Traffic in Souls: A Novel of Crime and Its Cure

by Eustace Hale Ball

  CHAPTER XII

  THE REVENGE OF JIMMIE THE MONK

  At the uptown station house Burke and his fellow officers had more thana few difficulties to surmount. The two Swedish girls were hystericalwith fright, and stolid as the people of northern Europe generally are,under the stress of their experience the young women were almostuncontrollable. It was not until some gentle matrons from the SwedishEmigrant Society had come to comfort them in the familiar tongue thatthey became normal enough to tell their names and the address of theunfortunate cousin. This man was eventually located and he led hiskinswomen off happy and hopeful once more.

  Sallie, the negress, was remanded for trial, in company with hersobbing mistress, who realized that she was facing the certainty of aterm of years in the Federal prison.

  Uncle Sam and his legal assistants are not kind to "captains ofindustry" in this particular branch of interstate commerce.

  "We have the goods on them," said the Federal detective who had beensummoned at once to go over the evidence to be found in the carefullyguarded house of Madame Blanche. "This place, to judge from therecords has been run along two lines. For one thing, it is what weterm a 'house of call.' Madame Blanche has a regular card index of atleast two hundred girls."

  "Then, that gives a pretty good list for you to get after, doesn't it?"said Burke, who was joining in the conference between the detective,the captain of the precinct, and the inspector of the police district.

  "Well, the list won't do much good. About all you can actually proveis that these girls are bad ones. There's a description of each girl,her age, her height, her complexion and the color of her hair. It'shorribly business like," replied the detective. "But I'm used to this.We don't often get such a complete one for our records. This listalone is no proof against the girls--even if it does give the listprice of their shame, like the tag on a department store article. Thiswoman has been keeping what you might call an employment agency bytelephone. When a certain type of girl is wanted, with a certainprice--and that's the mark of her swellness, as you might callit--Madame Blanche is called up. The girl is sent to the addressgiven, and she, too, is given her orders over the telephone; so you seenothing goes on in this house which would make it strictly within thelaw as a house of ill repute."

  "But, do you think there is much of this particular kind of trade?"queried Bobbie. "I've heard a lot of this sort of thing. But I putdown a great deal of it to the talk of men who haven't anything elsemuch to discuss."

  "There certainly is a lot of it. When the police cleaned up the olddistricts along Twenty-ninth Street and Thirtieth and threw the regularhouses out of the business, the call system grew up. These girls, manyof them, live in quiet boarding houses and hotels where they keep up astrict appearance of decency--and yet they are living the worst kind ofimmoral lives, because they follow this trade scientifically."

  Reggie Van Nostrand, by reason of his gallant assistance, and at hisurgent request, had been allowed to listen.

  "By George, gentlemen, I have a lot of money that I don't know what todo with. I wish there was some way I could help in getting this sortof thing stopped. Here's my life--I've been a silly spender of a lotof money my great grandfather made because he bought a farm and neversold it--right in the heart of what is now the busy section of town. Ican't think of anything very bad that I've done, and still less anygood that will amount to anything after I die. I'm going to spend someof what I don't need toward helping the work of cleaning out this evil."

  The inspector grunted.

  "Well, young man, if you spend it toward letting people know just howbad conditions are, and not covering the truth up or not trying toreform humanity by concealing the ugly things, you may do a lot. Butdon't be a _reformer_."

  "What can be done with this woman Blanche?" asked Van Nostrand meekly.

  "She'll be put where she won't have to worry about telephone calls andcard indexes. Every one of these girls should be locked up, and givena good strong hint to get a job. It won't do much good. But, we'vegot this much of their records, and will be able to drive some of themout of the trade. When every big city keeps on driving them out, andthe smaller cities do the same, they'll find that it's easier to giveup silk dresses forever and get other work than to starve to death.But you can't get every city in the country doing this until the menand women of influence, the mothers and fathers are so worked up overthe rottenness of it all that they want to house-clean their ownsurroundings."

