“I’ll spot you three, and take you on at a dollar a game.”
Kenyon shook his head and smiled.
“I’m not playing to-night,” said he. “I’m looking for a friend of mine
who I’ve been told lives over Schmelzer’s.”
The other looked disappointed; but he pointed down the street, and said:
“See the big blue blaze at the second story. That’s the hut. There is a
Chink bean foundry on the first floor, and Schmelzer is on the next. On
top of that you’ll find the hay-piles. Break in by the side door.”
“Thanks,” said Kenyon.
The place indicated was but a short distance away. Passing the entrance
to a strong-smelling Chinese restaurant, Kenyon found a narrow,
dirty-looking doorway. He passed up a flight of stairs, and at the
first landing came upon Schmelzer’s in full blast. Men in pronounced
clothes and with hats slanted at different angles played expert cues at
the tables; about the ends of the room groups were formed discussing
subjects of professional interest.
“Pickpockets, second-story operators and pikers,” commented Kenyon,
as he went on up the next flight. “It looks like a cosey corner of
Chicago when that good old town was a howling wilderness.”
On the next landing he found himself confronted by a small, dirty-faced
girl, with tangled yellow hair.
“Who do you want?” demanded she.
“Mr. Brady,” answered Kenyon. “Does he live here?”
“What do you want with him?” inquired the child.
The adventurer looked down into the sharp little face, so smutted and
old looking.
“He’s an old friend of mine, kidsy,” answered he. “Here’s a dime.”
A grimy little hand shot out for the coin. Then she said:
“He lives back there, in the last room. Knock hard on the door. Maybe
he’s drunk.”
Kenyon picked his way along the dirty hall, and rapped at the door at
the end.
“Who’s there?” growled a rough voice.
“How are you, Brady?” responded Kenyon. “Can I come in?”
XIII
KENYON MEETS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE
“The deeds of one’s youth are long remembered.”
--_The Strategy of Nunez._
THE voice growled something in an undertone that Kenyon could not
understand. But he promptly took it as an invitation to enter, and so
pushed open the door. A thick-shouldered man with a dark, bloated face
was stretched upon a broken-springed sofa; and as Kenyon entered he
lifted himself to a sitting position.
“Who the hell are you?” he growled.
Kenyon smiled.
“There was a time, Gypsy, when you prided yourself upon your memory. It
must have gone back on you of late years, if you don’t recognize old
friends.”
“Old friends!” The man glowered at the speaker. “I haven’t got any old
friends. No man that is down and out has. When me coin run out, it was
the side street and the far-away look for mine.”
Kenyon drew a stool toward him and sat down, first throwing his
top-coat and crush-hat aside. The man regarded his immaculateness with
frowning wonder.
“How long has it been, Brady,” inquired the caller, “since you saw my
old acquaintance the ‘Steamhammer’?”
Brady stared for a moment, then a grin gradually stole over his face.
“Say,” said he. “I’ve got you now. You are that young guy from West
Point.” He arose and shook hands with Kenyon. “I’m glad to see you.
You were once the handy boy, all right,” admiringly. “You had a shot
in either hand that would have made you champion of America if you had
been in that line.”
“Thanks.”
“Just wait a minute,” continued the Gypsy, with a wink. “I’ve got a
friend here that’s sort of backward-like, when people call.” He went to
a closet at one side, pulled back the catch and threw open the door.
“All right, Slim,” said he. “You can come out. It’s a friend of mine.”
A tall, angular, huge-boned fellow stepped silently out of the closet.
He had a hawk-like face and a pair of small, shifty green eyes.
“I’m glad to know the gent,” said he. He sat coolly down upon a trunk
and began to roll a cigarette. His fingers were supple and discolored.
“You see,” by way of explanation, “when a guy is in demand, why it’s
him for the deep, dense shade. Do you get me? There is no sense in
lingering around in places where you might get sunburned.”
“I think I understand,” said Kenyon.
The Gypsy waved the subject away, as being without special interest. He
seemed in a reminiscent mood.
“The night that you came into the ‘Paradise Garden’ is one that will
always stick to me,” said he, with a chuckle. “Ah, that was a time
when I could rope up the yellowbacks in bundles thick enough to keep
back the cops. But New York’s changed since then. It’s full of Chinks,
Yiddishers, Guinnies, and people with money.”
“I’ve heard of that old place of yours, often,” spoke the shady one,
lighting his cigarette. “But I never saw it.”
“You see,” said the Gypsy to Kenyon. “Big Slim here is from St. Louis.
