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Roy Glashan's Library
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Everybody's, February 1924, with "Counterfeit Beauty"
"KENNEDY, did you ever hear of counterfeit beauty—girls who can change their faces, make them just like this thing—spurious?"
Haley of the Secret Service laid down a new counterfeit twenty-dollar bill before Craig and with it the printed description: "The bill is drawn on the Federal Reserve Bank of San Francisco, California, check letter XV plate No. 55, Carter Glass, Secretary of the Treasury, John Burke, Treasurer of the United States, portrait of Cleveland. This is a photographic production on two pieces of paper between which silk threads have been distributed. The specimen bears No. L708958A."
"What do you mean—girls?" I asked as Kennedy studied the counterfeit.
"Shovers, passers," replied Haley, selecting another from a sheaf of papers in his pocket. "Times change. But the forms of various swindles change only enough to keep abreast with them. Read this circular letter."
It was after the old "green goods" form. Only now it started in capital letters:
MILLIONS OF THE WORLD'S GOLD
LIE IDLE IN THE UNITED STATES TREASURY!
Enclosed with it was the reproduction of a newspaper clipping telling of the theft of plates for U.S. gold certificates. Another clipping told about the theft of bond paper and ink.
Why should you not profit with others by the circulation of Genuine U.S. Notes, in reality drawn against these idle millions?
It wound up by telling how to get in touch with the makers of these "genuine U. S. notes" by writing care of General Delivery.
"You'll find all the old games going on now just the same," remarked Kennedy, "the Spanish prisoner, all the old-time swindles—modernized just enough to catch a tenth of one per cent of those born every minute!"
"Same game." Haley shook his head. "But the rules have changed. It took a long time for one of our operatives to get in touch, even through 'General Delivery.' And when he did, he got bunked. All he had was some more of this stuff—and a friendship for a mighty pretty little flapper, Alma Carberry—no, the recollection of a friendship. The flapper was gone! Still," he went on, "that's ordinary. Here's the amazing part, at least to me. I did something I never did before—and I'm mystified by it. Did you ever hear of the psychome-trist, Santella? I suppose you know what psychometry is?"
"Psychometry?" repeated Craig. "I would say that it is the name for a process by which information is supposed to be supernormally obtained through the handling of inanimate objects."
"That's it. Now, for example, suppose a diamond, like the Hope diamond, has been associated with seme tragic occurrence. If that jewel is placed in the band of some one who has this 'gift,' that person may be given a mental vision, so to speak, of the tragedy. Or suppose that a person is missing. If you take to a psychometrist some article that belonged to the missing person, there may be revealed exactly where that person is, alive or dead."
Kennedy nodded. "It sounds incredible, of course. Yet the fact is that the records of psychical research teem with instances in which it would serai that psychometry was demonstrated. Again and again there have been narrated cases of psychometrists handling jewels, coins, trinkets, articles of clothing, all sorts of things a id then locating lost persons or things, or relating incidents about which they could hardly have gained knowledge by ordinary means."
"Yes. No one in our service ever tried it before as far as I know," resumed Haley. "But I thought, if they can do those things with jewels and coins and handkerchiefs and keys, why not with counterfeit paper money?"
Haley paused. The dilemma was unanswerable without denying the premises.
"Well, I went to Santella, in her studio on Sheridan Square. Santella held the bill in her hands, went into what you might call a trance, or a state of clairvoyance, or something. I see a beauty parlor,' she said, 'a girl—young—she looks about twenty-two or -three—dark hair, eyes blue....' 'What's her name?' I asked. 'Can you get that, too?' She tried. 'Yes; her name is Alma—Alma Carberry.' 'And the place?' I questioned. 'Yes; it is the shop of Marie LeBrun, the Beauty Builder!'"
"And?" prompted Craig.
"Then I went there, to this Beauty Builder. There is such a girl. She had been there—once. Never came again. Kennedy, that's wonderful! That girl, a girl of that name and of that exact description, was known to us as their best 'shover' of the 'queer.' We had traced her, as I told you, lost her, now picked her up here—and then not another trace of her. I tell you, this is one of the cleverest gangs I have ever been up against They can take a girl, doll her up, make a passer out of her—and, presto!—she's dropped out—like that!" Haley snapped his fingers. "Now, what I want you to do is to take this Mademoiselle Marie, the Beauty Builder, give her a shot of scopolamin—you know, this truth drug that I've been reading about—"
Kennedy frowned and shook his head, but Haley insisted. "You know, you've converting us fellows to use science in detecting crime. Now, come on. You've got to help me put this thing over."
KENNEDY was skeptical, but for personal reasons finally
consented to go with Haley. He paused only long enough to take a
little packet from the cabinet in the laboratory and we were on
our way to Marie LeBrun's place on Eighth Street, just off Fifth
Avenue.
