He opened his eyes and again gazed at that blackened corner.
“I promise,” he said. “I promise full obedience.”
“Very well,” came the stranger’s whisper. “Go to your hotel. Tomorrow you will receive a message. It will come from me; and my messages are meaningless to those who should not understand them. Listen well when you receive it. Remember only the words which are emphasized in pronouncing like this.”
There was a stressing of the last word. It seemed almost a sentence in itself and the hiss of the stranger’s whisper carried a weird, unearthly sound.
The car swerved suddenly and stopped with a jolt against the curb on the left. An open car had forced it to the sidewalk; and the headlights of the other automobile were glaring through the window. A figure opened the door on the right and Vincent saw a man’s head and shoulders jutting up.
“Stick ‘em up!” came a rough voice. Vincent raised his hands as he saw the glint of a revolver barrel. It was a holdup - a daring crime on this side street of Manhattan!
Then something emerged from the darkened corner of the limousine. It spread like a huge monster of the night, a black shape that swept forward and enveloped the gangster in its folds. There was a muffled cry, then a pistol shot, and the car suddenly darted forward.
The door closed with a crash. Through the rear window of the limousine, Vincent saw a man sprawled in the street. Evidently it was the fellow who had attempted the holdup.
Then the car burst into the glare of the lights on Fifth Avenue. Vincent turned quickly to the corner where his strange companion sat. Now he would see his mysterious companion face to face!
But, except for himself, the car was empty. He was alone in the limousine. A dark splotch showed on the inside of the door; he touched it and found blood on his hand.
Who had been wounded - the shadowy stranger or the assailant who had tried to enter the limousine? Vincent could not guess; he only knew that in the brief struggle the man who had found him on the bridge had left the automobile - unseen and unheard - and the door had closed behind him.
The mysterious stranger had vanished - like a shadow!
CHAPTER II
THE FIRST MESSAGE
HARRY VINCENT was annoyed as the big limousine sped along Fifth Avenue. The promise he had made to the stranger was still uppermost in his mind, and he intended fully to keep his word. But his mind was busy ferreting out the strange things that had happened since the episode on the bridge.
Alone, now, with thoughts of suicide gone, he began to wonder what coincidence had brought the stranger out of the night, and by what strange trick he had managed to disappear so completely.
He found the light switch in the automobile and turned it on to examine the rich upholstery, which bore the stain of blood. The car was an imported Supra; that, at least, was tangible evidence. It would not be difficult to learn the name of the man who owned it.
The car turned from Fifth Avenue and pulled up in front of the Metrolite, one of New York’s newest hotels. The attendant opened the door and Vincent stepped to the sidewalk. Then he opened the front door of the limousine and accosted the Negro chauffeur.
“Was this where you were told to bring me?” he asked.
“Yes, suh,” replied the chauffeur. “Whah’s de uddah man?”
“He left the car when the taxi nearly bumped us.”
The chauffeur’s eyes opened widely.
“Lawdy, sah, Ah didn’t even stop at dat time.”
Vincent looked at the man intently. He could see that the chauffeur was actually astonished. He put another question.
“Whose car is this?”
“Don’t say nuthin’, boss,” pleaded the chauffeur. “Dis am Mr. van Dyke’s cah, an’ Ah hadn’t no right to take you men along.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was dis way, boss. Ah was keepin’ the cah in town tonight an’ de man in de black hat come up to me when Ah was startin’ for de g’rage. He come up jus’ like a ghost. Yas, he did, sah.
“He says to me: ‘Boy, Ah wants a ride. It’s all right; Ah know who you is, an’ Ah knows Mr. van Dyke, an’ heah’s one hundred dollahs. Ah must find a friend o’ mine.
“So Ah drives him all ovah, an’ as we crosses the bridge, he says, ‘Stop,’ an’ the nex’ Ah knows he has you-all in de cah with him. An’ he had said befo’ dat when he gets his friend, Ah was to drive aroun’ little streets until he taps the window - den Ah was to come heah. Dat’s all Ah knows, boss, ‘deed it is.”
Vincent could see the truth in the man’s worried story, so he dismissed the car and watched the huge Supra as it moved down the foggy street. Even the license number would be no clew. He entered the hotel and strolled to the desk. Then he began to worry about identifying himself.
“Room reserved for Harry Vincent?” he asked.
He was in suspense as the clerk turned away for a moment; then came the reassuring reply:
“Fourteen-nineteen, Mr. Vincent,” said the clerk. “That was the room you wanted? Funny, we didn’t catch your name when you called up from Philadelphia this morning, but when you called again, ten minutes ago, we put everything right. Will you register, please?”
Vincent signed his name and supplied Philadelphia as his place of residence. The stranger must have called the hotel after leaving the car, he imagined.
Vincent wondered about that as he rode up in the elevator with the bell boy. The stranger must have imitated his voice; he certainly would not have talked in that weird whisper.
The room was a large one, equipped with the most modern hotel furnishings. The bell boy pointed to a valise, resting on a stand.
“That’s your bag, isn’t it, sir? It was marked for this room when it came in this evening.”
Vincent acknowledged the bag. He was curious to know what it contained. He fumbled in his pocket. His total wealth consisted of two half dollars, a nickel, and eight pennies, so he gave the bell boy one of the larger coins and waited until the door closed behind the attendant.
Then he opened the suitcase. It held a pair of pajamas, comb, and brushes, neckties, and a few other articles. Also there was a black leather wallet. Vincent removed this and opened it, to find two hundred dollars in bills of various denominations.
He studied himself in the mirror. Here, in a comfortable hotel, with good surroundings and money, and with promise of future supplies, life seemed strangely new. He studied his reflection in the mirror: tall, and well featured. Here he was, a man under thirty, who had acknowledged himself beaten and who had tried suicide. Well, things were different now.
He took a drink of ice water, and decided to retire for the night. Despite the many things that puzzled him, he was sleepy. He needed rest. He draped his clothes over the chair, donned the pajamas, and got into bed. In ten minutes he was sound asleep.
A knock at the door awakened him. It was morning. A bell boy awaited him with a large package.
“Want your breakfast sent up, sir?” asked the boy. “It’s after ten o’clock.”
Vincent followed the boy’s suggestion and phoned for the morning meal to be sent up. Then he opened the package.
It contained shirts, socks, and other apparel, with a new suit of clothes. He examined these articles and was amazed to find that all were his exact size. The stranger must have made a perfect estimate of Vincent’s proportions in the dark of the automobile!
Breakfast arrived after Vincent had dressed and shaved, using a safety razor he had found in the valise. Then he sat by the window and stared speculatively at the sky line of Manhattan. What next? Well, he would wait and learn.
A half hour passed. Then the phone bell rang. He answered it eagerly; but was disappointed when he did not recognize the voice of the stranger of the preceding night’s adventure. It was a man’s voice speaking, however, calling him by name, and talking in an easy tone.
“Mr. Vincent?” the person said. “This is the jeweler. I have a message for you.”