Worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs (31 page)

The more she went over these painful recent memories, the more he realized how deeply he had hurt her. He was not much for reading people, especially the wealthy, but Barbara he knew. She loved him, she had said so, and meant it; still, he felt she needed to be with someone who held a position in society—the “other Billy,” William Mallory, fit the bill.

“. . . he came over. We discussed it. We even set a date.”

Despite his having been the one who quit her, Billy felt hurt that she had fallen back in with Mallory so quickly. They had set a date
already?

Obviously anxious to move this along, silver-haired Anthony Harding stepped forward. His words were matter-of-fact and clipped, but his eyes punctuated them with fear and concern.

“After he left here,” Harding said, “Mallory was taken. Abducted.”

“You
saw
it?” Billy asked.

Harding shook his head as he withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket—a note not that different from the one from Barbara.

Billy accepted the paper from Harding and read:
We have Mallory. You will pay us $500,000. If you involve the law, Mallory dies.

The young lookout across the street became immediately clear to Billy. If just one copper stopped at the Harding house, the lookout’s gang would sure as sin croak “Billy” Mallory.

“Why you?” Billy asked.

“Pardon?”

“Not why not abduct you instead, sir, but . . . why are you the person to whom that note was given?”

“I would suppose that it’s because we have far more money, even more than Mallory’s own family. Also, I’m sure, given the impending nuptials, that makes us easy, tempting prey.”

“Sir, who even knew about Barbara and Mallory getting back together? It’s only been one day.”

Harding harumphed. “I suppose I had something to do with that. As soon as the decision was made, I sent telegrams to all the newspapers in the city. I wanted to make sure the announcement was in the next edition.”

Billy understood, and in a way did not blame the man. Anything that broke Barbara from a mucker like him had to be cause for celebration for her father.

“So,” Billy went on, “one of the messenger boys, or somebody at one of the papers, decided to grab Mallory and hold him for ransom.”

“Yes, or let the information slip to an underworld associate,” Harding said.

Leaning close again, Barbara said, with a terrible tentativeness, “I was hoping you could do something.”

Billy’s eyes met hers. “Something like . . . get him back?”

Hanging her head, Barbara nodded.

“My instinct is to refuse,” Billy said.

The girl looked up at him wide-eyed.

“This isn’t my city, and I don’t know enough guys on that side of the law to find Mallory before whoever has him does away with him. If it was Chicago, I might have a shot, and even then, only maybe.”

Dabbing at her eyes with the hanky again, Barbara said, “So, then . . . you
won’t
help us?”

Billy gave her a small grin, just a little ghost of what had been between them. “You taught me not to always follow my instincts. Anyway, this is different. Whoever took him provided us with a potential stool pigeon. So we may have a chance.”

“A stool pigeon?” Harding asked, frowning.

“Someone to spill the beans.”

“What?”

“To tell us exactly where Mallory is.”

Baffled, Harding asked, “And who would that be?”

Billy said, “The lookout they posted across the street to keep an eye on your house.”

Harding’s eyes widened, and he took a step toward the lace curtains that covered the window.

Billy’s voice had a sharp edge. “Don’t do that, sir! Not if you want us to maintain an advantage.”

Stopping in mid-step, Harding nodded that he understood.

Looking at Barbara, Billy said, “Now, here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll leave by the same back door I came in. Give me two minutes to get in place, then telephone the police.”

“But they said not to involve the law,” Barbara said, her voice desperate. “They’ll
kill
Billy.”

“No,” the mucker said.

“How can you know that?” the girl asked.

But it was Harding who answered: “Because when the police arrive, and the lookout takes off, Mr. Byrne here will follow him.”

Hysteria lurked in her eyes as she said to Billy, “What if you lose him, or the lookout gets there too far ahead of you?”

Again Billy took her by the shoulders. “Steady, girl. Have I ever let you down before?”

Numbly, the young woman shook her head.

“And I won’t start now.”

Stepping forward, Harding removed a revolver from his coat pocket. “I know you can handle yourself, young man . . . but you had best take this.”

