Stamped in Gold/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II.
THE UNDERGROUND CHAMBER.
STEPS. Two steps—three steps—four steps—five steps—landing—turn. One step—two steps—three steps—four steps—five steps—six steps—landing—no, this was the end of the stairway.”
A key clicked in the lock, and presumably a door opened, because there came a breath of cold and somewhat musty air. Then the journey was resumed.
Frank Alwin came to consciousness, or semiconsciousness, as they were carrying him down a flight of steps. By some peculiar trick of the mind he began his count at “two” without being conscious that the first step had been descended. His head was aching, and his face felt as sticky and uncomfortable as though somebody had spilled mucilage down it, and his arms pained dreadfully.
But the head was the worst. He had never realized how inspired was the coiner of phrases when he had described a “splitting headache.” It was as though his skull had been rent in two and the broken ends were grating. The agony seemed unendurable; he could have cried out with the pain of it, but subconscious reason bade him be silent. Whoever carried him was handling him with care. He felt himself laid upon a bed.
“Spring bed, damp pillow,” registered his mind.
Then the electric light was turned on and the sensation, after the darkness, was almost as painful as his throbbing head. He groaned and turned over, and groaned again.
“Phew!” said a voice. “Look at my coat! Blood will never wash off, and I'll have to burn it. I think it was a fool's trick, anyway, to bring him here. Why not leave him?”
“Because Rosie is right,” said another voice—a deeper tone with a growl in it.
“Rosie!” The first speaker laughed contemptuously.
“Who was Rosie?” wondered Frank Alwin through his pain. “Was there a woman at the back of this extraordinary mischief? What manner of woman was she?”
He remembered coming out of the restaurant because—because—he couldn't remember just why he had gone into the street. He had only the dimmest recollection of what had happened after. Anyway, he was here, and he was alive; that was something. But they were talking of Rosie.
“I tell you Rosie was right,” said the growling voice. “This fellow Smith is the most dangerous man in New York—for us.”
“What about Peter Correlly?” said the first speaker, and there was a silence, as though the second man, who spoke with such authority, was considering the matter, as apparently he was.
“Peter Correlly?” he repeated. “Why, yes, Peter Correlly is dangerous, but Wilbur Smith wouldn't have him on to the same job. Besides, I think it is much too big a thing for Peter Correlly, anyway.”
There was another pause and the sound of somebody washing his hands. That some one was singing in a low voice and Frank judged this to be the washer. What is there about the sound of running water which inspires all men to song?
“But it is all nonsense,” said the voice of the first man who had spoken, and the note of contempt still held. “Rosie doesn't think for a minute that Wilbur Smith will chuck up the job because his pal is in danger? Anyway, how is he to know that we haven't finished him? Rosie talks about killing two birds with one stone, but we ain't killed any birds yet. This nut hasn't got the money, and he's alive.”
There was a long pause.
“Yes,” said the growling voice, “that's so. Maybe we've got to alter our program. You are sure he said he gave the money to Smith? Maybe he didn't know what he was saying.”
“He knew what he said all right,” said the first speaker. “Smith has the money, and that alters things.”
Frank was trying desperately hard to catch hold of the past few hours or few minutes. When had he said he had given the money to Wilbur Smith? He had no recollection of the few moments of consciousness which he had enjoyed on the way to this place. Yet somehow he knew that the man was speaking the truth, and he groaned again.
One of the men came across and looked down at him. “Hullo, you!” he said in a growling voice. “Do you feel better?”
Frank unscrewed his eyes—that is just how the sensation felt—and peered up at his questioner. He might have saved himself the trouble, for the lower part of the man's face was covered by a silk handkerchief.
“You're in luck,” said the man. “You ought to be dead by rights. You're in a little place which was built specially for me—a regular swell apartment. Why, you can have a needle bath if you want one!”
Frank groaned again, and presently he heard no more. The man with the handkerchief sat down, pulled the unconscious man to his back, and lifted his eyelids.
“I thought he was dead for a minute,” he said. “He's a bit soft. You didn't plug him that hard, Sammy?”
The man addressed as Sammy laughed, He was shorter than his companion, quicker of foot, more wiry, and he stepped over to the side of the unconscious Alwin and examined his hurts with deft fingers.
“It is nothing serious,” he said. “He has only lost a little blood.”
