Wednesday's Good Reading: “Cheridah's Valentine” by Roland Ashford Phillips (in English)

 

When Cheridah first found the valentine, picking it from the jumbled mass of others on the long counter, she gave a quick little sob, and pressed it close to her heart, for all the world as if she had come upon a diamond in the coal bin. She was alone behind the counter at the time, otherwise Mr. Rowland, the dignified floorwalker, might have objected seriously to such a demonstration on the part of a mere saleslady.

After the thrill of the discovery was past, Cheridah's shining eyes devoured every detail of the gaudy, multicolored token.

"It's just the same," she murmured, over and over again, her voice tremulous. "It's just the same. Oh, I wonder——"

The valentine was a built-up affair, generously trimmed with paper lace, and resplendent with tinsel. On each corner were white flying doves with outspreading wings, carrying letters in their bills; in the center was a reproduction of a heavy door across which a pink-and-white cupid, perched on a cloud, held up entwined hearts, arrow-pierced. Lifting the door, one was greeted with these words:

 

"Uf you lofe me

As I lofe you—

No knife can't cut

Our lofe in two pieces. Ain't it?"

 

To Cheridah these lines—their grotesque humor so out of key with the rest of the valentine—brought back remembrance of a day, five years earlier, when Hezekiah Saunders, bashful, freckled-faced sixteen, had slipped this valentine's counterpart into her desk at recess. Being fourteen, Cheridah Hawkins had been both flattered and flustered.

The five long years that intervened between the time she had first glanced upon this valentine at school, and the present, when she gazed upon it—or at least upon its replica—in the stuffy, artificially lighted basement of the Store Stupendous, were years fruitful with history; dark, unpleasant, and bitter history.

Somehow Cheridah had never recalled the past so vividly as she did at this moment, standing there behind the counter, her fingers pressing the tawdry trinket—beautiful in her eyes—against her black shirt waist. The hot tears came suddenly and continued unchecked, slipping down her cheek; her lips quivered.

"Miss Downs!" A voice lifted commandingly, shattering her visions as a rifle ball might shatter a pane of glass. "Pay attention! Can't you see there's customers waiting?"

It was Mr. Howland, the refined floorwalker, who had interrupted. With tremulous fingers Cheridah tucked the valentine beneath the long tray, and bent her attentions upon serving the customers which the big sign—"TO-DAY AT 49 c."—lured to the counter.

For the rest of the day some vague fear possessed her that the valentine might be sold, and to prevent such a catastrophe she determined to keep it hidden where she had first slipped it—beneath the tray and the showcase. Of course, forty-nine cents wasn't any great sum, but to Cheridah it represented half a day's work; and where one figured debits and credits as closely as she was compelled to—owing to a generous salary from the department store—a five-cent piece loomed as large as a full moon. But Saturday night was pay night, and then she would buy it, if for nothing more than to take home and hang on the nail in the wall that now held her curling irons.

Foolish? She tried to persuade herself that it was foolish for her to do this; but somehow, like a dose of bitter medicine, it wouldn't down. Of course, Hezekiah Saunders had long since forgotten her. She had treated him shamefully back home, when he vised to carry her books from the little country school, and sometimes take her to the barn dances and to the ice-cream socials at the church.

And Hezekiah—poor, faithful boy—had been the only one at the train that day she left the little country town of Ceetuckett, and set her face toward great, pitiless New York. He had urged her to remain; he was buying a farm—a very good one, too. Soon he would be able to move upon it and if she would only come with him and—and—— How he had pressed her warm fingers for the last time, and fought manfully against the tears that would not stay back.

"I'll wait for you. Cheridah," he had said, just before the train started. "There's nothing in the city but misery and pain and sorrow. You'll find out pretty soon, and you'll come back."

But Cheridah, being seventeen, and believing she possessed a wonderful voice, only pitied the boy. Hadn't her friends told her she was just cut out for grand opera?

"After all," she reasoned to herself, "Hez is only a farmer boy, and he doesn't know."

In her own narrow way she saw the heights to climb, and the worlds to win. How foolish it was of Hezekiah to think she could stay on the old farm and fight down the ambition which leaped like fire in her veins. She was made for a greater world than that; she was born to dwell in the city of big things. So she had put him out of her mind. It is easy at seventeen, when art beckons.

But a mere voice proved to be unreliable as a provider of food, shelter, and clothes. A hall bedroom soon became her palace, and the Supreme Lunch her banquet hall. Determination, once so firmly rooted, shriveled up like a thirsty flower. So the three years exacted their toll by painting little shadows beneath her eyes, and chiseling tiny lines around her mouth, and pressing a heavy hand on her slim shoulders. When her money was all gone—the pittance left by her mother's will—and the voice found no market, Cheridah gained an existence in return for labor at the Store Stupendous.

For the first year Hezekiah had written often; the second less frequently, probably because she found little time in which to answer him. The last year had brought silence. Besides, she had moved often, and had neglected to mention the new address.

