The Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale
by Frank L. Packard · English · Gutenberg #9440 · 584,741 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale
Author: Frank L. Packard
Release date: December 1, 2005 [eBook #9440]
Most recently updated: August 15, 2012
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9440
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE ***
Produced by Brendan Lane, Mary Meehan and PG Distributed Proofreaders
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
BY
FRANK L. PACKARD
1919
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I SMARLINGHUE
II THE WARNING
III THE MAN WITH THE SCAR
IV THE DIAMOND PENDANT
V "DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!"
VI THE REHABILITATION OF LARRY THE BAT
VII THE BOND ROBBERY
VIII AT HALFPAST ONE
IX 'WARE THE WOLF!
X THE CHASE
XI THE VOICES OF THE UNDERWORLD
XII IN THE SANCTUARY
XIII THE SECRET ROOM
XIV THE LAST CARD
XV CAUGHT IN THE ACT
XVI ONE CHANCE IN TEN
XVII THE DEFAULTER
XVIII ALIAS ENGLISH DICK
XIX THE BEGINNING OF THE END
XX THE OLD-CLOTHES SHOP
XXI SILVER MAG
XXII THE TOCSIN'S STORY
XXIII HUNCHBACK JOE
XXIV AT FIVE MINUTES OF TWELVE
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
CHAPTER I
SMARLINGHUE
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"It took you a damned long time to open that door, _Mister_
Smarlinghue!" he said sharply.
The man addressed touched his lips with the tip of his tongue nervously,
shrank back, and made no reply.
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.
"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.
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.
"I haven't done anything, honest to God, I haven't!" he whined.
"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."
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.
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.
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.
"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--"
"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!"
Cowed, Smarlinghue's voice dropped to a mumble, and he let the torn
canvas slip from his fingers to the floor.
Clancy laughed gruffly, pulled another chair to the opposite side of the
table, sat down himself, and eyed Smarlinghue coldly for a moment.
"Sold it, eh?" he observed grimly. "How much were you going to
get for it?"
A cunning gleam flashed in Smarlinghue's eyes--and vanished instantly.
He wet his lips with his tongue again.
"Ten dollars," he said hoarsely.
Clancy brushed aside the litter on the table, and nonchalantly laid down
a ten-dollar bill.
With a sharp little cry that brought on a fit of coughing, Smarlinghue
stretched out his hand for the money eagerly.
Clancy drew the money back out of reach.
"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!"
Smarlinghue's eyes remained greedily riveted on the ten-dollar note. He
began to twine his hands together once more.
"I don't know what you mean," he muttered tremulously.
"Don't you!" retorted the other shortly. "Well, I mean exactly what I
say. I'm not buying any pictures, I'm buying--_you_. 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?"
"I--I haven't done anything! Not a thing! I--I swear I haven't!"
Smarlinghue burst out frantically.
"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."
Smarlinghue pushed back his chair now in a frightened sort of way.
"You--you mean you want me for--for a stool pigeon?" he faltered.
"You got it!" said Clancy bluntly.
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.
"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!"
Clancy thrust head and shoulders aggressively across the table.
"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."
"No! No, no! I can't! I can't!" Smarlinghue flung out his arms
imploringly.
Clancy lowered his voice.
"Cut that out!" he snapped viciously. "What's the matter with you!
You'll be well paid for it--_and have police protection_. 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!"
A curious dignity came to Smarlinghue. He sat upright.
"It is my art," he said. "I have starved for it many years. Some day I
will get recognition. Some day I--"
"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 _your_ 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--"
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.
Clancy surrendered the syringe with a mocking grin, and shoved
Smarlinghue backward into his chair again.
"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?"
There was a hunted look in Smarlinghue's eyes.
"They'd--they'd kill me," he said huskily.
"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'll_ do to you. I'll--"
"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--"
"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 _are_ a stool pigeon. That'll take care of your
finish, too, won't it--good and plenty!"
Smarlinghue stared miserably. Again and again his tongue circled his
lips. Twice he tried to speak--and only succeeded in mumbling
inarticulately.
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.
"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!"
Smarlinghue was on his feet. The terror of the damned was in his face.
"No! No! My God--no--not that! You--you wouldn't do that!" He reached
out his arms to the other.
