It was night again in the underworld.
Billy Kane slipped suddenly into the dark shadows of a doorway. Fifty
yards ahead of him, up the poorly lighted, narrow and miserable street,
three men had paused on the sidewalk, and were engaged in what was
apparently an animated discussion. Billy Kane’s eyes narrowed in a
puzzled, perturbed, and yet grim way, as he watched them. He had
followed them for an hour now—from a saloon, where he had found them, to
a disreputable pool room, and from there again to a saloon, and now
here.
He did not understand. It was one of those strange portals, so
extraneous to the aim of clearing his name of the murder of David
Ellsworth, and yet, too, so essentially a corollary of the Rat’s rôle
that he played here in the underworld, at which he was knocking again.
His lips curled in a queer smile. How long would it be before the end?
And what would that end be? In his possession now, save for a portion of
the rubies, perhaps half of them, was everything that the murderers of
David Ellsworth had stolen from the old philanthropist’s vault on that
night which seemed now to belong to some past age and incarnation. He
knew now that the Man with the Crutch was the actual murderer—but there
he faced a blank wall. He had even fought with the man in the blackness
of old Barloff’s room last night, not knowing until too late who his
assailant was, and the man had got away.
His hand at his side clenched. It could not endure very long—this
impossible situation in which he found himself with that strange,
unknown woman, who, believing him to be the Rat, held the threat of Sing
Sing over his head. And there was the Rat himself whose name and
personality and home, such as it was, he had usurped during the latter’s
absence, an absence that might terminate at any moment. And there were
the police who dragged the city and the country from end to end for
Billy Kane. From anyone of these three sources, swift as a lightning
stroke, without an instant’s warning, the end might come with that goal
of life still unreached, and, greater than life, his honor, still
unreclaimed. And it seemed to-night somehow that his chances were
bitterly small, that somehow the odds seemed to be growing and
accumulating against him. He was on another errand now, because he could
not help himself. He was allowing precious moments that should have been
devoted to the one chance he had, that of searching ceaselessly,
pitilessly, remorselessly, for the Man with the Crutch, to be directed
into other channels—because he could not help himself.
He stepped out from the shelter of the doorway, and started forward
again along the street. The three men had turned from the sidewalk, and
had disappeared inside a dingy, black and tumble-down tenement. Billy
Kane’s lips tightened a little. It was a hard neighborhood, nestling
just off the Bowery—as hard almost as the three characters themselves
who had just vanished from sight. There were a few pedestrians here on
the side street, a few figures that skulked along in the semi-darkness,
rather than walked, but not many; and for the most part, though it was
still early, not more than nine o’clock, the buildings that flanked the
street were dark and unlighted.
Billy Kane jerked his slouch hat farther down over his eyes as he walked
along. He did not understand. Two hours ago he had been sitting in the
Rat’s den with Whitie Jack—who had ventured out of hiding again, safe
now since the interest of the police in Peters’, the butler’s, murder
had become definitely centered in the Man with the Crutch—and someone
had knocked at the door. Whitie Jack had answered the knock, and had
brought back the message that Bundy Morgan was wanted at the telephone
in a little shop across the street. He, Billy Kane, in his rôle of the
Rat, alias the said Bundy Morgan, had perforce answered, and, as he had
picked up the receiver, he had instantly recognized the voice of the
woman whom he knew by no other name than the one he himself had given
her—the Woman in Black. He was subconsciously rehearsing the rather
one-sided conversation now, as he moved along.
“Is that you, Bundy?” she had asked. “And do you know who is speaking?”
“Yes,” he had answered.
“Listen, then!” Her voice had been quiet, deliberate, and yet pregnant
with a curiously sharp, imperative command. “Find Clarkie Munn and Gypsy
Joe at once, and shadow them to-night. Do not let them out of your
sight. And see that you do not fail! Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he had replied mechanically; “but——”
That was all. She had hung up the receiver at the other end of the line.
He had heard of Clarkie Munn and Gypsy Joe in the days when he had
frequented the Bad Lands on old David Ellsworth’s philanthropic
missions, for the very simple reason that they were notorious and
outstanding criminal characters even in the heart and center of the
worst crime and vice in the city. They were both lags, both men with
prison records, and marked by the police. Also they were versatile. They
had in turn been apaches, gangsters, box-workers, poke-getters and
second-story sneaks; and they were credited with measuring human life
purely as a commercial commodity—worth merely what they could get for
it.
