THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE

beyond belief--the series of crimes, rampant for the past few weeks,
at which the community had stood aghast, the brutal murder of
Roessle but a few hours old, lay bare before his eyes. It was all
there, all of it, the details, the hellish cleverness, the personnel
even of the thugs, all, everything--except the proof.
"Get him, Jimmie--the man higher up. Get him, Jimmie--before
another pays forfeit with his life"--the words seemed to leap out at
him from the white page in red, dancing lines--"Get him--Jimmie--the
man higher up."
Jimmie Dale finished the second reading of the letter, read it again
for the third time, then tore it into tiny fragments. His fingers
delved into the box again, and the transformation of Jimmie Dale,
member of New York's most exclusive social set, into a low, viciousfeatured
denizen of the underworld went on--a little wax applied
skilfully behind the ears, in the nostrils and under the upper lip.
It was all there--all except the proof. And the proof--he laughed
aloud suddenly, unpleasantly. There seemed something sardonic in
it; ay, more than that, all that was grim in irony. The proof, in
Stangeist's own writing, sworn to before witnesses in the presence
of a notary, the text of the document, of course, unknown to both
witnesses and notary, evidence, absolute and final, that would be
admitted in any court, for Stangeist was a lawyer, and would see to
that, was in Stangeist's own safe, for Stangeist's own protection--
Stangeist, who was himself the head and brains of this murder gang--
Stangeist, who was the man higher up!
It was amazing, without parallel in the history of crime--and yet
ingenious, clever, full of the craft and cunning that had built up
the shyster lawyer's reputation below the dead line.
Jimmie Dale's lips were curiously thin now. So it was Stangeist! A
Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde with a vengeance! He knew Stangeist--not
personally; not by the reputation Stangeist held, low even as that
was, among his brother members of the profession; but as the man was
known for what he really was among the crooks and criminals of the
underworld, where, in that strange underground exchange, whispered
confidences passed between those whose common enemy was the law,
where Larry the Bat himself was trusted in the innermost circles.
Stangeist was a power in the Bad Lands. There were few among that
unholy community that Stangeist, at one time or another, in one way
or another, had not rescued from the clutches of the law, resorting
to any trick or cunning, but with perjury, that he could handle like
the master of it that he was, employed as the most common weapon of
defence for his clients--provided he were paid well enough for it.
The man had become more than the attorney for the crime world--he
had become part of it. Cunning, shrewd, crafty, conscienceless,
cold-blooded--that was Stangeist.
The form and features of the man pictured themselves in Jimmie
Dale's mind--the six-foot muscular frame, that was invariably
clothed in attire of the most fashionable cut; the thin lips with
their oily, plausible smile, the straight black hair that straggled
into pin point, little black eyes, the dark face with its high cheek
bones, which, with the pronounced aquiline nose and the persistent
rumour that he was a quarter caste, had led the underworld,
prejudiced always in favour of a "monaker," to dub the man the
"Indian Chief."
Jimmie Dale laughed again--still unpleasantly. So Stangeist had
taken the plunge at last and branched out into a wider field, had
he? Well, there was nothing surprising in that--except that he had
not done it before! The irony of it lay in the fact that at last he
had been TOO clever, overstepped himself in his own cleverness, that
was all. It was Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane that
Stangeist had gathered around him, the Tocsin had said--and there
were none worse in Larry the Bat's wide range of acquaintanceship
than those three. Stangeist had made himself master of Australian
Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane--and he had driven them a little too
hard on the division of the spoils--and laughed at them, and cracked
the whip much after the fashion that the trainer in the cage handles
the growling beasts around him.
A dozen of the crimes that had appalled and staggered New York they
had committed under his leadership; and then, it seemed, they had
quarrelled furiously, the three pitted against Stangeist,
threatening him, demanding a more equitable share of the proceeds.
None was better aware than Stangeist that threats from men of their
calibre were likely to result in a grim aftermath--and Stangeist,
yesterday, the Tocsin said, had answered them as no other man than
Stangeist would either have thought of or have dared to do. One by
one, at separate times, covering the other with a revolver,
Stangeist had permitted them to read a document that was addressed
to the district attorney. It was a confession, complete in every
detail, of every crime the four together had committed, implicating
Stangeist as fully and unreservedly as it did the other three. It
required no commentary! If anything happened to Stangeist, a stab
in the dark, for instance, a bullet from some dark alleyway, a
blackjack deftly wielded, as only Australian Ike, The Mope or Clarie
Deane knew how to wield it--the document automatically became a
DEATH SENTENCE for Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane!
It was very simple--and, evidently, it had been effective, as
witness the renewal of their operations in the murder of Roessle
that afternoon. Fear and avarice had both probably played their
part; fear of the man who would with such consummate nerve fling his
life into the balance to turn the tables upon them, while he jeered
at them; avarice that prompted them to get what they could out of
Stangeist's brains and leadership, and to be satisfied with what
they COULD get--since they could get no more!
Satisfied? Jimmie Dale shook his head. No; that was hardly the
word--cowed, perhaps, for the moment, would be better. But
afterward, with a document like that in existence, when they would
never be safe for an instant--well, beasts in the cages had been
known to get the better of the man with the whip, and beasts were
gentle things compared with Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie
Deane! Some day they would reverse the tables on the Indian Chief--
if they could. And if they couldn't it would not be for the lack of
trying.
There would be another act in that drama of the House Divided before
the curtain fell! And there would be a sort of grim, poetic justice
in it, a temptation almost to let the play work itself out to its
own inevitable conclusion, only--Jimmie Dale, the final touches
given to his features, stood up, and his hands clenched suddenly,
fiercely--it was not just the man higher up alone, there were the
other three as well, the whole four of them, all of them, crimes
without number at their door, brutal, fiendish acts, damnable
outrages, murder to answer for, with which the public now was
beginning to connect the name of the Gray Seal! The Gray Seal!
Jimmie Dale's hands, whose delicate fingers were artfully grimed and
blackened now beneath the nails, clenched still tighter--and then,
with a quick shrug of his shoulders, a thinning of the firmly
compressed lips, he picked up the coat from where it lay upon the
floor, put it on, put the money that was on the table in his pocket,
and replaced the box under the flooring.
In quick succession, from the same hiding place, an automatic, a
black silk mask, an electric flashlight, that thin metal box like a
cigarette case, and a half dozen vicious-looking little blued-steel
burglar's tools were stowed away in his pockets, the flooring
carefully replaced, the oilcloth spread back again; and then,
pulling a slouch hat well down over his eyes, he reached up to turn
off the gas.
For an instant his hand held there, while his eyes, sweeping around
the apartment, took in every single detail about him in that same
alert, comprehensive way as when he had entered--then the room was
in darkness, and the Gray Seal, as Larry the Bat, a shuffling,
unkempt creature of the underworld, alias Jimmie Dale, the lionised
of clubs, the matrimonial target of exclusive drawing-rooms, closed
the door of the Sanctuary behind him, shuffled down the stairs,
shuffled out into the lane, and shuffled along the street toward the
Bowery.
A policeman on the corner accosted him familiarly.
"Hello, Larry!" grinned the officer.
"'Ello!" returned Jimmie Dale affably through the side of his mouth.
"Fine night, ain't it?"--and shuffled on along the street.
And now Jimmie Dale began to hurry--still with that shuffling tread,
but covering the ground nevertheless with amazing celerity. He had
lost no time since receiving the Tocsin's letter, it was true, but,
for all that, it was now after ten o'clock. Stangeist's house was
"dark" that evening, she had said, meaning that the occupants,
Stangeist as well as whatever servants there might be, for Stangeist
had no family, were out--the servants in town for a theatre or
picture show probably--and Stangeist himself as yet not back,
presumably from that Roessle affair. The stub of an old cigar,
unlighted, shifted with a sudden, savage twist of the lips from one
side of Jimmie Dale's mouth to the other. There was need for haste.
There was no telling when Stangeist might get back--as for the
servants, that did not matter so much; servants in suburban homes
had a marked affinity for "last trains!"
Jimmie Dale boarded a cross-town car, effected a transfer, and in a
quarter of an hour after leaving the Sanctuary was huddled, an
inoffensive heap, like a tired-out workingman, in a corner seat of a
Long Island train. From here, there was only a short run ahead of
him, and, twenty minutes later, descending from the train at Forest
Hills, he had passed through the more thickly settled portion of the
little place, and was walking briskly out along the country road.
Stangeist's house lay, approximately, a mile and a half from the
station, quite by itself, and set well back from the road. Jimmie
Dale could have found it with his eyes blindfolded--the Tocsin's
directions had lacked none of their usual explicit minuteness. The
road was quite deserted. Jimmie Dale met no one. Even in the
houses that he passed the lights were in nearly every instance
already out.
Something, merciless in its rage, swept suddenly over Jimmie Dale,
as, unbidden, of its own volition, the last paragraph he had read in
that evening's paper began to repeat itself over and over again in
his mind. The two little kiddies--it seemed as though he could see
them standing there--and from Jimmie Dale's lips, not given to
profanity, there came a bitter oath. It might possibly be that,
even if he were successful in what was before him to-night, the
authors of the Roessle murder would never be known. That confession
of Stangeist's was written prior to what had happened that
afternoon, and there would be no mention, naturally, of Roessle.
And, for a moment, that seemed to Jimmie Dale the one thing
paramount to all others, the one thing that was vital; then he shook
his head, and laughed out shortly. After all, it did not matter--
whether Stangeist and the blood wolves he had gathered around him
paid the penalty specifically for one particular crime or for
another could make little difference--they would PAY, just as
surely, just as certainly, once that paper was in his possession!
Jimmie Dale was counting the houses as he passed--they were more
infrequent now, farther apart. Stangeist was no fool--not the fool
that he would appear to be for keeping a document like that, once he
had had the temerity to execute it, in his own safe; for, in a day
or two, the Tocsin had hinted at this, after holding it over the
heads of Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane again to drive
the force of it a little deeper home, he would undoubtedly destroy
it--and the SUPPOSITION that it was still in existence would have
equally the same effect on the minds of the other three! Stangeist
was certainly alive to the peril that he ran with such a thing in
his possession, only the peril had not appealed to him as imminent
either from the three thugs with whom he had allied himself, or,
much less, from any one else, that was all.
Jimmie Dale halted by a low, ornamental stone fence, some three feet
high, and stood there for a moment, glancing about him. This was
Stangeist's house--he could just make out the building as it loomed
up a shadowy, irregular shape, perhaps two hundred yards back from
the fence. The house was quite dark, not a light showed in any
window. Jimmie Dale sat down casually on the fence, looked
carefully again up and down the road--then, swinging his legs over,
quick now in every action, he dropped to the other side, and stole
silently across the grass to the rear of the house.
Here he stopped again, reached up to a window that was about on a
level with his shoulders, and tested its fastenings. The window--it
was the window of Stangeist's private sanctum, according to the plan
in her letter--was securely locked. Jimmie Dale's hands went into
his pocket--and the black silk mask was slipped over his face. He
listened intently--then a little steel instrument began to gnaw like
a rat.
A minute passed--two of them. Again Jimmie Dale listened. There
was not a sound save the night sounds--the light breeze whispering
through the branches of the trees; the far-off rumble of a train;
the whir of insects; the hoarse croaking of a frog from some near-by
creek or pond. The window sash was raised an inch, another, and
gradually to the top. Like a shadow, Jimmie Dale pulled himself up
to the sill, and, poised there, his hand parted the heavy portieres
that hung within. It was too dark to distinguish even a single
object in the room. He lowered himself to the floor, and slipped
cautiously between the portieres.
From somewhere in the house, a clock began to strike. Jimmie Dale
counted the strokes. Eleven o'clock. It was getting late--TOO
late! Stangeist was likely to be back at any moment. The
flashlight, in Jimmie Dale's hand now, circled the room with its
little round white ray, lingering an instant in a queer, inquisitive
sort of way here and there on this object and that--and went out.
Jimmie Dale nodded--the flat desk in the centre of the floor, the
safe in the corner by the rear wall, the position of everything in
the room, even to the chairs, was photographed on his mind.
He stepped from the portieres to the safe, and the flashlight played
again--this time reflecting back from the glistening nickelled
knobs. Jimmie Dale's lips tightened. It was a small safe, almost
ludicrously small; but to such height as the art of safe design had
been carried, that design was embodied in the one before him.
"Type K-four-two-eight-Colby," muttered Jimmie Dale. "A nasty
little beggar--and it's eleven o'clock now! I'd use 'soup' for
once, if it weren't that it would put Stangeist wise, and give him a
chance to make his get-away before the district attorney got the
nippers on the four of them."
The light went out. Jimmie Dale dropped to his knees; and, while
his left hand passed swiftly, tentatively over dials and handle, he
rubbed the fingers of his right hand rapidly to and fro over the
carpet. Wonderful finger tips were those of Jimmie Dale, sensitive
to an abnormal degree; and now, tingling with the friction, the
nerves throbbing at the skin surface, they closed in a light,
delicate touch upon the knob of the dial--and Jimmie Dale's ear
pressed close against the face of the safe.
Time passed. The silence grew heavy--seemed to palpitate through
the room. Then a deep breath, half like a sigh, half like a
fluttering sob as of a strong man taxed to the uttermost of his
endurance, came from Jimmie Dale, and his left hand swept away the
sweat beads that had spurted to his forehead.
"Eight--thirteen--twenty-two," whispered Jimmie Dale.
There was a click, a low metallic thud as the bolts slid back, and
the door swung open.
And now the flashlight again, searching the mechanism of the inner
door--then darkness once more.
Five minutes, ten minutes went by. The clock struck again--and the
single stroke seemed to boom out through the house in a weird,
raucous, threatening note, and seemed to linger, throbbing in the
air.
The inner door was open--the flashlight's ray was flooding a nest of
pigeonholes and little drawers. The pigeonholes were crammed with
papers, as, presumably, too, were the drawers. Jimmie Dale sucked
in his breath. He had already been there well over half an hour--
every minute now, every second was counting against him, and to
search that mass of papers before Stangeist returned was--
"Ah!"--it came in a fierce little ejaculation from Jimmie Dale.
From the centre pigeonhole, almost the first paper he had touched,
he drew a long, sealed envelope and at a single swift glance had
read the inscription upon it, written in longhand:
TO THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY,
NEW YORK CITY.
IMPORTANT. URGENT.
The words in the corners were underscored three times.
Swiftly, deftly, Jimmie Dale's hands rolled the rounded end of one
of his collection of the legal instruments under the flap of the
envelope, turned the sheets over and drew out the folded document
inside. There were eight sheets of legal foolscap, neatly fastened
together at the top left-hand corner with green tape. He opened
them out, read a few words here and there, and turned the pages
hurriedly over to scrutinise the last one--and nodded grimly. Three
witnesses had testified to the signature of Stangeist, and a
notary's seal, accompanied by the usual legal formula, was duly
affixed.
Jimmie Dale slipped the document into his pocket, and, with the
envelope in his hand, moved to the desk. He opened first one drawer
and then another, and finally discovering a pile of blank foolscap,
took out four sheets, folded them, and placed them in the envelope,
sealing the flap of the latter again. That it did not seal very
well now brought a quizzical twitch to Jimmie Dale's lips. Sealed
or unsealed, perhaps, it made little difference; but, for all that,
he was not through with it yet. Apart from bringing the four to
justice, there was, after all, a chance to vindicate the Gray Seal
in this matter at least, and repudiate the newspaper theory which
the public, to whom the Gray Seal was already a monster of iniquity,
would seize upon with avidity.
There was no further need of light now. Jimmie Dale replaced the
flashlight in his pocket, took out the thin, metal case, opened it,
and with the tiny pair of tweezers that likewise nestled there,
lifted out one of the gray, diamond-shaped paper seals. There was
no question but that, once under arrest, Stangeist's effects would
be immediately and thoroughly searched by the authorities! Jimmie
Dale's smile from quizzical became ironic. It would afford the
police another little, bewildering reminder of the Gray Seal, and
give Carruthers, good old Carruthers of the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS, so
innocently ignorant that the Gray Seal was his old college pal, yet
the one editor of them all who was not forever barking and yelping
at the Gray Seal's heels, a chance to vindicate himself a little,
too! Jimmie Dale moistened the adhesive side of the gray seal, and,
still mindful of tell-tale finger prints, laid it with the tweezers
on the flap of the envelope, and pressed it firmly into place with
his elbow.
And then, suddenly, every faculty instantly on the alert, he
snatched up the envelope from the desk, and listened. Was it
imagination, a trick of nerves, or--no, there it was again!--a
footfall on the gravel walk at the front of the house. The sound
became louder, clearer--two footfalls instead of one. It was
Stangeist, and somebody was with him.
In an instant Jimmie Dale was across the room and kneeling again
before the safe. His fingers were flying now. The envelope shot
back into the pigeonhole from which he had taken it--the inner door
of the safe closed silently and swiftly.
A dry chuckle came from Jimmie Dale's lips. It was just like
fiction, just precisely time enough to have accomplished what he had
come for before he was interrupted, not a second more or less, the
villain foiled at the psychological moment! The key was rattling in
the front door now--they were in the hall--he could hear Stangeist's
voice--there came a dull glow from the hallway, following the click
of an electric-light switch. The outer door of the safe swung shut,
the bolts slid into place, the dial whirled under Jimmie Dale's
fingers. It was only a step to the portieres, the open window--and
escape. He straightened up, stepped back, the portieres closed
behind him--and the chuckle died on Jimmie Dale's lips.
He was trapped--caught without so much as a corner in which to turn!
Stangeist was even then coming into the room--and OUTSIDE, darkly
outlined, two forms stood just beneath the window. Instinctively,
quick as a flash, Jimmie Dale crouched below the sill. Who were
they? What did it mean? Questions swept in swift sequence through
his brain. Had they seen him? It would be very dark against the
background of the portieres, but yet if they were watching--he drew
a breath of relief. He had not been seen. Their voices reached him
in low, guarded whispers.
"Say, youse, Ike, pipe it! Dere's a window open in the snitch's
room. Come on, we'll get in dere. It'll make the hair stand up on
the back of his neck fer a starter."
"Aw, ferget it! " replied another voice. "Can the tee-ayter stunt!
Clarie leaves the front door unfastened, don't he? An' dey'll be in
dere in a minute now. Wotcher want ter do? Crab the game? He
might hear us an' fix Clarie before we had a chanst, the skinny old
fox! An' dere's the light now--see! Beat it on yer toes fer the
front of the house!"
The room was flooded with light. Through the portieres, that Jimmie
Dale parted by the barest fraction of an inch, he could see
Stangeist and another man, a thick-set, ugly-faced-looking customer--
Clarie Deane, according to that brief, whispered colloquy that he
had heard outside. He looked again through the window. The two
dark forms had disappeared now, but they had disappeared just a few
seconds too late--with the two other men now in the room, and one of
them so close that Jimmie Dale could almost have reached out and
touched him, it was impossible to get through the window without
being detected, when the slightest sound would attract instant
attention and equally instant suspicion. It was a chance to be
taken only as a last resort.
Jimmie Dale's face grew hard, as his fingers closed around his
automatic and drew the weapon from his pocket. It was all plain
enough. That last act in the drama which he had speculatively
anticipated was being staged with little loss of time--and in a grim
sort of way the thought flashed across his mind that, perilous as
his own position was, Stangeist at that moment was in even greater
peril than himself. Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane,
given the chance, and they seemed to have made that chance now, were
not likely to deal in half measures--Clarie Deane had dropped into a
chair beside the desk; and The Mope and Australian Ike were creeping
around to the front door!
The parting in the portieres widened a little more, a very little
more, slowly, imperceptibly, until Jimmie Dale, by the simple
expedient of moving his head, could obtain an unobstructed view of
the entire room.
Stangeist tossed a bag he had been carrying on the desk, pulled up a
chair opposite to Clarie Deane, and sat down. Both men were side
face to Jimmie Dale.
"You tell the boys," said Stangeist abruptly, "to fade away after
this for a while. Things are getting too hot. And you tell The
Mope I dock him five hundred for that extra crunch on Roessle's
skull. That sort of thing isn't necessary. That's the kind of
stunt that gets the public sore--the man was dead enough as it was.
See?"
"Sure!" Clarie Deane's ejaculation was a grunt.
Stangeist opened the bag, and dumped the contents on the desk--pile
after pile of banknotes, the pay roll of the Martindale-Kensington
Mills.
"Some haul!" observed Clarie Deane, with a hoarse chuckle. "The
papers said over twenty thousand."
"You can't always believe what the papers say," returned Stangeist
curtly; and, taking a scribbling pad from the desk, began to check
up the packages.
Clarie Deane's cigar had gone out. He rolled the short stub in his
mouth, and leaned forward.
The bills were evidently just as they had been delivered to the
murdered paymaster at the bank, done up with little narrow paper
bands in packages of one hundred notes each, save for a small bundle
of loose bills which latter, with the rolls of silver, Stangeist
swept to one side of the desk.
Package by package, Stangeist went on jotting the amounts down on
the pad.
"Nix!" growled Clarie Deane suddenly. "Cut that out! Them's fivers
in that wad. Make that five hundred instead of one--I'm onter yer!"
"Mistake," said Stangeist suavely, changing the figures with his
pencil. "You're pretty wide awake for this time of night, aren't
you, Clarie?"
"Oh, I dunno!" responded Clarie Deane gruffly. "Not so very!"
Stangeist, finished with the packages, picked up the loose bills,
and, with a short laugh, tossed them into the bag and followed them
with the rolls of silver. He pushed the bag toward Clarie Deane.
"That's a little extra for you," he said. "The trouble with you
fellows is that you don't know when you're well off--but the sooner
you find it out the better, unless you want another lesson like
yesterday." He made the addition on the pad. "Fifteen thousand,
eight hundred dollars," he announced softly. "That's seven
thousand, nine hundred for the three of you to divide, less five
hundred from The Mope."
Clarie Deane's eyes narrowed. His hands were on his knees, hidden
by the desk.
"There's more'n twenty there," he said sullenly--and drew a match
across the under edge of the desk with a long, crackling noise.
Stangeist's face lost its suavity, a snarl curled his lips; but,
about to reply, he sprang suddenly to his feet instead, his head
turned sharply toward the door.
"What's that!" he said hoarsely. "It's not the servants, they
wouldn't dare to--"
Stangeist's words ended in a gulp. He was staring into the muzzle
of a heavy-calibered revolver that Clarie Deane had jerked up from
under the desk.
"You sit down, or I'll blow your block off!" said Clarie Deane, with
a sudden leer.
It happened then almost before Jimmie Dale could grasp the details;
before even Clarie Deane himself could interfere. The door burst
open, two men rushed in--and one, with a bound, flung himself at
Stangeist. The man's hand, grasping a clubbed revolver, rose in the
air, descended on Stangeist's head--and Stangeist went down in a
limp heap, crashed into the chair, and slid from the chair with a
thud to the floor.
There was an oath from Clarie Deane. He jumped from his seat, and
with a violent shove sent the man reeling half across the room.
"Blast you, Mope!" he snarled. "You're too blamed fly! D'ye
wanter queer the whole biz?"
"Aw, wot's the matter wid youse!" The Mope, purple-faced with rage,
little black eyes glittering, mouth working under a flattened nose
that some previous encounter had broken and bent over the side of
his face, advanced belligerently.
Australian Ike, who had entered the room with him, pulled him back.
"Ferget it!" he flung out. "Clarie's dealin' the deck. Ferget it!"
The Mope glared from one to the other; then shook his fist at
Stangeist on the floor.
"Youse two make me sick!" he sneered. "Wot's the use of waitin' all
night? We was to bump him off, anyway, wasn't we? Dat's wot youse
said yerselves, 'cause wot was ter stop him writin' out another
paper if we didn't fix him fer keeps?"
"That's all right," rejoined Clarie Deane; "but that's the second
act, you bonehead, see! We ain't got the paper yet, have we? Say,
take a look at that safe! It's easier ter scare him inter openin'
it than ter crack it, ain't it?"
Jimmie Dale, from his crouched position, began to rise to his feet
slowly, making but the slightest movement at a time, cautious of the
least sound. His lips were like a thin line, his fingers tightly
pressed over the automatic in his hand. There was not room for him
between the portieres and the window; and, do what he could, the
hangings bulged a little. Let one of the three notice that, or
inadvertently brush against the portieres, and his life would not be
worth an instant's purchase.
They were lifting Stangeist up now, propping him up in the chair.
Stangeist moaned, opened his eyes, stared in a dazed way at the
three faces that leered into his, then dawning intelligence came,
and his face, that had been white before, took on a pasty, grayish
pallor.
"You--the three of you!" he mumbled. "What's this mean?"
And then Clarie Deane laughed in a low, brutal way.
"Wot d'ye think it means? We want that paper, an' we want it damn
quick--see! D'ye think we was goin' ter stand fer havin' a trip ter
Sing Sing an' the wire chair danglin' over our heads!"
Stangeist closed his eyes. When he opened them again, something of
the old-time craftiness was in his face.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" he inquired, almost
sharply. "You know what will happen to you, if anything happens to
me."
"Don't youse kid yerself!" retorted Clarie Deane. "D'ye think we're
fools? This ain't like it was yesterday--see! We GETS the paper
this time--so there won't nothin' happen to us. You come across
with it blasted quick now, or The Mope'll give you another on the
bean that'll put you to sleep fer keeps!"
The blood was running down Stangeist's face. He wiped it away from
his eyes.
"It's not here," he said innocently. "It's in my box in the safetydeposit
vaults."
"Aw," blurted out Australian Ike, pushing suddenly forward, "youse
can't work dat crawl on--"
"Cut it out, Ike!" snapped Clarie Dane. "I'm runnin' this! So it's
in the vaults, eh?" He shoved his face toward Stangeist's.
"Yes," said Stangeist easily. "You see--I was looking for something
like this."
Clarie Deane's fist clenched.
"You lie!" he choked. "The Mope, here, was the last of us you
showed the paper to yesterday afernoon, an' the vaults was closed
then--an' you ain't been there to-day, 'cause you've been watched.
That's why we fixed it fer to-night after the divvy that you've just
tried ter do us on again, 'cause we knew you had it here."
"I tell you, it's not here," said Stangeist evenly.
"You lie!" said Clarie Deane again. "It's in that safe. The Mope
heard you tell the girl in yer office that if anything happened to you
she was ter wise up the district attorney that there was a paper in
your safe at home fer him that was important. Now then, you beat it
over ter that safe, an' open it up--we'll give you a minute ter do
it in."
"The paper's not there, I tell you," said Stangeist once more.
"That's all right," submitted Clarle Deane grimly. "There's a
quarter of that minute gone."
"I won't!" Stangeist flashed out violently.
"That's all right," repeated Clarie Deane. "There's half of that
minute gone."
Jimmie Dale's eyes, in a fascinated sort of way, were on Stangeist.
The man's face was twitching now, moisture began to ooze from his
forehead, as the callous brutality of the scowling faces seemed to
get him--and then he lurched suddenly forward in his chair.
"My God!" he cried out, a ring of terror in his voice "What do you
mean to do? You'll pay for it! They'll get you! The servants will
be back in a minute."
"Two skirts!" jeered Clarie Deane. We ain't goin' ter run away from
them. If they comes before we goes, we'll fix 'em. That minute's
up!"
Stangeist licked his lips with his tongue.
"Suppose--suppose I refuse?" he said hoarsely.
"You can suit yerself," said Clarie Deane, with a vicious grin. "We
know the paper's there, an' we gets it before we leaves here--see?
You can take yer choice. Either you goes over ter the safe an'
opens it yerself, or else"--he paused and produced a small bottle
from his pocket--"this is nitro-glycerin', an' we opens it fer you
with this. Only if we does the job we does it proper. We ties you
up and sets you against the door of the safe before we touches off
the 'soup,' an' mabbe if yer a good guesser you can guess the rest."
There was a short, raucous guffaw from The Mope.
Stangeist turned a drawn face toward the man, stared at him, and
stared in a miserable way at the other two in turn. He licked his
lips again--none was in a better position than himself to know that
there would be neither scruples nor hesitancy to interfere with
carrying out the threat.
"Suppose," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, "suppose I open
the safe--what then--afterward?"
"We ain't got the safe open yet," countered Clarie Deane
uncompromisingly. "An' we ain't got no more time ter fool over it,
either. You get a move on before I counts five, or The Mope an' Ike
ties you up! One--"
Stangeist staggered to his feet, wiped the blood out of his eyes for
the second time, and, with lips working, went unsteadily across the
room to the safe.
He knelt before it, and began to manipulate the dial; while the
others crowded around behind him. The Mope was fingering his
revolver again club fashion. Australian Ike's elbow just grazed the
portieres, and Jimmie Dale flattened himself against the window,
holding his breath--a smile on his lips that was mirthless, deadly,
cold. The end was not far off now; and then--WHAT?
Stangeist had the outer door of the safe open now--and now the inner
door swung back. He reached in his hand to the pigeonhole, drew out
the envelope--and with a sudden, wild cry, reeled to his feet.
"My God!" he screamed out. "What's--what's this!"
Clarie Deane snatched the envelope from him.
"THE GRAY SEAL!"--the words came with a jerk from his lips. He
ripped the envelope open frantically--and like a man stunned gazed
at the four blank sheets, while the colour left his face. "IT'S
GONE!" he cried out hoarsely.
"Gone!" There was a burst of oaths from Australian Ike. "Gone!
Den we're nipped--de lot of us!"
The Mope's face was like a maniac's as he whirled on Stangeist.
"Sure!" he croaked. "But youse gets yers first, youse--"
With a cry, Stangeist, to elude the blow, ducked blindly backward--
into the portieres--and with a rip and tear the hangings were
wrenched apart.
It came instantaneously--a yell of mingled surprise and fury from
the three--the crash and spit of Jimmie Dale's revolver as he fired
one shot at the floor to stop their rush--then he flung himself at
the window, through it, and dropped sprawling to the ground.
A stream of flame cut the darkness above him, a bullet whistled by
his head--another--and another. He was on his feet, quick as a cat,
and running close alongside of the wall of the house. He heard a
thud behind him, still another, and yet a third--they were dropping
through the window after him. Came another shot, an angry hum of
the bullet closer than before--then the pound of racing feet.
Jimmie Dale swung around the corner of the house, running at top
speed. Something that was like a hot iron suddenly burned and
seared along the side of his head just above the ear. He reeled,
staggered, recovered himself, and dashed on. It nauseated him, that
stinging in his head, and all at once seemed to be draining his
strength away. The shouts, the shots, the running feet became like
a curious buzzing in his ears. It seemed strange that they should
have hit him, that he should be wounded! If he could only reach the
low stone wall by the road, he could at least make a fight for his
life on the other side!
Red streaks swam before Jimmie Dale's eyes. The wall was such a
long way off--a yard or two was a very long way more to go--the
weakness seemed to be creeping up now even to numb his brain. No,
here was the wall--they hadn't hit him again--he laughed in a
demented way--and rolled his body over, and fell to the other side.
"JIMMIE!"
The cry seemed to reach some inner consciousness, revive him, send
the blood whipping through his veins. That voice! It was her--
HERS! The Tocsin! There was an automobile, engine racing, standing
there in the road. He won to his feet--dark, rushing forms were
almost at the wall. He fired--once--twice--fired again--and turned,
staggering for the car.
"Jimmie! Jimmie--QUICK!"
Panting, gasping, he half fell into the tonneau. The car leaped
forward, yells filled the air--but only one thing was dominant in
Jimmie Dale's reeling brain now. He pulled himself up to his feet,
and leaned over the back of the seat, reaching for the slim figure
that was bent over the wheel.
"It's you--you at last!" he cried. "Your face--let me lee your
face!"
A bullet split the back panel of the car--little spurting flames
were dancing out from the roadway behind,
"Are you mad!" she shouted back at him. "Let me steer--do you want
them to hit me!"
"No-o," said Jimmie Dale, in a queer singsong sort of way, and his
head seemed to spin dizzily around. "No--I guess--" He choked.
"The paper--it's in--my pocket"--and he went down unconscious on the
floor of the car.
When he recovered his senses he was lying on a couch in a plainly
furnished room, and a man, a stranger, red, jovial-faced, farmerish
looking, was bending over him.
"Where am I?" he demanded finally, propping himself up on his elbow.
"You're all right," replied the man. "She said you'd come around in
a little while."
"Who said so?" inquired Jimmie Dale.
"She did. The woman who brought you here about five minutes ago.
She said she ran you down with her car."
"Oh!" said Jimmie Dale. He felt his head--it was bandaged, and
it was bandaged, he was quite sure, with a piece of torn underskirt.
He looked at the man again. "You haven't told me yet where I am."
"Long Island," the other answered. "My name's Hanson. I keep a bit
of a truck garden here."
"Oh," said Jimmie Dale again.
The man crossed the room, picked up an envelope from the table, and
came back to Jimmie Dale.
"She said to give you this as soon as you got your senses, and asked
us to put you up for a while, as long as you wanted to stay, and
paid us for it, too. She's all right, she is. You don't want to
hold the accident up against her, she was mighty sorry about it.
And now I'll go and see if the old lady's got your room ready while
you're readin' your letter."
The man left the room.
Jimmie Dale sat up on the couch, and tore the envelope open. The
note, scrawled in pencil, began abruptly:
You were quite a problem. I couldn't take you HOME--could I? I
couldn't take you to what you call the Sanctuary could I? I
couldn't take you to a hospital, nor call in a doctor--the stain you
use wouldn't stand it. But, thank God! I know it's only a flesh
wound, and you are all right where you are for the day or two that
you must keep quiet and take care of yourself. By the time you read
this the paper will be on the way to the proper hands, and by
morning the four where they should be. There were a few articles in
your clothes I thought it better to take charge of in case--well, in
case of ACCIDENT."
Jimmie Dale tore the note up, and smiled wryly at the door. He felt
in his pockets. Mask, revolver, burglar's tools, and the thin metal
insignia case were gone.
"And I had the sublime optimism," murmured Jimmie Dale, "to spend
months trying to find her as Larry the Bat!"
CHAPTER IX
TWO CROOKS AND A KNAVE
The bullet wound along the side of his head and just above his ear
would have been a very awkward thing indeed, in more ways than one,
for Jimmie Dale, the millionaire, to have explained at his club, in
his social set, or even to his servants, and of these latter to
Jason the Solicitous in particular; but for Jimmie Dale as Larry the
Bat it was a matter of little moment. There was none to question
Larry the Bat, save in a most casual and indifferent way; and a
bandage of any description, primarily and above all one that he
could arrange himself, with only himself to take note of the
incongruous hues of skin where the stain, the grease paint, and the
make-up was washed off, would excite little attention in that world
where daily affrays were common-place happenings, and a wound, for
whatever reason, had long since lost the tang of novelty. Why then
should it arouse even a passing interest if Larry the Bat, credited
as the most confirmed of dope fiends, should have fallen down the
dark, rickety stairs of the tenement in one of his orgies, and, in
the expressive language of the Bad Lands, cracked his bean!
And so Jimmie Dale had been forced to maintain the role of Larry the
Bat for a far longer period than he had anticipated when, ten days
before, he had assumed it for the night's work that had so nearly
resulted fatally for himself, though it had placed Roessle's
murderers behind the bars. For, the next day, unwilling to court
the risk of remaining in that neighbourhood, he had left Hanson's,
the farmer's, house on Long Island where the Tocsin had carried him
in an unconscious state, telephoned Jason that he had been
unexpectedly called out of town for a few days, and returned to the
Sanctuary in New York. And here, to his grim dismay, he had found
the underworld in a state of furious, angry unrest, like a nest of
hornets, stirred up, seeking to wreak vengeance on an unseen
assailant.
For years, as the Gray Seal, Jimmie Dale had lived with the slogan
of the police, "The Gray Seal dead or alive--but the Gray Seal!"
sounding in his ears; with the newspapers screaming their diatribes,
arousing the people against him, nagging the authorities into
sleepless, frenzied efforts to trap him; with a price upon his head
that was large enough to make a man, not too pretentious, rich for
life--but in the underworld, until then, the name of the Gray Seal
had been one to conjure with, for the underworld had sworn by the
unknown master criminal, and had spoken his name with a reverence
that was none the less genuine even if pungently tainted with
unholiness. But now it was different. Up and down through the Bad
Lands, in gambling hells, in vicious resorts, in the hiding places
where thugs and crooks burrowed themselves away from the daylight,
through the heart and the outskirts of the underworld travelled the
fiat, whispered out of mouths crooked to one side--DEATH TO THE GRAY
SEAL!
Gangland differences were forgotten in the larger issue of the
common weal. The gang spirit became the spirit of a united whole,
and the crime fraternity buzzed and hummed poisonously, spurred on
by hatred, thirst for revenge, fear, and, perhaps most potent of
all, a hideous suspicion now of each other.
The underworld had received a shock at which it stood aghast, and
which, with its terrifying possibilities, struck consternation into
the soul of every individual of that brotherhood whose bond was
crime, who was already "wanted" for some offence or other, whether
it ranged from murder in the first degree to some petty piece of
sneak thievery. Stangeist, the Indian chief, the lawyer whose
cunning brain had stood as a rampart between the underworld and a
prison cell, was himself now in the Tombs with the certainty of the
electric chair before him; and with him, the same fate equally
assured, were Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane!
Aristocrats of the Bad Lands, peers of that inglorious realm were
those four--and the blow had fallen with stunning force, a blow that
in itself would have been enough to have stirred the underworld to
its depths. But that was not all--from the cells in the Tombs, from
the four came the word, and passed from mouth to mouth in that
strange underground exchange until all had heard it, that the Gray
Seal had "SQUEALED." The Gray Seal who, though unknown, they had
counted the most eminent among themselves, had squealed! Who was
the Gray Seal? It he had held the secrets of Stangeist and his
band, what else might he not know? Who else might not fall next?
The Gray Seal had become a snitch, a menace, a source of danger that
stalked among them like a ghastly spectre. Who was the Gray Seal?
None knew.
"Death to the Gray Seal! Run him to earth!" went the whisper from
lip to lip; and with the whisper men stared uncertainly into each
other's faces, fearful that the one to whom they spoke might even
be--the Gray Seal!
Jimmie Dale's lips twisted queerly as he looked around him at the
squalid appointments of the Sanctuary. The police were bad enough,
the papers were worse; but this was a still graver peril. With
every denizen of the underworld below the dead line suspicious of
each other, their lives, the penitentiary, or a prison sentence the
stakes against which each one played, the role of Larry the Bat,
clever as was the make-up and disguise, was fraught now more than
ever before with danger and peril. It seemed as though slowly the
net was beginning at last to tighten around him.
The murky, yellow flame of the gas jet flickered suddenly, as though
in acquiescence with the quick, impulsive shrug of Jimmie Dale's
shoulders--and Jimmie Dale, bending to peer into the cracked mirror
that was propped up on the broken-legged table, knotted his dress
tie almost fastidiously. The hair, if just a trifle too long,
covered the scar on his head now, the wound no longer required a
bandage, and Larry the Bat, for the time being at least, had
disappeared. Across the foot of the bed, neatly folded, lay his
dress coat and overcoat, but little creased for all that they had
lain in that hiding-place under the flooring since the night when,
hurrying from the club, he had placed them there to assume instead
the tatters of Larry the Bat. It was Jimmie Dale in his own person
again who stood there now in Larry the Bat's disreputable den, an
incongruous figure enough against the background of his miserable
surroundings, in perfect-fitting shoes and trousers, the broad
expanse of spotless white shirt bosom glistening even in the
poverty-stricken flare from the single, sputtering gas jet.
Jimmie Dale took the watch from his pocket that had not been wound
for many days, wound it mechanically, set it by guesswork--it was
not far from eight o'clock--and replaced it in his pocket.
Carefully then, one at a time, he examined his fingers, long, slim,
sensitive, tapering fingers, magical masters of safes and locks and
vaults of the most intricate and modern mechanism--no single trace
of grime remained, they were metamorphosed hands from the filthy
paws of Larry the Bat. He nodded in satisfaction; and picked up the
mirror for a final inspection of himself, that, this time, did not
miss a single line in his face or neck. Again Jimmie Dale nodded.
As though he had vanished into thin air, as though he had never
existed, not a trace of Larry the Bat remained--except the heap of
rags upon the floor, the battered slouch hat, the frayed trousers,
the patched boots with their broken laces, the mismated socks, the
grimy flannel shirt, and the old coat that he had just discarded.
The mirror was replaced on the table; and, pushing the heap of
clothes before him with his foot, Jimmie Dale knelt down in the
corner of the room where the oilcloth had been turned up and the
loose planking of the floor removed, and began to pack the articles
away in the hole. Jimmie Dale rolled the trousers of Larry the Bat
into a compact little bundle, and stuffed them under the flooring.
The gas jet seemed to blink again in a sort of confidential
approval, as though the secret lay inviolate between itself and
Jimmie Dale. Through the closed window, shade tightly drawn, came,
low and muffled, the sound of distant life from the Bowery, a few
blocks away. The gas jet, suffering from air somewhere within the
pipes, hissed angrily, the yellow flame died to a little blue,
forked spurt--and Jimmie Dale was on his feet, his face suddenly
hard and white as marble.
SOME ONE WAS KNOCKING AT THE DOOR!
For the fraction of a second Jimmie Dale stood motionless. Found as
Jimmie Dale in the den of Larry the Bat, and the consequences
required no effort of the imagination to picture them; police or
denizen of the underworld who was knocking there, it was all the
same, the method of death would be a little different, that was all--
one legalised, the other not. Jimmie Dale, Larry the Bat, the Gray
Seal, once uncovered, could expect as much quarter as would be given
to a cornered rat. His eyes swept the room with a swift, critical
glance--evidences of Larry the Bat, the clothes, were still about,
even if he in the person of Jimmie Dale, alone damning enough, were
not standing there himself. And he was even weaponless--the Tocsin
had taken the revolver from his pocket, together with those other
telltale articles, the mask, the flashlight, the little blued-steel
tools, before she had intrusted him that night, wounded and
unconscious, to Hanson's care.
Jimmie Dale slipped his feet out of his low evening pumps, snatched
up the old coat and hat from the pile, put them on, and, without a
sound, reached the gas jet and turned it off. A second had gone by--
no more--the knocking still sounded insistently on the door. It
was dark now, perfectly black. He started across the room, his
tread absolutely silent as the trained muscles, relaxing, threw the
body weight gradually upon one foot before the next step was taken.
It was like a shadow, a little blacker in outline than the
surrounding blackness, stealing across the floor.
Halfway to the door he paused. The knocking had ceased. He
listened intently. It was not repeated. Instead, his ear caught a
guarded step retreating outside in the hall. Jimmie Dale drew a
breath of relief. He went on again to the door, still listening.
Was it a trap--that step outside?
At the door now, tense, alert, he lowered his ear to the keyhole.
There came the faintest creak from the stairs. Jimmie Dale's brows
gathered. It was strange! The knocking had not lasted long.
Whoever it was was going away--but it required the utmost caution to
descend those stairs, rickety and tumble-down as they were, with no
more sound than that! Why such caution? Why not a more determined
and prolonged effort at his door--the visitor had been easily
satisfied that Larry the Bat was not within. TOO easily satisfied!
Jimmie Dale turned the key noiselessly in the lock. He opened the
door cautiously--half inch--an inch, there was no sound of footsteps
now. Occasionally a lodger moved about on the floor above;
occasionally from somewhere in the tenement came the murmur of
voices as from behind closed door--that was all. All else was
silence and darkness now.
The door, on its well-oiled hinges, swung wide open. Jimmie Dale
thrust out his head into the hall--and something fell upon the
threshold with a little thud--but for a moment Jimmie Dale did not
move. Listening, trying to pierce the darkness, he was as still as
the silence around him; then he stooped and groped along the
threshold. His hand closed upon what seemed like a small box
wrapped in paper. He picked it up, closed and locked the door
again, and retreated back across the room. It was strange--
unpleasantly strange--a box propped stealthily against the door so
that it would fall to the threshold when the door was opened! And
why the stealth? What did it mean? Had the underworld with its
thousand eyes and ears already succeeded in a few days where the
police had failed signally for years--had they sent him this,
whatever it was, as some grim token that they had run Larry the Bat
to earth? He shook his head. No; gangland struck more swiftly,
with less finesse than that--the "cat-and-mouse" act was never one
it favoured, for the mouse had been known to get away.
Jimmie Dale lighted the gas again, and turned the package over in
his hands. It was, as he had surmised, a small cardboard box; and
it was wrapped in plain paper and tied with a string. He untied the
string, and still suspicious, as a man is suspicious in the
knowledge that he is stalked by peril at every turn, removed the
wrapper a little gingerly. It was still without sign or marking
upon it, just an ordinary cardboard box. He lifted off the cover,
and, with a short, sudden laugh, stared, a little out of
countenance, at the contents.
On the top lay a white, unaddressed envelope. HERS! Beneath--he
emptied the box on the table--his black silk mask, his automatic
revolver, the kit of fine, small blued-steel burglar's tools, his
pocket flashlight, and the thin metal insignia case. The Tocsin!
Impulsively Jimmie Dale turned toward the door--and stopped. His
shoulders lifted in a shrug that, meant to be philosophical, was far
from philosophical. He could not, dared not venture far through the
tenement dressed as he was; and even if he could there were three
exits to the Sanctuary, a fact that now for the first time was not
wholly a source of unmixed satisfaction to him; and besides--she was
gone!
Jimmie Dale opened the letter, a grim smile playing on his lips. He
had forgotten for the moment that the illusion he had cherished for
years in the belief that she did not know Larry the Bat as an alias
of Jimmie Dale was no more than--an illusion. Well, it had been a
piece of consummate egotism on his part, that was all. But, after
all, what did it matter? He had had his innings, tried in the role
of Larry the Bat to solve her identity, devoted weeks on end to the
attempt--and failed. Some day, perhaps, his turn would come; some
day, perhaps, she would no longer be able to elude him, unless--the
letter crackled suddenly in his fingers--unless the house that they
had built on such strange and perilous foundations crashed at some
moment, without an instant's warning, in disaster and ruin to the
ground. Who knew but that this letter now, another call to the Gray
Seal to act, another peril invited, would be the LAST? There must
be an end some day; luck and nerve had their limitations--it had
almost ended last week!
"Dear Philanthropic Crook"--it was the same inevitable beginning.
"You are well enough again, aren't you, Jimmie?--I am sending these
little things back to you, for you will need them to-night."--Jimmie
Dale read on, muttering snatches of the letter aloud: "Michael Breen
prospecting in Alaska--map of location of rich mining claim--
Hamvert, his former partner, had previously fleeced him of fifteen
thousand dollars--his share of a deal together--Breen was always a
very poor man--Breen later struck a claim alone; but, taking sick,
came back home--died on arrival in New York after giving map to his
wife--wife in very needy circumstances--lives with little daughter
of seven in New Rochelle--works out by the day at Henry Mittel's
house on the Sound near-by--wife intrusted map for safe-keeping and
advice to Mittel--Hamvert after map--telephone wires cut--room one
hundred and forty-eight, corner, right, first floor, Palais-
Metropole Hotel, unoccupied--connecting doors--quarter past nine
to-night--the Weasel--Mittel's house later--the police--look out for
both the Weasel and the police, Jimmie--"
There was more, several pages of it, explanations, specific details
down to a minute description of the locality and plan of the house
on the Sound. Jimmie Dale, too intent now to mutter, read on
silently. At the end he shuffled the sheets a little abstractedly,
as his face hardened. Then his fingers began to tear the letter
into little shreds, tearing it over and over again, tearing the
shreds into tiny particles. He had not been far wrong. From what
the night promised now, this might well be the last letter. Who
knew? There would be need of all the wit and luck and nerve
to-night that the Gray Seal had ever had before.
With a jerk, Jimmie Dale roused himself from the momentary reverie
into which he had fallen; and, all action now, stuffed the torn
pieces of the letter into his trousers pocket to be disposed of
later in the street; took off the old coat and slouch hat again, and
resumed the disposal of Larry the Bat's effects under the flooring.
This accomplished, he replaced the planking and oilcloth, stood up,
put on his dress coat and light overcoat, and, from the table,
stowed the black silk mask, the automatic, the little kit of tools,
the flashlight, and the thin metal case away in his pockets.
Jimmie Dale raised his hand to the gas fixture, circled the room
with a glance that missed no single detail--then the light went out,
the door closed behind him, locked, a dark shadow crept silently
down the stairs, out through the side door into the alleyway, along
the alleyway close to the wall of the tenement where it was
blackest, and, satisfied that for the moment there were no passersby,
emerged on the street, walking leisurely toward the Bowery.
Once well away from the Sanctuary, however, Jimmie Dale quickened
his steps; and twenty minutes later, having stopped but once to
telephone to his home on Riverside Drive for his touring car, he was
briskly mounting the steps of the St. James Club on Fifth Avenue.
Another twenty minutes after that, and he had dismissed Benson, his
chauffeur, and, at the wheel of his big, powerful machine, was
speeding uptown for the Palais-Metropole Hotel.
It was twelve minutes after nine when he drew up at the curb in
front of the side entrance of the hotel--his watch, set by
guesswork, had been a little slow, and he had corrected it at the
club. He was replacing the watch in his pocket as he sauntered
around the corner, and passed in through the main entrance to the
big lobby.
Jimmie Dale avoided the elevators--it was only one flight up, and
elevator boys on occasions had been known to be observant. At the
top of the first landing, a long, wide, heavily carpeted corridor
was before him. "Number one hundred and forty-eight, the corner
room on the right," the Tocsin had said. Jimmie Dale walked
nonchalantly along--past No. 148. At the lower end of the hall a
group of people were gathered around the elevator doors; halfway
down the corridor a bell boy came out of a room and went ahead of
Jimmie Dale.
And then Jimmie Dale stopped suddenly, and began to retrace his
steps. The group had entered the elevator, the bell boy had
disappeared around the farther end of the hall into the wing of the
hotel--the corridor was empty. In a moment he was standing before
the door of No. 148; in another, under the persuasion of a little
steel instrument, deftly manipulated by Jimmie Dale's slim, tapering
fingers, the lock clicked back, the door opened, and he stepped
inside, closing and locking the door again behind him.
It was already a quarter past nine, but no one was as yet in the
connecting room--the fanlight next door had been dark as he passed.
His flashlight swept about him, located the connecting door--and
went out. He moved to the door, tried it, and found it locked.
Again the little steel instrument came into play, released the lock,
and Jimmie Dale opened the door. Again the flashlight winked. The
door opened into a bathroom that, obviously, at will, was either
common to the two rooms or could, by the simple expedient of locking
one door or the other, be used by one of the rooms alone. In the
present instance, the occupant of the adjoining apartment had taken
"a room with a bath."
Jimmie Dale passed through the bathroom to the opposite door. This
was already three-quarters open, and swung outward into the bedroom,
near the lower end of the room by the window. Through the crack of
the door by the hinges, Jimmie Dale flashed his light, testing the
radius of vision, pushed the door a few inches wider open, tested it
again with the flashlight--and retreated back into No. 148, closing
the door on his side until it was just ajar.
He stood there then silently waiting. It was Hamvert's room next
door, and Hamvert and the Weasel were already late. A step sounded
outside in the corridor. Jimmie Dale straightened intently. The
step passed on down the hallway and died away. A false alarm!
Jimmie Dale smiled whimsically. It was a strange adventure this
that confronted him, quite the strangest in a way that the Tocsin
had ever planned--and the night lay before him full of peril in its
extraordinary complications. To win the hand he must block Hamvert
and the Weasel without allowing them an inkling that his
interference was anything more than, say, the luck of a hotel sneak
thief at most. The Weasel was a dangerous man, one of the slickest
second-story workers in the country, with safe cracking as one of
his favourite pursuits, a man most earnestly desired by the police,
provided the latter could catch him "with the goods." As for
Hamvert, he did not know Hamvert, who was a stranger in New York,
except that Hamvert had fleeced a man named Michael Breen out of his
share in a claim they had had together when Breen had first gone to
Alaska to try his luck, and now, having discovered that Breen, when
prospecting alone somewhere in the interior a month or so ago, had
found a rich vein and had made a map or diagram of its location, he,
Hamvert, had followed the other to New York for the purpose of
getting it by hook or crook. Breen's "find" had been too late;
taken sick, he had never worked his claim, had barely got back home
before he died, and only in time to hand his wife the strange legacy
of a roughly scrawled little piece of paper, and--Jimmie Dale
straightened up alertly once more. Steps again--and this time
coming from the direction of the elevator; then voices; then the
opening of the door of the next room; then a voice, distinctly
audible:
"Pull up a chair, and we'll get down to business. You're late, as
it is. We haven't any time to waste, if we're going to wash paydirt
to-night."
