The Max Brand Megapack (201 page)

And, as Ronicky turned onto the next flight of the stairway, he was overtaken by hurrying feet. The other two had already scurried down toward the front door of the house.

“I got some stuff in my room, Pete,” said the friendly fellow who had overtaken him. “Come up and have a jolt, and we can have a talk. ‘Lefty’ and Monahan think you went flop on the job, but I know better, eh? The old man always picks you for these singles; he never gives me a shot at ’em.” Then he added: “Here we are!” And, opening a door in the first hall, he stepped to the center of the room and fumbled at a chain that broke loose and tinkled against glass; eventually he snapped on an electric light. Ronicky Doone saw a powerfully built, bull-necked man, with a soft hat pulled far down on his head. Then the man turned.

It was much against the grain for Ronicky Doone to attack a man by surprise, but necessity is a stern ruler. And the necessity which made him strike made him hit with the speed of a snapping whiplash and the weight of a sledge hammer. Before the other was fully turned that iron-hard set of knuckles crashed against the base of his jaw.

He fell without a murmur, without a struggle, Ronicky catching him in his arms to break the weight of the fall. It was a complete knock-out. The dull eyes, which looked up from the floor, saw nothing. The square, rather brutal, face was relaxed as if in sleep, but here was the type of man who would recuperate with great speed.

Ronicky set about the obvious task which lay before him, as fast as he could. In the man’s coat pocket he found a handkerchief which, hard knotted, would serve as a gag. The window curtain was drawn with a stout, thick cord. Ronicky slashed off a convenient length of it and secured the hands and feet of his victim, before he turned the fellow on his face.

Next he went through the pockets of the unconscious man who was only now beginning to stir slightly, as life returned after that stunning blow.

It was beginning to come to Ronicky that there was a strange relation between the men of this house. Here were three who apparently started out to work at night, and yet they were certainly not at all the type of night clerks or night-shift engineers or mechanics. He turned over the hand of the man he had struck down. The palm was as soft as his own.

No, certainly not a laborer. But they were all employed by “the old man.” Who was he? And was there some relation between all of these and the man who sneered?

At least Ronicky determined to learn all that could be read in the pockets of his victim. There was only one thing. That was a stub-nosed, heavy automatic.

It was enough to make Ronicky Doone sigh with relief. At least he had not struck some peaceful, law-abiding fellow. Any man might carry a gun—Ronicky himself would have been uncomfortable without some sort of weapon about him but there are guns and guns. This big, ugly automatic seemed specially designed to kill swiftly and surely.

He was considering these deductions when a tap came on the door. Ronicky groaned. Had they come already to find out what kept the senseless victim so long?

“Morgan, oh, Harry Morgan!” called a girl’s voice.

Ronicky Doone started. Perhaps—who could tell—this might be Caroline Smith herself, come to tap at the door when he was on the very verge of abandoning the adventure. Suppose it were someone else?

If he ventured out expecting to find Gregg’s lady and found instead quite another person—well, women screamed at the slightest provocation, and, if a woman screamed in this house, it seemed exceedingly likely that she would rouse a number of men carrying just such short-nosed, ugly automatics as that which he had just taken from the pocket of Harry Morgan.

In the meantime he must answer something. He could not pretend that the room was empty, for the light must be showing around the door.

“Harry!” called the voice of the girl again. “Do you hear me? Come out! The chief wants you!” And she rattled the door.

Fear that she might open it and, stepping in, see the senseless figure on the floor, alarmed Ronicky. He came close to the door.

“Well?” he demanded, keeping his voice deep, like the voice of Harry Morgan, as well as he could remember it.

“Hurry! The chief, I tell you!”

He snapped out the light and turned resolutely to the door. He felt his faithful Colt, and the feel of the butt was like the touch of a friendly hand before he opened the door.

She was dressed in white and made a glimmering figure in the darkness of the hall, and her hair glimmered, also, almost as if it possessed a light and a life of its own. Ronicky Doone saw that she was a very pretty girl, indeed. Yes, it must be Caroline Smith. The very perfume of young girlhood breathed from her, and very sharply and suddenly he wondered why he should be here to fight the battle of Bill Gregg in this matter—Bill Gregg who slept peacefully and stupidly in the room across the street!

