CHAPTER XXV
IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY
"If I can't get away now I am doomed!"
It was Adam Adams who uttered the words in a low but firm voice. He sat on a small bench, in the stone chamber. His feet were bound with a rope and his hands were chained to a ring in the wall behind him.
The counterfeiters had started to draw lots, to see who should be the one to do the detective to death. Then had come an interruption, in the shape of an important message, and the detective had been bundled off by himself, while the communication was under discussion.
Adam Adams knew that his situation was a desperate one. The counterfeiters were a gang who would stop at nothing to keep their secrets. The only one who appeared to be at all timid was the fellow known as Number Four. Possibly if he could get this fellow alone and work on his feelings Number Four might aid him. But just now such a course seemed out of the question.
The detective listened attentively, but only a faint murmur of voices reached his ears. The counterfeiters were having an animated discussion over something, but they were on their guard so that not even their prisoner might hear.
"Wonder why they are so careful?" mused the detective grimly. "If they are going to take my life I don't see what difference it will make whether I know their secrets or not."
Adam Adams was not the man to give in easily. Upon every case where his services were called for, he usually "kept at it" until every possibility was exhausted. He did not give in now, yet it must be confessed, being but human, his heart was somewhat heavy.
"I'll have to take chances," he told himself. "Anything is better than to let them kill me in cold blood."
He waited for a few minutes, to find out if anybody was coming to watch him. One of the counterfeiters came in, looked him over in silence, and then passed out again, this time closing the door more tightly than before.
As soon as the fellow had departed, Adam Adams commenced to work on his bonds. He had studied all sorts of handcuffs, and knew well how to manage his hands and wrists when being fastened. He had not been able to get the better of the fellow at the cottage, but now it was different, and, with a twist of his wrists, he withdrew first one hand and then the other.
With his hands free, it was an easy matter to untie his feet. This done, he arose and tiptoed his way to the door. He opened the barrier with caution, and peered out.
The sight that met his gaze was not a reassuring one. The counterfeiters sat on all sides of the room, and each had a pistol where it could be gotten at with ease.
"It's got to be done!" Matlock Styles was saying. "It should have been done long ago."
"All right, I'll do it," grumbled another member of the band. "But
I'll be running a big risk."
"Not half the bloomin' risk I've been running," grumbled the Englishman.
"What about the word from Buffalo?" asked another.
"We'll settle that to-night—after we have settled about our prisoner."
"I've got to get back to New York."
"How soon?"
"Just as soon as possible."
"Do you want to take the letter along?"
"Yes; I gave my word I'd bring the letter."
"All right, then; we'll have to write the letter, and each man sign it," said Matlock Styles. "But, I must say, I don't like this way of doing things."
"No more do I," growled another of the band.
"It's putting a fellow's head under the axe," came from Number Four.
"Oh, don't get scared!" came from another. "I know Luffer—he's O.K."
"Everybody is O.K. until he gets in a tight corner and squeals," grumbled Number Four.
"Kicking again, eh?" roared Matlock Styles, glaring sourly at Number
Four.
"Oh, no; I'll do as the others say!" answered the big-boned young man, but with a slight tremble in his voice. Then all of the counterfeiters gathered around a table, to dictate and sign a certain letter some outside party had demanded.
Adam Adams did not stop to listen to all of this conversation. He felt that if he was to get away he must lose no time in making the attempt. For a moment he thought to rush past the counterfeiters and try to gain the regular entrance to the den, but then he realized the foolishness of such an attempt. Before he got a dozen steps, they would fire at him, and, most likely, kill him.
He closed the door gently, and, seeing a small stick of wood on the floor, stuck this under the barrier and shoved it as tight as possible. Then he took up the bench and braced this under the handle of the door, so that to shove the door inwards would be all but impossible.
"Now, then, to see if there is some other way out," he mused.
A lantern, hanging on a nail, lit up the stone chamber. Taking the light in hand, he commenced a rapid but thorough investigation of his prison.
The walls were practically solid, the only break being at the door and on the opposite side, where there had once been another door. This second doorway had been bricked up to within six inches of the top, which had been left open, probably for ventilation.
Standing on tiptoes, Adam Adams held up the lantern and looked through the ventilating space. Some cool air coming in, told him that the passageway beyond must lead to the outer world.
"If that opening was only a bit larger a fellow might crawl through," was what he told himself.
He set the lantern down and felt of the wall, putting his arm through the opening. It was about a foot thick, and the bricks were well laid, in good cement.
"Not much show there," he reasoned grimly. "If a fellow had time, it could be done. But it would take hours—with only a pocketknife—and they'd be sure to hear the noise. I must see if there isn't some other way."
He listened at the door for a moment. The counterfeiters were still at work over the letter, and another angry discussion was in full sway. Then he held up the lantern, looking at the flooring over his head.
The planks were heavy but old, and several of them looked to be pretty well rotted. Picking up a stick that was handy, he poked at one plank after another. It was not long before he came to one that was so far decayed that the end of the stick went through it with ease.
There was nothing to stand upon but the bench, and so he took it away from the door and placed it directly under the decayed plank. Then he stood up and pushed on the plank with both hands. It gave way, sending down a shower of dust and mold in his face, and almost blinding him.
He had made considerable noise, but angry words between the men in the other chamber drowned out the sounds. Catching up the lantern once more, he lifted it through the opening over his head, and tried to look around.
