THE POISONED NEEDLE
That afternoon Burke improved his time, during a two-hour respite, to
hunt for a birthday present for Mary.
Manlike, he was shy of shops, so he sought one of the big department
stores on Sixth Avenue, where he instinctively felt that everything
under the sun could be bought.
As Bobbie paused before one of the big display windows on the sidewalk
he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure. It was that instinct which
one only half realizes in a brief instant, yet which leaves a strong
reaction of memory.
"Who was that?" he thought, and then remembered: Baxter.
Burke followed the figure which had passed him so quickly, and found
the same dapper young man deeply engrossed in the window display of
women's walking suits.
"What can he find so interesting in that window?" mused Burke. "I'll
just watch his tactics. I don't believe that fellow is ever any place
for any good!"
He stood far out on the sidewalk, close to the curb. The passing
throng swept in two eddying, opposite currents between him and Baxter,
whose attention seemed strictly upon the window.
"Well, there's his refined companion," was Burke's next impression, as
he espied the effeminate figure of Craig, strolling along the sidewalk
close to the same window.
"Can they be pickpockets? I would guess that was too risky for them to
take a chance on."
Neither youth spoke to the other, although they walked very close to
each other. As Burke scrutinized their actions he saw a young girl,
tastefully dressed in a black velvet suit, with a black hat, turn about
excitedly. She looked about her, as though in alarm, and her face was
distorted with pain. Baxter gave her a shifty look and followed her.
Craig had been close at her side.
Burke drew nearer to the girl. She seemed to falter, as she walked,
and it was apparently with great effort that she neared the door of the
big department store. Baxter was watching her stealthily now.
"Oh!" she exclaimed desperately and keeled backward. Baxter's
calculations were close, for he caught her in his arms.
"Quick! Quick!" he cried to the big uniformed carriage attendant at
the door. "Get me a taxicab. My sister has fainted."
The man whistled for a machine, as Burke watched them. The officer was
calculating his own chances on what baseball players call a "double
play." Craig was close behind Baxter, in the curious crowd. Burke
guessed that it would take at least a minute or two for Baxter to get
the girl into a machine. So he rushed for Craig and surprised that
young gentleman with a vicious grasp of the throat.
"Help! Police!" cried Craig, as some women screamed. His wish was
doubly answered, for Burke's police whistle was in his mouth and he
blew it shrilly. A traffic squad man rushed across from the middle of
the street.
"Hurry, I want to get my sister away!" ordered Baxter excitedly to the
door man. "You big boob, what's the matter with you?"
The crowd of people about him shut off the view of Burke's activities
fifteen feet away. Baxter was nervous and was doing his best to make a
quick exit with his victim.
"What's this?" gruffly exclaimed the big traffic policeman, as he
caught Craig's arm.
"The needle!" grunted Burke. "Here, I've got it from his pocket."
He drew forth a small hypodermic needle syringe from Craig's coat
pocket, and held it up.
"It's a frame-up!" squealed Craig.
"Take him quick. I want to save the girl!" exclaimed Burke, as he
rushed toward Baxter.
That young man was just pushing the girl into the taxicab when a
middle-aged woman rushed out from the store entrance.
"That's my daughter Helen! Helen, my child!"
At this there was terrific confusion in the crowd, and Burke saw Baxter
give the girl a rough shove away from the taxicab door. He slipped a
bill into the chauffeur's willing hand and muttered an order. The car
sprang forward on the instant.
"I'll get that fellow this time!" muttered Burke. "He hasn't seen me,
and I'll trail him."
He turned about and espied a big gray racing car drawn up at the curb.
A young man weighted down under a heavy load of goggles, fur and other
racing appurtenances sat in the car. Its engines were humming merrily.
"Say, you, follow that car for me," sung out Officer 4434, delighted at
his discovery. "The taxicab with the black body."
The driver of the racer snorted contemptuously.
"Do you know who _I_ am?"
Burke wasted no time, but jumped into the seat, for it was as opportune
as though placed there by Providence. Perhaps Providence has more to
do with some coincidences than the worldly wise are prone to confess.
"_I'm_ Officer 4434 of the Police Department, and you mind my orders."
"Well, I'm Reggie Van Nostrand," answered the young man, "and I take
orders from no man."
Burke knew this young millionaire by reputation. But he was nowise
daunted. He kept his eye on the distant taxicab, which had luckily
been halted at the second cross street by the delayed traffic.
"I'm going to put this pretty car of yours in the scrap heap, and I'm
going to land you in jail, with all your money," calmly replied Burke,
drawing his revolver. "The man in that taxi is a white slaver who just
tried the poison needle on a girl, and you and I are going to capture
him."
The undeniable sporting blood surged in the veins of Reggie Van
Nostrand, be it said to his credit. It was not the threat.
