The White Moll Page 6

  VI. THE RENDEZVOUS

  Rhoda Gray's movements were a little unsteady as she stepped out onthe sidewalk. Gypsy Nan's accepted inebriety was not without itscompensation. It enabled her, as she swayed for a moment, to scrutinizethe street in all directions. Were any of Rough Rorke's men watching thehouse? She did not know; she only knew that as far as she had beenable to discover, she had not been followed when she had gone out thatafternoon. Up the street, to her right, there were a few pedestrians; toher left, as far as the corner, the block was clear. She turned in thelatter direction. She had noticed that afternoon that there was a lanebetween Gypsy Nan's house and the corner; she gained this and slippedinto it unobserved.

  And now, in the comparative darkness, she hurried her steps. Somewherehere in the lane she would make the transformation from Gypsy Nan to theWhite Moll complete; it required only some place in which she could withsafety leave the garments that she discarded, and--Yes, this would do! Atumble-down old shed, its battered door half open, ample proof that theplace was in disuse, intersected the line of high board fence on herright.

  She stole inside. It was utterly dark, but she had no need for light.It was a matter of perhaps three minutes; and then, the revolvertransferred to the pocket of her jacket, the stains removed from herface by the aid of the damp cloth, her hands neatly gloved in blackkid, the skirt, boots, stockings, shawl, spectacles and wig of Gypsy Nancarefully piled together and hidden in a hole under the rotting boardsof the floor, behind the door, she emerged as the White Moll, and wenton again.

  But at the end of the lane, where it met a cross street, and the streetlamp flung out an ominous challenge, and, dim though it was, seemed toglare with the brightness of daylight, she faltered for a moment anddrew back. She knew where Shluker's place was, because she knew, as fewknew it, every nook and cranny in the East Side, and it was a long wayto that old junk shop, almost over to the East River, and--and therewould be lights like this one here that barred her exit from the lane,thousands of them, lights all the way, and--and out there they weresearching everywhere, pitilessly, for the White Moll.

  And then, with her lips tightened, the straight little shoulders thrownresolutely back, she slipped from the lane to the sidewalk, and, huggingthe shadows of the buildings, started forward.

  She was alert now in mind and body, every faculty strained and intension. It was a long way, and it would take a great while--by widedetours, by lanes and alleyways, for only on those streets that wererelatively deserted and poorly lighted would she dare trust herself tothe open. And as she went along, now skirting the side of a street, nowthrough some black courtyard, now forced to take a fence, and taking itwith the agility born of the open, athletic life she had led with herfather in the mining camps of South America, now hiding at the mouthof a lane waiting her chance to cross an intersecting street whensome receding footstep should have died away, the terror of delaycame gripping at her heart with an icy clutch, submerging the fear ofpersonal peril in the agony of dread that, with her progress so slow,she would, after all, be too late. And at times she almost cried out inher vexation and despair, as once, when crouched behind a door-stoop,a policeman, not two yards from her, stood and twirled his night stickunder the street lamp while the minutes sped and raced themselves away.

  When she could run, she ran until it seemed her lungs must burst, butit was slow progress at best, and always the terror grew upon her. HadDanglar met the men yet who had looted the millionaire's safe? Had healready joined Skeeny in that old room behind Shluker's place? Had theSparrow--She would not let her mind frame that question in concretewords. The Sparrow! His real name was Martin, Martin Finch--Marty,for short. Times without number she had visited the sick and widowedmother--while the Sparrow had served a two-years' sentence for his firstconviction in safe-breaking. The Sparrow, from a first-class chauffeurmechanic, had showed signs of becoming a first-class cracksman, it wastrue; but the Sparrow was young, and she had never believed that he wasinherently bad. Her opinion had been confirmed when, some six monthsago, on his release, listening both to her own pleadings and to those ofhis mother, the Sparrow had sworn that he would stick to the "straightand narrow." And Hayden-Bond, the millionaire, referred to by a goodmany people as eccentric, had further proved his claims to eccentricityin the eyes of a good many people by giving a prison bird a chance tomake an honest living, and had engaged the Sparrow as his chauffeur. Itwas a vile and an abominable thing that they were doing, even if theyhad not planned to culminate it with murder. What chance would theSparrow have had!

