the white moll-第1章

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The　White　Moll

by　Frank　L。　Packard






CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I。　　　　　　　NIGHT　IN　THE　UNDERWORLD

II。　　　　　　SEVEN…THREE…NINE　

III。　　　　　ALIAS　GYPSY　NAN　

IV。　　　　　　THE　ADVENTURER　

V。　　　　　　　A　SECOND　VISITOR

VI。　　　　　　THE　RENDEZVOUS　　　　　　　　　

VII。　　　　　FELLOW　THIEVES　　　　　　　　　　

VIII。　　　　THE　CODE　MESSAGE　

IX。　　　　　　ROOM　NUMBER　ELEVEN　

X。　　　　　　　ON　THE　BRINK　　　　　　　　　　　

XI。　　　　　　SOME　OF　THE　LESSER　BREED

XII。　　　　　CROOKS　vs。　　CROOKS　　　　　　　　

XIII。　　　　THE　DOOR　ACROSS　THE　HALL

XIV。　　　　　THE　LAME　MAN　　　　　　　　　　

XV。　　　　　　IN　THE　COUNCIL　CHAMBER

XVI。　　　　　THE　SECRET　PANEL　　　　　　　　

XVII。　　　　THE　SILVER　SPHINX　

XVIII。　　　THE　OLD　SHED

XIX。　　　　　BREAD　UPON　THE　WATERS　

XX。　　　　　　A　LONE　HAND

XXI。　　　　　THE　RECKONING　　　　　　　　　　　



I。　　NIGHT　IN　THE　UNDERWORLD

It　was　like　some　shadowy　pantomime：　The　dark　mouth　of　an　alleyway
thrown　into　murky　relief　by　the　rays　of　a　distant　street　lamp。。。the
swift；　forward　leap　of　a　skulking　figure。。。a　girl's　form　swaying
and　struggling　in　the　man's　embrace。　　Then；　a　pantomime　no　longer；
there　came　a　half　threatening；　half　triumphant　oath；　and　then　the
girl's　voice；　quiet；　strangely　contained；　almost　imperious：

〃Now；　give　me　back　that　purse；　please。　　Instantly！〃　　The　man；
already　retreating　into　the　alleyway；　paused　to　fling　back　a
jeering　laugh。

〃Say；　youse've　got　yer　nerve；　ain't　youse！〃

The　girl　turned　her　head　so　that　the　rays　of　the　street　lamp；　faint
as　they　were；　fell　full　upon　her；　disclosing　a　sweet；　oval　face；
out　of　which　the　dark　eyes　gazed　steadily　at　the　man。

And　suddenly　the　man　leaned　forward；　staring　for　an　instant；　and
then　his　hand　went　awkwardly　to　touch　his　cap。

〃De　White　Moll！〃　he　mumbled　deferentially。　　He　pulled　the　peak　of
his　cap　down　over　his　eyes　in　a　sort　of　shame…faced　way；　as　though
to　avoid　recognition；　and；　stepping　nearer；　returned　the　purse。

〃'Scuse　me；　miss；〃　he　said　uneasily。　　〃I　didn't　know　it　was　youse
…　honest　to　Gawd；　I　didn't！　　'Scuse　me；　miss。　　Good…night！〃

For　a　moment　the　girl　stood　there　motionless；　looking　down　the
alleyway　after　the　retreating　figure。　　From　somewhere　in　the
distance　came　the　rumble　of　an　elevated　train。　　　It　drowned　out　the
pound　of　the　man's　speeding　footsteps；　it　died　away　itself　…　and
now　there　was　no　other　sound。　　A　pucker；　strangely　wistful；
curiously　perturbed；　came　and　furrowed　her　forehead　into　little
wrinkles；　and　then　she　turned　and　walked　slowly　on　along　the
deserted　street。

The　White　Moll！　　She　shook　her　head　a　little。　　The　attack　had　not
unnerved　her。　　Why　should　it？　　　It　was　simply　that　the　man　had　not
recognized　her　at　first　in　the　darkness。　　The　White　Moll　here　at
night　in　one　of　the　loneliest；　as　well　as　one　of　the　most　vicious
and　abandoned；　quarters　of　New　York；　was　as　safe　and　inviolate　
as　…　as　…　She　shook　her　head　again。　　Her　mind　did　not　instantly
suggest　a　comparison　that　seemed　wholly　adequate。　　The　pucker
deepened；　but　the　sensitive；　delicately　chiseled　lips　parted　now
in　a　smile。　　Well；　she　was　safer　here　than　anywhere　else　in　the
world；　that　was　all。