He only struck New York a few years back. They’d never mugged him here,
and he was looking for a new field.”
“It should have been ’Frisco or old K. C. for me,” complained Big Slim.
“The guns have gone all over this island and there’s not a thing on it,
except in Wall Street, that’s not chained short.”
“Well, if you’d drifted in in the old days you’d have found it
different. A guy could accumulate a pull then, if he had the change,”
stated Brady. “And he could go as far as he liked.”
He paused a moment, then resumed:
“Now the ‘Paradise Garden’ was a mint; money came in by the ton, and I
only had to stop this side of murder. And it was the place to go,” with
great pride. “Anybody that blew into New York had to take a flyer at my
place to be in the running. It cost them something; but it was worth
the money. The show I gave them was the real goods; and the drinks were
fine--if the buyer was sober. What’s the use of wasting good liquor on
a guy that’s stewed to the eyes. He can’t appreciate it.”
“Your reasoning is highly modern,” said Kenyon, dryly.
“You managed mit-pushers then, didn’t you?” asked Big Slim, rolling a
second cigarette.
“I did. Local champs, you know, with followings of friends. The
friends were always good shots over a bar. They could hit the cash
register with a silver dollar every time they’d try. It was a pleasing
performance.”
The Gypsy had lost his scowl, and his eyes glistened at the thought of
his more prosperous days.
“But,” he resumed, “of all the chamois artists I ever managed, the
‘Steamhammer’ was the biggest winner. You see, he worked in Washington
Market, and all the marketmen and longshore people would be on hand
whenever he’d engage. And they were a thirsty lot. I’d have to sit on
the safe all night with a gun after they’d been on the job.
“I had the Hammer for almost a year. Twice a week I’d advertise him as
open to meet all comers at the middleweight limit; and he’d gone right
along the line putting them away without missing once. At last the bugs
began to whisper to me that I had the wonder of the age; and that it
was my correct move to put him in front of the big mixer himself. But
our friend here,” indicating Kenyon, “saved me the trouble.”
“Is that so?” inquired Big Slim, interestedly. “Tell us how.”
“He came into the Gardens one night with a lot of them West Point
fellows. I think it had been a football day, and they were wild to
pull something off. They had heard about the Hammer, and when I made
the regular offer from the stage about him being willing to exchange
wallops, one of them was on in a minute and the rest of them were
howling with joy.”
“It’s that sort of thing that boys do,” apologized Kenyon. “And I was
very young then, you know.”
“You were fifteen pounds lighter than the Hammer, I know that,” grinned
Gypsy Brady. “And when you put up your guard I thought he had you sure.”
“But he didn’t?” interrogated Big Slim.
“He didn’t even come near doing it. You see the Hammer’s regular
stunt was to rush his man up to the wall--I only had ropes on three
sides--pin him against it with his left hand and pour it into him with
his right. When he thought he’d handed over enough he’d pull out the
pin, and the guy would generally drop. But this time the game didn’t
work. The boy from the army school met the rush with a body stab that
brought the Hammer up short; then he feinted him into a tangle and shot
one over on his baggage truck that put him away.”
Big Slim nodded admiringly; he liked a neatly executed job.
“It was not nearly so difficult a proposition as you might think,”
said Kenyon. “I’m not in good training for that sort of thing just
now; but,” and he looked at the Gypsy attentively, “I’d rather tackle
another job like it, than the one I have in mind.”
“I thought there was something that brought you here,” returned the
ex-divekeeper. There was an eager look upon his dark, swollen face, at
the prospect of profit of some sort. “Is it anything that you’d like to
see me in private about?”
“I think not,” answered Kenyon. He turned and regarded Big Slim keenly.
“I rather fancy that our friend here will be of assistance.”
“I’m only open for engagements of an indoor nature at the present
time,” volunteered the man from St. Louis, seriously. “But if there is
anything that I can do for a friend of the Gypsy’s, why, I’ll be glad
to take it on.”
“I want a complete burglar’s outfit,” said Kenyon to Brady. “And I also
want a full line of instructions as to how to break into a house, and
how to force a safe when I get in.”
Big Slim cracked the joints of his huge fingers and only appeared
mildly surprised.
“You’re not going to take up house-breaking, are you?” inquired the
astonished Gypsy, when he had recovered his speech.
“Not as a regular thing,” answered Kenyon, easily. “But it happens that
there is a house in town that I want to see the inside of, and don’t
care to wait for an invitation. Now if you can put me in the way of
getting what I want, I’ll pay you your own price.”
