Chapter 7

Achilles’s eyes rested on him fondly. It had been lonely in the shop--but now the long days of waiting were repaid... they had their clue. Even now the detectives might have followed it up. The little lady would be found. He hurried over the last things--his heart singing--and called the boy to him.

“I go away,” he said, looking at him kindly. “You stay in shop--till I come.”

“Yes, father.” The boy’s eyes were happy. It was good to be in the close, dark, home place with its fruity smell and the striped awning outside. “I do all right!” he said gaily.

The father nodded. “To-morrow you go with push-cart--little way--every day little way--” He waited a moment while the boy’s face took in the words--he spoke with slow significance--“Some day you see--those men--then you run--like devil!” he said quickly, “you tell me!”

The boy’s teeth made a quick line of light and his face flashed. “I tell--quick!” he said, “I know those men!”

He left the shop and was lost in the crowd. He was going first to the city hall for news--then he would seek Philip Harris. The plan that he was shaping in his mind needed help.

But at the city hall there was no news. The chief of police seemed even a little irritated at the sight of the dark face and the slim, straight figure that stood before him. He eyed it a moment, almost hostilely; then he remembered Philip Harris’s command and told the man what steps had been taken and the reports that had come in thus far through the day. The Greek listened without comment, his dark face smouldering a little over its quick fire. “You find nothing?” he said quietly.

“Not a damn thing!” answered the chief.

“I go try,” said Achilles.

The man looked at him. Then he laughed out. The door opened. It was the detective in charge of the case. He glanced at Achilles and went over to the chief and said something. But the chief shook his head and they looked carelessly at Achilles, while the chief drummed on the desk. Achilles waited with slow, respectful gaze.

The detective came across to him. “No news,” he said.

Achilles’s face held its steady light. “I think we find her,” he said.

The inspector did not laugh. He studied the man’s face slowly, whistling a little between his teeth. “What’s your plan?” he said.

Achilles shook his head. “When I see those men--I go follow.”

The detective smiled--a little line of smile... that did not scorn him. “When you see them--yes!” he said softly.

The chief of police, listening with half an ear, laughed out. “Catch your hare, Alexander!” He said it with superior ease.

Achilles looked at him. “I catch hair?” he asked with polite interest.

The chief nodded. “You catch your hare before you cook it, you know.”

Achilles ran a slim, thoughtful hand along his dark locks and shook them slowly. The conversation had passed beyond him.

The detective smiled a little. “Never mind him, Alexander. Anything that you find--you bring to me--right off.” He clinked a little money in his pocket and looked at him.

But Achilles’s gaze had no returning gleam. “When I find her,” he said, “I tell you--I tell everybody.” His face had lightened now.

The detective laughed. “All right, Alexander! You’re game, all right!”

Achilles looked at him with puzzled eyes. “I go now,” he said. He moved away with the smooth, unhurried rhythm that bore him swiftly along.

The eyes of the two men followed him. “You’re welcome to him!” said the chief carelessly.

“I don’t feel so sure,” said the other--“He may do it yet--right under our noses. I’ve done it myself--you know.”

The chief looked at him curiously.

“_I_ used to do it--time and again,” said the man, thoughtfully. “_I_ couldn’t ’a’ told you--_how_. I’d study on a case--and study--and give it up--and then, all of a sudden--pop!--and there it was--in my head. I couldn’t have told how it got there, but it worked all right!” He lighted a cigar and threw the match from him, puffing slowly. “I’d do it now--if I could.” He was lost in thought. “There’s something in his eyes--that Greek. I’d like to be inside that black skull of his a minute.” He sauntered across the room and went out.

The eyes of the chief of police looked after him vaguely. He drew a column of figures toward him and began to add it--starting at the bottom and travelling slowly up. He was computing his revenues for the coming year.

XXIV

IT FLOATS A LITTLE

Achilles found Philip Harris at luncheon, and waited for him to come back, and laid his plan before him.

The millionaire listened, and nodded once or twice, and took up the receiver and gave an order. “He’ll be at your place every day,” he said to Achilles as he hung it up. “You tell him what you want--and let me know if there’s anything else--money--?” He looked at him.

