Episodes Before Thirty/Chapter 23
CHAPTER XXIII
It was on the Tuesday before Christmas that I caught Boyde; the day also before the White Star steamers sailed. The cold was Arctic, a biting east wind swept the streets. There was no sun. If ever there was a Black Tuesday for me it was that 18th of December, 1892.
Towards evening, the doctor, I knew, would expect me as usual; there was nothing to prevent my going; and yet each time the thought cropped up automatically in my mind I was aware of a vague, indeterminate feeling that somehow or other I should not go. This dim feeling also was automatic. There was nothing I knew of to induce, much less to support it. I did not mention it to Kay. I could not understand whence it came nor what caused it, but it did not leave me, it kept tugging at my nerves. "You're not going to the doctor's to-night," it said, "you're going elsewhere."
After dark this odd feeling became more and more insistent, and then all at once it connected itself with Boyde. Quite suddenly this happened. I had not been thinking of Boyde at the moment; now, abruptly, up cropped his name and personality. I was to go out and catch him.
My mind resisted this idea. Several things, besides, were against it. In the first place, we had voluntarily given up the hunt and I was resigned to his escape; secondly and thirdly, I dreaded being out in the bitter cold, and I badly needed the "assuaging balm" of old Huebner's needle. If the first two were negative inhibitions, the third was decidedly positive. All three had to be conquered if I was to obey the strange prompting which whispered, and kept on whispering: "Go out and look. You'll find him."
There was, in addition, the usual minor conflict to which I had grown quite accustomed, the conflict between my desire to be relieved of an unpleasant "duty," yet the conviction that it was a duty I had no right to shirk. In spite of my resistance, at any rate, the prompting strengthened; as night fell I grew more and more restless and uneasy; until at last the touch of inevitability that lay behind it all declared itself—and the breaking point was reached.
I could resist no longer; it was impossible to contain myself. I sprang out of my chair and told Kay I was going out to catch Boyde.
"Don't go," he said. "Waste of time. He's skipped long ago—been warned." He muttered something more about the intense cold. "You'll kill yourself."
But the impulsion I felt was irresistible. It was as though some inner power drove and guided me. As a matter of fact, I went straight to the exact spot where, among the teeming millions of the great city, Boyde was. Fifteen minutes earlier or later, I should have missed him. Also, but for a chance hesitation later—lasting sixty seconds at most—he would have seen me and escaped. The calculation, whether due to intelligence or to coincidence, was amazingly precise. I left our room at nine o'clock; at a quarter to ten I stood face to face with Boyde.
The wind was driving a fine dry dust of snow before it, and all who could remained indoors. The streets were deserted; despite the nearness of Christmas, signs of bustle and the usual holiday crowd were absent. I walked very quickly to keep warm, an odd subconscious excitement in me. I seemed to know exactly where I was going, though, had anybody asked me, I could not have told them. Up 4th Avenue to 23rd Street, then west across Broadway, I passed 6th and 7th Avenues, with only one pause of a moment. At the corner of 7th Avenue I hesitated, uncertain whether to turn north, or to continue west towards 8th Avenue. A policeman was standing outside a saloon side-door, a man I had known in the Tombs police court; an Irishman, of course. I recognized him, He was friendly to me because I had used his name in a story; he remembered me now. I produced the tin-type photograph. He inspected it under the nearest electric light.
"Yep," he said, "I seen that feller only a few minutes back--half an hour maybe--only he's lifted his mustache."
"Shaved his moustache--yes?"
"That's what I said," as he handed back the tin-type. "Got a story?" he inquired the same instant. "Anything big doing?"
"Which way did he go?"
"Up-town," said the policeman, jerking his thumb in the direction north. "Up 8th Avenoo. And he was travellin' with a partner, a big feller, same size as yerself, I guess." He moved off to show he had no more to say. Any story that might result would be out of his beat. There was nothing in it for him. His interest vanished. I hurried on to the corner of 8th Avenue, the edge of a bad neighbourhood leading down through the negro quarter towards the haunts of the river-front, and there I paused again for a second or two.
I was still in 23rd Street, but I now turned up the Avenue. It was practically deserted, the street cars empty, few people on the pavements. The side-streets crossed it at right angles, poorly lit, running right and left into a world of shadows, but at almost every corner stood a brilliant saloon whose windows and glass doors poured out great shafts of light. Sometimes there were four saloons, one at each corner, and the blaze was dazzling. I passed 24th, 25th, 26th and 27th streets. There were little flurries of dry snow; I saw no one, nothing but empty silent sidewalks swept by the icy wind.
