Traffic in Souls: A Novel of Crime and Its Cure

"Hum!" sniffed Lorna, "I don't doubt it. Written by old maids who could never attract a man, nor look pretty themselves. Well, none of the girls I know bother with such books: there are too many lively ones written nowadays. Call me when supper is ready, for I'm hungry."

And she adjusted her curls before flouncing into the bedroom to lose herself in the adventures of the patchouli heroine.

It was a quiet evening at the Barton home. The father was too engrossed to give more than abstracted heed, even to the appetizing meal. Mary forbore to interrupt his thoughts about the new machine. She felt a hesitation about narrating the afternoon's adventures of Bobbie Burke to Lorna, for the girl seemed estranged and eager only for the false romance of her novel. With Henrietta, Mary discussed the opportunities for work in the great city, already overcrowded with struggling girls. So convincing was she, the country lass decided that she would take the train next morning back to the little town where she could be safe from the excitement and the dangers of the city lure.

"I reckon I'm a scared country mouse," she declared. "But I'm old enough to know a warning when I get one. The Lord didn't intend me to be a city girl, or he wouldn't have given me this lesson to-day. I've got my old grand dad up home, and there's Joe Mills, who is foreman in the furniture factory. I think I'd better get back and help Joe spend his eighteen a week in the little Clemmons house the way he wanted me to do."

"You couldn't do a better thing in the world," said Mary, patting her hand gently as they sat in the cosy little kitchen. "Your little town would be a finer place to bring up little Joes and little Henriettas than this big city, wouldn't it? And I don't believe the right Joe ever comes but once in a girl's life. There aren't many fellows who are willing to share eighteen a week with a girl in New York."

Mary's guest blushed happily as the light of a new determination shone in her eyes. She opened a locket which she wore on a chain around her neck.

"I always thought Joe was nice, and all that – but I read these here stories about the city fellers, and I seen the pictures in the magazines, and thought Joe was a rube. But he ain't, is he?"

She held up the little picture, as she opened the locket, for Mary's scrutiny. The honest, smiling face, the square jaw, the clear eyes of Joe looked forth as though in greeting of an old friend.

"You can't get back to Joe any too quickly," advised Mary, and Henrietta wiped her eyes. She had received a homeopathic cure of the city madness in one brief treatment!

It was not a quiet evening for Officer 4434.

When he emerged from the Subway at Fourteenth Street a newsboy approached him with a bundle of papers.

"Uxtry! Uxtry!" shouted the youngster. "Read all about de cop and de millionaire dat captured de white slavers!"

The lad shoved a paper at Bobbie, who tossed him a nickel and hurried on, quizzically glancing at the flaring headlines which featured the name of Reggie Van Nostrand and his own. The quickly made illustrations, showing his picture, the machine of the young clubman, and the house of slavery were startling. The traditional arrow indicated "where the battle was fought," and Burke laughed as he studied the sensational report.

"Well, I look more like a gangster, according to this picture, than Jimmie the Monk! Those news photographers don't flatter a fellow very much."

At the station house he was warmly greeted by his brother officers. It was embarrassing, to put it mildly; Burke had no desire for a pedestal.

"Oh, quit it, boys," he protested. "You fellows do more than this every day of your lives. I'm only a rookie and I know it. I don't want this sort of thing and wish those fool reporters had minded their own business."

"That's all right, Bobbie," said Doctor MacFarland, who had dropped in on his routine call, "you'd better mind your own p's and q's, for you will be a marked man in this neighborhood. It's none too savory at best. You know how these gunmen hate any policeman, and now they've got your photograph and your number they won't lose a minute to use that knowledge. Keep your eyes on all points of the compass when you go out to-night."

"I'll try not to go napping, Doc," answered Burke gratefully. "You're a good friend of mine, and I appreciate your advice. But I don't expect any more trouble than usual."

After his patrol duty Burke was scheduled for a period on fixed post. It was the same location as that on which he had made the acquaintance of Jimmie the Monk and Dutch Annie several months before. As a coincidence, it began to storm, just as it had on that memorable evening, except that instead of the blighting snow blizzards, furious sheets of rain swept the dirty streets, and sent pedestrians under the dripping shelter of vestibules and awnings.

Burke, without the protection of a raincoat, walked back and forth in the small compass of space allowed the peg-post watcher, beating his arms together to warm himself against the sickening chill of his dripping clothes.

