TRAFFIC IN SOULS
CHAPTER I
NIGHT COURT
Officer 4434 beat his freezing hands together as he stood with his backto the snow-laden north-easter, which rattled the creaking signboardsof East Twelfth Street, and covered, with its merciful shroud of wetflakes, the ash-barrels, dingy stoops, gaudy saloon porticos and otherarchitectural beauties of the Avenue corner.
Officer 4434 was on "fixed post."
This is an institution of the New York police department which makes itpossible for citizens to locate, in time of need, a representative ofthe law. At certain street crossings throughout the boroughs bluecoatsare assigned to guard-duty during the night, where they can keep closewatch on the neighboring thoroughfares. The "fixed post" increases theefficiency of the service, but it is a bitter ordeal on the men.
Officer 4434 shivered under his great coat. He pulled the storm hoodof his cap closer about his neck as he muttered an opinion, far frombeing as cold as the biting blast, concerning the Commissioner who hadinstalled the system. He had been on duty over an hour, and even hissturdy young physique was beginning to feel the strain of the Arctictemperature.
"I wonder when Maguire is coming to relieve me?" muttered 4434, whensuddenly his mind left the subject, as his keen vision descried twostruggling figures a few yards down the dark side of Twelfth Street.
There was no outcry for help. But 4434 knew his precinct too well towait for that. He quietly walked to the left corner and down towardthe couple. As he neared them the mist of the eddying snowflakesbecame less dense; he could discern a short man twisting the arm of atall woman, who seemed to be top heavy from an enormous black-plumedhat. The faces of the twain were still indistinct. The man whirledthe woman about roughly. She uttered a subdued moan of pain, and 4434,as he softly approached them, his footfalls muffled by the blanket ofwhite, could hear her pleading in a low tone with the man.
"Aw, kid, I ain't got none ... I swear I ain't... Oh, oh ... ye know Iwouldn't lie to ye, kid!"
"Nix, Annie. Out wid it, er I'll bust yer damn arm!"
"Jimmie, I ain't raised a nickel to-night ... dere ain't even a sailorout a night like dis... Oh, oh, kid, don't treat me dis way..."
Her voice died down to a gasp of pain.
Officer 4434 was within ten feet of the couple by this time. Herecognized the type though not the features of the man, who had nowwrenched the woman's arm behind her so cruelly that she had fallen toher knees, in the snow. The fellow was so intent upon his quest formoney that he did not observe the approach of the policeman.
But the woman caught a quick glimpse of the intruder into their"domestic" affairs. She tried to warn her companion.
"Jimmie, dere's a..."
She did not finish, for her companion wished to end further argumentwith his own particular repartee.
He swung viciously with his left arm and brought a hard fist across thewoman's pleading lips. She screamed and sank back limply.
As she did so, Officer 4434 reached forward with a vise-like grip andclosed his tense fingers about the back of Jimmie's muscular neck.Holding his night stick in readiness for trouble, with that knackpeculiar to policemen, he yanked the tough backward and threw him tohis knees. Annie sprang to her feet.
"Lemme go!" gurgled the surprised Jimmie, as he wriggled to get free.Without a word, the woman who had been suffering from his brutality,now sprang upon the rescuing policeman with the fury of a lionessrobbed of her cub. She clawed at the bluecoat's face and cursed himwith volubility.
"I'll git you broke fer this!" groaned Jimmie, as 4434 held him to hisknees, while Annie tried to get her hold on the officer's neck. It wasa temptation to swing the night-stick, according to the laws of war,and then protect himself against the fury of the frenzied woman. But,this is an impulse which the policeman is trained to subdue--publicopinion on the subject to the contrary notwithstanding. Officer 4434knew the influence of the gangsters with certain politicians, who hadinfluence with the magistrates, who in turn meted out summaryreprimands and penalties to policemen un-Spartanlike enough to defendthemselves with their legal weapons against the henchmen of the EastSide politicians!
