“Buck was going past the corner of the avenue,” he stated, “near where Myram lives. See? Well, he sees a guy he knows — a heel named Dopey Delvin. Buck wises that Dopey’s out to stage something, so he decides to watch, just wondering what the racket is.
“Dopey goes in the rooming house just past the butcher shop. Buck sees him, mind you, and waits. Pretty soon he sees Dopey come out again, hugging something beneath his coat. Dopey does a sneak in a hurry, looking around plenty. Buck knows he’s pulled something.
“To-day, Buck reads the newspapers. He doesn’t need to be a lightning calculator to figure who finished Myram. It was Dopey Delvin who staged the rubout. What’s more, Buck mentions to me where Dopey flops. He’s got a room in the second floor back of a tenement five doors west of the Mukden Cafe, that old Chinese hash-house near the Bowery. Lives there alone — using the place as a hide-out — with a soft set-up for anybody who wants to go after him. There’s a rear door from the alley into the place, and—”
HAL paused. The telephone bell was ringing. Zimmer was picking up the instrument; the others were crowding about to clap Hal on the back.
The informant looked puzzled; he had not yet learned how much lay at stake. Then came Zimmer’s growl, ordering silence.
The touts quieted. They listened while Zimmer spoke across the wire, repeating almost word for word what Hal had told him. They knew who was on the telephone: The Creeper. Anxiously they awaited the conclusion of Zimmer’s call. They saw their chief hang up.
“Who’s going on the job?” inquired Wally, eagerly. “How about me and Steve, boss? We can bump that mug Dopey and bring back whatever you want.”
“Sure, Zimmer,” agreed Steve. “With all that kale waiting, we’d take a chance on anything—”
“Never mind,” growled Zimmer. “None of you are going. The Creeper’s taking care of it. When I need any of you to start some rough stuff, I’ll call on you.”
“But what about the cut?” queried Wally. “We’ll come in on it, won’t we?”
“Everybody gets his cut,” assured Zimmer. “That’s the way The Creeper works. But he puts the right man on the right job. That’s always his system. Our part is finished; maybe there’ll be more to do later. Right now, the thing to do is keep mum. Leave it to The Creeper.”
Zimmer Funson had spoken wisely. Like Rick Parrin, the bookie knew that he was but one of The Creeper’s lieutenants. Zimmer knew that this band of his could be tough if occasion warranted; but their regular jobs were to act as come-on men. Others, more competent, would be used for such practices as murder.
SEVEN blocks from the Parkview Hotel was a low, squatty building only three stories high. The blue glare of sun-ray lamps shone from the windows of the third floor. The place was a gymnasium, favored as a training headquarters for freelance boxers and wrestlers.
On this night, a dozen such were present. A few were skipping rope; others were watching two huskies who were sparring in a corner ring.
Within a little office, Nick Curlin, the proprietor of the gymnasium, was talking to a well-dressed visitor.
Nick, fat-faced and greasy-haired, formed a contrast to his aristocratic guest. The man on the other side of the desk was none other than Reggie Spaylor, prominent amateur sportsman, well-known as a polo player.
A man of thirty-five, Reggie had the physique of an athlete; and his rugged face was a handsome one, marred only by a sharp down turn of his lips and deep wrinkles in his forehead.
It was not surprising that a man of Spaylor’s standing should frequent this gymnasium. The place was conveniently located; it served as a good spot for the amateur sportsman to limber up when engagements kept him in this part of the city. But it was evident, from conversation between Spaylor and Curlin, that this gymnasium had a special purpose other than that of training quarters.
“How about starting a stable?” Nick was inquiring. “That ought to make a better blind, Spaylor, than just having a gym. There’d be more pugs around, to cover-up the ones that are working for us.”
“It wouldn’t do,” decided Reggie. “We don’t want too many palookas hanging around. A stable would attract too much attention; and we’d have to promote some fights. The Creeper wouldn’t want it. Not at present, anyway.
“Something big is due, Nick. A clean-up. We’ll all be in the money if The Creeper manages it. It may come to-night; that is why I intend to stay here until I hear from The Creeper. If he—”
A ring of the telephone. Nick answered; then handed the instrument to Reggie. Nick listened keenly; he knew who was on the wire. The Creeper, himself, with the news that Reggie Spaylor wanted.
Finished with his call — in which he did little more than acknowledge instructions — Reggie hung up and turned to Nick.
“GO out and get Slugger Haskew,” he told Nick. “Bring him in here. The Creeper has a job that Slugger can handle.”
Nick arose and waddled from the office. Reggie watched him head for the corner where the sparring men were resting. With an evil grin upon his sour lips, the sportsman moved out of sight within the office.
He lighted a cork-tipped cigarette and sat down to await “Slugger’s” arrival.
Soon Nick returned with the huskier of the two boxers. Slugger Haskew, huge and vicious-looking, was attired in shoes and boxing trunks. He was drawing off his gloves as he entered the office; he showed a grin on his sweaty face when he spied Reggie Spaylor seated there.
“Hello, Slugger,” greeted the sour-lipped sportsman. “I want to talk to you. Close the door, Nick. Listen carefully, Slugger. There’s a job on for you to-night. You know the old Mukden Cafe, near the Bowery?”
Slugger nodded.
“Five doors west,” stated Reggie, “is an old tenement. The place has a rear entrance, from an alley. That’s the way you are to enter. Go to the room on the second floor back. You will find a man there named Dopey Delvin.”
“How’ll I know him?” queried Slugger. “Is he workin’ wid us?”
“Not a chance,” sneered Reggie. “He is the man you are to get! Hand him a haymaker as soon as you see him.”
“Wot if he ain’t the right gazebo?”
“You can think about that later. Look through the room. Find a flat black box, made of wood, with the initials ‘B. D.,’ in silver. Crack it open; take what you find in the bottom.”
“Dough?”
“No. A scroll — a piece of paper. Hand it to The Creeper.”
“He’ll be dere?”
“Yes. Outside the door. He will reach in for it. After The Creeper is gone, finish Dopey. You’ll know who he is, right enough, after you have found the black box.”
Slugger nodded. He was about to start for the door when Reggie stopped him. There were further instructions.
“If anything goes wrong,” stated Reggie, “hang on to the scroll. Go to the old Alcadia Hotel near the Bowery and take a room there. Call here and tell Nick that you are there. I’ll come myself, to get the scroll from you.
“But nothing is likely to go wrong. Not with The Creeper on hand. If you give him the scroll, keep right on going. Take it on the lam, Slugger; don’t stop until you reach Louisville. You have friends there; stick with them.”
“I’ll hear from youse after I get dere?”
“Absolutely! This will mean a nice piece of jack for you, Slugger. Ten grand, anyway — maybe a lot more. You have done jobs like this before you joined up with me. It will be just one more rub-out, so far as you are concerned.”
“Sure t’ing.”
SLUGGER left the office; Nick followed and began to chat with the men in the gym. Reggie Spaylor flattened his cigarette in an ash tray on the desk; donning a pair of gloves and picking up a cane, he strolled from the office and went through an outer door.