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- Herausgeber: DigiCat
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
In 'Smoky Cell,' readers are presented with a captivating collection that traverses the murky corridors of early 20th-century crime fiction. This anthology brings together a vibrant tapestry of narratives, showcasing the diversity and depth of the genre. From the gripping tension of detective stories to the psychological depth of criminal profiles, the collection offers a range of literary styles that both honor and challenge traditional crime fiction norms. It features standout pieces that reflect the period's fascination with the mysteries of human nature and the complexities of justice, without attributing its brilliance to a single story or author, thereby capturing the essence of its era with remarkable dexterity. The contributing authors, Edgar Wallace and Robert Curtis, are titans of the crime genre, having paved the way for many of the narrative techniques and thematic explorations that contemporary crime fiction builds upon. Their works not only align with but also propel the historical and cultural movements of their time, offering insights into societal anxieties and the ineffable human capacity for both good and evil. This anthology, by collating their perspectives, offers a rich, multidimensional view of early crime literature, highlighting the evolution of genre conventions and the enduring appeal of the mystery narrative. 'Readers looking for an immersive journey into the heart of early 20th-century crime fiction will find 'Smoky Cell' to be an invaluable collection. It provides an exceptional opportunity to explore a wide array of narratives from some of the genre's most influential voices. This anthology is not just a celebration of crime fiction; it is an educational voyage into the past, offering profound insights into the human condition through the lens of crime and justice. For scholars, enthusiasts, and casual readers alike, 'Smoky Cell' promises to be a compelling read that fosters a deeper appreciation for the complexity and intrigue of the genre.
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Smoky Cell
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I
JOSEPHINE BRADY placed the telephone receiver against an undeniably well-shaped ear and said: "Hallo!" with a pair of lips in close proximity to which only a telephone mouthpiece could have remained unmoved.
"Is that you, Miss Brady?"
The voice was rich and deep, like a well-oiled purr; and, as she heard it, a little pucker appeared between Josephine's eyebrows.
"Miss Brady speaking."
"Good evening. It's Mr. Schnitzer this end."
The pucker definitely deepened.
"Oh yes, Mr. Schnitzer?"
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Miss Brady," continued Schnitzer. "I guess a stenographer hears enough of her employer's voice during office hours and won't be smiling with pleasure to hear it now, eh?"
She did not know what to say to that, so she murmured:
"That's quite O.K., Mr. Schnitzer," as pleasantly as she could.
"The fact is, Miss Brady, I'm in a bit of a fix," he went on, "and I'm counting on you to get me out of it. There's some correspondence I couldn't handle at the office, and it's urgent to dispatch it by tonight's mail. I'd be grateful if you'd come along here."
"Where are you, Mr. Schnitzer?"
"I'm speaking from home."
"Oh!"
"You know my apartment on Lincoln Avenue, don't you?"
"Oh yes—of course—I know it, but I don't think—"
"Now listen," he interrupted. "I'm aware I'm suggesting something unusual, but this is big business, and I'm asking you to forget for the moment what the office hours are and to come along here and take down a couple of letters for me. You can't say I'm exacting as a general rule, but in a matter of urgency like this I expect my stenographer to show willing—"
Josephine recognized the crack of the whip and hastily interrupted.
"Of course, Mr. Schnitzer," she said. "I'll be pleased to come along. If it will be soon enough in an hour's time."
"Fine!" replied Schnitzer. "I'll send the car for you." Before Josephine could protest that she did not want the car, he had rung off, and as she replaced the receiver the deep pucker in her forehead was joined by several others. She was wondering.
She had been stenographer to John P. Schnitzer for three months, and during that time had gathered a certain amount of information about him beyond what was comprised in the single word "Financier" that stood beneath his name on the office door. Within five minutes of her starting work in the office, the snub-nosed girl with the colourless hair who sat at the adjoining desk had given her the first hint.
"Say, kid," she had said, "you're too darned pretty for this outfit," and, thereafter, further information gradually accrued. She remembered, when taxed with the question, that, when she had applied for the post, Mr. Schnitzer had made only the most perfunctory inquiries as to her qualifications as a stenographer—which was, perhaps, just as well—and that fact lent colour to the rumour that the qualities which John P. Schnitzer sought in a stenographer were not so much speed and accuracy as good looks and complaisance. But she had been in other offices—more than she cared to remember—and had learned from experience that in this respect Schnitzer did not stand alone. She had discovered that, provided a girl was a "sport", she could spell "reference" with two "f's" and quote cents instead of dollars and still get away with it, and Schnitzer's reputed possession of this common commercial characteristic did not unduly worry her. She was confident that she was capable of dealing with any situation that might arise in the office.
