Officer Burke was back again at his
work on the force. He was a trifle pale, and
the hours on patrol duty and fixed post seemed trebly
long, for even his sturdy physique was tardy in recuperating
from that vicious shock at the base of his brain.
“Take it easy, Burke,”
advised Captain Sawyer, “you have never had a
harder day in uniform than this one. Those two
fires, the work at the lines with the reserves and
your patrol in place of Dexter, who is laid up with
his cold, is going it pretty strong.”
“That’s all right, Captain.
I’m much obliged for your interest. But
a little more work to-night won’t hurt me.
I’ll hurry strength along by keeping up this
hustling. People who want to stay sick generally
succeed. Doctor MacFarland is looking after me,
so I am not worried.”
Bobbie left the house with his comrades
to relieve the men on patrol.
It was late afternoon of a balmy spring day.
The weeks since he had been injured
had drifted into months, and there seemed many changes
in the little world of the East Side. This store
had failed; that artisan had moved out, and even two
or three fruit dealers whom Bobbie patronized had
disappeared.
In the same place stood other stands,
managed by Italians who looked like caricatures drawn
by the same artist who limned their predecessors.
“It must be pretty hard for
even the Italian Squad to tell all these fellows apart,
Tom,” said Bobbie, as they stood on the corner
by one of the stalls.
“Sure, lad. All Ginnies
look alike to me. Maybe that’s why they
carve each other up every now and then at them little
shindigs of theirs. Little family rows, they
are, you know. I guess they add a few marks
of identification, just for the family records,”
replied Tom Dolan, an old man on the precinct.
“However, I get along with ’em all right
by keeping my eye out for trouble and never letting
any of ’em get me first. They’re
all right, as long as you smile at ’em.
But they’re tricky, tricky. And when
you hurt a Wop’s vanity it’s time to get
a half-nelson on your night-stick!”
They separated, Dolan starting down
the garbage-strewn side street to chase a few noisy
push-cart merchants who, having no other customers
in view, had congregated to barter over their respective
wares.
“Beat it, you!” ordered
Dolan. “This ain’t no Chamber of
Commerce. Git!”
With muttered imprecation the peddlers
pushed on their carts to make place for a noisy, tuneless
hurdy-gurdy. On the pavement at its side a dozen
children congregated none over ten to
dance the turkey trot and the “nigger,”
according to the most approved Bowery artistry of
“spieling.”
“Lord, no wonder they fall into
the gutter when they grow up,” thought Bobbie.
“They’re sitting in it from the time they
get out of their swaddling rags.”
Bobbie walked up to the nearby fruit merchant.
“How much is this apple, Tony?”
The Italian looked at him warily, and then smirked.
“Eet’s nothing toa you,
signor. I’ma da policeman’s
friend. You taka him.”
Bobbie laughed, as he fished out a
nickel from his pocket. He shook his head, as
he replied.
“No, Tony, I don’t get
my apples from the ‘policeman’s friend.’
I can pay for them. You know all of us policemen
aren’t grafters even on the line
of apples and peanuts.”
The Italian’s eyes grew big.
“Well, you’ra de first
one dat offer to maka me de pay, justa de
same. Eet’s a two centa, eef you insist.”
He gave Bobbie his change, and the
young man munched away on the fresh fruit with relish.
The Italian gave him a sunny grin, and then volunteered:
“Youa de new policeman, eh?”
“I have been in the hospital
for more than a month, so that’s why you haven’t
seen me. How long have you been on this corner?
There was another man here when I came this way last.”
“Si, signor.
That my cousin Beppo. But he’s gone back
to It’. He had some money he
wanta to keep eet, so he go while he can.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I don’ta wanta talk about
eet, signor,” said the Italian, with a
strange look. “Eet’sa bad to say
I was his cousin even.”
The dealer looked worried, and naturally
Bobbie became curious and more insistent.
“You can tell me, if it’s
some trouble. Maybe I can help you some time
if you’re afraid of any one.”
The Italian shook his head, pessimistically.
“No, signor. Eet’sa better
I keep what you call de mum.”
“Did he blow up somebody with
a bomb? Or was it stiletto work?” asked
Bobbie, as he threw away the core of the apple, to
observe it greedily captured by a small, dirty-faced
urchin by the curb.
The fruit merchant looked into Officer
Burke’s face, and, as others had done, was inspired
by its honesty and candor. He felt that here
might be a friend in time of trouble. Most of
the policemen he knew were austere and cynical.