Annie had managed by no mean pugilistic ability to criss-cross fivepainful scratches with her nails, upon the policeman's face, despitehis attempt to guard himself.
Jimmie, with tactical resourcefulness, had twisted around in such a waythat he delivered a strong-jaw nip on the right leg of the policeman.
4434 suddenly released his hold on the man's neck, whipped out hisrevolver and fired it in the air. He would have used the signal forhelp generally available at such a time, striking the night stick uponthe pavement, but the thick snow would have muffled the resonant alarm.
"Beat it, Annie, and git de gang!" cried out Jimmie as he scrambled tohis feet. The woman sped away obediently, as Officer 4434 closed inagain upon his prisoner. The gangster covered the retreat of the womanby grappling the policeman with arms and legs.
The two fell to the pavement, and writhed in their struggle on the snow.
Jimmie, like many of the gang men, was a local pugilist of no meanability. His short stature was equalized in fighting odds by atremendous bull strength. 4434, in his heavy overcoat, and with thestorm hood over his head and neck was somewhat handicapped. Even asthey struggled, the efforts of the nimble Annie bore fruit. Insurprisingly brief time a dozen men had rushed out from the neighboringsaloon, and were giving the doughty policeman more trouble than hecould handle.
Suddenly they ran, however, for down the street came two speedingfigures in the familiar blue coats. One of the officers was shrillyblowing his whistle for reinforcements. He knew what to expect in agang battle and was taking no chances.
Maguire, who had just come on to relieve 4434, lived up to his dutymost practically by catching the leg of the battling Jimmie, and givingit a wrestling twist which threw the tough with a thud on the pavement,clear of his antagonist.
4434 rose to his feet stiffly, as his rescuers dragged Jimmie to astanding position.
"Well, Burke, 'tis a pleasant little party you do be having,"volunteered Maguire. "Sure, and you've been rassling with Jimmie theMonk. Was he trying to pick yer pockets?"
"Naw, I wasn't doin' nawthin', an' I'm goin' ter git that rookie brokefer assaultin' me. I'm goin' ter write a letter to the Mayor!" growledJimmie.
Officer Burke laughed a bit ruefully.
He mopped some blood off his face, from the nail scratches of Jimmie'slady associate, and then turned toward the two officers.
"He didn't pick my pockets--it was just the old story, of beating uphis woman, trying to get the money she made on the street to-night.When I tried to help her they both turned on me."
"Faith, Burke, I thought you had more horse sense," responded Maguire."That's a dangerous thing to do with married folks, or them as ought tobe married. They'll fight like Kilkenny cats until the good Samaritancomes along and then they form a trust and beat up the Samaritan."
"I think most women these days need a little beating up anyway, to keep'em from worrying about their troubles," volunteered Officer Dexter."I'd have been happier if I had learned that in time."
"Say, nix on dis blarney, youse!" interrupted the Monk, who was tryingto wriggle out of the arm hold of Burke and Maguire. "I ain't gonterstand fer dis pinch wen I ain't done nawthin."
A police sergeant, who had heard the whistle as he made his rounds, nowcame up.
"What's the row?" he gruffly exclaimed. Burke explained. The sergeantshook his head.
"You're wasting time, Burke, on this sort of stuff. When you've beenon the force a while longer you'll learn that it's the easiest thing tolook the other way when you see these men fighting with their women.The magistrates won't do a thing on a policeman's word alone. You justsee. Now you've got to go down to Night Court with this man, get acall down because you haven't got a witness, and this rummie gets setfree. Why, you'd think these magistrates had to apologize fo
r therebeing a police force! The papers go on about the brutality of thepolice, and the socialists howl about Cossack methods, and theministers preach about graft and vice, and the reformers sit in theirmahogany chairs in the skyscraper offices and dictate poems about sin,and the cops have to walk around and get hell beat out of 'em by thesewops and kikes every time they tries to keep a little order!"
The sergeant turned to Maguire.
"You know these gangs around here, Mack. Who's this guy's girl?"
