THE REVENGE OF JIMMIE THE MONK
At the uptown station house Burke and his fellow officers had more than
a few difficulties to surmount. The two Swedish girls were hysterical
with fright, and stolid as the people of northern Europe generally are,
under the stress of their experience the young women were almost
uncontrollable. It was not until some gentle matrons from the Swedish
Emigrant Society had come to comfort them in the familiar tongue that
they became normal enough to tell their names and the address of the
unfortunate cousin. This man was eventually located and he led his
kinswomen off happy and hopeful once more.
Sallie, the negress, was remanded for trial, in company with her
sobbing mistress, who realized that she was facing the certainty of a
term of years in the Federal prison.
Uncle Sam and his legal assistants are not kind to "captains of
industry" in this particular branch of interstate commerce.
"We have the goods on them," said the Federal detective who had been
summoned at once to go over the evidence to be found in the carefully
guarded house of Madame Blanche. "This place, to judge from the
records has been run along two lines. For one thing, it is what we
term a 'house of call.' Madame Blanche has a regular card index of at
least two hundred girls."
"Then, that gives a pretty good list for you to get after, doesn't it?"
said Burke, who was joining in the conference between the detective,
the captain of the precinct, and the inspector of the police district.
"Well, the list won't do much good. About all you can actually prove
is that these girls are bad ones. There's a description of each girl,
her age, her height, her complexion and the color of her hair. It's
horribly business like," replied the detective. "But I'm used to this.
We don't often get such a complete one for our records. This list
alone is no proof against the girls--even if it does give the list
price of their shame, like the tag on a department store article. This
woman has been keeping what you might call an employment agency by
telephone. When a certain type of girl is wanted, with a certain
price--and that's the mark of her swellness, as you might call
it--Madame Blanche is called up. The girl is sent to the address
given, and she, too, is given her orders over the telephone; so you see
nothing goes on in this house which would make it strictly within the
law as a house of ill repute."
"But, do you think there is much of this particular kind of trade?"
queried Bobbie. "I've heard a lot of this sort of thing. But I put
down a great deal of it to the talk of men who haven't anything else
much to discuss."
"There certainly is a lot of it. When the police cleaned up the old
districts along Twenty-ninth Street and Thirtieth and threw the regular
houses out of the business, the call system grew up. These girls, many
of them, live in quiet boarding houses and hotels where they keep up a
strict appearance of decency--and yet they are living the worst kind of
immoral lives, because they follow this trade scientifically."
Reggie Van Nostrand, by reason of his gallant assistance, and at his
urgent request, had been allowed to listen.
"By George, gentlemen, I have a lot of money that I don't know what to
do with. I wish there was some way I could help in getting this sort
of thing stopped. Here's my life--I've been a silly spender of a lot
of money my great grandfather made because he bought a farm and never
sold it--right in the heart of what is now the busy section of town. I
can't think of anything very bad that I've done, and still less any
good that will amount to anything after I die. I'm going to spend some
of what I don't need toward helping the work of cleaning out this evil."
The inspector grunted.
"Well, young man, if you spend it toward letting people know just how
bad conditions are, and not covering the truth up or not trying to
reform humanity by concealing the ugly things, you may do a lot. But
don't be a _reformer_."
"What can be done with this woman Blanche?" asked Van Nostrand meekly.
"She'll be put where she won't have to worry about telephone calls and
card indexes. Every one of these girls should be locked up, and given
a good strong hint to get a job. It won't do much good. But, we've
got this much of their records, and will be able to drive some of them
out of the trade. When every big city keeps on driving them out, and
the smaller cities do the same, they'll find that it's easier to give
up silk dresses forever and get other work than to starve to death.
But you can't get every city in the country doing this until the men
and women of influence, the mothers and fathers are so worked up over
the rottenness of it all that they want to house-clean their own
surroundings."
"One thing that should be done in New York and other towns is to put
the name of the owner of every building on a little tablet by the door.