I surveyed the outside of the beauty builder's with interest Nothing that pertains to the eternal feminine lacks intent The house itself in its original glory had been the home of some founder of a millionaire line, although that was many years ago. The high stoop had disappeared. Ii its place was a beautifully-arched window with many small panes and an English basement entrance. Many beauty shops simulate the Colonial, though why I could never guess. I cannot imagine the desire misses of those times having eyebrow plucked or noses filled out with paraffin to make them a purer type.
With its white paint, red bricks, and pea-green shutters it looked promising. In the entrance hall we discovered that the beauty shop itself was two flights up. We climbed.
At the door we stopped suddenly. Sounds of voices in altercation were heard. One man seemed to be nourishing a grievance that aroused another to a furious state. There were exclamations of alarm from a woman.
"Don't, Tony! Stop! You'll have people here in a minute! . . . Blanche—do something! Oh, my God! The police will be here in a minute! What's the matter with you crazy men?"
"Tony! Tony! Don't do anything foolish." This time a younger voice spoke. In spite of the tense excitement it still was musical. There was a persuasive quality about it that meant power where men were concerned.
"Tony Tellini!" whispered Haley. "A suspect."
"Who's the other chap?" I whispered back. Haley shrugged.
"Cut that stuff out, Blanche! Vic may be a lawyer but he ain't goner tell me what I can do with you or any other woman, see?"
Haley looked up quickly on our side of the door. "Vic McGraw, of the Broadway and Forty-second Street Bar Association, as the newspapers call it," he whispered. "Clever young attorney. I believe McGraw's the mouthpiece of the gang."
I had heard of Victor McGraw, police-court lawyer or a little better, a mighty clever young chap whose business seemed to be in finding holes in the law through which he could drag his clients to safety. I had heard of him through his demi-monde clientele. He had had a long education in the office of some bucket-shop lawyers but was now out for himself and very ambitious.
There was the sound of a blow and some one stumbling back, overturning furniture, and the cry of a woman, through the transom.
Kennedy waited for no more. With our combined strength we forced the bolted door. The sound of the metal splintering the wood diverted the attention of those in the room.
It was a wild group. Over in a corner toward which he had stumbled back leaned a tall, dark fellow of unusual attractiveness of face and figure. He was leaning with one arm behind him, his head and shoulders against the coats hanging on the wall. A beautiful girl with a wealth of golden hair was watching him furtively. This must have been Blanche. Standing behind her and to one side was another man slightly older than the chap in the corner. He scowled at his opponent, both clenched fists crooked before him. The other woman was pacing the floor in angry agitation. One needed not to be told that this was Mademoiselle Marie.
Suddenly, before we could speak, the man in the corner pulled his hand from the coats behind him.
"This speaks for Tony!"
There was the crack of a gat, a quick flash of fire. He had aimed directly at McGraw.
For the instant I was stupefied. I expected to see the lawyer fall. Nothing happened.
There was a quick shift of positions. McGraw was unarmed and, it seemed, in a precarious position. Suddenly Marie LeBrun started across the room toward Tony as if to avert more shooting. Kennedy reached out quickly and pulled her back from Tellini, whose handsome face was now clouded with combat and jealousy.
A second shot, point-blank, rang out. Marie fainted in Craig's arms. I looked. Again the shot was harmless.
Craig hastily carried the unconscious little beauty-maker to a luxurious day bed in the next room. Haley took a step toward Tony.
"No more shooting, see? We came for a manicure—not a murder!"
Tony was angry. He broke the gun, scattering the shells on the floor. "Blanks!" he muttered. "Who did that?" Then, as he looked up, he must have recognized Haley for the first time, as the man who had been to the beauty builder's before, inquiring for Alma Carberry. He made a sudden dash, down a private hall, to the head of the stairs and out.
Craig, giving orders fast now, nodded to let him go for the present. "McGraw, go get a doctor. Mademoiselle needs immediate attention. Blanche, does Mademoiselle sleep here?"
The girl nodded as her eyes followed McGraw out of the room.
"Then fix up her room so we can get her there before the doctor arrives."
Kennedy was leaning over Marie LeBrun. Gently he lifted her eyelids and looked at the pupils, felt her pulse, listened to her heart. Blanche left the room slowly, looking back. Craig seemed to have eyes in the back of his head, to know when she was gone.
"TELL us, Marie," he whispered firmly in her ear. "What were
you talking about before the fight started?"
The woman seemed restless. Her lips moved. Her arms were never still. "Tell us, Marie."
Random words seemed to come from her lips. Suddenly she was laughing hysterically.
"Vic! You are a croaker! . . . Tony, everything makes you thirsty!"
There was another burst of hysterical laughter.
"Oh, they have everything there—labels, caps, bond labels, revenue stamps; everything, I say."
Haley raised his eyebrows an inch at the mention of revenue stamps, and leaned forward.
