Carden, Crook Comedian

Front matter

Carden, Crook Comedian

by Johnston McCulley

Author of “Terry and the Hidden Tube,” etc.

1. An Irregular Holdup

Chapter I

An Irregular Holdup

TO relate how “Nifty” Burke became the right-hand man of Joe Carden, the famous crook comedian, is to betray no confidence. Every man and woman of standing in the underworld knows the story now, and even Nifty Burke himself can tell it and laugh as he does so, which he did not do at first; but time has taken the edge off what Nifty once thought a disgrace, and his association with Joe Carden has more than repaid him for losing his standing as a holdup man of skill and courage.

He was not Nifty Burke then; he was “Shorty” Burke, and there was nothing “nifty” about him. He lived like a rat in a hole, crept out now and then to gain sustenance through nefarious methods, always feared the touch of an official hand on his shoulder because he had neither money nor influence with which to fight through court, and was miserable generally.

There came an evening, dark and misty, when Burke slipped from the room he called home, went straight down a flight of rickety stairs, journeyed through a foul alley that was in total darkness, and so came to a side street where there were few pedestrians save furtive men who dodged into the shadows when they met one another.

Along this street he hurried, and so on into another, and reached a tiny park with curving walks that were bordered with trees and shrubbery. Crouching behind a clump of brush, Burke tied a black handkerchief around his neck in such a manner that he could draw it up quickly over his chin and make a mask, pulled his cap down low over his eyes, and took a revolver from beneath his left arm under his coat. Burke hated to admit it to himself, but that revolver always worried him. He needed it in his business, and yet his standing—or lack of it—in the community was such that he scarcely dared apply for a permit to carry a gun; and carrying a gun without a permit is a thing both sinister and dangerous.

Burke never had fired the revolver, and was not sure whether it was a certain shot. He did not have the slightest intention in the world of firing it. The revolver was used only as a menace. Burke was a common holdup man.

Others in the game declared that Burke had courage and possessed a sort of sixth sense that caused him to pick the right victims. He had been incarcerated but once, and then only for six months on a charge of vagrancy. Burke admired the plaudits of others of his ilk, but his existence was not pleasing. He never seemed to get far ahead. His enterprises were dangerous and productive only of enough to furnish a meager living. Burke was not satisfied,

His journey to the little park to-night was in an effort to replenish his purse. On one side of the park was a cluster of short streets lined with studios, and Burke knew that certain gentlemen who lived there often walked across the park and along the dark paths after having dined at a big hotel on the avenue on the opposite side of the little square of green.

It was almost midnight now. Burke shivered a bit because of the cold mist, and crept closer to the clump of brush. A short distance away there was a sudden gleam beneath one of the lights. Burke knew the gleam. It came from the shield and buttons of a policeman.

Burke almost held his breath. He dropped the handkerchief around his neck and put the revolver beneath the clump of brush; and then he waited, crouching close to the ground, scarcely daring to breathe. The patrolman swung past within half a dozen feet of Burke, and went on across the square.

Almost immediately another man came along the path, the sort of man Burke was expecting. But Burke did not dare step from his place of concealment and attempt a holdup. The patrolman was too near. A single squeal of fright from the victim might be enough to bring the officer back on the run. And Burke was not ambitious to spend a term of years behind the walls of the big prison up the river, to wear a degrading uniform, and be known by a number—and to be known to the police always thereafter as a person to be suspected of all things at all times.

Fifteen minutes longer Burke waited, crouching behind the clump of brush in the drizzle of rain. He felt sure now that the patrolman had gone down the street, that he merely had been cutting across the park to get to some report box at the appointed hour.

Burke began to despair. It was getting rather late, and the mist and drizzle cut down the chances of a pedestrian coming along the path. And then, beneath the light in the distance, Burke saw his man.

