I
Clement realized at once that he was trapped, and neatly. The thought did not rob him of activity. The instinctive sense of action which is in every athlete functioned immediately. He dashed, not at the torch as every cornered animal or man would, as they expected him to do, but away from it.
He swung cleanly on his heel, and jumped as he swung. He sensed that there were several men in the room, and that they guarded the door. He neglected the door. He leaped for the window. If he could smash that, create an uproar in the Sault Algonquin, then he would attract help.
An oath came from a man as his game was realized. Something whistled through the air, hit a wall with a soft and terrible thud. “Sandbag,” registered Clement’s brain. He dodged, and there was another oath and another miss.
A shadow, lean and leaping like a cat, shot from the darkness into the dazzle of the torch. Clement saw a fierce, feline face, and one hand stretched forward to clutch, while the other swung up to club.
“Siwash,” Clement’s brain signaled. He spurred his body forward with a quicker drive of his foot, got in under the blow, and punched in both hands hard and sure. Siwash staggered and his stick went flying loose over Clement’s shoulder. Clement uppercut with a savage left, Siwash jerked upward grotesquely, went over wildly into the blackness. Clement hurdled his body, and his hand was on the advertisement boards screening the window.
Adolf Neuburg was on him.
The mountain of a man with his unexpected and terrible agility swept down from nowhere. His great hands went out plucking at the young Englishman. His vast fists were free of weapons, for he was confident in his enormous strength. And he grabbed at Clement, he did not hit—that was foolish. His hand closed on Clement’s upper arm and swung the lighter man round. Then Mr. Neuburg uttered a curious, staccato yell. As his hand closed on the arm, the arm, instead of being wrenched away, had closed on the hand, the upper and lower arms coming together. As the Englishman swung round, his body doubled forward, and Mr. Neuburg’s arm, caught and twisted, was vilely wrenched. The fact that Mr. Neuburg endeavored to save his wrist and forearm by exerting his huge strength only made matters worse—that is the great truth underlying Japanese wrestling. But Mr. Neuburg did not know that.
He snatched his hand away as Clement unhinged, only to receive a snapping right-hand swing to the side of the head. He bellowed, made a furious swipe at the Englishman with his left. Clement ducked, slipped in under it, banged right and left to Mr. Neuburg’s great face. And Mr. Neuburg went down. He went down not because he had been knocked, but because Clement had employed a trick he had once seen a shifty boxer use. As he jumped in to hit, he had slipped his left toe behind Mr. Neuburg’s heel. The force of the blow sent Mr. Neuburg reeling over that toe.
But Mr. Neuburg had served his purpose. He had delayed Clement. Clement knew it. Directly he had struck the mountain of a man, he darted, not towards the window now, for the other men—how many were there?—must be converging on that, but towards the door again, which should have been left unguarded. The tussle had lasted moments only—but——
The man who had held the torch had not moved during all the fighting. It was Joe, who was slow, but enduringly calm. He had seen Siwash go down and out. He had seen the massive Mr. Neuburg go down. He saw Clement dart away from the window towards the door. He stood still. His hand held the blazing torch steady. But his other hand moved. It moved in a long swinging arc. It completed its swing at the moment Clement’s hand touched the door handle. Clement slumped forward against the door, and then he crumpled nervelessly to the floor. The sandbag in that swinging hand had reached its mark on Clement’s head with a beautiful accuracy.
Joe played the light round Clement’s inert body. Mr. Neuburg scrambled to his feet, snarling because he tried to help himself up with his damaged wrist. He came to Joe’s side. Joe put out his hand, clicked on the electric light. Both rogues stood over the Englishman. He did not move.
“Some wildcat,” said Joe. He gazed down with grim admiration. He looked at Siwash, still prone. He looked at Mr. Neuburg’s palpably damaged face and wrist. A fourth man, so tall and thin that his bones seemed loose and rattling, joined the two. He was the only other in the room. He held a sandbag in his hand, but he had the general air of being a tradesman. That gave his furtive pose a tone of nervousness. He looked at Neuburg, moistening his lips in agitation—and did not speak. He looked at Joe and did. “Dead?” he asked hesitantly. “Dead?”
“Aw,” said Joe without passion, “you make me tired. A little knock like that killing any feller.”
