Felix O'Day

Chapter XXII

When Martha, on her return from Stephen's, had climbed the dimly lighted stairs leading to her apartment, she ran against a thick-set man, in brown clothes and derby hat, seated on the top step. He had interviewed the faded old wreck who served as janitress and, learning that Mrs. Munger would be back any minute, had taken this method of being within touching distance when the good woman unlocked her door. She might decide to leave him outside its panels while she got in her fine work of hiding the thing he had climbed up three flights of stairs to find. In that case, a twist of his foot between the door and the jamb would block the game.

“Are you the man who has been waiting for me?” she exclaimed, as the detective's big frame became discernible under the faint rays from the “Paul Pry” skylight.

“Yes, if you are the woman who is living with Mrs. Stanton.” He had risen to his feet and had moved toward the door.

“I'm Mrs. Munger, if that's who you are looking for, and we live together. She's not back yet, so the woman down-stairs has just told me. Are you from Rosenthal's?”

“I am.” He had edged nearer, his fingers within reach of the knob, his lids narrowing as he studied her face and movements.

“Did they find the lace—the mantilla?”

“Not as I heard,” he answered, noting her anxiety. “That's what brought me down. I thought maybe you might know something about it.”

“Didn't find it?” she sighed. “No, I knew they wouldn't. She was sure she had taken it up night before last, but I knew she hadn't. Where's my key?—Oh, yes—stand back and get out of my light so I can find the keyhole. It's dark enough as it is. That's right. Now come inside. You can wait for her better in here than out on these steps. Look, will you! There's her coffee just as she left it. She hasn't had a crumb to eat to-day. What do you want to see her about? The rest of the work? It's in the box there.”

Pickert, with a swift, comprehensive glance, summed up the apartment and its contents: the little table by the window with Lady Barbara's work-basket; the small stove, and pine table set out with the breakfast things; the cheap chairs; the dresser with its array of china, and the two bedrooms opening out of the modest interior. Its cleanliness and order impressed him; so did Martha's unexpected frankness. If she knew anything of the theft, she was an adept at putting up a bluff.

“When do you expect Mrs. Stanton back?” he began, in an offhand way, stretching his shoulders as if the long wait on the stairs had stiffened his joints. “That's her name, ain't it?”

“I expected to find her here,” she answered, ignoring his inquiry as to Lady Barbara's identity. “They are keeping her, no doubt, on some new work. She hasn't had any breakfast, and now it's long past lunch-time. And they didn't find the piece of lace? That's bad! Poor dear, she was near crazy when she found it was gone!”

Pickert had missed no one of the different expressions of anxiety and tenderness that had crossed her placid face. “No—it hadn't turned up when I left,” he replied; adding, with another stretch, quite as a matter of course, “she had it all right, didn't she?”

“Had it! Why, she's been nearly a week on it. I helped her all I could, but her eyes gave out.”

“Then you would know it again if you saw it?” The stretch was cut short this time.

“Of course I'd know it—don't I tell you I helped her fix it?”

The detective turned suddenly and, with a thrust of his chin, rasped out: “And if one, or both of you, pawned it somewhere round here, you could remember that, too, couldn't you?”

Martha drew back, her gentle eyes flashing: “Pawned it! What do you mean?”

The detective lunged toward her. “Just what I say. Now don't get on your ear, Mrs. Munger.” He was the thorough bully now. “It won't cut any ice with me or with Mr. Mangan. It didn't this morning or he wouldn't have sent me down here. We want that mantilla and we got to have it. If we don't there'll be trouble. If you know anything about it, now's the time to say so. The woman you call Mrs. Stanton got all balled up this morning, and couldn't say what she did with it. They all do that—we get half a dozen of 'em every week. She's pawned it all right—what I want to know is WHERE. Rosenthal's in a hole if we don't get it. If you've spent the money, I've got a roll right here.” And he tapped his pocket. “No questions asked, remember! All I want is the mantilla, and if it don't come she'll be in the Tombs and you'll go with her. We mean business, and don't you forget it!”

Martha turned squarely upon him—was about to speak—changed her mind—and drawing up a chair, settled down upon it.

“You're a nice young man, you are!” she exclaimed, scornfully. “A very nice young man! And you think that poor child is a thief, do you? Do you know who she is and what she's suffered? If I could tell you, you'd never get over it, you'd be that ashamed!”