He watched carefully. The one who approached wore evening dress, had his hat on the back of his head, and was carrying an umbrella at a rakish angle. Burke liked that. It meant that the man was not alert, that he was thinking of pleasant things, and did not have his mind concentrated on the possibilities of danger. Catching a man off guard that way was half the battle; a man taken by surprise rarely thinks and acts quickly.

The path forked, and Burke held himself ready to dodge to the other branch of it if his prospective victim elected to take it. But his man came straight on.

Now Burke prepared for business. He glanced down the walk in the other direction and made sure that nobody approached. He pulled the handkerchief up over his chin, settled his cap, picked up the revolver, and braced himself for a quick step to the edge of the walk.

On came the victim. Burke judged the distance correctly, and at the proper time darted forward, the revolver held in a menacing manner before him.

“Put ’em up!” he snarled.

The man before him stopped instantly and allowed the umbrella to tip backward.

“Quick! Up with them hands, or I’ll plug you!” Burke declared, a mean and threatening hiss in his voice.

The man standing before him did raise his hands, but to close the umbrella carefully and deliberately and then to toss it one side on the grass. But he did not put up his hands after the time-honored fashion of men consenting to be robbed. He rested them against his hips, bent forward quickly, and began chuckling.

“Up with ’em!” Burke ordered once more, wondering at his victim’s manner. “This ain’t a comedy!”

“P-pardon me, but it is a comedy,” the other replied. “You’ll appreciate it yourself in a minute or two. Holdup man, are you? Ought to be ashamed of yourself! Lowest order of the animal kingdom—holdup men!”

“Say! Up with them mitts o’ yours, and no more talk! I mean business!”

“And suppose I don’t put them up?” the other wanted to know, still chuckling.

“If you don’t, I’ll plug you!”

“You haven’t the nerve,” the victim declared. “Pardon me while I laugh again. This is an excellent joke. And allow me to ask you one question—just one. Did you ever hear of Joe Carden?”

“The comedian?”

“I believe he also is known by that name. Well, my young friend, I am Joe Carden! And you are trying to hold me up. Fancy that! You wouldn’t shoot in a million years.”

“The comedian, are you? And I’m the King of Siam!” Burke said.

“I see that you do not believe me. Do you know anything about this Joe Carden?”

“Only what I’ve heard,” Burke admitted. “But I know that he’s got a long blue scar across his left wrist2”

“Very good! Suppose you take a look at my left wrist, then.”

The arm was extended quickly, and Burke, keeping a close watch on his man, pulled back the sleeve. The scar was there.

“’Course, I didn’t know2” Burke began. It was his attempt at apology. It is not ethical for one crook to steal from, another, save under most peculiar circumstances.

At the moment of speaking, Burke experienced a sensation. Something happened to him that he often had declared could not happen—a man got away with his gun.

Joe Carden made a lightninglike movement, Burke felt a quick pain in his wrist, the revolver was torn out of his grasp and Joe Carden, the crook comedian, was chuckling once more.

“You’re not even a good holdup man,” Joe Carden sneered, stopping his laughter suddenly and getting a new note in his voice. “Now, what do you suppose I am going to do with you?”

Burke had heard certain tales about Joe Carden—that everything was as a joke to him, that he was utterly without fear, and that he rewarded friends and punished enemies in a way that caused him to be spoken of frequently. There was considerable mystery about him, too. His crimes were all unusual, and he kept the police half insane trying to apprehend him when they “had the goods on him.”

Fear came to Burke now, for he imagined Joe Carden was about to give him punishment. He began cringing.

“Honest, I didn’t know,” Burke said. “I wouldn’t have tried it on you; you know that. Gee, I just supposed you was some swell goin’ home from the hotel dinin’ room.”

“Possibly I’ll overlook it this time,” Carden said. “What’s your name?”

“Burke.”

“I’ve heard of you—an artist in your particular line. Yet I got your gun away from you.”

“I—I was a bit surprised.”

“It’s a bad thing to allow yourself to be surprised when you are engaged in such an enterprise. On second thought, I don’t think I’ll let you escape entirely.”

