BOOKIE SKARVAN, alias the fat man in the taxicab who chewed on the butt of his cigar, leaned back in his seat, and nibbed his pudgy hands together in a sort of gratified self-applause.

“Baggage and all,” repeated Bookie Skarvan to himself. “I guess that's good enough—what? I guess that's where she's going to hang out, all right. And I guess the place looks the part! The Iron Tavern—eh?” He read the window sign, as his taxi rolled by. “Well, leave it to Bookie! I guess I'll blow back there by-and-by and register—if the rates ain't too high! But there ain't no hurry! I've been sticking around now for five years, and I guess I can take a few minutes longer just to make sure the numbers go up right on the board this time!”

Bookie Skarvan, with the adroit assistance of his tongue, shifted the cigar butt to the other corner of his mouth. He expectorated on the floor of the taxi—and suddenly frowned uneasily. He had had uneasy moments more than once on his late trip across the continent, but they were due, not so much to the fear that anything was wrong with his “dope-sheet,” as they were to the element of superstition which was inherent in him as a gambler—so far he had not had any luck with that hundred thousand dollars, in the theft of which he had been forestalled by Dave Henderson five years ago. That was what was the matter. He was leery of his luck.

He chewed savagely. He had an attack of that superstition now—but at least he knew the panacea to be employed. At times such as these he communed and reasoned patiently with himself. He communed with himself now.

“Sure, she knows where the money is! She's the dark horse, and the long shot—and I got the tip and the inside dope, ain't I? Sure, she's the play!” he reassured himself. “She hustled that funeral along something fierce. And she went tearing around like a wet hen raising money, letting things go and grabbing at any old price until she'd got enough to see her through, and then she suddenly locks the house up and beats it like hell. 'Twasn't natural, was it? She was in some hurry—believe me! What did she do it for—eh? Well, I'll tell you, Bookie—on the quiet. What Nicolo Capriano knew, she knew. And Nicolo Capriano wasn't the bird to let one hundred thousand dollars get as close to his claws as it did without him taking a crack at it. If you ask me, Nicolo pulled Dave Henderson's leg for the dope; and if you ask me, Nicolo was the guy who handed out that bomb, and he did it to bump Dave Henderson off—same as I figured to do once—and cop the loot for himself. Mabbe I'm wrong—but I guess I'm not. And I guess the odds weren't too rotten to stake a ride on across the country, I guess they weren't!”

Bookie lifted a fat hand, pushed back his hat, and scratched ruminatively at the hair over his right temple.

“Dave must have had a pal, or he must have slipped it to some one that time Baldy chased him in the car. It must have been that—he slipped it to some one during them days the bulls was chasing him, and whoever it was mabbe has been keeping it for him here in New York. So she beats it for New York—what? It don't figure out any other way. He didn't go nowhere and get it after he got out of prison, I know that. And he got killed the same night, and he didn't have it then. Sure, Capriano bumped him off! Sure, my hunch is good for the limit! Dave fell for the Lomazzi talk, and goes and puts his head on Nicolo's bosom so's to give the police the go-by, and Nicolo sucks the orange dry and heaves away the pip! And then the old geezer cashes in himself, and the girl flies the coop. Mabbe she don't know nothing about it”—Bookie Skarvan stuck his tongue in his cheek, and grinned ironically—“oh, no, mabbe she don't! And I guess there ain't any family resemblance between the old man and the girl, neither—eh?—oh, no, mabbe not!”

The taxi stopped abruptly. The chauffeur reached around and dexterously opened the door.

“Here you are!” he announced briefly.

Bookie Skarvan looked out—upon a very shabby perspective. With the sole exception of a frankly dirty and disreputable saloon, designated as “O'Shea's,” which faced him across the sidewalk, the neighborhood appeared to consist of nothing but Chinese tea-shops, laundries, restaurants, and the like; while the whole street, gloomy and ill-lighted, was strewn with unprepossessing basement entrances where one descended directly from the sidewalk to the cellar level below.

