The Poisoned Pen(Fiscle Part-3) by Arthur B. Reeve (top 10 motivational books .txt) 📕

For The Night's Business Of Pocket-Picking Or Second-Story Work.

I Had Had Misgivings As To Whether We Would Be Admitted At All--I

Might Almost Say Hopes--But The Gay Cat Succeeded In Getting A

Ready Response At The Basement Door. The House Itself Was The

Dilapidated Ruin Of What Had Once Been A Fashionable Residence In

The Days When Society Lived In The Then Suburban Bowery. The Iron

Handrail On The Steps Was Still Graceful,  Though Rusted And

Insecure. The Stones Of The Steps Were Decayed And Eaten Away By

Time,  And The Front Door Was Never Opened.

As We Entered The Low Basement Door,  I Felt That Those Who Entered

Here Did Indeed Abandon Hope. Inside,  The Evidences Of The Past

Grandeur Were Still More Striking. What Had Once Been A Drawing-

Room Was Now The General Assembly Room Of The Resort. Broken-Down

Chairs Lined The Walls,  And The Floor Was Generously Sprinkled

With Sawdust. A Huge Pot-Bellied Stove Occupied The Centre Of The

Room,  And By It Stood A Box Of Sawdust Plentifully Discoloured

With Tobacco-Juice.

Three Or Four Of The "Guests"--There Was No "Register" In This

Yeggman's Hotel--Were Seated About The Stove Discussing Something

In A Language That Was English,  To Be Sure,  But Of A Variation

That Only A Yegg Could Understand. I Noted The Once Handsome White

Marble Mantel,  Now Stained By Age,  Standing Above The Unused

Grate. Double Folding-Doors Led To What,  I Imagine,  Was Once A

Library. Dirt And Grime Indescribable Were Everywhere. There Was

The Smell Of Old Clothes And Old Cooking,  The Race Odours Of Every

Nationality Known To The Metropolis. I Recalled A Night I Once

Spent In A Bowery Lodging-House For "Local Colour." Only This Was

Infinitely Worse. No Law Regulated This House. There Was An

Atmosphere Of Cheerlessness That A Half-Blackened Welsbach Mantle

Turned Into Positive Ghastliness.

Our Guide Introduced Us. There Was A Dead Silence As Eight Eyes

Were Craftily Fixed On Us,  Sizing Us Up. What Should I Say? Craig

Came To The Rescue. To Him The Adventure Was A Lark. It Was Novel,

And That Was Merit Enough.

"Ask About The Slang," He Suggested. "That Makes A Picturesque

Story."

It Seemed To Me Innocuous Enough,  So I Engaged In Conversation

With A Man Whom The Gay Cat Had Introduced As The Proprietor. Much

Of The Slang I Already Knew By Hearsay,  Such As "Bulls" For

Policemen,  A "Mouthpiece" For A Lawyer To Defend One When He Is

"Ditched" Or Arrested; In Fact,  As I Busily Scribbled Away I Must

Have Collected A Lexicon Of A Hundred Words Or So For Future

Reference.

"And Names?" I Queried. "You Have Some Queer Nicknames."

"Oh,  Yes," Replied The Man. "Now Here's The Gay Cat--That's What

We Call A Fellow Who Is The Finder,  Who Enters A Town Ahead Of The

Gang. Then There's Chi Fat--That Means He's From Chicago And Fat.

And Pitts Slim--He's From Pittsburgh And--"

"Aw,  Cut It," Broke In One Of The Others. "Pitts Slim'll Be Here

To-Night. He'll Give You The Devil If He Hears You Talking To

Reporters About Him."

The Proprietor Began To Talk Of Less Dangerous Subjects. Craig

Succeeded In Drawing Out From Him The Yegg Recipe For Making

"Soup." "It's Here In This Cipher," Said The Man,  Drawing Out A

Dirty Piece Of Paper. "It's Well Known,  And You Can Have This.

Here's The Key. It Was Written By 'Deafy' Smith,  And The Police

Pinched It."

