“What’s dat? Me? On your way, boss!”
“Then you’ll find a pretty decent whisky in that decanter. Help
yourself. I think you’ll like it.”
A musical gurgling, followed by a contented sigh, showed that the
statement had been tested and proved correct.
“Cigar?” asked Jimmy.
“Me fer dat,” assented his visitor.
“Take a handful.”
“I eats dem alive,” said the marauder jovially, gathering in the spoils.
Jimmy crossed his legs.
“By the way,” he said, “let there be no secrets between us. What’s your
name? Mine is Pitt—James Willoughby Pitt.”
“Mullins is my monaker, boss. Spike, dey calls me.”
“And you make a living at this sort of thing?”
“Not so bad.”
“How did you get in here?”
Spike Mullins grinned.
“Gee! Ain’t de window open?”
“If it hadn’t been?”
“I’d a’ busted it.”
Jimmy eyed him fixedly.
“Can you use an oxyacetylene blow-pipe?” he demanded.
Spike was on the point of drinking. He lowered his glass and gaped.
“What’s dat?” he said.
“An oxyacetylene blow-pipe.”
“Search me,” said Spike blankly. “Dat gets past me.”
Jimmy’s manner grew more severe.
“Can you make soup?”
“Soup, boss?”
“He doesn’t know what soup is,” said Jimmy despairingly. “My good man,
I’m afraid you have missed your vocation. You have no business to be
trying to burgle. You don’t know the first thing about the game.”
Spike was regarding him with furtive disquiet over his glass. Till now
the red-haired one had been very well satisfied with his methods, but
criticism was beginning to sap his nerve. He had heard tales of masters
of his craft who made use of fearsome implements such as Jimmy had
mentioned; burglars who had an airy acquaintanceship, bordering on
insolent familiarity, with the marvels of science; men to whom the
latest inventions were as familiar as his own jemmy was to himself.
Could this be one of that select band? Jimmy began to take on a new
aspect in his eyes.
“Spike,” said Jimmy.
“Huh!”
“Have you a thorough knowledge of chemistry, physics——”
“On your way, boss!”
“Toxicology——”
“Search me!”
“Electricity and microscopy?”
“Nine, ten. Dat’s de finish. I’m down and out.”
Jimmy shook his head sadly.
“Give up burglary,” he said. “It’s not in your line. Better try
poultry-farming.”
Spike twiddled his glass, abashed.
“Now I,” said Jimmy airily, “am thinking of breaking into a house
to-night.”
“Gee!” exclaimed Spike, his suspicions confirmed at last. “I t’ought
youse was in de game, boss. Sure, you’re de guy dat’s onto all de
curves. I t’ought so all along.”
“I should like to hear,” said Jimmy amusedly, as one who draws out an
intelligent child, “how you would set about burgling one of those
up-town villas. My own work has been on a somewhat larger scale and on
the other side of the Atlantic.”
“De odder side?”
“I have done as much in London as anywhere else,” said Jimmy. “A great
town, London. Full of opportunities for the fine worker. Did you hear of
the cracking of the new Asiatic Bank in Lombard Street?”
“No, boss,” whispered Spike. “Was dat you?”
“The police would like an answer to the same question,” he said
self-consciously. “Perhaps you heard nothing of the disappearance of the
Duchess of Havent’s diamonds?”
“Was dat——?”
“The thief,” said Jimmy, flicking a speck of dust from his coat-sleeve,
“was discovered to have used an oxyacetylene blow-pipe.”
The rapturous intake of Spike’s breath was the only sound that broke the
silence. Through the smoke his eyes could be seen slowly widening.
“But about this villa,” said Jimmy. “I am always interested even in the
humblest sides of the profession. Now, tell me, supposing you were going
to break into a villa, what time of night would you do it?”
“I always t’inks it’s best either late like dis or when de folks is in
at supper,” said Spike respectfully.
Jimmy smiled a faint, patronizing smile, and nodded.
“Well, and what would you do?”
“I’d rubber around some to see isn’t dere a window open somewheres,”
said Spike diffidently.
“And if there wasn’t?”
“I’d climb up de porch and into one of de bedrooms,” said Spike, almost
blushing. He felt like a boy reading his first attempts at original
poetry to an established critic. What would this master cracksman, this
polished wielder of the oxyacetylene blow-pipe, this expert in
toxicology, microscopy, and physics, think of his callow outpourings?
“How would you get into the bedroom?”
Spike hung his head.
“Bust de catch wit me jemmy,” he whispered shamefacedly.
“Burst the catch with your jemmy?”
