THE WORK OF THE GANGSTERS
Bobbie Burke's eyes sparkled with the flame of battle spirit, yet he
maintained an outward calm. He turned his face toward the wall of the
restaurant while Jimmie the Monk tripped nonchalantly out into the
street. Burke did not wish to be recognized too soon. The negro
musicians struck up a livelier tune than before. The dancing couples
bobbed and writhed in the sensuous, shameless intimacies of the
demi-mondaine bacchante. The waiters merrily juggled trays, stacked
skillfully with vari-colored drinks, and bumped the knees of the
close-sitting guests with silvered champagne buckets. Popping corks
resounded like the distant musketry of the crack sharp-shooters of the
Devil's Own. Indeed, this was an ambuscade of the greatest, oldest,
cruellest, most blood-thirsty conflict of civilized history--the War of
the Roses--the Massacre of the Innocents! In Bobbie's ears the
jangling tambourine, the weird splutterings of the banjos, the twanging
of the guitars, the shrill music of the violins and clarionet, the
monotonous rag-time pom-pom of the piano accompanist, the clash and
bang of cymbal and base-drum, the coarse minor cadences of the negro
singers--all so essential to cabaret dancing of this class--sounded
like the war pibroch of a Satanic clan of reincarnate fiends.
The waiter was serving some savory viands, for such establishments
cater cleverly to the beast of the dining room as well as of the
boudoir.
But Burke was in no mood to eat or drink. His soul was sickened, but
his mind was working with lightning acumen.
"Bring me my check now as I may have to leave before you come around
again," he directed his waiter.
"Yes, sir, certainly," responded the Tenderloin Dionysius, not without
a shade of regret in his cackling voice. Early eaters and short
stayers reduced the percentage on tips, while moderate orders of drinks
meant immoderate thrift--to the waiter.
The check was forthcoming at once. Burke quietly corrected the
addition of the items to the apparent astonishment of the waiter. He
produced the exact change, while a thunder-storm seemed imminent on the
face of his servitor. Burke, however, drew forth a dollar bill from
his pocket, and placed it with the other change, smiling significantly.
"Oh, sir, thank you"--began the waiter, surprised into the strictly
unprofessional weakness of an appreciation.
Bobbie, with a left-ward twitch of his head, and a slight quiver of the
lid of his left eye, brought an attentive ear close to his mouth.
"My boy, I want you to go outside and have the taxicab starter reserve
a machine for 'Mr. Green.' Tell him to have it run forward and clear
of the awning in front of the restaurant--slip him this other dollar,
now, and impress on him that I want that car about twenty-five feet to
the right of the door as you go out."
The waiter nodded, and leered slyly.
"All right, sir--I get ye, Mr. Green. It's a quick getaway, is that
it?"
"Exactly," answered Bobbie, "and I want the chauffeur to have all his
juice on--the engine cranked and ready for another Vanderbilt Cup
Race." Bobbie gave the waiter one of his best smiles--behind that
smile was a manful look, a kindliness of character and a great power of
purpose, which rang true, even to this blase and cynical dispenser of
the grape. The latter nodded and smiled, albeit flabbily, into the
winsome eyes of the young officer.
"Ye're a reg'lar fellar, Mr. Green, I kin see that! Trust me to have a
lightning conductor fer you--with his lamps lit and burning. These
nighthawk taxis around here make most of their mazuma by this fly
stuff--generally the souses ain't got enough left for a taxicab, and
it's a waste o' time stickin' 'em up since the rubes are so easy with
the taxi meter. But just look out for a little badger work on the
chauffeur when ye git through with 'im."
Burke nodded. Then he added. "Just keep this to yourself, won't you?
There's nothing crooked about it--I'm trying to do some one a good
turn. Tell them to keep the taxi ready, no matter how long it takes."
"Sure and I will, Mr. Green."
The waiter walked away toward the front door, where he carried out
Burke's instructions, slipping the second bill into the willing hand of
the starter.
As he came back he shrewdly studied the face of the young policeman who
was quietly listening to the furious fusillade of the ragtime musicians.
"Well, that guy's not as green as he says his name is. He don't look
like no crook, neither! I wonder what his stall is? Well, _I_ should
worry!"