“I’m better with my fists,” Billy said.

Harding’s smile seemed genuine. “That might be true . . . but I’ve seen you fight with firearms. Take it.”

Accepting the pistol and slipping it into a pocket, Billy nodded his thanks.

Clearing his throat, Mr. Harding said, “I had better go coordinate with Smith to make sure everyone knows his role.”

With that, Barbara’s father left the room. As soon as they were alone, she melted into Billy’s arms. In spite of his best intentions, he drew her closer.

“You know I’ll never be able to repay you for this, Billy.”

Holding her away from him, he grinned down at her. “Well, you could. But we can’t let that happen, can we?”

That brought a wan smile to her lips. “Before you go, let me ask you one small question . . .”

He wanted to say no, but this was Barbara, and he knew he could not refuse her.

“Ask it, then,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

“When you came yesterday . . . your call to William, getting the, the
other
Billy and me to get back together . . . how could it be so . . . so
easy
for you to give me up?”

His laugh had a roughness. “Easy?” he asked.

She just stared at him. Waiting.

“Leaving you for Mallory was the hardest thing I ever done,” Billy said. “And the only thing close to as hard was comin’ back here today.”

She smiled her own small, ghostly smile.

“Then you
do
love me,” she said, not a question.

He turned away.

“You
love
me! So why don’t you want to
be
with me?”

Swallowing, he said, “We ain’t from the same world, sweetheart. It’s a lot farther from Grand Avenue to Riverside Drive than either of us ever imagined.”

She bowed her head. She knew, she had to know, there was truth in his words.

“Besides, Barbara, there’s things you don’t know about me.”

“I know everything about you.”

“No. You don’t. I’m a wanted man.”

That got her attention. “Wanted for what?”

He shook his head. “Maybe someday, when it’s behind me, I’ll tell you . . . but for now, trust me. You don’t want to know. But this you
should
know: I ain’t no good for you.”

Mr. Harding reappeared in the doorway. “We’re ready,” he said.

With one last glance at the woman he loved—would he ever see her again?—Billy turned toward Mr. Harding. “I’ll be on my way, sir. Luck to us all.”

He retraced his steps through the house, Barbara trailing him, but his emotions were too full for him to speak, or even look at her. He went out through the servants’ entrance, her voice echoing as he shut the door. “
Be careful, Billy. Be careful!
”

Once outside and away from the Harding mansion, Billy took three quick breaths, let them out, then walked quickly back to the corner of Riverside Drive. Before ducking back behind the brick pillar holding up a wrought-iron fence, Billy caught a glimpse of the lookout still holding down his spot, smoking a cigarette now—he really was just a teenaged kid. A boy headed down the wrong path, just as he had once been . . .

Waiting, Billy wondered which way the lookout would break. This would be easier if Billy knew the city better. In Chicago, he could follow a gnat across the city and never lose the damn thing. Here, Billy was a lot less confident, but Barbara was depending on him and that made all the difference. His belly had the same glowing heat a good shot of whisky used to give him in the old days.

Even if they were never together, just knowing that a perfect creature like Barbara Harding could love a mucker like him, well . . . it gave him hope. He would not fail her.

Before long, the neighborhood beat cop came along, and Billy slipped back around the corner. Once the copper was past and headed for the Hardings’, Billy went back to waiting.

The lookout, to his credit, was a cool customer. He did not rabbit when the officer went up the stairs and rang the bell. The kid somehow managed to stay put even when Smith opened the door and spoke to the officer. It was only when the copper went inside and was behind a closed door that the young lookout skedaddled. To Billy’s good fortune, the kid came in his direction, though across the way.

Billy followed the lookout south on Riverside Drive, keeping the street between them, until the kid cut east on 72nd. Billy crossed Riverside and followed the boy, lagging back enough to not arouse suspicion. When the kid hopped a trolley south at Broadway, Billy jumped on the step at the back.

The lookout appeared nervous as he found a seat, pulled off his cap, and mopped his brow. His eyes darted around the trolley and the passing neighborhood, but he did not take in anything to make him jumpier, especially with Billy appearing interested only in the passing architecture.