Mr. Neuburg looked across the tall, thin man’s shoulder with an emotionless chuckle. “Since our good Louis took to glue, his morale has become—shall we say—very sticky?” he said softly.
“Well, mustn’t one preserve appearances, Adolf?” the thin man protested nervously. “Now mustn’t one? If anything happened to cause trouble would it help me—any of us? It is by keeping up the appearance of—of honesty that we—we——”
“Timidity has given our dear friend Louis a certain wisdom,” said Neuburg, smiling his creaseless smile. “There is something in what he says.”
“That means,” commented Joe without emotion—“that means you ain’t goin’ to dump this coyote inter the river.”
“No—no—no!” cried the gluemaker feverishly. “If it got out, that would——” The man Louis seemed to have a terror of finishing sentences.
“Aw, you’re crazy,” said Joe. “You make me real tired. Get quit o’ him once and for all, I says.”
“The shock of the water would bring him to,” murmured Mr. Neuburg, not in friendliness towards Clement, but in speculation.
“We could fix that—rope him,” said Joe.
“And that would indicate foul play. So would hitting him over the head, or shooting him before we slipped him into the St. Lawrence....”
“I could keep him safe,” put in the timid Louis. “Safe, up at top of house. In that room he’d never get out. You see.”
“He’d have to get out sometime,” said Mr. Neuburg.
“I’d see that he didn’t.”
“Forever?” put in Joe dryly.
“Well—for long enough. For days, for a week—until you’ve got things fixed....”
“That’s all right,” said Mr. Neuburg with quick decision. “You take him up to that room of yours and keep him tight. Don’t forget he’s a cunning one, whatever you do.—I’m not a pleasant person to have trouble with.” Louis cringed away. “Right; you understand that. In a few days we’ll telegraph you. Then you can let him free.”
“To raise hell,” sneered Joe sullenly, puzzled by Mr. Neuburg’s decision.
Mr. Neuburg turned with his silent swiftness on Joe. He gazed bitterly across Joe’s shoulder. “Do I give orders, Joe, or do you? Do I make mistakes, Joe, or do you?”
Joe shuffled his feet anxiously. Mr. Neuburg was not looking at him, but Joe dropped his gaze to the dirty floor. “Oh, I know you’re the brains, boss ... but I don’t see ...” he muttered.
“I’m seeing for you,” sneered Mr. Neuburg coldly. “You’re a bright feller in a rough-house, but thinking isn’t one of your assets. Just for that I’ll explain to you. Item one, we don’t want trouble in this business. Item two, if we can squash trouble it’s wiser to squash it. Item three, if we can make this fool Englishman feel that he’s played a losing game, that he’s only butting in where he’s not wanted—by the girl; that the girl is happy and content with what she’s doing, an’ so on, and so on, well, he’ll stop making trouble right then an’ there. Item four, given that the girl is what we know she is, and Gunning being licked up to the scratch, an’ the pair or twain thrown together—well, she’ll be content. Do you follow now, my friend? This Heloise girl meets Gunning; Gunning is love’s young dream to her. They fix it up together. That’s settled. We wire Louis here to release this feller; he can even let drop where he is to find the girl. He comes chasing after her. He finds her. She hasn’t a glance for him. She is all for Gunning; maybe, even, she has married him—I think we can fix that up, get a reason for the hurry. Anything this Englishman says to her, he says against Gunning, so it will be an insult. He’ll be simply out of it. So he goes away quietly, for her sake. Do you get it now?”
“If he did go away quietly,” said Joe haltingly. “It has a good sound, what you say, but——”
“And if he doesn’t go away quietly,” said Mr. Neuburg in a soft, cold voice, “well, we will be, perhaps, in the wilds; at Sicamous, or somewhere. Away from cities, from people who ask questions and pry deeply. In the wilds, accidents have a more plausible air, my good Joe; dead men are less noticeable—than—say in Quebec!”
Joe looked at the big mountain of a Mr. Neuburg with a wide-eyed gaze. “I see, you want him to come out and be killed. You’re a wonder of a devil, Adolf,” he said.
“Take his head, Joe, Louis will probably drop him before we get to that room at the top. Louis, his legs.”