The Red Signal (Grace Livingston Hill Book) (23 page)

As the second box began to wheel into place her mind grew keen and she knew what she had to do. She must write a letter to Mr. Stevens. She had her fountain pen in her pocket and plenty of envelopes and stamps. She would put on stamps enough, write “Special Delivery” and drop the letter out of the window. She must not be seen at the window lest some one set to watch across the street might see her. That white face at the window! He would be on the lookout. He had a telephone over there. She must be very cautious. If she could get that letter out of the window when some one was passing perhaps it would be picked up and mailed. She must hurry! Oh, she must hurry for the time was going fast! The sun would be going down and it would be night and he would be gone, and she would be gone with him! Then she thought of Daniel Stevens fighting over in France, and something rose in her to conquer. What were other girls and stations in life, and high or low, now? They were both fighting for their country! They were comrades! He would win out, and live or die as God pleased, and please God she would win out, too. She might die, she hoped she would, but she must win before she died. Before all else, that man must be caught!

She set her shoulder to the box and her will to the shoulder, and softly, with a velvet slide, the old box succumbed, slipped, into the empty space, and the barricade was complete. With one breath of relief and assurance she got up and sat upon the box, feeling in her pocket for her pen and the little note-book she always carried. Then she wrote rapidly, the words tumbling upon the page faster than she could write them:

“Dear Mr. Stevens:

“I am shut up in the third story of a house somewhere down in the lower part of the city, near the river, I think. The Schwarzes are here. The airman is across the street in a house numbered 2217. I followed him to see where he was staying and they caught me. He is going away to-night on a submarine----”

The rapid pen paused just a second. Should she tell that he meant to take her with him? No, for it would kill her mother to know that. Better let her think anything than that! The pen hurried on:

“Send someone quick! I will draw a map of the way I went as nearly as I can remember after I left Wanamaker's. If anything happens to me and I don't come home tell my mother I was glad to die doing my duty. If I had been a boy I'd have gone to France to fight. I want her to be glad she had a girl to give. Please get here before dark or he will be gone! If I find any way give you a signal where I am, but don't worry about me. Get the man first!

“HILDA LESSING.”

She tore the sheet from her notebook and enclosed it in one of her envelopes, addressing it to Mr. Stevens's office, where he was usually to be found in the late afternoon. If he was not there his trusted secretary might open it or hurry it on to him. She wrote Haste! in large letters across the corner, and “Important!” under that. She put on the usual postage and then ten cents in stamps and wrote “Special Delivery” as she had seen Mrs. Stevens do when she had no special stamp, and crept softly over to the window, taking care that she kept to the side of the shade where no one would see her from across the street. Cautiously she slipped her hand along the sash and turned the fastener, trying to push up the window, but it would not budge. She tried again, pulling the curtain down to hide herself, but the window was firm as a rock. She examined it carefully along the sides. It was nailed shut with two big nails driven through the sash into the window frame ! She went over to the other window and found it was the same. Her heart sank and she slipped down on her knees and buried her face in her hands to smother a dry sob that came into her throat. She prayed. again, “Oh, God! Help me! Help me to catch him before it is too late!” Then she lifted up her head and set her lips determinedly. She would have to break the glass! But how to do it so that it would make no noise?

She sat in thought a minute or two. If she should take something heavy, like her cloak, and lay it on the glass and then press hard against it, would that break it quietly? It would probably rattle down into the street and make a great clatter on the pavement, but she must take that chance. There was no other way. She must just trust that it would lie in the path and somebody coining along would pick it up and mail it. Was there a mail box in sight? She slipped to her feet again and peered out. Yes, she thought she had remembered it, just across the street. How wonderful! But, oh, would there be another collection in time? Well, the glass must be broken first and then if she heard the people below coming up she would fling out her letter before they had time to get in. Otherwise, she would keep it until she saw some one coming along towards the house.

Stealthily she collected what she needed for her purpose, a blanket from the bed, a slat that had evidently slipped out of place and lay beneath the bed. She looked up the street and down to see if it was empty. Then, with a prayer for help, she arranged the blanket in thick folds where she meant to strike and drew back with the slat in hand. First she leaned her weight with all her force against the slat and she heard the glass strain and crack, but still it remained. Drawing back a little she brought the stick forward sharply; there was a strain, a crack like the report of a toy pistol, and the glass gave way like a gasping thing, but not noisily, for the blanket deadened the sound, sending the fragments beyond the window sill. In a second more she heard them tinkling on the pavement below and she held herself still as death to see what would happen.

There was a minute of awful silence, during which she seemed to hear in her soul the tinkling echo of that glass striking on the pavement below. It seemed so little and insignificant compared to what she had expected, yet it seemed as if the whole universe could hear it.

A door slammed downstairs far away somewhere. The cry of a huckster in another street came acridly in with a whiff of cold air. A ragman's wagon rattled up the block and turned the corner, interrupting that awful silence. The door slammed again downstairs and the jagged glass in the window jarred noisily with the reverberation. Steps went heavily somewhere below and the window shivered again, but the steps did not come up as she had feared. It must be several minutes and nothing had happened yet! She drew a deep breath and pulled the window shade aside to peep out. All seemed still across the way. There was no sign of a face at the window now. There seemed no one in sight either up or down the street. A closer look revealed the fact that the two houses across on either side of 2217 seemed to be vacant. They had signs “To Let” in the windows. A sense of loneliness and desolation settled down upon her. She could not remember to have noticed the sound of footsteps going by since she had been in the room, although, of course, she had been too preoccupied to be sure. What if no one should pass in time? What if the post box were an abandoned one, because this region was so little peopled? But there! She must not think such things. She must trust in God. Surely He who had helped her get her hands free and move the boxes and break the glass silently would make the rest of the way smooth until she had done her duty. Her duty now was to catch that man and put him where he could do no more harm to her country, give no further help to the enemy of the world.

