CHAPTER LXXI
THE BLIND BOSS
Francisco met the erstwhile agitator on the street one day. He had made his peace with many former foes, including Pickering."
"Politics is a rotten game, me b'y," he said, by way of explanation. "And I've a family, two little girruls at home. I want thim to remimber their father as something besides a blatherskite phin they grow up. So I'm in a rispictible business again.... There's a new boss now, bad cess to him! Chris Buckley.
"Him your Chinese friends call 'The Blind White Devil?' Yes, I've heard of Chris."
"He keeps a saloon wid a gossoon name o' Fallon, on Bush street.... Go up and see him, Misther Stanley.... He's a fair-speakin' felly I'm told.... Ask him," Dennis whispered, nudging the writer's ribs with his elbow, "ask him how his gambling place in Platt's Hall is coming on?"
* * * * *
Several days later Francisco entered the unpretentious establishment of Christopher Buckley. He found it more like an office than a drinking place; people sat about, apparently waiting their turn for an interview with Buckley.
A small man, soft of tread and with a searching glance, asked Stanley's business and, learning that the young man was a writer for the press, blinked rapidly a few times; then he scuttled off, returning ere long with the information that Buckley would "see Mr. Stanley." Soon he found himself facing a pleasant-looking man of medium height, a moustache, wiry hair tinged with gray, a vailed expression of the eyes, which indicated some abnormality of vision, but did not reveal the almost total blindness with which early excesses had afflicted Christopher Buckley.
"Sit down, my friend," spoke the boss. His tone held a crisp cordiality, searching and professionally genial. "What d'ye want ... a story?"
"Yes," said Stanley.
"About the election?"
Stanley hesitated. "Tell me about the gambling concession at Platt's Hall," he said suddenly.
Buckley's manner changed. It became, if anything, more cordial.
"My boy," his tone was low, "you're wasting time as a reporter. Listen," he laid a hand upon Francisco's knee. "I've got a job for you.... The new Mayor will need a secretary ... three hundred a month. And extras!"
"What are they?" asked Francisco curiously.
"Lord! I don't have to explain that to a bright young man like you.... People coming to the Mayor for favors. They're appreciative ... understand?"
"Well," Francisco seemed to hesitate, "let me think it over.... Can I let you know," he smiled, "tomorrow?"
Buckley nodded as Francisco rose. As soon as the latter's back was turned the little sharp-eyed man came trotting to his master's call. "Follow him. Find out what's his game," he snapped. The little man sped swiftly after. Buckley made another signal. The top-hatted representative of railway interests approached.
* * * * *
Francisco stopped at Robert's office on his way home. Windham had moved into one of the new buildings, with an elevator, on Kearney street. In his private office was a telephone, one of those new instruments for talking over a wire which still excited curiosity, though they were being rapidly installed by the Pacific Bell Company. Hotels, newspapers, the police and fire departments were equipped with them, but private subscribers were few, Francisco had noticed one of the instruments in Buckley's saloon.
Robert had not returned from court, but was momentarily expected. His amanuensis ushered Francisco into the private office. He sat down and picked up a newspaper, glancing idly over the news.
A bell tinkled somewhere close at hand. It must be the telephone. Rather gingerly, for he had never handled one before, Francisco picked up the receiver, put it to his ear. It was a man's voice insisting that a probate case be settled. Francisco tried to make him understand that Robert was out. But the voice went on. Apparently the transmitting apparatus was defective. Francisco could not interrupt the flow of words.
"See Buckley.... He has all the judges under his thumb. Pay him what he asks. We must have a settlement at once."
Francisco put back the receiver. So Buckley controlled the courts as well. He would be difficult to expose. The little plan for getting evidence with Robert's aid did not appear so simple now.
Francisco waited half an hour longer, fidgeting about the office. Then he decided that Robert had gone for the day and went out. At the corner of Powell street he bumped rather unceremoniously into a tall figure, top-hatted, long-coated, carrying a stick.
"I beg your pardon," he apologized. "Oh--why it's Mr. Pickering."
"Where are you bound so--impetuously?"
"Home," smiled Stanley. "Jeanne and I are going to the show tonight." He was about to pass on when a thought struck him. "Got a minute to spare, Mr. Pickering?"
"Always to you, my boy," returned the editor of the Bulletin, with his old-fashioned courtesy.
[Illustration: "My boy ... you're wasting your time as a reporter. Listen," he laid a hand upon Francisco's knee. "I've a job for you.... The new Mayor will need a secretary."]
"Then, come into the Baldwin Cafe.... I want to tell you something."
In an unoccupied corner, over a couple of glasses, Francisco unfolded his plan. He was somewhat abashed by Pickering's expression. "Very clever, Stanley ... but quite useless. It's been tried before. You'd better have taken the job, accumulated evidence; then turned it over to us. That would be the way to trap him ... but it's probably too late. Ten to one his sleuth has seen us together. Buckley's very--bright, you know."
He put a hand kindly on the crestfallen young man's shoulder.... "Go back tomorrow and see if he'll make you secretary to the Mayor. Then get all the 'extras' you can. Label each and bring it to me. I'll see that you're not misunderstood." He rose. "But I fear Buckley will withdraw his offer ... if so, we'll print the story of his Platt's Hall gambling house."
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