"I'm with you, Officer!" He pressed a little lever with his foot and
the big racing machine sprang forward like a thing possessed by a demon
of speed.
The traffic officer on the other street tried to stop the car, until he
saw the uniform of the policeman in the seat.
Bob waved his hand, and the fixed post man held back several machines,
in order to give him the right of way.
They were now within a block of the other car.
"Say, haven't you another robe or coat that I can put on to cover my
uniform, for that fellow will suspect a chase, anyway?"
"Yes, there at your feet," replied Van Nostrand shortly. "It's my
father's. He'll be wondering who stole me and the car. Let him
wonder."
Burke pulled up the big fur coat and drew it around his shoulders as
the car rumbled forward. He found a pair of goggles in a pocket of the
coat.
"I don't need a hat with these to mask me," he exclaimed. "Now, watch
out on your side of the car, and I'll do it on mine, for he's a sly
one, and will turn down a side street."
They did well to keep a lookout, for suddenly the pursued taxi turned
sharply to the right.
After it they went--not too close, but near enough to keep track of its
manoeuvres.
"He's going up town now!" said Reggie Van Nostrand, when the car had
diverged from the congested district to an open avenue which ran north
and south. The machine turned and sped along merrily toward Harlem.
"We're willing," said Burke. "I want to track him to his headquarters."
Block after block they followed the taxicab. Sometimes they nosed
along, at Burke's suggestion, so far behind that it seemed as though a
quick turn to a side street would lose their quarry. But it was
evident that Baxter had a definite destination which he wished to reach
in a hurry.
At last they saw the car stop, and then the youth ahead dismounted.
He was paying the chauffeur as they whizzed past, apparently giving him
no heed.
But before they had gone another block Burke deemed it safe to stop.
He signaled Van Nostrand, who shut off the power of the miraculous car
almost as easily as he had started it. Burke nearly shot over the
windshield with the momentum.
"Some car!" he grunted. "You make it behave better than a horse, and I
think it has more brains."
Nothing in the world could have pleased the millionaire more than this.
He was an eager hunter himself by now.
"Say, supposing I take off my auto coat and run down that street and
see where he goes to?"
"Good idea. I'll wait for you in the machine, if you're not afraid of
the police department."
"You bet I'm not. Here, I'll put on this felt hat under the seat.
They won't suspect me of being a detective, will they?"
"Hardly," laughed Burke, as the young society man emerged from his
chrysalis of furs and goggles, immaculately dressed in a frock coat.
He drew out an English soft hat and even a cane. "You are ready for
war or peace, aren't you?"
Van Nostrand hurried down the street and turned the corner, changing
his pace to one of an easy and debonair grace befitting the possessor
of several racing stables of horses and machines.
He saw his man a few hundred yards down the street. Van Nostrand
watched him sharply, and saw him hesitate, look about, and then turn to
the left. He ascended the steps of a dwelling.
By the time Van Nostrand had reached the house, to pass it with the
barest sidelong glance, the pursued had entered and closed the door.
The millionaire saw, to his surprise, a white sign over the door,
"Swedish Employment Bureau." The words were duplicated in Swedish.
"That's a bally queer sign!" muttered Reggie. "And a still queerer
place for a crook to go. I'll double around the block."
As he turned the corner he saw an old-fashioned cab stop in front of
the house. Two men assisted a woman to alight, unsteadily, and helped
her up the steps.
"Well, she must be starving to death, and in need of employment,"
commented the rich young man. "I think the policeman has brought me to
a queer hole. I'll go tell him about it."
The fashionable set who dwell on the east side of Central Park would
have spilled their tea and cocktails about this time had they seen the
elegant Reggie Van Nostrand breaking all speed records as he dashed
down the next street, with his cane in one hand and his hat in the
other. He reached the car, breathless, but his tango athletics had
stood him in good stead.
"What's up?" asked Burke, jumping from the seat.
"Why, that's a Swedish employment agency, and I saw two men lead a
woman up the steps from a cab just now. What shall we do?"
"You run your machine to the nearest drug store and find out where the
nearest police station is. Then get a few cops in your machine, and
come to that house, for you'll find me there," ordered Burke. "How far
down the block?"
"Nearly to the next corner," answered Reggie, who leaped into his
racing seat and started away like the wind.
Burke hurried down, following the path of the other, until he came to
the house. He looked at the sign, and then glanced about him. He saw
an automobile approaching, and intuitively stepped around the steps of
the house next door, into the basement entry.
He had hardly concealed himself when the machine stopped in front of
the other dwelling.
A big Swede, still carrying his emigrant bundle, descended from the
machine, and called out cheerily in his native language to the
occupants within the vehicle. Burke, peeping cautiously, saw two buxom
Swedish lassies, still in their national costumes, step down to the
street. The machine turned and passed on down the street.