"Aw, dat's all right!" responded another voice--quite evidently the
Weasel's. "Don't youse worry--de game's cinched to a fadeaway."
There was the sound of chairs being moved across the floor. Jimmie
Dale slipped the black silk mask over his face, opened the door on
his side of the bathroom cautiously, and, without a sound, stepped
into the bathroom that was lighted now, of course, by the light
streaming in through the partially opened door of Hamvert's room.
The two were talking earnestly now in lower tones. Jimmie Dale only
caught a word here and there--his faculties for the moment were
concentrated on traversing the bathroom silently. He reached the
farther door, crouched there, peered through the crack--and the old
whimsical smile flickered across his lips again.
The Palais-Metropole was high class and exclusive, and the Weasel
for once looked quite the gentleman, and, for all his sharp, ferret
face, not entirely out of keeping with his surroundings--else he
would never have got farther than the lobby. The other was a short,
thickset, heavy-jowled man, with a great shock of sandy hair, and
small black eyes that looked furtively out from overhanging, bushy
eyebrows.
"Well," Hamvert was saying, "the details are your concern. What I
want is results. We won't waste time. You're to be back here by
daylight--only see that there's no come-back."
"Leave it to me!" returned the Weasel, with assurance. "How's dere
goin' ter be any come-back? Mittel keeps it in his safe, don't he?
Well, gentlemen's houses has been robbed before--an' dis job'll be a
good one. De geographfy stunt youse wants gets pinched wid de rest,
dat's all. It disappears--see? Who's ter know youse gets yer claws
on it? It's just lost in de shuffle."
"Right!" agreed Hamvert briskly--and from his inside pocket produced
a package of crisp new bills, yellow-backs, and evidently of large
denominations. "Half down and half on delivery--that's our deal."
"Dat's wot!" assented the Weasel curtly.
Hamvert began to count the bills.
Jimmie Dale's hand stole into his pocket, and came out with his
handkerchief and the thin metal insignia case. From the latter,
with its little pair of tweezers, he took out one of the adhesive
gray seals. His eyes warily on the two men, he dropped the seal on
his handkerchief, restored the thin metal case to his pocket--and in
its stead the blue-black ugly muzzle of his automatic peeped from
between his fingers.
"Five thousand down," said Hamvert, pushing a pile of notes across
the table, and tucking the remainder back into his pocket; "and the
other five's here for you when you get back with the map.
Ordinarily, I wouldn't pay a penny in advance, but since you want it
that way and the map's no good to you while the rest of the long
green is, I--" He swallowed his words with a startled gulp,
clutched hastily at the money on the table, and began to struggle up
from his chair to his feet.
With a swift, noiseless side-step through the open door, Jimmie Dale
was standing in the room.
Jimmie Dale's tones were conversational. "Don't get up," said
Jimmie Dale coolly. "And take your hand off that money!"
The Weasel, whose back had been to the door, squirmed around in his
chair--and in his turn stared into the muzzle of Jimmie Dale's
revolver, while his jaw dropped and sagged.
"Good-evening, Weasel," observed Jimmie Dale casually. "I seem to
be in luck to-night. I got into that room next door, but an empty
room is slim picking. And then it seemed to me I heard some one in
here mention five thousand dollars twice, which makes ten thousand,
and which happens to be just exactly the sum I need at the present
moment--if I can't get any more! I haven't the honour of your
wealthy friend's acquaintance, but I am really charmed to meet him.
You--er--understand, both of you, that the slightest sound might
prove extremely embarrassing."
Hamvert's face was white, and he stirred uneasily in his chair; but
into the Weasel's face, the first shock of surprised dismay past,
came a dull, angry red, and into the eyes a vicious gleam--and
suddenly he laughed shortly.
"Why, youse damned fool," jeered the Weasel, "d'youse t'ink youse
can get away wid dat! Say, take it from me, youse are a piker!
Say, youse make me tired. Wot d'youse t'ink youse are? D'youse
t'ink dis is a tee-ayter, an' dat youse are a cheap-skate actor
strollin' acrost de stage? Aw, beat it, youse make me sick! Why,
say, youse pinch dat money, an' youse have got de same chanst of
gettin' outer dis hotel as a guy has of breakin' outer Sing Sing!
By de time youse gets five feet from de door of dis room we has de
whole works on yer neck."
"Do you think so, Weasel?" inquired Jimmie Dale politely. He
carried his handkerchief to his mouth to cloak a cough--and his
tongue touched the adhesive side of the little diamond-shaped gray
seal. Hand and handkerchief came back to the table, and Jimmie Dale
leaned his weight carelessly upon it, while the automatic in his
right hand still covered the two men. "Do you think so, Weasel?" he
repeated softly. "Well, perhaps you are right; and yet; somehow, I
am inclined to disagree with you. Let me see, Weasel--it was
Tuesday night, two nights ago; wasn't it, that a trifling break in
Maiden Lane at Thorold and Sons disturbed the police? It was a
three-year job for even a first offender, ten for one already on
nodding terms with the police and fifteen to twenty for--well, say,
for a man like you, Weasel--IF HE WERE CAUGHT! Am I making myself
quite plain?"
The colour in the Weasel's cheeks faded a little--his eyes were
holding in sudden fascination upon Jimmie Dale.
"I see that I am," observed Jimmie Dale pleasantly. "I said, 'if he
were caught,' you will remember. I am going to leave this room in a
moment, Weasel, and leave it entirely to your discretion as to
whether you will think it wise or not to stir from that chair for
ten minutes after I shut the door. And now"--Jimmie Dale
nonchalantly replaced his handkerchief in his pocket, nonchalantly
followed it with the banknotes which he picked up from the table--
and smiled.
With a gasp, both men had strained forward, and were staring, wildeyed,
at the gray seal stuck between them on the tabletop.
"The Gray Seal!" whispered the Weasel, and his tongue circled his
lips.
Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders.
"That WAS a bit theatrical, Weasel," he said apologetically; "and
yet not wholly unnecessary. You will recall Stangeist, The Mope,
Australian Ike, and Clarie Deane, and can draw your own inference as
to what might happen in the Thorold affair if you should be so illadvised
as to force my hand. Permit me"--the slim, deft fingers,
like a streak of lightning, were inside Hamvert's coat pocket and
out again with the remainder of the banknotes--and Jimmie Dale was
backing for the door--not the door of the bathroom by which he had
entered, but the door of the room itself that opened on the
corridor. There he stopped, and his hand swept around behind his
back and turned the key in the locked door. He nodded at the two
men, whose faces were working with incongruously mingled expressions
of impotent rage, bewilderment, fear, and fury--and opened the door
a little. "Ten minutes, Weasel," he said gently. "I trust you will
not have to use heroic measures to restrain your friend for that
length of time, though if it is necessary I should advise you for
your own sake to resort almost--to murder. I wish you good evening,
gentlemen."
The door opened farther; Jimmie Dale, still facing inward, slipped
between it and the jamb, whipped the mask from his face, closed the
door softly, stepped briskly but without any appearance of haste
along the corridor to the stairs, descended the stairs, mingled with
a crowd in the lobby for an instant, walked, seemingly a part of it,
with a group of ladies and gentlemen down the hall to the side
entrance, passed out--and a moment later, after drawing on a linen
dust coat which he took from under the seat, and exchanging his hat
for a tweed cap, the car glided from the curb and was lost in a
press of traffic around the corner.
Jimmie Dale laughed a little harshly to himself. So far, so good--
but the game was not ended yet for all the crackle of the crisp
notes in his pocket. There was still the map, still the robbery at
Mittel's house--the ten-thousand-dollar "theft" would not in any way
change that, and it was a question of time now to forestall any move
the Weasel might make.
Through the city Jimmie Dale alternately dodged, spurted, and
dragged his way, fuming with impatience; but once out on the country
roads and headed toward New Rochelle, the big machine, speed limits
thrown to the winds, roared through the night--a gray streak of road
jumping under the powerful lamps; a village, a town, a cluster of
lights flashing by him, the steady purr of his sixty-horse-power
engines; the gray thread of open road again.
It was just eleven o'clock when Jimmie Dale, the road to himself for
the moment at a spot a little beyond New Rochelle, extinguished his
lights, and very carefully ran his car off the road, backing it in
behind a small clump of trees. He tossed the linen dust coat back
into the car, and set off toward where, a little distance away, the
slap of waves from the stiff breeze that was blowing indicated the
shore line of the Sound. There was no moon, and, while it was not
particularly dark, objects and surroundings at best were blurred and
indistinct; but that, after all, was a matter of little concern to
Jimmie Dale--the first house beyond was Mittel's. He reached the
water's edge and kept along the shore. There should be a little
wharf, she had said. Yes; there it was--and there, too, was a gleam
of light from the house itself.
Jimmie Dale began to make an accurate mental note of his
surroundings. From the little wharf on which he now stood, a path
led straight to the house, bisecting what appeared to be a lawn,
trees to the right, the house to the left. At the wharf, beside
him, two motor boats were moored, one on each side. Jimmie Dale
glanced at them, and, suddenly attracted by the familiar appearance
of one, inspected it a little more closely. His momentarily
awakened interest passed as he nodded his head. It had caught his
attention, that was all--it was the same type and design, quite a
popular make, of which there were hundreds around New York, as the
one he had bought that year as a tender for his yacht.
He moved forward now toward the house, the rear of which faced him--
the light that flooded the lawn came from a side window. Jimmie
Dale was figuring the time and distance from New York as he crept
cautiously along. How quickly could the Weasel make the journey?
The Weasel would undoubtedly come, and if there was a convenient
train it might prove a close race--but in his own favour was the
fact that it would probably take the Weasel quite some little time
to recover his equilibrium from his encounter with the Gray Seal in
the Palais-Metropole, also the further fact that, from the Weasel's
viewpoint, there was no desperate need of haste. Jimmie Dale
crossed the lawn, and edged along in the shadows of the house to
where the light streamed out from what now proved to be open French
windows. It was a fair presumption that he would have an hour to
the good on the Weasel.
The sill was little more than a couple of feet from the ground, and,
from a crouched position on his knees below the window, Jimmie Dale
raised himself slowly and peered guardedly inside. The room was
empty. He listened a moment--the black silk mask was on his face
again--and with a quick, agile, silent spring he was in the room.
And then, in the centre of the room, Jimmie Dale stood motionless,
staring around him, an expression, ironical, sardonic, creeping into
his face. THE ROBBERY HAD ALREADY BEEN COMMITTED! At the lower end
of the room everything was in confusion; the door of a safe swung
wide, the drawers of a desk had been wrenched out, even a liqueur
stand, on which were well-filled decanters, had been broken open,
and the contents of safe and desk, the thief's discards as it were,
littered the floor in all directions.
For an instant Jimmie Dale, his eyes narrowed ominously, surveyed
the scene; then, with a sort of professional instinct aroused, he
stepped forward to examine the safe--and suddenly darted behind the
desk instead. Steps sounded in the hall. The door opened--a voice
reached him:
"The master said I was to shut the windows, and I haven't dast to go
in. And he'll be back with the police in a minute now. Come on in
with me, Minnie."
"Lord!" exclaimed another voice. "Ain't it a good thing the missus
is away. She'd have highsteericks!"
Steps came somewhat hesitantly across the floor--from behind the
desk, Jimmie Dale could see that it was a maid, accompanied by a
big, rawboned woman, sleeves rolled to the elbows over brawny arms,
presumably the Mittels' cook.
The maid closed the French windows, there were no others in the
room, and bolted them; and, having gained a little confidence, gazed
about her.
"My, but wasn't he cute!" she ejaculated." Cut the telephone wires,
he did. And ain't he made an awful mess! But the master said we
wasn't to touch nothing till the police saw it."
"And to think of it happening in OUR house!" observed the cook
heavily, her hands on her hips, her arms akimbo. "It'll all be in
the papers, and mabbe they'll put our pictures in, too."
"I won't get over it as long as I live!" declared the maid. "The
yell Mr. Mittel gave when he came downstairs and put his head in
here, and then him shouting and using the most terrible language
into the telephone, and then finding the wires cut. And me
following him downstairs half dead with fright. And he shouts at
me. 'Bella,' he shouts, 'shut those windows, but don't you touch a
thing in that room. I'm going for the police.' And then he rushes
out of the house."
"I was going to bed," said the cook, picking up her cue for what was
probably the twentieth rehearsal of the scene, "when I heard Mr.
Mittel yell, and--Lord, Bella, there he is now!"
Jimmie Dale's hands clenched. He, too, had caught the scuffle of
footsteps, those of three or four men at least, on the front porch.
There was one way, only one, of escape--through the French windows!
It was a matter of seconds only before Mittel, with the police at
his heels, would be in the room--and Jimmie Dale sprang to his feet.
There was a wild scream of terror from the maid, echoed by another
from the cook--and, still screaming, both women fled for the door.
"Mr. Mittel! Mr. Mittel!" shrieked the maid--she had flung herself
out into the hall. "He's--he's back again!"
Jimmie Dale was at the French windows, tearing at the bolts. They
stuck. Shouts came from the front entryway. He wrenched viciously
at the fastenings. They gave now. The windows flew open. He
glanced over his shoulder. A man, Mittel presumably, since he was
the only one not in uniform, was springing into the room. There was
a blur of forms and brass buttons behind Mittel--and Jimmie Dale
leaped to the lawn, speeding across it like a deer.
But quick as he ran, Jimmie Dale's brain was quicker, pointing the
single chance that seemed open to him. The motor boat! It seemed
like a God-given piece of luck that he had noticed it was like his
own; there would be no blind, and that meant fatal, blunders in the
dark over its mechanism, and he could start it up in a moment--just
the time to cast her off, that was all he needed.
The shouts swelled behind him. Jimmie Dale was running for his
life. He flung a glance backward. One form--Mittel, he was
certain--was perhaps a hundred yards in the rear. The others were
just emerging from the French windows--grotesque, leaping things
they looked, in the light that streamed out behind them from the
room.
Jimmie Dale's feet pounded the planking of the wharf. He stooped
and snatched at the mooring line. Mittel was almost at the wharf.
It seemed an age, a year to Jimmie Dale before the line was clear.
Shouts rang still louder across the lawn--the police, racing in a
pack, were more than halfway from the house. He flung the line into
the boat, sprang in after it--and Mittel, looming over him, grasped
at the boat's gunwhale.
Both men were panting from their exertions.
"Let go!" snarled Jimmie Dale between clenched teeth.
Mittel's answer was a hoarse, gasping shout to the police to hurry--
and then Mittel reeled back, measuring his length upon the wharf
from a blow with a boat hook full across the face, driven with a
sudden, untamed savagery that seemed for the moment to have mastered
Jimmie Dale.
There was no time--not a second--not the fraction of a second.
Desperately, frantically he shoved the boat clear of the wharf.
Once--twice--three times he turned the engine over without success--
and then the boat leaped forward. Jimmie Dale snatched the mask
from his face, and jumped for the steering wheel. The police were
rushing out along the wharf. He could just faintly discern Mittel
now--the man was staggering about, his hands clapped to his face. A
peremptory order to halt, coupled with a threat to fire, rang out
sharply--and Jimmie Dale flung himself flat in the bottom of the
boat. The wharf edge seemed to open in little, crackling jets of
flame, came the roar of reports like a miniature battery in action,
then the FLOP, FLOP, FLOP, as the lead tore up the water around him,
the duller thud as a bullet buried its nose in the boat's side, and
the curious rip and squeak as a splinter flew. Then Mittel's voice,
high-pitched, as though in pain:
"Can't any of you run a motor boat? He's got me bad, I'm afraid.
That other one there is twice as fast."
"Sure!" another voice responded promptly. "And if that's right,
he's run his head into a trap. Cast loose, there, MacVeay, and pile
in, all of you! You go back to the house, Mr. Mittel, and fix
yourself up. We'll get him!"
Jimmie Dale's lips thinned. It was true! If the other boat had any
speed at all, it was only a question of time before he would be
overtaken. The only point at issue was how much time. It was dark--
that was in his favour--but it was not so dark but that a boat
could be distinguished on the water for quite a distance, for a
longer distance than he could hope to put between them. There was
no chance of eluding the police that way! The keen, facile brain
that had saved the Gray Seal a hundred times before was weaving,
planning, discarding, eliminating, scheming a way out--with death,
ruin, disaster the price of failure. His eyes swept the dim,
irregular outline of the shore. To his right, in the opposite
direction from where he had left his car, and perhaps a mile ahead,
as well as he could judge, the land seemed to run out into a point.
Jimmie Dale headed for it instantly. If he could reach it with a
little lead to the good, there was a chance! It would take, say,
six minutes, granting the boat a speed of ten miles an hour--and she
could do that. The others could hardly overtake him in that time--
they hadn't got started yet. He could hear them still shouting and
talking at the wharf. And Mittel's "twice as fast" was undoubtedly
an exaggeration, anyhow.
A minute more passed, another--and then, astern, Jimmie Dale caught
the racket from the exhaust of a high-powered engine, and a white
streak seemed to shoot out upon the surface of the water from where,
obscured now, he placed the wharf. A quarter-mile lead, roughly
four hundred yards; yes, he had as much as that--but that, too, was
very little.
He bent over his engine, coaxing it, nursing it to its highest
efficiency; his eyes strained now upon the point ahead, now upon his
pursuers behind. He was running with the wind, thank Heaven! or the
small boat would have had a further handicap--it was rolling up
quite a sea.
The steering gear, he found, was corded along the side of the boat,
permitting its manipulation from almost any position, and, abruptly
now, Jimmie Dale left the engine to rummage through the little
locker in the stern of the boat. But as he rummaged, his eyes held
speculatively on the boat astern. She was gaining unquestionably,
steadily, but not as fast as he had feared. He would still have a
hundred yards' lead, at least, abreast the point--and, he was
smiling grimly now, a hundred yards there meant life to the Gray
Seal! The locker was full of a heterogeneous collection of odds and
ends--a suit of oilskins, tools, tins, and cans of various sizes and
descriptions. Jimmie Dale emptied the contents, some sort of
powder, of a small, round tin box overboard, and from his pocket
took out the banknotes, crammed them into the box, crammed his watch
in on top of them, and screwed the cover on tightly. His fingers
were flying now. A long strip torn from the trousers' leg of the
oilskins was wrapped again and again around the box--and the box was
stuffed into his pocket.
The flash of a revolver shot cut the blackness behind him, then
another, and another. They were firing in a continuous stream
again. It was fairly long range, but there was always the chance of
a stray bullet finding its mark. Jimmie Dale, crouching low, made
his way to the bow of the boat again.
The point was looming almost abreast now. He edged in nearer, to
hug it as closely as he dared risk the depth of the water. Behind,
remorselessly, the other boat was steadily closing the gap; and the
shots were not all wild--one struck, with a curious singing sound,
on some piece of metal a foot from his elbow. Closer to the shore,
running now parallel with the head of the point, Jimmie Dale again
edged in the boat, his jaws, clamped, working in little twitches.
And then suddenly, with a swift, appraising glance behind him, he
swerved the boat from her course and headed for the shore--not
directly, but diagonally across the little bay that, on the farther
side of the point, had now opened out before him. He was close in
with the edge of the point, ten yards from it, sweeping past it--the
point itself came between the two boats, hiding them from each
other--and Jimmie Dale, with a long spring, dove from the boat's
side to the water.
The momentum from the boat as he sank robbed him for an instant of
all control over himself, and he twisted, doubled up, and rolled
over and over beneath the water--but the next moment his head was
above the surface again, and he was striking out swiftly for the
shore. It was only a few yards--but in a few SECONDS the pursuing
boat, too, would have rounded the point. His feet touched bottom.
It was haste now, nothing else, that counted. The drum of the
racing engines, the crackling roar of the exhaust from the oncoming
boat was in his ears. He flung himself upon the shore and down
behind a rock. Around the point, past him, tore the police boat,
dark forms standing clustered in the bow--and then a sudden shout:
"There she is! See her? She's heading into the bay for the shore!"
Jimmie Dale's lips relaxed. There was no doubt that they had
sighted their quarry again--a perfect fusillade of revolver shots
directed at the now empty boat was quite sufficient proof of that!
With something that was almost a chuckle, Jimmie Dale straightened
up from behind the rock and began to run back along the shore. The
little motor boat would have grounded long before they overtook her,
and, thinking naturally enough, that he had leaped ashore from her,
they would go thrashing through the woods and fields searching for
him!
It was a longer way back by the shore, a good deal longer; now over
rough, rocky stretches where he stumbled in the darkness, now
through marshy, sodden ground where he sank as in a quagmire time
and again over his ankles. It was even longer than he had counted
on, and time, with the Weasel on one hand and the return of the
police on the other, was a factor to be reckoned with again, as, a
half hour later, Jimmie Dale stole across the lawn of Mittel's house
for the second time that night, and for the second time crouched
beneath the open French windows.
Masked again, the water still dripping from what were once
immaculate evening clothes but which now sagged limply about him,
his collar a pasty string around his neck, the mud and dirt splashed
to his knees, Jimmie Dale was a disreputable and incongruous-looking
object as he crouched there, shivering uncomfortably from his
immersion in spite of his exertions. Inside the room, Mittel passed
the windows, pacing the floor, one side of his face badly cut and
bruised from the blow with the boat hook--and as he passed, his back
turned for an instant, Jimmie Dale stepped into the room.
Mittel whirled at the sound, and, with a suppressed cry,
instinctively drew back--Jimmie Dale's automatic was dangling
carelessly in his right hand.
"I am afraid I am a trifle melodramatic," observed Jimmie Dale
apologetically, surveying his own bedraggled person; "but I assure
you it is neither intentional nor for effect. As it is, I was
afraid I would be late. Pardon me if I take the liberty of helping
myself; one gets a chill in wet clothes so easily"--he passed to the
liqueur stand, poured out a generous portion from one of the
decanters, and tossed it off.
Mittel neither spoke nor moved. Stupefaction, surprise, and a very
obvious regard for Jimmie Dale's revolver mingled themselves in a
helpless expression on his face.
Jimmie Dale set down his glass and pointed to a chair in front of
the desk.
"Sit down, Mr. Mittel," he invited pleasantly. "It will be quite
apparent to you that I have not time to prolong our interview
unnecessarily, in view of the possible return of the police at any
moment, but you might as well be comfortable. You will pardon me
again if I take another liberty"--he crossed the room, turned the
key in the lock of the door leading into the hall, and returned to
the desk. "Sit down, Mr. Mittel!" he repeated, a sudden rasp in his
voice.
Mittel, none too graciously, now seated himself.
"Look here, my fine fellow," he burst out, "you're carrying things
with a pretty high hand, aren't you? You seem to have eluded the
police for the moment, somehow, but let me tell you I--"
"No," interrupted Jimmie Dale softly, "let ME tell you--all there is
to be told." He leaned over the desk and stared rudely at the
bruise on Mittel's face. "Rather a nasty crack, that," he remarked.
Mittel's fists clenched, and an angry flush swept his cheeks.
"I'd have made it a good deal harder," said Jimmie Dale, with sudden
insolence, "if I hadn't been afraid of putting you out of business
and so precluding the possibility of this little meeting. Now
then"--the revolver swung upward and held steadily on a line with
Mittel's eyes--" I'll trouble you for the diagram of that Alaskan
claim that belongs to Mrs. Michael Breen!"
Mittel, staring fascinated into the little, round, black muzzle of
the automatic, edged back in his chair.
So--so that's what you're after, is it?" he jerked out. "Well"--he
laughed unnaturally and waved his hand at the disarray of the room--
"it's been stolen already."
"I know that," said Jimmie Dale grimly. "By--YOU!"
"Me!" Mittel started up in his chair, a whiteness creeping into his
face. "Me! I--I--"
"Sit down!" Jimmie Dale's voice rang out ominously cold. "I
haven't any time to spare. You can appreciate that. But even if
the police return before that map is in my possession, they will
still be TOO LATE as far as you are concerned. Do you understand?
Furthermore, if I am caught--you are ruined. Let me make it quite
plain that I know the details of your little game. You are a curb
broker, Mr. Mittel--ostensibly. In reality, you run what is nothing
better than an exceedingly profitable bucket shop. The Weasel has
been a customer and also a stool for you for years. How Hamvert met
the Weasel is unimportant--he came East with the intention of
getting in touch with a slick crook to help him--the Weasel is the
coincidence, that is all. I quite understand that you have never
met Hamvert, nor Hamvert you, nor that Hamvert was aware that you
and the Weasel had anything to do with one another and were playing
in together--but that equally is unimportant. When Hamvert engaged
the Weasel for ten thousand dollars to get the map from you for him,
the Weasel chose the line of least resistance. He KNEW you, and
approached you with an offer to split the money in return for the
map. It was not a question of your accepting his offer--it was
simply a matter of how you could do it and still protect yourself.
The Weasel was well qualified to point the way--a fake robbery of
your house would answer the purpose admirably--you could not be held
either legally or morally responsible for a document that was
placed, unsolicited by you, in your possession, if it were stolen
from you."
Mittel's face was ashen, colourless. His hands were opening and
shutting with nervous twitches on the top of the desk.
Jimmie Dale's lips curled.
"But"--Jimmie Dale was clipping off his words now viciously--
"neither you nor the Weasel were willing to trust the other
implicitly--perhaps you know each other too well. You were
unwilling to turn over the map until you had received your share of
the money, and you were equally unwilling to turn it over until you
were SAFE; that is, until you had engineered your fake robbery even
to the point of notifying the police that it had been committed; the
Weasel, on the other hand, had some scruples about parting with any
of the money without getting the map in one hand before he let go of
the banknotes with the other. It was very simply arranged, however,
and to your mutual satisfaction. While you robbed your own house
this evening, he was to get half the money in advance from Hamvert,
giving Hamvert to understand that HE had planned to commit the
robbery himself to-night. He was to come out here then, receive the
map from you in exchange for your share of the money, return to
Hamvert with the map, and receive in turn his own share. I might
say that Hamvert actually paid down the advance--and it was perhaps
unfortunate for you that you paid such scrupulous attention to
details as to cut your own telephone wires! I had not, of course,
an exact knowledge of the hour or minute in which you proposed to
stage your little play here. The object of my first visit a little
while ago was to forestall your turning the diagram over to the
Weasel. Circumstances favoured you for the moment. I am back
again, however, for the same purpose--the map!"
Mittel, in a cowed way, was huddled back in his chair. He smiled
miserably at Jimmie Dale.
"QUICK!" Jimmie Dale flung out the word in a sharp, peremptory
bark. "Do you need to be told that the CARTRIDGES are dry?"
Mittel's hand, trembling, went into his pocket and produced an
envelope.
"Open it!" commanded Jimmie Dale. "And lay it on the desk, so that
I can read it--I am too wet to touch it."
Mittel obeyed--like a dog that has been whipped.
A glance at the paper, and Jimmie Dale's eyes lifted again--to sweep
the floor of the room. He pointed to a pile of books and documents
in one corner that had been thrown out of the safe.
"Go over there and pick up that check book!" he ordered tersely.
"What for?" Mittel made feeble protest.
"Never mind what for!" snapped Jimmie Dale. "Go and get it--and
HURRY!
Once more Mittel obeyed--and dropped the book hesitantly on the
desk.
Jimmie Dale stared silently, insolently, contemptuously at the
other.
Mittel stirred uneasily, sat down, shifted his feet, and his fingers
fumbled aimlessly over the top of the desk.
"Compared with you," said Jimmie Dale, in a low voice, the Weasel,
ay, and Hamvert, too, crooks though they are, are gentlemen!
Michael Breen, as he died, told his wife to take that paper to some
one she could trust, who would help her and tell her what to do;
and, knowing no one to go to, but because she scrubbed your floors
and therefore thought you were a fine gentleman, she came timidly to
you, and trusted you--you cur!"
Jimmie Dale laughed suddenly--not pleasantly. Mittel shivered.
"Hamvert and Breen were partners out there in Alaska when Breen
first went out," said Jimmie Dale slowly, pulling the tin can
wrapped in oilskin from his pocket. "Hamvert swindled Breen out of
the one strike he made, and Mrs. Breen and her little girl back here
were reduced to poverty. The amount of that swindle was, I
understand, fifteen thousand dollars. I have ten of it here,
contributed by the Weasel and Hamvert; and you will, I think,
recognise therein a certain element of poetic justice--but I am
still short five thousand dollars."
Jimmie Dale removed the cover from the tin can. Mittel gazed at the
contents numbly.
"You perhaps did not hear me?" prompted Jimmie Dale coldly. "I am
still short five thousand dollars."
Mittel circled his lips with the tip of his tongue.
"What do you want?" he whispered hoarsely.
"The balance of the amount." There was an ominous quiet in Jimmie
Dale's voice. "A check payable to Mrs. Michael Breen for five
thousand dollars."
"I--I haven't got that much in the bank," Mittel fenced, stammering.
"No? Then I should advise you to see that you have by ten o'clock
to-morrow morning!" returned Jimmie Dale curtly. "Make out that
check!"
Mittel hesitated. The revolver edged insistently a little farther
across the desk--and Mittel, picking up a pen, wrote feverishly. He
tore the check from its stub, and, with a snarl, pushed it toward
Jimmie Dale.
"Fold it!" instructed Jimmie Dale, in the same curt tones. "And
fold that diagram with it. Put them both in this box. Thank you!"
He wrapped the oilskin around the box again, and returned the box to
his pocket. And again with that insolent, contemptuous stare, he
surveyed the man at the desk--then he backed to the French windows.
"It might be as well to remind you, Mittel," he cautioned sternly,
"that if for any reason this check is not honoured, whether through
lack of funds or an attempt by you to stop payment, you'll be in a
cell in the Tombs to-morrow for this night's work--that is quite
understood, isn't it?"
Mittel was on his feet--sweat glistened on his forehead.
"My God!" he cried out shrilly. "Who are you?"
And Jimmie Dale smiled and stepped out on the lawn.
"Ask the Weasel," said Jimmie Dale--and the next instant, lost in
the shadows of the house, was running for his car.
CHAPTER X
THE ALIBI
DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!"--through the underworld, in dens and dives
that sheltered from the law the vultures that preyed upon society,
prompted by self-fear, by secret dread, by reason of their very
inability to carry out their purpose, the whispered sentence grew
daily more venomous, more insistent. THE GRAY SEAL, DEAD OR ALIVE--
BUT THE GRAY SEAL!" It was the "standing orders" of the police.
Railed at by a populace who angrily demanded at its hands this
criminal of criminals, mocked at and threatened by a virulent press,
stung to madness by the knowledge of its own impotence, flaunted
impudently to its face by this mysterious Gray Seal to whose door
the law laid a hundred crimes, for whom the bars of a death cell in
Sing Sing was the certain goal could he but be caught, the police,
to a man, was like an uncaged beast that, flicked to the raw by some
unseen assailant and murderous in its fury, was crouched to strike.
Grim paradox--a common bond that linked the hands of the law with
those that outraged it!
Death to the Gray Seal! Was it, at last, the beginning of the end?
Jimmie Dale, as Larry the Bat, unkempt, disreputable in appearance,
supposed dope fiend, a figure familiar to every denizen below the
dead line, skulked along the narrow, ill-lighted street of the East
Side that, on the corner ahead, boasted the notorious resort to
which Bristol Bob had paid the doubtful, if appropriate, compliment
of giving his name. From under the rim of his battered hat, Jimmie
Dale's eyes, veiled by half-closed, well-simulated drug-laden lids,
missed no detail either of his surroundings or pertaining to the
passers-by. Though already late in the evening, half-naked children
played in the gutters; hawkers of multitudinous commodities cried
their wares under gasoline banjo torches affixed to their pushcarts;
shawled women of half a dozen races, and men equally cosmopolitan,
loitered at the curb, or blocked the pavement, or brushed by him.
Now a man passed him, flinging a greeting from the corner of his
mouth; now another, always without movement of the lips--and Jimmie
Dale answered them--from the corner of his mouth.
But while his eyes were alert, his mind was only subconsciously
attune to his surroundings. Was it indeed the beginning of the end?
Some day, he had told himself often enough, the end must come. Was
it coming now, surely, with a sort of grim implacability--when it was
too late to escape! Slowly, but inexorably, even his personal
freedom of action was narrowing, being limited, and, ironically
enough, through the very conditions he had himself created as an
avenue of escape.
It was not only the police now; it was, far more to be feared, the
underworld as well. In the old days, the role of Larry the Bat had
been assumed at intervals, at his own discretion, when, in a corner,
he had no other way of escape; now it was forced upon him almost
daily. The character of Larry the Bat could no longer be discarded
at will. He had flung down the gauntlet to the underworld when, as
the Gray Seal, he had closed the prison doors behind Stangeist, The
Mope, Australian Ike, and Clarie Deane, and the underworld had
picked the gauntlet up. Betrayed, as they believed, by the one who,
though unknown to them; they had counted the greatest among
themselves, and each one fearful that his own betrayal might come
next, every crook, every thug in the Bad Lands now eyed his oldest
pal with suspicion and distrust, and each was a self-constituted
sleuth, with the prod of self-preservation behind him, sworn to the
accomplishment of that unhallowed slogan--death to the Gray Seal.
Almost daily now he must show himself as Larry the Bat in some
gathering of the underworld--a prolonged absence from his haunts was
not merely to invite certain suspicion, where all were suspicious of
each other, it was to invite certain disaster. He had now either to
carry the role like a little old man of the sea upon his back, or
renounce it forever. And the latter course he dared not even
consider--the Sanctuary was still the Sanctuary, and the role of
Larry the Bat was still a refuge, the trump card in the lone hand he
played.
He reached the corner, pushed open the door of Bristol Bob's, and
shuffled in. The place was a glare of light, a hideous riot of
noise. On a polished section of the floor in the centre, a turkey
trot was in full swing; laughter and shouting vied raucously with an
impossible orchestra.
Jimmie Dale slowly made the circuit of the room past the tables,
that, ranged around the sides, were packed with occupants who
thumped their glasses in tempo with the music and clamoured at the
rushing waiters for replenishment. A dozen, two dozen, men and
women greeted him. Jimmie Dale indifferently returned their
salutes. What a galaxy of crooks--the cream of the underworld! His
eyes, under half-closed lids, swept the faces--lags, dips, gatmen,
yeggs, mob stormers, murderers, petty sneak thieves, stalls,
hangers-on--they were all there. He knew them all; he was known to
all.
He shuffled on to the far end of the room, his leer a little
arrogant, a certain arrogance, too, in the tilt of his battered hat.
He also was quite a celebrity in that gathering--Larry the Bat was
of the aristocracy and the elite of gangland. Well, the show was
over; he had stalked across the stage, performed for his audience--
and in another hour now, free until he must repeat the same
performance the next day in some other equally notorious dive, he
would be sitting in for a rubber of bridge at that most exclusive of
all clubs, the St. James, where none might enter save only those
whose names were vouched for in the highest and most select circles,
and where for partners he would possibly have a justice of the
supreme court, or mayhap an eminent divine! He looked suddenly
around him, as though startled. It always startled him, that
comparison. There was something too stupendous to be simply
ironical in the incongruity of it. If--if he were ever run to
earth!
His eyes met those of a heavy-built, coarse-featured man, the chewed
end of a cigar in his mouth, who stepped from behind the bar,
carrying a tin tray with two full glasses upon it. It was Bristol
Bob, ex-pugilist, the proprietor.
"How're you, Larry?" grunted the man, with what he meant to be a
smile.
Jimmie Dale was standing in the doorway of a passage that prefaced a
rear exit to the lane. He moved aside to allow the other to pass.
"'Ello, Bristol," he returned dispassionately.
Bristol Bob went on along down the passage, and Jimmie Dale shuffled
slowly after him. He had intended to leave the place by the rear
door--it obviated the possibility of an undesirable acquaintance
joining company with him if he went out by the main entrance. But
now his eyes were fixed on the proprietor's back with a sort of
speculative curiosity. There was a private room off the passage,
with a window on the lane; but they must be favoured customers
indeed that Bristol Bob would condescend to serve personally--any
one who knew Bristol Bob knew that.
Jimmie Dale slowed his shuffling gait, then quickened it again.
Bristol Bob opened the door and passed into the private room--the
door was just closing as Jimmie Dale shuffled by. He had had only a
glance inside--but it was enough. They were favoured customers
indeed! It was no wonder that Bristol Bob himself was on the job!
Two men were in the room: Lannigan of headquarters, rated the
smartest plain-clothes man in the country--and, across the table
from Lannigan, Whitey Mack, as clever, finished and daring a crook
as was to be found in the Bad Lands, whose particular "line" was
diamonds, or, in the vernacular of his ilk, "white stones," that had
earned him the sobriquet of "Whitey." Lannigan of headquarters,
Whitey Mack of the underworld, sworn enemies those two--in secret
session! Bristol Bob might well play the part of outer guard. If a
choice few of those outside in the dance hall could get a glimpse
into that private room it would be "good-night" to Whitey Mack.
Jimmie Dale's eyes were narrowed a little as he shuffled on down the
passage. Lannigan and Whitey Mack with their heads together! What
was the game? There was nothing in common between the two men.
Lannigan, it was well known, could not be "reached." Whitey Mack,
with his ingenious cleverness, coupled with a cold-blooded
fearlessness that had made him an object of unholy awe and respect
in the eyes of the underworld, was a thorn that was sore beyond
measure in the side of the police. Certainly, it was no ordinary
thing that had brought these two together; especially, since, with
the unrest and suspicion that was bubbling and seething below the
dead line, and with which there was none more intimate than Whitey
Mack, Whitey Mack was inviting a risk in "making up" with the police
that could only be accounted for by some urgent and vital incentive.
Jimmie Dale pushed open the door that gave on the lane. Behind him,
Bristol Bob closed the door of the private room and retreated back
along the passage. Jimmie Dale stepped out into the lane--and
instinctively his eyes sought the window of the private room. The
shade was drawn, only a yellow murk filtered out into the black,
unlighted lane, but suddenly he started noiselessly toward it. The
window was open a bare inch or so at the bottom!
The sill was just shoulder high, and, placing his ear to the
opening, he flattened himself against the wall. He could not see
inside, for the shade was drawn well to the bottom; but he could
hear as distinctly as though he were at the table beside the two
men--and at the first words, the loose, disjointed frame of Larry
the Bat seemed to tauten curiously and strain forward lithe and
tense.
"This Gray Seal dope listens good, Whitey; but, coming from you, I'm
leery. You've got to show me."
"Don't you want him?" There was a nasty laugh from Whitey Mack.
"You BET I want him!" returned the headquarters man with a
suppressed savagery that left no doubt as to his earnestness. "I
want him fast enough, but--"
"Then, blast him, so do I!" Whitey Mack rapped out with a vicious
snarl. "So does every guy in the fleet down here. We got it in for
him. You get that, don't you? He's got Stangeist and his gang
steered for the electric chair now; he put a crimp in the Weasel the
other night--get that? He's like a blasted wizard with what he
knows. And who'll he deal the icy mitt to next? Me--damn him--me,
for all I know!"
"That's all right," observed Lannigan coolly. "I'm not questioning
your sincerity for a minute; I know all about that; but that doesn't
land the Gray Seal. I'll work with you if you've anything to offer,
but we've had enough 'tips' and 'information' handed us at
headquarters in the last few years to make us a trifle skeptical.
Show me what you've got, Whitey?"
"Show you! " echoed Whitey Mack passionately. "Sure, I'll show you!
That's what I'm going to do--show you. I'll show you the Gray Seal!
I ain't handing you any tips. I'VE FOUND OUT WHO THE GRAY SEAL IS!"
There was a tense silence. It seemed to Jimmie Dale as though cold
fingers were clutching at his heart, stifling its beat--then the
blood came bursting to his forehead. He could not see into the
room, but that silence was eloquent. It seemed as though he could
picture the two men--Lannigan leaning suddenly forward--Lannigan and
Whitey Mack staring tensely into each other's eyes.
"You--WHAT!" It came low and grim from Lannigan.
"That's what!" asserted Whitey Mack bluntly. "You heard me! That's
what I said! I know who the Gray Seal is--and I'm the only guy
that's wise to him. Am I letting you in right?"
"You're sure?" demanded Lannigan hoarsely. "You're sure? Who is
he, then?"
There was a half laugh, half snarl from Whitey Mack.
"Oh, no, you don't!" he growled. "Nix on that! What do you take
me for--a fool? You beat it out of here and round him up--eh--while
I suck my thumbs? Say, forget it! Do you think I'm doing this
because I love you? Why, blame you, you've been aching for a year
to put the bracelets on me yourself! Say, wake up! I'm in on this
myself."
Again that silence. Then Lannigan spoke slowly, in a puzzled way.
I don't get you, Whitey," he said. "What do you mean?" Then, a
little sharply: "You're quite right; you've got some reputation
yourself, and you're badly 'wanted' if we could get the 'goods' on
you. If you're trying to plant something, look out for yourself,
or--"
"Can that!" snapped Whitey Mack threateningly. "Can that sort of
spiel right now--or quit! I ain't telling you his name--yet. BUT
I'LL TAKE YOU TO HIM TO-NIGHT--and you and me nabs him together. Is
that straight enough goods for you?"
"Don't get sore," said Lannigan, more pacifically. "Yes, if you'll
do that it's good enough for any man. But lay your cards on the
table face up, Whitey--I want to see what you opened the pot on."
"You've seen 'em," Whitey Mack answered ungraciously. "I've told
you already. The Gray Seal goes out for keeps--curse him for a
snitch! If I bumped him off, or wised up any of the guys to it, and
we was caught, we'd get the juice for it even if it was the Gray
Seal, wouldn't we? Well, what's the use! If one of you dicks get
him, he gets bumped off just the same, only regular, up in the wire
parlour at Sing Sing. I ain't looking for that kind of trouble when
I can duck it. See?"
"Sure," said Lannigan.
"Besides, and moreover," continued Whitey Mack, "there's SOME reward
hung out for him that I'm figuring to born in on. I'd swipe it all
myself, don't you make any mistake about that, and you'd never get a
look-in, only, sore as the mob is on the Gray Seal, it ain't healthy
for any guy around these parts to get the reputation of being a
snitch, no matter who he snitches on. Bump him off--sure!
Snitching--well, you get the idea, eh? I'm ducking that too. Get
me?"
"I get you," said Lannigan, with a short, pleased laugh.
"Well, then," announced Whitey Mack, "here's my proposition, and
it's my turn to hand out the 'look-out-for-your-self' dope. I'm
busting the game wide open for you to play, but you throw me down,
and"--his voice sank into a sullen snarl again--"you can take it
from me, I'll get you for it!"
"All right," responded Lannigan soberly. "Let's hear it. If I
agree to it, I'll stick to it."
"I believe you," said Whitey Mack curtly. "That's why I picked you
out for the medal they'll pin on you for this. And here's getting
down to tacks! I'll lead you to the Gray Seal to-night and help you
nab him and stay with you to the finish, but there's to be nobody
but you and me on the job. When it's done I fade away, and nobody's
to know I snitched, and no questions asked as to how I found out
about the Gray Seal. I ain't looking for any of the glory--you can
fix that up to suit yourself. The cash is different--you come
across with half the reward the day they pay it."
"You'll get it!" There was savage elation in Lannigan's voice, the
emphatic smash of a fist on the table. "You're on, Whitey. And if
we get the Gray Seal to-night, I'll do better by you than that."
"We'll get him!" said Whitey Mack, with a vicious oath. "And--"
Jimmie Dale crouched suddenly low down, close against the wall. The
crunch of a footstep sounded from the end of the lane. Some one had
turned in from the cross street, some fifty yards away, and was
heading evidently for the back entrance to Bristol Bob's. Jimmie
Dale edged noiselessly, cautiously back past the doorway, kept on,
pressed close against the wall, and finally paused. He had not been
seen. The back door of Bristol Bob's opened and closed. The man
had gone in.
For a moment Jimmie Dale stood hesitant. There was a wild surging
in his brain, something like a myriad batteries of trip hammers
seemed to be pounding at his temples. Then, almost blindly, he kept
on down the lane in the same direction in which he had started to
retreat--as well one cross street as another.
He turned into the cross street, went along it--and presently
emerged into the full tide of the Bowery. It was garishly lighted;
people swarmed about him. Subconsciously, there were crowded
sidewalks; subconsciously, he was on the Bowery--that was all.
Ruin, disaster, peril faced him--faced him, and staggered him with
the suddenness of the shock. Was it true? No; it could not be
true! It was a bluff--Whitey Mack was bluffing. Jimmie Dale's lips
grew thin in a mirthless smile as he shook his head. Neither Whitey
Mack nor any other man would dare to bluff like that. It was too
straight, too open-handed, Whitey Mack had laid his cards too
plainly on the table. Whitey Mack's words rang in his ears: "I'll
LEAD you to the Gray Seal to-night and help you nab him and stay
with you to the finish." The man meant what he said, meant what he
said, too, about the "finish" of the Gray Seal; not a man in the Bad
Lands but meant--death to the Gray Seal! But how, by what means,
when, where had Whitey Mack got his information? "I'm the only one
that's wise," Whitey Mack had said. It seemed impossible. It WAS
impossible! Whitey Mack was sincere enough probably in what he had
said, but the man simply could not know. Whitey Mack could only
have spotted some one that, for some reason or other, he IMAGINED
was the Gray Seal. That was it--must be it! Whitey Mack had made a
mistake. What clew could he have obtained to--
Over the unwashed face of Larry the Bat a gray pallor spread slowly.
His fingers were plucking at the frayed edge of his inside vest
pocket. The dark eyes seemed to turn coal-black. A laugh, like the
laugh of one damned, rose to his lips, and was choked back. It was
gone! GONE! That thin metal case, like a cigarette case, that,
between the little sheets of oil paper, held those diamond-shaped,
gray-coloured, adhesive seals, the insignia of the Gray Seal--was
gone! Clew! It seemed as though there were an overpowering nausea
upon him. CLEW! That little case was not a clew--it was a death
warrant!
His hands clenched fiercely. If he could only think for a moment!
The lining of his pocket had given away. The case had dropped out.
But there was nothing about the case to identify any one as the Gray
Seal unless it were found in one's actual possession. Therefore
Whitey Mack, to have solved his identity, must have seen him drop
the case. There could be no question about that. It was equally
obvious then that Whitey Mack would know the Gray Seal as Larry the
Bat. Did he also know him as Jimmie Dale? Yes, or no? It was a
vital question. His life hung on it.
That keen, facile brain, numbed for the moment, was beginning to
work with lightning speed. It was four o'clock that afternoon when
he had assumed the character of Larry the Bat--some time between
four o'clock and the present, it was now well after eleven, the case
had dropped from his pocket. There had been ample time then for
Whitey Mack to have made that appointment with Lannigan--and ample
time to have made a surreptitious visit to the Sanctuary. Had
Whitey Mack gone there? Had Whitey Mack found that hiding place in
the flooring under the oilcloth? Had Whitey Mack discovered that
the Gray Seal was not only Larry the Bat--but Jimmie Dale?
Jimmie Dale swept his hand across his forehead. It was damp from
little clinging beads of moisture. Should he go to the Sanctuary
and change--become Jimmie Dale again? Was it the safest thing to
do--or the most dangerous? Even if Whitey Mack had been there and
discovered the dual personality of Larry the Bat, how would he,
Jimmie Dale, know it? The man would have been crafty enough to have
left no sign behind him. Was it to the Sanctuary that Whitey Mack
meant to lead Lannigan that evening--or did Whitey Mack know him as
Jimmie Dale, and to make it the more sensational, plan to carry out
the coup, say, at the St. James Club? Whitey Mack and Lannigan were
still at Bristol Bob's; he had probably time, if he so elected, to
reach the Sanctuary, change, and get away again. But every minute
was priceless now. What should he do? Run from the city as he was
for cover--or take the gambler's chance? Whitey Mack knew him as
Larry the Bat--it was not certain that Whitey Mack knew him as
Jimmie Dale.
He had halted, absorbed, in front of a moving-picture theatre.
Great placards, at first but a blur of colour, suddenly forced
themselves in concrete form upon his consciousness. Letters a foot
high leaped out at him: "THE DOUBLE LIFE." There was the picture of
a banker in his private office hastily secreting a forged paper as
the hero in the guise of a clerk entered; the companion picture was
the banker in convict stripes staring out from behind the barred
doors of a cell. There seemed a ghastly augury in the coincidence.
Why should a thing like that be thrust upon him to shake his nerve
when he needed nerve now more than he had ever needed it in his life
before?
He raised his hand to jerk aimlessly at the brim of his hat, dropped
his hand abruptly to his side again, and started quickly, hurriedly
away through the throng around him. A sort of savagery had swept
upon him. In a flash he had made his decision. He would take the
gambler's chance! And afterward--Jimmie Dale's lips were like a
thin, straight line--it was Whitey Mack's life or his own! Whitey
Mack had said he was the only one that was wise--and Whitey Mack had
not told Lannigan yet, wouldn't tell Lannigan until the show-down.
If he, Jimmie Dale, got to the Sanctuary, became Jimmie Dale and got
away again, even if Whitey Mack knew him as Jimmie Dale, there was
still a chance. It was his life or Whitey Mack's--Whitey Mack, with
his lean-jawed, clean-shaven wolf's face! If he could get Whitey
Mack before the other was ready to tell Lannigan! Surely he had the
right of self-preservation! Surely his life was as valuable as
Whitey Mack's, as valuable as a man's who, as those in the secrets
of the underworld knew well enough, had blood upon his hands, who
lived by crime, who was a menace to the community! Had he not the
right to preserve his own life at the expense of one such as that?
He had never taken life--the thought was abhorrent! But was there
any other way in event of Whitey Mack knowing him as Jimmie Dale?
His back was against the wall; he was trapped; certain death, and,
worse, dishonour stared him in the face. Lannigan and Whitey Mack
would be together--the odds would be two to one against him--and he
had no quarrel with Lannigan--somehow he must let Lannigan out of it.
The other side of the street was less crowded. He crossed over,
and, still with the shuffling tread that dozens around him knew as
the characteristic gait of Larry the Bat, but covering the ground
with amazing celerity, he hurried along. It was only at the end of
the block, that cross street from the Bowery that led to the
Sanctuary. How much time had he? He turned the corner into the
darker cross street. Whitey Mack would have learned from Bristol
Bob that Larry the Bat had just been there; that is, that Larry the
Bat was not at the Sanctuary. Whitey Mack would probably be in no
hurry--he and Lannigan might wait until later, until Whitey Mack
should be satisfied that Larry the Bat had gone home. It was the
line of least resistance; they would not attempt to scour the city
for him. They might even wait in that private room at Bristol Bob's
until they decided that it was time to sally out. He might perhaps
still find them there when he got back; at any rate, from there he
must pick up their trail again. On the other hand--all this was but
supposition--they might make at once for the Sanctuary to lie in
wait for him. In any case there was need, desperate need, for
haste.
He glanced sharply around him; and, by the side of the tenement
house now that bordered on the alleyway, with a curious, swift,
gliding motion, he seemed to blend into the shadow and darkness. It
was the Sanctuary, that room on the first floor of the tenement, the
tenement that had three entrances, three exits--a passageway through
to the saloon on the next street that abutted on the rear, the usual
front door, and the side door in the alleyway. Gone was the
shuffling gait. Quick, alert, he ran, crouching, bent down, along
the alleyway, reached the side door, opened it stealthily, closed it
behind him with equal caution, and, in the dark entry, stood
motionless, listening intently.
There was no sound. He began to mount the rickety, dilapidated
stairs; and, where it seemed that the lightest tread must make them
creak out in blatant protest, his trained muscles, delicately
compensating his body weight, carried him upward with a silence that
was almost uncanny. There was need of silence, as there was need of
haste. He was not so sure now of the time at his disposal--that he
had even reached the Sanctuary FIRST. How long had he loitered in
that half-dazed way on the Bowery? He did not know--perhaps longer
than he had imagined. There was the possibility that Whitey Mack
and Lannigan were already above, waiting for him; but, even if they
were not already there and he got away before they came, it was
imperative that no one should know that Larry the Bat had come and
gone.
He reached the landing, and paused again, his right hand, with a
vicious muzzle of his automatic peeping now from between his
fingers, thrown a little forward. It was black, utterly black,
around him. Again that stealthy, catlike tread--and his ear was at
the keyhole of the Sanctuary door. A full minute, priceless though
it was, passed; then, satisfied that the room was empty, he drew his
head back from the keyhole, and those slim, tapering fingers, that
in their tips seemed to embody all the human senses, felt over the
lock. Apparently it had been undisturbed; but that was no proof
that Whitey Mack had not been there after finding the metal case.
