberated them, then placed her palms against the trap and heaved. Not even a creak answered her. She pressed upward again and again. The trap was immovable. Lights. She turned to behold Karlov in the doorway, a candlestick in his hand. The scuttle is covered with cement, Miss Conover. Nobody can get in or out. Kitty got down, her knees uncertain. If he touched her, all the fool she had been. What are you going to do with me, she asked, through dry lips? You are to me a bill of exchange, payable in something more precious to me than gold. I am going to keep you here until you are ransomed. The ransom is the man you have been shielding. If he isn't here by midnight, you vanish. O we shain't harm you, merely you will disappear, until my affairs in America are terminated. You are clever and resourceful for so young a woman. You will understand we are not going to turn aside. You are not a woman to me. You are a valuable pawn. You are something to bargain for. I understand, said Kitty, her heart trying to burst through. It seemed impossible that Karlov should not hear the thunder to placate him, to answer his questions, to keep him from growing angry. I thought you would, Karlov set the candle on Kitty's impromptu stepladder. We saw your interest in the affair and attacked you on that side. You had seen me once. Being a newspaper writer, the New York kind, you would not rest until you learned who I was. You would not forget me. You were too well guarded Uptown. You've been out of the city for a week. We could not find where. You were reported seen entering your office this morning. And here you are. My one fear was that you might not see me. Personally, you will have no cause to worry. No hand shall touch you. Thank you for that. Don't misunderstand. There is no sentiment behind this promise. I imagine your protector will sacrifice much for your sake. Maybe it is unnecessary to offer you any violence. Do you know who the man is your protector is shielding? Kitty shook her head. Has he played the fiddle for you? Yes. Karlov smiled. Did you dance? Dance? I don't understand. No matter. He can play the fiddle nearly as well as his master. The two of them have gone across the world fiddling the souls of women out of their bodies. Kitty sat down weakly on the plank. Terror from all points. Karlov's unexcited tones, his lack of dramatic gesture convinced her that this was deadly business. Terror that for all the promise of immunity they might lay hands on her. Terror for Johnny Twohawks. Terror for Cutty. Has he injured you? She asked to gain time. He is an error in chronology. He represents an idea which no longer exists. He spoke English fluently but with a rumbling accent. But to kill him for that? Kill him? My dear young lady, I merely want him to fiddle for me, said Karlov with another smile. You tried to kill him, insisted Kitty, the dryness beginning to leave her throat. Bungling agents. Do you know what became of them, the two who invaded your bedroom? They were taken away by the police. So I thought, what became of the wallet? I found it hidden on the back of my stove. I never thought to look there, said Karlov musingly. Who has the drums? The emeralds? You haven't them, cried Kitty, becoming her mother's daughter, though her heart never beat so thunderously as now. We thought you had them. Karlov stared at her, moodily. What is that button for, at the side of your bed? Kitty comprehended the working of the mind that formulated this question. If she answered truthfully he would accept her statements. It rings an alarm in the basement. Karlov nodded. You were truthful and sensible. I haven't the emeralds. Perhaps one of your men betrayed you. I have thought of that, but if he had betrayed me the drums would have been discovered by the police. Damn them to hell! Kitty wondered whether he meant the police or the emeralds. Later, food and a blanket will be brought to you. If your ransom does not appear by midnight you will be taken away. If you struggle we may have to handle you roughly. That is, as you please. Karlov went out, locking the door. Oh, the blind little fool she had been! All those constant warnings and she had not heeded. Cutty had warned her repeatedly. So had Bernini, and she had deliberately walked into this trap, as if this cold, murderous madman would risk showing himself without some grim and terrible purpose. She had written either Cutty's or Johnny Twohawk's death warrant. She covered her eyes. It was horrible. It was not Cutty, but assuredly Twohawk's. His life. For her liberty. And he will come, she whispered. She knew it. How was not to be analysed. She just knew that he would come. What if he had smiled like that? The European point of view and her own monumental folly. He would come quietly, without protest, and give himself up. God forgive me! What can I do? She slid to the floor and rocked her body. Her fault. He would come, even as Cutty would have come had he been the man demanded, and Karlov would kill him, because he was an error in chronology. She sensed also that the anarchist would not look upon his act as murder. He would be removing an obstacle from the path of his sick dreams. Comparisons. She saw how much alike the two were. Cutty was only Johnny Twohawk's at fifty-two. Fearless and whimsical. Had Cutty gone