"You know--I've gone too far to do without it. If I didn't have it, I--"
"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!"
Smarlinghue's hands were trembling violently; he sat down in his chair
in a pitiful, uncertain way.
"Yes, yes!" he whispered. "_Yes!_ I got to do it. I'll do it, Mr.
Clancy, I'll do it! I'll--I'll do anything!"
A half leer, half scowl was on Clancy's face, as he stood regarding
the other.
"I thought you would!" he grunted roughly. "Well then, we'll get down to
business--and _to-night's_ business. You know the back entrance to Malay
John's hang-out?"
Smarlinghue's eyes widened a little in a startled way. He nodded his
head.
"Very good," said Clancy gruffly. "_You'll_ 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--_all_ 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 _before_ 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?"
Again Smarlinghue nodded--unhappily this time.
"All right!" said Clancy crisply. "I'm not coming around here any
more--_unless I have to_. It might put you in bad. You can make your
reports and get your orders through Whitie Karn at his dance hall."
"Whitie Karn!" The exclamation seemed to come involuntarily, in a quick,
frightened way from Smarlinghue.
Clancy's lips twisted in a smile.
"Kind of a jolt--eh--Smarlinghue? You didn't suspect he was one of _us_,
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.
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.
"Good-night again, Smarlinghue," he said coolly.
The hypodermic fell clattering to the floor; Smarlinghue jumped
nervously in his chair.
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.
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.
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.
CHAPTER II
THE WARNING
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.
What was he to do? What ghastly irony had prompted Clancy to sort _him_
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.
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--_yes_; 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--_no_!
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.
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!
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.
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.
The Tocsin! Marie LaSalle to the world, she was always, and always would
be, the Tocsin to him. _Gone_! 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.
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."
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.
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.
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."
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.
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 _fight_ it out. She could hardly do that in the _person_
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 _how_ 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, _and coincidently with the
reappearance of the heiress Marie LaSalle_--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?
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.
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 _confidence_
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.
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.
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.
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!
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?
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.
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.
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.
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
_her_--it was from the Tocsin.
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 _alive_. 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!
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.
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.
"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...."
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.
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!
There was danger if he went to Malay John's, she had said--and it was
true. But what if he did _not_ go! What, for instance, if Birdie Lee
went through with this night's work!
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.
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!
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!
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.
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.
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!
CHAPTER III
THE MAN WITH THE SCAR
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Still he crouched there, his ear to the panel--and then, satisfied at
last, he tried the door. It was locked.
"The penalty of being early!" murmured Jimmie Dale softly to himself.
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.
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.
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 _that_ modern; it was
only an ancient monstrosity, a helpless thing at the mercy of any
cracksman who--
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.
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:
"All clear, Birdie. Lock the door."
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.
The light ray moving before them, two dark forms stole across the room
to the safe.
"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!"
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.
"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."
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.
"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 _us_. 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 _me_! 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."
"All right!" Birdie Lee answered tersely. "Keep quiet, then, and I'll
see what I can do."
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.
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.
Slimmy Jack bent forward instantly.
"Got it?" he demanded eagerly.
"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!"
"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."
"What are you going to 'soup' it with?" Birdie Lee flung back gruffly.
"We didn't bring nothing. You said--"
"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!"
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--
Birdie Lee spoke again.
"It's no use, Slimmy!" he muttered. "I guess I ain't any good any more.
I can't open the damned thing!"
"Try it again!" ordered Slimmy Jack shortly.
"But it's no use, I tell you!" retorted Birdie Lee. "I ain't got the
feel in my fingers."
"You--try--it--again!" There was a cold, ominous ring in Slimmy
Jack's voice.
Birdie Lee drew back a little on his knees, glancing quickly up at
the other.
"What--what d'ye mean by that, Slimmy!" he exclaimed in a startled way.
"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!"
"But, I can't!" protested Birdie Lee. "I wouldn't hand you anything like
that, Slimmy--you know that, Slimmy. I--"
"_Open it!_ And open it--_quick_!" Slimmy Jack's hand was wrenching at
his side pocket.
"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--"
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.
Then silence.
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.
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:
"He's dead. My God--he's--he's dead."
"Drop that flashlight!" Jimmie Dale's voice rang cold, imperative.
