The Thubway Tham Megapack

by Johnston McCulley

  “What ith all thith thtuff about big money and pritheth?” Tham demanded, a little belligerently. He hated to have salespersons tell him what he wanted.

  “Stranger, huh? Listen, Bud—”

  “My name ith not Bud,” Tham interrupted. “But go on with your thtory.”

  “See that big open auction room across the street, where there’s a crowd? They have a special raffle there every afternoon, except Sunday. Top prize is five hundred bucks in tens and twenties. A lot of small prizes, too.”

  “And tho?” Tham questioned.

  “Every purchase of a dollar or more in here gets you a raffle ticket, Bud—or whatever you call yourself. That’s why I tipped you to buy a carton. You’ll get a ticket besides buyin’ your smokes cheaper. Better hurry. The tickets from this store will be taken across and put into the big barrel in half an hour.”

  Tham bought a carton, tore it open and got out a single package of cigarettes. He opened the package and lit a smoke. The clerk handed him his change, got a numbered raffle ticket and tore it in two, handed Tham one end and put the other end into a big glass jar.

  “There she is! This jar and the others will go to the auction room in half an hour or so, and the tickets will be dumped into a big barrel with others. Drawing every afternoon, except Sunday, like I said. You’ll find some bargains in the auction room, if you’re lookin’ for any. Hope you have luck in the raffle, Bud—or whatever it is.”

  Tham glared at him and went forth into the street. The auction room almost directly across from the drug store was one of those affairs with a removable front, which was taken out during auction hours. There was a crowd in the place, and more people were drifting along the street toward it.

  Tham went back to the corner, watched the crowd for a moment, and then crossed the street when the traffic light changed. He could hear the raucous voice of the auctioneer.

  “Look at it, people! A set of dishes that would ornament any table. Take the word of Amos Smith that here is a great bargain. My ears are open—what am I bid for a starter?”

  “Thilly atheth to fall for that thtuff,” Tham muttered. “A man could buy any of that junk cheaper at a regular thtore. Thuckerth!”

  Puffing his cigarette, Tham stopped at the edge of the crowd on the walk. Just for the heck of it, he would watch the auction for a few minutes and see the result of the raffle. Not that he hoped to win anything.

  He felt in his coat pocket and made sure the raffle ticket was there. A group of persons surged forward and jostled Tham, a thing that always made him angry.

  “Take it eathy,” Tham said.

  One of the men glared at him. “One side, chum! Don’t block the walk,” he advised Tham.

  Tham didn’t like this man at sight either. He was tall and slender, well dressed, and exuded the combined tonsorial parlor aromas of bay rum, talc and hair oil. His manner revealed that he thought well of himself, excessively so.

  “Bumpin’ into people,” Tham grumbled.

  “You want to make something out of it?” the other demanded. “Behave, or I’ll slap you down!”

  He laughed and went on with a companion. Tham seethed with rage. Being a very small man, he always seethed when he knew he came up against mere physical size and strength.

  Tham backed to the curb out of everybody’s way and listened to the voice of Amos Smith, the auctioneer. But the words were blurred to Tham’s ears, for he was doing some thinking along strictly professional lines.

  As usual, Tham was in need of funds. He had made three subway trips since morning, and they had netted him nothing. On two trips, he had not seen a likely victim for his nimble fingers. On the third journey, he had spotted a man who looked prosperous, but the might-have-been victim got off an express at Penn Station at the last split second, as if he had forgotten something, and had left Tham to ride on.

  Then, he had been obliged to dodge around a couple of blocks to avoid meeting the Headquarters man who knew him and might decide to trail him. And here he was on a strange street. His only hope now was to wait for the evening rush hour, get into the subway and try to make the day return some profit.

  His cigarette finished, Tham removed the butt from his lips and turned to toss it into the littered gutter. As he did so he saw at his feet a raffle ticket somebody had dropped. Tham picked it up and read the number: A-609. He dropped the ticket into his coat pocket to join the one he had been given by the clerk.