“I never guessed2”

“Stop sniveling!” Joe Carden commanded. “I think I can use a man like you, Burke—possibly make something of you before I’m done. I’ve had a man for a couple of years, and only yesterday, catching him stealing from me, I suggested that he leave town and remain away. I am informed that he is on his way West. And I want a man to take his place.”

“What’s the job?” Burke asked.

“Obeying orders. I live like a gentleman, and a gentleman has a servant. You’ll be valet2”

“I wasn’t cut out to be any he-maid.”

“Um! If you are worrying about the job being too effeminate for your taste, you may cease worrying. It will have stern moments—even violent ones, perhaps. You’d be my right-hand man, and there’d be good pay and—er—a certain amount of prestige. How about it?”

“Looks good, but I never aimed to hook up with anybody.”

“Understand me—you’ll be an assistant, not a partner,’ Joe Carden said. “I don’t hook up with anybody either, as you so aptly express it. Well?”

“I dunno!”

“I do,” Carden said. “You’ll come with me right now—and leave that silly cap pistol there on the grass. Pick up my umbrella and come along.”

“Ain’t I got anything to say about it?”

“Not a word,” Carden replied happily. “You may refuse, if you wish, and I’ll spread it all over town how you tried to hold me up, and how I took your gun away. And, in addition to that, I may be tempted to handle you myself.”

Burke noticed at that instant that Joe Carden had bent forward, and that his eyes were glittering. Burke did not like the glitter. It would be a good job, too, to work for a topnotcher. The misery of his existence might be removed. Perhaps he would have ample funds with which to purchase the fashionable raiment he craved. Even at that day Burke longed to be Nifty Burke.

“Well?” Carden snapped.

“You’ve got a man,” Burke answered. “Where is that umbrella?”

Carden motioned toward it, and Burke picked it up and opened it, and held it over the head of his new employer. They walked quickly along the path toward the nearest exit of the park. Burke watched Joe Carden from the corners of his eyes; Carden was humming as happily as though out strolling on a charming afternoon.

Burke had heard a lot about Carden. Where he had come from, no man knew. He was more than a match for the police, and some of his escapades kept the underworld in throes of laughter. He was a peculiar sort of individual, “hard as nails” at times, and at other times going far out of his way to aid some unfortunate who was deserving. He had supplied attorneys’ fees for more than one man, had cared for families of men sent up the river. He made few close friends, and played the game alone. That was one reason the police could not catch him, though they knew him well.

Once Joe Carden had been arrested on a charge of vagrancy, and he had gone into court and proved that he had a snug fortune properly invested, and lived on the proceeds. They traced the fortune and discovered that it was honest money that had been inherited from an uncle who had been a recluse.

So Joe Carden had laughed at the officers, and laughed at them now, even at those who knew him for what he was and yet could not prove it, and Detective Sam Marter, who had arrested him for vagrancy and had thus let himself in for a lot of ridicule, swore to get him if it took years. Marter even went as far as to construct elaborate traps, all of which Joe Carden dodged with consummate skill.

Burke thought of these things as they went from the park and then along the avenue. Presently, Carden led the way into a cross-street, and after a time stopped before a doorway and let himself in with a latchkey. He bade Burke close the door, and showed him how to snap on the lights. They went up the stairs and unlocked another door. Burke found himself in the living room of a suite furnished in an artistic manner.

“Here we are,” Joe Carden announced. “And kindly remember that from this time forward you are my man. I’ll break you in gradually. If you turn out to be valuable to me, you’ll not regret it. But watch your step, Burke! There are some peculiar things in these rooms, and curiosity is punished at times.”

“I getcha!” Burke said.

“Um! I may say that your language is scarcely elegant, Burke. And your clothing is not of the best, either. We can attend to the clothing to-morrow, but I suppose it will take me some time to change your language.”

Joe Carden tried it for six months, and then gave it up as a bad job. Burke continued to use a language of his own, not exactly a bad language, but one through which idiomatic remarks were scattered generously.

