Traffic In Souls Part 28

One man was hiding in the doorway's shelter. Another was scuttling down the street, to run full into the arms of an approaching roundsman.

As Burke stooped over the form of his comrade a black-jack struck his shoulder. He sprang upward, partially numbed from the blow, but summoning all his strength he caught the gangster by the arm and shoulder and flung him bodily through the gla.s.s door which smashed with a clatter.

Burke kicked at the door as he fought with the murderer, and his weight forced it open.

A whisky bottle whizzed through the air from behind the bar.

Shultberger was in the battle. Burke's night stick ended the struggle with his one a.s.sailant, and he ran for the long bar, which he vaulted, as the saloon-keeper dodged backward. Another revolver shot reverberated as the proprietor retreated. But, at this rough and tumble fight, Burke used the greatest fighting projectile of the policeman; he threw the loaded night stick with unerring aim, striking Shultberger full in the face. The man screamed as he fell backward.

Half a dozen policemen had surrounded the saloon by this time, and Burke fumbled around until he found the electric light switch near the cash register. He threw a flood of light on the scene of destruction.

Shultberger, pulling himself up to his knees, his face and mouth gory from the catapult's stroke, moaned with agony as he clawed blindly.

Patrolman White was tugging at the gangster who had been knocked unconscious by Burke's club. Outside two of the uniformed men were reverently lifting the corpse of Terence Maguire, who was on his Eternal Fixed Post.

"Have ... have you sent ... for an ambulance?" cried Bobbie.

"Yes, Burke," said the sergeant, who had examined the dead man. "But it's too late. Poor Mack, poor old Mack!"

A patrol wagon was clanging its gong as the driver spurred the horses on. Captain Sawyer dismounted from the seat by the driver. The bad news had traveled rapidly. Suddenly Burke, remembering the fleeing Jimmie, dashed from the saloon, and forced his way through the swarming crowd which had been drawn from the neighboring tenements by the excitement.

"Is the boy crazy?" asked Sawyer. "Hurry, White, and notify the Coroner, for I don't intend to allow Terence Maguire to lie in this rotten den very long."

Burke ran along the wet street, looking vainly for the wounded gang-leader. Jimmie was not in sight! Burke went the entire length of the block, and then slowly retraced his steps.

He scrutinized every hallway and cellar entrance.

At last his vigilance was rewarded. Down the steps, beneath a half-opened bulkhead door, he found his quarry.

The Monk was moaning with pain from a shattered leg-bone.

Burke clambered down and tried to lift the wounded man.

"Get up here!" he commanded.

"Oh, dey didn't get ye, after all!" cried Jimmie, recognizing his voice. He sank his teeth in the hand which was stretched forth to help him. Burke swung his left hand, still numb from the black-jack blow on his shoulder, and caught the ruffian's nose and forehead. A vigorous pull drew the fellow's teeth loose with a jerk.

"Well, you dog!" grunted the policeman, as he dragged the gangster to the street level. "You'll have iron bars to bite before many hours, and then the electric chair!"

Jimmie's nerve went back on him.

"Oh, Gaud! Dey can't do dat! I didn't do it. I wasn't dere!"

Burke said nothing, but holding the man down to the pavement with a knee on his back, he whistled for the patrol wagon.

The prisoners were soon arraigned, Shultberger, Jimmie the Monk and the first gangster were sent to the hospital shortly after under guard.

The second runner, who had been caught by White, was searched, and by comparison of the weapons and the empty chambers of each one the police deduced that it was he who had fired the shots which killed Maguire.

The entire band, including the saloon-keeper, were equally guilty before the law, and their trial and sentencing to pay the penalty were a.s.sured.

But back in the station house, late that night, the thought of punishment brought little consolation to a heart-broken corps of policemen.

Big, husky men sobbed like women. Death on duty was no stranger in their lives; but the loss of rollicking, generous Maguire was a bitter shock just the same.

And next morning, as Burke read the papers, after a wretched, sleepless night, he saw the customary fifteen line article, headed: "ANOTHER POLICEMAN MURDERED BY GANGSTERS." Five million fellow New Yorkers doubtless saw the brief story as well, and pa.s.sed it by to read the baseball gossip, the divorce news, or the stock quotations--without a fleeting thought of regret.

It was just the same old story, you know.

Had it been the story of a political boss's beer-party to the b.u.ms of his ward; had it been an account of Mrs. Van As...o...b..lt's elopement with a plumber; had it been the life-story of a shooting show girl; had it been the description of the latest style in slit skirts; had it been a sarcastic message from some drunken, over-rated city official; had it been a sympathy-squad description of the hards.h.i.+ps and soul-beauties of a millionaire murderer it would have met with close attention.

But what is so stale as the oft-told, ever-old yarn of a policeman's death?

"What do we pay them for?"

CHAPTER XIII

LORNA'S QUEST FOR PLEASURE

In the same morning papers Burke saw lengthy notices of the engagement of Miss Sylvia Trubus, only child of William Trubus, the famous philanthropist, to Ralph Gresham, the millionaire manufacturer of electrical machinery.

"There, that should interest Mr. Barton. His ex-employer is marrying into a very good family, to put it mildly, and Trubus will have a very rich son-in-law! I wonder if she'll be as happy as I intend to make Mary when she says the word?"

He cut one of the articles out of the paper, putting it into his pocket to show Mary that evening. He had a wearing and sorrowful day; his testimony was important for the arraignment of the dozen or more criminals who had been rounded up through his efforts during the preceding twenty-four hours. The gloom of Maguire's death held him in its pall throughout the day in court.

He hurried uptown to meet Mary as she left the big confectionery store at closing time.

Mary had been busy and worried through the day. At noon she had gone to the station to bid goodbye to Henrietta Bailey, who was now well on her way to the old town and Joe.

As the working day drew to a close Mary was kept busy filling a large order for a kindly faced society woman and her pretty daughter.

"You have waited on me several times before," she told Mary, "and you have such good taste. I want the very cutest bon-bons and favors, and they must be delivered up on Riverside Drive to our house in time for dinner. You know my daughter's engagement was announced in the papers to-day, while we had intended to let it be a surprise at a big dinner party to-night. Well, the dear girl is very happy, and I want this dinner to give her one of the sweetest memories of her life."

Mary entered into the spirit with zest, and being a clever saleswoman, she collected a wonderful a.s.sortment of dainty novelties and confections, while the manager of the store rubbed his hands together gleefully as he observed the correspondingly wonderful size of the bill.

"There, that should help the jollity along," said Mary. "I hope I have pleased you. I envy your daughter, not for the candies and the dinner, but for having such a mother. My mother has been dead for years."

The tears welled into her eyes, and the customer smiled tenderly at her.

"You are a dear girl, and if ever I have the chance to help you I will; don't forget it. I am so happy myself; perhaps selfishly so. But my life has been along such even lines, such a wonderful husband, and such a daughter. I am so proud of her. She is marrying a young man who is very rich, yet with a strong character, and he will make her very happy I am sure. Well, dear, I will give you my address, for I wish you would see personally that these goodies are delivered to us without delay."

Mary took her pad and pencil.

"Mrs. William Trubus--Riverside Drive."

The girl's expression was curious; she remembered Bobbie's description of the husband. It hardly seemed possible that such a man could be blessed with so sweet a wife and daughter--but such undeserved blessings seem too often to be the unusual injustice of Fate in this twisted, tangled old world, as Mary well knew.

"All right, Mrs. Trubus; I shall follow your instructions and will go to the delivery room myself to see that they are sent out immediately."

"Good afternoon, my dear," and Mrs. Trubus and her happy daughter left the store.