The Spider's Reward/Chapter 6

ITTING on the bunk in the evil-odored shack, his hands lashed behind him, Togo looked across at the men who had called themselves Landren and Jones, but without the slightest expression in his face to give them an inkling as to what he might be thinking.

Though Togo did not show it, he was furious. He was angry with himself for having walked into the trap, though he tried to tell himself that any man would have done the same, since the voice that had come to him over the telephone wires certainly was the duplicate of the voice of John Warwick.

He was worried because he did not know what enterprise The Spider and Warwick contemplated this night, and he wondered if his detention here was endangering the success of the adventure. He realized that this was to be John Warwick's last exploit for The Spider, and he knew how much Warwick hoped for success.

“He ain't a very pert Jap, is he?” Landren was saying.

“Them fellers realizes when they're licked,” Jones suggested. “He knows there ain't any sense in puttin' up a fight when he's whipped before he starts. He's one of them birds as takes things as they comes, one of them fatalist fellers.”

“It'll be fatal if he tries any tricks, all right,” said Landren; and the two men laughed.

Togo merely leaned back against the wall of the shack. There had been many times in Togo's career when he had been held a prisoner with his hands lashed behind his back, and often he had managed to escape. Now that his strength had returned, he twisted his wrists in an effort to ascertain what sort of knots these men had used; and soon discovered that they had done an excellent job.

Aware that he would have to play a waiting game, Togo yet realized that every minute was valuable. He did not know exactly where he was, except that he was not a great distance from the river. The men before him had admitted that.

He watched while Landren and Jones opened an old cupboard and took out bread and cheese and cold meat, and prepared to eat. They talked of things in general now, but glanced his way often, and now and then indulged in humor at his expense.

“Make the Jap a cheese sandwich and feed him,” Jones told Landren.

“I ain't any nurse.”

“Better feed him than untie them hands of his,” Jones said. “But there ain't any sense in starvin' the poor feller to death. We got to treat our guest decent.”

Jones laughed again, and Landren made a thick sandwich and walked over to Togo, who opened his mouth, took a generous bite and began to chew. “Feed the monkey!” Jones said. Togo ate the sandwich in half a dozen gulps, choked it down, and then took a drink from the dipper that Landren held to his lips.

“Thank you, sar,” Togo said.

“Why, he ain't a bad Jap at all,” said Landren. “He's real politelike.”

“Maybe he thinks we'll be unfastenin' them wrists, but if he is, he's foolin' himself,” said Jones. “You be a good little Jap, and there won't any harm come to you.”

Landren and Jones gave their attention to the meal, and Togo leaned back against the wall again. He had discovered something when he had leaned back before. There was a rough piece of board projecting from the wall over the bunk, with a spike in it.

Togo watched the men before him carefully, and lifted his bound wrists behind his back, so that they could not see. He hooked a loop of the knot over the spike—and began to saw it backward and forward, working quietly, never taking his eyes off the two men.

Now and then they glanced at him, but Togo always pretended to be tired out and taking little interest in the scene. He gave the appearance, indeed, of a fatalist who knew there would be no use in putting up a losing fight.

The rough spike was doing its work, but it was a slow process, and minutes were precious to Togo. The two men had almost finished their cold meal. They would be more watchful after they had done.

Togo sawed frantically at the knot when he could, and after a time he felt it give. He worked a minute longer, and then dropped his wrists. He changed his position as Landren walked across the floor and looked down at him. It looked to Landren as if the ropes were all right.

“Get a pail of fresh water from the spring, Landren!” Jones commanded.

“Seems to me I'm doin' all the work around here,” Landren retorted.

“Well, I'm personally responsible for that foreign heathen on the bunk,” Jones said. “If he escaped, I'd be in worse than you. Get some fresh water!”

Landren growled again, picked up the pail, and left the shack. Jones was finishing the last of the lunch. He glanced at Togo, and then lifted a piece of meat on a fork. In that instant, Togo slipped his wrists from the ropes.

Behind his back, Togo rubbed each wrist with the opposite hand until he fell the blood coursing through them. Jones turned his face away for an instant—and Togo sprang!

Togo knew ways of silencing men. He crashed against Jones and thrust out his hands. They gripped Jones by the throat, and the two thumbs were pressed in certain places. Jones was claimed by unconsciousness immediately.

Letting the man drop to the floor, Togo sprang across the room and waited beside the door. He heard Landren's steps outside. The door opened—and Togo sprang again.

Once more his hands clutched a throat and his thumbs were pressed home. Landren groaned once and toppled to the floor of the shack. Togo leaped over the prostrate body, slammed the door behind him, darted across the clearing and sought the protection of the dark woods.

Jones and Landren would be unconscious for five minutes or more, Togo knew, and their throats would hurt them for a time thereafter, but Togo wanted to get as far away from the shack as possible before then. He had to go to the city, to a telephone, and communicate with The Spider.

He knew how to locate himself—he had only to get to the river. But he did not know in which direction to find the river; that was the trouble. He stumbled upon a path, followed it for a short distance, and then went on deeper into the woods, where the tangle of trees was so dense that but little moonlight filtered through.

At last he came to a tiny creek, and exulted, for he could find the river now. He ascertained in which direction the creek flowed, and started to follow it downstream. All creeks in the vicinity, Togo knew, flowed into the river.

He was careful to make as little noise as possible. Landren and Jones might be on the trail soon, and there might also be other foes in the neighborhood. On he plunged through the woods, wading in the cold water at the edge of the creek at times, stumbling over fallen logs and heaps of brush at others. The creek twisted and curved, but Togo thought it better to follow the tiny stream than to make an attempt to gain time by cutting through the woods.