  It had taken a long time. She did not know how long, as, at last, shestole unnoticed into a black and narrow driveway that led in, betweentwo blocks of down-at-the-heels tenements, to a courtyard in the rear.Shluker had his junk shop here. Her lips pursed up as though defiant ofa tinge of perplexity that had suddenly taken possession of her. She didnot know Shluker, or anything about Shluker's place except its locality;but surely "the old room behind Shluker's" was direction enough,and--She had just emerged from the end of the driveway now, and now,startled, she turned her head quickly, as she heard a brisk step turningin from the street behind her. But in the darkness she could see no one,and satisfied, therefore, that she in turn had not been seen, she movedswiftly to one side, and crouched down against the rear wall of one ofthe tenements. A long moment, that seemed an eternity, passed, andthen a man's form came out from the driveway, and started across thecourtyard.

  She drew in her breath sharply, a curious mingling of relief and asudden panic fear upon her. It was not so dark in the courtyard as ithad been in the driveway, and, unless she were strangely mistaken thatform out there was Danglar's. She watched him as he headed toward asmall building that loomed up like a black, irregular shadow acrossthe courtyard, and which was Shluker's shop--watched him in a tense,fascinated way. She was in time, then--only--only somehow now her limbsseemed to have become weak and powerless. It seemed suddenly as thoughshe craved with all her soul the protecting shadows of the tenement,and that every impulse bade her cling there, flattened against the wall,until she could make her escape. She was afraid now; she shrank from thenext step. It wasn't illogical. She had set out with a purpose inview, and she had not been blind to the danger that she ran, but theprospective and mental encounter with danger did not hold the terrorthat the tangible, concrete and actual presence of that peril did--andthat was Danglar there.

  She felt her face whiten, and she felt the tremor of her lips, tightlyas they were drawn together. Yes, she was afraid, afraid in every fiberof her being, but there was a difference, wasn't there, between beingafraid and being a coward? Her small, gloved hands clenched, her lipsparted slightly. She laughed a little now, low, without mirth. Upon whatshe did or did not do, upon the margin between fear and cowardice asapplied to herself, there hung a man's life. Danglar was disappearingaround the side of Shluker's shop. She moved out from the wall, andswiftly, silently, crossed the courtyard, gained the side of the junkshop in turn, skirted it, and halted, listening, peering around her,as she reached the rear corner of the building. A door closed somewhereahead of her; from above, upstairs, faint streaks of light showedthrough the interstices of a shuttered window.

  She crept forward now, hugging the rear wall, reached a door-the one,obviously, through which Danglar had disappeared, and which shehad heard as it was closed--tried the door, found it unlocked, and,noiselessly, inch by inch, pushed it open; and a moment later, steppingover the threshold, she closed it softly behind her. A dull glow oflight, emanating evidently from an open door above, disclosed the upperportion of a stairway over on her left, but apart from that the placewas in blackness, and save that she knew, of course, she was in the rearof Shluker's junk shop, she could form no idea of her surroundings.But she could, at last, hear. Voices, one of which she recognized asDanglar's, though she could not distinguish the words, reached her fromupstairs.

  Slowly, with infinite care, she crossed to the stairs, and on hands andknees now, lest she should make a sound, began
to crawl upward. And alittle way up, panic fear seized upon her again, and her heart stoodstill, and she turned a miserable face in the darkness back toward thedoor below, and fought against the impulse to retreat again.

  And then she heard Danglar speak, and from her new vantage point hiswords came to her distinctly this time:

  "Good work, Skeeny! You've got the Sparrow nicely trussed up, I see.Well, he'll do as he is for a while there. I told the boys to hold off abit. It's safer to wait an hour or two yet, before moving him away fromhere and bumping him off."

  "Two jobs instead of one!" a surly voice answered. "We might just aswell have finished him and slipped him away for keeps when we first gotour hooks on him."

  "Got a little sick of your wood-carving, while you stuck around by yourlonesome and watched him--eh?" Danglar's tones were jocularly facetious."Don't grouch, Skeeny! We're not killing for fun--it doesn't pay.Supposing anything had broken wrong up the Avenue--eh? We wouldn't havehad our friend the Sparrow there for the next time we tried it!"

  There was something abhorrently callous in the laugh that followed. Itseemed to fan into flame a smoldering fire of passionate anger in RhodaGray's soul. And before it panic fled. Her hand felt upward for the nextstair-tread, and she crept on again, as a face seemed to rise beforeher--not the Sparrow's face--a woman's face. It was a face that wascrowned with very thin white hair, and its eyes were the saddest she hadever seen, and yet they were brave, steady old eyes that had not losttheir faith; nor had the old, care-lined face itself, in spite ofsuffering, lost its gentleness and sweetness. And then suddenly itseemed to change, that face, and become wreathed in smiles, and happytears to run coursing down the wrinkled cheeks. Yes, she remembered! Ithad brought the tears to her own eyes. It was the night that the waywardSparrow, home from the penitentiary, on his knees, his head buried inhis mother's lap, had sworn that he would go straight.