If that was done here in New York," said the inspector, "you'd be
surprised to see how much real estate would be sold by church vestries,
charitable organizations, bankers, old families, and other people who
get big profits from the high rent that a questionable tenant is
willing to pay."
"Madame Blanche, and these poor specimens of manhood with her are
guilty of trafficking in girls for sale in different states. These
Swedes were to be sent to Minnesota, and her records show that she has
been supplying the Crib, in New Orleans, and what's left of the Barbary
Coast in Chicago. Why, she has sent six girls to the Beverly Club in
Chicago during the last month."
"Where does she get them all?" asked Burke. "I've been trailing some
of these gangsters, but they certainly can't supply them all, like
this."
The detective shook his head, and spoke slowly.
"There are about three big clearing houses of vice in New York, and
they are run by men of genius, wealth and enormous power. I'm going to
run them down yet. You've helped on this, Officer Burke. If you can
do more and get at the men higher up--there's not a mention of their
location in all of Blanche's accounts, not a single check book--then,
you will get a big reward from the Department of Justice. For Uncle
Sam is not sleeping with the enemy inside his fortifications."
Burke's eyes snapped with the fighting spirit.
"I've been doing my best with them since I got on the force, and I hope
to do more if they don't finish me first. A little Italian fruit man
down in my precinct sent word to me to-day that they were 'after me.'
So, maybe I will not have a chance."
Van Nostrand interrupted at this point.
"Well, Officer 4434, you can have the backing of all the money you need
as far as I am concerned. You'll have to come down to my offices some
day soon, and we'll work out a plan of getting after these people. Can
I do anything more, inspector?"
The official shook his head.
"There's a poor young woman here who is half drugged, and doesn't know
who she is," he began.
"Well, send her to some good private hospital and have her taken care
of and send the bill to me," said Reggie. "I've got to be getting
downtown. Goodbye, Officer Burke, don't forget me."
"Goodbye--you've been a fine chauffeur and a better detective," said
the young policeman, "even if you are a millionaire." And the two
young men laughed with an unusual cordiality as they shook hands.
Despite the difference in their stations it was the similarity of red
blood in them both which melted away the barriers, and later developed
an unconventional and permanent friendship between them.
Burke talked with Henrietta Bailey, the country girl, who sat
dejectedly in the station house. She had no plans for the future,
having come to the big city to look for a position, trusting in the
help of the famous Y.W.C.A. organization, of whose good deeds and
protection she had heard so much, even in the little town up state.
"I'll call them up, down at their main offices," said Bobbie, "but it's
a big society and they have all they can do. Wouldn't you like to meet
a nice sweet girl who will take a personal interest in you, and go down
there with you herself?"
Henrietta tried to hold back the tears.
"Oh, land sakes," she began, stammering, "I ... do ... want to just
blubber on somebody's shoulder. I'm skeered of all these New York
folks, and I'm so lonesome, Mr. Constable."
"We'll just cure that, then," answered Burke. "I'll introduce you to
the very finest girl in the world, and she'll show you that hearts beat
as warmly in a big city as they do in a village of two hundred people."
Bobbie lost no time in telephoning Mary Barton, who was just on the
point of leaving Monnarde's candy store.
She came directly uptown to meet the country girl and take her to the
modest apartment for the night.
Bobbie devoted the interim to making his report on the unusual
circumstances of his one-man raid ... and dodging the police reporters
who were on the scene like hawks as soon as the news had leaked out.
Despite his declaration that the credit should go to the precinct in
which the arrests had been made half a dozen photographers, with their
black artillery-like cameras had snapped views of the house, and some
grotesque portraits of the young officer. Other camera men, with
newspaper celerity, had captured the aristocratic features of Reggie
Van Nostrand and his racing car, as he sat in it before his Fifth
Avenue club. It was such a story that city editors gloated over, and
it was to give the embarrassed policeman more trouble than it was worth.
