THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT
Officer Burke was back again at his work on the force. He was a trifle
pale, and the hours on patrol duty and fixed post seemed trebly long,
for even his sturdy physique was tardy in recuperating from that
vicious shock at the base of his brain.
"Take it easy, Burke," advised Captain Sawyer, "you have never had a
harder day in uniform than this one. Those two fires, the work at the
lines with the reserves and your patrol in place of Dexter, who is laid
up with his cold, is going it pretty strong."
"That's all right, Captain. I'm much obliged for your interest. But a
little more work to-night won't hurt me. I'll hurry strength along by
keeping up this hustling. People who want to stay sick generally
succeed. Doctor MacFarland is looking after me, so I am not worried."
Bobbie left the house with his comrades to relieve the men on patrol.
It was late afternoon of a balmy spring day.
The weeks since he had been injured had drifted into months, and there
seemed many changes in the little world of the East Side. This store
had failed; that artisan had moved out, and even two or three fruit
dealers whom Bobbie patronized had disappeared.
In the same place stood other stands, managed by Italians who looked
like caricatures drawn by the same artist who limned their predecessors.
"It must be pretty hard for even the Italian Squad to tell all these
fellows apart, Tom," said Bobbie, as they stood on the corner by one of
the stalls.
"Sure, lad. All Ginnies look alike to me. Maybe that's why they carve
each other up every now and then at them little shindigs of theirs.
Little family rows, they are, you know. I guess they add a few marks
of identification, just for the family records," replied Tom Dolan, an
old man on the precinct. "However, I get along with 'em all right by
keeping my eye out for trouble and never letting any of 'em get me
first. They're all right, as long as you smile at 'em. But they're
tricky, tricky. And when you hurt a Wop's vanity it's time to get a
half-nelson on your night-stick!"
They separated, Dolan starting down the garbage-strewn side street to
chase a few noisy push-cart merchants who, having no other customers in
view, had congregated to barter over their respective wares.
"Beat it, you!" ordered Dolan. "This ain't no Chamber of Commerce.
Git!"
With muttered imprecation the peddlers pushed on their carts to make
place for a noisy, tuneless hurdy-gurdy. On the pavement at its side a
dozen children congregated--none over ten--to dance the turkey trot and
the "nigger," according to the most approved Bowery artistry of
"spieling."
"Lord, no wonder they fall into the gutter when they grow up," thought
Bobbie. "They're sitting in it from the time they get out of their
swaddling rags."
Bobbie walked up to the nearby fruit merchant.
"How much is this apple, Tony?"
The Italian looked at him warily, and then smirked.
"Eet's nothing toa you, signor. I'ma da policeman's friend. You taka
him."
Bobbie laughed, as he fished out a nickel from his pocket. He shook
his head, as he replied.
"No, Tony, I don't get my apples from the 'policeman's friend.' I can
pay for them. You know all of us policemen aren't grafters--even on
the line of apples and peanuts."
The Italian's eyes grew big.
"Well, you'ra de first one dat offer to maka me de pay, justa de same.
Eet's a two centa, eef you insist."
He gave Bobbie his change, and the young man munched away on the fresh
fruit with relish. The Italian gave him a sunny grin, and then
volunteered:
"Youa de new policeman, eh?"
"I have been in the hospital for more than a month, so that's why you
haven't seen me. How long have you been on this corner? There was
another man here when I came this way last."
"Si, signor. That my cousin Beppo. But he's gone back to It'. He had
some money--he wanta to keep eet, so he go while he can."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I don'ta wanta talk about eet, signor," said the Italian, with a
strange look. "Eet'sa bad to say I was his cousin even."
The dealer looked worried, and naturally Bobbie became curious and more
insistent.
"You can tell me, if it's some trouble. Maybe I can help you some time
if you're afraid of any one."
The Italian shook his head, pessimistically.
"No, signor. Eet'sa better I keep what you call de mum."
"Did he blow up somebody with a bomb? Or was it stiletto work?" asked
Bobbie, as he threw away the core of the apple, to observe it greedily
captured by a small, dirty-faced urchin by the curb.
The fruit merchant looked into Officer Burke's face, and, as others had
done, was inspired by its honesty and candor. He felt that here might
be a friend in time of trouble. Most of the policemen he knew were
austere and cynical. He leaned toward Burke and spoke in a subdued
tone.
