From street door to restaurant entrance, the hallway of Dutch House
was some twenty-five feet long, floored with grimy linoleum in
imitation of tiling, greasy as to its walls and ceiling, and boasting
an atmosphere rank with a reek compounded of a dozen elements, in
their number alcohol, cheap perfumery, cooked meats, the sweat of
unclean humanity, and stale tobacco smoke.
Save for this unsavoury composite wraith, the hall was empty when P.
Sybarite entered it. But it echoed with sounds of rowdy revelry from
the room in back: mechanical clatter of galled and spavined piano,
despondent growling of a broken-winded 'cello, nervous giggling and
moaning of an excoriated violin--the three wringing from the score of
_O You Beautiful Doll_ an entirely adequate accompaniment to the
perfunctory performance of a husky contralto.
Though by no means squeamish, on the testimony of his nose and ears P.
Sybarite then and there concluded that he would have to have become
exceedingly blasé indeed to find Dutch House amusing.
And when he had gone on into the restaurant itself, slipping his
modest person inconspicuously into a chair at the nearest unoccupied
table, the testimony of his other senses as to the character of his
company served to confirm this impression.
"It's no use," he sighed: "I'm too old a dog.... Be it ever so
typical, there's _no_ place like one's own hash-foundry." ...
This room was broad and deep, and boasted, at its far end, a miniature
stage supporting the orchestra and, temporarily, the gyrations of a
lady in a vivacious scarlet costume--mistress of the shopworn
contralto--who was "vamping with the feet" the interval between two
verses of her ballad.
The main floor was strewn with tables round which sat a motley
gathering of gangsters, fools, pretty iniquities and others by no
stretch of the imagination to be termed pretty, confidence men,
gambling touts, and the sprinkling of drunkards--plain, common,
transient, periodical, suburban, habitual, and unconscious--for and by
whom the place was, and is, maintained. In and out among these
circulated several able-bodied waiters with soiled shirt-bosoms, iron
jaws and, not infrequently, cauliflower ears.
Spying out P. Sybarite, one of these bore down upon him with an air of
the most flattering camaraderie.
It was true that the little man, in a dark coat and hat alike too
large for him, with his shabby shoes and trousers and apologetic
demeanour, promised no very profitable plucking; but the rule of Dutch
House is to neglect none, however lowly.
"Well, bo'," grunted the waiter cheerfully, polishing off the top of
the table with a saturated towel, "yuh don't come round's often as y'
uster."
"That's a fact," P. Sybarite agreed. "I've been a long time
away--haven't I?"
"Yuh said somethin' _then_. Mus' be months sinst I seen yuh last.
What's the trouble? Y' ain't soured on the old joint, huh?"
"No," P. Sybarite apologised. "I've been--away. Where's Red?"
"MacManus--?" asked the waiter, beginning to believe that this strange
little creature must in fact be a "regular" of the "bunch"--one whose
name and face had somehow, unaccountably, slipped from his memory.
"November," P. Sybarite corrected.
"Oh, he's stickin' round--pretty busy to-night. Wouldn't fuss him, 'f
I was yuh, 'less it's somethin' extra."
"I make you," said the little man. "But this is his business. Tell him
I have a message for him, will you?"
"Just as yuh say, bo'," returned the other cautiously. "What's it
goin' to be? Bucket of grape or a tub of suds?"
"Do I look like the foolish waters?" enquired P. Sybarite with mild
resentment. "Back me up a shell of lather."
Grinning amiably at this happy metaphorical description of the glass
of lager regularly served at Dutch House, the waiter shouldered
through the swinging doors to the bar....
Then fell a brief lull in the mélange of music and tongues, during
which a boyish voice lifted up in clear remonstrance at a table some
three removed from that at which P. Sybarite sat:
"But I don't _want_ anything more to drink!"
P. Sybarite looked that way. The owner of the voice (now again
drowned) was apparently a youngster of twenty years--not more--clean
of limb and feature, with a hot flush discolouring his good-looking
face, a hectic glitter in his eyes, and a stubborn smile on his lips.
Lounging low in a straight-backed chair, with his hands in his pockets
and his head wagging obstinately, he was plainly intoxicated, but as
yet at a stage sufficiently mild to admit of his recognising the
self-evident truth that he needed not another drop.
Yet his companions would have him drink more deeply.
