"Life did not bring me silken gowns,Nor jewels for my hair,Nor sight of gabled, foreign townsIn distant countries fair,But I can glimpse, beyond my pane, a green and friendly hill,And red geraniums aflame upon my window-sill."The brambled cares of everyday,The tiny humdrum things,May bind my feet when they would stray,But still my heart has wings,While red geraniums are bloomed against my window-glass,And low above my green-sweet hill the gypsy wind-clouds pass."And if my dreamings ne'er come true,The brightest and the best,But leave me lone my journey through,I'll set my heart at rest,And thank Thee, God, for home-sweet things, a green and friendly hill,And red geraniums aflame upon my window-sill."
"Life did not bring me silken gowns,Nor jewels for my hair,Nor sight of gabled, foreign townsIn distant countries fair,But I can glimpse, beyond my pane, a green and friendly hill,And red geraniums aflame upon my window-sill.
"Life did not bring me silken gowns,
Nor jewels for my hair,
Nor sight of gabled, foreign towns
In distant countries fair,
But I can glimpse, beyond my pane, a green and friendly hill,
And red geraniums aflame upon my window-sill.
"The brambled cares of everyday,The tiny humdrum things,May bind my feet when they would stray,But still my heart has wings,While red geraniums are bloomed against my window-glass,And low above my green-sweet hill the gypsy wind-clouds pass.
"The brambled cares of everyday,
The tiny humdrum things,
May bind my feet when they would stray,
But still my heart has wings,
While red geraniums are bloomed against my window-glass,
And low above my green-sweet hill the gypsy wind-clouds pass.
"And if my dreamings ne'er come true,The brightest and the best,But leave me lone my journey through,I'll set my heart at rest,And thank Thee, God, for home-sweet things, a green and friendly hill,And red geraniums aflame upon my window-sill."
"And if my dreamings ne'er come true,
The brightest and the best,
But leave me lone my journey through,
I'll set my heart at rest,
And thank Thee, God, for home-sweet things, a green and friendly hill,
And red geraniums aflame upon my window-sill."
He gazed into the empty fireplace as the words of the verse sang through his mind.
"But still my heart has wings," "Gypsy wind-clouds," "And if my dreamings ne'er come true ... I'll set my heart at rest."
He mused over them. His heart had wings to soar high with his soul in the ecstasy of his new-found love. And if his dreaming never came true, could he set his heart at rest?
Or, her dreams, her expectation of happiness with Gibson—when they were shattered, could she set her heart at rest and thank her God for "home-sweet things," her "green and friendly hill, and red geraniums aflame upon her window-sill"?
He looked up from the ashes of the fireplace, where flames had sparkled to cheer and comfort her. She was still looking out toward her "green and friendly" hill and the listlessness of her outline told him that she, too, was musing. He longed to know her thoughts.
Very slowly she turned her face toward him. There was a suggestion of somberness in her eyes as she looked down at him.
"I arranged this window just for that," she said.
"Why did you know I would choose it as the part of the room I liked best?" he asked.
"Because I've found we both love the simple things, the 'home-sweet' things, the enduring things of life," she answered.
"Is that why you have been so kind to me?"
"Please don't think of it as kindness," she said. She was back in the chair she had left to stand beside the window. "That is why I have arranged to see you as often as I have, if that is what you mean."
An impulse overwhelmed his self-imposed restraint.
"If anything ever happens to cause you to have doubt in me," he said, earnestly, "will you try to believe that I did what I thought was right?"
The nature of his question, its suddenness, astonished her. She moved her lips to speak.
"Don't ask me why I asked you that," he said, "but promise me, promise me, that you'll do your best to think of me as doing what I believed was right."
"I'm bewildered, but you have my promise," she answered.
The clock on the mantel above the fireplace chimed midnight. He rose.
"I have been thoughtless," he said. "I had forgotten the time."
She walked with him to the door.
"Good-night," he said, "and thank you."
"Good-night," she said, dropping the hand she had given him to her side.
He strode out into the night. Subconsciously he waited for the door to close behind him.Each step took him farther toward the street and yet he did not hear the click of the latch.
At the sidewalk he turned to look back.
She was standing, framed in the soft light shining through the doorway, looking out at him. He waved his hand. He saw her hand flutter and then the door closed.
"'Still my heart has wings,'" he repeated to himself as he turned away.