"Where?" demanded Kennedy firmly. "Lexington Avenue." She murmured the number as Craig urged. "What floor?"
"Suite 601."
Blanche could be heard running down the stairs. Her excitement and exertion had flushed her cheeks. Her eyes were a sparkling blue and her slender figure seemed scarcely to touch the steps or the floor.
"It's all ready."
Craig and I carried Marie to her room and Blanche soon made her comfortable. She was coming out of it. A bell sounded below.
"There's the doctor."
Kennedy caught Blanche's wrist, held it, looked her in the unwinking eyes.
"It was lucky for McGraw those were blanks instead of bullets," he said tensely. "There would have been a doctor for two!"
"Yes." She did not move an eyelash.
"You put those blanks in place of the real ones, didn't you?"
She hesitated a fraction of a second. "Yes. I knew Tony's temper. I didn't want any one—hurt."
Haley bad come in with the doctor. "You gave McGraw a splendid chance for a get-away," he whispered to Kennedy.
"That's all right—now."
Kennedy spoke aside and under his breath to the doctor and I saw the doctor shoot a quick look at Craig, then smile with a sort of respectful politeness as he nodded. Craig motioned to us to follow and we left the room.
"Well, that was easy; we didn't even need the scopolamin test on Mademoiselle, did we?" laughed Haley, outside on the street. "She rambled, talked enough without it. I got you. You wanted to get away on that lead, didn't you? Don't you think we'd have got more with the scopolamin?"
"You had it!"
"Had it? How?"
"That woman isn't the kind that faints. She didn't faint. When I stopped her, I broke a little ampule of amyl nitrite under her nose. Pouf! Out! Just for half a minute or so. Then I jabbed her with the scopolamin needle. You never even saw it!"
"Well, I'll be blowed!" ejaculated Haley.
With high hopes of Haley that it might lead to the elusive Alma Carberry, we followed the scopolamin revelation to the Lexington Avenue address.
There was a surprise at the very start when we read the sign on the door of Suite 601: "The Matrimonial Journal." Could it be one of those correspondence marriage papers? We entered. Girls, tea or a dozen of them, were all busy sending out sealed circulars.
Haley unceremoniously seized one, a sealed blank envelope. The girls had beta addressing envelopes from a list, not knowing what was contained in the enclosed plain cover. Haley tore the thing open. It was headed "New Confidential List to Agents." It was a price list of whiskies, wines and liquors! The sign on the door was merely a cover.
Our friend of the Secret Service was resourceful. It was only a matter of minutes to arrange a search on a John Doe warrant, already prepared—a little extra-legal, perhaps, but what is that among reformers?
WE UNEARTHED thousands of circulars offering whiskies for
cutting, rye, Scotch, Bourbon, gin, brandy, grain alcohol, 192
proof at twelve dollars a gallon, 190 proof at ten dollars. There
was not a drop of anything here. But Haley was keen on another
offer of every kind of whisky label at various prices in dozen
lots and the further offer to make labels of any brand desired.
More interesting yet was the offer of Government bonding labels
and revenue 5 trip stamps, even doctors' prescription books with
serial numbers for any district.
Everything was carried out so quietly and efficiently that even the manager, a man named Stein, presumably also the owner, was put under arrest.
Perhaps it had something to do with counterfeiting. The labels and stamps would indicate it. But, after all, we were rambling on the rambling talk of Mademoiselle Marie, and I said so. The truth-drug had taken us far afield. Haley was chagrined. Craig, I think, was secretly pleased.
But that was nothing to the jolt that came to Haley when he reported to his downtown office in the Customs House. Be turned to us, staring through perspiration, as he hung up the receiver.
"ANOTHER squeal!" he ejaculated. "A new girl has appeared,
with a new bill, a hundred-dollar bill! This time it's a crude
photographic stunt. It's printed, from plates, on mighty good
bond paper. It's true the plates are made by the photo-engraving
process. But this is dangerous. They're getting better. It will
fool any bat an expert, easily take in people not accustomed to
look to the genuineness of a bill. And there's this new
girl—a Colleen Collins—a henna beauty! Through her
they've put over a deal on some come-ons who've been picked up.
It must have netted the gang a hundred thousand. They sold a bale
of it, half a million or more, it all started, according to the
squeal, with a little party at a place called the Social Club on
Vandam Street. There! You see? That's just another of those
things no one ever figured on with prohibition!"
Kennedy shook his head as he thought back on the apparent fiasco we had just been through. "That thing was just what I was afraid of," he frowned; "something ambling, hazy, inconsequential, off on a tangent Otherwise, scopolamin would be our great little scientific third degree. No, now we'll have to go back and start all over again. The reel question is: Who is the head of this counterfeit gang? Here's this new counterfeit, too. Get one. Take it to Santella. See what we get this time."
Craig always enjoyed visits to spiritist sirens. Of a scientific turn of mind, all Us ideas were those of exactness. He enjoyed his skepticism as another would enjoy a drama or a game of golf.