Of these, one was a woman of no uncertain caste, a woman handsome in a
daring and costly gown, and as yet not old, but in whose eyes
flickered a curious febrile glare ("as though," commented P. Sybarite,
moralist, "reflected back from the mouth of Hell").
The other was a man singularly handsome in a foreign way--Italian, at
an indifferent guess--slight and graceful of person in well-tailored
if somewhat flashy clothing; boasting too much jewellery; his teeth
gleaming a vivid white against his dark colouring as he smiled
good-humouredly in his attempts to press more drink upon the other.
The music stopped altogether for a time, and again the boy's voice
rang out clearly:
"Tell you--'ve had enough."
The Italian said something urgent, in an undertone. The woman added
inaudible persuasion to his argument. The boy looked from one to
another with a semi-stupid smile; but wagged an obdurate head.
"I will _not_. No--and I don't want--lie down jus' for few minutes.
I'm goin' sit here till these--ah--foolish legs 'mine straighten
'emselves out--then 'm going home." ...
"Here's your beer, bo'," P. Sybarite's waiter announced.
"Keep the change," said the guest, tendering a quarter.
"T'anks"--with a look of surprise. Then familiarly knuckling the top
of the table, the waiter stroked a rusty chin and surveyed the room.
"There's Red, now," he observed.
"Where?"
"Over there with the skirt and the kid souse. Yuh kin see for yourself
he's busy. D' yuh want I sh'u'd stir him up now?"
"Oh, yes," said P. Sybarite, in the tone of one recognising an
oversight. "What's doing over there--anything?" he proceeded casually.
The waiter favoured him with a hard stare. "Red November's business
ain't none'r mine," he growled; "an' less you know him a heluva sight
better'n I do, you'd better take a straight tip from me
and--_leave--it--lay_!"
"Oh!" said the little man hastily--"I was only wondering.... But I
wish you would slip Red the high sign: all I want is one word with
him."
"All right, bo'--you're on."
Slouching off, obviously reluctant to interrupt the diversions of Mr.
November, the man at length mustered up courage to touch that
gentleman's elbow. The gangster turned sharply, a frown replacing the
smile which had illuminated his attempts to overcome the boy's
recently developed aversion to drink. The waiter murmured in his
private ear.
Promptly P. Sybarite received a sharp look from eyes as black and hard
as shoe buttons; and with equanimity endured it--even went to the
length of a nod accompanied by his quaint, ingratiating smile. A
courtesy ignored completely: the dark eyes veered back to the waiter's
face and the white teeth flashed as he was curtly dismissed.
He shuffled back, scowling, reported sulkily: "Says yuh gotta wait";
and turned away in answer to a summons from another table.
Unruffled, P. Sybarite sipped his beer--sipped it sparingly and not
without misgivings, but sedulously to keep in character as a familiar
of the dive.
Presently there came yet another lull in the clatter of tongues; and
again the accents of the boy sounded distinctly from the gangster's
table:
"I won't--that's flat! I refuse positively--go up stairs--sleep it
off. I'm a' right--give you m' word--in the _head_. All my
trouble's--these mutinous dogs of legs. But I'll make 'em mind, yet.
Trust me--"
And again the babel blotted out his utterance.
But P. Sybarite had experienced a sudden rush of intelligence to the
head--was in the throes of that mental process which it is our habit
wittily to distinguish by the expressive term, "putting two and two
together."
Could this, by any chance, be "that boy" who, Mr. Brian Shaynon had
been assured, wouldn't know where he'd been when he waked? Was an
attempt to ensure that desired consummation through the agency of a
drug, being made in the open restaurant?
If not, why was Red November neglecting all other affairs to press
drink upon a man who knew when he had enough?
If so, what might be the nature of the link connecting the boy with
the "job," to be on which at half-past two November had just now
covenanted with Brian Shaynon?
What incriminating knowledge could this boy possess, to render old
Shaynon, willing that his memory should be expurgated by such a
mind- and nerve-shattering agent as the knock-out drop of White Light
commerce?
Now Shaynon was capable of almost any degree of infamy, if not,
perhaps, the absolute peer of Red November.
