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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:33:12 -0700 |
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diff --git a/9440-h/9440-h.htm b/9440-h/9440-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c8fde0a --- /dev/null +++ b/9440-h/9440-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12703 @@ +<?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> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title>Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale, by Frank L. Packard</title> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)> <style type=" /> + +<style type="text/css"> + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + 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%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + 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 {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} +</style> + </head> + <body> + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Further 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 Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale + +Author: Frank L. Packard + +First Posted: October 1, 2003 [EBook #9440] +Release Date: December, 2005 +Last Updated: August 3, 2018 + + + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FURTHER ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE *** + + + + +Etext produced by Brendan Lane, Mary Meehan and PG Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE + </h1> + <h2> + By Frank L. Packard + </h2> + <h3> + 1919 + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. SMARLINGHUE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. THE WARNING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. THE MAN WITH THE SCAR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. THE DIAMOND PENDANT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. “DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!” + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. THE REHABILITATION OF LARRY THE BAT + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. THE BOND ROBBERY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. AT HALFPAST ONE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. ‘WARE THE WOLF </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. THE CHASE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. THE VOICES OF THE UNDERWORLD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. IN THE SANCTUARY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. THE SECRET ROOM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. THE LAST CARD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. CAUGHT IN THE ACT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. ONE CHANCE IN TEN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. THE DEFAULTER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. ALIAS ENGLISH DICK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. THE BEGINNING OF THE END </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. THE OLD-CLOTHES SHOP </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. SILVER MAG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. THE TOCSIN’S STORY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. HUNCHBACK JOE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. AT FIVE MINUTES OF TWELVE </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. SMARLINGHUE + </h2> + <p> + A diminutive gas-jet’s sickly, yellow flame illuminated the room + with poverty-stricken inadequacy; high up on the wall, bordering the + ceiling, the moonlight, as though contemptuous of its artificial + competitor, streamed in through a small, square window, and laid a white, + flickering path to the door across a filthy and disreputable rag of + carpet; also, through a rent in the roller shade, which was drawn over a + sort of antiquated French window that opened on a level with the floor and + in line with the top-light, the moonlight disclosed a narrow and squalid + courtyard without. + </p> + <p> + In one corner of the room stood a battered easel, while against the wall + near it, and upon the floor, were a number of canvases of different sizes. + A cot bed, unmade, its covers dirty and in disorder, occupied the wall + space opposite the door. In the centre of the mean and uninviting + apartment stood a table, its top littered with odds and ends, amongst + which the remains of a meal, dishes and food, fraternised gregariously + with a painter’s palette, brushes and paint tubes. A chair or two, + long since disabled, and a rickety washstand completed the appointments. + </p> + <p> + The moonlight’s path across the floor wavered suddenly, the door + opened, was locked again, and with a quick, catlike step a man moved along + the side of the wall where the shadows lay thickest near the door, dropped + on his knees, and began to fumble hurriedly with the base-board of the + wall, pausing at every alternate second to listen intently. + </p> + <p> + A minute passed. A section of the base-board was lifted out, the man’s + hand was thrust inside—and emerged again with a large roll of + banknotes. He turned his head for a quick glance around the room, his + eyes, burning out of a gaunt, hollow-cheeked, pallid face, held on the + torn window shade—and then, in almost frantic haste, he thrust the + banknotes back inside the wall, and began to replace the base-board. But + it was not the window shade, nor yet the courtyard without with which he + was concerned—it was the sound of a heavy footstep outside the door. + </p> + <p> + And now the door was tried. The man on the floor, working with desperate + energy to replace the base-board, coughed in an asthmatic, wheezing way, + as there came the imperative smashing of a fist upon the door panels, + coupled with a gruff, curt demand for admittance. Again the man coughed—to + drown perhaps the slight rasping sound as the base-board slid back into + place—and, rising to his feet, shuffled hastily to the door and + unlocked it. + </p> + <p> + The door was flung violently open from without, a heavy-built, + clean-shaven, sharp-featured man stepped into the room, slammed the door + shut behind him, re-locked it, and swept a shrewd, inquisitive, suspicious + glance about the place. + </p> + <p> + “It took you a damned long time to open that door, <i>Mister</i> + Smarlinghue!” he said sharply. + </p> + <p> + The man addressed touched his lips with the tip of his tongue nervously, + shrank back, and made no reply. + </p> + <p> + The lapel of the visitor’s coat thrown carelessly back displayed a + police shield on the vest beneath; and now, completing a preliminary + survey of the surroundings, the man’s eyes narrowed on Smarlinghue. + </p> + <p> + “I guess you know who I am, don’t you? Heard of me perhaps, + too—eh? Clancy of headquarters is my name!” He laughed + menacingly, unpleasantly. + </p> + <p> + Smarlinghue’s clothes were threadbare and ill-fitting; his coat was + a size too small for him, and from the short sleeves protruded blatantly + the frayed and soiled wristbands of his shirt. He twined his hands + together anxiously, and retreated further back into the room. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t done anything, honest to God, I haven’t!” + he whined. + </p> + <p> + “Ain’t, eh?” The other laughed again. “No, of + course not! Nobody ever did! But now I’m here—just dropped in + socially, you know—I’ll have a look around.” + </p> + <p> + He began to move about the room. Smarlinghue, still twining his hands in a + helpless, frightened way, still circling his lips nervously with the tip + of his tongue, followed the other’s movements in miserable + apprehension with his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Clancy, as he had introduced himself, shot up the roller shade, peered out + into the courtyard, yanked the shade down again with a callous jerk that + almost tore it from its fastenings, and strode over toward the easel, + contemptuously kicking a chair that happened to be in his way over onto + the floor. Reaching the easel he picked up the canvas that rested upon it, + stared at it for a moment—and with a grunt of disdain flung it away + from him to the ground. + </p> + <p> + There was a crash as it struck the floor, a ripping sound as the canvas + split, and with a pitiful cry Smarlinghue rushed forward and snatched it + up. + </p> + <p> + “It—it was sold,” he choked. “I—I was to get + the money to-morrow. I have had bad luck for a month—nothing sold + but this—and now—and now—” He drew himself up + suddenly, and, with the ruined painting clutched to his breast, shook his + other fist wildly. “You have no right here!” he screamed in + fury. “Do you hear! I have not done anything! I tell you, I have not + done anything! You have no right here! I will make you pay for this! I + will! I will!” His voice was rising in a shrill falsetto. “I + will make you—” + </p> + <p> + “You hold your tongue,” growled Clancy savagely, “or I’ll + give you something more than an old chromo to make a row about! I don’t + want any mass meeting of your kind of citizens. Get that?” He caught + Smarlinghue roughly by the shoulder, and pushed him into a chair near the + table. “Sit down there, and close your jaw!” + </p> + <p> + Cowed, Smarlinghue’s voice dropped to a mumble, and he let the torn + canvas slip from his fingers to the floor. + </p> + <p> + Clancy laughed gruffly, pulled another chair to the opposite side of the + table, sat down himself, and eyed Smarlinghue coldly for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Sold it, eh?” he observed grimly. “How much were you + going to get for it?” + </p> + <p> + A cunning gleam flashed in Smarlinghue’s eyes—and vanished + instantly. He wet his lips with his tongue again. + </p> + <p> + “Ten dollars,” he said hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + Clancy brushed aside the litter on the table, and nonchalantly laid down a + ten-dollar bill. + </p> + <p> + With a sharp little cry that brought on a fit of coughing, Smarlinghue + stretched out his hand for the money eagerly. + </p> + <p> + Clancy drew the money back out of reach. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, nothing like that!” he drawled unpleasantly. “Don’t + make the mistake of taking me for a fool. I’m not buying any + ten-cent art treasures at ten dollars a throw!” + </p> + <p> + Smarlinghue’s eyes remained greedily riveted on the ten-dollar note. + He began to twine his hands together once more. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what you mean,” he muttered tremulously. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you!” retorted the other shortly. “Well, I + mean exactly what I say. I’m not buying any pictures, I’m + buying—<i>you</i>. I have been keeping an eye on you for the last + three or four months. You’re just the guy I’ve been looking + for. As far as I can make out, there ain’t a dive or a roost in the + Bad Lands where you don’t get the glad hand—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I haven’t done anything! Not a thing! I—I swear + I haven’t!” Smarlinghue burst out frantically. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, forget it!” Clancy permitted a thin smile to flicker + contemptuously across his lips. “You’ve got a whole lot of + friends that I’m interested in. Get the idea? There ain’t a + crook in New York that’s shy of you. You got a ‘stand-in’ + everywhere.” He held up the ten-dollar bill. “There’s + more of these—plenty of ‘em.” + </p> + <p> + Smarlinghue pushed back his chair now in a frightened sort of way. + </p> + <p> + “You—you mean you want me for—for a stool pigeon?” + he faltered. + </p> + <p> + “You got it!” said Clancy bluntly. + </p> + <p> + Smarlinghue’s eyes roved about the room in a furtive, + terror-stricken glance, his hand passed aimlessly over his eyes, and he + crouched low down in his chair. + </p> + <p> + “No, no!” he whispered. “No, no—for God’s + sake, Mr. Clancy, don’t ask me to do that! I can’t—I can’t! + I—I wouldn’t be any good, I—I can’t! I—I won’t!” + </p> + <p> + Clancy thrust head and shoulders aggressively across the table. + </p> + <p> + “You will—if you know what’s good for you!” he + said evenly. “And, what’s more, there’s a little job you’re + going to break your hand in on to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “No! No, no! I can’t! I can’t!” Smarlinghue flung + out his arms imploringly. + </p> + <p> + Clancy lowered his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Cut that out!” he snapped viciously. “What’s the + matter with you! You’ll be well paid for it—<i>and have police + protection</i>. You ought to know what that’ll mean to you—eh? + You live like a gutter-snipe here—half starved most of the time, for + all you can get out of those ungodly daubs!” + </p> + <p> + A curious dignity came to Smarlinghue. He sat upright. + </p> + <p> + “It is my art,” he said. “I have starved for it many + years. Some day I will get recognition. Some day I—” + </p> + <p> + “Art—hell!” sneered Clancy; and then he laughed + coarsely, as, his fingers prodding under the miscellany of articles on the + table, he suddenly held up a hypodermic syringe. “This is <i>your</i> + art, my bucko! Why, you poor boob, don’t you think I know you! + Cocaine’s the one thing on earth you live for. You’re stewed + to the eyes with it now. Here, just watch me! Suppose”—he + caught the syringe in a quick grip between the fingers of both hands—“suppose + I just put this little toy out of commission now, and—” + </p> + <p> + With a shrill screech, Smarlinghue sprang from his chair, and clawed like + a demented man at the other’s hands for possession of the + hypodermic. + </p> + <p> + Clancy surrendered the syringe with a mocking grin, and shoved Smarlinghue + backward into his chair again. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; you’re an artist all right—a coke artist!” + he remarked coolly. “But that’s what makes you solid in every + den in New York, and that’s how you come in useful—to me. + Well, what do you say?” + </p> + <p> + There was a hunted look in Smarlinghue’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + “They’d—they’d kill me,” he said huskily. + </p> + <p> + “Sure, they would!” agreed Clancy easily. “If they found + you out it would be good-night, all right—that’s what you’re + getting paid for. But”—his voice hardened—“if you + don’t come across, I’ll tell you what <i>I’ll</i> do to + you. I’ll—” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t do anything! Not a thing!” Smarlinghue cried + wildly. “You haven’t anything on me at all. I’ve never + done a thing, not a single—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I guess there’s enough to make you sweat,” Clancy + cut in brutally. “You give me the icy paw, and I’ll see that + the tip leaks out from the right quarters that you <i>are</i> a stool + pigeon. That’ll take care of your finish, too, won’t it—good + and plenty!” + </p> + <p> + Smarlinghue stared miserably. Again and again his tongue circled his lips. + Twice he tried to speak—and only succeeded in mumbling + inarticulately. + </p> + <p> + Clancy got up from the table, walked around it, and, standing over the + crouched figure in the chair, tapped with his finger on the hypodermic in + Smarlinghue’s hands. + </p> + <p> + “And that ain’t all,” he announced with a malicious + grin. “You come in and play the game with me, or I’ll fix it + so that you’ll never get another squirt of dope if you had a million + bucks to buy it with—ah, I thought that would get you!” + </p> + <p> + Smarlinghue was on his feet. The terror of the damned was in his face. + </p> + <p> + “No! No! My God—no—not that! You—you wouldn’t + do that!” He reached out his arms to the other. + </p> + <p> + “You know—I’ve gone too far to do without it. If I didn’t + have it, I—” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve seen a few of them in that sort of jim-jams,” said + Clancy malevolently. “You can’t tell me anything about it. If + you appreciate it, that’s enough—it’s up to you. You + heard what I said. If you’re looking for that particular kind of + hell, go to it. Only don’t kid yourself. When I pass the word to put + the screws on, the lid’s down for keeps. Well, what’s the + answer? Coming across? Quick now! I haven’t got all night to spend + here!” + </p> + <p> + Smarlinghue’s hands were trembling violently; he sat down in his + chair in a pitiful, uncertain way. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes!” he whispered. “<i>Yes!</i> I got to do it. I’ll + do it, Mr. Clancy, I’ll do it! I’ll—I’ll do + anything!” + </p> + <p> + A half leer, half scowl was on Clancy’s face, as he stood regarding + the other. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you would!” he grunted roughly. “Well then, + we’ll get down to business—and <i>to-night’s</i> + business. You know the back entrance to Malay John’s hang-out?” + </p> + <p> + Smarlinghue’s eyes widened a little in a startled way. He nodded his + head. + </p> + <p> + “Very good,” said Clancy gruffly. “<i>You’ll</i> + have no trouble in getting in there. And once in there you’ll have + no trouble in getting up to Malay’s private den. I’ve been + wised up that Malay and a few of his pals are getting ready to pull off a + little game uptown. I want the dope on it—<i>all</i> of it. They’ve + been meeting in Malay’s den for the last few nights—understand? + They drift in between half past eleven and twelve—you get there a + little <i>before</i> halfpast eleven. You haven’t anything to be + afraid of, so don’t lose your nerve. Malay himself is away this + evening and won’t be back before midnight; and the door won’t + be locked, as otherwise the others couldn’t get in. Everything’s + clear for you. Savvy? Once you’re in the room, there’s plenty + of places to hide—and that’s all you’ve got to do, + except keep your ears and eyes open. Get the lay?” + </p> + <p> + Again Smarlinghue nodded—unhappily this time. + </p> + <p> + “All right!” said Clancy crisply. “I’m not coming + around here any more—<i>unless I have to</i>. It might put you in + bad. You can make your reports and get your orders through Whitie Karn at + his dance hall.” + </p> + <p> + “Whitie Karn!” The exclamation seemed to come involuntarily, + in a quick, frightened way from Smarlinghue. + </p> + <p> + Clancy’s lips twisted in a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Kind of a jolt—eh—Smarlinghue? You didn’t suspect + he was one of <i>us</i>, did you?—and there’s more than Whitie + Karn. Well, it will teach you to be careful. Suppose Whitie, for instance, + passed the word that you were a snitch—eh? It won’t do you any + harm to keep that in mind once in a while.” He moved over to the + door. “Well, good-night, Smarlinghue! I guess you understand, don’t + you? You ought to be a pretty valuable man, and I expect a lot from you. + If I don’t get it—” He shrugged his shoulders, held + Smarlinghue for an instant with half-closed, threatening eyes—and + then the door closed behind him. + </p> + <p> + Smarlinghue did not move. The steps receded from the door, and died away + along the passage. A minute, two minutes went by. Suddenly Smarlinghue + pushed back the wristband of his shirt, and pricked the skin with the + needle of the hypodermic. The door, without a sound, swung wide open. + Clancy stood in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night again, Smarlinghue,” he said coolly. + </p> + <p> + The hypodermic fell clattering to the floor; Smarlinghue jumped nervously + in his chair. + </p> + <p> + Clancy laughed—significantly; and, without closing the door this + time, strode away again. His steps echoed back from the passageway, the + front door opened and shut, his boot heel rang on the pavement without—and + all was silence. + </p> + <p> + Smarlinghue rose from his chair, shuffled across the room, closed the door + and locked it, then shuffled back again to the roller shade over the + little French window, and, taking a pin from the lapel of his coat, + fastened the rent together. + </p> + <p> + A passing cloud for a moment obscured the moonrays from the top-light; the + gas-jet choked with air, spluttered, burning with a tiny, blue, hissing + flame; then the white path lay across the floor again, and the yellow + flare of gas spurted up into its pitiful fulness—and in Smarlinghue’s + stead stood another man. Gone were the stooping shoulders, gone the hollow + cheeks, the thin, extended lips, the widened nostrils, as the little + distorting pieces of wax were removed; and out of the metamorphosis, hard + and grim, set like chiselled marble, was revealed the face of—Jimmie + Dale. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. THE WARNING + </h2> + <p> + For a moment Jimmie Dale stood there hesitant, the long, slim, tapering + fingers curled into the palms of his hands, his fists clenched tightly, a + dull red suffusing his cheeks and burning through the masterly created + pallor of his make-up; and then slowly as though his mind were in dismay, + he walked across the room, turned off the gas, and going to the cot flung + himself down upon it. + </p> + <p> + What was he to do? What ghastly irony had prompted Clancy to sort <i>him</i> + out for a police spy? If he refused, if he attempted to stall on Clancy, + Clancy’s threat to stamp him in the eyes of the underworld as a + snitch meant ruin and disaster, absolute and final, for “Smarlinghue” + would then have to disappear; on the other hand, to be allied with the + police increased his present risks a thousandfold—and they were + already hazardous enough! It meant constant surveillance by the police + that would hamper him, rob him of his freedom of movement, adding + difficulties and perils innumerable to the enacting of this new dual + personality of his. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s hands clenched more fiercely. It was an impossible + situation—it was untenable. That he could play his role in the + underworld with only the underworld to reckon with—<i>yes</i>; but + with the police as well, watching him in his character of a poor, + drug-wrecked artist, constantly in touch with him, likely at any moment to + make the discovery that Smarlinghue and Jimmie Dale, the millionaire + clubman, a leader in New York’s most exclusive set, were one and the + same—<i>no</i>! And yet what was he to do? With the Gray Seal it had + been different. Then, police and underworld alike were openly allied as + common enemies against him—but none had known who the Gray Seal was + until that night when the Magpie had roused the Bad Lands like a hive of + swarming hornets with the news that the Gray Seal was Larry the Bat; none + had known until that night when it was accepted as a fact that Larry the + Bat, and therefore the Gray Seal, had perished miserably in the tenement + fire. + </p> + <p> + Around the squalid room, lighted now only by the moonrays, Jimmie Dale’s + eyes travelled slowly, abstractedly. Yes, in that one particular it was + different; but here was the New Sanctuary, and again he was living the old + life in close, intimate companionship with the underworld—the old + life that only six months ago he had thought to have done with forever! + </p> + <p> + He turned his face suddenly to the wall, and lay very still—only his + hands still remained tightly clenched, and the hard, set look on his face + grew harder still. + </p> + <p> + Six months ago, like some mocking illusion, like some phantom of unreality + that jeered at him, it seemed now, he had lived for a few short weeks in a + dreamland of wondrous happiness, a happiness that all his own great wealth + had never been able to bring him, a happiness that no wealth could ever + buy—the joy of her—the glad promise that for always their + lives would be lived together—and then, as though she had vanished + utterly from the face of the earth, she was gone. + </p> + <p> + The Tocsin! Marie LaSalle to the world, she was always, and always would + be, the Tocsin to him. <i>Gone</i>! A hand unclenched and passed heavily + across his eyes and flirted the hair back from his forehead. She had taken + her place in her own world again; her fortune had been restored to her, + its management placed in the hands of a trust company; the interior of the + mansion on Fifth Avenue, with its sliding walls and secret passages, that + had served as headquarters for the Crime Club, was in the process of + reconstruction—and she had disappeared. + </p> + <p> + It had come suddenly, and yet—as he understood now, though then he + had only attributed it to an exaggerated prudence on her part—not + without warning. In the three weeks that had intervened between the night + of the fire in the old Sanctuary and her disappearance, she had permitted + him to see her only at such times and at such intervals as would be + consistent with the most casual of acquaintanceships. He remembered well + enough now her answer to his constant protests, an answer that was always + the same. “Jimmie,” she had said, “a sudden intimacy + between us would undo all that you have done—you know that. It would + not only renew, but would be almost proof positive to those who are left + of the Crime Club that their suspicions of Jimmie Dale were justified, and + from that as a starting point it would not take a very clever brain to + identify Jimmie Dale as Larry the Bat—and the Gray Seal. Don’t + you see! You never knew me before all the misery and trouble came—there + was nothing between us then. To see too much of each other now, to have + too much in common now would only be to court disaster. Our intimacy must + appear to come gradually, to come naturally. We must wait—a year at + least—Jimmie.” + </p> + <p> + A year! And within a few hours following the last occasion on which she + had said that, Jason, his butler, had laid the morning mail upon the + breakfast table, and he had found her note. + </p> + <p> + It seemed as though he were living that moment over again now, as he lay + here on the cot in the darkness—his eagerness as he had recognised + the well-known hand amongst the pile of correspondence, the thrill akin to + tenderness with which he had opened the note; and then the utter misery of + it all, the room swirling about him, the blind agony in which he had risen + from his chair, and, as he had groped his way from the room, the sudden, + pitiful anxiety on the faithful old Jason’s face, which, even in his + own distress, he had not failed to note and understand and be grateful + for. + </p> + <p> + There had been only a few words in the note, and those few carefully + chosen, guarded, like the notes of old, lest they should fall into a + stranger’s hand; but he had read only too clearly between the lines. + She had had only far too much more reason for fear than she had admitted + to him; and those fears had crystallised into realities. One sentence in + the note stood out above all others, a sentence that had lived with him + since that morning months ago, the words seeming to visualise her, high in + her courage, brave in the unselfishness of her love: “Jimmie, I must + not, I cannot, I will not bring you into the shadows again; I must fight + this out alone.” + </p> + <p> + He recalled the feverish haste in which he had acted that morning—the + one thought that had possessed him being to reach her if possible before + she could put her designs into execution. Benson, his chauffeur, reckless + of speed laws, had rushed him to the hotel where, pending the remodelling + of the Fifth Avenue mansion, she had taken rooms. Here, he learned that + she had given up her apartments on the previous afternoon, and that it was + understood she had left for an extended travel tour, and that her baggage + had been taken to the Pennsylvania Station. From the hotel he had gone to + the trust company in whose hands she had placed the management of her + estate. With a few additional details, disquieting rather than otherwise, + it was the story of the hotel over again. They did not know where she was, + except that she had told them she was going away for a long trip, had + given them the fullest powers to handle her affairs, and, on the previous + afternoon, had drawn a very large sum of money before leaving the + institution. + </p> + <p> + He had returned then, like a man dazed, to his home on Riverside Drive, + and had locked himself in his den to think it out. She had covered her + tracks well—and had done it in a masterly way because she had done + it simply. It was possible that she had actually gone away for a trip; but + it was more probable that she had not. He had had, of course, no means of + knowing; but the sort of peril that threatened her, his intuition told + him, was not such as to be diverted by the mere expedient of absenting + herself from New York temporarily; and, besides, she had said that she + would <i>fight</i> it out. She could hardly do that in the <i>person</i> + of Marie LaSalle, or away from New York. She was clever, resourceful, + resolute and fearless—and those very traits opened a vista of + possibilities that left his mind staggering blindly as in a maze. She was + gone—and alone in the face of deadly menace. He remembered then the + curious, unnatural calmness underlying the mad whirling of his brain at + the thought that that was not literally true, that she was not, nor would + she ever be alone—while he lived. It was only a question of <i>how</i> + he could help her. It had seemed almost certain that the danger + threatening her came from one of two sources—either from those who + were left of the Crime Club, relentless, savage for vengeance on account + of the ruin and disaster that had overtaken them; or else from the Magpie, + and behind the Magpie, massed like some Satanic phalanx, every denizen of + the underworld, for Silver Mag had disappeared coincidently with Larry the + Bat, coincidently with the Magpie’s attempted robbery of the + supposed Henry LaSalle’s safe, to which plot she was held by the + underworld to be a party, coincidently with the dispersion of the Crime + Club, <i>and coincidently with the reappearance of the heiress Marie + LaSalle</i>—and, further, Silver Mag stood condemned to death in the + Bad Lands as the accomplice of the Gray Seal. But Silver Mag had + disappeared. Had the underworld, prompted by the Magpie, solved the riddle—did + it know, or guess, or suspect that Silver Mag was Marie LaSalle? + </p> + <p> + Which was it? The Crime Club, or the Magpie? Here again he could not know, + though he inclined to the belief that it was the latter; but here, in + either case, the means of knowing, of helping her, the way, the road, was + clearly defined—and the road was the road to the underworld. But + Larry the Bat was dead and the road was barred. And then a half finished + painting standing on an easel at the rear of his den had brought him + inspiration. It was one of his hobbies—and it swung wide again for + him the door of the underworld. None, in a broken-down, disappointed, + drug-shattered artist, would recognise Larry the Bat! The only similarity + between the two—the one thing that must of necessity be the same in + order to explain plausibly his intimacy with the dens and lairs of + Crimeland, the one thing that would, if nothing more, assure an + unsuspicious, tolerant acceptance of his presence there, was that, like + Larry the Bat, he would assume the rôle of a confirmed dope fiend; but as + there were many dope fiends, thousands of them in the Bad Lands, that + point of similarity, even if Larry the Bat were not believed to be dead, + held little, if any, risk. For the rest, it was easy enough; and so there + had come into being these wretched quarters here, the New Sanctuary—and + Smarlinghue. + </p> + <p> + But the mere assumption of a new rôle was not all—it was not there + that the difficulty lay; it was in gaining for Smarlinghue the <i>confidence</i> + of the underworld that Larry the Bat had once held. And that had taken + time—was not even yet an accomplished fact. The intimate, personal + acquaintance of Larry the Bat with every crook and dive in Gangland had + aided him, as Smarlinghue, to gain an initial foothold, but his complete + establishment there had necessarily had to be of Smarlinghue’s own + making. And it had taken time. Six months had gone now, six months that, + as far as the Tocsin was concerned, had been barren of results mainly, he + encouraged himself to believe, because his efforts had been always limited + and held in check; six months of anxious, careful building, and now, just + as he was regaining the old-time confidence that Larry the Bat had + enjoyed, just as he was reaching that point where the whispered secrets of + the underworld once more reached his ears and there was a promise of + success if, indeed, she were still alive, had come this thing to-night + that spelt ruin to his hopes and ultimate disaster to himself. + </p> + <p> + If she were still alive! The thought came flashing back; and with a low, + involuntary moan, mingling anguish of mind with a bitter, merciless fury, + he turned restlessly upon the cot. If she were still alive! No sign, no + word had come from her; he had found no clue, no trace of her as yet + through the channels of the underworld; his surveillance of the Magpie, + whose friendship he had begun to cultivate, had, so far, proved fruitless. + </p> + <p> + It came upon him now again, the fear, the dread, which he had known so + often in the past few months, that seemed to try to undermine his + resolution to go forward, that whispered speciously that it was useless—that + she was dead. And misery came. And he lay there staring unseeingly into + the moonrays as they streamed in through the top-light. + </p> + <p> + Time passed. Then a smile played over Jimmie Dale’s lips, half grim, + half wistful; and the strong, square jaw was suddenly out-flung. If she + was alive, he would find her; if she was dead—his clenched hand + lifted above his head as though to register a vow—the man or men, + her murderer or murderers, whether to-morrow or in the years to come, + would know a day of reckoning when they should pay the debt! + </p> + <p> + But that was for the future. To-night there was this vital, imminent + danger that he had to face, this decision to make whose pros and cons + seemed each to hold an equal measure of dismay. What was he to do? + </p> + <p> + He laughed shortly, ironically after a moment. It was as though some + malignant ingenuity had conspired to trap him. He was caught either way. + What was he to do? The question kept pounding at his brain, growing more + sinister with each repetition. What was he to do? Defy the police—and + be branded as a stool-pigeon, a snitch, an informer in every nook and + cranny of the underworld! He could not do that. Everything, all that meant + anything in life to him now would be swept from his reach at even the + first breath of suspicion. Nor was it an idle threat that his unwelcome + visitor had made. He was not fool enough to blind himself on that score—it + could be only too easily accomplished. And on the other hand—but + what was the use of torturing his brain with a never-ending rehearsal of + details? Was there a middle course? That was his only chance. Was there a + way to safeguard Smarlinghue and, yes, this miserable hovel of a place, + priceless now as his new Sanctuary. + </p> + <p> + He followed the moonpath’s slant with his eyes to where it touched + the floor and disclosed the greasy, threadbare, pitiful carpet. A grim + whimsicality fell upon him. It would be too bad to lose it! It was luxury + to what Larry the Bat had known! There had not even been a carpet in the + old Sanctuary, and—he sat suddenly bolt upright on the cot, his + eyes, that had mechanically travelled on along the moonpath, strained now + upon where the light fell upon the threshold of the door. There was a + little white patch there, a most curious little white patch—that had + not been there when he had thrown himself on the cot. Came a sudden, + incredulous thought that sent the blood whipping fiercely through his + veins; and with a low cry, in mad, feverish haste now, he leaped from the + cot and across the room. + </p> + <p> + It was an envelope that had been thrust in under the door. In an instant + he had snatched it up from the floor, and in another, acting + instinctively, even while he realised the futility of what he did, he + wrenched the door open, stared out into a dark and empty passageway—and, + with a strange, almost hysterical laugh, closed and locked the door again. + </p> + <p> + There was no writing on the envelope; there was not light enough to have + deciphered it if there had been—but he had need for neither writing + nor light. Those long, slim, tapering fingers, those wonderful fingers of + Jimmie Dale, that seemed to combine all human faculties in their sensitive + tips, had already telegraphed their message to his brain—it was the + same texture of paper that she always used—it was from <i>her</i>—it + was from the Tocsin. + </p> + <p> + Joy, gladness, a relief so terrific as it surged upon him as to leave him + for the moment physically weak, held him in thrall, and he stumbled back + across the room, and slipped down into a chair before the table, and + dropped his head forward into his arms, the note tightly clasped in his + hand. She was <i>alive</i>. The Tocsin was alive—and well—and + here in New York—and free—and they had not caught her. It + meant all those things, the coming and the manner of the coming of this + note. A deep thankfulness filled his heart; it seemed that it was only now + he realised the full measure of the fear and anxiety, the strain under + which he had been labouring for so many months. She was alive—the + Tocsin was alive. It was like some wonderful song that filled his soul, + excluding all else. How little the contents of the note itself mattered—the + one great, glorious fact for the moment was that she was alive! + </p> + <p> + It was a long time before Jimmie Dale raised his head, and then he got up + suddenly from his chair, and lit the gas. But even then he hesitated as he + turned the note over, speculatively now, in his fingers. So she knew him + as Smarlinghue! In some way she had found that out! His brows gathered + abstractedly, then cleared again. Well, at any rate, it was added proof + that so far her cleverness had completely outwitted those who had pitted + themselves against her—so much so that even her freedom of action, + in whatever role she had assumed, was still left open to her. + </p> + <p> + He tore the envelope open. There was no preface to the note, no “Dear + Philanthropic Crook” as there had always been in the old days—instead, + the single, closely-written sheet began abruptly, the writing itself + indicating that it had been composed in desperate haste. He glanced + quickly over the first few lines. + </p> + <p> + “You should not have done this. You should never have come into the + underworld again. I begged, I implored you not to do so. And now you are + in danger to-night. I can only hope and pray that this will reach you in + time, and—” He read on, in a startled way now, to the end; + then read the note over again more slowly, this time muttering snatches of + it aloud: “... Chicago ... Slimmy Jack and Malay ... Birdie Lee ... + released from Sing Sing to-day ... triangular scar on forehead over right + eye....” + </p> + <p> + And then, for a little while, Jimmie Dale stood there staring about the + room, motionless, rigid as stone, save that his fingers moved in an + automatic, mechanical way as they began to tear the note into little + shreds. But presently into his face there crept a menacing look, and an + angry red began to tinge his cheeks, and his jaws clamped ominously. + </p> + <p> + So that was the game at Malay John’s, was it? Birdie Lee was out + again! She had not needed to mention any scar to enable him to identify + Birdie Lee. He knew the man of old. The slickest of them all, the + cleverest of them all, before he had been caught and sent to Sing Sing for + a five-years’ term, was Birdie Lee—the one man of them all + that he, Jimmie Dale, might regard as a rival, so to speak, where the + mastery of the intricate mechanism of a vaunted and much advertised + “guaranteed burglar-proof safe” was concerned! And Birdie Lee + was out again! + </p> + <p> + There was danger if he went to Malay John’s, she had said—and + it was true. But what if he did <i>not</i> go! What, for instance, if + Birdie Lee went through with this night’s work! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale walked slowly across the room, halted before the wall near the + door, stood for an instant hesitant there—and then, as though in a + sudden, final decision, dropped down on his knees, and, working swiftly, + removed the section of the base-board from the wall for the second time + that night. + </p> + <p> + Out came the neatly folded clothes of Jimmie Dale; and with them, serving + him so well in the days gone by, the leather girdle, or undervest, with + its stout-sewn, upright pockets in which nestled, in an array of fine, + blue-steel, highly tempered instruments, a compact powerful burglar’s + kit. It was the one thing that he had saved from the fire in the old + Sanctuary—and that more by accident than design. He had been wearing + the girdle that night when he had stolen into the Crime Club, and + afterwards had returned to the Sanctuary with the intention of destroying + forever all traces of Larry the Bat; and then, only half dressed, as he + was changing into the clothes of Jimmie Dale, the alarm had come before he + had taken off the girdle, and, without thought of it again at the time, he + had still been wearing it when he had made his escape. He looked at it now + for a moment grimly—and smiled in a mirthless way. He had not used + it since that night, and that night he had never meant or thought to use + it again—only to destroy it! + </p> + <p> + He reached into the aperture in the wall once more, drew out a pocket + flashlight and an automatic pistol, and laid them down beside the clothes + and the leather girdle; then, pulling off his coat and shirt, he ran + noiselessly across the room to the washstand. A few drops from a tiny + phial poured into the water, and the pallor, the sickly hue from his face + was gone. It was to be Jimmie Dale—not Smarlinghue—who would + keep the rendezvous at Malay John’s! + </p> + <p> + And now he was back across the room once more, turning out the light as he + passed the gas-jet. The leather girdle, that went on much after the + fashion of a life-preserver, was fastened over his shoulders and secured + around his waist. The remainder of his clothes were stripped off with + lightning speed, and in their place were donned the fashionably tailored, + immaculate tweeds of Jimmie Dale. It was like some quick-moving, shadowy + pantomime in the moonlight. He gathered up the discarded garments, tucked + them into the opening in the wall, replaced the baseboard, slipped the + automatic and flashlight into the side pockets of his coat—and stood + up, his fingers feeling swiftly over his vest and under the back of his + coat to guard against the possibility of any tell-tale bulge from the + leather girdle underneath. + </p> + <p> + An instant he stood glancing critically about him; then the roller shade + over the window was lifted aside, the window itself, on carefully oiled + hinges, was opened noiselessly, closed again—and, hugged close + against the wall of the building, hidden in the black shadows, Jimmie + Dale, so silent as to be almost uncanny in his movements, crept along the + few intervening feet to the fence that enclosed the courtyard. Here, next + to the wall, a loosened plank swung outward at a touch, and he was + standing in a narrow, black areaway beyond. There was only the depth of + the house between himself and the street, and he paused now, crouched + motionless against the wall, listening. He heard no footfalls from the + pavement—only, like a distant murmur, the night sounds from the + Bowery, a block away—only the muffled roar of an elevated train. The + way was presumably clear, and he moved forward again—cautiously. He + reached the front of the building, which, like the old Sanctuary, was a + tenement of the poorer class, paused once more, this time to peer quickly + up and down the dark, ill-lighted cross street—and, satisfied that + he was safe from observation, stepped out on the sidewalk, and began to + walk nonchalantly along to the Bowery. + </p> + <p> + And here, at the corner, under a street lamp he consulted his watch. It + was ten o’clock! He smiled a little ironically. Certainly, they + would hardly expect him as early as that! Well, he would be a little ahead + of time, that was all! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. THE MAN WITH THE SCAR + </h2> + <p> + Jimmie Dale walked on again, rapidly now, heading down the Bowery. At the + expiration of perhaps ten minutes, he turned east; and still a few minutes + later, in the neighbourhood of Chatham Square, plunged suddenly into a + dark alleyway—there was, of course, as there was to all such places, + an unobtrusive entrance to Malay John’s. + </p> + <p> + His lips tightened a little as he moved quietly forward. To venture here + in an unknown character was not far from being tantamount, if he were + discovered, to taking his life in his hands. Malay John was a queer + customer and a bad enemy, though counted “straight” by the + underworld, and trusted by the crooks and near-crooks as few other men + were in the Bad Lands. And, if Malay John was queer, the place he ran was + queerer still. Ostensibly he conducted a dance hall, and a profitable one + at that; but below the dance hall, known only to the initiated, deep down + in a sub-cellar, was perhaps the most remunerative gambling joint and pipe + lay-out in Crimeland. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale halted before a doorway in the alley. The rear of a low + building rose black and unlighted above him. A confused jangle from a + tinny piano, accompanying a blatant cornet and a squeaky violin, mingled + with the dull scrape of many feet, laughter, voices, singing—the + dance hall at the front of the building was in full swing. He glanced + sharply up and down the dark alleyway, then, leaning forward, placed his + ear to the panel of the door—and the next instant opened the door + softly and stepped inside. + </p> + <p> + It was pitch black here, but it was familiar ground to Larry the Bat in + the old days, and therefore to Smarlinghue in the new. The short + passageway in which he was standing terminated, he knew, in a rear + entrance to the dance hall, which was always kept locked and used only by + Malay John himself, and which was just at the foot of the stairs that led + upward to Malay John’s combination of private den, office, and + sleeping apartment; while at the side of the passage, half way along, was + that other door, always guarded on the inside, that required an “open + sesame” to gain admittance to the dive below. + </p> + <p> + And now he crept stealthily past this latter door, reached the staircase, + and went swiftly up to the landing above. Here another door barred his + way, and here again he placed his ear to the panel—but this time to + listen, it seemed, interminably. Every faculty was strained and alert now. + He could take no chances here, and the uproar from the dance hall below, + while it had safeguarded his ascent of the stairs, was confusing now and + by no means an unmixed blessing. + </p> + <p> + Still he crouched there, his ear to the panel—and then, satisfied at + last, he tried the door. It was locked. + </p> + <p> + “The penalty of being early!” murmured Jimmie Dale softly to + himself. + </p> + <p> + His hand reached in under his vest to one of the pockets in the leather + girdle, and a tiny steel instrument was inserted in the lock. There was a + curious snipping sound, the doorknob turned slowly under his hand; then + cautiously, inch by inch, he pushed the door open, slipped through—and + stood motionless on the other side of the threshold. Save only from the + dance hall below, there was not a sound. The door closed again; again that + snipping sound as it was relocked—and then the round, white ray of + Jimmie Dale’s flashlight circled his surroundings. + </p> + <p> + There was a sort of barbaric splendour to the place. Malay John was + something of a sybarite! It was a single room, whose floor was covered + with rich Turkish rugs, whose walls were covered with Oriental hangings, + and in one corner was a great, wide divan, canopied, also with Oriental + hangings at head and foot, serving presumably for a bed; but, striking a + somewhat incongruous note, others of the appointments were modern enough—the + flat-topped desk in the centre of the room with its revolving chair, for + instance, and a large, ponderous safe that stood back against the rear + wall. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale crossed the room for a closer inspection of the safe, and, as + his flashlight played over the single dial, he shook his head whimsically. + No, it would be hardly true to call <i>that</i> modern; it was only an + ancient monstrosity, a helpless thing at the mercy of any cracksman who— + </p> + <p> + The flashlight in his hand went out. Like lightning, Jimmie Dale, his + tread silent on the heavy rugs, leaped back across the room, and in an + instant slipped in behind the end hangings of the divan and stood, pressed + closely, against the wall. + </p> + <p> + A key turned stealthily in the lock, the door opened as stealthily—then + silence—then a flashlight swept suddenly around the room—darkness + again—and then a hoarse whisper: + </p> + <p> + “All clear, Birdie. Lock the door.” + </p> + <p> + The door closed. The flashlight played down the room again—and upon + Jimmie Dale’s lips came a twisted smile, as, his fingers edging the + hanging slightly to one side, he peered out. + </p> + <p> + The light ray moving before them, two dark forms stole across the room to + the safe. + </p> + <p> + “There you are, Birdie!” said one of them. “Ain’t + she a beaut! Say, a kid could open it! Didn’t I tell you I was + handing you one on a gold platter!” + </p> + <p> + The light ray now flooded the front of the safe, and outlined the forms of + the two men. One of them, holding the flashlight, dropped on his knees, + and began to twirl the dial tentatively; the other leaned negligently + against the corner of the safe. + </p> + <p> + “I ain’t so sure it’s easy, Slimmy,” replied the + man on his knees, after a moment. He stopped twirling the dial, and looked + up. “Mabbe it’ll take longer than we figured on. Are you sure + there ain’t no chance of Malay gettin’ back? I’d rather + stack up against every bull in New York than him.” + </p> + <p> + The twisted smile on Jimmie Dale’s lips still lingered. So that was + Slimmy Jack there, leaning against the safe! Slimmy Jack—and Birdie + Lee! His fingers drew the hangings a little further apart. The room was in + complete darkness except for the circle of light around the safe, and it + was as though what was being enacted before him were some strange, + realistic film thrown upon a screen—just two forms in the white + light, their faces masked, against the background of the safe, with its + glittering nickel dial. And now Slimmy Jack, from his negligent pose, + straightened sharply and leaned toward Birdie Lee. + </p> + <p> + “Say, what’s the matter with you, Birdie!” he exclaimed + roughly. “You didn’t let ‘em get your nerve up the + river, did you? You’ve been acting kind of queer all day. I told you + before, Malay wouldn’t be back in time to monkey with <i>us</i>. We + don’t have to stand for this—I told you that, too. You don’t + think I’m a fool, do you, to steer you into a lay that’s got a + come-back on myself unless the thing was planted right? Why, damn it, + Malay knows I saw the coin put in there. D’ye think I’d give + him a chance of suspecting <i>me</i>! It’s all fixed—you know + that. Now, go to it—there’s a nice little piece of money in + there that’ll keep us going till we pull that Chicago deal.” + </p> + <p> + “All right!” Birdie Lee answered tersely. “Keep quiet, + then, and I’ll see what I can do.” + </p> + <p> + He laid his ear against the safe, listening for the tumblers’ fall, + as, holding the flashlight in his left hand, its rays upon the dial, the + fingers of his right began to work swiftly again with the glistening knob. + </p> + <p> + From below, the confused, dull medley of sound from the dance hall seemed + only to intensify the silence in the room. Slimmy Jack stood motionless at + the side of the safe, his elbow resting against the old-fashioned, + protruding upper hinge. A minute, two, another, and still another dragged + by. Came then a short ejaculation from Birdie Lee. + </p> + <p> + Slimmy Jack bent forward instantly. + </p> + <p> + “Got it?” he demanded eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “No—curse it!” gritted Birdie Lee. “My fingers + seem to have lost their touch—I ain’t had much practice for + the last five years up there in Sing Sing!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, ‘soup’ it!” grunted Slimmy Jack. + “You could blow the roof off, and no one would be the wiser with + that racket downstairs. We can’t waste all night over it.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to ‘soup’ it with?” Birdie Lee + flung back gruffly. “We didn’t bring nothing. You said—” + </p> + <p> + “I know I did!” A sullen menace had crept suddenly into Slimmy + Jack’s voice. “I said you could open an old tin can like that + with your hands tied—and so you can. Try it again!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s fingers stole inside his shirt, and into a pocket of + the leather girdle, and brought forth a black silk mask. He slipped it + quickly over his face. Birdie Lee was at work once more. It was about time + to play his own hand in the game. The Tocsin had made no mistake, he was + sure of that now, and— + </p> + <p> + Birdie Lee spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “It’s no use, Slimmy!” he muttered. “I guess I ain’t + any good any more. I can’t open the damned thing!” + </p> + <p> + “Try it again!” ordered Slimmy Jack shortly. + </p> + <p> + “But it’s no use, I tell you!” retorted Birdie Lee. + “I ain’t got the feel in my fingers.” + </p> + <p> + “You—try—it—again!” There was a cold, + ominous ring in Slimmy Jack’s voice. + </p> + <p> + Birdie Lee drew back a little on his knees, glancing quickly up at the + other. + </p> + <p> + “What—what d’ye mean by that, Slimmy!” he + exclaimed in a startled way. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll show you what I mean, and I’ll show you blamed + quick if you don’t open that safe!” Slimmy Jack threatened + hoarsely. “Blast you, you’re stalling on me—that’s + what you’re doing! I’ve seen you work before. You could open + that thing with your finger nails, if you wanted to! Now, open it!” + </p> + <p> + “But, I can’t!” protested Birdie Lee. “I wouldn’t + hand you anything like that, Slimmy—you know that, Slimmy. I—” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Open it!</i> And open it—<i>quick</i>!” Slimmy Jack’s + hand was wrenching at his side pocket. + </p> + <p> + “But, I tell you, I can’t, Slimmy!” cried Birdie Lee, + almost piteously. “It’s queered me up there in the pen. I”—he + was rising to his feet—“Slimmy—for God’s, sake—what + are you doing—you—” + </p> + <p> + There was a flash, the roar of the report, a swaying form, a revolver + clattering to the floor—and with a crash Slimmy Jack pitched forward + and lay motionless. + </p> + <p> + Then silence. + </p> + <p> + It had come without warning, in the winking of an eye, and for a moment it + seemed to Jimmie Dale that he could not grasp the full significance of + what had happened—that Slimmy Jack, his sleeve catching on the hinge + of the safe as he had finally succeeded in jerking his revolver from his + pocket, had, a grim, ironical trick of fate, accidentally shot himself! + Mechanically, automatically, Jimmie Dale’s hands went to his pockets + and produced his own flashlight and revolver—but he did not move. + His eyes now were on Birdie Lee, who, like a man dazed and + terror-stricken, had lurched back against the safe, the flashlight that + dangled in his hand sweeping queer, aimless patches of light about the + floor. + </p> + <p> + Still silence—only the uproar from the dance hall that would have + drowned out to those below the sound of the revolver shot. Then Birdie Lee + staggered forward, and knelt beside the prostrate form on the floor. He + stood up again presently, swaying unsteadily on his feet, turning his head + wildly about, now this way, now that. And then his whisper, broken, + hoarse, quavered through the room: + </p> + <p> + “He’s dead. My God—he’s—he’s dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Drop that flashlight!” Jimmie Dale’s voice rang cold, + imperative. “<i>Drop it!</i>” And, sweeping the hangings + aside, the ray of his own light suddenly full upon Birdie Lee, he leaped + forward. + </p> + <p> + With a low, terrified cry, the other let the flashlight fall as though + from nerveless fingers, and shrank back against the safe. + </p> + <p> + “Now put your hands above your head!” directed Jimmie Dale + curtly. + </p> + <p> + The man obeyed. + </p> + <p> + Dark, frightened eyes stared out at Jimmie Dale from behind the mask that + covered Birdie Lee’s face. Swiftly, deftly, Jimmie Dale felt over + the other’s clothing for a weapon. There was none. Then, himself in + darkness, the blinding light in Birdie Lee’s face, he pulled off the + other’s mask, and with a grim, quick touch of his revolver muzzle + traced out the white, pulsing, triangular scar on the man’s + forehead. + </p> + <p> + “So you’re up to your old tricks again, are you, Birdie?” + he inquired coldly. “Five years up the river wasn’t enough for + you—eh?” + </p> + <p> + The man drew himself up suddenly, and, squaring his shoulders, made as + though to speak—and then, with a swift, hopeless gesture, turned his + back, and, leaning over the top of the safe, buried his head in his arms. + </p> + <p> + A strange smile touched Jimmie Dale’s lips. He stooped down, picked + up the revolver from the floor, slipped it into his pocket, bent over + Slimmy Jack for an instant to assure himself that the man was dead—then + stepping back to the safe, he laid his hand on the ex-convict’s + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Birdie,” he said quietly, “could you open this safe if + you wanted to?” + </p> + <p> + The man swung sharply around, the prison pallor of his face a pitiful, + deathlike colour in the flashlight’s rays. + </p> + <p> + “Who are you?” he asked thickly. + </p> + <p> + “A friend perhaps—if you can open that safe,” Jimmie + Dale answered. + </p> + <p> + A puzzled look crept into Birdie’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + “W-what do you mean?” he stammered. + </p> + <p> + “I mean that I want the <i>proof</i> that you are straight,” + Jimmie Dale said softly. “I’ve been here in the room all the + time. I want to know whether you were stalling on Slimmy Jack, or not. And + I want to know, if you <i>were</i> stalling, how you came to be here with + him.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a queer spiel,” said Birdie Lee, in a troubled + way. “I thought at first you were a bull—but you don’t + talk like one. Mabbe you’re playin’ with me; but, whether you + are or not, I guess it won’t make much difference what I say. You + couldn’t help me if you wanted to now—with him dead there”—he + jerked his head toward the form on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, anyhow,” insisted Jimmie Dale quietly. + </p> + <p> + Birdie’s hand lifted and swept across his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Well, all right,” he said, after a moment; “I’ll + tell you. Me and Slimmy used to work together all the time in Chicago and + out West after I left New York, and until I came back here one day and + pulled one alone and got sent up for it. Well, to-day, when they let me + out of Sing Sing, Slimmy had come on from Chicago and was waitin’ + for me. He had a deal all fixed in Chicago that we was to pull together, a + big one, and this little one here was to keep us goin’ until the big + one came off. He was with Malay John in this room to-day when a gambler + from up the State somewhere blew in with a roll of about three thousand + dollars, and handed it over to Malay to keep while he knocked around town + for a day or two. Malay put the money in this safe here, and that’s + what Slimmy was after for a starter. I told Slimmy I was all through—that + I was goin’ straight. He wouldn’t believe me. I guess you don’t. + I guess nobody will. I got a record that’s mabbe too black to live + down, and—oh, well, what’s the use! I meant to live decent, + but I guess any chance I had is gone now.” His voice choked. “That’s + the way I had doped it out up there in the pen—that I was goin’ + straight. That’s all, isn’t it? I told Slimmy I was through—but + Slimmy held something over me that was good for twenty years. What could I + do? I said I’d come in on this, figurin’ that I could queer + the game by stallin’. I—I tried it. If you were here, you saw + me. I pretended that I couldn’t open the safe, and—” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Can</i> you?” inquired Jimmie Dale gently. + </p> + <p> + “That thing!” Birdie Lee smiled mirthlessly. “Why it’s + only a double combin—” + </p> + <p> + “Open it, then,” prompted Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + Birdie Lee stooped impulsively to the dial of the safe; hesitated, then + straightened up again, and shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said. “I guess I’ll take my medicine. I + don’t know who you are. I might just as well have opened it for + Slimmy as for you. It looks as though you were after the same thing he + was.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Stand a little away from the safe, Birdie—there,” he + instructed. And, as the other obeyed wonderingly, Jimmie Dale knelt to the + dial. “You see, I trust you not to move,” he said. The dial + was whirling under the sensitive fingers, and, like Birdie before him, his + ear was pressed against the face of the safe. + </p> + <p> + The moments went by. Birdie Lee was watching in an eager, fascinated, + startled way. Came at last a sharp, metallic click, as Jimmie Dale flung + the handle over—and the door swung wide. He shut it again instantly—and + locked it. + </p> + <p> + “It’s your turn, Birdie,” he said calmly. “You see + that, as far as I or my intentions are concerned, it doesn’t matter + whether you open it or not.” + </p> + <p> + “Who are you?” There was awed admiration in Birdie’s + voice. “You’re slicker than ever I was, even in the old days. + For God’s sake, who are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind,” said Jimmie Dale. “Open the safe, if you + can.” + </p> + <p> + “I can open it all right,” said Birdie, moving slowly forward; + “and quicker than you did, because I got the combination when I was + workin’ on it with Slimmy watchin’. Throw the light on the + knob, will you?” + </p> + <p> + It was barely an instant before Birdie Lee swung back the door. + </p> + <p> + “Now lock it again,” directed Jimmie Dale. And then, as the + other obeyed, he held out his hand to Birdie Lee. “You’re + clear, Birdie.” + </p> + <p> + A tremor came to the other’s face. + </p> + <p> + “Clear?” repeated Birdie unsteadily. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—you get your chance. That’s one reason why I came + here to-night—to spoil Slimmy Jack’s play, to see that you got + your chance if you really wanted it, as”—he added whimsically—“I + was informed you did. Go ahead, Birdie—make your get-away—you’re + free.” + </p> + <p> + But Birdie Lee shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said, and his voice caught again. “It’s + no good.” He pointed to the still form on the floor. “I guess + I go up for more than safe-crackin’ this time. I—I guess it’ll + be the <i>chair</i>. When they find him here—dead—shot—they’ll + call it murder—and they’ll put it onto me. The police know we + have been together for years. They know he came here to-day when I got + out. We’ve been seen together to-day. We—we were seen <i>quarrelling</i> + this afternoon in a saloon over on the Bowery. That was when I was refusin’ + to start the old play again. They’d have what looked like an open + and shut game against me. I wouldn’t have a hope.” + </p> + <p> + It was a moment before Jimmie Dale answered. What the man said was true—he + would not have a hope—for an honest life—after five years in + the penitentiary. He lifted his flashlight again and played it over Birdie + Lee. They showed, those years, in the pallor, the drawn lines, the wan + misery in the other’s face. + </p> + <p> + And then Jimmie Dale’s lips set firmly under his mask. There was a + way to save the man. It was something he had never intended to do again—but + it was worth the price—to save this man. It would be like a + bombshell exploded in the underworld; it would arouse the police to + infuriated activity; it would stir New York to its depths—but, after + all, it could not touch Smarlinghue. It would only instill the belief that + somehow Larry the Bat had escaped from the tenement fire; it would only + mean a hunt for Larry the Bat day and night—but Larry the Bat no + longer existed—and it would save this man. + </p> + <p> + He clamped the flashlight between his knees, leaving his hands free, and + from the leather girdle drew the old-time metal case, thin, like a + cigarette case, and from the case, with a pair of little tweezers that + precluded the possibility of telltale finger prints, lifted out a small, + diamond-shaped, gray-coloured paper seal, adhesive on one side, which he + moistened now with his tongue—and, stooping quickly, attached it to + the dead man’s sleeve. + </p> + <p> + There was a sharp, startled cry from Birdie Lee. + </p> + <p> + “<i>The Gray Seal</i>! You’re—you’re Larry the + Bat! They passed the word around in Sing Sing that you were dead, and—” + </p> + <p> + “And it will be the Gray Seal who is wanted for this—not you,” + said Jimmie Dale quietly. Then, almost sharply: “Now make your + get-away, Birdie. Hurry! You and I part here. And the greater distance you + put between yourself and this place to-night the better.” + </p> + <p> + But the man seemed as though robbed of the power of movement—and + then his lips quivered, and his eyes filled. + </p> + <p> + “But you,” he faltered, “you—you’re doing + this for me, and I—I—” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale caught the other’s arm in a kindly grip. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Birdie,” he said significantly. “I’m + the last man now that you could afford to be seen with. You understand + that. And I guess you can understand that I’ve reasons for not + wanting to be seen myself. You’ve got your chance; give me mine to + get away—alone.” He pushed the man abruptly toward the door. + </p> + <p> + Still Birdie Lee hesitated; then catching Jimmie Dale’s hand, he + wrung it hard—and, with a half choked sob, turned and made his way + from the room. + </p> + <p> + For an instant Jimmie Dale stood looking after the other through the + darkness, listening as the stealthy steps descended the stairs—then + suddenly he knelt again beside the dead man on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “You were clever, Slimmy!” he murmured. “Smarlinghue + wouldn’t have had a chance of getting out from under this break—if + your plans had worked out! And I didn’t know you, of course, because + you were a Chicago crook.” + </p> + <p> + He took off the dead man’s mask, and played his flashlight for a + moment over the cold, set features. + </p> + <p> + A queer smile twisted Jimmie Dale’s lips. + </p> + <p> + It was “Clancy of Headquarters”! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. THE DIAMOND PENDANT + </h2> + <p> + The “murder” of Slimmy Jack had evidently been discovered too + late for the make-up of the early morning papers; but from the noon + editions onward it had been flung across the front pages in glaring type—even + the most stately journals, for the nonce aroused out of their dignified + calm, indulging in “display” headlines that, quite apart from + the mere text, could not but have startled their equally stately and + dignified readers. The Gray Seal, the leech that fed upon society, the + murderer, the thief, the menace to the lives and property of law-abiding + citizens, the scourge that for years New York had combated in the no more + effective fashion than that of gnashing its teeth in impotent fury, had + suddenly reappeared with a fresh murder to his credit. And New York had + thought him dead! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, leaning back on the seat of his limousine as the car, now + halting at a corner, now racing with a hundred others to snatch a block or + two of distance before the next monarchial traffic officer of Fifth Avenue + should hold it up again a victim to the evening rush, turned from first + one to another of the pile of papers beside him. His strong, clean-shaven + face was grave; and there was a sober light in the dark, steady eyes. In + the St. James Club, which he had just left, perhaps the most sedate, + certainly the most exclusive club in New York, it had been the one topic + of conversation. Elderly gentlemen, not usually given to excitability, had + joined with the younger members in a hectic denunciation of the police as + criminally inefficient, and had made dire and absurdly vain threats as to + what they, electing themselves for the moment a supreme court of last + resort, proposed to do under the circumstances. The irony was exquisite, + if they had but known! Also there was the element of humour, only there + was a grim tinge to the humour that robbed it of its mirth—some day + they <i>might</i> know! + </p> + <p> + He glanced out of the window, as the car was held up again. Everybody in + the crowd, that waited on the corners for the stream of traffic to pass, + seemed to have their eyes glued to their newspapers—even Benson, his + chauffeur, during the moment of inaction, was surreptitiously reading a + paper which he had flattened out on the seat beside him! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s eyes reverted to the newspaper in his hand, one of the + most conservative. There was no mistaking the tenor of the leading article + on the editorial page: + </p> + <p> + “It is not so much that a thug and criminal known as Slimmy Jack + should have been murdered by another wretch of his own breed; indeed, that + such should prey upon one another is far from being a matter of regret, + for we might hope in time for the extermination of them all by the simple + process of mutual attrition and at correspondingly little expense to + ourselves—but that this so-called Gray Seal should still prove to be + alive and at large is a matter that concerns every citizen personally. He + does not confine his attentions to the Slimmy Jacks. The criminal records + of the past few years reek with his acts, that run the gamut of every + crime in the decalogue, crimes for the most part actuated apparently by no + other motive than a monstrously innate thirst for notoriety—and the + victims, for the most part, too, have been the innocent and the + defenceless. What is the end of this to be? If the police cannot cope with + this blood-mad ruffian, is New York to sit idly by and submit to another + reign of terror instituted and carried on under the nose of authority by + this inhuman jackal? If so, we are committing a crime against ourselves, + we are insulting our intelligence, and—” + </p> + <p> + The man who had written that was a personal friend! Jimmie Dale threw the + paper down, and picked up another, and after that another. They were + pretty well all alike. They rehearsed the discovery of Larry the Bat as + the Gray Seal; they rehearsed the story of the fire in the tenement of six + months ago in which it was supposed that Larry the Bat had perished—they + differed only in the virulence, a mere choice of words, with which they + now demanded that this Larry the Bat, alias the Gray Seal, should be dug + out like a rat from his hole, and the city be freed once and for all, and + with no loophole for misadventure this time, of this “ogre of hell,” + as one paper put it, that was gorging itself upon New York. + </p> + <p> + The furrows gathered on Jimmie Dale’s forehead, as he folded up the + papers, and stared at his chauffeur’s back through the plate-glass + front of the car. He had known that the reappearance of the Gray Seal + would arouse the community to a wild pitch of excitement, but he had far + underestimated the effect. He could gauge it better now, though—he + had only to look out of the windows at the passers-by. And this was only + the respectable element of the city whose head and front was the police, + and dangerous enough for all the bitter taunts, gibes and recriminations + with which the police was maligned! There was still the far more dangerous + element of the underworld! He had not been in that quarter since he had + left Malay John’s the night before, but he could picture it now well + enough. God help him if he ever fell into those hands! In dens and dives, + in the dark corners of that sordid world, they would be whispering + blasphemous vows of vengeance against him one to another—and, + relative to the hate and fear that welded them into a single unit, the + police sank into insignificance. More than one of their élite had gone to + the electric chair through the instrumentality of the Gray Seal; more than + one was serving at that moment a long term behind penitentiary walls. + Whose turn was it to be next? They needed no editorial prod in the + underworld to run Larry the Bat to earth—there was the deeper spur + of self-preservation! They knew who the Gray Seal was now, and the first + blow that he had aimed upon his reappearance had apparently been at one of + themselves. Their search for Larry the Bat would not be an indifferent + one! + </p> + <p> + It was true that Larry the Bat no longer existed, that in that respect he + was encompassed by a certain security he had not enjoyed before, but how + long would that last? One slip, one moment off his guard, would wreck all + that in the twinkling of an eye. Between the police and the underworld New + York would be scoured from end to end for Larry the Bat; and, failing to + find trace or sign of their quarry, how long would it be before they would + put more faith in the evidence of the tenement fire than in the evidence + of the Magpie, upon whose testimony alone Larry the Bat had been accepted + as the Gray Seal, and believe again that Larry the Bat was dead, and that + therefore they had not yet solved the identity of the Gray Seal! + </p> + <p> + He had never intended that the Gray Seal should ever have been heard of + again. He shrugged his shoulders philosophically. One’s intentions + in this world did not always count for much! His hand had been forced, and + he had paid the price to save Birdie Lee. He could not regret that! + Whatever the consequences, the price had not been too high, and yet—his + eyes roved again over the crowded thoroughfare. A car edged by his own. + Two men were in the tonneau. One held a newspaper which he thumped with a + menacing fist as he talked. The door windows of Jimmie Dale’s + limousine were down, and he caught two bitter, angry words: + </p> + <p> + “...