Drury Lane’s Last Case (19 page)

“Doesn't it, though,” exclaimed Miss Brodie with a trace of animation. “I know I had a linen suit last year, and I spent more in having it
cleaned
…” She stopped abruptly. “What shall I tell the Inspector, Miss Thumm?”

Patience adjusted her preposterously small linen turban with its blue polka-dot band on her honeyed curls, fingered her polka-dot tie expertly, and murmured: “I've left a note for him on his desk,
and
the telegram. You're staying, of course?”

“Oh, yes. The Inspector would be furious——”

“It's very important,” sighed Patience, “this business of holding the fort, Brodie. I'll pick up my packages to-morrow. Be a good girl!”

Satisfied with her complete inspection, she smiled at Miss Brodie, who waved a limply mournful hand, clutched her linen bag tightly, and left the office.

At the kerb downstairs a small blue roadster stood waiting. Patience scanned the sky anxiously; but it was bluer than her eyes. She decided not to put up the top. Jumping in, she tucked her bag securely between the leather seat and the back beside her, turned on the ignition, released her brake, threw the car into first gear, and rolled slowly off toward Broadway. She went into neutral at once; there was a red light at the corner; the car coasted softly along.

And then a strange thing happened. Patience, wrapped in darkly feminine thoughts, for once was unobservant. It was a little thing in itself, scarcely calculated to arouse apprehension; but it was significant and grew more dangerous with every passing moment.

A large closed black car, a Cadillac, parked on the opposite side of the street, hummed into life the instant Patience stepped into her blue roadster. It slipped almost noiselessly into gear as Patience rolled off, and it followed her like a grim black shadow. It was precisely behind her in the clutter of the traffic waiting at the red light; it nosed after her as the light turned green; it swung right into Broadway as she swung right into Broadway, followed her on a right turn, up to Sixth Avenue, up to Fifth Avenue, into Fifth Avenue … never once faltering in its easy pursuit of the roadster.

It acted like a live thing when Patience suddenly pulled in at the kerb near Sixty-Fifth Street. It hesitated, shot ahead, slowed down, and finally cruised very slowly indeed up to Sixty-Sixth while young Gordon Rowe, flushed with pleasure, gaily dropped into the seat beside Patience. It idled along until the roadster passed; and then again took up the trail.

Patience was unaccountably in a gala mood. Her colour was lovely, the turban set off the pertness of her features, the roadster obeyed beautifully, the sun was warm and there was a cool little breeze blowing; and moreover the occupant of the adjoining seat was young and male and particularly exciting. She permitted Rowe to see the envelope in her bag, told him about Lane's telegram, and then chattered on about nothing whatever while the young man, his arm on the edge of the upholstery behind her, sat in silent scrutiny of her face-front piquancy.…

All through crowded Manhattan the Cadillac dogged the heels of the roadster, and all through crowded Manhattan Patience and her escort were unconscious of its presence behind them. Then, as they left the city behind, it slipped a little to the rear; and despite the fast pace at which Patience drove the car, the Cadillac sedan seemed merely to loaf along in her wake.

Then, with the city limits left far behind, young Mr. Rowe's eyes narrowed and he glanced briefly over his shoulder. Patience chattered on.

“Step on it, Pat,” he said casually. “Let's see how much speed you can get out of this tin can.”

“Oh, you want speed, do you?” said Patience with a grim smile. “Remember, you pay the fine, young man!” and she pressed hard on the accelerator. The roadster leaped ahead.

Rowe looked back. The Cadillac, without effort maintained precisely the same distance as before.

Patience drove in oblivious silence for some time, lips tight, intent on giving Mr. Rowe his fill of speed. But Mr. Rowe was not appreciably alarmed; his chin was set a trifle, and his hazel eyes were screwed into slits, but that was all.

Suddenly he said: “I see a side road there, Pat. Dash into it.”

“What? What's that?”

“Into that road, I tell you!”

She was offended, and glanced angrily at his face. It was half-turned away. Slowly she glanced into her mirror.

“Oh,” she said, and the blood drained from her face.

“We're being followed,” said Mr. Rowe quietly, and there was no levity in his voice. “Into that road, Pat. Let's see if we can't shake the beggar off.”

