Intrusion of Jimmy Page 4
"What's dat?" he said.
"An oxy-acetylene blow-pipe."
"Search me," said Spike, blankly. "Dat gets past me."
Jimmy's manner grew more severe.
"Can you make soup?"
"Soup, boss?"
"He doesn't know what soup is," said Jimmy, despairingly. "My good
man, I'm afraid you have missed your vocation. You have no business
to be trying to burgle. You don't know the first thing about the
game."
Spike was regarding the speaker with disquiet over his glass. Till
now, the red-haired one had been very well satisfied with his
methods, but criticism was beginning to sap his nerve. He had heard
tales of masters of his craft who made use of fearsome implements
such as Jimmy had mentioned; burglars who had an airy
acquaintanceship, bordering on insolent familiarity, with the
marvels of science; men to whom the latest inventions were as
familiar as his own jemmy was to himself. Could this be one of that
select band? His host began to take on a new aspect in his eyes.
"Spike," said Jimmy.
"Huh?"
"Have you a thorough knowledge of chemistry, physics--"
"On your way, boss!"
"--toxicology--"
"Search me!"
"--electricity and microscopy?"
"... Nine, ten. Dat's de finish. I'm down an' out."
Jimmy shook his head, sadly.
"Give up burglary," he said. "It's not in your line. Better try
poultry-farming."
Spike twiddled his glass, abashed.
"Now, I," said Jimmy airily, "am thinking of breaking into a house
to-night."
"Gee!" exclaimed Spike, his suspicions confirmed at last. "I t'ought
youse was in de game, boss. Sure, you're de guy dat's onto all de
curves. I t'ought so all along."
"I should like to hear," said Jimmy amusedly, as one who draws out
an intelligent child, "how you would set about burgling one of those
up-town villas. My own work has been on a somewhat larger scale and
on the other side of the Atlantic."
"De odder side?"
"I have done as much in London, as anywhere else," said Jimmy. "A
great town, London, full of opportunities for the fine worker. Did
you hear of the cracking of the New Asiatic Bank in Lombard Street?"
"No, boss," whispered Spike. "Was dat you?"
Jimmy laughed.
"The police would like an answer to the same question," he said,
self-consciously. "Perhaps, you heard nothing of the disappearance
of the Duchess of Havant's diamonds?"
"Wasdat--?"
"The thief," said Jimmy, flicking a speck of dust from his coat
sleeve, "was discovered to have used an oxy-acetylene blow-pipe."
The rapturous intake of Spike's breath was the only sound that broke
the silence. Through the smoke, his eyes could be seen slowly
widening.
"But about this villa," said Jimmy. "I am always interested even in
the humblest sides of the profession. Now, tell me, supposing you
were going to break into a villa, what time of night would you do
it?"
"I always t'inks it's best either late like dis or when de folks is
in at supper," said Spike, respectfully.
Jimmy smiled a faint, patronizing smile, and nodded.
"Well, and what would you do?"
"I'd rubber around some to see isn't dere a window open somewheres,"
said Spike, diffidently.
"And if there wasn't?"
"I'd climb up de porch an' into one of de bedrooms," said Spike,
almost blushing. He felt like a boy reading his first attempts at
original poetry to an established critic. What would this master
cracksman, this polished wielder of the oxy-acetylene blow-pipe,
this expert in toxicology, microscopy and physics think of his
callow outpourings!
"How would you get into the bedroom?"
Spike hung his head.
"Bust de catch wit' me jemmy," he whispered, shamefacedly.
"Burst the catch with your jemmy?"
"It's de only way I ever learned," pleaded Spike.
The expert was silent. He seemed to be thinking. The other watched
his face, humbly.
"How would youse do it, boss?" he ventured timidly, at last.
"Eh?"
"How would youse do it?"
"Why, I'm not sure," said the master, graciously, "whether your way
might not do in a case like that. It's crude, of course, but with a
few changes it would do."
"Gee, boss! Is dat right?" queried the astonished disciple.
"It would do," said the master, frowning thoughtfully; "it would do
quite well--quite well!"
Spike drew a deep breath of joy and astonishment. That his methods
should meet with approval from such a mind...!
"Gee!" he whispered--as who would say, "I and Napoleon."
CHAPTER VI
AN EXHIBITION PERFORMANCE
Cold reason may disapprove of wagers, but without a doubt there is
something joyous and lovable in the type of mind that rushes at the
least provocation into the making of them, something smacking of the
spacious days of the Regency. Nowadays, the spirit seems to have
deserted England. When Mr. Asquith became Premier of Great Britain,
no earnest forms were to be observed rolling peanuts along the
Strand with a toothpick. When Mr. Asquith is dethroned, it is
improbable that any Briton will allow his beard to remain unshaved
until the Liberal party returns to office. It is in the United
States that the wager has found a home. It is characteristic of some
minds to dash into a wager with the fearlessness of a soldier in a
forlorn hope, and, once in, to regard it almost as a sacred trust.
