The Big-Town Round-Up

by Raine, William MacLeod

  "Then didn't you see him at all?"

  There was another pause, significant and telling, followed by a quavering "No-o."

  "Clary, I want to see you—right away."

  "I'm ill, I tell you—can't leave my bed." He gave a groan too genuine to doubt.

  Beatrice hung up the receiver. Her eyes sparked. For all her slimness, she looked both competent and dangerous.

  "What does he say?" her father asked.

  "Says he didn't meet Clay at all—that he didn't show up. Dad, there's something wrong about it. Clary's in a panic about something. I'm going to see him, no matter whether he can leave his room or not."

  Whitford looked dubious. "I don't see—"

  "Well, I do," his daughter cut him off decisively. "We're going to his rooms—now. Why not? He says he's ill. All right. I'm engaged to be married to him and I've a right to see how ill he is."

  "What's in your noodle, honey? You've got some kind of a suspicion.

  What is it?"

  "I think Clary knows something. My notion is that he was at Maddock's and that he's in a blue funk for fear he'll be found and named as an accessory. I'm going to find out all he can tell me."

  "But—"

  She looked at her father directly, a deep meaning in the lovely eyes.

  A little tremor ran through her body. "Dad, I'm going to save Clay.

  That's the only thing that counts."

  Her words were an appeal, a challenge. They told him that her heart belonged to the friend in prison, and they carried him back somehow to the hour when the nurse first laid her, a tiny baby, in his arms.

  His heart was very tender to her. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

  CHAPTER XXX

  BEE MAKES A MORNING CALL

  Their chauffeur broke the speed laws getting them to the apartment house for bachelors where Bromfield lived.

  His valet for once was caught off guard when he opened the door to them. Beatrice was inside before he could quite make up his mind how best to meet this frontal attack.

  "We came to see Mr. Bromfield," she said.

  "Sorry, Miss. He's really quite ill. The doctor says—"

  "I'm Miss Whitford. We're engaged to be married. It's very important that I see him."

  "Yes, Miss, I know."

  The man was perfectly well aware that his master wanted of all things to avoid a meeting with her. For some reason or other, Bromfield was in a state of collapse this morning the valet could not understand. The man's business was to protect him until he had recovered. But he could not flatly turn his master's fiancée out of the apartment. His eye turned to Whitford and found no help there. He fell back on the usual device of servants.

  "I don't really think he can see you, Miss. The doctor has specially told me to guard against any excitement. But I'll ask Mr. Bromfield if—if he feels up to it."

  The valet passed into what was evidently a bedroom and closed the door behind him. There was a faint murmur of voices.

  "I'm going in now," Beatrice announced abruptly to her father.

  She moved forward quickly, before Whitford could stop her, whipped open the door, and stepped into the room. Her father followed her reluctantly.

  Clarendon, in a frogged dressing-gown, lay propped up by pillows. Beside the bed was a tray, upon which was a decanter of whiskey and a siphon of soda. His figure seemed to have fallen together and his seamed face was that of an old man. But it was the eyes that held her. They were full of stark terror. The look in them took the girl's breath. They told her that he had undergone some great shock.

  He shivered at sight of her.

  "What is it, Clary?" she cried, moving toward him. "Tell me—tell me all about it."

  "I—I'm ill." He quaked it from a burning throat.

  "You were all right, yesterday. Why are you ill now?"

  He groaned unhappily.

  "You're going to tell me everything—everything."

  His fascinated, frightened eyes clung to this straight, slim girl whose look stabbed into him and shook his soul. Why had she come to trouble him this morning while he was cowering in fear of the men who would break in to drag him away to prison?

  "Nothing to tell," he got out with a gulp.

  "Oh, yes, you have. Are you ill because of what happened at Maddock's?"

  He tried to pull himself together, to stop the chattering of his teeth.

  "N-nonsense, my dear. I'm done up completely. Delighted to see you and all that, but—Won't you go home?" His appealing eyes passed to Whitford. "Can't you take her away?"