Finally, in the distance, he saw the broad bosom of the river glistening in the bright moonlight. Togo hurried on. He came to the edge of the woods and stopped. He knew now that the city was on his left, down the stream; he could see the bright haze over it.

Togo judged that he was about ten miles from the city proper, that Jones and Landren must have carried him at least four miles in the wagon from the old shed where he had been struck on the head and rendered senseless.

He remained in the shadows at the edge of the woods and looked around. Directly in front of him was a tiny rock, and moored at it was a craft of some kind.

Togo listened for a time and heard nobody. He left the seclusion of the dark woods and hurried forward to the little dock. In a few moments he was beside the craft he had seen, and he found that it was a motor boat.

It was no time, Togo decided, to be particular about property rights. He sprang into the motor boat, threw aside a tarpaulin, and examined the engine. Then he looked at the gasoline supply, and once more exulted.

The boat evidently was the property of fishermen, and was in excellent condition. Togo cast off the mooring ropes and started the engine. He knew enough of motor boats to manipulate this one. When the engine was running smoothly he turned the nose of the craft down the stream, and threw on the power.

On the shore there was a flash of flame, and a bullet sang past Togo's head. He knew then that the launch was for use of Jones and Landren. Another shot came, and he heard a cry from the shore. Togo forced the motor boat to its extreme speed, got under cover as much as possible, and dashed down the stream.

Within a few minutes he knew that he was out of danger, as far as Jones and Landren were concerned. He slowed down the boat and saw that the proper lights were burning; and then he went ahead at full speed, making his way toward the distant city.

Togo was eager to get into communication with The Spider at the earliest possible moment and tell the supercriminal what had occurred. He had an idea that it might have something to do with the task Warwick had been assigned for the night, and he wanted to help his master, of course.

He reached the edge of the city and drove the boat onward. There was a sort of club, he knew, on the shore of the river not far away, where he could get the use of a telephone in a booth. Togo did not care to use one where other persons could overhear the conversation.

Finally he came opposite the club and turned the boat toward the shore. He drove the craft to the wharf, moored it there, sprang out and hurried to the clubhouse. The steward directed him to the telephone booth.

Togo called the private number of The Spider, and was quick to obtain it. The supercriminal himself answered.

“This is Togo, sar,” the Japanese said.

“Well?” The Spider demanded.

And then Togo told his story, told it rapidly and without sparing himself, described Jones and Landren and related where he had been held prisoner, and how he had managed to escape. He waited a minute then, and finally The Spider issued his orders, speaking swiftly and distinctly, compelling attention and obedience.

“Yes, sar,” Togo said; and hung up the receiver.

He left the clubhouse and hurried to the wharf again, got into the motor boat, and once more started down the river. He ran the craft close to the shore now and watched for landmarks, After a time he headed for the shore itself, drove the prow of the boat into the mud, sprang out and waded to the land.

Here a crooked street came down to the bank of the river, and Togo ran up it wildly, keeping in the shadows as much as possible. He came to another street, the boulevard that merged into the river road a distance further north, and went down this until he came to a certain corner. There he stood in the darkness, stamping his wet feet, clapping his hands together, waiting impatiently.

Then he saw it coming—the taxicab The Spider had said he would order sent. Togo was beside it almost before it had come to a stop, had issued his orders, had opened the door and sprung inside. The taxi turned around and started down the boulevard.

It was fifteen minutes later when the machine stopped at a certain corner and Togo sprang out and gave the chauffeur a bill. Landren and Jones had not thought to search him for money; they had looked only for a weapon. The taxi went back down the street, and Togo turned into a cross street and walked rapidly.

It took him five minutes to reach the pretentious residence of Bertram Blaine. Vaulting the stone fence he made his way through the shadows to the side of the house. There he stopped to listen, and then he crept along the wall, trying all the windows, until he found the one John Warwick had cut out.

Putting a hand inside, Togo lifted the shade. He crawled through, fastened the shade again as Warwick had done, and made his way across the room to the hall door. He had to move slowly, for he had no weapon and no electric torch.

Togo opened the hall door and slipped through it. He heard a voice in the rear of the house and made his way in that direction, until there was a turning in the hall and he saw light. He peered around the corner.

Bertram Blaine, in his dressing gown, a revolver held in one hand, was standing before the door of a closet.

“Got enough?” Blaine was saying. “You'll be unconscious in another minute or two, my dear sir, and then we'll see what your face looks like. You made a sorry mistake when you entered this house of mine, Mr. Burglar,”

Blaine laughed hoarsely, and Togo dodged around the turn in the hall, There was but one incandescent light, which Blaine had turned on. From the turn of the hall to Blaine was a distance of twenty feet—and Togo had no weapon.

Togo peered around the corner again. He saw that Blaine was holding a gas hose, that the end of the hose was inserted in a hole in the floor. Togo guessed the rest—that John Warwick was in that closet and that Blaine was rendering him unconscious.

From what The Spider had told him over the telephone he had but little time in which to act. So Togo decided to risk all on one mad rush. He stepped around the corner and launched himself forward. Bertram Blaine heard him coming and whirled around. One shot he fired, but it failed to strike the mark. The next instant Togo's thumbs were pressed home, and Blaine gave a groan and crumpled up on the floor.

Togo threw the bolts of the door and hurled it open. A cloud of pungent gas rolled out. John Warwick, gasping, pale, ill, stumbled out with the cloud of gas, almost to collapse in Togo's arms.

“Sar! Sar!” Togo cried out.

“Good boy!” Warwick gasped. “Terrible stuff—gas! Been swallowing it for ages, it seems. Some people pay real money for the stuff. Just fancy! My word!”