Lefty Locke Pitcher-Manager Part 25

"And I see yours," countered Locke. "You think you're a clever crook.

You're merely an instrument in the hands of a bigger and cleverer scoundrel who doesn't care a rap what happens to you if he can put his own miserable scheme over. Your partnership with him will be your ruin, anyhow. If you had half the sense you think you possess, you'd break with him without losing any time."

"What are you talking about? I've only planned to do my best to save a team that has been raided by the Feds. You're killing the last chance for the Blue Stockings."

"Tell it to Sweeny!" exclaimed Lefty. "You're trying to deliver the team into the hands of Tom Garrity. Deny it if you wish, but it isn't necessary to lie. You've played Judas with Collier."

"Be careful! Better take that back!"

Lefty laughed. "I'm ready to add more to it. I haven't told you half what I know. If I were to do so, you'd realize what a dumb fool you have made of yourself. You think you're wise to all that was planned, but you've been let in on only a very little of it. You'll tear your hair when you get a squint at the foundation stone of this neat little conspiracy."

"I--I don't know what you mean."

"That's right, you don't; but you will know in time. You'll be kept in the dark as long as it suits Tom Garrity."

"What's Garrity got to do with it?"

Locke smiled on him pityingly. "Don't be childish, Weegman. That sort of a bluff is too thin. I was wise when I signed to manage the team."

In vain the man stormed, threatened, coaxed, cajoled; he could not bend Lefty in the least, and at last he realized that he had made a big blunder in estimating the character of the southpaw.

"So it's war between us, is it?" he finally asked.

"I have looked for nothing else," answered the pitcher.

Weegman snapped his fingers in Locke's face. "All right!" he cried.

"You would have it! Just you wait! You're going to regret it! We'll see how long you last!" And, turning round, he strode away, muttering to himself.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE JAWS OF THE TRAP

Lefty had defied Weegman. Henceforth it was to be open war, and he was glad of it. What the rascal would attempt to do he did not know, and cared less. It did not seem likely that he could do much, if anything, that he had not already made preparations to do. Of course, he might call Collier into the affair, and that, should it bring the owner of the Blue Stockings back to his own country, was something earnestly to be desired. Could he but get Collier in private for twenty minutes, Locke felt sure he could make him realize that he was the victim of a conspiracy, and that his trusted private secretary had sought to sell him out into the hands of a rival owner.

The telephone rang, and, thinking Stillman was calling at last, he hastened to answer. It was not the reporter's voice that he heard, but he was informed that some one was speaking from the office of the _Blade_, and that, after making a fruitless effort to get Locke on the wire, Stillman had found it necessary to hustle away to keep an important appointment.

"But where can I find him?" asked the disappointed pitcher. "How can I get hold of him?"

"He wants to talk to you as much as you do to him," was the answer.

"Said it was absolutely necessary. That's why he had me call you. Says he has something to tell you, personally and privately. He'll try to be at Mike's saloon, Thompson Street, near Broome, at three o'clock. If you get there first, wait for him. And don't fail to come, for he'll have important information. Got that straight?"

"Yes, but--"

"All right. I've done my duty. Good-by." There was a click, and the wire was silent.

Lefty looked at his watch as he left the phone. It was twenty-two minutes to three.

"Just about time enough to make it comfortably," he decided. "Stillman must be on the track of something."

The subway being convenient, he chose it instead of a taxi, getting off at Spring Street. Five minutes ahead of time, he found Mike's saloon, a somewhat disreputable-looking place when viewed from the exterior. The neighborhood, likewise, seemed sinister. However, a reporter's business, thought Locke, carried him into all sorts of places.

Within the saloon a single patron, who looked like a vagrant, was picking at the crumbs of a sickly free lunch in a dark corner. A husky-looking, red-headed bartender was removing an emptied beer schooner and mopping up the counter. He surveyed the southpaw from head to foot with apparent interest.

"I'm looking for a man named Stillman who made an appointment to meet me here at three," explained Lefty. "I was to wait for him if I got here first."

