the drums of jeopardy-第2章

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One　thing；　she　would　never　be　able　to　twist　his　heart　again。　　You
cannot　fill　a　cup　with　water　beyond　the　brim。　　And　God　knew　that
his　cup　had　been　full　and　bitter　and　red。

His　hand　swept　across　his　eyes　as　if　to　brush　away　the　pictures
suddenly　conjured　up。　　He　must　keep　his　thoughts　off　those　things。
There　was　a　taint　of　madness　in　his　blood；　and　several　times　he
had　sensed　the　brink　at　his　feet。　　But　God　had　been　kind　to　him
in　one　respect：　The　blood　of　his　glorious　mother　predominated。

How　many　were　after　him；　and　who？　　He　had　not　been　able　to　recognize
the　man　that　night　in　Hong…Kong。　　That　was　the　fate　of　the　pursued：
one　never　dared　pause　to　look　back；　while　the　pursuers　had　their　man
before　them　always。　　If　only　he　could　have　broken　through　into　Greece；
England　would　have　been　easy。　　The　only　door　open　had　been　in　the
East。　　It　seemed　incredible　that　he　should　be　standing　in　this　room；
but　three　hours　from　his　goal。

America！　　The　land　of　the　free　and　the　brave！　　And　the　irony　of　it
was　that　he　must　seek　in　America　the　only　friends　he　had　in　the
world。　　All　the　Englishmen　he　had　known　and　loved　were　dead。　　He
had　never　made　friends　with　the　French；　though　he　loved　France。　　In
this　country　alone　he　might　successfully　lose　himself　and　begin　life
anew。　　The　British　were　British　and　the　French　were　French；　but　in
this　magnificent　America　they　possessed　the　tenacity　of　the　one　and
the　gayety　of　the　other　…　these　joyous；　unconquered；　speed…loving
Americans。

He　took　up　the　overcoat。　　Under　the　light　it　was　no　longer　black　but
a　very　deep　green。　　On　both　sleeves　there　were　narrow　bands　of　a
still　deeper　green；　indicating　that　gold　or　silver　braid　had　once
befrogged　the　cuffs。　　Inside；　soft　silky　Persian　lamb；　and　he　ran
his　fingers　over　the　fur　thoughtfully。　　The　coat　was　still
impregnated　with　the　strong　odour　of　horse。　　He　cast　it　aside；　never
to　touch　it　again。　　From　the　discarded　small　coat　he　extracted　a
black　wallet　and　opened　it。　　That　passport！　　He　wondered　if　there
existed　another　more　cleverly　forged。　　It　would　not　have　served
an　hour　west　of　the　Hindenburg　Line；　but　in　the　East　and　here　in
America　no　one　had　questioned　it。　　In　San　Francisco　they　had
scarcely　glanced　at　it；　peace　having　come。　　Besides　this　passport
the　wallet　contained　a　will；　ten　bonds；　a　custom　appraiser's　receipt
and　a　sheaf　of　gold　bills。　　The　will；　however；　was　perhaps　one　of
the　most　astonishing　documents　conceivable。　　It　left　unreservedly
to　Capt。　John　Hawksley　the　contents　of　the　wallet！

Within　three　hours　of　his　ultimate　destination！　　He　knew　all　about
great　cities。　　An　hour　after　he　left　the　train；　if　he　so　willed；
he　could　lose　himself　for　all　time。

》From　the　bottom　of　the　kitbag　he　dug　up　a　blue　velours　case；　which
after　a　moment's　hesitation　he　opened。　　Medals　incrusted　with
precious　stones；　but　on　the　top　was　the　photograph　of　a　charming
girl。　　blonde　as　ripe　wheat；　and　arrayed　for　the　tennis　court。
It　was　this　photograph　he　wanted。　　Indifferently　he　tossed　the　case
upon　the　centre　table；　and　it　upset；　sending　the　medals　about　with
a　ring　and　a　tinkle。

The　man　in　the　next　room　heard　this　sound；　and　his　eye　roved
desperately。　　Some　way　to　peer　into　yonder　room！　　But　there　was　no
transom；　and　he　would　not　yet　dare　risk　the　fire　escape。　　The　young
man　raised　the　photograph　to　his　lips　and　kissed　it　passionately。

Then　he　hid　it　in　the　lining　of　his　coat；　there　being　a　convenient
rent　in　the　inside　pocket。