  "One thing that should be done in New York and other towns is to putthe name of the owner of every building on a little tablet by the door.If that was done here in New York," said the inspector, "you'd besurprised to see how much real estate would be sold by church vestries,charitable organizations, bankers, old families, and other people whoget big profits from the high rent that a questionable tenant iswilling to pay."

  "Madame Blanche, and these poor specimens of manhood with her areguilty of trafficking in girls for sale in different states. TheseSwedes were to be sent to Minnesota, and her records show that she hasbeen supplying the Crib, in New Orleans, and what's left of the BarbaryCoast in Chicago. Why, she has sent six girls to the Beverly Club inChicago during the last month."

  "Where does she get them all?" asked Burke. "I've been trailing someof these gangsters, but they certainly can't supply them all, likethis."

  The detective shook his head, and spoke slowly.

  "There are about three big clearing houses of vice in New York, andthey are run by men of genius, wealth and enormous power. I'm going torun them down yet. You've helped on this, Officer Burke. If you cando more and get at the men higher up--there's not a mention of theirlocation in all of Blanche's accounts, not a single check book--then,you will get a big reward from the Department of Justice. For UncleSam is not sleeping with the enemy inside his fortifications."

  Burke's eyes snapped with the fighting spirit.

  "I've been doing my best with them since I got on the force, and I hopeto do more if they don't finish me first. A little Italian fruit mandown in my precinct sent word to me to-day that they were 'after me.'So, maybe I will not have a chance."

  Van Nostrand interrupted at this point.

  "Well, Officer 4434, you can have the backing of all the money you needas far as I am concerned. You'll have to come down to my offices someday soon, and we'll work out a plan of getting after these people. CanI do anything more, inspector?"

  The official shook his head.

  "There's a poor young woman here who is half drugged, and doesn't knowwho she is," he began.

  "Well, send her to some good private hospital and have her taken careof and send the bill to me," said Reggie. "I've got to be gettingdowntown. Goodbye, Officer Burke, don't forget me."

  "Goodbye--you've been a fine chauffeur and a better detective," saidthe young policeman, "even if you are a millionaire." And the twoyoung men laughed with an unusual cordiality as they shook hands.Despite the difference in their stations it was the similarity of redblood in them both which melted away the barriers, and later developedan unconventional and permanent friendship between them.

  Burke talked with Henrietta Bailey, the country girl, who satdejectedly in the station house. She had no plans for the future,having come to the big city to look for a position, trusting in thehelp of the famous Y.W.C.A. organization, of whose good deeds andprotection she had heard so much, even in the little town up state.

  "I'll call them up, down at their main offices," said Bobbie, "but it'sa big society and they have all they can do. Wouldn't you like to meeta nice sweet girl who will take a personal interest in you, and go downthere with you herself?"

  Henrietta tried to hold back the tears.

  "Oh, land sakes," she began, stammering, "I ... do ... want to justblubber on somebody's shoulder. I'm skeered of all these New Yorkfolks, and I'm so lonesome, Mr. Constable."

  "We'll just cure that, then," answered Burke. "I'll introduce you tothe very finest
girl in the world, and she'll show you that hearts beatas warmly in a big city as they do in a village of two hundred people."

  Bobbie lost no time in telephoning Mary Barton, who was just on thepoint of leaving Monnarde's candy store.

  She came directly uptown to meet the country girl and take her to themodest apartment for the night.

  Bobbie devoted the interim to making his report on the unusualcircumstances of his one-man raid ... and dodging the police reporterswho were on the scene like hawks as soon as the news had leaked out.

  Despite his declaration that the credit should go to the precinct inwhich the arrests had been made half a dozen photographers, with theirblack artillery-like cameras had snapped views of the house, and somegrotesque portraits of the young officer. Other camera men, withnewspaper celerity, had captured the aristocratic features of ReggieVan Nostrand and his racing car, as he sat in it before his FifthAvenue club. It was such a story that city editors gloated over, andit was to give the embarrassed policeman more trouble than it was worth.