through life without looking at some woman, as last night Johnny Twohawk's had looked at her. All the rest of her life she would see Twohawk's eyes. A bismal fool to pit her wits against such men as Karlov, because she had been successful to a certain extent she had overrated her cleverness with this tragic result. He had fiddled the soul out of her. But death! She sprang up. It was maddening to sit still, to feel the approach of the tragedy without being able to prevent it. She investigated the windows. No hope in this direction. It was rapidly growing dark outside. What time was it? The door opened. A man she had not seen before came in with a blanket, a pitcher of water, and some graham crackers. His fingers were stained of brilliant yellow and a peculiar odor emanated from his clothes. He did not speak to her but set the articles on the floor and departed. Cutty did not stir. An hour passed. She sat as one in a trance. The tallow-dip was sinking. By and by she became conscious of a faint sound, a tapping. Wince it came she could not tell. She moved about cautiously, endeavoring to locate it, when she finally did the blood drummed in her ears. The trap! Someone was trying to get in through the trap. Cutty, thus soon, who else could it be? She hunted for a piece of lumber light enough to raise to the trap. She tapped three times and waited. Silence! She repeated the signal. This time it was answered. Cutty! In a little while she would be free and two hawks would not have to pay for her folly with his life. Terror and remorse departed forthwith. She took the plank to the door and pushed one end under the door knob. Then she piled the other planks against the butt. The moment she heard steps on the stairs she would stand on the planks. It would be difficult to open that door. She sat down on the planks to wait. From time to time she built up the falling tallow. Cutty must have light. The tapping on the trap went on. They were breaking away the cement. Perhaps an hour passed. At least it seemed a very long time. Steps on the stairs. She stood up, facing the door, the roots of her hair tingling. She heard the key turn in the lock, and then as in a nightmare she felt the planks under her feet stir slightly but with sinister persistence. Presently she saw the toe of a boot insert itself between the door and the jam. The pressure increased. The space between the door and the jam widened. Suddenly the boot vanished and the door closed. The plank fell. Immediately thereafter Karloff stood inside the room, scowling suspiciously. CHAPTER XXXV 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 XXXV Cutty arrived at the apartment in time to share dinner with Hawksley. He had wisely decided to say nothing about the escapade of Hawksley and Kitty Conover since it had terminated fortunately. Bernini had telegraphed the gist of the adventure. He could readily understand Hawksley's part. But Kitty's wasn't reducible to ordinary terms of expression. The young chap had run wild because his head still wobbled on his shoulders and because his isolation was beginning to scratch his nerves. But for Kitty to run wild with him offered a blank wall to speculation. As if he could solve the riddle when Kitty herself could not. So he determined to shut himself up in a study and shuffle the chrysoprace. Something might come of it. Looking backward he recognized the salient. At no time had he been quite sure of Kitty. She seemed to be a combination of shallows and unfathomable deeps. From the Pennsylvania station he had called up the office. Kitty had gone. Bernini informed him that Kitty was dining at a cafe on the way home. Cutty was thorough. He telephoned the restaurant and was advised that Miss Conover had reserved a table. He had forgotten to send the operative who guarded Kitty at that end. But the distance from the office to the subway was so insignificant. You're looking fit, he said, across the table. ought to be off your hands by Monday. But what about Stefani Gregor? I can't stir leaving him hanging on a peg. I'm going into the study shortly to decide that. Head bother you? Occasionally. Ryan easy to get along with? Rather a good sort. I say, you know, you've seen a good deal of life. Which do you consider the stronger? The inherited traits or environment? Environment. That is the true mold. There is good and bad in all of us. It's brought into prominence by the way we live. An angel cannot touch pitch without becoming defiled. On the other hand, the worst gutter rats in the world saved France. Do you suppose that thought will not always be tugging at and uplifting those who returned from the first marne? There is hope, then, for me. Hope? Yes, you know, that my father, my uncle, my grandfather were fine scoundrels. Under their influence you would have been one, too. But no man could live with Stefani Gregor and not absorb his qualities. Your environment has been Anglo-Saxon where the first block in the picture is fair play. You've been constantly under the tutelage of a fine and lofty personality, Gregor's. Whatever evil traits you may have inherited, they have become subject to the influences that surrounded you. Take me, for instance. I was born in a rather puritanical atmosphere. My environments have always been good, yet there are lurks in me that taint of