Kid Gregg chuckled, and sucking at his cigarette only to find it out, began to search through his pockets for a match.
Jimmie Dale stared. Froomes! It was Martin K. Froomes, of course, the retired broker. He knew Froomes very well indeed, and on several “stag” occasions had been in Froomes' house; and Froomes knew him—as Jimmie Dale, a fellow member of the St. James Club. So that was where that haul of jewellery on the table there had come from! What was it the voice in Mother Margot's room had said?—“anywhere from thirty to fifty thousand.” He could well believe it. Froomes was an exceedingly wealthy man, and, besides a wife, had two daughters who moved constantly in society.
“Go on!” prompted Twisty Munn impatiently.
“Watch me!” boasted Kid Gregg. “I could have made de pinch anytime, but den I'd have had to make me get-away, an' duck outer little old New York. I wasn't for dat—not some! I've still got me job polishin' de floors, an' to-morrow mornin' I'll be polishin' 'em de same as though nothin' had happened. See? Some day de bulls may write up me autobeeography an' keep me photograph handy to look at w'en dey wants to see somethin' handsome—but not if I sees 'em first! Nix on dat stuff! So far I'm a nice, quiet, hard-working young man. Get me? Well, dere ain't no hurry, an' I sits tight, keepin' me lamps open lookin' for goats. An' I don't have to wait long, neither. One day I was out on a window sill washin' de window, an' I hears de boss in de next room handin' out a Sunday school spiel like he was talkin' to a naughty son. 'From a business standpoint,' says de old man, 'dis has nearly lost youse yer job here, an' no man ever made anythin' out of himself on that basis. An' from a moral standpoint,' he says, 'it's simply de road dat leads from bad to worse.'”
Jimmie Dale, an ominous droop at the corners of his mouth, dared another half inch of door space, as Kid Gregg paused for a moment to drag on his cigarette. Was there a wall switch for that single, dangling incandescent that lighted the room? Yes, there it was—just inside the door. He could almost have reached in and touched it from where he stood.
“Well, dat's all I heard,” went on Kid Gregg; “but, take it from me, I watches to see who comes outer dat room. Say, can youse beat it! It's a little red-headed dude named Culver, dat's a typewriter, or secretary, or somethin' like dat to de boss. After dat, dere's nothin' to it. Culver's de bird I'm after, an' I gets his number for fair. Some high-roller wid his dinkey shirts an' his imitation diamond shirt studs! He don't live dere wid de boss, y'understand, but he dresses up every night like he owned a bank, an' hits de high spots on de first speed. Youse knows de kind, don't youse?”
Twisty Munn was twining the long, bony fingers of his hands in and out of the heap of brooches, pins, rings and pendants in front of him, seemingly fascinated by the fiery little gleams of light that he made to flash from their countless facets.
“Up de river,” observed Twisty Munn, “dere's a whole cageful of dem birds dat dress up all de time—only dey don't sport de shirt studs any more. I get youse! Wot did youse do wid Mister Culver?”
Kid Gregg indulged in a fresh cigarette. There was a smirk of unabashed conceit upon his face, as he blew a smoke ring in the air.
“Him? He's down at Hoy Loo's.”
Twisty Munn leaned suddenly across the table.
“Wot's dat?” he demanded tensely. “Hoy Loo's?”
“Youse said it!” nodded Kid Gregg complacently. “He's gone bye-bye down at Hoy Loo's wid a nice little pipe of coke laid out beside de bunk.”
Twisty Munn squinted blear eyes at the other.
“I don't get youse!” he grunted after a moment. “Dat don't stick nothin' on him. I don't get youse!”
Kid Gregg smiled pityingly.
“Dat's why youse won't never be nothin' more dan youse are to-day, Twisty,” he murmured; “just runnin' around an' doin' de dirty work. It's de bean dat counts.”
“Youse close yer face!” snapped Twisty Munn. “Go on, an' spill de rest of it.”
“All right,” grinned Kid Gregg. “I fixed it up for to-night, after I'd tipped off another guy I knows to make up wid Culver about a week ago. Me pal plays de game. Savvy? He chums up wid Culver, an' promises to show Culver some of de realgoods around town. Youse gets it now, don't youse? To-night de two of dem goes to Hoy Loo's, an' dey starts in wid a drink, an' Culver gets a pill slipped into his, an' den he's laid out peaceful on a bunk just as though he'd got stewed on too many pipes. Soft, eh? He'll be dere to-morrow mornin'. He don't know who me pal is because somehow me pal ain't got a good memory even for his own name; an' besides, bein' dolled up for de occasion wid a little waxed moustache an' a cute little beard, youse'd have taken him for a French Count—which he ain't. Well, de bulls get Mister Culver dere in de mornin'—an' Hoy Loo gets a piece of de money youse're goin' to hand out 'cause he's got to stand for a police fine.”
Kid Gregg paused and grinned at Twisty Munn, as the latter puckered the leathery skin of his forehead into wrinkles.
“Never mind about de bean stuff dis time,” said Twisty Munn gruffly. “I ain't wise yet, but I'll say it begins to listen good. How'd youse hang it onto him?”
“De easiest thing youse know,” said the Kid cheerfully. “A letter—dat's wot. Dere's a letter in de mail now dat de police gets in de mornin', just about de same time dat de family on de Avenue wakes up an' t'rows a fit w'en dey finds de safe open an' de sparklers gone. De letter just says dat mabbe de police'd like to know dat a guy blew into Hoy Foo's to-night, an' got stewed to de eyes hittin' de pipe, an' got frisked of a bagful of rings an' jewels an' stuff by some yeggs dat was floatin' around dere. An' it's signed: 'A Friend.' I guess dat's all to de mustard, ain't it? Dat takes care of de missin' goods! De bulls slip over dere, an' dey finds it's me red-headed friend Culver, de typewriter expert for Mr. Froomes dat owns de safe dat's been cracked.”
Twisty Munn blinked.
“Dat's all right,” he said judicially; “but it don't actually prove he pulled de job. If he was frisked, which he wasn't, den——”
“Sure, he was frisked!” said Kid Gregg with a vicious grin. “All dis happened before I went up to de nabob's house an hour ago. Dat was midnight, y'understand, an' de Froomes bunch was all in bed. I wasn't takin' no chances. He was frisked, all right!” The Kid with studied effect blew another smoke ring in the air. “I frisked him—of one of dose near-diamond shirt studs of his dat youse can buy from de hawkers at three for a nickel!”
Enlightenment was dawning on Twisty Munn's wily countenance.
“Say dat again!” he whispered hoarsely.
“Sure!” said Kid Gregg. “Dat's wot! D'youse know of anythin' dat's easier to lose widout youse bein' wise to it dan a shirt stud dat falls out w'en youse're pawin' over de stuff in a safe youse've cracked? Dat's where it is now—on de floor up dere in de Froomes' library under some papers dat was yanked out of de safe.”
For a moment Twisty Munn stared at his companion, then his long, bony hand shot out across the table.
“Youse'll go a long way, Kid! Shake!” he cackled admiringly. “Take it from me, youse will—a long way!”
“Youse bet yer life—an' nothin' but dust behind me!” agreed Kid Gregg boastfully. “Youse said somethin', Twisty!”
“S'help me!” gulped Twisty Munn. His fingers clawed the jewels on the table again. “As sweet a haul as ever I've seen, an' open an' shut—open an' shut!” He pushed the heap suddenly toward Kid Gregg. “Put 'em back in dat little