  Bobbie's telephone report to Captain Sawyer, explaining his absencefrom the downtown station house was greeted with commendation.

  "That's all right, Burke, go as far as you like. A few more cases likethat and you'll be on the honor list for the Police Parade Day. Cleanit up as soon as you can," retorted his superior.

  When Mary took charge of Henrietta Bailey, the hapless girl felt asthough life were again worth living. After a good cry in the matron'sroom, she was bundled up, her rattan suitcase and the weather-beatenband boxes were carried over to the Barton home.

  "I don't know whether you had better say anything about this Baxter toLorna or not," said Bobbie, as he stood outside the house, to start onhis way downtown. "It's a horrible affair, and her escape from theman's clutches was a close one."

  "She's cured now, however," stoutly declared Mary. "I have no fearsfor Lorna."

  "Then do as you think best. I'll see you to-morrow afternoon, there atthe store, and you can take supper downtown with me if you would like.If there is any way I can help about this girl let me know."

  They separated, and Mary took her guest upstairs.

  Her father was greatly excited for he had just put the finishingtouches on his dictagraph-recorder. His mind was so over-wrought withhis work that Mary thought it better not to tell him of the excitingafternoon until later. She simply introduced Henrietta as a friendfrom the country who was going to spend the night. Lorna was courteousenough to the newcomer, but seemed abstracted and dreamy. Sheneglected the little household duties, making the burden harder forMary. Henrietta's rustic training, however, asserted itself, and shegladly took a hand in the preparation of the evening meal.

  "I've a novel I want to finish reading, Mary," said her sister, "and ifyou don't mind I'm going to do it. You and Miss Bailey don't need me.I'll go into our room until supper is ready."

  "What is it, dear? It must be very interesting," replied Mary, a shadeof uneasiness coming over her. "You are not usually so literary afterthe hard work at the store all day."

  Lorna laughed.

  "It's time I improved my mind, then. A friend gave it to me--it's thestory of a chorus girl who married a rich club man, by Robin Chalmers,and oh, Mary! It's simply the most exciting thing you ever read. Thestage does give a girl chances that she never gets working in a store,doesn't it?"

  "There are several kinds of chances, Lorna," answered the older girlslowly. "There are many girls who beautify their own lives by theirsuccess on the stage, but you know, there are a great many more whofind in that life a terrible current to fight against. While they maymake large salaries, as measured against what you and I earn, they mustrehearse sometimes for months without salary at all. If the show issuccessful they are in luck for a while, and their pictures are inevery paper. They spend their salary money to buy prettier clothes andto live in beautiful surroundings, and they gauge their expendituresupon what they are earning from week to week. But girls I have knowntell me that is the great trouble. For when the play loses itspopularity, or fails, they have accustomed themselves to extravaganttastes, and they must rehearse for another show, without money comingin."

  "Oh, but a clever girl can pick out a good opportunity."

  "No, she can't. She is dependent upon the judgment of the managers,and if you watch and see that two of every three shows put on right inNew York never last a month out, you'll see that the managers' judgmentis not so very keen. Even the best season of a play hardly laststhirty weeks--a little over half a year, and so you must divide agirl's salary in two to find what she makes in a year's time. You andI, in the candy store, are making more money than a girl who gets threetimes the money a week on the stage, for we have a whole year of work,and we don't have to go to manicures and modistes and hairdressers twoor three times a week."

  "Well, I wish we did!" retorted Lorna petulantly. "There's no romancein you, Mary. You're just humdrum and old-fashioned and narrow. Thinkof the beautiful costumes, and the lights, the music, the applause ofthousands! Oh, it must be wonderful to thrill an audience, and havehundreds of men worshiping you, and all that, Mary."

  Her sister's eyes filled with tears as she turned away.

