A garage door silently opened. The roadster went into the garage. The door closed. The roadster lights were switched off. A door opened from the side of the garage.
“Well?” said a voice.
“We got it. He found it. We grabbed him. He tried to swallow it, but we got it.”
“Where was it?” asked the voice from the darkness.
“In a jar of cold cream in her apartment.”
The voice made no answer. For several seconds the weight of the dark silence oppressed them. Then the voice gave a crisp command.
“Bring him in.”
The man who had driven the car took Major Brane’s arm above the elbow. The other man, an arm still around Major Brane’s neck, jabbed the gun firmly against his ribs.
“Okay, guy. No funny stuff,” said the one who had held the machine gun.
Major Brane groped with his feet, found the floor. The guards were on either side of him, pushing him forward. A door opened, disclosing a glow of diffused light. A flight of stairs led upward.
“Up and at ’em!” said the man on Major Brane’s left.
They clumped up the stairs, maintaining their awkward formation of three abreast. There was a landing at the top, then a hallway. Major Brane was taken down the hallway, into a room that was furnished with exquisite care, a room in which massive furniture dwarfed the high ceilings, the wide windows. Those windows were covered with heavy drapes that had been tightly drawn.
Major Brane was pushed into a chair.
“Park yourself, guy.”
Major Brane sank into the cushions. His hands were on the arms of the chair. The room was deserted, save for his two guards. The man whose voice had given the orders to the pair was nowhere in evidence.
“May I smoke?” asked Major Brane.
The masked guard grinned. “Brother,” he said, “if there’s any smoking to be done, I’ll do it. You just sit pretty like you were having your picture taken, and don’t make no sudden moves. I’ve got your gat; but they say you’re full of tricks, and if I was to see any sudden moves, I’d have to cut you open to see whether you was stuffed with sawdust or tricks. You’ve got my curiosity aroused.”
Major Brane said nothing.
The man who had taken the check walked purposefully toward one of the draped exits, pushed aside the rich hangings and disappeared.
Major Brane eyed the masked figure who remained to guard him. The man grinned.
“Don’t bother,” he said. “You wouldn’t know me, even if it wasn’t for the mask.”
Major Brane lowered his voice, cautiously. “Are you in this thing for money?” he asked.
The man grinned. “No, no, brother. You got me wrong. I’m in it for my health!” And he laughed gleefully.
Major Brane was earnest. “They’ve got the check. That’s all they’re concerned with. There’d be some money in it for you if you let me go.”
The eyes glittered through the mask in scornful appraisal. “Think I’m a fool?”
Major Brane leaned forward, very slightly. “They won’t hurt me,” he said, “and the check’s gone already. But there are some other important papers that I don’t want them to find. They simply can’t find them — mustn’t. Those papers arc worth a great deal to certain parties, and it would be most unfortunate if they should fall into the hands of these men who were interested in the check. If you would only accept those papers and deliver them to the proper parties, you could get enough money to make you independent for years to come.”
The eyes back of the mask were no longer scornful. “Where are these papers?” asked the man.
“You promise you’ll deliver them?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“In my cigarette case,” said Major Brane. “Get them — quick!”
And he half raised his hands. The masked figure came to him in two swift strides.
“No you don’t! Keep your hands down. I’ll get the cigarette case. — In your inside pocket, eh? All right, guy; try anything and you’ll get bumped!” He held a heavy gun in his left hand, thrust an exploring right hand into Major Brane’s inside coat pocket. He extracted the cigarette case, grinned at Major Brane, stepped back.
“I said I’d deliver ’em. That was a promise. The only thing I didn’t promise was who I’d deliver ’em to. I’ll have to take a look at ’em first. I might be interested myself.” And he gloatingly held the cigarette case up, pressed the catch.
That cigarette case had been designed by Major Brane against just such an emergency. The man pressed the catch. The halves flew open, and a spring mechanism shot a stream of ammonia full into the man’s eyes.
Major Brane was out of the chair with a flashing spurt of motion which was deadly and swift. His right hand crossed over in the sort of blow which is only given by the trained boxer. It was a perfectly timed blow, the powerful muscles of the body swinging into play as the fist pivoted over and around.
The man with the mask caught the blow on the button of the jaw. Major Brane listened for an instant, but no one seemed to have heard the man’s fall. He walked swiftly to the doorway which led into the hall, then down the hall and down the steps to the garage. He opened the garage door, got in the roadster, turned on the ignition, stepped on the starter. The motor throbbed into life.
A light flashed on in the garage. A grotesque figure stumbled out through the door, silhouetted as a black blotch against the light of the garage. The man was waving his arms, shouting.
Major Brane spun the wheel, sent the car skidding around the corner. Behind him, there sounded a single shot; and the bullet whined from the pavement. There were no more shots.
Major Brane stepped on the gas.
He drove three blocks toward the south, headed toward Market Street. He saw a garage that was open, slowed the car, swung the wheel, rolled into the garage.
“Storage,” he said.
“Day, week or month?” asked the man in overalls and faded coat who slouched forward.
“Just for an hour or two; may be all night.”
The attendant grinned. “Four bits,” he said.
Major Brane nodded, handed him half a dollar, received an oblong of pasteboard with a number. He turned, walked out of the garage, paused at the curb and tore the oblong of numbered pasteboard into small bits. Then he started walking, directing his steps over the same route he had traveled in the roadster.
He heard the snarl of a racing motor, the peculiar screaming noise made by protesting tires when a corner is rounded too fast, and he stepped back into a doorway. A touring car shot past. There were three men in it; three grim figures who sat very erect and whose hands were concealed.
When the car had passed, Major Brane stepped out and resumed his rapid walk, back toward the house from which he had escaped.
He walked up the hill. The garage was dark now, but the door was still open.
Major Brane walked cautiously, but kept up his speed. He slipped into the dark garage, waited, advanced, tried the door which opened to the flight of stairs. The door was locked now, from the inside. Major Brane stopped, applied an eye to the keyhole. The key, he saw, was in the lock.
He took out his skeleton keys, also a long, slender-bladed pen knife. With the point of the knife blade he worked the end of the key around, up and down, up and down. Gradually, as he freed the key, the heavier end, containing the flange, had a tendency to drop down. Major Brane manipulated the key until this tendency had ample opportunity to assert itself. Then he pushed with the point of the knife. The key slid out of the lock, thudded to the floor on the other side of the door.
Major Brane inserted a skeleton key, pressed up and around on the key, felt the bolt snap back, and opened the door. The little entranceway with the flight of stairs was before him. Major Brane walked cautiously up those stairs. His eyes were slitted, his body poised for swift action.