Chapter 2

TEMPTATION

For a moment Cole forgot that he was in a building devoted to the
pursuits of commerce. The room in which he stood, bordered by walls of
paneled walnut, was worthy of a Fifth Avenue mansion. It struck him as
a bit grotesque. From an elevator he had stepped, through a blank wall,
into a magnificence that fairly dazzled him. It was like an “Arabian
Nights” adventure. As he looked about him he saw quiet elegance
everywhere, without a taint of showiness. For some time he stood lost
in admiration, then he noticed that the room had no windows. A moment
later he discovered that the door was locked on the outside. Despite
the splendor that surrounded him he was virtually a prisoner.

He sat down and smoked a cigarette, waiting for his strange conductress
to return. Evidently the walls were solidly built, for no sounds
reached him. The air was fresh and pure despite the absence of windows,
hinting that there was a concealed ventilator somewhere in the room.

The armchair was comfortable, and he stretched out his lean figure,
slightly short of six feet. The man suggested mental force rather
than bodily strength, but a great surprise awaited any antagonist who
underestimated Cole’s physical prowess. He was far stronger than the
average man, and his endurance was phenomenal. His gray eyes, with a
faint humorous twinkle in their depths, were fixed on the door. His
dark face, slightly lined about the mouth and the outer corner of the
eyes, bore a look of mild expectancy. In moments of repose he looked as
though he had not a care in the world. His friends often wondered how
he managed to maintain the freshness and sparkle suggestive of a recent
needle shower. Perhaps it was because he was thoroughly in love with
his work and had learned to shake off the minor frets and irritations
of life.

In the midst of his musings the door opened, and he stared rather
rudely at the vision that entered. It was the woman, and she had
undergone an amazing transformation since he last saw her. He wondered
whether the shimmering gown she wore had been designed by Poiret
himself. Its delicate rose color afforded a charming contrast to her
complexion, a sort of luminous white that somehow escaped being pale.
Standing there, with a faint smile on her lips, her face fringed by an
aureole of fine-spun gold, she was easily the most bewitching woman
Cole had ever seen.

He rose, bowed, and gazed appreciatively at the simple, but strikingly
effective, ornament she wore at her throat.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” she murmured. “Sit down, please, and
smoke as much as you like. I want to talk with you.”

Cole sat down. He wondered if she had arrayed herself like this for the
sole purpose of having a talk with him.

“You promised to tell me something more about the Carmody case,” he
reminded her. “I suppose you brought me to this charming place so
that we might have a quiet talk without danger of interruption or
eavesdropping.”

She sat down a short distance from him. By degrees the smile faded from
her lips. A curiously solemn expression crept into her face. “Haven’t I
told you enough, Mr. Cole?”

“What little you told me was only a provocation. It gave me a taste for
more. By the way, you have the advantage over me. Won’t you tell me
your name?”

“You may call me Miss Brown.”

“The name doesn’t fit you,” he objected.

“Names never do fit. That’s one of the ironies of existence. For the
present, until we know each other better, it will have to be Miss
Brown. I had to tell you a little about the Carmody case in order to
get your attention. I hope I convinced you that it is quite useless
for you to continue at work on a case that is so enormous in scope and
presents such insuperable difficulties, Mr. Cole.” A pleading note had
come into her voice. “Can anything persuade you to drop the Carmody
case?”

She bent forward a little. With hands clasped across her knee, she
studied him intently, and Cole looked into the deepest, bluest eyes he
had ever seen.

“Drop the Carmody case!” he exclaimed.

“You must drop it, Mr. Cole! If you knew more about it, what terrible
things you are going up against, you would willingly drop it without
further argument. You would recognize your utter helplessness in the
matter, not to mention a number of other things.”

Cole was momentarily speechless. He found himself strangely impressed
by her big, sorcerous eyes, full of mute pleading and entreaty.

“I don’t understand. You don’t realize what you are saying. Why should
I drop the case?”

“Because of the things I have told you.”

Cole laughed. “They are only an added incentive for me to go on with
it.”

She drew a long breath. “That’s your man’s way of looking at things.
The greater the dangers and difficulties the more determined you are
to forge ahead. You don’t stop to consider the price, or estimate the
cost. The wreckage you scatter about you means nothing to you. All you
think of is the gratification of your boundless ambition. Mr. Cole,
won’t you forgo your foolish pride and do what I ask?”

Her eyes held him despite his will. There was a look of terror in
their depths that exerted a subtle appeal upon him. He got to his feet
and tried to shake off the fascination of her beauty and her magnetic
personality.

“Impossible,” he declared. “If you brought me here in the hope of
inducing me to drop the Carmody case, your time and effort are wasted.”

“Please, Mr. Cole! Forget that you ever heard of this terrible case.
Tell your clients in the morning that you will have nothing further to
do with it.”

