“You—you know my name?” His voice was scarcely audible.
“Sure!” said Laroque—and yawned insolently.
“So!” purred Sonnino, in excellent English. “Is it so! A thief! The son of the so-honest Mister Attorney—a thief!”
“It’s a lie!” The boy’s hands, clenched, were raised above his head, and then shaken almost maniacally in Gentleman Laroque’s face. “It’s a lie! I—I don’t understand, but—but you two, you devils, are together in this!”
“Sure!” retorted Laroque, as insolently as before—and flung the other’s hands away. “Sure, we are!”
“It’s a lie!” said the boy again. “I was in a hole. I needed money. You told me you knew a man who would lend it to me. That’s why I came here with you, and then—and then you held me here with your revolver, and began to open that safe.”
“Sure!” returned Laroque, for the third time. “Sure—that’s right! Well, what’s the answer?”
“This!” cried the boy wildly. “I don’t know what your game is, but this is my answer! Do you think I would have touched that money, or have let you—once I got out of here where I could have got help! I’m not a thief—whatever else I may be. That’s my answer!”
Niccolo Sonnino’s smile was oily.
“It is a little late, is it not?” he leered. “Listen, my little young friend; I will tell you a story. You work for a bank, eh? The bank does not like its young men to speculate—yes? But why should you not speculate a little, a very little, if you like—if you get the very private and good tips, eh? It is not wrong—no, certainly, it is not wrong. But at the same time the bank must not know. Very well! They shall not know—no one shall know. You are not the young Mr. Archman any more, you are—what is the name?—Martin Moore. But Martin Moore must have an address, eh? Very well! On Sixth Avenue there is a little store where one rents boxes for private mail, and where questions are never asked—is it not so, my very dear young friend?”
The boy was staring in a demented way into Sonnino’s face, but he did not speak.
“Aw, hand it to him straight!” Gentleman Laroque broke in roughly. “I don’t want to hang around here all night. Here, Archman, you listen to me! We piped you off on that lay about two weeks ago—and it looked good to us, and we played it for a winner, see? You got introduced to me, and found me a pretty good sort, and we got thick together—you know all about that. Also, you get introduced to some new brokers, who said they’d take good care of your margins—maybe they only ran a bucket-shop, but you didn’t know it! All right! You got snarled up good and plenty. Yesterday you were wiped out, and three thousand dollars to the bad besides, and they were yelling for their money and threatening to expose you. They gave you until to-morrow morning to make good. You told me about it. I told you this morning I thought I knew a man who would lend you the coin, and”—he laughed mockingly, and jerked his hand toward the safe—“well, I led you to it, didn’t I?”
“I—I don’t understand,” the boy mumbled helplessly.
“Don’t you!” jeered Laroque. “Well, it looks big enough for a blind man to see! We’ve got this robbery wished on you to a fare-thee-well! A young man who speculates, who uses an assumed name, and runs a private letter box on Sixth Avenue, and has forty-eight hours in which to square up his debts or face exposure, has a hell of a chance with a jury—not!”
The boy circled his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“But why—why?” he whispered. “I—I never did anything to you.”
“Sure, you didn’t!” Laroque’s tones were brutally amiable now. “It’s your father. We’ve an idea that maybe he won’t be so keen about going ahead with that little investigation of the private clubs after we’ve put a certain little proposition about his son up to him.”
“No, no! No—you won’t!” Clarie Archman’s voice rose suddenly shrill, beyond control. “You won’t! You can’t! You’re in it yourselves”—he pointed his finger wildly at one and then the other of the two men—“you—you!”
“Think so?” drawled Laroque. “All right, you tell ‘em so—tell the jury about it, tell your father, who is such a shark on evidence, about it. Sure, I’m in on it with you—but you don’t know who I am. They’ll have a hot time finding J. Barca, Esquire! I’m thinking of taking a little trip to Florida for my health, and my valet’s got my grip all packed! Savvy? And now listen to Sonnino. Sonnino’s a wonder in the witness box. Niccolo, tell the jury what you know about this unfortunate young man.”
Sonnino, a wicked grin on his face, made a dramatic flourish with the hand that held the revolver.
“Well, I was asleep upstairs. I wakened. I thought I heard a noise downstairs. I listened. Then I got up, and went down the stairs quiet like a mouse. I turned on the light quick—like this”—he snapped his fingers. “Two men have broken open my safe, and they have my money, a lot of money, for I keep all my money there; I do not bank—no. They rush at me, they knock me down, they make their escape, but I recognise one of them—it is Mister the young Archman, who I have many times seen at The Sphinx Café—yes. Well, and then on the floor I find a letter.” He grinned wickedly again. “Have you the letter that I find—Mister Barca?”
“Sure,” said Gentleman Laroque—and reached into his pocket. “It was addressed to Martin Moore on Sixth Avenue, wasn’t it?”
“My God!” It came in a sudden, pitiful cry from the boy, and his hand involuntarily went to his own pocket. “You—you’ve got that letter!”
“Do you think you’re up against a piker game!” exclaimed Laroque maliciously. “Well then, forget it! You didn’t have this in your pocket half an hour before it was lifted by one of the slickest poke-getters in the whole of little old New York.” He was taking a letter from its envelope and opening out the sheet. “That’s the kind of a crowd that’s in on this, my bucko! Listen, and I’ll read the letter. It looked innocent enough when you got it, in view of what I told you about knowing a man who would lend you the money. But pipe how it sounds with Sonnino’s safe bored full of holes. Are you listening? ‘It’s all right. Niccolo Sonnino has got his safe crammed full to-night. Meet me at Bristol Bob’s at eleven. J. Barca.’”
There was silence in the room. Clarie Archman had dropped into a chair, and had buried his face in his arms that were out-flung across the table.
Then Laroque spoke again:
“Do you see where you stand—Clarie? Tell your story—and it’s the story that sounds like a neat ‘plant’ of your lawyer’s to get you off. You only get in deeper with the jury for trying to trick them, see? Here’s the evidence—and it’s got you cold. Sonnino recognises you. The letter is identified at the Sixth Avenue place, and you are identified as the guy that’s been travelling under the name of Martin Moore. J. Barca has flown the coop and can’t be found, and—well, I guess you get it, don’t you?”
“What—what do you want?” The boy did not lift his head.
“We want your father to let up, and let up damned quick,” said Laroque evenly. “But we’ll give you a chance to get out from under, and you can take it or leave it—it doesn’t matter to us. Your father’s got the papers and the affidavits in the ‘Private Club’ case in his safe at home to-night, and a lot of those affidavits he can never replace—we’ve seen to that! All right! You’ve got the combination of the safe. Go home and get that stuff and bring it here. If it’s here by four o’clock—that gives you about three hours—you’re out of it. If it isn’t, then your father gets inside information that the gang is wise to the fact that his son pulled a break tonight, but that they can keep Sonnino’s mouth shut if he throws up the sponge, and that if he doesn’t call it off with the ‘Private Club Ring,’ if he’s so blamed fond of prosecuting,