mecair. Given the wrong environment I should now have my picture in the rogues' gallery. You? Yes. Hawksley played with his fork. If you had a daughter, would you trust me with her? Yes. Any man who can weep, unashamed, over the portrait of his mother, may be trusted. Once you're out there in Montana you'll forget all about your paternal forebears. Handsome beggar thought Cuddy, but evidently born under the opal. An inexplicable resentment against his guest stirred his heart. He resented his youth, his ease of manner, his fluency in the common tongue. Cuddy was theoretically a Britisher. He thought British, approached subjects from a British point of view, a Britisher, except when he had that fiddle tucked under his chin. Then Cuddy admitted he did not know what he was. Devil take him. There must have been something electrical in Cuddy's resentment for the object of it, felt it subtly, and it fired his own. He resented the freedom of action that had always been denied him, resented his hosts mental and physical superiority. Did Cuddy care for the girl, or was he playing the game as it had been suggested to him? Money and freedom. But then it was in no sense a barter she would be giving nothing and the old beggar would be asking nothing. His suggestion. He laughed. What's the joke, asked Cuddy, looking up from his coffee which he was stirring with unnecessary vigor. It isn't a joke. I'm belly-well twisted. I laugh now when I think of something tragic. I am sorry about last night. I was mad, I suppose. Tell me about it. Cuddy listened intently and smiled occasionally. Mad as hatters, both of them. He and Kitty could not have gone on a romp like this, but Kitty and Hawksley could. Thereupon his resentment boiled up again. Have you any idea why she took such a risk, why she came here, knowing me to be absent? She spoke of a problem, I fancy it related to your approaching marriage. She told me. Cuddy lay down a spoon. I'd like to dump your highness into the middle of East River for putting that idea into my head. She has consented to it, and now, damn it, I've got to back out of it. Cuddy rose and flung down as napkin. Why, asked the bewildered Hawksley? Because there is in me the making of a first-rate scoundrel, and I never should have known it if you and your affairs hadn't turned up. Cuddy entered his study and slammed the door, leaving Hawksley prey to so many conflicting emotions that his head began to bother him. Back out of it? Why? Why should Kitty have a problem to solve over such a marriage of convenience? And why should the old thoroughbred want to back out? Kitty would be free then? A flash of fire, which subsided quickly under the smoldering truth. But if she were free, he could not ask her to be his wife. Not because of last night's madness. That no longer troubled him. She was the sort who would understand, if he told her. She had a soul big with understanding. It was that he walked in the shadow of death and would so long as Karlov was free, and he could not ask any woman to share that. He pushed back his chair slowly. In the living room he took the Amati from its case and began improvising. What the chrysoprace did for Cuddy, the fiddle did for this derelict. Solved problems. He reviewed all the phases as he played. That dish of bacon and eggs, the resolute air of her, that popping fan, Allegretto. She had found him senseless on the floor. She had had the courage to come to his assistance, andante con espressione. What had been in her mind that night she had taken flight from his bedroom after having given him the wallet? Something like tears. What about? An American girl, natural, humorous, and fanciful. Somehow he felt assured that it had not been his kisses. She had looked into his eyes and had seen the taint. He was there, the beast that old Stefani had chained and subdued. He knew now that this beast would never again lift its head, and he had let her go without a sign. Dolorosamente. To have gone through life with a woman who would have understood his nature, a test of her had been last night in the streets. His mood had been hers. Allegretto con amore. Love he said, lowering the bow. Love said, Cari, shifting his chrysoprace. There was no fool like an old fool. It did not serve to recall Molly in all her glory, to reach hither and yawn for a hand-hold to pull him out of this morass. Molly had become an invisible ghost. He loved her daughter, double sunset. The phenomenon on the Indian Ocean was now being enacted upon his own horizon. Double sunset. But why should Kitty have any problem to solve? Why should she daughter over such a trifle as this prospective official marriage? It was only a joke which would legalize his generosity. She had sent that telegram after leaving this apartment. What had happened here to decide her? Had Hawksley fiddled? There was something to matter with the green stones tonight. They evoked nothing. He leaned back in his chair, listening, the bowl of his pipe touching the lapel of his coat. Music. Queer what you could do with a fiddle if you knew how. After all there was no sense in venting his anger on Hawksley. He was hoist by his own petard. Why not admit the truth? He had had a crack on the head the same night as Hawksley. Only he had been struck by an idea, often more deadly than the butt of