  "Go on with your book, Lorna," she murmured. "Maybe some day you'llread one which will teach you that old fashions are not so bad, thatthere's romance in home and that the true, decent love of one man is amillion times better than the applause, and the flowers, and theflattery of hundreds. I've read such books."

  "Hum!" sniffed Lorna, "I don't doubt it. Written by old maids whocould never attract a man, nor look pretty themselves. Well, none ofthe girls I know bother with such books: there are too many lively oneswritten nowadays. Call me when supper is ready, for I'm hungry."

  And she adjusted her curls before flouncing into the bedroom to loseherself in the adventures of the patchouli heroine.

  It was a quiet evening at the Barton home. The father was tooengrossed to give more than abstracted heed, even to the appetizingmeal. Mary forbore to interrupt his thoughts about the new machine.She felt a hesitation about narrating the afternoon's adventures ofBobbie Burke to Lorna, for the girl seemed estranged and eager only forthe false romance of her novel. With Henrietta, Mary discussed theopportunities for work in the great city, already overcrowded withstruggling girls. So convincing was she, the country lass decided thatshe would take the train next morning back to the little town where shecould be safe from the excitement and the dangers of the city lure.

  "I reckon I'm a scared country mouse," she declared. "But I'm oldenough to know a warning when I get one. The Lord didn't intend me tobe a city girl, or he wouldn't have given me this lesson to-day. I'vegot my old grand dad up home, and there's Joe Mills, who is foreman inthe furniture factory. I think I'd better get back and help Joe spendhis eighteen a week in the little Clemmons house the way he wanted meto do."

  "You couldn't do a better thing in the world," said Mary, patting herhand gently as they sat in the cosy little kitchen. "Your little townwould be a finer place to bring up little Joes and little Henriettasthan this big city, wouldn't it? And I don't believe the right Joeever comes but once in a girl's life. There aren't many fellows whoare willing to share eighteen a week with a girl in New York."

  Mary's guest blushed happily as the light of a new determination shonein her eyes. She opened a locket which she wore on a chain around herneck.

  "I always thought Joe was nice, and all that--but I read these herestories about the city fellers, and I seen the pictures in themagazines, and thought Joe was a rube. But he ain't, is he?"

  She held up the little picture, as she opened the locket, for Mary'sscrutiny. The honest, smiling face, the square jaw, the clear eyes ofJoe looked forth as though in greeting of an old friend.

  "You can't get back to Joe any too quickly," advised Mary, andHenrietta wiped her eyes. She had received a homeopathic cure of thecity madness in one brief treatment!

 
; It was not a quiet evening for Officer 4434.

  When he emerged from the Subway at Fourteenth Street a newsboyapproached him with a bundle of papers.

  "Uxtry! Uxtry!" shouted the youngster. "Read all about de cop and demillionaire dat captured de white slavers!"

  The lad shoved a paper at Bobbie, who tossed him a nickel and hurriedon, quizzically glancing at the flaring headlines which featured thename of Reggie Van Nostrand and his own. The quickly madeillustrations, showing his picture, the machine of the young clubman,and the house of slavery were startling. The traditional arrowindicated "where the battle was fought," and Burke laughed as hestudied the sensational report.

  "Well, I look more like a gangster, according to this picture, thanJimmie the Monk! Those news photographers don't flatter a fellow verymuch."

  At the station house he was warmly greeted by his brother officers. Itwas embarrassing, to put it mildly; Burke had no desire for a pedestal.

  "Oh, quit it, boys," he protested. "You fellows do more than thisevery day of your lives. I'm only a rookie and I know it. I don'twant this sort of thing and wish those fool reporters had minded theirown business."

  "That's all right, Bobbie," said Doctor MacFarland, who had dropped inon his routine call, "you'd better mind your own p's and q's, for youwill be a marked man in this neighborhood. It's none too savory atbest. You know how these gunmen hate any policeman, and now they'vegot your photograph and your number they won't lose a minute to usethat knowledge. Keep your eyes on all points of the compass when yougo out to-night."

