The Man With the Mole/Chapter 3
CHAPTER III.
BALDY BROWN.
THE killer had fallen face downward on the slimy stones. The man with the mole turned him over with one foot and a hand and surveyed him keenly. The killer showed faint signs of returning consciousness, and the other picked him up easily, much as if he was a half-stuffed sack of bran, and jammed him into a sitting posture on top of one of the ash cans, propped against the wall of the saloon. To Sperry he said nothing until he had completed this process unaided, and had satisfactorily balanced his late opponent. Then he turned to Sperry, surveying him with a comprehensive glance.
“What were you doing in this dumping ground at this time of night?” he asked. His voice was gruff but friendly, and there was a compelling quality in it that somehow gave Sperry a hazy impression that, even if he had not grasped the killer’s wrist, the burly one would have found a means to take care of himself.
“I was going to get a drink,” he said. “Then I was going to find a bed somewhere.”
“A shot and a flop?” said the other. “We’ll fix that. Hello, you!”
The killer was coming sullenly, viciously out of his trance, glaring at the man he would have shot in the back. Then Sperry saw the hate in his eyes change to uncertainty. The man with the mole had taken off his hat, displaying a skull practically bald, and he was grinning at the killer. Front teeth liberally filled with gold shone under the lamp.
“Just why were you tryin’ to bump me off, pal?” he was saying. “What’s the reason? Who did you take me for, a dick? An’ who’re you? I’ll know you next time, but I’ll swear this is the first.”
The perplexity in the little rat eyes of the killer deepened. He mumbled uncertainly and tried to get down from the ash can. The man with the mole set him back with a firm hand.
“What’s your moniker, pard?” he persisted. “An’, if there’s any reason why I shouldn’t bash your dial in and send you to the slab, you’d better come across with it now!” he cried, with a sudden ferocity and a snarl of his gold-filled teeth that made the killer shrink in terror.
“I’m Curly,” the latter managed to articulate. “Curly Luke Conklin. I—say, I was in wrong, cull. I just got out off stir, see? The dick who sent me up was Jim Farrell, the low-livered crook. I swore I’d get him w’en I come down the river, an’ I see you in at Dumpy’s there takin’ a drink, an’”
“You thought I was what’s-his-name Farrell, a dick, did you? You must be full of hop. I never met the flat-foot. I’m Baldy Brown of Chi’, and I struck town three weeks ago. I ain’t met with your dick pals—yet. And I don’t consider it over and above easy bein’ taken for one, either. Sit up, you, and take a good look at me. Do you think I look like a dick? Do you?”
His face was so venomous that even Sperry, disinterested in the controversy, drew back, but Baldy Brown suddenly put out an arm and held him with a grip of steel. Curly Conklin stuttered a denial, an absolute disclaimer.
“If I’d seen you wit your dicer off,” he said; “or, if I’d piped that beauty mark”
“Never mind the beauty spot,” gruffly put in Baldy. “I ain’t stuck on it. Some day I’m goin’ to get needled. You didn’t take a good look, and, but for my young pal here, you’d have bumped me off. I’ve got a good mind to” He broke into a hearty laugh and shoved out a hand for Curly to grasp. “It’s a good one on me after all,” he said. “I’ll tell the boys. Took me for a dick! Oh, Lord! We’ll call it off, Curly, if you promise to wear glasses. And I’ll buy three drinks of Dumpy’s best right now. Come on in, both of you.”
Still held by the arm, Sperry followed, willy-nilly, into the unsavory drinking shop. Perhaps a dozen men were there, at tables or at the bar. Baldly advanced to the latter between the two.
“Drinks for the house on me,” he said. “No rotgut, Dumpy: open a bottle of case goods. Drinks on me. Here’s Curly Conklin, just out of stir, and takes me for a dick! Oh, Lord! He was goin’ to bump me off with a gat when my pal here jumps him.”
The little audience, Dumpy included, roared at the jest. Evidently Baldy was popular. Curly wisely said nothing. A blear-eyed individual shuffled up close to Sperry, and the latter recognized him as one of those at the first saloon he had gone into, a man who had openly appraised him.