But Burke was not dismissed. He formed a sincere attachment for the crook comedian, and became a man of value to him. Burke did have genuine courage, as Joe Carden soon dis- covered, and also a certain amount of originality and ability. They worked well together, and profitably.

2. A Deal is Made

CHAPTER II.

A DEAL IS MADE.

ALMOST every city in the United States, except a few of the quickly-built ones of the West, has a few narrow, crooked streets that have resulted from paths made in haphazard fashion in the old days.

On a certain afternoon six months after his meeting with Burke, Joe Carden stood at the curb in such a street. He was dressed in inconspicuous clothing and wore a cap instead of a hat. He stood with a cigarette drooping from one corner of his mouth and with shoulders stooped. He did not look at all like the debonaire Joe Carden that sO many men knew—and he did not wish to so look.

Carden glanced down the street as he held his cupped hands before his face and lighted the cigarette afresh. Ragged children were playing happily between the two sidewalks, pushcart vendors were making their way slowly through the throng, on the alert to catch thieving young fingers. Here and there fat, foreign women leaned from second-story windows and shrieked to one another concerning the unimportant happenings of the day.

Halfway down the block, on the opposite side of the street, was an old antique shop with a battered sign over its door and crusted dirt on its windows. The shop had been there for years, and was the property of an old man known as Razelus.

The police often had entertained certain suspicions regarding this Razelus, but never had they been able to catch him at a moment when he was breaking the law. He was suspected of being a “fence,” and in reality was one, though not a fence of the ordinary variety. Razelus did not deal in stolen rings and purloined plate; he dealt in antiques, as the sign said. He was known to many wealthy collectors, some of them men who did not care how they obtained an object of art so long as they got it.

It was the shop of Razelus that the crook comedian was watching as he pretended to be loafing near the curb while enjoying his cigarette. Before the shop in the narrow street was a gorgeous limousine that took up almost half the width of the thoroughfare. Joe Carden knew that the car was the property of one Roger Belcher, a new millionaire regarding whose operations in the realm of business many nasty things were being said.

Roger Belcher, having made his pile and formulated plans for keeping it a big one, was attempting to break into the inner ranks of worthy society by the art route. In his great mansion far uptown, Roger Belcher had a gallery that contained some of the world’s masterpieces. Some of them had been acquired by shady means, but that did not annoy Belcher.

As Joe Carden watched, the man came from the shop of Razelus, and Razelus himself, carrying a small bundle, followed at his heels. Roger Belcher got into the limousine, old Razelus handed him the package and stood bowing and rubbing his hands, and the big car dashed suddenly up the street, scattering the playing children and causing several mothers to shriek in foreign words their fear and anger.

Joe Carden waited until the street had regained its normal aspect, and then he yawned and tossed his cigarette away. He glanced up and down the thoroughfare as if expecting some acquaintance to meet him—and so made sure that no officer of the law to whom he was known was in the neighborhood.

Then Joe Carden walked to the corner, crossed the street, and went down the other side, came to the door of the antique shop of old Razelus, and darted inside. A little bell tinkled somewhere in the back as the door was closed.

Razelus was not in sight; Joe Carden supposed that he was in the little rear room that he used as office and living quarters. Carden never had been inside the shop before, but he had heard about that little rear room—the majority of those in the underworld knew about it. The walls could have told police officials many interesting facts, could they have spoken.

While waiting for the antique dealer, Joe Carden glanced rapidly around the shop. Old furniture, objects of art, paintings, ancient books, bits of statuary—all were jumbled together and covered with dust. The crook comedian smiled a bit as he looked at the stock, and then he turned around quickly at the sound of the old dealer’s step behind him.

Razelus walked forward slowly, rubbing his hands, his little eyes glittering in a peculiar way. He was dressed in a rusty black coat that was much too long for him, and he wore a black skull cap and enormous spectacles.

“The gentleman wishes to look at something in my stock?” old Razelus asked.

