The Brand of Silence: A Detective Story, Johnston McCulley [novels in english TXT] 📗

here as a prisoner until I decide what is to be done with you."

He crossed over to the door, opened it, and called to his men, two of whom responded.

"I want this man guarded well," he said. "I want you to understand that I am holding you responsible for him. I'll be back to-morrow evening and have another talk with him. Give him something to eat now and then, and fix him so he can sleep, but watch him all the time!"

"I was figurin' on goin' to the city this mornin', boss," one of the men spoke up.

"You'll do as I say!" the masked man cried.

"But——"

"Don't argue with me, you dog!"

Farland saw the man's eyes flash fire for a moment. And then the masked man faced toward him again, his eyes glittering through his mask.

"Sometimes it isn't healthy to know whose picture is in the rogues' gallery!" he said.

He went from the room. After a short argument one of the men remained to guard Farland, and the other went away. Farland spent a night of agony. His guards fixed the bonds so that he could be a bit more comfortable, and yet he got little sleep.

Jim Farland was considering a big idea now. He had thrown the masked man off guard by intimating that he might be a crook with a record, when, as a matter of fact, the detective did not believe him to be anything of the sort. Now Farland knew where to begin working, but he had to win his freedom first.

Night passed, morning came, and the long day of agony began. Farland had his hands untied and was given some food. Then his wrists were lashed again and his ankles loosened, and he was allowed to walk around the room for an hour or so, two of the men watching him closely. The one to whom the masked man had applied the epithet, "dog," appeared surly.

After they had bound him again and stretched him upon the couch, they guarded him one at a time, evidently secure in the belief that he could not escape. Jim Farland thought a day never had seemed so long. All the time he was busy with his thoughts. He had a plan of campaign outlined now; he wanted to be at work.

Once more the evening came. Farland, who had been sleeping for a few minutes, awoke and turned over to find that his guard had been changed again. The man who had been called a dog was on duty.

"How long are you going to keep me tied up like this?" Jim Farland asked.

"Don't ask me. Ask the high and mighty boss," was the sneering reply.

"You don't seem to stand very high with him."

"Aw, he makes me sick sometimes."

"It'd make me sick, too, if anybody called me a dog," Farland declared.

The man before him did not reply to that, but Farland could see the anger burning in his face.

"Come closer," Farland whispered.

The man obeyed instantly.

"Can anybody overhear what I say to you?"

"No. Everybody's gone—but they'll be back soon."

"Why are you working for these people?"

"Coin, of course—and precious little of it I've seen so far," was the reply.

"Then you haven't any other interest in this business? Maybe we can make a deal."

"What sort of a deal?"

"The man I work for is worth a million," Farland said. "Help me escape, and I'll give you five hundred dollars."

"Got it with you?"

"The biggest part of it," Farland replied.

He told the truth, too, for he always carried plenty of money while working on a case.

"Suppose I simply take it away from you," the guard said.

"In the first place, I don't think you are that kind of a man. And you want to get square with the man who called you a dog, don't you?"

"What's your scheme?"

"Simply let me go, right now. It is dusk outside already. Tell me how to get to town the quickest way. I'll give you almost all I have on me; I'll need a little to use to get back to the city. To-morrow I'll meet you some place and give you the rest. In addition I'll give you a chance to get out without being arrested for your part in abducting me and holding me here."

The man spent a few minutes in thought.

"I'll fix you so you can slip your bonds," he said, "and I'll hand your automatic back to you. It is there in the cupboard. But I don't want you to make a get-away while I'm guarding you—see? I don't exactly love the man who'll guard you next. I'll fix it so you can handle him. Wait for five minutes after he comes and I have gone. I will be away for an hour or so, and the escape can happen while I'm not here."

"That suits me," Farland said.

"What about the money?"

"You'll get it just as soon as I get my hands loose."

The guard walked to the hall door and opened it, peered out into the hall and listened. Then he hurried back to the couch and cut Jim Farland's bonds. Farland took the money from one of his inside pockets and handed it over. The guard got the weapon from the cupboard and gave it to Farland.

The detective stretched himself down on the couch again, and the guard adjusted the ropes on his ankles and wrists so that they would appear to be all right. Farland slipped the automatic beneath the small of his back, where he could reach it quickly.

It was half an hour later before the guard was changed and Farland's friend hurried away, warning him with a glance that he should not make a move too soon. He had declined to meet the detective the following day and get the few dollars still due him; he would rather use what he already had in getting out of town, he had said.

Farland made no attempt to talk with the new guard. He pretended to be tired, almost exhausted and sleepy. The guard sat beside the table, smoking and glancing at a newspaper now and then, apparently of the opinion that Farland was safely a prisoner.

After waiting for about half an hour, the detective began moving his ankles and wrists gently. Gradually the ropes fell away. He reached one hand beneath his back and grasped the automatic. Then he sat up quickly on the couch and covered the guard.

"Put 'em up!" he commanded.

