The Max Brand Megapack (198 page)

“You come up from the South, maybe?” asked the proprietor, lingering at the door.

“West,” said Bill Gregg curtly.

“You don’t say! Then you boys must be used to your toddy at night, eh?”

“It’s a tolerable dry country out there,” said Ronicky without enthusiasm.

“All the more reason you need some liquor to moisten it up. Wait till I get you a bottle of rye I got handy.” And he disappeared in spite of their protests.

“I ain’t a drinking man,” said Gregg, “and I know you ain’t, but it’s sure insulting to turn down a drink in these days!”

Ronicky nodded, and presently the host returned with two glasses, rattling against a tall bottle on a tray.

“Say, when,” he said, filling the glasses and keeping on, in spite of their protests, until each glass was full.

“I guess it looks pretty good to you to see the stuff again,” he said, stepping back and rubbing his hands like one warmed by the consciousness of a good deed. “It ain’t very plentiful around here.”

“Well,” said Gregg, swinging up his glass, “here’s in your eye, Ronicky, and here’s to you, sir!”

“Wait,” replied Ronicky Doone. “Hold on a minute, Bill. Looks to me like you ain’t drinking,” he said to the proprietor.

The fat man waved the suggestion aside. “Never touch it,” he assured them. “Used to indulge a little in light wines and beers when the country was wet, but when it went dry the stuff didn’t mean enough to me to make it worth while dodging the law. I just manage to keep a little of it around for old friends and men out of a dry country.”

“But we got a funny habit out in our country. We can’t no ways drink unless the gent that’s setting them out takes something himself. It ain’t done that way in our part of the land,” said Ronicky.

“It ain’t?”

“Never!”

“Come, come! That’s a good joke. But, even if I can’t be with you, boys, drink hearty.”

Ronicky Doone shook his head. “No joke at all,” he said firmly. “Matter of politeness that a lot of gents are terrible hard set on out where we come from.”

“Why, Ronicky,” protested Bill Gregg, “ain’t you making it a little strong? For my part I’ve drunk twenty times without having the gent that set ’em up touch a thing. I reckon I can do it again. Here’s how!”

“Wait!” declared Ronicky Doone. And there was a little jarring ring in his voice that arrested the hand of Bill Gregg in the very act of raising the glass.

Ronicky crossed the room quickly, took a glass from the washstand and, returning to the center table, poured a liberal drink of the whisky into it.

“I dunno about my friend,” he went on, almost sternly, to the bewildered hotel keeper. “I dunno about him, but some gents feel so strong about not drinking alone that they’d sooner fight. Well, sir, I’m one of that kind. So I say, there’s your liquor. Get rid of it!”

The fat man reached the center table and propped himself against it, gasping. His whole big body seemed to be wilting, as though in a terrific heat. “I dunno!” he murmured. “I dunno what’s got into you fellers. I tell you, I never drink.”

“You lie, you fat fool!” retorted Ronicky. “Didn’t I smell your breath?”

Bill Gregg dropped his own glass on the table and hurriedly came to confront his host by the side of Ronicky.

“Breath?” asked the fat man hurriedly, still gasping more and more heavily for air. “I—I may have taken a small tonic after dinner. In fact, think I did. That’s all. Nothing more, I assure you. I—I have to be a sober man in my work.”

“You got to make an exception this evening,” said Ronicky, more fiercely than ever. “I ought to make you drink all three drinks for being so slow about drinking one!”

“Three drinks!” exclaimed the fat man, trembling violently. “It—it would kill me!”

“I think it would,” said Ronicky. “I swear I think it would. And maybe even one will be a sort of a shock, eh?”

He commanded suddenly: “Drink! Drink that glass and clean out the last drop of it, or we’ll tie you and pry your mouth open and pour the whole bottle down your throat. You understand?”

A feeble moan came from the throat of the hotel keeper. He cast one frantic glance toward the door and a still more frantic appeal centered on Ronicky Doone, but the face of the latter was as cold as stone.

“Then take your own glasses, boys,” he said, striving to smile, as he picked up his own drink.

“You drink first, and you drink alone,” declared Ronicky. “Now!”

