“I shall release your mother,” replied Wallace evenly. “She profited by your father’s treachery to me. But she has lost her money and she’s going to lose her son. You and Hearn’s daughter will pay most of your debt elsewhere. Your mother has suffered and will suffer enough.”
Between rage and dread, Hal had to fight for control of himself. He almost lost the struggle.
“It’s all lies!” he shouted. “You’re not Wallace! You’re Irish! You’re McHenry — a sore employee—”
His captor studied him keenly.
“You want all the facts? You’d like to denounce me later, eh? But you believe my story. Have it so.
“In twenty years of wandering I made by bread in many ways. I was on the stage for a while. The part of an Irishman is easy to play. The part of that ignorant, suspicious sailorman who befooled Papaniotis was much more difficult. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”
Hal shook his head slowly.
“You’re insane, of course,” he declared, “or you’d know that you can’t heal old scars by making new ones. There’s something in the Bible about vengeance. Maybe you know it.”
Wallace stood up and pocketed his revolver.
“The Lord had His chance for eighteen years, Evans. But He let my children suffer. Now ‘Vengeance is mine’! I think that’s all between us for to-night.”
He walked out of the cell. Nimbo followed, snapped off the light and bolted the door behind him.
Hal lay still. His back hurt him terribly. But it was forgotten in the torment of his thoughts.
His mother was a prisoner of this madman, who might or might not keep his word to free her. Hal had little doubt that Wallace would capture Dorothy, despite Morgan and McCoy, judging by the devilish ingenuity he had already shown. He and Dan were unarmed — helpless as yet—
If Dan had only gone for help—
A bump and a muffled curse focused his attention elsewhere.
He lifted himself painfully on one elbow. Dan was crawling from under the bed.
“Maybe we can’t get out,” muttered Dan. “But you wanna stay, don’t you?”
Hal dropped on his face with a stifled groan.
“You win the cut glass bath mat, you long eared, wall-eyed, pig headed ass!” he whispered.
“Is that so!”
“And there’s your bray! Well, climb up on this bed and see if you can lay your ears back and kick out these bars overhead. If you step on my back, I’ll pull you apart!”
Dan climbed obediently, fumbled about and shook the bars until the bed creaked under him.
“Not a chance,” he whispered.
Dan stepped off the bed. He felt his way to the door, explored its surface, tested the bolt and returned.
“Nothing doing there,” he said. “But it’s got a bolt on the inside. We could keep ’em out—”
“Sure! While they smoke us out — or starve us to death. You’re mother’s little helper, you are!”
With a sore back, a raging thirst and a sense of utter helplessness, Hal was letting go a little.
“Anybody that didn’t know you,” muttered Dan resentfully, “ ’ud think you was kinda irritated!”
Hal gasped and lay still.
“Well,” he muttered at last, “here’s half the bed. Might as well get some sleep. Maybe Wallace will give us a chance at him alone to-morrow. If we can get his gun and bolt the door, you can keep the others away from the bars and the window...”
“I’ll sleep under the bed,” Dan broke in.
He arranged Hal’s coat over his sore back, took off his own and crawled into hiding.
Luckily, the summer night was so warm that the cellar was not uncomfortably cool.
Shock and exhaustion spared Hal an awakening to his plight until midday. Dan woke earlier, ravenous with hunger. But he kept as quiet as possible, anxious to let his companion sleep and regain his strength.
At noon, Nimbo unbolted the door and flung it open, rousing Hal. The big Nubian shuffled into the room. After him entered a grizzled, hard-eyed individual with a wealth of tattooing on his bare arms. He carried a tray of dishes and a coffee pot. Nimbo removed the dishes with their mocking contents. The sailor set his tray on the table with a crash.
Nimbo grinned vacantly at Hal and the two tramped out again. The door closed. The bolt shot home.
Hal sat up quickly, stared at the tray and sniffed. Unless both sight and smell deceived him, here was a real breakfast: coffee, scrambled eggs, bacon frizzled by an expert, a covered dish that might mean toast—
Dan’s head and long lean neck were thrust, turtle-fashion, from under the cot.
“Food!” he croaked.
Hal reached for the tray, then drew back.
“Food it is. But why — after that other muck? Drugs? Disease germs? Damn Wallace!”
“If you’re gonna let a little thing like that spoil your appetite,” muttered Dan, “lemme taste it—”
“Nothing doing. You’re my ace-in-the-hole if Wallace comes in alone. I’ll taste it myself—”
He did so, since Dan could not scramble out in time to prevent him. There seemed nothing wrong with the food. Hunger conquered caution. Hal began to divide the meal into two equal shares.
Dan stood by with itching fingers. But a dim light filtered into their cell through the window and Hal ordered him out of sight again under the bed.
In a moment he was wolfing his share and passing the other half down to Dan.
Both felt better after the meal. But Hal’s sense of well-being was purely physical. To think of Dorothy in the hands of this madman stung him to apprehension.
About two thirty Nimbo appeared again. This time he was alone. With another grin at Hal, he picked up the tray and departed, bolting the door as usual. But he failed to switch off the light.
When Dan stuck his head out, Hal ordered him, in a vicious whisper, to pull it in again.
A little after three they were startled by hoarse screams from the same distant point. The muffled sounds rose to a crescendo of horror, and ceased abruptly.
Still listening, the two prisoners heard the shuffle of feet along the passage, approaching their door.
“Now for it,” whispered Hal. “Keep out of sight!”
But the shuffle passed on and stopped. Then they heard it again, from somewhere close at hand.
Hal looked up suddenly. The square of barred darkness above his head now showed a light beyond.
He rose cautiously to his knees to look through the bars. Just before his head reached the level of the opening the light beyond went out.
Hal rose no higher, but lay down again. No good showing the silhouette of his head against the light in his cell. He wanted his captors to think him weaker than he actually was. It might add a fraction to his chances.
He was hardly prone again before the cell door opened and Wallace strode in. Hal turned his head wearily. The man’s face was drawn and pale. But his eyes blazed.
Nimbo shuffled in at his heels.
“You heard that bellowing?” Wallace demanded.
“Another victim?” queried Hal in a weak voice.
Wallace advanced to the table. There his figure began to lose its erect tensity. His shoulders drooped a little. The light of fury faded from his eyes, leaving only shadows of hopeless tragedy. The glance that met Hal’s seemed turned inward and blind with pain.
“Gloria died this morning,” he muttered. “She died while I was gone. You heard Papaniotis before he followed her. If I could kill him a thousand times—”
The harsh voice trailed off into silence.
Hal felt his judgment reeling. This was plain murder! Yet Wallace had suffered — was suffering — almost past endurance because of Papaniotis’s old cruelty.
It needed Hal’s dread for Dorothy to steel his determination. Tragedy or no, this madman must be downed.