CHAPTER XXII.

A MILLIONAIRE POLICEMAN ON PATROL.

Travers Gladwin went bounding down the steps of his own pretentious

marble dwelling with an airy buoyancy that would have caused Sergt.

McGinnis to turn mental back handsprings had he happened to be going

by on his rounds. But, fortunately, McGinnis had passed on his

inspection tour shortly before Michael Phelan had been summoned by

Bateato. For three hours at least Officer 666 would be supreme on his

beat.

While the McGinnis contingency had never entered young Gladwin's mind

it did suddenly occur to him as he strolled jauntily along that he had

neglected to ask Phelan to define the circumscribed limits of his

post. What if he should happen to butt into another patrolman? Certain

exposure and all his plans would go flui! Then there was the danger of

being recognized by some of his neighbors and friends. Ah! it came to

him in a twinkling. A disguise!

"Here goes," he said aloud. "I'll jump a taxi and see if I can hunt up

a hair store!"

The time was 7 P. M., with the inky darkness of night blanketing the

city so far as inky darkness can blanket a metropolis.

The thoroughfare on which the young man stood was a long lane of

dazzle, wherefore the nocturnal shadows offered no concealment. He

cast his eyes up and down the avenue in search of a tramp motor-hack

cruising in search of a fare. He had only a moment or two to wait

before one of the bright yellow variety came racketing along. He stuck

up his hand and waved his baton at the driver. There was a crunching

of brakes and the taxi hove to and warped into the curb. The chauffeur

had the countenance of a pirate, but his grin was rather reassuring.

"Say, me friend," began the young man, in an effort to assume Michael

Phelan's brogue, "do you know the way to a hair store?"

"A what?" the chauffeur shot back, while his grin went inside.

"A hair store--I want a bit of a disguise fer my features--whiskers,

false hair or the like."

"Did ye stop me to kid me?" snarled the chauffeur. "Ye don't need to

think 'cause you got on a bull's uniform ye can hurl the harpoon into

me. Or if it's a drink ye're wantin' reach in under the seat an'

there's a flask. If ye meant hair oil why didn't ye say it?"

"Thanks, but 'tis no drink I'm afther," said the young man. "'Tis a

ride to a hair store, an' here's a tin-spot fer yer trouble."

It was the way Travers Gladwin handled the skirts of his coat in

getting at his money that convinced the wise chauffeur that he had no

real policeman to deal with. His grin came back and looped up behind

at either ear.

"I getcher, Steve," he broke out, reaching for the bill. "If it's

disguises ye're after hop inside an' I'll tool youse over to Mme.

Flynn's on Avenue A."

To demonstrate to his uniformed fare that speed laws in the greater

city of New York fail to impose any manner of hamper upon the

charioteering of the motor-driven hack, the chauffeur of this

canary-colored taxi scampered across town at a forty-mile-an-hour

clip, during which Patrolman Gladwin failed to familiarize himself

with the quality of the cab's cushions. But it was not a long ride and

there was some breath left in him when the cab came to a crashing

stop.

The young man was on the point of opening the door when a voice

stopped him.

"Kape inside, ye boob, an' pull the blinds down. There's coppers on

every corner. Now, what is it ye want in the way o' whiskers or hair?

Ye can slip me the change through the crack."

"What's the prevailin' style?" asked Gladwin, with a laugh. "Are they

wearin' brown beards?"

"They are not," mumbled the chauffeur. "I guess a wee bit mustache an'

a black wig will do ye, an' if ye want I'll get ye a pair of furry

eyebrows."

"Fine," cried the young man, poking a $20 bill out through the crack

in the door, "and don't be long." The door slammed and a great

stillness clapped down, broken only by the running of the taximeter,

which seemed to be equipped with a motor of its own.

The millionaire cop sat back luxuriously and inhaled a deep breath.

"Gad!" he exclaimed to himself, "I'm really beginning to live. Nothing

but thrills for four hours and more and larger ones coming."

Presently the chauffeur returned, opened the door a few inches and

shoved in a small package.

"Ye'll have to paste 'em on in the dark," he said. "Or ye can light a

match. Ye'll find a wee mirror in the bundle. Now where'll I drive

yez?"

"Back to me fixed post," said Gladwin, "only take it easy while I put

me face on straight."

"If ye don't git it on straighter nor your brogue," chuckled the

chauffeur, "it'll not decave a blind man."

In another instant the return journey was under way at reduced speed.

Travers Gladwin first tried on the wig. It was three sizes too large

and he had to discard it. Next he had some trouble in deciding which

was the mustache and which the eyebrows. He had burned his fingers

pretty badly before he made the selection and likewise he had singed

one of the eyebrows.

But he managed to plaster them all on before the cab stopped and after

one glance in the little mirror he was confident the disguise would

answer.

When he stepped out of the taxi, at almost the very spot where he had

boarded it, he felt that a big weight had been lifted from his

shoulders.

