“Hey, there, you, Sanders, hold up your hand!”
A short man near the head of the line lifted his arm.
“Take off your hat.”
The prisoner removed his head-gear with his other hand. The Inspector raised his voice and addressed the crowd of detectives, who turned with one accord to examine the subject of his discourse.
“That’s Biff Sanders, con man and all-round thief. Served two terms up the river for grand larceny—last time an eight-year bit; that was nine years ago. Take a good look at him. I want you to remember his face. Put your hat on.”
Sanders resumed his original position, his face expressing the most complete indifference.
A slight, good-looking young man now joined the Inspector and directed his attention to the prisoner next the clubman, the same being he who had remarked upon the familiar appearance of Mott Street.
“Hold up your hand!” ordered the Inspector. “You’re Muggins, aren’t you? Haven’t been here in fifteen years, have you?”
The man smiled.
“You’re right, Inspector,” he said. “The last time was in ’89.”
“That’s Muggins, burglar and sneak; served four terms here, and then got settled for life in Louisville for murder. Pardoned after he’d served four years. Look at him.”
Thus the curious proceeding continued, each man in the line being inspected, recognized, and his record and character described by the Inspector to the assembled bureau of detectives. No other voice was heard save the harsh tones of some prisoner in reply.
Then the Inspector looked at McAllister.
“Welch, hold up your hand.”
McAllister shuddered. If he refused, he knew not what might happen to him. He had heard of the horrors of the “Third Degree,” and associated it with starvation, the rack, and all kinds of brutality. They might set upon him in a body. He might be mobbed, beaten, strangled. And yet, if he obeyed, would it not be a public admission that he was the mysterious and elusive Welch? Would it not bind the chains more firmly about him and render explanation all the more difficult?
“Do you hear? Hold up your hand, and be quick about it!”
His hand went up of its own accord.
The Inspector cleared his throat and rapped upon the railing.
“Take a good look at this man. He’s Fatty Welch, one of the cleverest thieves in the country. Does a little of everything. Began as a valet to a clubman in this city. He got settled for stealing a valuable pin about three years ago, and served a short term up the river. Since then he’s been all over. His game is to secure employment in fashionable houses as butler or servant and then get away with the jewelry. He’s wanted for a big job down in Pennsylvania. Take a good look at him. When he gets out we don’t want him around these parts. I’d like you precinct-men to remember him.”
The detectives crowded near to get a close view of the interesting criminal. One or two of them made notes in memorandum books. The slender man had a hasty conference with the Inspector.
“The officer who has Welch, take him up to the gallery and then bring him down to the record room,” directed the Inspector.
“Get down, Fatty!” commanded Tom. McAllister, stupefied with horror, embarrassment, and apprehension of the possibilities in store for him, stepped down and followed like a somnambulist. As they made their way to the elevator he could hear the strident voice of the Inspector beginning again:
“This is Pat Hogan, otherwise known as ‘Paddy the Sneak,’ and his side partner, Jim Hawkins, who goes under the name of James Hawkinson. His pals call him ‘Supple Jim.’ Two of the cleverest sneaks in the country. They branch out into strong arm work occasionally.”
The elevator began to ascend.
“You seem kinder down,” commented Tom. “I suppose you expect to get settled for quite a bit down to Philadelphia, eh? Well, don’t talk unless you feel like it. Here we are!”
They got out upon an upper floor and crossed the hall. On their left a matron was arranging rows of tiny chairs in a small school-room or nursery. At any other time the Lost Children’s Room might have aroused a flicker of interest in McAllister, but he felt none whatever in it now. Tom opened a door and pushed the clubman gently into a small, low-ceiled chamber. Charts and diagrams of the human cranium hung on one wall, while a score of painted eyes, each of a different color, and each bearing a technical appellation and a number, stared from the other. Upon a small square platform, about eight inches in height, stood a half-clad Italian congealed with terror and expecting momentarily to receive a shock of electricity. The slender young man was rapidly measuring his hands and feet and calling out the various dimensions to an assistant, who recorded them upon a card. This accomplished, he ordered his victim down from the block, seated him unceremoniously in a chair, and with a pair of shining instruments gauged the depth of his skull from front to rear, its width between the cheekbones, and the length of the ears, describing all the while the other features in brief terms to his associate.
“Now off with you!” he ejaculated. “Here, lug this Greaser in and mug him.”
The officer in the case haled the Italian, shrieking, into another room.
“Ah, Fatty!” remarked the slender man. “I trust you won’t object to these little formalities? Take off that left shoe, if you please.”
McAllister’s soul had shrivelled within him. His powers of thought had been annihilated. Mechanically he removed the shoe in question and placed his foot upon the block. The young man quickly measured it.
“Now get up there and rest your hand on the board.”
McAllister observed that the table bore the painted outline of a human hand. He did as he was told unquestioningly. The other measured his forefinger and the length of his forearm.
“All right. Now sit down and let me tickle your head for a moment.”
The operator took the silver calipers which had just been used upon the Italian and ran them thoughtfully forward and back above the clubman’s organs of hearing.