This strange development of that night of Destiny began to assume in
P. Sybarite's esteem a complexion of baleful promise.
But the more keenly interested he grew, the more indifferent he made
himself appear, slouching low and lower in his chair, his eyes
listless and half closed--his look one of the most pronounced apathy:
the while he conned the circumstances, physical as well as psychical,
with the narrowest attention. Certainly, it would seem, a man who had
enough instinctive decency to wish to escape the degradation of deeper
drunkenness, should be humoured rather than opposed....
The table on which his attention was focussed stood against the wall,
the young man sitting in the corner between November and the woman. Of
two tables between it and P. Sybarite's, one was vacant, the other
occupied by a brace of hatchet-faced male intimates of the dive and
creatures of November's--or their looks libelled them shamefully.
It seemed unlikely that the boy could get away against the wishes of
the gang leader, however steadfastly he might stand upon his
determination to drink no more. For nothing was to be hoped for from
the sots, prostitutes, and parasites who made up the balance of that
company: one and all, either too indifferent or too sophisticated, if
not in active sympathy with the practices of the establishment, to
lift a hand to interfere....
Testimony in support of this inference P. Sybarite received within the
next few minutes, when the boy's temper abruptly veered from
good-natured obduracy to open irritation.
"Damn it, no!" he cried in a high voice and with an impatient movement
struck the glass from November's hand.
Though it went to the floor with a splintering crash, the incident
attracted little more than casual glances from those at neighbouring
tables....
November's countenance, however, turned grey with anger beneath its
olive shade.
Momentarily his glance clashed with the woman's; and of a sudden the
paint upon her cheeks and lips stood out as starkly artificial as
carmine splashed upon a whitewashed wall. At the same time he flashed
a like warning to his two followers at the next table; and the legs of
their chairs grated on the tiled flooring as they shifted position,
making ready for the signal to "mix in."
At this, P. Sybarite rose and nonchalantly moved over to November; his
approach remarked by the latter with an evil leer; by the woman with a
start of consternation; by the boy with sudden suspicion. Indubitably
this last was beginning to question a hospitality that would not
permit him to do as to him seemed best. With relief P. Sybarite noted
symptoms of this dawning distrust. It made the problem simpler, to
have the boy alive to his peril.
Pausing, P. Sybarite met November's glare with eyes informed with an
expression amazingly remote and dispassionate, and in a level and
toneless voice addressed him.
"I've a message for you--a hurry call--won't keep--"
"Well?" snapped the gangster. "What's it about? Spit it out!"
"Why, Nella says--" P. Sybarite began deliberately; and paused to
cough politely behind his hand; and leaned confidentially over the
table.
At this juncture the boy pushed back his chair and rose.
"Pardon me, m' dear," he said thickly to the woman; "'m goin' home."
"Ah, sit down," November interrupted quickly, pitching his protean
accents to a key of cajolery--"sit down and have another. What's your
hurry?"
His eyes caught the woman's.
"That's right, dearie," she chimed in hurriedly, laying a soft
detaining hand on the boy's forearm. "Be a good fellow. Stake me to
just one more pint--"
"No," the boy insisted, shaking free--"I'm going home. Le' me alone."
"Nella," P. Sybarite interpolated in an imperative tone, momentarily
distracting November's attention--"Nella says to tell you she wants
you--now--immediately. Do you get that?"
"Damn Nella!" snapped the gang leader. "Tell her to go to the devil.
And you"--he menaced P. Sybarite with a formidable look--"you slide
outa here--in a hurry! See?"
With this, rising in his place, he put forth a hand to detain the boy,
who was sullenly pushing past the woman.
"Wait!" he insisted. "You can't go before you pay up--"
Whipping from his pocket a note (of what denomination he never
knew--but it was large) P. Sybarite slapped it down upon the table.
"That'll pay whatever he owes," he announced, and to the boy: "Clear
out--quick--do you hear!--while you've got a chance--"
"What t'ell business is it of yours?" November demanded, turning upon
him furiously.
With an enigmatic smile, P. Sybarite dexterously tipped up his side of
the table and, overturning it, caught the gangster unprepared for any
such manoeuvre and pinned him squirming in the angle of wall and
floor.
Immediately the woman came to her feet shrieking; while the little man
seized the befuddled boy and swung him toward the door actually before
he realised what was happening.
Simultaneously, November's henchmen at the adjoining table leapt into
the brawl with an alacrity that sent their chairs clattering back upon
the floor.