"He's got three or four, sergeant," responded the officer. "I guessthis one must be Dutch Annie. Was she all dolled up with about ahundred dollars' worth of ostrich feathers, Burke?"
"Yes--tall, and some fighter."
"That's the one. Her hangout is over there on the corner, inShultberger's cabaret. We can get her now, maybe."
The sergeant beckoned to Dexter.
"Run this guy over to the station house, and put him down on theblotter for disorderly conduct, and assaulting an officer. You getonto your post, Maguire, or the Commish'll be shooting past here in amachine on the way to some ball at the Ritz, and will have us all oncharges. You come with me, Burke, and we'll nab that woman as amaterial witness."
Burke and his superior crossed the street and quickly entered theornate portal of Shultberger's cabaret, which was in reality the annexto his corner barroom.
As they strode in a waiter stood by a tuneless piano, upon which abloated "professor" was beating a tattoo of cheap syncopationaccompaniment of the advantages of "Bobbin' Up An' Down," which waswarbled with that peculiarly raucous, nasal tenor so popular inTenderloin resorts. The musical waiter's jaw fell in the middle of abob, as he espied the blue uniforms.
He disappeared behind a swinging door with the professional skill of astage magician.
Sitting around the dilapidated wooden tables was a motley throng ofred-nosed women, loafers, heavy-jowled young aliens, and a scatteringof young girls attired in cheap finery; a prevailing color of chemicalyellow as to hair, and flaming red cheeks and lips.
Instinctively the gathering rose for escape, but the sergeant strodeforward to one particular table, where sat a girl nursing a bleedingmouth.
Burke remained by the door to shut off that exit.
"Is this the one?" asked the sergeant, as he put his hands on the youngwoman's shoulder.
Burke scrutinized her closely, responding quickly.
"Yes!"
"Come on, you," ordered the roundsman. "I want you. Quick!"
"Say, I ain't done a thing, what do ye want me fer?" whined the girl,as the sergeant pulled at her sleeve. The officer did not reply, buthe looked menacingly about him at the evil company.
"If any of you guys starts anything I'm going to call out the reserves.Come on, Annie."
The proprietor, Shultberger, now entered from the front, after awarning from his waiter.
"Vot's dis, sergeant? Vot you buttin' in my place for? Ain't I inright?" he cried.
"Shut up. This girl has been assaulting an officer, and I want her.Come on, now, or I'll get the wagon here, and then there will betrouble."
Annie began to pull back, and it looked as though some of the toughswould interfere. But Shultberger understood his business.
"Now, Annie, don't start nottings here. Go on vid de officer. I'llfix it up all right. But I don't vant my place down on de blotter.Who vas it--Jimmie?"
The girl began to cry, and gulped the glass of whiskey on the table asshe finally yielded to the tug of the sergeant.
"Yes, it's Jimmie. An' he wasn't doin' a ting. Dese rookies is alwaysmakin' trouble fer me."
She sobbed hysterically as the sergeant walked her out. Shultbergerpatted her on the shoulder reassuringly.
"Dot's all right, Annie. I vouldn't let nodding happen to Jimmie.I'll bail him out and you too. Go along; dot's a good girl." Heturned to his guests, and motioned to them to be silent.
The "professor," at the piano, used to such scenes, lulled the nervesof the company with a rag-time variation of "Oh, You Beautiful Doll,"and Burke, the sergeant and Annie went out into the night.
The girl was taken to the station. The lieutenant looked questioninglyat Officer 4434.
"Want to put her down for assault?" he asked.
Burke looked at the unhappy creature. Her hair was half-down her back,and her lips swollen and bleeding from Jimmie's brutal blow. The cheaprouge on her face; the heavy pencilling of her brows, the crudelyapplied blue and black grease paint about her eyes, the tawdry pastenecklace around her powdered throat; the pitifully thin silk dress inwhich she had braved the elements for a few miserable dollars: allthese brought tears to the eyes of the young officer.