 

II

That night, in the seclusion of her hall bedroom—what a poor place in comparison to the one she slept in under the low eaves at home on the farm, with the apple tree brushing the window and the crickets singing out in the dim, sweet-smelling meadows, and the clean air that fairly made one glad they were alive—Cheridah went to the bottom of her trunk, and found Hezekiah's picture. Then she gave way to tears.

After a while, Bessie tapped at the door and came in. Bessie was another cog in the business wheel of the Store Stupendous. The two girls lived at the same dreary boarding house. Bessie saw the photograph on Cheridah's dresser, went over, and studied it critically.

"He's a nice, clean-looking chap," she observed.

Cheridah nodded. Why hadn't she thought so three years ago?

"Do you love him?" Bessie asked.

"Oh, Bess!" And before she was really aware of it, Cheridah was pouring out the whole story.

"That's all this old burg is made up of," was Bessie's comment. "The too-late folks! The kind that chuck real happiness for a lot of glitter. Listen here, Cherry. This town's like frosting on a cake of soap. It tastes fine until you bite deep. It's all froth and false alarm, and there isn't anything on the level. Believe your Aunt Bess. I know. I've been here for ten years."

"Did you come here to——" Cheridah began.

"No." Bessie shook her head. "I came here because I had to. There wasn't anything else for me to do. But you—— Why, if any man had offered me his love and the beautiful country for a home, and freedom from this grinding city, I'd have thanked Heaven every weekday and twice on Sunday. Get that?"

"I didn't know—then," Cheridah faltered. "I didn't know. I thought I was being held down on a farm, I thought all the real folks lived in the city, and—and——" She broke down and sobbed. "Oh, to see the waving fields once more, Bess, and to hear the old dinner bell, and to eat flapjacks again! That's life, isn't it?"

Bessie nodded. "All but the flapjacks," she said. "They are too much like the wheats they're always browning at the Supreme Lunch."

"And to pick the wild flowers," Cheridah went on, her voice low. "To help with the haying and hunt for nests in the stubble! And I remember the old apple tree that used to whisper at my bedroom window, and tell me the most wonderful stories. Of course they were all dreams, but—but I know the old tree told them to me. All the birds used to love it, too, and in the spring it would deck itself with the most wonderful pink-and-white flowers."

Bessie was still gazing at the picture. "Haven't you ever heard from him since he quit writing? I mean heard about him?" she asked.

"I used to get a paper once in a while," Cheridah answered. "I don't know who sent it. Sometimes I'd read about him. He's got the farm all paid for now, and—and——"

"And probably he's found another girl," Bessie said. "Men are that way. You can't blame them, after all. Maybe he's married and got a nice home, and living the real life."

A great lump came into Cheridah's throat. It must have been about the size of one of the wee oranges at the Supreme Lunch. And the only way she could conquer it was to cry. Bessie dropped the picture and put both arms consolingly about her.

"There, there," she said, like a mother. "Of course it hurts, dear. But don't let it get your goat. I've got so I don't think there's anything in life worth crying over. Honest I don't."

That night, long after Bessie had gone, and the little room was flooded with moonlight, Cheridah lay in bed, her face buried in the pillow. At times she would stop crying and listen for the whispering of the old apple tree. And then she would remember.

 

III

For the next two days Cheridah guarded the valentine with all the jealous care of a mother watching her babe. One day at the noon hour, when the shoppers were few; and she was alone behind the counter, she wrote her name very faintly under the flying cupid. She didn't mean to keep it there—but suddenly the refined and dignified Mr. Howland pounced upon her, and she had to return it to the usual hiding place.

On Saturday she found that Bessie was ordered to help her at the valentine counter. At noon Cheridah went out to get a bag of peanuts for lunch, and when she returned the valentine counter had been removed.

"Your counter's in the rear of the basement," Mr. Howland explained hurriedly. "We needed this space for the silk remnants."

Almost frantically Cheridah gained the counter, and relieved Bessie. The first thing she did was to feel beneath the long tray. Then the truth crashed upon her. The trays, in being removed, had disclosed the valentine, and some one had tossed it back among the others. With eager fingers Cheridah searched the jumbled mass over. But it was useless. The flying doves and the cupid had been sold.

Her heart sank. It was foolish, of course, to allow such an insignificant thing as a gaudy paper valentine with some grotesque, bad rhymes in broken English to affect her; but somehow, despite her mental argument, she felt miserable, heartbroken. When she got back to the Store Stupendous, Bessie greeted her with wondering eyes.

"Say, pal," were her words, "you're looking too pale around the gills to be in right. What's eating you now?"

"Oh, nothing," Cheridah evaded. "Just blue, I guess."

