The Last Drive (6 page)

At the crossings, a little further on, the man turned to the east. This, Rankin knew, was the detour to Brockton, three miles away. He kept straining his eyes ahead in an effort to guess the identity of the man he was following, but all he could certainly discern was that the youthfulness of his figure and gait made it probable that it was one of the Adams boys, if anyone who belonged at Greenlawn.

A mile beyond the crossing a quick glance over the detective's shoulder showed him the man in the rear trudging doggedly along. Thus the queer procession wound its way along the country road. Now and then, even at that late hour, an automobile whizzed by in one direction or the other; in the tonneau of a big touring car Rankin fancied that he recognized Harrison Matlin, president of the Corona Country Club, which was not improbable. Finally lights shone ahead, and the houses began to come closer together; they were entering the village of Brockton.

Rankin quickened his step and drew a little closer to the man in front, who kept straight ahead as one who knew where he was going and wanted to get there. Reaching the main street of the town, he turned swiftly to the right and went on past a block of business buildings to the next corner, where stood an old three-story frame hotel, the only one in the place. It was past midnight now, and save for one or two stragglers the street was deserted, with the bright moonlight over everything, like sunshine strained through a silver cloth. In front of the hotel stood a racy-looking roadster. Rankin was on the heels of his man as he sprang up the steps of the hotel porch and entered the door; but there the detective stopped and tiptoed to a window a little distance to the right, through which he could observe the interior.

The man was indeed one of the Adams brothers: Harry, the younger. He advanced a few steps into the room, a typical country hotel office, with wooden chairs and a fly-specked cigar case, then stopped and turned at sound of a voice.

“Harry! Thank God!”

Rankin, too, heard the voice from his vantage-point outside the window. It came from a man who had been seated in one of the chairs by the windows at the front of the room, and who now sprang forward toward young Adams with an eager and anxious countenance. He was a young fellow about Harry's age, but of a very different mould. The quick, shifty eyes, the whitish cheeks, already too often shaven, the nervous oiliness of his manner even in his excitement, were all quite familiar features to one who had had opportunity to observe a certain type of young man who infests Wall Street.

He turned toward the house, but before he had taken two steps he saw something that caused him to draw back hastily into the shadow of the laca bush.

“Have you got it?” came from his eager lips before the other had time to return his greeting.

Harry Adams shook his head.

“No, I haven't. I—”

“You haven't! But, man, you must have! You promised! Why, I came—my God! You promised, Harry!”

Young Adams took him by the arm. His voice was commanding:

“Don't shout so. I'll explain. I don't want to talk in here. It was risky your sitting in here where everybody could see you from the street. Come outside.”

As they turned toward the door the detective retreated hastily from the window and dropped noiselessly over the porch railing onto the grass below. As he crouched there in the shadow he heard their feet descending the steps and saw their shadows on the lawn. The unknown's voice came:

“I've got my roadster. Shall we—”

“No,” came Harry's reply. “We'll walk a little.”

He continued in a lower tone, and Rankin, straining his ear, couldn't catch the words. The two young men turned down the sidewalk to the left. Rankin prepared to follow. As he straightened up he caught sight of a form disappearing in a doorway a little down the street. “Probably the man that followed us from Greenlawn,” thought the detective. “Who the devil can he be and what is he up to? Well, we'll attend to him later.”

The two young men continued on down the street, talking earnestly in low tones; their voices came, but not the words. Rankin stepped cautiously after them at a distance. If only he could hear what they were saying! He drew a little closer; the sidewalk here, flanked by trees, was in heavy shadow, which made it less risky; but though he got within thirty feet of them he could only catch a meaningless word now and then. Otherwise, the silence of the night was almost unbroken; the call of insects sounded occasionally, the hoot of an owl came from the woods toward the river, and the horn of a motor car tooted faintly somewhere far down the road. Subconsciously the detective noted the curious resemblance between the two latter sounds, as if one were answering to the other.

At length the two young men halted and, half turning, stood still talking. The detective crept closer. The nearest street lamp was a block away, and the moonlight tried in vain to penetrate the thick foliage of the trees. Rankin moved cautiously and silently from one protecting trunk to another; he was quite close now. One more advance—his foot bent a twig, but it was unheard—and he stood behind a tree so close that he could almost have put out his hand and touched the unknown, who was nearest him.

Harry's voice came, scarcely more than a whisper.

“I simply don't see how I can help you, Gil, but as I say, I'll try. You can see it's not my fault. It's a horrible mess, and that's all there is to it. I'll telephone you tomorrow morning, at Migg's at ten o'clock. You go back there and stay there, and whatever you do don't show your face anywhere, or you're a goner; they may be after you now. I've been thinking it over—”

The interruption came from the street. An automobile had come up from the other end of the village and through it with dimmed lights. Here it was approaching the country again, and the lights, turned on suddenly, blazed forth with startling brilliancy. Like two monstrous flaming eyes they glared down the road and, as the wheel turned a little, in among the trees flanking the sidewalk; and the form of Canby Rankin, behind one of the trees, was revealed as in the light of noonday.

Young Adams saw him, not ten feet away, stopped, and sprang forward.

“What the—who—why, it's Mr. Rankin!”

