The Big-Town Round-Up

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  IN BAD

  When Bromfield suggested to Clay with a touch of stiffness that hewould be glad to show him a side of New York night life probably stillunfamiliar to him, the cattleman felt a surprise he carefullyconcealed. He guessed that this was a belated attempt on the part ofMiss Whitford's fiance to overcome the palpable dislike he had for herfriend. If so, the impulse that inspired the offer was a creditableone. Lindsay had no desire to take in any of the plague spots of thecity with Bromfield. Something about the society man set his back up,to use his own phrase. But because this was true he did not intend tobe outdone in generosity by a successful rival. Promptly and heartilyhe accepted the invitation. If he had known that a note and a cardfrom Jerry Durand lay in the vest pocket of his cynical host while hewas holding out the olive branch, it is probable the Arizonan wouldhave said, "No, thank you, kind sir."

  The note mentioned no names. It said, "Wednesday, at Maddock's, 11P.M. Show this card."

  And to Maddock's, on Wednesday, at an hour something earlier thaneleven, the New Yorker led his guest after a call at one or two clubs.

  Even from the outside the place had a dilapidated look that surprisedLindsay. The bell was of that brand you keep pulling till you discoverit is out of order. Decayed gentility marked the neighborhood, thoughthe blank front of the houses looked impeccably respectable.

  As a feeble camouflage of its real reason for being, Maddock's calleditself the "Omnium Club." But when Clay found how particular thedoorkeeper was as to those who entered he guessed at once it was agambling-house.

  From behind a grating the man peered at them doubtfully. Bromfieldshowed a card, and after some hesitation on the part of his inquisitor,passed the examination. Toward Clay the doorkeeper jerked his headinquiringly.

  "He's all right," the clubman vouched.

  Again there was a suspicious and lengthy scrutiny.

  The door opened far enough to let them slide into a scantily furnishedhall. On the first landing was another guard, a heavy, brutal-lookingfellow who was no doubt the "chucker-out." He too looked them overclosely, but after a glance at the card drew aside to let them pass.

  Through a door near the head of the stairs they moved into a largeroom, evidently made from several smaller ones with the partitions torndown and the ceilings pillared at intervals.

  Clay had read about the magnificence of Canfield's in the old days, andhe was surprised that one so fastidious as Bromfield should patronize aplace so dingy and so rough as this. At the end of one room was amarble mantelpiece above which there was a defaced, gilt-frame mirror.The chandeliers, the chairs, the wall-paper, all suggested the samenote of one-time opulence worn to shabbiness.

  A game of Klondike was going. There were two roulette wheels, a farotable, and one circle of poker players.

  The cold eyes of a sleek, slippery man sliding cards out of a faro-boxlooked at the Westerner curiously. Among the suckers who came to thisden of thieves to be robbed were none of Clay's stamp. Lindsay watchedthe white, dexterous hands of the dealer with an honest distaste. Allalong the border from Juarez to Calexico he had seen just such soft,skilled fingers fleecing those who toiled. He knew the bloodless,impassive face of the professional gambler as well as he knew theanxious, reckless ones of his victims. His knowledge had told himlittle good of this breed of parasites who preyed upon a credulouspublic.

  The traffic of this room was crooked business by day as well as bynight. A partition ran across the rear of the back parlor which showedno opening but two small holes with narrow shelves at the bottom. Backof that was the paraphernalia of the pool-room, another device toseparate customers from their money by playing the "ponies."

  As Clay looked around it struck him that the personnel of thisgambling-den's patrons was a singularly depressing one. All told therewere not a dozen respectable-looking people in the room. Most of thosepresent were derelicts of life, the failures of a great city washed upby the tide. Some were pallid, haggard wretches clinging to thevestiges of a prosperity that had once been theirs. Others werehard-faced ruffians from the underworld. Not a few bore the marks ofthe drug victim. All of those playing had a manner of furtivesuspicion. They knew that if they risked their money the house wouldrob them. Yet they played.

  Bromfield bought a small stack of chips at the roulette table.

  "Won't you take a whirl at the wheel?" he asked Lindsay.

  "Thanks, no, I believe not," his guest answered.

  The Westerner was a bit disgusted at his host's lack of discrimination."Does he think I'm a soft mark too?" he wondered. "If this is what hecalls high life I've had more than enough already."

  His disgust was shared by the clubman. Bromfield had never been insuch a dive before. His gambling had been done in gilded luxury.While he touched shoulders with this motley crew his nostrils twitchedwith fastidious disdain. He played, but his interest was not in thewheel. Durand had promised that there would be women and that one ofthem should be bribed to make a claim upon Clay at the proper moment.He had an unhappy feeling that the gang politician had thrown him downin this. If so, what did that mean? Had Durand some card up hissleeve? Was he using him as a catspaw to rake in his own chestnuts?

