If he had known crooks as I knew them he would have never betrayed that secret. They had seen the blood, had realized the ingenious construction of the crown, had heard him read the note, and saw the fear of death on his face. These men who worked for him as long as he was a power, as long as he could hold murder charges over their heads, grant them police immunity while they worked for him, guarantee the gallows when they failed, were like rats in a vessel, half-starved, desperate. Let one among them become stricken and he became the prey of the pack.
So it was with Icy-Eyes. As these crooks looked at it, there was a fortune in jewelry before their eyes, another fortune in the safe, ready to be taken for the asking, two beautiful women in their power. The chief wanted them to take all of the booty to a safe place, wanted them to rush him to a doctor. Why should they do so? In fifteen minutes, if they but waited, he would be dead. He had lost his power over them and there was a king’s ransom within reach.
They exchanged glances, and then advanced.
At that last minute Icy-Eyes read their faces, saw what he had turned loose, realized that the pack had turned against him. Already the fear of death was bringing the cold drops of perspiration to his brow, oozing through the white, taut skin of the temples, trickling down the blood-stained cheeks. He was not a pretty spectacle.
At that, his mind did not entirely desert him, for he looked toward the grille.
“Shoot these traitors,” he ordered. “Shoot to kill!”
Then he waited.
The others had momentarily forgotten about that watch tower behind the grille and they fell back, white, startled, of half a mind to surrender. Had he taken advantage of that moment he might have again controlled the situation, forced them to do his bidding. Had he countermanded those orders promptly and bluffed his way through, he could have cowed them.
But he was too vindictive, too cold. He waited, eyes upturned, wondering why there was no response to his orders.
Fool! Even had the watcher been there, he would have naturally sided with his comrades. One does not gain honor or advancement by fighting for the dead, and, in the eyes of his men, Icy-Eyes was as good as dead already, merely a meandering corpse who was cheating the grave by minutes.
When there was nothing but silence from behind that grille, the men advanced again, and this time with more confidence. Icy-Eyes read their intent, and his cowering was painful to behold. The part of the suppliant did not become him, and yet, like most fat men, he was a physical coward. It was the gleam of the knives as much as the fear of poison that sent him to his knees, pleading, begging, promising, and yet, through it all, despite the terror in his eyes, there was the same old chill in their frosty depths.
At the last he lowered his face, covered his eyes, moaned, whimpered, shrieked, and then the knives plunged home. They did not care to wait, these two crooks, so intent upon getting their hands on the loot. If they waited for the poison there might be other crooks show up, more accomplices to divide with. As it was, they would split everything two ways, jewels, money and women.
Nor had Helen Chadwick been idle. She had flown to the side of the girl with the mole, had stripped off the gag and was working at the knots of the rope.
I dashed from the platform, scurried down the steps and into the hall. They would need protection now, those two girls.
And then there came a sudden, spine-chilling sound, a sound which is well calculated to strike terror into the marrow of a crook — the long shrieking wail of a siren!
Then it was that I entered the room.
“The police are on their way up the front walk, gentlemen,” I said, with a bow toward the bloody-handed crooks. “Murder will be the charge if you are caught. The back way is still open.”
They needed nothing further. Like rats leaving a sinking vessel, they stampeded from the room and flat-footed it down the hall, running with the heavy, awkward, lumbering gait of men whose minds and bodies have commenced to slow down.
I heard a metallic, gurgling sound from the floor, and saw Icy-Eyes, stabbed as he was, his life blood gurgling from him, his eyes filled with a stony hatred, trying to crawl toward me. He knew now, damn him. Then he saw that he could not make it… there was sheer panic in his eyes, panic and a cold hatred, as the film of death crept over those icy eyes.
Helen Chadwick was in my arms, and there was the sound of a police machine skidding to a stop before the curb.
“Quick!” I told her. “For you to be caught in this hell-hole would be worse than the publication of the papers. Out the back way, quick! There is still time. I will join you later; my way of escape is all blocked out. Have faith in me and hurry!”
I pushed her toward the door, and she saw the truth in what I said, and she, too, floated down the corridor, as lightly as gossamer. They would not catch her.
Frenziedly, I turned to the safe.
It had been said of me that there was no safe I could not open, and open in such a way that it would not show it had been tampered with. Never had I such need of my reputed skill. I was working against minutes, against seconds. The police were banging the doors of the machine as they tumbled out, got their shotguns at ready, and started to rush the house. They were coming all right, but they were coming prepared.
A stethoscope attached to a battery-worked sound-amplifier was all I ordinarily needed, a little outfit that was always carried in a case suspended beneath my left armpit. In a very ecstasy of haste I spun the dials, detected the combination, flung open the doors and dove inside. Jewels there were, money, gold, platinum. All of these I flung to one side. The police were banging at the door of the house, trying to force it. From the side, there was the crashing of glass as they broke in a window. On the couch behind me I could hear the sound of movement as the girl with the mole cast loose her bonds. On the floor the man with the battered features, he who had championed her cause and who had been a witness of all that had taken place, writhed and twisted.
I would get life, anyway, perhaps would be hung. Do what I might, the police would catch me in that room of corpses, that rendezvous of crooks, surrounded by thousands of dollars worth of stolen gems, find me even in the act of looting the safe. My criminal record and the very fact of my presence would be all a jury would need; but they could all be damned to them. I would find and destroy those Chadwick papers.
Just as there came the sound of feet in the corridor, the heavy, aggressive footsteps of the law, I found the paper I wanted, the last of the evidence against Helen’s family, against her father’s name, the paper that was to be published by one party to help in a political campaign for city control, the paper that two factions were fighting for, the only scrap of evidence that was left.
The flame from my match flickered a bit, then caught.
“Hands up!” yelled a bluecoat from the door.
I stepped to one side and elevated my hands with a grin. The evidence I had sought to destroy was rapidly becoming a mass of ashes and the slow-witted officer could not fathom the situation, had not the presence of mind to try and stamp out the flame. It was as well. I would have killed him with my bare hands.
The flame died down, and the hallway was a jostling, crowding mass of men. I stepped back, and, in doing so, managed to grind the ashes beneath my heel.
“It’s Ed Jenkins, the Phantom Crook!” yelled a detective who stood behind the bluecoat in the doorway. “By God, Ed, you’ll get the rope for this night’s work!”
Then they advanced with a rush. Handcuffs were nipped over my wrists and over my ankles as well. These men knew of my reputation, had had too many dealings with me. They were taking no chances on my living up to my reputation to escape them.