Children of the Whirlwind

by Leroy Scott

  CHAPTER IV

  While the preparations for dinner were going on in the studio, downbelow Larry turned a corner and swung up the narrow street toward thepawnshop. He halted and peered in before entering; in doing this he wasobeying the caution that was his by instinct and training.

  Leaning over the counter within, and chatting with his grandmother'sassistant was Casey, one of the two plain-clothesmen who had arrestedhim. Larry drew back. He was not afraid of Casey, or of Gavegan, Casey'spartner, or of the whole police force, or of the State of New York; theyhad nothing on him, he had settled accounts by having done his bit. Allthe same, he preferred not to meet Casey just then. So he went down thestreet, crossed the cobbled plaza along the water-front, and slippedthrough the darkness among the trucks out to the end of the pier. Underhis feet the East River splashed sluggishly against the piles, but outnear the river's center he could see the tide swirling out to sea at sixmiles an hour, toward the great shadowy Manhattan Bridge crested withits splendid tiara of lights.

  He stretched himself and breathed deeply of the warm free spring. Ittasted good after two long years of the prison's sealed air. He wouldhave liked to shed his clothing and dive down for a brisk fight with thetingling water. Larry had always taken pleasure in keeping his body fit.He had not cared for the gymnasiums of the ward clubs where he wouldhave been welcome; in them there had been too much rough horseplay andfoulness of mouth, and such had always been offensive to him. Andthough he had ever looked the gentleman, he had known that the New YorkAthletic Club and other similar clubs were not for him; they pried a bittoo much into a candidate's social and professional standing. So he hadturned to a club where really searching inquiries were rarely made;for years he had belonged to a branch of the Y.M.C.A. located just offBroadway, and had played handball and boxed with chunky, slow-footedcity detectives who were struggling to retain some physical activity,and with fat playwrights, and with Jewish theatrical managers, and withthe few authentic Christians who occasionally strayed into the place andseemed ill at ease therein. He had liked this club for another reason;his sense of humor had often been highly excited by the thought of hisbeing a member of the Y.M.C.A.

  Having this instinct for physical fitness, he had not greatly mindedbeing a coal-passer during the greater part of his stay at Sing Sing;better that than working in the knitting mills; so that now, thoughunderfed and under weight, he was active and hard-muscled.

  Larry Brainard could not have told why, and just when, he had turnedto devious ways. He had never put that part of his life under themicroscope. But the simple facts were that he had become an orphan atfifteen and a broker's clerk at nineteen after a course in a businesscollege; and that experiences with wash-sales and such devious anddubious practices of brokers, his high spirits, his instinct forpleasure, his desire for big winnings--these had swept him into a wildcrowd before he had been old enough to take himself seriously, andhad started him upon a brilliant career of adventures and unlawfulmoney-making in whose excitement there had been no let-up until hisarrest. He had never thought about such technical and highly academicsubjects as right and wrong up to the day when Casey and Gavegan hadslipped the handcuffs upon him. To laugh, to dance, to plan and directclever coups, to spend the proceeds gayly and lavishly--to challenge thepolice with another daring coup: that had been life to him, a game thatwas all excitement.

  And now, after two years in which there had been plenty of time forthinking, his conscience still did not trouble him on the score of hisoffenses. He believed, and was largely right in this belief, that thesuckers he had trimmed had all been out to secure unlawful gain andto take cunning advantage of his supposedly foolish self and of otherdupes. He had been too clever for them, that was all; in desire andintent they had been as great cheats as himself. So he felt no remorseover his victims; and as for anything he may have done against thatimpersonal entity, the criminal statutes, why, the period in prisonhad squared all such matters. So he now faced life pleasantly and withcare-free soul.

  Larry had turned away from the dark river and had started to retrace hisway, when he saw a man approaching through the darkness. Larry paused.The man drew near and halted exactly in front of Larry. By the swing ofhis body Larry had recognized the man, and his own figure instinctivelygrew tense.

  "What you doin' out here, Brainard?" The voice was peremptory and rough.

  "Throwing kisses over at Brooklyn," Larry replied coolly. "And what areyou doing out here, Gavegan?"

  "Following you. I wanted a quiet word with you. I've been right behindyou ever since you hit New York."

  "I knew you would be. You and Casey. But you haven't got anything onme."

  "I got plenty on you before!--with Casey helping," retorted Gavegan."And I'll get plenty on you again!--now that I know you are the main guyof a clever outfit. You'll be starting some smooth game--but I'm goingto be right after you every minute. And I'll get you. That's the news Iwanted to slip you."

  "So!" commented Larry drawlingly. "Casey's a fairly decent guy,considering his line--but, Gavegan, I don't see how Casey stands you asa partner. And, Gavegan, I don't see why the Board of Health lets youstay around the streets--when putrefying matter causes so much disease."

  "None of your lip, young feller!" growled Gavegan. He stepped closer,bulking over Larry. "You think you are such a damned smart talker andsuch a damned clever schemer--but I'll bet I'll have you locked up insix months."

