Intrusion of Jimmy Read online

  of confider.

  "I met a girl a year ago--only really met her once, and even then--

  oh, well! Anyway, it's made me so restless that I haven't been able

  to stay in one place for more than a month on end. I tried Morocco,

  and had to quit. I tried Spain, and that wasn't any good, either.

  The other day, I heard a fellow say that Japan was a pretty

  interesting sort of country. I was wondering whether I wouldn't give

  it a trial."

  Lord Dreever regarded this traveled man with interest.

  "It beats me," he said, wonderingly. "What do you want to leg it

  about the world like that for? What's the trouble? Why don't you

  stay where the girl is?"

  "I don't know where she is."

  "Don't know?"

  "She disappeared."

  "Where did you see her last?" asked his lordship, as if Molly were a

  mislaid penknife.

  "New York."

  "But how do you mean, disappeared? Don't you know her address?"

  "I don't even know her name."

  "But dash it all, I say, I mean! Have you ever spoken to her?"

  "Only once. It's rather a complicated story. At any rate, she's

  gone."

  Lord Dreever said that it was a rum business. Jimmy conceded the

  point.

  "Seems to me," said his lordship, "we're both in the cart."

  "What's your trouble?"

  Lord Dreever hesitated.

  "Oh, well, it's only that I want to marry one girl, and my uncle's

  dead set on my marrying another."

  "Are you afraid of hurting your uncle's feelings?"

  "It's not so much hurting his feelings. It's--oh, well, it's too

  long to tell now. I think I'll be getting home. I'm staying at our

  place in Eaton Square."

  "How are you going? If you'll walk, I'll come some of the way with

  you."

  "Right you are. Let's be pushing along, shall we?"

  They turned up into the Strand, and through Trafalgar Square into

  Piccadilly. Piccadilly has a restful aspect in the small hours. Some

  men were cleaning the road with water from a long hose. The swishing

  of the torrent on the parched wood was musical.

  Just beyond the gate of Hyde Park, to the right of the road, stands

  a cabmen's shelter. Conversation and emotion had made Lord Dreever

  thirsty. He suggested coffee as a suitable conclusion to the night's

  revels.

  "I often go in here when I'm up in town," he said. "The cabbies

  don't mind. They're sportsmen."

  The shelter was nearly full when they opened the door. It was very

  warm inside. A cabman gets so much fresh air in the exercise of his

  professional duties that he is apt to avoid it in private life. The

  air was heavy with conflicting scents. Fried onions seemed to be

  having the best of the struggle for the moment, though plug tobacco

  competed gallantly. A keenly analytical nose might also have

  detected the presence of steak and coffee.

  A dispute seemed to be in progress as they entered.

  "You don't wish you was in Russher," said a voice.

  "Yus, I do wish I wos in Russher," retorted a shriveled mummy of a

  cabman, who was blowing patiently at a saucerful of coffee.

  "Why do you wish you was in Russher?" asked the interlocutor,

  introducing a Massa Bones and Massa Johnsing touch into the

  dialogue.

  "Because yer can wade over yer knees in bla-a-a-ad there," said the

  mummy.

  "In wot?"

  "In bla-a-ad--ruddy bla-a-ad! That's why I wish I wos in Russher."

  "Cheery cove that," said Lord Dreever. "I say, can you give us some

  coffee?"

  "I might try Russia instead of Japan," said Jimmy, meditatively.

  The lethal liquid was brought. Conversation began again. Other

  experts gave their views on the internal affairs of Russia. Jimmy

  would have enjoyed it more if he had been less sleepy. His back was

  wedged comfortably against the wall of the shelter, and the heat of

  the room stole into his brain. The voices of the disputants grew

  fainter and fainter.

  He had almost dozed off when a new voice cut through the murmur and

  woke him. It was a voice he knew, and the accent was a familiar

  accent.

  "Gents! Excuse me."