<i>Gray Seal</i>—” + </p> + <p> + The sober expression on Jimmie Dale’s face deepened. Only a fool + would attempt to minimise or underestimate the meaning of what he saw + around him. A hint, for instance, that he, Jimmie Dale, millionaire + clubman, riding here in his limousine, was the Gray Seal, and this great, + teeming, though orderly, Fifth Avenue would be transformed like magic into + a seething, screaming whirl of madmen, and—he did not care to follow + that trend of thought. He was quite well aware what would happen! + </p> + <p> + The car, close up against the curb, stopped once more in a traffic + blockade. Smarlinghue was the most vital factor to be considered now, for—he + caught his breath quickly. Through the open window of the limousine a + white envelope fluttered and fell at his feet. The car was moving forward + again. For the fraction of a second Jimmie Dale did not move, save to + straighten rigidly as though from some sharply administered galvanic + shock; and then, with a low cry—“the Tocsin!”—he + was at the door, his head thrust out through the window, his fingers + mechanically wrenching at the door handle. A mass of people were surging + across the street toward the opposite corner. Eagerly his eyes swept over + them; he pushed the door open a little as though to step out—and + shut it again quickly, as, with a yell of warning, another car, jockeying + for position as his own moved out into the stream of traffic, swept by + from behind. + </p> + <p> + It had been quite useless—he knew that, he had known it + subconsciously even at the moment when he had sprung to his feet. Apart + entirely from the crowd, she would undoubtedly be in some clever disguise, + and he could not have recognised her in any event. + </p> + <p> + He stooped, picked up the envelope, and sat down again quietly, his eyes + travelling swiftly in the direction of his chauffeur. Benson’s back + was still imperturbably turned toward him. In the roar of dozens of motors + all starting forward at once, Benson evidently had not heard the yell of + warning, or, if he had, had been too much occupied with his own immediate + duties to pay any attention to it. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale tore the envelope open; and, in a sort of grim, feverish + haste, unfolded the sheets which it had contained. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Philanthropic Crook—since you <i>will</i> be called + that,” he read. A quick, eager flush came to his cheeks. She knew + how, since she had shown last night that she knew him as Smarlinghue, + that, despite all her own brave, resolute protests, he was determined to + fight this thing out to the end—separately, if she would not let him + join forces with her—but, in any case, to the end. It was the old + name again—Dear Philanthropic Crook! Did it mean that she had + surrendered, then, at last, that she had finally accepted the situation, + and that he was to enter this shadowland of hers beside her! The flush + died away. It was only his own wish that had been father to the thought. + This was another “call to arms” of quite a different nature, + and born, not out of her own peril, but born, as in the old days again, + out of the maze of her strange environment. “You have set New York + ablaze, you have made me far more afraid for you than I am for myself; but + I cannot see where there is any danger here, or else I would not have + written this. You—” He was reading impetuously now, his brain, + alert and keen, sorting and sifting out, as it were, the salient, vital + points, “... old Colonel Milford and his wife... Louisiana... + letter... family heirloom... French descent... old setting, three large + diamonds pendant from necklet of smaller ones... ten to twelve thousand + dollars... steel bond box... lower right-hand drawer of desk... plan of + second floor... West 88th Street...” + </p> + <p> + He turned the page, studied for a moment the carefully drawn plan that + covered the next sheet, then turned to the third and last page—and + suddenly his face hardened. He had been called a jackal by the papers—but + here were two who bore a clearer title to the name! He knew them both—Jake + Kisnieff, better known as Old Attic in the underworld, as crooked as his + own bent and twisted form, a miserly, cunning “fence,” crafty + enough, if report were true, to have garnered a huge, ill-gotten harvest + under the nose of the police; and the other, one self-styled Henry + Thorold, alias whatever occasion might require, smooth, polished, + educated, the most dangerous of all types of crook, was the brains of a + certain clique whose versatile operations were restricted only between the + limits of porch-climbing and the callous removal, via the murder route, of + any one when deemed expedient for either personal or financial reasons! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale read on to the end of the page. His jaws were clamped together + now, the square, determined chin out-thrust; and while one hand held the + letter, the other curled into a clenched fist. It was dirty work—vile, + miserable work—a coward’s work! And then Jimmie Dale smiled + grimly, as his eyes fell upon the glaring headline of the paper on the top + of the pile beside him. Perhaps the <i>morning</i> papers would carry + other headlines that would be still more startling! + </p> + <p> + He began to study the several sheets again, critically, carefully this + time. There should be no danger here, she said. He knew what she meant—that + she counted on his being able to nip the whole scheme in the bud. He shook + his head thoughtfully. That might be true; he might be able to do that, + probably would, for it was still very early; but if not—what then? + He glanced out of the window—they were just turning into Riverside + Drive. He looked at his watch. It wanted but a few minutes of seven—progress + up the Avenue had been unusually slow. He tore the letter into small + fragments, and reaching out through the window, let the pieces flutter + away in the wind. It was none too early at that, and it was unfortunate + that he must first of all go home—there were certain things there + indispensable to the night’s work. On the other hand, it was + fortunate that he did not have to lose even more time by being obliged + instead to go to the new Sanctuary for what he needed, fortunate that he + had been “Jimmie Dale” last night when he had left Malay John’s, + and that he had gone directly home from there. + </p> + <p> + The car stopped. Benson sprang from his seat, and opened the door. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t put up the car yet, Benson; I am going a little further + uptown,” said Jimmie Dale, with a pleasant nod—and ran up the + steps of his house. + </p> + <p> + Jason, his butler, opened the door for him. + </p> + <p> + “I shall not be dining at home to-night, Jason.” Jimmie Dale + handed over his hat—not a suitable one for the evening’s + special requirements. + </p> + <p> + The old man’s face wrinkled up in disappointment. + </p> + <p> + “That’s too bad, sir, Master Jim.” Jason took liberties; + but they were the genuine heart liberties of a lifetime’s service—and + why not, since, as he was fond of saying, he had dandled his Master Jim as + a baby on his knee! “There was to be just what you are especially + fond of to-night, Master Jim; the cook made a particular point of—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I know.” Jimmie Dale’s hand squeezed the old man’s + shoulder in friendly fashion. It was not the cook, but Jason, who would + have originated the menu with the painstaking care and thoughtfulness of + one dealing with a life-and-death matter. “But it can’t be + helped. I didn’t know until just a little while ago, or I would have + telephoned. I am going right out again.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good, sir,” Jason bowed. “Your clothes, Master + Jim, are—” + </p> + <p> + “I shan’t dress, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale—and, + crossing the reception hall, with its rich, oriental rugs, he ran up the + wide staircase, opened the door of his “den,” locked it behind + him, and, switching on the lights, began to strip off his coat and vest, + as he hurried toward the further end of the great, spacious, luxuriously + appointed room that ran the entire depth of the house. + </p> + <p> + He threw coat and vest on a nearby chair; and, sweeping the portières away + from in front of a little alcove, knelt down before the barrel-shaped safe + with its multitudinous glistening knobs, that, in the days gone by when he + had been with his father in the business of manufacturing safes, the + business that had amassed the fortune he had inherited, he had designed + himself. His fingers flew over the dials. He swung the outer and the inner + doors open, reached inside, took out the leather girdle with its burglar + kit, and fastened it around his waist. Then, slipping an automatic and a + flashlight into his pocket, he closed the safe, drew the portières + together, and put on his coat and vest again. + </p> + <p> + An instant later he was downstairs, and, selecting a soft slouch hat—Jason + for the moment not being in evidence—went down the steps to his + waiting limousine. + </p> + <p> + “The Marleton, Benson,” he directed, as he stepped into the + car. “And hurry, please.” + </p> + <p> + The car started forward. It was not far to 88th Street, but the car would + save time—and time was counting now, every minute of it priceless, + if, as the Tocsin had intimated, he was to forestall the game that was in + hand. The Marleton was for Benson’s benefit—but the Marleton, + unless he had miscalculated the numbers, was barely more than a block away + from the house he sought. + </p> + <p> + And then, besides, there was another reason for haste—Colonel + Milford and his wife would probably be at dinner now, and that left the + upstairs part of the house at his disposal, since, apart from the elderly + couple, the household consisted, according to the Tocsin, of only a single + maid. He went over in his mind again the plan the Tocsin had drawn. Yes, + she was quite right, there should be no danger, the whole matter as far as + he was concerned was almost childishly simple and easy—if he were + only in time! He shook his head a little impatiently at that; and, as he + saw that they were approaching his destination, consulted his watch. It + was exactly twenty minutes after seven. + </p> + <p> + The car rolled up to the curb in front of the fashionable family hotel. + Jimmie Dale alighted. + </p> + <p> + “I shall not need you any more to-night, Benson,” he said. + </p> + <p> + He walked quietly into the hotel, through the lobby, down a corridor, and + out of the entrance that gave on the cross street—then his pace + quickened. He traversed the block, crossed the road, turned the corner, + and a minute later was approaching the house she had designated. It was + one of a row. His pace slowed to a nonchalant stroll again. It was still + quite light, and he was by no means the only pedestrian on the street; a + moment’s preliminary, even if cursory, examination of the exterior + would not be amiss! Counting the numbers ahead of him, he had already + located the house. He frowned a little. A light burned in the upstairs + front room. There was a light in the lower hallway as well, but that was + to be expected. Why the one upstairs? Had the Colonel and Mrs. Milford + already finished their dinner? + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale reached the house—and casually, without hesitation, + mounted the steps—and quite as casually, making a pretence of + ringing the electric bell, opened the unlocked outer door, stepped into + the vestibule, and, without a sound now, closed the door behind him. + </p> + <p> + He tried the inner door tentatively. It was locked, of course—but it + was locked only for an instant. From the girdle under his vest came a + little steel instrument; there was a faint, almost inaudible, protesting + <i>snip</i> from the interior of the lock; and, his fingers turning the + knob with a steady, silent pressure, he opened the door slightly. + </p> + <p> + Crouched there, he listened. And then, a smile of relief flickering on his + lips, he pushed the door open, and slipped into the hallway. The + explanation of the light upstairs was that it had probably been left + burning inadvertently. They were still at dinner, for he could hear voices + from the dining room at the rear of the hall. + </p> + <p> + As silent as a shadow now, Jimmie Dale, closing the inside door, moved + across the hall, and went up the stairs. On the landing he paused; and + then advanced cautiously. The light streamed out from the open door of the + front room, and there was always the possibility that—no, a glance + from where he stood close against the wall at the edge of the door jamb, + showed him that the room was unoccupied. + </p> + <p> + He entered the room quickly, crossed quickly to a quaint old escritoire + against the opposite wall, and stooped beside it. The lower right-hand + drawer, she had said. The little steel instrument with which he had opened + the vestibule door was still in his hand, but he did not use it now! + Instead, with a low, dismayed ejaculation, as his fingers ran along the + drawer edge, he dropped on his knees for a closer examination—and + his lips closed tightly together. + </p> + <p> + <i>He was too late</i>! The first finger touch had told him that, and now + his eyes corroborated it. The drawer had been forced by a jimmy of some + sort, judging from the indentations in the wood. The lock was broken, and + he pulled the drawer open. Inside lay the steel bond-box, its lid bent + back, and wrenched and twisted out of shape. The box was empty. + </p> + <p> + Without disturbing the box, Jimmie Dale mechanically closed the drawer + again and stood up, looking around him. In a subconscious way, when he had + entered the room, he had been cognisant of a certain strangeness in its + appointments, but then his mind had been centred only on the work in hand; + now there seemed a sort of pitiful congruity in the surroundings + themselves and in the old heirloom that had been stolen. It seemed as + though the room spoke to him of past glories. The furniture was + out-of-date, and, too, a little in disrepair. It seemed as though there + clung about it the pride and station of other days, a station that it was + finding it hard to maintain in these. And he thought he understood. It was + a fine old family, that of the Milfords of Louisiana, a very proud old + family in the way that it was fine to be proud—proud of its name, + proud that its sons were gentlemen, proud of its loyalty to its own + traditions and standards, a pride that neither condition nor adversity + could mar. And now the diamond pendant was gone! He could well understand + how they had clung to that, and— + </p> + <p> + He started suddenly. Was he a fool, that he had wasted even a moment in + giving play to his thoughts! Voices were reaching him now from below, + footsteps were sounding from the lower hall, there was a creak upon the + stairs. They were coming! + </p> + <p> + He had hardly any need for the quick, searching glance he flung around him—the + plan that the Tocsin, had drawn was mapped out vividly in his mind. He + stepped backward softly through half-opened folding doors into the room in + the rear. From this room a door, he knew, opened into the hallway. His + escape, after all, need give him little concern. He had only to step out + into the hall after they passed, and make his way downstairs. A woman’s + voice from the stairway came to him: + </p> + <p> + “My dear, you must have left the light burning.” + </p> + <p> + “Unless, it was you,” a man’s voice answered in + good-humoured banter. “You were the last one in the room.” + </p> + <p> + “But I am sure I didn’t!” the feminine tones asserted + positively. + </p> + <p> + The steps passed along the hall, and from behind the folding doors Jimmie + Dale saw an elderly couple enter the front room. Both were in evening + dress—and somehow, suddenly, at sight of them Jimmie Dale swallowed + hard. The old gentleman, kindly, blue-eyed, white-haired, was very erect, + very straight in spite of the fact that he must have been close to seventy + years of age, and with the sweet-faced, old-fashioned little lady, with + the gray hair, who stood beside him, they made a stately pair—for + all that their clothes, past glories like the furniture, were grown a + little shabby, a little threadbare. But with what a courtly air they wore + them! And with what a courtly air now he led her to a chair, and bent over + her, and lifted up her face, and held it tenderly between both his hands! + </p> + <p> + “How well you look to-night in your dress,” he said, and his + blue eyes shone. “I am very proud of you.” + </p> + <p> + She stroked the hand against her cheek. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember the first time I ever wore it?” She was + smiling up at him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes!” he nodded his head slowly. “It is strange, + isn’t it? That was a long time ago when our friends were married + back there in the old State, and to-night again, way up here in New York, + they have not forgotten us on this their anniversary.” + </p> + <p> + Silence fell for a moment between them. + </p> + <p> + Then he spoke again, a little sadly: + </p> + <p> + “Would you wish those days back again, if you could?” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know,” she said at last. “Sometimes I think + so. We had John then.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, and turned away his head. + </p> + <p> + Her hand, as Jimmie Dale watched, seemed to tighten over her husband’s; + and now, though her lips quivered, there came a little smile. + </p> + <p> + “But we have his memory now, dear,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + Agitated, the old gentleman moved abruptly away from the chair, and Jimmie + Dale could see that the blue eyes were moist. + </p> + <p> + “That is true—we have his memory.” The old colonel’s + voice trembled. And then his shoulders squared like a soldier on parade. + “Tut, tut!” he chided. “Why, we are to be gay to-night! + And it is almost time for us to be going. We, too, shall celebrate. You + shall wear the pendant, just as you did that other night.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, colonel!” There was mingled delight and hesitation in her + ejaculation. “Do you really think I ought to—that it wouldn’t + be out of keeping with our present circumstances?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, I think you ought to!” he declared. “And see”—he + started across the room—“I will get it for you, and fasten it + around your throat myself.” + </p> + <p> + He reached the escritoire, opened a little drawer at the top, took out a + key, stooped to the lower drawer, inserted the key, turned it once or + twice in a puzzled way, then tried the drawer, pulled it open—and + with a sharp, sudden cry, reached inside for the steel bond-box. + </p> + <p> + The little old lady rose hurriedly, in a startled way, from her chair. + </p> + <p> + “What is it? What is the matter?” she cried anxiously. + </p> + <p> + The box clattered from the colonel’s hands to the floor. + </p> + <p> + “It is gone!” he said hoarsely. “It has been stolen!” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Gone!</i>” She ran wildly forward. “Stolen! No, no—it + cannot be gone!” + </p> + <p> + They stared for a moment into each other’s faces, and from each + other’s faces stared at the rifled box upon the floor—and then + a look of wan misery crept gray upon the little old lady, and she swayed + backward. + </p> + <p> + With a cry, that to Jimmie Dale seemed one of more poignant anguish than + he had ever heard before, the old gentleman caught her in his arms and + supported her to a chair; then running quickly to the hall, called loudly + for the maid below. + </p> + <p> + There was a merciless smile on Jimmie Dale’s lips. He was retreating + now further back into the room toward the door that gave on the hall. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” said Jimmie Dale to himself through set teeth, + “I wonder if a man wouldn’t be justified in putting an end <i>for + keeps</i> to that devil Thorold for this!” + </p> + <p> + He heard the maid come rushing up the stairs. He could no longer see into + the other room now, but a confused mingling of voices reached him: + </p> + <p> + “... The police ... next door and telephone ... the light ... while + we were at dinner....” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale opened the door, slipped across the hall, made his way + silently and swiftly down the stairs, and with the single precaution of + pulling his slouch hat far down over his eyes, stepped boldly out of the + front door, walked quietly down the steps, walked briskly, but without + apparent haste, along the street—and turned the first corner. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. “DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!” + </h2> + <p> + Jimmie Dale hurried now, making his way to the nearest subway station, and + took a downtown train. “There should be no danger,” the Tocsin + had written. His eyes darkened with a flash of passion. Danger! Danger was + a small, pitiful factor now! He had been too late through no fault either + of his or the Tocsin’s—but he still knew where the pendant + was, or would be! Time was counting again; he was afraid now only that he + might be too late a second time. Old Attic would not let any grass grow + under his feet in disposing of the diamonds through one of the many + channels at his command, and once they had passed out of that scoundrel’s + hands they were as good as hopelessly lost. Also there was Thorold to + reckon with. Thorold would naturally get the pendant first, then turn it + over to Jake Kisnieff. Had Thorold already done so? It depended, of + course, on when the theft had been committed. That snatch of conversation—“the + light ... when we were at dinner”—came back to him. His brows + gathered. He crouched a little in his seat, staring abstractedly at the + black tunnel walls without. Station after station was passed. Jimmie Dale’s + hand, resting on the window sill, was so tightly clenched that it seemed + the skin must crack across the knuckles. + </p> + <p> + But he was smiling when he left the subway—only it was that same + merciless smile once more. It was not alone the mere act of robbery that + fanned his anger to a white heat. Again and again, he was picturing in his + mind that fine old gray-haired couple; again and again he saw the old + colonel bend and lift that sweet face to his, and saw them look into each + other’s eyes. There was something holy, something reverent in that + love which the years had ripened and mellowed with tenderness; something + that was profound, that made of this night’s work a sacrilege in + touching them—and that poor jewel, clung to all too obviously + through adversity for its past associations, was probably the last real + thing of intrinsic value they possessed! + </p> + <p> + “I am not sure,” muttered Jimmie Dale—he was fingering + the automatic in his pocket, “I am not sure that I can trust myself + to-night!” + </p> + <p> + Ten minutes’ walk from the subway brought him before a dingy and + dilapidated three-story tenement on the East Side. The Nest, they called + it in the underworld; and worthily so, for its roof sheltered more of the + cheaper and petty class of criminals probably than any other single + dwelling in New York—the steerers, the hangers-on, the stalls, those + of the lesser breed of vultures, and the more vicious therefore, who at + best made but a precarious livelihood from their iniquitous pursuits. + </p> + <p> + One of Jimmie Dale’s shoulders was hunched forward, giving a crude + and ill-fitting set to his fashionably tailored, Fifth Avenue coat; he + staggered slightly, and the flap of his collar protruded, while his tie, + pulled out, sprawled over his vest; also his slouch hat, badly crushed and + looking as though it had rolled in the mire of the street, was tilted + forward at an unhappy angle until it was balanced on the bridge of his + nose. Men, women, and children passed him by—for the street was + crowded—paying him not the slightest attention. He lurched in + through the front door of the tenement, swayed up against the hallway + inside—and stood there, still swaying a little. + </p> + <p> + It was dark here, and the atmosphere was musty and fetid; a murmur + pervaded the place as of voices behind many closed doors, but apart from + that the tenement might have been empty and deserted for all the signs of + life it evidenced. And then the spot where Jimmie Dale had stood was + vacant, and he was along the narrow hallway without a sound, and, opening + a door at the rear, stood peering out. After a moment, he closed the door + again without fastening it; and, back once more toward the front of the + hallway, began to creep silently up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + He reached the top landing. Old Attic had two miserable rooms here, where + he conducted his even more miserable business! Jimmie Dale dropped on his + knees before the door that faced the head of the stairs, and placed his + ear to the panel. Noiselessly he tried the door. It was locked. He was + smiling that merciless smile again in the darkness, as his deft, slim + fingers worked at the keyhole. He was not too late this time! Old Jake was + there, and—yes, Thorold, too. They were even now haggling over the + pendant—he could hear them quite distinctly now with the door open a + crack. + </p> + <p> + He pushed the door open a little wider, but very slowly, scarcely an inch + at a time. He was in luck again! They were in the inner room. He opened + the door still a little wider, stepped softly over the threshold, and + closed the door behind him. + </p> + <p> + Save for a dim light that filtered out through the half open door of the + inner room, it was dark here. Slowly, with that almost uncanny, silent + tread that he had acquired on the creaky, rickety stairs of the old + Sanctuary, Jimmie Dale began to move forward, the weight of his body + wholly and firmly on one foot before the other was lifted from the floor; + and, as he advanced, the black silk mask, from a pocket in the leather + girdle, was drawn over his face. + </p> + <p> + He could see them now quite plainly—the twisted, crunched-up form of + old Jake, with his tawny-bearded face, and narrow, shifting little black + eyes; the smooth-shaven, suave, oily, cunning countenance of Thorold, the + super-crook. Both were sitting at a table in the miserly appointed room, + whose only other articles of furniture were a cheap iron bed and a few + chairs. Old Jake was whining; Thorold’s voice held an angry rasp. + </p> + <p> + “Four thousand, you cursed miser, and not a cent less,” + Thorold was saying. + </p> + <p> + “Three,” whined the other. “You ain’t splitting + fair. I got to take the stones out of their setting, and sell ‘em + for what I can get. Stolen stuff’s got to go cheap. You know that.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s worth ten or twelve, and you’ll get at least eight + for it,” growled Thorold. “That’s four apiece—and + I’ve got to split mine again with the guy that pinched it. Hurry up, + d’yer hear—I’ve got a date with him in half an hour over + in my office.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha, ha!” cackled old Jake. “Are you trying to be funny? + All the thief gets out of it from you won’t make much of a hole in + your share!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s my business!” snapped Thorold. “You come + across!” + </p> + <p> + “Three!” whined old Jake again. + </p> + <p> + “Four!” Thorold flung back angrily. + </p> + <p> + “Well, let’s have a look at it then; I ain’t seen it for + years,” grumbled old Jake. “I ain’t trying to do you. We + went into this thing so’s we’d each get the same out of it; + but I tell you it ain’t easy to shove big stones when there’ll + be a police description out against them, and there ain’t no big + prices for ‘em, either.” + </p> + <p> + Thorold reached into his pocket—and even in the dull light of the + single gas-jet that alone illuminated the room, Jimmie Dale caught the + fire and flash of the magnificent stones in the pendant that swung to and + fro now, as the man held it up. + </p> + <p> + Old Jake, his hand trembling with eagerness, snatched at it, and, as + Thorold laughed shortly, dove his fingers into a greasy vest pocket, and + produced a jeweller’s magnifying glass, which he screwed into his + eye. + </p> + <p> + “One of these has got a flaw, and it’s cloudy,” he + mumbled. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind about the flaw! Flash your wad!” invited Thorold, + with a thin smile. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s hand slipped under his vest to a pocket in the leather + girdle, and from the thin metal case, with the aid of the tiny tweezers, + lifted out a gray seal, and laid it lightly on the inside edge of his + left-hand sleeve. He replaced the metal case with his right hand, and with + his right hand drew his automatic from his pocket. He crept forward again, + inch by inch toward the door of the inner room. + </p> + <p> + Old Jake laid the pendant on the table, and from some mysterious recess in + his clothing pulled out a huge roll of banknotes. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll make it three and a half until I see what I can get for + it. That’s all I’ve got here, anyway.” He began to count + the money, laying it bill by bill on the table. “If I get more than + seven, I’ll split the difference even. That’s fair. That’s + the way it’s been ever since we started this. I don’t know + exactly what I can get for this, and—” + </p> + <p> + And then Jimmie Dale was in the room, his automatic covering the two men. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t move please, gentlemen!” he said quietly, as he + stepped to the table. His eyes behind the mask travelled from the diamond + pendant to the pile of banknotes, and from the banknotes to the two men, + whose faces had gone suddenly white, and who now sat rigidly in their + chairs, as though turned to stone. “I appear to be in luck to-night!” + His lips, just showing beneath the mask, parted in a hard smile. “I + was passing by, and—” His left hand reached out, swept up the + money and the diamond pendant—and in their place, fluttering from + his sleeve, a gray seal fell upon the table. + </p> + <p> + There was a sharp, quick cry from Thorold—and the muzzle of Jimmie + Dale’s automatic swung like a flash to a level with the man’s + eyes. Old Jake had crumpled up now in his chair, and was glaring wildly at + the little diamond-shaped piece of paper; he licked his lips with his + tongue, there was fear in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “The Gray Seal! The Gray Seal!” he muttered hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + “I appear to be in luck to-night!” said Jimmie Dale again. + “And”—he put the money and the diamond pendant coolly in + his pocket—“it would be too bad if I didn’t play it up, + wouldn’t it? It doesn’t often come as easy as this. Amazing + carelessness to leave that outside door unlocked! But, as I was saying, + with such a lavish display of opulence on the table, one is almost led to + hope that there might be more where that came from. Now—” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t got any more—not another cent! Honest, I + haven’t!” old Jake cried hysterically. “I swear to God, + I haven’t, and—” + </p> + <p> + “You hold your tongue!” There was a sudden snarl in Jimmie + Dale’s low tones. The man’s voice was rising dangerously loud. + “I’ll attend to you in a moment!” He swung on Thorold + again; and, with his pistol pressed close against the man, felt deftly and + swiftly over the other in search of weapons. He laughed tersely, finding + none. “Empty your pockets out on the table!” he ordered + curtly. + </p> + <p> + The man hesitated. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale smiled—unpleasantly. + </p> + <p> + Thorold swept a bead of sweat from his forehead. His lips were working + nervously. All suavity and polish were gone now; there were only + viciousness and fear, each struggling with the other for the mastery in + the man’s smug face. + </p> + <p> + “Damn you, you blasted snitch!” he burst out furiously. + “We’ll get you down here some day, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Some day, perhaps,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “But + to-night—did I explain that I was in a hurry—<i>Thorold!</i> + Every pocket inside out, please!” + </p> + <p> + Thorold’s hand went reluctantly to his pockets. He began with the + inside pocket of his coat, laying a pile of letters and papers on the + table. + </p> + <p> + “Anything there you want?” he sneered. + </p> + <p> + “Go on!” prompted Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + From vest pockets came a varied assortment of articles—watch, + cigars, a cigar-cutter, a silver-mounted pencil, and a fountain pen. The + man’s hands travelled to his outside coat pockets. + </p> + <p> + “The <i>inside</i> pocket of the vest, Thorold,” suggested + Jimmie Dale coldly. + </p> + <p> + With a malicious snort, Thorold unbuttoned his vest, and turned the pocket + out. There was nothing in it. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale nodded complacently. + </p> + <p> + “My mistake, Thorold,” he murmured apologetically. “Go + on!” + </p> + <p> + The man continued to denude himself of his effects, but with increasing + savagery and reluctance. There was silence in the room—and then + suddenly, so faint as to be almost inaudible, there was a soft <i>pat</i> + upon the floor. Jimmie Dale did not turn his head. + </p> + <p> + “I think you dropped something, Jake,” he observed pleasantly. + “Now take your foot off it, and put it on the table!” + </p> + <p> + A miserable smile twisting his lips, old Jake stooped, picked up a roll of + bills, and, mumbling and crooning to himself, laid it on the table. Jimmie + Dale immediately transferred it to his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, “I certainly seem to be in luck tonight! + That all you got, Thorold?” He reached forward, and possessed + himself of a well-filled wallet that Thorold had added to the + heterogeneous collection in front of him. + </p> + <p> + Thorold’s face was black with fury. + </p> + <p> + “There’s the watch, you cheap poke-getter!” he choked. + “Don’t forget to frisk that while you’re at it!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale examined the collection with a sort of imperturbable + appraisement. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said judicially. “You can keep your watch, + Thorold; I haven’t got the same lay as our friend Jake here, and + that sort of thing is too hard to get rid of to make it worth while. I’ll + take these, and that’s all.” He whipped the pile of letters + and papers into his pocket. “You see, with a man of your profession, + there is always the chance of there being something valuable amongst—” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale never finished the sentence. With a sudden, low, tigerish cry, + Thorold heaved the end of the table upward between himself and Jimmie Dale—and, + quick as a cat, as Jimmie Dale staggered backward, leaped from behind it. + </p> + <p> + “Get him, Jake! Get him, Jake!” he cried. “He won’t + <i>dare</i> to fire in here for the noise. Get him, you fool, he—” + </p> + <p> + But Jimmie Dale was the quicker of the two. A vicious left full on the + point of Thorold’s jaw stopped the man’s rush—but only + for the fraction of a second. Thorold, recovering instantly, flung his + body forward, and his arms wrapped themselves around Jimmie Dale’s + neck. And now, old Jake, screeching like a madman, was circling around + them, snatching, clawing, striking at Jimmie Dale’s face and head. + </p> + <p> + Thorold was a powerful man; and at the first tight-locked grip, as they + swayed together, trained athlete though he was himself, Jimmie Dale + realised that he had met his match. Again and again, with all his strength + he tried to throw the other from him. Around and around the room they + staggered and lurched—and around and around them followed the + wizened, twisted form of old Jake, like a hovering hawk, darting in at + every opportunity for a blow, shrieking, yelling, cursing with infuriated + abandon. And then from below, a greater peril still, came the opening and + shutting of doors, voices calling—the tenement, at the racket, like + a hive of hornets disturbed, was beginning to stir into life. If they + caught him there! If they caught the Gray Seal there! It brought a + desperate strength to Jimmie Dale. He had heard too often that slogan of + the underworld—<i>death to the Gray Seal</i>! + </p> + <p> + He tore one of Thorold’s arms free from his neck—they were + cheek to cheek—Thorold was snarling out a torrent of blasphemy with + gasping breath—he wrenched himself free still—and then, their + two hands outstretched and clasped together as though in some grim devil’s + waltz, they reeled toward the bed at the far end of the room, and smashed + into a chair. And, as they lost their balance, Jimmie Dale, gathering all + his strength for the one supreme effort, hurled the other from him. There + was a crash that shook the floor, as Thorold, hurtling backwards, struck + his head with terrific force against the iron bedstead, and dropped like a + log. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was on his feet again in an instant—but not before old + Jake had run, yelling madly, from the room. A glance Jimmie Dale gave at + Thorold, who lay limp and motionless, a crimson stream beginning to + trickle over temple and cheek; then, with a bound, he reached the gas-jet, + and turned out the light. + </p> + <p> + Old Jake’s voice screamed from the hallway without: + </p> + <p> + “Help! The Gray Seal! The Gray Seal! Help! Help! Quick! The Gray + Seal!” + </p> + <p> + The staircase creaked under the rush of feet; yells began to well up from + below. Jimmie Dale darted into the outer room, and crouched down beside + the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Death to the Gray Seal!” The whole building, in a pandemonium + of hellish glee, seemed to echo and reecho the shout. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was deadly calm now, as his fingers closed around his + automatic—and, deadly cool, the keen, alert, active brain was at + work. It was black about him, pitch black, there were no lights in the + hallway—yes, a dull glimmer now—a door farther along had + opened—but dark enough in here where he waited. There was a chance—with + the odds heavily against him—but it was the only way. + </p> + <p> + They were on the landing outside now; and now, old Jake shouting excitedly + amongst them, a dozen forms swept through the doorway, and scuffing, + stamping, yelling, made for the inner room—and Jimmie Dale slipped + out into the hall. His lips pressed tightly together. That had been as he + had expected, but the danger still lay before him—in the three + flights of stairs. Some one was coming up now, more than one, the + stragglers—but there would be stragglers until the last occupant of + the tenement was aroused. He dared not wait. In a minute more, in less + than a minute, they would have lighted the gas again in there and found + him gone. + </p> + <p> + He jumped for the head of the stairs—a dark form loomed up before + him. Jimmie Dale launched himself full at the other. There was a cry of + surprise, an oath, the man pitched sideways, and Jimmie Dale sprang by. A + yell went up from the man behind him; it was echoed by a wild chorus from + above, as of wolves robbed of their prey; it was re-echoed by shouts from + the stairways and halls below—and with his left hand on the + banisters to guide him, taking the stairs four and five at a time, Jimmie + Dale went down—and now, aiming at the ground, his revolver spat and + barked a vicious warning, cutting lurid flashes through the murk ahead of + him. + </p> + <p> + Doors that were open along the hallways shut with a hurried bang; dark + forms, like rats running for their holes, scuttled to safety; women + screamed and shrieked; children whimpered. On Jimmie Dale ran. For the + second time he crashed into a form, and won by. They were firing at him + from above now—but by guesswork—firing down the stair well. + The pound of feet racing down the stairs came from behind him—two + flights behind him—he calculated he had that much start. He gained + the entrance hallway where all was dark, leaped for the front door, opened + it, pulled it shut with a violent slam—and, whirling instantly, + running swiftly and silently back along the hall, he reached the rear door + that he had left unfastened, darted out, and a moment later, swinging + himself over a high, backyard fence, dropped down into the lane beyond. + Whipping off his mask, he ran on like a hare until he approached the lane’s + intersection with a cross street. And here, well back from the street, he + paused to regain his breath and rearrange his dishevelled attire; then, + edging forward, he peered cautiously up and down—and smiled grimly—and + stepped out on the street. He was a good block away from the tenement. + </p> + <p> + From the direction of the Nest came sounds of disorder and riot. A + patrolman’s whistle rang out shrilly. It had been as close a call + perhaps as the Gray Seal had ever known—but, at that, the night’s + work was not ended! There was still the actual thief. Thorold had said he + was to meet the man in his, Thorold’s, office in half an hour to + split their ill-gotten gains. Jimmie Dale’s jaw squared. The thief! + His hand at his side clenched suddenly. Would it be <i>only</i> the thief, + or would he have to reckon with Thorold again as well? Could Thorold keep + the appointment? It was a question of how badly Thorold was hurt, and that + he did not know. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale walked on another block, still another, then turned so as to + bring him into, but well up, the street on which the tenement was + situated. From here, far down the ill-lighted street, he could see a mob + gathered outside the Nest. And then, as he stood hesitant, there came the + strident clang of a bell, the beat of hoofs, and he caught the name of the + hospital on the side of an ambulance as it tore by—and, at that, he + swung suddenly about, and, making his way across to Broadway, boarded an + uptown car. + </p> + <p> + Twenty minutes later, he closed the door of a telephone booth in a saloon + on lower Sixth Avenue behind him, and consulting the directory for the + number, called the hospital. + </p> + <p> + “This is police headquarters speaking,” said Jimmie Dale + coolly. “What’s the condition of that tenement case with the + broken head?” + </p> + <p> + “Hold the wire a minute,” came the answer; and then, + presently: “Not serious; but still unconscious.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + He hung up the receiver, and made his way out to the street. The coast was + clear then, as far as Thorold was concerned. Jimmie Dale walked on halfway + up the block, and turned into the lighted hallway of a small building + whose second floor, above a millinery establishment, was rented out for + offices. It was here that Thorold maintained what he called his “office.” + Mounting the stairs and emerging upon a narrow corridor, that was lighted + at one end by a single incandescent, Jimmie Dale halted before a door that + bore the legend: HENRY THOROLD—AGENT. Jimmie Dale’s lips + twisted into grim lines. Agent—of what? He glanced quickly up and + down the corridor, slipped his little steel instrument into the lock, and + opened the door. + </p> + <p> + He stepped inside, closing the door without re-locking it; and, using his + flashlight now, moved forward, and entered a sort of inner office that was + partitioned off from the rest of the room. There was a flat-topped desk + here, a swivel chair, an armchair, a rather good drawing or two on the + walls, and a soft yielding carpet underfoot. Thorold was far too clever to + overdo anything—it was simply businesslike, with an air of modest + success about it. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale appropriated the swivel chair behind the desk. Half an hour + from the time he had left the tenement! He should not have long to wait, + for he had used up nearly, if not quite, all of that time already, and the + thief would certainly have every incentive to be punctual. He laid his + flashlight, turned on, upon the desk, and, taking his automatic from his + pocket, examined it. There were still two cartridges remaining in the + magazine. He slipped the weapon into the side pocket of his coat, and + began to sort over the papers and letters he had taken from Thorold. He + opened one—a letter—glanced at its contents—and nodded. + It was the one to which the Tocsin had referred. He returned the others to + his pocket, began to read the one in his hand and suddenly, leaning + forward, snapped out his light. <i>Was that a step coming up the stairs?</i> + </p> + <p> + He listened now intently. Yes, it was coming nearer. He laid down the + letter on the desk, and put on his mask. Still nearer came the step. It + had halted now before the door. And now the hall door opened and closed. + Jimmie Dale sat motionless, except that his hand crept to his coat pocket, + and from his coat pocket to the desk again. The door closed softly—a + man had entered the outer room—and certainly a man who was no + stranger to the place, for he was moving unerringly in the darkness toward + the partition door. The man was in the inner office now, passing the desk, + so close that Jimmie Dale could have reached out and touched him. There + was a soft, rubbing sound as the man’s hand felt along the wall for + the electric light switch, a click, the room was suddenly flooded with + light; and, with a low cry, blinking there in the glare, staring at Jimmie + Dale’s masked face—stood Colonel Milford. + </p> + <p> + And then the old gentleman swayed, and caught at the back of the armchair + for support—upon the desk lay the diamond pendant, glittering under + the light. + </p> + <p> + “My God!” he whispered. “What does this mean?” + </p> + <p> + “It means, colonel,” said Jimmie Dale softly, “that + Thorold couldn’t come, that old Jake found one of the diamonds + cloudy and with a flaw, and that the deal fell through—and it means, + colonel, that you will never be called upon to steal Mrs. Milford’s + diamonds again; there is a letter here that—” + </p> + <p> + “The letter!” The old gentleman was staggering toward the + desk. He reached out his hand for the letter, hesitated as though he were + afraid that Jimmie Dale was only tantalising him, would never let him have + it—and then with a little cry of wondrous gladness, he snatched it + to him. + </p> + <p> + “I’d destroy that if I were you,” suggested Jimmie Dale + quietly. “I don’t imagine that Thorold or old Jake will ever + bother you again, but there are lots of ‘Thorolds’ in New + York.” He motioned toward the pendant. “That is yours, too, + colonel.” + </p> + <p> + The old gentleman was fingering the letter over and over, as though to + assure himself that it was actually in his possession; and into his blue + eyes, as they travelled back and forth from the pendant to Jimmie Dale, + there crept a half wondering, half wistful light. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know why you have done this for me, or who you are, sir,” + he said brokenly. “But at least I understand that in some strange + way you have stepped in between me and—and those men. You—you + know the story, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Only partially,” said Jimmie Dale with a smile, as he shook + his head. “But you need not—” + </p> + <p> + “I would wish to thank you, sir.” The old Southerner was + stately now in his emotion. “I can never do so adequately. You are + at least entitled to my confidence.” His face grew a little whiter; + he drew himself up as though to meet a blow. “My boy, my son, sir, + stole a large sum of money from the bank where he was employed in New + Orleans. He was not suspected; and indeed, as far as the bank is + concerned, the matter remains a mystery to this day. Shortly afterwards + the Spanish war broke out. My son was an officer in a local regiment. He + obtained an appointment for the front.” The old gentleman paused; + then he stood erect, head back, at salute, like the gallant old soldier + that he was. “My son, sir, was a thief; but he redeemed himself, and + he redeemed his name—he fell at the head of his company, leading his + men.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s eyes had grown suddenly moist. + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” he said simply. + </p> + <p> + “He wrote this letter to me, making a full confession of his guilt; + and gave it to me, telling me not to open it unless he should not come + back.” The colonel’s voice broke; then, with an effort, + steadied again. “It would have killed his mother, sir. It strained + our resources most severely to pay back the money to the bank, and I lied + to her, sir—I told her that our investments were proving + unfortunate. Two years ago I completed the final payment without the bank + ever having found out where the money came from; and then we moved up here + to New York. You see, sir, it was a little difficult to maintain our + former position in Louisiana, and amongst strangers less would be expected + of us. And then, sir, shortly after that, I do not know how, this letter + was stolen, and for two years Thorold has held it over my head, + threatening to make it public if I refused his demands; I gave him all the + money I could get. I have thought sometimes, sir, that I should put a + revolver in my pocket and come down here and shoot him like a dog—but + then, sir, the story, I was afraid, would come out. Yesterday he made a + final demand for five thousand dollars. I did not have the money. He + suggested Mrs. Milford’s pendant there. He promised to return the + letter, and any sum above the five thousand that he could get for the + diamonds. I knew he was lying about the money; but I believed he would + return the letter, knowing that I now had nothing left. That is why I am + here to-night.” + </p> + <p> + Again the old gentleman paused. It was very still in the room. Jimmie Dale + had taken the thin metal case from his leather girdle and was fingering it + abstractedly. And then the colonel spoke again: + </p> + <p> + “And so,” he said slowly, “I stole the pendant this + afternoon, and pretended to-night that it was done at dinner-time, and—and + pretended, too, to make the discovery of the theft myself. You see, sir, + it was not only the old name that would be smirched—there was the + boy to think of, and he had redeemed himself. And Mrs. Milford would have + wanted me to do that, to take a thousand of her jewels, if she had had + them, if she had known—but, you see, sir, she could not know without + it breaking her heart—I think the dearest thing in life to her is + the boy’s memory.” + </p> + <p> + Outside on Sixth Avenue an elevated train roared and thundered by—it + seemed strangely extraneous and incongruous. + </p> + <p> + “And now, sir”—the old gentleman’s voice seemed + tired, a little weary—“though you give me back the pendant, I + do not see how I can return it to my wife. It was part of the agreement + that I should notify the police—it made it impossible for me to + inform against Thorold, for—for I was the thief.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale nodded. “I was thinking of that,” he said. + </p> + <p> + He opened the metal case; and, while the old gentleman watched in + amazement and growing consternation, he lifted out a gray paper seal with + his tweezers, moistened the adhesive side with the tip of his tongue, and + pressed the seal firmly with his coat sleeve over the central cluster of + the pendant. + </p> + <p> + The old gentleman tried twice to speak before a word would come. + </p> + <p> + “You! You—the Gray Seal!” he stammered at last. “But + only to-night I was reading in the papers, and they said you were a + murderer, an ogre of hell, and—” + </p> + <p> + “And now, possibly,” interrupted Jimmie Dale whimsically, + “though circumstances will force you to keep your opinion to + yourself, you may have an idea that, as between you and the papers, you + are the better informed. Well, at least, the Gray Seal’s shoulders + are broad! You need not worry about Thorold or old Jake; I took pains to + make them aware that the Gray Seal—quite inadvertently, of course—had + taken a passing fancy to the pendant. You have only to wrap it up, and + send it by mail to <i>yourself</i>; and when it arrives”—he + laughed softly, as he stood up—“notify the police again. Let + them do the theorising—it is one of their cherished amusements! And, + oh, by the way, colonel, have you any idea how much Thorold and his + precious friend Kisnieff have blackmailed you out of in the last two + years?” + </p> + <p> + “I did not have very much left when I came to New York,” said + the colonel, in a stunned way, still staring at the gray paper seal. + “Between four and five thousand dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s too bad,” murmured Jimmie Dale. He took the + banknotes from his pocket, and laid them on the desk. “I am afraid + it is not quite all here—but I can assure you it is all they had.” + </p> + <p> + He held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “But you’re not going! You’re not going that way!” + cried the colonel, and his eyes filled suddenly. “How am I to repay + you, how am I to—” + </p> + <p> + “Very easily,” smiled Jimmie Dale; “and, to use your own + expression, very adequately—by remaining here, say, three minutes + after I have left.” He caught the colonel’s hand in his and + wrung it hard—and then, with a “Goodnight!” flung over + his shoulder, Jimmie Dale was gone. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. THE REHABILITATION OF LARRY THE BAT + </h2> + <p> + The small French window of the new Sanctuary, that gave on the dirty + little courtyard which, in turn, paralleled a black and narrow lane, with + its high, board fence, opened cautiously, noiselessly. A dark form slipped + silently into the room. The window was closed again. The dilapidated + roller shade was drawn down, and, guided by the sense of touch, the rent + that gaped across it was carefully pinned together. There was no moon to + shine in through the top-light and uncharitably disclose the greasy, + ragged carpet, or the squalor of the room. + </p> + <p> + The dark form, like a shadow, moved across the room to the door, tried the + lock, slipped an inner bolt into place, then returned halfway back to the + windows, and paused by the wall. A match flame spurted through the + blackness; and then, hissing as though in protest, the miserable, clogged + gas-jet, blue with air, still leaving the corners of the room dim and + murky, grudgingly lighted up its immediate surroundings—and Jimmie + Dale, immaculate in evening clothes, stood looking sharply about him. + </p> + <p> + Here and there about the room, upon this article and that, as though + fixing its exact and precise location, his glance fell critically; then he + stepped back quickly to the door, and knelt by the threshold. The tiny, + unobtrusive piece of thread, that must break if the door were opened by + but that fraction of an inch, was still intact. No one, then, had been + here since last, as Smarlinghue, the seedy, drug-wrecked artist, he had + left the place the day before; for, on entering, he had already satisfied + himself that the French window had not been tampered with. + </p> + <p> + A hard smile flickered across his lips. It was a grim transition, this, + from the luxury, the wealth and refinement of New York’s most + exclusive club, which he had left but half an hour ago! The smile faded, + and he passed his hand a little wearily across his eyes. The strain seemed + to grow heavier every day—the underworld more prone to suspicion; + the police more vigilant; that ominous slogan, in which Crime and the Law + for once were one, “Death to the Gray Seal!” to ring more + constantly in his ears. It was becoming more fraught with peril, danger + and difficulty than ever before, this dual life he led. And he had thought + it all ended—once. That was only a few months ago, when the way had + seemed clear for them both, for the Tocsin and himself. Well, he was here + to-night to end it again if he could—by playing perhaps the most + desperate game he had ever attempted. + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. It was more than the hazard, the danger and the peril + of his dual life that brought the strain—it was the Tocsin, his love + for her, <i>her</i> peril and <i>her</i> danger, the unbearable anxiety + and suspense on her account that was never absent from him. And it was + that that kept him in the underworld, that had forced him to create again + a rôle in gangland, the rôle of Smarlinghue, in the hope that he might + track her enemies down. She would not help him. If she knew, and she must + know, the authors of this new danger that had driven her once more into + hiding, she would not tell him. She was afraid—for <i>him</i>. She + had said that. She had said that she would fight this out alone, that she + would not, could not, whatever the end might be, bring him again into the + shadows, throw his life again into the balance. It was her love, pure, + unselfish, a wondrous love, that had prompted her to this course, he knew + that—and yet—But why all this again! His brain was numbed with + its incessant dwelling upon it day after day. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s hands clenched suddenly. That night, a week ago, when + he had been so nearly caught in the Nest, had brought very forcibly upon + him the realisation that he could not risk any longer a haphazard course + of action, if he was to be of help to her, for next time his own luck + might go out. And so the idea had come—the one, single, definite + mode of attack that lay within his power—and he had used the week to + advantage, and he was ready now. From the first it had seemed almost + certain that the danger which threatened her must come from one of two + sources—and there was a way to probe one of these to the bottom. He + did not know who they were, those who remained of the Crime Club, or where + they were; but he knew the Magpie, and he knew where the Magpie was to be + found—and to-night he would know, settling the question once for + all, <i>all</i> that the Magpie knew! + </p> + <p> + He turned, walked back across the room, and, a few feet along from the + door, knelt down close to the wall. An instant later, with the loose + section of the base-board removed, he reached inside, and took out a + curious assortment of garments, which he laid on the floor beside him. + They were not Smarlinghue’s clothes—they were even more shoddy + and disreputable. His brows gathered critically as he surveyed the + wretched boots, the mismated socks, the frayed, patched trousers, the + greasy flannel shirt, the ragged coat, and the battered, shapeless slouch + hat. Matched closely enough to the originals to pass without question, + gathered from here and there, painstakingly, with infinite trouble during + the week that had passed, were the clothes of—Larry the Bat. + </p> + <p> + It was a dangerous, almost desperate chance; but he, too, was desperate + now. To be caught, even to be seen as Larry the Bat meant flinging every + stake he had in life into the game. More rabid than ever was the cry of + the populace for vengeance upon the Gray Seal; more active than ever, + combing den and dive, their dragnet spreading from end to end of the city, + were the efforts of the police to effect the Gray Seal’s capture; + more like snarling wolves than ever, the blood lust upon them, mad to sink + their fangs into the Gray Seal, were the denizens of the underworld—and + populace and police and underworld alike knew Larry the Bat as the Gray + Seal! If he were seen—if he were caught! They had thought that Larry + the Bat had perished in the Sanctuary fire that night, and that in Larry + the Bat had perished the Gray Seal. But the Gray Seal had been at work + again since then; and, logically enough, there had followed the deduction + that, after all, Larry the Bat had in some way escaped. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale began to remove his expensively tailored dress suit. It had + made it much easier for him, easier to play the role of Smarlinghue, + easier for the Gray Seal to work, that they, the populace, police and + underworld, had of late searched only for a <i>character</i>, a character + that, in truth, until to-night had literally vanished from the face of the + earth—a character known as Larry the Bat. But now Larry the Bat was + to assume tangible form again, to accept the risk of recognition, to go + out amongst those whose one ambition was his destruction, to court his own + death, his ruin, the disclosure that Larry the Bat was Jimmie Dale, that + Jimmie Dale, the millionaire clubman, a leader in New York’s + society, was therefore the Gray Seal, and with this disclosure drag an + honoured name in the mire, be execrated as a felon. It seemed almost the + act of a fool—worse than that, indeed! Even a fool would not invite + the blow of a blackjack, the thrust of a knife, or a revolver bullet from + the first crook in gangland who recognised him; even a fool would not + voluntarily take the chance of thrusting his head through the door of one + of Sing Sing’s death cells! + </p> + <p> + And for an instant, fought out with himself times without number though + this had been since he had first conceived the plan, Jimmie Dale + hesitated. It was very still in the room. In his hands now he held a + bundle of neatly folded clothing ready to be tucked away in the aperture + in the wall. He looked around him unseeingly. Then suddenly the square jaw + clamped hard, and he stooped, thrust the bundle into the opening, and + began rapidly to dress again—as Larry the Bat. + </p> + <p> + If it was the act of a fool, it was even more the act of a <i>coward</i> + to shrink from it! It was the one way to force the Magpie to lay his cards + face up upon the table. It was the Magpie who had discovered that Larry + the Bat was the Gray Seal; it was the Magpie who had led gangland to + batter down the Sanctuary doors; it was the Magpie who had clamoured the + loudest of them all for the Gray Seal’s death—and it was the + Magpie, therefore, who had reason to fear Larry the Bat as he would fear + no other living thing on earth. And it was upon that which he, Jimmie + Dale, counted—the psychological effect upon the Magpie on finding + himself suddenly face to face and in the power of Larry the Bat, with the + unhallowed reputation of the Gray Seal, that did not stop at murder, to + discount any thought in the Magpie’s mind that the choice between a + full confession and death was an idle threat which would not be put into + instant execution. + </p> + <p> + Yes; it was simple enough, and <i>sure</i> enough—that part of it. + The Magpie would tell what he knew under those circumstances—and + tell eagerly. But if, after all, the Magpie knew nothing! Jimmie Dale + snarled contemptuously at himself. Childish! That, of course, was possible—but + in that case he would at least have run a false lead to earth, and have + eliminated the Magpie from any further consideration. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale took out a make-up box from the opening in the wall, and, + carrying it with him to the table, propped up a small mirror against a + collection of Smarlinghue’s paint tubes. His fingers were working + swiftly now with sure, deft touches, supplying to his face, his neck, his + hands and wrists, not the unhealthy pallor of Smarlinghue, but the grimy, + unwashed, dirty appearance of Larry the Bat. It was the toss of a coin, + heads or tails, whether the Magpie was at the bottom of this or not. The + Magpie knew that Silver Mag had been in the affair that night when Larry + the Bat was discovered to be the Gray Seal; the Magpie knew that Silver + Mag was a pal of Larry the Bat, and, therefore, equally with the Gray + Seal, the underworld had passed sentence of death upon her—but did + the Magpie know that Silver Mag was Marie LaSalle, any more than he knew + that Larry the Bat was Jimmie Dale? That was the question—and its + answer would be wrung from the Magpie’s lips to-night! + </p> + <p> + A piece of wax was inserted in each nostril, and behind the lobes of his + ears, and under his lip. Jimmie Dale stared into the mirror—the + vicious, dissolute face of Larry the Bat leered back at him. And then, + returning abruptly to the loosened section of the base-board, he restored + the make-up box to its hiding place. He reached inside again, and procured + a pistol and flashlight, which he stowed away in his pockets; there would + be no need to-night for that belt with its compact little kit of burglar’s + tools; no need for that thin metal box with the gray-coloured, adhesive + paper seals, the insignia of the Gray Seal, for to-night the Gray Seal + would appear in <i>person</i>. No—wait! That collection of little + steel picklocks—and a jimmy! He would need those. He felt for them + in one of the pockets of the leather girdle, transferred them to the + pocket of his ragged trousers, and slipped the base-board back into place. + </p> + <p> + And now he stepped to the gas-jet, and turned out the light. Then the + roller shade was raised, the French window silently opened, silently + closed—and Larry the Bat, hugging close against the wall of the + building, crept to the fence, and, lifting aside a loose board, passed out + into the lane, and from the lane to an empty and drearily-lighted cross + street. + </p> + <p> + There was no “sanctuary” now. Who in the underworld would fail + to recognise Larry the Bat! He was out in the open, on the fringes of the + Bad Lands, where recognition was to be feared from every passer-by, and + where, if caught, he would do well and wisely to use his own automatic + upon himself! And he must go deeper still, into the heart of gangland, to + reach that room in the basement beneath Poker Joe’s gambling hell + where the Magpie lived—or, rather, burrowed himself away in those + hours that were miserly devoted to sleep. + </p> + <p> + But Jimmie Dale knew his East Side as no other man in New York knew it; + knew it as a man whose life again and again had depended solely upon that + knowledge. By lane and alley, by unfrequented streets, now running, now + crouched motionless in some dark corner waiting for footsteps to die away + along the pavement before he darted across the street in front of him, + Jimmie Dale threaded his way through the East Side, as through the + twistings and turning of some maze, puzzling, grotesque and intricate, but + with whose secrets notwithstanding he was intimately familiar. + </p> + <p> + When he paused at last, it was in a backyard, which he had entered by the + simple expedient of climbing the fence from the lane behind. A low + building loomed up before him, whose windows at first glance were dark, + but through whose carefully closed blinds and tightly drawn shutters might + still be remarked, if one were sufficiently inquisitive, the faint, + suffused glow of lights from within. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale scarcely glanced at the windows. Poker Joe’s at this + hour—it must be close to eleven o’clock, he calculated—would + be just about settling into its night’s swing. He was quite well + aware both that the place was lighted and that there were by now perhaps a + score of gangland’s élite already at the tables; and that the blinds + and shades were closed and drawn interested him only in that it + safeguarded him <i>without</i> from being seen by any one from <i>within</i>! + </p> + <p> + But there was another window upon which Jimmie Dale now centred his entire + attention—a narrow, oblong window, cellar-like, just on a level with + the ground—and here there was neither a light nor a drawn shade. He + stole across the yard, and, five yards from the wall of the house, dropped + down on his hands and knees, and crawled silently forward. Keeping a + little to one side, he reached the window, and lay there listening + intently. There was no sound, save a low, almost inaudible murmur of + voices from the windows above him—nothing from the direction of that + dark, oblong window that he could reach out and touch now. The Magpie was + presumably not at home! + </p> + <p> + The long, slim, tapering fingers, whose nerves, tingling sensitively at + the tips, were as eyes to Jimmie Dale, those fingers that, to the Gray + Seal, were like some magical “open sesame” to the most + intricate safes and vaults, felt along the window sill, and, from the + sill, made a circuit of the sash. The window, he found, was hinged at one + side and opened inward; and now, under the pressure of his steel jimmy, + inserted between the ledge and the lower portion of the frame, it began to + yield. + </p> + <p> + Lying there on the ground, Jimmie Dale, his head close to the opening, + listened with strained attention again. He had not made much noise, + scarcely any—not enough even to have aroused the Magpie if, say, by + any chance, the Magpie were within asleep. The sounds from the floor above + seemed to be louder now, to reach him more distinctly, but from the + basement room itself there was nothing, no sound even of breathing. + </p> + <p> + Satisfied that the room was unoccupied, Jimmie Dale pushed the window wide + open, and peered in. It was like looking into some dark cavernous hole, + and he could not distinguish a single object. Then his hand slipped into + his pocket for his flashlight, and the round, white ray shot downward and + around the place. The floor of the room was perhaps five feet below the + level of the window sill; to the left, against the wall, was a bed; there + was a chair, a table sadly in need of repair, a few garments hanging from + nails driven haphazardly into the plaster, and, save for a dirty piece of + carpet on the floor, nothing else. The flashlight played slowly around the + room. Opposite the window was the door, and suspended from the centre of + the ceiling was a single incandescent lamp. + </p> + <p> + With a sort of grim nod of approval, Jimmie Dale snapped off his + flashlight, and, turning around, worked himself in through the window feet + first, and dropped silently to the floor. He had only to wait now until + the Magpie returned—whether it was a question of hours or minutes. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale made his way to the chair, and sat down—and again he + nodded his head grimly. It was very simple; he had only to wait, and this + place, this burrow of the Magpie’s, could not have been improved + upon for his purpose. It was eminently suitable, so suitable that there + seemed something ironical in the fact that it should have been the Magpie + who had chosen it. One could commit <i>murder</i> here, and none would be + the wiser—and none would be more keenly alive to that than the + Magpie himself! A threat from the Gray Seal in these surroundings left + nothing to be desired. They were making too much noise above to hear + anything in this room below the ground, and the little window afforded an + instant means of escape without the slightest danger of discovery. Yes; + the Magpie, not being a fool, would very thoroughly appreciate all this. + </p> + <p> + Time passed. It was a nerve racking vigil that Jimmie Dale kept, sitting + there in the chair—waiting. It was so dark he could not have seen + his hand before his face. And it was silent, in spite of that queer + composite sound of voices, and shuffling feet, and the occasional squeak + of chair legs from above—a silence that seemed to belong to this + miserable hole alone, that seemed immune from all extraneous noises. And + after a time, in a curious way, the silence seemed to palpitate, to beat + upon the ear-drums, to grow almost uncanny. + </p> + <p> + His lips tightened a little, and he smiled commiseratingly at himself. His + nerves were getting a little too tautly strung, that was all; he was + listening too intently for that expected step upon the stair, for the + opening of that door he faced. And it was not like him to have an attack + of nerves—and especially in view of the fact that his plan, in the + simplicity of its execution did not even warrant anxiety for its success. + He had only to remain quiet until the Magpie entered and turned on the + light, then clap his automatic to the Magpie’s head—the + psychology of fear would do the rest. And yet—what was it? As the + minutes dragged along, fight it as he would, a distinct depression, a + panicky sort of uneasiness, was settling down upon him. The darkness, in a + most unpleasant and disconcerting way, seemed to be full of eeriness, of + warnings. + </p> + <p> + For perhaps ten minutes he sat there in the chair, silent and motionless, + angry, struggling with himself—but his disquietude would not down; + rather, it but grew the stronger, until it took the form of imagining that + he was not <i>alone</i> in the room. He scowled contemptuously at himself. + There was another psychology than that of fear—the psychology of + suggestion. That silence, palpitating in his ear-drums, began to whisper: + “You are not alone here—you are not alone—you are not + alone.” + </p> + <p> + Was that a sound there outside the door? A step cautiously approaching? He + leaned forward tensely. No—his laugh was low, short, furious—<i>no!</i> + It was only from above, that sound. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s face hardened. It was childish, this sensation of <i>presence</i> + in the room; but it was also unnerving. Why should so unusual a thing + happen to him to-night? Was it purely over-wrought nerves, due to the + strain of the peril he ran as Larry the Bat—or was it intuition? + Intuition had never failed him yet. Well, whatever it was, he would put a + stop to it. He was here to-night to get the Magpie, and nothing should + interfere with that. Nothing! He and the Magpie would square accounts + to-night—and square them once for all! + </p> + <p> + Not alone here in the Magpie’s den—eh? His flashlight streamed + out, and began slowly and deliberately to circle the room. If his brain + was so restless and active that it must indulge in fantasies, it could at + least be diverted into another channel than—Jimmie Dale strained + forward suddenly in his chair. That was a pair of boots there at the foot + of the bed. There was nothing strange in a pair of boots, but these boots + were poised most curiously on their heels, with the toes pointing upward. + They just barely protruded from the foot of the bed, which accounted for + his not having been able to see them from the window when he had flashed + his light around—he could not see the upper portions of them even + now. And then, under his breath, Jimmie Dale jeered at himself again. + True, the boots were in a most peculiar position, but had his nerves + reached the state where a pair of boots would throw him into a panic! How + logical for some one to be hiding there under the bed—with his feet + in plain view! And yet what held the boots upright like that? The foot of + the bed itself? Jammed there, perhaps? Or— + </p> + <p> + “Damn it!” gritted Jimmie Dale. “I’m worse than a + child to-night!” + </p> + <p> + He rose from his chair, stepped across the room to the foot of the bed—and + like a man dazed, his flashlight playing on the boots, his automatic flung + forward in his hand, he stood staring downward, following his flashlight’s + ray with his eyes. Was he mad! Was his brain now playing him some hideous + trick! The boots were not empty, he could see a man’s ankles, the + bottoms of a town’s trousers; but the ankles and the trousers seemed + utterly insignificant—<i>on the sole of the right boot was a + diamond-shaped, gray-coloured, paper seal!