Читать книгу The Secret Toll - Thorne Mabel - Страница 4

Forrester glanced at his watch. It was just nine o'clock, not too late to make his promised call on the Nevins.

The Nevins' residence was on Dearborn Parkway, only a fifteen-minute walk for Forrester, so he sauntered west after leaving the house. A heavy mist was gathering on Lake Michigan and rolling through the streets before a gentle breeze from the east, completely shutting from view all but the nearest street lights and any pedestrians who might be abroad at this hour. Always a quiet neighborhood, the mist-hidden streets now seemed somber and deserted, and so still were his surroundings that Forrester's attention was presently attracted to the soft chug-chug of a motor somewhere in the fog behind him.

When the sound first caught his ear it had made little impression, but as the purring of the engine continued, apparently always at the same distance, it struck him as peculiar that the car did not catch up with and pass him. The threat which now hung over his head, as well as his recent interviews with detectives and the reporter from the Times, had made Forrester more alert than usual. He was keenly on the watch for anything that might appear out of the ordinary in character. Although he continued at the same pace without looking back, Forrester listened attentively to the sound of the motor and noted instantly that as he turned north on Dearborn Parkway, the motor followed him. He was convinced that he was under surveillance, and as detectives were not likely to keep guard over him from a motor car, it was clear that the persons who followed him had some other motive.

Forrester was well aware that auto bandits were active at all times in the city streets, and it was more than likely that a foggy night would prove especially inviting. Still, he could not recollect ever having heard of a hold-up of this character in his immediate neighborhood. As he deliberated on the matter, the suspicion grew stronger that the car which now followed him through the fog was connected in some way with the "Friends of the Poor." If that were so, there seemed little risk in allowing them to follow him, for it was certain that the ten thousand dollars they had demanded was of more importance to them at this time than his life, and as they had given him until midnight Saturday to pay the money, it did not appear likely that they would harm him before that time.

On the other hand, he realized that he had been especially active that day in taking steps to thwart them. It was not improbable that an organized band of this kind would have underground methods of gaining information and therefore might be familiar with everything he had done. Forrester recollected with a start that he had taken Humphrey for granted. Might it not be possible that Humphrey had merely been a spy sent to ascertain his attitude? As he recalled the young man's discourse it seemed strangely fanciful and might have been planned merely to add to his perplexities in seeking a solution. He had been extremely frank with Humphrey, and the supposed reporter would have a very comprehensive tale to unfold to his associates. Informed that Forrester planned to go further in his fight against them than any previous victim they had selected, was it not possible that they had decided to disregard his money, which might be easily replaced by a demand upon someone else, and make away with him before he had an opportunity to disrupt their plans? Forrester admitted to himself that he felt decidedly nervous and quickened his pace. He glanced back once or twice and saw the blurred but unmistakable outlines of a motor car without lights. Although the speed of the car had been slightly increased when he hastened his steps, the distance between them was maintained, and Forrester's mind grew easier as he became convinced that the sole purpose of the car behind him was to watch his movements. Very probably, he reflected, the "Friends of the Poor" kept track of their victims so that they could not escape by leaving the city or concealing themselves in some out-of-the-way place. Though he was probably safe for the moment, Forrester realized more fully now the dangerous nature of the task he had set himself.

By the time Forrester reached the Nevins home and rang the door-bell, the lesson had had its effect. He had acquired part of the attributes of a good detective – caution, and a suspicion of everybody and everything. In the future, so he assured himself, he would be more guarded in his conversation, not only with new acquaintances, but with his friends as well. At this moment a servant opened the door and Forrester stepped into the brilliantly lighted hallway with a feeling of relief.

As he was well known in this home he went immediately to the library without being announced. There he found his mother and sister with the Nevins family. Evidences of grief were apparent on all their faces and after a general exchange of subdued greetings, young Nevins led Forrester to a sofa in a corner and said, "I suppose you've heard about Father, Bob?"

"Yes," replied Forrester, "and I'm mighty sorry, old man. It must have been a great blow."

"It was a dreadful shock to Mother. You know when a person is ill, and death is momentarily expected, you are sort of prepared for the final end, but when you find your father dead on the front steps, and you know that he has been murdered, it is an awful stroke."

"If you don't mind talking about it, Charlie, I should like to hear some of the details."

"I don't mind, Bob. The fact is, that is about all we have been able to talk about. There is very little to tell, however.

"It seems that Father received a notice about two weeks ago from this damnable blackmailing society which calls itself the 'Friends of the Poor.' About that notice, and what happened subsequently, we know practically nothing outside of the few details we read in the newspapers, and a little that the police were willing to tell us. Father never said a word to either Mother or myself about it. I believe he did not even tell his business associates, simply putting the matter into the hands of the police and going on about his business as usual. The Chief of Detectives called in person this morning, and during his visit, told me that he had offered Father a police guard, but that Father refused it.