“As you have guessed,” said the Gypsy, “Slim is a cracksman; and if he
has a mind he can fix you up.” He turned to the other, inquiringly,
“What do you say?”
“I’ll do it,” answered Big Slim promptly. “But the stuff comes high,”
to Kenyon. “I’ve got the finest kit in New York; it took me years to
get it together. Every tool will do its work, and is strictly up to
date.” He looked at the adventurer with calculating eye. “You could
carry enough in your pockets to let you into anything but a money-fort.
And I’ll hand it on to you, together with a full day’s instructions in
the use of the stuff, at five hundred dollars.”
“Wrap them up,” replied Kenyon, quietly. “And if it’s all the same to
you, I’ll have the lessons begin right now.”
XIV
THE UNINVITED GUEST
“’Twas in the garden of Beaucaire;
I met her on a secret stair.
The night was centuries ago.”
--_Old Ballad_
THE thick, sticky mist that sometimes blows uptown from the bay veiled
Fifth Avenue; and a thin rain fell steadily. The lamps shot their pale
rays mysteriously through the fog; cabs and busses rolled drippingly
by; and soggy pedestrians hurried along under streaming umbrellas.
The theatre crowds were on their way home, after their hour in the
White Light restaurants; but in a little while their time had passed,
and the avenue was silent and deserted save for a policeman who would
now and then appear, and almost as quickly vanish.
Most of the houses were gloom-fronted; a few scattering windows in the
section just below the park showed night lights; but one house was
brilliantly illuminated, and a long line of carriages was drawn up at
the curb.
It was past midnight when Kenyon came along, enveloped in a rain-coat
and with an umbrella held over his head.
“By George!” muttered he, “it is really at Farbush’s! What luck! To get
inside now should be comparatively easy. What a fortunate thing it is
that he should be giving this thing, whatever it is.”
He stood in the drip of a roof across the street and watched the gaily
lighted house. At length a party came out, protected by umbrellas held
by footmen; these latter immediately returned and several other parties
came out at once and scurried for their vehicles.
“Now is my chance,” said Kenyon. He swiftly crossed the street, passed
behind a carriage into which several exclaiming women were being
helped, then up the wide steps and into the hall.
“Shall I return your things to the coat-room, sir?” asked a servant.
“Thanks--yes,” answered the adventurer, quietly.
He handed his coat, hat, and umbrella to the man, who received the
latter surprisedly. Its folds streamed with water, and he was clearly
wondering if the rain were not heavier than he had thought it. However,
he took the things away without any comment, and Kenyon, with a light
breath of relief, walked into a room in which he could see a number of
men smoking.
His entrance being quiet and matter of fact, of course attracted no
attention whatsoever. This was what he had calculated upon; he wore the
conventional evening clothes; at a glance he looked exactly like the
other males present, and no one could say that he was an intruder.
“That is, no one but Farbush,” mused Kenyon, as he took a cigarette
from a box upon a stand. “And if he should happen upon me, no doubt I
can find a few things to say to him that would sufficiently account for
my presence.”
He was lounging calmly in a big chair when a voice at his side remarked:
“It’s a fair cigarette that Farbush keeps, isn’t it. If his champagne
were as good I should have nothing to complain of.”
Kenyon turned. A pale-eyed young man with a budding mustache had drawn
a chair up close to him, and was in the act of lighting a cigarette.
There was a friendly, inconsequential look upon his chubby face, and
the adventurer’s eyes snapped.
“Yes, they are rather a good sort,” replied Kenyon, inspecting his
cigarette critically. “But I haven’t tried the champagne.”
The other made a wry face.
“Then you may consider yourself lucky,” said he. “These old fellows
like Farbush should really leave their cellars for someone else to
select. They do make a most dreadful mess of it sometimes. Now, Farbush
possibly knows all about tea, and about ships and Chinese stuff and all
that, but he’s a baby on the vintage subject. I had about fifteen dozen
of that ’93 some time ago which I tried to induce him to buy; but he
actually scoffed at it. And then he springs a thing like this to-night
upon his unsuspecting friends.”
“Then you sell wines?” said Kenyon, with a show of interest.
“Not in the usual sense,” returned the young man, hastily. “No, no!
I sometimes have a small quantity of a few select brands to dispose
of to my friends--more to give them the benefit of my experience than
anything else. That is all.”
Kenyon smiled. He had heard of the wine agent in society and had known
the cigarette boomer at college.