He had heard of Clarkie Munn and Gypsy Joe—who hadn’t?—but as to their
lair, or where they were to be found, he had not had the slightest
inkling. Whitie Jack, however, had solved that problem for him. He had
sent Whitie Jack out to run them down, and Whitie had returned within an
hour with the report that they were in a certain far from reputable
saloon, and that they had been joined by the Cherub. He, Billy Kane, had
never heard of the Cherub, but an adroit leading question or two had set
Whitie Jack’s glib tongue in motion. The Cherub had proved a topic that
had aroused an unbounded enthusiasm in Whitie Jack.
“Dey ain’t got nothin’ on de Cherub—none of ’em has,” Whitie Jack had
asserted, switching his cigarette butt from one corner of his mouth to
the other in order to permit of an admiring grin. “He’s de angel kid—he
is! Youse’d think he spent his life handin’ around hymn books an’
leadin’ de singin’ down at de mission joints—only he don’t! If he got
enough for it he’d pull a gun an’ blow yer bean off, an’ youse wouldn’t
believe it was him even while he was doin’ it, he’d look dat innocent.
Believe me, Bundy! He’s got ’em all skinned, an’ he ain’t got no limit
except de sky. Mabbe some day de police’ll get wise, but dey ain’t
fallen to de sweet little face of him wid his baby eyes yet. But, aw,
say, wot’s de use! Youse know him as well as I do. Youse’d think dey’d
just lifted him out of a dinky little cradle an’ soused him all over wid
Florida water—dat’s de Cherub. But de guy dat knows him ducks his
nut—dat’s all.”
Billy Kane shook his head in a sort of savage perplexity. He had
dismissed Whitie Jack then, picked up Clarkie Munn, Gypsy Joe and the
Cherub, and had followed them here. He had come abreast of the tenement
in which they had disappeared now, and he looked quickly around him.
There was no one on the street close enough to pay any particular
attention to his movements; and there was no doorbell to ring, for in
that locality the formality of entering a tenement, where humans hived
instead of lived, and where at all hours the occupants came and went as
a matter of course, consisted in pushing the door open without further
ceremony. His hand slipped into the side pocket of his coat, and his
fingers closed in a reassuring touch upon his automatic. For what
particular reason he was to watch Gypsy Joe and Clarkie Munn he was as
much as ever in the dark; but one thing was clear—there was only one way
to keep in touch with his quarry.
He stepped from the sidewalk, and, with well-simulated unconcern, pushed
the tenement door open, entered, closed the door softly behind him, and
stood still, listening intently. The place was gloomy and dark, and
heavy with a musty, unsavory odor of garlic and rank, stale tobacco; but
ahead of him, along what seemed like a narrow passage flanking the
stairs, a faint glow of light struggled out into the blackness, as
though from a partially opened door, and from this direction a murmur of
men’s voices reached him.
He moved stealthily forward for a few steps; and then halted abruptly,
and pressed back against the wall. Yes, here were the men he sought. In
so far as locating them in the tenement was concerned, he was in luck.
The hallway had widened out beyond the staircase, and from where he now
stood, through a half-opened door, a door that was in poverty-stricken
and disreputable repair, whose panels, smashed and broken probably in
some fracas of former days, were patched with strips of cardboard that
in turn, hanging by a tack or two, gaped blatantly, he could make out
Clarkie Munn’s dark, scowling, unshaven features, as the man sat
sprawled out on a chair in the centre of the room; also, Clarkie Munn
was swearing viciously:
“Well, where’s Shaky Liz—eh? Where’s Shaky Liz? Who’s right now about
comin’ back here? Her tongue’s been hangin’ out fer a drink now fer two
weeks, an’ she’s bust loose. Dat’s wot she’s done—yes, an’ probably
queered de whole lay too! I told youse so! I told youse youse’d have to
show me about Shaky Liz before I’d go de limit. See! I ain’t fer any
juice chair up de river—not yet! Savvy?”
“Aw, shut up!” The words were clipped off; the voice was almost a boyish
treble. “Can yer croakin’, Clarkie, youse give me a pain! Youse came
back here because I said so—dat’s why! I had to steer clear of Shaky Liz
while she put de stunt across, an’ we got to know now if de girl fell
fer it all right.”
“Yes,” growled Clarkie Munn, “an’ Shaky Liz has gone an’ got drunk, an’
spilled de beans! I know her!”
“If she has,” purred the other, and there was something of finality made
the more horrible by the boyish tones, “she gets hers—instead of de
other, dat’s all. An’ anyway, youse have no kick comin’! Youse an’ Gypsy
here, an’ me, an’ Shaky Liz has all got a century apiece to start wid.