At nine o'clock that Saturday night, when the store closed, Cheridah hurried out alone, avoided the regular route, and walked all the way home. It was misty and chilly, and the first sharp particles of hardened snow were slanting with the wind and stabbing at her cheeks. Broadway was ablaze with lights and animated with crowds, despite the weather. Cheridah darted off into a side street, and continued on her way. The next day, Sunday, she spent in her room. She refused to go out with Bessie.

"Why won't you tell me what's the matter?" Bessie asked. "Maybe there's something I could do to help you, dearie."

But Cheridah only shook her head. "There's nothing you can do, thanks."

On Monday Cheridah felt so ill—not knowing for certain whether it was mental or physical pain—that she sent word down by Bessie that she was unable to work.

At five o'clock, eager for a breath of fresh air, she got out the warmest wraps she had, and determined to take a walk around the block. Several times while she was dressing the doorbell rang. She paid no attention to it until it occurred to her that the maid and landlady were both out. She hurried downstairs into the dim hall, and opened the door to find an angry messenger boy in the vestibule.

"Are you Miss Cherry-day Hawkins?" he inquired impatiently, stamping his cold feet.

"Yes, I'm Miss Hawkins," she replied, wondering.

"Here's somethin' for yer." The boy thrust it into her extended hand. "Sign dis; right dere." He pushed a book at her.

She signed, and the messenger dashed away. When she had shut the door and lighted the gas she looked again at the packet in her hand. With pulses aflutter, she broke the cord and seal. The paper came away. Then she leaned back dizzily against the hatrack. It was the precious valentine!

What did it mean? Who could have sent it? Who knew her address except—— She started. Bessie must have done this as a surprise for her! Yes, surely it was Bessie! But——

Quite absently she lifted the flap. For a moment the ten-cent store pictures on the wall whirled in her vision. Only a frantic ringing of the bell again brought her back to realization. She groped her way toward the door as if in the dark. She opened it.

"Cheridah!" somebody cried. She could not utter a sound, try as she did. She stumbled forward as if some mighty hand had pushed her. Then a pair of strong arms gathered her close.

"Cherry, dear," the familiar voice was saying, "I've found you—found you at last, sweetheart!"

She opened her eyes and saw clearly now. The warm, eager blood surged in her veins; her heart pounded.

"Oh, Hezekiah! Oh, Hezekiah!" That was all she could say.

He kissed her on the cheeks and accidentally on the left ear.

"I've had the hardest time finding you," he said, laughing, although his eyes were moist. "Why didn't you write me? Why——"

"Oh, I've—I've been ashamed," she stammered.

"I came into New York last week," he said. "And I've been looking the town over. Day after day I stood and watched the rushing crowds on Broad- way, thinking to see your face. And then the other day I went into a store and saw some valentines. And right on top of the whole pile was the dove-and-cupid one—the same kind I sent you a long time ago at school, the one with the funny Dutch words. Remember?" He laughed boyishly, and patted her cheek. Cheridah clung to him. She would hold him close as long as possible before she woke up—if it should turn out to be a dream.

"Yes, the very same kind of valentine, Cherry," she heard him saying. "And, Lord! My eyes got so wet I felt ashamed. But I bought it. I don't even know what made me. I guess some good angel does, though," he added, in a lower voice. "And only yesterday, when I was looking at it I saw your name under the flap!"

"I—I wrote it there," she said, laughing for joy.

"I just couldn't believe my eyes at first," he went on. "I sort of turned sick. Then how I suffered all day Sunday! I was at the store the minute it opened Monday morning—that's to-day. The girl at the counter gave me your address—and maybe she didn't look at me in a funny way! I sent the valentine and came on the heels of the boy."

"I—I read about you—in the Geetuckett papers," she said.

"Did you? Well, that isn't half as good as seeing me, is it?" he replied modestly. "Now, you pack up, right away. We're going to leave this town. We're never going to see it again, Cherry. Why, you and me will have the finest pickle farm in the county. You wouldn't recognize the place now, dear. I've built the finest little house—and it's all ready, waiting for you. And, Cherry," he added, "there's a big apple tree; its branches reach into the bedroom window. I had it set out there—three years ago. Next month it will be in blossom."

"I know, I know!" she exclaimed rapturously. "I've heard that tree whispering."

in Top-Notch Magazine #5 -  Street & Smith, 1 March 1913.  

Tuesday's Serial: “Scarface” by Armitage Trail (in English) - X.

 

CHAPTER XIX

For awhile, almost four months in fact, things were quiet. Everybody was making money and there were no killings. Then the men began to grow restive, as men of action will after a certain period of inactivity. The resumption of hostilities began with minor affrays between insignificant members of the various gangs which usually re­sulted in nothing more serious than bloody noses and black eyes. Then an occasional stabbing began to creep in among the hitherto comparatively harmless sport, and finally a shooting or two. The anxiety for action, for war and vengeance, became more marked. A tense air of watchful waiting, of incipient menace, hung over the headquarters of the various gangs. The men mentally were like bloodhounds straining at the leash.