a pistol. He would apologize for that roaring exit from the dining-room, the poor friendless devil. He bent toward the green stones again. In the living-room Hawksley sat in a chair, the fiddle across his knees. He understood now. The old chap was in love with the girl, and was afraid of himself. Couldn't risk having her and letting her go. A curse on the drums of jeopardy. Misfortune followed their wake always. The world would have been different this hour if he— The break in the trend of thought was caused by the entrance of Kuroki, who was followed by a man. This man dropped into a chair without apparently noticing that the room was already tenanted. Before he never glanced toward Hawksley. A haggard face, dull of eye. Kuroki bobbed and vanished, but returned shortly, beckoning the stranger to follow him into the study. Coles cried cutty delightedly. Here was the man he had sent to negotiate for the emeralds, free. How did you escape? We've combed the town for you. They had me in a room on Fifteenth Street. Once in a while I got something to eat. But I haven't escaped. I'm still a prisoner. What do you mean by that? I'm here as an emissary. There was nothing for me to do but accept the job. Did he have the stones, asked cutty, without the least suspicion of what was coming? That I don't know. He pretended to have them in order to give me where he wanted me. I've been hungry a good deal, because I wouldn't talk. I'm here as a negotiator, a rotten business. I agreed, because I've hopes you'll be able to put one over on Karlov. It's the girl. Kitty? Karlov has her. The girl wasn't to blame. Anyone in the game would have done as she did. Karlov is bugs on politics, but he's shrewd enough at this sort of game. He trapped the girl, because he'd studied her enough to learn what she would or would not do. Now they're not going to hurt her. They merely propose exchanging her for the man you've been hiding up here. There's a taxi downstairs. It'll carry me back to fifteenth, then it'll return and wait. If the man is not at the appointed place by midnight, he must go in this taxi. The girl will be carried off elsewhere and you'll never lay eyes on her again. Karlov and his gang are potential assassins. All they want is excuse. Until midnight they will not touch the girl. But after midnight, God knows. What message am I to take back? Do you know where she is? Kitty spoke without much outward emotion. Not the least idea. After Karlov wanted to quiz me, he appeared late at night from some other part of the town. But he never got much. You saw him this evening? Yes, it probably struck him as a fine joke to send me. And if you don't go back? The girl will be taken away. I'm honestly afraid of the man. He's too quiet-spoken. That kind of man always goes the limit. I see. Wait here. At Cutty's approach, Hawksley looked up apathetically. Want me? Perhaps. You're pale. Anything serious? Yes. Karlov has got Kitty. For a moment Hawksley did not stir. Then he got up, put away the amati, and came back. He was pale too. I understand, he said. They will exchange her for me. Am I right? Yes, but you're not obligated to do anything like that, you know. I am ready. You give yourself up? Why not? You're a man, Cutty burst out. I was brought up by one. Honestly now, could I ever look a white man in the face again if I didn't give myself up? I did begin to believe that I might get through, but fate was only playing with me. May I use your desk to write a line? Come with me, said Cutty, unsteadily. This was not a result of environment. Quiet courage of this order was race. No questions demanding if there wasn't some way round the inevitable. Cutty's heart glowed. The boy had walked into it, never to leave it. I'm ready. It took a man to say that, when the sequence was death. Kohl's, said Cutty, upon re-entering the study. Tell Karlov that his highness will give himself up. He will be there before midnight. That's enough for me. But if there's the least sign that you're not playing straight, it will all be off. Two men will be watching the taxi and the entrance. If you appear, it's good night. They told me to warn you. I promise not to appear. Kohl smiled enigmatically and reached for his hat. He held his hand out to Hawksley. You're a white man, sir. Thanks, said Hawksley, absently, to have it all over with. As soon as the captive federal agent withdrew, Hawksley sat down at the desk and wrote. To this hold, legally he asked, extending the written sheet to Cutty. Cutty saw that it was a simple will. In it Hawksley gave half of his possessions to Kitty and half to Stefani Gregor. In case the latter was dead, the sum total was to go to Kitty. I got you into a muddle. This will take you out of it. Karlov will kill me. I don't know how. I am his obsession. He will sleep better with me off his mind. Will this hold, legally? Yes, but why Kitty Conover, a stranger? Is a woman who saves your life a stranger? Well, not exactly. This is what we might call zero hour. I gave you a haven here, not particularly because I was sorry for you, but because I wanted those emeralds. Once upon a time Gregor showed them to me. Until I examined your wallet I suppose you had smuggled in the stones, and that would have been fair game. But you have paid your way in, honestly. Now, what did you do to