another instant he was down in the dirt, examining the road for marks.
“That way!” he indicated, leaping back to the running board.
We piled back into the car and proceeded under Kennedy’s direction, as fast as he would permit. So it continued, perhaps for a couple of hours.
At last Kennedy stopped the cab and slowly directed the driver to veer into an open space that looked peculiarly lonesome. Near it stood a one story brick factory building, closed, but not abandoned.
As I looked about at the unattractive scene, Kennedy already was down on his knees in the dirt again, studying the tire tracks. They were all confused, showing that the taxicab we were following had evidently backed in and turned several times before going on.
“Crossed by another set of tire tracks!” he exclaimed excitedly, studying closer. “That must have been the limousine, waiting.”
Laboriously he was following the course of the cars in the open space, when the one word escaped him, “Footprints!”
He was up and off in a moment, before we could imagine what he was after. We had got out of the cab, and followed him as, down to the very shore of a sort of cove or bay, he went. There lay a rusty, discarded boiler on the beach, half submerged in the rising tide. At this tank the footprints seemed to go right down the sand and into the waves which were slowly obliterating them. Kennedy gazed out as if to make out a possible boat on the horizon, where the cove widened out.
“Look!” he cried.
Farther down the shore, a few feet, I had discovered the same prints, going in the opposite direction, back toward the place from which we had just come. I started to follow them, but soon found myself alone. Kennedy had paused beside the old boiler.
“What is it?” I asked, retracing my steps.
He did not answer, but seemed to be listening. We listened also. There certainly was a most peculiar noise inside that tank.
Was it a muffled scream?
Kennedy reached down and picked up a rock, hitting the tank a resounding blow. As the echo died down, he listened again.
Yes, there was a sound—a scream perhaps—a woman’s voice, faint, but unmistakable.
I looked at his face inquiringly. Without a word I read in it the confirmation of the thought that had flashed into my mind.
Elaine Dodge was inside!
First had come the limousine, with its three bandits, to the spot fixed on as a rendezvous. Later had come the taxicab. As it hove into sight, the three well-dressed crooks had drawn revolvers, thinking perhaps the plan for getting rid of Kennedy might possibly have miscarried. But the taxicab driver and the rough-faced fellow had reassured them with the sign of the Clutching Hand, and the revolvers were lowered.
As they parleyed hastily, the rough-neck and the fake chauffeur lifted Elaine out of the taxi. She was bound and gagged.
“Well, now we’ve got her, what shall we do with her?” asked one.
“It’s got to be quick. There’s another cab,” put in the driver.
“The deuce with that.”
“The deuce with nothing,” he returned. “That fellow Kennedy’s a clever one. He may come to. If he does, he won’t miss us. Quick, now!”
“I wish I’d broken his skull,” muttered the roughneck.
“We’d better leave her somewhere here,” remarked one of the better-dressed three. “I don’t think the chief wants us to kill her—yet,” he added, with an ominous glance at Elaine, who in spite of threats was not cowed, but was vainly struggling at her bonds.
“Well, where shall it be?” asked another.
They looked about.
“See,” cried the third. “See that old boiler down there at the edge of the water? Why not put her in there? No one’ll ever think to look in such a place.”
Down by the water’s edge, where he pointed, lay a big boiler such as is used on stationary engines, with its end lapped by the waves. With a hasty expression of approval, the rough-neck picked Elaine up bodily, still struggling vainly, and together they carried her, bound and gagged, to the tank. The opening, which was toward the water, was small, but they managed, roughly, to thrust her in.
A moment later and they had rolled up a huge boulder against the small entrance, bracing it so that it would be impossible for her to get out from the inside. Then they drove off hastily.
Inside the old boiler lay Elaine, still bound and gagged. If she could only scream! Someone might hear. She must get help. There was water in the tank. She managed to lean up inside it, standing as high as the walls would allow her, trying to keep her head above the water.
Frantically, she managed to loosen the gag. She screamed. Her voice seemed to be bound around by the iron walls as was she herself. She shuddered, The water was rising—had reached her chest, and was still rising, slowly, inexorably.
What should she do? Would no one hear her? The water was up to her neck now. She held her head as high as she could and screamed again.
What was that? Silence? Or was someone outside?
Coolly, in spite of the emergency, Kennedy took in the perilous situation.
The lower end of the boiler, which was on a slant on the rapidly shelving beach, was now completely under water and impossible to get at. Besides, the opening was small, too small.
We pulled away the stone, but that did no good. No one could hope to get in and then out again that way alive—much less with a helpless girl. Yet something must be done. The tank was practically submerged inside, as I estimated quickly. Blows had no effect on the huge iron trap which had been built to resist many pounds of pressure.
Kennedy gazed about frantically and his eye caught the sign on the factory:
OXYACETYLENE WELDING CO.
“Come, Walter,” he cried, running up the shore.
A moment later, breathless, we reached the doorway. It was, of course, locked. Kennedy whipped out his revolver and several well-directed shots through the keyhole smashed the lock. We put our shoulders to it and swung the door open, entering the factory.
There was not a soul about, not even a watchman. Hastily we took in the place, a forge and a number of odds and ends of metal sheets, rods, pipes and angles.
Beside a workbench stood two long cylinders, studded with bolts.
“That’s what I’m looking for,” exclaimed Craig. “Here, Walter, take one. I’ll take the other—and the tubes—and—”
He did not pause to finish, but seized up a peculiar shaped instrument, like a huge hook, with a curved neck and sharp beak. Really it was composed of two metal tubes which ran into a cylinder or mixing chamber above the nozzle, while parallel to them ran another tube with a nozzle of its own.
We