We can’t lose, can we?”
“Sure, we can!” complained Clarkie Munn. “We can lose de other two
hundred dat’s comin’ when de job’s done, can’t we?”
Another voice spoke in a curiously meditative, raucous way:
“I never thought I’d be workin’ fer him. He handed me one once dat I
ain’t fergot. But dere ain’t no one dares to touch him now—he’s too big.
Youse’d get smeared off de map. He’s got de coin, but he’s no good
anyway else, except dat he’s sharper’n hell. D’ye remember de roll he
coughs up when he peels us dem century notes dat night? Say, I guess he
packs dat along wid him all de time. Say, I wish we had him wid de girl
to-night—I guess we’d get our two hundred apiece, all right, all right.”
Clarkie Munn sat suddenly bolt upright in his chair, staring across the
room, obviously at the last speaker.
“I’d be wid youse, Gypsy!” he said eagerly. “Him an’ me don’t belong to
de same lodge neither. We’re all right, we are, fer dirty work, dat’s
where we stand; but where do we ever get a look-in when dere’s anything
juicy goin’! But youse’d have to know he had de roll on him. Youse
wouldn’t get anywhere unless youse did. I’d be wid youse, Gypsy. I wish
something like dat’d break loose.” He swung around in his chair. “Eh,
Cherub?”
“Youse give me a pain!” murmured the boyish voice.
“When youse gets a chance to get dat guy, youse’ll get a chance to hang
yer hat in a bathroom suite in de swellest joint in town, an’ use a
limousine fer a gape wagon, an’ wear white spats an’ yellow gloves in
summer time. Can de wish stuff!”
Billy Kane, hugging close against the wall, moved silently farther on
toward the rear of the hall until he was beyond the radius of light from
the doorway of the room. The street door had opened, and a footstep,
hesitant, scuffling, was out there somewhere behind him. The step came
nearer, and now he could make out a woman’s form, that, either in
reality or as an illusion due to the uncertain light, seemed to sway a
little unsteadily as she walked. Opposite the door she stood still, and
now in the fuller light Billy Kane could see her quite distinctly.
Obviously, it was the woman they had referred to as Shaky Liz—an old,
unkempt, hag-like creature, who blinked sore, red-rimmed eyes in
apparent astonishment and consequent indecision at the partially open
door and the light from within. And then she stepped forward into the
room, and the next moment the door closed with a slam behind her, and
with the slam her voice rose in a curious, gurgling cry that seemed to
mingle terror and an unbridled fury.
In an instant, Billy Kane had retraced his steps, and was crouching
against the closed door. He could see now even better than before. The
gaping strip of cardboard that did duty for the smashed panel, dislodged
still farther by the violent slam of the door, afforded him an almost
unrestricted view of the interior. Clarkie Munn had not moved from his
chair, and a little away from him, legs swinging from a dilapidated,
rickety table, Gypsy Joe, black-visaged and swarthy, sucked
indifferently at a cigarette; but over in the far corner of the room by
the bed, the woman, her hat knocked to the floor, her tangled gray hair
draggling about her eyes, was engaged in a violent struggle with a small
boyish figure, who had her by the throat and was shaking her head
savagely back and forth. Billy Kane drew in his breath. He remembered
Whitie Jack’s description of the Cherub in action—and it was literally
true. The blue eyes were bland and round and seemed to smile, the young
face was the face of a guileless youth in repose, and yet the boy—he
couldn’t be much more than a boy—was in a passion worthy of an incarnate
fiend.
“Youse have been out hittin’ de can, have youse?” snarled the Cherub.
“I’ll teach youse! Do youse think I’ve spent two weeks hangin’ around
dis dirty hole of yers, an’ standin’ fer youse being me sick, disabled
grandmother wid me supposed to be doin’ me best to keep bread in yer
mouth, an’ playin’ poor, an’ having to listen to her tryin’ to get me
jobs, an’ handin’ me de soft, goody-goody talk—d’ye think I’m standin’
fer dat just to have youse go out an’ kick de stuffin’ outer de whole
lay! I’ll teach youse!”
“It’s a lie!” screamed Shaky Liz. She shook herself suddenly free, and
with crooked fingers clawed like a wild cat at the Cherub’s face. “I
didn’t crab no game! It’s a lie! I got it all fixed before I went out. I
guess I got a right to a drink now, ain’t I?”
The Cherub warded off her attack with a vicious sweep of his fist.