* * * * *
The primary election was only two weeks away. Gibson, with the powerful combination of organizations behind him, was swinging into the final lap of his campaign with unabated success. That he would snow the mayor under at the primary was conceded everywhere. Facing humiliation in the most decisive defeat in the history of the city the mayor's organization dwindled down to a few never-say-die supporters whose activities were almost laughable in the prospect of Gibson's overwhelming victory at the polls. To the list of organizations indorsing the police commissioner was added the Anti-Saloon league.
Seeking corroboration of the story told them by "Big Jim" Hatch, which they had in affidavit form from "Big Jim" and Mrs. Hatch, John and Brennan visited the downtown apartment house where "Gink" Cummings resided and where Hatch claimed to have seenGibson. Cautiously they questioned the janitor, the clerk at the desk, the elevator boy and even the proprietor without success. None of them had ever seen a man answering Gibson's description enter the building.
"Probably the time Hatch saw Gibson at Cummings' apartment was the only time Gibson ever visited the 'Gink' there, and, because it was late at night, no one happened to see him," said Brennan. "It is beginning to look as though we'll have to tap either Gibson's or Cummings' telephone if the 'chief' wants to go that far."
Then, late one afternoon, John received a telephone call from Murphy.
"Meet me tonight at Second and Spring," said Murphy. "I got somethin' for ya, see?"
"Is it worth while?" asked John.
"I'm not sayin' nothin' now, see?" said Murphy. "Just be there at ten bells, see?"
"We'll be there," John told him.
"I wonder what he's stumbled across?" said Brennan when John informed him of their appointment to meet Murphy.
"I asked him and he wasn't sayin' nothin', see?" said John.
"Don't," pleaded Brennan, "you'll have me doing it."
That night at a few minutes of ten they were standing on the steps of the entrance to theBryson block when Murphy, his peaked cap pulled down far over his eyes and his coat collar turned up close around his throat, sidled up to them.
"What's the big idea of covering up your face, Murphy?" asked Brennan.
"I'm takin' no chances of gettin' 'made,' see?" Murphy answered. "Made," John remembered, was the slang of detectives for identification. When a person was "made" he was identified.
"Well, then, what's the program?" asked Brennan.
"I think I got them," Murphy replied.
"Got who?"
"De 'Gink' and dis bird Gibson."
"How?"
"Meetin' each other."
"The hell you say!" Brennan ejaculated. "Have you seen them together?"
"Well if de bird I figure is Gibson is him, I got 'em, see?"
"Where?" demanded Brennan.
"De Gallant kid here knows de place," said Murphy. "Remember da room where ya got paid off when ya got pinched in de handbook raid?"
John nodded.
"Dat's da joint."
John recalled the windowless cubby-hole inthe rear of the Spring street saloon where "Slim" Gray, Cummings' lieutenant, had returned to him the $10 he had put up in bail and $10 as compensation for having been on hand when Gibson made the sensational raid.
"Murphy," said Brennan, "just start in at the beginning and tell us about this and please don't put any more 'sees' into it than you absolutely have to."
"Well, here's da stuff. Da other night I'm comin' in late from da fights at Vernon, see? I'm between Main and Spring, see? when I make a bird standin' all by his lonesome at da entrance to da alley. Dis bird is kinda nervous and jumpy-like, see? and I figure he might be a stick-up. I ain't got no jack with me, so I keeps on walkin' right at him, see?
"Well, I'm about twenty feet from him, see? when I make another bird crossin' tha street toward him. When I get up to them, see? they're just about to meet, see?"
"Murphy," interrupted Brennan, "for heaven's sake forget those 'sees.'"
Murphy grinned and went on.
"Well, just as dese two birds meet I get a flash of da mug of da guy dat crosses da street, se——"
"Go ahead, say 'see' all you want to," said Brennan impatiently.
"I get a flash of da bird's mug, see? and I make him, see? It was da 'Gink,' see? I try to make da other bird, but he turns into the alley quick, see? Well, I keep right on my way and then come back, see? I stick my nut around da corner of da building and watches them. They hurry down da alley, see? and ducks in a door.
"Well, I'm not takin' no chances of gettin' plugged, see? so I don't follow them. I just hang around for an hour and waits for them to come out again, see? When they come out da door I spot it and duck back into a shadow. They pass me so close I could a touched 'em, see? but it was dark and I don't get no chance to make da bird with da 'Gink.' Well, they go up toward Spring street and I trail them far enough to see them get in a bus, see?"
