"NO VIOLENCE"
The ex-pugilist sat back in the chair, chewing an unlighted black
cigar, his fishy eyes fixed on Bromfield. Scars still decorated the
colorless face, souvenirs of a battle in which he had been bested by a
man he hated. Durand had a capacity for silence. He waited now for
this exquisite from the upper world to tell his business.
Clarendon discovered that he had an unexpected repugnance to doing
this. A fastidious sense of the obligations of class served him for a
soul and the thing he was about to do could not be justified even in
his loose code of ethics. He examined the ferule of his Malacca cane
nervously.
"I've come to you, Mr. Durand, about--about a fellow called Lindsay."
The bulbous eyes of the other narrowed. He distrusted on principle all
kid gloves. Those he had met were mostly ambitious reformers.
Furthermore, any stranger who mentioned the name of the Arizonan became
instantly an object of suspicion.
"What about him?"
"I understand that you and he are not on friendly terms. I've gathered
that from what's been told me. Am I correct?"
Durand thrust out his salient chin. "Say! Who the hell are you?
What's eatin' you? Whatta you want?"
"I'd rather not tell my name."
"Nothin' doin'. No name, no business. That goes."
"Very well. My name is Bromfield. This fellow Lindsay--gets in my
way. I want to--to eliminate him."
"Are you askin' me to croak him?"
"Good God, no! I don't want him hurt--physically," cried Bromfield,
alarmed.
"Whatta you want, then?" The tight-lipped mouth and the harsh voice
called for a showdown.
"I want him discredited--disgraced."
"Why?"
"Some friends of mine are infatuated by him. I want to unmask him in a
public way so as to disgust them with him."
"I'm hep. It's a girl."
"We'll not discuss that," said the clubman with a touch of hauteur.
"As to the price, if you can arrange the thing as I want it done, I'll
not haggle over terms."
The ex-pugilist listened sourly to Bromfield's proposition. He watched
narrowly this fashionably dressed visitor. His suspicions still
stirred, but not so actively. He was inclined to believe in the
sincerity of the fellow's hatred of the Westerner. Jealousy over a
girl could easily account for it. Jerry did not intend to involve
himself until he had made sure.
"Whatta you want me to do? Come clean."
"Could we get him into a gambling-house, arrange some disgraceful mixup
with a woman, get the place raided by the police, and have the whole
thing come out in the papers?"
Jerry's slitted eyes went off into space. The thing could be arranged.
The trouble in getting Lindsay was to draw him into a trap he could not
break through. If Bromfield could deliver his enemy into his hands,
Durand thought he would be a fool not to make the most of the chance.
As for this soft-fingered swell's stipulation against physical injury,
that could be ignored if the opportunity offered.
"Can you bring this Lindsay to a gambling-dump? Will he come with
you?" demanded the gang politician.
"I think so. I'm not sure. But if I do that, can you fix the rest?"
"It'll cost money."
"How much will you need?"
"A coupla thousand to start with. More before I've finished. I've got
to salve the cops."
Bromfield had prepared for this contingency. He counted out a thousand
dollars in bills of large denominations.
"I'll cut that figure in two. Understand. He's not to be hurt. I
won't have any rough work."
"Leave that to me."
"And you've got to arrange it so that when the house is raided I escape
without being known."
"I'll do that, too. Leave your address and I'll send a man up later to
wise you as to the scheme when I get one fixed up."
On a sheet torn from his memorandum book Bromfield wrote the name of
the club which he most frequented.
"Don't forget the newspapers. I want them to get the story," said the
clubman, rising.
"I'll see they cover the raid."
Bromfield, massaging a glove on to his long fingers, added another word
of caution. "Don't slip up on this thing. Lindsay's a long way from
being a soft mark."
"Don't I know it?" snapped Durand viciously. "There'll be no slip-up
this time if you do your part. We'll get him, and we'll get him right."
"Without any violence, of course."
"Oh, of course."
Was there a covert but derisive jeer concealed in that smooth assent?
Bromfield did not know, but he took away with him an unease that
disturbed his sleep that night.
Before the clubman was out of the hotel, Jerry was snapping
instructions at one of his satellites.
"Tail that fellow. Find where he goes, who he is, what girl he's
mashed on, all about him. See if he's hooked up with Lindsay. And
how? Hop to it! Did you get a slant at him as he went out?"
"Sure I did. He's my meat."
The tailer vanished.
Jerry stood at the window, still sullenly chewing his unlighted cigar,
and watched his late visitor and the tailer lose themselves in the
hurrying crowds.
"White-livered simp. 'No violence, Mr. Durand.' Hmp! Different here."
An evil grin broke through on the thin-lipped, cruel face.