Chapter VIII: “the Rat”

The path followed by Red Rodgers and the girl was little more than a wild animal trail along the edge of a wilderness.

Evening dew had placed its cold wet hand over all. Here they passed through clumps of alder that showered icy drops upon them, here waded waist deep in ferns that were like a tossing sea, and here again they crowded their way through clusters of young spruce huddled close together like children afraid of the night.

They had not gone a quarter of a mile when they were soaked to the skin. Still, without a word, the girl, gripping Red’s small flashlight, trudged pluckily forward.

“We could lose ourselves in this wilderness,” Red commented.

“Not if we follow the shore.”

That, Red told himself, was true enough. But where would the shore lead them? To cabins, fireplaces, chairs, things to eat? He fancied that this girl had been romancing, dreaming to keep up her courage.

“Queer old world,” he told himself. “Here I was, twenty-four hours ago, watched over like a child. Must eat this, must not eat that. Must sleep so long. Was there an ache, a slight sprain? Send for the rub-doctor. Did I cough once? Send in the M.D. And now this. In the wilderness. Drenched to the skin. No doctor. No osteopath. No one to tell me what to eat. Free!

“And yet, such freedom! I may be caught any time and brought back.

“Back to what?” He shuddered. Well, they’d have to find him. That would be difficult. And then they’d have a fight on their hands. He was strong, as strong as a bull moose. They’d not get that girl again without a fight.

“Queer sort of girl,” he mused. “Queer place this. You meet a moose on the trail, you politely step aside and he walks calmly past. You’d think he’d snort and vanish or roar a challenge and charge. Never heard of such things. That girl’s got the place bewitched. I—”

“Look!” The girl had come to a halt. One hand was on his arm. With the other she parted the bushes. “Do you see?”

“See what?”

“That dark spot over yonder.”

“Y-yes.”

“It’s another island. There’s a cabin on it, and a boat house. Boats too. And in the cabin there is a fireplace and easy chairs, blankets, and—and things to eat.” She swayed a little.

“It—it’s not far.” She steadied herself on his arm. “I—I think I could swim it.”

“But you’ll not!” Red began stripping off his coat. “I’ll swim it and bring back a boat. Here, hold this. I’ll take off my shoes, too. The rest doesn’t matter. I’ll be soaked anyway.”

Another moment and he was in the water swimming strongly.

Red was a fine swimmer. In the slips where rusty ore boats lay at anchor in his home city he had learned to swim before he could talk well.

The distance to the island he found surprisingly short. Before he knew it he was touching rocky shoals that led up to a low bank lined with spruce and birches.

As he stood there shaking the water from him like a spaniel, he saw a dark bulk to his right.

“Boat house.” He flashed the electric torch, which he had carried across in his teeth.

“And there’s the cabin.” Once again his light darted about. There appeared to be a number of small cabins grouped around a larger central one.

“Mysterious sort of place!” he told himself. “Wonder who built it. Who lives there? And when?”

A cold blast of wind came sweeping up the narrow channel. It chilled him to the bone.

“Going to storm. I must get back.

“A fireplace and easy chairs, blankets, things to eat,” he whispered as he stumbled along over the slippery stones.

He thought of the girl standing back there alone, drenched with dew, chilled by the wind.

“I must get back. At once!” He quickened his steps.

On reaching the shore side door of the boat house, he found it locked. With a mutter of disgust, he hurried along a narrow plank walk to the other end. There he plunged waist deep into water, to make his way beneath the great outer door.

“Room for a rowboat beneath this door,” he murmured. “Let ’em keep their launch. No gas anyway.”

A swing of the light showed him a sizeable launch suspended above the water. But that which gladdened his heart was a staunch little rowboat tipped on its side and resting on a narrow ledge at the right of the hole of black water.

“All we ask,” he grumbled. “Oars? Ah, yes! There they are. Now to tip her over.”

This he accomplished without a sound. The oars dropped silently into their places. He was in the act of pushing the boat into the black hole of water when a blood-curdling scream, coming from the shore side, froze every drop of blood in his veins.

“They—they got her!” he gasped. “And after all this!”

For a space of many seconds his heart stood still. Then it raced like an engine without a governor.

“They’ve got her. Will they keep her? We’ll see!”

