Ronicky Doone

Mistaken Identity

To flee down the stairs now would be rank folly.  If there happened to be among these fellows a man of the type of him who sneered, a bullet would catch the fugitive long before he reached the bottom of the staircase.  And, since he could not retreat, Ronicky went slowly and steadily ahead, for, certainly, if he stood still, he would be spoken to.  He would have to rely now on the very dim light in this hall and the shadow of his cap obscuring his face.  If these were roomers, perhaps he would be taken for some newcomer.

But he was hailed at once, and a hand was laid on his shoulder.

“Hello, Pete.  What’s the dope?”

Ronicky shrugged the hand away and went on.

“Won’t talk, curse him.  That’s because the plant went fluey.”

“Maybe not; Pete don’t talk much, except to the old man.”

“Lemme get at him,” said a third voice.  “Beat it down to Rooney’s.  I’m going up with Pete and get what he knows.”

And, as Ronicky turned onto the next flight of the stairway, he was overtaken by hurrying feet.  The other two had already scurried down toward the front door of the house.

“I got some stuff in my room, Pete,” said the friendly fellow who had overtaken him.  “Come up and have a jolt, and we can have a talk.  ‘Lefty’ and Monahan think you went flop on the job, but I know better, eh?  The old man always picks you for these singles; he never gives me a shot at ’em.”  Then he added:  “Here we are!” And, opening a door in the first hall, he stepped to the center of the room and fumbled at a chain that broke loose and tinkled against glass; eventually he snapped on an electric light.  Ronicky Doone saw a powerfully built, bull-necked man, with a soft hat pulled far down on his head.  Then the man turned.

It was much against the grain for Ronicky Doone to attack a man by surprise, but necessity is a stern ruler.  And the necessity which made him strike made him hit with the speed of a snapping whiplash and the weight of a sledge hammer.  Before the other was fully turned that iron-hard set of knuckles crashed against the base of his jaw.

He fell without a murmur, without a struggle, Ronicky catching him in his arms to break the weight of the fall.  It was a complete knock-out.  The dull eyes, which looked up from the floor, saw nothing.  The square, rather brutal, face was relaxed as if in sleep, but here was the type of man who would recuperate with great speed.

Ronicky set about the obvious task which lay before him, as fast as he could.  In the man’s coat pocket he found a handkerchief which, hard knotted, would serve as a gag.  The window curtain was drawn with a stout, thick cord.  Ronicky slashed off a convenient length of it and secured the hands and feet of his victim, before he turned the fellow on his face.

Next he went through the pockets of the unconscious man who was only now beginning to stir slightly, as life returned after that stunning blow.

It was beginning to come to Ronicky that there was a strange relation between the men of this house.  Here were three who apparently started out to work at night, and yet they were certainly not at all the type of night clerks or night-shift engineers or mechanics.  He turned over the hand of the man he had struck down.  The palm was as soft as his own.

No, certainly not a laborer.  But they were all employed by “the old man.”  Who was he?  And was there some relation between all of these and the man who sneered?

At least Ronicky determined to learn all that could be read in the pockets of his victim.  There was only one thing.  That was a stub-nosed, heavy automatic.

It was enough to make Ronicky Doone sigh with relief.  At least he had not struck some peaceful, law-abiding fellow.  Any man might carry a gun—­Ronicky himself would have been uncomfortable without some sort of weapon about him but there are guns and guns.  This big, ugly automatic seemed specially designed to kill swiftly and surely.

He was considering these deductions when a tap came on the door.  Ronicky groaned.  Had they come already to find out what kept the senseless victim so long?

“Morgan, oh, Harry Morgan!” called a girl’s voice.

Ronicky Doone started.  Perhaps—­who could tell—­this might be Caroline Smith herself, come to tap at the door when he was on the very verge of abandoning the adventure.  Suppose it were someone else?

If he ventured out expecting to find Gregg’s lady and found instead quite another person—­well, women screamed at the slightest provocation, and, if a woman screamed in this house, it seemed exceedingly likely that she would rouse a number of men carrying just such short-nosed, ugly automatics as that which he had just taken from the pocket of Harry Morgan.

In the meantime he must answer something.  He could not pretend that the room was empty, for the light must be showing around the door.

“Harry!” called the voice of the girl again.  “Do you hear me?  Come out!  The chief wants you!” And she rattled the door.

Fear that she might open it and, stepping in, see the senseless figure on the floor, alarmed Ronicky.  He came close to the door.

“Well?” he demanded, keeping his voice deep, like the voice of Harry Morgan, as well as he could remember it.

“Hurry!  The chief, I tell you!”

He snapped out the light and turned resolutely to the door.  He felt his faithful Colt, and the feel of the butt was like the touch of a friendly hand before he opened the door.

She was dressed in white and made a glimmering figure in the darkness of the hall, and her hair glimmered, also, almost as if it possessed a light and a life of its own.  Ronicky Doone saw that she was a very pretty girl, indeed.  Yes, it must be Caroline Smith.  The very perfume of young girlhood breathed from her, and very sharply and suddenly he wondered why he should be here to fight the battle of Bill Gregg in this matter—­Bill Gregg who slept peacefully and stupidly in the room across the street!

She had turned away, giving him only a side glance, as he came out.  “I don’t know what’s on, something big.  The chief’s going to give you your big chance—­with me.”

Ronicky Doone grunted.

“Don’t do that,” exclaimed the girl impatiently.  “I know you think Pete is the top of the world, but that doesn’t mean that you can make a good imitation of him.  Don’t do it, Harry.  You’ll pass by yourself.  You don’t need a make-up, and not Pete’s on a bet.”

They reached the head of the stairs, and Ronicky Doone paused.  To go down was to face the mysterious chief whom he had no doubt was the old man to whom Harry Morgan had already referred.  In the meantime the conviction grew that this was indeed Caroline Smith.  Her free-and-easy way of talk was exactly that of a girl who might become interested in a man whom she had never seen, merely by letters.

“I want to talk to you,” said Ronicky, muffling his voice.  “I want to talk to you alone.”

“To me?” asked the girl, turning toward him.  The light from the hall lamp below gave Ronicky the faintest hint of her profile.

“Yes.”

“But the chief?”

“He can wait.”

She hesitated, apparently drawn by curiosity in one direction, but stopped by another thought.  “I suppose he can wait, but, if he gets stirred up about it—­oh, we’ll, I’ll talk to you—­but nothing foolish, Harry.  Promise me that?”

“Yes.”

“Slip into my room for a minute.”  She led the way a few steps down the hall, and he followed her through the door, working his mind frantically in an effort to find words with which to open his speech before she should see that he was not Harry Morgan and cry out to alarm the house.  What should he say?  Something about Bill Gregg at once, of course.  That was the thing.

The electric light snapped on at the far side of the room.  He saw a dressing table, an Empire bed covered with green-figured silk, a pleasant rug on the floor, and, just as he had gathered an impression of delightful femininity from these furnishings, the girl turned from the lamp on the dressing table, and he saw—­not Caroline Smith, but a bronze-haired beauty, as different from Bill Gregg’s lady as day is from night.