  Tham needed at least fifty dollars. His rent was due at the lodging house conducted by “Nosey” Moore, the retired burglar. He had seen a couple of shirts he wanted to buy, and he needed socks and eating money.

  “Alwayth thomethin’,” he muttered.

  Now he turned toward the edge of the crowd in time to hear Amos Smith, the auctioneer, say, “In a few minutes, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll have the regular afternoon prize drawings. We have some rare prizes for you today, including, of course, the grand capital prize of five hundred dollars in ten and twenty-dollar bills. Folding money, my friends! Lettuce—and no salad dressing needed! Amos Smith likes to take care of his friends. But, first, look at this floor lamp—”

  Tham growled to himself, “Amoth Thmith ith an ath!”

  He decided, since he had time to kill before the subway rush hour, that he would hang around. He might win a prize of some sort, though the percentage against him was terrific. And Tham reminded himself mentally that he never had much luck with raffles.

  He felt a light touch on his shoulder, and turned slowly to find Detective Craddock standing beside him smiling.

  It flashed through Tham’s mind that Craddock must have been trailing him, though there was a slight possibility that this meeting was accidental. The detective, who had sworn to catch Tham “with the goods” and send him “to the Big House for a long stretch,” irked Tham by his presence. Yet he would rather see him here than in the subway. Tham had no intention of lifting a leather in this crowd. And if he knew where Craddock was, the chances for dodging him before rush hour were better.

  “Off your beat, aren’t you, Tham?” Craddock questioned in low tones. “What’s happened to the subway, that you’re plying your nefarious trade in this vicinity?”

  “I wath jutht thtrollin’ around and thaw thith crowd,” Tham explained.

  “So? Interesting!”

  “Tho it ith interethtin’? Ath I thaid, I wath jutht thtrollin’ around, and bought thith carton of thigaretth at that thtore acroth the thtreet, and thaw thith crowd—”

  “Why explain, Tham? The streets are open to the public, as long as said public behaves itself. It’s only, Tham, that I am surprised to find you here. By the way, my eyes are open also.”

  “New York ith an open town,” Tham commented.

  “You are going to watch them raffle the prizes, I take it?”

  “It might therve to path an idle moment,” Tham replied.

  “I see. All your moments will be idle until evening subway rush hour, I suppose. And watching the raffle—why, Tham, what a chance for you! You’ll be able to squirm into the thick of an excited crowd, and— But you know the rest.”

  “Thir?” Tham said with indignation.

  “Now, Tham, don’t try to pretend you’re only slumming when you appear hereabouts.”

  “If it cometh to that, what are you doin’ hereabouth, Craddock?”

  “Just strolling around, Tham, like you,” the detective informed him, smiling.

  From inside the store room came the raucous voice of the auctioneer:

  “Now we have come to the great moment, ladies and gentlemen! Into this revolving barrel on the platform have been put the stubs of the tickets you are holding. I’ll revolve the barrel and have some lady from our audience come to the platform and draw the winning numbers—”

  Tham moved nearer as the crowd surged forward, and Craddock kept beside him.

  “When I look around, Tham, I do not wonder at your professional activities,” Craddock muttered. “Look at these sucke
rs! With the world so full of suckers, why should a man indulge in honest toil?”

  “What ith wrong, Craddock?”

  “Little innocent! Don’t you know this layout? To get raffle tickets, people must buy from one of perhaps a dozen stores in the neighborhood. When it comes to the raffle, they really give away a few prizes, mostly cheap junk that costs little—”

  “Yeth, but the clerk in the thtore where I bought my thigareth thaid the big prithe wath five hundred dollarth.”

  “Oh, so it is, Tham! But who gets the five hundred? Some capper all set to claim it. He holds one end of the winning ticket.”

  “But the winnin’ ticket mutht be taken from the barrel by thome women from the audienth,’” Tham protested.

  “Ha! The auctioneer has the winning ticket palmed, Tham. He switches tickets when the woman draws for the big prize. He calls the number, and the capper comes up and gets the wad of dough, tells who he is and where he lives and what he does—like blazes!—and walks away with the wad. Then he hands it back after the afternoon auction is over.”

