You'll Be Thrilled and Mystified
By Hamilton Craigie's New Novelette
The Chain
I.
Trouble.
Quarrier entered the taxi with an uneasy sense of crisis.
He was not imaginative; his digestion was excellent; even at forty, an age when most men nowadays have begun to feel the strain of fierce business competition, Quarrier was almost the man that he had been ten years in the past.
Nerves and Quarrier were strangers; he smoked his after-dinner cigar in a rigorous self-denial that made it his sole dissipation; he was in bed and asleep when other men were comfortably faring forth in search of such diversion as the metropolis had to offer.
But the face of that taxi-driver—he had seen it somewhere before. It was a dark, Italian face, with high cheekbones and a straight, cruel mouth, like a wedge, between lean cheeks scarred and scabbed with late-healed cicatricts and pocked blue with powder burns.
Not an inviting face. And the taxi was old. Glancing at the cushions, as they had roared past an arc-light at the street corner, Quarrier had thought to see the dingy leather sown thick with stains, broad patches, as if—as if...
But pshaw! As he told himself, he was getting fanciful; perhaps his liver, at last, had played him false. A migraine, doubtless—he'd have a look in on old Peterby in the morning. Peterby was a good, plain old-fashioned practitioner—no nonsense about him...
He had gone to the offices of the Intervale Steel Company on a mission, an important one. As a matter of fact, it was vital—almost a matter of life and death. But he smiled grimly now in the dark recesses of the cab as he reflected that, as it chanced, his last-minute decision had left those documents where they would be beyond the reach of—Hubert Marston, for instance.
He had nothing on his person of any special value; he would be poor picking indeed, if, as it chanced, that taxi driver with the face of a bravo might, behind the sinister mask that was his face, be the thug he seemed, hired, perhaps, by the Panther of Peacock Alley.
An extravagant appellation, doubtless, but that was Marston: Suave, sinister, debonair—the social routourier equally with the manipulator. He had acquired the name naturally enough, for most of his operations were carried on in the hotels and clubs.
He had an office hard by the "Alley" and it was from its ornate splendor that he issued, on occasion, gardenia in buttonhole, cane hooked over his arm, dark face with its inscrutable smile flashing upon the habitués with what meaning only he could say. And he did not choose to tell.
And Marston had wanted those documents; they spelled the difference to him between durance and liberty—aye, between life and death...
