Susan was looking the sergeant straight in the eyes."I am a married woman," said she."I live with my husband.I was looking at some books in Forty-second Street when these two came up and arrested me."The sergeant quailed, glanced at Pete who was guiltily hanging his head--glanced at Black Mustache.There he got the support he was seeking."What's your husband's name?" demanded Black Mustache roughly."What's your address?"And Rod's play coming on the next night but one! She shrank, collected herself."I am not going to drag him into this, if I can help it," said she."I give you a chance to keep yourselves out of trouble." She was gazing calmly at the sergeant again."You know these men are not telling the truth.You know they've brought me here because of Freddie Palmer.My husband knows all about my past.He will stand by me.But I wish to spare him."The sergeant's uncertain manner alarmed Black Mustache.
"She's putting up a good, bluff" scoffed he."The truth is she ain't got no husband.She'd not have solicited us if she was living decent.""You hear what the officer says," said the sergeant, taking the tone of great kindness."You'll have to give your name and address--and I'll leave it to the judge to decide between you and the officers." He took up his pen."What's your name?"Susan, weak and trembling, was clutching the iron rail before the desk--the rail worn smooth by the nervous hands of ten thousand of the social system's sick or crippled victims.
"Come--what's your name?" jeered Black Mustache.
Susan did not answer.
"Put her down Queenie Brown," cried he, triumphantly.
The sergeant wrote.Then he said: "Age?"
No answer from Susan.Black Mustache answered for her:
"About twenty-two now."
"She don't look it," said the sergeant, almost at ease once more."But brunettes stands the racket better'n blondes.
Native parents?"
No answer.
"Native.You don't look Irish or Dutch or Dago--though you might have a dash of the Spinnitch or the Frog-eaters.Ever arrested before?"No answer from the girl, standing rigid at the bar.Black Mustache said:
"At least oncet, to my knowledge.I run her in myself.""Oh, she's got a record?" exclaimed the sergeant, now wholly at ease."Why the hell didn't you say so?""I thought you remembered.You took her pedigree.""I do recollect now," said the sergeant."Take my advice, Queenie, and drop that bluff about the officers lying.
Swallow your medicine--plead guilty--and you'll get off with a fine.If you lie about the police, the judge'll soak it to you.It happens to be a good judge--a friend of Freddie's."Then to the policemen: "Take her along to court, boys, and get back here as soon as you can.""I want her locked up," objected Black Mustache."I want F.P.
to see her.I've got to hunt for him."
"Can't do it," said the sergeant."If she makes a yell about police oppression, our holding on to her would look bad.No, put her through."Susan now straightened herself and spoke."I shan't make any complaint," said she."Anything rather than court.I can't stand that.Keep me here.""Not on your life!" cried the sergeant."That's a trick.
She'd have a good case against us."
"F.P.'ll raise the devil if----" began Black Mustache.
"Then hunt him up right away.To court she's got to go.Idon't want to get broke."
The two men fell afoul each other with curse and abuse.They were in no way embarrassed by the presence of Susan.Her "record" made her of no account either as a woman or as a witness.Soon each was so well pleased with the verbal wounds he had dealt the other that their anger evaporated.The upshot of the hideous controversy was that Black Mustache said:
"You take her to court, Pete.I'll hunt up F.P.Keep her till the last."In after days she could recall starting for the street car with the officer, Pete; then memory was a blank until she was sitting in a stuffy room with a prison odor--the anteroom to the court.She and Pete were alone.He was walking nervously up and down pulling his little fair mustache.It must have been that she had retained throughout the impassive features which, however stormy it was within, gave her an air of strength and calm.Otherwise Pete would not presently have halted before her to say in a low, agitated voice:
"If you can make trouble for us, don't do it.I've got a wife, and three babies--one come only last week--and my old mother paralyzed.You know how it is with us fellows--that we've got to do what them higher up says or be broke."Susan made no reply.
"And F.P.--he's right up next the big fellows nowadays.What he says goes.You can see for yourself how much chance against him there'd be for a common low-down cop."She was still silent, not through anger as he imagined but because she had no sense of the reality of what was happening.
The officer, who had lost his nerve, looked at her a moment, in his animal eyes a humble pleading look; then he gave a groan and turned away."Oh, hell!" he muttered.
Again her memory ceased to record until--the door swung open;she shivered, thinking it was the summons to court.Instead, there stood Freddie Palmer.The instant she looked into his face she became as calm and strong as her impassive expression had been falsely making her seem.Behind him was Black Mustache, his face ghastly, sullen, cowed.Palmer made a jerky motion of head and arm.Pete went; and the door closed and she was alone with him.
"I've seen the Judge and you're free," said Freddie.
She stood and began to adjust her hat and veil.
"I'll have those filthy curs kicked off the force."She was looking tranquilly at him.
"You don't believe me? You think I ordered it done?"She shrugged her shoulders."No matter," she said."It's undone now.I'm much obliged.It's more than I expected.""You don't believe me--and I don't blame you.You think I'm making some sort of grandstand play.""You haven't changed--at least not much."