  Anger boiled up within Larry. Against all the persons connected with hisarrest, trial, and imprisonment, he had no particular resentment, exceptagainst this one man. He never could forget the time he and Gavegan, hehandcuffed, had been locked in a sound-proof cell, and Gavegan hadgiven him the third degree--in this case a length of heavy rubber hose,applied with a powerful arm upon head and shoulders--in an effort tomake him squeal upon his confederates. And that third degree was merelya sample of the material of which Gavegan was made.

  Larry held his desire in leash. "So you bet you'll get me. I'll takethat bet--any figure you like. I've already got a new game cooked up,Gavegan. Cleverer than anything I've ever tried before."

  "Oh, I'll get you!" Gavegan growled again.

  "Oh, no, you won't!" And then Larry's old anger against Gavegan got intohis tongue and made it wag tauntingly. "You didn't get me the last time;that was a slip and police stools got me. All by yourself, Gavegan,you couldn't get anything. Your brain's got flat tires, and its motordoesn't fire, and its clutch is broken. The only thing about it thatstill works is the horn. You've got a hell of a horn, Gavegan, and itnever stops blowing."

  A tug was nearing the dock, and by its light Larry saw the terrificswing that the enraged detective started. Larry swayed slightly aside,and as Gavegan lunged by, Larry's right fist drove into Gavegan'schin--drove with all the power of his dislike and all the strength offive years in a Y.M.C.A. gymnasium and a year in a prison boiler-room.

  Gavegan went down and out.

  Larry gazed a moment at the dim, sprawling figure, then turned and madehis way off the pier and again to the door of the pawnshop. Casey wasgone; he could see no one within but Old Isaac, the assistant.

  Larry opened the door and entered. "Hello, Isaac. Where's grandmother?"

  It is not a desirable trait in one connected with a pawnshop, that isalso reputed to be a fence, to show surprise or curiosity. So Isaac'sreply was confined to a few facts and brief direction.

  Wondering, Larry mounted the stairway which opened from the confidentialbusiness room behind the pawnshop. It was common enough for hisgrandmother to rent out the third floor; but to a painter, and a crazypainter--that seemed strange. And yet more strange was it for her to behaving dinner with the painter.

  Larry knocked at the door. A big male voice within gave order:

  "Be parlor-maid, Maggie, and see who's there."

  The door opened and Larry half entered. Then he stopped, and in surprisegazed at the flushed, gleaming Maggie, slender and supple in the foldsof the Spanish shawl.

&nbs
p; "Why, Maggie!" he exclaimed, holding out his hand.

  "Larry!"

  She was thrillingly confused by his surprised admiration. For a momentthey stood gazing at each other, holding hands. The clothes given him onleaving prison were of course atrocious, but in all else he measured upto her dreams: lithe, well-built, handsome, a laugh ready on his lips,and the very devil of daring in his smiling, gray-blue eyes.

  "How you have grown up, Maggie!" he said, still amazed.

  "That's all I've had to do for two years," she returned.

  "Come on in, Larry," said the Duchess.

  Larry shut the door, bowed with light grace as he had to pass in frontof Maggie, and crossed to the Duchess.

  "Hello, grandmother," he said as though he had last seen her theday before. He held out his hand, the left one, and she took it in amummified claw. In all his life he had never kissed his grandmother, nordid he remember ever having been kissed by her.

  "Glad you're back, Larry." She dropped his hand. "The man's name isHunt."

  Larry turned to the painter. His laughing eyes could be sharp; they werepenetratingly sharp now. And so were Hunt's eyes.

  Larry held out his hand, again the left. "And so you're the painter?"

  "They call me a painter," responded Hunt, "but none of them believe I'ma painter."

  Larry turned again to Maggie. "And so you're actually Maggie! Meaningno offense"--and there was a smiling audacity in his face that it wouldhave been hard to have taken offense at--"I don't see how Old JimmieCarlisle's daughter got such looks without stealing them."

  "Well, then," retorted Maggie, "I don't see how you got your looksunless--"

  She broke off and bit her tongue. She had been about to retort withthe contrast between Larry's face and his shriveled, hook-nosedgrandmother's. They all perceived her intention, however.

  Larry came instantly to her rescue with almost imperceptible ease.

  "Dinner!" he exclaimed, gazing at the miscellany of dishes on the table."Am I invited?"

  "Invited?" said Hunt. "You're the guest of honor."

  "Then might the guest of honor beg the privilege of cleaning up a bit?"Larry drew his right hand from his coat pocket, where it had been allthis while, and started to unwind the handkerchief which he had woundabout his knuckles as he had crossed from the pier.

  "Is your hand hurt much?" Maggie inquired eagerly.

  "Just skinned my knuckles."

  "How?"

  "They happened to connect with a flatfoot's jaw while he was trying tomake hypnotic passes at me. He's coming to about now. Officer Gavegan."