But in his magnificent assurance P. Sybarite had foreseen and planned
cunningly against precisely that same contingency. No sooner had he
sent the boy staggering on his way than he whirled completely round
with a ready guard--and in no more than the very wink of exigence.
Already one of the creatures was almost on his back--the other hanging
off and singularly employed (it seemed, considering) with his hands;
just what he was up to P. Sybarite had time neither to see nor to
surmise.
Sidestepping a wild swing, he planted a left full on the nose of the
nearer assailant and knocked him backwards over a sprawling chair.
Then turning attention to the other, he was barely in time to duck an
uppercut--and out of the corners of his eyes caught the glint of
brass-knuckles on the fist that failed to land.
Infuriated, he closed in, sent a staggering left to the thug's heart
and a murderous right to his chin, so that he reeled and fell as if
shot--while P. Sybarite with a bound again caught the boy by the arm
and whirled him out through the doorway into the hall.
"Hurry!" he panted. "We've one chance in ten thousand--"
Beyond doubt they had barely that.
Hardened though they were to scenes of violence, the clients of the
dive had stilled in apprehension the moment November lifted his voice
in anger; while P. Sybarite's first overtly offensive move had struck
them all dumb in terror.
Red November was one who had shot down his man in cold blood on the
steps of the Criminal Courts Building and, through the favour of The
Organisation that breeds such pests, escaped scot-free under the
convenient fiction of "suspended sentence"; and knowing well the
nature and the power of the man, the primal concerted thought had been
to flee the place before bullets began to fly. In blind panic like
that of sheep, they rose as one in uproar and surged toward the outer
doors. November himself, struggling up from beneath the table, was
caught and swept on willy-nilly in the front rank of the stampede. In
a thought he found himself wedged tight in a press clogging the door.
Before his enraged vision P. Sybarite was winning away with the boy.
Maddened, the gang leader managed to free his right arm and send a
haphazard shot after them.
Only the instinctive recoil of those about him deflected his aim.
The report was one with a shock of shattered plate-glass: the
soft-nosed bullet, splashing upon the glazed upper half of the door,
caused the entire pane to collapse and disappear with the quickness of
magic.
Halting, P. Sybarite wheeled and dropped a hand to the pocket wherein
rested Mrs. Inche's automatic.
"Get that door open!" he cried to the boy. "I've got a taxi waiting--"
His words were drowned out by the thunderous detonations set up by a
second shot in that constricted space.
With a thick sob, the boy reeled and swung against the wall as sharply
as though he had been struck with a sledge-hammer.
Whimpering with rage, P. Sybarite tugged at the weapon; but it stuck
fast, caught the lining of his coat-pocket.
Most happily before he could get it in evidence, the door was thrust
sharply in, and through it with a rush materialised that most rare of
metropolitan phenomena--the policeman on the spot.
Young and ardent, with courage as unique as his ubiquity, he blustered
in like a whirlwind, brushing P. Sybarite to one side, the wounded boy
to the other, and pausing only a single instant to throw back the
skirts of his tunic and grasp the butt of the revolver in his
hip-pocket, demanded in the voice of an Irish stentor:
"_What's-all-this? What's-all-this-now?_"
"Robbery!" P. Sybarite replied, mastering with difficulty a giggle of
hysterical relief. "Robbery and attempted murder! Arrest that man--Red
November--with the gun in his hand."
With an inarticulate roar, the patrolman swung on toward the
gangster--and P. Sybarite plucked the boy by the sleeve and drew him
quickly to the sidewalk.
By the never-to-be-forgotten grace of _Kismet_ his taxicab was
precisely where he had left it, the chauffeur on the seat.
"Quick!" he ordered the reeling boy--"into that cab unless you want to
be treated by a Bellevue sawbones--held as a witness besides. Are you
badly hurt?"
"Not badly," gasped the boy--"shot through the shoulder--can wait for
treatment--must keep out of the papers--"
"Right!" P. Sybarite jerked open the door, and his charge stumbled
into the cab. "Drive anywhere--like sin," he told the chauffeur--"tell
you where to stop when we get clear of this mess--"
Privately he blessed that man; for the cab was in motion almost before
he could swing clear of the sidewalk. He tumbled in upon the floor,
and picked himself up in time to close the door only when they were
swinging on two wheels round the corner of Seventh Avenue.