Bobbie's telephone report to Captain Sawyer, explaining his absence
from the downtown station house was greeted with commendation.
"That's all right, Burke, go as far as you like. A few more cases like
that and you'll be on the honor list for the Police Parade Day. Clean
it up as soon as you can," retorted his superior.
When Mary took charge of Henrietta Bailey, the hapless girl felt as
though life were again worth living. After a good cry in the matron's
room, she was bundled up, her rattan suitcase and the weather-beaten
band boxes were carried over to the Barton home.
"I don't know whether you had better say anything about this Baxter to
Lorna or not," said Bobbie, as he stood outside the house, to start on
his way downtown. "It's a horrible affair, and her escape from the
man's clutches was a close one."
"She's cured now, however," stoutly declared Mary. "I have no fears
for Lorna."
"Then do as you think best. I'll see you to-morrow afternoon, there at
the store, and you can take supper downtown with me if you would like.
If there is any way I can help about this girl let me know."
They separated, and Mary took her guest upstairs.
Her father was greatly excited for he had just put the finishing
touches on his dictagraph-recorder. His mind was so over-wrought with
his work that Mary thought it better not to tell him of the exciting
afternoon until later. She simply introduced Henrietta as a friend
from the country who was going to spend the night. Lorna was courteous
enough to the newcomer, but seemed abstracted and dreamy. She
neglected the little household duties, making the burden harder for
Mary. Henrietta's rustic training, however, asserted itself, and she
gladly took a hand in the preparation of the evening meal.
"I've a novel I want to finish reading, Mary," said her sister, "and if
you don't mind I'm going to do it. You and Miss Bailey don't need me.
I'll go into our room until supper is ready."
"What is it, dear? It must be very interesting," replied Mary, a shade
of uneasiness coming over her. "You are not usually so literary after
the hard work at the store all day."
Lorna laughed.
"It's time I improved my mind, then. A friend gave it to me--it's the
story of a chorus girl who married a rich club man, by Robin Chalmers,
and oh, Mary! It's simply the most exciting thing you ever read. The
stage does give a girl chances that she never gets working in a store,
doesn't it?"
"There are several kinds of chances, Lorna," answered the older girl
slowly. "There are many girls who beautify their own lives by their
success on the stage, but you know, there are a great many more who
find in that life a terrible current to fight against. While they may
make large salaries, as measured against what you and I earn, they must
rehearse sometimes for months without salary at all. If the show is
successful they are in luck for a while, and their pictures are in
every paper. They spend their salary money to buy prettier clothes and
to live in beautiful surroundings, and they gauge their expenditures
upon what they are earning from week to week. But girls I have known
tell me that is the great trouble. For when the play loses its
popularity, or fails, they have accustomed themselves to extravagant
tastes, and they must rehearse for another show, without money coming
in."
"Oh, but a clever girl can pick out a good opportunity."
"No, she can't. She is dependent upon the judgment of the managers,
and if you watch and see that two of every three shows put on right in
New York never last a month out, you'll see that the managers' judgment
is not so very keen. Even the best season of a play hardly lasts
thirty weeks--a little over half a year, and so you must divide a
girl's salary in two to find what she makes in a year's time. You and
I, in the candy store, are making more money than a girl who gets three
times the money a week on the stage, for we have a whole year of work,
and we don't have to go to manicures and modistes and hairdressers two
or three times a week."
"Well, I wish we did!" retorted Lorna petulantly. "There's no romance
in you, Mary. You're just humdrum and old-fashioned and narrow. Think
of the beautiful costumes, and the lights, the music, the applause of
thousands! Oh, it must be wonderful to thrill an audience, and have
hundreds of men worshiping you, and all that, Mary."
Her sister's eyes filled with tears as she turned away.