</i> His own insignia—the + insignia of the Gray Seal! + </p> + <p> + For an instant it might have been, he stood there rigidly, realising in a + sort of ghastly, subconscious way that the man under the bed made no + movement, made no attempt to evade discovery, made no sound; and then + Jimmie Dale stooped quickly, and raised one of the other’s feet a + few inches from the floor. It fell back—a dead weight. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s jaws were hard clamped. There was devil’s work + here—some of the Magpie’s, possibly. Every faculty alert now, + Jimmie Dale was quietly lifting aside the small iron bed. The Magpie was + no fool! By underworld and police alike it would be accepted without + questions that the Gray Seal had held a day of reckoning in store for the + Magpie. Had the Magpie traded on that—to get rid of some one who was + in his way, this out-stretched, inert thing on the floor, and lay it to + the door of the Gray Seal? It was clever, hellish in its cunning. And it + would appear plausible enough. The Gray Seal had come here, say, searching + for the Magpie, and in the darkness had struck another down! Yes, the + Magpie could get away with that. It would stand to reason that the Magpie + would not lure a victim to his own den, and— + </p> + <p> + A low cry was on Jimmie Dale’s lips. The bed was moved out now, and + he was stooping over a man whose head was gruesomely battered above the + right temple and back across the skull. The flashlight wavered in his + hand, as he held it focussed on the other’s face. It was the Magpie—dead. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. THE BOND ROBBERY + </h2> + <p> + It seemed to Jimmie Dale that, in the darkness, the room was full of + unseen devils laughing and jeering derisively at him. It seemed that + reality did not exist; that only unreality prevailed. The Magpie—dead! + It seemed for the moment that he had utterly lost his grip upon himself; + that mentally he was being tossed helplessly about, the sport of fate. The + Magpie—<i>dead</i>! It meant—what did it mean? He must think + now, and think quickly. It meant, first of all, that any hope for the + Tocsin which he had built upon the Magpie was shattered, gone forever. And + it meant, that gray seal on the sole of the dead man’s boot, that + the murder had been committed with even greater cunning and finesse, and + an even greater security for the murderer, than he had attributed to the + Magpie a moment since, when he had thought the Magpie the instigator, and + not the victim, of the crime. + </p> + <p> + He was examining the wound, searching for the weapon—it must have + been a blunt instrument of some sort—with which the blow, or blows, + had been struck. There was nothing. The Magpie lay there—dead. That + was all. + </p> + <p> + Mechanically Jimmie Dale replaced the bed in its original position over + the murdered man, and stood staring down again at the gray seal on the + Magpie’s boot. It was not <i>why</i> the Magpie had been murdered, + it was <i>who</i> had murdered him! Once, long, long ago, almost at the + outset of the Gray Seal’s career, a spurious gray seal had been used + before. But this was a vastly different, and far more significant matter. + Then it had been an attempt to foist the identity of the Gray Seal upon a + poor, miserable devil in order to secure a reward—here it was a + crime, <i>murder</i>, coolly, callously laid to the Gray Seal, that the + guilty man might escape without a breath of suspicion. Just another crime + credited to the Gray Seal! No one would dispute it; no one would question + it; no one would dream that it had been done by any one other than the + Gray Seal. There was a brutal possibility about the ingenuity of the man + who had struck the blow. It was the Magpie who had put his finger upon + Larry the Bat as the Gray Seal; it was the Magpie who had tried to + accomplish the Gray Seal’s death. Would it, then, occasion even + surprise that the Magpie should be found murdered in his own den at the + hands of the Gray Seal? It was even his own argument, the very reason that + had led him to assume the role of Larry the Bat, and had brought him here + to the Magpie’s to-night! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale bent down for a closer inspection of the diamond-shaped gray + seal on the boot’s sole. It was not one of his own; but it was so + similar that it would unquestionably pass muster. The red crept to Jimmie + Dale’s cheeks and burned there, as a sudden, merciless anger swept + upon him. <i>Who</i> was the man who had done this, who sheltered himself + from murder behind the Gray Seal! + </p> + <p> + He laughed low and bitterly. Only another crime attributed to the Gray + Seal! It would not smirch the Gray Seal any—the Gray Seal had been + accused of worse than this! But the man who had dared to place that gray + seal there would answer for it! + </p> + <p> + He was still laughing in that low, bitter way, as he knelt now, and took + out his pocketknife. The gray seal, at least, would not be found—he + was lucky there—he had only to scrape it off, and—No—wait! + Would it not be better to leave it there? It would throw the murderer off + his guard if he believed that his plan had worked; and it could make + little difference to the Gray Seal’s record to be held guilty of + another murder—temporarily. Temporarily! Yes, that was it! Here was + one crime of which the Gray Seal would be vindicated, and the guilty man + be— + </p> + <p> + “<i>Jimmie!</i>” + </p> + <p> + It seemed to quiver, low-breathed, through the darkness—his name. + His name! Was he bereft of all his senses! His name! Here in this horrible + murder hole! Was he indeed mad with his imaginings, with these voices that + had been whispering, and laughing, and jeering at him out of the + blackness! And, absurdly, it had seemed this time that it was the Tocsin’s + voice! + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie—quick! On the floor under the window!” + </p> + <p> + He whirled like a flash. Mistake! Imaginings! No! It <i>was</i> the + Tocsin! It was her voice! The gleam of his flashlight cut the black, and, + leaping across the room, played upon the small, narrow, oblong window—it + was from there the voice had come. But it was only black and empty there. + And around the room his flashlight swept, and it was black and empty + there, too—except for a square, white object upon the floor below + the window. She was gone. + </p> + <p> + And it was like a half sob that came from Jimmie Dale’s lips. + </p> + <p> + “Gone!” he whispered miserably. “Gone!” + </p> + <p> + Why had she gone like that? Why had she not waited—just for a + moment, just for the single instant, if he could have had no more, that he + would have given his life to have? And the answer was in his soul. He + knew, and he, knew that she, too, knew, that it would not have been moment + or an instant—that he would never have let her go again. And to + follow her? He shook his head. By the time he had climbed out of the + window, what trace, any more than there was now, would there of her! She + was gone—a sort of finality in her act, as there always was, that + left nothing to be done, or said. + </p> + <p> + But the note! That white thing there upon the floor! He crossed the room, + picked it up, tore it open, and, with his flashlight upon it, began to + read. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie—Jimmie—” It was scrawled in haste, only a + few lines. His eyes travelled rapidly over the words, and suddenly his + breath came fast. + </p> + <p> + “My God!” he cried out sharply. + </p> + <p> + As though he could not have read aright, he read again; disjointed words + and phrases muttered audibly: “... Afraid not in time ... hurry ... + this afternoon ... the Magpie and Virat ... Kenleigh, insurance broker ... + safe in Kenleigh’s house ... ground floor—left ... one hundred + thousand dollars ... bonds ... will try it ... Meighan of headquarters ... + half-past one at Virat’s ... Gray Seal ... Larry the Bat ... if + dangerous, keep away ...” + </p> + <p> + One glance around the room Jimmie Dale gave instinctively; and then he was + crawling through the window, and, outside, regaining his feet, he darted + across the yard, and out into the lane. Kenleigh, the insurance broker—he + repeated the address she had given in the note over to himself. It was an + apartment house on Avenue near Washington Square. + </p> + <p> + He ran on, as he had come, through lane and alley, working his way out of + the Bad Lands. It was dangerous, of coarse, in any case, but once clear of + that section of the city which houses the underworld, his risk of + discovery was greatly minimised, since, though familiar to every denizen + of gangland, Larry the Bat was naturally not the same intimate figure in + the more law-abiding and respectable districts; and he should, except for + an extraordinary piece of bad luck, pass in the quarters he was now + heading for as no more than exactly what his appearance proclaimed him to + be—a disreputable and seedy vagrant. + </p> + <p> + It was slow work, hurry as he would, doubling and zigzagging his way up + through the East Side; discouraging, when time was so great a factor, to + cover three and four times the actual distance in order to keep to the + lanes and alleys whose shelter he dared not leave; but he was spurred on + now by a sort of grim, unholy joy. He knew now who had murdered the + Magpie, and why; he knew now who was making a tool, a cat’s-paw of + the Gray Seal; he knew now who had so cynically elected him, if caught, as + a substitute for the other to the electric chair. It was Virat! Frenchy + Virat, the suave, sleek gambler, confidence man and crook! Well, the game + was of Virat’s choosing—and they would play it out now to the + end, Virat and the Gray Seal, if it was the last act of his, Jimmie Dale’s, + life! It was only a question now of whether or not Virat had completed all + his work, of whether there was yet time to get to Kenleigh’s. + </p> + <p> + It was close to midnight, as Jimmie Dale came out on Washington Square. He + crossed to Waverly Place, and, on the point of starting along Fifth + Avenue, drew suddenly back around the corner. A man, walking rapidly, was + just turning into Fifth Avenue from the opposite corner. Jimmie Dale drew + in his breath sharply. He had got out of sight just in time. He recognised + the quick, springy walk of the other. It was Meighan, of Headquarters. And + then Jimmie Dale smiled a little whimsically. They were both bound for the + same place, he and Meighan, of Headquarters—Kenleigh’s + apartment, that was a little way further on there along the Avenue. + </p> + <p> + A short distance behind the other, but on the opposite side of the street, + Jimmie Dale followed the detective. There was hardly any use now in going + to Kenleigh’s, for, if the detective was really bound for there, it + made his, Jimmie Dale’s, errand useless—the summoning of the + Headquarters’ man was <i>prima facie</i> evidence that the robbery + had already been committed. And yet a certain grim curiosity remained. + Just how had it been done? And besides, she had said, “half-past one + at Virat’s,” so there was time to spare. The distorted lips of + Larry the Bat thinned ominously. No; it was not useless even now. He had a + very strong personal interest in all that had taken place—Virat + would be the less likely to slip through his fingers, or through the + fingers of the law, for the information that the scene of the robbery + might supply! + </p> + <p> + Meighan disappeared suddenly inside an apartment house, which Jimmie Dale + recognised as a rather fashionable one, devoted exclusively to bachelors’ + quarters, Jimmie Dale quickened his step, walked on to the next corner, + crossed the street, and came back along the block. As he approached the + apartment-house entrance, voices reached him from the vestibule, and then + he heard the closing of a door. + </p> + <p> + “Ground floor—left,” murmured Larry the Bat to himself. + He smiled facetiously. “Saves an interview with the janitor!” + </p> + <p> + He glanced sharply around him in all directions—and the next instant + was inside the vestibule—and in another, without a sound, was + crouched close against the apartment door. A delicate little steel + picklock was working now, the deft fingers manipulating it silently, and + then stealthily he pushed the door open a crack. A man’s voice, + agitated, came to him from within: “... Perhaps twenty minutes, I + don’t know—the length of time it took you to get here. I was + dining out. I ‘phoned Headquarters the instant I came in.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale pushed the door further open, slipped through, and left the + door just ajar behind him. He was in the hallway of a very small + apartment, of not more than two or three rooms, he judged. Diagonally + ahead of him a light streamed out from an open door. He stole toward this, + and, pressed close against the jamb of the door, peered in. + </p> + <p> + It was a sort of sitting-room, or den, cosily furnished with deep, + comfortable lounging chairs. There was a flat-topped desk in the centre, a + telephone on the desk; and at the rear of the room a connecting door, + leading presumably to the bedroom, was open. A clean-shaven, dark-eyed man + of perhaps thirty-five, Kenleigh obviously, was pacing nervously up and + down. His face was pale, his hair ruffled; and, in his distraction, + apparently, he had forgotten to remove the cloak which he was wearing over + his evening clothes. In the far corner of the room, Meighan, the + detective, knelt upon the floor amidst a scene of grotesque disorder. The + door of a very small safe had been “souped,” and now sagged + open. Books and papers littered the floor, and were strewn over a mattress + that, evidently dragged from the inner room, had been swaddled around the + safe to deaden the sound of the explosion. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t understand!” Kenleigh burst out, with a + groan. “This means absolute ruin to me! A hundred thousand dollars + in bonds—payable to bearer—and—and, God help me, they + weren’t mine!” + </p> + <p> + “Say”—Meighan, still busily occupied with the fractured + safe, spoke gruffly, though not unkindly, over his shoulder—“I + understand all right, but don’t lose your nerve, Mr. Kenleigh. It + won’t get you anywhere, and it doesn’t follow because the swag + is gone that we can’t get it back. I know the guy that pulled this + job.” + </p> + <p> + “You—<i>what!</i>” Kenleigh, his face lighting up as + though with a sudden hope, stepped quickly toward the detective. “What + did you say? You know who did it!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t get excited!” advised Meighan coolly. “Sure, + I know! That is, it’s a toss-up between one of two, and that’s + easy. We’ll round ‘em both up before morning, and then I guess + it won’t be much of a trick to pick the winner. They won’t be + looking for trouble as quick as this. We’ll get ‘em, all + right. It’s a toss-up between Mug Garretty and the Magpie.” + </p> + <p> + Kenleigh was staring incredulously at the detective. + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” he gasped out. “I—I don’t—” + </p> + <p> + “I daresay you don’t.” Meighan was chuckling now. + “It’s like this, Mr. Kenleigh. A crook’s like any one + else, like an artist, say—you get to know ‘em, get to spot + ‘em, especially safe workers, from certain peculiarities about their + work. They can’t any more help it than stop breathing. Here, for + instance, the way he—” Meighan stopped suddenly. He had been + pulling the mattress away from the front of the safe, and now, with a + sharp, exultant exclamation, he stooped quickly and picked up a small + object from the floor. He held it out, twirling It between thumb and + forefinger, for Kenleigh’s inspection—a flashy scarf pin, + horseshoe-shaped, of blatantly imitation diamonds. + </p> + <p> + Kenleigh shook his head bewilderingly. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you mean that you recognise it?” he ventured. + </p> + <p> + “Recognize it!” Meighan laughed low, and, stepping past + Kenleigh to the desk, picked up the telephone, and called Headquarters. + “Recognise it!” With the receiver to his ear, waiting for his + connection, he turned toward Kenleigh. “Why, say, walk over to the + Bowery and show it to the first person you meet, and he’d call the + turn. Pretty, isn’t it? When he’s dolled up, he’s some—hello!” + He swung around to the telephone. “Headquarters?... Meighan speaking + from Kenleigh’s apartment... Get a drag out for the Magpie on the + jump.... Eh?... Yes!... Left his visiting card.... What?... Yes, wound a + mattress around the box and souped it; his scarf pin must have caught in + the ticking and pulled out.... Sure, that’s the one—the + horseshoe—found it on the floor.... What?... Yes, the chances are + ten to one he will, it’s his only play.... All right, I’ll get + Mr. Kenleigh’s story meanwhile.... I’ll be here till you + 'phone.... Yes.... All right!” + </p> + <p> + Meighan hung up the receiver, sat down in a chair, and motioned toward + another that was close alongside the desk. + </p> + <p> + “Turn out the light, Mr. Kenleigh,” he said abruptly; “and + sit down here.” + </p> + <p> + Kenleigh looked his amazement. + </p> + <p> + “Turn out the light?” he repeated perplexedly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Meighan nodded. “And at once, please.” + </p> + <p> + Obeying mechanically, Kenleigh moved toward the electric-light switch. + There was a faint click, and the apartment was in darkness. Came then the + sound of Kenleigh making his way back across the room, and settling + himself in the chair beside the detective. + </p> + <p> + “I—I don’t quite see,” said Kenleigh, a little + nervously. “I—” + </p> + <p> + “You will in a minute,” interrupted Meighan, in a low voice. + “Don’t make any noise now, and don’t speak much above a + whisper. That little glass stick pin is worth twenty years to the Magpie. + See? When he finds that he has lost it, he’ll take any risk to make + sure that he didn’t lose it <i>here</i>. Get the idea? It would + plant him for keeps, and nobody knows it any better than he does.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean he’ll come back here?” whispered Kenleigh + eagerly. + </p> + <p> + Meighan chuckled. + </p> + <p> + “Sure, he’ll come back here—if he isn’t nabbed + beforehand! It’s the only chance he’s got. Don’t you + worry, Mr. Kenleigh. He’s a shy bird, is the Magpie, or he’d + have been up the river long before now, but we’ve got him coming and + going this deal. Now then, I haven’t got the details from you yet. + What time this evening did you get back here before you went out to dine?” + </p> + <p> + It was quite dark now, and Jimmie Dale leaned forward a little to catch + the words. Both men were speaking in guarded undertones. + </p> + <p> + “About six o’clock,” Kenleigh answered. “I came + straight from the office. I put the bonds in that safe there, and I should + say it was a quarter to seven by the time I had dressed and gone out + again.” + </p> + <p> + “And, say, halfpast eleven when you got back. So some time between + seven o’clock and halfpast eleven, Mr. Magpie got into the + courtyard, put a jimmy at work on the bathroom window beyond the bedroom + there, got busy—more likely to be nearer eleven than seven—he + would have been back before now, otherwise, eh?” Meighan seemed to + be communing with himself, rather than talking to Kenleigh. “Wouldn’t + make such an awful noise—didn’t need much juice on that safe—pretty + slick with the smother game—didn’t raise an item, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + There was silence for a moment. Then Meighan spoke again: + </p> + <p> + “Let’s have your story, Mr. Kenleigh. How did you come to + bring a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of bonds home with you? And + how did the Magpie get onto the lay?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, unless he stood in with the bond firm’s + messenger; that’s the only way in which I could account for it,” + said Kenleigh huskily. “And I’ve no right to say that God + knows I’ve no wish to get an innocent man into trouble. I’ve + no proof—but I can’t see any other solution.” Kenleigh’s + voice broke. He seemed to steady himself with an effort. “I’m + an insurance broker with an office on Wall Street, as I daresay you know. + A client of mine, a well-known millionaire here in the city, wanted a + hundred thousand dollars’ worth of the Canadian War Loan bonds, but + for business reasons, he has a large German connection, he did not want + his name to appear in the transaction.” Kenleigh hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” said Meighan. “I see. Wise guy! Go on!” + </p> + <p> + “He commissioned me to get them for him.” Kenleigh’s + voice was agitated as he continued. “I telephoned Thorpe, LeLand and + Company, the brokers, where I was personally known, explained the + circumstances, and placed the order. My client was to give me a check for + the amount on the delivery of the bonds to him. I was to place this to my + own credit in the bank, and check against it in favour of Thorpe, LeLand + and Company. They sent the bonds over to my office by a messenger about + five o’clock this afternoon. It was too late to put them in a + safe-deposit vault. I locked them first in my office safe, and then I grew + nervous about them, and took them out again.” + </p> + <p> + “Anybody see you do that?” queried Meighan quickly. + </p> + <p> + “No; I don’t see how they could. I’ve only a small + one-room office, and there was nobody there but myself.” + </p> + <p> + “And so they kind of got your goat, and you figured the safest thing + to do was to bring them home with you?” suggested Meighan. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” There was a miserable note of dejection in Kenleigh’s + voice. “Yes; that’s what I did. And I put them in that safe. + You know the rest, and—and, oh, my God, what am I to do! My client, + naturally, won’t pay for what he does not receive, and I owe Thorpe, + LeLand and Company a hundred thousand dollars.” He laughed out a + little hysterically. “A hundred thousand dollars! It sounds like a + joke, doesn’t it? I’ve got a little money, all I’ve been + able to save in ten years’ work, a few thousand. I’m ruined.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk so loud!” cautioned Meighan. He whistled low + under his breath. “You’re certainly up against it, Mr. + Kenleigh, but you buck up! We’ll get ‘em. And, anyway, bonds + can be traced.” + </p> + <p> + “These are payable to bearer,” said Kenleigh numbly. “There + were three classes of bonds in this issue—those payable to bearer; + those registered as to principal; and those fully registered, that is + where the interest is paid by government check instead of the bonds having + coupons. Naturally, under the circumstances, it was the 'payable-to-bearer’ + bonds that my client wanted.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, they’re numbered, aren’t they?” Meighan + returned encouragingly. + </p> + <p> + “That’s poor consolation for me,” said Kenleigh + bitterly. “Suppose some of them, or even all of them, were recovered + that way in time—where do I stand to-morrow morning?” + </p> + <p> + “I guess that’s right—if the Magpie ever got a chance to + hand them over to some fence,” admitted Meighan. “The fence + could dispose of them by the underground route all over the country where + the numbers weren’t staring everybody in the face. Yes, I guess they + could cash in, all right. Or it wouldn’t be much of a trick for a + good plate-worker to alter a number or two, either—the game’s + big enough. But”—Meighan chuckled again—“he hasn’t + got away with it yet!” + </p> + <p> + Kenleigh made no answer. + </p> + <p> + It was still again in the apartment. Through the darkness only a few feet + away from Jimmie Dale, the two men sat there silently, waiting, as he had + waited, in the darkness, and the silence—for the Magpie. There + seemed an abhorrent, gruesome analogy in the situation—this waiting + for a <i>murdered</i> man to come! + </p> + <p> + The minutes dragged by, ten, fifteen of them. And now Jimmie Dale, cramped + though he was, dared not shift his position; the movement of a foot, the + slightest stir would be heard. It would have been better if he had gone + before they had ceased talking. He had heard enough long before then, and + yet— + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, startling, like the clash of an alarm bell through the silence, + the telephone rang. Jimmie Dale heard Meighan fumble for the receiver; and + then, as the other spoke, seizing the opportunity, he began to retreat + stealthily back across the hallway toward the vestibule door. + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” Meighan’s voice was still guarded. “Yes—yes + ... What!” His voice rose suddenly in a rasping cry. “What’s + that! Dead! <i>Murdered</i>! Wait a minute! Kenleigh, they’ve found + the Magpie murdered in his room!” + </p> + <p> + “Murdered!” cried Kenleigh; then, frantically: “But the + bonds, the bonds! Did they find the bonds? Ask them! Tell them to look! + The bonds! Are the bonds there?” + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” Meighan was evidently speaking into the ‘phone + again. “Any trace of the bonds? ... What? ... Yes, yes; go on, I’m + listening! ... <i>Who</i>? ... <i>What</i>?... Good Lord!” The + receiver clicked back on its hook. + </p> + <p> + “What is it? What do they say?” demanded Kenleigh feverishly. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Kenleigh,” said Meighan soberly, “there’s + been a little feud on in the underworld for the last few months. It came + to a showdown to-night, and the man that won played in luck—he’s + killed two birds with one stone, I guess. It looks damned black for your + bonds, I’m afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “They’re—they’re gone?” faltered Kenleigh. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—and for keeps, I guess,” said Meighan gruffly. He + laughed shortly, mirthlessly. “You can turn the light on now; we’d + wait a long time here—for the Gray Seal!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. AT HALFPAST ONE + </h2> + <p> + Larry the Bat closed the outer door noiselessly behind him, slipped + through the vestibule—and, an instant later, was slouching along + Fifth Avenue, heading back toward Washington Square. His hands in his + ragged pockets clenched. It had been well worked out—with a devil’s + ingenuity. The police had swallowed the bait, jumped to the inevitable + conclusion desired, and credited the Gray Seal with the double crime of + theft and murder without an instant’s hesitation. Well, why shouldn’t + they! It had been well planned; it was natural enough! Larry the Bat, in + his turn, laughed, mirthlessly. But the game was not yet played out! + </p> + <p> + Through the by-ways, lanes and alleys of the underworld, Jimmie Dale once + more threaded his way, and finally, mounting the dark stairway leading + upward from the side entrance of a small house just off Chatham Square, he + let himself stealthily into a room on the first landing. It was Virat now, + and this was where Virat lived—a locality where a stranger took his + life in his hand any time! Below stairs was a pseudo tea-merchant’s + store—kept by a Chinese “hatchet” man. But Lang Chang + had not been in evidence when he, Jimmie Dale, had crept up the stairs, + for there had been no light in the store windows. + </p> + <p> + And now Jimmie Dale’s flashlight was playing around the room. + Halfpast one, she had said. It could not be more than one o’clock as + yet There was ample time to search for the bonds. + </p> + <p> + He began to move noiselessly around the room—a rather ornately + furnished combination sitting and bedroom. “Keep away, if dangerous,” + had been the Tocsin’s caution. He smiled grimly. What danger could + there be? He had only to face one at a time; the Tocsin could absolutely + be depended upon to see to that, and the advantage of surprise was with + him. He was pulling out the drawer of a bureau now—and now his hands + were searching swiftly under the mattress of the bed. It was necessary to + secure the bonds. Barring that little matter of the numbers, they were as + good as cash—and the matter of numbers would not trouble Virat. He + knew Virat, and he had known Virat very well—but not so well by far + as he knew him now! Virat was as suave and polished a gentleman crook as + the country possessed. Viral was the sort of man who, after the uproar had + died down, would have the nerve and address to take up his residence in + some little out-of-the-way place, and either dispose of as many of the + bonds at a time as he dared to those he would cultivate as friends, or + even have the audacity to secure a loan on a modest number of them from + the local bank itself, whose conversance with the missing numbers might be + expected to be of the haziest description. Also Virat would be careful to + see that his offerings were not made at such dates as to have the interest + coupons cause him any inconvenience by falling due within twenty-four + hours! It would be quite simple—for Virate! In six months, in as + many places, with the length and breadth of the country to choose from, + Virat could quite readily dispose of the lot; not quite at the issue price + perhaps if he secured loans, but still at a figure that would be very + profitable—for Virat! Or, as Meighan had suggested, with the aid of + a confederate of the right sort, the change of a figure—ah! Jimmie + Dale; flat upon the floor, his hand stretched in under the washstand, drew + out a short, round, heavy object. He examined this attentively for a + second; and then, his face hardening, he slipped it into his coat pocket. + </p> + <p> + He resumed his musings, and resumed his search through the room. Virat was + clever enough to find means of disposing of the bonds in some fashion or + other, and too clever to have ever committed murder for them otherwise—there + was no doubt of that. And, after all, what difference did it make whatever + Virat’s method might be! It was extraneous, immaterial. Jimmie Dale + shrugged his shoulders. The vital question was—where were the bonds? + </p> + <p> + It was a strange search there in the murderer’s room, the flashlight + winking and flinging its little gleams of light through the blackness; a + strange search, thorough as only Jimmie Dale could make it—and still + leave no tell-tale sign behind to witness that a single object in the room + had been disturbed. But the search was futile; and at the end Jimmie Dale + smiled whimsically. + </p> + <p> + “The process of elimination again!” he muttered. “I seem + to be obsessed with that to-night. Well, not being here, there’s + only one place the bonds <i>can</i> be. The process of elimination has its + advantages.” The flashlight circled around the room, and held for a + moment on the electric-light switch near the door. “It must be after + halfpast one,” said Jimmie Dale—and suddenly snapped off his + light. + </p> + <p> + There came a faint creaking noise—some one was cautiously mounting + the stairs. Jimmie Dale snatched his automatic from his pocket, and + without a sound stole forward across the room to a position by the door. + The footsteps were on the landing now. The doorknob was tried; the door + began to open slowly, inch by inch, wider; a dark form slipped through + into the room; the floor was closed again—and Jimmie Dale, reaching + forward, clapped the muzzle of his automatic against the other’s + head. But it was Larry the Bat who spoke—in a hoarse, guttural + whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Youse let a peep outer youse, an’ youse goes bye-bye for + keeps! See? Put yer hands over yer head, an’ do it—<i>quick</i>!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s left hand reached out and switched on the light. It + was Meighan, hands elevated, startled, angry, who stood blinking in the + glare—and then a low cry came from the man. + </p> + <p> + “Larry the Bat—the Gray Seal! So it’s a plant, is it! + That damned she-pal of yours handed it to me good over the ‘phone!” + Meighan’s lips tightened. “And where’s Virat—did + you kill him, too?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s hand was searching swiftly through the detective’s + clothes. He transferred a revolver and a pair of handcuffs to his own + pockets. + </p> + <p> + “I had ter take a chance on de light,” said Larry the Bat + plaintively; “‘cause I had ter frisk youse.” He turned + off the light again. “Sure, she’s a slick one!” Larry + the Bat, his left hand free again, turned his flashlight upon the + detective. “Youse can put yer flippers down now. Mabbe she staked + youse ter de tip dat de bonds was here, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, blast you—both of you!” growled Meighan. + </p> + <p> + “Well, dey ain’t,” said Larry the Bat coolly; “but + mabbe, after all, she wasn’t handin’ youse no steer.” + </p> + <p> + Meighan, savage at his own helplessness, snarled his words. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Mabbe nothin’—mabbe a whole lot.” Larry the Bat + dropped his voice mysteriously. “I was thinkin’ of pullin’ + off a little show here, an’ youse have de luck ter get an invite, + dat’s all. Mabbe I’ll hand youse somethin’ on a gold + platter, an’ mabbe I’ll hand youse—<i>this</i>!” + The automatic was shoved significantly an inch closer to Meighan’s + face. “Youse know me! Youse know what’ll happen if youse play + any funny tricks! No guy gets de Gray Seal alive—I guess youse are + wise ter dat, ain’t youse? Now den, over youse go behind dat big + chair on de other side of de table!” + </p> + <p> + Meighan, a puzzled look replacing the angry expression on his face, + blinked. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the lay?” he queried. + </p> + <p> + “I’m expectin’ company,” grinned Larry the Bat. + “Youse keeps yer yap closed till youse gets de cue—savvy? Dat’s + all! If youse play fair, mabbe youse’ll get a look-in on de + rake-off; if youse throws me down, the first shot I fires won’t miss + <i>youse</i>. Go on now, get down behind dat chair—quick!” + </p> + <p> + Hesitantly, following the flashlight’s directing ray, covered by + Jimmie Dale’s automatic, Meighan, muttering, made his way across the + room, and crouched down behind the back of a large lounging chair. Jimmie + Dale leaned nonchalantly against the jamb of the door, the flashlight + holding a bead upon the chair. + </p> + <p> + “Youse’ll pardon me if I keeps de spot-light on youse,” + drawled Larry the Bat, “Some of youse dicks ain’t trustworthy.” + </p> + <p> + “Look here!” Meighan burst out. “This is a hell of a + note! What—” + </p> + <p> + “Youse shut yer face!” Jimmie Dale’s voice had grown + suddenly cold and menacing—the stairs were creaking again, this time + under a quick tread. “Listen! Say, youse don’t have ter wait + long fer de curtain, ter go up on de act. Don’t youse make a sound!” + </p> + <p> + The doorknob turned. Jimmie Dale whipped his flashlight into his pocket—and + in a flash, as a man entered, switched on the light, and slammed shut the + door. A dapper individual, wearing tortoise-rimmed glasses, with black + moustache and goatee, was staring into the muzzle of Jimmie Dale’s + automatic. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Frenchy!” observed Larry the Bat suavely. “Feelin’ + faint?” + </p> + <p> + The man’s face had gone a chalky white. He looked wildly around him, + as though seeking some avenue of escape. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Mon Dieu</i>!” he whispered. “Larree ze Bat! It is + ze Gray Seal! It is—” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, cut out dat parlay-voo dope!” Larry the Bat broke in + curtly. “Youse don’t need ter pull dat stuff wid me, Virat. + Talk New York, see?” + </p> + <p> + Virat moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want here?” he asked huskily. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothin’ much,” said Larry the Bat airily. “I + thought mabbe youse might figure dere was some of dem bonds comin’ + ter me.” + </p> + <p> + “Bonds! I don’t know anything about any bonds,” said + Virat, in a low voice. “I don’t know what you are talking + about.’ + </p> + <p> + “You don’t—eh?” inquired Larry the Bat ominously. + “Well den, I’ll help ter put youse wise. But mabbe I’d + better get yer gun first, eh?” As he had done to Meighan, he removed + a revolver from Virat’s pocket. “T’anks!” he said. + He pushed Virat with his revolver muzzle toward the table, and forced the + other into a chair. He sat down opposite Virat, and smiled unpleasantly. + “Now den, come across! Youse croaked de Magpie ter-night!” + </p> + <p> + “You’re dippy!” sneered Virat. “I haven’t + seen the Magpie in a month.” + </p> + <p> + “An’ dat’s what youse did it wid.” Larry the Bat, + as though he had not heard the other’s denial, reached into his + pocket, and shoved a small, murderous, bloodstained blackjack, the + leather-covered piece of lead pipe that he had found beneath the + washstand, suddenly across the table under Virat’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + With a sharp cry, staring, Virat shrank back. + </p> + <p> + “Sure! Now youse’re talkin’!” approved Larry the + Bat complacently. “But dat ain’t all. Say, youse have got a + gall! Youse thought youse’d plant me, did youse, wid dat gray seal + on de Magpie’s boot!” Jimmie Dale’s voice was deadly + cold again. “Well, what about dat?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want?” mumbled Virat. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s smile was not inviting. + </p> + <p> + “I told youse once, didn’t I? What do youse suppose I want! If + I got ter fall fer it, I want some of dem bonds—dat’s what I + want!” + </p> + <p> + A look of relief spread over Virat’s face. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he said hurriedly. “I—that’s—that’s + fair. I—I’ll get them for you.” He started up from his + chair, his eyes travelling instinctively toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “Youse sit down!” invited Larry the Bat coldly. + </p> + <p> + “But—but you said—I—I was going to get them,” + faltered Virat. + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” said Larry the Bat. “Dat’s de idea! An’, + say, I’m in a hurry. Dey ain’t over dere, Frenchy—try + nearer home!” + </p> + <p> + Virat’s hands trembled as he unbuttoned his vest. He reached around + under the back of his vest, drew out a flat package, and laid it on the + table. He began to untie the cord. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute!” said Larry the Bat pleasantly. “I ain’t + in so much of a hurry now dat I got me lamps on ‘em! Youse can count + ‘em out after—half for youse, an’ half fer me. Tell us + how youse fixed de lay.” + </p> + <p> + And then, for the first time, Virat laughed, though still a little + nervously. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s square,” he agreed eagerly. “I—I + was afraid you were going to pinch them all. I’ll tell you. It was + easy. I piped the Magpie off to a chap named Kenleigh having the bonds up + there in his rooms in an apartment house. I couldn’t crack Kenleigh’s + safe myself, but it was nuts for the Magpie—see? He cracked the + safe. I was with him, and I copped that near-diamond pin of his, and left + it there so there wouldn’t be any guessing as to who pulled off the + job, and then we beat it back to his place to divide—and I beaned + him. I wasn’t looking into any gun then, and handing over fifty + thousand—and besides, with the Magpie out of the way, I had <i>some</i> + alibi.” Virat laughed shortly. “That’s where you come + in. Everybody knew you had it in for him. All I had to do was—well, + what you said I did. If you hadn’t tumbled to it, and I’m + damned if I can see how you did, there wasn’t anything to it at all. + It was open and shut that the Magpie pinched the swag, and that you + croaked him and beat it with the bonds.” + </p> + <p> + “Say,” said Larry the Bat admiringly, “youse’re + some slick gazabo, youse are! But how did youse know dat guy Kenleigh had + de goods?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s none of your business, is it?” replied Virat, a + little defiantly. “You’re getting yours now.” + </p> + <p> + Larry the Bat appeared to ponder the other’s words, a curious smile + on his lips. + </p> + <p> + “Well, mabbe it ain’t,” he admitted. “Let it go + anyway, an’ split the swag. Count ‘em out!” + </p> + <p> + Virat picked up the package again, and began to untie it—and again + Jimmie Dale’s hand slipped into his pocket. And then, quick as the + winking of an eye, as Virat’s hands came together over a knot, + Jimmie Dale leaned across the table, there was a click, and the steel were + locked on the other’s wrists. + </p> + <p> + There was a scream of fury, an oath from Virat. + </p> + <p> + “Dat’s yer cue, Meighan,” called Larry the Bat calmly. + “Come out an’ take a look at him!” + </p> + <p> + A ghastly pallor spreading over his face, staring like a demented man, as + Meighan, rising from behind the lounging chair, advanced toward the table, + Virat huddled back in his seat. + </p> + <p> + “Know him?” inquired Larry the Bat. + </p> + <p> + The detective bent sharply forward. + </p> + <p> + “My god!” he exclaimed. “It’s—no, it can’t—” + </p> + <p> + “Mabbe,” murmured Larry the Bat, “youse’d know him + better when he ain’t dolled up.” He swept the glasses from + Virat’s nose, and wrenched away the black moustache and goatee. + </p> + <p> + <i>“Kenleigh!”</i> gasped Meighan. + </p> + <p> + “Mabbe,” said Larry the Bat, with a twisted grin, “dere’s + somethin’ he may have fergotten ter wise youse up on, but he didn’t + mean ter hide nothin’ in his confession—did youse, Frenchy? An’ + mabbe dere’s one or two other things in de years he’s been + playin’ Kenleigh dat he’ll tell youse about, if youse ask him—nice + and pleasant-like!” + </p> + <p> + Larry the Bat edged around the table, and, covering Meighan with his + revolver, backed to the door. + </p> + <p> + “Well, so long, Meighan!” he said softly, from the threshold. + “T’ink of me when dey pins de medal on yer breast fer dis!” + </p> + <p> + And then Jimmie Dale laid Meighan’s revolver down on the floor of + the room, and locked the door on the outside with a pick-lock, and went + down the stairs. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. ‘WARE THE WOLF + </h2> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s fingers, in the darkness, were deftly tying around his + body the leather girdle with its finely-tempered, compact kit of burglar’s + tools. It was strange, this note of hers to-night—strange, even, + where all the notes that she had ever written had been strange! It had + been left half an hour ago at the door of the St. James Club—and he + had hastened here to the Sanctuary. It was curiously strange! Three nights + ago, he had seen Frenchy Virat safely in the hands of the police, and + Frenchy Virat was still safely in police custody—but he, Jimmie + Dale, was not yet done with Frenchy Virat, it seemed! The note had made + that quite clear. There was still the Wolf; and it was the Wolf that + filled this anxious, hurried word from her to-night. + </p> + <p> + The Wolf! He knew the Wolf well—as Larry the Bat in the old days he + had even known the other personally as Smarlinghue of to-day he had + progressed that far into the inner ring of the underworld again as to be + on nodding terms with the Wolf. The man was a power in the underworld—and + a devil in human guise. In a career extending back over many years, a + career in which no single crime in the decalogue had been slighted, the + Wolf had successfully managed to evade the clutches of the law until his + name had become a synonym for craft and cunning in the Bad Lands, and the + man himself the object of the vicious hero-worship of that sordid world + where murder cradled and foul things lived. The police had marked the man, + marked him a score of times; in their records a hundred unsolved crimes + pointed to the Wolf—but they had never “got” him—always + the thread of evidence that seemed to lead to that queer house near + Chatham Square was broken on the way—and the Wolf, with steadily + increasing prestige and authority in gangland, laughed in the faces of the + police, and here and there a plain-clothes man, over-zealous perhaps, <i>died</i>. + </p> + <p> + That was the Wolf—but that was not all! Jimmie Dale’s face + hardened into grim lines, as he lifted out from under the baseboard + “Smarlinghue’s” frayed and seedy coat, and put it on. + Between the Wolf and the Gray Seal there was now a personal feud. Above + the reek of those whisperings in the underworld, above that muttered + slogan, “<i>death to the Gray Seal,</i>” that men flung at + each other from the twisted corners of their mouths, the Wolf had snarled, + and the underworld had listened, and the underworld was waiting now—the + Wolf had pledged himself to rid the Bad Lands of the terror that had crept + upon it. He had sworn, and staked his reputation on his pledge, to “get” + Larry the Bat, <i>alias</i> the Gray Seal—and in the eyes of the + underworld, as the underworld sighed with relief, it was already + accomplished, for the Wolf had never failed. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale stooped down, felt in under the baseboard again, and took out + a little make-up box. The Wolf’s incentive was not one of + philanthropy toward his fellow denizens of crimeland, whose ranks had been + thinned by those who, thanks to the Gray Seal, had gone “up the + river,” some of them, many of them, to that room in Sing Sing’s + death-house from which none ever returned alive; nor was it, to give the + Wolf his due, through a personal fear that his own career might end, as + those others’ had, at the hands of the Gray Seal; nor, again, was it + through any tardy, eleventh-hour conversion, any belated edging toward the + way of grace that found expression in a desire to array himself on the + side of those representing the forces of law and order. It was none of + these things that actuated the Wolf—it was Frenchy Virat, <i>alias</i> + one Kenleigh, who was awaiting trial in the Tombs. Frenchy Virat was the + Wolf’s bosom friend! + </p> + <p> + The wheezy, air-choked gas-jet spluttered into a blue flame, as Jimmie + Dale lighted it. It disclosed, in shadow, the battered easel, the dirty + canvases, some finished, some but tentative daubs, that banked the wall in + disorder opposite the small French window, whose shade was closely drawn; + it crept dimly into the far corner of the room and disclosed the cheap + cot, unmade, the blanket upon it rumpled in negligent untidiness; it fell + full, such as its fulness was, upon the rickety table that was littered + with unwashed dishes and sticky paint tubes, and, at one end of the table, + on an evening newspaper, and, beside the newspaper, the Tocsin’s + note and a newspaper clipping. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale sat down at the table, brushed the dishes and paint tubes + together into a heap, and propped up against them a cracked and streaked + mirror. He opened his make-up box, and as, swiftly, with masterly touch, + the grey, sickly pallor that was Smarlinghue’s transformed his face, + and as, from little distorting pieces of wax, there came into being the + hollow cheeks, the thin, extended lips, the widened nostrils, he kept + glancing at the newspaper, reading again an article that was set, on the + front page, under heavy type captions—the article which was + identical with the clipping, and which latter the Tocsin had enclosed with + her note, lest he should not have seen the original himself. + </p> + <h3> + UNIDENTIFIED BODY FOUND UNDER PIER IN NORTH RIVER + </h3> + <h3> + VICTIM OF FOUL PLAY + </h3> + <h3> + FACE IS MUTILATED BEYOND RECOGNITION + </h3> + <p> + The details as set forth in the “story” were gruesomely + interesting enough from a morbid point of view; but from the point of view + of the police they were both meagre and unsatisfactory. It was murder + unquestionably—and murder of a most brutal character. The headline + had epitomised it—the face was mutilated beyond recognition. Every + belonging, obviously with the design to prevent, or at least retard, + identification, had been stripped from the body. One point alone appeared + to be established, and that, if anything, but added to the mystery which + surrounded the crime. According to medical opinion, the murder had been + committed but a very short time before the body was discovered; and, since + the victim had been found at three o’clock that afternoon, the body + must have been thrown into the water in broad daylight. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale worked on—his fingers seeming to fly with + ever-increasing speed. There was no time to lose; every minute, every + second, counted against him. If he could only have acted on the instant, + as Jimmie Dale, when he had received the note at the club! But he had not + had that leather girdle at the club—no blue-steel tools that would + be needed, no mask, and he had not been armed—everything had been + here in the Sanctuary. And, once here, since he had been forced to lose + that much time, he had risked a little more, precious as the moments were, + for the advantages, the safety, the freedom of movement, afforded by the + character of Smarlinghue. However, it was still but barely eleven o’clock, + and the chances were that the Wolf would hardly have deemed it late enough + as yet to set to work. On the other hand—well, on the other hand, if + the Wolf had proved the early bird, then, perhaps, he and the Wolf would + have, in another place and time to-night, a more personal reckoning than + was anticipated in the Tocsin’s plan! + </p> + <p> + His eyes picked up snatches of her note, as they skimmed it swiftly again. + </p> + <p> + “... The Wolf ... old storehouse on river front ... through trap + into the water ... old Webb ... Spider Webb ... ten thousand dollar + Moorcliffe jewel robbery ... cash box ... safe behind panelling in bedroom + directly opposite the door ... false bottom ... afraid of the Wolf ... + last few days ... unfinished ... Wolf does not know ... man and wife + upstairs ... old couple ... keep house for the Spider ... no suspicion + that anything has happened ...” And then, at the end, a more + personal, intimate touch: “Jimmie, it is not to save some one else + that I have written this to-night, for that is now too late—it is to + save <i>you</i>. The Wolf is dangerous and I am afraid. You know that he + has sworn to trap you. He is cunning, Jimmie—do not underestimate + him. That is why I have written this—if you succeed to-night ...” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s fingers were tearing the note now into infinitesimal + shreds, and, with it, the newspaper clipping. The newspaper itself he + crumpled up and tossed into the corner. He crossed the room, replaced the + make-up box in its hiding place, put back the movable section of the + base-board, turned out the light—and a minute later, Smarlinghue, + unkempt, stoop-shouldered, let himself out, not by the French window + through which he had entered stealthily in the evening clothes of Jimmie + Dale, but unconcernedly, as was the right of any tenant, by the door that + opened on the ground-floor passage of the tenement, and shuffled down the + street. + </p> + <p> + The Wolf—and Spider Webb—and Larry the Bat! It was a curious + trio! Smarlinghue’s lips, perhaps because the wax beneath was not + yet moulded comfortably into place, twitched queerly. One of them was dead—the + Spider. There remained—the Wolf and Larry the Bat! No, he did not + underestimate the Wolf—only a fool, and a blinded fool, would do + that. The Wolf had shown his fangs in deadly enough fashion that morning—with + a brutal murder, craftily planned, and hellishly executed! And yet the + Wolf was quite hopelessly illogical! It was no secret in the underworld + that the Wolf and Spider Webb had long worked together, and that the + Spider was a close friend of the Wolf. Yet the Wolf had murdered the + Spider, and at the same time had found a basis for his oath to end Larry + the Bat, because Larry the Bat had been instrumental in handing over to + the police a <i>friend</i> of the Wolf! + </p> + <p> + Smarlinghue slouched on along the street, but the “slouch” + covered the ground at an amazing rate of speed. He had not far to go—but + neither had he a moment that he dared lose. Spider Webb’s old + antique shop, but a few blocks away, nestled in a squalid little courtyard + just west of the Bowery, and on the same side of the Bowery as the + Sanctuary. + </p> + <p> + Some one, out of the shadows of the street, flung him a good-night. + Smarlinghue mumbled his acknowledgment from the corner of his mouth, and + hurried along. + </p> + <p> + His thoughts were still on the Wolf. He had not exhausted the sum of the + Wolf’s digressions from the realms of the logical! In the old days + there had been an intimacy even between the Wolf and Larry the Bat. That + underground passage from the shed into that queer house near Chatham + Square, for instance—which was known only to the <i>most</i> + intimate! But perhaps the Wolf had forgotten, or perhaps even the Wolf had + never known he had been on quite such intimate terms with—Larry the + Bat. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale glanced behind him. There was no one in sight for the moment. + He was at the corner of a lane now—and he chose the lane. It was a + shorter, and a safer route. It bordered on the rear of the courtyard which + was his objective, and obviated the necessity of attempting to steal down + past the side of “The Yellow Eastern” unnoticed. No, he did + not underestimate the Wolf, but if he had luck to-night—! He + shrugged his shoulders in a sort of grim whimsicality. + </p> + <p> + His mind reverted to the Spider now—Spider Webb. Facetious, in a + way, the name was! Webb—Spider Webb! And yet the man had come by it + honestly, or dishonestly, enough! The old antique shop for years covered + dealings that were shabbier than the shabbiest of its antiques! It was + probable that more stolen had found Spider Webb’s a clearing house + than any other Mecca of the crooks in New York. It was probable, too, that + it had known more police raids than any of its competitors—but, + unlike many of its competitors, nothing but what indubitably belonged + there had ever been found. But then again, the Spider was a specialist—he + specialised in small articles, particularly jewelry—no one in the + Bad Lands who knew his way about would ever have dreamed of going to the + Spider with anything else! Nor was the Spider without justification in + thus restricting his operations. The Spider had always managed to hide his + questionable wares, until he was able to dispose of them and they passed + again out of his possession, with an ingenuity that had baffled, enraged, + and mortified the police—and commanded the enthusiastic confidence + and admiration of the underworld! But this was, for the most part, past + history, and of the days gone by, for the Spider now had grown old—had + grown to be an old man—for it had begun of late to be whispered that + he talked more than he had been wont to talk in the days of his prime, + that he was not as <i>safe</i> as he had been, and in consequence his + trade of late had begun to drift away from him. + </p> + <p> + And herein lay the secret of the old man’s murder at the hands of + the Wolf. The Tocsin’s note had not failed to lay stress on this. No + one probably, through a career of half a score of years, knew more about + the Wolf and the Wolf’s doings than did the Spider. Rightly or + wrongly, the word was out that the old man, in his garrulity, was not safe—and + the Wolf was inviting no chances where the electric chair was concerned, + that was all! The old man would henceforth be perfectly safe, as far as + any <i>talking</i> went! It was brutal, hideous—but it was the Wolf! + Also, the Wolf, tritely expressed, had proposed to kill two birds with one + stone. The old man’s trade was not entirely gone. Yesterday, an + old-time lag, who had dealt with the Spider for many years, and who had + “pulled” the Moorcliffe job—the robbery of a summer + mansion a few miles up the Hudson—had “fenced” the + proceeds at the antique shop. Ten thousand dollars’ worth of + first-water sparklers! Everybody that was anybody in gangland knew this. + The Wolf had seen the psychological and profitable moment to strike—again + that was all! And again it was diabolical—but again it was the Wolf! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s face was set like flint. And this was the man who had + sworn that he would “get” the Gray Seal! A sort of unholy, + passionate joy surged upon him. Well, they would see, he and the Wolf—and + perhaps to-night! It was certain that the Wolf would act <i>alone</i>. The + man’s devilish cunning showed itself in having inveigled the old man + to that storehouse on the river bank, rather than to have killer the + Spider in the Spider’s own home. It might be days perhaps before the + Spider’s absence—for the Spider’s peculiar life had + demanded mysterious absences before—was even commented upon, and the + Wolf had taken pains to see that the body was not, immediately at least, + identified. It was very simple—from the Wolf’s standpoint! The + Wolf was counting it none too easy a task evidently to find the Spider’s + ingenious and storied hiding place, and this would give him a night, two + nights, or more, in which, undisturbed, he might prosecute his search. + And, as he had committed alone, so he would continue to work alone, there + were those even in gangland, and in spite of the acknowledged leadership, + who would not look with friendly eyes upon the Wolf for this! + </p> + <p> + It was black here in the lane, and now, possibly a distance of a hundred + yards up from the street, Jimmie Dale’s fingers, feeling along the + left-hand fence, came upon the latch of a small, narrow door—the + courtyard’s access to the lane. He passed through, and stood still—listening—looking + sharply about him. He knew the place well. It was the heart and centre, + the core of its own particular and vicious section of the underworld. + Ahead of him, flanking the two-story, tumble-down building that was the + Spider’s home, was a narrow alleyway, then a small and filthy + courtyard, and, its rear upon this and fronting the street, the alleyway + again at the side, the “The Yellow Lantern” that he had been + careful to avoid a dance hall of the lowest type. The Spider had not + unshrewdly chosen his location; nor the proprietor of “The Yellow + Lantern” his—their clientele was a common one, and their + interests did not clash! + </p> + <p> + From the direction of “The Yellow Lantern” came a hilarious + uproar, subdued somewhat by the distance, out of which arose the strident + notes of a tinny piano beating blatantly the measure of a turkey trot. + There was no other sound. There were lights from the rear of the dance + hall, enough, Jimmie Dale knew, to throw a murky illumination over the + front windows of the antique shop; but there were no lights showing from + the Spider’s dwelling itself, that loomed black on the side of the + alleyway at his right hand—the old couple that kept the Spider’s + house were doubtless long since in bed in their own particular apartments + upstairs. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale moved softly forward now, gained the back entrance of the + Spider’s house, and tried the door cautiously. It was locked. From + one of the little pockets in the girdle under his shirt came a black silk + mask, which he slipped over his face; from another of the pockets came a + little steel picklock. He was pressed close against the door now, his body + merged with the black shadows of the wall. A minute passed—and then + the door swung open, and closed without a sound. Another minute passed, + and still another. From upstairs came the sound of stertorous breathing, + nothing else, only quiet, and a silence that was heavy in itself—and + then the round, white ray of Jimmie Dale’s flashlight winked through + the blackness. As between himself and the Wolf, he was first, at least, on + the ground! + </p> + <p> + He was in the kitchen of the house. On the opposite side of the room from + him were two doors, one of them, the one to the left, open—and the + flashlight, playing through, disclosed a passageway leading, obviously, to + the shop at the front, and continuing to the stairway. He crossed to the + right-hand door noiselessly, opened it, and, with a low ejaculation of + satisfaction, stepped in over the threshold. It was the room he sought—the + Spider’s bedroom, or, better perhaps, the Spider’s den that + served the man for all purposes. The Spider, it was very plain, was not + fastidious! The room was dingy beyond description; the furnishings poor + and poverty-stricken in appearance. It was here the Spider met his clients + of a sort—and drove his bargains. There was no hint of affluence—the + room was miserly. + </p> + <p> + The flashlight swept in a circle around the room. There was a bed in one + corner, a table and two chairs in another, and a miserable washstand in + still another. The centre of the room, save for an old carpet on the + floor, was quite bare of furnishings. Jimmie Dale’s survey of the + appointments, however, was most cursory—they concerned him little. + The flashlight’s ray was even lifted above them, as it moved about. + There was only one door—the door by which he had entered; and only + one window—which, with a sudden frown, he mentally noted did not + open on the alleyway, for the very sufficient reason that the alleyway was + on the other side of the house. He stepped quickly to the window, and + looked out. It was a moment before he could see; and then, with a quick + nod of his head, he began, with extreme caution to loosen the window + catches on the sill. There was a narrow space between the house and what + was the blank brick wall of the building next to it, and this space + extended to the rear, and therefore, indirectly, by circling the house at + the back, led to the house and the door in the fence again. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale smiled grimly, as he swung the old-fashioned windows back on + either side. So far he was in luck to-night, and, with luck, in a very few + minutes now be out and away from the house by the same way he had entered + it—but luck sometimes was a fickle thing, and a goddess most to be + trusted by those who looked after themselves! + </p> + <p> + He walked back to the doorway, and levelled his flashlight across the room + directly in front of him. The ray fell upon the wooden panelling, and, + holding the light steadily on the same spot, he moved forward across the + floor to the opposite wall, dropped on his hands and knees, and began to + examine the woodwork critically. It was beautiful work, this panelling + that went all around the room, very old, but very beautiful work, and of + very beautifully matched wood—it was entirely out of place with the + rest of the room, or would have been, were it not that the panelling + itself bore witness to the fact that it had been built in there when the + house itself had been built, and bore witness, too, to the fact that in + those days, long gone by, a relic perhaps even of Dutch handiwork, the + house had not been unpretentious amongst its fellows of that generation. + </p> + <p> + “Behind panelling in bedroom directly opposite the door,” she + had written. Inch by inch, over an area a yard square, those sensitive + finger tips of Jimmie Dale felt their way, lingering here over a knot in + the wood, and there over a joint or crevice. Five minutes went by—and + the five became ten. An exclamation of annoyance, low, guarded, escaped + him. There was nothing—he could find nothing. The Spider’s + ingenuity had not been over-rated! Somewhere there must be the secret + spring which operated the panel, but there was no sign of it; neither was + there the slightest sign or indication that any portion of the panelling + was even movable. + </p> + <p> + He drew back for an instant, frowning. Perhaps—and then he shook his + head—no, the Tocsin did not make mistakes of that kind. The safe was + unquestionably behind the panelling in front of him. Well, there was a way—it + was distasteful to him because it was crude and bungling, but he could + afford no more time in a search, that he had already convinced himself was + hopeless. + </p> + <p> + From the girdle came a half dozen little blue-steel tools. A jimmy found + and nosed its way into the joint between two panels. There was a low, + faint creak of rending wood. A wedge followed the jimmy. A faint creak + again—and now one a little louder—and Jimmie Dale, half + turned, listened intently—the narrow board was in his hand. There + was nothing—no sound—save that interrupted, stertorous + breathing from above, and the tinny jangle of the piano from the direction + of “The Yellow Lantern.” + </p> + <p> + And now Jimmie Dale smiled again—that curious flicker on his lips + that mingled whimsicality and a deadly earnestness. The Tocsin had made no + mistake. Showing through the aperture, gleaming under the flashlight’s + ray, was the nickel dial of a safe. He worked rapidly now. The first panel + out, the remainder came much more readily—and finally the entire + face of the safe was disclosed. Jimmie Dale stared at it—and pursed + his lips. It was an ugly safe, extremely ugly—from a cracksman’s + point of view! Also, there seemed a hint of irony, a jeer almost, in the + impassive wall of steel that confronted him. It was one of his own make—one + that had helped, in the old days, to amass the millions that his father + had left to him—and it was one of the <i>best</i>! + </p> + <p> + In an abstracted, deliberate way, his eyes pondering the safe, the + blue-steel tools were replaced in the pockets of the leather girdle; and + then the long, slim, tapering fingers closed upon the dial’s knob + and twirled it tentatively, and his head bent forward until his ear was + pressed hard against the face of the safe. + </p> + <p> + It was very still now—only the breathing from above that seemed in + cadence with those strange and paradoxical palpitations that are known + only in a great silence—the piano for the moment had ceased its + jangle. Jimmie Dale’s fingers, from the dial, sought the floor, and + frictioned briskly over the rough, threadbare carpet, until the nerves + tingled under the delicate skin—and then they shot to the dial + again. + </p> + <p> + Strained, every faculty keyed up to its highest tension, he crouched there + against the safe. Again and again his fingers rubbed over the rough + carpet, and again the sweat beads oozed out upon his forehead with the + strain—and then there came through the stillness a long-drawn intake + of his breath. The handle swung the bolt with a low metallic thud—the + safe was open. + </p> + <p> + There was the inner door now. Again those slim fingers, almost raw, + quivering now at the tips, rubbed along the carpet, and the lips, just + showing beneath the edge of the mask, grew tight with pain. Then he leaned + forward, crouched once more, his head and shoulders inside the outer door, + like some strange animal burrowing for its prey. Faint, musical, like some + far distant tinkle, came the twirling of the dial—and then, + suddenly, he drew back sharply, his hand shot to his pocket, whipped out + his automatic, and, motionless there on his knees, every muscle rigid, he + listened. There was the piano again, the breathing, the weird pound and + thump of the silence—nothing else. He shook his head in half angry, + half tolerant self-remonstrance. He was under strain, that was all—he + had thought he had heard a footstep out there in the alleyway. He laid his + automatic on the floor within instant reach, and turned again to the safe—acute + and sensitive as his hearing was, it would haw taken good ears indeed to + have distinguished a step at that distance on the other side of the house! + </p> + <p> + But now he worked, seemingly at least, with even greater rapidity than + before. Imagination had had one effect, if it had had no other—it + was a spur, a reminder that at any moment there might well be a footstep, + and one that was born only of the imagination! His jaws clamped. He had + not counted on this—an old-fashioned iron monstrosity that was + dismaying only in its appearance, perhaps—but not this! He had been + here far longer now than he— + </p> + <p> + 'Ah’—tense, low, that deep intake of the breath again. + </p> + <p> + The inner door swung wide; the flashlight’s ray leaped, dazzling + white, into the interior, and, on the lower shelf, upon a flat, narrow, + black tin box—the cash-box. + </p> + <p> + In an instant, Jimmie Dale had picked it up. It was not locked, and he + lifted the cover. From within there scintillated back the gleam of + diamonds—a handful of pendants, brooches, ear-rings lay there + disclosed, and, too, a string of pearls. Ten thousand dollars! It was a + modest figure! He reached his hand inside the box—and on the instant + snatched it back, and thrust the box swiftly into his pocket. The + flashlight was out. The room was in darkness. + </p> + <p> + This time it was not imagination—nor, he knew now, had it been + imagination before. There was a faint creak of the flooring in the + kitchen, a single incautious step that he placed as having come from near + the doorway of the passage—and now some one had halted on the + threshold of the room itself. Jimmie Dale’s brain was working with + lightning speed. There had been no time to reach the window—time + only to snatch up his automatic and retreat a little from the immediate + vicinity of the safe. Had the other heard the slight sound—it was + only the brushing of his coat against the wall! Much less had there been + time to close the safe—nor would it have done any good—he + could not have replaced the broken panelling! And now—<i>what</i>? + The man, with a stealth that he, Jimmie Dale, except for that one + incautious footfall, could not have excelled, must have entered through a + window from the alleyway into the passage. It was dark, utterly dark—save + that the window showed dimly like a faint transparent square set in the + blackness. + </p> + <p> + He could not see, but he could <i>sense</i> the other standing there in + the doorway, motionless, silent, as though listening. Perhaps a minute + passed. There was something nerve-racking now in the silence, something + sinister, something pregnant with menace. And then, suddenly, there came a + low, scratching sound, and a match flame spurted through the darkness, and + lighted up a face—a face that was thrust forward through the doorway + with a sort of pent-up and malicious eagerness; a vicious face, with + sharp, restive black eyes under great, hairy eyebrows; a face with a huge + jaw, outflung now, that was like the jaw of a beast. It was the Wolf! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. THE CHASE + </h2> + <p> + It held for the fraction of a second, that light—no more. It + travelled upward past the face, as though the Wolf were holding it above + his head to get his bearings; and then, with a sharp and furious oath, the + match was hurled to the floor, there was a scuffling sound—and then + silence again. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s automatic was thrust a little forward in his hand, as + he crouched against the wall. He could have shot the man, as the other + stood in the doorway. The Wolf had offered a target that it would have + been hard to miss—and it would, one day, have saved the law the same + task! He was a fool, perhaps, that he had not taken what was, perhaps + again, the one chance he had for his life, for he was at a decided + disadvantage now, since he knew intuitively that the Wolf, scuttling back, + had now craftily protected himself behind the jamb of the door, and yet at + the same time still commanded the interior of the room. But he could not + have fired in cold blood like that—even upon the Wolf, devil though + the man was, murderer a dozen times over though he the man to be! He, + Jimmie Dale, had never shot to <i>kill</i> not yet—but in a fight, + cornered, if there was no other way...! + </p> + <p> + He moved a little, a bare few inches, then a few more—without a + sound. In the light of the match, the Wolf must have seen the dismantled + panelling and the open safe, and a masked figure crouched against the wall—and + the Wolf would have marked the position of that crouched figure against + the wall! + </p> + <p> + Silence—a minute of it—still another! + </p> + <p> + Again Jimmie Dale moved inch by inch—toward the window. And yet to + attempt the window was to invite a shot and expose himself, for, dark as + it was, his body would show plainly enough against the background of that + lesser gloom of window square. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s eyes strained through the blackness across the room. + He could just make out the configuration of the doorway. The Wolf was just + on the other side of it, just inside the kitchen, he was sure of that. + Almost a smile was flickering over Jimmie Dale’s tight-pressed lips. + There was a way—there was a way now, if the Wolf did not get him + with a chance shot. He moved again, and reached the window, crouched low + beneath the sill—and passed by the window. + </p> + <p> + And then the Wolf spoke from the doorway in a hoarse whisper, and in the + whisper there was a low, taunting laugh. + </p> + <p> + “I been waitin’ for you to try the window, but you’re + too foxy—eh? All right, my bucko—then I’ll get you + another way—with just one shot, see? And then—<i>good-night</i>! + And say, whoever t’hell you are, thanks for crackin’ the box + for me!” + </p> + <p> + The man’s voice came from the <i>right</i> of the doorway—and + the door opened <i>inward</i>—and he, Jimmie Dale, remembered that + he had opened it <i>wide</i>. It was slow, very slow, this creeping inch + by inch through the darkness. It seemed as though his breath were as + stertorous as that breathing from above, and that the Wolf must hear. + </p> + <p> + And then the Wolf laughed low again. + </p> + <p> + There was a curious crackling noise, as of paper being torn—and + then, quick, in the doorway, came a yellow flame, and the Wolf’s + hand showed from around the edge of the jamb, and, making momentary + daylight of the room, a flaming piece of paper, tossed in, fell upon the + floor. + </p> + <p> + There was a flash, the roar of the report—and another—as the + Wolf fired! There was the sullen <i>spat</i> of a bullet upon the + panelling an inch from Jimmie Dale’s head—and a sharp and + sudden pain, as though a hot iron had seared his leg. + </p> + <p> + And now Jimmie Dale’s automatic, too, cut flashes with its vicious + flame-tongues through the black. Coolly, steadily, he was firing at the + doorway—to hold the Wolf there—to keep the Wolf now in the + position of the Wolf’s own choosing. The paper was but a dull cinder + in the centre of the room; twisted too tightly, it had gone out almost + immediately. + </p> + <p> + There came screams, loud, terrified, in a woman’s voice from the + floor above—and the hoarser tones of a man shouting. A window was + flung open. Snarling blasphemous, furious oaths, the Wolf was firing at + the flashes of Jimmie Dale’s revolver—but each time as Jimmie + Dale fired, the sound drowned in the roar of the report, he moved a good + yard forward. + </p> + <p> + Came the trampling of feet from overhead now; and now, as the woman still + screamed, answering shouts and yells came from the dance hall. Jimmie Dale + had the foot of the bed now near the corner. He again, and instantly flung + himself flat upon the floor—and, in the answering flash of the Wolf’s + shot, placed the exact location of the <i>door</i> itself. There was + tumult enough now to deaden the slight sound he made. He crept swiftly + past the bed to the wall, against which the door, wide open, was swung + back, felt out with his hand, the edge of the door, and, leaping suddenly + to his feet, hurled the door shut upon the Wolf. There was a scream of + pain—the door as it slammed perhaps had caught the Wolf’s arm + or wrist—but before it was opened again Jimmie Dale was across the + room, and, flinging himself through the window, dropped to the ground. + </p> + <p> + The door crashing back against the wall again, the Wolf’s baffled + yell of rage, and an abortive shot, told him that his ruse had been + solved. He was running now, as rapidly as he could in the darkness and in + the narrow space between the Spider’s house and the wall of the + brick building. Yells in increasing volume sounded from the direction of + “The Yellow Lantern”; and now he could hear the pound of feet + racing across the courtyard toward the antique shop. The woman, from the + open window above, was still screaming with terror. + </p> + <p> + If he could gain the door in the fence—and the lane! But there was + still the Wolf to reckon with! The Wolf had only to run through the + kitchen and out by the back entrance—the shorter distance of the + two. But the Wolf had already lost a few seconds so that now the race was + a gamble. Could he, Jimmie Dale, get there <i>first</i>! He could not run + in the other direction—that would take him into the courtyard, and + the courtyard now, as evidenced by the yells and shouting, was filled with + an excited crowd emptying from the dance hall. + </p> + <p> + He reached the rear end of the house, and darted across the wider space + here, racing for the opening in the fence—and suddenly changed his + tactics, and began to zigzag a little. A revolver flash cut the night. + Came the Wolf’s howl from the back stoop, and, over his shoulder, + Jimmie Dale saw the other, dark-shadowed, leap forward in pursuit—and + heard the Wolf fire again. + </p> + <p> + He flung himself against the fence door, and it gave with a crash. + Pandemonium reigned behind him. In a blur he saw the courtyard, that was + dimly lighted now by the open doors and open windows of the dance hall, + swaying with shapes, and, like ghostly figures, a mob tearing toward him + down the alleyway. + </p> + <p> + The Wolf’s voice, punctuated with a torrent of blasphemy and vile + invective, shrilled out over the tumult: + </p> + <p> + “Come on! Here he is! Out in the lane!” + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” shrilled another voice. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know!” yelled the Wolf. “Catch him, and + we’ll damn soon find out!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was running like a hare now down the lane. The Wolf leading, + still firing, the crowd poured out into the lane in pursuit. Jimmie Dale + zigzagged no longer, there was greater risk in that than in risking the + shots—it was black enough in the lane to risk the shots; but his + lead, barely twenty-five yards, was too short to risk their gaining upon + him through his running from side to side. + </p> + <p> + His brain, cool in peril, worked swiftly. The Sanctuary! That was the one + chance for his life! He had been no more than a masked figure huddled + against the wall of the room in there. The Wolf had not recognised him. He + would be safe if he could reach the Sanctuary! There were two blocks to go + along the street ahead, then the next lane, and from that into the + intersecting lane, the loose board in the fence that swung at a touch, the + French window—and the Sanctuary. But to accomplish this he must <i>gain</i> + upon his pursuers, not merely hold his own, but increase the distance + between them by at least another fifteen or twenty yards; he must, in + other words, be out of range of vision as he disappeared through the + fence. Well, he should be able to do that! It was the trained athlete + against an ill-conditioned, dissolute mob! + </p> + <p> + He swerved from the lane into the street. There was grim and hellish + humour in the thought that a <i>wolf</i> should be leading the snarling, + howling pack, blood mad now, at his heels! The Wolf had ceased firing—obviously + because the Wolf’s revolver was empty. The others, a lesser breed, + and previously intent on a peaceful orgy at the dance hall, were evidently + not armed. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale gained five yards, another five, and another ten. He had no + fear of being recognised as Smarlinghue even here, where, poorly + illuminated as the street was, it was like bright sunlight compared with + the darkness of the lane. There was no stooped, bent figure, no slouching + gait—there was, instead, a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose face + was masked, and who ran with the speed of a greyhound, and whose + automatic, spitting ahead of him as he ran, invited none of the few + pedestrians, or those rushing to their doorways, to block his path. + </p> + <p> + He swerved again, into a lane again, the lane he had been making for; and, + as he swerved, he flung a sidelong glance down the street. Yes, his + twenty-five yards were fifty now, except for the Wolf, who ran perhaps ten + yards in advance of any of the others. The howls, yells, shouts and + execrations welled into a louder outburst as he dashed into the lane. Ten + from fifty left forty. Forty yards clear! It was a very narrow margin, + even allowing for the blackness of the lane—but it was enough—it + was slightly more than the distance along the intersecting lane to the + rear of the Sanctuary—he would have pushed aside that loose board + before the Wolf turned the corner from one lane into the other! + </p> + <p> + Forty yards! Perhaps he could make it forty-five! Forty-five would be <i>safer</i>; + and—he reeled suddenly, and staggered, and, with a low cry, his + hands reached upward to his temples. His head was swimming—a + dizziness, a nausea was upon him—his strength seemed as it were + being sapped from his limbs. What was it? He—yes—the wound in + his leg! Yes—he remembered now—that burning like the searing + of a hot iron. He had forgotten it in the excitement. But it could not + amount to anything—or he would not have been able to have come this + far. It was only a passing giddiness—he was better now—see, he + was still running—he had only slowed his pace for an instant—that + was all. + </p> + <p> + They swept into the lane behind him. He looked back—and his lips + grew tight, and bitter hard. It was no longer forty yards—he was <i>not</i> + running so fast now—and it was the Wolf, and the Wolf’s pack, + who were gaining. + </p> + <p> + He swerved for the third time—into the stretch of intersecting lane. + The Sanctuary was just ahead, but he must reach that loose board in the + fence and have disappeared before the Wolf swung around the corner behind + him—or else—or else, since that led to nowhere to the French + window of Smarlinghue’s room, the game was as good as up if he + attempted it! + </p> + <p> + He strained forward, striving to mass his strength and fling it into one + supreme effort. He was close now—only another five yards to go. Yes—he + was weak. His teeth set. Four yards—three! If only there were not + that glimmer of light, faint as it was, seeping down the lane from the + street lamp across the road from the Sanctuary! Two yards—now! No! + The Wolf’s yell, as the man tore around the corner of the two lanes, + rang out like a knell of doom. + </p> + <p> + Drawn, white-faced, Jimmie Dale, stumbling now, lurched past that loose + board he had counted upon for what was literally his life—lurched + past, and stumbled on. He could not run much farther. There was one chance + left—just one—that there should be no one to see him enter the + <i>front</i> door of the Sanctuary, no one lounging about, no one in the + tenement doorway. If that chance failed—well, then it was the end—<i>the</i> + end of Smarlinghue, the end of Jimmie Dale, the end of Larry the Bat, the + end of the Gray Seal—and the Wolf would have kept his pledge to + gangland. But it would be an end that gangland would long remember, and an + end that the Wolf would share! + </p> + <p> + The street was just before him now. He turned into it—and there came + a little cry, a moan almost, of relief. The doorway of the tenement was <i>clear</i>. + He sprang for it, entered, and, suddenly silent now in his tread, reached + the door of his own room, slipped through and closed it softly behind him. + </p> + <p> + And now Jimmie Dale worked with frantic speed. He could hear them racing, + yelling, shouting along the lane. A match crackled in his hand, and the + gas-jet spluttered into flame—the light in the room could not be + seen from the lane. He ran across the room, tearing off his mask as he + went, and, wrenching the cash-box from his pocket, tucked mask and + cash-box behind the disordered array of dirty canvases on the floor—he + dared not take the risk or the time that loosening the base board would + entail. He flung his hat into a corner, and, ripping off his coat, tossed + it upon the cot; then, snatching up a paint tube, he smeared a daub of + paint upon the palette that lay on the table, and laid a wet brush + hurriedly several times across the canvas on the easel. + </p> + <p> + From the corner of the lane and street outside came the scuffling to and + fro of many feet, as though in uncertainty, in indecision, in hesitancy. A + dozen voices spoke at once, high-pitched, wild, frenzied. + </p> + <p> + “Where is he?... Which way did he go?... Where—” + </p> + <p> + And then the Wolf’s voice, above the rest, in a sudden, excited + yell: + </p> + <p> + “What’s that across there! It’s him! There he is! He’s + kept on up the lane! He’s—” + </p> + <p> + The voice was lost in a chorus of shouts, in the pound and stampede of + racing feet again, of the pack in cry. The sounds receded and died in the + distance. Jimmie Dale drew his hand across his forehead and brought it + away damp with sweat. He staggered now to the wash-stand, and from the + drawer took out a bottle of brandy, and, heedless of glass, uncorked it, + and lifted it to his lips. He would never know a closer call! He had been + weaker than he had thought! Thank God for the brandy! The fiery stimulant + was whipping the blood in his veins into life again, and—the bottle + was still held to his lips, but he was no longer drinking. His eyes were + on the washstand’s mirror. He heard no sound, but in the mirror he + saw the door of his room open, close again, and, leaning with his back + against it—<i>the Wolf!</i> + </p> + <p> + Not a muscle of Jimmie Dale’s face moved. He allowed another gulp of + brandy to gurgle noisily down his throat. The cool, alert, keen brain was + at work. It was certain that the Wolf had at no time that night recognised + him as Smarlinghue. The Wolf, therefore, at worst, could be no more than + <i>gambling</i> on the chance that the object of the chase had taken + refuge here in the tenement, and, naturally enough then, was beginning his + investigation with the ground floor room. And yet, why then had the Wolf, + deliberately in that case, sent his pack off on a false scent? In the + mirror he could see that huge jaw outthrust, the black eyes narrowed, an + ugly leer on the working face—and a revolver in the Wolf’s + hand that held a bead on his, Jimmie Dale’s, head. + </p> + <p> + It was “Smarlinghue,” the wretched, nervous, drug-wrecked + creature that turned around—and, as though startled at the sight of + the other, almost let the bottle fall from his hand. + </p> + <p> + “So it was you—eh—Smarlinghue! Curse you!” snarled + the Wolf. “Come out here, and stand in the centre of the room!” + </p> + <p> + Smarlinghue cringed. He put down the bottle with a trembling hand, and + slouched forward. + </p> + <p> + “I ain’t done nothing!” he whined. + </p> + <p> + “No, you ain’t done a thing—except crack a box and pinch + about ten thousand dollars’ worth of sparklers!” The Wolf’s + face, if possible, was more ugly in its threat than before. + </p> + <p> + Smarlinghue, in a sort of stupefied amazement, stared around the room—as + though he expected to see a gleaming heap of diamonds leap into sight + somewhere before him. He shook his head helplessly. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he + mumbled. “I—I heard a row outside there a little while ago. + Maybe that’s it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—<i>mabbe</i> it is!” sneered the Wolf viciously. + “So you don’t know anything about it—eh? You’ve + got a hell of a good memory, haven’t you! You don’t know + anything about the Spider’s safe, or about a little fight in the + Spider’s room, or about jumping out of the window, and beating it + for here with the gang after you—no, you don’t! You never + heard of it before—of course, you didn’t!” + </p> + <p> + Smarlinghue began to wring his hands nervously one over the other. He + shook his head helplessly again. + </p> + <p> + “It wasn’t me!” He licked his lips. “Honest, it + wasn’t me! I—I don’t know what you’re talking + about. I ain’t been out of this room. Honest! Somebody’s + trying to put me in wrong. I tell you, I ain’t been out of here all + night. I—look!” With sudden, feverish eagerness, as though + from an inspiration, he pointed to the paint brush, the palette, and the + canvas on the easel. “Look! Look for yourself! You can see for + yourself! I’ve been painting.” + </p> + <p> + And then the Wolf laughed—and it was not a pleasant laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you’ve been painting!” he jeered. “Sure, you + have! I know that! Only you’ve been <i>painting</i> a damned sight + more than you thought you were!” + </p> + <p> + The revolver muzzle covered Jimmie Dale steadily, unswervingly; in the + Wolf’s face was malicious and sardonic mockery—but the Wolf’s + eyes were no longer on Jimmie Dale’s face, they seemed curiously + intent upon the floor at Jimmie Dale’s feet. Mechanically Jimmie + Dale followed their direction—and his eyes, too, held on the floor. + For a moment neither spoke. <i>The game was up</i>! His boot top was + soaked with blood, and, trickling down the side of the boot, a little + crimson stream was collecting in a pool upon the floor. + </p> + <p> + “You <i>painted</i> some of that on the doorstep!” The Wolf’s + taunting laugh held a deadly menace. “And you painted a drop or two + of it along the street as you ran. I thought when you bust away from the + Spider’s and that cursed gang nosed in that I was going to lose out; + but I figured that I had hit you, and I was keeping my eyes skinned to + see. And then you commenced to do the drip act—savvy? I was still + looking for it when I came out of the lane—you remember, + Smarlinghue, don’t you?—you got your memory back, ain’t + you?—that I was a bit ahead of the rest of ‘em? It didn’t + take a second to spot that on the doorstep, and there’s some more of + it in the hall. Damned queer, ain’t it—that it led right to + Smarlinghue’s room!” The laugh was gone. The Wolf began to + come forward across the room. The snarl was in his voice again. “You + come across with those sparklers, and you come across—<i>quick</i>!” + </p> + <p> + But now Smarlinghue was like a crazed and demented creature, and he shook + his fists at the Wolf. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t! I won’t!” he screamed. “You went + there to do the same thing! I had as much right as you! And I <i>got</i> + them—I <i>got</i> them! They said he had them there, they were all + talking about them to-day, and I <i>got</i> them! I won! They’re + mine now! I won’t give them to you! I won’t! I tell you, I won’t!” + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you?” The Wolf had reached Jimmie Dale, and one + of the Wolf’s hands found and shook Jimmie Dale’s throat, + while the revolver muzzle pressed hard against Jimmie Dale’s breast. + “Oh, I guess you will! D’ye hear about a man being murdered + to-day with his face cut up? Oh, you did—eh? Well, I happen to know + that man was the Spider, and one of these days, mabbe, the police’ll + tumble to who it was, too. Get me? Suppose I call some of that gang back, + and show ‘em the <i>painting</i> you’ve done along the hall—eh? + And then, by and by, when the bulls get wise, it’ll be yours for the + juice route, not just a space or two for cracking a box! Get me again?” + </p> + <p> + Smarlinghue, struggling weakly, pulled the other’s hand from his + throat. + </p> + <p> + “You—you were there, too, at—at the Spider’s,” + he choked craftily. “You’re—you’re in it as—as + bad as I am.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure, I was there!” mocked the Wolf, and snatched at Jimmie + Dale’s throat again. “Sure, I was there—everybody saw + me! The Spider was a <i>friend</i> of mine, and everybody knows that, too. + I was just going there to pay a pal a little visit—see? And that’s + how I found you there—see? Anything wrong with that spiel? It’s + a cinch, aint it?” The fingers closed tighter and tighter on Jimmie + Dale’s throat. “And that’s enough talk—give me + them sparklers!” He flung Jimmie Dale savagely away. “Get + ‘em!” + </p> + <p> + Smarlinghue reeled backward in the direction of the disordered canvases on + the floor. It was quite true! If the Wolf carried out his threat—which + he most certainly would do if he did not get the diamonds for himself—Smarlinghue, + and not the Wolf, would be held for the Spider’s murder. Jimmie Dale + stooped, fumbled amongst the canvases, and produced the cash-box. Well, + the diamonds would have to go, that was all—he had no choice left to + him. But he was still “Smarlinghue,” still the half cowed, yet + half defiant, pale-faced creature that shook with mingled rage and fear, + as he turned again. He clutched the cash-box to him, as though loath to + let it go; but, too, as though fascinated by the Wolf’s revolver, he + moved reluctantly toward the Wolf, who now stood by the table. + </p> + <p> + Smarlinghue’s hands twined and twined over the box, caressing it in + hideous greed and avarice; and he mumbled, and his lips worked. + </p> + <p> + “Half—give me half?” he whispered feverishly. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give you—<i>nothing</i>!” snarled the Wolf. + </p> + <p> + “Half—give me a quarter then?” whimpered Smarlinghue. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Drop it</i>!” The Wolf’s revolver jerked forward + into Jimmie Dale’s face. + </p> + <p> + And then Smarlinghue screamed out in impotent rage, and, wrenching the + cover of the cash-box open, flung the jewels in a glittering heap upon the + table—and, dancing in demented fashion upon his toes, like a man + gone mad, he hurled the cash-box in fury from him. It went through the + canvas on the easel, and clattered to the floor. + </p> + <p> + The Wolf laughed. + </p> + <p> + But Smarlinghue had retreated now, and, crouched upon the cot, was + mumbling through twisted lips. + </p> + <p> + And again the Wolf laughed, and, gathering up the jewels, dropped them + into his pocket, and backed to the door. He stood there an instant, his + eyes narrowed on Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “I got the stuff now”—he was snarling low, viciously—“and + mabbe that puts it a little more up to me. But if you ever open your mug + about this, I’ll do to you what I did to the Spider to-day—and + if you want to know what that is, go and ask the police to let you have a + look! D’ye understand?” + </p> + <p> + Came the brutal, taunting laugh again, and the door closed behind the + Wolf, and his step died away along the passage, and rang an instant later + on the pavement without. + </p> + <p> + It was a moment before Jimmie Dale moved—but into Smarlinghue’s + distorted features there came a strange smile. He reeled a little from + weakness, as he walked to the door, locked it, and, returning, stooped and + picked up the cash-box from the floor. In the false bottom, the Tocsin had + said. From the leather girdle came a sharp-pointed tool. He pried with it + for an instant inside and around the bottom edges, and loosening a sheet + of metal that fitted exactly to the edges of the box, lifted out from + beneath it several folded sheets of paper. He glanced at the typewritten + sheets, a curious, menacing gleam creeping into the dark eyes, then thrust + the papers inside his shirt; and, dropping into a chair, unlaced and + kicked off his blood-soaked boot. + </p> + <p> + He was very weak; he had lost, he must have lost, a great deal of blood—but + there was something to do yet—still something to do. There was still—the + Wolf! + </p> + <p> + He tore the sheet on the cot into strips, and washed and dressed his wound—a + flesh wound, but bad enough, he saw, just above the knee. And then, this + done, he took a damp piece of cloth, went to the door again, opened it, + and looked out. There was neither any one in sight, nor any sound. The + passage was murky; one gas-jet alone lighted it, and that was turned down. + There were little spots, dark spots on the floor—but the Wolf had + told him that. He passed his hand over his head—he was a little + dizzy. Then slowly, laboriously, he removed the spots from the hallway—and + one from the doorstep. + </p> + <p> + Back in his room once more, he locked the door again. A sense of utter + exhaustion was stealing upon him—but there was still something yet + to be done. Another gulp of brandy steadied him, steadied his head. He + took the papers from his pocket and read them now. Here were the details, + minute, exact, with the names of those involved, names of those who would + squeal quickly enough to save themselves once they were in the clutches of + the law, of two of the most famous murder mysteries that New York had + known; the details of two, and, unfinished, the partial details of + another. It was the evidence the police had long sought. It was the death + sentence upon the Wolf—for murder. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s face, very white now, was set and hard. The Spider had + been too late—to save himself. Beginning to fear the Wolf, as the + Tocsin had explained, he had begun to make a record of those days gone by, + meaning to hold it over the Wolf’s head in self-protection, deposit + it somewhere where it would come to light if any attack were made upon him—only + the Wolf had struck before the Spider had finished all he had meant to + write, before he had told any one or had warned the Wolf that the papers + were in existence. Too late to save himself—and yet, if the Wolf + still paid the penalty for murder, did it matter if he were <i>convicted</i> + for the taking of another life than that of Spider Webb! It was like some + grim, retributive proxy! The Spider, at least, had not been too late—for + that! + </p> + <p> + For a moment longer, Jimmie Dale sat there, staring at the papers in his + hand. They were unsigned, the Spider’s name nowhere appeared—the + Spider had been crafty enough to deal only with crimes in which he had had + no personal share. There was nothing, not even handwriting, as the papers + now stood, to intimate that they had emanated from the Spider; and + therefore, in their disclosure, there could be no suspicion in the Wolf’s + mind that they bore any relation to this night’s work. Nor would the + Wolf, tried for another crime, ever mention this night’s work. It + would be the last thing the Wolf would do. The Wolf had double-crossed the + underworld, and the underworld, if it found it out, would not easily + forgive—and even in a death cell, clinging to the hope of + commutation of sentence, the Wolf would never run the risk of his + additional guilt of the Spider’s murder leaking out. The rôle of + “Smarlinghue” in the underworld was safe. + </p> + <p> + And now Jimmie Dale’s lips twitched queerly. The papers were + unsigned. He took from the leather girdle the thin metal box, the + tweezers, and a diamond-shaped, adhesive, gray paper seal—and, + holding the seal with the tweezers, he moistened it with his tongue, and + pressed it down upon the lower sheet. It was signed now! Signed with a + signature that the police—<i>and the Wolf</i>—knew well! + </p> + <p> + He rose unsteadily, and, taking the empty cash-box, loosened the + base-board from the wall near the door, hid the cash-box away, and felt + through the pockets of his evening clothes—there was a blank + envelope there, he remembered, in which he had placed some memoranda—an + envelope, and the little gold pencil in his dress waistcoat pocket. He + found them, and, kneeling on the floor, printing the letters, he addressed + the envelope to police headquarters, folded and placed the documents + inside, and sealed the envelope. + </p> + <p> + He replaced the base-board, and stood up—but his hand caught at the + wall to support himself. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow,” said Jimmie Dale weakly—he was groping his + way back across the room to the cot “I—I guess I’m all—all + in—to-night.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. THE VOICES OF THE UNDERWORLD + </h2> + <p> + Futility! And on top of futility, a week of inaction, thanks to that flesh + wound in his leg. Futility seemed to haunt, yes, and torture him! Even his + rehabilitation of Larry the Bat, with all its attendant risk and danger, + had been futile as far as <i>she</i> was concerned. And he had counted so + much on that! And that had failed, and nothing was left to him but to + pursue again the one possible chance of success, the hope that somewhere + in the innermost depths of the Bad Lands he might pick up the clue he + sought. And so, to-night, he was listening again to the voices of the + underworld—and so far he had heard nothing but ominous mutterings, + proof that the sordid denizens of crimeland were more than usually + disturbed. The Wolf had gone to join his <i>friend</i> Frenchy Virat in + the Tombs! The twisted lips of the underworld whispered the name of the + Gray Seal! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s fingers, twitching, simulating even in that little + detail the drug-wrecked role of Smarlinghue that he played, clutched with + a sort of hideous eagerness at the hypodermic syringe which he held in his + hands. How many times, here in Foo Sen’s, or in other lairs that + were but the counterpart of Foo Sen’s, had he lain, stretched out, a + pretended victim to a vice that robbed his face of colour, that shook his + miserably clad body, that clouded his eyes and stole from them the light + of reason—<i>while he listened</i>! How many times—and how + many times in the days to come would he do it again! Would it never be + his, the secret that he sought—the clue that would divulge the + identity of those who threatened the Tocsin’s life; those who, like + human wolves, like a hell-pack snarling for its prey, had driven her again + into hiding and made of her a hunted thing! + </p> + <p> + The fingers closed convulsively over the hypodermic. Wolves! A hell-pack! + A tinge of red dyed the grey-white, hollowed cheeks, as a surge of fury + swept upon him. No, it was not futility; no, it was not wasted effort—this + haunting of the dens of the underworld! In his soul he knew that some day + he would pick up the trail of that hell-pack and those human wolves—and + when that some day came it would be a day of reckoning, and the price that + he would exact would not be small! + </p> + <p> + He lay back on the bunk that Foo Sen had ingratiatingly allotted him. The + air was close, heavy with the sweet, sickish smell of opium, and full of + low, strange sounds and noises. And these sounds, in their composite + sense, emanating from unseen sources, were as the ominous and sinister + evidence of some foul and grotesque presence; analysed, they resolved + themselves into the swish of hangings, the swish of slippered, shuffling + feet, the stertorous breathing of a sleeper, the clink of coin as of men + at play, the tinkle of glass, the murmur of voices, the restive stir of + reclining bodies, whisperings. + </p> + <p> + And now he looked about him through half closed eyes. He was in a little + compartment, whose doorway was a faded and stained hanging of flowered + cretonne, and whose walls were but flimsy-boarded affairs that partitioned + him off from like compartments on either side. It was very near to the + pulse of the underworld. Above ground, opening on a street just off + Chatham Square, Foo Sen’s, to the uninitiated, was but one of the + multitudinous Chinese laundries in New York; below, below even the + innocent cellar of the house, a half dozen sub-cellars were merged into + one, and here Foo Sen plied his trade. And Foo Sen was cosmopolitan in his + wares! Here, one, hard pressed, might find refuge from the law; here a + pipe and pill were at one’s command; here one might hide his stolen + goods, or hatch his projected crime, or gamble, or debauch at will—it + was the entree only that was hard to obtain at Foo Sen’s! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s lips twisted in a grim smile. The old days of Larry + the Bat had supplied Smarlinghue with the means which, in the last six + months, had been turned to such good account that the Smarlinghue of + to-day was almost as fully in the confidence of the underworld as had been + the Larry the Bat of yesterday. And yet there had been nothing! No clue! + He had wormed himself again into the inner circle of crimeland; he lay + here in Foo Sen’s to-night, as he had once lain in one of Foo Sen’s + competitor’s dives as Larry the Bat, months ago, on the night the + place had been raided—but there was still nothing—still no + clue—only the shuffle of slippered feet, the stertorous breathings, + a subdued curse, a blasphemous laugh, a coin ringing upon a table top, the + murmur of voices, whisperings! + </p> + <p> + One might hear many things here if one listened, and he <i>had</i> heard + many things in his frequent visits to these hidden dens of this lower + world that shunned the daylight—many things, but never the <i>one</i> + thing that he risked his life to hear—many things, from these <i>friends</i> + of his who, if in Smarlinghue they but suspected for an instant the + presence of Larry the Bat, would literally have torn him limb from limb—many + things, but never the one thing, never a word of <i>her</i>—many + things, the hatching of crime, as now, for instance, those muttering + voices were hatching it from the other side of the partition next to his + bunk. Subconsciously he had caught a word here and there, and now, without + a sound, he edged his shoulders nearer to the partition until his ear was + pressed close against a crack. It did not concern <i>her</i>, but he + listened now intently. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, ferget it!” a voice rasped in a hoarse undertone. “Sure, + I saw it! Ain’t I just told youse I saw Curley hand de dough over + dis afternoon! Fifteen thousand dollars all in big new bills, + five-hundred-dollar bills I t’ink dey was—dat’s wot!” + </p> + <p> + “How d’youse know it was fifteen thousand?” demanded + another voice. + </p> + <p> + There was a short, vicious laugh; then the voice of the first speaker + again: + </p> + <p> + “‘Cause I heard him say so, an’ de old guy counted it, + an’ sealed it up in an envelope, an’ gave Curley a receipt, an’ + tucked de green boys into de safe. Aw, say, dere’s nothin’ to + it, I can open dat old tin box wid a toothpick!” + </p> + <p> + “Mabbe youse can, but mabbe de stuff ain’t dere now—mabbe + it’s in de bank,” demurred the second voice. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t youse worry! It’s dere! Where else would it be! + Ain’t I told youse it was near five o’clock when I went dere—an’ + dat’s after de banks are closed, ain’t it? Well, wot d’youse + say?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like pinchin’ any of Curley’s money.” + The second speaker’s voice was still further lowered. “It ain’t + healthy ter hand Curley anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s handin’ Curley anything!” retorted the + other. “It ain’t got nothin’ to do wid Curley. It ain’t + Curley’s money any more. He paid it over for whatever he’s + blowin’ himself on, an’ he’s got his receipt for it. It’s + none of his funeral after dat! How’s he goin’ to lose anything + if we lift de cash? An’ if he ain’t goin’ to lose nothin’, + wot’s he goin’ to care! Ferget it! Wot’s de matter wid + youse!” + </p> + <p> + There was a moment’s apparent hesitancy; then, hoarsely: + </p> + <p> + “Youse are sure, eh, dat nobody saw youse dere?” + </p> + <p> + “Say, youse have got de chilly feet fer fair ter-night, ain’t + youse! Well, can it! No, dey didn’t pipe me, youse can bet yer life + on dat. I was goin’ inter de office w’en I hears some spielin’ + goin’ on inside, an’ I opens de door a crack, an’ I + keeps it open like dat—savvy? An’ w’en de old guy shoots + de ready inter de box, an’ I makes me fade-away, I didn’t shut + de door hard enough ter bust de glass panels, neither—see? Dat’s + de story, an’ it’s on de level. I beats it den, an’ I + been huntin’ fer youse ever since. Now, wot d’youse say—are + youse on?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” The second speaker’s voice had lost its + hesitancy now; it was gruff, assured, even eager. “Sure! I guess + youse have pulled a winner, all right! Wot’s de lay? Have youse + doped it out?” + </p> + <p> + “Ask me!” responded the other, with a complacent chuckle. + “Youse look after de old guy, dat’s all youse have ter do. + Hook up wid him, an’ keep him busy at his house. Get me? De old nut + has a crazy notion of goin’ down ter de office in de middle of de + night sometimes, an’ dere’s no use takin’ any chances. + Youse can put up some hard luck story on him, throw in a weep, an’ + youse got his goat fer as long as youse can talk. Leave de rest ter me. + Only, say, youse keep away from me fer de rest of de night—get me? + Dey might smell a plant after youse bein’ wid him. Youse go + somewhere to an all-night joint so’s youse have an alibi all de way + through, an’—” + </p> + <p> + The voice ceased abruptly. In a flash the left sleeve of Jimmie Dale’s + ragged, threadbare coat was pushed up, leaving the forearm exposed. The + hypodermic needle pricked the flesh. There was no sound of any step; but + the cretonne hanging wavered almost imperceptibly, as though some one, or + perhaps but a current of air from the passage without, had swayed it + slightly. Jimmie Dale was mumbling incoherently to himself now; his lips, + like his fingers, working in nervous twitches. A few seconds passed—a + half minute. Still mumbling, Jimmie Dale, with a caress like that of a + miser for his gold, was fondling the shining little instrument in his hand—and + then the hanging was suddenly thrust aside. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale neither looked up, nor appeared to be conscious of any one’s + presence—but he had already recognised the voices of the two men + from the adjoining compartment, who, he was quite well aware, were staring + in at him now. The smaller, with sharp, cunning, beady, black eyes, the + prime mover in the scheme that had just been outlined, was a clever and + dangerous “box-worker,”, known as the Rat; the other, a heavy, + vicious-faced man, with eyes quite as beady and unpleasant as those of his + companion, was Muggy Ladd, who made his living as a “stagehand” + for those, such as the Rat, who were more gifted than himself. + </p> + <p> + “Satisfied?” inquired the Rat “He’s full up to de + eyes wid it now. Foo said he’d been hittin’ it up hard fer de + last hour.” The Rat addressed Jimmie Dale. “Hello, Smarly!” + he called out. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale lifted his head, and blinked at the cretonne hanging. + </p> + <p> + “Lemme alone!” he complained thickly. “Go ‘way, an’ + lemme alone! + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” said the Rat genially. “Sure, we will! Sweet + dreams, Smarly!” + </p> + <p> + The hanging fell back into place. Jimmie Dale continued to blink at it, + and mumble to himself. The Rat’s pleasant little plan of robbing + somebody’s safe of fifteen thousand dollars had nothing to do with + <i>her</i>—but it involved a moral obligation on his part that he + had neither the right nor the intention to ignore. And the fulfilment, or + the attempt at fulfilment, of that obligation had suddenly assumed + unexpected difficulties. Even while he had listened, and before the Rat + was halfway through his story, he, Jimmie Dale, was conscious that he had + made up his mind the Rat would rob no safe of fifteen thousand dollars + that night if he could prevent it, and he had intended following the Rat + from Foo Sen’s. He dared not do that now. Muggy Ladd’s + cautiousness, that had evidently induced the Rat to inspect his, Jimmie + Dale’s, compartment, had made that impossible. The Rat had seen him + there; and, forced to the deception in order to avert any suspicion that + he had overheard the others’ conversation, the Rat had seen him in + the condition of one who was apparently already far gone under the + influence of drug. To risk the attempt to follow the Rat now, to risk + discovery by the Rat, was to risk, not only the admission that he had been + playing a part, but to risk what he had fought for and staked his life for + months now to establish—the role, the character of “Smarlinghue” + in the underworld. Nor, for the same reason, would he dare move from the + place for some little time—there was Foo Sen and the attendants. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale dropped his head down on the bunk, turned heavily over, facing + the partition, and flung his arm across his face. His lips had ceased + their nervous working; they were drawn together, thin and hard now. It was + bad enough to be forced to remain temporarily inactive, though that in + itself was not so serious, for it was still early, not much more than nine + o’clock, and it was only fair to presume that the Rat would make no + move for some hours to come; but what was much more serious was the fact + that, unable to follow the Rat, he would be obliged to solve for himself + the problem of whose was the safe, and whose the fifteen thousand dollars + that was the Rat’s objective. The Rat had referred to “the old + guy”—that meant nothing. “Curley,” however, was a + little better—Curley, who had paid over the money to the “old + guy.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s forehead, hidden by his arm, furrowed deeply. From + Muggy Ladd’s initial objection to touching anything that concerned + Curley, it could mean only one Curley. He, Jimmie Dale, knew this Curley + by sight, and, slightly, by reputation. Curley and his partner, Haines, + kept a small wholesale liquor store in one of the most populous, where all + were populous, quarters of the East Side; also Curley had a pull as a ward + politician, which might very readily account for Muggy Ladd’s + diffidence; and Curley was credited with doing a thriving business—both + ways—as ward heeler and liquor purveyor. Certainly, at least, he was + known always to have money; and had even been known at times to lend it + freely to those in want—for a consideration. Yes, it was undoubtedly + and unquestionably Curley, of Haines & Curley, familiarly known on the + East Side as Reddy Curley from his flaming red hair—but to whom had + Curley paid over the sum of fifteen thousand dollars? + </p> + <p> + For a moment the frown on Jimmie Dale’s forehead deepened, then he + nodded his head quickly. If he could find Curley, or Haines, or even Patsy + Marles, the clerk who worked in the liquor store—which might + possibly still be open for another hour or so yet—it should not, + after all, and without even any undue inquisitiveness on the part of + Smarlinghue, prove very difficult to obtain the necessary information, + for, if Curley had been in a deal involving fifteen thousand dollars, he + was much more likely to be boastful than reticent about it. It resolved + itself then after all, into simply a matter of time. + </p> + <p> + Whisperings, a raucous laugh, a curse, the clink of coin, the rattle of + dice, the scuffle of slippered feet, the low swish of the loose-garbed + Chinese attendants went on interminably. Jimmie Dale began to toss + uneasily from side to side of his bunk, and began to mumble audibly again. + Perhaps half an hour passed, during which, from time to time, the curtain + of the compartment was drawn quietly aside and the impassive face of one + or other of the Chinese attendants was thrust through the opening—and + then suddenly Jimmie Dale raised himself up on his elbow, and pointed a + shaking finger at one of these apparitions. + </p> + <p> + “Foo Sen”—he licked his lips as he spoke—“you + tell Foo Sen come here!” + </p> + <p> + The face disappeared, and a moment later another—the wizened, yellow + face of a little old Chinaman—took its place. + </p> + <p> + “You wantee me, Smarly’oo?” inquired the proprietor + suavely. + </p> + <p> + “Tell ‘em to help me out of this.” Jimmie Dale essayed + vainly to rise, and fell back on the bunk. “D’ye hear, Foo Sen—tell’em! + Goin’ home!” + </p> + <p> + “Alee same bletter stay sleep him off,” advised Foo Sen. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale succeeded in sitting upright on the edge of the bunk—and + snarled at the other. + </p> + <p> + “You mind your own business, Foo Sen!” he flung out + gutturally. “Goin’ home! Tell ‘em to help me out—sleep + where I like! Makes me sick here—rotten smell—rotten punk + sticks!” + </p> + <p> + “You allee same fool,” commented Foo Sen imperturbably, as he + clapped his hands. “Mabbe you no get home; mabbe you get run in + police cell sleep him off, instead. That your business, you likee that—all + right!” + </p> + <p> + Foo Sen smiled placidly, and was gone. + </p> + <p> + An instant later, Jimmie Dale, his arms twined around the necks of two + Chinamen, and leaning heavily upon them, and stumbling as he walked, was + being conducted through a maze of dark and narrow passages that gradually + trended upward to a higher level—and presently a door closed behind + him, and he was in the open air. + </p> + <p> + It was dark about him, not even the glimmer of a window light showed from + anywhere—but in Foo Sen’s there were eyes that saw through the + darkness, and his progress, alone now, was both unsteady and slow. He was + in a very narrow alleyway between two houses—one of the several + hidden entrances to Foo Sen’s. The alley opened in one direction on + a lane, in the other direction on the street. Jimmie Dale chose the + direction of the lane, reached the lane, and, still stumbling and + lurching, made his way along for a distance of possibly fifty yards; then, + well clear of the neighbourhood of Foo Sen’s, he began to quicken + his pace—and twenty minutes later, frowning in disappointment, he + was standing in front of Reddy Curley’s liquor store, only to find + that the place was already closed for the night. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. IN THE SANCTUARY + </h2> + <p> + It was ten o’clock now, an hour since the Rat and Muggy Ladd had + left Foo Sen’s. Again Jimmie Dale told himself that it was still + early, that the Rat would wait for a much later hour—but at the same + time he acknowledged to himself a sense of growing and premonitory + uneasiness. Certainly, in any case, he had no time to lose. He turned + quickly and hurried along the block that separated him from the Bowery—he + had a fair idea of the haunts usually frequented in the evening by the men + he sought, and, even failing to find the men themselves, there was always + the chance, and a very good one, that, where Curley was known, Curley’s + fifteen thousand dollar deal might be the subject of gossip which would + answer his, Jimmie Dale’s, purpose quite as well. + </p> + <p> + But an hour went by—and yet another. Midnight came—and + midnight had brought him nothing. It seemed as though he had combed the + East Side from end to end, and he had found neither Curley, nor Haines, + nor Patsy Marles—nor had he heard anything—nor had such + guarded questions as he had dared to ask without involving possible + disastrous consequences to “Smarlinghue,” should the Rat, + after all, succeed and hear of his activities, had any result. And then, + still maintaining his efforts with dogged determination, though conscious + now that with the hour so late he might perhaps better return to the + Sanctuary, change, say, into the clothes of Jimmie Dale, and, crediting + the Rat with already having made a successful inroad on the safe, devote + his energies to running down the Rat, and, if possible, to salvaging the + plunder, he was in the act of entering again one of the dance halls he had + already visited earlier in the evening, when one of the men he was + searching for lurched out through the doorway. It was Patsy Marles, + garrulous, drunk, exceedingly unsteady on his feet, and accompanied by + three or four companions. They crowded out past Jimmie Dale, and gathered + aimlessly on the pavement. Marles’ voice rose in earnest insobriety + for what was very probably by no means the first time. + </p> + <p> + “Betcher life! Spot cash—fifteen thousand—spot cash! + Sure, I saw it! Only—hic!—got one boss now. Little ol’ + Reddy got the—hic!—papers from lawyer ‘safternoon. Know + ol’ Grenville, don’t you—that’s him—ol’ + Grenville. Come on, whatsh’s use standin’ round here doin’ + nothin’!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale did not enter the dance hall—instead, scuffling + hurriedly along to the next corner, he turned off the Bowery, and, + choosing the darker and more dimly lighted streets and, at times, a lane + or alleyway, broke a run. In the space of a little more than a second he + had at last obtained the information that he had searched for vainly for + over two hours. There seemed something mockingly ironical in the fact that + he had been obliged to search for those two hours! What had happened in + that time? Two hours! It was three hours now since the Rat had left Foo + Sen’s! + </p> + <p> + He shook his head with sudden impatience at himself. He would gain nothing + by speculating on possibilities! He <i>had</i> the information now. The + one thing to do was to act upon it. So it was old Grenville’s safe! + Old Grenville, the lawyer; honest old Grenville, the East Side called him, + the one man, perhaps, whose word was accepted at its face value, and who + was both liked and trusted everywhere in the Bad Lands—because he + was honest! Jimmie Dale’s lips tightened as he ran. It was more than + ordinarily dirty work, then, on the Rat’s part. Grenville was an old + man, close to seventy, at a guess; and if any one had earned immunity from + the depredations of the underworld it was this curious and lovable old + character—honest Grenville. The man was not a criminal lawyer, he + had made no enemies even in that way; he was more a paternal family + solicitor, as it were, to the dregs of humanity that had crowded his queer + and dingy office now, so report had it, for over forty years. He was + credited with having amassed a little money, not a fortune, perhaps, for + there were many fees never collected and never asked for amongst the + needy, but enough to live comfortably on in the simple and unpretentious + way in which old Grenville lived. + </p> + <p> + Yes, it was dirty work—miserable, dirty work, the work of a hound + and a cur! And the Rat’s logic was unassailable. From Patsy Marles’ + maudlin babbling it was evident that Reddy Curley had bought Haines, his + partner, out; that the price was fifteen thousand dollars; and that + Grenville, acting for Haines obviously, had received the purchase money + from Curley, and in return had handed over what the Rat had taken to be a + receipt, but what was probably in reality much more likely to have been a + Bill of Sale. But in either case, it was neither Curley nor Haines who + would suffer—it was old Grenville, who, if the funds were stolen and + not recovered, would have to make the amount good out of his own pocket, + and who, as all who knew old Grenville knew well, would unhesitatingly do + so at once if it took the last cent that pocket held. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale had halted before a small building on one of the cross streets + near the upper end of the Bowery. There were some half dozen signs on the + doorway, for the most part time worn and shabby, amongst them that of + Henry Grenville, Attorney-at-Law. + </p> + <p> + There were no lights in any of the windows, but Jimmie Dale, as he tried + the door, found it unlocked, and, opening it noiselessly, stepped inside. + Here, a single incandescent suspended over the stair well gave a murky + illumination to the surroundings. A narrow corridor, dotted with office + doors, was on his left; the stairway—there was no elevator—was + directly in front of him. He stood motionless for an instant, listening. + There was no sound. He moved forward then, as silent as the silence around + him, and began to mount the stairs. Old Grenville’s office, he knew, + was at the rear of the corridor on the first landing. + </p> + <p> + It was after midnight now, quite a little after midnight. Jimmie Dale’s + fingers, in the right-hand pocket of his tattered coat, closed over the + stock of his automatic. Still no sound! Was he too late to forestall the + Rat; or, by no means an unlikely possibility, was the Rat there now; or + was—a low, muttered exclamation, that mingled surprise and + bewilderment, came suddenly from Jimmie Dale’s lips. He had reached + the landing, and here, from the head of the stairs, he could see a dull + yellow glow thrown out into the corridor through the glass panel of the + lawyer’s door. + </p> + <p> + An instant’s pause, and then, chagrined, the sense of defeat upon + him, he moved forward again as silently as before. He reached the door and + crouched beside it. A murmur of voices came to him from within. Jimmie + Dale’s lips parted in grim irony. The game was up, of course, but he + was occupying precisely the same coign of vantage that, according to the + Rat, the Rat had occupied that afternoon, and if the Rat had been able, + undiscovered, to see and hear, then he, Jimmie Dale, could do the same. + The slim, tapering, sensitive fingers closed on the doorknob—a thin + ray of light began to steal through between the door-edge and the jamb—and + grew wider—and the voices, from a confused murmur, became distinct. + And now, through the narrow crack of the slightly opened door, he could + see inside; and he could see that, as he had already realised, he was too + late, very much too late, in time only, as it were, for the post-mortem of + the affair—even the police were already on the spot! + </p> + <p> + It was a curious scene! A rickety old railing across the middle of the + musty, bare-floored room served to indicate that the space beyond was the + old lawyer’s “private” office. And here, inside the + railing, a desk, or, rather, a great, flat, deal table, spread with a red, + ink-stained cloth, was littered with books and papers; while behind the + table, again, stood a huge, old-fashioned safe, its door swung wide open, + its erstwhile contents scattered in disorder about the floor. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s eyes swept the interior of the room with a single, + quick, comprehensive glance—and then, narrowed, travelled from one + to another of the faces of the four men who were gathered around the + table. He knew them all. The stocky, grizzle-haired man in the centre was + a plain-clothes man from headquarters, named Barlow; at the lower end of + the table Reddy Curley and Haines, his partner, faced each other, Curley + drumming indifferently with his fingers on the table-top, Haines scowling + and chewing his lower lip, a certain coarse brutality in both their faces + that was neither pleasant nor inviting; but it was the white-haired old + man, bent of form, standing at the head of the table, upon whom Jimmie + Dale’s eyes lingered. Old Grenville! The man’s hand, as he + raised it to pass it across his eyes, was shaking palpably; his face, + kindly still in spite of its worn and haggard expression, was pale with + anxiety and strain. Barlow was speaking: + </p> + <p> + “You say there’s nothing else missing, Mr. Grenville, except + the sealed envelope that contained the fifteen thousand dollars given you + by Mr. Curley this afternoon?” + </p> + <p> + The old lawyer shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t say,” he answered. “As I told you, I + often come here at night to work. To-night a client kept me very late at + my house, so it was only, I should say, a quarter of an hour ago when I + reached here. I telephoned you at once, and, awaiting your arrival, I did + not disturb anything, so I have not examined any of the papers yet.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think it’s a question of papers,” + observed the Headquarters man dryly. + </p> + <p> + “There was nothing else taken then,” decided Grenville slowly; + “for there was no other money in the safe at the time—in fact, + I rarely keep any there.” + </p> + <p> + “Well then,” said Barlow crisply, “it’s pretty + near open and shut that some one was wise to that fifteen thousand being + there to-night, and it wasn’t just a lucky haul out of any old safe + just because the safe looked easy.” He turned toward Curley and + Haines. “Were either of you talking with any one around the East + Side to-night who would be likely to make a tip of it, or pass the tip + along?” + </p> + <p> + “We weren’t there at all to-night,” Curley replied. + “Haines and I were out in my car, and we’d just got back when + you picked us up at the store on the way up here. But, at that, I guess + you’re right. We didn’t make any secret about it, and I + daresay after I’d got the business tacked away safe in my inside + pocket this afternoon”—he grinned maliciously at Haines—“I + may have mentioned it to one or two.” + </p> + <p> + “Got it tucked away safe, have you? Own it, do you?” Haines + caught him up truculently. + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” Curley had wicked, little greenish-grey eyes, and + their stare was uninviting as he fixed them on his quondam partner. + “If you want to grouch, go ahead and grouch! We’ve been pretty + good friends for a pretty good number of years, but I ain’t a fool. + Sure, it’s mine now! I didn’t ask you to employ Grenville, did + I? I was satisfied to take any old piece of paper with your fist on it, + saying you’d sold out to me; but no, you were for having the thing + done with frills on it Well, I’m still satisfied! I came here at + five o’clock this afternoon, and paid the coin over to your + attorney, and I got a perfectly good little Bill of Sale for it—and + that lets me out. It’s up to you and your Mister Attorney. Why don’t + you ask him what <i>he’s</i> going to do about it, instead of trying + to take it out on me the way you’ve been doing ever since Barlow + told us what had happened, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Curley is perfectly right, Mr. Haines”—the old + lawyer’s voice was quiet, though it trembled a little. “The + title to the business is now vested in Mr. Curley, and you are entitled to + look to me for compensation. I”—he hesitated an instant—“I—I + hope the money may be recovered, otherwise—” + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” inquired Mr. Haines sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Otherwise,” the old lawyer went on with an effort, “I + am afraid I shall have a great deal of difficulty in raising so large a + sum.” + </p> + <p> + “The hell you are!” said Mr. Haines uncharitably, and leaned + forward over the table. “Don’t try to come that dodge! + Everybody says you’re well fixed. Everybody says you’ve got a + neat little pile salted away.” + </p> + <p> + The lawyer’s face was ashen, and his lips were quivering; but there + was a fine dignity in the poise of the old man’s head, and in the + squared shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Nevertheless, I am, unfortunately, telling you the truth, in spite + of any rumours, or public belief to the contrary,” he said steadily. + “A few thousands, a very few, is all I have ever been able to lay + aside. Those are at your disposal, Mr. Haines, and the balance I promise + to procure as speedily as possible; but in plain words, if this money is + not recovered, and I do not say this to invite either sympathy or + leniency, but because you have questioned my word, I shall have lost + everything I own.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Haines scowled. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m glad to know you’ve at least got enough!” + he said roughly. “It sure will surprise a whole lot of people that + fifteen thousand wipes Mr. Henry Grenville out!” + </p> + <p> + A flush dyed the old lawyer’s cheeks. He made as though to speak—and, + instead, turned silently away from the table, his back to the others. + There was silence in the room now for a moment. Again Jimmie Dale’s + eyes travelled swiftly from one to another of the group—to Curley, + grinning maliciously at his ex-partner again—to Haines, gnawing at + his lower lip, and scowling blackly—to Barlow, obviously + uncomfortable, who was uneasily tracing patterns with his forefinger on + the top of the table—and back to the old lawyer, whose shoulders + now, as though carrying a load too heavy for their strength, had drooped + pathetically, and into whose face, in spite of a brave effort at + self-control, had crept a wan and miserable despair. + </p> + <p> + “Look here!” said Barlow gruffly. “It strikes me you can + settle all this some other time. It’s got nothing to do with the guy + that pulled this break, and I’m losing time. Headquarters is waiting + for my report. You two had better beat it; Mr. Grenville won’t mind, + I guess—I’ve got your end of the story, and—” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was retreating back along the corridor—and a minute + later he was in the street, and scuffling along in a downtown direction. + His hands, in the pockets of his tattered coat, were clenched, and through + the pallor of Smarlinghue’s make-up a dull red burned his cheeks. + Old Grenville—and the Rat! The smile that found lodgment on + Smarlinghue’s contorted lips was mirthless. The old man had taken it + like the gentleman he was. He had not perhaps hidden the quiver of the lip—who + would at seventy! It was not easy to begin life again at seventy! Old + Grenville—and the Rat! Well, the game was not played out yet! There + would be an accounting of that fifteen thousand dollars before the morning + came, and, as between old Grenville and the Rat, it might not perhaps be + old Grenville who paid! + </p> + <p> + Hurrying now, running through lanes and alleyways as he had come, Jimmie + Dale headed for the Sanctuary. It was very simple now. The Rat, his work + completed, would lay very low—asleep probably, in the <i>innocent</i> + surroundings of his own room! The Rat would not be hard to find. It was + necessary only that, in the little interview he proposed to have with the + Rat, “Smarlinghue” should have disappeared! + </p> + <p> + He reached the tenement where, for months now, that ground floor room, + opening on the small and dirty courtyard in the rear, had been his refuge, + Smarlinghue’s home in the underworld, glanced quickly up and down + the street to assure himself that he was not observed, then, darting into + the dark hallway, he crossed it silently, unlocked the Sanctuary door, + stepped through, and closed and locked the door behind him. Nor, even now, + did he make the slightest sound. From the top-light, high up near the + ceiling and far above the little French window whose shade was drawn, + there came a faint and timid streak of moonlight. It did not illuminate + the room; it but lessened the degree of blackness, as it were, giving a + dim and shadowy outline to objects scattered here and there about the room—and + to a darker shadow amongst those other shadows, a shadow that moved + swiftly and in utter silence, a shadow that was Jimmie Dale at work. + </p> + <p> + No one had seen him enter—not that there should be anything strange + in the fact that Smarlinghue should enter Smarlinghue’s own room, + but it would not be Smarlinghue who went away! No one had seen him enter—it + was vital now that he should not be heard moving around the room, and so + invite the chance of some aimless caller in the person of a fellow-tenant, + for it was no longer Smarlinghue who would be found there! + </p> + <p> + The ragged outer garments he had been wearing lay discarded in a heap on + the floor, close to that section of the wall near the door where the + base-board, ingeniously movable, would, in another moment or so, afford + them safe hiding until such time as “Smarlinghue” should + reappear in person again; from the nostrils, from beneath the lips, from + behind the ears, the tiny, cleverly-inserted pieces of wax, distorting the + features, had vanished; and now, over the cracked basin on the rickety + washstand, the masterly-created pallor was washed rapidly away—and + the thin, hollow-cheeked, emaciated face of Smarlinghue, the drug fiend, + was gone, and in its place, clean-cut, clear-eyed, was the face of Jimmie + Dale, clubman and millionaire. + </p> + <p> + He smiled a little whimsically, a little wanly, as he stole back across + the room. It was a strange life, a <i>dangerous</i> life! He wondered + often enough, as he was wondering now, what the end of it would be—would + he find the Tocsin—or would he find death at the hands of the + underworld—or judicial murder at the hands of the law for a hundred + crimes attributed to the Gray Seal! Crimes! The smile grew serious and + wistful, as he knelt on the floor and began to loosen the section of the + baseboard in front of him. There had never been a crime committed by the + Gray Seal! Yes, it was strange, bizarre, incredulous even to himself + sometimes, this life of his—the strange partnership formed so long + ago now with <i>her</i>, the Tocsin, who had prompted those “crimes” + that righted a wrong, that brought sunlight into some life where there had + been gloom before, and hope where there had been misery—and the love + that had come—and then disaster again, and her disappearance—and + his resumption once more of a dual life and a role in the underworld—and, + yes, in spite of her own danger, those “calls to arms” to the + Gray Seal again for the sake of others, while she refused, through love + for him, through fear of the peril that it would bring him, help for + herself. + </p> + <p> + He shook his head, as, the base-board removed now, he reached into the + hollow beyond for the neatly-folded, expensively-tailored tweeds of Jimmie + Dale. She was wrong in that. Could anything add to the peril in which he + lived, as it was! If only in some way he might reach her, see her, talk to + her, if only for a moment, he could make her see that, and understand, and— + </p> + <p> + A low, startled cry burst suddenly from his lips; he felt the blood ebb + from his cheeks—and surge back again in a burning, mighty tide. It + was dark, he could not see; but those wonderfully sensitive finger tips, + that were ears and eyes to Jimmie Dale, were telegraphing a wild, mad, + amazing message to his brain. The Tocsin had been here—here in the + <i>Sanctuary</i>! She had been here—here in this room—and + within the last few hours—sometime since seven o’clock that + evening, when, as Jimmie Dale, he had come here to assume the role of + Smarlinghue preparatory to his vigil in Foo Sen’s! + </p> + <p> + His hand, thrust in through the opening to reach for his clothes, had + found an envelope where it lay on the top of the folded garments—and + his hand was still thrust inside—there was no need to look—the + texture of the paper was hers—<i>hers</i>—the Tocsin’s! + The blood was racing wildly through his veins. There was a mad joy upon + him—and a sense of keen and bitter emptiness. Wild thoughts, in + lightning flashes, swept his brain. She must have been here, then, many + times before ... she knew the Sanctuary as well as he did ... she knew the + secret hiding place behind the base-board ... she had come, of course, + knowing he was absent ... she might come some day <i>thinking</i> he was + absent ... yes, why not—why not ... perhaps—perhaps that was + the way ... some day she might come again.... + </p> + <p> + He laughed a little in a shaken way, and drew out the letter. With a + mental wrench, he forced his mind into a calmer state. It was very + singular that she should have placed the letter in that hiding place! It + could evidence but one thing—that the contents of the letter, unlike + any she had ever written before, were not of a pressing nature, for she + would know very well that it might have been many hours, days even, before + he might go there for the clothes of Jimmie Dale again! What, then, did it + mean? Had she decided at last to tell him all, to let him take his place + beside her, share her danger, fight with her! Was that it? + </p> + <p> + He reached hurriedly into the opening again, drew out the little leather + girdle, and from one of its pockets took out a flashlight. He had not + dared to light the gas before; dressed, or, rather, undressed, as he was + at present, and no longer Smarlinghue, he dared much less to light it now. + </p> + <p> + He tore the envelope open, and, still kneeling on the floor, the + flashlight upon the pages, began to read: + </p> + <p> + “Dear Philanthropic Crook: You will be surprised to find this letter + in such a place, won’t you? Yes, you are quite right, for once, as + you will already have told yourself, there is no hurry—for it is too + late to hurry. Listen, then! Henry Grenville’s safe—the old + East Side lawyer, you know—” + </p> + <p> + He had read eagerly so far. He stared at the letter now, and the words + only danced in an unmeaning jumble before him. It was not for herself, it + was not that she had thrown the barriers down and was bidding him come to + her; it was again another “call to arms” to the Gray Seal—and + for another’s sake. And there came to Jimmie Dale a miserable + disappointment, for his hope, shattered now, had been greater than he had + admitted even to himself. And then he was aware that, subconsciously, it + had seemed to him a most curious coincidence that the letter should be + dealing with the robbery of Henry Grenville’s safe that night. Yes, + certainly, it was a most curious coincidence, when he was even then on his + way—to the Rat! He shrugged his shoulders in his whimsical way. + Well, for once, he had forestalled the Tocsin! There could be little here + that he did not already know. He began to read again, but skimming over + the words and sentences hurriedly now. + </p> + <p> + “... Curley ... liquor business ... buying out partner, Haines ... + this afternoon ... fifteen thousand dollars ... large bills, one-hundred, + five-hundred and thousand-dollar denominations ... sealed in envelope by + Grenville ... placed by Grenville in his safe ... head of one of the most + successful and desperate gangs in the country ... years under cover + through position occupied ... take your time, Jimmie, and be careful + before you act ... rest of gang is ‘working’ Boston and New + England this week ... backyard from lane, high board fence ... in cellar + ... cleverly concealed door at right of coal bin ... knot in wood seventh + board from wall on level with your shoulders ... short passage beyond + leading to door of den ... sound-proof room ... exit through other side + ... sliding panel to room above ... opened by hanging weight inside ...” + </p> + <p> + In a stunned way now, Jimmie Dale stared for a long minute at the letter + in his hand—then he read it again—and yet again. And then, the + flashlight out, as he tore the letter into fragments, he stared again, for + a long minute—into the blackness. + </p> + <p> + It was damnable, it was monstrous, this thing that he had read; it plumbed + the dregs of human deviltry—but for once the Tocsin was at fault. Of + the plot that had been hatched, of those details that she described, there + could be no doubt, there was no question there, and there the Tocsin, he + knew, had made no mistake; but the Tocsin, yes, and those who had hatched + the crime themselves, had taken no account of the possible intervention of + an outsider in the person of—the Rat! There was even a sort of grim + irony in it all—that the Rat should quite unconsciously have + feathered his nest at the expense of a far more elaborately arranged crime + than his own, and at the expense of those who were of even a more + abandoned, dangerous and unscrupulous type of criminal than himself! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s face hardened suddenly—and suddenly he stooped + and pulled his clothes from their hiding place, and began to dress. For + once, his inside information outreached hers. It was still—the Rat. + Her letter changed nothing, save that afterwards, perhaps—well, that + afterwards, perhaps, there was another, others beside the Rat, with whom + an accounting would be made! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. THE SECRET ROOM + </h2> + <p> + Jimmie Dale dressed quickly now. From the pockets of the little leather + girdle to the pockets of his tweeds he transferred a steel picklock, a + pair of light steel handcuffs, a piece of fine but exceedingly strong + cord, a black silk mask, and that small metal case, within which, between + sheets of oiled paper, lay those gray-coloured, diamond-shaped, adhesive + paper seals that were known in every den in the underworld, known in every + police bureau of two continents, as the insignia of the Gray Seal. He + slipped the flashlight into his pocket, took his automatic from the + discarded garments of Smarlinghue—and, thrusting the ragged clothing + into the opening, put the removable section of the base-board back into + place. + </p> + <p> + And now, twin to that streak of lesser gloom that came from the top-light, + another filtered into the room. The small French window opened and closed + without sound—the room was empty. A shadow in the courtyard, close + against the wall of the tenement, moved forward a foot, a yard—a + loose board in the fence bordering the lane swung silently aside—and + in a moment more, striding nonchalantly up the block, Jimmie Dale turned + into the Bowery. + </p> + <p> + He had some distance to go, almost back as far as the liquor store at the + lower end of the Bowery, for the Rat lived, if he, Jimmie Dale, was not + mistaken, just one block this side, in a small one-story frame building on + the corner of a cross street; and—it seemed incongruous, queerly out + of place somehow—the Rat lived with his mother. Home ties, or home + relationships, hardly seemed in harmony with the Rat! Still, in this case, + it was perhaps very debatable ground as to which was the more pernicious, + the old woman or the son! Ostensibly, she kept a little variety store; but + her business, if report were true, was the edifying occupation of school + mistress—the children graduating under her tuition being ranked by + common consent as the most accomplished pickpockets in gangland! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders, as he swung at last from the Bowery + into a narrow, poorly lighted street. Well, at least, if the Rat’s + criminal career ended to-night, the Rat’s punishment need excite no + sympathy for the old woman, as far as he, Jimmie Dale, was concerned—it + was a pity only that she had not been behind the bars herself long ago! + Yes, this was the place—the small frame building diagonally across + from the corner on which he had halted. He crossed over for a closer + inspection. The front of the house was dark, the little store windows + shuttered. He hesitated an instant, then walked around the corner to + survey the building from the side and rear. Here, from a window that gave + on the intersecting street, there showed a light. The window was low, + scarcely above the level of his head, but held no promise on that score as + a source of information, for the shade within was tightly drawn. Jimmie + Dale scowled at it for a moment, noted its proximity to the backyard and + the front of the building. The Rat, then, or the Rat’s mother, was + still up, and he would need to exercise more than ordinary caution—or + else wait—indefinitely, perhaps. + </p> + <p> + He shook his head at that alternative, as he looked sharply up and down + the street. He would gain little by waiting, and—ah! He was crouched + in the doorway now, the deft fingers working swiftly with the picklock. + There was a faint metallic click, barely audible above his low-breathed + exclamation—and the door opened and closed behind him. + </p> + <p> + The flashlight in his hand winked once—and went out. Small, + glass-topped counters were on either side of the somewhat restricted aisle + in which he stood; directly in front of him, at the rear of the store, was + a door, leading, obviously, to the living rooms beyond. + </p> + <p> + The old days of Larry the Bat, the rickety, creaky stairs of the old + Sanctuary had trained Jimmie Dale’s step to a silence that was + almost uncanny. It might have been a shadow moving there across the floor + of the store, a shadow flitting through that doorway beyond. There was no + sound. + </p> + <p> + And now, at the end of a short, dark passage, he stopped before the door + of what was, from its location, the lighted room he had seen from the + street; and, slipping his mask over his face, he placed his ear against + the door panel to listen. He was rewarded only by absolute silence. His + lips, under the mask, twisted queerly, as, softly, cautiously, he tried + the door. It gave under the steady pressure that he exerted upon it—gave + without sound for the measure of a fraction of an inch—it was + unlocked. And now Jimmie Dale could see into the room—and suddenly + he stepped noiselessly forward, his automatic holding a bead on the + crouched figure of the Rat, asleep apparently in his chair, whose head, + flung forward, was buried in his crossed arms upon the table in the centre + of the room. + </p> + <p> + “Good evening!” said Jimmie Dale, in a velvet voice. + </p> + <p> + There was no answer—the man neither turned his head, nor looked up. + </p> + <p> + And for a moment Jimmie Dale did not stir—only into the dark eyes + shining through the mask there came a startled gleam, and through the + heavy, palpitating silence the quick, sudden intake of his breath sounded + clamourously loud. He saw now—the <i>gray</i> of the cheek just + showing above the arm that pillowed it, the stiff, hunched, unnatural + position of the body, the crimson pool on the floor by the chair leg. <i>The + man was dead</i>! + </p> + <p> + Tight-lipped, the strong jaw outthrust a little, his face hard and set, + Jimmie Dale moved to the Rat’s side, and bent over the man. Yes, it + was—<i>murder</i>! The Rat had been stabbed in the back just below + the left armpit. He glanced sharply around the room. There was no sign of + struggle, except—yes—there were bruises on the man’s + neck, as though a hand had grasped it fiercely, and—he bent over—yes, + faintly, but nevertheless distinctly enough, two blood-stained finger + prints were discernible on the Rat’s collar. He lifted the Rat’s + hands and examined them critically—it might perhaps have been the + man himself clutching his own throat, as he choked and struggled for + breath—no, the Rat’s fingers showed not the slightest trace of + blood. + </p> + <p> + And then, instinctively, Jimmie Dale reached out toward the other’s + pocket; but, with a hard smile, dropped his hand to his side, instead. The + sealed envelope, the fifteen thousand dollars, was not there—<i>it + was where the Tocsin had said it was</i>! The Tocsin, not he, had been + right! And yet, too, in a way, he had not been entirely wrong. It <i>was</i> + the Rat who had stolen the sealed envelope from the safe—or else the + Rat would not now be dead! + </p> + <p> + His mind, alert and keen now, was dovetailing together the pieces of the + puzzle. Those who had originally planned the crime had in some way + discovered that the Rat, in the actual theft, had forestalled them. + Possibly, for instance, bent on the same errand, they had seen the Rat + leaving the building; then, finding the safe already looted, they had put + two and two together, and had trapped the Rat here—and the Rat had + paid the price! It might have been that way, but that in itself was a + detail, immaterial—they <i>had</i> discovered that it was the Rat. + The Rat’s murder proved it. It was not enough that they should + recover the envelope—there would have been no way to avoid exposure + or cover their own crime except by murdering the Rat. + </p> + <p> + He looked down at the silent form sprawled over the table, and his face + relaxed, softened a little. The Rat was only the Rat, it was true, and the + man was a thief, an outcast, a pariah, a prey upon society; but life to + the Rat, too, had been sweet, and his murder was a hideous thing—and + even such as the Rat might ask justice. Justice! It had been dirty work—miserable, + dirty work, he had called it when he had thought the Rat alone involved—but + now, thanks to the Tocsin, he knew it for what it really was, knew it for + its damnable, hellish ingenuity, and its abominable, brutal callousness! + Justice! Yes—but how? + </p> + <p> + He began to move about the room, his mind for the moment diverted in an + endeavour to reconstruct the scene as it must have been enacted here + around him. The Rat had broken into the safe <i>before</i> eleven o’clock—that + was obvious now. In fact, it was quite likely to have been much nearer + ten! He had returned here and had been sitting there at the table, + counting over his ill-gotten gains, perhaps, his back to the door, just as + he sat now, and they had stolen in upon him. But where was the old woman? + True, perhaps little, if any, noise had been made, and yet—Jimmie + Dale, pausing on the threshold of the door, listened intently. One of the + two rooms, whose doors he saw between this end room and the door opening + into the store, must be hers, and if she were there, asleep, for instance, + his ear was surely acute enough to catch, in the stillness that lay upon + the house, the sound of breathing. But there was nothing. Under the mask, + his brows drew together in a perplexed frown. And then suddenly he stood + rigid, tense. Yes, there was a sound at last—and an ominous one! The + front door leading into the store was being opened, came the scuffling of + footsteps—and then a woman’s voice, shrill, wailing: + </p> + <p> + “W’en I come in not twenty minutes ago dere he was—dead. + My Gawd—knifed he was! An’ den I runs fer youse at de station. + I gotta right ter cry, ain’t I! He’s my son, he is—ain’t + he! I gotta right—” + </p> + <p> + “Keep quiet!” snapped a man’s voice gruffly. “We’ve + heard all that a dozen times now. It’s a pity you didn’t think + more about being his mother twenty years ago! Mike, you’d better + lock that front door!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale drew back, and closed the door softly. If he were caught here + now! The old woman had brought the police back with her—two of them, + it appeared. He smiled in a hard way. Well, he did not propose to be + caught. His hand reached up to the electric light switch, there was a + click, and the room was in darkness. In the fraction of a second more he + was at the window. Shade and window were swiftly, silently raised, and he + looked out cautiously. The street was deserted, empty; there was no one in + sight. It was very simple, a drop of a few feet to the sidewalk, a dash + around the corner—and that was all. They were coming now. He swung + one leg over the sill—and sat there motionless, his mind balancing + with lightning speed the pros against the cons of a sudden inspiration + that had come to him. Justice... justice on those guilty of this wretched + murder here, and guilty of many another crime almost as grave...he had + asked himself how...here was a way...a daredevil, foolhardy way? ... no, + the possibility of being winged by a chance shot, perhaps, but otherwise a + safe way ... escape through that panel door operated by weights ... and it + was not far to that den the Tocsin had described ... nor would he be + running into a trap himself ... the gang was not there ... perhaps no one + ... but perhaps, with luck, those he might wish would be there ... it + would be a gracious little act on the part of the Gray Seal, would it not, + to invite the police, this Mike and his companion, to that den—they + would be deeply interested! He laughed low—they were almost at the + door now. Well? The doorknob rattled. Yes, he would do it! Yes—<i>now</i>! + He stretched out suddenly, and with the toe of his boot kicked over a + chair that was within reach. The crash, as the chair fell, was answered by + a rush through the door, a hoarse, surprised and quick-flung oath—and, + as Jimmie Dale swung out through the window and dropped to the street, the + flash and roar of a revolver shot. + </p> + <p> + Like a cat on his feet, he whirled as he touched the pavement, and darted + along past the backyard fence, heading for the lane; and, as he ran, over + his shoulder, he saw first one and then the other of the two men, both in + police uniform, drop from the window and take up the pursuit. Another + shot, and another, a fusillade of them rang out. A bullet struck the + pavement at his feet with a venomous <i>spat</i>. He heard the humming of + another that was like the humming of an angry wasp. And he laughed again + to himself—but short and grimly now. Just a few yards more—five + of them—to the corner of the lane. It was the chance he had invited—three + yards—two—his breath was coming in hard, short panting gasps—<i>safe</i>! + Yes! He had won now—they would not get another shot at him, at least + not another that he would have any need to fear! + </p> + <p> + He swerved into the lane, still running at top speed. A high board fence, + she had said—yes, there it was! And it corresponded in location with + where he knew it should be—about three lots in from the street. He + sprang for it, and swung lithely to the top—and hung there, as + though still scrambling and struggling for his balance. The officers had + not turned into the lane yet, and he had no intention of affording them + any excuse for losing sight of their quarry! + </p> + <p> + Ah! There they were! A yell and a revolver shot rang out simultaneously as + they caught sight of him—and Jimmie Dale dropped down to the ground + on the inside of the fence. In the moonlight he could see quite + distinctly. He darted across the yard, heading for the basement door of + the building that loomed up in front of him. + </p> + <p> + The little steel picklock was in his hand as he reached the door. A second—two—three + went by. He straightened up—and again he waited—stepping back + a few feet to stand sharply outlined in the moonlight. + </p> + <p> + Again a shout in signal that he was seen, as one of the officers’ + heads appeared over the top of the fence—and Jimmie Dale, as though + in mad haste, plunged through the door. + </p> + <p> + And now suddenly his tactics changed. He needed every second he could + gain, and the police now certainly could no longer lose their way. He + swung the door shut behind him, locked it to delay them, and snatched his + flashlight from his pocket. He was at the top of a few ladder-like steps + that led down into the cellar of the building, and halfway along the + length of the cellar the ray of his flashlight swept across a huge coal + bin, its sides, it seemed, built almost up to the ceiling. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was muttering to himself now, as he took the steps at a single + leap, and raced toward the side of the bin that flanked the wall—“seventh + board from the wall—knot on a level with shoulders”—and + now he was counting rapidly—and now the round, white ray played on + the seventh board. They were smashing at the cellar door now. The knot! Ah—there + it was! He pressed it. Two of the boards in front of him, the width of a + man’s body, swung back. He left this open—a blazed trail for + his pursuers, battering now at the cellar door—and stepped forward + into a little opening, too short to be called a passage, and, silent now, + halted before another door. + </p> + <p> + Brain and eyes and hands were working now with incredible speed. That it + was a sound-proof room was not, perhaps, altogether an unmixed blessing! + Was the place deserted? Was there any one within? He could hear nothing. + Well, after all, did it make any ultimate difference? The room itself + would condemn them! + </p> + <p> + The picklock was at work again—working silently—working + swiftly. And now, in its place, his automatic was in his hand. + </p> + <p> + He crouched a little—and with a spring, flinging wide the door, was + in the room. There was a smothered cry, an oath, the crash of an + overturned chair, as two men, from a table heaped with little piles of + crisp, new banknotes, sprang wildly to their feet: And Jimmie Dale’s + lips twisted in a smile not good to see. Standing there before him were + Curley and Haines. + </p> + <p> + “Keep your seats, gentlemen—please!” said Jimmie Dale, + with grim irony. “I shall only stay a moment. It is Mr. Curley and + Mr. Haines, I believe—in their <i>private</i> office! Permit me!”—he + reached out with his left hand, and closed the door. “Ah, I see + there is a good serviceable bolt on it. I have your permission?”—he + slipped the bolt into place. “As I said, I shall only stay a moment; + but it would be unfortunate, most unfortunate, if we were by any chance + interrupted—prematurely!” + </p> + <p> + Haines, ashen white, was gripping at the table edge. Curley, a deadly + glitter in his wicked little eyes, moistened his lips with the tip of his + tongue. + </p> + <p> + “How’d you get here, and what the hell d’you want?” + he burst out fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “As to the first question, I haven’t time to answer it,” + said Jimmie Dale evenly. “What I want is the sealed envelope stolen + from Henry Grenville’s safe—and I’m in a <i>hurry</i>, + Mr. Curley.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a fool!” said Curley, with a sneer. “It’s—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” said Jimmie Dale, with ominous patience, + “it’s counterfeit, you miserable pair of curs! Counterfeit + like the rest of that stuff there on the table! Nice place you’ve + got here—everything, I see—press, plates, engraver’s + tools—nothing missing but the rest of the gang! Perhaps, though, + they can be found! Now then, that envelope—quick!” Jimmie Dale’s + automatic swung forward significantly. + </p> + <p> + “It’s in the drawer of the table,” snarled Curley. + “Curse you, who—” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you!” Jimmie Dale’s lips were a thin line. + “Now, you two, stand out there in the middle of the floor—and + if either of you make a move other than you are told to make, I’ll + drop you as I would drop a mad dog!” He jerked the two chairs out + from the table, and, still covering Curley and Haines, placed the chairs + back to back. “Sit down there, stretch out your arms full length on + either side, the palms of your hands against each other’s!” he + ordered curtly; and, as they obeyed—Haines, cowed, all pretence at + nerve gone, Curley cursing in abandon—he slipped the handcuffs over + their wrists on one side, and, taking the piece of cord from his pocket + that he had intended for the Rat’s ankles, he deftly noosed their + wrists on the other side with a slip knot, which he fastened securely. + </p> + <p> + He stepped over to the table. + </p> + <p> + “Counterfeiting five-hundred and thousand-dollar bills is rather out + of the ordinary run, isn’t it—I see these on the table here + are the regular small variety!” he observed coolly, as he pulled the + drawer open. “The big ones make a quick turn-over, though, if you + have the plant to turn them out, and can swing a scheme to cash them—after + banking hours—and steal them back! Hello, what’s this!”—the + sealed envelope, torn open at one end, evidently by the Rat in his + examination, but still full of the counterfeit notes, was blood-smeared, + and on the upper left-hand corner there showed the distinct impression of + a finger print. + </p> + <p> + There was a sudden crash against the door. + </p> + <p> + Both men, in their chairs, strained around—and now Curley, too, had + lost his colour. + </p> + <p> + “My God, what’s that!” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + The thin metal case was in Jimmie Dale’s hand. With the tweezers, he + lifted one of the little gray seals to his lips, moistened it, and, using + his elbow, pressed it firmly down upon the envelope. + </p> + <p> + Came another furious thud upon the door—and another. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that!” Curley’s voice was a frantic scream + now. “For God’s sake, do you hear, what’s that!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, under a pencilled arrow mark indicating the finger print, was + scrawling a few words in printed characters. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the police,” said Jimmie Dale calmly. “Somebody + murdered the Rat to-night!” He surveyed the envelope in his hand + critically. Between the arrow mark and the gray seal were the words: + “Look on the Rat’s collar—and these gentlemen’s + fingers.” He laid the envelope down on the table—and, as the + door suddenly splintered and sagged under a terrific blow from some heavy + object, he retreated hurriedly to the farther end of the room. Here a half + dozen steps led upward, and hanging from the ceiling beside them was a + cord to which was attached a leaden weight. He jerked the cord quickly. A + panel above him slid noiselessly back. He leaped to the top of the stairs, + and paused for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “They’ve been looking for this place for several years, I + guess,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “And I guess it will change + hands to-night for the last time—and without the need of any Bill of + Sale from old Henry Grenville! But we were speaking of the Rat—and + why the Rat was murdered. If the Rat had had a chance to spread the news + that the money paid by Mr. Curley this afternoon was counterfeit, it—” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale did not finish his sentence. In a bound, as the door from the + cellar crashed inward, he was through the panel opening and in the room + above. There was light from the open panel behind him—enough to show + him that he was in a small room which was fitted up as an office—the + office of Haines & Curley, wholesale liquor dealers! + </p> + <p> + In an instant he was out of the office, and running silently down the + length of the store. He snatched off his mask, reached the front door, + opened it, stepped out on the quiet, deserted street—and a moment + later Jimmie Dale was but one of the many that still, even at that hour, + drifted their way along the Bowery. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. THE LAST CARD + </h2> + <p> + Two weeks had gone by—or was it three? How long was it since he had + found the Tocsin’s letter in the secret hiding place of the new + Sanctuary! It had seemed to him then that he had been given a new lead, a + new hope; for, once he had recovered from his startled amazement at the + realisation that she was as conversant with the secrets of the new + Sanctuary as she had been with the old, there had come the thought of + turning that very fact to his own account—that if he were unable to + reach or find her by any other means, he might succeed, instead, by + letting her unwittingly come to him. She had come there once to the + Sanctuary when he had been absent; she was almost certain to come there + again—when she <i>thought</i> he was absent! He had put his plan + into execution. For days at a stretch he had remained hidden in the + Sanctuary—and nothing had come of it—and then the inaction, + coupled with the knowledge that the peril which faced her, even though his + previous efforts to avert it had all been abortive, had made it unbearable + to remain longer passive, and he had given it up, and gone out again, + combing and searching through the dens and dives of the underworld. + </p> + <p> + That had been two weeks ago—or three. And the net result had been + nothing! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale allowed the evening newspaper to slip from his fingers. It + dropped to the arm of his lounging chair, and from there to the floor. It + was no use. He had been reading mechanically ever since he had returned + from the club half an hour ago, and he was conscious in only the haziest + sort of way of what he had been reading. The market, the general news + items, the editorials, had all blended one into the other to form a + meaningless jumble of words; even the leading article on the front page, + that proclaimed as imminent the final and complete exposé of what had come + to be known as “The Private Club Ring”—an investigation + that, from its inception, he had hitherto followed closely, promising as + it did to involve and link in partnership with the lowest of the + underworld names that heretofore had stood high up in the social circles + of New York—seemed uninteresting and unable to hold his attention + to-night. + </p> + <p> + He rose impulsively from his chair, and, walking down the length of the + richly furnished room, his tread soundless on the thick, heavy rug, drew + the portières aside, and stood looking out of the rear window; It was dark + outside, but presently the shadows formed into concrete shapes, and, + across the black space of driveway and yard, the wall of the garage + assumed a solid background against the night. He passed his hand over his + forehead heavily, and a wanness came into his face and eyes. Once before + he had stood here at this window of his den, the room that ran the entire + depth of his magnificent Riverside Drive residence, and old Jason had + stood at the front window—and they had watched, Jason and he—watched + the shadows, that were not shadows of walls and buildings, close in around + the house. That was the night before he had escaped from the trap set by + the Crime Club; the night before the old Sanctuary had burned down, and + police and underworld alike had believed the Gray Seal buried beneath the + charred and fallen walls; the night before she, the Tocsin, had come for a + little while into her own, and for a little while—into his arms. + </p> + <p> + His lips twisted in pain. A little while! Days of glad and glorious + wonder! They were gone now; and in their place was emptiness and + loneliness—and a great, overmastering fear and terror that would + clutch at times, as it clutched now, cold at his heart. + </p> + <p> + It was not so very long ago that night, only a few months ago, but it + seemed as though the years had come and rolled away since then. She was + gone again, driven by a peril that menaced her life into hiding again—a + peril that she would not let him share—because she <i>loved</i> him. + </p> + <p> + The pain that showed on his twisted lips was voiced in a low, involuntary + cry. Because she loved him! His hands clenched hard. Where was she? Who + was it that dogged and haunted her, that was wrecking and ruining her + life? God knew! And God knew, employing every resource he possessed, he + had done everything he could to reach her. And all that he had + accomplished had been the creation of a new character in the underworld! + That was all—and yet, strangely enough, in that way there had come + to him the one single gleam of relief that he had known, for out of the + creation of that character had sprung again the activities of the Gray + Seal, and with the resumption of those activities, since, as in the old + days, those “calls to arms” of hers had come again he knew + that, at least, she was so far alive and safe. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale swung from the window, and began to pace rapidly up and down + the room. Safe—yes! But for how long? She had outwitted those + against her up to now, but for how long would— + </p> + <p> + He had halted abruptly beside the table. Some one was knocking at the + door. + </p> + <p> + “Come!” he called. + </p> + <p> + And old Jason entered—and it seemed to Jimmie Dale that he must + laugh out like one suddenly over-wrought and in hysteria. In the old + butler’s hand was a silver card tray, and on the tray was—but + there was no need to look on the tray, old Jason’s face, curiously + mingling excitement and disquiet, the imperturbability of the butler gone + for the nonce, was alone quite eloquent enough. But Jimmie Dale, master of + many things, was most of all master of himself. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Jason?” His voice was quiet and contained as he spoke. + He reached out and took from the tray a white, unaddressed envelope. It + was from her, of course—even Jason knew that it was another of those + mysterious epistles, one of the many that had passed through the old + butler’s hands, that had in the last few years so completely + revolutionised, as it were, his, Jimmie Dale’s, mode of life. + “Well, Jason?” He was toying with the envelope in his hand. + “How did it come this time?” + </p> + <p> + “It was in another envelope, Master Jim, sir—addressed to me, + sir,” explained the old butler nervously. “A messenger boy + brought it, sir. I opened the outside envelope, Master Jim, and—and + I knew at once, sir, that—that it was one of those letters.” + </p> + <p> + “I see.” Jimmie Dale smiled a little mirthlessly. What, after + all, did the “how” of it matter? It was a foregone conclusion + that, as it had been a hundred times before, it would avail him nothing so + far as furnishing a clue to her whereabouts was concerned! “Very + well, Jason.” His tones were a dismissal. + </p> + <p> + But Jason did not go; and there was something more in the act than that of + a well-trained servant as the old man stooped, picked up the newspaper + from the floor, and folded it neatly. He laid the paper hesitantly on the + table, and began to fumble awkwardly with the silver tray. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Jason?” prompted Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Master Jim, sir,” said Jason, and the old face grew + suddenly strained, “there <i>is</i> something that, begging your + pardon for the liberty, sir, I would like to say. I don’t know what + all these strange letters are about, and it’s not for me, sir, it’s + not my place, to ask. But once, Master Jim, you honoured me with your + confidence to the extent of saying they meant life and death; and once, + sir, the night this house was watched, I could see for myself that you + were in some great danger. I—Master Jim, sir—I—I am an + old man now, sir, but I dandled you on my knee when you were only a wee + tot, sir, and—and you’ll forgive me, sir, if I presume beyond + my station, only—only—” His voice broke suddenly; his + eyes were full of tears. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s hand went out, both of them, and were laid + affectionately on the old man’s shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “I put my life in your hands that night, Jason,” he said + simply. “Go on. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir. Thank you, Master Jim, sir.” Jason swallowed hard; + his voice choked a little. “It isn’t much, sir, I—I don’t + know that it’s anything at all; but nights, sir, when I’m + sitting up for you, Master Jim, and you don’t come home, I—” + </p> + <p> + “But I’ve told you again and again that you are not to sit up + for me, Jason,” Jimmie Dale remonstrated kindly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know, sir.” Jason shook his head. “But I couldn’t + sleep, sir, anyway—thinking about it, Master Jim, sir. I—well, + sir—sometimes I get terribly anxious and afraid, Master Jim, that + something will happen to you, and it seems as though you were all alone in + this, and I thought, sir, that perhaps if—if some one—some one + you could trust, Master Jim, could do something—<i>anything</i>, + sir, it might make it all right. I—I’m an old man, Master Jim, + it—it wouldn’t matter about me, and—” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale turned abruptly to the table. His own eyes were wet. These + were not idle words that Jason used, or words spoken without a full + realisation of their meaning. Jason was offering, and calling it + presumption to do so, his life in place of his, Jimmie Dale’s, if by + so doing he could shield the master whom he loved. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Jason.” Jimmie Dale turned again from the table. + “There is nothing you can do now, but if the time ever comes—” + He looked for a long minute into Jason’s face; then his hands were + laid again on the other’s shoulders, and he swung the old man gently + around. “There’s the door, Jason—and God bless you!” + </p> + <p> + Jason went slowly from the room. The door closed. For the first time that + he had ever held a letter of hers in his hand Jimmie Dale was for a moment + heedless of it. If the time ever came! He smiled strangely. The love and + affection that had come with the years of Jason’s service were not + all on one side. Not for anything in the world would he put a hair of that + gray head in jeopardy! It was not lack of faith or trust that held him + back from taking Jason into his full confidence—it was the + possibility, always present, that some day the house of cards might + totter, the Gray Seal be discovered to be Jimmie Dale, and in the ruin, + the disaster, the debacle that must follow, the less old Jason knew, for + old Jason’s own sake, the better! It was the one thing that would + save Jason. The charge of complicity would fall to the ground before the + old man’s very ingenuousness! + </p> + <p> + And then Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders, a sort of whimsical + fatalistic philosophy upon him, and, as he tore the envelope open, he sat + down in the lounging chair close to the table. Another “call to arms”! + An appeal for some one else—never for herself! He shook his head. + How often had he hoped that the summons, instead, would prove to be the + one thing he asked and lived for—to take his place beside her, to + aid <i>her</i>! Not one of these letters had he ever opened without the + hope that, in spite of the intuition which told him his hope was futile, + it would prove at last to be the call to him for herself! Perhaps this one—he + was eagerly unfolding the pages he had taken from the envelope—perhaps + this one—no!—a glance was enough—it was far remote from + any personal relation to her. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Philanthropic Crook”—he leaned back in his chair, + as his eyes travelled hurriedly over the opening paragraphs, a keen sense + of disappointment upon him, despite the intuition that had bade him expect + nothing else—and then suddenly, startled, tense, he sat upright, + strained forward in his seat. He could not read fast enough. His eyes + leaped over words and sentences. + </p> + <p> + “... They are playing their last card to-night ... David Archman ... + it is murder, Jimmie ... letter signed J. Barca ... Sixth Avenue stationer + ... Martin Moore ... Gentleman Laroque, the gangster ... Niccolo Sonnino + ... end house to left of courtyard entrance ... safe in rear room ... + lives alone ... tonight ...” + </p> + <p> + For a moment Jimmie Dale did not move as he finished reading the letter, + save that his fingers began to tear the pages into strips, and the strips + over and over again into tiny fragments—then, mechanically, he + dropped the pieces into the pocket of his dinner jacket and mechanically + reached for the newspaper that Jason had picked up and laid on the table. + And now a dull red burned in his cheeks, and the square jaw was clamped + and hard. Strange coincidence! Yes, it was strange—but perhaps it + was more than mere coincidence! He had an interest, a very personal, vital + interest in that article on the front page now, in this combine of those + who were frankly of the dregs of the criminal world and those of a blacker + breed who hid behind the veneer of respectability and station. + </p> + <p> + He read the article slowly. It was but the résumé of the case that had + been under investigation for the past few weeks, the sensation it had + created the greater since the publicity so far given to it had but hinted + darkly at the scope of the exposure to come, while as yet no names had + been mentioned. “The Private Club Ring,” as set forth in the + paper, operated a chain of what purported to be small, select and very + exclusive clubs, but which in reality were gambling traps of the most + vicious description—and the field of their operations was very wide + and exceedingly lucrative. Men known to have money, whether New Yorkers or + from out of town, were “introduced” there by “members” + whose standing and presumed respectability were beyond reproach—and + they were bled white; while, to add variety to the crooked games, orgies, + revels and carousals of the most depraved character likewise furnished the + lever for blackmail—the “member” <i>ostensibly</i> being + in as bad a hole, and in as desperate a predicament as the “guest” + he had introduced! + </p> + <p> + The article told Jimmie Dale nothing new, nothing that he did not already + know, save the statement that the evidence now in the possession of the + authorities was practically complete, and that the arrest and disclosure + of those involved might be expected at any moment. + </p> + <p> + He put down the paper, and stood up—and for the second time that + night began to pace the room. If the article had told him nothing new, it + at least explained that sentence in the Tocsin’s letter—<i>they + are playing their last card to-night.</i> They must strike now, or never—the + exposure could be but a matter of a few hours off! + </p> + <p> + A face crowned with its gray hair rose before him, a kindly face, grave + and strong and fine, the face of a man of sterling honesty and + unimpeachable integrity—the face of David Archman, the assistant + district attorney, who had both instituted and was in charge of the + investigation that now threatened New York with an upheaval that promised + to shake many a social structure to its foundations. Yes, they would play + their last card, a vile, despicable and hellish card—but how little + they knew David Archman! They would break his life; it would, indeed, as + the Tocsin had said, be murder—but they would never break David + Archman’s unswerving loyalty to principle and duty! They had tried + that—by threats of personal violence, by the offer of bribes in sums + large enough to have tempted many! + </p> + <p> + His face hard, his forehead gathered in puzzled furrows, Jimmie Dale + stepped to the door, and locked it; then, drawing aside the portière that + hung before the little alcove at the lower end of the room, knelt down + before the squat, barrel-shaped safe, and his fingers began to play over + the knobs and dials. + </p> + <p> + Yes, it was a vitally personal matter now; there was an added incentive + to-night spurring the Gray Seal on to act. David Archman had been his + father’s closest friend; and he, Jimmie Dale, himself had always + looked on David Archman, and with reason, as little less than a second + father. His frown grew deeper—he did not understand. But Tocsin did + <i>not</i> make mistakes. He had had evidence of that on too many + occasions when he had thought otherwise to question it now—but David + Archman’s son in <i>this</i>! It seemed incredible! The boy, he was + little more than a boy, scarcely twenty, was and always had been, perhaps, + a little wild, but a thief, an associate and accomplice of the city’s + worst crooks and criminals was something of which he, Jimmie Dale, had + never dreamed until this instant, and now, while it staggered him, it + brought, too, a sense of merciless fury—a fury against those who + would stab like inhuman cowards, pitilessly, at the father through the + son. Their last card! The safe swung open. Their last card was—Clarie + Archman, the son! + </p> + <p> + He reached into the safe, took out an automatic, and placed it in his + pocket. There was no necessity to go to the Sanctuary—what he would + need was here in duplicate, and it would be Jimmie Dale, not Smarlinghue, + who played the rôle of the Gray Seal to-night. A dozen small steel + picklocks in graded sizes followed the revolver, and after these a black + silk mask and a pocket flashlight—the thin, metal insignia case + containing the little diamond-shaped, gray-coloured paper seals, never + absent from his person since the night he had lost and recovered it again, + was already reposing in an inner pocket of his clothes. + </p> + <p> + His face was still hard, as he stood up and closed the safe. The way out, + the way to save David Archman was plain, of course. It was even simple—if + it was not too late! And the way out was another “crime” + committed by the Gray Seal! Instead of Clarie Archman and J. Barca, alias + Gentleman Laroque, robbing the safe of one Niccolo Sonnino, dealer in + precious stones, it would be the Gray Seal—if it was not already too + late to forestall the others! + </p> + <p> + If it was not too late! He looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes + after eleven. Yes, there should be time; but, if not—what then? And + what of that letter? His teeth clamped. Well, he would try it; and he + would make every second count now! He was lifting the telephone receiver + of the private house installation now, calling the garage. Benson, his + chauffeur, answered him almost on the instant. + </p> + <p> + “The light touring car, Benson, please, and as quickly as possible,” + said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir—at once,” Benson answered. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale replaced the receiver on the hook, and, running now across the + floor, unlocked the door, crossed the hall, and entered his dressing room. + Here, he changed his dinner clothes for a dark tweed suit—the + location of Niccolo Sonnino’s place of business was in a + neighbourhood where one in evening dress, to say the least of it, would + not go unobserved—transferred the metal case and the articles he had + taken from the safe to the pockets of the tweed suit, and descended the + stairs. + </p> + <p> + Standing in the hallway, Jason, that model of efficiency, with an + appraising glance at his master’s changed attire, handed Jimmie Dale + a soft hat—and opened the door. + </p> + <p> + “Benson is outside, Master Jim,” said Jason; but the look in + the old man’s eyes was eloquent far beyond the respectful and + studied quiet of his words. The old face was pale and grave with anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right, Jason—all right <i>this</i> time,” + Jimmie Dale smiled reassuringly. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, sir,” said Jason, in a low voice. “I hope + so, sir. And, begging your pardon, Master Jim, sir, I pray God it is.” + </p> + <p> + And for answer Jimmie Dale smiled again, and passed down the steps, and + entered the car. But the smile was gone as he leaned back in his seat + after giving Benson his directions—speed, and a corner a few blocks + away from Chatham Square—he was not so sure that it was all right. + It was entirely a question of time. Given the time and the opportunity—Niccolo + Sonnino out of the road, for instance—given twenty minutes ahead of + Clarie Archman and Gentleman Laroque, it would be simple enough. But + otherwise—his lips thinned—otherwise, he did not know. + Otherwise, there was promise of strange, grim work before daylight came, + work that might lead him out of necessity to the role of Smarlinghue, and + as Smarlinghue—anywhere! He did not know; he knew only one thing—that, + at any cost, if it lay within any power of his to prevent it, David + Archman should not live a broken man. + </p> + <p> + The car speeded its way rapidly along in a downtown direction, Benson + keeping, wherever possible, to the unfrequented streets. Jimmie Dale, busy + with his problem, his mind sifting and turning this way and that the + curious, and in some cases apparently conflicting details of the Tocsin’s + letter, paid little attention to his surroundings, save to note + approvingly from time to time that a request to Benson to hurry was + equivalent to something perilously near to a contempt of speed laws. It + still seemed incredible that Clarie Archman was a thief, a safe-tapper, + even if but an amateur one. The boy must have travelled a pace of late + that was fast and furious. How had he ever become intimate enough with + Gentleman Laroque to be associated with the other in such a crime as this? + How had Laroque come to play a part in the miserable scheme of trickery + that was the Private Club Ring’s last card. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale shook his head helplessly at the first question—and + shook it again at the second. He knew Laroque—he knew him for one of + the most degraded, as well as one of the most dreaded, gang leaders in + crimeland. Laroque, in unvarnished language, was a devil, and, worse + still, a most callous devil. Laroque stood first and all the time for + Laroque. If murder would either further or safeguard Laroque’s + personal interests, Laroque was the sort of man who would stop only to + consider, not whether the murder should be committed, but the method that + might best be employed in order to implicate as little as possible one + Laroque! Also, to those in the secrets of the underworld, Gentleman + Laroque added to his accomplishments, or had done so before he rose to the + eminence of gang leader, the profession of “box-worker”—not + a very clever exponent of the art, crude perhaps in his methods, but at + the same time efficacious, as a dozen breaks and looted safes in the years + gone by bore ample witness. + </p> + <p> + Grimly whimsical came Jimmie Dale’s smile. Gentleman Laroque would + have made a very much better “confidence” man than + safe-worker. The man was suave, polished when he wanted to be, educated; + he possessed all the requisites, and, in abundance, the prime requisite of + all—a cunning that was the cunning of a fox. This might even have + explained his acquaintanceship with Clarie Archman, except for the fact + that it did not explain Clarie Archman’s co-operation in a + premeditated robbery with any one! + </p> + <p> + Again Jimmie Dale shook his head—and there came another question, + one for which no answer, even of a suggestive nature, had been supplied in + the Tocsin’s letter. Why had Niccolo Sonnino’s safe been + selected as the one especial and desirable nut to crack? He knew Niccolo + Sonnino, too, in a general way, as all who resided near or had any + dealings in the neighbourhood where Sonnino lived, knew the man. True, + combined with a small trade in jewelry and precious stones, the former + cheap and the latter of an inferior grade to fit the purses of his + customers, the man was a money-lender—but in an equally small way. + Loans of minor amounts, a very few dollars as a maximum, was probably the + extent of Sonnino’s ventures along this line. Sonnino himself was a + crafty little man, but craftiness, if it did not transgress the law, was + not a crime; he was undoubtedly a usurer in his petty way, and he was both + feared and disliked, but beyond that no one pretended to know anything + about him. Ordinarily, Sonnino’s safe, then, might be expected to be + rather a barren affair, hardly a lure for a Gentleman Laroque brand of + crook! Why, then, Sonnino’s safe to-night? What was in that letter + signed “J. Barca” that Clarie Archman had received? J. Barca + was Gentleman Laroque; that would have been evident in any case, even if + the Tocsin had not expressly said so—but the letter! Did the letter, + apart from its incriminating ingenuity, supply the answer to his question? + Had Sonnino, for instance, by some lucky turn, disposed of his stock in + bulk, and was thus for the moment in possession of an unusually large + amount of cash; or, inversely, had Sonnino received an unusual stock of + stones? Either of these theories, and equally neither one of them, might + furnish the answer! Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders grimly. He would + find the answer—in Sonnino’s safe! One thing, however, one + thing that might have had some bearing on Laroque’s choice, one + thing for which he, Jimmie Dale, was grateful to Laroque for making such a + choice, was that Sonnino’s place lent itself admirably to attack—from + the standpoint of the attacker! A black courtyard, screened completely + from the street; a house that— + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale looked up suddenly, and, as suddenly, leaning forward, he + touched Benson’s shoulder. They were just approaching a restaurant + and music hall known as “The Sphinx,” that was popular for the + moment with the slumming parties from uptown. + </p> + <p> + “This will do. You may let me out here at The Sphinx, Benson,” + he said quietly; and then, as the car stopped: “I shall not be long, + Benson—perhaps half an hour—wait for me.” + </p> + <p> + Benson touched his cap. Jimmie Dale ran up the steps of the restaurant, + entered, threaded his way through several crowded rooms where the midnight + revelry was in full swing—and passed out of the place by a + convenient rear exit that gave on the adjoining cross street. The car + standing in front of The Sphinx would attract no notice; and he was now on + the same street as Sonnino’s place, and only two short blocks away. + </p> + <p> + He started forward from the restaurant door—and paused, struggling + with a refractory match in an effort to light a cigarette. A man brushed + by him, making for the restaurant door, a tall, wiry-built, swarthy, + sharp-featured man—and Jimmie Dale flipped the stub of his match + away from him, and went on. Sonnino himself! There was luck then at the + start—the coast was clear! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. CAUGHT IN THE ACT + </h2> + <p> + It was one of those countless streets on the East Side each so identical + with another—dark, not over clean, flanked on both sides with small + shops, basement stores and tenement dwellings that crowded one upon the + other in a sort of helpless confusion. Jimmie Dale moved quickly along. + The whimsical smile was back on his lips. Sonnino, whose business, the + money-lending end of it, would naturally have kept him late at work, was + now evidently intent on a belated meal; Sonnino, therefore, could be + counted upon as a factor eliminated for at feast the next half hour—and + half an hour was enough, a little more than enough! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale glanced back over his shoulder. There was no one in sight. A + yard ahead of him, one of those relics of barbaric architecture, tunnelled + as it were through the centre of a building that the space overhead might + not be wasted, was the black driveway that gave entrance to the courtyard + behind, where Sonnino lived alone in one of a half dozen small, + tottering-from-age frame houses. Jimmie Dale drew closer to the wall, came + opposite the driveway—and disappeared from the street. + </p> + <p> + It was the Gray Seal now, the professional Jimmie Dale, as silent in his + movements as the shadows about him. He traversed the driveway, and emerged + on the courtyard. Here, it was scarcely less dark. There was no moon, and + no lights in any of the houses that made the rear of the courtyard. He + could just discern the houses as looming shapes against the sky line, that + was all. + </p> + <p> + He crossed the courtyard, and, reaching the line of door-stepless, + poverty-stricken hovels—they appeared to be little more than that—crept + stealthily along to the end house at the left, halted an instant to press + his face against a black window pane, then tried the door cautiously. It + was locked, of course. Again there came the whimsical smile, but it was + almost hidden now by the black silk mask that he slipped quickly over his + face. His finger tips, that were like a magical sixth sense to Jimmie + Dale, embodying all the other five, felt tentatively over the lock, then + slipped into his pocket, selected unerringly one of his picklocks, and + inserted the little steel instrument in the keyhole. An instant more and + the door was opening without a sound under Jimmie Dale’s hand. And + then, the door open, he stepped over the threshold, and, in the act of + closing the door behind him, stood suddenly rigid—and where the + whimsical smile had been before, his lips were now compressed into a thin, + straight line. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” came a hoarse, shaken whisper out of the + blackness beyond. + </p> + <p> + “What’s <i>what</i>?” demanded another voice—the + whisper this time sharp and caustic. “I didn’t hear anything!” + </p> + <p> + “Neither did I,” admitted the first speaker. “It wasn’t + that—it was like a draft of air—as though the door or a window + had been opened.” + </p> + <p> + “Forget it!” observed the second voice contemptuously. “Cut + out the jumps—we’ve got to get through here before Sonnino + gets back. You’d make a wooden Indian nervous!” + </p> + <p> + There was silence for an instant, then a curious gnawing sound punctuated + with quick, low, metallic rasps as of a ratchet at work—and upon + Jimmie Dale for a moment came stunned dismay. Time, the one factor upon + which he had depended, was lost to him; Clarie Archman and Gentleman + Laroque were already at work in there in that room beyond. He stood + motionless, his brain whirling; and then slowly, without a sound, an inch + at a time, he began to close the door behind him. He could see nothing; + but the door connecting the two rooms was obviously open—the + distinctness with which the whispering voices had reached him was proof of + that. They were working, too, without light, or he would have got a + warning gleam when he had looked through the window. And now—what + now? The picklock was shifted to his left hand, as he drew his automatic + from his pocket. There was only one answer to the question—to play + the game out to the end, whatever that end might be! + </p> + <p> + Beneath the mask his face drew into chiselled lines, as the picklock + silently locked the door. There was one exit from that inner room, and + only <i>one</i>—through the room in which he stood. The Tocsin had + drawn an accurate word-plan of the crude, shack-like place, and now in his + mind he reconstructed it here in the darkness. The doorway into a small + hall that led to the stairs adjoined the doorway of that inner room where + the two were now at work—and in that room were no windows, it was a + sort of blind cubby-hole where Niccolo Sonnino transacted his most private + business. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale crept forward up the room. There was no answering creak of + board or flooring, no sound save that gnawing sound, and the rasping click + of the ratchet. His place of vantage was against the wall between the two + doors—there, he could both command the exit from, and see into, the + inner room, while the doorway into the hall provided him with a means of + retreat should the necessity arise. And then, suddenly, halfway up the + room, he dropped down behind what was evidently a jeweller’s + workbench. A whisper, obviously Laroque’s this time, came once more + from the inner room. + </p> + <p> + “Shoot the flash again!” And then, savagely: “Curse it, + not on the <i>ceiling</i>! Can’t you hold it steady! What the devil + is the matter with you!” + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. A dull glimmer of light filtered through the doorway, + but from the position in which he lay Jimmie Dale could distinguish + nothing in the inner room itself. + </p> + <p> + “All right! That’ll do!” Laroque growled presently. + </p> + <p> + The light went out. Jimmie Dale crept forward again. And now he gained the + rear wall of the room, and crouched down close against it between the two + doorways. + </p> + <p> + Came the sound of breathing now, heavy, as from sustained exertion, making + almost an undertone of the steady <i>click-click-click</i> of the ratchet, + and the sullen gnaw of the bit. The minutes passed. The flashlight went on + again—and Jimmie Dale strained forward. Two dark forms, backs to + him, were outlined against the face of the safe which was at the far side + of the room, a nickel dial glistened in the white ray—he could make + out nothing else. + </p> + <p> + Then darkness again. And again, after a time, the flashlight. Ten, + fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes dragged by. Jimmie Dale might have been a + shadow moving against the wall for all the sound he made as he changed his + cramped position; but, just below the mask, his lips were pressed fiercely + together. Would Gentleman Laroque never get through! Sonnino was not only + likely to return in a very few minutes now, but was almost certain to do + so. Under his breath Jimmie Dale cursed the gangster’s bungling + methods—and not for their crudity alone. His first impulse had been + to surprise the two, hold them up at the revolver point, but the result of + such an act would have been abortive, for the disfigured safe would stand + a mute, incontrovertible witness to the fact that an <i>attempt</i> to + force it had been made—and, whether it was actual robbery or + attempted robbery that was proved against the son, it in no way deflected + the blow aimed at David Archman. And, besides, there was the letter! If + he, Jimmie Dale, had been in time even to have prevented Gentleman Laroque + from sinking a bit into the safe, the letter would have counted not at all—but + now it counted to the extent that it literally meant life and death. Who + had it? Not Clarie Archman—that was certain. And the Tocsin had not + said—obviously because she, too, had been in the dark in that + respect. Therefore he could only wait, watch and follow every move of the + game throughout the rest of the night, if necessary! It was the only + course open to him; the letter, not the robbery, was paramount now. + </p> + <p> + A curious, muffled, metallic thump, mingled with a quick, low-breathed, + triumphant oath, came suddenly from the inner room—and then Laroque’s + voice, eager, the words clipped off as though in feverish elation: + </p> + <p> + “There she is! One nice little job—eh? Well, come on—shoot + your light into her, and let’s take a look at the Christmas tree!” + </p> + <p> + The flashlight’s ray flooded the interior of the open safe. Laroque, + on his knees, laughed suddenly, and thrust his hand inside. + </p> + <p> + “What did I tell you, eh?” he chuckled. “I got the + straight tip, eh? Four thousand, if there’s a cent!” + </p> + <p> + Laroque began to remove what were evidently packages of banknotes from the + safe—but Jimmie Dale was no longer watching the scene. He had edged + suddenly back into the doorway of the hall, and was listening now + intently. A footstep—he could have sworn he had caught the sound of + a footstep—seemed to have come from just outside the front window. + But all was still again. Perhaps he had been mistaken. No! Slight as was + the sound, he heard, unmistakably now, a key grate in the lock—and + then, stealthily, the front door began to open. + </p> + <p> + A bewildered look came into Jimmie Dale’s face, as he retreated + further back into the hallway itself now. It was probably Sonnino; but why + did Sonnino come stealing into his own house like—well, like any one + of the three predatory guests already there before him? And then Jimmie + Dale’s face cleared. Of course! From the window the glow of the + flashlight in the inner room could be seen. Sonnino was forewarned, and + undoubtedly—forearmed! + </p> + <p> + The front door closed softly, so softly that had Jimmie Dale, + supersensitive as his hearing was, not been intent upon it, it would have + escaped him. The glow from the inner room, faint as it was, threw into + shadowy relief a man’s form tiptoeing forward—and then a board + creaked. + </p> + <p> + “<i>What’s that</i>!” came in a wild whisper from Clarie + Archman. + </p> + <p> + “Got ‘em again!” Laroque snapped back. “You make + me tired!” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s get out of here! Let’s get out of here—quick!” + Clarie Archman’s voice, not so low now, held a tone of frantic + appeal. + </p> + <p> + “Nix!” said Laroque, in a vicious sneer. “Not till the + job’s done! D’ye think I’m going to spend half an hour + cracking a safe and take a chance of missing any bets? We’ve got the + coin all right, but there ought to be one or two of Sonnino’s + sparklers lying around in some of these drawers, and—” + </p> + <p> + There was a click of an electric-light switch, a cry from Clarie Archman, + the inner room was ablaze with light, and—Jimmie Dale had edged + forward again out of the hallway—Sonnino, revolver in hand, was + standing just over the threshold facing Gentleman Laroque and the + assistant district attorney’s son. + </p> + <p> + Then silence—a silence of seconds that were as minutes. And then + Gentleman Laroque laughed gratingly. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Sonnino!” he said coolly. “A little late, aren’t + you? You’ve kept me stalling for the last five minutes. Know my + friend—Mr. Martin Moore, alias Mr. Clarie Archman? Clarie, this is + Signor Niccolo Sonnino, the proprietor of this joint.” + </p> + <p> + And then to Jimmie Dale, where before his mind had groped in darkness to + reconcile apparently incongruous details, in a flash there came the light. + The “plant” was a little more intricate, a little more + cunning, a little more hellish—that was all! + </p> + <p> + The boy, white to the lips, was swaying on his feet, grasping at the table + in the centre of the room. He looked from one to the other, a miserable, + dawning understanding in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You—you know my name?” His voice was scarcely audible. + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” said Laroque—and yawned insolently. + </p> + <p> + “So!” purred Sonnino, in excellent English. “Is it so! A + thief! The son of the so-honest Mister Attorney—a thief!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a lie!” The boy’s hands, clenched, were + raised above his head, and then shaken almost maniacally in Gentleman + Laroque’s face. “It’s a lie! I—I don’t + understand, but—but you two, you devils, are together in this!” + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” retorted Laroque, as insolently as before—and + flung the other’s hands away. “Sure, we are!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a lie!” said the boy again. “I was in a + hole. I needed money. You told me you knew a man who would lend it to me. + That’s why I came here with you, and then—and then you held me + here with your revolver, and began to open that safe.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” returned Laroque, for the third time. “Sure—that’s + right! Well, what’s the answer?” + </p> + <p> + “This!” cried the boy wildly. “I don’t know what + your game is, but this is my answer! Do you think I would have touched + that money, or have let you—once I got out of here where I could + have got help! I’m not a thief—whatever else I may be. That’s + my answer!” + </p> + <p> + Niccolo Sonnino’s smile was oily. + </p> + <p> + “It is a little late, is it not?” he leered. “Listen, my + little young friend; I will tell you a story. You work for a bank, eh? The + bank does not like its young men to speculate—yes? But why should + you not speculate a little, a very little, if you like—if you get + the very private and good tips, eh? It is not wrong—no, certainly, + it is not wrong. But at the same time the bank must not know. Very well! + They shall not know—no one shall know. You are not the young Mr. + Archman any more, you are—what is the name?—Martin Moore. But + Martin Moore must have an address, eh? Very well! On Sixth Avenue there is + a little store where one rents boxes for private mail, and where questions + are never asked—is it not so, my very dear young friend?” + </p> + <p> + The boy was staring in a demented way into Sonnino’s face, but he + did not speak. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, hand it to him straight!” Gentleman Laroque broke in + roughly. “I don’t want to hang around here all night. Here, + Archman, you listen to me! We piped you off on that lay about two weeks + ago—and it looked good to us, and we played it for a winner, see? + You got introduced to me, and found me a pretty good sort, and we got + thick together—you know all about that. Also, you get introduced to + some new brokers, who said they’d take good care of your margins—maybe + they only ran a bucket-shop, but you didn’t know it! All right! You + got snarled up good and plenty. Yesterday you were wiped out, and three + thousand dollars to the bad besides, and they were yelling for their money + and threatening to expose you. They gave you until to-morrow morning to + make good. You told me about it. I told you this morning I thought I knew + a man who would lend you the coin, and”—he laughed mockingly, + and jerked his hand toward the safe—“well, I led you to it, + didn’t I?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I don’t understand,” the boy mumbled + helplessly. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you!” jeered Laroque. “Well, it looks big + enough for a blind man to see! We’ve got this robbery wished on you + to a fare-thee-well! A young man who speculates, who uses an assumed name, + and runs a private letter box on Sixth Avenue, and has forty-eight hours + in which to square up his debts or face exposure, has a hell of a chance + with a jury—<i>not</i>!” + </p> + <p> + The boy circled his lips with the tip of his tongue. + </p> + <p> + “But why—why?” he whispered. “I—I never did + anything to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure, you didn’t!” Laroque’s tones were brutally + amiable now. “It’s your father. We’ve an idea that maybe + he won’t be so keen about going ahead with that little investigation + of the private clubs after we’ve put a certain little proposition + about his son up to him.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no! No—you won’t!” Clarie Archman’s + voice rose suddenly shrill, beyond control. “You won’t! You + can’t! You’re in it yourselves”—he pointed his + finger wildly at one and then the other of the two men—“you—you!” + </p> + <p> + “Think so?” drawled Laroque. “All right, you tell + ‘em so—tell the jury about it, tell your father, who is such a + shark on evidence, about it. Sure, I’m in on it with you—but + you don’t know who I am. They’ll have a hot time finding J. + Barca, Esquire! I’m thinking of taking a little trip to Florida for + my health, and my valet’s got my grip all packed! Savvy? And now + listen to Sonnino. Sonnino’s a wonder in the witness box. Niccolo, + tell the jury what you know about this unfortunate young man.” + </p> + <p> + Sonnino, a wicked grin on his face, made a dramatic flourish with the hand + that held the revolver. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I was asleep upstairs. I wakened. I thought I heard a noise + downstairs. I listened. Then I got up, and went down the stairs quiet like + a mouse. I turned on the light quick—like this”—he + snapped his fingers. “Two men have broken open my safe, and they + have my money, a lot of money, for I keep all my money there; I do not + bank—no. They rush at me, they knock me down, they make their + escape, but I recognise one of them—it is Mister the young Archman, + who I have many times seen at The Sphinx Café—yes. Well, and then on + the floor I find a letter.” He grinned wickedly again. “Have + you the letter that I find—Mister Barca?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” said Gentleman Laroque—and reached into his + pocket. “It was addressed to Martin Moore on Sixth Avenue, wasn’t + it?” + </p> + <p> + “My God!” It came in a sudden, pitiful cry from the boy, and + his hand involuntarily went to his own pocket. “You—you’ve + got that letter!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think you’re up against a piker game!” exclaimed + Laroque maliciously. “Well then, forget it! You didn’t have + this in your pocket half an hour before it was lifted by one of the + slickest poke-getters in the whole of little old New York.” He was + taking a letter from its envelope and opening out the sheet. “That’s + the kind of a crowd that’s in on this, my bucko! Listen, and I’ll + read the letter. It looked innocent enough when you got it, in view of + what I told you about knowing a man who would lend you the money. But pipe + how it sounds with Sonnino’s safe bored full of holes. Are you + listening? ‘It’s all right. Niccolo Sonnino has got his safe + crammed full to-night. Meet me at Bristol Bob’s at eleven. J. Barca.’” + </p> + <p> + There was silence in the room. Clarie Archman had dropped into a chair, + and had buried his face in his arms that were out-flung across the table. + </p> + <p> + Then Laroque spoke again: + </p> + <p> + “Do you see where you stand—Clarie? Tell your story—and + it’s the <i>story</i> that sounds like a neat ‘plant’ of + your lawyer’s to get you off. You only get in deeper with the jury + for trying to <i>trick</i> them, see? Here’s the evidence—and + it’s got you cold. Sonnino recognises you. The letter is identified + at the Sixth Avenue place, and <i>you</i> are identified as the guy that’s + been travelling under the name of Martin Moore. J. Barca has flown the + coop and can’t be found, and—well, I guess you get it, don’t + you?” + </p> + <p> + “What—what do you want?” The boy did not lift his head. + </p> + <p> + “We want your father to let up, and let up damned quick,” said + Laroque evenly. “But we’ll give <i>you</i> a chance to get out + from under, and you can take it or leave it—it doesn’t matter + to us. Your father’s got the papers and the affidavits in the + ‘Private Club’ case in his safe at home to-night, and a lot of + those affidavits he can never replace—we’ve seen to that! All + right! You’ve got the combination of the safe. Go home and get that + stuff and bring it here. If it’s here by four o’clock—that + gives you about three hours—you’re out of it. If it isn’t, + then your father gets inside information that the gang is wise to the fact + that his son pulled a break tonight, but that they can keep Sonnino’s + mouth shut if he throws up the sponge, and that if he doesn’t call + it off with the ‘Private Club Ring,’ if he’s so blamed + fond of prosecuting, he’ll get a chance to prosecute his own son—as + a thief!” + </p> + <p> + The boy did not move. + </p> + <p> + “And just one last word,” added Laroque sharply. “Don’t + make the mistake of thinking that if you refuse to get the affidavits it + puts a crimp in us. It’s only because we’re playing white with + you, and to give you a chance, that you’re getting any choice at + all. We didn’t intend to give you one, but we don’t want to be + too rough on you, so if you want to get out that way, and will agree to + keep on queering your father’s game if he starts it over again, all + right. But you want to understand that we hold just as big a club over + your father’s head the other way.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>White!</i> Playing white! Oh, my God!” Clarie Archman had + lurched up from the chair to his feet. His face, haggard and drawn, was + the face of one damned. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night!” said Laroque callously. “You know the way + out! You’ve got till four o’clock. If you’re not back + here then—” He shrugged his shoulders significantly. “You + see, I’m not even asking you what you are going to do. We don’t + care. It’s up to you. Either way suits us. And now—beat it!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale drew back for a second time that night into the hallway. A + step, slow, faltering, unsteady, like that of a man blinded, passed out + from the inner room, and passed on down the length of the front room—and + the door opened and closed. Clarie Archman, with God alone knew what + purpose in his heart, was gone. + </p> + <p> + From the thin metal case, by means of the tiny tweezers, Jimmie Dale took + out a gray seal, laid the seal on his handkerchief, folded the + handkerchief carefully, placed it in his pocket—and crept forward + toward the inner door again. The two men were bending over the table, over + the money on the table, dividing it. Jimmie Dale’s lips were + mercilessly thin; a fury, not the white, impetuous heat of passion, but a + fury that was cold, deadly, implacable, possessed his soul. He crept + nearer—still nearer. + </p> + <p> + “The crowd that put this up says we keep it between us for our work,” + said Laroque shortly. “A third for you, the rest for me. You sure + you put <i>all</i> they gave you in the safe—Niccolo?” He + screwed up his eyes suspiciously. “You sure you ain’t trying + to hold anything out on me? If you are, I’ll make you—” + </p> + <p> + The words died short on his lips—his jaw sagged helplessly. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was standing in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Niccolo, drop that revolver!” said Jimmie Dale softly. His + automatic held a bead on the two men. + </p> + <p> + The revolver clattered to the table top. Neither of the men spoke—only + their faces worked in a queer, convulsive sort of way, as they gazed in + startled fascination at Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you!” said Jimmie Dale politely. He stepped briskly + into the room, shoved Sonnino unceremoniously to one side, shoved his + revolver muzzle none too gently into Laroque’s ribs, and went + through the latter’s clothes. “Yes,” he said, “I + thought quite possibly you might have one.” He pocketed Laroque’s + revolver, and also Sonnino’s from the table. “And now that + letter—thank you!” He whipped the letter from Laroque’s + inside coat pocket and transferred it to his own, then stepped back, and + smiled—but the smile was not inviting. “I’ve only about + five minutes to spare,” murmured Jimmie Dale. “I’m in a + <i>hurry</i>, Niccolo. I see some wrapping paper and string over there on + top of the safe. Get it!” + </p> + <p> + The man obeyed mechanically, in a stupefied sort of way, and placed + several of the sheets and a quantity of string upon the table. Laroque, + silent, sullen, under the spell of Jimmie Dale’s automatic, watched + the proceedings without a word. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said Jimmie Dale, and an icy note began to creep into + the velvet tones, “you two are going to make the first charitable + contribution you ever made in your lives—say, to one of the city + hospitals. Make as neat and as small a parcel of that money as you can, + Niccolo.” + </p> + <p> + “Not by a damned sight!” Laroque roared out suddenly. “Who + the blazes are you! Curse you, I—” He shrank hastily back + before the ominous outthrust of Jimmie Dale’s automatic. + </p> + <p> + “Wrap it up, Niccolo, and tie a string around it!” snapped + Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + And again, but snarling, cursing now, the man obeyed. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s hand went into his pocket, and came out with his + handkerchief. He carried the handkerchief to his mouth, moistened the + adhesive side of the gray paper seal, and pressed the handkerchief down + upon the top of the parcel. + </p> + <p> + “It would hardly do for any one to know where the money really came + from—would it?” observed Jimmie Dale, and smiled uninvitingly + again. + </p> + <p> + The two men were leaning, straining forward, their eyes on the + diamond-shaped gray seal—and into their faces there crept a sickly + fear. + </p> + <p> + “The Gray Seal!” Sonnino stumbled the words. + </p> + <p> + “Put an outside wrapper around that package!” instructed + Jimmie Dale coldly. He watched Sonnino perform the task with trembling + fingers; and then, placing the package under his arm, Jimmie Dale backed + to the door. There was a key in the lock on the inner side. He transferred + it coolly to the outer side—and his voice rasped suddenly with the + fury that found vent at last. + </p> + <p> + “You are a pair of hell hounds,” he said between his teeth; + “but you are angels compared with the gang that hired you for this. + Well, the game is up! David Archman will settle with <i>them</i> when they + face the investigation—and I will settle with <i>you</i>! One night, + a year ago, in last January, a certain Fourth Avenue bank was looted of + eighteen thousand dollars—<i>do you remember, Laroque?</i> Ah, I see + you do! The police are still looking for the man who pulled that job. What + would you say, Laroque, would be the sentence handed out for that little + affair to a man with, say, <i>your</i> past record?” + </p> + <p> + Laroque’s lips were twitching; his face had gone gray. + </p> + <p> + “Fourteen years would be a light sentence, wouldn’t it?” + resumed Jimmie Dale, an even colder menace in his voice. “And you + remember Stangeist, and the Mope, and Australian Ike, don’t you, + Laroque—you remember they went to the death house in Sing Sing—and + you remember that the Gray Seal sent them there? Yes, I see you do; I see + your memory is good to-night! Listen, then! I have heard it said that + Gentleman Laroque, with his gangsters behind him, would stop at nothing + where Gentleman Laroque’s own skin was concerned. I have heard it + said that where Gentleman Laroque was known he was <i>feared</i>. Very + well, Laroque, it is your turn to choose. You can choose between yourself + and this ‘Private Club Ring’ who have purchased your services + in this game to-night. I fancy you can find a means of inducing Sonnino + here to keep his mouth shut; and I fancy that of the two evils—holding + young Archman as a club over his father, or of your employers facing their + trial and conviction—you can convince the ‘Private Club Ring’ + that the lesser, the lesser as regards <i>your</i> risk, say, is to face + that trial and conviction. Do I make myself plain—Laroque? It is + simply a question of not a word being said of what has happened to-night—or + fourteen years in Sing Sing for you! I do not think you will find the task + difficult when you add, to whatever arguments of your own you may see fit + to employ, the fact that the Gray Seal, if your principals make a move, + will expose them for this night’s work on top of what they will + already have to answer for. Well—Laroque?” + </p> + <p> + There was silence for a minute. Sonnino, cringing, the suavity, the + oiliness of manner gone, a man afraid, kept his eyes on the table, and + kept passing his hands one over the other. Laroque was the gambler—a + twisted smile was forced to his lips. + </p> + <p> + “You win,” he said hoarsely. “You can take it from me, I’ll + go up the river for fourteen years for no one—I’ll take + blasted good care of that! But you”—a rage, ungovernable and + elemental, found voice in a sudden torrent of blasphemous invective—“you—we’ll + get you yet! Some day we’ll get you, you cursed snitch, you—” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night!” said Jimmie Dale grimly, and, stepping swiftly + back over the threshold, shut and locked the door. + </p> + <p> + He gained the street, gained his car in front of The Sphinx—and, + twenty minutes later, after a break-neck run in which Benson for the + second time that night defied all speed laws, Jimmie Dale alighted from + his car at a street corner well uptown, dismissed Benson for the night, + retraced his way half the distance back along the block, disappeared into + a lane, and presently, taking a high fence with the agility of a cat in + spite of, his encumbering package, dropped noiselessly down into a + backyard. + </p> + <p> + It was well known ground to Jimmie Dale—as a boy he had played here + in the Archman’s backyard, played here with Clarie Archman. His face + masked again, he moved swiftly toward the rear of the house. There was + still Clarie Archman. What would the boy do? Jimmie Dale’s hand, a + picklock in it again, clenched fiercely. It was a hell’s choice they + had given the boy—to rob his father, or go down himself, and drag + his father with him, in ruin and disgrace! What would the boy do? Jimmie + Dale was working silently at the back door now. It opened, and he stepped + inside. He was here well ahead of the other, there was no possibility, + granting even the start the boy had had, that Clarie Archman could have + made the trip uptown in the same time. It was more likely that the boy + might even linger a long while in misery and indecision before he came + home. That was why he, Jimmie Dale, had dismissed Benson and the car for + the night, and— + </p> + <p> + With a mental jerk, Jimmie Dale focused his mind on his immediate + surroundings. It was dark; there were no lights in any part of the house, + but he needed none, not even his flashlight—he knew the house as + well and as intimately as his own. He was in the rear hall now, and now he + opened a door, paused cautiously as the dull yellow glow from a dying + grate fire illuminated the room faintly, then stepped inside. It was the + Archman library, the room where David Archman did a great deal of his work + at night A desk stood at the lower end of the room; and in the corner near + the portièred windows was the lawyer’s safe. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale closed the door, moved toward the window, drew the portieres + aside, released the window catch, silently raised the window itself—it + was only a drop a few feet to the yard! And then Jimmie Dale sat down at + the desk. + </p> + <p> + A clock somewhere in the house struck a single note—that would be + halfpast one. Time passed slowly, interminably. The clock struck again—two + o’clock. And then suddenly Jimmie Dale rose from his chair, and + slipped into the window recess behind the portières. The front door + closed, a step came along the hall, the library opened, closed again—and + Clarie Archman, his face as the flickering firelight played upon it, like + a face of death, came forward into the room. + </p> + <p> + For a moment the boy held motionless beside the desk, his eyes fixed in a + sort of horrible fascination upon the safe—and then, slowly, he + moved toward it, and dropped on his knees before it, and his fingers began + to twirl the knob of the dial. His fingers shook, and he was a long time + at his task—and then the handle turned, and the safe was unlocked, + but Clarie Archman did not open the door. Instead, he drew back suddenly, + and rose swaying to his feet, and covered his face with his hands. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t! Oh, my God, I—I can’t!” he moaned. + He lowered his hands after a moment, and gazed around him unseeingly, a + queer, ghastly look came into his face. “I—I guess—I + guess there’s only one—one way to—to beat them,” + he whispered. “One way to beat them, and—” + </p> + <p> + The package in Jimmie Dale’s hand dropped suddenly to the floor, he + wrenched the portières aside, and, with a low, sharp cry, sprang forward. + The boy had taken a revolver from his pocket, and was lifting it to his + head. Jimmie Dale struck up the other’s hand—but in time only + to deflect the shot; too late to prevent it being fired. There was a flash + in mid-air, the roar of the report went racketing through the silent + house, and the revolver, spinning from the other’s hands, struck + against the wall across the room. + </p> + <p> + And then Jimmie Dale had the boy by the shoulders, and was shaking him + violently. Clarie Archman was like one stunned, numbed, and bereft of his + senses. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right—you’re clear! Do you hear—try + and understand—you’re clear!” Jimmie Dale whispered + fiercely. “Here’s your letter!” He thrust it into the + other’s hand. “Destroy it! Those men—Sonnino—Barca—will + say nothing. You don’t owe anybody any money—that bucket-shop + was in the game with the rest, and—” Cries, voices, were + coming from above now; and Jimmie Dale, like a flash, turned from the boy, + leaped for the safe, wrenched the door open, reached in with both hands, + and, snatching up an armful of the contents, spilled books and papers on + the floor. He was back beside the boy in an instant. “Listen! You + heard some one in here as you entered the house—you came into the + room—<i>you caught me in the act</i>—you fired—you + missed. And now—<i>fight</i>! Fight—pull yourself together—fight. + They are coming!” + </p> + <p> + He caught the boy around the waist, and the two, locked together, reeled + this way and that about the room. A chair, deliberately kicked over by + Jimmie Dale, crashed to the floor. The cries drew nearer. Footsteps came + racing madly down the stairs—and then the door of the library burst + open, and David Archman, in pajamas, dashed through the doorway, and + without a second’s hesitation, made for the two struggling forms—and + Jimmie Dale, releasing his hold upon the boy, suddenly sent the other + staggering backwards full into David Archman, checking David Archman’s + rush—and, turning, sprang for the window, snatched up his package, + hurled himself over the sill, dropped to the ground, and, racing for the + fence, climbed it, and made the lane, just as a shot, from David Archman, + no doubt, was fired from the window. + </p> + <p> + A moment more, and Jimmie Dale, his mask in his pocket, had emerged from + the lane, and was walking nonchalantly along to the street corner; + another, and he had boarded a street car—but under Jimmie Dale’s + coat was a most suspicious bulge. Conscious of this, he left the street + car a few blocks farther along, when he was far enough away to be certain + that he would have eluded all pursuit—and walked the rest of the + distance to Riverside Drive. If he had escaped unscathed, the package of + banknotes had not—it was his coat that shielded them from view, not + the wrappers, for the wrappers had been torn almost entirely away in his + hasty exit over the fence. + </p> + <p> + He reached his home, and mounted the steps cautiously. There was Jason to + consider—Jason with his lovable pernicious habit of sitting up for + his master. Jason must not see those banknotes, that was obvious, and if + Jason—yes!—Jimmie Dale was peering now through the monogrammed + lace that covered the plate glass doors in the vestibule—yes, Jason + was still sitting up. And then Jimmie Dale smiled that strange whimsical + smile of his. Jason was still sitting up—asleep in the hall chair. + </p> + <p> + Softly, without a sound, Jimmie Dale opened the front door, entered, + passed the old man, and went up the stairs. In his dressing room, he hid + away the package that tomorrow, or at the first opportunity, would enrich + some deserving charity, and, as silently as he had come up the stairs, he + descended them again, passed by the old man again, and went out to the + street once more. There was just one reason why Jason, tired out and + asleep, sat there—only one—because Jason, old Jason, faithful, + big-hearted Jason, loved his Master Jim. + </p> + <p> + Into Jimmie Dale’s eyes there came a mist. Perhaps that was why, + because he could not see clearly, that he stumbled on his way up the steps + again; perhaps that was why he made so much noise that it was Jason who + opened the door and held out his hands for Jimmie Dale’s coat and + hat. + </p> + <p> + “What!” said Jimmie Dale severely. “Sitting up again, + Jason? Jason, go to bed at once!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said Jason. “Thank you, sir. Thank you, + Master Jim, sir—I will.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. ONE CHANCE IN TEN + </h2> + <p> + It was three nights later. Old Jason had placed a tray with after-dinner + coffee and a liqueur set on the table at Jimmie Dale’s elbow—that + was fully an hour ago, and both coffee and liqueur were untouched. Things + were not going well. Apart entirely from all lack of success where the + Tocsin was concerned, things were not going well. The fate of Frenchy + Virat, the fate of the Wolf, and, added to this, the Gray Seal’s + intervention in the plans and purposes of one Gentleman Laroque and + certain gentlemen still higher up than Laroque, had not passed unmarked or + unnoticed in the underworld. And now in the underworld a strange, ominous + and far-reaching disquiet reigned. It was an underworld rampant with + suspicion, mad with fury, more dangerous than it had ever been before. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s hand reached abstractedly into the pocket of his + dinner jacket for his cigarette case. He lighted a cigarette, leaned back + once more in the big, leather-upholstered lounging chair, and his eyes, + half closed, strayed introspectively around the luxuriously appointed + room, his own particular den in his Riverside Drive residence. Once, a + very long while ago, years ago, so long ago now that it seemed as though + it must have been in some strange previous incarnation, back in those days + when the Tocsin had first come into his life, and when he had known her + only as the author of those mysterious letters, those “calls to arms” + to the Gray Seal, she had written: “Things are a little too warm, + aren’t they, Jimmie? Let’s let them cool for a year.” + </p> + <p> + A blue thread curled lazily upward from the tip of the cigarette. Jimmie + Dale’s eyes fastened mechanically on the twisting, wavering spiral, + followed it mechanically as it rose and spread out into filmy, undulating, + fantastic shapes—and the strong, square jaw set suddenly hard. It + was not so very strange that those words should have come back to him + to-night! Things were “warm” now—and he could not let + them “cool” for a year! + </p> + <p> + “Warm!” He smiled a little mirthlessly. The comparison was + very slight! Then, at the beginning, at the outset of the Gray Seal’s + career, the police, it was true, had shown a certain unpleasant anxiety + for a closer acquaintanceship, but that was about all. To-day, lashed on + and mocked by a virulent press, goaded to madness by their own past + failures to “get” the Gray Seal, to whose door they laid a + hundred crimes and for whom the bars of a death cell in Sing Sing was the + goal if they could but catch their prey, the police, to a man, were waging + a ceaseless and relentless war against him; and to-day, joining hands with + the police, the underworld in all its thousand ramifications, prompted by + fear, by suspicion of one another, reached out to trap him, and to deal + out to him a much more speedy, but none the less certain, fate than that + prescribed by the statutes of the law! + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. It could not go on—indefinitely. The role was too + hard to play; the dual life, in a sort of grim, ironical self-mockery, + brought even in its own successful interpretation added dangers and perils + with each succeeding day. As it had been with Larry the Bat, the more he + now lived Smarlinghue the more it became difficult to slough off + Smarlinghue and live as Jimmie Dale; the more Smarlinghue became trusted + and accepted in the inner circles of the underworld, the more he became a + figure in those sordid surroundings, and the more dangerous it became to + “disappear” at will without exciting suspicion, where + suspicion, as it was, was already spread into every nook and corner of the + Bad Lands, where each rubbed shoulders with his fellow in the lurking + dread that the other was—the Gray Seal! + </p> + <p> + The police were no mean antagonists, he made no mistake on that score; but + the peril that was the graver menace of the two, and the greater to be + feared, was—the underworld. And here in the underworld in the last + few days, here where on every twisted, vicious lip was the whisper, + “Death to the Gray Seal,” there had come even another menace. + He could not define it, it was intuition perhaps—but intuition had + never failed him yet. It was an undercurrent of which he had gradually + become conscious, the sense of some unseen, guiding power, that moved and + swayed and controlled, and was present, dominant, in every den and dive in + crimeland. There had been many gang leaders and heads of little coteries + of crime, cunning, crafty in their way, and all of them unscrupulous, like + the Wolf, for instance, who had sworn openly and boastingly through the + Bad Lands, and had been believed for a season, that they would bring the + Gray Seal to a last accounting—but it was more than this now. There + was a craftier brain and a stronger hand at work than the Wolf’s had + ever been! Who was it? He shook his head. He did not know. He had gone far + into the innermost circles of the underworld—and he did not know. He + sensed a power there; and in a dozen different, intangible ways, still an + intuition more than anything else, he had sensed this “some one,” + this power, creeping, fumbling, feeling its implacable way through the + dark, as it were, toward <i>him</i>. + </p> + <p> + Yes, it was getting “warm”—perilously warm! And + inevitably there must come an end—some day. The warning stared him + in the face. But he could not stop, could not heed the warning, could not + let things “cool” now for a year, and stand aside until the + storm should have subsided! Where was the Tocsin? If his peril was great—what + was hers! + </p> + <p> + He surged suddenly upward from his chair, his hands clenched until the + knuckles stood out like ivory knobs. The Tocsin! The woman he loved—where + was she? Was she safe <i>to-night?</i> Where was she? He could not stop + until that question had been answered, be the consequences what they + might! Warnings, the realisation of peril—he laughed shortly, in + grim bitterness—counted little in the balance after all, did they + not! Where was the Tocsin? + </p> + <p> + The telephone rang. Jimmie Dale stared at the instrument for a moment, as + though it were some singular and uninvited intruder who had broken in + without warrant upon his train of thought; and then, leaning forward over + the table, he lifted the receiver from the hook. + </p> + <p> + “Yes? Hello! Yes?” inquired Jimmie Dale. “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + A man’s voice, hurried, and seemingly somewhat agitated, answered + him. + </p> + <p> + “I would like to speak to Mr. Dale—to Mr. Dale in person.” + </p> + <p> + “This is Mr. Dale speaking,” said Jimmie Dale a little + brusquely. “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, is that you, Mr. Dale?” The voice had quickened + perceptibly. “I didn’t recognise your voice—but then I + haven’t heard it for a long while, have I? This is Forrester. Are—are + you very busy to-night, Mr. Dale?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hello, Forrester!” Jimmie Dale’s voice had grown + more affable. “Busy? Well, I don’t know. It depends on what + you mean by busy.” + </p> + <p> + “An hour or two,” the other suggested—the tinge of + anxiety in his tones growing more pronounced. “The time to run out + here in your car. I haven’t any right to ask it, I know, but the + truth is I—I want to talk to some one pretty badly, and I need some + financial help, and—and I thought of you. I—I’m afraid + there’s a mess here. The bank examiners landed in suddenly late this + afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “The—<i>what</i>?” demanded Jimmie Dale sharply. + </p> + <p> + “The bank examiners—I—I can’t talk over the + ‘phone. Only, for God’s sake, come—will you? I’ll + be in my rooms—you know where they are, don’t you—on the + cottier over—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” Jimmie Dale broke in tersely; then, quietly: + “All right, Forrester, I’ll come.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank God!” came Forrester’s voice—and + disconnected abruptly. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale replaced the receiver on the hook, stared at the instrument + again in a perplexed way; then, called the garage on the private house + wire. There was no answer. He walked quickly then across the room and + pushed an electric button. + </p> + <p> + “Jason,” he said a moment later, as the old butler appeared on + the threshold in answer to the summons, “Benson doesn’t answer + in the garage. I presume he is downstairs. I wish you would ask him to + bring the touring car around at once. And you might have a light overcoat + ready for me—Jason.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said the old man. “Yes, Master Jim, sir, at + once.” His eyes sought Jimmie Dale’s, and dropped—but + into them had come, not the questioning of familiarity, but the quick, + anxious questioning inspired by the affection that had grown up between + them from the days when, as the old man was so fond of saying, he had + dandled his Master Jim upon his knee. “Yes, sir, Master Jim, at + once, sir,” Jason repeated—but he still hesitated upon the + threshold. + </p> + <p> + And then Jimmie Dale shook his head whimsically—and smiled. + </p> + <p> + “No—not to-night, Jason,” he said reassuringly. “It’s + quite all right, Jason—there’s no letter to-night.” + </p> + <p> + The old man’s face cleared instantly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; quite so, sir. Thank you, Master Jim,” he said. + “Shall I tell Benson that he is to drive you, sir, or—” + </p> + <p> + “No; I’ll drive myself, Jason,” decided Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir—very good, sir”—the door closed on + Jason. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale turned back into the room, began to pace up and down its + length, and for a moment the reverie that the telephone had interrupted + was again dominant in his mind. Jason was afraid. Jason—even though + he knew so little of the truth—was afraid. Well, what then? He, + Jimmie Dale, was not blind himself! It had come almost to the point where + his back was against the wall at last; to the point where, unless he found + the Tocsin before many more days went by, it would be, as far as he was + concerned—too late! + </p> + <p> + And then he shrugged his shoulders suddenly—and his forehead knitted + into perplexed furrows. Forrester—and the telephone message! What + did it mean? There was an ugly sound to it, that reference to the bank + examiners and the need of financial assistance. And it was a little odd, + too, that Forrester should have telephoned him, Jimmie Dale, unless it + were accounted for by the fact that Forrester knew of no one else to whom + he might apply for perhaps a large sum, of ready money. True, he knew + Forrester quite well—not as an intimate friend—but only in a + sort of casual, off-hand kind of a way, as it were, and he had known him + for a good many years; but their acquaintanceship would not warrant the + other’s action unless the man were in desperate straits. Forrester + had been a clerk in the city bank where his, Jimmie Dale’s, father + had transacted his business, and it was there he had first met Forrester. + He had continued to meet Forrester there after his father had died; and + then Forrester had been offered and had accepted the cashiership of a + small local bank out near Bayside on Long Island. He had run into + Forrester there again once or twice on motor trips—and once, held up + by an accident to his car, he had dined with Forrester, and had spent an + hour or two in the other’s rooms. That was about all. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s frown grew deeper. He liked Forrester The man was a + bachelor and of about his, Jimmie Dale’s, own age, and had always + appeared to be a decent, clean-lived fellow, a man who worked hard, and + was apparently pushing his way, if not meteorically, at least steadily up + to the top, a man who was respected and well-thought of by everybody—and + yet just what did it mean? The more he thought of it, the uglier it seemed + to become. + </p> + <p> + He stepped suddenly toward the telephone—and as abruptly turned away + again. He remembered that Forrester did not have a telephone in his rooms, + for, on the night of the break-down, he, Jimmie Dale, had wanted to + telephone, and had been obliged to go outside to do so. Forrester, + obviously then, had done likewise to-night. Well, he should have insisted + on a fuller explanation in the first place if he had intended to make that + a contingent condition; as it was, it was too late now, and he had + promised to go. + </p> + <p> + The sound of a motor car on the driveway leading from the private garage + in the rear reached him. Benson was bringing out the car now. Jimmie Dale, + as he prepared to leave the room, glanced about him from force of habit, + and his eyes held for an instant on the portières behind which, in the + little alcove, stood the squat, barrel-shaped safe. Was there anything he + would need to-night—that leather girdle, for instance, with its + circle of pockets containing its compact little burglar’s kit? He + shook his head impatiently. He had already told Jason—if in other + words—that there was no “call to arms” to the Gray Seal + to-night, hadn’t he? It was habit again that had brought the + thought, that was all! For the rest, in the last few days, since this new + intuitive danger from the underworld had come to him, an automatic had + always reposed in his pocket by day and under his pillow by night; and by + way of defence, too, though they might appear to be curious weapons of + defence if one did not stop to consider that the means of making a hurried + exit through a locked door might easily make the difference between life + and death, his pockets held a small, but very carefully selected + collection of little steel picklocks. He smiled somewhat amusedly at + himself, as he passed out of the room and descended the stairs to the hall + below. The contents of the safe could hardly have added anything that + would be of any service even in an emergency! His mental inventory of his + pockets had been incomplete—there was still the thin, metal insignia + case, and the black silk mask, both of which, like the automatic, were + never now out of his immediate possession. + </p> + <p> + He slipped into his coat as Jason held it out for him, accepted the soft + felt hat which Jason extended, and, with a nod to the old butler, ran down + the steps, dismissed Benson, who stood waiting, and entered his car. + </p> + <p> + It was three-quarters of an hour later when Jimmie Dale drew up at the + curb on the main street of the little Long Island town that was his + destination. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty good run!” said Jimmie Dale to himself, as he glanced + at the car’s clock under its little electric bulb. “Halfpast + nine.” + </p> + <p> + He descended from the car, and nodded as he surveyed his surroundings. He + had stopped neither in front of the bank, nor in front of Forrester’s + rooms—it was habit again, perhaps, the caution prompted by Forrester’s + statement relative to the bank examiners. If there was trouble, and the + obvious deduction indicated that there was, he, Jimmie Dale, had no desire + to figure in it in a public way. Again he nodded his head. Yes, he quite + had his bearings now. It was the usual main street of a small town—fairly + well lighted, stores and shops flanking the pavements on either side, and + of perhaps a distance equivalent to some seven or eight city blocks in + length. Two blocks further up, on the same side of the street as that on + which he was standing, was the bank—not a very pretentious + establishment, he remembered; its staff consisting of but one or two apart + from Forrester, as was not unusual with small local banks, though this in + no way indicated that the business done was not profitable, or, + comparatively, large. Jimmie Dale started forward along the street. On the + corner just ahead of him was a two-story building, the second floor of + which had been divided into rooms originally designed to be used as + offices, as, indeed, most of them were, but two of these Forrester had + fitted up as bachelor quarters. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale turned the corner, walked down the side street to the office + entrance that led to the floor above, opened the door, and ran lightly up + the stairs. At the head of the stairs he paused to get his bearings once + more. Forrester’s rooms were here directly at the head of the + stairs, but he had forgotten for the moment whether they were on the right + or left of the corridor; and the corridor being unlighted now and without + any sign of life left him still more undecided. It seemed, though, if his + recollection served him correctly, that the rooms had been on the right. + He moved in that direction, found the door, and knocked; but, receiving no + answer, crossed the hall again, and knocked on the door on the left-hand + side. There was no answer here, either. He frowned a little impatiently, + and returned once more to the right-hand door. Forrester probably was up + at the bank, and had not expected him to make the run out from the city so + quickly. He tried the door tentatively, found it unlocked, opened it a + little way, saw that the room within was lighted—and suddenly, with + a low, startled exclamation, stepped swiftly forward over the threshold, + and closed the door behind him. + </p> + <p> + It was Forrester’s room, this one here at the right of the corridor—his + recollection had not been at fault. It was Forrester’s room, and + Forrester himself was there—on the floor—dead. + </p> + <p> + For a moment Jimmie Dale stood rigid and without movement, save that as + his eyes swept around the apartment his face grew hard and set, his lips + drooping in sharp, grim lines at the corners of his mouth. + </p> + <p> + “My God!” Jimmie Dale whispered. + </p> + <p> + There was a faint, almost imperceptible odour in the room, like the smell + of peach blossom—he noticed it now for the first time, as his eyes + fastened on a small, empty bottle that lay on the floor a few feet away + from the dead man’s outstretched arm. Jimmie Dale stepped forward + abruptly now, and knelt down beside the man for a hurried; examination. It + was unnecessary—he knew that even before he performed the act. Yes—the + man was dead He reached out and picked up the bottle. The odour was + tell-tale evidence enough. The bottle had contained prussic, or + hydrocyanic acid, probably the moist deadly poison in existence, and the + swiftest in its action. He replaced the bottle on the spot where he had + found it, and stood up. + </p> + <p> + Again, Jimmie Dale’s eyes swept his surroundings. The room in which + he stood was a sort of living room or den. There was a desk over by the + far wall, a couch near the door, and several comfortable lounging chairs. + Forrester lay with his head against the sharp edge of one of the legs of + the couch, as though he had rolled off and struck against it. + </p> + <p> + Opposite the desk, across the room, was the door leading into the second + room of the little apartment. Jimmie Dale moved toward this now, and + stepped across the threshold. The room itself was unlighted, but there was + light enough from the connecting doorway to enable him to see fairly well. + It was Forrester’s bedroom, and in no way appeared to have been + disturbed. He remembered it quite well. There was a door here, too, that + gave on the hall. He circled around the bed and reached the door. It was + locked. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale returned to the living room—and stood there in a sort of + grim immobility, looking down at the form on the floor. He was not + callous. Death, as often as he had seen it, and in its most tragic phases, + had not made him callous, and he had liked Forrester—but suicide was + not a man’s way out, it was the way a coward took, and if it brought + pity, it was the pity that was blunted with the sterner, almost + contemptuous note of disapproval. What had happened since Forrester had + 'phoned, that had driven the man to this extremity? When Forrester had + 'phoned he had appeared to be agitated enough, but, at least, he had + seemed to have had hopes that the appeal he was then making might see him + through, and, as proof of that, there had been unmistakable relief in the + man’s voice when he, Jimmie Dale, had agreed to the other’s + request. And what had been the meaning of that “financial help”? + Had, for instance—for it was pitifully obvious that if the bank had + been looted an <i>innocent</i> man would not commit suicide on that + account—a greater measure of the depredation been uncovered than had + been counted on, so much indeed that, say, the financial assistance + Forrester had intended to ask for had now increased to such proportions + that he had realised the futility of even a request; or, again, had it for + some reason, since he had telephoned, now become impossible to restore the + funds even if they were in his possession? + </p> + <p> + A sheet of note paper lying on the desk caught Jimmie Dale’s eyes. + He stepped forward, picked it up—and his lips drew tight together, + as he read the two or three miserable lines that were scrawled upon it: + </p> + <p> + What’s left is in the middle drawer of the desk. There’s only + one way out now—I don’t see any other way. I thought that I + could get—but what does that matter! God help me! I’m sorry. + </p> + <h3> + FLEMING P. FORRESTER. + </h3> + <p> + I’m sorry! It was a pitiful epitaph for a man’s life! I’m + sorry! Jimmie Dale’s face softened a little—the man was dead + now. “I’m sorry.... Fleming P. Forrester”—he had + seen that signature on bank paper a hundred times in the old days; he had + little thought ever to see it on a document such as this! + </p> + <p> + He stared at the paper for a long time, and then, from the paper, his eyes + travelled over the desk, then shifted again to Forrester—and then, + for the second time, he knelt beside the other on the floor. For the + moment, what was referred to as “being all that was left” in + the middle drawer of the desk could wait. There was another matter now. He + felt hurriedly through Forrester’s vest and coat pockets—and + from one of the pockets drew out a folded piece of paper. It was not what + he was looking for, but it was all that rewarded his search. He unfolded + the paper. It was dirty and crumpled, and the few lines written upon it + were badly penned and illiterate: + </p> + <p> + The ante’s gone up—get me? Six thousand bucks. You come across + with that to-morrow morning by ten o’clock—or I’ll spill + the beans. And I ain’t got any more paper to write any more letters + on either—savvy? This is the last. + </p> + <p> + There was no signature. Jimmie Dale read it again—and abruptly put + it in his own pocket. Yes, he had liked Forrester—well enough for + this anyway! The man might have a mother perhaps—it would be bad + enough in any case. And those other things, the empty bottle, the sheet of + note paper with its scrawled confession—what about them? He returned + with a queer sort of hesitant indecision to the desk. He had no right of + course to touch them unless— + </p> + <p> + He shook his head sharply, as he pulled open the middle drawer of the + desk. + </p> + <p> + “Newspapers—publicity—rotten!” he muttered + savagely. “One chance in ten, and—ah!” + </p> + <p> + From the back of the drawer where it had been tucked in under a mass of + papers, he had extracted a little bundle of documents that were held + together by an elastic band. He snapped off the band, and ran through the + papers rapidly. For the most part they were bonds and stock certificates + indorsed by their owners, and evidently had been held by the bank as + collateral for loans. + </p> + <p> + And then suddenly Jimmie Dale straightened up, tense and alert. He had no + desire, very far from any desire to be caught here, or to figure publicly + in any way in the case. The street door had opened and closed again. + Footsteps, those of three men, his acute, trained hearing told him, + sounded on the stairs. Again there came that queer, hesitant indecision as + he stood there, while his eyes travelled in swift succession from the bank’s + securities in his hand to the note on the desk, to the empty bottle on the + floor, to the white, upturned face of the silent form huddled against the + couch. + </p> + <p> + “One chance in ten,” muttered Jimmie Dale through his set + lips. “One chance in ten—and I guess I’ll take it!” + </p> + <p> + The footsteps came nearer—they were almost at the head of the stairs + now. But now Jimmie Dale was in action—swift as a flash and silent + as a shadow in every movement. The bundle of securities was thrust into + his pocket, the sheet of note paper followed, and, as a knock sounded on + the door, he stooped, picked up the bottle from the floor, and darted into + the adjoining room—and in another instant he had reached the locked + door and was working at it silently and swiftly with a picklock. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. THE DEFAULTER + </h2> + <p> + At the other door the knocking still continued—and then it was + opened—and there came a chorus of low, horrified, startled cries, + and the quick rush of feet into the room. + </p> + <p> + The picklock went back into Jimmie Dale’s pocket, and crouched, now, + his hand on the knob, turning it gradually without a sound, drawing the + door ajar inch by inch, he kept his eyes on the doorway connecting with + the other room. He could see the three men bending over Forrester. Their + voices came in confused, broken, snatches: + </p> + <p> + “... Dead!... Good God!... Are you sure?... Perhaps he’s only + fainted.... No, he’s dead, poor devil!...” + </p> + <p> + And then one of the men, the youngest of the three, a slight-built, + clean-shaven, dark-eyed man of perhaps twenty-eight or thirty, rose + abruptly, and glanced sharply around the room. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he’s dead!” he said bitterly. “Any one could + tell that! But he wouldn’t be dead, and this would never have + happened if you’d done what I wanted you to do when you first came + to the bank this afternoon. I wanted you to have him arrested then, didn’t + I?” + </p> + <p> + One of the others—and it was obvious that the others were the two + bank examiners—a man of middle age, answered soberly. + </p> + <p> + “You’re upset, Dryden,” he said. “You know we + couldn’t do that—” + </p> + <p> + “On a teller’s word against the cashier’s—of + course not!” the young man broke in caustically. “Well, you + see now, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “We couldn’t do it then without proof,” amended the bank + examiner quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Proof!” Dryden exclaimed. “My God—<i>proof!</i> + Who tipped your people off to have you drop in there this afternoon? I + did, didn’t I? Do you think I’d do that without knowing what I + was about! Didn’t I tell you that there was nothing but the office + fixtures left! Didn’t I? There were only the two of us on the staff, + and didn’t I tell you that I had discovered that the books were + cooked from cover to cover? Yes, I did! And you had to get your pencils + out and start in on a thumb-rule examination, as though nothing were the + matter! Well, what did you find? The securities in a mess, what there was + left of them—and what was supposed to be twenty thousand dollars + that came out from the city yesterday nothing but a package of blank + paper!” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t know that yourself until half an hour ago when we + started to check up the cash,” returned the other a little sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Well, perhaps, I didn’t,” admitted Dryden; “but I + knew about the books.” + </p> + <p> + “Besides that,” continued the bank examiner, “Mr. + Forrester was in town this afternoon when we got to the bank and this is + the first time we have seen him, so we could not very well have done + anything other than we have done in any case. I mention this because you + are talking wildly, and that sort of talk, if it gets out, won’t do + any of us any good. You don’t want to blame Mr. Marner here and + myself for Mr. Forrester’s death, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “No—of course, I don’t!” said Dryden, in a more + subdued voice. “I don’t mean that at all. I guess you’re + right—I’m excited. I—well”—he motioned + jerkily toward the form on the floor—“I’m not used to + walking into a room and finding <i>that</i>.” + </p> + <p> + It was Marner, the other bank examiner, who broke a moment’s + silence. + </p> + <p> + “We none of us are,” he said, and brushed his hand across his + forehead. “A doctor can’t do any good, of course, but I + suppose we should call one at once, and notify the police, too. I—” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale had slipped through the door and out into the hall. A moment + more and he had descended the stairs and gained the street, still another + and he had stepped nonchalantly into his car. The car started forward, + passed out of the lighted zone of the town’s main street—and + in the darkness, headed toward New York, Jimmie Dale, his nonchalance gone + now, leaned forward over the wheel, and the big sixty horse-power car + leaped into its stride like a thoroughbred at the touch of the spur, and + tore onward at dare-devil speed through the night. + </p> + <p> + His lips twisted in a smile that held little of humour. Back there in that + room they would call a doctor, and they would call the police. And the + doctor would establish the fact that Forrester had died from the effects + of a dose of prussic acid; and the police would establish—what? + Prussic acid was swift in its effect. If Forrester had died from that + cause, how had he taken it himself, and out of what had he taken it? What + the police would see would be quite a different thing from what he, Jimmie + Dale, had seen when he opened the door of that room! Instead of the + evidence of suicide, there was now every evidence of <i>murder</i>. The + bank examiners on entering the room, started at what they saw, obsessed + with the wreckage of the bank, might still for the moment have jumped to + the conclusion, natural enough under the circumstances, of suicide; but + the police, after ten minutes of unemotional investigation, would father a + very different theory. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s jaws clamped, as his eyes narrowed on the flying + thread of gray road under the dancing headlights. Well, the die was cast + now! For good or bad, his response to Forrester’s telephone appeal + had become the vital factor in the case. For good or bad! He laughed out + sharply into the night. He would see soon enough—old Kronische, the + wizened, crafty, little chemist, who burrowed like a fox in its hole deep + in the heart of the Bad Lands, would answer that question. Old Kronische + had a record that was known to police and underworld alike—and was + trusted by neither one, and feared by both. But he was clever—clever + with a devilish cleverness. God alone knew what he was up to in the long + hours of day and night amongst his retorts and test tubes in his + abominable smelling little hole; but every one knew that from old + Kronische <i>anything</i> of a chemical nature could be obtained if the + price, not a small one, was forthcoming, and if old Kronische was + satisfied with the credentials of his prospective client. + </p> + <p> + Yes—old Kronische! Old Kronische was the man, the one than; there + was no possible hesitancy or question there—the question was how to + reach old Kronische. Jimmie Dale shook his head in a quick, impatient + gesture, as though in irritation because his brain would not instantly + respond to his demand to formulate a plan. It seemed simple enough, old + Kronische was perfectly accessible—but it was, nevertheless, far + from simple. He could not go to old Kronische as Jimmie Dale, there was an + ugly turn that had been taken in that room of Forrester’s now. If, + as Jimmie Dale, he had had reason to keep out of the affair before, it was + imperative that he should do so now—or he might find himself in a + very awkward situation, so awkward, in fact, that the consequences might + lead anywhere, and “anywhere” to Jimmie Dale, to the Gray + Seal, to Smarlinghue, might mean ruin, wreckage and disaster. Nor, much + less, could he risk going to old Kronische as Smarlinghue. He could not + trust old Kronische. How, if old Kronische chose to “talk,” + could Smarlinghue account for any connection with what had transpired in + Forrester’s room? How long would it be, even if Smarlinghue were no + more than put under surveillance, before the discovery would be made that + Smarlinghue was but a role that covered—Jimmie Dale! + </p> + <p> + And then Jimmie Dale’s strained, set face relaxed a little. His + brain had repented of its stubbornness, it seemed, and was at work again. + There was a way, a very sure way as far as old Kronische being “talkative” + was concerned, but a very dangerous way from every other point of view. + Suppose he went to old Kronische—as Larry the Bat! + </p> + <p> + The car tore on through the night; towns and villages flashed by; the + long, deserted stretches of road began to give way to the city’s + outskirts—and Jimmie Dale began to drive more cautiously. Larry the + Bat! Yes, it was perfectly feasible, as far as feasibility went. The + clothes that he had duplicated at such infinite trouble were still hidden + there in the Sanctuary. But to be caught as Larry the Bat meant—the + end. That was the one thing the underworld knew, the one thing the police + knew—that Larry the Bat was, or had been, the Gray Seal. Still, he + had done it once before, and it could be done again. He could reach old + Kronische’s without much fear of discovery after all, he would take + good care to secure the few minutes necessary to make a “getaway” + from the old chemist’s, and <i>afterwards</i> old Kronische could + talk as much as he liked about—Larry the Bat! Yes, that was the way! + Old Kronische—and Larry the Bat. He, Jimmie Dale, would drive, say, + to Marlianne’s restaurant, and telephone Jason to send Benson for + the car—Marlianne’s, besides being a very natural stopping + place, possessed the added advantage of being quite close to the + Sanctuary. + </p> + <p> + His decision made, Jimmie Dale gave his undivided attention to his car, + and ten minutes later, stopping in the shabby street that harboured + Marlianne’s, he entered the restaurant, threaded his way through the + small crowded rooms—for Marlianne’s, despite its spotted + linen, was crowded at all hours—to a sort of hallway at the rear of + the place, and entered the telephone booth. + </p> + <p> + He called his residence, and, as he waited for the connection, glanced at + his watch. He smiled grimly. He could congratulate himself for the second + time that night on having made a record run. It was not yet quite + half-past ten, and he must have been at least a good twenty minutes in + Forrester’s rooms. He rattled the hook impatiently. They were a long + time in getting the connection! Halfpast ten! He could be at the Sanctuary + in another few minutes, ten minutes at the outside; then, say, another + twenty to rehabilitate Larry the Bat, and by eleven he— + </p> + <p> + “Yes—hello!”—he was speaking quickly into the + ‘phone, as Jason’s voice reached him. “Jason, I am down + here at Marlianne’s. Tell Benson to come for the car, and—” + He stopped abruptly. Jason was talking excitedly, almost incoherently at + the other end. + </p> + <p> + “Master Jim, sir! Is that you, sir, Master Jim! It—it came, + sir, not ten minutes after you left to-night, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Jason,” said Jimmie Dale sharply, “what’s the + matter with you? What are you talking about? What came?” + </p> + <p> + “Why—why, sir—I beg your pardon, sir, but I’ve + been a bit uneasy ever since, sir. It’s—it’s one of + those letters, Master Jim, sir.” + </p> + <p> + A sudden whiteness came into Jimmie Dale’s face, as he stared into + the mouthpiece of the telephone. A “call to arms” from the + Tocsin—<i>now</i>—to-night! What was he to do! It was not a + trivial thing which that letter would contain—it never had been, and + it never would be, and no matter under what circumstances it found him, he— + </p> + <p> + Jason’s voice faltered over the wire: + </p> + <p> + “Are you there, sir, Master Jim?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jimmie Dale quietly. “Bring the letter with + you, Jason, and come down with Benson. I will wait for you here—in + the car outside Marlianne’s. And hurry, Jason—take a taxi + down.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said Jason, his voice trembling a little. “At + once, Master Jim.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale hung up the receiver, returned to the street, and seated + himself in his car. How long would it take them to get here? Half an hour? + Well then, for half an hour his hands were tied, and he could do nothing + but wait. He glanced around him. It was curious! It was here in this very + place that he had once found a letter from her in his car; it was even + here that, without knowing it at the moment, he had really seen her for + the first time. And now—what did it hold, this letter, this “call + to arms” that he sat here waiting for, while out there in that + little town a man lay dead on the floor of his room, and around whom, + where there had once been the evidence of a coward’s guilt, crowned + with the sorriest epitaph that ever man had written, there was now the + evidence of a still blacker crime—the crime of murder. + </p> + <p> + He lighted a cigarette and smoked it through. Could it be <i>that</i>—in + her letter! Intuition again? Well, why not—if old Kronische should + answer the question as the chances were one in ten that old Kronische + might answer it! Yes—why not! It would not be strange. Intuition—because + somehow the feeling that it <i>was</i> so grew stronger with each moment + that passed—well, once before to-night he had said that intuition + had never failed him yet! + </p> + <p> + The minutes dragged by interminably. He smoked another cigarette, and + after that another. The clock under the hood showed five minutes past + eleven; the minute hand crept around to eight, nine, ten minutes past the + hour—and then a taxi swerved on little better than two wheels around + the corner—and Jimmie Dale, springing from his seat, jumped to the + pavement as the taxi drew up at the curb. + </p> + <p> + Jason, palpably agitated, and followed by Benson, descended from the taxi. + Jimmie Dale dismissed the cab, and motioned Benson to the car. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Jason?” he said quickly. + </p> + <p> + “It’s here, sir, Master Jim”—the old butler + fumbled in an inner pocket, and produced an envelope—“I—” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you! That’s all—Jason.” Jimmie Dale’s + quick smile robbed his curt dismissal of any sting. “Benson, of + course, will drive you home.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” The old man went slowly to the car, and climbed in + beside the chauffeur. “Good-night, sir!” Jason ventured + wistfully. “Good-night, Master Jim!” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Jason—good-night, Benson!” Jimmie Dale + answered—and, turning, started briskly along the street. Jason’s + “good-night” had been eloquent of the old man’s anxiety. + He would have liked to reassure Jason—but he had neither the time, + nor, for that matter, the ability to do so. The old man would be reassured + when he saw his Master Jim enter the house again—and not until then! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale glanced about him up and down the street. The car had gone, + and he was well away from the entrance to Marlianne’s. The street + itself was practically deserted. He nodded quickly, and stepped forward + toward a street lamp that was close at hand. As well here as anywhere! + There was nothing remarkable in the fact that a man should stand under a + street lamp and read a letter—even if he were observed. + </p> + <p> + He tore the envelope open, and, standing there, leaned in apparent + nonchalance against the post—but into the dark eyes had leaped a + sudden flash. One word seemed to stand out from all the rest on the + written page he held in his hand—“Forrester.” He laughed + a little in a low, grim way. His intuition had been right again then, and + that meant—<i>what</i>? If she, the Tocsin, knew, then—his + mind was working subconsciously, leaping from premise to a dimly seen, + half formed conclusion, while his eyes travelled rapidly over the written + lines. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Philanthropic Crook:—You will have to hurry, Jimmie.... + I do not know what may happen.... Forrester ... bank cashier at”—yes, + he knew all that! But this—what was this? “Money lender.... + Abe Suviney... bled him ... early days in city bank ... fellow clerk’s + defalcation.... Forrester borrowed the money to cover it and save the + other.... Suviney used it as a club for blackmail.... Forrester was + trapped ... could not extricate himself without inculpating his friend ... + friend died ... Suviney put on the screws ... to say anything then was to + have it look like a dishonourable method of covering a theft of his own + ... would ruin his career ... original amount four thousand ... Forrester + has been paying blackmail in the shape of exorbitant interest ever since + ... Suviney finally demanded six thousand to-day to be paid at once ... + this has nothing to do with the bank robbery, but would look black ... + added evidence....” He read on, his mind seeming to absorb the + contents of the letter faster than his eyes could decipher the words. + “English Dick ... confession forged ... organisation widespread ... + enormously powerful ... leadership a mystery ... rendezvous that English + Dick visits is at Marlopp’s ... Reddy Mull’s room ... rear + room ... leaves cash and securities there under loose board, right-hand + corner from door ... twenty thousand cash to-night....” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was walking on down the street, his fingers picking and + tearing the sheets of paper in his hand into minute fragments. There was a + sort of cold, unemotional, unnatural calm upon him. It was all here, all, + the Tocsin had—no, not all! She had not known of the last act in the + brutal drama, for her letter had been written prior to that. She had not + known that there was—<i>murder</i>. But apart from that, to the last + detail, in all its hideous, relentless craft, the whole plot was clear. + There was no need to go to old Kronische now, no need to assume the role + of Larry the Bat. The question was answered—the confession <i>was</i> + a forgery—the evidence, not of suicide, but of murder, that he, + Jimmie Dale, had left behind him in that room, was the evidence of fact. + </p> + <p> + He walked on—rapidly now—heading over in the direction of the + Bowery. There had been neither ink nor pen upon the desk where he had + found the confession, nor had there been a fountain pen in Forrester’s + pocket when he had searched the other! He laughed out a little harshly. A + strange oversight on some one’s part if there had been foul play—so + strange that he had hesitated to believe it possible! And so it had been—one + chance in ten, for there was nothing to have prevented Forrester from + having written the note elsewhere than in his own room. But if Forrester + had written it, he must of necessity have written it very recently, + certainly <i>after</i> he had telephoned, that is, within an hour; + whereas, if it had been written by some one else and brought there, if it + was forged, if it was murder and not suicide, the note must have taken + long and painstaking effort to prepare beforehand. That was the question + that old Kronische, the chemist, was to have answered, a question that was + very much in the cunning old fox’s line—did the condition of + the ink show that the note had been written within the hour? It was a very + simple question for old Kronische, the man would have answered it + instantly, for even to him, Jimmie Dale, the writing had not looked <i>fresh</i>. + But there was no need of old Kronische now! And he, Jimmie Dale, + understood now, too, the reason for Forrester’s appeal over the + telephone. In some way Forrester, without going to the bank itself, had + learned that the bank examiners had suddenly put in an appearance, had + either discovered or deduced that something was wrong, and had realised + that should Suviney’s demand for money, or Suviney’s + blackmailing story become known, it would appear as damning evidence of a + past record looming up to point suspicion toward him now. That was what he + had meant by saying he needed financial help. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale slipped suddenly into a lane, edged along the wall of the + tenement that made the corner, pushed aside a loose board in the fence, + passed into the little courtyard beyond, and, still hugging the shadows of + the building, opened a narrow French window, and stepped through into a + room. He was in the Sanctuary. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. ALIAS ENGLISH DICK + </h2> + <p> + But Jimmie Dale lost no time in the Sanctuary. In the darkness he crossed + the room, and from behind the movable section of the baseboard possessed + himself of a pocket flashlight, and a small, but extremely serviceable, + steel jimmy—and in a moment more was back in the lane, and from the + lane again was heading still deeper into the heart of the East Side. + </p> + <p> + English Dick! A twisted smile crossed his lips. Well as he knew the + underworld and its sordid citizenship, he might be forgiven for not + knowing English Dick. The man’s reputation had reached into every + corner of the Bad Lands, it was true; but it had not been known that the + man himself was on this side of the water. And that the secret had been + kept spoke with grim and deadly significance for the power and cunning of + the master brain to which the Tocsin had referred, for English Dick was + known as the most famous forger in Europe, the best in his line, and as + such, from afar, was worshipped as a demi-god by the underworld of New + York. + </p> + <p> + Block after block of dark, ill-lighted streets Jimmie Dale traversed, + until, perhaps fifteen minutes after he had left the Sanctuary, he swerved + suddenly for the second time that night into a lane. He might not have + known English Dick, but he knew Reddy Mull, and he knew Marloff’s! + Reddy Mull was a gangster, a gunman pure and simple, whose services were + at the call of the highest bidder; and Marlopp’s was a pool and + billiard hall—to the uninitiated. Marlopp’s, however, if one + had ears well trained enough to hear, resounded to the click of ivory that + was not the click of pool and billiard balls! Upstairs, if one could get + upstairs, a gambling hell supplanted the billiard hall below. It was an + unsavoury place, the resort of crooks, some of whom lived there—amongst + them, Reddy Mull. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, close against the fence, and halfway down the lane now, + paused and looked about him, straining his eyes through the blackness—then + with a lithe spring he caught the top of the fence, swung himself over, + and dropped to the ground on the other side. The rear of a row of low + buildings now loomed up before him across a narrow yard. Window lights + showed here and there from the houses on either side; and from the upper + windows of the house directly in front of him faint threads of light + filtered out into the darkness through the cracks of closed shutters, but + the lower part of the house was in blackness. + </p> + <p> + He crept forward silently across the yard. There was a back entrance, but + it led to the basement—Jimmie Dale’s immediate attention was + directed to the rear window, the window of one Reddy Mull’s room. + And here, crouched beneath it, Jimmie Dale listened. From the front of the + establishment came muffled sounds from the pool and billiard hall; there + was nothing else. + </p> + <p> + The window was above the level of his head, but still easily within reach. + He tested it, found it locked—and the steel jimmy crept in under the + sash. A moment passed, there was a faint, almost indistinguishable creak; + and then Jimmie Dale, drawing himself up with the agility of a cat, had + slipped through, and was standing, listening again, inside the room. + </p> + <p> + The sounds from the pool room were louder, more distinct now, even rising + once into a shout of boisterous hilarity; but there was no other sound. + The round, white ray of Jimmie Dale’s flashlight circled the room + suddenly, inquisitively—and went out. It was a bare, squalid place, + dirty, filthy, disreputable. There was a bed, unmade, a table, a few + chairs, a greasy, threadbare carpet on the floor—nothing else, save + that his eyes had noted that the electric-light switch was on the wall + beside the jamb of the door. + </p> + <p> + The flashlight winked again—and again went out. Jimmie Dale slipped + his mask over his face, and moved forward toward the wall. + </p> + <p> + “Under loose board, right-hand corner from door,” murmured + Jimmie Dale. He was kneeling on the floor now. “Yes, here it was!” + His flashlight was boring down into a little excavation beneath the piece + of flooring he had removed. He stared into this for a moment, his lips + twitching grimly; then, with a whimsical shrug of his shoulders, he + replaced the board, and stood up. He had found the hiding place without + any trouble—but he had found it <i>empty</i>. “I guess,” + said Jimmie Dale, with a mirthless smile, “that there’s a good + deal of the bank’s property at large—temporarily!” + </p> + <p> + There was a chair by the wall close to the door, he had noticed. He moved + over, and sat down—but, instead of his flashlight, his automatic was + in his hand now. There was the chance, of course, that English Dick had + already been here with that twenty thousand from the bank, and in that + case, as witness the empty hiding place, Reddy Mull had already passed it + on; but it was much more likely that neither one of the two had yet + arrived. Which one would come first then—English Dick, or Reddy + Mull? If it were Reddy Mull it would be unfortunate—for Reddy Mull. + His, Jimmie Dale’s, immediate business was with English Dick, and he + was quite content to leave Reddy Mull to the later ministrations of the + police. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s fingers tested the mechanism of his automatic in the + darkness. Whose was the master brain behind all this? This crime to-night + bore glaring evidence to the work of some far-flung, intricate and + powerful organisation—the Tocsin was indubitably right in that. Was + this the first concrete expression he had had of that undercurrent he had + sensed of late as permeating the underworld, that he had sensed was + reaching out as one of its objects for <i>him</i> and that— + </p> + <p> + He came suddenly without a sound to his feet, and pressed back close + against the wall, his body rigid and thrown forward like one poised to + spring. There was a footstep outside the door, the rasp of a key in the + lock, then a faint, murky path of light as the door opened, and a man + stepped forward over the threshold. The key was inserted with another + rasping sound in the inner side of the lock, the door closed, the key + turned and was withdrawn, thrust evidently into its possessor’s + pocket—and then Jimmie Dale, silently, in a lightning flash, was + upon the other, his hand at the man’s throat, the cold, round muzzle + of his automatic against the other’s face. There was a choked cry, + the thud as of something dropping on the floor—and then Jimmie Dale + spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Put your hands up over your head!” he breathed grimly—and, + as the other obeyed, his own hand fell away from the man’s throat, + and in a quick, deft sweep over the other’s clothing located the + bulge of a revolver, and whipped it from the man’s pocket. He pushed + the man with his automatic’s muzzle back against the wall, closer to + the electric-light switch. Was it Reddy Mull—or English Dick? And + then Jimmie Dale laughed low, unpleasantly, as he switched on the light. + He was staring into a face that was white and colourless—the face of + a man with a heavy black moustache, and whose slouch hat was jammed far + down over his eyes. The process of elimination made it very simple—it + was English Dick. + </p> + <p> + The man blinked, and wet his lips with his tongue, and at sight of Jimmie + Dale’s mask, perhaps because it suggested a community of interest, + tried to force a smirk. + </p> + <p> + “What’s—what’s the game?” he stammered. + </p> + <p> + “This—to begin with!” said Jimmie Dale grimly—and, + stooping, picked up from the floor a small black satchel, the object that + English Dick had dropped on entering the room. “Go over to that + table!” ordered Jimmie Dale curtly. + </p> + <p> + The man obeyed. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down!” Jimmie Dale was clipping off his words in cold + menace. + </p> + <p> + Again the man obeyed. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, his back to the door as he faced the other across the table, + snapped open the bag. It was full to the top with banknotes and + securities. Under his mask his lips curled in a hard, forbidding smile. He + took from his pocket the package of the bank’s securities he had + found in the drawer of Forrester’s desk, and laid it in silence on + the table beside the satchel; beside this again, still in silence, he + placed the bottle that had contained the hydrocyanic acid, and—after + an instant’s pause—spread out the sheet of note paper bearing + Forrester’s forged signature. + </p> + <p> + The man’s face, white before, had gone a livid gray. + </p> + <p> + “W-what do you want?” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to write another confession.” There was a deadly + monotony in Jimmie Dale’s voice, as he tapped the paper with the + muzzle of his automatic. “This one is out of date.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what you mean,” faltered English Dick. + “So help me, honest to God, I don’t!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you!” There was a curious drawl in Jimmie Dale’s + voice—and then in a flash his free hand swept across the table, + jerked away the other’s moustache, and pushed the slouch hat up from + the man’s eyes. “I mean that the game is up—<i>Dryden</i>.” + </p> + <p> + There was a low cry; and the man, with working lips, shrank back in his + chair. + </p> + <p> + “You cur!” The words were coming fast and hot from Jimmie Dale’s + lips now. “English Dick, alias Dryden, the bank teller! So, you don’t + know what I mean! Listen, then, and I’ll tell you! Six months ago + you got a position in the bank. Since then you’ve forged names right + and left on securities, falsified the books, and stolen cash and + securities. Day by day, working in with your gang, you’ve brought + the loot here, coming in disguise of course, as you’ve come + to-night, for it wouldn’t do for 'Dryden’ to be seen in this + neighbourhood! And you turned the loot over to Reddy Mull—by leaving + it, if he didn’t happen to be around, under that loose board there + in the corner.” + </p> + <p> + “My God!” The man’s face was ghastly. “Who—who + are you?” + </p> + <p> + “To-day,” went on Jimmie Dale, as though he had not heard the + other, “you came to the climax of the plan you had been working on + for those six months—the bank was wrecked—and what little + there was left you took”—he jerked his hand toward the open + satchel—“replacing it at the last moment with previously + prepared dummy packages. And you took it, you cur”—Jimmie Dale’s + voice choked suddenly—“not only at the expense of a man’s + life, but of his good name and reputation. You might have known, I do not + know whether you did or not, that Forrester had some private trouble with + a money lender, but I do not imagine that had anything to do with your + having selected Forrester’s bank. Your object was to exploit a small + bank where, with only one man from whom to hide your work, you could loot + it thoroughly; and a forged confession clever enough to deceive any one in + its handwriting and signature, and the man found dead from a dose of + prussic acid, the empty bottle on the floor beside him, needed no other + evidence to stamp him as the guilty man.” + </p> + <p> + English Dick was struggling to his feet; his eyes, in a sort of horrible + fascination, on Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, pushed him savagely back into his seat. “Yes—you + cur!” he said again. “You got your first fright when you found + those evidences of suicide were gone—you even lost your nerve a + little in your bluff with the bank examiners—and you hurried here + the moment you could get away from the preliminary police investigation + that followed—I was even afraid you might get here a little sooner + than you did. Shall I give you the details of this afternoon and to-night? + The plant was ready. You had sent for the bank examiners. You had already + prepared the forged confession, and had a small package of securities + ready. Forrester had gone to New York. You turned over the confession and + the package of securities to your accomplice, or accomplices, to be left + in Forrester’s room. I imagine that you telephoned, or sent a + message, to New York to Forrester telling him that the bank examiners were + in the bank, that there was something the matter, and for him to go to his + rooms, and, say, meet you there before going to the bank. Your accomplice, + for you established an alibi by remaining with the bank examiners, stole + in after him, or even in the dark hallway stunned him with a black-jack, + then forced the poison down his throat, laid him on the floor, placed the + empty bottle beside him, and left the confession on the desk. The plan was + very cunningly worked out. The bruise on Forrester’s head was most + obviously accounted for—his head had struck, of course, against the + leg of the couch—he was found lying in that position! It is strange, + though, isn’t it, how sometimes the most cunning of plans go astray + in the simplest and yet the most perverse of ways? Who, under the + circumstances, would have thought of it! Your accomplice had simply to + place a document already prepared upon the desk. Even you did not think to + warn him yourself. It did not enter his head to see if there were pen and + ink there with which it might have been written, or, failing that, a + fountain pen in Forrester’s pocket—and there was neither the + one nor the other. That’s all—except the name of the man who + killed Forrester.” Jimmie Dale leaned forward sharply. “Who + was it?” + </p> + <p> + English Dick wet his lips again. + </p> + <p> + “I—they—they’d kill me like—like a dog if I + told,” he mumbled. + </p> + <p> + “<i>They?”</i> The monosyllable came curt and hard. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” said English Dick. “That’s + God’s truth—I never knew—there’s a big gang—none + of us know.”. + </p> + <p> + “But you know who worked with you in this.” Jimmie Dale was + speaking through clenched teeth. “You know who killed Forrester.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” The man’s whisper was scarcely audible. + </p> + <p> + “Who?” + </p> + <p> + “Reddy—Reddy Mull.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jimmie Dale in his grim monotone, “I thought + so.” + </p> + <p> + He reached into the satchel where a small package of securities were + wrapped up in a sheet of the bank’s stationery, removed the sheet of + paper, and spread it out before English Dick. “Write it down!” + he commanded—and the muzzle of his automatic jerked forward to touch + the fountain pen in the other’s vest pocket. “Write it—all + of it—your own share—Reddy Mull’s—the whole story!” + </p> + <p> + The man’s lips seemed to have gone dry again, and again and again + his tongue circled them. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t!” he said hoarsely. “I daren’t—they’d + kill me. And—and if they didn’t, it would send me up, and + perhaps—perhaps to the chair.” + </p> + <p> + “You take your chances on that”—Jimmie Dale’s + voice was low and even—“but you take no chances here—for + there are none.” The automatic in Jimmie Dale’s hand edged + ominously forward. “It’s Forrester’s exoneration—or + you. Do you understand? And you make your choice—<i>now</i>.” + </p> + <p> + For an instant the man’s eyes met Jimmie Dale’s, then shifted, + as though drawn in spite of himself, to the muzzle of Jimmie Dale’s + automatic; and then his hand reached into his pocket for his pen. + </p> + <p> + From the pool room in front came an outburst of hand-clapping and applause—there + was evidently a match of some kind going on. Jimmie Dale, his eyes on + English Dick, as the latter began to write with a sort of feverish haste + as though fear and a miserable desire to have done with it spurred him on, + picked up the articles from the table, and placed them in the satchel. He + waited silently then—and then English Dick pushed the paper toward + him. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale picked it up, and read it. It was all there, all of it—and + the signature this time was not forged! He placed the paper in the + satchel, and closed the satchel. + </p> + <p> + English Dick passed his hand across a forehead that beaded with + perspiration. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do?” he asked under his breath. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to see that this—and you—reaches the + hands of the police,” said Jimmie Dale tersely. “We’ll + leave here in a moment—by the window. There’s a patrolman who + passes the end of the lane once in a while, and I expect, with the aid of + a piece of cord and a pocket handkerchief as a gag, that he’ll find + you there. My method may be a little crude, but I have reasons of my own + for not walking into a police station with you. but before we go, there’s + still that matter of—the men higher up. They needed a clever penman + for this job and one who wouldn’t be recognised—and they got + the best! Who brought you over from England?” + </p> + <p> + “A friend over there, one of the ‘swell ones,’ put it up + to me,” English Dick answered heavily. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—and here?” prodded Jimmie Dale. “Who got you + into the bank here?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” English Dick shook his head. “I + reported to a man called Chester. He doped out the story I was to tell, + and told me to go to the bank and apply for the job, and that it was + already fixed.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d like to meet ‘Chester,’” said Jimmie + Dale grimly. “Where does he live?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” said English Dick again. “I tell + you, I don’t know! They’re big—my God, they’ll get + me for this, if the law doesn’t! I don’t know where he lives—he + always came to me. The only one I know is Reddy Mull, and—” + </p> + <p> + His voice was drowned out in a louder and more prolonged burst of applause + from the pool room, which mingled shouts, cries and the thunderous banging + of cue butts on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “A good shot!” said Jimmie Dale, with a grim smile. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said English Dick, “a good shot”—but + into his voice had crept a new note, a note like one of malicious triumph. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s lips set suddenly hard and tight. Yes, he <i>heard</i> + now—perhaps too late—what the other <i>saw</i>. The uproar + that had drowned out all other sounds had subsided—<i>the door + behind him had been unlocked and was now opening slowly</i>. + </p> + <p> + And then Jimmie Dale, quick as thought is quick, his fingers closed on the + satchel, hurled himself around the table and to the floor. There was the + roar of a report, a flash of flame, as Reddy Mull, hand thrust in through + the partially open doorway, fired—a wild scream, as the shot, meant + for him, Jimmie Dale, found another mark directly behind where he had been + standing—and English Dick, reeling to his feet, pitched forward over + the table, carrying the table with him to the floor. It had taken the time + that a watch takes to tick. Came the roar of a report again, as Jimmie + Dale fired in turn—at the electric-light bulb a few feet away from + him on the wall. There was the tinkle of shattering glass—and + darkness. Came shouts, cries, a yell from the door from Reddy Mull, a + fusillade of shots from Reddy Mull’s revolver, the rush of many feet + from the pool room—and Jimmie Dale, in the blackness, dropped + silently from the window to the ground. + </p> + <p> + He gained the street; and, five minutes later, blocks away, he entered the + private stall of a Bowery saloon. Here, Jimmie Dale added another paper to + the contents of the satchel. The characters printed, and badly formed, the + paper looked like this: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WITH THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE + /\ + / \ + / \ + / \ + \ / + \ / + \ / + \/ +</pre> + <p> + “And I guess,” said Jimmie Dale grimly to himself, “that + if I slip this to the police, the police will get—Reddy Mull.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. THE BEGINNING OF THE END + </h2> + <p> + How far away last night, with Forrester’s murder and the sordid + denouement in Reddy Mull’s room, seemed! How far away even half an + hour ago this very night seemed! Just half an hour ago! Then, with no + thought but one of dogged perseverance to keep up his quest, with neither + hint nor sign that his quest was any nearer the end than it had ever been, + he had entered Bristol Bob’s, here, in the role of Smarlinghue; and + now, as a rift that had opened in the clouds, there had come sudden and + amazing joy. It held him now in thrall. It threatened even to make him <i>forget</i> + that he was for the moment Smarlinghue—forget what, as Smarlinghue, + Smarlinghue dare not forget—the role he played. + </p> + <p> + He leaned forward suddenly and caught up his whisky glass—whose + contents had previously and surreptitiously been spilled into the cuspidor + on the floor beside his chair. He lifted the glass to his mouth, his head + thrown back as though to drain a final, lingering drop, then he thumped + the glass down on the table, licked his lips—thin and distorted by + “Smarlinghue’s” makeup—and wiped them with the + sleeve of his threadbare coat. + </p> + <p> + A man at the next table, well known as the Pippin, young, flashily + dressed, his almost effeminate features giving an added touch of + viciousness, through incongruity, to his general appearance, twisted his + head around and grinned with malicious derision. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s fingers searched hungrily now through first one and + then another of his ragged pockets, and finally extricated a dime and a + nickel. With these he tapped insistently on the table, until an attendant + answered the summons and supplied him with another drink. + </p> + <p> + He sat back then for a time; now eyeing the liquor, as though greedy for + its taste, yet greedy, too, to prolong the anticipation, since from his + actions there was apparently no means of further replenishing the supply; + now glancing around the smoke-laden room where, on the polished section of + the floor in the centre, a score of laughing, shrieking couples whirled + and pranced in the unrestrained throes of the underworld’s latest + dance; now permitting his eyes to rest with a sudden scowl on the man at + the next table. He had no concern with the Pippin—nor had the Pippin + any concern with him. The man, as he imbibed a number of drinks, simply + seemed to find a certain: malevolent amusement in a contemptuous appraisal + of his, Jimmie Dale’s, person; but the other, in spite of the new, + glad exhilaration Jimmie Dale was experiencing, annoyed Jimmie Dale—the + blatant expanse of pink shirt cuff, for instance, in order to display the + Pippin’s diamond-snake links, famous from One end of the underworld + to the other, was eminently typical of the man. The cuff links were + undoubtedly an object of envy to the society in which the Pippin moved; + they were even beautiful cuff links, it was true, oriental in design, + never to be mistaken by any one who had ever seen them, and the stones + with which they were set were credited generally in the underworld as + being genuine, but—Jimmie Dale was hesitantly lifting his glass + again in a queer, miserly sort of way. The Pippin had jerked a cigarette + box from his pocket, stuck what was evidently the single cigarette it had + contained between his lips; and now, tossing away the box, he pushed back + his chair and stood up—but on the floor beneath the table, where it + had fluttered unobserved when the cigarette box had been jerked from the + pocket, lay a small folded piece of paper. + </p> + <p> + “If you hang around long enough, Smarly,” gibed the Pippin, as + he passed by on his way toward the door, “maybe some of the + rubber-necks off the gape-wagon will take pity on you and buy you another—the + slumming parties are just crazy about broken-down artists!” + </p> + <p> + “You go chase yourself!” said Smarlinghue politely, through + one corner of his twisted mouth. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s eyes followed the other. The Pippin, threading his way + amongst the tables, gained the door, and passed out into the street. And + then Jimmie Dale’s eyes reverted to the piece of paper under the + adjacent table. It was not at all likely that it was of the slightest + importance or significance, and yet—Jimmie Dale stretched out his + foot, drew the paper toward him, and, stooping over, picked it up. He + unfolded it, and found it to contain several typewritten lines. He frowned + in a puzzled way as he read them; then read them over again, and his frown + deepened. + </p> + <p> + Melinoff has the goods. Go the limit if he squeals. Not later than + ten-thirty to-night. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s eyes lifted and strayed around the noisy, riotous + dance hall. Just what exactly did the message mean? The Pippin was a bad + actor—literally, as well as metaphorically. The Pippin, if asked, + would probably still have styled himself an actor; but, though still + young, his career on the stage had ended several years ago rather abruptly—with + a year’s imprisonment! Jimmie Dale did not recall the details of the + particular offence of which the Pippin had been found guilty, save that it + had been for theft. It did not, however, matter very much. The Pippin of + to-day as he was known to the underworld, to which strata of society he + had immediately gravitated on his release from prison, was all that was of + immediate interest. He had associated himself with a gang run by one Steve + Barlow, commonly known as the Mole, and under this august patronage and + protection had already more than one “job” of the first + magnitude to his credit. The Pippin, in a word, was both an ugly and an + unpleasant customer. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s eyes continued to circuit the seedy dance hall. What + was it that the Pippin was to procure from Melinoff, and for which, if + necessary, the Pippin was to go “the limit”? Melinoff himself + was not without reproach, either! What was the game? Melinoff was an + old-clothes and junk dealer, and, as a side line, at times a very + profitable side line, had been known to act as a “fence” for + stolen goods. He had skirted for years on the ragged edge with the police, + and then, caught red-handed at last, had changed his occupation for a more + useful one during a somewhat prolonged sojourn in Sing Sing. Affairs after + that had not prospered with Melinoff. His wife, honest if her husband was + not, and already an old woman, had been hard put to it with the shabby + shop and the meagre business she was able to transact; so hard put to it, + indeed, that the wonder had been that she had managed to keep the roof + over her head. She had died a few months after her husband’s + release. Melinoff, if he had had no other virtue, had at least loved his + wife, and the Melinoff of old, then a sprightly enough man for his years, + was no more, and it was a decrepit, stoop-shouldered, dirty and + grey-bearded figure that shuffled now around the old-clothes shop, + apathetic of “bargains,” where before it had been a man whose + keenness was matched only by the sort of eager craft and low cunning with + which he had conducted his business. + </p> + <p> + A smile, half grim, half whimsical, flickered across Jimmie Dale’s + lips. There were strange lives, strange undercurrents, always, + ceaselessly, at work here in the underworld, here where the grist from the + human mill found its place. Melinoff, the Pippin, each of those whirling + figures out there on the floor, each of those men and women whose laughter + rose raucously from the tables, or whose whisperings, as heads were + lowered and held close together, seemed an unsavoury, vicious thing, had + known a strange and tortuous path; yet strangest, most tortuous of them + all, was—his own! + </p> + <p> + His fingers, as he thrust the Pippin’s note into the side pocket of + his coat, touched the torn fragments of another note, tiny little + particles of paper, torn over and over again into fine and minute shreds—the + Tocsin’s note—the note that seemed suddenly to have changed + all his life. It had come as her communications had always come—without + bridging the way that lay between them, without furnishing him with a clue + through the method employed for their transmission that would avail him + anything, or supply him with any means of reaching her. It had been thrust + into his hand by a street urchin, as he had entered the door of Bristol + Bob’s that half an hour before. He had not even questioned the + urchin—it would have been useless, futile, barren of results. A + hundred previous experiences had at least taught him that! He could + surmise about it, though, if he would; and, in view of the contents of the + note itself, surmise, in all probability, with fair accuracy. The Tocsin + had satisfied herself that he was neither at home nor at the club, and + had, therefore, chosen an inconspicuous messenger to search for “Smarlinghue” + through the underworld. And there would have been no risk. For the first + time in all the years that her letters had been the motive force, the + underlying basis of the Gray Seal’s acts, it would not, as far as + dangerous consequences were concerned, have mattered if the note had gone + astray, or had even been read by others. He need not even have torn it up, + as he had done through force of habit, for there was no “plan” + to-night, no coup to carry through. The note, for the first time, was not + a “call to arms;” it was what he had been longing for, always + hoping for, yet never permitting himself to build too strongly upon lest + he should lay up for himself a store of disappointment too bitter for + endurance—it was a note of <i>hope</i>. There were just a few lines, + a few sentences; and it had contained neither form of address nor + signature. To any one save himself it meant nothing, it had no + significance. Snatches of it ran through his mind again: + </p> + <p> + “... It is the beginning of the end.... The way is clearing ... I am + very happy to-night, and I wanted to tell you so....” + </p> + <p> + The end at last! The end of the years of peril; the end of that fear + gnawing always at his heart that she might never live to come out into the + sunlight again; the end of this dual life he led; the return to a normal + existence where surroundings like the present, where the dens and dives of + the underworld, the secret rookeries nursing their hell-hatched crimes, + the taint and smell of evil, and the reek of soul-filth would be hereafter + no more than a memory! To be through with it all, through with it all, and + to know her love instead—because she was safe! + </p> + <p> + He stared about him, and stared with queer incredulity at his own + miserable clothing. Was it true, was it reality—this figure that the + underworld knew as Smarlinghue, who sat here, and with dirty fingers + played with a whisky glass on the cheap, liquor-spotted table, and out of + half-closed, well-simulated drug-laden eyes gazed on those dancing figures + out there on the floor to whom the law from cradlehood had been a natural + enemy, and to the door of hardly one of whom but lay crimes that ranged + from the paltry to the hideous! + </p> + <p> + Reality! Yes, it was real! God knew the abysmal depths of its reality. + Months piled on months there had been of it! Those voices out there that + rose in a jangle of ribald mirth were the same voices that, hushed in + deadlier menace, had whispered that grim slogan, “Death to the Gray + Seal!” through every hidden cranny in the underworld; these men and + women here around him were of the same breed as those who only last night + had struck down and brutally murdered Forrester, and not content with + murder had plotted to rob their victim of his good name as well! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s hand clenched suddenly—his mind was off at a + tangent, away for the moment from her. Well, they had failed last night in + all save murder! Failed—and one of them had already paid the price, + and another, in the Tombs awaiting trial, faced the certainty of the death + chair in Sing Sing! But those two, Reddy Mull, and English Dick, had been + little more than tools. Whose was the hidden master brain behind them, + controlling this evil power that struck in the dark; that lately, though + unseen, was permeating the underworld with its presence; that intuitively + he had felt was reaching out, feeling its way, to grapple with and, if it + could, to strangle him the Gray Seal! He had felt the menace, known that + it existed, and the slogan ringing always in his ears, the Whispered + “Death to the Gray Seal” had taken on a deeper significance, + had brought him a more acute and imminent sense of peril than ever before; + but it was only last night, for the first time, that he had equally <i>felt</i> + that he had had any concrete knowledge of, or contact with this new + antagonist. And last night, if there had been a challenge he had accepted + it, and if there had been no challenge he had at least thrown down the + gauntlet himself! If this was actually the criminal organisation that was + arrayed against him, the master brain at the head of it would now have a + greater incentive than ever to trap and exterminate the Gray Seal, for + English Dick lay dead, and Reddy Mull was behind the bars, and twenty + thousand dollars in cash that they had schemed for was in the hands of the + police—thanks to the Gray Seal! Added incentive! They would move + heaven and earth to reach him now! All the trickery, all the hell-born + ingenuity that they possessed would be launched against him now, and—Jimmie + Dale’s face, that had been set and hard, relaxed suddenly. Well, + granted all that! What did it matter now? They would but hunt a myth! + Between them and himself now there stood the Tocsin’s note. “The + way is clearing.... I am very happy to-night.” She would not have + written that unless she were very sure. To-morrow, perhaps, and + Smarlinghue, and the Gray Seal, and Larry the Bat would have passed + forever out of existence, and there would be only Jimmie Dale, and <i>she,</i> + and love—and a phantom left behind in the underworld against whom + the underworld and this evil genius of crime might pit their wits to their + hearts’ content! + </p> + <p> + There was an uplift upon him, a sense of freedom so great that it seemed + actually physical as well as mental. Peril, danger, the strain of the dual + life until the nerves were worn raw, the constant anxiety for her safety—all + were gone now. “It is the beginning of the end ... the way is + clearing”—she had written that tonight. And it meant that, + refusing, as she had said, to let him come into the shadows again, she had + won through—alone. It brought a little, curious pang of + disappointment to him that he should share now only in the reward; but the + pang was swallowed up in that it brought him a deeper knowledge of her + unselfish love, her splendid courage, and—he could find no other + word—her wonderfulness. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s fingers stole into the side pocket of his coat to play + again in a curiously caressing way with the little torn fragments of her + note—and touched again the piece of paper that the Pippin had + dropped. He took it out mechanically, and read it over once more. One + sentence seemed suddenly to have become particularly ominous—“if + he squeals go the limit.” He knew nothing as to the authorship of + those words, but from what he knew of the Pippin there was a certain + ugliness to the word “limit” that he did not like. The “limit” + with the Pippin might mean—<i>anything</i>. + </p> + <p> + He thrust the paper back into his pocket, and sat for a moment staring + musingly at his whisky glass. Well, why not? Before half past ten, the + message said; and it was scarcely ten o’clock yet. In view of the + Tocsin’s note, he had intended returning to the Sanctuary, resuming + his own proper character, and, either at the St. James Club, or at his + home, wait for further word from her. There was, indeed, nothing else that + he could do—and Melinoff’s, for that matter, was on the way + from Bristol Bob’s to the Sanctuary. Yes, why not? If the Pippin was + up to any dirty work, or even if the two of them, Melinoff and the Pippin, + were in it together, and the word “squeal” implied that + Melinoff was to be held strictly up to his full share of some mutual + villainy should he show any inclination to waver, it might not be an + altogether unfitting exit from the stage if the Gray Seal should make his + final bow to the underworld by playing a role in the Pippin’s little + drama, whatever that drama might prove to be! + </p> + <p> + Yes, why not! He passed Melinoff’s place in any event, and there was + no reason why he should remain any longer here in Bristol Bob’s. The + second glass of whisky followed the first—into the cuspidor. Again + the threadbare sleeve was drawn across the thin, distorted lips, and, + pushing back his chair, Jimmie Dale rose from the table and made his way + out into the street. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. THE OLD-CLOTHES SHOP + </h2> + <p> + Ten minutes later, still in the heart of the East Side, Jimmie Dale + reached his destination, and paused on the edge of the sidewalk, + ostensibly to light a cigarette while he looked tentatively around him, + before the entrance to a courtyard that ran in behind a row of cheap and + shabby tenements. He shook his head, as he tossed the match away. It was + still early; there were too many people about, to say nothing of the group + of half-naked children playing in the gutter under the street lamp in + front of the courtyard entrance, and “Smarlinghue” was far too + well known a character in that section of the Bad Lands to warrant him in + taking any chances. If anything was wrong in Melinoff’s dingy little + place behind there, if anything had transpired, or was about to transpire + that would ultimately, say, invite the attention of the police, it might + prove extremely awkward—for Smarlinghue—should it be + remembered that he had entered there! There was a better way—a much + better way, and one that was exceedingly simple. It would hardly occasion + any comment, even if he were noticed, if he entered one of the <i>tenements</i>, + where, with probably a dozen families living in as many rooms, one could + come and go at all hours without question or hindrance. + </p> + <p> + He moved slowly along, and, out of the radius of the street lamp now and + away from the children, paused again, this time before the last tenement + in the row that the front of the courtyard in the rear. For the moment + there were no pedestrians in the immediate neighbourhood, and Jimmie Dale, + stepping through the tenement doorway, gained the narrow, unlighted hall + within. He stopped here, hugged close against the wall, to listen, and, + hearing or seeing nothing to disturb him, moved forward again, silently, + without a sound, along the hall. There must be, he knew, a rear exit to + the courtyard behind. Yes—here it was! He had halted again, this + time before a door. He tried it, found it unlocked, opened it, stepped + outside, and closed the door behind him. + </p> + <p> + It was dark out here in the courtyard, and objects were only faintly + discernible; but there were few localities in that neighbourhood with + which Jimmie Dale, either as Smarlinghue, or in the old days as Larry the + Bat, was not intimately acquainted. To call it a courtyard hardly + described the place. It was more an open backyard common to the row of + tenements, and rather narrow and confined in space at that. It was dirty, + cluttered with rubbish, and across it, facing the rear of the tenements, + was a small building that many years ago had been, possibly, a stable or + an outhouse belonging to some private and no doubt pretentious dwelling, + which long since now, with the progress northward of the city, had been + supplanted by the crowded, poverty-stricken, and anything but pretentious + tenements. This outhouse had been to a certain extent remodelled, and to a + certain extent made habitable, and as long as any one could remember + Melinoff with his old-clothes shop had been its tenant. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale began to make his way cautiously across the yard, wary of the + tin cans and general rubbish which an inadvertent step might metamorphose + most effectively into a decidedly undesirable advertisement of his + presence. There was no light that he could see in Melinoff’s at all; + and he frowned now in a puzzled way. Had the Pippin been and gone; or was + he, Jimmie Dale, ahead of the Pippin? The Pippin would have had ample + time, of course, to get here, for he, Jimmie Dale, had probably remained + in Bristol Bob’s a good half hour after the Pippin had left. In that + case, then, Melinoff must have gone away with the Pippin again—that + would account for there being no light. But, on the other hand, if the + Pippin had not yet arrived, and Melinoff <i>expected</i> the visit, it was + most curious that the place was in darkness! + </p> + <p> + And then Jimmie Dale smiled a little mockingly at himself. His deductions + would perhaps have been of infinitely more value if he had first waited to + make sure of the premise on which they were based! As a matter of fact, + there <i>was</i> a light! He had reached the front of the little place, + and peering cautiously through the window could make out, across the black + interior, a thread of light that came through the crack of a closed door, + and from what was, evidently, another room in the rear. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s fingers closed on the heavy, cumbersome, old-fashioned + door latch, pressed it down noiselessly, and exerted a little tentative + pressure on the door itself. It was locked. A minute passed in absolute + silence, as a little steel instrument was inserted in the lock—and + then the door swung inward and was dosed again, and Jimmie Dale, rigid and + motionless, stood inside. + </p> + <p> + He was listening now for some sound, the sound of voices, or the sound of + movement from that lighted room. There was nothing. Jimmie Dale’s + lips tightened suddenly. It was very curious! There was an “upstairs” + to the place, such as it was, but if Melinoff was up there alone, or with + the Pippin, they were up there in the dark unless they were in the rear + upstairs room; in which case they could not, in view of the ramshackle + nature of the building, have made the slightest movement without making + themselves heard from where he stood. + </p> + <p> + From his pocket Jimmie Dale produced a flashlight. The ray played once, as + though with queer, diffident curiosity, about him, swept once more in a + circuit around the room, swiftly, in an almost startled way this time—and + there was darkness again. And, instead of the flashlight, Jimmie Dale’s + automatic was in his hand now, and he was moving quickly and silently + forward toward that thread of light and the closed door leading into the + rear room. + </p> + <p> + Around him everything was in disorder; not the disorder habitual to such a + place where odds and ends of the heterogeneous accumulation of Melinoff’s + stock in trade might be expected to be deposited wherever convenience and + not system dictated, but a disorder that seemed to hold within itself + something of ominous promise. Old clothes, for instance, that might at + least have been expected, even with the most profound carelessness and + indifference, to have received better treatment, were strewn and scattered + about the floor in all directions. + </p> + <p> + And now Jimmie Dale stood still again. There was a sound at last; but a + sound that he could not immediately define. It came from the room beyond—like + a dull, muffled thud mingling with a low, long-drawn gasp. It was repeated—and + then, unmistakably, there came a moan. + </p> + <p> + In a flash now, Jimmie Dale, his automatic thrust forward, was at the + door. He stooped with his eye to the keyhole; and the next instant, his + face hard and tense, he flung the door open, and jumped forward into the + room. + </p> + <p> + Those words of the Pippin’s note seemed to be searing through his + brain in letters of fire—“go the limit—go the limit.” + There was no need to speculate longer on their meaning; they meant—<i>murder</i>. + On the floor, a dark ugly, crimson pool beside him, lay Melinoff, the + old-clothes dealer. And as Jimmie Dale sprang to the other’s side, + there came again that curious muffled thud—as the old man weakly + lifted his head a few inches from the floor only to have it fall limply + back again. The man was nearly gone—it needed no experienced eye to + tell that. Melinoff’s face was grayish in its pallor, and his eyes, + open, seemed to have lost their lustre; but as Jimmie Dale knelt and + lifted the man’s shoulders and supported the other’s head upon + his knee, the light in the old-clothes dealer’s black eyes seemed + suddenly to return and to glow with a strange, passionate, eager fire, as + they fixed on Jimmie Dale’s face. Melinoff’s lips moved. + Jimmie Dale bent his head to Catch the words that were almost inaudible. + </p> + <p> + “The—the Pippin. Here”—the old man’s hand + struggled toward his side where a dark crimson blotch had soaked his shirt—“here—he—he + stabbed me—because—because—” The voice failed and + died away, and the man’s head fell back on Jimmie Dale’s arm. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale raised the other’s head gently again. + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” he said quickly, striving to rouse the other. “Yes; + go on! I understand. The Pippin stabbed you. Because—what? Go on, + Melinoff! Go on! I am listening.” + </p> + <p> + The eyes opened once more—but the light was dying out of them, and + they were filming now. And then suddenly the man forced himself forward + into a sitting posture, and his voice rang wildly through the room: + </p> + <p> + “It is a lie! A lie! I played square—do you hear! Old Melinoff + played square! I did not understand at first—but I did not forget. I + remembered. Old Melinoff would never forget—never forget—never + for—” + </p> + <p> + A tremor ran through the old man’s form, the voice was stilled—it + was the end. + </p> + <p> + For a moment, his lips tight and set, Jimmie Dale held the other there in + his arms, as he stared at a little object on the floor where Melinoff had + been lying, and that previously had been hidden beneath the other’s + body—an object that glittered and sparkled now as the light caught + it. There had even been then, it seemed, no need for Melinoff’s + dying accusation—the evidence of the Pippin’s guilt would have + been plain enough to the first person who found old Melinoff and moved the + old man’s body. For himself, Jimmie Dale, the Pippin’s note, + since it had actuated him in coming here, would have been enough to have + fixed the guilt in his mind where it belonged; but the police, for + instance, would not have been so well informed! The police, however, would + now have all, and more than all the evidence they required. That little + thing that glittered there was one of the Pippin’s notorious + diamond-snake cuff links. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale did not disturb it. He laid old Melinoff back on the floor, + and the old man’s body covered the cuff link again as it had done + before. He stood up then, and looked around him. The room seemed to have + been used for no one particular purpose. It was partitioned off from the + shop proper, it was true; but, equally, it appeared to have been used as a + sort of overflow for the shop’s stock in trade. Here, as in front, + clothing of all descriptions littered the floor; and also there were signs + that a violent struggle had taken place. The room, which had obviously + served, apart from being a store-room, as kitchen, dining room, and, in + fact, for everything save a bedroom, was in a state of chaos—chairs + were upset, a table stood up-ended against the wall, aid broken crockery + was strewn everywhere. + </p> + <p> + At the rear of the room was another door. Jimmie Dale reached up, turned + off the gas-jet, crossed to the door, found it unlocked, opened it a few + inches, and looked out. It gave on the rear of the courtyard, and in the + darkness he could just make out a high fence that bordered the adjoining + property. It was presumably the way by which the Pippin had made his + escape, since he, Jimmie Dale, had found the front door locked. + </p> + <p> + He closed the door again, relighted the gas, and, moving swiftly now, + passed through into the shop and locked the front door. Then, returning to + the upper end of the shop close to the connecting door, which he closed + until it was just ajar, Jimmie Dale slipped a black silk mask over his + face, seated himself on a box of some sort that he found at hand, and, + save that his fingers mechanically tested the automatic in his hand, + remained motionless, his eyes fixed on the rear door across the lighted + room in which old Melinoff lay. + </p> + <p> + It was dark here and silent, except that from out across the courtyard + came faintly now and then the voices of the children at play in the + gutters, and except that a faint glow stole timidly out from the slightly + opened door only to merge almost immediately with the surrounding + blackness. The tight lips had curved downward at the corners of his mouth + into a grim, merciless droop; and into the dark, steady eyes there had + come a smouldering fire. It was a brutal, cowardly thing that had been + done there in that room, and the Pippin had finished his work and gone—but + it was not at all unlikely that the Pippin would be back! + </p> + <p> + The sharp lines at the corners of Jimmie Dale’s mouth grew a little + more pronounced. Nor should the Pippin be long in returning! A man could + not very well lose a cuff link and be unaware of that fact for any + extended length of time. And that cuff link was damning, irrefutable, + incontrovertible evidence, exactly the evidence the police required to + convict the guilty man! Yes, undoubtedly, the Pippin would be back—and + at any moment now. Figuring that the Pippin had left Bristol Bob’s + half an hour before he, Jimmie Dale, had started out, and allowing, say, + twenty minutes for the struggle and subsequent murder here, the Pippin + could only have been gone a matter of some ten minutes. In the excitement, + and probably a run through lanes and alleyways, it was quite possible that + the Pippin would not have noticed his loss in that length of time; but he + could not, with a loose cuff, and especially when it was usually fastened + by so highly prized a link, have remained much longer than that in + ignorance of his loss. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale smiled grimly now in the darkness. It was almost analogous to + Meighan’s waiting for the return of the Magpie, except that he, + Jimmie Dale, had neither the desire nor the intention of usurping the + functions of the police. “Smarlinghue,” for very obvious + reasons, could neither appear nor bear witness in the case; he could take + no chances of the discovery being made that “Smarlinghue” was + but a <i>character</i> that cloaked Jimmie Dale and the Gray Seal—and, + above all, he could take no chances to-night when at last he was on the + threshold of the return to his old normal life again! But he had, + nevertheless, no intention of permitting the Pippin to elude the law, or + to escape the consequences of the act to which that mute form lying in + there on the crimsoned floor bore hideous testimony. The cuff link, + obviously loosened and dropped unnoticed on the floor during the struggle, + would not only connect the Pippin with the crime, but would convict him of + it as well; he, Jimmie Dale, therefore, did not propose to allow the + Pippin to return and remove that evidence—that was all. It should + not be very difficult to prevent it; nor should it even necessitate his + showing himself to the Pippin. A shot, for instance, fired at the floor, + as the Pippin stole in through that rear door again should be enough to + send the man flying back for shelter to the recesses of the underworld. + The Pippin’s nerves, as he crept back to the scene of his crime, + would be badly frayed and unstrung, unless he was a man lacking wholly in + imagination, which the Pippin, once having been an actor, inherently could + not be; and, coupled with this, prompting the Pippin to run at once for + cover, would be the fact that he could not by any means be certain that + the link had been lost there in the room itself, since it might equally + have, been forced loose during his escape, say, for instance, while + climbing the series of backyard fences that would have confronted him from + the moment he left Melinoff’s rear door—providing always, of + course, that the Pippin, as it seemed logical and as the evidence seemed + to indicate, <i>had</i> made his escape in that manner. + </p> + <p> + The minutes passed; at first quickly enough, and then they began to drag + heavily. Jimmie Dale’s mind was back now on old Melinoff. What had + the man meant by his feverish, eager, pitiful insistence that he had not + forgotten, that he had remembered, that he could never forget, and that he + had not understood at first? The answer to that question would supply the + motive for the Pippin’s crime, and for half an hour, sitting there + in the darkness, Jimmie Dale pondered the question, but the answer would + not come. There were theories without number that he could formulate; but + theories at best were indefinite. What had Melinoff meant by saying he had + played square? Was it some previous criminal undertaking between himself + and the Pippin, in which the Pippin believed himself to have been betrayed + by Melinoff, while Melinoff, on the other hand, protested that—and + then Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders impatiently. What was the use of + speculation? The vital matter of the moment was the Pippin’s delay + in returning for that cuff link! + </p> + <p> + Another fifteen minutes passed, and still another—and then Jimmie + Dale restored his mask to his pocket, rose from his seat, and made his way + to the front door of the shop. He had waited there a full hour and over + now, his only purpose had been to prevent the removal of the evidence of + the Pippin’s guilt by the Pippin, and logic told him it was useless + to wait longer. It was only fair to assume that the Pippin would have + discovered his loss within a reasonably short time after leaving Melinoff’s; + and, granting that, it was absolutely certain that the Pippin, if he were + coming back at all, would have come without an instant’s delay if he + believed that his life hung on the recovery of his property. He had not + come, and therefore, conversely, the Pippin must have weighed the chances + and concluded that the risk attendant on his return to the scene of his + crime was greater than the risk he ran of the cuff link having been lost + in that exact spot. Nor was the Pippin’s presumed reasoning entirely + faulty—from the Pippin’s standpoint. It was obvious that he + did not know <i>where</i> he had lost the link; it was only a <i>chance</i> + that he had lost it on the actual scene of the crime; and even if he had + lost it there, and even if he returned, it was only a <i>chance</i> that + he would be able to find it again—and against this was the very + grave risk and danger of returning to Melinoff’s after having once + got safely away. But whatever the Pippin’s reasoning might have + been, the one morally certain fact remained—every minute of delay + increased the risk that the cuff link would be found by some one else, and + if the Pippin were coming back at all he would have been back long before + this. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale closed the door of the old-clothes shop behind him, crossed + the yard, and using the back door of the tenement again; gained the + street. Well, he was quite satisfied! The hour he had spent there mattered + little. He had desired only one thing—that the evidence of the + Pippin’s guilt should not be disturbed. And for the rest—he + smiled whimsically as he started briskly along the street—there was + Carruthers, of the <i>Morning News-Argus,</i> who, if, in the old days, he + had been one of the most dogged and relentless in his efforts to run the + Gray Seal to earth, was at the same time, though without knowing it—Jimmie + Dale’s smile broadened—the Gray Seal’s most intimate + friend and old college pal! If the Pippin was just as surely brought to + book that way, why do old Carruthers and his sheet out of a “scoop”! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale made his way rapidly now over to the Bowery, and here headed + in an uptown direction. Two blocks further along, however, on the corner + occupied by the Crescent saloon, he turned into the cross street, and + passed in through the saloon’s side entrance. The Crescent saloon, + as he had previously more than once had occasion to remark, was nothing if + not thoughtful of the peculiar needs of its somewhat questionable class of + patrons. Around the corner of the little passageway, just as it turned + into a small lounging room before the barroom proper was reached, was a + telephone booth whose privacy could scarcely be improved upon. He opened + the door of the booth, stepped inside, and closed the door carefully and + tightly behind him. The <i>Argus</i> being a morning paper, Carruthers, + except on very rare occasions, was always to be found at his office until + late into the night; but Jimmie Dale, having deposited his coin in the + slot, was rewarded with the information that he had met with one of those + “rare occasions.” Carruthers was at his home on Long Island, + and had not been at the office at all that day. Jimmie Dale shrugged his + shoulders, as he found and gave the Long Island number. It did not matter + very much; it was simply the difference in time, amounting to, say, the + half hour or so that it would take Carruthers to get back to the city and + act. + </p> + <p> + The ‘phone was answered. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Carruthers, if you please ... yes, personally,” said + Jimmie Dale pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + There was a moment’s wait, then Jimmie Dale spoke again—his + voice still pleasant, but changed in pitch and register to a bass that was + far from Jimmie Dale’s, though one that Carruthers might possibly + remember! + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Carruthers? ... Good evening, Mr. Carruthers—this is the + Gray Seal speaking, and I—” A receptive smile stole suddenly + across Jimmie Dale’s lips—Carruthers, to put it mildly, was + impulsive. “The Gray Seal—yes. I can hear <i>you</i> + perfectly.... What? ... No, it is not a hoax!”—Jimmie Dale’s + voice had sharpened perceptibly—“I called you once before, you + will perhaps remember though it is a very long time ago, in reference to a + certain diamond necklace and a—you will pardon the term—gentleman + by the name of Markel. ... Ah, you recognise the Gray Seal’s voice + now, do you! ... No, don’t apologise.... I thought perhaps you might + be interested in the possibility of another scoop.... Yes, quite so! ... I + would suggest then that you get the police to accompany you to the back + room of Melinoff’s, the old-clothes dealer’s shop.... Yes, I + thought you might know the place. Perhaps, too, you know of a man who is + commonly called the Pippin? ... No? Well, no matter. The police do! You’ll + find the evidence under Melinoff’s body.... I beg your pardon? ... + Yes—murder.... What? ... It is a cuff link, the Pippin’s cuff + link, that was dropped in the struggle.... What? ... No, I do not know + why; I have told you all I know. There is nothing more, Mr. Carruthers—except + that I should advise you to work as quickly as possible, as otherwise some + one may stumble on the crime before you do. Good-night, Mr. Carruthers.” + </p> + <p> + Carruthers was still talking, wildly, excitedly. Jimmie Dale calmly hung + up the receiver, left the telephone booth, and went out to the street + again—by the side entrance. If Carruthers made inquiry of central as + to where the call had come from, the reply that it was from the Crescent + saloon would in no way serve Carruthers, or any one else. No one, even in + the Crescent saloon, would be able to furnish any information as to who + had telephoned. It was, therefore, in a word, up to Carruthers now; the + Pippin would be brought to account; and as far as he, Jimmie Dale, was + concerned, his connection with the affair was at an end. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale walked quickly along, turning from one street into another. + Here and there, in front of various resorts, and on the corners, he passed + little groups of men engaged in bated, low-toned conversation. Ordinarily + this would have interested Jimmie Dale, for the groups were composed, not + of ordinary citizens, but of the dregs and scum of the underworld, and it + was evident that something quite out of the usual run of things had + suddenly seized upon the Bad Lands as a subject for gossip. But it was + already long after eleven o’clock, and to-night, with Melinoff’s + murder disposed of now, he was through, he hoped, with the underworld + forever. He was anxious only to reach the Sanctuary without any further + delay, and, thereafter, equally without further loss of time, to get to + his home or to the club, where at any moment he might expect to hear from + the Tocsin, and where, most important of all, she would bare no difficulty + in communicating instantly with him. + </p> + <p> + He turned the corner of the street on which the Sanctuary was situated—and + halted abruptly. A man coming rapidly from the other direction had grabbed + his arm. + </p> + <p> + “‘Ello, Smarly!” greeted the other. “Heard de + news?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, with the top of his tongue, shifted the half burnt section of + the cigarette that was hanging from his upper lip to the opposite corner + of his mouth, as he looked at the other. It was the Wowzer, dip and + pick-pocket, the erstwhile pal of one Dago Jim, who, on a certain night, + also of the very long ago, that Jimmie Dale had very good cause to + remember, had killed Dago Jim in a certain infamous dive. Well, if he, + Jimmie Dale, was, after all, to learn the cause of the excitement that + seemed suddenly to have possessed the underworld, he could at least have + asked for no better or more thoroughly posted informant than the Wowzer. + And now his curiosity was aroused. For an instant the idea that it might + be Melinoff’s murder flashed across his mind; but he dismissed that + idea at once. Murder was too trite a thing in the underworld to cause any + widespread commotion! + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Wowzer!” he returned, as he shook his head. “No, + I ain’t heard anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Youse can take it from me den,” said the Wowzer, “dat + dere’s something doin’! Dey got her!” + </p> + <p> + “Got who?” enquired Jimmie Dale in a puzzled way. + </p> + <p> + The Wowzer leaned forward secretively. + </p> + <p> + “Silver Mag!” he said. + </p> + <p> + It seemed to Jimmie Dale as though the clutch of an icy hand was suddenly + at his heart, as though the ground beneath his feet had grown suddenly + unstable and that the Wowzer’s face, close to his own, was swirling + around and around in swift and endless gyrations—but he was + conscious, too, that he was master of himself. The muscles of his face + twitched—but it was to express incredulity. His tongue carried the + cigarette butt languidly back to the other corner of his mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, go on!” said Jimmie Dale. “Try it on somebody else! + Silver Mag croaked out the night they had that fire down there in the old + tenement.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she did—nix!” scoffed the Wowzer, with a short + laugh. “De same way dat blasted snitch of a Gray Seal did—eh? + Say, Smarly, I’m handin’ it to youse straight. Dey caught her + snoopin’ around one of de en-trays into Foo Sen’s half an hour + ago. Say, de whole mob all de way up de line’s been tipped off. I’m + givin’ youse de real thing. Youse must have been asleep somewhere, + or youse’d have been wise before.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure—I believe you!” said Jimmie Dale earnestly. + “Who caught her, Wowzer?” + </p> + <p> + “De Mole,” replied the Wowzer. “An’ he’s got + her now over in his layout.” + </p> + <p> + It was a moment before Jimmie Dale spoke. There seemed to be a horrible, + ghastly dryness in his mouth; there seemed to well up from his soul and + overwhelm him a world of mocking and sardonic irony. The Mole! The Mole + was the leader of the gang with which the Pippin was allied; it was at the + Mole’s place that the Pippin usually lived; it was at the Mole’s + place that the police would first institute their search for the Pippin—and + five minutes ago, through Carruthers, he had unleashed the police! The + Wowzer’s face seemed to be swirling around and around in front of + him again. To get away—and <i>think</i>! He could have groaned, + cried out aloud! + </p> + <p> + “Say, thanks, Wowzer, for piping me off!” said Jimmie Dale + effusively. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dat’s all right,” responded the Wowzer graciously. + “Only keep it under yer hat except wid de crowd. De bulls ain’t + on, an’ de Mole saw her first—see? Dere ain’t goin’ + to be no buttin’ in till she gets hers! An’ de word’s + out not to do any pushin’ an’ crowdin’ around de Mole’s + fer front seats, ‘cause den de bulls ‘d get wise—savvy? + Just leave it to de Mole—get me?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure—I get you,” said Jimmie Dale. “Well, so + long, Wowzer—and thanks again.” + </p> + <p> + “S’long, Smarly,” replied the Wowzer. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. SILVER MAG + </h2> + <p> + It was not far to the Sanctuary, only halfway down the short block to the + corner of the lane; but it seemed a distance interminable to Jimmie Dale. + His brain was whirling in a chaotic turmoil; and the turmoil seemed barbed + with a horrible fear that robbed him for the moment of his mental poise. + It was as a man dazed, unconscious of the physical process by which he had + arrived there, that he found himself standing in the Sanctuary, leaning + like a man spent with effort against the door which, mechanically, he had + closed behind him. + </p> + <p> + In hideous, baleful, jeering reiteration those words which she had written + were racing through his brain. “I am very happy to-night, and I + wanted to tell you so ... happy to-night ... happy to-night ... happy + to-night.” Happy to-night—what depth of irony! Happy to-night—and + they had caught her—as the “way was clearing”——with + the end of peril, with the end of the miserable, hunted existence she had + been forced to lead just in sight! Silver Mag—the Tocsin! And he—he, + who, too, had been happy to-night, he, who had known that mighty uplift + upon him, he, who had dreamed that the morrow might bring life and love + and sunshine—he was facing now a blackness of despair that he had + never known before. Unwittingly, if such danger as she was in <i>could</i> + be made the greater, he had made it so. If the underworld was the + implacable enemy of Silver Mag, because Silver Mag was known as the ally + in the old days of Larry the Bat, and known, therefore, as the ally of the + Gray Seal; so, for the same reason exactly, the police were her implacable + enemy! And, whether she fell into the hands of one or the other, the end + ultimately differed only in the method by which her death would be + accomplished; it was murder at the hands of the Mole and his gang; it was + the death chair in Sing Sing as an accomplice of the Gray Seal at the + hands of the police. “Death to the Gray Seal!”——that + was the slogan of the underworld. “The Gray Seal dead or alive—but + the Gray Seal”—that was the fiat of the police. And both held + good for Silver Mag! With the Mole alone there might have been a chance—but + now, he had launched the police as well against her, had sent them to the + Mole’s, for that was the first place they would raid in their hunt + for the Pippin. + </p> + <p> + The sweat beads started out on Jimmie Dale’s forehead. She had + discarded the character of “Silver Mag” that night in the + tenement fire when he had discarded the character of “Larry the Bat”—and + “Silver Mag” had never been seen again until to-night. But he, + Jimmie Dale, <i>had</i> appeared since then as Larry the Bat—and for + some reason to-night she must have found it necessary, in working out her + plans to their consummation no doubt, to have assumed again the character + of Silver Mag—and she had been caught! But the Mole, it was + absolutely certain, if left alone, would first exhaust every means within + his power of forcing from Silver Mag the information that he would + naturally believe she had concerning the whereabouts of the Gray Seal, + before wreaking the vengeance of the underworld upon her; but equally the + Mole, if interrupted by the police, would, in a sort of barbarous rivalry, + if he, Jimmie Dale, knew the underworld at all, never surrender Silver Mag—alive. + It would be the old cry, hideously worded, as he had heard it that night + of the long ago in the attack on the old Sanctuary—the Gray Seal and + Silver Mag were their “<i>meat!”</i> Something like a moan was + wrung from Jimmie Dale’s lips. With the police out of it there would + have been time; with the police a factor, granted even that the Mole gave + her up, her death was certain. + </p> + <p> + The mind works swiftly. An eternity seemed bridged as he stood there + against the door, his hands pressed to his temples—in reality + scarcely a second had passed. Time! It was like a clarion call, that word, + clearing his brain, lashing him into instant action. There <i>was</i> + time, a small, pitifully inadequate margin, but yet a margin—the few + minutes left before Carruthers would have the police hammering at the Mole’s + door. There was a chance, still a chance to save her life. And if he + succeeded in getting her away from the Mole’s—what then! It + would be touch and go! What of the afterwards—a means of retreat—a + temporary sanctuary? Yes, yes—he must think of everything! + </p> + <p> + He was working with mad speed now, stripping off his clothes, delving into + that secret hiding place behind the movable section of the base-board near + the door. And now the gas, with its poverty-stricken, meagre, yellow + flame, illuminated the place dimly—and Jimmie Dale, with his make-up + box and a cracked mirror, worked against the flying minutes. There was + only one way to go—as Larry the Bat. It would give the Mole and the + underworld nothing to work on afterwards if Larry the Bat went to the + rescue of Silver Mag; and if he won through there would then still be + “Smarlinghue’s” sanctuary, this place here, as a + temporary refuge. The transformation to Larry the Bat stole an extra + minute or two from the priceless store, but it was the only way—to + risk it as Smarlinghue or Jimmie Dale, to risk recognition, would be the + act of a fool, for it would render abortive the initial success, if, by + any means, he could succeed even to that extent. Thank God for the + circumstances that, prior to this, had led him to duplicate Larry the Bat’s + disreputable apparel; thank God for one chance of life—<i>for her</i>—that + this afforded now. + </p> + <p> + The gas was out again, the room was in darkness. Through the little French + window, and hugged close against the wall of the tenement, and through the + loose Aboard in the fence that gave egress to the lane, Jimmie Dale, as + Larry the Bat now, slunk along. And then, in the lane, he broke into a + run. And now, an added peril came—a glimpse of Larry the Bat by any + of gangland’s fraternity, man or woman, and it would be the end! His + position now was analogous to hers as Silver Mag before she had been + caught! There would be no parley—it would be the end! But that was + the chance he took, the only chance there was—for her. + </p> + <p> + But Jimmie Dale knew the East Side. By alleys and lanes, through yards and + over fences, Jimmie Dale made his way along; and when forced into the open + to cross a street, it was a dark, ill-lighted section that was chosen, and + where for a short distance here and there he must needs keep to the street + he held deep in the shadows of the buildings, crouching in doorways to + avoid passers-by. It took time—he dared not calculate how long. + Carruthers was not the man to let the grass grow under his feet! + Carruthers would probably, before leaving home, have telephoned some + Headquarters’ man to meet him—the detective would have + telephoned Headquarters from Melinoff’s—and after that it + would not take the police long to reach the Mole’s! + </p> + <p> + It took time, this tortuous threading of the East Side—he did not + know how long it had taken—but at last, as he swung into a long, + black, and very narrow alleyway, he drew a quick breath of relief. So far, + at least, he was ahead of the police. It was still and silent, there was + no sound of any disturbance, and the Mole’s now was only a little + way ahead. He stole forward noiselessly. It was very quiet—much more + quiet even than usual in that far from savoury neighbourhood. He + remembered, with a grim smile of satisfaction, that the Wowzer had + explained there was to be no crowding for front seats for fear of + attracting the attention of the police. It had been very thoughtful of the + Mole to pass that word around—very! With the underworld, prompted by + curiosity and seething with hate, swarming here, the single chance he, + Jimmie Dale, had of reaching her would have been swept away. He paused + now, his lips set hard, crouched by the fence that separated the Mole’s + backyard from the alleyway. His plan was simple; but it depended for its + ultimate success almost entirely on his ability to secure an instant means + of disappearance for the Tocsin the moment she was outside the Mole’s + walls. That he could find her, that he could get her out of the house was + another matter—he could only trust to his wits and nerve in that + respect. But if he succeeded in that, then—he moved silently a + little further up the lane, crossed to the other side and halted again, + this time before the back door of a shed. In an instant his picklock was + at work; in another he had opened the door a bare fraction of an inch. His + lips grew tighter, as he retraced his steps to the Mole’s fence. If + that shed were ever needed at all, there would not be time to fumble in + the dark for knob or latch—and there would be no necessity for that + fumbling now! From the shed there was a very sure means of escape across a + small intervening yard, and out through an areaway into the street, for + the shed was one of the many entrances to Foo Sen’s, a place with + which he was very intimately acquainted—all this, of course, + provided that, if the Tocsin were seen to enter the shed, <i>some one</i> + held the pursuers back long enough to afford her time to reach the street. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders, as he opened a low gate in the fence + silently and stepped through, into the yard beyond, leaving the gate open + behind him. He was not a fool, blinded to what probably lay ahead! He + could not hope to reach the Tocsin, much less effect her rescue, without + warning the inmates of this house that loomed up before him now, without a + fight with the Mole and the Mole’s gangsters. It was not likely that + <i>he</i> could reach the shelter of that shed, but the Tocsin could, and, + once inside, throwing away her cloak and wig, “Silver Mag” + would disappear, and after that there was the Sanctuary, and then her own + brave wits. There came a queer twist to Jimmie Dale’s lips, and then + a shrug of his shoulders again. It was not likely to be the ending to the + night that he had thought it might be when sitting there in Bristol Bob’s + only a few short hours ago! + </p> + <p> + Faint streaks of light through the interstices of a shuttered window + showed just in front of him, as he stole forward across the yard. Window + or back door, it mattered little to Jimmie Dale now, so that he could gain + an entry into the house unobserved. It was very quiet—even ominously + quiet—that impression came to him suddenly again. The quarter here + was full of dives and gambling hells and resorts frequented by the worst + in crimeland—but it seemed that the Mole’s injunction had been + obeyed to the letter! It boded little good—for her! Jimmie Dale’s + face, under the grime of Larry the Bat’s make-up, grew white and + set, as he approached the window. God in Heaven, was he already too late! + The Mole, with his little tobacco shop in front as a blind, and his rooms + above rented to “lodgers,” thus housing the gang of Apaches + that worked under his leadership, had had every opportunity, once the + Tocsin was in his power in there, of doing as he would. And then another + thought came flashing quick upon him. If they had gone that far, if she + were dead, they must have discovered that under the cloak and the gray, + straggling hair of Silver Mag—was Marie LaSalle. He forced a grip of + iron upon himself, fighting mentally like a madman with himself for his + self-control. The night with every passing moment seemed yawning wider and + wider before him in a chasm that threatened ruin, and disaster, and the + wreckage of everything that in life was worth the living, and—<i>no</i>,’ + Not yet! The luck had turned! She was there! Silver Mag was there! There! + And safe so far! + </p> + <p> + The window was shoulder high. He was peering in through the blind. There + was no light in the room itself, but a faint glow came in through the open + doorway of a lighted room beyond—enough to enable him to make out a + woman’s form, the grizzled hair streaming over the threadbare cloak, + as she lay on a cheap cot across the room, her face to the wall, her hands + bound together behind her back. + </p> + <p> + It was Jimmie Dale working with all the art he knew; now; and those slim, + sensitive, wonderful fingers were swift and silent as they had never been + before. A steel jimmy loosened the shutters, and they swung apart with out + a sound. He could see better now—see, at least, that she was alone + in the room. He tapped softly on the window pane. It was too dark to see + her face, but he saw her raise her head quickly, and then, evidently, + quick to meet an emergency as she always was, rise from the cot and steal + to the edge of the open door. He was working at the window now. A fever of + anxiety was him—it seemed that his fingers stumbled, that they lost + their cunning, that an eternity passed as she stood there apparently on + guard by the door, her bound hands behind her back like some piteous + appeal to him to hurry—to hurry—and, in the name of all that + life meant to both of them, to make haste. + </p> + <p> + And now cautiously, inch by inch, he was raising the window; and in + another moment, in obedience to his whisper, the bound wrists were thrust + within his reach, and he was severing the cords with his knife. + </p> + <p> + “Thank God!” breathed Jimmie Dale fervently. “Now jump—across + the yard—the door of Foo Sen’s shed—it’s open—<i>quick</i>—” + </p> + <p> + There came a sudden crash from the front of the house, a sudden turmoil + from within, a burst of shouts, a chorus of yells. The police! And now + another shout, another burst of yells—from the rear—from the + lane! Jimmie Dale’s lips were like a thin, straight line. She was + free from the house now, standing beside him here in the darkness. He + reached swiftly up and closed the shutters—left open they invited + immediate attention. His mind was working in lightning flashes. The police + were at the front and rear, of course—they would not raid the front + and leave the rear unguarded! But why the shouts out there in the lane—why + had they not rushed in at once—and why now that <i>shot</i>! It was + followed by another, and still another—and then a fusillade of them, + as though the shots were returned. + </p> + <p> + “Quick!” he whispered again, and led the way toward the gate + in the fence. The police would be pouring out of the house from the back + door in a minute—the only chance was a dash for it. His mind was + groping now, bewildered. What did it mean? The police who had obviously + been detailed to the lane at the rear of the Mole’s were fighting + now—with whom—why? But the fight was working further on down + the lane in the opposite direction from that shed door. “Quick!” + he said again. “The shed door—on the other side—quick!” + </p> + <p> + Together they darted into the lane. From behind, the back door of the Mole’s + house was flung open, and there came the rush of feet. From down the lane + the short, vicious tongue-flames of revolvers stabbed through the black. + But in the darkness, save for those quick, myriad flashes like gigantic + fireflies winking in the night, he could see nothing. They were racing, + racing like mad, he and this form beside him for whose safety he prayed so + wildly, so passionately in his soul now. It was only a step further—just + another one—and the police, coming out of the Mole’s, had not + reached the gate yet. Just another step—and then a bullet, straying + from the fight down there along the lane, drummed past his ear in an angry + buzz—and the form beside him lurched heavily, stumbled, and pitched + forward. And, with a low, broken cry, Jimmie Dale swung out a supporting + arm, and pushing the shed door open with his elbow, gained the interior, + and lowered his burden gently, a dead weight now, to the floor. + </p> + <p> + And then Jimmie Dale sprang to the door, and swung a heavy bolt that was + there into place; then, running across the shed, he locked the other door + as well. It was, perhaps, needless precaution. No one had seen them enter + here, and there was little chance of the police developing any interest in + the shed; while from the other side—Foo Sen’s—the fact + that there was a police battle in the lane would only cause the inmates of + the dive to give the shed and lane the widest possible berth! + </p> + <p> + It had taken scarcely a second to lock the doors, and now he knelt beside + a form that was ominously still upon the floor, and called her name over + and over again. + </p> + <p> + “Marie! Marie! Marie!” he whispered frantically. + </p> + <p> + There was no answer—no movement. The strong, steady hands shook, + those marvellous fingers, usually so deft and sure, faltered now as they + loosened the cloak and threw the hood back over the wig of tangled, matted + hair. It was not the darkness alone that would not let him see—there + was a mist and a blur before his eyes. And now he loosened the heavy wig + itself to give her relief—she would have no further need of that, + for it would not be as Silver Mag that she left here—if she left + here at all—no, no!—his mind seemed breaking—she would + leave here, she <i>must</i>—yes, yes, she was breathing now—she + was not dead—not dead! + </p> + <p> + He wrenched his flashlight from his pocket. To find the wound and stop the + flow of blood! The ray shot out—there was a cry from Jimmie Dale—and + like a man distraught he reeled to his feet—and like a man + distraught stared at the upturned face, ghastly white under the flashlight’s + glare. + </p> + <p> + <i>It was the Pippin</i>. + </p> + <p> + The wig of grizzled hair that he had unconsciously been holding dropped + from Jimmie Dale’s hand, and his hand went upward to his temple. Was + he mad! Was this joy, relief, rage or fury that, surging upon him, was + robbing him of his senses! The Pippin! How could it be the Pippin! The + cloak with its hood, and the long, gray matted wig were very like Silver + Mag’s—very like Silver Mag’s! The Pippin! The Pippin!—one-time + actor who had murdered old Melinoff, <i>the old-clothes dealer!</i> No—he + was not mad! Dimly, his mind groping in the darkness, he began to see. + </p> + <p> + The Pippin’s eyes opened. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s there?” he demanded weakly. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, without a word, leaned forward, and threw the ray of light + upon his own face. + </p> + <p> + A queer smile flickered across the Pippin’s lips; his voice, weak as + it was, was debonair and careless. + </p> + <p> + “Well, we nearly got you, Larry—at that! You fell for it, all + right. Only—only some one”—his voice weakened still + farther—“must have spilled the beans—to the—police.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale made no answer. His lips were thinned and tight together. It + was plain enough now. It had been a plant to get <i>him</i>—to get + Larry the Bat, who was known to the underworld to be the Gray Seal—to + get the Gray Seal through an appeal to the Gray Seal’s loyalty + toward his pal, Silver Mag! A plant, devilish enough in its ingenuity—Silver + Mag impersonated—the “news” of her capture spread + broadcast through the underworld on the chance that it would reach the + ears of Larry the Bat, and tempt Larry the Bat into the open—as it + had done! He knew now why the Pippin had gone to Melinoff’s—old + Melinoff’s stock, more than any other dealer’s, would be the + most likely to supply the Pippin with the garments that, if not too + closely inspected, would pass muster for Silver Mag’s. He knew now + why the underworld, believing what it had been told, had been warned to + keep away from the Mole’s—he knew now that it was because he + was to have no inkling that he was walking into a baited trap. + </p> + <p> + He had torn the Pippin’s clothing loose, found the bullet hole in + the left side, perilously near the heart, and was striving now to staunch + the other’s wound. The man had little call for mercy, but at least— + </p> + <p> + The Pippin pushed his hand away. + </p> + <p> + “It’s no use,” said the Pippin. “I’m—I’m + done for. But—but I don’t understand. When you came to the + window, I went to the door and tipped them off that you were there, and + the gang that was waiting started around into the lane so that you wouldn’t + get any chance to make a break that way. I—I don’t understand. + Where—where did the police come from?” + </p> + <p> + “I sent them—from Melinoff’s,” said Jimmie Dale + grimly. + </p> + <p> + The Pippin came up on his elbow. + </p> + <p> + “You!” he gasped. “You—you know what happened + there—you were wise to everything all the time?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Jimmie Dale. “I only knew you had murdered + Melinoff. You left one of your cuff links there.” + </p> + <p> + “Did I?” said the Pippin. He sank back on the floor again. + “I didn’t know it. It—it must have fallen out of my + shirt when I undressed. I came away wearing women’s things, and + carrying my own clothes in a bundle.” He laughed shortly, huskily. + “That’s what was the matter with Melinoff. It was the old fool’s + own fault! I didn’t want to hurt him! He didn’t understand at + first when I was pawing all his stuff over, but when he saw me try the + things on, and tumbled that I was—was going to play Silver Mag, he + said he wouldn’t stand for it. Ha, ha! Silver Mag!” The Pippin’s + voice had taken on a queer mumbling note, and his mind seemed to be + functioning suddenly in a half-wandering way. “Some role, Silver + Mag! I was the star to-night! You remember Silver Mag—how she used + to go around in the old days and hand out the silver coins, never a bill, + just coins, to the families whose men were doing spaces up the river in + Sing Sing? She kept old Melinoff’s wife going while he was in limbo—that’s + what he said. I didn’t want to hurt the old fool, but he wouldn’t + keep his mouth shut. Ha, ha! Silver Mag! It was some play on the boards + to-night! Clever brain, the Big Fellow’s got! It wasn’t any + good if Silver Mag and Larry the Bat were together, but Silver Mag was + seen buying a ticket and getting on a train for Chicago last night—and + last night, later than that, the Gray Seal sent the Forrester stuff to the + police—so they couldn’t have been together this evening unless + he went afterwards to Chicago, too—and he didn’t do that + because all the trains were watched. It was the biggest chance that ever + came across of getting the Gray Seal in a trap. Some stage setting—some + play—clever brain that—” + </p> + <p> + The voice trailed off. Outside there was quiet now, save for the crunch of + an occasional footstep. The police who, as Jimmie Dale understood quite + clearly now, had run into the Mole’s gang as the two converged at + the rear of the Mole’s house, had evidently now got the better of + the gangsters. And that convergence, too, explained why the Pippin had + accompanied him so meekly toward the shed—the Pippin’s one aim + and object at that moment had been to avoid the police! He leaned suddenly + forward over the man—the Pippin was going fast now. There was one + thing yet, a thing that was vital, paramount, above all others. + </p> + <p> + “Pippin,” he said quietly, “you’re going out. Who + put up this plant? It wasn’t the Mole, he’s not big enough, he’s + only a tool like yourself. Who was it?” + </p> + <p> + “No—not the Mole,” murmured the Pippin. “He—he + isn’t big enough. Clever brain—clever brain—clever—” + </p> + <p> + “Who was it? Answer me, Pippin!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the Pippin, and the queer smile came again, + “I—I’ll tell you. It—it was some one”—Jimmie + Dale could scarcely hear the words—“some one—who will—get + you yet!” + </p> + <p> + The smile was still on the Pippin’s lips—but the man was dead. + Jimmie Dale stood up again, and then Jimmie Dale, too, smiled; but it was + a grim smile, hard and ominous. In his mind he had answered his own + question. + </p> + <p> + It was that unseen hand of last night—only to-night the challenge + had been <i>direct</i>. Well, he would pick up the gauntlet again—and + at the same time, perhaps, add a little “atmosphere” to + Carruthers’ scoop! From his pocket came the thin, metal insignia + case; and, lifting it with the tiny tweezers, moistening the adhesive side + with his tongue, Jimmie Dale stooped down and fastened a gray seal on the + floor by the Pippin’s side. + </p> + <p> + And then Jimmie Dale crept out of the shed toward Foo Sen’s, and + crept into the dark areaway, and, as he had come, by alleyways and lanes, + and through yards, and by ill-lighted, unfrequented streets, returned + again to the Sanctuary—alone. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII. THE TOCSIN’S STORY + </h2> + <p> + It was a whimsical movement, a whimsical trick of Jimmie Dale’s—that + outward thrust of his hand that he might study it in a curiously + impersonal, yet mercilessly critical way. He laughed a little harshly, as + he allowed his hand to drop again to the arm of his chair. No, there was + no tremor there—mentally he might be near the breaking point, his + nerves raw and on edge; but physically, outwardly, he gave no sign of the + strain that, cumulative in its anxiety, had increased hourly, it seemed, + in the three days that had passed since the night he had so narrowly + escaped the trap laid by that unknown master criminal, whose cunning, + power and malignant genius was dominating and making itself felt in every + den and dive of the underworld, and for whom the Pippin and the Mole that + night had been but blind tools, pawns moved at the will of this unseen, + evil strategist upon a chessboard of inhuman deviltry. + </p> + <p> + An evening newspaper lay open on the table. Jimmie Dale’s eyes fixed + for an instant on a glaring headline, then travelled slowly around the + little room—one of the St. James’ Club’s private writing + rooms—and came back to the paper again. The failure of that night, + the Pippin’s death, the stir and publicity, the stimulus given to + police activity, had, it seemed, in no way acted as a deterrent upon the + sinister ingenuity which, he made no doubt, was likewise the author of the + mysterious crime that to-night was upon every tongue in the city—the + murder of one of New York’s most prominent bankers under almost + incredible circumstances, and the coincident disappearance of a number of + documents which were vaguely hinted at as being of international + importance and of priceless worth. The crime had been committed in broad + daylight, in mid-afternoon, in the banker’s private office, and + within call of the entire staff of the bank. No one had been seen either + to enter or leave the office during an interval of some fifteen to twenty + minutes, previous to which time it had been established by one of the + staff that the banker was engaged in his usual occupation at his desk, and + at the expiration of which he had been discovered by the cashier lying + dead upon the floor, his skull fractured by a blow that had evidently been + dealt him from behind, the desk in disorder as though it had been + hurriedly searched, and the papers, known to have been in the banker’s + possession at that time, gone. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale brushed his hand across his eyes in a dazed way. No, of + course, he did not know, he could not actually know that it was the same + guiding evil genius at work here that had murdered both Forrester and old + Melinoff, but something beyond actual proof, a sense of intuition, made of + it a certainty in his own mind, at least, which left no room for argument. + There had been viciously clever work here, as daring and crafty as it was + remorseless in its brutality, and—he laughed suddenly, harshly as + before, and, rising abruptly from his chair, stepped to the window, pushed + aside the portières, and stood staring down on Fifth Avenue, whose great, + wide, lighted thoroughfare seemed a curiously and incongruously lonely + spot now in its evening quiet and emptiness. + </p> + <p> + Suppose it was so! Granted that his intuition was in no way astray! What + did it matter? It was a thing extraneous, of no personal significance to + him! It was even strange that it had succeeded in intruding itself upon + his thoughts at all, when mind and soul in these last few days had fought + and groped and stumbled against the sickness of a fear that, growing upon + him, had blotted out all other things from his consciousness. The Tocsin! + Where was she? What had happened? Had she——no, he dared not + let himself believe what a brutal logic told him now he should believe. He + would not! He could not! And yet since that night when her note had come, + the note that had been so full of a glad spontaneity, so full of <i>victory</i>—“It + is the beginning of the end ... The way is clearing ... I am very happy + tonight, and I wanted to tell you so”—since that night there + had been no word from her. + </p> + <p> + No, that was not literally true. There <i>had</i> been word from her; but, + rather than having brought hope and reassurance to him, it had only + increased his fear and anxiety. That night, after a return to the + Sanctuary, where, in lieu of the character of Larry the Bat, he had + resumed his own personality again, he had hurried to his home to await the + expected word from her that would tell him her success, which her note had + indicated was to be looked for at any moment, had been achieved. The + night, however, had brought forth nothing; but in the morning, amongst the + mail which old Jason, his butler, had handed him, had been a letter from + her. It had been written evidently in leisure, and evidently prior to the + hurried little note that happiness, a surge of joy, a gladness and a hope + whose share she could not hold back from him, had undoubtedly prompted her + to write; it had been born out of impulse, that note, an impulse due, + apparently, to a sudden turn in the brave fight she was waging which + seemed to place the final victory almost within her grasp. The letter was + not at all like that; it struck a far sterner note—the possibility + of defeat—not in despair, not in a tone of failing courage, but as + one who, weighing the chances, was not blind to an opponent’s + strength, but who, even in one’s own defeat, still sought to snatch + final victory even after death. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale turned from the window, sat down again in his chair, and drew + the letter from his pocket—and, sitting there, the strong jaws + clamped and locked, his face drawn in rigid lines, the dark, steady eyes + cold and hard, read it again, as he had read it many times before since + Jason had handed it to him that morning several days ago: + </p> + <p> + “Dear Philanthropic Crook: I wonder if I am writing those words for + the last time? I believe I am. I do not mean I am in such danger that I + will never have the opportunity again; but, rather, that I will never have + the <i>need</i> to do so. But to-night should tell. It is very near the + end—one way or the other—and I believe it is <i>my</i> way. + Oh, Jimmie, I pray God it is, and that tomorrow—but I did not start + this letter to you to talk of <i>that</i>. + </p> + <p> + “Long ago—do you remember, Jimmie?