“It’s de only way I ever learned,” pleaded Spike.
The expert was silent. He seemed to be thinking. The other watched his
face humbly.
“How would youse do it, boss?” he ventured timidly, at last.
“Eh?”
“How would youse do it?”
“Why, I’m not sure,” said the master graciously, “whether your way might
not do in a case like that. It’s crude, of course, but with a few
changes it would do.”
“Gee, boss! Is dat right?” queried the astonished disciple.
“It would do,” said the master, frowning thoughtfully. “It would do
quite well—quite well.”
Spike drew a deep breath of joy and astonishment. That his methods
should meet with approval from such a mind!
“Gee!” he whispered. As who should say, “I am Napoleon.”
★ 6 ★
_An Exhibition Performance_
Cold reason may disapprove of wagers, but without a doubt there is
something joyous and lovable in the type of mind which rushes at the
least provocation into the making of them, something smacking of the
spacious days of the Regency. Nowadays the spirit seems to have deserted
England. When Mr. Lloyd George became Premier of Great Britain no
earnest forms were to be observed rolling pea-nuts along the Strand with
a toothpick. When Mr. George is dethroned it is improbable that any
Briton will allow his beard to remain unshaved until his pet party
returns to office. It is in the United States that the wager has found a
home. It is characteristic of some minds to dash into a wager with the
fearlessness of a soldier in a forlorn hope, and, once in, to regard it
almost as a sacred trust. Some men never grow up out of the schoolboy
spirit of “daring”.
To this class Jimmy Pitt belonged. He was of the same type as the man in
the comic opera who proposed to the lady because somebody bet him he
wouldn’t. There had never been a time when a challenge, a “dare”, had
not acted as a spur to him. In his newspaper days life had been one long
series of challenges. They had been the essence of the business. A story
had not been worth getting unless the getting were difficult.
With the conclusion of his newspaper life came a certain flatness into
the scheme of things. There were times, many times, when Jimmy was
bored. He hungered for excitement, and life appeared to have so little
to offer. The path of the rich man was so smooth, and it seemed to lead
nowhere. This task of burgling a house was like an unexpected treat to a
child. With an intensity of purpose which should have touched his sense
of humour, but which, as a matter of fact, did not appeal to him as
ludicrous in any way, he addressed himself to the work. The truth was
that Jimmy was one of those men who are charged to the brim with force.
Somehow the force had to find an outlet. If he had undertaken to collect
birds’ eggs, he would have set about it with the same tense energy.
Spike was sitting on the edge of his chair, dazed but happy, his head
still buzzing from the unhoped-for praise. Jimmy looked at his watch. It
was nearly three o’clock. A sudden idea struck him. The gods had
provided gifts—why not take them?
“Spike!”
“Huh?”
“Would you care to come and crack a crib with me now?”
“Gee, boss!”
“Would you?”
“Surest t’ing you know, boss.”
“Or, rather,” proceeded Jimmy, “would you care to crack a crib while I
come along with you? Strictly speaking, I am here on vacation, but a
trifle like this isn’t real work. It’s this way,” he explained. “I’ve
taken a fancy to you, Spike, and I don’t like to see you wasting your
time on coarse work. You have the root of the matter in you, and with a
little coaching I could put a polish on you. I wouldn’t do this for
every one, but I hate to see a man bungling who might do better! I want
to see you at work. Come right along and we’ll go up-town and you shall
start in. Don’t get nervous. Just work as you would if I were not there.
I shall not expect too much. Rome was not built in a day. When we are
through I will criticise a few of your mistakes. How does that suit
you?”
“Gee, boss! Great! And say, I knows just de places. A friend of mine
puts me wise to it. Leastways, I didn’t know he was me friend, but I
falls for him now. It’s a——”
“Very well, then. One moment, though.”
He went to the telephone. Before he had left New York on his travels,
Arthur Mifflin had been living at an hotel near Washington Square. It
was probable that he was still there. He called up the number. The
night-clerk was an old acquaintance of his.
“Hullo, Dixon!” said Jimmy, “is that you? I’m Pitt. Pitt. Yes. I’m back.
How did you guess? Yes, very pleasant, thanks. Has Mr. Mifflin come in
yet? Gone to bed? Never mind, ring him up, will you? Thanks.” Presently
the sleepy and outraged voice of Mr. Mifflin spoke at the other end of
the line.
“What’s wrong? Who the devil’s that?”
“My dear Arthur! Where you pick up such expressions I can’t think. Not
from me.”
“Is that you, Jimmy? What in the name of——”
“Heavens! what are you kicking about? The night’s yet young. Arthur,
touching that little arrangement we made—cracking that crib, you know.
