“You had trouble?”
“Plenty. Your idea of weight is way, way off, Barbier.”
“I know.” The old man shook his head wearily. “If I get the weight, I lose the ring. If I have the sound, the weight is gone.”
“So the counterfeiting game is on the rocks, eh?”
“It is bad,” admitted Barbier, “but I still can make a living. Look here.”
He reached in a drawer beneath a workbench and brought out a handful of five-cent pieces, which he passed to Silk. The crook jingled the coins.
“Good,” he declared, “but where’s the profit?”
Barbier shrugged his shoulders.
“It is small,” he said.
SILK studied the coins approvingly. He smiled as he noted that they were of different dates. Some were new and shiny; others looked old.
“I pass them out through people in this neighborhood,” explained Barbier. “Pushcart men and other peddlers. Change to customers. It brings me a good profit, but it is very slow—”
“Now if these were silver—”
Barbier spread his hands in a gesture of despair.
“You have the dies for silver coins,” added Silk.
“Right here,” returned Barbier. “But I have hidden them away. They are no good to me. I have always failed to make the coins I want. The dies — they are perfect — but the alloy—”
“You have used silver in it?”
“Yes. But never with good results. Other metals give the ring, but they are too light — all except lead. When I use it to bring up the weight—”
“I know. But the proper alloy is possible to obtain, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” asserted Barbier, “but it has driven me mad. The metal can be had; but who will produce it? It would be silver, of standard far below the Sterling, but silver, none the less.”
“Barbier” — Silk’s tone was confidential — “I have obtained the metal that you require. I have arranged a perfect set-up; but you must work for me.”
“Here in New York?” The old man’s tone was eager.
“Somewhere else,” smiled Silk. “A long way off. A place where you can live under cover. There is plenty in it, Barbier. We will profit both of us, and others beside. You will become wealthy.”
“I am safe here.”
“Only in a small way. Where I am taking you, Barbier, the silver may be had. There will be no need for shipment. It will be prepared at the place itself.”
The old man’s eyes gleamed. Silk Elverton waxed loquacious as he played upon Barbier’s cupidity.
“We shall loose a silver scourge!” exclaimed Silk. “We shall sweep this country like a plague. Silver — silver that will stand the test — silver that will buy gold—”
“I shall come,” declared Cyrus Barbier.
“At once,” returned Silk.
The wizened man began to rub his hands as he looked about the place. He shook his head slowly; immediate departure was something that he could not see possible.
While Silk was watching Barbier, a low, rapid knocking sounded at the door. The old man opened it. A short, dark-faced Italian entered.
“This is Tony Cumo,” introduced Barbier. “You have met him before.”
“Oh, the Englishman, eh?” laughed Tony, showing a gold-toothed smile as he extended his hand.
Silk Elverton received the shake.
TONY CUMO turned suddenly to Cyrus Barbier. The Italian’s grin changed to a serious expression.
“You been talking about the nickel racket?” he questioned.
Barbier nodded.
“It’s getting pretty hot,” said Cumo. “We’re working it too strong. What do you think of it?”
The final sentence of Cumo’s question was directed to Silk Elverton. The slick crook was quick to take advantage of the situation.
“I have just told Barbier,” he remarked, “of a real opportunity. Dimes, quarters, half dollars” — Tony Cumo’s smile was gleaming as Silk rose up the value scale — “instead of five-cent pieces. I have the alloy. I have the place. I have the protection.”
“What do you think of it, Tony?” asked Barbier.
“Say” — the Italian’s tone was serious — “the sooner, the better. This nickel peddling is getting bad. You know that pushcart man, Pietro? Well, he isn’t out on the job this morning. Some one saw him earlier — but he isn’t at his usual place.
“Maybe something is up — I don’t know. But I was coming in here to tell you to stow away those dies—”
There was intelligence in Tony Cumo’s speech. Silk Elverton worked upon it. He saw that the Italian’s influence could swing Cyrus Barbier.
“How long would it take to pack up the equipment?” he asked of Tony.
“Half an hour,” returned the Italian.
“Get busy,” ordered Silk serenely. “You and Barbier are with me from now on. Don’t ask me about the lay — you’ll see it soon enough. Clear out all the phony apparatus in this place and move.
“This means a lot to me. You two are the men I need. I’ll make it worth your while. I’m leaving it to you, Tony. Here — look at this—”
The crook pulled a sheaf of bills from his pocket. He extracted five, each of a hundred-dollar denomination, and gave the half of a thousand to Cyrus Barbier.
“That’ll cover traveling expenses,” assured Silk. “There’ll be plenty more when you get to New Avalon, where I’ll meet you. Get going — don’t leave anything that would mean a clew.”
“Don’t worry,” grinned Tony Cumo. “All that we’ll leave will be brass-stamping equipment. Say, boss” — the Italian was speaking to Barbier — “you go over and see Cleghorn. He was always dickering to buy out this joint as a brass shop. Just tell him you’re going away for your health. He’s made you a price for everything as is. Grab it. Leave me to pack.”
Cyrus Barbier hesitated. Tony Cumo clapped the old man on his stooped shoulders. Nodding, Barbier started on the errand.
Silk Elverton laughed when he had gone.
“You’re a great guy, Tony,” he remarked. “You bring that old duck with you. Register at the New Avalon Hotel, and lay low until you hear from me.”
“This is a good lay, eh?”
“You bet. Wait until you get there. You know the kind of game I play for.”
The Italian was at work detaching apparatus. His work was swift and methodical. As Cyrus Barbier’s helper, Tony Cumo was more than a mere handy man. Silk Elverton grinned as he saw Tony open a drawer, pour a quantity of nickels into a bag, and remove a revolver which he thrust into his pocket.
“So long, Tony,” said Silk. “I’m leaving it to you.”
The dandified crook went out through the brass shop. He walked past the slouching youth who was on duty, and reached the street. He walked hastily to the elevated station.
FIFTEEN minutes after Silk’s departure, Cyrus Barbier returned to the back room of the brass shop, carrying a handful of bills. The old man was counting the money when Tony Cumo interrupted him.
“Shove that dough in your pocket,” ordered the Italian. “I’m going up and bring down a couple of your suitcases. We’re scramming.”
“But I should take more time,” protested Barbier. “I must be sure to get all of my belongings—”
“I’ll bring enough,” interrupted Tony. “You’ve got your money for the shop. Let’s get out in a hurry. Maybe old man Cleghorn will begin to think there may be a catch to it. Come on — before he comes around to chew the rag.”
Tony pointed to a few odd details that he had left unfinished. The Italian went out through the large workroom, and ascended a flight of stairs. He came down with two suitcases. He called to the boy.