Bookie Skarvan picked up his hand-bag, descended to the sidewalk, paid and dismissed the chauffeur, and pushed his way in through the swinging doors of the saloon.

“I guess I ain't drinking—not here!” confided Bookie Skarvan to himself, as he surveyed the unkempt, sawdust-strewn floor and dirty furnishings, and a group of equally unkempt and hard-looking loungers that lined the near end of the bar. “No, I guess not,” said Bookie to himself; “but I guess it's the place, all right.”

He made his way to the unoccupied end of the bar. The single barkeeper that the place evidently boasted disengaged himself from the group of loungers, and approached Bookie Skarvan.

“Wot's yours?” he inquired indifferently.

Bookie Skarvan leaned confidentially over the rail, “I'm looking for a gentleman by the name of Smeeks,” he said, and his left eyelid drooped, “Cunny Smeeks.”

The barkeeper's restless black eyes, out of an unamiable and unshaven face, appraised Bookie Skarvan, and Bookie Skarvan's well-to-do appearance furtively.

“It's a new one on me!” he observed blandly. “Never heard of him!”

Bookie Skarvan shifted his cigar butt—with his tongue.

“That's too bad!” he said—and leaned a little further over the bar. “I've come a long way to see him. I'm a stranger here, and mabbe I've got the wrong place. Mabbe I've got the wrong name too”—Bookie Skarvan's left eyelid twitched again—“mabbe you'd know him better as the Scorpion?”

“Mabbe I would—if I knew him at all,” said the barkeeper non-committally. “Wot's your lay? Fly-cop?”

“You're talking now!” said Bookie Skarvan, with a grin. He pulled a letter from his pocket, and pushed it across the bar. “You can let the Scorpion figure out for himself how much of a fly-cop I am when he gets his lamps on that. And it's kind of important! Get me—friend?”

The barkeeper picked up the plain, sealed envelope—and twirled it meditatively in his hands for a moment, while his eyes again searched Bookie Skarvan's face.

“Youse seem to know yer way about!” he admitted finally, as though not unfavorably impressed by this later inspection.

Bookie Skarvan shoved a cigar across the bar.

“It's straight goods, colonel,” he said. “I'm all the way from 'Frisco, and everything's on the level. I didn't blow in here on a guess. Start the letter on its way, and let the Scorpion call the turn. If he don't want to see me, he don't have to. See?”

“All right!” said the barkeeper abruptly. “But I'm tellin' youse straight I ain't seen him to-night, an' I ain't sayin' he's to be found, or that he's stickin' around here anywhere.”

“I'll wait,” said Bookie Skarvan pleasantly.

The barkeeper walked down the length of the bar, disappeared through a door at the rear for a moment, and, returning, rejoined the group at the upper end of the room.

Bookie Skarvan waited.

Perhaps five minutes passed. The door at the rear of the bar opened slightly, the barkeeper sauntered down in that direction, and an instant later nodded his head over his shoulder to Bookie Skarvan, motioning him to come around the end of the bar.

“Cunny'll see youse,” he announced, stepping aside from the doorway to allow Bookie Skarvan to pass. “De Chink'll show youse de way.” He grinned suddenly. “I guess youse are on de level all right, or youse wouldn't be goin' where youse are!”

The door closed behind him, and Bookie Skarvan found himself in a narrow, dimly-lighted passage. A small, wizened Chinaman, in a white blouse, standing in front of him, smiled blandly.

“You fliend of Scorpy's—that allee same belly glood. You come,” invited the man, and scuffled off along the had.

Bookie Skarvan followed—and smiled to himself in complacent satisfaction. Cunny Smeeks, alias the Scorpion, was, if surroundings were any criterion, living up to his reputation—which was a not insignificant item on Bookie Skarvan's “dope-sheet”—as one of the “safest,” as well as one of the most powerful criminal leaders in the underworld of New York.

“Sure!” said Bookie Skarvan to himself. “That's the way I got the dope—and it's right!”

The passage swerved suddenly, and became almost black. Bookie Skarvan could just barely make out the flutter of the white blouse in front of him. And then the guide's voice floated back:

“Allee same stlairs here—you look out!”