Tony sensed the situation. He was weary of inactivity himself. And he was becoming suspicious of the prolonged quietude of his enemies. He knew that they and their men were no more capable of interminable peace than were he and his mob. It was rapidly narrowing to a question of who would strike first.

Among Tony's various valuable possessions were a number of gambling places. One of these was a second-floor establishment in the heart of the city. Despite its central position, it was located on a street which contained no department stores and in a block which consisted of wholesale barber supply stores and other such enterprises which dealt with few customers. Which made foot traffic on its sidewalks quite light.

Tony visited the place almost every day, a fact which he had never tried to conceal. As he stepped out of his sedan in front of the place one afternoon and paused an instant for his bodyguard to gather around him, he heard the sudden stuttering rat-tat-tat of a machine-gun. He saw two of his body­guard go down before the deadly hail of lead and the others, darting low to take advantage of all the shelter the two sedans offered, look frantically about in an effort to find the source of the attack. Tony himself leaped inside the doorway that led to his second-floor establishment, but not before he felt a dozen heavy blows against his body. The marksmanship of his assailants had been deadly accurate, all right, but he was wearing a bulletproof vest.

In the comparative shelter of the narrow hall that led to the stairway, he turned. Already his automatic was out, ready for execution. He could see two of his men firing upward at the windows of the small hotel across the street. But with his own disappearance the vicious stuttering of the machine-gun had ceased. He imagined that the attackers already were in flight, trying desperately to make their escape before the arrival of the police. And his own men must do the same, to avoid arrest and serious charges. A daylight gun battle in a downtown street was no simple matter to adjust with the authorities.

He stepped to the doorway and searched the windows of the hotel with a quick but careful glance. He saw nothing suspicious.

"Cut it!" he snapped. "Into the cars, quick! Let's go!"

He made a flying leap for one of the sedans and clambered in. The men piled in around him and into the other machine. The two big cars roared away down the street. With only inches to spare, they swerved around a traffic cop who was frantically blowing his whistle at them, and raced on­ ward, bound for home and safety. Tony's eyes were glittering with cold, deadly fury but within him he felt a great exultation. The war was on again!

“They was on the third floor of the hotel, boss,” panted one of the men. “We seen 'em plain—two of 'em. One of 'em was usin' a Thompson and the other one had a automatic.”

A “Thompson” is that particular type of machine-gun which is the favorite weapon of the modern gangster, an easily transported but wicked death machine which can be handled with the ease of a rifle and which, while weighing only ten pounds, will hurl one hundred bullets per minute. When they reached headquarters, Tony went immediately to his private office and telephoned the District Attorney.

“They just tried to get me from the third floor of the Victor hotel,” he said almost gleefully.

“I know. I just got a flash on it from the detective bureau.”

“Must have been some of the Bruno mob. What are you going to do about it?”

“Just what I promised at that last conference. As many of the North Side mob as we can get our hands on will be rounded up to-night, questioned and brought into court in the morning,”

Which sounded fine, thought Tony, but didn't mean a thing. The chances were very strong that the actual assailants had made a clean getaway, none of the others would talk—in fact, they would probably know nothing of the attack until they saw it in the papers or were arrested—and the D.A.'s office would be able to prove against them nothing more serious than a charge of carrying concealed weapons. Tony realized that the whole round-up and subsequent activity would really amount to nothing more than a grand gesture for the benefit of the newspapers to pass on to the public.

But Tony felt that a round-up like that was too great an opportunity to be lost. He called in a dozen of his most reliable gunmen and for an hour drilled them in the details of a plan which would be the most daring gangland gesture the city had yet seen.

The evening papers—always more sensational than those published in the morning—made a great fuss over the afternoon attack, giving it huge headlines and a great deal of space. And some of the information was of great interest to Tony. The police, in the search of the hotel following the attack, had found in a third-floor room fronting the street a Thompson machine gun, an empty automatic and a dead man with half a dozen bullets in him. And the dead man later had been identified as Steve Libati.

"The dirty———!" breathed Tony venomously. "Turned traitor, did he? And some of the boys got him. Either that or his own partner shot him in the back, afraid that he might turn him up later. Well, anyway, he sure had it coming to him."

Tony studied over the various angles of the occurence for some time. The identification of one of the assailants as his former lieutenant brought in a new element. There was a chance, of course, that Steve had carried out the attack as a matter of personal vengeance. But it wasn't likely. He didn't have that much brains. No, the affair had been planned out by the crafty Schemer Bruno, who had used the ready Libati as a cat's paw. The chances were that Steve, upon being fired by Tony, had joined the North Side outfit, being admitted because of the valuable information he could furnish Bruno and because of his avowed hatred of Tony.

The morning papers, while showing a trifle more reserve about the whole matter, carried the news that the most thorough dragnet of years had been sent through the North Side during the night, with the result that a large portion of the notorious North Side gang—including the wily Schemer himself—had been rounded up and were now reposing in cells, from which they would be removed for court appearances that morning on various charges.