〃I　must　not　think！〃　he　murmured。　　〃I　must　not！〃

He　became　the　hunted　man　again。　　He　turned　a　chair　upend　and　placed
it　under　the　window。　　He　tipped　another　in　front　of　the　door。　　On
the　threshold　of　the　bathroom　door　he　deposited　the　water　carafe
and　the　glasses。　　His　bed　was　against　the　connecting　door。　　No　man
would　be　able　to　enter　unannounced。　　He　had　no　intention　of　letting
himself　fall　asleep。　　He　would　stretch　out　and　rest。　　So　he　lit　his
pipe；　banked　the　two　pillows；　switched　out　the　light；　and　lay　down。
Only　the　intermittent　glow　of　his　pipe　coal　could　be　seen。　　Near
the　journey's　end；　and　no　more　tight…rope　walking；　with　death　at
both　ends；　and　death　staring　up　from　below。　　Queer　how　the　human
being　clung　to　life。　　What　had　he　to　live　for？　　Nothing。　　So　far　as
he　was　concerned；　the　world　had　come　to　an　end。　　Sporting　instinct；
probably　that　was　it；　couldn't　make　up　his　mind　to　shuffle　off　this
mortal　coil　until　he　had　beaten　his　enemies。　　English　university
education　had　dulled　the　bite　of　his　natural　fatalism。　　To　carry　on
for　the　sport　of　it；　not　to　accept　fate　but　to　fight　it。

By　chance　his　hand　touched　his　spiky　chin。　　Nevertheless；　he　would
have　to　enter　New　York　just　as　he　was。　　He　had　left　his　razor　in　a
Pullman　washroom　hurriedly　one　morning。　　He　dared　not　risk　a　barber's
chair；　especially　these　American　chairs；　that　stretched　one　out　in
a　most　helpless　manner。

Slowly　his　pipe　sank　toward　his　breast。　　The　weary　body　was
overcoming　the　will。　　A　sound　broke　the　pleasant　spell。　　He　sat　up；
tense。　Someone　had　entered　through　the　window　and　stumbled　over　the
chair！　　Hawksley　threw　on　the　light。



CHAPTER　II


When　the　day　clerk　arrived　the　night　clerk　sleepily　informed　him
that　the　guest　in　Room　214　was　without　baggage　and　had　not　paid　in
advance。

〃Lave　a　call？〃

〃No。　　I　thought　I'd　put　you　wise。　　I　didn't　notice　that　the　man　had
no　grip　until　he　was　in　the　elevator。〃

〃All　right。　　I'll　send　the　bell…hop　captain　up　with　a　fake　call　to
see　if　the　man's　still　there。〃

When　the　captain　…　late　of　the　A。E。F。　in　France　…　returned　to　the
office　he　was　mildly　excited。

〃Gee；　there's　been　a　whale　of　a　scrap　in　Room　212。　　The　chambermaid
let　me　in。〃

〃Murder？〃　whispered　the　clerks　in　unison。

〃Murder　your　granny！　　Naw！　　Just　a　fight　between　212　and　214；
because　both　of　'em　have　flown　the　roost。　　But　take　a　peek　at　what
I　found　on　the　table。〃

It　was　a　case　of　blue　velours。　　The　boy　threw　back　the　lid
dramatically。

〃War　medals？〃

〃If　they　are　I　never　piped　'em　before。　　They　ain't　French　or
British。〃　　The　captain　of　the　bell…boys　scratched　his　head
ruminatively。　　〃Gee；　I　got　it！　　Orders；　that's　what　they　all　'em。
Kings　pay　'em　out　Saturdays　when　the　pay　roll　is　nix。　　Will　you　pipe
the　diamonds　and　rubies？　　There's　your　room　rents；　monseer。〃

The　day　clerk；　who　considered　himself　a　judge；　was　of　the　opinion
that　there　were　two　or　three　thousand　dollars　tied　up　in　the
stones。　　It　was　a　police　affair。　　Some　ambassador　had　been　robbed；
and　the　Britisher　and　the　Greek　or　Bulgarian　were　mixed　up　in　it。
Loot。

〃I　thought　the　war　was　over；〃　said　the　night　clerk。

〃The　shootin'　is　over；　that's　all；〃　said　the　captain　of　the　bellboys；
sagely。

What　had　happened　in　Room　212？　　A　duel　of　wits　rather　than　of
physical　contact。　　Hawksley　realized　instantly　that　here　was　the
crucial　moment。　　Caught　and　overpowered；　he　was　lost。　　If　he　shouted
for　help　and　it　came；　he　was　lost。　　Once　the　police　took　a　hand　in
the　affair；　the　newspaper　publicity　that　would　follow　would　result
in　the　total　ruin　of　all　his　hopes。　　There　was　only　one　chance　…　to
finish　this　affair　outside　the　hotel；　in　some　fog…dimmed　street。
There　leaped　into　his　mind；　obliquely　and　queerly；　a　picture　in　one
of　Victor　Hugo's　tales　…　Quasimodo。　　And　there　he　stood；　in　every
particular　save　the　crooked　back。　　And　on　the　top　of　this　came　the
recollection　that　he　had　seen　the　man　before。。。。　　The　torches！　　The
red　torches　and　the　hobnailed　boots！

