On
a polished section of the floor in the centre, a turkey trot was in
full swing; laughter and shouting vied raucously with an impossible
orchestra.
Jimmie Dale slowly made the circuit of the room past the tables, that,
ranged around the sides, were packed with occupants who thumped their
glasses in tempo with the music and clamoured at the rushing waiters
for replenishment. A dozen, two dozen, men and women greeted him. Jimmie
Dale indifferently returned their salutes. What a galaxy of crooks--the
cream of the underworld! His eyes, under half-closed lids, swept the
faces--lags, dips, gatmen, yeggs, mob stormers, murderers, petty sneak
thieves, stalls, hangers-on--they were all there. He knew them all; he
was known to all.
He shuffled on to the far end of the room, his leer a little arrogant,
a certain arrogance, too, in the tilt of his battered hat. He also
was quite a celebrity in that gathering--Larry the Bat was of the
aristocracy and the elite of gangland. Well, the show was over; he had
stalked across the stage, performed for his audience--and in another
hour now, free until he must repeat the same performance the next day in
some other equally notorious dive, he would be sitting in for a rubber
of bridge at that most exclusive of all clubs, the St. James, where none
might enter save only those whose names were vouched for in the highest
and most select circles, and where for partners he would possibly have
a justice of the supreme court, or mayhap an eminent divine! He looked
suddenly around him, as though startled.
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