<h2 id="c16"><span class="sc">Chapter XVI</span> <br/><span class="small">THROUGH THE SKYLIGHT</span></h2>
<p>Bill bent swiftly, caught up some of the
dirty linen and flung it into the hamper. He
had to pull himself together. <i>That</i>—that
was the explanation, of course, for Slim
Johnson’s cryptic remarks about the laundry.
They were coming back in an hour. Would
they take the hamper and all?</p>
<p>“Yes,” he decided. “It would mean just
that. Not even a gangster beer baron, or
whatever role Slim Johnson plays in the criminal
life of this state would permit him to
carry dead bodies through the public halls of
a hotel without causing comment! And
possibly another police raid.... No—Hank
was going out in the hamper. How many
more,” he wondered, “had traveled that route
before and would travel it again....”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_220">220</div>
<p>Like a flash the idea came to him. Of
course, it would be necessary to remove the
body—</p>
<p>He went back to the bedroom and threw
himself down on the chaise longue. He was
tired after his long hop, and felt nauseated
from his experience that evening. A glance
at his watch showed that it still lacked a few
minutes to ten o’clock. He had been in
Gring’s Hotel only an hour, and in that short
time, murder....</p>
<p>Resolutely he put the thought from him
and the thought of what he soon must do. His
eyes closed and gradually he dozed off into
light slumber.</p>
<p>It was a quarter to eleven when Bill awoke.
Chimes on a church clock somewhere in the
neighborhood were striking the quarter hour.
With a cry of annoyance, he sprang to the
locked door and listened.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_221">221</div>
<p>No sound came from the sitting room.
Hastily extinguishing the bedroom lights, he
hurried into the bathroom and switched on a
single electric bulb.</p>
<p>He began to work with feverish haste, lifting
the limp body of Hank from the
hamper—<i>rigor mortis</i> had not yet set in. He
carried it to the bed, removed the coat and
waistcoat, slipped on the jacket of the
pajamas, turned down the rose-colored sheet
and covered the body—all but the head and
one arm, which appeared above the coverlet
in a natural position.</p>
<p>Bill was trembling like a leaf when that
was accomplished. But the worst was over.
He had now only to switch off the bathroom
light and take the place of Hank in the
clothes hamper.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_222">222</div>
<p>He collected the linen he had scattered on
the floor, turned off the light and got into the
hamper with his armful of shirts and pajamas,
arranging himself as comfortably as he could
inside. The lid was hinged, and fell back
upon him when he had drawn a few pieces of
clothing over his head and assumed the position
formerly occupied by Hank.</p>
<p>He crouched, half-stifled, in the hamper,
listening for ages—it seemed. At last—the
bolt of the sitting room door clicked.</p>
<p>From within his hiding place Bill could
hear almost clearly what was happening in
the room. There came the faint creak of a
boot on the floor boards.</p>
<p>“Keep to the rug, you fool!” hissed Johnson’s
voice. “Do you want to wake him!”</p>
<p>For several minutes there was no other
sound. In his mind’s eye he pictured the
young gangster tiptoeing to the bed and looking
down on the rose-colored pajamas—</p>
<p>Suddenly they were beside him. The
hamper was dragged away from the wall,
lifted and let down on the tiles again.</p>
<p>“Holy smoke! what a weight!” a voice
whispered hoarsely.</p>
<p>“Shut up and come on!”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_223">223</div>
<p>Again the hamper was lifted and carried
from the room. Outside in the corridor it
was set down for a moment while its bearers
locked the door. Then the angle at which
Bill was being carried shifted, the basket
rocked slowly up and down, as he descended
the stairs. There were a great many stairs—they
seemed endless. Twice he was set down
roughly, while the men paused for breath.</p>
<p>He had a desperate impulse to thrust open
the lid, tear away the suffocating clothes and
strike out for freedom. But the time was
not yet. He must be patient.</p>
<p>The air became cooler and he was able to
breathe more freely. He thought they must
be in the open now. The hamper was banged
down again.</p>
<p>“Slim,” a voice spoke somewhere above
and he recognized it as Jake’s, “doesn’t want
the bulls to get onto this. You remember
last time they dug up Otto and raised an
awful stink!”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_224">224</div>
<p>“Well, what about this stiff?”</p>
<p>“Oh, Hank’s in luck. He gets a Christian
burial. There’s one of them private family
cemeteries up Sulvermine way. Hank goes
in there. The tools are in the car.”</p>
<p>“It’s just too bad Slim can’t do his own
diggin’,” growled Number Two.</p>
<p>“Not him—he’s got a heavy date. There
he is now, watchin’ from the lobby. When
we’re out of sight, he’ll beat it. He ain’t
even takin’ a bodyguard tonight.”</p>
<p>“What is it—a skirt?”</p>
<p>“How should I know? But if we don’t
get goin’ he will start raisin’ the roof. Git
hold of this thing again—she’ll go on the
back.”</p>
<p>Again Bill was lifted. The basket swung
violently, then landed with a jar that shook
his bones. He sensed that rope was being
passed around the hamper to secure it to the
back of the car. There came the crisp slam
of a door, a continuous vibration, and a violent
jerk. They were off at last. The car was moving.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_225">225</div>
<p>Bill waited until he felt the automobile
swerve around the corner. Then he thrust upward
with all his might. The flimsy wicker
catch snapped, the lid flew back, and amid a
cascade of soiled laundry, he crawled out and
dropped to the roadway. An instant later, he
was strolling back toward the hotel. His late
conveyance had already disappeared around
the corner.</p>
<p>Swinging into the street upon which
Gring’s Hotel fronted, halfway down the
block, he saw Slim Johnson run down the
steps and enter a taxicab. The car was headed
away from him and started off directly. Bill
at once sprinted after it, hoping that the Boston
Post Road traffic would hold it up at the
end of the block.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_226">226</div>
<p>His hope was fulfilled. The cab slowed
down, stopped and waited for the green light.