There were at least two rooms in the Occult Studio in Sheridan Square, one a sort of reception room, the other for consultation. Both were impressionistic About the walls were hung orange draperies with mystic, cabalistic figures bordering them, applied by a batik dyeing method. The floor was painted an orange, too, with a fader in stencil design of the same figures. It was hard to tell where the side walls began and the floor ended. To make it more amazing the ceiling was entirely covered with a mirror whose reflection left me dizzy.
When I looked up I unconsciously stepped high, to avoid myself, I suppose.
A little East Indian also gowned in orange admitted us. A moment and Santella herself came to the communicating doors. Through the portières she gave Haley a cordial smile of inquiry.
"Was what I told you good?"
Santella was young and pretty, of the Latin type, big brown eyes that sparkled or melted passionately with her varying emotions, an dive skin with the glow of youth, white, even teeth that showed with every smile behind lips a bit too thick. She was a trifle heavier than the lissome demand of the day. But as she walked the movement of her fully rounded hips suggested the grace and sinuousness of the tigress.
"Yes. What you told me was good. Only the girl has just simply disappeared—dropped out These friends of mine here are greatly impressed by psychometry, Santella, and I brought them with me. I have another little job for you, much like the other." Haley was fingering his wallet for the sample hundred-dollar counterfeit. "What do you think of psychometry?" he asked, turning to Kennedy, who had been introduced under another name.
"Well, many psychic researchers say that the evidence of psychometry is so impressive that they can no longer be skeptical But there is a great difference of opinion among them as to the explanation. Some insist that the object held in the hand is veritably the agent by which the knowledge is conveyed."
"That's my belief," asserted Santella.
Kennedy nodded. "Of course that assumes that the inanimate is capable of receiving, retaining, and projecting all sorts of psychic images. The other school holds that such an idea is too startling, that it challenges belief. They believe in psychometry, but in their explanation they reduce it to 'tapping' of other people's thoughts, a sort of telepathy."
"Yes," put in Haley. "But Santella says psychometry often gives information that no living person could know—for instance the whereabouts of someone who has wandered off and died in solitude. What about telepathy? She says at least it must be a species of clairvoyance or the intervention of some spirit. She prefers the inanimate theory—don't you, Santella?"
Santella smiled and nodded. "I believe that by it I shall soon be in communication with Mars. You know, years ago, we thought that animals and plants were the only things that lived. But now we know there is life in everything. I have never yet seen anything which is not alive. A small difference in our physical make-up would revolutionize our world and ideas of living. And in the case of Mars, of course, it is ridiculous to think that the life of the Martians is similar to ours. I don't believe they are more advanced than us earthlings, either. If they were they would have found some means before this of communicating with us."
"Perhaps psychometry is that means," suggested Craig at random.
Santella looked at him long and earnestly. "I hadn't looked at it in that light. Sometimes to some of us the obvious isn't as apparent as it is to those a little way off. We don't see the forest for the trees!"
"That's all mighty interesting," put in Haley. "But now, taking this hundred-dollar bill, what do you find, Santella?"
The girl leaned back among the pillows of a broad divan not high from the floor. She closed her eyes, sighed several times. Across her forehead she placed the bill. Lying very quietly she seemed to concentrate.
"I see—a hand—a pretty hand—fingering this bill!" She paused. Haley leaned forward breathlessly. There was no doubt that Haley believed it. "There are many other bills, so many—oh, so many—like this." She stopped, hesitating, as if seeking to penetrate the mists that were occluded from our vision.
"On the middle finger is a ring—a strange ring—a topaz in an antique setting. . . . The hand is a girl's hand. . . . She is Titian-haired, with sparkling blue eyes."
"And her name?" broke in Haley breathlessly, awed.
"Her name? . . . Colleen Collins."
Haley shot a mystified glance at u«.
"Santella," suggested Kennedy, "are you able to tell where she is?"
A longer wait intervened. In the next room we could hear the jangling of the telephone. The turbaned attendant answered: "But Santella is busy. She is communicating." It seemed his asperity was aroused at the persistence. "Hold the wire, then!"
Craig exchanged a quick glance with me. I knew what he meant. Quietly I slipped out of the room and the house. Santella's studio was next to the corner drug-store I entered the booth, and quickly managed to get to the right telephone authority, to get what I wanted. The call was from Greenwich Street, Malobar's, a restaurant, well known to visitors.
"A big room, many lights, many people! some dancing, some dining, some drinking. The girl dances...."
It was fortunate I could act quickly. The impatience of the caller caused the bell to jangle again. Santella heard it, broke off her revelation, answered the call in monosyllables. Listening in was beyond my ability to accomplish. But I had found where the call came from, although it the studio as she returned from the telephone to Craig and Haley, Santella complained of being unable to "see" anything further as she held the counterfeit note.