  "I'll try not to go napping, Doc," answered Burke gratefully. "You'rea good friend of mine, and I appreciate your advice. But I don'texpect any more trouble than usual."

  After his patrol duty Burke was scheduled for a period on fixed post.It was the same location as that on which he had made the acquaintanceof Jimmie the Monk and Dutch Annie several months before. As acoincidence, it began to storm, just as it had on that memorableevening, except that instead of the blighting snow blizzards, furioussheets of rain swept the dirty streets, and sent pedestrians under thedripping shelter of vestibules and awnings.

  Burke, without the protection of a raincoat, walked back and forth inthe small compass of space allowed the peg-post watcher, beating hisarms together to warm himself against the sickening chill of hisdripping clothes.

  As he waited he saw a man come out of the corner saloon.

  It was no other than Shultberger, the proprietor of the cafe and itscabaret annex. The man wore a raincoat, and a hat pulled down over hiseyes. He came to the middle of the crossing and closely scrutinizedthe young policeman.

  "Is dot you, Burke?" he asked gruffly.

  "Yes, what do you want of me?"

  "Veil, I joost vanted to know dat a good man vos on post to-night, forI expect troubles mit dese gun-men. Dey don't like me, und I t'oughtI'd find out who vos here."

  This struck 4434 as curious. He knew that Shultberger was the guardianangel of the neighborhood toughs in time of storm and trouble. Yet hewas anxious to do his duty.

  "What's the trouble? Are they starting anything?"

  The saloon man shook his head as he started back to his cafe.

  "Oh, no. But ve all know vot a fighter you vos to-day. De papers isfull mit it. Dey've got purty picture of you, too. I joost vosskeered dot dey might pick on me because I vos always running a orderlyplace, und because I'm de frend of de police. I'll call you if I needyou."

  He disappeared in the doorway.

  Burke watched him, thinking hard. Perhaps they were planning somedeviltry, but he could not divine the purpose of it. At any rate hewas armed with his night stick and his trusty revolver. He had a clearspace in which to protect himself, and he was not frightened by ghosts.So, alert though he was, his mind was not uneasy.

  He turned casually, on his heels, to look up the Avenue. He wasstartled to see two stocky figures within five feet of him. That quickright-about had saved him from an attack, although he did not realizeit. The approach of the men had been absolutely noiseless.

  The rain beat down in his face, and the men hesitated an instant, asthough interrupted in some plan. It did not occur to Burke that theyhad approached him with a purpose.

  He looked at them sharply, by force of habit. Their evil faces showedpallid and grewsome in the flickering light of the arc-lamp on thecorner by Shultberger's place.

  The two men glared at him shrewdly, and then passed on by without aword. They walked half way down the block, and Burke, watching themfrom the corner of his eye, saw them cross the street and turn into therear entrance of Shultberger's cabaret restaurant.

  "Well, he's having some high-class callers to-night," mused Burke."Perhaps he'll need a little help after all."

  Even as he thought this he heard a crash of broken glass, and he turnedabruptly toward the direction of the sound.

  The arc-light had gone out.

  Burke walked across the street and fumbled with his feet, feeling thebroken glass which had showered down near the base of the pole.

  "I wonder what happened to that lamp? They don't burst of their ownaccord like this generally."

  He walked back to his position. The street was now very dark, becausethe nearest burning arc-lamp was half a block to the south. As Burkepondered on the situation he heard footsteps to his left. He turnedabout and a familiar voice greeted him. It was Patrolman Maguire.

  "Well, Burke, your sins should sure be washed away in this deluge! Ithought that I'd step up a minute and give you a chance to go get somedry clothes and a raincoat. You've another hour on the peg before Irelieve you, but hustle down to the station house and rig yourself up,me lad."

  It was a welcome cheery voice from the dismal night shades. But Burkeobjected to the suggestion.