“That wouldn’t alter matters. They would promptly accept my
resignation and engage somebody else.”

“There is only one Kingdon Cole.”

“That’s a very neat compliment, but it won’t bear analysis. I haven’t
accomplished anything very wonderful, and another man could finish what
I have begun.”

She was silent for a time, her big, luminous eyes regarding him
imploringly. “If you won’t drop the case for your own sake, because of
the terrible dangers involved, then I beg you to do so for my sake.”

“For your sake? Really, Miss—er—Brown, I don’t understand. What is your
interest in the Carmody case?”

She stepped up and clutched his hand. The touch of her fingers sent
a thrill through him. Her eyes were moist, and the curve beneath her
throat rose and fell with accelerated rhythm. “Yes, for my sake. I
can’t explain, except to say that awful things will happen to me if you
go on. Death would be as nothing in comparison. Doesn’t a woman’s soul
mean anything to you, Mr. Cole?”

Cole looked down into her eyes, while her fingers spasmodically
clutched his hand. Far into their blue depths he gazed, and suddenly
his face underwent a change. His lips curled a trifle, and a hard glint
came into his eyes. Somewhat roughly he released his hand.

“Very touching,” he dryly remarked, “but I don’t see the connection
between the Carmody case and a woman’s soul.”

She drew back with a little sob of bafflement.

“If you meant your own soul, Miss Brown, you mentioned something that
doesn’t exist,” he went on sarcastically. “Trickery and pretense are
poor substitutes for soul.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged disgustedly. “Your acting is superb, but it don’t bear
close inspection. You were splendid at a little distance. Despite the
fact that I am the only Kingdon Cole, as you so charmingly phrased it,
I am rather susceptible to the tears of a beautiful woman. With your
sobs and your loveliness you could have melted a stone, if such a feat
were possible. As soon as I got a close view of you, however, I knew
you were only shamming. Your eyes gave you away when you sprung that
choice line about a woman’s soul. Perhaps you realized you were laying
the pathos on too thick. Anyway the illusion is shattered, and all that
remains is the gorgeous gown you are wearing. It is really stunning.”

“Thank you,” she said coldly, dropping the rôle she had been playing,
as easily as she would a wrap. “No doubt I should have known better
than to try such methods on you.”

“Yes, you should,” said Cole. “For, despite the little slip you made,
I believe that you are really a very clever woman. Now that we are off
the subject of women’s souls won’t you tell me your real reason for
wishing to throw up the Carmody case?”

She shook her head, but he thought he detected a gleam of unwilling
admiration in her eyes. Motioning him to follow, she stepped to the
door and opened it, then preceded him down the hall. Cole guessed that
his little adventure was over, and he felt a twinge of disappointment
at the thought that, in all probability, he would never learn the
meaning of her puzzling behavior. No doubt she would try to blindfold
him again before conducting him away from the place, and he was
prepared to raise strenuous objections.

But it appeared Miss Brown was not yet ready to let him go. She stopped
before one of the massive doors that had already excited his curiosity,
and knocked twice. It opened quickly and noiselessly. In a moment,
before he realized what he was doing, Cole was inside, and the door
closed at his back.

The room was so dimly lighted that at first he could distinguish
nothing but bare, gloomy walls. Miss Brown, who had followed him into
the room, hastened forward and seemed to melt away in the dusk, leaving
him to wonder what new turn his adventure was taking. Gradually, as his
eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he was able to see objects with some
degree of clearness. He was in a long, narrow room, and what he saw
was in keeping with the other strange things that he had witnessed and
experienced in this surprising establishment.

A number of shadowy figures were seated around a circular table in
the center of the room. He counted seven of them, and at first he had
a ludicrous impression that there were only blank spaces where their
faces should have been. Then, as his pupils continued to respond to the
strain imposed by the dim light, he saw that each man wore a mask.
It was only a strip of cloth, with tiny slits over the eyes, but in
the dusk it was the only covering that was needed to make recognition
impossible.

Again Cole was struck with a sense of unreality. The men, sitting
stiffly erect in their chairs, caused him to wonder whether he was in
the midst of some ghostly séance. He felt their eyes searching him
through the vents in the masks. The gloom and the silence gave an added
illusory touch to the scene. Cole had to shake himself before he could
realize that he was on the top floor of a modern skyscraper.

Miss Brown stepped behind one of the chairs and held a brief whispered
conversation with its occupant. The latter nodded, and the girl
slipped away toward the door. A moment later it closed behind her, and
the man, with whom she had been talking, indicated that Cole was to
step forward. With a shrug he complied, and the masked faces stirred
slightly as he approached. For a full minute nothing was said, and
again he felt the sharp and steady scrutiny of seven pairs of eyes.
Finally the man who had beckoned him spoke. “Mr. Cole, how much will
you take to drop the Carmody case?”

