  Bill bent swiftly, caught up some of the dirty linen and flung it into the hamper. He had to pull himself together. That—that was the explanation, of course, for Slim Johnson’s cryptic remarks about the laundry. They were coming back in an hour. Would they take the hamper and all? “Yes,” he decided. “It would mean just that. Not even a gangster beer baron, or whatever role Slim Johnson plays in the criminal life of this state would permit him to carry dead bodies through the public halls of a hotel without causing comment! And possibly another police raid.... No—Hank was going out in the hamper. How many more,” he wondered, “had traveled that route before and would travel it again....” Like a flash the idea came to him. Of course, it would be necessary to remove the body— He went back to the bedroom and threw himself down on the chaise longue. He was tired after his long hop, and felt nauseated from his experience that evening. A glance at his watch showed that it still lacked a few minutes to ten o’clock. He had been in Gring’s Hotel only an hour, and in that short time, murder.... Resolutely he put the thought from him and the thought of what he soon must do. His eyes closed and gradually he dozed off into light slumber. It was a quarter to eleven when Bill awoke. Chimes on a church clock somewhere in the neighborhood were striking the quarter hour. With a cry of annoyance, he sprang to the locked door and listened. No sound came from the sitting room. Hastily extinguishing the bedroom lights, he hurried into the bathroom and switched on a single electric bulb. He began to work with feverish haste, lifting the limp body of Hank from the hamper—rigor mortis had not yet set in. He carried it to the bed, removed the coat and waistcoat, slipped on the jacket of the pajamas, turned down the rose-colored sheet and covered the body—all but the head and one arm, which appeared above the coverlet in a natural position. Bill was trembling like a leaf when that was accomplished. But the worst was over. He had now only to switch off the bathroom light and take the place of Hank in the clothes hamper. He collected the linen he had scattered on the floor, turned off the light and got into the hamper with his armful of shirts and pajamas, arranging himself as comfortably as he could inside. The lid was hinged, and fell back upon him when he had drawn a few pieces of clothing over his head and assumed the position formerly occupied by Hank. He crouched, half-stifled, in the hamper, listening for ages—it seemed. At last—the bolt of the sitting room door clicked. From within his hiding place Bill could hear almost clearly what was happening in the room. There came the faint creak of a boot on the floor boards. “Keep to the rug, you fool!” hissed Johnson’s voice. “Do you want to wake him!” For several minutes there was no other sound. In his mind’s eye he pictured the young gangster tiptoeing to the bed and looking down on the rose-colored pajamas— Suddenly they were beside him. The hamper was dragged away from the wall, lifted and let down on the tiles again. “Holy smoke! what a weight!” a voice whispered hoarsely. “Shut up and come on!” Again the hamper was lifted and carried from the room. Outside in the corridor it was set down for a moment while its bearers locked the door. Then the angle at which Bill was being carried shifted, the basket rocked slowly up and down, as he descended the stairs. There were a great many stairs—they seemed endless. Twice he was set down roughly, while the men paused for breath. He had a desperate impulse to thrust open the lid, tear away the suffocating clothes and strike out for freedom. But the time was not yet. He must be patient. The air became cooler and he was able to breathe more freely. He thought they must be in the open now. The hamper was banged down again. “Slim,” a voice spoke somewhere above and he recognized it as Jake’s, “doesn’t want the bulls to get onto this. You remember last time they dug up Otto and raised an awful stink!” “Well, what about this stiff?” “Oh, Hank’s in luck. He gets a Christian burial. There’s one of them private family cemeteries up Sulvermine way. Hank goes in there. The tools are in the car.” “It’s just too bad Slim can’t do his own diggin’,” growled Number Two. “Not him—he’s got a heavy date. There he is now, watchin’ from the lobby. When we’re out of sight, he’ll beat it. He ain’t even takin’ a bodyguard tonight.” “What is it—a skirt?” “How should I know? But if we don’t get goin’ he will start raisin’ the roof. Git hold of this thing again—she’ll go on the back.” Again Bill was lifted. The basket swung violently, then landed with a jar that shook his bones. He sensed that rope was being passed