He was sick at heart.
The girl shivered and sobbed in that hysterical manner which indicatesweakness, emptiness, lack of soul--rather than sorrow.
"Poor thing--I couldn't do it. I don't want to see her sent toBlackwell's Island. She's getting enough punishment every day--andevery night."
"Well, she's made your face look like a railroad map. You're too soft,young fellow. I'll put her down as a material witness. Go wash thatblood off, and we'll send 'em both down to Night Court. You've doneyourself out of your relief butting in this way. Take a tip from me,and let these rummies fight it out among themselves after this as longas they don't mix up with somebody worth while."
Burke wiped his eye with the back of his cold hand. It was not snowwhich had melted there. He was young enough in the police service tofeel the pathos of even such common situations as this.
He turned quietly and went back to the washstand in the rear room ofthe station. The reserves were sitting about, playing checkers andcards. Some were reading.
Half a dozen of the men, fond of the young policeman, chatted with him,and volunteered advice, to which Burke had no reply.
"Don't start in mixing up with the Gas Tank Gang over one of thosegirls, Burke, for they're not worth it."
"You'll have enough to do in this precinct to look after your own skin,and round up the street holdups, or get singed at a tenement fire."
And so it went.
The worldly wisdom of his fellows was far from encouraging. Yet,despite their cynical expressions, Burke knew that warm hearts andgallant chivalry were lodged beneath the brass buttons.
There is a current notion among the millions of Americans who do notknow, and who have fortunately for themselves not been in the positionwhere they needed to know, that the policemen of New York are anorganized body of tyrannical, lying grafters who maintain their powerby secret societies, official connivance and criminal brute force.
Taken by and large, there is no fighting organization in any army inthe world which can compare with the New York police force for physicalequipment, quick action under orders or upon the initiative required byemergencies, gallantry or _esprit de corps_. For salaries barely equalto those of poorly paid clerks or teamsters, these men risk their livesdaily, must face death at any moment, and are held under a disciplineno less rigorous than that of the regular army. Their problems aremore complex than those of any soldiery; they deal with fifty differentnationalities, and are forced by circumstances to act as judge andjury, as firemen, as life savers, as directories, as arbiters ofneighborhood squabbles and domestic wrangles. Their greatest servicesare rendered in the majority of cases which never call for arrest andprosecution. That there are many instances of petty "graft," and that,in some cases, the "middle men" prey on the underworld cannot be denied.
But it is the case against a certain policeman which receives theattention of the newspapers and the condemnation of the public, whilealmost unheeded are scores of heroic deeds which receive bare mentionin the daily press. For the misdeed of one bad policeman the gallantryand self-sacrifice of a hundred pass without appreciation.
There have been but three recorded instances of cowardice in the annalsof the New York police force. The memory of them still rankles in thebosom of every member. And yet the perfor
mance of duty at the cost oflife and limb is regarded by the uniformed men as merely being "all inthe day's work." The men are anxious to do their duty in every way,but political, religious, social and commercial influences arecontinually erecting stone walls across the path of that duty.
Superhuman in wisdom, thrice blest in luck is the bluecoat whoconscientiously can live up to his own ideals, carry out the law aswritten by his superiors without being sent to "rusticate with thegoats," or being demoted for stepping upon the toes of some of thosesame superiors!
Officer Bobbie Burke betook himself to the Night Court to lodge hiscomplaint against Jimmie the Monk. The woman, Dutch Annie, snivelingand sobbing, was lodged in a cell near the gangster before beingbrought before the rail to face the magistrate.
Burke saw that they could not communicate with each other, and so hopedthat he could have his own story accepted by the magistrate. He stoodby the door of the crowded detention room, which opened into a largercourtroom, where the prisoners were led one by one to the prisoner'sdock--in this case, a hand-rail two feet in front of the long desk ofthe judge, while that worthy was seated on a platform which enabled himto look down at the faces of the arraigned.
It was an apparently endless procession.