  He looked up. The mists of sleep shredded away. A ragged youth with

  a crop of fiery red hair was standing in the doorway, regarding the

  occupants of the shelter with a grin, half-whimsical, half-defiant.

  Jimmy recognized him. It was Spike Mullins.

  "Excuse me," said Spike Mullins. "Is dere any gent in dis bunch of

  professional beauts wants to give a poor orphan dat suffers from a

  painful toist something to drink? Gents is courteously requested not

  to speak all in a crowd."

  "Shet that blanky door," said the mummy cabman, sourly.

  "And 'op it," added his late opponent. "We don't want none of your

  sort 'ere."

  "Den you ain't my long-lost brudders after all," said the newcomer,

  regretfully. "I t'ought youse didn't look handsome enough for dat.

  Good-night to youse, gents."

  "Shet that door, can't yer, when I'm telling yer!" said the mummy,

  with increased asperity.

  Spike was reluctantly withdrawing, when Jimmy rose.

  "One moment," he said.

  Never in his life had Jimmy failed to stand by a friend in need.

  Spike was not, perhaps, exactly a friend, but even an acquaintance

  could rely on Jimmy when down in the world. And Spike was manifestly

  in that condition.

  A look of surprise came into the Bowery Boy's face, followed by one

  of stolid woodenness. He took the sovereign that Jimmy held out to

  him with a muttered word of thanks, and shuffled out of the room.

  "Can't see what you wanted to give him anything for," said Lord

  Dreever. "Chap'll only spend it getting soused."

  "Oh, he reminded me of a man I used to know."

  "Did he? Barnum's what-is-it, I should think," said his lordship.

  "Shall we be moving?"

  CHAPTER X

  JIMMY ADOPTS A LAME DOG

  A black figure detached itself from the blacker shadows, and

  shuffled stealthily to where Jimmy stood on the doorstep.

  "That you, Spike?" asked Jimmy.

  "Dat's right, boss."

  "Come on in."

  He led the way up to his rooms, switched on the electric light, and

  shut the door. Spike stood blinking at the sudden glare. He twirled

  his battered hat in his hands. His red hair shone fiercely.

  Jimmy inspected him out of the corner of his eye, and came to the

  conclusion that the Mullins finances must be at a low ebb. Spike's

  costume differed in several important details from that of the

  ordinary well-groomed man about town. There was nothing of the

  flaneur about the Bowery Boy. His hat was of the soft black felt

  fashionable on the East Side of New York. It was in poor condition,

  and looked as if it had been up too late the night before. A black

  tail-coat, burst at the elbows and stained with mud, was tightly

  buttoned across his chest, this evidently with the idea of

  concealing the fact that he wore no shirt--an attempt which was not

  wholly successful. A pair of gray flannel trousers and boots out of<
br />
  which two toes peeped coyly completed the picture.

  Even Spike himself seemed to be aware that there were points in his

  appearance which would have distressed the editor of a men's

  fashion-paper.

  "'Scuse these duds," he said. "Me man's bin an' mislaid de trunk

  wit' me best suit in. Dis is me number two."

  "Don't mention it, Spike," said Jimmy. "You look a perfect matinee

  idol. Have a drink?"

  Spike's eyes gleamed as he reached for the decanter. He took a seat.

  "Cigar, Spike?"

  "Sure. T'anks, boss."

  Jimmy lighted his pipe. Spike, after a few genteel sips, threw off

  his restraint, and finished the rest of his glass at a gulp.

  "Try another," suggested Jimmy.

  Spike's grin showed that the idea had been well received.

  Jimmy sat and smoked in silence for a while. He was thinking the

  thing over. He felt like a detective who has found a clue. At last,

  he would be able to discover the name of the Lusitania girl. The

  discovery would not take him very far certainly, but it would be

  something. Possibly, Spike might even be able to fix the position of

  the house they had broken into that night.