around the hamper to secure it to the back of the car. There came the crisp slam of a door, a continuous vibration, and a violent jerk. They were off at last. The car was moving. Bill waited until he felt the automobile swerve around the corner. Then he thrust upward with all his might. The flimsy wicker catch snapped, the lid flew back, and amid a cascade of soiled laundry, he crawled out and dropped to the roadway. An instant later, he was strolling back toward the hotel. His late conveyance had already disappeared around the corner. Swinging into the street upon which Gring’s Hotel fronted, halfway down the block, he saw Slim Johnson run down the steps and enter a taxicab. The car was headed away from him and started off directly. Bill at once sprinted after it, hoping that the Boston Post Road traffic would hold it up at the end of the block. His hope was fulfilled. The cab slowed down, stopped and waited for the green light. Bill had just time to grasp the spare tire on the rear and take a precarious seat on the inner rim when it started up again. Across the Post Road and under the raised tracks of the New York, New Haven and Hartford it went, then into that network of mean streets between the railroad and the shore like a frightened cat up a back alley. Near the harbor the car slowed down and drew up before an open lot. Bill dropped off and hid behind a pile of rubbish. Slim Johnson got out, paid off the driver and started away at a smart pace toward the docks. With his weather eye open, Bill followed him, running swiftly across the patches of light from the street lamps and seeking the shadow. The gangster followed the harbor toward the sea front, wending his way among the wharves. At length, by the side of a pier, he stopped, and gave a shrill whistle. Bill stepped behind a small wooden hut and took a survey. Lying out among other vessels was the white prow of a large yacht. He could just discern its lines in the dim moonlight. There was a lantern at the bows, and a glimmer at one or two of the portholes. Soon he heard the creak and dip of oars, and could see the silver sparkle of flashing water. A small boat drew into the pier. Slim made his way carefully down the steps, disappearing from Bill’s view. There was the rasp of an oar on stonework as the boat was pushed off. Bill could distinguish the man’s lisping tones as he talked. Then the boat melted into the darkness, in the general direction of the yacht. For a few minutes Bill gazed across the water at its outlines. Suddenly there was a bright flood of light upon the deck. A door flung open, a tall figure blocked it, and the light narrowed to a slit and winked out as the door closed again. While Bill stood watching from the pier, he would have given anything to know who the others were on board that vessel. Still hot with anger and horror at being forced to witness the dastardly crime, and sickened with the part he had had to play later, Bill was not in the mood to forego an opportunity of evening things up. It came to his mind that even to approach the yacht in a small boat, keeping his eyes and ears open, might be of some help in learning who was aboard her, or perhaps yield him a clue to the truth about Slim Johnson’s business. But a small boat was not easy to procure at that time of night, and in any case he did not want any inquisitive soul to know what he was doing. As he walked slowly along the wharf his foot struck a rope, and looking down, he saw it held a small dinghy that lay in the water at the edge of the dock. It probably belonged to a yachtsman who had come ashore. A find, if ever he needed one. No time now to have any compunctions about its owner. Bill looked across at the yacht, with its portholes showing dim glints of light, and in a trice he was on his knees. He slipped the knot of the rope and hurried down the wet steps. The white yacht was farther out than he had thought, and when he reached it, he was astonished at its size and magnificence. A shaft of light burst from the door where he had seen the gangster enter. Johnson appeared on deck, and Bill was actually so near that he could see the pleased expression on his smiling face. The dinghy drifted under the yacht’s bows, and he was shut out from view, but he could hear Slim’s feet passing along the deck and clattering down the companionway. Then there was the sharp slam of a door. Softly Bill sculled along at the side of the yacht. Over the portholes curtains were drawn, so he could see nothing of what was going on inside. The moon was hidden behind clouds, and it was now so dark that he nearly ran into a tiny wooden landing stage. As he paused with the dinghy close under the narrow steps, he could hear the clink of