The Day of Days: An Extravaganza by Louis Joseph Vance
XXI
THE SORTIE
At pains not to stir across the threshold, with quick glances P.Sybarite reviewed scrupulously the scene of November's crime.
Eventually his nod indicated a contemptuous conclusion: that it shouldnot prove difficult to convict November on the evidence afforded bythe condition of the apartment alone. A most superficial inspectionought to convince anybody, even one prone to precipitate conclusions,that Bayard Shaynon had never died by his own hand.
If November, in depositing the instrument of his crime close to thehand of its victim, had meant to mislead, to create an inference of_felo de se_, he had ordered all his other actions with a carelessnessarguing one of three things: cynical indifference to the actualoutcome of his false clue; sublime faith in the stupidity of thepolice; or a stupidity of his own as crass as that said to becharacteristic of the average criminal in all ages.
The rooms, in short, had been most thoroughly if hastily ransacked--insearch, P. Sybarite didn't for an instant doubt, of evidence as to therelations between Shaynon and Mrs. Inche calculated to proveincriminating at an inquest; though the little man entertained evenless doubt that lust for loot had likewise been a potent motiveinfluencing November.
He found proof enough of this in the turned-out pockets of themurdered man; in the abstraction from the bosom of his shirt of pearlstuds which P. Sybarite had noticed there within the hour; in theabraded knuckles of a finger from which a conspicuous solitairediamond in massive antique setting was missing; in a pigskinbill-fold, empty, ripped, turned inside out, and thrown upon the floornot far from the corpse.
Then, too, in one corner stood a fine old mahogany desk of quaintdesign and many drawers and pigeonholes, one and all sacked, theircontents turned out to litter the floor. In another corner, a curiocabinet had fared as ill. Even bookcases had not been overlooked, andstood with open doors and disordered shelves.
Not, however, with any notion of concerning himself with theassassin's apprehension and punishment did P. Sybarite waste thatmoment of hasty survey. His eyes were only keen and eager to descrythe yellow Western Union message; and when he had looked everywhereelse, his glance dropped to his feet and found it there--a torn andcrumpled envelope with its enclosure flattened out and apart from it.
This last he snatched up, but the envelope he didn't touch, havingbeen quick to remark the print upon it of a dirty thumb whosecounterpart decorated the face of the message as well.
"And a hundred more of 'em, probably," P. Sybarite surmised as to thenumber of finger marks left by November: "enough to hang him ten timesover ... which I hope and pray they don't before I finish with him!"
As for the dead man, he read his epitaph in a phrase, accompanied by ameaning nod toward the disfigured and insentient head.
"It was coming to you--and you got it," said P. Sybarite callously,with never a qualm of shame for the apathy with which he contemplatedthis second tragedy in the house of Shaynon.
Too much, too long, had he suffered at its hands....
With a shrug, he turned back to the hall door, listened an instant,gently opened it--with his handkerchief wrapped round the polishedbrass door-knob to guard against clues calculated to involve himself,whether as imputed principal or casual witness after the fact. For hefelt no desire to report the crime to the police: let them find it outat their leisure, investigate and take what action they would; P.Sybarite had lost no love for the force that night, and meant to useit only at a pinch--as when, perchance, its services might promise toelicit the information presumably possessed by Red November in regardto the fate of Marian Blessington....
The public hall was empty, dim with the light of a single electricbulb, and still as the chamber of death that lay behind.
Never a shadow moved more silently or more swiftly than P. Sybarite,when he had closed the door, up the steps to Peter Kenny's rooms.Hardly a conceivable sound could be more circumspect than that whichhis knuckles drummed on the panels of Peter's door. And Peter earned aheartfelt, instant, and ungrudged blessing by opening without delay.
"Well?" he asked, when P. Sybarite--with a gesture enforcing temporarysilence--had himself shut the door without making a sound. "Good Lord,man! You look as if you'd seen a ghost."
On the verge of agitated speech P. Sybarite checked to shake anaggrieved head.
"Bromides are grand for the nerves," he observed cuttingly, "butyou're too young to need 'em--and I want none now.... Listen to me."
Briefly he told his story.
"Well, but the telegram?" Peter insisted. "Does it help--tell youanything? It's maddening--to think Marian may be in the power of thatbloodthirsty--!"
"There you go again!" P. Sybarite complained--"and not two minutes agoI warned you about that habit. Wait: I've had time only to run an eyethrough this: let me get the sense of it."
Peter peering over his shoulder, the two conned the message insilence:
BAYARD SHAYNON Monastery Apts., W. 43rd, N.Y.C.
Your wire received all preparations made send patient in charge as indicated at convenience legal formalities can wait as you suggest.
HAYNES PRIVATE SANATORIUM.