There　began　an　odd　game；　a　dancing　match；　which　the　young　man　led
adroitly；　always　with　his　thought　upon　the　open　window。　　There
would　be　no　shooting；　Quasimodo　would　not　want　the　police　either。
Half　a　dozen　times　his　fingers　touched　futilely　the　dancing　master's
coat。　　Bank　and　forth　across　the　room；　over　the　bed；　round　the　stand
and　chairs。　　Persistently；　as　if　he　understood　the　young　man's
manoeuvres；　the　squat　individual　kept　to　the　window　side　of　the　room。

An　inspiration　brought　the　affair　to　an　end。　　Hawksley　snatched　up
the　bedclothes　and　threw　them　as　the　ancient　retiarius　threw　his　net。
He　managed　to　win　to　the　lower　platform　of　the　fire　escape　before
Quasimodo　emerged。

There　was　a　fourteen…foot　drop　to　the　street；　and　the　man　with　the
golden　stubble　on　his　chin　and　cheeks　swung　for　a　moment　to　gauge
his　landing。　　Quasimodo　came　after　with　the　agility　of　an　ape。
The　race　down　the　street　began　with　about　a　hundred　yards　in　between。

Down　the　hill　they　went；　like　phantoms。　　The　distance　did　not　widen。
Bears　will　run　amazingly　fast　and　for　a　long　while。　　The　quarry　cut
into　Pearl　Street　for　a　block；　turned　a　corner；　and　soon　vaguely
espied　the　Hudson　River。　　He　made　for　this。

To　the　mind　of　Quasimodo　this　flight　had　but　one　significance　…　he
was　dealing　with　an　arrant　coward；　and　he　based　his　subsequent　acts
upon　this　premise；　forgetting　that　brave　men　run　when　need　says　must。
It　would　have　surprised　him　exceedingly　to　learn　that　he　was　not
driving；　that　he　was　being　led。　　Hawksley　wanted　his　enemy　alone；
where　no　one　would　see　to　interfere。　　Red　torches　and　hobnailed
boots！　　For　once　the　two　bloods；　always　more　or　less　at　war；　merged
in　a　common　purpose　…　to　kill　this　beast；　to　grind　the　face　of　him
into　pulp！　　Red　torches　and　hobnailed　boots！

Presently　one　of　the　huge　passenger　boats；　moored　for　the　winter；
loomed　up　through　the　fog；　and　toward　this　Hawksley　directed　his
steps。　　He　made　a　flying　leap　aboard　and　vanished　round　the
deckhouse　to　the　river　side。

Quasimodo　laughed　as　he　followed。　　It　was　as　if　the　tobacco　pouch
and　the　appraiser's　receipt　were　in　his　own　pocket；　and　broad　rivers
made　capital　graveyards。　　They　two　alone　in　the　fog！　　He　whirled
round　the　deckhouse　…　and　backed　on　his　heels　to　get　his　balance。
Directly　in　front；　in　a　very　understandable　pose；　was　the　intended
victim；　his　jaw　jutting；　his　eyelids　narrowed。

Quasimodo　tried　desperately　to　reach　for　his　pistol；　but　a　bolt　of
lightning　stopped　the　action。　　There　is　something　peculiar　about　a
blow　on　the　nose；　a　good　blow。　　The　Anglo…Saxon　peoples　alone
possess　the　counterattack　…　a　rush。　　To　other　peoples　concentration
of　thought　is　impossible　after　the　impact。　　Instinctively　Quasimodo's
hands　flew　to　his　face。　　He　heard　a　laugh；　mirthless　and　terrible。
Before　he　could　drop　his　hands　from　his　face…blows；　short　and
boring；　from　this　side　and　from　that；　over　and　under。　　The　squat
man　was　brave　enough；　simply　he　did　not　know　how　to　fight　in　this
manner。　　He　was　accustomed　to　the　use　of　steel　and　the　hobnails　on
his　boots。　　He　struck　wildly；　swinging　his　arms　like　a　Flemish　mill
in　a　brisk　wind。

Some　of　his　blows　got　home；　but　these　provoked　only　sardonic　laughter。

Wild　with　rage　and　pain　he　bored　in。　　He　had　but　one　chance　…　to　get
this　shadow　in　his　gorilla…like　arms。　　He　lacked　mental　flexibility。
An　idea；　getting　into　his　head；　stuck；　it　was　not　adjustable。　　Like
an　arrow　sped　from　the　bowstring；　it　had　to　fulfill　its　destiny。
It　never　occurred　to　him　to　take　to　his　heels；　to　get　space　between
himself　and　this　enemy　he　had　so　woefully　underestimated。　　Ten　feet；
and　he　might　have　been　able　to　whirl；　draw　his　pistol；　and　end　the
affair。

The　coup　de　gra