“This guy your pal, Baldy?” he asked.
“I said so, didn’t I?” asked Baldy coldly. “And a good one. Gentleman Manning, known back in Chi as The Duke. That right, Manning?”
Sperry nodded, playing up to the rôle. He had to change his name. Manning was as good as any. Something told him that Baldy was a good man to tie to, a bad one to cross. The blear-eyed man undoubtedly was of that opinion. He wilted.
“Just in from Chi, pal?” he queried ingratiatingly. “I seen youse over at The Badger’s, an’ I knew youse was new to the Village. Couldn’t size you?”
“I was looking for Baldy,” said Sperry. The man with the mole—it was shaped like a dumb-bell, Sperry noticed in the light, and it had several hairs growing from it—flashed him a look of appreciation. Sperry realized how apt was the moniker that Baldy had given him. As The Duke, his manners, his accent, would all pass unchallenged. Already what had happened that afternoon seemed far off as if in another life. Now he was Gentleman Manning of Chicago, an accepted consort of crooks, hobnobbing with them in a boozing ken. And he had shown himself a good man by defending Baldy, whom they all looked up to.
The round was soon finished and Sperry felt in his pockets to buy another, but Baldy jogged his elbow.
“That’s enough,” he said. “I want a talk with you, Duke. Dumpy, is the back room empty?”
“If it ain’t, I’ll clear it,” said Dumpy with alacrity.
When they were seated and the door shut, Baldy looked quizzically at Sperry. Sperry felt the glance summing up mercilessly every line of his drawn face. He knew it was drawn and haggard. He could feel almost the hollows under his eyes. The glance took in his hands, his tie, every detail.
“Well,” said Baldy at last, “what was it? Robbery or murder? Or both?” A light from his gray eyes seemed to illumine every secret of Sperry’s brain. He tried to speak, to lick his lips. To his relief his inquisitor nodded and smiled.
“Tell me about it to-morrow, pal,” he said. “You’ve had your drink, now I’ll give you a bed. Better one than you would have found. And a bath. I said I owed you something.”
“But,” objected Sperry, “I haven’t told you. You don’t know—I won’t know till morning just what”
“Then we won’t worry about it till morning. I don’t care what you’ve done. You’re safe with me. And we’ll talk it over after we chew in the morning. Will you come?” He held out his hand and Sperry, lost for words, gripped it and found something emanating from the grip, a magnetic, inspiring something that gave him heart to say “Thank you.”
They walked out together, west and north for several blocks. Then Baldy picked up a night-hawk of a taxicab, disreputable enough in paint and cushions, but with a good engine, a roving pirate of those purlieus where speed was often necessary and well paid for.
Uptown they sped until Prince Street and Broadway was reached. Then Baldy paid and tipped his man and once more they went west, to Macdougal Street, north to Washington Square, across it, and so to one of a row of brick houses in a quiet part of Greenwich Village. Baldy let himself in with a latch-key and Sperry followed, obeying his host’s gesture for silence. On the next floor Baldy opened the door of a cosy bedroom and motioned to Sperry to enter, leaving him.
Within the minute he was back again with a big towel and a suit of pajamas. “You can make out with these,” he said. “Bath is next room, to your right. Plenty of hot water. Sleep as late as you like. I’ll tip you off when to get up. And don’t worry, pal. It don’t do a bit of good, and half the time you worry over nothing. You get a souse in hot water and turn in.”
Sperry obeyed orders willingly, and, his nerves and weary body relaxed by the hot water of the bath, he subsided between the sheets upon a springy, yielding mattress and fell asleep. Nightmares assailed him, but he slept on for half a dozen restful hours. When he awoke, the wintry sun was streaming through the window of his room. For a few moments his brain remained sluggish and he lay inert, conscious of the odors of coffee and of bacon and, somewhere, a girl’s fresh voice singing cheerily and sweetly in an undertone, as a girl will when she sings at her work.
