He saw Blaze grinning, or some one who must be Blaze, grinning like an imp. The half white woman was in the open doorway, a gigantic figure with rolling eyes and flashing teeth. He had been drugged. Chloral or—
His thoughts were no longer coherent. Mind and body lost coordination as Dugan strove to gather himself, clutching with forceless fingers for his gun. Then he felt himself falling, falling through infinite space in utter blackness.
IV
Dugan woke with a shudder. He had been violently, automatically sick and he still felt the nausea. But that and his own vitality had fought the drug. Still, he could hardly breathe. Sweat poured out of him. He was stretched in some sort of a bunk in darkness, in a place that was unventilated, hot.
Yet he shivered. His brain seemed to open and shut. It was not yet clear, memory did not function. There was the sound of lapping water close by and that proved the link that brought him to full consciousness.
He lay there, listening. He must have been brought to that lower deck Blaze had told him about, truthfully enough, realizing it would sound better than fiction, sure that it would do Dugan no good.
He was miserably weak. The drug had poisoned him. Feebly he felt the damp wall beside him, the sideboard of the bunk he was stretched in. His watch was gone, his gun, his badge. They had stripped him. Blaze and Mother Blinn between them. The pair had probably carried him along the lonely water front. Blaze could not have managed it by himself.
Then he heard voices. A line of dim light showed overhead, widened. A trap was opening. He heard footsteps shuffling on a ladder. Then the click of a switch as an electric light was turned on, dazzling to his blood-injected eyes.
He kept them open, as a drugged man would, staring at the ceiling. Slowly, forced by his will, strength was coming back to him. Very slowly — and he was unarmed, helpless. It was a wonder they had not killed him outright. He guessed why not. Blacky was the type who liked to jeer and gloat over a dick who had fallen for his frame-up.
It had been well planned. They had recognized him, Blaze or some one else, from the first time he had come into the neighborhood. The play at the Nest had been cleverly staged. They knew he would come there sooner or later and they had all been in it. Salterno, the doorman, the singer. And he had fallen for it.
But he could not quite comprehend their virulence. They hated all dicks, of course, but Dugan had not found out anything definite against them. It was true he had pulled off some successful things; they might be afraid of his uncovering them, but, to got rid of him so early, only meant that others would take his place. He had happened in close on a run, but it was very doubtful if he could have interfered with that so swiftly.
The two men came and looked at him. He lay huddled, his eyes fixed.
“What you goin’ to do with him?” asked one of them. “Give him the works?”
Dugan dared not glance at them, dared not show sign of intelligence, hardly of life.
“That’s up to Blacky,” said the other. It was Blaze’s voice. “This is the guy that turned up the Circle Cross outfit. Turned up some others, too. He’s a dangerous dick — or he was. He’ll be crabmeat before mornin’. Cross was Blacky’s pal. Blacky’s gittin’ even.”
“Goin’ to dump him in the river?”
“Naw. Blacky’s too wise fer that. We don’t want no floaters identified. Soon as the load’s clear they’ll put him in the launch an’ take him out on the ebb into the Sound. Blacky’ll weight him down with pigiron ballast an’ let him slide to the bottom.”
“Bump him off first?”
“Not Blacky. He’ll wait fer him to come out of the drops an’ he’ll tell him a few things before he ties him up. He’ll drop him in alive, the dirty—”
Dugan listened to his fate, to the filthy stream of abuse from Blaze’s lips. Rage urged his glands to function. Adrenalin flicked through his system, clearing his blood.
“He sure fell fer the play,” chuckled Blaze. “Figgered he’d saved my life. He nigh busted Blacky’s elbow, though. He had a swell dame with him. I’d have liked to git her. Maybe I can yet, if I can locate her. She’d come runnin’ if she thought he was hurt. Stuck on the lousy dick. Mother Blinn ’ud handle her.”
“You want to cut out monkeyin’ wit’ janes, Blaze,” said the other man. “It’s after twelve. Better open up. They’ll be here in a few minnits. An’ Rocco’s due right now. The stuff’s all sold.”
Dugan dared not look. His blood was racing now, his heart pounding. The talk of Mary summoned the last reserves within him. The drug was still in part possession of him, but they had not bound him. He could hardly hold himself in, but he knew he had slight chance, unarmed, against the two of them.
He felt a draft of air, the smell of tidal water. He guessed what they were doing. Opening up some sort of hatch through which the stolen silk would be passed.
He was grateful for the air, though he dared not fill his lungs. He lay breathing stertorously, unmoving, save for occasional twitches. But his senses were alert once more.
He heard the clink of bottle and glasses. Suddenly a buzzer sounded.
“There’s Rocco,” said Blaze. “Help me open those doors. He’ll run the truck inside.”
They mounted the ladder. Dugan heard their tread overhead. He sat up and realized how weak he still was. His brain seemed filled with fumes and he could not rise. But he had to. It was his only chance. They were busy, but they would not be busy long. Once they came back it was the end. His chance was slim enough, as it was.
He could barely stand. He looked round for some weapon, but that hope faded. He caught up the bottle and swigged from it. It was good liquor and it steadied him though he reeled, from weakness, as he made for the open hatch.
Deputy Commissioner Connelly sat at his desk, laboriously filling in a crossword puzzle with the stump of a lead pencil, a cold cigar between his lips. He was feeling uneasy about Dugan. He had not reported in all day. It might mean that he was hot on a lead, it might mean he had met with some disaster.
If Dugan had a fault, it was that of over initiative. So far his luck had helped his pluck to bring him through. And he had brains. But Connelly was given to hunches and he did not like it.
If he did not hear from the lad soon he meant to send to the Nest. He thought of going himself. Dugan was more to him than a promising detective, one who had the genuine instinct for the game. He was fond of him, as he had been of his father. He admired Dugan’s ambition, his studies; and his affection made him more sensitive to Dugan’s welfare.
Still, the lad had common sense. He would not try to tackle such a gang as the Blackbirds alone. If he had got anything on that outfit.
He pushed aside the puzzle that would not work out to-night, lit his cigar and puffed at it, frowningly. His telephone rang.
“What’s that? What name? Send her in.”
He rose as Mary Brady entered, her face pale. He knew her, knew her affiliation with the Garrity Agency, and he was pretty certain how affairs stood between her and Dugan. She did not take the chair he offered, but stood alert, calm enough, for all the sign of worry in her face.
“I was at the Nest with Jimmy last night,” she said. “There was a quarrel started and Jimmy interfered. A man took hold of me to get at another one. He started to pull a gun. Jimmy fought his way out with a chair. I think it was faked.”
“Why?”
Rapidly she told him the whole story. Came to her conclusion.
“The blonde entertainer must have been in it. She was wearing a lot of jewelry. Most of it was paste, but there was one ring that wasn’t. A diamond nearly eight carats. She didn’t buy that. If we could get hold of her we might find out what has gone wrong.”