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Guy Garrick, a novel by Arthur B. Reeve |
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Chapter 18. The Vocaphone |
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_ CHAPTER XVIII. THE VOCAPHONE Promptly to the dot I met Garrick at the appointed place. Not a word so far had been heard, either from Violet Winslow or Mrs. de Lancey. There was one thing encouraging about it, however. If they had become separated while shopping, as sometimes happens, we should have been likely to hear of it, at least from her aunt. Garrick was tugging the heavy suitcase which I had seen standing ready down in his office during the afternoon, as well as a small package wrapped up in paper. "Let me carry that suitcase," I volunteered. We trudged along across the park, my load getting heavier at every step. "I'm not surprised at your being winded," I panted, soon finding myself in the same condition. "What's in this--lead?" "Something that we may need or may not," Garrick answered enigmatically, as we stopped in the shadow to rest. He carefully took an automatic revolver from an inside pocket and stowed it where it would be handy, in his coat. We resumed our walk and at last had come nearly up to the house on the first floor of which the maid Lucille was. The suitcase was engaging all my attention, as I shifted it from one hand to the other. Not so Garrick, however. He was looking keenly about us. "Gad, I must be seeing things to-night!" he exclaimed, his eyes fixed on a figure slouching along, his hat pulled down over his eyes, passing just about opposite us on the other side of the street. I looked also in the gathering dusk. The figure had something indefinably familiar about it, but a moment later it was gone, having turned the corner. Garrick shook his head. "No," he said half to himself, "it couldn't have been. Don't stop, Tom. We mustn't do anything to rouse suspicion, now." We came a moment later to the flat-house through the hall of which we had reached the roof that morning and in the excitement of the adventure I forgot, for the time, the mysterious figure across the street, which had attracted Garrick's attention. Again, we managed to elude the tenants, though it was harder in the early evening than it had been in the daytime. However, we reached the roof apparently unobserved. There at least, now that it was dark, we felt comparatively safe. No one was likely to disturb us there, provided we made no noise. Unwrapping the smaller, paper-covered package, Garrick quickly attached the wires, as he had left them, to another cedar box, like that which he had already let down the chimney up the street. I now had a chance to examine it more closely under the light of Garrick's little electric bull's-eye. I was surprised to find that it resembled one of the instruments we had used down in the room in the Old Tavern. It was oblong, with a sort of black disc fixed to the top. In the face of the box, just as in the other we had used, were two little square holes, with sides also of cedar, converging inward, making a pair of little quadrangular pyramidal holes which seemed to end in a small round black circle in the interior, small end. I said nothing, but I could see that it was a new form, to all intents and purposes, of the detectaphone which we had already used. The minutes that followed seemed like hours, as we waited, not daring to talk lest we should attract attention. I wondered whether Miss Winslow would come after all, or, if she did, whether she would come alone. "You're early," said a voice, softly, near us, of a sudden. I leaped to my feet, prepared to meet anything, man or devil. Garrick seized me and pulled me down, a strong hint to be quiet. Too surprised to remonstrate, since nothing happened, I waited, breathless. "Yes, but that is better than to be too late. Besides, we've got to watch that Garrick," said another voice. "He might be around." Garrick chuckled. I had noticed a peculiar metallic ring in the voices. "Where are they?" I whispered, "On the landing below?" Garrick laughed outright, not boisterously, but still in a way which to me was amazing in its bravado, if the tenants were really so near. "What's this?" I asked. "Don't you recognize it?" he answered. "Yes," I said doubtfully. "I suppose it's like that thing we used down at the Old Tavern." "Only more so," nodded Garrick, aloud, yet careful not to raise his voice, as before, so as not to disturb the flat dwellers below us. "A vocaphone." "A vocaphone?" I repeated. "Yes, the little box that hears and talks," he explained. "It does more than the detectaphone. It talks right out, you know, and it works both ways." I began to understand his scheme. "Those square holes in the face of it are just like the other instrument we used," Garrick went on. "They act like little megaphones to that receiver inside, you know,--magnify the sound and throw it out so that we can listen up here just as well, perhaps better than if we were down there in the room with them." They were down there in the back room, Lucille and a man. "Have you heard from her?" asked the man's voice, one that I did not recognise. "Non,--but she will come. Voila, but she thought the world of her Lucille, she did. She will come." "How do you know?" "Because--I know." "Oh, you women!" "Oh, you men!" It was evident that the two had a certain regard for each other, a sort of wild, animal affection, above, below, beyond, without the law. They seemed at least to understand each other. Who the man was I could not guess. It was a voice that sounded familiar, yet I could not place it. "She will come to see her Lucille," repeated the woman. "But you must not be seen." "No--by no means." The voice of the man was not that of a foreigner. "Here, Lucille, take this. Only get her interested--I will do the rest--and the money is yours. See--you crush it in the handkerchief--so. Be careful--you WILL crush it before you want to use it. There. Under her nose, you know. I shall be there in a moment and finish the work. That is all you need