Читать книгу The Adventures of Detective Barney - Harvey Jerrold O'Higgins - Страница 3

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THE BLACKMAILERS

I

The want ad—after the manner of want ads—had read simply: “Boy, over 14, intelligent, trustworthy, for confidential office work, references. Address B-67 Evening Express.”

Several scores of boys, who were neither very intelligent nor peculiarly trustworthy, exposed their disqualifications—after the manner of boys—in the written applications that they made. Of these scores, a dozen boys received typewritten requests to call next morning at room 1056, in the Cranmer Building, ​on Broadway, for a personal interview with “H. M. Archibald.” But of the dozen, only one knew what sort of confidential office work might be waiting for him in room 1056.

He was little Barney Cook. And he kept his information to himself.

The directory, on the wall of the building’s entrance, did not assign 1056 to any of the names on its list. The elevator boys did not know who occupied 1056. The door of 1056 had nothing on its glass panel but the painted number; and the neighboring doors were equally discreet. The “Babbing Bureau” was the nearest name in the corridor, but its doors were marked “Private. Entrance at 1070.”

Nor was there anything in the interior aspect of 1056 to enlighten any of Barney Cook’s competitors when they came there to be interviewed. It was an ordinary outer office of the golden-oak variety, with a railing of spindles separating a telephone switchboard and two typewriter desks from two public ​settles and a brass cuspidor. There were girls at the desks and the switchboard. The boys were on the settles or at the railing. The girls were busy, indifferent, chatty (among themselves) and very much at home. The boys, of course, were quite otherwise. They might have been suspected of having assumed a common expression of inert and anxious stupidity in order that each might conceal from all the others the required intelligence with which he hoped to win the “job.”

Barney Cook alone betrayed the workings of a mind. He sat erect—stretching his neck—at the end of a settle nearest the gate of the railing, watching the door of an inner room and scrutinizing every one who came out of it. He paid no heed to the girls; he knew that they were merely clerks. But when he saw a rough-looking man appear, with a red handkerchief around his neck, he stared excitedly. Surely the bandana was a disguise! Perhaps the black mustache was false!

Forty-eight hours earlier, in the uniform of ​a telegraph boy, Barney had been in the public office of the Babbing Detective Bureau; and he had been asked to deliver an envelope to the advertising department of the Evening Express as he went back. The envelope was not sealed. It did stick slightly in places—but it was not sealed. And it contained the want ad. “Confidential office work”! For the famous Walter Babbing!

Young Barney had been delivering telegrams to the Babbing Bureau for months, without ever getting past the outer office at 1070, and without so much as suspecting the existence of these operatives’ rooms and inner chambers down the hall. He had seen Babbing only once, when “the great detective” came out with one of his men while Barney was getting his book signed. Babbing stood in the doorway long enough to say: “I ’ll meet you at the station. Get the tickets. I ’ll send Jim down with my suit-case.” The operative replied: “All right, Chief.” And Barney knew that this was Walter Babbing.

​He was a brisk-looking, clean-shaven, little fat man—rather “a dude” to Barney—with a quietly mild expression and vague eyes.

Barney knew nothing of the scientific theory of “protective coloring” in detectives; he did not know that the most successful among them naturally look least like anything that might be expected of their kind. He went out, with his book open in his hand, absorbed in study of the picture of Babbing that had been photographed on his instantaneous young mind.

Subsequently, he decided that he had seen Walter Babbing without any make-up, in the private appearance that he reserved for office use among his men. And he was assisted to this conclusion by his knowledge of the adventures of Nick Carter which he read on the street cars, in the subways, on the benches in the waiting room of the telegraph office, or wherever else he had leisure. And it was the influence of these Nick Carter stories that had brought him now to 1056 in his Sunday best, with his hair brushed and his shoes polished, ​as guiltily excited as a truant, having lied to his mother and absented himself from his work in the wild hope of getting employment—confidential and mysterious employment—in the office of the great Babbing.

He was a rather plump and sturdy youth of sixteen, with an innocent brightness of face, brown-eyed, black-haired, not easily abashed and always ready with a smile. It was a dimpled smile, too; and he understood its value. In spite of his boyish ignorance of many things outside his immediate experience—such as famous detectives, for example—he knew his world and his way about in it; he met the events of his day with a practical understanding; and when he did not understand them he disarmed them with a grin. He was confident that he could get this job in the Babbing Bureau, in competition with any of the “boobs” who were waiting to dispute it with him, unless some one among them had a “pull.” Being an experienced New Yorker, it was the fear of the pull that worried him.