"What did this fellow with the 'Gink' look like?" asked John, quickly.
"I'm tellin' ya I didn't get no chance to make him," said Murphy. "All I'm able to get is that he's tall and black-haired, see?"
"What kind of a hat did he wear?"
"Straw."
"It's Gibson, all right," snapped Brennan. John's nerves tingled throughout his body. A picture of Gibson as he was when he first saw him flashed into his mind. He saw thecommissioner's perfectly moulded hair, black and shiny; he saw his neat straw hat in his lap.
"Dat's what I figured," said Murphy. "So last night I find a place near da door I seen them go in and waits for them, see? I wait all night, but nobody shows up. I figures dat if it's Gibson meetin' da 'Gink' you boys will want to be in on it, see? I know dat joint like it's my own, see?"
"We see, Murphy, perfectly," interposed Brennan.
"So, I know there's a basement, see? While I'm waitin' I take a chance and work da lock on da basement door, see? It's a padlock and I cop it, see? This mornin' I get a friend to make a key for it, see? and this afternoon I slip it back where it belongs."
"Murphy," said Brennan, "you're a wonder. Where's the key?"
Murphy reached into his pocket and produced it. Brennan glanced at his watch.
"What time was it when you saw Cummings and this other fellow?" he asked.
"I figure it was between twelve and one," replied Murphy.
"Good!" Brennan exclaimed. "It's half past ten now. We'll get down there and get the lay of the land in that basement. They may go there again, tonight."
They walked rapidly toward the alley-way where Murphy had recognized "Gink" Cummings when he met the man they suspected was Gibson. Spring street was beginning to become deserted for the night. Little groups of men and women from the theaters waited at the corners for street cars. A peanut and candy peddler pushed his cart wearily along the street, close to the curb, plodding his way home. The proprietor of an open front fruit stand struggled with the folding iron fence pulled across the entrance to his store for protection of his wares until morning.
They turned into the alley-way in single file, Murphy leading, Brennan next and John acting as a voluntary rear guard. The narrow alley, like the bottom of a canyon with walls of brick, was darker than the streets. In the middle of the block Murphy seemed to disappear into the earth. Then Brennan dropped from sight. John was startled momentarily until he found that they had descended a steep stairway, covered with trash and old papers. Murphy unlocked the padlock and the door creaked inward on rusty hinges. They sidled through it, fearful that the squeaking might betray them.
Inside it was pitch dark. John was unable to see the faces of Brennan and Murphy, although their elbows touched.
"I'll wait here and keep a lookout," said Murphy. "Here's a torch and go easy with it." He handed Brennan an electric pocket torch.
"Murphy, you're a wonder, see?" said Brennan as he flashed on the light, pointing it to his feet as he moved slowly forward.
A pungent odor of stale beer from empty kegs piled against the walls mingled with that damp smell peculiar to underground places. Cobwebs tickled their faces as they walked through the seldom used path between the kegs and packing boxes. The small arc of light from the electric torch danced ahead of them as John and Brennan inspected their surroundings. At the end of the basement for a length of twenty-five yards back from the wall under the street, they found a space cleared of the boxes and kegs. On one side was a broad, steep stairway leading up to a trapdoor in the floor above.
They could hear the voices of men in the room over their heads and a scuffling of feet that told them the soft drink and lunch establishment, into which the old saloon had been converted, had not been closed down for the night. Their inspection completed, they returned to Murphy, standing guard at the doorway on the alley. After Murphy had snapped the padlock shut they crawled up to the alleyagain and he led them to a space between two buildings less than four feet in width, into which they crowded themselves.
"We can spot them from here when they go by, see?" Murphy explained.
Midnight.
For more than an hour they had remained in their cramped hiding place, waiting. Brennan smoked innumerable cigarettes while they talked in whispers. A policeman had walked through the alley peering into the shadows and they had crouched breathless until he passed them.
The noise of the city had quieted. Except for an occasional street car or passing automobile a silence brooded over the downtown district. Stray cats appeared to rummage in battered cans and a huge rat darted between their legs.
The cool of the night, Southern California's balm to aid sleep "knit up the raveled sleeve of care," chilled them. Murphy took frequent "nips" from a flask, which he offered generously to his companions each time before he put it to his mouth. Brennan told them stories of experiences in the Canadian northwest and adventures in a "comic opera" revolution in Central America. Murphy supplied anecdotes of the ring, things he had seen and done as a second at boxing matches. John listened to them, enraptured.