He leaned toward Burke and spoke in a subdued tone.
“Poor Beppo, he have de broken
heart. He was no Black Hand he woulda
no usa de stiletto on a cheecken, he so kinda,
gooda man. He justa leave disa country
to keepa from de suicide.”
“Why, that’s strange! Tell me about
it. Poor fellow!”
“He’sa engag-ed to marry
de pretty Maria Cenini, de prettiest girl in our village,
back in It’ excepta my wife.
Beppo, he senda on de money, so she can coma
dis country and marry him. Dat wasa
four week ago she shoulda be here. But, signor,
whena Beppo go toa de Battery to meet her froma da
Ellis Island bigga boat he no finda her.”
“Did she die?”
“Oh, signor, Beppo, he
wisha she hadda died. He tooka de early boat
to meeta her, signor, and soma ona tella de big
officier at de Battery he’sa da cousin
of her sweeta heart. She goa wid him, signor,
and Beppo never finda her.”
“Why, you don’t mean the girl was abducted?”
“Signor, whatever eet was, Beppo
hear from one man from our village who leeve in our
village dat he see poor Maria weed her face all paint,
and locked up in de tougha house in Newark two weeks
ago. Oh, madre dio, signor, she’s
a da bad girl! Beppo, he nearly killa his
friend for tell him, and den he go to Newark to looka
for her at de house. But she gone, and poor
Beppo he was de pinched for starting de fight in de
house. He pay twanty-five de dols,
and coma back here. De nexta morning a beeg
man come to Beppo, and he say: ’Wop, you
geet out dis place, eef you tella de police about
dees girl,’ Dassal.”
Burke looked into the nervous, twitching
face of the poor Italian, and realized that here was
a deeper tragedy than might be guessed by a passerby.
The man’s eyes were wet, and he convulsively
fumbled at the corduroy coat, which he had doubtless
worn long before he ever sought the portals of the
Land of Liberty.
“Oh, signor. Data
night Beppo he was talk to de policaman, justa
like me. He say no word, but dat beega man he
musta watch, for desa gang-men dey busta
de stand, and dey tella Beppo to geet out
or dey busta heem. Beppo he tell me I can
hava de stand eef I pay him some eacha week.
I take it and now I am afraid de busta
me!”
Bobbie laid a comforting hand upon
the man’s heaving shoulder.
“There, don’t you worry.
Don’t tell anyone else you’re his cousin,
and I won’t either. You don’t need
to be afraid of these gang-men. Just be careful
and yell for the police. The trouble with you
Italians is that you are afraid to tell the police
anything when you are treated badly. Your cousin
should have reported this case to the Ellis Island
authorities. They would have traced that girl
and saved her.”
The man looked gratefully into Burke’s
eyes, as the tears ran down his face.
“Oh, signor, eef all de
police were lika you we be not afraid.”
Just then he dropped his eyes, and
Burke noticed that his hand trembled as he suddenly
reached for a big orange and held it up. The
man spoke with a surprising constraint, still holding
his look upon the fruit.
“Signor, here’s a fine
orange. You wanta buy heem?” In a whisper
he added: “Eet is de bigga man who told
my cousin to get outa da country!”
Bobbie in astonishment turned around
and beheld two pedestrians who were walking slowly
past, both staring curiously at the Italian.
He gave an exclamation of surprise
as he noticed that one of the men was no less a personage
than Jimmie the Monk. The man with him was a
big, raw-boned Bowery character of pugilistic build.
“Why, I thought that scoundrel
would have been tried and sentenced by this time,”
murmured the officer. “I know they told
me his case had been postponed by his lawyer, an alderman.
But this is one on me.”
The smaller man caught Burke’s
eye and gave him an insolent laugh. He even
stopped and muttered something to his companion.
Burke’s blood was up in an instant.
He advanced quickly toward the tough.
Jimmie sneered, as he stood his ground, confident
in the security of his political protection.
“Move on there,” snapped
Burke. “This is no loafing place.”
“Aaaah, go chase sparrers,”
snarled Jimmie the Monk. “Who ye think
yer talking to, rookie?”
Now, Officer Burke was a peaceful
soul, despite his military training. His short
record on the force had been noteworthy for his ability
to disperse several incipient riots, quiet more than
one brawl, and tame several bad men without resorting
to rough work. But there was a rankling in his
spirit which overcame the geniality which had been
reigning in his heart so short a time before.
He was tired. He was weak from
his recent confinement. But the fighting blood
of English and some Irish ancestors stirred in his
veins.
He walked quietly up to the Monk,
and his voice was low, his words calm, as he remarked:
“You clear out of this neighborhood. I
am going to put you where you belong the first chance
I get. And I don’t want any of your impudence
now. Move along.”
Jimmie mistook the quiet manner for
respect and a timid memory of the recent retirement
from active service.
He spread his legs, and, with a wink
to his companion, he began, with the strident rasp
of tone which can seldom be heard above Fourteenth
Street and east of Third Avenue.
“Say, bo. Do you
recollect gittin’ a little present? Well,
listen, dere’s a Christmas tree of dem
presents comin’ to you ef ye tries any more
of dis stuff. I’m in right
in dis district, don’t fergit it.
Ye tink’s I’m going to de Island?
Wipe dat off yer memory, too. W’y, say,
I kin git yer buttons torn off and yer shield put in
de scrap heap by de Commish if I says de woid down
on Fourteenth Street, at de bailiwick.”
“I know who was back of the
assault on me, Monk, and let me tell you I’m
going to get the man who threw it. Now, you get!”
Burke raised his right hand carelessly
to the side of his collar, as he pressed up close
to the gangster. The big man at his side came
nearer, but as the policeman did not raise his club,
which swung idly by its leather thong, to his left
wrist, he was as unprepared for what happened as Jimmie.
“Why you ”
began the latter, with at least six ornate oaths which
out-tarred the vocabulary of any jolly, profane tar
who ever swore.
Burke’s hand, close to his own
shoulder, and not eight inches away from Jimmie’s
leering jowl, closed into a very hard fist. Before
the tough knew what had hit him that nearby fist had
sent him reeling into the gutter from a short shoulder
jab, which had behind it every ounce of weight in
the policeman’s swinging body.
Jimmie lay there.
The other man’s hand shot to
his hip pocket, but the officer’s own revolver
was out before he could raise the hand again.
Army practice came handy to Burke in this juncture.
“Keep your hand where it is,”
exclaimed the policeman, “or you’ll get
a bullet through it.”
“You dog, I’ll get you
sent up for this,” muttered the big man.
But with his revolver covering the
fellow, Burke quickly “frisked” the hip
pocket and discovered the bulk of a weapon. This
was enough.
“I fixed the Monk. Now,
you’re going up for the Sullivan Law against
carrying firearms. You’re number one, with
me, in settling up this score!” Jimmie had
shown signs of awakening from the slumber induced
by Burke’s sturdy right hand.
He pulled himself up as Burke marched
his man around the corner. The Monk hurried,
somewhat unsteadily, to the edge of the fruit stand
and looked round it after the two figures.
“Do youse know dat cop, ye damn
Ginnie?” muttered Jimmie.
“Signor, no!” replied
the fruit dealer, nervously. “I never saw
heem on dis beat before to-day, wenna he buy
de apple from me.”
Jimmie turned discretion
conquering temporary vengeance, and started in the
opposite direction. He stopped long enough to
say, as he rubbed his bruised jaw, “Well, Wop,
ye ain’t like to see much more of ’im
around dis dump neither, an’ ye ain’t
likely to see yerself neither, if ye do too much talkin’
wid de cops.”
Jimmie hurried up the street to a
certain rendezvous to arrange for a rescue party of
some sort. In the meantime Officer 4434 led an
unwilling prisoner to the station house, one hand upon
the man’s right arm. His own right hand
gripped his stick firmly.
“You make a wiggle and I’m
going to give it to you where I got that brick, only
harder,” said Burke, softly.
A crowd of urchins, young men and
even a few straggling women followed him with his
prisoner. It grew to enormous proportions by
the time he had reached the station house.
As they entered the front room Captain
Sawyer looked up from his desk, where he had been
checking up some reports.
“Ah, what have we this time, Burke?”
“This man is carrying a revolver
in his hip pocket,” declared the officer.
“That will take care of him, I suppose.”
Dexter, at the captain’s direction,
searched the man. The revolver was the first
prize. In his pocket was a queer memorandum book.
It contained page after page of girls’ names,
giving only the first name, with some curious words
in cipher code after each one. In the same pocket
was a long, flat parcel. Dexter handed it to
the captain who opened it gingerly. Inside the
officer found at least twenty-five small packets,
all wrapped in white paper. He opened two of
these. They contained a flaky, white powder.
The man looked down as Sawyer gave him a shrewd glance.
“We have a very interesting
visitor, Burke. Thanks for bringing him in.
So you’re a cocaine peddler?”
The man did not reply.
“Take him out into one of the
cells, Dexter. Get all the rest of his junk
and wrap it up. Look through the lining of his
clothes and strip him. This is a good catch,
Burke.”
The prisoner sullenly ambled along
between two policemen, who locked him up in one of
the “pens” in the rear of the front office.
Burke leaned over the desk.
“He was walking with that Jimmie
the Monk when I got him. Jimmie acted ugly,
and when I told him to move on he began to curse me.”
“What did you do?”
“I handed him an upper-cut.
Then this fellow tried to get his gun. Jimmie
will remember me, and I’ll get him later, on
something. I didn’t want to call out the
reserves, so I brought this man right on over here,
and let Jimmie attend to himself. I suppose we’ll
hear from him before long.”
“Yes, I see the message coming
now,” exclaimed Captain Sawyer in a low tone.
“Don’t you open your mouth. I’ll
do the talking now.”
As he spoke, Burke followed his eyes
and turned around. A large man, decorated with
a shiny silk hat, shinier patent leather shoes of
extreme breadth of beam, a flamboyant waistcoat, and
a gold chain from which dangled a large diamond charm,
swaggered into the room, mopping his red face with
a silk handkerchief.
“Well, well, captain!”
he ejaculated, “what’s this I hear about
an officer from this precinct assaulting two peaceful
civilians?”
The Captain looked steadily into the
puffy face of the speaker. His steely gray eyes
fairly snapped with anger, although his voice was
unruffled as he replied, “You’d better
tell me all you heard, and who you heard it from.”
The big man looked at Burke and scowled
ominously. It was evident that Officer 4434
was well known to him, although Bobbie had never seen
the other in his life.
“Here’s the fellow.
Clubbing one of my district workers straight
politics, that’s what it is, or I should say
crooked politics. I’m going to take this
up with the Mayor this very day. You know his
orders about policemen using their clubs.”
“Yes, Alderman, I know that
and several other things. I know that this policeman
did not use his club but his fist on one of your ward
heelers, and that was for cursing him in public.
He should have arrested him. I also know that
you are the lawyer for this gangster, Jimmie the Monk.
And I know what we have on his friend. You can
look at the blotter if you want. I haven’t
finished writing it all yet.”
The Captain turned the big record-book
around on his desk, while the politician angrily examined
it.
“What’s that? Carrying
weapons, unlawfully? Carrying cocaine?
Why, this is a frame-up. This man Morgan is
a law-abiding citizen. You’re trying to
send him up to make a record for yourself. I’m
going to take this up with the Mayor as sure as my
name is Kelly!”
“Take it up with the United
States District Attorney, too, Mr. Alderman, for I’ve
got some other things on your man Morgan. This
political stuff is beginning to wear out,” snapped
Sawyer. “There are too many big citizens
getting interested in this dope trade and in the gang
work for you and your Boss to keep it hushed any longer.”
He turned to Burke and waved his hand
toward the stairway which led to the dormitory above.
“Go on upstairs, my boy, and
rest up a little bit. You’re pale.
This has been a hard day, and I’m going to
send out White to relieve you. Take a little
rest and then I’ll send you up to Men’s
Night Court with Morgan, for I want him held over
for investigation by the United States officers.”
Alderman Kelly puffed and fumed with
excitement. This was getting beyond his depths.
He was a competent artist in the criminal and lower
courts, but his talents for delaying the law of the
Federal procedure were rather slim.
“What do you mean? I’m
going to represent Morgan, and I’ll have something
to say about his case at Night Court. I know
the magistrate.”
Sawyer took out the memorandum book
from the little parcel of “exhibits” removed
from the prisoner.
“Well, Alderman,” Burke
heard him say, as he started up the stairs, “you
ought to be pleased to have a long and profitable case.
For I think this is just starting the trail on a
round-up of some young men who have been making money
by a little illegal traffic. There are about
four hundred girls’ names in this book, and the
Chief of Detectives has a reputation for being able
to figure out ciphers.”
Alderman Kelly dropped his head, but
gazed at Sawyer’s grim face from beneath his
heavy brows with a baleful intensity. Then he
left the station house.