The snub-nosed girl left her in no doubt as to the situations with which she would almost certainly be called upon to deal. In due course, she prophesied, Josephine would be invited to go out to dinner with Schnitzer—which was all right, she said, as long as she took with her a boy friend with an outsize in biceps; but as a general rule the Schnitzers of modern life wouldn't stand for boy friends, and she would probably have to choose between going without her boy friends or going without her job. Of the two alternatives the snub-nosed girl was of the opinion that the latter would be preferable.
There was a likelihood, too, Josephine learned, of her being asked to go along one evening to Schnitzer's apartment and take down some letters which could not be handled at the office. She couldn't take a boy friend on that trip, of course, but she could take a portable typewriter, with which, correctly used, it might be possible to make a still nastier mess of even Schnitzer's face. But she didn't recommend the visit, even with a portable typewriter. Schnitzer, she said, had a swell apartment on Lincoln Avenue, but flowers died if you took them within a mile of it, and if Josephine valued her lily-white freshness she would keep outside the danger-zone. If a girl, she said, were seen with one foot on the bottom step of Schnitzer's apartment her reputation would look so bedraggled that no one would believe it hadn't been left out all night in the rain.
Josephine had been grateful for the warning and for the first few weeks had kept a wary eye on Schnitzer; but as time passed, and he showed no sign of lapsing from strictly business relations with her, she began to think that he was, perhaps, a much-maligned man. The snub-nosed girl, perhaps, had asked for an increase in salary and been refused.
And now, just when she was feeling secure, this telephone call! She suddenly remembered all the scraps of information she had gathered about Schnitzer, and when she had pieced them all together the picture they formed was not an attractive one. It was certainly not the likeness of a man whose apartment she would care to visit, even when armed with her portable typewriter. It looked as if Mr. Schnitzer were working to schedule, and that things would pan out much on the lines which her companion in the office had foretold. She said to herself very resolutely that she would not go.
But telling herself made no difference, because she knew very well that in an hour's time she would certainly be in Mr. Schnitzer's Lincoln Avenue apartment. Going without her job might be the lesser of two evils, but she just could not afford to allow herself any choice in the matter. She had vivid recollections of intervals that had occurred in the past between losing one post and finding another, and had no ambition again to plod along the pavements of the city in the company of hundreds of others in similar plight. She certainly had no real intention of losing her job without a struggle, for no better reason than that rumour held John P. Schnitzer to be not quite the gentleman he might be. He had never given her cause for the least complaint against him, and it would be foolish to throw away a good job on mere hearsay. Besides, she wasn't afraid of Schnitzer.
Nevertheless, while the big limousine bore her smoothly towards Lincoln Avenue, she was feeling far less at ease than she appeared as she lolled back against the cushions. There was something not altogether pleasant in being in Mr. Schnitzer's luxurious car. She thought of the flowers that died if they were taken within a mile of the house, and wondered if it were possible for Schnitzer's car to have become impregnated with the same unhealthy atmosphere; if, supposing he were all that rumour maintained, he might somehow have impressed his personality on his automobile.
Quite definitely she did not like the car, and its smooth, deep purr reminded her of Schnitzer's voice. And she did not like the diminutive Japanese chauffeur perched at the wheel, who kept glancing back at her over his shoulder and showing his white teeth in a knowing grin. She wondered why he was grinning and what he knew, and if, after all, she had not better tap the window and tell him to stop the car, and keep clear of the whole business. Once she actually did lean forward and gently rap on the glass; but all that happened was that the car moved a little faster and the monkey-faced chauffeur grinned at her more broadly than ever.
When eventually the car pulled up outside Schnitzer's impressive-looking residence, the chauffeur sprang from his seat and flung open the door of the car before Josephine had time to sit upright, and, as she got out, he waved a hand towards the house in a gesture which was more a command than an invitation. Just for a moment she thought of turning away from the steps of the house and darting off along the pavement, but she got the impression that if she showed the least sign of attempting to escape the monkey-faced chauffeur would spring at her. So she went, with as self-possessed an air as she could; muster, up the steps and rang the bell; and a few moments later she was in Schnitzer's library, and he was heaving himself from a low armchair to greet her.
