Chapter X: Pursuit

The scream had ended with a certain grim abruptness that to the listeners could mean only one thing. It had seemed to stop in the middle; yet it had been punctuated with an ominous finality. It was as if death itself had stepped in and placed an exclamation point after an unfinished cry.

Then came utter silence. It seemed as though every sound and every breath of life had been sucked out of the air. Carlin, his lips drawn apart at one side, looked fixedly at the door. His head, shoulders and chest were straining forward; he appeared to be maintaining his balance by sheer mental tension. A few moments passed, and then Cole shook himself free of the insidious horror that attacks even the strongest. Less than thirty seconds had elapsed since the cry sounded.

“Where is he?” he asked, shaking the lawyer’s arm.

“He?” Carlin seemed to be trying to shake off a spell. “Oh, Reeves, you mean. Back there.” He pointed indefinitely toward the corridor.

“Brace up, man!” Cole shouted. “Go to him. Maybe something can be done. Hurry!”

He bounded to the door and out in the hall. His words had voiced a hope that he did not feel. The cry had told him only too eloquently that Reeves was beyond help. But there might still be time to catch the murderer, if he made haste. Heedless of Carlin’s belated shout to him to stop, he hurried down the long and dimly-lighted corridor. Confused cries and scurrying footfalls sounded behind him, signifying that the others had come out of their temporary stupor.

Cole shut his ears to the bedlam. All he saw and heard was a shadow darting toward the end of the hall and a patter of swift feet. At the farther end of the corridor, at the point where Miss Brown and himself had entered the headquarters of The Unknown Seven, was an opening. He came up to it just in time to see the fleeing shadow slip through.

“Stop, or I’ll wing you!” he cried, jerking his pistol out of his hip pocket, but the fugitive paid no heed. Crouching low, he ran with zigzagging motions across the open space toward the elevator shaft. Cole aimed low and pulled the trigger. The bullet thudded against the flagged flooring, and through the smoke he saw the fugitive spring into the cage. Already the door was clanking shut. He plunged forward and kicked his foot into the opening, just in time to stop the sliding door from closing. He caught a glimpse of a stiff felt hat, a sallow face with a mocking grin, a lean and slightly hunchbacked figure, and then the cage shot downward.

Cole, standing with his right foot caught between the door and the steel jamb, muttered a malediction, but it was aimed mostly at himself. The little hunchback had eluded him with an agility that aroused his admiration, even while it made him grit his teeth. He flung the door wide open. Only a few moments had passed since the cage started downward, and it had not got far. There was something tantalizing about the swiftness with which it increased the distance between himself and the fleeing man.

For a moment Cole gauged his chances. He gazed at two sets of cables that glided up and down inside the shaft. His next move would have seemed foolhardy to an onlooker, but Cole had carefully measured the risk. It was one of those tense moments in which the mind leaps quickly to decisions. The time it took him to determine what to do was only a matter of seconds.

He flexed his muscles and then he leaped. For an instant his form hurtled through space, then his hands closed tightly around the downward gliding cable. He wound his legs about it and clamped it between his feet. The swift descent made him feel as if he were sucking ice-cold air into his lungs. The cage, some twenty-five or thirty feet below, was dropping like a rock, but now Cole was following at an equal rate of progress.

Ten floors slipped past, then fifteen, finally twenty. Cole’s hands were raw and bleeding. Hot and cold flashes were chasing up and down his back. His lungs were straining, and a treacherous numbness was creeping into his limbs. He looked down at the roof of the cage and smiled. No doubt the fleeing man felt that his escape was already as good as accomplished.

The cage stopped so suddenly that the vibration of the cable almost made Cole lose his hold. He slipped a little farther down, then checked his descent opposite the level of the second floor. The shaft was narrow, and he could easily reach the door with one hand, while he clung to the cable with the other. Installed for private and secret use the elevator equipment lacked several safety devices that would have acted as a hindrance to Cole. As it was the door slid open easily. Seizing the jamb with one hand he swung free of the cable and landed on the floor.

He felt a trifle dizzy, but the thrill of pursuit acted as a stimulant. Just around the shaft was a stairway, and he hurried down. Only a few moments ago a metallic clanking had signified that the fugitive was getting out of the cage. As Cole reached the lower steps he saw a long open space in front of him, and at its farther end he caught a glimpse of the hunchback, slipping out through the door. His ears caught the sound of throbbing motors, warning him that a car was waiting outside to speed the fugitive to safety. Conscious of nothing but the exhilaration of the hunter he bounded to the door and emerged on the sidewalk, just as a tail light gave him a mocking wink and disappeared around the corner.

There was a fine mist in the air. On all sides the tops of the tall office buildings reared their heads in a translucent haze. The streets, which in the daytime swarmed with humanity, were now deserted. Cole guessed that it must be about two o’clock, but he did not take time to look at his watch. The taunt of the tail light egged him on. He threw his head back and his chest out and broke into a sprint. Rounding the corner at full speed he once more caught a glimpse of the jeering tail light. But it was only a glimpse, for a moment later it was out of sight.