"Poor Beppo, he have de broken heart. He was no Black Hand--he woulda
no usa de stiletto on a cheecken, he so kinda, gooda man. He justa
leave disa country to keepa from de suicide."
"Why, that's strange! Tell me about it. Poor fellow!"
"He'sa engag-ed to marry de pretty Maria Cenini, de prettiest girl in
our village, back in It'--excepta my wife. Beppo, he senda on de
money, so she can coma dis country and marry him. Dat wasa four week
ago she shoulda be here. But, signor, whena Beppo go toa de Battery to
meet her froma da Ellis Island bigga boat he no finda her."
"Did she die?"
"Oh, signor, Beppo, he wisha she hadda died. He tooka de early boat to
meeta her, signor, and soma ona tella de big officier at de Battery
he'sa da cousin of her sweeta heart. She goa wid him, signor, and
Beppo never finda her."
"Why, you don't mean the girl was abducted?"
"Signor, whatever eet was, Beppo hear from one man from our village who
leeve in our village dat he see poor Maria weed her face all paint, and
locked up in de tougha house in Newark two weeks ago. Oh, _madre dio_,
signor, she's a da bad girl! Beppo, he nearly killa his friend for
tell him, and den he go to Newark to looka for her at de house. But
she gone, and poor Beppo he was de pinched for starting de fight in de
house. He pay twanty-five de dols, and coma back here. De nexta
morning a beeg man come to Beppo, and he say: 'Wop, you geet out dis
place, eef you tella de police about dees girl,' Dassal."
Burke looked into the nervous, twitching face of the poor Italian, and
realized that here was a deeper tragedy than might be guessed by a
passerby. The man's eyes were wet, and he convulsively fumbled at the
corduroy coat, which he had doubtless worn long before he ever sought
the portals of the Land of Liberty.
"Oh, signor. Data night Beppo he was talk to de policaman, justa like
me. He say no word, but dat beega man he musta watch, for desa
gang-men dey busta de stand, and dey tella Beppo to geet out or dey
busta heem. Beppo he tell me I can hava de stand eef I pay him some
eacha week. I take it--and now I am afraid de busta me!"
Bobbie laid a comforting hand upon the man's heaving shoulder.
"There, don't you worry. Don't tell anyone else you're his cousin, and
I won't either. You don't need to be afraid of these gang-men. Just
be careful and yell for the police. The trouble with you Italians is
that you are afraid to tell the police anything when you are treated
badly. Your cousin should have reported this case to the Ellis Island
authorities. They would have traced that girl and saved her."
The man looked gratefully into Burke's eyes, as the tears ran down his
face.
"Oh, signor, eef all de police were lika you we be not afraid."
Just then he dropped his eyes, and Burke noticed that his hand trembled
as he suddenly reached for a big orange and held it up. The man spoke
with a surprising constraint, still holding his look upon the fruit.
"Signor, here's a fine orange. You wanta buy heem?" In a whisper he
added: "Eet is de bigga man who told my cousin to get outa da country!"
Bobbie in astonishment turned around and beheld two pedestrians who
were walking slowly past, both staring curiously at the Italian.
He gave an exclamation of surprise as he noticed that one of the men
was no less a personage than Jimmie the Monk. The man with him was a
big, raw-boned Bowery character of pugilistic build.
"Why, I thought that scoundrel would have been tried and sentenced by
this time," murmured the officer. "I know they told me his case had
been postponed by his lawyer, an alderman. But this is one on me."
The smaller man caught Burke's eye and gave him an insolent laugh. He
even stopped and muttered something to his companion.
Burke's blood was up in an instant.
He advanced quickly toward the tough. Jimmie sneered, as he stood his
ground, confident in the security of his political protection.
"Move on there," snapped Burke. "This is no loafing place."
"Aaaah, go chase sparrers," snarled Jimmie the Monk. "Who ye think yer
talking to, rookie?"
Now, Officer Burke was a peaceful soul, despite his military training.
His short record on the force had been noteworthy for his ability to
disperse several incipient riots, quiet more than one brawl, and tame
several bad men without resorting to rough work. But there was a
rankling in his spirit which overcame the geniality which had been
reigning in his heart so short a time before.