As he waited he saw a man come out of the corner saloon.

It was no other than Shultberger, the proprietor of the café and its cabaret annex. The man wore a raincoat, and a hat pulled down over his eyes. He came to the middle of the crossing and closely scrutinized the young policeman.

"Is dot you, Burke?" he asked gruffly.

"Yes, what do you want of me?"

"Veil, I joost vanted to know dat a good man vos on post to-night, for I expect troubles mit dese gun-men. Dey don't like me, und I t'ought I'd find out who vos here."

This struck 4434 as curious. He knew that Shultberger was the guardian angel of the neighborhood toughs in time of storm and trouble. Yet he was anxious to do his duty.

"What's the trouble? Are they starting anything?"

The saloon man shook his head as he started back to his café.

"Oh, no. But ve all know vot a fighter you vos to-day. De papers is full mit it. Dey've got purty picture of you, too. I joost vos skeered dot dey might pick on me because I vos always running a orderly place, und because I'm de frend of de police. I'll call you if I need you."

He disappeared in the doorway.

Burke watched him, thinking hard. Perhaps they were planning some deviltry, but he could not divine the purpose of it. At any rate he was armed with his night stick and his trusty revolver. He had a clear space in which to protect himself, and he was not frightened by ghosts. So, alert though he was, his mind was not uneasy.

He turned casually, on his heels, to look up the Avenue. He was startled to see two stocky figures within five feet of him. That quick right-about had saved him from an attack, although he did not realize it. The approach of the men had been absolutely noiseless.

The rain beat down in his face, and the men hesitated an instant, as though interrupted in some plan. It did not occur to Burke that they had approached him with a purpose.

He looked at them sharply, by force of habit. Their evil faces showed pallid and grewsome in the flickering light of the arc-lamp on the corner by Shultberger's place.

The two men glared at him shrewdly, and then passed on by without a word. They walked half way down the block, and Burke, watching them from the corner of his eye, saw them cross the street and turn into the rear entrance of Shultberger's cabaret restaurant.

"Well, he's having some high-class callers to-night," mused Burke. "Perhaps he'll need a little help after all."

Even as he thought this he heard a crash of broken glass, and he turned abruptly toward the direction of the sound.

The arc-light had gone out.

Burke walked across the street and fumbled with his feet, feeling the broken glass which had showered down near the base of the pole.

"I wonder what happened to that lamp? They don't burst of their own accord like this generally."

He walked back to his position. The street was now very dark, because the nearest burning arc-lamp was half a block to the south. As Burke pondered on the situation he heard footsteps to his left. He turned about and a familiar voice greeted him. It was Patrolman Maguire.

"Well, Burke, your sins should sure be washed away in this deluge! I thought that I'd step up a minute and give you a chance to go get some dry clothes and a raincoat. You've another hour on the peg before I relieve you, but hustle down to the station house and rig yourself up, me lad."

It was a welcome cheery voice from the dismal night shades. But Burke objected to the suggestion.

"No, Maguire, I'll stick it out. I think there's trouble brewing, and it's only sixty more minutes. You keep on your patrol. We both might get a call-down for changing."

"Well, begorra, if there's any call-down for a little humanity, I don't give a rap. You go get some dry clothes. I know Cap. Sawyer won't mind. You can be back here in five minutes. You've done enough to-day to deserve a little consideration, me boy. Hustle now!"

Burke was chilled to the marrow and his teeth chattered, even though it was a Spring rain, and not the icy blasts of the earlier post nights.

"Well, keep a sharp lookout for this crowd around Shultberger's, Mack!"

He yielded, and turned toward the station house with a quick stride. He had hardly gone half a block before Maguire had reason to remember the warning. A cry of distress came from the vestibule of Shultberger's front entrance. The lights of the saloon had been suddenly extinguished.

"Sure, and that's some monkey business," thought Maguire, as he ran toward the doorway.

He pounded on the pavement with his night stick, and the resonant sound stopped Burke's retreat to the station. Officer 4434 wheeled about and ran for the post he had just left.

Maguire had barely reached the doorway of the saloon when a revolver shot rang out, and the red tongue licked his face.

"Now we got 'im!" cried a voice.

"Kill the rookie!"

"That's Burke, all right!"

