“Your brother didn’t know it—”
Her gaze was blank. “I have no brother.”
Donaldson whirled, and Somers followed him as he ran down the stairs to the street. A dark form rushed to meet them.
“Burke! Two men — did you see them? Came out of the house—”
“Three men!” gasped the operative. “I tried to tell you; their car was right at the curb as you went in. The third man came out just now, ahead of you — they drove away—”
Somers started. “Then he told them it wasn’t Miss Ashton?”
“Speak, man! What did he say to the others?”
“I think he made some reference to Leonardos. Something about ‘framing him’—”
“About framing him?” repeated Donaldson. Then, in staggering realization — “My God!”
Somers turned to face him, and the same word was on each man’s white lips:
“Framingham!”
XI
Beatrice Ashton stepped from the entrance of the hotel and crossed the sidewalk to the waiting sedan in nervousness which she still endeavored to conceal. For many minutes she had been ready, waiting, watching the gilded hands of the clock in the lobby with a strange fascination. Eleven twenty! Precisely at the moment, the big car had rolled quietly to the door.
She heard the double snap of the latch, then a soft acceleration of the motor. Through the window she saw two operatives in the doorway of the hotel. The men raised their hats to her, and the automobile glided away.
Beatrice settled back in the roomy seat with a peculiar mixture of emotions. Although eager to be on her way, she felt regret that she must leave the city. Her struggles in the weeks following her arrival, her determination to attain success, made it doubly hard to realize that she must flee for safety. She sat for a few minutes recalling the chaotic events of the day.
The route from the city led uptown through the suburbs, far from the gang districts, yet here and there were flashing electric signs, reminding her of those which beckoned to the cabarets of gangland — places which she had grown to abhor. There was no doubt of it now: fear was in her heart; and it had been there, slowly mounting, through the long hours while she had tried to keep Somers and Donaldson, and even herself, from realizing its presence. Somehow her terrors were more real at night. She shuddered when a touring car drew abreast and passed; and when men stared in at her from street corners, she shrank back from the glass. The terrible hand of the underworld seemed reaching out toward her from the dark.
The chauffeur was driving fast — much faster than necessary, she thought, as she remembered the distance to Framingham. The lights and traffic of the city slipped behind, the streets became quieter, intersections less frequent. Finally, as the car turned sharply off into a much less traveled thoroughfare, Beatrice sat forward in uncertainty.
“Are you sure this is the right road?”
The man did not answer. His silence chilled her. She strained forward in her seat, but only the side of his begoggled face was visible in the dim light from the dash.
A bridge swept into view, and beyond was a solitary blinker marking five corners. The man at the wheel diverged slightly to the right, entering a highway that was lonely and unlighted. He sped on.
“This... this isn’t the way to Framingham!” cried Beatrice, in a hollow, unnatural voice.
The chauffeur spoke thickly:
“To Framingham? No, miss. To Woodfields.”
A choking gasp escaped the girl’s lips. Her throat seemed gripped convulsively, rendering further protest beyond her power. Woodfields! That wasn’t on the railroad division which passed through Framingham; it was a tiny village miles to the south.
But it was too late to call for assistance. The flitting roadside was utterly black, deserted. Into her mind leaped that most fearful phrase in all gangland — “taken for a ride!”
In the tiny railroad station at Woodfields, the lights winked out. A well-built man of thirty appeared in the darkened doorway, fumbling with a ring of keys. From down the track came the staccato coughing of a train gathering headway; a pair of red lights were receding. The man turned in quick surprise as a large sedan swerved into the driveway.
A chauffeur wearing goggles leaped out. Then the rear door opened and a slender, well-dressed girl appeared.
“You’re too late!” called the station agent. “The last train’s just gone.”
“It’s the New York train we want,” returned the chauffeur.
“There’s no train for New York on this division! Only the Nightingale, the crack flyer, no stops.”
“Take a look at this!” the driver of the automobile said, thrusting something toward the railroad man.
They were standing in the glare of the headlights. The motor was still running.
The station agent stared downward, and gave a startled exclamation.
He darted back to the depot and switched on the lights. Seizing a red lantern, he lit it, then hastened out and continued at a rapid trot along the track to the east.
Far down the track, around a bend, came the scream of a whistle, piercing the night. The station master quickened his pace. He stumbled on over the roadbed until a single bright eye appeared in the distance, growing larger, and the shining rails began to pound and sing.
There was another shrill warning — two long and two short — for a crossing. The man raised his lantern.
There was a rush of wind that caught his breath — and the great, glistening hulk of the locomotive took shape behind the headlight. The long line of dark Pullmans went flashing by; then, above the clatter and roar, he heard the grinding bite of the brakes — and sparks were flying from the wheels.
Adrip with cold perspiration, the agent raced back to the depot. He saw the tail-lamps come to a standstill; then quickly they crept again into motion; there came the snorting barks of the giant locomotive as if in indignation — and the night flyer was on its way.
The station master found the platform deserted, the big sedan still waiting with motor running. He paused, unfolding again a crumpled paper — an order signed by the president of the railroad, at the request of the Governor of the State.
The chauffeur had entered the station and was at a telephone.
“Hello? Hello... yes, I hear you perfectly!” came Donaldson’s strained voice from the other end of the line. “Where’s Miss Ashton?”
“On the train.”
“On what train?”
“The Nightingale. Shore line express.”
“Great idea!” cried Donaldson. “And lucky, too, by the Lord! Somers and Burke went racing to Framingham to overtake you, to warn you. The mob learned our plans! They sent gunmen to the Framingham depot!”
“Eh? Well, they would!” the chauffeur flung back. It was the voice of Under Cover Lane.
The Frame-Up
By J. Allan Dunn
Jimmy Dugan Finds Some Strange Birds in Blacky Swain’s “Nest” — One Was a Blonde and the Other Red-Headed
I
Nothing in the shape of a blinking electric sign announced or advertised the Nest. There was not even a name place in connection with that basement combination speakeasy, cabaret and dance hall. Total strangers never discovered it, all those who were not habitués were regarded as outsiders, unless their credentials were exceptional. It was far over on the East Side, the resort of gangsters and their “broads.” A foul place.