She was not afraid of him; her army hospital experience had thrown her with too many kinds of men. What filled her with alarm was his reference to Lady Barbara. But for this uncertainty, and the possible consequences of such a procedure, she would have thrown open her door and ordered him out as she had done Dalton. Then, seeing that Pickert still maintained his attitude—that of a setter-dog with the bird in the line of his nose—she added testily:

“Don't stand there staring at me. Take a chair where I can talk to you better. You get on my nerves. It's pawned, is it? Yes. I believe you, and I know who pawned it. Dalton's got it—that's who. I thought so last night—now I'm sure of it.” She was on her feet now, tearing at her bonnet-string as if to free her throat. “He sneaked it out of that box on the floor beside you, when she was hiding from him in her bedroom.”

Pickert retreated slightly at this new development; then asked sharply: “Dalton! Who's Dalton?”

“The meanest cur that ever walked the earth—that's who he is. He's almost killed my poor lady, and now she must go to jail to please him. Not if I'm alive, she won't. He stole that mantilla! I'm just as sure of it as I am that my name is Martha Munger!”

Pickert's high tension relaxed. If this new clew had to be followed it could best be followed with the aid of this woman, who evidently hated the man she denounced. She would be of assistance, too, in identifying both the lace and the thief—and he had seen neither the one nor the other as yet. So it was the same old game, was it?—with a man at the bottom of the deal!

“Do you know the pawn-shops around here?” he asked, becoming suddenly confidential.

“Not one of them, and don't want to,” came the contemptuous reply. “When I get as low down as that, I've got a brother to help me. He'll be up here himself to-night and will tell you so.”

Pickert had been standing over her throughout the interview, despite her invitation to be seated. He now moved toward a seat, his hat still tilted back from his forehead.

“What makes you think this man you call Dalton stole it?” he asked, drawing a chair out from the table, as though he meant to let her lead him on a new scent.

“Come over here before you sit down and I'll tell you,” she exclaimed, peremptorily. “Now take a look at that box. Now watch me lift the lid, and see what you find,” and she enacted the little pantomime of the morning.

The detective stroked his chin with his forefinger. He was more interested in Martha's talk about Dalton than he was in the contents of the box. “And you want to get him, don't you?” he asked slyly.

“Me get him! I wouldn't touch him with a pair of tongs. What I want is for him to keep out of here—I told him that last night.”

“Well, then, tell me what he looks like, so I can get him.”

“Like anybody else until you catch the hang-dog droop in his eyes, as if he was afraid people would ask him some question he couldn't answer.”

“One of the slick kind?”

“Yes, for he's been a gentleman—before he got down to be a dog.”

“How old?”

“About thirty—maybe thirty two or three. You can't tell to look at him, he's that battered.”

“Smooth-shaven—well-dressed?”

“Yes—no beard nor mustache on him. I couldn't see his clothes. His big cape-coat, buttoned up to his chin, hid them and his face, too. He had a slouch-hat on his head with the brim pulled down when he went out.”

“And you say he's been living off of Mrs. Stanton since—”

“No, I didn't say it. I said he was a cur and that she wouldn't go to jail to please him—that's what I said. Now, young man, if you're through, I am. I've got to get my work done.”

Pickert tilted his hat to the other side of his bullet head, felt in his side pocket for a cigar, bit off the end, and spat the crumbs of tobacco from his lips.

“You could put me on to the mantilla, couldn't you?—spot it for me once I come across it?”

“Of course I could, the minute I clapped my eyes on it.”

“It's a kind of lace shawl, ain't it?”

“Yes. All black—a big one with a frill around it and a tear in one side—that's what she was mending. A good piece, I should think, because it was so fine and silky. You could squash it up in one hand, it was that soft. That's why she took such care of it, putting it back in that box every night to keep the dust out of it.”

“Well, what's the matter with your coming along with me?”

“And where are you going to take me?”

“To one or two pawn-shops around here.”

“Well, I'm not going with you. If I go anywhere it will be up to Rosenthal's. I'm getting worried. It's after three o'clock now. She's got no money to get anything to eat. She'll come home dead beat out if she's been hungry all this time.”

“Well, it's right on the way. We'll take in a few of the small shops, and then we'll keep on up. There are two on Second Avenue, and then there's Blobbs's, one of the biggest around here. The old woman gets a lot of that kind of stuff and she'll open up when she finds out who wants to know. I've done business with her—where does this fellow, Dalton, live?”

“Up on the East Side.”

“Well, then, we are all right. He will make for some fence where he is not known. Come along.”