Sperry listened and smelled with languid delight—and then in a flash the whole phantasmagoria of what had happened came rushing over him, the forged check; his stepfather lying on the floor: the escape in the freight train: Baldy whom he had saved from the killer. He was in Baldy’s house, guest of a notorious crook to whom the underworld looked up. Sperry had heard of honor among thieves. Could it be possible that gratitude was so strong a virtue among criminals? He had seen little sidelights of Baldy’s character the night before—earlier that morning, rather—that spoke of a man callous and desperate. Why should Baldy have taken him into his own house, have given him a moniker, have proclaimed him a pal from Chicago?
Wide awake now, he sat up in bed and prepared to dress. His clothes were gone! Nothing that he had worn the day before remained, not even his socks or his underwear. He was as completely a prisoner as if he had been manacled. Baldy had asked him whether it had been robbery or murder or both? The master crook had appraised him inside and out and now—now what? Holding him for a reward? Holding him to turn over to the police and so curry favor for himself?
The door opened and Baldy came in, a pile of clothing over his arm that he put down on a chair while he grinned at Sperry with his gold-filled teeth.
“Didn’t think you’d be awake so soon,” he said. “Your stomach was the alarm clock, I guess. Bess tells me breakfast is close to ready, so you’d better slide into these togs. I’ve got you a complete outfit; traded off the old stuff after it was brushed up a bit, and I swapped it for this and four dollars to boot. Nearly broke Uncle David’s heart, but he came through. Here it is with five-thirty-five you had, and here’s your studs and links and the rest of your junk. If I was you I wouldn’t wear any of it, ’cept the collar buttons.”
Sperry gathered up his links, pin, tie-clip, watch, and chain and the little litter of bills in amazement, not daring to look up at the host he had so misjudged, aware that Baldy’s grin held something quizzical. He slipped swiftly into his new clothes—a tweed suit of fair quality and of a fair fit, tan shoes instead of his black ones; and, coming back from the bathroom where he had found a brush and comb, announced himself to Baldy who still sat upon his bed.
“I want to thank you,” he began.
“Nix on that stuff,” answered Baldy. “If you owe me anything I’ll give you a chance to square up later.”
“You’ve been out this morning,” said Sperry. “Did you get a paper?”
“Son,” said Baldy, “outside of going in swimming, always tackle a job on a full stomach. First we eat.”
There was rough kindliness in his words, but nevertheless they constituted a command; Sperry followed Baldy to the dining-room. This communicated with the kitchen whence came the fragrance of the food for which, despite his mental anxiety, Sperry’s digestive system clamored.
The door opened between the two rooms and the trim figure of a girl came in, a girl so fresh, so utterly at variance with the profession and occupation of Baldy Brown, that Sperry forgot his manners. This girl, with golden hair and blue eyes, with a rounded figure lithe in fresh calico, with a merry yet tender mouth, this girl-woman of eighteen or nineteen, seemed to have walked straight out of some inspired play or operetta where she was cast for the role of a sublimated shepherdness or dairy maid. Only, the divine freshness of her complexion was all her own.
Sperry did not know why Elizabeth suggested the open country, apple blossoms, hay fields, an old-fashioned garden, and a church spire back of clustering elms. But she did, she invested that little New York room with all the atmosphere of the fields and orchards, all their fragrance, with a touch of sanctity. And it all fitted in with her voice, that Sperry had heard singing and now heard talking. This girl a crook’s daughter? As she slipped a slim cool hand into his when he rose to the introduction, he was conscious of Baldy’s eyes twinkling genially, proudly.
“Are you hungry?” asked the girl. “I am ravenous,” and she showed a row of pearly teeth in a mouth pink as a kitten’s. There was surely some magic about her, for Sperry ate and forgot his troubles while the girl passed him food, simple enough, but cooked in a way that he had not tasted for many a day, for all the craft of Cairn’s chef. She said little, neither did her father talk much: and so, with the meal ended at last, they sat silent for a little while, until the girl started to clear the table!
“Can’t I help?” Sperry asked, but she shook her head at him merrily and Baldy spoke.
“Bess can handle it,” he said. “You and me’ll have a little talk.”