And he went his way rejoicing in the possession of that peace of mind
which comes to some men who let neither the joys nor woes of others
break through the armament of their own comfortable placidity. Every
night of his life was crowded with curious, sad and ridiculous
incidents; had he let them linger long in his mind his hand and
temperament would have suffered a loss of accumulative skill. That
would have spelled ruin, and this particular waiter, like so many of
his flabby-faced brothers, was a shrewd tradesman--in the commodities
of his discreetly elastic memory--and the even more valuable asset, a
talent for forgetting!
Burke was biding his time, and watching developments.
He saw the mealy-faced Baxter take Lorna out upon the dancing floor for
the next dance. They swung into the rhythm of the dance with easy
familiarity, which proved that the girl was no novice in this style of
terpsichorean enjoyment.
"She has been to other dances like this," muttered Bobbie as he watched
with a strange loathing in his heart. "It's terrible to see the girls
of a great modern city like New York entering publicly into a dance
which I used to see on the Barbary Coast in 'Frisco. If they had seen
it danced out there I don't believe they'd be so anxious to imitate it
now."
Lorna and Baxter returned through the crowded merrymakers to their
seats, and sat down at the table.
"You need another cocktail," suggested Baxter, after sipping one
himself and forgetting the need for reserve in his remarks. "You
mustn't be a bum sport at a dance like this, Miss Barton."
"Oh, Mr. Baxter, I don't dare go home with a breath like cocktails.
You know Mary and I sleep together," objected Lorna.
"Don't worry about that, little girlie," said Baxter. "She won't mind
it to-night."
To Burke's keen ears there was a shade of hidden menace in the words.
"Come on, now, just this one," said Baxter coaxingly. "It won't hurt.
There's always room for one more."
What a temptation it was for the muscular policeman to swing around and
shake the miserable wretch as one would a cur!
But Bobbie had learned the value of controlling his temper; that is one
of the first requisites of a policeman's as well as of an army man's
life.
"Do you know, Mr. Baxter," said Lorna, after she had yielded to the
insistence of her companion, "that cocktail makes me a little dizzy. I
guess it will take me a long while to get used to such drinks. You
know, I've been brought up in an awfully old-fashioned way. My father
would simply kill me if he thought I drank beer--and as for cocktails
and highballs and horse's necks, and all those real drinks ... well, I
hate to think of it. Ha! ha!"
And she laughed in a silly way which made Burke know that she was
beginning to feel the effect.
"I wonder if I hadn't better assert myself right now?" he mused,
pretending to eat a morsel. "It would cause a commotion, but it would
teach her a lesson, and would teach her father to keep a closer watch."
Just then he heard his own name mentioned by the girl behind.
"Say, Mr. Baxter, you came just at the right time to-night. That Burke
who was calling on father is a stupid policeman, whom he met in the
hospital, and I was being treated to a regular sermon about life and
wickedness and a lot of tiresome rot. I don't like policemen, do you?"
"I should say not!" was Baxter's heartfelt answer.
They were silent an instant.
"A policeman, you say, eh?"
"Yes; I certainly don't think he's fit to call on nice people. The
next think we know father will have firemen and cab-drivers and street
cleaners, I suppose. They're all in the same class to me--just
servants."
"What precinct did he come from?"
Baxter's tone was more earnest than it had been.
Burke's face reddened at the girl's slur, but he continued his waiting
game.
"Precinct? What's that? I don't know where he came from. He's a New
York policeman, that's all I found out. It didn't interest me, why
should it you? Oh, Mr. Baxter, look at that beautiful willow plume on
that girl's hat. She is a silly-looking girl, but that is a wonderful
hat."
Baxter grunted and seemed lost in thought.
Burke espied Jimmie the Monk meandering through the tables, in company
with a heavy, smooth-faced man whose eyes were directed from even that
distance toward the table at which Lorna sat.
Burke wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, thus cutting off
Jimmie's possible view of his features.
"Ah, Jimmie, back again. And I see you're with my old friend, Sam
Shepard!"
Baxter rose to shake hands with the newcomer. He introduced him to
Lorna, backing close against Burke's shoulder as he did so.
