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<h2>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> <h3>A MILLIONAIRE POLICEMAN ON PATROL.</h3> 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!” <div></div> 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.” <div></div> 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.” <div></div> “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. <div></div> 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: <div></div> “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. <hr class="toprule" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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