  "No, Maguire, I'll stick it out. I think there's trouble brewing, andit's only sixty more minutes. You keep on your patrol. We both mightget a call-down for changing."

  "Well, begorra, if there's any call-down for a little humanity, I don'tgive a rap. You go get some dry clothes. I know Cap. Sawyer won'tmind. You can be back here in five minutes. You've done enough to-dayto deserve a little consideration, me boy. Hustle now!"

  Burke was chilled to the marrow and his teeth chattered, even though itwas a Spring rain, and not the icy blasts of the earlier post nights.

  "Well, keep a sharp lookout for this crowd around Shultberger's, Mack!"

  He yielded, and turned toward the station house with a quick stride.He had hardly gone half a block before Maguire had reason to rememberthe warning. A cry of distress came from the vestibule ofShultberger's front entrance. The lights of the saloon had beensuddenly extinguished.

  "Sure, and that's some monkey business," thought Maguire, as he rantoward the doorway.

  He pounded on the pavement with his night stick, and the resonant soundstopped Burke's retreat to the station. Officer 4434 wheeled about andran for the post he had just left.

  Maguire had barely reached the doorway of the saloon when a revolvershot rang out, and the red tongue licked his face.

  "Now we got 'im!" cried a voice.

  "Kill the rookie!"

  "That's Burke, all right!"

  Maguire felt a stinging sensation in his shoulder, and his nightstickdropped with a thud to the sidewalk. Three figures pounded upon him,and again the revolver spoke. This time there was no fault in the aim.A gallant Irish soul passed to its final goal as the weapon barked forthe third time.

  Burke's heart was in his mouth; it was no personal fear, but for thebeloved comrade whom he felt sure had stepped into the fate intendedfor himself. He drew his revolver as he ran, and swung his stick fromits leathern handle thong resoundingly on the sidewalk as he racedtoward the direction of the scuffle.

  A short figure darted out from a doorway as he approached the cornerand deftly stuck a foot forward, tripping the policeman.

  "Beat it, fellers!" called this adept, whose voice Burke recog
nized asthat of Jimmie the Monk. It was a clever campaign which the gangstershad laid out, but their mistake in picking the man cost them dearly.

  As he called, the Monk darted down the street for a quick escape,feeling confident that his enemy was lying dead in the doorway on thecorner. Burke forgot the orders of the Mayor against the use offire-arms; his mind inadvertently swung into the fighting mood of theold days in the Philippines, when native devils were dealt justice asbefitted their own methods.

  He had fallen heavily on the wet pavement, and slid. But, at therecognition of that evil voice, he rolled over, and half lying on thepavement he leveled his revolver at the fleeting figure of the gangleader.

  Bang! One shot did the work, and Jimmie the Monk crumpled forward,with a leg which was never again to lead in another Bowery "spiel" orclub prize fight.

  "He's fixed," thought Burke, and he sprang up, to run forward to thevestibule of Shultberger's. There he found the body of Maguiresprawled out, with the blood of the Irish kings mingling with therainwater on the East Side street.

  One man was hiding in the doorway's shelter. Another was scuttlingdown the street, to run full into the arms of an approaching roundsman.

  As Burke stooped over the form of his comrade a black-jack struck hisshoulder. He sprang upward, partially numbed from the blow, butsummoning all his strength he caught the gangster by the arm andshoulder and flung him bodily through the glass door which smashed witha clatter.

  Burke kicked at the door as he fought with the murderer, and his weightforced it open.

  A whisky bottle whizzed through the air from behind the bar.Shultberger was in the battle. Burke's night stick ended the strugglewith his one assailant, and he ran for the long bar, which he vaulted,as the saloon-keeper dodged backward. Another revolver shotreverberated as the proprietor retreated. But, at this rough andtumble fight, Burke used the greatest fighting projectile of thepoliceman; he threw the loaded night stick with unerring aim, strikingShultberger full in the face. The man screamed as he fell backward.