dishes, as if a late meal was being prepared; and a skylight nearby threw the sound of excited conversation out on to the deck. Each moment Bill kept reminding himself that he ought to be getting back. What if the owner of the dinghy were to appear and send angry halloos across the water? Still, having got so far, to retire without finding out what Johnson was up to seemed stupid. He made up his mind he would take a quick survey of the deck before moving off. He slung the rope around the bottom rung of the ladder, and cautiously felt his way upward. The deck was empty so far as he could make out. If a hand was supposed to be on watch, Bill could not hear or see any signs of him. The large skylight came into view on deck, and the shimmer of its thick glass indicated that the saloon below was lighted up. Bill crouched at the rail, listening. The snatches of animated talk he had heard from the water must have come from this saloon, for he could see that one of the skylight windows was raised a couple of inches. Now he could distinguish through the opening the clear tones of two voices in particular. With the utmost caution, Bill crawled a couple of yards forward and looked down into the saloon. There was a white damask-covered table, with shaded lights, at which sat two men, busy with supper and conversation. He recognized the men at once. Slim Johnson’s languid gestures emphasized his words, as he directed them, between sips of coffee, to no less a person than Zenas Sanders himself. With a gasp, Bill realized that Sanders had come by plane, and that this yacht must be the leader’s present headquarters. To go back now was out of the question. He might be on the brink of a vital discovery. He glanced up and down the deck. Still it was deserted. Pulling himself close to the skylight, he lay listening, with every muscle taut. Slim Johnson was speaking, and at first Bill could not pick up the trend of his remarks. But when Sanders replied, he realized their talk had been bearing on himself and the interview at Gring’s Hotel. “You’re right, Slim,” said Sanders. “Young Bolton has practically broken with Evans. All he cares about now is getting the kid back. He said so over the phone.” “Well, that darned Indian is sure to find your hideaway, Sanders. He’s got plenty of guts and so has that Parker fellow by all reports. Between them, they’ll get the boy before this yacht has a chance to reach Twin Heads Harbor.” Sanders laughed and shook his head in a nervous negative. “Oh, no, they won’t,” he chuckled. “The boy isn’t up there. I brought him with me. At present he’s sound asleep in a cabin not twenty feet from where we’re sitting!” “Well, that’s a good one!” Slim laughed. “What’s the orders now?” “We sail in two hours. I want you to come along. Go back to the hotel now and use your gentle persuasion on Bill Bolton to find out where Evans is. We’ll hold them on board until the divers have brought the stuff up from the bottom of the harbor up there. Then we can either make all three of them pay heavy ransoms, or if they’re obdurate, tie them up and drop them overboard.” “But supposing torture won’t make Bolton tell?” argued Slim. “What shall I do with him then? You aren’t giving me much time to persuade him, you know.” “Oh, use your air gun if you like. It’s all the same to me!” “And let Old Evans go?” “That’s right. He’s tired of trying to watch us up there. And that old diver of his—Jim something-or-other, hasn’t located the stuff yet. Evans thinks that he has a better bet in watching you. So mind your step when you come back tonight. The longer Mr. Evans stops in Stamford the better pleased I’ll be.” “Okay. It’s a swell break, and the luckiest thing about it is that he can’t bring in the bulls. He and his bank would pay a pretty fine if the government found out that he was taking that gold to Europe in his yacht when von Hiemskirk captured it. Nice of the noble baron to sink it in Twin Heads Harbor, and then go to Atlanta for thirty or forty years!” “We may be able to blackmail Evans later, after he’s paid his ransom, and we’ve got away with the gold.—Listen!” Sanders dropped his voice and began to whisper across the table. Bill pressed closer to the skylight, and at the same time a door clicked somewhere along the deck. In a second he was crouching on hands and knees, peering into the darkness. The figure of a man swung up the companionway and paused to light a cigarette. Bill could see his thin, swarthy face, lined and scarred, as the tiny flame leaped within his cupped palms. The match spun overboard in a luminous curve, and hissed into the water. Then the man began to walk slowly along the deck toward Bill. |
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