Some men never grow up out of the schoolboy spirit of "daring."
To this class Jimmy Pitt belonged. He was of the same type as the
man in the comic opera who proposed to the lady because somebody bet
him he wouldn't. There had never been a time when a challenge, a
"dare," had not acted as a spur to him. In his newspaper days, life
had been one long series of challenges. They had been the essence of
the business. A story had not been worth getting unless the getting
were difficult.
With the conclusion of his newspaper life came a certain flatness
into the scheme of things. There were times, many times, when Jimmy
was bored. He hungered for excitement, and life appeared to have so
little to offer! The path of the rich man was so smooth, and it
seemed to lead nowhere! This task of burgling a house was like an
unexpected treat to a child. With an intensity of purpose that
should have touched his sense of humor, but, as a matter of fact,
did not appeal to him as ludicrous in any way, he addressed himself
to the work. The truth was that Jimmy was one of those men who are
charged to the, brim with force. Somehow, the force had to find an
outlet. If he had undertaken to collect birds' eggs, he would have
set about it with the same tense energy.
Spike was sitting on the edge of his chair, dazed but happy, his
head still buzzing from the unhoped-for praise. Jimmy looked at his
watch. It was nearly three o'clock. A sudden idea struck him. The
; gods had provided gifts: why not take them?
"Spike!"
"Huh?"
"Would you care to come and crack a crib with me, now?"
Reverential awe was written on the red-haired one's face.
"Gee, boss!"
"Would you?"
"Surest t'ing you know, boss."
"Or, rather," proceeded Jimmy, "would you care to crack a crib while
I came along with you? Strictly speaking, I am here on a vacation,
but a trifle like this isn't real work. It's this way," he
explained. "I've taken a fancy to you, Spike, and I don't like to
see you wasting your time on coarse work. You have the root of the
matter in you, and with a little coaching I could put a polish on
you. I wouldn't do this for everyone, but I hate to see a man
bungling who might do better! I want to see you at work. Come right
along, and we'll go up-town, and you shall start in. Don't get
nervous. Just work as you would if I were not there. I shall not
expect too much. Rome was not built in a day. When we are through, I
will criticize a few of your mistakes. How does that suit you?"
"Gee, boss! Great! An' I know where dere's a peach of a place, boss.
Regular soft proposition. A friend of mine told me. It's--"
"Very well, then. One moment, though."
He went to the telephone. Before he had left New York on his
travels, Arthur Mifflin had been living at a hotel near Washington
Square. It was probable that he was still there. He called up the
number. The night-clerk was an old acquaintance of his.
"Hello, Dixon," said Jimmy, "is that you? I'm Pitt--Pitt! Yes, I'm
back. How did you guess? Yes, very pleasant. Has Mr. Mifflin come in
yet? Gone to bed? Never mind, call him up, will you? Good."
Presently, the sleepy and outraged voice of Mr. Mifflin spoke at the
other end of the line.
"What's wrong? Who the devil's that?"
"My dear Arthur! Where you pick up such expressions I can't think--
not from me."
"Is that you, Jimmy? What in the name of--!"
"Heavens! What are you kicking about? The night's yet young. Arthur,
touching that little arrangement we made--cracking that crib, you
know. Are you listening? Have you any objection to my taking an
assistant along with me? I don't want to do anything contrary to our
agreement, but there's a young fellow here who's anxious that I
should let him come along and pick up a few hints. He's a
professional all right. Not in our class, of course, but quite a
fair rough workman. He--Arthur! Arthur! These are harsh words! Then,
am I to understand you have no objection? Very well. Only, don't say
later on that I didn't play fair. Good-night."
He hung up the receiver, and turned to Spike.
"Ready?"
"Ain't youse goin' to put on your gum-shoes, boss?"
Jimmy frowned reflectively, as if there was something in what this
novice suggested. He went into the bedroom, and returned wearing a
pair of thin patent-leather shoes.
Spike coughed tentatively.
"Won't youse need your gun?" he hazarded. Jimmy gave a short laugh.
"I work with brains, not guns," he said. "Let us be going."
There was a taxi-cab near by, as there always is in New York. Jimmy
pushed Spike in, and they drove off. To Jimmy, New York stopped
somewhere about Seventy-Second Street. Anything beyond that was
getting on for the Middle West, and seemed admirably suited as a
field for the cracksman. He had a vague idea of up-town as a remote,
desolate district, badly lighted--if lighted at all--and sparsely
dotted with sleepy policemen.