  Clarendon Bromfield began to weaken. He and Clay were the only two menin the room in evening clothes. His questing eye fell on tough,scarred faces that offered his fears no reassurance. Any one or all ofthem might be agents of Durand.

  He shoved all of his chips out, putting half of them on number eightand the rest on seventeen. His object was to lose his stackimmediately and be free to go. To his annoyance the whirling balldropped into the pocket labeled eight.

  "Let's get out of this hole," he said to Lindsay in a low voice. "Idon't like it."

  "Suits me," agreed the other.

  As Bromfield was cashing his chips Clay came rigidly to attention. Twomen had just come into the room. One of them was "Slim" Jim Collins,the other Gorilla Dave. As yet they had not seen him. He did not lookat them, but at his host. There was a question in his mind he wantedsolved. The clubman's gaze passed over both the newcomers without theleast sign of recognition.

  "I didn't know what this joint was like or I'd never have brought you,"apologized Clarendon. "A friend of mine told me about it. He's got aqueer fancy if he likes this frazzled dive."

  Clay acquitted Bromfield of conspiracy. He must have been tailed hereby Durand's men. His host had nothing to do with it. What for? Theycould not openly attack him.

  "Slim" Jim's eyes fell on him. He nudged Dave. Both of them, standingnear the entrance, watched Lindsay steadily.

  Some one outside the door raised the cry, "The bulls are comin'."

  Instantly the room leaped to frenzied excitement. Men dived for thedoors, bets forgotten and chips scattered over the floor. Chairs weresmashed as they charged over them, tables overturned. The unwary weretrodden underfoot.

  Bromfield went into a panic. Why had he been fool enough to trustDurand? No doubt the fellow would ruin him as willingly as he wouldLindsay. The raid was fifteen minutes ahead of schedule time. Theward politician had betrayed him. He felt sure of it. All thecarefully prepared plans agreed upon he jettisoned promptly. His solethought was to save himself, not to trap his rival.

  Lindsay caught him by the arm. "Let's try the back room."

  He followed Clay, Durand's gangmen at his heels.

  The lights went out.

  The Westerner tried the window. It was heavily barred outside. Heturned to search for a door.

  Brought up by the partition, Bromfield was whimpering with fear as hetoo groped for a way of escape. A pale moon shone through the windowupon his evening clothes.

  In the dim light Clay knew that tragedy impended. "Slim" Jim had hisautomatic out.

  "I've got you good," the chauffeur snarled.

  The gun cracked. Bromfield bleated in frenzied terror as Clay dashedforward. A chair swung round in a swee
ping arc. As it descended thespitting of the gun slashed through the darkness a second time.

  "Slim" Jim went down, rolled over, lay like a log.

  Some one dived for Lindsay and drove him against the wall, pinning himby the waist. A second figure joined the first and caught thecattleman's wrist.

  Then the lights flashed on again. Clay saw that the man who had flunghim against the partition was Gorilla Dave. A plain-clothes man with astar had twisted his wrist and was clinging to it. Bromfield wasnowhere to be seen, but an open door to the left showed that he hadfound at least a temporary escape.

  A policeman came forward and stooped over the figure of the prostrateman.

  "Some one's croaked a guy," he said.

  Gorilla Dave spoke up quickly. "This fellow did it. With a chair. Iseen him."

  There was a moment before Lindsay answered quietly. "He shot twice.The gun must be lying under him where he fell."

  Already men had crowded forward to the scene of the tragedy, moved bythe morbid curiosity a crowd has in such sights. Two policemen pushedthem back and turned the still body over. No revolver was to be seen.

  "Anybody know who this is?" one of the officers asked.

  "Collins--'Slim' Jim," answered big Dave.

  "Well, he's got his this time," the policeman said. "Skull smashed."

  Clay's heart sank. In that noise of struggling men and crashingfurniture very likely the sound of the shots had been muffled. Therevolver gone, false testimony against him, proof that he hadthreatened Collins available, Clay knew that he was in desperatestraits.

  "There was another guy here with him in them glad rags," volunteeredone of the gamblers captured in the raid.

  "Who was he?" asked the plain-clothes man of his prisoner.

  Clay was silent. He was thinking rapidly. His enemies had him trappedat last with the help of circumstance, Why bring Bromfield into it? Itwould mean trouble and worry for Beatrice.

  "Better speak up, young fellow, me lad," advised the detective. "Itwon't help you any to be sulky. You're up against the electric chairsure."

  The Arizonan looked at him with the level, unafraid eyes of the hills.

  "I reckon I'll not talk till I'm ready," he said in his slow drawl.

  The handcuffs clicked on his wrists.