The Spider's Reward/Chapter 5
CHAPTER VI.
INTO A TRAP.
HE reached the top. There, The Spider had informed him, there was a space four feet wide upon which a man dare not set foot unless he wished to alarm Bertram Blaine. John Warwick balanced himself against the balustrade, vaulted, and struck the floor of the upper hallway some distance beyond the danger zone.
There he stopped again, listening, his automatic in his right and his electric torch in his left again. Not the slightest sound reached his ears to indicate that Bertram Blaine had received a warning and was on guard.
He flashed the torch for an instant and looked down the long hall. Then, the torch extinguished, he went forward slowly, careful to touch neither wall, feeling his way, stopping every few feet to listen. He was remembering the instructions the supercriminal had given him. It was a ticklish business, this, working in a house whose owner had protected himself with numerous devices, especially when so much depended upon success.
Finally he came to a door almost at the end of the hall, and on the right side. Warwick flashed his torch again, in such manner that the light would not stream through the keyhole. There, outside the door, he waited for several minutes longer, until he was sure that his presence was not suspected.
He grasped the knob of the door and turned it softly, pressed the door inward. It was unlocked, as The Spider's information had said it was always. Warwick opened it an inch at a time, half fearing that a hinge would squeak, When it was opened enough he slipped into the room and began closing the door as slowly and as softly as he had opened it.
Now he stood against the wall listening intently. He never had been in this room before, and it was so dark that he could see nothing, yet, thanks to the information the supercriminal's people had acquired, he had a mental picture of the chamber.
From an alcove came the regular, deep breathing of a sleeper. Warwick stepped back to a corner and pressed the button of his torch. The light flashed around the room quickly, and Warwick noted where the articles of furniture were placed, and located the light switch. He moved silently toward the latter.
He returned the torch to his pocket now, grasped the automatic firmly, and reached for the light switch with his left hand. He turned it, and the room and alcove were flooded with light. At the same instant Warwick whirled to face the bed in the alcove, bringing his automatic up.
Bertram Blaine was sound asleep. His face was turned to the wall. He breathed deeply, regularly, after the manner of a healthy man. Warwick watched and waited.
Blaine was a man of about fifty-five, he judged, a man who always had known prosperity and had lived well. He was a giant in body, and was known to possess an active and keen mind.
Warwick sat down in a chair a dozen feet from the side of the bed, faced the sleeper, held his weapon in readiness—and waited. After a time the consciousness of the lights burning seemed to arouse Bertram Blaine. His breathing became irregular, he stirred, and presently he sat up and whirled around, an expression of amazement on his face, gasping when he saw the masked man sitting in the middle of the room.
“Hands up!” Warwick ordered in a hoarse voice. “Don't try any of your tricks on me!”
Blaine's hands went above his head as he blinked sleepily at John Warwick. His first astonishment at an end, his eyes narrowed, the flush died from his face, and Warwick knew that he had to deal with a dangerous man.
“Lower one hand, throw off the covers. Then sit on the edge of the bed!” Warwick commanded.
Blaine obeyed him, never taking his eyes off the two slits in Warwick's mask, through which his eyes glittered. He tossed the covers aside, swung around so that his feet were on the floor, and put his hands above his head again,
Warwick got up and moved toward the wall.
“Into that chair!” he ordered.
Bertram Blaine left the bed and went to the chair Warwick had vacated, and sat down.
“Lower your hands and put them in your lap,” Warwick said. “That is much better. I don't think you'll be very dangerous there.”
Warwick walked around him and sat down on the bed himself, watching Blaine closely. And now Bertram Blaine spoke for the first time since being aroused, spoke in a deep, rich voice that held nothing of fear in its tone.
“What's the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“What do you think?” Warwick asked. He was speaking in disguised tones.
“Robbery, I suppose,” Blaine said. “Well, you can't get away with it! You're in the house—but you're not out yet!”
“Don't let that worry you,” said Warwick. “I got in without setting off any of your silly alarms, didn't I?”
“How did you know about the alarms?”
“It wasn't difficult to find out about them.”
“I installed every one of them myself,” Blaine declared. “No workman had a hand in the job, so you couldn't have learned in that way. Even my own servants do not know about half of them.”
“Especially the wired third steps?”
“Oh! You know about those, do you?” Blaine said. “Who are you? What do you want? A common thief wouldn't know about such things. He would have suspected nothing more than a window fitted with an ordinary burglar alarm.”
“Perhaps I am not a common thief,” Warwick said.
“Who are you?” Bertram Blaine demanded again, and this time there was a hint of fear in his voice.
