X
UNDER FIRE
Bloated though he was with lawless wealth and fat with insufferableself-satisfaction, P. Sybarite, trotting by the side of his host, wasdwarfed alike in dignity and in physique, strongly resembling anespecially cocky and ragged Airedale being tolerated by a well-groomedSt. Bernard.
Now when Pete had placed a plate of caviare sandwiches between them,and filled their glasses from a newly opened bottle, he withdrew fromthe lounge and closed the door behind him; whether or not at a signfrom Penfield, P. Sybarite was unaware; though as soon as they werealone and private, he grew unpleasantly sensitive to a drop in thetemperature of the entente cordiale which had thus far obtainedbetween himself and the gambler. Penfield's eyes promptly lost much oftheir genial glow, and simultaneously his face seemed weirdly lessplump and rosy with prosperity and contentment. Notwithstanding this,with no loss of manner, he lifted a ceremonious glass to the health ofhis guest.
"Congratulations!" said he; and drank as a thirsty man drinks.
"May your shadow never grow less!" P. Sybarite returned, putting downan empty glass.
"That's a perfectly good wish plumb wasted," said Penfield, refillingboth glasses, his features twisted in the wriest of grimaces. "Factis--I don't mind telling you--your luck to-night has, I'm afraid,played the very devil with me. This house won't open up again until Iraise another bank-roll."
"My sympathy," said P. Sybarite, sipping. "I'm really distressed....And yet," he added thoughtfully, "you had no chance--none whatever."
"How's that?" said Penfield, staring.
"You couldn't have won against me to-night," P. Sybarite ingenuouslyexplained; "it could _not_ be done: I am invincible: itis--_Kismet_!--my Day of Days!"
Penfield laughed discordantly.
"Maybe it looks that way to you. But aren't you a little premature?You haven't banked that wad yet, you know. Any minute something mighthappen to make you think otherwise."
"Nothing like that is going to happen," P. Sybarite retorted with calmconviction. "The luck's with me at present!"
"And yet," said the other, abandoning his easy pose and sitting upwith a sharpened glance and tone, "you are wrong--quite wrong."
"What makes you think that?" demanded P. Sybarite, finishing hissecond glass.
"Because," said his host with a dangerous smile, "I am a desperateman."
"Oh?" said P. Sybarite thoughtfully.
"Believe me," insisted the other with convincing simplicity: "I'm sucha bum loser, I'm willing to stake my last five hundred on theproposition that you don't leave this house a dollar richer than youentered it."
"Done!" said P. Sybarite instantly. "If I get away with it, you pay mefive hundred dollars. Is that right?"
"Exactly!"
"But--where shall we meet to settle the wager?"
Penfield smiled cheerfully. "Dine with me at the Bizarre this eveningat seven."
"If I lose, with pleasure. Otherwise, you are to be my guest."
"It's a bargain."
"And--that being understood," pursued P. Sybarite curiously--"perhapsyou won't mind explaining your grounds for this conspicuousconfidence."
"Not in the least," said the other, pulling comfortably at hiscigar--"that is, if you're willing to come through with a littleinformation. I'm curious to know how you came to butt in here on mypersonal card of introduction. Where did you get it?"
"Found it in a hat left in my possession by a gentleman in a greathurry, whom I much desired to see again, and therefore--presuming himto be Mr. Bailey Penfield--came here to find."
"A gentleman unknown to you?"
"Entirely: a tall young man with an ugly mouth; rather fancieshimself, I should say: a bit of a bounder. You recognise this sketch?"
"Perhaps ..." Penfield murmured thoughtfully.
"His name?"
"Maybe he wouldn't thank me for telling you that."
"Very well. Now then: why and how are you going to separate me from mywinnings?"
"By force," said Mr. Penfield with engaging candour. "It desolates meto descend to rough-neck methods, but I am a larger, stronger man thanyou, Mr.--"
"Sybarite," said the little man, flushing, "P.--by the grace ofGod!--Sybarite."
"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sybarite.... But before welose our tempers, what do you say to a fair proposition: leave me whatyou have won to-night, and I'll pay it back to the last cent withinterest in less than six months."
P. Sybarite shook his head: "I'm sorry."
The dark blood surged into Penfield's cheeks. "You won't accept myword--?"