But Achilles shook his head. “I got money,” he said quickly. “I get money--six--seven dollar--every day. I do good business!”

The millionaire smiled, a little bitterly. “I do good business, too; but it doesn’t seem to count much. Well--let me know--” He held out his hand and Achilles took it and hesitated and looked at the seamed red face that waited for him to go--then he went quietly out.

He would have liked to speak swift words of hope--they rode high in his heart--but something in the face put him off and he went out into the sunshine and walked fast. He looked far ahead as he went, smiling softly at his dream. And now and then a man passed him--and looked back and smiled too--a shrew, tolerant, grown-up smile.

At ten o’clock the next morning Philip Harris’s big touring car drew up in front of the striped awning; it gave a little plaintive honk--and stood still. Achilles came to the door with swift look. He turned back to the shop. “I go,” he said to Alcibiades, and stepped across the pavement, and was off.

At two o’clock he returned to the shop, his face covered with big beads of perspiration, his hat gone and his eyes shining--and, without a word, he went about the shop with his wonted air of swift-moving silence. But the next day he was off again, and the next; and Alcibiades grew accustomed to the long car slipping up and the straight, slim figure sliding into it and taking its place and disappearing down the street.

Where Achilles went on these excursions, or what he did, no one knew. Promptly at two each day he returned--always dishevelled and alert, but wearing a look of triumph that sat strangely on the quiet Greek reserve. It could not be said that Achilles strutted as he walked, but he had an air of confidence, as if he were seeing things--things far ahead--that were coming to him on the long road.

The boys could not make him out... and their loyalty would not let them question him. But one day Yaxis, resting on the parapet that overlooked the lake, his cart drawn a little to one side, his hat off and his face taking in the breeze, saw a strange sight. It was a wide roadway, and free of traffic, and Yaxis had turned his head and looked up and down its length. In the distance a car was coming--it was not speeding. It seemed coming on with little foolish movements--halting jerks and impatient honks.... Yaxis’s eye rested on it bewildered--then it broke to a smile. Father was driving! The chauffeur, beside him, with folded arms and set face had washed his hands of all responsibility--and the face of the Greek was shining. The great machine swerved and balked and ran a little way and stopped--Yaxis laughed softly. The chauffeur bent over with a word, and the thing shot off, Achilles with intent back, holding fast by both hands his face set and shining ahead. Up and down the roadway, the thing zigzagged--back and forth--spitting a little and fizzing behind. Like a great beast it snarled and snorted and stood out and waited the lash--and came to terms, gliding at last, by a touch along the smooth road--the face of Achilles transfigured in a dream.... The Acropolis floated behind him in the haze. The wings of the morning waited his coming and his hands gripped hard on the wheel of the world. Yaxis watched the car as it flashed and floated in the sun and was gone--down the roadway--around the distant corner--out of sight, with its faint triumphant “honk-honk-honk!” trailing behind.

With a deep smile on his face Yaxis wheeled his cart into the roadway and pushed briskly toward home, his mind filled with the vision of his father and the flying car.

The next day coming down the steps of a house and counting slow change, he looked up with a swift glance--something had passed him; for a moment he had only a glimpse--something familiar--a kind of home sense--then the figure of Achilles flashed out--the car shot round a corner. He sped to the corner and looked down the long road--no one--only two rows of poplars with their silvery, stirring leaves, and not a soul in sight--and respectable houses on either side watching, as if nothing had happened, or ever would. Yaxis returned to his cart, wiping the fine moisture from his forehead. Every day now, his glance travelled about him as he pushed his cart along the quieter streets where his route lay. And often at the end of long vistas, or down a side street, he caught a glimpse of the shooting car and the dark, erect figure poised forward on its seat, looking far ahead.

At home, in the dusky interior, Achilles moved with sedate step, his hair combed, his slim hands busy with the smooth fruit. Yaxis, in the doorway, looked at him with curious, wistful eyes.

Achilles glanced up and nodded, and the little smile on his dark face grew. He came forward. “You had good day?” he said.