Whitey Mack was known to be clever with a lock--clever enough for
that, anyhow.
He slipped in the key, turned it, and, on hinges that were always
oiled, silently pushed the door open and stepped across the
threshold. He closed the door until it was just ajar, that any
sound might reach him from without--and, whipping off his coat,
began to undress swiftly.
There was no light. He dared not use the gas; it might be seen from
the alleyway. He was moving now quickly, surely, silently here and
there. It was like some weird spectre figure, a little blacker than
the surrounding darkness, flitting about the room. The oilcloth in
the corner was turned back, the loose flooring lifted, the clothes
of Jimmie Dale taken out, the rags of Larry the Bat put in. The
minutes flew by. It was not the change of clothing that took long--
it was the eradication of Larry the Bat's make-up from his face,
throat, neck, wrists, and hands. Occasionally his head was turned
in a tense, listening attitude; but always the fingers were busy,
working with swift deftness.
It was done at last. Larry the Bat had vanished, and in his place
stood Jimmie Dale, the young millionaire, the social lion of New
York, immaculate in well-tailored tweeds. He stooped to the hole in
the flooring, and, his fingers going unerringly to their hiding
place, took out a black silk mask and an electric flashlight--his
automatic was already in his possession. His lips parted grimly.
Who knew what part a flashlight might not play--and he would need
the mask for Lannigan's benefit, even if it did not disguise him
from Whitey Mack. Had he left any telltale evidence of his visit?
It was almost worth the risk of a light to make sure. He hesitated,
then shook his head, and, stooping again, carefully replaced the
flooring and laid the oilcloth over it--he dared not show a light at
any cost.
But now even more caution than before was necessary. At times, the
lodgers had naturally enough seen their fellow lodger, Larry the
Bat, enter and leave the tenement--none had ever seen Jimmie Dale
either leave or enter. He stole across the room to the door, halted
to assure himself that the hall was empty, slipped out into the
hall, and locked the door behind him. Again that trained, longpracticed,
silent tread upon the stairs. It seemed as though an
hour passed before he reached the bottom, and his brain was
shrieking at him to hurry, hurry, HURRY! The entryway at last, the
door, the alleyway, a long breath of relief--and he was on the cross
street.
A step, two, he took in the direction of the Bowery--and he was
bending down as though to tie his shoe, his automatic, from his side
pocket, concealed in his hand. WAS THAT SOME ONE THERE? He could
have sworn he saw a shadow-like form start out from behind the steps
of the house on the opposite side of the street as he had emerged
from the alleyway. In his bent posture, without seemingly turning
his head, his eyes swept sharply up and down the other side of the
ill-lighted street. Nothing! There was not even a pedestrian in
sight on the block from there to the Bowery.
Jimmie Dale straightened up nonchalantly, and stooped almost
instantly again, as though the lace were still proving refractory.
Again that sharp, searching glance. Again--nothing! He went
forward now in apparent unconcern; but his right hand, instead of
being buried in his coat pocket, swung easily at his side.
It was strange! His ineffective ruse to the contrary, he was
certain that he had not been mistaken. Was it Whitey Mack? Was the
question answered? Was the Gray Seal known, too, as Jimmie Dale?
Were they trailing him now, with the climax to come at the club, at
his own palatial home, wherever the surroundings would best lend
themselves to assuaging that inordinate thirst for the sensational
that was so essentially a characteristic of the confirmed criminal?
What a headline in the morning's papers it would make!
At the corner he loitered by the curb to light a cigarette--still
not a soul in sight on either side of the street behind him, except
a couple of Italians who had just passed by. Strange again! The
intuition, if it were only intuition, was still strong. He swung
abruptly on his heel, mingled with the passers-by on the Bowery,
walked a rapid half dozen steps until the building hid the cross
street, then ran across the road to the opposite side of the Bowery,
and, in a crowd now, came back to the corner. He crossed from curb
to curb slowly, sheltered by a fringe of people that, however, in no
way obstructed his view down the side street. And then Jimmie Dale
shrugged his shoulders. He had evidently been mistaken, after all.
He was overexcited; his nerves were raw--that, perhaps, was the
solution. Meanwhile, every minute was counting, if Whitey Mack and
Lannigan should still be at Bristol Bob's.
He kept on down the Bowery, hurrying with growing impatience through
the crowds that massed in front of various places of amusement. He
had not intended to come along the Bowery, and, except for what had
occurred, would have taken a less frequented street. He would turn
off at the next block.
He was in front of that moving-picture theatre again. "THE DOUBLE
LIFE"--his eyes were attracted involuntarily to the lurid, overdone
display. It seemed to threaten him; it seemed to dangle before him
a premonition as it were, of what the morning held in store; but
now, too, it seemed to feed into flame that smouldering fury that
possessed him. His life--or Whitey Mack's! Men, women, and the
children who turned night into day in that quarter of the city were
clustered thick around the signs, hiving like bees to the bald
sensationalism. Almost savagely he began to force his way through
the crowd--and the next instant, like a man stunned, had stopped in
his tracks. His fingers had closed in a fierce, spasmodic clutch
over an envelope that had been thrust suddenly into his hand.
"JIMMIE!" from somewhere came a low, quick voice. "Jimmie, it is
half-past eleven now--HURRY."
He whirled, scanning wildly this face, then that. It was her voice--
HER voice! The Tocsin! The sensitive fingers were telegraphing to
his brain, as they always did, that the texture of the envelope,
too, was hers. Her voice; yes, anywhere, out of a thousand voices,
he would distinguish hers--but her face, he had never seen that.
Which, out of all the crowd around him, was hers? Surely he could
tell her by her dress; she would be different; her personality alone
must single her out. She--
"Say, have youse got de pip, or do youse t'ink youse owns de earth!"
a man flung at him, heaving and pushing to get by.
With a start, though he scarcely heard the man, Jimmie Dale moved
on. His brain was afire. All the irony of the world seemed massed
in a sudden, overwhelming attack upon him. It was useless--
intuitively he had known it was useless from the instant he had
heard her voice. It was always the same--always! For years she had
eluded him like that, come upon him without warning and disappeared,
but leaving always that tangible proof of her existence--a letter,
the call of the Gray Seal to arms. But to-night it was as it had
never been before. It was not alone baffled chagrin now, not alone
the longing, the wild desire to see her face, to look into her eyes--
it was life and death. She had come at the very moment when she,
perhaps alone of all the world, could have pointed the way out, when
life, liberty, everything that was common to them both was at stake,
in deadly peril--and she had gone, ignorant of it all, leaving him
staggered by the very possibility of the succour that was held up
before his eyes only to be snatched away without power of his to
grasp it. His intuition had not been at fault--he had made no
mistake in that shadow across the street from the Sanctuary. It had
been the Tocsin. He had been followed; and it was she who had
followed him, until, in a crowd, she had seized the opportunity of a
moment ago. Though ultimately, perhaps, it changed nothing, it was
a relief in a way to know that it was she, not Whitey Mack, who had
been lurking there; but her persistent, incomprehensible
determination to preserve the mystery with which she surrounded
herself was like now to cost them both a ghastly price. If he could
only have had one word with her--just one word!
The letter in his hand crackled under his clenched fist. He stared
at it in a half-blind, half-bitter way. The call of the Gray Seal
to arms! Another coup, with its incident danger and peril, that she
had planned for him to execute! He could have laughed aloud at the
inhuman mockery of it. The call of the Gray Seal to arms--NOW!
When with every faculty drained to its last resource, cornered,
trapped, he was fighting for his very existence!
"Jimmie, it is half-past eleven now--HURRY!" The words were
jangling discordantly in his brain.
And now he laughed outright, mirthlessly. A young girl hanging on
her escort's arm, passing, glanced at him and giggled. It was a
different Jimmie Dale for the moment. For once his immobility had
forsaken him. He laughed again--a sort of unnatural, desperate
indifference to everything falling upon him. What did it matter,
the moment or two it would take to read the letter? He looked
around him. He was on the corner in front of the Palace Saloon,
and, turning abruptly, he stepped in through the swinging doors. As
Larry the Bat, he knew the place well. At the rear of the barroom
and along the side of the wall were some half dozen little stalls,
partitioned off from each other. Several of these were unoccupied,
and he chose the one farthest from the entrance. It was private
enough; no one would disturb him.
From the aproned individual who presented himself he ordered a
drink. The man returned in a moment, and Jimmie Dale tossed a coin
on the table, bidding the other keep the change. He wanted no
drink; the transaction was wholly perfunctory. The waiter was gone;
he pushed the glass away from him, and tore the envelope open.
A single sheet, closely written on both sides of the paper, was in
his hand. It was her writing; there was no mistaking that, but
every word, every line bore evidence of frantic haste. Even that
customary formula, "dear philanthropic crook," that had prefaced
every line she had ever written him before, had been omitted. His
eyes traversed the first few lines with that strange indifference
that had settled upon him. What, after all, did it matter what it
was; he could do nothing--not even save himself probably. And then,
with a little start, he read the lines over again, muttering
snatches from them.
". . . Max Diestricht--diamonds--the Ross-Logan stones--wedding--
sliding panel in wall of workshop--end of the room near window--ten
boards to the right from side wall--press small knot in the wood in
the centre of the tenth board--to-night . . ."
It brought a sudden thrill of excitement to Jimmie Dale that,
impossible as he would have believed it an instant ago, for the
moment overshadowed the realisation of his own peril. A robbery
such as that, if it were ever accomplished, would stir the country
from end to end; it would set New York by the ears; it would loose
the police in full cry like a pack of bloodhounds with their leashes
slipped. The society columns of the newspapers had been busy for
months featuring the coming marriage of the Ross-Logans' daughter to
one of the country's young merchant princes. The combined fortunes
of the two families would make the young couple the richest in
America. The prospective groom's wedding gift was to be a diamond
necklace of perfectly matched, large stones that would eclipse
anything of the kind in the country. Europe, the foreign markets,
had been literally combed and ransacked to supply the gems. The
stones had arrived in New York the day before, the duty on them
alone amounting to over fifty thousand dollars. All this had
appeared in the papers.
Jimmie Dale's brows drew together in a frown. On just exactly what
percentage the duty was figured he did not know; but it was high
enough on the basis of fifty thousand dollars to assume safely that
the assessed value of the stones was not less than four times that
amount. Two hundred thousand dollars--laid down, a quarter of a
million! Well, why not? In more than one quarter diamonds were
ranked as the soundest kind of an investment. Furthermore, through
personal acquaintance with the "high contracting parties," who were
in his own set, he knew it to be true.
He shrugged his shoulders. The papers, too, had thrown the
limelight on Max Diestricht, who, though for quite a time the
fashion in the social world, had, up to the present, been
comparatively unknown to the average New Yorker. His own knowledge
of Max Diestricht went deeper than the superficial biography
furnished by the newspapers--the old Hollander had done more than
one piece of exquisite jewelry work for him. The old fellow was a
character that beggared description, eccentric to the point of
extravagance, and deaf as a post; but, in craftmanship, a modern
Cellini. He employed no workmen, lived alone over his shop on one
of the lower streets between Fifth and Sixth Avenues near Washington
Square--and possessed a splendid contempt for such protective
contrivances as safes and vaults. If his prospective patrons
expostulated on this score before intrusting him with their
valuables, they were at liberty to take their work elsewhere. It
was Max Diestricht who honoured you by accepting the commission; not
you who honoured Max Diestricht by intrusting him with it. "Of what
use is it to me, a safe!" he would exclaim. "It hides nothing; it
only says, 'I am inside; do not look farther; come and get me!'
Yes? It is to explode with the nitro-glycerin--POUF!--and I am deaf
and I hear nothing. It is a foolishness, that"--he had a habit of
prodding at one with a levelled fore-finger--"every night somewhere
they are robbed, and have I been robbed? HEIN, tell me that; have I
been robbed?"
It was true. In ten years, though at times having stones and
precious metal aggregating large amounts deposited with him by his
customers, Max Diestricht had never lost so much as the gold
filings. There was a queer smile on Jimmie Dale's lips now. The
knot in the tenth board was significant! Max Diestricht was
scrupulously honest, a genius in originality and conception of
design, a master in the perfection and delicacy of his finished
work--he had been commissioned to design and set the Ross-Logan
necklace.
The brain works quickly. All this and more had flashed almost
instantaneously through Jimmie Dale's mind. His eyes fell to the
letter again, and he read on. Halfway through, a sudden whiteness
blanched his face, and, following it, a surging tide of red that
mounted to his temples. It dazed him; it seemed to rob him for the
moment of the power of coherent thought. He was wrong; he had not
read aright. It was incredible, dare-devil beyond belief--and yet
in its very audacity lay success. He finished the letter, read it
once more--and his fingers mechanically began to tear it into little
shreds. His brain was in a whirl, a vortex of conflicting emotions.
Had Whitey Mack and Lannigan left Bristol Bob's yet? Where were
they now? Was there time for--this? He was staring at the little
torn scraps of paper in his hand. He thrust them suddenly into his
pocket, and jerked out his watch. It was nearly midnight. The
broad, muscular shoulders seemed to square back curiously, the jaws
to clamp a little, the face to harden and grow cold until it was
like stone. With a swift movement he emptied his glass into the
cuspidor, set the glass back on the table, and stepped out from the
stall. His destination was Max Diestricht's.
The Palace Saloon was near the upper end of the Bowery, and, failing
a taxicab, of which none was in sight, his quickest method was to
walk, and he started briskly forward. It was not far; and it was
barely ten minutes from the time he had left the Palace Saloon when
he swung through Washington Square to Fifth Avenue, and, a moment
later, turned from that thoroughfare, heading west toward Sixth
Avenue, along one of those streets which, with the city's northward
trend, had quite lost any distinctive identity, and from being once
a modestly fashionable residential section had now become a
conglomerate potpourri of small tradesmen's stores, shops and
apartments of the poorer class. He knew Max Diestricht's--he could
well have done without the aid of the arc lamp which, even if dimly,
indicated that low, almost tumble-down, two-story structure tucked
away between the taller buildings on either side that almost
engulfed it. It was late. The street was quiet. The shops and
stores had long since been closed, Max Diestricht's among them--the
old Hollanders' name in painted white letters stood out against the
background of a darkened workshop window. In the story above, the
lights, too, were out; Max Diestricht was probably fast asleep--and
he was stone deaf!
A glance up and down the street, and Jimmie Dale was standing, or,
rather, leaning against Max Diestricht's door. There was no one to
see, and if there were, what was there to attract attention to a man
standing nonchalantly for a moment in a doorway? It was only for a
moment. Those master fingers of Jimmie Dale were working surely,
swiftly, silently. A little steel instrument that was never out of
his possession was in the lock and out again. The door opened,
closed; he drew the black silk mask from his pocket and slipped it
over his face. Immediately in front of him the stairs led upward;
immediately to his right was the door into the shop--the modest
street entrance was common to both.
The door into the workshop was not locked. He opened it, stepped
inside, and closed it quietly behind him. The place was in
blackness. He stood for a moment silent, straining his ears to
catch the slightest sound, reconstructing the plan of his
surroundings in his mind as he remembered it. It was a narrow,
oblong room, running the entire depth of the building, a very long
room, blank walls on either side, a window in the middle of the rear
wall that gave on a back yard, and from the back yard there was
access to the lane; also, as he remembered the place, it was a riot
of disorder, with workbenches and odds and ends strewn without
system or reason in every direction--one had need of care to
negotiate it in the dark. He took his flashlight from his pocket,
and, preliminary to a more intimate acquaintance with the interior,
glanced out through the front window near which he stood--and, with
a suppressed cry, shrank back instinctively against the wall.
Two men were crossing the street, heading directly for the shop
door. The arc lamp lighted up their faces. IT WAS INSPECTOR
LANNIGAN OF HEADQUARTERS AND WHITEY MACK! The quick intake of
Jimmie Dale breath was sucked through clenched teeth. They were
close on his heels then--far closer than he had imagined. It would
take Whitey Mack scarcely any longer to open that front door than it
had taken him. Close on his heels! His face was rigid. He could
hear them now at the door. The flashlight in his hand winked down
the length of the room. If was a dangerous thing to do, but it was
still more dangerous to stumble into some object and make a noise.
He darted forward, circuiting a workbench, a stool, a small hand
forge. Again the flashlight gleamed. Against the side wall, near
the rear, was another workbench, with a sort of coarse canvas
curtain hanging part way down in front of it, evidently to protect
such things as might be stored away beneath it from dust, and Jimmie
Dale sprang for it, whipped back the canvas, and crawled underneath.
He was not an instant too soon. As the canvas fell back into place,
the shop door opened, closed, and the two men had stepped inside.
Whitey Mack's voice, in a low whisper though it was, seemed to echo
raucously through the shop.
"Mabbe we'll have a sweet wait, but I got the straight dope on this.
He's going to make a try for Dutchy's sparklers to-night. We'll let
him go the limit, and we don't either of us make a move till he's
pinched them, and then we get him with the goods on him. He can't
get away; he hasn't a hope! There's only two ways of getting in
here or getting out--this door and window here, and a window that's
down there at the back. You guard this, and I'll take care of the
other end. Savvy?"
"Right!" Lannigan answered grimly. "Go ahead!"
There was the sound of footsteps moving forward, then a vicious
bump, the scraping of some object along the floor, and a muffled
curse from Whitey Mack.
"Use your flashlight!" advised the inspector, in a guarded voice.
"I haven't got one, damn it!", growled Whitey Mack. "It's all
right. I'll get along."
Again the steps, but more warily now, as though the man were
cautiously feeling ahead of him for possible obstacles. Jimmie Dale
for a moment held his breath. He could have reached out and touched
the man as the other passed. Whitey Mack went on until he had taken
up a position against the rear wall. Jimmie Dale heard him as he
brushed against it.
Then silence fell. He was between them now. Stretched full length
on the floor, Jimmie Dale raised the lower portion of the canvas
away from in front of his face. He could see nothing; the place was
in Stygian blackness; but it had been close and stifling, and, at
least, it gave him more air.
The minutes dragged by--each more interminable than the one that had
gone before. Not a movement, not a sound, and then, through the
stillness, very faint at first, came the regular, repressed
breathing of Whitey Mack, who was much the nearer of the two men.
And, once noticeable, almost imperceptible as it was it seemed to
pervade the room and fill it with a strange, ominous resonance that
rose and fell until the blackness palpitated with it.
Slowly, very slowly, Jimmie Dale's hand crept into his pocket--and
crept out again with his automatic. He lay motionless once more.
Time in any concrete sense ceased to exist. Fancied shapes began to
assume form in the darkness. By the door, Lannigan stirred
uneasily, shifting his position slightly.
Was it hours--was it only minutes? It seemed to ring through the
nerve-racking stillness like the shriek of a hurtling shell--and it
was only a whisper.
"Watch yourself, Lannigan," whispered Whitey Mack. "He's coming now
through the yard! Don't move till I start something. Let him get
his paws on the sparklers."
Silence again. And then a low rasping at the window, like the
gnawing of a rat; then, inch by inch, the sash was lifted. There
was the sound as of a body forcing its way over the sill cautiously,
then a step upon the floor inside, another, and still another. The
figure of a man loomed up suddenly against the glow of a flashlight
as he threw the round, white ray inquisitively here and there over
the rear wall. And now he appeared to be counting the boards. One,
two, three--ten. His hand ran up and down the tenth board. Again
and again he repeated the operation, and something like the snarl of
a baited beast echoed through the room. He half turned to snatch at
something in his pocket, and the light for a moment showed a blackbearded,
lowering face, partially hidden by a peaked cap that was
pulled far down over his eyes.
There was the rip and tear of rending wood, as a steel jimmy, in
lieu of the spring the man evidently could not find, bit in between
the boards, a muttered oath of satisfaction, and a portion of the
wall slid back, disclosing what looked like a metal-lined cupboard.
He reached in, seized one of a dozen little boxes, and wrenched off
the cover. A blue, scintillating gleam seemed to leap out to meet
the white ray of the flashlight. The man chuckled hoarsely, and
began to cram the rest of the boxes into his pockets.
Jimmie Dale stirred. On hands and knees he was creeping now from
beneath the workbench. Something caught and tore behind him--the
canvas curtain. And at the sound, with a sharp cry, the man at the
wall whirled, the light went out, and he sprang toward the window.
Jimmie Dale gained his feet and leaped forward. A revolver shot cut
a lane of fire through the blackness; and, above the roar of the
report, Whitey Mack's voice in a fierce yell:
"It's all right, Lannigan! I got him! No--HELL!" There was a
terrific crash of breaking glass. "He's got away!"
"Not yet, he hasn't!" gritted Jimmie Dale between his teeth, and his
clubbed revolver swung crashing to the head of a dark form in front
of him.
There was a half sigh, half moan. The form slid limply to the
floor. Lannigan was floundering down the shop, leaping obstacles in
a mad rush, his flashlight picking out the way.
Jimmie Dale stepped swiftly backward, and his hand groped out for
the droplight, over the end of the bench, that he had knocked
against in his own rush. His fingers clutched it--and the lower end
of the shop was flooded with light. Except for his felt hat that
lay a little distance away, there was no sign of Whitey Mack; the
huddled form of the man, who but a moment since had chuckled as he
pocketed old Max Diestricht's gems, lay sprawled, inert, upon the
floor, and Lannigan was staring into the muzzle of Jimmie Dale's
automatic.
"Drop that gun, Lannigan!" said Jimmie Dale coolly. "And I'll
trouble you not to make a noise; it might attract attention from the
street; there's been too much already. DROP THAT GUN!"
The revolver clattered from Lannigan's hand to the floor. A step
forward, and Jimmie Dale's toe sent it spinning under a bench.
Another step, and, his revolver still covering the other, he had
whipped a pair of handcuffs from the officer's side pocket.
Lannigan, as though the thought had never occurred to him, offered
no resistance. He was staring in a dazed sort of way back and forth
from Jimmie Dale to the man on the floor.
"What's this mean?" he burst out suddenly, "Where's--"
"Your wrist, please!" requested Jimmie Dale pleasantly. "No--the
left one. Thank you"--as the handcuff snapped shut. "Now go over
there and sit down on the floor beside that fellow. QUICK!" Jimmie
Dale's voice rasped suddenly, imperatively.
Still bewildered, but a little sullen now, Lannigan obeyed. Jimmie
Dale stooped quickly, and snapped the other link of the handcuff
over the unconscious man's right wrist.
Jimmie Dale smiled.
"That's the approved way of taking your man, isn't it? Left wrist
to the prisoner's right. He's only stunned; he'll be around in a
moment. Know him?"
Lannigan shook his head.
"Take a good look at him," invited Jimmie Dale. "You ought to know
most of them in the business."
Lannigan bent over a little closer, and then, with an amazed cry,
his free hand shot forward and tore away the other's beard.
IT WAS WHITEY MACK!
"My God!" gasped Lannigan.
"Quite so!" said Jimmie Dale evenly. "You'll find the diamonds in
his pockets, and, excuse me"--his fingers were running through
Whitey Mack's clothes--"ah, here it is"--the thin metal case was in
his hand--"a little article that belongs to me, and whose loss, I am
free to admit, caused me considerable concern until I was informed
that he had only found it without having the slightest idea as to
whom it belonged. It made quite a difference!" He had opened the
case carelessly before Lannigan's eyes. "'The Gray Seal!' I'll say
it for you," said Jimmie Dale whimsically. "This is what probably
put the idea into his head, after first, in some way, having
discovered old Max Diestricht's hiding place; and, if I had given
him time enough, he would probably have stuck one of these seals, in
clumsy imitation of that little eccentricity of mine, on the wall
over there to stamp the job as genuine. You begin to get it, don't
you Lannigan? Pretty sure-fire as an alibi, eh? And he'd have got
away with it, too, as far as you were concerned. He had only to
fire that shot, smash the window, tuck his false beard, mustache,
and peaked cap into his pocket, put on his own hat that you see
there on the floor--and yell that the man had escaped. He'd help
you chase the thief, too! Rather neat, don't you think, Lannigan?
And worth the risk, too, considering the howl that would go up at
the theft of those stones, and that, known as the slickest diamond
thief in the country, he would be the first to be suspected--except
that the police themselves, in the person of Inspector Lannigan of
headquarters, would be prepared to prove a perfectly good alibi for
him."
Lannigan's head was thrust forward; his eyes, hard, were riveted on
Whitey Mack.
"My God!" he said again under his breath. Then fiercely: "He'll get
his for this!"
It was a moment before Jimmie Dale spoke; he was musingly examining
the automatic in his hand.
"I am going now, Lannigan," he observed quietly. "I require, say,
fifteen minutes in which to effect my escape. It is, of course,
obvious that an alarm raised by you might prove extremely awkward,
but a piece of canvas from that bench there, together with a bit of
string, would make a most effective gag. I prefer, however, not to
submit you to that indignity. Instead, I offer you the alternative
of giving me your word to remain quietly where you are for--fifteen
minutes."
Lannigan hesitated.
Jimmie Dale smiled.
"I agree," said Lannigan shortly.
Jimmie Dale stepped back. The electric-light switch clicked. The
place was in darkness. There was a moment, two, of utter stillness;
then softly, from the front end of the shop, a whisper:
"If I were you, Lannigan, I'd take that gun from Whitey's pocket
before he comes round and beats you to it."
And the door had closed silently behind Jimmie Dale.
CHAPTER XI
THE STOOL-PIGEON
In the subway, ten minutes before, a freckled-faced messenger boy
had squeezed himself into a seat beside Jimmie Dale, yanked a dime
novel from a refractory pocket, and, blissfully lost to all the
world, had buried his head in its pages. Jimmie Dale's glance at
the youngster had equally, perforce, embraced the lurid title of the
thriller, "Dicing with Death," so imperturbably thrust under his
nose. At the time, he had smiled indulgently; but now, as he left
the subway and headed for his home on Riverside Drive, the words not
only refused to be ignored, but had resolved themselves into a
curiously persistent refrain in his mind. They were exactly what
they purported to be, dime-novelish, of the deepest hue of yellow,
melodramatic in the extreme; but also, to him now, they were grimly
apt and premonitorily appropriate. "Dicing with Death"--there was
not an hour, not a moment in the day, when he was not literally
dicing with death; when, with the underworld and the police allied
against him, a single false move would lose him the throw that left
death the winner!
The risk of the dual life enforced upon him grew daily greater, and
in the end there must be the reckoning. He would have been a madman
to have shut his eyes in the face of what was obvious--but it was
worth it all, and in his soul he knew that he would not have had it
otherwise even now. To-night, to-morrow, the day after, would come
another letter from the Tocsin, and there would be another "crime"
of the Gray Seal's blazoned in the press--would that be the last
affair, or would there be another--or to-night, to-morrow, the day
after, would he be trapped before even one more letter came!
He shrugged his shoulders, as he ran up the steps of his house.
Those were the stakes that he himself had laid on the table to wager
upon the game, he had no quarrel there; but if only, before the end
came, or even with the end itself, he could find--HER!
With his latchkey he let himself into the spacious, richly
furnished, well-lighted reception hall, and, crossing this, went up
the broad staircase, his steps noiseless on the heavy carpet.
Below, faintly, he could hear some of the servants--they evidently
had not heard him close the door behind him. Discipline was relaxed
somewhat, it was quite apparent, with Jason, that peer of butlers,
away. Jason, poor chap, was in the hospital. Typhoid, they had
thought it at first, though it had turned out to be some milder form
of infection. He would be back in a few days now; but meanwhile he
missed the old man sorely from the house.
He reached the landing, and, turning, went along the hall to the
door of his own particular den, opened the door, closed it behind
him--and in an instant the keen, agile brain, trained to the little
things that never escaped it, that daily held his life in the
balance, was alert. The room was unusually dark, even for nighttime.
It was as though the window shades had been closely drawn--a
thing Jason never did. But then Jason wasn't there! Jimmie Dale,
smiling then a little quizzically at himself, reached up for the
electric-light switch beside the door, pressed it--and, his finger
still on the button, whipped his automatic from his pocket with his
other hand. THE ROOM WAS STILL IN DARKNESS.
The smile on Jimmie Dale's lips was gone, for his lips now had
closed together in a tight, drawn line. The lights in the rest of
the house, as witness the reception hall, were in order. This was
no ACCIDENT! Silent, motionless, he stood there, listening. Was he
trapped at last--in his own house! By whom? The police? The thugs
of the underworld? It made little difference--the end would differ
only in the method by which it was attained! What was that! Was
there a slight stir, a movement at the lower end of the room--or was
it his imagination? His hand fell from the electric-light switch to
the doorknob behind his back. Slowly, without a sound, it began to
turn under his slim, tapering fingers, whose deft, sensitive touch
had made him known and feared as the master cracksman of them all;
and, as noiselessly, the door began to open.
It was like a duel--a duel of silence. What was the intruder,
whoever he might be, waiting for? The abortive click of the
electric-light switch, to say nothing of the opening of the door
when he had entered, was evidence enough that he was there. Was the
other trying to place him exactly through the darkness to make sure
of his attack! The door was open now. And suddenly Jimmie Dale
laughed easily aloud--and on the instant shifted his position.
"Well?" inquired Jimmie Dale coolly from the other side of the
threshold.
It seemed like a long-drawn sigh fluttering through the room, a gasp
of relief--and then the blood was pounding madly at his temples, and
he was back in the room again, the door closed once more behind him.
"Oh, Jimmie--why didn't you speak? I had to be sure that it was
you."
It was her voice! HERS! The Tocsin! HERE! She was here--here in
his house!
"You!" he cried. "You--here!" He was pressing the electric-light
switch frantically, again and again.
Her voice came out of the darkness from across the room:
"Why are you doing that, Jimmie? You know already that I have
turned off the lights."
"At the sockets--of course!" He laughed out the words almost
hysterically. "Your face--I have never seen your face, you know."
He was moving quickly toward the reading lamp on his desk.
There was a quick, hurried swish of garments, and she was blocking
his way.
"No," she said, in a low voice; "you must not light that lamp."
He laughed again, shortly, fiercely now. She was close to him, his
hands reached out for her, touched her, and thrilling at the touch,
swept her toward him.
"Jimmie--Jimmie--are you mad!" she breathed.
Mad! Yes--he was mad with the wildest, most passionate exhilaration
he had ever known. He found his voice with an effort.
"These months and years that I have tried until my soul was sick to
find you!" he cried out. "And you are here now! Your face--I must
see your face!"
She had wrenched herself away from him. He could hear her breath
coming sharply in little gasps. He groped his way onward toward the
desk.
"WAIT!"--her tones seemed to ring suddenly vibrant through the room.
"Wait, before you touch that lamp! I--I put you on your honour not
to light it."
He stopped abruptly.
"My--honour?" he repeated mechanically.
"Yes! I came here to-night because there was no other way. No
other way--do you understand? I came, trusting to your honour not
to take advantage of the conditions that forced me to do this. I
had no fear that I was wrong--I have no fear now. You will not
light that lamp, and you will not make any attempt to prevent my
going away as I came--unknown. Is there any question about it,
Jimmie? I am in YOUR house."
"You don't know what you are saying!" he burst out wildly. "I've
risked my life for a chance like this again and again; I've gone
through hell, living in squalour for a month on end as Larry the Bat
in the hope that I might discover who you are--and do you think I'll
let anything stop me now! I tell you, no--a thousand times no!"
She made no answer. There was only her low, quick breathing coming
from somewhere near him. He made another step toward the lamp--and
stopped.
"I tell you, no!" he said again, and took another step forward--and
stopped once more.
Still she made no answer. A minute passed--another. His hand
lifted and swept across his forehead in an agitated way. Still
silence. She neither moved nor spoke. His hand dropped slowly to
his side. There was a queer, twisted smile upon his lips.
"You win!" he said hoarsely.
"Thank you, Jimmie," she said simply.
"And your name, who you are"--he was speaking, but he did not seem
to recognise his own voice--"the hundred other things I've sworn I'd
make you explain when I found you, are all taboo as well, I
suppose!"
"Yes," she said.
He laughed bitterly.
"Don't you know," he cried out, "that between the police and the
underworld, our house of cards is likely to collapse at any minute--
that they are hunting the Gray Seal day and night! Is it to be
always like this--that I am never to know--until it is too late!
She came toward him out of the darkness impulsively.
"They will never get you, Jimmie," she said, in a suppressed voice.
And some day, I promise you now, you shall have your reward for tonight.
You shall know--everything."
"When?" The word came from him with fierce eagerness.
"I do not know," she answered gently. "Soon, perhaps--perhaps
sooner than either of us imagine."
"And by that you mean--what?" he asked, and his hand reached out for
her again through the blackness.
This time she did not draw away. There was an instant's hesitation;
then she spoke again hurriedly, a note of anxiety in her voice.
"You are beginning all over again, aren't you, Jimmie? And I have
told you that to-night I can explain nothing. And, besides, it is
what has brought me here that counts now, and every moment is of--"
"Yes. I know," he interposed; "but, then, at least you will tell me
one thing: Why did you come to-night, instead of sending me a letter
as you always have before?"
"Because it is different to-night than it ever was before," she
replied earnestly. "Because there is something in what has happened
that I cannot explain myself; because there is danger, and where I
could not see clearly I feared a trap, and so I dared not send what,
in a letter, could at best be only vague and incomplete details. Do
you see?"
"Yes," said Jimmie Dale--but he was only listening in an abstracted
way. If he could only see that face, so close to his! He had
yearned for that with all his soul for years now! And she was here,
standing beside him, and his hand was upon her arm; and here, in his
own den, in his own house, he was listening to another call to arms
for the Gray Seal from her own lips! Honour! Was he but a poor,
quixotic fool! He had only to step to the desk and switch on the
light! Why should--he steadied himself with a jerk, and drew away
his hand. She was in HIS house. "Go on," he said tersely.
"Do you know, or did you ever hear of old Luther Doyle?" she asked.
"No," said Jimmie Dale.
"Do you know a man, then, named Connie Myers?"
Connie Myers! Who in the Bad Lands did not know Connie Myers, who
boasted of the half dozen prison sentences already to his credit?
Yes; he knew Connie Myers! But, strangely enough, it was not in the
Bad Lands or as Larry the Bat that he knew the man, or that the
other knew him--it was as Jimmie Dale. Connie Myers had introduced
himself one night several years ago with a blackjack that had just
missed its mark as the man had jumped out from a dark alleyway on
the East Side, and he, Jimmie Dale, had thrashed the other to within
an inch of his life. He had reason to know Connie Myers--and Connie
Myers had reason to remember him!
"Yes," he said, with a grim smile; "I know Connie Myers."
"And the tenement across the street from where you live as Larry the
Bat--that, of course, you know." He leaned toward her wonderingly
now.
"Of course!" he ejaculated. "Naturally!"
"Listen, then, Jimmie!" She was speaking quickly now. "It is a
strange story. This Luther Doyle was already over fifty, when, some
eight or nine years ago, his parents died within a few months of
each other, and he inherited somewhere in the neighbourhood of a
hundred thousand dollars; but the man, though harmless enough, was
mildly insane, half-witted, queer, and the old couple, on account of
their son's mental defects, took care to leave the money securely
invested, and so that he could only touch the interest. During
these eight or nine years he has lived by himself in the same old
family house where he had lived with his parents, in a lonely spot
near Pelham. And he has lived in a most frugal, even miserly,
manner. His income could not have been less than six thousand
dollars a year, and his expenditures could not have been more than
six hundred. His dementia, ironically enough from the day that he
came into his fortune, took the form of a most pitiable and abject
fear that he would die in poverty, misery, and want; and so, year
after year, cashing his checks as fast as he got them, never
trusting the bank with a penny, he kept hiding away somewhere in his
house every cent he could scrape and save from his income--which today
must amount, at a minimum calculation, to fifty thousand
dollars."
"And," observed Jimmie Dale quietly. "Connie Myers robbed him of
it, and--"
"No!" Her voice was quivering with passion, as she caught up his
words. "Twice in the last month Connie Myers TRIED to rob him, but
the money was too securely hidden. Twice he broke into Doyle's
house when the old man was out, but on both occasions was
unsuccessful in his search, and was interrupted and forced to make
his escape on account of Doyle's return. To-night, an hour ago, in
an empty room on the second floor of that tenement, in the room
facing the landing, old Luther Doyle was MURDERED!"
There was silence for an instant. Her hand had closed in a tight
pressure on his arm. The darkness seemed to add a sort of ghastly
significance to her words.
"In God's name, how do you know all this?" he demanded wildly. "How
do you know all these things?
"Does that matter now?" she answered tensely. "You will know that
when you know the rest. Oh, don't you understand, Jimmie, there is
not a moment to lose now? It was easy to lure a half-witted
creature like that anywhere; it was Connie Myers who lured him to
the tenement and murdered him there--but from that point, Jimmie, I
am not sure of our ground. I do not know whether Connie Myers is
alone in this or not; but I do know that he is going to Doyle's
house again to-night to make another search for the money. There is
no question but that old Doyle was murdered to give Connie Myers and
his accomplices, if there are any, a chance to tear the house inside
out to find the money, to give them the whole night to work in
without interruption if necessary--but Doyle dead in his own house
could have interfered no more with them than Doyle dead in that
tenement! Why was he lured to the tenement by Connie Myers when he
could much more easily have been put out of the way in his own
house? Jimmie, there is something behind this, something more that
you must find out. There may be others in this besides Connie
Myers, I do not know; but there is something here that I am afraid
of. Jimmie, you must get that man, you must get the others if there
are others, and you must stop them from getting the money in that
house to-night! Do you understand now why I have come here? I
could not explain in a letter; I do not quite seem to be explaining
now. It would seem as though there were no need for the Gray Seal--
that simply the police should be notified. But I KNOW, Jimmie, call
it intuition, what you will, I know that there is need for us, for
you to-night--that behind all this is a tragedy, deeper, blacker,
than even the brutal, cold-blooded murder that is already done."
Her voice, in its passionate earnestness, died away; and an anger,
cold, grim, remorseless, settled upon Jimmie Dale--settled as it
always settled upon him at her call to arms. His brain was already
at work in its quick, instant way, probing, sifting, planning. She
was right! It was strange, it was more than strange that, with the
added risk, the danger, the difficulty, the man should have been
brought miles to be done away with in that tenement! Why? Connie
Myers took form before him--the coarse features, the tawny hair that
straggled across the low forehead, the shifty eyes that were an
indeterminate colour between brown and gray, the thin lips that
seemed to draw in and give the jaw a protruding, belligerent effect.
And Connie Myers knew him as Jimmie Dale--it would have to be then
as Larry the Bat that the Gray Seal must work. That meant time--to
go to the Sanctuary and change.
"The police," he asked suddenly, aloud, "they have not yet
discovered the body?"
"Not yet," she replied hurriedly. "And that is still another reason
for haste--there is no telling when they will. See--here!" She
thrust a paper into his hand. "Here is a plan of old Doyle's house,
and directions for finding it. You must get Connie Myers redhanded,
you must make him convict himself, for the evidence through
which I know him to be guilty can never be used against him. And,
Jimmie, be careful--I know I am not wrong, that there is still
something more behind all this. And now go, Jimmie, go! There is
no time to lose!" She was pushing him across the room toward the
door.
Go! The word seemed suddenly to bring dismay. It was she again who
was dominant now in his mind. Who knew if to-night, when he was
taking his life in his hands again, would not be the last! And she
was here now, here beside him--where she might never be again!
She seemed to divine his thoughts, for she spoke again, a strange
new note of tenderness in her voice that thrilled him.
"You must never let them get you, Jimmie--for my sake. It will not
last much longer--it is near the end--and I shall keep my promise.
But go, now, Jimmie--go!"
"Go?" he repeated numbly. "Go? But--but you?"
"I?" She slipped suddenly away from him, retreating back down the
room. "I will go--as I came."
"Wait! Listen!" he pleaded.
There was no answer.
She was there--somewhere back there in the darkness still. He stood
hesitant at the door. It seemed that every faculty he possessed
urged him back there again--to her. Could he let her escape him now
when she was so utterly in his power, she who meant everything in
his life! And then, like a cold shock, came that other thought--she
who had trusted to his honour! With a jerk, his hand swept out,
felt for the doorknob, and closed upon it.
"Good-night!" he said heavily, and stepped out into the hall.
It seemed for a while, even after he had gained the street and made
his way again to the subway, that nothing was concrete around him,
that he was living through some fantastical dream. His head
whirled, and he could not think rationally--and then slowly, little
by little, his grip upon himself came back. She had come--and gone!
With the roar of the subway in his ears, its raucous note seeming to
strike so perfectly in consonance with the turmoil within him, he
smiled mirthlessly. After all, it was as it always was! She was
gone--and ahead of him lay the chances of the night!
"Dicing with death!" The words, unbidden, came back once more. If
they were true before, they were doubly applicable now. It was
different to-night from what it had ever been before, as she had
said. Usually, to the smallest detail, everything was laid open,
clear before him in those astounding letters. To-night, it was
vague at best. A man had been murdered. Connie Myers had committed
the murder under circumstances that pointed strongly to some hidden
motive behind and beyond the mere chance it afforded him to search
his victim's house for the hidden cash. What was it?
Jimmie Dale stared out at the black subway walls. The answer would
not come. Station after station passed. At Fourteenth Street he
changed from the express to a local, got out at Astor Place, and a
few minutes later was walking rapidly down the upper end of the
Bowery.
The answer would not come--only the fact itself grew more and more
deeply significant. The ghastly, callous fiendishness that lured an
old, half-witted man to his death had Jimmie Dale in that grip of
cold, merciless anger again, and there was a dull flush now upon his
cheeks. Whatever it meant, whatever was behind it, one thing at
least was certain--HE WOULD GET CONNIE MYERS!
He was close to the Sanctuary now--it was down the next cross
street. He reached the corner and turned it, heading east; but his
brisk walk had changed to a nonchalant saunter--there were some
people coming toward him. It was the Gray Seal now, alert and
cautious. The little group passed by. Ahead, the tenement
bordering on the black alleyway loomed up--the Sanctuary, with its
three entrances and exits; the home of Larry the Bat. And across
from it was that other tenement, that held a new interest for him
now, where, in an empty room on the second floor, she had said, old
Doyle still lay. Should he go there? He was thinking quickly now,
and shook his head. It would take what he did not have to spare--
time. It was already ten o'clock; and, granted that Connie Myers
had committed the crime only a little over an hour ago, the man by
this time would certainly be on his way to Doyle's house near
Pelham, if, indeed, he were not already there. No, there was no
time to spare--the question resolved itself simply into how long,
since he had already searched twice and failed on both occasions, it
would take Connie Myers to unearth old Doyle's hiding place for the
money.
Jimmie Dale glanced sharply around him, slipped into the alleyway,
and, crouching against the tenement wall, moved noiselessly along to
the side entrance. A moment more, and he had negotiated the rickety
stairs with practiced, soundless tread, was inside the squalid
quarters of Larry the Bat, and the door of the Sanctuary was locked
and bolted behind him.
Perhaps five minutes passed--and then, where Jimmie Dale, the
millionaire, had entered, there emerged Larry the Bat, of the
aristocracy and the elite of the Bad Lands. But instead of leaving
by the side door and the alleyway, as he had entered, he went along
the lower hallway to the front entrance. And here, instinctively,
he paused a moment at the top of the steps, as his eyes rested upon
the tenement on the opposite side of the street.
It was strange that the crime should have been committed there!
Something again seemed to draw him toward that empty room on the
second story. He had decided once that he would not go, that there
was not time; but, after all, it would not take long, and there was
at least the possibility of gaining something more valuable even
than time from the scene of the crime itself--there might even be
the evidence he wanted there that would disclose the whole of Connie
Myers' game.
He went down the steps, and started across the street; but halfway
over, he hesitated uncertainly, as a child's cry came petulantly
from the doorway. It was dark in the street; and, likewise, it was
one of those hot, suffocating evenings when, in the crowded
tenements of the poorer class, miserable enough in any case, misery
was added to a hundredfold for lack of a single God-given breath of
air. These two facts, apparently irrelevant, caused Jimmie Dale to
change his mind again. He had not noticed the woman with the baby
in her arms, sitting on the doorstep; but now, as he reached the
curb, he not only saw, but recognised her--and he swung on down the
street toward the Bowery. He could not very well go in without
passing her, without being recognised himself--and that was a
needless risk.
He smiled a little wanly. Once the crime was discovered, she would
not have hesitated long before informing the police that she had
seen him enter there! Mrs. Hagan was no friend of his! One could
not live as he had lived, as Larry the Bat, and not see something in
an intimate way of the pitiful little tragedies of the poor around
him; for, bad, tough, and dissolute as the quarter was, all were not
degraded there, some were simply--poor. Mrs. Hagan was poor. Her
husband was a day labourer, often out of a job--and sometimes he
drank. That was how he, Jimmie Dale, or rather, Larry the Bat, had
come to earn Mrs. Hagan's enmity. He had found Mike Hagan drunk one
night, and in the act of being arrested, and had wheedled the man
away from the officer on the promise that he would take Hagan home.
And he was Larry the Bat, a dope fiend, a character known to all the
neighbourhood, and Mrs. Hagan had laid her husband's condition to
HIS influence and companionship! He had taken Mike Hagan home--and
Mrs. Hagan had driven Larry the Bat from the door of her miserable
one-room lodging in that tenement with the bitter words on her
tongue that only a woman can use when shame and grief and anger are
breaking her heart.
He shrugged his shoulders, as, back along the Bowery, he retraced
his steps, but now, with the hurried shuffle of Larry the Bat where
before had been the brisk, athletic stride of Jimmie Dale.
At Astor Place again, he took the subway, this time to the Grand
Central Station--and, well within an hour from the time he had left
the Sanctuary, including the train journey to Pelham, he was
standing in a clump of trees that fringed a deserted roadway. He
had passed but few houses, once he was away from Pelham, and, as
well as he could judge, there was none now within a quarter of a
mile of him--except this one of old Luther Doyle's that showed up
black and shadowy just beyond the trees.
Jimmie Dale's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the place. It was little
wonder that, known to have money, an attempt to rob old Doyle should
have been made in a place like this! It was even more grimly
significant than ever of some deeper meaning that, in its loneliness
an ideal place for a murder, the man should have been lured from
there for that purpose to a crowded tenement in the city instead!
What did it mean? Why had it been done? He shook his head. The
answer would not come now any more than it had come before in the
subway, or in the train on the way out, when he had set his brain so
futilely to solve the problem.
From a survey of the house, Jimmie Dale gave attention to the
details of his surroundings: the trees on either side; the open
space in front, a distance of fifty yards to the road; the absence
of any fence. And then, abruptly, he stole forward. There was no
light to be seen anywhere about the house. Was it possible that
Connie Myers was not yet there? He shook his head again
impatiently. Connie Myers would not have wasted any time--as the
Tocsin had said, there was always present the possibility that the
crime in that tenement might be discovered at ANY moment. Connie
Myers would have lost no time; for, let the discovery be made, let
the police identify the body, as they most certainly would, and they
would be out here hotfoot. Jimmie Dale stood suddenly still. What
did it mean! He had not thought of that before! If old Doyle had
been murdered HERE, there would not have been even the possibility
of discovery until the morning at the earliest, and Connie Myers
would have had all the time he wanted!
WHAT WAS THAT SOUND! A low, muffled tapping, like a succession of
hammer blows, came from within the house. Jimmie Dale darted
forward, reached the side of the house, and dropped on hands and
knees. One question at least was answered--Connie Myers was inside.
The plan that she had given him showed an old-fashioned cellarway,
closed by folding trapdoors, that was located a little toward the
rear and, in a moment, creeping along, he came upon it. His hands
felt over it. It was shut, fastened by a padlock on the outside.
Jimmie Dale's lips thinned a little, as he took a small steel
instrument from his pocket. Either through inadvertence or by
intention, Connie Myers had passed up an almost childishly simple
means of entrance into the house! One side of the trapdoor was
lifted up silently--and silently closed. Jimmie Dale was in the
cellar. The hammering, much more distinct now, heavy, thudding
blows, came from a room in the front--the connection between the
cellar and the house, as shown on the Tocsin's plan, was through
another trapdoor in the floor of the kitchen.
Jimmie Dale's flashlight played on a short, ladderlike stairway, and
in an instant he was climbing upward. The sounds from the front of
the house continued now without interruption; there was little fear
that Connie Myers would hear anything else--even the protesting
squeak of the hinges as Jimmie Dale cautiously pushed back the
trapdoor in the flooring above his head. An inch, two inches he
lifted it; and, his eyes on a level with the opening now, he peered
into the room. The kitchen itself was intensely dark; but through
an open doorway, well to one side so that he could not see into the
room beyond, there struggled a curiously faint, dim glimmer of
light. And then Jimmie Dale's form straightened rigidly on the
stairs. The blows stopped, and a voice, in a low growl, presumably
Connie Myers', reached him.
"Here, take a drive at it from the lower edge!"
There was no answer--save that the blows were resumed again. Jimmie
Dale's face had set hard. Connie Myers was not alone in this, then!
Well, the odds were a little heavier, DOUBLED--that was all! He
pushed the trapdoor wide open, swung himself up through the opening
to the floor; and the next instant, back a little from the
connecting doorway, his body pressed closely against the kitchen
wall, he was staring, bewildered and amazed, into the next room.
On the floor, presumably to lessen the chance of any light rays
stealing through the tightly drawn window shades, burned a small oil
lamp. The place was in utter confusion. The right-hand side of a
large fireplace, made of rough, untrimmed stone and cement, and
which occupied almost the entire end of the room, was already
practically demolished, and the wreckage was littered everywhere;
part of the furniture was piled unceremoniously into one corner out
of the way; and at the fireplace itself, working with sledge and
bar, were two men. One was Connie Myers. An ironical glint crept
into Jimmie Dale's eyes. The false beard and mustache the man wore
would deceive no one who knew Connie Myers! And that he should be
wearing them now, as he knelt holding the bar while the other struck
at it, seemed both uncalled for and absurd. The other man, heavily
built, roughly dressed, had his back turned, and Jimmie Dale could
not see his face.
The puzzled frown on Jimmie Dale's forehead deepened. Somewhere in
the masonry of the fireplace, of course, was where old Luther Doyle
had hidden his money. That was quite plain enough; and that Connie
Myers, in some way or other, had made sure of that fact was equally
obvious. But how did old Luther Doyle get his money IN there from
time to time, as he received the interest and dividends whose
accumulation, according to the Tocsin, comprised his hoard! And how
did he get it OUT again?
"All right, that'll do!" grunted Connie Myers suddenly. "We can pry
this one out now. Lend a hand on the bar!"
The other dropped his sledge, turned sideways as he stooped to help
Connie Myers, his face came into view--and, with an involuntary
start, Jimmie Dale crouched farther back against the wall, as he
stared at the other. It was Hagan! Mrs. Hagan's husband! Mike
Hagan!"
"My God!" whispered Jimmie Dale, under his breath.
So that was it! That the murder had been committed in the tenement
was not so strange now! A surge of anger swept Jimmie Dale--and was
engulfed in a wave of pity. Somehow, the thin, tired face of Mrs.
Hagan had risen before him, and she seemed to be pleading with him
to go away, to leave the house, to forget that he had ever been
there, to forget what he had seen, what he was seeing now. His
hands clenched fiercely. How realistically, how importunately, how
pitifully she took form before him! She was on her knees, clasping
his knees, imploring him, terrified,
From Jimmie Dale's pocket came the black silk mask. Slowly, almost
hesitantly, he fitted it over his face--Mike Hagan knew Larry the
Bat. Why should he have pity for Mike Hagan? Had he any for Connie
Myers? What right had he to let pity sway him! The man had gone
the limit; he was Connie Myers' accomplice--a murderer! But the man
was not a hardened, confirmed criminal like Connie Myers. Mike
Hagan--a murderer! It would have been unbelievable but for the
evidence before his own eyes now. The man had faults, brawled
enough, and drank enough to have brought him several times to the
notice of the police--but this!
Jimmie Dale's eyes had never left the scene before him. Both men
were throwing their weight upon the bar, and the stone that they
were trying to dislodge--they were into the heart of the masonry
now--seemed to move a little. Connie Myers stood up, and, leaning
forward, examined the stone critically at top and bottom, prodding
it with the bar. He turned from his examination abruptly, and
thrust the bar into Hagan's hands.
"Hold it!" he said tersely. "I'll strike for a turn."
Crouched, on his hands and knees, Hagan inserted the point of the
bar into the crevice. Connie Myers picked up the sledge.
"Lower! Bend lower!" he snapped--and swung the sledge.
