AT THE CLUB DRURY
THE Club Drury was a pretentious establishment that was frequented by those who loved bright lights and late hours.
It was not only the meeting place of racketeers and high-class gangsters; it was also a spot where pleasure seekers sought diversion that was different from the more established amusement places that surrounded Times Square.
Cliff Marsland had entered the Club Drury with a feeling of confidence. He was sure that his identity was still undisclosed; that no one had seen him leave Larchmont Court and follow Ernie Shires.
Here, in the dimly lighted night club, Cliff was doubly secure. There was little chance that he would be observed by any one. The place was crowded, and all the persons present were interested in their own companions.
The tables in the Club Drury were grouped around the dance floor in the center. An entertainment was on when Cliff entered.
Cliff made his way among the tables to the far side of the big room, glancing right and left as he went. He was looking for Ernie Shires, but could see no sign of the gangster.
Cliff sat at a table. He waited until the girl had finished her dance. The spotlight faded, and the side lights were turned on. The diners began to crowd the dance floor. Cliff had a better opportunity to look for Ernie Shires.
Again, he had no success.
Had Shires purposely given the wrong address? It was possible. He might have changed his orders after he had rolled away in the taxicab.
A waiter approached and asked for Cliff’s order. Cliff looked at the menu. He had a sudden thought.
If Ernie Shires had an appointment in this place, it would not be held in the midst of a large, crowded room!
“This place is too noisy for me,” Cliff said to the waiter. “Aren’t there any smaller dining rooms, where it’s quiet?”
“Yes, sir,” said the waiter, “but they are usually reserved in advance — by private parties—”
“Where are they?” demanded Cliff.
The waiter pointed over his shoulder. Cliff saw a doorway draped with side curtains.
“I’m going over there,” said Cliff, rising from the table. “I guess I can find an empty room.”
The waiter followed him, protesting:
“There may be an empty one, sir,” he objected, “but we’ve got to keep them for parties. You’ll have to take it up with the manager sir—”
They had reached the curtained doorway. It led into a corridor that ran parallel with the doorway. There was a row of doors on the other side. Cliff stopped and thrust a crisp ten-dollar bill into the waiter’s hand.
“I want to be quiet, understand?” he said. “Fix me up in one of these rooms. I won’t be here all night. If anybody comes along that has the room reserved, I can get out. Understand?”
The waiter accepted the tip with a nod. He led Cliff down the corridor and stopped at a half-open door. He turned on a light.
Cliff entered the room, which had a table set for six people. The waiter brought him a menu card from a serving table in the corner.
“I belong out in the big room, sir,” he said. “I’ll fix it with the waiter that looks after this room. You may have to wait a little while.”
“That’s all right,” answered Cliff.
AS soon as the waiter was gone, Cliff made a quick inspection of the room. There were two doors, each on an opposite wall. Their purpose was obvious. They led into the adjoining private rooms. Thus large parties could have connecting rooms.
It was probable that the arrangement existed all along the corridor. Cliff tried each door cautiously and found that both were locked. He assumed that they were kept that way except when otherwise desired. Each door had a large keyhole.
There was no use trying to unlock the doors for the present. It would first be advisable to find out where Ernie Shires was located — if the man was actually at the Club Drury. Cliff decided to reconnoiter. He went out into the corridor, closing the door behind him.
The light was dim; no one was in sight. Cliff moved along the corridor, finding nothing but half-open doors with dark rooms until he reached the end. There he encountered a closed door. He stopped to listen. He fancied that he heard the murmur of voices. At least, he was sure that the room was occupied.
Cliff entered the adjoining room. He did not turn on the light. He groped through the darkness to the door that led into the occupied room. He could hear the murmur plainly, now, but could not distinguish any words.
It was idle to wait in the darkness and it was foolish to attempt to open the door. Cliff had no keys or other implements; although he was carrying an automatic. Any noise at the door would attract attention.
Also, the waiter would soon be coming to the room that he had left. It would be wise to get back. Cliff returned along the corridor.
Seated at the large table, he decided that there was only one course: to question the waiter when he arrived. Money and artful persuasion might make the man talk.
While Cliff was settling upon such a plan, the door opened. A waiter entered. The man was thin and stoop-shouldered. His face was dull, and his features difficult to see, as the room was lighted only dimly.
Cliff scanned the menu as the man approached. For a moment the man was beside him; then Cliff looked up to see him going back to the door. The waiter shut the door.