The guard whirled from the table and sprang to his feet, surprise written on his countenance. Farland had arisen now, and advancing toward him.

"Walk past me to the couch!" the detective commanded.

The guard started to obey. He was holding his hands above his head and seemed to be afraid that his captor would shoot. But as he came opposite Farland, he lurched to one side and made an attempt to grapple with him.

The detective did not fire. He sprang aside himself, swung the automatic, and crashed it against the other man's temple. The guard groaned once and dropped to the floor.

"Thought you might try something like that!" Jim Farland growled. "Couldn't have pleased me better—won't have to waste time tying you up now. You'll be dead to the world for a few minutes at least!"

Farland darted to the door, opened it, went into the hall and closed the door again. He passed through the house noiselessly. He could hear two men in conversation in a rear room, and he knew that he would have to be cautious until he was at some distance from the old dwelling, unless he wanted a battle on his hands.

He got out of the place without being discovered, and reached the edge of a grove not far away. There he found the lane, and near the end of it was a powerful roadster, its engine dead and its lights extinguished.

Farland listened a moment, then went forward and examined the machine. He knew the model, and he was an excellent driver. Once more he stopped to listen. Then he sprang behind the wheel and operated the starter.

He drove slowly down the lane, the engine almost silent, the car traveling slowly. He proceeded in that manner until he had reached the highway. There he switched on the lights, put on speed, and sent the powerful car roaring along the winding road toward the river.

Jim Farland, being a modest man, never did tell the entire story of that night. He drove like a fiend, narrowly escaping collision a score of times. He made his way along the roads running alongside the broad river, and finally came opposite the city. He crossed over a bridge, drove through the streets with what speed he dared, left the car at a public garage with certain instructions, and hurried to a telephone.

He was unable to get either Sidney Prale or Murk, for at that hour they were on their way to the Griffin residence. Farland telephoned to his wife to say that he was all right, but would not be home until some time during the day. Then he engaged a taxicab and began his work.

He knew where to start now. An idea had come to him in that old house far up the river, a suspicion, a feeling of certainty that he was on the right track. Jim Farland was no respecter of persons that night.

When morning came he stopped only for a cup of coffee, and then worked on. He dashed from one place to another, running up a taxicab bill that made the chauffeur smile. He interviewed important gentlemen, threatening some and cajoling others, but always getting the information that he desired.

At two o'clock the following afternoon he stood on a certain corner near Madison Square, his suspicion almost proved, his investigation at an end.

"Now for the big bluff!" Jim Farland said to himself.

He fortified himself with another cup of coffee, got into the taxicab again, and started downtown. He was smoking one of his big, black cigars, puffing at it as if in deep contentment, not looking at all like a man who had been kept a prisoner a night and a day, and had been busy since that experience.

The taxicab stopped before an office building, as Jim Farland had ordered. The detective pulled out his last money and paid the chauffeur.

"You're got more coming, son, but this is all I have with me," Farland said. "Drop in at my office any time after ten to-morrow morning and get it."

"Yes, Mr. Farland—and thanks!"

"You're a good boy, but keep your mouth shut!" Farland told him.

Then he hurried into the office building, went to the elevator nearest the entrance, and ascended to the floor where George Lerton had his suite of offices.

The office boy stepped to the railing.

"Mr. Lerton busy?" Farland asked.

"He is alone in his private office, sir," said the boy, who regarded the detective with admiration and awe. After Farland's other visit, the youth had decided to be a detective when he grew up.

"I am to go right in—important business," Farland said. "Never mind announcing me."

The willing boy opened the gate, and Farland hurried across to the door of the private office. He paused there a moment and seemed to pull himself together, as if making sure before entering the room of questions he wanted to ask and information he wanted to gather. Then he threw the door open, stepped quickly inside, closed the door, and turned the key.

Lerton was sitting at his desk with his back to the door. He made no move until he heard the key turned. Then he whirled around in his desk chair.

"I—Great Scott, Farland, how you startled me!" he exclaimed. "I thought it was my secretary."

"Pardon me for butting in this way, but I am in a deuce of a hurry and told the boy it was all right," Farland said.

"You'll smash my office discipline doing things like this. But, sit down, man! What is it now? Has that cousin of mine been acting up again, or are you going to pester me with a lot of fool questions about things I don't know anything about?"

Farland had seated himself in the chair at the end of the desk, within four feet of George Lerton. He had tossed his hat to a table and twisted the cigar into one corner of his mouth. Now he stared Lerton straight in the eyes.

"You look like a madman!" Lerton said. "Why on earth are you looking at me like that? You look as if you were ill——"

The expression in Farland's face made him stop, and he appeared to be a bit disconcerted.

"Why did you kill Rufus Shepley?" Jim Farland demanded suddenly in a voice that seemed to sting.

Lerton's face went white for an instant. His jaw dropped and his eyes bulged.

"Are—are you insane?" he gasped. "What on