She had turned away, giving him only a side glance, as he came out. “I don’t know what’s on, something big. The chief’s going to give you your big chance—with me.”

Ronicky Doone grunted.

“Don’t do that,” exclaimed the girl impatiently. “I know you think Pete is the top of the world, but that doesn’t mean that you can make a good imitation of him. Don’t do it, Harry. You’ll pass by yourself. You don’t need a make-up, and not Pete’s on a bet.”

They reached the head of the stairs, and Ronicky Doone paused. To go down was to face the mysterious chief whom he had no doubt was the old man to whom Harry Morgan had already referred. In the meantime the conviction grew that this was indeed Caroline Smith. Her free-and-easy way of talk was exactly that of a girl who might become interested in a man whom she had never seen, merely by letters.

“I want to talk to you,” said Ronicky, muffling his voice. “I want to talk to you alone.”

“To me?” asked the girl, turning toward him. The light from the hall lamp below gave Ronicky the faintest hint of her profile.

“Yes.”

“But the chief?”

“He can wait.”

She hesitated, apparently drawn by curiosity in one direction, but stopped by another thought. “I suppose he can wait, but, if he gets stirred up about it—oh, we’ll, I’ll talk to you—but nothing foolish, Harry. Promise me that?”

“Yes.”

“Slip into my room for a minute.” She led the way a few steps down the hall, and he followed her through the door, working his mind frantically in an effort to find words with which to open his speech before she should see that he was not Harry Morgan and cry out to alarm the house. What should he say? Something about Bill Gregg at once, of course. That was the thing.

The electric light snapped on at the far side of the room. He saw a dressing table, an Empire bed covered with green-figured silk, a pleasant rug on the floor, and, just as he had gathered an impression of delightful femininity from these furnishings, the girl turned from the lamp on the dressing table, and he saw—not Caroline Smith, but a bronze-haired beauty, as different from Bill Gregg’s lady as day is from night.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A Cross-Examination

He was conscious then only of green-blue eyes, very wide, very bright, and lips that parted on a word and froze there in silence. The heart of Ronicky Doone leaped with joy; he had passed the crisis in safety. She had not cried out.

“You’re not—” he had said in the first moment.

“I am not who?” asked the girl with amazing steadiness. But he saw her hand go back to the dressing table and open, with incredible deftness and speed, the little top drawer behind her.

“Don’t do that!” said Ronicky softly, but sharply. “Keep your hand off that table, lady, if you don’t mind.”

She hesitated a fraction of a second. In that moment she seemed to see that he was in earnest, and that it would be foolish to tamper with him.

“Stand away from that table; sit down yonder.”

Again she obeyed without a word. Her eyes, to be sure, flickered here and there about the room, as though they sought some means of sending a warning to her friends, or finding some escape for herself. Then her glance returned to Ronicky Doone.

“Well,” she said, as she settled in the chair. “Well?”

A world of meaning in those two small words—a world of dread controlled. He merely stared at her thoughtfully.

“I hit the wrong trail, lady,” he said quietly. “I was looking for somebody else.”

She started. “You were after—” She stopped.

“That’s right, I guess,” he admitted.

“How many of you are there?” she asked curiously, so curiously that she seemed to be forgetting the danger. “Poor Carry Smith with a mob—” She stopped suddenly again. “What did you do to Harry Morgan?”

“I left him safe and quiet,” said Ronicky Doone.

The girl’s face hardened strangely. “What you are, and what your game is I don’t know,” she said. “But I’ll tell you this: I’m letting you play as if you had all the cards in the deck. But you haven’t. I’ve got one ace that’ll take all your trumps. Suppose I call once what’ll happen to you, pal?”

“You don’t dare call,” he said.

“Don’t dare me,” said the girl angrily. “I hate a dare worse than anything in the world, almost.” For a moment her green-blue eyes were pools of light flashing angrily at him.

Into the hand of Ronicky Doone, with that magic speed and grace for which his fame was growing so great in the mountain desert, came the long, glimmering body of the revolver, and, holding it at the hip, he threatened her.