Are you listening? Have you any objection to my taking an assistant
along with me? I don’t want to do anything contrary to our agreement,
but there’s a young fellow here who’s anxious that I should let him come
along and pick up a few hints. He’s a professional all right. Not in our
class, of course, but quite a fair rough workman. He——Arthur! Arthur!
These are harsh words! Then am I to understand you have no objection?
Very well. Only don’t say later on that I didn’t play fair. Good night.”
He hung up the receiver and turned to Spike.
“Ready?”
“Ain’t youse goin’ to put on your gum-shoes, boss?”
Jimmy frowned reflectively, as if there was something in what this
novice suggested. He went into the bedroom, and returned wearing a pair
of thin patent leather shoes.
Spike coughed tentatively.
“Won’t youse need your gun?” he hazarded.
Jimmy gave a short laugh.
“I work with my brains, not guns,” he said. “Let us be going.”
There was a taxi-cab near by, as there always is in New York. Jimmy
pushed Spike in.
The luxury of riding in a taxi-cab kept Spike dumb for several miles. At
One Hundred and Fiftieth Street Jimmy stopped the cab and paid the
driver, who took the money with that magnificently aloof air which
characterizes the taxi-chauffeur. A lesser man might have displayed some
curiosity about the ill-matched pair. The chauffeur, having lit a
cigarette, drove off without any display of interest whatsoever. It
might have been part of his ordinary duties to drive gentlemen in
evening clothes and shock-headed youths in parti-coloured sweaters about
the city at three o’clock in the morning.
“We will now,” said Jimmy, “stroll on and prospect. It might excite
comment if we drove up to the door. It is up to you, Spike. Lead me to
this house you mentioned.”
They walked on, striking eastward out of Broadway. It caused Jimmy some
surprise to find that much-enduring thoroughfare extended as far as
this. It had never occurred to him before to ascertain what Broadway did
with itself beyond Times Square. He had spent much of his time abroad,
in cities where a street changes its name every hundred yards or so
without any apparent reason.
It was darker now that they had moved from the centre of things, but it
was still far too light for Jimmy’s tastes. He was content, however, to
leave matters entirely in his companion’s charge. Spike probably had his
method for evading publicity on these occasions.
Spike, meanwhile, plodded steadily onwards. Block after block he passed,
until finally the houses began to be more scattered.
At length he stopped outside a fair-sized detached house. As he did so a
single rain-drop descended with a splash on the nape of Jimmy’s neck. In
another moment the shower had begun—jerkily at first, then, as if
warming to its work, with the quiet persistence of a shower-bath.
“Dis is de place, boss,” said Spike.
From a burglar’s point of view it was an admirable house. It had no
porch, but there was a handy window only a few feet from the ground.
Spike pulled from his pocket a small bottle and a piece of coarse paper.
“What’s that?” inquired Jimmy.
“Treacle, boss,” said Spike deferentially.
He poured the contents of the bottle on to the paper, which he pressed
firmly against the window-pane. Then, drawing out a short steel
instrument, he gave the paper a sharp tap. The glass beneath broke,
though the sound was almost inaudible. The paper came away with the
glass attached, then Spike inserting his hand in the opening, shot back
the catch and softly pushed up the window.
“Elementary,” said Jimmy; “elementary, but quite neat.”
There was now a shutter to be negotiated. This took longer, but in the
end Spike’s persuasive methods prevailed.
Jimmy became quite cordial.
“You have been well grounded, Spike,” he said. “And, after all, that is
half the battle. The advice I give to every novice is, ‘Learn to walk
before you try to run.’ Master the A B C of the craft first. With a
little careful coaching you will do. Just so. Pop in.”
Spike climbed cautiously over the sill, followed by Jimmy. The latter
struck a match and found the electric light switch. They were in a
parlour furnished and decorated with surprising taste. Jimmy had
expected the usual hideousness, but here everything, from the wall-paper
to the smallest ornaments, was wonderfully well selected.
Business, however, was business. This was no time to stand admiring
artistic efforts in room-furnishing. There was that big J to be carved
on the front door. If ’twere done, then ’twere well ’twere done quickly.
He was just moving to the door, when from some distant part of the house
came the bark of a dog. Another joined in. The solo became a duet. The
air was filled with their clamour.
“Gee!” cried Spike.
The remark seemed more or less to sum up the situation.