"This is good of you, Miss Brady," he purred in that smooth voice of his, as he took her hand.
Regarding him with eyes more critical than usual, Josephine agreed that it was good of her. As to whether it was equally good for her, she had her doubts. He fitted very well the picture of him, which she had pieced together. He was a powerfully built, prosperous-looking man in the early fifties, broad in the shoulders, black-haired and red-faced. According to her informant in the office, he had been born with the black hair, but had acquired the red face with considerable pleasure to himself and considerable profit to his wine merchant. He gave the impression that nature, when fashioning him, had tried to draw attention to too many points and had overdone the emphasis. His forehead was too low and his nose too long; his eyes were too small and his permanently out-thrust lower lip too full. As regards his girth, Josephine's desk-mate had said that there was no need to remark on the obvious.
"I guess you're feeling pretty sore with me, eh, Miss Brady?"
"Sore?" she echoed.
"Breaking in on your evening like this. I dare say you had a date with some nice young fellow—"
He was still holding her hand, and Josephine withdrew it sharply.
"Not at all," she said. "I was quite free this evening."
He regarded her from under lowered lids and half smiled.
"Lonely little girl, eh? Well, now, that's too bad. Chester County must be full of blind guys to leave a little girl like you sitting at home and knitting."
This, Josephine reflected, was no doubt all according to schedule. In a few moments he would probably try to kiss her. She wondered which would be the best spot to hit.
She took out her notebook, opened it, seated herself on a chair and glanced at him expectantly, her pencil poised.
"Yes, Mr. Schnitzer? Just a couple of letters, isn't it?"
"Sure," he replied. "But we don't have to hurry. There's plenty of time for the letters. Take a comfortable chair and have a cigarette."
"Thanks, but I'd rather get the letters done if you don't mind. I'm in rather a hurry; I want to get home as soon as possible—"
"Sure," he said again. "Of course you do, and I won't detain you five minutes longer than is necessary. But there's nothing against your having a cigarette while we're waiting."
He offered her his case.
"Genuine imported Egyptian," he told her. "I've never yet known a little girl who didn't fall for a genuine imported Egyptian."
She hesitated a moment and then took a cigarette, Schnitzer supplying her with a light.
"Thank you, Mr. Schnitzer," she said. "But what are we waiting for?"
"There's certain information I want from my agent on the coast before I can dictate the letters," he told her. "He's to speak to me on the 'phone, but he's not through yet. He'll be on the wire any minute now, and then we can go right ahead."
Josephine closed her notebook with a snap and got up from her chair.
"In that case, Mr. Schnitzer," she said firmly, "I'd better come back later."
She took a step forward, but Schnitzer, standing between her and the door, did not move.
"That's not very sociable. Miss Brady, is it?"
She shrugged a shoulder.
"I didn't understand on the telephone that this was to be a social call."
"No?" He smiled. "Well, there's no reason why it shouldn't turn that way, but you're making it difficult. It's kind of discouraging when a nice little girl thinks you're such poor company that she'd rather take a walk around the block than spend ten minutes with you while a 'phone call comes through." He laid a hand on her shoulder and urged her towards an armchair. "Sit down, my dear, and take off your hat and enjoy your cigarette, and I'll find you a glass of wine—"
Josephine spun round and faced him.
"Mr. Schnitzer, I came here to take down some letters, and if you're not ready to dictate them now I'd much rather go and come back when you are ready. I don't want a glass of wine."
"Maybe you don't," replied her employer. "But I'm telling you that you need one. You're looking pale, and paleness doesn't suit you. Pretty hair like yours needs a touch of colour to show it off. I guess lots of young fellows have told you you've got pretty hair, eh, honey?"
The next instant he had no cause to complain of her pallor. Her cheeks were crimson and her eyes blazing as she faced him defiantly.
"Please understand, Mr. Schnitzer," she began furiously, "that I didn't come here to discuss my hair, and if you've no letters to dictate—"
"Haven't I told you," interrupted Schnitzer plaintively, "that I'm waiting for my agent on the coast to come through on the wire? Come now, my dear, there's no call for you to be awkward about things. A nice little girl like you—"
"I'm going," she announced suddenly. Again she took a step forward, trying to brush past him, and this time he deliberately stepped in front of her. His smile had vanished and his mouth grew grim.