"Our leads are all wrong!" I exclaimed as I met Craig and Haley on the street afterward. "Somehow I had a feeling when I located that telephone call it would be that Social Club on Vandam Street. I'm disappointed."
"But," considered Kennedy, "I'm quite certain it is just around the corner from Malobar's. There might be something in that. We couldn't get into the Social Club anyhow. We can get into Malobar's."
"I'm for going to Malobar's," nodded Haley.
Craig shook his head. "Not you, Haley. They know you too well. I suspect they know us, too, by this time. It's a clever gang. No, Walter and I will have to go, disguised, too—as a couple of bearded Texas ranch owners floating in a sea of oil. We'll act as if we were on to New York for a good time."
Haley's face fell.
"Besides," added Kennedy, "you'll do better if you're at your uptown office with a half dozen of your men on call. We might need you, if we ever get to crash that Club."
Much as Kennedy disliked the idea, he was a scientific adept at the art of disguise.
He spent a good part of the evening making himself and me up and practising the parts we had assumed.
IT WAS nearly eleven o'clock when we entered Malobar's. The
place was crowded with pleasure-seekers from uptown and out of
town. Malobar's had formerly been a spaghetti and red-ink joint
with a cheap peonage. The war, the boom after it, the general
cult of Greenwich Village and finally the growth of the smart
speak-easy inspired Malobar to change the tone of the place.
Coarseness gave way to queerness. It was unique. Good food under
bizarre surroundings brought hosts of patrons and much profit.
For the blasé New Yorker delights in being bunked and Malobar was
a genius, a Bohemian bunker.
It seemed as if, even at that hour, all the tables were taken. We circulated about the dining-room with its odd angles, looking for places, but really with our eyes on the people.
We had scarcely got in before we spied one person that we knew, Blanche of the beauty-builder shop, among the dancers and diners. She was radiant in an evening gown of brilliant blue that accentuated her extreme blondness and the corn-flower blue of her eyes. Her hair was curly and uncontrolled. It persisted in peeping out in tiny curls about the nape of her neck and idle shell-like ears. Her eyes may have been blue but they were not gentle. They were the sparkling, adventure-loving eyes of a restless personality. Slender, light on her feet, she seemed to be everywhere, bubbling over with vivacity.
As we watched her she was joined by the proprietor, Malobar himself. Malobar seemed displeased at something and jerked his head toward the far corner of an angle of the room. From where we were we could see four men, a large table. There were Tony Tellini, McGraw, and two ethers. I don't know about the other two but I fancied Tony and Vic were not at ease, that the old feud was smoldering. There was nothing to wonder at in that.
Old Malobar was a wizened, bent old man with a club foot. His skin showed the pallor of poor health often seen in cripples. His eyes were bright, small, round, almost of a piercing blackness. He carried a cane, too, and emphasised his remarks to Blanche with a quick and vigorous pounding of the stick. The girl seemed concerned and anxious to please.
"Leave it to me; leave it to me," she repeated. "I'll do it. Don't get angry. Leave it to me."
Malobar disappeared, his lips still moving in an inaudible mutter and his covert glance still over at that table in the corner.
"That girl's the hostess here," commented Craig. "See how the little assistant to the beauty builder mingles with the guests? Besides, there's the beauty builder herself and our friend."
I followed his glance to another table near the small dance floor. There were Marie LeBrun and Santella. They were chatting merrily and, I fancied, drinking with two men. All seemed to know the waiters, to be habitues of the place.
Blanche stopped to speak to them. As one of them joked with her, I thought I saw a bitterness creep over Santella's rather beautiful face. It seemed to me her eyes were pools of malice. Blanche saw it and it amused her. Somehow I thought that she enjoyed the animosity she aroused, that she was baiting Santella.
"If they're in it, it will be wonderful," was Craig's remark as we passed out erf earshot, still hunting a table. "Some one will spill the beans."
It seemed irresistible to saunter over in the direction of Tony and Vic McGraw. I suppose we did look anxious. More people were coming in; no one was leaving; our chances of getting placed were slender.
Kennedy paused by the large table. "No tables here. We'll have to go somewhere else, partner."
IT NEEDED no very keen observer to see that all four had been
drinking considerably and that the bootleg had affected them
differently. Tony was fiery, ardent; McGraw taciturn. Next to him
was the stranger, who was silent and saturnine, also. But on
Tony's side nearest us was one who had mounted into joviality. It
was he who overheard Kennedy's somewhat disgruntled remark.
The jovial stranger turned and laughed. "Look here! A couple of cowboys! Come on in—the water's fine!" He accompanied it with a laugh that the others joined in weakly. I thought, how prohibition had dulled what once was humor. Perhaps the others didn't appreciate the joke, knowing that the stuff had not been cut with water. His companion nudged him, tried to divert him, but Craig had his eye and it wasn't many seconds before we were seated. "Let's make it a regular party. I'm going to meet a queen—red—er—auburn—hair—urn! peaches and cream—and eyes—oh, boy!"