"How do you like me?" he asked the chauffeur, gayly. "Is it an

improvement?"

"I wouldn't say yis nor no to that," said the chauffeur, "but 'tiz a

disguise, an' that's what ye were wantin'. Thim eyebrows is grand."

"Thanks," laughed Officer 666, "an' here's a wan hundred dollar bill

which asks ye to forget me uniform, me number an' me face."

"'Tiz done," agreed the chauffeur, tucking away the bill, "on'y take a

tip from a wise gink an' keep deep in the shadders. An' whin ye pinch

your frind don't let him holler too loud."

The yellow taxi was gone with a rush, leaving Gladwin to wonder at the

amazingly shrewd guess of its pilot.

"When I pinch me frind," he murmured. "'Twas just what I said to

Phelan. Why"----

He was gazing after the taxicab when from the opposite direction there

suddenly rolled into view a vast touring car with a familiar figure at

the wheel, and alongside the familiar figure a very pretty girl.

The car was barely rolling along, while its two occupants were talking

earnestly, their heads as close together as was possible under the

circumstances.

"Johnny Parkinson, as I'm alive!" uttered Travers Gladwin. "Me old

college chum, and as per usual--making love. Yis, me grinning

chauffeur frind, here's where we make a pinch an' test Mme. Flynn's

eyebrows. Officer, do your duty!"

Out he stepped into the roadway and raised his nightstick.

The big car came to a sudden stop and the two occupants stared angrily

at the cause of the interruption.

"I arrest yez in the name o' the law," cried Patrolman Gladwin,

scowling so fiercely that one of the eyebrows was in danger.

"What's that?" snorted the young aristocrat.

"You're me pris'ner," said Gladwin, easily. "I arrest ye fer breaking

the speed laws--racin' on the aven-oo."

"It's an outrage!" cried the pretty passenger. "We were scarcely

crawling, Johnny."

"You must be joking, officer," said Johnny Parkinson, not very

belligerently, for he had a bad record for speeding and wasn't sure

that some earlier offense was not involved.

"I'm not jokin'," replied Gladwin, walking to the door of the tonneau

and opening it, "and ye'll oblige me by drivin' to the police

station." He got in and lolled back cozily in the cushions.

Johnny Parkinson let in the clutch and rolled northward. This was the

strangest "pinch" of his experience and he didn't know just what to

make of it. After he had gone a few blocks he turned on his

captor-passenger and said:

"Which station shall I drive to?--I'm sure there must be some

mistake."

"There's no mistake," responded Gladwin, fairly screaming with joy

inside at the bewildered and frightened look of his friend. "As for

police stations, take your pick. I ain't particular. Drive round the

block a couple o' times an' make up your mind."

Johnny Parkinson turned the first corner and then turned again into

Madison avenue. Gladwin could hear the couple on the front seat

whispering excitedly, the girl almost in hysterics.

"You've simply got to do something, Johnny," she was saying. "You know

if we get our names in the paper father will be furious. Remember what

he said about the last time you were arrested for speeding."

Running along Madison avenue, Johnny Parkinson slowed down, turned

again to the uniform in the back seat and said tremulously:

"Can't we compromise this, Officer? I"----

"Not on the aven-oo, Mr. Parkinson. You've got too bad a record. But

if ye'll run the machine over into Central Park where there ain't so

many sergeants roamin' round we might effict a sittlemint."

A smile of great gladness illuminated the features of Johnny

Parkinson. He let in the clutch with a bang and it was only a matter

of seconds before the ninety horsepower car glided in through the

Seventy-second street entrance to Central Park and swung into the dark

reaches of the East Drive. Slowing down again the young man at the

wheel turned and said anxiously:

"The smallest I've got is a century and I really need some of that."

"That's aisy," rejoined Gladwin. "Sure'n I change hundred dollar bills

ivry day. Slip me the paper an' here's a fifty, which is lettin' ye

off aisy, seein' ye're an ould offinder."

The transfer of bills was made swiftly, whereupon Gladwin commanded:

"Now run me back to me peg post an' drop me off, on'y take it slow an'

gradual or I might have to pinch yez again."

A few minutes later Gladwin heard the young girl say passionately:

"Oh, Johnny, how could you give him the money? He's no better than a

thief. I hope you've taken his number."

"It wouldn't do any good, dearest," said Johnny, sadly. "They're all

in together and I'd only get the worst of it. But did you notice,

Phyllis, that he looks a lot like Travers Gladwin?"

"Impossible!" retorted the girl. "Travers Gladwin is good looking, and

this man's nothing but an Irish monster."

The girl was about to speak again when she was sure she heard muffled

laughter behind her. Then the car sped on into the avenue and just

missed colliding with a Fifth avenue motor 'bus. Officer 666 was put

down a block from his own home and resumed the patrolling of the

immediate precincts of the Gladwin mansion. His only parting salute

from Johnny Parkinson's car was a flashing glance of contempt from the

girl, whose identity he strove in vain to place.