Cole could not help but laugh. The words, spoken with a directness
and a matter-of-factness that left nothing to the imagination, had
shattered the illusion completely. In an instant the spell of unreality
was broken. He knew he was dealing with practical men who were in the
habit of reducing everything to terms of dollars and cents. A blunt
reply came to his lips, but his desire to learn more of these strange
men caused him to hold it back.

“Suppose we put all the cards on the table,” he suggested. “I don’t
like to talk business in the dark. Who are you, and what is your
objection to my connection with the Carmody case?”

“We are not here to answer questions,” declared the one who seemed to
be acting as spokesman for the others. “All I care to say is that,
because of a peculiar combination of circumstances, it is to our
advantage to pay you liberally for withdrawing from the case. What’s
your price, Mr. Cole?”

Under ordinary circumstances, Cole would have been indignant at this
cool assumption that every man has his price, but now his dominant
emotion was curiosity. He could not understand why they seemed so
intent upon persuading him to sever his connection with the affair, but
what Miss Brown had said about the vast ramifications of the Carmody
case suggested that they had ample reasons for what they were doing.

“Let me get this straight,” he said evenly. “You are willing to pay me
my price for withdrawing from the Carmody case. Are there any strings
to the proposition?”

The other chuckled dryly. “I wouldn’t call them strings, exactly. They
are only gossamer threads. In addition to retiring from the case you
are to give us a full and veracious report of what you have discovered
to date in connection with the disappearance of Malcolm Reeves.”

“I see,” said Cole. “Anything else?”

“Just one thing more. In addition to withdrawing from your present
connection with the case and turning the information you possess over
to us, you are to come over to our side and put your ability at our
disposal. We are ready to pay you handsomely for your services, either
on a contingent basis, or in the form of a weekly salary.”

“Very generous,” declared Cole, with a faint trace of sarcasm. “Your
proposition is that, for a consideration, I am to betray my present
clients and——”

“Betray is a harsh word,” objected the spokesman for the group.

“Truthful terms are usually harsh,” Cole remarked. “Let’s not quibble
over words. In addition to the amount, which you are willing to pay me
for betraying my clients, you offer to reward me liberally for certain
services that you require. May I ask what they are?”

“You will learn soon enough if you accept our proposition. Let me state
that we have unlimited funds at our disposal and stand ready to pay
you well. It would be no exaggeration to say that in a short time you
should be a rich man if you accept our offer. In view of our liberality
don’t you think it behooves you to be less squeamish and ask fewer
questions?”

“I suppose it is in deucedly bad taste for me to argue with a man who
offers me a fortune on a silver platter,” Cole admitted. “Just the same
I can’t help wondering why you are offering such a glittering bribe to
one who is practically unknown in his profession.”

The man gave an amused chuckle. “Don’t worry about that, Mr. Cole.
We are not in the habit of buying pigs in a poke. You have been under
observation for some time.”

“So I gathered from what the bewitching Miss—Brown told me.”

“We have learned that you have a great deal of ability. You are
fearless and persevering. You have qualities that the average
professional detective sadly lacks, such as tact, polish, and a
magnetic personality. In short, you are precisely the kind of man
we need. We have reason to believe that you have discovered certain
interesting facts in connection with Malcolm Reeves’ disappearance,
facts which would naturally become our property if you came over to our
side.”

Cole marveled at the extent of the man’s knowledge. It was true that he
had picked up several stray facts which, when considered in conjunction
with the known circumstances of Reeves’ disappearance, made a fairly
interesting showing. His glance wandered over the circle of veiled
faces. Each of the seven men was watching him intently through the
slits in his mask.

“We are waiting for your decision, Mr. Cole,” remarked the spokesman
after a pause. “If our proposition appeals to you, name your price.”

Cole pretended to hesitate. He hoped to learn a little more before he
closed the interview. He wondered how far these men would go in their
efforts to induce him to betray his clients and transfer his allegiance
to themselves. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked. “Do you
realize that a man who has been bought once will probably sell himself
again?”

Though he could not see, he fancied the spokesman’s eyes were twinkling
behind the mask.

“We have considered everything, Mr. Cole. You wouldn’t sell yourself
except to a higher bidder, and it isn’t likely any one will outbid us.
If such a situation should arise, however, we would know how to handle
it. What is your price?”

“Suppose you name the price you are willing to pay?”

There was a craning of necks, and nods and subdued whispers passed
around the circle. Evidently the seven construed his words as meaning
that he was yielding. The spokesman unlocked a drawer in front of him
and placed a small package on the table.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars,” he remarked impressively. “If you are
in doubt as to the amount, or if you suspect that I am handing you
stage money, you will be permitted to examine it in the light.”