It was hard to tell how Tony and Vic felt about us, but at least they were polite. They smiled at the fellow's rapture.
Craig showed interest. "Seem to be a lot of good-lookers here," he said, nodding toward Blanche, who seemed headed our way.
Vic and Tony exchanged sharp glances. Kennedy ordered, engaged in a friendly argument with our host who demanded, "Let me buy!" matched and lost, flashed what looked like a huge roll of bills and paid Math a generous tip. The two were getting along famously. It wasn't long before the jovial one confided that he had recently fallen heir to a sizable estate which he expected to run up into more.
All the time Malobar hovered about eying everybody narrowly. He seemed always afraid of revenue agents. Fortune had favored him as a result of his eternal vigilance. He had spotted many; there had been violations and fines imposed, but so far no padlock on the door.
Kennedy and the stranger were rapidly approaching the confidential stage, Kennedy crying over the oil business and praying for some new get-rich-quick industry.
"You're good fellow, good fellow. Maybe I c'n let you in on something big, to-morrow. Call me." They exchanged cards.
Tony smashed a glass just then and the confidences were interrupted. I had been watching Tony Tellini. He was a handsome young devil, but really, I suspected, Tony was a graduate of the "Hudson Dusters" or some such West Side gang.
Blanche flitted past. It was enough to fire the conflict of Tony and McGraw over her. It was more than fancy that Tony seemed to fascinate Blanche-with the fascination of the "bad man" for the adventurous type of girl.
"I'm going, Tony," remarked McGraw, rising.
"Where?" demanded Tony sharply.
McGraw did not answer; just laughed. "Wait for me—later?" McGraw, on his feet, called to Blanche, now a couple of tables away.
Tony reached up to pull McGraw down. "Nothing doing!"
"Say, children, don't fight," smoothed the bibulous one. "I ain't so tight about my red—you know—auburn-haired girl. I'll introduce you when she comes in. She's taking me to the Social Club. Maybe she's got some friends there. Don't fight!"
Tony and Vic exchanged another quick glance.
"Shut up!" This was the strange friend. "You're girl-crazy, John. They always get a fellow in trouble."
"Not much!" The stranger was holding his glass. "To my red—you know—auburn, Titian, henna, whatever it is—girl. She'll keep me out of trouble!"
I was busy thinking. Was another green-goods deal to be put over in the small hours of the night? In this case the deal was likely to be finished at the Social Gob, where the other deal had started. How much was involved in it? Above all who was the head of it all, putting it over?
McGraw had left Malobar's, alone, by this time. I got up on some excuse to follow Marie LeBrun and Blanche, who were in the lobby near the street entrance, apparently going out. Even at a distance one could see that Santella was very jealous of this girl and Tony Tellini. She never had her eyes off them, long. As for Tony, I wondered whether he cared for any girl-much—or long. Marie and Blanche west out at last.
It was getting late, after two o'clock Malobar came over. "Gentlemen, it is closing time. You will have to clear out I don't want the police!" And his cane pounded the floor.
No one seemed to take the hint. Tony left for a few minutes but it was not to go. I knew it was a hint to us to leave. As for him, he could not leave his prospects.
MALOBAR came to the table again "You fellows here yet? Do you
want to get me pinched?"
Still no one moved. Suddenly I was aware that Marie had returned. I could swear she had not altered by the street door. I had watched it carefully.
"She must have come through the kitchen and service way," whispered Craig. "There must be a secret connection with the Social Club. I'll be right back."
Kennedy was not long in the telephone booth. "I've told Haley," he whispered again under the hubbub of closing. "He's taking three men with him to cover the street, sending a couple here for us."
TONY was still away as Santella and Marie sauntered over and
sat down with us. Santella was soon raving to Craig about Texas.
Marie turned her charms on me. She was pretty with a saucy,
piquant beauty but I felt that a little of her went a long
way.
I saw a couple of strangers come in and sit down. The waiters were not very cordial but they got away with it. Tony was back now, rather quiet. He wanted to separate us.
"We're going now, fellows," he suggested.
"Aw, no! Not yet. I want my girl, my little redhead." The loquacious one refused to move.
A waiter came up with a message. Tony took it, then handed it to the objecter, who squinted as he read: "Can't make Malobar's to-night. Come over to my apartment Tony will show you the way. Colleen."
I felt that this was cleverly staged. The man rose, making a solemn adieu to us. "I like 'partments—red-haired 'partments! Introduce you to-morrow. S'long, neighbor."
Marie was vamping me with a talent I had never seen surpassed. Santella's gaze wis riveted on Kennedy's face as if she would read his very soul. Kennedy let the others go. I saw he did not wish to crab the act. It was better to get into the dub with the deal on.