Martha hesitated for an instant, abandoned her decision, and retied her bonnet-strings; she might find her mistress the quicker if she acceded to his request. She stepped to the stove, examined the fire to see that it was all right, added a shovel of coal and, with Pickert at her heels, groped her way down the dingy stairs, her fingers following the handrail. In the front hall she stopped to say to the janitress that she was going to Rosenthal's and to tell Mrs. Stanton, when she came, that she was not to leave the apartment again, as Mr. Carlin was coming to see her.

When they reached the corner of the next block, Pickert halted outside a small loan-office, told her to wait, and disappeared inside, only to emerge five minutes later and continue his walk with her up-town. The performance was repeated twice, his last stop being in front of a gold sign notifying the indigent and the guilty that one Blobbs bought, sold, and exchanged various articles of wearing-apparel for cash or its equivalent.

Martha eyed the cluster of balls suspended above the door, and occupied herself with a cursory examination of the contents of the front window, to none of which, she said to herself, would she have given house-room had the choice of the whole collection been offered her. She was about to march into the shop and end the protracted interview when Pickert flung himself out.

“I'm on—got him down fine! Listen—see if I've got this right! He wore a black cape-coat buttoned up close-that's what you told me, wasn't it?—and a kind of a slouch-hat. Been an up-town swell before he got down and out? That kind of a man, ain't he? Smooth-shaven, with a droop in his eye—speaks like a foreigner—English. Somethin' doin'!—Do you know a man named Kling who keeps an old-furniture store up on Fourth Avenue?”

“No, I don't know Kling and I don't want to know him. It will be dark, and Rosenthal's 'll be shut up if I keep up this foolishness, and I'm going to find my mistress. If you can't find Dalton, I will, when my brother Stephen comes. Now you go your way and I'll go mine.”

He waited until she had boarded a car, then wheeled quickly and dashed up Third Avenue, crossing 26th Street at an angle, forging along toward Kling's. He was through with the old woman. She was English, and so was Dalton, and so, for that matter, was a man who, Blobbs had told him, had “blown in” at Kling's about a year ago from nobody knew where. They'd all help one another—these English. No, he'd go alone.

When he reached Otto's window he slowed down, pulled himself together, and strolled into the store with the air of a man who wanted some one to help him make up his mind what to buy. The holiday crowd had thinned for a moment, and only a few men and women were wandering about the store examining the several articles. Otto at the moment was in tow of a stout lady in furs, who had changed her mind half a dozen times in the hour and would change it again, Otto thought, when, as she said, she would “return with her husband.”

“Vich she von't do,” he chuckled, addressing his remark to the newcomer, “and I bet you she never come back. Dot's de funny ting about some vimmins ven dey vant to talk it over vid her husbands, and de men ven dey vant to see der vives. Den you might as vell lock up de shop—ain't dot so? Vat is it you vant—one of dem tables? Dot is a Chippendale—you can see de legs and de top.”

“Yes, I see 'em,” replied the detective, scanning the circumference of Otto's fat body. “But I'm not buying any tables to-day, I'm on another lead—that is, if I've got it right and your name is Kling.”

“Yes, you got it right,” answered Otto; “dot's my name. Vat is it you vant?”

“And you own this store?”

“And I own dis store. Didn't you see de sign ven you come in?” The man's manner and cock-sure air were beginning to nettle him.

“I might, and then again, I mightn't,” Pickert retorted, relaxing into his usual swaggering tone. “I'm not looking for signs. I'm looking for a piece of lace, a mantilla they call it, that disappeared a few days ago from Rosenthal's up here on Third Avenue—a kind of shawl with a frill around it—and I thought you might have run across it.”

Otto looked at him over the tops of his glasses, his anger increasing as he noticed the man's scowl of suspicion. “Oh, dot's it, is it? Dot's vat you come for. You tink I am a fence, eh?”

The detective grinned derisively. “You bought a piece of lace, didn't you?”

“I buy a dozen pieces maybe—vot's dot your business?”

“My business will come later. What I want to know is whether you've got a piece with a hole in it—black, soft, and squashy—with a frill—a flounce, they call it—and I want to tell you right here that it will be a good deal better if you keep a decent tongue in your head and stop puttin' on lugs. It's business with me.”

Masie had crept up and stood listening, wondering at the stranger's rough way of talking. So had the tramp, whom Kitty had loaned to Otto for a few hours to help move some of the heavier furniture. He seemed to be especially interested in what was taking place, for he kept edging up the closer, dusting the Colonial sideboard close to which Kling and the man were standing, his ears stretched to their utmost, in order to miss no word of the interview.