“Yes, father....” The boy hesitated a moment, and dug his toes--and flung out his hands in quick gesture. “I see you!” he said. “You go in massheen!”

Achilles’s glance flashed and grew to a deep, still smile. “You see that machine? You see me drive him? _I_ make that machine go!” His chest expanded and he moved a few free steps and paused.

The boy’s eyes rested on him proudly. Around them--out in the grimy street--the world hurried and scuffled and honked; and in the little back shop the father and the boy faced each other, a strange, new, proud joy around them. “I drive that machine,” said Achilles softly.

XXV

AND STARTS OFF

Achilles came to the door of the shop and looked out. A car had driven up to the sidewalk--a rough, racing machine with open sides and big wheels--and the driver, a big man in a white cap and rough linen suit, was beckoning to him with his hand. Achilles stepped across the walk, and stood by the machine with quiet, waiting face.

The man looked him over, a little as if he owned him--“I want some fruit,” he said quickly, “--oranges--grapes--anything--?” His glance ran to the fruit on the stall. “Get me something quick--and don’t be all day--” His hand was fumbling for change.

“I get you best oranges,” said Achilles. He snapped open a paper bag and turned to the heaped-up fruit. Then his eye paused--a boy was breaking through the crowd--hatless, breathless--and calling him with swift gesture.

Achilles sprang forward. “What is it, Alcie?” His eye was searching the crowd, and his hand dropped to the boy’s shoulder.

“There they are!” gasped the boy. “_There!_”

Achilles’s eye gleamed--down the street, a little way off, a car was wheeling out from the curb--gathering speed.

Achilles’s eyes flashed on it... and swept the crowd--and came back.

The man in the white cap by the curb was swearing softly. He leaped with two steps, from the panting car to the stall and began gathering up oranges. “Here--” he said. Then he wheeled--and saw the Greek fruit-dealer flashing off in a car--_his_ car. “Here--you!” he shouted.

But Achilles gave no heed--and the boy, urging him on from behind, turned with swift smile--“He take your car--” he said, “he need that car!”

But the white-capped man pounced upon him and shook him by the shoulder--watching his car that was threading fast in the crowded traffic. He dropped the boy, and his hand reached up, signalling wildly for police--a city service car sprang from the ground, it seemed. The white-capped man leaped in and they were off--honking the crowd... heavy drays moved from before them with slow, eternal wheel--the white cap swore softly and leaned forward and urged... and the dark, Greek head bobbed far ahead--along in the crowd--the big, grey racer gathering speed beneath. Achilles was not thinking of the pursuit, yelling behind him--he had no thoughts--only two eyes that held a car far in the distance, and two hands that gripped the wheel and drove hard, and prayed grimly. If his eye lost that car! It was turning now--far ahead and his eye marked the place and held it--fixed. His car jolted and bumped. Men swore and made way before him, and noted the hatless head, and looked behind--and saw the police car--and yelled aloud. But no one saw him in time, and he was not stopped. He had reached the corner where the car disappeared from sight, and he leaned forward, with careful turn, peering around the corner. They were there--yes! He drove faster--and the great, ugly car lifted itself and flung forward and settled to long sliding gait. The car ahead turned again in the whirling traffic--and turned again. But Achilles’s eye did not lose its track... and they were out in the open at last--the plain stretching before them--no turn to left or right--and the machine Achilles drove had no equal in the country. But Achilles did not know his machine. Good or bad, it must serve him and keep his men in sight--but not too near--not to frighten them! They had turned now and were glancing back and they spoke quickly. Then they looked again--at the flying and hatless head--and saw suddenly, on behind it, the service car leap softly around the corner into the white road. They looked again--and laughed. They turned and dropped the matter. “Some damn fool with a stolen car.”

XXVI

AND RACES FOR THE CLUE

Under the great bowl of sky, in the midst of the plain, the three cars held their level way--three little racing dots in the big, clear place. They kept an even course, swaying to the race on level wings that swept the ground and rose to the low swale and passed beyond. Only the long free line of dust marked their flight under the sun.