“All right, Gordon,” said Patience in a small voice; and with a twist of the wheel hurtled the roadster off the main highway into a narrow road.

The Cadillac shot by, stopped, turned about in a flash, and roared into the road after them.

“I think,” whispered Patience, her lips trembling slightly, “that we've made a mistake. There—there's no outlet, Gordon.”

“Keep driving, Pat. Keep your eyes on the road.”

It was indeed a narrow road apparently with no outlets, and there was no time for her to turn the roadster about and flee in the direction from which they had come. Patience's toe squeezed the accelerator violently, and the little machine sprang forward like a wounded animal. Rowe watched the road behind intently. The Cadillac was creeping forward. And still it made no serious attempt to overtake them; perhaps because the sun was still too high, or the driver of the big sedan feared a premature attack.

Patience's heart throbbed like a drumstick against the tomtom of her breast. In a flood of wild blind feeling she thanked her little gods for the impulse to ask Gordon Rowe to accompany her. His physical presence, the warmth of his big body next to her, steadied her nerves; she gritted her teeth and bent lower over the wheel, eyes wide and steady on the poor road ahead. This was no concrete highway, but a badly chopped and battered macadam; they bounced and rattled in their seats. The Cadillac came on.

The road grew worse, narrowing even more. Ahead loomed a tangle of trees overhanging the road. There was no habitation within hailing distance. Pictures of “lonely woods”—“girl attacked”—“escort murdered”—“horrible crime in Westchester”—her torn body lying by the roadside, Rowe bleeding and dying beside her—flashed through her brain … And then, in a mist, she saw the black car hurtling along by her side, making no effort to pass.…

“Keep going!” shouted Rowe, rising in the seat and crouched against the driving wind of their passage. “Don't let him scare you, Pat!”

A long black-sleeved arm in the dark recesses of the car made unmistakable motions. The Cadillac itself began to lunge perilously close to her rocketing little machine, as if to force her off the road. She realized in a cold dash of reason that her pursuer wanted her to stop.

“Wants to fight, does he?” muttered Rowe. “All right, Pat. Stop and let's see what this bird wants.”

For a moment, as she shot a quick glance up and saw the young man perched by her side, ready to spring, she contemplated with the desperation of panic-born courage driving the roadster deliberately into the Cadillac, to wreck both cars. She had often read of such things, and had never questioned either the impulse or the act. But now that she was confronted by the real situation, she knew with a sudden rush of tears to her eyes that she did not want to die, that there would be a curious sweetness in living.… She cursed herself for a fool and a coward, but despite all she could do the wheel remained steady in her hands.

And so, after a long tremulous moment, her toe relaxed its pressure on the accelerator and sought blindly for the foot-brake, and then the roadster slid to a long slow grudging stop.

“Keep down, Pat,” said Rowe quietly. “Don't you mix into this. I have the feeling he's an ugly customer.”

“Oh, Gordon, don't—don't do anything rash. Please!”

“
Down
!”

The Cadillac had shot past, slued about so that its rakish body barred the road, ground and growled its way to a stop; and then a dark muffled figure—Patience gasped—masked, brandishing a revolver, leaped from the car and ran up to the roadster.

With a formless cry Gordon Rowe sprang out of the little car into the road, directly in the path of the masked man. He lunged toward the revolver.

Patience stared in a blur of weakness. It wasn't
possible
. It's like a—a movie, she thought. There was something unreal about the menace of the shining bluish weapon directed at the young man in the road.

And then she cried out. Smoke and a vicious spat of fire came out of the muzzle and Gordon Rowe dropped on the muddy macadam, toppling like a falling tree. His body jerked a little. Blood stained a few fragments of rubble near his body.

The smoke licked out over the muzzle, like a demon licking its chops. The masked man leaped nimbly on the running-board.

“You—you
murderer
!” screamed Patience, struggling to get out of the car. He—he was dead, she thought. Quite dead in the road. Oh, Gordon! “I'll
kill
you,” she panted, and clawed for the gun.

It came down sharply on her knuckles, and she was flung back against the seat, stunned with pain, for the first time really understanding what was happening. The end of Patience Thumm?