Blankly Peter Kenny looked at his cousin; with eyes in which deepeningunderstanding mingled with anger as deep, and with profound misgivingsas well, P. Sybarite returned his stare.
"It's as plain as the face on you, Peter Kenny. Why, all along I'vehad an indefinite notion that something of the sort was what they werebrewing! Don't you see--'private sanatorium'? What more proof do youneed of a plot to railroad Marian to a private institution for theinsane? 'Legal formalities can wait as you suggest'--of course! Theyhadn't had time to cook up the necessary papers, to suborn medicalcertificates and purchase a commitment paper of some corrupt judge.But what of that?" P. Sybarite demanded, slapping the messagefuriously. "She was in the way--at large--liable at any time to dosomething that would put her money forever out of their reach.Therefore she must be put away at once, pending 'legal formalities' toensure her permanent incarceration!"
"The dogs!" Peter Kenny growled.
"But consider how they've been served out--thunderbolts--justice fromthe very skies! All except one, and," said P. Sybarite solemnly, "Goddo so to me and more also if he's alive or outside bars before thissun sets!"
"Who?"
"November!"
"What can you do to him?"
"To begin with, beat him to that damned asylum. Fetch me the suburbantelephone directory."
"Telephone directory?"
"Yes!" P. Sybarite raved. "What else? Where is it? And where are yourwits?"
"Why, here--"
Turning, Peter took the designated volume from its hook beneath thewall instrument at the very elbow of P. Sybarite.
"I thought," he commented mildly, "you had all _your_ wits about youand could see it."
"Don't be impudent," grumbled P. Sybarite, rapidly thumbing the pages."Westchester," he muttered, adding: "Oscahana--H--Ha--H-a-d--"
"Are you dotty?"
"Look at that telegram. It's dated from Oscahana: that's somewhere inWestchester, if I'm not mistaken. Yes; here we are: H-a-y--HaynesPrivate Sanatorium--number, Oscahana one-nine. You call 'em."
"What shall I say?"
"Where the devil's that cartridge clip you took away from me?... Giveit here.... And I want my money."
"But," Peter protested in a daze, handing over the clip and watchingP. Sybarite rummage in the buffet drawer wherein he had banked hisfortune before setting out for the Bizarre--"but what do you want meto--"
"Call up that sanatorium--find out if Marian has arrived. If she has,threaten fire and sword and--all that sort of thing--if they don'trelease her--hand her over to me on demand. If she hasn't, make 'emunderstand I'll dynamite the place if they let November bring herthere and get away before I show up. Tell 'em to call in the policeand pinch November on sight. And then get a lawyer and send him upthere after me. And then--set the police after November--tell 'em youheard the shot and w
The door slammed on Peter as Bewilderment.
In the hall, savagely punching the elevator bell, P. Sybarite employedthe first part of an enforced wait to return the clip of cartridges toits chamber in the butt of Mrs. Inche's pistol....
He punched the bell again....
He put his thumb upon the button and held it there....
From the bottom of the twelve-story well a faint, shrilltintinnabulation echoed up to him. But that was all. The car itselfnever stirred.
Infuriated, he left off that profitless employment and threw himselfdown the stairs, descending in great bounds from landing to landing,more like a tennis ball than a fairly intelligent specimen of maturehumanity in control of his own actions.
Expecting to be met by the ascending car before halfway to the bottom,he came to the final flight not only breathless but in a toweringrage--contemplating nothing less than a murderous assault as soon ashe might be able to lay hands upon the hallboys--hoping to find themtogether that he might batter their heads one against the other.
But he gained the ground-floor lobby to find it as empty as his ownastonishment--its doors wide to the cold air of dawn, its lightsdimmed to the likeness of smouldering embers by the stark refulgenceof day; but nowhere a sign of a hallboy or anything else in humanguise.
As he paused to make sure of the reality of this phenomenon, andincidentally to regain his breath, there sounded from a distance downthe street a noise the like of which he had never before heard: anoise resembling more than anything else the almost simultaneousdetonations of something like half a dozen firecrackers of sub-cannoncalibre.
Without understanding this or even being aware that he had willed hislimbs to action, P. Sybarite found himself in the street.
At the curb his hired car waited, its motor purring sweetly but itschauffeur missing.
Subjectively he was aware that the sun was up and high enough to throwa sanguinary glare upon the upper stories of the row of garages acrossthe street--those same from whose number he had chartered his touringcar. And momentarily he surmised that perhaps the chauffeur hadstrolled over to the garage on some idle errand.
But no sooner had this thought enhanced his irritation than he had itsrefutation in the discovery of the chauffeur affectionately embracinga lamp-post three or four doors away, toward Sixth Avenue; and sosingular seemed this sight that P. Sybarite wondered if, by anychance, the fellow had found time to get drunk during so brief a wait.