The men at the front, in the car ahead, did not look back again. They had lost interest in the race pressing behind--most anxiously, they had lost interest in it. They wished, with a fervent wish, that the two cars driving behind them should pass them in a swirl of dust--and pass on out of sight--toward the far horizon line that stretched the west. They were only two market gardeners returning from business in the city. If they drove a good car, it was to save time going and coming--not to race with escaping fugitives and excited police. They had no wish to race with excited police--fervently they had no wish for it--and they slackened speed a little, drawing freer breath. Let the fellow pass them--and his police with him--before they reached a little, white, peaceful house that stood ahead on the plain. They did not look behind at justice pursuing its prey... they had lost all interest in justice and in the race. Presently, when justice should pass them, on full-spreading wing, they would look up with casual glance, and note its flight over the far line--out of sight in the distant west. But now they did not know of its existence.

And Achilles, pressing fast, had a quick, clear sense of mystery--something that brooded ahead--on the shining plain and the little, white house and the car before him slackening speed. _Why_ should it slow down?--what was up? Cautiously he held his car, slowing its waving gleam to the pace ahead and darting a swift glance behind, over his shoulder, at the great service car that leaped and gained on him lap by lap. It would overtake him soon--and he _must_ not pass the car ahead--not till he saw what they were up to. Would they pass that little white house--on the plain--or would they turn in there? The wind hummed in his ears--his hair flew--and his hand held tense to the wheel--slowing it cautiously, inch by inch--slackening a little--slackening again with quick-flung, flashing glance behind--and a watchful eye on the road ahead... and on the little white house drawing near on the plain. It was a race now between his quick mind and that car ahead and the little white house. He must not overtake them till the little house was reached. The car behind must not touch him--not till the house came up. There was a wood ahead, in the distance--his mind flew and circled the wood--and came back. They had reached the little house asleep in the sun. They were passing it, neck and neck, and the car beside him swerved a little and slackened speed--and dived in at the white gate. Achilles shot past--the free road ahead. The machine under him gathered speed and opened out and laughed and leaped to the road and lay down in the thick dust, spreading itself ahead. He could gain the wood. He should escape--and the clue was fast.

Behind him, the service car thundered by the little house asleep. But the police did not glance that way--nor did the big, white-capped man glance that way. _His_ eyes were fixed on the racer ahead--dwindling to a speck in its cloud of dust. He pushed up his visor and laughed aloud. “Give it up!” he said genially, “give it up!--you can’t catch _that_ car!--I know my own car, I guess!” He laughed again. “We shall find it somewhere along the road--when he is through with it!”

But the face beside him, turning in the clouding dust, had a keen look and the car kept its unbroken speed, and the plain flashed by. “He’s in too big a hurry--” said the driver sternly. “I want a look at that man! He knows too much.”

Too much! The heart of Achilles sang again--all the heart of him woke up and laughed to the miles. He had found his clue--he had passed the little hundred-thousand-dollar house, and the police in their big, bungling dust had passed it, too. Nobody knew--but him... and he should escape--over the long road... with the big machine, under him, pounding away.

XXVII

THE LITTLE WHITE HOUSE

In an angle of the wood the dust-covered policeman and the white-capped man came upon the racer, turned a little from the road, and waiting their arrival. It had a stolid, helpless look--with its nose buried deep in underbrush and the hind wheels tilted a little in air. Once might almost fancy it gave a little, subdued hiccough, as they approached.

