MR. LINDSAY RECEIVES
Between two guards Clay climbed the iron steps to an upper tier of
cages at the Tombs. He was put into a cell which held two beds, one
above the other, as in the cabin of an ocean liner. By the side of the
bunks was a narrow space just long enough for a man to take two steps
in the same direction.
An unshaven head was lifted in the lower bunk to see why the sleep of
its owner was being disturbed.
"I've brought you a cell mate, Shiny," explained one of the guards.
"You want to be civil to him. He's just croaked a friend of yours."
"For de love o' Gawd. Who did he croak?"
"'Slim' Jim Collins. Cracked him one on the bean and that was
a-plenty. Hope you'll enjoy each other's society, gents." The guard
closed the door and departed.
"Is that right? Did youse do up 'Slim,' or was he kiddin' me?"
"I don't reckon we'll discuss that subject," said Clay blandly, but
with a note of finality in his voice.
"No offense, boss. It's an honor to have so distinguished a gent for a
cell pal. For that matter I ain't no cheap rat myself. Dey pinched me
for shovin' de queer. I'd ought to get fifteen years," he said proudly.
This drew a grin from Lindsay, though not exactly a merry one. "If
you're anxious for a long term you can have some of mine," he told the
counterfeiter.
"Maybe youse'll go up Salt Creek," said Shiny hopefully.
Afraid the allusion might not be understood, he thoughtfully explained
that this was the underworld term for the electric chair.
Clay made no further comment. He found the theme a gruesome one.
"Anyhow, I'm glad dey didn't put no hoister nor damper-getter wit' me.
I'm partickler who I meet. De whole profesh is gettin' run down at de
heel. I'm dead sick of rats who can't do nothin' but lift pokes,"
concluded the occupant of the lower berth with disgust.
Though Clay's nerves were of the best he did very little sleeping that
night. He was in a grave situation. Even if he had a fair field his
plight would be serious enough. But he guessed that during the long
hours of darkness Durand was busy weaving a net of false evidence from
which he could scarcely disentangle himself. Unless Bromfield came
forward at once as a witness for him, his case would be hopeless--and
Clay suspected that the clubman would prove only a broken reed as a
support. The fellow was selfish to the core. He had not, in the
telling Western phrase, the guts to go through. He would take the line
of least resistance.
Beatrice was in his thoughts a great deal. What would she think of him
when the news came that he was a murderer, caught by the police in a
den of vice where he had no business to be? Some deep instinct of his
soul told him that she would brush through the evidence to the
essential truth. She had failed him once. She would never do it
again. He felt sure of that.
The gray morning broke, and brought with it the steaming smell of
prison cooking, the sounds of the caged underworld, the sense of life
all around him dwarfed and warped to twisted moral purposes. A warden
came with breakfast--a lukewarm, muddy liquid he called coffee and a
stew in which potatoes and bits of fat beef bobbed like life buoys--and
Clay ate heartily while his cell mate favored him, between gulps, with
a monologue on ethics, politics, and the state of society, as these
related especially to Shiny the Shover. Lindsay was given to
understand that the whole world was "on de spud," but the big crooks
had fixed the laws so that they could wear diamonds instead of stripes.
Presently a guard climbed the iron stairway with a visitor and led the
way along the deck outside the tier of cells where Clay had been put.
"He's in seventy-four, Mr. Durand," the man said as he approached.
"I'll have to beat it. Come back to the office when you're ready."
The ex-pugilist had come to gloat over him. Clay knew it at once. His
pupils narrowed.
He was lying on the bed, his supple body stretched at graceful ease.
Not by the lift of an eyelid did he recognize the presence of his enemy.
Durand stood in front of the cell, hands in pockets, the inevitable
unlit black cigar in his mouth. On his face was a sneer of malevolent
derision.
Shiny the Shover bustled forward, all complaisance.
"Pleased to meet youse, Mr. Durand."
The gang politician's insolent eyes went up and down him. "I didn't
come to see _you_."
"'S all right. Glad to see youse, anyhow," the counterfeit passer went
on obsequiously. "Some day, when you've got time I'd like to talk wit'
youse about gettin' some fall money."
"Nothin' doin', Shiny. I'm not backin' you," said Jerry coldly.
"You've got to go up the river."
"Youse promised--"
"Aw, what the hell's eatin' you?"
Shiny's low voice carried a plaintive whine. "If you'd speak to de
judge--"
"Forget it." Durand brushed the plea away with a motion of his hand.
"It's your cell pal I've come to take a look at--the one who's goin' to
the chair."
With one lithe movement Clay swung down to the floor. He sauntered
forward to the grating, his level gaze full on the ward boss.
"Shiny, this fellow's rotten," he said evenly and impersonally. "He's
not only a crook, but he's a crooked crook. He'd throw down his own
brother if it paid him."
Durand's cruel lips laughed. "Your pal's a little worried this
mornin', Shiny. He ain't slept much. You see the bulls got him right.
It's the death chair for him and no lifeboat in sight."
Clay leaned against the bars negligently. He spoke with a touch of
lazy scorn. "See those scars on his face, Shiny--the one on the cheek
bone and the other above the eye. Ask him where he got 'em and how."
