When the Winner Lost/Chapter 2

HEN a plane is dropping from the clouds in a tail spin, the aviator has a hard job of waiting. If he works his controls before the rudder comes up from vertical he merely accentuates the spin and lessens his own chances. He must sit still, ready for instant action, but guided by developments.

After enfilading a Walvet scout once at a height of four thousand feet my Nieuport had slipped into one of these deadly spirals. I knew what to do but knew also that unless circumstance favored me I might hit the ground before I could flatten out. I just waited, my muscles all tightening under my skin, while the machine gunner behind me yelled frantic directions through the speaking tube. At two thousand feet the chance came. The heavy nose, aided by a gust of wind, tossed the tail up, halting the spin for the fraction of a second. One pull on the ailerons and hydroplanes and we were safe.

Sitting alone at table there at the Great Northern I experienced the same sensation I had felt when I knew we were in the tail spin. I was committed, but to what I had no idea. One notion struck me forcibly. My host had been in dead earnest; no matter what other wrong impressions his appearance might convey he was used to wasting neither time nor words. The risk he promised me would arrive in due time. Of that I was certain. Merely resting my chance for life upon my own skill had no terrors for me, if that were to be the issue. What I feared most was that in some way dishonor might be connected with the project, and I had been fed up on even the thought of that. Besides, I knew that I had been watched constantly. When I had come in from New York a detective had occupied the berth opposite mine. When I went back to the observation car he had decided upon a smoke at the same time. When I dropped the name of Tarrant I flattered myself that I did a good job of it, for I saw him no more.

“Mr. Trask! Mr. Selwyn Trask!” A boy in uniform passed near my table, and I beckoned to him. “Your car is waiting, sir,” said the page, “at the south entrance.”

I thanked him, and made my way up the single flight and out onto Jackson Boulevard. A single large limousine was at the curb, and in spite of the fact that I was prepared for any development, the big car gave me a thrill to my finger tips. There was no hocus-pocus about it, at any rate. I love fine machinery.

The interior of the car was unlighted, but as the door stood open, I stepped in. The reflection of the boulevard lights and the dimmed lamps of the motors showed me a great bulk of a man, huddled on one of the extension seats, facing backward. His greatcoat collar was turned up, and I could not make out his face, but I saw that he had to hunch forward a trifle to allow for the sloping roof of the car.

“Mr. Mitsui?” I asked doubtfully. I had expected a slim, lithe Jap.

“Ye-ah! Right in, sir!” The voice was deep from his chest, and there was nothing about it that should have inspired mirth, but I grinned in spite of all. Something in the drawling inflection, that rose slightly with each word, suggested anything but the Orient. I flung myself on the deep upholstery of the back seat and tried to make out the features veiled under the brim of his derby while we turned and glided away to our destination. Though in this I was unsuccessful, I did manage to make out that my new valet's size was not magnified by the coat. His eyes evidently detected a shiver I tried to repress, for one huge arm reached to the seat beside me, and came back with a fur robe. Without asking leave, he threw this about my shoulders and snapped the hook down over my ankles. In the course of this operation I had obtained a good chance to study his hands. Each was as broad and as capable as an entrenching tool, and the knuckles projected in homely fashion among knotted veins and tendons. The fingers, however, were of extraordinary length, and, although large, seemed both capable and graceful in a fashion. His wrists, covered with black hair on the backs, seemed slim in proportion to the bulging forearm and biceps behind. I resolved mentally that if I ever had to cross Mitsui I would try not to let those hands get hold of me.

As we came to a stop he pressed something forward into my hand. “The room key, sir,” he rumbled. “The registering is done. If you will please to go up”

“Sure. When will I see you?”

“In ten minutes, Mr. Trask.” He remained seated, and as I stepped under the canvas canopy I saw the limousine drive away with the huge figure still huddled forward on the extension seat. I thought to myself that Mitsui was going to make an odd valet, but I rather liked the situation. I felt instinctively that he knew his business and mine also, and that I could depend on him as far as I was willing to go with him. I look for more action from men who say little.

At my floor I left the elevator and followed the door numbers around the corridor. At the figure which corresponded to the set on the keyplate, I entered. From the illumination of the corridor I managed to locate a set of buttons and snapped on all the lights.

The room was long but scarcely of three paces width; I saw that it extended to the front of the building and served as a waiting room and ante-chamber for visitors. A small desk and chair of mahogany and reed, and three chairs and a table in the window bay, all still covered by the linen dusters, completed the furnishings. On the left stood one central door, while at the right were two, spaced equidistantly from the center.

Tossing my hat in the tiny wall closet, I opened the door leading into the outside bedroom. I saw a pleasant chamber, perhaps twenty by twelve feet. It was situated at the southwest corner of the floor, so that three large windows opened to the south and two to the west. An extra-size double bed of mahogany, fitted with a canopy of flowered silk, stood in an alcove. A chaise longue was drawn up invitingly near the three south windows, and rockers and two straight chairs, all of comfortable lines, were placed sedately about with the prim arrangement that bespoke the ideas of a chambermaid rather than those of an occupant. A chiffonier, a writing desk, and a floor lamp completed the array.

A door in the south wall led into the bathroom, and from this another opened into the valet's bathroom. This in turn adjoined his bedroom, which was much the same as the first, except that it possessed only two windows instead of five, and the bed was less ornate. A steamer trunk and a large suit case standing in the clothes press showed that Mitsui had taken possession.