A thick disguised voice came from behind the mask. “Keep still. Sit there. Give me the paper.” The revolver wove and wove before her eyes in a mist.

She looked dazedly at her hand; the knuckles were bleeding. “What paper?” she whispered.

“The paper. The envelope. Hurry.” There was not the least expression in that thick dead voice. Suddenly, for the first time, she grasped it all. The Saxon stationery! The cryptic symbol! This was why Gordon Rowe had died.…

She felt for the bag. The man on the running-board cuffed her aside, pounced on the bag, backed off quickly, the revolver still menacing her. Patience began to climb out of the roadster. Gordon … There was an incredible noise close to her ear; it sounded like the world exploding; a whine.… She sank back, half-unconscious. He had fired at her! … When she opened her eyes again, struggling for mastery of her whirling sense, the Cadillac was moving. An instant later the big car roared in reverse, squealed about, and shot past her like lightning, hell bent in the direction from which they had come.…

Patience managed to crawl out into the road. Rowe was still lying in the rubble, pale and still. She fumbled beneath his coat for his heart. It was beating!

“Oh, Gordon, Gordon!” she sobbed. “I'm so glad. I'm so glad.”

He groaned and opened his eyes, started up, sank back with a wince. “Pat,” he said hollowly. “What happened? Did he——”

“Where are you hurt, Gordon?” cried Patience. “I must get you to a doctor. I'll have to——”

He sat up weakly and together they investigated. His left arm was bloody. Patience pulled his coat off; he winced again. A bullet had passed through the fleshy part of his upper arm.

“Hell,” he said disgustedly. “Fainted like a woman. Here, bind this up, Pat, old girl, and we'll chase that damned murderer.”

“But——”

“Don't need a doctor. Just bind it up. Come
on
.”

Kneeling in the rubble, she tore away part of the tail of his shirt and bound the wound tightly. He refused her assistance in rising; indeed, shoved her roughly in the driver's seat and sprang into the car himself.

Patience turned the car about and made off, a little tremulously, after the Cadillac. A half-mile down the road Rowe commanded her to stop and rather weakly clambered out to pick up something lying in the middle of the road. It was Patience's linen bag, open.

The long manilla envelope with its cryptic symbol written on the stationery of the Saxon Library was gone.

And so was the Cadillac.

An hour later, sobbing against Mr. Drury Lane's aged and concerned breast, Miss Patience Thumm related in tumbling syllables the story of the hold-up and their incredible adventure. Gordon Rowe sat by on a bench in the gardens, white-faced but quite calm. His coat lay on the grass, and the bandage about his arm was stiff with blood. Little Quacey, Lane's ancient retainer, was scurrying away for warm water and bandages.

“Now, now, my dear,” soothed the old gentleman, “don't take it so hard. Thank heaven it wasn't worse. Gordon, I'm dreadfully sorry! I never dreamed, Patience, that you would come out here with the envelope. I recognized a certain theoretical element of danger, but I knew the Inspector always goes armed.… Quacey!” he called after the old man, “telephone Inspector Thumm at his office.”

“But it's all my fault!” sniffled Patience. “See, I've got your jacket all wet. Gordon, are you all right? … Oh, I've lost the envelope. I could
strangle
that beast!”

“You're both very fortunate children,” said Lane dryly. “Obviously your assailant wasn't the sort who would be stopped by mere considerations of humanitarianism.… Yes, Quacey?”

“He's
frothing
,” said Quacey in a trembling voice. “Falstaff is coming with the water.”

“Falstaff!” said Gordon Rowe bitterly. “Oh, yes.” He passed his good hand slowly over his eyes. “I'm going to see this thing through, sir,” he said to Lane.

“Indeed. The first thing you need, young man, is medical attention. Here comes Dr. Martini in his runabout, by George! … Patience, speak to your father.”

Patience went to Rowe, hesitated, they looked at each other for an instant, and then she turned and ran toward the house.

A small battered Ford clattered up the main driveway and the white head of Dr. Martini leaned out in greeting.

“Martini!” called Mr. Drury Lane. “How fortunate. I've a patient for you. Gordon, sit still. You always were an impetuous youngster. Doctor, have a look at this young man's arm.”