  Fear! It seemed as though she never had known, never could knowfear--that only a merciless, tigerish, unbridled fury had her in itsthrall. And she went on up, step after step, as Danglar spoke again:

  "There's nothing to it! The Sparrow there fell for the telephone whenStevie played the doctor. And old Hayden-Bond of course grants hisprison-bird chauffeur's request to spend the night with his mother, whothe doctor says is taken worse, because the old guy knows there is amother who really is sick. Only Mr. Hayden-Bond, and the police withhim, will maybe figure it a little differently in the morning when theyfind the safe looted, and that the Sparrow, instead of ever going nearthe poor old dame, has flown the coop and can't be found. And in casethere's any lingering doubt in their minds, that piece of paper with thegrease-smudges and the Sparrow's greasy finger-prints on it, that youremember we copped a few days ago in the garage, will set them straight.The Cricket slipped it in among the papers he pulled out of the safeand tossed around on the floor. It looks as though a tool had been wipedwith it while the safe was being cracked, and that it got covered overby the stuff that was emptied out, and had been forgotten. I guess theywon't be long in comparing the finger-prints with the ones the Sparrowkindly left with them when they measured him for his striped suit thetime they sent him up the river--eh?"

  Rhoda Gray could see now. Her eyes were on a level with the landing, anddiagonally across from the head of the stairs was the open doorway of alighted room. She could not see all of the interior, but she could seequite enough. Two men sat, side face to her, one at each end of a rough,deal table--Danglar, and an ugly, pock-marked, unshaven man, in a peakedcap that was drawn down over his eyes, who whittled at a stick with ahuge jack-knife. The latter was Skeeny, obviously; and the jack-knifeand the stick, quite as obviously, explained Danglar's facetiousreference to wood-carving. And then her eyes shifted, and widened asthey rested on a huddled form that she could see by looking under andbeyond the table, and that lay sprawled out against the far wall of theroom.

  Skeeny pushed the peak of his cap back with the point of hisknife-blade.

  "What's the haul size up at?" he demanded. "Anything in the safe besidesthe shiners?"

  "A few hundred dollars," Danglar replied. "I don't know exactly howmuch. I told the Cricket to divide it up among the boys who did therough work. That's good enough, isn't it, Skeeny? It gives you a littleextra. You'll get yours."

  Skeeny grunted compliance.

  "Well, let's have a look at the white ones, then," he said.

  Rhoda Gray was standing upright in the little hallway now, and now,pressed close against the wall, she edged toward the door-jamb. And aqueer, grim little smile came and twisted the sensitive lips, as shedrew her revolver from her pocket. The merciless, pitiless way in whichthe newspapers had flayed the White Moll was not, after all, to bewholly regretted! The cool, clever resourcefulness, the years ofreckless daring attributed to the White Moll, would stand her in goodstead now. Everybody on the East Side knew her by sight. These men knewher. It was not merely a woman ambitiously attempting to beard two menwho, perhaps, holding her sex in contempt in an adventure of thiskind, might throw discretion to the winds and give scant respect to herrevolver, for behind the muzzle of that revolver was the reputation ofthe White Moll. They would take her at face value--as one who not onlyknew how to use that revolver, but as one who would not hesitate aninstant to do so.

  From the room she heard Skeeny whistle low under his breath, as thoughin sudden and amazed delight--and then she was standing full in the opendoorway, and her revolver in her outflung, gloved hand covered the twomen at the table.

  There was a startled cry from Skeeny, a scintillating flash of light asa magnificent string of diamonds fell from his hand to the table. ButDanglar did not move or speak; only his lips twitched, and a queerwhiteness came and spread itself over his face.

  "Put up your hands-both of you!" she ordered, in a low, tense voice.

  It was Skeeny who spoke, as both men obeyed her. "The White Moll, sohelp me!" he mumbled, and swallowed hard.

  Danglar's eyes never seemed to leave her face, and they narrowed now,full of hatred and a fury that lie made no attempt to conceal. Shesmiled at him coldly. She quite understood! He had already complainedthat evening that the White Moll for the last few weeks had been robbingthem of the fruits of their laboriously planned schemes. And now-again!Well, she would not dispel his illusion! He had given the White Mollthat role--and it was the safest role to play.