  Spike was looking at Jimmy over his glass in silent admiration. This

  flat which Jimmy had rented for a year, in the hope that the

  possession of a fixed abode might help to tie him down to one spot,

  was handsomely, even luxuriously, furnished. To Spike, every chair

  and table in the room had a romance of its own, as having been

  purchased out of the proceeds of that New Asiatic Bank robbery, or

  from the revenue accruing from the Duchess of Havant's jewels. He

  was dumb with reverence for one who could make burglary pay to this

  extent. In his own case, the profession had rarely provided anything

  more than bread and butter, and an occasional trip to Coney Island.

  Jimmy caught his eye, and spoke.

  "Well, Spike," he said. "Curious that we should meet like this?"

  "De limit," agreed Spike.

  "I can't imagine you three thousand miles from New York. How do you

  know the cars still run both ways on Broadway?"

  A wistful look came into Spike's eyes.

  "I've been dis side t'ree months. I t'ought it was time I give old

  Lunnon a call. T'ings was gettin' too fierce in Noo York. De cops

  was layin' fer me. Dey didn't seem like as if they had any use fer

  me. So, I beat it."

  "Bad luck," said Jimmy.

  "Fierce," agreed Spike.

  "Say, Spike," said Jimmy, "do you know, I spent a whole heap of time

  before I left New York looking for you?"

  "Gee! I wish you'd found me! Did youse want me to help on some lay,

  boss? Is it a bank, or--jools?"

  "Well, no, not that. Do you remember that night we broke into that

  house uptown--the police-captain's house?"

  "Sure."

  "What was his name?"

  "What, de cop's? Why, McEachern, boss."

  "McWhat? How do you spell it?"

  "Search me," said Spike, simply.

  "Say it again. Fill your lungs, and enunciate slowly and clearly. Be

  bell-like. Now."

  "McEachern."

  "Ah! And where was the house? Can you remember that?"

  Spike's forehead wrinkled.

  "It's gone," he said, at last. "It was somewheres up some street up

  de town."

  "That's a lot of help," said Jimmy. "Try again."

  "It'll come back some time, boss, sure."

  "Then, I'm going to keep an eye on you till it does. Just for the

  moment, you're the most important man in the world to me. Where are

  you living?"

  "Me! Why, in de Park. Dat's right. One of dem swell detached benches

  wit' a Southern exposure."

  "Well, unless you prefer it, you needn't sleep in the Park any more.

  You can pitch your moving tent with me."

  "What, here, boss?"

  "Unless we move."

  "Me fer dis," said Spike, rolling luxuriously in his chair.

  "You'll want some clothes," said Jimmy. "We'll get those to-morrow.

  You're the sort of figure they can fit off the peg. You're not too

  tall, which is a good thing."

  "Bad t'ing fer me, boss. If I'd been taller, I'd have stood fer

  being a cop, an' bin buyin' a brownstone house on Fifth Avenue by

  dis. It's de cops makes de big money in little old Manhattan, dat's

  who it is."

  "The man who knows!" said Jimmy. "Tell me more, Spike. I suppose a

  good many of the New York force do get rich by graft?"

  "Sure. Look at old man McEachern."

  "I wish I could. Tell me about him, Spike. You seemed to know him

  pretty well."

  "Me? Sure. Dere wasn't a woise old grafter dan him in de bunch. He

  was out fer de dough all de time. But, say, did youse ever see his

  girl?"

  "What's that?" said Jimmy, sharply.

  "I seen her once." Spike became almost lyrical in his enthusiasm.

  "Gee! She was a boid--a peach fer fair. I'd have left me happy home

  fer her. Molly was her monaker. She--"

  Jimmy was glaring at him.

  "Cut it out!" he cried.

  "What's dat, boss?" said Spike.

  "Cut it out!" said Jimmy, savagely.

  Spike looked at him, amazed.

  "Sure," he said, puzzled, but realizing that his words had not

  pleased the great man.

  Jimmy chewed the stem of his pipe irritably, while Spike, full of

  excellent intentions, sat on the edge of his chair, drawing

  sorrowfully at his cigar and wondering what he had done to give

  offense.

