“Could you find out for me exactly when the man comes round collecting the rents?”
“Surest t’ing you know. I knows a kid what knows anodder kid what lives dere.”
“Then go and do it now. And, after you’ve found out, you can take the rest of the day off.”
“Me fer dat,” said Master Maloney with enthusiasm. “I’ll take me goil to de Bronx Zoo.”
“Your girl? I didn’t know you’d got a girl, Pugsy. I always imagined you as one of those strong, stern, blood- and-iron men who despised girls. Who is she?”
“Aw, she’s a kid,” said Pugsy. “Her pa runs a delicatessen shop down our street. She ain’t a bad mutt,” added the ardent swain. “I’m her steady.”
“Well, mind you send me a card for the wedding. And if two dollars would be a help—”
“Sure t’ing. T’anks, boss. You’re all right.”
It had occurred to John that the less time Pugsy spent in the outer office during the next few days, the better. The lull in the warfare could not last much longer, and at any moment a visit from Spider Reilly and his adherents might be expected. Their probable first move in such an event would be to knock Master Maloney on the head to prevent his giving warning of their approach.
Events proved that he had not been mistaken. He had not been back in the inner office for more than a quarter of an hour when there came from without the sound of stealthy movements. The handle of the door began—to revolve slowly and quietly. The next moment three figures tumbled into the room.
It was evident that they had not expected to find the door unlocked, and the absence of resistance when they applied their weight had surprising effects. Two of the three did not pause in their career till they cannoned against the table. The third checked himself by holding the handle.
John got up coolly.
“Come right in,” he said. “What can we do for you?” It had been too dark on the other occasion of his meeting with the Three Pointers to take note of their faces, though he fancied that he had seen the man holding the door- handle before. The others were strangers. They were all exceedingly unprepossessing in appearance.
There was a pause. The three marauders had become aware of the presence of Mr. Jarvis and his colleague, and the meeting was causing them embarrassment, which may have been due in part to the fact that both had produced and were toying meditatively with ugly-looking pistols.
Mr. Jarvis spoke.
“Well,” he said, “what’s doin’?”
The man to whom the question was directly addressed appeared to have some difficulty in finding a reply. He shuffled his feet, and looked at the floor. His two companions seemed equally at a loss.
“Goin’ to start anything?” enquired Mr. Jarvis, casually.
The humor of the situation suddenly tickled John. The embarrassment of the uninvited guests was ludicrous.
“You’ve just dropped in for a quiet chat, is that it?” he said. “Well, we’re all delighted to see you. The cigars are on the table. Draw up your chairs.”
Mr. Jarvis opposed the motion. He drew slow circles in the air with his revolver.
“Say! Youse had best beat it. See?”
Long Otto grunted sympathy with the advice.
“And youse had best go back to Spider Reilly,” continued Mr. Jarvis, “and tell him there ain’t nothin’ doing in the way of rough-house wit’ dis gent here. And you can tell de Spider,” went on Bat with growing ferocity, “dat next time he gits fresh and starts in to shootin’ up my dance-joint, I’ll bite de head off’n him. See? Dat goes. If he t’inks his little two-by-four crowd can git way wit’ de Groome Street, he’s got anodder guess comin’. An’ don’t fergit dis gent here and me is friends, and anyone dat starts anyt’ing wit’ dis gent is going to find trouble. Does dat go? Beat it.”
He jerked his shoulder in the direction of the door.
The delegation then withdrew.
“Thanks,” said John. “I’m much obliged to you both. You’re certainly there with the goods as fighting editors. I don’t know what I should have done without you.”
“Aw, Chee!” said Mr. Jarvis, handsomely dismissing the matter. Long Otto kicked the leg of a table, and grunted.
Pugsy Maloney’s report on the following morning was entirely satisfactory. Rents were collected in Broster Street on Thursdays. Nothing could have been more convenient, for that very day happened to be Thursday.
“I rubbered around,” said Pugsy, “an’ done de sleut’ act, an’ it’s this way. Dere’s a feller blows in every T’ursday ‘bout six o’clock, an’ den it’s up to de folks to dig down inter deir jeans for de stuff, or out dey goes before supper. I got dat from my kid frien’ what knows a kid what lives dere. An’ say, he has it pretty fierce, dat kid. De kid what lives dere. He’s a wop kid, an Italian, an’ he’s in bad ‘cos his pa comes over from Italy to woik on de subway.”
“I don’t see why that puts him in bad,” said John wonderingly. “You don’t construct your stories well, Pugsy. You start at the end, then go back to any part which happens to appeal to you at the moment, and eventually wind up at the beginning. Why is this kid in bad because his father has come to work on the subway?”
“Why, sure, because his pa got fired an’ swatted de foreman one on de coco, an’ dey gives him t’oity days. So de kid’s all alone, an’ no one to pay de rent.”
“I see,” said John. “Well, come along with me and introduce me, and I’ll look after that.”
At half-past five John closed the office for the day, and, armed with a big stick and conducted by Master Maloney, made his way to Broster Street. To reach it, it was necessary to pass through a section of the enemy’s