Jerry cursed. He broke into a storm of threats, anger sweeping over
him in furious gusts. He had come to make sport of his victim and
Lindsay somehow took the upper hand at once. He had this fellow where
he wanted him at last. Yet the man's soft voice still carried the note
of easy contempt. If the Arizonan was afraid, he gave no least sign of
it.
"You'll sing another tune before I'm through with you," the
prize-fighter prophesied savagely.
The Westerner turned away and swung back to his upper berth. He knew,
what he had before suspected, that Durand was going to "frame" him if
he could. That information gained, the man no longer interested him.
Sullenly Jerry left. There was no profit in jeering at Lindsay. He
was too entirely master of every situation that confronted him.
Within the hour Clay was wakened from sleep by another guard with word
that he was wanted at the office of the warden. He found waiting him
there Beatrice and her father. The girl bloomed in that dingy room
like a cactus in the desert.
She came toward him with hands extended, in her eyes gifts of
friendship and faith.
"Oh, Clay!" she cried.
"Much obliged, little pardner." Her voice went to his heart like water
to the thirsty roots of prickly pears. A warm glow beat through his
veins. The doubts that had weighed on him during the night were gone.
Beatrice believed in him. All was well with the world.
He shook hands with Whitford. "Blamed good of you to come, sir."
"Why wouldn't we come?" demanded the mining man bluntly. "We're here
to do what we can for you."
Little wells of tears brimmed over Beatrice's lids. "I've been so
worried."
"Don't you. It'll be all right." Strangely enough he felt now that it
would. Her coming had brought rippling sunshine into a drab world.
"I won't now. I'm going to get evidence for you. Tell us all about
it."
"Why, there isn't much to tell that you haven't read in the papers
probably. He came a-shootin' and was hit by a chair."
"Was it you that hit him?"
"Wouldn't I be justified?" he asked gently.
"But did you?"
For a moment he hesitated, then made up his mind swiftly. "Yes," he
told her gravely.
She winced. "You couldn't help it. How did you come to be there?"
"I just dropped in."
"Alone?"
"Yes."
He had burned the bridges behind him and was lying glibly. Why bring
Bromfield into it? She was going to marry him in a few days. If her
fiance was man enough to come forward and tell the truth he would do so
anyhow. It was up to him. Clay was not going to betray him to
Beatrice.
"The paper says there was some one with you."
"Sho! Reporters sure enough have lively imaginations."
"Johnnie told me you had an engagement with Mr. Bromfield."
"Did you ever know Johnnie get anything right?"
"And Clarendon says he was with you at Maddock's."
Clay had not been prepared for this cumulative evidence. He gave a low
laugh of relief. "I'm an awful poor liar. So Bromfield says he was
with me, does he?"
"Yes."
He intended to wait for a lead before showing his hand. "Then you know
all about it?" he asked carelessly.
Their eyes were on each other, keen and watchful. She knew he was
concealing something of importance. He had meant not to tell her that
Bromfield had been with him. Why? To protect the man to whom she was
engaged. She jumped to the conclusion that he was still shielding him.
"Yes, you're a poor liar, Clay," she agreed. "You stayed to keep back
Collins so as to give Clarendon a chance to escape."
"Did I?"
"Can you deny it? Clarendon heard the shots as he was running
downstairs."
"He told you that, did he?"
"Yes."
"That ought to help a lot. If I can prove Collins was shootin' at me I
can plead self-defense."
"That's what it was, of course."
"Yes. But Durand doesn't mean to let it go at that. He was here to
see me this mo'nin'." Clay turned to the mining man, his voice low but
incisive. His brain was working clear and fast. "Mr. Whitford, I have
a hunch he's going to destroy the evidence that's in my favor. There
must be two bullet holes in the partition of the rear room where
Collins was killed. See if you can't find those bullet holes and the
bullets in the wall behind."
"I'll do that, Lindsay."
"And hire me a good lawyer. Send him to me. I won't use a smart one
whose business is to help crooks escape. If he doesn't believe in me,
I don't want him. I'll have him get the names of all those pulled in
the raid and visit them to see if he can't find some one who heard the
shots or saw shooting. Then there's the gun. Some one's got that gun.
It's up to us to learn who."
"That right."
"Tim Muldoon will do anything he can for me. There's a girl lives with
his mother. Her name's Annie Millikan. She has ways of finding out
things. Better talk it over with her too. We've got to get busy in a
hurry."
"Yes," agreed Whitford. "We'll do that, boy."
"Oh, Clay, I'm sure it's going to be all right!" cried Beatrice, in a
glow of enthusiasm. "We'll give all our time. We'll get evidence to
show the truth. And we'll let you know every day what we are doing."
"How about my going bail for you?" asked her father.
Clay shook his head. "No chance, just yet. Let's make our showing at
the coroner's inquest. I'll do fine and dandy here till then."
He shook hands with them both and was taken back to his cell. But hope
was in his heart now. He knew his friends would do their best to get
the evidence to free him. It would be a battle royal between the truth
and a lie.