It seemed to go black for a moment before Jimmie Dale's eyes, seemed
to paralyse all action of mind and body. There was a low cry that
was more a moan, the clang of the iron bar clattering on the floor,
and Mike Hagan had pitched forward on his face, an inert and huddled
heap. A half laugh, half snarl purled from Connie Myers' lips, as
he snatched a stout piece of cord from his pocket and swiftly
knotted the unconscious man's wrists together. Another instant,
and, picking up the bar, prying with it again, the loosened stone
toppled with a crash into the grate.
It had come sudden as the crack of doom, that blow--too quick, too
unexpected for Jimmie Dale to have lifted a finger to prevent it.
And now that the first numbed shock of mingled horror and amazement
was past, he fought back the quick, fierce impulse to spring out on
Connie Myers. Whether the man was killed or only stunned, he could
do no good to Mike Hagan now, and there was Connie Myers--he was
staring in a fascinated way at Connie Myers. Behind the stone that
the other had just dislodged was a large hollow space that had been
left in the masonry, and from this now Connie Myers was eagerly
collecting handfuls of banknotes that were rolled up into the shape
of little cylinders, each one grotesquely tied with a string. The
man was feverishly excited, muttering to himself, running from the
fireplace to where the table had been pushed aside with the rest of
the furniture, dropping the curious little rolls of money on the
table, and running back for more. And then, having apparently
emptied the receptacle, he wriggled his body over the dismantled
fireplace, stuck his head into the opening, and peered upward.
"Kinks in his nut, kinks in his nut!" Connie Myers was muttering.
"I'll drop the bar through from the top, mabbe there's some got
stuck in the pipe."
He regained his feet, picked up the bar, and ran with it into what
was evidently the front hall--then his steps sounded running
upstairs.
Like a flash, Jimmie Dale was across the room and at the fireplace.
Like Connie Myers, he, too, put his head into the opening; and then,
a queer, unpleasant smile on his lips, he bent quickly over the man
on the floor. Hagan was no more than stunned, and was even then
beginning to show signs of returning consciousness. There was a
rattle, a clang, a thud--and the bar, too long to come all the way
through, dropped into the opening and stood upright. Connie Myers'
footsteps sounded again, returning on the run--and Jimmie Dale was
back once more on the other side of the kitchen doorway.
It was all simple enough--once one understood! The same queer smile
was still flickering on Jimmie Dale's lips. There was no way to get
the money out, except the way Connie Myers had got it out--by
digging it out! With the irrational cunning of his mad brain, that
had put the money even beyond his own reach, old Doyle had built his
fireplace with a hollow some eighteen inches square in a great wall
of solid stonework, and from it had run a two-inch pipe up somewhere
to the story above; and down this pipe he had dropped his little
string-tied cylinders of banknotes, satisfied that his hoard was
safe! There seemed something pitfully ironic in the elaborate,
insane craftiness of the old man's fear-twisted, demented mind.
And now Connie Myers was back in the room again--and again a puzzled
expression settled upon Jimmie Dale's face as he watched the other.
For perhaps a minute the man stood by the table sifting the little
rolls of money through his fingers gloatingly--then, impulsively, he
pushed these to one side, produced a revolver, laid it on the table,
and from another pocket took out a little case which, as he opened
it, Jimmie Dale could see contained a hypodermic syringe. One more
article followed the other two--a letter, which Connie Myers took
out of an unsealed envelope. He dropped this suddenly on the table,
as Mike Hagan, three feet away on the floor, groaned and sat up.
Hagan's eyes swept, bewildered, confused, around him, questioningly
at Connie Myers--and then, resting suddenly on his bound wrists,
they narrowed menacingly.
"Damn you, you smashed me with that sledge on PURPOSE!" he burst
out--and began to struggle to his feet.
With a brutal chuckle, Connie Myers pushed Hagan back and shoved his
revolver under the other's nose.
"Sure!" he admitted evenly. "And you keep quiet, or I'll finish you
now--instead of letting the police do it!" He laughed out
jarringly. "You're under arrest, you know, for the murder of Luther
Doyle, and for robbing the poor old nut of his savings in his house
here."
Hagan wrenched himself up on his elbow.
"What--what do you mean?" he stammered.
"Oh, don't worry!" said Connie Myers maliciously. "I'M not making
the arrest, I'd rather the police did that. I'm not mixing up in
it, and by and by"--he lifted up the hypodermic for Hagan to see--
"I'm going to shoot a little dope into you that'll keep you quiet
while I get away myself."
Hagan's face had gone a grayish white--he had caught sight of the
money on the table, and his eyes kept shifting back and forth from
it to Myers' face.
"Murder!" he said huskily. "There is no murder. I don't know who
Doyle is. You said this house was yours--you hired me to come here.
You said you were going to tear down the fireplace and build
another. You said I could work evenings and earn some extra money."
"Sure, I did!" There was a vicious leer now on Connie Myers' lips.
"But you don't think I picked you out by ACCIDENT, do you? Your
reputation, my bucko, was just shady enough to satisfy anybody that
it wouldn't be beyond you to go the limit. Sure, you murdered
Doyle! Listen to this." He took up the letter:
"TO THE POLICE: Luther Doyle was murdered this evening in the
tenement at 67 ---- Street. You'll find his body in a room on the
second floor. If you want to know who did it, look in Mike Hagan's
room on the floor above. There's a paper stuck under the edge of
Hagan's table with a piece of chewing gum, where he hid it. You'll
know what it is when you go out and take a look at Doyle's house in
Pelham. Yours truly, A FRIEND."
Mike Hagan did not speak--his lips were twitching, and there was
horror creeping into his eyes.
"D'ye get me!" sneered Connie Myers. "Tell your story--who'd
believe it! I got you cinched. Twice I tried to get this old dub's
coin out here, and couldn't find it. But the second time I found
something else--a piece of paper with a drawing of the fireplace on
it, and a place in the drawing marked with an X. That was good
enough, wasn't it? That's the paper I stuck under your table this
afternoon when your wife was out--see? Somebody's got to stand for
the job, and if it's somebody else it won't be me--get me! When I
had a look at that fireplace I knew I couldn't do the job alone in a
week, and I didn't dare blast it with 'soup' for fear of spoiling
what was inside. And since I had to have somebody to help me, I
thought I might as well let him help me all the way through--and
stand for it. I picked you, Mike--that's why I croaked old Doyle in
your tenement to-night. I wrote this letter while I was waiting for
you to show up at the station to come out here with me, and I'm
going to see that the police get it in the next hour. When they
find Doyle in the room below yours, and that paper in your room, and
the busted fireplace here--I guess they won't look any farther for
who did it. And say"--he leaned forward with an ugly grin--"mabbe
you think I'm soft to be telling you all this? But don't you fool
yourself. You don't know me--you don't know who I am. So tell 'em
the TRUTH! They won't believe you anyway with evidence like that
against you--and the neater the story the more they'll think it
shows brains enough on your part to have pulled a job like this!"
"My God!" Hagan was rocking on his knees, beads of sweat were
starting out on his forehead. "You wouldn't plant a man like that!"
he cried brokenly. "You wouldn't do it, would you? My God--you
wouldn't do that!"
Jimmie Dale's face under his mask was white and rigid. There was
something primal, elemental in the savagery that was sweeping upon
him. He had it all now--ALL! She had been right--there was need
to-night for the Gray Seal. So that was the game, inhuman, hellish,
the whole of it, to the last filthy dregs--Connie Myers, to protect
himself, was railroading an innocent man to death for the crime that
he himself had committed! There was a cold smile on Jimmie Dale's
lips now, as he took his automatic from his pocket. No, it wasn't
quite all the game--there was still HIS hand to play! He edged
forward a little nearer to the door--and halted abruptly, listening.
An automobile had stopped outside on the road. Hagan was still
pleading in a frenzied way; Connie Myers was callously folding his
letter, while he watched the other warily--neither of the men had
heard the sound.
And then, quick, almost on the instant, came a rush of feet, a crash
upon the front door--an imperative command to open in the name of
the law. THE POLICE! Jimmie Dale's brain was working now with
lightning speed. Somehow the police had stumbled upon the crime in
that tenement; and, as he had foreseen in such an event, had
identified Doyle. But they could not be sure that any one was
present here in the house now--they could not see a light any more
than he had. He must get Mike Hagan away--must see that Connie
Myers did NOT get away. Myers was on his feet now, fear struck in
his turn, the letter clutched in a tight-closed fist, his revolver
swung out, poised, in the other hand. Hagan, too, was on his feet,
and, unheeded now by Connie Myers, was wrenching his wrists apart.
Another crash upon the door--another. Another demand in a harsh
voice to open it. Then some one running around to the window at the
side of the house--and Jimmie Dale sprang forward.
There was the roar of a report, a blinding flash almost in Jimmie
Dale's eyes, as Connie Myers, whirling instantly at his entrance,
fired--and missed. It happened quick then, in the space of the
ticking of a watch--before Jimmie Dale, flinging himself forward,
had reached the man. Like a defiant challenge to their demand it
must have seemed to the officers outside, that shot of Connie Myers
at Jimmie Dale, for it was answered on the instant by another
through the side window. And the shot, fired at random, the
interior of the room hidden from the officers outside by the drawn
shades, found its mark--and Connie Myers, a bullet in his brain,
pitched forward, dead, upon the floor.
"QUICK!" Jimmie Dale flung at Hagan. "Get that letter out of his
hand!" He jumped for the lamp on the floor, extinguished it, and
turned again toward Hagan. "Have you got it?" he whispered tensely.
"Yes," said Hagan, in a numbed way.
"This way, then!" Jimmie Dale caught Hagan's arm, and pulled the
other across the room and into the kitchen to the trapdoor.
"Quick!" he breathed again. "Get down there--quick! And no noise!
They don't know how many are in the house. When they find HIM
they'll probably be satisfied."
Hagan, stupefied, dazed, obeyed mechanically--and, in an instant,
the trapdoor closed behind them, Jimmie Dale was standing beside the
other in the cellar.
"Not a sound now!" he cautioned once more.
His flashlight winked, went out, winked again; then held steadily,
in curious fascination it seemed, as, in its circuit, the ray fell
upon Hagan--FELL UPON THE TORN, RAGGED EDGE OF A PAPER IN HAGAN'S
HAND! With a suppressed cry, Jimmie Dale snatched it away from the
other. It was but a torn HALF of the letter! "The other half! The
other half, Hagan--where is it?" he demanded hoarsely.
Hagan, almost in a state of collapse, muttered inaudibly. The crash
of a toppling door sounded from above. Jimmie Dale shook the man
desperately.
"Where is it?" he repeated fiercely.
"He--he was holding it tight, it--it tore in his hand," Hagan
stammered. "Does it make any difference? Oh, let's get out of
here, whoever you are--for God's sake let's get out of here!"
Any difference! Jimmie Dale's jaws were clamped like a steel vise.
Any difference! The difference between life and death for the man
beside him--that was all! He was reading the portion in his hand.
It was the last part of the letter, beginning with: "There's a paper
stuck under the edge of Hagan's table--" From above, from the floor
of the front room now, came the rush and trample of feet. He could
not go back for the other half. And any attempt to conceal the fact
that Connie Myers had been alone in the house was futile now. They
would find the torn letter in the dead man's hand, proof enough that
some one else had been there. What was in that part of the letter
that was still clutched in that death grip upstairs? A sentence
from it, that he had heard Connie Myers read, seemed to burn itself
into his brain. "IF YOU WANT TO KNOW WHO DID IT, LOOK IN MIKE
HAGAN'S ROOM ON THE FLOOR ABOVE." And then, suddenly, like light
through the darkness, came a ray of hope. He pulled Hagan to the
cellarway, and stealthily lifted one side of the double trapdoor.
There was a chance, desperate enough, one in a thousand--but still a
chance!
Voices from the house came plainly now, but there was no one in
sight. The police, to a man, were evidently all inside. From the
road in front showed the lamp glare of their automobile.
"Run for the car!" Jimmie Dale jerked out from between set teeth--
and with Hagan beside him, steadying the man by the arm, dashed
across the intervening fifty yards.
They had not been seen. A minute more, and the car, evidently
belonging to the local police, for it was headed in the direction of
New York, and as though it had come from Pelham, swept down the
road, swept around a turn, and Jimmie Dale, with a gasp of relief,
straightened up a little from the wheel.
How much time had he? The police must have heard the car; but,
equally, occupied as they were, they might well give it no thought
other than that it was but another car passing by. There was no
telephone in the house; the nearest house was a quarter of a mile
away, and that might or might not have a telephone. Could he count
on half an hour? He glanced anxiously at the crouched figure beside
him. He would have to! It was the only chance. They would
telephone the contents of the dead man's half of the letter to the
New York police. Could he get to Hagan's room FIRST! "Look in
Hagan's room," their part of the letter read--but it did not say for
WHAT, or exactly WHERE! If they found nothing, Hagan was safe.
Connie Myers' reputation, the fact that he was found in disguise at
Doyle's house, was, barring any incriminating evidence, quite enough
to let Hagan out. There would only remain in the minds of the
police the question of who, beside Connie Myers, had been in old
Doyle's house that night? And now Jimmie Dale smiled a little
whimsically. Well, perhaps he could answer that--and, if not quite
to the satisfaction of the police, at least to the complete
vindication of Mike Hagan.
But he could not drive through towns and villages with a mask on his
face; and there, ahead now, lights were beginning to show. And more
than ever now, with what was before him, it was imperative that Mike
Hagan should not recognise Larry the Bat. Jimmie Dale glanced again
at Hagan--and slowed down the car. They were on the outskirts of a
town, and off to the right he caught the twinkling lights of a
street car.
"Hagan," he said sharply, "pull yourself together, and listen to me!
If you keep your mouth shut, you've nothing to fear; if you let out
a word of what's happened to-night, you'll probably go to the chair
for a crime you know nothing about. Do you understand?--keep your
mouth shut!"
The car had stopped. Hagan nodded his head.
"All right, then. You get out here, and take a street car into New
York," continued Jimmie Dale crisply. "But when you get there, keep
away from your home for the next two or three hours. Hang around
with some of the boys you know, and if you're asked anything
afterward, say you were batting around town all evening. Don't
worry--you'll find you're out of this when you read the morning
papers. Now get out--hurry!" He pushed Hagan from the car. "I've
got to make my own get-away."
Hagan, standing in the road, brushed his hand bewilderingly across
his eyes.
"Yes--but you--I--"
"Never mind about that!" Jimmie Dale leaned out, and gripped Hagan's
arm impressively. "There's only one thing you've got to think of,
or remember. Keep your mouth shut! No matter what happens, keep
your mouth shut--if you want to save your neck! Good-night, Hagan!"
The car was racing forward again. It shot streaking through the
streets of the town ahead, and, dully, over its own inferno, echoed
shouts, cries, and execrations of an outraged populace--then out
into the night again, roaring its way toward New York.
He had half an hour--perhaps! It was a good thing Hagan did not
know, or had not grasped the significance of that torn letter--the
man would have been unmanageable with fear and excitement. It would
puzzle Hagan to find no paper stuck under his table when he came to
look for it! But that was a minor consideration, that mattered not
at all,
Half an hour! On roared the car--towns, black roads, villages,
wooded lands were kaleidoscopic in their passing. Half an hour!
Had he done it? Had he come anywhere near doing it? He did not
know. He was in the city at last--and now he had to moderate his
speed; but, by keeping to the less frequented streets, he could
still drive at a fast pace. One piece of good fortune had been his--
the long motor coat he had found in the car with which to cover the
rags of Larry the Bat, and without which he would have been obliged
to leave the car somewhere on the outskirts of the city, and to
trust, like Mike Hagan, to other and slower means of transportation.
Blocks away from Hagan's tenement, he ran the car into a lane,
slipped off the motor coat, and from his pocket whipped out the
little metal insignia case--and in another moment a diamond-shaped
gray seal was neatly affixed to the black ebony rim of the steering
wheel. He smiled ironically. It was necessary, quite necessary
that the police should have no doubt as to who had been in Doyle's
house with Connie Myers that night, or to whom they had so
considerately loaned their automobile!
He was running now--through lanes, dodging down side streets, taking
every short cut he knew. Had he beaten the police to Mike Hagan's
room? It would be easy then. If they were ahead of him, then, by
some means or other, he must still get that paper first.
He was at the tenement now--shuffling leisurely up the steps. The
front door was open. He entered, and went up the first flight of
stairs, then along the hall, and up the next flight. He had half
expected the place to be bustling with excitement over the crime;
but the police evidently had kept the affair quiet, for he had seen
no one since he had entered. But now, as he began to mount the
third flight, he went more slowly--some one was ahead of him. It
was very dark--he could not see. The steps above died away. He
reached the landing, started along for Hagan's room--and a light
blazed suddenly in his face, and a hard, quick grip on his shoulder
forced him back against the wall. Then the flashlight wavered,
glistened on brass buttons went out, and a voice laughed roughly:
"It's only Larry the Bat!"
"Larry the Bat, eh?" It was another voice, harsh and curt. "What
are you doing here?"
He was not first, after all! The telephone message from Pelham--it
was almost certainly that--had beaten him! They were ahead of him,
just ahead of him, they had only been a few steps ahead of him going
up the stairs, just a second ahead of him on their way to Hagan's
room! Jimmie Dale was thinking fast now. He must go, too--to
Hagan's room with them--somehow--there was no other way--there was
Hagan's life at stake.
"Aw, I ain't done nothin'!" he whined. "I was just goin' ter borrow
the price of a feed from Mike Hagan--lemme go!"
"Hagan, eh!" snapped the questioner. "Are you a friend of his?"
"Sure, I am!"
The officers whispered for a moment together.
"We'll try it," decided the one who appeared to be in command.
"We're in the dark, anyhow, and the thing may be only a steer.
Mabbe it'll work--anyway, it won't do any harm." His hand fell
heavily on Jimmie Dale's shoulder. "Mrs. Hagan know you?"
brusquely.
"Sure she does!" sniffled Larry the Bat.
"Good!" rasped the officer. "Well, we'll make the visit with you.
And you do what you're told, or we'll put the screws on you--see?
We're after something here, and you've blown the whole game--savvy?
You've spilled the gravy--understand?"
In the darkness, Jimmie Dale smiled grimly. It was far more than he
had dared to hope for--they were playing into his hands!
"But I don't know 'bout any game," grovelled Larry the Bat
piteously.
"Who in hell said you did!" growled the officer. "You're supposed
to have snitched the lay to us, that's all--and mind you play your
part! Come on!"
It was two doors down the hall to Mike Hagan's room, and there one
of the officers, putting his shoulder to the door, burst it open and
sprang in. The other shoved Jimmie Dale forward. It was quickly
done. The three were in the room. The door was closed again.
Came a cry of terror out of the darkness, a movement as of some one
rising up hurriedly in bed; and then Mrs. Hagan's voice:
"What is it! Who is it! Mike!"
The table--it was against the right-hand wall, Jimmie Date
remembered. He sidled quickly toward it.
"Strike a light!" ordered the officer in charge.
Jimmie Dale's fingers were feeling under the edge of the table--a
quick sweep along it--NOTHING! He stooped, reaching farther in--
another sweep of his arm--and his fingers closed on a sheet of paper
and a piece of hard gum. In an instant they were in his pocket.
A match crackled and flared up. A lamp was lighted. Larry the Bat
sulked sullenly against the wall.
Terror-stricken, wide-eyed, Mrs. Hagan had clutched the child lying
beside her to her arms, and was sitting bolt upright in bed.
"Now then, no fuss about it!" said the officer in charge, with
brutal directness. "You might as well make a clean breast of Mike's
share in that murder downstairs--Larry the Bat, here, has already
told us the whole story. Come on, now--out with it!"
"Murder!"--her face went white. "My Mike-- MURDER!" She seemed for
an instant stunned--and then down the worn, thin, haggard face
gushed the tears. "I don't believe it!" she cried. "I don't
believe it!"
"Come on now, cut that out!" prodded the officer roughly. "I tell
you Larry the Bat, here, has opened everything up wide. You're only
making it worse for yourself."
"Him!" She was staring now at Jimmie Dale. "Oh, God!" she cried.
"So that's what you are, are you--a stool-pigeon for the cops?
Well, whatever you told them, you lie! You're the curse of this
neighbourhood, you are, and if my Mike is bad at all, it's you
that's helped to make him bad. But murder--you LIE!"
She had risen slowly from the bed--a gaunt, pitiful figure,
pitifully clothed, the black hair, gray-streaked, streaming thinly
over her shoulders, still clutching the baby that, too, was crying
now.
The officers looked at one another and nodded.
"Guess she's handing it straight--we'll have a look on our own
hook," the leader muttered.
She paid no attention to them--she was walking straight to Jimmie
Dale.
"It's you, is it," she whispered fiercely through her sobs "that
would bring more shame and ruin here--you that's selling my man's
life away with your filthy lies for what they're paying you--it's
you, is it, that--" Her voice broke.
There was a frightened, uneasy look in Larry the Bat's eyes, his
lips were twitching weakly, he drew far back against the wall--and
then, glancing miserably at the officers, as though entreating their
permission, began to edge toward the door.
For a moment she watched him, her face white with outrage, her hand
clenched at her side--and then she found her voice again.
"Get out of here!" she said, in a choked, strained way pointing to
the door. "Get out of here--you dirty skate!"
"Sure!" mumbled Larry the Bat, his eyes on the floor. "Sure!" he
mumbled--and the door closed behind him.
PART TWO: THE WOMAN IN THE CASE
CHAPTER I
BELOW THE DEAD LINE
Whisperings! Always whisperings, low, sibilant, floating errantly
from all sides, until they seemed a component part of the drug-laden
atmosphere itself. And occasionally another sound: the soft SLAPSLAP
of loose-slippered feet, the faint rustle of equally loosefitting
garments. And everywhere the sweet, sickish smell of opium.
It was Chang Foo's, simply a cellar or two deeper in Chang Foo's
than that in which Dago Jim had quarrelled once--and died!
Larry the Bat, vicious-faced, unkempt, disreputable, lay sprawled
out on one of the dive's bunks, an opium pipe beside him. But Larry
the Bat was not smoking; instead, his ear was pressed closely
against the boarding that formed the rather flimsy partition at the
side of the bunk. One heard many things in Chang Foo's if one cared
to listen--if one could first win one's way through the carefully
guarded gateway, that to the uninitiated offered nothing more
interesting than the entrance to a Chinese tea-shop, and an
uninviting one at that!
HAD HE BEEN FOLLOWED IN HERE? He had been shadowed for the last
hour; of that, at least, he was certain. Why? By whom? For an
hour he had dodged in and out through the dens of the underworld, as
only one who was at home there and known to all could do--and at
last he had taken refuge in Chang Foo's like a fox burrowing deep
into its hole.
Few could find their way into the most infamous opium den in all New
York, where not only the poppy ruled as master, but where crime was
hatched, ay, and carried to its ghastly consummation, sometimes, as
well; and of those few, not one but was of the underworld itself.
And it was that fact which held his muscles strained and rigid now
under the miserable rags that covered them, and it was that which
kept the keen, quick brain alert and active, every faculty keyed up
and tense. If it were the police, he had little to fear, for they
could not force their way in without warning; but if it were the
underworld, he was in imminent peril, and had done little better
than run himself into a trap from which there was no escape.
"DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!"--he had heard that whispered more than
once in this very place. Who knew at what moment the role of Larry
the Bat would be uncovered, and the underworld, where now he held so
high a place, would be at his throat like a pack of snarling wolves!
Who had been shadowing him during the last hour?
Whisperings! Nothing tangible! He could catch no words. Only the
never-ending whisperings of gathered groups here and there--and
sometimes the clink of coin where some game was in progress.
The curtain before his bunk was drawn suddenly aside--and Larry the
Bat's fingers, where his hand was carelessly hidden by his body
tightened upon his automatic.
"Smokee some more?"
The fingers relaxed. It was only Sam Wah, one of the attendants.
"Nix!" said Larry the Bat, in a slightly muddled tone. "Got
enough."
The curtain fell into place again. Larry the Bat's lips set in a
thin smile. Ultimately it made little difference whether it was the
police or the underworld! The smile grew thinner. It was the flip
of a coin, that was all! With one there was the death house at Sing
Sing for the Gray Seal; with the other--well, there were many ways,
from a shot or a knife thrust in the open street, to his murder in
some hidden dive like this of Chang Foo's, for instance, where he
now was--the Gray Seal was responsible for the occupancy of too many
penitentiary cells by those of the underworld to look for any other
fate!
He raised himself up sharply on his elbow. A shrill, high note,
like the scream of a parrakeet, rang out a second time. He tore the
curtain aside, and jumped to his feet. All around him, in the
twinkling of an eye, Chinamen in fluttering blouses, chattering like
magpies, mingled with snarling, cursing whites, were running madly.
A voice, prefaced with an oath, bawled out behind him, as he sprang
forward and joined the rush:
"Beat it! De cops! Beat it!"
The police! A raid! Was it for HIM? From rooms, an amazing number
of them, more forms rushed out, joined, divided, separated, and
dashed, some this way, some that, along branching passageways.
There had been raids before, the police had begun to change their
minds about Chang Foo's, but Chang Foo's was not an easy place to
raid. House after house in that quarter of Chinese laundries, of
tea shops, of chop-suey joints, opened one into the other through
secret passages in the cellars. Larry the Bat plunged down a
staircase, and halted in the darkness of a cellar, drawing back
against the wall while the flying feet of his fellow fugitives
scurried by him.
Was it for HIM, this raid? If not, the police had not a hope of
getting him if he kept his head; for back in Chang Foo's proper,
which would be quite closed off now, Chang Foo would be blandly
submitting to arrest, offering himself as a sort of glorified
sacrifice while the police confiscated opium and fan-tan layouts.
If the police had no other purpose than that in mind, Chang Foo
would simply pay a fine; the next night the place would be in full
blast again; and Chang Foo, higher than ever in the confidence of
the underworld's aristocracy, would reap his reward--and that would
be all there was to it.
But was that all? The raid had followed significantly close upon
the heels of his entry into Chang Foo's. Larry the Bat began to
move forward again. He dared not follow the others, and, later on,
when quiet was restored, issue out into the street from any one of
the various houses in which he might temporarily have taken refuge.
There was a chance in that, a chance that the police might be more
zealous than usual, even if he particularly was not their game--and
he could take no chance. Arrest for Larry the Bat, even on
suspicion, could have but one conclusion--not a pleasant one--the
disclosure that Larry the Bat was not Larry the Bat at all, but
Jimmie Dale, the millionaire club-man, and, to complete a fatal
triplication, that Larry the Bat and Jimmie Dale was the Gray Seal
upon whose head was fixed a price!
All was silence around him now, except that from overhead came
occasionally the muffled tread of feet. He felt his way along into
a black, narrow passage, emerged into a second cellar, swept the
place with a single, circling gleam from a pocket flashlight, passed
a stairway that led upward, reached the opposite wall, and, dropping
on hands and knees, crawled into what, innocently enough, appeared
to be the opening of a coal bin.
He knew Chang Foo's well--as he knew the ins and outs of every den
and place he frequented, knew them as a man knows such things when
his life at any moment might hang upon his knowledge.
He was in another passage now, and this, in a few steps, brought him
to a door. Here he halted, and stood for a full five minutes,
absolutely motionless, absolutely still, listening. There was
nothing--not a sound. He tried the door cautiously. It was locked.
The slim, sensitive, tapering fingers of Jimmie Dale, unrecognisable
now in the grimy digits of Larry the Bat, felt tentatively over the
lock. To fingers that seemed in their tips to possess all the human
senses, that time and again in their delicate touch upon the dial of
a safe had mocked at human ingenuity and driven the police into
impotent frenzy, this was a pitiful thing. From his pocket came a
small steel instrument that was quickly and deftly inserted in the
keyhole. There was a click, the door swung open, and Jimmie Dale,
alias Larry the Bat, stepped outside into a back yard half a block
away from the entrance to Chang Foo's.
Again he listened. There did not appear to be any unusual
excitement in the neighbourhood. From open windows above him and
from adjoining houses came the ordinary, commonplace sounds of
voices talking and laughing, even the queer, weird notes of a
Chinese chant. He stole noiselessly across the yard, out into the
lane, and made his way rapidly along to the cross street.
In a measure, now, he was safe; but one thing, a very vital thing,
remained to be done. It was absolutely necessary that he should
know whether he was the quarry that the police had been after in the
raid, if it was the police who had been shadowing him all evening.
If it was the police, there was but one meaning to it--Larry the Bat
was known to be the Gray Seal, and a problem perilous enough in any
aspect confronted him. Dare he risk the Sanctuary--for the clothes
of Jimmie Dale? Or was it safer to burglarise, as he had once done
before, his own mansion on Riverside Drive?
His thoughts were running riot, and he frowned, angry with himself.
There was time enough to think of that when he knew that it was the
police against whom he had to match his wits.
Well in the shadow of the buildings, he moved swiftly along the side
street until he came to the corner of the street on which, halfway
down the block, fronted Chang Foo's tea-shop. A glance in that
direction, and Jimmie Dale drew a breath of relief. A patrol wagon
was backed up to the curb, and a half dozen officers were busy
loading it with what was evidently Chang Foo's far from meagre stock
of gambling appurtenances; while Chang Foo himself, together with
Sam Wah and another attendant, were in the grip of two other
officers, waiting possibly for another patrol wagon. There was a
crowd, too, but the crowd was at a respectful distance--on the
opposite side of the street.
Jimmie Dale still hugged the corner. A man swaggered out from a
doorway, quite close to Chang Foo's, and came on along the street.
As the other reached the corner, Jimmie Dale sidled forward.
"'Ello, Chick!" he said, out of the corner of his mouth. "Wot's de
lay?"
"'Ello, Larry!" returned the other. "Aw, nuthin'! De nutcracker on
Chang, dat's all."
"I t'ought mabbe dey was lookin' for some guy dat was in dere,"
observed Jimmie Dale.
"Nuthin' doin'!" the other answered. "I was in dere meself. De
whole mob beat it clean, an' de bulls never batted an eye. Didn't
youse pipe me make me get-away outer Shanghai's a minute ago? De
bulls never went nowhere except into Chang's. Dere's a new
lootenant in de precinct inaugeratin' himself, dat's all. S'long,
Larry--I gotta date."
"S'long, Chick!" responded Jimmie Dale--and started slowly back
along the cross street.
It was not the police, then, who were interested in his movements!
Then who? He shook his head with a little, savage, impotent
gesture. One thing was clear: it was too early to risk a return to
the Sanctuary and attempt the rehabilitation of Jimmie Dale. If any
one was on the hunt for Larry the Bat, the Sanctuary would be the
last place to be overlooked.
He turned the next corner, hesitated a moment in front of a garishly
lighted dance hall, and finally shuffled in through the door, made
his way across the floor, nodding here and there to the elite of
gangland, and, with a somewhat arrogant air of proprietorship, sat
down at a table in the corner. Little better than a tramp in
appearance, certainly the most disreputable-looking object in the
place, even the waiter who approached him accorded him a certain
curious deference--was not Larry the Bat the most celebrated dope
fiend below the dead line?
"Gimme a mug o' suds!" ordered Jimmie Dale, and sprawled royally
back in his chair.
Under the rim of his slouch hat, pulled now far over his eyes, he
searched the faces around him. If he had been asked to pick the
actors for a revel from the scum of the underworld, he could not
have improved upon the gathering. There were perhaps a hundred men
and women in the room, the majority dancing, and, with the exception
of a few sight-seeing slummers, they were men and women whose
acquaintance with the police was intimate but not cordial--far from
cordial.
Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders, and sipped at the glass that had
been set before him. It was grimly ironic that he should be, not
only there, but actually a factor and a part of the underworld's
intimate life! He, Jimmie Dale, a wealthy man, a member of New
York's exclusive clubs, a member of New York's most exclusive
society! It was inconceivable. He smiled sardonically. Was it?
Well, then, it was none the less true. His life unquestionably was
one unique, apart from any other man's, but it was, for all that,
actual and real.
There had been three years of it now--since SHE had come into his
life. Jimmie Dale slouched down a little in his chair. The ice was
thin, perilously thin, that he was skating on now. Each letter,
with its demand upon him to match his wits against police or
underworld, or against both combined, perhaps, made that peril a
little greater, a little more imminent--if that were possible, when
already his life was almost literally carried, daily, hourly, in his
hand. Not that he rebelled against it; it was worth the price that
some day he expected he must pay--the price of honour, wealth, a
name disgraced, ruin, death. Was he quixotic? Immoderately so? He
smiled gravely. Perhaps. But he would do it all over again if the
choice were his. There were those who blessed the name of the Gray
Seal, as well as those who cursed it. And there was the Tocsin!
Who was she? He did not know, but he knew that he had come to love
her, come to care for her, and that she had come to mean everything
in life to him. He had never seen her, to know her face. He had
never seen her face, but he knew her voice--ay, he had even held her
for a moment, the moment of wildest happiness he had ever known, in
his arms. That night when he had entered his library, his own
particular den in his own house, and in the darkness had found her
there--found her finally through no effort of his own, when he had
searched so fruitlessly for years to find her, using every resource
at his command to find her! And she, because she had come of her
own volition, relying upon him, had held him in honour to let her go
as she had come--without looking upon her face! Exquisite irony!
But she had made him a promise then--that the work of the Gray Seal
was nearly over--that soon there would be an end to the mystery that
surrounded her--that he should know all--that he should know HER.
He smiled again, but it was a twisted smile on the mechanically
misshapen lips of Larry the Bat. NEARLY over! Who knew? That
"nearly" might be too late! Even tonight he had been shadowed, was
skulking even now in this place as a refuge. Who knew? Another
hour, and the newsboys might be shrieking their "Uxtra! Uxtra! De
Gray Seal caught! De millionaire Jimmie Dale de Jekyll an' Hyde of
real life!"
Jimmie Dale straightened up suddenly in his seat. There was a
shout, an oath bawled out high above the riot of noise, a chorus of
feminine shrieks from across the room. What was the matter with the
underworld to-night? He seemed fated to find nothing but centres of
disturbance-- first a raid at Chang Foo's, and now this. What was
the matter here? They were stampeding toward him from the other
side of the room. There was the roar of a revolver shot--another.
Black Ike! He caught an instant's glimpse of the gunman's distorted
face through the crowd. That was it probably--a row over some moll.
And then, as Jimmie Dale lunged up from his chair to his feet to
escape the rush, pandemonium itself seemed to break loose. Yells,
shots, screams, and oaths filled the air. The crowd surged this way
and that. Tables were overturned and sent crashing to the floor.
And then came sudden darkness, as some one of the attendants in
misguided excitability switched off the lights.
The darkness but served to increase the panic, not allay it. With a
savage snap of his jaws, Jimmie Dale swung from his table in the
corner with the intention of making his way out by a side door
behind him--it was a case of the police again, and the patrolman
outside would probably be pulling a riot call by now. And the
police-- He stopped suddenly, as though he had been struck. An
envelope, thrust there out of the darkness, was in his hand; and her
voice, HERS, the Tocsin's, was sounding in his ears:
"Jimmie! Jimmie! I've been trying all evening to catch you!
Quick! Get to the Sanctuary and change your clothes. There's not
an instant to lose! It's for my sake to-night!"
And then a surging mob was around him on every side, and, pushing,
jostling, half lifting him at times from his feet, carried him
forward with its rush, and with him in its midst burst through the
door and out into the street.
CHAPTER II
THE CALL TO ARMS
Not a sound as the key turned in the lock; not a sound as the door
swung back on its carefully oiled hinges; not a sound as Larry the
Bat slipped like a shadow into the blackness of the room, closing
the door behind him again. With a tread as noiseless as a cat's, he
was across the room to satisfy himself that the shutters were
tightly closed; and then the single gas jet flared up, murky,
yellow, illuminating the miserable, squalid room--the Sanctuary--the
home of Larry the Bat. There was need for silence, need for
caution. In five minutes, ten at the outside, he must emerge again--
as Jimmie Dale.
With a smile on his lips that mingled curiously chagrin and selfcommiseration,
he took the letter from his pocket and tore it open.
It was she, then, who had been following him all evening, and, like
a blundering idiot, he had wasted precious, perhaps irreparable,
hours! What had she meant by "It's for my sake to-night"? The
words had been ringing in his ears since the moment she had
whispered them in that panic-stricken crowd. Was it not always for
her sake that he answered these calls to arms? Was it not always
for her sake that he, as the Gray Seal, was-- The mental soliloquy
came to an abrupt end. He had subconsciously read the first
sentence of the letter, and now, with sudden feverish eagerness and
excitement, he was reading it to the last word.
"DEAR PHILANTHROPIC CROOK: In an hour after you receive this, if
all goes well, you shall know everything--everything. Who I am--
yes, and my name. It has been more than three years now, hasn't it?
It has been incomprehensible to you, but there has been no other
way. I dared not take the chance of discovery by any one; I dared
not expose you to the risk of being known by me. Your life would
not have been worth a moment's purchase. Oh, Jimmie, am I only
making the mystery more mystifying? But to-night, I think, I hope,
I pray that it is all at an end: though against me, and against you
to-night when you go to help me, is the most powerful and pitiless
organisation of criminals that the world has ever known; and the
stake we are playing for is a fortune of millions--and my life. And
yet somehow I am afraid now, just because the end is so near, and
the victory seems so surely won. And so, Jimmie, be careful; use
all that wonderful cleverness of yours as you have never used it
before, and-- But there should be no need for that, it is so simple
a thing that I am going to ask you to do. Why am I writing so
illogically! Nothing, surely, can possibly happen. This is not
like one of my usual letters, is it? I am beside myself to-night
with hope, anxiety, fear, and excitement.
"Listen, then, Jimmie: Be at the northeast corner of Sixth Avenue
and Waverly Place at exactly half-past ten. A taxicab will drive
up, as though you had signalled it in passing, and the chauffeur
will say: "I've another fare, in half an hour, sir, but I can get
you most anywhere in that time." You will be smoking a cigarette.
Toss it out into the street, make any reply you like, and get into
the cab. Give the chauffeur that little ring of mine with the crest
of the bell and belfry and the motto, "Sonnez le Tocsin," that you
found the night old Isaac Pelina was murdered, and the chauffeur
will give you in exchange a sealed packet of papers. He will drive
you to your home, and I will telephone to you there.
"I need not tell you to destroy this. Keep the appointment in your
proper person--as Jimmie Dale. Carry nothing that might identify
you as the Gray Seal if any accident should happen. And, lastly,
trust the pseudo chauffeur absolutely."
There was no signature. Her letters were never signed. He stood
for a moment staring at the closely written sheets in his hand, a
heightened colour in his cheeks, his lips pressed tightly together--
and then his fingers automatically began to tear the letter into
pieces, and the pieces again into little shreds. To-night! It was
to be to-night, the end of all this mystery. To-night was to see
the end of this dual life of his, with its constant peril! To-night
the Gray Seal was to exit from the stage forever! To-night, a
wonderful climax of the years, he was to see HER!
His blood was quickened now, his heart pounding in a faster beat; a
mad elation, a fierce uplift was upon him. He thrust the torn bits
of paper into his pocket hurriedly, stepped across the room to the
corner, rolled back the oilcloth, and lifted up the loose plank in
the flooring, so innocently dustladen, as, more than once, to have
eluded the eyes of inquisitive visitors in the shape of police and
plain clothes men from headquarters.
From the space beneath he removed a neatly folded pile of clothes,
laid these on the bed, and began to undress. He was working rapidly
now. Tiny pieces of wax were removed from his nostrils, from under
his lips, from behind his ears; water from a cracked pitcher poured
into a battered tin basin, and mixed with a few drops of some liquid
from a bottle which he procured from its hiding place under the
flooring, banished the make-up stain from his face, his neck, his
wrists, and hands as if by magic. It was a strange metamorphosis
that had taken place--the coarse, brutal-featured, blear-eyed,
leering countenance of Larry the Bat was gone, and in its place,
clean-cut, square-jawed, clear-eyed, was the face of Jimmie Dale.
And where before had slouched a slope-shouldered, misshapen, flabby
creature, a broad-shouldered form well over six feet in height now
stood erect, and under the clean white skin the muscles of an
athlete, like knobs of steel played back and forth with every
movement of his body.
In the streaked and broken mirror Jimmie Dale surveyed himself
critically, methodically, and, with a nod of satisfaction, hastily
donned the fashionably cut suit of tweeds upon the bed. He rummaged
then through the ragged garments he had just discarded, transferred
to his pockets a roll of bills and his automatic, and paused
hesitantly, staring at the thin metal case, like a cigarette case,
that he held in the palm of his hand. He shrugged his shoulders a
little whimsically; it seemed strange indeed that he was through
with that! He snapped it open. Within, between sheets of oil
paper, lay the scores of little diamond-shaped, gray-coloured,
adhesive paper seals--the insignia of the Gray Seal. Yes, it seemed
strange that he was never to use another! He closed the case,
gathered up the clothes of Larry the Bat, tucked the case in among
them, and shoved the bundle into the hole under the flooring. All
these things would have to be destroyed, but there was not time tonight;
to-morrow, or the next day, would do for that. What would it
be like to live a normal life again, without the menace of danger
lurking on every hand, without that grim slogan of the underworld,
"Death to the Gray Seal!" or that savage fiat of the police, "The
Gray Seal, dead or alive--but the Gray Seal!" forever ringing in his
ears? What would it be like, this new life--with her?
The thought was thrilling him again, bringing again that eager,
exultant uplift. In an hour, ONE hour, and the barriers of years
would be swept away, and she would be in his arms!
"It's for my sake to-night!" His face grew suddenly tense, as the
words came back to him. That "hour" wasn't over yet! It was no
hysterical exaggeration that had prompted her to call her enemies
the most powerful and pitiless organisation of criminals that the
world had ever known. It was not the Tocsin's way to exaggerate.
The words would be literally true. The very life she had led for
the three years that had gone stood out now as a grim proof of her
assertion.
Jimmie Dale replaced the flooring, carefully brushed the dust back
into the cracks, spread the oilcloth into place, and stood up. Who
and what was this organisation? What was between it and the Tocsin?
What was this immense fortune that was at stake? And what was this
priceless packet that was so crucial, that meant victory now, ay,
and her life, too, she had said?
The questions swept upon him in a sort of breathless succession.
Why had she not let him play a part in this? True, she had told him
why--that she dared not expose him to the risk. Risk! Was there
any risk that the Gray Seal had not taken, and at her instance! He
did not understand, he smiled a little uncertainly, as he reached up
to turn out the gas. There were a good many things that he did not
understand about the Tocsin!
The room was in darkness, and with the darkness Jimmie Dale's mind
centred on the work immediately before him. To enter the tenement
where he was known and had an acknowledged right as Larry the Bat
was one thing; for Jimmie Dale to be discovered there was quite
another.
He crossed the room, opened the door silently, stood for a moment
listening, then stepped out into the black, musty, ill-smelling
hallway, closing the door behind him. He stooped and locked it.
The querulous cry of a child reached him from somewhere above--a
murmur of voices, muffled by closed doors, from everywhere. How
many families were housed beneath that sordid roof he had never
known, only that there was miserable poverty there as well as vice
and crime, only that Larry the Bat, who possessed a room all to
himself, was as some lordly and super-being to these fellow tenants
who shared theirs with so many that there was not air enough for all
to breathe.
He had no doors to pass--his was next to the staircase. He began to
descend. They could scream and shriek, those stairs, like aged
humans, twisted and rheumatic, at the least ungentle touch. But
there was no sound from them now. There seemed something almost
uncanny in the silent tread. Stair after stair he descended, his
entire weight thrown gradually upon one foot before the other was
lifted. The strain upon the muscles, trained and hardened as they
were, told. As he moved from the bottom step, he wiped little beads
of perspiration from his forehead.
The door, now, that gave on the alleyway! He opened it, slipped
outside, darted across the narrow lane, stole along where the
shadows of the fence were blackest, paused, listening, as he reached
the end of the alleyway, to assure himself that there was no near-by
pedestrian--and stepped out into the street.
He kept on along the block, turned into the Bowery, and, under the
first lamp, consulted his watch. It was a quarter past ten. He
could make it easily in a leisurely walk. He continued on up the
Bowery, finally crossed to Broadway, and shortly afterward turned
into Waverly Place. At the corner of Fifth Avenue he consulted his
watch again--and now he lighted a cigarette. Sixth Avenue was only
a block away. At precisely half-past ten, to the second, he halted
on the designated corner, smoking nonchalantly.
A taxicab, coincidentally coming from an uptown direction, swung in
to the curb.
"Taxi, sir? Yes, sir?" Then, with an admirable mingling of
eagerness to secure the fare and a fear that his confession might
cause him the loss of it: "I've another fare in half an hour, sir,
but I can get you most anywhere in that time."
Jimmie Dale's cigarette was tossed carelessly into the street.
"St. James Club!" he said curtly, and stepped into the cab.
The cab started forward, turned the corner, and headed along Waverly
Place toward Broadway. The chauffeur twisted around in his seat in
a matter-of-fact way, as though to ask further directions.
"Have you anything for me?" he inquired casually.
It lay where it always lay, that ring, between the folds of that
little white glove in his pocketbook. Jimmie Dale took it out now,
and handed it silently to the chauffeur.
The other's face changed instantly--composure was gone, and a quick,
strained look was in its place.
"I'm afraid I've been watched," he said tersely. "Look behind you,
will you, and tell me if you see anything?"
Jimmie Dale glanced backward through the little window in the hood.
"There's another taxi just turned in from Sixth Avenue," he reported
the next instant.
"Keep your eye on it!" instructed the chauffeur shortly.
The speed of the cab increased sensibly.
With a curious tightening of his lips, Jimmie Dale settled himself
in his seat so that he could watch the cab behind. There was
trouble coming, intuitively he sensed that; and, he reflected
bitterly, he might have known! It was too marvellous, too wonderful
ever to come to pass that this one hour, the thought of which had
fired his blood and made him glad beyond any gladness life had ever
held for him before, should bring its promised happiness.
"Where's the cab now?" the chauffeur flung back over his shoulder.
They had passed Fifth Avenue, and were nearing Broadway.
"About the same distance behind," Jimmie Dale answered.
"That looks bad!" the chauffeur gritted between his teeth. "We'll
have to make sure. I'll run down Lower Broadway."
"If you think we're followed," suggested Jimmie Dale quietly, "why
not run uptown and give them the slip somewhere where the traffic is
thick? Lower Broadway at this time of night is as empty and
deserted as a country road."
The chauffeur's sudden laugh was mirthless.
"My God, you don't know what you are talking about!" he burst out.
"If they're following, all hell couldn't throw them off the track.
And I've got to know, I've got to be SURE before I dare make a move
to-night. I couldn't tell up in the crowded districts if I was
followed, could I? They won't come out into the open until their
hands are forced."
The car swerved sharply, rounded the corner, and, speeding up faster
and faster, began to tear down Lower Broadway.
"Watch! WATCH!" cried the chauffeur.
There was no word between them for a moment; then Jimmie Dale spoke
crisply:
"It's turned the corner! It's coming this way!"
The taxicab was rocking violently with the speed; silent, empty,
Lower Broadway stretched away ahead. Apart from an occasional
street car, probably there would be nothing between them and the
Battery. Jimmie Dale glanced at his companion's face as a light,
flashing by, threw it into relief. It was set and stern, even a
little haggard; but, too, there was something else there, something
that appealed instantly to Jimmie Dale--a sort of bulldog grit that
dominated it.
"If he holds our speed, we'll know!" the chauffeur was shouting now
to make himself heard over the roar of the car. "Look again! Where
is it now?"
Once more Jimmie Dale looked through the little rear window. The
cab had been a block behind them when it had turned the corner, and
he watched it now in a sort of grim fascination. There was no
possible doubt of it! The two bobbing, bouncing headlights were
creeping steadily nearer. And then a sort of unnatural calm settled
upon Jimmie Dale, and his hand went mechanically to his pocket to
feel his automatic there, as he turned again to the chauffeur.
"If you've got any more speed, you'd better use it!" he said
significantly.
The man shot a quick look at him.
"They are following us? You are SURE?"
"Yes," said Jimmie Dale.
The chauffeur laughed again in that mirthless, savage way.
"Lean over here, where I can talk to you!" he rasped out. "The
game's up, as far as I am concerned, I guess! But there's a chance
for you. They don't know you in this."
"Give her more speed--or dodge into a cross street!" suggested
Jimmie Dale coolly. "They haven't got us yet, by a long way!"
The other shook his head.
"It's not only that cab behind," he answered, through set lips.
"You don't know what we're up against. If they're really after us,
there's a trap laid in every section of this city--the devils! It's
the package they want. Thank God for the presentiment that made me
leave it behind! I was going back for it, you understand, if I was
satisfied that we weren't followed. Listen! There's a chance for
you--there's none for me. That package--remember this!--no one else
knows where it is, and it's life and death to the one who sent you
here. It's in Box 428 at-- My God, LOOK! Look there!" he yelled,
and, with a wrench at the wheel, sent the taxi lurching and
staggering for the car tracks in the centre of the street.
The scene, fast as thought itself, was photographing itself in every
detail upon Jimmie Dale's brain. From the cross street ahead, one
from each corner, two motor cars had nosed out into Broadway,
blocking the road on both sides. And now the car on the left-hand
side was moving forward across the tracks to counteract the
chauffeur's move, deliberately insuring a collision. There was no
chance, no further room to turn, no time to stop--the man driving
the other car jumped for safety--they would be into it in an
instant.
"Box 428!" Jimmie pleaded fiercely. "Go on, man! Go on! FINISH!"
"Yes!" cried the chauffeur. "John Johansson, at--"
But Jimmie Dale heard no more. There was the crash of impact as the
taxicab plowed into the car that had been so craftily manoeuvered in
front of it, and Jimmie Dale, lifted from his feet, was hurled
violently forward with the shock, and all went black before his
eyes.
CHAPTER III
THE CRIME CLUB
For what length of time he had remained unconscious, Jimmie Dale had
not the slightest idea. He regained his senses to find himself
lying on a couch in a strange room that had a most exquisitely
brass-wrought dome light in the ceiling. That was what attracted
his attention, because the light hurt his eyes, and his head was
already throbbing as though a thousand devils were beating a
diabolical tattoo upon it.
He closed his eyes against the light. Where was he? What had
happened? Oh, yes, he remembered now! That smash on Lower
Broadway! He had been hurt. He moved first one limb and then
another tentatively, and was relieved to find that, though his body
ached as if it had been severely shaken, and his head was bad, he
had apparently escaped without serious injury.
Where was he? In a hospital? His fingers, resting at his side upon
the couch, supplied him with the information that it was a very
expensive couch, upholstered in finest leather. If he were in a
hospital, he would be in a cot.
He opened his eyes again to glance curiously around him. The room
was quite in keeping with the artistic lighting fixture and the
refined, if expensive, taste that was responsible for the couch. A
heavy velvet rug of rich, dark green was bordered by a polished
hardwood floor; panellings of dark-green frieze and beautifully
grained woodwork made the lower walls; while above, on a background
of some soft-toned paper, hung a few, and evidently choice, oil
paintings. There was a big, inviting lounging chair; a massive
writing table, or more properly, a desk of walnut; and behind the
desk, his back half turned, apparently intent upon a book, sat a man
in immaculate evening dress.
Jimmie Dale closed his eyes again. There was something reassuring
about it all, comfortably reassuring. Though why there should be
any occasion for a feeling of reassurance at all, he could not for
the moment make out. And then, in a sudden flash, the details of
the night came back to him. The Tocsin's letter--the package he was
to get--the taxicab--the chauffeur, who was not a chauffeur--the
chase--the trap. He lay perfectly still. It was the professional
Jimmie Dale now whose brain, in spite of the throbbing, brutally
aching head, was at work, keen, alert.
The chauffeur! What had happened to him? Had the man been killed
in the auto smash; or, less fortunate than himself, fallen into the
hands of those whose power he seemed both to fear and rate so
highly? And that package! Box--what was the number?--yes, 428.
What did that mean? What box? Where was it? Who was John
Johansson? He hadn't heard any more than that; the smash had come
then. And lastly, he was back again to the same question he had
begun with: Where was he now himself? It looked as though some good
Samaritan had picked him up. Who was this gentleman so quietly
reading there at the desk?
Jimmie Dale opened his eyes for the third time. How still, how
absolutely silent the room was! He studied the man's back
speculatively for a moment, then his gaze travelled on past the man
to the wall, riveted there, and his fingers, without movement of his
arm, pressed against the outside of his coat pocket. He thought as
much! His automatic was gone!