Red’s fighting blood was up. And could Red fight? Ask the boys of the gridiron. Count them as they go down before him; one, two, three. Yes, Red could fight. He could fight steel and had; could fight hard opponents on the gridiron. And as for these kidnapers—dirty dogs, buzzards, beasts in human form—he’d show ’em!

* * * * * * * *

It was at this same hour that Tom Howe received a visitor, and a very curious specimen of humanity he was. You will need to become well acquainted with him, as he plays an important role in our story. That is one of the jolly features of this life we live; on life’s stage the humblest individual can, and often does, play an important role.

This visitor, who knocked timidly on the young detective’s door just as he was dressing, was known all up and down the river front as “The Rat.” I say he was known; the truth is that he was known to but a few. As a sort of compensation, those few knew him very well. Tom Howe knew him well.

He had a curious occupation, did the Rat. He found out things that people wished to know. And his particular province was the river. He never left it save to deliver a message. At night, in a narrow boat, little more than a canoe and painted dark gray inside and out, he might have been seen cruising up and down the river. Or rather, he was not likely to be seen; his craft and his dirty, dull-colored garb blended in with breakwaters, with piles and all manner of dark and shadowy places.

Thus the Rat lurked about the river at night, gathering scraps of information which might be sold for a price to certain gentlemen who wished to know such things.

Was the Rat particular regarding the character of his customers? Probably not. Some were favored before others, for all that. Tom Howe and Johnny Thompson might have his services at their very best, and that with no thought of charge. Every creature, even a rat, has a sense of gratitude. Johnny Thompson, who, as you will recall, was a great friend of Drew Lane and Tom Howe, had once found the Rat dying of fever. He and Howe had saved him from the hospital, which he dreaded with the fear of death, by hiring a nurse to care for him in his river front hovel.

Now, after an all-night search at Howe’s request, he had something of importance to report.

The Rat had a way of seeming in a great rush. He puffed as he talked and from time to time his sharp nose shot forward, his small black eyes popped just as a rat’s will.

“Dat speed boat, it—it—dat boat,” he puffed now, “you know de Wop what camps under de Twelfth Street bridge?”

“Yes, I know,” Howe replied eagerly.

“De Wop saw it. Fine speed boat. Very fast.”

“What color?”

“Col-color? Can’t see. Too dark.

“You know de Chink got laundry by de river just past de scrap yard?”

“Yes, I know him.”

“He heard de speed boat.” The Rat took a turn around the room.

“So it went that far?”

“Dat far!” The Rat bulged his eyes. “Dat’s not a start. You know de t’ree bums dat hang round de old warehouse way down de river, de big warehouse?”

“Yes.”

“Dey saw it.”

“That’s not strange,” Drew Lane put in. “A speed boat comes near being a curiosity that far down the river. They’d be sure to notice it.”

“Dat’s it.” The Rat took another turn around the room. “Dat’s what I say.

“You know de gypsies campin’ by de river? Cottonwood trees grow on dat place.”

“Yes. I know the place.”

“Dey don’t see it, don’t hear it.”

“Perhaps they were asleep.”

“No, no. Not dat. Squattin’ by de fire, playin’ cards. Dey don’t hear dat boat. Don’t see it, I tell you.”

“Then,” said Drew Lane, “our search narrows. The boat landed somewhere between the old warehouse and the gypsy camp. Can’t be more than six blocks apart. Let’s see, what’s out that way?”

“Some homes,” said Howe. “Some shacks—abandoned, tumble-down places—a roadhouse or two. The airport is not far away.”

“That’s right, the airport.” Drew said these words with little animation. At that moment the airport did not enter deeply into his conscious thoughts. In time it was to take on a deep significance.

“All right, Rat. Good work! Here’s your breakfast.” Howe pressed a bill into the Rat’s paw-like hand.

At this instant there came a loud banging at the door.

With a startled glance the Rat sprang for a second door at the opposite end of the room. This door opened into Tom Howe’s tiny laboratory for the scientific study of crime. The window of this room looked out on the fire escape.

Neither Drew Lane nor Tom Howe paid the slightest attention to the Rat’s going. He was by nature what his name implied; a loud banging at any door found him seeking a hole through which he might escape.

“Who’s that at this hour of the morning?” Drew grumbled.

“Search me.” Tom Howe slipped a blue-barreled automatic into his coat pocket, gripped it firmly in his left hand, then threw the door wide, to exclaim:

“Oh! So it’s you!”