CHAPTER 19

GUNNISON looked over at Kenton, whom he could barely see now that the candle was out.

“There’s no question there’s somebody up there … but I don’t think he’s coming down.”

Kenton whispered back, “I suspect it’s somebody working late. Which means we can probably finish our work and get out of here without drawing attention. I knew we were wise not to panic and run like you were ready to do! You’d probably have gotten us caught, Alex.”

“Kenton, you insufferable, arrogant, reckless fool! Have you no mind at all? We should get out of here now!”

“Not until I at least find out who wrote that novel.”

“Kenton, we’re inside a building illegally. We’re rifling through an editor’s office. If we get caught, you can imagine the consequences.”

“We’ll be quiet about it. I’ll look … you stand by the door and listen. If anyone starts descending the stairs, we’ll be out the door.”

“Kenton, this is insane!”

“We’ll not have another chance like this. It’ll take only a few minutes.”

Gunnison knew he should walk out and leave Kenton to his own troubles.

He also knew he wouldn’t. As always, he’d follow Kenton’s lead, take any number of risks.

Obediently, he stood by the door, listening to the empty hall, waiting for the sound of a footfall on the stairwell.

Kenton began digging through papers again, searching, shuffling, making far too much noise to suit Gunnison.

*   *   *

Above, William Darian opened his eyes again, not having realized he’d even closed them. After his first awakening, he’d drifted off into a sort of semi-sleep state, but something had just awakened him once more. More noise, he thought, from the floor below.

Half-unconsciously, he picked up his smoldering cigar and puffed it back to life again, meanwhile listening hard. Oh, yes, no question about it. Somebody was downstairs, moving about. Not noisily, really, more like someone trying to keep his motions quiet.

Darian grew frightened, on several levels. If whoever was down there was a coworker, or, God forbid, one of his superiors, he’d have a real problem if he were caught drinking.

If it was an intruder, looking for money, he could have trouble of a whole different sort. People got killed in situations like that.

He tossed the cigar aside and swept the bottle and glass into his drawer, too quickly. It made a loud crashing sound.

Darian winced. That sound was so loud it had surely been audible all through the building.

Darian got up and headed for the door, panicked. He would get down the stairs and out as quickly as he could.

He tripped over his own chair, falling hard, striking his head on the corner of a shelf. He landed noisily, blacking out at once.

Across the room, the cigar he’d carelessly tossed away lay smoldering on the floor, inches away from a garbage pail overflowing with paper. Its flaring tip was beginning to dim already, but a breeze struck the drafty window and entered the room, blowing across Darian’s unconscious form and also against the cigar, causing it to flare up again.

A scrap of paper, stirred by the same breeze, fell from the garbage pail and drifted directly toward the cigar burning on the floor.

*   *   *

“Kenton, let’s go!”

Gunnison’s order was unnecessary. Kenton had heard the crash upstairs and was suddenly ready to abandon this place.

Gunnison had slipped into the hall. Kenton was fighting panic, more concerned about this turn of events than his pride would allow him to reveal. If they were caught here it would probably result in arrest, and being the celebrity he was, arrest would bring publicity. There would be no chance of the Illustrated American lifting his suspension … probably he would be fired. Public scandal, public disgrace …

Public ridicule, too, if it was ever learned that the reason he was breaking into a magazine publishing firm was to read a manuscript that was mysteriously supposed to lead him to his lost wife.

Brady Kenton had to get out of this building, and fast.

He scrambled to the door, ready to follow Gunnison out. Gunnison, meanwhile, was well down the hall and almost to the stairs. This time he wasn’t waiting for Brady Kenton.

Kenton’s luck in leaving was about as bad as that of William Darian upstairs. His foot fell on a loose sheet of paper, which slid. He went down hard on his back, knocking the breath from his lungs so thoroughly that he simply had to lie there.

He heard footfalls on the steps, descending.

Kenton forced himself up, still without breath, and made it to the door. But once there, he faced a dark, looming figure with an arm extended, a heavy pistol at its end.

Kenton froze.

“Good move, good move,” the armed man said. “You just hold still as a statue, my friend, or I’ll shoot you dead.”

Kenton had no intention of moving an inch. He slowly raised his hands. Cutting his eyes quickly to the left, he saw that the hall was empty. Gunnison had made it out, apparently unnoticed.

“A night watchman, I presume,” Kenton said.

“That’s right. Didn’t expect to see me, did you, sir! Bet you’d learned this was my usual night off. Well, surprise, surprise! Now, you just head back there and sit down in that chair.”

“It took you long enough to detect me. Were you having a good nap?”

In fact, this was true. The crash in Darian’s office had awakened him with a jolt. He’d known he’d heard something, but he wasn’t sure from what direction it had come. When he’d heard the sounds of Kenton and Gunnison below, he’d pegged that as the source of the noise.

“Shut up, mister. Sit down in that chair like I told you.”

Kenton went to Bell’s chair and plopped down, disgusted and discouraged. He would maintain his demeanor around his captor, even try to retain a little of his famous cockiness, but inside he was despairing. This was a terrible turn of events, embarrassing, and ultimately harmful. His professional life and public reputation would suffer a major blow, no question about it.

“What’s your name?” the watchman asked, still aiming the pistol at Kenton.

“Abraham Lincoln.”

“Oh, you’re the clever one, ain’t you!” The watchman backed away, and without ever letting go of his pistol, managed to strike a match and light the gaslight near the door. He turned up the light and studied Kenton. The guard was a simple-looking fellow, overfed and right now a little over-eager. Kenton guessed the man had never actually nabbed anyone intruding in this building before tonight, so this was a big event for him.

“You look familiar … I’ve seen you before,” the guard said.

Brady Kenton looked familiar to anyone who’d read the Illustrated American. “I don’t think we’ve met, sir. And I wish we hadn’t met tonight.”

“You and me need to take a walk downtown.”

Kenton was in no hurry to leave. The longer he could delay being turned over to the police, the more time he’d have to come up with some possible means of escape.

“How did you happen to be working tonight, if that’s not your usual schedule?”

“Why do you care about that? You’ve got worries enough of your own. What were you after, money?”

“No. And I really don’t care to discuss any of this with you.”

Kenton’s eye fell on a piece of paper beneath the desk, one he’d not seen during the search because the candlelight had been so much dimmer than the gaslight that now illuminated the room. He squinted, looking at the writing on the paper, then scooted his foot over and covered it, pulling it back toward himself. He deliberately knocked a pencil stub off the desk with his other hand, and reached down to retrieve it.

“Uh-uh!” the guard said, waving the pistol he’d probably never fired. “Hands above the desk!”

“Sorry.” Kenton pulled his head up again, the paper now wadded in his left hand. He managed to slip it into the pocket of his vest.

“Why are we sitting here?” Kenton asked. “If you plan to take me to the police, why don’t you do so?”

“I’m still trying to figure out who you are … I know your face is familiar.”

“Would it make a difference if you knew me?”

The guard stared at him, narrowed one eye, and said, “Maybe it would. I admit that I might be inclined to go easier on a friend. Human nature, you know.”

“Yes, indeed. And what is required to make a man your friend?” Kenton reached up as if to scratch his arm, but his hand paused on the way to gently pat his coat at the place where an inner pocket held his wallet.

The guard glanced around, as if fearing others were, impossibly, in the room to see him accept an offered bribe.

“Don’t know. I’d have to think on it.”

“Take your time. I’m in no hurry to meet the police.”