The setting was a bleak and musty cellar, beneath an old stable of
dingy, brick construction. The building had been modernized to the
extent of one single decoration on the street front, an electric sign:
“Garage.” On the floor, level with the sidewalk, stood half a dozen
automobiles of varied manufacture and age. Near the wide swinging
doors of oak, stood a big, black limousine. Two taxicabs of the usual
appearance occupied the space next to this, while a handsome machine
faced them on the opposite side of the room. Two ancient machines were
backed against the wall, in the rear.
In the basement beneath, several men were grouped in the front
compartment, which was separated by a thick wooden partition from the
rear of the cellar. Three dusty incandescents illuminated this space. In
the back a curious arrangement of two large automobile headlights set on
deal tables directed glaring rays toward the one door of the partition.
In the center of the rear room was another table, standing behind a
screen of wire gauze, at the bottom of which was cut a small semicircle,
large enough for the protrusion of a white, tense hand, whose fingers
were even now spasmodically clenching in nervous indication of fury.
Behind either lamp was a heavy black screen, which effectually shut off
ingress to that portion of the room.
The man standing between the table and the closed door of the partition,
full in the light of the lamps, watched the hand as though fascinated.
He could see nothing else, for behind the gauze all was darkness.
Absolutely invisible, sat the possessor of the hand, observing the face
of his interviewer, on the brighter side of the gauze.
“So, there's no word from the Monk?”
“No, chief. De bloke's disappeared. Either he got so much swag offen dis
old Grimsby guy, after youse got de bumps, or he had cold feet and beat
it wid de machine.”
“It's a crooked game on me.” rasped the voice behind the screen. “I'll
send him up for this. You know how far my lines go out. What about Dutch
Jake and Ben the Bite?”
The man before the screen shook his head in helpless bewilderment There
was a suggestion of fright in his manner, as well.
“Can't find out a t'ing, gov'nor. I hopes you don't blame me for dis.
I'm doin' my share. Dey just disappears dat night w'en you sends 'em to
shadder Van Cleft's joint. My calcerlation is--”
“I'm not paying you to calculate. I've trusted you and lost six thousand
dollars' worth of automobiles for my pains. You can just calculate this,
that unless I get some news about Jake, Ben and the Monk by this time
tomorrow, I'll send some news down to Police headquarters on Lafayette
Street that will make you wish you had never been born.”
For some reason not difficult to guess, the suggestion had a galvanic
effect on the bewildered one. His hands trembled as he raised them
imploringly to the screen.
“Oh, gov'nor, wot have I done? Ain't I been on de level wid yez? Say,
I ain't never even seen yez for de fourteen months I've been yer
gobetween. I've been beat up by de cops, pinched and sent to de
workhouse 'cause I wouldn't squeal, and now ye t'reatens me. Did I ever
fall down on a trick ontil dis week? You'se ain't goin' ter welch on me,
are you'se? I ain't no welcher meself, an' ye knows it.”
The other snapped out curtly: “Very well, cut out the sob stuff. It's
up to you to prove that there hasn't been a leak somewhere or a double
cross. Send in those rummies,--I want to give them the once over again.
There's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, and I'm no abolitionist!
Quick now. Get a wiggle on.”
The hand was withdrawn from the little opening, as the lieutenant
advanced into the front compartment of the cellar. He beckoned meaningly
to the others to follow him. They obeyed with a slinking walk, which
showed that they were obsessed by some great dread, in that unseen
presence, in the heart of the spider-web!
“Which one of you is the stool pigeon,” came the harsh query.
“W'y, gov'nor, none of us. You'se knows us,” whined one of the men.
“Yes, and I know enough to send you all to Atlanta or Sing Sing or
Danamora, for the rest of your rotten lives, if I want to.”
The rascals stared vainly into the black vacuum of the screen, blinking
in the glaring lights, cowering instinctively before the unseen but
certain malignancy of the power behind that mysterious wall.
“I brought you here to New York,” continued the master, “you are making
more money with less work and risk than ever before. But you're playing
false with me, and I know some one is slipping information where it
oughtn't to go. I'm going to skin alive the one who I catch. There's one
eye that never sleeps, don't forget that.”
“Gee, boss, wot do we know to slip?” advanced the most forward of them.
“We follers orders, and gets our kale and dat's all. We ain't never
even seen ya, and don't know even wot de whole game is. Don't queer us,
gov'nor!”
“Go out front again, and shut off this blab. I warn you that's all-Now,
Phil, give this to the men. Tell them to keep off the cocaine--they're
getting to be a lot of bone heads lately. Too much dope will spoil the
best crook in the world.”
The white hand passed out a roll of crisp, new currency to the
lieutenant of the gang, who gingerly reached for it, as though he
expected the tapering fingers to claw him.
“Fifty dollars to each man. No holding out. Remember, every one of them
is spying on the other to me. I'm not a Rip Van Winkle. Now, I want
you to keep this fellow Montague Shirley covered but don't put him away
until I give you the word. Send the bunch upstairs, for I don't want to
be disturbed the next two hours. And just keep off the coke yourself.
You're scratching your face a good deal these days--I know the signs.”