  “Why, the low thcoundrelth!” Tham muttered.

  “See, Tham? You’re not the only crook in our fair city. You have plenty of competition. This fake auction game is a big racket, Tham.”

  “Ith thith not a lottery, Craddock? And ith it not tho that a lottery ith againtht the law?”

  “Supposedly so, Tham. Once in a while we haul ‘em in and they get a little fine. But the company that runs these places has an expensive mouthpiece who knows how to dodge the law.”

  The crowd surged forward again. Some foolish-looking woman was upon the platform, grinning at the crowd. Amos Smith whirled the barrel containing the ticket stubs, opened a slot in it; and the woman extracted a ticket and handed it to him. Amos read the number, and presented a gushing woman with a fancy china teapot.

  * * * *

  So it started. Tham gradually worked his way into the auction room as newcomers behind pushed him forward. Some friend of Craddock’s slapped him on the back and greeted him, and Craddock turned aside for conversation. Tham edged nearer the platform.

  He watched as Amos Smith, working his crowd well and between prize drawings calling attention to auction bargains that would be put up for sale after the raffle, disposed of half a dozen more cheap prizes. Then the auctioneer put up a carved occasional chair worth perhaps fifty dollars retail, the second best prize, and there was more excitement as he raffled the chair.

  But there the auctioneer’s honesty ended. He held his hands high and gave his audience a benevolent smile.

  “Now we come to the big moment, ladies and gentlemen!” he announced. “Five hundred dollars cash! Any of us can use money like that these days, eh? Five hundred cash! Look at your tickets carefully when the winning number is announced. If the grand prize is not claimed by somebody here present within two minutes, another number will be drawn.”

  Tham had his tickets in his hand—the one he had received with the purchase of his carton of cigarettes and the one he had picked up on the walk. He glanced at the numbers and thrust the hand holding the tickets back into his coat pocket.

  All around him, excited people were handling their tickets, their eyes shiny with hope. Tham felt himself jostled again, and turned quickly and angrily to see standing beside him the man with whom he had spotted on the walk outside—the tall, sleek-looking dressy man redolent with barber shop odors.

  Tham glared at the man as the latter’s elbow thrust him aside as if he had been less than nothing. But he choked back his rage. This wasn’t the moment for a quarrel. Amos Smith was whirling the barrel containing the ticket stubs.

  The barrel was stopped, the slot opened, and a woman drew forth a ticket stub and held it high. Amos Smith lifted his hand and took the stub and held it so all could see. No tricks, his act indicated.

  Tham watched closely. He saw the auctioneer’s fist close for only an instant, and then the ticket stub was in the open again for everybody to see. But Tham knew that Mr. Amos Smith had had a stub palmed and deftly had exchanged it for the one drawn, and that it was the palmed stub he now held high.

  “The winning number!” the auctioneer cried. “If the winner does not claim the prize within two minutes after the number is announced, a second number will be drawn. One moment!”

  He still held the stub high while a grinning assistant put on the corner of the auctioneer’s desk a sheaf of currency folded once and fastened with a paper clip.

  “There it is, ladies and gentlemen! Five hundred cash, in tens and twenties. And now for the winning number. I want two ladies from the audience to come up here and look at the stub and make sure I read the number correctly.”

  He still held up the stub while two giggling women got upon the platform beside him. They both looked at the number on the stub, and then Amos Smith read it:

  “The winning number—A-609!”

  On every side of Tham, people were checking the numbers on their tickets, giving groans of disappointment, hoping nobody would claim the prize so another number would have to be drawn. Tham took out his own two tickets, looked at them-and gasped as his eyes bulged. He had A-609! Whether it was the one the clerk had given him or the one he had picked up on the walk outside, he was not sure.

  “I’ve got it!” he yelled.

  Excited, he began thrusting his way forward, jostling men and women as he often had been jostled himself. Those around him began chattering:

  “This man has it!… Oh, you lucky thing!… Easy way to get five hundred bucks!… Wish I had his luck!”