“Is it necessary for you to know?” Warwick asked. “Better take it easy, Mr. Blaine. If you get too nervous and make a wrong move, I'll be forced to press the trigger of this perfectly good automatic. Please understand that!”
“So you know my name!”
“Why not? You have lived here for several years, have you not?”
“Well, what do you want?” Blaine demanded again. “I suppose your accomplice is looting the lower part of the house while you guard me here. A lot of profit you'll get out of it. There is no money in my safe, beyond a few dollars, and you'll never be able to market anything else you may steal. I'll run you down if it takes me ten years!”
“I am not much alarmed,” Warwick said.
“Well, are you going to keep me here all night?”
“Only for the present,” Warwick replied. “Try to calm yourself, Mr. Blaine. I expect some others, and I am merely seeing that you are prepared to receive them in the proper manner—as you are now, for instance—instead of with a revolver in your hand.”
“You expect others?” Blaine asked, the note of fear in his voice again.
“Don't get excited about it,” Warwick advised him. “Sit tight now!”
He got up, still watching Blaine closely, and moved to the wall. While Blaine's eyes almost popped out of his head, Warwick pressed against the wall and caused a tiny panel to slide back. There was an opening, and in it was an electric switch. Warwick threw the switch down and closed the panel again. Then he went back to the bed and sat down.
“You How did you know about that?” Blaine gasped.
“Oh, I know a lot of things!” Warwick said. “I know, for instance, that by throwing that switch down I have cut the current off all your confounded protective system.”
“No man in the world knew that except me.”
“I have just showed you that I know of it,” Warwick said, grinning behind his mask at the look in the other's face.
“Who are you?” Bertram Blaine almost shrieked.
“I am the man who is going to pour hot lead into you if you don't keep that voice of yours lowered!” Warwick warned him harshly. “You'd better cool down, Mr. Blaine. Just take it easy—and wait!”
It was plainly seen that Bertram Blaine was almost terrified now. He sensed that the man before him was no ordinary robber; and, since he was not, he might be a menace that Bertram Blaine did not care to encounter.
“I'll catch cold out of bed like this!” Blaine complained. His teeth were chattering, but not from the cold. He shuddered as he watched John Warwick's eyes glittering through the mask.
“You'll catch something more than a cold if you make a move!” Warwick warned him.
“I want to know the meaning of this!”
“In time,” said Warwick. “It is several hours until daylight, Mr. Blaine. I guarantee that you'll know the meaning of it before long—yes, I'll guarantee that!”
Bertram Blaine licked at his lips, gulped, and shuddered again. He glanced wildly around the room, and then back at Warwick, at the eyes that glittered through the mask, at the muzzle of the deadly automatic.
“If—if it is money you want” Blaine began.
“Money is a good thing to have” interrupted Warwick.
“I—I can't stand this sort of thing—my heart is rotten!” Blaine went on. “I'll pay you—if you'll go. I—can't stand it.”
“Why let yourself get excited?”
“Will you take money—and go?”
“I'll take the money, but, as to the going”
“Isn't that what you are here for—to get money? If it isn't, why are you here? In Heaven's name, man, answer me! Don't sit there and stare at me through your mask like that! What do you want?”
“What do you think I want?” Warwick asked.
“You're just talking to kill time!” Blaine said. “I suppose the lower floor is being stripped while you are talking to me. I—I tell you that I can't stand this! I'm getting ill.”
Bertram Blaine lowered his head, put his hands to his face, and his entire body seemed to shake.
“Take it easy!” Warwick advised him. “You've got a bad case of nerves, I'm afraid.”
“I tell you I'm ill—my—heart”
Bertram Blaine slumped forward in the chair, toppled off it, and collapsed on the floor. He was shaking from head to feet, his hands were thrown out and clutched at the rug, he gasped.
John Warwick stood up, thoroughly alarmed. It was not a part of the night's program to have Bertram Blaine expire. The man might have a rotten heart, for all that John Warwick knew; The Spider had not advised him in regard to the state of Blaine's health. Coming from a deep sleep to find the room illuminated and a masked man holding a gun on him was enough to shock a man, of course.
“If you try any tricks” Warwick said.
“Water—on the table!” Blaine gasped.
Warwick glanced toward the stand against the wall. There was a pitcher ef water there and a glass. Watching Blaine closely Warwick poured a glass of water and started back across the room,
“Sit up!” he commanded.
Blaine struggled to sit up. He reached out a trembling hand for the glass, and Warwick gave it him. He drank greedily, slopping the water over his chin. Warwick watched him closely, and stood back half a dozen feet. He was taking no chances with Bertram Blaine.