Somewhere a clock struck the half hour, and as the sound died away they heard quick footsteps approaching them. Murphy looked cautiously around the corner of the brick wall and brought himself back with a jerk.
"It's them," he said, in a hoarse whisper. He stepped back to make room for John and Brennan at the narrow aperture looking out on the alley.
Two figures passed their hiding place, walking hurriedly. The taller of the two strode with a quick, easy step that John recognized.
"That's Gibson," he said in a sharp whisper.
"It certainly is," corroborated Brennan. "And it's the 'Gink' with him."
They watched the figures until they halted at the rear of the saloon. They saw Cummings reach in his pocket for the key and open the door while Gibson glanced up and down the alley. When they had disappeared into the building Brennan stepped out into the alley, motioning to Murphy and John to follow him.
Again in single file, with Murphy taking the lead from Brennan, they walked warily toward the saloon, holding close to the back walls of buildings so as not to be seen from either end of the alley. Murphy removed the padlock from the basement door and opened it with precautionary slowness to minimize therasping of the rusty hinges. He closed it again when they had entered the impenetrable darkness of the basement.
Led by Murphy, who held the flashlight, they went ahead on tiptoe until they reached a spot which they judged was directly beneath the little room in which they believed Cummings and Gibson were in surreptitious conference. There they strained their ears to catch the sound of voices above them. John's heart thumped against his ribs and he imagined his breathing sounded like a gust of wind. The floor of the room above was less than three feet above their heads.
A chair scraped on the floor. Then they heard voices. Tense, holding their breath, they poised in utter silence, straining to distinguish what was being said by the two in the room above their heads. John felt a sinking sensation of disappointment as he realized it would be impossible for them to hear the conversation between the "Gink" and Gibson from where they were listening. The voices that came down to them were jumbled, faint, indistinguishable. Once Gibson laughed. Again the two voices above them stopped suddenly as if the two conspirators had heard a warning sound.
Brennan signaled to them a moment later, when the two voices were audible again, toleave. Murphy snapped the padlock on the door and they crept back to their hiding place between the two buildings.
"There was no need for us to stay there any longer," said Brennan. "We couldn't hear a word. There's only one way to get what we want and that is to use a dictograph. We'll have to run a wire with an 'ear' on it into that room, somehow. Do you think we can do it, Murphy?"
"Sure thing," Murphy replied.
"The sooner the better," said Brennan. "We'll try to get it in tomorrow night. With a dictograph we can get every word that's said. We can bring a shorthand reporter with us and get it down in black and white. In the meantime we'll wait here and see them when they come out."
Shortly before one o'clock they heard footsteps that told them Gibson and Cummings were returning from their conference. Directly opposite the aperture between the two buildings, where they were hiding, the taller of the two figures stopped and striking a match held the flame, cupped in his two hands, to the end of a cigar. The light of the match flickered only for a second, but in that time John and Brennan saw Gibson's face clearly. Tossing the burned match to the ground he quickened his steps until he was again at Cummings'side and they went from sight around the corner.
"He couldn't have done it better if we had asked him to," commented Brennan, referring to the light Gibson had thrown on his face by lighting the match. "I wonder what he'd do if he knew that we were watching him as he did it."
"Swallowed da stogie," Murphy suggested.
"Tomorrow night, same time and place: 10 o'clock at Second and Spring," Brennan instructed Murphy before they separated.
"I'll be there," agreed Murphy, walking from them.
"Just a minute, Murphy," called Brennan, "you forgot something."
Murphy halted.
"What?" he asked.
"You forgot to put a 'see?' on the end of 'I'll be there.'"
Murphy grinned, waved his hand and went his way.
The next morning after only a few hours' sleep, John and Brennan told P. Q. and the "chief" of their discovery. Brennan's plan for the use of the dictograph was approved and they were commended for their enterprise.
"If you put this over," the city editor told John, "I'll double your salary."
It was P. Q. who suggested that Benton,the photographer, accompany them and endeavor to obtain a picture of Cummings and Gibson together.
"That would cinch it," he said. "If we could print a picture of Gibson and the 'Gink' it would be irrefutable proof of the conspiracy."
"It would be risky business; might spoil everything," Brennan remonstrated.
