CHAPTER XIV DREW LANE STEPS INTO SOMETHING
That same night Drew Lane "stepped into something," something that wasquite unexpected and--well, you'll see.
During the day he had conducted his raids on the city's two "kidnapingcenters." They had turned out as he had prophesied they might--quite tameaffairs. Most of the gentlemen, expecting a call, had stepped out. Theraids yielded three guns, sixteen pocket knives and no information ofimportance regarding the mysterious disappearance of the Red Rover.Indeed the protestations of innocence, the ready offer of assistancewhich he received on every hand led him to believe that this was a jobpulled off by some one quite outside the well-ordered circle of kidnapinggentlemen.
"Honest, Lane, we don't know a thing!" one smooth-spoken gentlemanassured him. "We don't want the Red Rover snatched. Why should we? Ourmoney is up on him, a lot of it. We want him to come through with atouchdown, a whole flock of 'em. Tell you what--" His voice dropped to awhisper. "Your pay isn't too big. Know where you can pick up a piece ofchange? I do. You just step out and bring the Red Rover back. The boyshere will make up a purse for you. Just you say: 'The Red Rover plays,'and you'll hear the clink of gold."
"Do men gamble on football?" Drew had opened his eyes wide.
"Do they? Why, say! They--"
But something--a wink, a thrust in the side, a dark look,something--silenced the talkative one. He said no more. He had saidenough, however, to put Drew in a thoughtful mood.
His collecting of pocket knives was received on the whole as a huge joke.It was suggested that he go out on a sand lot and take up a jack-knifecollection from the boys playing ball.
Drew felt a bit silly about it himself and, since he had no notion whatpurpose it was intended to serve, he was tempted to chuck it. In the endhe carried it through. So sixteen pocket knives all duly labeled reposedin the drawer of his desk.
All of which has nothing whatever to do with the thing he "stepped into"after darkness had fallen.
He had gone into a place for a belated dinner. This place, he knew, had abad reputation. That was why he wished to eat there. A born detective,Drew was always looking for things, and sometimes he found them.
Having ordered baked flank steak, French fried potatoes, pie, and blackcoffee, he sat back in his chair to stare dreamily about him. He wastruly hungry. "Flank steak all filled with dressing! Um!" he whispered.Little did he dream that the meal would never be eaten.
Just before him eight men were grouped around a double table. Their mealover, they sat drinking amber liquid from tall glasses.
"Might be soda water," Drew mused. The men were far more interesting thantheir drink. They were a strange lot. Three of them, dark complexionedgentlemen with short black moustaches, looked exactly alike. They weredressed alike and often all spoke at the same time. They laughed togetherin a sort of symphonic chorus. To the right of these was a large man witha huge red nose who roared when he laughed. A smaller and younger man,who might well have been his son, sat beside him. Across from these weretwo others who did not fall under Drew's gaze.
The man at the end caught and held Drew's attention. A small man, he saidnever a word, but all the time sat poised as if for a spring.
"Looks like a jack-in-the-box," Drew told himself.
This little man's eyes were roving from one to another of his companions.Once, these eyes, swinging in a wide circle, took Drew in. Coldsteel-gray eyes that glittered, they sent a chill coursing down hisspine. He felt in his pocket. Yes, the safety on his automatic wassnapped off.
It was then that Drew's keen mind registered an important fact. Thislittle man with the fiery eyes was branded, or so it seemed; there was adouble scar on the right side of his forehead. Together these scars, onered, the other purple, formed a Maltese Cross.
"Know him anywhere," Drew told himself. "And yet, those scars might befaked, little touches of colored wax. It's been done."
Drew was expecting something to happen. The room was like a country placebefore a thunderstorm. One expects the roar of it long before the firstpeal comes rolling in.
When the thing did happen Drew was ready. It was nothing much at that,you might say. The little man half rose in his chair. As he did sosomething heavy slipped from his pocket and fell to the floor with acrash. It was a blue-barreled automatic.
Without so much as glancing about, the little man reached down to pick itup.
A look of pained surprise overspread his face as he realized the gun wasnot on the floor.
Then, as if a thought had struck him all of a heap, he whirled about tofix his fiery eyes on Drew Lane and to remark in a tone as smooth andhard as glass:
"You got that."
"Sure did." Sliding back his chair, Drew stood up, thrust both hands deepin his pockets, then with a trick he had learned by long practice, threwout the lapel of his coat to display his star pinned underneath.
He said never another word--just stood there smiling a little. What morewas to be said? The man had carried concealed weapons. This he had noright to do. As an officer Drew was doing his duty.
The little man's face went red all over, like an angry sunset. His eyesswept the circle of his companions and, as if attached to strings held inhis hand, they arose--the three all alike, the big man, his son and theother two.
Drew Lane was young. But he was no novice. He knew what it meant. He wasprepared.
"Gentlemen," he spoke in an even tone, "you can take me. You are eight toone. But I'll get two of you first." His eyes fell a trifle.
There was not a man in the group but read his meaning. In his pocketswere two automatics. Time and again he had won the police prize forstraight shooting from the hips. One false move and a member of thelittle man's gang would get a bullet in his heart or his brain. Drew wasgood for exactly two of them.
It was a tense moment. Perhaps the glittering eyes of that little man hadnever wavered. Perhaps they would not have wavered now. Who could say? Noone. For at that instant the lights went out, and on the instant, savefor the feeble light of one small window, the place was dark.
A deep silence fell upon the room. Without realizing it, Drew begancounting under his breath: "One, two, three, four, five, six." Perhaps hewas counting the seconds before things began to happen. Keeping a tightgrip with either hand on the things of blue steel in his pockets, hewaited, silent, breathless.
He had just become conscious of a clock that ticked loudly in a corner,when a low gasp caught his attention.
Without knowing why, he fixed his eyes upon the one small window. Othereyes were fixed upon that narrow window. How many pairs of eyes? Whocould say? It was dark.
Something was moving by the window. Not a person--no, surely not that! Askull perhaps, an ugly skull with hollow eye sockets from which a palelight gleamed. A sigh passed over the room like the low moan of the seaat night.
And then something stranger happened. The skull disappeared and a ghostwith bones bleached white and a long, flowing sheet went racing awayacross an empty space beside the building. Again the long sigh sweptacross the room.
And then the lights went on. These lights disclosed eight gentlemenstanding just as they had stood before, staring rather stupidly at oneanother--the three alike, the big man and his son, the little one withglittering eyes and the other two. Drew Lane had vanished.
For a full minute by the clock on the wall they stood there staring atone another. Then the big man said in a loud voice:
"The Galloping Ghost!" After which he let forth a roar of laughter thatsuggested a crazy baboon roaring in the night.
Ten minutes later the place was raided by the police. There was no onethere.
One fact about this affair seems important. Drew Lane retained possessionof the automatic that had fallen on the floor. This automatic was the keyto a situation. What situation? This, for a while, was to remain amystery.