Feeling profoundly foolish, the detective stepped out. The unknown, who had leapt away like a scared rabbit, halted and turned, holding himself in readiness for flight.

“Who's Mr. Rankin?” he demanded in a voice that rasped.

“Why—” Harry stammered “— he's a friend of Uncle Carson's—that is, he's a detective—”

“A detective—damn you, Adams!”

With the first word the unknown was off down the sidewalk at a bound. Rankin leaped after him. Harry called out:

“It's all right, Gil! Come back! He's not after you!”

The last was a rather absurd remark, since as it was uttered Rankin was quite obviously after Gil in the most literal sense of the word. Heedless of Harry's shouts, repeated from the rear, the unknown rushed madly down the street, his feet pounding on the brick sidewalk as he leapt forward like a stampeded steer; and fifty feet behind was the detective, running low on his toes, almost silently. A window went up in a house as they passed, doubtless that of some sleeper awakened by Harry's shouts, and a call came through the night, unheeded. A block ahead shone the lights of the hotel; at sight of them the unknown bounded forward with fresh energy, increasing a little the distance from his pursuer. He made for the front of the building, where stood the racy-looking roadster; and Rankin, guessing his purpose, strained every muscle. Reaching the roadster, the unknown jumped to the seat; almost instantly came the buzz of the engine; a lever clicked; the car started, jerked, and started again. But too late. Rankin, leaping through the air, was beside him.

There was a short, sharp struggle over the levers, and the car jerked to a stop and stood still with the engine whirring madly. Yelling an oath, the unknown stooped and, rising again with a heavy wrench in his hand, swung it at the detective's head. Rankin parried the blow, catching his arm, but in doing so lost his balance and tumbled from the car to the ground, dragging the other with him. At that instant Harry came running up.

“It's all right, Gil—for God's sake, Mr. Rankin, let him go!”

But Rankin's blood was up now, and even if he had heard he would not have heeded. The murderous look in the other's eyes as he struck with the wrench had roused him to fury; and he loved a fight. He got one.

He had landed on his knees on the pavement, with Gil, pulled after, tumbling on his shoulders. The impact knocked Rankin prostrate, with the other on top, raining wild blows on his face and neck. With a mighty heave of his body the detective half unseated him, twisted about and caught his arms. Holding with a grip of steel, he worked to his knees, then one foot to the ground, then both. He was upright. With a desperate effort the unknown got an arm loose and swung, but Rankin sprang forward to clinch before the blow could land. Breathing heavily, grappling fiercely together, they swayed back and forth over the pavement; and with the superhuman strength of fear in him, Gil was holding his own. Harry Adams stood on the sidewalk, starting forward and then halting again, as if unable to decide which man to help; and all the time calling frantically to Gil that it was “all right,” and to Rankin to let him go.

They lurched back and forth across the sidewalk, struggling silently; then suddenly Rankin's foot caught on the edge of the curb and he stumbled, loosening his hold. On the instant Gil jerked away, then hurled himself forward and bore the other to the ground, knocking the breath out of him; and then jumped to his feet and sprang for the car with a triumphant oath. Swiftly Rankin was back on his feet and after him, dragging him from his seat, though his head was dizzy and stunned from the impact of the pavement. Gil clung to the edge of the car; Rankin tugged at him, and when the hold was suddenly released they tumbled backwards together. Gil was up first; his eye caught something on the ground; a quick swoop, and he straightened and turned with the heavy iron wrench in his hand. “Now, damn you!” he screamed, and rushed forward.

Rankin dodged swiftly, and got a glancing blow on the shoulder. Again the wrench was raised, but the detective leaped forward and caught the arm before it could come down. There was a sharp pain in his shoulder, but he grappled and held on, jerking at the wrench with one hand, and finally got it loose and sent it spinning through the air. Then he drew back and swung his clenched fist at the others' jaw, unexpectedly and successfully. He felt his knuckles crunch on the flesh and bone, and the unknown went down like a log. Rankin sprang astride of him and sat on him; and then Harry Adams's agitated voice came:

“Let him go, Mr. Rankin—please let him go. He's done nothing—that is, not what you think. You must let him go, sir.”

The detective merely grunted, pinning down his captive's arms.

“You must, Mr. Rankin—he meant no harm to you—”

“Of course not,” panted the detective. “He just wanted to see how close he could come with that wrench without hitting me.”

“You were after him.”

“And I got him.”

“You must let him go.”

“Don't be a damned idiot, Harry. Of course I won't let him go.”

The unknown stirred a little. The detective tightened his hold, resting for breath.

“But I say you must.” Young Adams moved so that he stood directly over the two men on the pavement, and spoke rapidly. “Listen, Mr. Rankin. It's a question of my honor. Gil came down here to see me. It would be the same as if I'd betrayed him, when I'd promised to help him. You must let him go. It's a matter of honor.”

“Your honor is your own lookout, my boy. As for me, I'm going to have a good long talk with your pleasant-mannered friend and find out why he's so free with his wrenches.”

“Mr. Rankin, let him go.”

Silence. The detective shifted his hold a little and, leaning over, saw the shifty eyes open, and simultaneously felt a reawakening of the muscles of the man beneath him; and then he felt something else: two strong hands gripping him from above.