  "No, I won't go home—and he can't take me away." Her resolution was hard as steel. It seemed to crowd inexorably upon the shivering wretch in the frogged gown. "What is it you're so afraid to tell me, Clarendon?"

  He quailed at her thrust. "What—what do you mean?"

  She knew now, beyond any question or doubt, that he had been present when "Slim" Jim Collins had been killed. He had seen a man's life snuffed out, was still trembling for fear he might be called in as a party to the crime.

  "You'd better tell me before it's too late. How did you and Clay

  Lindsay come to go to that den?"

  "We went out to—to see the town."

  "But why to that place? Are you in the habit of going there?"

  He shuddered. "Never was there before. I had a card. Some one gave it to me. So we went in for a few minutes—to see what it was like. The police raided the place." He dropped his sentences reluctantly, as though they were being forced from him in pain.

  "Well?"

  "Everybody tried to escape. The lights went out. I found a back door and got away. Then I came home."

  "What about Clay?"

  Bromfield told the truth. "I didn't see him after the lights went out, except for a moment. He was running at the man with the gun."

  "You saw the gun?"

  He nodded, moistened his dry lips with the tip of his tongue.

  "And the—the shooting? Did you see that?"

  Twice the words he tried to say faded on his lips. At last he managed a "No."

  "Why not?"

  "I—found a door and escaped."

  "You must have heard shooting."

  "I heard shots as I ran down the stairs. This morning I read that—that a man was—" He swallowed down a lump and left the sentence unfinished.

  "Then you know that Clay is accused of killing this man, and that the police are looking for you because you were with him."

  "Yes." His answer was a dry whisper.

  "Did you see this man Collins in the room?"

  "No. I shouldn't know him if I saw him."

  "But you heard shots. You're sure of that!" cried Beatrice.

  "Y-yes."

  The girl turned triumphantly to her father. "He saw the gun and he heard shots. That proves self-defense at the worst. They were shooting at Clay when he struck with the chair—if he did. Clarendon's testimony will show that."

  "My testimony!" screamed Bromfield. "My God, do you think I'm going to—to—go into court? They would claim I—I was—"

  She waited, but he did not finish. "Clay's life may depend upon it, and of course you'll tell the truth," she said quietly.

  "Maybe I didn't hear shots," he hedged. "Maybe it was furniture falling. There was a lot of noise of people stamping and fighting."

  "You—heard—shots."

  The eyes of the girl were deadly weapons. They glittered like unscabbarded steel. In them was a contained fire that awed him.

  He threw out his hand in a weak, impotent gesture of despair. "My God, how did I ever come to get into such a mix-up? It will ruin me."

  "How did you come to go?" she asked.

  "He wanted to see New York. I suppose I had some notion of taking him slumming."

  Beatrice went up to him and looked straight into his eyes. "Then testify to that in court. It won't hurt you any. Go down to the police and say you have read in the paper that they want you. Tell the whole truth. And Clary—don
't weaken. Stick to your story about the shots." Her voice shook a little. "Clay's life is at stake. Remember that."

  "Do you think it would be safe to go to the police?" he asked doubtfully.

  Whitford spoke up. "That's the only square and safe thing to do, Bromfield. They'll find out who you are, of course. If you go straight to them you draw the sting from their charge that you were an accomplice of Clay. Don't lose your nerve. You'll go through with flying colors. When a man has done nothing wrong he needn't be afraid."

  "I dare say you're right," agreed Bromfield miserably.

  The trouble was that Whitford was arguing from false premises. He was assuming that Clarendon was an innocent man, whereas the clubman knew just how guilty he was. Back of the killing lay a conspiracy which might come to light during the investigation. He dared not face the police. His conscience was not clean enough.

  "Of course Dad's right. It's the only way to save your reputation," Beatrice cried. "I'm not going to leave you till you promise to go straight down there to headquarters. If you don't you'll be smirched for life—and you'd be doing something absolutely dishonorable."

  He came to time with a heart of heavy dread. "All right, Bee. I'll go," he promised. "It's an awful mess, but I've got to go through with it, I suppose."

