The Victorian Villains Megapack (45 page)

“Mum, eh?” He scribbled something in the blotter upon the desk before him. Then he raised his eyes and scrutinized McAllister’s face. Suddenly he jumped to his feet.

“Well, of all the luck!” he exclaimed. “Do you know who you’ve caught? It’s Fatty Welch!”

IV

How he had managed to live through the night that followed McAllister could never afterward understand. Locked in a cell, alone, to be sure, but with no light, he took off his dripping coat and threw himself on the wooden seat that served for a bed. It was about six inches too short. He lay there for a few moments, then got wearily to his feet and began to pace up and down the narrow cell. His legs and abdomen, which had been the recipients of so much attention, pa
ined him severely. The occupant of the next apartment, awakened by our friend’s arrival, began to show irritation. He ordered McAllister in no gentle language to abstain from exercise and go to sleep. A woman farther down the corridor commenced to moan drearily to herself. Evidently sleep had made her forget her sorrow, but now in the middle of the night it came back to her with redoubled force. Her groans racked McAllister’s heart. A stir ran all along the cells—sounds of people tossing restlessly, curses, all the nameless noises of the jail. McAllister, fearful of bringing some new calamity upon his head, sat down. He had been shivering when he came in; now he reeked with perspiration. The air was fetid. The only ventilation came through the gratings of the door, and a huge stove just beyond his cell rendered the temperature almost unbearable. He began to throw off his garments one by one. Again he drew his knees to his chest and tried to sleep, but sleep was impossible. Never had McAllister in all his life known such wretchedness of body, such abject physical suffering. But his agony of mind was even more unbearable. Vague apprehensions of infectious disease floating in the nauseous air, or of possible pneumonia, unnerved and tortured him. Stretched on the floor he fell at length into a coma of exhaustion, in which he
fancied that he was lying in a warm bath in the porcelain tub at home. In the room beyond he could see Frazier, his valet, laying out his pajamas and dressing-gown. There was a delicious odor of that violet perfume he always used. In a minute he would jump into bed. Then the valet suddenly came into the bath-room and began to pound his master on the back of the neck. For some reason he did not resent this. It seemed quite natural and proper. He merely put up his hand to ward off the blows, and found the keeper standing over him.

“Here’s some breakfast,” remarked that official. “Tom sent out and got it for ye. The city don’t supply no
aller carty
.” McAllister vaguely rubbed his eyes. The keeper shut and locked the door, leaving behind him on the seat a tin mug of scalding hot coffee and a half loaf of sour bread.

McAllister arose and felt his clothes. They were entirely dry, but had shrunk perceptibly. He was surprised to find that, save for the dizziness in his head, he felt not unlike himself. Moreover, he was most abominably hungry. He knelt down and smelt of the contents of the tin cup. It did not smell like coffee at all. It tasted like a combination of hot water, tea, and molasses. He waited until it had cooled, and drank it. The bread was not so bad. McAllister ate it all.

Ther
e was a good deal of noise in the cells now, and outside he could hear many feet coming and going. Occasionally a draught of cold air would flow in, and an officer would tramp down the corridor and remove one of the occupants of the row. His watch showed that it was already eight o’clock. He fumbled in his waistcoat-pocket and found a very warped and wrinkled cigar. His match-box supplied the necessary light, and “Chubby” McAllister began to smoke his after-breakfast Havana with appreciation.

“No smoking in the cells!” came the rough voice of the keeper. “Give us that cigar, Welch!”

McAllister started to his feet.

“Hand it over, now! Quick!”

The clubman passed his cherished comforter through the bars, and the keeper, thrusting it, still lighted, into his own mouth, grinned at him, winked, and walked away.

“Merry Christmas, Fatty!” he remarked genially over his shoulder.

V

Half an hour later Tom and his “side partner” came to the cell-door. They were flushed with victory. Already the morning papers contained acc
ounts of the pursuit and startling arrest of “Fatty Welch,” the well-known crook, who was wanted in Pennsylvania and elsewhere on various charges. Altogether the officers were in a very genial frame of mind.