"This is my friend, Sam Shepard, the theatrical manager, Miss Lorna,"
began Baxter. "He's the man who can get you on the stage. You know I
was telling you about him. This is Miss Barton, you've heard about,
Sam. Sit down and tell her about your new comic opera that you're
casting now."
[Illustration: "This is my friend, Sam Shepard, the theatrical manager,
Miss Lorna. He's the man who can get you on the stage.]
As Shepard shook Lorna's hand, Jimmie leaned over toward Baxter's ear
to whisper. They were not two feet from Burke's own ears, so he heard
the message: "I've got de taxi ready. Now, make a good getaway to
Reilly's house, Baxter."
"Say, Jimmie, just a minute," murmured Baxter. "This girl says a cop
was up calling on her father. I met the guy. His name was Burke. Do
you know him? Is he apt to queer anything?"
Jimmie the Monk started.
"Burke? What did he look like?"
"Oh, pretty slick-looking gink. Well set-up--looked like an army man,
and gave me a hard stare when he lamped me. Had been in the hospital
with the old fellow."
"Gee, dat's Burke, de guy dat's been after me, and I'm goin' ter do
'im. Is he buttin' in on dis?"
"Yes; what about him? You're not scared of him, are you?"
"Naw; but he's a bad egg. Say, he's a rookie dat t'inks 'e kin clean
up our gang. Now, you better dish dis job and let Shepard pull de
trick. Take it from yer Uncle Jim!"
Every syllable was audible to Burke, but Lorna was exchanging
pleasantries with Shepard, who had taken Baxter's seat.
"All right, Jimmie. Beat it yourself."
Baxter turned around as Jimmie quietly slipped away. Baxter leaned
over the table to smirk into the face of the young girl.
"Say, Miss Lorna, some of my friends are over in another corner of the
room, and I'm going to speak to them. Now, save the next tango for me.
Mr. Shepard will fix it for you, and if you jolly him right you can get
into his new show, 'The Girl and the Dragon,' can't she, Sam?"
"Where are you going?" exclaimed Shepard in a gruff tone. "You've got
to attend to something for me to-night."
There was a brutal dominance which vibrated in his voice. Here was a
desperate character, thought Burke, who was accustomed to command
others; he was not the flabby weakling type, like Baxter and Craig.
"It's better for you to do it, Sam. I'll tell you later. Jimmie just
tipped me off that there's a bull on the trail that's lamped me."
Burke understood the shifting of their business arrangement, but to
Lorna the crook's slang was so much gibberish.
"What did you say? I can't understand such funny talk, Mr. Baxter. I
guess I had too strong a cocktail, he! he!" she exclaimed. "What about
a lamp?"
"That's all right, girlie," said Shepard, as Baxter walked quickly
away. "Some of his friends want him to go down to the Lamb's Club, but
he doesn't want to leave you. We'll have a little chat together while
he is gone. I'm not very good at dancing or I'd get you to turkey trot
with me."
Lorna's voice was whiny now as she responded.
"Oh, I'm feeling funny. That cocktail was too much for me.... I guess
I'd better go home."
"There, there, my dear," Shepard reassured her. "You get that way for
a little while, but it's all right. You'd better have a little
beer--that will straighten you up."
Only by the strongest will power could Burke resist his desire to
interpose now, yet the words of the men prepared him for something
which it would be more important to wait for--to interfere at the
dramatic moment.
"Here, waiter, a bottle of beer!" ordered Shepard.
Burke turned half way around, and, by a side-long glance, he saw
Shepard pulling a small vial from his hip pocket as he sat with his
back to the policeman.
"Oh, ho! So here it comes!" thought Bobbie. "I'll be ready to stand
by now."
He rose and pushed back his chair. The waiter had brought the bottle
with surprising alacrity, and Shepard poured out a glass for the young
girl. Bobbie stood fumbling with his change as an excuse to watch.
Lorna was engrossed in the bubbling foam of the beer and did not notice
him.
"I guess he's afraid to do it now," thought Bobbie, as he failed to
observe any suspicious move.
True, Shepard's hand passed swiftly over the glass as he handed it to
the girl.
She drank it at his urging, and then suddenly her head sank forward on
her breast.
Bobbie stifled his indignation with difficulty as Shepard gave an
exclamation of surprise.
"My wife! She is sick! She has fainted!" cried Shepard to Burke's
amazement. The man acted his part cunningly.