The white-capped man bent above it and ran a quick hand along the side, and leaped to the vacant seat. The beast beneath gave a little snort and withdrew its nose and pranced playfully at the underbrush and backed away, feeling for firm ground behind. The man at the wheel pressed hard, leaning--with quick jerk--and wheels gripped ground and trundled in the road. It stopped beside the service car and the two men gazed doubtfully at the wood. Dusty leaves trembled at them in the light air, and beckoned to them--little twigs laced across and shut them out. Anywhere in the dark coolness of the wood, the Greek lurked, hiding away. They could not trace him--and the wood reached far into the dusk. He was undoubtedly armed. Only a desperate man would have made a dash like that--for life. Better go back to town for reinforcements and send the word of his escape along the line. He would not get far--on foot! They gave another glance at the wood and loosed their cars to the road, gliding smoothly off. The wood behind them, under its cover of dust, gave no sign of watching eyes; and the sun, travelling toward the west, cast their long, clean shadows ahead as they went. In the low light, the little, white house in the distance had a rosy, moody look. As they drew nearer, little pink details flashed out. An old man behind the picket fence looked up, and straightened himself, and gazed--under a shading hand. Then he came along the driveway and stood in the white gate, waiting their approach. He had a red, guileless face and white hair. The face held a look of childish interest as they drew up. “You got him?” he asked.

The service man shook his head, jerking his thumb at the racer that came behind. “Got the car,” he said. “He got off--took to the woods.”

“That so?” The old man came out to the road and looked with curious eyes at the big racing-machine coming up. “What’d he do?” he asked.

“He stole my machine,” said the white-capped man quickly. He was holding the wheel with a careful touch.

The old man looked at him with shrewd, smiling eyes--chewing at some invisible cud. The service man nodded to him, “There’ll be a reward out for him, Jimmie--keep a watch out. You may have a chance at it. He’s hiding somewhere over there.” He motioned toward the distant wood.

The old man turned a slow eye toward the west. “I don’t own no telescope,” he said quaintly. He shifted the cud a little, and gazed at the plain around them--far as the eye could see, it stretched on every side. Only the little, white house stood comfortably in its midst--open to the eye of heaven. It was a rambling, one story and a half house, with no windows above the ground floor--except at the rear, where one window, under a small peak, faced the north. Beyond the house, in that direction, lay lines of market garden--and beyond the garden the wide plain. Two men, at work in the garden, hoed with long, easy strokes that lengthened in the slanting light. The service man looked at them with casual eye. “Got good help this year?” he asked.

The old man faced about, and his eye regarded them mildly. “Putty good,” he said, “they’re my sister’s boys. She died this last year--along in April--and they come on to help. Yes, they work putty good.”

“They drove in ahead of us, didn’t they?” asked the service man, with sudden thought.

The old man smiled drily. “Didn’t know’s you see ’em. You were so occupied. Yes--they’d been in to sell the early potatoes. I’ve got a putty good crop this year--early potatoes. They went in to make a price on ’em. We’ll get seventy-five if we take ’em in to-morrow--and they asked what to do--and I told ’em they better dig.” He chuckled slowly.

The service man smiled. “You keep ’em moving, don’t you, Jimmie!” He glanced at the house. “Any trade? Got a license this year?”

The old man shook his head. “Bone dry,” he said, chewing slowly. “Them cars knocked _me_ out!” He came and stood by the racer, running his hand along it with childish touch.

The service man watched him with detached smile. The old man’s silly shrewdness amused him. He suspected him of a cask or two in the cellar. In the days of bicycles the old man had driven a lively trade; but with the long-reaching cars, his business dribbled away, and he had slipped back from whiskey to potatoes. He was a little disgruntled at events, and would talk socialism by the hour to anyone who would listen. But he was a harmless old soul. The service man glanced at the sun. It had dipped suddenly, and the plain grew dusky black. The distant figures hoeing against the plain were lost to sight. “Hallo!” said the service man quickly, “we must get on--” He looked again, shrewdly, toward the old man in the dusk. “You couldn’t find a drop of anything, handy--to give away--Jimmie?” he suggested.

The old man tottered a slow smile at him and moved toward the house. He came back with a long-necked bottle grasped tight, and a couple of glasses that he filled in the dimness.

The service man held up his glass with quick gesture--“Here’s to you, Jimmie!” he said, throwing back his head. “May you live long, and prosper!” He gulped it down.

The old man’s toothless smile received the empty glasses; and when the two machines had trundled away in the dimness, it stood looking after them--the deep smile of guileless, crafty old age--that suffers and waits--and clutches its morsel at last and fastens on it--without joy, and without shame.

XXVIII

INSIDE THE LITTLE HOUSE