  "Of course you have," she said with complete conviction. "You're not a quitter, and you can't hide here like a criminal."

  "We'll have to be moving, Bee," her father reminded her. "You know we have an appointment to meet the district attorney."

  Beatrice nodded. With a queer feeling of repulsion she patted her fiancé's cheek with her soft hand and whispered a word of comfort to him.

  "Buck up, old boy. It won't be half as bad as you think. Nobody is going to blame you."

  They were shown out by the valet.

  "You don't want to be hard on Bromfield, honey," Whitford told his daughter after they had reëntered their car. "He's a parlor man. That's the way he's been brought up. Never did a hard day's work in his life. Everything made easy for him. If he'd ever ridden out a blizzard like Clay or stuck it out in a mine for a week without food after a cave-in, he wouldn't balk on the job before him. But he's soft. And he's afraid of his reputation. That's natural, I suppose."

  Beatrice knew he was talking to save her feelings. "You don't need to make excuses for him, Dad," she answered gently, with a wry smile. "I've got to give up. I don't think I can go through with it."

  "You mean—marry him?"

  "Yes." She added, with a flare of passionate scorn of herself: "I deserve what I've got. I knew all the time I didn't love him. It was sheer selfishness in me to accept him. I wanted what he had to give me."

  Her father drew a deep breath of relief. "I'm glad you see that, Bee. I don't think he's good enough for you. But I don't know anybody that is, come to that."

  "That's just your partiality. I'm a mean little bounder or I never should have led him on," the girl answered in frank disgust.

  Both of them felt smirched. The behavior of Bromfield had been a reflection on them. They had picked him for a thoroughbred, and he had failed them at the first test.

  "Well, I haven't been proud of you in that affair," conceded Colin.

  "It didn't seem like my girl to—"

  He broke off in characteristic fashion to berate her environment. "It's this crazy town. The spirit of it gets into a person and he accepts its standards. Let's get away from here for a while, sweetheart."

  "After Clay is out of trouble, Dad, I'll go with you back to Denver or to Europe or anywhere you say."

  "That's a deal," he told her promptly. "We'll stay till after the annual election of the company and then go off on a honeymoon together, Bee."

  CHAPTER XXXI

  INTO THE HANDS OF HIS ENEMY

  Durand waited alone for word to be flashed him that the debt he owed Clay Lindsay had been settled in full. A telephone lay on the desk close at hand and beside it was a watch. The second-hand ticked its way jerkily round and round the circle. Except for that the stillness weighed on him unbearably. He paced up and down the room chewing nervously the end of an unlit cigar. For the good tidings which he was anxious to hear was news of the death of the strong young enemy who had beaten him at every turn.

  Why didn't Collins get to the telephone? Was it possible that there had been a slip-up, that Lindsay had again broken through the trap set for him? Had "Slim's" nerve failed him? Or had Bromfield been unable to bring the victim to the slaughter?

  His mind went over the details again. The thing had been well planned even to the unguarded door through which Collins was to escape. In the darkness "Slim" could do the job, make his getaway along with Dave, and be safe from any chance of identification. Bromfield, to save his own hide, would keep still. If he didn't, Durand was prepared to shift the murder upon his shoulders.

  The minute-hand of the watch passed down from the quarter to the half and from the half to the three quarters. Still the telephone bell did not ring. The gang leader began to sweat blood. Had some one bungled after all the care with which he had laid his plans?

  A door slammed below. Hurried footsteps sounded on the stair treads.

  Into the room burst a man.

  "'Slim' 's been croaked," he blurted.

  "What!" Durand's eyes dilated.

  "At Maddock's."

  "Who did it?"

  "De guy he was to gun."

  "Lindsay."

  "Dat's de fellow."

  "Did the bulls get Lindsay?"

  "Pinched him right on de spot."

  "Gun 'Slim,' did he?"

  "Nope. Knocked him cold wit' a chair. Cracked his skull."

  "Is he dead?"