Joe Carden stood with his fists against his hips looking down at him, trying to size up his man. He had spent considerable time, and Nifty Burke had spent time and money, preparing for this affair, and the crook comedian did not care to make a mistake that would endanger the success of his plans.

“Yes, I wish something,” Carden said.

“In the furniture line, perhaps?”

“I wish to talk to you, first.”

A sudden gleam of suspicion came into the eyes of old Razelus just long enough for Joe Carden to see it, and then fled again.

“You wish to leave me an order for some certain thing?” Razelus asked.

“Well, I wish to talk to you regarding some certain thing,” Joe Carden answered, “But I’d rather not talk to you in here. Suppose we go into that little back room of yours.”

“To my office? My dear sir, I never take strangers into my office, you see,” Razelus said, with a trace of fear in his manner.

“I don’t care to talk any other place,” Joe Carden told him. “I’m no more anxious to have the police overhear me than you are. Do you understand?”

“The police? I have nothing at all to do with the police,” old Razelus declared. “I think that you have made some sort of a mistake. I am an old antique dealer trying hard to make my living2”

“I can hear better comedy than that in a cheap vaudeville theater any day,” Joe Carden interrupted. “Suppose we get down to business.”

“But I do not understand2”

“Do you happen to know a tall man who squints his left eye all the time when he talks?” the crook comedian asked. “Well, I am a friend of his.”

Carden spoke of a character well-known in the underworld, from whom he had obtained certain valuable information regarding old Razelus. And the manner of the dealer in antiques changed suddenly as he stepped nearer Carden.

“Well, why did you not say so in the first place?” Razelus asked. “I am particular with whom I talk, especially when they want to talk in my office.”

“Are you going to take me to your office, or are we going to stand here all day and blab?” Carden demanded.

“Come this way, sir. I really cannot imagine what you wish to speak to me about in such a mysterious fashion, but if you are a friend of my old friend2”

Razelus led the way behind the counter and to the little room in the rear of the store, where there was a battered desk, two old chairs, more antiques, and more dust. Joe Carden happened to know that a hidden safe was there, too, and that old Razelus kept his wealth in it.

The crook comedian sat down at one end of the desk, on one of the old chairs, and reached into his coat pocket to pull out a section of newspaper.

“Razelus, do you ever read the Sunday papers?” he asked.

“At times, sir—at times.”

“In the illustrated section of one of them yesterday was an article about some rare art treasures a certain well-known collector obtained recently. Did you read it?”

“I seldom look at such things,” Razelus declared. “Generally such articles are written by reporters who know nothing at all-about art. In most cases I know more about the treasures than the men who describe them.”

“I suppose that is right,” Carden assented. As a matter of fact, he knew that old Razelus was an expert on objects of art. There had been a time when Razelus had been an honest man and had worked in a big museum in Europe. ‘Well, I want to ask you something. This article says that Mr. Gordon Burlington, a wealthy man and a scholar, has just purchased a certain Chinese vase.”

“I know of that vase, and I have heard of his purchase of it,” Razelus said.

“Good enough! There is a picture of the vase here in the paper. And the article says that it is worth twenty thousand dollars at the least. Is that true?”

“The value of such a thing scarcely can be set accurately,” old Razelus explained. “It is worth the highest bid a collector will make. That vase is the only one of its kind in the world, as far as is known. It is typical of an era in art2 But you would not understand if I explained.”

“And I don’t care particularly for any of that stuff,” Carden told him. “I did not come here to listen to a lecture on Chinese art. What I want to know is this: Is the vase valuable?”

“Undoubtedly! It is a rare treasure.”

“If you had it, could you sell it?”

A sudden gleam came into Razelus’ eyes again. “Half a hundred collectors were after it, and Mr. Burlington happened to get ahead of the others,” he said.

“I see. Then, if you had that vase, you could sell it easily. Razelus, what would that vase be worth to you, put right down here before you on your desk?” .