"Could it be done this way?" said P. Q. "While you and Gallant are in the basement with Murphy and a shorthand man, Benton can fix himself outside the door so that when Gibson and Cummings come out he can shoot a flashlight. He can have an automobile close and make a quick getaway by jumping into it. When you have enough of the conversation between Gibson and the 'Gink' you can come outside, tip Benton to be ready and wait for him in the machine. They can't chase you. By the time they get a machine you should be a mile away from them."
"All right, P. Q., we'll try it that way," agreed Brennan. "Benton had better be with us tonight. Whose automobile shall we use and who'll drive it? It must be someone we can trust."
"You can arrange that to suit yourselves," said P. Q.
"Don't be afraid to spend money," said thepublisher. "It's a big thing you're going to do, boys, and I won't forget you, whether you succeed or not."
That afternoon they obtained the dictograph. It was loaned them by Hubert Kittle, aviator, former police officer, one-time contender for the heavyweight pugilistic championship of the navy, dare-devil and adventurer. Later in the day Ben Smith, official court reporter and one of the fastest and most accurate shorthand men in the country, agreed to share in their adventure.
"I'd trust Ben with my life," Brennan remarked to John later. "If there ever was a man who knew how to keep his mouth shut, it's Ben. Whenever the district attorney's office or the police or the sheriff have something really big, something that must be kept absolutely secret, they call him in and he never has failed them."
"What about the machine and the driver?" John asked.
"That's what has me stumped," Brennan admitted. "Most all of the taxi drivers are lined up with the 'Gink' in some way or another. We must have someone we can not only rely upon, but who can drive. Believe me, Gallant, we can't afford to take any chances."
From Ben Smith's office in the Hall of Justice building they went to the city hall to breakthe news of their discovery of the meeting place of Gibson and Cummings to the mayor. While Brennan was telling the story and describing how they had planned to obtain a written report of the conversation between Gibson and the "Gink" by use of the dictograph, the mayor sat perched on the edge of his chair, his eyes gleaming with pent-up excitement. When Brennan had finished he bounced up and circled the desk with quick strides to shake them both by the hand.
"You've done it, boys, you've done it," he said.
Then he turned his face from them and drew a handkerchief from his pocket.
"Don't mind me," he said, dabbing with the handkerchief at his eyes. "I'm an old fool. But I've been under a terrible strain, boys, these last few weeks and what you told me was almost too good to be true."
He turned to face them as quickly as he had turned away, and he was smiling.
"What about tonight?" he asked. "Is there anyway I can help you? Are you all fixed?"
"All we need is a fast machine and a good driver," said Brennan. "Someone we can trust and rely upon. Can you suggest anyone?"
"I certainly can," said the mayor.
"Who?"
The mayor's face brightened.
"The mayor of Los Angeles," he said.
"You mean——"
"I mean it," assured the mayor. "I have the fastest car that can be bought and I'm not afraid to step on it. What more do you want?"
"It's a go!" exclaimed Brennan, and they shook hands all around.
John long remembered the meeting between the mayor and Murphy when they assembled at Second and Spring streets that night at ten o'clock. Oddly it was the mayor who was flustered when the two were introduced by Brennan, probably because he felt he owed so much to the scrawny youth who stood before him.
"Murphy, my boy, I—I—I don't know how to thank you," the mayor began and then, fearing that sounded too stiff and formal, he added, "If I'm re-elected it will be largely because of what you've done and you can have the best job I've got to offer."
"I got my own reasons for doin' what I've done, see?" said Murphy, "but I'll take you up on dat job offer of yours if we come through all right, see?"
"You're—you're—you're all right, Murphy," returned the mayor.
They sat in the mayor's automobile while Brennan outlined the detailed plans for their expedition.
"When they close up for the night, Murphy, Gallant and I will go in and rig up the dictograph," he said. "Ben, you might as well come along with us. It would be taking too much of a chance for one of us to go out and get you.
"Mr. Mayor, you'll park your car close to the alley and wait with Benton until one of us comes out. Then you'll drive to within a few yards of the rear door of the saloon and keep your motor going, while Benton sets up his camera. When we have enough of their conversation we'll come out and get in the car with you.
"One of us will stand by Benton—I'll do it—until he shoots his flash as Cummings and Gibson come out. Benton and I will run for the machine and as soon as we hop on the running board, Mr. Mayor, you start—going. Don't stop for anything and remember to turn your lights off while you're waiting. Now, does everyone understand?"