Kitty Conover last night that decided her to accept that fool proposition? She sent her acceptance after she left you. I did not know that. I played for her. She became music-struck, and I took advantage of it. Kissed her. Then she told me she was going to marry you. And that is why you asked me if I would trust you with a daughter of mine. Yes. Conscience. That explains this will. No. Why did you accept my suggestion to marry her? To make her comfortable without side-stepping the rules of convention? No. Because you love her the way I do. Cutty's pipe slipped from his teeth. It did not often do that. He stepped out the embers and laid the pipe on the tray. What makes you think I love her? What makes me tell you that I do? Yes. Death may be at the end of tonight's work, so I'll admit that I love her. She's like a forest stream, wild at certain turns but always sweet and clear. I'm an old fool, old enough to be her father. I loved her mother. Can a man love two women with all his heart, one years after the other? It's the avatar. She is the reincarnation of the mother. I understand now. What was a beautiful memory takes living form again. You still love the mother. The daughter has revived that love. By the Lord, Harry, I believe you've struck it. Walked into the fog and couldn't find the way out. Of course! What an old ass I've been. Simple as daylight. I've simply fallen in love with Molly all over again, thinking it was Kitty, plain as the nose on my face, and I might have made a fine mess of it if you hadn't waken me up. All this gentle irony went over Hocksey's head. When do you wish me to go down to the taxi? Son, I'm beginning to like you. You shall have your chance. In fact, we'll take it together. Don't be a taxi, but I'll hire it. I'm quite positive I know where Kitty is. If I'm correct, you'll have your chance. If I'm wrong, you'll have to pay the score. We'll get her out, or we'll stay where she is. In any event, Karlov will pay the price. Wouldn't you prefer to go out, if you must, in a glorious scrap? Fighting? Hocksey was on his feet instantly. Do you mean that? I can die with free hands? With a chance of coming out top whole. I say what a ripping thing hope is, always springing back. Cut he nodded. But he knew there was one hope that would never warm his heart again. Molly. Well, he'd let the young chap believe that. Kitty must never know, poor little chick, fighting with her soul in the dark and not knowing what the matter was. Such things happened. He had loved Molly on sight. He had loved Kitty on sight. In neither case had he known it until too late to turn about. Mother and daughter, a kind of sacrilege as if he had betrayed Molly. But what a clear vision acknowledged love lent to the mind. He understood Kitty, who did not understand herself. Well, this night's adventure would decide things. He smiled. Neither Kitty nor the drums of jeopardy. Nothing. The gates of paradise again. For somebody else. Whoever heard of a prompter receiving pressed notices. Let's look alive. We haven't any time to waste. We'll have to change to dungarees, engineer-togs. There'll be some tools to carry. We go straight down to the boiler room. We come up the ash exit on the street side. Remember, no suspicious haste. Two engineers offer their evening's swig of beer at the corner groggery. Through the side door and into my taxi, obey every order I give. Now run along to Kuroki and say night work for both of us. He'll understand what's wanted. I'll set the machinery in motion for a raid. How do you feel? I want the truth. I don't want to turn to you for help and not get it. Hawksley laughed. Don't worry about me. I'll carry on. Don't you understand? To have an end of it one way or the other? To come free or to die there. And if Kitty is not where I believe her to be, then I'll return to the taxi outside. To be young like that, thought Cuddy, feeling strangely sad and old. To come free or to die there. That was good Anglo-Saxon. He would make a good American citizen if he were in luck. At half-after-nine the two of them knelt on the roof before the cemented trap. Nothing but raging heat disintegrates cement, so the liberation of this trap, considering the time, was a Herculean task because it had to be accomplished with little or no noise. Little chisels, fulcrums, prying, heaving, boring. To free the under-edge, the top did not matter. Not knowing if Kitty were below, that was the worst part of the job. The sweat of agony ran down Hawksley's face, but he never faltered. He was going to die tonight, somehow, somewhere, but with free hands, the way Stefani would have him die, the way the girl would have him die, all these thousands of miles to die in a house he had never seen before, just when life was really worth something. An hour went by, then they heard Kitty's signal. Instinctively the two of them knew that the taps came from her. They were absolutely certain when her signal was repeated. She was below, alone. Faster, whispered Cuddy. Hawksley smiled, to say that to a chap when he was digging into his tomb. When the sides of the trap were free, Cuddy tapped to Kitty again. There was a long agonizing wait, then three taps came from below. Cuddy flashed a signal to the warehouse windows. In five minutes the raid would be in full swing, from the