Craig Busily Translated The Curious Document:

Take Ten Or A Dozen Sticks Of Dynamite,  Crumble It Up Fine,  And

Put It In A Pan Or Washbowl,  Then Pour Over It Enough Alcohol,

Wood Or Pure,  To Cover It Well. Stir It Up Well With Your Hands,

Being Careful To Break All The Lumps. Leave It Set For A Few

Minutes. Then Get A Few Yards Of Cheesecloth And Tear It Up In

Pieces And Strain The Mixture Through The Cloth Into Another

Vessel. Wring The Sawdust Dry And Throw It Away. The Remains Will

Be The Soup And Alcohol Mixed. Next Take The Same Amount Of Water

As You Used Of Alcohol And Pour It In. Leave The Whole Set For A

Few Minutes.

"Very Interesting," Commented Craig. "Safeblowing In One Lesson By

Correspondence School. The Rest Of This Tells How To Attack

Various Makes,  Doesn't It?"

Just Then A Thin Man In A Huge,  Worn Ulster Came Stamping Upstairs

From The Basement,  His Collar Up And His Hat Down Over His Eyes.

There Was Something Indefinably Familiar About Him,  But As His

Face And Figure Were So Well Concealed,  I Could Not Tell Just Why

I Thought So.

Catching A Glimpse Of Us,  He Beat A Retreat Across The Opposite

End Of The Room,  Beckoning To The Proprietor,  Who Joined Him

Outside The Door. I Thought I Heard Him Ask: "Who Are Those Men?

Who Let Them In?" But I Could Not Catch The Reply.

One By One The Other Occupants Of The Room Rose And Sidled Out,

Leaving Us Alone With The Gay Cat. Kennedy Reached Over To Get A

Cigarette From My Case And Light It From One That I Was Smoking.

"That's Our Man,  I Think," He Whispered--"Pitts Slim."

I Said Nothing,  But I Would Have Been Willing To Part With A Large

Section Of My Bank-Account To Be Up On The Chatham Square Station

Of The Elevated Just Then.

There Was A Rush From The Half-Open Door Behind Us. Suddenly

Everything Turned Black Before Me; My Eyes Swam; I Felt A Stinging

Sensation On My Head And A Weak Feeling About The Stomach; I Sank

Half-Conscious To The Floor. All Was Blank,  But,  Dimly,  I Seemed

To Be Dragged And Dropped Down Hard.

How Long I Lay There I Don't Know. Kennedy Says It Was Not Over

Five Minutes. It May Have Been So,  But To Me It Seemed An Age.

When I Opened My Eyes I Was Lying On My Back On A Very Dirty Sofa

In Another Room. Kennedy Was Bending Over Me With Blood Streaming

From A Long Deep Gash On His Head. Another Figure Was Groaning In

The Semi-Darkness Opposite; It Was The Gay Cat.

"They Blackjacked Us," Whispered Kennedy To Me As I Staggered To

My Feet. "Then They Dragged Us Through A Secret Passage Into

Another House. How Do You Feel?"

"All Right," I Answered,  Bracing Myself Against A Chair,  For I Was

Weak From The Loss Of Blood,  And Dizzy. I Was Sore In Every Joint

And Muscle. I Looked About,  Only Half Comprehending. Then My

Recollection Flooded Back With A Rush. We Had Been Locked In

Another Room After The Attack,  And Left To Be Dealt With Later. I

Felt In My Pocket. I Had Left My Watch At The Laboratory,  But Even

The Dollar Watch I Had Taken And The Small Sum Of Money In My

Pocketbook Were Gone.

Kennedy Still Had His Camera Slung Over His Shoulder,  Where He Had

Fastened It Securely.

Here We Were,  Imprisoned,  While Pitts Slim,  The Man We Had Come

After,  Whoever He Was,  Was Making His Escape. Somewhere Across The

Street Was O'connor,  Waiting In A Room As We Had Agreed. There Was

Only One Window In Our Room,  And It Opened On A Miserable Little

Dumbwaiter Air-Shaft. It Would Be Hours Yet Before His Suspicions

Would Be Aroused And He Would Discover Which Of The Houses We Were

Held In. Meanwhile What Might Not Happen To Us?

