The Black Bag by Louis Joseph Vance (snow like ashes txt) 📕

>know,” the girl reproved him.

 

“I know; but there must be no misunderstanding…. Don’t worry; we’ll win

out yet, I’ve a plan.”

 

Splendide mendax! He had not the glimmering of a plan.

 

The engine panting, the train drew in beneath the vast sounding dome of the

station, to an accompaniment of dull thunderings; and stopped finally.

 

Kirkwood got out, not without a qualm of regret at leaving the compartment;

therein, at least, they had some title to consideration, by virtue of their

tickets; now they were utterly vagabondish, penniless adventurers.

 

The girl joined him. Slowly, elbow to elbow, the treasure bag between

them, they made their way down toward the gates, atoms in a tide-rip

of humanity,—two streams of passengers meeting on the narrow strip of

platform, the one making for the streets, the other for the suburbs.

 

Hurried and jostled, the girl clinging tightly to his arm lest they be

separated in the crush, they came to the ticket-wicket; beyond the barrier

surged a sea of hats—shining “toppers,” dignified and upstanding, the

outward and visible manifestation of the sturdy, stodgy British spirit of

respectability; “bowlers” round and sleek and humble; shapeless caps with

cloth visors, manufactured of outrageous plaids; flower-like miracles of

millinery from Bond Street; strangely plumed monstrosities from Petticoat

Lane and Mile End Road. Beneath any one of these might lurk the maleficent

brain, the spying eyes of Calendar or one of his creatures; beneath all of

them that he encountered, Kirkwood peered in fearful inquiry.

 

Yet, when they had passed unhindered the ordeal of the wickets, had run

the gantlet of those thousand eyes without lighting in any pair a spark of

recognition, he began to bear himself with more assurance, to be sensible

to a grateful glow of hope. Perhaps Hobbs’ telegram had not reached its

destination, for unquestionably the mate would have wired his chief;

perhaps some accident had befallen the conspirators; perhaps the police had

apprehended them…. No matter how, one hoped against hope that they had

been thrown off the trail.

 

And indeed it seemed as if they must have been misguided in some

providential manner. On the other hand, it would be the crassest of

indiscretions to linger about the place an instant longer than absolutely

necessary.

 

Outside the building, however, they paused perforce, undergoing the

cross-fire of the congregated cabbies. It being the first time that he

had ever felt called upon to leave the station afoot, Kirkwood cast about

irresolutely, seeking the sidewalk leading to the Strand.

 

Abruptly he caught the girl by the arm and unceremoniously hurried her

toward a waiting hansom.

 

“Quick!” he begged her. “Jump right in—not an instant to spare.—”

 

She nodded brightly, lips firm with courage, eyes shining.

 

“My father?”

 

“Yes.” Kirkwood glanced back over his shoulder. “He hasn’t seen us yet.

They’ve just driven up. Stryker’s with him. They’re getting down.” And to

himself, “Oh, the devil!” cried the panic-stricken young man.

 

He drew back to let the girl precede him into the cab; at the same time

he kept an eye on Calendar, whose conveyance stood half the length of the

station-front away.

 

The fat adventurer had finished paying off the driver, standing on the deck

of the hansom. Stryker was already out, towering above the mass of people,

and glaring about him with his hawk-keen vision. Calendar had started to

alight, his foot was leaving the step when Stryker’s glance singled out

their quarry. Instantly he turned and spoke to his confederate. Calendar

wheeled like a flash, peering eagerly in the direction indicated by the

captain’s index finger, then, snapping instructions to his driver, threw

himself heavily back on the seat. Stryker, awkward on his land-legs,

stumbled and fell in an ill-calculated attempt to hoist himself hastily

back into the vehicle.

 

To the delay thus occasioned alone Kirkwood and Dorothy owed a respite of

freedom. Their hansom was already swinging down toward the great gates of

the yard, the American standing to make the driver comprehend the necessity

for using the utmost speed in reaching the Craven Street address. The man

proved both intelligent and obliging; Kirkwood had barely time to drop down

beside the girl, ere the cab was swinging out into the Strand, to the peril

of the toes belonging to a number of righteously indignant pedestrians.

 

“Good boy!” commented Kirkwood cheerfully. “That’s the greatest comfort of

all London, the surprising intellectual strength the average cabby displays

when you promise him a tip…. Great Heavens!” he cried, reading the girl’s

dismayed expression. “A tip! I never thought—!” His face lengthened

dismally, his eyebrows working awry. “Now we are in for it!”

 

Dorothy said nothing.

 

He turned in the seat, twisting his neck to peep through the small rear

window. “I don’t see their cab,” he announced. “But of course they’re after

us. However, Craven Street’s just round the corner; if we get there

first, I don’t fancy Freddie Hallam will have a cordial reception for our

pursuers. They must’ve been on watch at Cannon Street, and finding we were

not coming in that way—of course they were expecting us because of Hobbs’

wire—they took cab for Charing Cross. Lucky for us…. Or is it lucky?” he

added doubtfully, to himself.

 

The hansom whipped round the corner into Craven Street. Kirkwood sprang up,

grasping the treasure bag, ready to jump the instant they pulled in toward

Mrs. Hallam’s dwelling. But as they drew near upon the address he drew back

with an exclamation of amazement.

 

The house was closed, showing a blank face to the street—blinds drawn

close down in the windows, area gate padlocked, an estate-agent’s board

projecting from above the doorway, advertising the property “To be let,

furnished.”