Bill had just time to grasp the spare tire on
the rear and take a precarious seat on the
inner rim when it started up again.</p>
<p>Across the Post Road and under the raised
tracks of the New York, New Haven and
Hartford it went, then into that network of
mean streets between the railroad and the
shore like a frightened cat up a back alley.</p>
<p>Near the harbor the car slowed down and
drew up before an open lot. Bill dropped
off and hid behind a pile of rubbish. Slim
Johnson got out, paid off the driver and
started away at a smart pace toward the
docks. With his weather eye open, Bill followed
him, running swiftly across the patches
of light from the street lamps and seeking the
shadow.</p>
<p>The gangster followed the harbor toward
the sea front, wending his way among the
wharves. At length, by the side of a pier, he
stopped, and gave a shrill whistle. Bill
stepped behind a small wooden hut and took
a survey.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_227">227</div>
<p>Lying out among other vessels was the
white prow of a large yacht. He could just
discern its lines in the dim moonlight. There
was a lantern at the bows, and a glimmer at
one or two of the portholes.</p>
<p>Soon he heard the creak and dip of oars,
and could see the silver sparkle of flashing
water. A small boat drew into the pier. Slim
made his way carefully down the steps, disappearing
from Bill’s view. There was the
rasp of an oar on stonework as the boat was
pushed off. Bill could distinguish the man’s
lisping tones as he talked. Then the boat
melted into the darkness, in the general direction
of the yacht.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_228">228</div>
<p>For a few minutes Bill gazed across the
water at its outlines. Suddenly there was a
bright flood of light upon the deck. A door
flung open, a tall figure blocked it, and the
light narrowed to a slit and winked out as
the door closed again. While Bill stood
watching from the pier, he would have given
anything to know who the others were on
board that vessel. Still hot with anger and
horror at being forced to witness the dastardly
crime, and sickened with the part he had had
to play later, Bill was not in the mood to
forego an opportunity of evening things up.</p>
<p>It came to his mind that even to approach
the yacht in a small boat, keeping his eyes and
ears open, might be of some help in learning
who was aboard her, or perhaps yield him a
clue to the truth about Slim Johnson’s business.
But a small boat was not easy to procure
at that time of night, and in any case he
did not want any inquisitive soul to know
what he was doing. As he walked slowly
along the wharf his foot struck a rope, and
looking down, he saw it held a small dinghy
that lay in the water at the edge of the dock.
It probably belonged to a yachtsman who had
come ashore. A find, if ever he needed one.
No time now to have any compunctions about
its owner.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_229">229</div>
<p>Bill looked across at the yacht, with its
portholes showing dim glints of light, and
in a trice he was on his knees. He slipped
the knot of the rope and hurried down the
wet steps.</p>
<p>The white yacht was farther out than he
had thought, and when he reached it, he was
astonished at its size and magnificence. A
shaft of light burst from the door where he
had seen the gangster enter. Johnson appeared
on deck, and Bill was actually so near
that he could see the pleased expression on his
smiling face. The dinghy drifted under the
yacht’s bows, and he was shut out from view,
but he could hear Slim’s feet passing along
the deck and clattering down the companionway.
Then there was the sharp slam of a
door.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_230">230</div>
<p>Softly Bill sculled along at the side of the
yacht. Over the portholes curtains were
drawn, so he could see nothing of what was
going on inside. The moon was hidden behind
clouds, and it was now so dark that he
nearly ran into a tiny wooden landing stage.
