The man who had knocked was a small-browed dark man in blue clothes that needed pressing. He did not try to enter the room and he tried to speak in an undertone, but excitement made his words audible to everyone in the room. 'Shad O'Rory's downstairs. He wants to see Paul.'
Ned Beaumont shut the door and turned with his back against it to look at Paul Madvig. Only those two of the ten men in the room seemed undisturbed by the small-browed n-man's announcement. All the others did not show their excitement frankly—in some it could be seen in their suddenly acquired stoniness—but there was none whose respiration was exactly as it had been before.
Ned Beaumont, pretending he did not know repetition was unnecessary, said, in a tone that expressed suitable interest in his words: 'O'Rory wants to see you. He's downstairs.'
Madvig looked at his watch. 'Tell him I'm tied up right now, but if he'll wait a little while I'll see him.'
Ned Beaumont nodded and opened the door. 'Tell him Paul's busy now,' he instructed the man who had knocked, 'but if he'll stick around awhile Paul'll see him.' He shut the door.
Madvig was questioning a square-faced yellowish man about their chances of getting more votes on the other side of Chestnut Street. The square-faced man replied that he thought they would get more than last time 'by a hell of a sight,' but still not enough to make much of a dent in the opposition. While he talked his eyes kept crawling sidewise to the door.
Ned Beaumont sat astride his chair by the window again smoking a cigar.
Madvig addressed to another man a question having to do with the size of the campaign-contribution to be expected from a man named Hartwick. This other man kept his eyes from the door, but his reply lacked coherence.
Neither Madvig's and Ned Beaumont's calmness of mien nor their business-like concentration on campaign-problems could check the growth of tension in the room.
After fifteen minutes Madvig rose and said: 'Well, we're not on Easy Street yet, but si-me's shaping up. Keep hard at it and we'll make the grade.' He went to the door and shook each man's hand as they went out. They went out somewhat hurriedly.
Ned Beaumont, who had not left his chair, asked, when he and Madvig were the only ones in the room: 'Do I stick around or beat it?'
'Stick around.' Madvig crossed to the window and looked down into sunny China Street.
'Both hands working?' Ned Beaumont asked after a little pause.
Madvig turned from the window nodding. 'I don't know anything else'—he grinned boyishly at the man straddling the chair—'except maybe the feet too.'
Ned Beaumont started to say something, but was interrupted by the noise the turning door-knob made.
A man opened the door and came in. He was a man of little more than medium height, trimly built with a trimness that gave him a deceptively frail appearance. Though his hair was a sheer sleek white he was probably not much past his thirty-fifth year. His eyes were a notable clear grey-blue set in a rather long and narrow, but very finely sculptured, face. He wore a dark blue overcoat over a dark blue suit and carried a black derby hat in a black- gloved hand.
The man who came in behind him was a bow-legged ruffian of the same height, a swarthy man with something apish in the slope of his big shoulders, the length of his thick arms, and the flatness of his face. This one's hat—a grey fedora—was on his head. He shut the door and leaned against it, putting his hands in the pockets of his plaid overcoat.
The first man, having advanced by then some four or five steps into the room, put his hat on a chair and began to take off his gloves.
Madvig, hands in trousers-pockets, smiled amiably and said: 'How are you, Shad?'
The white-haired man said: 'Fine, Paul. How's yourself?' His voice was a musical barytone. The faintest of brogues colored his words.
Madvig indicated with a small jerk of his head the man on the chair and asked: 'You know Beaumont?'
O'Rory said: 'Yes.'
Ned Beaumont said: 'Yes.'
Neither nodded to the other and Ned Beaumont did not get up from his chair.
Shad O'Rory had finished taking off his gloves. He put them in an overcoat-pocket and said: 'Politics is politics and business is business. I've been paying my way and I'm willing to go on paying my way, but I want what I'm paying for.' His modulated voice was no more than pleasantly earnest.
'What do you mean by that?' Madvig asked as if he did not greatly care.
'I mean that half the coppers in town are buying their cakes and ale with dough they're getting from me and some of my friends.'
Madvig sat down by the table. 'Well?' he asked, carelessly as before.
'I want what I'm paying for. I'm paying to be let alone. I want to be let alone.'
Madvig chuckled. 'You don't mean, Shad, that you're complaining to me because your coppers won't stay bought?'
'I mean that Doolan told me last night that the orders to shut up my places came straight from you.'
Madvig chuckled again and turned his head to address Ned Beaumont: 'What do you think of that, Ned?'
Ned Beaumont smiled thinly, but said nothing.
Madvig said: 'You know what I think of it? I think Captain Doolan's been working too hard. I think somebody ought to give Captain Doolan a nice long leave of absence. Don't let me forget it.'
O'Rory said: 'I bought protection, Paul, and I want it. Business is business and politics is politics. Let's keep them apart.'
Madvig said: 'No.'
Shad O'Rory's blue eyes looked dreamily at some distant thing. He smiled a little sadly and there was a note of sadness in his musical slightly Irish voice when he spoke. He said: 'It's going to mean killing.'
Madvig's blue eyes were opaque and his voice was as difficultly read as his eyes. He said. 'If you make it mean killing.'
The white-haired man nodded. 'It'll have to mean killing,' he said, still sadly. 'I'm too big to take the boot from you now.'
Madvig leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. His tone attached little importance to his words. He said: 'Maybe you're too big to take it laying down, but you'll take it.' He pursed his lips and added as an afterthought: 'You are taking it.'
Dreaminess and sadness went swiftly out of Shad O'Rory's eyes. He put his black hat on his head. He adjusted his coat-collar to his neck. He pointed a long white finger at Madvig and said: 'I'm opening the Dog House again tonight. I don't want to be bothered. Bother me and I'll bother you.'
Madvig uncrossed his legs and reached for the telephone on the table. He called the Police Department's number, asked for the Chief, and said to him: 'Hello, Rainey Yes, fine. How are the folks? . . . That's good. Say, Rainey, I hear Shad's thinking of opening up again tonight. . . . Yes. . . . Yes, slam it down so hard it bounces. . . . Right.
Sure. Good-by.' He pushed the telephone back and addressed O'Rory: 'Now do you understand how you stand? You're through, Shad. You're through here for good.'
O'Rory said softly, 'I understand,' turned, opened the door, and went out.
The bow-legged ruffian paused to spit—deliberately—on the rug in front of him and to stare with bold challenging eyes at Madvig and Ned Beaumont. Then he went out.
Ned Beaumont wiped the palms of his hands with a handkerchief. He said nothing to Madvig, who was looking at him with questioning eyes. Ned Beaumont's eyes were gloomy.
After a moment Madvig asked: 'Well?'
Ned Beaumont said: 'Wrong, Paul.'
Madvig rose and went to the window. 'Jesus Christ!' he complained over his shoulder, 'don't anything ever suit you?'
Ned Beaumont got up from his chair and walked towards the door.