Malobar's patience was giving out entirely. He brought us a big check. Kennedy peeled off a bill to pay it. He was holding it in his hands when Santella grabbed it. She leaned back in the chair, dosed her eyes, placed the bill on her white forehead.
"I see men," came her low musical voice. "I don't think they are friends. Three of them. I am sure one is a bull. His name is Haley." I watched her keenly. Had psychometry penetrated our disguise? "He is not with the other two now. The other two—they are—these men!"
Malobar had raised his thick stick and was bringing it down on Kennedy's head when I put out my arm, diverted the blow and it glanced off on Santella sharply enough to make her realize that she had started something she couldn't finish.
It was a signal to the waiters. But it was also a signal to Haley's men. One jumped to the street door, blowing a police whistle, jammed it shut, stood over it with a gun. The other hurled himself toward u> Instantly the fight developed into a mêlée. No one could get out. Slowly we milled our way back to the kitchen. The lights went out.
"Keep close to me," muttered Kennedy. "Here it is. We have them like nits in a trap!"
I marveled at his optimism. I felt that it was we who were trapped. I don't object so much to fighting in the open. But when I found myself in a dark narrow passage I felt very much in a trap.
Kennedy had been right. The Social Club backed up against Malobar's, making an ell between the Greenwich Street joint and the old two-story-and-attic brick house on Vandam Street. We shoved through the dank passage, groping to a door.
Craig pushed it open cautiously just a bit. Sounds of a terrific struggle came from the other side. I caught a glimpse of a girl fleeing up the stairs. "Look! The girl with the henna hair—Colleen Collins!" I exclaimed.
Haley and his men seemed to be all over the narrow place. One of them was having a stiff battle near the door with McGraw and the gloomy friend. The happy one had passed away entirely. In the other corner Haley and-Tony were struggling on the floor. Everywhere tables and chairs were overturned. We could hear noises of some one banging in the cellar.
I started for Haley and Tony, when Craig pulled me back. They had been struggling for Haley's gun. Tony had succeeded in loosening Haley's hold and it had fallen on the floor. Tony rolled over, grabbed it. Instantly the two were on their feet. Tony, with Haley covered, was backing away from him, toward us in the narrow entance that led to Malobar's.
Just then a voice from the cellar called up. "Something more than hooch and a still down here! Come, the first chance you get. You ought to see the press, the paper, the ink and the dies. A lot of bills, hardly dry yet, too!"
Here was the counterfeit plant that would make this a big haul for Haley.
Tony had backed very close to us now. He had only a few more steps to take. He put his left hand back to grasp the knob of the door. "Don't move, Hale, or I'll make a sieve of you!"
CRAIG moved forward just a few inches until Tony felt the jam
of his gun under his left shoulder. "Drop that gat—and up
with your hands—quick!" I seized the gun from the floor as
Haley slipped the bracelets on Tony. The outside man on the
street had just come to the aid of the operative by the door. It
was now two to two and they had McGraw and his companion
pinioned.
A terrific explosion rocked the rickety ancient house. It seemed to come from the cellar. The walls seemed to totter. The chimney collapsed. Ceilings crashed here and there in clouds of dust. Glass had shattered in every window. Doors hung half unhinged. There was an ominous silence from the man in the cellar.
Through the plaster dust, I saw McGraw with a gash on his head break away from his captors. There was not a chance to get away on the street even though part of the front of the little house was blown out. We blocked the secret exit with Tony hand-cuffed. McGraw leaped up the stairs. Kennedy and I followed, behind us trailing Haley with the unwilling, surly Tellini.
It seemed that the rooms on the second floor must have been rented furnished. In the corner we came upon McGraw bending over the henna-haired girl. She was very white and unconscious.
"I had to find her. She's stunned!"
"Who is she, McGraw?" I asked.
"My girl," he said simply.
Kennedy bent over, felt her pulse, started to minister to her. "That henna hair was a wig," he remarked, pointing. "Her hair was golden underneath. Why did she wear that, McGraw?"
"To protect herself. The bulls were on to her. Marie LeBrun touched up her cheeks and lips, put that wig on her. In a new gown you wouldn't have known who she was."
Kennedy nodded. "Colleen Collins is Blanche, then? Marie fixes her up differently after each big counterfeit deal?"
I marveled at the audacity of it. "Is Blanche Alma Carberry, too?" I asked.
"All the same girl," interposed Kennedy before even McGraw could answer. "Didn't you know Blanche was Colleen? Have you forgotten that Santella told « Colleen wore a topaz ring in an antique setting? I saw it first on Blanche's hand when we were caring for Marie LeBrun in the beauty parlor this afternoon. I saw it again at Malobar's to-night. Here it is." He had taken her hand, gently chafing it.
McGraw was plainly worried over Blanche, more than over his own predicament.