roof to the street from the cellar. With their short crowbars braced by stout fulcrums, the two men heaved, noise did not matter now. Presently the trap went over. Look out for your hands, there's lots of loose glass, and together when we drop. Rideau, whispered Hawksley, assured that when he dropped through the trap, the result would be oblivion. Done in. End of Chapter 30 Chapter 31 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 31 Karlov, upon forcing his way past Kitty's barricade, stared at her doubtfully. This was a clever girl. She had proved her cleverness frequently. She might have some reason other than fear in keeping him out. So he put a fresh candle in the sconce and began to prowl. He pierced the attic windows with a ranging glance. No one was in the yard or on the street. The dust on the windows had not been disturbed. To Kitty the suspense was intolerable. At any moment, Cutty might tap a query to her. How to warn him that all was not well? A scream would do it, but in that event, when Cutty arrived, there would be no Kitty Hanover. Something that would sound unusual to Cutty and accidental to Karlov. She hit upon it. She seized a plank from her barricade, raised it to a perpendicular position, then flung it down violently. Would Cutty hear and comprehend that she was warning him? As a matter of fact, Cutty never heard the crash. For that particular minute, he was standing up to get the kinks out of his knees. Karlov whirled on his heels, ran to Kitty and snatched her wrist. Why did you do that? Kitty remained mute. Answer, with a cruel twist. You hurt, she gassed, anything to gain time. She tried to break away. Why did you do that? I was going to thrust it through a window to attract attention. It was too heavy. This explanation was within bounds of reason. It was possible that Karlov, who had merely come up with a fresh candle, would have departed but for a peculiarly grim burst of humor on the part of fate. Tap, tap, tap, inquired the unsuspecting man on the roof, exactly to Kitty like some innocent inquisitive child embarrassing the family before company. The flunger aside roughly stepped underneath the trap and cupped an ear. He required no explanations from Kitty, who shrank to the wall and remained pinned there by terror. Karlov's intuition was keen. Mint on the roof held but one significance. The house was surrounded by federal agents. For a space he wavered between two desires, the political and the private vengeance. A call down the stairs and five minutes afterward there would be nothing on the spot but a jumble of smoking wood and brick, but not to see them die. His subsequent acts, cold and methodical, fascinated Kitty. He took a step toward her. The screen died in her throat, but he did not go beyond that step. The picture of her terror decided his future actions. He would see them die. Here, with the girl looking on, a full measure. Well enough he knew who were digging away the cement of the trap. What gave launchment to this conviction he did not bother to analyze. The man he had not yet seen, who had balked him, now here, now there, from that first night, and who but the last of that branch of the hated house should be with him. To rend, batter, crush, kill. If he were bound for hell, to go there with a satisfaction of knowing that his private vengeance had been cancelled. The full reckoning for Anna's degradation. Stephanie Gregor, broken and dying and all the others dead. He would shoot them as they dropped through the trap. Not to kill, but to maim, render helpless. Then he would taunt them and grind his heels in their faces. Up there the two he most hated of all living men. First he restored Kitty's barricade. To keep assistance from entering before his work was completed. The butt of the first plank he pushed onto the doorknob. The other planks he laid flat, end to end, with the butt of the last snug against the brick chimney. The door would never give as a whole. It would have to be smashed in by axes. He then set the candle on the floor, backed by an upended soapbox. His enemies would drop into a pool of light, while they would not be able to see him at once. The girl would not matter. Her terror would hold her for some time. These maneuvers completed, he answered the signal, sat down on another box and waited. Reminding Kitty of some grotesque Mongolian idol. Kitty saw the inevitable, and thereupon her terror ceased to bind her. As Kitty flung back the trap she would cry out a warning. Karlov might, and probably would, kill her. Her share in this night's work, her incredible folly, required full payment. Having decided to die with Kitty, all her courage returned. This is the normal result of any sublime resolve. But with the return of her courage she evolved another plan. She measured the distance between herself and Karlov, calculating there would be three strides. As Cutty dropped she would fling herself upon the madman. The act would at least give Cutty something like equal terms. What became of Kitty Conover thereafter was of no importance to the world. Sounds. She became conscious of sounds elsewhere in the house. The floor trembled. There came a creaking and snapping of wood, and she heard the trap fall. Karlov stood up, menacing, terrible. She saw where Cutty would drop and now understood