"Go on with your book, Lorna," she murmured. "Maybe some day you'll
read one which will teach you that old fashions are not so bad, that
there's romance in home and that the true, decent love of one man is a
million times better than the applause, and the flowers, and the
flattery of hundreds. I've read such books."
"Hum!" sniffed Lorna, "I don't doubt it. Written by old maids who
could never attract a man, nor look pretty themselves. Well, none of
the girls I know bother with such books: there are too many lively ones
written nowadays. Call me when supper is ready, for I'm hungry."
And she adjusted her curls before flouncing into the bedroom to lose
herself in the adventures of the patchouli heroine.
It was a quiet evening at the Barton home. The father was too
engrossed to give more than abstracted heed, even to the appetizing
meal. Mary forbore to interrupt his thoughts about the new machine.
She felt a hesitation about narrating the afternoon's adventures of
Bobbie Burke to Lorna, for the girl seemed estranged and eager only for
the false romance of her novel. With Henrietta, Mary discussed the
opportunities for work in the great city, already overcrowded with
struggling girls. So convincing was she, the country lass decided that
she would take the train next morning back to the little town where she
could be safe from the excitement and the dangers of the city lure.
"I reckon I'm a scared country mouse," she declared. "But I'm old
enough to know a warning when I get one. The Lord didn't intend me to
be a city girl, or he wouldn't have given me this lesson to-day. I've
got my old grand dad up home, and there's Joe Mills, who is foreman in
the furniture factory. I think I'd better get back and help Joe spend
his eighteen a week in the little Clemmons house the way he wanted me
to do."
"You couldn't do a better thing in the world," said Mary, patting her
hand gently as they sat in the cosy little kitchen. "Your little town
would be a finer place to bring up little Joes and little Henriettas
than this big city, wouldn't it? And I don't believe the right Joe
ever comes but once in a girl's life. There aren't many fellows who
are willing to share eighteen a week with a girl in New York."
Mary's guest blushed happily as the light of a new determination shone
in her eyes. She opened a locket which she wore on a chain around her
neck.
"I always thought Joe was nice, and all that--but I read these here
stories about the city fellers, and I seen the pictures in the
magazines, and thought Joe was a rube. But he ain't, is he?"
She held up the little picture, as she opened the locket, for Mary's
scrutiny. The honest, smiling face, the square jaw, the clear eyes of
Joe looked forth as though in greeting of an old friend.
"You can't get back to Joe any too quickly," advised Mary, and
Henrietta wiped her eyes. She had received a homeopathic cure of the
city madness in one brief treatment!
It was not a quiet evening for Officer 4434.
When he emerged from the Subway at Fourteenth Street a newsboy
approached him with a bundle of papers.
"Uxtry! Uxtry!" shouted the youngster. "Read all about de cop and de
millionaire dat captured de white slavers!"
The lad shoved a paper at Bobbie, who tossed him a nickel and hurried
on, quizzically glancing at the flaring headlines which featured the
name of Reggie Van Nostrand and his own. The quickly made
illustrations, showing his picture, the machine of the young clubman,
and the house of slavery were startling. The traditional arrow
indicated "where the battle was fought," and Burke laughed as he
studied the sensational report.
"Well, I look more like a gangster, according to this picture, than
Jimmie the Monk! Those news photographers don't flatter a fellow very
much."
At the station house he was warmly greeted by his brother officers. It
was embarrassing, to put it mildly; Burke had no desire for a pedestal.
"Oh, quit it, boys," he protested. "You fellows do more than this
every day of your lives. I'm only a rookie and I know it. I don't
want this sort of thing and wish those fool reporters had minded their
own business."
"That's all right, Bobbie," said Doctor MacFarland, who had dropped in
on his routine call, "you'd better mind your own p's and q's, for you
will be a marked man in this neighborhood. It's none too savory at
best. You know how these gunmen hate any policeman, and now they've
got your photograph and your number they won't lose a minute to use
that knowledge. Keep your eyes on all points of the compass when you
go out to-night."