"Sure you're going—just as soon as I say so," he snapped. "But not before, Miss Brady. When I pay a girl twenty dollars a week, I guess she's going to do as I say or—" He stopped abruptly, and his smile returned.
"Forget it, my dear," he said. "I talk that way sometimes when things don't go just as I want them to, but it doesn't mean a thing. Still, there's no sense in you running away and walking round the block. That kind of hurt me. It looks like not trusting me, and if a girl can't trust John P. Schnitzer to treat her right, I'd like to know who she can trust. Well, forget it!"
He crossed to the heavy tapestry curtain that hung across the archway which led into an adjoining room, and beckoned her to him. She hesitated, and then, as he smiled at her reassuringly, crossed slowly to him. After all, there was no sense in losing her job if she could possibly keep it, and Schnitzer might be all right....
He pulled aside the curtain, switched on the light and drew her into the room.
Josephine glanced round. It was a dining-room, richly furnished, with a thick soft carpet and concealed lighting, rose-tinted, that gave it an air of warmth, softness, intimacy. The oval table in the centre was laid for dinner. Josephine noticed that places were laid for two.
"Sort of cosy, eh, honey?" purred Schnitzer.
She glanced at him quickly.
"I was expecting a friend to dinner," he went on to explain, "but he has let me down at the last minute. Still, as things have turned out, I guess I'm not feeling particularly sorry. What do you say, my dear, to a nice little dinner while we're waiting for my man to 'phone?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Schnitzer," she began, "but I can't possibly—"
"I'm saying you can." The snap was back in his voice now.
"But I'd much rather not—"
"And I'm telling you you're going to." He was between her and the curtain, and his mouth was ugly. Job or no job, she must get out of this.
"Do you get my meaning?"
She nodded.
"Perfectly, thanks," she replied calmly. "And now see if you can get mine, will you? I'm not dining with you; I'm going—now. And I'm going because I don't believe there's any 'phone message to wait for or any letters to write, and that being so, I'd sooner eat peanuts on the sidewalk than stay here and dine with you."
His hand shot forward and gripped her arm. And then suddenly he seemed to check himself and stood rigid, listening. Josephine heard footsteps in the corridor. The door of the adjoining room was opened, and then came the sound of men's voices.
"Not here, boys. But he'll be somewhere around." Schnitzer's hand released her arm and he turned and went quickly between the parted curtains.
"Hallo, boys!" she heard him exclaim. "Glad to see you again—"
"Sure you are!" came the drawling reply. "Put your hands up, Schnitzer, and get over there by the arm-chair. I guess you'll be wanting something soft to fall on."
Josephine, scarcely daring to breathe, and with her heart thumping furiously, carefully drew the curtain an inch aside and peeped through the opening. She saw Schnitzer at the farther end of the room. His plump, white hands were held above his head, shaking violently; his face was a ghastly grey; his heavy lips were working, and his eyes staring, wide-open, at the two men standing just inside the door. One was a tall thin man with a face like a ferret's, and he had a gun held loosely in his hand. The other, who was not unlike Schnitzer in appearance, had his hands thrust deep in his pockets and was staring at the financier with an expression of sneering malevolence on his face.
"Say, boys, listen!" babbled Schnitzer. "You've got no cause—Perryfeld, I never did you any harm" The shorter man, whose name seemed to be Perryfeld, drew a hand from his pocket and made a gesture of impatience. He turned towards his companion and took the gun from his hand.
"I guess I've a better title than you to give him the works, Mike," he said, and turned again towards Schnitzer, gun in hand. "I reckon you should feel darned honoured, Schnitzer," he said. "I've taken the trouble to come here in person—at great inconvenience—to blow you to hell—"
"Perryfeld—for God's sake—listen—"
"Money talks," replied Perryfeld coolly, "and you're behind with your payments, Schnitzer. You've been dumb for so long now that I reckon the sooner you're dumb for good the better."
He raised his gun and deliberately pointed it at Schnitzer. Josephine released the curtain and crouched against the wall, her hands over her face.
There came a muffled report and she bit into her thumb to stop herself screaming.
"O.K., Perryfeld," drawled a voice. "We'd better be quitting."
The sound of the door being closed—footsteps in the corridor—and then silence. Josephine's hands left her face. With an effort she forced herself to part the curtains and look into the room. Schnitzer no longer stood where she had last seen him, but there was a huddled mass beside the armchair....