the cunning of the maneuver of placing the candle in front of the soapbox. Cutty would be an absolute mark for Karlov protected by the shadow. She set herself as a runner at the tape. Karlov was not the type criminal which, when cornered, thinks only of personal safety. He was a political fanatic. All who opposed his beliefs must not be permitted to survive. There was a touch of torquemada of the Inquisition in his cosmos. He could not kill directly. He had to torture first. He knew by the ascending sounds that there would be no way out of this for him. To the American, Russia was an outlaw. He would be treated as a dangerous alien enemy and locked up. Boris Karlov should never live to eat his heart out behind bars. Like Angle of Thought he mused, he wanted mud to trample them in, Russian mud, the same mud that had filled the mouth of Anna's destroyer. He was then a formidable antagonist for any two strong men, let alone two, one of whom was rather spent, the other dizzy with pain, holding himself together by the last shreds of his will. They dropped through the trap, cutty in front of the candle, hawksly a little to one side. The elder man landed squarely, but hawksly fell backward. He crawled to his feet, swaying drunkenly. For a space he was not sure of the reality of the scene. Torches and hobnailed boots. So said Karlov. The torturer must talk. He must explain the immediate future to double the agony. He could have maimed them both, then trample them to death, but he had to inform them of the fact. He pointed the automatic at cutty because he considered this man the more dangerous of the two. He had once saw that the other was a negligible factor. He spoke slowly. And the girl shall witness your agonies, he concluded. Cutty bereft of invention could only stare. Death. He had faced it many times, but always with a chance. There was none here, and the absolute knowledge paralyzed him. Had Cutty been alone, Kitty would have rushed at the madman, but the sight of hawksly robbed her of all mobility. His unexpected appearance was to her the Book of Revelation. The blind alley she had entered and re-entered so many times and so futilely crumbled. Only two hawks. As for hawksly, he knew he had but little time. The floor was billowing. He saw many candles where he knew there was only one. He was losing his senses. There remained but a single idea to do the old thoroughbred one favor for the many. Scorning death. Perhaps inviting it. He lunged headlong at Karlov's knees. This reckless challenge to death was so unexpected that Karlov had no time to aim. He fired at chance. The bullet nipped the left shoulder of hawksly's coat and shattered the legs of the partition between the attic and the servants' quarters. Under the impact of the human catapult, Karlov staggered back, desperately striving to maintain his balance. He succeeded because hawksly's senses left him in the instant he struck Karlov's knees. Still the episode was a respite for Cuddy, who dashed at Karlov before the latter could set himself or raise a smoking automatic. Kitty then witnessed, dimly, a primordial titanic conflict which haunted her dreams for many nights to come. They were no longer men but animals, the tiger giving combat to the gorilla, one striking the quick terrible blows of the tiger, the other, seeking always to come to grips. The floor answered under the step and rush. Rare athletes these two, big men who were light on their feet. Kitty could see their faces occasionally and the flash of their bare hands but of their bodies little or nothing. Nor could she tell how the struggle was going. But until the idea came that they might be trampling Johnny Two-Hawks there was no coherent thought in her head, only broken things. She ran to the soapbox and kicked it aside. She saw hawksly on his face, motionless. At least they should not trample his dead body. She caught hold of his arms and dragged him to the wall to discover that she was sobbing, sobs of rage and despair that tore at her breast horribly and clogged her throat. She was a woman and could not help. She could not help Cutty. She was a woman and all she could do was to drag aside the lifeless body of the man who had given Cutty his chance. She knelt, turning hawksly over on his back. There was a slight gash on one grimy cheek, possibly caused by contact with the latchets of Kar-Law's boots. She raised the handsome head, pressed it to her bosom, and began to sway her body from side to side. Tumult. The federal agents were throwing their bodies against the door repeatedly. In the semi-darkness Cutty fought for his life, but Cutty neither heard nor saw. The world had suddenly contracted. There was only this beautiful head in her arms, beyond and about nothing. Cutty fell to strength having. Soon he would not be able to wrench himself loose from those terrible arms. He knew all the phases of the fighting game. Chivalry and fair play had no part in this contest. Clear light to observe what his blows were accomplishing a minute or two of clear light. Half the time his blows glanced. The next time those arms wound about him, that would be the end. He was growing tired, winded. He had not gone into battle fresh. He knew that many of his blows had gone home. Any ordinary man would have dropped. But Kar-Law came on, again and