“Yes!” he snarled again. “An’ suppose she’d seen youse! Or suppose she’d
come back here by any chance an’ found de poor bedridden grandma gone
out fer a drink—eh! Blast youse, couldn’t youse wait a few hours more?
De whole outfit ’ud be glad if youse had drunk yerself to death den!”
Shaky Liz dashed the hair out of her eyes, and swept her hands in a half
angry, half expostulating gesture toward the others.
“I didn’t queer no game!” she insisted truculently. “I guess I know wot
I’m doin’; an’ youse ain’t comin’ in here to pull no rough-house
business neither!”
“Aw, let her alone, an’ give her a chance to tell her story,” drawled
Gypsy Joe from the table. “We ain’t got all night to stay here.”
“Sure!” said the Cherub softly, and smiled beneficently, as he sat down
on the edge of the bed and calmly lighted a cigarette. “Go on, Liz,
spill it!”
The old hag stared at him for a moment in silence, as she dug again at
her dishevelled locks.
“Youse dirty little runt!” She found her voice at last, and in spite of
her scowl there was a grudging note of admiration in her tones. “Youse
are pretty slick, ain’t youse?”
“Sure!” admitted the Cherub imperturbably. “If I wasn’t, youse wouldn’t
have a hundred dollars in yer kick now, an’ two hundred more comin’
to-morrow—if youse ain’t queered it fer yerself. Go on, give us de
dope!”
Shaky Liz preened herself. She adjusted the threadbare bodice of her
dress that seemed to bulge and sag uncomfortably, picked up her hat, and
smirked at her audience.
“It’s all right!” She wagged her head secretively. “Youse don’t any of
youse need to worry. When de Cherub pipes me off this afternoon dat de
stunt is to be pulled to-night, I sends fer her as soon as he gets out
of de way, an’ she comes on de run. She don’t suspect nothing, ’cause
wid two weeks’ acquaintance she——”
“Can dat!” interrupted the Cherub politely. “We all knows dat fer two
weeks youse an’ me has been gettin’ acquainted wid her, an’ feedin’ on
her jellies, an’ dat I’m de errin’ child dat’s taken a shine to her an’
dat mabbe can be influenced fer good—if she tried hard enough. Wot did
she say when she comes here dis evening?”
“Wot did she say?” repeated Shaky Liz, with a sudden and malicious grin.
“Why, she falls fer it, of course! Wot d’ye expect? Me, I was lyin’ dere
on de bed when she blows in. She asks me how I was, an’ I says I ain’t
no worse dan usual, but dat it’s me young grandson dat’s troublin’ me,
an’ how I ain’t got no one to tell it to except her, an’ how I dunno as
I durst tell even her. An’ den she says I oughter know well enough dat I
can trust her, an’ dat she won’t say nothin’, an’ den I gives her de
spiel. I says I ain’t slept all de last night thinkin’ about it. I tells
her it wouldn’t do no good me talkin’ to youse, ’cause I ain’t got any
influence wid youse an’ she has, an’ besides dat I was afraid of Gypsy
an’ Clarkie if dey got wise to me. An’ I tells her wot a good boy youse
are, too, Cherub, an’ how though mabbe youse might be better it ain’t
all yer fault ’cause youse’re easily led by bad company, but dat youse
have stood by yer old grandmother. Savvy?”
“De one bright spot in me life,” said the Cherub sweetly, “is dat me own
grandmother is dead, an’ don’t know de raw deal I’m handin’ her. She
looked just like youse, too—not!”
Shaky Liz scowled.
“Youse close yer face!” she flung out. “I tells her dat me grandson has
got pulled in by two of de toughest crooks in New York.” Shaky Liz’s
scowl became a grin. “Dat’s youse, Clarkie, an’ youse, Gypsy. I tells
her who youse are, an’ dat last night youse three was here, an’ dat
youse all thought I was asleep, but dat I heard youse whisperin’
together, an’ dat Clarkie an’ Gypsy was persuadin’ me little boy to pull
a trick down to Kegler’s dock on de East River, ’cause dey didn’t dare
do it demselves on account of de police bein’ leery about dem ever since
dey comes down from Sing Sing de last time. I tells her how I hears
youse two crooks explainin’ dat Kegler’s got a bunch of coin in his safe
to pay off some sand barges dat he had expected yesterday, but dat had
got held up down de Sound, an’ dat instead of takin’ de money back to de
bank he was lettin’ it rust in his box, knowin’ dat de barges’d be along
de day after to-morrow, an’ dat youse had de combination of de safe, an’
de key to de front door, an’ dat dere wouldn’t be nobody around dere,
an’ dat, anyway, nobody’d suspect me little lad, an’ dat he was to go
down dere alone at ten o’clock to-night an’ make de haul, an’ den meet
Clarkie an’ Gypsy uptown somewhere fer de split.”