Instantly the atmosphere changed as if a malicious wizard had dissipated a fairy spell. Sperry’s troubles crowded upon him, and the sunshine left the room as Baldy took some newspapers from a drawer in the sideboard.
“It wasn’t very hard for me to pick you out, son,” he said to Sperry. “John J. Sperry?” He nodded as his eyes told him he had hit the mark. “All right; it’s Manning now. There ain’t such a lot about you in the news, you may be a bit disappointed,” he added, with a slight grin, tossing the papers across to Sperry.
And, by some quirk, Sperry was conscious of a faint disappointment. It took him a minute to find the item. It was captioned, but far from being headlined. He knew with sudden relief that he was not a murderer. Evidently some correspondent from Longfield had covered the case for nearly all the New York press and the Associated News, for the items were practically identical. The heads included: “Commits Forgery and Attempts Murder. Scion of Well-known Family Presents False Check and Tries to Kill Stepfather.” The article read:
Longfield, Massachusetts.—John J. Sperry, of Swiftbrook Bowl, the aristocratic resort of the Berkshire Hills, made a desperate attempt to take the life of his stepfather, Simeon Cairns, the millionaire who recently married Mrs. Caroline Sperry, mother of the wayward young man who bears the same name as his late father, a well-known one in exclusive Berkshire circles.
It is alleged by the officers of the Agricultural National Bank of Longfield that young Sperry presented a check for ten thousand dollars, made out to and indorsed by himself, and purporting to be signed by Simeon Cairns. This check was taken from the back pages of Mr. Cairns’ private check book, and the signature declared a forgery by Mr. Cairns to President Hilliard and Cashier Burnside, of the bank, in an interview at which young Sperry was present.
A quarrel ensued between Sperry and his stepfather. The Cairns’ butler heard high words in the library, and, attempting to enter, was struck down by Sperry. Recovering from the blow, the butler entered the room, to find Mr. Cairns unconscious with a deep cut in his temple from am inkstand that Sperry had flung at him before escaping from the house.
Late this evening Mr. Cairns made a brief statement in which he said that he regretted the publicity necessary, as Mrs. Cairns, who was wintering in Florida, was in delicate health. As soon as he is able to travel, he will break the news to her personally of her son’s derelictions.
“It is the reaping of the wild oats,” said Mr. Cairns. "I agreed to make the money good to the bank, but this deliberate attack upon my life removes from me any false pity. I have placed the matter in the hands of the police. I believe that such viciousness should be corrected by the methods of the law.” Up to a late hour no trace of Sperry has been discovered.
As Sperry set down the papers, Baldy produced another from his coat pocket.
“You see, this isn’t strictly a New York matter,” he said. “They ain’t apt to worry about the troubles of another State until they are requested to by that State’s police. But they’ve played you up in Boston, and also, I imagine, in your local paper, though of course 1 didn’t know what that was when I was buying these this morning, and I probably couldn’t have got one, anyway. But here’s the Boston Nation, with all the publicity any one could hope for even Baldy Brown of Chicago,” he ended, with a laugh.
The story was played clear across the front of the Nation, with pictures of Sperry’s mother, of Cairns, and two of Sperry himself. He, with all due caution for fear of possible libel, was excoriated unmercifully. A reward was out for him. The Massachusetts State Detectives were scouring the countryside to arrest him. He had last been seen leaving the trolley close to Langley Dale, and it was supposed he had boarded a train, though so far no direct clew had been unearthed. But the police were confident of finding him, said the article. Supposedly he had much of the ten thousand dollars with him, and undoubtedly he would try to leave the State by land or sea. If he did, he would find his journey abruptly checked. Descriptions of him were being sent broadcast. The bank was joining in the prosecution. There was the usual flub-dub about society in general, and the many friends of Mrs. Cairns being shocked, and the fears for the effect the news of her son’s crime might have upon the mother.
Interviews with President Hilliard and Cairns and Peters, the butler, were lengthened out, and the general opinion disseminated that the events were not a sudden outbreak, but the result of a constantly growing depravity.
