The Neer-Do-Well | Page 7

by 'phone. They're holding the wire outside. I'll show you the booth."
"Oh, will you?" Kirk Anthony's hands suddenly shot out and seized the masquerader by the throat. The man uttered a startled gasp, but simultaneously the iron grip of Marty Ringold fell upon his arms and doubled them behind him, while Kirk gibed:
"You'll get me outside and into a telephone booth, eh? My dear sir, that is old stuff."
The rest of the party were on their feet instantly, watching the struggle and crowding forward with angry exclamations. Ringold, with the man's two wrists locked securely in his own huge paw, was growling:
"Smooth way to do up a fellow, I call it."
"All the way from St. Louis for a telephone call, eh?" Anthony sank his thumbs into the stranger's throat, then, as the man's face grew black and his contortions diminished, added: "We're going to make a good waiter out of you."
Jefferson Locke broke in excitedly: "Choke him good! Choke him! That's right. Put him out for keeps. For God's sake, don't let him go!"
But it was not Kirk's idea to strangle his victim beyond a certain point. He relaxed his grip after a moment and, nodding to Ringold to do likewise, took the fellow's wrists himself, then swung him about until he faced the others. The man's lungs filled with fresh air, he began to struggle once more, and when his voice had returned he gasped:
"I'll get you for this. You'll do a trick--" He mumbled a name that did not sound at all like Jefferson Locke, whereupon the Missourian made a rush at him that required the full strength of Anthony's free hand to thwart.
"Here, stand back! I've got him!"
"I'll kill him!" chattered the other.
"Let me go," the stranger gasped. "I'll take you all in. I'm an officer."
"It's a lie!" shouted Locke. "He's a thief."
"I tell you I'm--an officer; I arrest this--"
The words were cut off abruptly by a loud exclamation from Higgins and a crash of glass. Kirk Anthony's face was drenched, his eyes were filled with a stinging liquid; he felt his prisoner sink limply back into his arms and beheld Higgins struggling in the grasp of big Marty Ringold, the foil-covered neck of a wine bottle in his fingers.
The foolish fellow had been hovering uncertainly round the edges of the crowd, longing to help his friends and crazily anxious to win glory by some deed of valor. At the first opening he had darted wildly into the fray, not realizing that the enemy was already helpless in the hands of his captors.
"I've got him!" he cried, joyously. "He's out!'
"Higgins!" Anthony exclaimed, sharply. "What the devil--" Then the dead weight in his arms, the lolling head and sagging jaw of the stranger, sobered him like a deluge of ice-water.
"You've done it this time," he muttered.
"Good God!" Locke cried. "Let's get away! He's hurt!"
"Here, you!" Anthony shot a command at the speaker that checked him half-way across the room. "Ringold, take the door and don't let anybody in or out." To Higgins he exclaimed, "You idiot, didn't you see I had his hands?"
"No. Had to get him," returned Higgins, with vinous dignity. "Wanted to rob my old friend, Mr.--What's his name?"
"We've got to leave quick before we get in bad," Locke reiterated, nervously, but Anthony retorted:
"We're in bad now. I want Padden." He stepped to the door and signaled a passing waiter. A moment later the proprietor knocked, and Ringold admitted him.
"What's the--" Padden started at sight of the motionless figure on the floor, and, kneeling beside it, made a quick examination, while Anthony explained the circumstances leading up to the assault.
"Thief, eh? I see."
"Is he badly hurt?" queried Locke, bending a pale face upon them.
"Huh! I guess he's due for the hospital," the owner of the Austrian Village announced. "He had his nerve, trying to turn a trick in my place. I thought I knew all the dips, but he's a stranger." With nimble fingers he ran through the fellow's pockets, then continued:
"I'm glad you got him, but you'd better get together and rehearse before the police--" He stopped abruptly once more, then looked up curiously.
"What is it?" questioned the man from Missouri.
Padden pointed silently to the lapel of the fellow's vest, which he had turned back. A nickeled badge was pinned upon it. "He's no thief; he's a detective--a plain-clothes man!"
"Wha'd I tell you!" Higgins exulted. "I can smell 'em!"
The crowd looked nonplussed, with the exception of Jefferson Locke, who became calmer than at any time since the waiter had first whispered into his ear.
"We didn't know who he was," he began, hurriedly, "You must square it for us, Padden. I don't care what it costs." He extended a bulky roll of bank-notes toward the gray-haired man. "These boys can't stand this sort of thing, and