The Day of Days Part 18

"I have every confidence in your professional honour," P. Sybarite replied blandly, "up to the certain point to which we have attained to-night. But the truth is--I need the money."

"You're unwise," said the other, and sighed profoundly. "I'm sorry.

You oblige me to go the extreme limit."

"Not I. On the contrary, I advise you against any such dangerous course."

"Dangerous?"

"If you interfere with me, I'll go to the police."

"The police?" Penfield elaborated an inflexion of derision. "I keep this precinct in my vest pocket."

"Possibly--so far as concerns your maintenance of a gambling house.

But murder--that's another matter."

"Meaning, you refuse to submit without extreme measures?"

"Meaning just that, sir!"

Again the gambler sighed. "What must be, must," said he, rising.

Moving to the wall, he pressed a call-b.u.t.ton, and simultaneously whipped a revolver into view. "I hope you're not armed," he protested sincerely. "It would only make things messy. And then I hate to have my employees run any risk--"

"You are summoning a posse, I take it?" enquired P. Sybarite, likewise on his feet.

"Half a dozen huskies," a.s.sented the other. "If you know your little book, you'll come through at once and save yourself a manhandling."

"It's too bad," P. Sybarite regretted pensively--and cast a desperate glance round the room.

What he saw afforded him no comfort. The one door was unquestionably guarded on the farther side. The windows, though curtained, were as indubitably locked and further protected by steel outside blinds.

Besides, Penfield bulked big and near at hand, a weapon of the most deadly calibre steadily levelled at the head of his guest.

But exactly at the moment when despair entered into the heart of the little man--dispossessing altogether his cool a.s.sumption of confidence in his star--there rang through the house a crash so heavy that its m.u.f.fled thunder penetrated even the closed door of the lounge. Another followed it instantly, and at deliberate intervals a third and fourth.

Penfield blenched. His eyes wavered. He punched the bell-b.u.t.ton a second time.

The door was thrown wide and--with the instantaneous effect of a jack-in-the-box--Pete showed a dirty-grey face of fright on the threshold.

"Good Lord, boss!" he yelled. "Run for yo' life! We's raided!"

He vanished....

With an oath, Penfield started toward the door--and instantly P.

Sybarite shot at his gun hand like a terrier at the throat of a rat.

Momentarily the shock of the a.s.sault staggered the gambler, and as he gave ground, reeling, P. Sybarite closed one set of sinewy fingers tight round his right wrist, and with the other seized and wrested the revolver away. The incident was history in a twinkling: P. Sybarite sprang back, armed, the situation reversed.

Recovering, Penfield threw him a cry of envenomed spite, and in one stride left the room. He was turning up the stairs, three steps and an oath at a bound, by the time P. Sybarite gained the threshold and sped his departing host with a reminder superfluously ironic:

"The Bizarre at seven--don't forget!"

A breathless imprecation dropped to him from the head of the staircase. And he chuckled--but cut the chuckle short when a heavy and metallic clang followed the disappearance of the gambler. The iron door upstairs had closed, shutting off the second floor from the lower part of the house, and at the same time consigning P. Sybarite to the mercies of the police as soon as they succeeded in battering down the front door.

Now he harboured no whim to figure as the sole victim of the raid--to be arrested as a common gambler, loaded to the guards with cash and unable to give any creditable account of himself.

"d.a.m.n!" said P. Sybarite thoughtfully.

The front doors still held, though shaking beneath a shower of axe-strokes that filled the house with sonorous echoes.

At his feet, immediately to the left of the lounge door, yawned the well of the bas.e.m.e.nt stairway. And one chance was no more foolhardy than another. Like a shot down that dark hole he dropped--and brought up with a bang against a closed door at the bottom. Happily, it wasn't locked. Turning the handle, he stumbled through, reclosed the door, and intelligently bolted it.

He was now in a narrow and odorous corridor, running from front to rear of the bas.e.m.e.nt. One or two doors open or ajar furnished all its light. Trying the first at a venture, P. Sybarite discovered what seemed a servant's bedroom, untenanted. The other introduced him to a kitchen of generous proportions and elaborate appointments--cool, airy, and aglow with glistening white paint and electric light; everything in absolute order with the exception of the central table, where sat a man asleep, head pillowed on arms folded amid a disorder of plates, bottles and gla.s.ses--asleep and snoring l.u.s.tily.

P. Sybarite pulled up with a hand on the k.n.o.b, and blinked with surprise--an emotion that would a.s.suredly have been downright dismay had the sleeper been conscious. For he was in uniform; and a cap hung on the back of his chair; and uniform and cap alike boasted the insignia of the New York Police Department.

Wrinkling a perplexed nose, P. Sybarite swiftly considered the situation. Here was the policeman on the beat--one of those creatures of Penfield's vaunted vest-pocket crew--invited in for a bite and sup by the steward of the house. The steward called away, he had drifted naturally into a gentle nap. And now--"Glad I'm not in _his_ shoes!"

mused P. Sybarite.

And yet.... Urgent second thought changed the tenor of his temper toward the sleeper. Better far to be in his shoes than in those of P.

Sybarite, just then....

Remembering Penfield's revolver, he made sure it was safe and handy in his pocket; then strode in and dropped an imperative hand on the policeman's shoulder.

"Here--wake up!" he cried; and shook him rudely.

The fellow stirred, grunted, and lifted a bemused, red countenance to the breaker of rest.

"h.e.l.lo!" he said in dull perception of a stranger. "What's--row?"

"Get up--pull yourself together!" P. Sybarite ordered sternly. "You 're liable to be broke for this!"

"Broke?" The officer's eyes widened, but remained cloudy with sleep, drink, and normal confusion. "Where's Jimmy? Who're you?"

"Never mind me. Look to yourself. This place is being raided."

"Raided!" The man leaped to his feet with a cry. "G'wan! It ain't possible!"

"Listen, if you don't believe me."

The crashing of the axes and the grumble of the curious crowd a.s.sembled in the street were distinctly audible. The officer needed no other confirmation; and yet--instant by instant it became more clearly apparent that he had drunk too deeply to be able to think for himself.

Standing with a hand on the table, he rocked to and fro until, losing his balance, he sat down heavily.

"My Gawd!" he cried. "I'm done for!"

"Nonsense! No more than I--unless you're too big a fool to take a word of advice. Here--off with your coat."

"What's that?"

"I say, off with your coat, man--and look sharp! Get it off and I'll hide it while you slip into one of those waiter's jackets over there.

Then, if they find us here, we can pretend to be employees. You understand?"