—I wrote you that I + would not, could not bring you into the shadows again for me, and that I + must fight this out alone. It must be that way, Jimmie; there is no other + way, and what I am about to say must not lead you to think that I am + hesitating now, or have changed my mind. It is only this—that the + game is not won until the last card is played, and, while I am almost + certain that I see the way now, there <i>is</i> still that last card to + play. Do not let us mince matters, Jimmie. If I fail, you know what it + means. But, in the bigger way, Jimmie, I can only count for but very + little in the balance. There is the afterwards that is of far more moment—that + justice, swift and sure, should put an end to the depredations and the + menace to society that exists to-day in the person of one of the cleverest + and most conscienceless fiends that ever plotted crime. Nor, in case you + should have to take up the work where I leave off, would you be even then + obliged to come into those shadows again. It is very strange, Jimmie. It + is almost like some grim, terribly grim, ironical joke. Everything, all + the power, all the resources that this man possesses have been used + against me in the last few months, because he knows that unless he + accomplishes my death he must remain in hiding just as he has forced me + into hiding; and yet at the same time—and this he does not know, + because he does not know that he is known to you, and that you, as Jimmie + Dale, a man whose position and prominence would carry conviction with + every word you might say, are in a position to testify against him—with + my death he automatically accomplishes his own destruction. And so you + see, Jimmie, in one sense at least, I cannot fail! No, I do not mean to + speak lightly—I—I have as much as you, Jimmie—to live + for. + </p> + <p> + “Listen, then! We knew, you and I, that while both my supposed uncle + and the head of the Crime Club were killed that night of the old Sanctuary + fire, and that the greater number, almost all in fact, of the members of + the band were caught by the police, that a few of them still evaded the + trap and escaped. But we believed these were so few in number and were so + thoroughly disorganised that nothing more was to be feared from them. And + this in a very great measure is true; but it is not altogether true. No, I + am not going to tell you that the Crime Club rose from its ashes and is in + operation again; but one of the men who escaped that night, one of the + Club’s leaders, possessed evidently of the secret as to where the + Club’s surplus funds were hidden, is the man who, through a lavish + use of those funds, is operating now through the underworld, who is + responsible for Forrester’s murder, and is the man who through all + these months has sought to reach me. I referred to him as ‘one of + the leaders’—I believe him now to have been the most dangerous + of them all. You know him as—Clarke. Do you remember, Jimmie? He was + the man who so cleverly impersonated Travers as the chauffeur, after they + had killed Travers. He was the man who was at the house that night when + Travers first learned that my father and my uncle had been murdered, and + that the same fate was in store for me. I told you that from where he sat + in the room that night I could not see his face, that Travers told me who + he was—but, apart from not being able to recognise him on that + particular occasion, I knew him well, for he had been a frequent visitor + to the house even prior to my father’s death, and subsequently in + company with Travers as one who appeared to have struck up an intimacy + with my supposed uncle. + </p> + <p> + “The day after the Crime Club was raided by the police, you will + remember that Clarke not being amongst those caught, I gave the + authorities what particulars I could in reference to the man. But nothing + came of it. A description and the name of ‘Clarke’ was little + enough to work on. The man had disappeared. Time passed, and I supposed, + as no doubt you, as well, supposed, that Clarke had made good his escape, + that he was probably well content with such good fortune, and that nothing + more, if he could help it, would ever be heard of him. Jimmie, I was + wrong. Within a month a series of narrow escapes from accidents, any one + of which might easily have accomplished my death, seemed to follow me + persistently. I will not take the time now to enumerate them all—they + were so commonplace, so liable to happen to any one, such for instance as + escaping by a hair’s-breadth from being run down by a speeding car + swerving, around the corner as I started to cross the street, or again by + an iron tackle falling from a scaffolding where work was in progress on + the building in which, pending the remodelling of my own house, as you + know, I had taken an apartment, that at first I attached no ulterior + significance to them. But finally, as they persisted, I became convinced + that they were deliberate and premeditated attempts upon my life. I said + nothing to you, as I did not wish to alarm you. And then one night Clarke + showed himself. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember the colourless liquid, the poison instantaneous in + its action and defying detection by autopsy, which was so favourite a + method of murder with the Crime Club? I had expected to be out for the + evening, and had given the maids permission to go out together. It was + about halfpast eight when I left the apartment. I had only gone a few + blocks when I returned for something I had forgotten. I was in my bedroom + when I heard the hall door open stealthily. I switched off the bedroom + light instantly, and slipped into the clothes closet, leaving the door + just ajar. I knew, of course, that if it were another attack directed + against me, it was one that was prearranged and that was being made on the + presumption that I was out and that the apartment was empty. There was + silence for a moment or two, then a step crossed the threshold of the + bedroom, and the light went on. It was Clarke. There was a little night + table beside the bed on which my maid, before she had gone out, had placed + as usual a carafe of ice water and a small tray of biscuits. Clarke was + evidently very well acquainted with this fact. He stepped at once to the + table, took a vial from his pocket, poured the contents into the carafe—and + the next instant the room was in darkness again, and Clarke was gone. I + acted as quickly as I could. I dared not move or give any sign of my + presence until he was out of the apartment, for I would have accomplished + nothing except my death. But the minute the outer door closed I picked up + the telephone to communicate with the vestibule. It was a ground-floor + apartment, as you know. The one chance was to have the hall porter + intercept Clarke in the vestibule. As a matter of fact, the telephone was + not answered for fully a minute or so—too late, of course! Clarke + had vanished. The boy at the telephone desk said he had been busy with + another call. That is all, Jimmie. I saw clearly that night that there was + only one thing left for me to do if I hoped to save my life, and that was + to fight Clarke with his own weapons. And so I wrote you; and you know now + why Marie LaSalle ‘left the city for an extended trip,’ as her + bankers informed you, and why during all these months I have ‘disappeared.’ + </p> + <p> + “I come now to the last thing I have to say—the reason for + writing this letter. My death was essential to Clarke, because he believed + that I was the <i>only</i> one who could positively identify him <i>as</i> + ‘Clarke,’ and that, therefore, as long as I lived he could not + resume his own identity and personal freedom of action for fear that I + might, even if only through inadvertence, recognise him. He could take no + chances. But I believe I have beaten Clarke. I have discovered that + ‘Clarke’ is in reality Peter Marre, the shyster lawyer, better + known among his clientele as Wizard Marre. But Marre, too, has disappeared—you + understand, Jimmie? And now, hidden, under cover, never showing himself + personally, ‘Clarke’ is working, not only to reach me, but to + further all his other schemes, through some agency without appearing + himself either as Marre or as ‘Clarke.’ I believe it is only a + matter of a few hours now before I shall either have got to the bottom of + who and what this agency is, or else—again do not let us mince + matters, Jimmie—‘Clarke’ will have been too much for me. + And in that latter case is found the whole object of this letter. Once I + am removed from his path, and believing that no one else could, or would, + link ‘Clarke’ and Peter Marre together, he will naturally + resume the freedom of his former life, and Peter Marre will appear again + in his old-time surroundings, a Peter Marre unhampered by fear of + discovery, and therefore a Peter Marre a hundredfold more dangerous than + ever before. And so, Jimmie, if that should happen, you have simply to get + this information into the hands of the police without appearing yourself, + say, through the agency of the Gray Sealand I shall not have brought you + into the shadows again.” + </p> + <p> + The letter was signed simply—“Marie.” But there was a + postscript: + </p> + <p> + “You will hear from me the moment that I can tell you I am free at + last.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale sat staring at the postscript. He made no movement; and there + was no sound in the room, save that the sheets of paper crackled slightly + in his hand. He was afraid to-night, afraid as he had never been in his + life before; and the fear that was gnawing at his heart was mirrored in a + gray, rigid face, and in the misery that had crept into the dark, + half-closed eyes. It was three days ago since he had received that letter, + and the awaited, promised word had not come—three days, and the + letter stated that it would be but a matter of a few hours before the + decision that meant life or death was reached. And the hurried little + note, so obviously written subsequent to the letter, though it had been + received prior to it, but bore out in its very optimism the fact that the + final card was then almost in the very act of being played. And since then—there + had been nothing. + </p> + <p> + He put little faith in the Pippin’s belief that she had gone to + Chicago. He found no relief in that possibility at all. That they had seen + her buy a ticket and board a train—yes. That for her own ends she + had let them see her do that—yes. But whether she had ever gone or + not was quite a different matter! Her letter would certainly indicate that + she had not. But even if she had! She could have communicated with him + from Chicago just as easily as she could have communicated with him from + any place here in New York! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s hand lifted and pressed hard against his temple, as + though to still the dull, constant throbbing that brought to his mental + agony the added torment of physical pain. For these three days now he had + fought with mind and body and soul against the one conclusion that was + tenable—the conclusion which to-night, robbing him of every hope in + life, bringing a grief and anguish greater than he could bear, cold logic + was finally forcing him to accept. She would have known the torment of + anxiety in which he lived, and if her plans had only been delayed or + checked, if it had been no more than that, she would surely have + communicated with him and allayed his fears. + </p> + <p> + A low sound, a moan of bitter pain, came from Jimmie Dale’s lips. + Logic had won at last, and was triumphant in the blackest hour that had + ever come into his life. The one glimmer of hope to which, as time went on + and one by one other hopes had vanished, he had still clung tenaciously, + had surrendered, too, and gone down before the face of that brutal logic + that weighed neither human agony nor suffering in its remorseless + conclusions. Clarke, it was true, had not yet resumed his former life as + Peter Marre—but he, Jimmie Dale, was forced to admit now that that + meant little or nothing. A thousand and one reasons might account for + Clarke postponing his re-entry into his old life—that the man had + allowed three days to pass proved nothing. + </p> + <p> + Marre! Peter Marre! Wizard Marre! A smile that held no mirth hovered for + an instant over Jimmie Dale’s lips. Yes, he knew Marre, Marre of the + underworld, well! The man was brilliant, clever—and possessed of a + devil’s soul! Also Marre, as certainly no other man had ever held + it, held the confidence of crimeland—and crime-land had supplied the + tricky lawyer with his clientele. And so Marre was “Clarke,” + one of the leaders of the old Crime Club! Jimmie Dale’s smile + disappeared, and his lips drew straight and tight together. It was quite + easily understood now. The returns in a financial sense from such a + clientele, large even as they perhaps might be, were meagre and pitiful in + comparison with the huge sums which, in one way and another, the Crime + Club would have acquired; but the returns in another sense had been vast + and of incalculable value, not only to Clarke, but to the Crime Club as + well. Clarke’s power in the underworld as Marre had reached the + height where the underworld itself eulogised that power by bestowing on + the man the “moniker” of Wizard, investing him, as it were, + with a title and a peerage in that inglorious realm. And this power, + supplying a foreknowledge of events through intimacy with those whispered + secrets in the innermost circles of the citizenry of crimeland, must have + been of immeasurable worth. And now Clarke, hidden away somewhere, acting, + it appeared, through some unknown agency and go-between, was utilising + that power with deadly cunning and effect—not only against the + Tocsin, but against society at large, as witness the murder of Forrester + of a few days ago, and presumably the murder of Jathan Lane, the banker, + not longer ago than this afternoon. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale shook his head suddenly. Acting through some <i>unknown</i> + agency? The Tocsin had not said that. Indeed, if she had been as near to + the final move in this battle of wits which she had been playing for + months, as her letter indicated, she must have known by now who and what + and where that agency was. And he could see plainly enough why she had + kept her own counsel in that respect. It was through her great, unselfish + love for him that she had intentionally refrained from giving him any clue + that would enable him to find his way into the danger zone which she + reserved for herself alone. Yes, he understood that—but it only made + what he feared now the harder to bear. She had been right, of course, in + her conclusion as to what he would have done had she given him the + opportunity! It was the one thing he had been fighting for, struggling + for, battling for all these months, that clue—and she had told him + only that “Clarke” was behind it all, and that “Clarke” + was Peter Marre. And it had served him little! As though the earth had + opened and swallowed the man and his alias up, there was neither trace nor + sign of Peter Marre. + </p> + <p> + He knew that well! He had not been idle since that letter came! He had + instantly seized upon what he had hoped would prove the clue that he could + follow to the heart of the web—and the clue had led him nowhere. + Marre, like the Tocsin, was somewhere “on a trip.” Marre’s + office was not closed. A year ago Marre had taken in with him as partner a + young lawyer by the name of Cleaver, who lacked only, through experience, + the same degree of dishonest finesse and cunning possessed by Marre + himself—a defect which Marre had doubtless counted on speedily + rectifying under his own unholy tutelage! Cleaver was carrying on the + business. To all inquiries Cleaver’s replies had been the same—Mr. + Marre, through overwork, had been obliged to take a rest; he did not know + where Mr. Marre was other than that Mr. Marre was making an extended tour + through the Orient, nor did he know when Mr. Marre might be expected to + return; Mr. Marre, purposely, in order that he might escape all thought + and care of business, and to preclude the possibility of anything of that + nature reaching him, had refrained from giving the office any specific + address. But he, Jimmie Dale, had not been content with inquiries alone in + those last few days—though the result here again had been nothing. + He was satisfied only that, in so far as the main issue was concerned, + Cleaver was not in Marre’s confidence, and that Cleaver not only did + not know Marre’s exact whereabouts, but believed, as he had said, + that Marre was travelling somewhere in the Orient. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale drew his hand heavily again across his forehead. It seemed as + though the very act of sitting here was a traitorous act to her, that even + in this momentary inaction he had cause for bitter self-reproach and even + for contempt—and yet he could see no way now to take. In the last + three days, as Smarlinghue, as Jimmie Dale, yes, even as Larry the Bat + again, working with feverish intensity, with almost sleepless continuity, + he had exhausted every means and effort within his power of running Marre, + <i>alias</i> Clarke, to earth. There seemed nothing now left to do but to + wait until Marre should resume his own identity; nothing left but the + promise of a vengeance that—again Jimmie Dale laughed harshly, and, + as the laugh died away, a smile took its place on the thinned lips that + was not good to see. Yes, she was right in that; he knew Marre—he + knew Marre, with his thin, cruel face, his black, sleepy eyes; his suave, + ingratiating manner that hid under its veneer a devil’s treachery! + Nor, well as he knew the man, was it strange that he had not known Clarke + as Peter Marre, for he had seen Clarke only once—that night in the + long ago, in Spider Jack’s when the man, with consummate art, a + master of disguise, had impersonated Travers, the dead chauffeur, and had + succeeded in fooling even Spider Jack himself. But he, Jimmie Dale, knew + <i>now</i>. Yes, she had been right—a whiteness came and gathered on + his lips—in that sense she could not fail, Marre at least would pay! + But perhaps not quite as she suggested, perhaps not quite by the simple + act of a denunciation to the police, perhaps not quite in so simple a way + as that, for, after all—his hand clenched over the sheets of her + letter—though it would be easy enough to establish Marre’s + alias now that the alias was known, there might be another way in which + Marre would answer, a more <i>intimate</i> way, a more personal way! Not + murder—the skin was ivory white across his knuckles—not + murder, but— + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was quietly folding the sheets of paper in his hand. Some one + was knocking at the door. + </p> + <p> + “Come in!” said Jimmie Dale—and slipped the letter back + into his pocket, as the door opened. + </p> + <p> + It was one of the club’s attendants. + </p> + <p> + “I beg pardon, Mr. Dale, sir,” said the man; “but there + is a ‘phone call for you.” He glanced toward the telephone on + the table. “I was not sure just where you were, sir. Shall I ask + them to connect you here?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you!” said Jimmie pleasantly. “Very good, + Masters. No—I’ll attend to it myself.” + </p> + <p> + The man withdrew, and closed the door again. Jimmie Dale rose from his + chair, and, stepping to the table, picked up the instrument. + </p> + <p> + “There is a call for me, I believe,” he said. “This is + Mr. Dale.” + </p> + <p> + There was a moment’s silence, then Jimmie Dale spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—hello!” he said. “Yes, this is Mr. Dale. What—” + </p> + <p> + The room seemed suddenly to swirl about him—the hand so steady a few + moments ago was trembling palpably now as it held the instrument. <i>Her + voice</i>? No—he was mad! It was his brain, overwrought, strained, + not to the breaking point, but beyond, that had broken at last, and was + mocking at him now in some cruel phantasy. Her voice? No, it could not be, + for she—for she was— + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie! Jimmie!”—the voice came hurriedly again, almost + frantically this time. “Jimmie—are you there?” + </p> + <p> + “You!” His lips were dry, he moistened them with his tongue. + “You!” he whispered hoarsely. “You, Marie—and I + thought—I thought that you were—” + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie,” she broke in, a quick, wistful catch in her voice, + “I cannot stay here a moment—you understand, don’t you? + There is not an instant to lose—on the floor by the Sanctuary window—a + note—will you hurry, Jimmie—good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + She was gone. Mechanically he replaced the receiver on the hook. She was + gone—but it <i>was</i> her voice he had heard—hers—and + she was alive. The play of emotion upon him robbed him for the moment of + coherent thought, and came and swept over him in a mighty surge and + engulfed him; and now in the sudden revulsion from despair and the + bitterest of agony his mind was dazed and numbed. It seemed as though he + were obeying some subconscious power, as he turned and left the room; as + though some influence outside of, and extraneous to, himself gave him a + spurious self-mastery, a self-command, a mask of nonchalance, as he walked + calmly through the club lobby and out to the street. + </p> + <p> + Benson, his chauffeur, held the door of his car open for him. + </p> + <p> + “Where to, sir?” Benson asked. + </p> + <p> + “The Palace—Bowery,” Jimmie Dale answered. “And + hurry, Benson!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII. HUNCHBACK JOE + </h2> + <p> + Jimmy Dale flung himself back on the seat of the big touring car. It was + an address, the Palace Saloon on the Bowery, that he had often given + Benson before—the nearest point to which Benson, trusted as Benson + was, had ever been permitted to approach the Sanctuary itself. The night + air, the sweep of the wind was grateful, as the machine sped forward. He + did not reason, he could not reason—his mind was in turmoil still. + Only two things were clear, distinct, rising dominant out of that turmoil—that + he had heard her voice, her voice that he had never thought to hear again; + and that there was need, a desperate need for haste now, because he must + reach the Sanctuary without an instant’s loss of time. + </p> + <p> + And then gradually his brain began to clear, to adjust itself, to function + normally; and when finally the car drew up at a corner on the Bowery, it + was a Jimmie Dale, keen, self-possessed and alert, who sprang briskly to + the pavement. + </p> + <p> + “Will you need me any further, sir?” Benson asked. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was lighting a cigarette deliberately—it was the same + question that he was pondering in his own mind, but the answer was + dependent upon the contents of that note which was waiting for him in the + Sanctuary. + </p> + <p> + “I am not quite sure, Benson,” he replied. “In any case, + you had better wait here for twenty, minutes. If I am not back in that + time, you may go home. Don’t wait any longer.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good, sir,” Benson answered. + </p> + <p> + It was only a short distance to the Sanctuary—down the cross street, + a turn into another only to emerge again on one that paralleled the first, + and then Jimmie Dale, walking slowly now, was sauntering along an + ill-lighted thoroughfare flanked on either side with a miscellany of small + shops and tenements of the cheaper class. There were but few pedestrians + in sight; but, as he neared the tenement that made the corner of the lane + ahead, Jimmie Dale’s pace became still more leisurely. A man and a + woman were strolling up the street toward him. They passed. Jimmie Dale, + at the corner of the lane now, glanced behind him. The two were + self-absorbed. And then, like a shadow merging with the darkness of the + lane, Jimmie Dale had disappeared. + </p> + <p> + In an instant, he had gained the loose board in the high fence; and in + another, pressing close to the rear wall of the tenement, he had reached + the little French window that gave on the dingy courtyard. There was an + almost inaudible sound, a faint metallic <i>snip</i>, as, kneeling, his + fingers loosened the hidden catch beneath the sill—and the window on + well-oiled hinges swung silently inward, and closed as silently again + behind Jimmie Dale as he entered. + </p> + <p> + The top-light, high up near the ceiling, threw a misty ray of moonlight + along the greasy, threadbare carpet, and threw into relief a folded piece + of dark-coloured paper at Jimmie Dale’s feet. He stooped and picked + it up—and then moving close to the window again, his fingers, in the + darkness, felt over the dilapidated roller shade to assure himself that + the rents were securely pinned together against the possibility of prying + eyes. He stepped quickly then across the room, tested the door lock; and + then the single gas-jet, air-choked, hissing spitefully, illuminated the + room with a wavering meagre yellow flame. + </p> + <p> + Under the light, Jimmie Dale unfolded the paper, his face hardening + suddenly. It was not like any note she had ever written him before—there + was no white envelope here, no paper of fine and delicate texture, no + ink-written message carefully penned; instead, evidence enough of her + desperate haste, the desperate circumstances probably under which she had + written it, the message was on a torn piece of brown wrapping paper, and + the words, in pencil, were scrawled in hurried, broken sentences. And + standing there, fighting for a grip upon himself, Jimmie Dale read the + message——almost illegible! in places—and then, as though + a strange incredulity, a strange inability to grasp and understand its + import fully, were prompting him, he read it again, murmuring snatches of + it aloud. + </p> + <p> + “... I did not mean to bring you into the shadows... but there is + another life, not mine, at stake ... I have no right to do anything else + ... if I intervened, or gave warning, the evidence that will convict + Clarke’s agent, and will convict Clarke through the agent, is + lost... that is why, in spite of all, I am writing this ... do you + understand? ... for three nights he disappeared, and somehow, I do not yet + know how, evaded me in the daytime ... no trace, just as I believed I had + the man through whom Clarke is working trapped ... dared not take the + chance of giving up watch for an instant ... did not know about this + afternoon until an hour ago ... too late ... Jathan Lane’s murder at + the bank ... Klanner, the janitor of the bank ... very fair hair, scar on + left cheek bone ... worked at night ... under passage from private office + ... blackjack with which murder was done, document and money in Klanner’s + room ... unmarried ... lives in rear room, first floor of tenement at ... + you must get the evidence ... unto Caesar!.. ship chandler’s store, + junk shop ... Larens, Joe Larens, the hunchback ... Clarke’s agent + ... another murder to cover up their tracks ... must get Clarke through + Hunchback Joe ... will squeal if he sees no way of escape ... Klanner’s + room at once ... Klanner with Kid Greer will be at Baldy Jack’s at + ten o’clock ... will stop at nothing ... innocent bystander ... + document of international importance, ... gold and details ... Federal + authorities, not the police ... will see that Secret Service men get tip + where to raid at midnight ... under the sail cloth in left corner ...” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was tearing the paper into little shreds. His brain, eagerly + now, was leaping from premise to conclusion, fitting the strange, complex + parts of her story, seemingly so utterly at variance one with another, + into a single, concrete whole. Yes, he understood why, in spite of + herself, she had been forced to bring him within those shadows at the last—to + save another’s life, which she could not do alone without forfeiting + the opportunity of securing the evidence that would condemn those actually + guilty, and reach, through the lesser lights, the man higher up—Marre, + alias Clarke. Yes, he understood, too, that this was the end—if all + went well! A grim smile came and flickered across Jimmie Dale’s + lips. She believed that Hunchback Joe, if caught and trapped, would squeal + to the police. The grim smile deepened. Hunchback Joe might, or might not, + squeal to the police—<i>but in any case Hunchback Joe would tell his + story</i>! He, Jimmie Dale, would see to that—whatever the cost, + whatever the consequences, if he had to choke and wring it from the man’s + lips. It was a surer way than trusting to the police—it was the only + sure way of reaching the end. The cost! The risk! What did it matter? What + was cost, or risk! Her life was in the balance! + </p> + <p> + He glanced quickly around him. Would it be as Smarlinghue to-night? He + shook his head. No, if it were really the end, if he won through to-night, + this would be the last time he would ever stand here in the Sanctuary, and + to leave the clothes of Jimmie Dale here, even in so secure a hiding place + as behind that movable section of the base-board, would impose upon him + the <i>necessity</i> of returning—was but to hamper himself, and, + indeed, as likely as not, if hard pressed, to court disaster. + </p> + <p> + His glance, strangely whimsical, strangely wistful now, travelled again + over the room. If it was the end to-night, this was his good-by to + Smarlinghue, to Larry the Bat—and the Gray Seal. This was his exit + from the sordid stage of the underworld—forever. Yes, in time, + suspicious of Smarlinghue’s continued absence, they would + investigate and search the Sanctuary here; they might even discover that + hiding place in the wall—but what did it matter? They would find + only the trappings of a <i>character</i> that had passed out of existence; + and out of that fact the police and the underworld would be privileged to + make what capital they could! No, it would not be as Smarlinghue that he + would work to-night—he was well enough as he was. He had not worn + evening clothes since that letter came, for the nights had been spent in + constant toil, and the dark suit of tweeds he wore now was not + conspicuous. Nor need he even have recourse to that hiding place again—what + he required was already in his pockets—for days now, in whatever + role he had played, he had been prepared for any emergency. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale looked at his watch—it was ten minutes after nine—and, + reaching up, turned out the light. A minute more and the French window was + silently opened and closed again, and Jimmie Dale was once more on the + street. Here, walking quickly, but keeping to the less frequented streets, + he headed deeper into the East Side. He would have no need of Benson, and + Benson without further ado at the expiration of the allotted twenty + minutes would obey orders literally and go home. No, he would have no + further need of Benson and the car—Jimmie Dale smiled curiously, his + mind absorbed now in the immediate problem that confronted him—they + worked on a carefully prepared and methodical schedule, these minions of + Clarke or Marre, allowing ample time in each successive step in their + plans that there might be neither confusion nor mistake in what they did. + Well, what was ample time for them, was ample time for him! It was not far + from the tenement where the Tocsin had said Klanner lived to Baldy Jack’s—and + Klanner was not due at Baldy Jack’s until ten o’clock. + </p> + <p> + Under the slouch hat, pulled far down over his eyes, Jimmie Dale’s + brows knitted into a frown. It was true then, and his intuition had not + been at fault! It was Clarke who had planned the murder and robbery at the + bank that afternoon—and Hunchback Joe, Clarke’s familiar, and + his accomplices who had carried it out. Yes, it had been clever enough—but + difficult enough too! Yet of two alternatives they had chosen the easiest. + The document, containing the secret international arrangements for gold + shipments into the United States, embracing European commitments, and + including transportation details, was always, except when in the banker’s + personal possession, carefully locked away in the bank’s vaults. In + the daytime then, it was impossible for a stranger to reach those vaults; + and at night time to attempt to force the strongest vaults in the City of + New York, with their intricate electric-alarm system, was a task from + which even Clarke might shrink! + </p> + <p> + The Tocsin had made it very clear. The document, or documents, never left + the bank’s premises; it never left the bank’s vaults except + when in the possession of the bank’s president in the latter’s + private office. Clarke had therefore chosen the line of least resistance—the + bank president’s office! And that accounted, he, Jimmie Dale, + understood now, for the sudden failure of the Tocsin’s plans three + nights ago, since it accounted evidently for the sudden disappearance of + Hunchback Joe, which had checkmated her on that night and on subsequent + nights—for it had taken those three nights to perfect their plans in + the bank, and the work there had evidently been done under the personal + supervision of Hunchback Joe. + </p> + <p> + The plan’s cleverness and cunning lay in its devilish simplicity—it + required only long, painstaking and laborious preparation. There were, + according to the newspapers, two entrances to the banker’s private + office; the customers’ entrance from the main rotunda of the bank, + and a rear entrance leading in behind the cages to the working quarters of + the staff, which was separated from the general offices by a short, + narrow, enclosed passage with a second door at the extreme end. The + president’s office, as befitted his position, was richly furnished, + and the passage, being in reality but an adjunct to the office itself, had + not been overlooked—it was carpeted with a long Persian rug. That + portion of the basement directly beneath the president’s office and + the passage had been partitioned off into a storeroom for old files and + books, and was consequently rarely visited. For the rest, the method was + fairly obvious. The storeroom was ceiled in with wood, which, when + carefully cut away, could be replaced during the daytime, and so hide all + traces of what was going on should any one enter the place. It required, + then, simply a certain number of nights’ work—and it had taken + three. An opening had been cut through the flooring into the passage, and + the surface flooring of the passage over the aperture refitted into place, + so that, covered by the rug, there was no indication that anything was + wrong. + </p> + <p> + The minor details the Tocsin had passed over—but to supply them + required but little effort of the imagination. The president customarily + devoted a certain amount of time each afternoon to the matter in question, + and immediately on his return from lunch always took the papers from the + vault and carried them to his private office. It became, then, simply + necessary that the man, or men, hiding in the basement should know when + the president was <i>alone</i>; but this would hardly be a very difficult + matter, for, with nothing but the upper skin of the flooring left, one had + only to post himself in the opening and he could hear as well, almost, as + though he were in the private office itself. The entrance could then be + effected in the security of the little passage; the rear door of the + passage would be silently locked against interruption; the door leading + into the president’s office, where the president sat with his back + to the door, would be silently opened—then a quick leap, soundless + on the heavy carpet—the blow of a blackjack—the limp body + caught and lowered to the floor—the documents secured—the + escape. + </p> + <p> + The escape! Jimmie Dale had turned suddenly into a pitch-black areaway, + and, cautiously now, was making his way to the rear of a three-story + tenement of the poorer class. The escape had naturally been accomplished + in exactly the same way—the rear door unlocked again to obviate any + immediate attention being paid to the passage—the murderer lowering + himself through the aperture, and, as he replaced the flooring, + manipulating the rug so that it would drop innocently back into place—and + the exit from the basement would of course already have been provided for. + Jimmie Dale’s face was hard. The newspapers, going to press almost + at the moment the murder was discovered, though giving a general + description of the bank’s premises, had had no opportunity to + furnish details of the ensuing police investigation; but that the police + would eventually discover the hole in the flooring was obvious; that they + would also discover it without much delay was equally obvious—<i>and + it had been intended that they should</i>. Clarke’s object, acting + through Hunchback Joe, had been to provide only for the <i>immediate</i> + escape—and after that, with callous deviltry, he proposed to utilise + this very means of escape to cover up the tracks of the tools who were + doing his work, and, backed with another murder, to put the crime upon + another’s shoulders! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale had halted now to survey his surroundings, and, his eyes grown + accustomed to the darkness, he could make out a door opening on the small + yard in which he stood, and to the right of the door an unlighted and + closed window. That was Klanner’s window. He did not know Klanner, + the bank’s janitor—except that he knew him as an <i>innocent</i> + man, as the proposed victim of as foul and black and pitiless a conspiracy + as had ever been hatched in a human brain! Nor did he know Hunchback Joe—save + by reputation. The man was a comparative newcomer in the underworld. He + had bought out a small ship-chandler’s business, a rickety, + out-at-the-heels place on an equally rickety old wharf on the East River; + and it was generally understood that he was a “fence” of a + sort, making a speciality of, and catering to, a certain extensive and + vicious class of thieves, the wharf rats, who infested the city’s + shipping—his ostensible business of a ship-chandler enabling him to + handle and dispose of that class of stolen property with comparative + immunity. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was crouching at the door, a little steel picklock in his + fingers. It was fairly evident now that the underworld in general had but + an extremely superficial acquaintance with Hunchback Joe; that Hunchback + Joe’s minor depredations against the law were but a cloak to—the + mental soliloquy ended abruptly. Jimmie Dale drew suddenly back from the + door, and, retreating along the wall of the building, crouched down in the + darkness beneath the window. <i>What was that</i>? It came again——a + step, stealthy, cautious, from the areaway—and now another step—there + were two men there. + </p> + <p> + The picklock was back in his pocket, and, in its place, his fingers closed + around the stock of his automatic. A shadow showed around the corner of + the building, a queer, twisted, misshapen shadow—it was followed by + another. Jimmie Dale drew in his breath softly. Hunchback Joe! He had + rather expected that the man would already have come and gone, that this + initial act of the brutal drama staged for the night’s work would + already have been performed. Well, it did not matter! There was still time—time + to wait while Hunchback Joe did his work here, time in turn to do his own + and still reach Baldy Jack’s before ten o’clock. + </p> + <p> + From somewhere in the distance came the roar and rattle of an elevated + train; from a neighbouring tenement came the strains of a wheezy + phonograph. The figures were at the rear door of the tenement now. A + minute passed; the door opened, closed, the two figures had disappeared—and + then, in a flash, Jimmie Dale had straightened up, and a steel jimmy was + working with deft, silent speed at the window sash. He had the time it + would take Hunchback Joe to reach and open Klanner’s door from the + hall inside—no more. And if he could watch Hunchback Joe at work it + would simplify to a very large extent his own task when Hunchback Joe was + through; there would be no necessity for a <i>search</i>, and—ah! + The window gave. He raised it noiselessly, reached inside and pulled down + the roller shade to within an inch of the sill, and pulled the window down + again to a little below the level of the shade. The opening left was + unnoticeable—but he could now both see and hear. + </p> + <p> + There came a faint sound from within—the creak of a slowly opening + door, a step across the floor, then the flare of a match, and the light in + the room went on. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale was drawn back now against the wall at one corner of the + window, his eyes on a level with the sill. He had made no mistake about + that misshapen, twisted shadow—it was Hunchback Joe. Jimmie Dale’s + eyes travelled to the hunchback’s companion—and narrowed as he + recognised the other. The man was well enough known in the underworld, a + hanger-on for the most part, a confirmed hop-fighter, though when not + under the influence of the drug he was counted one of the cleverest + second-story workers and lock-pickers in the Bad Lands—Hoppy Meggs, + they called him. Again Jimmie Dale’s eyes shifted—to Hunchback + Joe once more. Like some abnormal and repulsive toad the man looked. His + shoulders were thrust upward until they seemed to merge with the head + itself, the body was crooked and bent forward, due to the ugly deformity + of the man’s back, while the face was carried at an upward tilt, as + though tardily to rectify the curvature of the spine, and out of the + sinister, bearded face, the beard tawny and ill-kempt, little black eyes + from under protruding brows blinked ceaselessly. + </p> + <p> + A sudden fury, an anger hot and passionate seized upon Jimmie Dale; and + there came an impulse almost overpowering to play another role, a + deadlier, grimmer role than that of spectator! A toad, he had called the + man. He was wrong—the man was a devil in human guise. He crushed + back the impulse, a cold smile on his lips. He could afford to wait! It + was not time yet. There was still the game to play out. He would have an + opportunity to give full sway to impulse before the night was out, <i>before</i> + the Tocsin should have set the Secret Service men upon the other’s + trail—before midnight came. + </p> + <p> + Hunchback Joe was speaking now. + </p> + <p> + “Go on, Hoppy; get busy!” he ordered sharply, jerking his hand + toward a trunk that stood at the foot of the cheap iron bedstead. “Get + that opened. Hurry up! And see that you don’t leave any scratches on + it, or—you understand!” He leaned forward, leering with sudden + savagery at his companion. + </p> + <p> + Hoppy Meggs moved forward, dropped on his knees in front of the trunk, + examined the lock for an instant—and grunted in contempt. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, it’s a cinch! Say, I could do it wid a hairpin!” he + grinned—and a moment later threw back the lid. + </p> + <p> + Hunchback Joe drew a short, ugly blackjack, a packet of papers, and a + large roll of bills from his pocket, and tossed the articles into the + trunk. + </p> + <p> + “Lock it again!” he instructed tersely. + </p> + <p> + Hoppy Meggs hesitated—he was staring into the trunk. + </p> + <p> + “Say, youse don’t mean dat—do youse?” he demanded + heavily. “Not dem papers dat—” + </p> + <p> + Hunchback Joe’s smile was not pleasant. + </p> + <p> + “Lock the trunk!” he said curtly. And then, as Hoppy Meggs + closed down the lid: “I didn’t bring you here to offer any + advice; but as I don’t want you to labour under the impression that, + not having any brains of your own, there aren’t, therefore, any + brains at all to stand between you and the police, I’ll tell you. If + they recover the original document, besides fixing the crime on Klanner, + they’ll figure they’ve got it back before any harm has been + done, and before it has been passed on to whoever had paid down the little + cash advance to Klanner for the job in the shape of that roll there—eh? + And figuring that way they won’t change any of the plans or details + as they stand now in those papers—eh? And meanwhile a <i>copy</i> is + just as good to the man who is coughing up to you and me and the rest of + us for this, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “My Gawd!” said Hoppy Meggs in fervent admiration, as he + locked the trunk. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Hunchback Joe—and the snarl was back in his + voice. “And now you see to it that you’ve got the rest of what + <i>you’ve</i> got to do straight. It won’t pay you to make any + mistakes! Let the Mole’s crowd start something before you pull the + lights—it’s got to look like a drunken row where the + bystander, with nobody but himself to blame for being in such a place as + that, <i>accidentally</i> gets his! And you tip the Kid off again to leave + Klanner by his lonesome at the table before the trouble starts, or he’ll + get in bad himself. The Kid can pull a fake play to make up with some moll + across the room. Klanner’s no friend of his, he never saw the man + before—you understand?—just ran into him outside the dance + hall, if any questions are asked. But I don’t want any questions, + and there won’t be any if he plays his hand right. Tell him I said + his job’s over once he has Klanner inside—and to stand from + under. Get me?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” said Hoppy Meggs. + </p> + <p> + “Well, we’ll beat it, then,” snapped Hunchback Joe. + </p> + <p> + The room was in darkness again. Jimmie Dale crouched further back along + the wall. The rear door opened, two shadows emerged, passed around the + corner of the tenement—and disappeared. + </p> + <p> + The minutes passed, five of them, and then Jimmie Dale, too, was making + his way softly along the areaway to the street—but in Jimmie Dale’s + pockets were the short leaden blackjack, ugly for the stain on its + leathern covering, the packet of papers, and the roll of banknotes that + had been in Klanner’s trunk. He gained the street, paused under the + nearest street lamp to consult his watch, and swung briskly along again. + It was a matter of only two blocks to Baldy Jack’s, one of the most + infamous dance halls in the Bad Lands, but it was already ten minutes to + ten. + </p> + <p> + And now a curious metamorphosis came to Jimmie Dale’s appearance. + The neat, well-fitting Fifth Avenue tweeds did not fit quite so perfectly—the + coat bunched a little at the shoulders, the trousers were drawn a little + higher until they lost their “set.” His hat was pulled still + farther over his eyes, but at a more rakish angle, and his tie, tucked + into his shirt bosom just below the collar, exposed blatantly a diamond + shirt stud. But on Jimmie Dale’s lips there was an ominous smile not + wholly in keeping with the somewhat jaunty swagger he had assumed, and the + lines at the corners of his mouth were drawn down hard and sharp. It was + miserable work, the work of a hound and cur! Who, better than the <i>janitor</i> + of the bank, would have had the opportunity to carry on that work there! + And so they had selected Klanner as their victim. But Klanner, if allowed + to talk, might be able to defend himself—therefore Klanner would not + be allowed to talk. There was only one way to prevent that effectively—by + killing Klanner. But, again, Klanner’s death must not appear in any + way to be consequent to the murder at the bank—therefore it was to + bear every evidence of having been purely inadvertent, and, in a way, an + accident. Yes, it was crafty enough, hideous enough to be fully worthy + even of the fiendish brain that had planned it! Kid Greer, having probably + struck up an acquaintance with Klanner during the past few days, had + inveigled Klanner to-night into Baldy Jack’s, ostensibly, no doubt, + for an innocent and casual glass of beer, and in a general row and melee + in the dance hall—not an uncommon occurrence in a place like Baldy + Jack’s—Klanner would be shot and killed. The rest was obvious. + The man’s effects would naturally be examined, and the evidence of + his “guilt” found in his trunk. It was an open and shut game + against a dead man! Even his previous good record would smash on the rock + of a presumed double life. The fact that Klanner had voluntarily been in a + place like Baldy Jack’s was damning in itself! + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale, approaching the garishly lighted exterior of the dance hall + now, lit a cigarette. The plan, if successful, placed the guilt without + question or cavil upon Klanner, but that was not all—strong as that + motive might be, Clarke had had still another in view, and one that + perhaps took precedence over the first. Hunchback Joe had defined it + clearly enough. The documents would have been valueless to Clarke, either + to sell, or to put to any use himself, if the plans and arrangements they + contained were subsequently altered or changed. But it was obvious that a + man in Klanner’s station could have no <i>personal</i> interest in + them; it was obvious, as evidenced by the money, that he was working for + some one else, and therefore the documents appearing in his trunk would + logically appear to have been recovered <i>before</i> he had been able to + hand them over to his principal, and <i>before</i> any vital harm had been + done that would necessitate any change in the details they contained. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale pushed the door of the dance hall open, and stepped + nonchalantly inside. It was the usual scene, there was the usual hilarious + uproar, the usual close, almost fetid atmosphere that mingled the odours + of stale beer and tobacco. Baldy Jack’s was always popular, and the + place, even for that early hour, was already doing a thriving business. + Jimmie Dale’s eyes, from a dozen couples swirling in the throes of + the bunny-hug on the polished section of the floor in the centre of the + hall, strayed over the little tables that were ranged three and four deep + around the walls. At the upper end of the room a man, fair-haired and + neatly dressed, though his clothes were evidently not those of one in + over-affluent circumstances, sat alone at one of the tables. It might, or + might not, be Klanner. Jimmie Dale strolled forward up the hall, and, as + though deliberating over his selection of a seat, paused by the table. The + man looked up. There was a long, jagged scar on the other’s right + cheek bone. It was Klanner. Jimmie Dale pulled out a chair at a vacant + table directly behind the other, and sat down. A waiter, in beer-spotted + apron and balancing a dripping tray, came for his order. + </p> + <p> + “Suds!” said Jimmie Dale laconically. + </p> + <p> + Again Jimmie Dale’s eyes made a circuit of the place, failed to + identify the person of one Kid Greer, and, giving up the attempt, rested + speculatively instead on Klanner’s back. Yes, he could quite fully + understand why the Tocsin could not have warned Klanner to beware, for + instance, of Kid Greer. Such a warning, apart from keeping Hunchback Joe + from planting the evidence, would even have defeated its own end—for, + even to save Klanner, the game had to be played out as Hunchback Joe had + planned it. They meant to “get” Klanner, and if not here at + Baldy Jack’s, then somewhere else. She <i>knew</i> what they meant + to do here—she <i>might not</i> know when, or how, or where they + would make the attempt if they had been forced to change their plans. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale tossed a coin on the table, as the waiter set down a glass of + beer in front of him—and then, over the top of the glass, Jimmie + Dale resumed his scrutiny of the hall. Directly behind him was a back + entrance that opened on a lane at the rear of the building; and between + himself and the entrance was only one table, which was unoccupied. Jimmie + Dale, playing with his match box, as he lighted another cigarette, dropped + the box, stooped to pick it up—and drew his chair unostentatiously + nearer to Klanner. + </p> + <p> + It was ten o’clock now, time that—yes, the game was on—<i>now!</i> + A man, that he recognised as one of the Mole’s gunmen, had dropped + into a seat a couple of tables away from Klanner, where there was a clear + space between the two men. There was a sudden jostling among the dancers + on the floor—then an oath, rising high above the riot of talk and + laughter—a swirl of figures—a medley of shouts and women’s + screams, drowning out the squeak of the musicians’ violins and the + thump of the tinny piano. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s jaws locked hard together. There was a struggling, + Furious mob at the lower end of the hall—but his eyes now never left + the gunman two tables away. Klanner, in dazed amazement, had half risen + from his seat, as though uncertain what to do. The screams, shouts, oaths + and yells grew louder—came the roar of a revolver shot—another—pandemonium + was reigning now. It seemed an hour, a great period of time since the + first shout had rung through the hall—it had been but a matter of + seconds. Jimmie Dale was crouched a little forward in his chair now, + tense, motionless. What was holding Hoppy Meggs! This was Hoppy Meggs’ + cue, wasn’t it?—those shots there, aimed at the floor, had + only been to create the panic—there was to be <i>another</i> shot + that— + </p> + <p> + The hall was in sudden darkness. With a spring, quick on the instant, + Jimmie Dale was upon Klanner’s back, hurling the man to the floor. + The tongue-flame of a revolver split the black over his head; there was + the deafening roar of a revolver shot almost in his ears that blotted out + for an instant all other sounds—and then came the shouts and cries + again in an access of terror and now the rush of feet—a blind + stampede in the darkness for the exits. Another shot from the gunman, as + though to make his work doubly sure, followed the first—but now some + of the fear-stricken crowd had come between them, plunging, falling, + tripping over tables and chairs, seeking the rear exit. + </p> + <p> + “Quick!” Jimmie Dale breathed in Klanner’s ear. He was + half lifting, half dragging the man along. “Quick—get your + feet, man!” + </p> + <p> + There was a surging mob around them now, pushing, fighting madly to reach + the door; and, as Klanner regained his feet, they were both swept forward, + and, lunging through the door, were precipitated out into the lane. And + here, wary of a riot call that had probably already been rung in by the + patrolman on the beat, the crowd was taking to its heels and dispersing in + both directions along the lane. + </p> + <p> + “Quick!” said Jimmie Dale again—and, with his hand on + Klanner’s arm, broke into a run. + </p> + <p> + Those running in the same direction turned off from the lane at the first + cross street; but Jimmie Dale held to the lane, and it was three blocks + away from Baldy Jack’s before he stopped. + </p> + <p> + Klanner was panting from his exertions. + </p> + <p> + “My God—what’s it mean!” he gasped. “I—I + thought I saw a revolver in that man’s hand, the fellow next to me, + just as the lights went out.” + </p> + <p> + “You probably did,” said Jimmie Dale grimly. + </p> + <p> + “Well——what’s it mean?” repeated Klanner + heavily. + </p> + <p> + It was a moment before Jimmie Dale answered. For the man’s own sake, + the less that Klanner knew the better, probably—and yet the man must + be kept out of harm’s way for the rest of the night. Having failed + at Baldy Jack’s, it was certain, since Clarke’s whole plan + hinged on Klanner’s death, that they would try again. After to-night—if + all went well—it did not matter, for Klanner then would be no longer + a factor to Clarke or Hunchback Joe! + </p> + <p> + “It means,” said Jimmie Dale gravely, “that there’s + been some sort of a gangster’s fight pulled off, and that probably + there’s been dirty work—murder—in there. The police will + go the limit to round up everybody they can find who was in Baldy Jack’s. + There’s only one thing to do—keep your mouth shut and lie low + to-night. You can’t take any chances of getting into this—you + look like a man who’s got a decent job he doesn’t want to + lose, and you don’t look like a man who is entitled to be saddled + with a reputation for hanging around that sort of place. Do you live near + here?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Klanner, a little dully. + </p> + <p> + “Well then,” said Jimmie Dale quietly, “get out of this + neighbourhood for the night. Don’t risk recognition while the chase + is hot. Go uptown somewhere to any hotel you like, and <i>stay</i> there + in your room. You can go to work just as well from there in the morning. + Got any money?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Klanner slowly. “Yes, I got some money—and + I guess you’re right. Say, who are you anyway? You seem to have a + line on this sort of thing, and I guess I owe you a whole skin. If you + hadn’t—” + </p> + <p> + “I’m a man in a hurry,” said Jimmie Dale whimsically—and + then the grim note crept back into his voice. “I am giving you a + straight tip. Take it—and take that street car that’s coming + along there.” He held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” said Klanner. “And I—” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night,” said Jimmie Dale, and started abruptly across + the street, entering the lane on the other side again—but here, in + the shadows, he paused for a moment, watching until Klanner boarded the + uptown car. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV. AT FIVE MINUTES OF TWELVE + </h2> + <p> + Twenty minutes later, well along the East River front, in an unsavoury and + deserted neighbourhood, Jimmie Dale was crouched before the door of a + small building that seemed built half on the shore edge, and half on an + old and run-down pier that extended out into the water. The building + itself was little more than a storage shed, and originally had probably + laid claims to nothing more pretentious—to-day it served as + warehouse and office for Hunchback Joe’s “business,” + and, above, for Hunchback Joe’s living quarters. Jimmie Dale glanced + around him sharply—not for the first time. There were no other + buildings in his immediate vicinity, and such as could be seen loomed up + only as black, shadowy, distant shapes—warehouses and small + factories, for the most part, and empty and deserted now at night. It was + intensely black—only a twinkling light here and there from a passing + craft on the river, and the glow from thousands of street lamps that, like + some strange aerial illumination, hovered over the opposite shore. The + shed itself, windowless at least in front, was as silent, as deserted, and + as black as all around it. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s hand stole into his pocket, produced a black silk + mask, adjusted the mask over his face—and then the deft, slim + fingers were at work with a little steel instrument on the door lock. A + moment more, and the door swung silently inward, slowly, inch by inch. He + listened intently. There was no sound. He stepped inside, and silently + closed and locked the door behind If Hunchback Joe had not returned yet, + it was necessary that Hunchback Joe should find the door as he had left it—locked! + Again Jimmie Dale listened—and then the ray of his flashlight + circled the place. A miscellany of ship’s junk was piled without any + attempt at order all over the place; a board partition with two small + windows, one on each side of the door, ran from side to side of the shed + about a third of the way up its length; and in the sides of the shed + itself were also two small, narrow windows—too small and too narrow, + Jimmie Dale noted grimly, for the passage of a man’s body. + </p> + <p> + He moved forward cautiously, though he was almost certain that he was + ahead of Hunchback Joe. He, Jimmie Dale, had come without an instant’s + loss of time from Baldy Jack’s, and it was more than an even chance + that Hunchback Joe would have remained somewhere in the neighbourhood + until the affair was over. It would take some little time—not until + after the police had restored order—to discover that the attempt + upon Klanner had been abortive, that Klanner’s body was <i>not</i> + lying there dead on the floor. But after that—Jimmie Dale opened the + door of the partition stealthily, slipped through, and, as his flashlight + swept around again, nodded his head sharply—yes, he had thought so!—there + was a means of communication here—a telephone. Well then, after + that, Hunchback Joe would set every crook and tool over whom he had any + control at work to find Klanner. But that meant different men at work in + many different directions, and there must therefore be some central spot + where Hunchback Joe could be instantly reached and reports made to him + should Klanner be found—and what better place, what more likely + place than here in the security of his own lair! Yes, Hunchback Joe, since + he, Jimmie Dale, was now satisfied that the other had not yet returned, + would be back here, and, in all probability, long before midnight. + Midnight! Why had the Tocsin set midnight, waited for midnight as the hour + for the Secret Service raid? Did she have a hidden purpose in that? Was it + possible she knew that some one beside Hunchback Joe would also be here at + that hour—that Clarke might be here, too! Well, why not! There might + well be need for a conference between Clarke and his unholy chief of + staff! There might—Jimmie Dale frowned savagely. His mind was + running riot! He had not come here to speculate on possibilities; for, + whatever might happen, there was definite and instant work to do. + </p> + <p> + The white ray of the flashlight played steadily now around him. The place + evidently served as the office; it was partitioned off again in exactly + the same manner from the rear of the shed, making an oblong enclosure the + width of the shed one way, and a good fifteen feet the other. It was + electric-lighted, and contained a battered table in lieu of desk, upon + which stood the telephone; there were several chairs, and a safe, whose + scratched, marred, and apparently ramshackle exterior did not disguise + from Jimmie Dale the fact that it was of the finest and most modern make. + </p> + <p> + A rough, wooden stairway led above. Jimmie Dale mounted this, found that + it gave on a crudely furnished, attic-like bedroom, and then descending + again, he opened the rear door of the partition, and flashed his light + around the back of the shed. There were a few packing cases here—that + was all. The shed was evidently built out to the extreme end of the pier, + judging from its depth; and there had been side doors, but these were + boarded up and bore evidence of having been long out of use—and + there were no windows. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale returned now to the front of the shed. + </p> + <p> + “Under the sail-cloth in left corner,” she had written. Yes, + here it was! He stooped down, a twisted smile on his lips, and, taking + from his pocket the packet of papers and the blackjack, tucked them under + several folds of the cloth. “Unto Caesar!” she had said. Well, + he had rendered back to “Caesar” the things that were “Caesar’s.” + He straightened up. The Secret Service men would know where to look—she + would have seen to that! “Unto Caesar!” The smile died away, + and an angry red tinged Jimmie Dale’s cheeks—he was picturing + again that scene in Klanner’s room, the bestial deviltry of that + deformed and hideous creature who, to cover up his own guilt, was + railroading an innocent man to death. “Unto Caesar!”—yes, + there was grim justice here—but that was not enough! Justice might + and <i>would</i> have its turn, but before then there was another sort of + justice, too! + </p> + <p> + He went back into the office, and sat down in a chair beside the table + where he could command the door. He laid his flashlight, the ray on, upon + the table, took from his pocket the metal insignia case, lifted out a + seal, dropped it by means of the tweezers on his handkerchief, folded the + handkerchief carefully, and replaced the insignia case and handkerchief in + his pocket; then, switching off the flashlight, he restored that, too, to + his pocket. + </p> + <p> + It was dark now again—and silent. There was no sound, save the + gentle lap of water against the pier, and the distant, muffled murmur of + traffic from one of the great bridges that spanned the river. Jimmie Dale’s + automatic was in his hand. There was one man who stood between the woman + whom he loved and her happiness, one man, who had driven her from her home + and by every foul art and craft had sought to take her life, one man, one + man only—Marre, alias Clarke. And once Clarke were run to earth, she + was free forever—no one else had any incentive in hounding her to + her death. + </p> + <p> + Well, there was one man who knew where Marre was—Hunchback Joe. And, + come what might, Hunchback Joe would tell him, Jimmie Dale, to-night where + Marre was! He was not so sure as the Tocsin that Hunchback Joe would talk + to the police; he was sure that Hunchback Joe would talk—<i>to the + Gray Seal</i>. That was all. That was what he was waiting for here now in + the darkness before the police came—for Hunchback Joe. + </p> + <p> + Time passed—a half hour—an hour. It was getting perilously + close to the time when the Secret Service men would be pounding at the + door out there, and the margin of time left for that grim interview with + Hunchback Joe was narrowing rapidly; but there was a strange, calm, cold + patience possessing Jimmie Dale—the man would come, and come in time—he + knew that, knew it as he knew that he sat there and lived and breathed. + </p> + <p> + The silence was oppressive, heavy; it seemed to palpitate in rhythm with + the lap of the water against the pier. The minutes dragged by, another + five of them—and then suddenly Jimmie Dale sat rigidly forward in + his chair. The front door had not been unlocked or opened, but there was + the sound of a footstep now—from the rear section of the shed, where + there had appeared to be no entrance! The footstep came nearer—the + door of the partition opened—there was the click of the + electric-light switch—the light came on—and then a low, + savage, startled oath came from the doorway. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale did not move—his automatic was covering the misshapen, + toad-like figure of Hunchback Joe, as the other stood just inside the + room. For a moment neither spoke—then Hunchback Joe laughed suddenly + in cool contempt. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the game?” he demanded. “You don’t + need any mask on here—I deal with your kind every day. What do you + want?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale rose to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “This—to begin with!” he said—and, crossing the + room, felt through the other’s pockets, and possessed himself of the + man’s revolver. “Now go over there, and sit down at that + table!” + </p> + <p> + Hunchback Joe laughed contemptuously again, as he obeyed; but there was a + hint of deadly menace in his voice as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Go to it—while you can!” he snarled. “You’ve + got the drop on me. Well, what do you want?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale followed, and faced the other across the table. Hunchback Joe’s + eyes, with that curious, unpleasant trick of which the man seemed + possessed, were blinking ceaselessly. + </p> + <p> + “I want to give this back to you,” said Jimmie Dale quietly—and + flung the roll of bills that he had taken from Klanner’s trunk down + upon the table. + </p> + <p> + Hunchback Joe’s eyes ceased to blink. + </p> + <p> + “Why, thanks!” grinned Hunchback Joe. “You’re a + queer sort of a night marauder, you are! Sure this is for me, and that you + aren’t making a mistake?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite sure,” said Jimmie Dale, still quietly. “It’s + yours. It’s the money you planted in Klanner’s trunk a couple + of hours ago.” + </p> + <p> + “I never heard of Klanner,” said Hunchback Joe. + </p> + <p> + “It’s simply the evidence that that isn’t all I found in + the trunk,” said Jimmie Dale. “There was a packet of papers, + and the blood-stained blackjack with which Jathan Lane was murdered in the + bank this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “My God, the man’s mad!” muttered Hunchback Joe under + his breath. “I’m up against a maniac!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale had taken his handkerchief from his pocket, and, carrying it + to his mouth, had moistened the adhesive side of the little seal. His + voice rasped, as his hand went down upon the table. + </p> + <p> + “You blot on God’s earth!” he said hoarsely. “That’s + enough of that! The buttons are off the foils to-night, Hunchback Joe!” + </p> + <p> + For the second time, Hunchback Joe’s eyes had ceased to blink. He + was staring at the gray seal on the table top in front of him, and now in + spite of his effort to maintain nonchalance, a whiteness had come into his + face. + </p> + <p> + “You!” he shrank back a little in his chair. “The Gray + Seal!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale’s lips were thin and drawn tight together. He made no + answer. + </p> + <p> + It was Hunchback Joe who broke the silence. + </p> + <p> + “What’s your price?” he asked thickly. “I suppose + you’ve got those—those other things, or at least you know + where they are.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jimmie Dale grimly, “I know where they are.” + </p> + <p> + “Well”—Hunchback Joe hesitated, fumbling for his words—“we’re + both tarred with the same brush, only you’re worse than I am. I’ve + got to pay your price, of course. Make it reasonable. I haven’t got + all the money in the world. Tell me where those things are, and name your + figures.” + </p> + <p> + “My figure”—Jimmie Dale was clipping off his words—“is + a little information. A trade, Hunchback Joe—mine for yours. I want + to know where Peter Marre, alias Clarke, is?” + </p> + <p> + Hunchback Joe drew back from the table with a jerk. The whiteness in his + face had changed to an unhealthy, leaden gray. He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” he said. “That’s straight—I’ve + heard of Marre, of course, everybody has, he’s a lawyer; but I never + heard of Clarke, and that’s—” + </p> + <p> + “A lie!” Jimmie Dale cut in, an ugly calm in his voice “You—” + </p> + <p> + But Jimmie Dale, too, was interrupted. The telephone on the table was + ringing. His automatic covering Hunchback Joe, he pulled the instrument + toward him, and lifted the receiver from the hook. + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” he said gruffly. “What’s wanted?” + </p> + <p> + A voice responded in feverish excitement: + </p> + <p> + “Say, dat youse, Joe? Dis is Hoppy Meggs. Say, de fly cops has got + tipped off; dey’re on de way down to yer place now. Youse want to + beat it on de jump!” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute!” said Jimmie Dale. He passed the instrument + over to Hunchback Joe. “It’s for you,” he said, with a + queer smile. + </p> + <p> + Hunchback Joe put the receiver to his ear—and a moment later, + without a word in reply, returned it to the hook. But he had risen from + his seat, and, swaying on his feet, was gripping at the table edge for + support. + </p> + <p> + “I could have told you that,” said Jimmie Dale evenly; “but + you’ve got it now from a source that you won’t question. I + told you the buttons were off the foils tonight, but you don’t seem + to realise it yet. Three nights ago you laid a trap for me—<i>and + the Pippin died</i>. Do you understand what I mean now by naked foils? You’ve + one chance for life—and that’s to answer my question. But I’ll + play fair with you, and tell you that I’m going to see that the + police get you even if you do answer. Those documents and that blackjack + are here in this place, and the Secret Service men know where to find + them.” Jimmie Dale’s watch was in his hand. “It’s + five minutes to twelve. They’ll be here at midnight. I’ve got + to make my getaway before they come. I need two minutes for that, + including locking you in so that <i>you</i> can’t get away. That + leaves you three minutes to make up your mind. If you answer, you can have + whatever chance your lawyers can get you; if you refuse, you and I settle + our score before I leave. It’s three minutes against a possible + commutation of sentence to life imprisonment. <i>Where is Marre?</i>” + </p> + <p> + The misshapen, shrunken thing was rocking on its feet. There was no + answer. + </p> + <p> + “There are two minutes left,” said Jimmie Dale in a monotone. + </p> + <p> + The man’s eyes, coal black, hunted, the pupils gone, swept the room. + His lips were working; his hands, clenching and unclenching, clawed at the + table. + </p> + <p> + “<i>One!</i>” said Jimmie Dale. + </p> + <p> + There was a scream of ungovernable fury, the crash of the toppling table, + and, reaching out with both hands for Jimmie Dale’s weapon, + Hunchback Joe hurled himself forward—but quick as the other was, + Jimmie Dale was quicker, and with his left hand, palm open, pushed full + into the man’s face, he flung the other back. + </p> + <p> + And then there came a cry—a cry in a woman’s voice; + </p> + <p> + “<i>Marre!</i>” + </p> + <p> + It was the Tocsin’s voice from the rear doorway of the office. It + was her voice; Jimmie Dale could never mistake it even in its startled cry—but + he did not look. His eyes were on the man who was standing on the other + side of the overturned table, whose beard where he, Jimmie Dale, had + grasped the other’s face had been wrenched away, and whose shrunken + figure seemed to tower up now in height, and whose deformity was a padded + coat, awry now because of the erect and upright posture in which the man + stood. It was Clarke, the master of disguise, who once had impersonated + Travers, the chauffeur; it was Marre—Wizard Marre. + </p> + <p> + There was a ghastly smile on the man’s face. + </p> + <p> + “Marre,” he said. “Yes—Marre. But you never knew + it, did you, Miss LaSalle—until now! Well, now is time enough for + you, and far too soon for me!” He flung out his hand in a queer, + impotent gesture, as he threw back his shoulders. “But I would like + to be thought a good loser. I congratulate you, Miss LaSalle!” Again + his hand was raised in gesture—and with lightning swiftness, before + Jimmie Dale could intervene, swept to his vest pocket and was carried to + his mouth. “And so I drink to your success, and—” + </p> + <p> + A glass vial rolled away upon the floor—and Jimmie Dale, with a + bound, had caught the swaying figure in his arms. There was a tremor + through the man’s form—then inertness. He lowered the other to + the ground. Wizard Marre was dead. It was the colourless liquid of the old + Crime Club, instantaneous in its action that— + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Dale swept his hand over his masked face, and pulled the mask away, + and looked up. She, the Tocsin; yes, it was the Tocsin; yes, it was Marie—only + the beautiful face was deadly pale—it was the Tocsin who was + standing over him, shaking him frantically by the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie! Quick! Quick!” she cried. “The Secret Service + men! Don’t you hear them? Quick! This way!” + </p> + <p> + There was a crash, a pound upon the street door. She had caught his hand, + and was pulling him forward now out into the rear of the shed. There was a + light from the office doorway—enough to see. One of the packing + cases was tipped over, and, on hinges, made a trap door. A short ladder + led downward to where, a few feet below, two boats were moored. + </p> + <p> + “I came this way. I followed him,” she said. “Quick—Jimmie!” + </p> + <p> + It took an instant, no more, to swing her through the opening, but as he + lowered her down and her hair brushed his cheek, there came a quick half + sob to Jimmie Dale’s lips. + </p> + <p> + “Mark!” he whispered. “Marie—at last!” + </p> + <p> + Came the rip and tear and rend of wood, the thud of a falling door from + the front of the shed, the rush of feet—but Jimmie Dale was in the + boat now, and the packing case above was swung back into place. + </p> + <p> + “Right ahead, Jimmie!” she breathed. “The planks at the + end of the pier swing aside—yes, there—no, a little to the + right—yes!” + </p> + <p> + The boat shot out into the river—farther out—and the pier and + shed merged into the shadows of the shore line and were lost. + </p> + <p> + And then Jimmie Dale let the oars swing loose. She was crouched in the + bottom of the boat close beside him. He bent his head until his lips + touched her hair, and lower still until his lips touched hers. And a long + time passed. And the boat drifted on. And he drew her closer into his + arms, and held her there. She was safe now, safe for always—and the + road of fear lay behind. And into the night there seemed to come a great + quiet, and a great joy, and a great thankfulness, and a wondrous peace. + </p> + <p> + And the boat drifted on. + </p> + <p> + And neither spoke—for they were going <i>home</i>. + </p> + <h3> + THE END + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + +<pre> + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale, by +Frank L. 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