IN CAGNEY'S SANCTUM.
We never heard it claimed that Oliver street was fashionable.
If such a claim was made, many who know that narrow lane, extending
from Chatham square down to the East River front, would be inclined to
dispute its truth.
Crossing Cherry street, Water and Front, passing directly through the
heart of the densely populated Fourth Ward, long known as the home of
the toughest of the "toughs" who infest the City of New York, it would
be useless for us to pretend that Oliver street was anything else than
just what it is--as bad as bad can be.
Not that many excellent people cannot be found within its limits.
That is true of every city street, no matter how poor its seeming;
but Michael J. Cagney was certainly not one of these, nor was his
saloon--"The Fourth Ward Shades"--any better than it ought to be, if
common rumor was to be believed.
And yet Cagney did a flourishing business--there could be no doubt as
to that.
It was open all day, it could be entered at night, nor upon the Sabbath
were the thirsty turned away.
How Mr. Michael J. Cagney managed to arrange matters with the excise
commissioners is no concern of ours.
In the present stage of the events of this narrative we are concerned
only with two individuals, who, at the hour of daybreak on the
particular Sunday morning of the visit of Frank Mansfield and Jerry
Buck to the Catherine Market, entered quietly at Cagney's little side
door.
They were none other than the two men who had emerged from the alley
at the side of the Donegal Shades, one of whom it will be recollected,
Frank recognized as that most reputable member of society, Mr. Elijah
Callister, the well-known operator on the stock exchange, and the other
the man pointed out by Jerry Buck as one of the burglars of the Webster
Bank.
Pushing against the door, to all appearance tightly fastened, but which
instantly yielded to their touch, the two men found themselves within a
dirty bar-room.
Bottles and demijohns lined the grimy shelves, great casks and barrels
were piled from the level of the sawdust-covered floor in double tiers
around two sides of the room.
Upon the top of these barrels lay four or five ragged men, some young,
some old, all sprawled out without reference to the gracefulness of the
position shown and all sound asleep.
These were the drunkards of the Saturday night previous, taken from
the floor, to which they had fallen under the influence of the vile
poison imbibed at this and other bars, and thrown upon the top of these
barrels to sleep off the effects of their debauch.
The two men paid no attention to this--a common Sunday morning
spectacle in many low saloons--but with a nod to the sleepy, red-eyed
bartender passed through a swinging half door, which formed to a
certain extent at least, a dividing line between Cagney's proper and
Cagney's private sanctum beyond.
It was only a little 7x8 affair, in the center of which stood a table,
and one or two hard wooden chairs, all a shade less dirty than the
room beyond.
The stock operator seated himself at the table upon entering.
His companion, sinking into a chair and burying his face in his hands,
groaned aloud.
For a moment Mr. Callister regarded him gloomily.
Then, extending his hand, he grasped his shoulder and shook the man
with some violence.
"Rube, Rube, I say!"
"Well, what is it, Lije? Why the deuce can't you let me be?"
"But there's no use in this kind of business. What's done is done, and
can't be helped. Brace up man, and try to look as near like yourself as
you can. Here comes Paddy to see what we'll take."
The burglar raised his head and was staring fixedly before him, as the
half door swung inward and the sleepy bartender entered the room.
"What's your liquor, gents?" he demanded, with an air of indifference.
They must pay for their use of the apartment by an order of some kind.
So that they did this, their presence in the place, be their business,
lawful or unlawful, was a matter of no moment to him.
"A bottle of Cagney's particular and two glasses, Paddy, and you may
keep the change," said Callister, throwing down a five-dollar bill. "We
have a little business to transact together--don't let us be disturbed."
"O. K., gents," replied the sleepy bartender, with a gleam of
intelligence in his blinking red eyes. "I'll look out for yez, and if
ye want anything else, wy jest tap that ere bell."
He presently returned with bottle and glasses and having placed them
upon the table, withdrew.
"Here, Rube, drink this. It will give you some heart," said the stock
operator, pouring out a portion of the liquor and passing it to his
friend.
The man seized the glass eagerly and drained it to the last drop.
"My God--my God! Lije, what a terrible thing this is!" he exclaimed, in
a hoarse whisper, as he set the glass upon the table again. "I can see
her face before me now, so white and worn! It will never leave me--I
feel it--I know it! It will haunt me as long as I live!"
"Nonsense, man! You have been guilty of a piece of tremendous folly,
but we've too much at stake to break all to pieces over such a slip."
"Poor Maria! poor girl!" groaned the man Rube, again burying his face
in his hands and groaning aloud. "It was all my vile temper, Lije. I
swear to God I never meant to kill her, and now----"
"And now she's dead," returned Callister, with an air of hardened
indifference. "She was hopelessly mad, and a nuisance to herself and
to us. She's dead, and it can't be helped. You let your temper get the
better of you, and you killed her. That's all there is to be said."
"For which act may God forgive me," groaned Rube again. "Oh, Lije, it
seems but yesterday since I married her! Do you remember what beautiful
girls they were when you and I and Frank Mansfield went a-courting
them? Do you remember----"
"No, I don't remember, and I don't want to. All the love I had for
them was turned to hate long ago. She's dead, and let her go. What I'm
interested in just now is the whereabouts of those papers. You thought
she had them, and because she wouldn't give them up----"
"I killed her. God forgive me! I killed her! Oh, Lije, if I had only
listened to Maria's advice, I'd be a different man to-day from what I
am!"
A soft-hearted bank burglar, surely. A strange murderer, for a fact.
The man had buried his face in his hand again, which rests upon the
table now, and is crying like a child.
"Rube Tisdale, you are a fool. If you give way like this, no power
on earth can keep you from being nabbed. You thought Maria had old
Mansfield's will and the paper telling where he buried his fortune.
