Doors of the Night Part 30

spilled de beans! I know her!"

"If she has," purred the other, and there was something of finality made the more horrible by the boyish tones, "she gets hers-instead of de other, dat's all. An' anyway, youse have no kick comin'! Youse an' Gypsy here, an' me, an' Shaky Liz has all got a century apiece to start wid.

We can't lose, can we?"

"Sure, we can!" complained Clarkie Munn. "We can lose de other two hundred dat's comin' when de job's done, can't we?"

Another voice spoke in a curiously meditative, raucous way:

"I never thought I'd be workin' fer him. He handed me one once dat I ain't fergot. But dere ain't no one dares to touch him now-he's too big.

Youse'd get smeared off de map. He's got de coin, but he's no good anyway else, except dat he's sharper'n h.e.l.l. D'ye remember de roll he coughs up when he peels us dem century notes dat night? Say, I guess he packs dat along wid him all de time. Say, I wish we had him wid de girl to-night-I guess we'd get our two hundred apiece, all right, all right."

Clarkie Munn sat suddenly bolt upright in his chair, staring across the room, obviously at the last speaker.

"I'd be wid youse, Gypsy!" he said eagerly. "Him an' me don't belong to de same lodge neither. We're all right, we are, fer dirty work, dat's where we stand; but where do we ever get a look-in when dere's anything juicy goin'! But youse'd have to know he had de roll on him. Youse wouldn't get anywhere unless youse did. I'd be wid youse, Gypsy. I wish something like dat'd break loose." He swung around in his chair. "Eh, Cherub?"

"Youse give me a pain!" murmured the boyish voice.

"When youse gets a chance to get dat guy, youse'll get a chance to hang yer hat in a bathroom suite in de swellest joint in town, an' use a limousine fer a gape wagon, an' wear white spats an' yellow gloves in summer time. Can de wish stuff!"

Billy Kane, hugging close against the wall, moved silently farther on toward the rear of the hall until he was beyond the radius of light from the doorway of the room. The street door had opened, and a footstep, hesitant, scuffling, was out there somewhere behind him. The step came nearer, and now he could make out a woman's form, that, either in reality or as an illusion due to the uncertain light, seemed to sway a little unsteadily as she walked. Opposite the door she stood still, and now in the fuller light Billy Kane could see her quite distinctly.

Obviously, it was the woman they had referred to as Shaky Liz-an old, unkempt, hag-like creature, who blinked sore, red-rimmed eyes in apparent astonishment and consequent indecision at the partially open door and the light from within. And then she stepped forward into the room, and the next moment the door closed with a slam behind her, and with the slam her voice rose in a curious, gurgling cry that seemed to mingle terror and an unbridled fury.

In an instant, Billy Kane had retraced his steps, and was crouching against the closed door. He could see now even better than before. The gaping strip of cardboard that did duty for the smashed panel, dislodged still farther by the violent slam of the door, afforded him an almost unrestricted view of the interior. Clarkie Munn had not moved from his chair, and a little away from him, legs swinging from a dilapidated, rickety table, Gypsy Joe, black-visaged and swarthy, sucked indifferently at a cigarette; but over in the far corner of the room by the bed, the woman, her hat knocked to the floor, her tangled gray hair draggling about her eyes, was engaged in a violent struggle with a small boyish figure, who had her by the throat and was shaking her head savagely back and forth. Billy Kane drew in his breath. He remembered Whitie Jack's description of the Cherub in action-and it was literally true. The blue eyes were bland and round and seemed to smile, the young face was the face of a guileless youth in repose, and yet the boy-he couldn't be much more than a boy-was in a pa.s.sion worthy of an incarnate fiend.

"Youse have been out hittin' de can, have youse?" snarled the Cherub.

"I'll teach youse! Do youse think I've spent two weeks hangin' around dis dirty hole of yers, an' standin' fer youse being me sick, disabled grandmother wid me supposed to be doin' me best to keep bread in yer mouth, an' playin' poor, an' having to listen to her tryin' to get me jobs, an' handin' me de soft, goody-goody talk-d'ye think I'm standin'

fer dat just to have youse go out an' kick de stuffin' outer de whole lay! I'll teach youse!"

"It's a lie!" screamed Shaky Liz. She shook herself suddenly free, and with crooked fingers clawed like a wild cat at the Cherub's face. "I didn't crab no game! It's a lie! I got it all fixed before I went out. I guess I got a right to a drink now, ain't I?"