He had sprung to his feet as he rushed around the table to catch the
toppling girl. With a quick jump to her side Bobbie had caught her by
an arm, but Shepard indignantly pushed him aside.
"How dare you, sir?" he exclaimed. "Take your hands off my wife."
The man's bravado was splendid, and even the diners were impressed.
Most of them laughed, for to them it was only another drunken woman, a
familiar and excruciatingly funny object to most of them.
"Aw, let the goil alone," cried one red-faced man who sat with a small,
heavily rouged girl of about sixteen. "Don't come between man and
wife!" And he laughed with coarse appreciation of his own humor.
Shepard had lifted Lorna with his strong arms and was starting toward
the door. Burke saw the entrance to the men's cafe on the right. He
quietly walked into it, and then hurried toward the front, out through
the big glass door to the street.
There, about twenty feet to his right, he saw the purring taxicab which
he had ordered waiting for a quick run.
In front of the restaurant entrance, now to his left, was another car,
with a chauffeur standing by its open door, expectantly.
Burke ran up just as Shepard emerged from the restaurant entrance. The
officer sprang at the big fellow and dealt him a terrible blow on the
side of the head. The man staggered and his hold weakened. As he did
so Burke caught the inanimate form of the young girl in his own arms.
He turned before Shepard or the waiting chauffeur could recover from
their surprise and ran toward the car at the right. The two men were
after him, but Burke lifted the girl into the machine and cried to the
chauffeur:
"Go it!"
"Who are you?"
"I'm Mr. Green," said Burke. The chauffeur sprang into his seat, but
as he did so Shepard was upon the young officer and trying to climb
into the door.
Biff!
Here was a chance for every ounce of accumulated ire to assert itself,
and it did so, through the hardened muscles of Officer 4434's right
arm. Shepard sank backward with a groan, as the taxi-cab shot forward
obedient to its throttle.
Burke was bounced backward upon the unconscious girl, but the machine
sped swiftly with a wise chauffeur at its wheel. He did not know where
his passenger wished to go, but his judgment told him it was away from
pursuit.
He turned swiftly down the first street to the right.
Back on the sidewalk before the restaurant there was intense
excitement. Baxter, Craig and Jimmie the Monk had followed the artful
Shepard to the street by the side door. They assisted the chauffeur in
picking up the bepummeled man from the sidewalk.
"Say, Jimmie! There's somebody shadowing us. Get into that cab of
Mike's and we'll chase him!" cried Baxter.
They rushed for the other cab, leaving Craig to mop Shepard's wan face
with a perfumed handkerchief.
After the slight delay of cranking it the second car whizzed along the
street. But that delay was fatal to the purpose of the pursuers, for
ere they had reached the corner down which the first machine had turned
the entire block was empty. Burke's driver had made another right turn.
Bobbie opened the door and yelled to the chauffeur as he hung to the
jamb with difficulty.
"Drive past the restaurant again very slowly, but don't stop. Then
keep on going straight up the avenue."
The chauffeur knew the advantage of doubling on a trail, and by the
time he had passed the restaurant after a third and fourth right
turn--making a trip completely around the block--the excitement had
died down. The pursuers had gone on a wild-goose chase in the opposite
direction, little suspecting such a simple trick.
The taxicab rumbled nonchalantly up the avenue for five or six blocks,
while Burke worked in a vain effort to restore his fair prisoner to
consciousness.
The car stopped in a dark stretch between blocks.
"Where shall I go, governor?" asked the chauffeur as he jumped down and
opened the door. "Is your lady friend any better, governor?"
Burke looked at the man's face as well as he could in the dim light,
wondering if he could be trusted. He decided that it was too big a
chance, for there is a secret fraternity among chauffeurs and the
denizens of the Tenderloin which is more powerful than any benevolent
order ever founded. This man would undoubtedly tell of his destination
to some other driver, surely to the starter at the restaurant. Then it
would be a comparatively simple matter for Baxter and Jimmie the Monk
to learn the details in enough fullness to track his own identity. For
certain reasons, already formulated, Bobbie Burke wished to keep Jimmie
and his gangsters in blissful ignorance of his own knowledge of their
activities.
