If it had not been Cavassier, whom had it been in her thoughts? He shook off this intensely irritating question to which he could not know the answer, and remembered how he had fallen into the car with her, half crushing her beneath his own body.
“Did I hurt you, Celia?” he murmured in her ear anxiously. “Oh, my darling, are you injured? Answer me, for God’s sake!”
There was a change in her breathing. In the gloom of the limousine’s interior he could feel her eyes upon him. A shudder ran through her frame.
“That awful being!” she whispered. “Where is he? Did we escape?”
“We didn’t do anything else,” he answered with a nervous little laugh, clasping her bundled form closer.
She nodded. “It was so silly of me to scream. I am sorry, but it frightened me.”
“I was scared to death myself,” he admitted. “I wonder if I hit him.”
“Did you fire your gun, señor?”
“I did, but I fear I didn’t do him any damage. I didn’t see his face clearly at all. Did you?”
“No,” she answered slowly. “And yet, there was something familiar about him, awful though he was. I... I wonder if I’ve seen him before.”
“That was the man who had Cavassier make that telephone call. His name is Dr. Dax — and he is from Brazil. Think! Have you ever heard of him?”
She knit her brows in concentration.
“I have heard that name,” she said. “Dax... Dax — it sounds strangely familiar. But I do not recall — perhaps my father would know. Oh, let us speak of something else, señor.”
She shuddered again, and he tightened his embrace reassuringly. He did not think to release her now that she was again herself. Neither did she suggest it. She seemed content to lie in his arms. But for once her delicious proximity, her charm, failed to usurp all of his faculties.
Martin could not forget the tragic expression on the face of Jonathan Rookes. He remembered the case of Palmer Hollis-worth, and wondered.
Chapter XLIV
The Man at the Wheel
The aristocratic confines of Chevy Chase had long since been left behind. It was suicide to speed along the wet and slippery streets at this mad pace they were traveling.
Since pursuit was not pressing, the more moderate pace of forty miles per hour would be advisable. He so instructed the driver.
“Where are we going, señor?” she asked him.
Martin considered this question. He had told the chauffeur to drive to the police station, but that did not seem so logical a procedure now that they had escaped in safety.
In the first place, there would be neither MacCray nor Clausen there to consult with. A raid on the Palace Nocturne now would hardly find Dr. Dax there. It would only cause Carlyle a great deal of trouble and gain nothing.
What a fool he had been to undertake his investigation alone! He had bungled the job, and Dr. Dax, warned and on guard, had escaped. Martin cherished no illusion that he may have shot the monster; he knew that he had not.
What could he tell MacCray if he found him? Nothing save that he had frightened Dr. Dax away from the Palace Nocturne. A fine report to make! He had to learn something now in order to tell the detective.
And there was one man who might be able to give him some information. It was after twelve o’clock, but who cared for conventionalities at a time like this?
“Where are we going?” he repeated slowly. “We are going to your home, where I am going to await the return of your father. If he doesn’t show up within an hour I shall... I shall go back to the Palace Nocturne and hunt for him.
“Driver, take us to Kingsley Mansions out on Sixteenth, and then you may do what you please. However, I wouldn’t advise you to report this matter to the police.”
“I am not liable to,” retorted the other dryly. “Since this happens to be the car of the owner of the joint.”
“What? You are Carl Monte’s chauffeur? This is his car?”
“Precisely, sir. He hadn’t been in the house thirty minutes before you came running through the garden.”
“Well, of all the Turpin luck!”
“I beg pardon, sir.”
“Cock-eyed luck, man. Say—”
A sudden thought struck Martin. Could Carl Monte and Dr. Dax be by any chance the same man?
“So you are Dax’s chauffeur,” he said with the air of one who understands much. “To think that I took the car and driver of the man who was after me.”
“Not Dax,” corrected the driver calmly. “Carl Monte.”
“They are the same man,” accused Martin.
“I beg to differ with you, Mr. Martin,” said the chauffeur gravely. “Even Mr. MacCray knew that.”
“You know me? You know MacCray?” The reporter gasped in amazement.
“I recognized you after we left the casino. I don’t imagine anybody would have stopped to inquire into identity at such a moment.”
“Who are you?”
“The driver of Carl Monte’s car.”
“Then, who is Carl Monte?”
“Sir, I am not at liberty to answer. Suppose you ask Mr. MacCray.”
“This beats me,” Martin murmured to the girl in his arms. To the driver he said:
“Where is this MacCray you speak of?”
“On the trail of Dr. Dax, just as you seem to be.”
“On second thought,” Martin ordered grimly, “we will go down to police headquarters, where I can have a little talk with you.”
“I strongly advise you against such a course,” warned the driver quickly. “You will likely interfere with Mr. MacCray’s plans.”
“What is your name?”
“Charles Glepen, sir.”
“Well, I don’t know you by name, Charles,” commented Martin grimly. “But I’m going to have a good look at you when we get to Kingsley Mansions.”
“You won’t know me, sir.”
“Then, how the devil do you pretend to know me?”
“Who, in Washington, doesn’t know Fred Martin these days? It is not impossible to have him pointed out. Besides, you have access to the Palace Nocturne which belongs to Mr. Monte.”
“You either know something I need to know, or you simply talk too much. Speed it up. You’re going into Kingsley Mansions with us for a little heart to heart talk.”
“Very well, sir.”
Kingsley Mansions was dark except for the light in the lower hall. With the lap-robe still wrapped about her slim figure in the approved style of the American squaw, Celia Debara got out of Martin’s arms demurely and led them into the building.
Uncomplainingly Glepen followed her, Martin bringing up the rear with his gun muzzle resting against the fellow’s spine.
The Señora Inez was up and anxiously awaiting the return of the Debaras. She admitted the oddly assorted trio in astonishment.
Martin motioned his captive to a chair as the old woman burst forth in a torrent of voluble Spanish. Celia stemmed the flood quickly.
“Does she understand English?” Martin asked the girl. He was beginning to grow suspicious of every one.
“Only a few words, señor.”
“Too many,” he decided. “Send her straight to bed. Where is the professor’s secretary?”
Celia questioned the duenna, and the latter replied that he was still out on some business for his master. Martin nodded in understanding to eliminate an unnecessary translation.
As the old woman, grumbling to herself, withdrew from the room he turned to the chauffeur:
“Now, then, Charles Glepen, we’ll take up our conversation where we left off. You’ll either tell me what you know, or we’ll take a trip down to headquarters. And I haven’t much time to coax you along, either.”