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diff --git a/old/1218-h/1218-h.htm b/old/1218-h/1218-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7363ebd --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1218-h/1218-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,20442 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Adventures of Jimmie Dale, by Frank L. Packard + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Project Gutenberg's The Adventures of Jimmie Dale, by Frank L. Packard + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Adventures of Jimmie Dale + +Author: Frank L. Packard + +Release Date: May 3, 2006 [EBook #1218] +Last Updated: March 13, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE *** + + + + +Produced by Donald Lainson; David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE + </h1> + <h2> + by Frank L. Packard + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2H_PART1"> <big><b>PART ONE: THE MAN IN THE CASE</b></big> + </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0003"> + CHAPTER III </a><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0006"> + CHAPTER VI </a><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a> <br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0010"> + CHAPTER X </a><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a href="#link2H_PART2"> <big><b>PART TWO: THE WOMAN IN THE + CASE</b></big> </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER I </a><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER II </a><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0014"> + CHAPTER III </a><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER IV </a><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER V </a><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0017"> + CHAPTER VI </a><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER VII </a><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER VIII </a><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0020"> + CHAPTER IX </a><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER X </a><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XI </a><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0023"> + CHAPTER XII </a><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XIII </a> <br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XIV </a><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0026"> + CHAPTER XV </a><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XVI </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART1" id="link2H_PART1"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + PART ONE: THE MAN IN THE CASE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <h3> + THE GRAY SEAL + </h3> + <p> + Among New York's fashionable and ultra-exclusive clubs, the St. James + stood an acknowledged leader—more men, perhaps, cast an envious eye + at its portals, of modest and unassuming taste, as they passed by on Fifth + Avenue, than they did at any other club upon the long list that the city + boasts. True, there were more expensive clubs upon whose membership roll + scintillated more stars of New York's social set, but the St. James was + distinctive. It guaranteed a man, so to speak—that is, it guaranteed + a man to be innately a gentleman. It required money, it is true, to keep + up one's membership, but there were many members who were not wealthy, as + wealth is measured nowadays—there were many, even, who were pressed + sometimes to meet their dues and their house accounts, but the accounts + were invariably promptly paid. No man, once in, could ever afford, or ever + had the desire, to resign from the St. James Club. Its membership was + cosmopolitan; men of every walk in life passed in and out of its doors, + professional men and business men, physicians, artists, merchants, + authors, engineers, each stamped with the “hall mark” of the St. James, an + innate gentleman. To receive a two weeks' out-of-town visitor's card to + the St. James was something to speak about, and men from Chicago, St. + Louis, or San Francisco spoke of it with a sort of holier-than-thou air to + fellow members of their own exclusive clubs, at home again. + </p> + <p> + Is there any doubt that Jimmie Dale was a gentleman—an INNATE + gentleman? Jimmie Dale's father had been a member of the St. James Club, + and one of the largest safe manufacturers of the United States, a + prosperous, wealthy man, and at Jimmie Dale's birth he had proposed his + son's name for membership. It took some time to get into the St. James; + there was a long waiting list that neither money, influence, nor pull + could alter by so much as one iota. Men proposed their sons' names for + membership when they were born as religiously as they entered them upon + the city's birth register. At twenty-one Jimmie Dale was elected to + membership; and, incidentally, that same year, graduated from Harvard. It + was Mr. Dale's desire that his son should enter the business and learn it + from the ground up, and Jimmie Dale, for four years thereafter, had + followed his father's wishes. Then his father died. Jimmie Dale had + leanings toward more artistic pursuits than business. He was credited with + sketching a little, writing a little; and he was credited with having + received a very snug amount from the combine to which he sold out his + safe-manufacturing interests. He lived a bachelor life—his mother + had been dead many years—in the house that his father had left him + on Riverside Drive, kept a car or two and enough servants to run his + menage smoothly, and serve a dinner exquisitely when he felt hospitably + inclined. + </p> + <p> + Could there be any doubt that Jimmie Dale was innately a gentleman? + </p> + <p> + It was evening, and Jimmie Dale sat at a small table in the corner of the + St. James Club dining room. Opposite him sat Herman Carruthers, a young + man of his own age, about twenty-six, a leading figure in the newspaper + world, whose rise from reporter to managing editor of the morning + NEWS-ARGUS within the short space of a few years had been almost meteoric. + </p> + <p> + They were at coffee and cigars, and Jimmie Dale was leaning back in his + chair, his dark eyes fixed interestedly on his guest. + </p> + <p> + Carruthers, intently engaged in trimming his cigar ash on the edge of the + Limoges china saucer of his coffee set, looked up with an abrupt laugh. + </p> + <p> + “No; I wouldn't care to go on record as being an advocate of crime,” he + said whimsically; “that would never do. But I don't mind admitting quite + privately that it's been a positive regret to me that he has gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Made too good 'copy' to lose, I suppose?” suggested Jimmie Dale + quizzically. “Too bad, too, after working up a theatrical name like that + for him—the Gray Seal—rather unique! Who stuck that on him—you?” + </p> + <p> + Carruthers laughed—then, grown serious, leaned toward Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean to say, Jimmie, that you don't know about that, do you?” + he asked incredulously. “Why, up to a year ago the papers were full of + him.” + </p> + <p> + “I never read your beastly agony columns,” said Jimmie Dale, with a cheery + grin. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Carruthers, “you must have skipped everything but the stock + reports then.” + </p> + <p> + “Granted,” said Jimmie Dale. “So go on, Carruthers, and tell me about him—I + dare say I may have heard of him, since you are so distressed about it, + but my memory isn't good enough to contradict anything you may have to say + about the estimable gentleman, so you're safe.” + </p> + <p> + Carruthers reverted to the Limoges saucer and the tip of his cigar. + </p> + <p> + “He was the most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in the annals of + crime,” said Carruthers reminiscently, after a moment's silence. “Jimmie, + he was the king-pin of them all. Clever isn't the word for him, or + dare-devil isn't either. I used to think sometimes his motive was more + than half for the pure deviltry of it, to laugh at the police and pull the + noses of the rest of us that were after him. I used to dream nights about + those confounded gray seals of his—that's where he got his name; he + left every job he ever did with a little gray paper affair, fashioned + diamond-shaped, stuck somewhere where it would be the first thing your + eyes would light upon when you reached the scene, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Don't go so fast,” smiled Jimmie Dale. “I don't quite get the connection. + What did you have to do with this—er—Gray Seal fellow? Where + do you come in?” + </p> + <p> + “I? I had a good deal to do with him,” said Carruthers grimly. “I was a + reporter when he first broke loose, and the ambition of my life, after I + began really to appreciate what he was, was to get him—and I nearly + did, half a dozen times, only—” + </p> + <p> + “Only you never quite did, eh?” cut in Jimmie Dale slyly. “How near did + you get, old man? Come on, now, no bluffing; did the Gray Seal ever even + recognise you as a factor in the hare-and-hound game?” + </p> + <p> + “You're flicking on the raw, Jimmie,” Carruthers answered, with a wry + grimace. “He knew me, all right, confound him! He favoured me with several + sarcastic notes—I'll show 'em to you some day—explaining how + I'd fallen down and how I could have got him if I'd done something else.” + Carruthers' fist came suddenly down on the table. “And I would have got + him, too, if he had lived.” + </p> + <p> + “Lived!” ejaculated Jimmie Dale. “He's dead, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” averted Carruthers; “he's dead.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm!” said Jimmie Dale facetiously. “I hope the size of the wreath you + sent was an adequate tribute of your appreciation.” + </p> + <p> + “I never sent any wreath,” returned Carruthers, “for the very simple + reason that I didn't know where to send it, or when he died. I said he was + dead because for over a year now he hasn't lifted a finger.” + </p> + <p> + “Rotten poor evidence, even for a newspaper,” commented Jimmie Dale. “Why + not give him credit for having, say—reformed?” + </p> + <p> + Carruthers shook his head. “You don't get it at all, Jimmie,” he said + earnestly. “The Gray Seal wasn't an ordinary crook—he was a classic. + He was an artist, and the art of the thing was in his blood. A man like + that could no more stop than he could stop breathing—and live. He's + dead; there's nothing to it but that—he's dead. I'd bet a year's + salary on it.” + </p> + <p> + “Another good man gone wrong, then,” said Jimmie Dale capriciously. “I + suppose, though, that at least you discovered the 'woman in the case'?” + </p> + <p> + Carruthers looked up quickly, a little startled; then laughed shortly. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter?” inquired Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” said Carruthers. “You kind of got me for a moment, that's all. + That's the way those infernal notes from the Gray Seal used to end up: + 'Find the lady, old chap; and you'll get me.' He had a damned patronising + familiarity that would make you squirm.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor old Carruthers!” grinned Jimmie Dale. “You did take it to heart, + didn't you?” + </p> + <p> + “I'd have sold my soul to get him—and so would you, if you had been + in my boots,” said Carruthers, biting nervously at the end of his cigar. + </p> + <p> + “And been sorry for it afterward,” supplied Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, by Jove, you're right!” admitted Carruthers, “I suppose I should. I + actually got to love the fellow—it was the GAME, really, that I + wanted to beat.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, and how about this woman? Keep on the straight and narrow path, old + man,” prodded Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “The woman?” Carruthers smiled. “Nothing doing! I don't believe there was + one—he wouldn't have been likely to egg the police and reporters on + to finding her if there had been, would he? It was a blind, of course. He + worked alone, absolutely alone. That's the secret of his success, + according to my way of thinking. There was never so much as an indication + that he had had an accomplice in anything he ever did.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's eyes travelled around the club's homelike, perfectly + appointed room. He nodded to a fellow member here and there, then his eyes + rested musingly on his guest again. + </p> + <p> + Carruthers was staring thoughtfully at his coffee cup. + </p> + <p> + “He was the prince of crooks and the father of originality,” announced + Carruthers abruptly, following the pause that had ensued. “Half the time + there wasn't any more getting at the motive for the curious things he did, + than there was getting at the Gray Seal himself.” + </p> + <p> + “Carruthers,” said Jimmy Dale, with a quick little nod of approval, + “you're positively interesting to-night. But, so far, you've been kind of + scouting around the outside edges without getting into the thick of it. + Let's have some of your experiences with the Gray Seal in detail; they + ought to make ripping fine yarns.” + </p> + <p> + “Not to-night, Jimmie,” said Carruthers; “it would take too long.” He + pulled out his watch mechanically as he spoke, glanced at it—and + pushed back his chair. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “It's nearly half-past + nine. I'd no idea we had lingered so long over dinner. I'll have to hurry; + we're a morning paper, you know, Jimmie.” + </p> + <p> + “What! Really! Is it as late as that.” Jimmie Dale rose from his chair as + Carruthers stood up. “Well, if you must—” + </p> + <p> + “I must,” said Carruthers, with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “All right, O slave.” Jimmie Dale laughed back—and slipped his hand, + a trick of their old college days together, through Carruthers' arm as + they left the room. + </p> + <p> + He accompanied Carruthers downstairs to the door of the club, and saw his + guest into a taxi; then he returned inside, sauntered through the billiard + room, and from there into one of the cardrooms, where, pressed into a + game, he played several rubbers of bridge before going home. + </p> + <p> + It was, therefore, well on toward midnight when Jimmie Dale arrived at his + house on Riverside Drive, and was admitted by an elderly manservant. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “You still up!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” replied Jason, who had been valet to Jimmie Dale's father + before him. “I was going to bed, sir, at about ten o'clock, when a + messenger came with a letter. Begging your pardon, sir, a young lady, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Jason”—Jimmie Dale flung out the interruption, sudden, quick, + imperative—“what did she look like?” + </p> + <p> + “Why—why, I don't exactly know as I could describe her, sir,” + stammered Jason, taken aback. “Very ladylike, sir, in her dress and + appearance, and what I would call, sir, a beautiful face.” + </p> + <p> + “Hair and eyes—what color?” demanded Jimmie Dale crisply. “Nose, + lips, chin—what shape?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, sir,” gasped Jason, staring at his master, “I—I don't rightly + know. I wouldn't call her fair or dark, something between. I didn't take + particular notice, and it wasn't overlight outside the door.” + </p> + <p> + “It's too bad you weren't a younger man, Jason,” commented Jimmie Dale, + with a curious tinge of bitterness in his voice. “I'd have given a year's + income for your opportunity to-night, Jason.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said Jason helplessly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, go on,” prompted Jimmie Dale. “You told her I wasn't home, and she + said she knew it, didn't she? And she left the letter that I was on no + account to miss receiving when I got back, though there was no need of + telephoning me to the club—when I returned would do, but it was + imperative that I should have it then—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord, sir!” ejaculated Jason, his jaw dropped, “that's exactly what + she did say.” + </p> + <p> + “Jason,” said Jimmie Dale grimly, “listen to me. If ever she comes here + again, inveigle her in. If you can't inveigle her, use force; capture her, + pull her in, do anything—do anything, do you hear? Only don't let + her get away from you until I've come.” + </p> + <p> + Jason gazed at his master as though the other had lost his reason. + </p> + <p> + “Use force, sir?” he repeated weakly—and shook his head. “You—you + can't mean that, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Can't I?” inquired Jimmie Dale, with a mirthless smile. “I mean every + word of it, Jason—and if I thought there was the slightest chance of + her giving you the opportunity, I'd be more imperative still. As it is—where's + the letter?” + </p> + <p> + “On the table in your studio, sir,” said Jason, mechanically. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale started toward the stairs—then turned and came back to + where Jason, still shaking his head heavily, had been gazing anxiously + after his master. Jimmie Dale laid his hand on the old man's shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Jason,” he said kindly, with a swift change of mood, “you've been a long + time in the family—first with father, and now with me. You'd do a + good deal for me, wouldn't you?” + </p> + <p> + “I'd do anything in the world for you, Master Jim,” said the old man + earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, remember this,” said Jimmie Dale slowly, looking into the + other's eyes, “remember this—keep your mouth shut and your eyes + open. It's my fault. I should have warned you long ago, but I never + dreamed that she would ever come here herself. There have been times when + it was practically a matter of life and death to me to know who that woman + is that you saw to-night. That's all, Jason. Now go to bed.” + </p> + <p> + “Master Jim,” said the old man simply, “thank you, sir, thank you for + trusting me. I've dandled you on my knee when you were a baby, Master Jim. + I don't know what it's about, and it isn't for me to ask. I thought, sir, + that maybe you were having a little fun with me. But I know now, and you + can trust me, Master Jim, if she ever comes again.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, his hand closing with an + appreciative pressure on the other's shoulder “Good-night, Jason.” + </p> + <p> + Upstairs on the first landing, Jimmie Dale opened a door, closed and + locked it behind him—and the electric switch clicked under his + fingers. A glow fell softly from a cluster of shaded ceiling lights. It + was a large room, a very large room, running the entire depth of the + house, and the effect of apparent disorder in the arrangement of its + appointments seemed to breathe a sense of charm. There were great cozy, + deep, leather-covered lounging chairs, a huge, leather-covered davenport, + and an easel or two with half-finished sketches upon them; the walls were + panelled, the panels of exquisite grain and matching; in the centre of the + room stood a flat-topped rosewood desk; upon the floor was a dark, heavy + velvet rug; and, perhaps most inviting of all, there was a great, + old-fashioned fireplace at one side of the room. + </p> + <p> + For an instant Jimmie Dale remained quietly by the door, as though + listening. Six feet he stood, muscular in every line of his body, like a + well-trained athlete with no single ounce of superfluous fat about him—the + grace and ease of power in his poise. His strong, clean-shaven face, as + the light fell upon it now, was serious—a mood that became him well—the + firm lips closed, the dark, reliant eyes a little narrowed, a frown on the + broad forehead, the square jaw clamped. + </p> + <p> + Then abruptly he walked across the room to the desk, picked up an envelope + that lay upon it, and, turning again, dropped into the nearest lounging + chair. + </p> + <p> + There had been no doubt in his mind, none to dispel. It was precisely what + he had expected from almost the first word Jason had spoken. It was the + same handwriting, the same texture of paper, and there was the same old + haunting, rare, indefinable fragrance about it. Jimmie Dale's hands turned + the envelope now this way, now that, as he looked at it. Wonderful hands + were Jimmie Dale's, with long, slim, tapering fingers whose sensitive tips + seemed now as though they were striving to decipher the message within. + </p> + <p> + He laughed suddenly, a little harshly, and tore open the envelope. Five + closely written sheets fell into his hand. He read them slowly, + critically, read them over again; and then, his eyes on the rug at his + feet, he began to tear the paper into minute pieces between his fingers, + depositing the pieces, as he tore them, upon the arm of his chair. The + five sheets demolished, his fingers dipped into the heap of shreds on the + arm of the chair and tore them over and over again, tore them until they + were scarcely larger than bits of confetti, tore at them absently and + mechanically, his eyes never shifting from the rug at his feet. + </p> + <p> + Then with a shrug of his shoulders, as though rousing himself to present + reality, a curious smile flickering on his lips, he brushed the pieces of + paper into one hand, carried them to the empty fireplace, laid them down + in a little pile, and set them afire. Lighting a cigarette, he watched + them burn until the last glow had gone from the last charred scrap; then + he crunched and scattered them with the brass-handled fender brush, and, + retracing his steps across the room, flung back a portiere from where it + hung before a little alcove, and dropped on his knees in front of a round, + squat, barrel-shaped safe—one of his own design and planning in the + years when he had been with his father. + </p> + <p> + His slim, sensitive fingers played for an instant among the knobs and + dials that studded the door, guided, it seemed by the sense of touch alone—and + the door swung open. Within was another door, with locks and bolts as + intricate and massive as the outer one. This, too, he opened; and then + from the interior took out a short, thick, rolled-up leather bundle tied + together with thongs. He rose from his knees, closed the safe, and drew + the portiere across the alcove again. With the bundle under his arm, he + glanced sharply around the room, listened intently, then, unlocking the + door that gave on the hall, he switched off the lights and went to his + dressing room, that was on the same floor. Here, divesting himself quickly + of his dinner clothes, he selected a dark tweed suit with loose-fitting, + sack coat from his wardrobe, and began to put it on. + </p> + <p> + Dressed, all but his coat and vest, he turned to the leather bundle that + he had placed on a table, untied the thongs, and carefully opened it out + to its full length—and again that curious, cryptic smile tinged his + lips. Rolled the opposite away from that in which it had been tied up, the + leather strip made a wide belt that went on somewhat after the fashion of + a life preserver, the thongs being used for shoulder straps—a belt + that, once on, the vest would hide completely, and, fitting close, left no + telltale bulge in the outer garments. It was not an ordinary belt; it was + full of stout-sewn, up-right little pockets all the way around, and in the + pockets grimly lay an array of fine, blued-steel, highly tempered + instruments—a compact, powerful burglar's kit. + </p> + <p> + The slim, sensitive fingers passed with almost a caressing touch over the + vicious little implements, and from one of the pockets extracted a thin, + flat metal case. This Jimmie Dale opened, and glanced inside—between + sheets of oil paper lay little rows of GRAY, ADHESIVE, DIAMOND-SHAPED + SEALS. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale snapped the case shut, returned it to its recess, and from + another took out a black silk mask. He held it up to the light for + examination. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty good shape after a year,” muttered Jimmie Dale, replacing it. + </p> + <p> + He put on the belt, then his vest and coat. From the drawer of his dresser + he took an automatic revolver and an electric flashlight, slipped them + into his pocket, and went softly downstairs. From the hat stand he chose a + black slouch hat, pulled it well over his eyes—and left the house. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale walked down a block, then hailed a bus and mounted to the top. + It was late, and he found himself the only passenger. He inserted his dime + in the conductor's little resonant-belled cash receiver, and then settled + back on the uncomfortable, bumping, cushionless seat. + </p> + <p> + On rattled the bus; it turned across town, passed the Circle, and headed + for Fifth Avenue—but Jimmie Dale, to all appearances, was quite + oblivious of its movements. + </p> + <p> + It was a year since she had written him. SHE! Jimmie Dale did not smile, + his lips were pressed hard together. Not a very intimate or personal + appellation, that—but he knew her by no other. It WAS a woman, + surely—the hand-writing was feminine, the diction eminently so—and + had SHE not come herself that night to Jason! He remembered the last + letter, apart from the one to-night, that he had received from her. It was + a year ago now—and the letter had been hardly more than a note. The + police had worked themselves into a frenzy over the Gray Seal, the papers + had grown absolutely maudlin—and she had written, in her + characteristic way: + </p> + <p> + Things are a little too warm, aren't they, Jimmie? Let's let them cool for + a year. + </p> + <p> + Since then until to-night he had heard nothing from her. It was a strange + compact that he had entered into—so strange that it could never have + known, could never know a parallel—unique, dangerous, bizarre, it + was all that and more. It had begun really through his connection with his + father's business—the business of manufacturing safes that should + defy the cleverest criminals—when his brains, turned into that + channel, had been pitted against the underworld, against the methods of a + thousand different crooks from Maine to California, the report of whose + every operation had reached him in the natural course of business, and + every one of which he had studied in minutest detail. It had begun through + that—but at the bottom of it was his own restless, adventurous + spirit. + </p> + <p> + He had meant to set the police by the ears, using his gray-seal device + both as an added barb and that no innocent bystander of the underworld, + innocent for once, might be involved—he had meant to laugh at them + and puzzle them to the verge of madness, for in the last analysis they + would find only an abortive attempt at crime—and he had succeeded. + And then he had gone too far—and he had been caught—by HER. + That string of pearls, which, to study whose effect facetiously, he had so + idiotically wrapped around his wrist, and which, so ironically, he had + been unable to loosen in time and had been forced to carry with him in his + sudden, desperate dash to escape from Marx's the big jeweler's, in Maiden + Lane, whose strong room he had toyed with one night, had been the lever + which, AT FIRST, she had held over him. + </p> + <p> + The bus was on Fifth Avenue now, and speeding rapidly down the deserted + thoroughfare. Jimmie Dale looked up at the lighted windows of the St. + James Club as they went by, smiled whimsically, and shifted in his seat, + seeking a more comfortable position. + </p> + <p> + She had caught him—how he did not know—he had never seen her—did + not know who she was, though time and again he had devoted all his + energies for months at a stretch to a solution of the mystery. The morning + following the Maiden Lane affair, indeed, before he had breakfasted, Jason + had brought him the first letter from her. It had started by detailing his + every move of the night before—and it had ended with an ultimatum: + “The cleverness, the originality of the Gray Seal as a crook lacked but + one thing,” she had naively written, “and that one thing was that his + crookedness required a leading string to guide it into channels that were + worthy of his genius.” In a word, SHE would plan the coups, and he would + act at her dictation and execute them—or else how did twenty years + in Sing Sing for that little Maiden Lane affair appeal to him? He was to + answer by the next morning, a simple “yes” or “no” in the personal column + of the morning NEWS-ARGUS. + </p> + <p> + A threat to a man like Jimmie Dale was like flaunting a red rag at a bull, + and a rage ungovernable had surged upon him. Then cold reason had come. He + was caught—there was no question about that—she had taken + pains to show him that he need make no mistake there. Innocent enough in + his own conscience, as far as actual theft went, for the pearls would in + due course be restored in some way to the possession of their owner, he + would have been unable to make even his own father, who was alive then, + believe in his innocence, let alone a jury of his peers. Dishonour, shame, + ignominy, a long prison sentence, stared him in the face, and there was + but one alternative—to link hands with this unseen, mysterious + accomplice. Well, he could at least temporise, he could always “queer” a + game in some specious manner, if he were pushed too far. And so, in the + next morning's NEWS-ARGUS, Jimmie Dale had answered “yes.” And then had + followed those years in which there had been NO temporising, in which + every plan was carried out to the last detail, those years of curious, + unaccountable, bewildering affairs that Carruthers had spoken of, one on + top of another, that had shaken the old headquarters on Mulberry Street to + its foundations, until the Gray Seal had become a name to conjure with. + And, yes, it was quite true, he had entered into it all, gone the limit, + with an eagerness that was insatiable. + </p> + <p> + The bus had reached the lower end of Fifth Avenue, passed through + Washington Square, and stopped at the end of its run. Jimmie Dale + clambered down from the top, threw a pleasant “good-night” to the + conductor, and headed briskly down the street before him. A little later + he crossed into West Broadway, and his pace slowed to a leisurely stroll. + </p> + <p> + Here, at the upper end of the street, was a conglomerate business section + of rather inferior class, catering doubtless to the poor, foreign element + that congregated west of Broadway proper, and to the south of Washington + Square. The street was, at first glance, deserted; it was dark and dreary, + with stores and lofts on either side. An elevated train roared by + overhead, with a thunderous, deafening clamour. Jimmie Dale, on the + right-hand side of the street, glanced interestedly at the dark store + windows as he went by. And then, a block ahead, on the other side, his + eyes rested on an approaching form. As the other reached the corner and + paused, and the light from the street lamp glinted on brass buttons, + Jimmie Dale's eyes narrowed a little under his slouch hat. The policeman, + although nonchalantly swinging a nightstick, appeared to be watching him. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale went on half a block farther, stooped to the sidewalk to tie + his shoe, glanced back over his shoulder—the policeman was not in + sight—and slipped like a shadow into the alleyway beside which he + had stopped. + </p> + <p> + It was another Jimmie Dale now—the professional Jimmie Dale. Quick + as a cat, active, lithe, he was over a six foot fence in the rear of a + building in a flash, and crouched a black shape, against the back door of + an unpretentious, unkempt, dirty, secondhand shop that fronted on West + Broadway—the last place certainly in all New York that the managing + editor of the NEWS-ARGUS, or any one else, for that matter, would have + picked out as the setting for the second debut of the Gray Seal. + </p> + <p> + From the belt around his waist, Jimmie Dale took the black silk mask, and + slipped it on; and from the belt, too, came a little instrument that his + deft fingers manipulated in the lock. A curious snipping sound followed. + Jimmie Dale put his weight gradually against the door. The door held fast. + </p> + <p> + “Bolted,” said Jimmie Dale to himself. + </p> + <p> + The sensitive fingers travelled slowly up and down the side of the door, + seeming to press and feel for the position of the bolt through an inch of + plank—then from the belt came a tiny saw, thin and pointed at the + end, that fitted into the little handle drawn from another receptacle in + the leather girdle beneath the unbuttoned vest. + </p> + <p> + Hardly a sound it made as it bit into the door. Half a minute passed—there + was the faint fall of a small piece of wood—into the aperture crept + the delicate, tapering fingers—came a slight rasping of metal—then + the door swung back, the dark shadow that had been Jimmie Dale vanished + and the door closed again. + </p> + <p> + A round, white beam of light glowed for an instant—and disappeared. + A miscellaneous, lumbering collection of junk and odds and ends blocked + the entry, leaving no more space than was sufficient for bare passageway. + Jimmie Dale moved cautiously—and once more the flashlight in his + hand showed the way for an instant—then darkness again. + </p> + <p> + The cluttered accumulation of secondhand stuff in the rear gave place to a + little more orderly arrangement as he advanced toward the front of the + store. Like a huge firefly, the flashlight twinkled, went out, twinkled + again, and went out. He passed a sort of crude, partitioned-off apartment + that did duty for the establishment's office, a sort of little boxed-in + place it was, about in the middle of the floor. Jimmie Dale's light played + on it for a moment, but he kept on toward the front door without any + pause. + </p> + <p> + Every movement was quick, sure, accurate, with not a wasted second. It had + been barely a minute since he had vaulted the back fence. It was hardly a + quarter of a minute more before the cumbersome lock of the front door was + unfastened, and the door itself pulled imperceptibly ajar. + </p> + <p> + He went swiftly back to the office now—and found it even more of a + shaky, cheap affair than it had at first appeared; more like a box stall + with windows around the top than anything else, the windows doubtless to + permit the occupant to overlook the store from the vantage point of the + high stool that stood before a long, battered, wobbly desk. There was a + door to the place, too, but the door was open and the key was in the lock. + The ray of Jimmie Dale's flashlight swept once around the interior—and + rested on an antique, ponderous safe. + </p> + <p> + Under the mask Jimmie Dale's lips parted in a smile that seemed almost + apologetic, as he viewed the helpless iron monstrosity that was little + more than an insult to a trained cracksman. Then from the belt came the + thin metal case and a pair of tweezers. He opened the case, and with the + tweezers lifted out one of the gray-coloured, diamond-shaped seals. + Holding the seal with the tweezers, he moistened the gummed side with his + lips, then laid it on a handkerchief which he took from his pocket, and + clapped the handkerchief against the front of the safe, sticking the seal + conspicuously into place. Jimmie Dale's insignia bore no finger prints. + The microscopes and magnifying glasses at headquarters had many a time + regretfully assured the police of that fact. + </p> + <p> + And now his hands and fingers seemed to work like lightning. Into the soft + iron bit a drill—bit in and through—bit in and through again. + It was dark, pitch black—and silent. Not a sound, save the quick, + dull rasp of the ratchet—like the distant gnawing of a mouse! Jimmie + Dale worked fast—another hole went through the face of the + old-fashioned safe—and then suddenly he straightened up to listen, + every faculty tense, alert, and strained, his body thrown a little + forward. WHAT WAS THAT! + </p> + <p> + From the alleyway leading from the street without, through which he + himself had come, sounded the stealthy crunch of feet. Motionless in the + utter darkness, Jimmie Dale listened—there was a scraping noise in + the rear—someone was climbing the fence that he had climbed! + </p> + <p> + In an instant the tools in Jimmie Dale's hands disappeared into their + respective pockets beneath his vest—and the sensitive fingers shot + to the dial on the safe. + </p> + <p> + “Too bad,” muttered Jimmie Dale plaintively to himself. “I could have made + such an artistic job of it—I swear I could have cut Carruthers' + profile in the hole in less than no time—to open it like this is + really taking the poor old thing at a disadvantage.” + </p> + <p> + He was on his knees now, one ear close to the dial, listening as the + tumblers fell, while the delicate fingers spun the knob unerringly—the + other ear strained toward the rear of the premises. + </p> + <p> + Came a footstep—a ray of light—a stumble—nearer—the + newcomer was inside the place now, and must have found out that the back + door had been tampered with. Nearer came the steps—still nearer—and + then the safe door swung open under Jimmie Dale's hand, and Jimmie Dale, + that he might not be caught like a rat in a trap, darted from the office—but + he had delayed a little too long. + </p> + <p> + From around the cluttered piles of junk and miscellany swept the light—full + on Jimmie Dale. Hesitation for the smallest fraction of a second would + have been fatal, but hesitation was something that in all his life Jimmie + Dale had never known. Quick as a panther in its spring, he leaped full at + the light and the man behind it. The rough voice, in surprised exclamation + at the sudden discovery of the quarry, died in a gasp. + </p> + <p> + There was a crash as the two men met—and the other reeled back + before the impact. Onto him Jimmie Dale sprang, and his hands flew for the + other's throat. It was an officer in uniform! Jimmie Dale had felt the + brass buttons as they locked. In the darkness there was a queer smile on + Jimmie Dale's tight lips. It was no doubt THE officer whom he had passed + on the other side of the street. + </p> + <p> + The other was a smaller man than Jimmie Dale, but powerful for his build—and + he fought now with all his strength. This way and that the two men reeled, + staggered, swayed, panting and gasping; and then—they had lurched + back close to the office door—with a sudden swing, every muscle + brought into play for a supreme effort, Jimmie Dale hurled the other from + him, sending the man sprawling back to the floor of the office, and in the + winking of an eye had slammed shut the door and turned the key. + </p> + <p> + There was a bull-like roar, the shrill CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP of the + patrolman's whistle, and a shattering crash as the officer flung his body + against the partition—then the bark of a revolver shot, the tinkle + of breaking glass, as the man fired through the office window—and + past Jimmie Dale, speeding now for the front door, a bullet hummed + viciously. + </p> + <p> + Out on the street dashed Jimmie Dale, whipping the mask from his face—and + glanced like a hawk around him. For all the racket, the neighbourhood had + not yet been aroused—no one was in sight. From just overhead came + the rattle of a downtown elevated train. In a hundred-yard sprint, Jimmie + Dale raced it a half block to the station, tore up the steps—and a + moment later dropped nonchalantly into a seat and pulled an evening + newspaper from his pocket. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale got off at the second station down, crossed the street, + mounted the steps of the elevated again, and took the next train uptown. + His movements appeared to be somewhat erratic—he alighted at the + station next above the one by which he had made his escape. Looking down + the street it was too dark to see much of anything, but a confused noise + as of a gathering crowd reached him from what was about the location of + the secondhand store. He listened appreciatively for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't it a perfectly lovely night?” said Jimmie Dale amiably to himself. + “And to think of that cop running away with the idea that I didn't see him + when he hid in a doorway after I passed the corner! Well, well, strange—isn't + it?” + </p> + <p> + With another glance down the street, a whimsical lift of his shoulders, he + headed west into the dilapidated tenement quarter that huddled for a + handful of blocks near by, just south of Washington Square. It was a + little after one o'clock in the morning now and the pedestrians were + casual. Jimmie Dale read the street signs on the corners as he went along, + turned abruptly into an intersecting street, counted the tenements from + the corner as he passed, and—for the eye of any one who might be + watching—opened the street door of one of them quite as though he + were accustomed and had a perfect right to do so, and went inside. + </p> + <p> + It was murky and dark within; hot, unhealthy, with lingering smells of + garlic and stale cooking. He groped for the stairs and started up. He + climbed one flight, then another—and one more to the top. Here, + treading softly, he made an examination of the landing with a view, + evidently, to obtaining an idea of the location and the number of doors + that opened off from it. + </p> + <p> + His selection fell on the third door from the head of the stairs—there + were four all told, two apartments of two rooms each. He paused for an + instant to adjust the black silk mask, tried the door quietly, found it + unlocked, opened it with a sudden, quick, brisk movement—and, + stepping in side, leaned with his back against it. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning,” said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + It was a squalid place, a miserable hole, in which a single flickering, + yellow gas jet gave light. It was almost bare of furniture; there was + nothing but a couple of cheap chairs, a rickety table—unpawnable. A + boy, he was hardly more than that, perhaps twenty-two, from a posture in + which he was huddled across the table with head buried in out-flung arms, + sprang with a startled cry to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning,” said Jimmie Dale again. “Your name's Hagan, Bert Hagan—isn't + it? And you work for Isaac Brolsky in the secondhand shop over on West + Broadway—don't you?” + </p> + <p> + The boy's lips quivered, and the gaunt, hollow, half-starved face, white, + ashen-white now, was pitiful. + </p> + <p> + “I—I guess you got me,” he faltered “I—I suppose you're a + plain-clothes man, though I never knew dicks wore masks.” + </p> + <p> + “They don't generally,” said Jimmie Dale coolly. “It's a fad of mine—Bert + Hagan.” + </p> + <p> + The lad, hanging to the table, turned his head away for a moment—and + there was silence. + </p> + <p> + Presently Hagan spoke again. “I'll go,” he said numbly. “I won't make any + trouble. Would—would you mind not speaking loud? I—I wouldn't + like her to know.” + </p> + <p> + “Her?” said Jimmie Dale softly. + </p> + <p> + The boy tiptoed across the room, opened a connecting door a little, peered + inside, opened it a little wider—and looked over his shoulder at + Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale crossed to the boy, looked inside the other room—and his + lip twitched queerly, as the sight sent a quick, hurt throb through his + heart. A young woman, younger than the boy, lay on a tumble-down bed, a + rag of clothing over her—her face with a deathlike pallor upon it, + as she lay in what appeared to be a stupor. She was ill, critically ill; + it needed no trained eye to discern a fact all too apparent to the most + casual observer. The squalor, the glaring poverty here, was even more + pitifully in evidence than in the other room—only here upon a chair + beside the bed was a cluster of medicine bottles and a little heap of + fruit. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale drew back silently as the boy closed the door. + </p> + <p> + Hagan walked to the table and picked up his hat. + </p> + <p> + “I'm—I'm ready,” he said brokenly. “Let's go.” + </p> + <p> + “Just a minute,” said Jimmie Dale. “Tell us about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Twon't take long,” said Hagan, trying to smile. “She's my wife. The + sickness took all we had. I—I kinder got behind in the rent and + things. They were going to fire us out of here—to-morrow. And there + wasn't any money for the medicine, and—and the things she had to + have. Maybe you wouldn't have done it—but I did. I couldn't see her + dying there for the want of something a little money'd buy—and—and + I couldn't”—he caught his voice in a little sob—“I couldn't + see her thrown out on the street like that.” + </p> + <p> + “And so,” said Jimmie Dale, “instead of putting old Isaac's cash in the + safe this evening when you locked up, you put it in your pocket instead—eh? + Didn't you know you'd get caught?” + </p> + <p> + “What did it matter?” said the boy. He was twirling his misshappen hat + between his fingers. “I knew they'd know it was me in the morning when old + Isaac found it gone, because there wasn't anybody else to do it. But I + paid the rent for four months ahead to-night, and I fixed it so's she'd + have medicine and things to eat. I was going to beat it before daylight + myself—I”—he brushed his hand hurriedly across his cheek—“I + didn't want to go—to leave her till I had to.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, say”—there was wonderment in Jimmie Dale's tones, and his + English lapsed into ungrammatical, reassuring vernacular—“ain't that + queer! Say, I'm no detective. Gee, kid, did you think I was? Say, listen + to this! I cracked old Isaac's safe half an hour ago—and I guess + there won't be any idea going around that you got the money and I pulled a + lemon. Say, I ain't superstitious, but it looks like luck meant you to + have another chance, don't it?” + </p> + <p> + The hat dropped from Hagan's hands to the floor, and he swayed a little. + </p> + <p> + “You—you ain't a dick!” he stammered. “Then how'd you know about me + and my name when you found the safe empty? Who told you?” + </p> + <p> + A wry grimace spread suddenly over Jimmie Dale's face beneath the mask, + and he swallowed hard. Jimmie Dale would have given a good deal to have + been able to answer that question himself. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that!” said Jimmie Dale. “That's easy—I knew you worked there. + Say, it's the limit, ain't it? Talk about your luck being in, why all + you've got to do is to sit tight and keep your mouth shut, and you're safe + as a church. Only say, what are you going to do about the money, now + you've got a four months' start and are kind of landed on your feet? + </p> + <p> + “Do?” said the boy. “I'll pay it back, little by little. I meant to. I + ain't no—” He stopped abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “Crook,” supplied Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “Spit it right out, kid; you + won't hurt my feelings none. Well, I'll tell you—you're talking the + way I like to hear you—you pay that back, slide it in without his + knowing it, a bit at a time, whenever you can, and you'll never hear a yip + out of me; but if you don't, why it kind of looks as though I have a right + to come down your street and get my share or know the reason why—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Then you never get any share,” said Hagan, with a catch in his voice. “I + pay it back as fast as I can.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” said Jimmie Dale. “That's right—that's what I said. Well, so + long—Hagan.” And Jimmie Dale had opened the door and slipped + outside. + </p> + <p> + An hour later, in his dressing room in his house on Riverside Drive, + Jimmie Dale was removing his coat as the telephone, a hand instrument on + the table, rang. Jimmie Dale glanced at it—and leisurely proceeded + to remove his vest. Again the telephone rang. Jimmie Dale took off his + curious, pocketed leather belt—as the telephone repeated its + summons. He picked out the little drill he had used a short while before, + and inspected it critically—feeling its point with his thumb, as one + might feel a razor's blade. Again the telephone rang insistently. He + reached languidly for the receiver, took it off its hook, and held it to + his ear. + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” said Jimmie Dale, with a sleepy yawn. “Hello! Hello! Why the + deuce don't you yank a man out of bed at two o'clock in the morning and + have done with it, and—eh? Oh, that you, Carruthers?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” came Carruthers' voice excitedly. “Jimmie, listen—listen! The + Gray Seal's come to life! He's just pulled a break on West Broadway!” + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord!” gasped Jimmie Dale. “You don't say!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <h3> + BY PROXY + </h3> + <p> + “The most puzzling bewildering, delightful crook in the annals of crime,” + Herman Carruthers, the editor of the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS, had called the + Gray Seal; and Jimmie Dale smiled a little grimly now as he recalled the + occasion of a week ago at the St. James Club over their after-dinner + coffee. That was before his second debut, with Isaac Brolsky's + poverty-stricken premises over on West Broadway as a setting for the + break. + </p> + <p> + SHE had written: “Things are a little too warm, aren't they, Jimmie? Let's + let them cool for a year.” Well, they had cooled for a year, and + Carruthers as a result had been complacently satisfied in his own mind + that the Gray Seal was dead—until that break at Isaac Brolsky's over + on West Broadway! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's smile was tinged with whimsicality now. The only effect of + the year's inaction had been to usher in his renewed activity with a furor + compared to which all that had gone before was insignificant. Where the + newspapers had been maudlin, they now raved—raved in editorials and + raved in headlines. It was an impossible, untenable, unbelievable + condition of affairs that this Gray Seal, for all his incomparable + cleverness, should flaunt his crimes in the faces of the citizens of New + York. One could actually see the editors writhing in their swivel chairs + as their fiery denunciations dripped from their pens! What was the matter + with the police? Were the police children; or, worse still, imbeciles—or, + still worse again, was there some one “higher up” who was profiting by + this rogue's work? New York would not stand for it—New York would + most decidedly not—and the sooner the police realised that fact the + better! If the police were helpless, or tools, the citizens of New York + were not, and it was time the citizens were thoroughly aroused. + </p> + <p> + There was a way, too, to arouse the citizens, that was both good business + from the newspaper standpoint, and efficacious as a method. Carruthers, of + the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS, had initiated it. The MORNING NEWS-ARGUS offered + twenty-five thousand dollars' reward for the capture of the Gray Seal! + Other papers immediately followed suit in varying amounts. The + authorities, State and municipal, goaded to desperation, did likewise, and + the five million men, women, and children of New York were automatically + metamorphosed into embryonic sleuths. New York was aroused. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, alias the Gray Seal, member of the ultra-exclusive St. James + Club, the latter fact sufficient in itself to guarantee his social + standing, graduate of Harvard, inheritor of his deceased father's immense + wealth amassed in the manufacture of burglar-proof safes, some of the most + ingenious patents on which were due to Jimmie Dale himself, figured with a + pencil on the margin of the newspaper he had been reading, using the arm + of the big, luxurious, leather-upholstered lounging chair as a support for + the paper. The result of his calculations was eighty-five thousand + dollars. + </p> + <p> + He brushed the paper onto the Turkish rug, dove into the pocket of his + dinner jacket for his cigarettes, and began to smoke as his eyes strayed + around the room, his own particular den in his fashionable Riverside Drive + residence. + </p> + <p> + Eighty-five thousand dollars' reward! Jimmie Dale blew meditative rings of + cigarette smoke at the fireplace. What would she say to that? Would she + decide it was “too hot” again, and call it off? It added quite a little + hazard to the game—QUITE a little! If he only knew who “she” was! It + was a strange partnership—the strangest partnership that had ever + existed between two human beings. + </p> + <p> + He turned a little in his chair as a step sounded in the hallway without—that + is, Jimmie Dale caught the sound, muffled though it was by the heavy + carpet. Came then a knock upon the door. + </p> + <p> + “Come in,” invited Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + It was old Jason, the butler. The old man was visibly excited, as he + extended a silver tray on which lay a letter. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's hand reached quickly out, the long, slim tapering fingers + closed upon the envelope—but his eyes were on Jason significantly, + questioningly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Master Jim,” said the old man, “I recognised it on the instant, sir. + After what you said, sir, last week, honouring me, I might say, to a + certain extent with your confidence, though I'm sure I don't know what it + all means, I—” + </p> + <p> + “Who brought it this time, Jason?” inquired Jimmie Dale quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Not the young person, begging your pardon, not the young lady, sir. A + shuffer in a big automobile. 'Your master at once,' he says, and shoves + the letter into my hand, and was off.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale. “You may go.” + </p> + <p> + The door closed. Yes, it was from HER—it was the same texture of + paper, there was the same rare, haunting fragrance clinging to it. + </p> + <p> + He tore the envelope open, and extracted a folded sheet of paper. What was + it this time? To call the partnership off again until the present furor + should have subsided once more—or the skilfully sketched outline of + a new adventure? Which? He glanced at the few lines written on the sheet, + and lunged forward from his chair to his feet. It was neither one nor the + other. It was— + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's face was set, and an angry red surge swept his cheeks. His + lips moved, muttering audibly fragments of the letter, as he stared at it. + </p> + <p> + “—incredible that you—a heinous thing—act instantly—this + is ruin—” + </p> + <p> + For an instant—a rare occurrence in Jimmie Dale's life—he + stood like a man stricken, still staring at the sheet in his hand. Then + mechanically his fingers tore the paper into little pieces, and the little + pieces into tiny shreds. Anger fled, and a sickening sense of impotent + dismay took its place; the red left his cheeks, and in its stead a + grayness came. + </p> + <p> + “Act instantly!” The words seemed to leap at him, drum at his ears with + constant repetition. Act instantly! But how? How? Then his brain—that + keen, clear, master brain—sprang from stunned inaction into virility + again. Of course—Carruthers! It was in Carruthers' line. + </p> + <p> + He stepped to the desk—and paused with his hand extended to pick up + the telephone. How explain to Carruthers that he, Jimmie Dale, already + knew what Carruthers might not yet have heard of, even though Carruthers + would naturally be among the first to be in touch with such affairs! No; + that would never do. Better get there himself at once and trust to— + </p> + <p> + The telephone rang. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale waited until it rang again, then he lifted the receiver from + the hook. + </p> + <p> + “Hello?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Hello! Hello! Jimmie!” came a voice. “This is Carruthers. That you, + Jimmie?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jimmie Dale and sat down limply in the desk chair. + </p> + <p> + “It's the Gray Seal again. I promised you I'd let you in on the ground + floor next time anything happened, so come on down here quick if you want + to see some of his work at firsthand.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale flirted a bead of sweat from his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Carruthers,” said Jimmie languidly, “you newspaper chaps make me tired + with your Gray Seal. I'm just going to bed.” + </p> + <p> + “Bed nothing!” spluttered Carruthers, from the other end of the wire. + “Come down, I tell you. It's worth your while—half the population of + New York would give the toes off their feet for the chance. Come down, you + blast idiot! The Gray Seal has gone the limit this time—it's + MURDER.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's face was haggard. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” he said peevishly. “Sounds interesting. Where are you? I guess maybe + I'll jog along.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think you would!” snapped Carruthers. “You know the Palace on + the Bowery? Yes? Well, meet me on the corner there as soon as you can. + Hustle! Good—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I say, Carruthers!” interposed Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” demanded Carruthers. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks awfully for letting me know, old man.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't mention it!” returned Carruthers sarcastically. “You always were a + grateful beast, Jimmie. Hurry up!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale hung up the receiver of the city 'phone, and took down the + receiver of another, a private-house installation, and rang twice for the + garage. + </p> + <p> + “The light car at once, Benson,” he ordered curtly. “At once!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale worked quickly then. In his dressing room, he changed from + dinner clothes to tweeds; spent a second or so over the contents of a + locked drawer in the dresser, from which he selected a very small but + serviceable automatic, and a very small but highly powerful magnifying + glass whose combination of little round lenses worked on a pivot, and, + closed over one another, were of about the compass of a quarter of a + dollar. + </p> + <p> + In three minutes he was outside the house and stepping into the car, just + as it drew up at the curb. + </p> + <p> + “Benson,” he said tersely to his chauffeur, “drop me one block this side + of the Palace on the Bowery—and forget there was ever a speed law + enacted. Understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Very good, sir,” said Benson, touching his cap. “I'll do my best, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, in the tonneau, stretched out his legs under the front seat, + and dug his hands into his pockets—and inside the pockets his hands + were clenched and knotted fists. + </p> + <p> + Murder! At times it had occurred to him that there was a possibility that + some crook of the underworld would attempt to cover his tracks and take + refuge from pursuit by foisting himself on the authorities as the Gray + Seal. That was a possibility, a risk always to be run. But that MURDER + should be laid to the Gray Seal's door! Anger, merciless and unrestrained, + surged over Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + There was peril here, live and imminent. Suppose that some day he should + be caught in some little affair, recognised and identified as the Gray + Seal, there would be the charge of murder hanging over him—and the + electric chair to face! + </p> + <p> + But the peril was not the only thing. Even worse to Jimmie Dale's artistic + and sensitive temperament was the vilification, the holding up to + loathing, contumely, and abhorrence of the name, the stainless name, of + the Gray Seal. It WAS stainless! He had guarded it jealously—as a + man guards the woman's name he loves. + </p> + <p> + Affairs that had mystified and driven the police distracted with impotence + there had been, many of them; and on the face of them—crimes. But no + act ever committed had been in reality a crime—none without the + highest of motives, the righting of some outrageous wrong, the protection + of some poor stumbling fellow human. + </p> + <p> + That had been his partnership with her. How, by what amazing means, by + what power that smacked almost of the miraculous she came in touch with + all these things and supplied him with the data on which to work he did + not know—only that, thanks to her, there were happier hearts and + happier homes since the Gray Seal had begun to work. “Dear Philanthropic + Crook,” she often called him in her letters. And now—it was MURDER! + </p> + <p> + Take Carruthers, for instance. For years, as a reporter before he had + risen to the editorial desk, he had been one of the keenest on the scent + of the Gray Seal, but always for the sake of the game—always filled + with admiration, as he said himself, for the daring, the originality of + the most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in the annals of crime. + Carruthers was but an example. Carruthers now would hunt the Gray Seal + like a mad dog. The Gray Seal, to Carruthers and every one else, would be + the vilest name in the land—a synonym for murder. + </p> + <p> + On the car flew—and upon Jimmie Dale's face, as though chiselled in + marble, was a look that was not good to see. And a mirthless smile set, + frozen, on his lips. + </p> + <p> + “I'll get the man that did this,” gritted Jimmie Dale between his teeth. + “I'll GET him! And, when I get him, I'll wring a confession from him if I + have to swing for it!” + </p> + <p> + The car swept from Broadway into Astor Place, on down the Bowery, and + presently stopped. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale stepped out. “I shall not want you any more, Benson,” he said. + “You may return home.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale started down the block—a nonchalant Jimmie Dale now, if + anything, bored a little. Near the corner, a figure, back turned, was + lounging at the edge of the sidewalk. Jimmie Dale touched the man on the + arm. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Carruthers!” he drawled. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Jimmie!” Carruthers turned with an excited smile. “That's the boy! + You've made mighty quick time.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you told me to hurry,” grumbled Jimmie Dale. “I'm doing my best to + please you to-night. Came down in my car, and got summoned for three fines + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + Carruthers laughed. “Come on,” he said; and, linking his arm in Jimmie + Dale's, turned the corner, and headed west along the cross street. “This + is going to make a noise,” he continued, a grim note creeping into his + voice. “The biggest noise the city has ever heard. I take back all I said + about the Gray Seal. I'd always pictured his cleverness as being + inseparable with at least a decent sort of man, even if he was a rogue and + a criminal, but I'm through with that. He's a rotter and a hound of the + rankest sort! I didn't think there was anything more vulgar or brutal than + murder, but he's shown me that there is. A guttersnipe's got more decency! + To murder a man and then boastfully label the corpse is—” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Carruthers,” said Jimmie Dale plaintively, suddenly hanging back, “I + say, you know, it's—it's all right for you to mess up in this sort + of thing, it's your beastly business, and I'm awfully damned thankful to + you for giving me a look-in, but isn't it—er—rather INFRA DIG + for me? A bit morbid, you know, and all that sort of thing. I'd never hear + the end of it at the club—you know what the St. James is. Couldn't I + be Merideth Stanley Annstruther, or something like that, one of your new + reporters, or something like that, you know?” + </p> + <p> + Carruthers chuckled. “Sure, Jimmie,” he said. “You're the latest addition + to the staff of the NEWS-ARGUS. Don't worry; the incomparable Jimmie Dale + won't figure publicly in this.” + </p> + <p> + “It's awfully good of you,” said Jimmie gratefully. “I have to have a + notebook or something, don't I?” + </p> + <p> + Carruthers, from his pocket, handed him one. “Thanks,” said Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + A little way ahead, a crowd had collected on the sidewalk before a + doorway, and Carruthers pointed with a jerk of his hand. + </p> + <p> + “It's in Moriarty's place—a gambling hell,” he explained. “I haven't + got the story myself yet, though I've been inside, and had a look around. + Inspector Clayton discovered the crime, and reported it at headquarters. I + was at my desk in the office when the news came, and, as you know the + interest I've taken in the Gray Seal, I decided to 'cover' it myself. When + I got here, Clayton hadn't returned from headquarters, so, as you seemed + so keenly interested last week, I telephoned you. If Clayton's back now + we'll get the details. Clayton's a good fellow with the 'press,' and he + won't hold anything out on us. Now, here we are. Keep close to me, and + I'll pass you in.” + </p> + <p> + They shouldered through the crowd and up to an officer at the door. The + officer nodded, stepped aside, and Carruthers, with Jimmie Dale following, + entered the house. + </p> + <p> + They climbed one flight, and then another. The card-rooms, the faro, stud, + and roulette layouts were deserted, save for policemen here and there on + guard. Carruthers led the way to a room at the back of the hall, whose + door was open and from which issued a hubbub of voices—one voice + rose above the others, heavy and gratingly complacent. + </p> + <p> + “Clayton's back,” observed Carruthers. + </p> + <p> + They stepped over the threshold, and the heavy voice greeted them. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, here's Carruthers now! H'are you, Carruthers? They told me you'd been + here, and were coming back, so I've been keeping the boys waiting before + handing out the dope. You've had a look at that—eh?” He flung out a + fat hand toward the bed. + </p> + <p> + The voices rose again, all directed at Carruthers now. + </p> + <p> + “Bubble's burst, eh, Carruthers? What about the 'Prince of Crooks'? + Artistry in crime, wasn't it, you said?” They were quoting from his + editorials of bygone days, a half dozen reporters of rival papers, + grinning and joshing him good-naturedly, seemingly quite unaffected by + what lay within arm's reach of them upon the bed. + </p> + <p> + Carruthers smiled a little wryly, shrugged his shoulders—and + presented Jimmie Dale to Inspector Clayton. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Matthewson, a new man of ours—inspector.” + </p> + <p> + “Glad to know you, Mr. Matthewson,” said the inspector. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale found his hand grasped by another that was flabby and + unpleasantly moist; and found himself looking into a face that was red, + with heavy rolls of unhealthy fat terminating in a double chin and a + thick, apoplectic neck—a huge, round face, with rat's eyes. + </p> + <p> + Clayton dropped Jimmie Dale's hand, and waved his own in the air. Jimmie + Dale remained modestly on the outside of the circle as the reporters + gathered around the police inspector. + </p> + <p> + “Now, then,” said Clayton coarsely, “the guy that's croaked there is + Metzer, Jake Metzer. Get that?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, scribbling hurriedly in his notebook like all the rest, + turned a little toward the bed, and his lower jaw crept out the fraction + of an inch. Both gas jets in the room were turned on full, giving ample + light. A man fully dressed, a man of perhaps forty, lay upon his back on + the bed, one arm outflung across the bedspread, the other dangling, with + fingers just touching the floor, the head at an angle and off the pillow. + It was as though he had been carried to the bed and flung upon it after + the deed had been committed. Jimmie Dale's eyes shifted and swept the + room. Yes, everything was in disorder, as though there had been a struggle—a + chair upturned, a table canted against the wall, broken pieces of crockery + from the washstand on the carpet, and— + </p> + <p> + “Metzer was a stool pigeon, see?” went on Clayton, “and he lived here. + Moriarty wasn't on to him. Metzer stood in thick with a wider circle of + crooks than any other snitch in New York.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, still scribbling as Clayton talked, stepped to the bed and + leaned over the murdered man. The murder had been done with a blackjack + evidently—a couple of blows. The left side of the temple was crushed + in. Right in the middle of the forehead, pasted there, a gray-colored, + diamond shaped paper seal flaunted itself—the device of the Gray + Seal. In Jimmie Dale' hand, hidden as he turned his back, the tiny + combination of powerful lenses was focused on the seal. + </p> + <p> + Clayton guffawed. “That's right!” he called out. “Take a good look. That's + a bright young man you've got, Carruthers.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale looked up a little sheepishly—and got a grin from the + assembled reporters, and a scowl from Carruthers. + </p> + <p> + “Now, then,” continued Clayton, “here's the facts—as much of 'em as + I can let you boys print at present. You know I'm stretching a point to + let you in here—don't forget that when you come to write up the case—honour + where's honour's due, you know. Well, me and Metzer there was getting + ready to close down on a big piece of game, and I was over here in this + room talking to him about it early this afternoon. We had it framed to get + our man to-night—see? I left Metzer, say, about three o'clock, and + he was to show up over at headquarters with another little bit of evidence + we wanted at eight o'clock to-night.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was listening—to every word. But he stooped now again + over the murdered man's head deliberately, though he felt the inspector's + rat's eyes upon him—stooped, and, with his finger nail, lifted back + the right-hand point of the diamond-shaped seal where it bordered a faint + thread of blood on the man's forehead. + </p> + <p> + There was a bull-like roar from the inspector, and he burst through the + ring of reporters, and grabbed Jimmie Dale by the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Here you, what in hell are you doing!” he spluttered angrily. + </p> + <p> + Embarrassed and confused, Jimmie Dale drew back, glanced around, and + smiled again a little sheepishly as his eyes rested on the red-flushed + jowl of the inspector. + </p> + <p> + “I—I wanted to see how it was stuck on,” he explained inanely. + </p> + <p> + “Stuck on!” bellowed Clayton. “I'll show you how it's STUCK on, if you + monkey around here! Don't you know any better than that! Where were you + dragged up anyway? The coroner hasn't been here yet. You're a hot cub of a + reporter, you are!” He turned to Carruthers. “Y'ought to get out printed + instructions for 'em before you turn 'em loose!” he snapped. + </p> + <p> + Carruthers' face was red with mortification. There was a grin, expanded, + on the faces of the others. + </p> + <p> + “Stand away from that bed!” roared Clayton at Jimmie Dale. “And if you go + near it again, I'll throw you out of here bodily!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale edged away, and, eyes lowered, fumbled nervously with the + leaves of his notebook. + </p> + <p> + Clayton grunted, glared at Jimmie Dale for an instant viciously—and + resumed his story. + </p> + <p> + “I was saying,” he said, “that Metzer was to come to headquarters at eight + o'clock this evening. Well, he didn't show up. That looked queer. It was + mighty important business. We was after one of the biggest hauls we'd ever + pulled off. I waited till nine o'clock, an hour ago, and I was getting + nervous. Then I started over here to find out what was the matter. When I + got here I asked Moriarty if he'd seen Metzer. Moriarty said he hadn't + since I was here before. He was a little suspicious that I had something + on Metzer—see? Well, by pumping Moriarty, he admitted that Metzer + had had a visitor about an hour after I left.” + </p> + <p> + “Who was it? Know what his name is, inspector?” asked one of the reporters + quickly. + </p> + <p> + Inspector Clayton winked heavily. “Don't be greedy boys,” he grinned. + </p> + <p> + “You mean you've got him?” burst out another one of the men excitedly. + </p> + <p> + “Sure! Sure, I've got him.” Inspector Clayton waved his fat hand airily. + “Or I will have before morning—but I ain't saying anything more till + it's over.” He smiled significantly. “Well, that's about all. You've got + the details right around you. I left Moriarty downstairs and came up here, + and found just what you see—Metzer laying on the bed there, and the + gray seal stuck on his forehead—and”—he ended abruptly—“I'll + have the Gray Seal himself behind the bars by morning.” + </p> + <p> + A chorus of ejaculations rose from the reporters, while their pencils + worked furiously. + </p> + <p> + Then Jimmie Dale appeared to have an inspiration. Jimmie Dale turned a + leaf in his notebook and began to sketch rapidly, cocking his head now on + one side now on the other. With a few deft strokes he had outlined the + figure of Inspector Clayton. The reporter beside Jimmie Dale leaned over + to inspect the work, and another did likewise. Jimmie Dale drew in + Clayton's face most excellently, if somewhat flatteringly; and then, with + a little flourish of pride, wrote under the drawing: “The Man Who Captured + the Gray Seal.” + </p> + <p> + “That's a cracking good sketch!” pronounced the reporter at his side. “Let + the inspector see it.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” demanded Clayton, scowling. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale handed him the notebook modestly. + </p> + <p> + Inspector Clayton took it, looked at it, looked at Jimmie Dale; then his + scowl relaxed into a self-sufficient and pleased smile, and he grunted + approvingly. + </p> + <p> + “That's the stuff to put over,” he said. “Mabbe you're not much of a + reporter, but you can draw. Y're all right, sport—y're all right. + Forget what I said to you a while ago.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale smiled too—deprecatingly. And put the notebook in his + pocket. + </p> + <p> + An officer entered the room hurriedly, and, drawing Clayton aside, spoke + in an undertone. A triumphant and malicious grin settled on Clayton's + features, and he started with a rush for the door. + </p> + <p> + “Come around to headquarters in two hours, boys,” he called as he went + out, “and I'll have something more for you.” + </p> + <p> + The room cleared, the reporters tumbling downstairs to make for the + nearest telephones to get their “copy” into their respective offices. + </p> + <p> + On the street, a few doors up from the house where they were free from the + crowd, Carruthers halted Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie,” he said reproachfully, “you certainly made a mark of us both. + There wasn't any need to play the 'cub' so egregiously. However, I'll + forgive you for the sake of the sketch—hand it over, Jimmie; I'm + going to reproduce it in the first edition.” + </p> + <p> + “It wasn't drawn for reproduction, Carruthers—at least not yet,” + said Jimmie Dale quietly. + </p> + <p> + Carruthers stared at him. “Eh?” he asked blankly. + </p> + <p> + “I've taken a dislike to Clayton,” said Jimmie Dale whimsically. “He's too + patently after free advertising, and I'm not going to help along his + boost. You can't have it, old man, so let's think about something else. + What'll they do with that bit of paper that's on the poor devil's forehead + up there, for instance.” + </p> + <p> + “Say,” said Carruthers, “does it strike you that you're acting queer? You + haven't been drinking, have you, Jimmie?” + </p> + <p> + “What'll they do with it?” persisted Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Carruthers, smiling a little tolerantly, “they'll photograph + it and enlarge the photograph, and label it 'Exhibit A' or 'Exhibit B' or + something like that—and file it away in the archives with the fifty + or more just like it that are already in their collection.” + </p> + <p> + “That's what I thought,” observed Jimmie Dale. He took Carruthers by the + lapel of the coat. “I'd like a photograph of that. I'd like it so much + that I've got to have it. Know the chap that does that work for the + police?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” admitted Carruthers. + </p> + <p> + “Very good!” said Jimmie Dale crisply, “Get an extra print of the + enlargement from him then—for a consideration—whatever he asks—I'll + pay for it.” + </p> + <p> + “But what for?” demanded Carruthers. “I don't understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Because,” said Jimmie Dale very seriously, “put it down to imagination or + whatever you like, I think I smell something fishy here.” + </p> + <p> + “You WHAT!” exclaimed Carruthers in amazement. “You're not joking, are + you, Jimmie?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale laughed shortly. “It's so far from a joke,” he said, in a low + tone, “that I want your word you'll get that photograph into my hands by + to-morrow afternoon, no matter what transpires in the meantime. And look + here, Carruthers, don't think I'm playing the silly thickhead, and trying + to mystify you. I'm no detective or anything like that. I've just got an + idea that apparently hasn't occurred to any one else—and, of course, + I may be all wrong. If I am, I'm not going to say a word even to you, + because it wouldn't be playing fair with some one else; if I'm right the + MORNING NEWS-ARGUS gets the biggest scoop of the century. Will you go in + on that basis?” + </p> + <p> + Carruthers put out his hand impulsively. “If you're in earnest, Jimmie—you + bet!” + </p> + <p> + “Good!” returned Jimmie Dale. “The photograph by to-morrow afternoon then. + And now—” + </p> + <p> + “And now,” said Caruthers, “I've got to hurry over to the office and get a + write-up man at work. Will you come along, or meet me at headquarters + later? Clayton said in two hours he'd—” + </p> + <p> + “Neither,” said Jimmie Dale. “I'm not interested in headquarters. I'm + going home.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, all right then,” Carruthers returned. “You can bank on me for + to-morrow. Good-night, Jimmie.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, old man,” said Jimmie Dale, and, turning, walked briskly + toward the Bowery. + </p> + <p> + But Jimmie Dale did not go home. He walked down the Bowery for three + blocks, crossed to the east side, and turned down a cross street. Two + blocks more he walked in this direction, and halfway down the next. Here + he paused an instant—the street was dimly lighted, almost dark, + deserted. Jimmie Dale edged close to the houses until his shadow blended + with the shadows of the walls—and slipped suddenly into a + pitch-black areaway. + </p> + <p> + He opened a door, stepped into an unlighted hallway where the air was + close and evil smelling, mounted a stairway, and halted before another + door on the first landing. There was the low clicking of a lock, three + times repeated, and he entered a room, closing and fastening the door + behind him. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale called it his “Sanctuary.” In one of the worst neighbourhoods + of New York, where no questions were asked as long as the rent was paid, + it had the further advantage of three separate exits—one by the + areaway where he had entered; one from the street itself; and another + through a back yard with an entry into a saloon that fronted on the next + street. It was not often that Jimmie Dale used his Sanctuary, but there + had been times when it was no more nor less than exactly what he called it—a + sanctuary! + </p> + <p> + He stepped to the window, assured himself that the shade was down—and + lighted the gas, blinking a little as the yellow flame illuminated the + room. + </p> + <p> + It was a rough place, dirty, uninviting; a bedroom, furnished in the most + scanty fashion. Neither, apparently, was there anything suspicious about + it to reward one curious enough to break in during the owner's absence—some + rather disreputable clothes hanging on the wall, and flung untidily across + the bed—that was all. + </p> + <p> + Alone now, Jimmie Dale's face was strained and anxious and, occasionally, + as he undressed himself, his hands clenched until his knuckles grew white. + The gray seal on the murdered man's forehead was a GENUINE GRAY SEAL—one + of Jimmie Dale's own. There was no doubt of that—he had satisfied + himself on that point. + </p> + <p> + Where had it come from? How had it been obtained? Jimmie Dale carefully + placed the clothes he had taken off under the mattress, pulled a + disreputable collarless flannel shirt over his head, and pulled on a + disreputable pair of boots. There were only two sources of supply. His own—and + the collection that the police had made, which Carruthers had referred to. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale lifted a corner of the oilcloth in a corner of the room, + lifted a piece of the flooring, lifted out a little box which he placed + upon the rickety table, and sat down before a cracked mirror. Who was it + that would have access to the gray seals in the possession of the police, + since, obviously, it was one of those that was on the dead man's forehead? + The answer came quick enough—came with the sudden out-thrust of + Jimmie Dale's lower jaw. ONE OF THE POLICE THEMSELVES—no one else. + Clayton's heavy, cunning face, Clayton's shifty eyes, Clayton's sudden + rush when he had touched the dead man's forehead, pictured themselves in a + red flash of fury before Jimmie Dale. There was no mask now, no + facetiousness, no acted part—only a merciless rage, and the muscles + of Jimmie Dale's face quivered and twitched. MURDER, foisted, shifted upon + another, upon the Gray Seal—making of that name a calumny—ruining + forever the work that she and he might do! + </p> + <p> + And then Jimmie Dale smiled mirthlessly, with thinning lips. The box + before him was open. His fingers worked quickly—a little wax behind + the ears, in the nostrils, under the upper lip, deftly placed-hands, + wrists, neck, throat, and face received their quota of stain, applied with + an artist's touch—and then the spruce, muscular Jimmie Dale, + transformed into a slouching, vicious-featured denizen of the underworld, + replaced the box under the flooring, pulled a slouch hat over his eyes, + extinguished the gas, and went out. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's range of acquaintanceship was wide—from the upper + strata of the St. James Club to the elite of New York's gangland. And, + adored by the one, he was trusted implicitly by the other—not + understood, perhaps, by the latter, for he had never allied himself with + any of their nefarious schemes, but trusted implicitly through long years + of personal contact. It had stood Jimmie Dale in good stead before, this + association, where, in a sort of strange, carefully guarded exchange, the + news of the underworld was common property to those without the law. To + New York in its millions, the murder of Metzer, the stool pigeon, would be + unknown until the city rose in the morning to read the sensational details + over the breakfast table; here, it would already be the topic of whispered + conversations, here it had probably been known long before the police had + discovered the crime. Especially would it be expected to be known to Pete + Lazanis, commonly called the Runt, who was a power below the dead line + and, more pertinent still, one in whose confidence Jimmie Dale had + rejoiced for years. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, as Larry the Bat—a euphonious “monaker” bestowed + possibly because this particular world knew him only by night—began + a search for the Runt. From one resort to another he hurried, talking in + the accepted style through one corner of his mouth to hard-visaged + individuals behind dirty, reeking bars that were reared on equally dirty + and foul-smelling sawdust-strewn floors; visiting dance halls, secretive + back rooms, and certain Chinese pipe joints. + </p> + <p> + But the Runt was decidedly elusive. There had been no news of him, no one + had seen him—and this after fully an hour had passed since Jimmie + Dale had left Carruthers in front of Moriarty's. The possibilities however + were still legion—numbered only by the numberless dives and dens + sheltered by that quarter of the city. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale turned into Chatham Square, heading for the Pagoda Dance Hall. + A man loitering at the curb shot a swift, searching glance at him as he + slouched by. Jimmie Dale paused in the doorway of the Pagoda and looked up + and down the street. The man he had passed had drawn a little closer; + another man in an apparently aimless fashion lounged a few yards away. + </p> + <p> + “Something up,” muttered Jimmie Dale to himself. “Lansing, of + headquarters, and the other looks like Milrae.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale pushed in through the door of the Pagoda. A bedlam of noise + surged out at him—a tin-pan piano and a mandolin were going + furiously from a little raised platform at the rear; in the centre of the + room a dozen couples were in the throes of the tango and the bunny-hug; + around the sides, at little tables, men and women laughed and applauded + and thumped time on the tabletops with their beer mugs; while waiters, + with beer-stained aprons and unshaven faces, juggled marvelous handfuls of + glasses and mugs from the bar beside the platform to the patrons at the + tables. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's eyes swept the room in a swift, comprehensive glance, fixed + on a little fellow, loudly dressed, who shared a table halfway down the + room with a woman in a picture hat, and a smile of relief touched his + lips. The Runt at last! + </p> + <p> + He walked down the room, caught the Runt's eyes significantly as he passed + the table, kept on to a door between the platform and the bar, opened it, + and went out into a lighted hallway, at one end of which a door opened + onto the street, and at the other a stairway led above. + </p> + <p> + The Runt joined him. “Wot's de row, Larry?” inquired the Runt. + </p> + <p> + “Nuthin' much,” said Jimmie Dale. “Only I t'ought I'd let youse know. I + was passin' Moriarty's an' got de tip. Say, some guy's croaked Jake Metzer + dere.” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, ferget it!” observed the Runt airily. “Dat's stale. Was wise to dat + hours ago.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's face fell. “But I just come from dere,” he insisted; “an' de + harness bulls only just found it out.” + </p> + <p> + “Mabbe,” grunted the Runt. “But Metzer got his early in de afternoon—see?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale looked quickly around him—and then leaned toward the + Runt. + </p> + <p> + “Wot's de lay, Runt?” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + The Runt pulled down one eyelid, and, with his knowing grin, the + cigarette, clinging to his upper lip, sagged down in the opposite corner + of his mouth. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale grinned, too—in a flash inspiration had come to Jimmie + Dale. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Runt”—he jerked his head toward the street door—“wot's + de fly cops doin' out dere?” + </p> + <p> + The grin vanished from the Runt's lips. He stared for a second wildly at + Jimmie Dale, and then clutched at Jimmie Dale's arm. + </p> + <p> + “De WOT?” he said hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + “De fly cops,” Jimmie Dale repeated in well-simulated surprise. “Dey was + dere when I come in—Lansing an' Milrae, an—” + </p> + <p> + The Runt shot a hurried glance at the stairway, and licked his lips as + though they had gone suddenly dry. + </p> + <p> + “My Gawd, I—” He gasped, and shrank hastily back against the wall + beside Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + The door from the street had opened noiselessly, instantly. Black forms + bulked there—then a rush of feet—and at the head of half a + dozen men, the face of Inspector Clayton loomed up before Jimmie Dale. + There was a second's pause in the rush; and, in the pause, Clayton's + voice, in a vicious undertone: + </p> + <p> + “You two ginks open your traps, and I'll run you both in!” + </p> + <p> + And then the rush passed, and swept on up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale looked at the Runt. The cigarette dangled limply; the Runt's + eyes were like a hunted beast's. + </p> + <p> + “Dey got him!” he mumbled. “It's Stace—Stace Morse. He come to me + after croakin' Metzer, an' he's been hidin' up dere all afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + Stace Morse—known in gangland as a man with every crime in the + calendar to his credit, and prominent because of it! Something seemed to + go suddenly queer inside of Jimmie Dale. Stace Morse! Was he wrong, after + all? Jimmie Dale drew closer to the Runt. + </p> + <p> + “Yer givin' me a steer, ain't youse?” He spoke again from the corner of + his mouth, almost inaudibly. “Are youse sure it was Stace croaked Metzer? + Wot fer? How'd yer know?” + </p> + <p> + The Runt was listening, his eyes strained toward the stairs. The hall door + to the street was closed, but both were quite well aware that there was an + officer on guard outside. + </p> + <p> + “He told me,” whispered the Runt. “Metzer was fixin' ter snitch on him + ter-night. Dey've got de goods on Stace, too. He made a bum job of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn't he get out of de country den when he had de chanst, instead of + hangin' around here all afternoon?” demanded Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “He was broke,” the Runt answered. “We was gettin' de coin fer him ter + fade away wid ter-night, an'—” + </p> + <p> + A revolver shot from above cut short his words. Came then the sound of a + struggle, oaths, the shuffling tread of feet—but in the dance hall + the piano still rattled on, the mandolin twanged, voices sang and + applauded, and beer mugs thumped time. + </p> + <p> + They were on the stairs now, the officers, half carrying, half dragging + some one between them—and the man they dragged cursed them with + utter abandon. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Jimmie Dale + caught sight of the prisoner's face—not a prepossessing one—villainous,—low-browed, + contorted with a mixture of fear and rage. + </p> + <p> + “It's a lie! A lie! A lie!” the man shrieked. “I never seen him in me life—blast + you!—curse you!—d'ye hear!” + </p> + <p> + Inspector Clayton caught Jimmie Dale and the Runt by the collars. + </p> + <p> + “There's nothing to interest you around here!” he snapped maliciously. “Go + on, now—beat it!” And he pushed them toward the door. + </p> + <p> + They had heard the disturbance in the dance hall now and the occupants + were swarming to the sidewalk. A patrol wagon came around the corner. In + the crowd Jimmie Dale slipped away from the Runt. + </p> + <p> + Was he wrong, after all? A fierce passion seized him. It was Stace Morse + who had murdered Metzer, the Runt had said. In Jimmie Dale's brain the + words began to reiterate themselves in a singsong fashion: “It was Stace + Morse. It was Stace Morse.” Then his lips drew tight together. WAS it + Stace Morse? He would have given a good deal for a chance to talk to the + man—even for a minute. But there was no possibility of that now. + Later, to-morrow perhaps, if he was wrong, after all! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale returned to the Sanctuary, removed from his person all + evidences of Larry the Bat—and from the Sanctuary went home to + Riverside Drive. + </p> + <p> + In his den there, in the morning after breakfast, Jason, the butler, + brought him the papers. Three-inch headlines in red ink screamed, exulted, + and shrieked out the news that the Gray Seal, in the person of Stace + Morse, fence, yeggman and murderer, had been captured. The public, if it + had held any private admiration for the one-time mysterious crook could + now once and forever disillusion itself. The Gray Seal was Stace Morse—and + Stace Morse was of the dregs of the city's scum, a pariah, an outcast, + with no single redeeming trait to lift him from the ruck of mire and slime + that had strewn his life from infancy. The face of Inspector Clayton, + blandly self-complacent, leaped out from the paper to meet Jimmie Dale's + eyes—and with it a column and a half of perfervid eulogy. + </p> + <p> + Something at first like dismay, the dismay of impotency, filled Jimmie + Dale—and then, cold, leaving him unnaturally calm, the old merciless + rage took its place. There was nothing to do now but wait—wait until + Carruthers should send that photograph. Then if, after all, he were wrong—then + he must find some other way. But was he wrong! The notebook that + Carruthers had given him, open at the sketch he had made of Clayton, lay + upon the desk. Jimmie Dale picked it up—he had already spent quite a + little time over it before breakfast—and examined it again minutely, + even resorting to his magnifying glass. He put it down as a knock sounded + at the door, and Jason entered with a silver card tray. From Carruthers + already! Jimmie Dale stepped quickly forward—and then Jimmie Dale + met the old man's eyes. It wasn't from Carruthers—it was from HER! + </p> + <p> + “The same shuffer brought it, Master Jim,” said Jason. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale snatched the envelope from the tray, and waved the other from + the room. As the door closed, he tore open the letter. There was just a + single line: + </p> + <p> + Jimmie—Jimmie, you haven't failed, have you? + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale stared at it. Failed! Failed—HER! The haggard look was + in his face again. It was the bond between them that was at stake—the + Gray Seal—the bond that had come, he knew for all time in that + instant, to mean his life. + </p> + <p> + “God knows!” he muttered hoarsely, and flung himself into a lounging + chair, still staring at the note. + </p> + <p> + The hours dragged by. Luncheon time arrived and passed—and then by + special messenger the little package from Carruthers came. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale started to undo the string, then laid the package down, and + held out his hands before him for inspection. They were trembling visibly. + It was a strange condition for Jimmie Dale either to witness or + experience, unlike him, foreign to him. + </p> + <p> + “This won't do, Jimmie,” he said grimly, shaking his head. + </p> + <p> + He picked up the package again, opened it, and from between two pieces of + cardboard took out a large photographic print. A moment, two, Jimmie Dale + examined it, used the magnifying glass again; and then a strange gleam + came into the dark eyes, and his lips moved. + </p> + <p> + “I've won,” said Jimmie Dale, with ominous softness. “I've WON!” + </p> + <p> + He was standing beside the rosewood desk, and he reached for the phone. + Carruthers would be at home now—he called Carruthers there. After a + moment or two he got the connection. + </p> + <p> + “This is Jimmie, Carruthers,” he said. “Yes, I got it. Thanks. . . . Yes. + . . . Listen. I want you to get Inspector Clayton, and bring him up here + at once. . . . What? No, no—no! . . . How? . . . Why—er—tell + him you're going to run a full page of him in the Sunday edition, and you + want him to sit for a sketch. He'd go anywhere for that. . . . Yes. . . . + Half an hour. . . . YES. . . . Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale hung up the receiver; and, hastily now, began to write upon a + pad that lay before him on the desk. The minutes passed. As he wrote, he + scored out words and lines here and there, substituting others. At the end + he had covered three large pages with, to any one but himself, an + indecipherable scrawl. These he shoved aside now, and, very carefully, + very legibly, made a copy on fresh sheets. As he finished, he heard a car + draw up in front of the house. Jimmie Dale folded the copied sheets + neatly, tucked them in his pocket, lighted a cigarette, and was lolling + lazily in his chair as Jason announced: “Mr. Carruthers, sir, and another + gentleman to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “Show them up, Jason,” instructed Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale rose from his chair as they came in. Jason, well-trained + servant, closed the door behind them. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Carruthers; hello, inspector,” said Jimmie Dale pleasantly, and + waved them to seats. “Take this chair, Carruthers.” He motioned to one at + his elbow. “Glad to see you, inspector—try that one in front of the + desk, you'll find it comfortable.” + </p> + <p> + Carruthers, trying to catch Jimmie Dale's eye for some sort of a cue, and, + failing, sat down. Inspector Clayton stared at Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's YOU, eh?” His eyes roved around the room, fastened for an + instant on some of Jimmie Dale's work on an easel, came back finally to + Jimmie Dale—and he plumped himself down in the chair indicated. + “Thought you was more'n a cub reporter,” he remarked, with a grin. “You + were too slick with your pencil. Pretty fine studio you got here. + Carruthers says you're going to draw me.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale smiled—not pleasantly—and leaned suddenly over the + desk. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said slowly, a grim intonation in his voice, “going to draw you—TRUE + TO LIFE.” + </p> + <p> + With an exclamation, Clayton slued around in his chair, half rose, and his + shifty eyes, small and cunning, bored into Jimmie Dale's face. + </p> + <p> + “What d'ye mean by that?” he snapped out + </p> + <p> + “Just exactly what I say,” replied Jimmie Dale curtly. “No more, no less. + But first, not to be too abrupt, I want to join with the newspapers in + congratulating you on the remarkable—shall I call it celerity, or + acumen?—with which you solved the mystery of Metzer's death, and + placed the murderer behind the bars. It is really remarkable, inspector, + so remarkable, in fact, that it's almost—SUSPICIOUS. Don't you think + so? No? Well, that's what Mr. Carruthers was good enough to bring you up + here to talk over—in an intimate and confidential way, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Inspector Clayton surged up from his chair to his feet, his fists + clenched, the red sweeping over his face—and then he shook one fist + at Carruthers. + </p> + <p> + “So that's your game, is it!” he stormed. “Trying to crawl out of that + twenty-five thousand reward, eh? And as for you”—he turned on Jimmie + Dale—“you've rigged up a nice little plant between you, eh? Well, it + won't work—and I'll make you squirm for this, both of you, damn you, + before I'm through!” He glared from one to the other for a moment—then + swung on his heel. “Good-afternoon, gentlemen,” he sneered, as he started + for the door. + </p> + <p> + He was halfway across the room before Jimmie Dale spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Clayton!” + </p> + <p> + Clayton turned. Jimmie Dale was still leaning over the desk, but now one + elbow was propped upon it, and in the most casual way a revolver covered + Inspector Clayton. + </p> + <p> + “If you attempt to leave this room,” said Jimmie Dale, without raising his + voice, “I assure you that I shall fire with as little compunction as + though I were aiming at a mad dog—and I apologise to all mad dogs + for coupling your name with them.” His voice rang suddenly cold. “Come + back here, and sit down in that chair!” + </p> + <p> + The colour ebbed slowly from Clayton's face. He hesitated—then + sullenly retraced his steps; hesitated again as he reached the chair, and + finally sat down. + </p> + <p> + “What—what d'ye mean by this?” he stammered, trying to bluster. + </p> + <p> + “Just this,” said Jimmie Dale. “That I accuse you of the murder of Jake + Metzer—IT WAS YOU WHO MURDERED METZER.” + </p> + <p> + “Good God!” burst suddenly from Carruthers. + </p> + <p> + “You lie!” yelled Clayton—and again he surged up from his chair. + </p> + <p> + “That is what Stace Morse said,” said Jimmie Dale coolly. “Sit down!” + </p> + <p> + Then Clayton tried to laugh. “You're—you're having a joke, ain't + you? It was Stace—I can prove it. Come down to headquarters, and I + can prove it. I got the goods on him all the way. I tell you”—his + voice rose shrilly—“it was Stace Morse.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a despicable hound,” said Jimmie Dale, through set lips. “Here”—he + handed the revolver over to Carruthers—“keep him covered, + Carruthers. You're going to the CHAIR for this, Clayton,” he said, in a + fierce monotone. “The chair! You can't send another there in your place—this + time. Shall I draw you now—true to life? You've been grafting for + years on every disreputable den in your district. Metzer was going to show + you up; and so, Metzer being in the road, you removed him. And you seized + on the fact of Stace Morse having paid a visit to him this afternoon to + fix the crime on—Stace Morse. Proofs? Oh, yes, I know you've + manufactured proofs enough to convict him—if there weren't stronger + proofs to convict YOU.” + </p> + <p> + “Convict ME!” Clayton's lower jaw hung loosely; but still he made an + effort at bluster. “You haven't a thing on me—not a thing—not + a thing.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale smiled again—unpleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “You are quite wrong, Clayton. See—here.” He took a sheet of paper + from the drawer of his desk. + </p> + <p> + Clayton reached for it quickly. “What is it?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale drew it back out of reach. + </p> + <p> + “Just a minute,” he said softly. “You remember, don't you, that in the + presence of Carruthers here, of myself, and of half a dozen reporters, you + stated that you had been alone with Metzer in his room at three o'clock + yesterday, and that it was you—alone—who found the body later + on at nine o'clock? Yes? I mention this simply to show that from your own + lips the evidence is complete that you had an OPPORTUNITY to commit the + crime. Now you may look at this, Clayton.” He handed over the sheet of + paper. + </p> + <p> + Clayton took it, stared at it, turning it over from first one side to the + other. Then a sort of relief seemed to come to him and he gulped. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing but a damned piece of blank paper!” he mumbled. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale reached over and took back the sheet. + </p> + <p> + “You're wrong again, Clayton,” he said calmly. “It WAS quite blank before + I handed it to you—but not now. I noticed yesterday that your hands + were generally moist. I am sure they are more so now—excitement, you + know. Carruthers, see that he doesn't interrupt.” + </p> + <p> + From a drawer, Jimmie Dale took out a little black bottle, the notebook he + had used the day before, and the photograph Carruthers had sent him. On + the sheet of paper Clayton had just handled, Jimmie Dale sprinkled a + little powder from the bottle. + </p> + <p> + “Lampblack,” explained Jimmie Dale. He shook the paper carefully, allowing + the loose powder to fall on the desk blotter—and held out the sheet + toward Clayton. “Rather neat, isn't it? A very good impression, too. Your + thumb print, Clayton. Now don't move. You may look—not touch.” He + laid the paper down on the desk in front of Clayton. Beside it he placed + the notebook, open at the sketch—a black thumb print now upon it. + “You recall handling this yesterday, I'm sure, Clayton. I tried the same + experiment with the lampblack on it this morning, you see. And this”—beside + the notebook he placed the police photograph; that, too, in its + enlargement, showed, sharply defined, a thumb print on a diamond-shaped + background. “You will no doubt recognise it as an official photograph, + enlarged, taken of the gray seal on Metzer's forehead—AND THE THUMB + PRINT OF METZER'S MURDERER. You have only to glance at the little scar at + the edge of the centre loop to satisfy yourself that the three are + identical. Of course, there are a dozen other points of similarity equally + indisputable, but—” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale stopped. Clayton was on his feet—rocking on his feet. + His face was deathlike in its pallor. Moisture was oozing from his + forehead. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't do it! I didn't do it!” he cried out wildly. “My God, I tell + you, I DIDN'T do it—and—and—that would send me to the + chair.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jimmie Dale coldly, “and that's precisely where you're going—to + the chair.” + </p> + <p> + The man was beside himself now—racked to the soul by a paroxysm of + fear. + </p> + <p> + “I'm innocent—innocent!” he screamed out. “Oh, for God's sake, don't + send an innocent man to his death. It WAS Stace Morse. Listen! Listen! + I'll tell the truth.” He was clawing with his hands, piteously, over the + desk at Jimmie Dale. “When the big rewards came out last week I stole one + of the gray seals from the bunch at headquarters to—to use it the + first time any crime was committed when I was sure I could lay my hands on + the man who did it. Don't you see? Of course he'd deny he was the Gray + Seal, just as he'd deny that he was guilty—but I'd have the proof + both ways and—and I'd collect the rewards, and—and—” The + man collapsed into the chair. + </p> + <p> + Carruthers was up from his seat, his hands gripping tight on the edge of + the desk as he leaned over it. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie—Jimmie—what does this mean?” he gasped out. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale smiled—pleasantly now. + </p> + <p> + “That he has told the truth,” said Jimmie Dale quietly. “It is quite true + that Stace Morse committed the murder. Shows up the value of + circumstantial evidence though, doesn't it? This would certainly have got + him off, and convicted Clayton here before any jury in the land. But the + point is, Carruthers, that Stace Morse ISN'T the Gray Seal—and that + the Gray Seal is NOT a murderer.” + </p> + <p> + Clayton looked up. “You—you believe me?” he stammered eagerly. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale whirled on him in a sudden sweep of passion. + </p> + <p> + “NO, you cur!” he flashed. “It's not you I believe. I simply wanted your + confession before witnesses.” He whipped the three written sheets from his + pocket. “Here, substantially, is that confession written out.” He passed + it to Carruthers. “Read it to him, Carruthers.” + </p> + <p> + Carruthers read it aloud. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said Jimmie Dale grimly, “this spells ruin for you, Clayton. You + don't deserve a chance to escape prison bars, but I'm going to give you + one, for you're going to get it pretty stiff, anyhow. If you refuse to + sign this, I'll hand you over to the district attorney in half an hour, + and Carruthers and I will swear to your confession; on the other hand, if + you sign it, Carruthers will not be able to print it until to-morrow + morning, and that gives you something like fourteen hours to put distance + between yourself and New York. Here is a pen—if you are quick enough + to take us by surprise once you have signed, you might succeed in making a + dash for that door and effecting your escape—without forcing us to + compound a felony—understand?” + </p> + <p> + Clayton's hand trembled violently as he seized the pen. He scrawled his + name—looked from one to the other—wet his lips—and then, + taking Jimmie Dale at his word, rushed for the door—and the door + slammed behind him. + </p> + <p> + Carruthers' face was hard. “What did you let him go for, Jimmie?” he said + uncompromisingly. + </p> + <p> + “Selfishness. Pure selfishness,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “They'd guy me + unmercifully if they ever heard of it at the St. James Club. The honour is + all yours, Carruthers. I don't appear on the stage. That's understood? + Yes? Well, then”—he handed over the signed confession—“is the + 'scoop' big enough?” + </p> + <p> + Carruthers fingered the sheets, but his eyes in a bewildered way searched + Jimmie Dale's face. + </p> + <p> + “Big enough!” he echoed, as though invoking the universe. “It's the + biggest thing the newspaper game has ever known. But how did you come to + do it? What started you? Where did you get your lead?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, from you, I guess, Carruthers,” Jimmie Dale answered thoughtfully, + with artfully puckered brow. “I remembered that you had said last week + that the Gray Seal never left finger marks on his work—and I saw one + on the seal on Metzer's forehead. Then, you know, I lifted one corner + where the seal overlapped a thread of blood, and, underneath, the thread + of blood wasn't in the slightest disturbed; so, of course, I knew the seal + had been put on quite a long time after the man was dead—not until + the blood had dried thoroughly, to a crust, you know, so that even the + damp surface of the sticky side of the seal hadn't affected it. And then, + I took a dislike to Clayton somehow—and put two and two together, + and took a flyer in getting him to handle the notebook. I guess that's all—no + other reason on earth. Jolly lucky, don't you think?” + </p> + <p> + Carruthers didn't say anything for a moment. When he spoke, it was + irrelevantly. + </p> + <p> + “You saved me twenty-five thousand dollars on that reward, Jimmie.” + </p> + <p> + “That's the only thing I regret,” said Jimmie Dale brightly. “It wasn't + nice of you, Carruthers, to turn on the Gray Seal that way. And it strikes + me you owe the chap, whoever he is, a pretty emphatic exoneration after + what you said in this morning's edition.” + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie,” said Carruthers earnestly. “You know what I thought of him + before. It's like a new lease of life to get back one's faith in him. You + leave it to me. I'll put the Gray Seal on a pedestal to-morrow that will + be worthy of the immortals—you leave it to me.” + </p> + <p> + And Carruthers kept his word. Also, before the paper had been an hour off + the press, Carruthers received a letter. It thanked Carruthers quite + genuinely, even if couched in somewhat facetious terms, for his “sweeping + vindication,” twitted him gently for his “backsliding,” begged to remain + “his gratefully,” and in lieu of signature there was a gray-coloured piece + of paper shaped like this: + </p> + <p> + [Picture] + </p> + <p> + Only there were no fingerprints on it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <h3> + THE MOTHER LODE + </h3> + <p> + It was the following evening, and they had dined together again at the St. + James Club—Jimmie Dale, and Carruthers of the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS. + From Clayton and a discussion of the Metzer murder, the conversation had + turned, not illogically, upon the physiognomy of criminals in general. + Jimmie Dale, lazily ensconced now in a lounging chair in one of the club's + private library rooms, flicked a minute speck of cigar ash from the sleeve + of his dinner jacket, and smiled whimsically across the table at his + friend. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I dare say there's a lot in physiognomy, Carruthers,” he drawled. + “Never studied the thing, you know—that is, from the standpoint of + crime. Personally, I've only got one prejudice: I distrust, on principle, + the man who wears a perennial and pompous smirk—which isn't, of + course, strictly speaking, physiognomy at all. You see, a man can't help + his eyes being beady or his nose pronounced, but pomposity and a smirk, + now—” Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + Carruthers laughed—and then glanced ludicrously at Jimmie Dale, as + the door, ajar, was pushed open, and a man entered. + </p> + <p> + “Speaking of angels,” murmured Jimmie Dale—and sat up in his chair. + “Hello, Markel!” he observed casually, “You've met Carruthers, of the + NEWS-ARGUS, haven't you?” + </p> + <p> + Markel was fat and important; he had beady black eyes, fastidiously + trimmed whiskers—and a pronounced smirk. + </p> + <p> + Markel blew his nose vigorously, coughed asthmatically, and held out his + hand. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, certainly,” said he effusively. “I've met Carruthers several + times—used his sheet more than once to advertise a new bond + flotation.” + </p> + <p> + The dominant note in Markel's voice was an ingratiating and unpleasant + whine, and Carruthers nodded, not very cordially—and shook hands. + </p> + <p> + Markel went back to the door, closed it carefully, and returned to the + table. + </p> + <p> + “Fact is,” he smiled confidentially, “I saw you two come in here a few + minutes ago, and I've got something that I thought Carruthers might be + glad to have for his society column—say, in the Sunday edition.” + </p> + <p> + He dove into the inside pocket of his coat, produced a large morocco + leather jeweller's case, and, holding it out over the table between + Carruthers and Jimmie Dale, suddenly snapped the cover open—and + then, with a complacent little chuckle that terminated in another fit of + coughing, spilled the contents on the table under the electric reading + lamp. + </p> + <p> + Like a thing of living, pulsing fire it rolled before their eyes—a + magnificent diamond necklace, of wondrous beauty, gleaming and + scintillating as the light rays shot back from a thousand facets. + </p> + <p> + For a moment, both men gazed at it without a word. + </p> + <p> + “Little surprise for my wife,” volunteered Markel, with a debonair wave of + his pudgy hand, and trying to make his voice sound careless. + </p> + <p> + The case lay open—patently displaying the name of the most famous + jewelry house in America. Jimmie Dale's eyes fixed on Markel's whiskers + where they were brushed outward in an ornate and fastidious gray-black + sweep. + </p> + <p> + “By Jove!” he commented. “You don't do things by halves, do you, Markel?” + </p> + <p> + “Two hundred and ten thousand dollars I paid for that little bunch of + gewgaws,” said Markel, waving his hand again. Then he clapped Carruthers + heartily on the shoulder. “What do you think of it, Carruthers—eh? + Say, a photograph of it, and one of Mrs. Markel—eh? Please her, you + know—she's crazy on this society stunt—all flubdub to me of + course. How's it strike you, Carruthers?” + </p> + <p> + Carruthers, very evidently, liked neither the man nor his manners, but + Carruthers, above everything else, was a gentleman. + </p> + <p> + “To be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Markel,” he said a little frigidly, + “I don't believe in this sort of thing. It's all right from a newspaper + standpoint, and we do it; but it's just in this way that owners of + valuable jewelry lay themselves open to theft. It simply amounts to + advising every crook in the country that you have a quarter of a million + at his disposal, which he can carry away in his vest pocket, once he can + get his hands on it—and you invite him to try.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale laughed. “What Carruthers means, Markel, is that you'll have + the Gray Seal down your street. Carruthers talks of crooks generally, but + he thinks in terms of only one. He can't help it. He's been trying so long + to catch the chap that it's become an obsession. Eh, Carruthers?” + </p> + <p> + Carruthers smiled seriously. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “I hope, though, for + Mr. Markel's sake, that the Gray Seal won't take a fancy to it—if he + does, Mr. Markel can say good-bye to his necklace.” + </p> + <p> + “Pouf!” coughed Markel arrogantly. “Overrated! His cleverness is all in + the newspaper columns. If he knows what's good for him, he'll know enough + to leave this alone.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was leaning over the table poking gingerly with the tip of his + forefinger at the centre stone in the setting, revolving it gently to and + fro in the light—a very large stone, whose weight would hardly be + less than fifteen carats. Jimmie Dale lowered his head for a closer + examination—and to hide a curious, mocking little gleam that crept + into his dark eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I should say you're right, Markel,” he agreed judicially. “He ought + to know better than to touch this. It—it would be too hard to + dispose of.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not worrying,” declared Markel importantly. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Jimmie Dale. “Two hundred and ten thousand, you said. Any + special—er—significance to the occasion, if the question's not + impertinent? Birthday, wedding anniversary—or something like that?” + </p> + <p> + “No, nothing like that!” Markel grinned, winked secretively, and rubbed + his hands together. “I'm feeling good, that's all—I'm going to make + the killing of my life to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + Markel turned to Carruthers. “I'll let you in on that, too, Carruthers, in + a day or two, if you'll send a reporter around—financial man, you + know. It'll be worth your while. And now, how about this? What do you say + to a little article and the photos next Sunday?” + </p> + <p> + There was a slight hint of rising colour in Carruthers' face. + </p> + <p> + “If you'll send them to the society editor, I've no doubt he'll be able to + use them,” he said brusquely. + </p> + <p> + “Right!” said Markel, and coughed, and patted Carruthers' shoulder + patronisingly again. “I'll just do that little thing.” He picked up the + necklace, dangled it till it flashed and flashed again under the light, + then restored it very ostentatiously to its case, and the case to his + pocket. “Thanks awfully, Carruthers,” he said, as he rose from his chair. + “See you again, Dale. Good-night!” + </p> + <p> + Carruthers glared at the door as it closed behind the man. + </p> + <p> + “Say it!” prodded Jimmie Dale sweetly. “Don't feel restrained because you + are a guest—I absolve you in advance.” + </p> + <p> + “Rotter!” said Carruthers. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “You see—Carruthers?” + </p> + <p> + Carruthers' match crackled savagely as he lighted a cigar. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I see,” he growled. “But I don't see—you'll pardon my saying + so—how vulgarity like that ever acquired membership in the St. James + Club.” + </p> + <p> + “Carruthers,” said Jimmie Dale plaintively, “you ought to know better than + that. You know, to begin with, since it seems he has advertised with you, + that he runs some sort of brokerage business in Boston. He's taken a + summer home up here on Long Island, and some misguided chap put him on the + club's visitor's list. His card will NOT be renewed. Sleek customer, isn't + he? Trifle familiar—I was only introduced to him last night.” + </p> + <p> + Carruthers grunted, broke his burned match into pieces, and began to toss + the pieces into an ash tray. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale became absorbed in an inspection of his hands—those + wonderful hands with long, slim, tapering fingers, whose clean, pink flesh + masked a strength and power that was like to a steel vise. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale looked up. “Going to print a nice little story for him about + the 'costliest and most beautiful necklace in America'?” he inquired + innocently. + </p> + <p> + Carruthers scowled. “No,” he said bluntly. “I am not. He'll read the + NEWS-ARGUS a long time before he reads anything about that, Jimmie.” + </p> + <p> + But therein Carruthers was wrong—the NEWS-ARGUS carried the “story” + of Markel's diamond necklace in three-inch “caps” in red ink on the front + page in the next morning's edition—and Carruthers gloated over it + because the morning NEWS-ARGUS was the ONLY paper in New York that did. + Carruthers was to hear more of Markel and Markel's necklace than he + thought, though for the time being the subject dropped between the two + men. + </p> + <p> + It was still early, barely ten o'clock, when Carruthers left the club, + and, preferring to walk to the newspaper offices, refused Jimmie Dale's + offer of his limousine. It was but five minutes later when Jimmie Dale, + after chatting for a moment or two with those about in the lobby, in turn + sought the coat room, where Markel was being assisted into his coat. + </p> + <p> + “Getting home early, aren't you, Markel?” remarked Jimmie Dale pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Markel, and ran his fingers fussily, comb fashion, through his + whiskers. “Quite a little run out to my place, you know—and with, + you know what, I don't care to be out too late.” + </p> + <p> + “No, of course,” concurred Jimmie Dale, getting into his own coat. + </p> + <p> + They walked out of the club together, and Markel climbed importantly into + the tonneau of a big gray touring car. + </p> + <p> + “Ah—home, Peters,” he sniffed at his chauffeur; and then, with a + grandiloquent wave of his hand to Jimmie Dale: “'Night, Dale.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale smiled with his eyes—which were hidden by the brim of + his hat. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Markel,” he replied, and the smile crept curiously to the + corners of his mouth as he watched the gray car disappear down the street. + </p> + <p> + A limousine drew up, and Benson, Jimmie Dale's chauffeur, opened the door. + </p> + <p> + “Home, Mr. Dale?” he asked cheerily, touching his cap. “Yes, Benson—home,” + said Jimmie Dale absently, and stepped into the car. + </p> + <p> + It was a luxurious car, as everything that belonged to Jimmie Dale was + luxurious—and he leaned back luxuriously on the cushions, extended + his legs luxuriously to their full length, plunged his hands into his + overcoat pockets—and then a change stole strangely, slowly over + Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + The sensitive fingers of his right hand in the pocket had touched, and now + played delicately over a sealed envelope that they had found there, played + over it as though indeed by the sense of touch alone they could read the + contents—and he drew his body gradually erect. + </p> + <p> + It was another of those mysterious missives from—HER. The texture of + the paper was invariably the same—like this one. How had it come + there? Collusion with the coat boy at the club? That was hardly probable. + Perhaps it had been there before he had entered the club for dinner—he + remembered, now, that there had been several people passing, and that he + had been jostled slightly in crossing the sidewalk. What, however, did it + matter? It was there mysteriously, as scores of others had come to him + mysteriously, with never a clew to her identity, to the identity of his—he + smiled a little grimly—accomplice in crime. + </p> + <p> + He took the envelope from his pocket and stared at it. His fingers had not + been at fault—it was one of hers. The faint, elusive, exquisite + fragrance of some rare perfume came to him as he held it. + </p> + <p> + “I'd give,” said Jimmie Dale wistfully to himself—“I'd give + everything I own to know who you are—and some day, please God, I + will know.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale tore the envelope very gently, as though the tearing almost + were an act of desecration—and extracted the letter from within. He + began to read aloud hurriedly and in snatches: + </p> + <p> + “DEAR PHILANTHROPIC CROOK: Charleton Park Manor—Markel's house is + the second one from the gates on the right-hand side—library leads + off reception hall on left, door opposite staircase—telephone in + reception hall near vestibule entrance, left-hand side—safe is one + of your father's make, No. 14,321—clothes closet behind the desk—probably + will be kept in cash box—five servants; two men, three maids—quarters + on top story—Markel and wife occupy room over library—French + windows to dining room on opposite side of the house—opening on the + lawn—get it TO-NIGHT, Jimmie—TO-MORROW WOULD BE TOO LATE—dispose + of it—see fit—Henry Wilbur, Marshall Building, Broadway—fifth + story—” + </p> + <p> + Through the glass-panelled front of the car, Jimmie Dale could see his + chauffeur's back, and the hand that held the letter dropped now to his + side, and Jimmie Dale stared—at his chauffeur's back. Then, + presently, he read the letter again, as though committing it to memory + now; and then, tearing the paper into tiny shreds, as he did with every + one of her communications, he reached out of the window and allowed the + little pieces to filter gradually from his hand. + </p> + <p> + The Gray Seal! He smiled in his whimsical way. If it were ever known! He, + Jimmie Dale, with his social standing, his wealth, his position—the + Gray Seal! Not a police official, not a secret-service bureau probably in + the civilised world, but knew the name—not a man, woman, or child + certainly in this great city around him but to whom it was as familiar as + their own! Danger? Yes. A battle of wits? Yes. His against everybody's—even + against Carruthers', his old college chum! For, even as a reporter, before + he had risen to the editorial desk, and even now that he had, Carruthers + had been one of the keenest on the scent of the Gray Seal. + </p> + <p> + Danger? Yes. But it was worth it! Worth it a thousand times for the very + lure of the danger itself; but worth it most of all for his association + with her who, by some amazing means, verging indeed on the miraculous, + came into touch with all these things, and supplied him with the data on + which to work—that always some wrong might be righted, or gladness + come where there had been gloom before, or hope where there had been + despair—that into some fellow human's heart should come a gleam of + sunshine. Yes, in spite of the howls of the police, the virulent diatribes + of the press, an angry public screaming for his arrest, conviction, and + punishment, there were those perhaps who even on their bended knees at + night asked God's blessing on—the Gray Seal! + </p> + <p> + Was it strange, then, after all, that the police, seeking a clew through + motive, should have been driven to frenzy on every occasion in finding + themselves forever confronted with what, from every angle they were able + to view it, was quite a purposeless crime! On one point only they were + right, the old dogma, the old, old cry, old as the institution of police, + older than that, old since time immemorial—CHERCHEZ LA FEMME! Quite + right—but also quite purposeless! Jimmie Dale's eyes grew wistful. + He had been “hunting for the woman in the case” himself, now, for months + and years indefatigably, using every resource at his command—quite + purposelessly. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. Why go over all this to-night—there + were other things to do. She had come to him again—and this time + with a matter that entailed more than ordinary difficulty, more than usual + danger, that would tax his wits and his skill to the utmost, not only to + succeed, but to get out of it himself with a whole skin. Markel—eh? + Jimmie Dale leaned back in his seat, clasped his hands behind his head—and + his eyes, half closed now, were studying Benson's back again through the + plate-glass front. + </p> + <p> + He was still sitting in that position as the car approached his residence + on Riverside Drive—but, as it came to a stop, and Benson opened the + door, it was a very alert Jimmie Dale that stepped to the sidewalk. + </p> + <p> + “Benson,” he said crisply, “I am going downtown again later on, but I + shall drive myself. Bring the touring car around and leave it in front of + the house. I'll run it into the garage when I get back—you need not + wait up.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good, sir,” said Benson. + </p> + <p> + In the hallway, Jason, the butler, who had been butler to Jimmie Dale's + father before him, took Jimmie Dale's hat and coat. + </p> + <p> + “It's a fine evening, Master Jim,” said the privileged old man + affectionately. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale took out his silver cigarette case, selected a cigarette, + tapped it daintily on the cover of the case—and accepted the match + the old man hastily produced. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Jason.” said Jimmie Dale, pleasantly facetious, “it a fine night, a + glorious night, moon and stars and a balmy breeze—quite too fine, + indeed, to remain indoors. In fact, you might lay out my gray ulster; I + think I will go for a spin presently, when I have changed.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said Jason. “Anything else, Master Jim?” + </p> + <p> + “No; that's all, Jason. Don't sit up for me—you may go to bed now.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, sir,” said the old man. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale went upstairs, opened the door of his own particular den on + the right of the landing, stepped inside, closed the door, switched on the + light—and Jimmie Dale's debonair nonchalance dropped from him as a + mask instantly—and it was another Jimmie Dale—the professional + Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + Quick now in every action, he swung aside the portiere that curtained off + the squat, barrel-shaped safe in the little alcove, opened the safe, took + out that curious leather girdle with its kit of burglar's tools, added to + it a flashlight and an automatic revolver, closed the safe—and + passed into his dressing room. Here, he proceeded to divest himself + rapidly of his evening clothes, selecting in their stead a suit of dark + tweed. He heard Jason come up the stairs, pass along the hall, and mount + the second flight to his own quarters; and presently came the sound of an + automobile without. The dressing room fronted on the Drive—Jimmie + Dale looked out. Benson was just getting out of the touring car. Slipping + the leather girdle, then, around his waist, Jimmie Dale put on his vest, + then his coat—and walked briskly downstairs. + </p> + <p> + Jason had laid out a gray ulster on the hall stand. Jimmie Dale put it on, + selected a leather cap with motor-goggle attachment that pulled down + almost to the tip of his nose, tucked a slouch hat into the pocket of the + ulster, and, leaving the house, climbed into his car. + </p> + <p> + He glanced at his watch as he started—it was a quarter of eleven. + Jimmie Dale's lips pursed a little. + </p> + <p> + “I guess it'll make a night of it, and a tight squeeze, at that, to get + back under cover before daylight,” he muttered. “I'll have to do some tall + speeding.” + </p> + <p> + But at first, across the city and through Brooklyn, for all his + impatience, it was necessarily slow—after that, Jimmie Dale took + chances, and, once on the country roads of Long Island, the big, powerful + car tore through the night like a greyhound whose leash is slipped. + </p> + <p> + A half hour passed—Jimmie Dale's eyes shifting occasionally from the + gray thread of road ahead of him under the glare of the dancing lamps, to + the road map spread out at his feet, upon which, from time to time, he + focused his pocket flashlight. And then, finally, he slowed the car to a + snail's pace—he should be very near his destination—that very + ultra-exclusive subdivision of Charleton Park Manor. + </p> + <p> + On either side of the road now was quite a thickly set stretch of wooded + land, rising slightly on the right—and this Jimmie Dale scrutinised + sharply. In fact, he stopped for an instant as he came opposite to a wagon + track—it seemed to be little more than that—that led in + through the trees. + </p> + <p> + “If it's not too far from the seat of war,” commented Jimmie Dale to + himself, as he went on again, “it will do admirably.” + </p> + <p> + And then, a hundred yards farther on, Jimmie Dale nodded his head in + satisfaction—he was passing the rather ornate stone pillars that + marked the entrance to Charleton Park Manor, and on which the initial + promoters of the subdivision, the real-estate people, had evidently deemed + it good advertising policy to expend a small fortune. + </p> + <p> + Another hundred yards farther on, Jimmie Dale turned his car around and + returned past the gates to the wagon track again. The road was deserted—not + a car nor a vehicle of any description was in sight. Jimmie Dale made sure + of that—and in another instant Jimmie Dale's own car, every light + extinguished, had vanished—he had backed it up the wagon track, just + far enough in for the trees to screen it thoroughly from the main road. + </p> + <p> + Nor did Jimmie Dale himself appear again on the main road—until just + as he emerged close to the gates of Charleton Park Manor from a short cut + through the woods. Also, he was without his ulster now, and the slouch hat + had replaced the motor cap. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, in the moonlight, took stock of his surroundings, as he + passed in at a businesslike walk through the gates. It was a large park, + if that name could properly be applied to it at all, and the houses—he + caught sight of one set back from the driveway on the right—were + quite far apart, each in its own rather spacious grounds among the trees. + </p> + <p> + “The second house on the right,” her letter had said. Jimmie Dale had + already passed the first one—the next would be Markel's then—and + it loomed ahead of him now, black and shadowy and unlighted. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale shot a glance around him—there was stillness, quiet + everywhere—no sign of life—no sound. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's face became tense, his lips tight—and he stepped + suddenly from the sidewalk in among the trees. They were not thick here, + of course, the trees, and the turf beneath his feet was well kept—and, + therefore, soundless. He moved quickly now, but cautiously, from tree to + tree, for the moonlight, flooding the lawn and house, threw all objects + into bold relief. + </p> + <p> + A minute, two, three went by—and a shadow flitted here and there + across the light-green sward, like the moving of the trees swaying in the + breeze—and then Jimmie Dale was standing close up against one side + of the house, hidden by the protecting black shadows of the walls. + </p> + <p> + But here, for a moment, Jimmie Dale seemed little occupied with the house + itself—he was staring down past its length to where the woods made a + heavy, dark background at the rear. Then he turned his head, to face + directly to the main road, then back again slowly, as though measuring an + angle. Jimmie Dale had no intention of making his escape by the roundabout + way in which he had been forced to come in order to make certain of + locating the right house, the second one from the gates—and he was + getting the bearings of his car and the wagon track now. + </p> + <p> + “I guess that'll be about right,” Jimmie Dale muttered finally. “And now + for—” + </p> + <p> + He slipped along the side of the house and halted where, almost on a level + with the ground, the French windows of the dining room opened on the lawn. + Jimmie Dale tried them gently. They were locked. + </p> + <p> + An indulgent smile crept to Jimmie Dale's lips—and his hand crept in + under his vest. It came out again—not empty—and Jimmie Dale + leaned close against the window. There was a faint, almost inaudible, + scratching sound, then a slight, brittle crack—and Jimmie Dale laid + a neat little four-inch square of glass on the ground at his feet. Through + the aperture he reached in his hand, turned the key that was in the lock, + turned the bolt-rod handle, pushed the doors silently open—wide open—left + them open—and stepped into the room. + </p> + <p> + He could see quite well within, thanks to the moonlight. Jimmie Dale + produced a black silk mask from one of the little leather pockets, + adjusted it carefully over his face, and crossed the room to the hall + door. He opened this—wide open—left it open—and entered + the hall. + </p> + <p> + Here it was dark—a pitch blackness. He stood for a moment, listening—utter + silence. And then—alert, strained, tense in an instant, Jimmie Dale + crouched against the wall—and then he smiled a little grimly. It was + only some one coughing upstairs—Markel—in his sleep, perhaps, + or, perhaps—in wakefulness. + </p> + <p> + “I'm a fool!” confided Jimmie Dale to himself, as he recognised the cough + that he had heard at the club. “And yet—I don't know. One's nerves + get sort of taut. Pretty stiff business. If I'm ever caught, the + penitentiary sentence I get will be the smallest part of what's to pay.” + </p> + <p> + A round button of light played along the wall from the flashlight in his + hand—just for an instant—and all was blackness again. But in + that instant Jimmie Dale was across the hall, and his fingers were tracing + the telephone connection from the instrument to where the wires + disappeared in the baseboard of the floor. Another instant, and he had + severed the wires with a pair of nippers. + </p> + <p> + Again the quick, firefly gleam of light to locate the stair case and the + library door opposite to it—and, moving without the slightest noise, + Jimmie Dale's hand was on the door itself. Again he paused to listen. All + was silence now. + </p> + <p> + The door swung under his hand, and, left open behind him, he was in the + room. The flashlight winked once—suspiciously. Then he snapped its + little switch, keeping the current on, and the ray dodged impudently here + and there all over the apartment. + </p> + <p> + The safe was set in a sort of clothes closet behind the desk, she had + said. Yes, there it was—the door, at least. Jimmie Dale moved toward + it—and paused as his light swept the top of the intervening desk. A + mass of papers, books, and correspondence littered it untidily. The yellow + sheet of a telegram caught Jimmie Dale's eye. + </p> + <p> + He picked it up and glanced at it. It read: + </p> + <p> + “Vein uncovered to-day. Undoubtedly mother lode. Enormously rich. Put the + screws on at once. THURL.” + </p> + <p> + Under the mask, Jimmie Dale's lips twitched. + </p> + <p> + “I think, Markel, you miserable hound,” said he softly, “that God will + forgive me for depriving you of a share of the profits. Two hundred and + ten thousand, I think it was, you said the sparklers cost.” A curious + little sound came from Jimmie Dale's lips—like a chuckle. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale tossed the telegram back on the desk, moved on behind the + desk, opened the door of the closet that had been metamorphosed into a + vault—and the white light travelled slowly, searchingly, critically + over the shining black-enamelled steel, the nickelled knobs, and dials of + a safe that confronted him. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale nodded at it—familiarly, grimly. + </p> + <p> + “It's number one-four-three-two-one, all right,” he murmured. “And one of + the best we ever made. Pretty tough. But I've done it before. Say, half an + hour of gentle persuasion. It would be too bad to crack it with 'soup'—besides, + that's crude—Carruthers would never forgive the Gray Seal for that!” + </p> + <p> + The light went out—blackness fell. Jimmie Dale's slim, sensitive + fingers closed on the dial's knob, his head touched the steel front of the + safe as he pressed his ear against it for the tumblers' fall. + </p> + <p> + And then silence. It seemed to grow heavier, that silence, with each + second—to palpitate through the quiet house—to grow pregnant, + premonitory of dread, of fear—it seemed to throb in long + undulations, and the stillness grew LOUD. A moonbeam filtered in between + the edge of the drawn shade and the edge of the window. It struggled + across the floor in a wavering path, strayed over the desk, and died away, + shadowy and formless, against the blackness of the opened recess door, + against the blackness of the great steel safe, the blackness of a huddled + form crouched against it. Only now and then, in a strange, projected, + wraithlike effect, the moon ray glinted timidly on the tip of a nickel + dial, and, ghostlike, disclosed a human hand. + </p> + <p> + Upstairs, Markel coughed again. Then from the safe a whisper, + heavy-breathed as from great exertion: + </p> + <p> + “MISSED IT!” + </p> + <p> + The dial whirled with faint, musical, little metallic clicks; then began + to move slowly again, very, very slowly. The moonbeam, as though petulant + at its own abortive attempt to satisfy its curiosity, retreated back + across the floor, and faded away. + </p> + <p> + Blackness! + </p> + <p> + Time passed. Then from the safe again, but now in a low gasp, a pant of + relief: + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + The ear might barely catch the sound—it was as of metal sliding in + well-oiled grooves, of metal meeting metal in a padded thud. The massive + door swung outward. Jimmie Dale stood up, easing his cramped muscles, and + flirted the sweat beads from his forehead. + </p> + <p> + After a moment, he knelt again. There was still the inner door—but + that was a minor matter to Jimmie Dale compared with what had gone before. + </p> + <p> + Stillness once more—a long period of it. And then again that cough + from above—a prolonged paroxysm of it this time that went racketing + through the house. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, in the act of swinging back the inner door of the safe, + paused to listen, and little furrows under his mask gathered on his + forehead. The coughing stopped. Jimmie Dale waited a moment, still + listening—then his flashlight bored into the interior of the safe. + </p> + <p> + “The cash box, probably,” quoted Jimmie Dale, beneath his breath—and + picked it up from where it lay in the bottom compartment of the safe. + </p> + <p> + The lock snipped under the insistent probe of a delicate little + blued-steel instrument, and Jimmie Dale lifted the cover. There was a + package of papers and documents on top, held together with elastic bands. + Jimmie Dale spent a moment or two examining these, then his fingers dived + down underneath, and the next minute, under the flashlight, the morocco + leather case open, the diamond necklace was sparkling and flashing on its + white satin bed. + </p> + <p> + “A tempting little thing, isn't it?” said Jimmie Dale gently. “It was + really thoughtful of you, Markel, to buy that this afternoon!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale replaced the necklace in the cash box, set the cash box on the + floor, closed the inner door of the safe, and swung the outer door a + little inward—but left it flauntingly ajar. Then from a pocket of + the leather girdle beneath his vest he produced his small, thin, flat, + metal case. From this, from between sheets of oil paper, with the aid of a + pair of tweezers, he lifted out a gray, diamond-shaped seal. Jimmie Dale + was apparently fastidious. He held the seal with the tweezers as he + moistened the adhesive side with his tongue, laid the seal on his + handkerchief, and pressed the handkerchief firmly against the safe—as + usual, Jimmie Dale's insignia bore no finger prints as it lay neatly + capping the knob of the dial. + </p> + <p> + He reached down, picked up the cash box—and then, for the second + time that night, held suddenly tense, alert, listening, his every muscle + taut. A door opened upstairs. There came a murmur of voices. Then a + momentary lull. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale listened. Like a statue he stood there in the black, + absolutely motionless—his head a little forward and to one side. + Nothing—not a sound. Then a very low, curious, swishing noise, and a + faint creak. SOMEBODY WAS COMING DOWN THE STAIRS! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale moved stealthily from the recess, and noiselessly to the desk. + Very faintly, but distinctly now, came a pad of either slippered or bare + feet on the stairway carpet. Like a cat, soundless in his movements, + Jimmie Dale crept toward the door of the room. Down the stairs came that + pad of feet; occasionally came that swishing sound. Nearer the door crept + Jimmie Dale, and his lips were thinned now, his jaws clamped. How near + were they together, he and this night prowler? At times he could not hear + the other at all, and, besides, the heavy carpet made the judgment of + distance an impossibility. If he could gain the hall, and, in the + darkness, elude the other, the way of escape through the dining room was + open. And then, within a few feet of the door, Jimmie Dale halted + abruptly, as a woman's voice rose querulously from the hallway above: + </p> + <p> + “You are making a perfect fool of yourself, Theodore Markel! Come back + here to bed!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's face hardened like stone—the answer came almost from + the very threshold in front of him: + </p> + <p> + “I can't sleep, I tell you”—it was Markel's voice, in a disgruntled + snarl. “I was a fool to bring the confounded thing home. I'm going to take + the library couch for the rest of the night.” + </p> + <p> + It happened quick, then—quick as the winking of an eye. Two sharp, + almost simultaneous, clicks of the electric-light buttons pressed by + Markel, and the hall and library were a flood of light—and Jimmie + Dale leaped forward to where, in dressing gown and pajamas, blankets and + bedding over one arm, a revolver dangling in the other hand, Markel stood + full before the door in the hallway without. + </p> + <p> + There was a wild yell of terror and surprise from Markel, then a deafening + roar and a spit of flame from his revolver—a bitter, smothered + exclamation from Jimmie Dale as the cash box crashed to the floor from his + left hand, and he was upon the other like a tiger. + </p> + <p> + With the impact, both men went to the floor, grappled, and rolled over and + over. Half mad with fear, shock, and surprise, Markel fought like a + maniac, and his voice, in gasping shouts, rang through the house. + </p> + <p> + A minute, two passed—and the men rolled about the hall floor. + Markel, over middle age and unheathily fat, against Jimmie Dale's six feet + of muscle—only Jimmie Dale's left hand, dripping a red stream now, + was almost useless. + </p> + <p> + From above came wild confusion—women's voices in little shrieks; + men's voices shouting in excitement; doors opening, running feet. And then + Jimmie Dale had snatched the revolver from the floor where Markel had + dropped it in the scuffle, and was pressing it against Markel's forehead—and + Markel, terror-stricken, had collapsed in a flabby, pliant heap. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, still covering Markel with the weapon, stood up. The + frightened faces of women protruded over the banisters above. The two + men-servants, at best none too enthusiastically on the way down, stopped + as though stunned as Jimmie Dale swung the revolver upon them. + </p> + <p> + Then Jimmie Dale spoke—to Markel—pointing the weapon at Markel + again. + </p> + <p> + “I don't like you, Markel,” he said, with cold impudence. “The only decent + thing you'll ever do will be to die—and if those men of yours on the + stairs move another step it will be your death warrant. Do you understand? + I would suggest that you request them to stay where they are.” + </p> + <p> + Cold sweat was on Markel's face as he stared into the muzzle of the + revolver, and his teeth chattered. + </p> + <p> + “Go back!” he screamed hysterically at the servants. “Go back! Sit down! + Don't move! Do what he tells you!” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you!” said Jimmie Dale grimly. “Now, get up yourself!” + </p> + <p> + Markel got up. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale backed to the library door, picked up the cash box, tucked it + under his left armpit, and faced those on the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Markel and I are going out for a little walk,” he announced coolly. + “If one of you make a move or raise an alarm before your master comes + back, I shall be obliged, in self-defence, to shoot—Mr. Markel. Mr. + Markel quite understands that—I am sure. Do you not, Mr. Markel?” + </p> + <p> + “Helen,” screamed Markel to his wife, “don't let 'em move! For God's sake, + do as he says!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's lips, just showing beneath the edge of his mask, broadened + in a pleasant little smile. + </p> + <p> + “Will you lead the way, Mr. Markel?” he requested, with ironic deference. + “Through the dining room, please. Yes, that's right!” + </p> + <p> + Markel walked weakly into the dining room, and Jimmie Dale followed. A + prod in the back from the revolver muzzle, and Markel stepped through the + French windows and out on the lawn. Jimmie Dale faced the other toward the + woods at the rear of the house. + </p> + <p> + “Go on!” Jimmie Dale's voice was curt now, uncompromising. “And step + lively!” + </p> + <p> + They passed on along the side of the house and in among the trees. Fifty + yards or so more, and Jimmie Dale halted. He backed Markel up against a + large tree—not over gently. + </p> + <p> + “I—I say”—Markel's teeth were going like castanets. “I—” + </p> + <p> + “You'll oblige me by keeping your mouth shut,” observed Jimmie Dale + politely—and he whipped the cord of Markel's dressing gown loose and + began to tie the man to the tree. “You have many unpleasant + characteristics, Markel—your voice is one of them. Shall I repeat + that I do not like you?” He stepped to the back of the tree. “Pardon me if + I draw this uncomfortably tight. I don't think you can reach around to the + knot. No? The trunk is too large? Quite so!” He stepped around to face + Markel again—the man was thoroughly frightened, his face was livid, + his jaw sagged weakly, and his eyes followed every movement of the + revolver in Jimmie Dale's hand in a sort of miserable fascination. Jimmie + Dale smiled unhappily. “I am going to do something, Markel, that I should + advise no other man to do—I am going to put you on your honour! For + the next fifteen minutes you are not to utter a sound. Do you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Y-yes,” said Markel hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Jimmie Dale sadly, “I don' think you do. Let me be painfully + explicit. If you break your vow of silence by so much as a second, then + to-morrow, or the next day, or the day after, at my convenience, Markel, + you and I will meet again—for the LAST time. There can be no + possible misapprehension on your part now—Markel?” + </p> + <p> + “N-no,”—Markel could scarcely chatter out the word. + </p> + <p> + “Quite so,” said Jimmie Dale, in velvet tones. He stood for an instant + looking at the other with cool insolence; then: “Good-night, Markel”—and + five minutes later a great touring car was tearing New Yorkward over the + Long Island roads at express speed. + </p> + <p> + It was one o'clock in the morning as Jimmie Dale swung the car into a + cross street off lower Broadway, and drew up at the curb beside a large + office building. He got out, snuggled the cash box under his ulster, went + around to the Broadway entrance, glanced up to note that a light burned in + a fifth-story window, and entered the building. + </p> + <p> + The hallway was practically in darkness, one or two incandescents only + threw a dim light about. Jimmie Dale stopped for a moment at the foot of + the stairs, beside the elevator well, to listen—if the watchman was + making rounds, it was in another part of the building Jimmie Dale began to + climb. + </p> + <p> + He reached the fifth floor, turned down the corridor, and halted in front + of a door, through the ground-glass panel of which a light glowed faintly—as + though coming from an inner office beyond. Jimmie Dale drew the black silk + mask from his pocket, adjusted it, tried the door, found it unlocked, + opened it noiselessly, and stepped inside. Across the room, through + another door, half open, the light streamed into the outer office, where + Jimmie Dale stood. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale stole across the room, crouched by the door to look into the + inner office—and his face went suddenly rigid. + </p> + <p> + “Good God!” he whispered. “As bad as that!”—but it was a nonchalant + Jimmie Dale to all outward appearances that, on the instant, stepped + unconcernedly over the threshold. + </p> + <p> + An elderly man, white-haired, kindly-faced, kindly-eyed, save now that the + face was drawn and haggard, the eyes full of weariness, was standing + behind a flat-topped desk, his fingers twitching nervously on a revolver + in his hand. He whirled, with a startled cry, at Jimmie Dale's entrance, + and the revolver clattered from his fingers to the floor. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid,” said Jimmie Dale, smiling pleasantly, “that you were going + to shoot yourself. Your name is Wilbur, Henry Wilbur, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + Unmanned, trembling, the other stood—and nodded mechanically. + </p> + <p> + “It's really not a nice thing to do,” said Jimmie Dale confidentially. + “Makes a mess, you see, too”—he was pulling off his motor gauntlet, + his ulster, his jacket, and, having set the cash box on the desk, was + rolling back his sleeve as he spoke. “Had a little experience myself this + evening.” He held out his hand that, with the forearm, was covered with + blood. “A little above the wrist—fortunately only a flesh wound—a + little memento from a chap named Markel, and—” + </p> + <p> + “MARKEL!” The word burst, quivering, from the other's lips. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jimmie Dale imperturbably. “Do you mind if I wash a bit—and + could you oblige me with a towel, or something that would do for a + bandage?” + </p> + <p> + The man seemed dazed. In a subconscious way, he walked from the desk to a + little cupboard, and took out two towels. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale stooped, while the other's back was turned, picked up the + revolver from the floor, and slipped it into his trousers pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Markel?” said Wilbur again, the same trembling anxiety in his voice, as + he handed Jimmie Dale the towels and motioned toward a washstand in the + corner of the room. “Did you say Markel—Theodore Markel?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jimmie Dale, examining his wound critically. + </p> + <p> + “You had trouble—a fight with him? Is he—he—dead?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Jimmie Dale, smiling a little grimly. “He's pretty badly hurt, + though, I imagine—but not in a physical way.” + </p> + <p> + “Strange!” whispered Wilbur, in a numbed tone to himself; and he went back + and sank down in his desk chair. “Strange that you should speak of Markel—strange + that you should have come here to-night!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale did not answer. He glanced now and then at the other, as he + deftly dressed his wrist—the man seemed on the verge of collapse, on + the verge of a nervous breakdown. Jimmie Dale swore softly to himself. + Wilbur was too old a man to be called upon to stand against the trouble + and anxiety that was mirrored in the misery in his face, that had brought + him to the point of taking his own life. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale put on his coat again, walked over to the desk, and picked up + the 'phone. + </p> + <p> + “If I may?” he inquired courteously—and confided a number to the + mouthpiece of the instrument. + </p> + <p> + There was a moment's wait, during which Wilbur, in a desperate sort of + way, seemed to be trying to rally himself, to piece together a puzzle, as + it were; and for the first time he appeared to take a personal interest in + the masked figure that leaned against his desk. He kept passing his hands + across his eyes, staring at Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + Then Jimmie Dale spoke—into the 'phone. + </p> + <p> + “MORNING NEWS-ARGUS office? Mr. Carruthers, please. Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + Another wait—then Jimmie Dale's voice changed its pitch and register + to a pleasant and natural, though quite unrecognisable bass. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Carruthers? Yes. I thought it might interest you to know that Mr. + Theodore Markel purchased a very valuable diamond necklace this afternoon. + . . . Oh, you knew that, did you? Well, so much the better; you'll be all + the more keenly interested to know that it is no longer in his possession. + . . . I beg pardon? Oh, yes, I quite forgot—this is the Gray Seal + speaking. . . . Yes. . . . The Gray Seal. . . . I have just come from Mr. + Markel's country house, and if you hurry a man out there you ought to be + able to give the public an exclusive bit of news, a scoop, I believe you + call it—you see, Mr. Carruthers, I am not ungrateful for, I might + say, the eulogistic manner in which the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS treated me in + that last affair, and I trust I shall be able to do you many more favours—I + am deeply in your debt. And, oh, yes, tell your reporter not to overlook + the detail of Mr. Markel in his pajamas and dressing gown tied to a tree + in his park—Mr. Markel might be inclined to be reticent on that + point, and it would be a pity to deprive the public of any—er—'atmosphere' + in the story, you know. . . . What? . . . No; I am afraid Mr. Markel's + 'phone is—er—out of order. . . . Yes. . . . And, by the way, + speaking of 'phones, Mr. Carruthers, between gentlemen, I know you will + make no effort under the circumstances to discover the number I am calling + from. Good-night, Mr. Carruthers.” Jimmie Dale hung the receiver abruptly + on the hook. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” said Jimmie Dale, turning to Wilbur—and then he stopped. + The man was on his feet, swaying there, his face positively gray. + </p> + <p> + “My God!” Wilbur burst out. “What have you done? A thousand times better + if I had shot myself, as I would have done in another moment if you had + not come in. I was only ruined then—I am disgraced now. You have + robbed Markel's safe—I am the one man in the world who would have a + reason above all others for doing that—and Markel knows it. He will + accuse me of it. He can prove I had a motive. I have not been home + to-night. Nobody knows I am here. I cannot prove an alibi. What have you + done!” + </p> + <p> + “Really,” said Jimmie Dale, almost plaintively, swinging himself up on the + corner of the desk and taking the cash box on his knee, “really, you are + alarming yourself unnecessarily. I—” + </p> + <p> + But Wilbur stopped him. “You don't know what you are talking about!” + Wilbur cried out, in a choked way; then, his voice steadying, he rushed + on: “Listen! I am a ruined man, absolutely ruined. And Markel has ruined + me—I did not see through his trick until too late. Listen! For + years, as a mining engineer, I made a good salary—and I saved it. + Two years ago I had nearly seventy thousand dollars—it represented + my life work. I bought an abandoned mine in Alaska for next to nothing—I + was certain it was rich. A man by the name of Thurl, Jason T. Thurl, + another mining engineer, a steamer acquaintance, was out there at the time—he + was a partner of Markel's, though I didn't know it then. I started to work + the mine. It didn't pan out. I dropped nearly every cent. Then I struck a + small vein that temporarily recouped me, and supplied the necessary funds + with which to go ahead for a while. Thurl, who had tried to buy the mine + out from under my option in the first place, repeatedly then tried to buy + it from me at a ridiculous figure. I refused. He persisted. I refused—I + was confident, I KNEW I had one of the richest properties in Alaska.” + </p> + <p> + Wilbur paused. A little row of glistening drops had gathered on his + forehead. Jimmie Dale, balancing Markel's cash box on one knee, drummed + softly with his finger tips on the cover. + </p> + <p> + “The vein petered out,” Wilbur went on. “But I was still confident. I sank + all the proceeds of the first strike—and sank them fast, for + unaccountable accidents that crippled me both financially and in the + progress of the work began to happen.” Wilbur flung out his hands + impotently. “Oh, it's a long story—too long to tell. Thurl was at + the bottom of those accidents. He knew as well as I did that the mine was + rich—better than I did, for that matter, for we discovered before we + ran him out of Alaska that he had made secret borings on the property. But + what I did not know until a few hours ago was that he had actually + uncovered what we uncovered only yesterday—the mother lode. He was + driving me as fast as he could into the last ditch—for Markel. I + didn't know until yesterday that Markel had any thing to do with it. I + struggled on out there, hoping every day to open a new vein. I raised + money on everything I had, except my insurance and the mine—and sank + it in the mine. No one out there would advance me anything on a property + that looked like a failure, that had once already been abandoned. I have + always kept an office here, and I came back East with the idea of raising + something on my insurance. Markel, quite by haphazard as I then thought, + was introduced to me just before we left San Francisco on our way to New + York. On the run across the continent we became very friendly. Naturally, + I told him my story. He played sympathetic good fellow, and offered to + lend me fifty thousand dollars on a demand note. I did not want to be + involved for a cent more than was necessary, and, as I said, I hoped from + day to day to make another strike. I refused to take more than ten + thousand. I remember now that he seemed strangely disappointed.” + </p> + <p> + Again Wilbur stopped. He swept the moisture from his forehead—and + his fist, clenched, came down upon the desk. + </p> + <p> + “You see the game!”—there was bitter anger in his voice now. “You + see the game! He wanted to get me in deep enough so that I couldn't + wriggle out, deeper than ten thousand that I could get at any time on my + insurance, he wanted me where I couldn't get away—and he got me. The + first ten thousand wasn't enough. I went to him for a second, a third, a + fourth, a fifth—hoping always that each would be the last. Each time + a new note, a demand note for the total amount, was made, cancelling the + former one. I didn't know his game, didn't suspect it—I blessed God + for giving me such a friend—until this, or, rather, yesterday + afternoon, when I received a telegram from my manager at the mine saying + that he had struck what looked like a very rich vein—the mother + lode. And”—Wilbur's fist curled until the knuckles were like ivory + in their whiteness—“he added in the telegram that Thurl had wired + the news of the strike to a man in New York by the name of Markel. Do you + see? I hadn't had the telegram five minutes, when a messenger brought me a + letter from Markel curtly informing me that I would have to meet my note + to-morrow morning. I can't meet it. He knew I couldn't. With wealth in + sight—I'm wiped out. A DEMAND note, a call loan, do you understand—and + with a few months in which to develop the new vein I could pay it readily. + As it is—I default the note—Markel attaches all I have left, + which is the mine. The mine is sold to satisfy my indebtedness. Markel + buys it in legally, upheld by the law—and acquires, ROBS me of it, + and—” + </p> + <p> + “And so,” said Jimmie Dale musingly, “you were going to shoot yourself?” + </p> + <p> + Wilbur straightened up, and there was something akin to pathetic grandeur + in the set of the old shoulders as they squared back. + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” he said, in a low voice. “And shall I tell you why? Even if, which + is not likely, there was something reverting to me over the purchase + price, it would be a paltry thing compared with the mine. I have a wife + and children. If I have worked for them all my life, could I stand back + now at the last and see them robbed of their inheritance by a + black-hearted scoundrel when I could still lift a hand to prevent it! I + had one way left. What is my life? I am too old a man to cling to it where + they are concerned. I have referred to my insurance several times. I have + always carried heavy insurance”—he smiled a little curious, + mirthless smile—“THAT HAS NO SUICIDE CLAUSE.” He swept his hand over + the desk, indicating the papers scattered there. “I have worked late + to-night getting my affairs in order. My total insurance is fifty-two + thousand dollars, though I couldn't BORROW anywhere near the full amount + on it—but at my death, paid in full, it would satisfy the note. My + executors, by instruction would pay the note—and no dollar from the + mine, no single grain of gold, not an ounce of quartz, would Markel ever + get his hands on, and my wife and children would be saved. That is—” + </p> + <p> + His words ended abruptly—with a little gasp. Jimmie Dale had opened + the cash box and was dangling the necklace under the light—a stream + of fiery, flashing, sparkling gems. + </p> + <p> + Then Wilbur spoke again, a hard, bitter note in his voice, pointing his + hand at the necklace. + </p> + <p> + “But now, on top of everything, you have brought me disgrace—because + you broke into his safe to-night for THAT? He would and will accuse me. I + have heard of you—the Gray Seal—you have done a pitiful + night's work in your greed for that thing there.” + </p> + <p> + “For this?” Jimmie Dale smiled ironically, holding the necklace up. Then + he shook his head. “I didn't break into Markel's safe for this—it + wouldn't have been worth while. It's only paste.” + </p> + <p> + “PASTE!” exclaimed Wilbur, in a slow way. + </p> + <p> + “Paste,” said Jimmie Dale placidly, dropping the necklace back into its + case. “Quite in keeping with Markel, isn't it—to make a sensation on + the cheap?” + </p> + <p> + “But that doesn't change matters!” Wilbur cried out sharply, after a + numbed instant's pause. “You still broke into the safe, even if you didn't + know then that the necklace was paste.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but, you see—I did know then,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “I am + really—you must take my word for it—a very good judge of + stones, and I had—er—seen these before.” + </p> + <p> + Wilbur stared—bewildered, confused. + </p> + <p> + “Then why—what was it that—” + </p> + <p> + “A paper,” said Jimmie Dale, with a little chuckle—and produced it + from the cash box. “It reads like this: 'On demand, I promise to pay—'” + </p> + <p> + “My note!” It came in a great, surging cry from Wilbur; and he strained + forward to read it. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Jimmie Dale. “Of course—your note. Did you think + that I had just happened to drop in on you? Now, then, see here, you just + buck up, and—er—smile. There isn't even a possibility of you + being accused of the theft. In the first place, Markel saw quite enough of + me to know that it wasn't you. Secondly, neither Markel nor any one else + would ever dream that the break was made for anything else but the + necklace, with which you have no connection—the papers were in the + cash box and were just taken along with it. Don't you see? And, besides, + the police, with my very good friend, Carruthers at their elbows, will see + very thoroughly to it that the Gray Seal gets full and ample credit for + the crime. But”—Jimmie Dale pulled out his watch, and yawned under + his mask—“it's getting to be an unconscionable hour—and you've + still a letter to write.” + </p> + <p> + “A letter?” Wilbur's voice was broken, his lips quivering. + </p> + <p> + “To Markel,” said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “Write him in reply to his + letter of the afternoon, and post it before you leave here—just as + though you had written it at once, promptly, on receipt of his. He will + still get it on the morning delivery. State that you will take up the note + immediately on presentation at whatever bank he chooses to name. That's + all. Seeing that he hasn't got it, he can't very well present it—can + he? Eventually, having—er—no use for fake diamonds, I shall + return the necklace, together with the papers in his cash box here—including + your note.” + </p> + <p> + “Eventually?” Uncomprehendingly, stumblingly, Wilbur repeated the word. + </p> + <p> + “In a month or two or three, as the case may be,” explained Jimmie Dale + brightly. “Whenever you insert a personal in the NEWS-ARGUS to the effect + that the mother lode has given you the cash to meet it.” He replaced the + note in the cash box, slipped down to his feet from the desk—and + then he choked a little. Wilbur, the tears streaming down his face, unable + to speak, was holding out his hands to Jimmie Dale. “I—er—good-night!” + said Jimmie Dale hurriedly—and stepped quickly from the room. + </p> + <p> + Halfway down the first flight of stairs he paused. Steps, running after + him, sounded along the corridor above; and then Wilbur's voice. + </p> + <p> + “Don't go—not yet,” cried the old man. “I don't understand. How did + you know—who told you about the note?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale did not answer—he went on noiselessly down the stairs. + His mask was off now, and his lips curved into a strange little smile. + </p> + <p> + “I wish I knew,” said Jimmie Dale wistfully to himself. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <h3> + THE COUNTERFEIT FIVE + </h3> + <p> + It was still early in the evening, but a little after nine o'clock. The + Fifth Avenue bus wended its way, jouncing its patrons, particularly those + on the top seats, across town, and turned into Riverside Drive. A short + distance behind the bus, a limousine rolled down the cross street + leisurely, silently. + </p> + <p> + As the lights of passing craft on the Hudson and a myriad scintillating, + luminous points dotting the west shore came into view, Jimmie Dale rose + impulsively from his seat on the top of the bus, descended the little + circular iron ladder at the rear, and dropped off into the street. It was + only a few blocks farther to his residence on the Drive, and the night was + well worth the walk; besides, restless, disturbed, and perplexed in mind, + the walk appealed to him. + </p> + <p> + He stepped across to the sidewalk and proceeded slowly along. A month had + gone by and he had not heard a word from—HER. The break on West + Broadway, the murder of Metzer in Moriarty's gambling hell, the theft of + Markel's diamond necklace had followed each other in quick succession—and + then this month of utter silence, with no sign of her, as though indeed + she had never existed. + </p> + <p> + But it was not this temporary silence on her part that troubled Jimmie + Dale now. In the years that he had worked with this unknown, mysterious + accomplice of his whom he had never seen, there had been longer intervals + than a bare month in which he had heard nothing from her—it was not + that. It was the failure, total, absolute, and complete, that was the only + result for the month of ceaseless, unremitting, doggedly-expended effort, + even as it had been the result many times before, in an attempt to solve + the enigma that was so intimate and vital a factor in his own life. + </p> + <p> + If he might lay any claims to cleverness, his resourcefulness, at least, + he was forced to admit, was no match for hers. She came, she went without + being seen—and behind her remained, instead of clews to her + identity, only an amazing, intangible mystery, that left him at times + appalled and dismayed. How did she know about those conditions in West + Broadway, how did she know about Metzer's murder, how did she know about + Markel and Wilbur—how did she know about a hundred other affairs of + the same sort that had happened since that night, years ago now, when out + of pure adventure he had tampered with Marx's, the jeweller's strong room + in Maiden Lane, and she had, mysteriously then, too, solved HIS identity, + discovered him to be the Gray Seal? + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, wrapped up in his own thoughts, entirely oblivious to his + surroundings, traversed another block. There had never been since the + world began, and there would never be again, so singular and bizarre a + partnership as this—of hers and his. He, Jimmie Dale, with his + strange double life, one of New York's young bachelor millionaires, one + whose social status was unquestioned; and she, who—who WHAT? That + was just it! Who what? What was she? What was her name? What one personal, + intimate thing did he know about her? And what was to be the end? Not that + he would have severed his association with her—not for worlds!—though + every time, that, by some new and curious method, one of her letters found + its way into his hands, outlining some fresh coup for him to execute, his + peril and danger of discovery was increased in staggering ratio. To-day, + the police hunted the Gray Seal as they hunted a mad dog; the papers + stormed and raved against him: in every detective bureau of two continents + he was catalogued as the most notorious criminal of the age—and yet, + strange paradox, no single crime had ever been committed! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's strong, fine-featured face lighted up. Crime! Thanks to her, + there were those who blessed the name of the Gray Seal, those into whose + lives had come joy, relief from misery, escape from death even—and + their blessings were worth a thousandfold the risk and peril of disaster + that threatened him at every minute of the day. + </p> + <p> + “Thank God for her!” murmured Jimmie Dale softly. “But—but if I + could only find her, see her, know who she is, talk to her, and hear her + voice!” Then he smiled a little wanly. “It's been a pretty tough month—and + nothing to show for it!” + </p> + <p> + It had! It had been one of the hardest months through which Jimmie Dale + had ever lived. The St. James, that most exclusive club, his favourite + haunt, had seen nothing of him; the easel in his den, that was his hobby, + had been untouched; there had been days even when he had not crossed the + threshold of his home. Every resource at his command he had called into + play in an effort to solve the mystery. For nearly the entire month, + following first this lead and then that, he had lived in the one disguise + that he felt confident she knew nothing of—that was, or, rather, had + become, almost a dual personality with him. From the Sanctuary, that + miserable and disreputable room in a tenement on the East Side, a tenement + that had three separate means of entrance and exit, he had emerged day + after day as Larry the Bat, a character as well known and as well liked in + the exclusive circles of the underworld as was Jimmie Dale in the most + exclusive strata of New York's society and fashion. And it had been + useless—all useless. Through his own endeavours, through the help of + his friends of the underworld, the lives of half a dozen men, Bert Hagan's + on West Broadway, for instance, Markel's, and others', had been laid bare + to the last shred, but nowhere could be found the one vital point that + linked their lives with hers, that would account for her intimate + knowledge of them, and so furnish him with the clew that would then with + certainty lead him to a solution of her identity. + </p> + <p> + It was baffling, puzzling, unbelievable, bordering, indeed, on the + miraculous—herself, everything about her, her acts, her methods, her + cleverness, intangible in one sense, were terrifically real in another. + Jimmie Dale shook his head. The miraculous and this practical, everyday + life were wide and far apart. There was nothing miraculous about it—it + was only that the key to it was, so far, beyond his reach. + </p> + <p> + And then suddenly Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders in consonance with a + whimsical change in both mood and thought. + </p> + <p> + “Larry the Bat, is a hard taskmaster!” he muttered facetiously. “I'm + afraid I'm not very presentable this evening—no bath this morning, + and no shave, and, after nearly a month of make-up, that beastly grease + paint gets into the skin creases in a most intimate way.” He chuckled as + the thought of old Jason, his butler, came to him. “I saw Jason, torn + between two conflicting emotions, shaking his head over the black circles + under my eyes last night—he didn't know whether to worry over the + first signs of a galloping decline, or break his heart at witnessing the + young master he had dandled on his knees going to the damnation bowwows + and turning into a confirmed roue! I guess I'll have to mind myself, + though. Even Carruthers detached his mind far enough from his editorial + desk and the hope of exclusively publishing the news of the Gray Seal's + capture in the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS, to tell me I was looking seedy. It's + wonderful the way a little paint will metamorphose a man! Well, anyway, + here's for a good hot tub to-night, and a fresh start!” + </p> + <p> + He quickened his pace. There were still three blocks to go, and here was + no hurrying, jostling crowd to impede his progress; indeed, as far as he + could see up the Drive, there was not a pedestrian in sight. And then, as + he walked, involuntarily, insistently, his mind harked back into the old + groove again. + </p> + <p> + “I've tried to picture her,” said Jimmie Dale softly to himself. “I've + tried to picture her a hundred, yes, a thousand times, and—” + </p> + <p> + A bus, rumbling cityward, went by him, squeaking, creaking, and rattling + in its uneasy joints—and out of the noise, almost at his elbow it + seemed, a voice spoke his name—and in that instant intuitively he + KNEW, and it thrilled him, stopped the beat of his heart, as, dulcet, + soft, clear as the note of a silver bell it fell—and only one word: + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie!” + </p> + <p> + He whirled around. A limousine, wheels just grazing the curb, was gliding + slowly and silently past him, and from the window a woman's arm, + white-gloved and dainty, was extended, and from the fingers to the + pavement fluttered an envelope—and the car leaped forward. + </p> + <p> + For the fraction of a second, Jimmie Dale stood dazed, immovable, a gamut + of emotions, surprise, fierce exultation, amazement, a strange joy, a + mighty uplift, swirling upon him—and then, snatching up the envelope + from the ground, he sprang out into the road after the car. It was the one + chance he had ever had, the one chance she had ever given him, and he had + seen—a white-gloved arm! He could not reach the car, it was speeding + away from him like an arrow now, but there was something else that would + do just as well, something that with all her cleverness she had overlooked—the + car's number dangling on the rear axle, the rays of the little lamp + playing on the enamelled surface of the plate! Gasping, panting, he held + his own for a yard or more, and there floated back to him a little silvery + laugh from the body of the limousine, and then Jimmie Dale laughed, too, + and stopped—it was No. 15,836! + </p> + <p> + He stood and watched the car disappear up the Drive. What delicious irony! + A month of gruelling, ceaseless toil that had been vain, futile, useless—and + the key, when he was not looking for it, unexpectedly, through no effort + of his, was thrust into his hand—No. 15,836! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, the gently ironic smile still on his lips, those slim, + supersensitive fingers of his subconsciously noting that the texture of + the envelope was the same as she always used, retraced his steps to the + sidewalk. + </p> + <p> + “Number fifteen thousand eight hundred and thirty-six,” said Jimmie Dale + aloud—and halted at the curb as though rooted to the spot. It + sounded strangely familiar, that number! He repeated it over again slowly: + “One-five-eight-three-six.” And the smile left his lips, and upon his face + came the look of a chastened child. She had used a duplicate plate! + Fifteen thousand eight hundred and thirty-six was the number of one of his + own cars—his own particular runabout! + </p> + <p> + For a moment longer he stood there, undecided whether to laugh or swear, + and then his eyes fastened mechanically on the envelope he was twirling in + his fingers. Here, at least, was something that was not elusive; that, on + the contrary, as a hundred others in the past had done, outlined probably + a grim night's work ahead for the Gray Seal! And, if it were as those + others had been, every minute from the moment of its receipt was precious + time. He stepped under the nearest street light, and tore the envelope + open. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Philanthropic Crook,” it began—and then followed two closely + written pages. Jimmie Dale read them, his lips growing gradually tighter, + a smouldering light creeping into his dark eyes, and once he emitted a + short, low whistle of consternation—that was at the end, as he read + the post-script that was heavily underscored: “Work quickly. They will + raid to-night. Be careful. Look out for Kline, he is the sharpest man in + the United States secret service.” + </p> + <p> + For a brief instant longer, Jimmie Dale stood under the street lamp, his + mind in a lightning-quick way cataloguing every point in her letter, + viewing every point from a myriad angles, constructing, devising, mapping + out a plan to dove-tail into them—and then Jimmie Dale swung on a + downtown bus. There was neither time nor occasion to go home now—that + marvellous little kit of burglar's tools that peeped from their tiny + pockets in that curious leather undervest, and that reposed now in the + safe in his den, would be useless to him to-night; besides, in the breast + pocket of his coat, neatly folded, was a black silk mask, and, relics of + his role of Larry the Bat, an automatic revolver, an electric flashlight, + a steel jimmy, and a bunch of skeleton keys, were distributed among the + other pockets of his smart tweed suit. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale changed from the bus to the subway, leaving behind him, strewn + over many blocks, the tiny and minute fragments into which he had torn her + letter; at Astor Place he left the subway, walked to Broadway, turned + uptown for a block to Eighth Street, then along Eighth Street almost to + Sixth Avenue—and stopped. + </p> + <p> + A rather shabby shop, a pitiful sort of a place, displaying in its window + a heterogeneous conglomeration of cheap odds and ends, ink bottles, candy, + pencils, cigarettes, pens, toys, writing pads, marbles, and a multitude of + other small wares, confronted him. Within, a little, old, sweet-faced, + gray-haired woman stood behind the counter, pottering over the + rearrangement of some articles on the shelves. + </p> + <p> + “My word!” said Jimmie Dale softly to himself. “You wouldn't believe it, + would you! And I've always wondered how these little stores managed to + make both ends meet. Think of that old soul making fifteen or twenty + thousand dollars from a layout like this—even if it has taken her a + lifetime!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale had halted nonchalantly and unconcernedly by the curb, not too + near the window, busied apparently in an effort to light a refractory + cigarette; and then, about to enter the store, he gazed aimlessly across + the street for a moment instead. A man came briskly around the corner from + Sixth Avenue, opened the store door, and went in. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale drew back a little, and turned his head again as the door + closed—and a sudden, quick, alert, and startled look spread over his + face. + </p> + <p> + The man who had entered bent over the counter and spoke to the old lady. + She seemed to listen with a dawning terror creeping over her features, and + then her hands went piteously to the thin hair behind her ears. The man + motioned toward a door at the rear of the store. She hesitated, then came + out from behind the counter, and swayed a little as though her limbs would + not support her weight. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's lips thinned. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid,” he muttered slowly, “I'm afraid that I'm too late even now.” + And then, as she came to the door and turned the key on the inside: “Pray + Heaven she doesn't turn the light out—or somebody might think I was + trying to break in!” + </p> + <p> + But in that respect Jimmie Dale's fears were groundless. She did not turn + out either of the gas jets that lighted the little shop; instead, in a + faltering, reluctant sort of manner, she led the way directly through the + door in the rear, and the man followed her. + </p> + <p> + The shop was empty—and Jimmie Dale was standing against the door on + the outside. His position was perfectly natural—a hundred passers-by + would have noted nothing but a most commonplace occurrence—a man in + the act of entering a store. And, if he appeared to fumble and have + trouble with the latch, what of it! Jimmie Dale, however, was not fumbling—hidden + by his back that was turned to the street, those wonderful fingers of his, + in whose tips seemed embodied and concentrated every one of the human + senses, were working quickly, surely, accurately, without so much as the + wasted movement of a single muscle. + </p> + <p> + A faint tinkle—and the key within fell from the lock to the floor. A + faint click—and the bolt of the lock slipped back. Jimmie Dale + restored the skeleton keys and a little steel instrument that accompanied + them to his pocket—and quietly opened the door. He stepped inside, + picked up the key from the floor, inserted it in the lock, closed the door + behind him, and locked it again. + </p> + <p> + “To guard against interruption,” observed Jimmie Dale, a little + quizzically. + </p> + <p> + He was, perhaps, thirty seconds behind the others. He crossed the shop + noiselessly, cautiously, and passed through the door at the rear. It + opened into a short passage that, after a few feet, gave on a sort of + corridor at right angles—and down this latter, facing him, at the + end, the door of a lighted room was open, and he could see the figure of + the man who had entered the shop, back turned, standing on the threshold. + Voices, indistinct, came to him. + </p> + <p> + The corridor itself was dark; and Jimmie Dale, satisfied that he was + fairly safe from observation, stole softly forward. He passed two doors on + his left—and the curious arrangement of the building that had + puzzled him for a moment became clear. The store made the front of an old + tenement building, with apartments above, and the rear of the store was a + sort of apartment, too—the old lady's living quarters. + </p> + <p> + Step by step, testing each one against a possible creaking of the floor, + Jimmie Dale moved forward, keeping close up against one wall. The man + passed on into the room—and now Jimmie Dale could distinguish every + word that was being spoken; and, crouched up, in the dark corridor, in the + angle of the wall and the door jamb itself, could see plainly enough into + the room beyond. Jimmie Dale's jaw crept out a little. + </p> + <p> + A young man, gaunt, pale, wrapped in blankets, half sat, half reclined in + an invalid's chair; the old lady, on her knees, the tears streaming down + her face, had her arms around the sick man's neck; while the other man, + apparently upset at the scene, tugged vigorously at long, gray mustaches. + </p> + <p> + “Sammy! Sammy!” sobbed the woman piteously. “Say you didn't do it, Sammy—say + you didn't do it!” + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Mrs. Matthews,” said the man with the gray mustaches gently, + “now don't you go to making things any harder. I've got to do my duty just + the same, and take your son.” + </p> + <p> + The young man, a hectic flush beginning to burn on his cheeks, gazed + wildly from one to the other. + </p> + <p> + “What—what is it?” he cried out. + </p> + <p> + The man threw back his coat and displayed a badge on his vest. + </p> + <p> + “I'm Kline of the secret service,” he said gravely. “I'm sorry, Sammy, but + I want you for that little job in Washington at the bureau—before + you left on sick leave!” + </p> + <p> + Sammy Matthews struggled away from his mother's arms, pulled himself + forward in his chair—and his tongue licked dry lips. + </p> + <p> + “What—what job?” he whispered thickly. + </p> + <p> + “You know, don't you?” the other answered steadily. He took a large, flat + pocketbook from his pocket, opened it, and took out a five-dollar bill. He + held this before the sick man's eyes, but just out of reach, one finger + silently indicating the lower left-hand corner. + </p> + <p> + Matthews stared at it for a moment, and the hectic flush faded to a + grayish pallor, and a queer, impotent sound gurgled in his throat. + </p> + <p> + “I see you recognise it,” said the other quietly. “It's open and shut, + Sammy. That little imperfection in the plate's got you, my boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Sammy! Sammy!” sobbed the woman again. “Sammy, say you didn't do it!” + </p> + <p> + “It's a lie!” said Matthews hoarsely. “It's a lie! That plate was + condemned in the bureau for that imperfection—condemned and + destroyed.” + </p> + <p> + “Condemned TO BE destroyed,” corrected the other, without raising his + voice. “There's a little difference there, Sammy—about twenty years' + difference—in the Federal pen. But it wasn't destroyed; this note + was printed from it by one of the slickest gangs of counterfeiters in the + United States—but I don't need to tell you that, I guess you know + who they are. I've been after them a long time, and I've got them now, + just as tight as I've got you. Instead of destroying that plate, you stole + it, and disposed of it to the gang. How much did they give you?” + </p> + <p> + Matthews' face seemed to hold a dumb horror, and his fingers picked at the + arms of the chair. His mother had moved from beside him now, and both her + hands were patting at the man's sleeve in a pitiful way, while again and + again she tried to speak, but no words would come. + </p> + <p> + “It's a lie!” said Matthews again, in a colourless, mechanical way. + </p> + <p> + The man glanced at Mrs. Matthews as he put the five-dollar note back into + his pocket, seemed to choke a little, shook his head, and all trace of the + official sternness that had crept into his voice disappeared. + </p> + <p> + “It's no good,” he said in a low tone. “Don't do that, Mrs. Matthews, I've + got to do my duty.” He leaned a little toward the chair. “It's dead to + rights, Sammy. You might as well make a clean breast of it. It was up to + you and Al Gregor to see that the plate was destroyed. It WASN'T + destroyed; instead, it shows up in the hands of a gang of counterfeiters + that I've been watching for months. Furthermore, I've got the plate + itself. And finally, though I haven't placed him under arrest yet for fear + you might hear of it before I wanted you to and make a get-away, I've got + Al Gregor where I can put my hands on him, and I've got his confession + that you and he worked the game between you to get that plate out of the + bureau and dispose of it to the gang.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my God!”—it came in a wild cry from the sick man, and in a + desperate, lurching way he struggled up to his feet. “Al Gregor said that? + Then—then I'm done!” He clutched at his temples. “But it's not true—it's + not true! If the plate was stolen, and it must have been stolen, or that + note wouldn't have been found, it was Al Gregor who stole it—I + didn't, I tell you! I knew nothing of it, except that he and I were + responsible for it and—and I left it to him—that's the only + way I'm to blame. He's caught, and he's trying to get out of it with a + light sentence by pretending to turn State's evidence, but—but I'll + fight him—he can't prove it—it's only his word against mine, + and—” + </p> + <p> + The other shook his head again. + </p> + <p> + “It's no good, Sammy,” he said, a touch of sternness back in his tones + again. “I told you it was open and shut. It's not only Al Gregor. One of + the gang got weak knees when I got him where I wanted him the other night, + and he swears that you are the one who DELIVERED the plate to them. + Between him and Gregor and what I know myself, I've got evidence enough + for any jury against every one of the rest of you.” + </p> + <p> + Horror, fear, helplessness seemed to mingle in the sick man's staring + eyes, and he swayed unsteadily upon his feet. + </p> + <p> + “I'm innocent!” he screamed out. “But I'm caught, I'm caught in a net, and + I can't get out—they lied to you—but no one will believe it + any more than you do and—and it means twenty years for me—oh, + God!—twenty years, and—” His hands went wriggling to his + temples again, and he toppled back in a faint into the chair. + </p> + <p> + “You've killed him! You've killed my boy!” the old lady shrieked out + piteously, and flung herself toward the senseless figure. + </p> + <p> + The man jumped for the table across the room, on which was a row of + bottles, snatched one up, drew the cork, smelled it, and ran back with the + bottle. He poured a little of the contents into his cupped hand, held it + under young Matthews' nostrils, and pushed the bottle into Mrs. Matthews' + hands. + </p> + <p> + “Bathe his forehead with this, Mrs. Matthews,” he directed reassuringly. + “He'll be all right again in a moment. There, see—he's coming around + now.” + </p> + <p> + There was a long, fluttering sigh, and Matthews opened his eyes; then a + moment's silence; and then he spoke, with an effort, with long pauses + between the words: + </p> + <p> + “Am—I—to—go—now?” + </p> + <p> + The words seemed to ring absolute terror in the old lady's ears. She + turned, and dropped to her knees on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Kline, Mr. Kline,” she sobbed out, “oh, for God's love, don't take + him! Let him off, let him go! He's my boy—all I've got! You've got a + mother, haven't you? You know—” The tears were streaming down the + sweet, old face again. “Oh, won't you, for God's dear name, won't you let + him go? Won't—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” the man cried huskily. He was mopping at his face with his + handkerchief. “I thought I was case-hardened, I ought to be—but I + guess I'm not. But I've got to do my duty. You're only making it worse for + Sammy there, as well as me.” + </p> + <p> + Her arms were around his knees now, clinging there. + </p> + <p> + “Why can't you let him off!” she pleaded hysterically. “Why can't you! Why + can't you! Nobody would know, and I'd do anything—I'd pay anything—anything—I'll + give you ten—fifteen thousand dollars!” + </p> + <p> + “My poor woman,” he said kindly, placing his hand on her head, “you are + talking wildly. Apart altogether from the question of duty, even if I + succeeded in hushing the matter up, I would probably at least be suspected + and certainly discharged, and I have a family to support—and if I + were caught I'd get ten years in the Federal prison for it. I'm sorry for + this; I believe it's your boy's first offence, and if I could let him off + I would.” + </p> + <p> + “But you can—you can!” she burst out, rocking on her knees, clinging + tighter still to him, as though in a paroxysm of fear that he might + somehow elude her. “It will kill him—it will kill my boy. And you + can save him! And even if they discharged you, what would that mean + against my boy's life! You wouldn't suffer, your family wouldn't suffer, + I'll—I'll take care of that—perhaps I could raise a little + more than fifteen thousand—but, oh, have pity, have mercy—don't + take him away!” + </p> + <p> + The man stared at her a moment, stared at the white face on the reclining + chair—and passed his hand heavily across his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You will! You will!” It came in a great surging cry of joy from the old + lady. “You will—oh, thank God, thank God!—I can see it in your + face!” + </p> + <p> + “I—I guess I'm soft,” he said huskily, and stooped and raised Mrs. + Matthews to her feet. “Don't cry any more. It'll be all right—it'll + be all right. I'll—I'll fix it up somehow. I haven't made any + arrests yet, and—well, I'll take my chances. I'll get the plate and + turn it over to you to-morrow, only—only it's got to be destroyed in + my presence.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes!” she cried, trying to smile through her tears—and then + she flung her arms around her son's neck again. “And when you come + to-morrow, I'll be ready with the money to do my share, too, and—” + </p> + <p> + But Sammy Matthews shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “You're wrong, both of you,” he said weakly. “You're a white man, Kline. + But destroying that plate won't save me. The minute a single note printed + from it shows up, they'll know back there in Washington that the plate was + stolen, and—” + </p> + <p> + “No; you're safe enough there,” the other interposed heavily. “Knowing + what was up, you don't think I'd give the gang a chance to get them into + circulation, do you? I got them all when I got the plate. And”—he + smiled a little anxiously—“I'll bring them here to be destroyed with + the plate. It would finish me now, as well as you, if one of them ever + showed up. Say,” he said suddenly, with a catch in his breath, “I—I + don't think I know what I'm doing.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Matthews reached out her hands to him. + </p> + <p> + “What can I say to you!” she said brokenly, “What—” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale drew back along the wall. A little way from the door he + quickened his pace, still moving, however, with extreme caution. They were + still talking behind him as he turned from the corridor into the + passageway leading to the store, and from there into the store itself. And + then suddenly, in spite of caution, his foot slipped on the bare floor. It + was not much—just enough to cause his other foot, poised tentatively + in air, to come heavily down, and a loud and complaining creak echoed from + the floor. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's jaws snapped like a steel trap. From down the corridor came + a sudden, excited exclamation in the little old lady's voice, and then her + steps sounded running toward the store. In the fraction of a second Jimmie + Dale was at the front door. + </p> + <p> + “Clumsy, blundering fool!” he whispered fiercely to himself as he turned + the key, opened the door noiselessly until it was just ajar, and turned + the key in the lock again, leaving the bolt protruding out. One step + backward, and he was rapping on the counter with his knuckles. “Isn't + anybody here?” he called out loudly. “Isn't any—oh!”—as Mrs. + Matthews appeared in the back doorway. “A package of cigarettes, please.” + </p> + <p> + She stared at him, a little frightened, her eyes red and swollen with + recent crying. + </p> + <p> + “How—how did you get in here?” she asked tremendously. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon?” inquired Jimmie Dale, in polite surprise. + </p> + <p> + “I—I locked the door—I'm sure I did,” she said, more to + herself than to Jimmie Dale, and hurried across the floor to the door as + she spoke. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, still politely curious, turned to watch her. For a moment + bewilderment and a puzzled look were in her face—and then a sort of + surprised relief. + </p> + <p> + “I must have turned the key in the lock without shutting the door tight,” + she explained, “for I knew I turned the key.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale bent forward to examine the lock—and nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he agreed, with a smile. “I should say so.” Then, gravely + courteous: “I'm sorry to have intruded.” + </p> + <p> + “It is nothing,” she answered; and, evidently anxious to be rid of him, + moved quickly around behind the counter. “What kind of cigarettes do you + want?” + </p> + <p> + “Egyptians—any kind,” said Jimmie Dale, laying a bill on the + counter. + </p> + <p> + He pocketed the cigarettes and his change, and turned to the door. + </p> + <p> + “Good-evening,” he said pleasantly—and went out. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale smiled a little curiously, a little tolerantly. As he started + along the street, he heard the door of the little shop close with a sort + of supercareful bang, the key turned, and the latch rattle to try the door—the + little old lady was bent on making no mistake a second time! + </p> + <p> + And then the smile left Jimmie Dale's lips, his face grew strained and + serious, and he broke into a run down the block to Sixth Avenue. Here he + paused for an instant—there was the elevated, the surface cars—which + would be the quicker? He looked up the avenue. There was no train coming; + the nearest surface car was blocks away. He bit his lips in vexation—and + then with a jump he was across the street and hailing a passing taxicab + that his eyes had just lighted on. + </p> + <p> + “Got a fare?” called Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “No, sir,” answered the chauffeur, bumping his car to an abrupt halt. + </p> + <p> + “Good!” Jimmie Dale ran alongside, and yanked the door open. “Do you know + where the Palace Saloon on the Bowery is?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” replied the man. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale held a ten-dollar bank note up before the chauffeur's eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Earn that in four minutes, then,” he snapped—and sprang into the + cab. + </p> + <p> + The taxicab swerved around on little better than two wheels, started on a + mad dash down the Avenue—and Jimmie Dale braced himself grimly in + his seat. The cab swerved again, tore across Waverly Place, circuited + Washington Square, crossed Broadway, and whirled finally into the upper + end of the Bowery. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale spoke once—to himself—plaintively. + </p> + <p> + “It's too bad I can't let old Carruthers in on this for a scoop with his + precious MORNING NEWS-ARGUS—but if I get out of it alive myself, + I'll do well! Wonder if the day'll ever come when he finds out that his + very dear friend and old college pal, Jimmie Dale, is the Gray Seal that + he's turned himself inside out for about four years now to catch, and that + he'd trade his soul with the devil any time to lay hands on! Good old + Carruthers! 'The most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in the + annals of crime'—am I?” + </p> + <p> + The cab drew up at the curb. Jimmie Dale sprang out, shoved the bill into + the chauffeur's hand, stepped quickly across the sidewalk, and pushed his + way through the swinging doors of the Palace Saloon. Inside leisurely and + nonchalantly, he walked down past the length of the bar to a door at the + rear. This opened into a passageway that led to the side entrance of the + saloon on the cross street. Jimmie Dale emerged from the side entrance, + crossed the street, retraced his steps to the Bowery, crossed over, and + walked rapidly down that thoroughfare for two blocks. Here he turned east + into the cross street; and here, once more, his pace became leisurely and + unhurried. + </p> + <p> + “It's a strange coincidence, though possibly a very happy one,” said + Jimmie Dale, as he walked along, “that it should be on the same street as + the Sanctuary—ah, this ought to be the place!” + </p> + <p> + An alleyway, corresponding to the one that flanked the tenement where, as + Larry the Bat, he had paid room rent as a tenant for several years, in + fact, the alleyway next above it, and but a short block away, intersected + the street, narrow, black, and uninviting. Jimmie Dale, as he passed, + peered down its length. + </p> + <p> + “No light—that's good!” commented Jimmie Dale to himself. Then: + “Window opens on alleyway ten feet from ground—shoe store, Russian + Jew, in basement—go in front door—straight hallway—room + at end—Russian Jew probably accomplice—be careful that he does + not hear you moving overhead”—Jimmie Dale's mind, with that curious + faculty of his, was subconsciously repeating snatches from her letter word + for word, even as he noted the dimly lighted, untidy, and disorderly + interior of what, from strings of leather slippers that decorated the + cellarlike entrance, was evidently a cheap and shoddy shoe store in the + basement of the building. + </p> + <p> + The building itself was rickety and tumble-down, three stories high, and + given over undoubtedly to gregarious foreigners of the poorer class, a + rabbit burrow, as it were, having a multitude of roomers and lodgers. + There was nothing ominous or even secretive about it—up the short + flight of steps to the entrance, even the door hung carelessly half open. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's slouch hat was pulled a little farther down over his eyes as + he mounted the steps and entered the hallway. He listened a moment. A sort + of subdued, querulous hubbub seemed to hum through the place, as voices, + men's, women's, and children's, echoing out from their various rooms + above, mingled together, and floated down the stairways in a discordant + medley. Jimmie Dale stepped lightly down the length of the hall—and + listened again; this time intently, with his ear to the keyhole of the + door that made the end of the passage. There was not a sound from within. + He tried the door, smiled a little as he reached for his keys, worked over + the lock—and straightened up suddenly as his ear caught a descending + step on the stairs. It was two flights up, however—and the door was + unlocked now. Jimmie Dale opened it, and, like a shadow, slipped inside; + and, as he locked the door behind him, smiled once more—the door + lock was but a paltry makeshift at best, but INSIDE his fingers had + touched a massive steel bolt that, when shot home, would yield when the + door itself yielded—and not before. Without moving the bolt, he + turned—and his flashlight for a moment swept the room. + </p> + <p> + “Not much like the way they describe this sort of place in storybooks!” + murmured Jimmie Dale capriciously. “But I get the idea. Mr. Russian Jew + downstairs makes a bluff at using it for a storeroom.” + </p> + <p> + Again the flashlight made a circuit. Here, there, and everywhere, + seemingly without any attempt at order, were piles of wooden shipping + cases. Only the centre of the room was clear and empty; that, and a vacant + space against the wall by the window. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, moving without sound, went to the window. There was a shade + on it, and it was pulled down. He reached up underneath it, felt for the + window fastening, and unlocked it; then cautiously tested the window + itself by lifting it an inch or two—it slid easily in its grooves. + </p> + <p> + He stood then for a moment, hardfaced, a frown gathering his forehead into + heavy furrows, as the flashlight's ray again and again darted hither and + thither. There was nothing, absolutely nothing in the room but wooden + packing cases. He lifted the cover of the one nearest to him and looked + inside. It was quite empty, except for some pieces of heavy cord, and a + few cardboard shoe boxes that, in turn, were empty, too. + </p> + <p> + “It's here, of course,” said Jimmie Dale thoughtfully to himself. “Clever + work, too! But I can't move half a hundred packing cases without that chap + below hearing me; and I can't do it in ten minutes, either, which, I + imagine is the outside limit of time. Fortunately, though, these cases are + not without their compensation—a dozen men could hide here.” + </p> + <p> + He began to move about the room. And now he stooped before one pile of + boxes and then another, curiously attempting to lift up the entire pile + from the bottom. Some he could not move; others, by exerting all his + strength, gave a little; and then, finally, over in one corner, he found a + pile that appeared to answer his purpose. + </p> + <p> + “These are certainly empty,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + There was just room to squeeze through between them and the next stack of + cases alongside; but, once through, by the simple expedient of moving the + cases out a little to take advantage of the angle made by the corner of + the room, he obtained ample space to stand comfortably upright against the + wall. But Jimmie Dale was not satisfied yet. Could he see out into the + room? He experimented with his flashlight—and carefully shifted the + screen of cases before him a little to one side. And yet still he was not + satisfied. With a sort of ironical droop at the corners of his lips, as + though suddenly there had flashed upon him the inspiration that fathered + one of those whimsical ideas and fancies that were so essentially a + characteristic of Jimmie Dale, he came out from behind the cases, went + across the room to the case he had opened when he first entered, took out + the cord and the cover of one of the cardboard shoe boxes, and with these + returned to his hiding place once more. + </p> + <p> + The sounds from the upper stories of the tenement now reached him hardly + at all; but from below, directly under his feet almost, he could hear some + one, the proprietor of the shoe store probably, walking about. + </p> + <p> + Tense, every faculty now on the alert, his head turned in a strained, + attentive attitude, Jimmie Dale threw on the flashlight's tiny switch, + took that intimate and thin metal case from his pocket, extracted a + diamond-shaped, gray paper seal with the little tweezers, moistened the + adhesive side, and stuck it in the centre of the white cardboard-box + cover, then tore the edges of the cardboard down until the whole was just + small enough to slip into his pocket. Through the cardboard he looped a + piece of cord, placard fashion, and with his pencil printed the four words—“with + the compliments of “—above the gray seal. He surveyed the result + with a grim, mirthless chuckle—and put the piece of cardboard in his + pocket. + </p> + <p> + “I'm taking the longest chances I ever took in my life,” said Jimmie Dale + very seriously to himself, as his fingers twisted, and doubled, and tied + the remaining pieces of cord together, and finally fashioned a running + noose in one end. “I don't—” The cord and the flashlight went into + his pocket, the room was in darkness, the black mask was whipped from his + breast pocket and adjusted to his face, and his automatic was in his hand. + </p> + <p> + Came the creak of a footstep, as though on a ladder exactly below him, + another, and another, receding curiously in its direction, yet at the same + time growing louder in sound as if nearer the floor—then a crack of + light showed in the floor in the centre of the room. This held for an + instant, then expanded suddenly into a great luminous square—and + through a trapdoor, opened wide now, a man's head appeared. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's eyes, fixed through the space between the piles of cases, + narrowed—there was, indeed, little doubt but that the shoe-store + proprietor below was an accomplice! The store served a most convenient + purpose in every respect—as a secret means of entry into the room, + as a sort of guarantee of innocence for the room itself. Why not! To the + superficial observer, to the man who might by some chance blunder into the + room—it was but an adjunct of the store itself! + </p> + <p> + The man in the trap-doorway paused with his shoulders above the floor, + looked around, listened, then drew himself up, walked across the floor, + and shot the heavy bolt on the door that led into the hallway of the + house. He returned then to the trapdoor, bent over it, and whistled + softly. Two more men, in answer to the summons, came up into the room. + </p> + <p> + “The Cap'll be along in a minute,” one of them said. “Turn on the light.” + </p> + <p> + A switch clicked, flooding the room with sudden brilliancy from half a + dozen electric bulbs. + </p> + <p> + “Too many!” grunted the same voice again. “We ain't working to-night—turn + out half of 'em.” + </p> + <p> + The sudden transition from the darkness for a moment dazzled Jimmie Dale's + eyes—but the next moment he was searching the faces of the three + men. There were few crooks, few denizens of the crime world below the now + obsolete but still famous dead line that, as Larry the Bat, he did not + know at least by sight. + </p> + <p> + “Moulton, Whitie Burns, and Marty Dean,” confided Jimmie Dale softly to + himself. “And I don't know of any worse, except—the Cap. And gun + fighters, every one of them, too—nice odds, to say nothing of—” + </p> + <p> + “Here's the Cap now!” announced one of the three. “Hello, Cap, where'd you + raise the mustache?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's eyes shifted to the trapdoor, and into them crept a + contemptuous and sardonic smile—the man who was coming up now and + hoisting himself to the floor was the man who, half an hour before, had + threatened young Sammy Matthews with arrest. + </p> + <p> + The Cap, alias Bert Malone, alias a score of other names, closed the + trapdoor after him, pulled off his mustache and gray wig, tucked them in + his pocket, and faced his companions brusquely. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind about the mustache,” he said curtly. “Get busy, the lot of + you. Stir around and get the works out!” + </p> + <p> + “What for?” inquired Whitie Burns, a sharp, ferret-faced little man. “We + got enough of the old stuff on hand now, and that bum break Gregor made + when he pinched the cracked plate put the finish on that. Say, Cap—” + </p> + <p> + “Close your face, Whitie, and get the works out!” Malone cut in shortly. + “We've only got the whole night ahead of us—but we'll need it all. + We're going to run the queer off that cracked plate.” + </p> + <p> + One of the others, Marty Dean this time, a certain brutal aggressiveness + in both features and physique, edged forward. + </p> + <p> + “Say, what's the lay?” he demanded. “A joke? We printed one fiver off that + plate—and then we knew enough to quit. With that crack along the + corner, you couldn't pass 'em on a blind man! And Gregor saying he thought + we could patch the plate up enough to get by with gives me a pain—he's + got jingles in his dome factory! Run them fivers eh—say, are you + cracked, too?” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, forget it!” observed Malone caustically. “Who's running this gang?” + Then, with a malicious grin: “I got a customer for those fivers—fifteen + thousand dollars for all we can turn out to-night. See?” + </p> + <p> + The others stared at him for a moment, incredulity and greed mingling in a + curious half-hesitant, half-expectant look on their faces. + </p> + <p> + Then Whitie Burns spoke, circling his lips with the tip of his tongue: + </p> + <p> + “D'ye mean it, Cap—honest? What's the lay? How'd you work it?” + </p> + <p> + Malone, unbending with the sensation he had created, grinned again. + </p> + <p> + “Easy enough,” he said offhandedly. “It was like falling off a log. Gregor + said, didn't he, that the only way he had been able to get his claws on + that plate was on account of young Matthews going away sick—eh? + Well, the old Matthews woman, his mother, has got money—about + fifteen thousand. I guess she ain't got any more than that, or I'd have + raised the ante. Aw, it was easy. She threw it at me. I framed one up on + them, that's all. I'm Kline, of the secret service—see? I don't + suppose they'd ever seen him, though they'd know his name fast enough, but + I made up something like him. I showed them where I had a case against + Sammy for pinching the plate that was strong enough to put a hundred + innocent men behind the bars. Of course, he knew well enough he was + innocent, but he could see the twenty years I showed him with both eyes. + Say, he mussed all over the place, and went and fainted like a girl. And + then the old woman came across with an offer of fifteen thousand for the + plate, and corrupted me.” Malone's cunning, vicious face, now that the + softening effects of the gray hair and mustache were gone, seemed + accentuated diabolically by the grin broadening into a laugh, as he + guffawed. + </p> + <p> + Marty Dean's hand swung with a bang to Malone's shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Cap—say, you're all right!” he exclaimed excitedly. “You're + the boy! But what's the good of running anything off the plate before + turning it over to 'em—the stuff's no good to us.” + </p> + <p> + “You got a wooden nut, with sawdust for brains,” said Malone + sarcastically. “If he'd thought the gang of counterfeiters that was + supposed to have bought the plate from him had run off only one fiver and + then stopped because they say it wouldn't get by, and weren't going to run + any more, and just destroy the plate like it was supposed to have been + destroyed to begin with, and it all end up with no one the wiser, where + d'ye think we'd have banked that fifteen thousand! I told him I had the + whole run confiscated, and that the queer went with the plate, so we'll + just make that little run to-night—that's why I sent word around to + you this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “By the jumping!” ejaculated Whitie Burns, heavy with admiration. “You got + a head on you, Cap!” + </p> + <p> + “It's a good thing for some of you that I have,” returned Malone + complacently. “But don't stand jawing all night. Go on, now—get + busy!” + </p> + <p> + There was no surprise in Jimmie Dale's face—he had chosen his + position behind a pile of cases that he had been extremely careful, as a + man is careful when his life hangs in the balance, to assure himself were + empty. None of the four came near or touched the pile behind which he + stood; but, here and there about the room, they pulled this one and that + one out from various stacks. In scarcely more than a moment, the room was + completely transformed. It was no longer a storeroom for surplus stock, + for the storage of bulky and empty packing cases! From the cases the men + had picked out, like a touch of magic, appeared a veritable printing + plant, an elaborate engraver's outfit—a highly efficient foot-power + press, rapidly being assembled by Whitie Burns; an electric dryer, inks, a + pile of white, silk-threaded bank-note paper, a cutter, and a score of + other appurtenances. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jimmie Dale very gently to himself. “Yes, quite so—but + the plate? Ah!” Malone was taking it out from the middle of a bundle of + old newspapers, loosely tied together, that he had lifted from one of the + cases. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's eyes fastened on it—and from that instant never left + it. A minute passed, two, three of them—the four men were silently + busy about the room—Malone was carefully cleaning the plate. + </p> + <p> + “They will raid to-night. Look out for Kline, he is the sharpest man in + the United State secret service”—the warning in her letter was + running through Jimmie Dale's mind. Kline—the real Kline—was + going to raid the place to-night. When? At what time? It must be nearly + eleven o'clock already, and— + </p> + <p> + It came sudden, quick as the crack of doom—a terrific crash against + the bolted door—but the door, undoubtedly to the surprise of those + without, held fast, thanks to the bolt. The four men, white-faced, seemed + for an instant turned to statues. Came another crash against the door—and + a sharp, imperative order to those within to open it and surrender. + </p> + <p> + “We're pinched! Beat it!” whispered Whitie Burns wildly—and dashed + for the trapdoor. + </p> + <p> + Like a rat for its hole, Marty Dean followed. Malone, farther away, + dropped the plate on the floor, and rushed, with Moulton beside him, after + the others—but he never reached the trapdoor. + </p> + <p> + Over the crashing blows, raining now in quick succession on the door of + the room, over a startled commotion as lodgers, roomers, and tenants on + the floor above awoke into frightened activity with shouts and cries, came + the louder crash of a pile of packing boxes hurled to the floor. And over + them, vaulting those scattered in his way, Jimmie Dale sprang at Malone. + The man reeled back, with a cry. Moulton dashed through the trapdoor and + disappeared. The short, ugly barrel of Jimmie Dale's automatic was between + Malone's eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You make a move,” said Jimmie Dale, in a low sibilant way, “and I'll drop + you where you stand! Put your hands behind your back—palms + together!” + </p> + <p> + Malone, dazed, cowed, obeyed. A panel of the door split and rent down its + length—the hinges were sagging. Jimmie Dale worked like lightning. + The cord with the slip noose from his pocket went around Malone's wrists, + jerked tight, and knotted; the placard, his lips grim, with no sign of + humour, Jimmie Dale dangled around the man's neck. + </p> + <p> + “An introduction for you to Mr. Kline out there—that you seem so + fond of!” gritted Jimmie Dale. Then, working as he talked: “I've got no + time to tell you what I think of you, you pitiful hound”—he snatched + up the plate from the floor and put it in his pocket—“Twenty years, + I think you said, didn't you?”—his hand shot into Malone's + pocket-book, and extracted the five-dollar note—“If you can open + this with your toes maybe you can get a way”—he wrenched the + trapdoor over and slammed it shut—“good-night, Malone”—and he + leaped for the window. + </p> + <p> + The door tottered inward from the top, ripping, tearing, smashing hinges, + panels, and jamb. Jimmie Dale got a blurred vision of brass buttons, blue + coats, and helmets, and, in the forefront, of a stocky, gray-mustached, + gray-haired man in plain clothes. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale threw up the window, swung out, as with a rush the officers + burst through into the room and a revolver bullet hummed viciously past + his ear, and dropped to the ground—into encircling arms! + </p> + <p> + “Ah, no, you don't, my bucko!” snapped a hoarse voice in his ear. “Keep + quiet now, or I'll crack your bean—understand!” + </p> + <p> + But the officer, too heavy to be muscular, was no match for Jimmie Dale, + who, even as he had dropped from the sill, had caught sight of the lurking + form below; and now, with a quick, sudden, lithe movement he wriggled + loose, his fist from a short-arm jab smashed upon the point of the other's + jaw, sending the man staggering backward—and Jimmie Dale ran. + </p> + <p> + A crowd was already collecting at the mouth of the alleyway, mostly + occupants of the house itself, and into these, scattering them in all + directions, eluding dexterously another officer who made a grab for him, + Jimmie Dale charged at top speed, burst through, and headed down the + street, running like a deer. + </p> + <p> + Yells went up, a revolver spat venomously behind him, came the shrill + CHEEP-CHEEP! of the police whistle, and heavy boots pounding the pavement + in pursuit. + </p> + <p> + Down the block Jimmie Dale raced. The yells augmented in his rear. Another + shot—and this time he heard the bullet buzz. And then he swerved—into + the next alleyway—that flanked the Sanctuary. + </p> + <p> + He had perhaps a ten yards' lead, just a little more than the distance + from the street to the side door of the Sanctuary that opened on the + alleyway. And, as he ran now, his fingers tore at his clothing, loosening + his tie, unbuttoning coat, vest, collar, shirt, and undershirt. He leaped + at the door, swung it open, flung himself inside—and then + sacrificing speed to silence, went up the stairs like a cat, cramming his + mask now into his pocket. + </p> + <p> + His room was on the first landing. In an instant he had unlocked the door, + entered, and locked it again behind him. From outside, an excited street + urchin's voice shrilled up to him: + </p> + <p> + “He went in that door! I seen him!” + </p> + <p> + The police whistle chirped again; and then an authoritative voice: + </p> + <p> + “Get around and watch the saloon back of this, Heeney—there's a way + out through there from this joint.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, divested of every stitch of clothing that he had worn, pulled + a disreputable collarless flannel shirt over his head, pulled on a dirty + and patched pair of trousers, and slipped into a threadbare and filthy + coat. Jimmie Dale was working against seconds. They were at the lower door + now. He lifted the oilcloth in the corner of the room, lifted up the loose + piece of the flooring, shoved his discarded garments inside, and from a + little box that was there smeared the hollow of his hand with some black + substance, possessed himself of two little articles, replaced the + flooring, replaced the oilcloth, and, in bare feet, stole across the room + to the door. Against the door, without a sound, Jimmie Dale placed a + chair, and on the chair seat he laid the two little articles he had been + carrying in his hand. It was intensely black in the room, but Jimmie Dale + needed no light here. From under the bed he pulled out a pair of woolen + socks and a pair of congress boots, both as disreputable as the rest of + his attire, put them on—and very quietly, softly, cautiously, + stretched himself out on the bed. + </p> + <p> + The officers were at the top of the stairs. A voice barked out: + </p> + <p> + “Stand guard on this landing, Peters. Higgins, you take the one above. + We'll start from the top of the house and work down. Allow no one to pass + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir! Very good, Mr. Kline,” was the response. + </p> + <p> + Kline!—the sharpest man in the United States secret service, she had + said. Jimmie Dale's lips set. + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad I had no shave this morning,” said Jimmie Dale grimly to + himself. + </p> + <p> + His fingers were working with the black substance in the hollow of his + hand—and the long, slim, tapering fingers, the shapely, + well-cared-for hands grew unkempt and grimy, black beneath the finger + nails—and a little, too, played its part on the day's growth of + beard, a little around the throat and at the nape of the neck, a little + across the forehead to meet the locks of straggling and disordered hair. + Jimmie Dale wiped the residue from the hollow of his hand on the knee of + his trousers—and lay still. + </p> + <p> + An officer paced outside. Upstairs doors opened and closed. Gruff, harsh + tones in commands echoed through the house. The search party descended to + the second floor—and again the same sounds were repeated. And then, + thumping down the creaking stairs, they stopped before Jimmie Dale's room. + Some one tried the door, and, finding it locked, rattled it violently. + </p> + <p> + “Open the door!” It was Kline's voice. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's eyes were closed, and he was breathing regularly, though + just a little slower than in natural respiration. + </p> + <p> + “Break it down!” ordered Kline tersely. + </p> + <p> + There was a rush at it—and it gave. It surged inward, knocked + against the chair, upset the latter, something tinkled to the floor—and + four officers, with Kline at their head, jumped into the room. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale never moved. A flashlight played around the room and focused + upon him—and then he was shaken roughly—only to fall inertly + back on the bed again. + </p> + <p> + “I guess this is all right, Mr. Kline,” said one of the officers. “It's + Larry the Bat, and he's doped to the eyes. There's the stuff on the floor + we knocked off the chair.” + </p> + <p> + “Light the gas!” directed Kline curtly; and, being obeyed, stooped to the + floor and picked up a hypodermic syringe and a small bottle. He held the + bottle to the light, and read the label: LIQUOR MORPHINAE. “Shake him + again!” he commanded. + </p> + <p> + None too gently, a policeman caught Jimmie Dale by the shoulder and shook + him vigorously—again Jimmie Dale, once the other let go his hold, + fell back limply on the bed, breathing in that same, slightly slowed way. + </p> + <p> + “Larry the Bat, eh?” grunted Kline; then, to the officer who had + volunteered the information: “Who's Larry the Bat? What is he? And how + long have you known him?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know who he is any more than what you can see there for + yourself,” replied the officer. “He's a dope fiend, and I guess a pretty + tough case, though we've never had him up for anything. He's lived here + ever since I've been on the beat, and that's three years or—” + </p> + <p> + “All right!” interrupted Kline crisply. “He's no good to us! You say + there's an exit from this house into that saloon at the back?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir but the fellow, whoever he is, couldn't get away from there. + Heeney's been over on guard from the start.” + </p> + <p> + “Then he's still inside there,” said Kline, clipping off his words. “We'll + search the saloon. Nice night's work this is! One out of the whole gang—and + that one with the compliments of the Gray Seal!” + </p> + <p> + The men went out and began to descend the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “One,” said Jimmie Dale to himself, still motionless, still breathing in + that slow way so characteristic of the drug. “Two. Three. Four.” + </p> + <p> + The minutes went by—a quarter of an hour—a half hour. Still + Jimmie Dale lay there—still motionless—still breathing with + slow regularity. His muscles began to cramp, to give him exquisite + torture. Around him all was silence—only distant sounds from the + street reached him, muffled, and at intervals. Another quarter of an hour + passed—an eternity of torment. It seemed to Jimmie Dale, for all his + will power, that he could not hold himself in check, that he must move, + scream out even in the torture that was passing all endurance. It was + silent now, utterly silent—and then out of the silence, just outside + his door, a footstep creaked—and a man walked to the stairs and went + down. + </p> + <p> + “Five,” said Jimmie Dale to himself. “The sharpest man in the United + States secret service.” + </p> + <p> + And then for the first time Jimmie Dale moved—to wipe away the beads + of sweat that had sprung out upon his forehead. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <h3> + THE AFFAIR OF THE PUSHCART MAN + </h3> + <p> + Larry the Bat shambled out of the side door of the tenement into the back + alleyway; shambled along the black alleyway to the street—and smiled + a little grimly as a shadow across the roadway suddenly shifted its + position. The game was growing acute, critical, desperate even—and + it was his move. + </p> + <p> + Larry the Bat, disreputable denizen of the underworld, alias Jimmie Dale, + millionaires' clubman, alias the Gray Seal, whom Carruthers of the MORNING + NEWS-ARGUS called the master criminal of the age, shuffled along in the + direction of the Bowery, his hands plunged deep in the pockets of his + frayed and tattered trousers, where his fingers, in a curious, wistful + way, fondled the keys of his own magnificent residence on Riverside Drive. + It was his move—and it was an impasse, ironical, sardonic, and it + was worse—it was full of peril. + </p> + <p> + True, he had outwitted Kline of the secret service two nights before, when + Kline had raided the counterfeiters' den; true, he had no reason to + believe that Kline suspected HIM specifically, but the man Kline wanted + HAD entered the tenement that night, and since then the house had been + shadowed day and night. The result was both simple and disastrous—to + Jimmie Dale. Larry the Bat, a known inmate of the house, might come and go + as he pleased—but to emerge from the Sanctuary in the person of + Jimmie Dale would be fatal. Kline had been outwitted, but Kline had not + acknowledged final defeat. The tenement had been searched from top to + bottom—unostentatiously. His own room on the first landing had been + searched the previous afternoon, when he was out, but they had failed to + find the cunningly contrived opening in the floor under the oilcloth in + the corner, an impromptu wardrobe, that would proclaim Larry the Bat and + Jimmie Dale to be one and the same person—that would inevitably lead + further to the establishment of his identity as the Gray Seal. In time, of + course, the surveillance would cease—but he could not wait. That was + the monumental irony of it—the factor that, all unknown to Kline, + was forcing the issue hard now. It was his move. + </p> + <p> + Since, years ago now, as the Gray Seal, he had begun to work with HER, + that unknown, mysterious accomplice of his, and the police, stung to + madness both by the virulent and constant attacks of the press and by the + humiliating prod of their own failures, sought daily, high and low, with + every resource at their command, for the Gray Seal, he had never been in + quite so strange and perilous a plight as he found himself at that moment. + To preserve inviolate the identity of Larry the Bat was absolutely vital + to his safety. It was the one secret that even she, who so strangely + appeared to know all else about him, he was sure, had not discovered—and + it was just that, in a way, that had brought the present impossible + situation to pass. + </p> + <p> + In the month previous, in a lull between those letters of hers, he had set + himself doggedly and determinedly to the renewed task of what had become + so dominantly now a part of his very existence—the solving of HER + identity. And for that month, as the best means to the end—means, + however, that only resulted as futilely as the attempts that had gone + before—he had lived mostly as Larry the Bat, returning to his home + in his proper person only when occasion and necessity demanded it. He had + been going home that evening, two nights before, walking along Riverside + Drive, when from the window of the limousine she had dropped the letter at + his feet that had plunged him into the affair of the Counterfeit Five—and + he had not gone home! Eventually, to save himself, he had, in the + Sanctuary, performing the transformation in desperate haste, again been + forced to assume the role of Larry the Bat. + </p> + <p> + That was really the gist of it. And yesterday morning he had remembered, + to his dismay, that he had had little or no money left the night before. + He had intended, of course, to replenish his supply—when he got + home. Only he hadn't gone home! And now he needed money—needed it + badly, desperately. With thousands in the bank, with abundance even in his + safe, in his own den at home, a supply kept there always for an emergency, + he was facing actual want—he rattled two dimes, a nickel, and a few + odd pennies thoughtfully against the keys in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + To a certain extent, old Jason, his butler, could be trusted. Jason even + knew that mysterious letters of tremendous secretive importance came to + the house, and the old man always meant well—but he dared not trust + even Jason with the secret of his dual personality. What was he to do? He + needed money imperatively—at once. Thanks to Kline, for the time + being, at least, he could not rid himself of the personality of Larry the + Bat by the simple expedient or slipping into the clothes of Jimmie Dale—he + must live, act, and remain Larry the Bat until the secret service officer + gave up the hunt. How bridge the gulf between Jimmie Dale and Larry the + Bat in old Jason's eyes! + </p> + <p> + Nor was that all. There was still another matter, and one that, in order + to counteract it, demanded at once a serious inroad—to the extent of + a telephone call—upon his slender capital. A too prolonged and + unaccounted-for absence from home, and old Jason, in his anxious, + blundering solicitude, would have the fat in the fire at that end—and + the city, and the social firmament thereof, would be humming with the + startling news of the disappearance of a well-known millionaire. The + complications that would then ensue, with himself powerless to lift a + finger, Jimmie Dale did not care to think about—such a contretemps + must at all hazards be prevented. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale reached the corner of the street, where it intersected the + Bowery, and paused languidly by the curb. No one appeared to be following. + He had not expected that there would be—but it was as well to be + sure. He walked then a few steps along the Bowery—and slipped + suddenly into a doorway, from where he could command a view of the street + corner that he had just left. At the end of ten minutes, satisfied that no + one had any concern in his immediate movements, he shambled on again down + the Bowery. + </p> + <p> + There was a saloon two blocks away that boasted a private telephone booth. + Jimmie Dale made that his destination. + </p> + <p> + Larry the Bat was a very well-known character in that resort, and the + bullet-headed dispenser of drinks behind the bar nodded unctuously to him + over the heads of those clustered at the rail as he entered; Larry the + Bat, as befitted one of the elite of the underworld, was graciously + pleased to acknowledge the proletariat salutation with a curt nod. He + walked down to the end of the room, entered the telephone booth—and + was carelessly careful to close the door tightly behind him. + </p> + <p> + He gave the number of his residence on Riverside Drive, and waited for the + connection. After some delay, Jason's voice answered him. + </p> + <p> + “Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, in matter-of-fact tones, “I shall be out of the + city for another three or four days, possibly a week, and—” he + stopped abruptly, as a sort of gasp came to him over the wire. + </p> + <p> + “Thank God that's you, sir!” exclaimed the old butler wildly. “I've been + near mad, sir, all day!” + </p> + <p> + “Don't get excited, Jason!” said Jimmie Dale a little sharply. “The mere + matter of my absence for the last two days is nothing to cause you any + concern. And while I am on the subject, Jason, let me say now that I shall + be glad if you will bear that fact in mind in future.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” stammered Jason. “But, sir, it ain't that—good Lord, + Master Jim, it ain't that, sir! It's—it's one of them letters.” + </p> + <p> + Something like a galvanic shock seemed to jerk the disreputable, + loose-jointed frame of Larry the Bat suddenly erect—and a strained + whiteness crept over the dirty, unwashed face. + </p> + <p> + “Go on, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, without a quiver in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “It came this morning, sir—that shuffer with his automobile left it. + I had just time to say you weren't at home, sir, and he was gone. And + then, sir, there ain't been an hour gone by all through the day that a + woman, sir—a lady, begging your pardon, Master Jim—hasn't rung + up on the telephone, asking if you were back, and if I could get you, and + where you were, and half frantic, sir, half sobbing, sometimes, sir, and + saying there was a life hanging on it, Master Jim.” + </p> + <p> + Larry the Bat, staring into the mouthpiece of the instrument, + subconsciously passed his hand across his forehead, and subconsciously + noted that his fingers, as he drew them away, were damp. + </p> + <p> + “Where is the letter now, Jason?” inquired Jimmie Dale coolly. + </p> + <p> + “Here on your desk, Master Jim. Shall I bring it to you?” + </p> + <p> + Bring it to him! How? When? Where? Bring it to him! The ghastly irony of + it! Jimmie Dale tried to think—prodding, spurring desperately that + keen, lightning brain of his that had never failed him yet. How bridge the + gulf between Larry the Bat and Jimmie Dale in Jason's eyes—not just + for the replenishing of funds now, but with a life at stake! + </p> + <p> + “No—I think not, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale calmly. “Just leave it + where it is. And if she telephones again, say that you have told me—that + will be sufficient to satisfy any further inquiries. And Jason—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “If she telephones again, try and find out where the call comes from.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't forgotten what you said once, Master Jim, sir,” said the old + man eagerly. “And I've been trying that sir, all day. They've all come + from different pay stations, sir.” + </p> + <p> + A mirthless little smile tinged Jimmie Dale's lips. Of course! He might + have known! It was always that way, always the same. He was as near to the + solution of her identity at that moment as he had been years ago, when + she, in some mysterious way, alone of all the world, had identified him as + the Gray Seal! + </p> + <p> + “Very good, Jason,” he said quietly. “Don't bother about it any more. It + will be all right. You can expect me when you see me. Good-night.” He hung + the receiver on the hook, walked out of the booth, and mechanically + reached the street. + </p> + <p> + All right! It was far from “all right”—very far from it. It was no + trivial thing, that letter; they never had been trivial things, those + letters of hers, that involved so often a matter of life and death—as + this one now, perhaps, as her actions would seem to indicate, involved + life and death more urgently than any that had gone before. It was far + from all right—at a moment when his own position, his own safety, + was at best but a desperate chance; when his every energy, brain, wit, and + cunning were taxed to the utmost to save himself! And yet, somehow, some + way, at any cost, he must get that letter—and at any cost he must + act upon it! To fail her was to fail utterly in everything that failure in + its most miserable, its widest sense, implied—failure in that which + rose paramount to every other consideration in life! + </p> + <p> + Fail her! Jimmie Dale's lips thinned into a hard, drawn line—and + then parted slowly in a curiously whimsical smile. It would be a strange + burglary that he had decided upon, in order that he might not fail her—stranger + than any the Gray Seal had ever committed, and, in some respects, even + more perilous! + </p> + <p> + He started along the Bowery, walking briskly now, toward the nearest + subway station, at Astor Place, his mind for the moment electing to face + the situation in a humour as whimsical as his smile. Supposing that, as + Larry the Bat, he were caught and arrested during the next hour, in + Jimmie's Dale's residence on Riverside Drive! With his arrest as Larry the + Bat, Jimmie's Dale would automatically disappear. Would follow then the + suspicion that Jimmie Dale, the millionaire, had met with foul play, and + as time went on, and Jimmie Dale, being then in prison as Larry the Bat, + did not reappear, the assurance of it; then the certainty that suspicion + would focus on Larry the Bat as being connected with the millionaire's + death, since Larry the Bat had been caught in Jimmie Dale's home—and + he would be accused of his own murder! It was quite humourous, of course, + quite grotesquely bizarre—but it was equally an exceedingly grim + possibility! There were drawbacks to a dual personality! + </p> + <p> + “In a word,” confided Jimmie Dale softly to himself, and a serious light + crept into the dark, steady eyes, “I'm in a bit of a nasty mess!” + </p> + <p> + At Astor Place he entered the subway; at Fourteenth Street he changed to + an express, and at Ninety-sixth Street he got out. It was but a short walk + west to Riverside Drive, and from there his house was only a few blocks + farther on. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale did not slouch now. And for all his disreputable attire, + incongruous as it was in that neighbourhood, few people that he passed + paid any attention to him, none gave him more than a casual glance—Jimmie + Dale swung along, upright, with no attempt to make himself inconspicuous, + hurrying a little, as one intent upon a definite errand. As he neared his + house he slowed his pace a little until a couple, who were passing in + front of it, had gone on; then he went up the steps, but noiselessly as a + shadow now, to the front door, opened it softly, closed it softly behind + him, and crouched for a moment in the vestibule. + </p> + <p> + Through the monogrammed lace on the plate glass of the inner doors he + could see, a little indistinctly, into the reception hall beyond. The hall + was empty. Jason, for that matter, would be the only one likely to be + about; the other servants would have no business there in any case, and + whether in their quarters above or below, they had their own stairs at the + rear. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale inserted the key in the spring lock, and opened the door a + cautious fraction of an inch—to listen. There was no sound—yes, + a subdued murmured—the servants were downstairs in the basement. He + slipped inside, slipped, in a flash, across the hall, and, treading like a + cat, went up the stairs. He scarcely seemed to breathe until, with a + little sigh of relief, he stood inside his den on the first floor, with + the door shut behind him. + </p> + <p> + “I must speak to Jason about being a little more watchful,” muttered + Jimmie Dale facetiously. “Here's all my property at the mercy of—Larry + the Bat!” + </p> + <p> + An instant he stood by the door, looking about him—in the bright + moonlight streaming in through the side windows the room's appointments + stood out in soft shadows, the huge davenport, the great, luxurious + easy-chairs, an easel with a half-finished canvas, as he had left it; the + big, flat-topped, rosewood desk, the open fireplace—and then, his + steps silent on the thick velvet rug under foot, he walked quickly to the + desk. + </p> + <p> + Yes, there it was—the letter. He placed it hurriedly in his pocket—the + moonlight was not strong enough to read by, and he dared not turn on the + lights. + </p> + <p> + And now money—funds. In the alcove behind the portiere, Jimmie Dale + dropped on his knees before the squat, barrel-shaped safe, and opened it. + He reached inside, took out a package of banknotes, placed the bills in + his pocket—and hesitated a moment. What else would he require? What + act did that letter call upon the Gray Seal to perform in the next few + hours? Jimmie Dale stared thoughtfully into the interior of the safe. + Whatever it was, it must be performed in the role of Larry the Bat, for + though he could get into his dressing room now, and become Jimmie Dale + again, there were still those watchers outside the Sanctuary—THEY + must not become suspicious—and if Larry the Bat disappeared + mysteriously, Larry the Bat would be the man that Kline and the secret + service of the United States would never cease hunting for, and that would + mean that he could never reassume a character that was as necessary for + his protection as breath was to life, so long as the Gray Seal worked. + True, he could change now to Jimmie Dale, but he would have to change back + again and return to the Sanctuary before morning, as Larry the Bat—and + remain there until Kline, beaten, called off his human bloodhounds. No, a + change was not to be thought of. + </p> + <p> + What, then, would he require—that compact little kit of burglar + tools, rolled in its leather jacket, that, unrolled slipped about his body + like a close-fitting undervest? As well to take it anyway. He removed his + coat and vest, took out the leather bundle from the safe, untied the + thongs that bound it together, unrolled it, passed it around his body, + life belt fashion, secured the thongs over his shoulders, and put on his + coat and vest again. A revolver, a flashlight? He had both—at the + Sanctuary, under the flooring—but there were duplicates here! He + slipped them into his pockets. Anything else—to forestall and + provide for any possible contingency? He hesitated again for a moment, + thinking, then slowly closed the inner door of the safe, locked it, swung + the outer door shut—and, in the act of twirling the knobs, sprang + suddenly to his feet. Sharp, shrill in the stillness of the room, the + telephone bell on the desk rang out clamourously. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's face set hard, as he leaped out from behind the curtain—had + Jason heard it! It rang again before he could reach the desk—was + ringing as he snatched the receiver from the hook. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes!” he called, in a low, guarded, hasty way, into the mouthpiece. + “Hello! What is it?” And then one hand, resting on the desk, closed around + the edge, and tightened until the skin over the knuckles grew ivory white. + It was—SHE! She! It was HER voice—he had only heard it once in + all his life—that night, two nights before, in a silvery laugh from + the limousine as it had sped away from him down the road—but he + knew! It thrilled him now with a mad rhapsody, robbing him for the moment + of every thought save that she was living, real, existent—that it + was HER voice. “It's you—YOU!” he said hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Jimmie—you at last!”—it came in a little gasping cry of + relief. “The letter—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I've got it—it's all right—it's all right”—the + words would not seem to come fast enough in his desperate haste. “But it's + you now. Listen! Listen!” he pleaded. “Tell me who you are! My God! how + I've tried to find you, and—” + </p> + <p> + That rippling, silvery laugh again, but now, too, it seemed to his eager + ear, with just the faintest note of wistfulness in it. + </p> + <p> + “Some day, Jimmie. That letter now. It—” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale straightened up suddenly—Jason's steps, running, sounded + outside the room along the corridor—there was not an instant to + lose. + </p> + <p> + “Hang up! Good-bye! Danger! Don't ring again!” he whispered hurriedly, + and, with a miserable smile, replacing the receiver bitterly on the hook, + he jumped for the curtain. + </p> + <p> + He reached it none too soon. The door opened, an electric-light switch + clicked, and the room was flooded with light. Jason, still running, headed + for the desk. + </p> + <p> + “It'll be her again!” Jimmie Dale heard the old man mutter, as from the + edge of the portiere he watched the other's actions. + </p> + <p> + Jason picked up the telephone. + </p> + <p> + “Hello! Hello!” he called—then began to click impatiently with the + receiver hook. “Hello! . . . Who? . . . Central? . . . I don't want any + number—somebody was calling here. . . . What? . . . Nobody on the + wire!” + </p> + <p> + He set the telephone back on the desk with a bewildered air. + </p> + <p> + “That's queer!” he exclaimed. “I could have sworn I heard it ring twice, + and—” He stopped abruptly, and, leaning across the desk, hung there, + wide-eyed, staring, while a sickly pallor began to steal into his face. + “The letter!” he mumbled wildly. “The letter—Master Jim's letter—the + letter—it's GONE!” + </p> + <p> + Trembling, excited, the old man began to search the desk, then down on his + knees on the floor under it; and then, growing more frantic with every + instant, rose and began to hunt around the room in an agitated, aimless + fashion. + </p> + <p> + Jason's distress was very real—he was almost beside himself now with + fear and anxiety. A whimsical, affectionate smile played over Jimmie + Dale's lips at the old man's antics—and changed suddenly into one of + consternation. Jason was making directly now for the curtain behind which + he stood! Perhaps, though, he would pass it by, and—Jason's hand + reached out and grasped the portiere. + </p> + <p> + “Jason!” said Jimmie Dale sharply. + </p> + <p> + The old man staggered back as though he had been struck, tried to speak, + choked, and gazed at the curtain with distended eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Is—is that you, sir—Master Jim—behind the curtain + there?” he finally blurted out. “I—sir—you gave me a start—and + the letter, Master Jim—” + </p> + <p> + “Don't lose your head, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale coolly. “I've got the + letter. Now do as I bid you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—Master Jim,” faltered the old man. + </p> + <p> + “Pull down the window shades and draw the portiere together,” directed + Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + Jason, still overwrought and excited, obeyed a little awkwardly. + </p> + <p> + “Now the lights, Jason,” instructed Jimmie Dale. “Turn them off, and go + and sit down in that chair at the desk.” + </p> + <p> + Again Jason obeyed, stumbling in the darkness as he returned from the + electric-light switch at the farther end of the room. He sat down in the + chair. + </p> + <p> + Larry the Bat stepped out from behind the curtain. “I came for that + letter, Jason,” he explained quietly. “I am going out again now. I may be + back to-morrow; I may not be back for a week. You will say nothing, not a + word, of my having been here to-night. Do you understand, Jason?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said Jason; then hesitantly: “Would you mind saying, sir, when + you came in?” + </p> + <p> + “It's of no consequence, Jason—is it?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir,” said Jason. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale smiled in the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “Jason!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you to remain where you are, without leaving that chair, for the + next ten minutes.” He moved across the room to the door. “Good-night, + Jason,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Master Jim—good-night, sir—oh, Lord!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale did not require that ten minutes; it was a very wide margin of + safety to obviate the possibility of Jason, from a window, detecting the + exit of a disreputable character from the house—in three minutes he + was turning the corner of the first cross street and walking rapidly away + from Riverside Drive. + </p> + <p> + In the subway station Jimmie Dale read the letter—read it twice + over, as he always read those strange epistles of hers that opened the + door to new peril, new danger to the Gray Seal, but too, that seemed + somehow to draw tighter, in a glad, big way, the unseen bond between them; + read it, as he always read those letters, almost subconsciously committing + the very words to memory with that keen faculty of brain of his. But now + as he began to tear the sheet and envelope into minute particles, a + strained, hard look was on his face and in his eyes, and his lips, half + parted, moved a little. + </p> + <p> + “It's a death warrant,” muttered Jimmie Dale. “I—I guess to-night + will see the end of the Gray Seal. She says I needn't do it, but I guess + it's worth the risk—a human life!” + </p> + <p> + A downtown express roared into the station. + </p> + <p> + “What time is it?” Jimmie Dale asked the guard, as he stepped aboard. + </p> + <p> + “'Bout midnight,” the man answered tersely. + </p> + <p> + The forward car was almost empty, and Jimmie Dale chose a seat by himself. + How did she know? How did she know not only this, but the hundred other + affairs that she had outlined in those letters of hers? By what means, + superhuman, indeed, it seemed, did she—Jimmie Dale jerked himself + erect suddenly. What good did it do to speculate on that now, when every + minute was priceless? What was HE to do, how was he to act, what plan + could he formulate and carry out, and WIN against odds that, at the + outset, were desperate enough even to forecast almost certain failure—and + death! + </p> + <p> + Who would ever have suspected old Tom Ludgate, known for years throughout + the squalour of the East Side as old Luddy, the pushcart man, of having a + bag of unset diamonds under his pillow—or under the sack, rather, + that he probably used for a pillow! What a queer thing to do! But then, + old Luddy was a character—apparently always in the most + poverty-stricken condition, apparently hardly more than keeping body and + soul together, trusting no one, and obsessed by the dread that by + depositing in a bank some one would discover that he had money, and + attempt to force it from him, he had put his savings, year after year, for + twenty years, twenty-five years, perhaps, into unset stone—diamonds. + How had she found that out? + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale sank into a deeper reverie. He could steal them all right, and + they would be well worth the stealing—old Luddy had done well, and + lived and existed on next to nothing—the stones, she said, were + worth about fifteen thousand dollars. Not so bad, even for twenty-five + years of vegetable selling from a pushcart! He could steal them all right; + it would tax the Gray Seal's ingenuity little to do so simple a thing as + that, but that was not all, nor, indeed, hardly a factor in it—it + was vital that if he were to succeed at all he must steal them PUBLICLY, + as it were. + </p> + <p> + And after that—WHAT? His own chances were pretty slim at best. + Jimmie Dale, staring at the grayness of the subway wall through the + window, shook his head slowly—then, with a queer little + philosophical shrug of his shoulders, he smiled gravely, seriously. It was + all a part of the game, all a part of the life—of the Gray Seal! + </p> + <p> + It was half-past twelve, or a little later, as nearly as he could judge, + for Larry the Bat carried no such ornate thing in evidence as a watch, as + he halted at the corner of a dark, squalid street in the lower East Side. + It was a miserable locality—in daylight humming with a cosmopolitan + hive of pitiful humans dragging out as best they could an intolerable + existence, a locality peopled with every nationality on earth, their + community of interest the struggle to maintain life at the lowest possible + expenditure, where necessity even was pared and shaved down to a minimum; + but now, at night time, or rather in the early-morning hours, the + darkness, in very mercy, it seemed, covered it with a veil, as it were, + and in the quiet that hung over it now hid the bald, the hideous, aye, and + the piteous, too, from view. + </p> + <p> + It was a narrow street, and the row of tenement houses, each house almost + identical with its neighbour, that flanked the pavement on either side, + seemed, from where Jimmie Dale stood looking down its length, from the + corner, to converge together at a point a little way beyond, giving it an + unreal, ominous, cavernlike effect. And, too, there seemed something + ominous even in its quiet. It was as though one sensed acutely the + crouching of some Thing in its lair—waiting silently, viciously, + with sullen patience. + </p> + <p> + A footstep sounded—another. Jimmie Dale drew quickly back around the + corner into an areaway. Two men passed—in helmets—swinging + their nightsticks—that beat was always policed in pairs! + </p> + <p> + They passed on, turned the corner, and went down the narrow cross street + that Jimmie Dale had just been inspecting. He started to follow—and + drew back again abruptly. A form flitted suddenly across the road and + disappeared in the darkness in the officers' wake—ten yards behind + the first another followed—at the same interval of distance still + another—and yet still one more—four in all. + </p> + <p> + The darkness hid all six, the two policemen, the four men behind them—the + only sounds were the OFFICERS' footsteps dying away in the distance. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's fingers were mechanically testing the mechanism of the + automatic in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “The Skeeter's gang!” he muttered to himself. “Red Mose, the Midget, Harve + Thoms—and the Skeeter! The Worst apaches in the city of New York; + death contractors—the lowest bidders! Professional assassins, and a + man's life any time for twenty-five dollars! I wonder—I've never + done it yet—but I wonder if it would be a crime in God's sight if + one shot—to KILL!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was at the corner again—again the street before him was + black, deserted, empty. He chose the right hand side, and, well in the + shadow of the houses, as an extra precaution, stole along silently. He + stopped finally before one where, in the doorway, hung a little sign. + Jimmie Dale mounted the porch, and with his eyes close to the sign could + just make out the larger words in the big printed type: + </p> + <p> + ROOM TO RENT TOP FLOOR + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale nodded. That was right. The first house on the right-hand + side, with the room-to-rent sign, her letter had said. His fingers were + testing the doorknob. The door was not locked. + </p> + <p> + “Naturally, it wouldn't be locked,” Jimmie Dale told himself grimly—and + stepped inside. + </p> + <p> + He stood for an instant without movement, every faculty on the alert. Far + up above him a step, guarded though his trained ear made it out to be, + creaked faintly upon the stairs—there was no other sound. The + creaking, almost inaudible at its loudest, receded farther up—and + silence fell. + </p> + <p> + In the darkness, noiselessly, Jimmie Dale groped for the stairway, found + it, and began to ascend. The minutes passed—it seemed a minute even + from step to step, and there were three flights to the top! There must be + no creaking this time—the slightest sound, he knew well enough, + would be not only fatal to the work he had to do, but probably fatal to + himself as well. He had been near death many times—the consciousness + that he was nearer to it now, possibly, than he had ever been before, + seemed to stimulate his senses into acute and abnormal energy. And, too, + the physical effort, as, step by step, the flexed muscles relaxing so + slowly, little by little, gradually, each time as he found foothold on the + step higher up, was a terrific strain. At the top his face was bathed in + perspiration, and he wiped it off with his coat sleeve. + </p> + <p> + It was still dark here, intensely dark, and his eyes, though grown + accustomed to it, could make out nothing but the deeper shadow of the + walls. But thanks to her, always a mistress of accurate and minute detail, + he possessed a mental plan of his surroundings. The head of the stairs + gave on the middle of the hallway—the hallway ran to his right and + left. To his right, on the opposite side of the hall, was the door of old + Luddy's squalid two-room apartment. + </p> + <p> + For a moment Jimmie Dale stood hesitant—a sudden perplexity and + anxiety growing upon him. It was strange! What did it mean? He had nerved + himself to a quick, desperate attempt, trusting to surprise and his own + wit and agility for victory—there had seemed no other way than that, + since he had seen those four men at the corner—since they were AHEAD + of him. True, they were not much ahead of him, not enough to have + accomplished their purpose—and, furthermore, they were not in that + room. He knew that absolutely, beyond question of doubt. He had listened + for just that all the nerve-racking way up the stairs. But where were + they? There was no sound—not a sound—just blackness, dark, + impenetrable, utter, that began to palpitate now. + </p> + <p> + It came in a whisper, wavering, sibilant—from his left. A sort of + relief, fierce in the breaking of the tense expectancy, premonitory in the + possibilities that it held, swept Jimmie Dale. He crept along the hall. + The whisper had come from that room, presumably empty—that was for + rent! + </p> + <p> + By the door he crouched—his sensitive fingers, eyes to Jimmie Dale + so often—feeling over jamb and panels with a delicate, soundless + touch. The door was just ajar. The fingers crept inside and touched the + knob and lock—there was no key within. + </p> + <p> + The whispering still went on—but it seemed like a screaming of + vultures now in Jimmie Dale's ears, as the words came to him. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, say, Skeeter, dis high-brow stunt gives me de pip! Me fer goin' in + dere an' croakin' de geezer reg'lar, widout de frills. Who's to know? Say, + just about two minutes, an' we're beatin' it wid de sparklers.” + </p> + <p> + An inch, a half inch at a time, the knob slowly, very, very slowly + turning, the door was being closed by the crouched form on the threshold. + </p> + <p> + “Close yer trap, Mose!” came a fierce response. “We ain't fixed the lay + all day for nothin'. There ain't a soul on earth knows he's got any + sparklers, 'cept us. If there was, it would be different—then they'd + know that was what whoever did it was after, see?” + </p> + <p> + The door was closed—the knob slowly, very, very slowly being + released again. From one of the leather pockets under Jimmie Dale's vest + came a tiny steel instrument that he inserted in the key-hole. + </p> + <p> + The same voice spoke on: + </p> + <p> + “That's what we're croaking him for, 'cause nobody knows about them + diamonds, and so's he can't TELL anybody afterward that any were pinched. + An' that's why it's got to look like he just got tired of living and did + it himself. I guess that'll hold the police when they find the poor old + duck hanging from the ceiling, with a bit of cord around his neck, and a + chair kicked out from under his feet on the floor. Ain't you got the + brains of a louse to see that?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure”—the whisper came dully, in grudging intonation through the + panels—the door was locked. “Sure, but it's de hangin' 'round + waitin' to get busy that's gettin' me goat, an'—” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale straightened up and began to retreat along the corridor. A + merciless rage was upon him now, every fiber of his being seemed to tingle + and quiver with it—the damnable, hellish ingenuity of it all seemed + to choke and suffocate him. + </p> + <p> + “Luck!” muttered Jimmie Dale between his clenched teeth. “Oh, the blessed + luck to get that door locked! I've got time now to set the stage for my + own get-away before the showdown!” + </p> + <p> + He stole on along the corridor. Excerpts from her letter were running + through his brain: “It would do no good to warn him, Jimmie—the + Skeeter and his gang would never let up on him until they got the stones. + . . . It would do no good for you to steal them first, for they would only + take that as a ruse of old Luddy's, and murder the man first and hunt + afterward. . . . In some way you must let the Skeeter SEE you steal them, + make them think, make them certain that it is a bona-fide theft, so that + they will no longer have any interest or any desire to do old Luddy harm. + . . . And for it to appear real to them, it must appear real to old Luddy + himself—do not take any chances there.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's eyes narrowed. Yes, it was simple enough now with that pack + of hell's wolves guarded for the moment by a locked door, forced to give + him warning by breaking the door before they could get out. It was simple + enough now to enter old Luddy's room, steal the stones at the revolver + point, then make enough disturbance—when he was ready—to set + the gang in motion, and, as they rushed in open him, to make his escape + with the stones to the roof through Luddy's room. That was simple enough—there + was an opening to the roof in Luddy's room, she had said, and there was a + ladder kept there in place. On hot nights, it seemed, the old man used to + go up there and sleep on the roof—not now, of course. It was too + late in the year for that—but the opening in the roof was there, and + the ladder remained there, too. + </p> + <p> + Yes, it was simple enough now. And the next morning the papers would rave + with execrations against the Gray Seal—for the robbery of the life + savings of a poor, defenseless old man, for committing as vile and pitiful + a crime as had ever stirred New York! Even Carruthers, of the MORNING + NEWS-ARGUS, would be moved to bitter attack. Good old Carruthers—who + little thought that the Gray Seal was his old college pal, his present + most intimate friend, Jimmie Dale! And afterward—after the next + morning? Well, that, at least, had never been in doubt. Old Luddy could be + made to leave New York, and, once away, with the Skeeter and his gang + robbed of incentive to pay any further attention to him, the stones could + be secretly returned to the old man. And it would to the public, to the + police, be just another of the Gray Seal's crimes—that was all! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale had reached old Luddy's door. The Gray Seal? Oh, yes, they + would know it was the Gray Seal—the insignia was familiar enough; + familiar to the crooks of the underworld, who held it in awe; familiar to + the police, to whom it was an added barb of ridicule. He was placing it + now, that insignia, a diamond-shaped, gray paper seal, on the panel of the + door; and now, a black silk mask adjusted over his face, Jimmie Dale bent + to insert the little steel instrument in the lock—a pitiful, paltry + thing, a cheap lock, to fingers that could play so intimately with + twirling knobs and dials, masters of the intricate mechanism of vaults and + safes! + </p> + <p> + And then, about to open the door, a sort of sudden dismay fell upon him. + He had not thought of that—somehow, it had not occurred to him! WHAT + WAS IT THEY WERE WAITING FOR? Why had they not struck at once, as, when he + had first entered the house, he had supposed they would do? What was it? + Why was it? Was old Luddy out? Were they waiting for his return—or + what? + </p> + <p> + The door, without sound, moved gradually under his hand. A faint odor + assailed his nostrils! It was dark, very dark. Across the room, in a + direct line, was the doorway of the inner room—she had explained + that in her letter. It was slow progress to cross that room without sound, + in silence—it was a snail's movement—for fear that even a + muscle might crack. + </p> + <p> + And now he stood in the inner doorway. It was dark here, to—and yet, + how bizarre, a star seemed to twinkle through the very roof of the room + itself! The odour was pungent now. There was a long-drawn sigh—then + a low, indescribable sound of movement. SOMEBODY, APART FROM OLD LUDDY, + WAS IN THE ROOM! + </p> + <p> + It swept, the full consciousness of it, upon Jimmie Dale in an + instantaneous flash. Chloroform; the open scuttle in the roof; the waiting + of those others—all fused into a compact logical whole. They had + loosened the scuttle during the day, probably when old Luddy was away—one + of them had crept down there now to chloroform the old man into + insensibility—the others would complete the ghastly work presently + by stringing their victim up to the ceiling—and it would be suicide, + for, long before morning came, long before the old man would be + discovered, the fumes of the chloroform would be gone. + </p> + <p> + It seemed like a cold hand, deathlike, clutching at his heart. Was he too + late, after all! Chloroform alone could—kill! To the right, just a + little to the right—he must make no mistake—his ear placed the + sound! He whipped his hands from the side pockets of his coat—the + ray of his flashlight cut across the room and fell upon an aged face upon + a bed, upon a hand clutching a wad of cloth, the cloth pressed horribly + against the nose and mouth of the upturned face—and then, roaring in + the stillness, spitting a vicious lane of fire that paralleled the + flashlight's ray, came the tongue flame of his automatic. + </p> + <p> + There was a yell, a scream, that echoed out, reverberated, and went + racketing through the house, and Jimmie Dale leaped forward—over a + table, sending it crashing to the floor. The man had reeled back against + the wall, clutching at a shattered wrist, staring into the flashlight's + eye, white-faced, jaw dropped, lips working in mingled pain and fear. + </p> + <p> + “Harve Thoms—you, eh?” gritted Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + A cunning look swept the distorted face. Here, apparently, was only one + man—there were pals, three of them, only a few yards away. + </p> + <p> + “You ain't got nothing on me!” he snarled, sparring for time. “You police + are too damned fresh with your guns!” + </p> + <p> + “I'll take yours!” snapped Jimmie Dale, and snatched it deftly from the + other's pocket. “This ain't any police job, my bucko, and you make a move + and I'll drop you for keeps, if what you've got already ain't enough to + teach you to keep your hands off jobs that belong to your betters!” + </p> + <p> + He was working with mad haste as he spoke. One minute at the outside was, + perhaps, all he could count upon. Already he had caught the rattle of the + locked door down the hall. He lit a match and turned on the gas over the + bed—it was the most dangerous thing he could do—he knew that + well enough, none knew it better—it was offering himself as a fair + mark when the others rushed in, as they would in a moment now—but + the Skeeter and his gang and this man here must have no misconception of + his purpose, his reason for being there, the same as their own, the theft + of the stones—and no misconception as to his SUCCESS. + </p> + <p> + “Y'ain't the police!”—it came in a choked gasp from the other, as he + blinked in the sudden light “Say then—” + </p> + <p> + “Shut up!” ordered Jimmie Dale curtly. “And mind what I told you about + moving!” He leaned over the bed. Old Luddy, though under the influence of + the chloroform, was moving restlessly. Thoms had evidently only begun to + apply the chloroform—old Luddy was safe! Jimmie Dale ran his hand in + under the pillow. “If you ain't swiped them already they ought to be + here!” he growled; “and if you have I'll—ah!” A little chamois bag + was in his hand. He laughed sneeringly at Thoms, opened the bag, allowed a + few stones to trickle into his hand—and then, without stopping to + replace them, dashed stones and bag into his pocket. The door along the + corridor crashed open. + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” he gasped out, in well-simulated fright—and sprang + for the ladder that led up to the roof. + </p> + <p> + It had all taken, perhaps, the minute that he had counted on—no + more. Noises came from the floors below now, a confusion of them—the + shot, the scream had been heard by others, save those who had been in the + locked room. And the latter were outside now in the corridor, running to + their accomplice's aid. + </p> + <p> + There was a pause at the outer door—then an oath—and coupled + with the oath an exclamation: + </p> + <p> + “The Gray Seal!” + </p> + <p> + They had swept a flashlight over the door panel—Jimmie Dale, halfway + up the ladder, smiled grimly. + </p> + <p> + The door opened—there was a rush of feet. The man with the shattered + wrist yelled, cursing wildly: + </p> + <p> + “Here he is—on the ladder! Let him have it! Fill him full of holes!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was in the light—they were in the dark of the outer + room. He fired at the threshold, checking their rush—as a hail of + bullets chipped and tore at the ladder and spat wickedly against the wall. + He swung through to the roof, trying, as he did so, to kick the ladder + loose behind him. It was fastened! + </p> + <p> + The three gunmen jumped into the room—from the roof Jimmie Dale got + a glimpse of them below, as he flung himself clear of the opening. Bullets + whistled through the aperture—a voice roared up as he gained his + feet: + </p> + <p> + “Come on! After him! The whole place is alive, but this lets us out. We + can frame up how we came to be here easy enough. Never mind the old geezer + there any more! Get the Gray Seal—the reward that's out for him is + worth twice the sparklers, and—” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale hurled the cover over the scuttle. He could have stood them + off from above and kept the ladder clear with his revolver, but the alarm + seemed general now—windows were opening, voices were calling to one + another—from the windows across the street he must stand out in + sharp outline against the sky. Yes—he was seen now. + </p> + <p> + A woman's voice, from a top-story window across the street, screamed out, + high-pitched in excitement: + </p> + <p> + “There he is! There he is! On the roof there!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale started on the run along the roof. The houses, built wall to + wall, flat-roofed, seemed to offer an open course ahead of him—until + a lane or an intersecting street should bar his way! But they were not + quite all on the same level, though—the wall of the next house rose + suddenly breast high in front of him. He flung himself up, regained his + feet—and ducked instantly behind a chimney. + </p> + <p> + The crack of a revolver echoed through the night—a bullet drummed + through the air—the Skeeter and his gang were on the roof now, + dashing forward, firing as they ran. Two shots from Jimmie Dale's + automatic, in quick succession cooled the ardour of their rush—and + they broke, black, flitting forms, for the shelter of chimneys, too. + </p> + <p> + And now the whole neighbourhood seemed awakened. A dull-toned roar, as + from some great gulf below, rolled up from the street, a medley of + slamming windows, the rush of feet as people poured from the houses, + cries, shouts, and yells—and high over all the shrill call of the + police-patrol whistle—and the CRACK, CRACK, CRACK of the Skeeter's + revolver shots—the Skeeter and his hellhounds for once + self-appointed allies of the law! + </p> + <p> + Twice again Jimmie Dale fired—then crouching, running low, he + zigzagged his way across the next roof. The bullets followed him—once + more his pursuers dashed forward. And again Jimmie Dale, his face set like + stone now, his breath coming in hard gasps, dodged behind a chimney, and + with his gun checked their rush for the third time. + </p> + <p> + He glanced about him—and with a growing sense of disaster saw that + two houses farther on the stretch of roof appeared to end. There would be + a lane or a street there! And in another minute or two, if it were not + already the case, others would be following the gunmen to the roof, and + then he would be—he caught his breath suddenly in a queer little + strangled cry of relief. Just back of him, a few yards away, his eyes made + out what, in the darkness, seemed to be a glass skylight. + </p> + <p> + A dark form sped like a deeper shadow across the black in front of him, + making for a chimney nearer by, closing in the range. Jimmie Dale fired—wide. + Tight as was the corner he was in, little as was the mercy deserved at his + hands, he could not, after all, bring himself to shoot—to kill. + </p> + <p> + A voice, the Skeeter's, bawled out raucously: + </p> + <p> + “Rush him all together—from different sides at once!” + </p> + <p> + A backward leap! Jimmie Dale's boot was crashing glass and frame, stamping + at it desperately, making a hole for his body through the skylight. A + yell, a chorus of them, answered this—then the crunch of racing feet + on the gravel roof. He emptied his revolver, sweeping the darkness with a + semicircle of vicious flashes. + </p> + <p> + It seemed an hour—it was barely the fraction of a second, as he hung + by his hands from the side of the skylight frame, his body swinging back + and forth in the unknown blackness below. The skylight might be, probably + was, directly over the stair well, and open clear to the basement of the + house—but it was his only chance. He swung his body well out, let go—and + dropped. With the impetus he smashed against a wall, was flung back from + it in a sort of rebound, and his hands closed, gripping fiercely, on + banisters. It had been the stair well beyond any question of doubt, but + his swing had sent him clear of it. + </p> + <p> + Above, they had not yet reached the skylight. Jimmie Dale snatched a + precious moment to listen, as he rose, and found himself, apart from + bruises, perhaps unhurt. There was commotion, too, in this house below, + the alarm had extended and spread along the block—but the commotion + was all in the FRONT of the house—the street was the lure. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale started down the stairs, and in an instant he had gained the + landing. In another he had slipped to the rear of the hall—somewhere + there, from the hall itself, from one of the rear rooms, there must be an + exit to the fire escape. To attempt to leave by the front way was certain + capture. + </p> + <p> + They were yelling, shouting down now through the sky-light above, as + Jimmie Dale softly raised the window sash at the rear of the hall. The + fire escape was there. Shouts from along the corridor, from the tenement + dwellers who had been crowding their neighbours' rooms, craning their + necks probably from the front windows, answered the shouts now from the + roof and the skylight; doors opened; forms rushed out—but it was + dark in the corridor, only a murky yellow at the upper end from the opened + doors. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale slipped through the window to the fire escape, and, working + cautiously, silently, but with the speed of a trained athlete, made his + way down. At the bottom he dropped from the iron platform into the back + yard, ran for the fence and climbed over into a lane on the other side. + </p> + <p> + And then, as he ran, Jimmie Dale snatched the mask from his face and put + it in his pocket. He was safe now. He swept the sweat drops from his + forehead with the back of his hand—noticing them for the first time. + It had been close—almost as close for him as it had been for old + Luddy. And to-morrow the papers would execrate the Gray Seal! He smiled a + little wanly. His breath was still coming hard. Presently they would scour + the lane—when they found that their quarry was not in the house. + What a racket they were making! The whole district seemed roused like a + swarm of angry bees. + </p> + <p> + He kept on along the lane—and dodged suddenly into a cross street + where the two intersected. The clang of a bell dinned discordantly in his + ears—a patrol wagon swept by him, racing for the scene of the + disturbance—the riot call was out! + </p> + <p> + Again Jimmie Dale smiled wearily, passing his hand across his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I guess,” said Jimmie Dale, “I'm pretty near all in. And I guess it's + time that Larry the Bat went—home.” + </p> + <p> + And a little later a figure turned from the Bowery and shambled down the + cross street, a disreputable figure, with hands plunged deep in his + pockets—and a shadow across the roadway suddenly shifted its + position as the shambling figure slouched into the black alleyway and + entered the tenement's side door. + </p> + <p> + And Larry the Bat smiled softly to himself—Kline's men were still on + guard! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <h3> + DEVIL'S WORK + </h3> + <p> + A white-gloved arm, a voice, and a silvery laugh! Just that—no more! + Jimmie Dale, in his favourite seat, an aisle seat some seven or eight rows + back from the orchestra, stared at the stage, to all outward appearances + absorbed in the last act of the play; inwardly, quite oblivious to the + fact that even a play was going on. + </p> + <p> + A white-gloved arm, a voice, and a silvery laugh! The words had formed + themselves into a sort of singsong refrain that, for the last few days, + had been running through his head. A strange enough guiding star to mould + and dictate every action in his life! And that was all he had ever seen of + her, all that he had ever heard of her—except those letters, of + course, each of which had outlined the details of some affair for the Gray + Seal to execute. + </p> + <p> + Indeed, it seemed a great length of time now since he had heard from her + even in that way, though it was not so many days ago, after all. Perhaps + it was the calm, as it were, that, by contrast, had given place to the + strenuous months and weeks just past. The storm raised by the newspapers + at the theft of Old Luddy's diamonds had subsided into sporadic diatribes + aimed at the police; Kline, of the secret service, had finally admitted + defeat, and a shadow no longer skulked day and night at the entrance to + the Sanctuary—and Larry the Bat bore the government indorsement, so + to speak, of being no more suspicious a character than that of a + disreputable, but harmless, dope fiend of the underworld. + </p> + <p> + Larry the Bat! The Gray Seal! Jimmie Dale the millionaire! What if it were + ever known that that strange three were one! What if—Jimmie Dale + smiled whimsically. A burst of applause echoed through the house, the + orchestra was playing, the lights were on, seats banged, there was the + bustle of the rising audience, the play was at an end—and for the + life of him he could not have remembered a single line of the last act! + </p> + <p> + The aisle at his elbow was already crowded with people on their way out. + Jimmie Dale stooped down mechanically to reach for his hat beneath his + seat—and the next instant he was standing up, staring wildly into + the faces around him. + </p> + <p> + It had fallen at his feet—a white envelope. Hers! It was in his hand + now, those slim, tapering, wonderfully sensitive fingers of Jimmie Dale, + that were an “open sesame” to locks and safes, subconsciously telegraphing + to his mind the fact that the texture of the paper—was hers. Hers! + And she must be one of those around him—one of those crowding either + the row of seats in front or behind, or one of those just passing in the + aisle. It had fallen at his feet as he had stooped over for his hat—but + from just exactly what direction he could not tell. His eyes, eagerly, + hungrily, critically, swept face after face. Which one was hers? What + irony! She, whom he would have given his life to know, for whom indeed he + risked his life every hour of the twenty-four, was close to him now, + within reach—and as far removed as though a thousand miles separated + them. She was there—but he could not recognise a face that he had + never seen! + </p> + <p> + With an effort, he choked back the bitter, impotent laugh that rose to his + lips. They were talking, laughing around him. Her VOICE—yes, he had + once heard that, and that he would recognise again. He strained to catch, + to individualise the tone sounds that floated in a medley about him. It + was useless—of course—every effort that he had ever made to + find her had been useless. She was too clever, far too clever for that—she, + too, would know that he could and would recognise her voice where he could + recognise nothing else. + </p> + <p> + And then, suddenly, he realised that he was attracting attention. Level + stares from the women returned his gaze, and they edged away a little from + his vicinity as they passed, their escorts crowding somewhat belligerently + into their places. Others, in the same row of seats as his own, were + impatiently waiting to get by him. With a muttered apology, Jimmie Dale + raised the seat of his chair, allowing these latter to pass him—and + then, slipping the letter into his pocketbook, he snatched up his hat from + the seat rack. + </p> + <p> + There was still a chance. Knowing he was there, she would be on her guard; + but in the lobby, among the crowd and unaware of his presence, there was + the possibility that, if he could reach the entrance ahead of her, she, + too, might be talking and laughing as she left the theatre. Just a single + word, just a tone—that was all he asked. + </p> + <p> + The row of seats at whose end he stood was empty now, and, instead of + stepping into the thronged aisle, he made his way across to the opposite + side of the theatre. Here, the far aisle was less crowded, and in a minute + he had gained the foyer, confident that he was now in advance of her. The + next moment he was lost in a jam of people in the lobby. + </p> + <p> + He moved slowly now, very slowly—allowing those behind to press by + him on the way to the entrance. A babel of voices rose about him, as, + tight-packed, the mass of people jostled, elbowed, and pushed + good-naturedly. It was a voice now, her voice, that he was listening for; + but, though it seemed that every faculty was strained and intent upon that + one effort, his eyes, too, had in no degree relaxed their vigilance—and + once, half grimly, half sardonically, he smiled to himself. There would be + an unexpected aftermath to this exodus of expensively gowned and + bejewelled women with their prosperous, well-groomed escorts! There was + the Wowzer over there—sleek, dapper, squirming in and out of the + throng with the agility and stealth of a cat. As Larry the Bat he had met + the Wowzer many times, as indeed he had met and was acquainted with most + of the elite of the underworld. The Wowzer, beyond a shadow of doubt, in + his own profession stood upon a plane entirely by himself—among + those qualified to speak, no one yet had ever questioned the Wowzer's + claim to the distinction of being the most dexterous and finished “poke + getter” in the United States! + </p> + <p> + The crowd thinned in the lobby, thinned down to the last few belated + stragglers, who passed him as he still loitered in the entrance; and then + Jimmie Dale, with a shrug of his shoulders that was a great deal more + philosophical than the maddening sense of chagrin and disappointment that + burned within him, stepped out to the pavement and headed down Broadway. + After all, he had known it in his heart of hearts all the time—it + had always been the same—it was only one more occasion added to the + innumerable ones that had gone before in which she had eluded him! + </p> + <p> + And now—there was the letter! Automatically he quickened his steps a + little. It was useless, futile, profitless, for the moment, at least, to + disturb himself over his failure—there was the letter! His lips + parted in a strange, half-serious, half-speculative smile. The letter—that + was paramount now. What new venture did the night hold in store for him? + What sudden emergency was the Gray Seal called upon to face this time—what + role, unrehearsed, without warning, must he play? What story of grim, + desperate rascality would the papers credit him with when daylight came? + Or would they carry in screaming headlines the announcement that the Gray + Seal was caged and caught at last, and in three-inch type tell the world + that the Gray Seal was—Jimmie Dale! + </p> + <p> + A block down, he turned from Broadway out of the theatre crowds that + streamed in both directions past him. The letter! Almost feverishly now he + was seeking an opportunity to open and read it unobserved; an eagerness + upon him that mingled exhilaration at the lure of danger with a sense of + premonition that, irritably, inevitably was with him at moments such as + these. It seemed, it always seemed, that, with an unopened letter of hers + in his possession, it was as though he were about to open a page in the + Book of Fate and read, as it were, a pronouncement upon himself that might + mean life or death. + </p> + <p> + He hurried on. People still passed by him—too many. And then a cafe, + just ahead, making a corner, gave him the opportunity that he sought. Away + from the entrance, on the side street, the brilliant lights from the + windows shone out on a comparatively deserted pavement. There was ample + light to read by, even as far away from the window as the curb, and Jimmie + Dale, with an approving nod, turned the corner and walked along a few + steps until opposite the farthest window—but, as he halted here at + the edge of the street, he glanced quickly behind him at a man whom he had + just passed. The other had paused at the corner and was staring down the + street. Jimmie Dale instantly and nonchalantly produced his cigarette + case, selected a cigarette, and fastidiously tapped its end on his thumb + nail. + </p> + <p> + “Inspector Burton in plain clothes,” he observed musingly to himself. “I + wonder if it's just a fluke—or something else? We'll see.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale took a box of matches from his pocket. The first would not + light. The second broke, and, with an exclamation of annoyance, he flung + it away. The third was making a fitful effort at life, as another man + emerged hastily from the cafe's side door, hurried to the corner, joined + the man who was still loitering there, and both together disappeared at a + rapid pace down the street. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale whistled softly to himself. The second man was even better + known than the first; there was not a crook in New York but would + side-step Lannigan of headquarters, and do it with amazing celerity—if + he could! + </p> + <p> + “Something up! But it's not my hunt!” muttered Jimmie Dale; then, with a + shrug of his shoulders: “Queer the way those headquarters chaps fascinate + and give me a thrill every time I see them, even if I haven't a ghost of a + reason for imagining that—” + </p> + <p> + The sentence was never finished. Jimmie Dale's face was gray. The street + seemed to rock about him—and he stared, like a man stricken, white + to the lips, ahead of him. THE LETTER WAS GONE! His hand, wriggling from + his empty pocket, swept away the sweat beads that were bursting from his + forehead. It had come at last—the pitcher had gone once too often to + the well! + </p> + <p> + Numbed for an instant, his brain cleared now, working with lightning + speed, leaping from premise to conclusion. The crush in the theatre lobby—the + pushing, the jostling, the close contact—the Wowzer, the slickest, + cleverest pickpocket in the United States! For a moment he could have + laughed aloud in a sort of ghastly, defiant mockery—he himself had + predicted an unexpected aftermath, had he not! + </p> + <p> + Aftermath! It was—the END! An hour, two hours, and New York would be + metamorphosed into a seething caldron of humanity bubbling with the news. + It seemed that he could hear the screams of the newsboys now shouting + their extras; it seemed that he could see the people, roused to frenzy, + swarming in excited crowds, snatching at the papers; he seemed to hear the + mob's shouts swell in execration, in exultation—it seemed as though + all around him had gone mad. The mystery of the Gray Seal was solved! It + was Jimmie Dale, Jimmie Dale, Jimmie, Dale, the millionaire, the lion of + society—and there was ignominy for an honoured name, and shame and + disaster and convict stripes and sullen penitentiary walls—or death! + A felon's death—the chair! + </p> + <p> + He was running now, his hands clenched at his sides; his mind, working + subconsciously, urging him onward in a blind, as yet unrealised, + objectless way. And then gradually impulse gave way to calmer reason, and + he slowed his pace to a quick, less noticeable walk. The Wowzer! That was + it! There was yet a chance—the Wowzer! A merciless rage, cold, + deadly, settled upon him. It was the Wowzer who had stolen his pocketbook, + and with it the letter. There could be no doubt of that. Well, there would + be a reckoning at least before the end! + </p> + <p> + He was in a downtown subway train now—the roar in his ears in + consonance, it seemed, with the turmoil in his brain. But now, too, he was + Jimmie Dale again; and, apart from the slightly outthrust jaw, the + tight-closed lips, impassive, debonair, composed. + </p> + <p> + There was yet a chance. As Larry the Bat he knew every den and lair below + the dead line, and he knew, too, the Wowzer's favourite haunts. There was + yet a chance, only one in a thousand, it was true, almost too pitiful to + be depended upon—but yet a chance. The Wowzer had probably not + worked alone, and he and his pal, or pals, would certainly not remain + uptown either to examine or divide their spoils—they would wait + until they were safe somewhere in one of their hell holes on the East + Side. If he could find the Wowzer, reach the man BEFORE THE LETTER WAS + OPENED—Jimmie Dale's lips grew tighter. THAT was the chance! It he + failed in that—Jimmie Dale's lips drooped downward in grim curves at + the corners. A chance! Already the Wowzer had at least a half hour's lead, + and, worse still, there was no telling which one of a dozen places the man + might have chosen to retreat to with his loot. + </p> + <p> + Time passed. His mind obsessed, Jimmie Dale's physical acts were almost + wholly mechanical. It was perhaps fifteen minutes since he had discovered + the loss of the letter, and he was walking now through the heart of the + Bowery. Exactly how he had got there he could not have told; he had only a + vague realisation that, following an intuitive sense of direction, he had + lost not a second of time in making his way downtown. + </p> + <p> + And now he found himself hesitating at the corner of a cross street. Two + blocks east was that dark, narrow alleyway, that side door that made the + entrance to the Sanctuary. It would be safer, a hundred times safer, to go + there, change his clothes and his personality, and emerge again as Larry + the Bat—infinitely safer in that role to explore the dens of the + underworld, many of them indeed unknown and undreamed of by the police + themselves, than to trust himself there in well-cut, fashionable tweeds—but + that would take time. Time! When, with every second, the one chance he + had, desperate as that already was, was slipping away from him. No; what + was apparently the greater risk at least held out the only hope. + </p> + <p> + He went on again—his brain incessantly at work. At the worst, there + was one mitigating factor in it all. He had no need to think of her. + Whatever the ruin and disaster that faced him in the next few hours, she + in any case was safe. There was no clew to HER identity in the letter; and + where he, for months on end, with even more to work upon, had failed at + every turn to trace her, there was little fear that any one else would + have any better success. She was safe. As for himself—that was + different. The Gray Seal would be referred to in the letter, there would + be the outline, the data for the “crime” she had planned for that night; + and the letter, though unaddressed, being found in his pocketbook, where + cards and notes and a dozen different things among its contents proclaimed + him Jimmie Dale, needed no further evidence as to its ownership nor the + identity of the Gray Seal. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's fingers crept inside his vest and fumbled there for a moment—and + a diamond stud, extracted from his shirt front, glistened sportively in + the necktie that was now tucked jauntily in at one side of his shirt + bosom. He had reached the Blue Dragon, one of Wowzer's usual hang outs, + and, swerving from the sidewalk, entered the place. There was wild tumult + within—a constant storm of applause, derision, and hilarity that was + hurled from the tables around the room at the turkey-trotting, + tango-writhing couples on the somewhat restricted space of polished + hardwood flooring in the centre. Jimmie Dale swaggered down the room, a + cigar tilted up at an angle between his teeth, his soft felt hat a little + rakishly on one side of his head and well over his nose. + </p> + <p> + At the end of the room, at the bar, Jimmie Dale leaned toward the + barkeeper and talked out of the corner of his mouth. There were private + rooms upstairs, and he jerked his head surreptitiously ceilingward. + </p> + <p> + “Say, is de Wowzer up dere?” he inquired in a cautious whisper. + </p> + <p> + The man behind the bar, well known to Jimmie Dale as one of the Wowzer's + particular pals, favoured him with a blank stare. + </p> + <p> + “Never heard of de guy!” he announced brusquely. “Wot's yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Gimme a mug of suds,” said Jimmie Dale, reaching for a match. He puffed + at his cigar, blew out the match, and, after a moment, flung the charred + end away—but on his hand, as, palm outward, he raised it to take his + glass, the match had traced a small black cross. + </p> + <p> + The barkeeper put down the beer he had just drawn, wiped his hand + hurriedly, and with sudden enthusiasm thrust it across the bar. + </p> + <p> + “Glad to know youse, cull!” he exclaimed. “Wot's de lay?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Nix!” said Jimmie Dale. “I just blew in from Chicago. Used to know de + Wowzer dere. He said dis place was on de level, an' I could always find + him here, dat's all.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure, youse can!” returned the barkeeper heartily. “Only he ain't here + now. He beat it about fifteen minutes ago, him an' Dago Jim. I guess + youse'll find him at Chang's, I heard him an' Dago say dey was goin' dere. + Know de place?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I ain't much wise to New York,” he explained. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, dat's easy,” whispered the barkeeper. “Go down to Chatham Square, an' + den any guy'll show youse Chang Foo's.” He winked confidentially. “I guess + youse won't bump yer head none gettin' around inside.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale nodded, grinned back, emptied his glass, and dug for a coin. + </p> + <p> + “Forget it!” observed the barkeeper cordially. “Dis is on me. Any friend + of de Wowzer's gets de glad hand here any time.” + </p> + <p> + “T'anks!” said Jimmie Dale gratefully, as he turned away. “So long, then—see + youse later.” + </p> + <p> + Chang Foo's! Jimmie Dale's face set even a little harder than it had + before, as he swung on again down the Bowery. Yes; he knew Chang Foo's—too + well. Underground Chinatown—where a man's life was worth the price + of an opium pill—or less! Mechanically his hand slipped into his + pocket and closed over the automatic that nestled there. Once in—where + he had to go—and the chances were even, just even, that was all, + that he would ever get out. Again he was tempted to return to the + Sanctuary and make the attempt as Larry the Bat. Larry the Bat was well + enough known to enter Chang Foo's unquestioned, and—but again he + shook his head and went on. There was not time. The Wowzer and his pal—it + was Dago Jim it seemed—had evidently been drinking and loitering + their way downtown from the theatre, and he had gained that much on them; + but by now they would be smugly tucked away somewhere in that maze of dens + below the ground, and at that moment probably were gloating over the + biggest night's haul they had ever made in their lives! + </p> + <p> + And if they were! What then? Once they knew the contents of that letter—what + then? Buy them off for a larger amount than the many thousands offered for + the capture of the Gray Seal? Jimmie Dale gritted his teeth. That meant + blackmail from them all his life, an intolerable existence, impossible, a + hell on earth—the slave, at the beck and call of two of the worst + criminals in New York! The moisture oozed again to Jimmie Dale's forehead. + God, if he could get that letter before it was opened—before they + KNEW! If he could only get the chance to fight for it—against ANY + odds! Life! Life was a pitiful consideration against the alternative that + faced him now! + </p> + <p> + From the Blue Dragon to Chang Foo's was not far; and Jimmie Dale covered + the distance in well under five minutes. Chang Foo's was just a tea + merchant's shop, innocuous and innocent enough in its appearance, blandly + so indeed, and that was all—outwardly; but Jimmie Dale, as he + reached his destination, experienced the first sensation of uplift he had + known that night, and this from what, apparently, did not in the least + seem like a contributing cause. + </p> + <p> + “Luck! The blessed luck of it!” he muttered grimly, as he surveyed the + sight-seeing car drawn up at the curb, and watched the passengers crowding + out of it to the ground. “It wouldn't have been as easy to fool old Chang + as it was that fellow back at the Dragon—and, besides, if I can work + it, there's a better chance this way of getting out alive.” + </p> + <p> + The guide was marshalling his “gapers”—some two dozen in all, men + and women. Jimmie Dale unostentatiously fell in at the rear; and, the + guide leading, the little crowd passed into the tea merchant's shop. Chang + Foo, a wizened, wrinkled-faced little Celestial, oily, suave, greeted them + with profuse bows, chattering the while volubly in Chinese. + </p> + <p> + The guide made the introduction with an all-embracing sweep of his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Chang Foo—ladies and gentlemen,” he announced; then held up his + hand for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said impressively, “this is + one of the most notorious, if not THE most notorious dive in Chinatown, + and it is only through special arrangement with the authorities and at + great expense that the company is able exclusively to gain an entree here + for its patrons. You will see here the real life of the Chinese, and in + half an hour you will get what few would get in a lifetime spent in China + itself. You will see the Chinese children dance and perform; the Chinese + women at their household tasks; the joss, the shrine of his hallowed + ancestors, at which Chang Foo here worships; and you will enter the most + famous opium den in the United States. Now, if you will all keep close + together, we will make a start.” + </p> + <p> + In spite of his desperate situation, Jimmie Dale smiled a little + whimsically. Yes; they would see it all—UPSTAIRS! The same old bunk + dished out night after night at so much a head—and the nervous + little schoolma'am of uncertain age, who fidgeted now beside him, would go + back somewhere down in Maine and shiver while she related her “wider + experiences” in tremulous whispers into the shocked ears of envious other + maiden ladies of equally uncertain age. The same old bunk—and a + profitable one for Chang Foo for more reasons than one. It was dust in the + eyes of the police. The police smiled knowingly at mention of Chang Foo. + Who should know, if they didn't, that it was all harmless fake, all bunk! + And so it was—UPSTAIRS! + </p> + <p> + They were passing out of the shop now, bowed out through a side door by + the obsequious and oily Chang Foo. And now they massed again in a sort of + little hallway—and Chang Foo, closing the door upon Jimmie Dale, who + was the last in the line, shuffled back behind the counter in his shop to + resume his guard duty over customers of quite another ilk. With the door + closed, it was dark, pitch dark. And this, too, like everything else + connected with Chang Foo's establishment, for more reasons than one—for + effect—and for security. Nervous little twitters began to emanate + from the women—the guide's voice rose reassuringly: + </p> + <p> + “Keep close together, ladies and gentlemen. We are going upstairs now to—” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale hugged back against the wall, sidled along it, and like a + shadow slipped down to the end of the hall. The scuffling of two dozen + pairs of feet mounting the creaky staircase drowned the slight sound as he + cautiously opened a door; the darkness lay black, impenetrable, along the + hall. And then, as cautiously as he had opened it, he closed the door + behind him, and stood for an instant listening at the head of a + ladder-like stairway, his automatic in his hand now. It was familiar + ground to Larry the Bat. The steps led down to a cellar; and diagonally + across from the foot of the steps was an opening, ingeniously hidden by a + heterogeneous collection of odds and ends, boxes, cases, and rubbish from + the pseudo tea shop above; a low opening in the wall to a passage that led + on through the cellars of perhaps half a dozen adjoining houses, each of + which latter was leased, in one name or another—by Chang Foo. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale crept down the steps, and in another moment had gained the + farther side of the cellar; then, skirting around the ruck of cases, he + stooped suddenly and passed in through the opening in the wall. And now he + halted once more. He was straining his eyes down a long, narrow passage, + whose blackness was accentuated rather than relieved by curious wavering, + gossamer threads of yellow light that showed here and there from under + makeshift thresholds, from doors slightly ajar. Faint noises came to him, + a muffled, intermittent clink of coin, a low, continuous, droning hum of + voices; the sickly sweet smell of opium pricked at his nostrils. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's face set rigidly. It was the resort, not only of the most + depraved Chinese element, but of the worst “white” thugs that made New + York their headquarters—here, in the succession of cellars, roughly + partitioned off to make a dozen rooms on either side of the passage, dope + fiends sucked at the drug, and Chinese gamblers spent the greater part of + their lives; here, murder was hatched and played too often to its hellish + end; here, the scum of the underworld sought refuge from the police to the + profit of Chang Foo; and here, somewhere, in one of these rooms, was—the + Wowzer. + </p> + <p> + The Wowzer! Jimmie Dale stole forward silently, without a sound, swiftly—pausing + only to listen for a second's space at the doors as he passed. From this + one came that clink of coin; from another that jabber of Chinese; from + still another that overpowering stench of opium—and once, + iron-nerved as he was, a cold thrill passed over him. Let this lair of + hell's wolves, so intent now on their own affairs, be once roused, as they + certainly must be roused before he could hope to finish the Wowzer, and + his chances of escape were— + </p> + <p> + He straightened suddenly, alert, tense, strained. Voices, raised in a + furious quarrel, came from a door just beyond him on the other side of the + passage, where a film of light streamed out through a cracked panel—it + was the Wowzer and Dago Jim! And drunk, both of them—and both in a + blind fury! + </p> + <p> + It happened quick then, almost instantaneously it seemed to Jimmie Dale. + He was crouched now close against the door, his eye to the crack in the + panel. There was only one figure in sight—Dago Jim—standing + beside a table on which burned a lamp, the table top littered with + watches, purses, and small chatelaine bags. The man was lurching + unsteadily on his feet, a vicious sneer of triumph on his face, waving + tauntingly an open letter and Jimmie Dale's pocket-book in his hands—waving + them presumably in the face of the Wowzer, whom, from the restrictions of + the crack, Jimmie Dale could not see. He was conscious of a sickening + sense of disaster. His hope against hope had been in vain—the letter + had been opened and read—THE IDENTITY OF THE GRAY SEAL WAS SOLVED. + </p> + <p> + Dago Jim's voice roared out, hoarse, blasphemous, in drunken rage: + </p> + <p> + “De Gray Seal—see! Youse betcher life I knows! I been waitin' fer + somet'ing like dis, damn youse! Youse been stallin' on me fer a year every + time it came to a divvy. Youse've got a pocketful now youse snitched + to-night dat youse are tryin' to do me out of. Well, keep 'em”—he + shoved his face forward. “I keeps dis—see! Keep 'em Wowzer, youse + cross-eyed—” + </p> + <p> + “Everyt'ing I pinched to-night's on de table dere wid wot youse pinched + yerself,” cut in the Wowzer, in a sullen, threatening growl. + </p> + <p> + “Youse lie, an' youse knows it!” retorted Dago Jim. “Youse have given me + de short end every time we've pulled a deal!” + </p> + <p> + “Dat letter's mine, youse—” bawled the Wowzer furiously. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn't youse open it an' read it, den, instead of lettin' me do it to + keep me busy while youse short-changed me?” sneered Dago Jim. “Youse + t'ought it was some sweet billy-doo, eh? Well, t'anks, Wowzer—dat's + wot it is! Say,” he mocked, “dere's a guy'll cash a t'ousand century notes + fer dis, an' if he don't—say, dere's SOME reward out fer the Gray + Seal! Wouldn't youse like to know who it is? Well, when I'm ridin' in me + private buzz wagon, Wowzer, youse stick around an' mabbe I'll tell youse—an' + mabbe I won't!” + </p> + <p> + “By God”—the Wowzer's voice rose in a scream—“youse hand over + dat letter!” + </p> + <p> + “Youse go to—” + </p> + <p> + Red, lurid red, a stream of flame seemed to cut across Jimmie Dale's line + of vision, came the roar of a revolver shot—and like a madman Jimmie + Dale flung his body at the door. Rickety at best, it crashed inward, half + wrenched from its hinges, precipitating him inside. He recovered himself + and leaped forward. The room was swirling with blue eddies of smoke; Dago + Jim, hands flung up, still grasping letter and pocketbook, pawed at the + air—and plunged with a sagging lurch face downward to the floor. + There was a yell and an oath from the Wowzer—the crack of another + revolver shot, the hum of the bullet past Jimmie Dale's ear, the scorch of + the tongue flame in his face, and he was upon the other. + </p> + <p> + Screeching profanity, the Wowzer grappled; and, for an instant, the two + men rocked, reeled, and swayed in each other's embrace; then, both men + losing their balance, they shot suddenly backward, the Wowzer, undermost, + striking his head against the table's edge—and men, table, and lamp + crashed downward in a heap to the floor. + </p> + <p> + It had been no more, at most, than a matter of seconds since Jimmie Dale + had hurled himself into the room; and now, with a gurgling sigh, the + Wowzer's arms, that had been wound around Jimmie Dale's back and + shoulders, relaxed, and, from the blow on his head the man, lay back inert + and stunned. And then it seemed to Jimmie Dale as though pandemonium, + unreality, and chaos at the touch of some devil's hand reigned around him. + It was dark—no, not dark—a spurt of flame was leaping along + the line of trickling oil from the broken lamp on the floor. It threw into + ghastly relief the sprawled form of Dago Jim. Outside, from along the + passageway, came a confused jangle of commotion—whispering voices, + shuffling feet, the swish of Chinese garments. And the room itself began + to spring into weird, flickering shadows, that mounted and crept up the + walls with the spreading fire. + </p> + <p> + There was not a second to lose before the room would be swarming with that + rush from the passageway—and there was still the letter, the + pocketbook! The table had fallen half over Dago Jim—Jimmie Dale + pushed it aside, tore the crushed letter and the pocketbook from the man's + hands—and felt, with a grim, horrible sort of anxiety, for the + other's heartbeat, for the verdict that meant life or death to himself. + There was no sign of life—the man was dead. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was on his feet now. A face, another, and another showed in + the doorway—the Wowzer was regaining his senses, stumbling to his + knees. There was one chance—just one—to take those crowding + figures by surprise. And with a yell of “Fire!” Jimmie Dale sprang for the + doorway. + </p> + <p> + They gave way before his rush, tumbling back in their surprise against the + opposite wall; and, turning, Jimmie Dale raced down the passageway. Doors + were opening everywhere now, forms were pushing out into the semi-darkness—only + to duck hastily back again, as Jimmie Dale's automatic barked and spat a + running fire of warning ahead of him. And then, behind, the Wowzer's voice + shrieked out: + </p> + <p> + “Soak him! Kill de guy! He's croaked Dago Jim! Put a hole in him, de—” + </p> + <p> + Yells, a chorus of them, took up the refrain—then the rush of + following feet—and the passageway seemed to racket as though a + Gatling gun were in play with the fusillade of revolver shots. But Jimmie + Dale was at the opening now—and, like a base runner plunging for the + bag, he flung himself in a low dive through and into the open cellar + beyond. He was on his feet, over the boxes, and dashing up the stairs in a + second. The door above opened as he reached the top—Jimmie Dale's + right hand shot out with clubbed revolver—and with a grunt Chang Foo + went down before the blow and the headlong rush. The next instant Jimmie + Dale had sprung through the tea shop and was out on the street. + </p> + <p> + A minute, two minutes more, and Chinatown would be in an uproar—Chang + Foo would see to that—and the Wowzer would prod him on. The danger + was far from over yet. And then, as he ran, Jimmie Dale gave a little gasp + of relief. Just ahead, drawn up at the curb, stood a taxicab—waiting, + probably, for a private slumming party. Jimmie Dale put on a spurt, + reached it, and wrenched the door open. + </p> + <p> + “Quick!” he flung at the startled chauffeur. “The nearest subway station—there's + a ten-spot in it for you! Quick man—QUICK! Here they come!” + </p> + <p> + A crowd of Chinese, pouring like angry hornets from Chang Foo's shop, came + yelling down the street—and the taxi took the corner on two wheels—and + Jimmie Dale, panting, choking for his breath like a man spent, sank back + against the cushions. + </p> + <p> + But five minutes later it was quite another Jimmie Dale, composed, + nonchalant, imperturbable, who entered an up-town subway train, and, + choosing a seat alone near the centre of the car, which at that hour of + night in the downtown district was almost deserted, took the crushed + letter from his pocket. For a moment he made no attempt to read it, his + dark eyes, now that he was free from observation, full of troubled + retrospect, fixed on the window at his side. It was not a pleasant thought + that it had cost a man his life, nor yet that that life was also the price + of his own freedom. True, if there were two men in the city of New York + whose crimes merited neither sympathy nor mercy, those two men were the + Wowzer and Dago Jim—but yet, after all, it was a human life, and, + even if his own had been in the balance, thank God it had been through no + act of his that Dago Jim had gone out! The Wowzer, cute and cunning, had + been quick enough to say so to clear himself, but—Jimmie Dale smiled + a little now—neither the Wowzer, nor Chang Foo, nor Chinatown would + ever be in a position to recognise their uninvited guest! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's eyes shifted to the letter speculatively, gravely. It seemed + as though the night had already held a year of happenings, and the night + was not over yet—there was the letter! It had already cost one life; + was it to cost another—or what? + </p> + <p> + It began as it always did. He read it through once, in amazement; a second + time, with a flush of bitter anger creeping to his cheeks; and a third + time, curiously memorising, as it were, snatches of it here and there. + </p> + <p> + “DEAR PHILANTHROPIC CROOK: Robbery of Hudson-Mercantile National Bank—trusted + employee is ex-convict, bad police record, served term in Sing Sing three + years ago—known to police as Bookkeeper Bob, real name is Robert + Moyne, lives at —— Street, Harlem—Inspector Burton and + Lannigan of headquarters trailing him now—robbery not yet made + public—” + </p> + <p> + There was a great deal more—four sheets of closely written data. + With an exclamation almost of dismay, Jimmie Dale pulled out his watch. So + that was what Burton and Lannigan were up to! And he had actually run into + them! Lord, the irony of it! The—And then Jimmie Dale stared at the + dial of his watch incredulously. It was still but barely midnight! It + seemed impossible that since leaving the theatre at a few minutes before + eleven, he had lived through but a single hour! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's fingers began to pluck at the letter, tearing it into + pieces, tearing the pieces over and over again into tiny shreds. The train + stopped at station after station, people got on and off—Jimmie + Dale's hat was over his eyes, and his eyes were glued again to the window. + Had Bookkeeper Bob returned to his flat in Harlem with the detectives at + his heels—or were Burton and Lannigan still trailing the man + downtown somewhere around the cafe's? If the former, the theft of the + letter and its incident loss of time had been an irreparable disaster; if + the latter—well, who knew! The risk was the Gray Seal's! + </p> + <p> + At One Hundred and Twenty-Fifth Street Jimmie Dale left the train; and, at + the end of a sharp four minutes' walk, during which he had dodged in and + out from street to street, stopped on a corner to survey the block ahead + of him. It was a block devoted exclusively to flats and apartment houses, + and, apart from a few belated pedestrians, was deserted. Jimmie Dale + strolled leisurely down one side, crossed the street at the end of the + block, and strolled leisurely back on the other side—there was no + sign of either Burton or Lannigan. It was a fairly safe presumption then + that Bookkeeper Bob had not returned yet, or one of the detectives at + least would have been shadowing the house. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, smiling a little grimly, retraced his steps again, and turned + deliberately into a doorway—whose number he had noted as he had + passed a moment or so before. So, after all, there was time yet! This was + the house. “Number eighteen,” she had said in her letter. “A flat—three + stories—Moyne lives on ground floor.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale leaned against the vestibule door—there was a faint + click—a little steel instrument was withdrawn from the lock—and + Jimmie Dale stepped into the hall, where a gas jet, turned down, burned + dimly. + </p> + <p> + The door of the ground-floor apartment was at his right, Jimmie Dale + reached up and turned off the light. Again those slim, tapering, + wonderfully sensitive fingers worked with the little steel instrument, + this time in the lock of the apartment door—again there was that + almost inaudible click—and then cautiously, inch by inch, the door + opened under his hand. He peered inside—down a hallway lighted, if + it could be called lighted at all, by a subdued glow from two open doors + that gave upon it—peered intently, listening intently, as he drew a + black silk mask from his pocket and slipped it over his face. And then, + silent as a shadow in his movements, the door left just ajar behind him, + he stole down the carpeted hallway. + </p> + <p> + Opposite the first of the open doorways Jimmie Dale paused—a + curiously hard expression creeping over his face, his lips beginning to + droop ominously downward at the corners. It was a little sitting room, + cheaply but tastefully furnished, and a young woman, Bookkeeper Bob's wife + evidently, and evidently sitting up for her husband, had fallen sound + asleep in a chair, her head pillowed on her arms that were outstretched + across the table. For a moment Jimmie Dale held there, his eyes on the + scene—and the next moment, his hand curved into a clenched fist, he + had passed on and entered the adjoining room. + </p> + <p> + It was a child's bedroom. A night lamp burned on a table beside the bed, + and the soft rays seemed to play and linger in caress on the tousled + golden hair of a little girl of perhaps two years of age—and + something seemed to choke suddenly in Jimmie Dale's throat—the + sweet, innocent little face, upturned to his, was smiling at him as she + slept. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale turned away his head—his eyelashes wet under his mask. + “BENEATH THE MATTRESS OF THE CHILD'S BED,” the letter had said. His face + like stone, his lips a thin line now, Jimmie Dale's hand reached deftly in + without disturbing the child and took out a package—and then + another. He straightened up, a bundle of crisp new hundred-dollar notes in + each hand—and on the top of one, slipped under the elastic band that + held the bills together, an unsealed envelope. He drew out the latter, and + opened it—it was a second-class steamship passage to Vera Cruz, made + out in a fictitious name, of course, to John Davies, the booking for next + day's sailing. From the ticket, from the stolen money, Jimmie Dale's eyes + lifted to rest again on the little golden head, the smiling lips—and + then, dropping the packages into his pockets, his own lips moving queerly, + he turned abruptly to the door. + </p> + <p> + “My God, the shame of it!” he whispered to himself. + </p> + <p> + He crept down the corridor, past the open door of the room where the young + woman still sat fast asleep, and, his mask in his pocket again, stepped + softly into the vestibule, and from there to the street. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale hurried now, spurred on it seemed by a hot, insensate fury + that raged within him—there was still one other call to make that + night—still those remaining and minute details in the latter part of + her letter, grim and ugly in their portent! + </p> + <p> + It was close upon one o'clock in the morning when Jimmie Dale stopped + again—this time before a fashionable dwelling just off Central Park. + And here, for perhaps the space of a minute, he surveyed the house from + the sidewalk—watching, with a sort of speculative satisfaction, a + man's shadow that passed constantly to and fro across the drawn blinds of + one of the lower windows. The rest of the house was in darkness. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jimmie Dale, nodding his head, “I rather thought so. The + servants will have retired hours ago. It's safe enough.” + </p> + <p> + He ran quickly up the steps and rang the bell. A door opened almost + instantly, sending a faint glow into the hall from the lighted room; a + hurried step crossed the hall—and the outer door was thrown back. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what is it?” demanded a voice brusquely. + </p> + <p> + It was quite dark, too dark for either to distinguish the other's features—and + Jimmie Dale's hat was drawn far down over his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I want to see Mr. Thomas H. Carling, cashier of the Hudson-Mercantile + National Bank—it's very important,” said Jimmie Dale earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “I am Mr. Carling,” replied the other. “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale leaned forward. + </p> + <p> + “From headquarters—with a report,” he said, in a low tone. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” exclaimed the bank official sharply. “Well, it's about time! I've + been waiting up for it—though I expected you would telephone rather + than this. Come in!” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Jimmie Dale courteously—and stepped into the hall. + </p> + <p> + The other closed the front door. “The servants are in bed, of course,” he + explained, as he led the way toward the lighted room. “This way, please.” + </p> + <p> + Behind the other, across the hall, Jimmie Dale followed and close at + Carling's heels entered the room, which was fitted up, quite evidently + regardless of cost, as a combination library and study. Carling, in a + somewhat pompous fashion, walked straight ahead toward the carved-mahogany + flat-topped desk, and, as he reached it, waved his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Take a chair,” he said, over his shoulder—and then, turning in the + act of dropping into his own chair, grasped suddenly at the edge of the + desk instead, and, with a low, startled cry, stared across the room. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was leaning back against the door that was closed now behind + him—and on Jimmie Dale's face was a black silk mask. + </p> + <p> + For an instant neither man spoke nor moved; then Carling, spare-built, + dapper in evening clothes, edged back from the desk and laughed a little + uncertainly. + </p> + <p> + “Quite neat! I compliment you! From headquarters with a report, I think + you said?” + </p> + <p> + “Which I neglected to add,” said Jimmie Dale, “was to be made in private.” + </p> + <p> + Carling, as though to put as much distance between them as possible, + continued to edge back across the room—but his small black eyes, + black now to the pupils themselves, never left Jimmie Dale's face. + </p> + <p> + “In private, eh?”—he seemed to be sparring for time, as he smiled. + “In private! You've a strange method of securing privacy, haven't you? A + bit melodramatic, isn't it? Perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me who + you are?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale smiled indulgently. + </p> + <p> + “My mask is only for effect,” he said. “My name is—Smith.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Carling. “I am very stupid. Thank you. I—” he had + reached the other side of the room now—and with a quick, sudden + movement jerked his hand to the dial of the safe that stood against the + wall. + </p> + <p> + But Jimmie Dale was quicker—without shifting his position, his + automatic, whipped from his pocket, held a disconcerting bead on Carling's + forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Please don't do that,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “It's rather a good make, + that safe. I dare say it would take me half an hour to open it. I was + rather curious to know whether it was locked or not.” + </p> + <p> + Carling's hand dropped to his side. + </p> + <p> + “So!” he sneered. “That's it, is it! The ordinary variety of sneak thief!” + His voice was rising gradually. “Well, sir, let me tell you that—” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Carling,” said Jimmie Dale, in a low, even tone, “unless you moderate + your voice some one in the house might hear you—I am quite well + aware of that. But if that happens, if any one enters this room, if you + make a move to touch a button, or in any other way attempt to attract + attention, I'll drop you where you stand!” His hand, behind his back, + extracted the key from the door lock, held it up for the other to see, + then dropped it into his pocket—and his voice, cold before, rang + peremptorily now. “Come back to the desk and sit down in that chair!” he + ordered. + </p> + <p> + For a moment Carling hesitated; then, with a half-muttered oath, obeyed. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale moved over, and stood in front of Carling on the other side of + the desk—and stared silently at the immaculate, fashionably groomed + figure before him. + </p> + <p> + Under the prolonged gaze, Carling's composure, in a measure at least, + seemed to forsake him. He began to drum nervously with his fingers on the + desk, and shift uneasily in his chair. + </p> + <p> + And then, from first one pocket and then the other, Jimmie Dale took the + two packages of banknotes, and, still with out a word, pushed them across + the desk until they lay under the other's eyes. + </p> + <p> + Carling's fingers stopped their drumming, slid to the desk edge, tightened + there, and a whiteness crept into his face. Then, with an effort, he + jerked himself erect in his chair. + </p> + <p> + “What's this?” he demanded hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + “About ten thousand dollars, I should say,” said Jimmie Dale slowly. “I + haven't counted it. Your bank was robbed this evening at closing time, I + understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” Carling's voice was excited now, the colour back in his face. “But + you—how—do you mean that you are returning the money to the + bank?” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly,” said Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + Carling was once more the pompous bank official. He leaned back and + surveyed Jimmie Dale critically with his little black eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, quite so!” he observed. “That accounts for the mask. But I am still a + little in the dark. Under the circumstances, it is quite impossible that + you should have stolen the money yourself, and—” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't,” said Jimmie Dale. “I found it hidden in the home of one of + your employees.” + </p> + <p> + “You found it—WHERE?” + </p> + <p> + “In Moyne's home—up in Harlem.” + </p> + <p> + “Moyne, eh?” Carling was alert, quick now, jerking out his words. “How did + you come to get into this, then? His pal? Double-crossing him, eh? I + suppose you want a reward—we'll attend to that, of course. You're + wiser than you know, my man. That's what we suspected. We've had the + detectives trailing Moyne all evening.” He reached forward over the desk + for the telephone. “I'll telephone headquarters to make the arrest at + once.” + </p> + <p> + “Just a minute,” interposed Jimmie Dale gravely. “I want you to listen to + a little story first.” + </p> + <p> + “A story! What has a story got to do with this?” snapped Carling. + </p> + <p> + “The man has got a home,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “A home, and a wife—and + a little baby girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's the game then, eh? You want to plead for him?” Carling flung + out gruffly. “Well, he should have thought of all that before! It's quite + useless for you to bring it up. The man has had his chance already—a + better chance than any one with his record ever had before. We took him + into the bank knowing that he was an ex-convict, but believing that we + could make an honest man of him—and this is the result.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet—” + </p> + <p> + “NO!” said Carling icily. + </p> + <p> + “You refuse—absolutely?” Jimmie Dale's voice had a lingering, + wistful note in it. + </p> + <p> + “I refuse!” said Carling bluntly. “I won't have anything to do with it.” + </p> + <p> + There was just an instant's silence; and then, with a strange, slow, + creeping motion, as a panther creeps when about to spring, Jimmie Dale + projected his body across the desk—far across it toward the other. + And the muscles of his jaw were quivering, his words rasping, choked with + the sweep of fury that, held back so long, broke now in a passionate + surge. + </p> + <p> + “And shall I tell you why you won't? Your bank was robbed to-night of one + hundred thousand dollars. There are ten thousand here. THE OTHER NINETY + THOUSAND ARE IN YOUR SAFE!” + </p> + <p> + “You lie!” Ashen to the lips, Carling had risen in his chair. “You lie!” + he cried. “Do you hear! You lie! I tell you, you lie!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's lips parted ominously. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down!” he gritted between his teeth. + </p> + <p> + The white in Carling's face had turned to gray, his lips were working—mechanically + he sank down again in his chair. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale still leaned over the desk, resting his weight on his right + elbow, the automatic in his right hand covering Carling. + </p> + <p> + “You cur!” whispered Jimmie Dale. “There's just one reason, only one, that + keeps me from putting a bullet through you while you sit there. We'll get + to that in a moment. There is that little story first—shall I tell + it to you now? For the past four years, and God knows how many before + that, you've gone the pace. The lavishness of this bachelor establishment + of yours is common talk in New York—far in excess of a bank + cashier's salary. But you were supposed to be a wealthy man in your own + right; and so, in reality you were—once. But you went through your + fortune two years ago. Counted a model citizen, an upright man, an honour + to the community—what were you, Carling? What ARE you? Shall I tell + you? Roue, gambler, leading a double life of the fastest kind. You did it + cleverly, Carling; hid it well—but your game is up. To-night, for + instance, you are at the end of your tether, swamped with debts, exposure + threatening you at any moment. Why don't you tell me again that I lie—Carling?” + </p> + <p> + But now the man made no answer. He had sunk a little deeper in his chair—a + dawning look of terror in the eyes that held, fascinated, on Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “You cur!” said Jimmie Dale again. “You cur, with your devil's work! A + year ago you saw this night coming—when you must have money, or face + ruin and exposure. You saw it then, a year ago, the day that Moyne, + concealing nothing of his prison record, applied through friends for a + position in the bank. Your co-officials were opposed to his appointment, + but you, do you remember how you pleaded to give the man his chance—and + in your hellish ingenuity saw your way then out of the trap! An ex-convict + from Sing Sing! It was enough, wasn't it? What chance had he!” Jimmie Dale + paused, his left hand clenched until the skin formed whitish knobs over + the knuckles. + </p> + <p> + Carling's tongue sought his lips, made a circuit of them—and he + tried to speak, but his voice was an incoherent muttering. + </p> + <p> + “I'll not waste words,” said Jimmie Dale, in his grim monotone. “I'm not + sure enough myself—that I could keep my hands off you much longer. + The actual details of how you stole the money to-day do not matter—NOW. + A little later perhaps in court—but not now. You were the last to + leave the bank, but before leaving you pretended to discover the theft of + a hundred thousand dollars—that, done up in a paper parcel, was even + then reposing in your desk. You brought the parcel home, put it in that + safe there—and notified the president of the bank by telephone from + here of the robbery, suggesting that police headquarters be advised at + once. He told you to go ahead and act as you saw best. You notified the + police, speciously directing suspicion to—the ex-convict in the + bank's employ. You knew Moyne was dining out to-night, you knew where—and + at a hint from you the police took up the trail. A little later in the + evening, you took these two packages of banknotes from the rest, and with + this steamship ticket—which you obtained yesterday while out at + lunch by sending a district messenger boy with the money and instructions + in a sealed envelope to purchase for you—you went up to the Moynes' + flat in Harlem for the purpose of secreting them somewhere there. You + pretended to be much disappointed at finding Moyne out—you had just + come for a little social visit, to get better acquainted with the home + life of your employees! Mrs. Moyne was genuinely pleased and grateful. She + took you in to see their little girl, who was already asleep in bed. She + left you there for a moment to answer the door—and you—you”—Jimmie + Dale's voice choked again—“you blot on God's earth, you slipped the + money and ticket under the child's mattress!” + </p> + <p> + Carling came forward with a lurch in his chair—and his hands went + out, pawing in a wild, pleading fashion over Jimmie Dale's arm. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale flung him away. + </p> + <p> + “You were safe enough,” he rasped on. “The police could only construe your + visit to Moyne's flat as zeal on behalf of the bank. And it was safer, + much more circumspect on your part, not to order the flat searched at + once, but only as a last resort, as it were, after you had led the police + to trail him all evening and still remain without a clew—and + besides, of course, not until you had planted the evidence that was to + damn him and wreck his life and home! You were even generous in the amount + you deprived yourself of out of the hundred thousand dollars—for + less would have been enough. Caught with ten thousand dollars of the + bank's money and a steamship ticket made out in a fictitious name, it was + prima-facie evidence that he had done the job and had the balance + somewhere. What would his denials, his protestations of innocence count + for? He was an ex-convict, a hardened criminal caught red-handed with a + portion of the proceeds of robbery—he had succeeded in hiding the + remainder of it too cleverly, that was all.” + </p> + <p> + Carling's face was ghastly. His hands went out again—again his + tongue moistened his dry lips. He whispered: + </p> + <p> + “Isn't—isn't there some—some way we can fix this?” + </p> + <p> + And then Jimmie Dale laughed—not pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, there's a way, Carling,” he said grimly. “That's why I'm here.” He + picked up a sheet of writing paper and pushed it across the desk—then + a pen, which he dipped into the inkstand, and extended to the other. “The + way you'll fix it will be to write out a confession exonerating Moyne.” + </p> + <p> + Carling shrank back into his chair, his head huddling into his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “NO!” he cried. “I won't—I can't—my God!—I—I—WON'T!” + </p> + <p> + The automatic in Jimmie Dale's hand edged forward the fraction of an inch. + </p> + <p> + “I have not used this—yet. You understand now why—don't you?” + he said under his breath. + </p> + <p> + “No, no!” Carling pushed away the pen. “I'm ruined—ruined as it is. + But this would mean the penitentiary, too—” + </p> + <p> + “Where you tried to send an innocent man in your place, you hound; where + you—” + </p> + <p> + “Some other way—some other way!” Carling was babbling. “Let me out + of this—for God's sake, let me out of this!” + </p> + <p> + “Carling,” said Jimmie Dale hoarsely, “I stood beside a little bed + to-night and looked at a baby girl—a little baby girl with golden + hair, who smiled as she slept.” + </p> + <p> + Carling shivered, and passed a shaking hand across his face. + </p> + <p> + “Take this pen,” said Jimmie Dale monotonously; “or—THIS!” The + automatic lifted until the muzzle was on a line with Carling's eyes. + </p> + <p> + Carling's hand reached out, still shaking, and took the pen; and his body, + dragged limply forward, hung over the desk. The pen spluttered on the + paper—a bead of sweat spurting from the man's forehead dropped to + the sheet. + </p> + <p> + There was silence in the room. A minute passed—another. Carling's + pen travelled haltingly across the paper then, with a queer, low cry as he + signed his name, he dropped the pen from his fingers, and, rising + unsteadily from his chair, stumbled away from the desk toward a couch + across the room. + </p> + <p> + An instant Jimmie Dale watched the other, then he picked up the sheet of + paper. It was a miserable document, miserably scrawled: + </p> + <p> + “I guess it's all up. I guess I knew it would be some day. Moyne hadn't + anything to do with it. I stole the money myself from the bank to-night. I + guess it's all up. + </p> + <p> + “THOMAS H. CARLING.” + </p> + <p> + From the paper, Jimmie Dale's eyes shifted to the figure by the couch—and + the paper fluttered suddenly from his fingers to the desk. Carling was + reeling, clutching at his throat—a small glass vial rolled upon the + carpet. And then, even as Jimmie Dale sprang forward, the other pitched + head long over the couch—and in a moment it was over. + </p> + <p> + Presently Jimmie Dale picked up the vial—and dropped it back on the + floor again. There was no label on it, but it needed none—the + strong, penetrating odor of bitter almonds was telltale evidence enough. + It was prussic, or hydrocyanic acid, probably the most deadly poison and + the swiftest in its action that was known to science—Carling had + provided against that “some day” in his confession! + </p> + <p> + For a little space, motionless, Jimmie Dale stood looking down at the + silent, outstretched form—then he walked slowly back to the desk, + and slowly, deliberately picked up the signed confession and the steamship + ticket. He held them an instant, staring at them, then methodically began + to tear them into little pieces, a strange, tired smile hovering on his + lips. The man was dead now—there would be disgrace enough for some + one to bear, a mother perhaps—who knew! And there was another way + now—since the man was dead. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale put the pieces in his pocket, went to the safe, opened it, and + took out a parcel, locked the safe carefully, and carried the parcel to + the desk. He opened it there. Inside were nearly two dozen little packages + of hundred-dollar bills. The other two packages that he had brought with + him he added to the rest. From his pocket he took out the thin metal + insignia case, and with the tiny tweezers lifted up one of the + gray-coloured, diamond-shaped paper seals. He moistened the adhesive side, + and, still holding it by the tweezers, dropped it on his handkerchief and + pressed the seal down on the face of the topmost package of banknotes. He + tied the parcel up then, and, picking up the pen, addressed it in printed + characters: + </p> + <p> + HUDSON-MERCANTILE NATIONAL BANK, NEW YORK CITY. + </p> + <p> + “District messenger—some way—in the morning,” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale slipped his mask into his pocket, and, with the parcel under + his arm, stepped to the door and unlocked it. He paused for an instant on + the threshold for a single, quick, comprehensive glance around the room—then + passed on out into the street. + </p> + <p> + At the corner he stopped to light a cigarette—and the flame of the + match spurting up disclosed a face that was worn and haggard. He threw the + match away, smiled a little wearily—and went on. + </p> + <p> + The Gray Seal had committed another “crime.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <h3> + THE THIEF + </h3> + <p> + Choosing between the snowy napery, the sparkling glass and silver, the + cozy, shaded table-lamps, the famous French chef of the ultra-exclusive + St. James Club, his own home on Riverside Drive where a dinner fit for an + epicure and served by Jason, that most perfect of butlers, awaited him, + and Marlianne's, Jimmie Dale, driving in alone in his touring car from an + afternoon's golf, had chosen—Marlianne's. + </p> + <p> + Marlianne's, if such a thing as Bohemianism, or, rather, a concrete + expression of it exists, was Bohemian. A two-piece string orchestra played + valiantly to the accompaniment of a hoarse-throated piano; and between + courses the diners took up the refrain—and, as it was always between + courses with some one, the place was a bedlam of noisy riot. Nevertheless, + it was Marlianne's—and Jimmie Dale liked Marlianne's. He had dined + there many times before, as he had just dined in the person of Jimmie + Dale, the millionaire, his high-priced imported car at the curb of the + shabby street outside—and he had dined there, disreputable in + attire, seedy in appearance, with the police yelping at his heels, as + Larry the Bat. In either character Marlianne's had welcomed him with equal + courtesy to its spotted linen and most excellent table-d'hote with VIN + ORDINAIRE—for fifty cents. + </p> + <p> + And now, in the act of reaching into his pocket for the change to pay his + bill, Jimmie Dale seemed suddenly to experience some difficulty in finding + what he sought, and his fingers went fumbling from one pocket to another. + Two men at the table in front of him were talking—their voices, over + a momentary lull in violin squeaks, talk, laughter, singing, and the + clatter of dishes, reached him: + </p> + <p> + “Carling commit suicide! Not on your life! No; of course he didn't! It was + that cursed Gray Seal croaked him, just as sure as you sit in that chair!” + </p> + <p> + The other grunted. “Yes; but what'd the Gray Seal want to pinch a hundred + thousand out of the bank for, and then give it back again the next + morning?” + </p> + <p> + “What's he done a hundred other things for to cover up the real object of + what he's after?” retorted the first speaker, with a short, vicious laugh; + then, with a thump of his fist on the table: “The man's a devil, a fiend, + and anywhere else but New York he'd have been caught and sent to the chair + where he belongs long ago, and—” + </p> + <p> + A burst of ragtime drowned out the man's words. Jimmie Dale placed a + fifty-cent piece and a tip beside it on his dinner check, pushed back his + chair, and rose from the table. There was a half-tolerantly satirical, + half-angry glint in his dark, steady eyes. It was not only the police who + yelped at his heels, but every man, woman, and child in the city. The man + had not voiced his own sentiments—he had voiced the sentiments of + New York! And it was quite on the cards that if he, Jimmie Dale, were ever + caught his destination would not even be the death cell and the chair at + Sing Sing—his fellow citizens had reached a pitch where they would + be quite capable of literally tearing him to pieces if they ever got their + hands on him! + </p> + <p> + And yet there were a few, a very few, a handful out of five millions, who + sometimes remembered perhaps to thank God that the Gray Seal lived—that + was his reward. That—and SHE, whose mysterious letters prompted and + impelled his, the Gray Seal's, acts! She—nameless, fascinating in + her brilliant resourcefulness, amazing in her power, a woman whose life + was bound up with his and yet held apart from him in the most + inexplicable, absorbing way; a woman he had never seen, save for her + gloved arm in the limousine that night, who at one unexpected moment + projected a dazzling, impersonal existence across his path, and the next, + leaving him battling for his life where greed and passion and crime + swirled about him, was gone! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale threaded the small, crowded rooms—the interior of + Marlianne's had never been altered from the days when the place had been a + family residence of some pretension—and, reaching the hall, received + his hat from the frowsy-looking boy in attendance. He passed outside, and, + at the top of the steps, paused as he took his cigarette case from his + pocket. It was nearly a week since Carling, the cashier of the + Hudson-Mercantile National Bank, had been found dead in his home, a bottle + that had contained hydrocyanic acid on the floor beside him; nearly a week + since Bookkeeper Bob, unaware that he had ever been under temporary + suspicion for the robbery of the bank, had, equally unknown to himself, + been cleared of any complicity in that affair—and yet, as witness + the conversation of a moment ago, it was still the topic of New York, + still the vital issue that filled the maw of the newspapers with ravings, + threats, and execrations against the Gray Seal, snarling virulently the + while at the police for the latter's ineptitude, inefficiency, and + impotence! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale closed his cigarette case with a snap that was almost human in + its irony, dropped it back into his pocket, and lighted a match—but + the flame was arrested halfway to the tip of his cigarette, as his eyes + fixed suddenly and curiously on a woman's form hurrying down the street. + She had turned the corner before he took his eyes from her, and the match + between his fingers had gone out. Not that there was anything very strange + in a woman walking, or even half running, along the street; nor that there + was anything particularly attractive or unusual about her, and if there + had been the street was too dark for him to have distinguished it. It was + not that—it was the fact that she had neither passed by the house on + whose steps he stood, nor come out of any of the adjoining houses. It was + as though she had suddenly and miraculously appeared out of thin air, and + taken form on a sidewalk a little way down from Marlianne's. + </p> + <p> + “That's queer!” commented Jimmie Dale to himself. “However—” He took + out another match, lighted his cigarette, jerked the match stub away from + him, and, with a lift of his shoulders, went down the steps. + </p> + <p> + He crossed the pavement, walked around the front of his machine, since the + steering wheel was on the side next to the curb, and, with his hand out to + open the car door—stopped. Some one had been tampering with it—it + was not quite closed. There was no mistake. Jimmie Dale made no mistakes + of that kind, a man whose life hung a dozen times a day on little things + could not afford to make them. He had closed it firmly, even with a bang, + when he had got out. + </p> + <p> + Instantly suspicious, he wrenched the door wide open, switched on the + light under the hood, and, with a sharp exclamation, bent quickly forward. + A glove, a woman's glove, a white glove lay on the floor of the car. + Jimmie Dale's pulse leaped suddenly into fierce, pounding beats. It was + HERS! He KNEW that intuitively—knew it as he knew that he breathed. + And that woman he had so leisurely watched as she had disappeared from + sight was, must have been—she! + </p> + <p> + He sprang from the car with a jump, his first impulse to dash after her—and + checked himself, laughing a little bitterly. It was too late for that now—he + had already let his chance slip through his fingers. Around the corner was + Sixth Avenue, surface cars, the elevated, taxicabs, a multitude of people, + any one of a hundred ways in which she could, and would, already have + discounted pursuit from him—and, besides, he would not even have + been able to recognise her if he saw her! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's smile was mirthless as he turned back to the car, and picked + up the glove. Why had she dropped it there? It could not have been + intentional. Why had—he began to tear suddenly at the glove's little + finger, and in another second, kneeling on the car's step, his shoulders + inside, he was holding a ring close under the little electric bulb. + </p> + <p> + It was a gold seal ring, a small, dainty thing that bore a crest: a bell, + surmounted by a bishop's mitre—the bell, quaint in design, harking + the imagination back to some old-time belfry tower. And underneath, in the + scroll—a motto. It was a full minute before Jimmie Dale could + decipher it, for the lettering was minute and the words, of course, + reversed. It was in French: SONNEZ LE TOCSIN. + </p> + <p> + He straightened up, the glove and ring in his hand, a puzzled expression + on his face. It was strange! Had she, after all, dropped the glove there + intentionally; had she at last let down the barriers just a little between + them, and given him this little intimate sign that she— + </p> + <p> + And then Jimmie Dale laughed abruptly, self-mockingly. He was only trying + to deceive himself, to argue himself into believing what, with heart and + soul, he wanted to believe. It was not like her—and neither was it + so! His eyes had fixed on the seat beside the wheel. He had not used the + lap rug all that day, he couldn't use a rug and drive, he had left it + folded and hanging on the rack in the tonneau—it was now neatly + folded and reposing on the front seat! + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jimmie Dale, a sort of self-pity in his tones, “I might have + known.” + </p> + <p> + He lifted the rug. Beneath it on the leather seat lay a white envelope. + Her letter! The letter that never came save with the plan of some grim, + desperate work outlined ahead—the call to arms for the Gray Seal. + SONNEZ LE TOCSIN! Ring the Tocsin! Sound the alarm! The Tocsin! The words + were running through his brain. A strange motto on that crest—that + seemed so strangely apt! The Tocsin! Never once in all the times that he + had heard from her, never once in the years that had gone since that + initial letter of hers had struck its first warning note, had any + communication from her been but to sound again a new alarm—the + Toscin! The Tocsin—the word seemed to visualise her, to give her a + concrete form and being, to breathe her very personality. + </p> + <p> + “The Tocsin!”