XIV
WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD
From street door to restaurant entrance, the hallway of Dutch Housewas some twenty-five feet long, floored with grimy linoleum inimitation of tiling, greasy as to its walls and ceiling, and boastingan atmosphere rank with a reek compounded of a dozen elements, intheir number alcohol, cheap perfumery, cooked meats, the sweat ofunclean humanity, and stale tobacco smoke.
Save for this unsavoury composite wraith, the hall was empty when P.Sybarite entered it. But it echoed with sounds of rowdy revelry fromthe room in back: mechanical clatter of galled and spavined piano,despondent growling of a broken-winded 'cello, nervous giggling andmoaning of an excoriated violin--the three wringing from the score of_O You Beautiful Doll_ an entirely adequate accompaniment to theperfunctory performance of a husky contralto.
Though by no means squeamish, on the testimony of his nose and ears P.Sybarite then and there concluded that he would have to have becomeexceedingly blase indeed to find Dutch House amusing.
And when he had gone on into the restaurant itself, slipping hismodest person inconspicuously into a chair at the nearest unoccupiedtable, the testimony of his other senses as to the character of hiscompany served to confirm this impression.
"It's no use," he sighed: "I'm too old a dog.... Be it ever sotypical, there's _no_ place like one's own hash-foundry." ...
This room was broad and deep, and boasted, at its far end, a miniaturestage supporting the orchestra and, temporarily, the gyrations of alady in a vivacious scarlet costume--mistress of the shopworncontralto--who was "vamping with the feet" the interval between twoverses of her ballad.
The main floor was strewn with tables round which sat a motleygathering of gangsters, fools, pretty iniquities and others by nostretch of the imagination to be termed pretty, confidence men,gambling touts, and the sprinkling of drunkards--plain, common,transient, periodical, suburban, habitual, and unconscious--for and bywhom the place was, and is, maintained. In and out among thesecirculated several able-bodied waiters with soiled shirt-bosoms, ironjaws and, not infrequently, cauliflower ears.
Spying out P. Sybarite, one of these bore down upon him with an air ofthe most flattering camaraderie.
It was true that the little man, in a dark coat and hat alike toolarge for him, with his shabby shoes and trousers and apologeticdemeanour, promised no very profitable plucking; but the rule of DutchHouse is to neglect none, however lowly.
"Well, bo'," grunted the waiter cheerfully, polishing off the top ofthe table with a saturated towel, "yuh don't come round's often as y'uster."
"That's a fact," P. Sybarite agreed. "I've been a long timeaway--haven't I?"
"Yuh said somethin' _then_. Mus' be months sinst I seen yuh last.What's the trouble? Y' ain't soured on the old joint, huh?"
"No," P. Sybarite apologised. "I've been--away. Where's Red?"
"MacManus--?" asked the waiter, beginning to believe that this strangelittle creature must in fact be a "regular" of the "bunch"--one whosename and face had somehow, unaccountably, slipped from his memory.
"November," P. Sybarite corrected.
"Oh, he's stickin' round--pretty busy to-night. Wouldn't fuss him, 'fI was yuh, 'less it's somethin' extra."
"I make you," said the little man. "But this is his business. Tell himI have a message for him, will you?"
"Just as yuh say, bo'," returned the other cautiously. "What's itgoin' to be? Bucket of grape or a tub of suds?"
"Do I look like the foolish waters?" enquired P. Sybarite with mildresentment. "Back me up a shell of lather."
Grinning amiably at this happy metaphorical description of the glassof lager regularly served at Dutch House, the waiter shoulderedthrough the swinging doors to the bar....
Then fell a brief lull in the melange of music and tongues, duringwhich a boyish voice lifted up in clear remonstrance at a table somethree removed from that at which P. Sybarite sat:
"But I don't _want_ anything more to drink!"
P. Sybarite looked that way. The owner of the voice (now againdrowned) was apparently a youngster of twenty years--not more--cleanof limb and feature, with a hot flush discolouring his good-lookingface, a hectic glitter in his eyes, and a stubborn smile on his lips.
Lounging low in a straight-backed chair, with his hands in his pocketsand his head wagging obstinately, he was plainly intoxicated, but asyet at a stage sufficiently mild to admit of his recognising theself-evident truth that he needed not another drop.
Yet his companions would have him drink more deeply.
