fair rough workman. He–Arthur! Arthur! These are harsh words! Then,
am I to understand you have no objection? Very well. Only, don’t say
later on that I didn’t play fair. Good-night.”
He hung up the receiver, and turned to Spike.
“Ready?”
“Ain’t youse goin’ to put on your gum-shoes, boss?”
Jimmy frowned reflectively, as if there was something in what this
novice suggested. He went into the bedroom, and returned wearing a
pair of thin patent-leather shoes.
Spike coughed tentatively.
“Won’t youse need your gun?” he hazarded. Jimmy gave a short laugh.
“I work with brains, not guns,” he said. “Let us be going.”
There was a taxi-cab near by, as there always is in New York. Jimmy
pushed Spike in, and they drove off. To Jimmy, New York stopped
somewhere about Seventy-Second Street. Anything beyond that was
getting on for the Middle West, and seemed admirably suited as a
field for the cracksman. He had a vague idea of up-town as a remote,
desolate district, badly lighted–if lighted at all–and sparsely
dotted with sleepy policemen.
The luxury of riding in a taxi-cab kept Spike dumb for several
miles. Having arrived at what seemed a sufficiently remote part of
America, Jimmy paid the driver, who took the money with that
magnificently aloof air which characterizes the taxi-chauffeur. A
lesser man might have displayed some curiosity about the ill-matched
pair. The chauffeur, having lighted a cigarette, drove off without
any display of interest whatsoever. It might have been part of
his ordinary duties to drive gentlemen in evening clothes and shock-
headed youths in parti-colored sweaters about the city at three
o’clock in the morning.
“We will now,” said Jimmy, “stroll on and prospect. It is up to you,
Spike. Didn’t you say something about knowing a suitable house
somewhere? Are we anywhere near it?”
Spike looked at the number of the street.
“We got some way to go, boss,” he said. “I wisht youse hadn’t sent
away de cab.”
“Did you think we were going to drive up to the door? Pull yourself
together, my dear man.”
They walked on, striking eastward out of Broadway. It caused Jimmy
some surprise to find that the much-enduring thoroughfare extended
as far as this. It had never occurred to him before to ascertain
what Broadway did with itself beyond Times Square.
It was darker now that they had moved from the center of things, but
it was still far too light for Jimmy’s tastes. He was content,
however, to leave matters entirely to his companion. Spike probably
had his methods for evading publicity on these occasions.
Spike plodded on. Block after block he passed, until finally the
houses began to be more scattered.
At last, he halted before a fair-sized detached house.
“Dis is de place,” he said. “A friend of mine tells me of it. I
didn’t know he was me friend, dough, before he puts me wise about
dis joint. I t’ought he’d got it in fer me ‘cos of last week when I
scrapped wit’ him about somet’in’. I t’ought after that he was
layin’ fer me, but de next time he seen me he put me wise to dis
place.”
“Coals of fire,” said Jimmy. “He was of a forgiving disposition.” A
single rain-drop descended on the nape of his neck. In another
moment, a smart shower had begun.
“This matter has passed out of our hands,” said Jimmy. “We must
break in, if only to get shelter. Get busy, my lad.”
There was a handy window only a few feet from the ground. Spike
pulled from his pocket a small bottle.
“What’s that?” inquired Jimmy.
“Molasses, boss,” said Spike, deferentially.
He poured the contents of the bottle on a piece of paper, which he
pressed firmly against the window-pane. Then, drawing out a short
steel instrument, he gave the paper a sharp tap. The glass broke
almost inaudibly. The paper came away, leaving a gap in the pane.
Spike inserted his hand, shot back the catch, and softly pushed up
the window.
“Elementary,” said Jimmy; “elementary, but quite neat.”
There was now a shutter to be negotiated. This took longer, but in
the end Spike’s persuasive methods prevailed.
Jimmy became quite cordial.