“Vell, if it's business, and you don't mean noddin, dot's anudder ting,” replied Kling, in a milder tone, “maybe den I tell you. Run avay, Masie, I got someting private to say. Dot's right. You go talk to Mrs. Gossburger—Yes,” he added, as the child disappeared, “I did buy a big lace shawl like dot.”

Pickert's grin covered half his face. He could get along now without a search-warrant. “And have you got it now?”

“Yes, I got it now.”

The grin broadened—the triumphant grin of a boy when he hears the click of a trap and knows the quarry is inside.

“Can I see it?”

“No, you can't see it.” The man's cool persistency again irritated him. “I buy dot for a present and I—Look here vunce! Vat you come in here for an' ask dose questions? I never see you before. Dis is my busy time. Now you put yourselluf outside my place.”

The detective made a step forward, turned his back on the rest of the shop, unbuttoned his outer coat, lifted the lapel of the inner one, and uncovered his shield.

“Come across,” he said, in low, cutting tones, “and don't get gay. I'm not after you—but you gotter help, see! I've traced this mantilla down to this shop. Now cough it up! If you've bought it on the level, I've got a roll here will square it up with you.”

Otto gave a muffled whistle. “Den dot fellow vas a tief, vas he? He didn't look like it, for sure. Vell—vell—vell—dot's funny! Vy, I vouldn't have tought dot. Look like a quiet man, and—”

“You remember the man, then?” interrupted the detective, following up his advantage, and again scraping his chin with his forefinger.

“Oh, yes. I don't forgot him. Vore a buttoned-up coat—high like up to his chin—”

“And a slouch-hat?” prompted Pickert.

“Yes, vun of dose soft hats, for I tink de light hurt his eyes ven he come close up to my desk ven I gif him de money.”

“And had a sort of a catch-look, a kind of a slant in his eye, didn't he?” supplemented Pickert; “and was smooth-shaven and—on the whole—rather decent-looking chap, just getting on his uppers and not quite. Ain't that it?”

“Yes, maybe, I don't recklemember everyting about him. Vell—vell—ain't dot funny? But he vasn't a dead beat—no, I don't tink so. An' he stole it? You vud never tink dot to see him. I got it in my little office, behind dot partition, in a drawer. You come along. To-morrow is New Year's”—here he glanced up the stairs to be sure that Masie was out of hearing—“and I bought dat lace for a present for my little girl vat you saw joost now—she loves dem old tings. She has got more as a vardrobe full of dem. Vait till I untie it. Look! Ain't dot a good vun? And all I pay for it vas tventy tollars.”

The detective loosened the folds, shook out the flounce, held it up to the light, and ran his thumb through the tear in the mesh.

“Of course dere's a hole—I buy him cheaper for dot hole—my little Beesving like it better for dot. If it vas new she vouldn't have it.”

Pickert was now caressing the soft lace, his satisfaction complete. “A dead give-away,” he said at last. “Much obliged. I'll take it along,” and he began rolling it up.

“You take it—VAT?” exclaimed Otto.

“Well, of course, it's stolen goods.”

Kling leaned over and caught it from his hand. “If it's stolen goods, somebody more as you must come in and tell me dot. By Jeminy, you have got a awful cheek to come in here and tell me dot! Ven I buy, I buy, and it is mine to keep. Ven I sell, I sell, and dot's nobody's business.”

Pickert bit his lip. His bluff had failed. He must go about it in another way, if Rosenthal's customer, who owned the lace, was to regain possession before the New Year set in.

“Well, then, sell it to me,” he snarled.

“No, I don't sell it to you. Not if you give me tventy times tventy tollars. And now you get out of here so k'vick as you can—or me and dot man over by dot sideboard and two more down-stairs vill trow you out! I don't care a tam how big a brass ting you got on your coat. So you dake it along vid you? Vell, you have got a cheek!”

Pickert's underlip curled in contempt. He had only to step to the door and blow a whistle were a row to begin. But that would neither help him to trail the thief nor to secure the mantilla.

“Now see here, Mr. Kling,” he said, fingering the lapel of Otto's coat, “I've treated you white, now you treat me white. You make me tired with your hot air, and it don't go—see, not with me!—and now I'll put it to you straight. Will you sell me that mantilla? Here's the money”—and he pulled out a roll of bills.

