by Mike Ashley
“Please’ to meet yeh. Please’ to meet yeh,” he said, grinning affably all around. He sat down and accepted a glass of cider.
“I’ve heard of you,” said Mme Storey. “You and Buck Millings used to work together years ago.”
“That’s right. That’s right,” he said, greatly pleased. “Buck and me pulled off many a job together. He was an A-I partner. They don’t make his like nowadays. Poor Buck, he met his end under a freight train in the Joliet yards. To think of anybody remembering them days! We used to hear of you then, ma’am. Oh, yes, you was famous. Way out of our class. You for the classy kid glove work, us for the rough!”
Mme Storey toasted him with her glass.
Mr Tinker, without saying anything plainly, went on to let us know that he had heard of our exploit of the day before, and highly commended it.
“Say, that was pulled off in a real big style,” he said. “It was just what you’d expect of Kate Arkledon.”
“Just a beginning,” said Mme Storey with a casual air.
“Say, the papers gave you a rotten deal on that,” he went on. “It made me sore. A brilliant piece of work like that ought to get proper credit.”
My heart quite went out to the little man for his sympathy.
“Oh, well, we’re not looking for publicity,” said Mme Storey.
The little man gave her a sharp look.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied. “Times have changed.”
The talk drifted away to other matters. After awhile he said, apropos of nothing that had gone before: “You ought to see Jake.”
“Jake who?” asked Mme Storey with an idle air.
“I don’t know his proper name. We just call him Jake the Canvasser.”
“Whom does he canvass for?”
“Oh, his organization,” said Muggsy vaguely.
I pricked up my ears at that.
Mme Storey refused to betray any interest in this Jake; but Muggsy returned to the subject of his own account. “Jake may have a proposition to put up to you. You ought to talk to him. He’s an A-I feller.”
“What sort-of proposition?”
“Oh, let him name it to you himself. You’ll find him better than his word. We all deals with Jake. He earns his commission all right, and then some.”
“I know these Jakes,” said Mme Storey scornfully. “They belong to the family of bloodsuckers. They live off us who do the work and take the risk.”
Muggsy wagged his hand back and forth. “No, no,” he said, “you get this wrong. Jake ain’t no common receiver. He’s got a new proposition. Up-to-date.”
“Oh, I guess I can run my business without him,” said Mme Storey.
An ugly look appeared in Muggsy’s face. “You’ll find you gotta deal with Jake,” he said. “We all do. The service that Jake supplies is for the benefit of all, and all are expected to pay their share. Nachelly, if anybody tried to profit by Jake’s service without puttin’ up for it, it would make the crowd sore.”
“I’ll hear what he has to say,” said Mme Storey, coolly.
“Times has changed, ma’am,” said Muggsy meaningly. “It used to be everything was individuality, but nowadays it’s organization. You can’t do nothin’ without organizing. Either you gotta climb aboard the band wagon, or the wheels will sure go over yeh!”
VII
On the following evening the redoubtable Jake turned up at the Boule’ Miche’ in person. Bat Bartley brought him to our table. He was as smooth as a well-whipped mayonnaise.
In appearance he was the prosperous business man – well, not quite, for the marvelously cut blue suit, a little lighter in color than men usually wear, the pale pink shirt and tie of a darker hue gave him a sporting character. He wore an immense diamond on the middle finger of his left hand.
He was more the successful theatrical manager or baseball magnate. He had one of these smooth full faces that lent themselves naturally to an unctuous smile; his handsome, dark eyes rolled and beamed mysteriously, and gave nothing away.
His first act was to order up a bottle of “cider”. I found that he was always amply supplied with funds. He was driven about town by a smart chauffeur in an elegant new car of the most expensive make. He was liberal, too, in making loans to any member of “the crowd” who was out of luck.
You are not to suppose that he sat down and came out plump and plain with his proposition. By no means. A good hour was spent in laying the foundations for a beautiful friendship.
A second bottle followed the first. He made no secret of his admiration for my mistress, and in that I think he was honest. I believe he was a little astonished by her superb style after the commonplace material he was accustomed to deal with.
He entertained us with pleasant gossip of the great world. He seemed to know everybody worth knowing, and I was greatly impressed until he gave the snap away by bringing in the name of Mme Storey.
“Oh, Rose and I are intimate friends,” he said carelessly. “She owes her success to the fact that she keeps in close touch with men like me who know all sides of life. But,” he added with a confidential smile, “I don’t tell her too much, you bet. I look after my friends. Anybody will tell you that. Rose don’t get as much out of me as I get out of her.”
I wish you could have seen my mistress’s innocent expression while he was getting this off. She looked like the cat who has swallowed the canary.
By insidious degrees he approached the real business in hand. He was careful never to give the plain brutal names to things.
“The organization that I represent,” he explained, “has two main objects; first to advertise the business as a whole; second, to see that the individual operator gets proper recognition. You can’t rise in any profession without publicity. Look at the mean way the papers used you the other day. That couldn’t happen if you were in with us.
“Providing publicity to the nervy boys and girls that live dangerously,” he went on, “that’s our line.” The phrase “live dangerously” was continually on his lips. I wondered where he had picked it up.