—Jimmie Dale whispered the word softly, a little + wistfully. “Yes; I shall call you that—the Tocsin!” + </p> + <p> + He folded the glove very carefully, placed it with the ring in his + pocketbook, picked up the letter—and, with a sharp exclamation, + turned it quickly over in his fingers, then bent hurriedly with it to the + light. + </p> + <p> + Strange things were happening that night! For the first time, the letter + was not even SEALED! That was not like her, either! What did it mean? + Quick, alert now, anxious even, he pulled the double, folded sheets from + the envelope, glanced rapidly through them—and, after a moment, a + smile, whimsical, came slowly to his lips. + </p> + <p> + It was quite plain now—all of it. The glove, the ring, and the + unsealed letter—and the postscript held the secret; or, rather, what + had been intended for a postscript did, for it comprised only a few words, + ending abruptly, unfinished: “Look in the cupboard at the rear of the + room. The man with the red wig is—” That was all, and the words, + written in ink, were badly blurred, as though the paper had been hastily + folded before the ink was dry. + </p> + <p> + It was quite plain; and, in view of the real explanation of it all, + eminently characteristic of her. With the letter already written, she had + come there, meaning to place it on the seat and cover it with the rug, as, + indeed, she had done; then, deciding to add the postscript, and because + she would attract less attention that way than in any other, she had + climbed into the car as though it belonged to her, and had seated herself + there to write it. She would have been hurried in her movements, of + course, and in pulling off her glove to use the fountain pen the ring had + come with it. The rest was obvious. She had but just begun to write when + he had appeared on the steps. She had slipped instantly down to the floor + of the car, probably dropping the glove from her lap, hastily inclosed the + letter in the envelope which she had no time to seal, thrust the envelope + under the rug, and, forgetting her glove and fearful of risking his + attention by attempting to close the door firmly, had stolen along the + body of the car, only to be noticed by him too late—when she was + well down the street! + </p> + <p> + And at that latter thought, once more chagrin seized Jimmie Dale—then + he turned impulsively to the letter. All this was extraneous, apart—for + another time, when every moment was not a priceless asset as it very + probably was now. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Philanthropic Crook”—it always began that way, never any other + way. He read on more and more intently, crouched there close to the light + on the floor of his car, lips thinning as he proceeded—read it to + the end, absorbing, memorising it—and then the abortive postscript: + </p> + <p> + “Look in the cupboard at the rear of the room. The man with the red wig is—” + </p> + <p> + For an instant, as mechanically he tore the letter into little shreds, he + held there hesitant—and the next, slamming the door tight, he flung + himself into the seat behind the wheel, and the big, sixty-horse-power, + self-starting machine was roaring down the street. + </p> + <p> + The Tocsin! There was a grim smile on Jimmie Dale's lips now. The alarm! + Yes, it was always an alarm, quick, sudden, an emergency to face on the + instant—plans, decisions to be made with no time to ponder them, + with only that one fact to consider, staggering enough in itself, that a + mistake meant disaster and ruin to some one else, and to himself, if the + courts were merciful where he had little hope for mercy, the penitentiary + for life! + </p> + <p> + And now to-night again, as it almost always was when these mysterious + letters came, every moment of inaction was piling up the odds against him. + And, too, the same problem confronted him. How, in what way, in what role, + must he play the night's game to its end? As Larry the Bat? + </p> + <p> + The car was speeding forward. He was heading down Broadway now, lower + Broadway, that stretched before him, deserted like some dark, narrow + canyon where, far below, like towering walls, the buildings closed + together and seemed to converge into some black, impassable barrier. The + street lights flashed by him; a patrolman stopped the swinging of his + night-stick, and turned to gaze at the car that rushed by at a rate + perilously near to contempt of speed laws; street cars passed at + indifferent intervals; pedestrians were few and far between—it was + the lower Broadway of night. + </p> + <p> + Larry the Bat? Jimmie Dale shook his head impatiently over the steering + wheel. No; that would not do. It would be well enough for this young + Burton, perhaps, but not for old Isaac, the East Side fence—for + Isaac knew him in the character of Larry the Bat. His quick, keen brain, + weaving, eliminating, devising, scheming, discarded that idea. The final + coup of the night, as yet but sensed in an indefinite, unshaped way, if + enacted in the person of Larry the Bat would therefore stamp Larry the Bat + and the Gray Seal as one—a contretemps but little less fatal, in + view of old Issac, than to bracket the Gray Seal and Jimmie Dale! Larry + the Bat was not a character to be assumed with impunity, nor one to + jeopardize—it was a bulwark of safety, at it were, to which more + than once he owed escape from capture and discovery. + </p> + <p> + He lifted his shoulders with a sudden jerk of decision as the car swerved + to the left and headed for the East Side. There was only one alternative + then—the black silk mask that folded into such tiny compass, and + that, together with an automatic and the curious, thin metal case that + looked so like a cigarette case, was always in his pocket for an + emergency! + </p> + <p> + The car turned again, and, approaching its destination, Jimmie Dale slowed + down the speed perceptibly. It was a strange case, not a pleasant one—and + the raw edges where they showed were ugly in their nakedness. Old Isaac + Pelina, young Burton, and Maddon—K. Wilmington Maddon, the + wall-paper magnate! Curious, that of the three he should already know two—old + Isaac and Maddon! Everybody in the East Side, every denizen of the + underworld, and many who posed on a far higher plane knew old Isaac—fence + to the most select clientele of thieves in New York, unscrupulous, hand in + glove with any rascality or crime that promised profit, a money lender, a + Shylock without even a Shylock's humanity as a saving grace! Yes; as Larry + the Bat he knew old Isaac, and he knew him not only personally but by + firsthand reputation—he had heard the man cursed in blasphemous, + whole-souled abandon by more than one crook who was in the old fence's + toils. They dealt with him, the crooks, while they swore to “get” him + because he was “safe,” but—Jimmie Dale's lips parted in a mirthless + smile—some day old Isaac would be found in that spiders' den of his + back of the dingy loan office with a knife in his heart or a bullet + through his head! And K. Wilmington Maddon—Jimmie Dale's smile grew + whimsical—he had known Maddon quite intimately for years, had even + dined with him at the St. James Club only a few nights before. Maddon was + a man in his own “set”—and Maddon, interfered with, was likely to + prove none too tractable a customer to handle. And young Burton, the + letter had said, was Maddon's private and confidential secretary. Jimmie + Dale's lips thinned again. Well, Burton's acquaintance was still to be + made! It was a curious trio—and it was dirty work, more raw than + cunning, more devilish than ingenious; blackmail in its most hellish form; + the stake, at the least calculation, a cool half million. A heavy price + for a single slip in a man's life! + </p> + <p> + He brought the car abruptly to a halt at the edge of the curb, and sprang + out to the ground. He was in front of “The Budapest” restaurant, a garish + establishment, most popular of all resorts for the moment on the East + Side, where Fifth Avenue, in the fond belief that it was seeing the real + thing in “seamy” life, engaged its table a week in advance. Jimmie Dale + pushed a bill into the door attendant's hand, accompanied by an injunction + to keep an eye on the machine, and entered the cafe. + </p> + <p> + But for a sort of tinselled ostentation the place might well have been the + Marlianne's that he had just left—it was crowded and riot was at its + height; a stringed orchestra in Hungarian costume played what purported to + be Hungarian airs; shouts, laughter, clatter of dishes, and thump of + steins added to the din. He made his way between the close-packed tables + to the stairs, and descended to the lower floor. Here, if anything, the + confusion was greater than above; but here, too, was an exit through to + the rear street—and a moment later he was sauntering past the front + of an unkempt little pawnshop, closed for the night, over whose door, in + the murk of a distant street lamp, three balls hung in sagging disarray, + tawny with age, and across whose dirty, unwashed windows, letters missing, + ran the legend: + </p> + <p> + IS AC PELINA Pawn brok r + </p> + <p> + The pawnshop made the corner of a very dark and narrow lane—and, + with a quick glance around him to assure himself that he was unobserved, + Jimmie Dale stepped into the alleyway, and, lost instantly in the blacker + shadows, stole along by the wall of the pawnshop. Old Isaac's business was + not all done through the front door. + </p> + <p> + And then suddenly Jimmie Dale shrank still closer against the wall. Was it + intuition, premonition—or reality? There seemed an uncanny feeling + of PRESENCE around him, as though perhaps he were watched, as though + others beside himself were in the lane. Yes; ahead of him a shadow moved—he + could just barely distinguish it now that his eyes had grown accustomed to + the darkness. It, like himself, was close against the wall, and now it + slunk noiselessly down the length of the lane until he lost sight of it. + AND WHAT WAS THAT? He strained his ears to listen. It seemed like a window + being opened or closed, cautiously, stealthily, the fraction of an inch at + a time. And then he located the sound—it came from the other side of + the lane and very nearly opposite to where, on the second floor, a dull, + yellow glow shone out from old Isaac's private den in the rear of the + pawnshop's office. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's brows were gathered in sharp furrows. There was evidently + something afoot to-night of which the Tocsin had NOT sounded the alarm. + And then the frown relaxed, and he smiled a little. Miraculous as was the + means through which she obtained the knowledge that was the basis of their + strange partnership, it was no more miraculous than her unerring accuracy + in the minutest details. The Tocsin had never failed him yet. It was + possible that something was afoot around him, quite probable, indeed, + since he was in the most vicious part of the city, in the heart of + gangland; but whatever it might be, it was certainly extraneous to his + mission or she would have mentioned it. + </p> + <p> + The lane was empty now, he was quite sure of that—and there was no + further sound from the window opposite. He started forward once more—only + to halt again for the second time as abruptly as before, squeezing if + possible even more closely against the wall. Some one had turned into the + lane from the sidewalk, and, walking hurriedly, choosing with evident + precaution the exact centre of the alleyway, came toward him. + </p> + <p> + The man passed, his hurried stride a half run; and, a few feet beyond, + halted at old Isaac's side door. From somewhere inside the old building + Jimmie Dale's ears caught the faint ringing of an electric bell; a long + ring, followed in quick succession by three short ones—then the + repeated clicking of a latch, as though pulled by a cord from above, and + the man passed in through the door, closing it behind him. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale nodded to himself in the darkness. It was a spring lock; the + signal was one long ring and three short ones—the Tocsin had not + missed even those small details. Also, Burton was late for his + appointment, for that must have been Burton—business such as old + Isaac had in hand that night would have permitted the entrance of no other + visitor but K. Wilmington Maddon's private secretary. + </p> + <p> + He moved down the lane to the door, and tried it softly. It was locked, of + course. The slim, tapering, sensitive fingers, whose tips were eyes and + ears to Jimmie Dale, felt over the lock—and a slender little steel + instrument slipped into the keyhole. A moment more and the catch was + released, and the door, under his hand, began to open. With it ajar, he + paused, his eyes searching intently up and down the lane. There was + nothing, no sign of any one, no moving shadows now. His gaze shifted to + the window opposite. Directly facing it now, with the dull reflection upon + it from the lighted window of old Isaac's den above his head, he could + make out that it was open—but that was all. + </p> + <p> + Once more he smiled—a little tolerantly at himself this time. Some + one had been in the lane; some one had opened the window of his or her + room in that tenement house across from him—surely there was nothing + surprising, unnatural, or even out of the commonplace in that. He had been + a little bit on edge himself, perhaps, and the sudden movement of that + shadow, unexpected, had startled him for the moment, as, in all + probability, the opening of the window had startled the skulking figure + itself into action. + </p> + <p> + The door was open now. He stepped noiselessly inside, and closed it + noiselessly behind him. He was in a narrow hall, where a few yards away, a + light shone down a stairway at right angles to the hall itself. + </p> + <p> + “Rear door of pawnshop opens into hall, and exactly opposite very short + flight of stairs leading directly to doorway of Isaac's den above. + Ramshackle old place, low ceilings. Isaac, when sitting in his den, can + look down, and, by means of a transom over the rear door of the shop, see + the customers as they enter from the street, while he also keeps an eye on + his assistant. Latter always locks up and leaves promptly at six o'clock—” + Jimmie Dale was subconsciously repeating to himself snatches from the + Tocsin's letter, which, as subconsciously in reading, he had memorised + almost word for word. + </p> + <p> + And now voices reached him—one, excited, nervous, as though the + speaker were labouring under mental strain that bordered closely on the + hysterical; the other, curiously mingling a querulousness with an attempt + to pacify, but dominantly contemptuous, sneering, cold. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale moved along the hall—very slowly—without a sound—testing + each step before he threw his body weight from one leg to the other. He + reached the foot of the stairs. The Tocsin had been right; it was a very + short flight. He counted the steps—there were eight. Above, facing + him, a door was open. The voices were louder now. It was a sordid-looking + room, what he could see of it, poverty-stricken in its appearance, + intentionally so probably for effect, with no attempt whatever at + furnishing. He could see through the doorway to the window that opened on + the alleyway, or, rather, just glimpse the top of the window at an angle + across the room—that and a bare stretch of floor. The two men were + not in the line of vision. + </p> + <p> + Burton's voice—it was unquestionably Burton speaking—came to + Jimmie Dale now distinctly. + </p> + <p> + “No, I didn't! I tell you, I didn't! I—I hadn't the nerve.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale slipped his black silk mask over his face; and with extreme + caution, on hands and knees, began to climb the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “So!” It was old Isaac now, in a half purr, half sneer. “And I was so + sure, my young friend, that you had. I was so sure that you were not such + a fool. Yes; I could even have sworn that they were in your pocket now—what? + It is too bad—too bad! It is not a pleasant thing to think of, that + little chair up the river in its horrible little room where—” + </p> + <p> + “For God's sake, Isaac—not that! Do you hear—not that! My God, + I didn't mean to—I didn't know what I was doing!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale crept up another step, another, and another. There was silence + for a moment in the room; then Burton again, hoarse-voiced: + </p> + <p> + “Isaac, I'll make good to you some other way. I swear I will—I swear + it! If I'm caught at this I'll—I'll get fifteen years for it.” + </p> + <p> + “And which would you rather have?” Jimmie Dale could picture the oily + smirk, the shrug of his shoulders, the outthrust hands, palms upward, + elbows in at the hips, the fingers curved and wide apart—“fifteen + years, or what you get—for murder? Eh, my friend, you have thought + of that—eh? It is a very little price I ask—yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Damn you!” Burton's voice was shrill, then dropped to a half sob. “No, + no, Isaac, I didn't mean that. Only, for God's sake be merciful! It is not + only the risk of the penitentiary; it's more than that. I—I tried to + play white all my life, and until that cursed night there's no man living + could say I haven't. You know that—you know that, Isaac. I tell you + I couldn't do it this afternoon—I tell you I couldn't. I tried to + and—and I couldn't.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was lying flat on the little landing now, peering into the + room. Back a short distance from the doorway, a repulsive-looking little + man in unkempt clothes and soiled linen, with yellowish-skinned, parchment + face, out of which small black eyes shone cunningly and shrewdly, sat at a + bare deal table in a rickety chair; facing him across the table stood a + young man of not more than twenty-five, clean cut, well dressed, but whose + face was unnaturally white now, and whose hand, as he extended it in a + pleading gesture toward the other, trembled visibly. Jimmie Dale's hand + made its way quietly to his side pocket and extracted his automatic. + </p> + <p> + Old Isaac humped his shoulders, and leered at his visitor. + </p> + <p> + “We talk a great deal, my young friend. What is the use? A bargain is a + bargain. A few rubies in exchange for your life. A few rubies and my mouth + is shut. Otherwise”—he humped his shoulders again. “Well?” + </p> + <p> + Burton drew back, swept his hand in a dazed way across his eyes—and + laughed out suddenly in bitter mirth. + </p> + <p> + “A few rubies!” he cried. “The most magnificent stones on this side of the + water—a FEW rubies! It's been Maddon's life hobby. Every child in + New York knows that! A few—yes, there's only a few—but those + few are worth a fortune. He trusts me, the man has been like a father to + me, and—” + </p> + <p> + “So you are the very last to be suspected,” observed old Isaac suavely. + “Have I not told you that? There is nothing to fear. Did we not arrange + everything so nicely—eh, my young friend? See, it was to-night that + Maddon gives a little reception to his friends, and did you not say that + the rubies would be taken from the safe-deposit vault this afternoon since + his friends always clamoured to see them as a very fitting conclusion to + an evening's entertainment? And did you not say that you very naturally + had access to the safe in the library where you worked, and that he would + not notice they were gone until he came to look for them some time this + evening? I think you said all that. And what suspicion let alone proof, + would attach itself to you? You were out of the room once when he, too, + was absent for perhaps half an hour. It is very simple. In that half hour, + some one, somehow, abstracted them. Certainly it was not you. You see how + little I ask—and I pay well, do I not? And so I gave you until + to-night. Three days have gone, and I have said nothing, and the body has + not been found—eh? But to-night—eh—it was understood! + The rubies—or the chair.” + </p> + <p> + Burton's lips moved, but it was a moment before he could speak. + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn't dare!” he whispered thickly. “You wouldn't dare! I'd tell + the story of—of what you tried to make me do, and they'd send you up + for it.” + </p> + <p> + Old Isaac shrugged with pitying contempt. + </p> + <p> + “Is it, after all, a fool I am dealing with!” he sneered. “And I—what + should I say? That you had stolen the stones from your employer and + offered them as a bribe to silence me, and that I had refused. The very + act of handing you over to the police would prove the truth of what I said + and rob you of even a chance of leniency—FOR THAT OTHER THING. Is it + not so—eh? And why did I not hand you over at once three nights ago? + Believe me, my young friend, I should have a very good reason ready, a + dozen, if necessary, if it came to that. But we are borrowing trouble, are + we not? We shall not come to that—eh?” + </p> + <p> + For a moment it seemed to Jimmie Dale, as he watched, that Burton would + hurl himself upon the other. White to the lips, the muscles of his face + twitching, Burton clenched his fists and leaned over the table—and + then, with sudden revulsion of emotion, he drew back once more, and once + more came that choked sob: + </p> + <p> + “You'll pay for this, Isaac—your turn will come for this! + </p> + <p> + “I have been threatened very often,” snapped the other contemptuously. + “Bah, what are threats! I laugh at them—as I always will.” Then, + with a quick change of front, his voice a sudden snarl: “Well, we have + talked enough. You have your choice. The stones or—eh? And it is + to-night—NOW!” + </p> + <p> + The old pawnbroker sprawled back in his chair, a cunning leer on his + vicious face, a gleam of triumph, greed, in the beady, ratlike eyes that + never wavered from the other. Burton, moisture oozing from his forehead, + stood there, hesitant, staring back at old Isaac, half in a fascinated + gaze, half as though trying to read some sign of weakness in the bestial + countenance that confronted him. And then, very slowly, in an automatic, + machine-like way, his hand groped into the inside pocket of his vest—and + old Isaac cackled out in derision. + </p> + <p> + “So! You thought you could bluff me, eh—you thought you could fool + old Isaac! Bah! I read you like a book! Did I not tell you a while back + that you had them in your pocket? I know your kind, my young friend; I + know your kind very well indeed—it is my business. You would not + have dared to come here to-night without the price. So! You took them this + afternoon as we agreed. Yes, yes; you did well. You will not regret it. + And now let me see them”—his voice rose eagerly—“let me see + them now, my young friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I took them.” Burton spoke listlessly. “God help me!” + </p> + <p> + Old Isaac, quivering, excited, like a different creature now, sprang from + his chair, and, as Burton drew a long, flat, leather case from his pocket, + snatched it from the other's hand. His fingers in their rapacious haste + could not at first manipulate the catch, and then finally, with the case + open, he bent over the table feverishly. The light reflected back as from + some living mass of crimson fire, now shading darkly, now glowing into + wondrous, colourful transparency as he moved the case to and fro with + jerky motions of his hands—and he was babbling, crooning to himself + like one possessed. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, the little beauties! Ah, the pretty little things! Yes, yes; these + are the ones! This is the great Aracon—see, see, the six-sided prism + terminated by the six-sided pyramid. But it must be cut—it must be + cut to sell it, eh? Ah, it is too bad—too bad! And this, this one + here, I know them all, this is—” + </p> + <p> + But his sentence was never finished—it was Jimmie Dale, on his feet + now, leaning against the jamb of the door, his automatic covering the two + men at the table, who spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Quite so, Isaac,” he said coolly; “you know them all! Quite so, Isaac—but + be good enough to DROP them!” + </p> + <p> + The case fell from Isaac's hand, the flush on his cheeks died to a sickly + pallor, and, his mouth half open, he stood like a man turned to stone, his + hands with curved fingers still outstretched over the table, over the + crimson gems that, spilled from the case, lay scattered now on the + tabletop. Burton neither spoke nor moved—a little whiter, the misery + in his face almost apathetic, he moistened his lips with the tip of his + tongue. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale walked across the room, halted at the end of the table, and + surveyed the two men grimly. And then, while one hand with revolver + extended rested easily on the table, the other gathered up the stones, + placed them in the case, and, the case in his pocket, Jimmie Dale's lips + parted in an uninviting smile. + </p> + <p> + “I guess I'm in luck to-night, eh, Isaac?” he drawled. “Between you and + your young friend, as I believe you call him, it would appear as though I + had fallen on my feet. That Aracon's worth—what would you say?—a + hundred, two hundred thousand alone, eh? A very famous stone, that—had + your eye on it for quite a time, Isaac, you miserable blood leech, eh?” + </p> + <p> + Isaac did not answer; but, while he still held back from the table, he + seemed to be regaining a little of his composure—burglars of + whatever sort were no novelty to him—and was staring fixedly at + Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “Can't place me—though there's not many in the profession you don't + know? Is that it?” inquired Jimmie Dale softly. “Well, don't try, Isaac; + it's hardly worth your while. I'VE got the stones now, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Wait! Wait! Listen!” It was Burton, speaking for the first time, his + words coming in a quick, nervous rush. “Listen! You don't—” + </p> + <p> + “Hold your tongue!” cried old Isaac, with sudden fierceness. “You are a + fool!” He leaned toward Jimmie Dale, a crafty smile on his face, quite in + control of himself once more. “Don't listen to him—listen to me. + You're right. I can't place you, and it doesn't make any difference”—he + took a step forward—“but—” + </p> + <p> + “Not too close, Isaac!” snapped Jimmie Dale sharply. “I know YOU!” + </p> + <p> + “So!” ejaculated old Isaac, rubbing his hands together. “So! That is good! + That is what I want. Listen, we will make a bargain. We are birds of a + feather, eh? All thieves, eh? You've got the drop on us who did all the + work, but you'll give us our share—eh? Listen! You couldn't get rid + of those stones alone. You know that; you're not so green at the game, eh? + You'd have to go to some one. You know me; you know old Isaac, you say. + Well, then, you know there isn't another man in New York could dispose of + those rubies and play SAFE doing it except me. I'll make a good bargain + with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Isaac,” said Jimmie Dale pensively, “you've made a good many 'good' + bargains. I wonder when you'll make your last! There's more than one + looking for 'interest' on those bargains in a pretty grim sort of way.” + </p> + <p> + “Bah!” ejaculated old Isaac. “It is an old story. They are all alike. I am + afraid of none of them. I hold them all like—THAT!” His hand opened + and closed like a taloned claw. + </p> + <p> + “And you'd add me to the lot, eh?” said Jimmie Dale. He lifted the + revolver, its muzzle on old Isaac, examined the mechanism thoughtfully, + and lowered it again. “Very well, I'll make a bargain with you—providing + it is agreeable to your young friend here.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” exclaimed old Isaac shrilly. “So! That is good! It is done then.” He + chuckled hoarsely. “Any bargain I make he will agree to. Is it not so?” He + fixed his eyes on Burton. “Well, is it not so? Speak up! Say—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped—the words cut short off on his lips. It came without + warning—a crash, a pound on the door below—another. + </p> + <p> + Burton shrank back against the wall. + </p> + <p> + “My God! The police!” he gasped. “Maddon's found out! We're—we're + caught!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's eyes, on old Isaac, narrowed. The pounding in the alleyway + grew louder, more insistent. And then his first suspicion passed—it + was no “game” of Isaac's. Crafty though the old fox was, the other's + surprise and agitation was too genuine to be questioned. + </p> + <p> + Still the pounding continued—some one was kicking viciously at the + door, and banging a tattoo on the panels with his fists. + </p> + <p> + Old Isaac's clawlike hands doubled suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “It is some drunken sot,” he snarled out, “that knows no better than to + come here and rouse the whole neighbourhood! It is true, in a moment we + will have the police running in from the street. But wait—wait—I'll + teach the fool a lesson!” He dashed around the table, ran for the window, + wrenched the catch up, flung the window open, and, snarling again, leaned + out—and instantly the knocking ceased. + </p> + <p> + And instantly then, with a sharp cry, as the whole ghastly meaning of it + swept upon him, Jimmie sprang after the other—too late! Came the + roar of a revolver shot, a stream of flame cutting the darkness of the + alleyway from the window in the house opposite—and, without a sound, + old Isaac crumpled up, hung limply for a moment over the sill, and slid in + a heap to the floor. + </p> + <p> + On his hands and knees, protected from the possibility of another bullet + by the height of the sill, Jimmie Dale, quick in every movement now, + dragged the inert form toward the table away from the window, and bent + hurriedly over the other. A minute perhaps he stayed there—and then + rose slowly. + </p> + <p> + Burton, horror-stricken, unmanned, beside himself, was hanging, clutching + with both hands at the table edge. + </p> + <p> + “He's dead,” said Jimmie Dale laconically. + </p> + <p> + Burton flung out his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Dead!” he whispered hoarsely. “I—I think I'm going mad. Three days + of hell—and now this. We'd—we'd better get out of here quick—they'll + get us if—” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's hand fell with a tight grip on Burton's shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “There won't be any more shots fired—pull yourself together!” + </p> + <p> + Burton stared at him in a demented way. + </p> + <p> + “What's—what's it mean?” he stammered. + </p> + <p> + “It means that I didn't put two and two together,” said Jimmie Dale a + little bitterly. “It means that there's a dozen crooks been dancing old + Isaac's tune for a long time—and that some of them have got him at + last.” + </p> + <p> + Burton reached out suddenly and clutched Jimmie Dale's arm. + </p> + <p> + “Then I'm safe!” He mumbled the words, but there was dawning hope, relief + in his white face. “Safe! I'm safe—if you'll only give me back those + stones. Give them back to me, for God's sake give them back to me! You + don't know—you don't understand. I stole them because—because + he made me—because I—it was the only chance I had. Oh, my God, + you don't know what the last three days have been! Give them back to me, + won't you—won't you? You—you don't know!” + </p> + <p> + “Don't lose your nerve!” said Jimmie Dale sharply. “Sit down!” He pushed + the other into the chair. “There's no one will disturb us here for some + time at least. What is it that I don't know? That three nights ago you + were in a gambling hell, Sagosto's, to be exact, one of the most + disreputable in New York—and you went there on the invitation of a + stray acquaintance, a man named Perley—shall I describe him for you? + A short, slim-built man, black eyes, red hair, beard, and—” + </p> + <p> + “YOU know that!” The misery, the hopelessness was back in Burton's face + again—and suddenly he bent over the table and buried his head in his + outflung arms. + </p> + <p> + There was silence for a moment. Tight-lipped, Jimmie Dale's eyes travelled + from Burton's shaking shoulders to the motionless form on the floor. Then + he spoke again: + </p> + <p> + “You're a bit of a rounder, Burton, but I think you've had a lesson that + will last you all your life. You were half-drunk when you and Perley began + to hobnob over a downtown bar. He said he'd show you some real life, and + you went with him to Sagosto's. He gave you a revolver before you went in, + and told you the place wasn't safe for an unarmed man. He introduced you + to Sagosto, the proprietor, and you were shown to a back room. You drank + quite a little there. You and Perley were alone, throwing dice. You got + into a quarrel. Perley tried to draw his revolver. You were quicker. You + drew the one he had given you—and fired. He fell to the floor—you + saw the blood gush from his breast just above the heart—he was dead. + In a panic you rushed from the place and out into the street. I don't + think you went home that night.” + </p> + <p> + Burton raised his head, showing his haggard face. + </p> + <p> + “I guess it's no use,” he said dully. “If you know, others must. I thought + only Isaac and Sagosto knew. Why haven't I been arrested? I wish to God I + had—I wouldn't have had to-day to answer for.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not through yet,” said Jimmie Dale gravely. “The next day old Isaac + here sent for you. He said Sagosto had told him of the murder, and had + offered to dispose of the corpse and keep his mouth shut for fifty + thousand dollars—that no one in his place knew of it except himself. + Isaac, for his share, wanted considerably more. You told him you had no + such sums, that you had no money. He told you how you could get it—you + had access to Maddon's safe, you were Maddon's confidential secretary, + fully in your employer's trust, the last man on earth to be suspected—and + there were Maddon's famous, priceless rubies.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale paused. Burton made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “And so,” said Jimmie Dale presently, “to save yourself from the death + penalty you took them.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Burton, scarcely above his breath. “Are you an officer? If you + are, take me, have done with it! Only for Heaven's sake end it! If you're + not—” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was not listening. “The cupboard at the rear of the room,” she + had said. He walked across to it now, opened it, and, after a little + search, found a small bundle. He returned with it in his hand, and, + kneeling beside the dead man on the floor, his back to Burton, untied it, + took out a red wig and beard, and slipped them on to old Isaac's head and + face. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” he said grimly, as he stood up, “if you ever saw this man + before?” + </p> + <p> + “My God—PERLEY!” With a wild cry, Burton was on his feet, straining + forward like a man crazed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jimmie Dale, “Perley! Sort of an ironic justice in his end as + far as you are concerned, isn't there? I think we'll leave him like that—as + Perley. It will provide the police with an interesting little problem—which + they will never solve, and—STEADY!” + </p> + <p> + Burton was rocking on his feet, the tears were streaming down his face. He + lurched heavily—and Jimmie Dale caught him, and pushed him back into + the chair again. + </p> + <p> + “I thought—I thought there was blood on my hands,” said Burton + brokenly; “that—that I had taken a man's life. It was horrible, + horrible! I've lived through three days that I thought would drive me mad, + while I—I tried to do my work, and—and talk to people, just as + if nothing had happened. And every one that spoke to me seemed so carefree + and happy, and I would have sold my soul to have changed places with + them.” He stared at the form on the floor, and shivered suddenly. “It—it + was like that I saw him last!” he whispered. “But—but I do not + understand.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale smiled a little wearily. + </p> + <p> + “It was simple enough,” he said. “Old Isaac had had his eyes on those + rubies for a long time. The easiest way of getting them was through you. + The revolver he gave you before you entered Sagosto's was loaded with + blank cartridges, the blood you saw was the old, old trick—a + punctured bladder of red pigment concealed under the vest.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us get out of here!” Burton shuddered again. “Let us get out of here—at + once—now. If we're found here, we'll be accused of—THAT!” + </p> + <p> + “There is no hurry,” Jimmie Dale answered quietly. “I have told you that + no one is liable to come here to-night—and whoever did this + certainly will not raise an alarm. And besides, there is still the matter + of the rubies—Burton.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Burton, with a quick intake of his breath. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—the rubies—what are you going to do with them? I—I + had forgotten them. You'll—” He stopped, stared at Jimmie Dale, and + burst into a miserable laugh. “I'm a fool, a blind fool!” he moaned. “It + does not matter what you do with them. I forgot Sagosto. When they find + Isaac here, Sagosto will either tell his story, which will be enough to + convict me of this night's work, the REAL murder, even though I'm + innocent; or else he'll blackmail me just as Isaac did.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “You are doing Isaac's cunning an injustice,” he said grimly. “Sagosto was + only a tool, one of many that old Isaac had in his power—and, for + that matter, as likely as any one else to have had a hand in Isaac's + murder to-night. Sagosto saw you once when Isaac brought you into his + place—not because Isaac wanted Sagosto to see you, but because he + wanted YOU to see Sagosto. Do you understand? It would make the story that + Sagosto came to him with the tale of the murder the next day ring true. + Sagosto, however, did not go to old Isaac the next day to tell about any + fake murder—naturally. Sagosto would not know you again from Adam—neither + does he know anything about the rubies, nor what old Isaac's ulterior + motives were. He was paid for his share in the game in old Isaac's usual + manner of payment probably—by a threat of exposure for some old-time + offence, that Isaac held over him, if he didn't keep his mouth shut.” + </p> + <p> + Burton's hand brushed his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he muttered. “Yes—I see it now.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale stooped down, picked up the paper from the floor in which the + wig and beard had been wrapped, walked back with it, and replaced it in + the cupboard. And then, with his back to Burton again, he took the case of + gems from his pocket, opened it, and laid it on the cupboard shelf. Also + from his pocket came that thin metal case, and from the case, with a pair + of tweezers that obviated the possibility of telltale finger prints, a + gray, diamond-shaped piece of paper, adhesive on one side that, cursed by + the distracted authorities in every police headquarters on both sides of + the Atlantic, and raved at by a virulent press whose printed reproductions + had made it familiar in every household in the land—was the insignia + of the Gray Seal. He moistened the adhesive side, dropped it from the + tweezers to his handkerchief, and pressed it down firmly on the inside of + the cover of the jewel case. He put both cases back in his pockets, and + returned to Burton. + </p> + <p> + “Burton,” he said a little sharply, “while I was outside that doorway + there, I heard you beg old Isaac to let you keep the rubies, and three + times already you have asked the same of me. What would you do with them + if I gave them back to you?” + </p> + <p> + Burton did not reply for a moment—he was gazing at the masked face + in a half-eager, half-doubtful way. + </p> + <p> + “You—you mean you will give them back!” he burst out finally. + </p> + <p> + “Answer my question,” prompted Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “Do with them?” Burton repeated slowly. “Why, I've told you. They'd go + back to Mr. Maddon—I'd take them back.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you?” Jimmie Dale's voice was quizzical. + </p> + <p> + A puzzled expression came to Burton's face. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know what you mean by that,” he said. “Of course, I would!” + </p> + <p> + “How?” asked Jimmie Dale. “Do you know the combination of Mr. Maddon's + safe?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Burton + </p> + <p> + “And the safe would be locked, wouldn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite so,” said Jimmie Dale musingly. “Then, granted that Mr. Maddon has + not already discovered the theft, how would you replace the stones before + he does discover it? And if he already knows that they are gone, how would + you get them back into his hands?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” Burton answered a little listlessly. “I've thought of that. + There's only one way—to take them back to him myself, and make a + clean breast of it, and—” He hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “And tell him you stole them,” supplied Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + Burton nodded his head. “Yes,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “And then?” prodded Jimmie Dale. “What will Maddon do? From what I've + heard of him, he's not a man to trifle with, nor a man to take an overly + complacent view of things—not the man whose philosophy is 'all's + well that ends well.'” + </p> + <p> + “What does it matter?” Burton's voice was low. “It isn't that so much. I'm + ready for that. It's the fact that he trusted me implicitly, and I—well, + I played the fool, or I'd never have got into a mess like this.” + </p> + <p> + For an instant Jimmie Dale looked at the other searchingly, and then, + smiling strangely, he shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “There's a better way than that, Burton,” he said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “I think, as I said before, you've had a lesson to-night that will last + you all your life. I'm going to give you another chance—with Maddon. + Here are the stones.” He reached into his pocket and laid the case on the + table. + </p> + <p> + But now Burton made no effort to take the case—his eyes, in that + puzzled way again, were on Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “A better way?” he repeated tensely. “What do you mean? What way?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, say at the expense of another man's reputation—of mine,” + suggested Jimmie Dale, with his whimsical smile. “You need only say that a + man came to you this evening, told you that he stole these rubies from Mr. + Maddon during the afternoon, and asked you, as Mr. Maddon's private + secretary, to restore them with his compliments to their owner.” + </p> + <p> + A slow flush of disappointment, deepening to one of anger dyed Burton's + cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “Are you trying to make a fool of me?” he cried out. “Go to Maddon with a + childish tale like that! There's no man living would believe such a + cock-and-bull story!” + </p> + <p> + “No?” inquired Jimmie Dale softly. “And yet I am inclined to think there + are a good many—that even Maddon would, hard-headed as he is. You + might say that when the man handed you the case you thought it was some + practical joke being foisted on you, until you opened the case”—Jimmie + Dale pushed it a little farther across the table, and Burton, + mechanically, his eyes still on Jimme Dale, loosened the catch with his + thumb nail—“until you opened the case, saw the rubies, and—” + </p> + <p> + “The Gray Seal!” Burton had snatched the case toward him, and was + straining his eyes at the inside cover. “You—the Gray Seal!” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Jimmie Dale whimsically. + </p> + <p> + Motionless, the case held open in his hands, Burton stood there. + </p> + <p> + “The Gray Seal!” he whispered. Then, with a catch in his voice: “You mean + this? You mean to let me have these back—you mean—you mean all + you've said? For God's sake, don't play with me—the Gray Seal, the + most notorious criminal in the country, to give back a fortune like this! + You—you—” + </p> + <p> + “Dog with a bad name,” said Jimmie Dale, with a wry smile; then, a little + gruffly: “Put it in your pocket!” + </p> + <p> + Slowly, almost as though he expected the case to be snatched back from him + the next instant, Burton obeyed. + </p> + <p> + “I don't understand—I CAN'T understand!” he murmured. “They say that + you—and yet I believe you now—you've saved me from a ruined + life to-night. The Gray Seal! If—if every one knew what you had + done, they—” + </p> + <p> + “But every one won't,” Jimmie Dale broke in bluntly, “Who is to tell them? + You? You couldn't very well, when you come to think of it—could you? + Well, who knows, perhaps there have been others like you!” + </p> + <p> + “You mean,” said Burton excitedly, “you mean that all these crimes of + yours that have seemed without motive, that have been so inexplicable, + have really been like to-night to—” + </p> + <p> + “I don't mean anything at all,” interposed Jimmie Dale a little hurriedly. + “Nothing, Burton—except that there is still one little thing more to + do to bolster up that 'childish' story of mine—and then get out of + here.” He glanced sharply, critically around the room, his eyes resting + for a moment at the last on the form on the floor. Then tersely: “I am + going to turn out the light—we will have to pass the window to get + to the door, and we will invite no chances. Are you ready?” + </p> + <p> + “No; not yet,” said Burton eagerly. “I haven't said what I'd like to say + to you, what I—” + </p> + <p> + “Walk straight to the door,” said Jimmie Dale curtly. There was the click + of an electric-light switch, and the room was in darkness. “Now, no + noise!” he instructed. + </p> + <p> + And Burton, perforce, made his way across the room—and at the door + Jimmie Dale joined him and led him down the short flight of stairs. At the + bottom, he opened the door leading into the rear of the pawnshop itself, + and, bidding Burton follow, entered. + </p> + <p> + “We can't risk even a match; it could be seen from the street,” he said + brusquely, as he fumbled around for a moment in the darkness. “Ah—here + it is!” He lifted a telephone receiver from its hook, and gave a number. + </p> + <p> + Burton caught him quickly by the arm. + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord, man, what are you doing?” he protested anxiously. “That's Mr. + Maddon's house!” + </p> + <p> + “So I believe,” said Jimmie Dale complacently. “Hello! Is Mr. Maddon + there? . . . I beg pardon? . . . Personally, yes, if you please.” + </p> + <p> + There was a moment's wait. Burton's hand was still nervously clutching at + Jimmie Dale's sleeve. Then: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Maddon?” asked Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “Yes? . . . I am very sorry to + trouble you, but I called you up to inquire if you were aware that your + rubies, and among them your Aracon, had been stolen? . . . I beg pardon! . + . . Rubies—yes. . . . You weren't. . . . Oh, no, I am quite in my + right mind; if you will take the trouble to open your safe you will find + they are gone—shall I hold the line while you investigate? . . . + What? . . . Don't shout, please—and stand a little farther away from + the mouthpiece.” Jimmie Dale's tone was one of insolent composure now. + “There is really no use in getting excited. . . . I beg pardon? . . . + Certainly, this is the Gray Seal speaking. . . . What?” Jimmie Dale's + voice grew plaintive, “I really can't make out a word when you yell like + that. . . . Yes. . . . I had occasion to use them this afternoon, and I + took the liberty of borrowing them temporarily—are you still there, + Mr. Maddon? . . . Oh, quite so! Yes, I hear you NOW. . . . No, that is + all, only I am returning them through your private secretary, a very + estimable young man, though I fear somewhat excitable and shaky, who is on + his way to you with them now. . . . WHAT'S THAT YOU SAY? You repeat that,” + snapped Jimmie Dale suddenly, icily, “and I'll take them from under your + nose again before morning! . . . Ah! That is better! Good-night—Mr. + Maddon.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale hung up the receiver and shoved Burton toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “Now then, Burton, we'll get out of her—and the sooner you reach + Fifth Avenue and Mr. Maddon's house the better. No; not that way!” They + had reached the hall, and Burton had turned toward the side door that + opened on the alleyway. “Whoever they were who settled their last account + with Isaac may still be watching. They've nothing against any one else, + but they know some one was in here at the time, and, if the police are + clever enough ever to get on their track, they might find it very + convenient to be able to say WHO was in the room when Isaac was murdered—there's + nothing to show, since Isaac so obligingly opened the window for them, + that the shot was fired THROUGH the window and not from the inside of the + room. And even if they have already taken to their heels”—Jimmie + Dale was leading Burton up the stairs again as he talked—“it might + prove exceedingly inconvenient for us if some passer-by should happen to + recollect that he saw two men of our general appearance leaving the + premises. Now keep close—and follow me.” + </p> + <p> + They passed the door of Isaac's den, turned down a narrow corridor that + led to the rear of the house—Jimmie Dale guiding unerringly, working + from the mental map of the house that the Tocsin had drawn for him—descended + another short flight of stairs that gave on the kitchen, crossed the + kitchen, and Jimmie Dale opened a back door. He paused here for a moment + to listen; then, cautioning Burton to be silent, moved on again across a + small back yard and through a gate into a lane that ran at right angles to + the alleyway by which both had entered the house—and, a minute + later, they were crouched against a building, a half block away, where the + lane intersected the cross street. + </p> + <p> + Here Jimmie Dale peered out cautiously. There was no one in sight. He + touched Burton's shoulder, and pointed down the street. + </p> + <p> + “That's your way, Burton—mine's the other. Hurry while you've got + the chance. Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + Burton's hand reached out, caught Jimmie Dale's, and wrung it. + </p> + <p> + “God bless you!” he said huskily. “I—” + </p> + <p> + And Jimmie Dale pushed him out on to the street. + </p> + <p> + Burton's steps receded down the sidewalk. Jimmie Dale still crouched + against the wall. The steps grew fainter in the distance and died finally + away. Jimmie Dale straightened up, slipped the mask from his face to his + pocket, stepped out on the street—and five minutes later was passing + through the noisy bedlam of the Hungarian restaurant on his way to the + front door and his car. + </p> + <p> + “SONNEZ LE TOCSIN,” Jimmie Dale was saying softly to himself. “I wonder + what she'll do when she finds I've got the ring?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <h3> + THE MAN HIGHER UP + </h3> + <p> + The Tocsin! By neither act, sign, nor word had she evidenced the slightest + interest in that ring—and yet she must know, she certainly must know + that it was now in his possession. Jimmie Dale was disappointed. Somehow, + he had counted more than he had cared to admit on developments from that + ring. + </p> + <p> + He pulled a little viciously at his cigarette, as he stared out of the St. + James Club window. That was how long ago? Ten days? Yes; this would be the + eleventh. Eleven days now and no word from her—eleven days since + that night at old Isaac's, since she had last called him, the Gray Seal, + to arms. It was a long while—so long a while even that what had come + to be his prerogative in the newspapers, the front page with three-inch + type recounting some new exploit of that mysterious criminal the Gray + Seal, was being usurped. The papers were howling now about what they, for + the lack of a better term, were pleased to call a wave of crime that had + inundated New York, and of which, for once, the Gray Seal was not the + storm centre, but rather, for the moment, forgotten. + </p> + <p> + He drew back from the window, and, settling himself again in the big + leather lounging chair, resumed the perusal of the evening paper. His eye + fell on what was common to every edition now, a crime editorial—and + the paper crackled suddenly under the long, slim, tapering fingers, so + carefully nurtured, whose sensitive tips a hundred times had made mockery + of the human ingenuity squandered on the intricate mechanism of safes and + vaults. No; he was wrong—the Gray Seal had not been forgotten. + </p> + <p> + “We should not be surprised,” wrote the editor virulently, “to discover at + the bottom of these abominable atrocities that the guiding spirit, in + fact, was the Gray Seal—they are quite worthy even of his diabolical + disregard for the laws of God and man.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's lips straightened ominously, and an angry glint crept into + his dark, steady eyes. There was nothing then, nothing too vile that, in + the public's eyes, could not logically be associated with the Gray Seal—even + this! A series of the most cold-blooded, callous murders and robberies, + the work, on the face of it, of a well-organized band of thugs, brutal, + insensate, little better than fiends, though clever enough so far to have + evaded capture, clever enough, indeed, to have kept the police still + staggering and gasping after a clew for one murder—while another was + in the very act of being committed! The Gray Seal! What exquisite irony! + And yet, after all, the papers were not wholly to blame for what they + said; he had invited much of it. Seeming crimes of the Gray Seal had + apparently been genuine beyond any question of doubt, as he had intended + them to appear, as in the very essence of their purpose they had to be. + </p> + <p> + Yes; he had invited much—he and she together—the Tocsin and + himself. He, Jimmie Dale, millionaire, clubman, whose name for generations + in New York had been the family pride, was “wanted” as the Gray Seal for + so many “crimes” that he had lost track of them himself—but from any + one of which, let the identity of the Gray Seal be once solved, there was + and could be no escape! What exquisite irony—yet full, too, of the + most deadly consequences! + </p> + <p> + Once more Jimmie Dale's eyes sought the paper, and this time scanned the + headlines of the first page: + </p> + <p> + BRUTAL MURDER OF MILL PAYMASTER. THE CRIME WAVE STILL AT ITS HEIGHT. + HERMAN ROESSLE FOUND DEAD NEAR HIS CAR. ASSASSINS ESCAPE WITH $20,000. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale read on—and as he read there came again that angry set + to his lips. The details were not pleasant. Herman Roessle, the paymaster + of the Martindale-Kensington Mills, whose plant was on the Hudson, had + gone that morning in his runabout to the nearest town, three miles away, + for the monthly pay roll; had secured the money from the bank, a sum of + twenty-odd thousand dollars; and had started back with it for the mill. At + first, it being broad daylight and a well-frequented road, his + nonappearance caused no apprehension; but as early afternoon came and + there was still no sign of Roessle the mill management took alarm. + Discovering that he had left the bank for the return journey at a few + minutes before eleven, and that nothing had been seen of him at his home, + the police were notified. Followed then several hours of fruitless search, + until finally, with the whole countryside aroused and the efforts of the + police augumented by private search parties, the car was found in a + thicket at the edge of a crossroad some four miles back from the river, + and, a little way from the car, the body of Roessle, dead, the man's head + crushed in where it had been fiendishly battered by some blunt, heavy + object. There was no clew—no one could be found who had seen the car + on the crossroad—the murderer, or murderers, and the twenty-odd + thousand dollars in cash had disappeared leaving no trace behind. + </p> + <p> + There were several columns of this, which Jimmie Dale skimmed through + quickly; but at the end he stared for a long time at the last paragraph. + Somehow, strange, to relate, the paper had neglected to turn its “sob” + artist loose, and the few words, added almost as though they were an + afterthought, for once rang true and full of pathos in their very + simplicity—at the Roessle home, where Mrs. Roessle was prostrated, + two little tots of five and seven, too young to understand, had gravely + received the reporter and told him that some bad man had hurt their daddy. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Dale, sir!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale lowered his paper. A club attendant was standing before him, + respectfully extending a silver card tray. From the man, Jimmie Dale's + eyes fixed on a white envelope on the tray. One glance was enough—it + was HERS, that letter. The Tocsin again! His brain seemed suddenly to be + afire, and he could feel his pulse quicken, the blood begin to pound in + fierce throbs at his heart. Life and death lay in that white, + innocent-looking, unaddressed envelope, danger, peril—it was always + life and death, for those were the stakes for which the Tocsin played. + But, master of many things, Jimmie Dale was most of all master of himself. + Not a muscle of his face moved. He reached nonchalantly for the letter. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + The man bowed and started away. Jimmie Dale laid the envelope on the arm + of the lounging chair. The man had reached the door when Jimmie Dale + stopped him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, by the way,” said Jimmie Dale languidly, “where did this come from?” + </p> + <p> + “Your chauffeur, sir,” replied the other. “Your chauffeur gave it to the + hall porter a moment ago, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Jimmie Dale again. + </p> + <p> + The door closed. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale glanced around the room. It was the caution of habit, that + glance; the habit of years in which his life had hung on little things. He + was alone in one of the club's private library rooms. He picked up the + envelope, tore it open, took out the folded sheets inside, and began to + read. At the first words he leaned forward, suddenly tense in his chair. + He read on, turning the pages hurriedly, incredulity, amazement, and, + finally, a strange menace mirroring itself in turn upon his face. + </p> + <p> + He stood up—the letter in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “My God!” whispered Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + It was a call to arms such as the Gray Seal had never received before—such + as the Tocsin had never made before. And if it were true it—True! He + laughed aloud a little gratingly. True! Had the Tocsin, astounding, + unbelievable, mystifying as were the means by which she acquired her + knowledge not only of this, but of countless other affairs, ever by so + much as the smallest detail been astray. If it were true! + </p> + <p> + He pulled out his watch. It was half-past nine. Benson, his chauffeur, had + sent the letter into the club. Benson had been waiting outside there ever + since dinner. Jimmie Dale, for the first time since the first + communication that he had ever received from the Tocsin, did not + immediately destroy her letter now. He slipped it into his pocket—and + stepped quickly from the room. + </p> + <p> + In the cloakroom downstairs he secured his hat and overcoat, and, though + it was a warm evening, put on the latter since he was in evening clothes, + then walked leisurely out of the club. + </p> + <p> + At the curb, Benson, the chauffeur, sprang from his seat, and, touching + his cap, opened the door of a luxurious limousine. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I shall not keep you waiting any longer, Benson,” he said. “You may take + the car home, and put it up. I shall probably be late to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good, sir,” replied the chauffeur. + </p> + <p> + “You sent in a letter a moment or so ago, Benson?” observed Jimmie Dale + casually, opening his cigarette case. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said Benson. “I hope I didn't do wrong, sir. He said it was + important, and that you were to have it at once.” + </p> + <p> + “He?” Jimmie Dale was lighting his cigarette now. + </p> + <p> + “A boy, sir,” Benson amplified. “I couldn't get anything out of him. He + just said he'd been told to give it to me, and tell me to see that you got + it at once. I hope, sir, I haven't—” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all, Benson,” said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “It's quite all right. + Good-night, Benson.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, sir,” Benson answered, climbing back to his seat. + </p> + <p> + There was a queer little smile on Jimmie Dale's lips, as he watched the + great car swing around in the street and glide noiselessly away—a + queer little smile that still held there even after he himself had started + briskly along the avenue in a downtown direction. It was invariably the + same, always the same—the letters came unexpectedly, when least + looked for, now by this means, now by that, but always in a manner that + precluded the slightest possibility of tracing them to their source. Was + there anything, in his intimate surroundings, in his intimate life, that + she did not know about him—who knew absolutely nothing about her! + Benson, for instance—that the man was absolutely trustworthy—or + else she would never for an instant have risked the letter in his + possession. Was there anything that she did not—yes, one thing—she + did not know him in the role he was going to play to-night. That at least + was one thing that surely she did not know about him; the role in which, + many times, for weeks on end, he had devoted himself body and soul in an + attempt to solve the mystery with which she surrounded herself; the role, + too, that often enough had been a bulwark of safety to him when hard + pressed by the police; the role out of which he had so carefully, so + painstakingly created a now recognised and well-known character of the + underworld—the role of Larry the Bat. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale turned from Fifth Avenue into Broadway, continued on down + Broadway, across to the Bowery, kept along the Bowery for several more + blocks—and finally headed east into the dimly lighted cross street + on which the Sanctuary was located. + </p> + <p> + And now Jimmie Dale became cautious in his movements. As he approached the + black alleyway that flanked the miserable tenement, he glanced sharply + behind and about him; and, at the alleyway itself, without pause, but with + a curious lightning-like side step, no longer Jimmie Dale now, but the + Gray Seal, he disappeared from the street, and was lost in the deep + shadows of the building. + </p> + <p> + In a moment he was at the side door, listening for any sound from within—none + had ever seen or met the lodger or the first floor either ascending or + descending, except in the familiar character of Larry the Bat. He opened + the door, closed it behind him, and in the utter blackness went + noiselessly up the stairs—stairs so rickety that it seemed a mouse's + tread alone would have set them creaking. There seemed an art in the play + of Jimmie Dale's every muscle; in the movements, lithe, balanced, quick, + absolutely silent. On the first landing he stopped before another door, + there was the faint click of a key turning in the lock; and then this + door, too, closed behind him. Sounded the faint click of the key as it + turned again, and Jimmie Dale drew a long breath, stepped across the room + to assure himself that the window blind was down, and lighted the gas jet. + </p> + <p> + A yellow, murky flame spurted up, pitifully weak, almost as though it were + ashamed of its disreputable surroundings. Dirt, disorder, squalour, the + evidence of low living testified eloquently enough to any one, the police, + for instance, in times past inquisitive until they were fatuously content + with the belief that they knew the occupant for what he was, that the + place was quite in keeping with its tenant, a mute prototype, as it were, + of Larry the Bat, the dope fiend. + </p> + <p> + For a little space, Jimmie Dale, immaculate in his evening clothes, stood + in the centre of the miserable room, his dark eyes, keen, alert, critical, + sweeping comprehensively over every object about him—the position of + a chair, of a cracked drinking glass on the broken-legged table, of an old + coat thrown with apparent carelessness on the floor at the foot of the + bed, of a broken bottle that had innocently strewn some sort of white + powder close to the threshold, inviting unwary foot tracks across the + floor. And then, taking out the Tocsin's letter, he laid it upon the + table, placed what money he had in his pockets beside it, and began + rapidly to remove his clothes. The Sanctuary had not been invaded since + his last visit there. + </p> + <p> + He turned back the oilcloth in the far corner of the room, took up the + piece of loose flooring, which, however, strangely enough, fitted so + closely as to give no sign of its existence even should it inadvertently, + by some curious visitor again be trod upon; and from the aperture beneath + lifted out a bundle of clothes and a small box. + </p> + <p> + Undressed now, he carefully folded the clothes he had taken off, laid them + under the flooring, and began to dress again, his wardrobe supplied by the + bundle he had taken out in exchange—an old pair of shoes, the laces + broken; mismated socks; patched trousers, frayed at the bottoms; a soiled + shirt, collarless, open at the neck. Attired to his satisfaction, he + placed the box upon the table, propped up a cracked mirror, sat down in + front of it, and, with a deft, artist's touch, began to apply stain to his + hands, wrists, neck, throat, and face—but the hardness, the grim + menace that now grew into the dominant characteristic of his features was + not due to the stain alone. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Philanthropic Crook”—his eyes were on the Tocsin's letter that + lay before him. He read on—for once, even to Jimmie Dale's keen, + facile mind, a first reading had failed to convey the full significance of + what she had written. It was too amazing, almost beyond belief—the + series of crimes, rampant for the past few weeks, at which the community + had stood aghast, the brutal murder of Roessle but a few hours old, lay + bare before his eyes. It was all there, all of it, the details, the + hellish cleverness, the personnel even of the thugs, all, everything—except + the proof. + </p> + <p> + “Get him, Jimmie—the man higher up. Get him, Jimmie—before + another pays forfeit with his life”—the words seemed to leap out at + him from the white page in red, dancing lines—“Get him—Jimmie—the + man higher up.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale finished the second reading of the letter, read it again for + the third time, then tore it into tiny fragments. His fingers delved into + the box again, and the transformation of Jimmie Dale, member of New York's + most exclusive social set, into a low, vicious-featured denizen of the + underworld went on—a little wax applied skilfully behind the ears, + in the nostrils and under the upper lip. + </p> + <p> + It was all there—all except the proof. And the proof—he + laughed aloud suddenly, unpleasantly. There seemed something sardonic in + it; ay, more than that, all that was grim in irony. The proof, in + Stangeist's own writing, sworn to before witnesses in the presence of a + notary, the text of the document, of course, unknown to both witnesses and + notary, evidence, absolute and final, that would be admitted in any court, + for Stangeist was a lawyer, and would see to that, was in Stangeist's own + safe, for Stangeist's own protection—Stangeist, who was himself the + head and brains of this murder gang—Stangeist, who was the man + higher up! + </p> + <p> + It was amazing, without parallel in the history of crime—and yet + ingenious, clever, full of the craft and cunning that had built up the + shyster lawyer's reputation below the dead line. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's lips were curiously thin now. So it was Stangeist! A Doctor + Jekyll and Mr. Hyde with a vengeance! He knew Stangeist—not + personally; not by the reputation Stangeist held, low even as that was, + among his brother members of the profession; but as the man was known for + what he really was among the crooks and criminals of the underworld, + where, in that strange underground exchange, whispered confidences passed + between those whose common enemy was the law, where Larry the Bat himself + was trusted in the innermost circles. + </p> + <p> + Stangeist was a power in the Bad Lands. There were few among that unholy + community that Stangeist, at one time or another, in one way or another, + had not rescued from the clutches of the law, resorting to any trick or + cunning, but with perjury, that he could handle like the master of it that + he was, employed as the most common weapon of defence for his clients—provided + he were paid well enough for it. The man had become more than the attorney + for the crime world—he had become part of it. Cunning, shrewd, + crafty, conscienceless, cold-blooded—that was Stangeist. + </p> + <p> + The form and features of the man pictured themselves in Jimmie Dale's mind—the + six-foot muscular frame, that was invariably clothed in attire of the most + fashionable cut; the thin lips with their oily, plausible smile, the + straight black hair that straggled into pin point, little black eyes, the + dark face with its high cheek bones, which, with the pronounced aquiline + nose and the persistent rumour that he was a quarter caste, had led the + underworld, prejudiced always in favour of a “monaker,” to dub the man the + “Indian Chief.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale laughed again—still unpleasantly. So Stangeist had taken + the plunge at last and branched out into a wider field, had he? Well, + there was nothing surprising in that—except that he had not done it + before! The irony of it lay in the fact that at last he had been TOO + clever, overstepped himself in his own cleverness, that was all. It was + Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane that Stangeist had gathered + around him, the Tocsin had said—and there were none worse in Larry + the Bat's wide range of acquaintanceship than those three. Stangeist had + made himself master of Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane—and + he had driven them a little too hard on the division of the spoils—and + laughed at them, and cracked the whip much after the fashion that the + trainer in the cage handles the growling beasts around him. + </p> + <p> + A dozen of the crimes that had appalled and staggered New York they had + committed under his leadership; and then, it seemed, they had quarrelled + furiously, the three pitted against Stangeist, threatening him, demanding + a more equitable share of the proceeds. None was better aware than + Stangeist that threats from men of their calibre were likely to result in + a grim aftermath—and Stangeist, yesterday, the Tocsin said, had + answered them as no other man than Stangeist would either have thought of + or have dared to do. One by one, at separate times, covering the other + with a revolver, Stangeist had permitted them to read a document that was + addressed to the district attorney. It was a confession, complete in every + detail, of every crime the four together had committed, implicating + Stangeist as fully and unreservedly as it did the other three. It required + no commentary! If anything happened to Stangeist, a stab in the dark, for + instance, a bullet from some dark alleyway, a blackjack deftly wielded, as + only Australian Ike, The Mope or Clarie Deane knew how to wield it—the + document automatically became a DEATH SENTENCE for Australian Ike, The + Mope, and Clarie Deane! + </p> + <p> + It was very simple—and, evidently, it had been effective, as witness + the renewal of their operations in the murder of Roessle that afternoon. + Fear and avarice had both probably played their part; fear of the man who + would with such consummate nerve fling his life into the balance to turn + the tables upon them, while he jeered at them; avarice that prompted them + to get what they could out of Stangeist's brains and leadership, and to be + satisfied with what they COULD get—since they could get no more! + </p> + <p> + Satisfied? Jimmie Dale shook his head. No; that was hardly the word—cowed, + perhaps, for the moment, would be better. But afterward, with a document + like that in existence, when they would never be safe for an instant—well, + beasts in the cages had been known to get the better of the man with the + whip, and beasts were gentle things compared with Australian Ike, The + Mope, and Clarie Deane! Some day they would reverse the tables on the + Indian Chief—if they could. And if they couldn't it would not be for + the lack of trying. + </p> + <p> + There would be another act in that drama of the House Divided before the + curtain fell! And there would be a sort of grim, poetic justice in it, a + temptation almost to let the play work itself out to its own inevitable + conclusion, only—Jimmie Dale, the final touches given to his + features, stood up, and his hands clenched suddenly, fiercely—it was + not just the man higher up alone, there were the other three as well, the + whole four of them, all of them, crimes without number at their door, + brutal, fiendish acts, damnable outrages, murder to answer for, with which + the public now was beginning to connect the name of the Gray Seal! The + Gray Seal! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's hands, whose delicate fingers were artfully grimed and + blackened now beneath the nails, clenched still tighter—and then, + with a quick shrug of his shoulders, a thinning of the firmly compressed + lips, he picked up the coat from where it lay upon the floor, put it on, + put the money that was on the table in his pocket, and replaced the box + under the flooring. + </p> + <p> + In quick succession, from the same hiding place, an automatic, a black + silk mask, an electric flashlight, that thin metal box like a cigarette + case, and a half dozen vicious-looking little blued-steel burglar's tools + were stowed away in his pockets, the flooring carefully replaced, the + oilcloth spread back again; and then, pulling a slouch hat well down over + his eyes, he reached up to turn off the gas. + </p> + <p> + For an instant his hand held there, while his eyes, sweeping around the + apartment, took in every single detail about him in that same alert, + comprehensive way as when he had entered—then the room was in + darkness, and the Gray Seal, as Larry the Bat, a shuffling, unkempt + creature of the underworld, alias Jimmie Dale, the lionised of clubs, the + matrimonial target of exclusive drawing-rooms, closed the door of the + Sanctuary behind him, shuffled down the stairs, shuffled out into the + lane, and shuffled along the street toward the Bowery. + </p> + <p> + A policeman on the corner accosted him familiarly. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Larry!” grinned the officer. + </p> + <p> + “'Ello!” returned Jimmie Dale affably through the side of his mouth. “Fine + night, ain't it?”—and shuffled on along the street. + </p> + <p> + And now Jimmie Dale began to hurry—still with that shuffling tread, + but covering the ground nevertheless with amazing celerity. He had lost no + time since receiving the Tocsin's letter, it was true, but, for all that, + it was now after ten o'clock. Stangeist's house was “dark” that evening, + she had said, meaning that the occupants, Stangeist as well as whatever + servants there might be, for Stangeist had no family, were out—the + servants in town for a theatre or picture show probably—and + Stangeist himself as yet not back, presumably from that Roessle affair. + The stub of an old cigar, unlighted, shifted with a sudden, savage twist + of the lips from one side of Jimmie Dale's mouth to the other. There was + need for haste. There was no telling when Stangeist might get back—as + for the servants, that did not matter so much; servants in suburban homes + had a marked affinity for “last trains!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale boarded a cross-town car, effected a transfer, and in a + quarter of an hour after leaving the Sanctuary was huddled, an inoffensive + heap, like a tired-out workingman, in a corner seat of a Long Island + train. From here, there was only a short run ahead of him, and, twenty + minutes later, descending from the train at Forest Hills, he had passed + through the more thickly settled portion of the little place, and was + walking briskly out along the country road. + </p> + <p> + Stangeist's house lay, approximately, a mile and a half from the station, + quite by itself, and set well back from the road. Jimmie Dale could have + found it with his eyes blindfolded—the Tocsin's directions had + lacked none of their usual explicit minuteness. The road was quite + deserted. Jimmie Dale met no one. Even in the houses that he passed the + lights were in nearly every instance already out. + </p> + <p> + Something, merciless in its rage, swept suddenly over Jimmie Dale, as, + unbidden, of its own volition, the last paragraph he had read in that + evening's paper began to repeat itself over and over again in his mind. + The two little kiddies—it seemed as though he could see them + standing there—and from Jimmie Dale's lips, not given to profanity, + there came a bitter oath. It might possibly be that, even if he were + successful in what was before him to-night, the authors of the Roessle + murder would never be known. That confession of Stangeist's was written + prior to what had happened that afternoon, and there would be no mention, + naturally, of Roessle. And, for a moment, that seemed to Jimmie Dale the + one thing paramount to all others, the one thing that was vital; then he + shook his head, and laughed out shortly. After all, it did not matter—whether + Stangeist and the blood wolves he had gathered around him paid the penalty + specifically for one particular crime or for another could make little + difference—they would PAY, just as surely, just as certainly, once + that paper was in his possession! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was counting the houses as he passed—they were more + infrequent now, farther apart. Stangeist was no fool—not the fool + that he would appear to be for keeping a document like that, once he had + had the temerity to execute it, in his own safe; for, in a day or two, the + Tocsin had hinted at this, after holding it over the heads of Australian + Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane again to drive the force of it a little + deeper home, he would undoubtedly destroy it—and the SUPPOSITION + that it was still in existence would have equally the same effect on the + minds of the other three! Stangeist was certainly alive to the peril that + he ran with such a thing in his possession, only the peril had not + appealed to him as imminent either from the three thugs with whom he had + allied himself, or, much less, from any one else, that was all. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale halted by a low, ornamental stone fence, some three feet high, + and stood there for a moment, glancing about him. This was Stangeist's + house—he could just make out the building as it loomed up a shadowy, + irregular shape, perhaps two hundred yards back from the fence. The house + was quite dark, not a light showed in any window. Jimmie Dale sat down + casually on the fence, looked carefully again up and down the road—then, + swinging his legs over, quick now in every action, he dropped to the other + side, and stole silently across the grass to the rear of the house. + </p> + <p> + Here he stopped again, reached up to a window that was about on a level + with his shoulders, and tested its fastenings. The window—it was the + window of Stangeist's private sanctum, according to the plan in her letter—was + securely locked. Jimmie Dale's hands went into his pocket—and the + black silk mask was slipped over his face. He listened intently—then + a little steel instrument began to gnaw like a rat. + </p> + <p> + A minute passed—two of them. Again Jimmie Dale listened. There was + not a sound save the night sounds—the light breeze whispering + through the branches of the trees; the far-off rumble of a train; the whir + of insects; the hoarse croaking of a frog from some near-by creek or pond. + The window sash was raised an inch, another, and gradually to the top. + Like a shadow, Jimmie Dale pulled himself up to the sill, and, poised + there, his hand parted the heavy portieres that hung within. It was too + dark to distinguish even a single object in the room. He lowered himself + to the floor, and slipped cautiously between the portieres. + </p> + <p> + From somewhere in the house, a clock began to strike. Jimmie Dale counted + the strokes. Eleven o'clock. It was getting late—TOO late! Stangeist + was likely to be back at any moment. The flashlight, in Jimmie Dale's hand + now, circled the room with its little round white ray, lingering an + instant in a queer, inquisitive sort of way here and there on this object + and that—and went out. Jimmie Dale nodded—the flat desk in the + centre of the floor, the safe in the corner by the rear wall, the position + of everything in the room, even to the chairs, was photographed on his + mind. + </p> + <p> + He stepped from the portieres to the safe, and the flashlight played again—this + time reflecting back from the glistening nickelled knobs. Jimmie Dale's + lips tightened. It was a small safe, almost ludicrously small; but to such + height as the art of safe design had been carried, that design was + embodied in the one before him. + </p> + <p> + “Type K-four-two-eight-Colby,” muttered Jimmie Dale. “A nasty little + beggar—and it's eleven o'clock now! I'd use 'soup' for once, if it + weren't that it would put Stangeist wise, and give him a chance to make + his get-away before the district attorney got the nippers on the four of + them.” + </p> + <p> + The light went out. Jimmie Dale dropped to his knees; and, while his left + hand passed swiftly, tentatively over dials and handle, he rubbed the + fingers of his right hand rapidly to and fro over the carpet. Wonderful + finger tips were those of Jimmie Dale, sensitive to an abnormal degree; + and now, tingling with the friction, the nerves throbbing at the skin + surface, they closed in a light, delicate touch upon the knob of the dial—and + Jimmie Dale's ear pressed close against the face of the safe. + </p> + <p> + Time passed. The silence grew heavy—seemed to palpitate through the + room. Then a deep breath, half like a sigh, half like a fluttering sob as + of a strong man taxed to the uttermost of his endurance, came from Jimmie + Dale, and his left hand swept away the sweat beads that had spurted to his + forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Eight—thirteen—twenty-two,” whispered Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + There was a click, a low metallic thud as the bolts slid back, and the + door swung open. + </p> + <p> + And now the flashlight again, searching the mechanism of the inner door—then + darkness once more. + </p> + <p> + Five minutes, ten minutes went by. The clock struck again—and the + single stroke seemed to boom out through the house in a weird, raucous, + threatening note, and seemed to linger, throbbing in the air. + </p> + <p> + The inner door was open—the flashlight's ray was flooding a nest of + pigeonholes and little drawers. The pigeonholes were crammed with papers, + as, presumably, too, were the drawers. Jimmie Dale sucked in his breath. + He had already been there well over half an hour—every minute now, + every second was counting against him, and to search that mass of papers + before Stangeist returned was— + </p> + <p> + “Ah!”—it came in a fierce little ejaculation from Jimmie Dale. From + the centre pigeonhole, almost the first paper he had touched, he drew a + long, sealed envelope and at a single swift glance had read the + inscription upon it, written in longhand: + </p> + <p> + TO THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY, NEW YORK CITY. IMPORTANT. URGENT. + </p> + <p> + The words in the corners were underscored three times. + </p> + <p> + Swiftly, deftly, Jimmie Dale's hands rolled the rounded end of one of his + collection of the legal instruments under the flap of the envelope, turned + the sheets over and drew out the folded document inside. There were eight + sheets of legal foolscap, neatly fastened together at the top left-hand + corner with green tape. He opened them out, read a few words here and + there, and turned the pages hurriedly over to scrutinise the last one—and + nodded grimly. Three witnesses had testified to the signature of + Stangeist, and a notary's seal, accompanied by the usual legal formula, + was duly affixed. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale slipped the document into his pocket, and, with the envelope + in his hand, moved to the desk. He opened first one drawer and then + another, and finally discovering a pile of blank foolscap, took out four + sheets, folded them, and placed them in the envelope, sealing the flap of + the latter again. That it did not seal very well now brought a quizzical + twitch to Jimmie Dale's lips. Sealed or unsealed, perhaps, it made little + difference; but, for all that, he was not through with it yet. Apart from + bringing the four to justice, there was, after all, a chance to vindicate + the Gray Seal in this matter at least, and repudiate the newspaper theory + which the public, to whom the Gray Seal was already a monster of iniquity, + would seize upon with avidity. + </p> + <p> + There was no further need of light now. Jimmie Dale replaced the + flashlight in his pocket, took out the thin, metal case, opened it, and + with the tiny pair of tweezers that likewise nestled there, lifted out one + of the gray, diamond-shaped paper seals. There was no question but that, + once under arrest, Stangeist's effects would be immediately and thoroughly + searched by the authorities! Jimmie Dale's smile from quizzical became + ironic. It would afford the police another little, bewildering reminder of + the Gray Seal, and give Carruthers, good old Carruthers of the MORNING + NEWS-ARGUS, so innocently ignorant that the Gray Seal was his old college + pal, yet the one editor of them all who was not forever barking and + yelping at the Gray Seal's heels, a chance to vindicate himself a little, + too! Jimmie Dale moistened the adhesive side of the gray seal, and, still + mindful of tell-tale finger prints, laid it with the tweezers on the flap + of the envelope, and pressed it firmly into place with his elbow. + </p> + <p> + And then, suddenly, every faculty instantly on the alert, he snatched up + the envelope from the desk, and listened. Was it imagination, a trick of + nerves, or—no, there it was again!—a footfall on the gravel + walk at the front of the house. The sound became louder, clearer—two + footfalls instead of one. It was Stangeist, and somebody was with him. + </p> + <p> + In an instant Jimmie Dale was across the room and kneeling again before + the safe. His fingers were flying now. The envelope shot back into the + pigeonhole from which he had taken it—the inner door of the safe + closed silently and swiftly. + </p> + <p> + A dry chuckle came from Jimmie Dale's lips. It was just like fiction, just + precisely time enough to have accomplished what he had come for before he + was interrupted, not a second more or less, the villain foiled at the + psychological moment! The key was rattling in the front door now—they + were in the hall—he could hear Stangeist's voice—there came a + dull glow from the hallway, following the click of an electric-light + switch. The outer door of the safe swung shut, the bolts slid into place, + the dial whirled under Jimmie Dale's fingers. It was only a step to the + portieres, the open window—and escape. He straightened up, stepped + back, the portieres closed behind him—and the chuckle died on Jimmie + Dale's lips. + </p> + <p> + He was trapped—caught without so much as a corner in which to turn! + Stangeist was even then coming into the room—and OUTSIDE, darkly + outlined, two forms stood just beneath the window. Instinctively, quick as + a flash, Jimmie Dale crouched below the sill. Who were they? What did it + mean? Questions swept in swift sequence through his brain. Had they seen + him? It would be very dark against the background of the portieres, but + yet if they were watching—he drew a breath of relief. He had not + been seen. Their voices reached him in low, guarded whispers. + </p> + <p> + “Say, youse, Ike, pipe it! Dere's a window open in the snitch's room. Come + on, we'll get in dere. It'll make the hair stand up on the back of his + neck fer a starter.” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, ferget it!” replied another voice. “Can the tee-ayter stunt! Clarie + leaves the front door unfastened, don't he? An' dey'll be in dere in a + minute now. Wotcher want ter do? Crab the game? He might hear us an' fix + Clarie before we had a chanst, the skinny old fox! An' dere's the light + now—see! Beat it on yer toes fer the front of the house!” + </p> + <p> + The room was flooded with light. Through the portieres, that Jimmie Dale + parted by the barest fraction of an inch, he could see Stangeist and + another man, a thick-set, ugly-faced-looking customer—Clarie Deane, + according to that brief, whispered colloquy that he had heard outside. He + looked again through the window. The two dark forms had disappeared now, + but they had disappeared just a few seconds too late—with the two + other men now in the room, and one of them so close that Jimmie Dale could + almost have reached out and touched him, it was impossible to get through + the window without being detected, when the slightest sound would attract + instant attention and equally instant suspicion. It was a chance to be + taken only as a last resort. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's face grew hard, as his fingers closed around his automatic + and drew the weapon from his pocket. It was all plain enough. That last + act in the drama which he had speculatively anticipated was being staged + with little loss of time—and in a grim sort of way the thought + flashed across his mind that, perilous as his own position was, Stangeist + at that moment was in even greater peril than himself. Australian Ike, The + Mope, and Clarie Deane, given the chance, and they seemed to have made + that chance now, were not likely to deal in half measures—Clarie + Deane had dropped into a chair beside the desk; and The Mope and + Australian Ike were creeping around to the front door! + </p> + <p> + The parting in the portieres widened a little more, a very little more, + slowly, imperceptibly, until Jimmie Dale, by the simple expedient of + moving his head, could obtain an unobstructed view of the entire room. + </p> + <p> + Stangeist tossed a bag he had been carrying on the desk, pulled up a chair + opposite to Clarie Deane, and sat down. Both men were side face to Jimmie + Dale. + </p> + <p> + “You tell the boys,” said Stangeist abruptly, “to fade away after this for + a while. Things are getting too hot. And you tell The Mope I dock him five + hundred for that extra crunch on Roessle's skull. That sort of thing isn't + necessary. That's the kind of stunt that gets the public sore—the + man was dead enough as it was. See?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” Clarie Deane's ejaculation was a grunt. + </p> + <p> + Stangeist opened the bag, and dumped the contents on the desk—pile + after pile of banknotes, the pay roll of the Martindale-Kensington Mills. + </p> + <p> + “Some haul!” observed Clarie Deane, with a hoarse chuckle. “The papers + said over twenty thousand.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't always believe what the papers say,” returned Stangeist curtly; + and, taking a scribbling pad from the desk, began to check up the + packages. + </p> + <p> + Clarie Deane's cigar had gone out. He rolled the short stub in his mouth, + and leaned forward. + </p> + <p> + The bills were evidently just as they had been delivered to the murdered + paymaster at the bank, done up with little narrow paper bands in packages + of one hundred notes each, save for a small bundle of loose bills which + latter, with the rolls of silver, Stangeist swept to one side of the desk. + </p> + <p> + Package by package, Stangeist went on jotting the amounts down on the pad. + </p> + <p> + “Nix!” growled Clarie Deane suddenly. “Cut that out! Them's fivers in that + wad. Make that five hundred instead of one—I'm onter yer!” + </p> + <p> + “Mistake,” said Stangeist suavely, changing the figures with his pencil. + “You're pretty wide awake for this time of night, aren't you, Clarie?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I dunno!” responded Clarie Deane gruffly. “Not so very!” + </p> + <p> + Stangeist, finished with the packages, picked up the loose bills, and, + with a short laugh, tossed them into the bag and followed them with the + rolls of silver. He pushed the bag toward Clarie Deane. + </p> + <p> + “That's a little extra for you,” he said. “The trouble with you fellows is + that you don't know when you're well off—but the sooner you find it + out the better, unless you want another lesson like yesterday.” He made + the addition on the pad. “Fifteen thousand, eight hundred dollars,” he + announced softly. “That's seven thousand, nine hundred for the three of + you to divide, less five hundred from The Mope.” + </p> + <p> + Clarie Deane's eyes narrowed. His hands were on his knees, hidden by the + desk. + </p> + <p> + “There's more'n twenty there,” he said sullenly—and drew a match + across the under edge of the desk with a long, crackling noise. + </p> + <p> + Stangeist's face lost its suavity, a snarl curled his lips; but, about to + reply, he sprang suddenly to his feet instead, his head turned sharply + toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “What's that!” he said hoarsely. “It's not the servants, they wouldn't + dare to—” + </p> + <p> + Stangeist's words ended in a gulp. He was staring into the muzzle of a + heavy-calibered revolver that Clarie Deane had jerked up from under the + desk. + </p> + <p> + “You sit down, or I'll blow your block off!” said Clarie Deane, with a + sudden leer. + </p> + <p> + It happened then almost before Jimmie Dale could grasp the details; before + even Clarie Deane himself could interfere. The door burst open, two men + rushed in—and one, with a bound, flung himself at Stangeist. The + man's hand, grasping a clubbed revolver, rose in the air, descended on + Stangeist's head—and Stangeist went down in a limp heap, crashed + into the chair, and slid from the chair with a thud to the floor. + </p> + <p> + There was an oath from Clarie Deane. He jumped from his seat, and with a + violent shove sent the man reeling half across the room. + </p> + <p> + “Blast you, Mope!” he snarled. “You're too blamed fly! D'ye wanter queer + the whole biz?” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, wot's the matter wid youse!” The Mope, purple-faced with rage, little + black eyes glittering, mouth working under a flattened nose that some + previous encounter had broken and bent over the side of his face, advanced + belligerently. + </p> + <p> + Australian Ike, who had entered the room with him, pulled him back. + </p> + <p> + “Ferget it!” he flung out. “Clarie's dealin' the deck. Ferget it!” + </p> + <p> + The Mope glared from one to the other; then shook his fist at Stangeist on + the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Youse two make me sick!” he sneered. “Wot's the use of waitin' all night? + We was to bump him off, anyway, wasn't we? Dat's wot youse said yerselves, + 'cause wot was ter stop him writin' out another paper if we didn't fix him + fer keeps?” + </p> + <p> + “That's all right,” rejoined Clarie Deane; “but that's the second act, you + bonehead, see! We ain't got the paper yet, have we? Say, take a look at + that safe! It's easier ter scare him inter openin' it than ter crack it, + ain't it?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, from his crouched position, began to rise to his feet slowly, + making but the slightest movement at a time, cautious of the least sound. + His lips were like a thin line, his fingers tightly pressed over the + automatic in his hand. There was not room for him between the portieres + and the window; and, do what he could, the hangings bulged a little. Let + one of the three notice that, or inadvertently brush against the + portieres, and his life would not be worth an instant's purchase. + </p> + <p> + They were lifting Stangeist up now, propping him up in the chair. + Stangeist moaned, opened his eyes, stared in a dazed way at the three + faces that leered into his, then dawning intelligence came, and his face, + that had been white before, took on a pasty, grayish pallor. + </p> + <p> + “You—the three of you!” he mumbled. “What's this mean?” + </p> + <p> + And then Clarie Deane laughed in a low, brutal way. + </p> + <p> + “Wot d'ye think it means? We want that paper, an' we want it damn quick—see! + D'ye think we was goin' ter stand fer havin' a trip ter Sing Sing an' the + wire chair danglin' over our heads!” + </p> + <p> + Stangeist closed his eyes. When he opened them again, something of the + old-time craftiness was in his face. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what are you going to do about it?” he inquired, almost sharply. + “You know what will happen to you, if anything happens to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't youse kid yerself!” retorted Clarie Deane. “D'ye think we're fools? + This ain't like it was yesterday—see! We GETS the paper this time—so + there won't nothin' happen to us. You come across with it blasted quick + now, or The Mope'll give you another on the bean that'll put you to sleep + fer keeps!” + </p> + <p> + The blood was running down Stangeist's face. He wiped it away from his + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “It's not here,” he said innocently. “It's in my box in the safety-deposit + vaults.” + </p> + <p> + “Aw,” blurted out Australian Ike, pushing suddenly forward, “youse can't + work dat crawl on—” + </p> + <p> + “Cut it out, Ike!” snapped Clarie Dane. “I'm runnin' this! So it's in the + vaults, eh?” He shoved his face toward Stangeist's. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Stangeist easily. “You see—I was looking for something + like this.” + </p> + <p> + Clarie Deane's fist clenched. + </p> + <p> + “You lie!” he choked. “The Mope, here, was the last of us you showed the + paper to yesterday afternoon, an' the vaults was closed then—an' you + ain't been there to-day, 'cause you've been watched. That's why we fixed + it fer to-night after the divvy that you've just tried ter do us on again, + 'cause we knew you had it here.” + </p> + <p> + “I tell you, it's not here,” said Stangeist evenly. + </p> + <p> + “You lie!” said Clarie Deane again. “It's in that safe. The Mope heard you + tell the girl in yer office that if anything happened to you she was ter + wise up the district attorney that there was a paper in your safe at home + fer him that was important. Now then, you beat it over ter that safe, an' + open it up—we'll give you a minute ter do it in.” + </p> + <p> + “The paper's not there, I tell you,” said Stangeist once more. + </p> + <p> + “That's all right,” submitted Clarle Deane grimly. “There's a quarter of + that minute gone.” + </p> + <p> + “I won't!” Stangeist flashed out violently. + </p> + <p> + “That's all right,” repeated Clarie Deane. “There's half of that minute + gone.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's eyes, in a fascinated sort of way, were on Stangeist. The + man's face was twitching now, moisture began to ooze from his forehead, as + the callous brutality of the scowling faces seemed to get him—and + then he lurched suddenly forward in his chair. + </p> + <p> + “My God!” he cried out, a ring of terror in his voice “What do you mean to + do? You'll pay for it! They'll get you! The servants will be back in a + minute.” + </p> + <p> + “Two skirts!” jeered Clarie Deane. “We ain't goin' ter run away from them. + If they comes before we goes, we'll fix 'em. That minute's up!” + </p> + <p> + Stangeist licked his lips with his tongue. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose—suppose I refuse?” he said hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + “You can suit yerself,” said Clarie Deane, with a vicious grin. “We know + the paper's there, an' we gets it before we leaves here—see? You can + take yer choice. Either you goes over ter the safe an' opens it yerself, + or else”—he paused and produced a small bottle from his pocket—“this + is nitro-glycerin', an' we opens it fer you with this. Only if we does the + job we does it proper. We ties you up and sets you against the door of the + safe before we touches off the 'soup,' an' mabbe if yer a good guesser you + can guess the rest.” + </p> + <p> + There was a short, raucous guffaw from The Mope. + </p> + <p> + Stangeist turned a drawn face toward the man, stared at him, and stared in + a miserable way at the other two in turn. He licked his lips again—none + was in a better position than himself to know that there would be neither + scruples nor hesitancy to interfere with carrying out the threat. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, “suppose I open the + safe—what then—afterward?” + </p> + <p> + “We ain't got the safe open yet,” countered Clarie Deane uncompromisingly. + “An' we ain't got no more time ter fool over it, either. You get a move on + before I counts five, or The Mope an' Ike ties you up! One—” + </p> + <p> + Stangeist staggered to his feet, wiped the blood out of his eyes for the + second time, and, with lips working, went unsteadily across the room to + the safe. + </p> + <p> + He knelt before it, and began to manipulate the dial; while the others + crowded around behind him. The Mope was fingering his revolver again club + fashion. Australian Ike's elbow just grazed the portieres, and Jimmie Dale + flattened himself against the window, holding his breath—a smile on + his lips that was mirthless, deadly, cold. The end was not far off now; + and then—WHAT? + </p> + <p> + Stangeist had the outer door of the safe open now—and now the inner + door swung back. He reached in his hand to the pigeonhole, drew out the + envelope—and with a sudden, wild cry, reeled to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “My God!” he screamed out. “What's—what's this!” + </p> + <p> + Clarie Deane snatched the envelope from him. + </p> + <p> + “THE GRAY SEAL!”—the words came with a jerk from his lips. He ripped + the envelope open frantically—and like a man stunned gazed at the + four blank sheets, while the colour left his face. “IT'S GONE!” he cried + out hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + “Gone!” There was a burst of oaths from Australian Ike. “Gone! Den we're + nipped—de lot of us!” + </p> + <p> + The Mope's face was like a maniac's as he whirled on Stangeist. + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” he croaked. “But youse gets yers first, youse—” + </p> + <p> + With a cry, Stangeist, to elude the blow, ducked blindly backward—into + the portieres—and with a rip and tear the hangings were wrenched + apart. + </p> + <p> + It came instantaneously—a yell of mingled surprise and fury from the + three—the crash and spit of Jimmie Dale's revolver as he fired one + shot at the floor to stop their rush—then he flung himself at the + window, through it, and dropped sprawling to the ground. + </p> + <p> + A stream of flame cut the darkness above him, a bullet whistled by his + head—another—and another. He was on his feet, quick as a cat, + and running close alongside of the wall of the house. He heard a thud + behind him, still another, and yet a third—they were dropping + through the window after him. Came another shot, an angry hum of the + bullet closer than before—then the pound of racing feet. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale swung around the corner of the house, running at top speed. + Something that was like a hot iron suddenly burned and seared along the + side of his head just above the ear. He reeled, staggered, recovered + himself, and dashed on. It nauseated him, that stinging in his head, and + all at once seemed to be draining his strength away. The shouts, the + shots, the running feet became like a curious buzzing in his ears. It + seemed strange that they should have hit him, that he should be wounded! + If he could only reach the low stone wall by the road, he could at least + make a fight for his life on the other side! + </p> + <p> + Red streaks swam before Jimmie Dale's eyes. The wall was such a long way + off—a yard or two was a very long way more to go—the weakness + seemed to be creeping up now even to numb his brain. No, here was the wall—they + hadn't hit him again—he laughed in a demented way—and rolled + his body over, and fell to the other side. + </p> + <p> + “JIMMIE!” + </p> + <p> + The cry seemed to reach some inner consciousness, revive him, send the + blood whipping through his veins. That voice! It was her—HERS! The + Tocsin! There was an automobile, engine racing, standing there in the + road. He won to his feet—dark, rushing forms were almost at the + wall. He fired—once—twice—fired again—and turned, + staggering for the car. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie! Jimmie—QUICK!” + </p> + <p> + Panting, gasping, he half fell into the tonneau. The car leaped forward, + yells filled the air—but only one thing was dominant in Jimmie + Dale's reeling brain now. He pulled himself up to his feet, and leaned + over the back of the seat, reaching for the slim figure that was bent over + the wheel. + </p> + <p> + “It's you—you at last!” he cried. “Your face—let me lee your + face!” + </p> + <p> + A bullet split the back panel of the car—little spurting flames were + dancing out from the roadway behind. + </p> + <p> + “Are you mad!” she shouted back at him. “Let me steer—do you want + them to hit me!” + </p> + <p> + “No-o,” said Jimmie Dale, in a queer singsong sort of way, and his head + seemed to spin dizzily around. “No—I guess—” He choked. “The + paper—it's in—my pocket”—and he went down unconscious on + the floor of the car. + </p> + <p> + When he recovered his senses he was lying on a couch in a plainly + furnished room, and a man, a stranger, red, jovial-faced, farmerish + looking, was bending over him. + </p> + <p> + “Where am I?” he demanded finally, propping himself up on his elbow. + </p> + <p> + “You're all right,” replied the man. “She said you'd come around in a + little while.” + </p> + <p> + “Who said so?” inquired Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “She did. The woman who brought you here about five minutes ago. She said + she ran you down with her car.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Jimmie Dale. He felt his head—it was bandaged, and it was + bandaged, he was quite sure, with a piece of torn underskirt. He looked at + the man again. “You haven't told me yet where I am.” + </p> + <p> + “Long Island,” the other answered. “My name's Hanson. I keep a bit of a + truck garden here.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Jimmie Dale again. + </p> + <p> + The man crossed the room, picked up an envelope from the table, and came + back to Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “She said to give you this as soon as you got your senses, and asked us to + put you up for a while, as long as you wanted to stay, and paid us for it, + too. She's all right, she is. You don't want to hold the accident up + against her, she was mighty sorry about it. And now I'll go and see if the + old lady's got your room ready while you're readin' your letter.” + </p> + <p> + The man left the room. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale sat up on the couch, and tore the envelope open. The note, + scrawled in pencil, began abruptly: + </p> + <p> + “You were quite a problem. I couldn't take you HOME—could I? I + couldn't take you to what you call the Sanctuary could I? I couldn't take + you to a hospital, nor call in a doctor—the stain you use wouldn't + stand it. But, thank God! I know it's only a flesh wound, and you are all + right where you are for the day or two that you must keep quiet and take + care of yourself. By the time you read this the paper will be on the way + to the proper hands, and by morning the four where they should be. There + were a few articles in your clothes I thought it better to take charge of + in case—well, in case of ACCIDENT.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale tore the note up, and smiled wryly at the door. He felt in his + pockets. Mask, revolver, burglar's tools, and the thin metal insignia case + were gone. + </p> + <p> + “And I had the sublime optimism,” murmured Jimmie Dale, “to spend months + trying to find her as Larry the Bat!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <h3> + TWO CROOKS AND A KNAVE + </h3> + <p> + The bullet wound along the side of his head and just above his ear would + have been a very awkward thing indeed, in more ways than one, for Jimmie + Dale, the millionaire, to have explained at his club, in his social set, + or even to his servants, and of these latter to Jason the Solicitous in + particular; but for Jimmie Dale as Larry the Bat it was a matter of little + moment. There was none to question Larry the Bat, save in a most casual + and indifferent way; and a bandage of any description, primarily and above + all one that he could arrange himself, with only himself to take note of + the incongruous hues of skin where the stain, the grease paint, and the + make-up was washed off, would excite little attention in that world where + daily affrays were common-place happenings, and a wound, for whatever + reason, had long since lost the tang of novelty. Why then should it arouse + even a passing interest if Larry the Bat, credited as the most confirmed + of dope fiends, should have fallen down the dark, rickety stairs of the + tenement in one of his orgies, and, in the expressive language of the Bad + Lands, cracked his bean! + </p> + <p> + And so Jimmie Dale had been forced to maintain the role of Larry the Bat + for a far longer period than he had anticipated when, ten days before, he + had assumed it for the night's work that had so nearly resulted fatally + for himself, though it had placed Roessle's murderers behind the bars. + For, the next day, unwilling to court the risk of remaining in that + neighbourhood, he had left Hanson's, the farmer's, house on Long Island + where the Tocsin had carried him in an unconscious state, telephoned Jason + that he had been unexpectedly called out of town for a few days, and + returned to the Sanctuary in New York. And here, to his grim dismay, he + had found the underworld in a state of furious, angry unrest, like a nest + of hornets, stirred up, seeking to wreak vengeance on an unseen assailant. + </p> + <p> + For years, as the Gray Seal, Jimmie Dale had lived with the slogan of the + police, “The Gray Seal dead or alive—but the Gray Seal!” sounding in + his ears; with the newspapers screaming their diatribes, arousing the + people against him, nagging the authorities into sleepless, frenzied + efforts to trap him; with a price upon his head that was large enough to + make a man, not too pretentious, rich for life—but in the + underworld, until then, the name of the Gray Seal had been one to conjure + with, for the underworld had sworn by the unknown master criminal, and had + spoken his name with a reverence that was none the less genuine even if + pungently tainted with unholiness. But now it was different. Up and down + through the Bad Lands, in gambling hells, in vicious resorts, in the + hiding places where thugs and crooks burrowed themselves away from the + daylight, through the heart and the outskirts of the underworld travelled + the fiat, whispered out of mouths crooked to one side—DEATH TO THE + GRAY SEAL! + </p> + <p> + Gangland differences were forgotten in the larger issue of the common + weal. The gang spirit became the spirit of a united whole, and the crime + fraternity buzzed and hummed poisonously, spurred on by hatred, thirst for + revenge, fear, and, perhaps most potent of all, a hideous suspicion now of + each other. + </p> + <p> + The underworld had received a shock at which it stood aghast, and which, + with its terrifying possibilities, struck consternation into the soul of + every individual of that brotherhood whose bond was crime, who was already + “wanted” for some offence or other, whether it ranged from murder in the + first degree to some petty piece of sneak thievery. Stangeist, the Indian + chief, the lawyer whose cunning brain had stood as a rampart between the + underworld and a prison cell, was himself now in the Tombs with the + certainty of the electric chair before him; and with him, the same fate + equally assured, were Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane! + Aristocrats of the Bad Lands, peers of that inglorious realm were those + four—and the blow had fallen with stunning force, a blow that in + itself would have been enough to have stirred the underworld to its + depths. But that was not all—from the cells in the Tombs, from the + four came the word, and passed from mouth to mouth in that strange + underground exchange until all had heard it, that the Gray Seal had + “SQUEALED.” The Gray Seal who, though unknown, they had counted the most + eminent among themselves, had squealed! Who was the Gray Seal? It he had + held the secrets of Stangeist and his band, what else might he not know? + Who else might not fall next? The Gray Seal had become a snitch, a menace, + a source of danger that stalked among them like a ghastly spectre. Who was + the Gray Seal? None knew. + </p> + <p> + “Death to the Gray Seal! Run him to earth!” went the whisper from lip to + lip; and with the whisper men stared uncertainly into each other's faces, + fearful that the one to whom they spoke might even be—the Gray Seal! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's lips twisted queerly as he looked around him at the squalid + appointments of the Sanctuary. The police were bad enough, the papers were + worse; but this was a still graver peril. With every denizen of the + underworld below the dead line suspicious of each other, their lives, the + penitentiary, or a prison sentence the stakes against which each one + played, the role of Larry the Bat, clever as was the make-up and disguise, + was fraught now more than ever before with danger and peril. It seemed as + though slowly the net was beginning at last to tighten around him. + </p> + <p> + The murky, yellow flame of the gas jet flickered suddenly, as though in + acquiescence with the quick, impulsive shrug of Jimmie Dale's shoulders—and + Jimmie Dale, bending to peer into the cracked mirror that was propped up + on the broken-legged table, knotted his dress tie almost fastidiously. The + hair, if just a trifle too long, covered the scar on his head now, the + wound no longer required a bandage, and Larry the Bat, for the time being + at least, had disappeared. Across the foot of the bed, neatly folded, lay + his dress coat and overcoat, but little creased for all that they had lain + in that hiding-place under the flooring since the night when, hurrying + from the club, he had placed them there to assume instead the tatters of + Larry the Bat. It was Jimmie Dale in his own person again who stood there + now in Larry the Bat's disreputable den, an incongruous figure enough + against the background of his miserable surroundings, in perfect-fitting + shoes and trousers, the broad expanse of spotless white shirt bosom + glistening even in the poverty-stricken flare from the single, sputtering + gas jet. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale took the watch from his pocket that had not been wound for + many days, wound it mechanically, set it by guesswork—it was not far + from eight o'clock—and replaced it in his pocket. Carefully then, + one at a time, he examined his fingers, long, slim, sensitive, tapering + fingers, magical masters of safes and locks and vaults of the most + intricate and modern mechanism—no single trace of grime remained, + they were metamorphosed hands from the filthy paws of Larry the Bat. He + nodded in satisfaction; and picked up the mirror for a final inspection of + himself, that, this time, did not miss a single line in his face or neck. + Again Jimmie Dale nodded. As though he had vanished into thin air, as + though he had never existed, not a trace of Larry the Bat remained—except + the heap of rags upon the floor, the battered slouch hat, the frayed + trousers, the patched boots with their broken laces, the mismated socks, + the grimy flannel shirt, and the old coat that he had just discarded. + </p> + <p> + The mirror was replaced on the table; and, pushing the heap of clothes + before him with his foot, Jimmie Dale knelt down in the corner of the room + where the oilcloth had been turned up and the loose planking of the floor + removed, and began to pack the articles away in the hole. Jimmie Dale + rolled the trousers of Larry the Bat into a compact little bundle, and + stuffed them under the flooring. The gas jet seemed to blink again in a + sort of confidential approval, as though the secret lay inviolate between + itself and Jimmie Dale. Through the closed window, shade tightly drawn, + came, low and muffled, the sound of distant life from the Bowery, a few + blocks away. The gas jet, suffering from air somewhere within the pipes, + hissed angrily, the yellow flame died to a little blue, forked spurt—and + Jimmie Dale was on his feet, his face suddenly hard and white as marble. + </p> + <p> + SOME ONE WAS KNOCKING AT THE DOOR! + </p> + <p> + For the fraction of a second Jimmie Dale stood motionless. Found as Jimmie + Dale in the den of Larry the Bat, and the consequences required no effort + of the imagination to picture them; police or denizen of the underworld + who was knocking there, it was all the same, the method of death would be + a little different, that was all—one legalised, the other not. + Jimmie Dale, Larry the Bat, the Gray Seal, once uncovered, could expect as + much quarter as would be given to a cornered rat. His eyes swept the room + with a swift, critical glance—evidences of Larry the Bat, the + clothes, were still about, even if he in the person of Jimmie Dale, alone + damning enough, were not standing there himself. And he was even + weaponless—the Tocsin had taken the revolver from his pocket, + together with those other telltale articles, the mask, the flashlight, the + little blued-steel tools, before she had intrusted him that night, wounded + and unconscious, to Hanson's care. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale slipped his feet out of his low evening pumps, snatched up the + old coat and hat from the pile, put them on, and, without a sound, reached + the gas jet and turned it off. A second had gone by—no more—the + knocking still sounded insistently on the door. It was dark now, perfectly + black. He started across the room, his tread absolutely silent as the + trained muscles, relaxing, threw the body weight gradually upon one foot + before the next step was taken. It was like a shadow, a little blacker in + outline than the surrounding blackness, stealing across the floor. + </p> + <p> + Halfway to the door he paused. The knocking had ceased. He listened + intently. It was not repeated. Instead, his ear caught a guarded step + retreating outside in the hall. Jimmie Dale drew a breath of relief. He + went on again to the door, still listening. Was it a trap—that step + outside? + </p> + <p> + At the door now, tense, alert, he lowered his ear to the keyhole. There + came the faintest creak from the stairs. Jimmie Dale's brows gathered. It + was strange! The knocking had not lasted long. Whoever it was was going + away—but it required the utmost caution to descend those stairs, + rickety and tumble-down as they were, with no more sound than that! Why + such caution? Why not a more determined and prolonged effort at his door—the + visitor had been easily satisfied that Larry the Bat was not within. TOO + easily satisfied! Jimmie Dale turned the key noiselessly in the lock. He + opened the door cautiously—half inch—an inch, there was no + sound of footsteps now. Occasionally a lodger moved about on the floor + above; occasionally from somewhere in the tenement came the murmur of + voices as from behind closed door—that was all. All else was silence + and darkness now. + </p> + <p> + The door, on its well-oiled hinges, swung wide open. Jimmie Dale thrust + out his head into the hall—and something fell upon the threshold + with a little thud—but for a moment Jimmie Dale did not move. + Listening, trying to pierce the darkness, he was as still as the silence + around him; then he stooped and groped along the threshold. His hand + closed upon what seemed like a small box wrapped in paper. He picked it + up, closed and locked the door again, and retreated back across the room. + It was strange—unpleasantly strange—a box propped stealthily + against the door so that it would fall to the threshold when the door was + opened! And why the stealth? What did it mean? Had the underworld with its + thousand eyes and ears already succeeded in a few days where the police + had failed signally for years—had they sent him this, whatever it + was, as some grim token that they had run Larry the Bat to earth? He shook + his head. No; gangland struck more swiftly, with less finesse than that—the + “cat-and-mouse” act was never one it favoured, for the mouse had been + known to get away. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale lighted the gas again, and turned the package over in his + hands. It was, as he had surmised, a small cardboard box; and it was + wrapped in plain paper and tied with a string. He untied the string, and + still suspicious, as a man is suspicious in the knowledge that he is + stalked by peril at every turn, removed the wrapper a little gingerly. It + was still without sign or marking upon it, just an ordinary cardboard box. + He lifted off the cover, and, with a short, sudden laugh, stared, a little + out of countenance, at the contents. + </p> + <p> + On the top lay a white, unaddressed envelope. HERS! Beneath—he + emptied the box on the table—his black silk mask, his automatic + revolver, the kit of fine, small blued-steel burglar's tools, his pocket + flashlight, and the thin metal insignia case. The Tocsin! Impulsively + Jimmie Dale turned toward the door—and stopped. His shoulders lifted + in a shrug that, meant to be philosophical, was far from philosophical. He + could not, dared not venture far through the tenement dressed as he was; + and even if he could there were three exits to the Sanctuary, a fact that + now for the first time was not wholly a source of unmixed satisfaction to + him; and besides—she was gone! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale opened the letter, a grim smile playing on his lips. He had + forgotten for the moment that the illusion he had cherished for years in + the belief that she did not know Larry the Bat as an alias of Jimmie Dale + was no more than—an illusion. Well, it had been a piece of + consummate egotism on his part, that was all. But, after all, what did it + matter? He had had his innings, tried in the role of Larry the Bat to + solve her identity, devoted weeks on end to the attempt—and failed. + Some day, perhaps, his turn would come; some day, perhaps, she would no + longer be able to elude him, unless—the letter crackled suddenly in + his fingers—unless the house that they had built on such strange and + perilous foundations crashed at some moment, without an instant's warning, + in disaster and ruin to the ground. Who knew but that this letter now, + another call to the Gray Seal to act, another peril invited, would be the + LAST? There must be an end some day; luck and nerve had their limitations—it + had almost ended last week! + </p> + <p> + “Dear Philanthropic Crook”—it was the same inevitable beginning. + “You are well enough again, aren't you, Jimmie?—I am sending these + little things back to you, for you will need them to-night.”—Jimmie + Dale read on, muttering snatches of the letter aloud: “Michael Breen + prospecting in Alaska—map of location of rich mining claim—Hamvert, + his former partner, had previously fleeced him of fifteen thousand dollars—his + share of a deal together—Breen was always a very poor man—Breen + later struck a claim alone; but, taking sick, came back home—died on + arrival in New York after giving map to his wife—wife in very needy + circumstances—lives with little daughter of seven in New Rochelle—works + out by the day at Henry Mittel's house on the Sound near-by—wife + intrusted map for safe-keeping and advice to Mittel—Hamvert after + map—telephone wires cut—room one hundred and forty-eight, + corner, right, first floor, Palais-Metropole Hotel, unoccupied—connecting + doors—quarter past nine to-night—the Weasel—Mittel's + house later—the police—look out for both the Weasel and the + police, Jimmie—” + </p> + <p> + There was more, several pages of it, explanations, specific details down + to a minute description of the locality and plan of the house on the + Sound. Jimmie Dale, too intent now to mutter, read on silently. At the end + he shuffled the sheets a little abstractedly, as his face hardened. Then + his fingers began to tear the letter into little shreds, tearing it over + and over again, tearing the shreds into tiny particles. He had not been + far wrong. From what the night promised now, this might well be the last + letter. Who knew? There would be need of all the wit and luck and nerve + to-night that the Gray Seal had ever had before. + </p> + <p> + With a jerk, Jimmie Dale roused himself from the momentary reverie into + which he had fallen; and, all action now, stuffed the torn pieces of the + letter into his trousers pocket to be disposed of later in the street; + took off the old coat and slouch hat again, and resumed the disposal of + Larry the Bat's effects under the flooring. + </p> + <p> + This accomplished, he replaced the planking and oilcloth, stood up, put on + his dress coat and light overcoat, and, from the table, stowed the black + silk mask, the automatic, the little kit of tools, the flashlight, and the + thin metal case away in his pockets. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale raised his hand to the gas fixture, circled the room with a + glance that missed no single detail—then the light went out, the + door closed behind him, locked, a dark shadow crept silently down the + stairs, out through the side door into the alleyway, along the alleyway + close to the wall of the tenement where it was blackest, and, satisfied + that for the moment there were no passers-by, emerged on the street, + walking leisurely toward the Bowery. + </p> + <p> + Once well away from the Sanctuary, however, Jimmie Dale quickened his + steps; and twenty minutes later, having stopped but once to telephone to + his home on Riverside Drive for his touring car, he was briskly mounting + the steps of the St. James Club on Fifth Avenue. Another twenty minutes + after that, and he had dismissed Benson, his chauffeur, and, at the wheel + of his big, powerful machine, was speeding uptown for the Palais-Metropole + Hotel. + </p> + <p> + It was twelve minutes after nine when he drew up at the curb in front of + the side entrance of the hotel—his watch, set by guesswork, had been + a little slow, and he had corrected it at the club. He was replacing the + watch in his pocket as he sauntered around the corner, and passed in + through the main entrance to the big lobby. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale avoided the elevators—it was only one flight up, and + elevator boys on occasions had been known to be observant. At the top of + the first landing, a long, wide, heavily carpeted corridor was before him. + “Number one hundred and forty-eight, the corner room on the right,” the + Tocsin had said. Jimmie Dale walked nonchalantly along—past No. 148. + At the lower end of the hall a group of people were gathered around the + elevator doors; halfway down the corridor a bell boy came out of a room + and went ahead of Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + And then Jimmie Dale stopped suddenly, and began to retrace his steps. The + group had entered the elevator, the bell boy had disappeared around the + farther end of the hall into the wing of the hotel—the corridor was + empty. In a moment he was standing before the door of No. 148; in another, + under the persuasion of a little steel instrument, deftly manipulated by + Jimmie Dale's slim, tapering fingers, the lock clicked back, the door + opened, and he stepped inside, closing and locking the door again behind + him. + </p> + <p> + It was already a quarter past nine, but no one was as yet in the + connecting room—the fanlight next door had been dark as he passed. + His flashlight swept about him, located the connecting door—and went + out. He moved to the door, tried it, and found it locked. Again the little + steel instrument came into play, released the lock, and Jimmie Dale opened + the door. Again the flashlight winked. The door opened into a bathroom + that, obviously, at will, was either common to the two rooms or could, by + the simple expedient of locking one door or the other, be used by one of + the rooms alone. In the present instance, the occupant of the adjoining + apartment had taken “a room with a bath.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale passed through the bathroom to the opposite door. This was + already three-quarters open, and swung outward into the bedroom, near the + lower end of the room by the window. Through the crack of the door by the + hinges, Jimmie Dale flashed his light, testing the radius of vision, + pushed the door a few inches wider open, tested it again with the + flashlight—and retreated back into No. 148, closing the door on his + side until it was just ajar. + </p> + <p> + He stood there then silently waiting. It was Hamvert's room next door, and + Hamvert and the Weasel were already late. A step sounded outside in the + corridor. Jimmie Dale straightened intently. The step passed on down the + hallway and died away. A false alarm! Jimmie Dale smiled whimsically. It + was a strange adventure this that confronted him, quite the strangest in a + way that the Tocsin had ever planned—and the night lay before him + full of peril in its extraordinary complications. To win the hand he must + block Hamvert and the Weasel without allowing them an inkling that his + interference was anything more than, say, the luck of a hotel sneak thief + at most. The Weasel was a dangerous man, one of the slickest second-story + workers in the country, with safe cracking as one of his favourite + pursuits, a man most earnestly desired by the police, provided the latter + could catch him “with the goods.” As for Hamvert, he did not know Hamvert, + who was a stranger in New York, except that Hamvert had fleeced a man + named Michael Breen out of his share in a claim they had had together when + Breen had first gone to Alaska to try his luck, and now, having discovered + that Breen, when prospecting alone somewhere in the interior a month or so + ago, had found a rich vein and had made a map or diagram of its location, + he, Hamvert, had followed the other to New York for the purpose of getting + it by hook or crook. Breen's “find” had been too late; taken sick, he had + never worked his claim, had barely got back home before he died, and only + in time to hand his wife the strange legacy of a roughly scrawled little + piece of paper, and—Jimmie Dale straightened up alertly once more. + Steps again—and this time coming from the direction of the elevator; + then voices; then the opening of the door of the next room; then a voice, + distinctly audible: + </p> + <p> + “Pull up a chair, and we'll get down to business. You're late, as it is. + We haven't any time to waste, if we're going to wash pay-dirt to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, dat's all right!” responded another voice—quite evidently the + Weasel's. “Don't youse worry—de game's cinched to a fadeaway.” + </p> + <p> + There was the sound of chairs being moved across the floor. Jimmie Dale + slipped the black silk mask over his face, opened the door on his side of + the bathroom cautiously, and, without a sound, stepped into the bathroom + that was lighted now, of course, by the light streaming in through the + partially opened door of Hamvert's room. The two were talking earnestly + now in lower tones. Jimmie Dale only caught a word here and there—his + faculties for the moment were concentrated on traversing the bathroom + silently. He reached the farther door, crouched there, peered through the + crack—and the old whimsical smile flickered across his lips again. + </p> + <p> + The Palais-Metropole was high class and exclusive, and the Weasel for once + looked quite the gentleman, and, for all his sharp, ferret face, not + entirely out of keeping with his surroundings—else he would never + have got farther than the lobby. The other was a short, thickset, + heavy-jowled man, with a great shock of sandy hair, and small black eyes + that looked furtively out from overhanging, bushy eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” Hamvert was saying, “the details are your concern. What I want is + results. We won't waste time. You're to be back here by daylight—only + see that there's no come-back.” + </p> + <p> + “Leave it to me!” returned the Weasel, with assurance. “How's dere goin' + ter be any come-back? Mittel keeps it in his safe, don't he? Well, + gentlemen's houses has been robbed before—an' dis job'll be a good + one. De geographfy stunt youse wants gets pinched wid de rest, dat's all. + It disappears—see? Who's ter know youse gets yer claws on it? It's + just lost in de shuffle.” + </p> + <p> + “Right!” agreed Hamvert briskly—and from his inside pocket produced + a package of crisp new bills, yellow-backs, and evidently of large + denominations. “Half down and half on delivery—that's our deal.” + </p> + <p> + “Dat's wot!” assented the Weasel curtly. + </p> + <p> + Hamvert began to count the bills. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's hand stole into his pocket, and came out with his + handkerchief and the thin metal insignia case. From the latter, with its + little pair of tweezers, he took out one of the adhesive gray seals. His + eyes warily on the two men, he dropped the seal on his handkerchief, + restored the thin metal case to his pocket—and in its stead the + blue-black ugly muzzle of his automatic peeped from between his fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Five thousand down,” said Hamvert, pushing a pile of notes across the + table, and tucking the remainder back into his pocket; “and the other + five's here for you when you get back with the map. Ordinarily, I wouldn't + pay a penny in advance, but since you want it that way and the map's no + good to you while the rest of the long green is, I—” He swallowed + his words with a startled gulp, clutched hastily at the money on the + table, and began to struggle up from his chair to his feet. + </p> + <p> + With a swift, noiseless side-step through the open door, Jimmie Dale was + standing in the room. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's tones were conversational. “Don't get up,” said Jimmie Dale + coolly. “And take your hand off that money!” + </p> + <p> + The Weasel, whose back had been to the door, squirmed around in his chair—and + in his turn stared into the muzzle of Jimmie Dale's revolver, while his + jaw dropped and sagged. + </p> + <p> + “Good-evening, Weasel,” observed Jimmie Dale casually. “I seem to be in + luck to-night. I got into that room next door, but an empty room is slim + picking. And then it seemed to me I heard some one in here mention five + thousand dollars twice, which makes ten thousand, and which happens to be + just exactly the sum I need at the present moment—if I can't get any + more! I haven't the honour of your wealthy friend's acquaintance, but I am + really charmed to meet him. You—er—understand, both of you, + that the slightest sound might prove extremely embarrassing.” + </p> + <p> + Hamvert's face was white, and he stirred uneasily in his chair; but into + the Weasel's face, the first shock of surprised dismay past, came a dull, + angry red, and into the eyes a vicious gleam—and suddenly he laughed + shortly. + </p> + <p> + “Why, youse damned fool,” jeered the Weasel, “d'youse t'ink youse can get + away wid dat! Say, take it from me, youse are a piker! Say, youse make me + tired. Wot d'youse t'ink youse are? D'youse t'ink dis is a tee-ayter, an' + dat youse are a cheap-skate actor strollin' acrost de stage? Aw, beat it, + youse make me sick! Why, say, youse pinch dat money, an' youse have got de + same chanst of gettin' outer dis hotel as a guy has of breakin' outer Sing + Sing! By de time youse gets five feet from de door of dis room we has de + whole works on yer neck.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think so, Weasel?” inquired Jimmie Dale politely. He carried his + handkerchief to his mouth to cloak a cough—and his tongue touched + the adhesive side of the little diamond-shaped gray seal. Hand and + handkerchief came back to the table, and Jimmie Dale leaned his weight + carelessly upon it, while the automatic in his right hand still covered + the two men. “Do you think so, Weasel?” he repeated softly. “Well, perhaps + you are right; and yet; somehow, I am inclined to disagree with you. Let + me see, Weasel—it was Tuesday night, two nights ago; wasn't it, that + a trifling break in Maiden Lane at Thorold and Sons disturbed the police? + It was a three-year job for even a first offender, ten for one already on + nodding terms with the police and fifteen to twenty for—well, say, + for a man like you, Weasel—IF HE WERE CAUGHT! Am I making myself + quite plain?” + </p> + <p> + The colour in the Weasel's cheeks faded a little—his eyes were + holding in sudden fascination upon Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “I see that I am,” observed Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “I said, 'if he were + caught,' you will remember. I am going to leave this room in a moment, + Weasel, and leave it entirely to your discretion as to whether you will + think it wise or not to stir from that chair for ten minutes after I shut + the door. And now”—Jimmie Dale nonchalantly replaced his + handkerchief in his pocket, nonchalantly followed it with the banknotes + which he picked up from the table—and smiled. + </p> + <p> + With a gasp, both men had strained forward, and were staring, wild-eyed, + at the gray seal stuck between them on the tabletop. + </p> + <p> + “The Gray Seal!” whispered the Weasel, and his tongue circled his lips. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “That WAS a bit theatrical, Weasel,” he said apologetically; “and yet not + wholly unnecessary. You will recall Stangeist, The Mope, Australian Ike, + and Clarie Deane, and can draw your own inference as to what might happen + in the Thorold affair if you should be so ill-advised as to force my hand. + Permit me”—the slim, deft fingers, like a streak of lightning, were + inside Hamvert's coat pocket and out again with the remainder of the + banknotes—and Jimmie Dale was backing for the door—not the + door of the bathroom by which he had entered, but the door of the room + itself that opened on the corridor. There he stopped, and his hand swept + around behind his back and turned the key in the locked door. He nodded at + the two men, whose faces were working with incongruously mingled + expressions of impotent rage, bewilderment, fear, and fury—and + opened the door a little. “Ten minutes, Weasel,” he said gently. “I trust + you will not have to use heroic measures to restrain your friend for that + length of time, though if it is necessary I should advise you for your own + sake to resort almost—to murder. I wish you good evening, + gentlemen.” + </p> + <p> + The door opened farther; Jimmie Dale, still facing inward, slipped between + it and the jamb, whipped the mask from his face, closed the door softly, + stepped briskly but without any appearance of haste along the corridor to + the stairs, descended the stairs, mingled with a crowd in the lobby for an + instant, walked, seemingly a part of it, with a group of ladies and + gentlemen down the hall to the side entrance, passed out—and a + moment later, after drawing on a linen dust coat which he took from under + the seat, and exchanging his hat for a tweed cap, the car glided from the + curb and was lost in a press of traffic around the corner. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale laughed a little harshly to himself. So far, so good—but + the game was not ended yet for all the crackle of the crisp notes in his + pocket. There was still the map, still the robbery at Mittel's house—the + ten-thousand-dollar “theft” would not in any way change that, and it was a + question of time now to forestall any move the Weasel might make. + </p> + <p> + Through the city Jimmie Dale alternately dodged, spurted, and dragged his + way, fuming with impatience; but once out on the country roads and headed + toward New Rochelle, the big machine, speed limits thrown to the winds, + roared through the night—a gray streak of road jumping under the + powerful lamps; a village, a town, a cluster of lights flashing by him, + the steady purr of his sixty-horse-power engines; the gray thread of open + road again. + </p> + <p> + It was just eleven o'clock when Jimmie Dale, the road to himself for the + moment at a spot a little beyond New Rochelle, extinguished his lights, + and very carefully ran his car off the road, backing it in behind a small + clump of trees. He tossed the linen dust coat back into the car, and set + off toward where, a little distance away, the slap of waves from the stiff + breeze that was blowing indicated the shore line of the Sound. There was + no moon, and, while it was not particularly dark, objects and surroundings + at best were blurred and indistinct; but that, after all, was a matter of + little concern to Jimmie Dale—the first house beyond was Mittel's. + He reached the water's edge and kept along the shore. There should be a + little wharf, she had said. Yes; there it was—and there, too, was a + gleam of light from the house itself. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale began to make an accurate mental note of his surroundings. + From the little wharf on which he now stood, a path led straight to the + house, bisecting what appeared to be a lawn, trees to the right, the house + to the left. At the wharf, beside him, two motor boats were moored, one on + each side. Jimmie Dale glanced at them, and, suddenly attracted by the + familiar appearance of one, inspected it a little more closely. His + momentarily awakened interest passed as he nodded his head. It had caught + his attention, that was all—it was the same type and design, quite a + popular make, of which there were hundreds around New York, as the one he + had bought that year as a tender for his yacht. + </p> + <p> + He moved forward now toward the house, the rear of which faced him—the + light that flooded the lawn came from a side window. Jimmie Dale was + figuring the time and distance from New York as he crept cautiously along. + How quickly could the Weasel make the journey? The Weasel would + undoubtedly come, and if there was a convenient train it might prove a + close race—but in his own favour was the fact that it would probably + take the Weasel quite some little time to recover his equilibrium from his + encounter with the Gray Seal in the Palais-Metropole, also the further + fact that, from the Weasel's viewpoint, there was no desperate need of + haste. Jimmie Dale crossed the lawn, and edged along in the shadows of the + house to where the light streamed out from what now proved to be open + French windows. It was a fair presumption that he would have an hour to + the good on the Weasel. + </p> + <p> + The sill was little more than a couple of feet from the ground, and, from + a crouched position on his knees below the window, Jimmie Dale raised + himself slowly and peered guardedly inside. The room was empty. He + listened a moment—the black silk mask was on his face again—and + with a quick, agile, silent spring he was in the room. + </p> + <p> + And then, in the centre of the room, Jimmie Dale stood motionless, staring + around him, an expression, ironical, sardonic, creeping into his face. THE + ROBBERY HAD ALREADY BEEN COMMITTED! At the lower end of the room + everything was in confusion; the door of a safe swung wide, the drawers of + a desk had been wrenched out, even a liqueur stand, on which were + well-filled decanters, had been broken open, and the contents of safe and + desk, the thief's discards as it were, littered the floor in all + directions. + </p> + <p> + For an instant Jimmie Dale, his eyes narrowed ominously, surveyed the + scene; then, with a sort of professional instinct aroused, he stepped + forward to examine the safe—and suddenly darted behind the desk + instead. Steps sounded in the hall. The door opened—a voice reached + him: + </p> + <p> + “The master said I was to shut the windows, and I haven't dast to go in. + And he'll be back with the police in a minute now. Come on in with me, + Minnie.” + </p> + <p> + “Lord!” exclaimed another voice. “Ain't it a good thing the missus is + away. She'd have highsteericks!” + </p> + <p> + Steps came somewhat hesitantly across the floor—from behind the + desk, Jimmie Dale could see that it was a maid, accompanied by a big, + rawboned woman, sleeves rolled to the elbows over brawny arms, presumably + the Mittels' cook. + </p> + <p> + The maid closed the French windows, there were no others in the room, and + bolted them; and, having gained a little confidence, gazed about her. + </p> + <p> + “My, but wasn't he cute!” she ejaculated. “Cut the telephone wires, he + did. And ain't he made an awful mess! But the master said we wasn't to + touch nothing till the police saw it.” + </p> + <p> + “And to think of it happening in OUR house!” observed the cook heavily, + her hands on her hips, her arms akimbo. “It'll all be in the papers, and + mabbe they'll put our pictures in, too.” + </p> + <p> + “I won't get over it as long as I live!” declared the maid. “The yell Mr. + Mittel gave when he came downstairs and put his head in here, and then him + shouting and using the most terrible language into the telephone, and then + finding the wires cut. And me following him downstairs half dead with + fright. And he shouts at me. 'Bella,' he shouts, 'shut those windows, but + don't you touch a thing in that room. I'm going for the police.' And then + he rushes out of the house.” + </p> + <p> + “I was going to bed,” said the cook, picking up her cue for what was + probably the twentieth rehearsal of the scene, “when I heard Mr. Mittel + yell, and—Lord, Bella, there he is now!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's hands clenched. He, too, had caught the scuffle of + footsteps, those of three or four men at least, on the front porch. There + was one way, only one, of escape—through the French windows! It was + a matter of seconds only before Mittel, with the police at his heels, + would be in the room—and Jimmie Dale sprang to his feet. There was a + wild scream of terror from the maid, echoed by another from the cook—and, + still screaming, both women fled for the door. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Mittel! Mr. Mittel!” shrieked the maid—she had flung herself + out into the hall. “He's—he's back again!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was at the French windows, tearing at the bolts. They stuck. + Shouts came from the front entryway. He wrenched viciously at the + fastenings. They gave now. The windows flew open. He glanced over his + shoulder. A man, Mittel presumably, since he was the only one not in + uniform, was springing into the room. There was a blur of forms and brass + buttons behind Mittel—and Jimmie Dale leaped to the lawn, speeding + across it like a deer. + </p> + <p> + But quick as he ran, Jimmie Dale's brain was quicker, pointing the single + chance that seemed open to him. The motor boat! It seemed like a God-given + piece of luck that he had noticed it was like his own; there would be no + blind, and that meant fatal, blunders in the dark over its mechanism, and + he could start it up in a moment—just the time to cast her off, that + was all he needed. + </p> + <p> + The shouts swelled behind him. Jimmie Dale was running for his life. He + flung a glance backward. One form—Mittel, he was certain—was + perhaps a hundred yards in the rear. The others were just emerging from + the French windows—grotesque, leaping things they looked, in the + light that streamed out behind them from the room. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's feet pounded the planking of the wharf. He stooped and + snatched at the mooring line. Mittel was almost at the wharf. It seemed an + age, a year to Jimmie Dale before the line was clear. Shouts rang still + louder across the lawn—the police, racing in a pack, were more than + halfway from the house. He flung the line into the boat, sprang in after + it—and Mittel, looming over him, grasped at the boat's gunwhale. + </p> + <p> + Both men were panting from their exertions. + </p> + <p> + “Let go!” snarled Jimmie Dale between clenched teeth. + </p> + <p> + Mittel's answer was a hoarse, gasping shout to the police to hurry—and + then Mittel reeled back, measuring his length upon the wharf from a blow + with a boat hook full across the face, driven with a sudden, untamed + savagery that seemed for the moment to have mastered Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + There was no time—not a second—not the fraction of a second. + Desperately, frantically he shoved the boat clear of the wharf. Once—twice—three + times he turned the engine over without success—and then the boat + leaped forward. Jimmie Dale snatched the mask from his face, and jumped + for the steering wheel. The police were rushing out along the wharf. He + could just faintly discern Mittel now—the man was staggering about, + his hands clapped to his face. A peremptory order to halt, coupled with a + threat to fire, rang out sharply—and Jimmie Dale flung himself flat + in the bottom of the boat. The wharf edge seemed to open in little, + crackling jets of flame, came the roar of reports like a miniature battery + in action, then the FLOP, FLOP, FLOP, as the lead tore up the water around + him, the duller thud as a bullet buried its nose in the boat's side, and + the curious rip and squeak as a splinter flew. Then Mittel's voice, + high-pitched, as though in pain: + </p> + <p> + “Can't any of you run a motor boat? He's got me bad, I'm afraid. That + other one there is twice as fast.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” another voice responded promptly. “And if that's right, he's run + his head into a trap. Cast loose, there, MacVeay, and pile in, all of you! + You go back to the house, Mr. Mittel, and fix yourself up. We'll get him!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's lips thinned. It was true! If the other boat had any speed + at all, it was only a question of time before he would be overtaken. The + only point at issue was how much time. It was dark—that was in his + favour—but it was not so dark but that a boat could be distinguished + on the water for quite a distance, for a longer distance than he could + hope to put between them. There was no chance of eluding the police that + way! The keen, facile brain that had saved the Gray Seal a hundred times + before was weaving, planning, discarding, eliminating, scheming a way out—with + death, ruin, disaster the price of failure. His eyes swept the dim, + irregular outline of the shore. To his right, in the opposite direction + from where he had left his car, and perhaps a mile ahead, as well as he + could judge, the land seemed to run out into a point. Jimmie Dale headed + for it instantly. If he could reach it with a little lead to the good, + there was a chance! It would take, say, six minutes, granting the boat a + speed of ten miles an hour—and she could do that. The others could + hardly overtake him in that time—they hadn't got started yet. He + could hear them still shouting and talking at the wharf. And Mittel's + “twice as fast” was undoubtedly an exaggeration, anyhow. + </p> + <p> + A minute more passed, another—and then, astern, Jimmie Dale caught + the racket from the exhaust of a high-powered engine, and a white streak + seemed to shoot out upon the surface of the water from where, obscured + now, he placed the wharf. A quarter-mile lead, roughly four hundred yards; + yes, he had as much as that—but that, too, was very little. + </p> + <p> + He bent over his engine, coaxing it, nursing it to its highest efficiency; + his eyes strained now upon the point ahead, now upon his pursuers behind. + He was running with the wind, thank Heaven! or the small boat would have + had a further handicap—it was rolling up quite a sea. + </p> + <p> + The steering gear, he found, was corded along the side of the boat, + permitting its manipulation from almost any position, and, abruptly now, + Jimmie Dale left the engine to rummage through the little locker in the + stern of the boat. But as he rummaged, his eyes held speculatively on the + boat astern. She was gaining unquestionably, steadily, but not as fast as + he had feared. He would still have a hundred yards' lead, at least, + abreast the point—and, he was smiling grimly now, a hundred yards + there meant life to the Gray Seal! The locker was full of a heterogeneous + collection of odds and ends—a suit of oilskins, tools, tins, and + cans of various sizes and descriptions. Jimmie Dale emptied the contents, + some sort of powder, of a small, round tin box overboard, and from his + pocket took out the banknotes, crammed them into the box, crammed his + watch in on top of them, and screwed the cover on tightly. His fingers + were flying now. A long strip torn from the trousers' leg of the oilskins + was wrapped again and again around the box—and the box was stuffed + into his pocket. + </p> + <p> + The flash of a revolver shot cut the blackness behind him, then another, + and another. They were firing in a continuous stream again. It was fairly + long range, but there was always the chance of a stray bullet finding its + mark. Jimmie Dale, crouching low, made his way to the bow of the boat + again. + </p> + <p> + The point was looming almost abreast now. He edged in nearer, to hug it as + closely as he dared risk the depth of the water. Behind, remorselessly, + the other boat was steadily closing the gap; and the shots were not all + wild—one struck, with a curious singing sound, on some piece of + metal a foot from his elbow. Closer to the shore, running now parallel + with the head of the point, Jimmie Dale again edged in the boat, his jaws, + clamped, working in little twitches. + </p> + <p> + And then suddenly, with a swift, appraising glance behind him, he swerved + the boat from her course and headed for the shore—not directly, but + diagonally across the little bay that, on the farther side of the point, + had now opened out before him. He was close in with the edge of the point, + ten yards from it, sweeping past it—the point itself came between + the two boats, hiding them from each other—and Jimmie Dale, with a + long spring, dove from the boat's side to the water. + </p> + <p> + The momentum from the boat as he sank robbed him for an instant of all + control over himself, and he twisted, doubled up, and rolled over and over + beneath the water—but the next moment his head was above the surface + again, and he was striking out swiftly for the shore. It was only a few + yards—but in a few SECONDS the pursuing boat, too, would have + rounded the point. His feet touched bottom. It was haste now, nothing + else, that counted. The drum of the racing engines, the crackling roar of + the exhaust from the oncoming boat was in his ears. He flung himself upon + the shore and down behind a rock. Around the point, past him, tore the + police boat, dark forms standing clustered in the bow—and then a + sudden shout: + </p> + <p> + “There she is! See her? She's heading into the bay for the shore!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's lips relaxed. There was no doubt that they had sighted their + quarry again—a perfect fusillade of revolver shots directed at the + now empty boat was quite sufficient proof of that! With something that was + almost a chuckle, Jimmie Dale straightened up from behind the rock and + began to run back along the shore. The little motor boat would have + grounded long before they overtook her, and, thinking naturally enough, + that he had leaped ashore from her, they would go thrashing through the + woods and fields searching for him! + </p> + <p> + It was a longer way back by the shore, a good deal longer; now over rough, + rocky stretches where he stumbled in the darkness, now through marshy, + sodden ground where he sank as in a quagmire time and again over his + ankles. It was even longer than he had counted on, and time, with the + Weasel on one hand and the return of the police on the other, was a factor + to be reckoned with again, as, a half hour later, Jimmie Dale stole across + the lawn of Mittel's house for the second time that night, and for the + second time crouched beneath the open French windows. + </p> + <p> + Masked again, the water still dripping from what were once immaculate + evening clothes but which now sagged limply about him, his collar a pasty + string around his neck, the mud and dirt splashed to his knees, Jimmie + Dale was a disreputable and incongruous-looking object as he crouched + there, shivering uncomfortably from his immersion in spite of his + exertions. Inside the room, Mittel passed the windows, pacing the floor, + one side of his face badly cut and bruised from the blow with the boat + hook—and as he passed, his back turned for an instant, Jimmie Dale + stepped into the room. + </p> + <p> + Mittel whirled at the sound, and, with a suppressed cry, instinctively + drew back—Jimmie Dale's automatic was dangling carelessly in his + right hand. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid I am a trifle melodramatic,” observed Jimmie Dale + apologetically, surveying his own bedraggled person; “but I assure you it + is neither intentional nor for effect. As it is, I was afraid I would be + late. Pardon me if I take the liberty of helping myself; one gets a chill + in wet clothes so easily”—he passed to the liqueur stand, poured out + a generous portion from one of the decanters, and tossed it off. + </p> + <p> + Mittel neither spoke nor moved. Stupefaction, surprise, and a very obvious + regard for Jimmie Dale's revolver mingled themselves in a helpless + expression on his face. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale set down his glass and pointed to a chair in front of the + desk. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, Mr. Mittel,” he invited pleasantly. “It will be quite apparent + to you that I have not time to prolong our interview unnecessarily, in + view of the possible return of the police at any moment, but you might as + well be comfortable. You will pardon me again if I take another liberty”—he + crossed the room, turned the key in the lock of the door leading into the + hall, and returned to the desk. “Sit down, Mr. Mittel!” he repeated, a + sudden rasp in his voice. + </p> + <p> + Mittel, none too graciously, now seated himself. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, my fine fellow,” he burst out, “you're carrying things with a + pretty high hand, aren't you? You seem to have eluded the police for the + moment, somehow, but let me tell you I—” + </p> + <p> + “No,” interrupted Jimmie Dale softly, “let ME tell you—all there is + to be told.” He leaned over the desk and stared rudely at the bruise on + Mittel's face. “Rather a nasty crack, that,” he remarked. + </p> + <p> + Mittel's fists clenched, and an angry flush swept his cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “I'd have made it a good deal harder,” said Jimmie Dale, with sudden + insolence, “if I hadn't been afraid of putting you out of business and so + precluding the possibility of this little meeting. Now then”—the + revolver swung upward and held steadily on a line with Mittel's eyes— + “I'll trouble you for the diagram of that Alaskan claim that belongs to + Mrs. Michael Breen!” + </p> + <p> + Mittel, staring fascinated into the little, round, black muzzle of the + automatic, edged back in his chair. + </p> + <p> + “So—so that's what you're after, is it?” he jerked out. “Well”—he + laughed unnaturally and waved his hand at the disarray of the room—“it's + been stolen already.” + </p> + <p> + “I know that,” said Jimmie Dale grimly. “By—YOU!” + </p> + <p> + “Me!” Mittel started up in his chair, a whiteness creeping into his face. + “Me! I—I—” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down!” Jimmie Dale's voice rang out ominously cold. “I haven't any + time to spare. You can appreciate that. But even if the police return + before that map is in my possession, they will still be TOO LATE as far as + you are concerned. Do you understand? Furthermore, if I am caught—you + are ruined. Let me make it quite plain that I know the details of your + little game. You are a curb broker, Mr. Mittel—ostensibly. In + reality, you run what is nothing better than an exceedingly profitable + bucket shop. The Weasel has been a customer and also a stool for you for + years. How Hamvert met the Weasel is unimportant—he came East with + the intention of getting in touch with a slick crook to help him—the + Weasel is the coincidence, that is all. I quite understand that you have + never met Hamvert, nor Hamvert you, nor that Hamvert was aware that you + and the Weasel had anything to do with one another and were playing in + together—but that equally is unimportant. When Hamvert engaged the + Weasel for ten thousand dollars to get the map from you for him, the + Weasel chose the line of least resistance. He KNEW you, and approached you + with an offer to split the money in return for the map. It was not a + question of your accepting his offer—it was simply a matter of how + you could do it and still protect yourself. The Weasel was well qualified + to point the way—a fake robbery of your house would answer the + purpose admirably—you could not be held either legally or morally + responsible for a document that was placed, unsolicited by you, in your + possession, if it were stolen from you.” + </p> + <p> + Mittel's face was ashen, colourless. His hands were opening and shutting + with nervous twitches on the top of the desk. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's lips curled. + </p> + <p> + “But”—Jimmie Dale was clipping off his words now viciously—“neither + you nor the Weasel were willing to trust the other implicitly—perhaps + you know each other too well. You were unwilling to turn over the map + until you had received your share of the money, and you were equally + unwilling to turn it over until you were SAFE; that is, until you had + engineered your fake robbery even to the point of notifying the police + that it had been committed; the Weasel, on the other hand, had some + scruples about parting with any of the money without getting the map in + one hand before he let go of the banknotes with the other. It was very + simply arranged, however, and to your mutual satisfaction. While you + robbed your own house this evening, he was to get half the money in + advance from Hamvert, giving Hamvert to understand that HE had planned to + commit the robbery himself to-night. He was to come out here then, receive + the map from you in exchange for your share of the money, return to + Hamvert with the map, and receive in turn his own share. I might say that + Hamvert actually paid down the advance—and it was perhaps + unfortunate for you that you paid such scrupulous attention to details as + to cut your own telephone wires! I had not, of course, an exact knowledge + of the hour or minute in which you proposed to stage your little play + here. The object of my first visit a little while ago was to forestall + your turning the diagram over to the Weasel. Circumstances favoured you + for the moment. I am back again, however, for the same purpose—the + map!” + </p> + <p> + Mittel, in a cowed way, was huddled back in his chair. He smiled miserably + at Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “QUICK!” Jimmie Dale flung out the word in a sharp, peremptory bark. “Do + you need to be told that the CARTRIDGES are dry?” + </p> + <p> + Mittel's hand, trembling, went into his pocket and produced an envelope. + </p> + <p> + “Open it!” commanded Jimmie Dale. “And lay it on the desk, so that I can + read it—I am too wet to touch it.” + </p> + <p> + Mittel obeyed—like a dog that has been whipped. + </p> + <p> + A glance at the paper, and Jimmie Dale's eyes lifted again—to sweep + the floor of the room. He pointed to a pile of books and documents in one + corner that had been thrown out of the safe. + </p> + <p> + “Go over there and pick up that check book!” he ordered tersely. + </p> + <p> + “What for?” Mittel made feeble protest. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind what for!” snapped Jimmie Dale. “Go and get it—and + HURRY!” + </p> + <p> + Once more Mittel obeyed—and dropped the book hesitantly on the desk. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale stared silently, insolently, contemptuously at the other. + </p> + <p> + Mittel stirred uneasily, sat down, shifted his feet, and his fingers + fumbled aimlessly over the top of the desk. + </p> + <p> + “Compared with you,” said Jimmie Dale, in a low voice, “the Weasel, ay, + and Hamvert, too, crooks though they are, are gentlemen! Michael Breen, as + he died, told his wife to take that paper to some one she could trust, who + would help her and tell her what to do; and, knowing no one to go to, but + because she scrubbed your floors and therefore thought you were a fine + gentleman, she came timidly to you, and trusted you—you cur!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale laughed suddenly—not pleasantly. Mittel shivered. + </p> + <p> + “Hamvert and Breen were partners out there in Alaska when Breen first went + out,” said Jimmie Dale slowly, pulling the tin can wrapped in oilskin from + his pocket. “Hamvert swindled Breen out of the one strike he made, and + Mrs. Breen and her little girl back here were reduced to poverty. The + amount of that swindle was, I understand, fifteen thousand dollars. I have + ten of it here, contributed by the Weasel and Hamvert; and you will, I + think, recognise therein a certain element of poetic justice—but I + am still short five thousand dollars.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale removed the cover from the tin can. Mittel gazed at the + contents numbly. + </p> + <p> + “You perhaps did not hear me?” prompted Jimmie Dale coldly. “I am still + short five thousand dollars.” + </p> + <p> + Mittel circled his lips with the tip of his tongue. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want?” he whispered hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + “The balance of the amount.” There was an ominous quiet in Jimmie Dale's + voice. “A check payable to Mrs. Michael Breen for five thousand dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “I—I haven't got that much in the bank,” Mittel fenced, stammering. + </p> + <p> + “No? Then I should advise you to see that you have by ten o'clock + to-morrow morning!” returned Jimmie Dale curtly. “Make out that check!” + </p> + <p> + Mittel hesitated. The revolver edged insistently a little farther across + the desk—and Mittel, picking up a pen, wrote feverishly. He tore the + check from its stub, and, with a snarl, pushed it toward Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “Fold it!” instructed Jimmie Dale, in the same curt tones. “And fold that + diagram with it. Put them both in this box. Thank you!” He wrapped the + oilskin around the box again, and returned the box to his pocket. And + again with that insolent, contemptuous stare, he surveyed the man at the + desk—then he backed to the French windows. “It might be as well to + remind you, Mittel,” he cautioned sternly, “that if for any reason this + check is not honoured, whether through lack of funds or an attempt by you + to stop payment, you'll be in a cell in the Tombs to-morrow for this + night's work—that is quite understood, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + Mittel was on his feet—sweat glistened on his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “My God!” he cried out shrilly. “Who are you?” + </p> + <p> + And Jimmie Dale smiled and stepped out on the lawn. + </p> + <p> + “Ask the Weasel,” said Jimmie Dale—and the next instant, lost in the + shadows of the house, was running for his car. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <h3> + THE ALIBI + </h3> + <p> + DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!”—through the underworld, in dens and dives + that sheltered from the law the vultures that preyed upon society, + prompted by self-fear, by secret dread, by reason of their very inability + to carry out their purpose, the whispered sentence grew daily more + venomous, more insistent. THE GRAY SEAL, DEAD OR ALIVE—BUT THE GRAY + SEAL!” It was the “standing orders” of the police. Railed at by a populace + who angrily demanded at its hands this criminal of criminals, mocked at + and threatened by a virulent press, stung to madness by the knowledge of + its own impotence, flaunted impudently to its face by this mysterious Gray + Seal to whose door the law laid a hundred crimes, for whom the bars of a + death cell in Sing Sing was the certain goal could he but be caught, the + police, to a man, was like an uncaged beast that, flicked to the raw by + some unseen assailant and murderous in its fury, was crouched to strike. + Grim paradox—a common bond that linked the hands of the law with + those that outraged it! + </p> + <p> + Death to the Gray Seal! Was it, at last, the beginning of the end? Jimmie + Dale, as Larry the Bat, unkempt, disreputable in appearance, supposed dope + fiend, a figure familiar to every denizen below the dead line, skulked + along the narrow, ill-lighted street of the East Side that, on the corner + ahead, boasted the notorious resort to which Bristol Bob had paid the + doubtful, if appropriate, compliment of giving his name. From under the + rim of his battered hat, Jimmie Dale's eyes, veiled by half-closed, + well-simulated drug-laden lids, missed no detail either of his + surroundings or pertaining to the passers-by. Though already late in the + evening, half-naked children played in the gutters; hawkers of + multitudinous commodities cried their wares under gasoline banjo torches + affixed to their pushcarts; shawled women of half a dozen races, and men + equally cosmopolitan, loitered at the curb, or blocked the pavement, or + brushed by him. Now a man passed him, flinging a greeting from the corner + of his mouth; now another, always without movement of the lips—and + Jimmie Dale answered them—from the corner of his mouth. + </p> + <p> + But while his eyes were alert, his mind was only subconsciously attune to + his surroundings. Was it indeed the beginning of the end? Some day, he had + told himself often enough, the end must come. Was it coming now, surely, + with a sort of grim implacability—when it was too late to escape! + Slowly, but inexorably, even his personal freedom of action was narrowing, + being limited, and, ironically enough, through the very conditions he had + himself created as an avenue of escape. + </p> + <p> + It was not only the police now; it was, far more to be feared, the + underworld as well. In the old days, the role of Larry the Bat had been + assumed at intervals, at his own discretion, when, in a corner, he had no + other way of escape; now it was forced upon him almost daily. The + character of Larry the Bat could no longer be discarded at will. He had + flung down the gauntlet to the underworld when, as the Gray Seal, he had + closed the prison doors behind Stangeist, The Mope, Australian Ike, and + Clarie Deane, and the underworld had picked the gauntlet up. Betrayed, as + they believed, by the one who, though unknown to them; they had counted + the greatest among themselves, and each one fearful that his own betrayal + might come next, every crook, every thug in the Bad Lands now eyed his + oldest pal with suspicion and distrust, and each was a self-constituted + sleuth, with the prod of self-preservation behind him, sworn to the + accomplishment of that unhallowed slogan—death to the Gray Seal. + Almost daily now he must show himself as Larry the Bat in some gathering + of the underworld—a prolonged absence from his haunts was not merely + to invite certain suspicion, where all were suspicious of each other, it + was to invite certain disaster. He had now either to carry the role like a + little old man of the sea upon his back, or renounce it forever. And the + latter course he dared not even consider—the Sanctuary was still the + Sanctuary, and the role of Larry the Bat was still a refuge, the trump + card in the lone hand he played. + </p> + <p> + He reached the corner, pushed open the door of Bristol Bob's, and shuffled + in. The place was a glare of light, a hideous riot of noise. On a polished + section of the floor in the centre, a turkey trot was in full swing; + laughter and shouting vied raucously with an impossible orchestra. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale slowly made the circuit of the room past the tables, that, + ranged around the sides, were packed with occupants who thumped their + glasses in tempo with the music and clamoured at the rushing waiters for + replenishment. A dozen, two dozen, men and women greeted him. Jimmie Dale + indifferently returned their salutes. What a galaxy of crooks—the + cream of the underworld! His eyes, under half-closed lids, swept the faces—lags, + dips, gatmen, yeggs, mob stormers, murderers, petty sneak thieves, stalls, + hangers-on—they were all there. He knew them all; he was known to + all. + </p> + <p> + He shuffled on to the far end of the room, his leer a little arrogant, a + certain arrogance, too, in the tilt of his battered hat. He also was quite + a celebrity in that gathering—Larry the Bat was of the aristocracy + and the elite of gangland. Well, the show was over; he had stalked across + the stage, performed for his audience—and in another hour now, free + until he must repeat the same performance the next day in some other + equally notorious dive, he would be sitting in for a rubber of bridge at + that most exclusive of all clubs, the St. James, where none might enter + save only those whose names were vouched for in the highest and most + select circles, and where for partners he would possibly have a justice of + the supreme court, or mayhap an eminent divine! He looked suddenly around + him, as though startled. It always startled him, that comparison. There + was something too stupendous to be simply ironical in the incongruity of + it. If—if he were ever run to earth! + </p> + <p> + His eyes met those of a heavy-built, coarse-featured man, the chewed end + of a cigar in his mouth, who stepped from behind the bar, carrying a tin + tray with two full glasses upon it. It was Bristol Bob, ex-pugilist, the + proprietor. + </p> + <p> + “How're you, Larry?” grunted the man, with what he meant to be a smile. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was standing in the doorway of a passage that prefaced a rear + exit to the lane. He moved aside to allow the other to pass. + </p> + <p> + “'Ello, Bristol,” he returned dispassionately. + </p> + <p> + Bristol Bob went on along down the passage, and Jimmie Dale shuffled + slowly after him. He had intended to leave the place by the rear door—it + obviated the possibility of an undesirable acquaintance joining company + with him if he went out by the main entrance. But now his eyes were fixed + on the proprietor's back with a sort of speculative curiosity. There was a + private room off the passage, with a window on the lane; but they must be + favoured customers indeed that Bristol Bob would condescend to serve + personally—any one who knew Bristol Bob knew that. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale slowed his shuffling gait, then quickened it again. Bristol + Bob opened the door and passed into the private room—the door was + just closing as Jimmie Dale shuffled by. He had had only a glance inside—but + it was enough. They were favoured customers indeed! It was no wonder that + Bristol Bob himself was on the job! Two men were in the room: Lannigan of + headquarters, rated the smartest plain-clothes man in the country—and, + across the table from Lannigan, Whitey Mack, as clever, finished and + daring a crook as was to be found in the Bad Lands, whose particular + “line” was diamonds, or, in the vernacular of his ilk, “white stones,” + that had earned him the sobriquet of “Whitey.” Lannigan of headquarters, + Whitey Mack of the underworld, sworn enemies those two—in secret + session! Bristol Bob might well play the part of outer guard. If a choice + few of those outside in the dance hall could get a glimpse into that + private room it would be “good-night” to Whitey Mack. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's eyes were narrowed a little as he shuffled on down the + passage. Lannigan and Whitey Mack with their heads together! What was the + game? There was nothing in common between the two men. Lannigan, it was + well known, could not be “reached.” Whitey Mack, with his ingenious + cleverness, coupled with a cold-blooded fearlessness that had made him an + object of unholy awe and respect in the eyes of the underworld, was a + thorn that was sore beyond measure in the side of the police. Certainly, + it was no ordinary thing that had brought these two together; especially, + since, with the unrest and suspicion that was bubbling and seething below + the dead line, and with which there was none more intimate than Whitey + Mack, Whitey Mack was inviting a risk in “making up” with the police that + could only be accounted for by some urgent and vital incentive. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale pushed open the door that gave on the lane. Behind him, + Bristol Bob closed the door of the private room and retreated back along + the passage. Jimmie Dale stepped out into the lane—and instinctively + his eyes sought the window of the private room. The shade was drawn, only + a yellow murk filtered out into the black, unlighted lane, but suddenly he + started noiselessly toward it. The window was open a bare inch or so at + the bottom! + </p> + <p> + The sill was just shoulder high, and, placing his ear to the opening, he + flattened himself against the wall. He could not see inside, for the shade + was drawn well to the bottom; but he could hear as distinctly as though he + were at the table beside the two men—and at the first words, the + loose, disjointed frame of Larry the Bat seemed to tauten curiously and + strain forward lithe and tense. + </p> + <p> + “This Gray Seal dope listens good, Whitey; but, coming from you, I'm + leery. You've got to show me.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you want him?” There was a nasty laugh from Whitey Mack. + </p> + <p> + “You BET I want him!” returned the headquarters man with a suppressed + savagery that left no doubt as to his earnestness. “I want him fast + enough, but—” + </p> + <p> + “Then, blast him, so do I!” Whitey Mack rapped out with a vicious snarl. + “So does every guy in the fleet down here. We got it in for him. You get + that, don't you? He's got Stangeist and his gang steered for the electric + chair now; he put a crimp in the Weasel the other night—get that? + He's like a blasted wizard with what he knows. And who'll he deal the icy + mitt to next? Me—damn him—me, for all I know!” + </p> + <p> + “That's all right,” observed Lannigan coolly. “I'm not questioning your + sincerity for a minute; I know all about that; but that doesn't land the + Gray Seal. I'll work with you if you've anything to offer, but we've had + enough 'tips' and 'information' handed us at headquarters in the last few + years to make us a trifle skeptical. Show me what you've got, Whitey?” + </p> + <p> + “Show you!” echoed Whitey Mack passionately. “Sure, I'll show you! That's + what I'm going to do—show you. I'll show you the Gray Seal! I ain't + handing you any tips. I'VE FOUND OUT WHO THE GRAY SEAL IS!” + </p> + <p> + There was a tense silence. It seemed to Jimmie Dale as though cold fingers + were clutching at his heart, stifling its beat—then the blood came + bursting to his forehead. He could not see into the room, but that silence + was eloquent. It seemed as though he could picture the two men—Lannigan + leaning suddenly forward—Lannigan and Whitey Mack staring tensely + into each other's eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You—WHAT!” It came low and grim from Lannigan. + </p> + <p> + “That's what!” asserted Whitey Mack bluntly. “You heard me! That's what I + said! I know who the Gray Seal is—and I'm the only guy that's wise + to him. Am I letting you in right?” + </p> + <p> + “You're sure?” demanded Lannigan hoarsely. “You're sure? Who is he, then?” + </p> + <p> + There was a half laugh, half snarl from Whitey Mack. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, you don't!” he growled. “Nix on that! What do you take me for—a + fool? You beat it out of here and round him up—eh—while I suck + my thumbs? Say, forget it! Do you think I'm doing this because I love you? + Why, blame you, you've been aching for a year to put the bracelets on me + yourself! Say, wake up! I'm in on this myself.” + </p> + <p> + Again that silence. Then Lannigan spoke slowly, in a puzzled way. + </p> + <p> + “I don't get you, Whitey,” he said. “What do you mean?” Then, a little + sharply: “You're quite right; you've got some reputation yourself, and + you're badly 'wanted' if we could get the 'goods' on you. If you're trying + to plant something, look out for yourself, or—” + </p> + <p> + “Can that!” snapped Whitey Mack threateningly. “Can that sort of spiel + right now—or quit! I ain't telling you his name—yet. BUT I'LL + TAKE YOU TO HIM TO-NIGHT—and you and me nabs him together. Is that + straight enough goods for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't get sore,” said Lannigan, more pacifically. “Yes, if you'll do that + it's good enough for any man. But lay your cards on the table face up, + Whitey—I want to see what you opened the pot on.” + </p> + <p> + “You've seen 'em,” Whitey Mack answered ungraciously. “I've told you + already. The Gray Seal goes out for keeps—curse him for a snitch! If + I bumped him off, or wised up any of the guys to it, and we was caught, + we'd get the juice for it even if it was the Gray Seal, wouldn't we? Well, + what's the use! If one of you dicks get him, he gets bumped off just the + same, only regular, up in the wire parlour at Sing Sing. I ain't looking + for that kind of trouble when I can duck it. See?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” said Lannigan. + </p> + <p> + “Besides, and moreover,” continued Whitey Mack, “there's SOME reward hung + out for him that I'm figuring to born in on. I'd swipe it all myself, + don't you make any mistake about that, and you'd never get a look-in, + only, sore as the mob is on the Gray Seal, it ain't healthy for any guy + around these parts to get the reputation of being a snitch, no matter who + he snitches on. Bump him off—sure! Snitching—well, you get the + idea, eh? I'm ducking that too. Get me?” + </p> + <p> + “I get you,” said Lannigan, with a short, pleased laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” announced Whitey Mack, “here's my proposition, and it's my + turn to hand out the 'look-out-for-your-self' dope. I'm busting the game + wide open for you to play, but you throw me down, and”—his voice + sank into a sullen snarl again—“you can take it from me, I'll get + you for it!” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” responded Lannigan soberly. “Let's hear it. If I agree to it, + I'll stick to it.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you,” said Whitey Mack curtly. “That's why I picked you out for + the medal they'll pin on you for this. And here's getting down to tacks! + I'll lead you to the Gray Seal to-night and help you nab him and stay with + you to the finish, but there's to be nobody but you and me on the job. + When it's done I fade away, and nobody's to know I snitched, and no + questions asked as to how I found out about the Gray Seal. I ain't looking + for any of the glory—you can fix that up to suit yourself. The cash + is different—you come across with half the reward the day they pay + it.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll get it!” There was savage elation in Lannigan's voice, the + emphatic smash of a fist on the table. “You're on, Whitey. And if we get + the Gray Seal to-night, I'll do better by you than that.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll get him!” said Whitey Mack, with a vicious oath. “And—” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale crouched suddenly low down, close against the wall. The crunch + of a footstep sounded from the end of the lane. Some one had turned in + from the cross street, some fifty yards away, and was heading evidently + for the back entrance to Bristol Bob's. Jimmie Dale edged noiselessly, + cautiously back past the doorway, kept on, pressed close against the wall, + and finally paused. He had not been seen. The back door of Bristol Bob's + opened and closed. The man had gone in. + </p> + <p> + For a moment Jimmie Dale stood hesitant. There was a wild surging in his + brain, something like a myriad batteries of trip hammers seemed to be + pounding at his temples. Then, almost blindly, he kept on down the lane in + the same direction in which he had started to retreat—as well one + cross street as another. + </p> + <p> + He turned into the cross street, went along it—and presently emerged + into the full tide of the Bowery. It was garishly lighted; people swarmed + about him. Subconsciously, there were crowded sidewalks; subconsciously, + he was on the Bowery—that was all. + </p> + <p> + Ruin, disaster, peril faced him—faced him, and staggered him with + the suddenness of the shock. Was it true? No; it could not be true! It was + a bluff—Whitey Mack was bluffing. Jimmie Dale's lips grew thin in a + mirthless smile as he shook his head. Neither Whitey Mack nor any other + man would dare to bluff like that. It was too straight, too open-handed, + Whitey Mack had laid his cards too plainly on the table. Whitey Mack's + words rang in his ears: “I'll LEAD you to the Gray Seal to-night and help + you nab him and stay with you to the finish.” The man meant what he said, + meant what he said, too, about the “finish” of the Gray Seal; not a man in + the Bad Lands but meant—death to the Gray Seal! But how, by what + means, when, where had Whitey Mack got his information? “I'm the only one + that's wise,” Whitey Mack had said. It seemed impossible. It WAS + impossible! Whitey Mack was sincere enough probably in what he had said, + but the man simply could not know. Whitey Mack could only have spotted + some one that, for some reason or other, he IMAGINED was the Gray Seal. + That was it—must be it! Whitey Mack had made a mistake. What clew + could he have obtained to— + </p> + <p> + Over the unwashed face of Larry the Bat a gray pallor spread slowly. His + fingers were plucking at the frayed edge of his inside vest pocket. The + dark eyes seemed to turn coal-black. A laugh, like the laugh of one + damned, rose to his lips, and was choked back. It was gone! GONE! That + thin metal case, like a cigarette case, that, between the little sheets of + oil paper, held those diamond-shaped, gray-coloured, adhesive seals, the + insignia of the Gray Seal—was gone! Clew! It seemed as though there + were an overpowering nausea upon him. CLEW! That little case was not a + clew—it was a death warrant! + </p> + <p> + His hands clenched fiercely. If he could only think for a moment! The + lining of his pocket had given away. The case had dropped out. But there + was nothing about the case to identify any one as the Gray Seal unless it + were found in one's actual possession. Therefore Whitey Mack, to have + solved his identity, must have seen him drop the case. There could be no + question about that. It was equally obvious then that Whitey Mack would + know the Gray Seal as Larry the Bat. Did he also know him as Jimmie Dale? + Yes, or no? It was a vital question. His life hung on it. + </p> + <p> + That keen, facile brain, numbed for the moment, was beginning to work with + lightning speed. It was four o'clock that afternoon when he had assumed + the character of Larry the Bat—some time between four o'clock and + the present, it was now well after eleven, the case had dropped from his + pocket. There had been ample time then for Whitey Mack to have made that + appointment with Lannigan—and ample time to have made a + surreptitious visit to the Sanctuary. Had Whitey Mack gone there? Had + Whitey Mack found that hiding place in the flooring under the oilcloth? + Had Whitey Mack discovered that the Gray Seal was not only Larry the Bat—but + Jimmie Dale? + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale swept his hand across his forehead. It was damp from little + clinging beads of moisture. Should he go to the Sanctuary and change—become + Jimmie Dale again? Was it the safest thing to do—or the most + dangerous? Even if Whitey Mack had been there and discovered the dual + personality of Larry the Bat, how would he, Jimmie Dale, know it? The man + would have been crafty enough to have left no sign behind him. Was it to + the Sanctuary that Whitey Mack meant to lead Lannigan that evening—or + did Whitey Mack know him as Jimmie Dale, and to make it the more + sensational, plan to carry out the coup, say, at the St. James Club? + Whitey Mack and Lannigan were still at Bristol Bob's; he had probably + time, if he so elected, to reach the Sanctuary, change, and get away + again. But every minute was priceless now. What should he do? Run from the + city as he was for cover—or take the gambler's chance? Whitey Mack + knew him as Larry the Bat—it was not certain that Whitey Mack knew + him as Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + He had halted, absorbed, in front of a moving-picture theatre. Great + placards, at first but a blur of colour, suddenly forced themselves in + concrete form upon his consciousness. Letters a foot high leaped out at + him: “THE DOUBLE LIFE.” There was the picture of a banker in his private + office hastily secreting a forged paper as the hero in the guise of a + clerk entered; the companion picture was the banker in convict stripes + staring out from behind the barred doors of a cell. There seemed a ghastly + augury in the coincidence. Why should a thing like that be thrust upon him + to shake his nerve when he needed nerve now more than he had ever needed + it in his life before? + </p> + <p> + He raised his hand to jerk aimlessly at the brim of his hat, dropped his + hand abruptly to his side again, and started quickly, hurriedly away + through the throng around him. A sort of savagery had swept upon him. In a + flash he had made his decision. He would take the gambler's chance! And + afterward—Jimmie Dale's lips were like a thin, straight line—it + was Whitey Mack's life or his own! Whitey Mack had said he was the only + one that was wise—and Whitey Mack had not told Lannigan yet, + wouldn't tell Lannigan until the show-down. If he, Jimmie Dale, got to the + Sanctuary, became Jimmie Dale and got away again, even if Whitey Mack knew + him as Jimmie Dale, there was still a chance. It was his life or Whitey + Mack's—Whitey Mack, with his lean-jawed, clean-shaven wolf's face! + If he could get Whitey Mack before the other was ready to tell Lannigan! + Surely he had the right of self-preservation! Surely his life was as + valuable as Whitey Mack's, as valuable as a man's who, as those in the + secrets of the underworld knew well enough, had blood upon his hands, who + lived by crime, who was a menace to the community! Had he not the right to + preserve his own life at the expense of one such as that? He had never + taken life—the thought was abhorrent! But was there any other way in + event of Whitey Mack knowing him as Jimmie Dale? His back was against the + wall; he was trapped; certain death, and, worse, dishonour stared him in + the face. Lannigan and Whitey Mack would be together—the odds would + be two to one against him—and he had no quarrel with Lannigan—somehow + he must let Lannigan out of it. + </p> + <p> + The other side of the street was less crowded. He crossed over, and, still + with the shuffling tread that dozens around him knew as the characteristic + gait of Larry the Bat, but covering the ground with amazing celerity, he + hurried along. It was only at the end of the block, that cross street from + the Bowery that led to the Sanctuary. How much time had he? He turned the + corner into the darker cross street. Whitey Mack would have learned from + Bristol Bob that Larry the Bat had just been there; that is, that Larry + the Bat was not at the Sanctuary. Whitey Mack would probably be in no + hurry—he and Lannigan might wait until later, until Whitey Mack + should be satisfied that Larry the Bat had gone home. It was the line of + least resistance; they would not attempt to scour the city for him. They + might even wait in that private room at Bristol Bob's until they decided + that it was time to sally out. He might perhaps still find them there when + he got back; at any rate, from there he must pick up their trail again. On + the other hand—all this was but supposition—they might make at + once for the Sanctuary to lie in wait for him. In any case there was need, + desperate need, for haste. + </p> + <p> + He glanced sharply around him; and, by the side of the tenement house now + that bordered on the alleyway, with a curious, swift, gliding motion, he + seemed to blend into the shadow and darkness. It was the Sanctuary, that + room on the first floor of the tenement, the tenement that had three + entrances, three exits—a passageway through to the saloon on the + next street that abutted on the rear, the usual front door, and the side + door in the alleyway. Gone was the shuffling gait. Quick, alert, he ran, + crouching, bent down, along the alleyway, reached the side door, opened it + stealthily, closed it behind him with equal caution, and, in the dark + entry, stood motionless, listening intently. + </p> + <p> + There was no sound. He began to mount the rickety, dilapidated stairs; + and, where it seemed that the lightest tread must make them creak out in + blatant protest, his trained muscles, delicately compensating his body + weight, carried him upward with a silence that was almost uncanny. There + was need of silence, as there was need of haste. He was not so sure now of + the time at his disposal—that he had even reached the Sanctuary + FIRST. How long had he loitered in that half-dazed way on the Bowery? He + did not know—perhaps longer than he had imagined. There was the + possibility that Whitey Mack and Lannigan were already above, waiting for + him; but, even if they were not already there and he got away before they + came, it was imperative that no one should know that Larry the Bat had + come and gone. + </p> + <p> + He reached the landing, and paused again, his right hand, with a vicious + muzzle of his automatic peeping now from between his fingers, thrown a + little forward. It was black, utterly black, around him. Again that + stealthy, catlike tread—and his ear was at the keyhole of the + Sanctuary door. A full minute, priceless though it was, passed; then, + satisfied that the room was empty, he drew his head back from the keyhole, + and those slim, tapering fingers, that in their tips seemed to embody all + the human senses, felt over the lock. Apparently it had been undisturbed; + but that was no proof that Whitey Mack had not been there after finding + the metal case. Whitey Mack was known to be clever with a lock—clever + enough for that, anyhow. + </p> + <p> + He slipped in the key, turned it, and, on hinges that were always oiled, + silently pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold. He closed + the door until it was just ajar, that any sound might reach him from + without—and, whipping off his coat, began to undress swiftly. + </p> + <p> + There was no light. He dared not use the gas; it might be seen from the + alleyway. He was moving now quickly, surely, silently here and there. It + was like some weird spectre figure, a little blacker than the surrounding + darkness, flitting about the room. The oilcloth in the corner was turned + back, the loose flooring lifted, the clothes of Jimmie Dale taken out, the + rags of Larry the Bat put in. The minutes flew by. It was not the change + of clothing that took long—it was the eradication of Larry the Bat's + make-up from his face, throat, neck, wrists, and hands. Occasionally his + head was turned in a tense, listening attitude; but always the fingers + were busy, working with swift deftness. + </p> + <p> + It was done at last. Larry the Bat had vanished, and in his place stood + Jimmie Dale, the young millionaire, the social lion of New York, + immaculate in well-tailored tweeds. He stooped to the hole in the + flooring, and, his fingers going unerringly to their hiding place, took + out a black silk mask and an electric flashlight—his automatic was + already in his possession. His lips parted grimly. Who knew what part a + flashlight might not play—and he would need the mask for Lannigan's + benefit, even if it did not disguise him from Whitey Mack. Had he left any + telltale evidence of his visit? It was almost worth the risk of a light to + make sure. He hesitated, then shook his head, and, stooping again, + carefully replaced the flooring and laid the oilcloth over it—he + dared not show a light at any cost. + </p> + <p> + But now even more caution than before was necessary. At times, the lodgers + had naturally enough seen their fellow lodger, Larry the Bat, enter and + leave the tenement—none had ever seen Jimmie Dale either leave or + enter. He stole across the room to the door, halted to assure himself that + the hall was empty, slipped out into the hall, and locked the door behind + him. Again that trained, long-practiced, silent tread upon the stairs. It + seemed as though an hour passed before he reached the bottom, and his + brain was shrieking at him to hurry, hurry, HURRY! The entryway at last, + the door, the alleyway, a long breath of relief—and he was on the + cross street. + </p> + <p> + A step, two, he took in the direction of the Bowery—and he was + bending down as though to tie his shoe, his automatic, from his side + pocket, concealed in his hand. WAS THAT SOME ONE THERE? He could have + sworn he saw a shadow-like form start out from behind the steps of the + house on the opposite side of the street as he had emerged from the + alleyway. In his bent posture, without seemingly turning his head, his + eyes swept sharply up and down the other side of the ill-lighted street. + Nothing! There was not even a pedestrian in sight on the block from there + to the Bowery. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale straightened up nonchalantly, and stooped almost instantly + again, as though the lace were still proving refractory. Again that sharp, + searching glance. Again—nothing! He went forward now in apparent + unconcern; but his right hand, instead of being buried in his coat pocket, + swung easily at his side. + </p> + <p> + It was strange! His ineffective ruse to the contrary, he was certain that + he had not been mistaken. Was it Whitey Mack? Was the question answered? + Was the Gray Seal known, too, as Jimmie Dale? Were they trailing him now, + with the climax to come at the club, at his own palatial home, wherever + the surroundings would best lend themselves to assuaging that inordinate + thirst for the sensational that was so essentially a characteristic of the + confirmed criminal? What a headline in the morning's papers it would make! + </p> + <p> + At the corner he loitered by the curb to light a cigarette—still not + a soul in sight on either side of the street behind him, except a couple + of Italians who had just passed by. Strange again! The intuition, if it + were only intuition, was still strong. He swung abruptly on his heel, + mingled with the passers-by on the Bowery, walked a rapid half dozen steps + until the building hid the cross street, then ran across the road to the + opposite side of the Bowery, and, in a crowd now, came back to the corner. + He crossed from curb to curb slowly, sheltered by a fringe of people that, + however, in no way obstructed his view down the side street. And then + Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. He had evidently been mistaken, after + all. He was overexcited; his nerves were raw—that, perhaps, was the + solution. Meanwhile, every minute was counting, if Whitey Mack and + Lannigan should still be at Bristol Bob's. + </p> + <p> + He kept on down the Bowery, hurrying with growing impatience through the + crowds that massed in front of various places of amusement. He had not + intended to come along the Bowery, and, except for what had occurred, + would have taken a less frequented street. He would turn off at the next + block. + </p> + <p> + He was in front of that moving-picture theatre again. “THE DOUBLE LIFE”—his + eyes were attracted involuntarily to the lurid, overdone display. It + seemed to threaten him; it seemed to dangle before him a premonition as it + were, of what the morning held in store; but now, too, it seemed to feed + into flame that smouldering fury that possessed him. His life—or + Whitey Mack's! Men, women, and the children who turned night into day in + that quarter of the city were clustered thick around the signs, hiving + like bees to the bald sensationalism. Almost savagely he began to force + his way through the crowd—and the next instant, like a man stunned, + had stopped in his tracks. His fingers had closed in a fierce, spasmodic + clutch over an envelope that had been thrust suddenly into his hand. + </p> + <p> + “JIMMIE!” from somewhere came a low, quick voice. “Jimmie, it is half-past + eleven now—HURRY.” + </p> + <p> + He whirled, scanning wildly this face, then that. It was her voice—HER + voice! The Tocsin! The sensitive fingers were telegraphing to his brain, + as they always did, that the texture of the envelope, too, was hers. Her + voice; yes, anywhere, out of a thousand voices, he would distinguish hers—but + her face, he had never seen that. Which, out of all the crowd around him, + was hers? Surely he could tell her by her dress; she would be different; + her personality alone must single her out. She— + </p> + <p> + “Say, have youse got de pip, or do youse t'ink youse owns de earth!” a man + flung at him, heaving and pushing to get by. + </p> + <p> + With a start, though he scarcely heard the man, Jimmie Dale moved on. His + brain was afire. All the irony of the world seemed massed in a sudden, + overwhelming attack upon him. It was useless—intuitively he had + known it was useless from the instant he had heard her voice. It was + always the same—always! For years she had eluded him like that, come + upon him without warning and disappeared, but leaving always that tangible + proof of her existence—a letter, the call of the Gray Seal to arms. + But to-night it was as it had never been before. It was not alone baffled + chagrin now, not alone the longing, the wild desire to see her face, to + look into her eyes—it was life and death. She had come at the very + moment when she, perhaps alone of all the world, could have pointed the + way out, when life, liberty, everything that was common to them both was + at stake, in deadly peril—and she had gone, ignorant of it all, + leaving him staggered by the very possibility of the succour that was held + up before his eyes only to be snatched away without power of his to grasp + it. His intuition had not been at fault—he had made no mistake in + that shadow across the street from the Sanctuary. It had been the Tocsin. + He had been followed; and it was she who had followed him, until, in a + crowd, she had seized the opportunity of a moment ago. Though ultimately, + perhaps, it changed nothing, it was a relief in a way to know that it was + she, not Whitey Mack, who had been lurking there; but her persistent, + incomprehensible determination to preserve the mystery with which she + surrounded herself was like now to cost them both a ghastly price. If he + could only have had one word with her—just one word! + </p> + <p> + The letter in his hand crackled under his clenched fist. He stared at it + in a half-blind, half-bitter way. The call of the Gray Seal to arms! + Another coup, with its incident danger and peril, that she had planned for + him to execute! He could have laughed aloud at the inhuman mockery of it. + The call of the Gray Seal to arms—NOW! When with every faculty + drained to its last resource, cornered, trapped, he was fighting for his + very existence! + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie, it is half-past eleven now—HURRY!” The words were jangling + discordantly in his brain. + </p> + <p> + And now he laughed outright, mirthlessly. A young girl hanging on her + escort's arm, passing, glanced at him and giggled. It was a different + Jimmie Dale for the moment. For once his immobility had forsaken him. He + laughed again—a sort of unnatural, desperate indifference to + everything falling upon him. What did it matter, the moment or two it + would take to read the letter? He looked around him. He was on the corner + in front of the Palace Saloon, and, turning abruptly, he stepped in + through the swinging doors. As Larry the Bat, he knew the place well. At + the rear of the barroom and along the side of the wall were some half + dozen little stalls, partitioned off from each other. Several of these + were unoccupied, and he chose the one farthest from the entrance. It was + private enough; no one would disturb him. + </p> + <p> + From the aproned individual who presented himself he ordered a drink. The + man returned in a moment, and Jimmie Dale tossed a coin on the table, + bidding the other keep the change. He wanted no drink; the transaction was + wholly perfunctory. The waiter was gone; he pushed the glass away from + him, and tore the envelope open. + </p> + <p> + A single sheet, closely written on both sides of the paper, was in his + hand. It was her writing; there was no mistaking that, but every word, + every line bore evidence of frantic haste. Even that customary formula, + “dear philanthropic crook,” that had prefaced every line she had ever + written him before, had been omitted. His eyes traversed the first few + lines with that strange indifference that had settled upon him. What, + after all, did it matter what it was; he could do nothing—not even + save himself probably. And then, with a little start, he read the lines + over again, muttering snatches from them. + </p> + <p> + “. . . Max Diestricht—diamonds—the Ross-Logan stones—wedding—sliding + panel in wall of workshop—end of the room near window—ten + boards to the right from side wall—press small knot in the wood in + the centre of the tenth board—to-night . . .” + </p> + <p> + It brought a sudden thrill of excitement to Jimmie Dale that, impossible + as he would have believed it an instant ago, for the moment overshadowed + the realisation of his own peril. A robbery such as that, if it were ever + accomplished, would stir the country from end to end; it would set New + York by the ears; it would loose the police in full cry like a pack of + bloodhounds with their leashes slipped. The society columns of the + newspapers had been busy for months featuring the coming marriage of the + Ross-Logans' daughter to one of the country's young merchant princes. The + combined fortunes of the two families would make the young couple the + richest in America. The prospective groom's wedding gift was to be a + diamond necklace of perfectly matched, large stones that would eclipse + anything of the kind in the country. Europe, the foreign markets, had been + literally combed and ransacked to supply the gems. The stones had arrived + in New York the day before, the duty on them alone amounting to over fifty + thousand dollars. All this had appeared in the papers. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's brows drew together in a frown. On just exactly what + percentage the duty was figured he did not know; but it was high enough on + the basis of fifty thousand dollars to assume safely that the assessed + value of the stones was not less than four times that amount. Two hundred + thousand dollars—laid down, a quarter of a million! Well, why not? + In more than one quarter diamonds were ranked as the soundest kind of an + investment. Furthermore, through personal acquaintance with the “high + contracting parties,” who were in his own set, he knew it to be true. + </p> + <p> + He shrugged his shoulders. The papers, too, had thrown the limelight on + Max Diestricht, who, though for quite a time the fashion in the social + world, had, up to the present, been comparatively unknown to the average + New Yorker. His own knowledge of Max Diestricht went deeper than the + superficial biography furnished by the newspapers—the old Hollander + had done more than one piece of exquisite jewelry work for him. The old + fellow was a character that beggared description, eccentric to the point + of extravagance, and deaf as a post; but, in craftmanship, a modern + Cellini. He employed no workmen, lived alone over his shop on one of the + lower streets between Fifth and Sixth Avenues near Washington Square—and + possessed a splendid contempt for such protective contrivances as safes + and vaults. If his prospective patrons expostulated on this score before + intrusting him with their valuables, they were at liberty to take their + work elsewhere. It was Max Diestricht who honoured you by accepting the + commission; not you who honoured Max Diestricht by intrusting him with it. + “Of what use is it to me, a safe!” he would exclaim. “It hides nothing; it + only says, 'I am inside; do not look farther; come and get me!' Yes? It is + to explode with the nitro-glycerin—POUF!—and I am deaf and I + hear nothing. It is a foolishness, that”—he had a habit of prodding + at one with a levelled fore-finger—“every night somewhere they are + robbed, and have I been robbed? HEIN, tell me that; have I been robbed?” + </p> + <p> + It was true. In ten years, though at times having stones and precious + metal aggregating large amounts deposited with him by his customers, Max + Diestricht had never lost so much as the gold filings. There was a queer + smile on Jimmie Dale's lips now. The knot in the tenth board was + significant! Max Diestricht was scrupulously honest, a genius in + originality and conception of design, a master in the perfection and + delicacy of his finished work—he had been commissioned to design and + set the Ross-Logan necklace. + </p> + <p> + The brain works quickly. All this and more had flashed almost + instantaneously through Jimmie Dale's mind. His eyes fell to the letter + again, and he read on. Halfway through, a sudden whiteness blanched his + face, and, following it, a surging tide of red that mounted to his + temples. It dazed him; it seemed to rob him for the moment of the power of + coherent thought. He was wrong; he had not read aright. It was incredible, + dare-devil beyond belief—and yet in its very audacity lay success. + He finished the letter, read it once more—and his fingers + mechanically began to tear it into little shreds. His brain was in a + whirl, a vortex of conflicting emotions. Had Whitey Mack and Lannigan left + Bristol Bob's yet? Where were they now? Was there time for—this? He + was staring at the little torn scraps of paper in his hand. He thrust them + suddenly into his pocket, and jerked out his watch. It was nearly + midnight. The broad, muscular shoulders seemed to square back curiously, + the jaws to clamp a little, the face to harden and grow cold until it was + like stone. With a swift movement he emptied his glass into the cuspidor, + set the glass back on the table, and stepped out from the stall. His + destination was Max Diestricht's. + </p> + <p> + The Palace Saloon was near the upper end of the Bowery, and, failing a + taxicab, of which none was in sight, his quickest method was to walk, and + he started briskly forward. It was not far; and it was barely ten minutes + from the time he had left the Palace Saloon when he swung through + Washington Square to Fifth Avenue, and, a moment later, turned from that + thoroughfare, heading west toward Sixth Avenue, along one of those streets + which, with the city's northward trend, had quite lost any distinctive + identity, and from being once a modestly fashionable residential section + had now become a conglomerate potpourri of small tradesmen's stores, shops + and apartments of the poorer class. He knew Max Diestricht's—he + could well have done without the aid of the arc lamp which, even if dimly, + indicated that low, almost tumble-down, two-story structure tucked away + between the taller buildings on either side that almost engulfed it. It + was late. The street was quiet. The shops and stores had long since been + closed, Max Diestricht's among them—the old Hollanders' name in + painted white letters stood out against the background of a darkened + workshop window. In the story above, the lights, too, were out; Max + Diestricht was probably fast asleep—and he was stone deaf! + </p> + <p> + A glance up and down the street, and Jimmie Dale was standing, or, rather, + leaning against Max Diestricht's door. There was no one to see, and if + there were, what was there to attract attention to a man standing + nonchalantly for a moment in a doorway? It was only for a moment. Those + master fingers of Jimmie Dale were working surely, swiftly, silently. A + little steel instrument that was never out of his possession was in the + lock and out again. The door opened, closed; he drew the black silk mask + from his pocket and slipped it over his face. Immediately in front of him + the stairs led upward; immediately to his right was the door into the shop—the + modest street entrance was common to both. + </p> + <p> + The door into the workshop was not locked. He opened it, stepped inside, + and closed it quietly behind him. The place was in blackness. He stood for + a moment silent, straining his ears to catch the slightest sound, + reconstructing the plan of his surroundings in his mind as he remembered + it. It was a narrow, oblong room, running the entire depth of the + building, a very long room, blank walls on either side, a window in the + middle of the rear wall that gave on a back yard, and from the back yard + there was access to the lane; also, as he remembered the place, it was a + riot of disorder, with workbenches and odds and ends strewn without system + or reason in every direction—one had need of care to negotiate it in + the dark. He took his flashlight from his pocket, and, preliminary to a + more intimate acquaintance with the interior, glanced out through the + front window near which he stood—and, with a suppressed cry, shrank + back instinctively against the wall. + </p> + <p> + Two men were crossing the street, heading directly for the shop door. The + arc lamp lighted up their faces. IT WAS INSPECTOR LANNIGAN OF HEADQUARTERS + AND WHITEY MACK! The quick intake of Jimmie Dale breath was sucked through + clenched teeth. They were close on his heels then—far closer than he + had imagined. It would take Whitey Mack scarcely any longer to open that + front door than it had taken him. Close on his heels! His face was rigid. + He could hear them now at the door. The flashlight in his hand winked down + the length of the room. If was a dangerous thing to do, but it was still + more dangerous to stumble into some object and make a noise. He darted + forward, circuiting a workbench, a stool, a small hand forge. Again the + flashlight gleamed. Against the side wall, near the rear, was another + workbench, with a sort of coarse canvas curtain hanging part way down in + front of it, evidently to protect such things as might be stored away + beneath it from dust, and Jimmie Dale sprang for it, whipped back the + canvas, and crawled underneath. He was not an instant too soon. As the + canvas fell back into place, the shop door opened, closed, and the two men + had stepped inside. + </p> + <p> + Whitey Mack's voice, in a low whisper though it was, seemed to echo + raucously through the shop. + </p> + <p> + “Mabbe we'll have a sweet wait, but I got the straight dope on this. He's + going to make a try for Dutchy's sparklers to-night. We'll let him go the + limit, and we don't either of us make a move till he's pinched them, and + then we get him with the goods on him. He can't get away; he hasn't a + hope! There's only two ways of getting in here or getting out—this + door and window here, and a window that's down there at the back. You + guard this, and I'll take care of the other end. Savvy?” + </p> + <p> + “Right!” Lannigan answered grimly. “Go ahead!” + </p> + <p> + There was the sound of footsteps moving forward, then a vicious bump, the + scraping of some object along the floor, and a muffled curse from Whitey + Mack. + </p> + <p> + “Use your flashlight!” advised the inspector, in a guarded voice. + </p> + <p> + “I haven't got one, damn it!”, growled Whitey Mack. “It's all right. I'll + get along.” + </p> + <p> + Again the steps, but more warily now, as though the man were cautiously + feeling ahead of him for possible obstacles. Jimmie Dale for a moment held + his breath. He could have reached out and touched the man as the other + passed. Whitey Mack went on until he had taken up a position against the + rear wall. Jimmie Dale heard him as he brushed against it. + </p> + <p> + Then silence fell. He was between them now. Stretched full length on the + floor, Jimmie Dale raised the lower portion of the canvas away from in + front of his face. He could see nothing; the place was in Stygian + blackness; but it had been close and stifling, and, at least, it gave him + more air. + </p> + <p> + The minutes dragged by—each more interminable than the one that had + gone before. Not a movement, not a sound, and then, through the stillness, + very faint at first, came the regular, repressed breathing of Whitey Mack, + who was much the nearer of the two men. And, once noticeable, almost + imperceptible as it was it seemed to pervade the room and fill it with a + strange, ominous resonance that rose and fell until the blackness + palpitated with it. + </p> + <p> + Slowly, very slowly, Jimmie Dale's hand crept into his pocket—and + crept out again with his automatic. He lay motionless once more. Time in + any concrete sense ceased to exist. Fancied shapes began to assume form in + the darkness. By the door, Lannigan stirred uneasily, shifting his + position slightly. + </p> + <p> + Was it hours—was it only minutes? It seemed to ring through the + nerve-racking stillness like the shriek of a hurtling shell—and it + was only a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Watch yourself, Lannigan,” whispered Whitey Mack. “He's coming now + through the yard! Don't move till I start something. Let him get his paws + on the sparklers.” + </p> + <p> + Silence again. And then a low rasping at the window, like the gnawing of a + rat; then, inch by inch, the sash was lifted. There was the sound as of a + body forcing its way over the sill cautiously, then a step upon the floor + inside, another, and still another. The figure of a man loomed up suddenly + against the glow of a flashlight as he threw the round, white ray + inquisitively here and there over the rear wall. And now he appeared to be + counting the boards. One, two, three—ten. His hand ran up and down + the tenth board. Again and again he repeated the operation, and something + like the snarl of a baited beast echoed through the room. He half turned + to snatch at something in his pocket, and the light for a moment showed a + black-bearded, lowering face, partially hidden by a peaked cap that was + pulled far down over his eyes. + </p> + <p> + There was the rip and tear of rending wood, as a steel jimmy, in lieu of + the spring the man evidently could not find, bit in between the boards, a + muttered oath of satisfaction, and a portion of the wall slid back, + disclosing what looked like a metal-lined cupboard. He reached in, seized + one of a dozen little boxes, and wrenched off the cover. A blue, + scintillating gleam seemed to leap out to meet the white ray of the + flashlight. The man chuckled hoarsely, and began to cram the rest of the + boxes into his pockets. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale stirred. On hands and knees he was creeping now from beneath + the workbench. Something caught and tore behind him—the canvas + curtain. And at the sound, with a sharp cry, the man at the wall whirled, + the light went out, and he sprang toward the window. Jimmie Dale gained + his feet and leaped forward. A revolver shot cut a lane of fire through + the blackness; and, above the roar of the report, Whitey Mack's voice in a + fierce yell: + </p> + <p> + “It's all right, Lannigan! I got him! No—HELL!” There was a terrific + crash of breaking glass. “He's got away!” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet, he hasn't!” gritted Jimmie Dale between his teeth, and his + clubbed revolver swung crashing to the head of a dark form in front of + him. + </p> + <p> + There was a half sigh, half moan. The form slid limply to the floor. + Lannigan was floundering down the shop, leaping obstacles in a mad rush, + his flashlight picking out the way. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale stepped swiftly backward, and his hand groped out for the + droplight, over the end of the bench, that he had knocked against in his + own rush. His fingers clutched it—and the lower end of the shop was + flooded with light. Except for his felt hat that lay a little distance + away, there was no sign of Whitey Mack; the huddled form of the man, who + but a moment since had chuckled as he pocketed old Max Diestricht's gems, + lay sprawled, inert, upon the floor, and Lannigan was staring into the + muzzle of Jimmie Dale's automatic. + </p> + <p> + “Drop that gun, Lannigan!” said Jimmie Dale coolly. “And I'll trouble you + not to make a noise; it might attract attention from the street; there's + been too much already. DROP THAT GUN!” + </p> + <p> + The revolver clattered from Lannigan's hand to the floor. A step forward, + and Jimmie Dale's toe sent it spinning under a bench. Another step, and, + his revolver still covering the other, he had whipped a pair of handcuffs + from the officer's side pocket. + </p> + <p> + Lannigan, as though the thought had never occurred to him, offered no + resistance. He was staring in a dazed sort of way back and forth from + Jimmie Dale to the man on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “What's this mean?” he burst out suddenly, “Where's—” + </p> + <p> + “Your wrist, please!” requested Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “No—the left + one. Thank you”—as the handcuff snapped shut. “Now go over there and + sit down on the floor beside that fellow. QUICK!” Jimmie Dale's voice + rasped suddenly, imperatively. + </p> + <p> + Still bewildered, but a little sullen now, Lannigan obeyed. Jimmie Dale + stooped quickly, and snapped the other link of the handcuff over the + unconscious man's right wrist. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale smiled. + </p> + <p> + “That's the approved way of taking your man, isn't it? Left wrist to the + prisoner's right. He's only stunned; he'll be around in a moment. Know + him?” + </p> + <p> + Lannigan shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Take a good look at him,” invited Jimmie Dale. “You ought to know most of + them in the business.” + </p> + <p> + Lannigan bent over a little closer, and then, with an amazed cry, his free + hand shot forward and tore away the other's beard. + </p> + <p> + IT WAS WHITEY MACK! + </p> + <p> + “My God!” gasped Lannigan. + </p> + <p> + “Quite so!” said Jimmie Dale evenly. “You'll find the diamonds in his + pockets, and, excuse me”—his fingers were running through Whitey + Mack's clothes—“ah, here it is”—the thin metal case was in his + hand—“a little article that belongs to me, and whose loss, I am free + to admit, caused me considerable concern until I was informed that he had + only found it without having the slightest idea as to whom it belonged. It + made quite a difference!” He had opened the case carelessly before + Lannigan's eyes. “'The Gray Seal!' I'll say it for you,” said Jimmie Dale + whimsically. “This is what probably put the idea into his head, after + first, in some way, having discovered old Max Diestricht's hiding place; + and, if I had given him time enough, he would probably have stuck one of + these seals, in clumsy imitation of that little eccentricity of mine, on + the wall over there to stamp the job as genuine. You begin to get it, + don't you Lannigan? Pretty sure-fire as an alibi, eh? And he'd have got + away with it, too, as far as you were concerned. He had only to fire that + shot, smash the window, tuck his false beard, mustache, and peaked cap + into his pocket, put on his own hat that you see there on the floor—and + yell that the man had escaped. He'd help you chase the thief, too! Rather + neat, don't you think, Lannigan? And worth the risk, too, considering the + howl that would go up at the theft of those stones, and that, known as the + slickest diamond thief in the country, he would be the first to be + suspected—except that the police themselves, in the person of + Inspector Lannigan of headquarters, would be prepared to prove a perfectly + good alibi for him.” + </p> + <p> + Lannigan's head was thrust forward; his eyes, hard, were riveted on Whitey + Mack. + </p> + <p> + “My God!” he said again under his breath. Then fiercely: “He'll get his + for this!” + </p> + <p> + It was a moment before Jimmie Dale spoke; he was musingly examining the + automatic in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I am going now, Lannigan,” he observed quietly. “I require, say, fifteen + minutes in which to effect my escape. It is, of course, obvious that an + alarm raised by you might prove extremely awkward, but a piece of canvas + from that bench there, together with a bit of string, would make a most + effective gag. I prefer, however, not to submit you to that indignity. + Instead, I offer you the alternative of giving me your word to remain + quietly where you are for—fifteen minutes.” + </p> + <p> + Lannigan hesitated. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale smiled. + </p> + <p> + “I agree,” said Lannigan shortly. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale stepped back. The electric-light switch clicked. The place was + in darkness. There was a moment, two, of utter stillness; then softly, + from the front end of the shop, a whisper: + </p> + <p> + “If I were you, Lannigan, I'd take that gun from Whitey's pocket before he + comes round and beats you to it.” + </p> + <p> + And the door had closed silently behind Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> + <h3> + THE STOOL-PIGEON + </h3> + <p> + In the subway, ten minutes before, a freckled-faced messenger boy had + squeezed himself into a seat beside Jimmie Dale, yanked a dime novel from + a refractory pocket, and, blissfully lost to all the world, had buried his + head in its pages. Jimmie Dale's glance at the youngster had equally, + perforce, embraced the lurid title of the thriller, “Dicing with Death,” + so imperturbably thrust under his nose. At the time, he had smiled + indulgently; but now, as he left the subway and headed for his home on + Riverside Drive, the words not only refused to be ignored, but had + resolved themselves into a curiously persistent refrain in his mind. They + were exactly what they purported to be, dime-novelish, of the deepest hue + of yellow, melodramatic in the extreme; but also, to him now, they were + grimly apt and premonitorily appropriate. “Dicing with Death”—there + was not an hour, not a moment in the day, when he was not literally dicing + with death; when, with the underworld and the police allied against him, a + single false move would lose him the throw that left death the winner! + </p> + <p> + The risk of the dual life enforced upon him grew daily greater, and in the + end there must be the reckoning. He would have been a madman to have shut + his eyes in the face of what was obvious—but it was worth it all, + and in his soul he knew that he would not have had it otherwise even now. + To-night, to-morrow, the day after, would come another letter from the + Tocsin, and there would be another “crime” of the Gray Seal's blazoned in + the press—would that be the last affair, or would there be another—or + to-night, to-morrow, the day after, would he be trapped before even one + more letter came! + </p> + <p> + He shrugged his shoulders, as he ran up the steps of his house. Those were + the stakes that he himself had laid on the table to wager upon the game, + he had no quarrel there; but if only, before the end came, or even with + the end itself, he could find—HER! + </p> + <p> + With his latchkey he let himself into the spacious, richly furnished, + well-lighted reception hall, and, crossing this, went up the broad + staircase, his steps noiseless on the heavy carpet. Below, faintly, he + could hear some of the servants—they evidently had not heard him + close the door behind him. Discipline was relaxed somewhat, it was quite + apparent, with Jason, that peer of butlers, away. Jason, poor chap, was in + the hospital. Typhoid, they had thought it at first, though it had turned + out to be some milder form of infection. He would be back in a few days + now; but meanwhile he missed the old man sorely from the house. + </p> + <p> + He reached the landing, and, turning, went along the hall to the door of + his own particular den, opened the door, closed it behind him—and in + an instant the keen, agile brain, trained to the little things that never + escaped it, that daily held his life in the balance, was alert. The room + was unusually dark, even for night-time. It was as though the window + shades had been closely drawn—a thing Jason never did. But then + Jason wasn't there! Jimmie Dale, smiling then a little quizzically at + himself, reached up for the electric-light switch beside the door, pressed + it—and, his finger still on the button, whipped his automatic from + his pocket with his other hand. THE ROOM WAS STILL IN DARKNESS. + </p> + <p> + The smile on Jimmie Dale's lips was gone, for his lips now had closed + together in a tight, drawn line. The lights in the rest of the house, as + witness the reception hall, were in order. This was no ACCIDENT! Silent, + motionless, he stood there, listening. Was he trapped at last—in his + own house! By whom? The police? The thugs of the underworld? It made + little difference—the end would differ only in the method by which + it was attained! What was that! Was there a slight stir, a movement at the + lower end of the room—or was it his imagination? His hand fell from + the electric-light switch to the doorknob behind his back. Slowly, without + a sound, it began to turn under his slim, tapering fingers, whose deft, + sensitive touch had made him known and feared as the master cracksman of + them all; and, as noiselessly, the door began to open. + </p> + <p> + It was like a duel—a duel of silence. What was the intruder, whoever + he might be, waiting for? The abortive click of the electric-light switch, + to say nothing of the opening of the door when he had entered, was + evidence enough that he was there. Was the other trying to place him + exactly through the darkness to make sure of his attack! The door was open + now. And suddenly Jimmie Dale laughed easily aloud—and on the + instant shifted his position. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” inquired Jimmie Dale coolly from the other side of the threshold. + </p> + <p> + It seemed like a long-drawn sigh fluttering through the room, a gasp of + relief—and then the blood was pounding madly at his temples, and he + was back in the room again, the door closed once more behind him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Jimmie—why didn't you speak? I had to be sure that it was you.” + </p> + <p> + It was her voice! HERS! The Tocsin! HERE! She was here—here in his + house! + </p> + <p> + “You!” he cried. “You—here!” He was pressing the electric-light + switch frantically, again and again. + </p> + <p> + Her voice came out of the darkness from across the room: + </p> + <p> + “Why are you doing that, Jimmie? You know already that I have turned off + the lights.” + </p> + <p> + “At the sockets—of course!” He laughed out the words almost + hysterically. “Your face—I have never seen your face, you know.” He + was moving quickly toward the reading lamp on his desk. + </p> + <p> + There was a quick, hurried swish of garments, and she was blocking his + way. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said, in a low voice; “you must not light that lamp.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed again, shortly, fiercely now. She was close to him, his hands + reached out for her, touched her, and thrilling at the touch, swept her + toward him. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie—Jimmie—are you mad!” she breathed. + </p> + <p> + Mad! Yes—he was mad with the wildest, most passionate exhilaration + he had ever known. He found his voice with an effort. + </p> + <p> + “These months and years that I have tried until my soul was sick to find + you!” he cried out. “And you are here now! Your face—I must see your + face!” + </p> + <p> + She had wrenched herself away from him. He could hear her breath coming + sharply in little gasps. He groped his way onward toward the desk. + </p> + <p> + “WAIT!”—her tones seemed to ring suddenly vibrant through the room. + “Wait, before you touch that lamp! I—I put you on your honour not to + light it.” + </p> + <p> + He stopped abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “My—honour?” he repeated mechanically. + </p> + <p> + “Yes! I came here to-night because there was no other way. No other way—do + you understand? I came, trusting to your honour not to take advantage of + the conditions that forced me to do this. I had no fear that I was wrong—I + have no fear now. You will not light that lamp, and you will not make any + attempt to prevent my going away as I came—unknown. Is there any + question about it, Jimmie? I am in YOUR house.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't know what you are saying!” he burst out wildly. “I've risked my + life for a chance like this again and again; I've gone through hell, + living in squalour for a month on end as Larry the Bat in the hope that I + might discover who you are—and do you think I'll let anything stop + me now! I tell you, no—a thousand times no!” + </p> + <p> + She made no answer. There was only her low, quick breathing coming from + somewhere near him. He made another step toward the lamp—and + stopped. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you, no!” he said again, and took another step forward—and + stopped once more. + </p> + <p> + Still she made no answer. A minute passed—another. His hand lifted + and swept across his forehead in an agitated way. Still silence. She + neither moved nor spoke. His hand dropped slowly to his side. There was a + queer, twisted smile upon his lips. + </p> + <p> + “You win!” he said hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Jimmie,” she said simply. + </p> + <p> + “And your name, who you are”—he was speaking, but he did not seem to + recognise his own voice—“the hundred other things I've sworn I'd + make you explain when I found you, are all taboo as well, I suppose!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He laughed bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you know,” he cried out, “that between the police and the + underworld, our house of cards is likely to collapse at any minute—that + they are hunting the Gray Seal day and night! Is it to be always like this—that + I am never to know—until it is too late!” + </p> + <p> + She came toward him out of the darkness impulsively. + </p> + <p> + “They will never get you, Jimmie,” she said, in a suppressed voice. “And + some day, I promise you now, you shall have your reward for to-night. You + shall know—everything.” + </p> + <p> + “When?” The word came from him with fierce eagerness. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know,” she answered gently. “Soon, perhaps—perhaps sooner + than either of us imagine.” + </p> + <p> + “And by that you mean—what?” he asked, and his hand reached out for + her again through the blackness. + </p> + <p> + This time she did not draw away. There was an instant's hesitation; then + she spoke again hurriedly, a note of anxiety in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “You are beginning all over again, aren't you, Jimmie? And I have told you + that to-night I can explain nothing. And, besides, it is what has brought + me here that counts now, and every moment is of—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I know,” he interposed; “but, then, at least you will tell me one + thing: Why did you come to-night, instead of sending me a letter as you + always have before?” + </p> + <p> + “Because it is different to-night than it ever was before,” she replied + earnestly. “Because there is something in what has happened that I cannot + explain myself; because there is danger, and where I could not see clearly + I feared a trap, and so I dared not send what, in a letter, could at best + be only vague and incomplete details. Do you see?