At once, blind to all else, and goaded intolerably by his knowledgethat the time was short if he were to forestall November at the asylumin Oscahana, he pelted hot-foot after the delinquent; came up with himin a trice; tapped him smartly on the shoulder.
"Here!" he cried indignantly--"what the deuce's the matter with you?"
The man showed him a face pale with excitement; recognised hisemployer; but made no offer to stir.
"Come!" P. Sybarite insisted irascibly. "I've no time to waste. Get amove on you, man!"
But as he spoke his accents were blotted out by a repetition of thatportentous noise which had saluted him in the lobby of the Monastery,a moment since.
His eyes, veering inevitably toward the source of that uproar, foundit quickly enough to see short, vicious jets of flame licking outagainst the gloom of an open garage doorway, nearly opposite theHippodrome stage entrance--something like a hundred feet down thestreet.
"What," he cried, "in Hades--!"
"Gang fight," his chauffeur informed him briefly: "fly-cops cornered abunch of 'em in November's garage--"
"_Whose_ garage--?"
"Red November's! Guess you've heard of him," the man pursued eagerly."That's right--he runs his own garage--taxis for Dutch House souses,yunno--"
"Wait!" P. Sybarite interrupted. "Let me get this straight."
Stimulated by this news, his wits comprehended the situation at aglance.
At the side of his chauffeur, he found himself in line with a numberof that spontaneous class which at the first hint of sensation springsup from nowhere in the streets of Manhattan. Early as was the hour,they were already quite fifty strong; and every minute broughtre-enforcements straggling up from Fifth Avenue.
But the lamp-post--still a mute, insensate recipient of thechauffeur's amorous clasp--marked a boundary beyond which curiosityfailed to allure.
Similarly at Sixth Avenue, a rabble was collecting, blocking theroadway and backing up to the Elevated pillars and surface-cartracks--but to a man balking at an invisible line drawn from corner tocorner.
Midway, the dark open doorway to November's garage yawnedforbiddingly; and in all the space that separated these two gatheringsof spectators, there were visible just three human figures: auniformed patrolman, and two plain-clothes men--the former at adiscreet distance, the two latter more boldly stationed and holdingrevolvers ready for instant employment.
"Fly-cops," the chauffeur named the two in citizen's clothing: "Ipiped 'em stickin' round while you was inside, an' was wonderin' whatthey was after, when all of a sudden I sees November duck up from thebasement next door to the Monastery, and they tries to jump him. Thatain't two minutes ago. November dodges, pulls a gun, and fights 'emoff until he can back into the garage--"
A hand holding an automatic edged into sight round the corner of thegarage door--and the pistol sang like a locust. Instantly one of thedetectives fired. The pistol clattered to the walk as the handdisappeared. One shot at least had told for law and order.
"Anybody hurt yet?" P. Sybarite asked.
"Not that I know anythin' about."
"But what do you suppose makes 'em keep that door open? You'd think--"
"The way I figure it," the chauffeur cut in, "Red's plannin' to makehis getaway in a car. He's just waitin' till the goin' looks good, andthen he'll sail outa there like a streak of greased lightnin'. Yuhwanta be ready to duck, too, 'cause he'll come this way, an' keep gunsgoin' to prevent anybody from hinderin' him."
"Why this way? Sixth Avenue's nearer."
"Sure it is, but that way he'd have them L pillars to duck, to saynothin' of the crowd, and no tellin' but what a surface-car mightblock him. Yuh watch an' see 'f I ain't doped it out right."
From the dark interior of the besieged garage another automaticfluttered briskly; across the street a window fell in....
"Look here--you come with me," said P. Sybarite suddenly, plucking hischauffeur by the sleeve.
With a reluctant backward glance, the man suffered himself to be drawnapart from the crowd.
"How much nerve have you got?" the little Irishman demanded.
"Who--me? Why?"
"I want to stop this getaway--"
"Not for mine, friend." The chauffeur laughed scornfully. "I ain'tlost no Red November!"
"Will a thousand dollars make you change your mind?"
The chauffeur's eyes narrowed.
"Whatcha drivin' at? Me--why--I'd take a lotta chances for athousand."
"Help me--do as I say--and it's yours."
"Lead me to the coin," was the prompt decision.
"Here, then!"
P. Sybarite delved hastily into a trousers pocket and produced ahandful of bills of large denominations.
"There's a five hundred dollar bill to start with," he rattled,stripping off the first that fell to his fingers--"and here's ahundred--no, here's another five instead."
"In the mitt," the chauffeur stipulated simply, extending his palm."Either you're crazy or I am--but in the mitt, friend, and I'll runthe car right into that garage, 'f you say so."
"Nothing so foolish as that." P. Sybarite handed over the two billsand put away the rest of his wealth. "Just jump into that car and beready to swing across the street and block 'em as they come."
