The policeman’s hand fell lightly on the speaker’s shoulder. There was a smile on his lips. “Never heard of him, buddy,” he interrupted. “So he lets on he’s asleep, does he? Cunning old rascal! Sorry I can’t help you. You might ask the copper on the next corner, though; he’s pretty keen after sleepers. But if you’ll take a tip from me, you won’t ask anybody, but just run along home and get into bed. Wonderful place—bed —when you ain’t feeling well,” he added sententiously.
Honeywell burst into a fit of laughter. “You still think we’re a couple of lunatics,” he cried. “I’m beginning to think so myself. It’s pretty wild, isn’t it? And yet, it’s all true. Well, thanks anyway. I imagine we’re lucky we’re not taking a ride with you.”
The two friends tramped off in the darkness and no word was spoken between them until they had reached the next corner. Then Honeywell said dryly: “I think we’ve had enough of policemen, Norway, until we go to them in the regular way. We’re going to find this damned blue door by ourselves.”
“You didn’t ask him about that,” said Norway.
“No, I knew just when to quit.”
Norway nodded. “All right,” he replied; “but listen, Bart— that was the policeman! Don’t contradict me. I know! I was too scared to tell him so—but he’s the man, and don’t you forget it. Now, come on.”
He cast about him for a moment, and then turned briskly up the side street. “It’s either this street or the next one,” he said. “I’ve forgotten the exact directions, but I know the way we walked.”
They stopped at the first north-and-south intersection and looked blankly at each other. There was no ancient cab at the curbstone of any house in view; no tired horse, no sleeping cabman; no cabman living or dead, awake or slumbering.
“And yet,” muttered Norway, “those look like the houses.”
They crossed the street and entered the narrow residence block that paralleled Dearborn Street. In one doorway, level with the sidewalk, from which it was only a few steps removed, a dim light was burning. Beyond its feeble illumination a flight of steps ascended. The door was open. Pushing closer in, Norway observed that the steps were bound at every edge by a metal strip. The fact woke a slumbering memory in his brain. He turned to his companion.
“Bart,” he said, “either this is the very place or its twin brother. Shall we risk it?”
For answer, Honeywell stepped forward and passed through the open door. Then in silence they ascended the poorly lighted stairway until they stood upon a landing before a door that certainly once had been painted blue.
“The blue door!” whispered Norway, and Honeywell raised his hand and rapped with his knuckles against the panel. Within were the familiar sounds of subdued revelry.
The story writer knocked more loudly, and suddenly all sound ceased. In a moment steps were heard beyond the barrier, and the door creaked open on ancient hinges. A formidable-looking man stood in the opening; he glared out at them with baleful eyes.
But Norway, timorous in the presence of uniformed law and order, in the presence of this stranger was undismayed. To the snarling “Whadda yuh want?” of the man in the doorway, he replied smilingly, “Liquor.”
The mountainous bouncer sneered. “Who sent yuh here?” he demanded, truculently. “This is a private home.”
“The sleeping cabman,” said Norway, and stepped six inches nearer. The door was beginning to close in his face.
“Mademoiselle Marie Stravinsky,” said Honeywell suavely, and shoved the card he carried under the man’s red nose.
The fellow shrugged. He pulled the door open half a foot. “You’re new ones to me,” he observed ungraciously, “but I s’pose you’re all right. Don’t make so much noise next time you come, boys,” he added in better humor. “We thought the place was pinched.”
They slid through and looked about them with eager eyes.
Norway’s first impulse was to say quickly, “This is not the place,” and go out; but his friend’s fingers were on his arm, as if he sensed the danger, and together they strode forward to the long bar that flanked one side of the room.
“All right, Jim,” said the man at the door, and an oily barkeep glided forward to receive their order.
In the wide mirror that hung behind the bar Honeywell studied his friend’s face and read the doubt written there. “We’re in wrong,” he said inwardly, and gave his order with great nonchalance to the oily barkeep.
“Let’s sit down, Artie,” he remarked to Norway, avoiding a reference to his friend’s surname, and when their drinks had been set before them they carried them to a table, which fortunately was unoccupied.
“Wrong place?” asked the writer casually, as if passing the time of day; and Norway nodded.
“The glass is on the wrong side, and so’s the bar,” replied his friend. “Less swanky, too. All men here. The other place was—ah—co-educational.”
Honeywell laughed. “We’ll leave after a drink or two,” he said. “Take it easy, old chap. Lots of time.”
Over the rim of his glass he began a careful scrutiny of the long room. There were perhaps thirty men present, all drinking, and three youngish citizens were doing duty behind the bar. There appeared to be everything on hand that anyone might care to drink, and a great deal that Bartlett Honeywell had no notion of trying. On the whole, the appearance of the place was much similar to that of an old-fashioned barroom of the better sort. The men, for the most part, seemed harmless enough Republicans and Democrats.
Mr. Honeywell sipped leisurely at his Scotch-and-soda and decided that he was beginning to enjoy the chase. At the bar he had asked for a Scotch highball, but in private he preferred to think of the compound as Scotch-and-soda; the phrase had greater literary connotations. It pleased him now to fancy himself a private detective of wide clandestine celebrity, sipping the drink that such detectives like best.
In a little while a small man came out of a back room and, glancing quickly about the place, came over to their table and sat down. A waiter from behind the bar came to his side and received his order. Messrs. Norway and Honeywell accepted his company without outward demonstration. When he had inhaled a draught from his tumbler the newcomer became friendly.
“Don’t think I’ve seen you here before, boys,” he said affably. “Glad to see you. Any friend of the house is a friend of mine.” He made the remark with proper modesty, yet with a proper appreciation of the honor he was conferring upon the newcomers by his interest. He added: “Name’s Silvernail—Julian Silvernail.”
Withholding his own name and that of his friend, Honeywell hastened to indicate that they were delighted to make Mr. Silvernail’s acquaintance. They hadn’t been in before, he added, but they hoped to be in again often, now that they had found the place.
Julian Silvernail understood perfectly. “Nice little place,” he observed with some condescension. “Gawd knows who gets the graft, but it’s a nice little place. Maybe you know my name. I do a little turn over at the Pollymabel. Song and dance.”
“An actor!” cried Honeywell in ecstasy.
“Well, something like that, you know.” Mr. Silvernail was deprecatory. “Everybody seems to know me, anyway.” He smiled and inhaled another draught of liquid, setting down his glass to wave a friendly hand at the huge man at the door. “Everybody knows me,” he repeated. “I’m wise to all these places. Lead you to ’em with my eyes shut.”
Honeywell’s suspicions began to diminish. The man was patently an egotist, and probably just what he claimed to be, a cheap artist in neighborhood vaudeville. It was just conceivable that he might be made useful.
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