  She stepped forward now, and with her free hand suddenly pulled thetable toward her out of their reach; and then, as she picked up thenecklace, she appeared for the first time to become aware of thepresence of the huddled form on the floor near the wall. She could seethat the Sparrow was bound and gagged, and as he squirmed now he turnedhis face toward her.

  "Why, it's the Sparrow, isn't it?" she exclaimed sharply; then, evenly,to the two men: "I had no idea you were so hospitable! Push your chairscloser together--with your feet, not your hands! You are easier to watchif you are not too far apart."

  Dangler complied sullenly. Skeeny, over the scraping of his chair legs,cursed in a sort of unnerved abandon, as he obeyed her.

  "Thank you!" said Rhoda Gray pleasantly--and calmly tucked the necklaceinto her bodice.

  The act seemed to rouse Danglar to the last pitch of fury. The bloodrushed in an angry tide to his face, and, suffusing, purpled his cheeks.

  "This isn't the first crack you've made!" he flung out hoarsely. "You'vebeen getting wise to a whole lot lately somehow, you and that dude palof yours, but you'll pay for it, you female devil! Understand? By God,you'll pay for it! I promise you that you'll pray yet on your bendedknees for the chance to take your own life! Do you hear?"

  "I hear," said Rhoda Gray coldly.

  She picked up the jack-knife from the table, and keeping both mencovered, stepped backward to the wall. Here, kneeling, she reachedbehind her with her left hand, and felt for, and cut the heavy cord thatbound the Sparrow's arms; then, pushing the knife into the Sparrow'shands that he might free himself from the rest of his bonds, she stoodup again.
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  A moment more, and the Sparrow, rubbing the circulation back into hiswrists, stood beside her. There was a look on the young, white face thatwas not good to see. He circled dry lips with the tip of his tongue andthen his thumb began to feel over the blade of the big jack-knife in asort of horribly supercritical appraisal of its edge. He spoke thicklyfor the gag that had been in his mouth.

  "You dirty skates!" he whispered. "You were going to bump me off, wereyou? You planted me cold, did you? Oh, hell!" His laugh, like the laughof one insane, jangling, discordant, rang through the room. "Well,it's my turn now, and"--his body was coiling itself in a slow, curious,almost snake-like fashion--"and you'll--"

  Rhoda Gray laid her hand on the Sparrow's arm.

  "Not that way, Marty," she said quietly. She smiled thinly at Danglar,who, with genuinely frightened eyes now, seemed fascinated by theSparrow's movements. "I wouldn't care to have anything happen to Mr.Danglar--yet. He has been invaluable to me, and I am sure he will beagain."

  The Sparrow brushed his hands across his eyes, and stared at her. Helicked his lips again. He appeared to be obsessed with the knife-bladein his hand--dazed in a strange way to all else.

  "There's enough cord there for both of them," said Rhoda Gray crisply."Tie them in their chairs, Marty."

  For a moment the Sparrow hesitated; and then, with a sort of queerreluctancy, he dropped the knife on the table, and went and picked upthe strands of cord from the floor.

  No one spoke. The Sparrow, with twitching lips as he worked, and workednot gently, bound first Danglar and then Skeeny to their respectivechairs. Skeeny for the most part kept his eyes on the floor, castingonly furtive glances at Rhoda Gray's revolver muzzle. But Danglar wassmiling now. He had very white teeth. There was something of primal,insensate fury in the hard-drawn, parted lips. Somehow he seemed toremind Rhoda Gray of a beast, stung to madness, but impotent behind thebars of its cage, as it showed its fangs.

  "We'll go now, Marty," she said softly, as the Sparrow finished.

  She motioned the Sparrow with an imperious little nod of her head to thedoor. And then, following the other, she backed to the door herself, andhalted an instant on the threshold.

  "It has been a very profitable evening, Mr. Danglar," she said coolly."I have you to thank for it. When your friends come, which I think Iheard you say would be in another hour or so, I hope you will not failto convey to them my--"

  "You she-fiend!" Danglar had found his voice again. "You'll crawl forthis! Do you understand? and I'll show you inside of twenty-four hourswhat you're up against, you--you--" His voice broke in its fury. Theveins were standing out on the side of his neck like whipcords. He couldjust move his forearms a little, and his hands reached out toward her,curved like claws. "I'll--"

  But Rhoda Gray had closed the door behind her, and, with the Sparrow,was retreating down the stairs.