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jimmie Dale—but he was only listening in an abstracted + way. If he could only see that face, so close to his! He had yearned for + that with all his soul for years now! And she was here, standing beside + him, and his hand was upon her arm; and here, in his own den, in his own + house, he was listening to another call to arms for the Gray Seal from her + own lips! Honour! Was he but a poor, quixotic fool! He had only to step to + the desk and switch on the light! Why should—he steadied himself + with a jerk, and drew away his hand. She was in HIS house. “Go on,” he + said tersely. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know, or did you ever hear of old Luther Doyle?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know a man, then, named Connie Myers?” + </p> + <p> + Connie Myers! Who in the Bad Lands did not know Connie Myers, who boasted + of the half dozen prison sentences already to his credit? Yes; he knew + Connie Myers! But, strangely enough, it was not in the Bad Lands or as + Larry the Bat that he knew the man, or that the other knew him—it + was as Jimmie Dale. Connie Myers had introduced himself one night several + years ago with a blackjack that had just missed its mark as the man had + jumped out from a dark alleyway on the East Side, and he, Jimmie Dale, had + thrashed the other to within an inch of his life. He had reason to know + Connie Myers—and Connie Myers had reason to remember him! + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, with a grim smile; “I know Connie Myers.” + </p> + <p> + “And the tenement across the street from where you live as Larry the Bat—that, + of course, you know.” He leaned toward her wonderingly now. + </p> + <p> + “Of course!” he ejaculated. “Naturally!” + </p> + <p> + “Listen, then, Jimmie!” She was speaking quickly now. “It is a strange + story. This Luther Doyle was already over fifty, when, some eight or nine + years ago, his parents died within a few months of each other, and he + inherited somewhere in the neighbourhood of a hundred thousand dollars; + but the man, though harmless enough, was mildly insane, half-witted, + queer, and the old couple, on account of their son's mental defects, took + care to leave the money securely invested, and so that he could only touch + the interest. During these eight or nine years he has lived by himself in + the same old family house where he had lived with his parents, in a lonely + spot near Pelham. And he has lived in a most frugal, even miserly, manner. + His income could not have been less than six thousand dollars a year, and + his expenditures could not have been more than six hundred. His dementia, + ironically enough from the day that he came into his fortune, took the + form of a most pitiable and abject fear that he would die in poverty, + misery, and want; and so, year after year, cashing his checks as fast as + he got them, never trusting the bank with a penny, he kept hiding away + somewhere in his house every cent he could scrape and save from his income—which + to-day must amount, at a minimum calculation, to fifty thousand dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “And,” observed Jimmie Dale quietly. “Connie Myers robbed him of it, and—” + </p> + <p> + “No!” Her voice was quivering with passion, as she caught up his words. + “Twice in the last month Connie Myers TRIED to rob him, but the money was + too securely hidden. Twice he broke into Doyle's house when the old man + was out, but on both occasions was unsuccessful in his search, and was + interrupted and forced to make his escape on account of Doyle's return. + To-night, an hour ago, in an empty room on the second floor of that + tenement, in the room facing the landing, old Luther Doyle was MURDERED!” + </p> + <p> + There was silence for an instant. Her hand had closed in a tight pressure + on his arm. The darkness seemed to add a sort of ghastly significance to + her words. + </p> + <p> + “In God's name, how do you know all this?” he demanded wildly. “How do you + know all these things? + </p> + <p> + “Does that matter now?” she answered tensely. “You will know that when you + know the rest. Oh, don't you understand, Jimmie, there is not a moment to + lose now? It was easy to lure a half-witted creature like that anywhere; + it was Connie Myers who lured him to the tenement and murdered him there—but + from that point, Jimmie, I am not sure of our ground. I do not know + whether Connie Myers is alone in this or not; but I do know that he is + going to Doyle's house again to-night to make another search for the + money. There is no question but that old Doyle was murdered to give Connie + Myers and his accomplices, if there are any, a chance to tear the house + inside out to find the money, to give them the whole night to work in + without interruption if necessary—but Doyle dead in his own house + could have interfered no more with them than Doyle dead in that tenement! + Why was he lured to the tenement by Connie Myers when he could much more + easily have been put out of the way in his own house? Jimmie, there is + something behind this, something more that you must find out. There may be + others in this besides Connie Myers, I do not know; but there is something + here that I am afraid of. Jimmie, you must get that man, you must get the + others if there are others, and you must stop them from getting the money + in that house to-night! Do you understand now why I have come here? I + could not explain in a letter; I do not quite seem to be explaining now. + It would seem as though there were no need for the Gray Seal—that + simply the police should be notified. But I KNOW, Jimmie, call it + intuition, what you will, I know that there is need for us, for you + to-night—that behind all this is a tragedy, deeper, blacker, than + even the brutal, cold-blooded murder that is already done.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice, in its passionate earnestness, died away; and an anger, cold, + grim, remorseless, settled upon Jimmie Dale—settled as it always + settled upon him at her call to arms. His brain was already at work in its + quick, instant way, probing, sifting, planning. She was right! It was + strange, it was more than strange that, with the added risk, the danger, + the difficulty, the man should have been brought miles to be done away + with in that tenement! Why? Connie Myers took form before him—the + coarse features, the tawny hair that straggled across the low forehead, + the shifty eyes that were an indeterminate colour between brown and gray, + the thin lips that seemed to draw in and give the jaw a protruding, + belligerent effect. And Connie Myers knew him as Jimmie Dale—it + would have to be then as Larry the Bat that the Gray Seal must work. That + meant time—to go to the Sanctuary and change. + </p> + <p> + “The police,” he asked suddenly, aloud, “they have not yet discovered the + body?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet,” she replied hurriedly. “And that is still another reason for + haste—there is no telling when they will. See—here!” She + thrust a paper into his hand. “Here is a plan of old Doyle's house, and + directions for finding it. You must get Connie Myers red-handed, you must + make him convict himself, for the evidence through which I know him to be + guilty can never be used against him. And, Jimmie, be careful—I know + I am not wrong, that there is still something more behind all this. And + now go, Jimmie, go! There is no time to lose!” She was pushing him across + the room toward the door. + </p> + <p> + Go! The word seemed suddenly to bring dismay. It was she again who was + dominant now in his mind. Who knew if to-night, when he was taking his + life in his hands again, would not be the last! And she was here now, here + beside him—where she might never be again! + </p> + <p> + She seemed to divine his thoughts, for she spoke again, a strange new note + of tenderness in her voice that thrilled him. + </p> + <p> + “You must never let them get you, Jimmie—for my sake. It will not + last much longer—it is near the end—and I shall keep my + promise. But go, now, Jimmie—go!” + </p> + <p> + “Go?” he repeated numbly. “Go? But—but you?” + </p> + <p> + “I?” She slipped suddenly away from him, retreating back down the room. “I + will go—as I came.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait! Listen!” he pleaded. + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. + </p> + <p> + She was there—somewhere back there in the darkness still. He stood + hesitant at the door. It seemed that every faculty he possessed urged him + back there again—to her. Could he let her escape him now when she + was so utterly in his power, she who meant everything in his life! And + then, like a cold shock, came that other thought—she who had trusted + to his honour! With a jerk, his hand swept out, felt for the doorknob, and + closed upon it. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night!” he said heavily, and stepped out into the hall. + </p> + <p> + It seemed for a while, even after he had gained the street and made his + way again to the subway, that nothing was concrete around him, that he was + living through some fantastical dream. His head whirled, and he could not + think rationally—and then slowly, little by little, his grip upon + himself came back. She had come—and gone! With the roar of the + subway in his ears, its raucous note seeming to strike so perfectly in + consonance with the turmoil within him, he smiled mirthlessly. After all, + it was as it always was! She was gone—and ahead of him lay the + chances of the night! + </p> + <p> + “Dicing with death!” The words, unbidden, came back once more. If they + were true before, they were doubly applicable now. It was different + to-night from what it had ever been before, as she had said. Usually, to + the smallest detail, everything was laid open, clear before him in those + astounding letters. To-night, it was vague at best. A man had been + murdered. Connie Myers had committed the murder under circumstances that + pointed strongly to some hidden motive behind and beyond the mere chance + it afforded him to search his victim's house for the hidden cash. What was + it? + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale stared out at the black subway walls. The answer would not + come. Station after station passed. At Fourteenth Street he changed from + the express to a local, got out at Astor Place, and a few minutes later + was walking rapidly down the upper end of the Bowery. + </p> + <p> + The answer would not come—only the fact itself grew more and more + deeply significant. The ghastly, callous fiendishness that lured an old, + half-witted man to his death had Jimmie Dale in that grip of cold, + merciless anger again, and there was a dull flush now upon his cheeks. + Whatever it meant, whatever was behind it, one thing at least was certain—HE + WOULD GET CONNIE MYERS! + </p> + <p> + He was close to the Sanctuary now—it was down the next cross street. + He reached the corner and turned it, heading east; but his brisk walk had + changed to a nonchalant saunter—there were some people coming toward + him. It was the Gray Seal now, alert and cautious. The little group passed + by. Ahead, the tenement bordering on the black alleyway loomed up—the + Sanctuary, with its three entrances and exits; the home of Larry the Bat. + And across from it was that other tenement, that held a new interest for + him now, where, in an empty room on the second floor, she had said, old + Doyle still lay. Should he go there? He was thinking quickly now, and + shook his head. It would take what he did not have to spare—time. It + was already ten o'clock; and, granted that Connie Myers had committed the + crime only a little over an hour ago, the man by this time would certainly + be on his way to Doyle's house near Pelham, if, indeed, he were not + already there. No, there was no time to spare—the question resolved + itself simply into how long, since he had already searched twice and + failed on both occasions, it would take Connie Myers to unearth old + Doyle's hiding place for the money. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale glanced sharply around him, slipped into the alleyway, and, + crouching against the tenement wall, moved noiselessly along to the side + entrance. A moment more, and he had negotiated the rickety stairs with + practiced, soundless tread, was inside the squalid quarters of Larry the + Bat, and the door of the Sanctuary was locked and bolted behind him. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps five minutes passed—and then, where Jimmie Dale, the + millionaire, had entered, there emerged Larry the Bat, of the aristocracy + and the elite of the Bad Lands. But instead of leaving by the side door + and the alleyway, as he had entered, he went along the lower hallway to + the front entrance. And here, instinctively, he paused a moment at the top + of the steps, as his eyes rested upon the tenement on the opposite side of + the street. + </p> + <p> + It was strange that the crime should have been committed there! Something + again seemed to draw him toward that empty room on the second story. He + had decided once that he would not go, that there was not time; but, after + all, it would not take long, and there was at least the possibility of + gaining something more valuable even than time from the scene of the crime + itself—there might even be the evidence he wanted there that would + disclose the whole of Connie Myers' game. + </p> + <p> + He went down the steps, and started across the street; but halfway over, + he hesitated uncertainly, as a child's cry came petulantly from the + doorway. It was dark in the street; and, likewise, it was one of those + hot, suffocating evenings when, in the crowded tenements of the poorer + class, miserable enough in any case, misery was added to a hundredfold for + lack of a single God-given breath of air. These two facts, apparently + irrelevant, caused Jimmie Dale to change his mind again. He had not + noticed the woman with the baby in her arms, sitting on the doorstep; but + now, as he reached the curb, he not only saw, but recognised her—and + he swung on down the street toward the Bowery. He could not very well go + in without passing her, without being recognised himself—and that + was a needless risk. + </p> + <p> + He smiled a little wanly. Once the crime was discovered, she would not + have hesitated long before informing the police that she had seen him + enter there! Mrs. Hagan was no friend of his! One could not live as he had + lived, as Larry the Bat, and not see something in an intimate way of the + pitiful little tragedies of the poor around him; for, bad, tough, and + dissolute as the quarter was, all were not degraded there, some were + simply—poor. Mrs. Hagan was poor. Her husband was a day labourer, + often out of a job—and sometimes he drank. That was how he, Jimmie + Dale, or rather, Larry the Bat, had come to earn Mrs. Hagan's enmity. He + had found Mike Hagan drunk one night, and in the act of being arrested, + and had wheedled the man away from the officer on the promise that he + would take Hagan home. And he was Larry the Bat, a dope fiend, a character + known to all the neighbourhood, and Mrs. Hagan had laid her husband's + condition to HIS influence and companionship! He had taken Mike Hagan home—and + Mrs. Hagan had driven Larry the Bat from the door of her miserable + one-room lodging in that tenement with the bitter words on her tongue that + only a woman can use when shame and grief and anger are breaking her + heart. + </p> + <p> + He shrugged his shoulders, as, back along the Bowery, he retraced his + steps, but now, with the hurried shuffle of Larry the Bat where before had + been the brisk, athletic stride of Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + At Astor Place again, he took the subway, this time to the Grand Central + Station—and, well within an hour from the time he had left the + Sanctuary, including the train journey to Pelham, he was standing in a + clump of trees that fringed a deserted roadway. He had passed but few + houses, once he was away from Pelham, and, as well as he could judge, + there was none now within a quarter of a mile of him—except this one + of old Luther Doyle's that showed up black and shadowy just beyond the + trees. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the place. It was little wonder + that, known to have money, an attempt to rob old Doyle should have been + made in a place like this! It was even more grimly significant than ever + of some deeper meaning that, in its loneliness an ideal place for a + murder, the man should have been lured from there for that purpose to a + crowded tenement in the city instead! What did it mean? Why had it been + done? He shook his head. The answer would not come now any more than it + had come before in the subway, or in the train on the way out, when he had + set his brain so futilely to solve the problem. + </p> + <p> + From a survey of the house, Jimmie Dale gave attention to the details of + his surroundings: the trees on either side; the open space in front, a + distance of fifty yards to the road; the absence of any fence. And then, + abruptly, he stole forward. There was no light to be seen anywhere about + the house. Was it possible that Connie Myers was not yet there? He shook + his head again impatiently. Connie Myers would not have wasted any time—as + the Tocsin had said, there was always present the possibility that the + crime in that tenement might be discovered at ANY moment. Connie Myers + would have lost no time; for, let the discovery be made, let the police + identify the body, as they most certainly would, and they would be out + here hotfoot. Jimmie Dale stood suddenly still. What did it mean! He had + not thought of that before! If old Doyle had been murdered HERE, there + would not have been even the possibility of discovery until the morning at + the earliest, and Connie Myers would have had all the time he wanted! + </p> + <p> + WHAT WAS THAT SOUND! A low, muffled tapping, like a succession of hammer + blows, came from within the house. Jimmie Dale darted forward, reached the + side of the house, and dropped on hands and knees. One question at least + was answered—Connie Myers was inside. + </p> + <p> + The plan that she had given him showed an old-fashioned cellarway, closed + by folding trapdoors, that was located a little toward the rear and, in a + moment, creeping along, he came upon it. His hands felt over it. It was + shut, fastened by a padlock on the outside. Jimmie Dale's lips thinned a + little, as he took a small steel instrument from his pocket. Either + through inadvertence or by intention, Connie Myers had passed up an almost + childishly simple means of entrance into the house! One side of the + trapdoor was lifted up silently—and silently closed. Jimmie Dale was + in the cellar. The hammering, much more distinct now, heavy, thudding + blows, came from a room in the front—the connection between the + cellar and the house, as shown on the Tocsin's plan, was through another + trapdoor in the floor of the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's flashlight played on a short, ladderlike stairway, and in an + instant he was climbing upward. The sounds from the front of the house + continued now without interruption; there was little fear that Connie + Myers would hear anything else—even the protesting squeak of the + hinges as Jimmie Dale cautiously pushed back the trapdoor in the flooring + above his head. An inch, two inches he lifted it; and, his eyes on a level + with the opening now, he peered into the room. The kitchen itself was + intensely dark; but through an open doorway, well to one side so that he + could not see into the room beyond, there struggled a curiously faint, dim + glimmer of light. And then Jimmie Dale's form straightened rigidly on the + stairs. The blows stopped, and a voice, in a low growl, presumably Connie + Myers', reached him. + </p> + <p> + “Here, take a drive at it from the lower edge!” + </p> + <p> + There was no answer—save that the blows were resumed again. Jimmie + Dale's face had set hard. Connie Myers was not alone in this, then! Well, + the odds were a little heavier, DOUBLED—that was all! He pushed the + trapdoor wide open, swung himself up through the opening to the floor; and + the next instant, back a little from the connecting doorway, his body + pressed closely against the kitchen wall, he was staring, bewildered and + amazed, into the next room. + </p> + <p> + On the floor, presumably to lessen the chance of any light rays stealing + through the tightly drawn window shades, burned a small oil lamp. The + place was in utter confusion. The right-hand side of a large fireplace, + made of rough, untrimmed stone and cement, and which occupied almost the + entire end of the room, was already practically demolished, and the + wreckage was littered everywhere; part of the furniture was piled + unceremoniously into one corner out of the way; and at the fireplace + itself, working with sledge and bar, were two men. One was Connie Myers. + An ironical glint crept into Jimmie Dale's eyes. The false beard and + mustache the man wore would deceive no one who knew Connie Myers! And that + he should be wearing them now, as he knelt holding the bar while the other + struck at it, seemed both uncalled for and absurd. The other man, heavily + built, roughly dressed, had his back turned, and Jimmie Dale could not see + his face. + </p> + <p> + The puzzled frown on Jimmie Dale's forehead deepened. Somewhere in the + masonry of the fireplace, of course, was where old Luther Doyle had hidden + his money. That was quite plain enough; and that Connie Myers, in some way + or other, had made sure of that fact was equally obvious. But how did old + Luther Doyle get his money IN there from time to time, as he received the + interest and dividends whose accumulation, according to the Tocsin, + comprised his hoard! And how did he get it OUT again? + </p> + <p> + “All right, that'll do!” grunted Connie Myers suddenly. “We can pry this + one out now. Lend a hand on the bar!” + </p> + <p> + The other dropped his sledge, turned sideways as he stooped to help Connie + Myers, his face came into view—and, with an involuntary start, + Jimmie Dale crouched farther back against the wall, as he stared at the + other. It was Hagan! Mrs. Hagan's husband! Mike Hagan! + </p> + <p> + “My God!” whispered Jimmie Dale, under his breath. + </p> + <p> + So that was it! That the murder had been committed in the tenement was not + so strange now! A surge of anger swept Jimmie Dale—and was engulfed + in a wave of pity. Somehow, the thin, tired face of Mrs. Hagan had risen + before him, and she seemed to be pleading with him to go away, to leave + the house, to forget that he had ever been there, to forget what he had + seen, what he was seeing now. His hands clenched fiercely. How + realistically, how importunately, how pitifully she took form before him! + She was on her knees, clasping his knees, imploring him, terrified. + </p> + <p> + From Jimmie Dale's pocket came the black silk mask. Slowly, almost + hesitantly, he fitted it over his face—Mike Hagan knew Larry the + Bat. Why should he have pity for Mike Hagan? Had he any for Connie Myers? + What right had he to let pity sway him! The man had gone the limit; he was + Connie Myers' accomplice—a murderer! But the man was not a hardened, + confirmed criminal like Connie Myers. Mike Hagan—a murderer! It + would have been unbelievable but for the evidence before his own eyes now. + The man had faults, brawled enough, and drank enough to have brought him + several times to the notice of the police—but this! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's eyes had never left the scene before him. Both men were + throwing their weight upon the bar, and the stone that they were trying to + dislodge—they were into the heart of the masonry now—seemed to + move a little. Connie Myers stood up, and, leaning forward, examined the + stone critically at top and bottom, prodding it with the bar. He turned + from his examination abruptly, and thrust the bar into Hagan's hands. + </p> + <p> + “Hold it!” he said tersely. “I'll strike for a turn.” + </p> + <p> + Crouched, on his hands and knees, Hagan inserted the point of the bar into + the crevice. Connie Myers picked up the sledge. + </p> + <p> + “Lower! Bend lower!” he snapped—and swung the sledge. + </p> + <p> + It seemed to go black for a moment before Jimmie Dale's eyes, seemed to + paralyse all action of mind and body. There was a low cry that was more a + moan, the clang of the iron bar clattering on the floor, and Mike Hagan + had pitched forward on his face, an inert and huddled heap. A half laugh, + half snarl purled from Connie Myers' lips, as he snatched a stout piece of + cord from his pocket and swiftly knotted the unconscious man's wrists + together. Another instant, and, picking up the bar, prying with it again, + the loosened stone toppled with a crash into the grate. + </p> + <p> + It had come sudden as the crack of doom, that blow—too quick, too + unexpected for Jimmie Dale to have lifted a finger to prevent it. And now + that the first numbed shock of mingled horror and amazement was past, he + fought back the quick, fierce impulse to spring out on Connie Myers. + Whether the man was killed or only stunned, he could do no good to Mike + Hagan now, and there was Connie Myers—he was staring in a fascinated + way at Connie Myers. Behind the stone that the other had just dislodged + was a large hollow space that had been left in the masonry, and from this + now Connie Myers was eagerly collecting handfuls of banknotes that were + rolled up into the shape of little cylinders, each one grotesquely tied + with a string. The man was feverishly excited, muttering to himself, + running from the fireplace to where the table had been pushed aside with + the rest of the furniture, dropping the curious little rolls of money on + the table, and running back for more. And then, having apparently emptied + the receptacle, he wriggled his body over the dismantled fireplace, stuck + his head into the opening, and peered upward. + </p> + <p> + “Kinks in his nut, kinks in his nut!” Connie Myers was muttering. “I'll + drop the bar through from the top, mabbe there's some got stuck in the + pipe.” + </p> + <p> + He regained his feet, picked up the bar, and ran with it into what was + evidently the front hall—then his steps sounded running upstairs. + </p> + <p> + Like a flash, Jimmie Dale was across the room and at the fireplace. Like + Connie Myers, he, too, put his head into the opening; and then, a queer, + unpleasant smile on his lips, he bent quickly over the man on the floor. + Hagan was no more than stunned, and was even then beginning to show signs + of returning consciousness. There was a rattle, a clang, a thud—and + the bar, too long to come all the way through, dropped into the opening + and stood upright. Connie Myers' footsteps sounded again, returning on the + run—and Jimmie Dale was back once more on the other side of the + kitchen doorway. + </p> + <p> + It was all simple enough—once one understood! The same queer smile + was still flickering on Jimmie Dale's lips. There was no way to get the + money out, except the way Connie Myers had got it out—by digging it + out! With the irrational cunning of his mad brain, that had put the money + even beyond his own reach, old Doyle had built his fireplace with a hollow + some eighteen inches square in a great wall of solid stonework, and from + it had run a two-inch pipe up somewhere to the story above; and down this + pipe he had dropped his little string-tied cylinders of banknotes, + satisfied that his hoard was safe! There seemed something pitifully ironic + in the elaborate, insane craftiness of the old man's fear-twisted, + demented mind. + </p> + <p> + And now Connie Myers was back in the room again—and again a puzzled + expression settled upon Jimmie Dale's face as he watched the other. For + perhaps a minute the man stood by the table sifting the little rolls of + money through his fingers gloatingly—then, impulsively, he pushed + these to one side, produced a revolver, laid it on the table, and from + another pocket took out a little case which, as he opened it, Jimmie Dale + could see contained a hypodermic syringe. One more article followed the + other two—a letter, which Connie Myers took out of an unsealed + envelope. He dropped this suddenly on the table, as Mike Hagan, three feet + away on the floor, groaned and sat up. + </p> + <p> + Hagan's eyes swept, bewildered, confused, around him, questioningly at + Connie Myers—and then, resting suddenly on his bound wrists, they + narrowed menacingly. + </p> + <p> + “Damn you, you smashed me with that sledge on PURPOSE!” he burst out—and + began to struggle to his feet. + </p> + <p> + With a brutal chuckle, Connie Myers pushed Hagan back and shoved his + revolver under the other's nose. + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” he admitted evenly. “And you keep quiet, or I'll finish you now—instead + of letting the police do it!” He laughed out jarringly. “You're under + arrest, you know, for the murder of Luther Doyle, and for robbing the poor + old nut of his savings in his house here.” + </p> + <p> + Hagan wrenched himself up on his elbow. + </p> + <p> + “What—what do you mean?” he stammered. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't worry!” said Connie Myers maliciously. “I'M not making the + arrest, I'd rather the police did that. I'm not mixing up in it, and by + and by”—he lifted up the hypodermic for Hagan to see—“I'm + going to shoot a little dope into you that'll keep you quiet while I get + away myself.” + </p> + <p> + Hagan's face had gone a grayish white—he had caught sight of the + money on the table, and his eyes kept shifting back and forth from it to + Myers' face. + </p> + <p> + “Murder!” he said huskily. “There is no murder. I don't know who Doyle is. + You said this house was yours—you hired me to come here. You said + you were going to tear down the fireplace and build another. You said I + could work evenings and earn some extra money.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure, I did!” There was a vicious leer now on Connie Myers' lips. “But + you don't think I picked you out by ACCIDENT, do you? Your reputation, my + bucko, was just shady enough to satisfy anybody that it wouldn't be beyond + you to go the limit. Sure, you murdered Doyle! Listen to this.” He took up + the letter: + </p> + <p> + “TO THE POLICE: Luther Doyle was murdered this evening in the tenement at + 67 —— Street. You'll find his body in a room on the second + floor. If you want to know who did it, look in Mike Hagan's room on the + floor above. There's a paper stuck under the edge of Hagan's table with a + piece of chewing gum, where he hid it. You'll know what it is when you go + out and take a look at Doyle's house in Pelham. Yours truly, A FRIEND.” + </p> + <p> + Mike Hagan did not speak—his lips were twitching, and there was + horror creeping into his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “D'ye get me!” sneered Connie Myers. “Tell your story—who'd believe + it! I got you cinched. Twice I tried to get this old dub's coin out here, + and couldn't find it. But the second time I found something else—a + piece of paper with a drawing of the fireplace on it, and a place in the + drawing marked with an X. That was good enough, wasn't it? That's the + paper I stuck under your table this afternoon when your wife was out—see? + Somebody's got to stand for the job, and if it's somebody else it won't be + me—get me! When I had a look at that fireplace I knew I couldn't do + the job alone in a week, and I didn't dare blast it with 'soup' for fear + of spoiling what was inside. And since I had to have somebody to help me, + I thought I might as well let him help me all the way through—and + stand for it. I picked you, Mike—that's why I croaked old Doyle in + your tenement to-night. I wrote this letter while I was waiting for you to + show up at the station to come out here with me, and I'm going to see that + the police get it in the next hour. When they find Doyle in the room below + yours, and that paper in your room, and the busted fireplace here—I + guess they won't look any farther for who did it. And say”—he leaned + forward with an ugly grin—“mabbe you think I'm soft to be telling + you all this? But don't you fool yourself. You don't know me—you + don't know who I am. So tell 'em the TRUTH! They won't believe you anyway + with evidence like that against you—and the neater the story the + more they'll think it shows brains enough on your part to have pulled a + job like this!” + </p> + <p> + “My God!” Hagan was rocking on his knees, beads of sweat were starting out + on his forehead. “You wouldn't plant a man like that!” he cried brokenly. + “You wouldn't do it, would you? My God—you wouldn't do that!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's face under his mask was white and rigid. There was something + primal, elemental in the savagery that was sweeping upon him. He had it + all now—ALL! She had been right—there was need to-night for + the Gray Seal. So that was the game, inhuman, hellish, the whole of it, to + the last filthy dregs—Connie Myers, to protect himself, was + railroading an innocent man to death for the crime that he himself had + committed! There was a cold smile on Jimmie Dale's lips now, as he took + his automatic from his pocket. No, it wasn't quite all the game—there + was still HIS hand to play! He edged forward a little nearer to the door—and + halted abruptly, listening. An automobile had stopped outside on the road. + Hagan was still pleading in a frenzied way; Connie Myers was callously + folding his letter, while he watched the other warily—neither of the + men had heard the sound. + </p> + <p> + And then, quick, almost on the instant, came a rush of feet, a crash upon + the front door—an imperative command to open in the name of the law. + THE POLICE! Jimmie Dale's brain was working now with lightning speed. + Somehow the police had stumbled upon the crime in that tenement; and, as + he had foreseen in such an event, had identified Doyle. But they could not + be sure that any one was present here in the house now—they could + not see a light any more than he had. He must get Mike Hagan away—must + see that Connie Myers did NOT get away. Myers was on his feet now, fear + struck in his turn, the letter clutched in a tight-closed fist, his + revolver swung out, poised, in the other hand. Hagan, too, was on his + feet, and, unheeded now by Connie Myers, was wrenching his wrists apart. + </p> + <p> + Another crash upon the door—another. Another demand in a harsh voice + to open it. Then some one running around to the window at the side of the + house—and Jimmie Dale sprang forward. + </p> + <p> + There was the roar of a report, a blinding flash almost in Jimmie Dale's + eyes, as Connie Myers, whirling instantly at his entrance, fired—and + missed. It happened quick then, in the space of the ticking of a watch—before + Jimmie Dale, flinging himself forward, had reached the man. Like a defiant + challenge to their demand it must have seemed to the officers outside, + that shot of Connie Myers at Jimmie Dale, for it was answered on the + instant by another through the side window. And the shot, fired at random, + the interior of the room hidden from the officers outside by the drawn + shades, found its mark—and Connie Myers, a bullet in his brain, + pitched forward, dead, upon the floor. + </p> + <p> + “QUICK!” Jimmie Dale flung at Hagan. “Get that letter out of his hand!” He + jumped for the lamp on the floor, extinguished it, and turned again toward + Hagan. “Have you got it?” he whispered tensely. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Hagan, in a numbed way. + </p> + <p> + “This way, then!” Jimmie Dale caught Hagan's arm, and pulled the other + across the room and into the kitchen to the trapdoor. “Quick!” he breathed + again. “Get down there—quick! And no noise! They don't know how many + are in the house. When they find HIM they'll probably be satisfied.” + </p> + <p> + Hagan, stupefied, dazed, obeyed mechanically—and, in an instant, the + trapdoor closed behind them, Jimmie Dale was standing beside the other in + the cellar. + </p> + <p> + “Not a sound now!” he cautioned once more. + </p> + <p> + His flashlight winked, went out, winked again; then held steadily, in + curious fascination it seemed, as, in its circuit, the ray fell upon Hagan—FELL + UPON THE TORN, RAGGED EDGE OF A PAPER IN HAGAN'S HAND! With a suppressed + cry, Jimmie Dale snatched it away from the other. It was but a torn HALF + of the letter! “The other half! The other half, Hagan—where is it?” + he demanded hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + Hagan, almost in a state of collapse, muttered inaudibly. The crash of a + toppling door sounded from above. Jimmie Dale shook the man desperately. + </p> + <p> + “Where is it?” he repeated fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “He—he was holding it tight, it—it tore in his hand,” Hagan + stammered. “Does it make any difference? Oh, let's get out of here, + whoever you are—for God's sake let's get out of here!” + </p> + <p> + Any difference! Jimmie Dale's jaws were clamped like a steel vise. Any + difference! The difference between life and death for the man beside him—that + was all! He was reading the portion in his hand. It was the last part of + the letter, beginning with: “There's a paper stuck under the edge of + Hagan's table—” From above, from the floor of the front room now, + came the rush and trample of feet. He could not go back for the other + half. And any attempt to conceal the fact that Connie Myers had been alone + in the house was futile now. They would find the torn letter in the dead + man's hand, proof enough that some one else had been there. What was in + that part of the letter that was still clutched in that death grip + upstairs? A sentence from it, that he had heard Connie Myers read, seemed + to burn itself into his brain. “IF YOU WANT TO KNOW WHO DID IT, LOOK IN + MIKE HAGAN'S ROOM ON THE FLOOR ABOVE.” And then, suddenly, like light + through the darkness, came a ray of hope. He pulled Hagan to the + cellarway, and stealthily lifted one side of the double trapdoor. There + was a chance, desperate enough, one in a thousand—but still a + chance! + </p> + <p> + Voices from the house came plainly now, but there was no one in sight. The + police, to a man, were evidently all inside. From the road in front showed + the lamp glare of their automobile. + </p> + <p> + “Run for the car!” Jimmie Dale jerked out from between set teeth—and + with Hagan beside him, steadying the man by the arm, dashed across the + intervening fifty yards. + </p> + <p> + They had not been seen. A minute more, and the car, evidently belonging to + the local police, for it was headed in the direction of New York, and as + though it had come from Pelham, swept down the road, swept around a turn, + and Jimmie Dale, with a gasp of relief, straightened up a little from the + wheel. + </p> + <p> + How much time had he? The police must have heard the car; but, equally, + occupied as they were, they might well give it no thought other than that + it was but another car passing by. There was no telephone in the house; + the nearest house was a quarter of a mile away, and that might or might + not have a telephone. Could he count on half an hour? He glanced anxiously + at the crouched figure beside him. He would have to! It was the only + chance. They would telephone the contents of the dead man's half of the + letter to the New York police. Could he get to Hagan's room FIRST! “Look + in Hagan's room,” their part of the letter read—but it did not say + for WHAT, or exactly WHERE! If they found nothing, Hagan was safe. Connie + Myers' reputation, the fact that he was found in disguise at Doyle's + house, was, barring any incriminating evidence, quite enough to let Hagan + out. There would only remain in the minds of the police the question of + who, beside Connie Myers, had been in old Doyle's house that night? And + now Jimmie Dale smiled a little whimsically. Well, perhaps he could answer + that—and, if not quite to the satisfaction of the police, at least + to the complete vindication of Mike Hagan. + </p> + <p> + But he could not drive through towns and villages with a mask on his face; + and there, ahead now, lights were beginning to show. And more than ever + now, with what was before him, it was imperative that Mike Hagan should + not recognise Larry the Bat. Jimmie Dale glanced again at Hagan—and + slowed down the car. They were on the outskirts of a town, and off to the + right he caught the twinkling lights of a street car. + </p> + <p> + “Hagan,” he said sharply, “pull yourself together, and listen to me! If + you keep your mouth shut, you've nothing to fear; if you let out a word of + what's happened to-night, you'll probably go to the chair for a crime you + know nothing about. Do you understand?—keep your mouth shut!” + </p> + <p> + The car had stopped. Hagan nodded his head. + </p> + <p> + “All right, then. You get out here, and take a street car into New York,” + continued Jimmie Dale crisply. “But when you get there, keep away from + your home for the next two or three hours. Hang around with some of the + boys you know, and if you're asked anything afterward, say you were + batting around town all evening. Don't worry—you'll find you're out + of this when you read the morning papers. Now get out—hurry!” He + pushed Hagan from the car. “I've got to make my own get-away.” + </p> + <p> + Hagan, standing in the road, brushed his hand bewilderingly across his + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—but you—I—” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind about that!” Jimmie Dale leaned out, and gripped Hagan's arm + impressively. “There's only one thing you've got to think of, or remember. + Keep your mouth shut! No matter what happens, keep your mouth shut—if + you want to save your neck! Good-night, Hagan!” + </p> + <p> + The car was racing forward again. It shot streaking through the streets of + the town ahead, and, dully, over its own inferno, echoed shouts, cries, + and execrations of an outraged populace—then out into the night + again, roaring its way toward New York. + </p> + <p> + He had half an hour—perhaps! It was a good thing Hagan did not know, + or had not grasped the significance of that torn letter—the man + would have been unmanageable with fear and excitement. It would puzzle + Hagan to find no paper stuck under his table when he came to look for it! + But that was a minor consideration, that mattered not at all. + </p> + <p> + Half an hour! On roared the car—towns, black roads, villages, wooded + lands were kaleidoscopic in their passing. Half an hour! Had he done it? + Had he come anywhere near doing it? He did not know. He was in the city at + last—and now he had to moderate his speed; but, by keeping to the + less frequented streets, he could still drive at a fast pace. One piece of + good fortune had been his—the long motor coat he had found in the + car with which to cover the rags of Larry the Bat, and without which he + would have been obliged to leave the car somewhere on the outskirts of the + city, and to trust, like Mike Hagan, to other and slower means of + transportation. + </p> + <p> + Blocks away from Hagan's tenement, he ran the car into a lane, slipped off + the motor coat, and from his pocket whipped out the little metal insignia + case—and in another moment a diamond-shaped gray seal was neatly + affixed to the black ebony rim of the steering wheel. He smiled + ironically. It was necessary, quite necessary that the police should have + no doubt as to who had been in Doyle's house with Connie Myers that night, + or to whom they had so considerately loaned their automobile! + </p> + <p> + He was running now—through lanes, dodging down side streets, taking + every short cut he knew. Had he beaten the police to Mike Hagan's room? It + would be easy then. If they were ahead of him, then, by some means or + other, he must still get that paper first. + </p> + <p> + He was at the tenement now—shuffling leisurely up the steps. The + front door was open. He entered, and went up the first flight of stairs, + then along the hall, and up the next flight. He had half expected the + place to be bustling with excitement over the crime; but the police + evidently had kept the affair quiet, for he had seen no one since he had + entered. But now, as he began to mount the third flight, he went more + slowly—some one was ahead of him. It was very dark—he could + not see. The steps above died away. He reached the landing, started along + for Hagan's room—and a light blazed suddenly in his face, and a + hard, quick grip on his shoulder forced him back against the wall. Then + the flashlight wavered, glistened on brass buttons went out, and a voice + laughed roughly: + </p> + <p> + “It's only Larry the Bat!” + </p> + <p> + “Larry the Bat, eh?” It was another voice, harsh and curt. “What are you + doing here?” + </p> + <p> + He was not first, after all! The telephone message from Pelham—it + was almost certainly that—had beaten him! They were ahead of him, + just ahead of him, they had only been a few steps ahead of him going up + the stairs, just a second ahead of him on their way to Hagan's room! + Jimmie Dale was thinking fast now. He must go, too—to Hagan's room + with them—somehow—there was no other way—there was + Hagan's life at stake. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, I ain't done nothin'!” he whined. “I was just goin' ter borrow the + price of a feed from Mike Hagan—lemme go!” + </p> + <p> + “Hagan, eh!” snapped the questioner. “Are you a friend of his?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure, I am!” + </p> + <p> + The officers whispered for a moment together. + </p> + <p> + “We'll try it,” decided the one who appeared to be in command. “We're in + the dark, anyhow, and the thing may be only a steer. Mabbe it'll work—anyway, + it won't do any harm.” His hand fell heavily on Jimmie Dale's shoulder. + “Mrs. Hagan know you?” brusquely. + </p> + <p> + “Sure she does!” sniffled Larry the Bat. + </p> + <p> + “Good!” rasped the officer. “Well, we'll make the visit with you. And you + do what you're told, or we'll put the screws on you—see? We're after + something here, and you've blown the whole game—savvy? You've + spilled the gravy—understand?” + </p> + <p> + In the darkness, Jimmie Dale smiled grimly. It was far more than he had + dared to hope for—they were playing into his hands! + </p> + <p> + “But I don't know 'bout any game,” grovelled Larry the Bat piteously. + </p> + <p> + “Who in hell said you did!” growled the officer. “You're supposed to have + snitched the lay to us, that's all—and mind you play your part! Come + on!” + </p> + <p> + It was two doors down the hall to Mike Hagan's room, and there one of the + officers, putting his shoulder to the door, burst it open and sprang in. + The other shoved Jimmie Dale forward. It was quickly done. The three were + in the room. The door was closed again. + </p> + <p> + Came a cry of terror out of the darkness, a movement as of some one rising + up hurriedly in bed; and then Mrs. Hagan's voice: + </p> + <p> + “What is it! Who is it! Mike!” + </p> + <p> + The table—it was against the right-hand wall, Jimmie Date + remembered. He sidled quickly toward it. + </p> + <p> + “Strike a light!” ordered the officer in charge. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's fingers were feeling under the edge of the table—a + quick sweep along it—NOTHING! He stooped, reaching farther in—another + sweep of his arm—and his fingers closed on a sheet of paper and a + piece of hard gum. In an instant they were in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + A match crackled and flared up. A lamp was lighted. Larry the Bat sulked + sullenly against the wall. + </p> + <p> + Terror-stricken, wide-eyed, Mrs. Hagan had clutched the child lying beside + her to her arms, and was sitting bolt upright in bed. + </p> + <p> + “Now then, no fuss about it!” said the officer in charge, with brutal + directness. “You might as well make a clean breast of Mike's share in that + murder downstairs—Larry the Bat, here, has already told us the whole + story. Come on, now—out with it!” + </p> + <p> + “Murder!”—her face went white. “My Mike—MURDER!” She seemed + for an instant stunned—and then down the worn, thin, haggard face + gushed the tears. “I don't believe it!” she cried. “I don't believe it!” + </p> + <p> + “Come on now, cut that out!” prodded the officer roughly. “I tell you + Larry the Bat, here, has opened everything up wide. You're only making it + worse for yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Him!” She was staring now at Jimmie Dale. “Oh, God!” she cried. “So + that's what you are, are you—a stool-pigeon for the cops? Well, + whatever you told them, you lie! You're the curse of this neighbourhood, + you are, and if my Mike is bad at all, it's you that's helped to make him + bad. But murder—you LIE!” + </p> + <p> + She had risen slowly from the bed—a gaunt, pitiful figure, pitifully + clothed, the black hair, gray-streaked, streaming thinly over her + shoulders, still clutching the baby that, too, was crying now. + </p> + <p> + The officers looked at one another and nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Guess she's handing it straight—we'll have a look on our own hook,” + the leader muttered. + </p> + <p> + She paid no attention to them—she was walking straight to Jimmie + Dale. + </p> + <p> + “It's you, is it,” she whispered fiercely through her sobs “that would + bring more shame and ruin here—you that's selling my man's life away + with your filthy lies for what they're paying you—it's you, is it, + that—” Her voice broke. + </p> + <p> + There was a frightened, uneasy look in Larry the Bat's eyes, his lips were + twitching weakly, he drew far back against the wall—and then, + glancing miserably at the officers, as though entreating their permission, + began to edge toward the door. + </p> + <p> + For a moment she watched him, her face white with outrage, her hand + clenched at her side—and then she found her voice again. + </p> + <p> + “Get out of here!” she said, in a choked, strained way pointing to the + door. “Get out of here—you dirty skate!” + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” mumbled Larry the Bat, his eyes on the floor. “Sure!” he mumbled—and + the door closed behind him. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART TWO: THE WOMAN IN THE CASE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <h3> + BELOW THE DEAD LINE + </h3> + <p> + Whisperings! Always whisperings, low, sibilant, floating errantly from all + sides, until they seemed a component part of the drug-laden atmosphere + itself. And occasionally another sound: the soft SLAP-SLAP of + loose-slippered feet, the faint rustle of equally loose-fitting garments. + And everywhere the sweet, sickish smell of opium. It was Chang Foo's, + simply a cellar or two deeper in Chang Foo's than that in which Dago Jim + had quarrelled once—and died! + </p> + <p> + Larry the Bat, vicious-faced, unkempt, disreputable, lay sprawled out on + one of the dive's bunks, an opium pipe beside him. But Larry the Bat was + not smoking; instead, his ear was pressed closely against the boarding + that formed the rather flimsy partition at the side of the bunk. One heard + many things in Chang Foo's if one cared to listen—if one could first + win one's way through the carefully guarded gateway, that to the + uninitiated offered nothing more interesting than the entrance to a + Chinese tea-shop, and an uninviting one at that! + </p> + <p> + HAD HE BEEN FOLLOWED IN HERE? He had been shadowed for the last hour; of + that, at least, he was certain. Why? By whom? For an hour he had dodged in + and out through the dens of the underworld, as only one who was at home + there and known to all could do—and at last he had taken refuge in + Chang Foo's like a fox burrowing deep into its hole. + </p> + <p> + Few could find their way into the most infamous opium den in all New York, + where not only the poppy ruled as master, but where crime was hatched, ay, + and carried to its ghastly consummation, sometimes, as well; and of those + few, not one but was of the underworld itself. And it was that fact which + held his muscles strained and rigid now under the miserable rags that + covered them, and it was that which kept the keen, quick brain alert and + active, every faculty keyed up and tense. If it were the police, he had + little to fear, for they could not force their way in without warning; but + if it were the underworld, he was in imminent peril, and had done little + better than run himself into a trap from which there was no escape. + </p> + <p> + “DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!”—he had heard that whispered more than once + in this very place. Who knew at what moment the role of Larry the Bat + would be uncovered, and the underworld, where now he held so high a place, + would be at his throat like a pack of snarling wolves! Who had been + shadowing him during the last hour? + </p> + <p> + Whisperings! Nothing tangible! He could catch no words. Only the + never-ending whisperings of gathered groups here and there—and + sometimes the clink of coin where some game was in progress. + </p> + <p> + The curtain before his bunk was drawn suddenly aside—and Larry the + Bat's fingers, where his hand was carelessly hidden by his body tightened + upon his automatic. + </p> + <p> + “Smokee some more?” + </p> + <p> + The fingers relaxed. It was only Sam Wah, one of the attendants. + </p> + <p> + “Nix!” said Larry the Bat, in a slightly muddled tone. “Got enough.” + </p> + <p> + The curtain fell into place again. Larry the Bat's lips set in a thin + smile. Ultimately it made little difference whether it was the police or + the underworld! The smile grew thinner. It was the flip of a coin, that + was all! With one there was the death house at Sing Sing for the Gray + Seal; with the other—well, there were many ways, from a shot or a + knife thrust in the open street, to his murder in some hidden dive like + this of Chang Foo's, for instance, where he now was—the Gray Seal + was responsible for the occupancy of too many penitentiary cells by those + of the underworld to look for any other fate! + </p> + <p> + He raised himself up sharply on his elbow. A shrill, high note, like the + scream of a parrakeet, rang out a second time. He tore the curtain aside, + and jumped to his feet. All around him, in the twinkling of an eye, + Chinamen in fluttering blouses, chattering like magpies, mingled with + snarling, cursing whites, were running madly. A voice, prefaced with an + oath, bawled out behind him, as he sprang forward and joined the rush: + </p> + <p> + “Beat it! De cops! Beat it!” + </p> + <p> + The police! A raid! Was it for HIM? From rooms, an amazing number of them, + more forms rushed out, joined, divided, separated, and dashed, some this + way, some that, along branching passageways. There had been raids before, + the police had begun to change their minds about Chang Foo's, but Chang + Foo's was not an easy place to raid. House after house in that quarter of + Chinese laundries, of tea shops, of chop-suey joints, opened one into the + other through secret passages in the cellars. Larry the Bat plunged down a + staircase, and halted in the darkness of a cellar, drawing back against + the wall while the flying feet of his fellow fugitives scurried by him. + </p> + <p> + Was it for HIM, this raid? If not, the police had not a hope of getting + him if he kept his head; for back in Chang Foo's proper, which would be + quite closed off now, Chang Foo would be blandly submitting to arrest, + offering himself as a sort of glorified sacrifice while the police + confiscated opium and fan-tan layouts. If the police had no other purpose + than that in mind, Chang Foo would simply pay a fine; the next night the + place would be in full blast again; and Chang Foo, higher than ever in the + confidence of the underworld's aristocracy, would reap his reward—and + that would be all there was to it. + </p> + <p> + But was that all? The raid had followed significantly close upon the heels + of his entry into Chang Foo's. Larry the Bat began to move forward again. + He dared not follow the others, and, later on, when quiet was restored, + issue out into the street from any one of the various houses in which he + might temporarily have taken refuge. There was a chance in that, a chance + that the police might be more zealous than usual, even if he particularly + was not their game—and he could take no chance. Arrest for Larry the + Bat, even on suspicion, could have but one conclusion—not a pleasant + one—the disclosure that Larry the Bat was not Larry the Bat at all, + but Jimmie Dale, the millionaire club-man, and, to complete a fatal + triplication, that Larry the Bat and Jimmie Dale was the Gray Seal upon + whose head was fixed a price! + </p> + <p> + All was silence around him now, except that from overhead came + occasionally the muffled tread of feet. He felt his way along into a + black, narrow passage, emerged into a second cellar, swept the place with + a single, circling gleam from a pocket flashlight, passed a stairway that + led upward, reached the opposite wall, and, dropping on hands and knees, + crawled into what, innocently enough, appeared to be the opening of a coal + bin. + </p> + <p> + He knew Chang Foo's well—as he knew the ins and outs of every den + and place he frequented, knew them as a man knows such things when his + life at any moment might hang upon his knowledge. + </p> + <p> + He was in another passage now, and this, in a few steps, brought him to a + door. Here he halted, and stood for a full five minutes, absolutely + motionless, absolutely still, listening. There was nothing—not a + sound. He tried the door cautiously. It was locked. The slim, sensitive, + tapering fingers of Jimmie Dale, unrecognisable now in the grimy digits of + Larry the Bat, felt tentatively over the lock. To fingers that seemed in + their tips to possess all the human senses, that time and again in their + delicate touch upon the dial of a safe had mocked at human ingenuity and + driven the police into impotent frenzy, this was a pitiful thing. From his + pocket came a small steel instrument that was quickly and deftly inserted + in the keyhole. There was a click, the door swung open, and Jimmie Dale, + alias Larry the Bat, stepped outside into a back yard half a block away + from the entrance to Chang Foo's. + </p> + <p> + Again he listened. There did not appear to be any unusual excitement in + the neighbourhood. From open windows above him and from adjoining houses + came the ordinary, commonplace sounds of voices talking and laughing, even + the queer, weird notes of a Chinese chant. He stole noiselessly across the + yard, out into the lane, and made his way rapidly along to the cross + street. + </p> + <p> + In a measure, now, he was safe; but one thing, a very vital thing, + remained to be done. It was absolutely necessary that he should know + whether he was the quarry that the police had been after in the raid, if + it was the police who had been shadowing him all evening. If it was the + police, there was but one meaning to it—Larry the Bat was known to + be the Gray Seal, and a problem perilous enough in any aspect confronted + him. Dare he risk the Sanctuary—for the clothes of Jimmie Dale? Or + was it safer to burglarise, as he had once done before, his own mansion on + Riverside Drive? + </p> + <p> + His thoughts were running riot, and he frowned, angry with himself. There + was time enough to think of that when he knew that it was the police + against whom he had to match his wits. + </p> + <p> + Well in the shadow of the buildings, he moved swiftly along the side + street until he came to the corner of the street on which, halfway down + the block, fronted Chang Foo's tea-shop. A glance in that direction, and + Jimmie Dale drew a breath of relief. A patrol wagon was backed up to the + curb, and a half dozen officers were busy loading it with what was + evidently Chang Foo's far from meagre stock of gambling appurtenances; + while Chang Foo himself, together with Sam Wah and another attendant, were + in the grip of two other officers, waiting possibly for another patrol + wagon. There was a crowd, too, but the crowd was at a respectful distance—on + the opposite side of the street. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale still hugged the corner. A man swaggered out from a doorway, + quite close to Chang Foo's, and came on along the street. As the other + reached the corner, Jimmie Dale sidled forward. + </p> + <p> + “'Ello, Chick!” he said, out of the corner of his mouth. “Wot's de lay?” + </p> + <p> + “'Ello, Larry!” returned the other. “Aw, nuthin'! De nutcracker on Chang, + dat's all.” + </p> + <p> + “I t'ought mabbe dey was lookin' for some guy dat was in dere,” observed + Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “Nuthin' doin'!” the other answered. “I was in dere meself. De whole mob + beat it clean, an' de bulls never batted an eye. Didn't youse pipe me make + me get-away outer Shanghai's a minute ago? De bulls never went nowhere + except into Chang's. Dere's a new lootenant in de precinct inaugeratin' + himself, dat's all. S'long, Larry—I gotta date.” + </p> + <p> + “S'long, Chick!” responded Jimmie Dale—and started slowly back along + the cross street. + </p> + <p> + It was not the police, then, who were interested in his movements! Then + who? He shook his head with a little, savage, impotent gesture. One thing + was clear: it was too early to risk a return to the Sanctuary and attempt + the rehabilitation of Jimmie Dale. If any one was on the hunt for Larry + the Bat, the Sanctuary would be the last place to be overlooked. + </p> + <p> + He turned the next corner, hesitated a moment in front of a garishly + lighted dance hall, and finally shuffled in through the door, made his way + across the floor, nodding here and there to the elite of gangland, and, + with a somewhat arrogant air of proprietorship, sat down at a table in the + corner. Little better than a tramp in appearance, certainly the most + disreputable-looking object in the place, even the waiter who approached + him accorded him a certain curious deference—was not Larry the Bat + the most celebrated dope fiend below the dead line? + </p> + <p> + “Gimme a mug o' suds!” ordered Jimmie Dale, and sprawled royally back in + his chair. + </p> + <p> + Under the rim of his slouch hat, pulled now far over his eyes, he searched + the faces around him. If he had been asked to pick the actors for a revel + from the scum of the underworld, he could not have improved upon the + gathering. There were perhaps a hundred men and women in the room, the + majority dancing, and, with the exception of a few sight-seeing slummers, + they were men and women whose acquaintance with the police was intimate + but not cordial—far from cordial. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders, and sipped at the glass that had been + set before him. It was grimly ironic that he should be, not only there, + but actually a factor and a part of the underworld's intimate life! He, + Jimmie Dale, a wealthy man, a member of New York's exclusive clubs, a + member of New York's most exclusive society! It was inconceivable. He + smiled sardonically. Was it? Well, then, it was none the less true. His + life unquestionably was one unique, apart from any other man's, but it + was, for all that, actual and real. + </p> + <p> + There had been three years of it now—since SHE had come into his + life. Jimmie Dale slouched down a little in his chair. The ice was thin, + perilously thin, that he was skating on now. Each letter, with its demand + upon him to match his wits against police or underworld, or against both + combined, perhaps, made that peril a little greater, a little more + imminent—if that were possible, when already his life was almost + literally carried, daily, hourly, in his hand. Not that he rebelled + against it; it was worth the price that some day he expected he must pay—the + price of honour, wealth, a name disgraced, ruin, death. Was he quixotic? + Immoderately so? He smiled gravely. Perhaps. But he would do it all over + again if the choice were his. There were those who blessed the name of the + Gray Seal, as well as those who cursed it. And there was the Tocsin! + </p> + <p> + Who was she? He did not know, but he knew that he had come to love her, + come to care for her, and that she had come to mean everything in life to + him. He had never seen her, to know her face. He had never seen her face, + but he knew her voice—ay, he had even held her for a moment, the + moment of wildest happiness he had ever known, in his arms. That night + when he had entered his library, his own particular den in his own house, + and in the darkness had found her there—found her finally through no + effort of his own, when he had searched so fruitlessly for years to find + her, using every resource at his command to find her! And she, because she + had come of her own volition, relying upon him, had held him in honour to + let her go as she had come—without looking upon her face! Exquisite + irony! But she had made him a promise then—that the work of the Gray + Seal was nearly over—that soon there would be an end to the mystery + that surrounded her—that he should know all—that he should + know HER. + </p> + <p> + He smiled again, but it was a twisted smile on the mechanically misshapen + lips of Larry the Bat. NEARLY over! Who knew? That “nearly” might be too + late! Even tonight he had been shadowed, was skulking even now in this + place as a refuge. Who knew? Another hour, and the newsboys might be + shrieking their “Uxtra! Uxtra! De Gray Seal caught! De millionaire Jimmie + Dale de Jekyll an' Hyde of real life!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale straightened up suddenly in his seat. There was a shout, an + oath bawled out high above the riot of noise, a chorus of feminine shrieks + from across the room. What was the matter with the underworld to-night? He + seemed fated to find nothing but centres of disturbance—first a raid + at Chang Foo's, and now this. What was the matter here? They were + stampeding toward him from the other side of the room. There was the roar + of a revolver shot—another. Black Ike! He caught an instant's + glimpse of the gunman's distorted face through the crowd. That was it + probably—a row over some moll. + </p> + <p> + And then, as Jimmie Dale lunged up from his chair to his feet to escape + the rush, pandemonium itself seemed to break loose. Yells, shots, screams, + and oaths filled the air. The crowd surged this way and that. Tables were + overturned and sent crashing to the floor. And then came sudden darkness, + as some one of the attendants in misguided excitability switched off the + lights. + </p> + <p> + The darkness but served to increase the panic, not allay it. With a savage + snap of his jaws, Jimmie Dale swung from his table in the corner with the + intention of making his way out by a side door behind him—it was a + case of the police again, and the patrolman outside would probably be + pulling a riot call by now. And the police—He stopped suddenly, as + though he had been struck. An envelope, thrust there out of the darkness, + was in his hand; and her voice, HERS, the Tocsin's, was sounding in his + ears: + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie! Jimmie! I've been trying all evening to catch you! Quick! Get to + the Sanctuary and change your clothes. There's not an instant to lose! + It's for my sake to-night!” + </p> + <p> + And then a surging mob was around him on every side, and, pushing, + jostling, half lifting him at times from his feet, carried him forward + with its rush, and with him in its midst burst through the door and out + into the street. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <h3> + THE CALL TO ARMS + </h3> + <p> + Not a sound as the key turned in the lock; not a sound as the door swung + back on its carefully oiled hinges; not a sound as Larry the Bat slipped + like a shadow into the blackness of the room, closing the door behind him + again. With a tread as noiseless as a cat's, he was across the room to + satisfy himself that the shutters were tightly closed; and then the single + gas jet flared up, murky, yellow, illuminating the miserable, squalid room—the + Sanctuary—the home of Larry the Bat. There was need for silence, + need for caution. In five minutes, ten at the outside, he must emerge + again—as Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + With a smile on his lips that mingled curiously chagrin and + self-commiseration, he took the letter from his pocket and tore it open. + It was she, then, who had been following him all evening, and, like a + blundering idiot, he had wasted precious, perhaps irreparable, hours! What + had she meant by “It's for my sake to-night”? The words had been ringing + in his ears since the moment she had whispered them in that panic-stricken + crowd. Was it not always for her sake that he answered these calls to + arms? Was it not always for her sake that he, as the Gray Seal, was—The + mental soliloquy came to an abrupt end. He had subconsciously read the + first sentence of the letter, and now, with sudden feverish eagerness and + excitement, he was reading it to the last word. + </p> + <p> + “DEAR PHILANTHROPIC CROOK: In an hour after you receive this, if all goes + well, you shall know everything—everything. Who I am—yes, and + my name. It has been more than three years now, hasn't it? It has been + incomprehensible to you, but there has been no other way. I dared not take + the chance of discovery by any one; I dared not expose you to the risk of + being known by me. Your life would not have been worth a moment's + purchase. Oh, Jimmie, am I only making the mystery more mystifying? But + to-night, I think, I hope, I pray that it is all at an end: though against + me, and against you to-night when you go to help me, is the most powerful + and pitiless organisation of criminals that the world has ever known; and + the stake we are playing for is a fortune of millions—and my life. + And yet somehow I am afraid now, just because the end is so near, and the + victory seems so surely won. And so, Jimmie, be careful; use all that + wonderful cleverness of yours as you have never used it before, and—But + there should be no need for that, it is so simple a thing that I am going + to ask you to do. Why am I writing so illogically! Nothing, surely, can + possibly happen. This is not like one of my usual letters, is it? I am + beside myself to-night with hope, anxiety, fear, and excitement. + </p> + <p> + “Listen, then, Jimmie: Be at the northeast corner of Sixth Avenue and + Waverly Place at exactly half-past ten. A taxicab will drive up, as though + you had signalled it in passing, and the chauffeur will say: 'I've another + fare, in half an hour, sir, but I can get you most anywhere in that time.' + You will be smoking a cigarette. Toss it out into the street, make any + reply you like, and get into the cab. Give the chauffeur that little ring + of mine with the crest of the bell and belfry and the motto, 'Sonnez le + Tocsin,' that you found the night old Isaac Pelina was murdered, and the + chauffeur will give you in exchange a sealed packet of papers. He will + drive you to your home, and I will telephone to you there. + </p> + <p> + “I need not tell you to destroy this. Keep the appointment in your proper + person—as Jimmie Dale. Carry nothing that might identify you as the + Gray Seal if any accident should happen. And, lastly, trust the pseudo + chauffeur absolutely.” + </p> + <p> + There was no signature. Her letters were never signed. He stood for a + moment staring at the closely written sheets in his hand, a heightened + colour in his cheeks, his lips pressed tightly together—and then his + fingers automatically began to tear the letter into pieces, and the pieces + again into little shreds. To-night! It was to be to-night, the end of all + this mystery. To-night was to see the end of this dual life of his, with + its constant peril! To-night the Gray Seal was to exit from the stage + forever! To-night, a wonderful climax of the years, he was to see HER! + </p> + <p> + His blood was quickened now, his heart pounding in a faster beat; a mad + elation, a fierce uplift was upon him. He thrust the torn bits of paper + into his pocket hurriedly, stepped across the room to the corner, rolled + back the oilcloth, and lifted up the loose plank in the flooring, so + innocently dustladen, as, more than once, to have eluded the eyes of + inquisitive visitors in the shape of police and plain clothes men from + headquarters. + </p> + <p> + From the space beneath he removed a neatly folded pile of clothes, laid + these on the bed, and began to undress. He was working rapidly now. Tiny + pieces of wax were removed from his nostrils, from under his lips, from + behind his ears; water from a cracked pitcher poured into a battered tin + basin, and mixed with a few drops of some liquid from a bottle which he + procured from its hiding place under the flooring, banished the make-up + stain from his face, his neck, his wrists, and hands as if by magic. It + was a strange metamorphosis that had taken place—the coarse, + brutal-featured, blear-eyed, leering countenance of Larry the Bat was + gone, and in its place, clean-cut, square-jawed, clear-eyed, was the face + of Jimmie Dale. And where before had slouched a slope-shouldered, + misshapen, flabby creature, a broad-shouldered form well over six feet in + height now stood erect, and under the clean white skin the muscles of an + athlete, like knobs of steel played back and forth with every movement of + his body. + </p> + <p> + In the streaked and broken mirror Jimmie Dale surveyed himself critically, + methodically, and, with a nod of satisfaction, hastily donned the + fashionably cut suit of tweeds upon the bed. He rummaged then through the + ragged garments he had just discarded, transferred to his pockets a roll + of bills and his automatic, and paused hesitantly, staring at the thin + metal case, like a cigarette case, that he held in the palm of his hand. + He shrugged his shoulders a little whimsically; it seemed strange indeed + that he was through with that! He snapped it open. Within, between sheets + of oil paper, lay the scores of little diamond-shaped, gray-coloured, + adhesive paper seals—the insignia of the Gray Seal. Yes, it seemed + strange that he was never to use another! He closed the case, gathered up + the clothes of Larry the Bat, tucked the case in among them, and shoved + the bundle into the hole under the flooring. All these things would have + to be destroyed, but there was not time to-night; to-morrow, or the next + day, would do for that. What would it be like to live a normal life again, + without the menace of danger lurking on every hand, without that grim + slogan of the underworld, “Death to the Gray Seal!” or that savage fiat of + the police, “The Gray Seal, dead or alive—but the Gray Seal!” + forever ringing in his ears? What would it be like, this new life—with + her? + </p> + <p> + The thought was thrilling him again, bringing again that eager, exultant + uplift. In an hour, ONE hour, and the barriers of years would be swept + away, and she would be in his arms! + </p> + <p> + “It's for my sake to-night!” His face grew suddenly tense, as the words + came back to him. That “hour” wasn't over yet! It was no hysterical + exaggeration that had prompted her to call her enemies the most powerful + and pitiless organisation of criminals that the world had ever known. It + was not the Tocsin's way to exaggerate. The words would be literally true. + The very life she had led for the three years that had gone stood out now + as a grim proof of her assertion. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale replaced the flooring, carefully brushed the dust back into + the cracks, spread the oilcloth into place, and stood up. Who and what was + this organisation? What was between it and the Tocsin? What was this + immense fortune that was at stake? And what was this priceless packet that + was so crucial, that meant victory now, ay, and her life, too, she had + said? + </p> + <p> + The questions swept upon him in a sort of breathless succession. Why had + she not let him play a part in this? True, she had told him why—that + she dared not expose him to the risk. Risk! Was there any risk that the + Gray Seal had not taken, and at her instance! He did not understand, he + smiled a little uncertainly, as he reached up to turn out the gas. There + were a good many things that he did not understand about the Tocsin! + </p> + <p> + The room was in darkness, and with the darkness Jimmie Dale's mind centred + on the work immediately before him. To enter the tenement where he was + known and had an acknowledged right as Larry the Bat was one thing; for + Jimmie Dale to be discovered there was quite another. + </p> + <p> + He crossed the room, opened the door silently, stood for a moment + listening, then stepped out into the black, musty, ill-smelling hallway, + closing the door behind him. He stooped and locked it. The querulous cry + of a child reached him from somewhere above—a murmur of voices, + muffled by closed doors, from everywhere. How many families were housed + beneath that sordid roof he had never known, only that there was miserable + poverty there as well as vice and crime, only that Larry the Bat, who + possessed a room all to himself, was as some lordly and super-being to + these fellow tenants who shared theirs with so many that there was not air + enough for all to breathe. + </p> + <p> + He had no doors to pass—his was next to the staircase. He began to + descend. They could scream and shriek, those stairs, like aged humans, + twisted and rheumatic, at the least ungentle touch. But there was no sound + from them now. There seemed something almost uncanny in the silent tread. + Stair after stair he descended, his entire weight thrown gradually upon + one foot before the other was lifted. The strain upon the muscles, trained + and hardened as they were, told. As he moved from the bottom step, he + wiped little beads of perspiration from his forehead. + </p> + <p> + The door, now, that gave on the alleyway! He opened it, slipped outside, + darted across the narrow lane, stole along where the shadows of the fence + were blackest, paused, listening, as he reached the end of the alleyway, + to assure himself that there was no near-by pedestrian—and stepped + out into the street. + </p> + <p> + He kept on along the block, turned into the Bowery, and, under the first + lamp, consulted his watch. It was a quarter past ten. He could make it + easily in a leisurely walk. He continued on up the Bowery, finally crossed + to Broadway, and shortly afterward turned into Waverly Place. At the + corner of Fifth Avenue he consulted his watch again—and now he + lighted a cigarette. Sixth Avenue was only a block away. At precisely + half-past ten, to the second, he halted on the designated corner, smoking + nonchalantly. + </p> + <p> + A taxicab, coincidentally coming from an uptown direction, swung in to the + curb. + </p> + <p> + “Taxi, sir? Yes, sir?” Then, with an admirable mingling of eagerness to + secure the fare and a fear that his confession might cause him the loss of + it: “I've another fare in half an hour, sir, but I can get you most + anywhere in that time.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's cigarette was tossed carelessly into the street. + </p> + <p> + “St. James Club!” he said curtly, and stepped into the cab. + </p> + <p> + The cab started forward, turned the corner, and headed along Waverly Place + toward Broadway. The chauffeur twisted around in his seat in a + matter-of-fact way, as though to ask further directions. + </p> + <p> + “Have you anything for me?” he inquired casually. + </p> + <p> + It lay where it always lay, that ring, between the folds of that little + white glove in his pocketbook. Jimmie Dale took it out now, and handed it + silently to the chauffeur. + </p> + <p> + The other's face changed instantly—composure was gone, and a quick, + strained look was in its place. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I've been watched,” he said tersely. “Look behind you, will + you, and tell me if you see anything?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale glanced backward through the little window in the hood. + </p> + <p> + “There's another taxi just turned in from Sixth Avenue,” he reported the + next instant. + </p> + <p> + “Keep your eye on it!” instructed the chauffeur shortly. + </p> + <p> + The speed of the cab increased sensibly. + </p> + <p> + With a curious tightening of his lips, Jimmie Dale settled himself in his + seat so that he could watch the cab behind. There was trouble coming, + intuitively he sensed that; and, he reflected bitterly, he might have + known! It was too marvellous, too wonderful ever to come to pass that this + one hour, the thought of which had fired his blood and made him glad + beyond any gladness life had ever held for him before, should bring its + promised happiness. + </p> + <p> + “Where's the cab now?” the chauffeur flung back over his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + They had passed Fifth Avenue, and were nearing Broadway. + </p> + <p> + “About the same distance behind,” Jimmie Dale answered. + </p> + <p> + “That looks bad!” the chauffeur gritted between his teeth. “We'll have to + make sure. I'll run down Lower Broadway.” + </p> + <p> + “If you think we're followed,” suggested Jimmie Dale quietly, “why not run + uptown and give them the slip somewhere where the traffic is thick? Lower + Broadway at this time of night is as empty and deserted as a country + road.” + </p> + <p> + The chauffeur's sudden laugh was mirthless. + </p> + <p> + “My God, you don't know what you are talking about!” he burst out. “If + they're following, all hell couldn't throw them off the track. And I've + got to know, I've got to be SURE before I dare make a move to-night. I + couldn't tell up in the crowded districts if I was followed, could I? They + won't come out into the open until their hands are forced.” + </p> + <p> + The car swerved sharply, rounded the corner, and, speeding up faster and + faster, began to tear down Lower Broadway. + </p> + <p> + “Watch! WATCH!” cried the chauffeur. + </p> + <p> + There was no word between them for a moment; then Jimmie Dale spoke + crisply: + </p> + <p> + “It's turned the corner! It's coming this way!” + </p> + <p> + The taxicab was rocking violently with the speed; silent, empty, Lower + Broadway stretched away ahead. Apart from an occasional street car, + probably there would be nothing between them and the Battery. Jimmie Dale + glanced at his companion's face as a light, flashing by, threw it into + relief. It was set and stern, even a little haggard; but, too, there was + something else there, something that appealed instantly to Jimmie Dale—a + sort of bulldog grit that dominated it. + </p> + <p> + “If he holds our speed, we'll know!” the chauffeur was shouting now to + make himself heard over the roar of the car. “Look again! Where is it + now?” + </p> + <p> + Once more Jimmie Dale looked through the little rear window. The cab had + been a block behind them when it had turned the corner, and he watched it + now in a sort of grim fascination. There was no possible doubt of it! The + two bobbing, bouncing headlights were creeping steadily nearer. And then a + sort of unnatural calm settled upon Jimmie Dale, and his hand went + mechanically to his pocket to feel his automatic there, as he turned again + to the chauffeur. + </p> + <p> + “If you've got any more speed, you'd better use it!” he said + significantly. + </p> + <p> + The man shot a quick look at him. + </p> + <p> + “They are following us? You are SURE?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + The chauffeur laughed again in that mirthless, savage way. + </p> + <p> + “Lean over here, where I can talk to you!” he rasped out. “The game's up, + as far as I am concerned, I guess! But there's a chance for you. They + don't know you in this.” + </p> + <p> + “Give her more speed—or dodge into a cross street!” suggested Jimmie + Dale coolly. “They haven't got us yet, by a long way!” + </p> + <p> + The other shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “It's not only that cab behind,” he answered, through set lips. “You don't + know what we're up against. If they're really after us, there's a trap + laid in every section of this city—the devils! It's the package they + want. Thank God for the presentiment that made me leave it behind! I was + going back for it, you understand, if I was satisfied that we weren't + followed. Listen! There's a chance for you—there's none for me. That + package—remember this!—no one else knows where it is, and it's + life and death to the one who sent you here. It's in Box 428 at—My + God, LOOK! Look there!” he yelled, and, with a wrench at the wheel, sent + the taxi lurching and staggering for the car tracks in the centre of the + street. + </p> + <p> + The scene, fast as thought itself, was photographing itself in every + detail upon Jimmie Dale's brain. From the cross street ahead, one from + each corner, two motor cars had nosed out into Broadway, blocking the road + on both sides. And now the car on the left-hand side was moving forward + across the tracks to counteract the chauffeur's move, deliberately + insuring a collision. There was no chance, no further room to turn, no + time to stop—the man driving the other car jumped for safety—they + would be into it in an instant. + </p> + <p> + “Box 428!” Jimmie pleaded fiercely. “Go on, man! Go on! FINISH!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” cried the chauffeur. “John Johansson, at—” + </p> + <p> + But Jimmie Dale heard no more. There was the crash of impact as the + taxicab plowed into the car that had been so craftily manoeuvered in front + of it, and Jimmie Dale, lifted from his feet, was hurled violently forward + with the shock, and all went black before his eyes. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <h3> + THE CRIME CLUB + </h3> + <p> + For what length of time he had remained unconscious, Jimmie Dale had not + the slightest idea. He regained his senses to find himself lying on a + couch in a strange room that had a most exquisitely brass-wrought dome + light in the ceiling. That was what attracted his attention, because the + light hurt his eyes, and his head was already throbbing as though a + thousand devils were beating a diabolical tattoo upon it. + </p> + <p> + He closed his eyes against the light. Where was he? What had happened? Oh, + yes, he remembered now! That smash on Lower Broadway! He had been hurt. He + moved first one limb and then another tentatively, and was relieved to + find that, though his body ached as if it had been severely shaken, and + his head was bad, he had apparently escaped without serious injury. + </p> + <p> + Where was he? In a hospital? His fingers, resting at his side upon the + couch, supplied him with the information that it was a very expensive + couch, upholstered in finest leather. If he were in a hospital, he would + be in a cot. + </p> + <p> + He opened his eyes again to glance curiously around him. The room was + quite in keeping with the artistic lighting fixture and the refined, if + expensive, taste that was responsible for the couch. A heavy velvet rug of + rich, dark green was bordered by a polished hardwood floor; panellings of + dark-green frieze and beautifully grained woodwork made the lower walls; + while above, on a background of some soft-toned paper, hung a few, and + evidently choice, oil paintings. There was a big, inviting lounging chair; + a massive writing table, or more properly, a desk of walnut; and behind + the desk, his back half turned, apparently intent upon a book, sat a man + in immaculate evening dress. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale closed his eyes again. There was something reassuring about it + all, comfortably reassuring. Though why there should be any occasion for a + feeling of reassurance at all, he could not for the moment make out. And + then, in a sudden flash, the details of the night came back to him. The + Tocsin's letter—the package he was to get—the taxicab—the + chauffeur, who was not a chauffeur—the chase—the trap. He lay + perfectly still. It was the professional Jimmie Dale now whose brain, in + spite of the throbbing, brutally aching head, was at work, keen, alert. + </p> + <p> + The chauffeur! What had happened to him? Had the man been killed in the + auto smash; or, less fortunate than himself, fallen into the hands of + those whose power he seemed both to fear and rate so highly? And that + package! Box—what was the number?—yes, 428. What did that + mean? What box? Where was it? Who was John Johansson? He hadn't heard any + more than that; the smash had come then. And lastly, he was back again to + the same question he had begun with: Where was he now himself? It looked + as though some good Samaritan had picked him up. Who was this gentleman so + quietly reading there at the desk? + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale opened his eyes for the third time. How still, how absolutely + silent the room was! He studied the man's back speculatively for a moment, + then his gaze travelled on past the man to the wall, riveted there, and + his fingers, without movement of his arm, pressed against the outside of + his coat pocket. He thought as much! His automatic was gone! + </p> + <p> + Not a muscle of Jimmie Dale's face moved. His eyes shifted to a picture on + the wall. THE MAN WAS WATCHING HIM—NOT READING! Just above the level + of the desk, a small mirror held the couch in focus—but, equally, it + held the man in focus, and Jimmie Dale had seen the other's eyes, through + a black mask that covered the face to the top of the upper lip, fixed + intently upon him. + </p> + <p> + There was a chill now where before there had been reassurance, something + ominous in the very quiet and refinement of the room; and Jimmie Dale + smiled inwardly in bitter irony—his good Samaritan wore a mask! His + self-congratulations had come too soon. Whatever had happened to the + chauffeur, it was evident enough that he himself was caught! What was it + the chauffeur had said? Something about a chance through being unknown. + Was it to be a battle of wits, then? God, if his head did not ache so + frightfully! It was hard to think with the brain half sick with pain. + </p> + <p> + Those two eyes shining in that mirror! There seemed something horribly + spectre-like about it. He did not look again, but he knew they were there. + It was like a cat watching a mouse. Why did not the man speak, or move, or + do something, and—He turned his head slowly; the man was laughing in + a low, amused way. + </p> + <p> + “You appear to be taken with that picture,” observed a pleasant voice. + “Perhaps you recognise it from there? It is a Corot.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, with a well-simulated start, sat up—and, with another + quite as well simulated, stared at the masked man. The other had laid down + his book, and swung around in his chair to face the couch. Jimmie Dale + stood up a little shakily. + </p> + <p> + “Look here!” he said awkwardly. “I—I don't quite understand. I + remember that my taxi got into a smash-up, and I suppose I have to thank + you for the assistance you must have rendered me; only, as I say”—he + looked in a puzzled way around the room, and in an even more perplexed way + at the mask on the other's face—“I must confess I am at a loss to + understand quite the meaning of this.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose that instead of trying to understand you simply accept things as + you find them.” The voice was soft, but there was a finality in it that + its blandness only served to make the more suggestive. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale drew himself up, and bowed coldly. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I did not mean to intrude. I have only to + thank you again, then, and bid you good-night.” + </p> + <p> + The lips beneath the mask parted slightly in a politely deprecating smile. + </p> + <p> + “There is no hurry,” said the man, a sudden sharpness creeping into his + tones. “I am sorry that the rule I apply to you does not work both ways. + For instance, I might be quite at a loss to account for your presence in + that taxicab.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's smile was equally polite, equally deprecating. + </p> + <p> + “I fail to see how it could be of the slightest possible interest to you,” + he replied. “However, I have no objection to telling you. I hailed the + taxi at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Waverly Place, told the chauffeur + to drive me to the St. James Club, and—” + </p> + <p> + “The St. James Club,” broke in the other coldly, “is, I believe, north, + not SOUTH of Waverly Place—and on Broadway not at all.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale stared at the other for an instant in patient annoyance. + </p> + <p> + “I am quite well aware of that,” he said stiffly. “Nevertheless I told the + man to drive me to the St. James Club. We came across Waverly Place, but + on reaching Broadway, instead of turning uptown, he suddenly whirled in + the other direction and sent the car flying at full speed down Lower + Broadway. I shouted at the man. I don't know yet whether he was drunk or + crazy or”—Jimmie Dale's eyes fixed disdainfully on the other's mask—“whether + there might not, after all, have been method in his madness. I can only + say that before we had gone more than two or three blocks, a wild effort + on his part to avoid a collision with an auto swinging out from a side + street resulted in an even more disastrous smash with another on the other + side, and I was knocked senseless.” + </p> + <p> + “'Victim,' I presume, is the idea you desire to convey,” observed the + other evenly. “You were quite the victim of circumstances, as it were!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's eyebrows lifted slightly. + </p> + <p> + “It would appear to be fairly obvious, I should say.” + </p> + <p> + “Very clever!” commented the man. “But now suppose we remove the buttons + from the foils!” His voice rasped suddenly. “You are quite as well aware + as I am that what has happened to-night was not an accident. Nor—in + case the possibility may have occurred to you—are the police any the + wiser, save for the existence of two wrecked cars on Lower Broadway, and + another which escaped, and for which doubtless they are still searching + assiduously. The ownership of the taxicab you so inadvertently entered + they will have no difficulty in establishing—you, perhaps, however, + are in a better position than I am to appreciate the fact that the + establishment of its ownership will lead them nowhere. As I understand it, + the man who drove you to-night obtained the loan of the cab from one of + the company's chauffeur's in return for a hundred-dollar bill. Am I + right?” + </p> + <p> + “In view of what has happened,” admitted Jimmie Dale simply, “I should not + be surprised.” + </p> + <p> + There was a sort of sardonic admiration in the other's laugh. + </p> + <p> + “As for the other car,” he went on, “I can assure you that its ownership + will never be known. When the nearest patrolman rushed up, there were no + survivors of the disaster, save those in the third car which he was + powerless to stop—which accounts for your presence here. You will + admit that I have been quite frank.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, quite!” said Jimmie Dale, a little wearily. “But would you mind + telling me what all this is leading to?” + </p> + <p> + The man had been leaning forward in his chair, one hand, palm downward, + resting lightly on the desk. He shifted his hand now suddenly to the arm + of his chair. + </p> + <p> + “THIS!” he said, and on the desk where his hand had been lay the Tocsin's + gold signet ring. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's face expressed mild curiosity. He could feel the other's + eyes boring into him. + </p> + <p> + “We were speaking of ownership,” said the man, in a low, menacing tone. “I + want to know where the woman who owns this ring can be found to-night.” + </p> + <p> + There was no play, no trifling here; the man was in deadly earnest. But it + seemed to Jimmie Dale, even with the sense of peril more imminent with + every instant, that he could have laughed outright in savage mockery at + the irony of the question. Where was she? Even WHO was she? And this was + the hour in which he was to have known! + </p> + <p> + “May I look at it?” he requested calmly. + </p> + <p> + The other nodded, but his eyes never left Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “It will give you an extra moment or so to frame your answer,” he said + sarcastically. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale ignored the thrust, picked up the ring, examined it + deliberately, and set it back again on the table. + </p> + <p> + “Since I do not know who owns it,” he said, “I cannot answer your + question.” + </p> + <p> + “No! Well, then, there is still another matter—a little package that + was in the taxicab with you. Where is that?” + </p> + <p> + “See here!” said Jimmie Dale irritably. “This has gone far enough! I have + seen no package, large or small, or of any description whatever. You are + evidently mistaking me for some one else. You have only to telephone to + the St. James Club.” He reached toward his pocket for his cardcase. “My + name is—” + </p> + <p> + “Dale,” supplied the other curtly. “Don't bother about the card, Mr. Dale. + We have already taken the liberty of searching you.” He rose abruptly from + his chair. “I am afraid you do not quite realise your position, Mr. Dale,” + he said, with an ominous smile. “Let me make it clear. I do not wish to be + theatrical about this, but we do not temporise here. You will either + answer both of those questions to my satisfaction, OR YOU WILL NEVER LEAVE + THIS PLACE ALIVE.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's face hardened. His eyes met the other's steadily. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I think I begin to see!” he said caustically. “When I have been + thoroughly frightened I shall be offered my freedom at a price. A sort of + up-to-date game of holdup! The penalty of being a wealthy man! If you had + named your figure to begin with, we would have saved a lot of idle talk, + and you would have had my answer the sooner: NOTHING!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know,” said the other, in a grimly musing way, “there has always + been one man, but only one until now, that I have wished I might add to my + present associates. I refer to the so-called Gray Seal. To-night there are + two. I pay you the compliment of being the other. But”—he was + smiling ominously again—“we are wasting time, Mr. Dale. I am willing + to expose my hand to the extent of admitting that the information you are + withholding is infinitely more valuable to me than the mere wreaking of + reprisal upon you for a refusal to talk. Therefore, if you will answer, I + pledge you my word you will be free to leave here within five minutes. If + you refuse, you are already aware of the alternative. Well, Mr. Dale?” + </p> + <p> + Who was this man? Jimmie Dale was studying the other's chin, the lips, the + white, even teeth, the jet-black hair. Some day the tables might be + turned. Could he recognise again this cool, imperturbable ruffian who so + callously threatened him with murder? + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Dale? I am waiting!” + </p> + <p> + “I am not a magician,” said Jimmie Dale contemptuously. “I could not + answer your questions if I wanted to.” + </p> + <p> + The other's hand slid instantly to a row of electric buttons on the desk. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, Mr. Dale!” he said quietly. “You do not believe, I see, that I + would dare to carry my threat into execution; you perhaps even doubt my + power. I shall take the trouble to convince you—I imagine it will + stimulate your memory.” + </p> + <p> + The door opened. Two men were standing on the threshold, both in evening + dress, both masked. The man behind the desk came forward, took Jimmie + Dale's arm almost courteously, and led him from the room out into a + corridor, where he halted abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “I want to call your attention first, Mr. Dale, to the fact that as far as + you are concerned you neither have now, nor ever will have, any idea + whether you are in the heart of New York or fifty miles away from it. Now, + listen! Do you hear anything?” + </p> + <p> + There was nothing. Only the strange silence of that other room was + intensified now. There was not a sound; stillness such as it seemed to + Jimmie Dale he had never experienced before was around him. + </p> + <p> + “You may possibly infer from the silence that you are NOT in the city,” + suggested the other, after a moment's pause. “I leave you to your own + conclusions in that respect. The cause, however, of the silence is + internal, not external; we had sound-proof principles in mind to a perhaps + exaggerated degree when this building was constructed. If you care to do + so, you have my permission to shout, say, for help, to your heart's + content. We shall make no effort to stop you.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. He was staring down a brilliantly + lighted, richly carpeted corridor. There were doors on one side, windows + on the other, the windows all hung with heavy, closely drawn portieres. + The corridor was certainly not on the ground floor, but whether it was on + the second or third, or even above that again, he had no means of knowing. + From appearances, though, the place seemed more like a large, private + mansion than anything else. + </p> + <p> + “Just one word more before we proceed,” continued the other. “I do not + wish you to labour under any illusion. Here we are frankly criminals. This + is our home. It should have some effect in impressing you with the power + and resource at our command, and also with the class of men with whom you + are dealing. There is not one among us whose education is not fully equal + to your own; not one, indeed, but who is chosen, granting first his + criminal tendencies, because he is a specialist in his own particular + field—in commerce, in the government diplomatic service, in the + professions of law and medicine, in the ranks of pure science. We are + bordering on the fantastical, are we not? Dreaming, you will probably say, + of the Utopian in crime organisation. Quite so, Mr. Dale. I only ask you + to consider the POSSIBILITIES if what I say is true. Now let us proceed. I + am going to take you into three rooms—the three whose doors you see + ahead of you. You will notice that, including the one you have just left, + there are four on this corridor. I do not wish to strain your credulity, + or play tricks upon you; so I am going to ask you to fix an approximate + idea of the length of the corridor in your mind, as it will perhaps enable + you to account more readily for what may appear to be a discrepancy in the + corresponding size of the rooms.” + </p> + <p> + One of the men opened the door ahead. Jimmie Dale, at a sign from his + conductor, moved forward and entered. Just what he had expected to find he + could not have told; his brain was whirling, partly from his aching head, + partly from his desperate effort to conceive some way of escape from the + peril which, for all his nonchalance, he knew only too well was the + gravest he had ever faced; but what he saw was simply a cozily furnished + bedroom. There was nothing peculiar about it; nothing out of the way, + except perhaps that it was rather narrow. + </p> + <p> + And then suddenly, rubbing his eyes involuntarily, he was staring in a + dazed way before him. The whole right-hand side of the wall was sinking + without a sound into the floor, increasing the width of the room by some + five or six feet—and in this space was disclosed what appeared to be + a sort of chemical laboratory, elaborately equipped, extending the entire + length of the room. + </p> + <p> + “The wall is purely a matter of mechanical construction, operated + hydraulically.” The man was speaking softly at Jimmie Dale's side. “The + room beneath is built to correspond; the base, ceiling, and wall mouldings + here do not have to be very ingenious to effect a disguise. I might say, + however, that few visitors, other than yourself, have ever seen anything + here but a bedroom.” He waved his hand toward the retorts, the racks of + test tubes, the hundred and one articles that strewed the laboratory + bench. “As for this, its purpose is twofold. We, as well, as the police, + have often need of analysis. We make it. If we require a drug, a poison, + say, we compound it from its various ingredients, or, as the case may be, + distil it, perhaps—it is, you will agree, somewhat more difficult to + trace to its source if procured that way. And speaking of poisons”—he + stepped forward, and lifted a glass-stoppered bottle containing a + colourless liquid from a shelf—“in a modest way we have even done + some original research work here. This, for instance, is as Utopian from + our standpoint as the formation, and personnel of the organisation I have + briefly outlined to you. It possesses very essential qualities. It is + almost instantaneous in its action, requires a very small quantity, and + defies detection even by autopsy.” He uncorked the bottle, and dipped in a + long glass rod. “Will you watch the experiment?” he invited, with a sort + of ghastly pleasantry. “I do not want you to accept anything on trust.” + </p> + <p> + With a start, Jimmie Dale swung around. He had heard no sound, but another + man was at his elbow now—and, struggling in the man's hand, was a + little white rabbit. + </p> + <p> + It was over in an instant. A single drop in the rabbit's mouth, and the + animal had stiffened out, a lifeless thing. + </p> + <p> + “It is quite as effective on the human organism,” continued the other, + “only, instead of one drop, three are required. If I make it ten”—he + was carefully measuring the liquid into two wineglasses—“it is only + that even you may be satisfied that the quantity is fatal.” He filled up + the glasses with what was apparently wine of some description, which he + poured from a decanter, and held out the glasses in front of him. + </p> + <p> + And again Jimmie Dale started, again he had heard no one enter, and yet + two men had stepped forward from behind him and had taken the glasses from + their leader's hands. He glanced around him, counting quickly—they + were surely the two who had entered with him from the corridor. No! + Including the leader, there were now six men, all in evening dress, all + masked, in the room with him. + </p> + <p> + A wave of the leader's hand, and the two men holding the glasses left the + room. The man turned to Jimmie Dale again. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we proceed to the second room, Mr. Dale?” he asked politely. “I + think it is now prepared for us—I do not wish to bore you with a + repetition of magical sliding walls.” + </p> + <p> + There was something now that numbed the ache in Jimmie Dale's brain—a + sense of some deadly, remorseless thing that seemed to be constantly + creeping closer to him, clutching at him—to smother him, to choke + him. There was something absolutely fiendish, terrifying, in the veneer of + culture around him. + </p> + <p> + They had entered the second room. This, like the other, was a + pseudo-bedroom; but here the movable wall was already down. Ranged along + the right-hand side were a great number of cabinets that slid in and out, + much after the style and fashion used by clothing dealers to stock and + display their wares. These cabinets were now all open, displaying hundreds + of costumes of all kinds and descriptions, and evidently complete to the + minutest detail. The cabinets were flanked by full-length mirrors at each + end of the room, and on little tables before the mirrors was an + assortment, that none better than Jimmie Dale himself could appreciate, of + make-up accessories. + </p> + <p> + The man smiled apologetically. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid this is rather uninteresting,” he said. “I have shown it to + you simply that you may understand that we are alive to the importance of + detail. Disguise, that is daily vital to us, is an art that depends + essentially on detail. I venture to say we could impersonate any character + or type or nationality or class in the United States at a moment's notice. + But”—he took Jimmie Dale's arm again and conducted him out into the + corridor, while the two men who were evidently acting the role of guards + followed closely behind—“there is still the third room—here.” + He halted Jimmie Dale before the door. “I have asked you to answer two + questions, Mr. Dale,” he said softly. “I ask you now to remember the + alternative.” + </p> + <p> + They still stood before the door. There was that uncanny silence again—it + seemed to Jimmie Dale to last interminably. Neither of the three men + surrounding him moved nor spoke. Then the door before him was opened on an + unlighted room, and he was led across the threshold. He heard the door + close behind him. The lights came on. And then it seemed as though he + could not move, as though he were rooted to the spot—-and the colour + ebbed from his face. Three figures were before him: the two men who had + carried the glasses from the first room, and the chauffeur who had driven + him in the taxicab. The two men still held the glasses—the chauffeur + was bound hand and foot in a chair. One of the glasses was EMPTY; the + other was still significantly full. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, with a violent effort at self-control, leaned forward. + </p> + <p> + The man in the chair was dead. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <h3> + THE INNOCENT BYSTANDER + </h3> + <p> + There was not a sound. That stillness, weird, unnerving, that permeated, + as it were, everywhere through that mysterious house, was, if that were + possible, accentuated now. The four masked men in evening dress, five + including their leader, for the man who had appeared in that other room + with the rabbit was not here, were as silent, as motionless, as the dead + man who was lashed there in the chair. And to Jimmie Dale it seemed at + first as though his brain, stunned and stupefied at the shock, refused its + functions, and left him groping blindly, vaguely, with only a sort of + dull, subconscious realisation of menace and a deadly peril, imminent, + hanging over him. + </p> + <p> + He tried to rouse himself mentally, to prod his brain to action, to pit it + in a fight for life against these self-confessed criminals and murderers + with their mask of culture, who surrounded him now. Was there a way out? + What was it the Tocsin had said—“the most powerful and pitiless + organisation of criminals the world has ever known—the stake a + fortune of millions—her life!” There had, indeed, been no + overemphasis in the words she had used! They had taken pains themselves to + make that ominously clear, these men! Every detail of the strange house, + with its luxurious furnishings, its cleverly contrived appointments, + breathed a horribly suggestive degree of power, a deadly purpose, and an + organisation swayed by a master mind; and, grim evidence of the merciless, + inexorable length to which they would go, was the ghastly white face of + the dead chauffeur, bound hand and foot, in the chair before him! + </p> + <p> + That EMPTY glass in the hand of one of the men! He could not take his eyes + from it—except as his eyes were drawn magnetically to that FULL + glass in the hand of one of the others. What height of sardonic irony! He + was to drink that other glass, to die because he refused to answer + questions that for years, with every resource at his command, risking his + liberty, his wealth, his name, his life, with everything that he cared for + thrown into the scales, he had struggled to solve—and failed! + </p> + <p> + And then the leader spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Dale,” he said, with cold significance, “I regret to admit that your + pseudo taxicab driver was so ill-advised as to refuse to answer the SAME + questions that I have put to you.” + </p> + <p> + Five to one! That was the only way out—and it was hopeless. It was + the only way out, because, convinced that he could answer those questions + if he wanted to, these men were in deadly earnest; it was hopeless, + because they were—five to one! And probably there were as many more, + twice or three times as many more within call. But what did it matter how + many more there were! He could fight until he was overpowered, that was + all he could do, and the five could accomplish that. Still, if he could + knock the full glass out of that man's hand, and gain the door, then + perhaps—he turned quickly, as the door opened. It was as though they + had read his thoughts. A number of men were grouped outside in the + corridor, then the door closed again with a cordon ranged against it + inside the room; and at the same instant his arms and wrists were caught + in a powerful grasp by the two men immediately behind him, who all along + had enacted the role of guards. + </p> + <p> + Again the leader spoke. + </p> + <p> + “I will repeat the questions,” he said sharply. “Where is the woman whose + ring was found on that man there in the chair? And where is the package + that you two men had with you in the taxicab to-night?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale glanced from the tall, straight, immaculately clothed figure + of the speaker, from the threatening smile on the set lips that just + showed under the edge of the mask, to the dead man in the chair. He had + faced the prospect of death before many times, but it had come with the + heat of passion accompanying it, it had come quickly, abruptly, with every + faculty called into action to combat it, without time to dwell upon it, to + sift, weigh, or measure its meaning, and if there had been fear it had + been subordinate to other emotions. But it was different now. He could + not, of course, answer those questions; nor, he was doggedly conscious, + would he have answered them if he could—and there was no middle + course. + </p> + <p> + Death, within the next few moments, stared him in the face; and it seemed + curiously irrelevant that, in a sort of unnatural calmness, he should be + attempting to analyse his feelings and emotions concerning it. All his + life it had seemed to him that the acme of human mental torture was the + cell of a condemned criminal, with the horror of its hopelessness, with + the time to dwell upon it; and that the acme of that torture itself must + be that awful moment immediately preceding execution, when anticipation at + last was to merge into soul-sickening reality. + </p> + <p> + Strange that thought should come! Strange that he should be framing a + brain picture of such a scene, vivid, minute in detail! No—not + strange. He was picturing himself. The analogy was not perfect, it was + true, he had not had the months, weeks, days and hours of suspense; but it + was perfect enough to bring home to him with appalling force the + realisation of his position. He was standing as a condemned man might + stand in those last, final moments, those moments which he had imagined + must be the most terrible that could exist in life; but that dismay of + soul, the horror, the terror were not his—there was, instead, a + smouldering fury, a passionate amazement that it was his own life that was + threatened. It seemed impossible that it could be his voice that was + speaking now in such quiet, measured tones. + </p> + <p> + “Is it worth while, will it convince you now, any more than before, to + repeat that there is some mistake here? I am no more able to answer your + questions than you are yourselves. I never saw that man in the chair there + in my life until the moment that I hailed him in his cab to-night. I do + not know who the woman is to whom that ring belongs, much less do I know + where she is. And if there was a package of any sort in the taxicab, as + you state, I never saw it.” + </p> + <p> + The lips under the mask curved into a lupine smile. + </p> + <p> + “Think well, Mr. Dale!” The man's voice was low, menacing. “Ethically, if + you so choose to consider it, your refusal may be the act of a brave man; + practically, it is the act of—a fool. Now—your answer!” + </p> + <p> + “I have answered you,” said Jimmie Dale—and, relaxing the muscles in + his arms, let them hang limply for an instant in the grip of the two men + behind him. “I have no other answer.” + </p> + <p> + It was only a sign, a motion of the leader's hand—but with it, quick + as a lightning flash, Jimmie Dale was in action. The limp arms tautened + into steel as he wrenched them loose, and, whirling around, he whipped his + fist to the chin of one of the two guards. + </p> + <p> + In an instant, with the blow, as the man staggered backward, the room was + in pandemonium. There was a rush from the door, and two, three, four + leaping forms hurled themselves upon Jimmie Dale. He shook them off—and + they came again. There was no chance ultimately, he knew that; it was only + the elemental within him that rose in fierce revolt at the thought of tame + submission, that bade him sell his life as dearly as he could. Panting, + gasping for breath, dragging them by sheer strength as they clung to him, + he got his back to the wall, fighting with the savage fury and abandon of + a wild cat. + </p> + <p> + But it could not last. Where one man went down before him, two + remorselessly appeared—the room seemed filled with men—they + poured in through the door—he laughed at them in a half-demented way—more + and more of them came—there was no play for his arms, no room to + fight—they seemed so close around him, so many of them upon him, + that he could not breathe—and he was bending, being crushed down as + by an intolerable weight. And then his feet were jerked from beneath him, + he crashed to the floor, and, in another moment, bound hand and foot, he + was tied into a chair beside that other chair whose grim occupant sat in + such ghastly apathy of the scene. + </p> + <p> + The room cleared instantly of all but the original five. His head was + drawn suddenly, violently backward, and clamped in that position; and a + metal instrument, forced into his mouth, while his lips bled in their + resistance, pried jaws apart and held them open. + </p> + <p> + “One drop!” the leader ordered curtly. + </p> + <p> + The man with the full glass bent over him, and dipped a glass rod into the + liquid. The drop glistened a ruby red on the end of the rod—and fell + with a sharp, acrid, burning sensation upon Jimmie Dale's tongue. + </p> + <p> + For a moment Jimmie Dale's animation, mental and physical, seemed swept + away from him in, as it were, a hiatus of hideous suspense. What was it to + be like this passing? Why did it not act at once, as it had acted on the + rabbit they had showed him in the other room? Yes, he remembered! It took + more than one drop for a man; and besides, this was diluted. One drop had + no effect on a man; it required—Good God, ONE DROP EVEN OF THIS WAS + ENOUGH? He strained forward in the chair until the sweat in great beads + sprang from his forehead, strained and fought and tore at his bonds in a + paroxysm of madness to free himself while there still remained a little + strength. There was something filming before his eyes, a numbed feeling + was creeping through his limbs, robbing them, sapping them of their + vitality and power. He felt himself slipping away into a state of utter + weakness, and his brain began to grow confused. + </p> + <p> + A voice seemed to float in the air near him: “For the last time—will + you answer?” + </p> + <p> + With a supreme effort, Jimmie Dale strove to rally his tottering senses. + Did they not understand the stupendous mockery of their questions? Did + they not understand that he did not know? He had told them so—perhaps + he had better tell them so again. + </p> + <p> + “I—” He tried to speak, and found the words thick upon his tongue. + “I—do not—know.” + </p> + <p> + The glass itself was thrust abruptly between his lips. Some of the + contents spilled and trickled upon his chin, and then a flood of it, + burning, fiery, poured down his throat. A flood of it—and it needed + but THREE drops and there had been TEN in the glass! + </p> + <p> + So this was death—a hazy, nebulous thing! There was no pain. It was + like—like—nothingness. And out of the nothingness SHE came. + Strange that she should come! Alone she had fought these fiends and + outwitted them for—how long was it? Three years! She would be more + than ever alone now. Pray God she did not finally fall into their + clutches! + </p> + <p> + How it burned now, that fatal draught they had forced down his throat, and + how it gripped at him and seemed to eat and bore its way into the very + tissues! It was the end, and—no! It was STIMULATING him! Strength + seemed to be returning to his limbs; it seemed as though he were being + carried, as though the bonds about him were being loosened; and now his + brain seemed to be growing clearer. + </p> + <p> + He roused up with a startled exclamation. He was back in the same room in + which he had first returned to consciousness after the accident. He was on + the same couch. The same masked figure was at the same desk. Had he been + dreaming? Was this then only some horrible, ghastly nightmare through + which he had passed? + </p> + <p> + No, it had been real enough; his clothes, rent and torn, and the blood + upon his hands, where the skin had been scraped from his knuckles in the + fight, bore evidence to that. He must then have lost consciousness for a + while, though it seemed to him that at no moment, hazy, irrational though + his brain might have been, had he become entirely oblivious to what was + taking place around him. And yet it must have been so! + </p> + <p> + The eyes from behind the mask were fixed steadily upon him, and below the + mask there was the hard, unpleasant set to the lips that Jimmie Dale had + grown accustomed to expect. + </p> + <p> + The man spoke abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “That you find yourself alive, Mr. Dale,” he said grimly, “is no + confession of weakness upon the part of those with whom you have had to + deal here. To bear witness to that there is one who is not alive, as you + have seen. That man we knew. With you it was somewhat different. Your + presence in the taxicab was only suspicious. There was always the + possibility that you might be one of those ubiquitous 'innocent + bystanders.' Your name, your position, the improbability that you could + have anything in common with—shall we say, the matter that so deeply + interests us?