Razelus straightened his shoulders suddenly and blinked his eyes rapidly behind his big spectacles.

“You mean—er—stolen goods?” he asked, in a lower tone. “I can have nothing to do with such things, my dear sir.”

“Rats! You’re talking to a man who knows a few things, Razelus. You’ve handled stolen art treasures before. That is your big game. There are wealthy collectors who get crazy to own certain things, and they’ll buy them when and where they can, stolen or not, even if they have to hide them away afterward. You’ve dealt with a lot of them. Don’t try to bluff me, Razelus!”

“But I assure you2”

“If you want to assume this attitude, I may as well go somewhere else and talk business,” the crook comedian declared; and he got up, put the newspaper into his pocket, and started toward the door.

“One moment!” Razelus called. “Come back and sit down. This vase—you have it?”

“I can get it.”

Razelus chuckled. “I am afraid not,” he said. “I happen to know that Gordon Burlington’s art treasures are very well protected indeed. If he has that vase in his house, where I suppose it is, no ten thieves in the world could get it. And anybody who tried to get it would be nabbed, young man.”

“That part of it is my business,” Joe Carden replied. “I said that I can get the vase—and I can. Do you want it?”

“But how could I dispose of it if I felt inclined to do business with you? It is a famous vase, and every collector in the world knows it. The theft of it would get wide publicity. If I sold it to anybody and it was traced back to me2”

“You listen to me! I know a few things,” Joe Carden said. “I know, for instance, that Roger Belcher and Gordon Burlington are bitter enemies. Belcher hates Burlington because the latter has beaten him to a lot of art stuff and has made the remark that Belcher is ignorant and uncultured. And Burlington hates Belcher because he knows that Belcher is not a genuine art lover, but only a rich man trying to buy his way into select circles.”

“And what of it?” Razelus asked.

“This vase Burlington owns has been well advertised. He has been congratulated on getting it. Nothing would please Belcher more than to have that vase. Maybe he’d find it necessary to hide it, but he’d have the satisfaction of knowing that Burlington couldn’t show it. And he’d pay a mighty good price to get that vase, too—and you know it! Now, do you want to talk business with me? You could sell that vase to Roger Belcher within twenty-four hours after you got it in your hands.”

“It is rather risky, young man.”

“I suppose you never took risks before?” Joe Carden said, grinning a bit. “Maybe I’d better go elsewhere.”

“Wait a moment. Just what is it that you are proposing?” Razelus asked.

“Now we’re getting at it. Do you want that vase? If you do, I’ll get it for you, and quickly, if you pay my price. Razelus, what is that vase worth to you, put right before you here on your desk?”

Razelus blinked his eyes rapidly again and regarded Joe Carden carefully.

“How soon could you get it?” he asked.

“Either to-night or to-morrow night.”

“If you try it and fail, I must not be involved.”

“You’ll not be—but I am not going to fail,” Joe Carden said. “How much will it be worth to you? Talk sense—and talk quick! My time is valuable.”

“It is a risky business,” Razelus declared. “I may fail to sell it again, you see, and then my money would be lost. I couldn’t offer it for sale openly. I’ll give you five hundred dollars.”

Joe Carden smiled, got up again quickly, and started toward the door.

“Five hundred? I can see plainly that I’ve been wasting my time here,” he said.

“Wait a moment, my dear young man! How much money do you want for the thing?”

Carden bent down toward him. “Two thousand dollars—and not a cent less,” he declared. “You’ll probably sell it within twenty-four hours for fifteen thousand, or more. And your risk is small—you can sell it, all right.”

“But I couldn’t think of paying you two thousand dollars. Perhaps one2”

“Good-by, Razelus!” Joe Carden exclaimed, and he started toward the door again.

“Wait—wait!” Razelus implored, getting to his feet quickly. “I—I am willing to make the deal. Two thousand dollars if you bring that vase to me here—two thousand as soon as I look it over and am sure that it is the right vase.”