Phil expostulated nervously. “Oh, gov'nor, I ain't no fiend--just once
and a while I gets a little rummy, and brightens up. It takes too much
money to git it now, anyway. Goodbye, chief.”
As he closed the wooden door to pay the gangsters, there was a
slight grating noise, which followed a double click. A bar of wood
automatically slid down into position behind the door, blocking a
possible opening from the front of the cellar. The lights suddenly were
darkened. The sound of shuffling feet would have indicated to a listener
that the owner of the nervous hand was retreating to the rear of the
darkened den. A noise resembling that of the turn of a rusty hinge
might have then been heard: there was a metallic clang, the rattle of a
sliding chain and the rear room was as empty as it was black!
In the front room, after payment from the red-headed ruffian, Phil, the
men clambered in single file up a wooden ladder to the street level.
A trap-door was put into place and closed. Then the men began to shoot
“craps” for a readjustment of the spoils, with the result that Red Phil,
as his henchmen called him, was the smiling possessor of most of the
money, without the erstwhile necessity of “holding out.”
Then the gangsters scattered to the nearby gin-shops to while away the
time before darkness should call for their evil activities. It was a
cheerful little assortment of desperadoes, yet in appearance they
did not differ from most of the habitues of New York garages, those
cesspools of urban criminality.
From his club, Shirley telephoned Jim Merrivale in his downtown office,
purposely giving another name, as he addressed his friend--a pseudonym
upon which they had agreed during the night call. Shirley was suspicious
of all telephones, by this time, and his guarded inquiry gave no
possible clue to a wiretapping eavesdropper.
“How is the new bull-dog?” was the question, after the first guarded
greeting. “Is he still muzzled?”
“Yes, Mr. Smith,” responded Merrivale, “and the meanest specimen I have
ever seen outside a Zoo! When I sent the groom out to feed him this
morning, he snarled and tried to claw him. He's on a hunger strike. I
looked up the license number on his collar but he's not registered in
this state.” (This, Shirley knew, meant the automobile tag under the
machine which had been captured.)
“When are you apt to send for him--I don't think I'll keep him any
longer than I can help.”
“I'll send out from the dog store, with a letter signed by me. Feed him
a little croton oil to cure his disposition. Good-bye, for now, Jim.
I'll write you, this day.”
Shirley hung up, and smiled with satisfaction at the news. The man would
be glad to get bread and water, before long, he felt assured. However,
he despatched a note to Cleary, of the Holland Agency, enclosing a
written order to Merrivale to deliver over the prisoner, for safer
keeping in the city.
This disposed of the started out from the club house for his afternoon
of dissipation. As he left the doorway, he noticed the two men with the
black caps standing not far away. They were engrossed in the rolling of
cigarettes, but the swift glance which they shot at him did not escape
Monty.
“Like the poor and the bill collectors, they are always with us,” was
his thought, as he calmly strolled over to the Hotel California. He
determined to place them in a quiet, sheltered retreat at the earliest
opportunity. He found Helene more attractive than ever.
“Shall I put on this wretched rouge again to-day,” was the plaintive
question, after the first greeting. “I hate it so--and yet, will do
whatever you order.”
“Your role calls for it, my dear girl. Perhaps we may close the dramatic
engagement sooner than we expect. To-night should be an eventful one,
for I will accept every lead which Reginald Warren offers. I would like
to have a record of his voice, and that of some of his friends. There
is a difference between the telephone voice and that heard face to
face,--you would be a good witness if I could persuade him to sing or
speak for me into a record. You can straighten out the difficulties of
this case, if you will, in a thoroughly feminine manner.”
“And what, sir, is that, I pray you?”
“Give him the opportunity--to fall in love with you.”
Helene's cheeks flushed a stronger carmine than the rouge which she was
administering, as she looked up in quick embarrassment.
“I don't want him to love me. I want no man to love me,” was the
petulant answer.
“Doubtless you have reason to be satisfied as things are,” replied
Shirley, puffing a cigarette, “but the softness of cerebral conditions
increases in direct ratio with the mushiness of the affections. If it
is important to us--and you are my partner in this fascinating business
venture--will you not sacrifice your emotions to that extent: merely
to let him lead himself on, as most men do?” He paused for a critical
observation of her, and then added: “You are even more beautiful to-day
than you were yesterday. He cannot help loving you if he is given the
chance!”
Helene's white fingers crushed the orchid which she was pinning to the
bosom of her gown. Her intent gaze met the mask of Shirley's ingenuous
smile, reading in his telltale eyes a message which needed no court
interpreter! Quickly she turned to her mirror to put the finishing
touches to her coiffure, the golden curls so alluringly wilful.
“Your flattery, sir, is very cruel. Beware! I may take it seriously.
What would happen if my verdant heart were to fall a victim to the
cunning wiles of the voice? Remember, I have only met two men, since I
came to America, yesterday. And they are both pronounced woman-haters.
I will take you at your word, about Mr. Reginald Warren, and loosen my
blandishments to the best of my rustic ability.”
A wayward twinkle in her eyes should have warned Shirley that she was
planning a little mischief. But, he was too preoccupied in finding the
real front of her baffling street cloak to observe it. They left for
the tearoom, while Helene still laughed to herself over certain subtle
possibilities which she saw in the situation.