​He waited alertly on the edge of his settle, watching for an indication that the interviews with “H. M. Archibald” were to begin, and ready to rise and thrust himself forward as the first applicant. For a moment he did not recognize Babbing when the detective entered, from an inner office, in a spring overcoat and a fight felt hat.

He had a small black satchel in his hand. He spoke to the telephone girl. Barney heard her ask: “The Antwerp?” Babbing added: “Until three o’clock.”

He came towards the gate of the railing, and Barney rose to open it for him. Babbing did not appear to notice him, so Barney preceded him to the door and opened that also. Still Babbing did not heed. “I ’ll take your satchel, Mr. Babbing,” Barney said, authoritatively. And Babbing gave it to him in the manner of an absent mind.

The whole proceeding had been a sudden inspiration on Barney’s part, born of a desire to distinguish himself, in Babbing’s eyes, from ​the other prospective office boys on the settles. Now, with Babbing’s satchel in his hand, he followed the detective into a well-filled elevator, confident of Babbing’s notice; but as they dropped in the cage together, he observed that the detective was looking over his head, occupied with his own thoughts.

Barney got out before him, preceded him to the entrance of the building, and stood at a revolving door for Babbing to go first. Babbing passed him without a glance. A taxi-cab was waiting at the curb, and he crossed the sidewalk to it, with Barney at his heels. While he was speaking in a low tone to the driver, Barney opened the cab door and held it open for him to get in; and he got in, without remark. Barney put the satchel at his feet; but the feet, too, were blind; they did not move. Barney shut the door, reluctantly; and the indifferent auto slowly started up Broadway, intent upon the internal uproar of its own convulsions.

Barney did not understand that if you are ​a detective, confronted by an incident which you do not understand, you pretend that you do not see it, so that you may observe it without putting it on its guard. He stood looking after his wasted opportunity, for a regretful moment. Then he turned and ran towards City Hall Park, to get an express train in the subway station at the Bridge.

He knew that the Antwerp—if it was the Hotel Antwerp that was meant—was around the corner from the subway station at 42nd Street.

Barney wanted that “job.” Babbing had it, so to speak, in his pocket. And with the shrewd simplicity of youth, Barney proposed to follow and put himself in the way until he was asked, impatiently: “Well, boy, what do you want?” Then he would say what he wanted—and probably get it.

Although the subway is not so expensive as a taxi-cab, it is speedier, in the long run; and Barney was standing near the door of the Antwerp—somewhat blown but cheerfully ​composed—when Babbing’s car whirred around the corner and drew up to the sidewalk. Barney opened the cab door and took the satchel briskly, with a smile of recognition which the detective ignored. When the driver had been paid, Babbing turned into the hotel, apparently oblivious of his escort; and Barney followed undiscouraged, with the bag.

“Get away, kid,” he said to the bell-boy who offered to carry it. “Er I ’ll bite your ankle.”

Standing back at a respectful distance, he watched the detective get a letter and his room-key at the desk. When he went to the elevator, there was nothing for Barney to do but to go after him. In the elevator, Babbing said “Eighth,” and busied himself with his letter, which he read and pondered on. He put it in his pocket and looked Barney over, for the first time, with an abstracted eye. Barney smiled at him, ingratiatingly. The smile met with no response.

And still Barney was not discouraged. He ​was not apprehensive. He was not even nervous. There was nothing forbidding in the mild reserve of the detective’s face. He looked like a man of a kindly personality. He seemed easy-going and meditative. And Barney, of course, was not the first to get that impression of him. It was one of the things that explained Babbing’s success.

He led the way down the padded carpet of the corridor to his room, and unlocked the door, and threw it open for Barney to enter one of the usual hotel bedrooms of the Antwerp’s class, with the usual curly-maple furniture and elaborate curtains and thick carpeting. Barney put the satchel on the table, and waited in the center of stereotyped luxury. “When did Mr. Archibald take you on?” Babbing asked, aside, as he hung up his hat and overcoat.

“He has n’t taken me on—yet,” Barney admitted.