"I'll try not to go napping, Doc," answered Burke gratefully. "You're
a good friend of mine, and I appreciate your advice. But I don't
expect any more trouble than usual."
After his patrol duty Burke was scheduled for a period on fixed post.
It was the same location as that on which he had made the acquaintance
of Jimmie the Monk and Dutch Annie several months before. As a
coincidence, it began to storm, just as it had on that memorable
evening, except that instead of the blighting snow blizzards, furious
sheets of rain swept the dirty streets, and sent pedestrians under the
dripping shelter of vestibules and awnings.
Burke, without the protection of a raincoat, walked back and forth in
the small compass of space allowed the peg-post watcher, beating his
arms together to warm himself against the sickening chill of his
dripping clothes.
As he waited he saw a man come out of the corner saloon.
It was no other than Shultberger, the proprietor of the cafe and its
cabaret annex. The man wore a raincoat, and a hat pulled down over his
eyes. He came to the middle of the crossing and closely scrutinized
the young policeman.
"Is dot you, Burke?" he asked gruffly.
"Yes, what do you want of me?"
"Veil, I joost vanted to know dat a good man vos on post to-night, for
I expect troubles mit dese gun-men. Dey don't like me, und I t'ought
I'd find out who vos here."
This struck 4434 as curious. He knew that Shultberger was the guardian
angel of the neighborhood toughs in time of storm and trouble. Yet he
was anxious to do his duty.
"What's the trouble? Are they starting anything?"
The saloon man shook his head as he started back to his cafe.
"Oh, no. But ve all know vot a fighter you vos to-day. De papers is
full mit it. Dey've got purty picture of you, too. I joost vos
skeered dot dey might pick on me because I vos always running a orderly
place, und because I'm de frend of de police. I'll call you if I need
you."
He disappeared in the doorway.
Burke watched him, thinking hard. Perhaps they were planning some
deviltry, but he could not divine the purpose of it. At any rate he
was armed with his night stick and his trusty revolver. He had a clear
space in which to protect himself, and he was not frightened by ghosts.
So, alert though he was, his mind was not uneasy.
He turned casually, on his heels, to look up the Avenue. He was
startled to see two stocky figures within five feet of him. That quick
right-about had saved him from an attack, although he did not realize
it. The approach of the men had been absolutely noiseless.
The rain beat down in his face, and the men hesitated an instant, as
though interrupted in some plan. It did not occur to Burke that they
had approached him with a purpose.
He looked at them sharply, by force of habit. Their evil faces showed
pallid and grewsome in the flickering light of the arc-lamp on the
corner by Shultberger's place.
The two men glared at him shrewdly, and then passed on by without a
word. They walked half way down the block, and Burke, watching them
from the corner of his eye, saw them cross the street and turn into the
rear entrance of Shultberger's cabaret restaurant.
"Well, he's having some high-class callers to-night," mused Burke.
"Perhaps he'll need a little help after all."
Even as he thought this he heard a crash of broken glass, and he turned
abruptly toward the direction of the sound.
The arc-light had gone out.
Burke walked across the street and fumbled with his feet, feeling the
broken glass which had showered down near the base of the pole.
"I wonder what happened to that lamp? They don't burst of their own
accord like this generally."
He walked back to his position. The street was now very dark, because
the nearest burning arc-lamp was half a block to the south. As Burke
pondered on the situation he heard footsteps to his left. He turned
about and a familiar voice greeted him. It was Patrolman Maguire.
"Well, Burke, your sins should sure be washed away in this deluge! I
thought that I'd step up a minute and give you a chance to go get some
dry clothes and a raincoat. You've another hour on the peg before I
relieve you, but hustle down to the station house and rig yourself up,
me lad."
It was a welcome cheery voice from the dismal night shades. But Burke
objected to the suggestion.
"No, Maguire, I'll stick it out. I think there's trouble brewing, and
it's only sixty more minutes. You keep on your patrol. We both might
get a call-down for changing."