Of these, one was a woman of no uncertain caste, a woman handsome in adaring and costly gown, and as yet not old, but in whose eyesflickered a curious febrile glare ("as though," commented P. Sybarite,moralist, "reflected back from the mouth of Hell").
The other was a man singularly handsome in a foreign way--Italian, atan indifferent guess--slight and graceful of person in well-tailoredif somewhat flashy clothing; boasting too much jewellery; his teethgleaming a vivid white against his dark colouring as he smiledgood-humouredly in his attempts to press more drink upon the other.
The music stopped altogether for a time, and again the boy's voicerang out clearly:
"Tell you--'ve had enough."
The Italian said something urgent, in an undertone. The woman addedinaudible persuasion to his argument. The boy looked from one toanother with a semi-stupid smile; but wagged an obdurate head.
"I will _not_. No--and I don't want--lie down jus' for few minutes.I'm goin' sit here till these--ah--foolish legs 'mine straighten'emselves out--then 'm going home." ...
"Here's your beer, bo'," P. Sybarite's waiter announced.
"Keep the change," said the guest, tendering a quarter.
"T'anks"--with a look of surprise. Then familiarly knuckling the topof the table, the waiter stroked a rusty chin and surveyed the room."There's Red, now," he observed.
"Where?"
"Over there with the skirt and the kid souse. Yuh kin see for yourselfhe's busy. D' yuh want I sh'u'd stir him up now?"
"Oh, yes," said P. Sybarite, in the tone of one recognising anoversight. "What's doing over there--anything?" he proceeded casually.
The waiter favoured him with a hard stare. "Red November's businessain't none'r mine," he growled; "an' less you know him a heluva sightbetter'n I do, you'd better take a straight tip from meand--_leave--it--lay_!"
"Oh!" said the little man hastily--"I was only wondering.... But Iwish you would slip Red the high sign: all I want is one word withhim."
"All right, bo'--you're on."
Slouching off, obviously reluctant to interrupt the diversions of Mr.November, the man at length mustered up courage to touch thatgentleman's elbow. The gangster turned sharply, a frown replacing thesmile which had illuminated his attempts to overcome the boy'srecently developed aversion to drink. The waiter murmured in hisprivate ear.
Promptly P. Sybarite received a sharp look from eyes as black and hardas shoe buttons; and with equanimity endured it--even went to thelength of a nod accompanied by his quaint, ingratiating smile. Acourtesy ignored completely: the dark eyes veered back to the waiter'sface and the white teeth flashed as he was curtly dismissed.
He shuffled back, scowling, reported sulkily: "Says yuh gotta wait";and turned away in answer to a summons from another table.
Unruffled, P. Sybarite sipped his beer--sipped it sparingly and notwithout misgivings, but sedulously to keep in character as a familiarof the dive.
Presently there came yet another lull in the clatter of tongues; andagain the accents of the boy sounded distinctly from the gangster'stable:
"I won't--that's flat! I refuse positively--go up stairs--sleep itoff. I'm a' right--give you m' word--in the _head_. All mytrouble's--these mutinous dogs of legs. But I'll make 'em mind, yet.Trust me--"
And again the babel blotted out his utterance.
But P. Sybarite had experienced a sudden rush of intelligence to thehead--was in the throes of that mental process whic
h it is our habitwittily to distinguish by the expressive term, "putting two and twotogether."
Could this, by any chance, be "that boy" who, Mr. Brian Shaynon hadbeen assured, wouldn't know where he'd been when he waked? Was anattempt to ensure that desired consummation through the agency of adrug, being made in the open restaurant?
If not, why was Red November neglecting all other affairs to pressdrink upon a man who knew when he had enough?
If so, what might be the nature of the link connecting the boy withthe "job," to be on which at half-past two November had just nowcovenanted with Brian Shaynon?
What incriminating knowledge could this boy possess, to render oldShaynon, willing that his memory should be expurgated by such amind- and nerve-shattering agent as the knock-out drop of White Lightcommerce?
Now Shaynon was capable of almost any degree of infamy, if not,perhaps, the absolute peer of Red November.
This strange development of that night of Destiny began to assume inP. Sybarite's esteem a complexion of baleful promise.