He handed the package to Cole. “Remember that this is only your
retaining fee, so to speak. There will be lots more coming to you if
you decide to throw in your lot with us.”

Cole felt the crisp fiber of the bills. He did not doubt that the money
was genuine or that the package contained the exact amount mentioned
by the spokesman. Whatever else these men might do, he did not think
they would stoop to petty cheating. An odd sensation surged through him
as he weighed the currency in the palm of his hand. It was more money
than had ever before come within his reach. Of a sudden he remembered
some of the things he had been compelled to deny himself because of
his slender and uncertain income. Until this moment, when he held the
wherewithal in his hand, it had not occurred to him that he was missing
any of the good things in life. He had accepted his privations, as a
matter of course, with a smile or a shrug, according to his mood of the
moment.

For a few seconds longer he gave himself over to thrill of possession,
and then he tossed the bundle of currency down on the table. “It isn’t
enough,” he declared.

A chorus of murmurs went around the circular table. The veiled faces
strained forward a little. Once again Cole fancied the spokesman’s eyes
were twinkling through the orifices in the mask.

“Splendid, Mr. Cole,” said the man approvingly. “I didn’t think
twenty-five thousand would satisfy you, but I wanted to make sure. As a
matter of fact, if you had accepted such a paltry amount, we would have
broken off the negotiations instantly. We don’t want a man who holds
himself cheap. Here”—again he opened the drawer in front of him—“is
another twenty-five thousand. That makes fifty. Quite a neat sum for a
man whose income last year was only a trifle over four thousand.”

“How did you know that?”

“Income-tax reports,” said the man.

Cole took one bundle of currency in each hand. He was no longer
marveling at the surprising sources of information that seemed to be
open to these men. For the moment all his senses were centered on the
wealth that lay in his palms. A flash of self-revelation came to him,
and he was surprised and frightened by it. He had never known that mere
money could give him such a delectable sensation. In the past, as a
passive onlooker, he had smiled tolerantly at other men’s scramble for
wealth. With philosophic eyes he had watched the money-mad procession
sweep by him. Now he found that the sheer touch of the currency sent a
contagion through his veins, awakening strange emotions within him.

The sensation put an indefinable fear into him, fear of himself and
the weakness he had just discovered. Of a sudden the currency seemed
to scorch his palms. He shrugged, and the spell was broken. With an
inward paroxysm he flung the money down on the table. “Not even that is
enough,” he announced in slightly dazed tones, like one just awakening
from a dream.

The spokesman’s head came up a little. With a shrug and an indistinct
mutter he once more opened the drawer, but Cole laid a detaining hand
on his sleeve.

“Wait!” he said quietly. “You are going ahead on the idea that every
man has his price. You’re mistaken. There isn’t money enough in the
whole United States treasury to buy me.”

There came a hush, and then a ripple of commotion went around the
table. It died instantly as the spokesman raised a silencing hand. He
tilted his head back, and through the holes in the mask his eyes bored
into Cole’s face. For a time not a sound was heard in the room. Finally
the spokesman gave a short, contemptuous laugh. “I see,” he declared.
“You’re a weakling like most men. You’re a slave to the absurd thing we
call conscience. I had hoped that you were one of the rare exceptions.”

“Wrong again,” said Cole, smiling. “It isn’t conscience. Anyway, I
wouldn’t call it that. It is only pride, a foolish pride, perhaps. I
want to go through life knowing that I can look every man straight in
the eye and tell him to go to the devil if necessary. I couldn’t do
that if I were to sell myself. I should become a despicable thing in my
own eyes, and life wouldn’t be worth living after that. I don’t suppose
you understand, but that’s just how I feel.”

Seven pairs of eyes were leveled at Cole’s face as his short, crisp
sentences fell on the tense air. Then came silence, a long and oddly
vibrant silence during which Cole experienced an unaccountable feeling
that his life hung in the balance. He could neither understand it nor
trace it to its source, but the nameless sense of danger grew more
distinct with every moment.

By instinct his hand went to the hip pocket in which he always carried
a small, but reliable, pistol. Before his hands could touch the weapon
a strange thing happened. The spokesman’s arm described a slight
movement in the dusk, and in a twinkling utter darkness fell. Cole
stood in blackness so intense that it seemed as though he could touch
it.

His fingers found the handle of the pistol, but in the next instant his
hand fell to his side. In that impenetrable darkness the weapon was of
no more avail than a toy. He heard a faint scraping of chairs, then a
patter of feet. He groped for the chair where the spokesman had sat,
but it was empty. Gradually the faint sounds ceased, and then came an
engulfing silence. It was as if every manifestation of life had been
drained out of the blackness that surrounded him.

Silence—darkness—solitude. Cole, as he dropped into the spokesman’s
chair, felt as if the three words had suddenly acquired a new and more
powerful significance.