He was tired. He was weak from his recent confinement. But the
fighting blood of English and some Irish ancestors stirred in his veins.
He walked quietly up to the Monk, and his voice was low, his words
calm, as he remarked: "You clear out of this neighborhood. I am going
to put you where you belong the first chance I get. And I don't want
any of your impudence now. Move along."
Jimmie mistook the quiet manner for respect and a timid memory of the
recent retirement from active service.
He spread his legs, and, with a wink to his companion, he began, with
the strident rasp of tone which can seldom be heard above Fourteenth
Street and east of Third Avenue.
"Say, bo. Do you recollect gittin' a little present? Well, listen,
dere's a Christmas tree of dem presents comin' to you ef ye tries any
more of dis stuff. I'm in _right_ in dis district, don't fergit it.
Ye tink's I'm going to de Island? Wipe dat off yer memory, too. W'y,
say, I kin git yer buttons torn off and yer shield put in de scrap heap
by de Commish if I says de woid down on Fourteenth Street, at de
bailiwick."
"I know who was back of the assault on me, Monk, and let me tell you
I'm going to get the man who threw it. Now, you get!"
Burke raised his right hand carelessly to the side of his collar, as he
pressed up close to the gangster. The big man at his side came nearer,
but as the policeman did not raise his club, which swung idly by its
leather thong, to his left wrist, he was as unprepared for what
happened as Jimmie.
"Why you----" began the latter, with at least six ornate oaths which
out-tarred the vocabulary of any jolly, profane tar who ever swore.
Burke's hand, close to his own shoulder, and not eight inches away from
Jimmie's leering jowl, closed into a very hard fist. Before the tough
knew what had hit him that nearby fist had sent him reeling into the
gutter from a short shoulder jab, which had behind it every ounce of
weight in the policeman's swinging body.
Jimmie lay there.
The other man's hand shot to his hip pocket, but the officer's own
revolver was out before he could raise the hand again. Army practice
came handy to Burke in this juncture.
"Keep your hand where it is," exclaimed the policeman, "or you'll get a
bullet through it."
"You dog, I'll get you sent up for this," muttered the big man.
But with his revolver covering the fellow, Burke quickly "frisked" the
hip pocket and discovered the bulk of a weapon. This was enough.
"I fixed the Monk. Now, you're going up for the Sullivan Law against
carrying firearms. You're number one, with me, in settling up this
score!" Jimmie had shown signs of awakening from the slumber induced
by Burke's sturdy right hand.
He pulled himself up as Burke marched his man around the corner. The
Monk hurried, somewhat unsteadily, to the edge of the fruit stand and
looked round it after the two figures.
"Do youse know dat cop, ye damn Ginnie?" muttered Jimmie.
"Signor, no!" replied the fruit dealer, nervously. "I never saw heem
on dis beat before to-day, wenna he buy de apple from me."
Jimmie turned--discretion conquering temporary vengeance, and started
in the opposite direction. He stopped long enough to say, as he rubbed
his bruised jaw, "Well, Wop, ye ain't like to see much more of 'im
around dis dump neither, an' ye ain't likely to see yerself neither, if
ye do too much talkin' wid de cops."
Jimmie hurried up the street to a certain rendezvous to arrange for a
rescue party of some sort. In the meantime Officer 4434 led an
unwilling prisoner to the station house, one hand upon the man's right
arm. His own right hand gripped his stick firmly.
"You make a wiggle and I'm going to give it to you where I got that
brick, only harder," said Burke, softly.
A crowd of urchins, young men and even a few straggling women followed
him with his prisoner. It grew to enormous proportions by the time he
had reached the station house.
As they entered the front room Captain Sawyer looked up from his desk,
where he had been checking up some reports.
"Ah, what have we this time, Burke?"
"This man is carrying a revolver in his hip pocket," declared the
officer. "That will take care of him, I suppose."
Dexter, at the captain's direction, searched the man. The revolver was
the first prize. In his pocket was a queer memorandum book. It
contained page after page of girls' names, giving only the first name,
with some curious words in cipher code after each one. In the same
pocket was a long, flat parcel. Dexter handed it to the captain who
opened it gingerly. Inside the officer found at least twenty-five
small packets, all wrapped in white paper. He opened two of these.
