“I have the time and the money to do almost anything,” Barry said eagerly. “I’m not exactly a moron, and... I’d like to do what I can.” Barry did not say what had been at the point of his tongue — that he wanted to engage in the business that was woven about Olga Cassarova — he could not put it in words; knew only that if Dan didn’t agree to his suggestion he was going it alone.
Dan did not reply for some moments. His unshaved face was grave.
“Barry,” he said finally, “I wonder if you know what you’re asking.”
“I think I do.”
“You heard what I said yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Heard me say that Ivan Alexandranoff was not hardly human. That his whole career can be summed up in the one word — blood?”
“Yes.”
“I am pretty sure that this girl is connected with him, or will be before long. She comes from circles that are very close to him.”
“Well—”
“It means that if you go after her you will be brought into contact with him. And if he finds that you are liable to get in his way, the chances are almost certain that he will put you out of the way. One of his men, rather. They do things like that without turning a hair.”
“Are you trying to frighten me?”
“No,” said Dan with a slight smile. “I’m merely trying to give you a picture of what is ahead.”
“Is it ahead? Do you think I can do anything?”
“Pretty certain of it. It’s not at all regular, but there ought to be a way you can do a lot of good. I’ve just been turning it over in my mind. You were coming from the other side when you met Olga Cassarova. She was coming from England, and she’s been there for some time. Now there is nothing to prevent you from coming from Paris.”
“Nothing,” Barry agreed, “since I actually was. Had been there for three months. Paris and the south of France.”
“We have contact with a man high in communistic circles in France who can give you a recommendation that will go a long way with the members in this country. It doesn’t matter whether you have been active over there or not. If you can put across a good imitation of one, a sympathizer, and back it with his O.K., you will be pretty well received over here.”
“Even if they know how much money I have? This Olga Cassarova knows my right name now. I’ll have to be myself.”
“Certainly. That makes it all the better. There’ll be no question about your being an agent of the government. There are plenty of poor deluded fools with money who take up for them. Some actually believe what they profess, and some only think they do. It makes no difference if you are rich. You can get by all the better, backed with word from Rene Garre.”
Barry’s imagination carried on swiftly. “I didn’t know who Olga Cassarova was, or wasn’t supposed to. If I can get in contact with her, I’ll tell her a yarn, and then get friendly with her.”
“Yes. The more I think of this the better I like it. We men are not in the inner circles. They investigate too much. We work from the outside most of the time. But you, obviously not connected with the government, with a past that is clear and open to all the inspection they care to give, can go far. It is so simple that it is good.” Dan smacked a fist into the palm of his hand enthusiastically. Then continued:
“Rene Garre is a little man with a great hooked nose, an apparently fiery temper, a hatred of everything that is not communistic, and a wooden leg. He is vain about that leg. Three times in fights he has been wounded in that wooden leg instead of the good one. He thinks there is a charm about it, and always tells of it and brags about it. One of the standard jokes in the inner communistic circles of France, England, and America, is Rene Garre’s wooden leg. Remember that. His right hand man there is Leon Coline, tall and slim. And there is Jean Didier, who also does good work for Garre.
“I will have a letter from Garre forged, and cable him to-night to O.K. it, if he is queried about the matter. Take the letter to the offices of the Brotherhood, the paper that is the rallying point of most of the breed in the city. The main ones will be found around it, and the paper itself goes all over the country. Once there you will be on your own. What you do is up to you; and you can’t even see me, for it is probable that they will watch you closely at first. Just ordinary caution. Something is afoot. Something big. Keep your mouth closed and your eyes and ears open.
“And you may die.”
Dan said the last as casually as if he was stating a minor fact of little consequence.
The very casualness of it sent a little cold shiver down Barry’s spine. He shrugged and grinned. “Get me the letter,” he said.
“It will be brought to your hotel by a messenger,” Dan said. “When you get it, use it as you see fit. But on no account open your mouth about me, or anything that you have learned. Now I’ve got to get to work myself. Good luck, old man.”
Dan held out his hand. They shook — and went their ways, Barry to the left, toward Fifth Avenue, and Dan toward Columbus Circle. And it was, perhaps, better that neither of them could foresee what the future held in store, both for Barry and for Dan.
False Witness
by Mansfield Scott
Gang Vengeance Creeps A round the Girl Who Knew Too Much, But One Man Stands in the Way — “Under Cover” Lane
I
At eight o’clock on Friday evening, it became evident to Foxcroft that a new criminal project was being planned in the underworld. He did not learn the exact nature of the affair, for he was unable to hear enough of the snatches of conversation.
The meeting was in the little back room at the Roost — a room from which many quiet orders had been sent out, and in which, more than once, sentence had been passed upon unfortunates who had incurred gangland’s disfavor. Few of the patrons of this notorious resort knew of the little back parlor. One-Eye Beckett, the manager, knew, and several of the waiters; but to all appearances the space was only a part of the big wine locker which adjoined the gaudy clubroom.
On occasions, nevertheless, there were secret gatherings there — as on the Friday evening when Foxcroft learned that a plot was afoot.
He sat with “Bugs” Flaherty, a gunman, at the outer end of the room, close to a narrow back stairway which led downward three floors to an alley. Both men were silent, sipping liquor, awaiting orders from the group around a table a few feet away.
The talk at the table was in low voices; and the intermittent pounding of jazz on the opposite side of the partition, together with sounds of hilarity from the booths and tables, kept Foxcroft from hearing all.
He well knew the identity of those present. F. Henderson “Stuffy” McHugh, politician and gang leader, dominated the group, holding the others’ attention with his bright eyes while he accepted or rejected their suggestions. There was a flush upon McHugh’s cheeks to-night, an extra keenness in his glance; and Foxcroft felt that it boded ill for some one. Then there were Murphy and Culhane, runners for the biggest gang lawyers; a bootlegger, Sawtell; and Jack Conlon, proprietor of a chain of gambling houses.
“Aw, it’s a cinch!” The bootlegger spoke in rough assurance. “It’ll be dead open and shut—”
“But get this,” interposed Culhane, tall and beady-eyed, tapping the table with his forefinger. “You’ve got to be darn certain he’s in his rooms at twelve-thirty, and alone.”
“We’ll make sure of that,” said Jack Conlon.
Then for several minutes Foxcroft could hear little. At intervals Conlon vigorously nodded his small, round head. The gaming-house keeper had a repulsive face, and this evening it wore a leer. His cheek bones stood out prominently.