  "Boss?" said Spike.

  "Well?"

  "Boss, what's doin' here? Put me next to de game. Is it de old lay?

  Banks an' jools from duchesses? You'll be able to let me sit in at

  de game, won't you?"

  Jimmy laughed.

  "I'd quite forgotten I hadn't told you about myself, Spike. I've

  retired."

  The horrid truth sank slowly into the other's mind.

  "Say! What's dat, boss? You're cuttin' it out?"

  "That's it. Absolutely."

  "Ain't youse swiping no more jools?"

  "Not me."

  "Nor usin' de what's-its-name blow-pipe?"

  "I have sold my oxy-acetylene blow-pipe, given away my anaesthetics,

  and am going to turn over a new leaf, and settle down as a

  respectable citizen."

  Spike gasped. His world had fallen about his ears. His excursion

  with. Jimmy, the master cracksman, in New York had been the highest

  and proudest memory of his life; and, now that they had met again in

  London, he had looked forward to a long and prosperous partnership

  in crime. He was content that his own share in the partnership

  should be humble. It was enough for him to be connected, however

  humbly, with such a master. He had looked upon the richness of

  London, and he had said with Blucher, "What a city to loot!"

  And here was his idol shattering the visions with a word.

  "Have another drink, Spike," said the lost leader sympathetically.

  "It's a shock to you, I guess."

  "I t'ought, boss--"

  "I know, I know. These are life's tragedies. I'm very sorry for you.

  But it can't be helped. I've made my pile, so why continue?"

  Spike sat silent,
with a long face. Jimmy slapped him on the

  shoulder.

  "Cheer up," he said. "How do you know that living honestly may not

  be splendid fun? Numbers of people do it, you know, and enjoy

  themselves tremendously. You must give it a trial, Spike."

  "Me, boss! What, me, too?"

  "Sure. You're my link with--I don't want to have you remembering

  that address in the second month of a ten-year stretch at Dartmoor

  Prison. I'm going to look after you, Spike, my son, like a lynx.

  We'll go out together, and see life. Brace up, Spike. Be cheerful.

  Grin!"

  After a moment's reflection, the other grinned, albeit faintly.

  "That's right," said Jimmy. "We'll go into society, Spike, hand in

  hand. You'll be a terrific success in society. All you have to do is

  to look cheerful, brush your hair, and keep your hands off the

  spoons. For in the best circles they invariably count them after the

  departure of the last guest."

  "Sure," said Spike, as one who thoroughly understood this sensible

  precaution.

  "And, now," said Jimmy, "we'll be turning in. Can you manage

  sleeping on the sofa one night? Some fellows would give their bed up

  to you. Not me, however. I'll have a bed made up for you tomorrow."

  "Me!" said Spike. "Gee! I've been sleepin' in de Park all de last

  week. Dis is to de good, boss."

  CHAPTER XI

  AT THE TURN OF THE ROAD

  Next morning, when Jimmy, having sent Spike off to the tailor's,

  with instructions to get a haircut en route, was dealing with a

  combination of breakfast and luncheon at his flat, Lord Dreever

  called.

  "Thought I should find you in," observed his lordship. "Well,

  laddie, how goes it? Having breakfast? Eggs and bacon! Great Scott!

  I couldn't touch a thing."

  The statement was borne out by his looks. The son of a hundred earls

  was pale, and his eyes were markedly fish-like.

  "A fellow I've got stopping with me--taking him down to Dreever with

  me to-day--man I met at the club--fellow named Hargate. Don't know

  if you know him? No? Well, he was still up when I got back last

  night, and we stayed up playing billiards--he's rotten at billiards;

  something frightful: I give him twenty--till five this morning. I

  feel fearfully cheap. Wouldn't have got up at all, only I'm due to

  catch the two-fifteen down to Dreever. It's the only good train." He

  dropped into a chair.

  "Sorry you don't feel up to breakfast," said Jimmy, helping himself