The movement of his hand was as ominous as if he had whipped out a revolver. The fat man tossed off the glass of whisky and then stood with a pudgy hand pressed against his breast and the upward glance of one who awaits a calamity. Under the astonished eyes of Bill Gregg he turned pale, a sickly greenish pallor. His eyes rolled, and his hand on the table shook, and the arm that supported him sagged.

“Open the window,” he said. “The air—there ain’t no air. I’m choking—and—”

“Get him some water,” cried Bill Gregg, “while I open the window.”

“Stay where you are, Bill.”

“But he looks like he’s dying!”

“Then he’s killed himself.”

“Gents,” began the fat man feebly and made a short step toward them. The step was uncompleted. In the middle of it he wavered, put out his arms and slumped upon his side on the floor.

Bill Gregg cried out softly in astonishment and horror, but Ronicky Doone knelt calmly beside the fallen bulk and felt the beating of his heart.

“He ain’t dead,” he said quietly, “but he’ll be tolerably sick for a while. Now come along with me.”

“But what’s all this mean?” asked Bill Gregg in a whisper, as he picked up his suit case and hurried after Ronicky.

“Doped booze,” said Ronicky curtly.

They hurried down the stairs and came out onto the dark street. There Ronicky Doone dropped his suit case and dived into a dark nook beside the entrance. There was a brief struggle. He came out again, pushing a skulking figure before him, with the man’s arm twisted behind his back.

“Take off this gent’s hat, will you?” asked Ronicky.

Bill Gregg obeyed, too dumb with astonishment to think. “It’s the taxi driver!” he exclaimed.

“I thought so!” muttered Ronicky. “The skunk came back here to wait till we were fixed right now. What’ll we do with him?”

“I begin to see what’s come off,” said Bill Gregg, frowning into the white, scowling face of the taxi driver. The man was like a rat, but, in spite of his fear, he did not make a sound.

“Over there!” said Bill Gregg, nodding toward a flight of cellar steps.

They caught the man between them, rushed him to the steps and flung him headlong down. There was a crashing fall, groans and then silence.

“He’ll have a broken bone or two, maybe,” said Ronicky, peering calmly into the darkness, “but he’ll live to trap somebody else, curse him!” And, picking up their suit cases again, they started to retrace their steps.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The First Clue

They did not refer to the incidents of that odd reception in New York until they had located a small hotel for themselves, not three blocks away. It was no cheaper, but they found a pleasant room, clean and with electric lights. It was not until they had bathed and were propped up in their beds for a good-night smoke, which cow-punchers love, that Bill Gregg asked: “And what gave you the tip, Ronicky?”

“I dunno. In my business you got to learn to watch faces, Bill. Suppose you sit in at a five-handed game of poker. One gent says everything with his face, while he’s picking up his cards. Another gent don’t say a thing, but he shows what he’s got by the way he moves in his chair, or the way he opens and shuts his hands. When you said something about our wad I seen the taxi driver blink. Right after that he got terrible friendly and said he could steer us to a friend of his that could put us up for the night pretty comfortable. Well, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. Not that I figured anything out. Just was walking on my toes, ready to jump in any direction.”

As for Bill Gregg, he brooded for a time on what he had heard, then he shook his head and sighed. “I’d be a mighty helpless kid in this here town if I didn’t have you along, Ronicky,” he said.

“Nope,” insisted Ronicky. “Long as you use another gent for a sort of guide you feel kind of helpless. But, when you step off for yourself, everything is pretty easy. You just were waiting for me to take the lead, or you’d have done just as much by yourself.”

Again Bill Gregg sighed, as he shook his head. “If this is what New York is like,” he said, “we’re in for a pretty bad time. And this is what they call a civilized town? Great guns, they need martial law and a thousand policemen to the block to keep a gent’s life and pocketbook safe in this town! First gent we meet tries to bump us off or get our wad. Don’t look like we’re going to have much luck, Ronicky.”

“We saved our hides, I guess.”

“That’s about all.”

“And we learned something.”

“Sure.”

“Then I figure it was a pretty good night.

“Another thing, Bill. I got an idea from that taxi gent. I figure that whole gang of taxi men are pretty sharp in the eye. What I mean is that we can tramp up and down along this here East River, and now and then we’ll talk to some taxi men that do most of their work from stands in them parts of the town. Maybe we can get on her trail that way. Anyways, it’s an opening.”