Each signified that he knew his part.
"One slip will ruin everything," Brennan warned them. "It's our one chance and a mistake will be costly. If something happens and the mayor's car stalls, Gallant and I will stay behind to handle the 'Gink' and Gibson and the rest of you beat it. You, too, Murphy,do you understand? Gallant and I can take care of ourselves."
They waited until after eleven o'clock before they left the corner of Second and Spring in the mayor's car. It was Saturday night and there were twice as many people on the streets at that hour than during the week days. As their paper published no Sunday edition, John and Brennan realized that if they were successful the exposure of the Gibson-Cummings' plot could not be made until Monday or Tuesday at the earliest, which would be three or four days before the primary election, scheduled for Thursday.
At Brennan's order the mayor drove the automobile up and down Spring street, from Second to Eighth and back. Each trip as they passed the saloon they watched for signs of it being closed for the night. At half-past eleven they saw that the lights were extinguished, the doors closed and the steel lattice work drawn across the open front to protect the cigar stand for the night.
The mayor swung the automobile into the first street intersecting Spring street, toward Main, stopping it at Brennan's instructions so that it could be driven into the alley without difficulty. Brennan, Smith, Murphy and John left the machine and hurried into the alley. Murphy carried a brace and bit hidden underhis coat. John's left arm was stiff at his side from a steel bar thrust up into the sleeve and Brennan carried the dictograph in a paper package under his arm.
Holding close to the shadows of the brick wall, they walked rapidly to the basement door, opening it and entering quickly. Murphy and Smith were posted at the door to act as guard and to watch for the arrival of Gibson and Cummings. Brennan and John went directly to the trap door at the top of the stairs at the front of the basement. Brennan pushed upward against the door, but it held fast against his strength. John handed him the steel bar. A thrust, a wrench, a tearing of decayed wood and the door yielded. They scrambled through to the floor of the saloon, finding themselves within a few feet of the room where they were to "plant" the dictograph.
"Luck is with us this time," said Brennan as they saw that the door of the room was open. He knelt in the open space between the tiers of drawers on either side of the desk that filled one side of the room. In half a minute the brace was boring into the wood of the flooring. Through the hole cut through the floor Brennan pushed the wires of the dictograph until their entire length disappeared into the basement and the "ear" of theeavesdropping device was flat over the perforation. He swept up the shavings from the boring of the hole with his hands as they hurried back down into the basement, where they found the end of the wire dangling from the ceiling. Brennan assembled the dictograph rapidly, attaching to it three head-pieces with receivers clamping over the ears.
"We'll test it," he said to John. "Scoot upstairs and say something in a natural tone in all parts of the room. Try to talk at about the pitch you believe they will speak and drop your voice to a whisper occasionally. Ben and I will listen."
While Brennan and Smith waited with the headgears John followed orders, returning to the basement when he believed he had talked to himself long enough to make the test accurate.
"Works perfectly," Brennan told him.
"Heard every word you said. We're all set and ready to go."
John glanced at his watch. It was five minutes after twelve. They made themselves as comfortable as possible on the empty packing boxes. Smith produced his notebooks and a handful of carefully sharpened pencils.
A picture of Consuello as she appeared when she stood beside the window with its red geraniums, reciting the verse in which shefound heart comfort, flashed into John's mind. He closed his eyes to hold the vision in his imagination. It faded away, and another picture took its place, a mental miniature of Consuello as he had last seen her, standing in the doorway, silhouetted in the soft rose light behind her. He saw her hand flutter and the door close. Could it be that with the intuition of a daughter of Eve she knew that he loved her? Could it be that she——
"Brennan," he said, "what is that verse of Kipling's that starts 'So long as 'neath the hills' or something like that?"
In the tiny glow of Brennan's cigarette John noticed a hint of a smile on the other's lips as he recited:
"So long as 'neath the Kalka hillsThe Tonga-horn shall ring,So long as down the Solon dipThe hard-held ponies swing,So long as Tara Divi seesThe lights of Simla town,So long as Pleasure calls us up,And duty drives us down,If you love me as I love you.What pair so happy as we two?"
"So long as 'neath the Kalka hillsThe Tonga-horn shall ring,So long as down the Solon dipThe hard-held ponies swing,So long as Tara Divi seesThe lights of Simla town,So long as Pleasure calls us up,And duty drives us down,If you love me as I love you.What pair so happy as we two?"