Sperry put down the paper with a hardened face. How rottenly unfair it was, he thought. Not a friend to speak for him! None to offset the lying insinuations of his criminal intentions, his sowing of wild oats! Well, they hadn’t got him, and they shouldn’t.
“Papers,” broke in Baldy’s voice, “slam at you, and you’ve got no comeback unless it’s a libel suit: and that’s hard shooting. Suppose you tell me your end of it?”
“What’s the use?” asked Sperry sullenly. Baldy must believe him a criminal; he had helped him out because he thought so. He might have nothing more to do with him if he convinced him differently. And how could he convince anyone?
“A whole lot of use just to get it off your chest to some one,” said Baldy. “I’ll tell you this much; I savvied last night this was your first job. It’s a cinch you plugged this stepfather of yours. It’s a cinch they’ve got a reward out for you. If he’s a millionaire and got it in for you, he’ll have New York all stirred in inside of twenty-four hours, soon as they know things are really doing. You’ll have to stay Manning. And you’re new to the game, they may nab you. Tell me the whole mess, and I can give you some expert advice, anyway.”
Sperry hesitated and then plunged into the whole yarn. Baldy listened non-committally.
“To a jury that would sound fishy,” he said. “You’ve got to own up to that.”
“I do,” said Sperry.
“I know you ain’t brought along ten thousand dollars. Whether you pulled that check or not, you’ve still got ninety thousand in the pot if you can ever get a chance to sit back in the game. Right now you’re in wrong, in like a burglar, as they say. You’re fairly safe in New York, as you are, for a day or two. I’ll make a proposition to you. You can help me, as it happens. If you’ll do it, I’ll do what I can for you. I ain’t promising you much, mind you, but I’ll keep you clear of the bulls, reward or no reward. What do you say?”
Sperry hung between thoughts. He did not want to get himself deeper into the clutches of the law by joining forces with Baldy on the shady side. He did want to prove his innocence. But that seemed impossible. He was bound by ties of hospitality and friendship to Baldy. What if the latter did want some repayment? He had promised to keep him free of the police, and that was vital. And Sperry was desperate. The world had turned against him. He was helpless, save for this new friend. The sound of the girl’s voice humming as she washed the last of the dishes came to him. She was an enigma. Girls could mean little in his life, yet he wanted to see more of this one, miserable as his plight was. Though he did not realize it, youth, that had been accused but not besmirched, called to youth. And the girl, after all, decided him.
“If I can do anything to help you out,” he said to Baldy, “just tell me what it is.”
“Good. There’s something I want you to do this morning. I can’t let you into everything at once. Safer for you not to know it all. By the way, can you drive a car?”
“Almost any kind on the market.”
“Know the Berkshires pretty well, I suppose?”
“Yes,” answered Sperry wonderingly.
“From Longfield south, very well.”
Baldy only nodded. Sperry had noticed that Baldy’s speech held variations. When he conversed with Sperry, it was fairly grammatical and well chosen. At times it was exceedingly so. Very different from his talk at Dumpy’s. Baldy was evidently no ordinary crook. All things pointed to this. The game he was engaged in would be no minor play. He was a big man, determined, clever, resourceful. There would be thrills in any enterprise he tackled. Sperry wondered what his daughter thought of him. Such a girl could not consider her father a criminal. Yet Baldy had not warned him against any special trend of talk.
“I am going to the corner to do some telephoning,” said Baldy. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Then we’ll go out together.”
Left alone, Sperry reread the papers. Presently the girl came in and he rose. She smiled at him and told him to sit down again.
“You mustn’t treat me like a girl in a play,” she said. “I’m not used to it, even if I like it. Go on with your papers.”
“I’m through with them,” said Sperry moodily.
Infinitely milder, there was yet some of her father’s penetrating quality in the glance of her blue eyes. She seemed to hesitate a moment, then spoke softly, sympathetically.
“Daddy said something to me about your trouble,” she said. “We don’t have any secrets between us. I heard something of what you told him just now. I couldn’t help it,” she added with a rising color, “though I sang. And—and I want to tell you that I believe in you.”
