Jim Cummings; Or, The Great Adams Express Robbery Part 12

The saloon made a good post of observation, and Sam settled himself for an all-day patron if necessary. Taking a seat near the window, he called for a gla.s.s of beer, and tilting back his chair took a careful survey of the premises.

The alley was what is termed a "blind alley." On each side were low doors entering the bas.e.m.e.nts of the houses, and the population consisted of rag-pickers, second-hand clothiers and one p.a.w.nshop. It was just such a place as one would expect to meet the lowest types of humanity. Dirty children were playing in the half-deserted place, their blue lips and pinched faces speaking eloquently of their poverty.

Italian hand-organ grinders were sitting on their door-steps, and slatternly women were leaning from their windows, exchanging gossip in loud, shrill tones. Occasionally a man would walk hurriedly up the narrow walk, carrying a suspicious bundle, and eyeing nervously every person he might meet, dodging suddenly into some one of the doors. All this Sam saw, but his eyes seldom left the half-open door immediately opposite.

He had been at his post nearly an hour, smoking a cigar or supping his liquor, the bar-keeper not caring what his customer did or what he was, so long as he ordered and paid for an occasional drink, when there appeared at the door of the house which the detective was so closely watching a tall, dark-complexioned woman. Her eyes, strikingly brilliant, swept the place, but the shadows of the beer-cellar prevented her seeing the interested person who noted every movement she made. The woman, after gazing up and down the court, threw her shawl over her head, and with long, gliding steps, walked toward the street.

The bar-keeper who was standing beside Sam, as the female pa.s.sed down the court, said with an outward jerk of his thumb:

"Rum old gal that."

"Friend of yours?" lazily inquired the detective.

"Naw. I don't have nothin' to do with her, nor she with me. She's a fortune-teller, she is."

"One of them kind that lays out the cards, and spells out your fortune, eh?"

"I dunno. I never was in her den."

"Wonder if she could give me a luck charm?" asked Sam.

"If you've got the dust, she can make you anything. Them as lives around here says she's a witch. Maybe so. I think she's some cursed half-breed, myself. None too good now, I tell you."

"Lived here long?"

"Who? Me?"

"No, the woman."

"I've been here five years, and she was here before me."

"I suppose she has plenty of customers, eh?"

"You bet she has. The fool-killer ought to lay around here for a while.

There were two dandy blokes come out of there this morning."

Sam started, and inwardly cursed his stupidity in letting his game get away from him. The two men of which the bar-keeper spoke, were probably the very persons he wanted, so, in an indifferent tone, he inquired:

"What's her office hours?"

"Any time night or day I reckon. The two swells came out about 10, I guess. Maybe later."

"She don't throw on much style?"

"Don't she though. Silks ain't nothin' to her. She's a clipper when she agonizes."

Fearing, if he kept up the conversation much longer, that the bar-keeper would suspect his game, Sam called for another cigar, and picking up a deck of cards which lay on the table, suggested a game of "seven up." The bar-keeper seated himself with his back to the window, Sam still holding his post of survey.

The game was only just begun, when the fortune-teller, carrying a small bottle, apparently of medicine, returned and entered the door.

Sam's interest in the game died out shortly after, and patrons beginning to appear, the bar-keeper took his accustomed place behind the bar.

The room gradually filled up, and taking advantage of a little crowd near the door, Sam quietly slipped through the door and walked straight across to the fortune-teller's house.

As he entered, the inner door was opened and the dark woman herself appeared.

With inimitable a.s.surance the detective removed his hat and advanced toward her.

Drawing herself up to her full height, the sibyl in a deep, solemn voice said:

"What brings you here?"

"I'm in hard luck. Got scooped up to the White Elephant and want you to give me a luck charm."

The eyes of the hag glittered greedily as Sam held out a five-dollar bill, and throwing the door wide open she bade him enter.

As Sam did so his experienced eye took in the whole room, the skull, charts, bottles and even the cards did not escape his gaze.

Nance pushed forward a chair, and telling him under pain of breaking the spell not to utter a word, she retired behind the curtain.

Left alone Sam took a more deliberate survey of the apartment and could hardly repress an exclamation of satisfaction as he saw lying on the floor the old slouch hat which Chip had worn the preceding day. His face, however, showed nothing as Nance reappeared bearing in one hand a peculiar lamp, scrolled and formed in a fanciful pattern and in the other a large book bound in parchment, covered with hieroglyphics.

Putting the lamp on the table she extinguished the gas, and the pale-blue flame of the alcohol in the lamp cast its ghastly beams over the strange place.

Muttering rapidly to herself she threw powder on the flame, causing a green flash to appear each time, with her eyes fastened on the open pages of the book.

Amused at the hollow fraud, Sam looked on, very much interested and racking his brain to devise some means of gaining a further entrance to the house. From its outside appearance he knew he must be in one of the rear rooms, and if Chip was not behind the curtain he must be in an upper story. While he was thus occupied the fortune-teller had finished her incantations, and, taking from a drawer a small amulet sewed in oil skin, handed it to the detective.

"Take this, my son--the stars are auspicious. It will bring you and keep near you good luck and high fortune. Now, depart in peace, for I am weary and would fain seek rest."

His answer surprised her, for, rising abruptly, he struck a match, and, lighting the gas jet, pushed aside the curtains.

With a scream of rage, Nance sprang forward.

"Go but another step, and I'll tear your heart out!"

Disregarding her, the detective pushed forward and threw open the door leading to the ascending stairs.

In a trice he had mounted them and turning to the right, entered a room. His astonishment was so great that he half stopped, for the apartment was furnished in almost regal style; richly-upholstered furniture and oil paintings contrasted so vividly with the squalor and misery of the lower part of the house that the audacious detective could scarcely believe his senses.

A smothered cry of rage and terror behind him warned him, and turning swiftly he beheld Nance, with wild eyes and disheveled hair, springing toward him. In her uplifted hand gleamed the glittering blade of a stilletto, and like a fury she rushed upon the bold intruder.

The trained hand flew to the pocket and the ready revolver leaped forth.

Nance staggered back, the dagger falling from her nerveless hand, as in abject terror she crouched on a chair.

"Don't shoot! don't shoot! See, I won't hurt you," she moaned.

Grasping her by the wrist, and pressing the revolver to her head, Sam said, sternly, and in a voice that would brook no delay:

"What have you done with the man brought here last night?"