The subway being convenient, he chose it instead of a taxi, getting off at Spring Street. Five minutes ahead of time, he found Mike’s saloon, a somewhat disreputable-looking place when viewed from the exterior. The neighborhood, likewise, seemed sinister. However, a reporter’s business, thought Locke, carried him into all sorts of places.
Within the saloon a single patron, who looked like a vagrant, was picking at the crumbs of a sickly free lunch in a dark corner. A husky-looking, red-headed bartender was removing an emptied beer schooner and mopping up the counter. He surveyed the southpaw from head to foot with apparent interest.
“I’m looking for a man named Stillman who made an appointment to meet me here at three,” explained Lefty. “I was to wait for him if I got here first.”
“Jack’s here,” stated the man behind the bar, in a manner that bespoke considerable familiarity with the reporter. “Came in three or four minutes ago. Reckon you’re Lefty Locke?”
“That’s right.”
“He told me you might come round. He’s in the back room. Walk right in.” The speaker jerked a heavy thumb toward a closed door at the far end of the bar.
At the sound of Locke’s name the vagrant, who had been picking at the free lunch, turned to look the famous pitcher over with apparent curiosity and interest.
“Lefty Locke,” he mumbled huskily. “Lemme shake han’s. Ruther shake han’s with Lefty Locke than any man livin’.”
Locke pushed past him and placed his hand on the knob of the door. The fellow followed, insisting upon shaking hands, and, as Lefty opened the door, the vagrant staggered, lurched against the pitcher, and thrust him forward, the door closing behind him with the snap of a spring lock.
It is remarkable how seldom any one ever heeds premonitions. Even as he opened that door, Lefty was aware that ever since the telephone call had come to him some subtle intuition, thus far wholly disregarded, had been seeking to sound a warning. It had caused him to hesitate at last. Too late! The push delivered by the vagrant had pitched him forward into the snare, while the sound of the clicking spring lock notified him that his retreat was cut off.