"So long as 'neath the Kalka hills
The Tonga-horn shall ring,
So long as down the Solon dip
The hard-held ponies swing,
So long as Tara Divi sees
The lights of Simla town,
So long as Pleasure calls us up,
And duty drives us down,
If you love me as I love you.
What pair so happy as we two?"
He paused.
"That's it," John said. "There's anotherpart of it that says something about 'all earth being servant'; how does it go?"
Brennan continued:
"By all that lights our daily lifeOr works our lifelong woe,From Boileaugunge to Simla DownsAnd those grim glades below,Where, heedless of the flying hoofAnd clamor overhead,Sleep, with the grey langur for guard,Our very scornful Dead.If you love me as I love you,All Earth is servant to us two."
"By all that lights our daily lifeOr works our lifelong woe,From Boileaugunge to Simla DownsAnd those grim glades below,Where, heedless of the flying hoofAnd clamor overhead,Sleep, with the grey langur for guard,Our very scornful Dead.If you love me as I love you,All Earth is servant to us two."
"By all that lights our daily life
Or works our lifelong woe,
From Boileaugunge to Simla Downs
And those grim glades below,
Where, heedless of the flying hoof
And clamor overhead,
Sleep, with the grey langur for guard,
Our very scornful Dead.
If you love me as I love you,
All Earth is servant to us two."
He paused again.
"That's it," said John.
"That's a hell of a thing to be thinking about now," said Brennan.
"I know it," John returned.
For several minutes they were silent. John thought he saw Brennan give Smith a significant glance.
"By the way, Gallant," Brennan asked, "how is your friend, Consuello?"
"I'm to have dinner with her and Gibson the night he is elected mayor," John replied, remembering Gibson's invitation.
"Who arranged that?" asked Brennan.
"Gibson."
"I'm afraid we're going to spoil your little dinner party," said Brennan, smiling.
"That verse you just recited for me doesn't rhyme if you make it 'three' instead of 'two,'" John countered.
"You win," conceded Brennan. "What time is it getting to be?"
John looked at his watch.
"Quarter to one," he answered. "What if they don't show——"
A shaft of light shot through the darkness from the door. It was the prearranged signal from Murphy to inform them that Gibson and Cummings were approaching. As if jerked by cords held in a single hand they straightened up from their lounging positions.
They heard the door open at the rear above them and footsteps on the floor, approaching until the noise was directly over their heads. Dust shook down on them from the grimy ceiling.
Simultaneously they pulled on their headgears and listened.
As clearly and distinctly as though he was at a telephone John heard the voices of "Gink" Cummings and Gibson in the room above him. Smith began writing his shorthand record of the conversation they overheard as soon as the conspirators began talking.
"Well, what's new?" he heard a voice he knew to be Cummings' ask.
"Things are about the same," he heard Gibson reply. "I can't see how anything can happen now to beat us."
"The newspapers are the only thing that worry me," said Cummings. "Those damn reporters are never satisfied. They keep digging around until they stumble across something and then tear things to pieces. What about them? You haven't heard of anyone of them asking too many questions or getting suspicious, have you?"
Gibson laughed.
"Forget it, Cummings," he said. "I'll handle the reporters. They're not half as smart as they think they are and as people give them credit for being."
In the glare from the electric torch thatBrennan focused on Smith's notebook John saw Brennan wink at him.
"Why, two of them—Brennan and Gallant—are my best friends," Gibson continued. "They've fallen for every stunt we've pulled."
Brennan winked again.
"Don't be so cock-sure," Cummings cautioned. "I've had more experience with them than you have and you're all wrong if you think they're a bunch of dumb-bells. You'll have to be mighty careful. You've sailed right along without any trouble because you've had sound advice. As soon as you think you're out of danger, that's the time something's sure to happen."
"I'll admit you've steered me straighter than I could have gone alone," said Gibson, "but don't worry, I'm going to take good care of myself."
There was a silence of a minute. John pictured Gibson and the "Gink" regarding each other critically through the smoke of their cigarette and cigar. It was Cummings who spoke first.
"Gibson," he said, "this will be our last meeting before the election."
"Why?"
"I've decided we can't take any more chances," said Cummings.
Another pause in the conversation. Then—
"Gibson, do we understand each other thoroughly?"
"What makes you ask that?" John believed he detected a note of surprise in Gibson's counter question.