"_Drop it!_" And, sweeping the hangings aside, the ray of his own light
suddenly full upon Birdie Lee, he leaped forward.
With a low, terrified cry, the other let the flashlight fall as though
from nerveless fingers, and shrank back against the safe.
"Now put your hands above your head!" directed Jimmie Dale curtly.
The man obeyed.
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.
"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?"
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.
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.
"Birdie," he said quietly, "could you open this safe if you wanted to?"
The man swung sharply around, the prison pallor of his face a pitiful,
deathlike colour in the flashlight's rays.
"Who are you?" he asked thickly.
"A friend perhaps--if you can open that safe," Jimmie Dale answered.
A puzzled look crept into Birdie's eyes.
"W-what do you mean?" he stammered.
"I mean that I want the _proof_ 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
_were_ stalling, how you came to be here with him."
"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.
"Tell me, anyhow," insisted Jimmie Dale quietly.
Birdie's hand lifted and swept across his eyes.
"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--"
"_Can_ you?" inquired Jimmie Dale gently.
"That thing!" Birdie Lee smiled mirthlessly. "Why it's only a double
combin--"
"Open it, then," prompted Jimmie Dale.
Birdie Lee stooped impulsively to the dial of the safe; hesitated, then
straightened up again, and shook his head.
"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."
Jimmie Dale smiled.
"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.
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.
"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."
"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?"
"Never mind," said Jimmie Dale. "Open the safe, if you can."
"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?"
It was barely an instant before Birdie Lee swung back the door.
"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."
A tremor came to the other's face.
"Clear?" repeated Birdie unsteadily.
"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."
But Birdie Lee shook his head.
"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 _chair_. 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 _quarrelling_ 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."
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.
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.
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.
There was a sharp, startled cry from Birdie Lee.
"_The Gray Seal_! You're--you're Larry the Bat! They passed the word
around in Sing Sing that you were dead, and--"
"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."
But the man seemed as though robbed of the power of movement--and then
his lips quivered, and his eyes filled.
"But you," he faltered, "you--you're doing this for me, and I--I--"
Jimmie Dale caught the other's arm in a kindly grip.
"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.
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.
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.
"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."
He took off the dead man's mask, and played his flashlight for a moment
over the cold, set features.
A queer smile twisted Jimmie Dale's lips.
It was "Clancy of Headquarters"!
CHAPTER IV
THE DIAMOND PENDANT
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!
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 _might_ know!
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!
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:
"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--"
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.
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!
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!
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:
"..._Gray Seal_--"
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!
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.
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.
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.
Jimmie Dale tore the envelope open; and, in a sort of grim, feverish
haste, unfolded the sheets which it had contained.
"Dear Philanthropic Crook--since you _will_ 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..."
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!
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 _morning_ papers would carry
other headlines that would be still more startling!
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.
The car stopped. Benson sprang from his seat, and opened the door.
"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.
Jason, his butler, opened the door for him.
"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.
The old man's face wrinkled up in disappointment.
"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--"
"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."
"Very good, sir," Jason bowed. "Your clothes, Master Jim, are--"
"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.
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.
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.
"The Marleton, Benson," he directed, as he stepped into the car. "And
hurry, please."
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.
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.
The car rolled up to the curb in front of the fashionable family hotel.
Jimmie Dale alighted.
"I shall not need you any more to-night, Benson," he said.
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?
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.
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
_snip_ from the interior of the lock; and, his fingers turning the knob
with a steady, silent pressure, he opened the door slightly.
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.
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.
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.
_He was too late_! 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.
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--
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!
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:
"My dear, you must have left the light burning."
"Unless, it was you," a man's voice answered in good-humoured banter.
"You were the last one in the room."
"But I am sure I didn't!" the feminine tones asserted positively.
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!
"How well you look to-night in your dress," he said, and his blue eyes
shone. "I am very proud of you."
She stroked the hand against her cheek.
"Do you remember the first time I ever wore it?" She was smiling
up at him.
"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."
Silence fell for a moment between them.
Then he spoke again, a little sadly:
"Would you wish those days back again, if you could?"
She hesitated thoughtfully.
"I do not know," she said at last. "Sometimes I think so. We had
John then."
"Yes," he said, and turned away his head.
