Intrusion of Jimmy Page 10

  said Molly.

  Mr. McEachern was momentarily silent. On his native asphalt, there

  are few situations capable of throwing the New York policeman off

  his balance. In that favored clime, savoir faire is represented by a

  shrewd blow of the fist, and a masterful stroke with the truncheon

  amounts to a satisfactory repartee. Thus shall you never take the

  policeman of Manhattan without his answer. In other surroundings,

  Mr. McEachern would have known how to deal with the young man whom

  with such good reason he believed to be an expert criminal. But

  another plan of action was needed here. First and foremost, of all

  the hints on etiquette that he had imbibed since he entered this

  more reposeful life, came the maxim: "Never make a scene." Scenes,

  he had gathered, were of all things what polite society most

  resolutely abhorred. The natural man in him must be bound in chains.

  The sturdy blow must give way to the honeyed word. A cold, "Really!"

  was the most vigorous retort that the best circles would

  countenance. It had cost Mr. McEachern some pains to learn this

  lesson, but he had done it. He shook hands, and gruffly acknowledged

  the acquaintanceship.

  "Really, really!" chirped Sir Thomas, amiably. "So, you find

  yourself among old friends, Mr. Pitt."

  "Old friends," echoed Jimmy, painfully conscious of the ex-

  policeman's eyes, which were boring holes in him.

  "Excellent, excellent! Let me take you to your room. It is just

  opposite my own. This way."

  In his younger days, Sir Thomas had been a floor-walker of no mean

  caliber. A touch of the professional still lingered in his brisk

  movements. He preceded Jimmy upstairs with the restrained suavity

  that can be learned in no other school.

  They parted from Mr. McEachern on the first landing, but Jimmy could

  still feel those eyes. The policeman's stare had been of the sort

  that turns corners, goes upstairs, and pierces walls.

  CHAPTER XIII

  SPIKE'S VIEWS

  Nevertheless, it was in an exalted frame of mind that Jimmy dressed

  for dinner. It seemed to him that he had awakened from a sort of

  stupor. Life, so gray yesterday, now appeared full of color and

  possibilities. Most men who either from choice or necessity have

  knocked about the world for any length of time are more or less

  fatalists. Jimmy was an optimistic fatalist. He had always looked on

  Fate, not as a blind dispenser at random of gifts good and bad, but

  rather as a benevolent being with a pleasing bias in his own favor.

  He had almost a Napoleonic faith in his star. At various periods of

  his life (notably at the time when, as he had told Lord Dreever, he

  had breakfasted on bird-seed), he had been in uncommonly tight

  corners, but his luck had always extricated him. It struck him that

  it would be an unthinkable piece of bad sportsmanship on Fate's part

  to see him through so much, and then to abandon him just as he had

  arrived in sight of what was by far the biggest thing of his life.

  Of course, his view of what constituted the biggest thing in life

  had changed with the years. Every ridge of the Hill of Supreme

  Moments in turn had been mistaken by him for the summit; but this

  last, he felt instinctively, was genuine. For good or bad, Molly was

  woven into the texture of his life. In the stormy period of the

  early twenties, he had thought the same of other girls, who were now

  mere memories as dim as those of figures in a half-forgotten play.

  In their case, his convalescence had been temporarily painful, but

  brief. Force of will and an active life had worked the cure. He had

  merely braced himself, and firmly ejected them from his mind. A week

  or two of aching emptiness, and his heart had been once more in

  readiness, all nicely swept and garnished, for the next lodger.

  But, in the case of Molly, it was different. He had passed the age

  of instantaneous susceptibility. Like a landlord who has been

  cheated by previous tenants, he had become wary. He mistrusted his

  powers of recuperation in case of disaster. The will in these

  matters, just like the mundane "bouncer," gets past its work. For

  some years now, Jimmy had had a feeling that the next arrival would

  come to stay; and he had adopted in consequence a gently defensive

  attitude toward the other sex. Molly had broken through this, and he

  saw that his estimate of his will-power had been just. Methods that

  had proved excellent in the past were useless now. There was no

  trace here of the dimly consoling feeling of earlier years, that

  there were other girls in the world. He did not try to deceive

  himself. He knew that he had passed the age when a man can fall in

  love with any one of a number of types.