—was all in your favour. However, presumption and + probability are the tools of fools. We do not depend upon them—we + apply the test. And having applied the test, we are convinced that you + have told the truth—that is all.” + </p> + <p> + He rose from his chair brusquely. “I shall not apologise to you for what + has happened. I doubt very much if you are in a frame of mind to accept + anything of the sort. I imagine, rather, that you are promising yourself + that we shall pay, and pay dearly, for this—that, among other + things, we shall answer for the murder of that man in the other room. All + this will be quite within your province, Mr. Dale—and quite + fruitless. To-morrow morning the story that you are preparing to tell now + would sound incredible even in your own ears; furthermore, as we shall + take pains to see that you leave this place with as little knowledge of + its location as you obtained when you arrived, your story, even if + believed, would do little service to you and less harm to us. I think of + nothing more, Mr. Dale, except—” There was a whimsical smile on the + lips now. “Ah, yes, the matter of your clothes. We can, and shall be glad + to make reparation to you to the slight extent of offering you a new suit + before you go.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale scowled. Sick, shaken, and weak as he was, the cool, + imperturbable impudence of the man was fast growing unbearable. + </p> + <p> + The man laughed. “I am sure you will not refuse, Mr. Dale—since we + insist. The condition of the clothes you have on at present might—I + say 'might'—in a measure support your story with some degree of + tangible evidence. It is not at all likely, of course; but we prefer to + discount even so remote a possibility. When you have changed, you will be + motored back to your home. I bid you good-night, Mr. Dale.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale rubbed his eyes. The man was gone—through a door at the + rear of the desk, a door that he had not noticed before, that was not even + in evidence now, that was simply a movable section of the wall panelling—and + for an instant Jimmie Dale experienced a sense of sickening impotence. It + was as though he stood defenceless, unarmed, and utterly at the mercy of + some venomous power that could crush what it would remorselessly and at + will in its might. + </p> + <p> + The place was a veritable maze, a lair of hellish cleverness. He had no + illusions now, he laboured under no false estimate of either the ingenuity + or the resources of this inhuman nest of vultures to whom murder was no + more than a matter of detail. And it was against these men that henceforth + he was to match his wits! There could be no truce, no armistice. It was + their lives, or hers, or his! Well, he was alive now, the first round was + over, and so far he had won. His brows furrowed suddenly. Had he? He was + not so sure, after all. He was conscious of a disquieting, premonitory + intuition that, in some way which he could not explain, the honours were + not entirely his. + </p> + <p> + He was apparently—the “apparently” was a mental reservation—quite + alone in the room. He got up from the couch and walked shakily across the + floor to the desk. A revolver lay invitingly upon the blotting pad. It was + his own, the one they had taken from him after the accident. Jimmie Dale + picked it up, examined it—and smiled a little sarcastically at + himself for his trouble. It was unloaded, of course. He was twirling it in + his hand, as a man, masked as every one in the house was masked, and + carrying a neatly folded suit over his arm, entered from the corridor. + </p> + <p> + “The car is ready as soon as you are dressed,” announced the other + briefly. He laid the clothes upon the couch—and settled himself + significantly in a chair. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale hesitated. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, recrossed the + room, and began to remove his torn garments. What was the use! They would + certainly have their own way in the end. It wasn't worth another fight, + and there was nothing to be gained by a refusal except to offer a sop to + his own exasperation. + </p> + <p> + He dressed quickly, in what proved to be an exceedingly well-fitting suit; + and finally turned tentatively to the man in the chair. + </p> + <p> + The other stood up, and produced a heavy black silk scarf. + </p> + <p> + “If you have no objections,” he said curtly, “I'll tie this over your + eyes.” + </p> + <p> + Again Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad enough to get out on any conditions,” he answered caustically. + </p> + <p> + “'Fortunate' would be the better word,” rejoined the other meaningly—and, + deftly knotting the scarf, led Jimmie Dale blindfolded from the room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <h3> + ON GUARD + </h3> + <p> + Was he in the city? In a suburban town? On a country road? It seemed + childishly absurd that he could not at least differentiate to that extent; + and yet, from the moment he had been placed in the automobile in which he + now found himself, he was forced to admit that he could not tell. He had + started out with the belief that, knowing New York and its surroundings as + minutely as he knew them, it would be impossible, do what they would to + prevent it, that at the end of the journey he should be without a clew, + and a very good clew at that, to the location of what he now called, + appropriately enough it seemed, the Crime Club. + </p> + <p> + But he had never ridden blindfolded in a car before! He could see + absolutely nothing. And if that increased or accentuated his sense of + hearing, it helped little—the roar of the racing car beat upon his + eardrums the more heavily, that was all. He could tell, of course, the + nature of the roadbed. They were running on an asphalt road, that was + obvious enough; but city streets and suburban streets and hundreds of + miles of country road around New York were of asphalt! + </p> + <p> + Traffic? He was quite sure, for he had strained his ears in an effort to + detect it, that there was little or no traffic; but then, it must be one + or two o'clock in the morning, and at that hour the city streets, + certainly those that would be chosen by these men, would be quite as + deserted as any country road! And as for a sense of direction, he had none + whatever—even if the car had not been persistently swerving and + changing its course every little while. If he had been able to form even + an approximate idea of the compass direction in which they had started, he + might possibly have been able in a general way to counteract this further + effort of theirs to confuse him; but without the initial direction he was + essentially befogged. + </p> + <p> + With these conclusions finally thrust home upon him, Jimmie Dale + philosophically subordinated the matter in his mind, and, leaning back, + composed himself as comfortably as he could upon his seat. There was a man + beside him, and he could feel the legs of two men on the seat facing him. + These, with the driver, would make four. He was still well guarded! The + car itself was a closed car—not hooded, the sense of touch told him—therefore + a limousine of some description. These facts, in a sense inconsequential, + were absorbed subconsciously; and then Jimmie Dale's brain, remorselessly + active, in spite of the pain from his throbbing head, was at work again. + </p> + <p> + It seemed as though a year had passed since, in the early evening, as + Larry the Bat, he had burrowed so ironically for refuge in Chang Foo's den—from + her! It seemed like some mocking unreality, some visionary dream that, so + short a while before, he had read those words of hers that had sent the + blood coursing and leaping through his veins in mad exultation at the + thought that the culmination of the years had come, that all he longed + for, hoped for, that all his soul cried out for was to be his—“in an + hour.” An HOUR—and he was to have seen her, the woman whose face he + had never seen, the woman whom he loved! And the hour instead, the hours + since then, had brought a nightmare of events so incredible as to seem but + phantoms of the imagination. + </p> + <p> + Phantoms! He sat up suddenly with a jerk. The face of the dead chauffeur, + the limp form lashed in that chair, the horrible picture in its entirety, + every detail standing out in ghastly relief, took form before him. God + knew there was no phantom there! + </p> + <p> + The man beside him, at the sudden start, lifted a hand and felt hurriedly + over the bandage across Jimmie Dale's eyes. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was scarcely conscious of the act. With that face before him, + with the scene re-enacting itself in his mind again, had come another + thought, staggering him for a moment with the new menace that it brought. + He had had neither time nor opportunity to think before; it had been all + horror, all shock when he had entered that room. But now, like an + inspiration, he saw it all from another angle. There was a glaring fallacy + in the game these men had played for his benefit to-night—a fallacy + which they had counted on glossing over, as it had, indeed, been glossed + over, by the sudden shock with which they had forced that scene upon him; + or, failing in that, they had counted on the fact that his, or any other + man's nerve would have failed when it came to open defiance based on a + supposition which might, after all, be wrong, and, being wrong, meant + death. + </p> + <p> + But it was not supposition. Either he was right now, or these men were + childish, immature fools—and, whatever else they might be, they were + not that! NOT A SINGLE DROP OF POISON HAD PASSED THE CHAUFFEUR'S LIPS. The + man had not been murdered in that room. He had not, in a sense, been + murdered at all. The man, absolutely, unquestionably, without a loophole + for doubt, had either been killed outright in the automobile accident, or + had died immediately afterward, probably without regaining consciousness, + certainly without supplying any of the information that was so + determinedly sought. + </p> + <p> + Yes, he saw it now! Their backs were against the wall, they were at their + wits' end, these men! The knowledge that the chauffeur possessed, that + they KNEW he possessed, was evidently life and death to them. To kill the + man before they had wormed out of him what they wanted to know, or, at + least, until, by holding him a prisoner, they had exhausted every means at + their command to make him speak, was the last thing they would do! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale sat for a long time quite motionless. The car was speeding at + a terrific rate along a straight stretch of road. He could almost have + sworn, guided by some intuitive sense, that they were in the country. + Well, even if it were so, what did that prove! They might have started + FROM New York itself—only to return to it when they had satisfied + themselves that he was sufficiently duped. Or they might have started + legitimately from outside New York, and be going toward the city now. + Since the ultimate destination was New York, and they had made no attempt + to hide that from him, it was useless to speculate—for at best it + could be only speculation. He had decided that once before! The man at his + side felt again over the scarf to see that it was in place. + </p> + <p> + Curiously now Jimmie Dale recalled the inward monitor that had warned him + the honours had not all been his in this first round with the Crime Club + to-night. If they had deliberately murdered the chauffeur because of a + refusal to answer, they would equally have done the same to him. Fool that + he had been not to have seen that before! And yet would it have made any + difference? He shook his head. He could not have acted to any better + advantage than he had done. He could not—his lips curled in grim + derision—have been any more convincing. + </p> + <p> + Convincing! It was all clear enough now! If the chauffeur had suffered + death rather than talk, even admitting the fact that they had more grounds + for suspecting the chauffeur's complicity, would his, Jimmie Dale's, mere + denial, his choice, too, of death, have been any the more convincing, or + have saved his life where it had not saved the other's? A certain added + respect for these men, against whom, until the end now, his victory or + theirs, he realised he was fighting for his life, came over him as he + recognised the touch of a master hand. They did not know where to find the + Tocsin; the package that she had said was vital to them was still beyond + their reach; the chauffeur was dead; and he, Jimmie Dale, alone remained—a + clew that they had still to prove valid or invalid it was true, but the + only clew in their possession. And, gaining nothing from him by a show of + force, to throw him off his guard, they had let him go—meaning him + to believe they were convinced he knew nothing, and that the episode, the + adventure of the night, was, as far as they were concerned, ended, + finished, and done with! + </p> + <p> + Time passed, a very long time, as he sat there. It might have been an hour—he + could only hazard a guess. Not one of the men in the car had spoken a + word. But to Jimmie Dale, the car itself, the ride, its duration, these + three strange companions, were for the time being extraneous. Even that + sick giddiness in his head had, at least temporarily, gone from him. + </p> + <p> + And so, all unsuspectingly, he was to lead them to the Tocsin and fall + into the trap himself! His hands, thrust deep in his pockets, were tightly + clenched. They were clever enough, ingenious enough, powerful enough to + watch him henceforth at every turn—and from now on, day and night, + they were to be reckoned with. Suppose that in some way, as it might well + have happened, for it was now vitally necessary that she should + communicate with him and he with her, he had played blindly into their + hands, and through him she should have fallen into their power! It brought + a sickening chill, a sort of hideous panic to Jimmie Dale—and then + fury, anger, in a torrent, surged upon him, and there came a merciless + desire to crush, to strangle, to stamp out this inhuman band of criminals + that, with intolerable effrontery to the laws of God and man, were so + elaborately and scientifically equipped for their monstrous purposes! + </p> + <p> + And then Jimmie Dale, in the darkness, smiled again grimly as the leader's + reference to the Gray Seal recurred to him. Well, perhaps, who knew, they + would have reason more than they dreamed of to wish the Gray Seal enrolled + in their own ranks! It was strange, curious! He had thought all that was + ended. Only a few short hours before he had hidden away all, everything + that was incident to the life of the Gray Seal, the clothes of Larry the + Bat, that little metal case with the gray-coloured, adhesive seals, a + dozen other things, believing that it only remained for him to return and + destroy them at his leisure as a finishing touch to the Gray Seal's career—and + now, instead, he was face to face with the gravest and most dangerous + problem that she had ever called upon him to undertake! + </p> + <p> + Well, at least, the odds were not all in the Crime Club's favour. Where + they now certainly believed him to be entirely off his guard, he was + thoroughly on his guard; and where they might suspect him, watch him, they + would suspect and watch only the character, the person of Jimmie Dale, and + count not at all upon either Larry the Bat or—the Gray Seal. + </p> + <p> + A sort of savage elation fell upon Jimmie Dale. His brain, that had been + stagnant, confused, physically sick with pain and suffering, was working + now with its old-time vigour and ease, mapping, planning, scheming the way + ahead. To strike, and strike quickly—to strike FIRST! It must be his + move next—not theirs! And he must act to-night at once, the moment + he was given this pretence to liberty that they had in store for him, + before they had an opportunity of closing down around him with a network + of spies that he could not elude. By morning, Jimmie Dale would be Larry + the Bat, and inhabiting the Sanctuary again. And a tip to Jason, his old + butler, to the effect, say, that he had gone away for a trip, would + account for his disappearance satisfactorily enough; it would not + necessarily arouse their suspicions when they eventually discovered he was + gone, for against that was always the possible, and quite likely + presumption that, where they had succeeded in nothing else, they had at + least succeeded in frightening him thoroughly and to the extent of imbuing + him with a hasty desire to put a safe distance between himself and them. + </p> + <p> + And now, with his mind made up to his course of action, an intense + impatience to put his plan into effect, an irritation at the useless + twistings and turnings of the car that had latterly become more frequent, + took hold upon him. How much longer was this to last! They must have been + fully an hour and a half on the road already, and—ah, the car was + stopping now! + </p> + <p> + He straightened up in his seat as the machine came to a halt—but the + man at his side laid a restraining hand upon him. The car door opened, and + one of the men got out. Jimmie Dale caught an indistinct murmur of voices + from without, then the man returned to his seat, and the car went on + again. + </p> + <p> + Another half hour passed, that, curbing his irritation and impatience, was + filled with the conjectures and questions that anew came crowding in upon + his mind. Why had the car made that stop? It was rather curious. It was + certainly a prearranged meeting place. Why? And these clothes that he now + wore—why had they made him change? His own had not been very badly + torn. The reason given him was, on the face of it now, in view of what he + now knew, mere pretence. What was the ulterior motive behind that + pretence? What did this package, that had already cost a man his life + to-night, contain? Who was the chauffeur? What was this death feud between + the Tocsin and these men? Did she know where the Crime Club was? Who and + where was John Johansson? What was this box that was numbered 428? Could + she supply the links that would forge the chain into an unbroken whole? + </p> + <p> + And then for the second time the car slowed down—and this time the + man on the seat beside Jimmie Dale reached up and untied the scarf. + </p> + <p> + “You get out here,” said the man tersely. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <h3> + THE TRAP + </h3> + <p> + Had it not been for the stop the car had previously made, for the + possibility that he might have obtained a glimpse outside when the door + had been opened, the scarf over his eyes would have been superfluous; for + now, with it removed, he could scarcely distinguish the forms of the three + men around him, since the window curtains of the car were tightly drawn. + Nor was he given the opportunity to do more, even had it been possible. + The car stopped, the door was opened, he was pushed toward it—and + even as he reached the ground, the door was closed behind him, and the car + was speeding on again. But where he could not see before, it took now but + a glance to obtain his bearings—he was standing on a corner on + Riverside Drive, within a few doors of his own house. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale stood still for a moment, watching the car as it disappeared + rapidly up the Drive. And with a sort of grim facetiousness his brain + began to correlate time and distance. Where had he come from? Where was + this Crime Club? They had been, as nearly as he could estimate, two hours + in making the journey; and, as nearly as he could estimate, in their + turnings and twistings had covered at least twice the distance that would + be represented by a direct route. Granting, then, an average speed of + forty miles an hour, which was overgenerous to be on the safe side, and + the fact that they certainly had not crossed the Hudson, which now lay + before him, flanking the Drive, the Crime Club was somewhere within the + area of a semicircle, whose centre was the corner on which he now stood, + and whose radius was forty miles—OR FORTY YARDS! He forced a laugh. + It was just that, no more, no less—he was as likely to have started + on his ride from within a biscuit throw of where he now stood, as to have + started on it from miles away! + </p> + <p> + But—he aroused himself with a start—he was wasting time! It + must be very late, near morning, and he would have need for every moment + that was left between now and daylight. He turned, walked quickly to his + house, mounted the steps, and with his latch-key—they had at least + permitted him to retain the contents of his pockets when they had forced + him to change his clothes—opened the front door softly, and, + stepping inside, closed the door as silently as he had opened it. + </p> + <p> + He paused for an instant to listen. There was not a sound. The servants, + naturally, would have been in bed hours ago. Even old Jason—Jimmie + Dale smiled, half whimsically, half affectionately—whose paternal + custom it was to sit up for his Master Jim, who, as he was fond of saying, + he had dandled as a baby on his knee, had evidently given it up as a bad + job on this occasion and had turned in himself. Jason, however, had left + the light burning here in the big reception hall. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale stepped to the switch and turned off the light; then stood + hesitant in the darkness. Was there anything to be gained by rousing Jason + now and telling him what he intended to do—to instruct him to answer + any inquiries by the statement that “Mr. Dale had gone away for a trip”? + He could trust Jason; Jason already knew much—more than one of those + mysterious letters of the Tocsin's had passed through Jason's hands. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale shook his head. No; he could communicate with Jason from + downtown in the morning. He had half expected to find Jason up, and, in + that case, would have taken the other, as far as necessary, into his + confidence; but it was not a matter that pressed for the moment. He could + get into touch with Jason at any time readily enough. Was there anything + else before he went? He would not be able to get back as easily as he got + out! Money! He shook his head again—a little grimly this time. He + had been caught once before as Larry the Bat without funds! There was + plenty of money now hidden in the Sanctuary, enough for any emergency, + enough to last him indefinitely. + </p> + <p> + He stepped forward along the hall, his tread noiseless on the rich, heavy + rug, passed into the rear of the house, descended the back stairs, and + reached the cellar. It was below the level of the ground, of course; but a + narrow window here, though quite large enough to permit of egress, gave on + the driveway at the side of the house that led to the garage in the rear. + </p> + <p> + Cautiously now, for the cement flooring was, in the stillness, little less + than a sounding board, Jimmie Dale reached the wall and felt along it to + the window, the lower edge of whose sill was just slightly below the level + of his shoulder. It opened inward, if he remembered correctly. His fingers + were feeling for the fastenings. It was too dark to see a thing. He + muttered in annoyance. Where were the fastenings! At the sides, or at the + bottom? His hand began to make a circuit of the sill—and then + suddenly, with a low, sharp cry, he leaned forward! + </p> + <p> + WHAT DID THIS MEAN? Wires! No wires had ever been there before! His + fingers were working now with feverish haste, telegraphing their message + to his brain. The wires ran through the sill close to the corner of the + wall—tiny fragments of wood, as from an auger, were still on the + sill—and here was a small particle of wire insulation that, those + sensitive finger tips proclaimed, was FRESH. + </p> + <p> + A cold thrill ran through Jimmie Dale; and there came again that sickening + sense of impotency in the face of the malignant, devilish cunning arrayed + against him, that once before he had experienced, that night. He had + thought to forestall them—and he had been forestalled himself! This + could only have been done—they had had no interest in him before + then—while they held him at the Crime Club, while he was spending + that two hours in the car! Was that why they had taken so long in coming? + Was that why the car had stopped that time—that those with him might + be told that the work here had been completed, and he need no longer be + kept away? + </p> + <p> + He edged away from the window, and, as cautiously as he had come, retraced + his steps across the cellar and up the stairs—and then, the + possibility of being heard from without gone, he broke into a run. There + was no need to wonder long what those wires meant. They could mean only + one of two things—and the Crime Club would have little concern in + his electric light! THEY HAD TAPPED HIS TELEPHONE. The mains, he knew, ran + into the cellar from the underground service in the street. He was racing + like a madman now. How long ago, how many hours ago, had they done that! + Great Scott, SHE was to have telephoned! Had she done so? Was the game, + all, everything, she herself, at their mercy already? If she had + telephoned, Jason would have left a message on his desk—he would + look there first—afterward he would waken Jason. + </p> + <p> + He gained the door of his den on the first landing, a room that ran the + entire length of one side of the house from front to rear, burst in, + switched on the light—-and stood stock-still in amazement. + </p> + <p> + “Jason!” he cried out. + </p> + <p> + The old butler, fully dressed, rubbing and blinking his eyes at the light, + and with a startled cry, rose up from the depths of a lounging chair. + </p> + <p> + “Jason!” exclaimed Jimmie Dale again. + </p> + <p> + “I beg pardon, sir, Master Jim,” stammered the man. “I—I must have + fallen asleep, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Jason, what are you doing here?” Jimmie Dale demanded sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir,” said Jason, still fumbling for his words, “it—it was + the telephone, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “The—TELEPHONE!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir. A woman, begging your pardon, Master Jim, a lady, sir, has been + telephoning every hour or so, and she—” + </p> + <p> + “YES!” Jimmie Dale had jumped across the room and had caught the other + fiercely by the shoulder. “Yes—yes! What did she say? QUICK, man!” + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord, Master Jim!” faltered Jason. “I—she—” + </p> + <p> + “Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, suddenly as cold as ice, “what did she say? + Think, man! Every word!” + </p> + <p> + “She didn't say anything, Master Jim. Nothing at all, sir—except to + keep asking each time if she could speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing else, Jason?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “You are SURE?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure, Master Jim. Not another thing but that, sir, just as I've told + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank God!” said Jimmie Dale, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said Jason mechanically. + </p> + <p> + “How long ago was it since she telephoned last?” asked Jimmie Dale + quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir, I couldn't rightly say. You see, as I said, Master Jim, I must + have gone to sleep, but—” + </p> + <p> + They were staring tensely into each other's face. The telephone on the + desk was ringing vibrantly, clamourously, through the stillness of the + room. + </p> + <p> + Jason, white, frightened, bewildered, touched his lips with the tip of his + tongue. + </p> + <p> + “That'll be her again, sir,” he said hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + “Wait!” said Jimmie Dale tersely. + </p> + <p> + He was trying to think, to think faster than he had ever thought before. + He could not tell Jason to say that he had not yet come in—THEY knew + he was in, it would be but showing his hand to that “some one” who would + be listening now on the wire. He dared not speak to her, or, above all, + allow her to expose herself by a single inadvertent word. He dared not + speak to her—and she was here now, calling him! He could not speak + to her—and it was life and death almost that she should know what + had happened; life and death almost for both of them that he should know + all and everything she could tell him. True, it would take but a minute to + run to the cellar and cut those wires, while Jason held her on the + pretence of calling him, Jimmie Dale, to the 'phone; only a minute to cut + those wires—and in so doing advertise to these fiends the fact that + he had discovered their trick; admit, as though in so many words, that + their suspicions of him were justified; lay himself open to some new move + that he could not hope to foresee; and, paramount to all else, rob her and + himself of this master trump the Crime Club had placed in his hands, by + means of which there was a chance that he could hoist them with their own + petard! + </p> + <p> + The telephone rang again—imperatively, persistently. + </p> + <p> + “Listen, Jason.” Jimmie Dale was speaking rapidly, earnestly. “Say that + I've come in and have gone to bed—in a vile humour. That you told me + a lady had been calling, but that I said if she called again I wasn't to + be disturbed if it was the Queen of Sheba herself—that I wouldn't + answer any 'phone to-night for anybody. Do you understand? No argument + with her—just that. Now, answer!” + </p> + <p> + Jason lifted the receiver from the hook. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—hello!” he said. “Yes, ma'am, Mr. Dale has come in, but he has + retired. . . . Yes, I told him; but, begging your pardon, ma'am, he was in + what I might say was a bit of a temper, and said he wasn't to be disturbed + by any one.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale snatched the receiver from Jason, and put it to his own ear. + </p> + <p> + “Kindly tell Mr. Dale that unless he comes to the 'phone now,” a feminine + voice, her voice, in well-simulated indignation, was saying, “it will be a + very long day before I shall trouble myself to—” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale clapped his hand firmly over the mouthpiece of the instrument. + Thank God for that clever brain of hers! She understood! + </p> + <p> + “Repeat what you said before, Jason,” he instructed hurriedly. “Then say + 'Good-night.'” + </p> + <p> + He removed his hand from the mouthpiece. + </p> + <p> + “It's quite useless, ma'am,” said Jason apologetically. “In the rare + temper he was in, he wouldn't come, to use his own words, ma'am, not for + the Queen of Sheba herself, ma'am. Good-night, ma'am.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale hung the receiver back on the hook—and with his hand + flirted away a bead of moisture that had sprung to his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord, Master Jim, what's wrong, sir? What's happened, sir? And—and + those clothes, Master Jim, sir! They aren't the ones you went out in, sir—they + aren't yours at all, sir!” Jason ventured anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, “switch off the light, and go to the front + window and look out. Keep well behind the curtains. Don't show yourself. + Tell me if you see anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said Jason obediently. + </p> + <p> + The light went out. Jimmie Dale moved to the rear of the room—to the + window overlooking the garage and yard. + </p> + <p> + “I don't see anything, sir,” Jason called. + </p> + <p> + “Watch!” Jimmie Dale answered. + </p> + <p> + A minute passed—two—three. Jimmie Dale was staring down into + the black of the yard. She understood! She knew, of course, before she + 'phoned that something had gone wrong to-night. She knew that only peril + of the gravest moment would have kept him from the 'phone—and her. + She knew now, as a logical conclusion, that it was dangerous to attempt to + communicate with him at his home. Those wires! Where did they lead to? Not + far away—that would be almost a mechanical impossibility. Was it + into the Crime Club itself—near at hand? Or the basement, say, of + that apartment house across the driveway? Or—where? + </p> + <p> + And then Jimmie Dale spoke again: + </p> + <p> + “Do you see anything, Jason?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not sure, sir,” Jason answered hesitantly. “I thought I saw a man + move behind a tree out there across the road a minute ago, sir. Yes, sir—there + he is again!” + </p> + <p> + There was a thin, mirthless smile on Jimmie Dale's lips. + </p> + <p> + Below, in the shadow of the garage, a dark form, like a deeper shadow, + stirred—and was still again. + </p> + <p> + “What time is it, Jason?” Jimmie Dale asked presently. + </p> + <p> + “It'll be about half-past four, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Go to bed, Jason.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; but”—Jason's voice, low, troubled, came through the + darkness from the upper end of the room—“Master Jim, sir, I—” + </p> + <p> + “Go to bed, Jason—and not a word of this.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir. Good-night, Master Jim.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Jason.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale groped his way to the big lounging chair in which he had found + Jason asleep, and flung himself into it. They had struck quickly, these + ingenious, dress-suited murderers of the Crime Club! The house was already + watched, would be watched now untiringly, unceasingly; not a movement of + his henceforth but would be under their eyes! + </p> + <p> + His hands, resting on the arms of the chair, closed slowly until they + became tight-clenched, knotted fists. What was he to do? It was not only + the Crime Club, it was not only the Tocsin and her peril—there was + the underworld snapping and snarling at his heels, there was the police, + dogged and sullen, ever on the trail of the Gray Seal! His life, even + before this, in his fight against the underworld and the police, had + depended upon his freedom of action—and now, at one and the same + time, that freedom was cut away from beneath his feet, as it were, and a + third foe, equally as deadly as the others, was added to the list! + </p> + <p> + For months, to preserve and sustain the character of Larry the Bat, he had + been forced to assume the role almost daily; for, in that sordid empire + below the dead line, whose one common bond and aim was the Gray Seal's + death, where suspicion, one of the other, was rampant and extravagant, + where each might be the one against whom all swore their vengeance, Larry + the Bat could not mysteriously disappear from his accustomed haunts + without inviting suspicion in an active and practical form—an + inquisitorial visit to his squalid lodgings, the Sanctuary—and the + end of Larry the Bat! + </p> + <p> + If, as he had thought only a few hours before, he was through forever with + his dual life, that would not have mattered, the underworld would have + been welcome to make what it chose of it—but now the preservation of + the character of Larry the Bat was more vital and necessary to him than it + had ever been before. It was a means of defense and offense against these + men who lurked now outside his doors. It was the sole means now of + communication with her; for, warned both by Jason's words, and what must + be an obvious fact to her, that their plans had miscarried, that it was + dangerous to communicate with him as Jimmie Dale, she would expect him, + count on him to make that move. There would be no longer either reason or + attempt on her part to maintain the mystery with which she had heretofore + surrounded herself, the crisis had come, she would be watching, waiting, + hoping, seeking for him more anxiously and with far more at stake than he + had ever sought for her—until now! + </p> + <p> + He got up impulsively from his chair, and, in the blackness, began to pace + the room. The next move was clear, pitifully clear; it had been clear from + the first, it had been clear even in that ride in the car—it was so + clear that it seemed veritably to mock him as he prodded his brains for + some means of putting it into execution. He must get to the Sanctuary, + become Larry the Bat—but how? HOW! The question seemed at last to + become resonant, to ring through the room with the weight of doom upon it. + </p> + <p> + Schemes, plans, ideas came, bringing a momentary uplift—only to be + discarded the next instant with a sort of bitter, desperate regret. These + men were not men of mere ordinary intelligence; their cleverness, their + power, the amazing scope of their organisation, all bore grim witness to + the fact that they would be blinded not at all by any paltry ruse. + </p> + <p> + He could walk out of the house in the morning as Jimmie Dale without + apparent hindrance—that was obvious enough. And so long as he + pursued the usual avocations of Jimmie Dale, he would not be interfered + with—only WATCHED. It was useless to consider that plan for a + moment. It would not help him to reach the Sanctuary—without leading + them there behind him! True, there was always the chance that he might + shake them off his trail, but he could hardly hope to accomplish anything + like that without their knowing that it was done DELIBERATELY—and + that he dared not risk. The strongest weapon in his hands now was his + secret knowledge that he was being watched. + </p> + <p> + That telephone there, for instance, that most curiously kept on insisting + in his mind that it, and it alone was the way out, was the last thing he + could place in jeopardy. Besides, there was another reason why such a plan + would not do; for, granting even that he succeeded in eluding them on the + way, and managed to reach the Sanctuary, his freedom of action would be so + restricted and limited as to be practically worthless—he would have + to return to his home here again within a reasonable time as Jimmie Dale, + within a few hours at most—or again they would be in possession of + the fact that he had discovered their surveillance. + </p> + <p> + That, it was true, had been his original plan when he had entered the + house half an hour previously, but it was an entirely different matter + now. Then, he had counted on GETTING AWAY without their knowing it, before + they, as he had fondly thought, would have had a chance to establish their + espionage, and when they would have had no reason to suspect, for a time + at least, that he was not still within the house, when they would have + been watching, as it were, an empty cage. + </p> + <p> + He stopped in his walk, and, after a moment, dropped down into the + lounging chair again. That was it, of course. An empty cage! If he could + escape from the house! Not so much without their seeing him; that was more + or less a mechanical detail. But escape—and leave them in possession + of a sort of guarantee or assurance that he was still there! That would + give him the freedom of action that he must have. He smiled with bitter + irony. That solved the problem! That was all there was to it—just + that! It was very simple, exceedingly simple; it was only—impossible! + </p> + <p> + The smile left his lips, and once more his hands, clenched fiercely. No; + it was not impossible! It MUST be done—if he was to win through, if + he was even to save himself! It must be done—or FAIL her! It COULD + be done; there was a way—if he could only see it! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <h3> + THE “HOUR” + </h3> + <p> + As the minutes passed, many of them, Jimmie Dale sat there motionless, + staring before him at the desk that was faintly outlined in the unlighted + room. Then somewhere in the house a clock struck the hour. Five o'clock! + He raised his head. YES! It could be done! There was a way! He had the + germ of it now. And now the plan began to grow, to take form and shape in + his mind, to dovetail, to knit the integral parts into a comprehensive + whole. There was a way—but he must have assistance. Jason—yes, + assuredly. Benson, his chauffeur—yes, equally as trustworthy as + Jason. Benson was devoted to him; and moreover Benson was young, alert, + daring, cool. He had had more than one occasion to test Benson's + resourcefulness and nerve! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale rose abruptly, went to the rear window, and, parting the + curtains cautiously, stood peering down into the courtyard. Yes, it was + feasible; even a little more than feasible. The garage fronted the + driveway, of course, to give free entrance and egress to the cars, but + where the wall of the garage and the rear wall of the house overlapped, as + it were, the space between them was not much more than ten yards; and here + the shadows of the two walls, mingling, lay like a black, impenetrable + pathway—not like that other shadow he had seen moving at the side of + the garage, and that, if not for the moment discernible, was none the less + surely still lurking there! + </p> + <p> + Satisfied, Jimmie Dale swung briskly from the window, and, going now to + his bedroom across the hall, undressed and went to bed—but not to + sleep. There would be time enough to sleep, all day, if he wished; now, + there were still the little details to be thought out that, more than + anything else, could make or wreck his plans. A point overdone, the + faintest suggestion of a false note where men of the calibre of those + against whom he was now fighting for his life were concerned, would not + only make his scheme abortive, but would place him utterly at their mercy. + </p> + <p> + It was nine o'clock when he rang for Jason. + </p> + <p> + “Jason,” he said abruptly, as the other entered, “I want you to telephone + for Doctor Merlin.” + </p> + <p> + “The doctor, sir!” exclaimed the old man anxiously. “You're—you're + not ill, Master Jim, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Do I look ill, Jason?” inquired Jimmie Dale gravely. + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir,” admitted Jason, in concern; “a bit done up, sir, perhaps. A + little pale, sir; though I'm sure—” + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad to hear it,” said Jimmie Dale, sitting up in bed. “The worse I + look, the better!” + </p> + <p> + “I—I beg pardon, sir?” stammered Jason. + </p> + <p> + “Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, gravely again, “you have had reason to know + that on several occasions my life has been threatened. It is threatened + now. You know from last night that this house is now watched. You may, or + you may not have surmised—that our telephone wires have been + tapped.” + </p> + <p> + “Tapped, sir!”—Jason's face had gone a little gray. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; a party line, so to speak,” said Jimmie Dale grimly. “Do you + understand? You must be careful to say no more, no less than exactly what + I tell you to say. Now go and telephone! Ask the doctor to come over and + see me this morning. Simply say that I am not feeling well; but that, + apart from being apparently in a very nervous condition, you do not know + what is the matter.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir—good Lord, sir!” gasped Jason—and left the room to + carry out his orders. + </p> + <p> + An hour later, Doctor Merlin had been and gone—and had left two + prescriptions; one written, the other verbal. With the written one, + Benson, in his chauffeur's livery, was dispatched to the drug store; the + verbal one was precisely what Jimmie Dale had expected from the fussy old + family physician: “Two or three days of quiet in the house James; and if + you need me again, let me know.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, when the old man had returned from + ushering Doctor Merlin from the house, “our friends out there will be + anxious to learn the verdict. I was to dine with the Ross-Hendersons + to-morrow night, was I not?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; I think so, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Make sure!” said Jimmie Dale. “Look in my engagement book there on the + table.” + </p> + <p> + Jason looked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, that's right,” he announced. + </p> + <p> + “Very good,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “Now go and telephone again, Jason. + Present my regrets and excuses to the Ross-Hendersons, and say that under + the doctor's orders I am confined to the house for the next few days—and, + Jason!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “When Benson returns with the medicine let him bring it here himself—and + I shall want you as well.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale propped himself up a little wearily on the pillows, as Jason + went out of the room. After all, his condition was not entirely feigned. + He was, as a matter of fact, pretty well played out, both mentally and + physically. Certainly, that he should require a doctor and be confined to + the house could not arouse suspicion even in the minds of those alert, + aristocratic thugs of the Crime Club, prone as they would be to suspect + anything—a man who had been knocked unconscious in an automobile + smash the night before, had been in a fight, had been subjected to a + terrific mental shock, to say nothing of the infernal drug that had been + administered to him, might well be expected to be indisposed the next + morning, and for several mornings following that! It might, indeed, even + cause them to relax their vigilance for the time being—though he + dared build nothing on that. Well, he had only to coach Benson and Jason + in the parts they were to play, and the balance of the morning and all the + afternoon was his in which to rest. + </p> + <p> + He reached over to the table, picked up a pencil and paper, and began to + jot down memoranda. He had just tossed the pencil back on the table as the + two men entered. + </p> + <p> + Jason, at a sign, closed the door quietly. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale looked at Benson half musingly, half whimsically, for a moment + before he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Benson,” he said, “the back seat of the large touring car is hinged and + lifts up, once the cushion is removed, doesn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” Benson answered promptly. + </p> + <p> + “And there's space enough for, say, a man inside, isn't there?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes, sir; I suppose so—at a squeeze”—Benson stared + blankly. + </p> + <p> + “Quite so!” said Jimmie Dale calmly. “Now, another matter, Benson: I + believe some chauffeurs have a habit, when occasion lends itself, of + taking, shall we say, their 'best girl' out riding in their masters' + machines?” + </p> + <p> + “SOME might,” Benson replied, a little stiffly. “I hope you don't think, + sir, that—” + </p> + <p> + “One moment, Benson. The point is, it's done—quite generally?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “And you have a 'best girl,' or at least could find one for such a + purpose, if you were so inclined?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said Benson; “but—” + </p> + <p> + “Very good!” Jimmie Dale interrupted. “Then to-night, Benson, taking + advantage of my illness, and to-morrow night, and the nights after that + until further notice, you will acquire and put into practice that + reprehensible habit.” + </p> + <p> + “I—I don't understand, Mr. Dale.” + </p> + <p> + “No; I dare say not,” said Jimmie Dale—and then the whimsicality + dropped from him. “Benson,” he said slowly, “do you remember a night, + nearly four years ago, the first night you ever saw me? You had, + indiscreetly, I think, displayed more money than was wise in that East + Side neighbourhood.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember,” said Benson, with a sudden start; then simply: “I wouldn't + be here now, sir, if it hadn't been for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Jimmie Dale quietly, “the tables are turned to-day, Benson. + As Jason already knows, this house is watched. For reasons that I cannot + explain, I am in great danger. Bluntly, I am putting my life in your hands—and + Jason's.” + </p> + <p> + Benson looked for an instant from Jimmie Dale to Jason, caught the + strained, troubled expression on the old man's face, then back again at + Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “D'ye mean that, sir!” he cried. “Then you can count on me, Mr. Dale, to + the last ditch!” + </p> + <p> + “I know that, Benson,” Jimmie Dale said softly. “And now, both of you, + listen! It is imperative that I should get away from the house; and + equally imperative that those watching should believe that I am still + here. Not even the servants are to be permitted a suspicion that I am not + here in my bed, ill. That, Jason, is your task. You will allow no one to + wait on me but yourself; you will bring the meal trays up regularly—and + eat the food yourself. You will answer all inquiries, telephone and + otherwise, in person—I am not seeing any one. You understand + perfectly, Jason?” + </p> + <p> + “I understand, Master Jim. You need have no fear, sir, on that score.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, you, Benson,” Jimmie Dale went on. “A few minutes ago I sent you out + in your chauffeur's togs with that prescription. You were undoubtedly + observed. I wanted you to be. It was quite necessary that they should know + and be able to recognise you again—to disabuse their minds later on + of the possibility that I might be masquerading in your clothes; and also, + of course, that they should know who you were, and what your position was + in the household. Very well! To-night, at eight o'clock exactly, you are + to go out from the back door of the house to the garage. On the way out—it + will be quite dark then—I want you to drop something, say, a bunch + of keys that you had been jingling in your hand. You are to experience + some difficulty in finding it again, move about a little to force any one + that may be lurking by the garage to retreat around the corner. Grumble a + bit and make a little noise; but you are not to overdo it—a couple + of minutes at the outside is enough, by that time I shall be under the car + seat. You will then run the machine out to the street and stop at the + curb, jump out, and, as though you had forgotten something, hurry back to + the garage. You must not be away long—enough only to permit, say, a + passer-by to glance into the car and satisfy himself that it is empty. You + understand, of course, Benson, that the hood must be down—no closed + car to invite even the suggestion of concealment—that would be a + fatal blunder. Drive then to the young lady's home by as direct a route as + you can—give no appearance of being aware that you are followed, as + you will be, and much less the appearance of attempting to elude pursuit. + Act naturally. Between here and your destination I will manage readily + enough to leave the car. You will then take the young lady for her drive—that + is what they will be interested in—your motive for going out + to-night. And, as I said, take her driving again on each succeeding night—establish + the HABIT to their satisfaction.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale paused, glanced at the paper which he still held in his hand, + then handed it to Benson. + </p> + <p> + “Just one thing more, Benson,” he said: “Listed on that paper you will + find a different rendezvous for each night for the next five nights, + excluding to-night, which, after you have returned the young lady to her + home, you are to pass by on your way back here. See that your drive is + always over in time for you to pass each night's rendezvous at half past + eleven sharp. Don't stop unless I signal you. If I am not there, go right + on home, and be at the next place on the following night. I am fairly well + satisfied they will not bother about you after to-night, or to-morrow + night at the most; but, for all that, you must take no chances, so, except + in the route you take in going to the young lady's, always avoid covering + the same ground twice, which might give the appearance of having some + ulterior purpose in view—even in your drives, vary your runs. Is + this clear, Benson?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said Benson earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, then,” said Jimmie Dale. “Eight o'clock to the dot, Benson—compare + your time with Jason's. And now, Jason, see that I get a chance to sleep + until dinner time to-night.” + </p> + <p> + The hours that followed were hours of sound and much-needed sleep for + Jimmie Dale, and from which he awoke only on Jason's entrance that evening + with the dinner tray. + </p> + <p> + “I've slept like a log, Jason!” he cried briskly, as he leaped out of bed. + “Anything new—anything happened?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir; not a thing,” Jason answered. “Only, Master Jim, sir”—the + old man twisted his hands nervously—“I—you'll excuse my saying + so, sir—I do hope you'll be careful to-night, sir. I can't help + being afraid that something'll happen to you, Master Jim.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, Jason!” Jimmie Dale laughed cheerfully. “There's nothing going + to happen—to me! You go ahead now and stay with the servants, and + get them out of the road at the proper time.” + </p> + <p> + He bathed, dressed, ate his dinner, and was slipping cartridges into the + magazine of his automatic when, within a minute or two of eight o'clock, + Jason's whisper came from the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “It's all clear now, Master Jim, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Right!” Jimmie Dale responded—and followed Jason down the stairway, + and to the head of the cellar stairs. + </p> + <p> + Here Jason halted. + </p> + <p> + “God keep you, Master Jim!” said the old man huskily. “Good-night, Jason,” + Jimmie Dale answered softly; and, with a reassuring squeeze on the other's + arm, went on down to the cellar. + </p> + <p> + Here he moved quickly, noiselessly across to the window—not the + window of the night before, but another of the same description, almost + directly beneath the one in his den above, that faced the garage and lay + in the line of that black shadow path between the two buildings. Deftly, + cautiously without sound, a half inch, an inch at a time he opened it. He + stood listening, then. A minute passed. Then he heard Benson open and shut + the back door; then Benson in the yard; and then Benson's voice in a + muttered and irritable growl, talking to himself, as he stamped around on + the ground. + </p> + <p> + With a lithe, agile movement, Jimmie Dale pulled himself up and through + the window—and began to creep rapidly on hands and knees toward the + garage. It was dark, intensely dark. He could barely distinguish Benson's + form, though, as he passed the other, the slight sounds he made drowned + out by the chauffeur's angry mumblings, he could have reached out and + touched Benson easily. + </p> + <p> + He gained the interior of the garage, and, as Benson, came on again, + stepped lightly into the car, lifted the seat, and wriggled his way + inside. + </p> + <p> + It was close, stuffy, abominably cramped, but Jimmie Dale was smiling + grimly now. Thanks to Benson, there wasn't a possibility that he had been + seen. He both felt and heard Benson start the car. Then the car moved + forward, ran the length of the driveway, bumped slightly as it made the + street—and stopped. He heard Benson jump out and run back—and + then he listened intently, and the grim smile flickered on his lips again. + Came the sound of a footstep on the sidewalk close beside the car—then + silence—the car shook a little as though some one's weight was on + the step—then the footsteps receded—Benson returned on the run—and + the car started forward once more. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps ten minutes passed. Three times the car had swerved sharply, + making a corner turn. Then Jimmie Dale pushed up the seat, and, protected + from observation from behind by the back of the car itself, crawled out + and crouched down on the floor of the tonneau. + </p> + <p> + “Don't look around, Benson,” he said calmly. “Are we followed?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” Benson answered. “At least, there's always been a car behind + us, though not the same one. They're pretty clever. There must be three or + four, each following the other. Every time I turn a corner it's a + different car that turns it behind me.” + </p> + <p> + “How far behind?” Jimmie Dale asked. + </p> + <p> + “Half a block.” + </p> + <p> + “Slow down a little,” instructed Jimmie Dale; “and don't turn another + corner until they've had a chance to accommodate themselves to your new + speed. You are going too fast for me to jump, and I don't want them to + notice any change in speed, except what is made in plain sight. Yes; + that's better. Where are we, Benson?” + </p> + <p> + “That's Amsterdam Avenue ahead,” replied Benson. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Jimmie Dale quietly. “Turn into it. The more people the + better. Tell me just as you are about to turn.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said Benson; then, almost on the instant, “All ready, sir!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's hand reached out for the door catch, edged the door ajar, + the car swerved, took the corner—and Jimmie Dale stepped out on the + running board, hung there negligently for a moment as though chatting with + Benson, and then with an airy “good-night” dropped nonchalantly to the + ground, and the next instant had mingled with the throng of pedestrians on + the sidewalk. + </p> + <p> + A half minute later, a large gray automobile turned the corner and + followed Benson—and Jimmie Dale, stepping out into the street again, + swung on a downtown car. The road to the Sanctuary was open! + </p> + <p> + In his impatience, now, the street car seemed to drag along every foot of + the way; but a glance at his watch, as he finally reached the Bowery, and, + walking then, rapidly approached the cross street a few steps ahead that + led to the Sanctuary, told him that it was still but a quarter to nine. + But even at that he quickened his steps a little. He was free now! There + was a sort of savage, elemental uplift upon him. He was free! He could + strike now in his own defense—and hers! In a few moments he would be + at the Sanctuary; in a few more he would be Larry the Bat, and by + to-morrow at the latest he would see—The Tocsin. After all, that + “hour” was not to be taken from him! It was not, perhaps, the hour that + she had meant it should be, thought and prayed, perhaps, that it might be! + It was not the hour of victory. But it was the hour that meant to him the + realisation of the years of longing, the hour when he should see her, see + her for the first time face to face, when there should be no more barriers + between them, when— + </p> + <p> + “Fer Gawd's sake, mister, buy a pencil!” + </p> + <p> + A hand was plucking at his sleeve, the thin voice was whining in his ear. + He halted mechanically. A woman, old, bedraggled, ragged, was thrusting a + bunch of cheap pencils imploringly toward him—and then, with a + stifled cry, Jimmie Dale leaned forward. The eyes that lifted to his for + an instant were bright and clear with the vigor of youth, great eyes of + brown they were, and trouble, hope, fear, wistfulness, ay, and a glorious + shyness were in their depths. And then the voice he knew so well, the + Tocsin's was whispering hurriedly: + </p> + <p> + “I will be waiting here, Jimmie—for Larry the Bat.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <h3> + THE TOCSIN + </h3> + <p> + It was only a little way back along the street from the Sanctuary to the + corner on the Bowery where as Jimmie Dale he had left her, where as Larry + the Bat now he was going to meet her again; it would take only a moment or + so, even at Larry the Bat's habitual, characteristic, slouching, gait—but + it seemed that was all too slow, that he must throw discretion to the + winds and run the distance. His blood was tingling; there was elation upon + him, coupled with an almost childlike dread that she might be gone. + </p> + <p> + “The Tocsin! The Tocsin!” he kept saying to himself. + </p> + <p> + Yes; she was still there, still whiningly imploring those who passed to + buy her miserable pencils—and then, with a quick-flung whisper to + him to follow as he slouched up close to her, she had started slowly down + the street. + </p> + <p> + “The Tocsin! The Tocsin! The Tocsin!”—his brain seemed to be ringing + with the words, ringing with them in a note clear as a silver bell. The + Tocsin—at last! The woman who so strangely, so wonderfully, so + mysteriously had entered into his life, and possessed it, and filled it + with a love and yearning that had come to mold and sway and actuate his + very existence—the woman for whom he had fought; for whom he had + risked, and gladly risked, his wealth, his name, his honour—everything; + the woman for whose sake he, the Gray Seal, was sought and hounded as the + most notorious criminal of the age; she whose cleverness, whose + resourcefulness, whose amazing intimacy with the hidden things of the + underworld had seemed, indeed, to border on the supernatural; she, the + Tocsin—the woman whose face he had never seen before! The woman + whose face he had never seen before—and who now was that wretched + hag that hobbled along the street before him, begging, whining, and + importuning the passers-by to purchase of her pitiful wares! + </p> + <p> + He laughed a little—buoyantly. He had never pictured a first meeting + such as this! A hag? Yes! And one as disreputable in appearance as he + himself, as Larry the Bat, was disreputable! But he had seen her eyes! + Inimitable as was her disguise, she could not hide her eyes, or hide the + pledge they held of the beauty of form and feature beneath the tattered + rags and the touch of a master in the make-up that brought haggard want + and age into the face—and dimly he began to divine the source, the + means by which she had acquired the information that for years had enabled + her to plan their coups, that had enabled him to execute them under the + guise of crime, that for years had seemed beyond all human reach. + </p> + <p> + Where was she going? Where was she taking him? But what did it matter! The + years of waiting were at an end—the years of mystery in a few + moments now would be mystery no more! + </p> + <p> + Ah! She had turned from the Bowery, and was heading east. He shuffled on + after her, guardedly, a half block behind. It was well that Jimmie Dale + had disappeared, that he was Larry the Bat again—the neighbourhood + was growing more and more one that Jimmie Dale could not long linger in + without attracting attention; while, on the other hand, it was the natural + environment of such as Larry the Bat and such as she, who was leading him + now to the supreme moment of his life. Yes, it was that—the + fulfillment of the years! The thought of it alone filled his mind, his + soul; it brushed aside, it blotted out for the time being the danger, the + peril, the deadly menace that hung over them both. It was only that she, + the Tocsin, was here—only that at last they would be together. + </p> + <p> + On she went, traversing street after street, the direction always trending + toward the river—until finally she halted before what appeared to + be, as nearly as he could make out in the almost total darkness of the + ill-lighted street, a small and tumble-down, self-contained dwelling that + bordered on what seemed to be an unfenced store yard of some description. + He drew his breath in sharply. She had halted—waiting for him to + come up with her. She was waiting for him—WAITING for him! It seemed + as though he drank of some strange, exhilarating elixir—he reached + her side eagerly—and then—and then—her hand had caught + his, and she was leading him into the house, into a black passage where he + could see nothing, into a room equally black over whose threshold he + stumbled, and her voice in a low, conscious way, with a little tremour, a + half sob in it that thrilled him with its promise, was in his ears: + </p> + <p> + “We are safe here, Jimmie, for a little while—but, oh, Jimmie, what + have I done! What have I done to bring you into this—only—only—I + was so sure, so sure, Jimmie, that there was nothing more to fear!” + </p> + <p> + The blood was beating in hammer blows at his temples. It seemed all + unreal, untrue that this moment could be his, that it was not a dream—a + dream which was presently to be snatched from him in a bitter awakening. + And then he laughed out wildly, passionately. No—it was true, it was + real! Her breath was on his cheek, it was a living, pulsing hand that was + still in his—and then soul and mind and body seemed engulfed and + lost in a mad ecstasy—and she was in his arms, crushed to him, and + he was raining kisses upon her face. + </p> + <p> + “I love you! I love you!” he was crying hoarsely; and over and over again: + “I love you! I love you!” + </p> + <p> + She did not struggle. The warm, rich lips were yielding to his; he could + feel the throb, the life in the young, lithe form against his own. She was + his—his! The years, the past, all were swept away—and she was + his at last—his for always. And there came a mighty sense of + kingship upon him, as though all the world were at his feet, and virility, + and a great, glad strength above all other men's, and a song was in his + soul, a song triumphant—for she was his! + </p> + <p> + “You!” he cried out—and strained her to him. “You!” he cried again—and + kissed her lips and her eyelids and her lips again. + </p> + <p> + And then her head was buried on his shoulder, and she was crying softly; + but after a moment she raised her hands and laid them upon his face, and + held them there, and because it was dark, dared to raise her head as well, + and her eyes to look into his. + </p> + <p> + Then for a long time they stood there so, and for a long time neither + spoke—and then with a little startled, broken cry, as though the + peril and the menace hanging over them, forgotten for the moment, were + thrust like a knife stab suddenly upon her, she drew herself away, and ran + from him, and went and got a lamp, and lighted it, and set it upon the + table. + </p> + <p> + And Jimmie Dale, still standing there, watched her. How gloriously her + eyes shone, dimmed and misty with the tears that filled them though they + were! And there was nothing incongruous in the rags that clothed her, in + the squalour and poverty of the bare room, in the white furrows that the + tears had plowed through the grime and make-up on her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “You wonderful, wonderful woman!” Jimmie Dale whispered. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head as though almost in self-reproach. + </p> + <p> + “I am not wonderful, Jimmie,” she said, in a low voice. “I”—and then + she caught his arm, and her voice broke a little—“I've brought you + into this—probably to your death. Jimmie, tell me what happened last + night, and since then. I—I've thought at times to-day I should go + mad. Oh, Jimmie, there is so much to say to-night, so much to do if—if + we are ever to be together for—for always. Last night, Jimmie—the + telephone—I knew there was danger—that all had gone wrong—what + was it?” + </p> + <p> + His arms were around her shoulders, drawing her close to him again. + </p> + <p> + “I found the wires tapped,” he said slowly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and—and the man you met—the chauffeur?” + </p> + <p> + “He is dead,” Jimmie Dale answered gently. + </p> + <p> + He felt her hand close with a quick, spasmodic clutch upon his arm; her + face grew white—and for a moment she turned away her head. + </p> + <p> + “And—and the package?” she asked presently. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know,” replied Jimmie Dale. “He did not have it with him; he—” + </p> + <p> + “Wait!” she interrupted quickly. “We are only wasting time like this! Tell + me everything, everything just as it happened, everything from the moment + you received my letter.” + </p> + <p> + And, holding her there in his arms, softening as best he could the more + brutal details, he told her. And, at the end, for a little while she was + silent; then in a strained, impulsive way she asked again: + </p> + <p> + “The chauffeur—you are sure—you are positive that he is dead?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jimmie Dale grimly; “I am sure.” And then the pent-up flood of + questions burst from his lips. Who was the chauffeur? The package, the box + numbered 428, and John Johansson? And the Crime Club? And the issue at + stake? The danger, the peril that surrounded her? And she—above all—more + than anything else—about herself—her strange life, its + mystery? + </p> + <p> + She checked him with a strangely wistful touch of her finger upon his + lips, with a queer, pathetic shake of her head. + </p> + <p> + “No, Jimmie; not that way. You would never understand. I cannot—” + </p> + <p> + “But I am to know—now! Surely I am to know NOW!” he cried, a sudden + sense of dismay upon him. Three years! Three years—and always the + “next” time! “I must know now, if I am to help you!” + </p> + <p> + She smiled a little wanly at him, as she drew herself away, and, dropping + into a chair, placed her elbows on the rickety table, cupping her chin in + her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; you are to know now,” she said, almost as though she were talking to + herself; then, with a swift intake of her breath, impulsively: “Jimmie! + Jimmie! I had thought that it would be all so different when—when + you came. That—that I would have nothing to fear—for you—for + me—because—it would be all over. And now you are here, Jimmie—and, + oh, thank God for you!—but I feel to-night almost—almost as + though it were hopeless, that—that we were beaten.” + </p> + <p> + “Beaten!” He stepped quickly to the table, and sat down, and took one of + her hands away from her face to hold it in both his own. “Beaten!” he + laughed out defiantly; then, playfully, soothingly, to reassure her: + “Jimmie Dale and Larry the Bat and the Gray Seal and the Tocsin—BEATEN! + And after we have just scored the last trick!” + </p> + <p> + “But we do not hold many trumps, Jimmie,” she answered gravely. “You have + seen something of this Crime Club's power, its methods, its merciless, + cruel, inhuman cunning, and you, perhaps, think that you understand—but + you have not begun to grasp the extent of either that power or cunning. + This horrible organisation has been in existence for many years. I do not + know how many. I only know that the men of whom it is composed are not + ordinary criminals, that they do not work in the ordinary way—to-day, + they set the machinery of fraud, deception, robbery, and murder in motion + that ten years from now, and, perhaps, only then, will culminate in the + final success of their schemes—and they play only for enormous + stakes. But”—her lips grew set—“you will see for yourself. I + must not talk any longer than is necessary; we must not take too much + time. You count on three days before they begin to suspect that all is not + right with Jimmie Dale—I know them better than you, and I give you + two days, forty-eight hours at the outside, and possibly far less. Jimmie”—abruptly—“did + you ever hear of Peter LaSalle?” + </p> + <p> + “The capitalist? Yes!” said Jimmie Dale. “He died a few years ago. I know + his brother Henry well—at the club, and all that.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you!” she said evenly. “Well, the man you know is not Peter LaSalle's + brother; he is an impostor—and one of the Crime Club.” + </p> + <p> + “Not—Peter LaSalle's brother!”—Jimmie Dale repeated the words + mechanically. And suddenly his brain was whirling. Vaguely, dimly, in + little memory snatches, events, not pertinent then, vitally significant + now, came crowding upon him. Peter LaSalle had come from somewhere in the + West to live in New York; and very shortly afterward had died. The estate + had been worth something over eleven millions. And there had been—he + leaned quickly, tensely forward over the table, staring at her. “My God!” + he whispered hoarsely. “You are not, you cannot be—the—the + daughter—Peter LaSalle's daughter, who disappeared strangely!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said quietly. “I am Marie LaSalle.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <h3> + THE TOCSIN'S STORY + </h3> + <p> + LaSalle! The old French name! That old French inscription on the ring: + “SONNEZ LE TOCSIN!” Yes; he began to understand now. She was Marie + LaSalle! He began to remember more clearly. + </p> + <p> + Marie LaSalle! They had said she was one of the most beautiful girls who + had ever made her entree into New York society. But he had never met her—as + Marie LaSalle; never met her—until now, as the Tocsin, in this bare, + destitute, squalid hovel, here at bay, both of them, for their lives. + </p> + <p> + He had been away when she had come with her father to New York; and on his + return there had only been the father's brother in the father's place—and + she was gone. He remembered the furor her disappearance had caused; the + enormous rewards her uncle had offered in an effort to trace her; the + thousand and one speculations as to what had become of her; and that then, + gradually, as even the most startling and mystifying of events and + happenings always do, the affair had dropped into oblivion and had been + forgotten by the public at least. He began to count back. Yes, it must + have been nearly five years ago; two years before she, as the Tocsin, and + he, as the Gray Seal, had formed their amazing and singular partnership, + that—he started suddenly, as she spoke. + </p> + <p> + “I want to tell you in as few words as I can,” she said abruptly, breaking + the silence. “Listen, then, Jimmie. My mother died ten years ago. I was + little more than a child then. Shortly after her death, father made a + business trip to New York, and, on the advice of some supposed friends, he + had a new will drawn up by a lawyer whom they recommended, and to whom + they introduced him. I do not know who those men were. The lawyer's name + was Travers, Hilton Travers.” She glanced curiously at Jimmie Dale, and + added quickly: “He was the chauffeur—the man who was killed last + night.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean,” Jimmie Dale burst out, “you mean that he was—but, first, + the will! What was in the will?” + </p> + <p> + “It was a very simple will,” she answered. “And from the nature of it, it + was not at all strange that my father should have been willing to have had + it drawn by a comparative stranger, if that is what you are thinking. + Summarised in a few words, the will left everything to me, and appointed + my Uncle Henry as my guardian and the sole executor of the estate until I + should have reached my twenty-fifth birthday. It provided for a certain + sum each year to be paid to my uncle for his services as executor; and at + the expiration of the trust period—that is, when I was twenty-five—bequeathed + to him the sum of one hundred thousand dollars.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale nodded. “Go on!” he prompted. + </p> + <p> + “It is hard to tell it in logical sequence,” she said, hesitating a + moment. “So many things seem to overlap each other. You must understand a + little more about Hilton Travers. During the five years following the + signing of the will father came frequently to New York, and became, not + only intimate with Travers, but so much impressed with the other's + cleverness and ability that he kept putting more and more of his business + into Travers' hands. At the end of that five years, we moved to New York, + and father, who was then quite an old man, retired from all active + business, and turned over a great many of his personal affairs to Travers + to look after for him, giving Travers power of attorney in a number of + instances. So much for Travers. Now about my uncle. He was my father's + only brother; in fact, they were the only surviving members of their + family, apart from very distant connections in France, from where, + generations back, the family originally came.” Her hand touched Jimmie + Dale's for an instant. “That ring, Jimmie, with its crest and inscription, + is the old family coat of arms.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said briefly; “I surmised as much.” + </p> + <p> + “Strange as it may seem, in view of the fact that they had not seen each + other for twenty years,” she went on hurriedly “my father and my uncle + were more than ordinarily attached to each other. Letters passed regularly + between them, and there was constant talk of one paying the other a visit—but + the visit never materialised. My uncle was somewhere in Australia, my + father was here, and consequently I never saw my uncle. He was quite a + different type of man from father—more restless, less settled, more + rough and ready, preferring the outdoor life of the Australian bush to the + restrictions of any so-called civilisation, I imagine. Financially, I do + not think he ever succeeded very well, for twice, in one way or another, + he lost every sheep on his ranch and father set him up again; and I do not + think he could ever have had much of a ranch, for I remember once, in one + of the letters he wrote, that he said he had not seen a white man in + weeks, so he must have lived a very lonely life. Indeed, at about the time + father drew the new will, my uncle wrote, saying that he had decided to + give up sheep running on his own account as it did not pay, and to accept + a very favourable offer that had been made to him to manage a ranch in New + Zealand; and his next letter was from the latter country, stating that he + had carried out his intentions, and was well satisfied with the change he + had made. The long-proposed visit still continued to occupy my father's + thoughts, and on his retirement from business he definitely made up his + mind to go out to New Zealand, taking me with him. In fact, the plans were + all arranged, my uncle expressed unbounded delight in his letters, and we + were practically on the eve of sailing, when a cable came from my uncle, + telling us to postpone the visit for a few months, as he was obliged to + make a buying trip for his new employer that would keep him away that + length of time—and then”—her fingers, that had been + abstractedly picking out the lines formed by the grain of the wood in the + table top, closed suddenly into tight-clenched fists—“and then—my + father died.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale turned away his head. There were tears in her eyes. The old + sense of unreality was strong upon him again. He was listening to the + Tocsin's story. It was strange that he should be doing that—that it + could be really so! It seemed as though magically he had been transported + out of the world where for years past he had lived with danger lurking at + every turn, where men set watch about his house to trap him, where the + denizens of the underworld yowled like starving beasts to sink their fangs + in him, where the police were ceaselessly upon his trail to wreak an + insensate vengeance upon him; it seemed as though he had been transported + away from all that to something that he had dreamed might, perhaps, + sometime happen, that he had hoped might happen, that he had longed for + always, but now that it was his, that it also was full of the sense of the + unreal. And yet as his mind followed the thread of her story, and leaped + ahead and vaguely glimpsed what was to come, he was conscious in a sort of + premonitory way of a vaster peril than any he had ever known, as though + forces, for the moment masked, were arrayed against him whose strength and + whose malignity were beyond human parallel. In what a strange, almost + incoherent way his brain was working! He roused himself a little and + looked around him—and, with a shock, the starkness of the room, the + abject, pitiful air of destitution brought home to him with terrific, + startling force the significance of the scene in which he was playing a + part. His face set suddenly in hard lines. That she should have been + brought to assume such a life as this—forced out of her environment + of wealth and refinement, forced in her purity to rub shoulders with the + vile, the dissolute, forced to exist as such a creature amid the crime and + vice, the wretched horror of the underworld that swirled around her! There + was anger now upon him, burning, hot—a merciless craving that was a + savage, hungry lust for vengeance. + </p> + <p> + And then she was speaking again: + </p> + <p> + “Father's death occurred very shortly after my uncle's message advising us + to postpone our trip was received. On his death, Travers, very naturally, + as father's lawyer, cabled my uncle to come to New York at once; and my + uncle replied, saying that he was coming by the first steamer.” + </p> + <p> + She paused again—but only for an instant, as though to frame her + thoughts in words. + </p> + <p> + “I have told you that I had never seen my uncle, that even my father had + not seen him for twenty years; and I have told you that the man you know + as Henry LaSalle is an impostor—I am using the word 'uncle' now when + I refer to him simply to avoid confusion. You are, perhaps, expecting me + to say that I took a distinctive dislike to him from the moment he + arrived? On the contrary, I had every reason to be predisposed toward him; + and, indeed, was rather agreeably surprised than otherwise—he was + not nearly so uncouth and unpolished as, somehow, I had pictured his life + would have made him. Do you understand, Jimmie? He was kind, sympathetic; + and, in an apathetic way, I liked him. I say 'apathetic' because I think + that best describes my own attitude toward every one and everything + following father's death until—THAT NIGHT.” + </p> + <p> + She rose abruptly from her chair, as though a passive position of any kind + had suddenly become intolerable. + </p> + <p> + “Why tell you what my father and I were to each other!” she cried out in a + low, passionate voice. “It seemed as though everything that meant anything + had gone out of my life. I became worn out, nervous; and though the days + were bad enough, the nights were a source of dread. I began to suffer from + insomnia—I could not sleep. This was even before my supposed uncle + came. I used to read for hours and hours in my room after I had gone to + bed. But”—she flung out her hand with an impatient gesture—“there + is no need to dwell on that. One night, about a week after that man had + arrived, and a little over a month after father had died, I was in my room + and had finished a book I was reading. I remember that it was well after + midnight. I had not the slightest inclination to sleep. I picked up + another book—and after that another. There were plenty in my room; + but, irrationally, of course, none pleased me. I decided to go down to the + library—not that I think I really expected to find anything that I + actually wanted, but more because it was an impulse, and furnished me for + the moment with some definite objective, something to do. I got up, + slipped on a dressing gown, and went downstairs. The lights were all out. + I was just on the point of switching on those in the reception hall, when + suddenly it seemed as though I had not strength to lift my hand, and I + remember that for an instant I grew terribly cold with dread and fear. + From the room on my right a voice had reached me. The door was closed, but + the voice was raised in an outburst of profanity. I—I could hear + every word. + </p> + <p> + “'If she's out of the way, there's no come-back,' the voice snarled. 'I + won't listen to anything else! Do you hear! Why, you fool, what are you + trying to do—hand me one! Turn everything into cash, and divvy, and + beat it—eh? And I'm the goat, and I get caught and get twenty years + for stealing trust funds—and the rest of you get the coin!' He swore + terribly again. 'Who's taken the risk in this for the last five years! + There'll be no smart Aleck lawyer tricks—there'll be no halfway + measures! And who are you to dictate! She goes out—that's safe—I + inherit as next of kin, with no one to dispute it, and that's all there is + to it!' + </p> + <p> + “I stood there and could not move. It was the voice of the man I knew as + my uncle! My heart seemed to have stopped beating. I tried to tell myself + that I was dreaming, that it was too horrible, too incredible to be real; + that they could not really mean to—to MURDER me. And then I + recognised Hilton Travers' voice. + </p> + <p> + “'I am not dictating, and you are not serious, of course,' he said, with + what seemed an uneasy laugh. 'I am only warning you that you are + forgetting to take the real Henry LaSalle into account. He is bound to + hear of this eventually, and then—' + </p> + <p> + “Another voice broke in—one I did not recognise. + </p> + <p> + “'You're talking too loud, both of you! Travers doesn't understand, but + he's to be wised up to-night, according to orders, and—' + </p> + <p> + “The voice became inaudible, muffled—I could not hear any more. I + suppose I remained there another three or four minutes, too stunned to + know what to do; and then I ran softly along the hall to the library door. + The library, you understand, was at the rear of the room they were in, and + the two rooms were really one; that is, there was only an archway between + them. I cannot tell you what my emotions were—I do not know. I only + know that I kept repeating to myself, 'they are going to kill me, they are + going to kill me!' and that it seemed I must try and find out everything, + everything I could.” + </p> + <p> + She turned away from the table, and began to pace nervously up and down + the miserable room. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale rose impulsively from his chair—but she waved him back + again. + </p> + <p> + “No; wait!” she said. “Let me finish. I crept into the library. It took me + a long time, because I had to be so careful not to make the slightest + noise. I suppose it was fully six or seven minutes from the time I had + first heard my supposed uncle's voice until I had crept far enough forward + to be able to see into the room beyond. There were three men there. The + man I knew as my uncle was sitting at one end of the table; another had + his back toward me; and Travers was facing in my direction—and I + think I never saw so ghastly a face as was Hilton Travers' then. He was + standing up, sort of swaying, as he leaned with both hands on the table. + </p> + <p> + “'Now then, Travers,' the man whose back was turned to me was saying + threateningly, 'you've got the story now—sign those papers!' + </p> + <p> + “It seemed as though Travers could not speak for a moment. He kept looking + wildly from one to the other. He was white to the lips. + </p> + <p> + “'You've let me in for—THIS!' he said hoarsely, at last, 'You devils—you + devils—you devils! You've let me in for—murder! Both of them! + Both Peter and his brother—MURDERED!'” + </p> + <p> + She stopped abruptly before Jimmie Dale, and clutched his arm tightly. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie, I don't know why I did not scream out. Everything went black for + a moment before my eyes. It was the first suspicion I had had that my + father had met with foul play, and I—” + </p> + <p> + But now Jimmie Dale swayed up from his chair. + </p> + <p> + “Murdered!” he exclaimed tensely. “Your father! But—but I remember + perfectly, there was no hint of any such thing at the time, and never has + been since. He died from quite natural causes.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him strangely. + </p> + <p> + “He died from—inoculation,” she said. “Did—did you not see + something of that laboratory in the Crime Club yourself the night before + last—enough to understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Good God!” muttered Jimmie Dale, in a startled way then: “Go on! Go on! + What happened then?” + </p> + <p> + She passed her hand a little wearily across her eyes—and sank down + into her chair again. + </p> + <p> + “Travers,” she continued, picking up the thread of her story, “had raised + his voice, and the third man at the table leaned suddenly, aggressively + toward him. + </p> + <p> + “'Hold your tongue!' he growled furiously. 'All you're asked to do is sign + the papers—not talk!' + </p> + <p> + “Travers shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “'I won't!' he cried out. 'I won't have any hand in another murder—in + hers! My God, I won't—I won't, I tell you! It's horrible!' + </p> + <p> + “'Look here, you fool!' the man who was posing as my uncle broke in then. + 'You're in this too deep to get out now. If you know what's good for you, + you'll do as you're told!' + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie, I shall never forget Travers' face. It seemed to have changed + from white to gray, and there was horror in his eyes: and then he seemed + to lose all control of himself, shaking his fists in their faces, cursing + them in utter abandon. + </p> + <p> + “'I'm bad!' he cried. 'I've gone everything, everything but the limit—everything + but murder. I stop there! I'll have no more to do with this. I'm through! + You—you pulled me into this, and—and I didn't know!' + </p> + <p> + “'Well, you know now!' the third man sneered. 'What are you going to do + about it?' + </p> + <p> + “'I'm going to see that no harm comes to Marie LaSalle,' Travers answered + in a dull way. + </p> + <p> + “The other man now was on his feet—and, I do not know quite how to + express it, Jimmie, he seemed ominously quiet in both his voice and his + movements. + </p> + <p> + “'You'd better think that over again, Travers!' he said. 'Do you mean it?' + </p> + <p> + “'I mean it,' Travers said. 'I mean it—God help me!' + </p> + <p> + “'You may well add that!' returned the other, with an ugly laugh. He + reached out his hand toward the telephone on the table. 'Do you know what + will happen to you if I telephone a certain number and say that you have + turned—traitor?' + </p> + <p> + “'I'll have to take my chances,' Travers replied doggedly. 'I'm through!' + </p> + <p> + “'Take them, then!' flung out the other. 'You'll have little time given + you to do us any harm!' + </p> + <p> + “Travers did not answer. I think he almost expected an attack upon him + then from the two men. He hesitated a moment, then backed slowly toward + the door. What happened in the next few moments in that room, I do not + know. I stole out of the library. I was obsessed with the thought that I + must see Travers, see him at all costs, before he got away from the house. + I reached the end of the hall as the room door opened, and he came out. It + was dark, as I said, and I could not see distinctly, but I could make out + his form. He closed the door behind him—and then I called his name + in a whisper. He took a quick step toward me, then turned and hurried + toward the front door, and I thought he was going away—but the next + instant I understood his ruse. He opened the front door, shut it again + quite loudly, and crept back to me. + </p> + <p> + “'Take me somewhere where we will be safe—quick!' he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “There was only one place where I was sure we would be safe. I led him to + the rear of the house and up the servants' stairs, and to my boudoir.” + </p> + <p> + She broke off abruptly, and once more rose from her chair, and once more + began to pace the room. Back in his chair, Jimmie Dale, tense and + motionless now, watched her without a word. + </p> + <p> + “It would take too long to tell you all that passed between us,” she went + on hurriedly. “The man was frankly a criminal—but not to the extent + of murder. And in that respect, at least, he was honest with himself. + Almost the first words he said to me were: 'Miss LaSalle, I am as good as + a dead man if I am caught by the devils behind those two men downstairs.' + And then he began to plead with me to make my own escape. He did not know + who the man was that was posing as my uncle, had never seen him before + until he presented himself as Henry LaSalle; the other man he knew as + Clarke, but knew also that 'Clarke' was merely an assumed name. He had + fallen in with Clarke almost from the time that he had begun to practise + his profession, and at Clarke's instigation had gone from one crooked deal + to another, and had made a great deal of money. He knew that behind Clarke + was a powerful, daring, and unscrupulous band of criminals, organised on a + gigantic scale, of which he himself was, in a sense—a probationary + sense, as he put it—a member; but he had never come into direct + contact with them—he had received all his orders and instructions + through Clarke. He had been told by Clarke that he was to cultivate father + following the introduction, to win father's confidence, to get as many of + father's affairs into his hands as possible, to reach the position, in + fact, of becoming father's recognised attorney—and all this with the + object, as he supposed of embezzling from father on a large scale. Then + father died, and Travers was instructed to cable my uncle. He knew that + the man who answered that summons was an impostor; but he did not know, + until they had admitted it to him that night, that both my father and my + uncle had been murdered, and that I, too, was to be made away with.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at Jimmie Dale, and suddenly laughed out bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “No; you don't understand, even yet, the patient, ingenious deviltry of + those fiends. It was they, at the time the new will was drawn, who offered + to buy out my real uncle's sheep ranch in that lonely, unsettled district + in Australia, and offered him that new position in New Zealand. My uncle + never reached New Zealand. He was murdered on his way there. And in his + place, assuming his name, appeared the man who has been posing as my uncle + ever since. Do you begin to see! For five years they were patiently + working out their plans, for five years before my father's death that man + lived and became known and accepted, and ESTABLISHED himself as Henry + LaSalle. Do you see now why he cabled us to postpone our visit? He ran + very little risk. The chances were one in a thousand that any of his few + acquaintances in Australia would ever run across him in New Zealand; and + besides, he was chosen because it seems there was a slight resemblance + between him and the real Henry LaSalle—enough, with his changed mode + of living and more elaborate and pretentious surroundings, to have enabled + him to carry through a bluff had it become necessary. He had all of my + uncle's papers; and the Crime Club furnished him with every detail of our + lives here. I forgot to say, too, that from the moment my uncle was + supposed to have reached New Zealand all his letters were typewritten—an + evidence in father's eyes that his brother had secured a position of some + importance; as, indeed, from apparently unprejudiced sources, they took + pains to assure father was a fact. This left them with only my uncle's + signature to forge to the letters—not a difficult matter for them! + </p> + <p> + “Believing that they had Travers so deeply implicated that he could do + nothing, even if he had the inclination, which they had not for a moment + imagined, and arrogant in the belief in their own power to put him out of + the way in any case if he proved refractory, they admitted all this to him + that night when he brought up the issue of the real Henry LaSalle putting + in an appearance sooner or later, and when they wanted him to smooth their + path by releasing all documents where his power of attorney was involved. + Do you see now the part they gave Travers to play? It was to put the stamp + of genuineness upon the false Henry LaSalle. Not but that they were + prepared with what would appear to be overwhelmingly convincing evidence + to prove it if it were necessary; but if the man were accepted by the + estate's lawyer there was little chance of any one else questioning his + identity.” + </p> + <p> + She halted again by the table—and forced a smile, as her eyes met + Jimmie Dale's. + </p> + <p> + “I am almost through, Jimmie. That night was a terrible one for both of + us. Travers' life was not worth a moment's purchase once they found him—and + mine was only under reprieve until sufficient time to obviate suspicion + should have elapsed after father's death. We had no proof that would stand + in any court—even if we should have been given the chance to adopt + that course. And without absolute, irrefutable proof, it was all so + cleverly woven, stretched over so many years, that our charge must have + been held to be too visionary and fantastic to have any basis in fact. + </p> + <p> + “All Travers would have been able to advance was the statement that the + supposed Henry LaSalle had admitted being an impostor and a murderer to + him! Who would believe it! On the face of it, it appeared to be an + absurdity. And even granted that we were given an opportunity to bring the + charge, they would be able to prove by a hundred influential and + well-known men in New Zealand that the impostor was really Henry LaSalle; + and were we able to find any of my uncle's old acquaintances in Australia, + it would be necessary to get them here—and not one of them would + have reached America alive. + </p> + <p> + “But there was not a chance, not a chance, Jimmie, of doing that—they + would have killed Travers the moment he showed himself in the open. The + only thing we could do that night was to try and save our own lives; the + only thing we could look forward to was acquiring in some way, unknown to + them, the proof, fully established, with which we could crush them in a + single stroke, and before they would have time to strike back. + </p> + <p> + “The vital thing was proof of my uncle's death. That, if it could be + obtained at all, could only be obtained in Australia. Travers was obliged + to go somewhere, to disappear from that moment if he wanted to save his + life, and he volunteered to go out there. He left the house that night by + the back entrance in an old servant's suit, which I found for him—and + I never heard from him again until a month ago in the 'personal' column of + the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS, through which we had agreed to communicate. + </p> + <p> + “As for myself, I left the house the next morning, telling my pseudo uncle + that I was going to spend a few days with a friend. And this I actually + did; but in those few days I managed to turn all my own securities, that + had been left me by my mother and which amounted to a considerable sum, + into cash. And then, Jimmie, I came to—this, I have lived like this + and in different disguises, as a settlement worker, as a widow of means in + a fashionable uptown apartment, but mostly as you see me now—for + five years. For five years I have watched my supposed uncle, hoping, + praying that through him I could get to know the others associated with + him; hoping, praying that Travers would succeed; hoping, praying that we + would get them all—and watching day after day, and year after year + the 'personal' column of the paper, until at last I began to be afraid + that it was all useless. And there was nothing, Jimmie, nothing anywhere, + and I had no success”—her voice choked a little. “Nothing! Even + Clarke never went again to the house. You can understand now how I came to + know the strange things that I wrote to the Gray Seal, how the life that I + have led, how this life here in the underworld, how the constant search + for some clew on my own account brought them to my knowledge; and you can + understand now, too, why I never dared to let you meet me, for I knew well + enough that, while I worked to undermine my father's and my uncle's + murderers, they were moving heaven and earth to find me. + </p> + <p> + “That is all, Jimmie. The day before yesterday, a month after Travers' + first message to let me know that he was coming, there was another + 'personal' giving me an hour and a telephone number. He was back! He had + everything—everything! We dared not meet; he was afraid, suspicious + that they had got track of him again. You know the rest. That package + contained the proof that, with Travers' death, can probably never be + obtained again. Do you understand why THEY want it—why it is life + and death to me? Do you understand why my supposed uncle offered huge + rewards for me, why secretly every resource of that hideous organisation + has been employed to find me—that it is only by my DEATH the estate + can pass into their hands, and now—” + </p> + <p> + She flung out her hands suddenly toward Jimmie Dale. “Oh, Jimmie, Jimmie, + I've—I've fought so long alone! Jimmie, what are we to do?” + </p> + <p> + He came slowly to his feet. She had fought so long—alone. But now—now + it was his turn to fight—for her. But how? She had not told him all—surely + she had not told him all, for everything depended upon that package. There + had been so much to tell that she had not thought of all, and she had not + told him the details about that. + </p> + <p> + “That box—No. 428!” he cried quickly. “What is that? What does it + mean?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Then who is this John Johansson?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know,” she said again. + </p> + <p> + “Nor where the Crime Club is?” + </p> + <p> + “No”—dully. + </p> + <p> + He stared at her for a moment in a dazed way. + </p> + <p> + “My God!” Jimmie Dale murmured. + </p> + <p> + And then she turned away her head. + </p> + <p> + “It's—it's pretty bad, isn't it, Jimmie? I—I told you that we + did not hold many trumps.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <h3> + SILVER MAG + </h3> + <p> + There was silence between them. Minute after minute passed. Neither spoke. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale dropped back into his chair again, and stared abstractedly + before him. “We do not hold many trumps, Jimmie—we do not hold many + trumps”—her words were repeating themselves over and over in his + mind. They seemed to challenge him mockingly to deny what was so obviously + a fact, and because he could not deny it to taunt and jeer at him—to + jeer at him, when all that was held at stake hung literally upon his next + move! + </p> + <p> + He looked up mechanically as the Tocsin walked to a broken mirror at the + rear of the miserable room; nodded mechanically in approval as she began + deftly to retouch the make-up on her face where the tears had left their + traces—and resumed his abstracted gaze before him. + </p> + <p> + Box number four-two-eight—John Johansson—the Crime Club—the + identity of the man who was posing as Henry LaSalle! If only he could hit + upon a clew to the solution of a single one of those things, or a single + phase of one of them—if only he could glimpse a ray of light that + would at least prompt action, when every moment of inaction was + multiplying the odds against them! + </p> + <p> + There were the men who were watching his house at that moment on Riverside + Drive—he, as Larry the Bat, might in turn keep watch on them. He had + though of that. In time, perhaps, he might, by so doing, discover the + whereabouts of the Crime Club. In time! It was just that—he had no + time! Forty-eight hours, the Tocsin insisted, was all the time that he + could count upon before they would become suspicious of Jimmie Dale's + “illness,” before they would discover that they were watching an empty + house! + </p> + <p> + He might—though this was even more hazardous—make an attempt + to trace the wires that tapped those of his telephone through the basement + window that gave on the garage driveway. And what then? True, they could + not lead very far away; but, even if successful, what then? They would not + lead him to the Crime Club, but simply to some confederate, to some man or + woman playing the part of a servant, perhaps, in the house next door, who, + in turn, would have to be shadowed and watched. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale shook his head. Better, of the two, to start in at once and + shadow those who were shadowing his house. But that was not the way! He + knew that intuitively. He hated to eliminate it from consideration, for he + had no other move to take its place—but such a move was almost + suicide in itself. Time, and time alone, was the vital factor. They, the + Tocsin and he, must act quickly—and STRIKE that night if they were + to win. His fingers, the grimy fingers, dirty-nailed, of Larry the Bat, + that none now would recognise as the slim tapering, wonderfully sensitive + fingers of Jimmie Dale, the fingers that had made the name of the Gray + Seal famous, whose tips mocked at bars and safes and locks, and seemed to + embody in themselves all the human senses, tightened spasmodically on the + edge of the table. Time! Time! Time! It seemed to din in his ears. And + while he sat there powerless, impotent, the Crime Club was moving heaven + and earth to find what HE must find—that package—if he was to + save this woman here, the woman whom he loved, she who had been forced, + through the machinations of these hell fiends, to adopt the life of a + wretched hag, to exist among the dregs of the underworld, whose squalour + and vice and wantonness none knew better than he! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's face set grimly. Somewhere—somewhere in the past five + years of this life of hers in which she had been fighting the Crime Club, + pitting that clever brain of hers against it, MUST lie a clew. She had + told him her story only in baldest outline, with scarcely a reference to + her own personal acts, with barely a single detail. There must be + something, something that perhaps she had overlooked, something, just the + merest hint of something that would supply a starting point, give him a + glimmer of light. + </p> + <p> + She came back from across the room, and sank down in her chair again. She + did not speak—the question, that meant life and death to them both, + was in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie answered the mute interrogation tersely. + </p> + <p> + “Not yet!” he said. Then, almost curtly, in a quick, incisive way, as the + keen, alert brain began to delve and probe: “You say this man Clarke never + returned to the house after that night?” + </p> + <p> + She nodded her head quietly. + </p> + <p> + “You are sure of that?” he insisted. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. “I am sure.” + </p> + <p> + “And you say that all these years you have kept a watch on the man who is + posing as your uncle, and that he never went anywhere, or associated with + any one, that would afford you a clew to this Crime Club?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said again. + </p> + <p> + It was a moment before Jimmie Dale spoke. + </p> + <p> + “It's very strange!” he said musingly, at last. “So strange, in fact, that + it's impossible. He must have communicated with the others, and + communicated with them often. The game they were playing was too big, too + full of details, to admit of any other possibility. And the telephone as + an explanation isn't good enough.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet,” she said earnestly, “possible or impossible, it is nevertheless + true. That he might have succeeded in eluding me on occasions was perhaps + to be expected; but that in all those years I should not catch him once in + what, if you are correct, must have been many and repeated conferences + with the same men is too improbable to be thought of seriously.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale shook his head again. + </p> + <p> + “If you had been able to watch him night and day, that might be so,” he + said crisply. “But, at best, you could only watch him a very small portion + of the time.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled at him a little wanly. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think, Jimmie, from what you, as the Gray Seal, know of me, that I + would have watched in any haphazard way like that?” + </p> + <p> + He glanced at her with a sudden start. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” he asked quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Look at me!” she said quietly. “Have you ever seen me before? I mean as I + am now.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he answered, after an instant. “Not that I know of.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet”—she smiled wanly again—“you have not lived, or made + the place you hold in the underworld, without having heard of Silver Mag.” + </p> + <p> + “You!” exclaimed Jimmie Dale. “You—Silver Mag!” He stared at her + wonderingly, as, crouch-shouldered now, the hair, gray-threaded, + straggling out from under the hood of a faded, dark-blue, seam-worn cloak, + she sat before him, a typical creature of the underworld, her role an art + in its conception, perfect in its execution. Silver Mag! Yes, he had heard + of Silver Mag—as every one in the Bad Lands had heard of her. Silver + Mag and her pocketful of coin! Always a pocketful of silver, so they said, + that was dispensed prodigally to the wives and children temporarily + deprived of support by husbands and fathers unfortunate enough in their + clashes with the law to be doing “spaces” up the river—and therefore + the underworld swore by Silver Mag. Always silver, never a bill; Silver + Mag had never been seen with a banknote—that was her eccentricity. + Much or little, she gave or paid out of her pocketful of jangling silver. + She was credited with being a sworn enemy of the police, and—yes, he + remembered, too—with having done “time” herself. “I don't quite + understand,” he said, in a puzzled way. “I haven't run across you + personally because you probably took care to see that I shouldn't; but—it's + no secret—every one says you've served a jail sentence yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “That is simply enough explained,” she answered gravely. “The story is of + my own making. When I decided to adopt this life, both for my own safety + and as the best means of keeping a watch on that man, I knew that I must + win the confidence of the underworld, that I must have help, and that in + order to obtain that help I must have some excuse for my enmity against + the man known as Henry LaSalle. To be widely known in the underworld was + of inestimable value—nothing, I knew, could accomplish that as + quickly as eccentricity. You see now how and why I became known as Silver + Mag. I gained the confidence of every crook in New York through their + wives and children. I told them the story of my jail sentence—while + I swore vengeance on Henry LaSalle. I told them that he had had me + arrested for something I never stole while I was working for him as a + charwoman, and that he had had me railroaded to jail. There wasn't one but + gave me credit for the theft, perhaps; but equally, there wasn't one but + understood, and my eccentricity helped this out, my wanting to 'get' Henry + LaSalle. Well—do you see now, Jimmie? I had money, I had the + confidence of the underworld, I had an excuse for my hatred of Henry + LaSalle, and so I had all the help I wanted. Day and night that man has + been watched. He receives no visitors—what social life he has is, as + you know, at the club. There is not a house that he has ever entered that, + sooner or later, I have not entered after him in the hope of finding the + headquarters of the clique. Even the men and women, as far as human + possibility could accomplish it, that he has talked to on the streets have + been shadowed, and their identity satisfactorily established—and the + net result has been failure; utter, absolute, complete failure!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's eyes, that had held steadily on her face, shifted, troubled + and perplexed, to the table top. + </p> + <p> + “You are wonderful!” he said, under his breath. “Wonderful! And—and + that makes it all the more amazing, all the more incomprehensible. It is + still impossible that he has not been in close and constant touch with his + accomplices. He MUST have been! We would be blind fools to argue against + it! It could not, on the face of it, have been otherwise!” + </p> + <p> + “Then how, when, where has he done it?” she asked wearily. + </p> + <p> + “God knows!” he said bitterly. “And if they have been clever enough to + escape you all these years, I'm almost inclined to say what you said a + little while ago—that we're beaten.” + </p> + <p> + She watched him miserably, as he pushed back his chair impulsively and, + standing up, stared down at her. + </p> + <p> + “We're against it—HARD!” he said, with a mirthless laugh. Then, his + lips tightening: “But we'll try another tack—the chauffeur—Travers. + Though even here the Crime Club has a day's start of us, even if last + night they knew no more about the whereabouts of that package than we know + now. I'm afraid of it! The chances are more than even that they've already + got it. If they were able to catch Travers as the chauffeur, they would + have had something tangible to work back from”—Jimmie Dale was + talking more to himself than to the Tocsin now, as though he were + muttering his thoughts aloud. “How did they get track of him? When? Where? + What has it led to? And what in Heaven's name,” he burst out suddenly, “is + this box number four-two-eight!” + </p> + <p> + “A safety-deposit vault, perhaps, that he has taken somewhere,” she + hazarded. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale laughed mirthlessly again. + </p> + <p> + “That is the one definite thing I do know—that it isn't!” he said + positively. “It is nothing of that kind. It was half-past ten o'clock at + night when I met him, and he said that he had intended going back for the + package if it had been safe to do so. Deposit vaults are not open at that + hour. The package is, or was, if they have not already got it, readily + accessible—and at any hour. Now go over everything again, every + detail that passed between you and Travers. He let you know that he was + back in New York by means of a 'personal,' you said. What else was in that + 'personal' besides the telephone number and the hour you were to call him? + Anything?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing that will help us any,” she replied colourlessly. “There were + simply the words 'northeast corner of Sixth Avenue and Waverly Place,' and + the signature that we had agreed upon, the two first and two last letters + of the alphabet transposed—BAZY.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” said Jimmie Dale quickly. “And over the 'phone he completed his + message. Clever enough!