The Cherub warded off her attack with a vicious sweep of his fist.

"Yes!" he snarled again. "An' suppose she'd seen youse! Or suppose she'd come back here by any chance an' found de poor bedridden grandma gone out fer a drink-eh! Blast youse, couldn't youse wait a few hours more?

De whole outfit 'ud be glad if youse had drunk yerself to death den!"

Shaky Liz dashed the hair out of her eyes, and swept her hands in a half angry, half expostulating gesture toward the others.

"I didn't queer no game!" she insisted truculently. "I guess I know wot I'm doin'; an' youse ain't comin' in here to pull no rough-house business neither!"

"Aw, let her alone, an' give her a chance to tell her story," drawled Gypsy Joe from the table. "We ain't got all night to stay here."

"Sure!" said the Cherub softly, and smiled beneficently, as he sat down on the edge of the bed and calmly lighted a cigarette. "Go on, Liz, spill it!"

The old hag stared at him for a moment in silence, as she dug again at her dishevelled locks.

"Youse dirty little runt!" She found her voice at last, and in spite of her scowl there was a grudging note of admiration in her tones. "Youse are pretty slick, ain't youse?"

"Sure!" admitted the Cherub imperturbably. "If I wasn't, youse wouldn't have a hundred dollars in yer kick now, an' two hundred more comin'

to-morrow-if youse ain't queered it fer yerself. Go on, give us de dope!"

Shaky Liz preened herself. She adjusted the threadbare bodice of her dress that seemed to bulge and sag uncomfortably, picked up her hat, and smirked at her audience.

"It's all right!" She wagged her head secretively. "Youse don't any of youse need to worry. When de Cherub pipes me off this afternoon dat de stunt is to be pulled to-night, I sends fer her as soon as he gets out of de way, an' she comes on de run. She don't suspect nothing, 'cause wid two weeks' acquaintance she--"

"Can dat!" interrupted the Cherub politely. "We all knows dat fer two weeks youse an' me has been gettin' acquainted wid her, an' feedin' on her jellies, an' dat I'm de errin' child dat's taken a s.h.i.+ne to her an'

dat mabbe can be influenced fer good-if she tried hard enough. Wot did she say when she comes here dis evening?"

"Wot did she say?" repeated Shaky Liz, with a sudden and malicious grin.

"Why, she falls fer it, of course! Wot d'ye expect? Me, I was lyin' dere on de bed when she blows in. She asks me how I was, an' I says I ain't no worse dan usual, but dat it's me young grandson dat's troublin' me, an' how I ain't got no one to tell it to except her, an' how I dunno as I durst tell even her. An' den she says I oughter know well enough dat I can trust her, an' dat she won't say nothin', an' den I gives her de spiel. I says I ain't slept all de last night thinkin' about it. I tells her it wouldn't do no good me talkin' to youse, 'cause I ain't got any influence wid youse an' she has, an' besides dat I was afraid of Gypsy an' Clarkie if dey got wise to me. An' I tells her wot a good boy youse are, too, Cherub, an' how though mabbe youse might be better it ain't all yer fault 'cause youse're easily led by bad company, but dat youse have stood by yer old grandmother. Savvy?"

"De one bright spot in me life," said the Cherub sweetly, "is dat me own grandmother is dead, an' don't know de raw deal I'm handin' her. She looked just like youse, too-not!"

Shaky Liz scowled.

"Youse close yer face!" she flung out. "I tells her dat me grandson has got pulled in by two of de toughest crooks in New York." Shaky Liz's scowl became a grin. "Dat's youse, Clarkie, an' youse, Gypsy. I tells her who youse are, an' dat last night youse three was here, an' dat youse all thought I was asleep, but dat I heard youse whisperin'

together, an' dat Clarkie an' Gypsy was persuadin' me little boy to pull a trick down to Kegler's dock on de East River, 'cause dey didn't dare do it demselves on account of de police bein' leery about dem ever since dey comes down from Sing Sing de last time. I tells her how I hears youse two crooks explainin' dat Kegler's got a bunch of coin in his safe to pay off some sand barges dat he had expected yesterday, but dat had got held up down de Sound, an' dat instead of takin' de money back to de bank he was lettin' it rust in his box, knowin' dat de barges'd be along de day after to-morrow, an' dat youse had de combination of de safe, an'

de key to de front door, an' dat dere wouldn't be n.o.body around dere, an' dat, anyway, n.o.body'd suspect me little lad, an' dat he was to go down dere alone at ten o'clock to-night an' make de haul, an' den meet Clarkie an' Gypsy uptown somewhere fer de split."