At nine-thirty, Tony loaded his dozen carefully selected gunmen into two big sedans and set forth on the little expedition he had planned the day before. When slightly less than a block away from the police court where Tony knew the North Side mob would be arraigned, he ordered the cars parked—but with their engines kept running for an instant getaway—and instructed his men to spread out along the street. He watched them take their stations then smiled coldly with pleased anticipation. When Schemer Bruno and his men came out—as they were sure to do—they would get a terrific surprise. And of course, just coming from court, they would be unarmed. It looked as though this morning would put a terrible dent in the North Side mob.

Suddenly the double doors of the police station —the court was above a station—swung open and a stream of detectives and uniformed officers streamed out and bore down on Tony's men.

“Hell!” gritted Tony, who had remained sitting beside the chauffeur in one of the cars. “The cops have seen ’em. Step on it!”

The big car roared into life and swerved around the corner, but not before two shots had rung out in the street and two bullets had thudded against the rear of the machine.

“Stop!” commanded Tony, and the car ground to a halt. Close as they were to the station, they were out of sight of it. “Gimme your gat!”

The chauffeur quickly handed over his revolver and Tony calmly dropped it down a convenient open sewer. He tossed his own heavy automatic after it then removed his small vest-pocket auto­ matic from its customary position and shoved it down inside of one sock. When two detectives came puffing around the corner with ready revolvers—he knew they would—he was standing calmly beside the car.

“Did you want to talk to me?” he demanded with a frown.

“I'll say so,” panted one. “It's lucky Lieutenant Grady looked out the window and recognized some of them gorillas of yours hangin’ around outside, or we'd a had a whole streetful o' murders on our hands.”

"Lieutenant Grady, was it?" queried Tony pleasantly. "I'll have to remember that."

"I don't care what you remember. Just come along quietly, both o' you muggs."

"Got a warrant?"

"Naw, 'course not."

"What's the charge?"

"Carryin' concealed weapons."

"But I'm not carrying concealed weapons."

"Naw?" exclaimed the burly detective incredulously. "Humph! Tryin' to stall, eh? Keep the rod on 'em, Jim, while I frisk 'em."

Quickly and thoroughly he searched Tony, but of course he did not extend it below the knees. Obviously puzzled, he hauled the chauffeur out of the car and searched him—without result. With evident bewilderment he surveyed these two men on whom he knew he should find guns. Then an idea occurred to him, as it sometimes does to an unusually bright police detective.

"I got it! " he exclaimed with sudden enthusiasm. "You dropped 'em on the floor or hid 'em in the car some place. That's an old trick of birds like you."

He went at the car as if he were going to take it apart. And he did as well as he could without the aid of dynamite or tools. But he found nothing incriminating.

"You see?" said Tony. "I told you the truth. I'm just out for a little drive this morning. And I don't like being shot at without reason when motoring." He produced two $50 bills and passed one to each of the puzzled detectives. "Now, boys, buy yourselves some cigars and forget that you ever saw me in this neighborhood this morning. And I won't tell anybody what a silly trick you pulled."

He climbed into his car and drove away, within three blocks removing the small automatic from his sock and placing it in his coat pocket ready for an emergency.

“Jeez! Boss, that was smooth work!” exclaimed the chauffeur admiringly.

"If the cops was as sharp as we are, we wouldn't have a chance!" answered Tony wisely.

From his private office at his headquarters, he telephoned Captain Flanagan. “This is Tony Camonte!” he said brusquely. “I hear they picked up some of my men out at Lawrence Avenue.”

“Yeah. Just heard about it.”

“Well, how about springin’ ’em? I ought to get some service for that monthly bit.”

“Sorry, Tony, but there isn't a hell of a lot I can do. If they was here at the bureau, it would be different, but it would look funny if I interfered too much out there. Some snoopy reporter might find out about it and shoot the works. I'll see, though, that none of ’em are booked for anything more than concealed weapons. But you better send down a mouthpiece to front for ’em.”

So Tony telephoned one of the able attorneys on his staff to go out and represent his men at their hearing, then fell into a mood of vengeful brooding. One plan had failed. The next one must not.

 

 

CHAPTER XX

In his mail one morning Tony Camonte received a unique communication, an ornate, engraved invitation to the opening of the Woodland Casino, a new roadhouse and gambling place some little distance out in the country, far beyond the jurisdiction of city authorities but not so far away as to be beyond the reach of city patrons. The invitation also conveyed the information that the opening night was to be a Bal Masque and that admittance would be by card only.

Tony didn't know what a Bal Masque was and he felt no urge to find out. But the other bit of information interested him somewhat. In common with other wealthy but socially ineligible people, he had an almost irresistible curiosity to see the inside of exclusive places. The realization that hundreds of these invitations must have been sent out did not prevent his own vanity being tickled by receiving one; the fact remained that everybody who might want to couldn't get in.