Not a muscle of Jimmie Dale's face moved. His eyes shifted to a
picture on the wall. THE MAN WAS WATCHING HIM--NOT READING! Just
above the level of the desk, a small mirror held the couch in focus--
but, equally, it held the man in focus, and Jimmie Dale had seen
the other's eyes, through a black mask that covered the face to the
top of the upper lip, fixed intently upon him.
There was a chill now where before there had been reassurance,
something ominous in the very quiet and refinement of the room; and
Jimmie Dale smiled inwardly in bitter irony--his good Samaritan wore
a mask! His self-congratulations had come too soon. Whatever had
happened to the chauffeur, it was evident enough that he himself was
caught! What was it the chauffeur had said? Something about a
chance through being unknown. Was it to be a battle of wits, then?
God, if his head did not ache so frightfully! It was hard to think
with the brain half sick with pain.
Those two eyes shining in that mirror! There seemed something
horribly spectre-like about it. He did not look again, but he knew
they were there. It was like a cat watching a mouse. Why did not
the man speak, or move, or do something, and-- He turned his head
slowly; the man was laughing in a low, amused way.
"You appear to be taken with that picture," observed a pleasant
voice. "Perhaps you recognise it from there? It is a Corot."
Jimmie Dale, with a well-simulated start, sat up--and, with another
quite as well simulated, stared at the masked man. The other had
laid down his book, and swung around in his chair to face the couch.
Jimmie Dale stood up a little shakily.
"Look here!" he said awkwardly. "I--I don't quite understand. I
remember that my taxi got into a smash-up, and I suppose I have to
thank you for the assistance you must have rendered me; only, as I
say"--he looked in a puzzled way around the room, and in an even
more perplexed way at the mask on the other's face--"I must confess
I am at a loss to understand quite the meaning of this."
"Suppose that instead of trying to understand you simply accept
things as you find them." The voice was soft, but there was a
finality in it that its blandness only served to make the more
suggestive.
Jimmie Dale drew himself up, and bowed coldly.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I did not mean to intrude. I have
only to thank you again, then, and bid you good-night."
The lips beneath the mask parted slightly in a politely deprecating
smile.
"There is no hurry," said the man, a sudden sharpness creeping into
his tones. "I am sorry that the rule I apply to you does not work
both ways. For instance, I might be quite at a loss to account for
your presence in that taxicab."
Jimmie Dale's smile was equally polite, equally deprecating.
"I fail to see how it could be of the slightest possible interest to
you," he replied. "However, I have no objection to telling you. I
hailed the taxi at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Waverly Place,
told the chauffeur to drive me to the St. James Club, and--"
"The St. James Club," broke in the other coldly, "is, I believe,
north, not SOUTH of Waverly Place--and on Broadway not at all."
Jimmie Dale stared at the other for an instant in patient annoyance.
"I am quite well aware of that," he said stiffly. "Nevertheless I
told the man to drive me to the St. James Club. We came across
Waverly Place, but on reaching Broadway, instead of turning uptown,
he suddenly whirled in the other direction and sent the car flying
at full speed down Lower Broadway. I shouted at the man. I don't
know yet whether he was drunk or crazy or"--Jimmie Dale's eyes fixed
disdainfully on the other's mask--"whether there might not, after
all, have been method in his madness. I can only say that before we
had gone more than two or three blocks, a wild effort on his part to
avoid a collision with an auto swinging out from a side street
resulted in an even more disastrous smash with another on the other
side, and I was knocked senseless."
"'Victim,' I presume, is the idea you desire to convey," observed
the other evenly. "You were quite the victim of circumstances, as
it were!"
Jimmie Dale's eyebrows lifted slightly.
"It would appear to be fairly obvious, I should say."
"Very clever!" commented the man. "But now suppose we remove the
buttons from the foils!" His voice rasped suddenly. "You are quite
as well aware as I am that what has happened to-night was not an
accident. Nor--in case the possibility may have occurred to you--
are the police any the wiser, save for the existence of two wrecked
cars on Lower Broadway, and another which escaped, and for which
doubtless they are still searching assiduously. The ownership of
the taxicab you so inadvertently entered they will have no
difficulty in establishing--you, perhaps, however, are in a better
position than I am to appreciate the fact that the establishment of
its ownership will lead them nowhere. As I understand it, the man
who drove you to-night obtained the loan of the cab from one of the
company's chauffeur's in return for a hundred-dollar bill. Am I
right?"
"In view of what has happened," admitted Jimmie Dale simply, "I
should not be surprised."
There was a sort of sardonic admiration in the other's laugh.
"As for the other car," he went on, "I can assure you that its
ownership will never be known. When the nearest patrolman rushed
up, there were no survivors of the disaster, save those in the third
car which he was powerless to stop--which accounts for your presence
here. You will admit that I have been quite frank."
"Oh, quite!" said Jimmie Dale, a little wearily. "But would you
mind telling me what all this is leading to?"
The man had been leaning forward in his chair, one hand, palm
downward, resting lightly on the desk. He shifted his hand now
suddenly to the arm of his chair.
"THIS!" he said, and on the desk where his hand had been lay the
Tocsin's gold signet ring.
Jimmie Dale's face expressed mild curiosity. He could feel the
other's eyes boring into him.
"We were speaking of ownership," said the man, in a low, menacing
tone. "I want to know where the woman who owns this ring can be
found to-night."
There was no play, no trifling here; the man was in deadly earnest.
But it seemed to Jimmie Dale, even with the sense of peril more
imminent with every instant, that he could have laughed outright in
savage mockery at the irony of the question. Where was she? Even
WHO was she? And this was the hour in which he was to have known!
"May I look at it?" he requested calmly.
The other nodded, but his eyes never left Jimmie Dale.
"It will give you an extra moment or so to frame your answer," he
said sarcastically.
Jimmie Dale ignored the thrust, picked up the ring, examined it
deliberately, and set it back again on the table.
"Since I do not know who owns it," he said, "I cannot answer your
question."
"No! Well, then, there is still another matter--a little package
that was in the taxicab with you. Where is that?"
"See here!" said Jimmie Dale irritably. "This has gone far enough!
I have seen no package, large or small, or of any description
whatever. You are evidently mistaking me for some one else. You
have only to telephone to the St. James Club." He reached toward
his pocket for his cardcase. "My name is--"
"Dale," supplied the other curtly. "Don't bother about the card,
Mr. Dale. We have already taken the liberty of searching you." He
rose abruptly from his chair. "I am afraid you do not quite realise
your position, Mr. Dale," he said, with an ominous smile. "Let me
make it clear. I do not wish to be theatrical about this, but we do
not temporise here. You will either answer both of those questions
to my satisfaction, OR YOU WILL NEVER LEAVE THIS PLACE ALIVE."
Jimmie Dale's face hardened. His eyes met the other's steadily.
"Ah, I think I begin to see!" he said caustically. "When I have
been thoroughly frightened I shall be offered my freedom at a price.
A sort of up-to-date game of holdup! The penalty of being a wealthy
man! If you had named your figure to begin with, we would have
saved a lot of idle talk, and you would have had my answer the
sooner: NOTHING!"
"Do you know," said the other, in a grimly musing way, "there has
always been one man, but only one until now, that I have wished I
might add to my present associates. I refer to the so-called Gray
Seal. To-night there are two. I pay you the compliment of being
the other. But"--he was smiling ominously again--"we are wasting
time, Mr. Dale. I am willing to expose my hand to the extent of
admitting that the information you are withholding is infinitely
more valuable to me than the mere wreaking of reprisal upon you for
a refusal to talk. Therefore, if you will answer, I pledge you my
word you will be free to leave here within five minutes. If you
refuse, you are already aware of the alternative. Well, Mr. Dale?"
Who was this man? Jimmie Dale was studying the other's chin, the
lips, the white, even teeth, the jet-black hair. Some day the
tables might be turned. Could he recognise again this cool,
imperturbable ruffian who so callously threatened him with murder?
"Well, Mr. Dale? I am waiting!"
"I am not a magician," said Jimmie Dale contemptuously. "I could
not answer your questions if I wanted to."
The other's hand slid instantly to a row of electric buttons on the
desk.
"Very well, Mr. Dale!" he said quietly. "You do not believe, I see,
that I would dare to carry my threat into execution; you perhaps
even doubt my power. I shall take the trouble to convince you--I
imagine it will stimulate your memory."
The door opened. Two men were standing on the threshold, both in
evening dress, both masked. The man behind the desk came forward,
took Jimmie Dale's arm almost courteously, and led him from the room
out into a corridor, where he halted abruptly.
"I want to call your attention first, Mr. Dale, to the fact that as
far as you are concerned you neither have now, nor ever will have,
any idea whether you are in the heart of New York or fifty miles
away from it. Now, listen! Do you hear anything?"
There was nothing. Only the strange silence of that other room was
intensified now. There was not a sound; stillness such as it seemed
to Jimmie Dale he had never experienced before was around him.
"You may possibly infer from the silence that you are NOT in the
city," suggested the other, after a moment's pause. "I leave you to
your own conclusions in that respect. The cause, however, of the
silence is internal, not external; we had sound-proof principles in
mind to a perhaps exaggerated degree when this building was
constructed. If you care to do so, you have my permission to shout,
say, for help, to your heart's content. We shall make no effort to
stop you."
Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. He was staring down a
brilliantly lighted, richly carpeted corridor. There were doors on
one side, windows on the other, the windows all hung with heavy,
closely drawn portieres. The corridor was certainly not on the
ground floor, but whether it was on the second or third, or even
above that again, he had no means of knowing. From appearances,
though, the place seemed more like a large, private mansion than
anything else.
"Just one word more before we proceed," continued the other. "I do
not wish you to labour under any illusion. Here we are frankly
criminals. This is our home. It should have some effect in
impressing you with the power and resource at our command, and also
with the class of men with whom you are dealing. There is not one
among us whose education is not fully equal to your own; not one,
indeed, but who is chosen, granting first his criminal tendencies,
because he is a specialist in his own particular field--in commerce,
in the government diplomatic service, in the professions of law and
medicine, in the ranks of pure science. We are bordering on the
fantastical, are we not? Dreaming, you will probably say, of the
Utopian in crime organisation. Quite so, Mr. Dale. I only ask you
to consider the POSSIBILITIES if what I say is true. Now let us
proceed. I am going to take you into three rooms--the three whose
doors you see ahead of you. You will notice that, including the one
you have just left, there are four on this corridor. I do not wish
to strain your credulity, or play tricks upon you; so I am going to
ask you to fix an approximate idea of the length of the corridor in
your mind, as it will perhaps enable you to account more readily for
what may appear to be a discrepancy in the corresponding size of the
rooms."
One of the men opened the door ahead. Jimmie Dale, at a sign from
his conductor, moved forward and entered. Just what he had expected
to find he could not have told; his brain was whirling, partly from
his aching head, partly from his desperate effort to conceive some
way of escape from the peril which, for all his nonchalance, he knew
only too well was the gravest he had ever faced; but what he saw was
simply a cozily furnished bedroom. There was nothing peculiar about
it; nothing out of the way, except perhaps that it was rather
narrow.
And then suddenly, rubbing his eyes involuntarily, he was staring in
a dazed way before him. The whole right-hand side of the wall was
sinking without a sound into the floor, increasing the width of the
room by some five or six feet--and in this space was disclosed what
appeared to be a sort of chemical laboratory, elaborately equipped,
extending the entire length of the room.
"The wall is purely a matter of mechanical construction, operated
hydraulically." The man was speaking softly at Jimmie Dale's side.
"The room beneath is built to correspond; the base, ceiling, and
wall mouldings here do not have to be very ingenious to effect a
disguise. I might say, however, that few visitors, other than
yourself, have ever seen anything here but a bedroom." He waved his
hand toward the retorts, the racks of test tubes, the hundred and
one articles that strewed the laboratory bench. "As for this, its
purpose is twofold. We, as well, as the police, have often need of
analysis. We make it. If we require a drug, a poison, say, we
compound it from its various ingredients, or, as the case may be,
distil it, perhaps--it is, you will agree, somewhat more difficult
to trace to its source if procured that way. And speaking of
poisons"--he stepped forward, and lifted a glass-stoppered bottle
containing a colourless liquid from a shelf--"in a modest way we
have even done some original research work here. This, for
instance, is as Utopian from our standpoint as the formation, and
personnel of the organisation I have briefly outlined to you. It
possesses very essential qualities. It is almost instantaneous in
its action, requires a very small quantity, and defies detection
even by autopsy." He uncorked the bottle, and dipped in a long
glass rod. "Will you watch the experiment?" he invited, with a sort
of ghastly pleasantry. "I do not want you to accept anything on
trust."
With a start, Jimmie Dale swung around. He had heard no sound, but
another man was at his elbow now--and, struggling in the man's hand,
was a little white rabbit.
It was over in an instant. A single drop in the rabbit's mouth, and
the animal had stiffened out, a lifeless thing.
"It is quite as effective on the human organism," continued the
other, "only, instead of one drop, three are required. If I make it
ten"--he was carefully measuring the liquid into two wineglasses--
"it is only that even you may be satisfied that the quantity is
fatal." He filled up the glasses with what was apparently wine of
some description, which he poured from a decanter, and held out the
glasses in front of him.
And again Jimmie Dale started, again he had heard no one enter, and
yet two men had stepped forward from behind him and had taken the
glasses from their leader's hands. He glanced around him, counting
quickly--they were surely the two who had entered with him from the
corridor. No! Including the leader, there were now six men, all in
evening dress, all masked, in the room with him.
A wave of the leader's hand, and the two men holding the glasses
left the room. The man turned to Jimmie Dale again.
"Shall we proceed to the second room, Mr. Dale?" he asked politely.
"I think it is now prepared for us--I do not wish to bore you with a
repetition of magical sliding walls."
There was something now that numbed the ache in Jimmie Dale's brain--
a sense of some deadly, remorseless thing that seemed to be
constantly creeping closer to him, clutching at him--to smother him,
to choke him. There was something absolutely fiendish, terrifying,
in the veneer of culture around him.
They had entered the second room. This, like the other, was a
pseudo-bedroom; but here the movable wall was already down. Ranged
along the right-hand side were a great number of cabinets that slid
in and out, much after the style and fashion used by clothing
dealers to stock and display their wares. These cabinets were now
all open, displaying hundreds of costumes of all kinds and
descriptions, and evidently complete to the minutest detail. The
cabinets were flanked by full-length mirrors at each end of the
room, and on little tables before the mirrors was an assortment,
that none better than Jimmie Dale himself could appreciate, of makeup
accessories.
The man smiled apologetically.
"I am afraid this is rather uninteresting," he said. "I have shown
it to you simply that you may understand that we are alive to the
importance of detail. Disguise, that is daily vital to us, is an
art that depends essentially on detail. I venture to say we could
impersonate any character or type or nationality or class in the
United States at a moment's notice. But"--he took Jimmie Dale's arm
again and conducted him out into the corridor, while the two men who
were evidently acting the role of guards followed closely behind--
"there is still the third room--here." He halted Jimmie Dale before
the door. "I have asked you to answer two questions, Mr. Dale," he
said softly. "I ask you now to remember the alternative."
They still stood before the door. There was that uncanny silence
again--it seemed to Jimmie Dale to last interminably. Neither of
the three men surrounding him moved nor spoke. Then the door before
him was opened on an unlighted room, and he was led across the
threshold. He heard the door close behind him. The lights came on.
And then it seemed as though he could not move, as though he were
rooted to the spot---and the colour ebbed from his face. Three
figures were before him: the two men who had carried the glasses
from the first room, and the chauffeur who had driven him in the
taxicab. The two men still held the glasses--the chauffeur was
bound hand and foot in a chair. One of the glasses was EMPTY; the
other was still significantly full.
Jimmie Dale, with a violent effort at self-control, leaned forward.
The man in the chair was dead.
CHAPTER IV
THE INNOCENT BYSTANDER
There was not a sound. That stillness, weird, unnerving, that
permeated, as it were, everywhere through that mysterious house,
was, if that were possible, accentuated now. The four masked men in
evening dress, five including their leader, for the man who had
appeared in that other room with the rabbit was not here, were as
silent, as motionless, as the dead man who was lashed there in the
chair. And to Jimmie Dale it seemed at first as though his brain,
stunned and stupefied at the shock, refused its functions, and left
him groping blindly, vaguely, with only a sort of dull, subconscious
realisation of menace and a deadly peril, imminent, hanging over
him.
He tried to rouse himself mentally, to prod his brain to action, to
pit it in a fight for life against these self-confessed criminals
and murderers with their mask of culture, who surrounded him now.
Was there a way out? What was it the Tocsin had said--"the most
powerful and pitiless organisation of criminals the world has ever
known--the stake a fortune of millions--her life!" There had,
indeed, been no overemphasis in the words she had used! They had
taken pains themselves to make that ominously clear, these men!
Every detail of the strange house, with its luxurious furnishings,
its cleverly contrived appointments, breathed a horribly suggestive
degree of power, a deadly purpose, and an organisation swayed by a
master mind; and, grim evidence of the merciless, inexorable length
to which they would go, was the ghastly white face of the dead
chauffeur, bound hand and foot, in the chair before him!
That EMPTY glass in the hand of one of the men! He could not take
his eyes from it--except as his eyes were drawn magnetically to that
FULL glass in the hand of one of the others. What height of
sardonic irony! He was to drink that other glass, to die because he
refused to answer questions that for years, with every resource at
his command, risking his liberty, his wealth, his name, his life,
with everything that he cared for thrown into the scales, he had
struggled to solve--and failed!
And then the leader spoke.
"Mr. Dale," he said, with cold significance, "I regret to admit that
your pseudo taxicab driver was so ill-advised as to refuse to answer
the SAME questions that I have put to you."
Five to one! That was the only way out--and it was hopeless. It
was the only way out, because, convinced that he could answer those
questions if he wanted to, these men were in deadly earnest; it was
hopeless, because they were--five to one! And probably there were
as many more, twice or three times as many more within call. But
what did it matter how many more there were! He could fight until
he was overpowered, that was all he could do, and the five could
accomplish that. Still, if he could knock the full glass out of
that man's hand, and gain the door, then perhaps--he turned quickly,
as the door opened. It was as though they had read his thoughts. A
number of men were grouped outside in the corridor, then the door
closed again with a cordon ranged against it inside the room; and at
the same instant his arms and wrists were caught in a powerful grasp
by the two men immediately behind him, who all along had enacted the
role of guards.
Again the leader spoke.
"I will repeat the questions," he said sharply. "Where is the woman
whose ring was found on that man there in the chair? And where is
the package that you two men had with you in the taxicab to-night?"
Jimmie Dale glanced from the tall, straight, immaculately clothed
figure of the speaker, from the threatening smile on the set lips
that just showed under the edge of the mask, to the dead man in the
chair. He had faced the prospect of death before many times, but it
had come with the heat of passion accompanying it, it had come
quickly, abruptly, with every faculty called into action to combat
it, without time to dwell upon it, to sift, weigh, or measure its
meaning, and if there had been fear it had been subordinate to other
emotions. But it was different now. He could not, of course,
answer those questions; nor, he was doggedly conscious, would he
have answered them if he could--and there was no middle course.
Death, within the next few moments, stared him in the face; and it
seemed curiously irrelevant that, in a sort of unnatural calmness,
he should be attempting to analyse his feelings and emotions
concerning it. All his life it had seemed to him that the acme of
human mental torture was the cell of a condemned criminal, with the
horror of its hopelessness, with the time to dwell upon it; and that
the acme of that torture itself must be that awful moment
immediately preceding execution, when anticipation at last was to
merge into soul-sickening reality.
Strange that thought should come! Strange that he should be framing
a brain picture of such a scene, vivid, minute in detail! No--not
strange. He was picturing himself. The analogy was not perfect, it
was true, he had not had the months, weeks, days and hours of
suspense; but it was perfect enough to bring home to him with
appalling force the realisation of his position. He was standing as
a condemned man might stand in those last, final moments, those
moments which he had imagined must be the most terrible that could
exist in life; but that dismay of soul, the horror, the terror were
not his--there was, instead, a smouldering fury, a passionate
amazement that it was his own life that was threatened. It seemed
impossible that it could be his voice that was speaking now in such
quiet, measured tones.
"Is it worth while, will it convince you now, any more than before,
to repeat that there is some mistake here? I am no more able to
answer your questions than you are yourselves. I never saw that man
in the chair there in my life until the moment that I hailed him in
his cab to-night. I do not know who the woman is to whom that ring
belongs, much less do I know where she is. And if there was a
package of any sort in the taxicab, as you state, I never saw it."
The lips under the mask curved into a lupine smile.
"Think well, Mr. Dale!" The man's voice was low, menacing.
"Ethically, if you so choose to consider it, your refusal may be the
act of a brave man; practically, it is the act of--a fool. Now--
your answer!"
"I have answered you," said Jimmie Dale--and, relaxing the muscles
in his arms, let them hang limply for an instant in the grip of the
two men behind him. "I have no other answer."
It was only a sign, a motion of the leader's hand--but with it,
quick as a lightning flash, Jimmie Dale was in action. The limp
arms tautened into steel as he wrenched them loose, and, whirling
around, he whipped his fist to the chin of one of the two guards.
In an instant, with the blow, as the man staggered backward, the
room was in pandemonium. There was a rush from the door, and two,
three, four leaping forms hurled themselves upon Jimmie Dale. He
shook them off--and they came again. There was no chance
ultimately, he knew that; it was only the elemental within him that
rose in fierce revolt at the thought of tame submission, that bade
him sell his life as dearly as he could. Panting, gasping for
breath, dragging them by sheer strength as they clung to him, he got
his back to the wall, fighting with the savage fury and abandon of a
wild cat.
But it could not last. Where one man went down before him, two
remorselessly appeared--the room seemed filled with men--they poured
in through the door--he laughed at them in a half-demented way--more
and more of them came--there was no play for his arms, no room to
fight--they seemed so close around him, so many of them upon him,
that he could not breathe--and he was bending, being crushed down as
by an intolerable weight. And then his feet were jerked from
beneath him, he crashed to the floor, and, in another moment, bound
hand and foot, he was tied into a chair beside that other chair
whose grim occupant sat in such ghastly apathy of the scene.
The room cleared instantly of all but the original five. His head
was drawn suddenly, violently backward, and clamped in that
position; and a metal instrument, forced into his mouth, while his
lips bled in their resistance, pried jaws apart and held them open.
"One drop!" the leader ordered curtly.
The man with the full glass bent over him, and dipped a glass rod
into the liquid. The drop glistened a ruby red on the end of the
rod--and fell with a sharp, acrid, burning sensation upon Jimmie
Dale's tongue.
For a moment Jimmie Dale's animation, mental and physical, seemed
swept away from him in, as it were, a hiatus of hideous suspense.
What was it to be like this passing? Why did it not act at once, as
it had acted on the rabbit they had showed him in the other room?
Yes, he remembered! It took more than one drop for a man; and
besides, this was diluted. One drop had no effect on a man; it
required-- Good God, ONE DROP EVEN OF THIS WAS ENOUGH? He strained
forward in the chair until the sweat in great beads sprang from his
forehead, strained and fought and tore at his bonds in a paroxysm of
madness to free himself while there still remained a little
strength. There was something filming before his eyes, a numbed
feeling was creeping through his limbs, robbing them, sapping them
of their vitality and power. He felt himself slipping away into a
state of utter weakness, and his brain began to grow confused.
A voice seemed to float in the air near him: "For the last time--
will you answer?"
With a supreme effort, Jimmie Dale strove to rally his tottering
senses. Did they not understand the stupendous mockery of their
questions? Did they not understand that he did not know? He had
told them so--perhaps he had better tell them so again.
"I--" He tried to speak, and found the words thick upon his tongue.
"I--do not--know."
The glass itself was thrust abruptly between his lips. Some of the
contents spilled and trickled upon his chin, and then a flood of it,
burning, fiery, poured down his throat. A flood of it--and it
needed but THREE drops and there had been TEN in the glass!
So this was death--a hazy, nebulous thing! There was no pain. It
was like--like--nothingness. And out of the nothingness SHE came.
Strange that she should come! Alone she had fought these fiends and
outwitted them for--how long was it? Three years! She would be
more than ever alone now. Pray God she did not finally fall into
their clutches!
How it burned now, that fatal draught they had forced down his
throat, and how it gripped at him and seemed to eat and bore its way
into the very tissues! It was the end, and--no! It was STIMULATING
him! Strength seemed to be returning to his limbs; it seemed as
though he were being carried, as though the bonds about him were
being loosened; and now his brain seemed to be growing clearer.
He roused up with a startled exclamation. He was back in the same
room in which he had first returned to consciousness after the
accident. He was on the same couch. The same masked figure was at
the same desk. Had he been dreaming? Was this then only some
horrible, ghastly nightmare through which he had passed?
No, it had been real enough; his clothes, rent and torn, and the
blood upon his hands, where the skin had been scraped from his
knuckles in the fight, bore evidence to that. He must then have
lost consciousness for a while, though it seemed to him that at no
moment, hazy, irrational though his brain might have been, had he
become entirely oblivious to what was taking place around him. And
yet it must have been so!
The eyes from behind the mask were fixed steadily upon him, and
below the mask there was the hard, unpleasant set to the lips that
Jimmie Dale had grown accustomed to expect.
The man spoke abruptly.
"That you find yourself alive, Mr. Dale," he said grimly, "is no
confession of weakness upon the part of those with whom you have had
to deal here. To bear witness to that there is one who is not
alive, as you have seen. That man we knew. With you it was
somewhat different. Your presence in the taxicab was only
suspicious. There was always the possibility that you might be one
of those ubiquitous 'innocent bystanders.' Your name, your
position, the improbability that you could have anything in common
with--shall we say, the matter that so deeply interests us?--was all
in your favour. However, presumption and probability are the tools
of fools. We do not depend upon them--we apply the test. And
having applied the test, we are convinced that you have told the
truth--that is all."
He rose from his chair brusquely. "I shall not apologise to you for
what has happened. I doubt very much if you are in a frame of mind
to accept anything of the sort. I imagine, rather, that you are
promising yourself that we shall pay, and pay dearly, for this--
that, among other things, we shall answer for the murder of that man
in the other room. All this will be quite within your province, Mr.
Dale--and quite fruitless. To-morrow morning the story that you are
preparing to tell now would sound incredible even in your own ears;
furthermore, as we shall take pains to see that you leave this place
with as little knowledge of its location as you obtained when you
arrived, your story, even if believed, would do little service to
you and less harm to us. I think of nothing more, Mr. Dale, except--"
There was a whimsical smile on the lips now. "Ah, yes, the
matter of your clothes. We can, and shall be glad to make
reparation to you to the slight extent of offering you a new suit
before you go."
Jimmie Dale scowled. Sick, shaken, and weak as he was, the cool,
imperturbable impudence of the man was fast growing unbearable.
The man laughed. "I am sure you will not refuse, Mr. Dale--since we
insist. The condition of the clothes you have on at present might--
I say 'might'--in a measure support your story with some degree of
tangible evidence. It is not at all likely, of course; but we
prefer to discount even so remote a possibility. When you have
changed, you will be motored back to your home. I bid you goodnight,
Mr. Dale."
Jimmie Dale rubbed his eyes. The man was gone--through a door at
the rear of the desk, a door that he had not noticed before, that
was not even in evidence now, that was simply a movable section of
the wall panelling--and for an instant Jimmie Dale experienced a
sense of sickening impotence. It was as though he stood
defenceless, unarmed, and utterly at the mercy of some venomous
power that could crush what it would remorselessly and at will in
its might.
The place was a veritable maze, a lair of hellish cleverness. He
had no illusions now, he laboured under no false estimate of either
the ingenuity or the resources of this inhuman nest of vultures to
whom murder was no more than a matter of detail. And it was against
these men that henceforth he was to match his wits! There could be
no truce, no armistice. It was their lives, or hers, or his! Well,
he was alive now, the first round was over, and so far he had won.
His brows furrowed suddenly. Had he? He was not so sure, after
all. He was conscious of a disquieting, premonitory intuition that,
in some way which he could not explain, the honours were not
entirely his.
He was apparently--the "apparently" was a mental reservation--quite
alone in the room. He got up from the couch and walked shakily
across the floor to the desk. A revolver lay invitingly upon the
blotting pad. It was his own, the one they had taken from him after
the accident. Jimmie Dale picked it up, examined it--and smiled a
little sarcastically at himself for his trouble. It was unloaded,
of course. He was twirling it in his hand, as a man, masked as
every one in the house was masked, and carrying a neatly folded suit
over his arm, entered from the corridor.
"The car is ready as soon as you are dressed," announced the other
briefly. He laid the clothes upon the couch--and settled himself
significantly in a chair.
Jimmie Dale hesitated. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders,
recrossed the room, and began to remove his torn garments. What was
the use! They would certainly have their own way in the end. It
wasn't worth another fight, and there was nothing to be gained by a
refusal except to offer a sop to his own exasperation.
He dressed quickly, in what proved to be an exceedingly well-fitting
suit; and finally turned tentatively to the man in the chair.
The other stood up, and produced a heavy black silk scarf.
"If you have no objections," he said curtly, "I'll tie this over
your eyes."
Again Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders.
"I am glad enough to get out on any conditions," he answered
caustically.
"'Fortunate' would be the better word," rejoined the other
meaningly--and, deftly knotting the scarf, led Jimmie Dale
blindfolded from the room.
CHAPTER V
ON GUARD
Was he in the city? In a suburban town? On a country road? It
seemed childishly absurd that he could not at least differentiate to
that extent; and yet, from the moment he had been placed in the
automobile in which he now found himself, he was forced to admit
that he could not tell. He had started out with the belief that,
knowing New York and its surroundings as minutely as he knew them,
it would be impossible, do what they would to prevent it, that at
the end of the journey he should be without a clew, and a very good
clew at that, to the location of what he now called, appropriately
enough it seemed, the Crime Club.
But he had never ridden blindfolded in a car before! He could see
absolutely nothing. And if that increased or accentuated his sense
of hearing, it helped little--the roar of the racing car beat upon
his eardrums the more heavily, that was all. He could tell, of
course, the nature of the roadbed. They were running on an asphalt
road, that was obvious enough; but city streets and suburban streets
and hundreds of miles of country road around New York were of
asphalt!
Traffic? He was quite sure, for he had strained his ears in an
effort to detect it, that there was little or no traffic; but then,
it must be one or two o'clock in the morning, and at that hour the
city streets, certainly those that would be chosen by these men,
would be quite as deserted as any country road! And as for a sense
of direction, he had none whatever--even if the car had not been
persistently swerving and changing its course every little while.
If he had been able to form even an approximate idea of the compass
direction in which they had started, he might possibly have been
able in a general way to counteract this further effort of theirs to
confuse him; but without the initial direction he was essentially
befogged.
With these conclusions finally thrust home upon him, Jimmie Dale
philosophically subordinated the matter in his mind, and, leaning
back, composed himself as comfortably as he could upon his seat.
There was a man beside him, and he could feel the legs of two men on
the seat facing him. These, with the driver, would make four. He
was still well guarded! The car itself was a closed car--not
hooded, the sense of touch told him--therefore a limousine of some
description. These facts, in a sense inconsequential, were absorbed
subconsciously; and then Jimmie Dale's brain, remorselessly active,
in spite of the pain from his throbbing head, was at work again.
It seemed as though a year had passed since, in the early evening,
as Larry the Bat, he had burrowed so ironically for refuge in Chang
Foo's den--from her! It seemed like some mocking unreality, some
visionary dream that, so short a while before, he had read those
words of hers that had sent the blood coursing and leaping through
his veins in mad exultation at the thought that the culmination of
the years had come, that all he longed for, hoped for, that all his
soul cried out for was to be his--"in an hour." An HOUR--and he was
to have seen her, the woman whose face he had never seen, the woman
whom he loved! And the hour instead, the hours since then, had
brought a nightmare of events so incredible as to seem but phantoms
of the imagination.
Phantoms! He sat up suddenly with a jerk. The face of the dead
chauffeur, the limp form lashed in that chair, the horrible picture
in its entirety, every detail standing out in ghastly relief, took
form before him. God knew there was no phantom there!
The man beside him, at the sudden start, lifted a hand and felt
hurriedly over the bandage across Jimmie Dale's eyes.
Jimmie Dale was scarcely conscious of the act. With that face
before him, with the scene re-enacting itself in his mind again, had
come another thought, staggering him for a moment with the new
menace that it brought. He had had neither time nor opportunity to
think before; it had been all horror, all shock when he had entered
that room. But now, like an inspiration, he saw it all from another
angle. There was a glaring fallacy in the game these men had played
for his benefit to-night--a fallacy which they had counted on
glossing over, as it had, indeed, been glossed over, by the sudden
shock with which they had forced that scene upon him; or, failing in
that, they had counted on the fact that his, or any other man's
nerve would have failed when it came to open defiance based on a
supposition which might, after all, be wrong, and, being wrong,
meant death.
But it was not supposition. Either he was right now, or these men
were childish, immature fools--and, whatever else they might be,
they were not that! NOT A SINGLE DROP OF POISON HAD PASSED THE
CHAUFFEUR'S LIPS. The man had not been murdered in that room. He
had not, in a sense, been murdered at all. The man, absolutely,
unquestionably, without a loophole for doubt, had either been killed
outright in the automobile accident, or had died immediately
afterward, probably without regaining consciousness, certainly
without supplying any of the information that was so determinedly
sought.
Yes, he saw it now! Their backs were against the wall, they were at
their wits' end, these men! The knowledge that the chauffeur
possessed, that they KNEW he possessed, was evidently life and death
to them. To kill the man before they had wormed out of him what
they wanted to know, or, at least, until, by holding him a prisoner,
they had exhausted every means at their command to make him speak,
was the last thing they would do!
Jimmie Dale sat for a long time quite motionless. The car was
speeding at a terrific rate along a straight stretch of road. He
could almost have sworn, guided by some intuitive sense, that they
were in the country. Well, even if it were so, what did that prove!
They might have started FROM New York itself--only to return to it
when they had satisfied themselves that he was sufficiently duped.
Or they might have started legitimately from outside New York, and
be going toward the city now. Since the ultimate destination was
New York, and they had made no attempt to hide that from him, it was
useless to speculate--for at best it could be only speculation. He
had decided that once before! The man at his side felt again over
the scarf to see that it was in place.
Curiously now Jimmie Dale recalled the inward monitor that had
warned him the honours had not all been his in this first round with
the Crime Club to-night. If they had deliberately murdered the
chauffeur because of a refusal to answer, they would equally have
done the same to him. Fool that he had been not to have seen that
before! And yet would it have made any difference? He shook his
head. He could not have acted to any better advantage than he had
done. He could not--his lips curled in grim derision--have been any
more convincing.
Convincing! It was all clear enough now! If the chauffeur had
suffered death rather than talk, even admitting the fact that they
had more grounds for suspecting the chauffeur's complicity, would
his, Jimmie Dale's, mere denial, his choice, too, of death, have
been any the more convincing, or have saved his life where it had
not saved the other's? A certain added respect for these men,
against whom, until the end now, his victory or theirs, he realised
he was fighting for his life, came over him as he recognised the
touch of a master hand. They did not know where to find the Tocsin;
the package that she had said was vital to them was still beyond
their reach; the chauffeur was dead; and he, Jimmie Dale, alone
remained--a clew that they had still to prove valid or invalid it
was true, but the only clew in their possession. And, gaining
nothing from him by a show of force, to throw him off his guard,
they had let him go--meaning him to believe they were convinced he
knew nothing, and that the episode, the adventure of the night, was,
as far as they were concerned, ended, finished, and done with!
Time passed, a very long time, as he sat there. It might have been
an hour--he could only hazard a guess. Not one of the men in the
car had spoken a word. But to Jimmie Dale, the car itself, the
ride, its duration, these three strange companions, were for the
time being extraneous. Even that sick giddiness in his head had, at
least temporarily, gone from him.
And so, all unsuspectingly, he was to lead them to the Tocsin and
fall into the trap himself! His hands, thrust deep in his pockets,
were tightly clenched. They were clever enough, ingenious enough,
powerful enough to watch him henceforth at every turn--and from now
on, day and night, they were to be reckoned with. Suppose that in
some way, as it might well have happened, for it was now vitally
necessary that she should communicate with him and he with her, he
had played blindly into their hands, and through him she should have
fallen into their power! It brought a sickening chill, a sort of
hideous panic to Jimmie Dale--and then fury, anger, in a torrent,
surged upon him, and there came a merciless desire to crush, to
strangle, to stamp out this inhuman band of criminals that, with
intolerable effrontery to the laws of God and man, were so
elaborately and scientifically equipped for their monstrous
purposes!
And then Jimmie Dale, in the darkness, smiled again grimly as the
leader's reference to the Gray Seal recurred to him. Well, perhaps,
who knew, they would have reason more than they dreamed of to wish
the Gray Seal enrolled in their own ranks! It was strange, curious!
He had thought all that was ended. Only a few short hours before he
had hidden away all, everything that was incident to the life of the
Gray Seal, the clothes of Larry the Bat, that little metal case with
the gray-coloured, adhesive seals, a dozen other things, believing
that it only remained for him to return and destroy them at his
leisure as a finishing touch to the Gray Seal's career--and now,
instead, he was face to face with the gravest and most dangerous
problem that she had ever called upon him to undertake!
Well, at least, the odds were not all in the Crime Club's favour.
Where they now certainly believed him to be entirely off his guard,
he was thoroughly on his guard; and where they might suspect him,
watch him, they would suspect and watch only the character, the
person of Jimmie Dale, and count not at all upon either Larry the
Bat or--the Gray Seal.
A sort of savage elation fell upon Jimmie Dale. His brain, that had
been stagnant, confused, physically sick with pain and suffering,
was working now with its old-time vigour and ease, mapping,
planning, scheming the way ahead. To strike, and strike quickly--to
strike FIRST! It must be his move next--not theirs! And he must
act to-night at once, the moment he was given this pretence to
liberty that they had in store for him, before they had an
opportunity of closing down around him with a network of spies that
he could not elude. By morning, Jimmie Dale would be Larry the Bat,
and inhabiting the Sanctuary again. And a tip to Jason, his old
butler, to the effect, say, that he had gone away for a trip, would
account for his disappearance satisfactorily enough; it would not
necessarily arouse their suspicions when they eventually discovered
he was gone, for against that was always the possible, and quite
likely presumption that, where they had succeeded in nothing else,
they had at least succeeded in frightening him thoroughly and to the
extent of imbuing him with a hasty desire to put a safe distance
between himself and them.
And now, with his mind made up to his course of action, an intense
impatience to put his plan into effect, an irritation at the useless
twistings and turnings of the car that had latterly become more
frequent, took hold upon him. How much longer was this to last!
They must have been fully an hour and a half on the road already,
and--ah, the car was stopping now!
He straightened up in his seat as the machine came to a halt--but
the man at his side laid a restraining hand upon him. The car door
opened, and one of the men got out. Jimmie Dale caught an
indistinct murmur of voices from without, then the man returned to
his seat, and the car went on again.
Another half hour passed, that, curbing his irritation and
impatience, was filled with the conjectures and questions that anew
came crowding in upon his mind. Why had the car made that stop? It
was rather curious. It was certainly a prearranged meeting place.
Why? And these clothes that he now wore--why had they made him
change? His own had not been very badly torn. The reason given him
was, on the face of it now, in view of what he now knew, mere
pretence. What was the ulterior motive behind that pretence? What
did this package, that had already cost a man his life to-night,
contain? Who was the chauffeur? What was this death feud between
the Tocsin and these men? Did she know where the Crime Club was?
Who and where was John Johansson? What was this box that was
numbered 428? Could she supply the links that would forge the chain
into an unbroken whole?
And then for the second time the car slowed down--and this time the
man on the seat beside Jimmie Dale reached up and untied the scarf.
"You get out here," said the man tersely.
CHAPTER VI
THE TRAP
Had it not been for the stop the car had previously made, for the
possibility that he might have obtained a glimpse outside when the
door had been opened, the scarf over his eyes would have been
superfluous; for now, with it removed, he could scarcely distinguish
the forms of the three men around him, since the window curtains of
the car were tightly drawn. Nor was he given the opportunity to do
more, even had it been possible. The car stopped, the door was
opened, he was pushed toward it--and even as he reached the ground,
the door was closed behind him, and the car was speeding on again.
But where he could not see before, it took now but a glance to
obtain his bearings--he was standing on a corner on Riverside Drive,
within a few doors of his own house.
Jimmie Dale stood still for a moment, watching the car as it
disappeared rapidly up the Drive. And with a sort of grim
facetiousness his brain began to correlate time and distance. Where
had he come from? Where was this Crime Club? They had been, as
nearly as he could estimate, two hours in making the journey; and,
as nearly as he could estimate, in their turnings and twistings had
covered at least twice the distance that would be represented by a
direct route. Granting, then, an average speed of forty miles an
hour, which was overgenerous to be on the safe side, and the fact
that they certainly had not crossed the Hudson, which now lay before
him, flanking the Drive, the Crime Club was somewhere within the
area of a semicircle, whose centre was the corner on which he now
stood, and whose radius was forty miles--OR FORTY YARDS! He forced
a laugh. It was just that, no more, no less--he was as likely to
have started on his ride from within a biscuit throw of where he now
stood, as to have started on it from miles away!
But--he aroused himself with a start--he was wasting time! It must
be very late, near morning, and he would have need for every moment
that was left between now and daylight. He turned, walked quickly
to his house, mounted the steps, and with his latch-key--they had at
least permitted him to retain the contents of his pockets when they
had forced him to change his clothes--opened the front door softly,
and, stepping inside, closed the door as silently as he had opened it.
He paused for an instant to listen. There was not a sound. The
servants, naturally, would have been in bed hours ago. Even old
Jason--Jimmie Dale smiled, half whimsically, half affectionately--
whose paternal custom it was to sit up for his Master Jim, who, as
he was fond of saying, he had dandled as a baby on his knee, had
evidently given it up as a bad job on this occasion and had turned
in himself. Jason, however, had left the light burning here in the
big reception hall.
Jimmie Dale stepped to the switch and turned off the light; then
stood hesitant in the darkness. Was there anything to be gained by
rousing Jason now and telling him what he intended to do--to
instruct him to answer any inquiries by the statement that "Mr. Dale
had gone away for a trip"? He could trust Jason; Jason already knew
much--more than one of those mysterious letters of the Tocsin's had
passed through Jason's hands.
Jimmie Dale shook his head. No; he could communicate with Jason
from downtown in the morning. He had half expected to find Jason
up, and, in that case, would have taken the other, as far as
necessary, into his confidence; but it was not a matter that pressed
for the moment. He could get into touch with Jason at any time
readily enough. Was there anything else before he went? He would
not be able to get back as easily as he got out! Money! He shook
his head again--a little grimly this time. He had been caught once
before as Larry the Bat without funds! There was plenty of money
now hidden in the Sanctuary, enough for any emergency, enough to
last him indefinitely.
He stepped forward along the hall, his tread noiseless on the rich,
heavy rug, passed into the rear of the house, descended the back
stairs, and reached the cellar. It was below the level of the
ground, of course; but a narrow window here, though quite large
enough to permit of egress, gave on the driveway at the side of the
house that led to the garage in the rear.
Cautiously now, for the cement flooring was, in the stillness,
little less than a sounding board, Jimmie Dale reached the wall and
felt along it to the window, the lower edge of whose sill was just
slightly below the level of his shoulder. It opened inward, if he
remembered correctly. His fingers were feeling for the fastenings.
It was too dark to see a thing. He muttered in annoyance. Where
were the fastenings! At the sides, or at the bottom? His hand
began to make a circuit of the sill--and then suddenly, with a low,
sharp cry, he leaned forward!
WHAT DID THIS MEAN? Wires! No wires had ever been there before!
His fingers were working now with feverish haste, telegraphing their
message to his brain. The wires ran through the sill close to the
corner of the wall--tiny fragments of wood, as from an auger, were
still on the sill--and here was a small particle of wire insulation
that, those sensitive finger tips proclaimed, was FRESH.
A cold thrill ran through Jimmie Dale; and there came again that
sickening sense of impotency in the face of the malignant, devilish
cunning arrayed against him, that once before he had experienced,
that night. He had thought to forestall them--and he had been
forestalled himself! This could only have been done--they had had
no interest in him before then--while they held him at the Crime
Club, while he was spending that two hours in the car! Was that why
they had taken so long in coming? Was that why the car had stopped
that time--that those with him might be told that the work here had
been completed, and he need no longer be kept away?
He edged away from the window, and, as cautiously as he had come,
retraced his steps across the cellar and up the stairs--and then,
the possibility of being heard from without gone, he broke into a
run. There was no need to wonder long what those wires meant. They
could mean only one of two things--and the Crime Club would have
little concern in his electric light! THEY HAD TAPPED HIS
TELEPHONE. The mains, he knew, ran into the cellar from the
underground service in the street. He was racing like a madman now.
How long ago, how many hours ago, had they done that! Great Scott,
SHE was to have telephoned! Had she done so? Was the game, all,
everything, she herself, at their mercy already? If she had
telephoned, Jason would have left a message on his desk--he would
look there first--afterward he would waken Jason.
He gained the door of his den on the first landing, a room that ran
the entire length of one side of the house from front to rear, burst
in, switched on the light---and stood stock-still in amazement.
"Jason!" he cried out.
The old butler, fully dressed, rubbing and blinking his eyes at the
light, and with a startled cry, rose up from the depths of a
lounging chair.
"Jason!" exclaimed Jimmie Dale again.
"I beg pardon, sir, Master Jim," stammered the man. "I--I must have
fallen asleep, sir."
"Jason, what are you doing here?" Jimmie Dale demanded sharply.
"Well, sir," said Jason, still fumbling for his words, "it--it was
the telephone, sir."
"The--TELEPHONE!"
"Yes, sir. A woman, begging your pardon, Master Jim, a lady, sir,
has been telephoning every hour or so, and she--"
"YES!" Jimmie Dale had jumped across the room and had caught the
other fiercely by the shoulder. "Yes--yes! What did she say?
QUICK, man!"
"Good Lord, Master Jim!" faltered Jason. "I--she--"
"Jason," said Jimmie Dale, suddenly as cold as ice, "what did she
say? Think, man! Every word!"
"She didn't say anything, Master Jim. Nothing at all, sir--except
to keep asking each time if she could speak to you."
"Nothing else, Jason?"
"No, sir."
"You are SURE?"
"I'm sure, Master Jim. Not another thing but that, sir, just as
I've told you."
"Thank God!" said Jimmie Dale, in a low voice.
"Yes, sir," said Jason mechanically.
"How long ago was it since she telephoned last?" asked Jimmie Dale
quickly.
"Well, sir, I couldn't rightly say. You see, as I said, Master Jim,
I must have gone to sleep, but--"
They were staring tensely into each other's face. The telephone on
the desk was ringing vibrantly, clamourously, through the stillness
of the room.
Jason, white, frightened, bewildered, touched his lips with the tip
of his tongue.
"That'll be her again, sir," he said hoarsely.
"Wait!" said Jimmie Dale tersely.
He was trying to think, to think faster than he had ever thought
before. He could not tell Jason to say that he had not yet come in--
THEY knew he was in, it would be but showing his hand to that "some
one" who would be listening now on the wire. He dared not speak to
her, or, above all, allow her to expose herself by a single
inadvertent word. He dared not speak to her--and she was here now,
calling him! He could not speak to her--and it was life and death
almost that she should know what had happened; life and death almost
for both of them that he should know all and everything she could
tell him. True, it would take but a minute to run to the cellar and
cut those wires, while Jason held her on the pretence of calling
him, Jimmie Dale, to the 'phone; only a minute to cut those wires--
and in so doing advertise to these fiends the fact that he had
discovered their trick; admit, as though in so many words, that
their suspicions of him were justified; lay himself open to some new
move that he could not hope to foresee; and, paramount to all else,
rob her and himself of this master trump the Crime Club had placed
in his hands, by means of which there was a chance that he could
hoist them with their own petard!
The telephone rang again--imperatively, persistently.
"Listen, Jason." Jimmie Dale was speaking rapidly, earnestly. "Say
that I've come in and have gone to bed--in a vile humour. That you
told me a lady had been calling, but that I said if she called again
I wasn't to be disturbed if it was the Queen of Sheba herself--that
I wouldn't answer any 'phone to-night for anybody. Do you
understand? No argument with her--just that. Now, answer!"
Jason lifted the receiver from the hook.
"Yes--hello!" he said. "Yes, ma'am, Mr. Dale has come in, but he
has retired. . . . Yes, I told him; but, begging your pardon,
ma'am, he was in what I might say was a bit of a temper, and said he
wasn't to be disturbed by any one."
Jimmie Dale snatched the receiver from Jason, and put it to his own
ear.
"Kindly tell Mr. Dale that unless he comes to the 'phone now," a
feminine voice, her voice, in well-simulated indignation, was
saying, "it will be a very long day before I shall trouble myself
to--"
Jimmie Dale clapped his hand firmly over the mouthpiece of the
instrument. Thank God for that clever brain of hers! She
understood!
"Repeat what you said before, Jason," he instructed hurriedly.
"Then say 'Good-night.'"
He removed his hand from the mouthpiece.
"It's quite useless, ma'am," said Jason apologetically. "In the
rare temper he was in, he wouldn't come, to use his own words,
ma'am, not for the Queen of Sheba herself, ma'am. Good-night,
ma'am."
Jimmie Dale hung the receiver back on the hook--and with his hand
flirted away a bead of moisture that had sprung to his forehead.
"Good Lord, Master Jim, what's wrong, sir? What's happened, sir?
And--and those clothes, Master Jim, sir! They aren't the ones you
went out in, sir--they aren't yours at all, sir!" Jason ventured
anxiously.
"Jason," said Jimmie Dale, "switch off the light, and go to the
front window and look out. Keep well behind the curtains. Don't
show yourself. Tell me if you see anything."
"Yes, sir," said Jason obediently.
The light went out. Jimmie Dale moved to the rear of the room--to
the window overlooking the garage and yard.
"I don't see anything, sir," Jason called.
"Watch!" Jimmie Dale answered.
A minute passed--two--three. Jimmie Dale was staring down into the
black of the yard. She understood! She knew, of course, before she
'phoned that something had gone wrong to-night. She knew that only
peril of the gravest moment would have kept him from the 'phone--and
her. She knew now, as a logical conclusion, that it was dangerous
to attempt to communicate with him at his home. Those wires! Where
did they lead to? Not far away--that would be almost a mechanical
impossibility. Was it into the Crime Club itself--near at hand? Or
the basement, say, of that apartment house across the driveway?
Or--where?
And then Jimmie Dale spoke again:
"Do you see anything, Jason?"
"I'm not sure, sir," Jason answered hesitantly. "I thought I saw a
man move behind a tree out there across the road a minute ago, sir.
Yes, sir--there he is again!"
There was a thin, mirthless smile on Jimmie Dale's lips.
Below, in the shadow of the garage, a dark form, like a deeper
shadow, stirred--and was still again.
"What time is it, Jason?" Jimmie Dale asked presently.
"It'll be about half-past four, sir."
"Go to bed, Jason."
"Yes, sir; but"--Jason's voice, low, troubled, came through the
darkness from the upper end of the room--"Master Jim, sir, I--"
"Go to bed, Jason--and not a word of this."
"Yes, sir. Good-night, Master Jim."
"Good-night, Jason."
Jimmie Dale groped his way to the big lounging chair in which he had
found Jason asleep, and flung himself into it. They had struck
quickly, these ingenious, dress-suited murderers of the Crime Club!
The house was already watched, would be watched now untiringly,
unceasingly; not a movement of his henceforth but would be under
their eyes!
His hands, resting on the arms of the chair, closed slowly until
they became tight-clenched, knotted fists. What was he to do? It
was not only the Crime Club, it was not only the Tocsin and her
peril--there was the underworld snapping and snarling at his heels,
there was the police, dogged and sullen, ever on the trail of the
Gray Seal! His life, even before this, in his fight against the
underworld and the police, had depended upon his freedom of action--
and now, at one and the same time, that freedom was cut away from
beneath his feet, as it were, and a third foe, equally as deadly as
the others, was added to the list!
For months, to preserve and sustain the character of Larry the Bat,
he had been forced to assume the role almost daily; for, in that
sordid empire below the dead line, whose one common bond and aim was
the Gray Seal's death, where suspicion, one of the other, was
rampant and extravagant, where each might be the one against whom
all swore their vengeance, Larry the Bat could not mysteriously
disappear from his accustomed haunts without inviting suspicion in
an active and practical form--an inquisitorial visit to his squalid
lodgings, the Sanctuary--and the end of Larry the Bat!
