Jim’s first move was to get rid of the two guns he was carrying. He might be able to explain away the necklace with Hewes’s assistance, but never the guns. He stumbled across the yard, littered with trash, to the next fence and pulled himself up. A shout rose behind him and the top of the fence a foot from him was splintered by a bullet. One of the detectives had mounted the wall behind to have a look around and had spotted him.
Jim literally fell over the wall into the next yard and then paused to take stock of the situation. It would be too hazardous to climb again, for they would be waiting, and his chances of escaping another bullet would be unpleasantly slim. The dim light from an upper window gave him a faint glimpse of his surroundings. He was in the back yard of a rather modern apartment building, and just to the right of it was a service passage leading to the street. This must be his avenue of escape and he started on the run down it. At the exit to the street he paused and looked cautiously out, only to withdraw hurriedly. Two of Ives’s men were patrolling the sidewalk. Behind him he could hear the shouts of the rest of the party. He was trapped.
Jim looked frantically about him. If he was to be caught he must dispose of the necklace in some place where Martin Hewes could recover it even if he himself were to land in prison. Voices were drawing nearer and whatever he did must be done quickly. There was a row of ash cans standing in the alley waiting for the collector to come for them in the morning, and it was into one of these that Jim pushed the plush box containing the diamonds and covered it over with ashes. He moved along down the alley so that he would not be near the cans when the police closed in, thus attracting attention to them. It was then that he noticed the open cellar window.
With an agility he had not believed possible he squeezed his way through this narrow opening and dropped down into a coal bin. He lay still, praying that the coals would stop their rattling avalanche before the policemen drew abreast of the window. He could hear them now, talking excitedly. They hurried on past the window to the street where they were joined by the others. Here a council of war was held, the men from the street swearing that Jim had not come out. Ives returned down the alley and Jim could hear him giving orders for every house and basement to be searched. Inspector Ives was a thorough man.
An hour of painful waiting ensued. At last the most crucial moment arrived when the detectives came into the very cellar where Jim was hiding, buried now under the coal so that unless they shoveled the stuff out of the bin they would not find him. Ives was not in this particular search party or else that very thing might have been done, but once more fate was with him and after an exhaustive search the detectives left him unmolested.
At last Jim pulled himself out of the bin, dirty and tired almost to the breaking point. There was no sound in the alley and with care Jim wriggled his way out through the cellar window and into the open. The only thing to do now was to retrieve the necklace and phone Martin Hewes for advice. It would be impossible to return to his friend’s house, for that would be watched. He started slowly down the alley toward the ash cans when something was suddenly rammed sharply into the small of his back.
“Put up your hands, Garth! Quick!”
The order was given in a hoarse whisper. Slowly, discouraged, Jim raised his hands. There was a clanking of metal and a pair of handcuffs were snapped over his wrists. Slowly he turned to face his captor, and as he saw him in the glimmer of light from that upper window a cry escaped him. The man before him, pistol in hand, was Basil Sheringham.
Chapter XII
Trial by Fire
Sheringham’s lips twisted in a characteristic sardonic grin. The light reflected from the green glass in his eye gave him a definitely sinister look.
“Well, Garth, I hadn’t expected a reunion with you so soon,” he said, a faint chuckle in his voice. “When I heard you had been at the party tonight and disappeared at the same time that my friend Cronin made his getaway I guessed that somehow you were onto the play. Where’s the necklace?”
Jim was collecting his equilibrium rapidly. There hadn’t been time for Cronin to recover and report to his master, so that it was apparent that Sheringham was guessing.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sheringham,” he said.
Sheringham sighed. “Ah, well, we can’t discuss it here. Just precede me up the alley, Garth, and don’t make any attempt at a get-away because I’m not in the mood to hold my trigger finger.”
Jim knew that Sheringham was dangerous and he was in no position to argue. He turned and walked slowly out the alley to the street, and Sheringham, walking behind, kept the muzzle of his pistol pressed into the small of Jim’s back. When they reached the street a curtained limousine pulled up at the curb, and Sheringham ushered his prisoner into the back of the car and took the seat beside him. The driver pulled away without waiting for orders. Sheringham leaned back on the cushions and lit a cigarette. He spoke in a bantering tone, but Jim recognized that underneath it was a decidedly menacing note.
“I overheard Inspector Ives’s plans for your capture,” said the man with the green eyeglass, “and I thought I would be present. I wanted to know whether you had managed to get the necklace from Cronin. I’m certain now that you did, else why should you run from the police?”
“I don’t know what it’s all about,” said Jim stolidly.
Sheringham laughed unpleasantly. “You’ll talk, my dear fellow. I’m not in the mood to let you stand in my way to-night. Did you kill Cronin?”
“Who’s Cronin?” asked Jim Garth blankly.
The drive was a short one and when the car stopped before a large private house on lower Park Avenue, Sheringham got out, and with the revolver hidden in the folds of his overcoat, kept Jim covered while he followed. There was nothing to be gained by resistance. The chauffeur opened the door of the house and followed the explorer and his prisoner in. Sheringham dropped his coat and hat in the hall and walked behind Jim into a sort of trophy room where he kept mementoes of the days when he had really been a big game hunter. Jim knew the house well, for in the days of his unfortunate association with Sheringham he had been in it often. The chauffeur came along as well. Sheringham nodded to him.
“Search him, Macfee.”
Roughly and thoroughly Macfee went over Jim’s clothes, but in the end he turned to Sheringham with a shrug.
“Nothing doing, chief.”
Sheringham stared thoughtfully at his prisoner, who was looking down into the flames of the fire which burned hotly on the hearth. He knew something of Garth’s mettle and he wondered to just what lengths it would be necessary to go in order to force him to talk. As he meditated on the best procedure the door to the trophy room opened and Kid Cronin came in. He was a sadly battered and dilapidated looking specimen. The ever present cigarette hung between bruised and puffed lips. His cheek was cut, his clothes torn, and one of his close-set eyes was almost closed. At the sight of Garth an expression of murderous hatred flashed across his face. He reached under his left arm-pit, forgetting for the moment that his gun was missing. Then he pointed at Jim.
“That bird has the necklace, chief.” he said hoarsely.
Sheringham nodded. “I thought as much, Kid.” He smiled. “Still in a complete fog as to what it’s all about, Garth?”
“Complete,” said Jim, blandly.
Sheringham’s fist clenched suddenly, and his lips tightened. “Tie him to that straight-backed chair,” he ordered Macfee and Cronin abruptly.