Gypsy Joe, on the table, circled his lips approvingly with the tip of
his tongue.
“Dat’s de stuff, Shaky!” he commended. “Don’t youse mind dese guys, dey
ain’t neither of dem got anything on youse. I’m fer youse, old gal!”
Shaky Liz grinned complacently.
“Me, I was cryin’ good an’ hard by dis time,” she said, and grinned
again, “an’ she had a face dat white youse’d think she was goin’ to pull
de faint act. I says I ain’t slept all de last night tryin’ to think wot
to do, an’ dat’s why I sent fer her. An’ she asks me if I’m sure de boy
was goin’ to do it. An’ I says I am. An’ she asks me where he is, an’ I
says I don’t know, an’ dat I don’t know where to find him; dat he went
out just before I sent fer her, an’ dat he says he won’t be back till
late to-night, an’ dat’s wot makes me sure he’s goin’ to do it. Sure, I
was cryin’ good an’ hard den—savvy?
“An’ I says he’s a good boy, an’ if I tells de police dat’ll finish him;
an’ I says I’m sick an’ can’t walk, an’ can’t go down dere myself, an’
dat she’s de only one I dares trust, an’ besides dat she’s got a lot of
influence wid de boy, an’ dat I knows she can persuade him not to fall
fer it, an’ den nobody’ll know anything about it. An’ she says: ‘Yes, of
course—I’ll do anything. But where is he? Where can I find him?’ An’ I
says dere ain’t only one place I knows, an’ dat’s down to Kegler’s, an’
dat he’ll be all alone dere, an’ dat if she gets dere before ten o’clock
she’ll be in time to try an’ stop him. An’ she bends over me, an’ pats
me hands, she does, an’ she says: ‘Don’t youse worry, Mrs. Cox,’ she
says. ‘I’ll go.’ An’ I says: ‘An’ youse won’t tell nobody, nor take
nobody down dere, so’s anybody’d know about me little lad’s disgrace?’
An’ she says: ‘No, I’ll go alone; an’ I’m sure I can promise youse it’ll
be all right.’ An’ den she goes away. Dat’s all!” Shaky Liz was fumbling
with the bodice of her dress again, and suddenly pulled out a black,
square-faced bottle. “Dat’s all!” she announced with a cackle. “An’ I
guess I gotta right to dis if I wants it—ain’t I?”
“Youse can bet yer life youse have!” agreed Gypsy Joe with fervent
heartiness—and reached for the bottle.
In a flash the Cherub was up from the bed, and between them.
“Nix on dat, Gypsy!” he said sharply. “Shaky’s end is all right, I
guess; but _we_ ain’t through yet. Nix on dat—get me!” He stepped closer
to both Clarkie Munn and Gypsy Joe. “Now, den,” he said briskly, “since
we’re satisfied wid Shaky, we’ll get down to tacks—eh? Everybody makes
sure dey knows dere own play, an’ we don’t make no renigs. I goes down
dere, an’ youse two are trailin’ out of sight behind, an’ she
buttonholes me, an’ I gets her inside widout youse if I can, but anyway
we gets her inside widout any noise, an’ de trap-door where dey shoots
de sweepings from de warehouse into de water under de dock does de
trick. If dere’s enough weight on her she’ll be dere forever. An’ dere’s
one thing more. Nix on de easy-fingered stuff wid any safe business, or
anything loose lying around dat looks like meat! Savvy? To-morrow
morning de place looks like it did when dey left it to-night. De girl’s
disappeared, dat’s all—an’ dere’s nothing to show dat Kegler’s dock had
anything to do wid it. Get me? Dey’ll never find her, an’ dat’s wot’s
wanted, an’ why we’re gettin’ two hundred apiece more.”
Gypsy Joe removed the cigarette from his mouth, watched the blue spiral
of smoke from its tip curl upward for a moment, and pursed his lips in a
ruminative pucker.
“I wonder wot de Rat had it in fer her fer as hard as dat?” he said,
with a shrug of his shoulders. “She must have——”
The—_Rat!_ She—the _girl_ they were talking about! The room seemed
suddenly to swirl before Billy Kane’s eyes, the figures inside to become
but blurred, jerky objects—and then it was black around him.
Automatically he was stepping backward with a catlike tread;
automatically he was feeling his way along the black hallway. And then
the cool evening air fanned his face, and he was in the street.