If, as he had thought only a few hours before, he was through
forever with his dual life, that would not have mattered, the
underworld would have been welcome to make what it chose of it--but
now the preservation of the character of Larry the Bat was more
vital and necessary to him than it had ever been before. It was a
means of defense and offense against these men who lurked now
outside his doors. It was the sole means now of communication with
her; for, warned both by Jason's words, and what must be an obvious
fact to her, that their plans had miscarried, that it was dangerous
to communicate with him as Jimmie Dale, she would expect him, count
on him to make that move. There would be no longer either reason or
attempt on her part to maintain the mystery with which she had
heretofore surrounded herself, the crisis had come, she would be
watching, waiting, hoping, seeking for him more anxiously and with
far more at stake than he had ever sought for her--until now!
He got up impulsively from his chair, and, in the blackness, began
to pace the room. The next move was clear, pitifully clear; it had
been clear from the first, it had been clear even in that ride in
the car--it was so clear that it seemed veritably to mock him as he
prodded his brains for some means of putting it into execution. He
must get to the Sanctuary, become Larry the Bat--but how? HOW! The
question seemed at last to become resonant, to ring through the room
with the weight of doom upon it.
Schemes, plans, ideas came, bringing a momentary uplift--only to be
discarded the next instant with a sort of bitter, desperate regret.
These men were not men of mere ordinary intelligence; their
cleverness, their power, the amazing scope of their organisation,
all bore grim witness to the fact that they would be blinded not at
all by any paltry ruse.
He could walk out of the house in the morning as Jimmie Dale without
apparent hindrance--that was obvious enough. And so long as he
pursued the usual avocations of Jimmie Dale, he would not be
interfered with--only WATCHED. It was useless to consider that plan
for a moment. It would not help him to reach the Sanctuary--without
leading them there behind him! True, there was always the chance
that he might shake them off his trail, but he could hardly hope to
accomplish anything like that without their knowing that it was done
DELIBERATELY--and that he dared not risk. The strongest weapon in
his hands now was his secret knowledge that he was being watched.
That telephone there, for instance, that most curiously kept on
insisting in his mind that it, and it alone was the way out, was the
last thing he could place in jeopardy. Besides, there was another
reason why such a plan would not do; for, granting even that he
succeeded in eluding them on the way, and managed to reach the
Sanctuary, his freedom of action would be so restricted and limited
as to be practically worthless--he would have to return to his home
here again within a reasonable time as Jimmie Dale, within a few
hours at most--or again they would be in possession of the fact that
he had discovered their surveillance.
That, it was true, had been his original plan when he had entered
the house half an hour previously, but it was an entirely different
matter now. Then, he had counted on GETTING AWAY without their
knowing it, before they, as he had fondly thought, would have had a
chance to establish their espionage, and when they would have had no
reason to suspect, for a time at least, that he was not still within
the house, when they would have been watching, as it were, an empty
cage.
He stopped in his walk, and, after a moment, dropped down into the
lounging chair again. That was it, of course. An empty cage! If
he could escape from the house! Not so much without their seeing
him; that was more or less a mechanical detail. But escape--and
leave them in possession of a sort of guarantee or assurance that he
was still there! That would give him the freedom of action that he
must have. He smiled with bitter irony. That solved the problem!
That was all there was to it--just that! It was very simple,
exceedingly simple; it was only--impossible!
The smile left his lips, and once more his hands, clenched fiercely.
No; it was not impossible! It MUST be done--if he was to win
through, if he was even to save himself! It must be done--or FAIL
her! It COULD be done; there was a way--if he could only see it!
CHAPTER VII
THE "HOUR"
As the minutes passed, many of them, Jimmie Dale sat there
motionless, staring before him at the desk that was faintly outlined
in the unlighted room. Then somewhere in the house a clock struck
the hour. Five o'clock! He raised his head. YES! It could be
done! There was a way! He had the germ of it now. And now the
plan began to grow, to take form and shape in his mind, to dovetail,
to knit the integral parts into a comprehensive whole. There was a
way--but he must have assistance. Jason--yes, assuredly. Benson,
his chauffeur--yes, equally as trustworthy as Jason. Benson was
devoted to him; and moreover Benson was young, alert, daring, cool.
He had had more than one occasion to test Benson's resourcefulness
and nerve!
Jimmie Dale rose abruptly, went to the rear window, and, parting the
curtains cautiously, stood peering down into the courtyard. Yes, it
was feasible; even a little more than feasible. The garage fronted
the driveway, of course, to give free entrance and egress to the
cars, but where the wall of the garage and the rear wall of the
house overlapped, as it were, the space between them was not much
more than ten yards; and here the shadows of the two walls,
mingling, lay like a black, impenetrable pathway--not like that
other shadow he had seen moving at the side of the garage, and that,
if not for the moment discernible, was none the less surely still
lurking there!
Satisfied, Jimmie Dale swung briskly from the window, and, going now
to his bedroom across the hall, undressed and went to bed--but not
to sleep. There would be time enough to sleep, all day, if he
wished; now, there were still the little details to be thought out
that, more than anything else, could make or wreck his plans. A
point overdone, the faintest suggestion of a false note where men of
the calibre of those against whom he was now fighting for his life
were concerned, would not only make his scheme abortive, but would
place him utterly at their mercy.
It was nine o'clock when he rang for Jason.
"Jason," he said abruptly, as the other entered, "I want you to
telephone for Doctor Merlin."
"The doctor, sir!" exclaimed the old man anxiously. "You're--you're
not ill, Master Jim, sir?"
"Do I look ill, Jason?" inquired Jimmie Dale gravely.
"Well, sir," admitted Jason, in concern; "a bit done up, sir,
perhaps. A little pale, sir; though I'm sure--"
"I'm glad to hear it," said Jimmie Dale, sitting up in bed. "The
worse I look, the better!"
"I--I beg pardon, sir?" stammered Jason.
"Jason," said Jimmie Dale, gravely again, "you have had reason to
know that on several occasions my life has been threatened. It is
threatened now. You know from last night that this house is now
watched. You may, or you may not have surmised--that our telephone
wires have been tapped."
"Tapped, sir!"--Jason's face had gone a little gray.
"Yes; a party line, so to speak," said Jimmie Dale grimly. "Do you
understand? You must be careful to say no more, no less than
exactly what I tell you to say. Now go and telephone! Ask the
doctor to come over and see me this morning. Simply say that I am
not feeling well; but that, apart from being apparently in a very
nervous condition, you do not know what is the matter."
"Yes, sir--good Lord, sir!" gasped Jason--and left the room to carry
out his orders.
An hour later, Doctor Merlin had been and gone--and had left two
prescriptions; one written, the other verbal. With the written one,
Benson, in his chauffeur's livery, was dispatched to the drug store;
the verbal one was precisely what Jimmie Dale had expected from the
fussy old family physician: "Two or three days of quiet in the house
James; and if you need me again, let me know."
"Now, Jason," said Jimmie Dale, when the old man had returned from
ushering Doctor Merlin from the house, "our friends out there will
be anxious to learn the verdict. I was to dine with the Ross-
Hendersons to-morrow night, was I not?"
"Yes, sir; I think so, sir."
"Make sure!" said Jimmie Dale. "Look in my engagement book there on
the table."
Jason looked.
"Yes, sir, that's right," he announced.
"Very good," said Jimmie Dale softly. "Now go and telephone again,
Jason. Present my regrets and excuses to the Ross-Hendersons, and
say that under the doctor's orders I am confined to the house for
the next few days--and, Jason!"
"Yes, sir?"
"When Benson returns with the medicine let him bring it here
himself--and I shall want you as well."
Jimmie Dale propped himself up a little wearily on the pillows, as
Jason went out of the room. After all, his condition was not
entirely feigned. He was, as a matter of fact, pretty well played
out, both mentally and physically. Certainly, that he should
require a doctor and be confined to the house could not arouse
suspicion even in the minds of those alert, aristocratic thugs of
the Crime Club, prone as they would be to suspect anything--a man
who had been knocked unconscious in an automobile smash the night
before, had been in a fight, had been subjected to a terrific mental
shock, to say nothing of the infernal drug that had been
administered to him, might well be expected to be indisposed the
next morning, and for several mornings following that! It might,
indeed, even cause them to relax their vigilance for the time being--
though he dared build nothing on that. Well, he had only to coach
Benson and Jason in the parts they were to play, and the balance of
the morning and all the afternoon was his in which to rest.
He reached over to the table, picked up a pencil and paper, and
began to jot down memoranda. He had just tossed the pencil back on
the table as the two men entered.
Jason, at a sign, closed the door quietly.
Jimmie Dale looked at Benson half musingly, half whimsically, for a
moment before he spoke.
"Benson," he said, "the back seat of the large touring car is hinged
and lifts up, once the cushion is removed, doesn't it?"
"Yes, sir," Benson answered promptly.
"And there's space enough for, say, a man inside, isn't there?"
"Why, yes, sir; I suppose so--at a squeeze"--Benson stared blankly.
"Quite so!" said Jimmie Dale calmly. "Now, another matter, Benson:
I believe some chauffeurs have a habit, when occasion lends itself,
of taking, shall we say, their 'best girl' out riding in their
masters' machines?"
"SOME might," Benson replied, a little stiffly. "I hope you don't
think, sir, that--"
"One moment, Benson. The point is, it's done--quite generally?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you have a 'best girl,' or at least could find one for such a
purpose, if you were so inclined?"
"Yes, sir," said Benson; "but--"
"Very good!" Jimmie Dale interrupted. "Then to-night, Benson,
taking advantage of my illness, and to-morrow night, and the nights
after that until further notice, you will acquire and put into
practice that reprehensible habit."
"I--I don't understand, Mr. Dale."
"No; I dare say not," said Jimmie Dale--and then the whimsicality
dropped from him. "Benson," he said slowly, "do you remember a
night, nearly four years ago, the first night you ever saw me? You
had, indiscreetly, I think, displayed more money than was wise in
that East Side neighbourhood."
"I remember," said Benson, with a sudden start; then simply: "I
wouldn't be here now, sir, if it hadn't been for you."
"Well," said Jimmie Dale quietly, "the tables are turned to-day,
Benson. As Jason already knows, this house is watched. For reasons
that I cannot explain, I am in great danger. Bluntly, I am putting
my life in your hands--and Jason's."
Benson looked for an instant from Jimmie Dale to Jason, caught the
strained, troubled expression on the old man's face, then back again
at Jimmie Dale.
"D'ye mean that, sir!" he cried. "Then you can count on me, Mr.
Dale, to the last ditch!"
"I know that, Benson," Jimmie Dale said softly. "And now, both of
you, listen! It is imperative that I should get away from the
house; and equally imperative that those watching should believe
that I am still here. Not even the servants are to be permitted a
suspicion that I am not here in my bed, ill. That, Jason, is your
task. You will allow no one to wait on me but yourself; you will
bring the meal trays up regularly--and eat the food yourself. You
will answer all inquiries, telephone and otherwise, in person--I am
not seeing any one. You understand perfectly, Jason?"
"I understand, Master Jim. You need have no fear, sir, on that
score."
"Now, you, Benson," Jimmie Dale went on. "A few minutes ago I sent
you out in your chauffeur's togs with that prescription. You were
undoubtedly observed. I wanted you to be. It was quite necessary
that they should know and be able to recognise you again--to
disabuse their minds later on of the possibility that I might be
masquerading in your clothes; and also, of course, that they should
know who you were, and what your position was in the household.
Very well! To-night, at eight o'clock exactly, you are to go out
from the back door of the house to the garage. On the way out--it
will be quite dark then--I want you to drop something, say, a bunch
of keys that you had been jingling in your hand. You are to
experience some difficulty in finding it again, move about a little
to force any one that may be lurking by the garage to retreat around
the corner. Grumble a bit and make a little noise; but you are not
to overdo it--a couple of minutes at the outside is enough, by that
time I shall be under the car seat. You will then run the machine
out to the street and stop at the curb, jump out, and, as though you
had forgotten something, hurry back to the garage. You must not be
away long--enough only to permit, say, a passer-by to glance into
the car and satisfy himself that it is empty. You understand, of
course, Benson, that the hood must be down--no closed car to invite
even the suggestion of concealment--that would be a fatal blunder.
Drive then to the young lady's home by as direct a route as you can--
give no appearance of being aware that you are followed, as you
will be, and much less the appearance of attempting to elude
pursuit. Act naturally. Between here and your destination I will
manage readily enough to leave the car. You will then take the
young lady for her drive--that is what they will be interested in--
your motive for going out to-night. And, as I said, take her
driving again on each succeeding night--establish the HABIT to their
satisfaction."
Jimmie Dale paused, glanced at the paper which he still held in his
hand, then handed it to Benson.
"Just one thing more, Benson," he said: "Listed on that paper you
will find a different rendezvous for each night for the next five
nights, excluding to-night, which, after you have returned the young
lady to her home, you are to pass by on your way back here. See
that your drive is always over in time for you to pass each night's
rendezvous at half past eleven sharp. Don't stop unless I signal
you. If I am not there, go right on home, and be at the next place
on the following night. I am fairly well satisfied they will not
bother about you after to-night, or to-morrow night at the most;
but, for all that, you must take no chances, so, except in the route
you take in going to the young lady's, always avoid covering the
same ground twice, which might give the appearance of having some
ulterior purpose in view--even in your drives, vary your runs. Is
this clear, Benson?"
"Yes, sir," said Benson earnestly.
"Very well, then," said Jimmie Dale. "Eight o'clock to the dot,
Benson--compare your time with Jason's. And now, Jason, see that I
get a chance to sleep until dinner time to-night."
The hours that followed were hours of sound and much-needed sleep
for Jimmie Dale, and from which he awoke only on Jason's entrance
that evening with the dinner tray.
"I've slept like a log, Jason!" he cried briskly, as he leaped out
of bed. "Anything new--anything happened?"
"No, sir; not a thing," Jason answered. "Only, Master Jim, sir"--
the old man twisted his hands nervously--"I--you'll excuse my saying
so, sir--I do hope you'll be careful to-night, sir. I can't help
being afraid that something'll happen to you, Master Jim."
"Nonsense, Jason!" Jimmie Dale laughed cheerfully. "There's nothing
going to happen--to me! You go ahead now and stay with the
servants, and get them out of the road at the proper time."
He bathed, dressed, ate his dinner, and was slipping cartridges into
the magazine of his automatic when, within a minute or two of eight
o'clock, Jason's whisper came from the doorway.
"It's all clear now, Master Jim, sir."
"Right!" Jimmie Dale responded--and followed Jason down the
stairway, and to the head of the cellar stairs.
Here Jason halted.
"God keep you, Master Jim!" said the old man huskily. "Good-night,
Jason," Jimmie Dale answered softly; and, with a reassuring squeeze
on the other's arm, went on down to the cellar.
Here he moved quickly, noiselessly across to the window--not the
window of the night before, but another of the same description,
almost directly beneath the one in his den above, that faced the
garage and lay in the line of that black shadow path between the two
buildings. Deftly, cautiously without sound, a half inch, an inch
at a time he opened it. He stood listening, then. A minute passed.
Then he heard Benson open and shut the back door; then Benson in the
yard; and then Benson's voice in a muttered and irritable growl,
talking to himself, as he stamped around on the ground.
With a lithe, agile movement, Jimmie Dale pulled himself up and
through the window--and began to creep rapidly on hands and knees
toward the garage. It was dark, intensely dark. He could barely
distinguish Benson's form, though, as he passed the other, the
slight sounds he made drowned out by the chauffeur's angry
mumblings, he could have reached out and touched Benson easily.
He gained the interior of the garage, and, as Benson, came on again,
stepped lightly into the car, lifted the seat, and wriggled his way
inside.
It was close, stuffy, abominably cramped, but Jimmie Dale was
smiling grimly now. Thanks to Benson, there wasn't a possibility
that he had been seen. He both felt and heard Benson start the car.
Then the car moved forward, ran the length of the driveway, bumped
slightly as it made the street--and stopped. He heard Benson jump
out and run back--and then he listened intently, and the grim smile
flickered on his lips again. Came the sound of a footstep on the
sidewalk close beside the car--then silence--the car shook a little
as though some one's weight was on the step--then the footsteps
receded--Benson returned on the run--and the car started forward
once more.
Perhaps ten minutes passed. Three times the car had swerved
sharply, making a corner turn. Then Jimmie Dale pushed up the seat,
and, protected from observation from behind by the back of the car
itself, crawled out and crouched down on the floor of the tonneau.
"Don't look around, Benson," he said calmly. "Are we followed?"
"Yes, sir." Benson answered. "At least, there's always been a car
behind us, though not the same one. They're pretty clever. There
must be three or four, each following the other. Every time I turn
a corner it's a different car that turns it behind me."
"How far behind?" Jimmie Dale asked.
"Half a block."
"Slow down a little," instructed Jimmie Dale; "and don't turn
another corner until they've had a chance to accomodate themselves
to your new speed. You are going too fast for me to jump, and I
don't want them to notice any change in speed, except what is made
in plain sight. Yes; that's better. Where are we, Benson?"
"That's Amsterdam Avenue ahead," replied Benson.
"All right," said Jimmie Dale quietly. "Turn into it. The more
people the better. Tell me just as you are about to turn."
"Yes, sir," said Benson; then, almost on the instant, "All ready,
sir!"
Jimmie Dale's hand reached out for the door catch, edged the door
ajar, the car swerved, took the corner--and Jimmie Dale stepped out
on the running board, hung there negligently for a moment as though
chatting with Benson, and then with an airy "good-night" dropped
nonchalantly to the ground, and the next instant had mingled with
the throng of pedestrians on the sidewalk.
A half minute later, a large gray automobile turned the corner and
followed Benson--and Jimmie Dale, stepping out into the street
again, swung on a downtown car. The road to the Sanctuary was open!
In his impatience, now, the street car seemed to drag along every
foot of the way; but a glance at his watch, as he finally reached
the Bowery, and, walking then, rapidly approached the cross street a
few steps ahead that led to the Sanctuary, told him that it was
still but a quarter to nine. But even at that he quickened his
steps a little. He was free now! There was a sort of savage,
elemental uplift upon him. He was free! He could strike now in his
own defense--and hers! In a few moments he would be at the
Sanctuary; in a few more he would be Larry the Bat, and by to-morrow
at the latest he would see--The Tocsin. After all, that "hour" was
not to be taken from him! It was not, perhaps, the hour that she
had meant it should be, thought and prayed, perhaps, that it might
be! It was not the hour of victory. But it was the hour that meant
to him the realisation of the years of longing, the hour when he
should see her, see her for the first time face to face, when there
should be no more barriers between them, when--"
"Fer Gawd's sake, mister, buy a pencil!"
A hand was plucking at his sleeve, the thin voice was whining in his
ear. He halted mechanically. A woman, old, bedraggled, ragged, was
thrusting a bunch of cheap pencils imploringly toward him--and then,
with a stifled cry, Jimmie Dale leaned forward. The eyes that
lifted to his for an instant were bright and clear with the vigor of
youth, great eyes of brown they were, and trouble, hope, fear,
wistfulness, ay, and a glorious shyness were in their depths. And
then the voice he knew so well, the Tocsin's was whispering
hurriedly:
"I will be waiting here, Jimmie--for Larry the Bat."
CHAPTER VIII
THE TOCSIN
It was only a little way back along the street from the Sanctuary to
the corner on the Bowery where as Jimmie Dale he had left her, where
as Larry the Bat now he was going to meet her again; it would take
only a moment or so, even at Larry the Bat's habitual,
characteristic, slouching, gait--but it seemed that was all too
slow, that he must throw discretion to the winds and run the
distance. His blood was tingling; there was elation upon him,
coupled with an almost childlike dread that she might be gone.
"The Tocsin! The Tocsin!" he kept saying to himself.
Yes; she was still there, still whiningly imploring those who passed
to buy her miserable pencils--and then, with a quick-flung whisper
to him to follow as he slouched up close to her, she had started
slowly down the street.
"The Tocsin! The Tocsin! The Tocsin!"--his brain seemed to be
ringing with the words, ringing with them in a note clear as a
silver bell. The Tocsin--at last! The woman who so strangely, so
wonderfully, so mysteriously had entered into his life, and
possessed it, and filled it with a love and yearning that had come
to mold and sway and actuate his very existence--the woman for whom
he had fought; for whom he had risked, and gladly risked, his
wealth, his name, his honour--everything; the woman for whose sake
he, the Gray Seal, was sought and hounded as the most notorious
criminal of the age; she whose cleverness, whose resourcefulness,
whose amazing intimacy with the hidden things of the underworld had
seemed, indeed, to border on the supernatural; she, the Tocsin--the
woman whose face he had never seen before! The woman whose face he
had never seen before--and who now was that wretched hag that
hobbled along the street before him, begging, whining, and
importuning the passers-by to purchase of her pitiful wares!
He laughed a little--buoyantly. He had never pictured a first
meeting such as this! A hag? Yes! And one as disreputable in
appearance as he himself, as Larry the Bat, was disreputable! But
he had seen her eyes! Inimitable as was her disguise, she could not
hide her eyes, or hide the pledge they held of the beauty of form
and feature beneath the tattered rags and the touch of a master in
the make-up that brought haggard want and age into the face--and
dimly he began to divine the source, the means by which she had
acquired the information that for years had enabled her to plan
their coups, that had enabled him to execute them under the guise of
crime, that for years had seemed beyond all human reach.
Where was she going? Where was she taking him? But what did it
matter! The years of waiting were at an end--the years of mystery
in a few moments now would be mystery no more!
Ah! She had turned from the Bowery, and was heading east. He
shuffled on after her, guardedly, a half block behind. It was well
that Jimmie Dale had disappeared, that he was Larry the Bat again--
the neighbourhood was growing more and more one that Jimmie Dale
could not long linger in without attracting attention; while, on the
other hand, it was the natural environment of such as Larry the Bat
and such as she, who was leading him now to the supreme moment of
his life. Yes, it was that--the fulfillment of the years! The
thought of it alone filled his mind, his soul; it brushed aside, it
blotted out for the time being the danger, the peril, the deadly
menace that hung over them both. It was only that she, the Tocsin,
was here--only that at last they would be together.
On she went, traversing street after street, the direction always
trending toward the river--until finally she halted before what
appeared to be, as nearly as he could make out in the almost total
darkness of the ill-lighted street, a small and tumble-down, selfcontained
dwelling that bordered on what seemed to be an unfenced
store yard of some description. He drew his breath in sharply. She
had halted--waiting for him to come up with her. She was waiting
for him--WAITING for him! It seemed as though he drank of some
strange, exhilarating elixir--he reached her side eagerly--and then--
and then--her hand had caught his, and she was leading him into the
house, into a black passage where he could see nothing, into a room
equally black over whose threshold he stumbled, and her voice in a
low, conscious way, with a little tremour, a half sob in it that
thrilled him with its promise, was in his ears:
"We are safe here, Jimmie, for a little while--but, oh, Jimmie, what
have I done! What have I done to bring you into this--only--only--I
was so sure, so sure, Jimmie, that there was nothing more to fear!"
The blood was beating in hammer blows at his temples. It seemed all
unreal, untrue that this moment could be his, that it was not a
dream--a dream which was presently to be snatched from him in a
bitter awakening. And then he laughed out wildly, passionately.
No--it was true, it was real! Her breath was on his cheek, it was a
living, pulsing hand that was still in his--and then soul and mind
and body seemed engulfed and lost in a mad ecstasy--and she was in
his arms, crushed to him, and he was raining kisses upon her face.
"I love you! I love you!" he was crying hoarsely; and over and over
again: "I love you! I love you!"
She did not struggle. The warm, rich lips were yielding to his; he
could feel the throb, the life in the young, lithe form against his
own. She was his--his! The years, the past, all were swept away--
and she was his at last--his for always. And there came a mighty
sense of kingship upon him, as though all the world were at his
feet, and virility, and a great, glad strength above all other
men's, and a song was in his soul, a song triumphant--for she was
his!
"You!" he cried out--and strained her to him. "You!" he cried
again--and kissed her lips and her eyelids and her lips again.
And then her head was buried on his shoulder, and she was crying
softly; but after a moment she raised her hands and laid them upon
his face, and held them there, and because it was dark, dared to
raise her head as well, and her eyes to look into his.
Then for a long time they stood there so, and for a long time
neither spoke--and then with a little startled, broken cry, as
though the peril and the menace hanging over them, forgotten for the
moment, were thrust like a knife stab suddenly upon her, she drew
herself away, and ran from him, and went and got a lamp, and lighted
it, and set it upon the table.
And Jimmie Dale, still standing there, watched her. How gloriously
her eyes shone, dimmed and misty with the tears that filled them
though they were! And there was nothing incongruous in the rags
that clothed her, in the squalour and poverty of the bare room, in
the white furrows that the tears had plowed through the grime and
make-up on her cheeks.
"You wonderful, wonderful woman!" Jimmie Dale whispered.
She shook her head as though almost in self-reproach.
"I am not wonderful, Jimmie," she said, in a low voice. "I"--and
then she caught his arm, and her voice broke a little--"I've brought
you into this--probably to your death. Jimmie, tell me what
happened last night, and since then. I--I've thought at times today
I should go mad. Oh, Jimmie, there is so much to say to-night,
so much to do if--if we are ever to be together for--for always.
Last night, Jimmie--the telephone--I knew there was danger--that all
had gone wrong--what was it?"
His arms were around her shoulders, drawing her close to him again.
"I found the wires tapped," he said slowly.
"Yes, and--and the man you met--the chauffeur?"
"He is dead," Jimmie Dale answered gently.
He felt her hand close with a quick, spasmodic clutch upon his arm;
her face grew white--and for a moment she turned away her head.
"And--and the package?" she asked presently.
"I do not know," replied Jimmie Dale. "He did not have it with him;
he--"
"Wait!" she interrupted quickly. "We are only wasting time like
this! Tell me everything, everything just as it happened,
everything from the moment you received my letter."
And, holding her there in his arms, softening as best he could the
more brutal details, he told her. And, at the end, for a little
while she was silent; then in a strained, impulsive way she asked
again:
"The chauffeur--you are sure--you are positive that he is dead?"
"Yes," said Jimmie Dale grimly; "I am sure." And then the pent-up
flood of questions burst from his lips. Who was the chauffeur? The
package, the box numbered 428, and John Johansson? And the Crime
Club? And the issue at stake? The danger, the peril that
surrounded her? And she--above all--more than anything else--about
herself--her strange life, its mystery?
She checked him with a strangely wistful touch of her finger upon
his lips, with a queer, pathetic shake of her head.
"No, Jimmie; not that way. You would never understand. I cannot--"
"But I am to know--now! Surely I am to know NOW!" he cried, a
sudden sense of dismay upon him. Three years! Three years--and
always the "next" time! "I must know now, if I am to help you!"
She smiled a little wanly at him, as she drew herself away, and,
dropping into a chair, placed her elbows on the rickety table,
cupping her chin in her hands.
"Yes; you are to know now," she said, almost as though she were
talking to herself; then, with a swift intake of her breath,
impulsively: "Jimmie! Jimmie! I had thought that it would be all
so different when--when you came. That--that I would have nothing
to fear--for you--for me--because--it would be all over. And now
you are here, Jimmie--and, oh, thank God for you!--but I feel tonight
almost--almost as though it were hopeless, that--that we were
beaten."
"Beaten!" He stepped quickly to the table, and sat down, and took
one of her hands away from her face to hold it in both his own.
"Beaten!" he laughed out defiantly; then, playfully, soothingly, to
reassure her: "Jimmie Dale and Larry the Bat and the Gray Seal and
the Tocsin--BEATEN! And after we have just scored the last trick!"
"But we do not hold many trumps, Jimmie," she answered gravely.
"You have seen something of this Crime Club's power, its methods,
its merciless, cruel, inhuman cunning, and you, perhaps, think that
you understand--but you have not begun to grasp the extent of either
that power or cunning. This horrible organisation has been in
existence for many years. I do not know how many. I only know that
the men of whom it is composed are not ordinary criminals, that they
do not work in the ordinary way--to-day, they set the machinery of
fraud, deception, robbery, and murder in motion that ten years from
now, and, perhaps, only then, will culminate in the final success of
their schemes--and they play only for enormous stakes. But"--her
lips grew set--"you will see for yourself. I must not talk any
longer than is necessary; we must not take too much time. You count
on three days before they begin to suspect that all is not right
with Jimmie Dale--I know them better than you, and I give you two
days, forty-eight hours at the outside, and possibly far less.
Jimmie"--abruptly--"did you ever hear of Peter LaSalle?"
"The capitalist? Yes!" said Jimmie Dale. "He died a few years ago.
I know his brother Henry well--at the club, and all that."
"Do you!" she said evenly. "Well, the man you know is not Peter
LaSalle's brother; he is an impostor--and one of the Crime Club."
"Not--Peter LaSalle's brother!"--Jimmie Dale repeated the words
mechanically. And suddenly his brain was whirling. Vaguely, dimly,
in little memory snatches, events, not pertinent then, vitally
significant now, came crowding upon him. Peter LaSalle had come
from somewhere in the West to live in New York; and very shortly
afterward had died. The estate had been worth something over eleven
millions. And there had been--he leaned quickly, tensely forward
over the table, staring at her. "My God!" he whispered hoarsely.
"You are not, you cannot be--the--the daughter--Peter LaSalle's
daughter, who disappeared strangely!"
"Yes," she said quietly. "I am Marie LaSalle."
CHAPTER IX
THE TOCSIN'S STORY
LaSalle! The old French name! That old French inscription on the
ring: "SONNEZ LE TOCSIN!" Yes; he began to understand now. She was
Marie LaSalle! He began to remember more clearly.
Marie LaSalle! They had said she was one of the most beautiful
girls who had ever made her entree into New York society. But he
had never met her--as Marie LaSalle; never met her--until now, as
the Tocsin, in this bare, destitute, squalid hovel, here at bay,
both of them, for their lives.
He had been away when she had come with her father to New York; and
on his return there had only been the father's brother in the
father's place--and she was gone. He remembered the furor her
disappearance had caused; the enormous rewards her uncle had offered
in an effort to trace her; the thousand and one speculations as to
what had become of her; and that then, gradually, as even the most
startling and mystifying of events and happenings always do, the
affair had dropped into oblivion and had been forgotten by the
public at least. He began to count back. Yes, it must have been
nearly five years ago; two years before she, as the Tocsin, and he,
as the Gray Seal, had formed their amazing and singular partnership,
that--he started suddenly, as she spoke.
"I want to tell you in as few words as I can," she said abruptly,
breaking the silence. "Listen, then, Jimmie. My mother died ten
years ago. I was little more than a child then. Shortly after her
death, father made a business trip to New York, and, on the advice
of some supposed friends, he had a new will drawn up by a lawyer
whom they recommended, and to whom they introduced him. I do not
know who those men were. The lawyer's name was Travers, Hilton
Travers." She glanced curiously at Jimmie Dale, and added quickly:
"He was the chauffeur--the man who was killed last night."
"You mean," Jimmie Dale burst out, "you mean that he was--but,
first, the will! What was in the will?"
"It was a very simple will," she answered. "And from the nature of
it, it was not at all strange that my father should have been
willing to have had it drawn by a comparative stranger, if that is
what you are thinking. Summarised in a few words, the will left
everything to me, and appointed my Uncle Henry as my guardian and
the sole executor of the estate until I should have reached my
twenty-fifth birthday. It provided for a certain sum each year to
be paid to my uncle for his services as executor; and at the
expiration of the trust period--that is, when I was twenty-five--
bequeathed to him the sum of one hundred thousand dollars."
Jimmie Dale nodded. "Go on!" he prompted.
"It is hard to tell it in logical sequence," she said, hesitating a
moment. "So many things seem to overlap each other. You must
understand a little more about Hilton Travers. During the five
years following the signing of the will father came frequently to
New York, and became, not only intimate with Travers, but so much
impressed with the other's cleverness and ability that he kept
putting more and more of his business into Travers' hands. At the
end of that five years, we moved to New York, and father, who was
then quite an old man, retired from all active business, and turned
over a great many of his personal affairs to Travers to look after
for him, giving Travers power of attorney in a number of instances.
So much for Travers. Now about my uncle. He was my father's only
brother; in fact, they were the only surviving members of their
family, apart from very distant connections in France, from where,
generations back, the family originally came." Her hand touched
Jimmie Dale's for an instant. "That ring, Jimmie, with its crest
and inscription, is the old family coat of arms."
"Yes," he said briefly; "I surmised as much."
"Strange as it may seem, in view of the fact that they had not seen
each other for twenty years," she went on hurriedly "my father and
my uncle were more than ordinarily attached to each other. Letters
passed regularly between them, and there was constant talk of one
paying the other a visit--but the visit never materialised. My
uncle was somewhere in Australia, my father was here, and
consequently I never saw my uncle. He was quite a different type of
man from father--more restless, less settled, more rough and ready,
preferring the outdoor life of the Australian bush to the
restrictions of any so-called civilisation, I imagine. Financially,
I do not think he ever succeeded very well, for twice, in one way or
another, he lost every sheep on his ranch and father set him up
again; and I do not think he could ever have had much of a ranch,
for I remember once, in one of the letters he wrote, that he said he
had not seen a white man in weeks, so he must have lived a very
lonely life. Indeed, at about the time father drew the new will, my
uncle wrote, saying that he had decided to give up sheep running on
his own account as it did not pay, and to accept a very favourable
offer that had been made to him to manage a ranch in New Zealand;
and his next letter was from the latter country, stating that he had
carried out his intentions, and was well satisfied with the change
he had made. The long-proposed visit still continued to occupy my
father's thoughts, and on his retirement from business he definitely
made up his mind to go out to New Zealand, taking me with him. In
fact, the plans were all arranged, my uncle expressed unbounded
delight in his letters, and we were practically on the eve of
sailing, when a cable came from my uncle, telling us to postpone the
visit for a few months, as he was obliged to make a buying trip for
his new employer that would keep him away that length of time--and
then"--her fingers, that had been abstractedly picking out the lines
formed by the grain of the wood in the table top, closed suddenly
into tight-clenched fists--"and then--my father died."
Jimmie Dale turned away his head. There were tears in her eyes.
The old sense of unreality was strong upon him again. He was
listening to the Tocsin's story. It was strange that he should be
doing that--that it could be really so! It seemed as though
magically he had been transported out of the world where for years
past he had lived with danger lurking at every turn, where men set
watch about his house to trap him, where the denizens of the
underworld yowled like starving beasts to sink their fangs in him,
where the police were ceaselessly upon his trail to wreak an
insensate vengeance upon him; it seemed as though he had been
transported away from all that to something that he had dreamed
might, perhaps, sometime happen, that he had hoped might happen,
that he had longed for always, but now that it was his, that it also
was full of the sense of the unreal. And yet as his mind followed
the thread of her story, and leaped ahead and vaguely glimpsed what
was to come, be was conscious in a sort of premonitory way of a
vaster peril than any he had ever known, as though forces, for the
moment masked, were arrayed against him whose strength and whose
malignity were beyond human parallel. In what a strange, almost
incoherent way his brain was working! He roused himself a little
and looked around him--and, with a shock, the starkness of the room,
the abject, pitiful air of destitution brought home to him with
terrific, startling force the significance of the scene in which he
was playing a part. His face set suddenly in hard lines. That she
should have been brought to assume such a life as this--forced out
of her environment of wealth and refinement, forced in her purity to
rub shoulders with the vile, the dissolute, forced to exist as such
a creature amid the crime and vice, the wretched horror of the
underworld that swirled around her! There was anger now upon him,
burning, hot--a merciless craving that was a savage, hungry lust for
vengeance.
And then she was speaking again:
"Father's death occurred very shortly after my uncle's message
advising us to postpone our trip was received. On his death,
Travers, very naturally, as father's lawyer, cabled my uncle to come
to New York at once; and my uncle replied, saying that he was coming
by the first steamer."
She paused again--but only for an instant, as though to frame her
thoughts in words.
"I have told you that I had never seen my uncle, that even my father
had not seen him for twenty years; and I have told you that the man
you know as Henry LaSalle is an impostor--I am using the word
'uncle' now when I refer to him simply to avoid confusion. You are,
perhaps, expecting me to say that I took a distinctive dislike to
him from the moment he arrived? On the contrary, I had every reason
to be predisposed toward him; and, indeed, was rather agreeably
surprised than otherwise--he was not nearly so uncouth and
unpolished as, somehow, I had pictured his life would have made him.
Do you understand, Jimmie? He was kind, sympathetic; and, in an
apathetic way, I liked him. I say 'apathetic' because I think that
best describes my own attitude toward every one and everything
following father's death until--THAT NIGHT."
She rose abruptly from her chair, as though a passive position of
any kind had suddenly become intolerable.
"Why tell you what my father and I were to each other!" she cried
out in a low, passionate voice. "It seemed as though everything
that meant anything had gone out of my life. I became worn out,
nervous; and though the days were bad enough, the nights were a
source of dread. I began to suffer from insomnia--I could not
sleep. This was even before my supposed uncle came. I used to read
for hours and hours in my room after I had gone to bed. But"--she
flung out her hand with an impatient gesture--"there is no need to
dwell on that. One night, about a week after that man had arrived,
and a little over a month after father had died, I was in my room
and had finished a book I was reading. I remember that it was well
after midnight. I had not the slightest inclination to sleep. I
picked up another book--and after that another. There were plenty
in my room; but, irrationally, of course, none pleased me. I
decided to go down to the library--not that I think I really
expected to find anything that I actually wanted, but more because
it was an impulse, and furnished me for the moment with some
definite objective, something to do. I got up, slipped on a
dressing gown, and went downstairs. The lights were all out. I was
just on the point of switching on those in the reception hall, when
suddenly it seemed as though I had not strength to lift my hand, and
I remember that for an instant I grew terribly cold with dread and
fear. From the room on my right a voice had reached me. The door
was closed, but the voice was raised in an outburst of profanity.
I--I could hear every word.
"'If she's out of the way, there's no come-back,' the voice snarled.
'I won't listen to anything else! Do you hear! Why, you fool, what
are you trying to do--hand me one! Turn everything into cash, and
divvy, and beat it--eh? And I'm the goat, and I get caught and get
twenty years for stealing trust funds--and the rest of you get the
coin!' He swore terribly again. 'Who's taken the risk in this for
the last five years! There'll be no smart Aleck lawyer tricks--
there'll be no halfway measures! And who are you to dictate! She
goes out--that's safe--I inherit as next of kin, with no one to
dispute it, and that's all there is to it!'
"I stood there and could not move. It was the voice of the man I
knew as my uncle! My heart seemed to have stopped beating. I tried
to tell myself that I was dreaming, that it was too horrible, too
incredible to be real; that they could not really mean to--to MURDER
me. And then I recognised Hilton Travers' voice.
"'I am not dictating, and you are not serious, of course,' he said,
with what seemed an uneasy laugh. 'I am only warning you that you
are forgetting to take the real Henry LaSalle into account. He is
bound to hear of this eventually, and then--'
"Another voice broke in--one I did not recognise.
"'You're talking too loud, both of you! Travers doesn't understand,
but he's to be wised up to-night, according to orders, and--'
"The voice became inaudible, muffled--I could not hear any more. I
suppose I remained there another three or four minutes, too stunned
to know what to do; and then I ran softly along the hall to the
library door. The library, you understand, was at the rear of the
room they were in, and the two rooms were really one; that is, there
was only an archway between them. I cannot tell you what my
emotions were--I do not know. I only know that I kept repeating to
myself, 'they are going to kill me, they are going to kill me!' and
that it seemed I must try and find out everything, everything I
could."
She turned away from the table, and began to pace nervously up and
down the miserable room.
Jimmie Dale rose impulsively from his chair--but she waved him back
again.
"No; wait!" she said. "Let me finish. I crept into the library.
It took me a long time, because I had to be so careful not to make
the slightest noise. I suppose it was fully six or seven minutes
from the time I had first heard my supposed uncle's voice until I
had crept far enough forward to be able to see into the room beyond.
There were three men there. The man I knew as my uncle was sitting
at one end of the table; another had his back toward me; and Travers
was facing in my direction--and I think I never saw so ghastly a
face as was Hilton Travers' then. He was standing up, sort of
swaying, as he leaned with both hands on the table.
"'Now then, Travers,' the man whose back was turned to me was saying
threateningly, 'you've got the story now--sign those papers!'
"It seemed as though Travers could not speak for a moment. He kept
looking wildly from one to the other. He was white to the lips.
"'You've let me in for--THIS!' he said hoarsely, at last, 'You
devils--you devils--you devils! You've let me in for--murder! Both
of them! Both Peter and his brother--MURDERED!'"
She stopped abruptly before Jimmie Dale, and clutched his arm
tightly.
"Jimmie, I don't know why I did not scream out. Everything went
black for a moment before my eyes. It was the first suspicion I had
had that my father had met with foul play, and I--"
But now Jimmie Dale swayed up from his chair.
"Murdered!" he exclaimed tensely. "Your father! But--but I
remember perfectly, there was no hint of any such thing at the time,
and never has been since. He died from quite natural causes."
She looked at him strangely.
"He died from--inoculation," she said. "Did--did you not see
something of that laboratory in the Crime Club yourself the night
before last--enough to understand?"
"Good God!" muttered Jimmie Dale, in a startled way then: "Go on!
Go on! What happened then?"
She passed her hand a little wearily across her eyes--and sank down
into her chair again.
"Travers," she continued, picking up the thread of her story, "had
raised his voice, and the third man at the table leaned suddenly,
aggressively toward him.
"'Hold your tongue!' he growled furiously. 'All you're asked to do
is sign the papers--not talk!'
"Travers shook his head.
"'I won't!' he cried out. 'I won't have any hand in another murder--
in hers! My God, I won't--I won't, I tell you! It's horrible!'
"'Look here, you fool!' the man who was posing as my uncle broke in
then. 'You're in this too deep to get out now. If you know what's
good for you, you'll do as you're told!'
"Jimmie, I shall never forget Travers' face. It seemed to have
changed from white to gray, and there was horror in his eyes: and
then he seemed to lose all control of himself, shaking his fists in
their faces, cursing them in utter abandon.
"'I'm bad!' he cried. 'I've gone everything, everything but the
limit--everything but murder. I stop there! I'll have no more to
do with this. I'm through! You--you pulled me into this, and--and
I didn't know!'
"'Well, you know now!' the third man sneered. 'What are you going
to do about it?'
"'I'm going to see that no harm comes to Marie LaSalle,' Travers
answered in a dull way.
"The other man now was on his feet--and, I do not know quite how to
express it, Jimmie, he seemed ominously quiet in both his voice and
his movements.
"'You'd better think that over again, Travers!' he said. 'Do you
mean it?'
"'I mean it,' Travers said. 'I mean it--God help me!'
"'You may well add that!' returned the other, with an ugly laugh.
He reached out his hand toward the telephone on the table. 'Do you
know what will happen to you if I telephone a certain number and say
that you have turned--traitor?'
"'I'll have to take my chances,' Travers replied doggedly. 'I'm
through!'
"'Take them, then!' flung out the other. 'You'll have little time
given you to do us any harm?'
"Travers did not answer. I think he almost expected an attack upon
him then from the two men. He hesitated a moment, then backed
slowly toward the door. What happened in the next few moments in
that room, I do not know. I stole out of the library. I was
obsessed with the thought that I must see Travers, see him at all
costs, before he got away from the house. I reached the end of the
hall as the room door opened, and he came out. It was dark, as I
said, and I could not see distinctly, but I could make out his form.
He closed the door behind him--and then I called his name in a
whisper. He took a quick step toward me, then turned and hurried
toward the front door, and I thought he was going away--but the next
instant I understood his ruse. He opened the front door, shut it
again quite loudly, and crept back to me.
"'Take me somewhere where we will be safe--quick!' he whispered.
"There was only one place where I was sure we would be safe. I led
him to the rear of the house and up the servants' stairs, and to my
boudoir."
She broke off abruptly, and once more rose from her chair, and once
more began to pace the room. Back in his chair, Jimmie Dale, tense
and motionless now, watched her without a word.
"It would take too long to tell you all that passed between us," she
went on hurriedly. "The man was frankly a criminal--but not to the
extent of murder. And in that respect, at least, he was honest with
himself. Almost the first words he said to me were: 'Miss LaSalle,
I am as good as a dead man if I am caught by the devils behind those
two men downstairs.' And then he began to plead with me to make my
own escape. He did not know who the man was that was posing as my
uncle, had never seen him before until he presented himself as Henry
LaSalle; the other man he knew as Clarke, but knew also that
'Clarke' was merely an assumed name. He had fallen in with Clarke
almost from the time that he had begun to practise his profession,
and at Clarke's instigation had gone from one crooked deal to
another, and had made a great deal of money. He knew that behind
Clarke was a powerful, daring, and unscrupulous band of criminals,
organised on a gigantic scale, of which he himself was, in a sense--
a probationary sense, as he put it--a member; but he had never come
into direct contact with them--he had received all his orders and
instructions through Clarke. He had been told by Clarke that he was
to cultivate father following the introduction, to win father's
confidence, to get as many of father's affairs into his hands as
possible, to reach the position, in fact, of becoming father's
recognised attorney--and all this with the object, as he supposed of
embezzling from father on a large scale. Then father died, and
Travers was instructed to cable my uncle. He knew that the man who
answered that summons was an impostor; but he did not know, until
they had admitted it to him that night, that both my father and my
uncle had been murdered, and that I, too, was to be made away with."
She looked at Jimmie Dale, and suddenly laughed out bitterly.
"No; you don't understand, even yet, the patient, ingenious deviltry
of those fiends. It was they, at the time the new will was drawn,
who offered to buy out my real uncle's sheep ranch in that lonely,
unsettled district in Australia, and offered him that new position
in New Zealand. My uncle never reached New Zealand. He was
murdered on his way there. And in his place, assuming his name,
appeared the man who has been posing as my uncle ever since. Do you
begin to see! For five years they were patiently working out their
plans, for five years before my father's death that man lived and
became known and accepted, and ESTABLISHED himself as Henry LaSalle.
Do you see now why he cabled us to postpone our visit? He ran very
little risk. The chances were one in a thousand that any of his few
acquaintances in Australia would ever run across him in New Zealand;
and besides, he was chosen because it seems there was a slight
resemblance between him and the real Henry LaSalle--enough, with his
changed mode of living and more elaborate and pretentious
surroundings, to have enabled him to carry through a bluff had it
become necessary. He had all of my uncle's papers; and the Crime
Club furnished him with every detail of our lives here. I forgot to
say, too, that from the moment my uncle was supposed to have reached
New Zealand all his letters were typewritten--an evidence in
father's eyes that his brother had secured a position of some
importance; as, indeed, from apparently unprejudiced sources, they
took pains to assure father was a fact. This left them with only my
uncle's signature to forge to the letters--not a difficult matter
for them!
"Believing that they had Travers so deeply implicated that he could
do nothing, even if he had the inclination, which they had not for a
moment imagined, and arrogant in the belief in their own power to
put him out of the way in any case if he proved refractory, they
admitted all this to him that night when he brought up the issue of
the real Henry LaSalle putting in an appearance sooner or later, and
when they wanted him to smooth their path by releasing all documents
where his power of attorney was involved. Do you see now the part
they gave Travers to play? It was to put the stamp of genuineness
upon the false Henry LaSalle. Not but that they were prepared with
what would appear to be overwhelmingly convincing evidence to prove
it if it were necessary; but if the man were accepted by the
estate's lawyer there was little chance of any one else questioning
his identity."
She halted again by the table--and forced a smile, as her eyes met
Jimmie Dale's.
"I am almost through, Jimmie. That night was a terrible one for
both of us. Travers' life was not worth a moment's purchase once
they found him--and mine was only under reprieve until sufficient
time to obviate suspicion should have elapsed after father's death.
We had no proof that would stand in any court--even if we should
have been given the chance to adopt that course. And without
absolute, irrefutable proof, it was all so cleverly woven, stretched
over so many years, that our charge must have been held to be too
visionary and fantastic to have any basis in fact.
"All Travers would have been able to advance was the statement that
the supposed Henry LaSalle had admitted being an impostor and a
murderer to him! Who would believe it! On the face of it, it
appeared to be an absurdity. And even granted that we were given an
opportunity to bring the charge, they would be able to prove by a
hundred influential and well-known men in New Zealand that the
impostor was really Henry LaSalle; and were we able to find any of
my uncle's old acquaintances in Australia, it would be necessary to
get them here--and not one of them would have reached America alive.
"But there was not a chance, not a chance, Jimmie, of doing that--
they would have killed Travers the moment he showed himself in the
open. The only thing we could do that night was to try and save our
own lives; the only thing we could look forward to was acquiring in
some way, unknown to them, the proof, fully established, with which
we could crush them in a single stroke, and before they would have
time to strike back.
"The vital thing was proof of my uncle's death. That, if it could
be obtained at all, could only be obtained in Australia. Travers
was obliged to go somewhere, to disappear from that moment if he
wanted to save his life, and he volunteered to go out there. He
left the house that night by the back entrance in an old servant's
suit, which I found for him--and I never heard from him again until
a month ago in the 'personal' column of the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS,
through which we had agreed to communicate.
"As for myself, I left the house the next morning, telling my pseudo
uncle that I was going to spend a few days with a friend. And this
I actually did; but in those few days I managed to turn all my own
securities, that had been left me by my mother and which amounted to
a considerable sum, into cash. And then, Jimmie, I came to--this, I
have lived like this and in different disguises, as a settlement
worker, as a widow of means in a fashionable uptown apartment, but
mostly as you see me now--for five years. For five years I have
watched my supposed uncle, hoping, praying that through him I could
get to know the others associated with him; hoping, praying that
Travers would succeed; hoping, praying that we would get them all--
and watching day after day, and year after year the 'personal'
column of the paper, until at last I began to be afraid that it was
all useless. And there was nothing, Jimmie, nothing anywhere, and I
had no success"--her voice choked a little. "Nothing! Even Clarke
never went again to the house. You can understand now how I came to
know the strange things that I wrote to the Gray Seal, how the life
that I have led, how this life here in the underworld, how the
constant search for some clew on my own account brought them to my
knowledge; and you can understand now, too, why I never dared to let
you meet me, for I knew well enough that, while I worked to
undermine my father's and my uncle's murderers, they were moving
heaven and earth to find me.
"That is all, Jimmie. The day before yesterday, a month after
Travers' first message to let me know that he was coming, there was
another 'personal' giving me an hour and a telephone number. He was
back! He had everything--everything! We dared not meet; he was
afraid, suspicious that they had got track of him again. You know
the rest. That package contained the proof that, with Travers'
death, can probably never be obtained again. Do you understand why
THEY want it--why it is life and death to me? Do you understand why
my supposed uncle offered huge rewards for me, why secretly every
resource of that hideous organisation has been employed to find me--
that it is only by my DEATH the estate can pass into their hands,
and now--"
She flung out her hands suddenly toward Jimmie Dale. "Oh, Jimmie,
Jimmie, I've--I've fought so long alone! Jimmie, what are we to
do?"
He came slowly to his feet. She had fought so long--alone. But
now--now it was his turn to fight--for her. But how? She had not
told him all--surely she had not told him all, for everything
depended upon that package. There had been so much to tell that she
had not thought of all, and she had not told him the details about
that.
"That box--No. 428!" he cried quickly. "What is that? What does it
mean?"
She shook her head.
"I do not know," she answered.
"Then who is this John Johansson?"
"I do not know," she said again.
"Nor where the Crime Club is?"
"No"--dully.
He stared at her for a moment in a dazed way.
"My God!" Jimmie Dale murmured.
And then she turned away her head.
"It's--it's pretty bad, isn't it, Jimmie? I--I told you that we did
not hold many trumps."
CHAPTER X
SILVER MAG
There was silence between them. Minute after minute passed.
Neither spoke.
Jimmie Dale dropped back into his chair again, and stared
abstractedly before him. "We do not hold many trumps, Jimmie--we do
not hold many trumps"--her words were repeating themselves over and
over in his mind. They seemed to challenge him mockingly to deny
what was so obviously a fact, and because he could not deny it to
taunt and jeer at him--to jeer at him, when all that was held at
stake hung literally upon his next move!
He looked up mechanically as the Tocsin walked to a broken mirror at
the rear of the miserable room; nodded mechanically in approval as
she began deftly to retouch the make-up on her face where the tears
had left their traces--and resumed his abstracted gaze before him.
Box number four-two-eight--John Johansson--the Crime Club--the
identity of the man who was posing as Henry LaSalle! If only he
could hit upon a clew to the solution of a single one of those
things, or a single phase of one of them--if only he could glimpse a
ray of light that would at least prompt action, when every moment of
inaction was multiplying the odds against them!