“Come along, Fatty,” said Tom, helping the clubman into his bedraggled overcoat. “We’re almost late for roll-call, as it is.”

They left the cells and entered the station-house proper, where several officers with their prisoners were waiting.

“We’ll take you down to Headquarters and make sure we’ve got you
right
,” he continued. “I guess Sheridan’ll know you fast enough when he sees you. Come on, boys!” He opened the door and led the way across the sidewalk to the patrol wagon, which stood backed against the curb.

It was a glorious winter’s day. The sharp, frosty air stimulated the clubman’s jaded senses and gave him new hope; he felt sure that at headquarters he would find some person to whom he could safely confide the secret of his identity. In about ten minutes the wagon stopped in a narrow street, before an inhospitable-looking building.

“Here’s the old place,” remarked one of the load cheerfully. “Looks just the same as ever. Mott Street’s not a mite different. And to think I ain’t been here in fifteen years!”

All
clambered out, and each officer, selecting his prisoners, convoyed them down a flight of steps, through a door, several feet below the level of the sidewalk, and into a small, stuffy chamber full of men smoking and lounging. Most of these seemed to take a friendly interest in the clubman, a few accosting him by his now familiar alias.

Tom hurried McAllister along a dark corridor, out into a cold court-yard, across the cobblestones into another door, through a hall lighted only by a dim gas-jet, and then up a flight of winding stairs. McAllister’s head whirled. Then quickly they were at the top, and in a huge, high-ceiled room crowded with men in civilian dress. On one side, upon a platform, stood a nondescript row of prisoners, at whom the throng upon the floor gazed in silence. Above the heads of this file of motley individuals could be read the gold lettering upon the cabinet behind them—Rogues’ Gallery. On the other side of the room, likewise upon a platform and behind a long desk, stood two officers in uniform, one of them an inspector, engaged in studying with the keenest attention the human exhibition opposite.

“Get up there, Fatty!”

Before he realized what had happened, McAllister was pushed upon the platform at the end of the line. His appearance created a little wave of exci
tement, which increased when his comrades of the wagon joined him. It was a peculiar scene. Twenty men standing up for inspection, some gazing unconcernedly before them, some glaring defiantly at their observers, and others grinning recognition at familiar faces. McAllister grew cold with fright. Several of the detectives pointed at him and nodded. Out of the silence the Inspector’s voice came with the shock of thunder:

“Hey, there, you, Sanders, hold up your hand!”

A short man near the head of the line lifted his arm.

“Take off your hat.”

The prisoner removed his head-gear with his other hand. The Inspector raised his voice and addressed the crowd of detectives, who turned with one accord to examine the subject of his discourse.

“That’s Biff Sanders, con man and all-round thief. Served two terms up the river for grand larceny—last time an eight-year bit; that was nine years ago. Take a good look at him. I want you to remember his face. Put your hat on.”

Sanders resumed his original position, his face expressing the most complete indifference.

A slight, good-looking young man now joined the Inspector and directed his attention to the prisoner next the clubman, the same being he who had remar
ked upon the familiar appearance of Mott Street.

“Hold up your hand!” ordered the Inspector. “You’re Muggins, aren’t you? Haven’t been here in fifteen years, have you?”

The man smiled.

“You’re right, Inspector,” he said. “The last time was in ’89.”

“That’s Muggins, burglar and sneak; served four terms here, and then got settled for life in Louisville for murder. Pardoned after he’d served four years. Look at him.”

Thus the curious proceeding continued, each man in the line being inspected, recognized, and his record and character described by the Inspector to the assembled bureau of detectives. No other voice was heard save the harsh tones of some prisoner in reply.

Then the Inspector looked at McAllister.

“Welch, hold up your hand.”

McAllister shuddered. If he refused, he knew not what might happen to him. He had heard of the horrors of the “Third Degree,” and associated it with starvation, the rack, and all kinds of brutality. They might set upon him in a body. He might be mobbed, beaten, strangled. And yet, if he obeyed, would it not be a public admission that he was the mysterious and elusive Welch? Would
it not bind the chains more firmly about him and render explanation all the more difficult?

“Do you hear? Hold up your hand, and be quick about it!”