Billy figured that as long as the kid stayed on the trolley, his job would be easier. He kept his gaze off the lookout, who seemed to calm as the trolley clattered south; instead Billy just glanced over from time to time to make sure the kid was still in his seat.

At 23rd, the lookout jumped off and cut west. The afternoon sun was low in the sky, and Billy knew he might have to stay closer than he’d like to make sure he didn’t lose the lookout in the coming darkness.

They went west all the way to the Hudson and the Chelsea Piers. As the kid ducked in and out between crates that were in the process of getting loaded onto ships, Billy was stunned to look up at the liner he had heard of but never seen—the
Mauretania
—and stunned as well by the sheer size of the British passenger liner. A four-stacker, the
Mauretania
was larger than any vessel, and, for that matter, most buildings, that Billy had ever seen in his life. For a moment, the mucker allowed his attention to waver, and when he looked back, the lookout had been swallowed by darkness.

Cursing himself, Billy hurried ahead, trying not to make any noise or draw any attention as he scoured the dock area. Panicked, Billy looked back and forth as his speed increased. Evening was settling over the city, cool and indifferent to his plight, and the lookout was nowhere to be seen.

Then, coming to the end of the warehouse, Billy heard someone yell, “Hey,
you
. . .
kid!
You ain’t supposed to be here!”

As Billy rounded the corner, he saw the lookout being held by a dockworker. Even though the boy was kicking and biting, he was making no progress in breaking the grip of the towering dockworker, a man even bigger than the mucker.

Slowing down, making like he was out of breath, Billy approached the struggling pair.

The kid was yelling now, “Let me go, you big lummox! If you don’t let me go, I’ll croak ya.”

The dockworker chuckled until he saw the mucker coming. Then his face turned serious. “This wharf rat your’n?”

Billy shook his head and smiled, blew out a couple of breaths like he had been running all night. “Naw. I been chasin’ him for a good long while, though.”

“You a cop?” the dockworker asked.

Palming Barbara’s note, Billy flashed it like a badge, and, when the man looked in that direction, Billy cold-cocked him with an overhand left. The dockworker went down, taking the kid with him. The two of them hit the ground, the man out cold, the kid rolling away.

Before the boy could regain his feet and run off, Billy grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him up to eye level. The kid reared to kick him in the groin, but this was not Billy’s first alley fight. He turned and took the blow off his hip, then spun the kid face-first into a crate.

Billy let go, and the kid sagged to the ground, cut, bleeding, and covering a broken nose.

“Where they holdin’ Mallory?” Billy asked.

The boy sat sullenly, rubbing the various broken parts of his face.

Billy waited, and when he got tired of that, he grabbed the boy and picked him up to eye level again, then repeated his question.

“Geez, I can’t tell ya. They’ll kill me!”

Billy dropped the kid to the ground. When the boy tried to stand, he could only plop into a sitting position, where the mucker towered over him. Billy took out Mr. Harding’s revolver and let the kid get a good look down the endless black beyond its snout. “Or you could
not
tell me, and
I’ll
kill
you
.”

The kid said nothing. The tough little bastard reminded Billy of himself. Then the mucker drew back the revolver’s hammer until it clicked, such a small sound, such a loud sound . . .

The kid went white and his eyes bugged. “You
can’t
,” the young man pleaded. “I’m just a
kid!
”

“And you’ve seen how many kids die in your time, boyo?”

“Please . . . please . . .”

Changing tack and his tone slightly, Billy asked, “What’s your name, son?”

“John. John Diamond.”

“Do they call you ‘Jack’?”

He shook his head. “They call me ‘Legs.’”

“’Cause you can run.”

“’Cause I can run.”

“Just not fast enough. Legs, my lad, look into my eyes and tell me if you see anything there to convince you I won’t shoot you when I count three . . . if’n you ain’t told me where Mr. Mallory is.”

The kid didn’t cry, but tears brimmed at the edges of his eyes.

“
One.
”

Billy could see the kid was trembling now.

“
Two.
”

The boy hung his head.