Sperry stared at the slender fingers before he took them. She and her father had few secrets, and she believed him innocent! What sort of contradiction, what kind of paradox was she? Her flush held as he kept possession of her hand, and her eyelids drooped over her eyes. Here surely was virtue and innocence! Sperry read the riddle. Baldy was shrewd enough to let his daughter think she shared his secrets, but, hardened as he might be, the father in him wished to keep the girl in ignorance of the crimes he committed, the risks he ran. With a man of Baldy’s caliber, that would not be difficult. And he had trusted to Sperry’s breeding not to give him away. Though, after all, Sperry knew nothing, and the girl would not believe hearsay or even proof. She was no weakling.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you. That helps.”
She raised her eyes again.
“I am glad,” she said. “And you must believe in my Daddy, too. Sometimes he does things that seem strange, but I believe in him. I know him, you see, and you don’t, so I am telling you beforehand.”
Sperry’s chivalry couched its lance. If he could help to keep the girl’s belief in her father, he would do so.
“Why wouldn’t I believe in him?” he asked. “He has been very good to me.” And the entrance of the man with the mole spared him any more direct statement as to his lurking belief in the latter’s irregularities.
They took the subway and went downtown again. But not this time into the crime belt. First they went into a well-known café and sat in a leather-padded recess while Baldy gave his instructions.
“We are going to walk past a big jeweler’s,” he said. “I’ll nudge you when we pass it. Then you are to saunter back, go in to the third counter on the right, and ask the clerk to look at some tie-clips. If the red-headed clerk is not on duty and does not attend to you, do not buy anything. If he is busy, try to gauge it so he can wait on you without making it too obvious. You can say you are expecting some one. If it goes all right, look over six clips, pick up six and handle them, no more no less. Then ask to look again at the third one. Say to him, ‘I think I like the one you showed me third the best. How much is it?’ He will put it in a box which you will bring back to me here. Here is money for the clip. Now repeat my directions.”
All this was said in a way that smacked of big business behind the purchase of the clip. The roll that Baldy peeled a ten from was of considerable magnitude. Sperry went over his instructions.
They strolled along for some time, until they passed a jeweler’s. At the corner they parted company, and Sperry sauntered back again. It was a large place with four aisles made up by lengthy display cases of plate glass. At the back was a mezzanine gallery on which some desks showed and glass doors apparently opening back to the offices. Not many people were purchasing. The third counter was vacant in front. Back of it a red-haired clerk was arranging a tray of small jewelry. His heart beating a trifle fast, Sperry walked up the aisle toward the red-haired clerk And then he felt a premonition. Some one was watching him.
He had believed implicitly in Baldy’s assurance that he was safe in New York for a day or so: it was impossible not to have confidence in what the man with the mole did say. But now panic siezed him. He tried to master it, to force himself to look up. At last he did. Standing by the rail of the mezzanine gallery and staring down at him, a little uncertainly, was Remington, the paying teller of the bank at Longfield; the man who had said he paid him ten thousand dollars, the man who had been discharged for doing so.
Fury surged over Sperry. He saw that recognition was not yet mutual on account of his clothes and their style, but soon it would become definite. He longed to rush up to the gallery and confront Remington. But that would mean arrest. What was Remington doing here? He had been discharged, but how had he obtained this position so soon?
Then he became conscious that others were staring at him, that he was standing in a defiant attitude, glaring at Remington. He saw the spark of recognition come into Remington’s eyes, a smile of triumph begin to come on his face. The ex-paying teller leaned forward.
Sperry whirled abruptly and made for the entrance. He heard Remington saying something as the doors swung behind him, knew there was a stir in the shop; and then he threaded his way swiftly through the crowd, shuttling hurriedly to a subway entrance down which he raced, just managing to catch an express. It was a close shave. Remington held all the cards. In another moment he would have been held, and Remington would have got the reward.
For one moment the thought of treachery mastered him. Could Baldy have deliberately trapped him? But that was impossible. It did not hold water. And he was ashamed of himself for the suspicion. He got out at the next stop and made his way to the café, not without some fear of being tapped on the shoulder. He was no longer safe in New York. Whatever was back of Remington’s lying about the check and the money was a powerful force, and he had no defence, save a vague feeling that Baldy mght aid him. But he got to the padded recess and told his tale. The man with the mole listened seriously.
