The Drums of Jeopardy - Page 124/202

The glare of the street lamp at the corner struck the warehouse, and

this indirect light was sufficient to work by. He made the trap after a

series of extra-cautious steps. The roof was slanting and pebbled, and

the least turn of the foot might start a cascade and bell an alarm. A

comfort-loving dress-suiter like himself, playing Old Sleuth, when he

ought to be home and in bed! It was all of two-thirty. What the deuce

would he do when there were no more thrills in life?

He stooped and caught hold of a corner of the trap to test it--and drew

back with a silent curse. Glass! He had cut his hand. The beggars had

covered the trap with cement and broken glass, sealing it. It would

take time to cut round the trap; and even then he wouldn't be sure; they

might have nailed it down from the inside. The worst of it was he would

have to do the work himself; and in the meantime Karlov would have a

fair wind for his propaganda gas, and perhaps the disposal of the drums

to some collector who wasn't above bargaining for smuggled emeralds.

Odd, though, that Karlov should have made a prisoner of Coles. What lay

behind that manoeuvre? Well, this trap must be liberated; no getting

round that.

Hang it, he wasn't going to be dishonest exactly; it would be simply

a double play, half for Uncle Sam and half for himself. The idea of

offering freely his blood and money to Uncle Sam and at the same time

putting one over on the old gentleman had a novel appeal.

He stood up and wiped a tickling cobweb from his cheek. As the window

from which he had descended came into range he stared, loose-jawed. Then

be chuckled, as thoroughbred adventurers generally chuckle when they

find themselves at the bottom of the sack, the mouth of which has

simultaneously and automatically closed. Wasn't he the brainy old top?

Wasn't he Sherlock Holmes plus? Old fool, how the devil was he going to

get back through that window?

The drums of jeopardy--even to think of them was unlucky! Not to have

planned a retreat; to have climbed down a well and cut the bucket rope!

For in effect that was precisely what he had done. Only wings could

carry him up to that window. With sardonic humour he felt of his

shoulder blades. Not a feather in sight. Then he touched his ears. Ah,

here was something definite; they had grown several inches during the

past few hours. Monumental ass!

Of course there would be the drain. He could escape; but, dear Lord!

with enough noise to wake the dead. And that would write "Finis" to this

particular adventure. The quarry and the emeralds would be gone before

he could return with help. When everything had gone so smoothly--a jolt

like this!