by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER XXIV NOT ON THE PROGRAM
The new bus boy at the Seventy Club was making progress. The boss likedhim. He had eyes in his head and a tongue in his cheek. He also knew whatthey were for. He did his work in an intelligent manner. He talked littleand asked no questions.
From time to time the boss called him to his desk. There he plied himwith questions regarding their mutual friends in another city. The boyknew an amazing amount about this man's underworld friends there.
On the third night the boss pressed a telephone slug into the boy's hand,and said:
"Go call your friend." He added a wink.
The boy entered one of the six booths, closed the door firmly, slippedthe slug into its place, heard it click, then felt himself slowlydescending.
There are those who might have cried out at this extraordinaryoccurrence. Not this boy. He merely mumbled:
"So that's it."
After that he was all eyes for what was to come. He had not long to wait.
Having dropped some fifteen feet, in the manner of a slow elevator, hiscurious conveyance stopped. At the same time a door directly before himslid open. He passed out. The door closed.
He found himself in a second dining room. At the back, too, there weretables for cards. But how different it all was! Here was music, dancing,drinking, gambling; just such a life as the hard working members ofgangland demand while off duty.
From that night on, the new boy carried dishes and brushed crumbs fromthe tables on the floor below, this secret meeting place of gangland. Didhe prefer it so? Who could have told? He went about his work in the samemechanical, precise manner. He talked little. He asked no questions. Whenthe boss descended to the floor below, he rubbed his hands and seemedpleased.
Despite the drinks, the music, the dancing in this place, it possessed asomber air.
Pure unadulterated joy never comes to those who attempt to extractpleasure from that which has cost other people days of arduous toil. Thisis a law of nature. Like the laws of the Medes and Persians, this lawaltereth not.
Men and women did not frequent this place for pleasure alone. We havesaid it was a club. Men meet in their clubs for purposes of business. Itwas so here. That this business might be transacted in the strictestprivacy, booths had been provided. It was the duty of the new boy tobring away dishes from these booths.
On the second night of service here on the floor below, the boy saw atall, broad man with the features of a southern European, but thecomplexion of an Anglo-Saxon, with close-set eyes of blue, and a mass oftumbled hair, enter the second booth from the center. He had a companion.The companion was younger than he. At times this youth's face seemed amask; at others, when he smiled, it changed. They ordered a sumptuousfeast, these two: chicken, Italian style; creamed new potatoes; lobstersalad; and a great black bottle. They ate in silence.
As the bus boy removed the dishes, he noted the large man's hand. Itappeared to give him a start. He barely avoided spilling a glass of wateron the table. Perhaps this was because there was a hole in the center ofthe man's hand.
Dinner disposed of, the younger man of the pair left the booth, walkedout upon the floor, talked for a time to one of the entertainers, a tallblonde, then held out his hand for a dance.
Shortly after that he returned to the booth, poured a drink from theblack bottle, then sat in the semi-darkness talking in guarded tones tohis companion, him of the hole in his hand.
At that instant a curious thing happened. Against the wall, on thedarkest side of the booth, appeared a singular phenomenon. A red arrow aslong as a man's forearm was distinctly to be seen. And even as the twostared at it in astonishment, the arrow appeared to flame, as if perhapsthe walls were on fire.
The younger of the two men shot a startled glance at his companion. Then,with fingers that trembled ever so slightly, he drew a chain that floodedthe booth with light.
Instantly the arrow of fire vanished.
The light was extinguished. The arrow did not return.
Once more the light was thrown on.
Chancing to glance down at the table, the younger gangster uttered a lowexclamation, then put out a hand to grasp a note that had appeared fromnowhere.
Holding this up to the light, he read aloud these words:
"_Justice is an arrow of fire. It goes straight to hearts that are evil.It burns as it strikes. No one shall escape._"
The thing was done on white paper with a typewriter.
For a full moment the two men stared at one another in silence. Then theyrose abruptly to disappear into the secret booths where one does nottelephone.
It is a curious fact that no man ever grows so hard, so stoical, soimpervious to emotions that he fails to retain a superstitious fear ofthat which seems unnatural and uncanny. The flaming arrow, the mysteriousnote, stirred up within the hearts of these killers a sense of dread suchas no display of arms, no great body of police, could ever inspire withinthem.
This little affair most certainly was not on the program as it had beenprepared by the heavy-set, stolid man who presided over the door. Yet,strange to say, neither the man with a hole in his hand, nor hiscompanion, spoke one word to the manager regarding the affair as theyleft the clubroom above, for the cooling air of night.
The name by which the younger of these two gangsters was known was JimmieMcGowan. Jimmie was not the name his mother had given him at birth. Norwas McGowan the one he had inherited from his father. His face was dark.His parents had come to America from a foreign land.
This gave Jimmie no occasion to be ashamed. That foreign nation hasfurnished the world many of her bravest warriors, her wisest statesmen,her sweetest singers. Still Jimmie had chosen another name.
On the following night Jimmie and his companion, who was named MikeVolpi, returned to their booth on the lower floor of the Seventy Club.The slender bus boy who hovered about the place did not appear to noticethem.
They had ordered dinner and were seated in the shadows talking when, of asudden, the flaming arrow once more appeared on the wall.
Like a flash Jimmie's hand threw on the light. His sharp eyes looked fora note. There was none. The need was not great. The message of theflaming arrow was burned on his brain:
"Justice is an arrow of fire."
The two men rose without a word. They left the place without dining. Theydid not return. Their actions spoke louder than words. They appeared tosay:
"Here is something alarming, sinister, terrifying. Are we warned orthreatened? Who is to stand up against such an invisible force?"
Was there, from time to time, about the corners of the slim bus boy'slips on that night the suggestion of a smile? Who can say?
