IN WHICH INSPECTOR QUEEN MAKES A CAPTURE—
On Tuesday evening, October second, promptly at 11:30 p.m., a tall man
wearing a soft black hat and a black overcoat, the collar pulled up
around his face to keep out the raw night-air, sauntered out of the
lobby of a small hotel on 53rd Street near Seventh Avenue and proceeded
at a sharp pace up Seventh Avenue toward Central Park.
Arrived at 59th Street he turned to the east and made his way along the
deserted thoroughfare in the direction of Fifth Avenue. When he reached
the Fifth Avenue entrance to Central Park, off the Plaza circle, he
stopped in the shadow of one of the big concrete corner-posts and
leaned back idly. As he lit a cigarette the flare from the match
illumined his face. It was that of an elderly man, a trifle lined. A
grizzled mustache drooped in a straggling line from his upper lip.
Under his hat a grey patch of hair was visible. Then the light from the
match flickered out.
He stood quietly against the concrete post, hands jammed into his
overcoat pockets, puffing away at his cigarette. An observer would have
noticed, had he been keen, that the man’s fingers trembled slightly and
that his black-shod feet tapped the sidewalk in an unsteady tattoo.
When his cigarette burned down, he threw it away and glanced at a
watch on his wrist. The hands stood at 11:50. He swore impatiently and
stepped past the portals of the Park entrance.
The light from the overhead arcs bordering the Plaza dimmed as he
walked up the stone lane. Hesitating, as if he were undecided as to his
course of action, he looked about him, considered for a moment, then
crossed over to the first bench and sat down heavily—like a man tired
from his day’s work and contemplating a restful quarter of an hour in
the silence and darkness of the Park.
Slowly his head drooped; slowly his figure grew slack. He seemed to
have fallen into a doze.
The minutes ticked away. No one passed the quiet figure of the
black-clad man as he sat on his bench. On Fifth Avenue the motors
roared past. The shrill whistle of the traffic officer in the Plaza
pierced the chill air periodically. A cold wind soughed through the
trees. From somewhere in the Stygian recesses of the Park came a girl’s
clear laugh—soft and far-off, but startlingly distinct. The minutes
drowsed on; the man was falling into a deeper sleep.
And yet, just as the bells of the neighborhood churches began to toll
the hour of twelve, the figure tensed, waited an instant and then rose
determinedly.
Instead of heading toward the entrance he turned and plodded farther up
the walk, his eyes bright and inquisitive in the gloomy depths created
by his hat-brim and coat-collar. He seemed to be counting the benches
as he proceeded in a steady, unhurried gait. Two—three—four—five—He
stopped. In the semi-darkness ahead he could barely make out a still
grey figure seated on a bench.
The man walked slowly on. Six—seven—He did not pause, but went straight
ahead. Eight—nine—ten.... Only then did he wheel and retrace his steps.
This time his gait was brisker, more definite. He approached the
seventh bench rapidly, then stopped short. Suddenly, as if he had made
up his mind, he crossed over to the spot where the indistinctly looming
figure rested quietly and sat down. The figure grunted and moved
over a trifle to give the newcomer more room.
The two men sat in silence. After a time the black-garbed man dipped
into the folds of his coat and produced a packet of cigarettes. He lit
one and held the match for a moment after the tip of the cigarette
glowed red. In the ray of the match-light he covertly examined the
quiet man at his side. The brief moment told him little—the occupant of
the bench was as well-muffled and concealed as himself. Then the light
puffed out and they were in darkness once more.
The black-coated man seemed to come to a decision. He leaned forward,
tapped the other man sharply on the knee and said in a low, husky voice
the one word:
“Papers!”
The second man came to life immediately. He half-shifted his position,
scrutinized his companion and grunted as if in satisfaction. He
carefully leaned away from the other man on the bench and with his
right gloved hand dug into his right overcoat pocket. The first man
bent eagerly forward, his eyes bright. The gloved hand of his companion
came out of the pocket, holding something tightly.
Then the owner of the hand did a surprising thing. With a fierce
bunching of muscles he sprang from the bench and leaped backward, away
from the first man. At the same time he leveled his right hand straight
at the crouched frozen figure. And a fragmentary gleam of light from an
arc-lamp far off revealed the thing he held in his hand—a revolver.
Crying out hoarsely, the first man sprang to his feet with the agility
of a cat. His hand plunged with a lightning-like movement into his
overcoat pocket. He darted, reckless of the weapon pointed at his
heart, straight forward at the tense figure before him.
But things were happening. The peaceful tableau, so suggestive
a bare instant before of open spaces and dark country silence, was
transformed magically into a scene of intense activity—a writhing,
yelling pandemonium. From a cluster of bushes a few feet behind the
bench a swiftly moving group of men with drawn guns materialized. At
the same time, from the farther side of the walk, a similar group
appeared, running toward the pair. And from both ends of the walk—from
the entrance about a hundred feet away and from the opposite direction,
in the blackness of the Park—came several uniformed policemen,
brandishing revolvers. The four groups converged almost as one.
The man who had drawn his gun and leaped from the bench did not await
the arrival of reënforcements. As his companion of a moment before
plunged his hand into his coat pocket the gun-wielder took careful
aim and fired. The weapon roared, awakening echoes in the Park. An
orange flame streaked into the body of the black-coated man. He lurched
forward, clutching his shoulder spasmodically. His knees buckled and he
fell to the stone walk. His hand still fumbled in his coat.
But an avalanche of men’s bodies kept him from whatever furious purpose
was in his mind. Ungentle fingers gripped his arms and pinned them
down, so that he could not withdraw his hand from his pocket. They
held him in this way, silently, until a crisp voice behind them said,
“Careful, boys—watch his hands!”
Inspector Richard Queen wriggled into the hard-breathing group and
stood contemplatively above the writhing figure on the pavement.
“Take his hand out, Velie—easy, now! Hold it stiff, and—stiff, man,
stiff! He’d jab you in a flash!”
Sergeant Thomas Velie, who was straining at the arm, gingerly pulled
it from the pocket despite the violent flounderings of the man’s
body. The hand appeared— empty, muscles loosened at the last moment.
Two men promptly fastened it in a vise.
Velie made a movement as if to explore the pocket. The Inspector
stopped him with a sharp word and himself bent over the threshing man
on the walk.
Carefully, delicately, as if his life depended upon caution, the old
man lowered his hand into the pocket and felt about its exterior. He
gripped something and just as cautiously withdrew it, holding it up to
the light.
It was a hypodermic needle. The light of the arc-lamp made its pale
limpid contents sparkle.
Inspector Queen grinned as he knelt by the wounded man’s side. He
jerked off the black felt hat.
“Disguised and everything,” he murmured.
He snatched at the grey mustache, passed his hand rapidly over the
man’s lined face. A smudge immediately appeared on the skin.
“Well, well!” said the Inspector softly, as the man’s feverish eyes
glared up at him. “Happy to meet you again, Mr. Stephen Barry, and your
good friend, Mr. Tetra Ethyl Lead!”