At 28th Street there were four saloons, one at each corner, and the blaze of light had a warm, enticing look. Through the blurred windows of the one nearest to me, the heads of the packed crowd inside as they lined up to the bar were just visible, and while I stood a moment, shivering in the icy wind, the comforting idea of a hot whisky came to me. For the wind cut like glass and neither my excitement nor the exercise had warmed me. I hesitated, standing against a huge electric light pole, in whose black shadow I was quite invisible. A hot whisky, I reflected, in this neighbourhood would cost 20 or 25 cents; I had 30 cents in my pocket; I needed the stimulant; I was very weak; I felt cold to the bone. But 25 cents was a lot of money, I might want a car-fare home besides ... and I was still hesitating when two tall figures emerged suddenly out of the dark side-street into the flood of light, swung sharp round the corner, and passed through the glass doors into the saloon. The figures were two men, and the first of them was Boyde.
For a second my heart seemed to stop, then began immediately racing and beating violently. In that brilliant light I saw every detail sharply, Boyde and his companion, both mercilessly visible. The man I wanted wore a big horsy overcoat of light-coloured box-cloth with large white buttons, the velvet collar turned up about his ears. The other man I did not know; he was taller than Boyde and wore no overcoat; he was the "partner travellin' with him" mentioned by the policeman. His gait was unsteady, he reeled a little.
The clamour of noisy voices blared out a moment into the street before the doors swung to again, and I stood quite still for an appreciable time, blotted out of sight in my black shadow. Had I not hesitated a moment to reflect about that hot whisky I should have passed, my figure full in the blaze, just in front of the two men, who would have waited in the dark side-street till I was safely out of sight.
The state of my nerves, I suppose, was pretty bad, and the lack of my customary evening dose accentuated it. I know, anyhow, that at first I realized one thing only--that I could never have the heart to arrest the fellow. This quickly passed, however; the racing of my blood passed too; determination grew fixed; I decided to act at once. But should I go in, or should I wait till they came out again? If I went in there would probably be a fight; Boyde's hulking companion would certainly take his side; the lightest blow in my weak state and I should be down and out. On the other hand, there was a side door, there were several side doors, and the couple might easily slip out, for I could not watch all the doors at once.
I decided to go in. And the moment the decision was taken, complete calmness came over me, so that I felt myself merely an instrument of fate. It was horrible, but it had to be. Boyde was to get the punishment he deserved. I could not fail.
The way the little scene was stage-managed seemed curious to me when it was all over, for as I moved out into the light, a couple of policemen came across the broad avenue behind and looked inquisitively at what must have seemed my queer behaviour. I immediately crossed to meet them, while never taking my eye off the swing-doors. A man who had just gone into that saloon, I told them, was to be arrested.
"That so?" they asked with a grin, thinking me drunk, of course. "And what's he done to get all that?"
I told them I was a reporter on the Sun, that I was the complainant in the case, and that Detective Lawler of the 9th District had the warrant at headquarters. They could telephone to him if they liked. They listened, but they would not do anything. I could telephone to Lawler myself; they weren't going to act without a warrant. They finally agreed to wait outside and "see fair play," if I would go in and fetch "the guy" out into the street. "We'll stop any trouble," they said, "and take him to the station if you make a complaint." I agreed to this and walked in through the swing-doors.
The saloon was crowded, the heat wonderful, the bars thronged with men in all stages of intoxication; bartenders in white jackets flew to and fro; business was booming, and at the least sign of a row, everybody, more or less, would have joined in. This general impression, however, was only in the background of my mind. What filled it was the fact that Boyde was looking at me, staring straight into my eyes, but in the mirror. The instant the doors swung to I had caught his reflection in the long glass behind the bar. Across this bar, a little space on either side of him, he was leaning on both elbows, his face resting in one hand. The eye-glass--it was asking for trouble to wear it in such a place--had been discarded. He was alone. His back, of course, was towards me.
For a few seconds we stared at one another in this way, and then, as I walked down the long room, pushing between the noisy crowd, he slowly turned. I reached him. A faint smile appeared on his face. He evidently did not know quite what to do, but a hand began to move towards me. He thought, it seemed, I was going to shake hands, whereas I thought he was probably going to hit me. Instead my hand went to his shoulder.
"Boyde," I said, keeping my voice low, "I want you. You're going to be--arrested."
The smile died out, and an awful looked[** "look"?] rushed into his eyes. His face turned the colour of chalk. At first I felt sure he was going to land me a blow in the face, but the abrupt movement of his body was merely that he tried to steady himself against the bar, for I saw his hand grip the rail and cling to it. The same second his features began to work.
"I've got to arrest you," I repeated. "It's Karma. You had better come quietly."