"Well, begorra, if there's any call-down for a little humanity, I don't
give a rap. You go get some dry clothes. I know Cap. Sawyer won't
mind. You can be back here in five minutes. You've done enough to-day
to deserve a little consideration, me boy. Hustle now!"
Burke was chilled to the marrow and his teeth chattered, even though it
was a Spring rain, and not the icy blasts of the earlier post nights.
"Well, keep a sharp lookout for this crowd around Shultberger's, Mack!"
He yielded, and turned toward the station house with a quick stride.
He had hardly gone half a block before Maguire had reason to remember
the warning. A cry of distress came from the vestibule of
Shultberger's front entrance. The lights of the saloon had been
suddenly extinguished.
"Sure, and that's some monkey business," thought Maguire, as he ran
toward the doorway.
He pounded on the pavement with his night stick, and the resonant sound
stopped Burke's retreat to the station. Officer 4434 wheeled about and
ran for the post he had just left.
Maguire had barely reached the doorway of the saloon when a revolver
shot rang out, and the red tongue licked his face.
"Now we got 'im!" cried a voice.
"Kill the rookie!"
"That's Burke, all right!"
Maguire felt a stinging sensation in his shoulder, and his nightstick
dropped with a thud to the sidewalk. Three figures pounded upon him,
and again the revolver spoke. This time there was no fault in the aim.
A gallant Irish soul passed to its final goal as the weapon barked for
the third time.
Burke's heart was in his mouth; it was no personal fear, but for the
beloved comrade whom he felt sure had stepped into the fate intended
for himself. He drew his revolver as he ran, and swung his stick from
its leathern handle thong resoundingly on the sidewalk as he raced
toward the direction of the scuffle.
A short figure darted out from a doorway as he approached the corner
and deftly stuck a foot forward, tripping the policeman.
"Beat it, fellers!" called this adept, whose voice Burke recognized as
that of Jimmie the Monk. It was a clever campaign which the gangsters
had laid out, but their mistake in picking the man cost them dearly.
As he called, the Monk darted down the street for a quick escape,
feeling confident that his enemy was lying dead in the doorway on the
corner. Burke forgot the orders of the Mayor against the use of
fire-arms; his mind inadvertently swung into the fighting mood of the
old days in the Philippines, when native devils were dealt justice as
befitted their own methods.
He had fallen heavily on the wet pavement, and slid. But, at the
recognition of that evil voice, he rolled over, and half lying on the
pavement he leveled his revolver at the fleeting figure of the gang
leader.
Bang! One shot did the work, and Jimmie the Monk crumpled forward,
with a leg which was never again to lead in another Bowery "spiel" or
club prize fight.
"He's fixed," thought Burke, and he sprang up, to run forward to the
vestibule of Shultberger's. There he found the body of Maguire
sprawled out, with the blood of the Irish kings mingling with the
rainwater on the East Side street.
One man was hiding in the doorway's shelter. Another was scuttling
down the street, to run full into the arms of an approaching roundsman.
As Burke stooped over the form of his comrade a black-jack struck his
shoulder. He sprang upward, partially numbed from the blow, but
summoning all his strength he caught the gangster by the arm and
shoulder and flung him bodily through the glass door which smashed with
a clatter.
Burke kicked at the door as he fought with the murderer, and his weight
forced it open.
A whisky bottle whizzed through the air from behind the bar.
Shultberger was in the battle. Burke's night stick ended the struggle
with his one assailant, and he ran for the long bar, which he vaulted,
as the saloon-keeper dodged backward. Another revolver shot
reverberated as the proprietor retreated. But, at this rough and
tumble fight, Burke used the greatest fighting projectile of the
policeman; he threw the loaded night stick with unerring aim, striking
Shultberger full in the face. The man screamed as he fell backward.