"You're on!" agreed the chauffeur with emotion--carefully putting hismoney away.
"And a thousand more"--his courage wrung this tribute from P.Sybarite's admiration--"if you're hurt--"
"You're on there
The chauffeur turned to his car, jumped into the driver's seat, andadvanced the spark. The purr of the motor deepened to a leonine growl.
"Hello!" he exclaimed in surprise, real or feigned, to see P. Sybaritetake the seat by his side. "What t'ell? Who's payin' _you_ to be aGod-forsaken ass?"
"Did you think I'd ask you to run a risk that frightened me?"
"Dunno's I thought much about it, but 'f yuh wanta know what I thinknow, _I_ think you oughta get a rebate outa whatcha give me--if youlive to apply for it. And I don't mind tellin' you, if you do, youwon't get it."
Again the spiteful drumming of the automatic: P. Sybarite swung roundin time to see one of the plain-clothes men return the fire withseveral brisk shots, then abruptly drop his revolver, clap a hand tohis bosom, wheel about-face, and fall prone.
A cry shrilled up from the bystanders, only to be drowned out byanother, but fortunately more harmless, fusillade from the garage.
"Tunin' up!" commented the chauffeur grimly. "Sounds to me like theywas about ready to commence!"
P. Sybarite shut his teeth on a nervous tremor and lost a shade or twoof colour.
"Ready?" he said with difficulty.
The chauffeur's reply was muffled by another volley; on the echoes ofwhich the little man saw the nose of a car poke diagonally out of thegarage door, pause, swerve a trifle to the right, and pause onceagain....
"They're coming!" he cried wildly. "Stand by, quick!"
The alarm was taken up and repeated by two-score throats, while thosedotting the street and sidewalks near by broke in swift panic andbegan madly to scuttle to shelter within doorways and down basementsteps....
Like an arrow from the string, November's car broke cover at an angle.Ignoring the slanting way from threshold to gutter, it took the bumpof the curb apparently at full tilt, and skidded to the northern curbbefore it could be brought under control and its course shapedeastward.
With a shiver P. Sybarite recognised that car.
It was not the taxicab that he had been led to expect, but the samemaroon-coloured limousine into which he had assisted MarianBlessington at the Bizarre.
On its front seats were two men--Red November himself at the driver'sside, a revolver in either hand. And the body of the car contained onepassenger, at least, if P. Sybarite might trust to an impressiongained in one hasty glance through the forward windows as the car boredown upon them--November's weapons spitting fire....
He could not say who that one passenger might be; but he could guess;and guessing, knew the automatic in his grasp to be useless; he darednot fire at the gangster for fear of loosing a wild bullet into thebody of the car....
Now they were within fifty feet of one another. By contrast with theapparent slowness of the touring car to get in motion, the limousineseemed already to have attained locomotive speed.
A yell and a shot from one of November's revolvers (P. Sybarite sawthe bullet score the asphalt not two feet from the forward wheel)warned them to clear the way as the gang leader's car swerved wide topass them.
And on this the touring car seemed to get out of control, swingingacross the street. Immediately the other, crowded to the gutter,attempted to take the curb, but, the wheels meeting it at an angle notsufficiently acute, the manoeuvre failed. To a chorus of yellsNovember's driver shut down the brakes not a thought too soon--notsoon enough, indeed, to avoid a collision that crumpled a mudguard asthough it had been a thing of pasteboard.
Simultaneously P. Sybarite's chauffeur set the brakes, and with theagility of a hounded rabbit seeking its burrow, dived from his seat tothe side of the car farthest from the gangsters.
In an instant he was underneath it.
P. Sybarite, on the other hand, had leaped before the accident.
Staggering a pace or two--and all the time under fire--he at lengthfound his feet not six feet from the limousine. It had stoppedbroadside on. In this position he commanded the front seats withoutgreat danger of sending a shot through the body.
His weapon rose mechanically and quite deliberately he tookaim--making assurance doubly sure throughout what seemed an age madesibilant by the singing past his head of the infuriated gangster'sbullets.
But his finger never tightened upon the trigger.
November had ceased firing and was plucking nervously at the slide ofhis automatic. His driver had jumped down from his seat and wasscuttling madly up the street.
In a breath P. Sybarite realised what was the matter: as automaticswill, when hot with fast firing, November's had choked on an emptyshell.
With a sob of excitement the little man lowered his weapon and flunghimself upon the gang leader.
November rose to meet him, reversing his pistol and aiming at P.Sybarite's head a murderous blow. This, however, the little man wasalert to dodge. November came bodily into his arms. Grappling, the tworeeled and went down, P. Sybarite's fingers closing on the throat ofthe assassin just as the latter's head struck the pavement with brutalforce.
The man shivered, grunted, and lay still.
P. Sybarite disengaged and got up on his feet.