She shrank back at that, gasping. For there was an utter surety about this man’s handling of the weapon. The heavy gun balanced and steadied in his slim fingers, as if it were no more than a feather’s weight.

“I’m talking straight, lady,” said Ronicky Doone. “Sit down—pronto!”

In the very act of obedience she straightened again. “It’s bluff,” she said. “I’m going through that door!” Straight for the door she went, and Ronicky Doone set his teeth.

“Go back!” he commanded. He glided to the door and blocked her way, but the gun hung futile in his hand.

“It’s easy to pull a gun, eh?” said the girl, with something of a sneer. “But it takes nerve to use it. Let me through this door!”

“Not in a thousand years,” said Ronicky.

She laid her hand on the door and drew it back—it struck his shoulder—and Ronicky gave way with a groan and stood with his head bowed. Inwardly he cursed himself. Doubtless she was used to men who bullied her, as if she were another man of an inferior sort. Doubtless she despised him for his weakness. But, though he gritted his teeth, he could not make himself firm. Those old lessons which sink into a man’s soul in the West came back to him and held him. In the helpless rage which possessed him he wanted battle above all things in the world. If half a dozen men had poured through the doorway he would have rejoiced. But this one girl was enough to make him helpless.

He looked up in amazement. She had not gone; in fact, she had closed the door slowly and stood with her back against it, staring at him in a speechless bewilderment.

“What sort of a man are you?” asked the girl at last.

“A fool,” said Ronicky slowly. “Go out and round up your friends; I can’t stop you.”

“No,” said the girl thoughtfully, “but that was a poor bluff at stopping me.”

He nodded. And she hesitated still, watching his face closely.

“Listen to me,” she said suddenly. “I have two minutes to talk to you, and I’ll give you those two minutes. You can use them in getting out of the house—I’ll show you a way—or you can use them to tell me just why you’ve come.”

In spite of himself Ronicky smiled. “Lady,” he said, “if a rat was in a trap d’you think he’d stop very long between a chance of getting clear and a chance to tell how he come to get into the place?”

“I have a perfectly good reason for asking,” she answered. “Even if you now get out of the house safely you’ll try to come back later on.”

“Lady,” said Ronicky, “do I look as plumb foolish as that?”

“You’re from the West,” she said in answer to his slang.

“Yes.”

She considered the straight-looking honesty of his eyes. “Out West,” she said, “I know you men are different. Not one of the men I know here would take another chance as risky as this, once they were out of it. But out there in the mountains you follow long trails, trails that haven’t anything but a hope to lead you along them? Isn’t that so?”

“Maybe,” admitted Ronicky. “It’s the fever out of the gold days, lady. You start out chipping rocks to find the right color; maybe you never find the right color; maybe you never find a streak of pay stuff, but you keep on trying. You’re always just sort of around the corner from making a big strike.”

She nodded, smiling again, and the smiles changed her pleasantly, it seemed to Ronicky Doone. At first she had impressed him almost as a man, with her cold, steady eyes, but now she was all woman, indeed.

“That’s why I say that you’ll come back. You won’t give up with one failure. Am I right?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno. If the trail fever hits me again—maybe I would come back.”

“You started to tell me. It’s because of Caroline Smith?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to talk to me,” said the girl. “As a matter of fact I shouldn’t be here listening to you. But, I don’t know why, I want to help you. You—you are in love with Caroline?”

“No,” said Ronicky.

Her expression grew grave and cold again. “Then why are you here hunting for her? What do you want with her?”

“Lady,” said Ronicky, “I’m going to show you the whole layout of the cards. Maybe you’ll take what I say right to headquarters—the man that smiles—and block my game.”

“You know him?” she asked sharply.

Apparently that phrase, “the man who smiles,” was enough to identify him.

“I’ve seen him. I dunno what he is, I dunno what you are, lady, but I figure that you and Caroline Smith and everybody else in this house is under the thumb of the gent that smiles.”

Her eyes darkened with a shadow of alarm. “Go on,” she said curtly.

“I’m not going on to guess about what you all are. All I know is what I’m here trying to do. I’m not working for myself. I’m working for a partner.”