Suspecting something, Cliff began to rise from his chair. The waiter turned in his direction, and came hurriedly forward, raising his hand to his lips for silence.
“Cliff Marsland!” he said, in a whisper.
For an instant, Cliff was startled; then he recognized the man.
“Nipper!” he exclaimed. “Nipper Brady!”
He gripped the waiter’s hand.
“I KNEW you were out of the Big House,” said “Nipper.” “I was waitin’ for you, Cliff, like I said I’d be; but I didn’t want to tell you where I was.
“I told some guys that you’d be lookin’ for something to do. They must have tipped off Tim Waldron. They said you was goin’ up there and the next thing I heard, they was all sayin’ you was the bird that’d bumped off Tim.
“Boy! You got workin’ quick with the smoke wagon, didn’t you?”
There was admiration in Nipper’s tone. The expression on his face, as well as his words, showed that he held a high opinion of Cliff’s prowess. Cliff smiled.
“What are you doing here, Nipper?” he questioned.
The stoop-shouldered man grinned. His pasty white face took on a crafty look.
“Workin’,” he said. “Good job. Keeps me out of the road of the bulls. But I ain’t intendin’ to stay here right along. When I sees a good lay, I’m goin’ to grab it.
“There’s plenty of guys come up here that are in the money. I’m goin’ to hook up with an A-1 racket when I sees the chance.”
Cliff nodded. He knew Nipper well. The fellow had been discharged from Sing Sing three months ago. He and Cliff had worked side by side in a shop; and Cliff had learned much from the man.
Brady was a product of the underworld. He knew the ways of gangdom and fitted in with them. He had been a pickpocket and a confidence man. He had handled a gun; in fact, it was a gun fight that had led to his term in the State prison.
But despite his record, despite his appearance and despite his contempt for the law, Nipper Brady possessed a sense of loyalty that Cliff had seen demonstrated conclusively on more than one occasion.
“I told you I was goin’ in for a racket,” reminded Nipper, in his low, hoarse voice. “That’s the game nowadays. Why get pinched for a stick-up when you can be doin’ somethin’ that looks like it’s on the level?
“I told you to get wise to the game, too, didn’t I? Well, now that I’ve seen you, I’m goin’ to figure somethin’ for you, too. We oughta work together, Cliff, you an’ me!”
The words gave Cliff an inspiration.
“You’d like to work with me, would you, Nipper?”
“You bet I would, Cliff. If there ever was a square-shooter, you was the guy. When we was up in the Big House—”
“Let’s forget it, Nipper.”
“All right, Cliff. But I ain’t never goin’ to forget some of the things you done for me. If there’s anythin’ I can ever do for you, I’ll do it!”
“You can do something, right now.”
“Yeah?” Nipper showed an eager response. “Put me wise, Cliff.”
“You can start working for me,” said Cliff. He slipped his hand into his pocket. “Right now, Nipper, and maybe more later.”
He drew two fifty-dollar bills from his pocket and placed them in Nipper’s hand. The stooped man uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“A century!” he said. “Say, Cliff, I can’t be takin’ your dough. We was in stir together — we was buddies—”
“Forget it,” interrupted Cliff. “I’m flush, Nipper. I know where there’s plenty of money. I’m working” — he paused an instant — “working a racket of my own, Nipper. I want you with me — when I need you. Are you game?”
“Sure thing!”
THE prompt response elated Cliff. This meeting with Nipper was proving most opportune. He knew that Nipper was a fighter; that despite his frail appearance, he was the gamest crook in gangland.
There would be no danger with Nipper. The man would ask no questions, and his loyalty would never be open to question.
“Who’s in the room down the hall?” asked Cliff.
“A bunch of guys that are out on a lay,” replied Nipper.
“Working up a new racket, eh?”
“Looks that way. There’s one of ‘em — I don’t know his moniker — that looks like he might be hooked up with a big shot. Strong-lookin’ guy. Looks like he could handle a rod, all right. Got a poker-face—”
The description answered Ernie Shires.
“O.K., Nipper,” interrupted Cliff. “I want to hear what he’s telling that gang.”
“He’s spillin’ somethin’ to them, all right,” said Nipper. “He’s got some outfit in there with him, too. One of ‘em is a dock walloper — I can spot them guys any time!”
“Well, I want to get in on the chatter,” said Cliff firmly.
“I getcha,” said Nipper. “Say, Cliff” — a sudden thought came to the pasty-faced gangster — “are you goin’ to muscle in on their racket?”