"I knew it would come! I thought there'd be something like this. I tried to save her from it. I was never really in it and I'd have been out long ago; but I couldn't leave Blanche."
"This counterfeit beauty is the work of Marie LeBrun, beauty builder?" demanded Craig. "How?"
"Oh, Marie is a wonder. She's the daughter of a scientific face surgeon in Paris, knows how to make a light criminal dark with henna baths—all about face lifts, eyes, hair, fingers, nose, teeth, even build and how you carry yourself, everything that identifies a woman!"
My mind worked quickly as I ran over the events of the day. Marie had left Malobar's really to fix up Blanche as Colleen. I saw it all from the fight between Tony and McGraw in the shop of the beauty builder. They had known that Blanche was Colleen, Alma.
There was an interruption at the door as Kennedy dragged a mattress off a splintered bed and laid Blanche on it. It was Haley with the handcuffed Tony. "Wanted to be sure you had him, all right," explained Haley.
Tony was silent, sullen. Nor was there apparent a trace of compassion on his face for Blanche. He was totally unconcerned.
Downstairs we could hear a high-pitched angry argument of a woman. "Where have they taken him—my Tony?" It was Santella. Her voice rose to a scream. "Let me get to him. I will—I will get to him!"
There was a scuffling of feet, a sharp cry of pain and Santella, breathless, pale, broke away and ran up the shaky stairs. Before any one could stop her she had flung her arms about Tony's neck and was kissing him.
"Tony—Tony—not hurt!" She faced the rest of us defiantly.
Kennedy caught her wrist. "What part did you play in this, young lady?" he demanded sternly.
Before she could answer Tony spoke up. "I just met her at Malobar's. We were good friends. Santella's not in it—just crazy over me."
He seemed to say it with a bit of vanity. It may have been characteristic and ill-becoming. But Santella did not deny it Rather she seemed to glory in it.
I saw the psychometrist trying to get from Haley anything that would make for the safety of Tony. And at the same time I saw her with a consuming fiery jealousy of all the other girls that Tony even looked at. It told why she had given Haley what she had at the start, why she had shut up when she returned from the telephone in her apartment. In Malobar's just now her keen wit and observation had seen new danger for Tony. And that was really all she had seen, ever—danger to Tony.
BLANCHE was stirring on the mattress pallet on the floor. Even
then, there shone through Santella's face, her utter bitterness
to Blanche. There was nothing her fiery nature would not dare to
remove that rival for Tony.
I wondered about Blanche as McGraw bent over her. I saw her as one of those who would never admit that any other woman could best her. She might not want the man. But no woman had the power to defy her, take away from her even the man she did not want.
Her eyelids fluttered. McGraw's face lighted up. A moment and she opened her eyes wide, tried to rise, and sank back.
"What was it, Vic?" She held his hand now. "What put me out?"
"There was a bomb, down in the cellar. The plaster hit you. You were lucky. Keep still. You'll be all right."
I saw McGraw now the real lover. Had he been in it merely to righteously cheat the law, if he could save Blanche from herself?
I recalled what he had said. Did the gang really fear him? His keen mind had penetrated the activities of Marie. Then I thought of the Lexington Avenue bootleggers, rivals of Tony in his trade, by easy stages also drifting into counterfeiting If these bootleggers had been clients of McGraw, two things would have been accomplished by the bum steer the truth-drug had given us: competitors would have been removed and a Wow struck at McGraw, whom they feared.
"A bomb? Who set it off? Was it an accident?" Blanche lay back, thinking. Suddenly she gathered her strength, rose, sitting. "He was willing to blow me up, kill me—to destroy the evidence, save himself!"
"Mr. Kennedy!"
We turned to the door. It was Haley's man who had stood guard at the kitchen end of the passage, while the other blocked the street door.
"I found wires that led from the kitchen through the passageway—and a switch. I—"
"Yes. He nearly killed me—me who has helped him so much and always kept my mouth shut!" cried Blanche.
"Who is the head of this counterfeiting gang?" demanded Kennedy. "Not McGraw, not Tellini—" He paused.
"I'll tell the world! It's that club-footed old miser—Malobar!" cried Blanche desperately. "I'm not afraid of him any more. I used to be. He had something on me. But no one can do more than kill me!"
Haley's man had come forward. "I saw him pull the switch—then the blow-up. We got him—over there!" He jerked his thumb toward the restaurant.
Kennedy was regarding Blanche thoughtfully as he saw broken the power of Malobar over her through the girl's fear, her love of a good time and adventure.
McGraw, watching Craig, seemed almost to anticipate his words.
"Marie was great—with the face. But she forgot the mind, the character. You can't change soul! There is no such thing as soul maker and soul slayer—but God and the Devil! Kennedy—man to man—what's it worth if Blanche and McGraw, for the Government, round up one of the most gigantic counterfeit plots in the history of the Secret Service? Immunity?"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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