do--with the handkerchief." Garrick made a motion, as if to turn a switch in the little vocaphone, and rested his finger on it. "I could make those two jump out of the window with fright and surprise," he said to me, still fingering the switch impatiently. "You see, it works the other way, too, as I told you, if I choose to throw this switch. Suppose I should shout out, and they should hear, apparently coming from the fireplace, 'You are discovered. Thank you for telling me all your plans, but I am prepared for them already.' What do you suppose they would--" Garrick stopped short. From the vocaphone had come a sound like the ringing of a bell. "Sh!" whispered Lucille hoarsely. "Here she comes now. Didn't I tell you? Into the next room!" A moment later came a knock at a door and Lucille's silken rustle as she hurried to open it. "How do you do, Lucille?" we heard a sweetly tremulous voice repeated by the faithful little vocaphone. "Comment vous portez-vous, Mademoiselle?" "Tres bien." "Mademoiselle honours her poor Lucille beyond her dreams. Will you not be seated here in this easy chair?" "My God!" exclaimed Garrick, starting back from the vocaphone. "She is there alone. Mrs. de Lancey is not with her. Oh, if we could only have prevented this!" I had recognized, too, even in the mechanical reproduction, the voice of Violet Winslow. It came as a shock. Even though I had been expecting some such thing for hours, still the reality meant just as much, perhaps more. Independent, self-reliant, Violet Winslow had gone alone on an act of mercy and charity, and it had taken her into a situation full of danger with her faithless maid. At once I was alive to the situation. All the stories of kidnappings and white slavery that I had ever read rioted through my head. I felt like calling out a warning. Garrick had his finger on the switch. "Since I have been ill, Mademoiselle, I have been doing some embroidery--handkerchiefs--are they not pretty?" It was coming. There was not time for an instant's delay now. Garrick quickly depressed the switch. Clear as a bell his voice rang out. "Miss Winslow--this is Garrick. Don't let her get that handkerchief under your nose. Out of the door--quick. Run! Call for help! I shall be with you in a minute!" A little cry came out of the machine. There was a moment of startled surprise in the room below. Then followed a mocking laugh. "Ha! Ha! I thought you'd pull something like that, Garrick. I don't know where you are, but it makes no difference. There are many ways of getting out of this place and at one of them I hare a high-powered car. Violet--will go--quietly--" there were sounds of a struggle--"after the needle--" A scream had followed immediately after a sound of shivering glass through the vocaphone. It was not Violet Winslow's scream, either. "Like hell, she'll go," shouted a wildly familiar voice. There was a gruff oath. We stayed to hear no more. Garrick had already picked up the heavy suitcase and was running down the steps two at a time, with myself hard after him. Without waiting to ring the bell at 99, he dashed the suitcase through the plate glass of the front door, reached in and turned the lock. We hurried into the back room. Violet was lying across a divan and bending over her was Warrington. "She--she's unconscious," he gasped, weak with the exertion of his forcible entrance into the place and carrying from the floor to the divan the lovely burden which he had found in the room. "They- -they fled--two of them--the maid, Lucille--and a man I could not see." Down the street we heard a car dashing away to the sound of its changing gears. "She's--not--dying--is she, Garrick?" he panted bending closer over her. Garrick bent over, too, felt the fluttering pulse, looked into her dilated eyes. I saw him drop quickly on his knees beside the unconscious girl. He tore open the heavy suitcase and a moment later he had taken from it a sort of cap, at the end of a rubber tube, and had fastened it carefully over her beautiful, but now pale, face. "Pump!" Garrick muttered to me, quickly showing me what to do. I did, furiously. "Where did you come from?" he asked of Warrington. "I thought I saw someone across the street who looked like you as we came along, but you didn't recognise us and in a moment you were gone. Keep on with that pulmotor, Tom. Thank heaven I came prepared with it!" Eagerly I continued to supply oxygen to the girl on the divan before us. Garrick had stooped down and picked up both the handkerchief with its crushed bits of the kelene tube and near it a shattered glass hypodermic. "Oh, I got thinking about things, up there at Mead's," blurted out Warrington, "and I couldn't stand it. I should have gone crazy. While the doctor was out I managed to slip away and take a train to the city. I knew this address from the letter. I determined to stay around all night, if necessary. She got in before I could get to her, but I rang the bell and managed to get my foot in the door a minute later. I heard the struggle. Where were you? I heard your voice in here but you came through the front door." Garrick did not take time to explain. He was too busy over Violet Winslow. A feeble moan and a flutter of the eyelids told that she was coming out from the effects of the anaesthetic and the drug. "Mortimer--Mortimer!" she moaned, half conscious. "Don't let them take me. Oh where is--" Warrington leaned over, as Garrick removed the cap of the pulmotor, and gently raised her head on his arm. "It's all right--Violet," he whispered, his face close to hers as his warm breath fanned her now flushed and fevered cheek. She opened her eyes and vaguely understood as the mist cleared from her brain. Instinctively she clung to him as he pressed his lips lightly on her forehead, in a long passionate caress. "Get a cab, Tom," said Garrick turning his back suddenly on them and placing his hand on my shoulder as he edged me toward the hall. "It's too late to pursue that fellow, now. He's slipped through our fingers again--confound him!" _ |
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