She went slowly forward and paused beside the shapeless thing that had been John P. Schnitzer. She saw a small red stain slowly spreading on his shirt-front. She remembered screaming, and the room reeling round her, but remembered no more.
CHAPTER II
CAPTAIN "TRICKS" O'REGAN, of the Chester County Police, was a man of strong convictions, and not the least of these was a conviction that, since he was expected to provide the citizens of Chester County with the sense of security which made it possible for them to sleep comfortably at night, it was up to Chester County to provide him with an office in which he could work comfortably by day. And the outcome of this conviction was the large bright room which he occupied at Police Headquarters. With its high windows, dull silver radiators, substantial furniture, busily ticking tape machine, and glass-windowed service office, commonly termed the "glass-house", it suggested rather the sanctum of a prosperous stockbroker than a place devoted to the discomfort of criminals, in comparison with whom, as O'Regan put it, stockbrokers were the merest amateurs.
Sergeant Jackson sauntered from the glass-house and began to pace the room restlessly.
"I wish somebody would do something," he grumbled. "This place is getting on my nerves."
Sergeant Geissel, absorbed in watching the tape machine, glanced up and grinned.
"Good policemen shouldn't have nerves," he remarked sententiously. "And anyway, it'll never be as quiet as I want it." He crossed slowly to the window, looking down at the almost deserted street below. "Do you know, Jack," he went on, "I've a feeling that there is something doing."
"Ain't you always? And, say, everybody in the station-house is feeling that way tonight. A while ago I cracked a nut and the station sergeant jumped out of his chair."
"This nerve business must be catching," grinned Geissel.
There was silence for some minutes, the one man continuing his pacing, the other staring, broodingly and unseeing, through the window. Then:
"I wouldn't be on patrol for a whole lot of money," Geissel remarked quietly.
Jackson stopped short in his striding.
"Say, what's eatin' you, Geissel? It's not like you to get jumpy."
Before the older man could reply, the door burst open and a short, thick-set, square-shouldered man appeared.
"Hallo, Reil!" greeted Jackson. "What's the hurry?" Detective-Sergeant Reil, ignoring the question, asked: "Where's the Chief?"
"Down at the City Hall," Geissel told him. "Why? Anything wrong?"
The newcomer's naturally stern features looked grimmer.
"I should say there was! I got my third quitter in a month."
Jackson whistled.
"You don't say! A patrolman?"
"Yeah—a patrolman. Can you beat it? Found him like that." He gave a ludicrous caricature of a man shaking with fear. "Corner of Brandt and Washington Avenue—couldn't even hold up his motor-cycle."
"Who was he?" asked Geissel.
"Connor."
"You don't say!"
"The Chief's at the City Hall, is he? Well, where's the Lieutenant?"
"He's around somewhere," said Geissel. "Find him, Jack."
When his subordinate had disappeared, Geissel turned a grave face to the other.
"Connor, eh? Well...."
He shrugged his shoulders, walked across the room to the wall on which hung a wooden frame which displayed a number of police badges. He stood for several moments in gloomy contemplation.
Red's voice broke in on his thoughts.
"I ought to take a stick to him and beat him up!" he said savagely.
Geissel half turned, his left hand pointing towards the frame.
"There's your answer!" he said. "One-two-three-four-five-six-seven—" counting with outstretched forefinger.
"Yeah," Reil assented.
"Seven patrolmen found slumped on the sidewalk!" went on Geissel, fierce indignation in his tone. "Seven murders that don't seem to matter a damn to anybody! Has anyone gone to the chair? Has anyone even been pulled in? Why, the murderers, whoever they are, haven't even been inconvenienced! Only three quitters? I guess you're lucky—"
"What's the trouble?" It was a harsh, authoritative voice that asked the question.
Reil stiffened to attention and saluted smartly. Lieutenant Edwin Lavine was a stickler for military discipline amongst his subordinates. A man of medium height, the breadth of his shoulders and his general bearing were eloquent of a former athletic build. The years, however—he was well into middle age—had done their work, and his figure, once lithe and vigorous, now showed a suspicious fullness. Lavine may have assisted the years; his tastes were sybaritic; he was a man who did himself well, and if, as a result, his liver wreaked its vengeance upon his temper, it didn't much matter to anybody, for Lieutenant Lavine's temper had always been his weak point.