He could see but little, excepting boxes and barrels, some as decayed as was the floor. Evidently the apartment above had once been a store-room, but had not been used for years.
Adam Adams did not speculate long over what to do next. He felt that the farther he got from the counterfeiters the better off he would be. Setting the lantern on the floor above, he took a firm hold on a plank that looked fairly strong, and drew himself up. It was a tight squeeze, but he had been through many tight squeezes before, so did not mind it.
Once in the storeroom, his next move was to place what was left of the broken plank into position, and on it he piled several empty boxes and barrels.
"That may keep them guessing as to how I got out of the room below," he thought. "They'll find out sooner or later—but the later the better."
Lantern in hand, he moved cautiously around the old storeroom. There were many empty boxes and barrels, and also sacks that contained musty flour. Rats were in evidence, and they scurried hither and thither as the detective moved around.
It was not long before he discovered two doors. One was nailed up, and where it led to, he could not surmise. The other stood partly open, and through it came a whiff of fresh air.
"That smells like liberty," he thought, as he breathed in the fresh air.
He looked down a passageway, with a flooring partly of brick and partly of stone. Where it led to, there was no telling.
Feeling that it would be unwise to use the light longer, he put it out. But he kept the lantern in his hand, for possible use in the future, either to show the way or as a weapon.
The passageway made several turns, and in the darkness he had to feel his way along. Then he reached a flight of stone steps, leading downward.
"I don't want to go down—I want to go up," he reasoned. But there seemed no help for it, and down he went, sixteen steps, to land in a small room at the bottom.
Here all was pitch-dark, and for the moment he stood still, not knowing in what direction to move next. All around him were stone walls.
Presently he felt a small iron door. He took hold of the handle and found the door locked.
Curious to learn his whereabouts, he felt for a match, struck it, and lit the lantern once more. A brief glance at the door caused a look of wonder to overspread his face. The door was locked with a combination lock similar in make-up to the lock on a safe.
He gazed around, and soon learned that there was no exit from where he was, save by the flight of stone steps. To get out, he would have to go back.
He gazed again at the small iron door, set in an iron frame, embedded in the stone wall. What could be behind that barrier? Most likely something of great value.
On the floor at his feet was a bit of dirty white paper. Mechanically, he picked it up and looked it over. On it was the following:
O—4 L 2—12 R 3 53 L 2 44
"The combination!" he murmured. "Somebody had it on that paper and dropped it. Shall I try to work it, or try to get out?"
His better judgment told him he should try to make his escape. But he was curious to know what was behind that iron door; and, setting the lantern down, he commenced to work the combination knob. He twirled the knob around four times and stopped at O. Then he began on the combination proper—twice to the left, stopping at 12; three times to the right, stopping at 53; and then twice to the left again, stopping at 44. Then he came around slowly to O again. There followed a click. The combination was off.
He twisted the handle of the iron door and pulled upon it. It came open noiselessly, revealing a stone chamber beyond, eight feet square, and equally high.
Lantern in hand, Adam Adams stepped into the vault and gazed around eagerly. On two sides were wooden shelves, six in number. On the shelves rested several boxes, of wood and of metal.
He opened one of the boxes, and gazed at the contents with interest. It contained a quantity of haired paper, almost an exact duplicate of the haired paper used in the making of banknotes.
He looked at another box. This also contained paper. The third box held a quantity of counterfeits, the amount of which made even the matter-of-fact detective gasp.
"If they ever floated these, they would be the richest gang of counterfeiters in the world!" was his mental comment. He had no idea of the exact amount, but saw that it would total up to a tremendous sum.
He turned to one of the metal boxes. It was empty, and he set it down again. Then he took up another box that was fairly heavy, and threw open the cover.
There, resting on some thick blotting paper, was a counterfeit plate—a plate undoubtedly used for printing the backs of the spurious $100 bills!
Adam Adams could not help but gaze at that plate with interest. How the Secret Service men had worked to bring that plate to light, and arrest the users! And here he, in following up the clues of one crime, had stumbled upon the broad trail of another.
As he put the plate down, a noise reached his ears. By instinct, he blew out the lantern and listened. The noise was that from footsteps at a distance. Then he heard a murmur of voices, quickly growing louder.
"They have discovered my escape," he told himself. And then he blamed himself for not having made better use of his time in an endeavor to get away.
He stepped out of the vault, and listened with strained ears. The counterfeiters had separated, and were searching in all directions for him.
"If they come this way, I'll have to fight," he reasoned. "I might as well die that way, as to be killed in cold blood."
But then a sudden idea came to him, and as quickly as he had left the vault, he returned to it. Footsteps were coming closer, and he had no time to spare.
One of the shelves of the vault was close to the top and very broad. Up on this climbed the detective, and laid out at full length, as close to the wall as possible. In front of him he held two of the wooden boxes containing the haired paper.
Somebody came closer, and he heard talking in the passageway at the foot of the stone steps. A hand was placed on the door of the vault.
"Who left this unlocked?" came in Matlock Styles' voice.
"Is it unlocked?" asked another of the band.
"Yes."
"That is strange. It was locked yesterday; I am sure of it."
"Maybe that bloody rascal got here!" growled the Englishman.
"How could he work the combination?"
"Oh, some of those chaps are keener than you think. Wait, hold up the light."
Matlock Styles opened the door and gazed into the vault. For the moment he saw nothing.
"Not here," he said briefly. "Come on; we'll have to look elsewhere."