Cautioned, Bookie Skarvan descended a steep flight of stairs warily into what was obviously, though it was too dark to see, a cellar. Ahead of him, however, there appeared, as through an opening of some sort, a faint glow of light again, and toward this the white blouse fluttered its way. And then Bookie Skarvan found himself in another passage; and a strange, sweetish odor came to his nostrils; and strange sounds, subdued whisperings, rustlings, the dull ring of metal like coin thrown upon a table, reached his ears. And there seemed to be doors now on either side, and curtained hangings, and it was soft and silent underfoot.

“I dunno,” observed Bookie Skarvan to himself. “I dunno—it ain't got much on 'Frisco, at that!”

The guide halted, and opened a door. A soft, mellow light shone out. Bookie Skarvan smiled knowingly. He was not altogether unsophisticated! A group of richly dressed Chinamen were absorbed in cards. Scarcely one of them looked up. Bookie Skarvan's eyes passed over the group almost contemptuously, and fixed on the only man in the room who was not playing, and, likewise, the only man present who was not an Oriental, and who, with hands in his pockets, and slouch hat pushed back from his forehead, stood watching the game—a man who was abnormally short in stature, and enormously broad in shoulder, who had hair of a violently aggressive red, and whose eyes, as he turned now to look toward the door, were of a blue so faded as to make them unpleasantly colorless.

Bookie Skarvan remained tentatively on the threshold. He needed no further introduction—no one to whom the man had been previously described could mistake Cunny Smeeks, alias the Scorpion.

The other came quickly forward now with outstretched hand.

“Any friend of Baldy Vickers is a friend of mine,” he said heartily. “You want to see me—-eh? Well, come along, cull, where we can talk.”

He led the way a little further down the passage, and into another room, and closed the door. The furnishings here were meager, and evidently restricted entirely to the votaries of poppy. There was a couch, and beside it a small tabouret for the opium smoker's paraphernalia.

The Scorpion pointed to the couch; and possessed himself of the tabouret, which he straddled.

“Sit down,” he invited. “Have a drink?”

“No,” said Bookie Skarvan. “Thanks just the same. I guess I won't take anything to-night.” He grinned significantly. “I'm likely to be busy.”

The Scorpion nodded.

“Sure—all right!” he agreed. “Well, we'll get to cases, then. Baldy says in his letter that you and him are in on a deal, and that you may want a card or two slipped you to fill your hand. What's the lay, and what can I do for you?”

“It's a bit of a long story.” Bookie Skarvan removed the cigar butt from his lips, eyed it contemplatively for a moment, finally flung it away, fished another cigar from his pocket, and, without lighting it, settled it firmly between his back teeth. “I got to be fair with you,” he said. “Baldy said he handed it to you straight in the letter, but I got to make sure you understand. We think we got a good thing, and, if it is, anything you do ain't going for nothing; but there's always the chance that it's a bubble, and that there's a hole gets kicked in it.”

“That's all right!” said Cunny Smeeks, alias the Scorpion, easily. “If there's anything coming I'll get mine—and I'm satisfied with any division that Baldy puts across. Baldy and me know each other pretty well. You can forget all that end of it—Baldy's the whitest boy I ever met, and what Baldy says goes with me all the way. Go ahead with the story—spill it!”

“The details don't count with you,” said Bookie Skarvan slowly; “and there's no use gumming up the time with them. The bet is that a nice, sweet, little Italian girl, that's just piked faster'n hell across the continent, knows where there's a hundred thousand dollars in cold cash, that was pinched and hidden five years ago by a fellow named Dave Henderson—see? Dave served his spaces, and got out a few days ago—and croaked—got blown up with a Dago bomb—get me? He didn't have no time to enjoy his wealth—kind of tough, eh? Well he stood in with this Italian girl's father, an old crook named Nicolo Capriano, and he went there the night he got out of prison. The way we got it doped out is that the old Italian, after getting next to where the money was, bumped off Dave Henderson himself—see? Then Nicolo dies of heart disease, and the girl hardly waits to bury the old man decently, and beats it for here—me trailing her on the same train. Well, I guess that's all—you can figure for yourself why we're interested in the girl.”

