“Cliff Marsland!” he said, in a whisper.
For an instant, Cliff was startled; then he recognized the man.
“Nipper!” he exclaimed. “Nipper Brady!”
He gripped the waiter’s hand.
“I KNEW you were out of the Big House,” said “Nipper.” “I was waitin’ for you, Cliff, like I said I’d be; but I didn’t want to tell you where I was.
“I told some guys that you’d be lookin’ for something to do. They must have tipped off Tim Waldron. They said you was goin’ up there and the next thing I heard, they was all sayin’ you was the bird that’d bumped off Tim.
“Boy! You got workin’ quick with the smoke wagon, didn’t you?”
There was admiration in Nipper’s tone. The expression on his face, as well as his words, showed that he held a high opinion of Cliff’s prowess. Cliff smiled.
“What are you doing here, Nipper?” he questioned.
The stoop-shouldered man grinned. His pasty white face took on a crafty look.
“Workin’,” he said. “Good job. Keeps me out of the road of the bulls. But I ain’t intendin’ to stay here right along. When I sees a good lay, I’m goin’ to grab it.
“There’s plenty of guys come up here that are in the money. I’m goin’ to hook up with an A-1 racket when I sees the chance.”
Cliff nodded. He knew Nipper well. The fellow had been discharged from Sing Sing three months ago. He and Cliff had worked side by side in a shop; and Cliff had learned much from the man.
Brady was a product of the underworld. He knew the ways of gangdom and fitted in with them. He had been a pickpocket and a confidence man. He had handled a gun; in fact, it was a gun fight that had led to his term in the State prison.
But despite his record, despite his appearance and despite his contempt for the law, Nipper Brady possessed a sense of loyalty that Cliff had seen demonstrated conclusively on more than one occasion.
“I told you I was goin’ in for a racket,” reminded Nipper, in his low, hoarse voice. “That’s the game nowadays. Why get pinched for a stick-up when you can be doin’ somethin’ that looks like it’s on the level?
“I told you to get wise to the game, too, didn’t I? Well, now that I’ve seen you, I’m goin’ to figure somethin’ for you, too. We oughta work together, Cliff, you an’ me!”
The words gave Cliff an inspiration.
“You’d like to work with me, would you, Nipper?”
“You bet I would, Cliff. If there ever was a square-shooter, you was the guy. When we was up in the Big House—”
“Let’s forget it, Nipper.”
“All right, Cliff. But I ain’t never goin’ to forget some of the things you done for me. If there’s anythin’ I can ever do for you, I’ll do it!”
“You can do something, right now.”
“Yeah?” Nipper showed an eager response. “Put me wise, Cliff.”
“You can start working for me,” said Cliff. He slipped his hand into his pocket. “Right now, Nipper, and maybe more later.”
He drew two fifty-dollar bills from his pocket and placed them in Nipper’s hand. The stooped man uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“A century!” he said. “Say, Cliff, I can’t be takin’ your dough. We was in stir together — we was buddies—”
“Forget it,” interrupted Cliff. “I’m flush, Nipper. I know where there’s plenty of money. I’m working” — he paused an instant — “working a racket of my own, Nipper. I want you with me — when I need you. Are you game?”
“Sure thing!”
THE prompt response elated Cliff. This meeting with Nipper was proving most opportune. He knew that Nipper was a fighter; that despite his frail appearance, he was the gamest crook in gangland.
There would be no danger with Nipper. The man would ask no questions, and his loyalty would never be open to question.
“Who’s in the room down the hall?” asked Cliff.
“A bunch of guys that are out on a lay,” replied Nipper.
“Working up a new racket, eh?”
“Looks that way. There’s one of ‘em — I don’t know his moniker — that looks like he might be hooked up with a big shot. Strong-lookin’ guy. Looks like he could handle a rod, all right. Got a poker-face—”
The description answered Ernie Shires.
“O.K., Nipper,” interrupted Cliff. “I want to hear what he’s telling that gang.”
“He’s spillin’ somethin’ to them, all right,” said Nipper. “He’s got some outfit in there with him, too. One of ‘em is a dock walloper — I can spot them guys any time!”
“Well, I want to get in on the chatter,” said Cliff firmly.
“I getcha,” said Nipper. “Say, Cliff” — a sudden thought came to the pasty-faced gangster — “are you goin’ to muscle in on their racket?”
A gleam had come to Nipper’s dull eyes. The little man could not repress his eagerness. He was visualizing an opportunity.
“Maybe I am,” replied Cliff in a noncommittal tone.
“You remember Patsy Birch an’ Dave Talbot — up in the Big House? Them guys is around. They’re O.K.—”
“Not just yet,” interposed Cliff. He could see that Nipper was planning the nucleus of a gang. “Let’s lay off any ideas until I see what the lay is here. I want to listen in on that crowd in the other room. How am I going to do it?”
“Easy, Cliff,” responded Nipper. “There’s a door goin’ in there from the next room. I’ve got the key. I can open it soft—”
“But they’ll see me, if I stay there,” objected Cliff.
“Not in that room. It’s different from this one. There’s a kinda corner there” — Nipper was trying to describe an alcove — “back by the wall of the room. You can open the door a bit when I go in an’ take out the dishes. I gotta knock to go in — an’ they quit their buzzin’ while I’m in the room.”
“Let’s go,” said Cliff.
He accompanied Nipper to the darkened room. The little man worked softly at the door. The key turned silently in the lock. Nipper nudged Cliff and went out into the corridor.
Cliff heard him knock at the door of the other room. Then came the sound of Nipper’s voice. The little man had entered.
Cliff opened his own door a few inches.
He immediately heard the clatter of dishes. The sound ended. There was a slight slam from the outer door as it closed.
Nipper had left. Conversation began.
“IT’S all set, then,” came the voice of Ernie Shires. “Tell me where you’re puttin’ the old trucks.”
“Fogarty’s,” replied one voice.
“Eureka,” said another.
“New Bronx,” came the third.
“Right,” responded Shires, “and bring me the tickets. Meet me down at the New Era Garage on Eighth Avenue. In the back room I told you about.
“Now listen! This ain’t no tire-slashing job to-morrow night! All that’s been done up in the Bronx. The birds that are parking their cars have begun to get educated. They’re using the garages because it ain’t safe to leave their cars out.
“But these three fellows I told you about have been trying to queer the racket. Calling it a lot of bunk. So they’re getting theirs, see?
“And there ain’t going to be none of us up there when the blowoff comes. That’ll be about three a.m. So at two, we join up at the New Era and pull our stuff down here, with a few places I’ll steer you to.
“The suckers have begun to get smart since that racket of Tim Waldron’s went blooey. There’s a bunch of ‘em need teaching. That’s why we’re giving the dock wallopers a job with our gang. All hands working to-morrow night!”
Cliff heard another voice speak in a low tone. Evidently some one was asking Shires a question. Ernie’s response came softly. Then came another buzz.