Maguire felt a stinging sensation in his shoulder, and his nightstick dropped with a thud to the sidewalk. Three figures pounded upon him, and again the revolver spoke. This time there was no fault in the aim. A gallant Irish soul passed to its final goal as the weapon barked for the third time.

Burke's heart was in his mouth; it was no personal fear, but for the beloved comrade whom he felt sure had stepped into the fate intended for himself. He drew his revolver as he ran, and swung his stick from its leathern handle thong resoundingly on the sidewalk as he raced toward the direction of the scuffle.

A short figure darted out from a doorway as he approached the corner and deftly stuck a foot forward, tripping the policeman.

"Beat it, fellers!" called this adept, whose voice Burke recognized as that of Jimmie the Monk. It was a clever campaign which the gangsters had laid out, but their mistake in picking the man cost them dearly.

As he called, the Monk darted down the street for a quick escape, feeling confident that his enemy was lying dead in the doorway on the corner. Burke forgot the orders of the Mayor against the use of fire-arms; his mind inadvertently swung into the fighting mood of the old days in the Philippines, when native devils were dealt justice as befitted their own methods.

He had fallen heavily on the wet pavement, and slid. But, at the recognition of that evil voice, he rolled over, and half lying on the pavement he leveled his revolver at the fleeting figure of the gang leader.

Bang! One shot did the work, and Jimmie the Monk crumpled forward, with a leg which was never again to lead in another Bowery "spiel" or club prize fight.

"He's fixed," thought Burke, and he sprang up, to run forward to the vestibule of Shultberger's. There he found the body of Maguire sprawled out, with the blood of the Irish kings mingling with the rainwater on the East Side street.

One man was hiding in the doorway's shelter. Another was scuttling down the street, to run full into the arms of an approaching roundsman.

As Burke stooped over the form of his comrade a black-jack struck his shoulder. He sprang upward, partially numbed from the blow, but summoning all his strength he caught the gangster by the arm and shoulder and flung him bodily through the glass door which smashed with a clatter.

Burke kicked at the door as he fought with the murderer, and his weight forced it open.

A whisky bottle whizzed through the air from behind the bar. Shultberger was in the battle. Burke's night stick ended the struggle with his one assailant, and he ran for the long bar, which he vaulted, as the saloon-keeper dodged backward. Another revolver shot reverberated as the proprietor retreated. But, at this rough and tumble fight, Burke used the greatest fighting projectile of the policeman; he threw the loaded night stick with unerring aim, striking Shultberger full in the face. The man screamed as he fell backward.

Half a dozen policemen had surrounded the saloon by this time, and Burke fumbled around until he found the electric light switch near the cash register. He threw a flood of light on the scene of destruction.

Shultberger, pulling himself up to his knees, his face and mouth gory from the catapult's stroke, moaned with agony as he clawed blindly. Patrolman White was tugging at the gangster who had been knocked unconscious by Burke's club. Outside two of the uniformed men were reverently lifting the corpse of Terence Maguire, who was on his Eternal Fixed Post.

"Have … have you sent … for an ambulance?" cried Bobbie.

"Yes, Burke," said the sergeant, who had examined the dead man. "But it's too late. Poor Mack, poor old Mack!"

A patrol wagon was clanging its gong as the driver spurred the horses on. Captain Sawyer dismounted from the seat by the driver. The bad news had traveled rapidly. Suddenly Burke, remembering the fleeing Jimmie, dashed from the saloon, and forced his way through the swarming crowd which had been drawn from the neighboring tenements by the excitement.

"Is the boy crazy?" asked Sawyer. "Hurry, White, and notify the Coroner, for I don't intend to allow Terence Maguire to lie in this rotten den very long."

Burke ran along the wet street, looking vainly for the wounded gang-leader. Jimmie was not in sight! Burke went the entire length of the block, and then slowly retraced his steps.

He scrutinized every hallway and cellar entrance.

At last his vigilance was rewarded. Down the steps, beneath a half-opened bulkhead door, he found his quarry.

The Monk was moaning with pain from a shattered leg-bone.

Burke clambered down and tried to lift the wounded man.

"Get up here!" he commanded.