A faint odor of cigarette smoke hung in the air. I walked over to throw up the window, for though I smoke myself there is little I detest more than stale tobacco in a bedchamber. As I did so I stopped short. The curtain was sucked outward by the draft, but this was not what attracted my attention. A wisp of smoke, still clinging to its ephemeral form, passed out into the night! I watched it, fascinated. I knew that even in the deadest atmosphere cigarette smoke dissipates in a few minutes. Some one had been in this room when I entered the suite! It could not have been Mitsui, for I had seen him drive away, and neither my erstwhile host nor he had mentioned any other companion.

Guardedly I made my way to the door, examining the clothes press and the space beneath the bed. One thing was certain—the room was empty now. I retraced my steps, glancing into each nook and corner of my own chamber, but without success. There was no smoke in my room, anyway. The interloper evidently had not bothered with it.

That second I noted a faint curl of smoke from the floor near the desk. A cigarette stub, flattened by a heavy heel, still glowed faintly where a fraction of the spark had escaped extinction. I stooped and picked it up. The cork tip was broken and the label smirched, but I recognized, with a start, the same monogram that had decorated my dinner fags! This meant probably that the intruder was in some way connected with my host. Doubtless he had a perfect right to visit my apartment. Nevertheless, I crossed the hall and pressed my ear to the panel of the living-room door. A faint rustling as of paper being folded sounded from within.

Reason told me I had no need of stealth, but a natural instinct of caution bade me open the door without noise. Gripping knob tightly I turned it. Then, a millimeter at a time, I increased the aperture until I could obtain a fair view of the interior. The shades were drawn making the single electric bulb which glowed through frosted glass on the wall nearest me, a dim but sufficient illumination. Faced away from me at the opposite end of the room stood a man, fumbling with packs of papers. His face was bent down, but I could distinguish his fingers as they quietly slipped rubber hands to one side and shuffled through the documents.

With something of a thrill I noted that a heavy automatic lay on the table beside him. This token did not strike me favorably at all. If he had the right to look at those papers, why did he carry a gun? I resolved to find out, Already I felt a growing sense of responsibility for the interests of my employer.

Advancing on tiptoe across the bare stretch of floor, I reached the sound-snuffling thickness of rug it safety. Here I dropped on all fours, creeping round the center table. Once my quarry stopped as if to listen and my heart jumped, but, apparently reassured, he began again.

Now only eight feet intervened. No more cover offered; I had to cross the open floor behind him. With the greatest care I rose to my feet.

At that second one of my shoes squeaked audibly! The intruder whirled, reaching for his revolver. I was not quite ready, but I sprang, nevertheless. He warded me off with his left arm, and I just managed to retain my  balance by seizing the edge of the table. When I turned he was covering me with the revolver.

“What can you wish here?” he inquired with the cool politeness I knew so well in certain French officers I had met in the service. His diction was perfect, however I scarcely could tabulate him as a foreigner.

“That's what I'm asking you!” I replied hotly. “These are my rooms. What are you doing here?”

“Ah! So?” His black brows lifted in surprise. “So you take this suite now, eh?”

“Yes,” I replied, angry for letting him get the upper hand. “Tell me what you want here! One cry for help will bring the hotel porters and the police,” I added significantly.

He smiled disdainfully. “Ah, that is what you call a 'bluff,' is it not? I know your business; it is not the kind which calls on the gendarmes—the police—for assistance.”

He glanced quickly to one side and started to back toward the door. In that instant I saw my opportunity. An apache in the Paris regiment had taught me a few tricks of savate, and one of them fitted this exigency remarkably well.

With a sudden well-timed kick I knocked the revolver from his hand, and then I closed with him. The attack was a complete surprise, for he doubtless had considered himself out of danger. As I hit him he slipped on the edge of the rug and I fell on top of him.

He was not muscular, but lithe as an eel. Twice when I thought I had him pinioned he slipped out of my grasp. Once one of those slim, wiry arms slid up to my neck, and I had to exert all my strength to break this grip before I could subdue him further.

Finally he seemed to tire and gave up. I seated myself on his chest, holding his arms to the floor.

“And—now what?” he questioned grimly, between gasps for breath.

“Damned if I know!” I answered. “We just stay right here till my valet gets back, I guess.” I did not dare to attempt to tie him, for I had experienced his slipperiness. If I once let go of him I was sure he would really escape. Besides, I could see no sign of a rope on the premises except the electric cord leading to the floor lamps, and this lay five paces distant.

A few seconds later the gigantic bulk of Mitsui appeared in the doorway. As I looked up thankfully I could have sworn that the shadow of a smile was puckering the corners of his wide-set slanted eyes. That same second it disappeared, however, and I could not be sure.

“I think I've caught a burglar,” I said to him. “He was pawing through those papers when I came in.” I jerked my thumb in the direction of the littered desk.

Mitsui grunted. Motioning me to arise, he seized my prisoner by the shoulders with those great, capable hands and raised him to his feet. Holding him securely by neck and belt, Mitsui marched him to the doorway.

“Can I help you any?” I asked, anxious to see what disposition would be made of my captive.

“No; you stay,” retorted Mitsui, indicating the room by a jerk of his head. “We have a way”—and he stopped impressively, glaring at the prisoner—“a way of taking care of these fellows.” Then, with no more explanation, valet and captive vanished through the doorway, and I was left alone in my new quarters.