"Connor refused duty, sir," reported Reil tersely.
The Lieutenant made an impatient noise with his lips.
"Refused duty, has he?" he repeated between his teeth.
"Yes, sir. Can you imagine? And he's been twelve years a policeman!"
"Did he come in?"
"No, sir. I found him when I was making my first round."
"Where is he?"
"Outside, sir."
"Bring him in."
When the other had gone, Lavine stood thoughtfully for some moments, and his thick lips were curved in an ugly expression as he muttered to himself:
"Connor... yellow, eh?"
"I'm not so sure about that, sir," Geissel ventured to put in: and Lavine turned round on him with a snarl.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I don't know that I'd call Connor yellow. He's the bird who got that Polak family out of their shack when it burned—you remember? No yellow guy would have done what Connor did then."
The other grunted.
"Here he is," he said as the door opened to admit Reil and a patrolman. "We'll hear what he has to say. Now, Connor," as the man advanced across the room and stood rigid in front of him, "what's the big idea? Refusing duty!"
Connor gulped. It was evident that he was labouring under strong emotion and making tremendous efforts to regain his self-control. At last:
"Well, Lieutenant—" he began, and gulped again.
Lavine snorted.
"'Well, Lieutenant'!" he mimicked. Then, turning fiercely upon the patrolman: "Say, what's the matter with you?" he stormed. "What sort of a policeman do you call yourself? Afraid of the dark, huh? You make me sick!"
His contemptuous tone stung the man into at least temporary mastery of his feelings. He drew himself up and spoke jerkily, but more calmly.
"It was this way, sir. I was up on Washington Pike—there ain't a house there in a mile, and I got scared, that's all. You see, a man came up to me—a stranger—and asked me what I was doing so far off my patrol." Lavine broke in sharply.
"Oh! You were off your patrol, were you?"
"Yeah—just a little way."
"And why?"
"I saw some men get out of a car about a hundred yards farther on—and I went up to see what it was all about. One of 'em came back to me."
"And you beat it, huh? Got yellow—just because a man asked you why you were off your patrol! I suppose you didn't ask him for his badge or anything? He might have been a Federal officer."
"He was a stranger to me," Connor muttered sullenly. The corners of the Police Lieutenant's mouth curved in a contemptuous grimace which gave him an evil expression. His eyes raked the unfortunate Connor with a scorn that stung.
"I suppose you haven't got a gun?" he said icily. "I say you haven't got a gun, have you, you poor yeller rat! You get right back, sister!"
The patrolman drew himself up, his eyes flashing.
"I'm not going back!"
"Oh, no?" Lavine turned to Reil. "Where did you find him?"
"On his way to the station, sir."
The Lieutenant surveyed Connor coldly for some moments before he spoke.
"Now listen, you! You'll go right back to your patrol—"
"I tell you I'll do nothing of the sort!" almost yelled Connor. He was furious now. "Three officers have been killed on that pike since the New Year. Shot down like dogs—for nothin'. Seven officers in three months! I got a wife and three kids—"
"Why, you're nothin' but a kid yourself—a poor, whining, snivelling kid—afraid of the dark—afraid—"
Connor took a step forward and pointed a shaking hand towards the frame on the opposite wall.
"I ain't havin' my badge in that frame and that's a fact!" His tone was openly defiant now.
Lavine's eyes glinted.
"You're not having your badge in that frame, aren't you?" he breathed, slowly and quietly. Then in sudden fury: "I'll say you're not, you rat!"
Taking a quick step forward, he seized the patrolman's badge and wrenched it from his coat.
"I'll say you're not," he repeated. "I'm dumping it in the ash-can and you're going inside, where you belong! I'll have that coat off your back and I'm going to give you a number in the penitentiary! That's what I'll do with you! And I'll tell you something else—"
"Tell me!"
Lavine broke off short and turned round sharply, to meet the scrutiny of a pair of cold steel-blue eyes, whose owner had come into the room unnoticed.