  This was the finish, one way or the other. There would be no second

  throw. She had him. However it might end, he belonged to her.

  There are few moments in a man's day when his brain is more

  contemplative than during that brief space when he is lathering his

  face, preparatory to shaving. Plying the brush, Jimmy reviewed the

  situation. He was, perhaps, a little too optimistic. Not

  unnaturally, he was inclined to look upon his luck as a sort of

  special train which would convey him without effort to Paradise.

  Fate had behaved so exceedingly handsomely up till now! By a series

  of the most workmanlike miracles, it had brought him to the point of

  being Molly's fellow-guest at a country-house. This, as reason

  coldly pointed out a few moments later, was merely the beginning,

  but to Jimmy, thoughtfully lathering, it seemed the end. It was only

  when he had finished shaving, and was tying his cravat, that he

  began to perceive obstacles in his way, and sufficiently big

  obstacles, at that.

  In the first place, Molly did not love him. And, he was bound to

  admit, there was no earthly reason why she ever should. A man in

  love is seldom vain about his personal attractions. Also, her father

  firmly believed him to be a master-burglar.

  "Otherwise," said Jimmy, scowling at his reflection in the glass,

  "everything's splendid." He brushed his hair sadly.

  There was a furtive rap at the door.

  "Hullo?" said Jimmy. "Yes?"

  The door opened slowly. A grin, surmounted by a mop of red hair,

  appeared round the edge of it.

  "Hullo, Spike. Come in. What's the matter?"

  The rest of Mr. Mullins entered the room.

  "Gee, boss! I wasn't sure was dis your room. Say, who do you t'ink I

  nearly bumped me coco ag'inst out in de corridor downstairs? Why,

  old man McEachern, de cop. Dat's right!"

  "Yes?"

  "Sure. Say, what's he doin' on dis beat? I pretty near went down an'

  out when I seen him. Dat's right. Me breath ain't got back home

  yet."

  "Did he recognize you?"

  "Did he! He starts like an actor on top de stoige when he sees he's

  up ag'inst de plot to ruin him, an' he gives me de fierce eye."

  "Well?"

  "I was wonderin' was I on Thoid Avenoo, or was I standin' on me

  coco, or what was I doin' anyhow. Den I slip
s off, an' chases meself

  up here. Say, boss, what's de game? What's old man McEachern doin'

  stunts dis side fer?"

  "It's all right, Spike. Keep calm. I can explain. He has retired--

  like me! He's one of the handsome guests here."

  "On your way, boss! What's dat?"

  "He left the force just after that merry meeting of ours when you

  frolicked with the bull-dog. He came over here, and butted into

  society. So, here we are again, all gathered together under the same

  roof, like a jolly little family party."

  Spike's open mouth bore witness to his amazement.

  "Den--" he stammered.

  "Yes?"

  "Den, what's be goin' to do?"

  "I couldn't say. I'm expecting to hear shortly. But we needn't worry

  ourselves. The next move's with him. If he wants to comment on the

  situation, he won't be backward. He'll come and do it."

  "Sure. It's up to him," agreed Spike.

  "I'm quite comfortable. Speaking for myself, I'm having a good time.

  How are you getting along downstairs?"

  "De limit, boss. Honest, it's to de velvet. Dey's an old gazebo, de

  butler, Saunders his name is, dat's de best ever at handin' out long

  woids. I sits an' listens. Dey calls me Mr. Mullins down dere," said

  Spike, with pride.

