“He writes lousy,” admitted Beak. “I knew his scrawl the minute I saw the envelope. It’s easy to read when you’re used to it, though. No trouble for me, even though I haven’t heard from Steve since the last time he broke out of the big house. Here — give it to me. I’ll tell you what it’s about.”
Beak took the letter, referred to a paragraph and then began to paraphrase a translation of Steve Zurk’s poor penmanship.
“Steve figures he’s in the money,” explained Beak. “He’s here in New York — got a job with an importer — all fixed for him by some ritzy guy named Perry Delhugh. But he’s got to make it look like he’s gone straight. Savvy?”
“Sure,” acknowledged Lucky, in a laconic tone. “With the governor pardoning him, he’s got to put up a front.”
“There’s only one mug wise to me knowing Steve,” continued Beak. “That’s a bird named Jack Targon — the one that the governor pardoned along with Steve. But Steve and Jack have split. And this guy Targon won’t squawk so long as he thinks Steve is staying on the level.”
“You mean Targon is really going straight?”
“That’s it. But he was a pal of Steve’s. So there’s no trouble there so long as we stay under cover. That is, keep Steve in the clear. Savvy?”
“I get it.”
BEAK LATZO folded the letter and thrust it into his pocket. He crossed the room, seated himself upon a rumpled bed and lighted a cigarette. A knowing smile appeared upon his thick, coarse lips.
“Steve thinks he can pick some nifty lays,” declared Beak. “He ought to, being close to that moneybag guy, Delhugh. I’m to sit tight and wait for tips. They’ll come through Dangler. Like this letter.”
“You won’t see Steve, then?”
“Not unless he says to. That would queer the racket. What’s more, I’ve got to keep my own mug under cover. If the bulls spot me, they might think of Steve.”
“They never hooked you up together, did they?”
“They may have. No telling about that. Not likely, but it would be too bad if they had. That won’t worry me, though, about being in on the jobs.”
“Why not?”
“Because Steve Zurk is a fox. When he picks a job it’s good. Like clockwork. He figures everything — the setup, the blow-off, the get-away. It’s a cinch working with him.”
“And a double cinch this way, Beak.”
“You said it, Lucky.”
Another pause. Beak puffed at his cigarette, then rasped an ugly laugh.
“Nobody knows you’re working with me, Lucky,” he declared. “Not even the gorillas that you’ve lined up. This hideout’s a pip; and there’s others just as good, in case I’ve got to dive out of here.
“What’s more, you’re sitting pretty. The bulls have nothing on you. Even the stoolies aren’t watching you for a hot tip. Besides that, they didn’t lie when they called you ‘Lucky.’ You know how to grab the breaks.”
Lucky grinned. His square shoulders hunched back as his chest swelled at Beak’s commendation. The mobleader had spoken a known fact. Lucky Ortz was one character of the bad lands who always managed to ease out of trouble’s toils.
“Don’t say much to the gorillas,” warned Beak. “Just keep them ready. We’ll want them on tap; because Steve moves fast when he sees a chance. It’s up to you to keep going in and out of Dangler’s new place. We don’t want any message of Steve’s to lie around until it’s cold.”
“Dangler’s all right?” questioned Lucky. “He looks like a scary sort of guy to me.”
“That don’t matter,” retorted Beak. “That’s the way he ought to be. Scary. He was in with a green-goods outfit — I told you about it — and we chopped down the crew. He was out when we got the others; he never knew who got them.
“I went to see him, friendly like, and made him think I was a pal of the goofs that got rubbed out. Told him to lay low and keep mum. That’s what he did. Knowing how scary he was, I used him for a mailing address, figuring he’d be safe.
“Just dumb enough to be useful. That’s Dangler. He knows nothing, so he can’t spill anything that will hurt. Steve used him before he sent me messages. It’s a sure bet, particularly with you doing the collecting.”
With a satisfied leer, Beak Latzo lighted another cigarette, then nudged his thumb toward the door.
“So long, Lucky,” he suggested. “It don’t do any good hanging around here. Check up on the mob; we’re going to need them. And keep an eye on Dangler.”
Lucky nodded. Donning his hat, he strolled from the hideout and closed the door behind him.
Beak Latzo turned the key in the lock. With an evil chuckle, the mobleader dropped back in his big chair.
There was reason for Beak’s satisfaction. To his way of thinking, prosperous days were due. For Beak Latzo had confidence in the cunning of Steve Zurk. To Beak, the letter that had come through Dangler was a prophecy of profitable crime.
CHAPTER V. FRIDAY NIGHT
“WHAT is it, Benzig?”
Perry Delhugh put the question as the bespectacled secretary entered the study. The millionaire was seated behind his mahogany desk, busily engaged with papers.
“Those letters, sir,” returned Benzig. “Regarding the funds for the Talleyrand Hospital. You told me to remind you of them.”
“Ah, yes.” Delhugh glanced at the clock on the desk. “Well, there are a few minutes before dinner. Do you have the file with you?”
Benzig produced a portfolio from beneath his arm. Delhugh nodded, and the secretary took out a sheaf of letters which he handed to the millionaire.
Delhugh went through the first letters rapidly. Then he stopped and read one carefully. He placed the others aside and raised the one that he had selected.
“This is the most important, Benzig,” he declared. “The one from Theobald Luftus. He is willing to make a contribution of twenty thousand dollars. Think of that, Benzig! Twenty thousand dollars!”
“Quite generous of him, sir.”
“Is that remark meant as sarcasm, Benzig?”
“No, no, sir! I would not have been sarcastic—”
“You should have been. Twenty thousand dollars from a millionaire like Luftus? He should have offered us fifty thousand, at least.”
“But perhaps, sir, he does not have funds that he can spare.”
“Read the letter, Benzig,” said Delhugh, wearily. “Read it carefully. Note the comments that Luftus made.”
Benzig took the letter and studied it. His face remained perplexed at first; then, gradually, the secretary began to nod.
“I see, sir,” he declared. “Mr. Luftus states that if the committee will visit him on Tuesday night, he will deliver them selected securities to the value of twenty thousand dollars.”
“Yes,” stated Delhugh. “Selected securities. That sounds well; but its meaning is obvious. Can’t you see Luftus selecting those securities? Picking over a miserly hoard, seeing how little he can spare?
“That man has great wealth, Benzig” — Delhugh gave an emphatic pound to the desk — “yet his charitable donations have been almost nihil. I suppose, though” — the philanthropist’s expression became meditative and kindly — “that we should rejoice because Theobald Luftus has relaxed to this extent. Perhaps the joy of giving once will induce him to repeat what this time must certainly be a painful duty.”
“He adds, sir,” put in Benzig, still studying the letter, “that he will confer with his broker on Monday, regarding the choice of securities. So that the hospital may be assured of a well-selected gift.”
“A bit of dust, Benzig,” informed Delhugh, with a smile. “Can you picture Theobald Luftus having any securities that would not be gilt-edged? He wants a conference with his broker. Certainly. So that he can pick out the least desirable of his stocks and bonds.