“I get you!” said the Scorpion, with a sinister grin. “It don't look very hard bucking up against a lone female, and I guess you can telegraph Baldy that he don't need to worry. What do you want—a bunch to pinch the girl, or a box-worker to crack a safe? You can have anything that's on tap—and I guess that ain't passing up many bets.”

Bookie Skarvan shook his head.

“I don't want either—not yet,” he said. “The girl ain't got the money yet, and there ain't anything to do but just watch her and keep her from getting scared until she either grabs it, or lets out where it is.” He leaned forward toward the Scorpion. “D'ye know a place, not far from here, that's called The Iron Tavern?” he demanded abruptly.

The Scorpion shrugged his shoulders.

“Everybody knows it!” he said caustically. “It's a dump! It's the rendezvous of the worst outfit of black-handers in America; and the guy that runs it, a fellow named Dago George, runs the gang, too—and he's some guy. But what's that got to do with it?”

“The girl's there,” said Bookie Skarvan tersely. “Oh, she is, eh?” There was a new and sudden interest in the Scorpion's voice.

“She went there from the train with her grips.” Bookie Skarvan's cigar grew restive in his mouth.

“Well, me, too, I'm for the same joint, only I don't want to take any chances of spilling the beans.”

“You mean you're afraid she'll pipe you off?”

“No,” said Bookie Skarvan. “No, I ain't afraid of that. She never got a peep at me on the train, and she only saw me once before in her life, and that time, besides it being dark and me being outside on the front doorstep, she was so scared I might have been a lamppost, for all she'd know me again. It was the night her old man croaked—see? No, I ain't afraid of her—but I couldn't afford to take any chances by blowing in there right after her. I wasn't afraid of her, but I had my fingers crossed on whoever ran the place, and I guess, after what you've said, that my hunch was right. It was a queer place for her to go right off the bat the minute she landed in New York, and she didn't go there instead of to a decent hotel just by luck—get me? I figured she might stand in there pretty thick—and if she did, and I blew in right on top of her, the betting odds were about one million dollars to a peanut that I'd be a sucker. I'm sure of it now that you say the fellow who runs it is a Dago in the same old line of business that her father was in. What?”

The Scorpion's pale blue eyes scrutinized Bookie Skarvan's face—and lighted with a curious benignity.

“You and Baldy make a pretty good combination, I guess!” he observed with dry admiration.

Bookie Skarvan indulged in his wheezy chuckle. “We've had a little luck together once in a while,” he admitted modestly. “Well, you get me, don't you? I've got to get into that Iron Tavern joint just the same. That's the first card we play. I figured that mabbe this Dago George would know you by reputation anyhow, and that you could fix it for me without it looking as though it were anything more than a friend of yours, say, who'd got into a little temporary difficulty with the police down in Baltimore, say, and was keeping quiet and retired for a few days till the worst of it blew over—and that you'd picked out his joint as the best bet for me.”

The Scorpion got up from his seat abruptly.

“Say,” he said cordially, “I'm glad I met you! That listens good! Sure! I guess I can fix that! Dago George and me ain't exactly pals, and we don't love each other any more than you'd notice—but he knows where he gets off with Cunny Smeeks! You wait a minute, and I'll get him on the phone.”

Cunny Smeeks, alias the Scorpion, of the Élite of the New York underworld, left the room. Bookie Skarvan sprawled negligently back on the couch. He smiled softly—and chewed contentedly on his cigar. Things were working well.

“There's nothing like credit in this wicked world,” Bookie Skarvan confided sapiently to himself. “I may have to run up quite a bill with Mr. Cunny Smeeks before I'm through, mabbe quite a fat little bill—but he can always send it to Baldy—if I'm not here! What? It's beginning to look good again. Five years I've been trying to get the grappling hook on that coin. It looks pretty good now, and I guess I can see it coming—and I guess I won't have to wait as long as Baldy will!” He wagged his head pleasantly. “I never was fond of San Francisco—and I always wanted to travel! Perhaps Baldy and Mr. Cunny Smeeks won't be such good friends by-and-by. I dunno! I only know that Bookie Skarvan won't be sticking around to see them go into mourning for their share of that hundred thousand that they think they're going to get—not so's you'd observe it!”