  "Good. I'm glad you're all right. There's no season why we shouldn't

  have an excellent time here. I don't think that Mr. McEachern will

  try to have us turned out, after he's heard one or two little things

  I have to say to him--just a few reminiscences of the past which may

  interest him. I have the greatest affection for Mr. McEachern--I

  wish it were mutual--but nothing he can say is going to make me stir

  from here."

  "Not on your life," agreed Spike. "Say, boss, he must have got a lot

  of plunks to be able to butt in here. An' I know how he got dem,

  too. Dat's right. I comes from little old New York, meself."

  "Hush, Spike, this is scandal!"

  "Sure," said the Bowery boy doggedly, safely started now on his

  favorite subject. "I knows, an' youse knows, boss. Gee! I wish I'd

  bin a cop. But I wasn't tall enough. Dey's de fellers wit' de big

  bank-rolls. Look at dis old McEachern. Money to boin a wet dog wit'

  he's got, an' never a bit of woik fer it from de start to de finish.

  An' look at me, boss."

  "I do, Spike, I do."

  "Look at me. Gittin' busy all de year round, woikin' to beat de

  band--"

  "In prisons oft," said Jimmy.

  "Sure t'ing. An' chased all roun' de town. An' den what? Why, to de

  bad at de end of it all. Say, it's enough to make a feller--"

  "Turn honest," said Jimmy. "That's it, Spike. Reform. You'll be glad

  some day."

  Spike seemed to be doubtful. He was silent for a moment, then, as if

  following up a train of thought, he said:

  "Boss, dis is a fine big house."

  "I've seen worse."

  "Say, couldn't we--?"

  "Spike!" said Jimmy, warningly.

  "Well, couldn't we?" said Spike, doggedly. "It ain't often youse

  butts into a dead-easy proposition like dis one. We shouldn't have

  to do a t'ing excep' git busy. De stuff's just lyin' about, boss."

  "I shouldn't wonder."

  "Aw, it's a waste to leave it."

  "Spike," said Jimmy, "I warned you of this. I begged you to be on

  your guard, to fight against your professional instincts. Be a man!

  Crush them. Try and occupy your mind. Collect butterflies."

  Spike shuffled in gloomy silence.

  "'Member dose jools youse swiped from de duchess?" he said,

  musingly.

  "The dear duchess!" murmured Jimmy. "Ah, me!"

  "An' de bank youse busted?"

  "Those were happy days, Spike."

  "Gee!" said the Bowery boy. And then, after a pause: "Dat was to de

  good," he said, wistfully.

  Jimmy arranged his tie at the mirror.

  "Dere's a loidy here," continued Spike, addressing the chest of

  drawers, "dat's got a necklace of jools what's wort' a hundred

  t'ousand plunks. Honest, boss. A hundred t'ousand plunks. Saunders

  told me dat--de old gazebo dat hands out de long woids. I says to

  him, 'Gee!' an' he says, 'Surest t'ing youse know.' A hundred

  t'ousand plunks!"

  "So I understand," said Jimmy.

  "Shall I rubber around, an' find out where is dey kept, boss?"

  "Spike," said Jimmy, "ask me no more. All this is in direct

  contravention of our treaty respecting keeping your fingers off the

  spoons. You pain me. Desist."

  "Sorry, boss. But dey'll be willy-wonders, dem jools. A hundred

  t'ousand plunks. Dat's goin' some, ain't it? What's dat dis side?"

  "Twenty thousand pounds."

  "Gee!...Can I help youse wit' de duds, boss?"

  "No, thanks, Spike, I'm through now. You might just give me a brush

  down, though. No, not that. That's a hair-brush. Try the big black

  one."

  "Dis is a boid of a dude suit," observed Spike, pausing in his

  labors.

  "Glad you like it, Spike. Rather chic, I think."

  "It's de limit. Excuse me. How much did it set youse back, boss?"

  "Something like seven guineas, I believe. I could look up the bill,

  and let you know."

  "What's dat--guineas? Is dat more dan a pound?"

  "A shilling more. Why these higher mathematics?"