"Karma----" he repeated in a dazed way and stared. He was bewildered, incredulous still.
The same second, however, he grasped that it was serious, my face and voice and manner doubtless warned him. This, at last, was real; he suddenly knew it. The expression of appeal poured up instantly into his eyes, those big, innocent, blue eyes where I had so often seen it before. Only now there was no moustache, and the brutal cunning mouth was bare. He began to speak at once, keeping his voice low, for several people were already interested in us. He used his softest and most pleading tone. With that, too, I was thoroughly familiar.
"Blackwood--for God's sake let me go. I'm off to England to-morrow on a White Star boat. I'm working my passage over. For the love of God--for my mother's sake----!"
I cut him short. The falseness, the cowardice, the treachery all working in his face at once, sickened me. At the same time an aching pity rose. I felt miserable.
"You must come out with me. At once."
He turned quickly and looked about him, his eyes taking in everything. Some men beside us had heard our talk and were ready to interfere. "What's your trouble?" one of them asked thickly. I realized we must get away at once, out into the street, though the scene had barely lasted two minutes yet.
"There's a policeman waiting outside," I went on. "You'd better come quietly. A row won't help you." But I said it louder than I thought, for several heads turned towards the swing-doors. The effect on Boyde, however, was hardly what I expected, and seemed strange. He wilted suddenly. I believe all thought of resistance or escape went out of him when he heard the word "police." His jaw dropped, there was suddenly no expression in his eyes at all. A complete blankness came into his features. It was horrible. He's got no soul, I thought. He merely stared at me.
"Whose is that overcoat?" I asked, feeling sure it was not his own. I already had him by the arm.
"Roper's," he said quietly, his voice gone quite dead. "Here he is." His face was still like a ghost's. It was blank as stone.
I had quite forgotten the companion, but at that same moment I saw Roper hovering up beside me. His attitude was threatening, he was three-parts drunk; a glance showed me he was an Englishman, and obviously, by birth, a gentleman.
"Roper, if you want your coat, you'd better take it. Boyde is under arrest."
"Arrest be damned!" Roper cried in a loud voice that everybody heard. There was already a crowd about us, but this increased it. Roper was looking me over. He glared with anger. "You're that cad Blackwood, I suppose, are you? I've heard about you. I know your whole damned rotten story and the way you've treated Boyde. But Boyde's a friend of mine. No one can do anything to him while I'm here...!"
He roared and shouted in that crowded bar-room, while the whole place looked on and listened, ready to interfere at the first sign of "a fuss." A blow, a little push even, would have laid me out, and in the general scuffle or free fight that was bound to follow, Boyde could have got clear away--but neither he nor Roper thought of this apparently. Roper went on pouring out his drunken abuse, lurching forward but never actually touching me, while Boyde stood perfectly still and listened in silence. He made no attempt to shake off my hand even. I suddenly then leaned over and spoke into his ear:
"If you come quietly at once it's only petit larceny--stealing the money. Otherwise it's forgery."
It acted like magic. An expression darted back into his face. He turned, told Roper to shut up, said something to the crowd about its being only a little misunderstanding, and walked without another word towards the doors. I walked beside him, the men made a way; a few seconds later we were in the street. Roper, who had waited to finish his drink, and was puzzled besides by the quick manœuvre, lurched at some distance after us. The two policemen, who had watched the scene through the windows, stood waiting. Boyde swayed against me when he saw them. I marched him up to the nearest one. "I make a charge of larceny against this man, and the warrant is at Mulberry Street with Detective Lawler. I am the complainant." They told him he was under arrest, and we began our horrible little procession to the station in West 21st Street.
Boyde was between the two policemen, I was next to the outside one, on the kerb, Roper came reeling in the rear, shouting abuse and threats into my face. The next time I saw Roper was in the court of General Sessions, weeks later, when Boyde was brought up for trial. By that time he had learned the truth; he came up and apologized. Boyde, he told me, had swindled him even more completely than he had swindled me.
The search in the station made me sick at heart; every pocket was turned out; there was 80 dollars in cash; the sergeant used filthy language. Boyde was taken down to a cell, and I, as a newspaper reporter, was allowed to go down with him. I stayed for two hours, talking through the bars.
It was two in the morning when the sergeant turned me out after a dreadful conversation, and when I reached home, to find Kay sitting up anxiously still, I was too exhausted, from cold, excitement and hunger, to tell him more than a bare outline of it all. I had to appear at eight o'clock next morning and make my formal charge against Boyde, in the Tombs Police Court—the Tombs, of all places!—and with that thought in my mind I fell asleep.