The Man With the Mole/Chapter 8
CHAPTER VIII.
THE END OF BALDY.
SPERRY swung down the main street of Longfield at nine o’clock, bag in hand, his disguise retouched, and enlarged upon, so that he felt confident of not being recognized. He passed the bank and glanced in. Back of the main floor he could see the wide corridor behind the bronze grating where the safety-deposit boxes and the door of the great vault were clearly visible night and day. All looked as usual. He passed the watchman and went back to the stage. Two men were pottering about with saw and hammer, making a noise but doing nothing definite. One of them challenged him. It was Curly Conklin, the killer who had tried to pistol Baldy. He did not recognize Sperry, and was satisfied with his answers.
“They’re prit’ nigh ready for us,” he said. “They was right under the floor last night. Truck’s to be here at eleven sharp. And, let me tell you, it’ll be some haul. They say this is the last trick for a while, and it’ll be a good one.”
Sperry wondered how they could expect to get away with the loot inside of two hours, with no present signs of disturbance in the bank’s interior.
“Are they going through the vault floor?” he asked Curly.
“Not much. It’s a foot of steel and concrete. Couldn’t make a hole big enough to work through there without giving the snap away. They’re coming up in front of the door and torching that. Didn’t you twig the picture? Say, that’s some job of painting, I’ll say. The guy that did it used to be wit’ a high-class opery company. You could stand a foot in front of it an’ not git wise. These hicks’ll stare when they git on termorrer.”
Sperry nodded.
“Good work,” he said. He knew now what it was. A canvas screen, painted to represent the perspective of the last few feet of the deposit box corridor and an exact representation of the vault door, was set a few feet in advance of the vault, and gave the safe-crackers ample room to work undisturbed while the occasional patrol passed and peered in, sure that all was well. There was no premises watchman in the bank. The utter publicity was relied on. And there had been inside work again to place the screen in position, he supposed.
He leaned up against the side of the curtain, smoking, till Curly admonished him to make some noise.
“Some guys might be rubberin’ an’ wonderin’ why they couldn’t hear nuttin’,” said the crook. “I’m tellin’ you this gang works down to the fine points. It’s a shame to bust it up. But the cops is gettin’ hep, they tell me.”
Presently a man appeared at the open trap in the stage and beckoned to them. Sperry followed the others down wooden steps, and then a ladder, to an earthen tunnel shored with timber, and so on up into the bank and back of the canvas screen, unpainted on that side, deftly fitted to the space. There was a smell of gas, acrid and choking, and Sperry smothered a cough. There was no sign of Baldy or of Remington, with or without his beard. The vault door was swung back, and he had no time to look for signs of the work of the oxy-acetylene torches that had been used. Some one gave a crisp command in a low whisper, and they began to carry out bags of coin and packages of bills.
Up on the stage two men started to place these in old lime barrels, stuffing the tops with excelsior. These were to be placed in the truck, Sperry gathered, together with odds and ends of scenery. There was a clock on the proscenium wall. The hands marked fifteen minutes of eleven.
Sperry looked at the great curtain, blank, unresponsive. What lay behind it? As he started for his second trip to the bank, a man stopped him.
“You ain’t needed,” he said. “It’s all on the way, Duke. Help with them barrels. The truck’ll be here any minute.”
Sperry fussed around with excelsior, watching the hands of the clock creep to ten and then to five minutes of the hour. There was a sound of wheels outside. He slipped over to the proscenium and touched the button.
Up went the big canvas silently. Some one shouted at him. “Here, what’re you doin’?” Then the voice died away.
In the stage boxes were men, covering the gang with revolvers; more in the orchestra, the muzzles of their guns showing in the border lights of the stage. A man was walking down the center aisle, a big man, with authority in his manner and in the two guns he aimed.
“Up with your hands, the lot of you!” he said. “Up with them, boys! No use trying the back door. There’s a truck there, but not the kind you were expecting.”
More men were behind him. They swarmed over the footlights and herded up the safe-crackers, taking charge of the barrels. The backdoors were opened and more detectives stood revealed, also a patrol wagon.
“Lord!” said the snarling voice of Curly Conkling, as he glared at the big man who was in charge of the raid. “It’s Jim Farrell.”
Sperry gave a second look at the detective who had once sent Curly up the river, and whom Curly had mistaken Baldy for, on that night in the alley. Farrell nodded at him curtly.
“You come with us,” he said.
Sperry found himself set on one side with two others. The rest were packed into the patrol wagon. The money was being taken back into the bank. Where was Baldy? What had gone wrong at the last moment?
One thing was certain. Sperry himself was in custody. To his surprise no one handcuffed him, though they wrist-manacled the two others, who, with him, were placed in two motor cars with the big man and his assistants. A third car, filled with plain-clothes men, followed them as they sped through Longfield out into the country. Sperry recognized the direction, and was soon sure that they were on the way to Swiftbrook Bowl.
They were going to apprehend Cairns! He felt a vicious delight in the thought. Why was he taken along? The others were doubtless members of the committee Baldy had spoken of. They must know his identity, and they wanted to use him in connection with his stepfather’s arrest! To that he was willing to subscribe, but he worried about Baldy, principally about Elizabeth.
The third car with the plain-clothes men went ahead of them as they reached the Cairns’ house, and the officers jumped from the vehicle and spread themselves about the residence. The big man got out at the front door with two other prisoners and two detectives. Those in Sperry’s car joined the group. Farrell spoke.
“I’m going to take off the cuffs, Slim, and off you, Jerry. But don’t try any monkey business. When Peters answers the door, you tell him everything’s O. K., and that you’re the committee, see? Once the door’s open, we’ll do the rest.” He turned to Sperry and caught him by the arm, pressing him out of sight. The detectives stood in the shadows as Slim rang the bell, conscious of automatics covering him, and gave his message to Peters, attired as a butler.
Then there was a swift rush, with Peters knocked down as he tried to pull a gun, a glimpse of Cairns stepping haughtily into the hall and turning ghastly pale under the electrics as Farrell called on him to throw up his hands. Sperry went with the rest into the library.
“The jig’s up, Cairns,” said Farrell. “We’ve got the goods on you. If you’ll slide back those wall panels so we can get the stuff from Marshall’s out of your safe, with a lot of other loot you’ve got there, you’ll save trouble for us all. Don’t lower your hands. We want you, not your corpse. Just tell us the combination; that’ll do.”
Cairns obeyed, trembling, but with rage. He wheeled on Slim and Jerry, his eyes blazing.
“You dirty stool pigeons!” he cried. “I’ll get you yet for this.”
“They are not the stool pigeons, Cairns,” said Farrell. “I’m the only original stool pigeon in this case, if you want to call me one—although your pal Remington was pretty nearly ready to squeal last night. We’ve had him tucked away safe for a few days, with Gallagher and Martin.”
He suddenly took off his hat, and with it came a wig of grayish hair, smiling as he did so. Sperry looked at him open-mouthed. Farrell’s head was nearly bald. But the teeth were dazzlingly white, and there was no mole. And yet?
Farrell smiled directly at him.
“I’m Baldy Brown, all right,” he said. “Cairns, let me introduce you to your stepson, Jack Sperry. He’s been on your payroll lately as Gentleman Manning, of Chi, also called The Duke.”