Page:The Popular Magazine v72 n1 (1924-04-20).djvu/38

 slithered away into the darkness, there was an added explosive voice to the mêlée, then all was still save for one voice that kept insisting on haste.

“Bunglers! If you don't hurry the watch will be here! Pick them up and run! Run!” the voice insisted, and Jimmy suddenly was hoisted in arms that were as hard and strong as those of a stevedore, thrown across a broad shoulder, and felt himself carried along as if he were of no weight at all. There was a halt, the sound of a door being thrust open, a cool draft and he felt that he was being carried down moist steps between damp walls, and tales that he had heard of old murders, of subterranean entrances to waterways where victims were drowned and secreted for days flashed through his mind. Behind him he could hear, first, the closing and barring of a great door, then other heavy steps indicating that Pietro, as helpless as himself, was a companion in his enforced journey.

Much to Jimmy's satisfaction, after a considerable distance had been traversed in that damp atmosphere the man carrying him began to ascend, and Jimmy recovered his presence of mind and began to count the steps. They climbed twenty, then took a short, level walk in a drier atmosphere, climbed twenty more, turned, climbed another twenty, made that same regular turn and did still twenty more, indicating to Jimmy that they must be ascending some sort of a tower, or at least scaling to the top of some high structure. Then there came a halt and a whispered consultation which lasted for a minute or so, until that same directing voice commanded, “Never mind. Do as I say. Put the American in that room by himself.” There was an instant's pause, some more hurried whispering, and the voice spoke again, impatiently, “No, the American by himself. Put the other in a room at the far end and if necessary to keep him quiet when he comes to, cut his throat. Give him the stiletto instantly if he lets out a single shout. Wait a moment! Perhaps it's better to do that anyway. We can keep his cadaver in the water basement for a week, or until we can slip it out to sea and with a few weights dump it over.”

Jimmy gave a violent twist, caught his bearer unawares and came down upon the stone floor with a jolt that knocked him half unconscious. Before he could do more he was seized by his bound and kicking heels and dragged forward with as little regard for his struggles or discomforts and frequent bumps as if he had been something inanimate. A door banged shut and he felt himself alone. Recovering somewhat, he rolled quickly in its direction, with his head found what he took to be the bottom of the door, and tried to listen through the folds of the cape that by now almost smothered him. He could not be certain whether it was the violent rush of blood through his own veins and arteries, or vague whisperings that he heard, and he groaned with helplessness. It seemed horrible to think that perhaps out there, even now, that handsome, fiery, temperamental, jealous youngster, Pietro, was being as callously slaughtered as if he were but a trussed sheep. In something of a fury of unreasoning impotence he rove to and fro, straining every muscle of arms and feet to break his bonds, biting savagely at the smothering folds of the cape and beating his feet helplessly on the stone floor.

The opening of the door brought a pause to his efforts and he heard that same heavy and unmistakable voice of command.

“Shut that door and stand by it, outside, one of you. And you others get that cape off his head lest he smother to death. Don't wait to untie it! Slash it away with a knife.”

Jimmy felt the cold, creeping, menacing touch of steel between his cheek and the cloth. It slid upward, suggesting that it could slit him even more easily than it cut the heavy cape, there was a swift, final slash, a tug, a jerk, the rending of fabric, and his eyes were blinded by light even while his lungs struggled to make up for lost air. He blinked the sweat from his eyes, rested quietly, though panting, and looked upward.

A broad-shouldered, burly ruffian in gondolier's garb was bending over him and holding a lamp as if to make certain that he still was alive. Gold earrings under the man's black hat swung restlessly, twinkling sharp reflections of light. His sharp eyes stared from beneath bushy eyebrows, eyebrows black as a raven's wings. If a buccaneer of old had bent above a victim the picture would have been unchanged.

“Um-mh!” the man grunted. “He's alive enough. No doubt of that.” For a long time his unblinking eyes studied Jimmy's face as impersonally as if he were merely