Her hand, as Jimmie Dale watched, seemed to tighten over her husband's;
and now, though her lips quivered, there came a little smile.
"But we have his memory now, dear," she whispered.
Agitated, the old gentleman moved abruptly away from the chair, and
Jimmie Dale could see that the blue eyes were moist.
"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."
"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?"
"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."
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.
The little old lady rose hurriedly, in a startled way, from her chair.
"What is it? What is the matter?" she cried anxiously.
The box clattered from the colonel's hands to the floor.
"It is gone!" he said hoarsely. "It has been stolen!"
"_Gone!_" She ran wildly forward. "Stolen! No, no--it cannot be gone!"
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.
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.
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.
"I wonder," said Jimmie Dale to himself through set teeth, "I wonder if
a man wouldn't be justified in putting an end _for keeps_ to that devil
Thorold for this!"
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:
"... The police ... next door and telephone ... the light ... while we
were at dinner...."
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.
CHAPTER V
"DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!"
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.
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!
"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!"
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"Four thousand, you cursed miser, and not a cent less," Thorold
was saying.
"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."
"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."
"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!"
"That's my business!" snapped Thorold. "You come across!"
"Three!" whined old Jake again.
"Four!" Thorold flung back angrily.
"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."
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.
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.
"One of these has got a flaw, and it's cloudy," he mumbled.
"Never mind about the flaw! Flash your wad!" invited Thorold, with a
thin smile.
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.
Old Jake laid the pendant on the table, and from some mysterious recess
in his clothing pulled out a huge roll of banknotes.
"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--"
And then Jimmie Dale was in the room, his automatic covering the two
men.
"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.
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.
"The Gray Seal! The Gray Seal!" he muttered hoarsely.
"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--"
"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--"
"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.
The man hesitated.
Jimmie Dale smiled--unpleasantly.
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.
"Damn you, you blasted snitch!" he burst out furiously. "We'll get you
down here some day, and--"
"Some day, perhaps," said Jimmie Dale softly. "But to-night--did I
explain that I was in a hurry--_Thorold!_ Every pocket inside out,
please!"
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.
"Anything there you want?" he sneered.
"Go on!" prompted Jimmie Dale.
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.
"The _inside_ pocket of the vest, Thorold," suggested Jimmie Dale
coldly.
With a malicious snort, Thorold unbuttoned his vest, and turned the
pocket out. There was nothing in it.
Jimmie Dale nodded complacently.
"My mistake, Thorold," he murmured apologetically. "Go on!"
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 _pat_
upon the floor. Jimmie Dale did not turn his head.
"I think you dropped something, Jake," he observed pleasantly. "Now take
your foot off it, and put it on the table!"
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.
"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.
Thorold's face was black with fury.
"There's the watch, you cheap poke-getter!" he choked. "Don't forget to
frisk that while you're at it!"
Jimmie Dale examined the collection with a sort of imperturbable
appraisement.
"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--"
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.
"Get him, Jake! Get him, Jake!" he cried. "He won't _dare_ to fire in
here for the noise. Get him, you fool, he--"
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.
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--_death to the Gray Seal_!
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.
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.
Old Jake's voice screamed from the hallway without:
"Help! The Gray Seal! The Gray Seal! Help! Help! Quick! The Gray Seal!"
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.
"Death to the Gray Seal!" The whole building, in a pandemonium of
hellish glee, seemed to echo and reecho the shout.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 _only_ 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.
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.
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.
"This is police headquarters speaking," said Jimmie Dale coolly. "What's
the condition of that tenement case with the broken head?"
"Hold the wire a minute," came the answer; and then, presently: "Not
serious; but still unconscious."
"Thank you," said Jimmie Dale.
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.
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.
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. _Was that a step coming up the stairs?_
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.
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.
"My God!" he whispered. "What does this mean?"
"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--"
"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.
"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."
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.
"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?"
"Only partially," said Jimmie Dale with a smile, as he shook his head.
"But you need not--"
"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."
Jimmie Dale's eyes had grown suddenly moist.
"I understand," he said simply.
"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."
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:
"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."
Outside on Sixth Avenue an elevated train roared and thundered by--it
seemed strangely extraneous and incongruous.
"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."
Jimmie Dale nodded. "I was thinking of that," he said.
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.