There were the men who were watching his house at that moment on
Riverside Drive--he, as Larry the Bat, might in turn keep watch on
them. He had though of that. In time, perhaps, he might, by so
doing, discover the whereabouts of the Crime Club. In time! It was
just that--he had no time! Forty-eight hours, the Tocsin insisted,
was all the time that he could count upon before they would become
suspicious of Jimmie Dale's "illness," before they would discover
that they were watching an empty house!
He might--though this was even more hazardous--make an attempt to
trace the wires that tapped those of his telephone through the
basement window that gave on the garage driveway. And what then?
True, they could not lead very far away; but, even if successful,
what then? They would not lead him to the Crime Club, but simply to
some confederate, to some man or woman playing the part of a
servant, perhaps, in the house next door, who, in turn, would have
to be shadowed and watched.
Jimmie Dale shook his head. Better, of the two, to start in at once
and shadow those who were shadowing his house. But that was not the
way! He knew that intuitively. He hated to eliminate it from
consideration, for he had no other move to take its place--but such
a move was almost suicide in itself. Time, and time alone, was the
vital factor. They, the Tocsin and he, must act quickly--and STRIKE
that night if they were to win. His fingers, the grimy fingers,
dirty-nailed, of Larry the Bat, that none now would recognise as the
slim tapering, wonderfully sensitive fingers of Jimmie Dale, the
fingers that had made the name of the Gray Seal famous, whose tips
mocked at bars and safes and locks, and seemed to embody in
themselves all the human senses, tightened spasmodically on the edge
of the table. Time! Time! Time! It seemed to din in his ears.
And while he sat there powerless, impotent, the Crime Club was
moving heaven and earth to find what HE must find--that package--if
he was to save this woman here, the woman whom he loved, she who had
been forced, through the machinations of these hell fiends, to adopt
the life of a wretched hag, to exist among the dregs of the
underworld, whose squalour and vice and wantonness none knew better
than he!
Jimmie Dale's face set grimly. Somewhere--somewhere in the past
five years of this life of hers in which she had been fighting the
Crime Club, pitting that clever brain of hers against it, MUST lie a
clew. She had told him her story only in baldest outline, with
scarcely a reference to her own personal acts, with barely a single
detail. There must be something, something that perhaps she had
overlooked, something, just the merest hint of something that would
supply a starting point, give him a glimmer of light.
She came back from across the room, and sank down in her chair
again. She did not speak--the question, that meant life and death
to them both, was in her eyes.
Jimmie answered the mute interrogation tersely.
"Not yet!" he said. Then, almost curtly, in a quick, incisive way,
as the keen, alert brain began to delve and probe: "You say this man
Clarke never returned to the house after that night?"
She nodded her head quietly.
"You are sure of that?" he insisted.
"Yes," she said. "I am sure."
"And you say that all these years you have kept a watch on the man
who is posing as your uncle, and that he never went anywhere, or
associated with any one, that would afford you a clew to this Crime
Club?"
"Yes," she said again.
It was a moment before Jimmie Dale spoke.
"It's very strange!" he said musingly, at last. "So strange, in
fact, that it's impossible. He must have communicated with the
others, and communicated with them often. The game they were
playing was too big, too full of details, to admit of any other
possibility. And the telephone as an explanation isn't good
enough."
"And yet," she said earnestly, "possible or impossible, it is
nevertheless true. That he might have succeeded in eluding me on
occasions was perhaps to be expected; but that in all those years I
should not catch him once in what, if you are correct, must have
been many and repeated conferences with the same men is too
improbable to be thought of seriously."
Jimmie Dale shook his head again.
"If you had been able to watch him night and day, that might be so,"
he said crisply. "But, at best, you could only watch him a very
small portion of the time."
She smiled at him a little wanly.
"Do you think, Jimmie, from what you, as the Gray Seal, know of me,
that I would have watched in any haphazard way like that?"
He glanced at her with a sudden start.
"What do you mean?" he asked quickly.
"Look at me!" she said quietly. "Have you ever seen me before? I
mean as I am now."
"No," he answered, after an instant. "Not that I know of."
"And yet"--she smiled wanly again--"you have not lived, or made the
place you hold in the underworld, without having heard of Silver
Mag."
"You!" exclaimed Jimmie Dale. "You--Silver Mag!" He stared at her
wonderingly, as, crouch-shouldered now, the hair, gray-threaded,
straggling out from under the hood of a faded, dark-blue, seam-worn
cloak, she sat before him, a typical creature of the underworld, her
role an art in its conception, perfect in its execution. Silver
Mag! Yes, he had heard of Silver Mag--as every one in the Bad Lands
had heard of her. Silver Mag and her pocketful of coin! Always a
pocketful of silver, so they said, that was dispensed prodigally to
the wives and children temporarily deprived of support by husbands
and fathers unfortunate enough in their clashes with the law to be
doing "spaces" up the river--and therefore the underworld swore by
Silver Mag. Always silver, never a bill; Silver Mag had never been
seen with a banknote--that was her eccentricity. Much or little,
she gave or paid out of her pocketful of jangling silver. She was
credited with being a sworn enemy of the police, and--yes, he
remembered, too--with having done "time" herself. "I don't quite
understand," he said, in a puzzled way. "I haven't run across you
personally because you probably took care to see that I shouldn't;
but--it's no secret--every one says you've served a jail sentence
yourself."
"That is simply enough explained," she answered gravely. "The story
is of my own making. When I decided to adopt this life, both for my
own safety and as the best means of keeping a watch on that man, I
knew that I must win the confidence of the underworld, that I must
have help, and that in order to obtain that help I must have some
excuse for my enmity against the man known as Henry LaSalle. To be
widely known in the underworld was of inestimable value--nothing, I
knew, could accomplish that as quickly as eccentricity. You see now
how and why I became known as Silver Mag. I gained the confidence
of every crook in New York through their wives and children. I told
them the story of my jail sentence--while I swore vengeance on Henry
LaSalle. I told them that he had had me arrested for something I
never stole while I was working for him as a charwoman, and that he
had had me railroaded to jail. There wasn't one but gave me credit
for the theft, perhaps; but equally, there wasn't one but
understood, and my eccentricity helped this out, my wanting to 'get'
Henry LaSalle. Well--do you see now, Jimmie? I had money, I had
the confidence of the underworld, I had an excuse for my hatred of
Henry LaSalle, and so I had all the help I wanted. Day and night
that man has been watched. He receives no visitors--what social
life he has is, as you know, at the club. There is not a house that
he has ever entered that, sooner or later, I have not entered after
him in the hope of finding the headquarters of the clique. Even the
men and women, as far as human possibility could accomplish it, that
he has talked to on the streets have been shadowed, and their
identity satisfactorily established--and the net result has been
failure; utter, absolute, complete failure!"
Jimmie Dale's eyes, that had held steadily on her face, shifted,
troubled and perplexed, to the table top.
"You are wonderful!" he said, under his breath. "Wonderful! And--
and that makes it all the more amazing, all the more
incomprehensible. It is still impossible that he has not been in
close and constant touch with his accomplices. He MUST have been!
We would be blind fools to argue against it! It could not, on the
face of it, have been otherwise!"
"Then how, when, where has he done it?" she asked wearily.
"God knows!" he said bitterly. "And if they have been clever enough
to escape you all these years, I'm almost inclined to say what you
said a little while ago--that we're beaten."
She watched him miserably, as he pushed back his chair impulsively
and, standing up, stared down at her.
"We're against it--HARD!" he said, with a mirthless laugh. Then,
his lips tightening: "But we'll try another tack--the chauffeur--
Travers. Though even here the Crime Club has a day's start of us,
even if last night they knew no more about the whereabouts of that
package than we know now. I'm afraid of it! The chances are more
than even that they've already got it. If they were able to catch
Travers as the chauffeur, they would have had something tangible to
work back from"--Jimmie Dale was talking more to himself than to the
Tocsin now, as though he were muttering his thoughts aloud. "How
did they get track of him? When? Where? What has it led to? And
what in Heaven's name," he burst out suddenly, "is this box number
four-two-eight!"
"A safety-deposit vault, perhaps, that he has taken somewhere," she
hazarded.
Jimmie Dale laughed mirthlessly again.
"That is the one definite thing I do know--that it isn't!" he said
positively. "It is nothing of that kind. It was half-past ten
o'clock at night when I met him, and he said that he had intended
going back for the package if it had been safe to do so. Deposit
vaults are not open at that hour. The package is, or was, if they
have not already got it, readily accessible--and at any hour. Now
go over everything again, every detail that passed between you and
Travers. He let you know that he was back in New York by means of a
'personal,' you said. What else was in that 'personal' besides the
telephone number and the hour you were to call him? Anything?"
"Nothing that will help us any," she replied colourlessly. There
were simply the words 'northeast corner of Sixth Avenue and Waverly
Place,' and the signature that we had agreed upon, the two first and
two last letters of the alphabet transposed--BAZY."
"I see," said Jimmie Dale quickly. "And over the 'phone he
completed his message. Clever enough!"
"Yes," she said. "In that way, if any one were listening, or
overhead the plan, there could be little harm come of it, for the
essential feature of all, the place of rendezvous, was not
mentioned. It has not been Travers' fault that this happened--and
in spite of every precaution it has cost him his life. He wanted
nothing to give them a clew to my whereabouts; he was trying to
guard against the slightest evidence that would associate us one
with the other. He even warned me over the 'phone not to tell him
how, where, or the mode of life I was living. And naturally, he
dared give me no particulars about himself. I was simply to select
a third party whom I could trust, and to follow out his
instructions, which were those that I sent to you in my letter."
Jimmie Dale began to pace nervously up and down the room.
"Nothing else?" he queried, a little blankly.
"Nothing else," she said monotonously.
"But since last night, since you knew that things had gone wrong,"
he persisted, "surely you traced that telephone number--the one you
called up?"
"Yes," she said, and shrugged her shoulders in a tired way.
"Naturally I did that--but, like everything else, it amounted to
nothing. He telephoned from Makoff's pawnshop on that alley off
Thompson Street, and--"
"WHERE!" Jimmie Dale, suddenly stock-still, almost shouted the word.
"He telephoned from--where! Say that again!"
She looked at him in amazement, half rising from her chair.
"Jimmie, what is it?" she cried. "You don't mean that--"
He was beside her now, his hands pressed upon her shoulders, his
face flushed.
"Box number four-two-eight!" He laughed out hysterically in his
excitement. "John Johansson--box number four-two-eight! And like a
fool I never thought of it! Don't you see? Don't you know now
yourself? THE UNDERGROUND POST OFFICE!"
She stood up, clinging to him; a wild relief, that was based on her
confidence in him, in her eyes and face, even while she shook her
head.
"No," she said frantically. "No--I do not know. Tell me, Jimmie!
Tell me quickly! You mean at Makoff's?"
"No! Not Makoff's--at Spider Jack's, on Thompson Street!"--he was
clipping off his words, still holding her tightly by the shoulders,
still staring into her eyes. "You know Spider Jack! Jack's little
novelty store! Ah, you have not learned all of the underworld yet!
Spider Jack is the craftiest 'fence' in the Bad Lands--and Makoff is
his partner. Spider buys the crooks' stuff, and Makoff disposes of
it through the pawnshop--it's only a step through the connecting
back yard from one to the other, and--"
"Yes--but," she interrupted feverishly, "the package--you said--"
"Wait!" Jimmie Dale cried. "I'm coming to that! If Travers stood
in with Makoff, he stood in with Spider Jack. For years Spider has
been a sort of clearing house for the underworld--for years he has
conducted, and profitably, too, his underground post office. Crooks
from all over the country, let alone those in New York, communicate
with each other through Spider Jack. These, for a fee, are
registered at Spider's, and given a number--a box number he calls
it, though, of course, there are no actual boxes. Letters come by
mail addressed to him--the sealed envelope within containing the
actually intended recipient's name. These Spider either forwards,
or delivers in person when they are called for. Dozens of crooks,
too, unwilling, perhaps, to dispose of small ill-gotten articles at
ruinous 'fence' prices, and finding it unhealthy for the moment to
keep them in their possession, use this means of depositing them
temporarily for safe-keeping. You see now, don't you? It's certain
that's where Travers left the package. He used the name of John
Johansson, not to hoodwink Spider Jack, I should say, but as an
added safeguard against the Crime Club. Travers must have known
both Makoff and Spider Jack in the old days, and probably had
reason, and good reason, to trust them both--possibly, a crook then
himself, as he confessed, he may have acted in a legal capacity for
them in their frequent tangles with the police."
"Then," she said--and there was a glad, new note in her voice,
"then, Jimmie--Jimmie, we are safe! You can get it, Jimmie! It is
only a little thing for the Gray Seal to do--to get it now that we
know where it is."
"Yes," he said tersely. "Yes--if it is still there."
"Still there!"--she repeated the words quickly, nervously. "Still
there! What do you mean?"
"I mean if they, too, have not discovered that he was at Makoff's--
if they have not got there first!" he said grimly. "There seems to
be no limit to their cleverness, or their power. They penetrated
his disguise as a chauffeur, and who knows what more they have
learned since last night? We are fighting them in the dark, and--
WHAT'S THAT!" he whispered tensely, suddenly--and leaning forward
like a flash, as he whipped his automatic from his pocket, he blew
out the lamp.
The room was in darkness. They stood there rigid, silent,
listening. Her hand found and caught his arm.
And then it came again--a low sound, the sound of a stealthy
footstep just outside the window that faced on the storage yard.
CHAPTER XI
THE MAGPIE
A minute passed--another. The automatic at Jimmie Dale's hip, the
muzzle just peeping over the table top, held a steady bead on the
window. Came the footstep again--and then suddenly, a series of
low, quick tappings upon the windowpane. The Tocsin's hand slipped
away from his arm. Jimmie Dale's set face relaxed as he read the
underground Morse, and he replaced his revolver slowly in his
pocket.
"The Magpie!" said Jimmie Dale, in an undertone. "What's he want?"
"I don't know," she answered, in a whisper. "He never came here
before. There's a back way out, Jimmie, if you--"
"No," he said quickly. "We've enemies enough, with out making one
of the Magpie. He knows some one is here with you--our shadows were
on the blind. Don't queer yourself. Let him in. I'll light the
lamp."
He struck a match, as she ran from the room, and, lifting the hot
lamp chimney with the edge of his ragged coat, lighted the lamp. He
turned the wick down a little, shading and dimming the room--and
then, as he flirted a bead of moisture from his forehead,
whimsically stretched out his hand to watch it in the lamplight.
"That's bad, Jimmie," he muttered gravely to himself, as he noted an
almost imperceptible tremour. "Got a start, didn't you! Under a
bit of a strain, eh? Well"--grimly--"never mind! It looks as though
the luck had turned Makoff and Spider Jack!"
His hand reached up to his hat, jerked the brim at a rakish angle
over his eyes--and he sprawled himself out on a chair. He heard the
Tocsin's voice at the front door, and a man's voice, low and
guarded, answer her. Then the door closed, and their steps
approached the room. It was rather curious, that--a visit from the
Magpie! What could the Magpie want? What could there be in common
between the Magpie and Silver Mag? The Magpie, alias Slimmy Joe,
was counted the cleverest safe worker in the United States, barring
only and always one--a smile flickered across the lips of Larry the
Bat--one whose pre-eminence the Magpie, much to his own chagrin,
admitted himself--the Gray Seal!
He looked up, twisting the stub of a cigarette between his grimy
fingers and fumbling for a match, as the Tocsin and, behind her, the
Magpie, short, slim, and wiry, shrewd-faced, with sharp, quickglancing
little black eyes, entered the room.
"'Ello, Larry!" grinned the Magpie. "Got yer breath back yet? I
felt it through de windowpane when youse let go at de lamp!"
"'Ello, Slimmy!" returned Jimmie Dale ungraciously, speaking through
the corner of his mouth. "Ferget it!"
"Sure!" said the Magpie unconcernedly. He stared about him, and
finally, drawing a chair up to the table, sat down, motioned the
Tocsin to do the same, and leaned forward amiably. "I didn't mean
to throw no scare into youse," he said, in a conciliating tone.
"But I had a little business wid Mag, an' I was kind of interested
in whether she was entertainin' company or not--see? I didn't know
youse an' Mag was workin' together."
"Mabbe," observed Jimmie Dale, as ungraciously as before, "mabbe
dere's some more t'ings youse don't know!"
"Aw, cough up de grouch!" advised the Magpie, with a hint of
impatience creeping into his voice. "Youse don't need to be sore
all night! I told youse I wasn't tryin' to hand youse one, didn't
I?"
"Never mind Larry, Slimmy," put in the Tocsin petulantly. "He's
down on his luck, dat's all. He ain't had de price of a pinch of
coke fer two days."
"Oho!" exclaimed the Magpie, grinning again. "So dat's wot's givin'
youse de pip, eh, Larry? Well, den, say, youse can take it from me
dat mabbe youse'll be glad I blew around. I was lookin' fer a guy
about yer size fer a little job to-night, an' I was t'inkin' of
lettin' Young Dutchy in on it, but seem' youse are here an' in wid
Mag, an' dat I got to get Mag in, too, youse are on if youse say de
word."
"Wot's de lay?" inquired Larry the Bat, unbending a little.
The Magpie cocked his eye, and stuck his tongue in his cheek.
"GOOD-night!" he said tersely. "Nothin' like dat! Are youse on, or
ain't youse?"
"Well, den, wot's in it fer me?" persisted Larrry the Bat.
"More'n de price of a coke sneeze!" returned the Magpie pertinently.
"Dere's a century note fer youse, an' mabbe two or t'ree of dem fer
Mag."
Larry the Bat's eyes gleamed avariciously.
"Aw, quit yer kiddin'!" he said gruffly. "A century note--fer me!"
"Dat's wot I said! Youse heard me!" rejoined the Magpie shortly.
"Only if it listens good to youse now, I don't want no squealin'
after the divvy. I'm takin' de chances, youse has de soft end of
it. One century note fer youse--an' de rest is none of yer
business! Dat's puttin' it straight, ain't it? Well, wot do youse
say, an' say it quick--'cause if youse ain't comin' in, youse can
beat it out of here so's I can talk to Mag."
"Dere ain't nothin' I wouldn't take a chance on fer a hundred
plunks!" declared Larry the Bat, with sudden fervency--and stared,
anxiously expectant, at the Magpie. "Sure, I'm on Slimmy! Sure, I
am! Cut it loose! Spill de story!"
"Well, den," said the Magpie, "I wants--"
"Youse ain't through yet!" interrupted the Tocsin tartly. "I ain't
heard youse askin' me nothin'! I ain't on me uppers like Larry, an'
mabbe de price don't cut so much ice--see?"
"Aw," said the Magpie, with a smirk, "I don't have to ask youse on
dis lay. Dis is where youse'd come in on it fer marbles. Say, dis
is where we gets de hook into a guy by de name of Henry LaSalle!
Get me?"
HENRY LASALLE! Under the table, Jimmie Dale's hand clenched
suddenly; but not a muscle of his face moved, save, as with the tip
of his tongue, he shifted the butt of the cigarette that was hanging
royally from his lower lip to the other corner of his mouth.
"Sure! She's 'got' youse, Slimmy!" he flung out, with a grin, as
the Tocsin wrinkled up her face menacingly and began to mumble to
herself. "He's de guy dat handed her one when she was young, an'
she's been layin' fer him ever since! Sure! I know! Ain't I
worked him fer her till I wears me shoes out tryin' to get somet'ing
on him! Sure, she's in on it! Go on, Slimmy, wot's de lay? Wot do
I do fer dat century?"
The Magpie hitched his chair closer to the table and, as his sharp,
little, ferret eyes glanced around the room, motioned the two to
brings their heads nearer.
"One of me influential broker friends down on Wall Street put me
wise," he said, with a wink. "Dat's good enough fer youse two, as
far as dat goes. But take it from me, I got it dead straight." He
lowered his voice "Say, he's one of de richest mugs in New York,
ain't he? Well, he's been sellin' stocks an' bonds all day,
t'ousands an' t'ousands of dollars' worth--fer cash."
"All dem t'ings is always sold fer cash," remarked Larry the Bat
fatuously.
"Aw, ferget it!" said the Magpie earnestly. "Fer CASH, I said--de
coin, de long green--understand? He wasn't shovin' no checks fer
what he sold into de bank except to get dem cashed. Dat's wot he's
been doin' all day--gettin' de checks cashed, an' gettin' de money
in big bills--see! I know of one bunch of eighty t'ousand--an'
dat's only one!"
"Wot fer?" inquired Larry the Bat. It was the question that was
pounding at his brain, as he stared innocently at the Magpie. What
did it mean? Why was Henry LaSalle turning, and, if the Magpie was
right, feverishly turning every security he could lay his hands on
into cash? And then, in a flash, the answer came. THEY HAD NOT
FOUND THE PACKAGE! Equally to them, as to the Tocsin, sitting there
before him, it meant life and death. If the package were found by
the Tocsin instead of themselves, the game was up! They were
preparing for eventualities. If they were forced to run at a
moment's notice, they at least were not going to run empty-handed!
Far from empty-handed, it seemed! It would not be difficult for the
estate's executor to realise a vast sum in short order on instantly
marketable, gilt-edged securities--say, half a million dollars. Not
very bulky, either--in large bills! Five thousand hundred-dollar
bills would make half a million. It was astonishing how small a
hand bag, say, might hold a fortune! "Wot fer, Slimmy?" he inquired
again, wiggling his cigarette butt on his tongue tip. "Wot'd he do
dat fer?"
"How de hell do youse suppose I knows!" demanded the Magpie,
politely scornful. "Dat's his business--dat ain't wot's worryin'
me!"
"No--sure, it ain't!" admitted Larry the Bat ingratiatingly. "But
go on, keep movin', Slimmy! Wot's he done wid de stuff?"
"Done wid it!" echoed the Magpie, with a short laugh. "Wot do youse
t'ink! He's been luggin' it home to his swell joint up dere on de
avenoo, an' crammin' his safe full of it."
Larry the Bat sucked in his breath.
"Gee, dat's soft!" he murmured, and then suddenly, as though with
painful inspiration: "Say, Slimmy--say, are youse sure youse ain't
been handed a steer?"
The Magpie grinned wickedly.
"I ain't fallin' fer steers!" he said shortly. "Dis is on de
level."
Jimmie Dale lurched up from his chair, and, leaning over the lamp
chimney, drew wheezily on his cigarette to get a light. His eyes
sought the Tocsin's face. To all intents and purposes she was
entirely absorbed in the Magpie. He sat down again to gape, with
well-stimulated, doglike admiration, at Slimmy Joe. WAS THIS, TOO,
A PLANT? Why had the Magpie come to THEM with this story of Henry
LaSalle? And then, the next instant, as the Magpie spoke, his
suspicions were allayed.
"Let's get down to cases!" the Magpie invited crisply. "I didn't
blow in here just by luck. Dis Henry LaSalle is de guy youse worked
fer once, ain't he, Mag? Dat's de spiel, ain't it?--he sent youse
up fer pinchin' de tacks out of his carpets!"
"I never pinched nothin'!" snarled Silver Mag truculently. "He's a
dirty liar! I never did!"
"Cut it out! Cut it out! Can dat!" complained the Magpie
patiently. "De point is, youse worked in his house, didn't youse?"
"Sure I did!" snapped the Tocsin, sullenly aggressive; "but--"
"Well, den, dat's wot I want, dat's wot I come fer, Mag--a plan of
de house. See?"
Jimmie Dale could feel the Tocsin's eyes upon him, questioning,
searching, seeking a cue. A plan of the house--yes or no? And a
decision on the instant!
"Sure!" said Larry the Bat brightly. "Dat's wot I was t'inkin'
youse were after all de time. Say, youse are all right, Slimmy!
Youse are de kind to work wid! Go on, Mag, draw de dope fer Slimmy.
Dat's better dan tryin' to put one over on de swell guy. Dis'll
make him squeal fer fair!"
The Magpie produced a pencil and a piece of paper from his pocket,
and laid them on the table in front of the Tocsin.
"Dere youse are," he announced. "Help yerself, an' go to it, Mag!"
The Tocsin, evidently not quite certain of her part, wet the pencil
doubtfully on the end of her tongue.
"I ain't never drawed plans," she said anxiously. "Mabbe"--she
glanced at Jimmie Dale--"mabbe I dunno how to do it RIGHT."
"Aw, go ahead!" nodded Larry the Bat. "Youse can do it right, Mag.
Youse don't have to make no oil paintin'! All de Magpie wants is de
doors an' windows, eh, Slimmy?"
"Sure," agreed the Magpie encouragingly. "Dat's all, Mag. Just
mark de rooms out on de first floor, an' de basement. Youse can
explain wot youse 're doin' as youse goes along. I'll get youse."
The Tocsin cackled maliciously in assent; and then, while the Magpie
got up from his chair and stood peering over her shoulder, she began
to draw labouriously, her brows knitted, the pencil hooked awkwardly
between cramped-up forefinger and thumb.
Larry the Bat, slouched forward over the table, his chin in his
hands, appeared to watch the proceedings with mild interest--but his
eyes, like a hawk's, were following every line on the paper,
transferring them to his brain, photographing every detail of the
plan in his mind. And as he watched, there seemed something that
was near to the acme of all that was ironical in the Magpie standing
there, his sharp, little, black eyes drinking in greedily the
Tocsin's work, in the Tocsin herself aiding and abetting in the
projected theft--OF HER OWN MONEY! How far would he let the Magpie
go? He did not know. Perhaps--who could tell!--all the way.
Between now and then there lay that package! If it were at
Makoff's, at Spider Jack's, if he could find it, get it--the Magpie
as a temporary custodian of the estate's money would at least
preclude its loss by flight if the Crime Club took alarm too
quickly. Larry the Bat's eyes, under half-closed lids, rested
musingly on the Magpie's face. The Magpie would not get very far
away with it! On the other hand, if he failed at Spider Jack's, if,
after all, he was wrong, and the package had never been there, or if
they had forestalled him, turned the trick upon him, already secured
it, then--Larry the Bat's lips, working on his cigarette, formed in
a twisted smile--then, well then, that was quite another matter!
Perhaps he and the Magpie might not agree so far! A half million
dollars was perhaps not much out of eleven millions, but it was a
salvage not to be despised! Why did he say half a million! Well,
why not? If the Magpie knew of a single transaction of eighty
thousand, and there had been many transactions during the day, a
half million was little likely to prove an exaggeration--and the
less likely in view of the fact that, if those in the Crime Club
were preparing for an emergency, they would not stint themselves in
the disposal of securities.
The Magpie was keeping up a running fire of questions, as the Tocsin
toiled on with her pencil. Where did the hall lead to? How many
windows in the library? Did she remember the kind of fastenings?
Did the servants sleep in the basement, or above? And finally,
twice over, as she finished the clumsy drawing and pushed it toward
him, he demanded minute details of the position of the safe.
"Aw, dat's all right, Slimmy!" Larry the Bat cut in airily. "If
youse ferget anyt'ing when youse get in dere, youse can ask me. I
got it cinched!"
The Magpie folded the paper and stowed it carefully away in his
pocket.
"Ask youse, eh!" he grunted sarcastically. "An' where do youse
t'ink youse'll be about dat time?"
"In dere wid youse, of course," replied Larry the Bat promptly.
"Dat's wot youse said."
"Yes, youse will--NOT!" announced the Magpie, with cold finality.
"Do youse t'ink I want to queer myself! A hot one youse'd be on an
inside job! Youse'll be OUTSIDE, wid yer peepers skinned for de
bulls--youse an' Mag here, too. See! Get dat straight. While I'm
on de job youse two plays de game. Now youse listen to me, both of
youse. Don't start nothin' unless youse has to. If it's a cinch I
got to make a get-away, youse two start a drunk fight. Get me?
Youse know de lay. T'row de talk loud--an' I'll fade. Dat's all!
We'll crack de crib early--it'll be quiet enough up dere by one
o'clock"
One o'clock! Larry the Bat shook his head. What time was it now?
It was about nine when he had first met the Tocsin, then the
Sanctuary, then the long walk as he had followed her--say a quarter
of ten for that. And he had certainly been here with her not less
than an hour and a half. It must be after eleven, then. One
o'clock! And before that must come Makoff and Spider Jack! The
night that half an hour ago had seemed so sterile, was crowding a
program of events upon him now--too fast!
"Nothin' doin'!" he said thoughtfully. "Youse are in wrong dere,
Slimmy. One o'clock don't go! Say, take it from me, I've watched
dat guy too many nights fer Mag. 'Tain't often he leaves de club
before one o'clock--an' he ain't never in bed before two."
"All right," agreed the Magpie, after a moment's reflection. "Youse
ought to know. Make it three o'clock." He pulled a cigar from his
pocket, lighted it, and, leaning back in his chair, stuck his feet
up on the table. "If youse don't mind, Mag, I'll stick around a
while," he decided calmly. "Mabbe de less I'm seen to-night de
better--an' I guess dere won't be nobody lookin' fer me here."
Larry the Bat coughed suddenly, and rose up a little heavily from
his chair. He had not counted on that! If the Magpie was settling
down for a prolonged stay, it devolved upon him, Jimmie Dale, to get
away, and at once--and without exciting the Magpie's suspicions. He
coughed again, looked nervously from the Tocsin to the Magpie--
stammered--swallowed hard--and coughed once more.
"Well, wot's bitin' youse?" inquired the Magpie ironically.
"Nothin'," said Larry the Bat--and hesitated. "Nothin', only--" He
hesitated again; and then, the words in a rush:
"Say, Slimmy, couldn't youse come across wid a piece of dat century
now?"
"Wot fer?" demanded the Magpie, a little aggressively.
Larry the Bat cleared his throat with a desperate effort.
"Youse knows," he admitted sheepishly. "Just gimme de price of one,
Slimmy--just one."
"Coke!" exploded the Magpie. "An' get soaked to de eyes--not by a
damn sight!"
"No! Honest to Gawd, no, Slimmy--just one!" pleaded Larry the Bat.
"Nix!" said the Magpie shortly.
Larry the Bat thrust out a hand before the Magpie's eyes that shook
tremulously.
"I got to have it!" he declared, with sudden fierceness. "I GOT to--
see! Look at me! I ain't goin' to be no good to-night if I don't.
I tell youse, I got to! I ain't goin' to t'row youse down, Slimmy--
honest, I ain't! Just one--an' it'll set me up. If I don't get
none I'll be on de rocks before mornin'! Dat's straight, Slimmy--
ask Mag, she knows."
"Aw, let him go get it!" broke in the Tocsin wearily. "Dat's de
best t'ing youse can do, Slimmy--dey're all alike when dey gets in
his class."
"Youse cocaine sniffers gives me de pip!" snorted the Magpie, in
disgust. He dug down into his pocket, produced a bill, and flung it
across the table to Larry the Bat. "Well, dere youse are; but youse
can take it from me, Larry, dat if youse gets whiffed"--he swore
threateningly--"I'll crack every bone in yer face! Get me?"
"Slimmy," said Larry the Bat fervently, grabbing at the bill with a
hungry hand, "youse can count on me. I'll be up dere on de job
before youse are. Three o'clock, eh? Well, so long, Slimmy"--he
slouched eagerly to the door. "So long, Mag"--he paused on the
threshold for a single, quick-flung, significant glance. "See youse
on de avenoo, Mag--I'll be up dere before youse are. So long!"
"Oh, so long!" said the Tocsin contemptuously.
And, an instant later, Jimmie Dale closed the outer door behind him.
CHAPTER XII
JOHN JOHANSSON--FOUR-TWO-EIGHT
Nearly midnight already! It was even later than he had thought.
Larry the Bat pressed his face against a shop's windowpane on the
Bowery for a glance at a clock that had caught his eye on the wall
within. Nearly midnight!
He slouched on again hurriedly, still debating in his mind, as he
had been debating it all the way from the Tocsin's, the question of
returning again to the Sanctuary. So far, the way both to Spider
Jack's and the Sanctuary had been in the same direction--but the
Sanctuary was on the next street.
Jimmie Dale reached the corner--and hesitated. It was strange how
strong was the intuition upon him to-night that bade him go on and
make all speed to Spider Jack's--while equally strong was the cold,
stubborn logic that bade him go first to the Sanctuary. There were
things that he needed there that would probably be absolutely
essential to him before the night was out, things without which he
might be so badly handicapped as to invite failure from the start;
and yet--it was already midnight!
Ostensibly both Makoff and Spider Jack closed their places at
eleven. But that might mean anything--depending upon their own
respective inclinations, or on what of their own peculiar brand of
deviltry might be afoot. If they were still about, still in
evidence, he was still too early, midnight though it was; though, on
the other hand, if the coast was clear, he could ill afford to lose
a moment of the time between now and the hour that the Magpie had
planned for the robbery of Henry LaSalle, for it would not be an
easy matter, even once inside Spider Jack's, to find that package--
since it was Spider's open boast that things committed to his care
were where the police, or any one else, might as well whistle and
suck their thumbs as try to find them!
And then, with sudden decision, taking his hesitation, as it were,
by the throat, Jimmie Dale hurried on again--to the Sanctuary. At
most, it could delay him but another fifteen minutes, and by halfpast
twelve, or a quarter to one at the latest, he would be at
Spider Jack's.
Disdaining the secrecy of the side door on the alley, for who had a
better right or was better known there than Larry the Bat, a tenant
of years, he entered the tenement by the front door, scuffled up the
stairs to the first landing, and let himself into his disreputable
room. He locked the door behind him, lighted the choked and wheezy
gas jet, in a single, sharp-flung glance assured himself that the
blinds were tightly shut, and, kneeling in the far corner, threw
back the oilcloth and lifted up the loose section of the flooring
beneath. He reached inside, fumbling under the neatly folded
clothes of Jimmie Dale, and in a moment laid his leather girdle with
its kit of burglar's tools on the floor beside him; and beside that
again an electric flashlight, a black silk mask, and--what he had
never expected to use again when, early the night before, he had, as
he had believed, put it away forever--the thin, metal insignia case
of the Gray Seal. Another moment, and, with the flooring replaced,
the oilcloth rolled back into position, he had stripped off his coat
and was pulling his spotted, greasy shirt off over his head; then,
stooping quickly, he picked up the girdle, put it on, put on his
shirt again over it, put on his coat, put the metal case, the
flashlight, and the mask in his pockets--and once more the Sanctuary
was in darkness.
It was perhaps fifteen minutes later that Jimmie Dale turned into
the upper section of Thompson Street. Here he slowed his pace, that
had been almost a run since he had left the Sanctuary, and began to
shuffle leisurely along; for the street, that a few hours before
would have been choked with its pushcarts and venders, its half
naked children playing where they could find room in the gutters,
its sidewalks thronged with shawled women and picturesquely dressed,
earringed, dark-visaged men, a scene, as it were, transported from
some foreign land, was still far from deserted; the quiet, if quiet
it could be called, was but comparative, there were many yet about,
and he had no desire to attract attention by any evidence of undue
haste. And, besides, Spider Jack's was just ahead, making the
corner of the alleyway a few hundred feet farther on, and he had
very good reasons for desiring to approach Spider's little novelty
store at a pace that would afford him every opportunity for
observation.
On he shuffled along the street, until, reaching Spider Jack's, a
little two-storied, tumble-down brick structure, a muttered
exclamation of satisfaction escaped him. The shop was closed and
dark; and, though Spider Jack lived above the store, there were no
lights even in the upper windows. Spider Jack presumably was either
out, or in bed! So far, then, he could have asked for nothing more.
Jimmie Dale edged in close to the building as he slouched by, so
close that his hat brim seemed to touch the windowpane. It was
possible that from a room at the rear of the store there might be a
light with a telltale ray perhaps filtering through, say, a door
crack. But there was nothing--only blackness within.
He paused at the corner of the building by the alleyway. Down here,
adjoining the high board fence of Spider Jack's back yard, Makoff
made pretense at pawnbrokering in a small and dingy wooden building,
that was little more pretentious than a shed--and in Makoff's place,
so far as he could see, there was no light, either.
Jimmie Dale's fingers were industriously rolling a cigarette, as,
under the brim of his slouch hat, his eyes were noting every detail
around him. A yard in against the wall of Spider Jack's, the wall
cutting off the rays of the street lamp at a sharp angle, it was
shadowy and black--and beyond that, farther in, the alleyway was
like a pit. It would take less, far less, than the fraction of a
second to gain that yard, but some one was approaching behind him,
and a little group of people loitered, with annoying persistency,
directly across the way on the other side of the street. Jimmie
Dale stuck the cigarette between his lips, fumbled in his pockets,
and finally produced a box of matches. The group opposite was
moving on now; the footsteps he had heard behind him, those of a
man, drew nearer, the man passed by--and the box of matches in
Jimmie Dale's hand dropped to the ground. He reached to pick them
up, and in his stooping posture, without seeming to turn his head,
flung a quick glance behind him up the street. No one, for that
fraction of a second that he needed, was near enough to see--and in
that fraction of a second Jimmie Dale disappeared.
A dozen yards down the lane, he sprang for the top of the high
fence, gripped it, and, lithe and active as a cat, swung himself up
and over, and dropped noiselessly to the ground on the other side.
Here he stood motionless for a moment, close against the fence, to
get his bearings. The rear of Spider Jack's building loomed up
before him--the back windows as unlighted as those in front. Luck
so far, at least, was with him! He turned and looked about him,
and, his eyes growing accustomed to the darkness, he could just make
out Makoff's place, bordering the end of the yard--nor, from this
new vantage point, could he discover, any more than before, a single
sign of life about the pawnbroker's establishment.
Jimmie Dale stole forward across the yard, mounted the three steps
of the low stoop at Spider Jack's back door, and tried the door
cautiously. It was locked. From his pocket came the small steel
instrument that had stood Larry the Bat in good stead a hundred
times before in similar circumstances. He inserted it in the
keyhole, worked deftly with it for an instant--and tried the door
again. It was still locked. And then Jimmie Dale smiled almost
apologetically. Spider Jack did not use ordinary locks on his back
door!
The discountenanced instrument went back into his pocket, and now
Jimmie Dale's hand slipped inside his shirt, and from one of the
little, upright pockets of the leather belt, and from still another,
and from after that a third, came the vicious little blued-steel
tools. The sensitive fingers travelled slowly up and down the side
of the door--and then he was at work in earnest. A minute passed--
another--there was a dull, low, grating sound, a snick as of metal
yielding suddenly--and Jimmie Dale was coolly stowing away his tools
again inside his shirt.
He pushed the door open an inch, listened, then swung it wide,
stepped inside, and closed it behind him. A round, white beam of
light flashed in a quick circle--and went out. It was a sort of
storeroom, innocent enough and orderly enough in appearance, barefloored,
with boxes and packing cases piled neatly against the
walls. In one corner a staircase led to the story above--and from
above, quite audibly now, he caught the sound of snoring. Spider
Jack was in bed, then!
Directly facing him was the open door of another room, and Jimmie
Dale, moving softly forward, entered it. He had never been in
Spider Jack's before, and his first concern was to form an intimate
acquaintanceship with his surroundings. Again the flashlight
circled, and again went out.
"No windows!" muttered Jimmie Dale under his breath. "Nothing very
fancy about the architecture! Three rooms in a row! Store in front
of this room through that door of course. Wonder if the door's
locked, though it's a foregone conclusion the package wouldn't be in
there."
Not a sound, his tread silent, he crossed to the closed door that he
had noticed. It was unlocked, and he opened it tentatively a little
way. A faint glow of light diffused itself through the opening.
Jimmie Dale nodded his head and closed the door again. The street
lamp, shining through the shop windows, accounted for the light.
And now the flashlight played with steady inquisitiveness about him.
The room in which he stood seemed to combine a sort of office, with
a lounging room, in which Spider Jack, no doubt, entertained his
particular cronies. There was table in the centre, cards still upon
it, chairs about it. Against the wall farthest away from the shop
stood a huge, old-fashioned cabinet; and a little farther along,
anglewise, partitioning off the corner, as it were, hung, for some
purpose or other, a cretonne curtain. Also, against the wall next
to the lane, bringing a commiserating smile to Jimmie Dale's lips as
his eyes fell upon it, was a clumsy, lumbering, antique safe.
Jimmie Dale's eyes returned to the curtain. What was it doing
there? What was it for? Instinctively he stepped over to examine
it. A single glance, however, as he lifted it aside, sufficed. It
was nothing but a make-shift clothes closet. He turned from it,
switched off the flashlight, and stood staring meditatively into the
darkness. In a strange house, with the knowledge to begin with that
what he sought was carefully hidden, it was no sinecure to find that
package. He had never for a moment imagined that it would be. But
of one thing, however, there was no uncertainty in his mind--he
would get the package!--by search if possible, by other means if
search failed. It was now close to one o'clock. If by two o'clock
his efforts had been fruitless, Spider Jack would hand over the
package--at the revolver point! It was quite simple! Meanwhile--
Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders, and, going over to the safe,
knelt down in front of it--meanwhile, as well begin here as anywhere
else.
The trained fingers closed on the handle--and on the instant, as
though in startled amazement, shifted to the dial. They came back
to the handle--a wrench--then a low, amused chuckle--and the door
swung open. The great, unwieldy thing was only a monumental bluff!
It not only had not been locked, but it COULD NOT be locked--the
mechanism was out of order, the bolts could not be moved by so much
as a hair's breadth!
Still chuckling, Jimmie Dale shot the flashlight's ray into the
interior of the safe--and the chuckle died on his lips, and into his
face came a look of strained bewilderment. Inside, everything was
in chaos, books, papers, a miscellany of articles, as though they
had first been ruthlessly pulled out on the floor, then gathered up
in an armful and crammed back inside again. For an instant he did
not move, and then a queer, hard, mirthless smile drew down the
corners of his mouth. With a sort of bitter, expectant nod of his
head, he turned the light upon the door of the safe. Yes, there
were the scratches that the tools had left; and, as though in
sardonic jest, the holes, where the steel bit had bored, were
plugged with putty and rubbed over with some black substance that
was still wet and came off, smearing his finger, as he touched it.
It could not have been done long ago, then! How long? A half hour--
an hour? Not more than that!
Mechanically he closed the door of the safe, rose to his feet and,
almost heedless of noise now, the flashlight ray dancing before him,
he jumped across to the old-fashioned cabinet and pulled the door
open. Here, as within the safe, all inside, plain evidence of
thorough, if hasty, search, was scattered and tossed about in
hopeless confusion.
He shut the cabinet door; the flashlight went out; and he stood like
a man stunned, the sense of some abysmal disaster upon him. He was
too late! The game was up! If it had ever been here, the package
was gone now--GONE! The Crime Club had been here before him!
"The game was up! The game was up!"--his mind seemed to keep on
repeating that. The Crime Club had beaten him by an hour, at most,
and had been here, and had searched. It was strange, though, that
they should have been at such curious pains to cover their tracks by
leaving the room in order, by such paltry efforts to make the safe
appear untouched when the first glance that was at all critical
would disclose immediately what had been done! Why should they need
to cover their tracks at all; or, if it was necessary, why, above
all, in such a pitifully inadequate way! His mind barked back to
the same ghastly refrain--"the game was up!"
NO! Not yet! There was still a chance! There was still Spider
Jack! Suppose, in spite of their search, they had failed to find
the package! Jimmie Dale's lips set in a thin line, as he started
abruptly toward the door. There was still that chance, and one
thing was grimly certain--Spider Jack would, at least, show him
where the package HAD BEEN!
And then, halfway to the door, he halted suddenly, and stood still--
listening. An electric bell was ringing loudly, imperiously,
somewhere upstairs. Followed almost immediately the sound of some
one, Spider Jack presumably, moving hurriedly about overhead; and
then, a moment later, steps coming down the staircase in the
adjoining room.
Jimmie Dale drew back, flattening himself against the wall. Spider
Jack entered the room, stumbled across it, in the darkness, fumbled
for the door that led into his little shop, opened it, passed
through, fumbled around in there again, for matches evidently, then
lighted a gas jet in the store, and, going to the street door,
opened it.
Jimmie Dale had edged along the wall a little to a position where he
had an unobstructed view through the open doorway connecting the
shop and the room in which he stood. Spider Jack, in trousers and
shirt, hastily donned, no doubt, as he had got out of bed, was
standing in the street doorway, and beyond him loomed the forms of
several men. Spider Jack stepped aside to allow his visitors to
enter--and suddenly, a cry barely suppressed upon his lips, Jimmie
Dale involuntarily strained forward. Three men had entered, but his
eyes were fixed, fascinated, upon only one--the first of the three.
Was it an hallucination? Was he mad---dreaming? It was Hilton
Travers, THE CHAUFFEUR--the man whom he could have sworn he had last
seen dead, lashed in that chair, in that ghastly death chamber of
the Crime Club!
"Rather rough on you, Spider, to pull you out of bed at this hour,"
the chauffeur was saying apologetically.
"Oh, that's all right, seein' it's you, Travers," Spider Jack
answered, gruffly amiable. "Only I was kind of lookin' for you last
night."
"I know," the chauffeur replied; "but I couldn't connect with my
friends here. Shake hands with them, Spider--Bob Marvin--Harry
Stead."
"Glad to know you, gents," said Spider Jack, with a handgrip apiece.
The chauffeur lowered his voice a little.
"I suppose we're alone here, eh, Spider? Yes? Well, then, you know
what I've come for--that package--Marvin and Stead, here, are the
ones that are in on it with me. Get it for me, will you, Spider?"
"Sure--Mr. Johansson!" Spider grinned. "Sure! Come on into the
back room and make yourselves comfortable. I'll be mabbe five
minutes, or so."
Jimmie Dale's brain was whirling. What did it mean? He could not
seem to understand. His mind seemed to refuse its functions.
Travers, the chauffeur--ALIVE! He drew in his breath sharply. That
curtain in the corner! He must see this out now! They were coming!
Quick, noiseless, he stole along the side of the wall, reached the
corner, and slipped in behind the curtain, as Spider Jack, striking
a match, entered the room.
Spider Jack lighted the gas, and, as the others followed behind him,
waved them toward the chairs around the table.
"I'll just ask you gents not to leave the room," he said meaningly,
over his shoulder, as he stepped toward the rear door. "It's kind
of a fad of mine to keep some things even from my wife!"
"All right, Spider--I understand," the chauffeur returned readily.
Jimmie Dale's knife cut a tiny slit in the cretonne on a level with
his eyes. The three men had seated themselves at the table, and
appeared to be listening intently. Spider Jack's footsteps echoed
back as he crossed the rear room, sounded dull and muffled
descending the stoop outside, and died away.
"I told you it wasn't in the house!" the man who had been introduced
as Stead laughed shortly. "We wasted the hour we had here."
The third man spoke crisply, incisively, to the chauffeur.
"Turn down that gas jet a little! You've got across with it so far--
but you can't stand a searchlight, Clarke!
And at the words, in a flash, the meaning of it, all of it, to the
last detail that was spelling death, ruin, and disaster for her, the
Tocsin, for himself as well, burst upon Jimmie Dale. That VOICE!
He would have known it, recognised it, among a thousand--it was the
masked man of the night before, the leader, the head of the Crime
Club! And it was not Travers there at all! He remembered now, too
well, that second room they had showed him in the Crime Club--its
multitude of disguises, though in this case they had the dead man's
clothes ready to their hands--the leader's boast that impersonation
was but child's play to them! And now he understood why they had
covered up the traces of their search in only so curiously
inadequate a manner. They had failed to find the package, and, as a
last resort, had adopted the ruse of impersonating Hilton Travers,
the chauffeur, which made it necessary that when they called Spider
Jack from his bed, as they had just done, that Spider Jack, at a
CASUAL glance, should notice nothing amiss--but it would be no more
than a casual glance, for, who should know better than they, he
would not have to go for the package to any place that they had
disturbed! And he, Jimmie Dale, could only stand here and watch
them, helpless, powerless to move! Three of them! A step out into
the room was to invite certain death. It would not matter, his
death--if he could gain anything for her, for the Tocsin, by it.
But what could he gain--by dying? He clenched his hands until the
nails bit into the flesh.
Spider Jack re-entered the room, carrying what looked like a large,
bulky, manila envelope, heavily sealed, in his hand. He tossed it
on the table.
"There you are, Travers!" he said.
"I wonder," suggested the leader pleasantly, "if, now that we're
here, Travers, your friend would mind letting us have this room for
a few minutes to ourselves to clean up the business?"
"Sure!" agreed Spider Jack cordially. "You're welcome to it! I'll
wait out here in the store until you say the word."
He went out, closing the door after him. The leader picked up the
package.
"We'll take no chances with this," he said grimly. "It's been too
close a call. After we've had a look at it, we'll put it out of
harm's way on the spot, here, while we've got it--before we leave!"
He ripped the package open, and disclosed perhaps a dozen officiallooking
documents, besides a miscellaneous number of others. He
took up the first of the papers, glanced through it hurriedly, then
tossed it to the pseudo chauffeur.
"Tear it up, and tear it up--SMALL!" he ordered tersely. The next,
after examining it as he had the first, he tossed to the other man.
"Go ahead!"--curtly. "Work fast! From the looks of these, Travers
had us cold! There's proof enough here of LaSalle's murder to send
us all to the chair!"
He went on glancing through the documents; and then suddenly,
joining the others in their work, began to rip and tear at the
papers himself.
A sort of cold horror had settled upon Jimmie Dale, and his forehead
was clammy wet. The inhuman irony of it! That he should stand
there and watch, impotent to prevent it, the destruction of what he
would have given his life to secure! And then slowly, a grim, hard,
merciless smile came to his lips. He had recognised the leader's
voice--now he would recognise the leader's FACE. At least, that was
left to him--perhaps the master trump of all. It would not be very
hard to find the Crime Club now--with that man to lead the way!
The scraps of paper, tiny shreds, mounted into a heap on the table--
and with the last of the contents of the package destroyed, the
leader stood up.
"Put these pieces in your pockets; we don't want to leave them
here," he directed quietly. "And then let's get out."
In scarcely a moment, the last scrap of paper had vanished. The
three men walked to the door, passed through it, and joined Spider
Jack in the store--and Jimmie Dale, slipping out from behind the
curtain, gained the door of the rear room, crept through it, reached
the stoop, and then, darting like the wind across the yard, was over
the fence in a second, and in another was out of the alleyway and on
the street.
He was in time--in plenty of time. They had just left Spider
Jack's, and were, perhaps, fifty yards or so ahead of him. He
slouched on behind them--the cold, grim smile on his lips once more.
It was the Crime Club now, that hell's cradle where their devil's
schemes were hatched, that was the one thing left to him; they would
lead him to that, and then--and then it would be his turn to STRIKE!
They turned the first corner. And suddenly, as the racing engine of
an automobile caught his ear, he broke into a run, and dashed around
the corner after them--in time to see them jump into a car, and the
car speed off along the street! He halted, as though he were
suddenly dazed--started involuntarily to run forward again--stopped
with a hollow laugh at the futility of it--and stood still and
motionless on the sidewalk.
And then he swayed a little, and his face grew gray. Failure,
defeat, ruin--in that moment he knew them all to their bitterest
dregs. How could he go to her! How could he face her, and tell her
that they were beaten, that the last hope was gone, that he had
failed!
"God!" he cried aloud, and clenched his hands.
Then deep in his consciousness a thought stirred, and he swept a
shaking hand across his eyes. Why had it come again, that thought!
Did it mean that HE must play--the last card! There was a way--
there had always been a way. The way the Crime Club took--MURDER.
It was their own weapon! If the man who posed as Henry LaSalle were
killed! If that man--were killed!
"The Magpie was to be there at three!" he muttered--and started
mechanically back along the street.
CHAPTER XIII
THE ONLY WAY
It was a horrible thing--and it grew upon him. In a blind,
mechanical way, his brain receptive to nothing else, Jimmie Dale
walked on along the street. To kill a man! Death he had faced
himself a hundred times, witnessed it a hundred times in its most
violent forms, had seen murder done before his eyes, had been in
straits where, to save his own life, it had seemed the one last
desperate chance--and yet his hands were still clean! To kill a man
in fair fight, in struggle, when the blood was hot, was terrible
enough, a possibility that was always before him, the one thing from
which he shrank, the one thing that, as the Gray Seal, he had always
feared; but to kill a man deliberately, to creep upon his victim
with hideous, cold-blooded premeditation--he shivered a little, and
his hand shook as he drew it nervously across his eyes.