For a moment he toyed with the pleasant thought that he was getting to be a man of some importance in the city. Then his natural suspicion of everything and everybody, born of native cunning and bitter experience, asserted itself. The thing was probably a “plant” of some kind; perhaps an attempt to put him “on a spot.” He looked closely at the enclosed engraved card. There seemed to be no identifying marks upon it but his momentary illusion of possible social grandeur had been dispelled by his innate caution. Half the gangsters in town were sure to be at a place like that; it sounded like just the sort of layout that appealed to them for sport. But did they think he'd be simple enough to fall for a game like that? He crumpled the invitation and card with strong, tense fingers and tossed them in the wastebasket.

A few minutes later the telephone at his elbow rang. It was Jane.

"Could you run home a few minutes, dear?" she asked. "I have something very important to tell you."

"Tell me now."

"Can't. You never can tell when some nosey mugg—a cop or somebody—is listening in on a phone."

"Won't it wait till to-night?"

"Yes, I s'pose so," doubtfully. "But I wish you'd come now."

"Oh, all right," growled Tony.

So he summoned his bodyguard and went home, ordering them to remain outside while he hurried up to his luxurious apartment, a vague uneasiness clutching at him. But Jane was happy and smiling.

"Darling!" she exclaimed happily. "I've found the spot where we can get Bruno. . . . He's going to the opening of the new Woodland Casino to­-morrow night. That's our chance."

Tony's sharp gaze narrowed.

"Yeah?" he said. "How'd you find that out?"

"Don't ask me, please. I'm not very proud of the way I got the dope but I did get it—that's all that matters. And that's our big chance to bump him off, Tony. He won't be looking for trouble at an affair like that and he won't have a big bodyguard with him—maybe none at all. Anyway it's a masked affair—everybody will be in costume and wearing masks—so nobody'll know who we are."

"No? Then how'll we know who they are?"

"It's up to us to find out."

"Well, I'll think about it." He returned to his headquarters and, rescuing the all-important admission card from the wastebasket, “thought about it” for the rest of the after­ noon. Something warned him not to go, yet the chance of killing Bruno himself proved a temptation too strong to resist. He decided to assume the risk.

The next morning, accompanied by four of his bodyguard, he went down and looked at costumes. But he selected nothing, because he did not want the costumer to know his disguise. He was afraid that such information might be passed on to his enemies and he realized fully that his safety lay in the strict preservation of his anonymity. But in the afternoon he sent down another man for a Henry the Eighth outfit. In his mind, he had chosen that during the morning inspection because a comfortable amount of artillery could be concealed under the voluminous velvet upper part and the false beard that went with it would effectually hide the scar on the left side of his face.

He and Jane—she was lovely in a Juliet costume—drove out shortly after ten, taking with them a bodyguard of four fearless and expert gunmen. Two of the latter, who were sufficiently small and slender to get away with it, were in feminine costumes, so that it seemed like a nice party of three couples. Tony had had one of his men rent a sedan for the night, a much smaller and less expensive car than he ever used, so that neither car nor license could give them away to possible watchful enemies. Yet it was a very fast car—he had made sure of that.

A hundred yards from the place, Tony halted the car and they all affixed their masks. Then he drove up and parked facing the road. Tony was a little uneasy about the admittance of so large a party on the one card but the doorman, masked and attired in the ornate costume of a Turkish harem guard, bowed them all inside with eager welcome. With how eager a welcome, Tony had no idea. For there were certain things about this affair that Jane had not discovered and that he had not suspected. For instance, Jane had not found out that Schemer Bruno was the owner of this new place and Tony had never dreamed that the card sent to him was the only one which bore the word “Gambling” engraved in the lower left-hand corner. Thus they were identified the moment they entered the place. In fact, they were the “guests of honor” but they didn't know it.

The Woodland Casino was unusually spacious and elaborate for a place of its type. A large dining room, arranged in cabaret style with a dance floor in the center, occupied most of the first floor. A good orchestra blared toe-tickling jazz from a dais at one end and waiters scurried about with trays of food and drinks. Tony and his party, unknowingly under the murderous gaze of a dozen pairs of eyes, casually surveyed the throng present, then moved upstairs.

The second floor was divided into numerous gaming rooms, in which could be found every imaginable device for pitting one's luck against the game-keeper's skill. All the play was for high stakes. Tony abstractedly took a whirl at roulette and because he wasn't interested in the game, caring for neither profits nor losses, won more than two thousand dollars in half an hour. The croupier, hoping to win it back for the house, urged him to continue but Tony shook his head and led his party away from the table.

They went back downstairs. The crowd was bigger now and very gay. The noise was fearful yet somehow diverting. Tony and his accomplices would have enjoyed it a lot except for their deadly errand. Tony himself was tense and silent, as he always was just before "pulling a job" of murder. In whispers, he instructed his henchmen not to stick so closely to him as to excite suspicion, but to maintain a keen watch. He danced three or four times with Jane, his gunmen dancing close by. Then he led her aside.