"I have every confidence in your professional honour," P. Sybaritereplied blandly, "up to the certain point to which we have attainedto-night. But the truth is--I need the money."
"You're unwise," said the other, and sighed profoundly. "I'm sorry.You oblige me to go the extreme limit."
"Not I. On the contrary, I advise you against any such dangerouscourse."
"Dangerous?"
"If you interfere with me, I'll go to the police."
"The police?" Penfield elaborated an inflexion of derision. "I keepthis precinct in my vest pocket."
"Possibly--so far as concerns your maintenance of a gambling house.But murder--that's another matter."
"Meaning, you refuse to submit without extreme measures?"
"Meaning just that, sir!"
Again the gambler sighed. "What must be, must," said he, rising.Moving to the wall, he pressed a call-button, and simultaneouslywhipped a revolver into view. "I hope you're not armed," he protestedsincerely. "It would only make things messy. And then I hate to havemy employees run any risk--"
"You are summoning a posse, I take it?" enquired P. Sybarite, likewiseon his feet.
"Half a dozen huskies," assented the other. "If you know your littlebook, you'll come through at once and save yourself a manhandling."
"It's too bad," P. Sybarite regretted pensively--and cast a desperateglance round the room.
What he saw afforded him no comfort. The one door was unquestionablyguarded on the farther side. The windows, though curtained, were asindubitably locked and further protected by steel outside blinds.Besides, Penfield bulked big and near at hand, a weapon of the mostdeadly calibre steadily levelled at the head of his guest.
But exactly at the moment when despair entered into the heart of thelittle man--dispossessing altogether his cool assumption of confidencein his star--there rang through the house a crash so heavy that itsmuffled thunder penetrated even the closed door of the lounge. Anotherfollowed it instantly, and at deliberate intervals a third and fourth.
Penfield blenched. His eyes wavered. He punched the bell-button asecond time.
The door was thrown wide and--with the instantaneous effect of ajack-in-the-box--Pete showed a dirty-grey face of fright on thethreshold.
"Good Lord, boss!" he yelled. "Run for yo' life! We's raided!"
He vanished....
With an oath, Penfield started toward the door--and instantly P.Sybarite shot at his gun hand like a terrier at the throat of a rat.Momentarily the shock of the assault staggered the gambler, and as hegave ground, reeling, P. Sybarite closed one set of sinewy fingerstight round his right wrist, and with the other seized and wrested therevolver away. The incident was history in a twinkling: P. Sybaritesprang back, armed, the situation reversed.
Recovering, Penfield threw him a cry of envenomed spite, and in onestride left the room. He was turning up the stairs, three steps and anoath at a bound, by the time P. Sybarite gained the threshold and spedhis departing host with a reminder superfluously ironic:
"The Bizarre at seven--don't forget!"
A breathless imprecation dropped to him from the head of thestaircase. And he chuckled--but cut the chuckle short when a heavy andmetallic clang followed the disappearance of the gambler. The irondoor upstairs had closed, shutting off the second floor from the lowerpart of the house, and at the same time consigning P. Sybarite to themercies of the police as soon a
s they succeeded in battering down thefront door.
Now he harboured no whim to figure as the sole victim of the raid--tobe arrested as a common gambler, loaded to the guards with cash andunable to give any creditable account of himself.
"Damn!" said P. Sybarite thoughtfully.
The front doors still held, though shaking beneath a shower ofaxe-strokes that filled the house with sonorous echoes.
At his feet, immediately to the left of the lounge door, yawned thewell of the basement stairway. And one chance was no more foolhardythan another. Like a shot down that dark hole he dropped--and broughtup with a bang against a closed door at the bottom. Happily, it wasn'tlocked. Turning the handle, he stumbled through, reclosed the door,and intelligently bolted it.
He was now in a narrow and odorous corridor, running from front torear of the basement. One or two doors open or ajar furnished all itslight. Trying the first at a venture, P. Sybarite discovered whatseemed a servant's bedroom, untenanted. The other introduced him to akitchen of generous proportions and elaborate appointments--cool,airy, and aglow with glistening white paint and electric light;everything in absolute order with the exception of the central table,where sat a man asleep, head pillowed on arms folded amid a disorderof plates, bottles and glasses--asleep and snoring lustily.
