Jimmy inspected him out of the corner of his eye, and came to the
conclusion that the Mullins finances must be at a low ebb. Spike’s
costume differed in several important details from that of the
ordinary well-groomed man about town. There was nothing of the
flaneur about the Bowery Boy. His hat was of the soft black felt
fashionable on the East Side of New York. It was in poor condition,
and looked as if it had been up too late the night before. A black
tail-coat, burst at the elbows and stained with mud, was tightly
buttoned across his chest, this evidently with the idea of
concealing the fact that he wore no shirt–an attempt which was not
wholly successful. A pair of gray flannel trousers and boots out of
which two toes peeped coyly completed the picture.
Even Spike himself seemed to be aware that there were points in his
appearance which would have distressed the editor of a men’s
fashion-paper.
“‘Scuse these duds,” he said. “Me man’s bin an’ mislaid de trunk
wit’ me best suit in. Dis is me number two.”
“Don’t mention it, Spike,” said Jimmy. “You look a perfect matinee
idol. Have a drink?”
Spike’s eyes gleamed as he reached for the decanter. He took a seat.
“Cigar, Spike?”
“Sure. T’anks, boss.”
Jimmy lighted his pipe. Spike, after a few genteel sips, threw off
his restraint, and finished the rest of his glass at a gulp.
“Try another,” suggested Jimmy.
Spike’s grin showed that the idea had been well received.
Jimmy sat and smoked in silence for a while. He was thinking the
thing over. He felt like a detective who has found a clue. At last,
he would be able to discover the name of the Lusitania girl. The
discovery would not take him very far certainly, but it would be
something. Possibly, Spike might even be able to fix the position of
the house they had broken into that night.
Spike was looking at Jimmy over his glass in silent admiration. This
flat which Jimmy had rented for a year, in the hope that the
possession of a fixed abode might help to tie him down to one spot,
was handsomely, even luxuriously, furnished. To Spike, every chair
and table in the room had a romance of its own, as having been
purchased out of the proceeds of that New Asiatic Bank robbery, or
from the revenue accruing from the Duchess of Havant’s jewels. He
was dumb with reverence for one who could make burglary pay to this
extent. In his own case, the profession had rarely provided anything
more than bread and butter, and an occasional trip to Coney Island.
Jimmy caught his eye, and spoke.
“Well, Spike,” he said. “Curious that we should meet like this?”
“De limit,” agreed Spike.
“I can’t imagine you three thousand miles from New York. How do you
know the cars still run both ways on Broadway?”
A wistful look came into Spike’s eyes.
“I’ve been dis side t’ree months. I t’ought it was time I give old
Lunnon a call. T’ings was gettin’ too fierce in Noo York. De cops
was layin’ fer me. Dey didn’t seem like as if they had any use fer
me. So, I beat it.”
“Bad luck,” said Jimmy.
“Fierce,” agreed Spike.
“Say, Spike,” said Jimmy, “do you know, I spent a whole heap of time
before I left New York looking for you?”
“Gee! I wish you’d found me! Did youse want me to help on some lay,
boss? Is it a bank, or–jools?”
“Well, no, not that. Do you remember that night we broke into that
house uptown–the police-captain’s house?”
“Sure.”
“What was his name?”
“What, de cop’s? Why, McEachern, boss.”
“McWhat? How do you spell it?”
“Search me,” said Spike, simply.
“Say it again. Fill your lungs, and enunciate slowly and clearly. Be
bell-like. Now.”
“McEachern.”
“Ah! And where was the house? Can you remember that?”
Spike’s forehead wrinkled.
“It’s gone,” he said, at last. “It was somewheres up some street up
de town.”
“That’s a lot of help,” said Jimmy. “Try again.”
“It’ll come back some time, boss, sure.”
“Then, I’m going to keep an eye on you till it does. Just for the