“Our most philanthropic purposes are not always appreciated,” said
he. The other shook his head in a way expressive of a wide and early
acquaintance with that particular fact. “Now Farbush is a friend of
mine,” proceeded Kenyon, “but I must admit that he’s rather shaky upon
a good many things. Did he build this house, do you know?”
“I think he did.”
“That is what I thought. It’s about the sort of thing he _would_ have
put up,” criticised Kenyon, with a severe expression, which said as
plainly as words that architectural sins would only be properly dealt
with if placed among the deadly kind. “It’s all out of reason, you
know.”
“I couldn’t say, really,” returned the pale-eyed young man,
hesitatingly. “Architecture is a bit out of my line, you see.”
Kenyon had been more or less confident of that; nevertheless he was
pleased to hear the confession, and launched forth in a very caustic
condemnation of Farbush’s mansion.
“But it’s the way the rooms are laid out that I particularly
criticise,” declared he. “The whole thing is a jumble. Now, I have no
doubt but that a man so inoculated with the poison of commercial life
as Farbush would have his home office in the most conspicuous room in
the house.”
“Oh, but he hasn’t, I assure you,” the other hastened to say. “His
apartment for the transaction of his own private affairs is just at the
head of the first flight of stairs--a large room, but quite out of the
way.”
“Well, I should have thought differently,” replied Kenyon, grudgingly.
After a little more talk, largely upon the part of the wine agent, that
person arose.
“I see most of them are going,” said he. “I suppose the rain must have
let up.”
Then Kenyon noticed that Farbush had entered the room, and stood by the
door leading to the hall, shaking hands with his departing guests.
“It would be preferable were he not to see me,” he thought. So now that
his new acquaintance had left him, he arose, and quietly passed through
a curtained doorway. The room was almost deserted; however, in one near
at hand he could hear the laughing chatter of a great number of women.
“I’ve got but a very few minutes, perhaps,” he muttered. “So I’d better
get to work.” He looked out into the hall, from still another doorway.
The street doors were wide open and the footmen were calling the
carriages in the impatient tone of men who were wet and uncomfortable.
“I should think the excellent Mr. Farbush would have done well to have
spread a canopy from his door,” thought Kenyon. His keen eyes took
in the fact that no one was observing him; and in an instant he had
gained the stairway and had begun to ascend. It was a solid, hard-wood
staircase, very wide, with massive balustrades and newel posts. And
there were many turns in it, and many landings. Kenyon had reached one
of these and stood in the glare of a cluster of lights to look back.
As he was so posed he heard the rustle of silken skirts above him; he
turned swiftly. Around a bend in the stairway, leaning over the heavy
rail and gazing down at him was a girl--a tall girl, with a great crown
of blonde hair and delicately tinted face. It was Anna!
“Mr. Kenyon!” she whispered; and he saw the sudden fear in her blue
eyes.
For a moment the adventurer was at loss. But as was usual with him
the feeling was perfectly masked; to all appearances he was cool and
entirely at his ease.
“Ah, how do you do?” smiled he. “I’m charmed, I’m sure.”
She looked at him fixedly; it was evident that she was struggling
against her surprise; but her voice shook as she said:
“What--what are you doing here?”
“Social affairs always have an attraction for me,” replied Kenyon. “I
like to meet people and exchange ideas with them. The general effect is
freshening, I think.”
The girl had recovered somewhat from her first astonishment.
“How foolish of me to be surprised,” she smiled; “of course you were
among those asked. I recall it distinctly now.”
Kenyon regarded her with fresh interest. There was the same appealing
air about her that he had noticed in Selden’s Square; a girlish
sweetness and helplessness that drew one powerfully. But he had noticed
another thing. The sweetness and innocence, if anything, increased when
she spoke of her recollection of his being asked there that night.
“It might be a hallucination of hers, of course,” thought Kenyon, as
his keen eyes searched the girl’s face. “But I’m not sure of it.”
“Will you sit on the stairs with me?” asked Anna. Her teeth were of
dazzling whiteness, and her manner full of sudden witchery. “I know
it’s very silly and school-girlish, but I’ve always liked it.”
“A fascinating place,” said Kenyon, as he sat at her feet. “Unnoticed
we can speed the parting guests through the rails. It’s one of the
discoveries of college days that are really worth while.”
She laughed a little at this. The light in her eyes danced softly and
girlishly. But for all her smiles Kenyon thought he saw a tightening
at the corners of her mouth. It was as though she were possessed of a
nervous dread of some sort.