As he paused with the dinghy close under
the narrow steps, he could hear the clink of
dishes, as if a late meal was being prepared;
and a skylight nearby threw the sound of
excited conversation out on to the deck.</p>
<p>Each moment Bill kept reminding himself
that he ought to be getting back. What if
the owner of the dinghy were to appear and
send angry halloos across the water? Still,
having got so far, to retire without finding
out what Johnson was up to seemed stupid.
He made up his mind he would take a quick
survey of the deck before moving off. He
slung the rope around the bottom rung of the
ladder, and cautiously felt his way upward.</p>
<p>The deck was empty so far as he could make
out. If a hand was supposed to be on watch,
Bill could not hear or see any signs of him.
The large skylight came into view on deck,
and the shimmer of its thick glass indicated
that the saloon below was lighted up.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_231">231</div>
<p>Bill crouched at the rail, listening. The
snatches of animated talk he had heard from
the water must have come from this saloon,
for he could see that one of the skylight
windows was raised a couple of inches. Now
he could distinguish through the opening the
clear tones of two voices in particular.</p>
<p>With the utmost caution, Bill crawled a
couple of yards forward and looked down
into the saloon. There was a white damask-covered
table, with shaded lights, at which
sat two men, busy with supper and conversation.
He recognized the men at once.</p>
<p>Slim Johnson’s languid gestures emphasized
his words, as he directed them, between
sips of coffee, to no less a person than Zenas
Sanders himself.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_232">232</div>
<p>With a gasp, Bill realized that Sanders had
come by plane, and that this yacht must be
the leader’s present headquarters. To go
back now was out of the question. He might
be on the brink of a vital discovery. He
glanced up and down the deck. Still it was
deserted. Pulling himself close to the skylight,
he lay listening, with every muscle taut.</p>
<p>Slim Johnson was speaking, and at first
Bill could not pick up the trend of his remarks.
But when Sanders replied, he realized their
talk had been bearing on himself and the
interview at Gring’s Hotel.</p>
<p>“You’re right, Slim,” said Sanders.
“Young Bolton has practically broken with
Evans. All he cares about now is getting the
kid back. He said so over the phone.”</p>
<p>“Well, that darned Indian is sure to find
your hideaway, Sanders. He’s got plenty of
guts and so has that Parker fellow by all reports.
Between them, they’ll get the boy
before this yacht has a chance to reach Twin
Heads Harbor.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_233">233</div>
<p>Sanders laughed and shook his head in a
nervous negative. “Oh, no, they won’t,” he
chuckled. “The boy isn’t up there. I
brought him with me. At present he’s sound
asleep in a cabin not twenty feet from where
we’re sitting!”</p>
<p>“Well, that’s a good one!” Slim laughed.
“What’s the orders now?”</p>
<p>“We sail in two hours. I want you to
come along. Go back to the hotel now and
use your gentle persuasion on Bill Bolton to
find out where Evans is. We’ll hold them on
board until the divers have brought the stuff
up from the bottom of the harbor up there.
Then we can either make all three of them
pay heavy ransoms, or if they’re obdurate, tie
them up and drop them overboard.”</p>
<p>“But supposing torture won’t make Bolton
tell?” argued Slim. “What shall I do with
him then? You aren’t giving me much time
to persuade him, you know.”</p>
<p>“Oh, use your air gun if you like. It’s all
the same to me!”</p>
<p>“And let Old Evans go?”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_234">234</div>
<p>“That’s right. He’s tired of trying to
watch us up there. And that old diver of
his—Jim something-or-other, hasn’t located
the stuff yet. Evans thinks that he has a
better bet in watching you. So mind your
step when you come back tonight. The
longer Mr. Evans stops in Stamford the better
pleased I’ll be.”</p>
<p>“Okay. It’s a swell break, and the luckiest
thing about it is that he can’t bring in the
bulls. He and his bank would pay a pretty
fine if the government found out that he was
taking that gold to Europe in his yacht when
von Hiemskirk captured it. Nice of the noble
baron to sink it in Twin Heads Harbor, and
then go to Atlanta for thirty or forty years!”</p>
<p>“We may be able to blackmail Evans later,
after he’s paid his ransom, and we’ve got away
with the gold.—Listen!” Sanders dropped
his voice and began to whisper across the
table.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_235">235</div>
<p>Bill pressed closer to the skylight, and at
the same time a door clicked somewhere along
the deck. In a second he was crouching on
hands and knees, peering into the darkness.
The figure of a man swung up the companionway
and paused to light a cigarette. Bill
could see his thin, swarthy face, lined and
scarred, as the tiny flame leaped within his
cupped palms. The match spun overboard in
a luminous curve, and hissed into the water.
Then the man began to walk slowly along the
deck toward Bill.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_237">237</div>
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