THE JAWS OF THE TRAP
Lefty had defied Weegman. Henceforth it was to be open war, and he was
glad of it. What the rascal would attempt to do he did not know, and
cared less. It did not seem likely that he could do much, if anything,
that he had not already made preparations to do. Of course, he might
call Collier into the affair, and that, should it bring the owner of
the Blue Stockings back to his own country, was something earnestly
to be desired. Could he but get Collier in private for twenty minutes,
Locke felt sure he could make him realize that he was the victim of a
conspiracy, and that his trusted private secretary had sought to sell
him out into the hands of a rival owner.
The telephone rang, and, thinking Stillman was calling at last, he
hastened to answer. It was not the reporter's voice that he heard,
but he was informed that some one was speaking from the office of the
_Blade_, and that, after making a fruitless effort to get Locke on
the wire, Stillman had found it necessary to hustle away to keep an
important appointment.
"But where can I find him?" asked the disappointed pitcher. "How can
I get hold of him?"
"He wants to talk to you as much as you do to him," was the answer.
"Said it was absolutely necessary. That's why he had me call you. Says
he has something to tell you, personally and privately. He'll try to be
at Mike's saloon, Thompson Street, near Broome, at three o'clock. If
you get there first, wait for him. And don't fail to come, for he'll
have important information. Got that straight?"
"Yes, but--"
"All right. I've done my duty. Good-by." There was a click, and the
wire was silent.
Lefty looked at his watch as he left the phone. It was twenty-two minutes
to three.
"Just about time enough to make it comfortably," he decided. "Stillman
must be on the track of something."
The subway being convenient, he chose it instead of a taxi, getting off
at Spring Street. Five minutes ahead of time, he found Mike's saloon, a
somewhat disreputable-looking place when viewed from the exterior. The
neighborhood, likewise, seemed sinister. However, a reporter's business,
thought Locke, carried him into all sorts of places.
Within the saloon a single patron, who looked like a vagrant, was picking
at the crumbs of a sickly free lunch in a dark corner. A husky-looking,
red-headed bartender was removing an emptied beer schooner and mopping up
the counter. He surveyed the southpaw from head to foot with apparent
interest.
"I'm looking for a man named Stillman who made an appointment to meet
me here at three," explained Lefty. "I was to wait for him if I got
here first."
"Jack's here," stated the man behind the bar, in a manner that bespoke
considerable familiarity with the reporter. "Came in three or four
minutes ago. Reckon you're Lefty Locke?"
"That's right."
"He told me you might come round. He's in the back room. Walk right
in." The speaker jerked a heavy thumb toward a closed door at the far
end of the bar.
At the sound of Locke's name the vagrant, who had been picking at
the free lunch, turned to look the famous pitcher over with apparent
curiosity and interest.
"Lefty Locke," he mumbled huskily. "Lemme shake han's. Ruther shake
han's with Lefty Locke than any man livin'."
Locke pushed past him and placed his hand on the knob of the door. The
fellow followed, insisting upon shaking hands, and, as Lefty opened the
door, the vagrant staggered, lurched against the pitcher, and thrust him
forward, the door closing behind him with the snap of a spring lock.
It is remarkable how seldom any one ever heeds premonitions. Even as
he opened that door, Lefty was aware that ever since the telephone call
had come to him some subtle intuition, thus far wholly disregarded, had
been seeking to sound a warning. It had caused him to hesitate at last.
Too late! The push delivered by the vagrant had pitched him forward into
the snare, while the sound of the clicking spring lock notified him that
his retreat was cut off.
Through a dirty skylight above another door that probably opened upon
a back alley some weak and sickly rays of daylight crept into the room. A
single gas jet, suspended from the center of the cracked and smoky
ceiling, gave a feeble, flickering light, filling the corners with
fluttering shadows. The furniture in the room consisted of a table
and a few chairs.
At the table three men were sitting, drinking and smoking. Locke,
recovering from the push he had received, stepped back against the
closed door, and looked at them.
"Hello!" said Mit Skullen. "Don't hurry away, Lefty. Folks that come
in by that door sometimes go out by the other one."
He was grinning viciously, triumphantly. The look upon his face was one
of satisfaction and brutal anticipation, and amply proclaimed his purpose.
Skullen's companions were tough characters, fit associates and abettors
of such a man. That they were thugs of the lowest type, who would not
hesitate at any act of violence, there could be no question. One looked
like a prize fighter who had gone to the bad, his drink-inflamed face
and bleary eyes advertising the cause of his downfall. The other had the
appearance of a "coke" fiend, and the criminally bent habitual user
of that drug has neither scruples nor fear of consequences.
Locke regarded them in silence. His pulses were throbbing somewhat
faster, yet he was cool and self-possessed, and his brain was keenly
active. He knew precisely what he was up against. Slipping one hand
behind him, he tried the knob of the door; but, as he had expected,
the door held fast.
Skullen continued to grin gloatingly, fancying that Locke's inactivity
was evidence that he was practically paralyzed by amazement and fear.
"Your friend Stillman was too busy to come," he said, "and so I kept
the appointment for him. Maybe I'll do just as well. Anyhow, I'll
do--for you!"
He had risen to his feet, and the light of the flickering gas jet
played over his evil face. Lefty flashed another look around, taking in
the surroundings. To his ears came the distant, muffled sound of an
elevated train rumbling along the trestle. Behind him, in the front
of the saloon, all was still. Probably the door leading to the street
was now also locked to prevent any one from entering and hearing any
disturbance that might take place in the back room. The jaws of the trap
held him fast.
"Oh, it ain't any use to think about runnin' away, Lefty," croaked
Mit. "Not a chance in the world. I fixed it so's we could have our
little settlement without any one buttin' in to bother us. You remember
I told you I had a score to settle with you?"
As Locke spoke, his voice was calm and steady. "And you engaged a pair
of worthy pals to assist you! You're a brave man, Skullen!"
"Aw, these lads are only here to see fair play, that's all. They won't
mix in. They won't have to. Last time we met you reckoned you put it
all over me, didn't you? Maybe I ought to thank you for keepin' me
from gettin' a rotter on me hands, for that's what you got in Dummy
Jones. You're welcome to that piece of cheese."
The southpaw made no retort. He was measuring his chances against all
three of the ruffians, having no doubt that he must soon find himself
pitted against such odds.
"Some baseball manager, that's what you are!" scoffed Mit, taking keen
delight in prolonging the suspense that he fancied must be getting the
nerve of the intended victim. "You're rattlin' around like a buckshot
inside a bass drum. A busy little person, you are, but you won't be
so busy after I finish with you. You'll find it convenient to take a
nice long rest in a hospital."
"You fight a lot with your mouth, Mit," said Locke contemptuously.
"Go ahead an' sail inter him, Skully," urged the ruffian who looked
like a broken-down prize fighter. "You been itchin' fer him to show up
so you could get inter action. Go to it!"
"Plenty of time, Bill. I enjoy seein' him try to push that door down
with his back. Wasn't he a mut to walk right into this? I'm goin' to
change the look of his face so that his handsome wife won't know him
when she sees him next."
He began to remove his coat, and Lefty knew the time for action had
come. For an instant his imagination had sought to unnerve him by
presenting a vivid picture of himself as he would appear, battered,
bleeding, beaten up, if the trio of thugs carried out their evil design;
but he put the vision aside promptly. In cases where a smaller force
is compelled to contend with a greater, the advantage is frequently
obtained through swift and sudden assault. Knowing this, Locke did
not wait to be attacked. He hurled himself forward with the spring of a
panther and the force of a catapult.