CHAPTER XXV

A WOLF SEEKS CULTURE

Jimmie McGowan was no ordinary cheap crook. That is to say, he did not deal in small change. He never picked a pocket nor snatched a purse. He did not jimmy a door to enter and carry away the silver while a family was away.

He preferred to deal in matters pertaining to thousands. He did not, however, disdain a few hundreds if opportunity came his way. By all this you may be led to conclude that he belonged in a class with Robin Hood; that he robbed only the rich, because they were rich, and perhaps even slipped a little of his quickly secured wealth into some poor man's hand. But Jimmie was no Robin Hood, as you must know from what follows.

It chanced on a certain night that he saw a man draw a sum of several hundred dollars from his bank. The man walked away from the bank. Jimmie, noting his direction, walked around the opposite corner and, by doing a double-quick down an alley, managed to meet him at a dark corner two blocks farther on.

"Hands up!" commanded Jimmie.

The man hastened to comply. But at once he began to plead with Jimmie. The money was the result of two years of careful saving. He meant to use it in paying a skillful surgeon for straightening his child's spine. This child, his only son, had been a cripple since birth. But now he might be made to walk.

It chanced that the man was telling the truth. But must a high class robber believe all that he hears on the street? Was he to be expected to accompany the man to his home and see for himself that the truth was being told?

Most certainly not. At least, so concluded Jimmie. He struck the man on the head, took his money and departed.

The man went to the hospital. His son remained a cripple. And Jimmie, being one of those persons known among his friends as a "hot sport," put on a party that very night which was the envy of all his pals. Such a feast, such drinking, such dancing! Well, that was Jimmie.

Jimmie knew how to dress. Never doubt that. His suits were tailor-made. His shirts were custom-made to match his suits, and his ties to match the shirts. At all times Jimmie was immaculate. It pays in his line of business. A natty burglar gets fine notices in the papers.

Nor was Jimmie entirely devoid of culture. Back in his family somewhere, there had been a musical strain. At the symphony orchestra opening concert or the opera first night, unless too greatly annoyed by the troublesome police, Jimmie was present. And invariably he was accompanied by a person described in the papers as a stunning blonde. The blonde was dressed in an opera cloak of dark, dark purple, trimmed in richest white fox. It was not always the same blonde. It was always the same cloak. Jimmie provided that. For how is one to enjoy culture unless he has a lady on his arm? Well, that was Jimmie.

On the night following that disagreeable affair of the flaming arrow, Jimmie was not at the Club, nor was he with Mike Volpi. Instead he was out in search of culture. With a lady on his arm, he was strolling a certain park where, every summer, opera is put on in the open air. Drew Lane was also there.

Drew saw Jimmie. He had never seen him before, nor even heard of him. For all this, instinct, trained by experience, said to him:

"Here is a crook. He has a gun."

Now there is one trinket which no plain citizen may carry--a gun.

Drew stepped up to Jimmy and patted him on the back, exclaiming:

"How are you, son?"

That instant Jimmie's face became a mask. Well for him that Drew was not looking at his face. Instead he was watching Jimmie's hands. Also his own hands were busy. They were extracting a gun from a hidden pocket in Jimmie's coat.

"You haven't a thing on me." Jimmie's tone was low. It was also the snarl of a wolf. "You can arrest me for that, but it will do you no good."

Drew knew he spoke the truth. A man may be fined or imprisoned for carrying a gun, but only when the officer who takes the gun has a search warrant.

"I am glad to have met you, old son." Drew spoke in a tone of counterfeit cordiality. At the same time he displayed a little corner of his star.

"I will be glad to meet you under different circumstances." Once more it was Jimmie the wolf who spoke in scarcely audible tones.

"No doubt you will," said Drew. "And here's luck to the best man."

Drew lost himself in the crowd. Jimmie's gun was in Drew's pocket.

Had Drew been asked just how he knew that Jimmie was a crook who carried a gun, he could not have told.

His reasons for taking the gun were clear enough. A snake without fangs is harmless. So, too, is a crook without a gun. The fewer guns there are in a night crowd such as this, the better. For all that, Jimmie seldom mixed business with pleasure. Without doubt he carried that gun for defense only. For the moment he was defenseless; quite as defenseless as his many victims. What a pity that the victims did not know this! As it was, Jimmie and his companion imbibed fresh culture without further disturbance.

That night when Drew returned to the shack, he found the slight form of Newton Mills still bent over his microscope.

"There you are, Old Timer!" Drew exclaimed as he removed the clip from Jimmie's gun and let it drop with a clatter on the table. "There's another little plaything for you."

Newton Mills looked at the gun for a space of ten seconds. Then, as his weary eyes became focused upon it, he seized it eagerly.

"It's the type!" His words were tense.

"What do you mean, the type?"

"It is the type of gun from which that bullet was fired."

"What bullet?"

"The one that may have ended the life of your good friend Rosy."

"No!"

"It is."

"We will try it out, examine the bullet to-night. Now." Drew reached for the gun.

"Not to-night." Newton Mills made that old familiar gesture seeming to brush cobwebs from his face. "My eyes are gone for to-night. To-morrow will do."

Drew started to hang the gun on a nail beside the one that had hung there so long. Newton Mills took it from him and buried it deep in the bottom of a chest. He then locked the chest and hid the key.

"You can never be too careful," he said quietly. "Things happen when we least expect them.

"By the way!" He changed the subject. "Where did you get that gun?" He pointed to the one hanging close to Johnny's blood-stained arrow.

Drew sat down and told the story of the gun and the arrow, as it was enacted that dark night on the deserted slip.

Newton Mills drank in his every word.

"It's strange I never told you about that before," said Drew.

"It is," agreed the veteran detective.

Reaching up, he took the gun from its nail and brushed away the spider's web. After that he unlocked the chest and placed this gun beside the other. Without another word, he undressed and went to bed.