The old gentleman tried twice to speak before a word would come.
"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--"
"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 _yourself_; 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?"
"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."
"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."
He held out his hand.
"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--"
"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.
CHAPTER VI
THE REHABILITATION OF LARRY THE BAT
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.
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.
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.
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.
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, _her_ peril and _her_ 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 _him_. 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.
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, _all_ that the Magpie knew!
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.
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.
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 _character_, 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!
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.
If it was the act of a fool, it was even more the act of a _coward_ 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.
Yes; it was simple enough, and _sure_ 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.
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!
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 _person_. 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
_without_ from being seen by any one from _within_!
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 _murder_ 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.
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.
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.
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 _alone_ 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."
Was that a sound there outside the door? A step cautiously approaching?
He leaned forward tensely. No--his laugh was low, short, furious--_no!_
It was only from above, that sound.
Jimmie Dale's face hardened. It was childish, this sensation of
_presence_ 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!
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--
"Damn it!" gritted Jimmie Dale. "I'm worse than a child to-night!"
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--_on the sole of the right
boot was a diamond-shaped, gray-coloured, paper seal!_ His own
insignia--the insignia of the Gray Seal!
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.
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--
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.
CHAPTER VII
THE BOND ROBBERY
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--_dead_! 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.
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.
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 _why_ the Magpie had been murdered, it was
_who_ 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,
_murder_, 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!
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. _Who_ was the man who had done this, who sheltered
himself from murder behind the Gray Seal!
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!
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--
"_Jimmie!_"
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!
"Jimmie--quick! On the floor under the window!"
He whirled like a flash. Mistake! Imaginings! No! It _was_ 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.
And it was like a half sob that came from Jimmie Dale's lips.
"Gone!" he whispered miserably. "Gone!"
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.
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.
"Jimmie--Jimmie--" It was scrawled in haste, only a few lines. His eyes
travelled rapidly over the words, and suddenly his breath came fast.
"My God!" he cried out sharply.
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 ..."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 _prima facie_ 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!
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.
"Ground floor--left," murmured Larry the Bat to himself. He smiled
facetiously. "Saves an interview with the janitor!"
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."
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.
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.
"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!"
"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."
"You--_what!_" 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!"
"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."
Kenleigh was staring incredulously at the detective.
"How do you know?" he gasped out. "I--I don't--"
"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.
Kenleigh shook his head bewilderingly.
"I suppose you mean that you recognise it?" he ventured.
"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!"
Meighan hung up the receiver, sat down in a chair, and motioned toward
another that was close alongside the desk.
"Turn out the light, Mr. Kenleigh," he said abruptly; "and sit
down here."
Kenleigh looked his amazement.
"Turn out the light?" he repeated perplexedly.
"Yes," Meighan nodded. "And at once, please."
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.
"I--I don't quite see," said Kenleigh, a little nervously. "I--"
"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
_here_. Get the idea? It would plant him for keeps, and nobody knows it
any better than he does."
"You mean he'll come back here?" whispered Kenleigh eagerly.
Meighan chuckled.
"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?"
It was quite dark now, and Jimmie Dale leaned forward a little to catch
the words. Both men were speaking in guarded undertones.
"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."
"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."
There was silence for a moment. Then Meighan spoke again:
"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?"
"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.
"Sure!" said Meighan. "I see. Wise guy! Go on!"
"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."
"Anybody see you do that?" queried Meighan quickly.
"No; I don't see how they could. I've only a small one-room office, and
there was nobody there but myself."
"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.
"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."
"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."
"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."
"Well, they're numbered, aren't they?" Meighan returned encouragingly.
"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?"
"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!"
Kenleigh made no answer.
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 _murdered_ man to come!
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--
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.
"Hello!" Meighan's voice was still guarded. "Yes--yes ... What!" His
voice rose suddenly in a rasping cry. "What's that! Dead! _Murdered_!
Wait a minute! Kenleigh, they've found the Magpie murdered in his room!"
"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?"
"Hello!" Meighan was evidently speaking into the 'phone again.
"Any trace of the bonds? ... What? ... Yes, yes; go on, I'm
listening! ... _Who_? ... _What_?... Good Lord!" The receiver
clicked back on its hook.
"What is it? What do they say?" demanded Kenleigh feverishly.
