From an upper story came a muffled scream and a sound of something falling against a shutter. Then silence. The sound had come from the front of the house, Phil decided; the corner room on the third floor, at a guess.
For a moment Phil was tempted to leave the place and enlist the services of the police; but he was not used to allying himself with the police — on the few occasions when he had had dealings with the law he had found it on the other side. Then, too, would not the glib Kapaloff have the advantage of his aristocratic manner, his standing as a property holder, and his seemingly secure position in the world? Against all this Phil would have but his bare word and a vague story, backed by three years of living without what the police call “visible means of support.” He could imagine what the outcome would be. He would have to play this hand out alone. Well, then...
He left the protecting bush and crept to the front of the house. Around the corner he paused to scan the building. So far as he could determine in the dark every window was fitted with a shutter. He was afraid to try the shutters on the first floor; but it was unlikely that one of them would have been left unbolted, anyway. The upper windows held out the best promise of an entrance. He crept up on the porch, removed his shoes, and stuck them in his hip pockets. Mounting the porch-rail, he encircled a pillar with arms and legs and pulled himself up until his fingers Caught the edge of the porch-roof. Silently he drew himself up and lay face down on the shingles. No sound came from house or grounds. On hands and knees he went to each of the four windows and tried the shutters. All were securely fastened.
He sat up and studied the third-story windows. The window on the extreme left should open into the room from which the last noises had come — Romaine Kapaloff’s room, if his reasoning was correct. A rainspout ran up the corner of the house, within arm’s length of the window. If the spout would support him, he could reach the window and risk a signal to the girl. He crawled over and inspected the spout, testing it with his hands. It shook a little but he decided to risk it.
He found a niche for the stockinged toes of one foot, drew himself up, reached for a higher hold on the spout with his hands, and felt for a support for the other foot. There was a tearing noise, a rattle of tin, and Phil thumped to the roof of the porch with a length of pipe in his hands. He rolled over, let go the spout, and caught at the roof in time to keep from going over the edge. The released piece of tin hit the roof with a clang and rolled over the edge to clatter madly on the paved walk.
The night was suddenly filled with the snarling of hounds. The pack careened around the corner, flung themselves against the porch, tore up and down the yard — lithe, evil shapes in the starlight, with flashing, dripping jaws. Peeping over the edge of the roof, Phil saw a man following the dogs, a gleam of metal in his hands.
A sound came from behind Phil. A second-story shutter was being opened. He wormed his way to it and lay on his back under it, close to the wall. The shutter swung open and a man leaned out — the man with the scarred face. Phil lay motionless, not breathing, his body tense, a forefinger tight around the trigger of his pistol, the pistol’s muzzle not six inches from the body slanting over him. The man called a question to the one in the yard. The front door opened, and Kapaloff’s easy voice sounded. The man at the window and the man in the yard called to Kapaloff in Russian; he answered. Then the man at the window withdrew, his footsteps receded, and a door closed within the room. The window remained open. Phil was over the sill in an instant, and in the dark room. As his feet touched the floor he sensed something amiss, heard a grunt, and lunged blindly forward. The room filled with dancing lights, and there was a roaring in his ears...
Chapter VII
The Third Degree
Phil awoke with his nostrils stinging from ammonia administered by the man with the scarred face. Phil tried to push the bottle away, but his hands were lashed. His feet, too, were tied. He looked around, turning his head from side to side. He was lying on a bed in a luxuriously furnished chamber, fully clothed except for coat and shoes. Kapaloff stood across the room, looking on with a smile of mild mockery. On one side of the bed stood the man with the scar; on the opposite side, the other man who had entered Phil’s flat. At a word from Kapaloff this man assisted Phil to a sitting position.
Phil’s head ached cruelly and his stomach felt queerly empty, but taking his cue from Kapaloff, he tried to keep his face composed, as if he found nothing disconcerting in his position. Kapaloff came over to the bed and asked solicitously: “You are not seriously injured this time either, I trust?”
“I don’t think so. But if these hired men of yours keep it up they’ll wear my head away,” Phil said lightly.
Kapaloff exhibited his teeth in an affable smile. “You are the fortunate possessor of a tough head. But I hope it will not prove as little amenable to persuasion as it has been to force.”
Phil said nothing. Every iota of his will was needed to keep his face calm. The pain in his head was unbearable. Kapaloff went on talking, his voice a mixture of friendliness and banter.
“Your tenacity in clinging to the bag would, under other circumstances, be admirable; but really it must be terminated. I must insist that you tell me where it is.”
“Suppose my head stays tough on the inside, too?” Phil suggested.
“That would be most unfortunate. But you are going to be reasonable, aren’t you? When you stumbled into this affair you saw, or suspected, much that did not appear on the surface-being an extremely perspicacious young man — and thought you could unearth whatever was hidden and exact a little — well — not blackmail, perhaps, though a crude intellect might call it that. Now, you must see that I have the advantage; and assuredly you are enough the sportsman to acknowledge defeat, and make what terms you can.”
“And what are the terms?”
“Turn the bag over to me and sign a few papers.”
“Papers for what?”
“Oh! the papers are unimportant. Merely a precaution. You will not know what they contain exactly — just a few statements supposedly made by you: confessions to certain crimes, perhaps — to insure me that you will not trouble the police afterward. I am frank. I do not know where you have put the bag. After you so obligingly entered the window that Mikhail left open for you, Mikhail and Serge visited your rooms again. They found nothing. So I offer terms. The bag, your signature, and you receive five hundred dollars, exclusive of the money that was in the bag.”
“Suppose I don’t like the terms?”
“That would be most unfortunate,” Kapaloff protested. “Serge” — motioning toward the man who had helped Phil sit up — “is remarkably adept with a heated knife; and remembering the ludicrous manner in which you put him and Mikhail to rout. I fancy he would relish having you as a subject for his play.”
Phil turned his head and pretended to look at Serge, but he scarcely saw the man. He was trying to convince himself that this threat was a bluff, that Kapaloff would not dare resort to torture; but his success was slight. If his ability to read men was of any value at all then this Russian was one who would stop at nothing to attain his ends. Phil decided he would not submit to any excruciating pain to save the bag. In the first place, he did not know how valuable the paper might be; secondly, he seemed to be the girl’s only ally, and he flattered himself that he was more valuable an aid than a letter could be. However, he would fight to the last inch — bluff until the final moment.