Burke saw the man point out the sign of the employment agency, and the
girls chattered gaily, cheered up with hopes of work, as he led them up
the steps.
The door closed behind them.
Burke quietly walked around the front of the house and up the steps
after them. He had made no noise as he ascended, and as he stood by
the wall of the vestibule he fancied he detected a bitter cry, muffled
to an extent by the heavy walls.
He examined the sign, and saw that it was suspended by a small wire
loop from a nail in the door jamb.
Bobbie reached upward, took the sign off its hook, and turned it about.
"Well, just as I thought!" he exclaimed.
On the reverse side were the tell-tale letters, "Y.W.C.A."
"They are ready for all kinds of customers. I wonder how they'll like
me!" was the humorous thought which flitted through his mind as he
quietly turned the knob. It opened readily.
Bobbie stood inside the hallway, face to face with the redoubtable Pop!
Pop's eyes protruded as they beheld this horrid vision of a bluecoat.
A cynical smile played about Burke's pursed lips as he held the sign up
toward the old reprobate.
"Can I get a job here? Is there any work for me to do in this
employment agency?" he drawled quietly.
Pop acted upon the instinct which was the result of many years'
dealings with minions of the law. He had been a contributor to the
"cause" back in the days of Boss Tweed. He temporarily forgot that
times had changed.
"That's all right, pal," he said, with a sickly smile, "just a little
token for the wife and kids."
He handed out a roll of bills which he pressed against Bobbie's hands.
The policeman looked at him with a curious squint.
"So, you think that will fix me, do you?"
"Well, if you're a little hard up, old fellow, you know I'm a good
fellow...."
Up the stairs there was a scuffle.
Bobbie heard another scream. So, before Pop could utter another sound
he pushed the old man aside and rushed up, three steps at a time. The
first door he saw was locked--behind it Bobbie knew a woman was being
mistreated.
He rushed the door and gave it a kick with his stout service boots.
A chair was standing in the hall. He snatched this up and began
smashing at the door, directing vigorous blows at the lock. The first
leg broke off. Then the second. The third was smashed, but the fourth
one did the trick. The door swung open, and as it did so a water
pitcher, thrown with precision and skill, grazed his forehead. Only a
quick dodge saved him from another skull wound.
Burke sprang into the room.
There were three men in it, while Madame Blanche, the proprietress of
the miserable establishment, stood in the middle transfixed with fear.
She still held in her hand the black snake whip with which she had been
"taming" one of the sobbing Swedish girls. The Swede held one of his
country-women in a rough grip.
The country girl, who had been hitherto locked in the closet, was down
on her knees, her bruised hands outstretched toward Burke.
"Oh, save me!" she cried.
The last of the victims, who was evidently unconscious from a drug, was
lying on the floor in a pathetic little heap.
Baxter was cowering behind the bed.
The barred windows, placed there to prevent the escape of the
unfortunate girl prisoners, were their Nemesis, for they were at the
mercy of the lone policeman.
"Drop that gun!" snapped Burke, as he saw the Swede reaching stealthily
toward a pocket.
His own, a blue-steeled weapon, was swinging from side to side as he
covered them.
"Hands up, every one, and march down these stairs before me!" he
ordered. Just then he heard a footstep behind him. Old Pop was
creeping up the steps with Madame Blanche's carving knife, snatched
hastily from the dining-room table.
Burke, cat-like, caught a side glance of this assailant, and he swung
completely around, kicking Pop below the chin. That worthy tumbled
down the stairs with a howl of pain.
"Now, I'm going to shoot to kill. Every court in the state will
sustain a policeman who shoots a white-slaver. Don't forget that!"
cried Burke sharply. "You girls let them go first."
[Illustration: "I'm going to shoot to kill. Every court in the state
will sustain a policeman who shoots a white-slaver."]
Down the steps went the motley crew, backing slowly at Burke's order.
The girls, sobbing hysterically with joy at their rescue, almost
impeded the bluecoat's defense as they clung to his arms.
It was a curious procession which met the eyes of Reggie Van Nostrand
and half a dozen reserves who had just run up the steps.
"Well, I say old chap, isn't this jolly?" cried Reggie. "This beats
any show I ever saw! Why, it's a regular Broadway play!"
"You bet it is, and you helped me well. The papers ought to give you a
good spread to-morrow, Mr. Van Nostrand," answered Bobbie grimly, as he
shook the young millionaire's hand with warmth. The gang were rapidly
being handcuffed by the reserves.
Bobbie turned toward Baxter. It was a great moment of triumph for him.
"Well, Baxter, so I got you at last! You're the pretty boy who takes
young girls out to turkey trots! Now, you can join a dancing class up
the Hudson, and learn the new lock-step glide!"