“By George, you’ve got a big head!” remarked the measurer. “Prominent, Roman nose. No. 4 eyes. Thank you. Just step into the next room, will you, and be mugged?”
McAllister drew on his shoe and followed Tom into the adjoining chamber of horrors.
“No tricks, now!” commented the officer in charge of the instrument.
Snap! went the camera.
“Turn sideways.”
Snap!
“That’s all.”
The clubman staggered to his feet. He entirely failed to appreciate the extent of the indignity which had been practised upon him. It was hours before he realized that he had actually been measured and photographed as a criminal, and that, to his dying hour and beyond, these insignia of his shame would remain locked in the custody of the police.
“Where now?” he asked.
“Time to go over to court,” answered Tom. “The wagon’ll be waitin’ for us. But first we’ll drop in on Sheridan—record-room man, you know.”
“Isn’t there some way I can see the Commissioner?” inquired McAllister.
Tom burst into a roar of laughter.
“You have got a gall!” he commented, thumping his prisoner good-naturedly in the middle of the back. “The Commissioner! Ho-ho! That’s a good one! I guess we’ll have to make it the Warden. Come on, now, and quit yer joshin’.”
Once more they entered the main room, where the detectives were congregated. The Inspector was still at it. There had been a big haul the night before. He intended running all the crooks out of town by New Year’s Day. Tom shoved McAllister through the crush, across an adjoining room and finally into a tiny office. A young man with a genial countenance was sitting at a desk by the single window. He looked up as they crossed the threshold.
“Hello, Welch! How goes it? Let’s see, how long is it since you were here?�
��
Somehow this quiet, gentlemanly fellow with his confident method of address, telling you just who you were, irritated McAllister to the explosive point.
“I’m not Welch!” he cried indignantly.
“Ha-ha!” laughed Mr. Sheridan. “Pray who are you?”
“You’ll find out soon enough!” answered McAllister sullenly.
“Look here,” remarked the other, “don’t imagine you can bluff us. If you think you are not Welch, perhaps I can persuade you to change your mind.”
He turned to an officer who stood in the doorway of a large vault.
“Bring 2,208, if you please.”
The officer pulled out a drawer, removed a long linen envelope, and spread out its contents upon the desk. These were fifteen or twenty newspaper clippings, at least one of which was embellished with an evil-looking wood-cut.
“Let’s see,” continued Mr. Sheridan. “You began with a year up the river. Took a pearl pin from a man named McAllister. Then you turned several tricks in Chicago, St. Louis, Buffalo and Philadelphia, and got away with it every time. Have we got you right?”
McAllister ground his teeth.
“You have not!” said he.
“Look at yourself,” continued the other. “There’s your face. You can’t deny it. I wonder the Inspector didn’t have you measured and photographed the first time you were settled. Still, the picture’s enough.”
He handed the clubman a newspaper clipping containing a visage which undeniably resembled the features which the latter saw daily in his mirror. McAllister wearily shook his head.
“Well,” said the expert, “of course you don’t have to tell us anything unless you want to. We’ve got you right—that’s enough.”
He pushed the clippings back into the envelope, handed it to the officer, and turned away.
“Come on!” ordered Tom.
Once more McAllister and his mentor availed themselves of the only free transportation offered by the city government, that of the patrol wagon, and were soon deposited at the side entrance of the Jefferson Market police court. A group of curious idlers watched their descent and disappearance into what must have at all times seemed to them a concrete and ever-present temporal Avernus. The why and wherefore of these erratic trips were, of course, unknown to McAllister. Presumably he must be some rara avis of crime whose feet had been caught inadvertently in the limed twig set by the official fowler for more homely poultry. Fatty Welch, whoever he might be, apparently enjoyed the respect incident to success in any line of human endeavor. It seemed likewise that his presence was much desired in the sister city of Philadelphia, in which direction the clubman had a vague fear of being unwillingly transported. He did not, of course, realize that he was held primarily as a violator of the law of his own State, and hence must answer to the charge in the magistrate’s court nearest the locus of his supposed offence.
Inside the station house Tom held a few moments’ converse with one of its grizzled guardians, and then led our hero along a passage and opened a door. But here McAllister shrank back. It was his first sight of that great cosmopolitan institution, the police court. Before him lay the scene of which he had so often read in the newspapers. The big room with its Gothic windows was filled to overflowing with every variety of the human species, who not only taxed the seating capacity of the benches to the utmost, but near the doors were packed into a solid, impenetrable mass. Upon a platform behind a desk a square-jawed man with chin-whiskers disposed rapidly of the file of defendants brought before him.
A long line of officers, each with one or more prisoners, stood upon the judge’s left, and as fast as the business of one was concluded the next pushed forward. McAllister perceived that at best only a few moments could elapse before he was brought to face the charge against him, and that he must make up his mind quickly what course of action to pursue. As he stepped down from the doorway there was a perceptible flutter among the spectators. Several hungry-looking men with note-books opened them and poised their pencils expectantly.