They contained a flaky, white powder.
The man looked down as Sawyer gave him a shrewd glance.
"We have a very interesting visitor, Burke. Thanks for bringing him
in. So you're a cocaine peddler?"
The man did not reply.
"Take him out into one of the cells, Dexter. Get all the rest of his
junk and wrap it up. Look through the lining of his clothes and strip
him. This is a good catch, Burke."
The prisoner sullenly ambled along between two policemen, who locked
him up in one of the "pens" in the rear of the front office. Burke
leaned over the desk.
"He was walking with that Jimmie the Monk when I got him. Jimmie acted
ugly, and when I told him to move on he began to curse me."
"What did you do?"
"I handed him an upper-cut. Then this fellow tried to get his gun.
Jimmie will remember me, and I'll get him later, on something. I
didn't want to call out the reserves, so I brought this man right on
over here, and let Jimmie attend to himself. I suppose we'll hear from
him before long."
"Yes, I see the message coming now," exclaimed Captain Sawyer in a low
tone. "Don't you open your mouth. I'll do the talking now."
As he spoke, Burke followed his eyes and turned around. A large man,
decorated with a shiny silk hat, shinier patent leather shoes of
extreme breadth of beam, a flamboyant waistcoat, and a gold chain from
which dangled a large diamond charm, swaggered into the room, mopping
his red face with a silk handkerchief.
"Well, well, captain!" he ejaculated, "what's this I hear about an
officer from this precinct assaulting two peaceful civilians?"
The Captain looked steadily into the puffy face of the speaker. His
steely gray eyes fairly snapped with anger, although his voice was
unruffled as he replied, "You'd better tell me all you heard, and who
you heard it from."
The big man looked at Burke and scowled ominously. It was evident that
Officer 4434 was well known to him, although Bobbie had never seen the
other in his life.
"Here's the fellow. Clubbing one of my district workers--straight
politics, that's what it is, or I should say crooked politics. I'm
going to take this up with the Mayor this very day. You know his
orders about policemen using their clubs."
"Yes, Alderman, I know that and several other things. I know that this
policeman did not use his club but his fist on one of your ward
heelers, and that was for cursing him in public. He should have
arrested him. I also know that you are the lawyer for this gangster,
Jimmie the Monk. And I know what we have on his friend. You can look
at the blotter if you want. I haven't finished writing it all yet."
The Captain turned the big record-book around on his desk, while the
politician angrily examined it.
"What's that? Carrying weapons, unlawfully? Carrying cocaine? Why,
this is a frame-up. This man Morgan is a law-abiding citizen. You're
trying to send him up to make a record for yourself. I'm going to take
this up with the Mayor as sure as my name is Kelly!"
"Take it up with the United States District Attorney, too, Mr.
Alderman, for I've got some other things on your man Morgan. This
political stuff is beginning to wear out," snapped Sawyer. "There are
too many big citizens getting interested in this dope trade and in the
gang work for you and your Boss to keep it hushed any longer."
He turned to Burke and waved his hand toward the stairway which led to
the dormitory above.
"Go on upstairs, my boy, and rest up a little bit. You're pale. This
has been a hard day, and I'm going to send out White to relieve you.
Take a little rest and then I'll send you up to Men's Night Court with
Morgan, for I want him held over for investigation by the United States
officers."
Alderman Kelly puffed and fumed with excitement. This was getting
beyond his depths. He was a competent artist in the criminal and lower
courts, but his talents for delaying the law of the Federal procedure
were rather slim.
"What do you mean? I'm going to represent Morgan, and I'll have
something to say about his case at Night Court. I know the magistrate."
Sawyer took out the memorandum book from the little parcel of
"exhibits" removed from the prisoner.
"Well, Alderman," Burke heard him say, as he started up the stairs,
"you ought to be pleased to have a long and profitable case. For I
think this is just starting the trail on a round-up of some young men
who have been making money by a little illegal traffic. There are
about four hundred girls' names in this book, and the Chief of
Detectives has a reputation for being able to figure out ciphers."
Alderman Kelly dropped his head, but gazed at Sawyer's grim face from
beneath his heavy brows with a baleful intensity. Then he left the
station house.