“Maybe,” said Bill Gregg dubiously. He reached under his pillow. “But I’m sure going to sleep with a gun under my head in this town!” With this remark he settled himself for repose and presently was snoring loudly.

Ronicky presented a brave face to the morning and at once started with Bill Gregg to tour along the East River. That first day Ronicky insisted that they simply walk over the whole ground, so as to become fairly familiar with the scale of their task. They managed to make the trip before night and returned to the hotel, footsore from the hard, hot pavements. There was something unkindly and ungenerous in those pavements, it seemed to Ronicky. He was discovering to his great amazement that the loneliness of the mountain desert is nothing at all compared to the loneliness of the Manhattan crowd.

Two very gloomy and silent cow-punchers ate their dinner that night and went to bed early. But in the morning they began the actual work of their campaign. It was an arduous labor. It meant interviewing in every district one or two storekeepers, and asking the mail carriers for “Caroline Smith,” and showing the picture to taxi drivers. These latter were the men, insisted Ronicky, who would eventually bring them to Caroline Smith. “Because, if they’ve ever drove a girl as pretty as that, they’ll remember for quite a while.”

“But half of these gents ain’t going to talk to us, even if they know,” Bill Gregg protested, after he had been gruffly refused an answer a dozen times in the first morning.

“Some of ’em won’t talk,” admitted Ronicky, “but that’s probably because they don’t know. Take ’em by and large, most gents like to tell everything they know, and then some!”

As a matter of fact they met with rather more help than they wanted. In spite of all their efforts to appear casual there was something too romantic in this search for a girl to remain entirely unnoticed. People whom they asked became excited and offered them a thousand suggestions. Everybody, it seemed, had, somewhere, somehow, heard of a Caroline Smith living in his own block, and every one remembered dimly having passed a girl on the street who looked exactly like Caroline Smith. But they went resolutely on, running down a thousand false clues and finding at the end of each something more ludicrous than what had gone before. Maiden ladies with many teeth and big glasses they found; and they discovered, at the ends of the trails on which they were advised to go, young women and old, ugly girls and pretty ones, but never any one who in the slightest degree resembled Caroline Smith.

In the meantime they were working back and forth, in their progress along the East River, from the slums to the better residence districts. They bought newspapers at little stationery stores and worked up chance conversations with the clerks, particularly girl clerks, whenever they could find them.

“Because women have the eye for faces,” Ronicky would say, “and, if a girl like Caroline Smith came into the shop, she’d be remembered for a while.”

But for ten days they labored without a ghost of a success. Then they noticed the taxi stands along the East Side and worked them as carefully as they could, and it was on the evening of the eleventh day of the search that they reached the first clue.

They had found a taxi drawn up before a saloon, converted into an eating place, and when they went inside they found the driver alone in the restaurant. They worked up the conversation, as they had done a hundred times before. Gregg produced the picture and began showing it to Ronicky.

“Maybe the lady’s around here,” said Ronicky, “but I’m new in this part of town.” He took the picture and turned to the taxi driver. “Maybe you’ve been around this part of town and know the folks here. Ever see this girl around?” And he passed the picture to the other.

The taxi driver bowed his head over it in a close scrutiny. When he looked up his face was a blank.

“I don’t know. Lemme see. I think I seen a girl like her the other day, waiting for the traffic to pass at Seventy-second and Broadway. Yep, she sure was a ringer for this picture.” He passed the picture back, and a moment later he finished his meal, paid his check and went sauntering through the door.

“Quick!” said Ronicky, the moment the chauffeur had disappeared. “Pay the check and come along. That fellow knows something.”

Bill Gregg, greatly excited, obeyed, and they hurried to the door of the place. They were in time to see the taxicab lurch away from the curb and go humming down the street, while the driver leaned out to the side and looked back.

“He didn’t see us,” said Ronicky confidently.

“But what did he leave for?”

“He’s gone to tell somebody, somewhere, that we’re looking for Caroline Smith. Come on!” He stepped out to the curb and stopped a passing taxi. “Follow that machine and keep a block away from it,” he ordered.

“Bootlegger?” asked the taxi driver cheerily.