Half a dozen policemen had surrounded the saloon by this time, and
Burke fumbled around until he found the electric light switch near the
cash register. He threw a flood of light on the scene of destruction.
Shultberger, pulling himself up to his knees, his face and mouth gory
from the catapult's stroke, moaned with agony as he clawed blindly.
Patrolman White was tugging at the gangster who had been knocked
unconscious by Burke's club. Outside two of the uniformed men were
reverently lifting the corpse of Terence Maguire, who was on his
Eternal Fixed Post.
"Have ... have you sent ... for an ambulance?" cried Bobbie.
"Yes, Burke," said the sergeant, who had examined the dead man. "But
it's too late. Poor Mack, poor old Mack!"
A patrol wagon was clanging its gong as the driver spurred the horses
on. Captain Sawyer dismounted from the seat by the driver. The bad
news had traveled rapidly. Suddenly Burke, remembering the fleeing
Jimmie, dashed from the saloon, and forced his way through the swarming
crowd which had been drawn from the neighboring tenements by the
excitement.
"Is the boy crazy?" asked Sawyer. "Hurry, White, and notify the
Coroner, for I don't intend to allow Terence Maguire to lie in this
rotten den very long."
Burke ran along the wet street, looking vainly for the wounded
gang-leader. Jimmie was not in sight! Burke went the entire length of
the block, and then slowly retraced his steps.
He scrutinized every hallway and cellar entrance.
At last his vigilance was rewarded. Down the steps, beneath a
half-opened bulkhead door, he found his quarry.
The Monk was moaning with pain from a shattered leg-bone.
Burke clambered down and tried to lift the wounded man.
"Get up here!" he commanded.
"Oh, dey didn't get ye, after all!" cried Jimmie, recognizing his
voice. He sank his teeth in the hand which was stretched forth to help
him. Burke swung his left hand, still numb from the black-jack blow on
his shoulder, and caught the ruffian's nose and forehead. A vigorous
pull drew the fellow's teeth loose with a jerk.
"Well, you dog!" grunted the policeman, as he dragged the gangster to
the street level. "You'll have iron bars to bite before many hours,
and then the electric chair!"
Jimmie's nerve went back on him.
"Oh, Gaud! Dey can't do dat! I didn't do it. I wasn't dere!"
Burke said nothing, but holding the man down to the pavement with a
knee on his back, he whistled for the patrol wagon.
The prisoners were soon arraigned, Shultberger, Jimmie the Monk and the
first gangster were sent to the hospital shortly after under guard.
The second runner, who had been caught by White, was searched, and by
comparison of the weapons and the empty chambers of each one the police
deduced that it was he who had fired the shots which killed Maguire.
The entire band, including the saloon-keeper, were equally guilty
before the law, and their trial and sentencing to pay the penalty were
assured.
But back in the station house, late that night, the thought of
punishment brought little consolation to a heart-broken corps of
policemen.
Big, husky men sobbed like women. Death on duty was no stranger in
their lives; but the loss of rollicking, generous Maguire was a bitter
shock just the same.
And next morning, as Burke read the papers, after a wretched, sleepless
night, he saw the customary fifteen line article, headed: "ANOTHER
POLICEMAN MURDERED BY GANGSTERS." Five million fellow New Yorkers
doubtless saw the brief story as well, and passed it by to read the
baseball gossip, the divorce news, or the stock quotations--without a
fleeting thought of regret.
It was just the same old story, you know.
Had it been the story of a political boss's beer-party to the bums of
his ward; had it been an account of Mrs. Van Astorbilt's elopement with
a plumber; had it been the life-story of a shooting show girl; had it
been the description of the latest style in slit skirts; had it been a
sarcastic message from some drunken, over-rated city official; had it
been a sympathy-squad description of the hardships and soul-beauties of
a millionaire murderer it would have met with close attention.
But what is so stale as the oft-told, ever-old yarn of a policeman's
death?
"What do we pay them for?"