"Oh, dey didn't get ye, after all!" cried Jimmie, recognizing his voice. He sank his teeth in the hand which was stretched forth to help him. Burke swung his left hand, still numb from the black-jack blow on his shoulder, and caught the ruffian's nose and forehead. A vigorous pull drew the fellow's teeth loose with a jerk.

"Well, you dog!" grunted the policeman, as he dragged the gangster to the street level. "You'll have iron bars to bite before many hours, and then the electric chair!"

Jimmie's nerve went back on him.

"Oh, Gaud! Dey can't do dat! I didn't do it. I wasn't dere!"

Burke said nothing, but holding the man down to the pavement with a knee on his back, he whistled for the patrol wagon.

The prisoners were soon arraigned, Shultberger, Jimmie the Monk and the first gangster were sent to the hospital shortly after under guard. The second runner, who had been caught by White, was searched, and by comparison of the weapons and the empty chambers of each one the police deduced that it was he who had fired the shots which killed Maguire. The entire band, including the saloon-keeper, were equally guilty before the law, and their trial and sentencing to pay the penalty were assured.

But back in the station house, late that night, the thought of punishment brought little consolation to a heart-broken corps of policemen.

Big, husky men sobbed like women. Death on duty was no stranger in their lives; but the loss of rollicking, generous Maguire was a bitter shock just the same.

And next morning, as Burke read the papers, after a wretched, sleepless night, he saw the customary fifteen line article, headed: "ANOTHER POLICEMAN MURDERED BY GANGSTERS." Five million fellow New Yorkers doubtless saw the brief story as well, and passed it by to read the baseball gossip, the divorce news, or the stock quotations – without a fleeting thought of regret.

It was just the same old story, you know.

Had it been the story of a political boss's beer-party to the bums of his ward; had it been an account of Mrs. Van Astorbilt's elopement with a plumber; had it been the life-story of a shooting show girl; had it been the description of the latest style in slit skirts; had it been a sarcastic message from some drunken, over-rated city official; had it been a sympathy-squad description of the hardships and soul-beauties of a millionaire murderer it would have met with close attention.

But what is so stale as the oft-told, ever-old yarn of a policeman's death?

"What do we pay them for?"

CHAPTER XIII
LORNA'S QUEST FOR PLEASURE

In the same morning papers Burke saw lengthy notices of the engagement of Miss Sylvia Trubus, only child of William Trubus, the famous philanthropist, to Ralph Gresham, the millionaire manufacturer of electrical machinery.

"There, that should interest Mr. Barton. His ex-employer is marrying into a very good family, to put it mildly, and Trubus will have a very rich son-in-law! I wonder if she'll be as happy as I intend to make Mary when she says the word?"

He cut one of the articles out of the paper, putting it into his pocket to show Mary that evening. He had a wearing and sorrowful day; his testimony was important for the arraignment of the dozen or more criminals who had been rounded up through his efforts during the preceding twenty-four hours. The gloom of Maguire's death held him in its pall throughout the day in court.

He hurried uptown to meet Mary as she left the big confectionery store at closing time.

Mary had been busy and worried through the day. At noon she had gone to the station to bid goodbye to Henrietta Bailey, who was now well on her way to the old town and Joe.

As the working day drew to a close Mary was kept busy filling a large order for a kindly faced society woman and her pretty daughter.

"You have waited on me several times before," she told Mary, "and you have such good taste. I want the very cutest bon-bons and favors, and they must be delivered up on Riverside Drive to our house in time for dinner. You know my daughter's engagement was announced in the papers to-day, while we had intended to let it be a surprise at a big dinner party to-night. Well, the dear girl is very happy, and I want this dinner to give her one of the sweetest memories of her life."

Mary entered into the spirit with zest, and being a clever saleswoman, she collected a wonderful assortment of dainty novelties and confections, while the manager of the store rubbed his hands together gleefully as he observed the correspondingly wonderful size of the bill.

"There, that should help the jollity along," said Mary. "I hope I have pleased you. I envy your daughter, not for the candies and the dinner, but for having such a mother. My mother has been dead for years."

The tears welled into her eyes, and the customer smiled tenderly at her.

"You are a dear girl, and if ever I have the chance to help you I will; don't forget it. I am so happy myself; perhaps selfishly so. But my life has been along such even lines, such a wonderful husband, and such a daughter. I am so proud of her. She is marrying a young man who is very rich, yet with a strong character, and he will make her very happy I am sure. Well, dear, I will give you my address, for I wish you would see personally that these goodies are delivered to us without delay."