"Mix around a little," he ordered. "See if you can find out whether Bruno's here and if he is, what kind of a rig he's got on."

Jane nodded and moved slowly away. Tony allowed his penetrating glance to make a deliberate search of the merry throng. If only he knew how Bruno was dressed. Here and there, he noted subconsciously an exceptionally striking woman. Then abruptly his gaze riveted to the most commanding feminine figure in the crowd. Tall and slender she was, regally attired in an obviously expensive white gown with a long court train. Resting atop her head to complete the effect was an ornate crown studded with flashing brilliants.

She was walking when he saw her first and it was her walk that struck him particularly. It was graceful, regal, the proper walk for the Queen she represented. And he had seen it before somewhere. He tried to recall and found he couldn't. But he was certain he had seen that identical walk before and, subconsciously, he knew that the remembrance was not pleasant.

He watched her closely, still trying to remember, and found her receiving a great deal of attention from a cloaked figure of Satan, a tall, well-built, graceful man who moved with the lithe quickness of a trained body actuated by an agile mind.

At last she moved away from her red-clad companion and began drifting toward him. She hesitated as she came opposite and looked at him deliberately. The mask made the glance curiously enigmatic yet the sparkling eyes behind the mask seemed to hold an invitation. Then she moved away again. Reaching the doorway, she paused and looked back, then stepped through the portal. It was all as plain as if she had spoken. She was going out on the big wide porch and inviting him to follow. Momentarily warming to the chase, he started forward impulsively.

But at that instant he suddenly remembered where he had seen that walk before. She was Katherine Merton, the girl who had come to his office pretending to be a reporter and who, in reality, was Schemer Bruno's moll. Then Satan must be Bruno. What a singularly appropriate costume for the Schemer, he thought. And that cloak would conceal an almost unlimited amount of artillery. He saw the whole plot in a flash now. How they had discovered his identity, he couldn't imagine—but they had. And this moll was trying to lure him out on the porch so that they could bump him off without endangering the other customers. Clever, all right, but it wasn't going to work.

He darted upstairs and cautiously peered out a window. Four or five costumed and masked figures were moving slowly around in front of the place. And the cloaked devil was among them. It was a death plot all right.

He hurried back downstairs and without any appearance of haste gathered his group around him.

"Take Jane out and put her in the car," he ordered one of the gunmen, one also dressed as a woman. "Don't hurry. . . but have the car ready for a quick getaway. . . . The rest of you come with me."

He knew that Jane and her companion would not be targets for assassins' bullets. It was he they were after. He led his three gunmen toward the kitchen, to the right of which was a mahogany bar, now three deep with thirsty patrons. There would surely be another entrance from the kitchen. Then he saw it, an open doorway. Before the surprised chef and his assistants could object, Tony had led his gunmen across the kitchen and out into the night. Quickly but silently they stole forward and Tony cautiously peered around the corner of the building. The waiting men were still there, tensely expectant. On the porch, a white-clad figure was glancing back into the reception foyer. Evidently the moll couldn't understand why he didn't appear.

"See those muggs out there?" demanded Tony in a hoarse whisper. "That's Schemer Bruno and some of his mob waitin' to get us. But we're goin' to beat 'em to it. You guys take care of the rest of 'em. I'll get the devil."

Slowly Tony lifted his heavy automatic and took careful aim. Then his steady trigger finger squeezed down and the weapon spoke with a thunderous flash. Elation surged through him as the red-clad figure staggered and crumpled to the ground, but he fired four more times with deliberate precision at the prone figure. His men were firing, too. Revolvers were flashing and cracking all around him. But the others were fighting back. At the first shot they had all dropped to the ground, making themselves much smaller targets, and now they were firing savagely. Tony and his men could hear bullets whistling and thudding around them. At first there were four exploding revolvers in that line, then three . . . two . . . one. And finally it ceased.

"Let's go!" exclaimed Tony happily and ran for their car, fifteen yards away.

They all piled in and it raced away at high speed.

“Step on it!” commanded Tony. He knew there were more enemy gunmen inside that roadhouse and he didn't care to battle them if it could be avoided. He looked back just in time to see a white-clad figure crumple to the floor of the porch and other people come streaming out through the double door.

“God! that was a narrow squeak!” exclaimed Tony as the car raced back toward their headquarters. “If I hadn't remembered that dame's walk, they'd a got me sure as hell. They damn near put over a fast one! Say,” he said suddenly, turning on Jane with angry suspicion, "what do you know about this, anyhow?"

“Why, what do you mean?”

“You know damn well what I mean,” he growled. “Didn't you know they had it all fixed to put me on a spot?”

“Of course not! Tony, surely—”

“Well, where'd you get the dope about him bein' out here to-night?”

“From Katherine—his moll.”

“From who? For God's sake, how'd you get her to talk?”

“She's—my sister.”