It　was　the　first　time　that　anything　like　this　had　happened；　and；
for　the　very　reason　that　it　was　unprecedented；　it　seemed　to　stir
her　memory　now；　and　awaken　a　dormant　train　of　thought。　　The　White
Moll！　　She　remembered　the　first　time　she　had　ever　been　called　by
that　name。　　It　took　her　back　almost　three　years；　and　since　that
time；　here　in　this　sordid　realm　of　crime　and　misery；　the　name　of
Rhoda　Gray；　her　own　name；　her　actual　identity；　seemed　to　have
become　lost；　obliterated　in　that　of　the　White　Moll。　　A　〃dip〃
had　given　it　to　her；　and　the　underworld；　quick　and　trenchant　in　its
〃monikers；〃　had　instantly　ratified　it。　　There　was　not　a　crook　or
denizen　of　crimeland；　probably；　who　did　not　know　the　White　Moll；
there　was；　probably；　not　one　to…day　who　knew；　or　cared；　that　she
was　Rhoda　Gray！

She　went　on；　traversing　block　after　block；　entering　a　less　deserted；
though　no　less　unsavory；　neighborhood。　　Here；　a　saloon　flung　a
sudden　glow　of　yellow　light　athwart　the　sidewalk　as　its　swinging
doors　jerked　apart；　and　a　form　lurched　out　into　the　night；　there；
from　a　dance…hall　came　the　rattle　of　a　tinny　piano；　the　squeak　of
a　raspy　violin；　a　high…pitched；　hectic　burst　of　laughter；　while；
flanking　the　street　on　each　side；　like　interjected　inanimate
blotches；　rows　of　squalid　tenements　and　cheap；　tumble…down　frame
houses　silhouetted　themselves　in　broken；　jagged　points　against
the　sky…line。　　And　now　and　then　a　man　spoke　to　her　…　his　untrained
fingers　fumbling　in　clumsy　homage　at　the　brim　of　his　hat。

How　strange　a　thing　memory　was！　　How　strange；　too；　the　coincidences
that　sometimes　roused　it　into　activity！　　It　was　a　man；　a　thief；　just
like　the　man　to…night；　who　had　first　brought　her　here　into　this
shadowland　of　crime。　　That　was　just　before　her　father　had　died。　　Her
father　had　been　a　mining　engineer；　and；　though　an　American；　had　been
for　many　years　resident　in　South　America　as　the　representative　of　a
large　English　concern。　　He　had　been　in　ill　health　for　a　year　down
there；　when；　acting　on　his　physician's　advice；　he　had　come　to　New
York　for　consultation；　and　she　had　accompanied　him。　　They　had　taken
a　little　flat；　the　engineer　had　placed　himself　in　the　hands　of　a
famous　specialist；　and　an　operation　had　been　decided　upon。　　And
then；　a　few　days　prior　to　the　date　set　for　the　operation　and　before
her　father；　who　was　still　able　to　be　about；　had　entered　the　hospital；
the　flat　had　been　broken　into　during　the　early　morning　hours。　　The
thief；　obviously　not　counting　on　the　engineer's　wakefulness；　had
been　caught　red…handed。　　At　first　defiant；　the　man　had　finally
broken　down；　and　had　told　a　miserable　story。　　It　was　hackneyed
possibly；　the　same　story　told　by　a　thousand　others　as　a　last　defense
in　the　hope　of　inducing　leniency　through　an　appeal　to　pity；　but
somehow　to　her　that　night　the　story　had　rung　true。　　Pete　McGee；
alias　the　Bussard；　the　man　had　said　his　name　was。　　He　couldn't　get
any　work；　there　was　the　shadow　of　a　long　abode　in　Sing　Sing　that
lay　upon　him　as　a　curse　…　a　job　here　to…day；　his　record　discovered
to…morrow；　and　the　next　day　out　on　the　street　again。　　It　was　very
old；　very　threadbare；　that　story；　there　were　even　the　sick　wife；
the　hungry；　unclothed　children；　but　to　her　it　had　rung　true。　　Her
father　had　not　placed　the　slightest　faith　in　it；　and　but　for　her
intervention　the　Bussard　would　have　been　incontinently　consigned
to　the　mercies　of　the　police。

Her　face　softened　suddenly　now　as　she　walked　along。　　She　remembered
well　that　scene；　when；　at　the　end；　she　had　written　down　the　address
the　man　had　given　her。

〃Father　is　going　to　let　you　go；　McGee；　because　I　ask　him　to；〃　she
had　said。　　〃And　to…morrow　morning　I　will　go　to　this　address；　and　if
I　find　your　story　is　true；　as　I　believe　it　is；　I　will　see　what　I
can　do　for　you。〃

〃It's　true；　miss；　so　help　me　God！〃　the　man　had　answered　brokenly。
〃Youse　come　an'　see。　　I'll　be　dere…an'…an'…God　bless　youse；　miss！〃

And　so　they　had　let　the　man　go　free；　and　her　father；　with　a
whimsical；　tolerant　smile；　had　shaken　his　head　at　her。　　〃You'll
never　find　that　address；　Rhoda…or　our　friend　the　Bussard；　either！〃

