As he turned, I heard a faint tinkle, and a small object fell to the floor of the cave, unobserved. I waited until I could no longer hear his footfalls on the sandy floor, then I sprang to my feet and picked it up.
It was a hairpin!
There was no longer any doubt in my mind as to the identity of “The Man in the Black Mask.” The hairpin was conclusive evidence that it was Joan Marne. I hated to believe it, but the facts were indisputable.
I have never considered myself a woman-hater nor a susceptible ladies’ man. I have known them of all races and breeds, but never had one impressed me almost as one of their own number. Her position—to think that she had some good reason for her strange conduct — only to have the face of the dying Backus flash before my eyes. She had killed him—shot him in cold blood—and gloated over it afterwards. No, try as I would I could not find a single circumstance in her favor.
I was loath to admit it, but I was falling in love. I, a man-hunter, was in love with a murderess! Cursing myself, the hairpin, the infernal mixup — yes, even Joan—I hunted up my jailors and spent the remainder of the afternoon in their company, trying to forget.
Chapter IX
Supper was served in a little niche off from the main cave. There were six men in the party, not counting myself, one serving as cook, “The Man in the Black Mask” not making his appearance. On only one or two occasions had he ever dined with his men, they informed me, although he insisted that they be served with the best.
During his absence, the members of his party were not at all reluctant in discussing him or his affairs, treating me, almost, as one of their own number. None of them, it appeared, had ever viewed his face. He had gathered them almost from the ends of the earth, picking one up here, another there—always working through a proxy—each selected because of his particular fitness for the job.
Pedro, for instance, had studied gunnery for years. Johnson was a machine gunner. Travis and Snell were both experts with the rifle. McGinnis was Pedro’s assistant and a gunner of extraordinary ability himself, while Jenkins, the negro chef, was known, so he informed me, from one end of the country to the other as the best cook in the American Expeditionary Forces.
All were men from the lower walks of life—crooks, probably, thugs, gunmen—yet, strange as it may seem, proud of their records as soldiers. They had made good in the army, then, discipline relaxed, they had again fallen into their evil ways. The pay was good, the food was excellent and, to a certain extent, they were satisfied — especially with the prospect of a fight in sight—but still they grumbled.
They had arrived only a few weeks before, coming to Elkhorn in the guise of laborers. They had been met at the station by an unknown man, disguised, they believed, who had directed them where to go to find the entrance to the cave. Here they met “The Man in the Black Mask” and received their instructions which consisted Simply in obeying orders and remaining inside of the cave day and night. To date they had absolutely nothing to do except eat and sleep and take turns on guard, with the exception of firing the one shell which had wrecked the tower.
Already, however, the work was proving irksome and, like all active men cooped up for a considerable period of time, they growled considerably, a fact which I believed, when the time was ripe, I could turn to good account, for I was far from being ready to tamely abide by the mysterious leader’s mandate that I must either buy my liberty or calmly submit to being butchered as a warning to others. There was nothing in my parole which prohibited my stirring up an agitation; I decided to take the bull by the horns and create an internal strife as soon as opportunity offered itself. By starting a mutiny I might escape with a whole skin.
Shortly after supper, Travis, who was better educated than the rest, and who appeared to be the natural leader during the absence of the masked chieftain, took me on a tour of inspection of their retreat.
The cave proper was a huge affair, hewn out of the solid sandstone, possibly five hundred feet in length by half as wide. The main cavern was brilliantly lighted. Opening off from it were innumerable tunnels and pockets where the light was a dim twilight, shading off into blackest darkness — shadowy, dismal—an altogether fitting refuge for a modern buccaneer. One of the latter was illuminated and used as a barracks, another as a kitchen, and a third, larger than the others, as a storehouse. Judging from the numerous boxes piled in the interior, the masked leader evidently expected his occupancy to be a long one.
Where their, mysterious chieftain kept himself none of them knew. It was their belief, however, that he had more men stationed in some of the other tunnels and that he was planning a gigantic coup of some kind—possibly a revolution—sooner or later, and, for this reason, prohibited their entering the other outlets to avoid having the various parties meet and compare notes. He appeared only at intervals, coming without warning and often disappearing for a day or two at a time. They were paid, however, not to ask questions and asked none, although they were perfectly willing to answer anything that I might ask and were willing to speculate as much as myself as to the identity of their mysterious leader.
Our trip of inspection over, Travis and I returned to the others, when suddenly the curtain which marked the entrance to the tunnel used by the masked man parted and he appeared before us. He nodded curtly to me and asked me to step aside for a second.
“Larson,” he said jerkily—almost nervously I thought — “they have discovered Backus’ body and are raising the devil. Things are getting more complicated all the time. What are we going to do?”
“Indeed,” I smiled. “You hardly thought that as big a thing as the murder of the chief of police would pass unnoticed, did you? You should have realized that before you killed him!”
He nodded his head grimly.
“It’s awful—awful!” he muttered. Then he stopped suddenly.
“I forgot,” he murmured. “You are in no position to give advice, nor I to ask it. I must work out my own salvation—mine and—”
He was about to turn away, hesitated, then again addressed me.
“Larson,” he said, “you can believe me or not—probably you won’t—but I did not kill Backus, nor was I present when he met his death. Would to God I had been, and I might have prevented it.”
His agitation, as well as his words, puzzled me. I noticed that his hand was shaking as he reached out mechanically and selected a cigar from the box which stood on the table. Striking a match, he applied the flame to the end. As he did so, I made a discovery which almost brought me to my feet with a jerk.
By the light of the match I noticed a small scar in the palm of his hand.
That morning I had noticed a similar scar on the palm of John Grimes, president of the Elkhorn Chemical Company!
“The Man in the Black Mask” was not Joan Marne, but her uncle! John Grimes, the man who had hired me, was the traitor who had betrayed his colleagues—the murderer of Henry Backus!
But was he?
A short time before he had declined a cigar with the statement that he did not smoke. Now he was smoking. And what about the hairpin I had found? The case had me baffled. It was growing more complex every minute. Who was “The Man in the Black Mask?”
Chapter X
I spent an uneventful night with my guards, Travis, who, as I have said, seemed to be in charge, taking me at my word and paying no attention to me except to assign me to a bunk.
A guard, however, was posted, not on my account, but, as my jailor informed me, at the orders of “The Man in the Black Mask,” who had insisted that a sentinel be maintained at all hours of the day and night to ward against a possible surprise. This routine had been maintained ever since they had occupied the cave.