Part 16 (1/2)
The gentlemanly dispenser of liquid refreshment, whose constant boast was that he knew how to manufacture over three hundred different mixed drinks without using any intoxicant, stood beside the mahogany counter, polis.h.i.+ng up the gla.s.ses, which he piled in an imposing pyramid on the shelf at the back, where the display was made doubly attractive by the plate mirror behind. His hair was scrupulously brushed and his short white coat was immaculately clean. Fortunately there was no one else in the place, so that the detective was afforded a good opportunity for free conversation. He asked for a Manhattan c.o.c.ktail, and admired the dexterity with which the man prepared the drink. Raising it to his lips and tasting it as a connoisseur might, Mr. Barnes said:
”Could not be better at the Waldorf.”
”Oh, I don't know,” said the fellow, deprecatingly, but pleased at the implied compliment.
”Your face is very familiar to me,” said Mr. Barnes; ”have you ever met me before?”
”Never in my life,” said the bartender, without the slightest change of expression.
”That's odd,” said Mr. Barnes, pursuing the point with a purpose; ”I am pretty good at faces. I seldom forget one, and just as seldom make a mistake. I would almost swear I have seen you before.”
”I was tending bar at the Astor House for two years. Perhaps you saw me there,” suggested the man.
”Ah, that is it,” said Mr. Barnes, pretending to accept this explanation; ”I often take my luncheon there. By the way, I suppose you are pretty well acquainted around the neighborhood?”
”Oh, I know a few people,” said the man, cautiously.
”You know Tommy White, of course?”
”Do I?”
”Don't you?”
”I might, without knowing his name. Our customers don't all leave their cards when they buy a drink. I don't know your name, for instance.”
”Yes, but I do not live in the neighborhood. White must come here often.”
”Well, he hasn't been in lately,” said the bartender, and then stopped short as he noted the slip that he had made. The detective did not choose to appear to notice it, but asked:
”That is the point. Isn't it odd that he should have disappeared?”
”Oh, I don't know. A man can go out of town if he wants to, I guess.”
”Do you know that White went out of town?”
”No.”
”Have you seen Tommy White since Jerry Morgan skipped?”
”See here! what the devil are you asking me all these questions for? Who are you, anyway, and what are you after?”
”I am Jack Barnes, detective, but I'm not after you, Joe Allen, alias Fred Martin, alias Jimmy Smith, alias Bowery Bill, alias the Plug.”
This sally left the man stolidly unmoved, but it affected his att.i.tude towards his questioner, nevertheless, as he sullenly answered:
”There's nothing you can get against me, so I don't scare even if you know me. If you don't want me, what do you want?”
”Look here, Joe,” said Mr. Barnes, in friendly, confidential tones, ”a bluff does not go with me, and you know it never did. Now why did you not acknowledge that you knew me when I first came in?”
”What's the use of courtin' trouble? I wasn't sure you'd remember my face. It's quite a time since we met.”