But　she　had　found　both　the　Bussard　and　the　address；　and　destitution
and　a　squalor　unspeakable。　　Pathetic　still；　but　the　vernacular　of
the　underworld　where　men　called　their　women　by　no　more　gracious
names　than　〃molls〃　and　〃skirts〃　no　longer　strange　to　her　ears；　there
came　to　her　again　now　the　Bussard's　words　in　which　he　had　paid　her
tribute　on　that　morning　long　ago；　and　with　which　he　had　introduced
her　to　a　shrunken　form　that　lay　upon　a　dirty　cot　in　the　barefloored
room：

〃Meet　de　moll　I　was　tellin'　youse　about；　Mag。　　She's　white　…　all　de
way　up。　　She's　white；　Mag；　she's　a　white　moll　…　take　it　from　me。〃

The　White　Moll！

The　firm　little　chin　came　suddenly　upward；　but　into　the　dark　eyes
unbidden　came　a　sudden　film　and　mist。　　Her　father's　health　had　been
too　far　undermined；　and　he　bad　been　unable　to　withstand　the　shock
of　the　operation；　and　he　had　died　in　the　hospital。　　There　weren't
any　relatives；　except　distant　ones　on　her　mother's　side；　somewhere
out　in　California；　whom　she　had　never　seen。　　She　and　her　father
had　been　all　in　all　to　each　other；　chums；　pals；　comrades；　since　her
mother's　death　many　years　ago。　　She　had　gone　everywhere　with　him
save　when　the　demands　of　her　education　had　necessarily　kept　them
apart；　she　had　hunted　with　him　in　South　America；　ridden　with　him
in　sections　where　civilization　was　still　in　the　making；　shared　the
crude；　rough　life　of　mining　camps　with　him　…　and　it　had　seemed　as
though　her　life；　too；　had　gone　out　with　his。

She　brushed　her　hand　hastily　across　her　eyes。　　There　hadn't　been
any　friends　either；　apart　from　a　few　of　her　father's　casual
business　acquaintances；　no　one　else　…　except　the　Bussard。　　It　was
very　strange！　　Her　reward　for　that　one　friendly　act　had　come　in　a
manner　little　expected；　and　it　had　come　very　quickly。　　She　had
sought　and　found　a　genuine　relief　from　her　own　sorrow　in　doing
what　she　could　to　alleviate　the　misery　in　that　squalid；　one…room
home。　　And　then　the　sphere　of　her　activities　had　broadened；　slowly
at　first；　not　through　any　preconceived　intention　on　her　part；　but
naturally；　and　as　almost　an　inevitable　corollary　consequent　upon
her　relations　with　the　Bussard　and　his　ill…fortuned　family。

The　Bussard's　circle　of　intimates　was　amongst　those　who　lay　outside
the　law；　those　who　gambled　for　their　livelihood　by　staking　their
wits；　to　win　against　the　toils　of　the　police；　and　so；　more　and　more；
she　had　come　into　close　and　intimate　contact　with　the　criminal
element　of　New　York；　until　to…day；　throughout　its　length　and　breadth；
she　was　known；　and；　she　had　reason　to　believe；　was　loved　and　trusted
by　every　crook　in　the　underworld。　　It　was　a　strange　eulogy；
self…pronounced！　　But　it　was　none　the　less　true。　　Then；　she　had
been　Rhoda　Gray；　now；　even　the　Bussard；　doubtless；　had　forgotten
her　name　in　the　one　with　which　he　himself；　at　that　queer　baptismal
font　of　crimeland；　had　christened　her　…　the　White　Moll。　　It　even
went　further　than　that。　　It　embraced　what　might　be　called　the
entourage　of　the　underworld；　the　police　and　the　social　workers　with
whom　she　inevitably　came　in　contact。　　These；　too；　had　long　known
her　as　the　White　Moll；　and　had　come；　since　she　had　volunteered　no
further　information；　tacitly　to　accept　her　as　such；　and　nothing　more。

Again　she　shook　her　head。　　It　wasn't　altogether　a　normal　life。　　She
was　only　a　woman；　with　all　the　aspirations　of　a　woman；　with　all　the
yearning　of　youth　for　its　measure　of　gayety　and　pleasure。　　True；　she
had　not　made　a　recluse　of　herself　outside　her　work；　but；　equally；
on　the　other　hand；　she　had　not　made　any　intimate　friends　in　her　own
station　in　life。　　She　had　never　purposed　continuing　indefinitely　the
work　she　was　doing；　nor　did　she　now；　but；　little　by　little；　it　had
forced　its　claims　upon　her　until　those　claims　were　not　easy　to
ignore。　　Even　though　the　circumstances　in　which　her　father　had　left
her　were　barely　more　than　sufficient　for　a　modest　little　flat　uptown；
there　was　still　always　a　little　surplus；　and　that　surplus　counted
in　certain　quarters　for　very　much　i