“’Tis sweet,” says Byron, “to hear the watch-dog’s honest bark.” Jimmy
and Spike found two watch-dogs’ honest barks cloying. Spike intimated
this by making a feverish dash for the open window. Unfortunately for
the success of this manoeuvre, the floor of the room was covered, not
with a carpet, but with tastefully scattered rugs, and underneath these
rugs it was very highly polished. Spike, treading on one of these
islands, was instantly undone. No power of will or muscle can save a man
in such a case. Spike skidded. His feet flew from under him. There was a
momentary flash of red hair, as of a passing meteor. The next moment he
had fallen on his back with a thud which shook the house, and probably
the rest of Manhattan Island as well. Even in that crisis the thought
flashed across Jimmy’s mind that this was not Spike’s lucky night.
Upstairs the efforts of the canine choir had begun to resemble the “A
che la morte” duet in _Il Trovatore_. Particularly good work was being
done by the baritone dog.
Spike sat up, groaning. Equipped though he was by nature with a skull of
the purest and most solid ivory, the fall had disconcerted him. His
eyes, like those of Shakespeare’s poet, rolling a fine frenzy, did
glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven. He passed his fingers
tenderly through his vermilion hair.
Heavy footsteps were descending the stairs. In the distance the soprano
dog had reached A in alto and was holding it, while his fellow-artiste
executed runs in the lower register.
“Get up!” hissed Jimmy. “There’s somebody coming! Get up, you idiot,
can’t you?”
It was characteristic of Jimmy that it never even occurred to him to
desert the fallen one and depart alone. There was once an Italian
convict who, in planning a jail-breaking, assigned to his brother felons
such duties as shooting the governor and strangling the warders,
reserving for himself the task of making “da gran’ escape”. Jimmy was
the exact opposite of this strategist. Spike was his brother-in-arms. He
would as soon have thought of deserting him as a sea-captain would have
abandoned his ship.
Consequently, as Spike, despite all exhortations, continued to remain on
the floor, rubbing his head and uttering “Gee!” at intervals in a
melancholy voice, Jimmy resigned himself to fate, and stood where he
was, waiting for the door to open.
It opened the next moment as if a cyclone had been behind it.
★ 7 ★
_Getting Acquainted_
A cyclone entering the room is apt to alter the position of things. This
one shifted a footstool, a small chair, a rug, and Spike. The chair
struck by a massive boot, whirled against the wall. The footstool rolled
away. The rug crumpled up and slid. Spike, with a yell, leaped to his
feet, slipped again, fell, and finally compromised on an all-fours
position, in which attitude he remained, blinking.
While these stirring acts were in progress there was the sound of a door
opening upstairs, followed by a scuttering of feet and an appalling
increase in the canine contribution to the current noises. The duet had
now taken on quite a Wagnerian effect.
There raced into the room first a white bull-terrier, he of the soprano
voice, and—a bad second—his fellow-artiste, the baritone, a massive
bulldog, bearing a striking resemblance to the big man with the
revolver.
And then, in theatrical parlance, the entire company “held the picture”.
Up-stage, with his hand still on the door, stood the large householder;
down-stage Jimmy. Centre, Spike and the bulldog, their noses, a couple
of inches apart, inspected each other with mutual disfavour. On the
extreme O.P. side the bull-terrier, who had fallen foul of a wickerwork
table, was crouching with extended tongue and rolling eyes, waiting for
the next move.
The householder looked at Jimmy. Jimmy looked at the householder. Spike
and the bulldog looked at each other. The bull-terrier distributed his
gaze impartially around the company.
“A typical scene of quiet American home-life,” murmured Jimmy.
The man with the pistol glowered.
“Hands up, you devils!” he roared, pointing a mammoth revolver.
The two marauders humoured his whim.
“Let me explain,” said Jimmy pacifically, shuffling warily round in
order to face the bull-terrier, who was now strolling in his direction
with an ill-assumed carelessness.
“Keep still, you blackguard!”
Jimmy kept still. The bull-terrier, with the same abstracted air, was
beginning a casual inspection of his right trouser-leg.
Relations between Spike and the bulldog, meanwhile, had become more
strained. The sudden flinging up of the former’s arms had had the worst
effect on the animal’s nerves. Spike, the croucher on all-fours, he
might have tolerated; but Spike, the semaphore, inspired him with
thoughts of battle. He was growling in a moody, reflective manner. His
eye was full of purpose.
It was probably this that caused Spike to look at the householder. Till
then he had been too busy to gaze elsewhere, but now the bulldog’s eye
had become so unpleasant that he cast a pathetic glance up at the man by
the door.
“Gee!” he cried, as he did so. “It’s de boss! Say, boss, call off de
dawg. It’s sure goin’ to nip de old head of me.”