  Tham elbowed on and finally stood at the edge of the platform. “I’ve got it!” he repeated, holding the stub aloft.

  Amos Smith seemed bewildered. He glared at Tham and then glanced around at the audience.

  “Hold it a second! I’ve got it!” some other man called.

  Tham, gripping his ticket stub, turned and saw the sleek-looking man with whom he had collided out on the walk. He was striding forward and grinning as he felt in the several pockets of his garments.

  “Got it right here somewhere,” he said. “Remember the number well—it’s the number of my room at my hotel. Got it in some pocket—”

  “I’ve got it right here!” Tham yelled.

  “Let’s see it, my man,” Amos Smith said, putting down a hand.

  “No, you don’t!” Tham cried. “Not until I thow thith thtub to thome of the folkth around me. I want them to thee that thith ith the right ticket. A-609.”

  Tham exhibited the stub to several around him and suddenly found a puzzled Craddock at his side. Craddock checked the number.

  “That’s right—A-609. This man has the winning stub,” Craddock announced.

  “Hold it!” the sleek-looking man cried, still fumbling in his pockets. “I know I had that ticket!”

  “But here it is,” Craddock informed him.

  “Then it was stolen from me.”

  “Wait!” Craddock shouted. He exhibited his badge. “I’m a police officer. I’ll handle this.” He turned to the sleek-looking man. “When did you see your ticket last?”

  “Just before I came into the auction room. I glanced at it again because 609 is the number of my hotel room, and I had a hunch the ticket might be lucky.”

  “Who are you, and where do you live?”

  “My name’s Oscar Wilson, and I live at the Friendly Neighbor Hotel uptown. I put the stub into my pocket after looking at it, and now it’s gone. It was stolen. Who’s this little runt who has it now?”

  “I happen to know him,” Craddock said. “I was only a few feet from him at any time after he came in here, standing to one side talking to a friend. He didn’t take any ticket out of any of your pockets. And why should he? How could he know what ticket would be the winner?”

  Everybody around them muttered at that.

  “Thith ith a thwindle!” Tham proclaimed. “It ith a thkin game! Thith Amoth Thmith mutht have had a thtub palmed and he changed it for the one drawn�
�”

  “Why, how dare you!” Amos bellowed.

  “And thith other man, who callth himthelf Othcar Wilthon—he mutht be a capper for thith thkin game.”

  “How’s that, runt? I’ll bust you for that one!” Oscar Wilson cried.

  He hurled himself forward angrily. Tham understood that game, too. A commotion would be caused, a fight started. Women would scream and crowd to get away from the brawl, and men would mill around like so many frenzied cattle. Then they would try to get Tham aside and slip him a ten spot and boot him out the back door.

  Craddock went into action against Oscar Wilson while the bulky auctioneer bent over the edge of the low platform and began yelling. People elbowed and jostled and shrieked. The table on the platform tilted and almost fell over and papers on it splattered to the floor.

  Tham was knocked down and his carton of cigarettes fell to the floor and came open. Beneath the feet of the others, Tham picked up the carton, fussed around with it, closed it, then crawled to safety.

  He stood up at the end of the platform and waited. The crowd had jammed out on the walk. Craddock had snapped handcuffs on Oscar Wilson’s wrists and was now talking to the auctioneer.

  “I’ll have to report this brawl,” Craddock said. “You may lose your license over it. This little man had the winning stub and is entitled to the money. If your capper got careless and lost the ticket and it was found, that’s none of my business.”

  “I tell you it was stolen from me,” Oscar Wilson declared again.

  “Yah!” Craddock replied inelegantly. “I know this game. Somebody got their signals crossed, that’s all. You can’t even prove you had that ticket, Wilson, so you can’t put in a claim for lost and recovered property.”

  “This little runt has ruined my business,” Amos Smith put in.

  “Give him the money he won!” Craddock ordered. “He still has the winning ticket.”

  The auctioneer let out a yell: “The money’s gone!”

  “The runt swiped that, too,” Oscar Wilson roared.