 

Kirkwood looked back, craning his neck round the side of the cab. At the

moment another hansom was breaking through the rank of humanity on the

Strand crossing. He saw one or two figures leap desperately from beneath

the horse’s hoofs. Then the cab shot out swiftly down the street.

 

The American stood up again, catching the cabby’s eye.

 

“Drive on!” he cried excitedly. “Don’t stop—drive as fast as you dare!”

 

“W’ere to, sir?”

 

“See that cab behind? Don’t let it catch us—shake it off, lose it somehow,

but for the love of Heaven don’t let it catch us! I’ll make it worth your

while. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, sir!” The driver looked briefly over his shoulder and lifted his

whip. “Don’t worry, sir,” he cried, entering into the spirit of the game

with gratifying zest. “Shan’t let ‘em over’aul you, sir. Mind your ‘ead!”

 

And as Kirkwood ducked, the whiplash shot out over the roof with a crack

like the report of a pistol. Startled, the horse leaped indignantly

forward. Momentarily the cab seemed to leave the ground, then settled

down to a pace that carried them round the Avenue Theatre and across

Northumberland Avenue into Whitehall Place apparently on a single wheel.

 

A glance behind showed Kirkwood that already they had gained, the pursuing

hansom having lost ground through greater caution in crossing the

main-traveled thoroughfare.

 

“Good little horse!” he applauded.

 

A moment later he was indorsing without reserve the generalship of their

cabby; the quick westward turn that took them into Whitehall, over across

from the Horse Guards, likewise placed them in a pocket of traffic; a

practically impregnable press of vehicles closed in behind them ere

Calendar’s conveyance could follow out of the side street.

 

That the same conditions, but slightly modified, hemmed them in ahead, went

for nothing in Kirkwood’s estimation.

 

“Good driver!” he approved heartily. “He’s got a head on his shoulders!”

 

The girl found her voice. “How,” she demanded in a breath, face blank with

consternation, “how did you dare?”

 

“Dare?” he echoed exultantly; and in his veins excitement was running like

liquid fire. “What wouldn’t I dare for you, Dorothy?”

 

“What have you not?” she amended softly, adding with a shade of timidity:

“Philip…”

 

The long lashes swept up from her cheeks, like clouds revealing stars,

unmasking eyes radiant and brave to meet his own; then they fell, even as

her lips drooped with disappointment. And she sighed…. For he was not

looking. Man-like, hot with the ardor of the chase, he was deaf and blind

to all else.

 

She saw that he had not even heard. Twice within the day she had forgotten

herself, had overstepped the rigid bounds of her breeding in using his

Christian name. And twice he had been oblivious to that token of their

maturing understanding. So she sighed, and sighing, smiled again; resting

an elbow on the window-sill and flattening one small gloved hand against

the frame for a brace against the jouncing of the hansom. It swept on with

unabated speed, up-stream beside the tawny reaches of the river; and for

a time there was no speech between them, the while the girl lost

consciousness of self and her most imminent peril, surrendering her being

to the lingering sweetness of her long, dear thoughts….

 

“I’ve got a scheme!” Kirkwood declared so explosively that she caught her

breath with the surprise of it. “There’s the Pless; they know me there, and

my credit’s good. When we shake them off, we can have the cabby take us to

the hotel. I’ll register and borrow from the management enough to pay our

way to Chiltern and the tolls for a cable to New York. I’ve a friend or two

over home who wouldn’t let me want for a few miserable pounds…. So you

see,” he explained boyishly, “we’re at the end of our troubles already!”

 

She said something inaudible, holding her face averted. He bent nearer to

her, wondering. “I didn’t understand,” he suggested.

 

Still looking from him, “I said you were very good to me,” she said in a

quavering whisper.

 

“Dorothy!” Without his knowledge or intention before the fact, as

instinctively as he made use of her given name, intimately, his strong

fingers dropped and closed upon the little hand that lay beside him. “What

is the matter, dear?” He leaned still farther forward to peer into her

face, till glance met glance in the ending and his racing pulses tightened

with sheer delight of the humid happiness in her glistening eyes. “Dorothy,

child, don’t worry so. No harm shall come to you. It’s all working out—all

working out right. Only have a little faith in me, and I’ll make

everything work out right, Dorothy.”

 

Gently she freed her fingers. “I wasn’t,” she told him in a voice that

quivered between laughter and tears, “I wasn’t worrying. I was … You

wouldn’t understand. Don’t be afraid I shall break down or—or anything.”

 

“I shan’t,” he reassured her; “I know you’re not that sort. Besides,

you’d have no excuse. We’re moving along famously. That cabby knows his

business.”

 

In fact that gentleman was minute by minute demonstrating his peculiar

fitness for the task he had so cheerfully undertaken. The superior

horsemanship of the London hackney cabman needs no exploitation, and he

in whose hands rested the fate of the Calendar treasure was peer of his

compeers. He was instant to advantage himself of every opening to forward

his pliant craft, quick to foresee the fortunes of the way and govern

himself accordingly.

 

Estimating with practised eye the precise moment when the police supervisor

of traffic at the junction of Parliament and Bridge Streets, would see

fit to declare a temporary blockade, he so managed that his was the last

vehicle to pass ere the official wand, to ignore which involves a forfeited

license, was lifted; and indeed, so close was his calculation that he

escaped only with a scowl and word of warning from the bobby.