But the more keenly interested he grew, the more indifferent he madehimself appear, slouching low and lower in his chair, his eyeslistless and half closed--his look one of the most pronounced apathy:the while he conned the circumstances, physical as well as psychical,with the narrowest attention. Certainly, it would seem, a man who hadenough instinctive decency to wish to escape the degradation of deeperdrunkenness, should be humoured rather than opposed....
The table on which his attention was focussed stood against the wall,the young man sitting in the corner between November and the woman. Oftwo tables between it and P. Sybarite's, one was vacant, the otheroccupied by a brace of hatchet-faced male intimates of the dive andcreatures of November's--or their looks libelled them shamefully.
It seemed unlikely that the boy could get away against the wishes ofthe gang leader, however steadfastly he might stand upon hisdetermination to drink no more. For nothing was to be hoped for fromthe sots, prostitutes, and parasites who made up the balance of thatcompany: one and all, either too indifferent or too sophisticated, ifnot in active sympathy with the practices of the establishment, tolift a hand to interfere....
Testimony in support of this inference P. Sybarite received within thenext few minutes, when the boy's temper abruptly veered fromgood-natured obduracy to open irritation.
"Damn it, no!" he cried in a high voice and with an impatient movementstruck the glass from November's hand.
Though it went to the floor with a splintering crash, the incidentattracted little more than casual glances from those at neighbouringtables....
November's countenance, however, turned grey with anger beneath itsolive shade.
Momentarily his glance clashed with the woman's; and of a sudden thepaint upon her cheeks and lips stood out as starkly artificial ascarmine splashed upon a whitewashed wall. At the same time he flasheda like warning to his two followers at the next table; and the legs oftheir chairs grated on the tiled flooring as they shifted position,making ready for the signal to "mix in."
At this, P. Sybarite rose and nonchalantly moved over to November; hisapproach remarked by the latter with an evil leer; by the woman with astart of consternation; by the boy with sudden suspicion. Indubitablythis last was beginning to question a hospitality that would notpermit him to do as to him seemed best. With relief P. Sybarite notedsymptoms of this dawning distrust. It made the problem simpler, tohave the boy alive to his peril.
Pausing, P. Sybarite met November's glare with eyes informed with anexpression amazingly remote and dispassionate, and in a level andtoneless voice addressed him.
"I've a message for you--a hurry call--won't keep--"
"Well?" snapped the gangster. "What's it about? Spit it out!"
"Why, Nella says--" P. Sybarite began deliberately; and paused tocough politely behind his hand; and leaned confidentially over thetable.
At this juncture the boy pushed back his chair and rose.
"Pardon me, m' dear," he said thickly to the woman; "'m goin' home."
"Ah, sit down," November interrupted quickly, pitching his proteanaccents to a key of cajolery--"sit down and have another. What's yourhurry?"
His eyes caught the woman's.
"That's right, dearie," she chimed in hurriedly, laying a softdetaining hand on the boy's forearm. "Be a good fellow. Stake me tojust one more pint--"
"No," the boy insisted, shaking free--"I'm going home. Le' me alone."
"Nella," P. Sybarite interpolated in an imperative tone, momentarilydistracting November's attention--"Nella says to tell you she wantsyou--now--immediately. Do you get that?"
"Damn Nella!" snapped the gang leader. "Tell her to go to the devil.And you"--he menaced P. Sybarite with a formidable look--"you slideouta here--in a hurry! See?"
With this, rising in his place, he put forth a hand to detain the boy,who was sullenly pushing past the woman.
"Wait!" he insisted. "You can't go before you pay up--"
Whipping from his pocket a note (of what denomination he neverknew--but it was large) P. Sybarite slapped it down upon the table.
"That'll pay whatever he owes," he announced, and to the boy: "Clearout--quick--do you hear!--while you've got a chance--"
"What t'ell business is it of yours?" November demanded, turning uponhim furiously.
With an enigmatic smile, P. Sybarite dexterously tipped up his side ofthe table and, overturning it, caught the gangster unprepared for anysuch manoeuvre and pinned him squirming in the angle of wall andfloor.
Immediately the woman came to her feet shrieking; while the little manseized the befuddled boy and swung him toward the door actually beforehe realised what was happening.
Simultaneously, November's henchmen at the adjoining table leapt intothe brawl with an alacrity that sent their chairs clattering back uponthe floor.
