“Who is he?” repeated the Central Office delegate in a discouraged tone. “I thought your hubby wised you up. That's Paul Kelly.”
Paul Kelly owned the New Brighton in Great Jones Street. One evening, as the orchestra was tuning its fiddles for the final valse, a sudden but exhaustive bombardment then and there broke loose. In the hot midst of it, some cool hand turned off the lights. They were never again turned on. The guests departed through window and by way of door, and did not come back. It was the end of the New Brighton.
Gangland, which can talk betimes, can also keep a secret. Coax, cozen, cross-question as you will, you cannot worm from it the secret of that New Brighton bombardment. Ask, and every one is silent. There is a silence which is empty, there is a silence which is full. Those who will not tell why the New Brighton was shot up that night are silent with the silence which is full.
As usual, the Central Office is not without its theories. The Central Office is often without the criminal, but never without the explanation. One Mulberry Street whisper declared that it was a war over a woman, without saying which woman. Another whisper insisted that money lay at the roots of the business, without saying what money. Still another ran to the effect that it was one of those hit-or-miss mix-ups, in their sort extemporaneous, in their up-come inexplicable, the distinguishing mark of which is an utter lack of either rhyme or reason.
One officer with whom I talked pointed to Ellison and Harrington as the principals. Paul Kelly, he said, was drawn into it as incident to his proprietorship of the New Brighton, while the redoubtable Razor became part of the picture only through his friendship for Ellison. Another officer, contradicting, argued that there had been a feud of long standing between Razor and Paul Kelly; that Ellison was there in Razor's behalf, and Harrington got killed because he butted in. Both officers agreed that the rumpus had nothing to do with Eat-'em-up-Jack's run in with Chick Tricker, then sundry months astern, or the later lead-pipe wiping out of Jack.
The story of the taking off of Eat-'em-up-Jack has already been told. The New Brighton missed Jack. He whom Paul Kelly brought to fill his place no more than just rattled about in it. The new sheriff did not possess Jack's nice knowledge of dance hall etiquette, and his blackjack lacked decision. Some even think that had Jack been there that night, what follows might never have occurred at all. As said one who held this view:
“If Eat-'em-up-Jack had been holdin' down th' floor, th' New Brighton wouldn't have looked so easy to Biff an' Razor, an' they might have passed it up.”
The dancing floor of the New Brighton was crowded with Gangland chivalry and fashion. Out in the bar, where waiters came rushing bearing trays of empty glasses to presently rushingly retire loaded to the beery guards, sat Paul Kelly and a select bevy. The talk was of business mixed with politics, for a campaign was being waged.
“After election,” said Paul, “I'm going to close up this joint. I've got enough; I'm going to pack in.”
“What's th' row?” asked Slimmy, who had drawn up a chair.