Cole tried to run faster, but he realized that, unless something unforeseen happened, he was running a losing race. The car had the advantage in speed and endurance. With scarcely a stop, save for the possible interference of a traffic officer, it might travel all the way from one end of Manhattan to the other. He kept up the pursuit only because he hated to cry quits. Besides, as long as he could continue the chase, there was always the possibility that chance might come to his aid.

Once more he caught sight of the tail light, this time quite a distance ahead. Letting out the final ounce of energy he succeeded in quickening his speed a little. He ran and ran, but his breathing became alarmingly heavy. It would not be long before his wind gave out, but at least he would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had done his best. His gait was growing wabbly when the unexpected occurrence for which he had been hoping came along.

Not even a village street is quite so dead as is the financial section of New York in the small hours. Skyscrapers, towering in a jungle of silence and dim lights, give a majestic touch to a stillness that is seldom broken, save by the footfalls of policemen and private watchmen. To Cole, therefore, it seemed nothing but a stroke of luck that a taxicab should come along at that moment. He hailed the driver.

“See that car?” He pointed at the tail light twinkling in the distance. “Can you overtake it?”

“I’ll try,” said the chauffeur, peering at him from beneath the visor of his cap. “This is a pretty good old boat, though she ain’t much on looks. Good for a fine if I get pinched?”

“Sure,” said Cole easily, though not altogether unmindful of the slender roll in his pocket. He stepped in, and the cab jumped forward. It rattled and lurched and creaked in the joints, as if in imminent danger of falling to pieces, but he noticed with satisfaction that it had a surprising capacity for speed. It swerved and slithered at a giddy rate, at times almost jogging him out of his seat.

Pursued and pursuer wound their way out of the maze of chopped-up and tangled streets to the south of Washington Square. The car ahead swung into Fifth Avenue, at a slightly reduced speed, and the taxicab slowed down accordingly. From now on it was not only easier to keep up with the larger car, but there was also less danger of the fugitive becoming aware of pursuit, for, even at that hour, there was a sprinkling of traffic on the avenue.

It suddenly dawned on Cole that he was in a unique position. The capture of the hunchback now seemed certain, but what was he to do with the man after he had caught him? If he turned him over to the police, which seemed the proper and regular thing to do, he would be compelled to tell things which, in a sense, he was pledged not to reveal. Despite all that had happened and notwithstanding the harsh treatment inflicted on him, he had come away with a rather high opinion of The Unknown Seven. They had trusted him, at least for a time, until the coming of the hunchback turned their suspicions against him, and Cole was not inclined to violate a trust.

Now, that he came to think of it, there was really very little he could tell, even if he were disposed to divulge what he knew. In a strict sense he did not know that the hunchback had murdered Reeves. For that matter he did not know that Reeves was dead. Though personally convinced on both points he could not tell a convincing story to the police, for he had neither witnessed the commission of the crime nor seen Reeves’ dead body.

Still another thought came to him as he bobbed up and down and from side to side in the cab. He gave a short, dazed laugh. Even if he had witnessed the deed and seen the body he would have been unable to direct the police to the scene of the crime. His dizzying descent in the elevator shaft had left him a trifle giddy. He had rushed away in great haste, his whole mind fixed on the one idea that the hunchback must not be permitted to get away. In his hurry he had given no thought to the location of the building. He had strained every nerve and muscle in his efforts to keep the car in sight, and there had been no time to notice street signs. Like many a New Yorker, he had seldom had occasion to visit the financial section, and many of the streets in that district were nothing but names to him.

Though there was ample extenuation, Cole chided himself for a blunderer. He had missed his chance to learn where the headquarters of The Unknown Seven was situated. The general boundaries of the neighborhood were a shade more clearly defined in his mind, but he knew scarcely more than he had known before. The rendezvous of the organization could be in any one of half a hundred buildings. Even if he should stumble upon the right one he doubted whether he would recognize it.

In the midst of his musings the cab stopped with a suddenness that jerked him out of his seat. He glanced out and saw that the hunchback’s car had halted two blocks ahead. They were somewhere in the Sixties, and to the west were the black masses of the park. The hunchback was getting out and turning down the side street, but car and driver were proceeding north.

A suspicion was dawning in Cole’s mind as he stepped out of the taxicab. It was rather odd that the chase should have ended at this particular point. He paid the chauffeur, adding a generous tip to the fare. He hurried to the corner where the car had stopped and swung into the side street, just in time to see the hunchback disappear in the shadow of a house. Cole hastened after him, stopping before a dark and somber house with a brownstone front.

His hazy suspicion was confirmed. It was odd how the scattered pieces of the mystery were beginning to dovetail. His pursuit of the hunchback had led him to the house of Doctor Dickson Latham.