Blaine extended the glass, and Warwick took it and stepped back to the table.
“I'm—so weak,” Blaine gasped.
He dropped to the floor again, and again his hands clutched at the rug.
“Help me—to bed!”
Warwick was undecided for a moment. Certainly Bertram Blaine gave every indication of being a sick man, but John Warwick was alert for a trick. He watched while Blaine sat up, grasped the edge of the chair and tried to pull himself into it. Warwick went across and extended his left arm.
“Take hold of that and I'll help you to the bed,” he said. “And if you start anything, I'll plug you in a second! I've got my eye on you, Mr. Blaine.”
Blaine grasped the arm and tottered to the bed. He did not even look up at Warwick, and he still was trembling. He sat down on the edge of the bed, fell back with his head on a pillow, and closed his eyes for a moment.
“This will be—the death of me,” he muttered. “I can't endure—shocks! Take what you want, and go! There is money—downstairs. I'll tell you where”
“You just take it easy for a few minutes, and you'll be all right,” Warwick told him. “I couldn't run away and leave a sick man, you understand; it wouldn't be right.”
Never in his life had Warwick watched a man as he watched Bertram Blaine now. The Spider had warned him, and a great deal depended on this night's adventure. Blaine might really be sick, or he might be merely pretending illness for a purpose.
Blaine's eyes were closed again, he was breathing heavily, and he tossed about a great deal. But Warwick was watching the color in the man's face, and it did not indicate that he was in a bad condition.
“Medicine—in bath room,” he said.
“Can't leave you long enough to get it!” Warwick replied promptly. “No use trying that on me, Mr. Blaine.”
“In Heaven's name what do you want?” Blaine asked. “Don't torment me any longer!”
“Take it easy, and you'll be all right. I have no intention of murdering you, or anything like that,” Warwick said.
He sat down in the chair and continued to watch the man on the bed. He glanced at his watch, and knew that he had half an hour or so to wait before the next act of this drama, as it had been planned. Bertram Blaine began tossing about on the bed again, allowing one arm to hang limply over the side.
“More—water,” he gasped.
Warwick got up, walked over to the table, and filled the glass with water again. But he was alert, expecting some move on the part of, the man on the bed; he couldn't quite believe in Blaine's illness. He held the automatic ready in his right hand, the glass of water in his left. He started back toward the bed. He stepped beside it. Bertram Blaine's left hand suddenly gasped the bed rail—and pressed.
The floor gave way beneath John Warwick. He threw the glass aside, tried to spring to one side. But he had no time. The floor beneath his feet simply disappeared, and he dropped. The one shot he was able to fire struck the ceiling. He heard Bertram Blaine's hoarse laughter.
“Got you—got you!” Blaine cried exultantly. “Worked you, finally!”
Warwick fell—and struck. So this was another of Blaine's traps. Blaine had maneuvered to place him above it, had played to get back on the bed so he could press the spring in the rail. Warwick sensed immediately how it was arranged. He had fallen into a closet on the floor below. The ceiling of the closet was a clever trapdoor.
The trap did not close. Even as Warwick called himself a clumsy fool, he heard Bertram Blaine spring from the bed, heard his voice.
“So I've got you, my fine friend! That sick gag worked pretty well, didn't it? Waiting for some others, are you? Well, they'll get a hot reception. It'll take me about two seconds to throw that switch and put the electric current in action again.”
Warwick did not fear as to that. He did expect others, as he had told Blaine, but they would not enter the house unless they got a signal exactly at midnight, that everything was all right, That signal was the raising of a window shade in Blaine's bedroom.
He faced failure, however. The night's plans could not be carried out unless Bertram Blaine was absolutely in the power of John Warwick.
He heard Blaine's voice again.
“Throw that automatic through the trap!”
“Not if I know myself!” Warwick said.
“Then I'll simply close the trap and keep you a prisoner.”
Warwick did not reply.
“It'll be a lot better for you to do as I say,” said Blaine. “You are in a closet that is so constructed that you cannot get out unless I wish it. The door cannot be broken down and it cannot be opened from the inside. The closet is air-tight. How long do you suppose it will be before you lose consciousness—especially if I shoot gas through a tiny hole in the floor?” The hoarse laughter of Blaine came to Warwick again. “Going to throw up that gun?”
“No!” Warwick replied.
Blaine said nothing more. But the trapdoor closed suddenly—and Warwick found himself in pitch-blackness, in stifling air.