"Jack's here," stated the man behind the bar, in a manner that bespoke considerable familiarity with the reporter. "Came in three or four minutes ago. Reckon you're Lefty Locke?"

"That's right."

"He told me you might come round. He's in the back room. Walk right in." The speaker jerked a heavy thumb toward a closed door at the far end of the bar.

At the sound of Locke's name the vagrant, who had been picking at the free lunch, turned to look the famous pitcher over with apparent curiosity and interest.

"Lefty Locke," he mumbled huskily. "Lemme shake han's. Ruther shake han's with Lefty Locke than any man livin'."

Locke pushed past him and placed his hand on the k.n.o.b of the door. The fellow followed, insisting upon shaking hands, and, as Lefty opened the door, the vagrant staggered, lurched against the pitcher, and thrust him forward, the door closing behind him with the snap of a spring lock.

It is remarkable how seldom any one ever heeds premonitions. Even as he opened that door, Lefty was aware that ever since the telephone call had come to him some subtle intuition, thus far wholly disregarded, had been seeking to sound a warning. It had caused him to hesitate at last.

Too late! The push delivered by the vagrant had pitched him forward into the snare, while the sound of the clicking spring lock notified him that his retreat was cut off.

Through a dirty skylight above another door that probably opened upon a back alley some weak and sickly rays of daylight crept into the room. A single gas jet, suspended from the center of the cracked and smoky ceiling, gave a feeble, flickering light, filling the corners with fluttering shadows. The furniture in the room consisted of a table and a few chairs.

At the table three men were sitting, drinking and smoking. Locke, recovering from the push he had received, stepped back against the closed door, and looked at them.

"h.e.l.lo!" said Mit Skullen. "Don't hurry away, Lefty. Folks that come in by that door sometimes go out by the other one."

He was grinning viciously, triumphantly. The look upon his face was one of satisfaction and brutal antic.i.p.ation, and amply proclaimed his purpose.

Skullen's companions were tough characters, fit a.s.sociates and abettors of such a man. That they were thugs of the lowest type, who would not hesitate at any act of violence, there could be no question. One looked like a prize fighter who had gone to the bad, his drink-inflamed face and bleary eyes advertising the cause of his downfall. The other had the appearance of a "c.o.ke" fiend, and the criminally bent habitual user of that drug has neither scruples nor fear of consequences.

Locke regarded them in silence. His pulses were throbbing somewhat faster, yet he was cool and self-possessed, and his brain was keenly active. He knew precisely what he was up against. Slipping one hand behind him, he tried the k.n.o.b of the door; but, as he had expected, the door held fast.

Skullen continued to grin gloatingly, fancying that Locke's inactivity was evidence that he was practically paralyzed by amazement and fear.

"Your friend Stillman was too busy to come," he said, "and so I kept the appointment for him. Maybe I'll do just as well. Anyhow, I'll do--for you!"

He had risen to his feet, and the light of the flickering gas jet played over his evil face. Lefty flashed another look around, taking in the surroundings. To his ears came the distant, m.u.f.fled sound of an elevated train rumbling along the trestle. Behind him, in the front of the saloon, all was still. Probably the door leading to the street was now also locked to prevent any one from entering and hearing any disturbance that might take place in the back room. The jaws of the trap held him fast.

"Oh, it ain't any use to think about runnin' away, Lefty," croaked Mit. "Not a chance in the world. I fixed it so's we could have our little settlement without any one b.u.t.tin' in to bother us. You remember I told you I had a score to settle with you?"

As Locke spoke, his voice was calm and steady. "And you engaged a pair of worthy pals to a.s.sist you! You're a brave man, Skullen!"

"Aw, these lads are only here to see fair play, that's all. They won't mix in. They won't have to. Last time we met you reckoned you put it all over me, didn't you? Maybe I ought to thank you for keepin' me from gettin' a rotter on me hands, for that's what you got in Dummy Jones. You're welcome to that piece of cheese."

The southpaw made no retort. He was measuring his chances against all three of the ruffians, having no doubt that he must soon find himself pitted against such odds.