But there was no other way! Again and again, insidiously grappling
with his revulsion, with the horror that the impulse to murder
inspired, came that other thought--there was no other way. If the
man who posed as Henry LaSalle were DEAD! If he were dead! If he
were dead! See, now, what would happen if that man were dead! How
clear his brain was on that point! The whole plot would tumble like
a house of cards about the heads of the Crime Club. The courts
would require an auditing of the estate by a trustee of the courts'
own appointing, who would continue to administer it until the
Tocsin's twenty-fifth birthday, or until there was tangible evidence
of her death--but the Tocsin, automatically with her pseudo uncle's
death, could publicly appear again. Her death could no longer
benefit the Crime Club, since it, the Crime Club, with the supposed
uncle dead, could not profit through the false Henry LaSalle
inheriting as next of kin! It was the weak link, the vulnerable
point in the stupendous scheme of murder and crime with which these
hell fiends had played for and won, so far, the stake of eleven
millions. Not that they had overlooked or been blind to this, they
were too clever, too cunning for that--it was only that they had
planned to accomplish the Tocsin's death, as they had her father's
and uncle's, and ESTABLISH the false Henry LaSalle in undisputed
possession and ownership of the estate--and had failed in that--up
to the present. But the material results remained the same, so long
as the Tocsin, to save her life, was forced to remain in hiding, so
long as proof that would convict the Crime Club was not forthcoming--
SO LONG AS THAT MAN LIVED!
Time passed to which Jimmie Dale was oblivious. At times he walked
slowly, scarcely moving; at times his pace was a nervous, hurried
stride, that was almost a run. And as he was oblivious to time, so
was he oblivious to his surroundings, to the direction which he
took. At times his forehead was damp with moisture that was not
there from physical exertion; at times his face, deathly white, was
full as of the vision of some shuddering, abhorrent sight; at times
his lips were thinned into a straight line, and there was a glitter
in the dark eyes that was not good to see, while his hands at his
sides clenched until the skin, tight over the knuckles, was an ivory
white. To kill a man!
What other way was there? The proof that it had taken Hilton
Travers years to obtain, the proof on which the Tocsin's life
depended, was destroyed utterly, irreparably. It could never be
duplicated--Hilton Travers was dead--MURDERED. Murder! That
thought again! It was their own weapon! Murder! Would one kill a
venomous reptile in whose fangs was death? What right had this man
to life, whose life was forfeit even under the law--for murder? Was
she to drag on an intolerable existence among the dregs and the scum
of the underworld, she, in her refinement and her purity, to exist
among the vile and dissolute, in daily, hourly peril of her life,
because the weapons that these inhuman vultures had used to rob her,
to destroy those she loved, to make of her life a hideous, joyless
thing, should not be used against them?
But to kill a man! To steal upon a man with cold intent in the
blackness of the night--and take his life! To be a murderer! To
know the horror of blood forever upon one's hands, to rise, coldsweated,
in the night, fearful of the very shadows around one, to
live with every detail of that fearsome act sweeping like some dread
spectre at unexpected moments upon the consciousness! He put up his
hands before his face, as though to blot out the thought from him.
Mind and soul recoiled before it--to kill a man!
He walked on and on, until at last, conscious of a sense of fatigue,
he stopped. He must have come a long way, been walking a long time.
Where was he? He looked about him for a moment in a dazed way--and
suddenly, with a low cry, shrank back. As though he had been drawn
to it by some ghastly magnet, he found himself standing in front of
the LaSalle mansion, on Fifth Avenue. No, no; it was not for that
he had come--to kill a man! It was only--only to get that money.
Yes--he remembered now--that money from the safe, before the Magpie
got it. The Magpie was to be there at three o'clock--and the Tocsin
was to be there, too. The Tocsin! That package! He had failed!
It had been her one hope, and--and it was gone. What could he say
to her? How could he tell her the miserable truth? But--but he had
not come there in the dead of night to kill a man, these other
things were what had--
"Jimmie!" It was a quick-breathed whisper. A hand was on his arm.
He turned, startled. It was the Tocsin--Silver Mag.
"Jimmie!" in alarm. "Why are you standing here like this? You may
be SEEN!"
Seen! Suppose he WERE seen? He shuddered a little.
"Yes; that's so!" he said hoarsely. He glanced numbly up and down
the wide, deserted, but well-lighted, avenue. It was no place, that
most aristocratic section of the city, for such as Silver Mag and
Larry the Bat to be seen at that hour of night, or, rather, morning.
And if anything HAPPENED inside that house! "I--I didn't think of
that," he said mechanically.
"Come across the street--under the stoop of that house there." She
had his arm, and was half dragging him as she spoke, the alarm in
her voice intensified. And then, a moment later, safe from
observation: "Jimmie, Jimmie, what is the matter? What has
happened? What makes you act so strangely?"
"Nothing," he said. "I--"
"TELL me!" she insisted wildly.
And then, with a violent effort, Jimmie Dale forced his mind back to
the immediate present. He was only inspiring her with terror--and
there was the Magpie--and that money in the safe!
"Where is the Magpie?" he asked, with quick apprehension. "Am I
late? Is he in there already?"
"No," she said. "He hasn't come yet."
"What time is it?" he demanded anxiously.
"About half-past two," she replied. "But, Jimmie--"
"Wait!" he broke in. "Where is he now? You were both together!
And you were both to be here at three. What are you doing here
alone at half-past two?"
A strange little exclamation, one almost of dismay, it seemed,
escaped her.
"The Magpie left my place an hour ago--to get his kit, I think. And
I came here at once because that was what you and I understood I was
to do, wasn't it? Jimmie, you frighten me! You are not yourself.
Don't you remember the last words you said, as you nodded to me
behind the Magpie's back--that you would be here BEFORE us? There
was no mistaking your meaning--if I could get away from him, I was
to come here and meet you."
Jimmie Dale passed his hand nervously across his eyes. Of course,
he remembered now! What a frightful turmoil his brain had been in!
"Yes; of course!" He tried to speak nonchalantly. "I had forgotten
for the moment."
She caught his arm in a quick, tight hold, shaking him in a
terrified way.
"YOU--forget a thing like that! Jimmie--something terrible has
happened. Can't you see that I am nearly mad with anxiety! What is
it? What is it? That package, Jimmie--is it the package?"
He did not answer. What could he say? It meant life, hope, joy,
everything that the world held for her--and it was gone.
"Yes--it IS the package!" she whispered frantically. "Quick,
Jimmie! Tell me! It--it was not there? You--you could not find
it?"
"It was there," he said, as though the words were literally forced
from him.
"Then? Then--WHAT, Jimmie?" The clutch on his arm was like a vise.
"They got it," he said. It was like a death sentence that he
pronounced. "It is destroyed."
She did not speak or move--save that her hands, as though nerveless
and without strength, fell away from his arms, and dropped to her
sides. It was dark there under the stoop, though not so dark but
that he could see her face. It was gray--gray as death. And there
was misery and fear and a pitiful helplessness in it--and then she
swayed a little, and he caught her in his arms.
"Gone!" she murmured in a dead, colourless way--and suddenly laughed
out sharply, hysterically.
"Don't! For God's sake, don't do that!" he pleaded wildly.
She looked at him then for a moment in strange quiet--and lifted her
hand and stroked his face in a numbed way.
"It--it would have been better, Jimmie, wouldn't it," she said in
the same monotonous voice, "it would have been better if--if I had
never found out anything, and they--they had done the same to me
that they did to--to father."
"Marie! Marie!" It was the first time he had ever spoken her name,
and it was on his lips now in an agony of tenderness and appeal.
"Don't! You mustn't speak like that!"
"I'm tired," she said. "I--I can't fight any more."
She did not cry. She lay there in his arms quite still--like a
weary child.
The minutes passed. When Jimmie Dale spoke again it was
irrelevantly--and his face was very white:
"Marie, describe the upper floor of that house over there for me."
She roused herself with a start.
"The upper floor?" she repeated slowly. "Why--why do you ask that?"
"Have YOU forgotten in turn?" he said, with a steady smile. "That
money in the safe--it's yours--we can at least save that out of the
wreck. You only drew the basement plan and the first floor for the
Magpie--the more I know about the house the better, of course, in
case anything goes wrong. Now, see, try and be brave--and tell me
quickly, for I must get through before the Magpie comes, and I have
barely half an hour."
"No, Jimmie--no!" She slipped out of his arms. "Let it alone! I
am afraid. Something--I--I have a feeling that something will
happen."
"It is the only way." He said it involuntarily, more to himself
than to her.
"Jimmie, let it alone!" she said again.
"No," he said. "I am going--so tell me quickly. Every minute that
we wait is one that counts against us."
She hesitated an instant--and then, speaking rapidly, made a verbal
sketch of the upper portion of the house for him.
"It's a very large house, isn't it?" he commented innocently--to
pave the way for the question, above all others, that he had to ask.
"Which is your uncle's, I mean that man's room?"
"The first on the right, at the head of the landing," she answered.
"Only, Jimmie, don't--don't go!"
He drew her close to him again.
"Now, listen," he said quietly. "When the Magpie comes and finds I
am not here, lead him to think that the money he gave me was too
much for me; that I am probably in some den, doped with drug--and
hold him as long as you can on the pretext that there is always the
possibility I may, after all, show up before he goes in there. You
understand? And now about yourself--you must do exactly as I say.
On no account allow yourself to be seen by ANY ONE except the
Magpie. I would tell you to go now, only, unless it is vitally
necessary, we cannot afford to arouse the Magpie's suspicions--he'd
have every crook in the underworld snarling at our heels. But you
are not to wait, even for him, if you detect the slightest
disturbance in that house before he comes. And, equally, after he
has gone in, whether I have come out or not, at the first indication
of anything unusual you are to get away at once. You understand--
Marie?"
"Yes," she said. "But--but, Jimmie, you--"
"Just one thing more." He smiled at her reassuringly. "Did the
Magpie say anything about how he intended to get in?"
"Yes--by the side away from the corner of the street," she said
tremulously. "You see, there's quite a space between the house and
the one next door; and, besides, the house next door is closed up,
there's nobody there, the family has gone away for the summer. The
library window there is low enough to reach from the ground."
For a moment longer he held her close to him, as though he could not
let her go--then bent and kissed her passionately. And in that
moment all the emotions he had known as he had walked blindly from
Spider Jack's that night surged again upon him; and that voice was
whispering, whispering, whispering: "It is the only way--it is the
only way."
And then, not daring to trust his voice, he released her suddenly,
and stepped back out from under the stoop--and the next instant he
was across the deserted avenue. Another, and he had slipped through
the iron gates that opened on the street driveway--and in yet
another he was crouched close up against the front door of the
LaSalle mansion.
It was a large house, a very large house, one of the few that, even
amid the wealth and luxury of that quarter, boasted its own grounds,
and those so restricted as scarcely to deserve the name; but it was
set far enough back from the street to escape the radius of the
street lamps, and so guarantee in its shadows security from
observation. It was not the Magpie's way, the front door--the
obvious to the Magpie and his ilk was a thing always to be shunned.
Jimmie Dale's lips were set in a grim smile, as his fingers worked
with lightning speed, now taking this instrument and now that from
the leather pockets in the girdle beneath his shirt--the
penitentiaries were full of Magpies who shunned the obvious!
Very slowly, very cautiously the door opened. He listened
breathlessly, tensely. The door closed again--behind him. He was
inside now. Stillness! Blackness! Not a sound! A minute went by--
another. And then, as he stood there, strained, listening, the
silence itself began, it seemed, to palpitate, and pound, pound,
pound, and be full of strange noises. It was a horrible thing--to
kill a man!
CHAPTER XIV
OUT OF THE DARKNESS
A moment later, Jimmie Dale stepped forward through the vestibule.
He was quite calm now; a sort of cold, merciless precision in every
movement succeeding the riot of turbulent emotions that had
possessed him as he had entered the house.
The half hour, the maximum length of time before the Magpie would
appear, as he had estimated it when out there under the stoop with
the Tocsin, had dwindled now to perhaps twenty minutes, twenty-five
at the outside. Twenty-five minutes! Twenty-five minutes was so
little that for an instant the temptation was strong upon him to
sacrifice, rather than any of those precious minutes, the Magpie
instead! And then in the darkness, as he stole noiselessly across
the hall, he shook his head. It would be a cowardly, brutal thing
to do. What chance would a man with a record like the Magpie's
stand if caught there? How easy it would be to shift the murder of
the supposed Henry LaSalle to the Magpie's shoulders! Jimmie Dale's
lips closed firmly. Self-preservation was, perhaps, the first law,
but he would save the Magpie if he could--the Magpie should have his
chance! The man might be a criminal, might deserve punishment at
the hands of the law, his liberty might be a menace to the
community--but he was not a murderer, his life forfeit for a crime
he had never committed!
If he, Jimmie Dale, could only in some way have arranged with the
Tocsin out there to keep the Magpie away altogether! But it could
not be done without arousing the Magpie's suspicions; and, as a
corollary to that, afterward, with the subsequent events, would
come--the deluge! The law of the underworld was clear, concise, and
admitting of no appeal on that point; to double cross a pal meant,
sooner or later, a knife thrust, a blackjack, or-- But what
difference did it make what form the execution of the sentence took?
And, since, then, that was out of the question, since he could not
keep the Magpie away without practically risking his own life, the
Magpie at least must have his chance.
Jimmie Dale was at the library door now, that, according to the plan
the Tocsin had drawn for the Magpie, and as he remembered her
description when she had told him her story earlier in the evening,
was just at the foot of the staircase. How dark it was! Though the
stairs could be only a few feet away, he could not see them. And
how intense the silence was again! Here, where he stood, the
slightest stir from above must have reached him--but there was not a
sound.
His hand felt out for the doorknob, found it, turned it, and pushed
the door open. He stepped inside the room and closed the door
behind him. The safe, according to the Tocsin's plan again, was in
that sort of alcove at the lower end of the library. Jimmie Dale's
flashlight played inquisitively about the room. There was the
window, the only one in the room, the window through which the
Magpie proposed to enter; there was the archway of the alcove, with
its--no, there were no longer any portieres; and there was the safe,
he could see it quite plainly from where he stood at the upper end
of the room.
The flashlight went out for the space of perhaps thirty seconds--
thirty seconds of absolute silence, absolute stillness--then the
round, white ray of the light again, but glistening now on the
nickel knobs and dial of the safe--and Jimmie Dale was on his knees
before it.
A low, scarcely breathed exclamation, that seemed to mingle anxiety
and hesitation, escaped him. He, who knew the make of every safe in
the country, knew this one for its true worth. Twenty-five minutes!
Could he open it in that time, let alone with any time to spare! It
was not like the one in Spider Jack's; it was the kind that the
Magpie, however clever he might be in his own way, would be forced
to negotiate with "soup," and, with the attendant noise, double his
chance of discovery and capture--and the responsibility for what
might have happened UPSTAIRS! No; the Magpie must have his chance!
And, besides, the money in the safe apart, why should not he, Jimmie
Dale, have his own chance, as well? All this would help. The
motive--robbery; the perpetrator, there was grim mockery on his lips
now as the light went out and the sensitive fingers closed on the
knob of the dial, the perpetrator--the Gray Seal. It would afford
excellent food for the violent editorial diatribes under which the
police again would writhe in frenzy!
Stillness again! Silence! Only a low, tense breathing; only, so
faint that it could not be heard a foot away, a curious scratching,
as from time to time the supersensitive fingers fell away from the
dial to rub upon the carpet--to increase even their sensitiveness by
setting the nerves to throbbing through the skin surface at the
tips. And then Jimmie Dale's head, ear pressed close against the
safe to catch the tumbler's fall, was lifted--and the flashlight
played again on the dial.
"Twenty-eight and a quarter--left."
How fast the time went--and how slowly! Still the black shape
crouched there in the darkness against the safe. At times, in
strange, ghostly flashes, the nickel dial with the ray upon it
seemed to leap out and glisten through the surrounding blackness; at
times, the quick intake of breath, as from great exertion; at times,
faint, musical little clicks, as, after abortive effort, the dial
whirled, preparatory to a fresh attempt. And then, at last--a gasp
of relief:
"Ah!"
Came the sound, barely audible, as of steel sliding in well-oiled
grooves, the muffled thud of metal meeting metal as the bolts shot
back--and the heavy door swung outward.
Jimmie Dale stretched his cramped limbs, and wiped the moisture from
his face--then set to work again upon the inner door. This was an
easier matter--far easier. Five minutes, perhaps a little more,
went by--and then the inner door was open, and the flashlight's ray
was flooding the interior of the safe.
A queer little sound, half of astonishment, half of disappointment,
issued from Jimmie Dale's lips. There was money here, a great deal
of money, undoubtedly, but there was no such sum as he had, somehow,
fantastically imagined from the Magpie's evidently overcoloured
story that there would be; there was money, ten packages of
banknotes neatly piled in the bottom compartment--but there was no
half million of dollars! He picked up one of the packages
hurriedly--and drew in his breath. After all, there was a great
deal--the notes were of hundred-dollar denomination, and on the
bottom were two one-thousand-dollar bills! Calculated roughly, if
each of the other nine packages contained a like amount, the total
must exceed a hundred thousand.
And now Jimmie Dale began to work with feverish haste. From the
leather girdle inside his shirt came the thin metal insignia case--
and a gray seal was stuck firmly on the dial knob of the safe. This
done, he tucked away the packages of banknotes, some into his
pockets and some inside his shirt; and then quickly ransacked the
interior of the safe, flauntingly spilling the contents of drawers
and pigeonholes out upon the floor.
He stood up, and, leaving the safe door wide open, walked back
across the room to the window, unfastened the catch, and opened the
window an inch or two. The way was open now for the Magpie! The
Magpie would have no need to make any noise in forcing an entrance;
he would be able to see almost at a glance that he had been
forestalled--by the Gray Seal; and that, as far as he was concerned,
the game was up. The Magpie had his chance! If the Magpie did not
take the hint and make his escape as noiselessly as he had entered--
it was his own fault! He, Jimmie Dale, had given the Magpie his
chance.
Jimmie Dale turned from the window, and made his way out of the
library to the foot of the stairs, leaving the library door open
behind him. How long had he been? Was it more or less than the
twenty-five minutes? He did not know--only, as yet, the Magpie had
not come, and now perhaps it did not make so much difference.
Where was he going now? His foot was on the first stair--and
suddenly he drew it back, the cold sweat bursting out on his
forehead. Where was he going now? "THE FIRST ROOM ON THE RIGHT AT
THE HEAD OF THE LANDING." From his inner consciousness, as it were,
the answer, in all the bald, naked horror that it implied, flashed
upon him. The first room on the right--THAT man's room! God, how
the darkness and the stillness began to palpitate again, and
suddenly seem to shriek out at him over and over the one single,
ghastly word--MURDER!
It had been with him, that thought, all the time he had been working
at the safe; but it had been there then only subconsciously, like
some heavy, nameless dread, subjugated for the moment by the work he
had had to do which had demanded the centred attention of every
faculty he possessed. But now the moment had come when there was
only THAT before him, only that, nothing else--only that, the man
upstairs in the first room to the right of the landing!
Why did he hesitate? Why did he stand there while the priceless
moments before daylight came were passing? The man was a murderer,
a blotch on society, and, his life already forfeited, he was living
now only because the law had not found him out--the man was a
criminal, bloodstained--and his life, because he had taken her
father's life and had tried to take the Tocsin's own life, stood
between her and every hope of happiness, robbing her even literally,
in a material sense, of everything that the world could hold for
her! Why did he hesitate? It was that man's life--or hers! It was
the only way!
He put his foot upon the bottom step again--paused still another
instant--and then began stealthily to mount the stairs. The
darkness! There had never been, it seemed, such darkness before!
The stillness--he had never known silence so heavy, so full of
strange, premonitory pulsings; a silence that seemed so
incongruously full of clamouring whispers in his ears! It must be
those imagined whispers that were affecting his nerve--for now, as
he gained the landing and slipped his automatic from his pocket, his
hand was shaking with a queer twitching motion.
For an instant, fighting for his self-composure, he stood striving
to locate his surroundings through the darkness. The staircase was
a circular one, making the landing nearly at the front of the house,
and rearward from this, the Tocsin had said, a hallway ran down the
centre, with rooms on either side. The first room to the right,
therefore, should be just at his hand. He reached out, feeling
cautiously--there was nothing. He edged to the right--still
nothing; edged a little farther, a sense of bewilderment growing
upon him, and finally his fingers touched the wall. It was very
strange! The hallway must be much wider than he had understood it
to be from what she had said!
He moved along now straight ahead of him, his hand on the wall,
feeling for the door--and with every step his bewilderment
increased. Surely there must be some mistake--perhaps he had
misunderstood! He had come fully twice the distance that one would
expect--and yet there was no door. Ah, what was that? His fingers
closed on soft, heavy velvet hangings. These could hardly be in
front of a door, and yet--what else could it be? He drew the
hangings warily apart, and felt behind them. It was a window; but
it was shuttered in some way evidently, for he could not see out.
Jimmie Dale stood motionless there for fully a minute. It seemed
absurd, preposterous, the conviction that was being forced home upon
him--that there were no rooms on the right-hand side of the corridor
at all! But that was not like the Tocsin, accurate always in the
most minute details. The room must be still farther along. He was
tempted to use his flashlight--but that, as long as he could feel
his way, was an unnecessary risk. A flashlight upstairs, where a
sleeping-room door might be ajar, or even wide open, where some one
wakeful, THAT man himself, perhaps, might see it, was quite another
matter than a flashlight in the closed and deserted library below!
He went on once more, still guiding himself by a light finger touch
upon the wall, passed another portiere similar to the first, and,
after that, another--and finally stopped by bringing up abruptly
against the end wall of the house. It was certainly very strange!
There WERE no rooms on the right-hand side of the corridor. And
here, hanging across the end wall, was another of those ubiquitous
velvet portieres. He parted it, and, a little to his surprise,
found a window that was not shuttered, but that, instead, was
heavily barred by an ornamental grille work. He could see out,
however, and found that he was looking directly out from the rear of
the house. A lamp from the side street threw what was undoubtedly
the garage into shadowy outline, and he made out below him a short
stretch of yard between the garage and the house. He remembered
that now--she had described all that to the Magpie. There was no
driveway between the front and the rear. The house being on the
corner, the entrance to the garage was directly from the side
street. Yes, she had described all that exactly as it was, but--he
dropped the portiere and faced around, carrying his hand in a
nonplused way to his eyes--but here, upstairs, within the house, it
was not as she had said it was at all! What did it mean? She could
not have blundered so egregiously as that, unless--he caught his
breath suddenly--unless she had done so intentionally! Was that it?
Had she surmised, formed a suspicion of what was in his mind, of
what he meant to do--and taken this means of defeating it? If so--
well, it was too late for that now! There was one way--only one
way! Whatever the cost, whatever it might mean for him--there was
only one way out for her.
His flashlight was in his hand now, and the round, white ray shot
down the corridor--seemed suddenly to falter unsteadily--swept in
through an open door that was almost beside him--and then, as though
a nerveless hand held it, the ray dropped and played shakily on the
toe of his boot before it went out.
A stifled cry rose to his lips. Something cold, like a hand of ice,
seemed to clutch at his heart. Those portieres, the wide, richly
carpeted corridor! It was the corridor of the night before! That
room at his side was the room where he had seen Hilton Travers, the
chauffeur, dead, lashed in a chair! He felt the sweat beads burst
out anew upon his forehead.
IT WAS THE CRIME CLUB!
CHAPTER XV
RETRIBUTION
His brain seemed to whirl, staggered as by some gigantic, ghastly
mockery. The Crime Club! HERE! He had thought to creep upon that
man--and he had run blindly into the very heart and centre of these
hell fiends' nest!
Silently he stood there, holding his breath as he listened now,
motionless as a statue, forcing his mind to THINK. He remembered
that last night his impression of the place had been that it was
more like some great private mansion than anything else. Well, he
had been right, it seemed! He could have laughed aloud--
sardonically, hysterically. It was not so strange now that there
were no rooms on the right-hand side of the corridor! And what
could have suited their purpose better, what, by its very location,
its unimpeachable character, could be a more ideal lair for them
than this house! And how grimly simple it was now, the explanation!
In the five years that the false Henry LaSalle had been in
possession, they had cunningly remodelled the upper floor--that was
all! It was quite clear now why the man never entertained--why he
had never been caught or found or known to be in communication with
his fellow conspirators! It was no longer curious that one might
watch the door of the house for months at a stretch and go
unrewarded for one's pains, as the Tocsin had done, when access to
the house by those who frequented it was so easy through the garage
on the side street--and from the garage, if their work there was in
keeping with their clever contrivances within the house, by an
underground connection into, say, the cellar or basement!
Again Jimmie Dale checked that nervous, unnatural inclination to
laugh aloud. Was there anything, any single incident, any single
detail of all that had transpired, that was not explained, borne
out, as it could be explained and borne out in no other way save
that the Crime Club should be no other than this very house itself?
It was the exposition of that favourite theory of his--it was so
obvious that therein lay its security. He had mocked at the Magpie
not many moments before on that score--and now it was the beam in
his own eye! It was so obvious now, so glaringly obvious, that the
Crime Club could have been nowhere else; so obvious, with every word
of the Tocsin's story pointing it out like a signpost--and he had
not seen it!
And then suddenly every muscle grew strained and rigid. WAS THERE
SOME ONE IN THE CORRIDOR? Was it some one moving--or was it only
fancy? He listened--while he strained his eyes through the
darkness. There was no sound; only that abnormal, heavy silence
that--yes, he remembered that, too, now--that had clung about him
last night like a pall. He could see nothing, hear nothing--but
intuitively, bringing a cold dismay, the greater because it was
something unknown, intangible, he FELT as though eyes were upon him,
that even in the darkness he was being watched!
And as he stood there, then, slowly there crept upon Jimmie Dale the
sense of peril and disaster. It was not intuition now--it was
certainty. He was trapped! It was the part of a fool to imagine
that with their devil's cunning, their cleverness, their ingenuity,
he, or any one else, could enter that house unknown to its
occupants! Had he made electric contact when he had opened the
front door, and rung a signal here, perhaps, upstairs--had he set
some system of alarm at work when he had touched that window? What
did it matter--the details that had heralded his entrance? He was
certain now that his presence in the house was known. Only, why had
they left him so long without attack? He shook his head with a
quick, impatient movement. That, too, was obvious! He was under
observation. Who was he? Why had he come? Was he simply a paltry
safe-tapper--or was he one whom they had a real need to fear? And
then, too, there might well be another reason. It was far from
likely, in fact unreasonable, to imagine that all the men he had
seen here the night before were in the house now. Not many of them,
if any, would LIVE here, for CONSTANT, daily coming and going, even
through the garage, could not escape notice; and, of the servants,
probably a lesser breed of criminal, some of them, at least, no
doubt, were engaged at that moment in watching his own house on
Riverside Drive! There was even the possibility that the man posing
as Henry LaSalle was, for the time being, here alone.
He shook his head again. He could hardly hope for that--he had no
right to hope for anything more now than a struggle, with an
inevitably fatal ending to himself, but one in which at least he
could sell his life as dearly as possible, one in which, perhaps, he
might pay the Tocsin's score with the man he had come to find! If
he could do that--well, after all, the price was not too great!
There were no tremours of the muscles now. It was Jimmie Dale, the
Gray Seal, every faculty alert, tense, keyed up to its highest
efficiency; the brain cool, keen, and active--fighting for his life.
The front door through which he had entered was an impossibility;
but there was the window in the library that he had opened--if they
would let him get that far! That was as good a chance as any. If
he made an effort to find, say, a way to the flat above and chanced
some means of escape there, it would in no wise obviate an attack
upon him, and he would only be under the added disadvantage of
unfamiliar surroundings.
Feeling out with his left hand, his automatic thrown a little
forward in his right, he began to retrace his way along the blank
wall of the corridor, pausing between each step to listen, moving
silently, his tread on the heavy carpet as noiseless as though it
were some shadow creeping there.
Stillness--utter, absolute! Always that stillness. Always that
sense of danger around him--the tense, bated expectancy of momentary
attack--a revolver flash through the darkness--a sudden rush upon
him. But still there was nothing--only the darkness, only the
silence.
He gained the head of the stairs and began to descend--and now the
strain began to tell upon his nerves again. Again he was possessed
of the mad impulse to cry out, to do anything that would force the
issue, that would end the horrible, unbearable suspense. Why did
that revolver shot not come? Why had they not yet rushed upon him?
Why were they playing with him as a cat with a mouse? Or was it all
wild, fanciful imagination? NO! What was that again! He could
have sworn this time that he had heard a sound, but he could neither
define its character, nor locate the direction from which it had
come.
He was at the foot of the stairs now; and, guiding himself by the
wall, moving now barely an inch at a time, he reached the library
door that he had left open, and stole in over the threshold.
Halfway down the room and diagonally across from where he stood was
the window. In a moment now he could gain that, but they would
never let him go so easily--and so it must come now, in that next
moment, their attack! Where were they? Where were they now? The
table--he must remember not to bump into the table! A pause between
each step, he was crossing the room. He was halfway to the window.
Had it been all fancy, was he to-- And then Jimmie Dale stood
motionless. SOME ONE HAD CLOSED THE LIBRARY DOOR SOFTLY!
Stillness again! A sort of deadly calm upon him, Jimmie Dale felt
out behind his back for the big library table that he had been
circuiting--if the window were wide open it might be done, but to
jump for it and stand silhouetted there during the pause necessary
to fling the window up was little less than suicidal. He edged back
noiselessly until his fingers touched the table; then, lowering
himself to his knees, he backed in underneath it, and lay flat upon
the floor. It was not much protection, but it had one advantage: if
they switched on the lights it would show an EMPTY room for the
first instant, and that instant meant--the first shot!
Where were they now? By the library door? How many of them were
there? Well, it was their move! Two could play at cat and mouse
until--until DAYLIGHT! That wasn't very far off, now, and when that
came he might still have the first shot, but after that--he turned
his head quickly toward the window. There was a faint scratching
noise as of finger nails gripping the sill; then the window, very
slowly, almost silently, was pushed steadily upward, and a dark form
loomed up outside; and then, crawling through, a man dropped, as
though his feet were padded like a cat's on the floor inside the
room. The Magpie!
A flashlight's ray shot out--and, with a twisted smile propped now
on his left elbow to give free play to his revolver arm, Jimmie Dale
followed the white spot eagerly with his eyes. But it did not
circle around; instead, the light was turned almost instantly toward
the lower end of the room--and, a second later, was holding steadily
on the open door of the safe, and the litter of papers on the floor.
Came a savage growl of amazed fury from the Magpie: then his step
down the room; and, as he reached the safe, a torrent of unbridled
blasphemy--and then, in a sort of staggered gasp, as he leaned
suddenly forward examining the knob of the dial:
"The Gray Seal!"
A moment the Magpie stood there; and then, cursing again in abandon,
turned, and started back for the window, his flashlight dancing
before him--and stopped, a snarl of fury on his lips. The
flashlight was playing full on Jimmie Dale under the table!
"Larry the Bat! The Gray Seal! By God!" choked the Magpie. "You--
you--" The Magpie's flashlight, as he shifted it from his right
hand to his left and wrenched out his revolver, had fallen upon two
men crouched close against the wall by the library door--and he
screamed out in an access of fury. "De double cross! A plant! De
bulls! You damned snitch, Larry!" screamed out the Magpie--and
fired.
The bullet tore into the carpet beside Jimmie Dale. Came answering
shots from the men by the door; and then the Magpie, emptying his
automatic at the two men as he ran, the flame tongues cutting
vicious lanes of fire through the darkness, dashed for the window.
There was a cry, the crash of a heavy body pitching to the floor--
and the Magpie had flung himself out through the window, and in the
momentary ensuing silence within the room came the sound of his
footsteps running on the gravel below.
There was a low moan, the movement as of some one staggering and
lurching around--and then the lights went on. But for an instant
Jimmie Dale did not move. He was staring at the form of a man still
and motionless on the floor in front of him--the man who had posed
as Henry LaSalle. Dead! The man was dead! His mind ran riot for a
moment. Where were the others--were there only these two? Only
these two in the house! Only these two--and one was dead! And then
Jimmie Dale was on his feet. One was dead--but there was still the
other, the man who was reeling there, back turned to him, by the
electric-light switch. But even as Jimmie Dale sprang forward, this
second man, clawing at the wall for support, slipped to his knees
and fell upon the carpet.
Jimmie Dale reached him, snatched the revolver from his hand, and
bent over him. It was the man whose name he did not know, but whose
face he had reason enough to know too well--it was the leader of the
Crime Club.
The man, though evidently badly wounded, smiled defiantly in spite
of his pain.
"So you're the Gray Seal!" he flung out contemptuously. "A clever
enough safe-cracker--but only a lowbrow, like the rest of them.
Another illusion dispelled! Well, you've got the money--better run,
hadn't you?"
Jimmie Dale made no answer. Satisfied that the man was too badly
hurt to move, he went and bent over the silent form in the centre of
the room. A moment's examination was enough. "Henry LaSalle" was
dead.
He stood there looking down at the man. It was what he had come
for--though it was the Magpie, not himself, who had accomplished it!
The man was dead! The words began to run through his mind in a
queer reiteration. The man was dead--the man was dead! He checked
himself sharply. He must think now--think fast, and think RIGHT.
The Magpie knew that Larry the Bat was the Gray Seal--and as fast as
the Magpie could get there, the news would spread like wildfire
through the underworld. "Death to the Gray Seal! Death to the Gray
Seal!" He could hear that slogan ringing again in his ears, but as
he had never heard it before--with a snarl of triumph now as of
wolves who at last had pulled their quarry down. He had not a
second to spare--and yet--that man wounded there on the floor! What
of him--guilty of murder, the brains of this inhuman, monstrous
organisation, the one to whom, more even than to that dead man, the
Tocsin owed the horror and the misery and the grief and despair that
had come into her life! What of him? What of the Crime Club here?
What of this nest of vipers? Were they to escape? Were they to--
With a sudden, low exclamation, Jimmie Dale jumped for the table,
and, snatching up the telephone, rattled the hook violently.
"Give me"--his voice came in well-simulated gasps, each like a man
fighting for every word--"give me--police--headquarters! Quick!
QUICK! I've--been--shot!"
The wounded man on the floor raised himself on his elbow.
"What are you doing?" he demanded in a startled way. "Are you mad!
Thank your stars you were lucky enough to get out of this alive--and
get out now, while you have the chance!"
Jimmie Dale pressed his hand firmly over the mouthpiece of the
telephone.
"I'll go," he said, with a cold smile, "when I've settled with you--
for the murder of Henry LaSalle."
"That man!" ejaculated the man scornfully, pointing to the form on
the floor. "So that's your game! Going to try and cover your
tracks! Why, you fool, I LIVE here! Do you think the police would
imagine for an instant that I killed him?"
"I said--HENRY LASALLE," said Jimmie Dale evenly.
The man came farther up on his elbow, a sudden look of fear in his
face.
"What--what do you mean?" he cried hoarsely.
But Jimmie Dale was talking again into the telephone--gasping,
choking out his words as before:
"Police headquarters? I'm Henry LaSalle. Fifth Avenue. I--I've
been shot. Take down this statement. I'll--I'll be dead before you
get here--I'm not the real Henry LaSalle at all. We murdered Henry
LaSalle--in Australia, and murdered Peter LaSalle here. We--we
tried to kill the daughter, but she ran away. This house has been
our headquarters for the last five years. The man who shot me tonight
is the leader of the gang. We quarrelled over the division of
a haul. He's here on the floor now, wounded. Get them all, get
them all, damn them!--do you hear?--get them all! They're out of
the house now, but lay a trap for them. They always come in through
the garage on the side street. Oh, God, I'm done for! Break down
the west walls of the rooms upstairs--if--you--want proof of what--
the gang's been doing. Hurry! Hurry! I'm--I'm--done for--I--"
Jimmie Dale permitted the telephone to drop with a clash from his
hand to the table.
The face of the man on the floor was livid.
"Who are you? In God's name, who are you?" he cried out wildly.
"Does it matter?" inquired Jimmie Dale grimly. "Your game is up.
You'll go to the chair for the murder of 'Henry LaSalle'--if it is
by proxy! Those rooms upstairs alone are enough to damn you, to
prove every word of that dying "confession"--but to-morrow, added to
it, will come the story of Marie LaSalle herself."
For a moment the man hung there swaying on his elbow, his face
working in ghastly fashion--and then suddenly, with a strange laugh,
he carried one hand swiftly to his mouth--and laughed again--and
before Jimmie Dale could reach him was lifeless on the floor.
A tiny vial rolled away upon the carpet. Jimmie Dale picked it up.
A drop or two of liquid still remained in it--colourless, clear,
like that liquid this same man had dropped into the rabbit's mouth
the night before, like the liquid in the glasses they had carried
into that third room, like the liquid that his man had said was from
a formula of their own, that was instantaneous in its action, that
defied detection by autopsy!
The set, stern features of Jimmie Dale relaxed. It was justice--but
it was also death. In a surge of emotion, the events of scarcely
more than twenty-four hours, began to crowd upon him--and then,
ominously dominant, above all else, that slogan of the underworld,
"Death to the Gray Seal!" came ringing once more in his ears. It
brought him, with a startled movement of his hand across his eyes,
to a realisation of his own desperate position. Yes, yes, he must
go! The way was clear now for the Tocsin--clear now for her!
He dropped the vial into his pocket, and, running to the safe,
quickly scraped the gray seal from the dial's knob; then he drew the
packages of money from his shirt and pockets and tossed them on the
floor among the litter of papers already there--she would get it
back again when it had served its purpose, it would be self-evident
that it was the proceeds of that day's sale of the estate's
securities over which the "quarrel" had occurred!
And now the window! He ran to it, closed it, and LOCKED it; then,
laying the revolver he had taken from the leader down beside the
man, he stepped across the room again and drew the body of "Henry
LaSalle" closer to the table--as though the man had fallen there
when the telephone had dropped from his hand.
It was done now! On the floor beside him lay each man's weapon--and
both of the revolvers had been discharged several times. Jimmie
Dale paused on the library threshold for a final survey of the room.
It was done! The way was clear--for her. And now if he could only
save himself! There was no chance for Larry the Bat! Could he
save--JIMMIE DALE!
He crossed the hall, a queer, half-grim, half-wistful smile on his
lips, unlocked the front door, stepped out, locked it behind him--
and in another moment, doubling around the corner, was running along
like a hare along the side street.
CHAPTER XVI
"DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!"
On Jimmie Dale ran. Across on Fourth Avenue he swung on a car that
took him to Astor Place. Then striking east once more, making a
detour to avoid the Bowery, he ran on at top speed again. To reach
the Sanctuary, not before the Magpie should have spread the alarm,
that was impossible, but to reach it before the underworld should
have had time to recover its breath, as it were, before the
underworld should have had time to act--that was his only chance!
The Magpie had, at the outside, a start of fifteen minutes; but he,
Jimmie Dale, had probably retrieved five minutes of that in the time
he had made in getting downtown. That left the Magpie ten to the
good. How long would it take the Magpie to bring the underworld
swarming like hornets around the Sanctuary?
On Larry the Bat ran. At the Sanctuary were the clothes, the
belongings of Jimmie Dale. Could he save Jimmie Dale! If he could
get there, change, and get out again, the way was clear for him--as
clear as for the Tocsin now. In a few hours the police would have
every member of the Crime Club in the trap; there would be no watch
any more around his house on Riverside Drive; and he would be free
to return there and resume his normal life as Jimmie Dale again if
he could make the Sanctuary in time! But let the Magpie get there
first, let the underworld tear the place to pieces in its fury as it
would do, let them discover that hiding place under the flooring,
for instance, and the Gray Seal would not be merely Larry the Bat,
but Jimmie Dale as well, and--a cry escaped him even as he ran--it
meant ruin, the disgrace of an honoured name, death, crimes without
number at his door. Crimes! The Gray Seal had never committed a
crime! But the crimes attributed to the Gray Seal he could not
disprove, not one of them! He had meant them to appear as crimes--
and he had succeeded so well that the Gray Seal's name, execrated,
was a synonym for the most callous, dangerous, and unscrupulous
criminal of the age!
He was gasping for breath as finally, making for the side door, he
darted into the alleyway that flanked the Sanctuary. What story
would the Magpie tell? Not the truth, of course--that would let the
Magpie in for what had happened that night, for the Magpie must be
well aware that he had shot at least one of the two men in that
room. But the truth wasn't necessary; it was foreign, and had no
bearing on the one outstanding fact--the Gray Seal was Larry the
Bat. At the present moment the Magpie had a double incentive for
"getting" the Gray Seal--the Gray Seal was the only one who could
prove murder against him that night in the LaSalle mansion. And
afterwards, when the police version of the affair was made public,
the Magpie, to save himself, would be careful enough to do or say
nothing to contradict "Henry LaSalle's" confession!
Larry the Bat slipped in through the door, halted there, listened;
and then began to mount the rickety stairs, with his silent tread.
At the top he paused again. Nothing--no sound! They were not here
yet--so far he was in time! He stepped to the Sanctuary door,
unlocked it, passed into the squalid, miserable room that had
harboured him for so long as Larry the Bat, locked the door behind
him, crossed quickly to the window to make sure that the shutters
were closed--and then, for the first time, as the gray light
streaked in through the interstices, he was conscious that it was
already dawn. So much the more need for haste then!
He whipped out his revolver and laid it at his hand on the
dilapidated table; then the flooring in the corner was up in an
instant, and he began to strip off the rags of Larry the Bat.
Boots, mismated socks, the torn, patched trousers, the greasy
flannel shirt, the threadbare coat, the nondescript slouch hat were
thrown in a pile on the floor; and with them, from their hidingplace,
the grease paints and heterogeneous collection of make-up
accessories. This done, he began to slip on the clothes of Jimmie
Dale; and, when half dressed, turned to the table again to remove
the characteristic grime, stain, and paint of Larry the Bat from
face, hands, wrists, throat, and neck. This was a longer, more
arduous task. He reached for the cracked pitcher to pour more water
into the basin--and, snatching up his revolver instead, whirled to
face the door.
Some one was outside! He had caught the creak of a footstep upon
the stairs. In a flash he was across the room and crouched by the
door. Yes, the step was nearer now--at the head of the stairs--on
the landing. His revolver lifted, holding a steady bead on the door
panel. And then there came a low voice:
"Jimmie! Jimmie! Are you there? Quick, Jimmie! Are you there?"
The Tocsin! What was she doing here! Why had he not warned her up
there on the avenue, fool that he was, that of all places she was to
keep away from here!
She slipped into the room as he unlocked the door.
"They're coming, Jimmie!" she panted breathlessly. "There's not an
instant to lose! Listen! When the Magpie ran from the house, I ran
with him--but it"--she tried to smile--"it wasn't to obey you, to
run away--I had made up my mind I wouldn't do that--it was to find
out from him what had happened. He told me you were the Gray Seal.
He did not suspect me. He thinks you were no more than just Larry
the Bat to me, as you were to everybody else. He went straight to
Chicago Ike's gambling rooms and found the Skeeter's gang there--you
know them, Red Mose, the Midget, Harve Thoms, and the Skeeter--you
remember your fight with them over old Luddy's diamonds! Well, they
have not forgotten, either! They are on their way here, now! The
news that you are the Gray Seal is travelling like lightning all
through the underworld--there will be a mob here on the Skeeter's
heels. So, Jimmie--quick! Run!"
Run! Half Larry the Bat, half Jimmie Dale--and run! In another
five minutes, perhaps--yes. But there probably would not be five
minutes--and she--if she were found here!
"Yes," he said quietly. "I'll get away in a moment. You go at
once. I'll"--he was smiling at her reassuringly--"I'll meet you at--"
She looked at him then for an instant--interrupting him quickly, as
she shook her head.
"I didn't notice, Jimmie. You cannot go like that--can you? It
would be even worse than being caught as Larry the Bat. Hurry
then--I am not going without you."
"No!" he said. "Go now! Go at once, Marie--while you can. You
have risked your life as it is to come here and tell me this. For
God's sake, go now!"
The great, brown eyes were smiling bravely through a sudden mist.
She shook her head again.
"Not without you, Jimmie."
It brought a fierce, wild throb of joy upon him--and then a cold,
sickening fear.
"Listen!" he cried out desperately. "You must go now! You cannot
take any chances now, Marie. Everything is right for you. That man
who posed as your uncle is dead--the leader of the Crime Club is
dead. Don't you understand what that means! You have only to be
Marie LaSalle again and claim your own. I cannot tell you all now--
there's no time. That house was the Crime Club itself. The police
will get them all. Don't you see! Don't you see! Everything is
clear for you now--and now go! Go--you must go!"
She was staring at him, a strange wonder in her face.
"Clear! All clear--for me! I--I can go back to--to my own life
again!" It was as though she were whispering some amazing thing of
unbelievable joy to herself.
"YES!" he cried out again. "Yes! But go--go, Marie!"
But now, for answer, suddenly she reached out and took the key from
the door and put it in the pocket of her dress.
"We will go together, Jimmie--or not at all," she said simply. "We
are wasting precious moments. Hurry and dress!"
He hesitated miserably. What could he do--if she WOULD not go! And
it was true--the moments were flying. Better, rather than futile
argument, to use them as she said. There was still a chance! Why
not! Five minutes! He could do better than that! He MUST do
better than that!
Without a word, he ran back across the room. In frantic haste, from
face, hands, wrists, and neck came the stain. There was still time.
She was standing there by the door, listening. She, the Tocsin, she
whom he loved, she who, all through the years that had gone, had
been so strangely elusive and yet so intimately a part of his life,
SHE was standing there now, here with him--in peril with every
second that passed!
He had only to slip on his coat and vest now--and make a bundle of
Larry the Bat's things on the floor, so that he could carry them
away to destroy them. He stooped to gather up the clothes--and
straightened suddenly--and jumped toward the door again.
"They are coming, Jimmie!" she called, in a low voice. But he had
already heard them--the stairs were creaking loudly under the tread
of many feet. He pushed the Tocsin hurriedly back against the wall
at the side of the door.
"Stand there!" he said, under his breath. "Out of the line of fire!
Don't move!"
There was a rush against the door--and then a voice growled:
"Aw, cut dat out! Wot do youse want to do--scare him away by
bustin' it! Pick de lock, an' we'll lay for him inside till he
shows up."
It was the Skeeter's voice. The Skeeter and his gang--the worst
apaches in the city of New York! Professional assassins, death
contractors, he had called them--and the lowest bidders! A man's
life any time for twenty-five dollars! No, they were not likely to
forget the affair of the pushcart man, to forget old Luddy and his
diamonds, to forget--the Gray Seal! And they were only the vanguard
of what was to come!
Some one was working at the lock now. There was one way to stop
that. It would not take them long to find out that he WAS there
once the door was opened! Better know it with the door SHUT!
Jimmie Dale lifted his revolver coolly and fired through the panel.
A burst of yells answered the shot; and among them, high above the
others, the Magpie's scream:
"We got him! We got him! He's dere now!"
And then it seemed that pandemonium broke loose--there was a volley
of shots, the bullets splintering through the door panels as from a
machine gun, so fast they came--and then another rush against the
door.
Flat on the floor, but well back and to one side, Jimmie Dale fired
steadily--again and again.
Came screams of pain, yells, and oaths--and they fell back from the
door.
And now from above, from overhead, came tumult--windows thrown up,
the stamp of feet, cries of fright. And from the street, a low,
sullen roar. The underworld was gathering fast!
Once more the rush upon the door--and Jimmie Dale, a grim, twisted
smile upon his lips, emptied his revolver into the panels. Once
more they fell back--and then there came the Skeeter's voice,
snarling like an infuriated beast:
"He'll get de lot of us like dis! Cut it out! Besides, we'll have
de bulls down here in a minute--an' he's OUR meat, not theirs.
Dey'd be too damned soft wid him--dey'd only send him to de chair.
Youse chase upstairs, Mose, an' pass de word to beat it--an' beat it
quick. We'll BURN de skunk out--dat's wot. An' de bulls can stand
alongside an' watch, if dey likes--but he's our meat."
Jimmie Dale did not dare to look at the Tocsin's face. Mechanically
he refilled the magazine of his automatic--and lay there, waiting.
The roar from the street grew louder. They seemed to be fighting
out there, as though an inadequate number of police were trying to
disperse a mob--and not succeeding! Pretty soon, with the riot call
in, there would probably be a battle--for the Gray Seal! Sublime
irony! It was death at the hands of either one!
Children whimpered on the stairs outside, men swore, women cried,
feet shuffled hurriedly by as the tenement emptied. Occasionally, a
pertinent invitation to him to remain where he was, there was a
vicious rip through the panel, and the drumming whir of a bullet
flying through the room. And then a curious, ominous crackling
sound--and then the smell of smoke.
Jimmie Dale stood up, his face drawn and haggard. The tenement
would go like matchwood, burn like a bonfire, with any kind of a
start--and there was no doubt about the start! The Skeeter, the
Magpie, and the rest would have seen that it had headway enough to
serve their purpose before either firemen or police could thwart
them. He, Jimmie Dale, could take his choice: walk out into a
bullet, or stay there and--he smiled miserably as his eyes fell upon
the pile of Larry the Bat's clothing on the floor. There was no
longer need to worry about ITS destruction--the fire would take care
of that only too well! And then a low, bitter cry came to his lips,
and he clenched his hands. If it were only himself--only himself!
He crossed to the Tocsin and caught her in his arms.
"Oh, my God--Marie!" he faltered.
The cape and hood had fallen from her, and with the hood had fallen
the gray-streaked hair of Silver Mag--and now as she smiled at him
it was from a face that was very beautiful and very brave and very
full of tenderness.
And he held her there--and neither spoke.
It seeped in under the threshold of the door, it came from
everywhere, filling the room--the black, strangling smoke. Outside
in the hall all was silence now--save for that crackle of flame that
grew in volume, that came now in quick, sharp reports, like revolver
shots. From out in the street swelled a cry: "Death to the Gray
Seal!" Then the clang of bells, the roar and rattle of fire
apparatus, strident voices bellowing orders, and the crowd again,
blood hungry: "Death to the Gray Seal!"
There was a chance, just one--if the fire had no headway along the
upper end of the landing--and if they had not thought to set a watch
for him ABOVE! They--the Magpie, the Skeeter, and his gang--must
have been driven even out of the house now by the smoke and flame.
"Give me the key, I am going to open the door, Marie," he said
quietly. "Cover your face with a handkerchief, anything, and run to
the LEFT to the next flight of stairs. There are two flats above
this--we'll make the roof if we can. Now--are you ready?"
It was an instant before she answered, an instant in which she
lifted her face to his, and held his face between her two hands--and
then:
"I am ready, Jimmie."
He flung open the door, his arm around her to help her forward--and
instinctively, with a cry, fell back for a moment. With the inrush
of the draft poured the smoke, and through it, lurid, yellow, showed
the flames leaping from the stair well.
And then all was blind madness. Together they ran. At the foot of
the stairs she fell, recovered herself, staggered up another--and
fell again. He caught her up in his arms and, staggering now as she
had staggered, went on. His lungs seemed to be bursting. His limbs
grew weak and trembled under him. He could not see or breathe. The
nauseating fumes suffocated him, bringing an intolerable agony. He
gained the first landing above. There was one more--one more! If
he could only rest here for a moment! Yes, that was it--rest. It
wasn't so bad here now. She stirred in his arms, struggled to her
feet--and he was helping her on again, and up the next flight of
stairs.
And suddenly he found himself laughing in hysteria--for they were
climbing a half stair, half ladderway at the end of the upper
landing, and the open skylight was above them, and they were
drinking in the pure, fresh air--and now they were out upon the
roof, and the roar from the street was in their ears, like the roar
of great waters from some canyon far below. Jimmie Dale tried to
speak, and found his lips were cracked and dry. He wet them with
his tongue.
"Don't stand up--we'd be seen--CRAWL," he mumbled hoarsely.
It took a long time--over one roof, and then another, and yet
another--and then through the skylight of a tenement whose occupants
were either craning from the front windows, or were on the street
below. It was, perhaps, half an hour--and then they, too, were
standing in the street, and all about them the crowd was shouting in
wild excitement.
Up the block, inside the fire lines, the Sanctuary was blazing
furiously--and now suddenly the wall seemed to bulge outward. It
brought a yell from the crowd:
"Death to the Gray Seal!"
She pulled at his arm.
"Let us get away! Let us get away, Jimmie!" she whispered
frantically.
A strange smile was on Jimmie Dale's lips.
"We're safe now--for always," he whispered back. "Look!"
The Sanctuary wall bulged farther outward, seemed to hang an instant
hesitant in mid-air--and fell with a mighty crash.
The Gray Seal was dead!