A gleam had come to Nipper’s dull eyes. The little man could not repress his eagerness. He was visualizing an opportunity.
“Maybe I am,” replied Cliff in a noncommittal tone.
“You remember Patsy Birch an’ Dave Talbot — up in the Big House? Them guys is around. They’re O.K.—”
“Not just yet,” interposed Cliff. He could see that Nipper was planning the nucleus of a gang. “Let’s lay off any ideas until I see what the lay is here. I want to listen in on that crowd in the other room. How am I going to do it?”
“Easy, Cliff,” responded Nipper. “There’s a door goin’ in there from the next room. I’ve got the key. I can open it soft—”
“But they’ll see me, if I stay there,” objected Cliff.
“Not in that room. It’s different from this one. There’s a kinda corner there” — Nipper was trying to describe an alcove — “back by the wall of the room. You can open the door a bit when I go in an’ take out the dishes. I gotta knock to go in — an’ they quit their buzzin’ while I’m in the room.”
“Let’s go,” said Cliff.
He accompanied Nipper to the darkened room. The little man worked softly at the door. The key turned silently in the lock. Nipper nudged Cliff and went out into the corridor.
Cliff heard him knock at the door of the other room. Then came the sound of Nipper’s voice. The little man had entered.
Cliff opened his own door a few inches.
He immediately heard the clatter of dishes. The sound ended. There was a slight slam from the outer door as it closed.
Nipper had left. Conversation began.
“IT’S all set, then,” came the voice of Ernie Shires. “Tell me where you’re puttin’ the old trucks.”
“Fogarty’s,” replied one voice.
“Eureka,” said another.
“New Bronx,” came the third.
“Right,” responded Shires, “and bring me the tickets. Meet me down at the New Era Garage on Eighth Avenue. In the back room I told you about.
“Now listen! This ain’t no tire-slashing job to-morrow night! All that’s been done up in the Bronx. The birds that are parking their cars have begun to get educated. They’re using the garages because it ain’t safe to leave their cars out.
“But these three fellows I told you about have been trying to queer the racket. Calling it a lot of bunk. So they’re getting theirs, see?
“And there ain’t going to be none of us up there when the blowoff comes. That’ll be about three a.m. So at two, we join up at the New Era and pull our stuff down here, with a few places I’ll steer you to.
“The suckers have begun to get smart since that racket of Tim Waldron’s went blooey. There’s a bunch of ‘em need teaching. That’s why we’re giving the dock wallopers a job with our gang. All hands working to-morrow night!”
Cliff heard another voice speak in a low tone. Evidently some one was asking Shires a question. Ernie’s response came softly. Then came another buzz.
Shires began to talk rather loudly, and his words seemed forced.
“Well, boys,” he was saying, “there ain’t no two ways about it. What’s going to be done is going to be done and it’s going to be done right. If you’ll keep mum, I’ll spill some more dope.”
A low, hissing whistle came from somewhere. It was a peculiar sound, like the fizzing of a steam radiator. It brought Cliff to instant attention.
It was an old signal that had been used in Sing Sing, during the winter months. It had served as a warning, and as a tip that some one wanted to begin secret communication.
It had been a favorite artifice employed by Nipper Brady. The little man had invented it while working beside a noisy radiator in the shop. Cliff lifted his hand from the knob of the door and looked quickly into the darkened room.
He had acted just in time to see a man enter the room through the half-open outer door.
Cliff made no movement. His brain was working quickly. His right arm was out of view — in fact, he doubted if he was more than scarcely visible to the intruder. Cautiously, he drew his automatic from his pocket.
He realized instantly what had happened. Some one in Ernie’s gang had suspected that there was an eavesdropper. A gunman had been sent to investigate.
A feeling of grimness gripped Cliff Marsland. The man who had entered was somewhere in the room — probably on the other side of the center table. Cliff’s mind went back to a night in France — many years before when just such a figure had come creeping toward him as he lay but a few yards from the German trenches.
He remembered how his hands had gripped the German’s throat — how silent death had taken its victim in the darkness.
The situation was the same tonight, but all was at closer range. Could he succeed as he had done before?
It was his life or the other man’s, that was all! If the investigator did not return; if no sound came from this darkened room, a few precious minutes might be gained while the dining gangsters waited. It was the only hope!
Slowly, Cliff crouched to the floor. He moved toward the table. He left his gun on the floor, where he could reach it, beside the leg of a chair. He was breathing noiselessly, between tense lips, as he crept slowly forward to take his foe unawares!