The luxury of riding in a taxi-cab kept Spike dumb for several
miles. Having arrived at what seemed a sufficiently remote part of
America, Jimmy paid the driver, who took the money with that
magnificently aloof air which characterizes the taxi-chauffeur. A
lesser man might have displayed some curiosity about the ill-matched
pair. The chauffeur, having lighted a cigarette, drove off without
any display of interest whatsoever. It might have been part of
his ordinary duties to drive gentlemen in evening clothes and shock-
headed youths in parti-colored sweaters about the city at three
o'clock in the morning.
"We will now," said Jimmy, "stroll on and prospect. It is up to you,
Spike. Didn't you say something about knowing a suitable house
somewhere? Are we anywhere near it?"
Spike looked at the number of the street.
"We got some way to go, boss," he said. "I wisht youse hadn't sent
away de cab."
"Did you think we were going to drive up to the door? Pull yourself
together, my dear man."
They walked on, striking eastward out of Broadway. It caused Jimmy
some surprise to find that the much-enduring thoroughfare extended
as far as this. It had never occurred to him before to ascertain
what Broadway did with itself beyond Times Square.
It was darker now that they had moved from the center of things, but
it was still far too light for Jimmy's tastes. He was content,
however, to leave matters entirely to his companion. Spike probably
had his methods for evading publicity on these occasions.
Spike plodded on. Block after block he passed, until finally the
houses began to be more scattered.
At last, he halted before a fair-sized detached house.
"Dis is de place," he said. "A friend of mine tells me of it. I
didn't know he was me friend, dough, before he puts me wise about
dis joint. I t'ought he'd got it in fer me 'cos of last week when I
scrapped wit' him about somet'in'. I t'ought after that he was
layin' fer me, but de next time he seen me he put me wise to dis
place."
"Coals of fire," said Jimmy. "He was of a forgiving disposition." A
single rain-drop descended on the nape of his neck. In another
moment, a smart shower had begun.
"This matter has passed out of our hands," said Jimmy. "We must
break in, if only to get shelter. Get busy, my lad."
There was a handy window only a few feet from the ground. Spike
pulled from his pocket a small bottle.
"What's that?" inquired Jimmy.
"Molasses, boss," said Spike, deferentially.
He poured the contents of the bottle on a piece of paper, which he
pressed firmly against the window-pane. Then, drawing out a short
steel instrument, he gave the paper a sharp tap. The glass broke
almost inaudibly. The paper came away, leaving a gap in the pane.
Spike inserted his hand, shot back the catch, and softly pushed up
the window.
"Elementary," said Jimmy; "elementary, but quite neat."
There was now a shutter to be negotiated. This took longer, but in
the end Spike's persuasive methods prevailed.
Jimmy became quite cordial.
"You have been well-grounded, Spike," he said. "And, after all, that
is half the battle. The advice I give to every novice is, 'Learn to
walk before you try to run.' Master the a, b, c, of the craft first.
With a little careful coaching, you will do. Just so. Pop in."
Spike climbed cautiously over the sill, followed by Jimmy. The
were in a parlor, furnished and decorated with surprising taste.
Jimmy had expected the usual hideousness, but here everything from
the wall-paper to the smallest ornaments was wonderfully well
selected.
Business, however, was business. This was no time to stand admiring
artistic effects in room-furnishing. There was that big J to be
carved on the front door. If 'twere done, then 'twere well 'twere
done quickly.
He was just moving to the door, when from some distant part of the
house came the bark of a dog. Another joined in. The solo became a
duet. The air was filled with their clamor.
"Gee!" cried Spike.
The remark seemed more or less to sum up the situation.
"'Tis sweet," says Byron, "to hear the watch-dog's honest bark."
Jimmy and Spike found two watch-dogs' honest barks cloying. Spike
intimated this by making a feverish dash for the open window.
Unfortunately for the success of this maneuver, the floor of the
room was covered not with a carpet but with tastefully scattered
rugs, and underneath these rugs it was very highly polished. Spike,
treading on one of these islands, was instantly undone. No power of
will or muscle can save a man in such a case. Spike skidded. His
feet flew from under him. There was a momentary flash of red head,
as of a passing meteor. The next moment, he had fallen on his back
with a thud that shook the house. Even in the crisis, the thought
flashed across Jimmy's mind that this was not Spike's lucky night.
Upstairs, the efforts of the canine choir had begun to resemble the
"A che la morte" duet in "Il Trovatore." Particularly good work was
being done by the baritone dog.
Spike sat up, groaning. Equipped though he was by nature with a
skull of the purest and most solid ivory, the fall had disconcerted
him. His eyes, like those of Shakespeare's poet, rolling in a fine
frenzy, did glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven. He
passed his fingers tenderly through his vermilion hair.
Heavy footsteps were descending the stairs. In the distance, the
soprano dog had reached A in alt., and was holding it, while his
fellow artiste executed runs in the lower register.
"Get up!" hissed Jimmy. "There's somebody coming! Get up, you idiot,
can't you!"
It was characteristic of Jimmy that it never even occurred to him to