"This is my girl, and one of those fellows tried to steal her," said
Burke in a gruff voice. "I was onto the game, and that's why I had the
starter get you ready. She lives on West Seventy-first Street, near
West End Avenue. Now, you run along on the right side of the street,
and I'll point out the house."
He was planning a second "double" on his trail. The chauffeur grunted
and started the machine again. The girl was moaning with pain in an
incoherent way.
As they rolled slowly down West Seventy-first Street Bobbie saw a house
which showed a light in the third floor. Presumably the storm door
would not be locked, as it would have been in case the tenants were
away. He knocked on the window.
The taxi came to a stop.
The chauffeur opened the door and Burke sprang out.
"Here's a ten-dollar bill, my boy," said Burke. "I'll have to square
her with her mother, so you come back here in twenty minutes and take
me down to that restaurant. I'm going to clean out that joint, and
I'll pay you another ten to help me. Are you game?"
The chauffeur laughed wisely.
"Am I game? Just watch me."
Burke lifted Lorna out and turned toward the steps.
"Now, don't leave me in the lurch. Be back in exactly twenty minutes,
and I'll be on the job--and we'll make it some job. But, don't let the
folks see you standing around, or they'll think I've been up to some
game. Her old man will start some shooting. Come back for me."
The chauffeur chuckled as he climbed into his car and drove away,
planning a little himself.
"Any guy that has a girl as swell as that one to live on this street
will be good for a hundred dollars before I get through with him," he
muttered as he took a chew of tobacco. "And I've got the number of
that house, too. Her old man will give a good deal to keep this out of
the papers. I know my business, even if I didn't go to college!"
As the chauffeur disappeared around the corner, after taking a look
toward the steps up which Burke had carried his unconscious burden, the
policeman put Lorna down inside the vestibule.
"Now, this is a dangerous game. It means disgrace if I get caught; but
it means a pair of broken hearts if this poor girl gets caught," he
thought. "I'll risk nobody coming, and run for another taxi."
He hastened down the steps and walked around the corner, hurrying
toward a big hotel which stood not far from Broadway. Here he found
another taxicab.
"There's a young lady sick at the house of one of my friends, and I'm
taking her home," said Burke to the driver. "Hurry up, please."
The second automobile sped over the street to the house where Burke had
left the girl, and the officer hurried up the steps. He soon
reappeared with Lorna in his arms, walked calmly down the steps, and
put her into the car.
This time he gave the correct home address, and the taxicab rumbled
along on the last stretch of the race.
They passed the first car, whose driver was already planning the ways
to spend the money which he was to make by a little scientific
blackmail.
He was destined to a long wait in front of the brownstone mansion.
After nearly an hour he decided to take things into his own hands.
"I'll get a little now," he muttered with an accompaniment of
profanity. "That guy can't stall me."
After ringing the bell for several minutes a very angry caretaker came
to the door.
"What do you want, my man?" cried this individual in unmistakable
British accents. "Dash your blooming impudence in waking me up at this
time in the morning."
"I want to get my taxicab fare from the gent that brought the lady here
drunk!" declared the chauffeur. "Are you her father?"
The caretaker shook a fist in his face as he snapped back:
"I'm nobody's father. There ain't no gent nor drunk lady here. I'm
alone in this house, and my master and missus is at Palm Beach. If you
don't get away from here I'm going to call the police."
With that he slammed the door in the face of the astounded chauffeur
and turned out the light in the hall.
The taxi driver walked down the steps slowly.
"Well, that's a new game on me!" he grunted. "There's a new gang
working this town as sure as I'm alive. I'm going down and put the
starter wise."
Down he went, to face a cross-examination from the starter, and an
accounting for his time. He had to pay over seven dollars of his ten
to cover the period for which he had the car out. Jimmie the Monk and
Baxter had returned from their unsuccessful chase. As they made their
inquiries from the starter and learned the care with which the coup
d'etat had been arranged they lapsed into angry, if admiring, profanity.
"Some guy, eh, Jimmie!" exclaimed Baxter. "But we'll find out who it
was, all right. Leave it to me!"
"Say, dat bloke was crazy--crazy like a fox, wasn't he?" answered
Jimmie. "He let Shepard do de deal, and den he steals de kitty! Dis
is what I calls cut-throat competition!"