CHAPTER XVI
At last, late one afternoon, the faithful old butler announced to Eva privately that Locke was on the wire and wished to speak to her.
Eva almost ran to the telephone, and her hand shook with sheer joy as she took the receiver.
"Yes, everything is moving along even more rapidly than I expected," replied Locke to her eager inquiry. "Whenever Paul leaves Brent Rock he goes directly to a miserable café and there I see him with a number of people of the underworld. He seems to have a great deal of influence over them. I'm sifting all the clues, and as soon as I unmask him I will send for you."
Eva gave him a brief outline of how she had fared in his absence and an account of her father's condition, which was now very bad. Everything the doctor had done seemed to be without effect.
Locke assured her that he hoped soon to lay hands on the antidote that would restore Brent to health and sanity, and begged Eva to be brave in the mean time.
When the conversation was over Eva felt certain that no one had overheard what she and Quentin had said. But she was mistaken, as she was to learn at her cost. For, far down in the bowels of the earth, in the den of the Automaton, an emissary had tapped in on the telephone wire and had heard every word.
Down-town, among the haunts of Paul, on the west side, was the Black Tom Café. Every attempt had been made to make the place bizarre. About the walls were palings that represented a back fence, along which crawled painted black cats in every conceivable state—a rather odd conceit for a cabaret.
Although the sun had not yet set, the electric lights were already agleam. On a raised platform three weary-eyed musicians were pounding and thumping out the latest Broadway hit.
There were not half a dozen people in the place, and these were obviously denizens of this quarter of the town. They were listless and weary, mere shells of human beings. And yet it was such as these that the slumming parties at night romantically dubbed bohemians.
They showed scant interest as De Luxe Dora, unaccompanied for once, swept into the place. Dora was gorgeously and flashily dressed and fairly scintillated with jewels. She seated herself not far from the door and ordered a cocktail. Then she whistled a bar of music suggestively to the piano-player, who immediately caught it, and the "orchestra" with a show of animation strummed out her suggestion. She sent over drinks for them and was rewarded with more song hits.
Jauntily now Paul came in. A couple of men roused themselves and slouched over to him. They held a whispered conversation, and Paul was insistent on some point. He evidently had his way, for the men slunk back to their places and, sprawling out, were in a moment as listless as before.
Paul nodded to Dora in greeting, but she turned her back. He gave a low whistle of astonishment and went over to her.
"Say, Dora, why the grouch?" he asked.
For a moment she disdained to answer and glared at him witheringly. Then she blurted out, "You're throwing me down for that baby face with the money!"
Paul gave a short laugh and shrugged his shoulders. "Don't be silly," he laughed. "She'll be our meal-ticket."
He sat down, and over a couple more cocktails he had Dora quite mollified.
A few moments later Locke entered and slipped quickly into a chair, since he did not wish to be seen. In his hand he carried a newspaper which he now unfolded and held up in front of him so that it hid his face. Next he poked a hole through the center of the sheet so that he could see without being seen.
At this moment, seemingly in all earnestness, Paul and Dora resumed their quarrel, and Dora's strident voice echoed through the café.
"If you throw me down you'd better look out," she bawled.
Paul jumped up, and for a moment it looked as though he would strike her. But he changed his mind, cursed her, and finally stalked out of the café.
Locke folded his paper, paid his bill to the sleepy waiter, and started after Paul. At the entrance he stopped, thought a moment, and then went directly to Dora's table and sat down.
"Why, what are you doing here?" she gasped, in great surprise. "Don't you know that you may be killed?"
"It's a risk that I must run," replied Locke. "But tell me—you tried to kill me once—why?"
"Because I was a fool, controlled by my love for Paul Balcom—the beast! I hate him!"
Dora drank viciously, then, with jealous venom, leaned over to Locke, and asked, "If that girl, Eva Brent, finds out about him, will she throw him over?"
Locke played the game diplomatically, and apparently succeeded in further incensing Dora against her lover, for, suddenly she jumped up.
"Meet me here in an hour. I'll have everything arranged to spoil Paul Balcom's game," she whispered, as she swept out of the café with demi-mondaine majesty.
Locke was elated at the thought of having won so powerful an enemy to his side. But, had he heard Dora's remark to Paul as she met him around a convenient corner, his elation would have given way to caution.
Paul eagerly questioned her with a glance as she approached.
"Well, he fell for it," she announced, toughly, then added, "just as you fell for his dictagraph game with the girl."
There was just a bit of jealousy yet in the tone of Dora. She was not yet convinced of her complete triumph over Eva.
At the same time Locke left the café and entered a telephone-booth, from which he called up Eva.
"Come to the Black Tom immediately," he said. "Dora is now on our side and we'll learn the truth, she promises."
Eva at once started to get ready so that she would arrive at the time Locke had fixed, while he loitered in the neighborhood, waiting until the hour agreed upon with Dora was almost gone.
Dora was already waiting for him outside the place when he returned to the Black Tom.
"How is everything?" inquired Locke.
"All arranged. You'll get Paul right."
Just then a man slouched past.
"Follow that fellow," whispered Dora.
Locke nodded and did so.
The man proceeded into the café and Locke followed. But instead of sitting down in the main room the man passed through into an inner room. Locke followed. He looked about. It seemed to be a sort of storeroom, as nearly as he could make out.
His guide pressed a secret panel and, stepping through an aperture, beckoned Locke to follow. Locke drew his automatic and went ahead in the inky blackness that lay beyond the panel. The next moment the very floor under his feet seemed to give way. He felt himself thrown down bodily into a sort of subcellar.
Locke was immediately pounced upon by lurking emissaries who seized him after a terrific battle and held him firmly.
"Where's a rope?" growled one.
There was no answer as the men struggled. The question was repeated. Apparently one of them looked about.
"Use the wire," he growled.
The questioner gave a grunt of brutal satisfaction. There in this storeroom lay a huge roll of barbed wire. Coil after coil of this barbed wire was wound about Locke as he struggled, but ever more feebly, for with each coil now the barbs began to cut cruelly into his flesh.
Some one lighted a candle and by its light he saw many carboys of acid standing in a row.
Directly behind them, so that there could be no doubt of the horrible fate in store for him, stood the Automaton.
Already at the entrance to the Black Tom Café Eva's speedy runabout came to a stop. Dora was at the curb to meet her and was all winning smiles.
Instinctively Eva shrank from this overdressed woman. But it had been Locke's desire that she come to this place, and she decided to follow the woman, for would it not lead to the unmasking of Paul, whom she hated?
Once or twice on the descent into the café Eva hesitated, but was gently urged on by Dora.
Eva was utterly disgusted by the flotsam and jetsam in human guise that she found sprawling at the tables, but she decided to brave the place.
"Wait a moment and I'll get Mr. Locke," smiled Dora.
For a moment, the better to blot out the distasteful scene, Eva closed her eyes.
When she opened them again it was to look into the ferocious, bestial face of the giant emissary who, with fingers clutched like the talons of some foul bird, was reaching toward her to grasp her by the throat.
In the noisome cellar Locke lay as though fascinated by the dread form that confronted him, as well as by its more dreadful purpose.
The Automaton drew back its massive foot and deliberately kicked over one after another of the carboys.
A pungent odor at once permeated the cellar air as the acid ate into the floor.
Its purpose accomplished, the Automaton stalked toward Locke, and stood towering above him.
Would it crush out Locke's life under its ponderous heel? Or would it leave him to a death more horrible?
Like writhing serpents, the rivulets of seething, burning acid crept closer, closer.
