It was based, that hunch, upon a natural faculty of observation, of deductions arrived at subconsciously, brought to life by illuminating circumstance, heightened by persistent study of criminal ways. But Dugan was modest. His opinion of himself was far less than that of Deputy Commissioner Connelly, a friend of his father, dead now — Sergeant Dugan. Connelly liked the boy, believed him a comer. It was he who had suggested the capture of the Blackbirds, given Dugan the tips that brought him to the Nest.
II
The blonde was singing again, singing pointedly and provocatively to Dugan, posturing in front of their table.
The song ended with perfunctory applause. They had heard it before. The blonde stopped by Dugan’s table. The red-head came up to her as the orchestra jazzed for a dance. But—
“Lissen, big boy,” she said to Dugan. “This is a social dump. You’ve been dancing with the same dame all evening. And you shake a lively hoof. Split up. Be amiable. Let ‘Blaze’ Menken take on your twist and twirl and give me a number.”
Dugan felt the touch of Mary’s elbow. She knew what they were there for, knew the tip concerning a redhead. She was playing the game. Dugan stood up. His blood was tingling, not from the prospect of the dance, but with the impulse of his hunch. It gave no direct message, but it seemed somehow like the rap of opportunity on his door.
“I didn’t suppose you wanted to dance with me,” he said. The blonde gave him a coquettish look.
“You don’t mind, deary?” she flung over her shoulder to Mary.
“Not yet,” Mary answered.
They glided off. The blonde danced intimately, complimenting Dugan. But his hunch persisted that she was making use of him for some purpose of her own. The vindication seemed to arrive suddenly. The music was in the last bars of the dance when three men entered. Dugan saw them over his partner’s shoulder.
A dark man in the lead, with a drooping left eyelid, a face that was the essence of evil, of craft and cunning. His neck seemed slightly twisted, so that he carried his head to one side.
If this was not “Blacky” Swain, reputed leader of the Blackbirds, then Dugan’s hunch, the reports at headquarters were at fault. There was no proof against Blacky, beyond persistent rumors coming through the stool pigeons of other gangs, but, if the Nest was his hang-out, here was a definite lead that Dugan had come here to find.
Also, there was a subtle stir in the crowd. A personage had arrived. The two ment with Blacky, Dugan set down as his guards, pure and simple.
The dance ended. There was applause for an encore.
Then the man with the stiff neck strode through the couples, who made room for him, caught the red-headed man by the shoulder, grabbed Mary Brady by her arm and flung her off.
The blonde broke from Dugan, thrust herself between Blaze Menken and the other. Blacky caught her by the bare shoulder, sent her reeling. His eyes glittered.
“I told you to steer clear of this dump!” he barked at the red-head, who stood as if robbed of motion, staring at the other. The dance floor was cleared as if by magic. Mary Brady a bruise on her flesh, came toward Dugan, who set her back of him, his own eyes blazing. He took a step forward. Blacky Swain wheeled on him.
“You keep out of this, fella!” he said. “If you know what’s good for you!”
It was not only the detective in Dugan that made him interfere. He saw Blacky reach inside his coat, caught the first glint of a gun. It was not meant for him, but for Blaze Menken.
He had not brought a weapon with him. Such things were/not easily hidden, as he knew. Not on a crowded dance floor, in such company. He had come for observation, for clews, not to make arrests; lacking definite reason. But he saw the bruise on Mary’s arm, and murder about to be done. He was first a man and a lover, also an officer of the law.
He caught up a chair and whirled it. It struck Blacky’s bent arm, a leg hit his elbow. The two guards were starting forward and Dugan flung the chair at them, snatched another.
Blacky was writhing with the anguish of the blow. Blaze had darted from the floor, making for the back. Dugan knew no exit save the front door.
“Beat it,” he said to Mary. “I’m with you.”
In the confusion he clove a way with the second chair, thrusting, swinging. The doorman faced him and he beat him down. Behind him the crowd was milling. Every second he expected a bullet in his back; he wasted no time. He faced about as Mary slid through the entrance, leaving it open. Once more he slung the chair into the milling crowd and followed her, slamming the door behind him. In the confusion no one fired. They were clear, the night air fresh on their faces.
He caught Mary by the arm and sped her up the steps to the sidewalk. They raced together to the corner of the block, around it. A cruising cab, its fare delivered, came down the middle of the empty street in the gray light of dawn, and Dugan hailed it with relief. It had been a close call.
“ ’Tis the last time you’ll come with me to such a place,” he said. “ ’Tis no place for a decent girl to be in anyways. You’ve got to get out of this game, Mary, though ’twas me took you into this end of it.”
“You found what you wanted, didn’t you?” she asked.
“That’s naught to do with it.”
“It’s part of the game. Jimmy, I think it was a put-up job. I think they suspected you.”
“They hurt you,” he said. “You’ve left your wrap behind.”
She snuggled to him. She was in the game, she ran the risks, but she knew that it was Jimmy Dugan, the man, not Dugan, the detective, talking. And she liked it.
“Never mind the wrap, Jimmy,” she said. “If you get that gang you can charge it to expenses. But I think it was staged, Jimmy boy. You’ll not go back there? Promise me that? It’s not because of the blonde, Jimmy. I’m not jealous.”
It was the first time she had intimated that she might be. Jimmy slid an arm about her and she let it rest.
“That man Blaze,” she went on. “He wanted to know all about you. They don’t like strangers in that dump.”
“He came nigh to gettin’ bumped off,” said Dugan, “though ’twas not for him I interfered.”
“I know that, Jimmy. But, somehow, I think it was a—”
Dugan’s lips were on hers, in the first kiss between them.
“You’re safe. Mary, that’s all that matters,” he said.
III
“This is Blaze Menken speaking,” said the voice. “You remember me, in the Nest? Where can I have a talk with you? I don’t want to come up where you are.”
Jimmy could understand that. Blaze Menken! He had saved his life, but he remembered Mary’s warning. Manlike, he wondered if she was right. Without conceit, recollecting their ride home, he was not sure how much she had been afraid for him as he for her.
A detective had no right to be in love, he had told himself more than once. It confused things. If Mary was fond of him it might upset her judgment. This was a lead he had no license to refuse. For once his hunch gave out no indication.