He let the ash can drop back with a thud. His companion grinned. The big container was certainly empty. Its comparative lightness proved that fact.
The inspectors dropped from the truck. They watched it roll away. Neither noted the location of the handles on that last ash can that pressed against the chains. Those handles were a trifle lower than the others — a sign that the container was upside down. But the detail escaped observation.
The burdened truck clattered along a highway. Its speed slowed; the vehicle groaned as the driver shifted into a low gear for an up grade. The penitentiary was miles behind; the truck was going at a snail’s pace now.
The chain-pressing ash can raised slowly upward. Two legs emerged from beneath it. A tall body slipped away and slid under the lower chain. A gray-clad form dropped into the road. The truck was winding up a sharp-turning hill. No other vehicles were in sight.
The man in somber gray scrambled to his feet and dashed toward the shelter of a clump of bushes at the side of the road. He crouched there while an automobile came speeding down the grade. Then he climbed the bank and made for a small cluster of trees at the top.
The day ended. Gray, clouded night followed. A man crept into a darkened farmhouse. He found an upstairs room, and discovered a suit of clothes hanging in the closet.
Hours later, a man in a dark-brown suit picked up a lift on a highway near that farmhouse. He conversed affably with the motorist who was giving him the ride. He dropped off when they reached a town.
Back in the penitentiary, the alarm had gone out. A prisoner was missing. The method of his departure was unknown. Guards were searching for his means of escape.
That man was far away, still wending his course across the State. Convict 9648 was once more Herbert Carpenter!
CHAPTER XIII
A MAN AT BAY
THE summer season at Seaview City had reached its height. Gay crowds thronged the board walk. The Club Catalina was doing great business.
It was here that a tall, furtive man appeared early in the evening, to take his place at an obscure table. He seemed possessed of a desire to keep out of the light, this man. He had good reason. He was none other than Herbert Carpenter.
The escaped convict had come to Seaview City with definite intent. Despite the fact that he had been arrested and convicted in this resort, he figured that it afforded him comparative security. Even if any one had looked for him, he was disguised well enough to avoid detection.
Last night, Carpenter had visited his cottage. There, he had found only the children — asleep — and in care of an elderly woman whom Jerry Stevens had provided. Carpenter had not lingered long. He knew that Madge must be in the hospital.
Carpenter’s path to Seaview City had been a circuitous one. First he had visited the town where he had his small savings account. He had drawn the money, and mailed some of it to Jerry Stevens in New York, keeping enough to finance himself for a short time in Seaview City.
But in his heart, Carpenter knew that misery and poverty were here. Those funds had amounted to only a few hundred dollars; the amount that he had sent to Jerry was only enough to enable the brother-in-law to bluff along until more cash was forthcoming.
Money! He must have it! That was why Herbert Carpenter had come here — to learn if Big Tom Bagshawe was around. It would be easier to reach the gambling king than it would be to approach the others. Big Tom would have to come through — if he hesitated, Carpenter would force the issue.
Observant, Carpenter noticed well-dressed folk ascending the stairway. He knew the significance. The gambling joint was opened again. Evidently it was running strong.
Carpenter smiled grimly. That meant that money would be available; yet he knew the risk of walking openly into the place upstairs. There he would be questioned; perhaps his identity would be discovered.
A waiter was standing near the table. Carpenter signaled to the fellow. The waiter came forward. Carpenter nudged his thumb toward the stairway.
“Wheels going again?” he asked, in a low tone.
The waiter grinned.
“Sure,” he said. “They opened up several weeks ago. No trouble any more.”
“How does that happen? I thought there had been a clean-up here in Seaview City.”
“That was early in the season, sir. Lots of crooks around here, then. After the clean-up, everything was nice and quiet. Too quiet for good business. So they eased up, sir. Leaving the first-class places alone—”
Carpenter understood. The crime kings were again operating, beginning as before, with profits from Big Tom Bagshawe as a starter.
Shifter Reeves was unquestionably through — dope had gone the voyage with blackmail. But Hooks Borglund still remained. He was the king whom Wheels Bryant was holding in reserve. His work would be the wind-up!
TO Herbert Carpenter, this new knowledge was the final word of faithlessness. Money was again entering Wheels Bryant’s coffers; yet the hidden ace had utterly neglected the man who had taken the rap!
“Waiter,” said Carpenter, in a low voice, “how can I get up to the roulette game? Do I have to see the manager?”
“No,” was the response. “I can fix it. Maybe—”
Carpenter caught the tone. He brought out a ten-dollar bill. The waiter pocketed the money.
“Wait here,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Howard Seabrook,” responded Carpenter.
The waiter walked away. He returned with a card that bore the manager’s initials. It was made out to Howard Seabrook. There was a line for the bearer’s signature.
“Just put your name on there,” whispered the waiter. “If they want to question you, verify it.”
Carpenter nodded. He walked from the Club Catalina and strolled along the board walk, until he reached the Hotel Pavilion.
In an obscure corner of the lobby, Carpenter viewed the throngs of passing guests.
Old thoughts of blackmail came to his mind. Here, with the season drawing to a close, the wealthiest of visitors were present. But Carpenter knew that his game was ended. Not only that — he felt a strange distaste for crime. He had learned that it did not pay.
Paradoxically, Carpenter had no qualms about accepting funds. He felt that a share of the crime kings’ spoils belonged to him. He had contributed to their coffers. He had taken the rap.
A pay-off — that was what he wanted! Then he would be through. Out of the country — South America — freedom — a new start!
He pictured himself, far away, rejoined by Madge and the children. That was his goal. To reach it, he must play a bold stroke, and gain some of the spoils that belonged to him. As he dwelt upon these thoughts, Carpenter experienced another urge. Vengeance!
If only he were free to deal with Wheels Bryant and the others as they deserved! Double-crossers — four of them! Carpenter’s lips tightened in disdain.
A bell boy was approaching. Carpenter shrank back in his chair. He feared that the attendant might be looking for Howard Seabrook. Instead, the boy walked past and stopped at a chair where an elderly gentleman was seated.
“You are Mr. Phineas Twambley?” the boy asked.
“Yes,” replied the old gentleman, in a quavering voice.
“A call for you, sir.”
Phineas Twambley arose. Herbert Carpenter watched him curiously. The old man was a strange figure. His stooping shoulders seemed to rely upon the gold-headed cane which his clawlike hand clutched. His face was smooth and benign — a countenance that reflected a life of gentle mildness.
Voices came to Herbert Carpenter’s ears as the old man tottered away. The blackmailer listened intently. Two people were speaking close beside him.