P. Sybarite pulled up with a hand on the knob, and blinked withsurprise--an emotion that would assuredly have been downright dismayhad the sleeper been conscious. For he was in uniform; and a cap hungon the back of his chair; and uniform and cap alike boasted theinsignia of the New York Police Department.
Wrinkling a perplexed nose, P. Sybarite swiftly considered thesituation. Here was the policeman on the beat--one of those creaturesof Penfield's vaunted vest-pocket crew--invited in for a bite and supby the steward of the house. The steward called away, he had driftednaturally into a gentle nap. And now--"Glad I'm not in _his_ shoes!"mused P. Sybarite.
And yet.... Urgent second thought changed the tenor of his tempertoward the sleeper. Better far to be in his shoes than in those of P.Sybarite, just then....
Remembering Penfield's revolver, he made sure it was safe and handy inhis pocket; then strode in and dropped an imperative hand on thepoliceman's shoulder.
"Here--wake up!" he cried; and shook him rudely.
The fellow stirred, grunted, and lifted a bemused, red countenance tothe breaker of rest.
"Hello!" he said in dull perception of a stranger. "What's--row?"
"Get up--pull yourself together!" P. Sybarite ordered sternly. "You're liable to be broke for this!"
"Broke?" The officer's eyes widened, but remained cloudy with sleep,drink, and normal confusion. "Where's Jimmy? Who're you?"
"Never mind me. Look to yourself. This place is being raided."
"Raided!" The man leaped to his feet with a cry. "G'wan! It ain'tpossible!"
"Listen, if you don't believe me."
The crashing of the axes and the grumble of the curious crowdassembled in the street were distinctly audible. The officer needed noother confirmation; and yet--instant by instant it became more clearlyapparent that he had drunk too deeply to be able to think for himself.Standing with a hand on the table, he rocked to and fro until, losinghis balance, he sat down heavily.
"My Gawd!" he cried. "I'm done for!"
"Nonsense! No more than I--unless you're too big a fool to take a wordof advice. Here--off with your coat."
"What's that?"
"I say, off with your coat, man--and look sharp! Get it off and I'llhide it while you slip into one of those waiter's jackets over there.Then, if they find us here, we can pretend to be employees. Youunderstand?"
"We'll get pinched, all the same," the man objected stupidly.
"Well, if we do, it only means a trip to the Night Court, and a fineof five or ten dollars. You'll be up to-morrow for absence from post,of course, but that's better than being caught half-drunk in thebasement of a gambling house on your beat."
Impressed, the officer started to unbutton his tunic, but hesitated.
"S'pose some of the boys recognise me?"
"Where are your wits?" demanded P. Sybarite in exasperation. "Thisisn't a precinct raid! You ought to know that. This is Whitman, goingover everybody's head. Anyhow, it can't be worse for you than itis--and my way gives you a fighting chance to get off."
"Guess you 're right," mumbled the other thickly, shrugging out of hiscoat and surrendering it.
Several white jackets hung from hooks on the wall near the door.Seizing one of these, the policeman had it on in a jiffy.
"Now what'll I do?" he pursued, as P. Sybarite, the blue coat over hisarm, grabbed the police cap and started for the door.
"Do? How do I know? Use your own head for a while. Pull yourselftogether--cut some bread--do something useful--make a noise like asteward--"
With this the little man shot out into the hallway, slammed the doorbehind him, and darted into the adjoining bedroom. Once there, he lostno time changing coats--not forgetting to shift his money aswell--cocked the cap jauntily on one side of his head (a bit too big,it fitted better that way, anyhow) buttoned up, and left the room onthe run. For by this time the front doors had fallen in and the upperfloor was echoing with deep, excited voices and heavy, hurryingfootsteps. In another moment or so they would be drawing the basementfor fugitives.
He had planned--vaguely, inconclusively--to leave by the area doorwhen the raiders turned their attention to the basement, presentinghimself to the crowd in the street in the guise of an officer, and somake off. But now--with his fingers on the bolts--misgivings assailedhim. He was physically not much like any policeman he had ever seen;and the blue tunic with its brass buttons was a wretched misfit on hisslight body. He doubted whether his disguise would passunchallenged--doubted so strongly that he doubled suddenly to the backdoor, flung it open, and threw himself out into the black strangenessof the night--and at the same time into the arms of two burlyplain-clothes men posted there to forestall precisely such an attemptat escape.