“Look where they stand today as the result of our publicity,” he went on. “The police helpless, the public terror-stricken. You have only to pull your gat anywhere for every boob in the neighborhood to freeze solid. All due to intelligent publicity; to such stunts as the Bobbed-Haired Bandit. That’s our stuff. That’s reached such a point that we don’t even have to furnish the stories any more. The papers run it spontaneously. They hand it to us.”
“So it seems,” said my mistress.
“But we don’t stop with one stunt,” he resumed. “Always something new. It was my people who staged the holdup of Mme Storey awhile ago. That was a wow of a stunt. Just look at the publicity we got out of it. It had a tremendous moral effect. For everybody says to themselves: ‘My God! If they can get away with that what chance have we got?’ And they give up without a struggle!”
Here a certain compunction appeared to attack him, and he assumed a deprecatory tone.
“Of course, I told you just now that Rose Storey was my friend, and so she is in a manner of speaking. I know her well, but she ain’t a real friend, like. She only goes with me for what she thinks she can get out of me, so I don’t feel under any obligations to her. I just go her one better. That’s fair, ain’t it?”
“Absolutely,” agreed my mistress. “By the way, who pulled off that trick?”
I kept my eyes on my plate during this amazing scene. I distrusted my own powers of dissimulation.
“Two young fellows that I’m bringing out,” said Jake. “Falseface Petro and Tony Lanza.”
“Falseface? How did he get that name?”
“Because he can make his face like a wax mask. He gives nothing away. It’s worth a fortune in our business.”
“Sure!”
“Oh, those lads have a future before them,” commented Jake. “They’re young yet, but they’re bound to rise.”
“I’d like to meet them,” said Mme Storey carel
essly. “Perhaps they’d be willing to work work with me.”
“They’d jump at the chance,” said Jake. “A woman of your reputation. I’ll bring them up some night.”
“Well, tell them who I am, and what I’ve done,” said Mme Storey indifferently. “I can’t be explaining myself to kids.”
Jake enlarged upon his organization.
“In addition to publicity,” he said, “we have a special advisory department to investigate likely plants and furnish our subscribers with full information. In that case all you got to do is to go and turn your trick, knowing that everything is all right. That costs more, of course.”
“I would prefer to investigate my own plants,” Mme Storey told him.
“Sure, sure,” he said obsequiously; “a person of your experience. We are also prepared to furnish suggestions for big, spectacular stunts, good for a column or more of space, and beside that we run a press clipping bureau.”
“Press clippings?” repeated Mme Storey, elevating her eyebrows.
“Sure. Every operator, after he has covered a clever trick, wants to read what they say about it. It’s valuable, too, to learn what the police are doing in his case.”
“Well, I’ve been in the game too long,” said Mme Storey. “I’m not interested in clippings. What could you do for me?”
“Say,” said Jake impressively. “I wouldn’t give a person like you no hot air. You’re wise. I wouldn’t say a word to you about what we could do. I wouldn’t ask you to pay a cent, neither. All you got to do is to let me know the place and time where you’re going to pull your next trick, and we’ll do the rest. The result will surprise you.” His eyes gleamed appreciatively.
“Say, with a person of your style and your reputation,” he went on, “there’s no limit to what we could do! What a chance! What a chance! Why, we’d leave the Bob-Haired Bandit tied to the post!”
“All for nothing?” queried Mme Storey dryly.
“You would agree if you were satisfied with the publicity to pay us our usual commission. Ten per cent of the proceeds. That’s all.”
“In goods?” she asked slyly.
His face hardened. “In cash. All our dealings are in cash. We don’t want to interfere with your arrangements for disposing of the goods.”
“I see,” said Mme Storey. “Well, look here. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You ask your people to furnish me with a suggestion for a sensational stunt that will break into the headlines, and if it appeals to me I’ll do business with you.”
“Fine!” cried Jake. “You shall have it tomorrow night!”
Shortly after this we went home, it being then about half past two. We left Jake the Canvasser circulating from table to table amongst his customers.
The Boule’ Miche’ closed officially at the legal hour, but behind its darkened front the privileged guests lingered on until morning. In the midst of a gay party in the outer room I saw the face of Madge Caswell, a young woman who works for us sometimes. She has a faculty for trailing a suspect that amounts to genius.
She was there by Mme Storey’s orders, and in a fleeting glance of intelligence my mistress signified to her that Jake was her man. Madge’s instructions were to spare no expense in keeping in contact with him, even if it meant hiring half a dozen assistants, but to allow him to slip at any moment sooner than risk letting him suspect he was watched.
The following night found us in our usual places at the Boule’ Miche’ after midnight, surrounded by the same showy and noisy crowd with flushed faces and glassy eyes. The Boule’ Miche’ represented a good time to these people, but they were not really having it. They whooped themselves up to it.
What a lot of time and money mortals waste in the constant pursuit of so-called pleasure!
We saw Jake the Canvasser from time to time with one party or another, but he was coy tonight and allowed a good while to elapse before he came to our table. Perhaps he wished to force Mme Storey to send for him. But she was a better waiter than he was, and in the end he had to come of his own accord.