But in his magnificent assurance P. Sybarite had foreseen and plannedcunningly against precisely that same contingency. No sooner had hesent the boy staggering on his way than he whirled completely roundwith a ready guard--and in no more than the very wink of exigence.
Already one of the creatures was almost on his back--the other hangingoff and singularly employed (it seemed, considering) with his hands;just what he was up to P. Sybarite had time neither to see nor tosurmise.
Sidestepping a wild swing, he planted a left full on the nose of thenearer assailant and knocked him backwards over a sprawling chair.Then turning attention to the other, he was barely in time to duck anuppercut--and out of the corners of his eyes caught the glint ofbrass-knuckles on the fist that failed to land.
Infuriated, he closed in, sent a staggering left to the thug's heartand a murderous right to his chin, so that he reeled and fell as ifshot--while P. Sybarite with a bound again caught the boy by the armand whirled him out through the doorway into the hall.
"Hurry!" he panted. "We've one chance in ten thousand--"
Beyond doubt they had barely that.
Hardened though they were to scenes of violence, the clients of thedive had stilled in apprehension the moment November lifted his voicein anger; while P. Sybarite's first overtly offensive move had struckthem all dumb in terror.
Red November was one who had shot down his man in cold blood on thesteps of the Criminal Courts Building and, through the favour of TheOrganisation that breeds such pests, escaped scot-free under theconvenient fiction of "suspended sentence"; and knowing well thenature and the power of the man, the primal concerted thought had beento flee the place before bullets began to fly. In blind panic likethat of sheep, they rose as one in uproar and surged toward the outerdoors. November himself, struggling up from beneath the table, wascaught and swept on willy-nilly in the front rank of the stampede. Ina thought he found himself wedged tight in a press clogging the door.Before his enraged vision P. Sybarite was winning away with the boy.
Maddened, the gang leader managed to free his right arm and send ahaphazard shot after them.
Only the instinctive
recoil of those about him deflected his aim.
The report was one with a shock of shattered plate-glass: thesoft-nosed bullet, splashing upon the glazed upper half of the door,caused the entire pane to collapse and disappear with the quickness ofmagic.
Halting, P. Sybarite wheeled and dropped a hand to the pocket whereinrested Mrs. Inche's automatic.
"Get that door open!" he cried to the boy. "I've got a taxi waiting--"
His words were drowned out by the thunderous detonations set up by asecond shot in that constricted space.
With a thick sob, the boy reeled and swung against the wall as sharplyas though he had been struck with a sledge-hammer.
Whimpering with rage, P. Sybarite tugged at the weapon; but it stuckfast, caught the lining of his coat-pocket.
Most happily before he could get it in evidence, the door was thrustsharply in, and through it with a rush materialised that most rare ofmetropolitan phenomena--the policeman on the spot.
Young and ardent, with courage as unique as his ubiquity, he blusteredin like a whirlwind, brushing P. Sybarite to one side, the wounded boyto the other, and pausing only a single instant to throw back theskirts of his tunic and grasp the butt of the revolver in hiship-pocket, demanded in the voice of an Irish stentor:
"_What's-all-this? What's-all-this-now?_"
"Robbery!" P. Sybarite replied, mastering with difficulty a giggle ofhysterical relief. "Robbery and attempted murder! Arrest that man--RedNovember--with the gun in his hand."
With an inarticulate roar, the patrolman swung on toward thegangster--and P. Sybarite plucked the boy by the sleeve and drew himquickly to the sidewalk.
By the never-to-be-forgotten grace of _Kismet_ his taxicab wasprecisely where he had left it, the chauffeur on the seat.
"Quick!" he ordered the reeling boy--"into that cab unless you want tobe treated by a Bellevue sawbones--held as a witness besides. Are youbadly hurt?"
"Not badly," gasped the boy--"shot through the shoulder--can wait fortreatment--must keep out of the papers--"
"Right!" P. Sybarite jerked open the door, and his charge stumbledinto the cab. "Drive anywhere--like sin," he told the chauffeur--"tellyou where to stop when we get clear of this mess--"
Privately he blessed that man; for the cab was in motion almost beforehe could swing clear of the sidewalk. He tumbled in upon the floor,and picked himself up in time to close the door only when they wereswinging on two wheels round the corner of Seventh Avenue.
The Day of Days: An Extravaganza Page 14