Kennedy Calmly Set Up His Tripod. One Leg Had Been Broken In The

Rough-House,  But He Tied It Together With His Handkerchief,  Now

Wet With Blood. I Wondered How He Could Think Of Taking A Picture.

His Very Deliberation Set Me Fretting And Fuming,  And I Swore At

Him Under My Breath. Still,  He Worked Calmly Ahead. I Saw Him Take

The Black Box And Set It On The Tripod. It Was Indistinct In The

Darkness. It Looked Like A Camera,  And Yet It Had Some Attachment

At The Side That Was Queer,  Including A Little Lamp. Craig Bent

And Attached Some Wires About The Box.

At Last He Seemed Ready. "Walter," He Whispered,  "Roll That Sofa

Quietly Over Against The Door. There,  Now The Table And That

Bureau,  And Wedge The Chairs In. Keep That Door Shut At Any Cost.

It's Now Or Never--Here Goes."

He Stopped A Moment And Tinkered With The Box On The Tripod.

"Hello! Hello! Hello! Is That You,  O'connor?" He Shouted.

I Watched Him In Amazement. Was The Man Crazy? Had The Blow

Affected His Brain? Here He Was,  Trying To Talk Into A Camera. A

Little Signalling-Bell In The Box Commenced To Ring,  As If By

Spirit Hands.

"Shut Up In That Room," Growled A Voice From Outside The Door. "By

God,  They've Barricaded The Door. Come On,  Pals,  We'll Kill The

Spies."

A Smile Of Triumph Lighted Up Kennedy's Pale Face. "It Works,  It

Works," He Cried As The Little Bell Continued To Buzz. "This Is A

Wireless Telephone You Perhaps Have Seen Announced Recently--Good

For Several Hundred Feet--Through Walls And Everything. The

Inventor Placed It In A Box Easily Carried By A Man,  Including A

Battery,  And Mounted On An Ordinary Camera Tripod So That The User

Might Well Be Taken For A Travelling Photographer. It Is Good In

One Direction Only,  But I Have A Signalling-Bell Here That Can Be

Rung From The Other End By Hertzian Waves. Thank Heaven,  It's

Compact And Simple.

"O'connor," He Went On,  "It Is As I Told You. It Was Pitts Slim.

He Left Here Ten Or Fifteen Minutes Ago--I Don't Know By What

Exit,  But I Heard Them Say They Would Meet At The Central

Freightyards At Midnight. Start Your Plain-Clothes Men Out And

Send Some One Here,  Quick,  To Release Us. We Are Locked In A Room

In The Fourth Or Fifth House From The Corner. There's A Secret

Passage To The Yegg-House. The Gay Cat Is Still Unconscious,

Jameson Is Groggy,  And I Have A Bad Scalp Wound. They Are Trying

To Beat In Our Barricade. Hurry."

I Think I Shall Never Get Straight In My Mind The Fearful Five

Minutes That Followed,  The Battering At The Door,  The Oaths,  The

Scuffle Outside,  The Crash As The Sofa,  Bureau,  Table,  And Chairs

All Yielded At Once--And My Relief When I Saw The Square-Set,

Honest Face Of O'connor And Half A Dozen Plainclothes Men Holding

The Yeggs Who Would Certainly Have Murdered Us This Time To

Protect Their Pal In His Getaway. The Fact Is I Didn't Think

Straight Until We Were Halfway Uptown,  Speeding Toward The

Railroad Freight-Yards In O'connor's Car. The Fresh Air At Last

Revived Me,  And I Began To Forget My Cute And Bruises In The

Renewed Excitement.

We Entered The Yards Carefully,  Accompanied By Several Of The

Railroad's Detectives,  Who Met Us With A Couple Of Police Dogs.

Skulking In The Shadow Under The High Embankment That Separated

The Yards With Their Interminable Lines Of Full And Empty Cars On

One Side And The San Juan Hill District Of New York Up On The

Bluff On The Other Side,  We Came Upon A Party Of Three Men Who