Bowman walked to the door. He placed his ear against the thin panels and could hear voices on the other side. He turned to flash the girl a warning glance, then dropped to his knees, placed his ear to the keyhole. He was able to overhear snatches of conversation.
“Acid on the control wires... leave the plane out there... try to escape in it... Then we start pursuit... he’ll start doing stunts... Plane crash... both bodies can be identified... nothing to show plane tampered with.”
“No. That’s... too many chances. Nix on the plane stuff... automobile accident... not so much danger of fire... over a cliff... high speed... curves... block the road...”
A chair scraped. Feet came toward the door. Jax Bowman moved hastily away, was seated on the edge of the bed when the bolt shot back and Howard’s grinning face appeared in the doorway.
“How you coming, buddy?” he asked.
“How about some, playing cards?” Bowman inquired. “We’d like to pass the time. And what do you intend to do with us?”
“Just want to keep you out of mischief. Nix on the playing cards. You can’t play cards with your hands tied.”
“You mean you’re going to keep our hands tied all the time?”
“And how.”
“But I’ve got to have my arms free some of the time. I can’t...”
“Oh, you’ll be given a little chance to walk around when the time comes. I hope you like canned beans. That’s going to be your chow tonight. Come on, sister, we’re going to take you out for a little walk.”
He crossed the room to the girl, took her arm and piloted her from the room. Bowman found that by lying on the bed on his face he was able to relieve the tension of the rope on his wrists. Slumber overtook him, a slumber which was not so much the result of fatigue as a partial unconsciousness, an after-effect of the blows he had received on his head.
Bowman awoke late in the afternoon. Phyllis Proctor, her wrists bound as before, was seated in the chair watching him.
“Feel rested?” she asked.
Bowman struggled to a sitting position, wanted to rub his eyes and couldn’t. He made tasting noises with his mouth. His tongue felt thick and coated. He knew that his eyes were swollen and bloodshot. His head felt dull, but the splitting headache was gone.
He tried a smile. “Learn anything new?” he asked.
She said calmly, “Yes, they’re planning to kill us tonight.”
Bowman stared at her. “How do you know?” he asked.
“I’ve been listening at the door, the same as you did.”
She was silent for a moment, and, through the panels of the door, Jax Bowman could hear the steady clack of a typewriter. Was this, he wondered, the portable machine on which the death messages had been typed? And, if so, was it now engaged in chattering out some note which was to be found upon his body?
“Scared?” the girl asked.
Bowman laughed. “How about you?” he inquired.
“I can take it,” she said, “and take it with a grin — if I have to.”
He studied her in silent admiration.
“They searched your baggage in the hotel,” she went on, “and found a mask with white rings around the eyes. That frightened the aviator to death. He’s Howard Ashe, an ex-convict. It seems that crooks have been hunted down by people wearing these white-ringed masks. I picked up quite a bit from their conversation.”
Bowman made no comment, surveyed the gathering twilight of the room.
“Do you suppose,” he asked, “you could get the watch out of my pocket once more and see what time it is? Your wrists are tied in front of you, mine behind my back.”
She came to him. Her bound wrists were pressed against his vest as her fingers worked the watch from his pocket.
“Five thirty,” Bowman said, and then suddenly, as he stared at the watch, he laughed.
“What’s the joke?” she inquired.
“I’m afraid,” he said, “I’ve been rather stupid. I could have had you out of here before this.”
Her raised eyebrows asked a silent question.
“Put the watch down on the floor,” Bowman said.
Chapter V
Vengeance
She placed the watch on the floor. Bowman placed his foot on the back of the watch, exerted a slow, steady pressure, until he heard a snapping sound. Then he removed his foot. The crystal was broken into several pieces.
Bowman had no need to speak. The girl grasped his idea instantly. She bent forward, picked up one of the bits of thin, sharp glass and held it in her fingers. Bowman turned around so that his bound arms were within reach of her fingers. He felt the sharp edge of the glass sawing through his bonds, then, after a moment, he was free. It took him but a few seconds to untie the girl.
“Now,” he said, “let’s move that table and the chairs over to that far corner of the room. I think I can stand on them and reach the rafters. Then I can pull the slats out of that ventilator. We can make a rope out of the blankets and lower you down to the ground.”
She nodded, and said, almost casually, “Be careful when you pick up your end of the table. Don’t let it drag on the floor; they might hear it.”
Bowman laughed at the matter-of-fact efficiency of the young woman. “I can tell you one thing,” he said, “if we get out of here okay, you’ve got a first-class stenographic job awaiting you.”
They moved the table to a place beneath one of the rafters. They placed a chair on it. Bowman climbed from the table to the chair and was able to reach the rafter. He swung himself up to the rafter and from there was able to reach the slats in the ventilator. The air here was close and. musty. His clutching fingers were covered with must and cobwebs, but the slats responded to the pressure he exerted. One of them came loose in his hand. He said to Phyllis Proctor, “Catch.”
She held out her hands and neatly caught the slat as he dropped it.
The other three slats followed in quick succession. Jax Bowman inhaled the fresh air, peered out through the oblong hole.
He saw the cabin plane in which he had arrived. The motor was clicking over at idling speed.
He turned and spoke to the girl. “Get those blankets,” he said, “and quickly. They’re getting the plane warmed up. That means they’re planning to take us somewhere.”
She rushed toward the bed. Bowman saw a man walk from the plane toward the house, heard a door in the house open. A man shouted, “Okay, ready at any time you are.”
Phyllis Proctor said in a voice which quavered slightly with excitement, “They’re coming.”
Bowman heard the noise of the bolt being shot back.
There were solid planks along the side of the room, against the slope of the roof. These planks gave Bowman a runway. Swiftly, he moved along them toward the door. If he could reach a position of vantage directly over the door, he might be able to jump down upon whoever entered the room.
Bowman realized he was going to be too late. He had covered but slightly more than half of the distance when the door pushed open. The bony-faced individual who had been called Harry, and whom Bowman surmised was Harry Cutting, entered the room. It took a moment for his eyes to accustom themselves to the semi-darkness. He stood staring at the chair on the table at the end of the room, raised his eyes to the broken ventilator. His hand streaked to his hip.
“Where’s Bowman?” he demanded, apparently not noticing that the girl’s hands were free.
Bowman crouched motionless. There was a moment of tense silence. Bowman wondered if she could keep from giving an involuntary glance upward. Could she keep from showing signs of hysterical panic?
In that moment of silence, Bowman heard distinctly the roar of an airplane’s motor. He surmised that the cabin plane which had been warming up must have taken off.