IN BAD
When Bromfield suggested to Clay with a touch of stiffness that he
would be glad to show him a side of New York night life probably still
unfamiliar to him, the cattleman felt a surprise he carefully
concealed. He guessed that this was a belated attempt on the part of
Miss Whitford's fiance to overcome the palpable dislike he had for her
friend. If so, the impulse that inspired the offer was a creditable
one. Lindsay had no desire to take in any of the plague spots of the
city with Bromfield. Something about the society man set his back up,
to use his own phrase. But because this was true he did not intend to
be outdone in generosity by a successful rival. Promptly and heartily
he accepted the invitation. If he had known that a note and a card
from Jerry Durand lay in the vest pocket of his cynical host while he
was holding out the olive branch, it is probable the Arizonan would
have said, "No, thank you, kind sir."
The note mentioned no names. It said, "Wednesday, at Maddock's, 11
P.M. Show this card."
And to Maddock's, on Wednesday, at an hour something earlier than
eleven, the New Yorker led his guest after a call at one or two clubs.
Even from the outside the place had a dilapidated look that surprised
Lindsay. The bell was of that brand you keep pulling till you discover
it is out of order. Decayed gentility marked the neighborhood, though
the blank front of the houses looked impeccably respectable.
As a feeble camouflage of its real reason for being, Maddock's called
itself the "Omnium Club." But when Clay found how particular the
doorkeeper was as to those who entered he guessed at once it was a
gambling-house.
From behind a grating the man peered at them doubtfully. Bromfield
showed a card, and after some hesitation on the part of his inquisitor,
passed the examination. Toward Clay the doorkeeper jerked his head
inquiringly.
"He's all right," the clubman vouched.
Again there was a suspicious and lengthy scrutiny.
The door opened far enough to let them slide into a scantily furnished
hall. On the first landing was another guard, a heavy, brutal-looking
fellow who was no doubt the "chucker-out." He too looked them over
closely, but after a glance at the card drew aside to let them pass.
Through a door near the head of the stairs they moved into a large
room, evidently made from several smaller ones with the partitions torn
down and the ceilings pillared at intervals.
Clay had read about the magnificence of Canfield's in the old days, and
he was surprised that one so fastidious as Bromfield should patronize a
place so dingy and so rough as this. At the end of one room was a
marble mantelpiece above which there was a defaced, gilt-frame mirror.
The chandeliers, the chairs, the wall-paper, all suggested the same
note of one-time opulence worn to shabbiness.
A game of Klondike was going. There were two roulette wheels, a faro
table, and one circle of poker players.
The cold eyes of a sleek, slippery man sliding cards out of a faro-box
looked at the Westerner curiously. Among the suckers who came to this
den of thieves to be robbed were none of Clay's stamp. Lindsay watched
the white, dexterous hands of the dealer with an honest distaste. All
along the border from Juarez to Calexico he had seen just such soft,
skilled fingers fleecing those who toiled. He knew the bloodless,
impassive face of the professional gambler as well as he knew the
anxious, reckless ones of his victims. His knowledge had told him
little good of this breed of parasites who preyed upon a credulous
public.
The traffic of this room was crooked business by day as well as by
night. A partition ran across the rear of the back parlor which showed
no opening but two small holes with narrow shelves at the bottom. Back
of that was the paraphernalia of the pool-room, another device to
separate customers from their money by playing the "ponies."
As Clay looked around it struck him that the personnel of this
gambling-den's patrons was a singularly depressing one. All told there
were not a dozen respectable-looking people in the room. Most of those
present were derelicts of life, the failures of a great city washed up
by the tide. Some were pallid, haggard wretches clinging to the
vestiges of a prosperity that had once been theirs. Others were
hard-faced ruffians from the underworld. Not a few bore the marks of
the drug victim. All of those playing had a manner of furtive
suspicion. They knew that if they risked their money the house would
rob them. Yet they played.
Bromfield bought a small stack of chips at the roulette table.
"Won't you take a whirl at the wheel?" he asked Lindsay.
"Thanks, no, I believe not," his guest answered.
The Westerner was a bit disgusted at his host's lack of discrimination.
"Does he think I'm a soft mark too?" he wondered. "If this is what he
calls high life I've had more than enough already."
His disgust was shared by the clubman. Bromfield had never been in
such a dive before. His gambling had been done in gilded luxury.
While he touched shoulders with this motley crew his nostrils twitched
with fastidious disdain. He played, but his interest was not in the
wheel. Durand had promised that there would be women and that one of
them should be bribed to make a claim upon Clay at the proper moment.
He had an unhappy feeling that the gang politician had thrown him down
in this. If so, what did that mean? Had Durand some card up his
sleeve? Was he using him as a catspaw to rake in his own chestnuts?