He rose and looked round the raw brick walls of the room.
“A very desirable residence,” he said, “but I'm glad it is he and not me that's going to live here. Tom, if we ever have to hide for our lives, this is about the last place in the world we ought to be. Yes, I know it has a bathroom and lots of books and plenty of grub, and it is the sort of place where you could sit quiet for a year if you were clever. But what applied six months ago does not apply now. I thought it was a grand idea of Rosie's when he first put it up. Rosie planned the whole building, brought the workmen up from Mexico, sent them home again, and no other human eye saw it being built.”
He chuckled, then went on:
“But things have gone big since then, Tom. What looked like a little graft that nobody would take any notice of, is now the biggest thing we've ever struck, And Lord bless Rosie for it!”
“Rosie? Huh!” growled the other.
“Why, say, you were praising him up just now,” sneered the second man, “which reminds me,” he said suddenly, in a different tone of voice.
On the other side of the room from where he was sitting were two sea chests, one on top of the other. Their fastening was of a primitive character and he opened one, examining its contents with an approving eye. It was half full of books, papers, scrapbooks, wire table baskets, stationery racks, and paraphernalia of an office desk.
“Rosie wants this stuff sorted out,” said the man.
“Sorted out,” repeated Alwin, coming back to consciousness.
“Let him come and sort 'em out,” said the other. “What's the hurry, anyway?”
He pondered a moment, then said:
“I suppose we ought to do it. Rosie said there was a lot of stuff in these boxes that might be of use, and a lot that might be damaging if it ever fell into wise hands. We could take it up to the Temple to-morrow night, then Rosie could persuade the mug to send them to his place.”
What was the mug? Alwin puzzled over that word until he remembered that “mug” was English slang for fool. He heard the snap of the watchcase and the grating of the chair being pushed against the wall. Then one of the men said briskly:
“Well, it is time. Why doesn't Rosie come?”
There was a sharp tap-tap at that moment which sounded to Frank as though it came from the ceiling. It was like the tap of a walking stick on a tesselated pavement, and he wondered what was above the vaulted roof.
“Talk of the devil,” said the man called Sam. “Come on, Tom. He won't come down here. What about this fellow?”
“Leave him for a moment and leave the light. Let us see what Rosie has to say.”
The door shut softly behind them, and with an effort Frank turned his head. He was in a large cellar. It was evidently the cellar of a house which had been newly built. It was oblong in shape, and the concrete floor was covered with matting; it was clean and apparently well ventilated. It contained three beds, on one of which he was lying, the others being in the corners on either side of the door. There was a plain table, two wooden chairs, and a wicker chair, and these, with the two chests, constituted the furniture of what one of the men had called his “apartment.”
In the corner farthest from the entrance was a door, which apparently led to the bath of which the man had boasted.
By a powerful effort of will Alwin dragged himself to the edge of the bed, and, holding tight to the headboard, stood erect. His head swam, his knees felt as though they would collapse at any minute; he thought he was going to faint. He was sick and trembling and his head was one wild, frantic ache. His first thought was to find some weapons which his captors might incautiously have left behind in a moment of forgetfulness, but this miracle did not happen. After a few painful moments he crawled back to the bed and lay down. The relief was such that he was satisfied to stay. He had put his hand to his head and discovered that some sort of rough dressing had been applied to the wound on his scalp, and there was nothing now to do but to rid himself of this intolerable ache and to recover some of his lost strength.
He must have dozed off, for he was awakened by the door being opened and the two men entering. The man called Tom was grumbling about the boxes. Evidently Rosie had been insistent. Though they spoke of this mysterious personage in tones from which they did not attempt to banish their contempt, he was evidently of some importance.
“What about this fellow?” said one of them suddenly, and Frank knew they were speaking of him.
“Give him till to-morrow night,” said the growling voice. “Let us see what we can do with Smith.”
“Do you think we can do anything with him?”
“Who? Smith? Sure we can. He has the money. Rosie says so and Rosie knows.”
“That makes a difference. It complicates things to put this guy out of the reckoning. This is the third blunder Rosie has made in three months.”
They lowered their voices here, and Frank could not follow them. He gathered that they were examining the two black boxes which stood against the wall, for he heard them pant as they lifted one down to examine the box underneath. Presently they left, and he heard the thud of the door as they shut it behind them.