The class of arrests was monotonous. Three of every four cases werethose of street women who had been arrested by "plain clothes" men ordetectives for solicitation on the street.
The accusing officer took a chair at the left of the magistrate. Theuniformed attendant handed the magistrate the affidavits of complaint.The judge mechanically scrawled his name at the bottom of the papers,glanced at the words of the arraignments, and then scowled over theedge of his desk at the flashily dressed girls before him. They allseemed slight variations on the same mould.
Perhaps one girl would simulate some hysterical sobs, and begin byprotesting her innocence. Another would be hard and indifferent. Athird, indignant.
"What about this, officer?" the judge would ask. "Where did you seethis woman, what did you say, what did she say, and what happened?"
The detective, in a voice and manner as mechanical as that of thejudge, would mumble his oft repeated story, giving the exact minute ofhis observations, the actions of the woman in accosting differentpedestrians and in her final approach to him.
"How many times before have you been arrested, girl?" the magistratewould growl.
Sometimes the girls would admit the times; in most cases their memorieswere defective, until the accusing officer would cite past history.This girl had been arrested and paroled once before; that one had beensent to "the Island" for thirty days; the next one was an habitualoffender. It was a tragic monotony. Sometimes the magistrate wouldsummon the sweet-faced matron to have a talk with some young girl,evidently a "green one" for whom there might be hope. There was morekindliness and effort to reform the prisoners behind those piercingeyes of the judge than one might have supposed to hear him drone outhis judgment: "Thirty days, Molly"; "Ten dollars, Aggie--the Islandnext time, sure"; "Five dollars for you, Sadie," and so on. There wasa weary, hopeless look in the magistrate's eyes, had you studied himclose at hand. He knew, better than the reformers, of the horrors ofthe social evil, at the very bottom of the cup of sin. Better thanthey could he understand the futility of garrulous legislation at theState Capitol, to be offset by ignorance, avarice, weakness and diseasein the congestion of the big, unwieldy city. When he fined the girlshe knew that it meant only a hungry day, one less silk garment orperhaps a beating from an angry and disappointed "lover." When he sentthem to the workhouse their activities were merely discontinued for awhile to learn more vileness from companions in their imprisonment; tomake for greater industry--busier vice and quicker disease upon theirreturn to the streets. The occasional cases in which there was somechance for regeneration were more welcome to him, even, than to theweak and sobbing girls, hopeless with the misery of their earlydefeats. Yet, the magistrate knew only too well the miserable minimumof cases which ever resulted in real rescue and removal from the sordidexistence.
Once as low as the rail of the Night Court--a girl seldom escaped fromthe slime into which she had dragged herself. And yet _had_ shedragged herself there? Was _she_ to blame? Was she to pay theconsequences in the last Reckoning of Accounts?
This thought came to Officer Bobbie Burke as he watched the horribledrama drag monotonously through its brief succession of sordid scenes.
The expression of the magistrate, the same look of sympathetic miseryon the face of the matron, and even on many of the detectives,automatons who had chanted this same official requiem of dead souls,years of nights ... not a sombre tone of the gruesome picture was lostto Burke's keen eyes.
"Some one has to pay; some one has to pay! I wonder who?" mutteredOfficer 4434 under his breath.
There were cases of a different caliber. Yet Burke could see in themwhat Balzac called "social coordination."
Now a middle-aged woman, with hair unkempt, and hat awry, maudlin tearsin her swollen eyes, and swaying as she held the rail, looked shiftilyup into the magistrate's immobile face.
"You've been drunk again, Mrs. Rafferty? This is twice during the lastfortnight that I've had you here."
"Yis, yer honor, an me wid two foine girls left home. Oh, Saint Maryprotect me, an' oi'm a (hic) bad woman. Yer honor, it's the fault ofme old man, Pat. (Hic) Oi'm _not_ a bad woman, yer honor."
The magistrate was kind as he spoke.
"And what does Pat do?"