"I want to be sure, that's all," Cummings said. "You know how much I'm relying on you. You know what I've done to put you where you are. You're only going to be mayor for one term and we'll have to clean up enough then to last us the rest of our lives. When your term expires I want to quit the game.
"You were broke when I met you and I've made you mayor of Los Angeles. You have power and a reputation and if you don't spill the beans you'll be a millionaire when you walk out of the city hall in four years. For ten years I've had this plan in my mind, waiting for a chance to work it. When I met you I knew I had the man to go through with it. I've spent a lot of money, risked everything I had and there have been times that I've had a fight on my hands to keep the boys in line.
"It looks now as if I'm going to come out on top. While you're mayor we'll work carefully. Probably it will be a year before we start out after the money. We can afford to wait that long once you're in office. Buteverything, everything, you understand, depends on you."
"Everything you say is true," said Gibson, seriously.
A pause. When Cummings broke the silence there was a new tone in his voice. It was harsh, dictatorial, threatening, the voice of a man of steel who ruled like an uncrowned king by the fear he instilled in his miserable subjects.
"Gibson," he said, "if you double-cross me you'll wish you had never been born."
John could not help but admire the even coolness of Gibson's voice when he replied:
"There's no need for you to try to frighten me, Cummings."
"I mean what I say," returned the "Gink."
"I know you do," said Gibson quietly. "But I want you to understand something. You and I can get along together without any threats. And another thing. I'm not working with you because I fear you, but because I want what you're giving me. So forget the 'rough stuff,' as you call it."
So delicately was the dictograph adjusted that John heard Cummings draw his breath sharply.
"I've been double-crossed before," he said, "by men a damn sight smarter than you are."
"I'll simply repeat what I just said to you,"retorted Gibson. "I'm working with you because I want what you have to give me, not because I'm afraid of you or anyone else."
It was a direct challenge to a man who ruled by cowing his adherents, who had never failed to carry out a threat and who was as guilty of murder as the thugs he ordered to beat or shoot to death a rebel in the ranks of crime. But between the two, Cummings was the coward, psychologically at least. His shrewdness told him that it was useless for him to endeavor to control Gibson by threats of physical harm or death and he exercised his tact. He realized also that a man of Gibson's mettle was more to be trusted than a servile, affrighted weakling.
"You're right, Gibson," he said. "There's no need for either of us to try to frighten the other. Forget what I said a minute ago. I said it without thinking. You can't blame me if my nerves are on edge after what I've been through to put you where you are and you know how much I've got at stake in this business."
"No more than I have," said Gibson. "Cummings, I've never told you this because I didn't think it necessary, but on the day I am sworn in as mayor I hope to be married. You can understand better now how well Irealize that nothing must happen. I'd rather die right here than have any of this business come out to disgrace her."
Cummings received Gibson's announcement of his intention to be married in silence. John expected Brennan to tip him another wink or smile to him at Gibson's mention of his marriage plans. Instead, he saw Brennan's eyes narrow and his jaw set. Whether the expression of anger and determination that came over Brennan's face was caused by indignation of Gibson's duplicity or by friendship for Consuello, whom Brennan had never seen, John did not know, but a thrill of encouragement swept through him as he realized that he was not alone in the fight to save her.
He saw Brennan signal him to approach. Slipping off the headgear he moved noiselessly and leaned forward so that he could hear what Brennan whispered to him.
"It won't be long now before they'll be leaving," Brennan said. "Slip out without making any noise and bring Benton and the mayor for the picture."
John went quickly to the door, where Murphy was on guard.
"Everything o. k.?" asked Murphy in a hoarse whisper. John nodded and went up and out into the alley. He found the mayorand Benton waiting nervously in the automobile.
"We've got enough to ruin them," he said, anticipating the mayor's eagerness. He climbed into the car and the mayor drove it quietly into the alley, switching off the lights as Brennan had ordered him to do. He stopped the automobile about thirty feet past the door of the saloon. In a minute Benton was setting up his camera on its tripod directly across the alley from the door.
At Benton's request, John stood at the door and flashed on his electric torch long enough for the photographer to get the focus. Although it was less than five seconds that he stood with his back only a foot from the door from which Cummings and Gibson were to emerge, John's imagination created a terrible fear that they would come upon him in the helpless position in which he stood.
"All set," Benton called to him in a sharp whisper. Crossing the alley he saw Benton filling his flashlight gun with flash powder and heard him chanting, softly to himself: