_The Fight in the Cafe_
Swanson left the hotel intending to pursue his volunteer detective work
only a few moments after McCarthy started uptown to respond to the
invitation of Miss Baldwin. He had remained lounging around the lobby
talking with Kennedy, the big catcher, until he saw Williams leave the
hotel by a side entrance and enter a street car. Then he signaled
Kennedy and they strolled out together and caught the next car.
"It's Williams we're going to trail," was the only hint Swanson would
give at the start.
"Williams?" snorted Kennedy. "You told me there was a chance for a
scrap. That guy won't fight."
"Maybe those he's going to see will," replied Swanson encouragingly.
Swanson did not know then that, only a short time before he made his
arrangement with Kennedy, Williams had pleaded over the telephone to
Edwards that he was afraid to meet him that evening, as requested,
because he thought Clancy might discover the fact and that Clancy was
already suspicious. Williams pretended alarm and convinced Edwards
that there was danger of someone following the pitcher, and on his way
to keep the appointment to meet the athlete he had drawn into the toils
of the conspiracy, he stopped at his gambling room and ordered Jack, a
big ex-prizefighter, to follow him to the meeting place and to keep
watch during the conference.
It was growing dark when Edwards strolled slowly across town toward the
rendezvous. Williams's fear of being upbraided when he met the gambler
on that evening was unfounded. The gambler was convinced that the
pitcher had made every effort to lose the game and that he had been
balked only by luck and the fielding of McCarthy. He wanted to learn
from Williams whether or not there was any other player on the team who
could be bribed into assisting in the plot.
Swanson and Kennedy trailing cautiously saw Williams jump off the car
and walk along the sidewalk, and, after riding past him, they descended
and walked along the opposite side of the street, keeping close in the
shadows of the tall buildings. A block further downtown they saw
Williams stop, look around suspiciously as if to see whether or not
anyone was following him, then turn up the side street and enter a
cafe. Swanson quickly led the way. They passed the saloon on the
opposite side of the street, and after walking half a block they
retraced their steps and stopped in a doorway opposite the entrance.
"Let's wait here and see who goes in," suggested Swanson.
"Whom do you expect him to meet?" inquired Kennedy.
"Edwards," vouchsafed Swanson grudgingly. "He has been meeting that
crook for ten days now, and I want to find out what they're up to."
"Why didn't you tell me before?" demanded Kennedy. "I'd kick his head
off"----
"We hadn't the goods on him," explained Swanson. "That's what I want
you for. If we can prove he's up to some crooked work"----
The big Swede menacingly folded his ponderous paw into a fist and
flexed his biceps.
"Do you think he's trying to throw games? He's been pitching funny
ball lately," asked Kennedy. "I've had to fight him in every game to
get him to pitch fast."
"What I think and what I can prove are different things," growled the
shortstop. "I've got my suspicions. Now we're after proof. Come on.
If he was to meet anyone there the one he was to meet is in ahead of
him."
The players walked to the corner, crossed the street and went into the
saloon without an effort at concealment. The place appeared empty,
save for a bartender who was washing glasses behind the bar, and a
heavy, coarse-featured man lounging near the end of the bar with a
half-consumed high ball before him.
"Gimme a beer," ordered Swanson, throwing a coin onto the bar; "what
you have, Ben?"
"Make it two," replied Kennedy.
There was no sign of Williams, and only a narrow doorway, leading
somewhere toward the rear, gave a clue as to his probable egress from
the barroom.
The bartender, having rung up the amount of the sale on the cash
register, exchanged a few words in a low tone with the man at the end.
Then he strolled back and stood near where Swanson and Kennedy were
wasting time over their drinks.
"We were expecting to meet a friend here to-night," remarked Swanson,
deciding to take a new tack with the bartender. "Rather tall, slender
young fellow. Has anyone been in?"
"Young fellow came in a while ago something like that," replied the
bartender. "Seemed to be expecting someone, but turned around and went
out. Maybe that was him."
They knew he was lying, and Swanson, without changing expression, said:
"Must have thought he was in the wrong place, or too early. Maybe
he'll come back. We'll stick around awhile."
Had they known what was transpiring in the private room just beyond the
doorway their interest would have been greater. The big man who had
stood at the end of the bar had gone at the first opportunity and was
reporting to Easy Ed Edwards, who grew venomous with hate, while
Williams sat shaking with fright.
"I knew they'd get on. If they report to Clancy I'm done for," he said.
"Shut up," ordered the gambler angrily. "They haven't seen you and
they don't know I'm here. Who are they, Jack?"
"I don't know dem," said the ex-fighter. "Dey's a big, husky lookin'
guy, a Dutchman, I guess, wid a blue suit"----
"It's Swanson," said Williams. "He's been looking at me as if he knew
something for two or three days. He has followed me here."
"De oder one is a smaller, wiry sort o' guy. Got on a light suit"----
"It must be McCarthy," whined Williams. "He's always with Swanson.
They're looking for me. I wish I had kept out of this."
"Listen," ordered Edwards coldly. "This fellow McCarthy is the one we
want. If we can get him out of the way it'll be easy and I can get
even with that big, fat lobster, Baldwin, for trying to double cross
me. Jack, you go out there and get in a mix-up with them and take a
poke at the little fellow that'll keep him from playing ball for a
week. Is the bartender a friend of yours?"
"One of me best pals," replied the ex-fighter. "Leaf it to me. I'll
land de punch dat'll fix dat fresh, young guy."
The fighter strolled back to the barroom and resumed his stand at the
end of the bar, eyeing the two ball players. As he tapped the bar the
bartender walked to him.
"I'm goin' to start somethin'," said Jack in a low tone. "Ed wants me
to punch de head offen dat youngest one."
"That big guy looks hard to handle," commented the bartender. "Make it
quick. I don't like no rough house here. The license ain't any too
safe now."
"I'm going back to see what's there," whispered Kennedy to Swanson.
"You stick here. I'll bluff it through."
He walked toward the door leading back from the bar and started to pass
through it.
"Here, young feller," said the bartender, "where you goin'?"
"Washroom," replied Kennedy, keeping on through the door.
"Naw you don't. Come back outen there," ordered the fighter angrily.
"Who appointed you boss?" asked Kennedy belligerently.
"Well, I'm boss anywhere I goes," declared the big fellow. "Youse stay
outen there. D'ye hear?"
He grabbed the ball player by the arm--and at that instant Kennedy
swung. His fist caught the bruiser squarely on the mouth and he reeled
back, then, with a bellow of rage, he sprang at Kennedy.
With a roar of anger Swanson hurled himself into the fray. Kennedy's
fist had caught the ex-fighter and cut his cheek open and blood spurted
upon both as they fought, the frail partition swaying under their
weight. Swanson leaped with his arm drawn for a knock-out blow, just
as Jack's right caught Kennedy upon the jaw and dropped him to the
floor helpless. The blow the Swede had aimed at the fighter hit him
upon the shoulder and slid over his head, and Jack, whirling, faced his
new adversary. Swanson sprang to close quarters with the giant and his
fist thudded home. Jack, groggy and already half spent from his
exertions, clinched and hung on. The Swede, now a man gone mad with
the lust of battle, shook him off, hurled the giant backward against
the partition, and, crouching, he prepared to swing his right, waiting
for the opening to the jaw, while Jack, groggy and half dazed, covered
his head with his arms and swayed. The blow never landed. Suddenly it
seemed to Swanson as if the worlds were crashing around his head.
Bright stars danced before his eyes, his knees gave way beneath him,
and with a foolish laugh he sank to the floor and rolled, helpless,
beside his fallen comrade. His last recollection was of hearing a
telephone bell jangling somewhere.
The ringing of the telephone bell that Swanson heard as he lapsed into
unconsciousness was the call of Barney Baldwin for Ed Edwards. The
gambler, who, with his frightened companion, had heard the sounds of
the terrific struggle in the barroom sink into silence, spoke rapidly
for an instant, then, as Baldwin said: "They've got the wrong man," he
hung up the receiver with an oath and leaped toward the doorway. He
emerged upon a tableau showing his slugger, half dazed and hanging to
the partition for support, two figures inert upon the floor and the
bartender coolly walking back toward the bar, carrying a heavy
bung-starter in his hand, that explained the sudden ending of the fight.