Esq., Property Owner, Broster Street, from Prince John of
“Do you see that gentleman at the table by the pillar?” he said. “Give him these. Just say a gentleman sent them.”
The waiter smiled doubtfully. John added a two-dollar bill to the collection in his hand.
“You needn’t give him that,” he said.
The waiter smiled again, but this time not doubtfully.
“And now,” said John as the messenger ambled off, “perhaps it would be just as well if we retired.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE FINAL ATTEMPT
Proof that his shot had not missed its mark was supplied to John immediately upon his arrival at the office on the following morning, when he was met by Pugsy Maloney with the information that a gentleman had called to see him.
“With or without a black-jack?” enquired John. “Did he give any name?”
“Sure. Parker’s his name. He blew in oncst before when Mr. Smith was here. I loosed him into de odder room.”
John walked through. The man he had seen with Mr. Scobell at the Knickerbocker was standing at the window.
“Mr. Parker?”
The other turned, as the door opened, and looked at him keenly.
“Are you Mr. Maude?”
“I am,” said John.
“I guess you don’t need to be told what I’ve come about?”
“No.”
“See here,” said Mr. Parker. “I don’t know how you’ve found things out, but you’ve done it, and we’re through. We quit.”
“I’m glad of that,” said John. “Would you mind informing Spider Reilly of that fact? It will make life pleasanter for all of us.”
“Mr. Scobell sent me along here to ask you to come and talk over this thing with him. He’s at the Knickerbocker. I’ve a cab waiting outside. Can you come along?”
“I’d rather he came here.”
“And I bet he’d rather come here than be where he is. That little surprise packet of yours last night put him down and out. Gave him a stroke of some sort. He’s in bed now, with half-a-dozen doctors working on him.”
John thought for a moment.
“Oh,” he said slowly, “if it’s that—very well.”
He could not help feeling a touch of remorse. He had no reason to be fond of Mr. Scobell, but he was sorry that this should have happened.
They went out on the street. A taximeter cab was standing by the sidewalk. They got in. Neither spoke. John was thoughtful and preoccupied. Mr. Parker, too, appeared to be absorbed in his own thoughts. He sat with folded arms and lowered head.
The cab buzzed up Fifth Avenue. Suddenly something, half-seen through the window, brought John to himself with a jerk. It was the great white mass of the Plaza Hotel. The next moment he saw that they were abreast of the park, and for the first time an icy wave of suspicion swept over him.
“Here, what’s this?” he cried. “Where are you taking me?”
Mr. Parker’s right hand came swiftly out of ambush, and something gleamed in the sun.
“Don’t move,” said Mr. Parker. The hard nozzle of a pistol pressed against John’s chest. “Keep that hand still.”
John dropped his hand. Mr. Parker leaned back, with the pistol resting easily on his knee. The cab began to move more quickly.
John’s mind was in a whirl. His chief emotion was not fear, but disgust that he should have allowed himself to be trapped, with such absurd ease. He blushed for himself. Mr. Parker’s face was expressionless, but who could say what tumults of silent laughter were not going on inside him? John bit his lip.
“Well?” he said at last.
Mr. Parker did not reply.
“Well?” said John again. “What’s the next move?”
It flashed across his mind that, unless driven to it by an attack, his captor would do nothing for the moment without running grave risks himself. To shoot now would be to attract attention. The cab would be overtaken at once by bicycle police, and stopped. There would be no escape. No, nothing could happen till they reached open country. At least he would have time to think this matter over in all its bearings.
Mr. Parker ignored the question. He was sitting in the same attitude of watchfulness, the revolver resting on his knee. He seemed mistrustful of John’s right hand, which was hanging limply at his side. It was from this quarter that he appeared to expect attack. The cab was bowling easily up the broad street, past rows and rows of high