"Last night Father attended a dinner of the Midland Bankers' Association, and as we naturally did not expect him home until quite a late hour, Mother and I retired at our usual time. The first we knew, therefore, that Father had not been home all night, was when we missed him at breakfast. When a maid went up to call him she found his bedroom door open and saw that the bed had not been occupied. I was just about to call up the police when the patrolman on our street rang the door-bell and asked the maid who answered the door if she knew the man who was lying on our steps. Of course, she immediately recognized Father, and when we heard her scream we all hurried to the door. The patrolman helped me carry him in. This man waited until the doctor came, as he said he would have to make a report and he wanted to know if foul play were suspected.

"Our doctor lives just across the street. He was here in five minutes, but there was nothing that he could do. He said that Father had unquestionably been dead for many hours."

"Could he tell the cause of death?" inquired Forrester.

"Yes," returned Nevins, "he stated that it was clearly a case of asphyxia. Father, of course, had been murdered by the same method as all the other victims of the 'Friends of the Poor.'"

"But," protested Forrester, "how could they get at your father? It was my impression that he always went about in his car with a chauffeur driving."

"That is quite right," answered Nevins, "but Fate was with these people last night. They had evidently been watching for just such an opportunity. When our chauffeur drove the car up at nine o'clock this morning, which was his custom, to take Father down to the bank, I called him in and questioned him about last night.

"He said he had called for Father at eleven o'clock, as he had been instructed to do, and they started for home. Just as they reached Oak Street something went wrong with the motor. The chauffeur spent a half-hour trying to discover the trouble and he says that Father grew very impatient. Father, it seems, tried to get a taxicab, but all the cabs that passed were going north and had people in them. You know it is not much of a walk from Oak Street up to the house, and the chauffeur said that Father finally told him to take his time in fixing the car and he would walk home. The chauffeur saw him start off up the Lake Shore Drive and that was the last anyone saw or heard of Father until he was found on our steps this morning."

Forrester's thoughts reverted to the car which had followed him through the fog. There was little doubt in his mind that this same car had followed the elder Nevins, waiting for the opportunity to strike. Forrester did not question that the banker's murderers were in that car now. At this very moment they might be waiting outside for Forrester to reappear. It flashed through his mind what a simple matter it would be for him to notify the police and have them ready when he started out.

"Mother," said Forrester, "how soon do you expect to go home?"

"I suppose we could leave at any time now, Son," replied Mrs. Forrester.

"How did you plan to go home? I did not see the car outside when I came in."

"No," explained Mrs. Forrester, "it was such a pleasant evening that I told William he need not return. After the excitement and worry we have been through I thought it would be good for us to walk home."

"It is not at all nice out now," said Forrester. "A heavy fog has come up. I think I would better call a taxicab."

Forrester went to the telephone and ordered a taxicab. Then he whispered to Nevins, "May I use a phone upstairs where I can talk without being overheard?"

"Yes," informed Nevins, "you will find a phone in Father's room."

Forrester went upstairs and called police headquarters. He briefly explained who he was, what had occurred on his walk over, and suggested that they watch for the strange car as he returned home.

"Leave the house in exactly fifteen minutes," instructed the man at headquarters, "and we'll be ready for you."

After returning to the library Forrester took an occasional surreptitious look at his watch and was pleased to hear the taxi driver ring the door-bell just as the fifteen minutes expired.

As Forrester assisted his mother down the steps he glanced hastily around. The fog was still heavy. He could make out nothing save the taxicab at the curb, but just as he was giving the address to the taxi driver he noticed a small man of slight build appear out of the fog. This man stopped quite near to him and lit a cigarette. Aside from noting the man's build and the fact that he wore a cap and had very dark hair, Forrester could make out no other details, for the man stood with his back to Forrester and the lighted match really served only to throw him out in silhouette. Forrester entered the cab and it started off. As he leaned back he reflected that the man he had seen was of too small a stature to be a detective. His act of stopping so close to them might have been mere accident, but to Forrester the thing had a significance which could not be overlooked. He was confident that this was one of the men they wanted. He hoped that the police, although not visible in the fog, had arrived as promised. If so, he felt that their problems were pretty close to a final solution.

They reached Bellevue Place without incident. The whir of the taxicab's engine had effectually drowned any sound of pursuit and though he had glanced back several times, Forrester had been able to see nothing save a wall of fog back of the cab. Yet somewhere in that fog-draped street he was sure the murderers' car was lurking.

There appeared to be no one around as they left the cab, but Forrester, after his mother and sister had gone into the house, lingered for a moment in the dark doorway. He could hear the hum of the taxicab's engine as it passed down the street toward the Lake Shore Drive. Otherwise the night was silent.

Suddenly Forrester heard the roar of opened mufflers in the other direction, and the next instant two black shapes passed swiftly by through the fog. Red flashes leaped out of the darkness and sharp reports resounded through the street as they passed the door.

"The police are on the job!" exulted Forrester.

He hastily stepped inside and closed the door, for his army experience had shown him the danger of stray bullets.