"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."
"They're--they're gone?" faltered Kenleigh.
"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!"
CHAPTER VIII
AT HALFPAST ONE
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!
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
"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 _can_ 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.
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.
"Youse let a peep outer youse, an' youse goes bye-bye for keeps! See?
Put yer hands over yer head, an' do it--_quick_!"
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.
"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?"
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.
"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?"
"Yes, blast you--both of you!" growled Meighan.
"Well, dey ain't," said Larry the Bat coolly; "but mabbe, after all, she
wasn't handin' youse no steer."
Meighan, savage at his own helplessness, snarled his words.
"What do you mean?" he demanded.
"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--_this_!" 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!"
Meighan, a puzzled look replacing the angry expression on his
face, blinked.
"What's the lay?" he queried.
"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 _youse_. Go on now, get down behind
dat chair--quick!"
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.
"Youse'll pardon me if I keeps de spot-light on youse," drawled Larry
the Bat, "Some of youse dicks ain't trustworthy."
"Look here!" Meighan burst out. "This is a hell of a note! What--"
"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!"
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.
"Hello, Frenchy!" observed Larry the Bat suavely. "Feelin' faint?"
The man's face had gone a chalky white. He looked wildly around him, as
though seeking some avenue of escape.
"_Mon Dieu_!" he whispered. "Larree ze Bat! It is ze Gray Seal!
It is--"
"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?"
Virat moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.
"What do you want here?" he asked huskily.
"Oh, nothin' much," said Larry the Bat airily. "I thought mabbe youse
might figure dere was some of dem bonds comin' ter me."
"Bonds! I don't know anything about any bonds," said Virat, in a low
voice. "I don't know what you are talking about.'
"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!"
"You're dippy!" sneered Virat. "I haven't seen the Magpie in a month."
"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.
With a sharp cry, staring, Virat shrank back.
"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?"
"What do you want?" mumbled Virat.
Jimmie Dale's smile was not inviting.
"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!"
A look of relief spread over Virat's face.
"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.
"Youse sit down!" invited Larry the Bat coldly.
"But--but you said--I--I was going to get them," faltered Virat.
"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!"
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.
"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."
And then, for the first time, Virat laughed, though still a little
nervously.
"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 _some_ 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."
"Say," said Larry the Bat admiringly, "youse're some slick gazabo, youse
are! But how did youse know dat guy Kenleigh had de goods?"
"That's none of your business, is it?" replied Virat, a little
defiantly. "You're getting yours now."
Larry the Bat appeared to ponder the other's words, a curious smile
on his lips.
"Well, mabbe it ain't," he admitted. "Let it go anyway, an' split the
swag. Count 'em out!"
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.
There was a scream of fury, an oath from Virat.
"Dat's yer cue, Meighan," called Larry the Bat calmly. "Come out an'
take a look at him!"
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.
"Know him?" inquired Larry the Bat.
The detective bent sharply forward.
"My god!" he exclaimed. "It's--no, it can't--"
"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.
_"Kenleigh!"_ gasped Meighan.
"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!"
Larry the Bat edged around the table, and, covering Meighan with his
revolver, backed to the door.
"Well, so long, Meighan!" he said softly, from the threshold. "T'ink of
me when dey pins de medal on yer breast fer dis!"
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.
CHAPTER IX
'WARE THE WOLF
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.
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, _died_.
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, "_death to
the Gray Seal,_" 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, _alias_ 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.
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, _alias_
one Kenleigh, who was awaiting trial in the Tombs. Frenchy Virat was the
Wolf's bosom friend!
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.
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.
UNIDENTIFIED BODY FOUND UNDER PIER IN NORTH RIVER
VICTIM OF FOUL PLAY
FACE IS MUTILATED BEYOND RECOGNITION
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.
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!
His eyes picked up snatches of her note, as they skimmed it
swiftly again.
"... 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
_you_. 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 ..."
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.
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 _friend_ of the Wolf!
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.
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.
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 _most_ 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.
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.
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 _safe_ as he had been, and in
consequence his trade of late had begun to drift away from him.
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 _talking_ 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!
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 _alone_. 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!
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!
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.
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!
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.
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.
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!
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.
"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.
He drew back for an instant, frowning. Perhaps--and then he shook h
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