  Half a dozen policemen had surrounded the saloon by this time, andBurke fumbled around until he found the electric light switch near thecash register. He threw a flood of light on the scene of destruction.

  Shultberger, pulling himself up to his knees, his face and mouth goryfrom the catapult's stroke, moaned with agony as he clawed blindly.Patrolman White was tugging at the gangster who had been knockedunconscious by Burke's club. Outside two of the uniformed men werereverently lifting the corpse of Terence Maguire, who was on hisEternal Fixed Post.

  "Have ... have you sent ... for an ambulance?" cried Bobbie.

  "Yes, Burke," said the sergeant, who had examined the dead man. "Butit's too late. Poor Mack, poor old Mack!"

  A patrol wagon was clanging its gong as the driver spurred the horseson. Captain Sawyer dismounted from the seat by the driver. The badnews had traveled rapidly. Suddenly Burke, remembering the fleeingJimmie, dashed from the saloon, and forced his way through the swarmingcrowd which had been drawn from the neighboring tenements by theexcitement.

  "Is the boy crazy?" asked Sawyer. "Hurry, White, and notify theCoroner, for I don't intend to allow Terence Maguire to lie in thisrotten den very long."

  Burke ran along the wet street, looking vainly for the woundedgang-leader. Jimmie was not in sight! Burke went the entire length ofthe block, and then slowly retraced his steps.

  He scrutinized every hallway and cellar entrance.

  At last his vigilance was rewarded. Down the steps, beneath ahalf-opened bulkhead door, he found his quarry.

  The Monk was moaning with pain from a shattered leg-bone.

  Burke clambered down and tried to lift the wounded man.

  "Get up here!" he commanded.

  "Oh, dey didn't get ye, after all!" cried Jimmie, recognizing hisvoice. He sank his teeth in the hand which was stretched forth to helphim. Burke swung his left hand, still numb from the black-jack blow onhis shoulder, and caught the ruffian's nose and forehead. A vigorouspull drew the fellow's teeth loose with a jerk.

  "Well, you dog!" grunted the policeman, as he dragged the gangster tothe street level. "You'll have iron bars to bite before many hours,and then the electric chair!"

  Jimmie's nerve went back on him.

  "Oh, Gaud! Dey can't do dat! I didn't do it. I wasn't dere!"

  Burke said nothing, but holding the man down to the pavement with aknee on his back, he whistled for the patrol wagon.

  The prisoners were soon arraigned, Shultberger, Jimmie the Monk and thefirst gangster were sent to the hospital shortly after under guard.The second runner, who had been caught by White, was searched, and bycomparison of the weapons and the empty chambers of each one the policededuced that it was he who had fired the shots which killed Maguire.The entire band, including the saloon-keeper, were equally guiltybefore the law, and their trial and sentencing to pay the penalty wereassured.

  But back in the station house, late that night, the thought ofpunishment brought little consolation to a heart-broken corps ofpolicemen.

  Big, husky men sobbed like women. Death on duty was no stranger intheir lives; but the loss of rollicking, generous Maguire was a bittershock just the same.

  And next morning, as Burke read the papers, after a wretched, sleeplessnight, he saw the customary fifteen line article, headed: "ANOTHERPOLICEMAN MURDERED BY GANGSTERS." Five million fellow New Yorkersdoubtless saw the brief story as well, and passed it by to read thebaseball gossip, the divorce news, or the stock quotations--without afleeting thought of regret.

  It was just the same old story, you know.

  Had it been the story of a political boss's beer-party to the bums ofhis ward; had it been an account of Mrs. Van Astorbilt's elopement witha plumber; had it been the life-story of a shooting show girl; had itbeen the description of the latest style in slit skirts; had it been asarcastic message from some drunken, over-rated city official; had itbeen a sympathy-squad description of the hardships and soul-beauties ofa millionaire murderer it would have met with close attention.

  But what is so stale as the oft-told, ever-old yarn of a policeman'sdeath?

  "What do we pay them for?"