again. And all the while Kar-Law was not fighting Cutty. He was endeavouring to remove him. He was an obstacle. What Kar-Law wanted was that head the girl was holding in his arms, to grind his heel into it. When Cutty stepped aside, Kar-Law would have rushed for the other man. Kitty, the door, the door, Cutty shouted in despair, taking a terrible kick on the thigh. The door! Kitty did not stir. A panel in the door crushed in. The soul of a boot appeared and vanished. Then an arm reached in, groping, touched the plank propped under the door knob, wrenched and tugged till it fell. Kitty the attic became filled with men. It was time. Kar-Law had Cutty in his arms. This turn in the affair roused Kitty. Presently she saw men in a snarl, heaving and billowing, with a sudden subsidence. The snarl untangled itself. Men began to step back and produce pocket-lamps. They saw Cutty's face battered and bloody, appear and disappear in a flash. She saw Kar-Law's, too, as he was pulled to his feet, his hands manekled. Again she saw Cutty. With shaking hand he was trying to attach the loose end of his collar to the button. The absurdity of it. Take him away, but don't be rough with him. He's only a poor devil of a madman, said Cutty. He turned and, calmly, spat into Cutty's face. A dozen fists were raised but Cutty intervened. No. Let him be. Just take him away and lock him up. He's a rough road to travel. And hustle a comfortable car for me to go home in. Not a word to the newspapers. This isn't a popular raid. As soon as the attic was cleared, Cutty limped over to Molly Conover's daughter. The poor innocent. The way she was holding that head was an illumination. With a reassuring smile, an effort for his lips were puffed and burning. He knelt and put his hand on Hawksley's heart. Done in, Cutty. That's all. He isn't dead? Lord no. He has nine lives this chap and only one of them missing to date. But I had no right to let him come. I thought he was fairly fit, but he wasn't. Saved my life, though. Kiddie, your Johnny Two Hawks is a real man. How real I did not know until to-night. He has earned his American citizenship. Fights like he fiddles. On all four strings. All our troubles are at an end. So buck up. Alive? He is alive? The wild joy in her voice. Yes, ma'am, and we too can regularly thank him for being alive also. That lunge gave me my chance. He's only stunned. Perhaps he'll need a nurse again. Anyhow, he'll be coming around in a minute or two. I'll wait you. The first thing he does is to smile. I should. Suddenly Kiddie grew strangely shy. She became conscious of her anomalous position. She had promised to marry Cutty. She promised herself that she would be his true wife, and here she was holding another man's head to her heart as if it were the most precious head in all the world. She could not put that head up on the floor at once. That would be a confession of her embarrassment, and yet she could not continue to hold Hawksley while Cutty eyed her with semi-humorous concern. Cutty was merciful, however. Let me hold him while you make a pillow out of your coat. After he had laid Hawksley's head on the coat, he said, he'll come about quicker this way. We've had some excitement, haven't we? I don't want any more, Cutty. Never any more. I've been a silly, romantic fool. Not silly. Only glorious. Your poor face. Banged up? Well, honestly, it feels as it looks, Kiddie. This chap was going to give himself up in exchange for you. Not a word of protest, not a question. All he said was, I am ready. And that's why I'm always going to be on his side. He did that for me? For you. Did it never occur to you that you're the sort folks always want to do things for if you'll let him? God bless you, Cutty. He's always blessing me, Kiddie. He blessed me with your mother's friendship. Now yours. Kiddie, I'm going to jilt you. Jilt me? Her heart leaping. Yes, ma'am. We can't go through with that mummary. We aren't built that way. I'll figure it out in some other fashion, but marriage is a sacred contract, and this farce would have left a scar on your honest mind. You'd have to tell some man. Your kind can't go through life without being loved. Would he understand? I wonder. He'll be human, or you wouldn't fall in love with him. And always he'll be pondering and be dabbling himself with queer ideas. Because he'll be human. Of course there's a loophole. You consume me for breach of promise. Please, Cutty, don't laugh. You're one of those men they call great hearts. Now I'm going to tell you something. It wasn't going to be a farce. I intended to become your true wife, Cutty. Make you as happy as I could. Cutty patted her hand and got up. Lord, how bruised and sore his old body was. His true wife. She might have been his if he had not missed that train. But for this hour, hot with life, she might never have discovered that she loved Hawksley. His true wife. Ah, she would have been all of that. Molly's girl. Would you mind waiting here until I see where old Stefani Gregor is? No. Answered Kitty dreamily. Cutty limped to the door. Outside he leaned against the partition. Done in. Body and soul. Always opening the gates of paradise for someone else. His true wife. Suddenly he descended the stairs. Alone Kitty smoothed back the dank hair from Hawksley's brow, which she kissed.