There were stories told in the underworld about the eyes of Captain Patrick John O'Regan; how, for instance, Jake Sullivan had gone to the chair simply because, when he was being questioned, he hadn't been able to stand the penetrating stare of O'Regan's eyes, and had come clean with all the details of his crime; and how Jim Woolmer, as tough a guy as ever worked a racket, suddenly jumped to his feet and shouted: "For God's sake, Captain, don't look at a fellow that way!" It was generally agreed by those who had had the misfortune to come beneath their scrutiny that they made a man feel it was no use lying because O'Regan already knew every little detail which the wrongdoer was trying to conceal. "Tricks" O'Regan, they called him, because he was plumb full of tricks and you never could tell for certain whether he was kidding or not. Usually, it was said, it was safe to assume that he was. However much the devotees of crime in Chester County might dislike the tall, broad-shouldered young man with the keen blue eyes and obstinate jaw, they had to hand it to him that he had been instrumental in seriously thinning their ranks, and that he had not reached the rank of police captain at the early age of thirty-two for nothing.
"What's happening?" O'Regan asked.
Lavine, almost reluctantly it seemed, drew himself up and saluted.
"Patrolman Connor refused duty, Chief. He got scared up on the Washington Pike."
O'Regan walked across the room, hung up his hat and coat and seated himself at his desk.
"Refused duty, eh?" he said at length. "Refused duty—in this happy land where nobody gets killed but policemen! Say, that's too bad!"
He shot a swift glance towards the patrolman—a glance keen yet understanding; a glance that took in every aspect of the situation. Connor had been an exemplary officer for twelve years, with never a bad mark against his name. Yet here he was, his face white, his mouth working nervously, his hands clenching and unclenching, quite obviously in the grip of some very powerful emotion—so powerful as to force him to commit the almost unforgivable offence of refusing duty and of disobeying his superior's commands. O'Regan's glance took in the significance of this immediately; it also embraced every detail of the patrolman's appearance.
The Police Captain pointed to the man's coat.
"You mustn't go out like that, Connor. Your coat's torn. Make a note, Geissel."
"I did that, Chief," explained Lavine complacently.
"I took off his badge—" holding up his right hand, which still held the symbol of Connor's office.
O'Regan held out his hand for the badge.
"On yes? Very interesting—very dramatic," was his quiet comment. "Now we will put it back." He suited the action to the words, pinning the badge on the bewildered policeman's coat. "Now then, Connor, just tell me all about it, will you? You were frightened?"
"Yes, sir."
O'Regan sat down at his desk, rested his elbows on the surface and looked up encouragingly at the other.
"Where?"
"Up by the meadow, sir, where Brandt crosses the Pike."
"Where Patrolman Leiter was killed?"
"Yes, sir," was the eager response. "You remember Leiter, Captain? I found him. He said that a man came up to him and asked him what he was doing off his patrol—and shot him. Just what this feller asked me tonight." The words came in a torrent.
"Oh, rats!" The contemptuous interjection came from Lavine. He would have said more, but the cold scrutiny of O'Regan's eyes kept him silent.
The Police Captain turned again to Connor.
"A man came up to you and asked you that, eh?"
"Yes, sir." His voice was tremulous as he went on: "You know, sir, there's a racket around here—a racket nobody understands. Chester County is full of killers."
Lavine's harsh laugh interrupted him.
"Killers, eh? Sure—they frighten policemen to death!"
Again O'Regan silenced him, this time with an imperious gesture.
"Let Connor tell me his story, please. Go on, Connor—I think I understand, my lad."
"Living in this county," continued the man, "is like living in a haunted house. There's always something behind you—something you can't see and you can't hear. You're walking all the time with a gun in your back."
"Uh-huh!" grunted O'Regan. "You only saw one man?"
"Four, sir. They got out of a car—near the meadow."
"Whose meadow is that?"
It was Lavine who answered.
"I guess that's Mr. Perryfeld's," he drawled.
"Thank you." Then, turning again to Connor: "And you got scared?"
The patrolman nodded.
"I certainly did, sir. You think I'm a poor yeller—"
O'Regan cut him short.
"No, no, no, I think nothing of the sort. You simply got scared. It is quite understandable. Personally I have never known what fear is, but I understand it exists—maybe one day I'll make its acquaintance. I've never been to the moon, but I know there is such a place." He sat for a moment or two in thought, his chin cupped in his right hand. Then he turned to Lavine. "Relieve Connor," he ordered. "Put him on the South patrol."
The Lieutenant looked his astonishment. He could hardly believe his ears. Here was a patrolman guilty of the most heinous offence in the police code, and the Chief was talking about "relieving" him! He could not have heard aright.
"Did you say 'relieve Connor', Chief?"
"Sure."
