The Masked Woman. Johnston McCulley

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      “You have averaged $5,000 a year? Young man, I am a scientist of wide reputation, I work hard and study continually, and my remuneration is $2,500 a year.”

      “Gosh!”

      “I have been studying criminals and criminology for some years, I have read all the fiction of that sort that is published. It has come to my mind that most criminals fail because they do not use their brains. As to the question of right and wrong, that does not trouble me. A scientist such as myself is above the law. For some time I have been contemplating a certain step, and I feel that this — er — visit of yours points to me the way — ”

      “I don’t quite get this!” said the Brute.

      “Crime as a business should lead to rich rewards, especially at this time when the average peace officer is a man of but ordinary intelligence. I have studied, I may remark, the methods of criminals and police­men, and there are glaring errors in both. If a man in excellent physical condition applied science to thiev­ery, he would undoubtedly outwit his foes. The adventure would be commensurate with the monetary reward, also. May I ask your name?”

      “I ain’t mentionin’ names,” Brute Wilger said quickly and with sudden suspicion.

      “Quite so! I can understand your reluctance, of course. But I assure you that I have no ulterior motive in asking. We may meet again soon, under different circumstances, and I then should like to renew our acquaintance begun so happily to­night.”

      “Where’ll we ever meet again?” the Brute asked.

      “Who knows? Perhaps in some dark corner of that peculiar country designated as the underworld. I feel that I have come to the bank of a sort of Rubicon — and this very day I shall hurl myself into the flood and swing to the other shore. I intend to give up my classes and become a criminal.”

      CHAPTER II

      An Unfair Fight

      “Red” Riley, disregarding warnings given him by certain gentlemen connected with the police, had dared travel uptown and steal a purse.

      The picking of pockets was only a sideline with “Red” Riley, who was known to the underworld professionally as a burglar, a gangster, and a thug. He picked pockets only when funds were needed to tide him over until a “crib” could be “cracked.”

      Having picked the pocket while in the midst of a jostling theater crowd, “Red” Riley — the “leather” still in his possession — had observed the approach of a city detective to whom he was well known.

      Into the subway he darted and was fortunate enough to board an express for downtown immediately. Far downtown, he left the train and ascended to the street. He hurried for half a dozen blocks until he had reached a dark cross-street well known to him and his kind.

      Certainly, it was an unfortunate sight. Ap­proach­ing him was another city detective to whom he was known. Riley could not continue along the street without running into the detective and dan­ger; he could not retreat swiftly without at­tract­ing attention and rousing suspicion and causing pursuit. He came to the mouth of a poorly lighted alley, and darted down it.

      Here and there in the alley were little doors with dirty electric light bulbs glowing over them. “Red” Riley knew them for what they were — side entrances to cheap saloons, cheaper lodging-houses. His only chance of immediate escape, he knew, would be to enter one of the doors before the detective reached the mouth of the alley.

      He did not hesitate. He opened the first door and darted inside, closing the door softly behind him. And then he whirled around and regarded the interior of the place.

      He saw instantly that he had made a sad mistake, that this was not the place he would have selected, had there been time to make a selection. Being a gangster, “Red” Riley had foes — and he had invaded one of their dens.

      Mean, snarling faces were before him. He found himself in a little room where there were a dozen cheap tables scattered around. The walls were stained with liquor, the place reeked with tobacco smoke, the floor was half covered with dirt.

      “Red” Riley gulped once and then stepped away from the door and into the brighter light. Voices had ceased upon his entrance; these men merely glanced at him, waited for word or his action.

      A soft voice came from the corner of the room.

      “Moll buzzer!”

      There was a wealth of disgust in the two words. “Red” Riley was a gangster, a burglar, a man of parts in the underworld. And to call him a “moll buzzer,” a robber of women, a man without courage enough to steal from other men, was the limit of insult as “Red” Riley understood it.

      He whirled angrily, his face flaming again, his chin thrust out, his eyes glittering like those of a snake.

      “If that crack was made at me,” he snapped, “suppose the gent that made it stands up and lets me get a good look at his ugly mug!”

      There was silence for an instant, and then a chair scraped against the floor again, and a man stood up. He was “Shifty” Slade, gang chief, the most cruel and most formidable in the city.

      Slade walked forward to within ten feet of him, his fists upon his hips, a sneer upon his face.

      “I made the crack, Riley!” he said. “And I made it straight at you. I say you’re a moll buzzer, a guy with no nerve, a third-rate dip tryin’ to pose as a burglar. And I’m waitin’ to see what you’re goin’ to do about it!”

      That meant fight. One of the gangsters rushed to the alley door to prevent outsiders entering; two others hurried to the swinging doors for the same reason. “Red” Riley hurled his cap to the floor, ­bellowed like a bull, and launched himself forward.

      He had not expected to have an easy time of it, and he did not. “Shifty” Slade was a match for him physically. They en­tered in the middle of the room, and Slade’s one shout to his friends was to the effect that this was his personal fight, a duel between gang leaders, and that he was not asking for help and did not expect any to be offered.

      For five minutes it endured, and then Slade began to give ground a little.

      Riley caught the flash of a knife. He grappled with his man, seized his wrist and beat it across one of his knees, trying to break it. He did not succeed, but Slade dropped the knife, and it clattered to the floor.

      The gangsters were murmuring louder now, and Riley knew by glancing at their faces that they did not take kindly to seeing their new leader beaten. There would be no shooting, Riley knew — for these men did not carry revolvers or automatics unless they were out to perform certain work. But they had knives and could use them. Riley did not doubt that any man in that room would hand Slade another knife if he got the opportunity. He caught Slade again, bent him backward, smashed his fist at the man’s face. The growls of those against Riley was increased; they snarled and drew closer. And then they rushed!

      “Red” Riley hurled Slade against the foremost of them, checking their advance, but the others rushed on. They piled against him, tried to overwhelm him, tried to get in blows with fists and knives. Riley supposed that this was to be the end. He was fighting a losing battle, he knew.

      And then somebody hurled himself through the swinging СКАЧАТЬ