  "Gavegan!" exclaimed Hunt. "You picked a tough bird. Young man, you'reoff to a grand start--a charge of assault on an officer the very daythey turn you out of jail."

  Larry smiled. "Gavegan is a dirty one, but he'll make no charge ofassault. He claims to be heavy-weight champion boxer of the PoliceDepartment. Put a fine crimp in his reputation, wouldn't it, if headmitted in public that he'd been knocked out by a fellow, bare-handed,supposed to be weak from prison life, forty pounds lighter. He'd get thegrand razoo all along the line. Oh, Gavegan will never let out a peep."

  "He'll square things in some other way," said Hunt.

  "I suppose he'll try," Larry responded carelessly. "Where's thefirst-aid room?"

  Hunt showed him through the curtains. When he came out, Hunt, Maggie,and the Duchess were all engaged in getting the dinner upon the table.Additional help would only be interference, so Larry's eyes wanderedcasually to the canvases standing in the shadows against the walls.

  "Mr. Hunt," he remarked, "you seem to have earned a very real reputationof its sort in the neighborhood. Old Isaac downstairs told me you werecrazy--said they called you 'Nuts'--said you were the worst painter thatever happened."

  "Yeh, that's what they say," agreed Hunt.

  "They certainly are awful, Larry," put in Maggie, coming to his side."Father thinks they are jokes, and father certainly knows pictures. Justlook at a few of them."

  "Yeh, look at 'em and have a good laugh," invited Hunt.

  Larry carried the portrait of the Duchess to beneath the swingingelectric bulb and examined it closely. Maggie, at his shoulder, waitedfor his mirth; and Hunt regarded him with a sidelong gaze. But Larrydid not laugh. He silently returned the picture, and then examined theportrait of Old Jimmie--then of Maggie--then of the Italian madonna,throned on her curbstone. He replaced this last and crossed swiftly toHunt. Maggie watched this move in amazement.

  Larry faced the big painter. His figure was tense, his features hardwith suspicion. That moment one could understand why he was sometimescalled "Terrible Larry"; just then he looked a devastating explosionthat was still unexploded.

  "What's your game down here, Hunt?" he demanded harshly.

  "My game?" repeated the big painter. "I don't get you."

  "Yes, you do! You're down here posing as a boob who smears up canvases!"

  "What's wrong with that?"

  "Only this: those are not crazy daubs. They're real pictures!"

  "Eh!" exclaimed Hunt. Maggie stared in bewilderment at the two men.

  Hunt spoke again. "What the dickens do you know about pictures? OldJimmie, who's said to be a shark, thinks all these things are justcomics."

  "Jimmie only thinks a picture's good after a thousand press-agents havesaid it's good," Larry returned. "I studied at the Academy of Design fortwo years, till I learned I could never paint. But I know pictures."

  "And you think mine are good?"

  "Not in the popular manner--they're too original. But they're great. Andyou're a great painter. And I want to know--"

  "Hurray!" shouted Hunt, and flung an enthusiastic arm about Larry, andbegan to pound his back. "Oh, boy! Oh, boy!"

  Larry wrenched himself free. "Cut that out. Then you admit you're agreat painter?"

  "Of course I'm a great painter!" shouted Hunt. "Who should know itbetter than I do?"

  "Then what's a great painter doing down here? What's the game you'retrying to put over, posing as--"

  "Listen, son," Hunt grinned. "You've called me and I've got to show mycards. Only you mustn't ever tell--nor must Maggie; the Duchess doesn'ttalk, anyway. No need bothering you just now with a lot of details aboutmyself. It's enough to say that people wouldn't pay me except when I didthe usual pretty rot; no one believed in the other stuff I wanted todo. I wanted to get away from that bunch; I wanted to do real studiesof human people, with their real nature showing through. So I beat it.Understand so far?"

  "But why pose as a dub down here?"

  "I never started the yarn that I was a dub. The people who looked at mywork, and laughed, started that talk. I didn't shout out that I wasa great artist for the mighty good reason that if I had, and had beenbelieved, the people who posed for me either wouldn't have done it orwould have been so self-conscious that they would have tried to looklike some one else, and would never have shown me themselves at all.Thinking me a joke, they just acted natural. Which, young man, is aboutall you need to know."

  Maggie looked on breathlessly at the two men, bewildered by this newlight in which Hunt was presented, and fascinated by the tense alertnessof her hero, Larry.

  Slowly Larry's tensity dissipated. "I don't know about the rest of yourmake-up," he said slowly, "but as a painter you're a whale."

  "The rest of him's all right, too," put in the dry, unemotional voice ofthe Duchess. "Dinner's ready. Come on."

  As they moved to the table Hunt clapped a big hand on Larry's shoulder."And to think," he chuckled, "it took a crook fresh from Sing Sing todiscover me as a great artist! You're clever, Larry--clever! Maggie, getthe corkscrew into action and fill the glasses with the choicest vintageof H2O. A toast. Here's to Larry!"