Mary took her pad and pencil.

"Mrs. William Trubus – Riverside Drive."

The girl's expression was curious; she remembered Bobbie's description of the husband. It hardly seemed possible that such a man could be blessed with so sweet a wife and daughter – but such undeserved blessings seem too often to be the unusual injustice of Fate in this twisted, tangled old world, as Mary well knew.

"All right, Mrs. Trubus; I shall follow your instructions and will go to the delivery room myself to see that they are sent out immediately."

"Good afternoon, my dear," and Mrs. Trubus and her happy daughter left the store.

Mary was as good as her word, and she made sure that the several parcels were on their way to Riverside Drive before she returned to the front of the store. When she did so she saw a little tableau, unobserved by the busy clerks and customers, which made her heart stand still.

Lorna was standing by one of the bon-bon show cases talking to a tall stranger who ogled her in bold fashion, and a manner which indicated that the conversation was far from that of business.

"Who can that be?" thought Mary. An intuition of danger crept over her as she watched the shades of sinister suggestion on the face of the man who whispered to her sister.

The man was urging, Lorna half-protesting, as though refusing some enticing offer.

Mary stepped closer, and the deep tones of the stranger's voice filled her with a thrill of loathing. It was a voice which she felt she could never forget as long as she lived.

"Come up to my office with me when you finish work and I'll book you up this very evening. The show will open in two weeks, and I will give you a speaking part, maybe even one song to sing. You know I'm strong for you, little girl, and always have been. My influence counts a lot – and you know influence is the main thing for a successful actress!"

Mary could stand it no longer.

She touched Lorna on the arm, and the younger girl turned around guiltily, her eyes dropping as she saw her sister's stern questioning look.

"Who is this man, Lorna?"

The stranger smiled, and threw his head back defiantly.

"A friend of mine."

"What does he want?"

"That is none of your affair, Mary."

"It is my affair. You are employed here to work, not to talk with men nor to flirt. You had better attend to your work. And, as for you, I shall complain to the manager if you don't get out of here at once!"

The stranger laughed softly, but there was a brutal twitch to his jaw as he retorted: "I'm a customer here, and I guess the manager won't complain if I spend money. Here, little girlie, pick me out a nice box of chocolates. The most expensive you have. I'm going to take my sweetheart out to dinner, and I am a man who spends his money right. I'm not a cheap policeman!"

Mary's face paled.

Her blood boiled, and only the breeding of generations of gentlewomen restrained her from slapping the man's face. She watched Lorna, who could not restrain a giggle, as she took down a be-ribboned candy box, and began to fill it with chocolate dainties.

"Oh, if Bobbie were only here!" thought Mary in despair. "This man is a villain. It is he who has been filling Lorna's mind with stage talk. I don't believe he is a theatrical man, either. They would not insult me so!"

The manager bustled about.

"Closing time, girls. Get everything orderly now, and hurry up. You know, the boss has been kicking about the waste light bills which you girls run up in getting things straight at the end of the day."

Mary turned to her own particular counter, and she saw the big man leave the store, as the manager obsequiously bowed him out.

In the wardrobe room where they kept their wraps, Mary took Lorna aside. Her eyes were flaming orbs, as she laid a trembling hand upon the girl's arm.

"Lorna, you are not going to that man's office?"

"Oh, not right away," responded her sister airily. "We are going to Martin's first for a little dinner, and maybe a tango or two. What's that to you, Mary? Stick to your policeman."

Mary dropped her hand weakly. She put on her hat and street-coat, hardly knowing what she was doing.

"Oh, Lorna, child, you are so mistaken, so weak," she began.

"I'm not weak, nor foolish. A girl can't live decently on the money they pay in this place. I'm going to show how strong I am by earning a real salary. I can get a hundred a week on the stage with my looks, and my voice, and my … figure…"

In spite of her bravado she hesitated at the last word. It was a little daring, even to her, and she was forcing a bold front to maintain her own determination, for the girl had hesitated at the man's pleadings until her sister's interference had piqued her into obstinacy.

"It won't hurt to find out how much I can get, even if I don't take the offer at all," Lorna thought. "I simply will not submit to Mary's dictation all the time."

Lorna hurried to the street, closely followed by her sister.