With a last look at her letter as if it were the only remaining link between herself and the world, she lifted her hand in a quick motion and flung it forth through the opening in the glass, stepping back at once so that she could not be seen if anyone watched across the way. 

THE letter, quite as if it understood, seemed to halt a second in the air and adjust itself to the breeze, then it calmly zigzagged itself down across in front of the next house and landed on the pavement face up with all its stamps glaring brightly, reassuringly up at her as she climbed a chair to watch through the crack at the edge of the curtain, as if to let her know it meant to do its best to get to its destination on time.

For fifteen long minutes she stood motionless on that chair and watched the letter lying there, her heart beating wildly at every sound in the house below. Oh, if the postman came before anybody had picked it up and put it in the box! She closed her eyes and prayed again, and slowly down the street came an old woman carrying a heavy market basket. Would she ever get opposite the house? And would she notice the letter and pick it up if she did? Hilda was so excited watching her as she came nearer that she did not notice the postman who suddenly appeared at the diagonal corner, produced his bunch of keys, opened the box, took out a single letter and slammed it shut again. The click of the lock brought her instant attention and her heart sank. She longed to cry out. Would he hear her? There was a noise below stairs. Dared she? If anything called their attention to the letter now they might get possession of it and give her no chance to write another. Then while she debated wildly in her heart and the old woman paused and went up the steps of a house three doors away, the postman turned and came straight across the road, ran up the steps of the corner house, put some letters under the door, rang the bell and down again, stepping directly toward the letter. Her heart stood still with fear. He stooped and picked it up, gave one quick look at it, another questioning glance up at the row of houses and slipped it into his bag, going on down the street and across to the far corner where he left another bunch of mail and vanished beyond her sight.

She had not known how strained and stiff she was with anxiety until the strain was over. Now she slowly, painfully climbed down from the chair and sank on her knees beside it, hiding her eyes and letting a long, agonizing shudder go over her spent body. She was sore in every nerve and muscle. She longed to lie down now and die. Her work was done. She had tried her utmost. The letter would reach somewhere sometime, and there was nothing more for her to do, except to contrive a way to save herself if it were possible. But how would that be possible? She could break down the frame of the window perhaps and drop three stories to the pavement below, if she found herself unable to keep the enemy at bay, but that could hardly save her from them. It would be her last resort, of course, with a prayer that God would let it end her life quickly before they were able to put her to torture, but that, of course, must be her last resort. There was only a shadow of a chance that her letter might reach Mr. Stevens before dark, and some one might come to whom she could signal. She had seemed to know from the first that she was in an alien street, in a lonely region, where her cries would be practically useless, because they would reach the ears of her captors before they could bring any succor. It would be necessary to bring outsiders in some way if she were to be saved. The few who passed this way might not care to step aside and trouble themselves, and how easy the Schwarzes could say she was a crazy girl, confined there until they could take her to the asylum, even if she did succeed in attracting the attention of some stray passerby! Perhaps, toward evening, when people came home from their work to these houses, there might be enough of them together at once for her to take the chance to call out that she had been kidnapped and ask them to send for the police to rescue her; but certainly she would not risk it now with that awful Captain just across the street, watching perhaps, and no doubt in communication by telephone with all the powers of evil at the command of the German Government. Besides, who knew but Sylvester might come any minute? No, she would run no risks yet. But she must get up and discover the resources at her command. She must find out if there was any quick way of ending her life in case it came to that to protect herself against these fiends. Perhaps she might try tying the bedclothes together and letting herself down after dark. How would it do to get a sheet or blanket and wave it out that broken pane if anybody came by, and then call?

Stealthily she stole about her room, looking the half-open bureau drawers, feeling in the open boxes. One contained thousands of pamphlets, She lifted one and saw it was something about peace. She wondered if this could be what they called German propaganda. Another was an appeal to all loyal Americans to protest against the draft. But she had no time to look at such things now. She slipped a copy of each in her pocket and then smiled grimly at herself. She had no idea of ever getting out of this place alive, much less being able to communicate with her friends again. Why did she put these away? Well, perhaps if she dropped from the window they would find them about her and understand a little of where she had been imprisoned since her disappearance.

In the washstand drawer beside a half-used cake of brown soap, she found three matches! Ah She clutched them and examined them closely to see if they were good. She could not tell, but if they were, here, indeed, was a means of signalling that would be more effective than anything else. The thought of it made her put her hands on her heart and draw a deep breath. Had she the courage to do it? Set fire to the room where she had barred herself from escape, except through the third-story window? Well, why not? There were worse fates, and if the matches were good then surely God had sent them to her. She would have to wait awhile and see if her letter did any good. She would sit down and get quite calm and cool and think out what was best to be done. So, with her matches in her hand, she crept back to the window again and took up her station where she could pull the blind aside and watch the street. Three times as she kept her watch she was sure she saw that same white face flash up to the window, glance across the street and away again. Each time her heart contracted with a horrible fear and she heard again those sinister words spoken at Platt's Crossing, “he belongs to me! Understand?”

As the minutes dragged into an hour, and then two, and the sun's rays grew long and slant down the middle of the street from a golden west up beyond the city somewhere, her thoughts cleared. The time was nearing when she must act if act at all. And now she knew what she would do. It was five o'clock by the little watch that she wore. She knew Mr. Stevens would have left the office by now. If the letter had reached. him at all, something would be coining soon. Also the darkness would be dropping down and then the airman would be gone and she with him!