"He beats me, yer honor (hic), until Oi sneak out to the familyintrance at the corner fer a quiet nip ter fergit it. An' the girls,they've been supportin' me (hic), an' payin the rint, an' buyin' thevittles, an' (hic) it's a dog's life they lead, wid all their work.When they go out wid dacint young min (hic), Pat cusses the young min,an' beats the girls whin they come home (hic)."
Here the woman broke down, sobbing, while the attendant kept her fromswaying and falling.
"There, there, Mrs. Rafferty. I'll suspend sentence this time. Butdon't let it happen another time. You have Pat arrested and I'll teachhim something about treating you right."
"My God, yer honor (hic), the worst of it is it's me two girls--theyain't got no home, but a drunken din, the next thing I knows they'll bearristed (hic) and brought up before ye like these other poor divvels.Yer honor, it's drunken Pats and min like him that's bringin' thesepoor girls here--it ain't the cops an' the sports (hic), yer honor."
The woman staggered as the magistrate quietly signaled the attendant tolead her through the gate, and up the aisle of the court to the outerdoor.
As she passed by the spectators, two or three richly dressed youngwomen giggled and nudged the dapper youths with whom they were sitting.
"Silence!" cried the magistrate tersely. "This is not a cabaret show.I don't want any seeing-New-York parties here. Sergeant, put thosepeople out of the court."
The officer walked up the aisle and ordered the society buds and theirescorts to leave.
"Why, we're studying sociology," murmured one girl. "It's a verystupid thing, however, down here."
"So vulgar, my dear," acquiesced her friend. "There's nothinginteresting anyway. Just the same old story."
They noisily arose, and walked out, while Officer Burke could hear oneof the gilded youths exclaim in a loud voice as they reached the outercorridor:
"Come on, let's go up to Rector's for a little tango, and see some reallife...."
The magistrate who had heard it tapped his pen on the desk, and lookedquizzically at the matron.
"They are doubtless preparing some reform legislation for the suffrageplatform, Mrs. Grey, and I have inadvertently delayed the millennium.Ah, a pity!"
Burke was impatient for the calling of his own case. He was tired. Hewould have been hungry had he not been so nauseated by the sickeningenvironment. He longed for the fresh air; even the snowstorm wasbetter than this.
But his turn had not come. The next to be called was another
answer tohis mental question.
A young woman with a blackened eye and a bleeding cheek was brought inby a fat, jolly officer, who led a burly, sodden man with him.
The charge was quarreling and destroying the furniture of a neighbor inwhose flat the fight had taken place.
"Who started it?" asked the magistrate.
"She did, your honor. She ain't never home when I wants my vittlescooked, and she blows my money so there ain't nothing in the house toeat for meself. She's always startin' things, and she did this timewhen I tells her to come on home...."
"Just a minute," interrupted the magistrate. "What is the cause ofthis, little woman? Who struck you on the eye?"
The woman's lips trembled, and she glanced at the big fellow besideher. He glowered down at her with a threatening twist of his mouth.
"Why, your honor, you see, the baby was sick, and Joe, he went out withthe boys pay night, and we didn't have a cent in the flat, and I hadto..."
"Shut up, or I'll bust you when I get you alone!" muttered Joe, untilthe judge pounded on the table with his gavel.
"You won't be where you can bust her!" sharply exclaimed themagistrate. "Go on, little woman. When did he hit you?"
The wife trembled and hesitated. The magistrate nodded encouragingly.
"Why weren't you home?" he asked softly.
"My neighbor, Mrs. Goldberg, likes the baby, and she was showing me howto make some syrup for its croup, your honor, sir. We haven't got anylight--it's a quarter gas meter, and there wasn't anything to cookwith, and I had the baby in her flat, and Joe he just got home--hehadn't been there ... since ... Saturday night ... I didn't haveanything to eat--since then, myself."
Joe whirled about threateningly, but the officer caught his upliftedarm.
"She lies. She ain't straight, that's what it is. Hanging around them_Sheenies_, and sayin' it's the baby. She lies!"