Strong arms clipping him, he struggled violently for an instant.
"Here!" a voice warned him roughly. "It ain't goin' to do you nogood--"
Another interrupted with an accent of deep disgust, in patentrecognition of his borrowed plumage: "Damned if it ain't a patrolman!"
"Why the hell didn't you say so?" demanded the first as P. Sybaritefell back, free.
"Didn't--have--time. Here--gimme a leg over this fence, will you?"
"What the devil--!"
"They've got a door through to the next house--getting out that way.That's what I'm after--to stop 'em. Shut up!" P. Sybarite insistedsavagely--"and give me a leg."
"Oh, well!" said one of the plain-clothes men in a slightly mollifiedvoice--"if that's the way of it--all right."
"Come along, then," brusquely insisted the impostor, leading the wayto the eastern wall of boards enclosing the back yard.
Curiously complaisant for one of his breed, the detective bent hisback and made a stirrup of his clasped hands, but no sooner had P.Sybarite fitted foot to that same than the man started and,straightening up abruptly, threw him flat on his back.
"Patrolman, hell! Whatcha doin' in them pants and shoes if you're apatrol--"
"Hel-_lo_!" exclaimed the other indignantly. "Impersonatin' anofficer--eh?"
With this he dived at P. Sybarite; who, having bounced up from asupine to a sitting position, promptly and peevishly swore, rolled toone side (barely eluding clutches that meant to him all thosefrightful and humiliating consequences that arrest means to theaverage man) and scrambled to his feet.
Immediately the others closed in upon him, supremely confident ofovercoming by concerted action that smallish, pale, and terrifiedbody. Whereupon P. Sybarite' stepped quickly to one side and, avoidingthe rush of one, directly engaged the other. Ducking beneath awindmill play of arms, he shot an accurate fist at this aggressor'sjaw; there was a click of teeth, the man's head snapped back, andfolding up like a tripod, he subsided at
length.
Then swinging on a heel, P. Sybarite met a second onset made moredangerous by the cooler calculations of a more sophisticatedantagonist. Nevertheless, deftly blocking a rain of blows, he closedin as if eager to escape punishment, and planted a lifted knee in thelarge of the detective's stomach so neatly that he, too, collapsedlike a punctured presidential boom and lay him down at rest.
Success so egregious momentarily stupefied even P. Sybarite. Gazingdown upon those two still shapes, so mighty and formidable whensentient, he caught his breath in sharp amazement.
"Great Heavens! Is it possible _I_ did that?" he cried aloud--and thenext moment, spurred by alert discretion, was scaling the fence withthe readiness of an alley-cat.
Instantaneously, as he poised above the abyss of Stygian blackness onthe other side, not a little daunted by its imperturbable mystery, aquick backward glance showed him figures moving in the basementhallway of the gambling house; and easing over, he dropped.
Hard flags received him with native impassivity: stumbling, he lostbalance and sat down with an emphasis that drove the breath from himin one mighty "_Ooof!_"
There was a simultaneous confusion of new, strange voices on the otherside of the fence; cries of surprise, recognition, excitement:
"Feeny, by all that's holy!"
"Mike Grogan, or I'm a liar!"
"What hit the two av urn?"
"Gawd knows!"
"Thin 'tis this waay thim murdherous divvles is b'atin' ut!"
"Gimme a back up that fince!..."
P. Sybarite picked himself up with even more alacrity that if he'dlanded in a bed of nettles, tore across that terra-incognita, found asecond fence, and was beyond it in a twinkling.
Swift as he was, however, detection attended him--a voice roaring:"There goes wan av thim now!"
Other voices chimed in spendthrift with suggestions and advice....
Blindly clearing fence after fence without even thinking to countthem, P. Sybarite hurtled onward. Noises in the rear indicated adetermined pursuit: once a voice whooped--"_Halt or I fire!_"--and ashot, waking echoes, sped the fugitive's heels....
But in time he had of necessity to pause for breath, and pulled up inthe back-yard of a Forty-sixth Street residence, his duty--to find away to the street and a shift from that uniform of unhappyinspiration--as plain as the problem it presented was obscure.