“Where’d you say Slim was going to meet me?” he asked again.
“At the Edgewood Hotel; I will have to go for him”; Long had to stick by his story.
The convict didn’t like the idea of the hotel. Why didn’t Slim pick out one of the regular hangouts.
“How you goin’ to get me in that hotel? I can’t go through the front. Slim must be crazy sending me to a hotel where the bulls could find me without lookin’.”
Why had Slim picked out a hotel? It didn’t seem natural. Again Long took a chance.
“A hotel is just the place they wouldn’t look for you. It’s too public. I’ll take you up the back way.”
“And have everybody asking why. No you don’t.”
“No one will see you but the porter, and he knows me. I live there.” If he could get the man to his room he might find a way. That menacing tone behind him had driven out any thought of attempting to hail an officer.
“Well, see that you keep to the dark streets. I don’t like this much,” and the convict’s tone carried dread.
They were in the outskirts of Edgewood, and the man on the back seat pulled the cap down over his eyes and huddled into a corner. His eyes never left Long’s hands as they gripped the steering wheel. He wasn’t quite sure of this driver, even though he talked so smoothly.
And Long gave up hope of being stopped by a policeman. That first caution about driving had been sufficient. He was going carefully now. Through side streets and up alleys he drove and he twisted and turned by devious ways. Long could not shake off the thought of Slim Bates following close behind. Finally he brought the car to a stop.
In an instant the convict was leaning over him, and Long’s vision of the revolver at his back was a reality.
“What are you doin’?” he demanded. A nameless iron door showed under the glare of a light. Iron doors meant barred windows to the man who had done murder to escape them. And there was murder in his voice now.
“This is the back door of the Edgewood Hotel,” and Long struggled to keep his voice steady. “Wait until I get the porter.”
“Don’t you leave me. Just knock until he comes.”
So, Long knocked and prayed that no questions would be asked by whoever opened it. Eventually the knock was answered, and a negro stuck his head out. The convict settled back in his seat, but Long could still feel in memory the ominous thrust of the revolver muzzle.
“Whacha want?” the porter demanded. “Howdy, Mista Long, I didn’t reckugnize you. Is they anythin’ the mattah?”
“Nothing, Julius. Just a friend of mine in an accident, and I want to take him upstairs the back way to my room.”
“Come right on in. It’s suttinly too bad. Is you hurt much?” and Julius looked with amazement at the dust-covered, blood-streaked man who accompanied Long. But the negro went without an answer as he took them up in the freight elevator.
The corridors were empty as Long led the way to his room.
“Slim said not to telephone, but to come for him,” Long said when they were inside. “You wash up, and I’ll go get him.”
“Looka here. I don’t like this. Slim ain’t actin’ right.”
“He figured it out as the best way. I’m risking my neck helping you now. You will have to fight it out with Slim. I’d take you out, but Slim said he would bring your clothes when I got you here. You can’t wear mine.” The convict didn’t reply as he felt the constriction of the dust coat across his burly shoulders.
“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring Slim back with me,” Long started for the door.
“Well, see’t you make it snappy,” and the convict threw himself onto the bed.
He stretched himself luxuriously. This was something like. He was almost free now. Slim would have the rest of it all arranged. He burrowed his way down into the softness of the bed. How tired he was. That guy who brought him here wasn’t so bad, after all. He would tell him so when he came back. He thought at first he’d made a mistake. But old Slim knew what he was doing, and now Slim was coming. Nothing further to worry about.
A knock on the door roused him from a doze. Sleepily he rose to his feet. Slim was here, and soon he could go to bed for a week.
He crossed the room hastily and opened the door.
With mouth agape he stared into a revolver in the hands of a detective.
III
Back in the Bayfield cutoff Slim Bates raised the hood of his car, drawn into the bushes at the side of the road, and cursed. Every connection had been tom loose from the fuse-board.
The Trap
by R. T. M. Scott
I
The dusty, sun-baked train of the Madras Railway rumbled across the long bridge over the Kistna River and came to a halt at Bezwada. Smith of the Criminal Intelligence Department of India threw open the door of his first-class compartment and strolled indolently through the throng of shouting natives toward the station restaurant. Shrill-voiced pawnee-wallahs lugged their skins of water from window to window of the third-class carriages and sweetmeat venders cried the virtues of their confections as they held their trays aloft.
It was an old story to Smith and one might have thought that he paid no attention whatever to his surroundings. He gave no sign of interest but in reality he was keenly interested. Three times during the last ten days had his life been attempted. It was well for him to be on the alert.
After a light tiffin Smith sauntered up and down the platform for a few minutes before the train was due to resume its long journey to Calcutta. He was the only white man among the crowds of natives. Indeed there were only two first-class compartments on the entire train. One of these — directly in rear of Smith’s compartment — was reserved for ladies. An unusually old ayah scuttled backwards and forwards between this compartment and the restaurant. She was busy with refreshments for her mistress, who preferred not to leave the train and who kept her blinds drawn against the curious gaze of the natives.
Sharp toots of warning from the engine caused Smith to turn abruptly and enter his compartment. As he closed the door behind him he heard it opened again and he turned like a flash to ascertain the cause. Unexpected occurrences had come to have ominous significance for him of late.
What Smith saw upon turning, however, did not seem very dangerous. He was a dapper, little man who entered, smooth shaven and far from strong in physical appearance. He threw his topee into the rack for small parcels and sat down upon the seat opposite to the one upon which Smith’s kit was lying. No word was spoken. White men who live in India do not talk much without a formal introduction.
Smith paid as little outward attention to his new traveling companion as he had paid to the throngs of natives upon the station platform. As the train gathered way he stretched himself full length upon his seat and lighted a cigarette. Notwithstanding his apparent indifference, however, Smith had noted several things which the ordinary observer might have failed to perceive. Instinctively he felt that the little man had attempted to display an easy manner that he did not feel when he threw the topee into the rack.
Smith felt that the act was an attempt at nonchalance and was not genuine. He noted, too, that the man had no native servant which is unusual for the first-class traveler of the East. In addition to this the eyes of the little man had a story to tell. They were not straight eyes. They were shifty and it was Smith’s profession to read eyes. He closed his own as he tossed his cigarette out of the window, but opened them again at once. The man on the opposite seat was looking at Smith and he was looking at Smith’s eyes.