The little woman's face paled, and she staggered back, her tremulousfingers clutching at the empty air as her great eyes opened with horrorat his words.
"I'm not _straight_? Oh, oh, Joe! You're killing me!"
She moaned as though the man had beat her again.
"Six months!" rasped out the magistrate between his teeth. "And I'mgoing to put you under a peace bond when you get out. Little woman,you're dismissed."
Joe was roughly jostled out into the detention room again by therosy-cheeked policeman, whose face was neither so jolly nor rosy now.The woman sobbed, and leaned across the rail, her outstretched armsheld pleadingly toward the magistrate.
"Oh, judge, sir ... don't send him up for six months. How can the babyand I live? We have no one, not one soul to care for us, and I'mexpecting..."
Mercifully her nerves gave way, and she fainted. The gruff old courtattendant, now as gentle as a nurse, caught her, and with the gateman,carried her at the judge's direction, toward his own private office,whither hurried Mrs. Grey, the matron.
The magistrate blew his nose, rubbed his glasses, and irritably lookedat the next paper.
"Jimmie Olinski. Officer Burke. Hurry up, I want to call recess!" heexclaimed.
Burke, in a daze of thoughts, pulled himself together, and then tookthe arm of Jimmie the Monk, who advanced with manner docile andobsequious. He was not a stranger to the path to the rail. Anotherofficer led Annie forward. Burke took the chair.
"Don't waste my time," snapped the magistrate. "What's this? Anotherfight?"
Officer 4434 explained the situation.
"Do you want to complain, woman?" asked the magistrate.
"Complain, why yer honor, dis cop is lyin' like a house afire. Dis isme gent' friend, an' I got me face hoit by dis cop hittin' me when hebutted into our conversation. Dis cop assaulted us both, yer honor."
"That'll do. Shut up. You know what this is, don't you, Burke? Thesame old story. Why do you waste time on this sort of thing unlessyou've got a witness? You know one of these women will never testifyagainst the man, no matter how much he beats and robs her."
"But, your honor, the man assaulted her and assaulted me," began Burke.
"She doesn't count. That's the pity of it, poor thing. I'll hold himover to General Sessions for a criminal trial on assaulting you."
In the back of the room a stout man in a fur overcoat arose.
It was Shultberger. He came down the aisle.
As he did so, unnoticed by Officer 4434, three of Shultberger'scompanions arose and quietly left the courtroom by the front entrance.
"Oxcuse me, Chudge, but may I offer bail for my friend, little Jimmie?"
He had some papers in his hand, for this was what might be called aby-product of his saloon business; Shultberger was always ready for theassistance of his clients.
The magistrate looked sharply at him. "Down here again, eh? I'd thinkthose deeds and that old brick house would be worn out by this time,Shultberger, from the frequency with which you juggle it against theliberty of your friends."
"It's a fine house, Chudge, and was assessed."
"Yes--go file your papers," snapped the magistrate. "You can reportback to your station house, officer. There is no charge against thisgirl--she is merely held as material witness. She'll never testify.She's discharged. Take my advice, Burke, and play safe with thesegun-men. You're in a neighborhood which needs good precaution as wellas good intentions. Good night."
The magistrate rose, declaring a recess for one hour, and Officer 4434left the court through the police entrance.
As he turned the corner of the old Court building, he repeated tohimself the question which had forced itself so strongly upon him: "Whois to blame? Who has to pay? The men or the women?"
Again he saw, mentally, the sobbing, drunken Irish woman with the twodaughters who had no home life. He saw the brutal Joe, and hisfainting wife as he cast the horrible words "not straight" into hersoul. He saw that the answer to his question, and the shallow societyyoungsters, who had left the courtroom to see "real life" at Rector's,were not disconnected from that answer.
But he did not see a dark form behind a stone buttress at the corner ofthe old building. He did not see a brick which came hurtling throughthe air from behind him.
He merely fell forward, mutely--with a fractured skull!