“I fancy,” thought the ex-lieutenant of Nunez, “that I have been
inopportune in some way.”
“You are not going to-night, then?” said Anna, eagerly.
“Oh, yes,” replied Kenyon. “In a very little while.”
There was an expression of relief in the girl’s eyes for an instant,
and then she pouted.
“I fancied that uncle would have you with us while you are in town.”
She hesitated and then laid her hand upon his shoulder. “And I’m sure
that Dallas would be pleased.”
“Dallas?”
“Of course. You must not be guided altogether by appearances. Neither
should you heed what others might say. She is an odd girl in some ways.
And proud!” with a pretty gesture of dismay. “I never saw such pride
before.”
It was _the_ girl that she referred to! Kenyon drew a long breath and
then said:
“I agree with you as to the pride. Her attitude toward me, so far, has
been rather--ah--distant to say the least.”
“Then she has not treated you well to-night?”
“Is she here?” exclaimed Kenyon, caught by surprise.
“To be sure. Mr. Farbush always insists upon our being present at
affairs like this. He is a widower, you know, and he depends entirely
upon us to entertain his guests. But is it possible that you have not
spoken with her?”
She gave him a curious glance. He saw that it would not do to make
admissions of any sort; they were inclined to be dangerous.
“I only ventured out of the smoking room upon one or two occasions,”
remarked he. “And then the rooms were so crowded.”
“Oh, yes; that is true.”
But he could see that she was far from being satisfied, for she
immediately came back to the subject.
“You are not a very ardent lover, it would seem,” she laughed. “I
should think that a man would be breathless in his search for his
lady-love, anywhere in which he had occasion to think she would be.”
“It is just possible,” answered Kenyon, slowly, “that I did not dream
of finding her here.”
She looked at him quickly, and he felt her small hand tighten upon his
arm.
“You are thinking of the affair of a few nights ago at Hong Yo’s,” she
cried. “Oh, how dreadful, how horrible it must have been. And before
her very eyes.”
“You have heard about it, then?”
“Griscom informed me. And then Dallas also told me, afterwards. But
she was compelled to return here. No matter what has been done we
cannot leave here, now.”
“I suppose not,” answered Kenyon, in a thoughtful way. “There is much
more than personal feeling to be considered.”
“That is what we both think. Otherwise we would not have remained an
instant after the night in--in Selden’s Square.”
By this time the last carriage had departed, and they heard the front
door slam. Then the harsh voice of Farbush was heard.
“Now, then, come in here, Shallcross; I’ll go over that matter with you
in detail.”
They heard footsteps in the hall below; and a door opened and shut.
“There, now!” exclaimed Anna. “You’ll not have a chance to say good-bye
to him as you go. That is Mr. Shallcross, the ship-builder from
Seattle. They will be deep in tonnages and such stupid things for the
next hour.”
“At least,” said Kenyon, as he arose. “You can say good-night for
me--in the morning. I’ll get my coat and other things”--as though about
to pass her on the stairway.
“But the coat-room is below,” she informed him, hastily. And it also
seemed to him that she instinctively barred his way.
“Oh, how stupid of me,” he exclaimed. “I fancied it was on this floor.
That is why I was coming up in the first place.”
“Good-night,” she said, holding out her hand, with an eagerness that
was a trifle feverish.
“Good-night,” he replied.
There was no one below that he could see. The empty coat-room was only
dimly lighted. He entered and drew on his long rain-coat and took up
his hat.
“I suppose there is no hope for it,” he muttered, half angrily. “I’ll
have to go after all. I had hoped that I wouldn’t be compelled to--”
A murmur of voices outside the partly-opened coat-room door caught his
ears.
“Billings, get that rug in off the steps. Mr. Farbush will raise the
devil if he hears about it being wet. Old Potter threw it out there
because he thought that fat wife of his would slip.”
A moment later the street door opened and then shut heavily. A man
passed on his way to the rear of the house. Kenyon opened the coat-room
door wide. All the lights, save one, in the lower hall were turned out;
and that one only dimly illuminated the place.
“She’ll think I’ve gone, if she’s listening,” muttered he.
With his hand upon the stair rail once more in the act of ascending,
Kenyon caught a familiar sound. It was the rich rustle of silken
draperies; and through the shadows he made out a figure in white,
bending forward upon the last stretch of the staircase. He crouched
close to the wall, and held his breath.
“He has gone,” he heard the voice of Anna murmur. “Oh, how I fear that
man!”