  "He'll never be deader. Dave grabbed this sucker Lindsay and yelled that he done it. The bulls pinched him like I said right there."

  "Did it happen in the dark?"

  "Sure as you're a foot high. My job was dousin' the glims, and I done it right."

  "What about 'Slim'? Was he shooting when he got it?"

  The other man shook his head. "This Lindsay man claims he was. I talked wit' a bull afterward. Dey didn't find no gun on 'Slim.' The bull says there was no gun-play."

  "What became of 'Slim's' gun?"

  "Search me."

  Durand slammed a big fist exultantly down on the desk. "Better than the way I planned it. If the gun's gone, I'll frame Lindsay for the chair. It's Salt Creek for his."

  He lost no time in getting into touch with Gorilla Dave, who was under arrest at the station house. From him he learned the story of the killing of Collins. One whispered detail of it filled him with malicious glee.

  "The boob! He'll go to the death chair sure if I can frame him. We're lucky Bromfield ran back into the little room. Up in front a dozen guys might have seen the whole play even in the dark."

  Durand spent the night strengthening the web he had spun to destroy his enemy. He passed to and fro among those who had been arrested in the raid and he arranged the testimony of some of them to suit his case. More than one of the men caught in the dragnet of the police was willing to see the affray from the proper angle in exchange for protection from prosecution.

  After breakfast Durand went to the Tombs, where Clay had been transferred at daybreak.

  "You needn't bring the fellow here," he told the warden. "I'll go right to his cage and see him. I wantta have a talk with him."

  CHAPTER XXXII

  MR. LINDSAY RECEIVES

  Between two guards Clay climbed the iron steps to an upper tier of cages at the Tombs. He was put into a cell which held two beds, one above the other, as in the cabin of an ocean liner. By the side of the bunks was a narrow space just long enough for a man to take two steps in the same direction.

  An unshaven head was lifted in the lower bunk to see why the sleep of its owner was being disturbed.

  "I've brought you a cell mate, Shiny," explained one of the guards.

  "You want to be civil to him. He's just croaked a friend of yo
urs."

  "For de love o' Gawd. Who did he croak?"

  "'Slim' Jim Collins. Cracked him one on the bean and that was a-plenty. Hope you'll enjoy each other's society, gents." The guard closed the door and departed.

  "Is that right? Did youse do up 'Slim,' or was he kiddin' me?"

  "I don't reckon we'll discuss that subject," said Clay blandly, but with a note of finality in his voice.

  "No offense, boss. It's an honor to have so distinguished a gent for a cell pal. For that matter I ain't no cheap rat myself. Dey pinched me for shovin' de queer. I'd ought to get fifteen years," he said proudly.

  This drew a grin from Lindsay, though not exactly a merry one. "If you're anxious for a long term you can have some of mine," he told the counterfeiter.

  "Maybe youse'll go up Salt Creek," said Shiny hopefully.

  Afraid the allusion might not be understood, he thoughtfully explained that this was the underworld term for the electric chair.

  Clay made no further comment. He found the theme a gruesome one.

  "Anyhow, I'm glad dey didn't put no hoister nor damper-getter wit' me. I'm partickler who I meet. De whole profesh is gettin' run down at de heel. I'm dead sick of rats who can't do nothin' but lift pokes," concluded the occupant of the lower berth with disgust.

  Though Clay's nerves were of the best he did very little sleeping that night. He was in a grave situation. Even if he had a fair field his plight would be serious enough. But he guessed that during the long hours of darkness Durand was busy weaving a net of false evidence from which he could scarcely disentangle himself. Unless Bromfield came forward at once as a witness for him, his case would be hopeless—and Clay suspected that the clubman would prove only a broken reed as a support. The fellow was selfish to the core. He had not, in the telling Western phrase, the guts to go through. He would take the line of least resistance.

  Beatrice was in his thoughts a great deal. What would she think of him when the news came that he was a murderer, caught by the police in a den of vice where he had no business to be? Some deep instinct of his soul told him that she would brush through the evidence to the essential truth. She had failed him once. She would never do it again. He felt sure of that.