THE WEB
A wholesale liquor establishment supplied a portion of Shaughnessy's
income. Time was, some years before, when it had demanded all of its
proprietor's time and undeniable talents, but now a gradually increasing
if reprehensible sphere of usefulness had made it a side-issue. However,
it continued to yield its owner a satisfying revenue and the wicked
prospered, after the fashion of this good old world.
The fourth ward, contiguous to Goldberg's, while free and easy enough,
in very truth, was respectable in comparison with the notorious fifth.
It was in this fourth ward, in the quietest district, that Shaughnessy's
wholesale house was located. It was in the dingy office of this old
brick building that the dark schemes were matured which, with the aid of
the worst elements in the city, dominated its affairs. Here Shaughnessy
reigned supreme, an unobtrusive king.
Shaughnessy sat at his desk one warm evening holding converse with his
two faithful satellites, Abe Goldberg and Dick Peterson. The office was
carefully closed to chance encroachment and the men talked in subdued
tones. As usual, the cabal's plans had been carefully discussed, then
the conversation shifted to a minor matter. It was the offense of which
Nick Slade had been guilty, in aiding the journalistic enemy by telling
O'Byrn of the row at Goldberg's saloon. Slade, by the way, was a heeler
under the direct charge of Peterson, and he had done work which had
commended him to that astute though apparently unsophisticated worthy.
"He ought to get the run," Goldberg growled. "What use is a man to us
that don't stand by the gang? Of course, that row wasn't exactly mixed
up with our doings, but a lot of our men was mixed up in it, and it
ain't the kind of advertising that's goin' to do us any good. Then this
Slade goes and tips off the whole business. He ought to be kicked out."
"Hold on, Goldberg," said Peterson. "I know all about the deal. I've
talked with Slade. Now you know Slade is shady with the police. Of
course, there are others, but they've got it in for Slade for more than
one reason and he ain't important enough to be immune. As luck would
have it, they were going to nab him the other night for a piece of
light-fingered work that he didn't happen to be concerned with. This
Courier chap, who seems to be a corker anyway, had picked up
acquaintance with Slade in some way, and, more than that, he happened to
know the right party the police were after and he got Slade off. Well,
what could Slade do when the fellow asked for the tip at your place? Of
course, he could have turned him down flat, but that wouldn't have been
natural, would it?"
Before Goldberg could reply, Shaughnessy's cold voice cut in. "Is he
worth while?" he asked of Peterson.
"He's O. K.," replied that worthy, with conviction. "One of the best--"
Shaughnessy turned to Goldberg. "Then forget it," he said dryly. "Keep
on using him, if he's any good. He's hardly worth firing. Exercise your
firing privilege for the officers' quarters; you need the men in the
ranks."
With which characteristic bit of philosophy, Shaughnessy stretched his
arms and yawned. The others rose, the conference having been closed, and
lighting fresh cigars, left the office. Shaughnessy was left alone. He
leaned back lazily in his office chair, his thin hands clasped behind
his head, his expressionless eyes watching the smoke that curled upward
leisurely from the tip of his cigar. His white face would hold no more
of immobility when he should lie dead. Under the gaslight he reclined at
ease, staring upward. In the eyes, the queer, black, heavy-lidded eyes,
there was a momentary lack alike of definite scrutiny or the soft,
impalpable veil that is drawn by transitory dreams of better things.
Rather were they like a sluggish serpent's; lustreless, foreboding,
unwinking and infinitely, sleeplessly sinister. They stared with a
reptilian fixedness, seeing nothing. Thus for a space, and then they
lighted with a gleam of strange malevolence, as the thin, grim lips of
Shaughnessy relaxed under the small black moustache in a smile that was
not good to see. Some secret reflection had evidently pleased the boss.
