Traffic In Souls Part 12

"Exactly," answered Bobbie, "and I want the chauffeur to have all his juice on--the engine cranked and ready for another Vanderbilt Cup Race." Bobbie gave the waiter one of his best smiles--behind that smile was a manful look, a kindliness of character and a great power of purpose, which rang true, even to this blase and cynical dispenser of the grape. The latter nodded and smiled, albeit flabbily, into the winsome eyes of the young officer.

"Ye're a reg'lar fellar, Mr. Green, I kin see that! Trust me to have a lightning conductor fer you--with his lamps lit and burning. These nighthawk taxis around here make most of their mazuma by this fly stuff--generally the souses ain't got enough left for a taxicab, and it's a waste o' time stickin' 'em up since the rubes are so easy with the taxi meter. But just look out for a little badger work on the chauffeur when ye git through with 'im."

Burke nodded. Then he added. "Just keep this to yourself, won't you?

There's nothing crooked about it--I'm trying to do some one a good turn. Tell them to keep the taxi ready, no matter how long it takes."

"Sure and I will, Mr. Green."

The waiter walked away toward the front door, where he carried out Burke's instructions, slipping the second bill into the willing hand of the starter.

As he came back he shrewdly studied the face of the young policeman who was quietly listening to the furious fusillade of the ragtime musicians.

"Well, that guy's not as green as he says his name is. He don't look like no crook, neither! I wonder what his stall is? Well, _I_ should worry!"

And he went his way rejoicing in the possession of that peace of mind which comes to some men who let neither the joys nor woes of others break through the armament of their own comfortable placidity. Every night of his life was crowded with curious, sad and ridiculous incidents; had he let them linger long in his mind his hand and temperament would have suffered a loss of acc.u.mulative skill. That would have spelled ruin, and this particular waiter, like so many of his flabby-faced brothers, was a shrewd tradesman--in the commodities of his discreetly elastic memory--and the even more valuable a.s.set, a talent for forgetting!

Burke was biding his time, and watching developments.

He saw the mealy-faced Baxter take Lorna out upon the dancing floor for the next dance. They swung into the rhythm of the dance with easy familiarity, which proved that the girl was no novice in this style of terpsich.o.r.ean enjoyment.

"She has been to other dances like this," muttered Bobbie as he watched with a strange loathing in his heart. "It's terrible to see the girls of a great modern city like New York entering publicly into a dance which I used to see on the Barbary Coast in 'Frisco. If they had seen it danced out there I don't believe they'd be so anxious to imitate it now."

Lorna and Baxter returned through the crowded merrymakers to their seats, and sat down at the table.

"You need another c.o.c.ktail," suggested Baxter, after sipping one himself and forgetting the need for reserve in his remarks. "You mustn't be a b.u.m sport at a dance like this, Miss Barton."

"Oh, Mr. Baxter, I don't dare go home with a breath like c.o.c.ktails.

You know Mary and I sleep together," objected Lorna.

"Don't worry about that, little girlie," said Baxter. "She won't mind it to-night."

To Burke's keen ears there was a shade of hidden menace in the words.

"Come on, now, just this one," said Baxter coaxingly. "It won't hurt.

There's always room for one more."

What a temptation it was for the muscular policeman to swing around and shake the miserable wretch as one would a cur!

But Bobbie had learned the value of controlling his temper; that is one of the first requisites of a policeman's as well as of an army man's life.

"Do you know, Mr. Baxter," said Lorna, after she had yielded to the insistence of her companion, "that c.o.c.ktail makes me a little dizzy. I guess it will take me a long while to get used to such drinks. You know, I've been brought up in an awfully old-fashioned way. My father would simply kill me if he thought I drank beer--and as for c.o.c.ktails and highb.a.l.l.s and horse's necks, and all those real drinks ... well, I hate to think of it. Ha! ha!"

And she laughed in a silly way which made Burke know that she was beginning to feel the effect.

"I wonder if I hadn't better a.s.sert myself right now?" he mused, pretending to eat a morsel. "It would cause a commotion, but it would teach her a lesson, and would teach her father to keep a closer watch."

Just then he heard his own name mentioned by the girl behind.

"Say, Mr. Baxter, you came just at the right time to-night. That Burke who was calling on father is a stupid policeman, whom he met in the hospital, and I was being treated to a regular sermon about life and wickedness and a lot of tiresome rot. I don't like policemen, do you?"

"I should say not!" was Baxter's heartfelt answer.

They were silent an instant.

"A policeman, you say, eh?"

"Yes; I certainly don't think he's fit to call on nice people. The next think we know father will have firemen and cab-drivers and street cleaners, I suppose. They're all in the same cla.s.s to me--just servants."

"What precinct did he come from?"

Baxter's tone was more earnest than it had been.

Burke's face reddened at the girl's slur, but he continued his waiting game.

"Precinct? What's that? I don't know where he came from. He's a New York policeman, that's all I found out. It didn't interest me, why should it you? Oh, Mr. Baxter, look at that beautiful willow plume on that girl's hat. She is a silly-looking girl, but that is a wonderful hat."

Baxter grunted and seemed lost in thought.

Burke espied Jimmie the Monk meandering through the tables, in company with a heavy, smooth-faced man whose eyes were directed from even that distance toward the table at which Lorna sat.

Burke wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, thus cutting off Jimmie's possible view of his features.

"Ah, Jimmie, back again. And I see you're with my old friend, Sam Shepard!"

Baxter rose to shake hands with the newcomer. He introduced him to Lorna, backing close against Burke's shoulder as he did so.

"This is my friend, Sam Shepard, the theatrical manager, Miss Lorna,"

began Baxter. "He's the man who can get you on the stage. You know I was telling you about him. This is Miss Barton, you've heard about, Sam. Sit down and tell her about your new comic opera that you're casting now."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "This is my friend, Sam Shepard, the theatrical manager, Miss Lorna. He's the man who can get you on the stage.]

As Shepard shook Lorna's hand, Jimmie leaned over toward Baxter's ear to whisper. They were not two feet from Burke's own ears, so he heard the message: "I've got de taxi ready. Now, make a good getaway to Reilly's house, Baxter."

"Say, Jimmie, just a minute," murmured Baxter. "This girl says a cop was up calling on her father. I met the guy. His name was Burke. Do you know him? Is he apt to queer anything?"

Jimmie the Monk started.

"Burke? What did he look like?"

"Oh, pretty slick-looking gink. Well set-up--looked like an army man, and gave me a hard stare when he lamped me. Had been in the hospital with the old fellow."

"Gee, dat's Burke, de guy dat's been after me, and I'm goin' ter do 'im. Is he b.u.t.tin' in on dis?"

"Yes; what about him? You're not scared of him, are you?"

"Naw; but he's a bad egg. Say, he's a rookie dat t'inks 'e kin clean up our gang. Now, you better dish dis job and let Shepard pull de trick. Take it from yer Uncle Jim!"

Every syllable was audible to Burke, but Lorna was exchanging pleasantries with Shepard, who had taken Baxter's seat.