Tom, having handed over McAllister to the temporary care of a brother officer, lost no time in locating his complainant, that is to say, the gentleman whose house our hero was charged with having burglariously entered. The two then sought out the clerk, who seemed to be holding a sort of little preliminary court of his own, and who, under the officer’s instruction, drew up some formal document to which the complainant signed his name. McAllister was now brought before this official and briefly informed that anything he might say would be used against him at his trial. He was then interrogated, as before, in regard to his name, age, residence, and occupation, but with the same result. Indeed, no answers seemed to be expected under the circumstances, and the clerk, having written something upon the paper, waved them aside. Nothing, however, of these proceedings had been lost to the reporters, who escorted Tom and McAllister to the end of the line of officers, worrying the former for information as to his prisoner’s origin and past performances. But Tom motioned them off with the papers which he held in his hand, bidding them await the final action of the magistrate. Nobody seemed particularly unfriendly; in fact, an air of general good-fellowship pervaded the entire routine going on around them. What impressed the clubman most was the persistence and omnipresence of the reporters.
“I must get time!” thought McAllister. “I must get time!”
One after another the victims of the varied delights of too much Christmas jubilation were disposed of. Fatty Welch was the only real “gun” that had been taken. He had the arena practically to himself. Now only one case intervened. He braced himself and tried to steady his nerves.
“Next! What’s this?”
McAllister was thrust down below the bridge facing the bench, and Tom began hastily to describe the circumstances of the arrest.
“Fatty Welch?” interrupted the magistrate. “Oh, yes! I read about it in the morning papers. Chased off in a cab, didn’t he? You shot the horse, and his partner got away? Wanted in Pennsylvania and Illinois, you say? That’s enough.” Then looking down at McAllister, who stood before him in bespattered dress suit and fragmentary linen, he inquired:
“Have you counsel?”
McAllister made no answer. If he proclaimed who he was and demanded an immediate hearing, the harpies of the press would fill the papers with full accounts of his episode. His incognito must be preserved at any cost. Whatever action he might decide to take, this was not the time and place; a better opportunity would undoubtedly present itself later in the day.
“You are charged with the crime of burglary,” continued the Judge, “and it is further alleged that you are a fugitive from justice in two other States. What have you to say for yourself?”
McAllister sought the Judge’s eye in vain.
“I have nothing to say,” he replied faintly. There was a renewed scratching of pens.
The Judge conferred with the clerk for a moment.
“Any question of the prisoner’s identity?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” replied Tom conclusively. “The fact is, yer onner, we took him by accident, as you may say. We laid a plant for a feller doin’ second-story work on the avenoo, and when we nabbed him, who should it be but Welch! Ye see, they wired on his description from Philadelphia a couple of weeks ago, but we couldn’t find hide or hair of him in the city, and had about give up lookin’. Then, quite unexpected, we scoops him in. Here’s his indentity,” handing the Judge a soiled telegraph blank. “It’s him, all right,” he added with a grin.
The magistrate glanced at the form and at McAllister.
“Seems to fit,” he commented. “Have you looked for the scar?”
Tom laughed.
“Sure! I seen it when he was gettin’ his measurements took, down to headquarters.”
“Turn around, Welch, and let’s see your back,” directed the magistrate.
The clubman turned around and displayed his collarless neck.
“There it is!” exclaimed Tom.
McAllister mechanically put his hand to his neck and turned faint. He had had in his childhood an almost forgotten fall, and the scar was still there. He experienced a genuine thrill of horror.
“Well,” continued the magistrate, “the prisoner is entitled to counsel, and, besides, I am sure that the complainant, Mr. Brown, has no desire to be delayed here on Christmas Day. I will set the hearing for ten o’clock tomorrow morning, at the Tombs police court. I shall be sitting there for Judge Mason the rest of the week, beginning tomorrow, and will take the case along with me. You might suggest to the Warden that it would be more convenient to send the prisoner down to the Tombs, so that there need be no delay.”
The complainant bowed, and the officer at the bridge slapped McAllister not unkindly upon the back.
“You’ll need a pretty good lawyer,” he remarked with a wink.
“Next!” ordered the Judge.
In the patrol wagon McAllister had ample time for reflection. A motley collection of tramps, “disorderlies,” and petty law-breakers filled the seats and crowded the aisle. They all talked and joked, swinging from side to side and clutching at one another for support with harsh outbursts of profanity, as they rattled down the deserted streets toward New York’s Bastile. Staggering for a foot-hold, between four women of the town, McAllister was forced to breathe the fumes of alcohol, the odor of musk, and the aroma of foul linen. He no longer felt innocent. The sense of guilt was upon him. He seemed part and parcel of this load of miserable humanity.
The wagon clattered over the cobblestones of Elm Street, and whirling round, backed up to the door of the Tombs. The low, massive Egyptian structure, surrounded by a high stone wall, seemed like a gigantic mortuary vault waiting to receive the “civilly dead.” Warden and keepers were ready for the prisoners, who were now unceremoniously bundled out and hustled inside. McAllister stood with the others in a small anteroom leading directly into the lowest tier. He could hear the ceaseless shuffling of feet and the subdued murmur of voices, rising and falling, but continuous, like the twittering of a multitude of birds, while through the bars came the fetid prison smell, with a new and disagreeable element—the odor of prison food.
The Victorian Villains Megapack Page 41