Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927
- Автор: Valentine, Corley H. W.
- Год: 1927
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927». Краткое содержание книги:
He smiled. “Blackmail is too risky a game for you, little girl—”
“Blackmail! You call me a blackmailer — you sky-pilot—”
“Evelyn—” he begged.
People at other tables were watching them in amazement.
“Don’t ‘Evelyn’ me! Don’t speak to me again!” In sudden rage she seized her umbrella and smashed the sugar-bowl in the center of the table. She struck another blow at McArthur’s glass, but he caught the umbrella and took it from her as gently as possible.
“Give me my mother’s umbrella!” she cried, snatching at it.
He blinked. “Your — mother’s—”
“Give me my mother’s umbrella!” screamed Evelyn again.
Some one rose from a near-by table and approached. It was Jimmie Brown’s dark-haired friend.
“Give her the umbrella,” he intoned manfully.
“Silk,” replied the inventor, laughing, “keep away from here before you get creased and torn. I’ll give you the umbrella, Evelyn, when we go outside.”
Her eyes blazed at him. “Keep it then!” she returned, fumbling hastily in her hand bag. “And take this with it!”
He lunged sharply across the table when he caught a glimpse of what she held. The girl cried out in pain as he took something from her. He sat back, a trifle dazed by the realization of what she had tried to do.
“Give me my gun!” Evelyn shouted.
People were gathering from all parts of the cabaret, gaping into the booth.
“Give me my gun, you kite!”
“Give her the gun—” ventured the youth with sleek black hair.
The proprietor pushed through the group — then a big, red-faced policeman. “What’s going on in here?” the latter demanded.
He picked up the weapon, a twenty-two caliber revolver, from the corner of the table.
“Whose gat is this?”
“That man owns it!” accused Silk, pointing at the inventor.
“He pulled it on me!” said Little Evelyn.
“It is lie!” declared Wing Shinn, greatly excited. “Mr. McArt’ don’t have gun! Me see lady bring it out!”
Evelyn grew very white. She did not answer. She began to cry.
The policeman bent his gaze to her. “Don’t you know any better than to pull that kind of stuff in here?” he asked fiercely.
“Second time trouble in my place!” agreed Charlie Sang.
“What’s the idea, Evelyn? Mr. Mac’s your friend—” This was Buddy Remick, whose cab stood outside.
“Well, come on out of this!” snarled the officer, yanking the girl roughly from her chair, and pocketing the revolver. “You’ll hear about this—”
“Let go — you’re hurting me!”
“She’s only a child—” McArthur reminded him.
“Eh? That’s too bad! Get out of here, you hop-head” — he wrenched her arm again — “and stay out of here, from now on!”
“I’ll take her home in the cab,” Remick offered.
They marched her, protesting and still crying, out to the street, while most of the patrons followed in curiosity. In Remick’s cab, Evelyn began pounding upon the window.
“I want my gun! I want my mother’s umbrella!” she sobbed bitterly, as the machine moved away.
The crowd in the doorway of the Canton laughed.
McArthur stood alone on the sidewalk, watching the red cab out of sight. It had not gone in the direction of her home, but toward Harrison’s. Toward the house on Warrington Street, house of death, run by promoters who had promised there would be “protection” if Little Evelyn would “line up with the main mob.”
“Damn them!” said Dizzy McArthur, blinking again, his eyes bright and cold.
Chapter XXXIX
For Ten Grand
Arthur Williams’s first intention, after his surprising conversation with Drohan, was to report the matter to Steele and learn whether his employer advised trapping the bootlegger on a charge of illegal gratuity. When he arrived at the office on the following morning, however, he found that the head of the agency was in New York.
Steele returned that evening — which was the night of Dizzy McArthur’s disturbing experience in the Canton — but Williams did not know of his arrival; and two days passed before they met.
During this time, the young man had been thinking. He had been amazed at first — later almost fascinated — by the astonishing fact that Topper Drohan’s mob were willing to pay ten thousand dollars for information as to how Bolton and Marvin had obtained evidence enough for a search warrant.
Nothing more than that. Just the one piece of information. True, Drohan had asked him to learn something else “if he could,” but apparently the one fact would be sufficient to earn the money.
What incalculable profits the promoters and the gang must be making from their activities, if they could afford to give that price for protection from a private agency!
And, after all, were they doing any great harm by operating this house on Warrington Street? If a man wished to gamble, wasn’t it his own business? As for the narcotics rumored to be there — would any one go to the place for drugs except those who were already past saving?
Not that Williams had the slightest thought of accepting the offer. To do so would be false to his employer. But the wasted effort involved in the problem impressed him. A heavy expense, a big risk to lives — all to control a group of men who really weren’t committing serious crimes.
Suppose, for an instant, that he should accept Drohan’s offer.
No — he would not even think of it.
Yet suppose that he should—
What great wrong would it be? It would be dishonest, of course; it would be grafting — but many, many people were grafting. Some evidently regarded it as one of the privileges of their office. In the present case, would his giving Drohan the information he desired have any effect upon Steele’s effort to find the murderer of Wesley Stone?
Williams could not conceive of its having the slightest influence upon that investigation.
It would disrupt Steele’s plans for raiding Harrison’s. But, when one came right down to the truth of it, wouldn’t such a failure really be safer, better for every one concerned? A raid, Drohan had assured him, would result in more fatalities. Perhaps — just perhaps — this was a case where a bribe should be accepted in order that good might come.
Not a bribe. That was such a distasteful word. A favor in return for a favor.
As far as Marvin and Bolton were concerned, it could bring no danger to them. Williams knew that Drohan did not know — that the evidence which they had already obtained was valid for six months. It was not necessary for them to obtain more. The gangsters did not ask to be told where they could find Bolton or Marvin; merely the method by which they had worked.
And, as a matter of fact, neither was in the city. Marvin had been sent back to the headquarters of the agency in New York, where he was regularly in charge; and Bolton, who specialized in scientific matters, had gone to Chicago with Walter Clapp.
Gradually Williams began to think of the effect that the money would have upon his own life. He tried to count the number of years before he could possibly save that much — if, indeed, he ever could. And with it he could have so many things that his wife, Doris, longed to have, could do so many things that she had hoped they might be able to do. For instance, they could buy a big, high-powered car like Fred Marvin’s.
When Williams finally did talk with his employer, he received his instructions without mentioning Drohan’s proposition.
A few days later, while in New York on a special case, he had luncheon with Marvin. They were intimate friends.