“Never mind about the tie-clip,” he said. “We’ll manage that some other way. It is a good thing this Remington chap spotted you as soon as he did. I wouldn’t have wanted them to find that box on you, or on any one. Your stepfather said he was going to get this young chap a job, didn’t he? He doesn’t seem to have wasted any time about it. But you must change your description if you are going to be useful to me. I am going to send you home in a taxi. Get out at Washington Square and walk over. Stay there till I come.”
Sperry waited two hours before Baldy appeared. The face of the man with the mole was serious. He brought in some small packages.
“Where is Bess?” he asked.
“She went out shopping,” said Sperry. “Said she’d be back soon.” He had spent a delightful hour with the girl. She was surprisingly well informed, he found, and of a rare intelligence and gracious instinct. Baldy had seen to her education. When she went on her marketing tour, Sperry continued his wonderment of her in such surroundings, and then his thoughts centered on what Baldy had said about the box.
“I shouldn’t have wanted them to find that box on you, or on any one.” Evidently the red-haired clerk was to have put something in it beside the tie-clip. What? Information of some kind? Perhaps the numbers of a safe combination? Was Baldy planning to rob the jeweler’s?
But Baldy evinced no desire to give him information. The incident of the tie-clip was closed. From his packages he produced what looked like dried leaves and some dark crystals that Sperry recognized as permanganate of potash.
“Lucky your eyes are hazel,” said Baldy. “I am going to change your hair-cut and then dye it—also your complexion. I am going to make a brunet out of you, young man, as soon as Bess comes in. She’ll be the barber.”
An hour later, after applications to his face, hands, and forearms of a solution of permanganate, after dippings of his clipped and trimmed hair into a bath of henna, with careful dabbings of the borders, Sperry looked at himself with amazement. His light brown hair was almost black, with a suggestion of dull red. And it formed a pompadour. His face was a weird purplish tint.
The girl laughed at him.
“That’ll tone down to a nice even brown,” said Baldy. “And it’ll stand washing for a while. Now then, remember you are Gentleman Manning of Chicago, The Duke. A swell-mob worker, specialty, ladies’ jewelry. Tonight I am going to introduce you to some of the gang. They’ll use you as outside man.”
Sperry heard, amazed, looking at the still laughing face of the girl. Yet her eyes held the same appeal as when she had asked him to believe in her father. How could she be innocent? She must be an accomplice to listen to this talk of the underworld, to help transform him to The Duke, “swell-mob worker.”
But one thing was certain, paramount. He was entirely in the power of Baldy Brown.
“Let me look at your hands,” said Baldy. Sperry held them out for inspection. Baldy laid his forefinger on the corresponding digit of Sperry’s left hand. The first joint was distorted, out of place.
“Baseball finger?” queried Baldy. “You had better wear gloves all you can. When you’re driving, for instance. That’s a give-away I can’t remedy. Got to be covered up. Outside of that you are pretty well camouflaged.”
The accent of the French word was excellent. Certain links between the refinement of Elizabeth and her father were apparent. Sperry wondered what the history of Baldy Brown contained, what sordid chapters had led up to his present capacity. That his name was Brown he hardly believed. But, if he had changed it for frequent aliases, the girl must have acquiesced, must have acknowledged them. It was a riddle that Sperry had to put aside. Meanwhile, at Elizabeth’s suggestion—she seemed to take an artistic pride in his disguise—he applied himself with materials she provided to cleanse his nails of the telltale stain that had tinged them too darkly for nature.
All three went to a moving-picture show that afternoon. Baldy laughed heartily at the pictured triumph of a detective. Sperry went back with them.
“You’ll stay with us for the present,” said Baldy, "until the big job is through. It’s a good cover, and Bess has taken a fancy to you.”
The last sentence Sperry appreciated, but he wondered what the big job was, and what part he would take in it. Perhaps he would find out when he met the gang.