He sat down and entertained us with his anecdotes. My mistress would not deign to question him. Finally he said:
“– Er – I heard from my people.”
“Yes?” said Mme Storey, with perfect indifference.
Jake glanced questioningly at the rest of us.
“Oh, you may speak freely,” she told him; “these people are in on everything I do.”
“Well,” said Jake, “the organization suggests that you go back to Fossberg’s and turn a second trick. First-rate publicity in that. It will be the last place they’d expect you. If you make your second visit before the clerks have time to recover their nerve, it’ll be a walk-away!”
“Not a bad idea,” said Mme Storey, with a subtle smile.
My heart began to beat with the same old suffocating fear of the future.
VIII
Next morning we plunged into our preparations again. We already had full information as to the plan and layout of the Fossberg store, and had now to concoct a new line of approach that would stand as good a chance of success as the old.
Bert Farren, who was sent up to make a preliminary reconnaissance, reported that the revolving door had been replaced with two pairs of swinging doors. These doors swung either way. Also, a carriage opener had been hired to stand outside.
It was obvious that he was a detective in disguise, and armed. This man seemed to me like a fatal obstacle in the way of our success, but Mme Storey smiled when she heard about him.
“It will make the problem more interesting,” she said.
We struck another snag when Inspector Rumsey approached Benjamin Fossberg with our proposition. He met with a flat refusal.
It was somebody else’s turn to be the goat, Fossberg said; he and his brother had not recovered from the shock of the first hold-up. The inspector was finally forced to bring him down to our office, for Mme Storey to exert her charm upon him.
She finally won a reluctant consent, with the stipulation that both brothers be allowed to absent themselves from the store when the stunt was pulled off. Mme Storey had no objection to this, of course.
Fossberg pointed out that he had now no excuse to deprive the clerks of their guns.
“Then load them with blanks,” said Mme Storey. “They’ll never know the difference. Let there be an exchange of shots. It will add drama to the affair.”
In these preliminary discussions it soon developed that I was to be put forward this time as the principal performer. Mme Storey could not be the first to enter the store without adding a disguise to her disguise, and this she could not do since it was necessary for the success of the affair that the clerks should recognize her in the end.
The realization of what they expected of me almost overwhelmed me, but not quite, for now I was borne up by the secret hope that when the actual moment came I should be able to play my part as well as any of them. In the meantime, though, I suffered all the torments of the damned.
This “living dangerously”, as Jake termed it, was not all that it was cracked up to be.
We continued to frequent the Boule’ Miche’ late at night, and our prestige there was growing. Through Jake and through Bat Bartley we were gradually becoming acquainted with all the “operators” or “adventurers”, as they termed themselves. Most of them were incredibly young, and all distinguished by the childish vanity which seems to be inseparable from the modern crook. Among them were several of the girls who alternated in the role of the Bobbed-Haired Bandit.
I understood that there were at least half a dozen bobbed-hair bandits. These youngsters, recognizing a great character in Mme Storey, instinctively deferred to her. She would have made good with them, even without the infernal halo of Kate Arkledon’s reputation around her head.
One of the girls quite won my heart. They called her Brownie. She was not strictly beautiful, her mouth being too wide and her blue eyes set too far apart, but she had that indefinable something which
is called charm.
Her frank gaiety was irresistible. It was her finest qualities which had driven her into association with these thieves – a hatred of smugness and sham. Under happier circumstances she might have adorned the highest circles.
After it was all over we tried to find this girl, but she had disappeared. Like May-flies they enjoy their brief dance in the sun – then oblivion.
I may say here that none of these young people suffered as a result of Mme Storey’s activities in the case. It was agreed between her and Inspector Rumsey that the police must do their own work in respect to apprehending the small fry.
My mistress’s interest lay with the cold-hearted man or men who remained in safety in the background, profiting by the recklessness of the young. But of course she always meant to get Falseface Petro and Tony Lanza; that she owed to herself.
My heart gave a great jump when I first saw these two enter the Boule’ Miche’. Now for the acid test of our disguise, I thought, glancing at my mistress and at my own reflection in the mirror.
We had been playing our roles for many days now, and they had become second nature to us; there was little likelihood that they would recognize us separately. True, for them to find us together added to the danger somewhat; but we were now in the midst of quite a large party, most of whom were known to Falseface and Tony as “safe”.
The two young men had been told all about us, and that is the secret of a successful disguise – i.e., to prepare in advance the minds of those whom you wish to deceive.
Jake brought them up to our table from behind me. I could feel them coming. My heart beat thickly as at the approach of a dangerous animal. Fortunately I was playing an insignificant role, and they scarcely deigned to notice me.
Little Tony was hailed by the crowd as a good fellow, while Falseface was greeted with more respect. The latter, though he was not now inaction, still maintained his pose of inscrutability.
He stood there with a good-humored sneer, as much as to say he would permit the ladies to admire him. And the worst of it was, you couldn’t help but admire him.
Conceited and empty as he was, there was power in his unnatural self-control. In that circle of grinning faces he never smiled.