Otto was now thoroughly angry. “NO!” he shouted, moving toward the door of his office.

“Will you help put me on to the man who sold it to you?”

“No!” roared Kling again, his Dutch blood at boiling-point. “I put you on noddin—dot's your bis'ness, dis puttin' on, not mine.” He had walked out of the office and was beckoning to the tramp. “Here, you! You go down-stairs and tell Hans to come up k'vick—right avay.”

The tramp slouched up—a sliding movement, led by his shoulder, his feet following.

“Maybe, boss, I kin help if you don't mind my crowdin' in.” He had listened to the whole conversation and knew exactly what would happen if he carried out Kling's order. He had seen too many mix-ups in his time—most of them through resisting an officer in the discharge of his duty. Kling, the first thing he knew, would be wearing a pair of handcuffs, and he himself might lose his job.

He addressed the detective: “I saw the guy when he come in and I saw him when he went out. Mr. O'Day saw him, too, but he'd skipped afore he got on to his mug. He'll tell ye same as me.”

The detective canted his head, looked the tramp over from his shoes to his unkempt head, and turned suddenly to Kling. “Who's Mr. O'Day?” he snapped.

“He's my clerk,” growled Otto, his determination to get rid of the man checked by this new turn in the situation.

“Can I see him?”

“No, you can't see him, because he's gone out vid Kitty Cleary. He'll be back maybe in an hour—maybe he don't come back at all. He don't know noddin about dis bis'ness and nobody don't let him know noddin about it until to-morrow. Den my little Beesving know de first. Half de fun is in de surprise.”

The detective at once lost interest in Kling, and turned to the tramp again—the two moving out of Otto's hearing. A new and fresh scent had crossed the trail—one it might be wise to follow.

“You work here?” he asked. He had taken his measure in a glance and was ready to use him.

“No, I work in John Cleary's express office,” grunted the tramp. “Mr. O'Day wanted me to come over and help for New Year's.”

“What's he got to do with you?”

“He got me my job.”

“He's an Englishman, ain't he?”

“Yes, and the best ever.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” sneered the detective. “Been working here a year and knows the ropes. So you saw the man come in and O'Day, the clerk, saw him go out, did he? And O'Day sent for you to stay around in case any questions were asked? Is that it?”

The tramp's lip was lifted, showing his teeth. “No, that ain't it by a damned sight! I know who pinched the goods—knowed him for months. Know his name, just as well as I know yours. I got on to you soon as you come in.”

The detective shot a quick glance at the speaker. “Me?” he returned quietly.

“Yes—YOU. Your name is Pickert—ONE of your names—you've got half a dozen. And the guy's name is Stanton. He hangs out at the Bowdoin House, and when he ain't there he's playin' pool at Steve Lipton's where I used to work. Are you on?”

The detective betrayed no surprise, neither over the mention of his own name nor that of Stanton. If the tramp's story were true he would have the bracelets on the thief before morning. He decided, however, to try the old game first.

“It may be worth something to you if you can make good,” he said, with a confidential shrug of his near shoulder.

The tramp thrust out his chin with a gesture of disgust. “Nothin' doin'! You can keep your plunks. I don't want 'em. I know you fellers—I got onto your curves when I was on my uppers. When you can't get your flippers on the right man you slip 'em on the first galoot you catch, and I want to tell you right here that you can't mix Mr. O'Day in this business, for he don't know nothin' about it, nor anything else that's crooked. I'll get this man Stanton for you if the boss will let me out for an hour. Shall I ask him?”

Pickert examined his finger-nails for a brief moment—one seemed in need of immediate repairs—his mind all the while in deep thought. The tramp might help or he might not. He evidently knew him, and it was possible that he also knew Stanton, the name borne by the woman charged with the theft; or the whole yarn might be a ruse to give the real thief a tip, and thus block everything. Lipton's place he frequented, and the Bowdoin House he could find.

“No, you stay here,” he broke out. “I'll get him.”

He walked back to the office, the tramp following. “I say, Mr. Kling!” he called impudently.

Otto lifted his head. He had locked up the mantilla and had the key in his pocket. For him the incident was closed.

“Vell?” replied Otto dryly.

“Does this man work over at Cleary's express?”

“He does. Vy?”

“Oh, nothing. I may want him later. And, say!”

“Vell,” again replied Otto.

“Git wise and surprise that little girl of yours with something else—she'll never wear that mantilla. So long,” and he strode out of the store.