Final Proof Part 16

The gentlemanly dispenser of liquid refreshment, whose constant boast was that he knew how to manufacture over three hundred different mixed drinks without using any intoxicant, stood beside the mahogany counter, polishing up the gla.s.ses, which he piled in an imposing pyramid on the shelf at the back, where the display was made doubly attractive by the plate mirror behind. His hair was scrupulously brushed and his short white coat was immaculately clean. Fortunately there was no one else in the place, so that the detective was afforded a good opportunity for free conversation. He asked for a Manhattan c.o.c.ktail, and admired the dexterity with which the man prepared the drink. Raising it to his lips and tasting it as a connoisseur might, Mr. Barnes said:

"Could not be better at the Waldorf."

"Oh, I don't know," said the fellow, deprecatingly, but pleased at the implied compliment.

"Your face is very familiar to me," said Mr. Barnes; "have you ever met me before?"

"Never in my life," said the bartender, without the slightest change of expression.

"That's odd," said Mr. Barnes, pursuing the point with a purpose; "I am pretty good at faces. I seldom forget one, and just as seldom make a mistake. I would almost swear I have seen you before."

"I was tending bar at the Astor House for two years. Perhaps you saw me there," suggested the man.

"Ah, that is it," said Mr. Barnes, pretending to accept this explanation; "I often take my luncheon there. By the way, I suppose you are pretty well acquainted around the neighborhood?"

"Oh, I know a few people," said the man, cautiously.

"You know Tommy White, of course?"

"Do I?"

"Don't you?"

"I might, without knowing his name. Our customers don't all leave their cards when they buy a drink. I don't know your name, for instance."

"Yes, but I do not live in the neighborhood. White must come here often."

"Well, he hasn't been in lately," said the bartender, and then stopped short as he noted the slip that he had made. The detective did not choose to appear to notice it, but asked:

"That is the point. Isn't it odd that he should have disappeared?"

"Oh, I don't know. A man can go out of town if he wants to, I guess."

"Do you know that White went out of town?"

"No."

"Have you seen Tommy White since Jerry Morgan skipped?"

"See here! what the devil are you asking me all these questions for? Who are you, anyway, and what are you after?"

"I am Jack Barnes, detective, but I'm not after you, Joe Allen, alias Fred Martin, alias Jimmy Smith, alias Bowery Bill, alias the Plug."

This sally left the man stolidly unmoved, but it affected his att.i.tude towards his questioner, nevertheless, as he sullenly answered:

"There's nothing you can get against me, so I don't scare even if you know me. If you don't want me, what do you want?"

"Look here, Joe," said Mr. Barnes, in friendly, confidential tones, "a bluff does not go with me, and you know it never did. Now why did you not acknowledge that you knew me when I first came in?"

"What's the use of courtin' trouble? I wasn't sure you'd remember my face. It's quite a time since we met."

"True. It is five years since that Bond Street affair, and you got three years for that, if I remember rightly."

"Well, I served my time, didn't I? So that's ended, ain't it?"

"Yes. But what about that little business of the postage-stamp robbery out in Trenton?"

"Why, I didn't have no hand in that."

"Well, two of your pals did, and when they were caught and sent up they were square enough not to peach on you. The Mulberry Street crowd did not know how thick you were with those boys, or you might have got into trouble. But I knew, and you know that I knew."

"Well, what if you did? I tell you I wasn't in that."

"You would not like to be obliged to prove where you were that night, would you?"

"Oh, I suppose it's always hard to prove I was one place, when fellows like you go on the stand and swear I was somewhere else. So, as I said before, what's the use of courtin' trouble?"

"Now you are sensible, and as I said, I am not after you. All I want is some information. Give me another c.o.c.ktail, and have one yourself."

"Thanks, I will. Go ahead with your catechism; I'll answer so long as you don't try to make me squeal on any of my friends. I'd go up before I'd do that. And you know that."

"That's all right. I know you're square, and that is why I feel sure you would not be mixed up in a murder."

"Murder?"

This time the fellow was frightened. How could he be sure that this detective was not trying to entrap him? How could he know positively that he had not been accused by some pal who wished to shift responsibility from himself to another? This is the Damocles sword that ever hangs over the head of the wrong-doer. His most chosen companions may either tell of what he has done, or accuse him of crime which he has not committed.

"I am afraid so. But what are you worrying over? Did I not tell you that you are not in it? Listen to me, Joe. This Jerry Morgan has skipped out of town, and it looks as though he took Tommy White's girl Nellie with him. Now, where is Tommy White?"

"I don't know a thing. I swear I don't."

"Yes, you do. You do not know what has become of him, but you know something. Morgan isn't any pal of yours, is he?"

"No."

"Very well. Then why not tell me what you know? If he has done anything to White, he ought not to go free, ought he? You do not stand in with murder, do you?"

"No, I don't. But how do I know there's been any murder?"

"You don't know it, but since I suggested it to you, you think so. I see that in your face. Now, what do you know?"

"Well, I don't know much, but what I know I don't want used to make another fellow go to the chair."

"That is no affair of yours. You are not responsible for what the law does. Come, I have no more time to waste. Tell me what you know, or say right out that you will not. Then I will know what to do."

The implied threat decided the man, and without further attempt at evasion he said:

"Well, I suppose there ain't any use my runnin' any risk for a man that's nothin' to me. It's this way: Morgan's an old-time crook--I suppose you know that?" Mr. Barnes nodded, although this was news to him. Allen continued: "He's been at it since he was a kid. Was in the reformatory, and learned more there about crooked work in a year than he would have picked up in ten outside. He's never done time, though, since he graduated from that inst.i.tution. Learned enough, I guess, to keep out of sight of your crowd. Two years ago he moved into this neighborhood and since then I've seen him in here a good deal. He took up with Tommy White--a young fellow that would have lived straight only he was in bad company, and was railroaded with a gang for a job he really had no hand in. That settled him. When he came out of Sing Sing he wasn't likely to go for a straight job at a dollar a day, when he could lay around idle and pick up a good thing every now and then that would keep him going. I guess he and Morgan done a good many jobs together; anyway, they never was short of money. One thing was funny about those two--n.o.body ever seen them in the daytime. They used to say they was 'workin',' but that didn't go with the crowd that hangs out here. Neither Morgan nor White would work if they could help it. They was just like brothers, those two, till White took up with this girl Nellie. I think Morgan was jealous of his luck from the first, 'cause the girl is a peach. One of your real blondes, without no bleachin'