Clarendon Bromfield began to weaken. He and Clay were the only two men
in the room in evening clothes. His questing eye fell on tough,
scarred faces that offered his fears no reassurance. Any one or all of
them might be agents of Durand.
He shoved all of his chips out, putting half of them on number eight
and the rest on seventeen. His object was to lose his stack
immediately and be free to go. To his annoyance the whirling ball
dropped into the pocket labeled eight.
"Let's get out of this hole," he said to Lindsay in a low voice. "I
don't like it."
"Suits me," agreed the other.
As Bromfield was cashing his chips Clay came rigidly to attention. Two
men had just come into the room. One of them was "Slim" Jim Collins,
the other Gorilla Dave. As yet they had not seen him. He did not look
at them, but at his host. There was a question in his mind he wanted
solved. The clubman's gaze passed over both the newcomers without the
least sign of recognition.
"I didn't know what this joint was like or I'd never have brought you,"
apologized Clarendon. "A friend of mine told me about it. He's got a
queer fancy if he likes this frazzled dive."
Clay acquitted Bromfield of conspiracy. He must have been tailed here
by Durand's men. His host had nothing to do with it. What for? They
could not openly attack him.
"Slim" Jim's eyes fell on him. He nudged Dave. Both of them, standing
near the entrance, watched Lindsay steadily.
Some one outside the door raised the cry, "The bulls are comin'."
Instantly the room leaped to frenzied excitement. Men dived for the
doors, bets forgotten and chips scattered over the floor. Chairs were
smashed as they charged over them, tables overturned. The unwary were
trodden underfoot.
Bromfield went into a panic. Why had he been fool enough to trust
Durand? No doubt the fellow would ruin him as willingly as he would
Lindsay. The raid was fifteen minutes ahead of schedule time. The
ward politician had betrayed him. He felt sure of it. All the
carefully prepared plans agreed upon he jettisoned promptly. His sole
thought was to save himself, not to trap his rival.
Lindsay caught him by the arm. "Let's try the back room."
He followed Clay, Durand's gangmen at his heels.
The lights went out.
The Westerner tried the window. It was heavily barred outside. He
turned to search for a door.
Brought up by the partition, Bromfield was whimpering with fear as he
too groped for a way of escape. A pale moon shone through the window
upon his evening clothes.
In the dim light Clay knew that tragedy impended. "Slim" Jim had his
automatic out.
"I've got you good," the chauffeur snarled.
The gun cracked. Bromfield bleated in frenzied terror as Clay dashed
forward. A chair swung round in a sweeping arc. As it descended the
spitting of the gun slashed through the darkness a second time.
"Slim" Jim went down, rolled over, lay like a log.
Some one dived for Lindsay and drove him against the wall, pinning him
by the waist. A second figure joined the first and caught the
cattleman's wrist.
Then the lights flashed on again. Clay saw that the man who had flung
him against the partition was Gorilla Dave. A plain-clothes man with a
star had twisted his wrist and was clinging to it. Bromfield was
nowhere to be seen, but an open door to the left showed that he had
found at least a temporary escape.
A policeman came forward and stooped over the figure of the prostrate
man.
"Some one's croaked a guy," he said.
Gorilla Dave spoke up quickly. "This fellow did it. With a chair. I
seen him."
There was a moment before Lindsay answered quietly. "He shot twice.
The gun must be lying under him where he fell."
Already men had crowded forward to the scene of the tragedy, moved by
the morbid curiosity a crowd has in such sights. Two policemen pushed
them back and turned the still body over. No revolver was to be seen.
"Anybody know who this is?" one of the officers asked.
"Collins--'Slim' Jim," answered big Dave.
"Well, he's got his this time," the policeman said. "Skull smashed."
Clay's heart sank. In that noise of struggling men and crashing
furniture very likely the sound of the shots had been muffled. The
revolver gone, false testimony against him, proof that he had
threatened Collins available, Clay knew that he was in desperate
straits.
"There was another guy here with him in them glad rags," volunteered
one of the gamblers captured in the raid.
"Who was he?" asked the plain-clothes man of his prisoner.
Clay was silent. He was thinking rapidly. His enemies had him trapped
at last with the help of circumstance, Why bring Bromfield into it? It
would mean trouble and worry for Beatrice.
"Better speak up, young fellow, me lad," advised the detective. "It
won't help you any to be sulky. You're up against the electric chair
sure."
The Arizonan looked at him with the level, unafraid eyes of the hills.
"I reckon I'll not talk till I'm ready," he said in his slow drawl.
The handcuffs clicked on his wrists.