The other lowered his revolver in surprise.
“So it’s you, is it, you limb of Satan?” he remarked. “I thought I had
seen that damned red head of yours before. What are you doing in my
house?”
Spike uttered a moan of self-pity.
“Boss,” he cried, “I’ve had a raw deal. Dere’s bin coarse work goin’ on.
Listen! It’s dis way. Honest, I didn’t know dis was where you lived. A
fat Swede—Ole Larsen his monaker is—tells me dis house belongs to a
widder-loidy what lives here all alone, and has all kinds of silver and
all dat, and she’s down Sout’ visiting, so dat de house is empty. Gee,
I’m onto his curves now. I’m wise. Listen, boss. Him and me starts a
scrappin’ last week over somet’in, and I t’inks he’s got it in bad for
me, because I puts it all over him. But t’ree days ago up he comes and
says, ‘Let’s be fren’s,’ and puts me wise on dis joint. I’ll soak it to
dat Swede! Dis was what he was woikin’ for. He knows you lives here, and
he t’inks to put me in bad wit youse. It’s a raw deal, boss!”
The big man listened to this sad tale of Grecian gifts in silence. Not
so the bulldog, which growled ominously from start to finish. Spike
glanced nervously in its direction.
“De dawg,” he persisted uneasily. “Won’t you call on de dawg, boss?”
The big man stooped and grasped the animal’s collar, jerking him away.
“The same treatment,” suggested Jimmy, with approval, “would also do a
world of good to this playful and affectionate animal—unless he is a
vegetarian, in which case don’t bother.”
The householder glowered at him.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“My name,” began Jimmy, “is——”
“Say,” said Spike, “he’s a champion burglar, boss——”
“Eh!” he said.
“He’s a champion burglar from de odder side. He sure is. From Lunnon.
Gee, he’s de guy! Tell him about the bank you opened, and de jools you
swiped from de duchess, and de what-d’ye-call-it blow-pipe.”
It seemed to Jimmy that Spike was showing a certain want of tact. When
you are discovered by a house-holder—with revolver—in his parlour at
half-past three in the morning, it is surely an injudicious move to lay
stress on your proficiency as a burglar. The householder may be supposed
to take it for granted. The side of your character which should be
advertised in such a crisis is the non-burglarious. Allusion should be
made to the fact that as a child you attended Sunday-school regularly,
and to what the curate said when you took the Divinity prize. The idea
should be conveyed to the householder’s mind that, if let off with a
caution, your innate goodness of heart will lead you to reform and avoid
such scenes in future.
With some astonishment, therefore, Jimmy found that these revelations,
so far from prejudicing the man with the revolver against him, had
apparently told in his favour. The man behind the gun was regarding him
rather with interest than disapproval.
“So you’re a crook from London, are you?”
Jimmy did not hesitate. If being a crook from London was a passport into
citizens’ parlours in the small hours, and, more particularly, if it
carried with it also a safe-conduct out of them, Jimmy was not the man
to refuse the _role_. He bowed.
“Well, you’ll have to come across now you’re in New York. Understand
that. And come across good.”
“Sure, he will,” said Spike, charmed that the tension had been relieved
and matters placed upon a pleasant and business-like footing. “He’ll be
good. He’s next to de game, sure.”
“Sure,” echoed Jimmy courteously. He did not understand; but things
seemed to be taking a turn for the better, so why disturb the harmony?
“Dis gent,” said Spike respectfully, “is boss of de cops. A
police-captain,” he corrected himself.
A light broke upon Jimmy’s darkness. He wondered he had not understood
before. He had not been a newspaper-man in New York for a year without
finding out something of the inner workings of the police force. He saw
now why the other’s manner had changed.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “We must have a talk together one of
these days.”
“We must,” said the police-captain significantly.
“Of course, I don’t know your methods on this side, but anything that’s
usual——”
“I’ll see you at my office. Spike Mullins will show you where it is.”
“Very well. You must forgive this preliminary informal call. We came in
more to shelter from the rain than anything.”
“You did, did you?”
Jimmy felt that it behoved him to stand on his dignity. The situation
demanded it.
“Why,” he said, with some hauteur, “in the ordinary course of business I
should hardly waste time over a small crib like——”
“It’s banks for his,” murmured Spike rapturously. “He eats dem alive.
And jools from duchesses.”
“I admit a partiality for jewels and duchesses,” said Jimmy. “And now,
as it’s a little late, perhaps we had better—— Ready, Spike? Good night,
then. Pleased to have met you.”
“I’ll see you at my office.”