“Oh, my God! Here I've been a sort of brother-in-law to the Schemer, my worst enemy, all this time. Jeez! What a fine family mess I got into.”

"I thought I was pumping her when we met yesterday, making her tell something that she didn't want to," continued Jane in a strained voice. She was overwrought and on the verge of tears. "But I guess I only fell into the trap she was helping the Schemer bait for you."

"Well, it's all right," answered Tony generously. "We got the Schemer anyhow."

Schemer Bruno's sudden and mysterious death was a city-wide sensation for days. His funeral was a grand affair, attended by the District Attorney, the Chief of Police, eleven judges, and some two hundred carloads of politicians and other hoodlums. Tony sent a $200 floral piece and considered it the best investment he had ever made. His only regret about the affair was that he hadn't had cause to send it sooner.

Monday's Illustrated Word: "The Cat Men of Phoebus" by unknown writer (in English)

 art by Gustav Schrotter - Captain Science #2 - Youthful Magazines, February 1951.

 

 

Saturday's Good Reading; “Abaixo a Verdade” by Olavo de Carvalho (in Portuguese)

 

Todos aqueles supostos liberais e conservadores que se calaram a respeito do Foro de São Paulo quando ainda era possível deter o crescimento do monstro – ou que até mesmo me acusaram de alarmismo e obsessão por insistir em falar do assunto – posam, agora, como especialistas tarimbados na matéria, verdadeiros profetas retroativos, que repetem, sem citar-lhes a fonte, e com um atraso que as torna perfeitamente inúteis, as advertências que fiz em tempo. Advertências, aliás, cujo mérito não era meu no mais mínimo que fosse, porém inteiramente do advogado paulista dr. José Carlos Graça Wagner, cujos arquivos constituíram a minha única fonte de informações sobre o Foro até 2001.

Se o esquerdismo trouxe tanto dano ao Brasil, foi apenas como modalidade especialmente sedutora de uma vigarice intelectual endêmica que se observa em todos os quadrantes do espectro ideológico e que constitui, ela sim, a causa mais profunda e permanente dos males nacionais.

Quando a “direita” brasileira recusou ouvidos ao Dr. José Carlos Graça Wagner e a mim, perdeu não só a oportunidade de sobreviver politicamente – hoje até o sr. presidente da República sabe e declara que ela já não tem a mínima perspectiva de acesso ao poder –, mas também a de dar um exemplo honroso de sensibilidade intelectual superior, capaz de prestar atenção à verdade mesmo quando não venha de fontes oficiais ou bem comportadinhas. Esse exemplo bastaria para lhe conferir imediatamente aquela autoridade moral, tão decisiva nas disputas políticas, que não raro sobrepõe a minoria sábia à maioria tagarela e, pelo menos a longo prazo, pode lhe assegurar as mais belas vitórias.

Com sua omissão, ela provou que sua subserviência aos bem-pensantes é ainda mais forte do que seu instinto de sobrevivência, já que cede às injunções deles ainda mesmo quando calculadas para funcionar como estupefacientes, para amortecer suas reações de autodefesa e até sua capacidade de perceber a presença do perigo. De 1990 até o ano passado, a direita nacional não fez senão tentar por todos os meios aplacar o inimigo, oferecendo-lhe uma resistência débil e risível que só criticava seus pequenos erros econômico-administrativos para melhor ajudá-lo a ocultar seus crimes maiores. Todo mundo sabe o que ela ganhou com esse colaboracionismo mal disfarçado: ganhou sua completa exclusão do processo político, só compensada – se cabe a palavra – por uma humilhante sobrevivência como força auxiliar da esquerda soft.

Concedendo agora a macaqueadores e oportunistas retardatários a atenção que recusou aos primeiros descobridores de uma verdade temível, ela mostra que não aprendeu nada com a experiência, que continua preferindo, ao conhecimento genuíno, o simulacro mais pífio que possa encontrar no mercado. Talvez porque nele enxergue o seu semelhante.

Não é preciso dizer que, se aquela primeira recusa da verdade determinou o fim dessa direita como facção politicamente relevante, esta de agora anuncia a perda de suas últimas reservas de vitalidade, o sacrifício integral de seu futuro às exigências de um presente miserável.

In Diário do Comércio, 9 de novembro de 2009

 

Friday's Sung word: "Falso Amigo" by Ubenor Santos e Miguel Baúso Guarnieri (in Portuguese).

Não acredito que ela me tenha esquecido
Este recado só pode ser inventado
Mantendo esse papel de falso amigo
Mas vá dizer a ela que eu lhe digo
Que eu duvido enfim
Que ela se esqueça de mim)

Se ela me deixou estava escrito
Porém o seu papel não foi bonito
Em briga de casal quem entra acaba mal
Se ela me esqueceu não acredito

(Pois eu duvido enfim
Que ela se esqueça de mim) 

You can listen "Falso Amigo" sung by  Carlos Galhardo with Benetido Lacerda e Seu Regional here.