Bookie Skarvan's eyes swept the den indifferently and without interest. They fastened finally on the toe of his own boot. The minutes passed, and as they passed a scowl came gradually to Bookie Skarvan's face, and a fat hand in a sudden nervous gesture went to his forehead and brushed across his eyes. His thoughts seemed to have veered into a less pleasant channel.

“Yes,” he muttered, “you can take it from me that I ain't sorry Dave Henderson's dead—not very! He never saw all my cards, and that's the one hold Baldy had on me.” The room was apparently over-heated—for a fat man. A bead of sweat came out on Bookie Skarvan's forehead. He swore savagely. “You damn fool, can't you forget it! You're not afraid of a dead man now, are you!”

The Scorpion came back.

“Come on!” he said, from the doorway. “It's fixed! He put up a howl and wouldn't stand for it at first, and he kicked so hard that I guess he's in with the girl all right. He said he had no place to put anybody; but he came across all right—with a twist of the screws. You're a friend of mine, and your Baltimore spiel goes—see?” The pale blue eyes darkened suddenly. “You get what I've done, don't you? Dago George don't forgive easily, and if this thing busts open and Dago George tumbles to what I've handed him, I'm mabbe going to have a little gang war on my hands.”

“I get you!” said Bookie Skarvan earnestly, as he joined the other in the doorway. “And that goes into the bill at a hundred cents on the dollar—and you know Baldy well enough to know what that means.” The Scorpion laughed.

“Oh, well, it's nothing to worry about! As I told you, I've never been very fond of Dago anyhow, and I guess I can take care of anything he wants to start. There'd be only one of us in at the finish—and it wouldn't be Dago George! You can go the limit, and you'll find you've got the biggest backing—on any count—in little old New York! Well, come on over, and I'll introduce you.”

“Sure! That's the stuff!” said Bookie Skarvan, as he accompanied the other to the street. “Baldy said you were the real goods—and I guess I got to hand it to Baldy!” He chuckled suddenly and wheezingly, as they went down the block. “The Baltimore crook—eh? Me and Dago George! Leave it to me! I guess I can handle Dago George!”

And twenty minutes later, in a room on the third floor of The Iron Tavern, Bookie Skarvan, “handling” Dago George, laid a detaining hand on the proprietor's arm, as the latter was bidding him good-night.

“Look here,” whispered Bookie Skarvan. “I know you're on the level because Cunny Smeeks says so; but I got to lay low, damned low—savvy? I ain't for meeting people—not even for passing 'em out in the hall there. So how about it? Have I got neighbors? I ain't taking any chances.”

Dago George laid his forefinger along his nose—and smiled reassuringly.

“Ah, yes!” he said. “Yes, yes, I understand—eh? But you need have no fear. I do not take guests, except”—he shrugged his shoulders—“except—you understand, eh?—to oblige a friend like Cunny Smeeks. Otherwise”—again the shoulders lifted—“I would not have the so-great honor of offering you a room. Is it not so? Well, then, there is no one here, except”—he jerked his thumb toward the opposite door across the hall—“my niece, who will not trouble you; and in the next room to hers a friend of mine, who will not trouble you either. There is no one else. You need have no fear. I assure you, you need have no fear.”

Bookie Skarvan nodded.

“That's all right, then,” he said in a cordial and relieved tone.

“It's only that I got to be careful.”

He shook hands with Dago George, as the latter again bade him good-night. He closed his door, and sat down. The bulge of the protruding cigar butt metamorphosed what was intended for an amiable smile into an unlovely grimace.

“Niece—eh?” murmured Bookie Skarvan to himself. “Well, well—and in the room across the hall! I guess I won't go to bed just yet, not just yet—but I guess I'll put out the light.”