"Don't go, dear," pleaded Mary.

But there by the curb panted a big limousine, such as Lorna had always pictured waiting for her at a stage door; the big man smiled as he held open the door. Lorna hesitated an instant. Then she espied, coming around the corner toward them, Bobbie Burke, on his way to meet Mary.

That settled it. She ran with a laugh toward the door of the automobile and flounced inside, while the big man followed her, slamming the portal as the car moved on.

"Oh, Bob," sobbed Mary, as the young officer reached her side. "Follow them."

"What's the matter?"

"Look, that black automobile!"

"Yes, yes!"

"Lorna has gone into it with a theatrical manager. She is going on the stage!" and Mary caught his hand tensely as she dashed after the car.

It was a hopeless pursuit, for another machine had already come between them. It was impossible for Burke to see the number of the car, and then it turned around the next corner and was lost in the heavy traffic.

"Oh, what are we to do?" exclaimed Mary in despair.

"Well, we can go to all the theatrical offices, and make inquiries. I have my badge under my coat, and they will answer, all right."

They went to every big office in the whole theatrical district. But there, too, the search was vain. Mary was too nervous and wretched to enjoy the possibility of a dinner, and so Burke took her home. Her father asked for Lorna, to which Mary made some weak excuse which temporarily quieted the old gentleman.

Promising to keep up his search in restaurants and offices, Burke hurried on downtown again. It was useless. Throughout the night he sought, but no trace of the girl had been found. When he finally went up to the Barton home to learn if the young girl had returned, he found the old man frantic with fear and worriment.

"Burke, some ill has befallen the child," he exclaimed. "Mary has finally told me the truth, and my heart is breaking."

"There, sir, you must be patient. We will try our best. I can start an investigation through police channels that will help along."

"But father became so worried that we called up your station. The officer at the other end of the telephone took the name, and said he would send out a notice to all the stations to start a search."

"Great Scott! That means publicity, Miss Mary. The papers will have the story sure, now. There have been so many cases of girls disappearing lately that they are just eager for another to write up."

Mary wrung her hands, and the old man chattered on excitedly.

"Then if it is publicity I don't care. I want my daughter, and I will do everything in the world to get her."

Burke calmed them as much as he could, but if ever two people were frantic with grief it was that unhappy pair.

Bobbie hurried on downtown again, promising to keep them advised about the situation.

After he left Mary went to her own room, and by the side of the bed which she and the absent one had shared so long, she knelt to ask for stronger aid than any human being could give.

If ever prayer came from the depths of a broken heart, it was that forlorn plea for the lost sister!

All through the night they waited in vain.

The first page of every New York paper carried the sensational story of the disappearance of Lorna Barton. Not that such a happening was unusual, but in view of the white slavery arrests and the gang fight in which Bobbie Burke had figured so prominently; his partial connection with the case, and those details which the fertile-minded reporters could fill in, it was full of human interest, and "yellow" as the heart of any editor could desire.

Pale and heart-sick Mary went down to Monnarde's next morning. The girls crowded about her in the wardrobe room, some to express real sympathy, others to show their condescension to one whom they inwardly felt was far superior in manners, appearance and ability.

Mary thanked them, and dry-eyed went to her place behind the counter. For reasons best known to himself, the manager was late in arriving that morning. The minutes seemed century-long to Mary as she hoped against hope.

A surprisingly early customer was Mrs. Trubus, who came hurrying in from her big automobile. She went to Mary's counter and observed the girl's demeanor.

"Dear, was it your sister that I read about in the paper this morning?" she inquired.

"Yes," very meekly. Mary tried to hold back the tears which seemed so near the surface.

"I am so sorry. I remembered that you once spoke of your sister when you were waiting on me. The paper said that she worked here at Monnarde's, and I remembered my promise of yesterday that I would do anything for you that I could. Mr. Trubus is greatly interested in philanthropic work, and of course what I could do would be very small in comparison to his influence. But if there is a single thing…"

"There's not, I'm afraid. Oh, I'm so miserable – and my poor dear old daddy!"

Even as she spoke the manager came bustling into the store. He had evidently passed an uncomfortable night himself, although from an entirely different cause. In his hand he bore the morning paper, which he just bought outside the door from one of several newsboys who stood there shouting about the "candy store mystery," as one paper had headlined it.