"The Law is a sort of hocuspocus science that smiles
in yer face while it picks yer pocket; and the
glorious uncertainty of it is of mair use to the
professors than the justice of it."
I
A trim, neatly dressed young man, holding in one of his carefully gloved
hands a bamboo cane, sat upon a bench in Union Square one brilliant
October morning some ten years ago. All about him swarms of excited
sparrows chattered and fought among the yellow leaves. A last night's
carnation languished in his button-hole, and his smoothly shaven
lantern-jaw and high cheekbones suggested the type of upper Broadway and
the Tenderloin. In spite of this, the general effect was not unpleasing,
especially as his sparse curly hair, just turning gray at the temples,
disclosed a forehead suggestive of more than usual intelligence in a
face otherwise ordinary. A shadowy, inscrutable smile from time to time
played upon his features, at one moment making them seem good-naturedly
sympathetic, at another, sinister. The casual observer would have
classed him as a student or actor. He was both, and more.
From a large jewelry store across the way presently emerged a diminutive
messenger-boy carrying a small, square bundle, and turned into Broadway.
The man on the bench, known to his friends as "Supple Jim," rose
unobtrusively to his feet. The apostle of Hermes stopped to buy a cent's
worth of mucilaginous candy from the Italian on the corner, and then,
whistling loudly, dawdled upon his way. The man followed, manoeuvring for
position, while the boy, now in the chewing stage and struggling
violently, lingered to inspect a mechanical toy. The supple one
accomplished a flank movement, approached, touched him on the shoulder,
and displayed a silver badge beneath his coat.
"Young man, I'm from the Central Office, and need your help. About a
block from here a feller will come runnin' after you and say they've
given you the wrong bundle--see? He'll hand you another, and tell you to
give him the one you've got. He's a crook--'Paddy the Sneak'--old game!
see?"
The boy was all attention, his jaws motionless.
"Yep!" he replied, his eyes glistening delightedly.
"Well, I'll be right behind you; and when he throws the game into you,
just pretend you fall to it an' hand him your box. Then I'll make the
collar. Are you on?"
"Say, that's easy!" grinned the boy.
"Show us what you're good for, then, and I'll have the Inspector send
you some passes for the theayter."
The boy started on in business-like fashion. As his interlocutor had
predicted, a hatless "feller" overtook him, breathless, and entered into
voluble explanation. The messenger exchanged bundles, and then, eyes
front, continued up the street until the detective should pounce upon
his victim. For some strange reason no such event took place. At the end
of the block he cast a furtive glance behind him. Both Paddy and the
Central Office man had vanished, to dispose in a Bowery pawnshop of the
fruits of their short hour of toil, dividing between them one hundred
and sixty dollars as the equivalent of the diamond stud which the box
had contained.
Half an hour later, drawn by a fascination which he found irresistible,
the hero of this legal memoir took a car to the Criminal Courts
Building, and made his way to the General Sessions.
"Forgot my subpoena, Cap'n. I'm a witness. Just let me in, please!" he
said, with a smile of easy good-nature.
Old Flaherty, the superannuated door-keeper, known as The Eagle, eyed
the young man suspiciously for a moment, and then, grumbling, allowed
him to enter the court-room. The thief who had so easily secured
admittance, fought his way persistently through the throng, elbowed by
the gruff officer at the inner gate, and selecting the best seat on the
front bench, compelled its earlier occupants to make room for him with a
calm assurance and matter-of-course superiority which they had not the
courage to oppose.
Supple Jim listened with interest to the call of the calendar. A few
lawyers, with their witnesses, whose cases had gone over until the
morrow, struggled out through the crush at the door, with no perceptible
diminution in the throng within. The clerk prepared to call the roll of
the jury.
"Trial jurors in the case of 'The People against Richard Monohan,'
please answer to your names."
The twelve, in varying keys, had all replied; the trial was "on" again,
having been interrupted, evidently, by the adjournment of the afternoon
before. A venerable complainant now resumed the story of how two young
men, whose acquaintance he had made in a saloon the previous Sunday
evening, had followed him into the street, assaulted him on his way home
and robbed him of his ring. He positively identified the prisoner as
the one who had wrenched it from his finger.
Next, an officer testified to having arrested the defendant upon the old
gentleman's description, and to having found in his pocket a pawn-ticket
calling for the ring in question.