But when it came to viscid second thought, alone in the gloom of an
unsympathetic taxicab, P. Sybarite inclined to concede himself more
ass than hero. It was all very well to say that, having spread his
sails to the winds of _Kismet_, he was bound to let himself drift to
their vagrant humour: but there are certain channels of New York life
into which even the most courageous mariner were ill-advised to
adventure under pilotage no more trustworthy than that of sufficient
champagne and a run of good luck.
Dutch House in Fortieth Street, West, wore the reputation of being as
sinister a dive as ever stood cheek-by-jowl with Broadway and brazenly
flaunted an all-night liquor license in the face of law-abiding New
York; of which it was said that no sober man ever went there, other
than those who went to prey, and that no drunkard ever escaped from it
unfleeced; haunt of the most deadly riff-raff to be found in Town,
barring inmates of certain negro stews on the lower West Side and of
some of the dens to which the sightseer does _not_ penetrate in the
tour of Chinatown.
Grim stories were current of men who had wandered thither in their
cups, "for the lark of it," only to return to consciousness days
afterwards, stripped, shorn, and shattered in health bodily and
mental, to find themselves in some vile kennel miles from Dutch House;
and of other men who passed once through its foul portals and--passed
out a secret way, never to return to the ken of their friends....
Yet it stood, and it stands, waxing fat in the folly of man and his
greed.
And to this place P. Sybarite was travelling to deliver a message from
a famous demi-rep to a notorious gang leader; with only a .25 calibre
Colt's automatic and his native wit and audacity to guard the moderate
fortune that he carried with him in cash--a single hundredth part of
which would have been sufficient to purchase his obliteration at the
hands of the crew that ran the place.
However, in their ignorance his safety inhered; and it was not really
necessary that he advertise his swollen fortunes; and as for the gold
in his trousers pocket--a ponderable weight, liable to chink
treacherously when he moved--P. Sybarite removed this and thoughtfully
cached it under one of the cushions of his cab. It seemed a long
chance to take with a hundred dollars: but a hundred dollars wasn't a
great deal, after all, to a man as flush as he; and better lose it all
(said he) than make a noise like a peripatetic mint in a den of
thieves and worse....
The cab drawing up to the curb, out P. Sybarite hopped, a dollar in
hand for the chauffeur, and the admonition: "I'm keeping you; wait
till I come out, if I'm all night; and don't let your motor die,
'cause I _may_ be in a hurry."
"Gotcha," said the chauffeur tersely; pocketed the bill; lighted a
cigarette....
P. Sybarite held back an instant to inspect the approach.
This being Sunday morning, Dutch House was decorously dull to the
street; the doors to the bar closed, the lights within low and drowsy;
even the side door, giving access to the "restaurant," was closed much
of the time--when, that is to say, it wasn't swinging to admit an
intermittent flow of belated casuals and habitués of both sexes.
A row of vehicles lined the curb: nighthawk taxicabs for the most
part, with one or two four-wheelers, as many disreputable and
dilapidated hansoms, and (aside from that in which P. Sybarite had
arrived) a single taxicab of decent appearance. This last stood, with
door ajar, immediately opposite the side entrance, its motor pulsing
audibly--evidently waiting under orders similar to those issued by P.
Sybarite.
Now as the latter advanced to enter Dutch House, shadows appeared on
the ground glass of the side door; and opening with a jerk, it let out
a gush of fetid air together with Respectability on the
prowl--Respectability incognito, sly, furtive of air, and in
noticeable haste.
He paused for a bare instant on the threshold; affording P. Sybarite
opportunity for a good, long look.
"Two-thirty," said Respectability brusquely over his shoulder.
The man behind him growled affirmation: "Two-thirty--don't worry: I'll
be on the job."
"And take care of that boy."
"Grab it from me, boss, when he wakes up, he won't know where he's
been."
"Good-night, then," said Respectability grudgingly.
"G'd-night."
The door closed, and with an ineradicable manner of weight and
consequence Respectability turned toward the waiting taxicab: a man
of, say, well-preserved sixty, with a blowsy plump face and fat white
side-whiskers, a fleshy nose and arrogant eyes, a double chin and a
heavy paunch; one who, in brief, had no business in that galley at
that or any other hour of day or night, and who knew it and knew that
others (worse luck!) would know it at sight.
All this P. Sybarite comprehended in a glance and, comprehending,
bristled like a truculent game-cock or the faithful hound in the
ghost-story. The aspect of Respectability seemed to have upon him the
effect of a violent irritant; his eyes took on a hot, hard look, his
lips narrowed to a thin, inflexible crease, and his hands
unconsciously closed.
And as Respectability strode across the sidewalk, obviously intending
to bury himself in the body of his waiting cab as quickly as possible,
P. Sybarite--with the impudence of a tug blocking the fairway for an
ocean liner--stepped in his path, dropped a shoulder, and planted both
feet firmly.
Immediately the two came together; the shoulder of P. Sybarite in the
paunch of Respectability, evoking a deep grunt of choleric surprise
and bringing the gentleman to an abrupt standstill.
Upon this, P. Sybarite's mouth relaxed; he smiled faintly, almost
placatingly.
"Well, old top!" he cried with malicious cordiality. "Who'd think to
meet _you_ here! What's the matter? Has high finance turned too risky
for your stomach? Or are you dabbling in low-life for the sheer fun of
it--to titillate your jaded senses?"
Respectability's cheeks puffed out like red toy balloons; so likewise
his chest.
"Sir!" he snorted--"you are drunk!"
"Sir!" retorted P. Sybarite, none too meekly--"you lie."
The ebony-and-gold cane of Respectability quivered in mid-air.
"Out of my way!"
"Put down that cane, Mr. Brian Shaynon," said P. Sybarite peaceably,
"unless you want me to play horse with you in a way to let all New
York know how you spend the wee sma' hours!"
At the mention of his name Respectability stiffened in dismay.
"Damnation!" he cried hoarsely. "Who are you?"
"Why, have you forgotten me? Careless of you, Mr. Shaynon. I'm the
little guy that put the speck in Respectability: I'm the noisy little
skeleton in the cupboard of your conscience. Don't you know me now?"
With a gasp (prudently lowering his stick) Mr. Shaynon bent to peer
into the face exposed as P. Sybarite pushed back his hat; stared an
instant, goggling; wheeled about, and flung heavily toward his
taxicab.
"The Bizarre!" wheezed he to the chauffeur; and dodging in, banged the
door.
As for P. Sybarite, he watched the vehicle swing away and round the
corner of Seventh Avenue, a doubtful glimmer in eyes that had burned
hot with hostility, a slight ironic smile wreathing lips that had
shown hatred.
"But what's the good of that?" he said in self-disgust, as the taxicab
disappeared.
With a sigh, shaking himself together, he went into Dutch House.