SEVEN FOOTPRINTS TO SATAN. Abraham Merritt
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three guardians were too far ahead of them in gray matter and resourcefulness. They could make it abortive before I was half finished. But I might drop that suggestion of calling up the Club. Someone, I argued, might have their curiosity sufficiently developed to risk a phone call. I fixed my gaze on the dignified old gentleman—be seemed the type who possibly would not be able to rest until he had found out what it was all about.
And just as I was opening my mouth to speak to him, the girl patted my hand and leaned across me to the man in the Inverness.
“Doctor,” her voice was very clear and of a carrying quality that made it audible throughout the car. “Doctor, Harry seems so much better. Shall I give him—you know what?”
“An excellent idea, Miss Walton,” he answered. “Give it to him.”
The girl reached under her long sport coat and brought out a small bundle.
“Here, Harry,” she handed it to me. “Here’s your little playmate— who’s been so lonely without you.”
Automatically I took the bundle and tore it open.
Into my hands dropped out a dirty, hideous old rag-doll!
As I looked at it, stupefied, there came to me complete perception of the truly devilish cunning of those who had me in their trap. The very farcicality of that doll had a touch of terror in it. At the girl’s clear voice, all the car had centered their attention upon us. I saw the dignified old gentleman staring at me unbelievingly over his spectacles, saw Consardine catch his eye and tap his forehead significantly—and so did every one else see him. The Negro’s guffaw suddenly stopped. The Hebraic group stiffened up and gaped at me; the stenographer dropped her vanity case; the Italian children goggled at the doll, fascinated. The middle-aged couple looked away, embarrassed.
I realized that I was on my feet, clutching the doll as though I feared it was to be taken from me.
“Hell!” I swore, and lifted it to dash it to the floor.
And suddenly I knew that any further resistance, and further struggle, was useless.
The game was rigged up against me all the way through the deck. For the moment I might as well throw down my hand. I was going, as Consardine had told me, where the “greater intellect and will” pleased, whether it pleased me or not. Also I was going when it pleased. And that was now.
Well, they had played with me long enough. I would throw my hand down, but as I sat back I would have a little diversion myself.
I dropped into my seat, sticking the doll in my upper pocket where its head protruded grotesquely. The dignified old gentleman was making commiserating clucking noises and shaking his head understandingly at Consardine. One of the rabbit-faced youths said “Nuts” and the girls giggled nervously. The Negro hastily got up and retreated to the next car. One of the Italian children pointed to the doll and whined, “Gimme.”
I took the girl’s hand in both of mine.
“Eve, darling,” I said, as distinctly as she had spoken, “you know I ran away because I don’t like Walter there.”
I put my arm around her waist.
“Walter,” I leaned over her, “no man like you just out of prison for what was, God knows, a justly deserved sentence, is worthy of my Eve. No matter how crazy I may be, surely you know that is true.”
The old gentleman stopped his annoying clucking and looked startled. The rest of the car turned its attention like him, to Walter. I had the satisfaction of seeing a slow flush creep up his cheeks.
“Dr. Consardine,” I turned to him, “as a medical man you are familiar with the stigmata, I mean the marks, of the born criminal. Look at Walter. The eyes small and too close together, the mouth’s hardness deplorably softened by certain appetites, the undeveloped lobes of the ears. If I ought not be running loose—how much less ought he to be, doctor?”
Every eye in the car was taking in each point as I called attention to it. And each happened to be a little true. The flush on Walter’s face deepened to a brick red. Consardine looked at me, imperturbably.
“No,” I went on, “not at all the man for you, Eve.”
I gripped the girl closer. I drew her tightly to me. I was beginning to enjoy myself—and she was marvelously pretty.
“Eve!” I exclaimed. “All this time I’ve been away from you—and you haven’t even kissed me!”
I lifted up her chin and—well, I kissed her. Kissed her properly and in no brotherly manner. I heard Walter cursing under his breath. How Consardine was taking it I could not tell. Indeed I did not care— Eve’s mouth was very sweet.
I kissed her again and again—to the chuckles of the hoods, the giggles of the girls, and horrified exclamations of the dignified old gentleman.
And the girl’s face, which at the first of my kisses had gone all rosy red, turned white. She did not resist, but between kisses I heard her whisper:
“You’ll pay for this! Oh, but you’ll pay for this!”
I laughed and released her. I did not care now. I was going to go with Dr. Consardine wherever he wanted to take me—as long as she went with me.
“Harry,” his voice broke my thought, “come along. Here is our station.”
The train was slowing up for the Fourteenth Street stop. Consardine arose. His eyes signaled the girl. Her own eyes downcast, she took my hand. Her hand was like ice. I got up, still laughing. Consardine at my other side, Walter guarding the rear, I walked out upon the platform and up the steps to the street. Once I looked behind me into Walter’s face, and my heart warmed at the murder in it.
It had been touché for me with two of them at any rate—and at their own game.
A chauffeur in livery stood at the top of the steps. He gave me a quick, curious glance and saluted Consardine.
“This way—Kirkham!” said the latter, curtly.
So I was Kirkham again! And what did that mean?
A powerful car stood at the curb. Consardine gestured. Eve’s hand firmly clasped in mine, I entered, drawing her after me. Walter had gone ahead of us. Consardine followed. The chauffeur closed the door. I saw another liveried figure on the driver’s seat. The car started.
Consardine touched a lever and down came the curtains, closeting us in semi-darkness.
And as he did so the girl Eve wrenched her hand from mine, struck me a stinging blow across the lips and huddling down in her corner began silently to weep.
CHAPTER 4
The cab, one of expensive European make, sped smoothly over to Fifth Avenue and turned north. Consardine touched another lever and a curtain dropped between us and the driving seat. There was a hidden bulb that shed a dim glow.
By it I saw that the girl had recovered her poise. She sat regarding the tips of her shapely narrow shoes. Walter drew out a cigarette case. I followed suit.
“You do not mind, Eve?” I asked solicitously.
She neither looked at me nor answered. Consardine was apparently lost in thought. Walter stared icily over my head. I lighted my cigarette and concentrated upon our course. My watch registered a quarter to ten.
The tightly shaded windows gave no glimpse of our surroundings. By the traffic stops I knew we were still on the Avenue. Then the car began a series of turns and twists as though it were being driven along side streets. Once it seemed to make a complete circle. I lost all sense of direction, which, I reflected, was undoubtedly what was intended.
At 10:15 the car began to go at greatly increased speed and I judged we were