"But you'll be suspending him, won't you?" O'Regan rose, and flicked an invisible speck of dust from his jacket as he replied:
"No, I shall not be suspending him. Do you mind?"
"Very good, sir." Lavine's tone was sullen and the shrug of his shoulders almost offensive. Then, turning to Connor: "Come on, you," he ordered harshly.
"Just a moment." O'Regan held up a detaining hand. "Connor, you'd never seen these four men before, had you?"
"No, Chief. I didn't see 'em rightly, anyway. I told the Lieutenant what I thought."
"Yeh—what you thought!" snorted Lavine. "What do you think with?"
It was O'Regan who answered.
"His brains, which were so nearly blown out tonight." Then, tapping the man on the shoulder: "O.K., Connor."
Lavine and the patrolman paused as they reached the door, giving way to the man who was at that moment entering the room. Walking up to the desk at which O'Regan had again seated himself, the newcomer jerked his head in the direction of the departing pair.
"Trouble, sir?" he asked laconically.
O'Regan nodded. He liked the tall, fair-haired Lieutenant Spellman, his second-in-command at Police Headquarters, as much for his economy of words as for the integrity and loyalty which he had always displayed. He relied a great deal upon Spellman and the handsome-featured young lieutenant had proved that such reliance was never misplaced.
"Refused duty," O'Regan told him.
The other whistled.
"Another, eh? Where?"
"At the corner of Brandt and Washington."
"You've had three men bumped off on that same point," Spellman recalled.
"That's so—and all for the same reason—seeing people who thought they might be identified."
"And three other patrolmen have turned in their badges," went on the lieutenant reflectively. "It looks healthy for Chester County!"
O'Regan rose from his desk with a weary gesture and walked to the wall where hung the frame displaying the seven badges.
"Look at that, Spellman. Those badges belonged to seven men—seven living men, with beds to go to, seven men who went to the pictures at nights and played pinochle and wished they were Rockefeller. And they're dead! Last Thanksgiving they were alive, eating turkey and making dates with girls."
Spellman nodded grimly.
"It's certainly tough, Chief; but that's how it goes."
The Captain turned round sharply.
"Why should it?" he demanded. "What had these boys done to deserve death? They did nothing but patrol on their flat feet and watch out for citizen's homes. Seven policemen murdered in three months," he went on, half to himself. "And today I've been at the City Hall receiving the congratulations of the Citizens' League for keeping Chester County free of crime!" He gave a short, derisive laugh. "Maybe they don't think it's a crime to shoot policemen. Free of crime—no rackets, no hold-ups—and here, right here, is the biggest racket and the biggest hold-up this country has known. Isn't it marvellous?"
He turned round, to find Lavine, who had re-entered the office, standing by his desk.
"Don't you agree, Lavine? Isn't everything grand?"
"Why, yes, Chief. But then, we've got a pretty good class of people livin' around here."
"Uh-huh. That's so—and a pretty good class of policemen dying around here. Don't forget that, Lavine—"jerking his head towards the frame.
The Lieutenant shrugged.
"I guess we've still got a force good enough to deal with rackets," he said complacently.
O'Regan swung round on him, his eyes alight with the intensity of his emotion.
"So they have in Chicago!" he exclaimed. "So they have in New York—but the rackets go on. The people of Chicago pay a hundred million dollars a year for protection. There isn't a trade that hasn't a grand union attached to it—Butchers' Protection—Baker's Protection! You pay to be a member or you're bombed and your trucks thrown over in the street. If you squeal you're beaten, and if you fight you're bumped. You talk about a handful of Bolsheviks holding down a hundred million people—why, Russia's a girls' school after this country!"
"Oh, say," protested Lavine, "Chester's clean! There hasn't been a booze murder in years."
O'Regan raised his eyebrows.
"That's so. But there have been seven coppers and John Harvey since Thanksgiving!"
"Harvey?" Lavine wrinkled his forehead as if in an effort of recollection. "Oh yes, I remember—but there was a woman in that—"
"Nobody said so," put in Spellman from his desk in the far corner of the room.
"I got the low-down on it, see?" retorted Lavine.
"There was no woman concerned," O'Regan declared. "John Harvey was killed because he wouldn't pay blackmail. That's the racket. Somebody in Chester County is putting the dollar sign on fear." His right arm shot out in a minatory gesture to some invisible enemy. "I'm going to get that somebody into the Smoky Cell. If my badge goes into that frame I'll get him!"