She refused to give it up, and you killed her with your fist. We
searched her, and the papers were not to be found. No one suspects your
connection with the woman. If you will but keep a stiff lip you are as
safe in New York as anywhere else; but if you are going to give way
like this, why the sooner you skip----"
"Sun, Herald, Journal, World! Papers, gents--papers!"
A head was thrust through the swinging door; a ragged boy, carrying a
bundle of newspapers under his arm entered the room.
"Get out, you young imp, or I'll throw this glass at you!" cried
Callister, picking up the glass and swinging it above his head.
The boy sprang back, the half-door, which worked on a spring, closing
noiselessly after him.
Then the leading light in the Tenth Baptist Church turned to the
remorse-stricken man again.
Now, if there was one thing upon which Mr. Elijah Callister prided
himself more than another, it was upon his shrewdness at all times and
seasons--no matter how engrossing the business for the moment occupying
his mind.
But if possessed of this quality to any startling extent, he surely has
failed to display it now, for had he but taken the precaution to open
the half door and look out into the bar-room, he would have perceived
that the sleepy bartender, yielding to his sleepiness at last, was as
firmly locked in the arms of Morpheus as any of the drunkards stretched
upon the barrels, his head resting upon his hands, his hands upon the
bar.
He might have seen also--for of this we are not so certain--the
youthful figure of a ragged newsboy, crouching in the shadow of a tier
of great whisky-barrels in such a position that, while he could obtain
a view of the feet only of the two men who occupied Cagney's sanctum
beneath the closed half door, he could, by simply placing his ear close
to the jamb, hear plainly every word spoken within.
Thus matters stood in the saloon as the conversation within the sanctum
was renewed.
"Rube Tisdale," said the stock operator, fiercely, "stop this child's
business and listen to me."
"Well, I'm listening."
Though he replied, the man did not raise his head.
"Our scheme with the Webster Bank has proved a miserable failure in
every particular."
"You don't need to remind me of that."
"But I chose to, and that is enough. First, all the money we got
was five thousand dollars, for the bonds and securities are utterly
useless; and second, the will of old Mansfield, which I was most
anxious to secure, by your stupidity is lost, perhaps forever, and the
secret of the hiding-place of a fortune in solid cash is gone with it,
I suppose you understand."
"Well, it ain't my fault. You drew the plans for the job. You said
there was a hundred thousand in specie in the vault of the bank."
"So there was at noon. How was I to tell that they would send it all to
the Sub-Treasury in Wall street for security before three o'clock?"
"That's your business. It ain't mine."
"But the Mansfield will and the parchment telling the hiding-place of
the buried treasure--who botched that job, may I ask?"
"I took the box of papers you told me about. I was particular enough
to break open the lid to assure myself that all was right. I had it
in my hand when we heard those infernal bats whistling in Trinity
church-yard. It scared the life out of us, I want you to understand,
for how were we to know they were bats or what they were? I must have
dropped the box in the snow as we ran up Broadway."
"And because you happened to see Maria wandering about, you thought
she picked it up, and killed her, only to find out your mistake. Well,
Rube, upon my life you are a precious fool. Next time I let you into a
scheme like this I'll know it, I guess."
"Come, you've called me names enough," replied the burglar, gruffly,
raising his head and facing the man before him. "You are as deep in the
mud as I am in the mire, I want you to understand. The detectives will
turn New York upside down for this affair. Now, what do you propose to
do? They've got Joe Dutton, and they've got a part of the swag. It's my
opinion that the best thing we can do is to skip."
"Nonsense! Joe is all right. I shall make it my business to send some
one to him at once. Have no fear, Rube. He'll never blow."
"And the--the body?"
"We can't do anything about that. Matters must take their course.
I agree with you that it would be wiser for us to leave town for a
while--not that I have any serious fears, but only as a matter of
precaution--but I intend to have that Mansfield money before I go, make
no mistake about that."
"But how do you propose to get it? Without the parchment you don't know
anything more about its hiding-place than you did before."
"Rube, it is concealed somewhere about the old house, I'll be willing
to bet all I'm worth. It was there on the night that--but no matter
about that--and I'm sure it is there now. We never wanted that hidden
wealth half as much as we do now. Frank Mansfield is almost of age; my
scheme to convict him of crime may have worked and may not. We can't
tell into whose hands the papers may fall. What we want is the money
now."
"All very true, but how are you going to get it, when you don't know
where it is?"
"I'm going to search for it, Rube!" cried Callister bringing his fist
down upon the table with a bang. "I'm going to search for it, and
I'll find it if I have to tear the old rookery to pieces bit by bit.
Come, we've been here too long already. Wherever you think yourself
the safest, there hide for the next few days until we see what comes
of this affair. Meanwhile, I'll go home. To-morrow, at midnight, meet
me at the gate of the Three Oaks, and we'll search for this hidden
treasure as we never searched before. I've no notion of seeing it drop
like a ripe cherry into the open mouth of that cub of a boy while I can
raise a hand to prevent it."
The pair arose and passed out of the saloon.
The sleeping Paddy did not attract their attention--they did not
perceive the boy behind the barrels at all.
Once in the street they separated, the man Tisdale going down Cherry
street, Elijah Callister up Oliver street to Chatham Square.
He had hardly passed Henry street before a ragged newsboy went past him
on the run.
"Sun--Herald--World!" he cried. "Morning papers!
Herald--Sun--World--Journal!"
If Frank Mansfield could have seen the newsboy then he would have
unquestionably recognized in him Jerry Buck, his companion of the old
church-yard vault.
Had an elephant crossed the path of the scheming villain, or a dog, or
even a mouse, he might have turned aside and looked upon either one.
Mr. Elijah Callister, however, paid no attention to the flying Bat at
all.