Gypsy Joe, on the table, circled his lips approvingly with the tip of his tongue.

"Dat's de stuff, Shaky!" he commended. "Don't youse mind dese guys, dey ain't neither of dem got anything on youse. I'm fer youse, old gal!"

Shaky Liz grinned complacently.

"Me, I was cryin' good an' hard by dis time," she said, and grinned again, "an' she had a face dat white youse'd think she was goin' to pull de faint act. I says I ain't slept all de last night tryin' to think wot to do, an' dat's why I sent fer her. An' she asks me if I'm sure de boy was goin' to do it. An' I says I am. An' she asks me where he is, an' I says I don't know, an' dat I don't know where to find him; dat he went out just before I sent fer her, an' dat he says he won't be back till late to-night, an' dat's wot makes me sure he's goin' to do it. Sure, I was cryin' good an' hard den-savvy?

"An' I says he's a good boy, an' if I tells de police dat'll finish him; an' I says I'm sick an' can't walk, an' can't go down dere myself, an'

dat she's de only one I dares trust, an' besides dat she's got a lot of influence wid de boy, an' dat I knows she can persuade him not to fall fer it, an' den n.o.body'll know anything about it. An' she says: 'Yes, of course-I'll do anything. But where is he? Where can I find him?' An' I says dere ain't only one place I knows, an' dat's down to Kegler's, an'

dat he'll be all alone dere, an' dat if she gets dere before ten o'clock she'll be in time to try an' stop him. An' she bends over me, an' pats me hands, she does, an' she says: 'Don't youse worry, Mrs. c.o.x,' she says. 'I'll go.' An' I says: 'An' youse won't tell n.o.body, nor take n.o.body down dere, so's anybody'd know about me little lad's disgrace?'

An' she says: 'No, I'll go alone; an' I'm sure I can promise youse it'll be all right.' An' den she goes away. Dat's all!" Shaky Liz was fumbling with the bodice of her dress again, and suddenly pulled out a black, square-faced bottle. "Dat's all!" she announced with a cackle. "An' I guess I gotta right to dis if I wants it-ain't I?"

"Youse can bet yer life youse have!" agreed Gypsy Joe with fervent heartiness-and reached for the bottle.

In a flash the Cherub was up from the bed, and between them.

"Nix on dat, Gypsy!" he said sharply. "Shaky's end is all right, I guess; but _we_ ain't through yet. Nix on dat-get me!" He stepped closer to both Clarkie Munn and Gypsy Joe. "Now, den," he said briskly, "since we're satisfied wid Shaky, we'll get down to tacks-eh? Everybody makes sure dey knows dere own play, an' we don't make no renigs. I goes down dere, an' youse two are trailin' out of sight behind, an' she b.u.t.tonholes me, an' I gets her inside widout youse if I can, but anyway we gets her inside widout any noise, an' de trap-door where dey shoots de sweepings from de warehouse into de water under de dock does de trick. If dere's enough weight on her she'll be dere forever. An' dere's one thing more. Nix on de easy-fingered stuff wid any safe business, or anything loose lying around dat looks like meat! Savvy? To-morrow morning de place looks like it did when dey left it to-night. De girl's disappeared, dat's all-an' dere's nothing to show dat Kegler's dock had anything to do wid it. Get me? Dey'll never find her, an' dat's wot's wanted, an' why we're gettin' two hundred apiece more."

Gypsy Joe removed the cigarette from his mouth, watched the blue spiral of smoke from its tip curl upward for a moment, and pursed his lips in a ruminative pucker.

"I wonder wot de Rat had it in fer her fer as hard as dat?" he said, with a shrug of his shoulders. "She must have--"

The-_Rat!_ She-the _girl_ they were talking about! The room seemed suddenly to swirl before Billy Kane's eyes, the figures inside to become but blurred, jerky objects-and then it was black around him.

Automatically he was stepping backward with a catlike tread; automatically he was feeling his way along the black hallway. And then the cool evening air fanned his face, and he was in the street.

XXIV-AGAINST TIME