Vincent Starrett - The Blue Door

“We thought we might run into a friend of ours here,” said the writer after a moment. “He comes here sometimes. Haven’t seen him for a day or two. Maybe he’s sick.” There was considerable noise at the moment; he resolved to risk the name. “His name’s Pemberton,” he continued. “You don’t happen to know him?”

“Pemberton?” repeated Silvernail. “’S funny. I seem to know that name. Knew a fellow named Pemberton out in ’Frisco, once; probably not the same fellow, though.”

“The fact is,” Honeywell went on, “we’re a bit worried about Pemberton. He drinks too much. Goes on a bat, sometimes, and disappears. May be dead, for all anyone knows, once he lets himself go. I’d certainly like to run across him.”

“Comes here, does he?” asked the vaudevillian. “Some of the boys’ll know him, maybe. Big Ed, over there at the door, ought to know him. I’ll ask him.”

“No, don’t bother,” cried Honeywell quickly. “He’ll turn up.” And Norway hurriedly added, “I saw him a couple of nights ago, over at another place. Place just like this, about a block over. You know it? Don’t know it very well myself; but I know it’s got a blue door, like this one.”

Silvernail chuckled. “Second floor?” he asked. “Old boy outside, asleep on his box? Redhead Annie at the door? I’ll say I know it! But, say, it’s hard to get in there. Sort of fancy club, that.”

“We thought we’d drop in, later on,” added Honeywell, pleased at the way the conversation had turned.

“Drop in now,” cried Silvernail. “Why not? I’ll go with you. Say, I know that whole crowd. Wait’ll I come back, boys. Won’t be a minute.”

He hastily swallowed what was left of the liquor in his glass and got to his feet. In a moment he had disappeared into the back room from which he had emerged.

Honeywell looked at Norway. “Have we been damned fools?” he asked in a low voice. “I was suspicious of that fellow at first, and I think I’m more suspicious of him now.”

“Oh, he’s all right,” answered his companion, excited at the prospect of finding the trail of the missing Pemberton. “He certainly looks the part he calls himself. I know the type, Bart. Take a chance; it may be the only one we’ll have.”

“No hope for it, I guess,” muttered Honeywell. “Here he is. What’s he talking to that fellow behind the bar for?” he asked complainingly. “They’re both looking over here at us.”

“Telling him about Pemberton, I imagine,” replied Norway. “It can’t be helped. And we are looking for him, you know! I don’t know why we shouldn’t ask questions, wherever we go.”

The dapper Silvernail rejoined them, smiling. “All set?” he asked. “Here we go!”

The man-mountain who had been called Big Ed opened the door for them, smiling evilly, and they descended to the street in silence. A light drizzle of rain was falling and a touch of fog was in the air. The street lamps gleamed somewhat ghostily in the silver darkness. A purple taxicab was coming along the slippery street, feeling its way toward the curb. Silvernail flung up an arresting hand.

“Hey, Purple!” he called.

The driver brought his machine to a standstill. “Sorry,” he said courteously, “but I’ve got a call.”

“To hell with it,” said Silvernail cheerily. “I’ve got a new suit, and it’s raining. We’re only going a block or two, anyway. You can be back in ten minutes.”

He yanked open the door as he spoke. “In you go, boys.” The driver laughed and surrendered. Norway and Honeywell climbed in, and the song-and-dance artist followed.

“Do you know a place called the Blue Door?” asked Silvernail of the chauffeur.

“I’ve heard of it,” admitted the driver cautiously.

“Take us there,” said Julian Silvernail. “It’s in the next block, in the same position as this place we’re leaving.”

The driver nodded and the taxi moved away from the curb. At the corner they turned and began to circle the square.

“You know,” cried the irrepressible Silvernail, “I wouldn’t be surprised if I knew your friend Pemberton, once I see him.”

“I hope so,” said Honeywell politely, “but I’m afraid there’s not much chance of your seeing him. As we told you, Mr. Pemberton has been missing for some days. We don’t exactly want to advertise it, but we would like to get some sort of a line on him. The fact is, we’re afraid something may have happened to him.”

“Things do happen,” admitted Mr. Silvernail with great originality. He brought forth a package of cheap cigarettes and proceeded with difficulty to light one. The street lamps were eerie in the wet darkness. The rain was increasing.

“Hello,” cried Norway suddenly, “this fellow’s going all wrong! He’s turning north.”

“That’s funny,” said the actor. “He oughta know better than that. Hey, buddy!” he called through the glass pane before him. “Not north— south!”

Instead of replying, the driver stepped on his accelerator and the car leaped forward as if it were an animal. Reaching an east-and-west crossing, it turned westward with undiminished speed and rushed blindly along the strange thoroughfare, while Julian Silvernail swore and tugged frantically at the window.

Honeywell started to rise to his feet, but a lurch of the car threw him into a corner with a shock that bruised his elbow. He subsided in his seat with a curious smile on his lips. Norway was rapping with his cane against the driver’s window, threatening to break the glass. A moment later he, too, subsided, and all three looked at one another in the darkness.

“Well, I’m damned!” said Julian Silvernail. “What does this mean, boys? Are you running away with me?”

“No more than you are running away with us,” replied Honeywell. “The driver would appear to be running away with us all. If I am not mistaken, we are being kidnaped.” The words were jerked out of him by the headlong speed of the taxicab, which now seemed to be running wild toward the western frontier.

“But this is infamous,” cried Norway. “Isn’t there something we can do?”

“We can break the glass and yell for help,” answered Honeywell, “but I doubt if it would do us any good. Anyone who heard us would only think we were all drunk. Or we can try to force the door open and jump for it; but it would be unsafe to try it. One of us would be sure to be killed. For my part, I’m going to sit tight and see what it all means. At any rate, we are three to one, if this fellow tries any funny business.”

Silvernail grunted. “We can knock his block off at the end of the line,” he suggested; “but where is the end of the line?”

Then suddenly, the taxicab swung north again, and plunged at length into a maze of small, dark streets and shadowy houses, to emerge at length in a barren district backgrounded by railroad tracks and the distant hoot of locomotives. In a narrow street that was little more than a blind alley it slackened speed and at length came to a stop. The driver sprang down from his seat and wrenched open the door at Honeywell’s side. In his hand there had appeared a menacing pistol of sinister reputation.

“Well, here we are,” he observed with acrid sarcasm. “Keep your faces shut, and get out quick.”

In silence, the trio descended to the sodden earth, and suddenly Norway and Honeywell were aware that two pistols were covering them. The second was in the hand of Julian Silvernail.

“End of the line, boys,” said their companion of the wild ride, “and a long walk back. You’re lucky to be getting back at all. You look like a couple of sensible young fellows to me. Take a tip from a friend, and keep out of this business. It ain’t healthy.”