He suddenly leaned forward in his chair and turned to his desk,
extracting some papers which he surveyed with quiet satisfaction and
replaced. As he did so he started violently, then sank back in his
chair, his face drawn lugubriously with sudden pain; the natural pallor
giving place to a ghastly gray. His hands were clasped at his left side
and he gasped for breath. In a moment the paroxysm passed, and
Shaughnessy sat limp in his chair with sprawling legs and nerveless
hands, his head bent forward. Presently he sought his handkerchief with
shaking fingers and wiped the cold beads of perspiration from his
forehead. Then he rose slowly, and with trembling knees tottered to a
small cupboard and produced a flask and glass. Pouring out a stiff
draught of brandy, he swallowed it at a gulp, replaced the bottle and
glass and walked back to his chair. His eyes, again inscrutable, sought
the clock; his face, once more an impassive mask, was turned toward the
door. Shaughnessy was game.
A moment more and there was the sound of footsteps outside, then a
cautious tapping summoned at the door. Shaughnessy stepped forward and
released the spring lock which had confined it, standing aside to allow
his visitor's entrance, then snapped the door shut. Placing a chair
conveniently, he motioned his caller into it and resumed his own seat.
The caller sat regarding Shaughnessy with an odd nervousness. He was
plainly ill at ease. An old man he was, with gray hair and beard and
faded blue eyes, whose wonted amiability was just now shadowed by an
unmistakable expression of helplessness. A pair of gold-bowed eyeglasses
dangled at the end of a silken cord looped about his collar; the cut and
texture of his black garb indicated prosperity as well as solid
respectability. The impression was heightened by the old-fashioned high
collar and the white lawn tie. The thin white hands, on which the blue
veins showed prominently, nervously fumbled a black slouch hat.
Shaughnessy's eyes rested an instant upon the headgear.
"You ordinarily wear a silk hat, don't you, Judge?" he asked. "What's
the matter? Isn't this part of the town good enough for it, or does this
one help to shade your eyes from the light?" The visitor winced and the
boss smiled cruelly.
"One has to be careful,--" began the old man, and hesitated.
"Sure," acquiesced the leader, grimly. "A good many eyes would open to
see you in here with me. And I suppose you left your carriage a few
blocks back and walked? Your discretion does you credit. Well, you can
afford to come here better than you can afford to have me go to your
house, which I should have done if you had not wisely concluded to
accept my polite invitation to call. Some of your holy neighbors would
have been surprised, wouldn't they? Well, Judge, saving your venerable
presence, they generally have to come to me,--because I know things."
The spare form fidgeted, the faded blue eyes sought waveringly
Shaughnessy's black ones that were now quickened with a baleful fire.
"What do you want?" asked the visitor. "I am an old man,--I was through
long since--"
Shaughnessy bent forward. "No, you are not through," he said with a
softness that was metallic. "You are not through while you live and I
need you. Understand that! You served me on the bench; you shall serve
me now! Else--" He paused significantly while his companion's face
whitened. "Now listen. I am coming to be known; you are not. You are
respectable!" with an ugly sneer. "Now this is the programme, and it'll
feaze the yelping fools that are after me, just as it'll feaze you, my
dear friend, in a minute. The Democratic convention will be held just
before the 'Cits' hold theirs. The 'Cits' are inconveniently in earnest
this year and they're talking of putting up a man who'll cause us
trouble. Now there'll be a dummy candidate, a machine man, in the
Democratic convention, who'll be mine. Well, he'll be knocked out;
decency will give the old Democracy heart disease by swooping down on
her out of a clear sky; there'll be an honored name proposed that'll
sweep the convention off its feet, and that honored name, my dear Judge,
will be your own!"
The old man sprang to his feet, shivering as with the ague. He shook
impotent, furious fists, his pale eyes glaring. "Damn you!" he cried, "I
won't do it! Never! never! do you understand,--you--devil?"
Shaughnessy's hand closed on an object on his desk. He rose, shaking a
bundle of documents in his caller's face. "I understand," he muttered
menacingly, "and--you understand. You understand that you will serve as
the next mayor of this city--or you will serve time!"
The old man fell into his chair and buried his face in his hands, while
Shaughnessy smiled, his eyes alight with malice.