Babbing put on a pair of unexpected spectacles and got out a ring of keys to unlock his ​bag. Occupied with that, he asked: “How did you know that I was coming here?”

Barney explained that he had overheard the instructions to the telephone girl.

The detective had begun to take, from his satchel, letters, telegrams, typewritten reports, and packages of papers strapped in rubber bands, which he proceeded to sort into little piles on the table, as they came. He appeared to be giving this business his whole attention, but while his hands moved deliberately and his eyes read the notations on the papers, he pursued Barney through an examination that ran: “How did you know who I was?”

“I delivered telegrams to your office an’—”

“For what company?”

“The Western Union.”

“Why did you leave them?”

“I wanted to work fer you.”

“How did you know we wanted a boy?”

“I saw the ad.”

“How did you know it was ours?”

“I—I delivered it to the newspaper.”

​“Are you in the habit of opening letters that are given you to deliver?”

“No, sir.”

“Don’t smile so much. You overdo it,” Babbing said, without looking up. And his merely professional tone of matter-of-fact advice sobered Barney as suddenly as if he had said: “I understand, of course, that you have found your smile very effective, but it does n’t deceive me. You ’re not so bland a child as you pretend, and I shall not treat you as if you were.”

Barney shifted uncomfortably on his feet. The absent-minded ease with which Babbing had plied him with questions and caught up his answers made him fearful for the approach of the moment when the detective should give him a concentrated attention and begin forcibly to ransack him and turn him inside out.

Babbing asked unexpectedly: “How tall are you?”

“About five feet,” Barney answered at a guess.

​“How much do you weigh?”

“About a hundred—an’ twenty-five.”

Babbing glanced at him appraisingly, went on with his papers again, and said: “When you don’t know a thing, say so. It saves time. What ’s your name?”

“Barney. Barney Cook.”

“Where do you live?”

Barney gave the number of his home in Hudson Street.

“The Greenwich village quarter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Irish-Catholic?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What does your father do?”

“He ’s dead. He was a policeman. He was killed.”

“What was his name?”

“Robert E. Cook.”

“Robert Emmet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When was he killed? How long ago?”

“About eight years.”

​Babbing was still at his papers. “Is your mother living?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What does she do?”

“Looks after me an’ my sister.”

“What does she do for a living?”

“She rents furnished rooms. Her an’ Annie. That ’s my sister.”

“What does she do with your father’s pension?”

“She puts it all in the bank.”

“What bank?”

“I—I dunno.”

“She does n’t own the house?”

“No, sir.”

“Who owns it?”

“I—I forget.”

“You went to the parochial school?”

“Yes, sir.”

Babbing had found a typewritten report for which he had evidently been looking. As he crossed the room to the telephone, he asked: “Do you smoke cigarettes?”

​“No, sir.”

Babbing took down the receiver from its hook. “When did you quit?”

Barney hesitated guiltily a moment. Then he answered: “This morning.”

“Give me room eight-twenty,” Babbing said, into the ’phone. He added, to Barney: “You can’t work for me, if you’re going to smoke. It will spoil your nerve.” And while Barney, dumb with incredulous hope, was still staring at the implication of that warning, Babbing said: “Hello. This is eight-fourteen. Can you get in to see me for a few minutes? … Yes. … Have you received that uniform yet? … Bring it in with you.”

He hung up the receiver but kept his hand on it. “Sit down,” he said to Barney. He continued, to the telephone: “Get me one-seven-three-one Desbrosses. … Hello. … Archibald. Babbing. … You have an application there—in answer to our want ad—from a boy named Barney Cook. Have you ​looked up any of his references? … He says he delivered telegrams to us for the Western Union. His father was Robert Emmet Cook, a patrolman, killed about eight years ago. His mother lives in Hudson Street, where she rents furnished rooms. Run it out. ’Phone me right away, about the telegraph company and the police.” He turned abruptly, to scrutinize Barney over his spectacles. And Barney, seeing himself engaged if his references proved satisfactory, did not attempt to suppress his triumphant grin.

“Well,” Babbing said, “you don’t look much like a plant—”

“No, sir,” Barney admitted, not knowing in the least what was meant. He rose, at the end of a successful interview.

“Sit down,” Babbing said, “your troubles have just begun. Come in!”