He wet his lips with his tongue again.
“Ten dollars,” he said hoarsely.
Clancy brushed aside the litter on the table, and nonchalantly laid down a ten-dollar bill.
With a sharp little cry that brought on a fit of coughing, Smarlinghue stretched out his hand for the money eagerly.
Clancy drew the money back out of reach.
“Oh, no, nothing like that!” he drawled unpleasantly. “Don’t make the mistake of taking me for a fool. I’m not buying any ten-cent art treasures at ten dollars a throw!”
Smarlinghue’s eyes remained greedily riveted on the ten-dollar note. He began to twine his hands together once more.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he muttered tremulously.
“Don’t you!” retorted the other shortly. “Well, I mean exactly what I say. I’m not buying any pictures, I’m buying—you. I have been keeping an eye on you for the last three or four months. You’re just the guy I’ve been looking for. As far as I can make out, there ain’t a dive or a roost in the Bad Lands where you don’t get the glad hand—eh?”
“I—I haven’t done anything! Not a thing! I—I swear I haven’t!” Smarlinghue burst out frantically.
“Aw, forget it!” Clancy permitted a thin smile to flicker contemptuously across his lips. “You’ve got a whole lot of friends that I’m interested in. Get the idea? There ain’t a crook in New York that’s shy of you. You got a ‘stand-in’ everywhere.” He held up the ten-dollar bill. “There’s more of these—plenty of ‘em.”
Smarlinghue pushed back his chair now in a frightened sort of way.
“You—you mean you want me for—for a stool pigeon?” he faltered.
“You got it!” said Clancy bluntly.
Smarlinghue’s eyes roved about the room in a furtive, terror-stricken glance, his hand passed aimlessly over his eyes, and he crouched low down in his chair.
“No, no!” he whispered. “No, no—for God’s sake, Mr. Clancy, don’t ask me to do that! I can’t—I can’t! I—I wouldn’t be any good, I—I can’t! I—I won’t!”
Clancy thrust head and shoulders aggressively across the table.
“You will—if you know what’s good for you!” he said evenly. “And, what’s more, there’s a little job you’re going to break your hand in on to-night.”
“No! No, no! I can’t! I can’t!” Smarlinghue flung out his arms imploringly.
Clancy lowered his voice.
“Cut that out!” he snapped viciously. “What’s the matter with you! You’ll be well paid for it—and have police protection. You ought to know what that’ll mean to you—eh? You live like a gutter-snipe here—half starved most of the time, for all you can get out of those ungodly daubs!”
A curious dignity came to Smarlinghue. He sat upright.
“It is my art,” he said. “I have starved for it many years. Some day I will get recognition. Some day I—”
“Art—hell!” sneered Clancy; and then he laughed coarsely, as, his fingers prodding under the miscellany of articles on the table, he suddenly held up a hypodermic syringe. “This is your art, my bucko! Why, you poor boob, don’t you think I know you! Cocaine’s the one thing on earth you live for. You’re stewed to the eyes with it now. Here, just watch me! Suppose”—he caught the syringe in a quick grip between the fingers of both hands—“suppose I just put this little toy out of commission now, and—”
With a shrill screech, Smarlinghue sprang from his chair, and clawed like a demented man at the other’s hands for possession of the hypodermic.
Clancy surrendered the syringe with a mocking grin, and shoved
Smarlinghue backward into his chair again.
“Oh, yes; you’re an artist all right—a coke artist!” he remarked coolly. “But that’s what makes you solid in every den in New York, and that’s how you come in useful—to me. Well, what do you say?”
There was a hunted look in Smarlinghue’s eyes.
“They’d—they’d kill me,” he said huskily.
“Sure, they would!” agreed Clancy easily. “If they found you out it would be good-night, all right—that’s what you’re getting paid for. But”—his voice hardened—“if you don’t come across, I’ll tell you what I’ll do to you. I’ll—”
“You can’t do anything! Not a thing!” Smarlinghue cried wildly. “You haven’t anything on me at all. I’ve never done a thing, not a single—”
“Oh, I guess there’s enough to make you sweat,” Clancy cut in brutally. “You give me the icy paw, and I’ll see that the tip leaks out from the right quarters that you are a stool pigeon. That’ll take care of your finish, too, won’t it—good and plenty!”
Smarlinghue stared miserably. Again and again his tongue circled his lips. Twice he tried to speak—and only succeeded in mumbling inarticulately.
Clancy got up from the table, walked around it, and, standing over the crouched figure in the chair, tapped with his finger on the hypodermic in Smarlinghue’s hands.
“And that ain’t all,” he announced with a malicious grin. “You come in and play the game with me, or I’ll fix it so that you’ll never get another squirt of dope if you had a million bucks to buy it with—ah, I thought that would get you!”
Smarlinghue was on his feet. The terror of the damned was in his face.
“No! No! My God—no—not that! You—you wouldn’t do that!” He reached out his arms to the other.
“You know—I’ve gone too far to do without it. If I didn’t have it, I—”
“I’ve seen a few of them in that sort of jim-jams,” said Clancy malevolently. “You can’t tell me anything about it. If you appreciate it, that’s enough—it’s up to you. You heard what I said. If you’re looking for that particular kind of hell, go to it. Only don’t kid yourself. When I pass the word to put the screws on, the lid’s down for keeps. Well, what’s the answer? Coming across? Quick now! I haven’t got all night to spend here!”
Smarlinghue’s hands were trembling violently; he sat down in his chair in a pitiful, uncertain way.
“Yes, yes!” he whispered. “Yes! I got to do it. I’ll do it, Mr. Clancy, I’ll do it! I’ll—I’ll do anything!”
A half leer, half scowl was on Clancy’s face, as he stood regarding the other.
“I thought you would!” he grunted roughly. “Well then, we’ll get down to business—and to-night’s business. You know the back entrance to Malay John’s hang-out?”
Smarlinghue’s eyes widened a little in a startled way. He nodded his head.
“Very good,” said Clancy gruffly. “You’ll have no trouble in getting in there. And once in there you’ll have no trouble in getting up to Malay’s private den. I’ve been wised up that Malay and a few of his pals are getting ready to pull off a little game uptown. I want the dope on it—all of it. They’ve been meeting in Malay’s den for the last few nights—understand? They drift in between half past eleven and twelve—you get there a little before half past eleven. You haven’t anything to be afraid of, so don’t lose your nerve. Malay himself is away this evening and won’t be back before midnight; and the door won’t be locked, as otherwise the others couldn’t get in. Everything’s