His hand went up of its own accord.

The Inspector cleared his throat and rapped upon the railing.

“Take a good look at this man. He’s Fatty Welch, one of the cleverest thieves in the country. Does a little of everything. Began as a valet to a clubman in this city. He got settled for stealing a valuable pin about three years ago, and served a short term up the river. Since then he’s been all over. His game is to secure employment in fashionable houses as butler or servant and then get away with the jewelry. He’s wanted for a big job down in Pennsylvania. Take a good look at him. When he gets out we don’t want him around these parts. I’d like you precinct-men to remember him.”

The detectives crowded near to get a close view of the interesting criminal. One or two of them made notes in memorandum books. The slender man had a hasty conference with the Inspector.

“The officer who has Welch, take him up to the gallery and then bring him down to the record room,” directed the Inspector.

“Get down, Fatty!” commanded Tom. McAllist
er, stupefied with horror, embarrassment, and apprehension of the possibilities in store for him, stepped down and followed like a somnambulist. As they made their way to the elevator he could hear the strident voice of the Inspector beginning again:

“This is Pat Hogan, otherwise known as ‘Paddy the Sneak,’ and his side partner, Jim Hawkins, who goes under the name of James Hawkinson. His pals call him ‘Supple Jim.’ Two of the cleverest sneaks in the country. They branch out into strong arm work occasionally.”

The elevator began to ascend.

“You seem kinder down,” commented Tom. “I suppose you expect to get settled for quite a bit down to Philadelphia, eh? Well, don’t talk unless you feel like it. Here we are!”

They got out upon an upper floor and crossed the hall. On their left a matron was arranging rows of tiny chairs in a small school-room or nursery. At any other time the Lost Children’s Room might have aroused a flicker of interest in McAllister, but he felt none whatever in it now. Tom opened a door and pushed the clubman gently into a small, low-ceiled chamber. Charts and diagrams of the human cranium hung on one wall, while a score of painted eyes, each of a different color, and each bearing a technical appellation and a number, stare
d from the other. Upon a small square platform, about eight inches in height, stood a half-clad Italian congealed with terror and expecting momentarily to receive a shock of electricity. The slender young man was rapidly measuring his hands and feet and calling out the various dimensions to an assistant, who recorded them upon a card. This accomplished, he ordered his victim down from the block, seated him unceremoniously in a chair, and with a pair of shining instruments gauged the depth of his skull from front to rear, its width between the cheekbones, and the length of the ears, describing all the while the other features in brief terms to his associate.

“Now off with you!” he ejaculated. “Here, lug this Greaser in and mug him.”

The officer in the case haled the Italian, shrieking, into another room.

“Ah, Fatty!” remarked the slender man. “I trust you won’t object to these little formalities? Take off that left shoe, if you please.”

McAllister’s soul had shrivelled within him. His powers of thought had been annihilated. Mechanically he removed the shoe in question and placed his foot upon the block. The young man quickly measured it.

“Now get up there and rest your hand on the board.”

McAlli
ster observed that the table bore the painted outline of a human hand. He did as he was told unquestioningly. The other measured his forefinger and the length of his forearm.

“All right. Now sit down and let me tickle your head for a moment.”

The operator took the silver calipers which had just been used upon the Italian and ran them thoughtfully forward and back above the clubman’s organs of hearing.

“By George, you’ve got a big head!” remarked the measurer. “Prominent, Roman nose. No. 4 eyes. Thank you. Just step into the next room, will you, and be mugged?”

McAllister drew on his shoe and followed Tom into the adjoining chamber of horrors.

“No tricks, now!” commented the officer in charge of the instrument.

Snap!
went the camera.

“Turn sideways.”

Snap!

“That’s all.”

The clubman staggered to his feet. He entirely failed to appreciate the extent of the indignity which had been practised upon him. It was hours before he realized that he had actually been measured and photographed as a criminal, and that, to his dying hour and beyond, these insignia of his shame
would remain locked in the custody of the police.

“Where now?” he asked.

“Time to go over to court,” answered Tom. “The wagon’ll be waitin’ for us. But first we’ll drop in on Sheridan—record-room man, you know.”