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. “In that way, if any one were listening, or overhead the + plan, there could be little harm come of it, for the essential feature of + all, the place of rendezvous, was not mentioned. It has not been Travers' + fault that this happened—and in spite of every precaution it has + cost him his life. He wanted nothing to give them a clew to my + whereabouts; he was trying to guard against the slightest evidence that + would associate us one with the other. He even warned me over the 'phone + not to tell him how, where, or the mode of life I was living. And + naturally, he dared give me no particulars about himself. I was simply to + select a third party whom I could trust, and to follow out his + instructions, which were those that I sent to you in my letter.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale began to pace nervously up and down the room. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing else?” he queried, a little blankly. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing else,” she said monotonously. + </p> + <p> + “But since last night, since you knew that things had gone wrong,” he + persisted, “surely you traced that telephone number—the one you + called up?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said, and shrugged her shoulders in a tired way. “Naturally I + did that—but, like everything else, it amounted to nothing. He + telephoned from Makoff's pawnshop on that alley off Thompson Street, and—” + </p> + <p> + “WHERE!” Jimmie Dale, suddenly stock-still, almost shouted the word. “He + telephoned from—where! Say that again!” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him in amazement, half rising from her chair. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie, what is it?” she cried. “You don't mean that—” + </p> + <p> + He was beside her now, his hands pressed upon her shoulders, his face + flushed. + </p> + <p> + “Box number four-two-eight!” He laughed out hysterically in his + excitement. “John Johansson—box number four-two-eight! And like a + fool I never thought of it! Don't you see? Don't you know now yourself? + THE UNDERGROUND POST OFFICE!” + </p> + <p> + She stood up, clinging to him; a wild relief, that was based on her + confidence in him, in her eyes and face, even while she shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said frantically. “No—I do not know. Tell me, Jimmie! Tell + me quickly! You mean at Makoff's?” + </p> + <p> + “No! Not Makoff's—at Spider Jack's, on Thompson Street!”—he + was clipping off his words, still holding her tightly by the shoulders, + still staring into her eyes. “You know Spider Jack! Jack's little novelty + store! Ah, you have not learned all of the underworld yet! Spider Jack is + the craftiest 'fence' in the Bad Lands—and Makoff is his partner. + Spider buys the crooks' stuff, and Makoff disposes of it through the + pawnshop—it's only a step through the connecting back yard from one + to the other, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—but,” she interrupted feverishly, “the package—you said—” + </p> + <p> + “Wait!” Jimmie Dale cried. “I'm coming to that! If Travers stood in with + Makoff, he stood in with Spider Jack. For years Spider has been a sort of + clearing house for the underworld—for years he has conducted, and + profitably, too, his underground post office. Crooks from all over the + country, let alone those in New York, communicate with each other through + Spider Jack. These, for a fee, are registered at Spider's, and given a + number—a box number he calls it, though, of course, there are no + actual boxes. Letters come by mail addressed to him—the sealed + envelope within containing the actually intended recipient's name. These + Spider either forwards, or delivers in person when they are called for. + Dozens of crooks, too, unwilling, perhaps, to dispose of small ill-gotten + articles at ruinous 'fence' prices, and finding it unhealthy for the + moment to keep them in their possession, use this means of depositing them + temporarily for safe-keeping. You see now, don't you? It's certain that's + where Travers left the package. He used the name of John Johansson, not to + hoodwink Spider Jack, I should say, but as an added safeguard against the + Crime Club. Travers must have known both Makoff and Spider Jack in the old + days, and probably had reason, and good reason, to trust them both—possibly, + a crook then himself, as he confessed, he may have acted in a legal + capacity for them in their frequent tangles with the police.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” she said—and there was a glad, new note in her voice, “then, + Jimmie—Jimmie, we are safe! You can get it, Jimmie! It is only a + little thing for the Gray Seal to do—to get it now that we know + where it is.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said tersely. “Yes—if it is still there.” + </p> + <p> + “Still there!”—she repeated the words quickly, nervously. “Still + there! What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean if they, too, have not discovered that he was at Makoff's—if + they have not got there first!” he said grimly. “There seems to be no + limit to their cleverness, or their power. They penetrated his disguise as + a chauffeur, and who knows what more they have learned since last night? + We are fighting them in the dark, and—WHAT'S THAT!” he whispered + tensely, suddenly—and leaning forward like a flash, as he whipped + his automatic from his pocket, he blew out the lamp. + </p> + <p> + The room was in darkness. They stood there rigid, silent, listening. Her + hand found and caught his arm. + </p> + <p> + And then it came again—a low sound, the sound of a stealthy footstep + just outside the window that faced on the storage yard. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> + <h3> + THE MAGPIE + </h3> + <p> + A minute passed—another. The automatic at Jimmie Dale's hip, the + muzzle just peeping over the table top, held a steady bead on the window. + Came the footstep again—and then suddenly, a series of low, quick + tappings upon the windowpane. The Tocsin's hand slipped away from his arm. + Jimmie Dale's set face relaxed as he read the underground Morse, and he + replaced his revolver slowly in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “The Magpie!” said Jimmie Dale, in an undertone. “What's he want?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” she answered, in a whisper. “He never came here before. + There's a back way out, Jimmie, if you—” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said quickly. “We've enemies enough, with out making one of the + Magpie. He knows some one is here with you—our shadows were on the + blind. Don't queer yourself. Let him in. I'll light the lamp.” + </p> + <p> + He struck a match, as she ran from the room, and, lifting the hot lamp + chimney with the edge of his ragged coat, lighted the lamp. He turned the + wick down a little, shading and dimming the room—and then, as he + flirted a bead of moisture from his forehead, whimsically stretched out + his hand to watch it in the lamplight. + </p> + <p> + “That's bad, Jimmie,” he muttered gravely to himself, as he noted an + almost imperceptible tremour. “Got a start, didn't you! Under a bit of a + strain, eh? Well”—grimly—“never mind! It looks as though the + luck had turned Makoff and Spider Jack!” + </p> + <p> + His hand reached up to his hat, jerked the brim at a rakish angle over his + eyes—and he sprawled himself out on a chair. He heard the Tocsin's + voice at the front door, and a man's voice, low and guarded, answer her. + Then the door closed, and their steps approached the room. It was rather + curious, that—a visit from the Magpie! What could the Magpie want? + What could there be in common between the Magpie and Silver Mag? The + Magpie, alias Slimmy Joe, was counted the cleverest safe worker in the + United States, barring only and always one—a smile flickered across + the lips of Larry the Bat—one whose pre-eminence the Magpie, much to + his own chagrin, admitted himself—the Gray Seal! + </p> + <p> + He looked up, twisting the stub of a cigarette between his grimy fingers + and fumbling for a match, as the Tocsin and, behind her, the Magpie, + short, slim, and wiry, shrewd-faced, with sharp, quick-glancing little + black eyes, entered the room. + </p> + <p> + “'Ello, Larry!” grinned the Magpie. “Got yer breath back yet? I felt it + through de windowpane when youse let go at de lamp!” + </p> + <p> + “'Ello, Slimmy!” returned Jimmie Dale ungraciously, speaking through the + corner of his mouth. “Ferget it!” + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” said the Magpie unconcernedly. He stared about him, and finally, + drawing a chair up to the table, sat down, motioned the Tocsin to do the + same, and leaned forward amiably. “I didn't mean to throw no scare into + youse,” he said, in a conciliating tone. “But I had a little business wid + Mag, an' I was kind of interested in whether she was entertainin' company + or not—see? I didn't know youse an' Mag was workin' together.” + </p> + <p> + “Mabbe,” observed Jimmie Dale, as ungraciously as before, “mabbe dere's + some more t'ings youse don't know!” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, cough up de grouch!” advised the Magpie, with a hint of impatience + creeping into his voice. “Youse don't need to be sore all night! I told + youse I wasn't tryin' to hand youse one, didn't I?” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind Larry, Slimmy,” put in the Tocsin petulantly. “He's down on + his luck, dat's all. He ain't had de price of a pinch of coke fer two + days.” + </p> + <p> + “Oho!” exclaimed the Magpie, grinning again. “So dat's wot's givin' youse + de pip, eh, Larry? Well, den, say, youse can take it from me dat mabbe + youse'll be glad I blew around. I was lookin' fer a guy about yer size fer + a little job to-night, an' I was t'inkin' of lettin' Young Dutchy in on + it, but seem' youse are here an' in wid Mag, an' dat I got to get Mag in, + too, youse are on if youse say de word.” + </p> + <p> + “Wot's de lay?” inquired Larry the Bat, unbending a little. + </p> + <p> + The Magpie cocked his eye, and stuck his tongue in his cheek. + </p> + <p> + “GOOD-night!” he said tersely. “Nothin' like dat! Are youse on, or ain't + youse?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, den, wot's in it fer me?” persisted Larrry the Bat. + </p> + <p> + “More'n de price of a coke sneeze!” returned the Magpie pertinently. + “Dere's a century note fer youse, an' mabbe two or t'ree of dem fer Mag.” + </p> + <p> + Larry the Bat's eyes gleamed avariciously. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, quit yer kiddin'!” he said gruffly. “A century note—fer me!” + </p> + <p> + “Dat's wot I said! Youse heard me!” rejoined the Magpie shortly. “Only if + it listens good to youse now, I don't want no squealin' after the divvy. + I'm takin' de chances, youse has de soft end of it. One century note fer + youse—an' de rest is none of yer business! Dat's puttin' it + straight, ain't it? Well, wot do youse say, an' say it quick—'cause + if youse ain't comin' in, youse can beat it out of here so's I can talk to + Mag.” + </p> + <p> + “Dere ain't nothin' I wouldn't take a chance on fer a hundred plunks!” + declared Larry the Bat, with sudden fervency—and stared, anxiously + expectant, at the Magpie. “Sure, I'm on Slimmy! Sure, I am! Cut it loose! + Spill de story!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, den,” said the Magpie, “I wants—” + </p> + <p> + “Youse ain't through yet!” interrupted the Tocsin tartly. “I ain't heard + youse askin' me nothin'! I ain't on me uppers like Larry, an' mabbe de + price don't cut so much ice—see?” + </p> + <p> + “Aw,” said the Magpie, with a smirk, “I don't have to ask youse on dis + lay. Dis is where youse'd come in on it fer marbles. Say, dis is where we + gets de hook into a guy by de name of Henry LaSalle! Get me?” + </p> + <p> + HENRY LASALLE! Under the table, Jimmie Dale's hand clenched suddenly; but + not a muscle of his face moved, save, as with the tip of his tongue, he + shifted the butt of the cigarette that was hanging royally from his lower + lip to the other corner of his mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Sure! She's 'got' youse, Slimmy!” he flung out, with a grin, as the + Tocsin wrinkled up her face menacingly and began to mumble to herself. + “He's de guy dat handed her one when she was young, an' she's been layin' + fer him ever since! Sure! I know! Ain't I worked him fer her till I wears + me shoes out tryin' to get somet'ing on him! Sure, she's in on it! Go on, + Slimmy, wot's de lay? Wot do I do fer dat century?” + </p> + <p> + The Magpie hitched his chair closer to the table and, as his sharp, + little, ferret eyes glanced around the room, motioned the two to brings + their heads nearer. + </p> + <p> + “One of me influential broker friends down on Wall Street put me wise,” he + said, with a wink. “Dat's good enough fer youse two, as far as dat goes. + But take it from me, I got it dead straight.” He lowered his voice “Say, + he's one of de richest mugs in New York, ain't he? Well, he's been sellin' + stocks an' bonds all day, t'ousands an' t'ousands of dollars' worth—fer + cash.” + </p> + <p> + “All dem t'ings is always sold fer cash,” remarked Larry the Bat + fatuously. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, ferget it!” said the Magpie earnestly. “Fer CASH, I said—de + coin, de long green—understand? He wasn't shovin' no checks fer what + he sold into de bank except to get dem cashed. Dat's wot he's been doin' + all day—gettin' de checks cashed, an' gettin' de money in big bills—see! + I know of one bunch of eighty t'ousand—an' dat's only one!” + </p> + <p> + “Wot fer?” inquired Larry the Bat. It was the question that was pounding + at his brain, as he stared innocently at the Magpie. What did it mean? Why + was Henry LaSalle turning, and, if the Magpie was right, feverishly + turning every security he could lay his hands on into cash? And then, in a + flash, the answer came. THEY HAD NOT FOUND THE PACKAGE! Equally to them, + as to the Tocsin, sitting there before him, it meant life and death. If + the package were found by the Tocsin instead of themselves, the game was + up! They were preparing for eventualities. If they were forced to run at a + moment's notice, they at least were not going to run empty-handed! Far + from empty-handed, it seemed! It would not be difficult for the estate's + executor to realise a vast sum in short order on instantly marketable, + gilt-edged securities—say, half a million dollars. Not very bulky, + either—in large bills! Five thousand hundred-dollar bills would make + half a million. It was astonishing how small a hand bag, say, might hold a + fortune! “Wot fer, Slimmy?” he inquired again, wiggling his cigarette butt + on his tongue tip. “Wot'd he do dat fer?” + </p> + <p> + “How de hell do youse suppose I knows!” demanded the Magpie, politely + scornful. “Dat's his business—dat ain't wot's worryin' me!” + </p> + <p> + “No—sure, it ain't!” admitted Larry the Bat ingratiatingly. “But go + on, keep movin', Slimmy! Wot's he done wid de stuff?” + </p> + <p> + “Done wid it!” echoed the Magpie, with a short laugh. “Wot do youse t'ink! + He's been luggin' it home to his swell joint up dere on de avenoo, an' + crammin' his safe full of it.” + </p> + <p> + Larry the Bat sucked in his breath. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, dat's soft!” he murmured, and then suddenly, as though with painful + inspiration: “Say, Slimmy—say, are youse sure youse ain't been + handed a steer?” + </p> + <p> + The Magpie grinned wickedly. + </p> + <p> + “I ain't fallin' fer steers!” he said shortly. “Dis is on de level.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale lurched up from his chair, and, leaning over the lamp chimney, + drew wheezily on his cigarette to get a light. His eyes sought the + Tocsin's face. To all intents and purposes she was entirely absorbed in + the Magpie. He sat down again to gape, with well-stimulated, doglike + admiration, at Slimmy Joe. WAS THIS, TOO, A PLANT? Why had the Magpie come + to THEM with this story of Henry LaSalle? And then, the next instant, as + the Magpie spoke, his suspicions were allayed. + </p> + <p> + “Let's get down to cases!” the Magpie invited crisply. “I didn't blow in + here just by luck. Dis Henry LaSalle is de guy youse worked fer once, + ain't he, Mag? Dat's de spiel, ain't it?—he sent youse up fer + pinchin' de tacks out of his carpets!” + </p> + <p> + “I never pinched nothin'!” snarled Silver Mag truculently. “He's a dirty + liar! I never did!” + </p> + <p> + “Cut it out! Cut it out! Can dat!” complained the Magpie patiently. “De + point is, youse worked in his house, didn't youse?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure I did!” snapped the Tocsin, sullenly aggressive; “but—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, den, dat's wot I want, dat's wot I come fer, Mag—a plan of de + house. See?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale could feel the Tocsin's eyes upon him, questioning, searching, + seeking a cue. A plan of the house—yes or no? And a decision on the + instant! + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” said Larry the Bat brightly. “Dat's wot I was t'inkin' youse were + after all de time. Say, youse are all right, Slimmy! Youse are de kind to + work wid! Go on, Mag, draw de dope fer Slimmy. Dat's better dan tryin' to + put one over on de swell guy. Dis'll make him squeal fer fair!” + </p> + <p> + The Magpie produced a pencil and a piece of paper from his pocket, and + laid them on the table in front of the Tocsin. + </p> + <p> + “Dere youse are,” he announced. “Help yerself, an' go to it, Mag!” + </p> + <p> + The Tocsin, evidently not quite certain of her part, wet the pencil + doubtfully on the end of her tongue. + </p> + <p> + “I ain't never drawed plans,” she said anxiously. “Mabbe”—she + glanced at Jimmie Dale—“mabbe I dunno how to do it RIGHT.” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, go ahead!” nodded Larry the Bat. “Youse can do it right, Mag. Youse + don't have to make no oil paintin'! All de Magpie wants is de doors an' + windows, eh, Slimmy?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” agreed the Magpie encouragingly. “Dat's all, Mag. Just mark de + rooms out on de first floor, an' de basement. Youse can explain wot youse + 're doin' as youse goes along. I'll get youse.” + </p> + <p> + The Tocsin cackled maliciously in assent; and then, while the Magpie got + up from his chair and stood peering over her shoulder, she began to draw + labouriously, her brows knitted, the pencil hooked awkwardly between + cramped-up forefinger and thumb. + </p> + <p> + Larry the Bat, slouched forward over the table, his chin in his hands, + appeared to watch the proceedings with mild interest—but his eyes, + like a hawk's, were following every line on the paper, transferring them + to his brain, photographing every detail of the plan in his mind. And as + he watched, there seemed something that was near to the acme of all that + was ironical in the Magpie standing there, his sharp, little, black eyes + drinking in greedily the Tocsin's work, in the Tocsin herself aiding and + abetting in the projected theft—OF HER OWN MONEY! How far would he + let the Magpie go? He did not know. Perhaps—who could tell!—all + the way. Between now and then there lay that package! If it were at + Makoff's, at Spider Jack's, if he could find it, get it—the Magpie + as a temporary custodian of the estate's money would at least preclude its + loss by flight if the Crime Club took alarm too quickly. Larry the Bat's + eyes, under half-closed lids, rested musingly on the Magpie's face. The + Magpie would not get very far away with it! On the other hand, if he + failed at Spider Jack's, if, after all, he was wrong, and the package had + never been there, or if they had forestalled him, turned the trick upon + him, already secured it, then—Larry the Bat's lips, working on his + cigarette, formed in a twisted smile—then, well then, that was quite + another matter! Perhaps he and the Magpie might not agree so far! A half + million dollars was perhaps not much out of eleven millions, but it was a + salvage not to be despised! Why did he say half a million! Well, why not? + If the Magpie knew of a single transaction of eighty thousand, and there + had been many transactions during the day, a half million was little + likely to prove an exaggeration—and the less likely in view of the + fact that, if those in the Crime Club were preparing for an emergency, + they would not stint themselves in the disposal of securities. + </p> + <p> + The Magpie was keeping up a running fire of questions, as the Tocsin + toiled on with her pencil. Where did the hall lead to? How many windows in + the library? Did she remember the kind of fastenings? Did the servants + sleep in the basement, or above? And finally, twice over, as she finished + the clumsy drawing and pushed it toward him, he demanded minute details of + the position of the safe. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, dat's all right, Slimmy!” Larry the Bat cut in airily. “If youse + ferget anyt'ing when youse get in dere, youse can ask me. I got it + cinched!” + </p> + <p> + The Magpie folded the paper and stowed it carefully away in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Ask youse, eh!” he grunted sarcastically. “An' where do youse t'ink + youse'll be about dat time?” + </p> + <p> + “In dere wid youse, of course,” replied Larry the Bat promptly. “Dat's wot + youse said.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, youse will—NOT!” announced the Magpie, with cold finality. “Do + youse t'ink I want to queer myself! A hot one youse'd be on an inside job! + Youse'll be OUTSIDE, wid yer peepers skinned for de bulls—youse an' + Mag here, too. See! Get dat straight. While I'm on de job youse two plays + de game. Now youse listen to me, both of youse. Don't start nothin' unless + youse has to. If it's a cinch I got to make a get-away, youse two start a + drunk fight. Get me? Youse know de lay. T'row de talk loud—an' I'll + fade. Dat's all! We'll crack de crib early—it'll be quiet enough up + dere by one o'clock.” + </p> + <p> + One o'clock! Larry the Bat shook his head. What time was it now? It was + about nine when he had first met the Tocsin, then the Sanctuary, then the + long walk as he had followed her—say a quarter of ten for that. And + he had certainly been here with her not less than an hour and a half. It + must be after eleven, then. One o'clock! And before that must come Makoff + and Spider Jack! The night that half an hour ago had seemed so sterile, + was crowding a program of events upon him now—too fast! + </p> + <p> + “Nothin' doin'!” he said thoughtfully. “Youse are in wrong dere, Slimmy. + One o'clock don't go! Say, take it from me, I've watched dat guy too many + nights fer Mag. 'Tain't often he leaves de club before one o'clock—an' + he ain't never in bed before two.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” agreed the Magpie, after a moment's reflection. “Youse ought + to know. Make it three o'clock.” He pulled a cigar from his pocket, + lighted it, and, leaning back in his chair, stuck his feet up on the + table. “If youse don't mind, Mag, I'll stick around a while,” he decided + calmly. “Mabbe de less I'm seen to-night de better—an' I guess dere + won't be nobody lookin' fer me here.” + </p> + <p> + Larry the Bat coughed suddenly, and rose up a little heavily from his + chair. He had not counted on that! If the Magpie was settling down for a + prolonged stay, it devolved upon him, Jimmie Dale, to get away, and at + once—and without exciting the Magpie's suspicions. He coughed again, + looked nervously from the Tocsin to the Magpie—stammered—swallowed + hard—and coughed once more. + </p> + <p> + “Well, wot's bitin' youse?” inquired the Magpie ironically. + </p> + <p> + “Nothin',” said Larry the Bat—and hesitated. “Nothin', only—” + He hesitated again; and then, the words in a rush: + </p> + <p> + “Say, Slimmy, couldn't youse come across wid a piece of dat century now?” + </p> + <p> + “Wot fer?” demanded the Magpie, a little aggressively. + </p> + <p> + Larry the Bat cleared his throat with a desperate effort. + </p> + <p> + “Youse knows,” he admitted sheepishly. “Just gimme de price of one, Slimmy—just + one.” + </p> + <p> + “Coke!” exploded the Magpie. “An' get soaked to de eyes—not by a + damn sight!” + </p> + <p> + “No! Honest to Gawd, no, Slimmy—just one!” pleaded Larry the Bat. + </p> + <p> + “Nix!” said the Magpie shortly. + </p> + <p> + Larry the Bat thrust out a hand before the Magpie's eyes that shook + tremulously. + </p> + <p> + “I got to have it!” he declared, with sudden fierceness. “I GOT to—see! + Look at me! I ain't goin' to be no good to-night if I don't. I tell youse, + I got to! I ain't goin' to t'row youse down, Slimmy—honest, I ain't! + Just one—an' it'll set me up. If I don't get none I'll be on de + rocks before mornin'! Dat's straight, Slimmy—ask Mag, she knows.” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, let him go get it!” broke in the Tocsin wearily. “Dat's de best t'ing + youse can do, Slimmy—dey're all alike when dey gets in his class.” + </p> + <p> + “Youse cocaine sniffers gives me de pip!” snorted the Magpie, in disgust. + He dug down into his pocket, produced a bill, and flung it across the + table to Larry the Bat. “Well, dere youse are; but youse can take it from + me, Larry, dat if youse gets whiffed”—he swore threateningly—“I'll + crack every bone in yer face! Get me?” + </p> + <p> + “Slimmy,” said Larry the Bat fervently, grabbing at the bill with a hungry + hand, “youse can count on me. I'll be up dere on de job before youse are. + Three o'clock, eh? Well, so long, Slimmy”—he slouched eagerly to the + door. “So long, Mag”—he paused on the threshold for a single, + quick-flung, significant glance. “See youse on de avenoo, Mag—I'll + be up dere before youse are. So long!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, so long!” said the Tocsin contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + And, an instant later, Jimmie Dale closed the outer door behind him. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII + </h2> + <h3> + JOHN JOHANSSON—FOUR-TWO-EIGHT + </h3> + <p> + Nearly midnight already! It was even later than he had thought. Larry the + Bat pressed his face against a shop's windowpane on the Bowery for a + glance at a clock that had caught his eye on the wall within. Nearly + midnight! + </p> + <p> + He slouched on again hurriedly, still debating in his mind, as he had been + debating it all the way from the Tocsin's, the question of returning again + to the Sanctuary. So far, the way both to Spider Jack's and the Sanctuary + had been in the same direction—but the Sanctuary was on the next + street. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale reached the corner—and hesitated. It was strange how + strong was the intuition upon him to-night that bade him go on and make + all speed to Spider Jack's—while equally strong was the cold, + stubborn logic that bade him go first to the Sanctuary. There were things + that he needed there that would probably be absolutely essential to him + before the night was out, things without which he might be so badly + handicapped as to invite failure from the start; and yet—it was + already midnight! + </p> + <p> + Ostensibly both Makoff and Spider Jack closed their places at eleven. But + that might mean anything—depending upon their own respective + inclinations, or on what of their own peculiar brand of deviltry might be + afoot. If they were still about, still in evidence, he was still too + early, midnight though it was; though, on the other hand, if the coast was + clear, he could ill afford to lose a moment of the time between now and + the hour that the Magpie had planned for the robbery of Henry LaSalle, for + it would not be an easy matter, even once inside Spider Jack's, to find + that package—since it was Spider's open boast that things committed + to his care were where the police, or any one else, might as well whistle + and suck their thumbs as try to find them! + </p> + <p> + And then, with sudden decision, taking his hesitation, as it were, by the + throat, Jimmie Dale hurried on again—to the Sanctuary. At most, it + could delay him but another fifteen minutes, and by half-past twelve, or a + quarter to one at the latest, he would be at Spider Jack's. + </p> + <p> + Disdaining the secrecy of the side door on the alley, for who had a better + right or was better known there than Larry the Bat, a tenant of years, he + entered the tenement by the front door, scuffled up the stairs to the + first landing, and let himself into his disreputable room. He locked the + door behind him, lighted the choked and wheezy gas jet, in a single, + sharp-flung glance assured himself that the blinds were tightly shut, and, + kneeling in the far corner, threw back the oilcloth and lifted up the + loose section of the flooring beneath. He reached inside, fumbling under + the neatly folded clothes of Jimmie Dale, and in a moment laid his leather + girdle with its kit of burglar's tools on the floor beside him; and beside + that again an electric flashlight, a black silk mask, and—what he + had never expected to use again when, early the night before, he had, as + he had believed, put it away forever—the thin, metal insignia case + of the Gray Seal. Another moment, and, with the flooring replaced, the + oilcloth rolled back into position, he had stripped off his coat and was + pulling his spotted, greasy shirt off over his head; then, stooping + quickly, he picked up the girdle, put it on, put on his shirt again over + it, put on his coat, put the metal case, the flashlight, and the mask in + his pockets—and once more the Sanctuary was in darkness. + </p> + <p> + It was perhaps fifteen minutes later that Jimmie Dale turned into the + upper section of Thompson Street. Here he slowed his pace, that had been + almost a run since he had left the Sanctuary, and began to shuffle + leisurely along; for the street, that a few hours before would have been + choked with its pushcarts and venders, its half naked children playing + where they could find room in the gutters, its sidewalks thronged with + shawled women and picturesquely dressed, earringed, dark-visaged men, a + scene, as it were, transported from some foreign land, was still far from + deserted; the quiet, if quiet it could be called, was but comparative, + there were many yet about, and he had no desire to attract attention by + any evidence of undue haste. And, besides, Spider Jack's was just ahead, + making the corner of the alleyway a few hundred feet farther on, and he + had very good reasons for desiring to approach Spider's little novelty + store at a pace that would afford him every opportunity for observation. + </p> + <p> + On he shuffled along the street, until, reaching Spider Jack's, a little + two-storied, tumble-down brick structure, a muttered exclamation of + satisfaction escaped him. The shop was closed and dark; and, though Spider + Jack lived above the store, there were no lights even in the upper + windows. Spider Jack presumably was either out, or in bed! So far, then, + he could have asked for nothing more. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale edged in close to the building as he slouched by, so close + that his hat brim seemed to touch the windowpane. It was possible that + from a room at the rear of the store there might be a light with a + telltale ray perhaps filtering through, say, a door crack. But there was + nothing—only blackness within. + </p> + <p> + He paused at the corner of the building by the alleyway. Down here, + adjoining the high board fence of Spider Jack's back yard, Makoff made + pretense at pawnbrokering in a small and dingy wooden building, that was + little more pretentious than a shed—and in Makoff's place, so far as + he could see, there was no light, either. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's fingers were industriously rolling a cigarette, as, under + the brim of his slouch hat, his eyes were noting every detail around him. + A yard in against the wall of Spider Jack's, the wall cutting off the rays + of the street lamp at a sharp angle, it was shadowy and black—and + beyond that, farther in, the alleyway was like a pit. It would take less, + far less, than the fraction of a second to gain that yard, but some one + was approaching behind him, and a little group of people loitered, with + annoying persistency, directly across the way on the other side of the + street. Jimmie Dale stuck the cigarette between his lips, fumbled in his + pockets, and finally produced a box of matches. The group opposite was + moving on now; the footsteps he had heard behind him, those of a man, drew + nearer, the man passed by—and the box of matches in Jimmie Dale's + hand dropped to the ground. He reached to pick them up, and in his + stooping posture, without seeming to turn his head, flung a quick glance + behind him up the street. No one, for that fraction of a second that he + needed, was near enough to see—and in that fraction of a second + Jimmie Dale disappeared. + </p> + <p> + A dozen yards down the lane, he sprang for the top of the high fence, + gripped it, and, lithe and active as a cat, swung himself up and over, and + dropped noiselessly to the ground on the other side. Here he stood + motionless for a moment, close against the fence, to get his bearings. The + rear of Spider Jack's building loomed up before him—the back windows + as unlighted as those in front. Luck so far, at least, was with him! He + turned and looked about him, and, his eyes growing accustomed to the + darkness, he could just make out Makoff's place, bordering the end of the + yard—nor, from this new vantage point, could he discover, any more + than before, a single sign of life about the pawnbroker's establishment. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale stole forward across the yard, mounted the three steps of the + low stoop at Spider Jack's back door, and tried the door cautiously. It + was locked. From his pocket came the small steel instrument that had stood + Larry the Bat in good stead a hundred times before in similar + circumstances. He inserted it in the keyhole, worked deftly with it for an + instant—and tried the door again. It was still locked. And then + Jimmie Dale smiled almost apologetically. Spider Jack did not use ordinary + locks on his back door! + </p> + <p> + The discountenanced instrument went back into his pocket, and now Jimmie + Dale's hand slipped inside his shirt, and from one of the little, upright + pockets of the leather belt, and from still another, and from after that a + third, came the vicious little blued-steel tools. The sensitive fingers + travelled slowly up and down the side of the door—and then he was at + work in earnest. A minute passed—another—there was a dull, + low, grating sound, a snick as of metal yielding suddenly—and Jimmie + Dale was coolly stowing away his tools again inside his shirt. + </p> + <p> + He pushed the door open an inch, listened, then swung it wide, stepped + inside, and closed it behind him. A round, white beam of light flashed in + a quick circle—and went out. It was a sort of storeroom, innocent + enough and orderly enough in appearance, bare-floored, with boxes and + packing cases piled neatly against the walls. In one corner a staircase + led to the story above—and from above, quite audibly now, he caught + the sound of snoring. Spider Jack was in bed, then! + </p> + <p> + Directly facing him was the open door of another room, and Jimmie Dale, + moving softly forward, entered it. He had never been in Spider Jack's + before, and his first concern was to form an intimate acquaintanceship + with his surroundings. Again the flashlight circled, and again went out. + </p> + <p> + “No windows!” muttered Jimmie Dale under his breath. “Nothing very fancy + about the architecture! Three rooms in a row! Store in front of this room + through that door of course. Wonder if the door's locked, though it's a + foregone conclusion the package wouldn't be in there.” + </p> + <p> + Not a sound, his tread silent, he crossed to the closed door that he had + noticed. It was unlocked, and he opened it tentatively a little way. A + faint glow of light diffused itself through the opening. Jimmie Dale + nodded his head and closed the door again. The street lamp, shining + through the shop windows, accounted for the light. + </p> + <p> + And now the flashlight played with steady inquisitiveness about him. The + room in which he stood seemed to combine a sort of office, with a lounging + room, in which Spider Jack, no doubt, entertained his particular cronies. + There was table in the centre, cards still upon it, chairs about it. + Against the wall farthest away from the shop stood a huge, old-fashioned + cabinet; and a little farther along, anglewise, partitioning off the + corner, as it were, hung, for some purpose or other, a cretonne curtain. + Also, against the wall next to the lane, bringing a commiserating smile to + Jimmie Dale's lips as his eyes fell upon it, was a clumsy, lumbering, + antique safe. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's eyes returned to the curtain. What was it doing there? What + was it for? Instinctively he stepped over to examine it. A single glance, + however, as he lifted it aside, sufficed. It was nothing but a make-shift + clothes closet. He turned from it, switched off the flashlight, and stood + staring meditatively into the darkness. In a strange house, with the + knowledge to begin with that what he sought was carefully hidden, it was + no sinecure to find that package. He had never for a moment imagined that + it would be. But of one thing, however, there was no uncertainty in his + mind—he would get the package!—by search if possible, by other + means if search failed. It was now close to one o'clock. If by two o'clock + his efforts had been fruitless, Spider Jack would hand over the package—at + the revolver point! It was quite simple! Meanwhile—Jimmie Dale + shrugged his shoulders, and, going over to the safe, knelt down in front + of it—meanwhile, as well begin here as anywhere else. + </p> + <p> + The trained fingers closed on the handle—and on the instant, as + though in startled amazement, shifted to the dial. They came back to the + handle—a wrench—then a low, amused chuckle—and the door + swung open. The great, unwieldy thing was only a monumental bluff! It not + only had not been locked, but it COULD NOT be locked—the mechanism + was out of order, the bolts could not be moved by so much as a hair's + breadth! + </p> + <p> + Still chuckling, Jimmie Dale shot the flashlight's ray into the interior + of the safe—and the chuckle died on his lips, and into his face came + a look of strained bewilderment. Inside, everything was in chaos, books, + papers, a miscellany of articles, as though they had first been ruthlessly + pulled out on the floor, then gathered up in an armful and crammed back + inside again. For an instant he did not move, and then a queer, hard, + mirthless smile drew down the corners of his mouth. With a sort of bitter, + expectant nod of his head, he turned the light upon the door of the safe. + Yes, there were the scratches that the tools had left; and, as though in + sardonic jest, the holes, where the steel bit had bored, were plugged with + putty and rubbed over with some black substance that was still wet and + came off, smearing his finger, as he touched it. It could not have been + done long ago, then! How long? A half hour—an hour? Not more than + that! + </p> + <p> + Mechanically he closed the door of the safe, rose to his feet and, almost + heedless of noise now, the flashlight ray dancing before him, he jumped + across to the old-fashioned cabinet and pulled the door open. Here, as + within the safe, all inside, plain evidence of thorough, if hasty, search, + was scattered and tossed about in hopeless confusion. + </p> + <p> + He shut the cabinet door; the flashlight went out; and he stood like a man + stunned, the sense of some abysmal disaster upon him. He was too late! The + game was up! If it had ever been here, the package was gone now—GONE! + The Crime Club had been here before him! + </p> + <p> + “The game was up! The game was up!”—his mind seemed to keep on + repeating that. The Crime Club had beaten him by an hour, at most, and had + been here, and had searched. It was strange, though, that they should have + been at such curious pains to cover their tracks by leaving the room in + order, by such paltry efforts to make the safe appear untouched when the + first glance that was at all critical would disclose immediately what had + been done! Why should they need to cover their tracks at all; or, if it + was necessary, why, above all, in such a pitifully inadequate way! His + mind barked back to the same ghastly refrain—“the game was up!” + </p> + <p> + NO! Not yet! There was still a chance! There was still Spider Jack! + Suppose, in spite of their search, they had failed to find the package! + Jimmie Dale's lips set in a thin line, as he started abruptly toward the + door. There was still that chance, and one thing was grimly certain—Spider + Jack would, at least, show him where the package HAD BEEN! + </p> + <p> + And then, halfway to the door, he halted suddenly, and stood still—listening. + An electric bell was ringing loudly, imperiously, somewhere upstairs. + Followed almost immediately the sound of some one, Spider Jack presumably, + moving hurriedly about overhead; and then, a moment later, steps coming + down the staircase in the adjoining room. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale drew back, flattening himself against the wall. Spider Jack + entered the room, stumbled across it, in the darkness, fumbled for the + door that led into his little shop, opened it, passed through, fumbled + around in there again, for matches evidently, then lighted a gas jet in + the store, and, going to the street door, opened it. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale had edged along the wall a little to a position where he had + an unobstructed view through the open doorway connecting the shop and the + room in which he stood. Spider Jack, in trousers and shirt, hastily + donned, no doubt, as he had got out of bed, was standing in the street + doorway, and beyond him loomed the forms of several men. Spider Jack + stepped aside to allow his visitors to enter—and suddenly, a cry + barely suppressed upon his lips, Jimmie Dale involuntarily strained + forward. Three men had entered, but his eyes were fixed, fascinated, upon + only one—the first of the three. Was it an hallucination? Was he mad—-dreaming? + It was Hilton Travers, THE CHAUFFEUR—the man whom he could have + sworn he had last seen dead, lashed in that chair, in that ghastly death + chamber of the Crime Club! + </p> + <p> + “Rather rough on you, Spider, to pull you out of bed at this hour,” the + chauffeur was saying apologetically. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's all right, seein' it's you, Travers,” Spider Jack answered, + gruffly amiable. “Only I was kind of lookin' for you last night.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” the chauffeur replied; “but I couldn't connect with my friends + here. Shake hands with them, Spider—Bob Marvin—Harry Stead.” + </p> + <p> + “Glad to know you, gents,” said Spider Jack, with a handgrip apiece. + </p> + <p> + The chauffeur lowered his voice a little. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose we're alone here, eh, Spider? Yes? Well, then, you know what + I've come for—that package—Marvin and Stead, here, are the + ones that are in on it with me. Get it for me, will you, Spider?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure—Mr. Johansson!” Spider grinned. “Sure! Come on into the back + room and make yourselves comfortable. I'll be mabbe five minutes, or so.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's brain was whirling. What did it mean? He could not seem to + understand. His mind seemed to refuse its functions. Travers, the + chauffeur—ALIVE! He drew in his breath sharply. That curtain in the + corner! He must see this out now! They were coming! Quick, noiseless, he + stole along the side of the wall, reached the corner, and slipped in + behind the curtain, as Spider Jack, striking a match, entered the room. + </p> + <p> + Spider Jack lighted the gas, and, as the others followed behind him, waved + them toward the chairs around the table. + </p> + <p> + “I'll just ask you gents not to leave the room,” he said meaningly, over + his shoulder, as he stepped toward the rear door. “It's kind of a fad of + mine to keep some things even from my wife!” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Spider—I understand,” the chauffeur returned readily. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale's knife cut a tiny slit in the cretonne on a level with his + eyes. The three men had seated themselves at the table, and appeared to be + listening intently. Spider Jack's footsteps echoed back as he crossed the + rear room, sounded dull and muffled descending the stoop outside, and died + away. + </p> + <p> + “I told you it wasn't in the house!” the man who had been introduced as + Stead laughed shortly. “We wasted the hour we had here.” + </p> + <p> + The third man spoke crisply, incisively, to the chauffeur. + </p> + <p> + “Turn down that gas jet a little! You've got across with it so far—but + you can't stand a searchlight, Clarke!” + </p> + <p> + And at the words, in a flash, the meaning of it, all of it, to the last + detail that was spelling death, ruin, and disaster for her, the Tocsin, + for himself as well, burst upon Jimmie Dale. That VOICE! He would have + known it, recognised it, among a thousand—it was the masked man of + the night before, the leader, the head of the Crime Club! And it was not + Travers there at all! He remembered now, too well, that second room they + had showed him in the Crime Club—its multitude of disguises, though + in this case they had the dead man's clothes ready to their hands—the + leader's boast that impersonation was but child's play to them! And now he + understood why they had covered up the traces of their search in only so + curiously inadequate a manner. They had failed to find the package, and, + as a last resort, had adopted the ruse of impersonating Hilton Travers, + the chauffeur, which made it necessary that when they called Spider Jack + from his bed, as they had just done, that Spider Jack, at a CASUAL glance, + should notice nothing amiss—but it would be no more than a casual + glance, for, who should know better than they, he would not have to go for + the package to any place that they had disturbed! And he, Jimmie Dale, + could only stand here and watch them, helpless, powerless to move! Three + of them! A step out into the room was to invite certain death. It would + not matter, his death—if he could gain anything for her, for the + Tocsin, by it. But what could he gain—by dying? He clenched his + hands until the nails bit into the flesh. + </p> + <p> + Spider Jack re-entered the room, carrying what looked like a large, bulky, + manila envelope, heavily sealed, in his hand. He tossed it on the table. + </p> + <p> + “There you are, Travers!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” suggested the leader pleasantly, “if, now that we're here, + Travers, your friend would mind letting us have this room for a few + minutes to ourselves to clean up the business?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” agreed Spider Jack cordially. “You're welcome to it! I'll wait out + here in the store until you say the word.” + </p> + <p> + He went out, closing the door after him. The leader picked up the package. + </p> + <p> + “We'll take no chances with this,” he said grimly. “It's been too close a + call. After we've had a look at it, we'll put it out of harm's way on the + spot, here, while we've got it—before we leave!” + </p> + <p> + He ripped the package open, and disclosed perhaps a dozen official-looking + documents, besides a miscellaneous number of others. He took up the first + of the papers, glanced through it hurriedly, then tossed it to the pseudo + chauffeur. + </p> + <p> + “Tear it up, and tear it up—SMALL!” he ordered tersely. The next, + after examining it as he had the first, he tossed to the other man. “Go + ahead!”—curtly. “Work fast! From the looks of these, Travers had us + cold! There's proof enough here of LaSalle's murder to send us all to the + chair!” + </p> + <p> + He went on glancing through the documents; and then suddenly, joining the + others in their work, began to rip and tear at the papers himself. + </p> + <p> + A sort of cold horror had settled upon Jimmie Dale, and his forehead was + clammy wet. The inhuman irony of it! That he should stand there and watch, + impotent to prevent it, the destruction of what he would have given his + life to secure! And then slowly, a grim, hard, merciless smile came to his + lips. He had recognised the leader's voice—now he would recognise + the leader's FACE. At least, that was left to him—perhaps the master + trump of all. It would not be very hard to find the Crime Club now—with + that man to lead the way! + </p> + <p> + The scraps of paper, tiny shreds, mounted into a heap on the table—and + with the last of the contents of the package destroyed, the leader stood + up. + </p> + <p> + “Put these pieces in your pockets; we don't want to leave them here,” he + directed quietly. “And then let's get out.” + </p> + <p> + In scarcely a moment, the last scrap of paper had vanished. The three men + walked to the door, passed through it, and joined Spider Jack in the store—and + Jimmie Dale, slipping out from behind the curtain, gained the door of the + rear room, crept through it, reached the stoop, and then, darting like the + wind across the yard, was over the fence in a second, and in another was + out of the alleyway and on the street. + </p> + <p> + He was in time—in plenty of time. They had just left Spider Jack's, + and were, perhaps, fifty yards or so ahead of him. He slouched on behind + them—the cold, grim smile on his lips once more. It was the Crime + Club now, that hell's cradle where their devil's schemes were hatched, + that was the one thing left to him; they would lead him to that, and then—and + then it would be his turn to STRIKE! + </p> + <p> + They turned the first corner. And suddenly, as the racing engine of an + automobile caught his ear, he broke into a run, and dashed around the + corner after them—in time to see them jump into a car, and the car + speed off along the street! He halted, as though he were suddenly dazed—started + involuntarily to run forward again—stopped with a hollow laugh at + the futility of it—and stood still and motionless on the sidewalk. + </p> + <p> + And then he swayed a little, and his face grew gray. Failure, defeat, ruin—in + that moment he knew them all to their bitterest dregs. How could he go to + her! How could he face her, and tell her that they were beaten, that the + last hope was gone, that he had failed! + </p> + <p> + “God!” he cried aloud, and clenched his hands. + </p> + <p> + Then deep in his consciousness a thought stirred, and he swept a shaking + hand across his eyes. Why had it come again, that thought! Did it mean + that HE must play—the last card! There was a way—there had + always been a way. The way the Crime Club took—MURDER. It was their + own weapon! If the man who posed as Henry LaSalle were killed! If that man—were + killed! + </p> + <p> + “The Magpie was to be there at three!” he muttered—and started + mechanically back along the street. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII + </h2> + <h3> + THE ONLY WAY + </h3> + <p> + It was a horrible thing—and it grew upon him. In a blind, mechanical + way, his brain receptive to nothing else, Jimmie Dale walked on along the + street. To kill a man! Death he had faced himself a hundred times, + witnessed it a hundred times in its most violent forms, had seen murder + done before his eyes, had been in straits where, to save his own life, it + had seemed the one last desperate chance—and yet his hands were + still clean! To kill a man in fair fight, in struggle, when the blood was + hot, was terrible enough, a possibility that was always before him, the + one thing from which he shrank, the one thing that, as the Gray Seal, he + had always feared; but to kill a man deliberately, to creep upon his + victim with hideous, cold-blooded premeditation—he shivered a + little, and his hand shook as he drew it nervously across his eyes. + </p> + <p> + But there was no other way! Again and again, insidiously grappling with + his revulsion, with the horror that the impulse to murder inspired, came + that other thought—there was no other way. If the man who posed as + Henry LaSalle were DEAD! If he were dead! If he were dead! See, now, what + would happen if that man were dead! How clear his brain was on that point! + The whole plot would tumble like a house of cards about the heads of the + Crime Club. The courts would require an auditing of the estate by a + trustee of the courts' own appointing, who would continue to administer it + until the Tocsin's twenty-fifth birthday, or until there was tangible + evidence of her death—but the Tocsin, automatically with her pseudo + uncle's death, could publicly appear again. Her death could no longer + benefit the Crime Club, since it, the Crime Club, with the supposed uncle + dead, could not profit through the false Henry LaSalle inheriting as next + of kin! It was the weak link, the vulnerable point in the stupendous + scheme of murder and crime with which these hell fiends had played for and + won, so far, the stake of eleven millions. Not that they had overlooked or + been blind to this, they were too clever, too cunning for that—it + was only that they had planned to accomplish the Tocsin's death, as they + had her father's and uncle's, and ESTABLISH the false Henry LaSalle in + undisputed possession and ownership of the estate—and had failed in + that—up to the present. But the material results remained the same, + so long as the Tocsin, to save her life, was forced to remain in hiding, + so long as proof that would convict the Crime Club was not forthcoming—SO + LONG AS THAT MAN LIVED! + </p> + <p> + Time passed to which Jimmie Dale was oblivious. At times he walked slowly, + scarcely moving; at times his pace was a nervous, hurried stride, that was + almost a run. And as he was oblivious to time, so was he oblivious to his + surroundings, to the direction which he took. At times his forehead was + damp with moisture that was not there from physical exertion; at times his + face, deathly white, was full as of the vision of some shuddering, + abhorrent sight; at times his lips were thinned into a straight line, and + there was a glitter in the dark eyes that was not good to see, while his + hands at his sides clenched until the skin, tight over the knuckles, was + an ivory white. To kill a man! + </p> + <p> + What other way was there? The proof that it had taken Hilton Travers years + to obtain, the proof on which the Tocsin's life depended, was destroyed + utterly, irreparably. It could never be duplicated—Hilton Travers + was dead—MURDERED. Murder! That thought again! It was their own + weapon! Murder! Would one kill a venomous reptile in whose fangs was + death? What right had this man to life, whose life was forfeit even under + the law—for murder? Was she to drag on an intolerable existence + among the dregs and the scum of the underworld, she, in her refinement and + her purity, to exist among the vile and dissolute, in daily, hourly peril + of her life, because the weapons that these inhuman vultures had used to + rob her, to destroy those she loved, to make of her life a hideous, + joyless thing, should not be used against them? + </p> + <p> + But to kill a man! To steal upon a man with cold intent in the blackness + of the night—and take his life! To be a murderer! To know the horror + of blood forever upon one's hands, to rise, cold-sweated, in the night, + fearful of the very shadows around one, to live with every detail of that + fearsome act sweeping like some dread spectre at unexpected moments upon + the consciousness! He put up his hands before his face, as though to blot + out the thought from him. Mind and soul recoiled before it—to kill a + man! + </p> + <p> + He walked on and on, until at last, conscious of a sense of fatigue, he + stopped. He must have come a long way, been walking a long time. Where was + he? He looked about him for a moment in a dazed way—and suddenly, + with a low cry, shrank back. As though he had been drawn to it by some + ghastly magnet, he found himself standing in front of the LaSalle mansion, + on Fifth Avenue. No, no; it was not for that he had come—to kill a + man! It was only—only to get that money. Yes—he remembered now—that + money from the safe, before the Magpie got it. The Magpie was to be there + at three o'clock—and the Tocsin was to be there, too. The Tocsin! + That package! He had failed! It had been her one hope, and—and it + was gone. What could he say to her? How could he tell her the miserable + truth? But—but he had not come there in the dead of night to kill a + man, these other things were what had— + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie!” It was a quick-breathed whisper. A hand was on his arm. + </p> + <p> + He turned, startled. It was the Tocsin—Silver Mag. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie!” in alarm. “Why are you standing here like this? You may be + SEEN!” + </p> + <p> + Seen! Suppose he WERE seen? He shuddered a little. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; that's so!” he said hoarsely. He glanced numbly up and down the + wide, deserted, but well-lighted, avenue. It was no place, that most + aristocratic section of the city, for such as Silver Mag and Larry the Bat + to be seen at that hour of night, or, rather, morning. And if anything + HAPPENED inside that house! “I—I didn't think of that,” he said + mechanically. + </p> + <p> + “Come across the street—under the stoop of that house there.” She + had his arm, and was half dragging him as she spoke, the alarm in her + voice intensified. And then, a moment later, safe from observation: + “Jimmie, Jimmie, what is the matter? What has happened? What makes you act + so strangely?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” he said. “I—” + </p> + <p> + “TELL me!” she insisted wildly. + </p> + <p> + And then, with a violent effort, Jimmie Dale forced his mind back to the + immediate present. He was only inspiring her with terror—and there + was the Magpie—and that money in the safe! + </p> + <p> + “Where is the Magpie?” he asked, with quick apprehension. “Am I late? Is + he in there already?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said. “He hasn't come yet.” + </p> + <p> + “What time is it?” he demanded anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “About half-past two,” she replied. “But, Jimmie—” + </p> + <p> + “Wait!” he broke in. “Where is he now? You were both together! And you + were both to be here at three. What are you doing here alone at half-past + two?” + </p> + <p> + A strange little exclamation, one almost of dismay, it seemed, escaped + her. + </p> + <p> + “The Magpie left my place an hour ago—to get his kit, I think. And I + came here at once because that was what you and I understood I was to do, + wasn't it? Jimmie, you frighten me! You are not yourself. Don't you + remember the last words you said, as you nodded to me behind the Magpie's + back—that you would be here BEFORE us? There was no mistaking your + meaning—if I could get away from him, I was to come here and meet + you.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale passed his hand nervously across his eyes. Of course, he + remembered now! What a frightful turmoil his brain had been in! + </p> + <p> + “Yes; of course!” He tried to speak nonchalantly. “I had forgotten for the + moment.” + </p> + <p> + She caught his arm in a quick, tight hold, shaking him in a terrified way. + </p> + <p> + “YOU—forget a thing like that! Jimmie—something terrible has + happened. Can't you see that I am nearly mad with anxiety! What is it? + What is it? That package, Jimmie—is it the package?” + </p> + <p> + He did not answer. What could he say? It meant life, hope, joy, everything + that the world held for her—and it was gone. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—it IS the package!” she whispered frantically. “Quick, Jimmie! + Tell me! It—it was not there? You—you could not find it?” + </p> + <p> + “It was there,” he said, as though the words were literally forced from + him. + </p> + <p> + “Then? Then—WHAT, Jimmie?” The clutch on his arm was like a vise. + </p> + <p> + “They got it,” he said. It was like a death sentence that he pronounced. + “It is destroyed.” + </p> + <p> + She did not speak or move—save that her hands, as though nerveless + and without strength, fell away from his arms, and dropped to her sides. + It was dark there under the stoop, though not so dark but that he could + see her face. It was gray—gray as death. And there was misery and + fear and a pitiful helplessness in it—and then she swayed a little, + and he caught her in his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Gone!” she murmured in a dead, colourless way—and suddenly laughed + out sharply, hysterically. + </p> + <p> + “Don't! For God's sake, don't do that!” he pleaded wildly. + </p> + <p> + She looked at him then for a moment in strange quiet—and lifted her + hand and stroked his face in a numbed way. + </p> + <p> + “It—it would have been better, Jimmie, wouldn't it,” she said in the + same monotonous voice, “it would have been better if—if I had never + found out anything, and they—they had done the same to me that they + did to—to father.” + </p> + <p> + “Marie! Marie!” It was the first time he had ever spoken her name, and it + was on his lips now in an agony of tenderness and appeal. “Don't! You + mustn't speak like that!” + </p> + <p> + “I'm tired,” she said. “I—I can't fight any more.” + </p> + <p> + She did not cry. She lay there in his arms quite still—like a weary + child. + </p> + <p> + The minutes passed. When Jimmie Dale spoke again it was irrelevantly—and + his face was very white: + </p> + <p> + “Marie, describe the upper floor of that house over there for me.” + </p> + <p> + She roused herself with a start. + </p> + <p> + “The upper floor?” she repeated slowly. “Why—why do you ask that?” + </p> + <p> + “Have YOU forgotten in turn?” he said, with a steady smile. “That money in + the safe—it's yours—we can at least save that out of the + wreck. You only drew the basement plan and the first floor for the Magpie—the + more I know about the house the better, of course, in case anything goes + wrong. Now, see, try and be brave—and tell me quickly, for I must + get through before the Magpie comes, and I have barely half an hour.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Jimmie—no!” She slipped out of his arms. “Let it alone! I am + afraid. Something—I—I have a feeling that something will + happen.” + </p> + <p> + “It is the only way.” He said it involuntarily, more to himself than to + her. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie, let it alone!” she said again. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said. “I am going—so tell me quickly. Every minute that we + wait is one that counts against us.” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated an instant—and then, speaking rapidly, made a verbal + sketch of the upper portion of the house for him. + </p> + <p> + “It's a very large house, isn't it?” he commented innocently—to pave + the way for the question, above all others, that he had to ask. “Which is + your uncle's, I mean that man's room?” + </p> + <p> + “The first on the right, at the head of the landing,” she answered. “Only, + Jimmie, don't—don't go!” + </p> + <p> + He drew her close to him again. + </p> + <p> + “Now, listen,” he said quietly. “When the Magpie comes and finds I am not + here, lead him to think that the money he gave me was too much for me; + that I am probably in some den, doped with drug—and hold him as long + as you can on the pretext that there is always the possibility I may, + after all, show up before he goes in there. You understand? And now about + yourself—you must do exactly as I say. On no account allow yourself + to be seen by ANY ONE except the Magpie. I would tell you to go now, only, + unless it is vitally necessary, we cannot afford to arouse the Magpie's + suspicions—he'd have every crook in the underworld snarling at our + heels. But you are not to wait, even for him, if you detect the slightest + disturbance in that house before he comes. And, equally, after he has gone + in, whether I have come out or not, at the first indication of anything + unusual you are to get away at once. You understand—Marie?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. “But—but, Jimmie, you—” + </p> + <p> + “Just one thing more.” He smiled at her reassuringly. “Did the Magpie say + anything about how he intended to get in?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—by the side away from the corner of the street,” she said + tremulously. “You see, there's quite a space between the house and the one + next door; and, besides, the house next door is closed up, there's nobody + there, the family has gone away for the summer. The library window there + is low enough to reach from the ground.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment longer he held her close to him, as though he could not let + her go—then bent and kissed her passionately. And in that moment all + the emotions he had known as he had walked blindly from Spider Jack's that + night surged again upon him; and that voice was whispering, whispering, + whispering: “It is the only way—it is the only way.” + </p> + <p> + And then, not daring to trust his voice, he released her suddenly, and + stepped back out from under the stoop—and the next instant he was + across the deserted avenue. Another, and he had slipped through the iron + gates that opened on the street driveway—and in yet another he was + crouched close up against the front door of the LaSalle mansion. + </p> + <p> + It was a large house, a very large house, one of the few that, even amid + the wealth and luxury of that quarter, boasted its own grounds, and those + so restricted as scarcely to deserve the name; but it was set far enough + back from the street to escape the radius of the street lamps, and so + guarantee in its shadows security from observation. It was not the + Magpie's way, the front door—the obvious to the Magpie and his ilk + was a thing always to be shunned. Jimmie Dale's lips were set in a grim + smile, as his fingers worked with lightning speed, now taking this + instrument and now that from the leather pockets in the girdle beneath his + shirt—the penitentiaries were full of Magpies who shunned the + obvious! + </p> + <p> + Very slowly, very cautiously the door opened. He listened breathlessly, + tensely. The door closed again—behind him. He was inside now. + Stillness! Blackness! Not a sound! A minute went by—another. And + then, as he stood there, strained, listening, the silence itself began, it + seemed, to palpitate, and pound, pound, pound, and be full of strange + noises. It was a horrible thing—to kill a man! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV + </h2> + <h3> + OUT OF THE DARKNESS + </h3> + <p> + A moment later, Jimmie Dale stepped forward through the vestibule. He was + quite calm now; a sort of cold, merciless precision in every movement + succeeding the riot of turbulent emotions that had possessed him as he had + entered the house. + </p> + <p> + The half hour, the maximum length of time before the Magpie would appear, + as he had estimated it when out there under the stoop with the Tocsin, had + dwindled now to perhaps twenty minutes, twenty-five at the outside. + Twenty-five minutes! Twenty-five minutes was so little that for an instant + the temptation was strong upon him to sacrifice, rather than any of those + precious minutes, the Magpie instead! And then in the darkness, as he + stole noiselessly across the hall, he shook his head. It would be a + cowardly, brutal thing to do. What chance would a man with a record like + the Magpie's stand if caught there? How easy it would be to shift the + murder of the supposed Henry LaSalle to the Magpie's shoulders! Jimmie + Dale's lips closed firmly. Self-preservation was, perhaps, the first law, + but he would save the Magpie if he could—the Magpie should have his + chance! The man might be a criminal, might deserve punishment at the hands + of the law, his liberty might be a menace to the community—but he + was not a murderer, his life forfeit for a crime he had never committed! + </p> + <p> + If he, Jimmie Dale, could only in some way have arranged with the Tocsin + out there to keep the Magpie away altogether! But it could not be done + without arousing the Magpie's suspicions; and, as a corollary to that, + afterward, with the subsequent events, would come—the deluge! The + law of the underworld was clear, concise, and admitting of no appeal on + that point; to double cross a pal meant, sooner or later, a knife thrust, + a blackjack, or—But what difference did it make what form the + execution of the sentence took? And, since, then, that was out of the + question, since he could not keep the Magpie away without practically + risking his own life, the Magpie at least must have his chance. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was at the library door now, that, according to the plan the + Tocsin had drawn for the Magpie, and as he remembered her description when + she had told him her story earlier in the evening, was just at the foot of + the staircase. How dark it was! Though the stairs could be only a few feet + away, he could not see them. And how intense the silence was again! Here, + where he stood, the slightest stir from above must have reached him—but + there was not a sound. + </p> + <p> + His hand felt out for the doorknob, found it, turned it, and pushed the + door open. He stepped inside the room and closed the door behind him. The + safe, according to the Tocsin's plan again, was in that sort of alcove at + the lower end of the library. Jimmie Dale's flashlight played + inquisitively about the room. There was the window, the only one in the + room, the window through which the Magpie proposed to enter; there was the + archway of the alcove, with its—no, there were no longer any + portieres; and there was the safe, he could see it quite plainly from + where he stood at the upper end of the room. + </p> + <p> + The flashlight went out for the space of perhaps thirty seconds—thirty + seconds of absolute silence, absolute stillness—then the round, + white ray of the light again, but glistening now on the nickel knobs and + dial of the safe—and Jimmie Dale was on his knees before it. + </p> + <p> + A low, scarcely breathed exclamation, that seemed to mingle anxiety and + hesitation, escaped him. He, who knew the make of every safe in the + country, knew this one for its true worth. Twenty-five minutes! Could he + open it in that time, let alone with any time to spare! It was not like + the one in Spider Jack's; it was the kind that the Magpie, however clever + he might be in his own way, would be forced to negotiate with “soup,” and, + with the attendant noise, double his chance of discovery and capture—and + the responsibility for what might have happened UPSTAIRS! No; the Magpie + must have his chance! And, besides, the money in the safe apart, why + should not he, Jimmie Dale, have his own chance, as well? All this would + help. The motive—robbery; the perpetrator, there was grim mockery on + his lips now as the light went out and the sensitive fingers closed on the + knob of the dial, the perpetrator—the Gray Seal. It would afford + excellent food for the violent editorial diatribes under which the police + again would writhe in frenzy! + </p> + <p> + Stillness again! Silence! Only a low, tense breathing; only, so faint that + it could not be heard a foot away, a curious scratching, as from time to + time the supersensitive fingers fell away from the dial to rub upon the + carpet—to increase even their sensitiveness by setting the nerves to + throbbing through the skin surface at the tips. And then Jimmie Dale's + head, ear pressed close against the safe to catch the tumbler's fall, was + lifted—and the flashlight played again on the dial. + </p> + <p> + “Twenty-eight and a quarter—left.” + </p> + <p> + How fast the time went—and how slowly! Still the black shape + crouched there in the darkness against the safe. At times, in strange, + ghostly flashes, the nickel dial with the ray upon it seemed to leap out + and glisten through the surrounding blackness; at times, the quick intake + of breath, as from great exertion; at times, faint, musical little clicks, + as, after abortive effort, the dial whirled, preparatory to a fresh + attempt. And then, at last—a gasp of relief: + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + Came the sound, barely audible, as of steel sliding in well-oiled grooves, + the muffled thud of metal meeting metal as the bolts shot back—and + the heavy door swung outward. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale stretched his cramped limbs, and wiped the moisture from his + face—then set to work again upon the inner door. This was an easier + matter—far easier. Five minutes, perhaps a little more, went by—and + then the inner door was open, and the flashlight's ray was flooding the + interior of the safe. + </p> + <p> + A queer little sound, half of astonishment, half of disappointment, issued + from Jimmie Dale's lips. There was money here, a great deal of money, + undoubtedly, but there was no such sum as he had, somehow, fantastically + imagined from the Magpie's evidently overcoloured story that there would + be; there was money, ten packages of banknotes neatly piled in the bottom + compartment—but there was no half million of dollars! He picked up + one of the packages hurriedly—and drew in his breath. After all, + there was a great deal—the notes were of hundred-dollar + denomination, and on the bottom were two one-thousand-dollar bills! + Calculated roughly, if each of the other nine packages contained a like + amount, the total must exceed a hundred thousand. + </p> + <p> + And now Jimmie Dale began to work with feverish haste. From the leather + girdle inside his shirt came the thin metal insignia case—and a gray + seal was stuck firmly on the dial knob of the safe. This done, he tucked + away the packages of banknotes, some into his pockets and some inside his + shirt; and then quickly ransacked the interior of the safe, flauntingly + spilling the contents of drawers and pigeonholes out upon the floor. + </p> + <p> + He stood up, and, leaving the safe door wide open, walked back across the + room to the window, unfastened the catch, and opened the window an inch or + two. The way was open now for the Magpie! The Magpie would have no need to + make any noise in forcing an entrance; he would be able to see almost at a + glance that he had been forestalled—by the Gray Seal; and that, as + far as he was concerned, the game was up. The Magpie had his chance! If + the Magpie did not take the hint and make his escape as noiselessly as he + had entered—it was his own fault! He, Jimmie Dale, had given the + Magpie his chance. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale turned from the window, and made his way out of the library to + the foot of the stairs, leaving the library door open behind him. How long + had he been? Was it more or less than the twenty-five minutes? He did not + know—only, as yet, the Magpie had not come, and now perhaps it did + not make so much difference. + </p> + <p> + Where was he going now? His foot was on the first stair—and suddenly + he drew it back, the cold sweat bursting out on his forehead. Where was he + going now? “THE FIRST ROOM ON THE RIGHT AT THE HEAD OF THE LANDING.” From + his inner consciousness, as it were, the answer, in all the bald, naked + horror that it implied, flashed upon him. The first room on the right—THAT + man's room! God, how the darkness and the stillness began to palpitate + again, and suddenly seem to shriek out at him over and over the one + single, ghastly word—MURDER! + </p> + <p> + It had been with him, that thought, all the time he had been working at + the safe; but it had been there then only subconsciously, like some heavy, + nameless dread, subjugated for the moment by the work he had had to do + which had demanded the centred attention of every faculty he possessed. + But now the moment had come when there was only THAT before him, only + that, nothing else—only that, the man upstairs in the first room to + the right of the landing! + </p> + <p> + Why did he hesitate? Why did he stand there while the priceless moments + before daylight came were passing? The man was a murderer, a blotch on + society, and, his life already forfeited, he was living now only because + the law had not found him out—the man was a criminal, bloodstained—and + his life, because he had taken her father's life and had tried to take the + Tocsin's own life, stood between her and every hope of happiness, robbing + her even literally, in a material sense, of everything that the world + could hold for her! Why did he hesitate? It was that man's life—or + hers! It was the only way! + </p> + <p> + He put his foot upon the bottom step again—paused still another + instant—and then began stealthily to mount the stairs. The darkness! + There had never been, it seemed, such darkness before! The stillness—he + had never known silence so heavy, so full of strange, premonitory + pulsings; a silence that seemed so incongruously full of clamouring + whispers in his ears! It must be those imagined whispers that were + affecting his nerve—for now, as he gained the landing and slipped + his automatic from his pocket, his hand was shaking with a queer twitching + motion. + </p> + <p> + For an instant, fighting for his self-composure, he stood striving to + locate his surroundings through the darkness. The staircase was a circular + one, making the landing nearly at the front of the house, and rearward + from this, the Tocsin had said, a hallway ran down the centre, with rooms + on either side. The first room to the right, therefore, should be just at + his hand. He reached out, feeling cautiously—there was nothing. He + edged to the right—still nothing; edged a little farther, a sense of + bewilderment growing upon him, and finally his fingers touched the wall. + It was very strange! The hallway must be much wider than he had understood + it to be from what she had said! + </p> + <p> + He moved along now straight ahead of him, his hand on the wall, feeling + for the door—and with every step his bewilderment increased. Surely + there must be some mistake—perhaps he had misunderstood! He had come + fully twice the distance that one would expect—and yet there was no + door. Ah, what was that? His fingers closed on soft, heavy velvet + hangings. These could hardly be in front of a door, and yet—what + else could it be? He drew the hangings warily apart, and felt behind them. + It was a window; but it was shuttered in some way evidently, for he could + not see out. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale stood motionless there for fully a minute. It seemed absurd, + preposterous, the conviction that was being forced home upon him—that + there were no rooms on the right-hand side of the corridor at all! But + that was not like the Tocsin, accurate always in the most minute details. + The room must be still farther along. He was tempted to use his flashlight—but + that, as long as he could feel his way, was an unnecessary risk. A + flashlight upstairs, where a sleeping-room door might be ajar, or even + wide open, where some one wakeful, THAT man himself, perhaps, might see + it, was quite another matter than a flashlight in the closed and deserted + library below! + </p> + <p> + He went on once more, still guiding himself by a light finger touch upon + the wall, passed another portiere similar to the first, and, after that, + another—and finally stopped by bringing up abruptly against the end + wall of the house. It was certainly very strange! There WERE no rooms on + the right-hand side of the corridor. And here, hanging across the end + wall, was another of those ubiquitous velvet portieres. He parted it, and, + a little to his surprise, found a window that was not shuttered, but that, + instead, was heavily barred by an ornamental grille work. He could see + out, however, and found that he was looking directly out from the rear of + the house. A lamp from the side street threw what was undoubtedly the + garage into shadowy outline, and he made out below him a short stretch of + yard between the garage and the house. He remembered that now—she + had described all that to the Magpie. There was no driveway between the + front and the rear. The house being on the corner, the entrance to the + garage was directly from the side street. Yes, she had described all that + exactly as it was, but—he dropped the portiere and faced around, + carrying his hand in a nonplused way to his eyes—but here, upstairs, + within the house, it was not as she had said it was at all! What did it + mean? She could not have blundered so egregiously as that, unless—he + caught his breath suddenly—unless she had done so intentionally! Was + that it? Had she surmised, formed a suspicion of what was in his mind, of + what he meant to do—and taken this means of defeating it? If so—well, + it was too late for that now! There was one way—only one way! + Whatever the cost, whatever it might mean for him—there was only one + way out for her. + </p> + <p> + His flashlight was in his hand now, and the round, white ray shot down the + corridor—seemed suddenly to falter unsteadily—swept in through + an open door that was almost beside him—and then, as though a + nerveless hand held it, the ray dropped and played shakily on the toe of + his boot before it went out. + </p> + <p> + A stifled cry rose to his lips. Something cold, like a hand of ice, seemed + to clutch at his heart. Those portieres, the wide, richly carpeted + corridor! It was the corridor of the night before! That room at his side + was the room where he had seen Hilton Travers, the chauffeur, dead, lashed + in a chair! He felt the sweat beads burst out anew upon his forehead. + </p> + <p> + IT WAS THE CRIME CLUB! <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV + </h2> + <h3> + RETRIBUTION + </h3> + <p> + His brain seemed to whirl, staggered as by some gigantic, ghastly mockery. + The Crime Club! HERE! He had thought to creep upon that man—and he + had run blindly into the very heart and centre of these hell fiends' nest! + </p> + <p> + Silently he stood there, holding his breath as he listened now, motionless + as a statue, forcing his mind to THINK. He remembered that last night his + impression of the place had been that it was more like some great private + mansion than anything else. Well, he had been right, it seemed! He could + have laughed aloud—sardonically, hysterically. It was not so strange + now that there were no rooms on the right-hand side of the corridor! And + what could have suited their purpose better, what, by its very location, + its unimpeachable character, could be a more ideal lair for them than this + house! And how grimly simple it was now, the explanation! In the five + years that the false Henry LaSalle had been in possession, they had + cunningly remodelled the upper floor—that was all! It was quite + clear now why the man never entertained—why he had never been caught + or found or known to be in communication with his fellow conspirators! It + was no longer curious that one might watch the door of the house for + months at a stretch and go unrewarded for one's pains, as the Tocsin had + done, when access to the house by those who frequented it was so easy + through the garage on the side street—and from the garage, if their + work there was in keeping with their clever contrivances within the house, + by an underground connection into, say, the cellar or basement! + </p> + <p> + Again Jimmie Dale checked that nervous, unnatural inclination to laugh + aloud. Was there anything, any single incident, any single detail of all + that had transpired, that was not explained, borne out, as it could be + explained and borne out in no other way save that the Crime Club should be + no other than this very house itself? It was the exposition of that + favourite theory of his—it was so obvious that therein lay its + security. He had mocked at the Magpie not many moments before on that + score—and now it was the beam in his own eye! It was so obvious now, + so glaringly obvious, that the Crime Club could have been nowhere else; so + obvious, with every word of the Tocsin's story pointing it out like a + signpost—and he had not seen it! + </p> + <p> + And then suddenly every muscle grew strained and rigid. WAS THERE SOME ONE + IN THE CORRIDOR? Was it some one moving—or was it only fancy? He + listened—while he strained his eyes through the darkness. There was + no sound; only that abnormal, heavy silence that—yes, he remembered + that, too, now—that had clung about him last night like a pall. He + could see nothing, hear nothing—but intuitively, bringing a cold + dismay, the greater because it was something unknown, intangible, he FELT + as though eyes were upon him, that even in the darkness he was being + watched! + </p> + <p> + And as he stood there, then, slowly there crept upon Jimmie Dale the sense + of peril and disaster. It was not intuition now—it was certainty. He + was trapped! It was the part of a fool to imagine that with their devil's + cunning, their cleverness, their ingenuity, he, or any one else, could + enter that house unknown to its occupants! Had he made electric contact + when he had opened the front door, and rung a signal here, perhaps, + upstairs—had he set some system of alarm at work when he had touched + that window? What did it matter—the details that had heralded his + entrance? He was certain now that his presence in the house was known. + Only, why had they left him so long without attack? He shook his head with + a quick, impatient movement. That, too, was obvious! He was under + observation. Who was he? Why had he come? Was he simply a paltry + safe-tapper—or was he one whom they had a real need to fear? And + then, too, there might well be another reason. It was far from likely, in + fact unreasonable, to imagine that all the men he had seen here the night + before were in the house now. Not many of them, if any, would LIVE here, + for CONSTANT, daily coming and going, even through the garage, could not + escape notice; and, of the servants, probably a lesser breed of criminal, + some of them, at least, no doubt, were engaged at that moment in watching + his own house on Riverside Drive! There was even the possibility that the + man posing as Henry LaSalle was, for the time being, here alone. + </p> + <p> + He shook his head again. He could hardly hope for that—he had no + right to hope for anything more now than a struggle, with an inevitably + fatal ending to himself, but one in which at least he could sell his life + as dearly as possible, one in which, perhaps, he might pay the Tocsin's + score with the man he had come to find! If he could do that—well, + after all, the price was not too great! + </p> + <p> + There were no tremours of the muscles now. It was Jimmie Dale, the Gray + Seal, every faculty alert, tense, keyed up to its highest efficiency; the + brain cool, keen, and active—fighting for his life. The front door + through which he had entered was an impossibility; but there was the + window in the library that he had opened—if they would let him get + that far! That was as good a chance as any. If he made an effort to find, + say, a way to the flat above and chanced some means of escape there, it + would in no wise obviate an attack upon him, and he would only be under + the added disadvantage of unfamiliar surroundings. + </p> + <p> + Feeling out with his left hand, his automatic thrown a little forward in + his right, he began to retrace his way along the blank wall of the + corridor, pausing between each step to listen, moving silently, his tread + on the heavy carpet as noiseless as though it were some shadow creeping + there. + </p> + <p> + Stillness—utter, absolute! Always that stillness. Always that sense + of danger around him—the tense, bated expectancy of momentary attack—a + revolver flash through the darkness—a sudden rush upon him. But + still there was nothing—only the darkness, only the silence. + </p> + <p> + He gained the head of the stairs and began to descend—and now the + strain began to tell upon his nerves again. Again he was possessed of the + mad impulse to cry out, to do anything that would force the issue, that + would end the horrible, unbearable suspense. Why did that revolver shot + not come? Why had they not yet rushed upon him? Why were they playing with + him as a cat with a mouse? Or was it all wild, fanciful imagination? NO! + What was that again! He could have sworn this time that he had heard a + sound, but he could neither define its character, nor locate the direction + from which it had come. + </p> + <p> + He was at the foot of the stairs now; and, guiding himself by the wall, + moving now barely an inch at a time, he reached the library door that he + had left open, and stole in over the threshold. Halfway down the room and + diagonally across from where he stood was the window. In a moment now he + could gain that, but they would never let him go so easily—and so it + must come now, in that next moment, their attack! Where were they? Where + were they now? The table—he must remember not to bump into the + table! A pause between each step, he was crossing the room. He was halfway + to the window. Had it been all fancy, was he to—And then Jimmie Dale + stood motionless. SOME ONE HAD CLOSED THE LIBRARY DOOR SOFTLY! + </p> + <p> + Stillness again! A sort of deadly calm upon him, Jimmie Dale felt out + behind his back for the big library table that he had been circuiting—if + the window were wide open it might be done, but to jump for it and stand + silhouetted there during the pause necessary to fling the window up was + little less than suicidal. He edged back noiselessly until his fingers + touched the table; then, lowering himself to his knees, he backed in + underneath it, and lay flat upon the floor. It was not much protection, + but it had one advantage: if they switched on the lights it would show an + EMPTY room for the first instant, and that instant meant—the first + shot! + </p> + <p> + Where were they now? By the library door? How many of them were there? + Well, it was their move! Two could play at cat and mouse until—until + DAYLIGHT! That wasn't very far off, now, and when that came he might still + have the first shot, but after that—he turned his head quickly + toward the window. There was a faint scratching noise as of finger nails + gripping the sill; then the window, very slowly, almost silently, was + pushed steadily upward, and a dark form loomed up outside; and then, + crawling through, a man dropped, as though his feet were padded like a + cat's on the floor inside the room. The Magpie! + </p> + <p> + A flashlight's ray shot out—and, with a twisted smile propped now on + his left elbow to give free play to his revolver arm, Jimmie Dale followed + the white spot eagerly with his eyes. But it did not circle around; + instead, the light was turned almost instantly toward the lower end of the + room—and, a second later, was holding steadily on the open door of + the safe, and the litter of papers on the floor. + </p> + <p> + Came a savage growl of amazed fury from the Magpie: then his step down the + room; and, as he reached the safe, a torrent of unbridled blasphemy—and + then, in a sort of staggered gasp, as he leaned suddenly forward examining + the knob of the dial: + </p> + <p> + “The Gray Seal!” + </p> + <p> + A moment the Magpie stood there; and then, cursing again in abandon, + turned, and started back for the window, his flashlight dancing before him—and + stopped, a snarl of fury on his lips. The flashlight was playing full on + Jimmie Dale under the table! + </p> + <p> + “Larry the Bat! The Gray Seal! By God!” choked the Magpie. “You—you—” + The Magpie's flashlight, as he shifted it from his right hand to his left + and wrenched out his revolver, had fallen upon two men crouched close + against the wall by the library door—and he screamed out in an + access of fury. “De double cross! A plant! De bulls! You damned snitch, + Larry!” screamed out the Magpie—and fired. + </p> + <p> + The bullet tore into the carpet beside Jimmie Dale. Came answering shots + from the men by the door; and then the Magpie, emptying his automatic at + the two men as he ran, the flame tongues cutting vicious lanes of fire + through the darkness, dashed for the window. There was a cry, the crash of + a heavy body pitching to the floor—and the Magpie had flung himself + out through the window, and in the momentary ensuing silence within the + room came the sound of his footsteps running on the gravel below. + </p> + <p> + There was a low moan, the movement as of some one staggering and lurching + around—and then the lights went on. But for an instant Jimmie Dale + did not move. He was staring at the form of a man still and motionless on + the floor in front of him—the man who had posed as Henry LaSalle. + Dead! The man was dead! His mind ran riot for a moment. Where were the + others—were there only these two? Only these two in the house! Only + these two—and one was dead! And then Jimmie Dale was on his feet. + One was dead—but there was still the other, the man who was reeling + there, back turned to him, by the electric-light switch. But even as + Jimmie Dale sprang forward, this second man, clawing at the wall for + support, slipped to his knees and fell upon the carpet. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale reached him, snatched the revolver from his hand, and bent + over him. It was the man whose name he did not know, but whose face he had + reason enough to know too well—it was the leader of the Crime Club. + </p> + <p> + The man, though evidently badly wounded, smiled defiantly in spite of his + pain. + </p> + <p> + “So you're the Gray Seal!” he flung out contemptuously. “A clever enough + safe-cracker—but only a lowbrow, like the rest of them. Another + illusion dispelled! Well, you've got the money—better run, hadn't + you?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale made no answer. Satisfied that the man was too badly hurt to + move, he went and bent over the silent form in the centre of the room. A + moment's examination was enough. “Henry LaSalle” was dead. + </p> + <p> + He stood there looking down at the man. It was what he had come for—though + it was the Magpie, not himself, who had accomplished it! The man was dead! + The words began to run through his mind in a queer reiteration. The man + was dead—the man was dead! He checked himself sharply. He must think + now—think fast, and think RIGHT. + </p> + <p> + The Magpie knew that Larry the Bat was the Gray Seal—and as fast as + the Magpie could get there, the news would spread like wildfire through + the underworld. “Death to the Gray Seal! Death to the Gray Seal!” He could + hear that slogan ringing again in his ears, but as he had never heard it + before—with a snarl of triumph now as of wolves who at last had + pulled their quarry down. He had not a second to spare—and yet—that + man wounded there on the floor! What of him—guilty of murder, the + brains of this inhuman, monstrous organisation, the one to whom, more even + than to that dead man, the Tocsin owed the horror and the misery and the + grief and despair that had come into her life! What of him? What of the + Crime Club here? What of this nest of vipers? Were they to escape? Were + they to— + </p> + <p> + With a sudden, low exclamation, Jimmie Dale jumped for the table, and, + snatching up the telephone, rattled the hook violently. + </p> + <p> + “Give me”—his voice came in well-simulated gasps, each like a man + fighting for every word—“give me—police—headquarters! + Quick! QUICK! I've—been—shot!” + </p> + <p> + The wounded man on the floor raised himself on his elbow. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing?” he demanded in a startled way. “Are you mad! Thank + your stars you were lucky enough to get out of this alive—and get + out now, while you have the chance!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale pressed his hand firmly over the mouthpiece of the telephone. + </p> + <p> + “I'll go,” he said, with a cold smile, “when I've settled with you—for + the murder of Henry LaSalle.” + </p> + <p> + “That man!” ejaculated the man scornfully, pointing to the form on the + floor. “So that's your game! Going to try and cover your tracks! Why, you + fool, I LIVE here! Do you think the police would imagine for an instant + that I killed him?” + </p> + <p> + “I said—HENRY LASALLE,” said Jimmie Dale evenly. + </p> + <p> + The man came farther up on his elbow, a sudden look of fear in his face. + </p> + <p> + “What—what do you mean?” he cried hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + But Jimmie Dale was talking again into the telephone—gasping, + choking out his words as before: + </p> + <p> + “Police headquarters? I'm Henry LaSalle. Fifth Avenue. I—I've been + shot. Take down this statement. I'll—I'll be dead before you get + here—I'm not the real Henry LaSalle at all. We murdered Henry + LaSalle—in Australia, and murdered Peter LaSalle here. We—we + tried to kill the daughter, but she ran away. This house has been our + headquarters for the last five years. The man who shot me to-night is the + leader of the gang. We quarrelled over the division of a haul. He's here + on the floor now, wounded. Get them all, get them all, damn them!—do + you hear?—get them all! They're out of the house now, but lay a trap + for them. They always come in through the garage on the side street. Oh, + God, I'm done for! Break down the west walls of the rooms upstairs—if—you—want + proof of what—the gang's been doing. Hurry! Hurry! I'm—I'm—done + for—I—” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale permitted the telephone to drop with a clash from his hand to + the table. + </p> + <p> + The face of the man on the floor was livid. + </p> + <p> + “Who are you? In God's name, who are you?” he cried out wildly. + </p> + <p> + “Does it matter?” inquired Jimmie Dale grimly. “Your game is up. You'll go + to the chair for the murder of 'Henry LaSalle'—if it is by proxy! + Those rooms upstairs alone are enough to damn you, to prove every word of + that dying 'confession'—but to-morrow, added to it, will come the + story of Marie LaSalle herself.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment the man hung there swaying on his elbow, his face working in + ghastly fashion—and then suddenly, with a strange laugh, he carried + one hand swiftly to his mouth—and laughed again—and before + Jimmie Dale could reach him was lifeless on the floor. + </p> + <p> + A tiny vial rolled away upon the carpet. Jimmie Dale picked it up. A drop + or two of liquid still remained in it—colourless, clear, like that + liquid this same man had dropped into the rabbit's mouth the night before, + like the liquid in the glasses they had carried into that third room, like + the liquid that his man had said was from a formula of their own, that was + instantaneous in its action, that defied detection by autopsy! + </p> + <p> + The set, stern features of Jimmie Dale relaxed. It was justice—but + it was also death. In a surge of emotion, the events of scarcely more than + twenty-four hours, began to crowd upon him—and then, ominously + dominant, above all else, that slogan of the underworld, “Death to the + Gray Seal!” came ringing once more in his ears. It brought him, with a + startled movement of his hand across his eyes, to a realisation of his own + desperate position. Yes, yes, he must go! The way was clear now for the + Tocsin—clear now for her! + </p> + <p> + He dropped the vial into his pocket, and, running to the safe, quickly + scraped the gray seal from the dial's knob; then he drew the packages of + money from his shirt and pockets and tossed them on the floor among the + litter of papers already there—she would get it back again when it + had served its purpose, it would be self-evident that it was the proceeds + of that day's sale of the estate's securities over which the “quarrel” had + occurred! + </p> + <p> + And now the window! He ran to it, closed it, and LOCKED it; then, laying + the revolver he had taken from the leader down beside the man, he stepped + across the room again and drew the body of “Henry LaSalle” closer to the + table—as though the man had fallen there when the telephone had + dropped from his hand. + </p> + <p> + It was done now! On the floor beside him lay each man's weapon—and + both of the revolvers had been discharged several times. Jimmie Dale + paused on the library threshold for a final survey of the room. It was + done! The way was clear—for her. And now if he could only save + himself! There was no chance for Larry the Bat! Could he save—JIMMIE + DALE! + </p> + <p> + He crossed the hall, a queer, half-grim, half-wistful smile on his lips, + unlocked the front door, stepped out, locked it behind him—and in + another moment, doubling around the corner, was running along like a hare + along the side street. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI + </h2> + <h3> + “DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!” + </h3> + <p> + On Jimmie Dale ran. Across on Fourth Avenue he swung on a car that took + him to Astor Place. Then striking east once more, making a detour to avoid + the Bowery, he ran on at top speed again. To reach the Sanctuary, not + before the Magpie should have spread the alarm, that was impossible, but + to reach it before the underworld should have had time to recover its + breath, as it were, before the underworld should have had time to act—that + was his only chance! The Magpie had, at the outside, a start of fifteen + minutes; but he, Jimmie Dale, had probably retrieved five minutes of that + in the time he had made in getting downtown. That left the Magpie ten to + the good. How long would it take the Magpie to bring the underworld + swarming like hornets around the Sanctuary? + </p> + <p> + On Larry the Bat ran. At the Sanctuary were the clothes, the belongings of + Jimmie Dale. Could he save Jimmie Dale! If he could get there, change, and + get out again, the way was clear for him—as clear as for the Tocsin + now. In a few hours the police would have every member of the Crime Club + in the trap; there would be no watch any more around his house on + Riverside Drive; and he would be free to return there and resume his + normal life as Jimmie Dale again if he could make the Sanctuary in time! + But let the Magpie get there first, let the underworld tear the place to + pieces in its fury as it would do, let them discover that hiding place + under the flooring, for instance, and the Gray Seal would not be merely + Larry the Bat, but Jimmie Dale as well, and—a cry escaped him even + as he ran—it meant ruin, the disgrace of an honoured name, death, + crimes without number at his door. Crimes! The Gray Seal had never + committed a crime! But the crimes attributed to the Gray Seal he could not + disprove, not one of them! He had meant them to appear as crimes—and + he had succeeded so well that the Gray Seal's name, execrated, was a + synonym for the most callous, dangerous, and unscrupulous criminal of the + age! + </p> + <p> + He was gasping for breath as finally, making for the side door, he darted + into the alleyway that flanked the Sanctuary. What story would the Magpie + tell? Not the truth, of course—that would let the Magpie in for what + had happened that night, for the Magpie must be well aware that he had + shot at least one of the two men in that room. But the truth wasn't + necessary; it was foreign, and had no bearing on the one outstanding fact—the + Gray Seal was Larry the Bat. At the present moment the Magpie had a double + incentive for “getting” the Gray Seal—the Gray Seal was the only one + who could prove murder against him that night in the LaSalle mansion. And + afterwards, when the police version of the affair was made public, the + Magpie, to save himself, would be careful enough to do or say nothing to + contradict “Henry LaSalle's” confession! + </p> + <p> + Larry the Bat slipped in through the door, halted there, listened; and + then began to mount the rickety stairs, with his silent tread. At the top + he paused again. Nothing—no sound! They were not here yet—so + far he was in time! He stepped to the Sanctuary door, unlocked it, passed + into the squalid, miserable room that had harboured him for so long as + Larry the Bat, locked the door behind him, crossed quickly to the window + to make sure that the shutters were closed—and then, for the first + time, as the gray light streaked in through the interstices, he was + conscious that it was already dawn. So much the more need for haste then! + </p> + <p> + He whipped out his revolver and laid it at his hand on the dilapidated + table; then the flooring in the corner was up in an instant, and he began + to strip off the rags of Larry the Bat. Boots, mismated socks, the torn, + patched trousers, the greasy flannel shirt, the threadbare coat, the + nondescript slouch hat were thrown in a pile on the floor; and with them, + from their hiding-place, the grease paints and heterogeneous collection of + make-up accessories. This done, he began to slip on the clothes of Jimmie + Dale; and, when half dressed, turned to the table again to remove the + characteristic grime, stain, and paint of Larry the Bat from face, hands, + wrists, throat, and neck. This was a longer, more arduous task. He reached + for the cracked pitcher to pour more water into the basin—and, + snatching up his revolver instead, whirled to face the door. + </p> + <p> + Some one was outside! He had caught the creak of a footstep upon the + stairs. In a flash he was across the room and crouched by the door. Yes, + the step was nearer now—at the head of the stairs—on the + landing. His revolver lifted, holding a steady bead on the door panel. And + then there came a low voice: + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie! Jimmie! Are you there? Quick, Jimmie! Are you there?” + </p> + <p> + The Tocsin! What was she doing here! Why had he not warned her up there on + the avenue, fool that he was, that of all places she was to keep away from + here! + </p> + <p> + She slipped into the room as he unlocked the door. + </p> + <p> + “They're coming, Jimmie!” she panted breathlessly. “There's not an instant + to lose! Listen! When the Magpie ran from the house, I ran with him—but + it”—she tried to smile—“it wasn't to obey you, to run away—I + had made up my mind I wouldn't do that—it was to find out from him + what had happened. He told me you were the Gray Seal. He did not suspect + me. He thinks you were no more than just Larry the Bat to me, as you were + to everybody else. He went straight to Chicago Ike's gambling rooms and + found the Skeeter's gang there—you know them, Red Mose, the Midget, + Harve Thoms, and the Skeeter—you remember your fight with them over + old Luddy's diamonds! Well, they have not forgotten, either! They are on + their way here, now! The news that you are the Gray Seal is travelling + like lightning all through the underworld—there will be a mob here + on the Skeeter's heels. So, Jimmie—quick! Run!” + </p> + <p> + Run! Half Larry the Bat, half Jimmie Dale—and run! In another five + minutes, perhaps—yes. But there probably would not be five minutes—and + she—if she were found here! + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said quietly. “I'll get away in a moment. You go at once. I'll”—he + was smiling at her reassuringly—“I'll meet you at—” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him then for an instant—interrupting him quickly, as + she shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't notice, Jimmie. You cannot go like that—can you? It would + be even worse than being caught as Larry the Bat. Hurry then—I am + not going without you.” + </p> + <p> + “No!” he said. “Go now! Go at once, Marie—while you can. You have + risked your life as it is to come here and tell me this. For God's sake, + go now!” + </p> + <p> + The great, brown eyes were smiling bravely through a sudden mist. She + shook her head again. + </p> + <p> + “Not without you, Jimmie.” + </p> + <p> + It brought a fierce, wild throb of joy upon him—and then a cold, + sickening fear. + </p> + <p> + “Listen!” he cried out desperately. “You must go now! You cannot take any + chances now, Marie. Everything is right for you. That man who posed as + your uncle is dead—the leader of the Crime Club is dead. Don't you + understand what that means! You have only to be Marie LaSalle again and + claim your own. I cannot tell you all now—there's no time. That + house was the Crime Club itself. The police will get them all. Don't you + see! Don't you see! Everything is clear for you now—and now go! Go—you + must go!” + </p> + <p> + She was staring at him, a strange wonder in her face. + </p> + <p> + “Clear! All clear—for me! I—I can go back to—to my own + life again!” It was as though she were whispering some amazing thing of + unbelievable joy to herself. + </p> + <p> + “YES!” he cried out again. “Yes! But go—go, Marie!” + </p> + <p> + But now, for answer, suddenly she reached out and took the key from the + door and put it in the pocket of her dress. + </p> + <p> + “We will go together, Jimmie—or not at all,” she said simply. “We + are wasting precious moments. Hurry and dress!” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated miserably. What could he do—if she WOULD not go! And it + was true—the moments were flying. Better, rather than futile + argument, to use them as she said. There was still a chance! Why not! Five + minutes! He could do better than that! He MUST do better than that! + </p> + <p> + Without a word, he ran back across the room. In frantic haste, from face, + hands, wrists, and neck came the stain. There was still time. She was + standing there by the door, listening. She, the Tocsin, she whom he loved, + she who, all through the years that had gone, had been so strangely + elusive and yet so intimately a part of his life, SHE was standing there + now, here with him—in peril with every second that passed! + </p> + <p> + He had only to slip on his coat and vest now—and make a bundle of + Larry the Bat's things on the floor, so that he could carry them away to + destroy them. He stooped to gather up the clothes—and straightened + suddenly—and jumped toward the door again. + </p> + <p> + “They are coming, Jimmie!” she called, in a low voice. But he had already + heard them—the stairs were creaking loudly under the tread of many + feet. He pushed the Tocsin hurriedly back against the wall at the side of + the door. + </p> + <p> + “Stand there!” he said, under his breath. “Out of the line of fire! Don't + move!” + </p> + <p> + There was a rush against the door—and then a voice growled: + </p> + <p> + “Aw, cut dat out! Wot do youse want to do—scare him away by bustin' + it! Pick de lock, an' we'll lay for him inside till he shows up.” + </p> + <p> + It was the Skeeter's voice. The Skeeter and his gang—the worst + apaches in the city of New York! Professional assassins, death + contractors, he had called them—and the lowest bidders! A man's life + any time for twenty-five dollars! No, they were not likely to forget the + affair of the pushcart man, to forget old Luddy and his diamonds, to + forget—the Gray Seal! And they were only the vanguard of what was to + come! + </p> + <p> + Some one was working at the lock now. There was one way to stop that. It + would not take them long to find out that he WAS there once the door was + opened! Better know it with the door SHUT! Jimmie Dale lifted his revolver + coolly and fired through the panel. + </p> + <p> + A burst of yells answered the shot; and among them, high above the others, + the Magpie's scream: + </p> + <p> + “We got him! We got him! He's dere now!” + </p> + <p> + And then it seemed that pandemonium broke loose—there was a volley + of shots, the bullets splintering through the door panels as from a + machine gun, so fast they came—and then another rush against the + door. + </p> + <p> + Flat on the floor, but well back and to one side, Jimmie Dale fired + steadily—again and again. + </p> + <p> + Came screams of pain, yells, and oaths—and they fell back from the + door. + </p> + <p> + And now from above, from overhead, came tumult—windows thrown up, + the stamp of feet, cries of fright. And from the street, a low, sullen + roar. The underworld was gathering fast! + </p> + <p> + Once more the rush upon the door—and Jimmie Dale, a grim, twisted + smile upon his lips, emptied his revolver into the panels. Once more they + fell back—and then there came the Skeeter's voice, snarling like an + infuriated beast: + </p> + <p> + “He'll get de lot of us like dis! Cut it out! Besides, we'll have de bulls + down here in a minute—an' he's OUR meat, not theirs. Dey'd be too + damned soft wid him—dey'd only send him to de chair. Youse chase + upstairs, Mose, an' pass de word to beat it—an' beat it quick. We'll + BURN de skunk out—dat's wot. An' de bulls can stand alongside an' + watch, if dey likes—but he's our meat.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale did not dare to look at the Tocsin's face. Mechanically he + refilled the magazine of his automatic—and lay there, waiting. The + roar from the street grew louder. They seemed to be fighting out there, as + though an inadequate number of police were trying to disperse a mob—and + not succeeding! Pretty soon, with the riot call in, there would probably + be a battle—for the Gray Seal! Sublime irony! It was death at the + hands of either one! + </p> + <p> + Children whimpered on the stairs outside, men swore, women cried, feet + shuffled hurriedly by as the tenement emptied. Occasionally, a pertinent + invitation to him to remain where he was, there was a vicious rip through + the panel, and the drumming whir of a bullet flying through the room. And + then a curious, ominous crackling sound—and then the smell of smoke. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale stood up, his face drawn and haggard. The tenement would go + like matchwood, burn like a bonfire, with any kind of a start—and + there was no doubt about the start! The Skeeter, the Magpie, and the rest + would have seen that it had headway enough to serve their purpose before + either firemen or police could thwart them. He, Jimmie Dale, could take + his choice: walk out into a bullet, or stay there and—he smiled + miserably as his eyes fell upon the pile of Larry the Bat's clothing on + the floor. There was no longer need to worry about ITS destruction—the + fire would take care of that only too well! And then a low, bitter cry + came to his lips, and he clenched his hands. If it were only himself—only + himself! He crossed to the Tocsin and caught her in his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my God—Marie!” he faltered. + </p> + <p> + The cape and hood had fallen from her, and with the hood had fallen the + gray-streaked hair of Silver Mag—and now as she smiled at him it was + from a face that was very beautiful and very brave and very full of + tenderness. + </p> + <p> + And he held her there—and neither spoke. + </p> + <p> + It seeped in under the threshold of the door, it came from everywhere, + filling the room—the black, strangling smoke. Outside in the hall + all was silence now—save for that crackle of flame that grew in + volume, that came now in quick, sharp reports, like revolver shots. From + out in the street swelled a cry: “Death to the Gray Seal!” Then the clang + of bells, the roar and rattle of fire apparatus, strident voices bellowing + orders, and the crowd again, blood hungry: “Death to the Gray Seal!” + </p> + <p> + There was a chance, just one—if the fire had no headway along the + upper end of the landing—and if they had not thought to set a watch + for him ABOVE! They—the Magpie, the Skeeter, and his gang—must + have been driven even out of the house now by the smoke and flame. + </p> + <p> + “Give me the key, I am going to open the door, Marie,” he said quietly. + “Cover your face with a handkerchief, anything, and run to the LEFT to the + next flight of stairs. There are two flats above this—we'll make the + roof if we can. Now—are you ready?” + </p> + <p> + It was an instant before she answered, an instant in which she lifted her + face to his, and held his face between her two hands—and then: + </p> + <p> + “I am ready, Jimmie.” + </p> + <p> + He flung open the door, his arm around her to help her forward—and + instinctively, with a cry, fell back for a moment. With the inrush of the + draft poured the smoke, and through it, lurid, yellow, showed the flames + leaping from the stair well. + </p> + <p> + And then all was blind madness. Together they ran. At the foot of the + stairs she fell, recovered herself, staggered up another—and fell + again. He caught her up in his arms and, staggering now as she had + staggered, went on. His lungs seemed to be bursting. His limbs grew weak + and trembled under him. He could not see or breathe. The nauseating fumes + suffocated him, bringing an intolerable agony. He gained the first landing + above. There was one more—one more! If he could only rest here for a + moment! Yes, that was it—rest. It wasn't so bad here now. She + stirred in his arms, struggled to her feet—and he was helping her on + again, and up the next flight of stairs. + </p> + <p> + And suddenly he found himself laughing in hysteria—for they were + climbing a half stair, half ladderway at the end of the upper landing, and + the open skylight was above them, and they were drinking in the pure, + fresh air—and now they were out upon the roof, and the roar from the + street was in their ears, like the roar of great waters from some canyon + far below. Jimmie Dale tried to speak, and found his lips were cracked and + dry. He wet them with his tongue. + </p> + <p> + “Don't stand up—we'd be seen—CRAWL,” he mumbled hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + It took a long time—over one roof, and then another, and yet another—and + then through the skylight of a tenement whose occupants were either + craning from the front windows, or were on the street below. It was, + perhaps, half an hour—and then they, too, were standing in the + street, and all about them the crowd was shouting in wild excitement. + </p> + <p> + Up the block, inside the fire lines, the Sanctuary was blazing furiously—and + now suddenly the wall seemed to bulge outward. It brought a yell from the + crowd: + </p> + <p> + “Death to the Gray Seal!” + </p> + <p> + She pulled at his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Let us get away! Let us get away, Jimmie!” she whispered frantically. + </p> + <p> + A strange smile was on Jimmie Dale's lips. + </p> + <p> + “We're safe now—for always,” he whispered back. “Look!” + </p> + <p> + The Sanctuary wall bulged farther outward, seemed to hang an instant + hesitant in mid-air—and fell with a mighty crash. + </p> + <p> + The Gray Seal was dead! + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Adventures of Jimmie Dale, by Frank L. 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