  Spike resumed his brushing.

  "What a lot of dude suits youse could git," he observed

  meditatively, "if youse had dem jools!" He became suddenly animated.

  He waved the clothes-brush. "Oh, you boss!" he cried. "What's eatin'

  youse? Aw, it's a shame not to. Come along, you boss! Say, what's

  doin'? Why ain't youse sittin' in at de game? Oh, you boss!"

  Whatever reply Jimmy might have made to this impassioned appeal was

  checked by a sudden bang on the door. Almost simultaneously, the

  handle turned.

  "Gee!" cried Spike. "It's de cop!"

  Jimmy smiled pleasantly.

  "Come in, Mr. McEachern," he said, "come in. Journeys end in lovers

  meeting. You know my friend Mr. Mullins, I think? Shut the door, and

  sit down, and let's talk of many things."

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHECK AND A COUNTER MOVE

  Mr. McEachern stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. As the result

  of a long connection with evil-doers, the ex-policeman was somewhat

  prone to harbor suspicions of those round about him, and at the

  present moment his mind was aflame. Indeed, a more trusting man

  might have been excused for feeling a little doubtful as to the

  intentions of Jimmy and Spike. When McEachern had heard that Lord

  Dreever had brought home a casual London acquaintance, he had

  suspected as a possible drawback to the visit the existence of

  hidden motives on the part of the unknown. Lord Dreever, he had

  felt, was precisely the sort of youth to whom the professional

  bunco-steerer would attach himself with shouts of joy. Never, he had

  assured himself, had there been a softer proposition than his

  lordship since bunco-steering became a profession. When he found

  that the strange visitor was Jimmy Pitt, his suspicions had

  increased a thousand-fold.

  And when, going to his
room to get ready for dinner, he had nearly

  run into Spike Mullins in the corridor, his frame of mind had been

  that of a man to whom a sudden ray of light reveals the fact that he

  is on the brink of a black precipice. Jimmy and Spike had burgled

  his house together in New York. And here they were, together again,

  at Dreever Castle. To say that the thing struck McEachern as

  sinister is to put the matter baldly. There was once a gentleman who

  remarked that he smelt a rat, and saw it floating in the air. Ex-

  Constable McEachern smelt a regiment of rats, and the air seemed to

  him positively congested with them.

  His first impulse had been to rush to Jimmy's room there and then;

  but he had learned society's lessons well. Though the heavens might

  fall, he must not be late for dinner. So, he went and dressed, and

  an obstinate tie put the finishing touches to his wrath.

  Jimmy regarded him coolly, without moving from, the chair in which

  he had seated himself. Spike, on the other hand, seemed embarrassed.

  He stood first on one leg, and then on the other, as if he were

  testing the respective merits of each, and would make a definite

  choice later on.

  "You scoundrels!" growled McEachern.

  Spike, who had been standing for a few moments on his right leg, and

  seemed at last to have come to, a decision, hastily changed to the

  left, and grinned feebly.

  "Say, youse won't want me any more, boss?" he whispered.

  "No, you can go, Spike."

  "You stay where you are, you red-headed devil!" said McEachern,

  tartly.

  "Run along, Spike," said Jimmy.

  The Bowery boy looked doubtfully at the huge form of the ex-

  policeman, which blocked access to the door.

  "Would you mind letting my man pass?" said Jimmy.

  "You stay--" began McEachern.

  Jimmy got up and walked round to the door, which he opened. Spike

  shot out. He was not lacking in courage, but he disliked

  embarrassing interviews, and it struck him that Jimmy was the man to

  handle a situation of this kind. He felt that he himself would only

  be in the way.

  "Now, we can talk comfortably," said Jimmy, going back to his chair.

  McEachern's deep-set eyes gleamed, and his forehead grew red, but he

  mastered his feelings.

  "And now--" said he, then paused.

  "Yes?" asked Jimmy.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Nothing, at the moment."